Ballad—in England Against Italy

Why is the devil in you, Or are you such a ninny To believe of you she'll ever think, persuade her all you can No, no, whate'er believe you, Your hopes will all deceive you, For a girl of sense will yield to—not a monkey but a man.

Zounds can that hat and feather, Or the coxcomb altogether, A 'squire of silk, and mandrake—a mere flash in the pan His pretty self admiring, Be ought but hate inspiring, When a woman always yields to—not a monkey, but a man.

Then give this folly over, Nor longer play the lover, For I plainly tell you 'tis a mighty silly plan; Or, spight of all your vapouring, I'll so finely spoil yonr capering, You shall own this arm belongs to—not a monkey, but a man.