If women could be faire and never fond,
or that their beautie might continue still:
I would not mervaile though they made men bond,
by service long, to purchase their good will.
But when I see, how frail these cretures are:
I laugh, that men forget themselves so far.

To marke what choise they make, and how they change,
how leving best the worst they chose out stil:
And how like haggards wilde, about they range,
Skorning after reason to follow will.
Who would not shake such bussards from the fist,
And let them flie (faire fooles) which way they list.

Yet for our sport, wee fawne and flatter both,
To passe the time, when nothing else can please:
And traine them on to yeeld by subtill oath,
The sweet content, that gives such humour ease.
And then wee say, when wee their follies trie,
To play with fooles, Oh what a foole was I.

I am a bold Coachman, and drive a good hack,
With a coat of five capes that quite covers my back;
And my wife keeps a sausage-shop, not many miles
From the narrowest alley in all Broad St Giles.

Though poor, we are honest and very content,
We pay as we go for meat, drink, and for rent;
To work all the week I am able and willing,
I never get drunk, and I waste not a shilling.

And while at a tavern my gentleman tarries,
The coachman grows richer than he whom he carries;
And I’d rather (said I), since it saves me from sin,
Be the driver without, than the toper within.

Yet though dram-shops I hate, and the dram-drinking friend,
I’m not quite so good but I wish I may mend;
I repent of my sins, since we all are depraved,
For a coachman, I hold, has a soul to be saved.

When a riotous multitude fills up a street,
And the greater part know not, boys, wherefore they meet;
If I see there is mischief, I never go there,
Let others get tipsy so I get my fare.

Now to church, if I take some good lady to pray,
It grieves me full sore to be kept quite away;
So I step within side, though the sermon’s begun,
For a slice of the service is better than none.

Then my glasses are whole, and my coach is so neat,
I am always the first to be called in the street;
And I’m known by the name (’tis a name rather rare)
Of the coachman that never asks more than his fare.

Though my beasts should be dull, yet I don’t use them ill;
Though they stumble I swear not, nor cut them up hill;
For I firmly believe there’s no charm in an oath
That can make a nag trot, when to walk he is loath.

And though I’m a coachman, I’ll freely confess,
I beg of my Maker my labours to bless;
I praise Him each morning, and pray every night,
And ’tis this makes my heart feel so cheerful and light.

When I drive to a funeral I care not for drink;
That is not the moment to guzzle, but think;
And I wish I could add both of coachman and master,
That both of us strove to amend a bit faster.