Hark! I hear the Sound of Coaches!
The Hour of Attack approaches,
To your Arms, brave Boys, and load.
See the Ball I hold!
Let the Chymists toil like Asses,
Our Fire their Fire surpasses,
And turns all our Lead to Gold.
[The Gang, rang'd in the Front of the Stage, load their Pistols, and stick
them under their Girdles; then go off singing the first Part in Chorus.
Scene 3.
MACHEATH, DRAWER.
MACHEATH. What a Fool is a fond Wench! Polly is most confoundedly bit.--I
love the Sex. And a Man who loves Money, might as well be contented with
one Guinea, as I with one Woman. The Town perhaps have been as much obliged
to me, for recruiting it with free-hearted Ladies, as to any Recruiting
Officer in the Army. If it were not for us, and the other Gentlemen of the
Sword, Drury-Lane would be uninhabited.
Air XXI.--Would you have a young Virgin, &c.
If the Heart of a Man is deprest with Cares,
The Mist is dispell'd when a Woman appears;
Like the Notes of a Fiddle, she sweetly, sweetly
Raises the Spirits, and charms our Ears,
Roses and Lilies her Cheeks disclose,
But her ripe Lips are more sweet than those.
Press her,
Caress her,
With Blisses,
Her Kisses
Dissolve us in Pleasure, and soft Repose.
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