on the Load that stops my way,
My Love's more Rich and Brighter far:
Were I prest under Hills of Gold,
My furious Sighs should make my escape;
I'd sigh and blow up all the Mould,
And throw the Oar in _Caelia's_ Lap.

Were thou some Peasant mean and small,
And all the spacious Globe were mine;
I'd give the World, the Sun and all,
For one kind brighter Glance of thine:
This Hour let _Caelia_ with me live,
And Gods cou'd I but of you borrow,
I'd give what only you can give,
For that dear Hour, I'd give to morrow.

_The loving Couple: Or the Merry_ WEDDING.

[Music]

A Jolly young _Grocer_ of _London Town_,
Fell deeply in Love with his Maid:
And often he courted her to lye down,
But she told him she was afraid:
Sometimes he would struggle,
But still she would Boggle,
And never consent to his wicked Will;
But said he must tarry,
Until he would marry,
And then he should have his fill.

But when that he found he could not obtain,
The Blessing he thus pursu'd;
For tho' he had try'd her again and again,
She vow'd she would not be leud:
At last he submitted,
To be so outwitted,
As to be catch'd in the Nuptial snare;
Altho' the young Hussie,
Before had been busie,
With one that she lov'd more dear.

The Morning after they marry'd were,
The Drums and the Fiddles came;
Then oh what a thumping and scraping was there,
To please the new marry'd Dame:
There was fiddle come fiddle,
With hey diddle diddle,
And all the time that the Musick play'd;
There was Kissing and Loving,
And Heaving and Shoving,
For fear she should rise a Maid.

But e'er three Months they had marry'd been,
A Thumping Boy popp'd out;
Ads---- says he you confounded Queen,
Why what have you been about?
You're a Strumpet cries he,
You're a Cuckold cries she,
And when he found he was thus betray'd;
There was Fighting and Scratching,
And Rogueing and Bitching,
Because she had prov'd a Jade.

_A_ SONG, _Tune of Chickens and Sparrow-grass._

What sayest thou,
If one should thrust thee thro'?
What sayest thou,
If one shou'd Plough?
I say Sir, you may do what you please,
I shall scarce stir,
Tho' you ne'er cease,
Thro', thro', you may thrust me thro'.
Such Death is a Pleasure,
When Life's a Disease.