_The same in_ LATIN.

_Vobis magnis parvis dicam, Et sum veredicus; Offerri causam maximam, Esse in tristibus, Vae tibi mors! malum tibi!

Pro mortem tetricam!

Tu enim n.o.bis dempsisti, Reginam_ Elizam.

_Poteras plures capere, Citra injuriam; Reginamq; non rapere, Anti-sacri-colam:_ _Quiete gentem haec Rexit, Nulliq; devincta, Papamque_ Romae _despexit, Et tandem Faemella_.

_Ah, ah, quid dixi Faemella?

De hoc fama silet; Adeo fuit casta-Bella, Ut nemini liquet: En Dux_ Andinus _adiit, Illam pet.i.turus; Virgo vixit & obiit, Haec nihilominus_.

_Nec mali quid haec effecit, Conscientiae stimulo; Nec semet ipsam subjecit, Christi-vicario: At maluit magnamimis, Sub Christi vexellis, Pugnare c.u.m_ Papa, Turcis, _Ac multis aliis_.

_Sin mihi_ Argi _oculi, Deessent Lachrymae_; Elizabethae _fletui, Nuper demortuae, De nata hic obdormiet, Die novissimo: Et tunc expergefaciet, Papa propudio_.

_The Pressing Constable. Set by Mr._ Leveridge.

[Music]

I Am a cunning Constable, And a Bag of Warrants I have here, To Press sufficient Men, and able, At _Horn-castle_ to appear: But now-a-days they're grown so cunning, That hearing of this Martial strife; They all away from hence are running, _Where I miss the Man, I'll press the Wife._

Ho, who's at Home? Lo, here am I, Good-morrow Neighbour. Welcome, Sir; Where is your Husband? Why truly He's gone abroad, a Journey far: Do you not know when he comes back?

See how these Cowards fly for Life!

The King for Soldiers must not lack, _If I miss the Man, I'll take the Wife._

Shew me by what Authority You do it? Pray Sir, let me know; It is sufficient for to see, The Warrant hangs in Bag below: Then pull it out, if it be strong, With you I will not stand at strife: My Warrant is as broad as long, _If I miss the Man, I'll Press the Wife._

Now you have Prest me and are gone, Please you but let me know your Name; That when my Husband he comes home, I may declare to him the same: My Name is Captain _Ward_, I say, I ne'er fear'd Man in all my life: The King for Soldiers must not stay, _Missing the Man, I'll Press the Wife._

_The same in_ LATIN.

_Astutus Constabularius, Mandata gero in tergore: Cincturos evocaturus_, Cornu-Castello _affore: At hodie ade sapiunt, Audita lite Bellica, Omnes abhinc profugiunt_, Virum supplebit F[oe]mina.

_Ecquisnam domi En ego Salve. Sis salvus, Domine: Ubinam Vir est? Haud nego, Procul abest in itinere: Nam es ignara reditus?

Ut fugiunt pro tutamine!

Non egeat Rex Militibus_, Viros supplebunt F[oe]minae.

_Haec quo Guaranto fact.i.tas, Amb dicas, Domine?

Sufficiat ut videas, Quod pendet abdomine; Educas, si vim habeat, Tec.u.m nolam certamina, Pro ratione, voluntas stat_, Virum supplebit F[oe]minae.

_Compressa me, ituro te, Si placet, reddas nomina.

Sic ut reverso conjuge, Illi declarem omnia_, Ward _ducor Capitaneus, Sat notus pro magnanime Non egeat Rex milibus_, Viros supplebunt F[oe]minae.

_A_ SONG. _Set by Mr._ LEVERIDGE.

[Music]

Love is a Bauble, No Man is able, To say, it is this, or 'tis that; An idle Pa.s.sion, Of such a Fashion, 'Tis like I cannot tell what.

Fair in the Cradle, Foul in the Saddle, Always too cold, or too hot; An errant Lyar, Fed by Desire, It is, and yet it is not.

Love is a Fellow, Clad all in Yellow, The Canker-worm of the Mind; A privy Mischief, And such a sly Thief, No Man knows where him to find.

Love is a Wonder, 'Tis here, and 'tis yonder, 'Tis common to all Men, we know; A very Cheater, Ev'ry ones better, Then hang him, and let him go.

_The same in_ LATIN.

_Amor est Pegma, Merum aenigma, Quid sit nemo detegat: Vesana Pa.s.sio, Cui nulla ratio, Parem natura negat_.

_Cunis formosus, Sella C[oe]nosus, Calor, aut frigiditas: Furens Libido, Dicta cupido, Est, & non est ent.i.tas_.

_Amor amasius, Totus silaceus, Est Eruca animi; Deditus malis, Ac praedo qualis, Non inventus ullibi_.

_Hic & ubiq; Compar utriq; Ad stuporem agitat: Nullus deterior, Quovis superior, In malam rem abeat._

_A_ SONG. _Set by Mr._ HENRY PURCELL.

[Music]

Young _Strephon_ he has Woo'd me long, And Courted me with Pipe and Song; But I a silly, silly peevish Twit, For want of Sense, for want of Wit, Have phoo'd, and cry'd, Have pish'd, and fy'd, And play'd the fool, and lost my Time, And almost slipp'd, and almost slipp'd, And almost slipp'd my Maiden Prime.

But now I thank my gracious Heav'n, I hope my faults are all forgiven; I've struck the Bargain, eas'd my pain, And am resolv'd to take my Swain: To phoo, and cry, And pish, and fye, And make a Virgin's coy Pretence, Is all, all, all, is all, all, all, is all, all, all, For want of Sense.

_A_ SONG. Tune, _How happy's the Lover_.