 Apples! Come buy my fine wares, plums, apples and pears, a hundred of penny, in conscience too many. Come, will you have any? My children are seven, I wish them in heaven. My husband's is sought with his pipe and his pot, not a far than will gain them, and I must maintain them. Onions! Come, follow me by the smell. Here are delicate onions to sell. I promise to use you well. They make the blood warmer, you'll feel like a farmer. Come, follow me by the smell. Here are delicate onions to sell. I promise to use you well. They make the blood warmer, you'll feel like a farmer. For this is every cook's opinion, no savory dish without an onion. But lest your kissing should be spoiled, your onions must be thoroughly boiled, or else you may spare your mistress a share. The secret will never be known. She cannot discover the breath of her lover, but think it as sweet as her own. Herrings Be not sparing, leave off swearing, buy my herring fresh from Malahide, better never was tried. Come, eat them with pure fresh butter and mustard, their bellies are soft and as white as a custard. Come, six pence a dozen, to give me some bread, or like my own herrings, I soon shall be dead. End of poem This recording is in the public domain. Market Women's Cries By Jonathan Swift Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Gachok Apples Come, buy my fine wares, plums, apples, and pears. A hundred of penny, in conscience too many. Come, will you have any? My children are seven, I wish them in heaven. My husband's a-sought with his pipe and his pot. Not a far then will gain them, and I must maintain them. Onions Come, follow me by the smell, here are delicate onions to sell. I promise to use you well. They make the blood warmer, you'll feed like a farmer. For this is every cook's opinion, no savory dish without an onion. But lest your kissing should be spoiled, your onions must be thoroughly boiled, or else you may spare your mistress a share. The secret will never be known. She cannot discover the breath of her lover, but think it as sweet as her own. Herrings Be not sparing, leave off swearing, buy my herring. Fresh from mellohide, better never was tried. Come eat them with pure fresh butter and mustard. Their bellies are soft, and as white as a custard. Come, sixpence a dozen, to get me some bread. Or, like my own herrings, I soon shall be dead. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Market Woman's Christ by Jonathan Swift, read for Librebox.org by Chad Horner from Liverpool. Apples Come, buy my fine-wares, plums, apples and pears. A hundred a penny, in conscience too many. Come, will you have any? My children are seven, I wish them in heaven. My husbands are sought, with his pipe on his pot. Not far them will gain them, and I must maintain them. Onions Come, follow me by the smell. Here are delicate onions to sell. I promise to use you well. They make the blood warmer, you'll feed like a farmer. For this is every cook's opinion. No savory dish without an onion. But lest your kissing should be spoiled, your onions must be thoroughly boiled, or else you may spare your mistress a share. This secret will never be known. She cannot discover the breath of her lover, but think it as sweet as her own. Herrings Be not sparing, leave off swearing. Buy my herring, fresh from malheight. Better never was tried. Come, eat them with pure fresh butter and mustard. Their bellies are soft, and as white as a custard. Come, six pence a dozen, to get me some bread. Or, like my own herrings, I soon shall be dead. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Market Women's Cries Apples Come, buy my fine wares, plums, apples, and pears. A hundred a penny. In conscience, too many. Come, will you have any? My children are seven. I wish them in heaven. My husband's assort, with his pipe and his pot. Not a farthing will gain them, and I must maintain them. Onions Come, follow me by the smell. Here are delicate onions to sell. I promise to use you well. They make the blood warmer. You'll feed like a farmer. For this is every cook's opinion. No savory dish without an onion. But, lest your kissing should be spoiled, your onions must be thoroughly boiled. Or else you may spare your mistress a share. The secret will never be known. She cannot discover the breath of her lover, but think it's as sweet as her own. Herrings Be not sparing. Leave off swearing. Buy my herring fresh from Malahide. Better never was tried. Come, eat them with pure fresh butter and mustard. Their bellies are soft and as white as a custard. Come, six pence a dozen, to get me some bread. Or, like my own herrings, I shall soon be dead. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Market Women's Cries by Jonathan Swift. Read for LibriVox.org by Eva Davis. Apples Come, buy my fine wares. Plums, apples and pears. A hundred a penny in conscience too many. Come, will you have any? My children are southern. I wish them in heaven. My husbands are sought with his pipe in his pot. Not a father will gain them, and I must maintain them. Onions Come, follow me by the smell. Hear our delicate onions to sell. I promise to use you well. They make the blood warmer. You'll feed like a farmer, for this is every cook's opinion. No savory dish without an onion. But lest your kissing should be spoiled, your onions must be thoroughly boiled. Or else you may spare your mistress a share. The secret will never be known. She cannot discover the breath of her lover, but think it's as sweet as her own. Hairings Be not sparing, leave off swearing. Buy my herring fresh from Malahide. Better never was tried. Come eat them with pure fresh butter and mustard. The bellies are soft and white as a custard. Come, sixpence a dozen to get me some bread. Or like my own herrings, I soon shall be dead. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Market Woman's Cries by Jonathan Swift. Read for LibriVox.org by Frank Duncan. Apples Come by my fine wares. Plums, apples, and pears. A hundred, a penny. In conscience, too many. Come, will you have any? My children are seven. I wish them in heaven. My husband's a sought. With his pipe and his pot. Not a father will gain them. And I must maintain them. Onions Come. Follow me by the smell. Here are delicate onions to sell. I promise to use you well. They make the blood warmer. You'll feed like a farmer. For this is every cook's opinion. No savory dish without an onion. But lest your kissing should be spoiled, your onions must be thoroughly boiled, or else you may spare your mistress a share. The secret will never be known. She cannot discover the breath of her lover. But think it as sweet as her own. Herrings Be not sparing. Leave off swearing. Buy my herring. Fresh from mollahide. Better never was tried. Come, eat them with pure fresh butter and mustard. Their bellies are soft, and as white as a custard. Come, six pence a dozen, to get me some bread. Or, like my own herrings, I soon shall be dead. