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Rh O, that I e'er might have the hap To get the bird!—within the map 'Tis called the Indian Ruck; I'd give it him, and look to be As great and wise as Luenie, Or else I had hard luck. Birds round his chamber stands; And he them feeds with his own hands— 'Tis his humility: And, if that they want anything, They may go whistle for their king; And he'll come presently. Besides all this he hath a jerk, Taught him by nature, for to work In iron with great ease: Sometimes into his forge he goes, And there he puffs and there he blows, And makes both locks and keys: Which puts a doubt in every one, Whether he were Mars' or Vulcan's son— Some few believes his mother; But yet, let all say what they will, I am resolved, and will think still, As much the one as the other. The people do mislike the youth, Alleging reasons for a truth, Mothers should honoured be; Yet some believes he loves her rather, As well as she did love his father— And that's notoriously. 'Tis charity, for to be known, Loves others' children as his own; Nor must you think it shame; Unless that he would greater be Than was his father Henry, Whose thoughts ne'er did the same.

confirm'd a woman can Love this, or that, or any other man! This day she's melting hot; To-morrow swears she knows you not;