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 You gods that sees a future state, Some other beasts may have their fate; May the gods transform me to fish, That I might swim in a jug of this.

Was I cast on some distant shore, Where do the foaming billows roar, For my desire would be in this, To a lovely lass and a jug of this.

Yet was I sick both pale and wan, And scarcely able for to stand, All my own cure could be in this, A lovely lass and a jug of this.

When I am dead and laid in my grave, No corse-like-tomb-stone let me have: Give me my desire and crown my wish, Drink o'er my grave head of this.



Cupid for ever, I defy thy both quiver: Neither do I regard thy long bow, Nor arrow shall prick me, Nor woman outwit me, I am free from all sorrow and woe.

If Jenny had been loyal I had ne'er stood the trial, Of any girl but her in life, I oftentimes told her, Which made her the bolder, ’Twas on purpose to make her my wife.