BEN. The song was made upon one of our ship’s-crew’s wife. Our boatswain made the song. Mayhap you may know her, sir. Before she was married she was called buxom Joan of Deptford. SCAN. I have heard of her. BEN. [_Sings_]:— BALLAD. Set by MR. JOHN ECCLES. I. A soldier and a sailor, A tinker and a tailor, Had once a doubtful strife, sir, To make a maid a wife, sir, Whose name was buxom Joan. For now the time was ended, When she no more intended To lick her lips at men, sir, And gnaw the sheets in vain, sir, And lie o’ nights alone. II. The soldier swore like thunder, He loved her more than plunder, And shewed her many a scar, sir, That he had brought from far, sir, With fighting for her sake. The tailor thought to please her With offering her his measure. The tinker, too, with mettle Said he could mend her kettle, And stop up ev’ry leak. III. But while these three were prating, The sailor slyly waiting, Thought if it came about, sir, That they should all fall out, sir, He then might play his part. And just e’en as he meant, sir, To loggerheads they went, sir, And then he let fly at her A shot ’twixt wind and water, That won this fair maid’s heart. BEN. If some of our crew that came to see me are not gone, you shall see that we sailors can dance sometimes as well as other folks. [_Whistles_.] I warrant that brings ’em, an they be within hearing. [_Enter seamen_]. Oh, here they be—and fiddles along with ’em. Come, my lads, let’s have a round, and I’ll make one. [_Dance_.] BEN. We’re merry folks, we sailors: we han’t much to care for. Thus we live at sea; eat biscuit, and drink flip, put on a clean shirt once a quarter; come home and lie with our landladies once a year, get rid of a little money, and then put off with the next fair wind. How d’ye like us? MRS. FRAIL. Oh, you are the happiest, merriest men alive. MRS. FORE. We’re beholden to Mr. Benjamin for this entertainment. I believe it’s late. BEN. Why, forsooth, an you think so, you had best go to bed. For my part, I mean to toss a can, and remember my sweet-heart, afore I turn in; mayhap I may dream of her. MRS. FORE. Mr. Scandal, you had best go to bed and dream too. SCAN. Why, faith, I have a good lively imagination, and can dream as much to the purpose as another, if I set about it. But dreaming is the poor retreat of a lazy, hopeless, and imperfect lover; ’tis the last glimpse of love to worn-out sinners, and the faint dawning of a bliss to wishing girls and growing boys. There’s nought but willing, waking love, that can Make blest the ripened maid and finished man. ACT IV.—SCENE I. _Valentine’s lodging_.