Volume 5 — The Suburbs is a fine place: To the Tune of London is a fine Town.
Reading edition
[Listen]
THE Suburbs is a fine Place belonging to the City, It has no Government at all, alack the more the Pity; A Wife, a silly Animal, esteemed in that same Place, For there a Civil Woman’s now asham’d to shew her Face: The Misses there have each Man’s Time, his Money, nay, his Heart, Then all in all, both great and small, and all in ev’ry Part. Which Part it is a thorough-fair so open and so large, One well might sail through ev’ry Tail even in a western Barge; These Cracks that Coach it now, when first they came to Town, Did turn up Tail for a Pot of Ale in Linsey Wolsey Gown. The Bullies first debauch’d ’em, in Baudy Covent-Garden, That filthy place, where ne’er a Wench was ever worth a Farthing; And when their Maiden-heads are sold to sneaking Lords, Which Lords are Clapt at least nine-fold for taking of their Words. And then my Lord, that many tries, she looks so Innocent, Believing he Infected her, he makes a Settlement; These are your Cracks, who skill’d in all kind of Debauches, Do daily piss, spue and whore in their own glass Coaches. Now Miss turn Night-walker, till Lord-Mayor’s Men she meets, O’er Night she’s Drunk, next Day she’s finely flogged thro’ London streets; After their Rooms of State are chang’d to Bulks or Coblers Stalls, ’Till Poverty and Pox agree they dying in Hospitals. This Suburbs gallant Fop that takes delight in Roaring, He spends his time in Huffing, Swearing, Drinking, and in Whoring; And if an honest Man and his Wife meet them in the Dark, Makes nothing to run the Husband through to get the name of Spark. But when the Constable appears, the Gallant, let me tell ye, His Heart denies his Breeches, and sinks into his Belly; These are the silly Rogues that think it fine and witty, To laugh and joak at Aldermen, the Rulers of the City. They’d kiss our Wives, but hold, for all their plotting Pates, While they would get us Children, we are getting their Estates; And still in vain they Court pretending in their Cares, That their Estates may thus descend unto the Lawful Heirs. Their Play-houses I hate, are Shops to set off Wenches, Where Fop and Miss, like Dog and Bitch, do couple under Benches; That I might advise the chiefest Play-house monger, I have a Sister of my own both Handsomer and Younger. She lives not far off in the Parish of St. Clements, She never liv’d in Cellar nor sold Oranges and Lemons: Then why should Play-house Trulls with Paint and such Temptations, Be an Eye sore to me & more to the best part o’th’ Nation. Now you that all this while have listened to my Dity, With streightened Hands pray drink a Health unto this noble City: And let us pray to Jove, these Suburb folks to mend, And having now no more to say, I think it fit to end.
