Wit and Mirth: or Pills to Purge Melancholy Volume VI Part 22

Sweet (he said) as I did promise, I am now return'd again; Long delay you know breeds danger, And to Lovers breadeth pain: The Nymph said then, above all Men, Still welcome Shepherd Morn and Noon, The Shepherd prays, _Dulcina_ says, Shepherd I doubt thou'rt come too soon.

When that bright _Aurora_ blushed, Came the Shepherd to his dear; Pretty Birds most sweetly warbled, And the Noon approached near: Yet still away the Nymph did say, The Shepherd he fell in a Swoon; At length she said, be not afraid, Forgo me, _&c._

With grief of Heart the Shepherd hasted Up the Mountains to his Flocks; Then he took a Reed and piped, Eccho sounded thro' the Rocks: Thus did he play, and wish'd the Day, Were spent, and Night were come e'er Noon; The silent Night, Love's delight, I'll go to Fair _Dulcina_ soon.

Beauties darling, fair _Dulcina_, Like to _Venus_ for her Love, Spent away the Day in Pa.s.sion, Mourning like the Turtle-Dove: Melodiously, Notes low and high, She warbled forth this doleful Tune; Oh come again sweet Shepherd Swain, Thou can'st not be with us too soon.

When as _Thetis_ in her place, Had receiv'd the Prince of light; Came in _Coridon_ the Shepherd, To his Love and Heart's delight: Then _Pan_ did play, the Wood-Nymphs they Did skip and dance to hear the Tune; _Hymen_ did say 'tis Holy-day, Forgo me now, come to me soon.

_The Scolding Wife._

[Music]

Suppose a Man does all he can, To unslave himself from a scolding Wife; He can't get out, but hops about, Like a Marry'd bird in the Cage of Life: She on Mischief bent is ne'er content, Which makes the poor Man cry out, Rigid fate, Marriage State, No reprieve but the Grave, oh 'tis hard Condition.

Come I'll tell you how this Wife to bow, And quickly bring her to her last; Your Senses please, indulge your ease, But resist no joy and each humour taste, Then let her squal, and tear and bawl, And with whining cry her Eyes out, Take a Flask, double Flask, Whip it up, sip it up, that's your Physician.

_A_ SONG.

[Music]

We merry Wives of _Windsor_, Whereof you make your Play, And act us on your Stages, In _London_ Day by Day: Ala.s.s it doth not hurt us, We care not what you do; For all you scoff, we'll sing and laugh, And yet be Honest too.

Ala.s.s we are good Fellows, We hate Dishonesty; We are not like your City Dames, In sport of Venery: We scorn to Punk, or to be drunk, But this we dare to do; To sit and chat, laugh and be fat, But yet be Honest too.

But should you know we _Windsor_ Dames, Are free from haughty Pride: And hate the tricks you Wenches have, In _London_ and _Bankside_: But we can spend, and Money lend, And more than that we'll do, We'll sit and chat, laugh and be fat, And yet be Honest too.

It grieves us much to see your wants, Of things that we have store, In Forests wide and Parks beside, And other places more: Pray do not scorn the _Windsor_ Horn, That is both fair and new; Altho' you scold, we'll sing and laugh, And yet be honest too.

And now farewel unto you all, We have no more to say; Be sure you imitate us right, In acting of your Play: If that you miss, we'll at you hiss, As others us'd to do; And at you scoff, and sing and laugh, And yet be Honest too.

_The_ BATTLE-ROYAL.

[Music]

A Dean and Prebendary, Had once a new vagary, And were at doubtful strife Sir, Who led the better life Sir, And was the better Man: The Dean he said that truly, Since Bluff was so unruly, He'd prove it to his Face, Sir, That he had the more Grace, Sir, And so the Fight began.

When Preb. reply'd like Thunder, And roar'd out, 'twas no wonder, For G.o.ds the Dean had three, Sir, And more by two than he, Sir, Since he had got but one; Now while these two were raging, And in Disputes engaging, The Master of the Charter, Said both had got a Tartar, For G.o.ds that there were none.

For all the Books of _Moses_, Were nothing but supposes, And he deserv'd rebuke, Sir, Who wrote the Pentateuch, Sir, 'Twas nothing but a Sham; And as for Father _Adam_, With Mrs. _Eve_ his Madam, And what the Serpent spoke, Sir, Was nothing but a Joke, Sir, And well invented flam.

