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[Roxburghe Collection, III. 90, 91; Pepys, III. 262.]

The Country Miss new

Fashion; Dr,

come in

A Farewel to the Pockified Town Miss.

A Country Girl in a Paragon Gown,
That never get knew the tricks of the town,
Did lately delude a t[e]aring Gallant,
Tho just such an Ennocent Virgin did want:
And since he's enjoyed her, E heard him protest,
That of all other Misses she pleased him best.

To an excellent new Play-house Tune, called, The Mock Tune to the French Rant.
With Allowance.

Two woodcuts at beginning. The left-hand cut has been already given on p. 79 of present volume, Left. The right-hand cut, of a young man, halflength, in an oval, is the portrait of Captain Hind, which will be reproduced in "Captain Hind's Ramble" (Roxb. Coll., III. 670); from the original, a copperplate frontispiece of our Civil-War tract, of 1651: The Declaration of Captain James Hind. Two more cuts; given later in "Jockey's Vindication," and p. 412. Ive me the Lass that's true Country bred,

head;

Feeding upon good Bacon and Beans,
But [who] never knew what jilting means.
What though her skin be tawny and coarse,
Flocks she lyes on, she'l kiss ne'r the worse;
[Shame] she ne'r had, like Miss of the Town,
That's painted and patcht, and lyes up and down.

What though her speech be simple and plain,
She knows not what flattering complements mean;
If [naughty] you speak, she blushes and smiles,
Such innocent charms 'stead of beauty beguiles.

Free from distempers in every part,
Where ever she likes she loves from her heart;
She's not for a minute, like those of the Trade,
For pleasing enjoyment for ever she's made.

She has not the trick of forcing delight,

But acts with like pleasures each day and each night;
Each moment she's dying, so hot is her fire,
And never does kiss but with perfect desire.

So sound is her Nature, she's alwaies in health;

Her kisses are sweet, which she gives me by stealth;
When e're I am dull, and sit sighing alone,
She'l sing me a song of young Tommy and Jone.

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The Country Miss new come in Fashion.

The hair of her head is as black as a Crow,
She's very well shap'd, not too high nor too low;
All parts are inviting in e'ry degree,
Especially [since she looks loving and free].

My Nanny and I (for that is her name)
So equally manage now each other's flame
That neither's deceiv'd, nor can ever be cloy'd,
But both alike brisk after pleasures enjoy'd.
Our Misses o' th' Town act contrary-wise,
They ne'r take delight but in hopes of a prize;
Their desire is pall'd before they begin,
Because they each day make a Trade of their Sin.

Their blood is corrupted, their bodies are foul,
They swear loud enough to uuep body and soul;
They depo all their Cullies, and their pockets pick,
And send the young Fop home for a while to be sick.
With a dose of rare Pills, and some other fine slops,
They keep 'emselves under the notion of sde;
Which else would arrive to the bridge of the nose,
But that they prevent by a turpentine doze.

My Nanny and I are free from disease,

We ne'r are in danger, let's do what we please:

We hug and we kiss, we sport and we play,

And for pleasures we study to find a new way.

[Nay,] what though her country tones doe seem rude,
And cannot with eloquence others delude,

'Tis no matter for that, she has won my heart so,

I shall love her for ever for a trick that I know.

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Beyond all expressing she sweetens our joys,

And doubtless she's full of fine girls and fine boyes;
She's kind and she's true, and so constant does prove,
She ne'r will admit any Rival in Love.

The Butterflye Miss may scoff if she will,
And swear that my Country Nanny wants skill
To sport and to kiss, but I'le vow she's deceived:
She has judgement enough, if I may be believ'd.
Such harmless embraces would ravish one's soul,
Though old Age and Envy stand by to controul :
Her kisses a man almost dead will revive,
No better are had from no woman alive.

All that I have said of my Nanny is true,

And more she deserves if I gave her her due;

But this shall suffice, and my labour I'le save,

Lest you all fall a longing for what you can't have.

Finis.

London: Printed for W. Thackeray, T. Passenger, and W. Whitwood.

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[In Black-letter. Four woodcuts. Date, certainly before 1685. Rawlinson's Collection copy, 566, fol. 212, printed for E. Oliver. Douce's Coll., I. 38 verso.]

OUR

The Dyer's Destiny.

"What! never sigh!

Be of good cheer, man, for thou art a pon.
'Tis done, 'tis done! nay, when such flowery store,
Plenty itself, falls into my wife's lap,

The Cornu-Copia will be mine, I know."

-Ben Jonson's Every Man in his Humour, Act iii. 1600.

