WHat Life can compare with the jolly Town Rakes,
When in his full swing of all Pleasure he takes?
At Noon he gets up for a wet and to Dine,
And Wings the swift Hours with Mirth, Musick, and Wine,
Then jogs to the Play-house and chats with the Masques,
And thence to the Rose where he takes his three Flasks,
There great as a Cæsar he revels when drunk,
And scours all he meets as he reels, as he reels to his Punk,
And finds the dear Girl in his Arms when he wakes,
What Life can compare to the jolly Town-Rakes, the Jolly Town-Rakes.

He like the Great Turk has his favourite She,
But the Town’s his Seraglio, and still he lives free;
Sometimes she’s a Lady, but as he must range,
Black Betty, or Oyster Moll serve for a Change:
As he varies his Sports his whole Life is a Feast,
He thinks him that is soberest is most like a Beast:
All Houses of Pleasure, breaks Windows and Doors,
Kicks Bullies and Cullies, then lies with their Whores:
Rare work for the Surgeon and Midwife he makes,
What Life can Compare with the jolly Town-Rakes.

Thus in Covent-Garden he makes his Campaigns,
And no Coffee-House haunts but to settle his Brains;
He laughs at dry Mortals, and never does think,
Unless ’tis to get the best Wenches and Drink:
He dwells in a Tavern, and lives ev’ry where,
And improving his Hour, lives an age in a Year:
For as Life is uncertain, he loves to make haste,
And thus he lives longest because he lives fast:
Then leaps in the Dark, and his Exit he makes,
What Death can compare with the jolly Town-Rakes.

YOung Coridon and Phillis
Sate in a lovely Grove;
Contriving Crowns of Lillies,
Repeating Tales of Love:
And something else, but what I dare not, &c.

But as they were a Playing,
She oagled so the Swain;
It say’d her plainly saying,
Let’s kiss to ease our Pain:
And something else, &c.

A thousand times he kiss’d her,
Laying her on the Green;
But as he farther press’d her,
Her pretty Leg was seen:
And something else, &c.

So many Beauties removing,
His Ardour still increas’d;
And greater Joys pursuing,
He wander’d o’er her Breast:
And something else, &c.

A last Effort she trying,
His Passion to withstand;
Cry’d, but it was faintly crying,
Pray take away your Hand:
And something else, &c.

Young Coridon grown bolder,
The Minute would improve;
This is the Time he told her,
To shew you how I love;
And something else, &c.

The Nymph seem’d almost dying,
Dissolv’d in amorous Heat;
She kiss’d, and told him sighing,
My Dear your Love is great:
And something else, &c.

But Phillis did recover
Much sooner than the Swain;
She blushing ask’d her Lover,
Shall we not Kiss again:
And something else, &c.

Thus Love his Revels keeping,
’Till Nature at a stand;
From talk they fell to Sleeping,
Holding each others Hand;
And something else, &c.

WIth my Strings of small Wire lo I come,
And a Cittern made of Wood;
And a Song altho’ you are Deaf and Dumb,
May be heard and understood.
Dumb, dumb——

Oh! take Pity on me, my Dear,
Me thy Slave, and me thy Vassal,
And be not Cruel, as it were,
Like to some strong and well built old Castle.
Dumb, dumb——

Lest as thou passest along the Street,
Braver every Day and braver;
Every one that does thee meet,
Will say there goes a Woman-shaver.
Dumb, dumb——

And again will think fit,
And to say they will determine;
There goes she that with Tongue killed Clip-Chops,
As a Man with his Thumbs kill Vermine.
Dumb, dumb——

For if thou dost then, farewel Pelf,
Farewel Bridget, for I vow I’ll:
Either in my Bason hang my self,
Or drown me in my Towel,
Dumb, dumb——

OH! let no Eyes be dry,
Oh Hone, Oh Hone,
But let’s lament and cry,
Oh Hone, O Hone,
We’re quite undone almost,
For Daphne on this Coast,
Has yielded up the Ghost,
Oh Hone, O Hone.

Daphne my dearest Bitch,
Oh Hone, O Hone,
Who did all Dogs bewitch,
Oh Hone, &c.
Was by a careless Maid,
Pox take her for a Jade,
In the Night over-laid,
Oh Hone, &c.

Oh may she never more
Oh Hone, &c.
Sleep quietly, but snore,
Oh Hone, &c.
May never Irish Lad,
Sue for her Maiden-head,
Until it stinks I Gad,
Oh Hone, &c.

