The Court of Cupid By the Author of the Meretriciad [i.e. Edward Thompson]. Containing the Eighth Edition of the Meretriciad, with great Additions. In Two Volumes |
 | I, II. |
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| I. |
| II. | PART II. |
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 | The Court of Cupid |  |
1
II. PART II.
Under how hard a fate are Women born,
Prais'd to their ruin or expos'd to scorn.
If they want Beauty, they of love despair,
And are besieged like frontier Towns if fair.
Prais'd to their ruin or expos'd to scorn.
If they want Beauty, they of love despair,
And are besieged like frontier Towns if fair.
Have you not seen an awkward Country Clown,
Grin at the Wax-work, and the signs in Town?
With Sister Mall, a buxom rosy lass,
Who came forsooth to see the Queen's fine Ass:
Or gape an hour, at finding out the Black
At Temple-Bar, that grins, and winds a Jack:
Or at a Monkey, Lord, Lord, John behold!
What wonderous things these people make for gold:
Next See St Paul's, Guildhall, the Bridge, and Tower,
And wait till Gog and Magog dine at four:
The Meuse, Tall Woman, Palace, Charing Cross,
And the Life-guards-man stuck upon his horse:
But last the Abbey, where a gabling Cull,
Relates what air puffs in his empty skull;
He praises ev'ry Bust, and ev'ry grave,
As Milton learned, and as Marlborough brave;
Thus gold to every Blockhead rears a bust,
Where Fame should crown, the Wise, the Brave, and Just.
Grin at the Wax-work, and the signs in Town?
With Sister Mall, a buxom rosy lass,
Who came forsooth to see the Queen's fine Ass:
Or gape an hour, at finding out the Black
At Temple-Bar, that grins, and winds a Jack:
2
What wonderous things these people make for gold:
Next See St Paul's, Guildhall, the Bridge, and Tower,
And wait till Gog and Magog dine at four:
The Meuse, Tall Woman, Palace, Charing Cross,
And the Life-guards-man stuck upon his horse:
But last the Abbey, where a gabling Cull,
Relates what air puffs in his empty skull;
He praises ev'ry Bust, and ev'ry grave,
As Milton learned, and as Marlborough brave;
Thus gold to every Blockhead rears a bust,
Where Fame should crown, the Wise, the Brave, and Just.
Thus fill'd with wonder to their farm repair,
Make Father, Mother, and the Children stare,
How that they saw the King, nay heard him speak,
And wou'd have din'd wi'em but 'twas washing week;
Thus did I gaze in Love's Pantheon lost,
Or Fools in London at a Cock-Lane Ghost.
Make Father, Mother, and the Children stare,
How that they saw the King, nay heard him speak,
And wou'd have din'd wi'em but 'twas washing week;
Thus did I gaze in Love's Pantheon lost,
Or Fools in London at a Cock-Lane Ghost.
3
Four faces had the Fane of different dates,
To each were five and twenty brasen gates,
Open to both the poor, and regal call,
For love is general, and receiv'd at all.
Here amorous Sons, who fell at Beauty's shrine,
Here female Honour, truly drawn divine:
Here mighty Chiefs who fought in Virtue's cause,
Here Beauties blush, that follies were their foes:
Here horrid lusts sit trembling o'er their rapes,
Here injur'd Virgins wear angelic shapes:
Here wanton age stoops ridicul'd in brass,
While Impotency points—the lovely Lass:
Here Monks recluse on living pass-times frown,
And Nuns half dare to meditate in stone.
To each were five and twenty brasen gates,
Open to both the poor, and regal call,
For love is general, and receiv'd at all.
Here amorous Sons, who fell at Beauty's shrine,
Here female Honour, truly drawn divine:
Here mighty Chiefs who fought in Virtue's cause,
Here Beauties blush, that follies were their foes:
Here horrid lusts sit trembling o'er their rapes,
Here injur'd Virgins wear angelic shapes:
Here wanton age stoops ridicul'd in brass,
While Impotency points—the lovely Lass:
Here Monks recluse on living pass-times frown,
And Nuns half dare to meditate in stone.
Soft breathe the flutes—the massy doors unfold,
Stupendous vault! the roof of fretted gold,
Rais'd on an orient granite collonade,
Where foliage twin'd, and naked Cupids play'd;
Two lovely forms the spacious entrance grace,
And each a beauty of Idalian race;
High above all, and exquisitely done,
Appear'd th'amours of Venus, and her son:
From th'Ocean rising to cœlestial bliss,
And as she rose the waters clung to kiss,
What she with wining female coyness try'd
To vail, what none wou'd ever wish to hide.
Stupendous vault! the roof of fretted gold,
Rais'd on an orient granite collonade,
Where foliage twin'd, and naked Cupids play'd;
Two lovely forms the spacious entrance grace,
And each a beauty of Idalian race;
High above all, and exquisitely done,
Appear'd th'amours of Venus, and her son:
4
And as she rose the waters clung to kiss,
What she with wining female coyness try'd
To vail, what none wou'd ever wish to hide.
There on a cloud, with every beauty grac'd
She loll'd, and with her gay Adonis plac'd
In a soft attitude of love, and joy,
And fine the contrast of the nut-brown Boy:
Their arms, and legs irregularly twine,
Their looks declaring more than joys divine.
She loll'd, and with her gay Adonis plac'd
In a soft attitude of love, and joy,
And fine the contrast of the nut-brown Boy:
Their arms, and legs irregularly twine,
Their looks declaring more than joys divine.
The next the warmest conflict of her wars:
Where the dear Creature conquers sturdy Mars,
The dull procuress snoring fast asleep,
The Blacksmith calls the Gods to have a peep;
Poor Venus blush'd, who wou'dn't at the shock?
Catch'd with a Man, and she without a smock.
Where the dear Creature conquers sturdy Mars,
The dull procuress snoring fast asleep,
The Blacksmith calls the Gods to have a peep;
Poor Venus blush'd, who wou'dn't at the shock?
Catch'd with a Man, and she without a smock.
Will not our times as plain a case afford,
A Goddess married to a vulgar Lord:
What would you have the pretty creature do?
When married A*n to a fish like you:
Can you, if nothing's good at home, my Lord,
Blame a wise wife, who gets it cheap abroad?
A Goddess married to a vulgar Lord:
What would you have the pretty creature do?
When married A*n to a fish like you:
Can you, if nothing's good at home, my Lord,
Blame a wise wife, who gets it cheap abroad?
5
Ladies suppose you're guilty of the crime?
(I love the Fair, as Poets love their rhime)
In spite of all the panders you procure,
Some will surprise in the most secret hour:
Night, and a Bagnio may conceal a while,
But time, and day at last will tell the guile.
David, that chaste good man in days of yore
Uriah slew, and made his wife a whore:
Heav'n saw the damn'd adul'try he had done,
And made the crime as public as the Sun.
(I love the Fair, as Poets love their rhime)
In spite of all the panders you procure,
Some will surprise in the most secret hour:
Night, and a Bagnio may conceal a while,
But time, and day at last will tell the guile.
David, that chaste good man in days of yore
Uriah slew, and made his wife a whore:
Heav'n saw the damn'd adul'try he had done,
And made the crime as public as the Sun.
