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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THE DEMI-REP. |
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 | The Court of Cupid |  |
37
THE DEMI-REP.
Conjugium vocat, hoc prætexit nomine culpam.
Virg.
Where Matrimony veils th'incestuous Life,
And Whore is shelter'd in the name of Wife.
And Whore is shelter'd in the name of Wife.
The Times are such, I cannot kindly speak;
Since mere appearances are all we seek:
One may be hang'd for looking o'er the gate,
A second steal the horse and ride in state.
Since mere appearances are all we seek:
One may be hang'd for looking o'er the gate,
A second steal the horse and ride in state.
Vices of ev'ry kind so much prevail,
That were the virtues in the adverse scale;
And just Astræa pois'd the beam with care,
The bad would sink—the good would mount in air.
There's not a single crime beneath the sun,
But what in this great City's hourly done:
There's not one vice, peculiar to one clime,
But we have transplanted here from time to time:
Transplanted so that they have proudly grown,
As proudly we adopted them our own.
We Holland's avarice and thirst of gain,
The filth of Portugal, the pride of Spain;
The insincerity of France assume,
And practise all the turpitudes of Rome;
Nor damn'd enough, we more exoticks sue,
Importing plagues from Turkey and Peru:
Here foreign crimes and ills take deeper stains,
And roll in torrents through our English veins.
Vice in a thousand horrid forms appears,
In strength increasing with increasing years:
A virtuous Court, is no attracting charm,
To vicious Courtiers who like vermin swarm;
From complicated filths engender'd first,
They by the genial sun from matter burst
To life: then in a thousand frightful forms
They rise, and blast mankind with deadly storms.
That were the virtues in the adverse scale;
And just Astræa pois'd the beam with care,
The bad would sink—the good would mount in air.
40
But what in this great City's hourly done:
There's not one vice, peculiar to one clime,
But we have transplanted here from time to time:
Transplanted so that they have proudly grown,
As proudly we adopted them our own.
We Holland's avarice and thirst of gain,
The filth of Portugal, the pride of Spain;
The insincerity of France assume,
And practise all the turpitudes of Rome;
Nor damn'd enough, we more exoticks sue,
Importing plagues from Turkey and Peru:
Here foreign crimes and ills take deeper stains,
And roll in torrents through our English veins.
Vice in a thousand horrid forms appears,
In strength increasing with increasing years:
A virtuous Court, is no attracting charm,
To vicious Courtiers who like vermin swarm;
From complicated filths engender'd first,
They by the genial sun from matter burst
To life: then in a thousand frightful forms
They rise, and blast mankind with deadly storms.
Heavens! such impositions now appear,
Man can't be even said to see, or hear!
Such cursed impositions rise to view,
Though vice was thought at top; still, they are new.
Who can with temper see that haggard quean,
Playing through life the most adult'rate scene!
With feelings who can see, and not complain,
Of the lewd actions of a Lady V---?
Pity that other little Lord, poor dupe!
Hen-peck'd, confin'd within his Lady's hoop.
Now pray you pity, the poor simple man,
Bully'd through life by such a harridan!
Who quite compos'd can warmly coo at court,
And make this little lord her little sport!
Hell and confusion what a life is here,
When men thus truckle, women domineer!
Immortal Dorset, Rochester arise,
And wipe the film from such poor Cuckold's eyes!
Convince the Noble, and the plodding Man,
Footmen will end the work they first began:
Or give me rhime to lash each vicious step,
And check the conduct of the Demi-rep!
Man can't be even said to see, or hear!
41
Though vice was thought at top; still, they are new.
Who can with temper see that haggard quean,
Playing through life the most adult'rate scene!
With feelings who can see, and not complain,
Of the lewd actions of a Lady V---?
Pity that other little Lord, poor dupe!
Hen-peck'd, confin'd within his Lady's hoop.
Now pray you pity, the poor simple man,
Bully'd through life by such a harridan!
Who quite compos'd can warmly coo at court,
And make this little lord her little sport!
Hell and confusion what a life is here,
When men thus truckle, women domineer!
Immortal Dorset, Rochester arise,
And wipe the film from such poor Cuckold's eyes!
Convince the Noble, and the plodding Man,
Footmen will end the work they first began:
Or give me rhime to lash each vicious step,
And check the conduct of the Demi-rep!
