Sweet music went with us both all the town thro',
To Bagnigge, White Conduit, and Sadler's-Wells too; [7]
Soft murmur'd the Kennels, the beau-pots how sweet,
And crack went the cherry-stones under our feet:
But now she to Bridewell has punch'd it along, [8]
My eye, Betty Martin! on music a song:
'Twas her voice crying mack'rel, as now I have found,
Gave ev'ry-thing else its agreeable sound.

VIII

Gin! What is become of thy heart-chearing fire,
And where is the beauty of Calvert's Intire?
Does aught of its taste Double Gloucester beguile,
That ham, those potatoes, why do they not smile,
Ah! rot ye, I see what it was you were at,
Why you knocked up your froth, why you flash'd off your fat:
To roll in her ivory, to pleasure her eye,
To be tipt by her tongue, on her stomach to lie.

IX

How slack is the crop till my Nancy return!
No duds in my pocket, no sea-coal to burn! [9]
Methinks if I knew where the watchman wou'd tread,
I wou'd follow, and lend him a punch o' the head.
Fly swiftly, good watchman, bring hither my dear,
And, blast me! I'll tip ye a gallon of beer. [10]
Ah, sink him! the watchman is full of delay,
Nor will budge one foot faster for all I can say.