The Batchelors Ballad, Or' a Remedy against Love.
Thou little Peevish God! whom heretofore,
The Blinder World, so highly did adore;
Bor whom the loving Fools a Quiver found,
Fows, Arrows, Wings; nay more, Pow'r to wou
[...]
Know, I defie thee, boy; not all thy art,
Can reach my eye, much-less enslave my heart:
If thou hast any, come and shew thy skill,
Fain would
I love one hour against my will;
Alas poor God! men will no longer now,
To thee, thy mother, or thy Minions bow;
Your pow'r & fame which has so long been gre
[...]
Upon Examination proves a Cheat.
To a Pleasant New Tune:
Or, The Duke of Monmouth's
Jig.
With Allowance,
By R. L'Estrang
[...]
NO more silly
Cupid,
will I pine and complain,
What slave is so stupid,
To suffer the plague,
Of an amorous League,
To be laught at in vain?
No more silly Cupid,
Ile court a coy Mistress no more,
He's a Sot and more blind,
Who to one is confin'd,
VVhen there's hope for a score.
VVhen I meet with a beauty,
that's loving and kind,
Ile pay her my duty,
And when i've enjoy'd her,
O then i'le recruit me,
VVith love and brisk wine.
No more i'le adore her,
When once I have got my desire,
She then may refuse me,
But cannot abuse me,
For then I defie her.
The amorous Cully,
Whom love has undone,
Protesteth as fully,
To e'ry complaint,
That he makes to his Saint,
As a mortifi'd Nun.
Alas for the Cully,
How poor the reward of his Love is
Then let him deceive her,
And manfully leave her,
Or else he's a novice.
For why should a Bubble,
Whom passion ensnares,
Be put to the trouble,
In spight of his sences,
And other defences,
To marry his cares.
Yet who's such a bubble,
If honey and sweetness you bring,
But his reason and conscience,
Will tell him 'tis nonsense,
To play with the sting.
They say when a Negre,
Wou'd Elephants win,
To make e'm more eager,
The female entices,
With lustful devices,
And wheadles 'em in.
A Woman's
a[?] Negre,
And works by the arts I have told ye,
But were we advised,
They'd all be despised,
And quickly grow mouldy.
For tho' they are wary,
and stoutly defend,
They love not to tarry,
But 'cause 'tis the fashion,
They'l stifle their passion,
And yeild in the end.
For tho' they are wary,
Yet try 'em a Sennight or more,
If still they deny,
And refuse to comply,
I'me the Son of a Whore.
Perswade the young Ninny,
that boils in his blood,
To part with a Guinny,
His amarous rage,
He may quickly assuage,
And 'twill do him much good.
For ask the young Ninny
They heat of whose passion is over,
If he tells you his mind,
Ile be hang'd if you find,
Him so zealous a Lover.
Vnhappy the wretch is,
that's yok'd to a mate,
His conscience he stretches,
To tell you more Lies,
Than old
Argus had eyes,
Of his blessed estate.
Vnhappy the wretch is,
Be warn'd by another man's harm,
For the Boys in the River,
That chatter and shiver,
Will tell you 'tis warm.
A curse on those Noddies,
Dull-rhiming complaints,
Who cringing their bodies,
In all their caresses,
And tedious addresses,
Turn Women to Saints.
A curse on such Noddies,
By whom we in general suffer,
But before i'le be rul'd,
Any longer or fool'd
By a woman, i'le huff her.
Then females adieu t'ye,
Your reign's at an end,
A fig for your beauty,
Your painting and patches,
In hopes of good matches,
In vain you may spend:
Adieu silly Females,
Go find out new arts to delude,
But if you expose 'em,
I faith i'le disclose 'em,
And so I conclude.
Printed for Phillip Brooksby, at the Golden-Ball in West-smith's-field.