Medley

Do not ask me, charming Phillis, etc.

I’ll sail upon the dog-star

Here are people and sports

Ye beaux of pleasure

What tho’ they call me country lass

The Nurse’s Song

A sour reformation

He who for ever

 

Do not ask me, charming Phillis

Do not ask me, charming Phillis,
Why I lead you here alone,
By this bank of pinks and lilies,
And of roses newly blown.

’Tis not to behold the beauty
Of these flow’rs that crown the spring;
’Tis to ----- but I know my duty,
And dare never name the thing.

’Tis at worst but her denying,
Why shou’d I thus fearful be?
Every minute, gently flying,
Smiles and says, Make use of me.

What the sun does to the roses,
While the beams play sweetly in,
I would ----- but my fear opposes,
And I dare not name the thing.

Yet I die if I conceal it;
Ask my eyes, or ask your own,
And if neither can reveal it,
Think what lovers think alone.

On this bank of pinks and lilies,
Might I speak what would I do,
I wou’d ----- with my lovely Phillis,
I wou’d; I wou’d ----- Ah! wou’d you.

 

I’ll sail upon the dog-star

I’ll sail upon the dog-star,
And then pursue the morning;
I’ll chase the moon till it be noon,
I’ll make her leave her horning.

I’ll comb the frosty mountain,
And there I’ll coin the weather;
I’ll tear the rainbow from the sky,
And tie both ends together.

The stars pluck from their orbs too,
And croud them in my budget;
And whether I’m a roaring boy,
Let Gresham college judge it:

While I mount yon blue celum
To shun the tempting gypsies;
Play at football with sun and moon,
And fright ye with eclipses.

 

Here are people and sports

Sung by PINKANELLO, Merry Andrew to LEVERIGO, the Mountebank Doctor

Here are people and sports
Of all sizes and sort,
Coach’d damsel and squire,
And mob in the mire,
Tarpaulins, trugmallions,
Lords, ladies, sows babies,
And loobies in scores;
Some hawling, some bawling,
Some leering, some fleering,
Some loving, some shoving,
With legions of furbelow’d whores;
To the tavern some go,
And some to a show,
See poppets for moppets,
Jack puddens for cuddens,
Rope-dancing, mares prancing,
Boats flying, quacks lying,
Pick-pockets, pick-plackets,
Beasts, butchers and beaux,
Fops prattling, dice rattling,
Rooks shamming, putts damning,
Whores painted, masks tainted,
In tally-man’s furbelow’d cloaths.
The mob’s joys would ye know,
To yon music-house go,
See tailors and sailors,
Whores oily and doily,
Here music makes you sick;
Soe skipping, some tripping,
Some smoking, some joking,
Like spiggit and tap;
Short measure, strange pleasure,
Thus billing and swilling,
Some yearly get fairly
For fairings, pig pork and a clap.

THE SECOND PART

See, Sirs, see here! A doctor rare,
Who travels much at home!
Here take my bills, they cure all ills,
Past, present, and to come;
The cramp, the stitch, the squirt, the itch,
The gout, the stone, the pox,
The mulligrubs, the wanton scrubs,
And all Pandora’s bos;
Thousands I’ve dissected,
Thousands new erected,
And such cures effected,
As none e’er can tell:
Let the palsy shake ye,
Let the colic rack ye,
Let the crinkums break ye,
Let the murrain take ye,
Take this, take this, and you are well;
Thousands, &c.

Come, wits so keen, devour’d with spleen,
And beaux who’ve sprain’d your backs,
Great belly’d maids, old foundered jades,
And pepper’d vizard cracks;
I soon remove the pains of love,
And cure the amorous maid,
The hot, the cold, the young, the old,
The living and the dead;
I clear the lass with wainscot-face,
And from pim-ginets free
Plump ladies red like Saracen’s head
With toping ratafie.
This, with a jirk, will do your work,
And scour you o’er and o’er;
Read, judge, and try; and if you die,
Never believe me more.

 

Ye beaux of pleasure

Ye beaux of pleasure,
Whose wit at leisure,
Can count love’s treasure,
Its joy and smart;
At my desire,
With me retire,
To know what fire
Consumes my heart.

Three moons that hasted,
Are hardly wasted,
Since I was blasted
With beauty’s ray:
Auroroa shews ye
No face so rosie,
No July posie
So fresh and gay.

