[...], [...] new way of Wooing.
A merry conceited Young-man being in company with a Proud, Scornful, Jeering Lasse at St. Albones, he taking notice of her person and Carriage, presently Composes this paper of Verses, as he thought suitable to her deserts; his way lying to London, threw the song into a Stationers shop, as soon as he found them, gets it printed for profit, and sends them through England for pleasure; when the Young man returned back, he presented a Ballad to his Mistriss and departed.
Though London Girls have many Rimes and Catches,
Yet often times they do meet with their matches.
To the Tune of the Zealous Lover, or, A Fig for France, &c.
AS through St. Albone [...] I did pass
I Heard a scor [...]ful C [...]ckney Lasse
From London thither came to dwel;
For pride she others did excel,
She often u [...] to [...]o [...]k and [...]éer
Some Young men of Northampton-shire,
Till at the last an honest lad,
Did [...]eer this wench and made her mad.
Quoth he, I'me but a simple Youth
Yet I delight to speak the truth;
Obse [...]ve my Langua [...]e se [...]iously
It's clearly void of slatte [...]y,
[...]nd that you [...] say is very strange,
When Lovers Complements do change,
[...]or some young me [...] praise their sweet hearts
[...]uch higher than their true deserts▪
Then give me leave and i'le prepare
My foolish fancy to decla [...]e▪
And set [...]orth thy imperfect parts
That never gained young mens hearts;
I ne're saw Phenix in my days,
Therefore thy beauty i'le not praise
Then prethée ben't so co [...] to me
For I am not so fond of thée.
Thy scurvy scornful rouling Eyes
Of my heart ne're shall make a prize,
Thy béetle Brows and tallow face
Makes young men run from thée a [...]ace;
Thy ha [...]e is like my Sorrels mane
The words I speak are very plain,
Or rather like unto Jane Shore,
Which makes me think thoult be a whore▪
WHen thon dost smile I think thy lips
Look like a basket full of Chips,
Thou canst not smile as Maidens do
When Young men come in Love to wooe,
Thy voice is shrill, thy spéeches bold
Shews thou wilt be an ugly scold,
Then prethée ben't so co [...] to me
For I am not so fond of thee.
Thy looks at first [...]
I could hate thro on [...] fire,
My heart with [...]ur was i sta [...]'d
It vext me wh [...] [...] heard thee nam'd,
No happine [...]s [...] [...]ée
Whilst I was in thy company,
No Lov [...] to thee can be allow'd
Thou alwaies art so devillish proud,
I will not promise much content
To thée although thou dest consent;
If thou yield to be my swéet heart,
Ile make thee go to Plow and Cart,
And ile whip Lawrence quite away
W [...]k's be [...]te▪ for thy health than play,
Then prethee ben't so coy to me.
For I am not so fond of thee.
The Ladies that in Court do dwel
gallant Clothes shall thée excel,
They wear rich Sattens fine and [...]rave,
And Linsey-Wolsey thou shalt have;
No musick thou art like to hear
But in the Spring time of the year;
[...]tter speak [...]u [...]h without a Lye
Than promise much and falsifie,
Whilst Lovers walk on pleasant plains
[...] my Love through dirty Lanes,
[...] hedches, ditches, mires and bogs
[...]hear the Musick of the Frogs.
Somtimes wée'l tumble on the grass,
Thats pleasure for a London Lasse;
What saist thou canst thou fancy me▪
Speak or avoid my company.
If thou wilt yield to be my Wife,
Ile buy m [...] Girl a penny Knife,
Ile travel Europe ere I have done
In find my Love a Whistle spoon
A Baby o [...]some costly Knack,
That thou maist keep it for my sake
If thou dost slight me in this case
Ile dash m [...] shoos about thy face.
If that thou wilt not yeild to me
Ile set my Little Dog on thee▪
A Dog with Ladies much in fame
And little Cupid is his name;
If Cupid at thee bark and bite,
Hee'l make thee Love me day and night,
But if thou canst not fancy me,
I ne're shall die for Love of thée
In our Countrey there's gallant Girls
Thats worth their weight in gold and pearls
Bec [...]s [...] they'r Uertuous Chaste and fair,
[...] London can [...]
With them, when they are right in tune
Their cheeks are like the Rose in Iune▪
O uch a Lass what ere betide
I'le chuse to be my loving bride.
Fare well thou scornful Drab quoth he,
Thou never shalt intangle me
Pluck off thy patches and the Paint
For thou art but a seeming Saint,
Remember Pride will have a fall,
I speak to scornful Damsels all,
If I have done thée any wrong
Speak now or ever hold thy tongue,