Then in a Lawyer came, With him a Knave came leaping; And as they Danc'd in Frame, So Hand in Hand went skipping--To the Term.

The next a Citizen, And he a Cuckold leading; So round about the Room, Their Masque they fell a Treading--And fain they would.

The next an Usurer, Old fat Guts he came grunting; The Devil left all care, For joy he fell a Jumping--To see him there.

And ending then their Masque, The Fool his Lord he carries Upon his Back in hast, No longer there he tarries--But left the place.

The Beggar took the Knight, Who took it in Derision; The Searjeant took in Spite, The Gentleman to Prison--For all his might.

The Cuckold, silly Man, Altho' he was abhorred: He took the Citizen, And led him by the Forehead--And out he ran.

The Devil lik'd it well, His lot it was to carry; The Usurer to h.e.l.l, And there with him to tarry.

_The_ SUBURBS _is a fine place: To the_ Tune _of_ LONDON _is a fine Town._

[Music]

The Suburbs is a fine Place belonging to the City, It has no Government at all, alack the more the Pity; A Wife, a silly Animal, esteemed in that same Place, For there a Civil Woman's now asham'd to shew her Face: The Misses there have each Man's Time, his Money, nay, his Heart, Then all in all, both great and small, and all in ev'ry Part.

Which Part it is a thorough-fair so open and so large, One well might sail through ev'ry Tail even in a western Barge; These Cracks that Coach it now, when first they came to Town, Did turn up Tail for a Pot of Ale in Linsey Wolsey Gown.

The Bullies first debauch'd 'em, in Baudy _Covent-Garden_, That filthy place, where ne'er a Wench was ever worth a Farthing; And when their Maiden-heads are sold to sneaking Lords, Which Lords are Clapt at least nine-fold for taking of their Words.

And then my Lord, that many tries, she looks so Innocent, Believing he Infected her, he makes a Settlement; These are your Cracks, who skill'd in all kind of Debauches, Do daily p.i.s.s, spue and wh.o.r.e in their own gla.s.s Coaches.

Now Miss turn Night-walker, till Lord-Mayor's Men she meets, O'er Night she's Drunk, next Day she's finely flogged thro' _London_ streets; After their Rooms of State are chang'd to Bulks or Coblers Stalls, 'Till Poverty and Pox agree they dying in Hospitals.

This Suburbs gallant Fop that takes delight in Roaring, He spends his time in Huffing, Swearing, Drinking, and in Whoring; And if an honest Man and his Wife meet them in the Dark, Makes nothing to run the Husband through to get the name of Spark.

But when the Constable appears, the Gallant, let me tell ye, His Heart denies his Breeches, and sinks into his Belly; These are the silly Rogues that think it fine and witty, To laugh and joak at Aldermen, the Rulers of the City.

They'd kiss our Wives, but hold, for all their plotting Pates, While they would get us Children, we are getting their Estates; And still in vain they Court pretending in their Cares, That their Estates may thus descend unto the Lawful Heirs.

Their Play-houses I hate, are Shops to set off Wenches, Where Fop and Miss, like Dog and b.i.t.c.h, do couple under Benches; That I might advise the chiefest Play-house monger, I have a Sister of my own both Handsomer and Younger.

She lives not far off in the Parish of St. _Clements_, She never liv'd in Cellar nor sold Oranges and Lemons: Then why should Play-house Trulls with Paint and such Temptations, Be an Eye sore to me & more to the best part o'th' Nation.

Now you that all this while have listened to my Dity, With streightened Hands pray drink a Health unto this n.o.ble City: And let us pray to _Jove_, these Suburb folks to mend, And having now no more to say, I think it fit to end.

_The Old Woman's_ WISH.

[Music]

As I went by an Hospital, I heard an Old Woman cry, Kind Sir, quoth she, be kind to me, Once more before I Die, And grant to me those Joys, That belong to Woman-kind, And the Fates above reward your Love, To an old Woman Poor and Blind.

I find an itching in my Blood, Altho' it be something Cold, Therefore Good Man do what you can, To comfort me now I'm Old.

And Grant to me those Joys, That belong to Woman-kind, And the Fates above Reward your Love, To an Old Woman Poor and Blind.

Altho' I cannot see the Day, Nor never a glance of light; Kind Sir, I swear and do declare, I honour the Joys of Night: Then grant to me those Joys, That belong to Woman-kind, And the Fates above Reward you Love, To an Old Woman Poor and Blind.

When I was in my Blooming Youth, My vigorous Love was Hot; Now in my Age I dare Engage, A fancy I still have got: Then give to me those Joys, That belong to Woman-kind, And the Fates above Reward your Love, To an Old Woman Poor and Blind.

You shall miss of a Reward, If Readily you comply; Then do not Blush but touch my flesh.

This minute before I die: O let me tast those Joys, That belong to Woman-kind, And the Fates above reward your Love, To an Old Woman Poor and Blind.

I Forty Shillings would freely give, 'Tis all the Mony I have; Which I full long have begged for, To carry me to my Grave: This I would give to have the Bliss, That belongs to Woman-kind, And the Fates above reward your Love, To an Old Woman Poor and Blind.

I had a Husband in my Youth, As very well 'tis known, The truth to tell he pleased me well, But now I am left alone; And long to tast the good Old Game, That belongs to Woman-kind: And the Fates above Reward your Love, To an Old Woman Poor and Blind.

If Forty Shillings will not do, My Petticoat and my Gown; Nay Smock also shall freely go, To make up the other Crown: Then Sir, pray Grant that kind Request, That belongs to Woman-kind; And the Fates above Reward your Love, To an Old Woman Poor and Blind.

Tho' I am Fourscore Years of Age, I love with a Right good Will; And what in truth I want in Youth, I have it in perfect Skill: Then grant to me that Charming Bliss, That belongs to Woman-kind; And the Fates above Reward your Love, To an Old Woman Poor and Blind.

Now if you do not pleasure me, And give me the thing I crave; I do protest I shall not rest, When I am laid in my Grave: Therefore kind Sir, grant me the Joys, That belong to Woman-kind; And the Fates above Reward your Love, To an Old Woman Poor and Blind.

_The Mad-Man's_ SONG.

[Music]

There can be no Glad-man compar'd to the Mad-man, His Mind is still void of Care; His Fits and his Fancies, are above all Mischances, And Mirth is his ordinary Fare.

_Then be thou Mad, Mad, Mad let's be,_ _Nor shall the foul Fiend be Madder than we._

The Wise and the Witty, in Court and in City, Are subject to sorrow and Pain; While he that is Mad, knows not why to be Sad, Nor has any cause to complain: _Then be thou Mad_, &c.

We laugh at you Wise Men, that thus do despise Men, Whose Senses you think to Decline; Mark well and you'll see, what you count but Frenzy, Is indeed but Raptures Divine.

_Then be thou Mad_, &c.

Let the Grave and the Wise, pluck out their Eyes, To set forth a Book worth a Groat; We Mad-men are quicker, grow Learn'd with good Liquor, And Chirp a Merry note.

_Then be thou Mad_, &c.

Hast thou lost thy Estate Man, why, care not for that Man, What Wealth may'st not fancy thy own; More than Queen _Dido_, or her a.s.s-Ear'd _Midas_, That great Philosopher's stone.

_Then be thou Mad_, &c.

_Pompey_ was a Mad-man, and so long a Glad-man; But at length he was forc'd to flee; For _Caesar_ from _Gallia_ beat him in _Pharsalia_, 'Cause a madder Fellow then he.

_Then be thou Mad_, &c.