UR old literature, dramatic, lyrical, and satyrical, is filled with allusions to the "Horn of Plenty," which contentedly-dishonoured husbands were supposed to find in married life. A woodcut, opposite, heading "The Dyer's Destiny; or, The Loving Wife's Help in time of Need," illustrates the popular pleasantry, and the indecorous ballad itself fully explains the allusion. Shakespeare makes Jack Falstaffe say, "He hath the Horn of Abundance, and the lightness of his wife shines through it; and yet cannot he see, though he have his own Lant-horn to light him." "The Dyer's Destiny" is sufficiently outspoken; thence we were tempted to delay or omit it for a while: but that there were numerous cases of such matrimonial arrangements, after the Puritan hypocrisy veneered our traders with sanctimonious subtlety, is beyond a doubt. It is as well to understand the character of Shaftesbury's supporters, the "Brisk Boys of Wapping." The tune refers to the ballad by Tom D'Urfey, entitled "The Happy Lover; or, Celia won by Amintor's Loyalty," probably written in 1684, and certainly before the end of 1688. As we have given the enlarged broadside version of fifty-six lines, including the "Maid's Answer," in our Bagford Ballads, p. 89, we here add the original

Song: The Happy Lover.

Hy are my Eyes still flowing?

WHY

Why does my Heart thus trembling move?

Why do I sigh, when going

To see the darling Saint I Love?

Ah! she's my Heaven, and in her Eye 's the Deity;

There is no life like what she can give,

Nor any Death [threatens] like taking my leave.

7

Tell me no more of Glory,

To Courts Ambition I've resign'd,

But tell a long, long Story,

Of Celia's Face, her Shape and Mind;

Speak too of Raptures, that will Life destroy, to Enjoy:

Had I a Diadem, Scepter and Ball,

For one happy Minute I'd part with them all.

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[Roxburghe Collection, II. 120; Huth's, I. 84; Douce's, I. 65.]

The Dyer's Destiny ;

Or,

The Loving Wife's Help in Time of Meed.

"Two Trades is better far than one,

Sweet Husband," then said she;
"Then if thou wilt let me alone,
E'll be a help to thee."

TO THE TUNE OF, Why are my eyes still flowing, etc.
This may be Printed, R[ichard] P[ocock].

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Dyer's Wife she was a dainty curious Doe,
But with her Friend she a Gadding would go.

Alas! he could not keep his handsome wife at home,
For with her Gallant abroad she would roam;
And when she came to her Husband each night,
Then like Tygers together they'd fight,

And at each blow she would often reply,
"Thou art a plyn, and so thou shalt dye.
"You know full well I take the greatest care of all,
Or else your substance would soon be but small;
For why should I depend upon your Trade alone,
Is not two Callings far better than one?
Therefore I'de have thee be contented still,
For I protest I will have my own will.

'Tis but a folly the same to deny :

Thou art a proyong, and so thou shall dye."

J.W.E.

8

16

"Huswife," said he, “and have you now the wanton plaid,
So that your Husband is a prop

made?

What flesh and blood is able for to bear with this ?"

"You shall," quoth she, "though you take it amiss;
For I declare it is nothing but true,

Which I have oftentimes hinted to you:

Nay, I do hate to be found in a lye,

Thou art a pronɔ, and so thou shalt dye.

"A Shoe-maker, I own, is my chiefest friend,1
There does the most of my hopes still depend;
Against we meet he is a Man that does provide,
Not only Money, but something beside:
Therefore you have no great cause to complain,
Because to you I still bring home the gain.
As for your Anger, I still do defie,
Being a propon, and so thou shalt dye."

The Dyer then, alas! was in a cruel rage,
That nothing scarce could his Anger assuage:
"Do not I bring to you my Wages 'ery week?
What need have you any Gallants to seek?"
At this his Wife she was straight in a huff,
Saying, "Your Wages is not half enough,

Therefore be patient!" said she, "do not cry:
For thou'rt a proyɔn, and so thou shalt dye.

24

[Food & drink.

32

40

"It is well known our Cloaths were all at pawn of l[ate,]

And we reduc'd to a very mean state;

But now, you see, we make a very handsome shift,

Thus I was forc'd to help at a dead lift;

I brought home Coyn by my industry,

The which I gave you all pawns to set free:

The truth of this, sure, you cannot deny,

As you are a proyɔɔ, and so you shall dye.

48

"Pray now, did you e'er flourish so in all your Life,
As now you do by the help of your Wife?
Therefore my Crime you may very well here excuse;
Tell me, I pray, do you ever want Shooes?

Yet know you not the price of those you wear,

1 get them by my industrious care:

The truth of this sure, you cannot deny,

As you are a proɔɔ, and so you shall dye.

56

1 The sons of Crispin, members of "the Gentle Craft," being favourites of the ballad-writers, are almost always mentioned pleasantly. We find that Hugh Hill was a shoe-maker, and he (on our p. 421) desires that his story may be made known to the brotherhood. Tailors, on the contrary, are ridiculed and decried, in scores of ballads, although many a Snip sings cheerily at his work: the quicker flow the notes, the nimbler are plied the needles of his companions on the shop-board. Charles Lamb discoursed on the Melancholy of Tailors, in his Essays of Elia.

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