I'll tell thee _Dick_ where I have lately been, _There's rare doings at_ Bath, Amongst Beauties divine, the like was ne'er seen, _There's rare doings at_ Bath, And some dismal Wits that were eat up with Spleen, _There's rare doings at_ Bath. _There's rare doings at_ Bath. _Raffling and Fidling, and Piping and Singing,_ _There's rare doings at_ Bath. Where all drink the Waters to recover Health, And some sort of Fools there throw off their Wealth, And now and then Kissing, and that's done by stealth, _There's rare doings_, &c. And now for the Crew that pass in the Throng, That live by the Gut, or the Pipe, or the Song, And teaze all the Gentry as they pass along, _There's rare doings_, &c. First _Corbet_ began my Lord pray your Crown, You'll hear a new Boy I've Just brought to Town, I'm sure he will please you, or else knock me down, _There's rare doings_, &c. Besides I can boast of my self and two more, And _Leveridge_ the Bass, that sweetly will roar, 'Till all the whole Audience joins in an ancore, _There's rare doings_, &c. Next _H----b L----r_ and _B----r_ too, With Hautboy, one Fidle, and Tenor so bleu, And fusty old Musick, not one Note of New, _There's rare doings_, &c. Next _Morphew_ the Harper with his Pigg's Face, Lye tickling a Treble and vamping a Bass, And all he can do 'tis but Musick's disgrace, _There's rare doings_, &c. Then comes the Eunuch to teaze them the more, Subscribe your two Guineas to make up fourscore, I never Perform'd at so low rate before, _There's rare doings_, &c. Then come the Strolers among the rest, And little Punch _Powel_ so full of his Jest, With pray Sir, good Madam, it's my Show is best, _There's rare doings_, &c. Thus being Tormented, and teaz'd to their Souls, They thought the best way to get rid of these Fools, The Case they referr'd to the Master of the R----ls, _There's rare doings_, &c. Says his Honour, and then he put on a Frown, And since you have left it to my Thoughts alone, I'll soon have them all whipp'd out of the Town, O _rare doings at_ Bath, _Raffling, and Fidling_, &c. _The Distress'd_ SHEPHERD, _A_ SONG. [Music] I am a poor Shepherd undone, And cannot be Cur'd by Art; For a Nymph as bright as the Sun, Has stole away my Heart: And how to get it again, There's none but she can tell; To cure me of my Pain, By saying she loves me well: And alass poor Shepherd, Alack and a welladay; Before I was in Love, Oh every Month was _May_. If to Love she cou'd not incline, I told her I'd die in an Hour; To die says she 'tis in thine, But to Love 'tis not in my Power. I askt her the Reason why, She could not of me approve; She said 'twas a Task too hard, To give any Reason for Love: _And alass poor Shepherd_, &c.