Oh may she never keep
Oh Hone, Oh Hone;
Her Water in her Sleep,
Oh Hone, Oh Hone:
May never Pence nor Pounds,
Come more within the Bounds,
Of her Pocket Ad-sounds,
Oh Hone, Oh Hone.

WHEN that young Damon bless’d my Heart,
And in soft Words did move;
How did I hug the pleasing Dart,
And thank’d the God of Love:
Cupid, said I, my best lov’d Lamb,
That in my Bosom lives:
To thee, for kindling this dear Flame,
To thee, kind God, I’ll give.

But prying Friends o’er-heard my Vow,
And murmur’d in my Ear;
Damon hath neither Flocks nor Plough,
Girl what thou dost beware:
They us’d so long their cursed Art,
And damn’d deluding sham;
That I agreed with them to part,
Nor offer’d up my Lamb.

Cupid ask’d for his Offering,
’Cause I refus’d to pay;
He took my Damon on his Wing,
And carry’d him quite away:
Pitch’d him before Olinda’s Charms,
Those Wonders of the Plain;
Commanding her into her Arms,
To take the dearest Swain.

The envy’d Nymph, soon, soon obey’d,
And bore away the Prize;
’Tis well she did, for had she stay’d,
I’d snatch’d him from her Eyes:
My Lamb was with gay Garlands dress’d,
The Pile prepar’d to burn;
Hoping that if the God appeas’d,
My Damon might return.

But oh! in vain he’s gone, he’s gone,
Phillis he can’t be thine;
I by Obedience am undone,
Was ever Fate like mine:
Olinda do, try all thy Charms,
Yet I will have a part;
For whilst you have him in your Arms,
I’ll have him in my Heart.

THINK wretched Mortal, think no more,
How to prolong thy Breath:
For thee there are no Joys in store,
But in a welcome Death:
Then seek to lay thee under Ground,
The Grave cures all Despair;
And healeth every bitter Wound,
Giv’n by th’ ungrateful Fair.

How cou’dst thou Faith in Woman think,
Women are Syrens all;
And when Men in Loves Ocean sink,
Take Pride to see ’em fall:
Women were never real yet,
But always truth despise:
Constant to nothing but Deceit,
False Oaths and flattering Lies.

Ah! Coridon bid Life adieu,
The Gods will thee prefer;
Their Gates are open’d wide for you,
But bolted against her:
Do thou be true, you vow’d to Love,
Phillis or Death you’ll have;
Now since the Nymph doth perjured prove,
Be just unto the Grave.

HEaven first created Woman to be Kind,
Both to be belov’d, and for to Love;
If you contradict what Heav’n has design’d,
You’ll be contemn’d by all the Pow’rs above:
Then no more dispute me, for I am rashly bent,
To subject your Beauty
To kind Nature’s Duty,
Let me than salute you by Consent.

Arguments and fair Intreats did I use,
But with her Consent could not prevail;
She the Blessing modestly would still refuse,
Seeming for to slight my amorous Tale:
Sometimes she would cry Sir, prithee Dear be good,
Oh Sir, pray Sir, why Sir?
Pray now, nay now, fye Sir,
I would sooner die Sir, than be rude.

I began to treat her then another way,
Modestly I melted with a Kiss;
She then blushing look’d like the rising Day,
Fitting for me to attempt the Bliss:
I gave her a fall Sir, she began to tear,
Crying she would call Sir,
As loud as she could baul Sir,
But is prov’d as false, Sir, as she’s Fair.

TO the Wars I must alass,
Though I do not like the Game,
For I hold him to be an Ass,
That will lose his Life for Fame:
For these Guns are such pestilent things,
To pat a Pellet in ones Brow;
Four vurlongs off ch’ve heard zome zay,
Ch’ill kill a Man he knows not how.

When the Bow, Bill, Zword and Dagger,
Were us’d all in vighting;
Ch’ve heard my Father swear and swagger,
That it was but a Flea-biting:
But these Guns, &c.

Ise would vight with the best of our Parish,
And play at Whisters with Mary;
Cou’d thump the Vootball, yerk the Morrie,
And box at Visticuffs with any:
But these Guns, &c.

Varewel Dick, Tom, Ralph and Hugh,
My Maypoles make all heretofore;
Varewel Doll, Kate, Zis and Zue,
For I shall never zee you more:
For these Guns are such pestilent things,
To pat a Pellet in ones Brow;
Four vurlongs off ch’ve heard zome zay,
Ch’ill kill a Man he knows not how.