A living wou'd not save a Parson's life,
When a lewd Lord debauch'd a dear lov'd wife;
A broken heart destroy'd the holy man,
He lives a knave, and she an Harridan.
When a lewd Lord debauch'd a dear lov'd wife;
A broken heart destroy'd the holy man,
He lives a knave, and she an Harridan.
What dire effects from regal secrets rise,
See Scarborough curses God, and madly dies!
He told to Love, what woman could not hold,
So man's betray'd thro' vanity, or gold:
But what could prompt that Dutchess to relate
A thing, which kill'd her friend, and hurt the state?
The Fair must own, and men with pity grieve,
The Salique maxim, “Woman's but a sieve.”
'Tis plain they kill, “But yet I can't define”,
How it's as easy as they use carmine?
'Tis hell, 'tis horror, it is all that's bad,
And no excuse if all the sex are mad.
God made a Devil, and portray'd it Fair,
Then call'd it Woman to encrease our care.
See Scarborough curses God, and madly dies!
He told to Love, what woman could not hold,
So man's betray'd thro' vanity, or gold:
But what could prompt that Dutchess to relate
A thing, which kill'd her friend, and hurt the state?
6
The Salique maxim, “Woman's but a sieve.”
'Tis plain they kill, “But yet I can't define”,
How it's as easy as they use carmine?
'Tis hell, 'tis horror, it is all that's bad,
And no excuse if all the sex are mad.
God made a Devil, and portray'd it Fair,
Then call'd it Woman to encrease our care.
Who would believe this after years of love,
As loving, cooing as a turtle Dove:
Nought was so good, so constant to his bed,
But when he broke his leg, it turn'd her head;
She could not bear to nurse, so stretch'd her scope,
And tugging broke the matrimonial rope:
Pick'd Paddy up, well clad in all but cloaths,
Who beat her husband's goodness, by the nose:
But it's the mode, for Ladies to elope,
From pretty Kitty, down to madam P*.
Yet if a busband's either lame, or brown,
Are you to kiss with all the Fops in Town?
Oh! Virtue come, thou jewel of the Fair,
'Tis Virtue only makes a happy pair;
A handsome Woman is a joy, agreed,
A virtuous Woman is a bliss indeed.
As loving, cooing as a turtle Dove:
Nought was so good, so constant to his bed,
But when he broke his leg, it turn'd her head;
She could not bear to nurse, so stretch'd her scope,
And tugging broke the matrimonial rope:
Pick'd Paddy up, well clad in all but cloaths,
Who beat her husband's goodness, by the nose:
But it's the mode, for Ladies to elope,
From pretty Kitty, down to madam P*.
Yet if a busband's either lame, or brown,
Are you to kiss with all the Fops in Town?
Oh! Virtue come, thou jewel of the Fair,
'Tis Virtue only makes a happy pair;
A handsome Woman is a joy, agreed,
A virtuous Woman is a bliss indeed.
7
On either hand a thousand forms appear'd,
To Virtue, Beauty, Lust and Folly rear'd;
Here old amours thought buried with their slaves,
Rise true from noble, or ignoble graves:
High above all the fatal youth I view'd,
Who every female, not himself subdu'd;
Th'unhappy Umpire of a tender cause,
Founder of Grecian, and the Trojan woes:
Whom Venus lov'd, altho' he ruin'd Troy,
And for adult'ry canoniz'd the Boy .
Such were the favours of the Cyprian Fair,
And now the mode of pure St. James's air:
Or why should wanton C---h rise in fame,
A maid of honour dub'd for deeds of shame?
Or why applaud his Grace's virtuous life;
Because his goodness keeps another's wife:
Blush grandeur blush! at such adult'rous deeds,
And act the god-like part when Virtue bleeds.
Not rear to Infamy the marble Bust,
Or with libations quench the Harlot's Lust:
Blush grandeur blush! on your incestuous beds,
Ye wicked Stars hide your diminish'd heads!
To Virtue, Beauty, Lust and Folly rear'd;
Here old amours thought buried with their slaves,
Rise true from noble, or ignoble graves:
High above all the fatal youth I view'd,
Who every female, not himself subdu'd;
Th'unhappy Umpire of a tender cause,
Founder of Grecian, and the Trojan woes:
Whom Venus lov'd, altho' he ruin'd Troy,
And for adult'ry canoniz'd the Boy .
Such were the favours of the Cyprian Fair,
And now the mode of pure St. James's air:
Or why should wanton C---h rise in fame,
A maid of honour dub'd for deeds of shame?
Or why applaud his Grace's virtuous life;
Because his goodness keeps another's wife:
Blush grandeur blush! at such adult'rous deeds,
And act the god-like part when Virtue bleeds.
Not rear to Infamy the marble Bust,
Or with libations quench the Harlot's Lust:
Blush grandeur blush! on your incestuous beds,
Ye wicked Stars hide your diminish'd heads!
8
How droll was miss Europa in her cull,
O! what a Gothic taste! a God, a Bull:
Between her thighs the Beast declares his pride,
And she in rapture hugs his hairy side:
Thus rav'd a Brother, when a noble Lord
A Hunter stole, and gallop'd her abroad:
The best bred Filly ever prest a course,
Steel to the bottom, run against a-horse:
No man knows better how to break, or bit,
And seven to two, he backs the pretty Tit:
O! damme, bottom, bottom Boy indeed,
He knows a Wag, to cross, or mend a Breed:
Pray in a Pembrook have you seen her ride,
Champing the bit in all Equestrian pride:
A sweeter creature never wagg'd a tail,
And push her starting—hang me if she fail.
If e'er my Lord should sell the little Mare,
I'll try for Pegasus to get an heir.
His Grace, or Shaftow, gallop, walk, or trot 'em,
We have it hollow, Boy, the Filly's bottom.
Would not an Heiress in these 'lopeing days,
Straddle an Ox if she could get no chaise?
Rather than sigh away nights, days, and morns,
They'll ride the Bull, or hang upon his horns:
What won't the Girl do full of flesh and blood,
To have the thing she doats on; bad or good?
Where lies the diff'rence between Kitty's cull,
And fair Europa and her milking Bull?
I'll tell you friend;—but then, 'tis inter nos,
One, took O'Kelly—t'other Sampson Bos.
O! what a Gothic taste! a God, a Bull:
Between her thighs the Beast declares his pride,
And she in rapture hugs his hairy side:
Thus rav'd a Brother, when a noble Lord
A Hunter stole, and gallop'd her abroad:
The best bred Filly ever prest a course,
Steel to the bottom, run against a-horse:
No man knows better how to break, or bit,
And seven to two, he backs the pretty Tit:
O! damme, bottom, bottom Boy indeed,
He knows a Wag, to cross, or mend a Breed:
Pray in a Pembrook have you seen her ride,
Champing the bit in all Equestrian pride:
A sweeter creature never wagg'd a tail,
And push her starting—hang me if she fail.
If e'er my Lord should sell the little Mare,
I'll try for Pegasus to get an heir.
His Grace, or Shaftow, gallop, walk, or trot 'em,
We have it hollow, Boy, the Filly's bottom.
Would not an Heiress in these 'lopeing days,
Straddle an Ox if she could get no chaise?
