Kind Men that are full of good Nature, The flaxen, the black, and the brown; Both lusty and stout, and fit to hold out, The prime and the top of the Town: So clever in every part, They'll please a young Girl to the Heart; Nay, kiss you, and squeese you, and tenderly please you, For Love has a conquering Dart: _Then come pretty Lasses and purchase a Lot,_ _There are Wealthy kind Husbands now, now to be got._ Then never be fearful to venture, But Girls bring you Guineas away; Come merrily in, for we shall begin, To draw upon _Valentine's_ Day: The Prizes are many and great, Each Man with a worthy Estate; Then come away _Mary_, _Sib_, _Susan_, and _Sarah_, _Joan_, _Nancy_, and pretty fac'd _Kate_: _For now is the time if you'll purchase a Lot,_ _While Wealthy kind Husbands they are to be got._ Amongst you I know there is many, Will miss of a Capital Prize: Yet nevertheless, no Sorrows express, But dry up your watry Eyes: Young Lasses it is but in vain, In sorrowful Sighs to complain; Then ne'er be faint hearted, tho' Luck be departed, For all cannot reckon to gain: _Yet venture young Lasses, your Guineas bring in,_ _The Lucky will have the good Fortune to win._ _A_ SONG _on the_ JUBILEE. [Music] Come Beaus, Virtuoso's, rich Heirs and Musicians Away, and in Troops to the _Jubile_ jog; Leave Discord and Death, to the College Physicians, Let the Vig'rous whore on, and the impotent Flog: Already _Rome_ opens her Arms to receive ye, And ev'ry Transgression her Lord will forgive ye. Indulgences, Pardons, and such Holy Lumber, As cheap there is now as our Cabbages grown; While musty old Relicks of Saints without number, For barely the looking upon, shall be shown: These, were you an Atheist, must needs overcome ye, That first were made Martyrs, and afterwards Mummy. They'll shew ye the River, so Sung by the Poets, With the Rock from whence, Mortals were knockt o'th' Head; They'll shew ye the place too, as some will avow it, Where once a She Pope was brought fairly to Bed: For which, ever since, to prevent Interloping, In a Chair her Successors still suffer a Groping. What a sight 'tis to see the gay Idol accoutred, With Mitre and Cap, and two Keys by his side; Be his inside what 'twill, yet the Pomp of his outward, Shows _Servus servorum_, no hater of Pride, These Keys into Heav'n will as surely admit ye, As Clerks of a Parish to a Pew in the City. What a sight 'tis to see the old Man in Procession, Through _Rome_ in such Pomp as here _Caesar_ did ride, Now scattering of Pardons, here Crossing, there Blessing, With all his shav'd Spiritual Train'd-bans by his side; As, _Confessors_, _Cardinals_, _Monks_ fat as Bacons, From Rev'rend _Arch-Bishops_, to Rosie _Arch-Deacons_.