org._ Good Madam, as little of your Matrimony as of your Caudle;
my Stomach is plaguy squeamish, and a hair of the old Dog's worth both
of 'em. Oh! sick! sick!

Enter Sir _Merlin_, singing a Song in praise of a Rake-hell's
Life.

A SONG.

The _Town-Rake_; written by Mr. _Motteux_.

I.

_What Life can compare with the jolly Town-Rake's,
When in Youth his full Swing of all Pleasure he takes?
At Noon, he gets up, for a Whet, and to dine,
And wings the dull Hours with Mirth, Musick and Wine;
Then jogs to the _Play-house_, and chats with the Masks,
And thence to the _Rose_, where he takes his three Flasks.
There, great as a _Caesar_, he revels, when drunk,
And scours all he meets, as he reels to his Punk;
Then finds the dear Girl in his Arms when he wakes.
What Life can compare with the Jolly Town-Rake's?_

II.

_He, like the _Great Turk_, has his Favourite She;
But the Town's his _Seraglio_, and still he lives free.
Sometimes she's a Lady; but as he must range,
_Black-Betty_, or _Oyster-Doll_, serves for a Change.
As he varies his Sports, his whole Life is a Feast;
He thinks him that's soberest the most like a Beast.
At Houses of Pleasure breaks Windows and Doors;
Kicks Bullies and Cullies, then lies with their Whores.
Rare work for the Surgeon, and Midwife he makes.
What Life can compare with the Jolly Town-Rake's?_

III.

_Thus in _Covent-Garden_ he makes his Campaign,
And no Coffee-house haunts, but to settle his Brain.
He laughs at dry Morals, and never does think,
Unless 'tis to get the best Wenches and Drink.
He dwells in a Tavern, and lies ev'ry where,
And improving his hours, lives an Age in a Tear:
For as Life is uncertain, he loves to make haste;
And thus he lives longest, because he lives fast:
Then a Leap in the dark to the Devil he takes.
What Death can compare with the Jolly Town-Rake's?_

Sir _Mer._ Why, how now, Sir _Morgan_, I see you'll make a Husband of
the right Town-Mode: What, married but four Days, and at your separate
Apartment already?

Sir _Morg._ A Plague of your what d'ye call ums.

Sir _Mer._ Rakehells you would say, Cousin, an honourable Appellation
for Men of Bravery.

Sir _Morg._ Ay, ay, your Rakehells--I was never so muddled with Treason,
Tierce Claret, Oaths and Dice, all the Days of my Life--Was I in case to
do Family duty? S'life, you drank down all my Love, all my Prudence too;
Gad forg