Rather than sigh away nights, days, and morns,
They'll ride the Bull, or hang upon his horns:
What won't the Girl do full of flesh and blood,
To have the thing she doats on; bad or good?
9
And fair Europa and her milking Bull?
I'll tell you friend;—but then, 'tis inter nos,
One, took O'Kelly—t'other Sampson Bos.
Here gathering flowers stood sweet Sicilia's Miss,
Herself the sweetest, pluck'd by gloomy Dis ;
So Fanny fell, whose charms e'en worlds adore,
Surpassing art, and all the Flowers she bore:
I wish the Angel had not such a rod,
A man so very like the grimy god:
Pluto one day may ease her of her load,
And Angels place her in a calm abode.
Herself the sweetest, pluck'd by gloomy Dis ;
So Fanny fell, whose charms e'en worlds adore,
Surpassing art, and all the Flowers she bore:
I wish the Angel had not such a rod,
A man so very like the grimy god:
Pluto one day may ease her of her load,
And Angels place her in a calm abode.
Semele next receives the Thunderer's fires,
And in extatic joys beneath expires:
The times are chang'd—the Men may try their skill,
But Women now, are plaguey hard to kill:
Men have expir'd in the connubial deed,
But, Puppy like, the Ladies suck and feed.
And in extatic joys beneath expires:
The times are chang'd—the Men may try their skill,
But Women now, are plaguey hard to kill:
Men have expir'd in the connubial deed,
But, Puppy like, the Ladies suck and feed.
Next sigh'd Narcissus to himself a slave;
And pretty Echo pining in a Cave.
God knows we've plenty sigh, and plenty pine,
From hoary ninety, down to verdant nine;
See dear Sir Jessy for himself expires,
And prettier Biddy faints with strange desires;
There old Sir Fumble toys a long, long hour,
And Betty swears—it's out of woman's power;
These things are common in this dirty Town,
From Mother Goadbey up to Mrs. Brown.
Scandal with all's a very favourite dish,
From Maid's of honour, up to Charlottee Fish;
On such a trifle, why should much be said?
“She only took a Gentleman to bed;”
And every day the Quality do more,
Making her tender one a Baker's score:
Few Echos pine, they hardly wait to hope,
For if Pappa denies—“Egad elope;”
It's in the City now so plain a truth,
You'll hardly see a Footman that's a youth,
Many not quite so nice the Coachmen take,
Smack of the whip they love for driving sake:
Scotland, and Scots are all poor England's care,
Her Men they trammel, and debauch her Fair:
But how could Ovid tell such monstrous lies,
How a stout youth rejected Echo's sighs!
Such silly stuff might do in times of yore,
But baulk a City Miss—“She turns a whore:”
Nothing persuades me that the Tale is right,
But still the Huzzy holds her sex's spite:
Say what you will, and let the Gypsy hear,
She tells it far and near, like Miss Poitier.
And pretty Echo pining in a Cave.
10
From hoary ninety, down to verdant nine;
See dear Sir Jessy for himself expires,
And prettier Biddy faints with strange desires;
There old Sir Fumble toys a long, long hour,
And Betty swears—it's out of woman's power;
These things are common in this dirty Town,
From Mother Goadbey up to Mrs. Brown.
Scandal with all's a very favourite dish,
From Maid's of honour, up to Charlottee Fish;
On such a trifle, why should much be said?
“She only took a Gentleman to bed;”
And every day the Quality do more,
Making her tender one a Baker's score:
Few Echos pine, they hardly wait to hope,
For if Pappa denies—“Egad elope;”
It's in the City now so plain a truth,
You'll hardly see a Footman that's a youth,
Many not quite so nice the Coachmen take,
Smack of the whip they love for driving sake:
Scotland, and Scots are all poor England's care,
Her Men they trammel, and debauch her Fair:
But how could Ovid tell such monstrous lies,
How a stout youth rejected Echo's sighs!
Such silly stuff might do in times of yore,
But baulk a City Miss—“She turns a whore:”
11
But still the Huzzy holds her sex's spite:
Say what you will, and let the Gypsy hear,
She tells it far and near, like Miss Poitier.
Here smooth Alpheus thro' a secret sluice
Sub terra steals, to kiss his Aretheuse:
And after various turns of adverse woe,
The thrilling streams of Love united flow:
How phrensy rages in the Poet's themes,
Comparing bliss in Love to river's streams;
Was that our case, what deluges would flow,
And headlong bear us to the Thames below:
Say, who wou'd walk Pall-mall, or Drury-lane?
When doors and windows gush'd like spouts of rain:
The tide of Lust was never very low,
The ebb is trifling to the constant flow:
Our Ladies won't admit the secret plan,
But where they like, in publick show the Man;
Attend Vauxhall, the Glasses, or the Play,
You'll find O'Kelly hugg'd about like Tray;
Why close about what's trivial as a pin,
“To use what Nature gave, is sure no sin!”
Thus modern Matron's palliate modern ill,
As Doctors cheat them with a gilded Pill:
Should they commit a sin, (can Ladies sin?)
They with their alms drive to the Magdalene:
There with repenting few join Sunday's pray'r,
And go twice more to make the Parson stare.
Sub terra steals, to kiss his Aretheuse:
And after various turns of adverse woe,
The thrilling streams of Love united flow:
How phrensy rages in the Poet's themes,
Comparing bliss in Love to river's streams;
Was that our case, what deluges would flow,
And headlong bear us to the Thames below:
Say, who wou'd walk Pall-mall, or Drury-lane?
When doors and windows gush'd like spouts of rain:
The tide of Lust was never very low,
The ebb is trifling to the constant flow:
Our Ladies won't admit the secret plan,
But where they like, in publick show the Man;
Attend Vauxhall, the Glasses, or the Play,
You'll find O'Kelly hugg'd about like Tray;
Why close about what's trivial as a pin,
“To use what Nature gave, is sure no sin!”
12
As Doctors cheat them with a gilded Pill:
Should they commit a sin, (can Ladies sin?)
They with their alms drive to the Magdalene:
There with repenting few join Sunday's pray'r,
And go twice more to make the Parson stare.
Next Erythibolus appear'd in flames,
Where blind Sesostris burnt adulterate Dames.
How many Dames would burn to one blind Knight,
Before chaste Urine would restore his sight?
'Tis hard to say, so many you'd destroy,
Smithfield for years must blaze a feu de joy:
I don't approve the trial of our wives,
That one man's sight should risk a million's lives:
But where's Sir John's great right, I can't devise?
For, like old Argus, Merc'ry sealed his eyes.
Where blind Sesostris burnt adulterate Dames.
How many Dames would burn to one blind Knight,
Before chaste Urine would restore his sight?
'Tis hard to say, so many you'd destroy,
Smithfield for years must blaze a feu de joy:
I don't approve the trial of our wives,
That one man's sight should risk a million's lives:
But where's Sir John's great right, I can't devise?
For, like old Argus, Merc'ry sealed his eyes.
13
Here Cheop's
Daughter breathes once more in stone,
And lust declares the Pyramid her own.
A droll conceit, a monument to raise,
And may surprise in these more virtuous days;
One stone she levy'd on each am'rous Cull,
Mod'rate enough, considering such a Trull:
But don't you think we've Ladies now alive,
To her one pyramid would build ye five?
