The Works of Mr. Robert Gould In Two Volumes. Consisting of those Poems [and] Satyrs Which were formerly Printed, and Corrected since by the Author; As also of the many more which He Design'd for the Press. Publish'd from his Own Original Copies [by Robert Gould] |
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The HARLOT:
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 | The Works of Mr. Robert Gould |  |
The HARLOT:
A Paraphrase on the 7th of Proverbs.
Young Man, let what I speak Attention draw,
Observe it as you wou'd Heav'n's strictest Law;
Hear my Commands, and rivet to thy Heart
My Precepts fast, that they may never part:
Do this, You'll quickly find the good Effect,
But swift Destruction follows the Neglect.
Observe it as you wou'd Heav'n's strictest Law;
Hear my Commands, and rivet to thy Heart
My Precepts fast, that they may never part:
Do this, You'll quickly find the good Effect,
But swift Destruction follows the Neglect.
To Wisdom say—Thou my fair Sister art,
My Hope, my Guide, and Goddess of my Heart,
Dearer than Life! with Life I'd sooner part!
And Chastity thy near Relation call;
Get these (O happy Youth!) and thou hast all:
No better Gift can Bounte'ous Heav'n bestow,
No safer Guard from Human Ills below.
Envy may Hiss, but she can do no harm;
She flies, or dies before the Pow'rful Charm.
Particularly, it will keep thee free
From the loose Strumpet's speci'ous Flattery
Whose Words, like Oil on Rivers, glide along,
Her Words, more tuneful than the Sirens Song;
The Charming Accent fixes all around,
Ev'n Vertue, tho' it quit th'Enchanted Ground,
Seems yet to move reluctant from the Sound.
Fly, as 'twere Death, the Inhospitable Coast,
But once incline to hear her, and y'are lost;
All Human Aid will then arrive too late;
Lost to Remorse, and hurry'd to your Fate:
While on her Wanton Breast your Head you lay,
For one Thought that advises—Rise; Away!
You'll have ten Thousand pressing you to stay—
But let the Wretch's Fate which here is shown
Incline you to be careful of your own.
My Hope, my Guide, and Goddess of my Heart,
Dearer than Life! with Life I'd sooner part!
413
Get these (O happy Youth!) and thou hast all:
No better Gift can Bounte'ous Heav'n bestow,
No safer Guard from Human Ills below.
Envy may Hiss, but she can do no harm;
She flies, or dies before the Pow'rful Charm.
Particularly, it will keep thee free
From the loose Strumpet's speci'ous Flattery
Whose Words, like Oil on Rivers, glide along,
Her Words, more tuneful than the Sirens Song;
The Charming Accent fixes all around,
Ev'n Vertue, tho' it quit th'Enchanted Ground,
Seems yet to move reluctant from the Sound.
Fly, as 'twere Death, the Inhospitable Coast,
But once incline to hear her, and y'are lost;
All Human Aid will then arrive too late;
Lost to Remorse, and hurry'd to your Fate:
While on her Wanton Breast your Head you lay,
For one Thought that advises—Rise; Away!
You'll have ten Thousand pressing you to stay—
But let the Wretch's Fate which here is shown
Incline you to be careful of your own.
Just in the Close and shutting up of Day
When the last Gleams were hurrying swift away,
The Harlot's Hour her subtle Trains to lay;
As in my Window I stood leaning out,
Thoughtless of Ill, and gazing round about,
Among the Youthful Train a Wretch I spy'd,
That neither wou'd his Guilt or Folly hide;
What shou'd have been his Shame he made his Pride.
For to his Drabs Apartment he was bent;
His glowing Cheeks discover'd his Intent:
Pleas'd with the Thought he scarcely touch'd the Ground,
But like a Mountain Roe, did leap and bound.
But Lo! she met him, coming forth to see
For some kind Friend of her Fraternity;
For any Fop had serv'd as well as he.
Th'Experienc'd Harlot that wou'd gain by Sin,
Must trapes as well without, as Trade within,
In ev'ry Street, and ev'ry Corner ply,
To angle Coxcombs as the Shoal goes by:
As soon as e'er the Bait appears in sight,
There's scarce a Gudgeon passes but does bite.
Have you e'er seen (what Time the Seasons yield
Such kind of Sports) a Spaniel range the Field,
And mark'd what Pains he takes to set his Game?
Th'Industrious City Drab is just the same.
Thus strait the Youth she spies, and round him cast
Her Snowy Arms, she press'd, she held him fast;
And with an eager and a close Embrace
Laid Cheek to Cheek, and squeez'd him to her Face.