42
Behold that house!—prodigious grand indeed;
Behold her company!—all noble breed;
Behold her Footmen, what a brawny crew!
Pamper'd to do what Nobles cannot do.
Their liv'ries, how superbe! themselves how trim!
As if lewd Venus had fram'd ev'ry limb:
They're not intended now for menial use,
As cleaning plate, or knives, or blacking shoes;
When they are hired, whether white or black,
The Mistress takes them by the breadth of back;
For search this City round, and round about,
You'll find no class so handsome or so stout:
It is a maxim in which Dames are clear,
A strapping Footman to a tiny Peer.
Behold her dress, her table and her house!
Nothing can be more grand, more rich, profuse.
Pray does she play Sir?—play! ay well, and wins,
Or else her income would not buy her pins.
Pray is she married? Yes, her Spouse in France,
The tame good creature let's her take her dance.
Pray is she modest?—As Lucretia known;
But forc'd by all the Tarquins in the town.
Yes, the good Lady chaste Lucretia apes,
To save her fame she pays for daily rapes.—
Yet, there's a way to gain her with great ease,
Which is a never-failing rule to please:
To lose your cash exert your play, and art,
And you may ride the turnpike to her heart:
Or if you can, win all she has at play,
Return the sum,—and take it out her way:
If you are lucky, stick to't hand and foot,
Get her in debt, then play it out at put.
For there she's happy, whether out or in,
Play as you please, she's always sure to win.
But if you're handsome, sturdy, fair, and sound,
Please but her whim—she'll tip a thousand pound:
This is the way, a way nor strange, nor new,
And ask of C---f---d if it is not true!
Behold her company!—all noble breed;
Behold her Footmen, what a brawny crew!
Pamper'd to do what Nobles cannot do.
Their liv'ries, how superbe! themselves how trim!
As if lewd Venus had fram'd ev'ry limb:
They're not intended now for menial use,
As cleaning plate, or knives, or blacking shoes;
When they are hired, whether white or black,
The Mistress takes them by the breadth of back;
For search this City round, and round about,
You'll find no class so handsome or so stout:
It is a maxim in which Dames are clear,
A strapping Footman to a tiny Peer.
Behold her dress, her table and her house!
Nothing can be more grand, more rich, profuse.
Pray does she play Sir?—play! ay well, and wins,
Or else her income would not buy her pins.
Pray is she married? Yes, her Spouse in France,
The tame good creature let's her take her dance.
43
But forc'd by all the Tarquins in the town.
Yes, the good Lady chaste Lucretia apes,
To save her fame she pays for daily rapes.—
Yet, there's a way to gain her with great ease,
Which is a never-failing rule to please:
To lose your cash exert your play, and art,
And you may ride the turnpike to her heart:
Or if you can, win all she has at play,
Return the sum,—and take it out her way:
If you are lucky, stick to't hand and foot,
Get her in debt, then play it out at put.
For there she's happy, whether out or in,
Play as you please, she's always sure to win.
But if you're handsome, sturdy, fair, and sound,
Please but her whim—she'll tip a thousand pound:
This is the way, a way nor strange, nor new,
And ask of C---f---d if it is not true!
Maidens of forty-five of virtue boast,
Pure as the virgin snow,—seal'd up as frost:
Affect the icy chastity of Nuns,
Despise the thaw of Love, and genial suns:
Talk of temptation with a hermit's pride,
How they've resisted, and how men have tried.
Such is Miss Macer, whose eternal boast,
Is, what man offers, and what virtue lost.
“O my dear virtue! would I forfeit thee,
“I might enjoy the top of pageantry!
“But I and virtue, cannot, will not part.”—
Thus Macer talks, but talks not from the heart:
Talks of her neighbours with a venom'd tooth,
Yet Macer never deviates into truth:
She by abusing those who're free from shame,
Builds upon infamy a cobweb fame;
Rails at young Masterman's lascivious sin,
And yet in private ev'ry year lies in;
In those convenient places of the town,
Where Maiden Ladies lay their bantlings down:
It's thus with Macer and the Maids well bred,
When thought at Bath, they're only brought to bed.
O! lovely Masterman, unconquer'd Rake,
Passions, once screw'd so high, must crack, must break.
As mills are turn'd by each capricious gust,
So Woman's turn'd by money, mode, or lust.