COME fill up the Bowl with the Liquor that fine is,
And much more Divine is,
Than now a-days Wine is, with all their Art,
None here can controul:
The Vintner despising, tho’ Brandy be rising,
’Tis Punch that must chear the Heart:
The Lovers complaining, ’twill cure in a trice,
And Cælia disdaining, shall cease to be nice,
Come fill up the Bowl, &c.

Thus soon you’ll discover, the cheat of each Lover,
When free from all Care you’ll quickly find,
As Nature intended ’em willing and kind:
Come fill up the Bowl, &c.

BONNY Peggy Ramsey that any Man may see,
And bonny was her Face, with a fair freckel’d Eye,
Neat is her Body made, and she hath good Skill,
And square is her Wethergig made like a Mill:
With a hey trolodel, hey trolodel, hey trolodel lill,
Bonny Peggy Ramsey she gives weel her Mill.

Peggy to the Mill is gone to grind a Bowl of Mault,
The Mill it wanted Water, and was not that a fault;
Up she pull’d her Petticoats and piss’d into the Dam,
For six Days and seven Nights she made the Mill to gang;
With a hey, &c.

Some call her Peggy, and some call her Jean,
But some calls her Midsummer, but they all are mista’en;
For Peggy is a bonny Lass, and grinds well her Mill,
For she will be Occupied when others they lay still:
With a hey, &c.

Peg, thee and Ise grin a poke, and we to War will leanes,
Ise lay thee flat upon thy Back and then lay to the steanes;
Ise make hopper titter totter, haud the Mouth as still,
When twa sit, and eane stand, merrily grind the Mill:
With a hey, &c.

Up goes the Clap, and in goes the Corn,
Betwixt twa rough steans Peggy not to learn;
With a Dam full of Water that she holdeth still,
To pour upon the Clap for burning of the Mill:
With a hey, &c.

Up she pull’d the Dam sure and let the Water in,
The Wheel went about, and the Mill began to grind:
The spindle it was hardy, and the steanes were they well pickt,
And the Meal fell in the Mill Trough, and ye may all come lick:
With a hey trolodel, hey trolodel, hey trolodel lill,
Bonny Peggy Ramsey she gives weel her Mill.

PHilander and Sylvia, a gentle soft Pair,
Whose business was loving, and kissing their Care;
In a sweet smelling Grove went smiling along,
’Till the Youth gave a vent to his Heart with his Tongue:
Ah Sylvia! said he, (and sigh’d when he spoke)
Your cruel resolves will you never revoke?
No never, she said, how never, he cry’d,
’Tis the Damn’d that shall only that Sentence abide.

She turn’d her about to look all around,
Then blush’d, and her pretty Eyes cast on the Ground;
She kiss’d his warm Cheeks, then play’d with his Neck,
And urg’d that his Reason his Passion would check:
Ah Philander! she said, ’tis a dangerous Bliss,
Ah! never ask more and I’ll give thee a Kiss;
How never? he cry’d, then shiver’d all o’er,
No never, she said, then tripp’d to a Bower.

She stopp’d at the Wicket, he cry’d let me in,
She answer’d, I wou’d if it were not a sin;
Heav’n sees, and the Gods will chastise the poor Head
Of Philander for this; straight Trembling he said,
Heav’n sees, I confess, but no Tell-tales are there,
She kiss’d him and cry’d, you’re an Atheist my Dear;
And shou’d you prove false I should never endure:
How never? he cry’d, and straight down he threw her.

Her delicate Body he clasp’d in his Arms,
He kiss’d her, he press’d her, heap’d charms upon charms;
He cry’d shall I now? no never, she said,
Your Will you shall never enjoy till I’m dead:
Then as if she were dead, she slept and lay still,
Yet even in Death bequeath’d him a smile:
Which embolden’d the Youth his Charms to apply,
Which he bore still about him to cure those that die.

YOur Hay it is mow’d, and your Corn is reap’d,
Your Barns will be full, and your Hovels heap’d;
Come, my Boys come,
Come, my Boys come,
And merrily roar our Harvest home:
Harvest home,
Harvest home,
And merrily roar our Harvest home.
Come, my Boys come, &c.

We ha’ cheated the Parson, we’ll cheat him agen,
For why should a Blockhead ha’ One in Ten:
One in Ten,
One in Ten,
For why should a Blockhead ha’ One in Ten,
One in Ten, &c.

