The Cracks Garland: Furnished with Three Excellent New Songs.  
Song I. The weeping Harlot; or, The wanton Misses Lamentation for the loss of their Cullies and Bountyful Benefactors, who dare not come as formerly, for fear of the private Press.  
Song II. The Female Auction; or, A Curious Collection of Town Cracks, to be Sold by Inch of Candle, at Peticoat-Castle, near the Sign of the Furbelo Lady, in Dildo-street.  
III. The weeping Virgin; or, The forsaken Lover's mournful Tragedy.  
Licenced according to Order.  
Printed for E. Brooksby, at the Golden-Ball in Pie-corner.   

The Cracks Garland, etc.  

SONG I. The weeping Harlot; or, The wanton Misses Lamentation for the loss of their Cullies and Bountiful Benifactors, etc. Tune of Cellidon.  

BUxom Kate, who used to wait  
on Gallants of the Town,  
At Balls and Plays, in former Days,  
and kiss for Half a Crown;  
Now she cries, with weeping Eyes,  
the Times are hard, few will regard  
A handsome Crack, tho' on her back  
rich Plumes are still displayed,  
To speak the Truth, our wanton Youth  
does seem to be afraid,  
For Night and Day, they're Pressed away,  
which spoils the Harlot's Trade.   

When a Spark comes in the Dark,  
his Wanton to embrace,  
Painted and Dressed, among the rest,  
in Furbelo's or Lace;  
At the Sale of Beer or Ale,  
with Brandy, Wine, choice Liquors fine,  
The Gallants treat where  they meet,  
where wanton Games are played,  
While they possess their Happiness,  
a private Search is made,  
He's Pressed away, he cannot stay,  
this spoils the Harlot's Trade.   

Oh! said Joan, it is well known,  
that what thou sayest is true,  
I had a Friend that used to spend  
on me a Crown or two;  
When he came, 'twas Will by Name,  
but he was Pressed amongst the rest;  
From my soft Arms, and tempting Charms,  
he was as fine a Blade  
As ever kissed; his Love is missed,  
in Rags I'm now arrayed;  
Sweet Sister dear, these things I fear  
will clearly spoil our Trade.   

I have not one Shilling got  
this five long days and more,  
Nor have I had a jolly Lad  
once stepped within my Door;  
This is hard, will none regard  
our piteous Moan, quoth Buxom Joan,  
'Tis very strange, the Times must change,  
or we shall be dismayed;  
The Press by Night, does so affright  
those that with us have played,  
They do not dare to come I'll swear,  
wherefore it spoils our Trade.   

Now and then some aged Men,  
with Locks as white as Snow,  
Comes for a touch, it is not much,  
perhaps a Kiss, or so;  
That is all, when e'er they call,  
whose sneaking Price is but a Scise;  
That will not do, quoth Kate and Sue,  
give us the brawny Blade,  
That's brave and bold, well lined with Gold,  
and gaudy Plums displayed;  
But while the Press is more or less,  
we can expect no Trade.   

It is a shame the good old Game  
of Kiss, and you know what,  
Should suffer so, by which you know  
we Crowns and Pounds have got;  
Guinea's bright for Love's delight,  
kindhearted Men would give us then,  
Sweet Sister Sue, you know 'tis true,  
besides rich Banquet made;  
With them we'd Dine, drink racey Wine  
and was in Silks arrayed,  
But now alas! it's come to pass,  
that Pressing spoils our Trade.    

SONG II. The Female Auction; or, A Curious Collection of Town Cracks, to be Sold by Inch of Candle, at Peticoat-Castle, near the Sign of the Furbelo Lady, in Dildo-street. Tune of The Cries of London.  

YOU young Sparks of London Town,  
Who would have a Crack in a Furbelo Gown,  
Dressed up in black Patches and Powdered Hair,  
With all expedition I'd have you repair,  
To Petticoat Castle,  
For there is a Parsel  
Of Ladies that rustle  
In Satins and Silks to be sold.   

Now the Times are grown so bad,  
That there is no work in the least to be had,  
Wherhfore the Bawds round the City of late,  
Will sell off their Cracks at a very low Rate,  
There's all sorts and sizes,  
Of changeable Prices,  
The Witty and Nizies,  
Come now and you may have your Choice.   

