I do not doubt your malt is good, Your skill by all is understood; The humming beer thro’ all the town, Has fix’d on high your just renown. But why I should your grain command, I own I do not understand, For I your barley cannot dry, Nor yet your blind horse supply; So to your wish I can’t incline, Adieu, then, Master Valentine. FROM THE GROOM TO THE COOK. Jenny, whene’er you roast or boil, You make my heart within me broil; Or when you’re at those pleasing arts, Of making puddings, pies, or tarts, I lick my lips at such good cheer, And call you then, my life and dear; What, though with grease your garments shine, Yet you must be my Valentine. THE ANSWER. Go, mind your horses in the stable, You ne’er shall sit with me at table; For your own words do plainly prove You’ve nothing more than cupboard love So I beg you will your suit decline, For you ne’er shall be my Valentine. FROM A COBBLER. Whenever I’m mending a shoe, Ev’ry thing in my stall that I view, To my doating remembrance brings you, While my heart in my bosom goes thump. The best _callimanco’s_ your hair, Your _skin_ is the _lining_ so fair, My _awl_ to your _eyes_ I compare, That wounded the heart of poor Clump. Your _teeth_, which like ivory show, Are the _pegs_ in a white even row, Which I drive, while at every blow My heart in my bosom goes thump. Each object of you seems a part, Your wit, that’s so piercing and smart, Is my _knife_, but my _lapstone_ your heart, Which will not let you pity poor Clump. THE ANSWER. Mr. Clump, I would have you to know, That your stuff will only work woe, As to all cobblers I’m a terrible foe, And so writes Kitty O’Grizzle. With your _awl_ you may _peg_ till _all’s_ blue, And with knife cut _old soles_ in two, For I will have nothing to do, But only with Tommy O’Twizzle. So now, Clump, go _stich_ your leather, And _wax_ the _two odd ends_ together, For either in foul or fair weather, I’ll cuddle with Tommy O’Twizzle. Each night and each morn I’ll entwine, As close as the wax to the line, About and around my own Valentine, My jewel, my boy, my Tommy O’Twizzle. TO A LADY. Say, dearest girl, wilt thou incline To mingle faithful love with mine? To plight the fond endearing vow, Of constant loves, as I do now? FROM A HATTER.