Whether St. James's-street, or Seathing-lane,
I will not say—It is not Lady V*.
Guess on my Friend, perhaps you may come nigher,
I say, she'd build ten more, and ten times higher.
And lust declares the Pyramid her own.
A droll conceit, a monument to raise,
And may surprise in these more virtuous days;
One stone she levy'd on each am'rous Cull,
Mod'rate enough, considering such a Trull:
But don't you think we've Ladies now alive,
To her one pyramid would build ye five?
Whether St. James's-street, or Seathing-lane,
I will not say—It is not Lady V*.
Guess on my Friend, perhaps you may come nigher,
I say, she'd build ten more, and ten times higher.
There Capuan Virgins conquer with their charms,
What Rome confess'd superior to her arms:
The Whores of Capua rais'd the Hero's
tomb,
A heavier blow than Cannæ prov'd to Rome.
Is not our Garden now a viler womb
To us, than damn'd Seplasia was to Rome:
Blush Britons, blush, nor glory in a fame,
That Virtue cannot tell, nor Honour name.
What Rome confess'd superior to her arms:
14
A heavier blow than Cannæ prov'd to Rome.
Is not our Garden now a viler womb
To us, than damn'd Seplasia was to Rome:
Blush Britons, blush, nor glory in a fame,
That Virtue cannot tell, nor Honour name.
And lastly, see! Apollodorus
brings
A coarse matrass, fill'd with the sweetest things:
Like the lewd Monk in print, who seems to crack,
Hot for the fair provision on his back;
At the device, see vigorous Cæsar stare!
And so should I—if brought me in a chair.
Why so surpriz'd because the Hero kneel'd,
Had he not buss'd her—“Lord, the Monster's steel'd!
Yes, doubtless, steel'd—but still he show'd a heart,
As soft, as Cleopatra's softest part:
Pagans reflect—could flesh, could blood withstand,
Fair Cleopatra, with the softest hand:
This whirling egg—(our world) forgot to move,
Nature stood silent—swallow'd up in Love:
More eyes by Myriads on the Beauty wait,
Than when the fools of Venice jolt in state:
What modern Lord could ward the darts she hurl'd,
To conquer him, who conquer'd all the world.
A coarse matrass, fill'd with the sweetest things:
Like the lewd Monk in print, who seems to crack,
Hot for the fair provision on his back;
At the device, see vigorous Cæsar stare!
And so should I—if brought me in a chair.
Why so surpriz'd because the Hero kneel'd,
Had he not buss'd her—“Lord, the Monster's steel'd!
15
As soft, as Cleopatra's softest part:
Pagans reflect—could flesh, could blood withstand,
Fair Cleopatra, with the softest hand:
This whirling egg—(our world) forgot to move,
Nature stood silent—swallow'd up in Love:
More eyes by Myriads on the Beauty wait,
Than when the fools of Venice jolt in state:
What modern Lord could ward the darts she hurl'd,
To conquer him, who conquer'd all the world.
Beneath this Queen, and exquisitely done,
Lay poor Actæon, by his Hounds out-run:
Was naked Dian now to try the force
Of Beauty's charms, upon New-Market-Course;
What pretty tricks amongst the Great she'd play;
Change to a horse his Grace—my Lord to Tray;
One hundred Squires, would make one hundred hounds,
And Shaftow in a Stag, might maze the grounds;
A good fat Countess too might prove a Mare,
And Black and all Black cover for an Heir:
Sir James might shine a Stallion on the Course,
And prove the pleasures of a leaping Horse:
I dare not say, the things that would be done,
In earnest many—and a few in fun.
Actæon's case, was like St. A---l---n's fate,
Hounds, Dice, and Women, got his whole Estate.
Lay poor Actæon, by his Hounds out-run:
Was naked Dian now to try the force
Of Beauty's charms, upon New-Market-Course;
What pretty tricks amongst the Great she'd play;
Change to a horse his Grace—my Lord to Tray;
One hundred Squires, would make one hundred hounds,
And Shaftow in a Stag, might maze the grounds;
A good fat Countess too might prove a Mare,
And Black and all Black cover for an Heir:
16
And prove the pleasures of a leaping Horse:
I dare not say, the things that would be done,
In earnest many—and a few in fun.
Actæon's case, was like St. A---l---n's fate,
Hounds, Dice, and Women, got his whole Estate.
Here Sappho sings, who living sung in vain,
To bind th'affections of the Lesbian Swain.
This is not Cattlee's case—tho' Tower-hill rung
With Newgate's ditties, from her lisping tongue:
Her voice prevail'd, and pierc'd Sir Francis' ears,
And now alike kills Citizens and Peers;
Fortune's a Whore—and tho' the Brimstone's blind,
Yet shoeless Merit has known Fortune kind;
As you have seen the soft melodious Lark,
She left the ground to charm a noon-tide Park;
You've heard her sing, perhaps you've seen her walk;
But have you heard the pretty Angel talk?
Lord how she talks! her words are fair as milk,
And when she moves, it's on the wings of silk.
But why such trappings when ye take the air?
Is it, good Sir, to make the vulgar stare?
Why keep a concubine my gay Sir Bl*,
When even robb'd of that which makes a rake!
Let Cattlee go, pass all your time at White's,
Desert the Women, and the Bill of Rights.
To bind th'affections of the Lesbian Swain.
This is not Cattlee's case—tho' Tower-hill rung
With Newgate's ditties, from her lisping tongue:
Her voice prevail'd, and pierc'd Sir Francis' ears,
And now alike kills Citizens and Peers;
Fortune's a Whore—and tho' the Brimstone's blind,
Yet shoeless Merit has known Fortune kind;
As you have seen the soft melodious Lark,
She left the ground to charm a noon-tide Park;
You've heard her sing, perhaps you've seen her walk;
But have you heard the pretty Angel talk?
Lord how she talks! her words are fair as milk,
And when she moves, it's on the wings of silk.
17
Is it, good Sir, to make the vulgar stare?
Why keep a concubine my gay Sir Bl*,
When even robb'd of that which makes a rake!
Let Cattlee go, pass all your time at White's,
Desert the Women, and the Bill of Rights.
Here Cephalus fatigu'd begs Aura's aid,
And curious Procris bleeds beneath the shade:
A pretty moral to the City Dames,
Who ape being jealous to indulge their flames:
Persuade their husbands 'tis their wonderous Love;
Inkle believes—“Don't cry? come kiss my Dove?”
The better bred, have better ways by far,
My Lady Betty weds a brilliant Star:
But that's for Rank—they hardly speak for life,
It is enough she's call'd my Lady Strife:
My Lord comes down, my Lady saunters up,
He calls for dinner, she desires to sup;
To White's he hobbles, and she swings to prayers,
He snores with Fisher—And John gets his heirs:
Thus live the very Gay, and very Great,
The happiest Mortals in the marriage state:
There's no deception, all's above the board,
He hates my Lady—and she hates my Lord:
If they should meet be certain it's by chance,
At Drum, Ring, Rout, Court, Concert, Play, or Dance:
“My Lord, your Lordship, here's a charming Sun;”
“Madam, your Ladyship”—Ah! Charles,—who won?
No jealous cares corrode the noble's breast,
Where e'er the magnet draws they sleep the best.
