Dear object of my love, whose manly charms With bliss extatic fill’d my circling arms; That bliss is past, and nought for me remains But dire reproach, and sharp unpitied pains: For (Death to me, and food to others pride) My sister has my growing shame descry’d, Ev’n she assails me with opprobious name, When the prude’s conscious she deserves the same Her loose associates, sated, from her flies, And vainly to seduce my virtue tries: True, as a wife, I only want the name; O! haste and wed me, and preserve my fame. Unlike most modern matches ours shall be, From settlement, the lawyers fetters free; I’ll quit my All, and be content with thee. Then haste away, and strike detraction dead; The nuptial feast awaits you, and the bed; Nor fear the hand that will endure for life, With me, your loving and your faithful wife. POSTSCRIPT. These earnest dictates of my anxious heart I beg you will not to your friend impart; For oft beneath fair friendship’s specious show, The traitor lurks, the undermining foe. R.A. Printed by John Andrews, Portsmouth. THE VERY PRETTY MAID OF THIS TOWN, AND THE AMOROUS ’SQUIRE, NOT ONE HUNDRED MILES FROM THE PLACE. [Illustration] “I do not seek to quench your love’s hot fire, but qualify the fire’s extreme rage, lest it should burn above the bounds of reason.”--_Shakespeare._ A pretty maid both kind and fair, Dwells in this very town, Her pleasant smiles and easy air, Engages fop and clown. Being accosted t’other day, By a clumsy ’squire, Who ask’d her if she knew the way To quench a raging fire. Water, Sir, reply’d the maid, Will quench it in a trice, O no, said he, you little jade, I’ve try’d that once or twice. Then Sir, said she, ’tis past my skill, To tell you what will do; I’m sure, said he, you know what will; There’s nothing can but you. Alas-a-day, what do you mean, Reply’d the pretty fair; I’d have you try it once again, You never should despair. Despair I cannot, cry’d the ’squire, While you are in my sight, ’Tis you must quench the burning fire, You set it first alight. Then strait he clas’p her round the waist, And forc’d from her a kiss; Ho! ho! said she, is that your tale, Then pray you, Sir, take this. And with a pail, placed at the door, She sluic’d the amorous ’squire; You’re welcome, Sir, to this and more, To quench your raging fire. Printed by W. H. TICKLE, at his General Printing Office, Croydon, Surrey.--An extensive assortment of Songs, Recitations, Shop Window Bills, &c.--Printing of every description readily performed cheap as in London. THE FULL PARTICULARS OF “TAKING OFF” PRINCE ALBERT’S INEXPESSIBLES. IN THE BOROUGH COURT OF REQUESTS.--THIS DAY. [Illustration]