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Brifk as a body-loufe fhe trips,
Clean as a penny dreft;

Sweet as a rofe 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, falfe as hell! fhe, like the wind,
Chang'd, as her fex must do;
Though feeming as the turtle kind,
And like the gofpel true.

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,
And mute as any fish.


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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, 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;
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-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.

T 3

'S me

Some fay there are courtiers of highest renown,
Who steal the King's gold, and leave him but a crown;
Some fay there are peers, and fome 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-fkin's fharp penknife hath set you at ease,
And every man round me may rob, if he please.

Knaves of old, to hide guilt by their cunning inventions,
Call'd briberies grants, and plain robberies penfions;
Phyficians 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 fafe as in office) upon the highway.
For Blue-fkin's sharp penknife hath set you at ease,
And every man round me may rob, if he please.

Some cheat in the customs, fome rob the excife,
But he who robs both is esteemed moft wife.
Church-wardens, too prudent to hazard the halter,
As yet only venture to fteal from the altar:
But now to get gold,

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!)
Ere tyrant-laws had woman's will fubdued;

Then Nature rul'd; and Love, devoid of art,
Spoke the confenting language of the heart.
Love uncontrol'd! infipid, poor delight!
'Tis the reftraint that whets our appetite.
Behold the beafts who range the forests free;
Behold the birds who fly from tree to tree;
In their amours fee Nature's power appear!
And do they love? Yes one month in the year.
Were thefe the pleafures of the golden reign ?
And did free Nature thus inftruct the fwain ?
I envy not, ye nymphs, your amorous bowers:
Such harmlefs fwains! - I'm e en content with ours.
But yet there 's fomething in thefe fylvan fcenes,
That tells our fancy what the lover means.
Name but the moffy bank, and moon-light grove,
Is there a heart that does not beat with love?

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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,
But the foft fhepherds of Arcadia's downs.

When Paris on the three his judgement pafs'd;
I hope, you'll own the fhepherd fhew'd his tafte
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 strange revolutions time can bring!

Yet ftill methinks our author's fate I dread,
Were it not fafer beaten paths to tread
Of Tragedy; than o'er wide heaths to stray,
And fecking ftrange adventures lofe his way?
No trumpet's clangor makes his heroine start,
And tears the foldier from her bleeding heart.
He, feolith bard! nor pomp nor fhow regards.
Without the witnefs of a hundred guards

His lovers figh their vows. — If fleep fhould take ye,
He has no battle, no loud drum to wake ye.
What, no fuch shifts? there's danger in 't, 'tis true;
Yet ipare him, as he gives you fomething new


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