 | Miscellanies in Prose and Verse |  |
498
The Soldier's Wedding.
A Soliloquy by Nan Thrasherwell, being part of a Play call'd The New Troop.
O My Dear Thrasherwell, you're gone to Sea,
And Happiness must ever banish'd be
From our Flock-bed, our Garret, and from me.
Perhaps he is on Land at Portsmouth now
In the Embraces of some Hamshire Sow,
Who with a wanton Pat, cries, Now, my Dear,
You're wishing for some Wapping Doxy here.
Pox on them all—But most on Bouncing Nan,
With whom the Torments of my Life began:
She is a Bitter one—You lye, you Rogue;
You are a treacherous, false, ungrateful Dog.
Did not I take you up without a Shirt?
Woe worth the Hand that scrub'd off all your Dirt!
Did not my Interest list you in the Guard?
And had not you Ten Shillings, my Reward?
Did I not then, before the Serjeant's face,
Treat Jack, Tom, Will, and Martin, with Disgrace?
And Thrasherwell before all others chuse,
When I had the whole Regiment to louse.
Curs'd be the Day when you produc'd your Sword,
The just Revenger of your injur'd Word:
The Martial Youth round in a Circle stood,
With envious Looks of Love, and itching Blood.
You with some Oaths that signify'd Consent
Cry'd Tom is Nan's, and o'er the Sword you went.
Then I with some more Modesty would step:
The Ensign thump'd my Bum, and made me leap.
I leap'd indeed, and you prevailing Men
Leave us no Power of leaping back agen.
And Happiness must ever banish'd be
From our Flock-bed, our Garret, and from me.
Perhaps he is on Land at Portsmouth now
In the Embraces of some Hamshire Sow,
Who with a wanton Pat, cries, Now, my Dear,
You're wishing for some Wapping Doxy here.
Pox on them all—But most on Bouncing Nan,
With whom the Torments of my Life began:
She is a Bitter one—You lye, you Rogue;
You are a treacherous, false, ungrateful Dog.
499
Woe worth the Hand that scrub'd off all your Dirt!
Did not my Interest list you in the Guard?
And had not you Ten Shillings, my Reward?
Did I not then, before the Serjeant's face,
Treat Jack, Tom, Will, and Martin, with Disgrace?
And Thrasherwell before all others chuse,
When I had the whole Regiment to louse.
Curs'd be the Day when you produc'd your Sword,
The just Revenger of your injur'd Word:
The Martial Youth round in a Circle stood,
With envious Looks of Love, and itching Blood.
You with some Oaths that signify'd Consent
Cry'd Tom is Nan's, and o'er the Sword you went.
500
The Ensign thump'd my Bum, and made me leap.
I leap'd indeed, and you prevailing Men
Leave us no Power of leaping back agen.
| Miscellanies in Prose and Verse | |