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

I melancholy as a cat

Am kept awake to weep;
But fhe, infenfible of that,
Sound as top can fleep.

Hard is her heart as Aint or ftone;
She laughs to fee me pale,
And merry as a grig is grown,
And brifk as bottled ale.

The God of love at her approach
Is bufy as a bee!

Hearts found as any bell or roach
Are fmit, and figh like me.

Ay me! as thick hops or hail,

The fine men crowd about her:

But foon as dead as a door-nail
Shall I be, if without her.

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

My heart would be fcot-free from cares,
And lighter than a feather.

As

As fine as five-pence is her mien;
No drum was ever tighter;
Her glance is as the razor keen,
And not the fun is brighter.

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

As fmooth as glafs, 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 fhe trips,
Clean as a penny drest;
Sweet as a rofe 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 envy'd me!
She lov'd like any thing.

But falfe as hell, fhe, like the wind,
Chang'd, as her sex must do;
Though feeming as the turtle kind,
And like the gospel true.

If I and Molly could agree,

Let who would take Peru!
Great as an emp'ror fhould I be,
And richer than a few.

Till you grow tender as a chick,
I'm dull as any post:

Let us like burs together stick,
And warm as any toast.

You'll know me truer than a dye,
And wish me better sped,
Flat as a flounder when I lie,
And as a herring dead.

Sure as a gun, she'll drop a tear,
And figh perhaps, and wish,
When I am rotten as a pear,
And mute as any fish.

Being a new ballad, fhewing how Mr. Jonathan Wild's throat was cut from ear to ear with a penknife by Mr. Blake, alias Bluefkin, the bold highwayman, as he flood at his trial in the Old-Baily, 1725.

To the Tune of the Cut-purse.

I.

YE gallants of Newgate, whose fingers

are nice

In diving in pockets, or cogging of dice; Ye fharpers fo rich, who can buy off the noose, Ye honefter poor rogues, who die in your shoes, Attend and draw near,

Good news ye fhall hear,

How Jonathan's throat was cut from ear to

ear,

How Bluefkin's fharp penknife hath set you at ease, Andev'ry man round me may rob, if he please.

II.

When to the Old-Baily this Bluefkin was led, He held up his hand; his indictment was read; Loud rattled his chains; near him Jonathan ftood;

For full forty pounds was the price of his blood.

Then, hopeless of life,

He drew his penknife,

And made a fad widow of Jonathan's wife. But forty pounds paid her her grief fhall appeafe;

And ev'ry manround me may rob, if he please.

III.

Some fay there are courtiers of higheft renown, Who fteal the king's gold, and leave him but a crown:

Some fay there are peers, and fome parlia

ment-men,

Who meet once a year to rob courtiers agen. Let them all take their swing

To pillage the king,

And get a blue ribbon, instead of a string. Now Bluefkin's fharp penknife hath set you at ease;

And ev'ry man round me may rob, if he please.

IV.

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

Call'd briberies grants, and plain robberies penfions:

Physicians and lawyers (who take their degrees Tobe learned rogues)call'd their pilfering fees.