Thro' life a pattern of domestic love;
Loving, and constant as the turtle dove:
The sweetest temper with the fairest face,
When education adds to native grace:
Loving her children, of her children lov'd,
And married to the Man her heart approv'd:
The halcyon state all wish'd which Pritta shar'd,
And when they talk'd of love with her compar'd:
“O could my spouse and I enjoy such bliss!
“Ye Gods did Pritta ever do amiss!”
Hang Heav'n with black;—ye rivers stream with blood!
Reign vice triumphant over all that's good!
Fork'd lightnings dart,—ye mutt'ring thunders roar!
Seas burst your bounds, and deluge ev'ry shore!
Yield up your dead ye graves,—earth's centre shake!
Chaos is come,—and Pritta's turn'd a rake.
Twenty years married, and at last to fall!
Is more than man can bear that feels at all.
Would it not make one curse the sex, to see
An Angel end her life in infamy!
Oh! I could curse while ink my oaths could black,
To see so fair a fabrick—fall to wrack.
Have you no pity for the babes you bore,
Must they survive, nor own a Mother more?
Have you no feelings for their infant years,
No anxious moments—or no Mother's fears?
Relent! nor be absorb'd in sin, and mirth,
To make them curse the womb that gave 'em birth.
Pure as the virgin snow,—seal'd up as frost:
Affect the icy chastity of Nuns,
Despise the thaw of Love, and genial suns:
Talk of temptation with a hermit's pride,
How they've resisted, and how men have tried.
44
Is, what man offers, and what virtue lost.
“O my dear virtue! would I forfeit thee,
“I might enjoy the top of pageantry!
“But I and virtue, cannot, will not part.”—
Thus Macer talks, but talks not from the heart:
Talks of her neighbours with a venom'd tooth,
Yet Macer never deviates into truth:
She by abusing those who're free from shame,
Builds upon infamy a cobweb fame;
Rails at young Masterman's lascivious sin,
And yet in private ev'ry year lies in;
In those convenient places of the town,
Where Maiden Ladies lay their bantlings down:
It's thus with Macer and the Maids well bred,
When thought at Bath, they're only brought to bed.
O! lovely Masterman, unconquer'd Rake,
Passions, once screw'd so high, must crack, must break.
45
So Woman's turn'd by money, mode, or lust.
Thro' life a pattern of domestic love;
Loving, and constant as the turtle dove:
The sweetest temper with the fairest face,
When education adds to native grace:
Loving her children, of her children lov'd,
And married to the Man her heart approv'd:
The halcyon state all wish'd which Pritta shar'd,
And when they talk'd of love with her compar'd:
“O could my spouse and I enjoy such bliss!
“Ye Gods did Pritta ever do amiss!”
Hang Heav'n with black;—ye rivers stream with blood!
Reign vice triumphant over all that's good!
Fork'd lightnings dart,—ye mutt'ring thunders roar!
Seas burst your bounds, and deluge ev'ry shore!
Yield up your dead ye graves,—earth's centre shake!
Chaos is come,—and Pritta's turn'd a rake.
Twenty years married, and at last to fall!
Is more than man can bear that feels at all.
46
An Angel end her life in infamy!
Oh! I could curse while ink my oaths could black,
To see so fair a fabrick—fall to wrack.
Have you no pity for the babes you bore,
Must they survive, nor own a Mother more?
Have you no feelings for their infant years,
No anxious moments—or no Mother's fears?
Relent! nor be absorb'd in sin, and mirth,
To make them curse the womb that gave 'em birth.
Lord, what a delicate delightful creature!
Love in her eyes, and grace in ev'ry feature:
So young, so tender, and so modest too,
She'd tempt a very Sweedish Charles to woo.
Ye Gods!—ye little Gods of house, or fane,
Or rather Venus dear to Drury-Lane,
Assist my tongue to lisp her praises o'er,
And draw a picture never drawn before!
Pygmalion's statue not more chaste in death,
Sweet as the pouting rose, ere Zephyr's breath
The Maiden bellows of his lungs hath blown,
To make those maiden beauties all his own.
Touch her, she faints—court her you're mighty rude;
Praise her, she'll blush,—and vow you make her proud:
Name genial joys she'll freeze at ev'ry pore,
Force but one kiss,—she's lost for evermore.
Her reading's Langhorne, and platonick love,
Which every day her feelings disapprove.
