BOld Impudent Fuller invented a Plot,
And all to discover the Devil knows what;
About a young Bantling strangely begot.
Which no body can deny.

The better to cheat both the Fools and the Wise,
He Impos’d on a Nation a Hundred of Lies;
That none but a Knight of the Post could devise.
Which no body can deny.

He tells us he had the Honour to peep,
In the Warming-pan where the Welch Infant did sleep;
And found out a Plot which was Damnable deep,
Which no Body can believe.

Then to the Wise Senate he suddenly went,
Where he told all the Lies that he then could invent,
For which he was Voted a Rogue by consent,
Which no Body can deny.

And tho’ he was Punish’d for that his Offence,
He has almost forgot it, it was so long since,
Therefore the whole Game he began to Commence,
Which no Body can deny.

Then he to the Lords his bold Letters did send,
And told the high Peers, that the Plot he could mend,
And make it as plain, as he first did pretend,
Which no Body can deny.

He told them his Witnesses were mighty Men,
That wou’d come to the Town, tho’ the Devil knows when,
And make William Fuller once famous agen,
Which no Body can deny.

The Lords they were Generous, Noble and Kind,
And allowed him Freedom his ’Squires to find,
The which he will do when the Devil is Blind,
Which no Body can deny.

So the Peers they declared him a scandalous Sot,
And none thinks him fit to manage a Plot,
If Newgate and Tyburn does fall to his Lot,
There’s no Body will deny.

They gave him no more time than himself did require,
To find out his Jones and the wandering ’Squire,
But the time being come, they were never the nigher,
Which no Body can deny.

The brave House of Commons next for him did send,
To hear what the Block-headly Fool wou’d pretend,
Who humbly request, that they wou’d him befriend,
Which no Body can deny.

One day he declar’d they were near London Town,
But the very next Day into Wales they were flown,
Such nimble Heel’d Witnessess never were known,
Which no Body can deny.

When being Examin’d about his sham Plot,
He answer’d as though he had minded them not,
Perhaps the Young Rogue had his Lesson forgot,
Which no Body can deny.

But after some Study and impudent Tales,
Ask’d for a Commission to march into Wales,
And be Chang’d to a Herse, as Rogues goes to Gaols,
Which no Body can deny.

But seeing his Impudence still to abound,
To go search for the Men who were not to be found,
They immediately sent him back to Fleet Pound,
Which no Body can deny.

From the Fleet to the Cart may he quickly advance
To learn the true Steps of old Oates’s New Dance,
And something beside, or it is a great Chance,
Which no Body can deny.

He has made it a Trade to be doing of Wrong,
In Swearing, and Lying, and Cheating so long,
For all his Life time, he’s been at it ding dong,
Which no Body can deny.

Welch Taffy he raves and crys Splutterdenails,
He’s abused hur Highness with Lies and with Tales,
Hur will hang hur if e’er hur can catch hur in Wales,
Which no Body will deny.

LEt the Females attend,
To the Lines which are penn’d,
For here I shall give a Relation;
Of a Young marry’d Wife,
Who did venture her Life,
For a Soldier, a Soldier she went from the Nation.

She her Husband did leave,
And did likewise receive
Her Arms, and on Board she did enter;
And right valiantly went,
With a Resolution bent,
To the Ocean, the Ocean her Life there to venture.

Yet of all the Ships Crew,
Not a Seaman that knew,
They then had a Woman so near ’em;
On the Ocean so deep,
She her Council did keep,
Ay, and therefore, and therefore she never did fear ’em.

She was valiant and bold,
And would not be controul’d,
By any that dare to offend her;
If a Quarrel arose,
She would give him dry Blows,
And the Captain, the Captain did highly commend her.

For he took her to be,
Then of no mean Degree,
A Gentleman’s Son or a ’Squire;
With a Hand white and fair,
There was none could compare,
Which the Captain, the Captain did often admire.

On the Irish Shore,
Where the Cannons did roar,
With many stout Lads she was landed;
There her Life to expose,
She lost two of her Toes,
And in Battle, in Battle was daily commended.

Under Grafton she fought,
Like a brave Hero stout,
And made the proud Tories retire;
She in Field did appear,
With a Heart void of Fear,
And she bravely, she bravely did charge and give fire.

While the battering Balls,
Did assault the strong Walls,
Of Cork and the sweet Trumpets sounded;
She did bravely advance,
Where by unhappy Chance,
This young Female, young Female alass she was wounded.

