THE Innocent Country. Maid's Delight.  
OR, A Description of the Lives of the Lasses of LONDON.  
At London they the wanton play,  
as it is often seen,  
Whilst we do go, all of a Row,  
Unto the Meadows green.  
Set to an Excellent Country Dance.  

This may be Printed.  
R. P.   
 
 

SOme Lasses are nice and strange,  
That keep Shop in the Exchange,  
Sat pricking of Clouts,  
And giving of flouts,  
And seldom abroad do range:  
Then comes the Green Sickness,  
and changes their likeness,  
and all for want of Sale;  

But 'tis not so, with we that go,  
Through Frost and Snow, when Winds do blow,  
to carry the milking-Payl.    

Each Lass she will paint her Face,  
To seem with a comely grace,  
And powder their Hair,  
To make them look fair,  
That Gallants may them embrace:  
But every Morning,  
Before their adorning,  
they're far unfit for Sale;  

But 'tis not so, with we that go,  
Through Frost and Snow, when Winds do blow,  
to carry the milking-Payl.    
 
 

The more to appear in Pride,  
They often in Coaches ride,  
Dressed up in their Knots,  
Their jewels and Spots,  
And twenty Knick-Knacks beside:  
Their Gallants Embrace 'em,  
At length they Disgrace 'em,  
and then they weep and wail;  

But 'tis not so, with we that go,  
Through Frost and Snow, when Winds do blow,  
to carry the milking-Payl.    

There's nothing they prise above,  
The delicate Charms of Love,  
They Kiss and ●hey Court,  
They're right for the Sport,  
No way like the Turtle-Dove:  
For they are for any,  
Not one, but a many,  
at length they spoil their Sale;  

But 'tis not so, etc.    

They feed upon Dainties fine,  
Their Liquor is curious Wine,  
If any will lend,  
They'll borrow and spend,  
And this is a perfect sign  
That they are for pleasure,  
Whilst wasting their Treasure,  
and then they may to jail;  

But 'tso, etc.    

They sit at their Windows all day,  
Dressed up like your Ladies gay,  
They prattle and talk,  
But seldom they walk,  
Their Work is no more than play:  
They living so easy,  
Their Stomaches are squesie,  
they know not what they ail;  

But 'tis not so, etc.    

When e'er they have been too free,  
And happen with Child to be,  
The Doctor be sure,  
Is sent for to Cure,  
This two-legged Tympany:  
And thus the Physician,  
Must hid their Condition,  
for fear they spoil th●ir Sale.  

But 'tis not so, etc.    

There's Margery, Ciss and Prue,  
Right Country Girls and true,  
Nay Bridget and Joan,  
Full well it is known,  
They'll dabble it in the Dew:  
They trip it together,  
And fear not the Wether,  
although both Rain and Hail:  

Full well you know, away we go,  
Through Frost and Snow, when Winds do blow,  
to carry the milking-Payl.     

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