Sir, Ize fee ye are proud-hearted, and leath to be faid nay,

You need not tall ha ftarted, for aught that Ize ded fay;

You know Women for Modeftie, ne at the first time boo,

But, gif we like your Company, we are as kind

as you.

SONG LXXII. My dear Cock, &ç.

Y dear Cock adoodle,

MY My Jewel, my Joy;

My Darling, my Honey,
My pretty fweet Boy:
Before I do rock thee

With foft Lul-la-by ;
Give me thy fweet Lips

To kifs, kifs, kifs, kiss, kifs, kiss.
Thy charming high Forehead,
Thy Eyes too like Sloes;
Thy fine dimple Chin,

And thy right Roman Nofe:
With fome pretty Marks

That lie under thy Clothes;
Sure thou'lt be a rare one,
To kifs, kifs, &c. 1

To make thee grow quickly,
I'll do what I can :

I'll feed thee, I'll ftroke thee,

'I'll make thee a Man:

"Ah! then how the Laffes,
Moll, Betty and Nan;
By thee will run mad,
To kifs, kifs, &c.

And when in due Seafon

My Billy fhall wed;

And lead a young Lady

From Church to the Bed:

A welfare the lofing

Of her Maidenhead,
If Billy come near her,
To kifs, kifs, &c.

Then welfare high Forehead,
And Eyes black as Sloes;
And welfare the Dimple,
And welfare the Nofe:
And all pretty Marks,

That lie under the Clothes;
For none is more hopeful

To kifs, kifs, &c.

SONG LXXIII. Virgins, if e'er, &c.

Irgins, if e'er at length it prove

Pray with me fuch a Fate:

May Wit and Prudence be my Guide,
And may a little decent Pride
My Actions regulate.

Virgins, if e'er I am in Love,

Pray with me fuch a Fate.

Such Stateliness I mean, as may

Keep naufeous Fools and Fops, and Fops away,

But ftill oblige the wife:

That may fecure my Modefty,

And Guardian to my Honour be,

When Paffion does arife.

Virgins, if e'er 1 am in Love, &c.

When firft a Lover I commence,

May it be with a Man, a Man of Senfe,
And learned Education:

May all his Courtship eafy be,
Neither too formal nor too free,
But wifely thew his Paffion.
Virgins, &c.

May his Eftate agree with mine,
That nothing look like a Design,
To bring us into Sorrow

Grant me all this that I have said,
And willingly I'll live a Maid
No longer than to Morrow,
Virgins, if e'er I am in Love,
Pray with me fuch a Fate.

SONG LXXIV. Packington's Pound.

ET Wine turn a Spark, and Ale huff likę a Hector,

LE

Let Pluto drink Coffee, and Jove his rich Nectar.
Neither Cyder nor Sherry,
Metheglin nor Perry,

Shall more make me drunk, which the vulgar call merry:

Thefe Drinks o'er my Fancy no more fhall pre

vail,

But I'll take a full Sup at the merry Milk-pail. In Praise of a Dairy I purpose to fing,

But all Things in order first, God fave the King; That ev'ry May-day,

And the Queen I may fay,

Has many fair Dairy-Maids, all fine and gay : Affift me fair Damfels, to finish this Theme, And infpire my Fancy with Strawberries and Cream.

The firft of fair Dairy-Maids, if you'll believe, Was Adam's own Wife, your Great-Grand-mo ther Eve;

She milk'd many a Cow,
As well the knew how,

Tho' Butter was then not fo cheap as 'tis now;
She hoarded no Butter nor Cheefe on a Shelf,
For the Butter and Cheese in thofe Days made it
felf.

In that Age or Time there was no damn'd Mo» ney,

Yet the Children of Ifrael fed upon Milk and Honey

No Queen you could fee
Of the higheft Degree,

But would milk the brown Cow with the meanest

the:

Ther Lambs gave them Clothing, their Cows gave them Meat,

In a plentiful Peace all their Joys were compleat. But now of the making of Cheefe we shall treat, That Nurfer of Subjects, bold Britain's chief Meat;

When they first begin it,

To fee how the Rennet

Begets the firft Curd, you wou'd wonder what's

in it:

Then from the blue Whey, when they put the
Curd by,

They look just like Amber, or Clouds in the Sky,
Your Turky Sherbet and Arabian Tea,
Is Dish-water-stuff to a Dish of new Whey
For it cools Head-ach Pains,

Ill Vapours it drains,

And tho' your Guts rumble 'twill ne'er hurt your Brains.

Court Ladies i' th' Morning will drink a whole

Pottle;

And send out their Pages with Tankard and Bot tle.

Thou Daughter of Milk, and Mother of Butter, Sweet Cream, thy due Praises how fhall I now

utter?

For when at the best,

A Thing's well expreft,

We are apt to reply, that's the Cream of the Jeft:
Had I been a Moufe, I believe in my Soul,
I had long fince been drowned in a Cream-bowl.
The Elixir of Milk, the Dutchman's Delight,
By motion and tumbling thou bringeft to light;
But Oh! the foft Stream,

That remains of the Cream,

Old Morpheus ne'er tafted fo fweet in a Dream :
It removes all Obftructions, depreffes the Spleen,
And makes an old Bawd like a Wench of fifteen,
Amongst the rare Virtues that Milk does produce,
A thousand more Dainties are daily in ufe ;
For a Pudding I'll tell ye,

E're it goes in the Belly,

Must have both good Milk, and the Cream and the Jelly:

For dainty fine Pudding without Cream, or Milk, Is like a Citizen's Wife without Sattin or Silk. In the Virtue of Milk there's more to be mufter'd,

The charming Delights of Cheese-Cakes and Cuftard;

For the Tottenham Court,

You can have no Sport,

Unless you give Custards and good Cheese-Cakes for't:

、

And what's Jack Pudding that makes us te laugh,

Unless he hath got a great Custard to quaff.

Both Pancakes and Fritters of Milk have good Store,

But a Devonshire Vhite-pot requires much more; No State you can think,

Tho' you ftudy and wink,

From the lufty Sack-poffet to poor Poffet-drink; But Milk's the Ingredient, tho' Sack's ne'er the worse,

For 'tis Sack makes the Man, tho' Milk makes the Nurfe.

But now I fhall treat of a Dish that is cool,
A rich clouted Cream, or a Gooseberry-Fool;
A Lady I heard tell,

Not far off did dwell,

Made her Hufband a Fool, and yet pleas'd him full well: