University of Virginia Library

Why, Jack, how now? I hear strange stories,
How Molly—what-d'ye-call't your whore is:
Hold,—blot that word;—rhyme forc'd it in,
Your dear kind mistress, Sir, I mean:
And people say, but whisper that,
That she, poor soul! is big with brat.
If this, as I believe, is true,
In what a cursed case are you!
You must the Child maintain and father,
Or hang, or marry, which you'd rather:
Confounded choices all, I vow:
But you ne'er dream'd of these till now.
These thoughts, alas! were ne'er in your head,
Th' unlucky feat was done hand o'er head:
Reason was then esteem'd a bastard,
True pleasure's foe, a fearful dastard,
And by stiff passion over-master'd.
But don't you think yourself an ass,
To vent your spleen upon a lass;
A silly unexperienc'd girl,
Who, you might swear, in time wou'd tell.
Besides you might, better than there,
Have spit your venom you know where;
And then no further harm had come on't;
Now you must reap the fruit of some on't.
O bitter fruit! to those that taste it;
You've cause to pray that heav'n may blast it,
And from the tree abortive cast it.
For shou'd the wicked embrion,
(As all ill weeds are apt) come on
The Lord have mercy on poor John!
Who'll then be cursedly surrounded
With noise and squall; and quite confounded
With highting, dancing, jumping, jowling,
And th' hateful noise of cradle rowling:
Now deaf'd with mammy's lullaby,
In consort with the peevish cry
Of squeaking, squalling, roaring brat,
Enough to make one tear one's hat.

Then (to say nothing of the shame
It brings unhappy dad and mam)
Your silver will be ever flying;
Something or other always buying:
Clouts, blankets, barrows, hippins, swaddles;
Fine painted gewgaws, corals, rattles,
Caps, aprons, bibs, white frocks, and mantling,
To cloath the little sh---n bantling.

On th' other side, when pregnant fœtus
Breaks from the womb with strong impetus,
And comes into this world of grief,
(O that it ne'er may come with life!)
There's such a hurry, such a pother!
Old wives and midwives one with th' other;
Such eating, drinking, and devouring;
Such washing, rinsing, scrubbing, scouring;
Such waiting, running, and attending,
Thy purse had need to have no ending.

But hold, I run on hand o'er head,
And quite forget poor Moll in bed.
Ah John! the new-made granny cries,
Behold my girl, with pitying eyes,
See, see, poor soul, how sick she lies!
How weak, how faint, and how decay'd;
Some strengthening cordials must be had;
Then item this, and that—and that;
And item—item—God knows what;
For mammy some, and some for brat.

And now look back again, and view
The mischiefs thou hast run into;
Led blindly on by sinful passion,
(God knows!) and small consideration!
See what a num'rous train of plagues
Attend upon the damn'd intrigues
Of that part of the female sex!
See, and beware their future wiles,
Fly, fly their false deluding smiles;
Shun 'em as basilisks, whose eyes
Dart wounds, and he that's wounded dies.
Fly their temptations, fly their charms,
Fly their damn'd deceitful arms.
Avoid them as the plague or pox,
Shun 'em as precipices, rocks;
Dire rocks! near which whoever came,
Was sure to split, and sink, and damn.