At the End of the Fray,
Still she languishing lay,
Then over the Ocean they brought her;
To her own Native Shore,
Now they ne’er knew before,
That a Woman, a Woman had been in that Slaughter.

What she long had conceal’d,
Now at length she reveal’d,
That she was a Woman that ventur’d;
Then to London with care,
She did straitways repair,
But she dy’d, oh she dy’d e’er the City she enter’d.

When her Parents beheld,
They with Sorrow was fill’d,
For why they did dearly adore her:
In her Grave now she lies,
’Tis not watery Eyes,
No nor Sighing, nor Sighing that e’er can restore her.

STate and Ambition, all Joy to great Cæsar,
Sawney shall ne’er be my Colly my Cow;
All Hail to the Shades, all Joy to the Bridegroom,
And call upon Dobbin with Hi, Je, ho.
Remember ye Whigs, what was formerly done;
And Jenny come tye my bonny Cravat,
If I live to grow old for I find I go down,
For I cannot come every Day to Wooe.

Jove in his Throne was a Fumbler, Tom Farthing,
And Jockey and Jenny together did lie;
Oh Mother Roger: Boys, fill us a Bumper,
For why will ye die my poor Cælia, ah why?
Hark! how thundring Cannons do roar,
Ladies of London both wealthy and fair;
Charon make hast and Ferry me over,
Lilli burlero bullen a lah.

Chloris awake, Four-pence-half-penny-farthing,
Give me the Lass that is true Country bred;
Like John of Gaunt I walk in Covent-Garden,
I am a Maid and a very good Maid:
Twa bonny Lads was Sawney and Jockey,
The Delights of the Bottle and Charms of good Wine;
Wading the Water so deep my sweet Moggy,
Cold and Raw, let it run in the right Line.

Old Obadiah sings Ave-Maria,
Sing Lulla-by-Baby with a Dildo;
The old Woman and her Cat sat by the Fire,
Now this is my Love d’y’ like her ho?
Old Charon thus preached to his Pupil Achilles,
And under this Stone here lies Gabriel John;
Happy was I at the fight of Fair Phillis,
What should a Young Woman do with an old Man?

There’s old Father Peters with his Romish Creatures,
There was an old Woman sold Pudding and Pies,
Cannons with Thunder shall fill them with Wonder,
I once lov’d a Lass that had bright rowling Eyes:
There’s my Maid Mary, she does mind her Dairy,
I took to my Heels and away I did run;
And bids him prepare to be happy to Morrow,
Alass! I don’t know the right end of a Gun.

My Life and Death does lye both in your Power,
And every Man to his Mind, Shrewsbury for me;
On the Bank of a Brook as I sat Fishing,
Shall I Die a Maid and never Married be:
Uds bobs let Oliver now be forgotten,
Joan is as good as my Lady in the Dark;
Cuckolds are Christians Boys all the World over,
And here’s a full Bumper to Robin John Clark.

THere was an old Woman liv’d under a Hill,
Sing Trolly lolly, lolly, lolly, lo;
She had good Beer and Ale for to sell,
Ho, ho, had she so, had she so, had she so;
She had a Daughter her name was Siss,
Sing Trolly lolly, lolly, lolly, lo;
She kept her at Home for to welcome her Guest,
Ho, ho, did she so, did she so, did she so.

There came a Trooper riding by,
Sing trolly, &c.
He call’d for Drink most plentifully,
Ho, ho, did he so, &c.
When one Pot was out he call’d for another,
Sing trolly, &c.
He kiss’d the Daughter before the Mother,
Ho, ho, did he so, &c.

And when Night came on to Bed they went,
Sing trolly, &c.
It was with the Mother’s own Consent,
Ho, ho, was it so, &c.
Quoth she what is this so stiff and warm,
Sing trolly &c.
’Tis Ball my Nag he will do you no harm,
Ho, ho, wont he so, &c.

But what is this hangs under his Chin,
Sing trolly, &c.
’Tis the Bag he puts his Provender in,
Ho, ho, is it so, &c.
Quoth he what is this? Quoth she ’tis a Well,
Sing trolly, &c.
Where Ball your Nag may drink his fill,
Ho, ho, may he so, &c.

But what if my Nag should chance to slip in,
Sing trolly, &c.
Then catch hold of the Grass that grows on the brim,
Ho, ho, must I so, &c.
But what if the Grass should chance to fail,
Sing trolly, &c.
Shove him in by the Head, pull him out by the Tail,
Ho, ho, must I so, &c.

