Wit and Mirth: or Pills to Purge Melancholy Volume VI Part 31

And now for the Crew that pa.s.s in the Throng, That live by the Gut, or the Pipe, or the Song, And teaze all the Gentry as they pa.s.s along, _There's rare doings_, &c.

First _Corbet_ began my Lord pray your Crown, You'll hear a new Boy I've Just brought to Town, I'm sure he will please you, or else knock me down, _There's rare doings_, &c.

Besides I can boast of my self and two more, And _Leveridge_ the Ba.s.s, that sweetly will roar, 'Till all the whole Audience joins in an ancore, _There's rare doings_, &c.

Next _H----b L----r_ and _B----r_ too, With Hautboy, one Fidle, and Tenor so bleu, And fusty old Musick, not one Note of New, _There's rare doings_, &c.

Next _Morphew_ the Harper with his Pigg's Face, Lye tickling a Treble and vamping a Ba.s.s, And all he can do 'tis but Musick's disgrace, _There's rare doings_, &c.

Then comes the Eunuch to teaze them the more, Subscribe your two Guineas to make up fourscore, I never Perform'd at so low rate before, _There's rare doings_, &c.

Then come the Strolers among the rest, And little Punch _Powel_ so full of his Jest, With pray Sir, good Madam, it's my Show is best, _There's rare doings_, &c.

Thus being Tormented, and teaz'd to their Souls, They thought the best way to get rid of these Fools, The Case they referr'd to the Master of the R----ls, _There's rare doings_, &c.

Says his Honour, and then he put on a Frown, And since you have left it to my Thoughts alone, I'll soon have them all whipp'd out of the Town, O _rare doings at_ Bath, _Raffling, and Fidling_, &c.

_The Distress'd_ SHEPHERD, _A_ SONG.

[Music]

I am a poor Shepherd undone, And cannot be Cur'd by Art; For a Nymph as bright as the Sun, Has stole away my Heart: And how to get it again, There's none but she can tell; To cure me of my Pain, By saying she loves me well: And ala.s.s poor Shepherd, Alack and a welladay; Before I was in Love, Oh every Month was _May_.

If to Love she cou'd not incline, I told her I'd die in an Hour; To die says she 'tis in thine, But to Love 'tis not in my Power.

I askt her the Reason why, She could not of me approve; She said 'twas a Task too hard, To give any Reason for Love: _And ala.s.s poor Shepherd_, &c.

She ask'd me of my Estate, I told her a Flock of Sheep; The Gra.s.s whereon they Graze, Where she and I might Sleep: Besides a good Ten Pound, In old King _Harry's_ Groats; With Hooks and Crooks abound, And Birds of sundry Notes: _And ala.s.s poor Shepherd_, &c.

_A_ SONG.

I Love to Madness, rave t'enjoy, But heaps of Wealth my Progress bar; Curse on the Load that stops my way, My Love's more Rich and Brighter far: Were I prest under Hills of Gold, My furious Sighs should make my escape; I'd sigh and blow up all the Mould, And throw the Oar in _Caelia's_ Lap.

Were thou some Peasant mean and small, And all the s.p.a.cious Globe were mine; I'd give the World, the Sun and all, For one kind brighter Glance of thine: This Hour let _Caelia_ with me live, And G.o.ds cou'd I but of you borrow, I'd give what only you can give, For that dear Hour, I'd give to morrow.

_The loving Couple: Or the Merry_ WEDDING.

[Music]

A Jolly young _Grocer_ of _London Town_, Fell deeply in Love with his Maid: And often he courted her to lye down, But she told him she was afraid: Sometimes he would struggle, But still she would Boggle, And never consent to his wicked Will; But said he must tarry, Until he would marry, And then he should have his fill.

But when that he found he could not obtain, The Blessing he thus pursu'd; For tho' he had try'd her again and again, She vow'd she would not be leud: At last he submitted, To be so outwitted, As to be catch'd in the Nuptial snare; Altho' the young Hussie, Before had been busie, With one that she lov'd more dear.

The Morning after they marry'd were, The Drums and the Fiddles came; Then oh what a thumping and sc.r.a.ping was there, To please the new marry'd Dame: There was fiddle come fiddle, With hey diddle diddle, And all the time that the Musick play'd; There was Kissing and Loving, And Heaving and Shoving, For fear she should rise a Maid.

But e'er three Months they had marry'd been, A Thumping Boy popp'd out; Ads---- says he you confounded Queen, Why what have you been about?

You're a Strumpet cries he, You're a Cuckold cries she, And when he found he was thus betray'd; There was Fighting and Scratching, And Rogueing and b.i.t.c.hing, Because she had prov'd a Jade.

_A_ SONG, _Tune of Chickens and Sparrow-gra.s.s._

What sayest thou, If one should thrust thee thro'?

What sayest thou, If one shou'd Plough?

I say Sir, you may do what you please, I shall scarce stir, Tho' you ne'er cease, Thro', thro', you may thrust me thro'.

Such Death is a Pleasure, When Life's a Disease.

_The precaution'd_ Nymph, _Set by_ L. Ramondon.

[Music]

Go, go, go, go falsest of thy s.e.x be gone, Leave, leave, oh leave, leave me to my self alone; Why wou'd you strive by fond pretence, Thus to destroy my Innocence.

Know, _Caelia_ you too late betray'd, Then thus you did the Nymph upbraid; Love like a Dream usher'd by night, Flyes the approach of Morning light.

Go falsest of your s.e.x begone, Oh! Leave me to my self alone; She that believes Man when he swears, Or but regards his Oaths or Pray'rs, May she, fond she, be most accurst, Nay more, be subject to his l.u.s.t.

_The Life and Death of Sir_ HUGH _of the_ GRIME. _To the Tune of_ Chevy-chace.

As it befel upon one time, About _Mid-summer_ of the Year; Every Man was taxt of his Crime, For stealing the good Lord Bishop's Mare.

The good Lord _Screw_ sadled a Horse, And rid after the same serime; Before he did get over the Moss, There was he aware of Sir _Hugh_ of the _Grime_.

Turn, O turn, thou false Traytor, Turn and yield thy self unto me; Thou hast stol'n the Lord Bishop's Mare, And now thinkest away to flee.

No, soft Lord _Screw_, that may not be, Here is a broad Sword by my side; And if that thou canst Conquer me, The Victory will soon be try'd.