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The Batchelor's Choice.

I

m

Fain wou'd find a passing good Wife,
That I may.. live
merry all Days of my Life,
But that I do fear much sorrow and strife,
Then I'll not be Married yet, yet, yet,
And I'll not be Married yet, yet, yet.

If I should Marry a Maid that is Fair,

With her round cherry Cheeks and her flaxen Hair, Many close Meetings I must forbear,

And I'll, &c,

If I should Marry a Maid that is Foul,

The best of my Pleasure will be but a Scoul,
She'll sit in a corner like to an Owl,

And I'll not be Married yet, yet, yet,

And I'll not be Married yet, yet, yet.

If I should Marry a Maid that's a Slut,
My Diet a dressing abroad I must put,
For fear of Distempers to trouble my Gut,
And I'll not be Married yet, yet, yet,
And I'll not be Married yet, yet, yet.

If I should Marry a Maid that's a Fool,
To learn her more Wit I must put her to School,
Or else fool-hardy keep in good rule,

And I'll, &c.

If I should Marry a Maid that's a Scold,
My Freedom at home is evermore sold,

Her Mouth is too little her Tongue for to hold,
And I'll, &c.

If I should Marry with one that's a Whore,
I must keep open for her my back Door,
And so a kind Wittal be called therefore,
And I'll, &c.

If I should Marry a Maid that is Proud,
She'll look for much more than can be allow'd,
No Wife of that making I'll have I have vow'd,
And I'll, &c.

If I should Marry a Maid that is meek,
The rule of my Household I might go seek,
For such a kind Soul I care not a Leek,
And I'll, &c.

I would have a Wife to come at a Call,
Too fat, nor too lean, too low, nor too tall,
But such a good Wife as may please all,

Else I'll not be Married yet, yet, yet,
Else I'll not be Married yet, yet, yet.

The

The Second Part.

F I should go seek the whole World about,
To find a kind and loving Wife out,

IF

That labour were lost, I am in great doubt,
And I'll not be Married yet, yet, yet,
And I'll not be Married yet, yet, yet.

If I Marry with one that is Young,
With a false Heart and flattering Tongue,
Sorrow and Care may be my Song,
And I'll, &c.

If I should Marry with one that is Old,
I never should have the Pleasures I would,
But Arm full of Bones frozen with Cold,
And I'll, &c.

If I should Marry with one that is Poor,
By me my best Friends will set little store
And so go a Begging from door to door,
And I'll, &c.

If I should Marry with one that is Rich,

She'll ever upbraid me she brought me too much, And make me her Drudge, but I'll have none such. And I'll, &c.

If I should Marry with one that is Blind,

All for to seek and worse for to find,

I then should have nothing to please my Mind,
And I'll, &c,

If I should Marry with one that is Dumb,
How could she welcome my Friends that come,
For her best language is to say Mum,

And I'll not be Married yet, yet, yet,

And I'll not be Married yet, yet, yet.

If I should Marry with one that is Deaf,
Hard of Belief, and Jealous 'till death,

To the Jawm of a Chimney spend I my Breath,
And I'll, &c.

If I should Marry with one that is Fine,
She will spend all in Ale and in Wine,

Spend she her own, she shall not spend mine,
And I'll, &c.

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.

HO' thou'rt ugly and Old,

THO

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 Fenny.

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?

Medæa, '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.