Wit and Mirth: or Pills to Purge Melancholy - LightNovelsOnl.com
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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 G.o.ds 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.
_A_ SONG.
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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 blus.h.i.+ng 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.
RALPH'S _going to the Wars._
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To the Wars I must ala.s.s, Though I do not like the Game, For I hold him to be an a.s.s, 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 _d.i.c.k_, _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._
_A_ SONG _in Praise of Punch._
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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 _Caelia_ 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.
_A_ SONG.
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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 p.i.s.s'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 La.s.s, 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 t.i.tter 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._
_A_ SONG.
_Writ by the Famous Mr._ NAT. LEE.
_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 d.a.m.n'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 Pa.s.sion 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 s.h.i.+ver'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 G.o.ds 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.
_A_ SONG.
[Music]
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.