Her skin by nature
No ermin better,
Though that fine creature
Is white as snow;
With blooming graces
Adorn’d her face is,
Her flowing traces,
As black as sloe.

She’s tall and slender,
She’s soft and tender;
Some god commend her;
My wit’s too low;
’Twere joyful plunder
To bring her under,
She’s all a wonder
From top to toe.

Then cease, ye sages,
To quote dull pages,
That in all ages
Our minds are free:
Though great your skill is,
So strong the will is,
My love for Phillis,
Must ever be.

 

What tho’ they call me country lass

I

What tho’ they call me country lass?
I read it plainly in my glass,
That for a duchess I might pass;
Oh! could I see the day!
Would fortune but attend my call,
At park, at play, at ring, and ball,
I’d brave the proudest of them all,
With a stand-by, Clear the way.

II

Surrounded by a crowd of beaux,
With smart toupees and powder’d cloaths,
At rivals I’ll turn up my nose,
Oh! could I see the day!
I’ll dart such glances from these eyes,
Shall make some duke, or lord, my prize;
And then, oh! how I’ll tyrannize,
With a stand-by, Clear the way.

III

Oh! then for every new delight,
For equipage and diamonds bright,
Quadrille, and balls, and plays all night:
Oh! I could see the day!
Of love and joy I’d take my fill,
The tedious hours of life to kill,
In every thing I’d have my will,
With a stand-by, Clear the way.

 

The Nurse’s Song

I

Hey! my kitten, a kitten,
Hey! my kitten, a deary;
Such a sweet pet as this
Is neither far nor neary:
Here we go up, up, up;
Here we go down, down, downy;
Here we go backwards and forwards,
And here we go round, round, roundy.

II

Chicky, cockow, my lily cock;
See, see, fie a downy;
Gallop a trot, trot, trot,
And hey for Dublin towny.
This pig went to the market;
Squeek mouse, mouse, mousy;
Shoe, shoe, shoe the wild colt,
And hear thy own dol dousy.

III

Where was a jewel and petty?
Where was a sugar and spicy?
Hush a baba in a cradle,
And we’ll go abroad in a tricy.
Did-a papa torment it?
Did-e vex his own baby? did-e?
Hush a baby in a bosie;
Take ous own sucky: did-e?

IV

Good-morrow, a pudding is broke;
Slavers a thread o’crystal,
Now the sweet posset comes up;
Who said my child was piss’d all?
Come water my chickens, come clock.
Leave off, or he’ll crawl you, he’ll crawl you;
Come, gie me your hand, and I’ll beat him:
Wha was it vex’d my baby?

V

Where was a laugh and a craw;
Where was, was, was a gigling honey?
Goody, good child shall be fed,
But noughty child shall get nony.
Get ye gone, raw-head and bloody-bones,
Here is a child that wont fear ye.
Come pissy, pissy, my jewel,
And ik, ik aye, my deary.

 

A sour reformation

A sour reformation
Crawls out thro’ the nation,
While dunder-head sages
Who hope for good wages,
Direct us the way.
Ye sons of the muses,
Then cloak your abuses;
And lest you shou’d trample
On pious example,
Observe and obey.
Time-frenzy curers,
And stubborn nonjurers,
For want of diversion,
Now scourge the lewd times:
They’ve hinted, they’ve printed,
Our vein it profane is,
And worst of all crimes;
The clod-pated railers,
Smiths, cobblers, and colliers,
Have damn’d all our rhymes.

Under the notion
Of zeal for devotion,
The humour has fir’d ’em,
And malice inspir’d ’em,
To tutor the age:
But if in season,
You’d know the true reason;
The hopes of preferment,
Is what makes the vermin
Now rail at the stage.
Cuckolds and canters
With scruples and banters,
Old Oliver’s peal,
Against poetry ring:
But let state revolvers,
And treason absolvers,
Excuse, if I sing,
The rebel that chuses
To cry down the muses,
Wou’d cry down the king.

 

He who for ever

He who for ever
Wou’d hope for favour,
He must endeavour
To charm the fair:
He dances, he dances,
He da-a-a-a-a-ances,
He sighs and glances,
He makes advances,
He sings and dances,
And minds his air.