Wit and Mirth: or Pills to Purge Melancholy Volume V Part 9

_That a due care be taken to visit the Carriers for crack'd Maidenheads, for the use and increase of our Occupation._

V.

_That all honest Women belonging to either_ Wittals _or_ Cuckolds, _be admitted to the princ.i.p.al Places in this s.h.i.+p._

VI.

_And lastly, for the better State and Magnificence of the honourable Corporation of_ W----es, _'tis order'd that a Chariot be made to be drawn by_ Cuckolds, _the_ Cuckold-makers _to drive, and the_ Wittals _to ride._

_The well approved Doctor:_

_Or, an Infallible Cure for_ CUCKOLDS. _To the foregoing Tune._

There is a fine Doctor now come to Town, Whose practice in Physick hath gain'd him Renown, In curing of Cuckolds he hath the best Skill, By giving one Dose of his approved Pill.

His Skill is well known, and his Practice is great, Then come to the Doctor before 'tis too late; His Med'cines are safe, and the Doctor is sure, He takes none in Hand but he perfects, the Cure.

The Doctor himself he doth freely unfold, That he can Cure Cuckolds tho' never so old; He helps this Distemper in all sorts of Men, At Forty and Fifty, yea, Threescore and Ten.

There was an old Man lived near to the _Strand_, Decripid and Feeble, scarce able to stand; Who had been a Cuckold full Forty long Years, But hearing of this how he p.r.i.c.k'd up his Ears.

Away to the Doctor he went with all speed, Where he struck a bargain, they soon were agreed; He cured his Forehead that nothing was seen, And now he's as brisk as a Youth of Fifteen.

Now this being known, how his Fame it did ring, And unto the Doctor much trading did bring; They came to the Doctor out of e'ery s.h.i.+re, From all Parts and Places, yea both far and near.

Both _Dutchmen_ and _Scotchmen_ to _London_ did ride, With _Shonny-ap-Morgan_, and Thousands beside; Thus all sorts and sizes, both rich Men and poor, They came in whole Cart-loads to this Doctor's door.

Some whining, some weeping, some careful and sad, And some was contented, and others born mad; Some crooked, some straight Horns, and some overgrown, The like in all Ages I think was ne'er known.

Some rich and brave flouris.h.i.+ng Cuckolds were there, That came in whole Droves, Sir, as if to _Horn-Fair_; For now there is hopes to be cur'd of their Grief, The Doctor declares in the Fall of the Leaf.

Let none be so foolish as now to neglect, This Doctor's great Kindness and civil Respect; Tho' rich Men may pay, yet the Poor may go free, So kind and so courteous a Doctor is he.

'Tis known he so worthy a Conscience doth make, Poor Cuckolds he'll cure them for Charity sake; Nay, farther than this still his Love does enlarge, Providing for them at his own Cost and Charge.

But some are so wicked, that they will exclaim Against their poor Wives, making 'em bare the Blame; And will not look out in the least for a Cure, But all their sad Pains and their Tortures endure.

But 'tis without reason, for he that is born Under such a Planet, is Heir to the Horn: Then come to the Doctor both rich Men and Poor, He'll carefully cure you, what would you have more?

The Term of his Time here the Doctor does write, From six in the Morning 'till seven at Night; Where in his own Chamber he still will remain, At the Sign of the _Woodc.o.c.k_ in _Vinegar-lane_.

_The Doctor doth here likewise present you with the Receipt of his Infallible Medicine, that those which have no occasion for it themselves, may do good to their Neighbours and Acquaintances: And take it here as followeth._

Take five Pound of Brains of your _December_ Flies, And forty true Tears from a _Crocodile's_ Eyes; The Wit of a _Weasel_, the Wool of a _Frog_, With an Ounce of Conserve of _Michaelmas_ Fog.

And make him a Poultis when he goes to Bed, To bind to his Temples behind of his Head; As hot as the Patient he well can endure, And this is for Cuckolds an absolute Cure.

_A_ SONG.