COme bring us Wine in plenty,
We’ve Money enough to spend;
I hate to see the Pots empty,
A Man cannot Drink to’s Friend:
Then drawer bring up more Wine,
And merrily let it pass;
We’ll drink till our Faces do shine,
He that wont may look like an Ass:
And we’ll tell him so to his Face,
If he offers to baulk his Glass,
For we defy all such dull Society.

’Tis drinking makes us merry,
And Mirth diverts all Care;
A Song of hey down derry,
Is better than heavy Air:
Make ready quickly my Boys,
And fill up your Glasses higher;
For we’ll present with Huzzas,
And merrily all give fire;
Since drinking’s our desire,
And friendship we admire,
For here we’ll stay, ne’er call Drawer what’s to pay.

LEt’s be jolly, fill our Glasses,
Madness ’tis for us to think,
How the World is rul’d by Asses,
That o’ersway the Wise with Chink:
Let not such vain Thoughts oppress us,
Riches prove to them a Snare;
We are all as rich as Crœsus,
Drink your Glasses, take no care.

Wine will make us fresh as Roses,
And our Sorrows all forgot;
Let us fuddle well our Noses,
Drink ourselves quite out of Debt:
When grim Death is looking for us,
Whilst we’re singing o’er our Bowls;
Bacchus joyning in our Chorus,
Death depart, here’s none but Souls.

WHere gott’st thou the Haver-mill bonack?
Blind Booby can’st thou not see;
Ise got it out of the Scotch-man’s Wallet,
As he lig lousing him under a Tree:
Come fill up my Cup, come fill up my Can,
Come Saddle my Horse, and call up my Man;
Come open the Gates, and let me go free,
And shew me the way to bonny Dundee.

For I have neither robbed nor stole,
Nor have I done any injury;
But I have gotten a Fair Maid with Child,
The Minister’s Daughter of bonny Dundee:
Come fill up my Cup, come fill up my Can,
Come saddle my Horse and call up my Man,
Come open the Gates and let me go free,
And Ise gang no more to bonny Dundee.

Altho’ Ise gotten her Maiden-head,
Geud feth Ise given her mine in lieu;
For when at her Daddy’s Ise gang to Bed,
Ise mow’d her without any more to do?
Ise cuddle her close, and gave her a Kiss,
Pray tell now where is the harm of this,
Then open the Gates and let me go free,
And Ise gang no more to bonny Dundee.

All Scotland ne’er afforded a Lass,
So bonny and blith as Jenny my dear;
Ise gave her a Gown of Green on the Grass,
But now Ise no longer must tarry here:
Then saddle my Nag that’s bonny and gay,
For now it is time to gang hence away,
Then open the Gates and let me go free,
She’s ken me no more to bonny Dundee.

In Liberty still I reckon to Reign,
For why I have done no honest Man wrong;
The Parson may take his Daughter again,
For she’ll be a Mammy before it is long:
And have a young Lad or Lass of my breed,
Ise think I have done her a generous deed;
Then open the Gates and let me go free,
For Ise gang no more to bonny Dundee.

Since Jenny the Fair was willing and kind,
And came to my Arms with a ready good will;
A token of love Ise left her behind,
Thus I have requited her kindness still:
Tho’ Jenny the Fair I often had mow’d,
Another may reap the harvest I sow’d,
Then open the Gates and let me go free,
She’s ken me no more to bonny Dundee.

Her Daddy would have me to make her my Bride,
But have and to hold I ne’er could endure;
From bonny Dundee this Day I will ride,
It being a place not safe and secure:
Then Jenny farewel my Joy and my dear,
With Sword in my Hand the passage I’se clear;
Then open the Gates and let me go free,
For Ise gang no more to Bonny Dundee.

My Father he is a muckle good Leard,
My Mother a Lady bonny and gay;
Then while I have strength to handle a Sweard,
The Parson’s request Ise never obey:
Then Sawny my Man be thou of my Mind,
In bonny Dundee we’se ne’er be confin’d,
The Gates we will force to set ourselves free,
And never come more to bonny Dundee.

The Sawny reply’d Ise never refuse,
To fight for a Leard so valiant and bold;
While I have a drop of Blood for to lose,
E’er any fickle Loon shall keep us in hold:
This Sweard in my Hand I’ll valiantly weild,
And fight by your side to kill or be kill’d,
For forcing the Gates and set ourselves free,
And so bid adieu to bonny Dundee.

