be Kind,
Both to be belov'd, and for to Love;
If you contradict what Heav'n has design'd,
You'll be contemn'd by all the Pow'rs above:
Then no more dispute me, for I am rashly bent,
To subject your Beauty
To kind Nature's Duty,
Let me than salute you by Consent.

Arguments and fair Intreats did I use,
But with her Consent could not prevail;
She the Blessing modestly would still refuse,
Seeming for to slight my amorous Tale:
Sometimes she would cry Sir, prithee Dear be good,
Oh Sir, pray Sir, why Sir?
Pray now, nay now, fye Sir,
I would sooner die Sir, than be rude.

I began to treat her then another way,
Modestly I melted with a Kiss;
She then blushing look'd like the rising Day,
Fitting for me to attempt the Bliss:
I gave her a fall Sir, she began to tear,
Crying she would call Sir,
As loud as she could baul Sir,
But is prov'd as false, Sir, as she's Fair.

RALPH'S _going to the Wars._

[Music]

To the Wars I must alass,
Though I do not like the Game,
For I hold him to be an Ass,
That will lose his Life for Fame:
_For these Guns are such pestilent things,
To pat a Pellet in ones Brow;
Four vurlongs off ch've heard zome zay,
Ch'ill kill a Man he knows not how._

When the Bow, Bill, Zword and Dagger,
Were us'd all in vighting;
Ch've heard my Father swear and swagger,
That it was but a Flea-biting:
_But these Guns_, &c.

Ise would vight with the best of our Parish,
And play at Whisters with _Mary_;
Cou'd thump the Vootball, yerk the Morrie,
And box at Visticuffs with any:
_But these Guns_, &c.

Varewel _Dick_, _Tom_, _Ralph_ and _Hugh_,
My Maypoles make all heretofore;
Varewel _Doll_, _Kate_, _Zis_ and _Zue_,
For I shall never zee you more:
_For these Guns are such pestilent things,
To pat a Pellet in ones Brow;
Four vurlongs off ch've heard zome zay,
Ch'ill kill a Man he knows not how._

_A_ SONG _in Praise of Punch._

[Music]

Come fill up the Bowl with the Liquor that fine is,
And much more Divine is,
Than now a-days Wine is, with all their Art,
None here can controul:
The Vintner despising, tho' Brandy be rising,
'Tis Punch that must chear the Heart:
The Lovers complaining, 'twill cure in a trice,
And _Caelia_ disdaining, shall cease to be nice,
_Come fill up the Bowl_, &c.

Thus soon you'll discover, the cheat of each Lover,
When free from all Care you'll quickly find,
As Nature intended 'em willing and kin