Her Church the Magdelene, her Preacher Dodd,
By following whom, she's sure to lose her God.
Her pity those, created first from dust,
Undone by that unnat'ral passion lust.
Thus ** lives, and to the world appears
A virgin saint throughout a train of years.
The curtain's drawn.—Now view her virgin plan!
Melting with joy, beneath her Father's man.
Love in her eyes, and grace in ev'ry feature:
So young, so tender, and so modest too,
She'd tempt a very Sweedish Charles to woo.
47
Or rather Venus dear to Drury-Lane,
Assist my tongue to lisp her praises o'er,
And draw a picture never drawn before!
48
Sweet as the pouting rose, ere Zephyr's breath
The Maiden bellows of his lungs hath blown,
To make those maiden beauties all his own.
Touch her, she faints—court her you're mighty rude;
Praise her, she'll blush,—and vow you make her proud:
Name genial joys she'll freeze at ev'ry pore,
Force but one kiss,—she's lost for evermore.
Her reading's Langhorne, and platonick love,
Which every day her feelings disapprove.
Her Church the Magdelene, her Preacher Dodd,
By following whom, she's sure to lose her God.
Her pity those, created first from dust,
Undone by that unnat'ral passion lust.
Thus ** lives, and to the world appears
A virgin saint throughout a train of years.
The curtain's drawn.—Now view her virgin plan!
Melting with joy, beneath her Father's man.
This Town's infested by a pack of Dames,
Burnt with the hotest meretricious flames.
Chaste as unfired coals they seem, but sin
Has to a cinder burnt them up within:
Their skins are parch'd with use, and yet they rail
At whoredom, tho' they're whores from head to tail.
Behold old Phoebe, tott'ring on a staff,
Tho' call'd alive, her own dead epitaph:
Double with age, her eyes with rheum o'er-flown,
Lip drop'd, cheek shrunk, and drivel driv'ling down,
Toothless by coughing, from long munching grim,
An aspin palsy shaking ev'ry limb:
Grey as a badger, wrinkl'd as an ape,
And worn by time and ven'ry out of shape.
Yet Phoebe lusts, and wonders men are cold,
And grieves to think she's courted for her gold:
Chuckles for ev'ry sturdy youth she sees,
Although she keeps a stud in liveries:
At eighty Phoebe dies.—The world all stare,
To find an Irish Chairman Phoebe's heir:
To whom these moving words, she moving cried,
O spare me Patrick!—spare me more!—and died.
Burnt with the hotest meretricious flames.
49
Has to a cinder burnt them up within:
Their skins are parch'd with use, and yet they rail
At whoredom, tho' they're whores from head to tail.
Behold old Phoebe, tott'ring on a staff,
Tho' call'd alive, her own dead epitaph:
Double with age, her eyes with rheum o'er-flown,
Lip drop'd, cheek shrunk, and drivel driv'ling down,
Toothless by coughing, from long munching grim,
An aspin palsy shaking ev'ry limb:
Grey as a badger, wrinkl'd as an ape,
And worn by time and ven'ry out of shape.
Yet Phoebe lusts, and wonders men are cold,
And grieves to think she's courted for her gold:
Chuckles for ev'ry sturdy youth she sees,
Although she keeps a stud in liveries:
At eighty Phoebe dies.—The world all stare,
To find an Irish Chairman Phoebe's heir:
50
O spare me Patrick!—spare me more!—and died.
Would you imagine me at once to find
A man so base, so venal, to resign
The Woman that his heart approv'd, to wear
A dirty feather in a higher sphere!
Would one imagine that ambition cou'd
Possess a Man to prostitute his blood!
To prostitute to other's lusts his wife,
To stink in gilded infamy through life!
Would one imagine such a Wretch to be,
A wretch so mean to boast his infamy!
Can the same vital fire possess such dust,
To give up virtue to adult'rate lust?
To give a wife up with the sweetest charms
For lucre to Boscawen's nautick arms?
'Tis but too true. I wish it was forgot,
Since Mrs. L---n was Mrs. S---t.
A man so base, so venal, to resign
The Woman that his heart approv'd, to wear
A dirty feather in a higher sphere!
Would one imagine that ambition cou'd
Possess a Man to prostitute his blood!
To prostitute to other's lusts his wife,
To stink in gilded infamy through life!
Would one imagine such a Wretch to be,
A wretch so mean to boast his infamy!
