knock me down,
_There's rare doings_, &c.

Besides I can boast of my self and two more,
And _Leveridge_ the Bass, that sweetly will roar,
'Till all the whole Audience joins in an ancore,
_There's rare doings_, &c.

Next _H----b L----r_ and _B----r_ too,
With Hautboy, one Fidle, and Tenor so bleu,
And fusty old Musick, not one Note of New,
_There's rare doings_, &c.

Next _Morphew_ the Harper with his Pigg's Face,
Lye tickling a Treble and vamping a Bass,
And all he can do 'tis but Musick's disgrace,
_There's rare doings_, &c.

Then comes the Eunuch to teaze them the more,
Subscribe your two Guineas to make up fourscore,
I never Perform'd at so low rate before,
_There's rare doings_, &c.

Then come the Strolers among the rest,
And little Punch _Powel_ so full of his Jest,
With pray Sir, good Madam, it's my Show is best,
_There's rare doings_, &c.

Thus being Tormented, and teaz'd to their Souls,
They thought the best way to get rid of these Fools,
The Case they referr'd to the Master of the R----ls,
_There's rare doings_, &c.

Says his Honour, and then he put on a Frown,
And since you have left it to my Thoughts alone,
I'll soon have them all whipp'd out of the Town,
O _rare doings at_ Bath, _Raffling, and Fidling_, &c.

_The Distress'd_ SHEPHERD, _A_ SONG.

[Music]

I am a poor Shepherd undone,
And cannot be Cur'd by Art;
For a Nymph as bright as the Sun,
Has stole away my Heart:
And how to get it again,
There's none but she can tell;
To cure me of my Pain,
By saying she loves me well:
And alass poor Shepherd,
Alack and a welladay;
Before I was in Love,
Oh every Month was _May_.

If to Love she cou'd not incline,
I told her I'd die in an Hour;
To die says she 'tis in thine,
But to Love 'tis not in my Power.
I askt her the Reason why,
She could not of me approve;
She said 'twas a Task too hard,
To give any Reason for Love:
_And alass poor Shepherd_, &c.

She ask'd me of my Estate,
I told her a Flock of Sheep;
The Grass whereon they Graze,
Where she and I might Sleep:
Besides a good Ten Pound,
In old King _Harry's_ Groats;
With Hooks and Crooks abound,
And Birds of sundry Notes:
_And alass poor Shepherd_, &c.

_A_ SONG.

I Love to Madness, rave t'enjoy,
But heaps of Wealth my Progress bar;
Curse