Or, The Cambridge Courtship
When sly Jemmy Twitcher had smugged up his face,
With a lick of court white-wash, and pious grimace,
A wooing he went, where three sisters of old
In harmless society guttle and scold.
“Lord! sister,” says Physic to Law, “I declare,
Such a sheep-biting look, such a pick-pocket air!
Not I for the Indies!—You know I’m no prude—
But his nose is a shame—and his eyes are so lewd!
Then he shambles and straddles so oddly—I fear—
No—at our time of life ’twould be silly, my dear.”
“I don’t know,” says Law, “but methinks for his look,
’Tis just like the picture in Rochester’s book;
Then his character, Phyzzy —his morals—his life—
When she died, I can’t tell—but he once had a wife.
They say he’s no Christian, loves drinking and whoring,
And all the town rings of his swearing and roaring!
And filching and lying, and Newgate-bird tricks;—
Not I—for a coronet, chariot and six.”
Divinity heard, between waking and dozing,
Her sisters denying, and Jemmy proposing;
From table she rose, and with bumper in hand,
She stroked up her belly, and stroked down her band—
“What a pother is here about wenching and roaring!
Why, David loved catches, and Solomon whoring;
Did not Israel filch from the Egyptians of old
Their jewels of silver and jewels of gold?
The prophet of Bethel, we read, told a lie;
He drinks—so did Noah;—he swears—so do I;
To reject him for such peccadillos, were odd;
Besides, he repents—for he talks about God—
To Jemmy:—
Never hang down your head, your poor penitent elf,
Come buss me—I’ll be Mrs. Twitcher myself.
Damn ye both for a couple of Puritan bitches!
He’s Christian enough that repents and that stitches.”