With Sweard ready drawn they rid to the Gate,
Where being denied an Entrance thro’
The Master and Man they fought at that rate,
That some ran away, and others they slew:
Thus Jockey the Leard and Sawny the Man,
They valiantly fought as Highlanders can,
In spight of the Loons they set themselves free,
And so bid adieu to bonny Dundee.

Let’s sing of Stage-Coaches,
and fear no Reproaches;
for riding in one,
but daily be jogging,
while whistling, and flogging,
while whistling and flogging,
the Coachman drives on;
with a hey geeup, geeup hey ho,
with a hey gee Dobin hey ho, hey,
geeup, geeup, geeup hey ho,
geeup, geeup, geeup hey ho,
with a hey, gee Dobin hey ho.

In Coaches thus strowling,
Who wou’d not be rowling;
With Nymphs on each side,
Still Pratling and Playing;
Our Knees interlaying,
We merrily ride.
With a hey, &c.

Here chance kindly mixes,
All sorts and all Sexes,
More Females than Men,
We squeese ’em, we ease ’em,
The jolting does please ’em,
Drive jollily then,
With a hey, &c.

The harder you’re driving,
The more ’tis reviving,
Nor fear we to tell,
For if the Coach tumble,
We’ll have a rare Jumble,
And then up tails all,
With a hey, &c.

YOU Master Colours pray draw near,
And listen to my Report;
My Grief is great, for lo of late,
Two Ladies I chanc’d to Court:
Who did meet me on Tower-Hill,
Their Beauties I did behold:
Those Crafty Jades have learnt their Trades,
And plunder’d me of my Gold.

I’ll tell you how it came to pass,
This sorrowful Story is thus:
Of Guineas bright a glorious Sight,
I had in a Cat-skin Purse:
The Value of near Fourscore Pounds,
As good as e’er I had told,
Those Crafty Jades have learnt their Trades,
And plunder’d me of my Gold.

I saw two poor distressed Men,
Who lay upon Tower-Hill,
To whom in brief I gave Relief,
According to my good Will:
Two wanton Misses drawing near,
My Guineas they did behold;
They laid a Plot by which they Got,
My Silver and yellow Gold.

They both address’d themselves to me,
And thus they was pleas’d to say;
Kind Sir, indeed, we stand in need,
Altho’ we are fine and gay:
Of some Relief which you may give,
I thought they were something bold;
The Plot was laid, I was betray’d,
And plunder’d of all my Gold.

Alas ’tis pity, then I cry’d,
Such Ladies of good Repute,
Should want Relief, therefore in brief,
I gave ’em a kind Salute:
Thought I of them I’ll have my Will,
Altho’ I am something old;
They were I see too wise for me,
They plunder’d me of my Gold.

Then to East-Smithfield was I led,
And there I was entertain’d:
With Kisses fine and Brandy Wine,
In Merriment we remain’d:
Methought it was the happiest Day,
That ever I did behold;
Sweet Meat alass! had sower Sauce,
They plunder’d me of my Gold.

Time after Time to pay their Shot,
My Guineas I would lug out;
Those Misses they wou’d make me stay,
And rally the other bout:
I took my Fill of Pleasures then
Altho’ I was something old;
Those Joys are past, they would not last,
I’m plunder’d of all my Gold.

As I was at the wanton Game,
My Pocket they fairly pick’d;
And all my Wealth they took by stealth,
Thus was a poor Colour trick’d:
Let me therefore a Warning be,
To Merchants both young and old;
For now of late hard was my Fate,
I’m plunder’d of all my Gold.

They got three Pounds in Silver bright,
And Guineas above Threescore,
Such sharping Cracks breaks Merchants Backs,
I’ll never come near them more:
Sure now I have enough of them,
My Sorrow cannot be told;
That crafty Crew makes me look Blew,
I’m plunder’d of all my Gold.

LAST Christmas ’twas my chance,
To be in Paris City;
Where I did see a Dance,
In my conceit was very pretty—By men of France.

First came the Lord of Pool,
And he begun his Measure;
The next came in a Fool,
And danc’d with him for pleasure—With his Tool.

The next a Knight came in,
Who look’d as he would swagger;
And after follow’d him
A merry needy Beggar—Dancing in.

The next a Gentleman,
On him a Servant tending,
And there the Dance began,
With nimble Bodies bending—Like two Friends.

