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My passion is as mustard strong;

I sit all sober sad,

Drunk as a piper all day long,

Or like a March hare mad.

Round as a hoop the bumpers flow;
I drink, yet can't forget her;
For, though as drunk as David's sow,
I love her still the better.

Pert as a pearmonger I'd be,
If Molly were but kind;
Cool as a cucumber could see
The rest of womankind.

Like a stuck pig I gaping stare,
And eye her o'er and o'er;
Lean as a rake with sighs and care,
Sleek as a mouse before.

Plump as a partridge was I known,
And soft as silk my skin;
My cheeks as fat as butter grown ;
But as a groat now thin!

I, melancholy as a cat,

Am kept awake to peep;
But she, insensible of that,
Sound as a top can sleep.

Hard is her heart as flint or stone;
She laughs to see me pale;
And merry as a grig is grown,
And brisk as bottled ale.

The God of Love, at her approach,

Is busy as a bee!

Hearts sound as any bell or roach
Are smit, and sigh like me.

Ah me! as thick as hops or hail,
The fine men crowd about her :
But soon as dead as a door-nail
Shall I be, if without her.

Straight as my leg her shape appears;
O were we join'd together!

My heart would be scotfree from cares,
And lighter than a feather.

As fine as fivepence is her mien
No drum was ever tighter;
Her glance is as the razor keen,
And not the sun is brighter.

As soft as pap her kisses are:
Methinks I taste them yet;
Brown as a berry is her hair,
Her eyes as black as jet.

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As smooth as glass, as white as curds,
Her pretty hand invites ;
Sharp as a needle are her words;
Her wit like pepper bites.

Brisk as a body-louse she trips,
Clean as a penny drest :

Sweet as a rose her breath and lips,
Round as the globe her breast.

Full as an egg was I with glee,
And happy as a king:

Good Lord! how all men envied met

She lov'd like any thing.

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But, false as Hell, she, like the wind, Chang'd as her sex must do; Though seeming as the turtle kind, And like the Gospel true.

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Being a new Ballad, showing how Mr. Jonathan Wild's Throat was cut from Ear to Ear, with a Penknife, by Mr. Blake, alias Blueskin, the bold Highwayman, as he stood at his Trial in the Old Bailey, 1725.



YE gallants of Newgate, whose fingers are nice
In diving in pockets, or cogging of dice;

Ye sharpers so rich, who can buy off the noose,
Ye honester poor rogues, who die in your shoes,
Attend and draw near,

Good news ye shall hear,

How Jonathan's throat was cut from ear to ear, How Blueskin's sharp penknife hath set you at ease, And ev'ry man round me may rob, if he please.


When to the Old Bailey this Blueskin was led,
He held up his hand; his indictment was read;
Loud rattled his chains: near him Jonathan stood;
For full forty pounds was the price of his blood.
Then, hopeless of life,

He drew his penknife,

And made a sad widow of Jonathan's wife.
But forty pounds paid her, her grief shall appease,
And ev'ry man round me may rob, if he please.

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Some say there are courtiers of highest renown,
Who steal the king's gold, and leave him but a crown:
Some say there are peers and parliament men,
Who meet once a year to rob courtiers again.
Let them all take their swing,

To pillage the king,

And get a blue riband instead of a string.
Now Blueskin's sharp penknife hath set you at ease,
And ev'ry man round me may rob, if he please.


Knaves, of old, to hide guilt by their cunning inventions,

Call'd briberies grants, and plain robberies pensions:
Physicians and lawyers (who take their degrees
To be learned rogues) call'd their pilfering fees.
Since this happy day

Now ev'ry man may

Rob (as safe as in office) upon the highway.
For Blueskin's sharp penknife hath set you at ease,
And every man round me may rob, if he please.


Some cheat in the Customs, some rob the Excise:
But he who robs both is esteemed most wise.
Churchwardens too prudent to hazard the halter,
As yet only venture to steal from the altar.
But now, to get gold,

They may be more bold,

And rob on the highway since Jonathan's cold: For Blueskin's sharp penknife hath set you at ease, And ev'ry man round me may rob, if he please.

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