Can the same vital fire possess such dust,
To give up virtue to adult'rate lust?
To give a wife up with the sweetest charms
For lucre to Boscawen's nautick arms?
'Tis but too true. I wish it was forgot,
Since Mrs. L---n was Mrs. S---t.
The greatest curse in this inconstant life,
Is, to be curst with an inconstant wife:
But double still's the curse, when all we know
Will not amount to proof; when she shall go
From man to man with fresh carniv'rous lust,
And take the greatest with the greatest gust.
Deception is the dress which Women wear,
They paint, yet foolish Man believes 'em fair:
Each has a Janus' face,—here war,—there peace,
Which artful Woman changes at her ease:
So very false in all, that ev'ry part
They act, is seldom acted from the heart.
By art, by stratagem they brazen truth,
And murder thousands in the bloom of youth.
The Spoiler thus upon the publick way,
Draws the unwary trav'ller astray;
But soon shakes off the cheat, and to the heart
Stabs the good Man that meant the gen'rous part.
Woman, why form'd so shallow, false, and blind,
At once the curse, and blessing of Mankind!
Why made so soft, so elegant, so fair,
At once to please, and pleasing to ensnare!
But why surpris'd that Woman should deceive,
When ev'ry Woman is the type of Eve?
To day an angel, tender, kind, and civil;
To-morrow, thunder, lightning, rain, and Devil:
In Eden with one Man she prov'd a brim,
And found some happy means to cuckold him.
Unhappy E**l, how we lament thy case,
To try in public thus a wife's disgrace!
A cunning dame that could contrive her sport,
To save her Gallant from the costs of Court:
A Gallant whom the fairest Matron, might
To wanton in her snowy arms invite:
A Gallant whom a thousand women love,
And whom, let's hope, the better half approve.
Such various cheats in various life appear,
It seems domestick harmony, where Dear,
And Love, and Duck, and Joy's the mutual song:
Kissing and ever cooing in a throng:
But tongs and poker ere you're out o'door,
Accord in concert to “you rogue—you whore!”
Such are the various cheats in various life,
With a chaste, mighty good kind of a wife.
Is, to be curst with an inconstant wife:
51
Will not amount to proof; when she shall go
From man to man with fresh carniv'rous lust,
And take the greatest with the greatest gust.
Deception is the dress which Women wear,
They paint, yet foolish Man believes 'em fair:
Each has a Janus' face,—here war,—there peace,
Which artful Woman changes at her ease:
So very false in all, that ev'ry part
They act, is seldom acted from the heart.
By art, by stratagem they brazen truth,
And murder thousands in the bloom of youth.
The Spoiler thus upon the publick way,
Draws the unwary trav'ller astray;
But soon shakes off the cheat, and to the heart
Stabs the good Man that meant the gen'rous part.
Woman, why form'd so shallow, false, and blind,
At once the curse, and blessing of Mankind!
Why made so soft, so elegant, so fair,
At once to please, and pleasing to ensnare!
52
When ev'ry Woman is the type of Eve?
To day an angel, tender, kind, and civil;
To-morrow, thunder, lightning, rain, and Devil:
In Eden with one Man she prov'd a brim,
And found some happy means to cuckold him.
Unhappy E**l, how we lament thy case,
To try in public thus a wife's disgrace!
A cunning dame that could contrive her sport,
To save her Gallant from the costs of Court:
A Gallant whom the fairest Matron, might
To wanton in her snowy arms invite:
A Gallant whom a thousand women love,
And whom, let's hope, the better half approve.
Such various cheats in various life appear,
It seems domestick harmony, where Dear,
And Love, and Duck, and Joy's the mutual song:
Kissing and ever cooing in a throng:
But tongs and poker ere you're out o'door,
Accord in concert to “you rogue—you whore!”
53
With a chaste, mighty good kind of a wife.
Women have various schemes in being Wives,
Some to enjoy their Man,—some freer lives:
But marriage, like all earthly things possest,
Falls short in that, we wish'd to make us blest.—
In marriage, this, a trifle you'll allow,
Tom broke his leg;—and Madam broke her vow:
Hating to nurse—away to France she flies,
And in the int'rim the poor cripple dies:
The world all star'd,—to find a wife elope,
But drop'd their wonder—when 'twas Mrs. P---e,
Fair she was made, and shone with native grace,
Catching applauses from the Gallic Race;
Display'd those talents Nature made her own,
And took a Knight in—easy as a Clown:
Married,—return'd, she proves a torn down Hack,
And labours now to break her second's back.—
If this is marriage let me shun the wreck,
For fear I get a Dame may break my neck:
Maids when they're courted are our bliss in love,
The question is, what wives those maids will prove?
