e! a Doctor rare, who travels much at home!
Here take my Bills, take my Bills,
I cure all Ills, past, present, and to come;
the Cramp, the Stitch, the Squirt, the Itch,
the Gout, the Stone, the Pox,
the Mulligrubs, the Bonny Scrubs,
and all, all, all, all, all, _Pandora's_ Box;
Thousands I've Dissected, Thousands new erected,
and such Cures effected, as none e'er can tell.

Let the Palsie shake ye, let the Chollick rack ye,
let the Crinkums break ye, let the Murrain take ye;
Take this, take this and you are well.
Thousands, &c.

Come Wits so keen, devour'd with Spleen;
come Beaus who sprain'd your Backs,
Great-belly'd Maids, old founder'd Jades,
and Pepper'd Vizard Cracks.

I soon remove the pains of Love,
and cure the Love-sick Maid;
the Hot, the Cold, the Young,
the Old, the Living and the Dead.

I clear the Lass with Wainscot Face,
and from Pim-ginets free,
Plump Ladies Red, like _Saracen's_-head,
with toaping Rattafe.

This with a Jirk, will do your work,
and scour you o're and o're,
Read, Judge and Try, and if you die,
never believe me more,
never, never, never, never, never believe me more.]

_A_ SONG _in the_ Mock Marriage. _Sung by Mrs._ KNIGHT. _Set by Mr._
Henry Purcell.

[Music]

Oh! how you protest and solemnly swear,
Look humble, and fawn like an Ass;
I'm pleas'd, I must own, when ever I see
A Lover that's brought to this pass.
Keep, keep further off, you're naughty I fear,
I vow I will never, will never, will never yield to't;
You ask me in vain; for never I swear,
I never, no never, I never, no never,
I never, no never will do't.

For when the Deed's done, how quickly you go,
No more of the Lover remains,
In hast you depart, whate'er we can do,
And stubbornly throw off your Chains:
Desist then in time, let's hear on't no more,
I vow I will never yield to't;
You promise in vain, in vain you adore,
For I will never, no never will do't.

JOCKEY'S _Lamentation._

[Music]

_Jockey_ met with _Jenny_ fair
Betwixt the dawning and the Day,
And _Jockey_ now is full of Care,
For _Jenny_ stole his Heart away:
Altho' she promis'd to be true,
Yet she, alas, has prov'd unkind,
That which do make poor _Jenny_ rue,
For _Jenny's_ fickle as the Wind:
And, _'Tis o'er the Hills, and far away,_
_'Tis o'er the Hills, and far away,_
_'Tis o'er the Hills, and far away,_
_The Wind has blown my Plad away._

_Jockey_ was a bonny Lad,
As e'er was born