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The PUDDING.
FRom twelve years old, I oft have been told
A Pudding it was a delicate bit,
I can remember my Mother has said
what a delight she had to be fed
With a Pudding.
Thirteen being past, I long'd for to tast
What Nature or Art could make so sweet,
For many gay Lasses about my age
Perpetually speak on't, that puts me in a rage
For a Pudding.
Now at Fifteen I often have seen
Most Maids to admire it so,
That their humour and pride is to say
O what a delight they have for to play
With a Pudding.
When I am among some Wives that are young,
Who think they shall never give it due praise,
It is sweet, It is good, It is pleasant still
They cry, they think they shall ne'r have their fill
Of a Pudding.
The greater sort of the Town and the Court,
When met, their tongues being tip't with Wine,
How merry and Jocund their Tattles do run
To tell how they ended and how they begun
With a Pudding.
Some ancient Wives, who most of their lives
Have daily tasted of the like food,
Now for want of supplies do swear and grumble,
That still they'r able enough, to mumble
A Pudding.