Page:Spaewife, or, universal fortune teller.pdf/18



’Tis not your fortune, wit or birth, Can the day of death defer; You’ll soon return to parent earth, And mix your lovely dust with her.

Bad luck to a woman, good to a man, And it happens so often through life; Let the man who draws this, deny if he can, That he quickly shall bury his wife.

Though such I pity your sad fate, Yet does my pity come too late, To ward off fortune’s rubs? Though you the queen of hearts should prove A surly brute shall gain your love, The very knave of clubs.

Whatever you presume to say, The world will take a different way, Ere well your words transpire; Ask you, good sir, the reason why, You’ll know my answer is no lie, No one believes a liar.

Ah ! madam, too well you love kissing, I find, My reasons I scarcely need tell you; For while you draw this by a fortune so kiudkind [sic], Your looks altogether belie you.

And here comes the hero that’s got a bashed hat, Lord, sir, you your blushes may spare, For the world well knows what you have been at, You’ve been out all night on the beer.