A New ballad of an amorous coachman, who was so difficult in pleasing his love-sick fancy; that after his several addresses to the female sex, he was at last married: which made him cry out, Alass! my humour is so hard to please, that I find love, not love, but a disease ... : To the tune of, There was a brisk lass.
Printed for P. Brooksby at the Golden Ball in Pye-corner.,
|Series:||Early English books online.
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