The Crafty MISS of London:
Or, The FRYAR well Fitted.
|
To the Tune of, O fine Popery.
|
A Fryar was walking in Exeter-street,
|
Drest up in his Garb like a Gentleman neat,
|
He there with a wanton young Lady did meet,
|
And freely did offer, and earnestly proffer,
|
to give her a Bottle of Wine.
|
Love, let us not stand to Discourse in the Cold,
|
My amorous Jewel, I prithee behold,
|
Then straight he pull'd out a whole handful of Gold,
|
And said, my dear honey, here's plenty of Money,
|
I'll give thee a Guinny or two.
|
The glittering Guinnies soon dazel'd her eyes,
|
That privately straight she began to devise
|
By what means she might get this rich Golden prize,
|
Two is but a trifle, his pockets I'll rifle,
|
I vow to have all now or none.
|
She seemingly Bashful, disputing did stand,
|
And said, I dare not to the Tavern with Man;
|
But this was to bring him more eagerly on,
|
So that the Old Fryar, did burn with desire,
|
and she to his humour did yield.
|
Away to the Tavern they went in all haste,
|
A Glass of Canary resolving to taste,
|
And there the Old Fryar he freely Embrac'd
|
This Lady of pleasure, she aimd at his Treasure,
|
which constantly run in her mind.
|
The Drawer supply'd them with Liquor good store,
|
And when all was out, still they called for more,
|
Her Amorous Charms he did dearly adore,
|
And as they sat drinking, she paid it with thinking,
|
how she might his Guinnies obtain.
|
The Fryar to Court her he thus did begin,
|
Sweet Madam step out of these Robes you are in,
|
That I may behold thy white delicate skin,
|
The which will inflame me, sweet creature don't blame me,
|
I'll give you three Guinnies the more.
|
This Lady of pleasure she thus did reply,
|
That Civil Request, Sir, I will not deny,
|
If that you'll strip Naked now as well as I,
|
To which he consented, both being contented,
|
they scamper'd a while round the Room.
|
While naked they danc'd at this Frolicksome rate,
|
His Wigg did flye off, and she see his bald Pate,
|
I have an Old Fryar, thought she, for my Mate,
|
I think I will fit him if that I can get him
|
to change his Apparel with me.
|
Then straight with a Smile to the Fryar she goes,
|
And said, worthy Sir, here's one thing I propose,
|
Let us in this Frolick now change our Cloaths.
|
He grants her desire, they change their Attire,
|
she like a Town-Bully appear'd.
|
The Fryar immediately sets himself down,
|
He puts on her Smicket, her Top-knot and Gown,
|
And look'd like a Hog-ridden Bawd of the Town,
|
In Ribbons and Laces, but she had her Paces,
|
and fitted the Fryar at last.
|
His Cloaths, with his Watch and his Guinnies, she got
|
Then made an excuse to go down to the Vault,
|
Yet ne'r came again, but left him all the Shot
|
To pay without Money, his Amorous honey,
|
did [le]ave the Old Rogue in the Lurch.
|
He found she had left him the Dog for to hold,
|
Then calling the Drawer his Grief to unfold,
|
He had not a penny of Silver nor Gold,
|
Then counting his Losses, his Beads and his Crosses,
|
he ne'r was so [?]im'd before.
|
The Drawer he told him the Shot must be pay'd,
|
The Fryar stood quaking, but little he said;
|
They stript off the Gown in which he was Array'd,
|
His Ribbons and Laces, he made sower Faces,
|
to see his most desperate Doom.
|
They found that he was of the Jesuit breed,
|
And one that had been a great Rascal indeed;
|
Now therefore they sent him to Newgate with speed;
|
A woful Disaster, he says Pater-Noster,
|
but has neither Money nor Cloaths.
|
|
FINIS.
|
|
|
|