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Had I the Ugly Monster here,
His Flesh I'd scratch, his Face I'd tear,
And maul him till he cry'd out ;
Yet still to my Revenge I'd hold,
And with the Part he's been so bold,
I'd Poefs his cursed Eyes out.
Fool, that I was! to leave the Cits,
The pert young airy Would-be-Wits;
To follow Lords to Lambeth;
And Thou, Thou Monster, most abhorrd,
To trust the Promise of a Lord,
I freely wish you damn'd both.
Now I may curse, and rave, and swear,
And beat my Breast, and tear my Hair,
And all Hell's Plague invoke up;
But vain and fruitless all would be,
For who will ever care for me,
When once they hear I'm broke up?
Sooner than I'll sit mask'd i'sh' Pit,
The Butt of ev'ry noisy Wit,
And prating Jack-a-dandy,
I'll march beyond the Tow'r, and there
Set up a Walking Wappineer,
With Ginger-Bread and Brandy.
Vile that I am! not to remove
From such, who would my Rụin prove,
If I should ever heed 'em;
Unless I'd be to Luft a Slavey,
Draw in the Sparks with what I haves
And ruin Mother Needham.
Her Grandmother stood weeping by,
Why, prithee, Chuck, says she, don't cry,
Why, what? We're both alive yet;
Ne'er fear, but with a little Pains,
We'll get a Livelihood, Clear Gains,
And Spight of Beadles, thrive yer
And now, this Minute, I've a Thought,
By which, I'm sure, much may be got,
And you shall share each Farthing;
We'll hire this Houfe, ('tis seated well)
Wine, Cakes, and Maidenheads, we'll fell,
And make a New-Spring-Garden.
To a L A D Y; who turn'd her CHE E K.
S'T for a Grace, or is’t for fome Dislike,
That when I'd kiss your Lips, you turn your Cheek? Some think this Carriage rude in your Behaviour, But I should rather take it for a Favour. For I, to shew my Kindness, and my Love, Would leave both Lip and Cheek, to kiss your Glove: And with the Cause to make you well acquainted, Your Glove's perfum'd; your Lips and Cheeks are painted.
Onceal, fond Man, conceal the mighty Smart,
In vain would't thou complain, in vain pretend,
To ask a Pity which she must not lend.
She's too much thy Superior to comply,
And too too fair to let thy Passion dye.
Languish in Secret, and with dumb Surprize, .
Drink the resistless Glances of her Eyes,
At awful Distance entertain thy Grief,
Be fill in Pain, but never ask Relief,
Ne'er tempt her Scorn of thy consuming State ,
Be any way undone, but fly her Hate.
Thou must submit to see thy Charmer bless
Some happier Youth that shall admire her less;
Who in that lovely Form, that heav'nly Mind,
Shall miss ten Thoufand Beauties thou could'st find;
Who with low Fancy shall approach her Charms,
While half enjoy'd the finks into his Arms.
She knows not, must not know thy nobler Fire,
Whom she, and whom the Muses do inspire;
Her Image only Ihall thy Breaft imploy,
And fill thy captiv'd Soul with Shades of Joy.
Direct thy Dreams by Night, thy Thoughts by Day,
And neyer, neyer from thy Bosome ftray,