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Young harlots do like potters (illegible text)
At each turning up and down,
And when a cully does come by,
Their fare is half a crown;
Then ſtraight in a coach they muſt be put,
The ſhuffling blade and jilting ſlut,
Whilſt honeſt poor people must trudge it on foot.
Chorus. O poor Britain, prodigal Britain,
What will this world come to.
The pride of women now-a-days,
Was never in Eve our mother,
To ſee their hair, how they're rais'd
One ſtory above another;
Their necks are naked, and breaſts open wide;
Pack, patched, and painted, and hoop'd beſide,
I think the devil is in women for pride.
Chorus. O poor Britain, prodigal Britain
What will this world come to.
The downright man, who cannot cog,
No flatter his friend at all,
Nor fawn like to a ſpaniel dog,
Is often deſpiſed by all;
But he who has a fine tongue to comply,
Can compliment, flatter, diſſemble, and lie-
O this is an honeſt man, then they do cry.
Chorus. O poor Britain, prodigal Britain,
What will this world come to?
Some men will ſay the crow's not black,
Thus flatter before your face,
Yet cut your throat behind your back,
Nay that in a little ſpace;
Their ſmiles do quickly turn to a frown,
They do what they can to tumble you down,
Nay, ruin a neighbour for leſs than a crown.
Chorus O poor Britaia, prodigal Britain, etc.
