The Quarrelsome Lovers:
Or, the succesless Woeing.
Being a most Pleasant Song by way of Dialogue between Robin and Susan.
Love grows inraged, denial and disdain
Makes passion rise which Love cannot restrain,
Sweet Venus combate here is layed aside,
And Sue resolves she uppermost will ride,
Robin no longer dare with her ingage,
But plies his Heels to bear him from her Rage.
To a pleasant New Tune called Old Tony, Or let Oliver now be forgotten.
|
Of late I did hear of a Woeing;
|
And Robin at first did d[e]clare:
|
Sweet Susan, pray let us be doing,
|
And thou of the Pleasure shalt share.
|
Says Susan, nay soft bonny Robin
|
although you would faine be a gobbing
|
Me to deceive,
|
Yet there's no bobbing
|
Untill the Parson first give you leave.
|
Sweet Susan I love thee most dearly
|
and thou my Affection shalt find,
|
Susan Stand off Sir, and come not so near me,
|
for fear that I beat your eyes blind,
|
you swear that you Love by Lord Harry,
|
but when do you mean for to marry
|
Me poor Sue,
|
If you can tarry,
|
I will not tarry much longer for you.
|
Robin.
|
Dear Susan thou know'st my affection,
|
and no one I'm sure that knows more,
|
Then keep me not thus in subjection
|
because my condition is poor
|
For want of both clothing and money
|
I cant enjoy thee my honey,
|
As 'tis thy due
|
In Matrimony,
|
Robin would surely else marry with Sue.
|
YOu say you want Money and Clothing,
|
to make me your wedded wife,
|
Yet you would get Bastards for nothing,
|
to cause to the Parish great strife.
|
But if that you dance by the middle,
|
good-faith you must pay for the Fiddle,
|
And Fidler too,
|
Then you'l not giggle,
|
Therefore be gone with you I'le not doe.
|
Robin.
|
Let all our past strife be forgotten,
|
and let us think on it no more,
|
But henceforth sweet Sue let us cotten,
|
for thou art the Lass I adore,
|
There's nothing shall ever divide us,
|
though Father and Mother both chide us
|
Come let us to't,
|
Though some deride us,
|
I'le learn thee how thy Mother did do't
|
Sue.
|
Do what, pray stand off, come not nigh me,
|
your flatteriy's quite out of Doores,
|
I scorn such a one shou'd lie by me,
|
go get you gone hence to your Wh----,
|
Although you so well can dissemble,
|
and a faithful Lover resemble,
|
It will not boot,
|
For by my Thimble,
|
I never will yield me unto't.
|
Robin.
|
Nay, rather than I'le lose my longing
|
I'le marry thee Sue, shall it be,
|
And then will sweet pleasures come thronging
|
whilst that you do dally with me,
|
We'l swim in an Ocean of pleasure,
|
we'l kiss and we'l clip without measure,
|
O then let's to't,
|
Come my dear treasure,
|
Ile show thee how thy Father did do't.
|
Sue.
|
Nay, soft I am now out of humour,
|
go Sheeps-head I am not a prise,
|
No, first I will wed the next comer,
|
and he by my fortune shall rise,
|
Had you in my Loves first beginning
|
been faithful, obliging, and winning,
|
Then past all doubt,
|
I had been willing,
|
But now you shall never come to't.
|
Robin.
|
A Pox on your ugly ill features,
|
think you on your face I do doat,
|
You stairing ill-favourdst of Creatures;
|
no, had you not Money to boot,
|
I ne'r would have prais'd your Complexion,
|
nor Breath that's as bad as Infection,
|
This is the fruit
|
Of my election,
|
When all was spent, I'd no more do't.
|
Sue.
|
Thou ill-gotten crab-headed fellow,
|
you hamper-brith'd splay-footed Knave,
|
Your looks are like half-melted Tallow
|
A Whipping-post you do deserve:
|
Your practise is only delusion,
|
to bring silly Maids to confusion,
|
And your best Friend
|
(In the Conclusion)
|
You will betray,
|
But Tyburns your
|
|
|
|
|
|