Thus in this Battle Royal, As none would take denial, The Dame for which they strove, Sir, Could neither of them love, Sir, For all had giv'n Offence; She therefore slily waiting, Left all three Fools a Prating, And being in a Fright, Sir, Religion took her flight, Sir, And ne'er was heard on since.

_The Saint turn'd Sinner, Or the Dissenting Parson's Text under the_ QUAKER'S _Petticoats. To the foregoing Tune._

You Friends to Reformation, Give Ear to my Relation, For I shall now declare, Sir, Before you are aware, Sir, The matter very plain, The matter very plain; A Gospel Cus.h.i.+on Thumper, Who dearly lov'd a b.u.mper, And something else beside, Sir, If he is not bely'd, Sir, This was a Holy Guide, Sir, For the Dissenting Train.

And for to tell you truly, His Flesh was so unruly, He could not for his Life, Sir, Pa.s.s by the Draper's Wife, Sir, The Spirit was so faint, _&c._ This Jolly handsome Quaker, As he did overtake her, She made his Mouth to water, And thought long to be at her, Such Sin is no great matter, Accounted by a Saint.

Says he _my pretty Creature_, _Your Charming Handsome Feature_, _Has set me all on Fire_, _You know what I desire_, _There is no harm to Love_; Quoth she if that's your Notion, To Preach up such Devotion, Such hopeful Guides as you, Sir, Will half the World undo, Sir, A Halter is your due, Sir, If you such Tricks approve.

The Parson still more eager, Than l.u.s.tful _Turk_ or _Neger_, Took up her Lower Garment, And said there was no harm in't, According to the Text; For _Solomon_ more wiser, Than any dull adviser, Had many Hundred Misses, To Crown his Royal Wishes, And why shou'd such as this is, Make you so sadly vext.

The frighted female Quaker, Perceiv'd what he would make her, Was forc'd to call the Watch in, And stop what he was hatching, To spoil the Light within, _&c._ They came to her a.s.sistance, And she did make resistance, Against the Priest and Devil, The Actors of all Evil, Who were so Grand uncivil, To tempt a Saint to Sin.

The Parson then confounded, To see himself surrounded, With Mob and st.u.r.dy Watch-men, Whose Business 'tis to catch Men, In Lewdness with a Punk, _&c._ He made some faint Excuses, And all to hide Abuses, In taking up the Linnen, Against the Saints Opinion, Within her soft Dominion, Alledging he was Drunk.

But tho' he feigned Reeling, They made him Pay for feeling, And Lugg'd him to a Prison, To bring him to his Reason, Which he had lost before; And thus we see how Preachers, That should be Gospel-Teachers, How they are strangely blinded, And are so Fleshly minded, Like Carnal Men inclined, To lye with any Wh.o.r.e.

_A_ SONG. _Set by Mr._ DAMASCENE.

Beauty, like Kingdoms not for one, Was made to be possest alone; By bounteous Nature 'twas design'd, To be the Joy of Human-kind.

So the bright Planet of the Day, Doth unconfin'd his Beams display; And generous heat to all dispence, Which else would dye without that Influence.

Nor is your mighty Empire less, On you depends Man's Happiness; If you but frown, we cease to be, And only live by your Decree.

But sure a Tyrant cannot rest, Nor harbour in so fair a Breast; In Monsters Cruelty we find, An Angel's Face, must have an Angel's Mind.

_The_ BALLAD _of the True_ TROJAN.

[Music: _Troy_ had a breed of brave stout Men, yet _Greece_ made s.h.i.+ft to rout her; cause each Man Drank as much as Ten, and thence grew ten times stouter: Tho' _Hector_ was a _Trojan_ true as ever pist 'gain wall Sir, _Achilles_ bang'd him black and blue, for he Drank more than all Sir, for he Drank more, for he drank more, for he drank more than all Sir, for he drank more, for he drank more, for he drank more than all Sir.]

Let _Bacchus_ be our G.o.d of War, We shall fear nothing then Boys; We'll Drink all dead, and lay 'em to Bed, And if they wake not Conquered, We'll Drink 'em dead again Boys: Nor were the _Grecians_ only fam'd, For Drinking and for fighting; For he that Drank and wan't asham'd, Was ne'er asham'd on's Writing.

He that will be a Souldier then, Or Wit, must drink good Liquor; It makes base Cowards Fight like Men, And roving Thoughts fly quicker: Let _Bacchus_ be both G.o.d of War, And G.o.d of Wit, and then Boys, We'll Drink and fight, and Drink and write, And if the Sun set with his Light, We'll Drink him up again Boys.