Some to enjoy their Man,—some freer lives:
But marriage, like all earthly things possest,
Falls short in that, we wish'd to make us blest.—
In marriage, this, a trifle you'll allow,
Tom broke his leg;—and Madam broke her vow:
Hating to nurse—away to France she flies,
And in the int'rim the poor cripple dies:
The world all star'd,—to find a wife elope,
But drop'd their wonder—when 'twas Mrs. P---e,
Fair she was made, and shone with native grace,
Catching applauses from the Gallic Race;
Display'd those talents Nature made her own,
And took a Knight in—easy as a Clown:
Married,—return'd, she proves a torn down Hack,
And labours now to break her second's back.—
54
For fear I get a Dame may break my neck:
Maids when they're courted are our bliss in love,
The question is, what wives those maids will prove?
Cruel injunction by a husband laid
Upon a wife,—who makes her cards her trade:
Cruel injunction, from the man we wed,
To force a wife from cards at five, to bed:
Cruel injunction, all the world must say,
A Duke, to force a Dutchess from her play:
If others copy from these great men's rules,
What times will Ladies have from doating fools!
Marriage!—my stars! who'll ever be a wife,
When Maids are free with all,—and Maids for life!
Marriage! avaunt—your chains I now disown;
First,—make me Demi-rep to half the town.
Husband no more, that thus my love rewards!
Take Husband Heav'n—and give me love and cards.
Thus G---n spoke,—and smiling slipt away
From him for ever—to her tea, and play:
She felt no nuptial ties—nor dreaded ill,
Her cares were Ombre—and her joy Quadrille:
Children, House, Husband sunk without a sigh:
—What live, and quit my cards! I'd rather die,
With gallant, gentle, upper O---y.
Upon a wife,—who makes her cards her trade:
Cruel injunction, from the man we wed,
To force a wife from cards at five, to bed:
Cruel injunction, all the world must say,
A Duke, to force a Dutchess from her play:
If others copy from these great men's rules,
What times will Ladies have from doating fools!
Marriage!—my stars! who'll ever be a wife,
When Maids are free with all,—and Maids for life!
Marriage! avaunt—your chains I now disown;
First,—make me Demi-rep to half the town.
Husband no more, that thus my love rewards!
Take Husband Heav'n—and give me love and cards.
Thus G---n spoke,—and smiling slipt away
From him for ever—to her tea, and play:
55
Her cares were Ombre—and her joy Quadrille:
Children, House, Husband sunk without a sigh:
—What live, and quit my cards! I'd rather die,
With gallant, gentle, upper O---y.
That blessing Love, the God of Nature gave
To cheer us from the cradle to the grave;
But yet alas! what perils wait the Spark;
That blindly puts to sea in Cupid's bark:
The waves of scandal roar—and ev'ry gust
Is stir'd by passion, jealousy, or lust:
Beauty, should have a skillful pilot's care,
Through envious rocks and shoals to steer her clear;
Beauty the eyes of Argus too requires,
To save her cargo from the pirate's fires;
Beauty's th'Hesperian tree,—and ev'ry brute
Will risk his life to pluck the golden fruit:
Beauty alas! hath not one friend below
But virtue, which can vanquish ev'ry foe:
She that hath virtue is compleatly arm'd
But Beauty without virtue may be charm'd.
To cheer us from the cradle to the grave;
But yet alas! what perils wait the Spark;
That blindly puts to sea in Cupid's bark:
The waves of scandal roar—and ev'ry gust
Is stir'd by passion, jealousy, or lust:
Beauty, should have a skillful pilot's care,
Through envious rocks and shoals to steer her clear;
Beauty the eyes of Argus too requires,
To save her cargo from the pirate's fires;
Beauty's th'Hesperian tree,—and ev'ry brute
Will risk his life to pluck the golden fruit:
Beauty alas! hath not one friend below
But virtue, which can vanquish ev'ry foe:
56
But Beauty without virtue may be charm'd.
