,
Pray take the advice of a Stranger;
But if you go on,
Like Fools as ye've done,
When ye're Hang'd ye'll be quite out of Danger.

Tune _of Joy to the Bridegroom_.

My _Theodora_ can those Eyes,
From whence those Glories always shine:
Give light to every Soul that prys,
And only be obscure to mine:
_Give light to every Soul that prys_,
_And only be obscure to mine._

Send out one Beam t' enrich my Soul,
That doth in Clouds of darkness roul;
And chase away this gloomy Shade,
That in my Breast a Hell has made:
_And chase away this gloomy Shade_,
_That in my Breast a Hell has made._

Where fire burns, where Flame is bright,
Yet I the Comfort want of light:
O shine, then shine upon the Man,
That else in Darkness is undone:
_O shine, then shine upon the Man_,
_That else in Darkness is undone._

_A_ SONG _in Praise of_ BEGGING: _Or, the Beggars Rivall'd._

[Music]

Tho' Begging is an honest Trade,
Which wealthy Knaves despise;
Yet Rich Men may be Beggars made,
And we that Beg may rise:
The greatest Kings may be betray'd,
And lose their Sov'raign Power,
But he that stoops to ask his Bread,
But he that stoops to ask his Bread,
Can never fall much lower.

What lazy Foreigns Swarm'd of late,
Has spoil'd our Begging-trade;
Yet still we live and drink good Beer,
Tho' they our Rights invade:
Some say they for Religion fled,
But wiser People tell us,
They were forc'd Abroad to seek their Bread,
For being too Rebellious.

Let heavy Taxes greater grow,
To make our Army fight;
Where 'tis not to be had you know,
The King must lose his Right:
Let one side laugh, the other mourn,
We nothing have to fear;
But that great Lords will Beggars be,
To be as great as we are.

What tho' we make the World believe,
That we are Sick or lame;
'Tis now a Virtue to Deceive,
Our Teachers do the same:
In Trade Dissembling is no crime,
And we may live to see;
That Begging in a little time,
The only Trade will be.

Tune, _Let_ CAESAR _rejoyce_.

_Alphonzo_, if you Sir,
Your Heart have resign'd;
Take care what you do, Sir,
For a Lover is blind.

Beware of the Snare,
That for Lovers is laid:
Beware of the Fair,
But more treacherous Maid:
For when tir'd with the Joy,
Of a Minutes delight;
You