A New BALLAD Of an Amorous Coachman, Who was so difficult in pleasing his Lovesick Fancy; that after his several Addresses to the Female Sex, he was at last Married: which made him cry out,  
Alas! my Humour is so hard to please,  
That I find Love, not Love, but a Disease;  
Yes a Disease that rages in my Heart,  
And wounds my Amorous Soul in every part:  
I love and loath and both within an hour,  
So soon my Loathing Loving does devour.  

This may be Printed, R. P.   

To the Tune of, There was a brisk Lass.  

 
 
 
 

I Went to the Fair to pick out a Wife,  
That might be a comfort to my sweet Life:  
On pretty black Nanny I cast a Sheep's eye,  
And told her for Love, I believed I should die;  
I kissed her a little and thought that her breath  
Had poisoned me so that I looked for Death,  
She ●●ink as she stood, like Carrion I'll swear  
So I found that I'd got the wrong Sow by the Eat.   

To Jenney they wished me, indeed she was fair  
But a pox on he Carrots, I liked not red hair,  
Her skin I did lov●, but her hair I did hate,  
I ne'er in my Life cou●d love Carrot-pate:  
She told me of combs ●●alter the hue  
But I'faith I thought the were like True blue;  
And therefore in hast I had 〈◊〉 adieu,  
And nimbly I tripped to wanton Sue.   

Kind Sue quoth I, I'm come to Woo,  
Love perches methinks upon thy brow,  
In troth cried she, if thou meanest to be mine  
A pair of good Horns shall perch on thine  
This nettled me so that I ran away,  
True words spoke in jest we often do say:  
With head and with heart both brimful of pain  
Away I did scamper to Mrs. Jane.   

She seemed very coy, it pleased me the more,  
I liked her much better than all before;  
In the Room was a bed to work we went  
And hardly ten minutes of time was spent,  
Before I perceived her jewel was lost,  
And thus my fond hopes and purpose were crossed:  
I thought it high-time, the Coachman was fled  
Perceiving the want of her Maiden head.    

The Second Part,  
to the same Tune.  

Then Mary and I walked cut to take Air,  
She had a fine skin and delicate hair,  
I thought myself blest by the Powers above,  
For troth I was smitten and much in Love:  
But she was cross and as peevish a Whore,  
As any old jade can be at threescore;  
She thwarted me still in whatever I said,  
And then I drove on to a nasty jade.   

Her name was Rebecca, in holiday Clothes  
She was smug, and far sweeter than Munday-Rose  
When they were locked up she-looked as black  
As the Mourning Suit on my Master's back;  
I fancy the Sow and Pigs she traced,  
For up to the knee her coat was laced,  
Her Smock was as black as the Hood she wdre,  
I bade her be gone for a nasty whore.   

To Deborah then in hast I ran,  
Her skin was as smooth as Feathers of Swan,  
I told her I loved her, and canted with Zeal  
And tried by Religion her Pulse to feel:  
But say what I would, she answered me nay,  
Thought I, I shall not be married to day:  
She sighed and she whined when I asked her to marry  
She often would cry, good Coachman tarry.   

Then I sneaked off, and to Dolly I went,  
In whom I expected to find content:  
But Dolly was damnable proud and high  
To the Coach-box before me, she needs would fly;  
I took up my Whip and I gave her a lick  
She said she abhorred me for that trick:  
And now the poor Coachman must lie all alone,  
For he's envied by some, and pitied by none.   

But stay, last of all his Fortunes to mend,  
To Dorcas the Coachman was wished by a Friend  
Who said she would make him amends for the loss  
Of all his old Sweethearts, for she was not cross;  
So the Coachman was married he thought to content,  
But he ever since does live to repent,  
His Wife had some faults, which I'll tell you in brief  
She was a Pick-pockit, a Whore & a Thief.      

Printed for P. Brooksby at the Golden Ball in Pie-corner.