Pills to purge melancholy

Pills to Purge Melancholy?

I suppose so. I get caught in ruts, but this collection of lewd songs and low ballads from the 18th century has snapped me out of it somewhat, although it seems to fit my posting themes of late. You see, I’m avoiding this discussion of the worth of lyrics. Lots of thoughts on the subject, but they just won’t congeal. Language theory has twisted my mind. So, while pedophilia is fresh on the pile, here’s a song (no, it’s not a poem!) from that album:

Would ye have a young Virgin of fifteen Years,
You must tickle her Fancy with sweets and dears,
Ever toying, and playing, and sweetly, sweetly,
Sing a Love Sonnet, and charm her Ears:
Wittily, prettily talk her down,
Chase her, and praise her, if fair or brown,
Sooth her, and smooth her,
And teaze her, and please her,
And touch but her Smicket, and all’s your own.

Do ye fancy a Widow well known in a Man?
With a front of Assurance come boldly on,
Let her rest not an Hour, but briskly, briskly,
Put her in mind how her Time steals on;
Rattle and prattle although she frown,
Rowse her, and towse her from Morn to Noon,
Shew her some Hour y’are able to grapple,
Then get but her Writings, and all’s your own.

Do ye fancy a Punk of a Humour free,
That’s kept by a Fumbler of Quality,
You must rail at her Keeper, and tell her, tell her
Pleasure’s best Charm is Variety,
Swear her much fairer than all the Town,
Try her, and ply her when Cully’s gone,
Dog her, and jog her,
And meet her, and treat her,
And kiss with two Guinea’s, and all’s your own.

Getting laid is never far from the consciousness of popular song, even when you look back to the 18th century.