The City Cheat discovered:
OR,
A New Coffe-house Song.
Perswading all civil and sober Men not to frequent the Coffe-houses so
much, whether in London, Wapping, Westminster, or Common-Garden.
Licensed according to Order, Tune of Lilli-bulero.
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THE Coffe-house Trade is the best in the Town;
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Young sparks that have money they thither repair:
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The Affairs of the Nation they have written down,
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To blow up their Noddles as light as the Air.
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Stories, Stories, Lies and Stories;
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There's nothing but Stories when they begin.
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Pox on your News Letters, they lye both and flatters;
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They are but a Trap to wheedle Men in.
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At Coffe house chat, I heard a Dear Joy,
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Protest that King James was lately made Pope.
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Who the Isle of Great Britain would quickly destroy,
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And hang all the Hereticks up in a Roap.
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Stories, Stories, impudent Stories,
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Such foolish Stories make my Brains full.
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In such sensless Stories a Jacobite glories,
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Tho' they all be but Tales of a Cock and a Bull.
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Fire-ships and Friggots, with Top masts and Sails,
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At Coffe-house-Bay they cast Anchor at Night;
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The Mistriss salutes them in nasty Night-rails,
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Come in hansome Women, I know you are right.
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Kissing, Kissing, nothing but Kissing;
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Kissing and Billing is all that they doe;
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There's Kissing and Wooing, and something els doing.
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And this is the Ruin of Jack and Tom too.
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Some honest House-keepers, that ne'er went astray,
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They go to the Coffe-house with good intent:
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But when they begin with sweet Madam to play,
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There's nothing their passion of Love can prevent.
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With painting and Patches, they make up the Matches;
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With kissing and whincing, and tickling her Womb.
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And then comes the tugging, the jugging, the bugging,
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Whilst the honest good Woman sits drooping at home.
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To Tavern or Ale-house no sober Men come,
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But all to the Coffe house now they most go.
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Yet Miss with her delicate Syder and Mum,
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Can pick all their Pockets before they well know.
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Yes Sir, pray Sir, do Sir, stay Sir;
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What ye call, that ye shall, welcome Sir.
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Tho after his billing, he has not a Shililng,
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Which when he comes home makes a horrible Stir.
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The Cook-wench that lately escaped the Cart,
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A Thorn-back Maid that lives by her Wits;
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She slily has learn'd the Coffe-house Art;
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And now, like a Madam, the Confidence sitts.
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Dear Miss, rare Miss, prithee Miss, fair Miss,
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That ne'er has been troubled with the Scurvey nor Itch,
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With a bumbling and fumbling, with tumbling & jumbling[,]
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With a roaring Gold-watch, that hangs at her Britch.
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My Dear and my Honey, pray lend me some money;
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And thus with her Charmes she bewitcheth the Fool.
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Sometimes she wants Rings, with other such things
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And makes the poor fellow as blind as an Owl.
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Wheedling, Wheedling, nothing but wheedling;
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Lying and wheedling all the Night o'er.
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But a Pox on her Placket, she pays off his Jacket,
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And makes him give Money for paying the Score.
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Then honest good Fellows go, when are you dry,
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And joyn for a Pottle, your two pence a piece;
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You'll have more Content at an Ale-house hard by,
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Then you'll have at the Sign of the Shepherd and Fleece.
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Roger, Roger, Richard and Roger,
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Drink off a Health to William our King.
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The Bastard King Lewis, that swears to undo us,
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He ne'er to Subjection this Nation shall bring.
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