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Baskets of Fish at Billingsgate did watch,

Cod, Whiting, Oyfter, Mackrel, Sprat, or Plaice: There learn'd fhe Speech from Tongues that never

cease.

Slander befide her, like a Magpye, chatters,

With Envy (fpitting Cat) dread Foe to Peace; Like a curs'd Cur, Malice before her clatters, And vexing ev'ry Wight, tears Cloaths and all to Tatters.

V.

HER Dugs were mark'd by ev'ry Collier's Hand, Her Mouth was black as Bull-Dogs at the Stall; She scratched, bit, and spar'd not Lace nor Band, And Bitch and Rogue her Answer was at all; Nay, e'en the Parts of Shame by Name wou'd call; Whene'er the paffed by a Lane or Nook,

Wou'd greet the Man who turn'd him to the Wall, And by his Hand obfcene the Porter took, Nor ever did afkance like modest Virgin look.

VI.

SUCH Place hath Deptford, Navy-building Town, Woolwich and Wapping, fmelling ftrong of Pitch; Such Lambeth, Envy of each Band and Gown, And Twick'nam fuch, which fairer Scenes enrich, Grots, Statues, Urns, and Jon's Dog and Bitch, Ne Village is without, on either Side,

All up the filver Thames, or all a down;

Ne

Ne Richmond's felf, from whofe tall Front are ey'd Vales, Spires, meandring Streams, and Windfor's tow'ry Pride.

*The CAPON'S TALE to a Lady who father'd her Lampoons upon her Acquaintance.

IN a fober

N Yorkshire dwelt a fober Yeoman,

Whofe Wife, a clean, Pains-taking Woman,

Fed num'rous Poultry in her Pens,

And faw her Cocks well ferve her Hens.

A HEN fhe had, whofe tuneful Clocks
Drew after her a Train of Cocks;
With Eyes fo piercing, yet so plealant,
You wou'd have fworn this Hen a Pheafant.
All the plum'd Beau-monde round her gathers;
Lord! what a Bruftling up of Feathers!
Morning from Noon there was no knowing,
There was fuch Flutt'ring, Chuckling, Crowing;
Each forward Bird muft thruft his Ficad in,
And not a Cock but wou'd be treading.

YET tender was this Hen fo fair,
And hatch'd more Chicks than fhe could rear.

OUR prudent Dame bethought her then

Of fome Dry-Nurfe to fave her Hen;

She

Verfés on a Lady's Table-Book.

She made a Capon drunk; in fine

He eat the Sopps, the fipp'd the Wine;

His Rump well pluck'd with Nettles ftings,
And claps the Brood beneath his Wings.
THE feather'd Dupe awakes content,,

O'erjoy'd to fee what God had fent.

Thinks he's the Hen, clocks, keeps a Pother,

A foolish Fofter-Father-Mother.

SUCH, Lady Mary, are your Tricks ;

But fince hatch, pray you

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You should be better skill'd in Nocks,

Chicks;

Nor like your Capons, ferve your Cocks.

65

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Scrawl'd o'er with Trifles thus, and quite
As hard, as fenfeless, and as light;
Expos'd to ev'ry Coxcomb's Eyes,
But hid with Caution from the Wife.
Here you may read (Dear charming Saint)
Beneath (A new Receipt for Paint :)
Here in Beau-fpelling (tru tel Deth,)
There in her own (far an el breth.)

VOL. IV.

F

Here

Here (lovely Nymph pronounce my Doom,)
There (a fafe Way to use Perfume ;)
Here a Page fill'd with Billet-Doux ;
On t'other Side (laid out for Shoes :)
(Madam I die witbout your Grace,)
(Item, for half a Yard of Lace.)
Who that had Wit wou'd place it here,
For ev'ry peeping Fop to jeer?
In Pow'r of Spittle, and a Clout,
Whene'er he please to blot it out;
And then, to heighten the Disgrace,
Clap his own Nonfenfe in the Place.
Whoe'er expects to hold his Part
In fuch a Book, and fuch a Heart,
If he be wealthy, and a Fool,
Is in all Points the fittest Tool;
Of whom it may be juftly faid,
He's a Golden Pencil tipp'd with Lead.

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To their EXCELLENCIES the LORDS
JUSTICES of Ireland.

The bumble Petition of Frances Harris,
Who must starve, and die a Maid, if it mis-

carries;

Humbly Sheweth,

HAT I went to warm myself in Lady Betty's
Chamber, because I was cold,

TH

And I had in a Purfe Seven Pound, Four Shillings, and Six Pence, befides Farthings, in Money and Gold;

So because I had been buying Things for my Lady last Night,

I was refolv'd to tell my Money, to fee if it was right:

Now you must know, because my Trunk has a very, bad Lock,

Therefore all the Money I have, which, God knows, is a very small Stock,

I keep in my Pocket, ty'd about my Middle, next my Smock.

So when I went to put up my Purfe, as God would have it, my Smock was unript,

And instead of putting it into my Pocket, down it flipt:

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