At length a troop of horse came down,
And quarter'd in a neighb'ring town.
The cornet he was tall and young,
And had a most bewitching tongue.
They saw and lik'd. The fiege begun,
Each hour he some advantage won.
He ogled first ;-lhe turn'd away ;
But met his eyes the following day.
Then her reluctant hand he seizes ;
That foon the gives him, when he pleases.
Her ruby lips he next attacks :-
She struggles ;--in a while she smacks,
Her snowy breast he then invades :
That yields too after some parades;
And of that fortress once poffeft,
He quickly masters all the rest.
No longer now a dupe to fame,
She smothers or refifts her flame,
But loves without or fear or shame.

So have I seen the Tory race
Long in the pouts for want of place,
Never in humour, never well,
Wishing for what they dar'd not tell ;
Their heads with country notions fraught,
Notions in town not worth a groat;
These tenets all reluctant quit,
And ftep by step at laft submit
To reason, eloquence, and Pitt.

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At first to Hanover a plum
Was fent-They say—“ A trivial sum,
“ But if he went one tittle further,
“ They vow'd and swore, they'd cry out murder."
Ere long a larger sum is wanted;
They pish'd and frown'd-but still they granted.
He puth'd for more and more again-
“ Well, money's better sent than men."
Here virtue made another stand
• No--not a man shall leave the land."
“ What ?-not one regiment to Embden ?”
They start ; but now they're fairly hemm'd in.
These soon, and many more are sent.-
They're filent--Silence gives consent.
Our troops, they now can plainly fee,
May Britain guard in Germany :
Hanoverians, Heflians, Pruflians,
Are paid t'oppose the French and Ruflians :
Nor scruple they with truth to say,
They're fighting for America.
No more they make a fiddle-faddle
About an Hessian horse or saddle ;
No more of Continental measures,
No more of wasting British treasures;
Ten millions, and a vote of credit
'Tis right he can't be wrong, who did it :
They're fairly fous'd o'er head and ears,
And cur'd of all their ruftic fears.

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So, loft to sense of shame and duty,
Doll came to town, to sell her beauty
Cælia, her friend, with heart-felt pain,
Had preach'd up virtue's lore in vain :
In vain the try'd each winning art;
For Doll had lewdness in her heart.
Thus bent to be a fordid whore,
She knock'd at Prostitution's door ;
Holles arose, and let her in,
And stroak'd her cheek, and chuck'd her chin ;
While far from whimpers, fobs, or weeping,
Doll curt'sy'd, and was soon in keeping:
Now in Hyde Park she flaunts by day,
At night she flutters at the play.
This keeper and a second died;
Now Doll is humbled in her pride.
At length she comes upon the town ;
First palms a guinea, then a crown ;
Nay, Slander says, that underhand
The forlorn wretch would walk the Strand;
"Till grown the scorn of man and woman,
A pot of beer would buy Doll Common.


Mean time, deep smit with honest flame,
Cælia espous’d a youth of-fame;
From the chaste bed fair issue sprung;
With peals of joy the country rung.
Again the matron pregnant grown,
Now hastens to lie in, in town,
There near the Park, Doll Common found her,
(Her little family around her),
Then Doll began-So, modeft miss!
Is all your prud'ry come to this?
Why, by your apron's round, I fee,
You're e'en a strumpet rank, like me :

Quite cur’d of all your ruftic fears,
“ And fairly sous'd o'er head and ears.".
Coy fimp'ring maids I find can fin:
For shame, your belly's at your chin :
In spite of all your virt’ous lore,
You're now become an arrant whore.

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Fair Cælia's cheek a blush o'erspread ;
And thus with calm disdain the said ;
That love possesses- me, 'tis true ;
Yet, heav'n be prais’d! I am not you :

My head's with country notions fraught,
“ Notions to you not worth a groat."
Aided by ev'ry virt'ous art,
A gen'rous youth has won my heart.


Yet never did I yield my charms,
Till honour led me to his arms.
My charms I never bafely sold;
I am no prostitute for gold;
On my own rents I liv'd before,
Nor has my William added more.
Wealth is our scorn ; our humble labours
Aim but to serve, or save our neighbours.
See-Heav'n has blest our chaste embrace ;
Behold this little smiling race,
The offspring of an honest bed ;-
Here, Senegal, hold up your head :
This tawny boy, his parents' boast,
Shall bring us gold from Afric's coast.
And mark these twins of Indian mien,
This Louisbourg, and that Du Quesne:
Their bold and honest looks presage
They'll be our comfort in old age.
And if the babe that swells my womb,
To a propitious birth shall come,
O'erjoy'd I'll bless the happy day,
And call our child America.

Thus Cælia fpake with modest grace,
But rage deform'd the harlot's face a
Her firey eyes began to roll,
A hag in look, a fiend in soul :

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