But if that I should take in hand,
Her Person to commend;
I should vouchsafe a long Discourse,
The which I could not end:
For her Vertues they are many,
Her person likewise such;
But only in particular,
Some part of them I'll touch.
But is not, _&c._

Those Fools that still are doing,
With none but costly Dames;
With tediousness of wooing,
Makes cold their hottest flames:
Give me the Country Lass,
That trips it o'er the Field;
And ope's her Forest at the first.
And is not Coy to yield.

Who when she dons her Vesture,
She makes the Spring her Glass;
And with her Comely gesture,
Doth all the Meadows pass:
Who knows no other cunning,
But when she feels it come;
To gripe your Back, if you be slack,
And thrust your Weapon home.

'Tis not their boasting humour,
Their painted looks nor state;
Nor smells of the Perfumer,
The Creature doth create:
Shall make me unto these,
Such slavish service owe;
Give me the Wench that freely takes,
And freely doth bestow.

Who far from all beguiling,
Doth not her Beauty Mask;
But all the while lye smiling,
While you are at your task:
Who in the midst of Pleasure,
Will beyond active strain;
And for your Pranks, will con you thanks,
And cursey for your pain.

_A_ SONG. _Set by Mr._ ACKEROYD.

Z----ds Madam return me my Heart,
Or by the Lord _Harry_ I'll make ye;
Tho' you sleep when I talk of my smart,
As I hope to be Knighted I'll wake ye;
If you rant, why by _Jove_,
Then I'll rant as well as you;
There's no body cares for your puffing,
You're mistaken in me;
Nay prithee, prithee, prithee pish,
We'll try who's the best at a huffing.

But if you will your Heart surrender,
And confess yourself uncivil;
'Tis probable I may grow tender,
And recal what I purpos'd of evil,
But if you persist in rigour,
'Tis a thousand to one but I teeze you;
For you'll find so much heat and such vigour,
As may trouble you forsooth or please you.

_A_ SONG _in the Comedy call'd_ The Maid's last Prayer: _Or_, Any
thing rather than fail.

[Music]

Tho' you make no return to my Passion,
Still, still I presume to adore;
'Tis in Love but an odd Reputation,
When faintly repuls'd to give o'er:
When you talk of your duty,
I gaze at your Beauty;
Nor mind the dull Maxim at all,
L