Sit you merry Gallants, For I can tell you News, Of a Fashion call'd the b.u.t.ton'd Smock, The which our Wenches use: Because that in the City, In troth it is great pity; Our Gallants hold it much in scorn.

They should put down the City: But is not this a bouncing Wench, And is not this a Bonny; In troth she wears a _Holland_ Smock, If that she weareth any.

A bonny La.s.s in a Country Town, Unto her Commendation; She scorns a _Holland_ Smock, Made after the old Fashion: But she will have it _Holland_ fine, As fine as may be wore; Hem'd and st.i.tch'd with _Naples_ Silk, And b.u.t.ton'd down before: But is not, _&c._

Our Gallants of the City, New Fashions do devise; And wear such new found fangle things, Which country Folk despise: As for the b.u.t.ton'd Smock, None can hold it in scorn; Nor none can think the Fashion ill, It is so closely worn: Although it may be felt, It's seldom to be seen; It pa.s.seth all the Fashions yet, That heretofore hath been.

But is not, _&c._

Our Wenches of the City, That gains the Silver rare; Sometimes they wear a Canva.s.s Smock, That's torn or worn Thread-bare: Perhaps a Smock of Lockrum, That dirty, foul, or black: Or else a Smock of Canva.s.s course, As hard as any Sack.

But is not, _&c._

But she that wears the _Holland_ Smock, I commend her still that did it; To wear her under Parts so fine, The more 'tis for her Credit: For some will have the out-side fine, To make the braver show; But she will have her _Holland_ Smock That's b.u.t.ton'd down below.

But is not, _&c._

But if that I should take in hand, Her Person to commend; I should vouchsafe a long Discourse, The which I could not end: For her Vertues they are many, Her person likewise such; But only in particular, Some part of them I'll touch.

But is not, _&c._

Those Fools that still are doing, With none but costly Dames; With tediousness of wooing, Makes cold their hottest flames: Give me the Country La.s.s, That trips it o'er the Field; And ope's her Forest at the first.

And is not Coy to yield.

Who when she dons her Vesture, She makes the Spring her Gla.s.s; And with her Comely gesture, Doth all the Meadows pa.s.s: Who knows no other cunning, But when she feels it come; To gripe your Back, if you be slack, And thrust your Weapon home.

'Tis not their boasting humour, Their painted looks nor state; Nor smells of the Perfumer, The Creature doth create: Shall make me unto these, Such slavish service owe; Give me the Wench that freely takes, And freely doth bestow.

Who far from all beguiling, Doth not her Beauty Mask; But all the while lye smiling, While you are at your task: Who in the midst of Pleasure, Will beyond active strain; And for your Pranks, will con you thanks, And cursey for your pain.

_A_ SONG. _Set by Mr._ ACKEROYD.

Z----ds Madam return me my Heart, Or by the Lord _Harry_ I'll make ye; Tho' you sleep when I talk of my smart, As I hope to be Knighted I'll wake ye; If you rant, why by _Jove_, Then I'll rant as well as you; There's no body cares for your puffing, You're mistaken in me; Nay prithee, prithee, prithee pish, We'll try who's the best at a huffing.

But if you will your Heart surrender, And confess yourself uncivil; 'Tis probable I may grow tender, And recal what I purpos'd of evil, But if you persist in rigour, 'Tis a thousand to one but I t.e.e.ze you; For you'll find so much heat and such vigour, As may trouble you forsooth or please you.

_A_ SONG _in the Comedy call'd_ The Maid's last Prayer: _Or_, Any thing rather than fail.

[Music]

Tho' you make no return to my Pa.s.sion, Still, still I presume to adore; 'Tis in Love but an odd Reputation, When faintly repuls'd to give o'er: When you talk of your duty, I gaze at your Beauty; Nor mind the dull Maxim at all, Let it reign in _Cheapside_, With the Citizens Bride: It will ne'er be receiv'd, it will ne'er, ne'er, it will ne'er be receiv'd at _White-hall_.

What Apochryphal Tales are you told, By one who wou'd make you believe; That because of _to have_ and _to hold_, You still must be pinn'd to his Sleeve: 'Twere apparent high-Treason, 'Gainst Love and 'gainst Reason, Shou'd one such a Treasure engross; He who knows not the Joys, That attend such a choice, Shou'd resign to another that does.

_The Cruel Fair requited, Written by_ J. R. _Set by Mr._ JAMES HART.

[Music]

When Wit and Beauty meet in one, That acts an Amorous part; What Nymph its mighty Power can shun, Or 'scape a wounded Heart: Those Potent, wondrous Potent charms, Where-e'er they bless a Swain; He needs not sleep with empty Arms, He needs not sleep with empty Arms, Nor dread severe disdain.

_Astrea_ saw the Shepherds bleed, Regardless of their Pain; Unmov'd she hear'd their Oaten Reed, They Dance and Sung in vain; At length _Amintor_ did appear, That Miracle of Man; He pleas'd her Eyes and charm'd her Ear, He pleas'd her Eyes and charm'd her Ear, She Lov'd and call'd him PAN.

But he as tho' design'd by Fate, Revenger of the harms, Which others suffer'd from her hate, Rifl'd and left her Charms; Then Nymphs no longer keep in pain, A plain well-meaning Heart; Lest you shou'd joyn for such disdain, Lest you shou'd joyn for such disdain, In poor _Astrea's_ smart.

_A_ SONG, _Sung at the_ THEATRE-ROYAL, _in the Play call'd_ ALPHONSO _King of_ NAPLES. _Set by Mr._ EAGLES.

[Music]

When _Sylvia_ was kind, and Love play'd in her Eyes, We thought it no Morning till _Sylvia_ did rise; Of _Sylvia_ the Hills and the Vallies all Rang, For she was the Subject of every Song.

But now, oh how little her Glories do move, That us'd to inflame us, with Raptures of Love; Thy Rigour, oh _Sylvia_, will shorten thy Reign, And make our bright G.o.ddess a Mortal again.

Love heightens our Joys, he's the ease of our Care, A spur to the Valiant, a Crown to the Fair; Oh seize his soft Wings then before 'tis too late, Or Cruelty quickly will hasten thy Fate.

'Tis kindness, my _Sylvia_, 'tis kindness alone, Will add to thy Lovers, and strengthen thy Throne; In Love, as in Empire, Tyrannical sway, Will make Loyal Subjects forget to Obey.

_The_ SHEPHERD'S _Complaint. Set by Mr._ Williams.

[Music]

What, Love a crime, Inhumane Fair?

Repeal that rash Decree, As well may pious Anthems bear; The Name of Blasphemy: 'Tis Bleeding Hearts and Weeping Eyes, Uphold your s.e.xes Pride; Nor could you longer Tyrannize, My Fetters laid aside.

Then from your haughty Vision wake, And listen to my Moan; Tho' you refuse me for my sake, Yet pity for your own; For know proud Shepherdess you owe, The Victim you despise, More to the strictness of my Vow, Than glories of your Eyes.

_A_ SONG _in the_ OPERA _call'd_ The Fairy Queen. _Sung by Mrs._ BUTLER. _Set by Mr._ H. Purcell.

[Music]

When I have often heard young Maids complaining, That when Men promise most they most deceive; Then I thought none of them worthy my gaining.