Good Neighbour why do you look awry, You are a wond'rous Stranger; You walk about, you huff and pout, As if you'd burst with Anger: Is it for that your Fortune's great, Or you so Wealthy are?

Or live so high there's none a-nigh That can with you compare?

But t'other Day I heard one say, Your Husband durst not show his Ears, But like a Lout does walk about, So full of Sighs and Fears: Good Mrs. _Tart_, I caren't a Fart, For you nor all your Jears.

My Husband's known for to be one, That is most Chast and pure; And so would be continually, But for such Jades as you are: You wash, you lick, you smug, you trick, You toss a twire a grin; You nod and wink, and in his Drink, You strive to draw him in: You Lie you Punck, you're always Drunk, And now you Scold and make a Strife, And like a Wh.o.r.e you run o' th' Score, And lead him a weary Life; Tell me so again you dirty Quean, And I'll pull you by the Quoif.

Go dress those Brats, those nasty Rats, That have a Lear so drowzy; With Vermin spread they look like Dead, Good Faith they're always Lousie: Pray hold you there, and do not swear, You are not half so sweet; You feed yours up with bit and sup, And give them a dirty Teat: My Girls, my Boys, my only Joys, Are better fed and taught than yours; You lie you Flirt, you look like Dirt, And I'll kick you out of Doors; A very good Jest, pray do your best, And Faith I'll quit your Scores.

Go, go you are a nasty Bear, Your Husband cannot bear it; A nasty Quean as e'er was seen, Your Neighbours all can swear it: A fulsome Trot and good for nought, Unless it be to chat; You stole a Spoon out of the Room, Last Christning you were at: You lye you b.i.t.c.h you've got the Itch, Your Neighbours know you are not sound; Look how you Claw with your nasty Paw, And I'll fell you to the Ground; You've tore my Hood, you shall make it good If it cost me Forty Pound.

_The Jovial_ COBLER _of St._ h.e.l.lens.

[Music]

I am a jovial Cobler bold and brave, And as for Employment enough I have: For to keep jogging my Hammer and Awl, _Whilst I sit Singing and Whistling in my Stall,_ _Stall, Stall, whilst I sit Singing and Whistling in my Stall._

But there's _d.i.c.k_ the Carman, and _Hodge_ who drives the Dray For Sixteen, or Eighteen Pence a Day, Slave in the Dirt, whilst I with my Awl, _Get more Money, sitting, sitting in my Stall_, &c.

And there's _Tom_ the Porter, Companion of the Pot, Who stands in the Street with his Rope and Knot, Waiting at a Corner to hear who will him call, _Whilst I am getting Money, Money in my Stall_, &c.

And there's the jolly Broom-man, his Bread for to get, Crys Brooms up and down in the open Street, And one crys broken Gla.s.ses tho' ne'er so small, _Whilst I am getting Money, Money in my Stall_, &c.

And there's another gang of poor s.m.u.tty Souls, Doth trudge up and down to cry Small-coals; With a Sack on their Back, at a Door stand and call, _Whilst I am getting Money, Money in my Stall_, &c.

And there's another sort of Notes, Who crys up and down old Suits and Coats; And perhaps some Days get nothing at all, _Whilst I sit getting Money, Money in my Stall_, &c.

And there's the Jolly Cooper with his Hoops at his Back, Who trudgeth up and down to see who lack Their Casks to be made t.i.te, with Hoops great and small, _Whilst I sit getting Money, Money in my Stall_, &c.

And there's a Jolly Tinker that loves a bonny La.s.s, Who trudges up and down to mend old Bra.s.s; With his long s.m.u.tty Punch to force holes withal, _Whilst I sit getting Money, Money in my Stall_, &c.

And there is another old _Tom Terrah_, Who up and down the City drives his Barrow; To sell his Fruit both great and small, _Whilst I sit getting Money, Money in my Stall_, &c.

And there is the Blind and Lame, with a Wooden Leg, Who up and down the City they forced are to beg Some Crumbs of Comfort, the which are but small, _Whilst I sit getting Money, Money in my Stall_, &c.