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Brisk as a body-louse she trips,

Clean as a penny drest;
Sweet as a rose her breath and lips,

Round as the globe her breast.
Full as an egg was I with glee ;

And happy as a king.
Good Lord ! how all men envy'd me !

She lov'd like any thing.
But, false as hell ! she, like the wind,

Chang d, as her sex must do ;
Though seeming as the turtle kind,

And like the gospel true. If I and Molly could agree,

Let who would take Peru !
Great as an emperor should I be,

And richer than a Jew.
Till you grow tender as a chick,

I’m dull as any post;
Let us, like burs, together stick,

And warm as any toast.
You 'll know me truer than a dye,

And with me better fped ;
Flat as a founder when I lie,

And as a herring dead.
Sure as a gun, she 'll drop a tear,

And sigh perhaps, and wisa,
When I am rotten as a pear,

And mute as any filh.


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How Mr. JONATHAN WILD's Throat was cut from

Ear to Eat with a Penknife, by Mr. BLAKE, alias
BLUE-SKIN, the Bold Highwayman,
As he stood at his Trial in the OLD-BAILY, 1723.

To the Tune of, “ The Cut-purse.”
YE gallants of Newgate, whose fingers are nice,

In diving in pockets, or cogging of dice;
Ye sharpers so rich, who can buy off the noose;
Ye honester poor rogues, who die in your shoes;

Attend and draw near,
Good news you shall hear,

How Jonathan's throat was cut from ear to ear;
How Blue-skin's sharp penknife hath set you at ease,
And every man round me may rob, if he please.
When to the Old-Baily this Blue-ikin was led,
He held


his hand, his indictment was read, Loud rattled his chains, near him Jonathan stood, For full forty pounds was the price of his blood.

Then, hopeless of life,
He drew his penknife,

And made a sad widow of Jonathan's wife.
But forty pounds paid her, her grief thall appeale,
And every man round me may rob, if he please.

T 3


Some say there are courtiers of highelt renown,
Who steal the King's gold, and leave him but a crown;
Some say there are peers, and some parliament-men,
Who meet once a year, to rob courtiers again :

Let them all take their swing,
To pillage the King,

And get a blue-ribbon instead of a string.
Now Blue-skin's sharp penknife hath fet you at ease,
And every man round me may rob, if he please.
Knaves of old, to hide guilt by their cunning inventions,
Calld briberies grants, and plain robberies pensions ;
Physicians and lawyers (who take their degrees
To be learned rogues) call’d their pilfering, fees :

Since this happy day,
Now every man may

Rob (as safe as in office) upon the highway.
For Blue-skin's sharp penknife hath set you at ease,
And every man round me may rob, if he please.
Some cheat in the customs, some rob the excise,
But he who robs both is esteemed most wise.
Church-wardens, too prudent to hazard the halter,
As yet only venture to steal from the altar :

But now to get gold,
They may be more bold,

And rob on the highway, since Jonathan 's cold. For Blue-skin's sharp penknife hath set you at ease, And every man round me may rob, if he please.




Designed for the Pastoral Tragedy of Dione.


"HERE was a time (O were those days renew’d!)

Ere tyrant-laws had woman's will subdued; Then Nature rul’d; and Love, devoid of art, Spoke the consenting language of the heart. Love uncontrol'd! intipid, poor delight ! 'Tis the restraint that whets our appetite. Behold the beasts who range the forests free ; Behold the birds who fly from tree to tree ; In their amours see Nature's power appear ! And do they lore? Yes one month in the year. Were these the pleasures of the golden reign ? And did free Mature thus instruct the swain ? I envy not, ye nymphs, your amorous bowers: Such harmless swains ! - I'm con content with ours. But yet there's something in these fylvan scenes, That tells our fancy what the lover means. Name but the moily bank, and moon-light grove, Is there a heart that does not beat with love?



To-night we treat you with such country-fare :
Then for your lover's sake our author spare.
He draws no Hemikirk boors, or home-bred clowns,
But the foft shepherds of Arcadia's downs.

When Paris on the three his judgement pass’d;
I hope, you 'll own the shepherd thew'd his taste :
And Jove, all know, was a good judge of beauty,
Who made the nymph Calisto break her duty ;
Then was the country-nymph no aukward thing.
See what itrange revolutions time can bring!

Yet still inethinks our author's fate I dread,
Were it not safer beaten paths to tread
Of Tragedly; than o'er wide heaths to stray,
And secking strange adventures lose luis way?
No trumpet's clangor makes liis heroine start,
And tears the foldi'r from bier bleeding heart.
Hle, fcolith bard! nor pomp nor show regards,
Without the witness of a hundred guards
His lovers righ their vows. — - If ficep Mhould take ye,
He has no battle, no louci drum to wake ye.
Whar, no fuch thifts. there 's danger in 't, 'tis true;
Ye: fpure him, as he gives you something neiu.


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