But City Wives deceive with jealous flames,
And cram the Bagnio's under borrow'd names:
Find features like the Dad each rising day,
Tho' got by him who drove the husband's dray:
No wonder Cits are brawney without brains,
When the dull composition's mixt with grains.
Ladies suppose, we breathe the morning air,
To tickle Trouts, or hunt the timid Hare?
Why should ye grieve, or pray why should ye stir?
The curious woman must for ever err:
'Twas that gave Procris an untimely fall,
Damn'd curiosity undoes ye all.
If inclination leads to drop the strife,
You must improve from “Coleman's jealous Wife.”
And curious Procris bleeds beneath the shade:
A pretty moral to the City Dames,
Who ape being jealous to indulge their flames:
Persuade their husbands 'tis their wonderous Love;
Inkle believes—“Don't cry? come kiss my Dove?”
The better bred, have better ways by far,
My Lady Betty weds a brilliant Star:
But that's for Rank—they hardly speak for life,
It is enough she's call'd my Lady Strife:
My Lord comes down, my Lady saunters up,
He calls for dinner, she desires to sup;
To White's he hobbles, and she swings to prayers,
He snores with Fisher—And John gets his heirs:
18
The happiest Mortals in the marriage state:
There's no deception, all's above the board,
He hates my Lady—and she hates my Lord:
If they should meet be certain it's by chance,
At Drum, Ring, Rout, Court, Concert, Play, or Dance:
“My Lord, your Lordship, here's a charming Sun;”
“Madam, your Ladyship”—Ah! Charles,—who won?
No jealous cares corrode the noble's breast,
Where e'er the magnet draws they sleep the best.
But City Wives deceive with jealous flames,
And cram the Bagnio's under borrow'd names:
Find features like the Dad each rising day,
Tho' got by him who drove the husband's dray:
No wonder Cits are brawney without brains,
When the dull composition's mixt with grains.
Ladies suppose, we breathe the morning air,
To tickle Trouts, or hunt the timid Hare?
Why should ye grieve, or pray why should ye stir?
The curious woman must for ever err:
19
Damn'd curiosity undoes ye all.
If inclination leads to drop the strife,
You must improve from “Coleman's jealous Wife.”
Here chaster Caunus
tender of his fame;
His Sister flies—for an unnatural flame.
It shocks my soul—yet, oft' these things have been,
And are, oh! horror, daily to be seen:
It gives me strange unnatural alarms,
When Brothers hang upon a Sister's charms:
I love my Sister, as I love my blood,
I love her strictly—as a Brother shou'd:
Shun, Brothers, shun, the foul incestuous flame,
Curst let him be, who wounds a Sister's fame!
His Sister flies—for an unnatural flame.
It shocks my soul—yet, oft' these things have been,
And are, oh! horror, daily to be seen:
It gives me strange unnatural alarms,
When Brothers hang upon a Sister's charms:
I love my Sister, as I love my blood,
I love her strictly—as a Brother shou'd:
Shun, Brothers, shun, the foul incestuous flame,
Curst let him be, who wounds a Sister's fame!
When sweet Ophelia breathes the morning air,
The sullen wrinkle quits the brow of care:
In love, as manners rude the Mob must see her,
And mealy Bakers pressing mark the Peer:
The Play or Park are free for me as Burk,
Or how dare Blacksmith's shove a Duke of York?
'Tis honest ease peculiar to our Isles,
And on the glorious freedom, Edward smiles.
All love Ophelia—till her Brother's seen
To handle, dandle, you know what I mean.
'Tis British freedom checks the blackest crimes,
And Wilkes's freedom purifies the times:
Noble exertion in a noble cause,
Thou Pyramid of worth 'gainst boreal laws.
How eloquence in godlike PRAT prevails,
“I dare like him commit a Prince of Wales. ”
The tongues of Britons are as free as air,
In praise or censure of her Court, or Fair:
O! Caunus fly, and save Ophelia's fame,
Nor blast a sister with eternal shame:
At incest shudder! unpolluted fly!
A Byblis rather let Ophelia die.
The sullen wrinkle quits the brow of care:
In love, as manners rude the Mob must see her,
And mealy Bakers pressing mark the Peer:
20
Or how dare Blacksmith's shove a Duke of York?
'Tis honest ease peculiar to our Isles,
And on the glorious freedom, Edward smiles.
All love Ophelia—till her Brother's seen
To handle, dandle, you know what I mean.
'Tis British freedom checks the blackest crimes,
And Wilkes's freedom purifies the times:
Noble exertion in a noble cause,
Thou Pyramid of worth 'gainst boreal laws.
How eloquence in godlike PRAT prevails,
“I dare like him commit a Prince of Wales. ”
The tongues of Britons are as free as air,
In praise or censure of her Court, or Fair:
O! Caunus fly, and save Ophelia's fame,
Nor blast a sister with eternal shame:
At incest shudder! unpolluted fly!
A Byblis rather let Ophelia die.
Unconquer'd Daphne grac'd the grand abode,
She, who so scornful scorn'd the Delphic god.
Great was the scorn, a god too did you say?
Miss turn'd her tail upon—“ah! lack-a-day?”
Lord, what a tramp 'twould be to find another?
That would deny a handsome Man, a Lover.
What wild conceits that puppy Ovid had,
But duller folks swear every Poet's mad:
Should Ch* die, I hope she'll be forgiven,
If of a Rape, she'll surely go to Heav'n:
A thing of that kind—if the Man was rash,
Might kill indeed, the tender small miss A*;
For such another pretty fairy Queen,
Has never totter'd o'er St. James's Green:
Their pretty noses now are out of joint,
'Tis said V***t twists his Lordship's point:
Such in's and out's, such various up's and down's,
Are grown quite modish in our country towns:
Keep kissing on, the game is in and out,
These are thy triumphs, thy exploits, O Bute.
But why such spite against these Ladies eke?
Their greatest sin I'm sure's a painted cheek:
If against them the gates are shut above,
It is a crime below to paint and love;
Age may cure love, but why abolish paint?
What's half so frightful as a pale fac'd Saint?
I like to see a handsome Corpse in bed,
Blushing on those who weep about the dead;
Your smaller sins, great alms, and Doctor Rock
May move; if not, the Magdalene, and Lock.
Fisher may yet repent, tho' deep the taint,
And little Davies die a little Saint;
If Lucy err'd—still that's no reason, why
Cooper must not reform before she die:
Tho' Mother Douglass fed on flesh all Lent,
Yet Foot and Whitfield made the Bawd repent:
I'm not a Cit, in condemnation rank,
That Rice is damn'd because he robb'd their Bank:
I hope the very worst may be forgiv'n,
And even M---l---n too may go to heav'n;
The greatest merit which the Son hath bore,
Amongst his Creditors, he bilk'd his Whore.
Retir'd a while from Bailiffs—not from care,
And made an Av'ry of a house of Prayer:
Domitien like he drew the bow—in lies,
And kill'd his younger days, in killing flies:
At length th'insolvent act reliev'd the soul,
Like a poor crawling tortoise from his hole.
A youth to practise on so base a plan,
What must he prove, ye Devils, when a Man?