Bare were her Breasts, and Careless her Attire,
Learn'd in the Art how to inflame Desire,
And kindle what was found too apt to take the Fire;
Harlot thro'out; she not a Gesture made
But writ her Punk, and perfect in her Trade—
But after some fond Looks and Dalliance past,
Thus the fair Faithless tun'd her Tongue at last.
When the last Gleams were hurrying swift away,
The Harlot's Hour her subtle Trains to lay;
As in my Window I stood leaning out,
Thoughtless of Ill, and gazing round about,
Among the Youthful Train a Wretch I spy'd,
That neither wou'd his Guilt or Folly hide;
What shou'd have been his Shame he made his Pride.
For to his Drabs Apartment he was bent;
His glowing Cheeks discover'd his Intent:
Pleas'd with the Thought he scarcely touch'd the Ground,
But like a Mountain Roe, did leap and bound.
414
For some kind Friend of her Fraternity;
For any Fop had serv'd as well as he.
Th'Experienc'd Harlot that wou'd gain by Sin,
Must trapes as well without, as Trade within,
In ev'ry Street, and ev'ry Corner ply,
To angle Coxcombs as the Shoal goes by:
As soon as e'er the Bait appears in sight,
There's scarce a Gudgeon passes but does bite.
Have you e'er seen (what Time the Seasons yield
Such kind of Sports) a Spaniel range the Field,
And mark'd what Pains he takes to set his Game?
Th'Industrious City Drab is just the same.
Thus strait the Youth she spies, and round him cast
Her Snowy Arms, she press'd, she held him fast;
And with an eager and a close Embrace
Laid Cheek to Cheek, and squeez'd him to her Face.
Bare were her Breasts, and Careless her Attire,
Learn'd in the Art how to inflame Desire,
And kindle what was found too apt to take the Fire;
Harlot thro'out; she not a Gesture made
But writ her Punk, and perfect in her Trade—
But after some fond Looks and Dalliance past,
Thus the fair Faithless tun'd her Tongue at last.
'Tis Peace (said she) 'tis Peace and Love I bring,
This Day I've paid my Vows, and made my Offering,
And therefore came I forth; with thee to meet,
Thus late, and thus alone, I rove the Street.
The Dangers of the Night affright not me,
At least they vanish at the Sight of thee.
Without thee what a tedious Night I'd past!
And who knows, too, but it had prov'd my last?
Depriv'd of thee must have strange Tortures wrought,
And plung'd me deep in Melancholy Thought.
But I have found thee; long I've wisht it so;
And it shall longer be before I let thee go.
I've deck't (my Love) I've deck't my Bed with Flow'rs,
Not sweeter were the Gods delicious Bow'rs:
With costly Tap'stry I have hung my Room,
Not richer ever stretch't the Tyrian Loom:
There Venus is in all her Postures wrought,
And how Love's Pleasure she with hazard sought,
Surprizing to the Eye! transporting to the Thought!
Perfum'd with richest Scents, such as Inspire
Gay Loves! and melting Joy! and soft Desire!
Come then, away, and take of Love our fill;
In Passion such as ours there is no Ill.
Let Aged Matrons rail, and Gown-men Preach,
They are too wise to practise what they Teach.
Away, and let me plung into thy Arms,
Find you the Love and I'll create the Charms.
Come till the Morning let us Sport and Play,
Nor rise the sooner for it's being Day.
Nor let the Thought of Husband pall your Joy,
He's now far distant on a grand Employ;
Cash he has took long Charges to defray,
And will not come till his appointed Day;
And (O ye Gods!) I wish he never may!
My Right in Him I'd willingly resign;
Millions of his Embraces are but One of thine.
But ah! the Hours have Wings—away! away!
Let not the precious Time be lost when Love and Pleasure stay.
This Day I've paid my Vows, and made my Offering,
And therefore came I forth; with thee to meet,
Thus late, and thus alone, I rove the Street.
The Dangers of the Night affright not me,
At least they vanish at the Sight of thee.
Without thee what a tedious Night I'd past!
And who knows, too, but it had prov'd my last?
Depriv'd of thee must have strange Tortures wrought,
And plung'd me deep in Melancholy Thought.
415
And it shall longer be before I let thee go.
I've deck't (my Love) I've deck't my Bed with Flow'rs,
Not sweeter were the Gods delicious Bow'rs:
With costly Tap'stry I have hung my Room,
Not richer ever stretch't the Tyrian Loom:
There Venus is in all her Postures wrought,
And how Love's Pleasure she with hazard sought,
Surprizing to the Eye! transporting to the Thought!
Perfum'd with richest Scents, such as Inspire
Gay Loves! and melting Joy! and soft Desire!
