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NOT AS IT SHOU'D BE.
said He had Bet's Maidenhead, But 'twas false, as I told Mr. Wou'd-be.
His Doctor declar'd,
As Beauty is us'd,
So Britannia's abus'd,
Will boast of the weight
Which they have in the State,
Such Creatures pretend
They can England befriend,
That, pon onner, they know
How, when, what, and also, And the Ministry can't do without them.
When Candidates bow,
Patriotic they vow
But chose, they change soon,
They are taught the Court Tune, And chant in Majority's Chorus.
Reproach, if you please,
May impertinent teaze,
But th' answer is this,
I thought things amiss,
His Market is made,
We all live by Trade,
Rich and Poor 'tis the same,
Change-alley's the game,
Our Animal Stuff,
Is not made of Bomb Proof,
As the Batt'ries begin,
We're betray'd from within,
Corruption !- that's hard
But, from birth to church-yard,
Folly moulders our Clay,
Each Vice has its Day,
BEAUTY AND WINE.
To prepare for her face-making duty, Bacchus stood at her elbow, and swore that her plan
Wou'd not help it, but hinder her Beauty.
A Bottle young Semele held up to view,
And begg'd she'd observe his directionsThis Burgundy, dear Cytharea, will do,
'Tis a Rouge that refines all Complexions.
Too polite to refuse him, the Bumper she sips,
On his knees, the Buck begg'd she'd encore; The Joy-giving Goddess, with Wine-moisten'd lips,
Declar'd she wou'd Hob Nob once more.
Out of Window each Wash, Paste, and Powder, she
hurl'd, And the God of the Grape vow'd to join; Shook hands, sign’d and seal'd, then bid Fame tell
the World, The Union of Beauty and Wine.
A LOVE SONG.
ET him fond of fibbing invoke which he'll chuse,
Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, or Madam the Muse;. Great names in the classical Kingdom of Letters, But Poets are apt to make free with their Betters.
I scorn to say aught, save the thing which is true,
Her Lips ;--she has two, and her Teeth they are white, And what she puts into her mouth, they can bite; Black and all Black her Eyes, but what's worthy
remark, They are shut when she sleeps, and she's blind in the
Her Ears from her Cheeks equal distance are bearing, 'Cause each side her head should go partners in hearing: The Fall of her Neck's the Downfall of Beholders, Love tumbles them in by the Head and the Shoulders.
Her Waist is-S0-30, so waste no words about it,
see, You'll swear that no woman yet born e'er had three.
Her Voice neither Nightingales, no! nor Canaries,
Her Legs are proportion'd to bear what they've
carry'd, And equally pair'd, as if happily marry'd; But Wedlock will sometimes the best friends divide, By her Spouse so she's sery'd when he throws them
Not too Tall, nor too Short, but I'll venture to say, She's a very good Size in the Middling way. She's—aye-that she is,-she is all, but I'm wrong, Her all I can't say, for I've sung ALL my Song.
WHAT'S THAT TO ME?
THE blue Clouds from the Skies are fled,
But, what's all this to me ?
By Shepherds whist’ling o'er the Wold,
Yet what's all this to me?
From reeking Pools the Steams ascend,
Still, what's all this to me?
The flow'ry Beds have lost their bloom,
Well! what's all this to me?
Tho' dismal birds begin to prowl,
Why, what's all this to me?