If I should Marry with one that is Tall, I having but little she would have it all, Then will I live single, whate'er it befal, And I'll, _&c._ For when I am Married I must be glad, To please my Wife though never so bad, Then farewel the Joys that lately I had, And I'll not be Married yet, yet, yet, And I'll not be Married yet, yet, yet. _Maids that will not when you may, When you would, you shall have nay._ _The Power of Verse._ [Music] Tho' thou'rt ugly and Old, A damn'd Slut and a Scold, Yet if you will tip me a Guinea; By the help of my Rhimes, To the latest of Times, Thou shalt have thy Adorers dear _Jenny_. We Bards have a knack, To turn White into Black, And make Vice seem Vertue, which odd is; True Poetical Cant, Dubbs a Rebel a Saint, And refines a Jilt into a Goddess. These trick Rhiming Sages, Observ'd in all Ages, To dress naked Truth in a Fable; And tho' ev'ry story, Out-did Purgatory, They still were believ'd by the Rabble. Pray what was _Acteon_, Whom Dogs made a Prey on, But a Sportsman undone by his Chasing; Or the fam'd _Diomede_, Of whom his Nags fled, But a Jockey quite ruin'd by racing? _MedÊa_, 'tis sung, Could make old Women Young. Tho' she nought but a true waiting-Maid is; Who with Comb of black Lead, With Paint white and Red, With Patch and wash, vamps up grey Ladies. _Vulcan_ left the Bellows, And Sooty left good Fellows, That he might take of _Nectar_ a Cann full; _Venus_ was a gay Trull, To the Cuckoldly Fool, _Mars_ a Bully that beat on her Anvil. _Neptune_ was a Tarpawling, And _Ph[oe]bus_ by calling, A Mountebank, Wizard, and Harper; Jolly _Bacchus_ a Lad, Of the Wine-drawing Trade, And _Mercury_ a Pimp and a Sharper. _Pallas_ was a stale Maid, With a grim _Gorgon's_ head, Whose ugliness made her the Chaster, A Scold great was _Juno_, As I know, or you know, And _Jove_ was as great a Whore-master. Then prithee dear Creature, Now show thy good nature, This once be my Female _Mac[oe]nas_; And Times yet unknown, My _Jenny_ shall own, Chast as _Pallas_, but fairer than _Venus_. _The Bonny Lass: Or, the Button'd_ SMOCK. [Music] Sit you merry Gallants, For I can tell you News, Of a Fashion call'd the Button'd Smock, The which our Wenches use: Because that in the City, In troth it is great pity; Our Gallants hold it much in scorn. They should put down the City: But is not this a bouncing Wench, And is not this a Bonny; In troth she wears a _Holland_ Smock, If that she weareth any.