Earl was the place where he found him, A blithe sight for Geordy to see; But got the whole town to surround him, Before he his prisoner would be: Then on his back jumping and prancing, He swiftly switcht over the plain, But made him pay dear for his dancing, E’er he got to Midford again. [46] See the history of Valentine and Orson. THE INSIPIDS: OR, _The Mistress with her Multitude of Man Servants._ BY THOMAS WHITTLE. Of all the Kirkharle bonny lasses, If they were set round in a ring, Jane Heymours for beauty surpasses, She might be a match for a king; Her cheeks are as red as a cherry, Her breast is as white as a swan, She is a blyth lass and a merry, And her middle is fit for a man. The lads are so fond to be at her, They all run as mad as March hares, This bonny young lass they do flatter, And fall at her feet to their prayers: You never saw keener or stouter, They’ll not be put off with delay, Like bull-dogs they still hang about her, And court her by night and by day. Joe Hepple, Will Crudders, Tom Liddle, With twenty or thirty men more, If I could their names but unriddle, At least I might make out two score, That all cast about for to catch her, And make her their own during life; With others that strive to debauch her, Despairing to make her their wife. So many love tokens and fancies She gets, that to bring them in view, They’d look like so many romances, And none could believe they were true. I only will mention one favour, And leave you to guess at the rest; An old kenning Edward Hall gave her, Of comforts the choicest and best. They venture like people for prizes, And with the same timorous doubt, She has them of all sorts and sizes, That’s constantly sneaking about. Each man speaks her fair, and importunes In all the best language that’s known; And happy were he could tell fortunes, To know if the girl were his own. John Robson, Joe Bowman, Will Little, With her would spend nights over days; Each glance of her eyes is so smittle, That all men are catch’d if they gaze: She strikes them quite thro’ with love stitches, And many a poor heart she doth fill; She’s like one of those call’d white witches, That hurts men and means them no ill. John Henderson, that honest weaver, And mettled Matt Thomson the smith, Came both from Capheaton to preave her, And court her with courage and pith. Ned Oliver too, and Tom Baxter Spare neither their feet, tongue, or hands, But strive with the rest to contract her In compass of conjugal bands.