Then in a Lawyer came,
With him a Knave came leaping;
And as they Danc’d in Frame,
So Hand in Hand went skipping—To the Term.

The next a Citizen,
And he a Cuckold leading;
So round about the Room,
Their Masque they fell a Treading—And fain they would.

The next an Usurer,
Old fat Guts he came grunting;
The Devil left all care,
For joy he fell a Jumping—To see him there.

And ending then their Masque,
The Fool his Lord he carries
Upon his Back in hast,
No longer there he tarries—But left the place.

The Beggar took the Knight,
Who took it in Derision;
The Searjeant took in Spite,
The Gentleman to Prison—For all his might.

The Cuckold, silly Man,
Altho’ he was abhorred:
He took the Citizen,
And led him by the Forehead—And out he ran.

The Devil lik’d it well,
His lot it was to carry;
The Usurer to Hell,
And there with him to tarry.

THE Suburbs is a fine Place belonging to the City,
It has no Government at all, alack the more the Pity;
A Wife, a silly Animal, esteemed in that same Place,
For there a Civil Woman’s now asham’d to shew her Face:
The Misses there have each Man’s Time, his Money, nay, his Heart,
Then all in all, both great and small, and all in ev’ry Part.

Which Part it is a thorough-fair so open and so large,
One well might sail through ev’ry Tail even in a western Barge;
These Cracks that Coach it now, when first they came to Town,
Did turn up Tail for a Pot of Ale in Linsey Wolsey Gown.

The Bullies first debauch’d ’em, in Baudy Covent-Garden,
That filthy place, where ne’er a Wench was ever worth a Farthing;
And when their Maiden-heads are sold to sneaking Lords,
Which Lords are Clapt at least nine-fold for taking of their Words.

And then my Lord, that many tries, she looks so Innocent,
Believing he Infected her, he makes a Settlement;
These are your Cracks, who skill’d in all kind of Debauches,
Do daily piss, spue and whore in their own glass Coaches.

Now Miss turn Night-walker, till Lord-Mayor’s Men she meets,
O’er Night she’s Drunk, next Day she’s finely flogged thro’ London streets;
After their Rooms of State are chang’d to Bulks or Coblers Stalls,
’Till Poverty and Pox agree they dying in Hospitals.

This Suburbs gallant Fop that takes delight in Roaring,
He spends his time in Huffing, Swearing, Drinking, and in Whoring;
And if an honest Man and his Wife meet them in the Dark,
Makes nothing to run the Husband through to get the name of Spark.

But when the Constable appears, the Gallant, let me tell ye,
His Heart denies his Breeches, and sinks into his Belly;
These are the silly Rogues that think it fine and witty,
To laugh and joak at Aldermen, the Rulers of the City.

They’d kiss our Wives, but hold, for all their plotting Pates,
While they would get us Children, we are getting their Estates;
And still in vain they Court pretending in their Cares,
That their Estates may thus descend unto the Lawful Heirs.

Their Play-houses I hate, are Shops to set off Wenches,
Where Fop and Miss, like Dog and Bitch, do couple under Benches;
That I might advise the chiefest Play-house monger,
I have a Sister of my own both Handsomer and Younger.

She lives not far off in the Parish of St. Clements,
She never liv’d in Cellar nor sold Oranges and Lemons:
Then why should Play-house Trulls with Paint and such Temptations,
Be an Eye sore to me & more to the best part o’th’ Nation.

Now you that all this while have listened to my Dity,
With streightened Hands pray drink a Health unto this noble City:
And let us pray to Jove, these Suburb folks to mend,
And having now no more to say, I think it fit to end.

AS I went by an Hospital,
I heard an Old Woman cry,
Kind Sir, quoth she, be kind to me,
Once more before I Die,
And grant to me those Joys,
That belong to Woman-kind,
And the Fates above reward your Love,
To an old Woman Poor and Blind.

I find an itching in my Blood,
Altho’ it be something Cold,
Therefore Good Man do what you can,
To comfort me now I’m Old.
And Grant to me those Joys,
That belong to Woman-kind,
And the Fates above Reward your Love,
To an Old Woman Poor and Blind.

Altho’ I cannot see the Day,
Nor never a glance of light;
Kind Sir, I swear and do declare,
I honour the Joys of Night:
Then grant to me those Joys,
That belong to Woman-kind,
And the Fates above Reward you Love,
To an Old Woman Poor and Blind.