For prating too long, like a Book learnt Sot,
’Till Pudding and Dumpling are burnt to Pot:
Burnt to Pot,
Burnt to Pot,
’Till Pudding and Dumpling are burnt to Pot.
Burnt to Pot, &c.

We’ll toss off our Ale till we cannot stand,
And hey for the Honour of old England;
Old England,
Old England,
And hey for the Honour of old England,
Old England, &c.

I Prithee send me back my Heart,
Since I cannot have thine:
For if from yours you will not part,
Why then should you have mine.

Yet now I think on’t, let it be,
To send it me is vain;
Thou hast a Thief in either Eye,
Will steal it back again.

Why should two Hearts in one Breast be,
And yet not be together;
Or Love, where is thy Sympathy,
If thou our Hearts do sever?

But Love is such a Mystery,
I cannot find it out;
For when I think I am best resolv’d,
Then I am most in Doubt.

Then farewel Care, then farewel Woe,
I will no longer pine;
But I’ll believe I have her Heart,
As well as she hath mine.

LET Soldiers fight for Pay and Praise,
And Money be Misers wish;
Poor Scholars study all their Days,
And Gluttons glory in their Dish:
’Tis Wine, pure Wine, revives sad Souls,
Therefore give us chearing Bowls.

Let Minions marshal in their Hair,
And in a Lover’s lock delight;
And artificial Colours wear,
We have the Native Red and White.
’Tis Wine, &c.

Your Pheasant, Pout, and Culver Salmon,
And how to please your Palates think:
Give us a salt Westphalia-Gammon,
Not Meat to eat, but Meat to drink.
’Tis Wine, &c.

It makes the backward Spirits brave,
That lively, that before was dull;
Those grow good Fellows that are grave,
And kindness flows from Cups brim full,
’Tis Wine, &c.

Some have the Ptysick, some the Rhume,
Some have the Palsie, some the Gout;
Some swell with Fat, and some consume,
But they are sound that drink all out.
’Tis Wine, &c.

Some Men want Youth, and some want Health,
Some want a Wife, and some a Punk;
Some Men want Wit, and some want Wealth,
But he wants nothing that is drunk.
’Tis Wine, pure Wine, revives sad Souls,
Therefore give us chearing Bowls.

POOR Jenny and I we toiled,
In a long Summer’s Day;
Till we were almost foiled,
With making of the Hay;
Her Kerchief was of Holland clear,
Bound low upon her Brow;
Ise whisper’d something in her Ear,
But what’s that to you?

Her Stockings were of Kersey green,
Well stitcht with yellow Silk;
Oh! sike a Leg was never seen,
Her Skin as white as Milk:
Her Hair as black as any Crow,
And sweet her Mouth was too;
Oh Jenny daintily can mow,
But, &c.

Her Petticoats were not so low,
As Ladies they do wear them;
She needed not a Page I trow,
For I was by to bear them:
Ise took them up all in my Hand,
And I think her Linnen too;
Which made me for to make a stand;
But, &c.

King Solomon had Wives enough,
And Concubines a Number;
Yet Ise possess more happiness,
And he had more of Cumber;
My Joys surmount a wedded Life,
With fear she lets me mow her;
A Wench is better than a Wife,
But, &c.

The Lilly and the Rose combine,
To make my Jenny fair;
There’s no Contentment sike as mine;
I’m almost void of Care:
But yet I fear my Jenny’s Face,
Will cause more Men to woe;
Which if she should, as I do fear,
Still, what is that to you?

HEars not my Phillis how the Birds,
Their feather’d Mates salute:
They tell their Passion in their Words,
Must I alone, must I alone be mute:
Phillis without a frown or smile,
Sat & knotted, & knotted, & knotted, and knotted all the while.

The God of Love in thy bright Eyes,
Does like a Tyrant Reign;
But in thy Heart a Child he lies,
Without a Dart or Flame.
Phillis, &c.

So many Months in silence past,
And yet in raging Love;
Might well deserve one word at last,
My Passion should approve.
Phillis, &c.

Must then your faithful Swain expire,
And not one look obtain;
Which to sooth his fond desire,
Might pleasingly explain.
Phillis, &c.

OLD Lewis le Grand,
He raves like a Fury,
And calls for Mercury;
Quoth he, if I can,
I’ll finish my Days;
For why should I live?
Since the Fates will not give
One affable smile:
Great Marlborough Conquers,
Great Marlborough Conquers,
I’m ruin’d the while.