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Market Women's Cries by Jonathan Swift Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Scott Cheltenham, England. GrahamScottAudio.com Apples Come, buy my fine wares, plums, apples, and pears. A hundred a penny, in conscience, too many. Come, will you have any? My children are seven. I wish them in heaven. My husband's a-sot with his pipe and his pot. Not a father will gain them, and I must maintain them. Onions Come, follow me by the smell. Here are delicate onions to sell. I promise to use you well. They make the blood warmer. You'll feed like a farmer. For this is every cook's opinion. No savory dish without an onion. But, lest your kissing should be spoiled, your onions must be thoroughly boiled. Or else you may spare your mistress a share. The secret will never be known. She cannot discover the breath of her lover, but think it as sweet as her own. Herrings Be not sparing, leave off swearing. Buy my herring fresh from malahide, better never was tried. Come, eat them with pure fresh butter and mustard, their bellies are soft and as white as a custard. Come, sixpence a dozen to get me some bread, or, like my own herrings, I soon shall be dead. End of poem This recording is in the public domain. Market Women's Cries by Jonathan Swift redfallybrox.org by Ian King Apples Come buy my fine wares, plums, apples and pears, a hundred a penny, in conscience too many. Come, will you have any? My children are seven, I wish them in heaven. My husband's assart, with his pipe and his part. Not a father will gain them, and I must maintain them. Onions Come, follow me by the smell. Here, a delicate onion to sell. I promise to use you well. They make the blood warmer. You'll feed like a farmer. This is every cook's opinion. No savoury dish without an onion. But, lest your kissing should be spoiled, your onions must be thoroughly boiled. Or else you may spare your mistress a share. The secret will never be known. She cannot discover the breath of her lover, but think it as sweet as her own. Herrings Be not sparing. Leave off swearing. Buy my herring. Fresh from Malahide. Better never was tried. Come, eat them with pure fresh butter and mustard. Their bellies are soft, and as white as a custard. Come, sixpence a dozen, to get me some bread. Or, like my own herrings, I soon shall be dead. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Market Women's Crise by Jonathan Swift Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson Apples Come buy my fine wares. Plums, apples and pears. A hundred a penny. In conscience, too many. Come, will you have any? My children are seven. I wish them in heaven. My husband's a-sot with his pipe in his pot. Not a farthing will gain them. And I must maintain them. Onions Come, follow me by the smell. Here are delicate onions to sell. I promise to use you well. They make the blood warmer. You'll feed like a farmer. For this is every cook's opinion. No savoury dish without an onion. But lest your kissing should be spoiled, your onions must be thoroughly boiled. Or else you may spare your mistress a share. The secret will never be known. She cannot discover the breath of her lover. But think it is as sweet as her own. Herrings Be not sparing. Leave off swearing. Buy my herring. Fresh femalohide. Better never was tried. Come, eat them with pure fresh butter and mustard. Their bellies are soft and as white as a custard. Come, six pence a dozen, to get me some bread. Or like my own herrings, I soon shall be dead. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Market Women's Cries by Jonathan Swift. Read for LibriVox.org by Sierra. Apples Come buy my fine wares, plums, apples, and pears. A hundred a penny. In conscience too many. Come, will you have any? My children are seven. I wish them in heaven. My husband's a sought with his pipe and his pot. Not a farthing will gain them. And I must maintain them. Onions Come follow me by the smell. Here are delicate onions to sell. I promise to use you well. They make the blood warmer. You'll feed like a farmer. For this is every cook's opinion. No savory dish without an onion. But lest your kissing should be spoiled, your onions must be thoroughly boiled. Or else you may spare your mistress a share. The secret will never be known. She cannot discover the breath of her lover. But think it as sweet as her own. Herrings Be not sparing. Leave off swearing. Buy my herring fresh from Malahide. Better never was tried. Come eat them with pure fresh butter and mustard. Their bellies are soft and as white as a custard. Come, six pence a dozen to get me some bread. Or, like my own herrings, I soon shall be dead. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Market Women's Cries By Jonathan Swift Read for Liberbox.org By Thomas Peter Apples Come by my fine wares. Plums, apples and pears. A hundred apeni. In conscience to many. Come, will you have any? My children are seven. I wish them in heaven. My husband's a sought with his pipe and his pot. Not a farthing will gain them. And I must maintain them. Onions Come, follow me by the smell. Here are delicate onions to sell. I promise to use you well. They make the blood warmer. You'll feed like a farmer. For this is every cook's opinion. No savory dish without an onion. But lest your kissing should be spoiled, your onions must be thoroughly boiled. Or else you may spare your mistress's share. The secret will never be known. She cannot discover the breath of her lover, but think it as sweet as her own. Herrings Be not sparing. Leave off swearing. Buy my herring fresh from Malahide. Better never was tried. Come, eat them with pure fresh butter and mustard. Their bellies are soft and as white as a custard. Come, sixpence a dozen, to get me some bread. Or, like my own herrings, I soon shall be dead. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.