Should he send bread to Hunger in a cave,
Honour must spurn the morsel that he gave:
Let him repent to ease a breast of care,
And with these juster Sisters hope in prayer.
She, who so scornful scorn'd the Delphic god.
21
Miss turn'd her tail upon—“ah! lack-a-day?”
Lord, what a tramp 'twould be to find another?
That would deny a handsome Man, a Lover.
What wild conceits that puppy Ovid had,
But duller folks swear every Poet's mad:
Should Ch* die, I hope she'll be forgiven,
If of a Rape, she'll surely go to Heav'n:
A thing of that kind—if the Man was rash,
Might kill indeed, the tender small miss A*;
For such another pretty fairy Queen,
Has never totter'd o'er St. James's Green:
Their pretty noses now are out of joint,
'Tis said V***t twists his Lordship's point:
Such in's and out's, such various up's and down's,
Are grown quite modish in our country towns:
Keep kissing on, the game is in and out,
These are thy triumphs, thy exploits, O Bute.
But why such spite against these Ladies eke?
Their greatest sin I'm sure's a painted cheek:
If against them the gates are shut above,
It is a crime below to paint and love;
Age may cure love, but why abolish paint?
What's half so frightful as a pale fac'd Saint?
22
Blushing on those who weep about the dead;
Your smaller sins, great alms, and Doctor Rock
May move; if not, the Magdalene, and Lock.
Fisher may yet repent, tho' deep the taint,
And little Davies die a little Saint;
If Lucy err'd—still that's no reason, why
Cooper must not reform before she die:
Tho' Mother Douglass fed on flesh all Lent,
Yet Foot and Whitfield made the Bawd repent:
I'm not a Cit, in condemnation rank,
That Rice is damn'd because he robb'd their Bank:
I hope the very worst may be forgiv'n,
And even M---l---n too may go to heav'n;
The greatest merit which the Son hath bore,
Amongst his Creditors, he bilk'd his Whore.
Retir'd a while from Bailiffs—not from care,
And made an Av'ry of a house of Prayer:
Domitien like he drew the bow—in lies,
And kill'd his younger days, in killing flies:
At length th'insolvent act reliev'd the soul,
Like a poor crawling tortoise from his hole.
A youth to practise on so base a plan,
What must he prove, ye Devils, when a Man?
23
Honour must spurn the morsel that he gave:
Let him repent to ease a breast of care,
And with these juster Sisters hope in prayer.
Near virtuous Daphne, sat the Roman Maid,
Philotis she, in lilly white array'd;
Like to the morn, when first her blushing face,
Sheds o'er the gloomy world her heavenly grace,
What can't a Virgin do, in Beauty's bloom?
As much in England as she did in Rome:
Only suppose the Maids in this great Town,
(For great, or small, they'll bring a Cæsar down)
Should France attack us in voluptuous ease,
Like Men they could but act—and botch a Peace.
They must succeed on this unconquer'd plan;
Tell me the Maid, that can not beat her Man?
Many there are I know will vanquish ten,
Is not that monstrous odds against the Men?
Sampson was mortal strong; yes, so I've read,
But how much stouter Dalila in bed?
She was a wife, or if you will a Whore,
Allow her both, we've maids would beat a score.
That's needless, friend, for Wives are plaguey tough,
At least I'm sure their Husbands groul enough:
Yes, but our kinds are various as our meat,
Try from Whitechapel-Bars—to Audley-Street:
Maids you'll meet myriads—but the Virgin rare,
And less at Court, perhaps, than in Rag-Fair:
If from their parts such streams of goodness gush,
Grant public portions to the Well, and Bush:
Is there a slip-shod Dotard lives this day,
That does not kneel more times to whore, than pray?
Then what's the good man's adoration, Friend?
Beauty—and will be to the world's long end:
Beauty in all has rul'd this whirling egg,
By shape, face, tongue, et cætera, or leg;
And will command, when these chaste lines are gone,
And their chaste Poet dead—without a stone.
Come, sacred sleep, and happily profound,
When no Scotch Thistle dare profane the ground.
Thrice happy thought—thou'lt fold more happy death,
Him, who curst Scotland with his dying breath.
I can love Scotsmen—when they're good, and brave,
But why Scots love a Scot—when known a Knave?
There must be some damn'd curse upon the Crew,
For Heaven mark'd ye, when she black'd the Jew:
You'll call me bitter,—yes, I am as gall,
Whene'er I meet a Scot without a Saul:
Yes, special soles, I've heard the Cobler swear,
But when made upper-leathers gall in wear:
O! wretched times, when such a wretched Crew,
Fill ev'ry place from Wapping—down to Kew:
Hold—no, I'll speak my mind tho' Hell's wide jaws
Should gape, it is my King and Country's cause;
Why flinch, why fear? I'm honest English born,
I neither dread the Mon, his leer, or scorn:
Hope better times, for sure they can't be worse:
And on her bitter foes, I breathe my bitter curse.
Philotis she, in lilly white array'd;
Like to the morn, when first her blushing face,
Sheds o'er the gloomy world her heavenly grace,
What can't a Virgin do, in Beauty's bloom?
As much in England as she did in Rome:
Only suppose the Maids in this great Town,
(For great, or small, they'll bring a Cæsar down)
Should France attack us in voluptuous ease,
Like Men they could but act—and botch a Peace.
They must succeed on this unconquer'd plan;
Tell me the Maid, that can not beat her Man?
Many there are I know will vanquish ten,
Is not that monstrous odds against the Men?
24
But how much stouter Dalila in bed?
She was a wife, or if you will a Whore,
Allow her both, we've maids would beat a score.
That's needless, friend, for Wives are plaguey tough,
At least I'm sure their Husbands groul enough:
Yes, but our kinds are various as our meat,
Try from Whitechapel-Bars—to Audley-Street:
Maids you'll meet myriads—but the Virgin rare,
And less at Court, perhaps, than in Rag-Fair:
If from their parts such streams of goodness gush,
Grant public portions to the Well, and Bush:
Is there a slip-shod Dotard lives this day,
That does not kneel more times to whore, than pray?
Then what's the good man's adoration, Friend?
Beauty—and will be to the world's long end:
Beauty in all has rul'd this whirling egg,
By shape, face, tongue, et cætera, or leg;
And will command, when these chaste lines are gone,
And their chaste Poet dead—without a stone.
25
When no Scotch Thistle dare profane the ground.
Thrice happy thought—thou'lt fold more happy death,
Him, who curst Scotland with his dying breath.
I can love Scotsmen—when they're good, and brave,
But why Scots love a Scot—when known a Knave?
There must be some damn'd curse upon the Crew,
For Heaven mark'd ye, when she black'd the Jew:
You'll call me bitter,—yes, I am as gall,
Whene'er I meet a Scot without a Saul:
Yes, special soles, I've heard the Cobler swear,
But when made upper-leathers gall in wear:
O! wretched times, when such a wretched Crew,
Fill ev'ry place from Wapping—down to Kew:
Hold—no, I'll speak my mind tho' Hell's wide jaws
Should gape, it is my King and Country's cause;
26
I neither dread the Mon, his leer, or scorn:
Hope better times, for sure they can't be worse:
And on her bitter foes, I breathe my bitter curse.
Who don't adore the virtue of that wife
,
Who dar'd to spare an honour'd husband's life?
