NOT AS IT SHOU'D BE.

TUNE.

"If e'er 1 incline."

A

Coxcomb once said

He had Bet's Maidenhead,

But 'twas false, as I told Mr. Wou'd-be.

His Doctor declar'd,·

Impotency debarr'd,

The Fribble was not as he shou'd be.

As Beauty is us'd,
So Britannia's abus'd,

How many loud Coffee-house praters
Will boast of the weight

Which they have in the State,
And wou'd be the Nation's Dictators.

Such Creatures pretend
They can England befriend,
So attract or distract all about them;
That, pon onner, they know

How, when, what, and also,

And the Ministry can't do without them.

When Candidates bow,

Patriotic they vow

To honour, esteem, and adore us;
But chose, they change soon,
They are taught the Court Tune,
And chant in Majority's Chorus.

Reproach, if you please,
May impertinent teaze,
Rememb'rance attempt to awaken;
But th' answer is this,

I thought things amiss,
I really, my friend, was mistaken.

His Market is made,
We all live by Trade,

So buy or sell, Sirs-chuse you whether;
Rich and Poor 'tis the same,

Change-alley's the game,

A job! a sad job altogether!

Our Animal Stuff,

Is not made of Bomb Proof,
When Temptation's Artillery assails;
As the Batt'ries begin,

We're betray'd from within,
The Flesh over Spirit prevails.

Corruption!that's hard-
But, from birth to church-yard,
What are we? but rotting along:
Folly moulders our Clay,

Each Vice has its Day,

But good night-for I've done with my Song.

NE day at her Toilet as Venus began

ON

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 directions-
This 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.

TUNE.

"Genteel is my Damon, engaging his Air."

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,
No Beauties I'll plunder, yet give mine her due;
She has Charms upon Charms, such as few people
may view,

She has Charms,-for the Tooth-ach, and eke for the

Ague.

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 dark.

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-
-so-so, so waste no words about it,
Her Heart is within it, her Stays are without it;
Her Breasts are so pair'd--two such Breasts when

see,

you You'll swear that no woman yet born e'er had three.

Her Voice neither Nightingales, no! nor Canaries,
Nor all the wing'd warblers wild whistling vagaries:
Nor shall I to Instrument Music compare it,
'Tis likely, if you was not deaf you might hear it.

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 serv'd when he throws them

aside.

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?

TUNE.

"The dainty Dames who trip along."

THE blue Clouds from the Skies are fled,
And Vapours cap the Mountain's Head;

The Lord of Day resigns his reign,
While Twilight ushers in her Train.

But, what's all this to me?

By Shepherds whistling o'er the Wold,
The Tink'ling Flocks are drove to fold;
Her brimming Pail the Milk-maid bears,
And hears her Love, or think she hears-

Yet what's all this to me?

From reeking Pools the Steams ascend,
Tall leafy Trees their shades extend;
Evening appears in matron grey,
And puts to blush the rakish Day.

Still, what's all this to me?

The flow'ry Beds have lost their bloom,
The Verdant Grove's conceal'd in gloom,
The Landscapes die upon the sight,
And chilly spreads the veil of Night.

Well! what's all this to me?

Tho' dismal birds begin to prowl,
The flitting Bat, the hooting Owl;
And Gloworms glimmer feeble rays,
The link-boys of the lightfoot Fays.

Why, what's all this to me?