solid Joys.

_A_ Scotch SONG. _Sung by Mrs._ LUCAS _at the Old_ THEATRE.

[Music]

By Moon-light on the Green,
Our bonny Lasses Cooing;
And dancing there I've seen,
Who seem'd alone worth Wooing:
Her Skin like driven Snow,
Her Hair brown as a Berry:
Her Eyes black as a Slow,
Her Lips red as a Cherry.

Oh how she tript it, skipt it,
Leapt it, stept it, whiskt it,
Friskt it, whirld it, twirl'd it,
Swimming, springing, starting:
So quick, the tune to nick,
With a heave and a toss:
And a jerk at parting,
With a heave, and a toss, and a jerk at parting.

As she sat down I bowed,
And veil'd my bonnet to her;
Then took her from the Crowd,
With Honey words to woo her;
Sweet blithest Lass, quoth I,
It being bleaky Weather:
I prithee let us try,
Another Dance together;
_Oh how she_, &c.

Whilst suing thus I stood,
Quoth she, pray leave your fooling;
Some Dancing heats the Blood,
But yours I fear lacks cooling:
Still for a Dance I pray'd,
And we at last had Seven;
And whilst the Fiddle play'd,
She thought her self in Heaven,
_Oh how she_, &c.

At last she with a Smile,
To Dance again desir'd me;
Quoth I, pray stay a while,
For now good faith ye've tir'd me:
With that she look'd on me,
And sigh'd with muckle sorrow;
Than gang ye'ar gate, quoth she,
But Dance again to morrow.

_The_ QUAKER'S SONG. _Sung by Mrs._ Willis _at the New Play-House._

[Music]

Amongst the pure ones all,
Which Conscience doth profess;
And yet that sort of Conscience,
Doth practice nothing less:
I mean the Sect of those Elect,
That loath to live by Merit;
That leads their Lives with other Mens Wives,
According unto the Spirit.

One met with a Holy Sister of ours,
A Saint who dearly lov'd him:
And fain he would have kiss'd her,
Because the Spirit mov'd him:
But she deny'd, and he reply'd,
You're damn'd unless you do it;
Therefore consent, do not repent,
For the Spirit doth move me to it.

She not willing to offend, poor Soul,
Yielded unto his Motion;
And what these two did intend,
Was out of pure Devotion:
To lye with a Friend and a Brother,
She thought she shou'd die no Sinner,
But e'er five Months were past,
The Spirit was quick within her.

But what will the Wicked say,
When they shall here of this Rumour;
They'd laugh at us every Day,
And Scoff us in every Corner:
Let 'em do so still if that they will,
We mean not to fo