Come then, away, and take of Love our fill;
In Passion such as ours there is no Ill.
Let Aged Matrons rail, and Gown-men Preach,
They are too wise to practise what they Teach.
Away, and let me plung into thy Arms,
Find you the Love and I'll create the Charms.
Come till the Morning let us Sport and Play,
Nor rise the sooner for it's being Day.
Nor let the Thought of Husband pall your Joy,
He's now far distant on a grand Employ;
Cash he has took long Charges to defray,
And will not come till his appointed Day;
And (O ye Gods!) I wish he never may!
My Right in Him I'd willingly resign;
Millions of his Embraces are but One of thine.
But ah! the Hours have Wings—away! away!
Let not the precious Time be lost when Love and Pleasure stay.
With her fair Speech She forc'd him soon to yield,
But Force is needless when we quit the Field:
Too credulous, her Flatt'ery he believ'd,
Nor was he the first Fool she had deceiv'd.
She turns, he follows; nor his Joy conceals;
Or sees Destruction dog him at the Heels.
As Oxen to the Slaughter (wretched State!)
So on he Walks, unmindful of his Fate;
Or as a Vagrant to Correction goes,
To lasting Scorn he does his Fame expose:
So the wing'd Racers, to their safety blind,
Haste to the Snare and meet the Death design'd.
In vain, at last, he sees the Ills h'has done,
His Life is going, and his Wealth is gone.
Disease o'ertakes him, makes his Health a Prey,
Meagre and Wan he looks that once was Gay;
His Winter, his December comes in May,
Too late his Lustful Hours are Understood,
He feels her hot Embraces in his tainted Blood.
With Aches crampt and strong Convulsions torn,
Pox, Stone and Gout, too Grievous to be born.
He lies and roars, (not Hell a Torment worse,)
Till his last Breath evaporates in a Curse.
But Force is needless when we quit the Field:
Too credulous, her Flatt'ery he believ'd,
Nor was he the first Fool she had deceiv'd.
She turns, he follows; nor his Joy conceals;
Or sees Destruction dog him at the Heels.
416
So on he Walks, unmindful of his Fate;
Or as a Vagrant to Correction goes,
To lasting Scorn he does his Fame expose:
So the wing'd Racers, to their safety blind,
Haste to the Snare and meet the Death design'd.
In vain, at last, he sees the Ills h'has done,
His Life is going, and his Wealth is gone.
Disease o'ertakes him, makes his Health a Prey,
Meagre and Wan he looks that once was Gay;
His Winter, his December comes in May,
Too late his Lustful Hours are Understood,
He feels her hot Embraces in his tainted Blood.
With Aches crampt and strong Convulsions torn,
Pox, Stone and Gout, too Grievous to be born.
He lies and roars, (not Hell a Torment worse,)
Till his last Breath evaporates in a Curse.
Hear me (O Youth!) and to my Words attend,
Dispise 'em not because I am a Friend,
But persevere, and Glory Crowns the End.
Let not thy Footsteps to her Paths decline,
She's all a Devil, tho' she seems Divine:
Strip her but of her Perfume, Patch and Paint,
And see how fit she's then to be a Saint;
Then mark her shrivel'd Face, and sallow Skin,
Rank all without, and Rotten all within.—
And yet such soft Delusions she'll display,
The Rich, the Noble, Witty, Wise and Gay,
The Great, the Strong have been by turns her Prey.
Warriours themselves have by her Arts been slain,
Have lain down by her, but ne'er rose again.
Her House is the wide-gaping Gulph of Sin,
From whence there's no Return whence once y'are in:
Down to the Courts of deepest Hell it goes;
O don't thy safety to this Rock expose,
'Tis but a Kiss you gain, and 'tis a Soul you lose.
Dispise 'em not because I am a Friend,
But persevere, and Glory Crowns the End.
Let not thy Footsteps to her Paths decline,
She's all a Devil, tho' she seems Divine:
Strip her but of her Perfume, Patch and Paint,
And see how fit she's then to be a Saint;
Then mark her shrivel'd Face, and sallow Skin,
Rank all without, and Rotten all within.—
And yet such soft Delusions she'll display,
The Rich, the Noble, Witty, Wise and Gay,
The Great, the Strong have been by turns her Prey.
Warriours themselves have by her Arts been slain,
Have lain down by her, but ne'er rose again.
Her House is the wide-gaping Gulph of Sin,
From whence there's no Return whence once y'are in:
Down to the Courts of deepest Hell it goes;
O don't thy safety to this Rock expose,
'Tis but a Kiss you gain, and 'tis a Soul you lose.
| The Works of Mr. Robert Gould | |