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<h2> To Mrs MARY JONES, at Brambleton-hall. </h2>
<h3> O MARY JONES! MARY JONES! </h3>
<p>I have met with so many axidents, suprisals, and terrifications, that I am
in a pafeck fantigo, and I believe I shall never be my own self again.
Last week I was dragged out of a river like a drowned rat, and lost a
bran-new night-cap, with a sulfer stayhook, that cost me a good
half-a-crown, and an odd shoe of green gallow monkey; besides wetting my
cloaths and taring my smuck, and an ugly gash made in the back part of my
thy, by the stump of a tree—To be sure Mr Clinker tuck me out of the
cox; but he left me on my back in the water, to go to the 'squire; and I
mought have had a watry grave, if a millar had not brought me to the dry
land—But, O! what choppings and changes girl—The player man
that came after Miss Liddy, and frightened me with a beard at Bristol
Well, is now matthew-murphy'd into a fine young gentleman, son and hare of
'squire Dollison—We are all together in the same house, and all
parties have agreed to the match, and in a fortnite the surrymony will be
performed.</p>
<p>But this is not the only wedding we are to have—Mistriss is resolved
to have the same frolick, in the naam of God! Last Sunday in the parish
crutch, if my own ars may be trusted, the clerk called the banes of
marridge betwixt Opaniah Lashmeheygo, and Tapitha Brample, spinster; he
mought as well have called her inkle-weaver, for she never spun and hank
of yarn in her life—Young 'squire Dollison and Miss Liddy make the
second kipple; and there might have been a turd, but times are changed
with Mr Clinker—O Molly! what do'st think? Mr Clinker is found to be
a pye-blow of our own 'squire, and his rite naam is Mr Matthew Loyd (thof
God he nose how that can be); and he is now out of livery, and wares
ruffles—but I new him when he was out at elbows, and had not a rag
to kiver his pistereroes; so he need not hold his head so high—He is
for sartin very umble and compleasant, and purtests as how he has the same
regard as before; but that he is no longer his own master, and cannot
portend to marry without the 'squire's consent—He says he must wait
with patience, and trust to Providence, and such nonsense—But if so
be as how his regard be the same, why stand shilly shally? Why not strike
while the iron is hot, and speak to the 'squire without loss of time? What
subjection can the 'squire make to our coming together—Thof my
father wan't a gentleman, my mother was an honest woman—I didn't
come on the wrong side of the blanket, girl—My parents were marred
according to the right of holy mother crutch, in the face of men and
angles—Mark that, Mary Jones.</p>
<p>Mr Clinker (Loyd I would say) had best look to his tackle. There be other
chaps in the market, as the saying is—What would he say if I should
except the soot and sarvice of the young squire's valley? Mr Machappy is a
gentleman born, and has been abroad in the wars—He has a world of
buck larning, and speaks French, and Ditch, and Scotch, and all manner of
outlandish lingos; to be sure he's a little the worse for the ware, and is
much given to drink; but then he's good-tempered in his liquor, and a
prudent woman mought wind him about her finger—But I have no
thoughts of him, I'll assure you—I scorn for to do, or to say, or to
think any thing that mought give unbreech to Mr Loyd, without furder
occasion—But then I have such vapours, Molly I sit and cry by
myself, and take ass of etida, and smill to burnt fathers, and
kindal-snuffs; and I pray constantly for grease, that I may have a glimpse
of the new-light, to shew me the way through this wretched veil of tares.
And yet, I want for nothing in this family of love, where every sole is so
kind and so courteous, that wan would think they are so many saints in
haven. Dear Molly, I recommend myself to your prayers, being, with my
sarvice to Saul,</p>
<p>your ever loving, and discounselled friend, WIN. JENKINS Oct. 14.</p>
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