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I'll hold a Crown, if you but seek,
About the Tub you'll find a Leak.
Whilst thus the crafty P--rs--n said,
Hirco by chance look'd on his Maid:
Disorder'd and confus'd she stood,
Her Cheeks were red with flushing Blood,
And from her Master, quick she turn'd.
Cry'd Hirco, Sukey, I'll be burn'd,
If you han't someway been the Ruin,
Of this, my last Oktober Brewing;
She trembling, on her knees did fall,
Beggd his Pardon, and told him all,
Said he, this Tale will make my Friends,
For want of Liquor, some amends';
'Twill make 'em Merry, I dare swear;
For G--d's fake, Sir, said the, forbear;
Lord! is there no way to attone,
For such a Fault? There is but one
That can I think of, he reply'd,
I've often ask'd and you deny'd
A little Favour, if you'll grant it,
(And now I really think. I want it)
I'll hold my Tongue; if you refuse,
I'll up, and out the Story goes.
She paus'd, she blush'd, she cry'd, but knew,
Not either what to say, or do.

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Mean while, of killing he'd his fill, Nor could he keep his Fingers ftill, One Hand upon her Bosoine láy, Whil Yt t'other took a different Ways Then on a Faggor Pile, he laid, The tender, yielding, lovely Maid; The Wench was buxom, plump, and fappy, And fit to make a Lover happy.

Whilst they in am'rous Transports lay, . The P--ffa-n wonderd at their ftay! And ask'd 'em what they were abour. Cry'd Hirco, Zds, the Leak's found out, Thro' which my Ne&ar daily flows; Be sure, said Roger, kop it clofe, I'll try, said he, but, on my Soul, It is a devi ich swinging Hole;

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Emula, cur ceffas finem properare, Senectus

By a Perfon of Quality.

HOV E faster Life, thou tiresome Guest,

away, Why in this ruind Cottage wouldit thou

stay What Wretch, fo fond of thee, can bear the Pain Of Life, when nothing but its Dregs remain; My feeble Limbs are with the Load opprest, And DE A T H, kind DEATH alone! can give 'em Rell.


K 4

While youthful Blood the well-fillid Channels fed, And o’er each Part a sprightly Vigour spread, Wholly resign'd to Nature's boundless Sway, I follow'd still where Pleasure led the Way. Roving from Thought to Thought with fresh Delight, Love ruld the Day, and am'rous Dreams the Night. With Beauty's various Forms my Breast was fird, The more I tasted, still the more desir'd. The well-Ihap'd slender Nymph did Passion move, By Nature fram'd for active Scenes of Love. If Plump, Ine charm'd me with a comely Face, And fleshy foftness fill'd our sweet Embrace. Majestick Stature, with a nervous Strength, (A full proportion'd Beauty drawn at length) Struck me with awful Love, who could withstand The Dart shot from an Amazonian Hand ? The dancing Fairy did all Life appear, And pleas'd the Love: with a lively Air. Sometimes my Muse sung fair Dorinda's Praise, In Smiles she listend to the tuneful Lays. Sometimes by sprightly Airs to Love betray'd, With Antick Rounds I warm'd the yielding Maid. When brisk Champaign reliey'd the Lover's Care, (Each Goblet facred to the absent Fair) With double Joy I bore the double Load, The wanton GODDESS, and the feeling God.

In Pleasure thus, my youthful Hours were past,
For Love's the greatest Pleasure, and the last.
Guarded by inward Heat, my Breast lay barc
To Winter-Storms, nor felt the Northern-Air.
On Ifis Banks oft have I naked stood,
And boldly plung'd into her chilly Flood.
Oft thro' the Woods I chas'd the flying Prey,
Nor sunk beneath the Labour of the Day;
But pressing forward piered the foaming Boar,
And smeard my Jax’lin with his reeking Gore..


- Henceforth farewel the Lovers soft'ning Joys, ,
The warbling Lute, soft Pipe, and mellow Voice,
Farewel, tho Mufick be the food of Love,
No tuneful Numbers can my

Passion move,
The sparkling -Juices, tho' by Beauty crown'd,
Are hurtful grown, and must no more go round,
Nor artful Measures beat the burthen'd Ground.
The Savage Game no more Delight can yield;
Farewel the manly. Pleasures of the Field.


Now by enervate A Ġ E at last o'ercome; .
I yield reluctant to the Conqu’ror's Doom:
With trembling Steps, and foggy Puffs of Breath,
My weary Limbs crawl to the Verge of Death.
The Thoughts of Pleasure past torment my Breast,
For 'tis a dismal Thought to have been blest.

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