The Ferret he goes in, through flaggs thick and thin, Whilst Mettle pursueth his Chace; The Cunny she shows play, and in the best of her way, Like a Cat she does spit in his Face: Tho' she lies in the Dust, she fears not his Nest, With her full bound up Sir, career; With the strength that she shows, she gapes at the Nose, And she turns up, _&c._ The sport is so good, that in Town or in Wood, In a Hedge, or a Ditch you may do it; In Kitchen or in Hall, in a Barn or in a Stall, Or wherever you please you may go to it: So pleasing it is that you can hardly miss, Of so rich Game in all our Shire; For they love so to play, that by Night or by Day, They will turn up their Silver Hair. BRIDAL _Night. To the foregoing Tune._ Come from the Temple, away to the Bed, As the Merchant transports home his Treasure; Be not so coy Lady, since we are wed, 'Tis no Sin to taste of the Pleasure: Then come let us be blith, merry and free, Upon my life all the waiters are gone; And 'tis so, that they know where you go, say not so, For I mean to make bold with my own. What is it to me, if our Hands joyned be, If our Bodies are still kept asunder: It shall not be said, there goes a married Maid, Indeed we will have no such wonder: Therefore let's Embrace, there's none sees thy Face, The Bride-Maids that waited are gone; None can spy how you lye, ne'er deny, but say Ay, For I mean to make bold with my own. Sweet Love do not frown, but pull off thy Gown, 'Tis a Garment unfit for the Night; Some say that Black, hath a relishing smack, I had rather be dealing with White: Then be not afraid, for you are not betray'd, Since we two are together alone; I invite you this Night, to do me right in my delight, For I mean to make bold with my own. Then come let us Kiss, and tast of our Bliss, Which brave Lords and Ladies enjoy'd; If all Maids should be of the humour of thee, Generations would soon be destroy'd: Then where were the Joys, the Girls and the Boys, Would'st live in the World all alone; Don't destroy, but enjoy, seem not Coy for a Toy, For indeed I'll make bold with my own. Prithee begin, don't delay but unpin, For my Humour I cannot prevent it; You are so streight lac'd, and your Top-knot so fast, Undo it, or I straitway will rent it: Or to end all the strife, I'll cut it with a Knife, 'Tis too long to stay 'till it's undone; Let thy Wast be unlac'd, and in hast be embrac'd, For I long to make bold with my own. As thou art fair, and sweeter than the Air, That dallies on _July's_ brave Roses; Now let me be to thy Garden a Key, That the Flowers of Virgins incloses: And I will not be too rough unto thee, For my Nature to mildness is prone; Do no less than undress, and unlace all apace, For this Night I'll make bold with my own. _A TOPING_ SONG. [Music]