Of all the Belles that tread the Stage, <br />There's none like pretty Polly, <br />And all the Musick of the Age, <br />Except her Voice, is Folly; <br />The waining Nymphs of Drury--Lane <br />I now can bear no longer; <br />And when she's present, I disdain <br />My quondam Favourite Y---ger. <br /> <br />Compar'd with her, how flat appears <br />Cuzzoni or Faustina? <br />And when she sings, I shut my Ears <br />To warbling Senesino. <br />What though her Father is a Rogue, <br />Her Mother though a Whore is? <br />Those Vices now are high in Vogue, <br />And Virtue out of Door is. <br /> <br />Great Dames there are, who break their Vows <br />As oft as Madam Peachum, <br />And greater Robbers than her Spouse, <br />Though Tyburn cannot reach 'em. <br />What though Macheath too is as bad <br />As Father or as Mother, <br />And, blest with Polly, is so mad <br />To ramble to another? <br /> <br />Polly, I ween, is not the first, <br />Nor will she be the last, Sir, <br />Who in an Husband hath been curs'd, <br />And met the same Disaster. <br />How many Courtiers have we known, <br />Quite rotten ripe with Poxes, <br />Who, though they seldom wed but One, <br />Keep half a Dozen Doxies? <br /> <br />But Polly's not the worse a Pin, <br />Her Charms not less coelestial; <br />But, though to Rogues and Whores a--kin, <br />An Angel is terrestrial. <br />Some Prudes indeed, with envious Spight, <br />Would blast her Reputation, <br />And tell us that to Ribands bright <br />She yields, upon Occasion. <br /> <br />But these are all invented Lies, <br />And vile outlandish Scandal, <br />Which from Italian Clubs arise, <br />And Partizans of Handel. <br />Then let us toast the blooming Lass, <br />Whose Charms have thus ensnared me; <br />I'd drink it in a brimming Glass, <br />Though Parson<br /><br />Nicholas Amhurst<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-new-ballad/
