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Here was a rich man, and he lived in the city,

He had a handſome wife, & ſhe was witty,

She had the craftineſs to write a letter,

She lov'd her huſband, but a friend far better.

Huſband, ſaid ſhe, I am grown very ſickly,

Send for my Couſin, pray ſend for her quickly,

For ſhe's the only one can give me phyſic,

Can give me eaſe for my cough and phthiſic.

The letter ſhe ſent, and he over perus'd it,

Is not this a good offer, I'll not refuſe it,

I'll to ſome barber go, and be trimm'd moſt neatly,

Like to ſome young woman dreſt moſt completely.

When that ſhe came to her country Couſin's,

Kiſſes ſhe gave him fourteen to the dozen;

Huſband, ſays fhe, 'tis my country Couſin,

Pray uſe her well, ſhe's the beſt of a dozen.,

Couſin, ſays he. You are welcome and kindly,

Supper is ready, and all things done finely:

I have been miles to-day above a dozen,

Pray let me go to bed my loving Couſin.

This man dreamt a dream that he was horn'd,

Buck’s horns all round his head grievouſly ſwarmd,

He jumpt into the room without any dodgin,

And found her embrac'd in the arms of her Couſin.

He ſearch'd her all o'er, found he was a man, Sir,

And nothing he ſaid, and he made him no anſwer,

He turn'd her out of doors, ſhe and her Couſin,

And wasn't this a merry jeſt, the beſt of a dozen.