The Bachelor's Ballad, Or' a Remedy against Love.  
Thou little Peevish God whom heretofore,  
The Blinder World, so highly did adore;  
Borachia whom the loving Fools a Quiver found,  
Fows, Arrows, Wings; nay more, Power to wou●●  
Know, I defy thee, boy; not all thy art,  
Can reach my eye, much-less enslave my heart:  
If thou hast any, come and show thy skill,  
Feign would I love one hour against my will;  
Alas poor God men will no longer now,  
To thee, thy mother, or thy Minions bow;  
Your power & fame which has so long been gre●●  
Upon Examination proves a Cheat.  
To a Pleasant New Tune: Or, The Duke of Monmouth's Jig.  

With Allowance,  
By R. L'Estrang●   
 

NO more silly Cupid,  
will I pine and complain,  
What slave is so stupid,  
To suffer the plague,  
Of an amorous League,  
To be laughed at in vain?  
No more silly Cupid,  
I'll court a coy Mistress no more,  
He's a Sot and more blind,  
Who to one is confined,  
When there's hope for a score.   

When I meet with a beauty,  
that's love and kind,  
I'll pay her my duty,  
And when i've enjoyed her,  
O then i'll recruit me,  
With love and brisk wine.  
No more i'll adore her,  
When once I have got my desire,  
She then may refuse me,  
But cannot abuse me,  
For than I defy her.   

The amorous Cully,  
Whom love has undone,  
Protesteth as fully,  
To ev'ry complaint,  
That he makes to his Saint,  
As a mortified Nun.  
Alas for the Cully,  
How poor the reward of his Love is  
Then let him deceive her,  
And manfully leave her,  
Or else he's a novice.   

For why should a Bubble,  
Whom passion ensnares,  
Be put to the trouble,  
In spite of his senses,  
And other defences,  
To marry his cares.  
Yet who's such a bubble,  
If honey and sweetness you bring,  
But his reason and conscience,  
Will tell him 'tis nonsense,  
To play with the sting.   
 
 

They say when a Negre,  
Would Elephants win,  
To make 'em more eager,  
The female entices,  
With lustful devices,  
And wheadles 'em in.  
A Woman's a Negre,  
And works by the arts I have told ye,  
But were we advised,  
They'd all be despised,  
And quickly grow mouldy.   

For tho' they are wary,  
and stoutly defend,  
They love not to tarry,  
But 'cause 'tis the fashion,  
They'll stifle their passion,  
And yield in the end.  
For tho' they are wary,  
Yet try 'em a Seven-night or more,  
If still they deny,  
And refuse to comply,  
I'm the Son of a Whore.   

Persuade the young Ninnie,  
that boils in his blood,  
To part with a Guinny,  
His amorous rage,  
He may quickly assuage,  
And 'twill do him much good.  
For ask the young Ninny  
They heat of whose passion is over,  
If he tells you his mind,  
I'll be hanged if you find,  
Him so zealous a Lover.   

Unhappy the wretch is,  
that's yoked to a mate,  
His conscience he stretches,  
To tell you more Lies,  
Than old Argus had eyes,  
Of his blessed estate.  
Unhappy the wretch is,  
Be warned by another man's harm,  
For the Boys in the River,  
That chatter and shiver,  
Will tell you 'tis warm.   

A curse on those Noddies,  
Dull-rhiming complaints,  
Who cringing their bodies,  
In all their caresses,  
And tedious addresses,  
Turn Women to Saints.  
A curse on such Noddies,  
By whom we in general suffer,  
But before i'll be ruled,  
Any longer or fooled  
By a woman, i'll huff her.   

Then females adieu t'ye,  
Your reign's at an end,  
A fig for your beauty,  
Your painting and patches,  
In hopes of good matches,  
In vain you may spend:  
Adieu silly Females,  
Go find out new arts to delude,  
But if you expose 'em,  
I faith i'll disclose 'em,  
And so I conclude.    

Printed for Philip Brooksby, at the Golden-Ball in West-smith's-field.