Wit and Mirth: or Pills to Purge Melancholy Volume VI Part 38

The other Four so Charming are, They will with Raptures fill ye; There's Lady _Hochstet_, _Sch.e.l.lenburgh_, Bright _Blenheim_, and Lady _Ramillie_, _With a Fal_, &c.

The last were got so fair and strong, As in Story ne'er was told; The first Four always will be Young, And the last will never be Old, _With a Fal_, &c.

At ev'ry Feast, e'er we are all deceas'd, And the Service begins to be hard; 'Tis surely your Duty, to Toast a young Beauty, Call'd Madamosel _Audenard_, _With a Fal_, &c.

All Joy to his Grace, for the ninth of his Race, She's as fair as most of the former; But where is that he, dare so impudent be, To compare her to Lady _Mount-Hermer_, _With a Fal_, &c.

And now to make thy Hopes more strong, And make you look like a Man; Remember that all these belong, To the Queen of Great _Britain_, _With a Fal_, &c.

Then prithee _d.i.c.k_ hold up thy Head, Altho' we were beaten in _Spain_; As sure as Scarlet Colour is Red, We'll beat them twice for it again: _With a Fal_, &c.

_A_ SONG.

Let those Youths who Freedom prize, Far from the conquering _Sylvia_ run, Never see her killing Eyes, Or hear her soft enchanting Tongue: For such sure Destruction waits, On those Darts with which she wounds; No shepherd ever can escape, But falls if _Sylvia_ does but Frown.

_Damon_ to his cost has prov'd, All resistance is but vain; Heaven has form'd her to be lov'd, And made her Queen of all the Plain: _Damon_ when he saw her Face, From her Beauty would have fled; But the Charmer turn'd her Voice, And with a Song she struck him dead.

_A_ SONG.

[Music]

Your Melancholy's all a Folly, The Peace I'm sure is Sign'd; The _French_ are for't, so is our Court, And the _Dutch_ must be inclin'd: What is't to us who's King of _Spain_, So we are Masters of the Main, Our Fleet must always the Trade maintain, If we are not Banter'd and Bubbl'd.

And Cheated and Banter'd and Bubbl'd.

We very well know when _Marlborough_, Did take the Towns in _Flanders_; 'Twas _English-men_, did pay for them, Tho' they put in _Dutch_ Commanders; So that while we were humbling _France_, _Hollands_ Power we did advance, And made 'em Great at our expence, And so we were Banter'd, _&c._

We must suppose, the WHIGS are Foes, When Treatys they will Sign a; To give the _Dutch_ so plaguy much, And call it the Barrier Line a: For how can we Great _Europe_ Sway, Or keep the Ballance every way, I fear we shall pay for't another Day, For we have been Banter'd, _&c._

For Liberty, and Property, 'Twas once we us'd to Fight; 'Gainst Popery, and Slavery, We did it with our Might: But now the Taxes make us poor, The Emperor may Swear and roar, We neither can nor will do more, For we have been Banter'd, _&c._

FANATICKS then, are now the Men, Who Kingly Pow'r divide; Their Villany to Monarchy, 'Tis makes 'em _France_ deride: If _Hollanders_ wou'd choose a King, As much as now their Praises Sing, They wou'd Curse, and d.a.m.n, and Fling, And cry they were Banter'd, _&c._

I swear adsnigs, the Canting WHIGS, Have run their Knavish Race; The Church and Queen, are Flouris.h.i.+ng, Now they are in Disgrace: Great _Harly_ he has set us right, And _France_ will banish _Perkenite_, So we're no more the _Holland_ Bite, Nor will we be Banter'd and Bubbl'd, And Cheated and Banter'd and Bubbl'd.

_The_ MOHOCKS. _A_ SONG.

[Music]

There's a new set of Rakes, Ent.i.tled Mohocks, Who infest Her Majesties Subjects; He who meets 'em at Night, Must be ready for flight, Or withstanding he many a Drub gets.

In their nightly Patrole, They up and down rowle, To the Bodily fear of the Nation; Some say they are Gentle- men, otherwise Simple, And their Sense like their Reputation.

Others say that the Van's Led by n.o.blemen, Tho' to Forreigners this will but sound ill; But let 'em take care, How they manage th' Affair; For a Lord may be kill'd by a Scoundrel.

Some count it a Plot, And the Lord knows what, Contriv'd by the WHIGS out of Season; But shou'd it be so, By the _High-Church_ or _Low_, Rebellion was always high Treason.

Fie, curb the Disgrace, 'Tis imprudent and base, Pray take the advice of a Stranger; But if you go on, Like Fools as ye've done, When ye're Hang'd ye'll be quite out of Danger.

Tune _of Joy to the Bridegroom_.

My _Theodora_ can those Eyes, From whence those Glories always s.h.i.+ne: Give light to every Soul that prys, And only be obscure to mine: _Give light to every Soul that prys_, _And only be obscure to mine._

Send out one Beam t' enrich my Soul, That doth in Clouds of darkness roul; And chase away this gloomy Shade, That in my Breast a h.e.l.l has made: _And chase away this gloomy Shade_, _That in my Breast a h.e.l.l has made._

Where fire burns, where Flame is bright, Yet I the Comfort want of light: O s.h.i.+ne, then s.h.i.+ne upon the Man, That else in Darkness is undone: _O s.h.i.+ne, then s.h.i.+ne upon the Man_, _That else in Darkness is undone._

_A_ SONG _in Praise of_ BEGGING: _Or, the Beggars Rivall'd._

[Music]

Tho' Begging is an honest Trade, Which wealthy Knaves despise; Yet Rich Men may be Beggars made, And we that Beg may rise: The greatest Kings may be betray'd, And lose their Sov'raign Power, But he that stoops to ask his Bread, But he that stoops to ask his Bread, Can never fall much lower.

What lazy Foreigns Swarm'd of late, Has spoil'd our Begging-trade; Yet still we live and drink good Beer, Tho' they our Rights invade: Some say they for Religion fled, But wiser People tell us, They were forc'd Abroad to seek their Bread, For being too Rebellious.

Let heavy Taxes greater grow, To make our Army fight; Where 'tis not to be had you know, The King must lose his Right: Let one side laugh, the other mourn, We nothing have to fear; But that great Lords will Beggars be, To be as great as we are.

What tho' we make the World believe, That we are Sick or lame; 'Tis now a Virtue to Deceive, Our Teachers do the same: In Trade Dissembling is no crime, And we may live to see; That Begging in a little time, The only Trade will be.

Tune, _Let_ CaeSAR _rejoyce_.

_Alphonzo_, if you Sir, Your Heart have resign'd; Take care what you do, Sir, For a Lover is blind.

Beware of the Snare, That for Lovers is laid: Beware of the Fair, But more treacherous Maid: For when tir'd with the Joy, Of a Minutes delight; You'll repent the next Morn, What you did over Night.