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Brifk as a body-loufe fhe trips,
Sweet as a rofe her breath and lips,
Round as the globe her breast.
Full as an egg was I with glee;
Good Lord! how all men envy'd me!
But, falfe as hell! fhe, like the wind,
If I and Molly could agree,
Let who would take Peru! Great as an emperor fhould 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 flounder when I lie,
And as a herring dead.
Sure as a gun, fhe 'll drop a tear,
And figh perhaps, and wish,
When I am rotten as a pear,
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, 1725. To the Tune of, "The Cut-purse."
YE gallants of Newgate, whofe fingers are nice,
In diving in pockets, or cogging of dice;
Ye sharpers fo rich, who can buy off the noofe;
Good news you shall hear,
How Jonathan's throat was cut from ear to ear; How Blue-fkin's fharp penknife hath fet you at eafe, And every man round me may rob, if he please. When to the Old-Baily this Blue-skin was led, He held up 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 fad widow of Jonathan's wife. But forty pounds paid her, her grief fhall appeafe, And every man round me may rob, if he please.
Some fay there are courtiers of highest renown,
To pillage the King,
And get a blue-ribbon instead of a string.
Knaves of old, to hide guilt by their cunning inventions,
Now every man may
Rob (as fafe as in office) upon the highway.
Some cheat in the customs, fome rob the excife,
They may be more bold,
And rob on the highway, fince Jonathan's cold. For Blue-fkin's fharp penknife hath set you at ease, And every man round me may rob, if he please.
Defigned for the Paftoral Tragedy of DIONE.
HERE was a time (O were those days renew'd!)
Then Nature rul'd; and Love, devoid of art,
To-night we treat you with fuch country-fare: Then for your lover's fake our author spare.
He draws no Hemskirk boors, or home-bred clowns,
When Paris on the three his judgement pafs'd;
Yet ftill methinks our author's fate I dread,
His lovers figh their vows. — If fleep fhould take ye,