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THE PRIDEOF BRITAIN;
OR,
THE FOLLYOF ΜAΝ.
As ſweet ſlumber I was laid,
Poor Conſcience was making moan,
I ſaw ſweet Truth in rags array'd,
Dejected, and quite alone;
I tell you the aged as well as the youth,
They hated ard flighted poor Conſcience & Truth,
With diſſimulation there's thouſands will foeth.
chorus
O poor Britain, prodigal Britain,
What will this world come to?
Sweet Truth immediately reply'd,
The nation mayy well complain,
For the heart of man is fill'd with pride,
And malice doth ruls and reign;
Ah, Conſcience! I ſee thou art now grown poor,
Thou art naked, deſpiſed, and turn'd out of door,
The world was never ſo wicked before.
Chorus. O poor Britain, prodigal Britain,
What will this world come to?
Some men do rave, and rant, and roar,
then term it a merry life,
They oftentimes ſend for a whore,
And ruin an honeſt wife,
Each draggle tail drab do cuddie and kiſs,
And term her the height of perfection and bliſs,
And every ſop now muſt have his miſs.
Chorus. O poor Britain, prodical Britain,
When will this work come to?
