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Mofes begg'd to be gone, fayirg, fir, the rain's done;
Pleafe to rife, and I'll lend you my hand ; 'Tis hard, quoth the Vicar, to leave thus my liquor,
And go, when I'm lure I can't ftand.
At length, though fore troubled, to the church-yard he hobbled,
Lamenting the length of the way ; For, Mofes,' quoth he, were I Bimop d'ye fee,
I neither need walk, preach, nor pray.
When he came to the grave, fays he, Mofes, a Have;
Lord, where's my tobacco-box hid ? I proteft this faft walking prevents me from talking ;
So, Mofes, pray give me a quid.
Then he open'd the book, and therein feem'd to look,
Whilft o'er the page only he fquinted j Crying, Mofes, I'm vex'd, for 1 can't fee the text,
This book is fo damnably printed.
Woman of a man born no that's wrong the leaf's torn ;
Upon woman the natural fwell is ; Were men got with child the world wou'd run wild,
You and I, Mofes, might have big bellies.
Our giv s wou'd be prefPd hard were we got with baftard ;
How wonderful are our fuppofes ; What midwife could do it ? he'd be hardly put to it,
Lord biefs us, to lay me and Mofes.
So, Mofes, come forth, put the child into earth,
And duft to duft, dull it away ; For, Mofes, I truft, we fiiould foon turn to dull if we were not to moiilen our clay.
K 2 Mofes,
I
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