And who don't shudder for that Royal Lord?
Presented with a parchment, or a sword:
A cursed choice—and by the Woman giv'n,
He thought a Sister to the Saints in Heav'n:
Priests caus'd the Crocodile to murder here,
Blush holy Rogues!—blush Queen, thou Russ, thou Bear!
Run o'er the Hist'ries of the states of yore,
And all have moulder'd in the Priest, and Whore:
Strange fascination!—that the gown, and cowl,
Should bear about a more enlighten'd soul:
Thanks to our stars—we take our prayers in ease,
We hear the Parson, and we pay his fees:
They learn at present Peace in every School,
And like the City fools address by rule:
In body fat, in form, and manners full,
Prolix in words, and technically dull;
That they're but men, we always knew before,
And if they're never less—we ask no more.
Who dar'd to spare an honour'd husband's life?
And who don't shudder for that Royal Lord?
Presented with a parchment, or a sword:
A cursed choice—and by the Woman giv'n,
He thought a Sister to the Saints in Heav'n:
Priests caus'd the Crocodile to murder here,
Blush holy Rogues!—blush Queen, thou Russ, thou Bear!
Run o'er the Hist'ries of the states of yore,
And all have moulder'd in the Priest, and Whore:
Strange fascination!—that the gown, and cowl,
Should bear about a more enlighten'd soul:
Thanks to our stars—we take our prayers in ease,
We hear the Parson, and we pay his fees:
27
And like the City fools address by rule:
In body fat, in form, and manners full,
Prolix in words, and technically dull;
That they're but men, we always knew before,
And if they're never less—we ask no more.
Standing alone, an exquisitely fair,
Virtue in youth, blush'd innocently bare,
Damocles he, who bore a spotless name,
Who nobly perish'd, to preserve his fame.
O! would a spark of thy dear fame revive!
In this vile City where such scoundrels thrive!
Where man with man, O! monstrous to unfold,
Basely debase themselves thro' lust, or gold:
And when condemn'd to die dare name the Lord,
Will save these Villains from their right—a cord:
Does not this truth too daily wound the ear?
Thieves hang'd at Tyburn—Sons of Sodom—where?
Blush, Justice blush, nor let a purse prevail,
If men of rank disgrace a British Jail:
The man who asks five guineas on the road,
Does he offend mankind so much, or God?
Think you Paul Lewis had so base a vice?
Tho' dying justly with a Whore and Rice.
O! venal age—when men are not afraid,
By breeches buckles to declare their trade:
Feeding to-day, Cameleon like, on air,
To-morrow shining like a Miser's heir:
Behold e'en virtue in a common whore!
Expiring, smiling, glorying in her gore!
Peace injur'd shade!—thy bleeding wounds I'll tell,
Nor spare that wretch, that would not spare Miss Bell.
Haunt him dear Ghost in the remotest climes,
I'll rack him living with unnatural crimes:
Thou more than beast—so foul a deed to dare,
And when deny'd—to wound a form so Fair.
Where rose that trivial meteor of a Spark?
That fleeting phantom of a noon-day Park?
Where rose, where lives, this dainty fine drawn thing?
This strutting nothing on the cob-web wing?
This mighty pretty form in boots, or hose?
This form distinguish'd by the length of nose?
Where sprung, where feeds this insect of a day?
Is he a moving mistery of clay?
Or does he pray subsist?—“Hush, do not name;”
—On the excrescence of some courtly Dame?
Or does he?—no, enough, pray hold your tongue!
“He is a man of fashion, and he's young:”
Better and better still—suppose we try,
Will he at Haddock's—a Damocles die?
Why burn? that cannot answer any end,
No, no—unless to try his virtue Friend:
Pshaw, a romantick joke, a mad desire,
To try the virtue of a man in fire;
But then, if virtuous, is he to survive?
Yes, with the Gods above he'll surely live.
If Rogues will try for that precarious boon,
Fielding, and you will scald them all in Town.
Virtue in youth, blush'd innocently bare,
Damocles he, who bore a spotless name,
Who nobly perish'd, to preserve his fame.
O! would a spark of thy dear fame revive!
In this vile City where such scoundrels thrive!
Where man with man, O! monstrous to unfold,
Basely debase themselves thro' lust, or gold:
And when condemn'd to die dare name the Lord,
Will save these Villains from their right—a cord:
Does not this truth too daily wound the ear?
Thieves hang'd at Tyburn—Sons of Sodom—where?
28
If men of rank disgrace a British Jail:
The man who asks five guineas on the road,
Does he offend mankind so much, or God?
Think you Paul Lewis had so base a vice?
Tho' dying justly with a Whore and Rice.
O! venal age—when men are not afraid,
By breeches buckles to declare their trade:
Feeding to-day, Cameleon like, on air,
To-morrow shining like a Miser's heir:
Behold e'en virtue in a common whore!
Expiring, smiling, glorying in her gore!
Peace injur'd shade!—thy bleeding wounds I'll tell,
Nor spare that wretch, that would not spare Miss Bell.
Haunt him dear Ghost in the remotest climes,
I'll rack him living with unnatural crimes:
Thou more than beast—so foul a deed to dare,
And when deny'd—to wound a form so Fair.
Where rose that trivial meteor of a Spark?
That fleeting phantom of a noon-day Park?
29
This strutting nothing on the cob-web wing?
This mighty pretty form in boots, or hose?
This form distinguish'd by the length of nose?
Where sprung, where feeds this insect of a day?
Is he a moving mistery of clay?
Or does he pray subsist?—“Hush, do not name;”
—On the excrescence of some courtly Dame?
Or does he?—no, enough, pray hold your tongue!
“He is a man of fashion, and he's young:”
Better and better still—suppose we try,
Will he at Haddock's—a Damocles die?
Why burn? that cannot answer any end,
No, no—unless to try his virtue Friend:
Pshaw, a romantick joke, a mad desire,
To try the virtue of a man in fire;
But then, if virtuous, is he to survive?
Yes, with the Gods above he'll surely live.
If Rogues will try for that precarious boon,
Fielding, and you will scald them all in Town.
30
Here Atalanta show'd her pretty face,
Undone like many Girls at Epsom race;
Ye Bow-Street Hags, why prostitute the charms,
Of injur'd beauty, in a Gambler's arms?
A sett of cursed thieves, and more than Jew,
Who'll bilk a needy harlot of her due;
Ye Youths, who glory in the name of Rake,
Avoid a Gambler as you wou'd a Snake;
In words they're tempting as the summer seas,
And all their studies are the arts to please;
They'll stile you Colonel, Captain, Squire, or Lord,
But doubt their honour—and they wear a Sword.
Have you not seen a wanton, giddy fly,
Catch'd as he careless pass'd the cobweb by,
Flutter in vain his little gauzy wings,
And fall a martyr to the spider's stings?
Whores may have honour, but a Gambler can't,
They're thieves in chariots, and they're thieves in want:
It is a thousand pities Fielding's blind,
Or else such pests could never marr mankind:
In Russel-Street
, there's held a cursed Court,
Where these card Cannibals in herds resort:
Where Templers game for more than they can pay,
And wisely sink like Ghosts at dawn of day:
The City Fool here struts to show his sword,
Loses one hundred—and he's sent abroad:
The flashy Heir, perhaps more hot than wise,
Fights with a Scoundrel, and a Scoundrel dies.