The Flower of France,
And Troops of my Palace
Which march’d from Versales
Who vow’d to Advance,
With Conquering Sword,
Are cut, hack’d and hew’d,
I well may conclude,
They’re most of them Slain:
Oh! what will become of,
Oh! what will become of,
My Grand-Son in Spain.

My fortify’d Throne,
Propt up by Oppression,
Must yield at Discretion,
For needs must I own,
My Glory decays:
Bold Marlborough comes
With ratling Drums,
And thundering Shot,
He drives all before him,
He drives all before him,
Oh! Where am I got?

He pushes for Crowns,
And slays my Commanders,
And Forces in Flanders;
Great Capital Towns,
For CHARLES has declar’d:
These things like a Dart,
Has pierced my Heart,
And threatens my Death;
Here do I lye sighing,
Here do I lye sighing,
And Panting for Breath.

This passionate Grief,
Draws on my Diseases,
Which fatally ceases
My Spirits in chief,
A fit of the Gout,
The Gravel and Stone,
I have ’tis well known,
At this horrid News,
Of Marlborough’s Triumph,
Of Marlborough’s Triumph,
All Battles I lose.

Wherever he comes,
He is bold and Victorious,
Successful and glorious,
My two Royal Thumbs
With anguish I bite:
To hear his Success;
Yet nevertheless,
My passion’s in vain:
I pity my Darling,
I pity my Darling,
Young Philip in Spain.

I am out of my Wits,
If e’er I had any;
My Foes they are many,
Which plagues me by fits,
In Flanders and Spain:
I’m sick at my Heart,
To think we must part,
With what we enjoy’d,
Towns, Castles, are taken,
Towns, Castles, are taken,
My Troops are destroy’d.

I am I declare,
In a weak Condition,
Go call my Physician,
And let him prepare
Some comfort with speed,
Without all delay,
Assist me I pray,
And hear my Complaint,
A Dram of the Bottle,
A Dram of the Bottle,
Or else I shall faint.

Should I slip my Breath,
At this dreadful Season,
I think it but Reason,
I should lay my Death,
To the daring Foes,
Whose Fire and Smoak,
Has certainly broke,
The Heart in my Breast:
Oh! bring me a Cordial,
Oh! bring me a Cordial,
And lay me to Rest.

WOuld you be a Man in Fashion?
Would you lead a Life Divine?
Take a little Dram of Passion, (a little dram of Passion)
In a lusty Dose of Wine
If the Nymph has no Compassion,
Vain it is to sigh and groan:
Love was but put in for Fashion,
Wine will do the Work alone.

THough the Pride of my Passion fair Sylvia betrays,
And frowns at the Love I impart;
Though kindly her Eyes twist amorous Rays,
To tye a more fortunate Heart:
Yet her Charms are so great, I’ll be bold in my Pain,
His Heart is too tender,
Too tender, that’s struck with Disdain.

Still my Heart is so just to my Passionate Eyes,
It dissolves with Delight while I gaze:
And he that loves on, though Sylvia denies,
His Love but his Duty obeys:
I no more can refrain her neglects to pursue,
Than the force, the force
Of her Beauty can cease to subdue.

WHEN first I fair Celinda knew,
Her Kindness then was great:
Her Eyes I cou’d with Pleasure view,
And friendly Rays did meet:
In all Delights we past the time,
That could Diversion move;
She oft would kindly hear me Rhime
Upon some others Love:
She oft would kindly hear me Rhime,
Upon some others Love.

But ah! at last I grew too bold,
Prest by my growing Flame;
For when my Passion I had told,
She hated ev’n my Name:
Thus I that cou’d her Friendship boast,
And did her Love pursue;
And taught Contentment at the cost,
Of Love and Friendship too.

LONG had Damon been admir’d,
By the Beauties of the Plain;
Ev’ry Breast warm Love inspir’d,
For the proper handsome Swain:
The choicest Nymph Sicilia bred,
Was won by his resistless Charms:
Soft Looks, and Verse as smooth, had led
And left the Captive in his Arms.

But our Damon’s Soul aspires,
To a Goddess of his Race;
Though he sues with chaster Fires,
This his Glories does deface:
The fatal News no sooner blown
In Whispers up the Chesnut Row;
The God Sylvanus with a Frown,
Blasts all the Lawrels on his Brow.

Swains be wise, and check desire
In it’s soaring, when you’ll woe:
Damon may in Love require
Thestyles and Laura too:
When Shepherds too ambitious are,
And Court Astrea on a Throne;
Like to the shooting of a Star,
They fall, and thus their shining’s gone.