〈…〉, ● new way of Wooing.  
A merry conceited Youngman being in company with a Proud, Scornful, Jeering Lass at St. Alban's, he taking notice of her person and Carriage, presently Composes this paper of Verses, as he thought suitable to her deserts; his way lying to London, threw the song into a Stationer's shop, as soon as he found them, gets it printed for profit, and sends them through England for pleasure; when the Young man returned back, he presented a Ballad to his Mistress and departed.  
Though London Girls have many Rhymes and Catches,  
Yet often times they do meet with their matches.  
To the Tune of the Zealous Lover, or, A Fig for France, etc.  
 
 

AS through St. Albone● I did pass  
I Herd a scornful C●ckney Lass  
From London thither came to dwell;  
For pride she others did excel,  
She often u●●● to ●o●k and ●éer  
Some Young men of Northamptonshire,  
Till at the last an honest lad,  
Did ●eer this wench and made her mad.   

Quoth he, I'm but a simple Youth  
Yet I delight to speak the truth;  
Observe my Language seriously  
It's clearly void of slattery,  
●nd that you ● say is very strange,  
When Lovers Compliments do change,  
●or some young me● praise their sweet hearts  
●uch higher than their true deserts▪   

Then give me leave and i'll prepare  
My foolish fancy to declare▪  
And set ●orth thy imperfect parts  
That never gained young men's hearts;  
I ne'er saw Phoenix in my days,  
Therefore thy beauty i'll not praise  
Then prithee bened so co● to me  
For I am not so fond of thee.   

Thy scurvy scornful rolling Eyes  
Of my heart ne'er shall make a prize,  
Thy béetle Brows and tallow face  
Makes young men run from thee a ●ace;  
Thy ha●e is like my Sorrels mane  
The words I speak are very plain,  
Or rather like unto Jane Shore,  
Which makes me think thou'lt be a whore▪   
 

WHen thou dost smile I think thy lips  
Look like a basket full of Chips,  
Thou canst not smile as Maidens do  
When Young men come in Love to woo,  
Thy voice is shrill, thy speeches bold  
Shows thou wilt be an ugly scold,  
Then prithee bened so co● to me  
For I am not so fond of thee.   

Thy looks at first 〈…〉  
I could hate thro' on 〈…〉 fire,  
My heart without was i sta●'d  
It vexed me wh●●● heard thee named,  
No happiness 〈…〉 ●ée  
Whilst I was in thy company,  
No Lov● to thee can be allowed  
Thou always art so devilish proud,   

I will not promise much content  
To thee although thou dost consent;  
If thou yield to be my sweet heart,  
I'll make thee go to Blow and Cart,  
And i'll whip Laurence quite away  
W●●k's be●te▪ for thy health than play,  
Then prithee bened so coy to me.  
For I am not so fond of thee.   

The Ladies that in Court do dwell  
gallant Clothes shall thee excel,  
They wear rich Satins fine and ●rave,  
And Linsey-Wolsey thou shalt have;  
No music thou art like to hear  
But in the Spring time of the year;  
●●tter speak ●●u●h without a Lie  
Than promise much and falsify,   

Whilst Lovers walk on pleasant plains  
〈◊〉 my Love through dirty Lanes,  
●● hedches, ditches, mires and bogs  
●hear the Music of the Frogs.  
Sometimes we'll tumble on the grass,  
That's pleasure for a London Lass;  
What sayest thou canst thou fancy me▪  
Speak or avoid my company.   

If thou wilt yield to be my Wife,  
I'll buy m● Girl a penny Knife,  
I'll travel Europe ere I have done  
In find my Love a Whistle spoon  
A Baby o●some costly Knack,  
That thou mayst keep it for my sake  
If thou dost slight me in this case  
I'll dash m● shoes about thy face.   

If that thou wilt not yield to me  
I'll set my Little Dog on thee▪  
A Dog with Ladies much in fame  
And little Cupid is his name;  
If Cupid at thee bark and bite,  
he'll make thee Love me day and night,  
But if thou canst not fancy me,  
I ne'er shall die for Love of thee   

In our Country there's gallant Girls  
That's worth their weight in gold and pearls  
Because they're Virtuous Chaste and fair,  
〈…〉 London can 〈…〉  
With them, when they are right in tune  
Their cheeks are like the Rose in june▪  
O such a Lass what ere betid  
I'll choose to be my loving bride.   

Fare well thou scornful Drab quoth he,  
Thou never shalt entangle me  
Pluck off thy patches and the Paint  
For thou art but a seeming Saint,  
Remember Pride will have a fall,  
I speak to scornful Damsels all,  
If I have done thee any wrong  
Speak now or ever hold thy tongue,    

London Printed for I. Clark. at the Bible and Harp in West Smithfield  
Finis