When you come, see what you lack,  
There's Beauty, there's Tawny, there's Yellow and Black,  
There's young hopping Nancy, and allow faced Nell,  
Who lived at the Sign of the Dildo and Bell,  
There's squinting Dolly,  
With crump shouldered Molly,  
And Kate brisk and jolly,  
You may pick and cull which you please.   

Now if Money be short with you,  
Take notice Gallant what you may do,  
There's young beautiful Misses of value,  
The which you may freely take up on the Tally,  
Joan, Kate and Winny,  
Doll, Sue and Jenny,  
They'll sell for a Guinea,  
And take it by so much a Week.   

The Old Madams sells off their Stocks  
Of Misses, dressed up in their fine Holland Smocks,  
If ready Money you can but lay down,  
The best may be bought at the Price of a Crown,  
And some at a Shilling,  
For Kissing and Billing,  
I know they are willing,  
To take any Money that comes.   

If the Reason you fain would know,  
Why they are willing to part with 'em so,  
I'll tell you the Trade it is grown such a Drug,  
A Man scarce will give now a Groat and a Mug,  
Though Joys he is reaping,  
And with her lies sleeping,  
Cracks are not worth keeping,  
They bring in no Profit at all.   

If good Pennyworths you mean to buy,  
Then come away Gallants, I tell you for why,  
There's beautiful Sisters and simpering Cousins,  
Dressed up in rich Garments, and sent in by Dozen,  
From all Parts and Places,  
With fair painted Faces,  
Just fit for Embraces,  
The like of which never was known.   

There is Danger in long delay,  
Wherefore to this Auction come Gallants away,  
And see for your Love now, and buy for your Money,  
Here's Cracks with soft Kisses that's sweeter than Honey;  
Likewise full of Metal,  
They'll please to a tittle,  
The Price is but little,  
Buy all, and we'll give you the rest.    

SONG III. The weeping Virgin; or, The forsaken Lover's mournful Tragedy. Tune of Cold and Temperate.  

WHen Flora with her sweet Perfumes,  
Her pleasant Smiles, and painted Plumes,  
Had decked the Groves and Meadows fair,  
I wandered forth to take the Air,  
Where by a flowing Rivers side,  
A weeping Damsel I espied.   

The Lamentation which she made,  
Was full of Grief, for thus she said,  
Farewell all hope of Happiness,  
I am not able to express  
The Sorrows which I undergo,  
True Love will prove my Overthrow.   

The fatal Stroke of Cupid's Dart,  
Has touched my youthful yielding Heart,  
And made so deep a Wound therein,  
That I may wish I ne'er had been;  
But all those Wishes are in vain,  
I do and must my Grief sustain.   

Here to the World I'll show in brief,  
The Cause of all my kill Grief,  
Is by a most unworthy Knight,  
Who called me once his Heart's delight,  
And now has left me in Despair,  
My Grief is more than I can bear.   

When first he did my Charms behold,  
What pleasant pretty Tales he told,  
Protesting that he loved me more  
Than any he had seen before;  
Alas! alas! I being young,  
Believed his false deluding Tongue.   

No sooner did I give consent  
To Love, but straight from me he went,  
And took a youthful Lady Gay,  
Now when I on the Wedding-Day,  
Beheld him with his Charming Bride,  
Indeed I thought I should have died.   

I sighed and trembled every Limb,  
With Tears I turned away from him.  
Being resolved for to rove  
●nto some solitary Grove,  
Where I might end my days in Grief,  
My Sorrows being past relief.   

This is to them a Joyful day,  
In Mirth they pass their Time away,  
Feasting on rich delicious Cheer,  
While I alone lie weeping hear,  
A poor forsaken harmless Maid,  
Whose Heart by him was soon betrayed.   

He might have taken her at first,  
And then I own, it had been just,  
But since he soothed and flattered me,  
Time after Time to that degree,  
As he has done, I must declare,  
He is the Cause of my despair.   

These words she had no sooner spoke,  
But with a sharp and fatal stroke,  
The Thread of Life she cut in twain,  
I ran to save her, but in vain,  
It did her sad destruction prove,  
She lived to die, and died for Love.     
FINIS.