Thus Atalanta, fair deluded Maid,
By gold was tempted, and by Man betray'd:
Gold changes natures, makes the Black a White,
The Coward brave; foul, fair; and error right:
It will do every thing in these poor days,
But make a Churchill give a Scotsman praise:
No, that it cannot do, give what you will,
Tho' Audley-street should march to Shuter's-hill:
Curse on the power of gold, and curse its slaves,
Great is the curse—for I have curs'd all Knaves;
What havock does is make in this huge town,
It raises Rogues, and tumbles Merit down;
Thousands it ruins, and as many makes,
Filth drives his coach, and Wotley cleans the jakes;
For debts at Play, my Lady pawns her plate,
New-Market mortgages my Lord's estate;
To-day Change-Alley makes an hundred Jews,
To-morrow Moses cleaneth Aaron's shoes:
Touchit himself has made an awful stop,
The books examin'd W---h displays his shop:
So men in trade like boys on planks appear,
One on the ground, the other high in air.
A Woman once refus'd great Jove's address,
Yet, in a shower of gold he gain'd access:
Well, so he might—and I with wings the same,
Would reach a beauty of the greatest fame:
Had I the purse of Clive, I'd try the scheme,
And 'kiss from Plymouth, up to Humber's stream.
Money, alas! will purchase all their charms,
Or how can L---g---r defile their arms?
'Tis very rare, yet some there are resist;
And nobly pay to be more nobly kist:
Happy's the man on whom such favours fall,
And if she's handsome, it is more than all.
Descend, O gold! and in a heavy show'r,
And let me try thy more than mighty pow'r!
Walking, farewel; proud chariot roll my pride;
And let me jostle with the rogues that ride:
My crest a Thistle—(who with scorn dare treat it?)
Asses supporters, and the motto—Eat it.
Bett at New-market—and at Arthur's play:
And drive o'er ev'ry villain in my way:
A knight I must be—not without a Post,
Treat Whigs with claret—and the King my toast.
For such a plate, what jockey will not start?
In hope of gaining Lady W**'s heart.
Undone like many Girls at Epsom race;
Ye Bow-Street Hags, why prostitute the charms,
Of injur'd beauty, in a Gambler's arms?
A sett of cursed thieves, and more than Jew,
Who'll bilk a needy harlot of her due;
Ye Youths, who glory in the name of Rake,
Avoid a Gambler as you wou'd a Snake;
In words they're tempting as the summer seas,
And all their studies are the arts to please;
They'll stile you Colonel, Captain, Squire, or Lord,
But doubt their honour—and they wear a Sword.
Have you not seen a wanton, giddy fly,
Catch'd as he careless pass'd the cobweb by,
Flutter in vain his little gauzy wings,
And fall a martyr to the spider's stings?
Whores may have honour, but a Gambler can't,
They're thieves in chariots, and they're thieves in want:
It is a thousand pities Fielding's blind,
Or else such pests could never marr mankind:
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Where these card Cannibals in herds resort:
Where Templers game for more than they can pay,
And wisely sink like Ghosts at dawn of day:
The City Fool here struts to show his sword,
Loses one hundred—and he's sent abroad:
The flashy Heir, perhaps more hot than wise,
Fights with a Scoundrel, and a Scoundrel dies.
Thus Atalanta, fair deluded Maid,
By gold was tempted, and by Man betray'd:
Gold changes natures, makes the Black a White,
The Coward brave; foul, fair; and error right:
It will do every thing in these poor days,
But make a Churchill give a Scotsman praise:
No, that it cannot do, give what you will,
Tho' Audley-street should march to Shuter's-hill:
Curse on the power of gold, and curse its slaves,
Great is the curse—for I have curs'd all Knaves;
What havock does is make in this huge town,
It raises Rogues, and tumbles Merit down;
Thousands it ruins, and as many makes,
Filth drives his coach, and Wotley cleans the jakes;
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New-Market mortgages my Lord's estate;
To-day Change-Alley makes an hundred Jews,
To-morrow Moses cleaneth Aaron's shoes:
Touchit himself has made an awful stop,
The books examin'd W---h displays his shop:
So men in trade like boys on planks appear,
One on the ground, the other high in air.
A Woman once refus'd great Jove's address,
Yet, in a shower of gold he gain'd access:
Well, so he might—and I with wings the same,
Would reach a beauty of the greatest fame:
Had I the purse of Clive, I'd try the scheme,
And 'kiss from Plymouth, up to Humber's stream.
Money, alas! will purchase all their charms,
Or how can L---g---r defile their arms?
'Tis very rare, yet some there are resist;
And nobly pay to be more nobly kist:
Happy's the man on whom such favours fall,
And if she's handsome, it is more than all.
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And let me try thy more than mighty pow'r!
Walking, farewel; proud chariot roll my pride;
And let me jostle with the rogues that ride:
My crest a Thistle—(who with scorn dare treat it?)
Asses supporters, and the motto—Eat it.
Bett at New-market—and at Arthur's play:
And drive o'er ev'ry villain in my way:
A knight I must be—not without a Post,
Treat Whigs with claret—and the King my toast.
For such a plate, what jockey will not start?
In hope of gaining Lady W**'s heart.
These, and a thousand more appear'd in stone,
Themselves forgotten, and their deaths unknown:
Many perhaps expir'd thro' lust, or shame,
And some when dead to bear a tinkling name:
Romantick Lovers crowd the outward wall,
Doubtless undone by love and folly all:
Thousands above to madness near allied,
Liv'd in Romance, and in a duel died:
Numbers unfinish'd fill'd the nether place,
Of various Kingdoms, but of modern Race:
And might we judge too from the mighty store,
Our fools in love, surpass the fools of yore.
Themselves forgotten, and their deaths unknown:
Many perhaps expir'd thro' lust, or shame,
And some when dead to bear a tinkling name:
Romantick Lovers crowd the outward wall,
Doubtless undone by love and folly all:
Thousands above to madness near allied,
Liv'd in Romance, and in a duel died:
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Of various Kingdoms, but of modern Race:
And might we judge too from the mighty store,
Our fools in love, surpass the fools of yore.
Sesostris the second being blind, the oracle of Brutus declared, he would recover his sight by using the Urine of a woman, who had known no man but her husband—He tried his own wife, and many more to no effect; and lastly, found the remedy in a Gardener's wife, whom he made his Queen—burning the adultresses in Erythibolus.
Cheops, king of Egypt, had a Daughter, who requiring a stone of each gallant, with them built a pyramid.
Hannibal, says Valerius Maximus, had now got such a relish for pleasures, that he was more frequently seen in a place of debauchery, call'd Seplasia, than in the camp; a place, where it was a crime for a Roman to appear in.
Apollodorus bore Cleopatra on his back through the streets of Alexandria, folded in a matrass, and laid the beautiful burden at Cæsar's feet—The Roman Hero, out of true military compassion, took care of her all night.
A Maid Servant at Rome, who, when the State was weak, was given to the Fidenates, whom she betrayed, when drunk, by a signal; for which service the Maid Servants were free, and had portions out of the public treasury.
| The Court of Cupid | |