From W. Tunftall in the Marshalfea, to C. Wogan in Newgate. Tune, To all ye Ladies. FROM me, dear Charles, infpir'd with ale, To thee this letter comes, To try if fcribling can prevail To moderate our dooms: Tho' pent in cage the blackbird fwings, Perhaps you'll wonder why I chose, To quit the loose and easy profe, For why, you'll fay, fince we're confin'd But fince, tho' bound on Barnet-tits, Thro' hir'd fhouts of wide-mouth'd cits Without a rein could ride; Sure Pegafus, without a bit, But, T 3 But, if the winged fteed fhou'd rear, We'll fend for jolly grenadier To lead him by the cheek. Then we with corded arms may ride, For Pegasus, whilst he cou'd foar, No poets ever made, He flew Boatia o'er and o'er, Until he turn'd a jade; His tired hoof then fpurn'd the rock, So, when from Highgate-Hill I came, And jaded palfrey, dull, and lame, Without the wings, he had the heel; Thus ftrutting, full of heavy grout, I fend my mufe to find thee out Such eructations fure demand. Some fpeedy comfort from thy hand. For now, dear Charles, (my freedom gone) I no man fee to aid my moan, Hear nought but noise and strife: For For (after all that can be faid) Now I this tale, to thee, have told, Judge then, how bravely I fhall quit Nay, if old Mopfa, who has loft Shou'd beg me from the three-leg'd post;, So long fufpended I fhou'd ftand, The The Preston Prisoners to the Ladies about Court and Town. By Way of Comfort, from C. Wogan to W. Tunftall. OU fair ones all at liberty, γου We captive lovers greet; Nor flight our tears and fighs, 'cause we Can't lay 'em at your feet: The fault's not ours, and you may guess What, tho' pack'd up in prisons base, Think not our bodies love you lefs, Each was, to its utmost power, your slave, Thus doubly captive, in this cause The goal's high-treafon 'gainst your laws, And property invades: Wherefore, fince prifons are our due, 'Tis just we be lock'd up by you. From From hence to those most blissful bowers, As most expert in Cupid's wars, Thus we'll to th' innocent and fair, From purchas'd fhouts, and noisom air, Then all our pains shall pleasures prove, But, if our stubborn keepers still In difobedience to your will, And fov'reign influence; Spite of their fhackles, bolts and doors, Mean while, within thefe walls immur'd, The vileft ale our goals afford Is nectar with a toast: And if fome wine creep in by stealth, Our |