Comes your Spaniard, proud in mind,
He'll have the first cut, or else none:
The meek Italian comes behind,
And your Frenchman picks the bone.
Still she trades with Dutch and Scot,
Irish, and the German tall,
Till she gets the thing you wot;
Then her end's an hospital.
A song to the tune of _The Spanish Pavin_[14].
When Virtue was a country maid,
And had no skill to set up trade,
She came up with a carrier's jade,
And lay at rack and manger.
She whiffed her pipe, she drunk her can,
The pot was ne'er out of her span;
She married a tobacco man,
A stranger, a stranger.
They set up shop in Honey Lane,
And thither flies did swarm amain,
Some from France, some from Spain,
Train'd in by scurvy panders.
At last this honey pot grew dry,
Then both were forced for to fly
To Flanders, to Flanders.
Another to the tune of _The Coranto_.
I peeped in at the Woolsack,
O, what a goodly sight did I
Behold at midnight chime!
The wenches were drinking of mulled sack;
Each youth on his knee, that then did want
A year and a half of his time.
They leaped and skipped,
They kissed and they clipped,
And yet it was counted no crime.
The grocer's chief servant brought sugar,
And out of his leather pocket he pulled,
And culled some pound and a half;
For which he was suffered to smack her
That was his sweetheart, and would not depart,
But turned and lick'd the calf.
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