SAted with Love and Wine last Night,
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The Joys that yield us most Delight.
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I took my Leave, and stole to Bed,
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But Rose this Morn with Aching-Head.
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To ease my Pain, and take the Air,
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I did to Islington Repair;
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Where every Whore, and every Rogue,
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Meet at the Wells so much in Vogue:
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Resolving with myself to stay,
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And drive an Hour or two away.
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I entred in, and viewed the Place,
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With every squeamish Breeding Face,
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Of City Wives, who thither come,
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Whilst their poor Cuckolds wait at Home.
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Hoping the Springs may do them Good,
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To Purge their Veins, and clear their Blood.
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When they alas have no Design,
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Only to tipple off their Wine:
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And treat those Brawny Lads they Hire,
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To do the Drudgery they require.
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But walking on, I chanced to see
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A pretty piece of Comedy.
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A Spark in Gown and Slippers stood,
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Courting a Wench who'd newly Spew'd:
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Madam I Grieve, or I'me a Turk,
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To see the Waters upwards Work.
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And fear your Stomach is too Cold,
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Since Purging Streams you cannot hold.
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Take my Advice if you are ill,
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To enter in, and take a Gill
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Of cooling Nants, that may support
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The weakness of your Stomachs Fort:
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And Faith and Troth I'le Treat you freely,
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With that which I am sure will Heal ye.
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This offer was no sooner made,
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But being Mistris of her Trade,
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She soon accepts; when of a sudden
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She shook and Quak'd like any Pudden.
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The reason strait I could not tell,
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But soon perciev'd her Guts Rebell:
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And that which made her Spew before,
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Now through her Tail Work't three times more.
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With that she Curs't the fatal Hour,
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And trudg'd away to Secret Bower.
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In hopes when once she had done her Stool,
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Back to return and catch the Fool.
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But powerful Waters Work't so fast,
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She thought she should have Purg'd her Last.
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And e're she reach't the place design'd,
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As Cotton of his Dido feign'd,
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