When I was in my Blooming Youth,
My vigorous Love was Hot;
Now in my Age I dare Engage,
A fancy I still have got:
Then give to me those Joys,
That belong to Woman-kind,
And the Fates above Reward your Love,
To an Old Woman Poor and Blind.

You shall miss of a Reward,
If Readily you comply;
Then do not Blush but touch my flesh.
This minute before I die:
O let me tast those Joys,
That belong to Woman-kind,
And the Fates above reward your Love,
To an Old Woman Poor and Blind.

I Forty Shillings would freely give,
’Tis all the Mony I have;
Which I full long have begged for,
To carry me to my Grave:
This I would give to have the Bliss,
That belongs to Woman-kind,
And the Fates above reward your Love,
To an Old Woman Poor and Blind.

I had a Husband in my Youth,
As very well ’tis known,
The truth to tell he pleased me well,
But now I am left alone;
And long to tast the good Old Game,
That belongs to Woman-kind:
And the Fates above Reward your Love,
To an Old Woman Poor and Blind.

If Forty Shillings will not do,
My Petticoat and my Gown;
Nay Smock also shall freely go,
To make up the other Crown:
Then Sir, pray Grant that kind Request,
That belongs to Woman-kind;
And the Fates above Reward your Love,
To an Old Woman Poor and Blind.

Tho’ I am Fourscore Years of Age,
I love with a Right good Will;
And what in truth I want in Youth,
I have it in perfect Skill:
Then grant to me that Charming Bliss,
That belongs to Woman-kind;
And the Fates above Reward your Love,
To an Old Woman Poor and Blind.

Now if you do not pleasure me,
And give me the thing I crave;
I do protest I shall not rest,
When I am laid in my Grave:
Therefore kind Sir, grant me the Joys,
That belong to Woman-kind;
And the Fates above Reward your Love,
To an Old Woman Poor and Blind.

THere can be no Glad-man compar’d to the Mad-man,
His Mind is still void of Care;
His Fits and his Fancies, are above all Mischances,
And Mirth is his ordinary Fare.
Then be thou Mad, Mad, Mad let’s be,
Nor shall the foul Fiend be Madder than we.

The Wise and the Witty, in Court and in City,
Are subject to sorrow and Pain;
While he that is Mad, knows not why to be Sad,
Nor has any cause to complain:
Then be thou Mad, &c.

We laugh at you Wise Men, that thus do despise Men,
Whose Senses you think to Decline;
Mark well and you’ll see, what you count but Frenzy,
Is indeed but Raptures Divine.
Then be thou Mad, &c.

Let the Grave and the Wise, pluck out their Eyes,
To set forth a Book worth a Groat;
We Mad-men are quicker, grow Learn’d with good Liquor,
And Chirp a Merry note.
Then be thou Mad, &c.

Hast thou lost thy Estate Man, why, care not for that Man,
What Wealth may’st not fancy thy own;
More than Queen Dido, or her Ass-Ear’d Midas,
That great Philosopher’s stone.
Then be thou Mad, &c.

Pompey was a Mad-man, and so long a Glad-man;
But at length he was forc’d to flee;
For Cæsar from Gallia beat him in Pharsalia,
’Cause a madder Fellow then he.
Then be thou Mad, &c.

’Twas this Extasie brave, that the great Courage gave,
If your Eyes were but ope’d and would see;
To great Alexander, that mighty Commander,
As Mad a Fellow as could be.
Then be thou Mad, &c.

Then around goes a Health to the Lady o’th’ House,
If any Man here does forsake it;
For a Fool let him go, we know better Manners,
And so we mean to take it.
Then be thou Mad, &c.

There’s no Night Mirth’s going, nor any Lad wooing,
But Mad-men are privy unto it;
For the Stars so peep, into every such thing,
And wink upon us as you do it.
Then be thou Mad, &c.

When the Frost, Ice and Snow, do benumb things below,
We Chirp as merry as Larks;
Our Sack and our Madness, consumes cold and sadness,
And we are the Jovial Sparks.
Then be thou Mad, &c.

Has thy Mistress frown’d on thee, or thy Rival out-gone thee?
Let Sober and Wise Fellows pine;
Whilst bright Miralind and goodly Dulcind,
And the rest of the Fairies are thine.
Then be thou Mad, &c.

A Mad-man needs baulk no manner of talk,
His Tongues never guilty with Treason;
But a Wise Knave would suffer, if the same he should utter,
For a wise Man’s Guilt is his Reason.
Then be thou Mad, &c.