Brisk as a body-louse the trips, Sweet as a rofe her breath and lips, Full as an egg was I with glee; Good Lord! how all men envy'd me! But, falfe as hell! fhe, like the wind, If I and Molly could agree, Till you grow tender as a chick, Let us, like burs, together stick, You'll know me truer than a dye, And with me better fped; Flat as a flounder when I lie, And as a herring dead. Sure as a gun, she 'll drop a tear, And figh perhaps, and wish, When I am rotten as a pear, NEW. NEWGATE'S GARLAND; BEING A NEW BALLA D, SHEWING How Mr. JONATHAN WILD'S Throat was cut from Ear to Eat with a Penknife, by Mr. BLAKE, alias BLUE-SKIN, the Bold Highwayman, As he ftood at his Trial in the OLD-BAILY, 1725. E gallants of Newgate, whofe fingers are nice, Good news you fhall hear, How Jonathan's throat was cut from ear to ear; How Blue-fkin's fharp penknife hath fet you at eafe, And every man round me may rob, if he pleafe. When to the Old-Baily this Blue-skin was led, He held up his hand, his indictment was read, Loud rattled his chains, near him Jonathan stood, For full forty pounds was the price of his blood. Then, hopeless of life, He drew his penknife, And made a fad widow of Jonathan's wife. But forty pounds paid her, her grief fhall appeafe, And every man round me may rob, if he please. Some fay there are courtiers of highest renown, To pillage the King, And get a blue-ribbon instead of a string. Knaves of old, to hide guilt by their cunning inventions, Now every man may Rob (as fafe as in office) upon the highway. Some cheat in the cuftoms, fome rob the excife, They may be more bold, And rob on the highway, fince Jonathan's cold. For Blue-fkin's fharp penknife hath set you at ease, And every man round me may rob, if he please. MISCEL MISCELLANIES. PROLOGUE, Defigned for the Paftoral Tragedy of DIONE. THE HERE was a time (O were those days renew'd!) Ere tyrant-laws had woman's will fubdued; Then Nature rul'd; and Love, devoid of art, Spoke the confenting language of the heart. Love uncontrol'd! infipid, poor delight! 'Tis the restraint that whets our appetite. the forefts free Behold the beasts who range Behold the birds who fly from tree to tree; In their amours fee Nature's power appear! I'm e en content with ours. T 4 To To-night we treat you with fuch country-fare: Then for your lover's fake our author fpare. He draws no Hemskirk boors, or home-bred clowns, When Paris on the three his judgement pafs'd; Yet ftill methinks our author's fate I dread, His lovers figh their vows. — If fleep fhould take ye, A CON |