A beauteous woman, reputation gone,
Is like a half-pay officer in town;
In virtue she is courted, and desir'd,
In war he's honour'd, and by all admir'd:
Her virgin flow'r once pluck'd—her credit's gone:
And he in peace is credited by none:
Such is the Soldier's, such the Virgin's lot,
Alike unpitied, and alike forgot.—
Is there no pity 'mongst the rich, and great,
For those poor girls who roam the public street?
Have you no pity for the sons of Mars,
Who bought your peace at the expence of scars?
Shall one sad fate each hapless kind attend,
Alike unpitied, and without a friend?
Curs'd be that Man, who will not stoop to save
The injur'd Maid, or Soldier from the grave!
Alive, may conscience be his earthly Hell,
As dead, he will the damndest Fiends out yell!
Is like a half-pay officer in town;
In virtue she is courted, and desir'd,
In war he's honour'd, and by all admir'd:
Her virgin flow'r once pluck'd—her credit's gone:
And he in peace is credited by none:
Such is the Soldier's, such the Virgin's lot,
Alike unpitied, and alike forgot.—
Is there no pity 'mongst the rich, and great,
For those poor girls who roam the public street?
Have you no pity for the sons of Mars,
Who bought your peace at the expence of scars?
Shall one sad fate each hapless kind attend,
Alike unpitied, and without a friend?
Curs'd be that Man, who will not stoop to save
The injur'd Maid, or Soldier from the grave!
Alive, may conscience be his earthly Hell,
As dead, he will the damndest Fiends out yell!
57
List! list ye Sinners! I'll a tale unfold,
A tale, shall shock the Man tho' savage bold:
If you have feelings—here you shall deplore,
And bleed, and agonize at every pore:
If injur'd Woman ever drew a tear,
Shower down a torrent on a sister here!
If perjur'd perfidy e'er curs'd our race,
If Heaven marks the virtuous, from the base,
If incest, upon incest, can incense
The wrath of Heaven, Heaven thy wrath dispense!
A tale, shall shock the Man tho' savage bold:
If you have feelings—here you shall deplore,
And bleed, and agonize at every pore:
If injur'd Woman ever drew a tear,
Shower down a torrent on a sister here!
If perjur'd perfidy e'er curs'd our race,
If Heaven marks the virtuous, from the base,
If incest, upon incest, can incense
The wrath of Heaven, Heaven thy wrath dispense!
In a small village vice could never find,
Nor garish dress corrupt the female mind:
Where courtly luxury had never stray'd,
To cram the glutton,—to seduce the Maid;—
Here Virtue, taught her virtue in her youth,
And pure Religion mark'd the ways of truth;
Heav'n in her birth shew'd ev'ry darling care,
And made her beauteous as her angels are:
All these, and more the sweet Carrelia shar'd,
A spotless angel to the town repair'd:
All prais'd her charms, for none could look, but lov'd:
The sigh, the wish, the joy of all she prov'd
All prais'd to please, without one thought to truth,
All try'd by flatt'ry to corrupt her youth;
Dukes, Lords, and Princes could admire, could swear,
“Heaven never made an angel half so fair;”
(For common words with Nobles have a force,
Which other men may use till they are hoarse)
Flatt'ry alas! the bane of womankind,
Pour'd by degrees its poison in her mind;
Flatt'ry the curse of all the lovely sex,
The rock where Women make their fatal wrecks,
Smooth, pleasing poison which the mind receives,
Tho' conscious of the endless wound it gives.
Ye undeluded shun the flow'ry shore,
Nor split, where thousands have been wreck'd before!
Flatt'ry alas! her sugar'd poison pours,
Like venom'd snakes beneath the fairest flowers.
O! shun the lure, and mark Carrelia's end,
In youth a weeping Nun, without one friend,
To a thatch'd cot retir'd to end her days;
Searching with broken contrite heart the ways
Of Heav'n for happy Penitents reserv'd,
(For more or less in life we all have swerv'd.)
But Heav'n attentive hears the Sinner's pray'r,
And from the drooping soul—removes the care:
Gives that reviving Hope to all below,
That, bliss succeeds this temporary woe.
Nor garish dress corrupt the female mind:
Where courtly luxury had never stray'd,
To cram the glutton,—to seduce the Maid;—
Here Virtue, taught her virtue in her youth,
And pure Religion mark'd the ways of truth;
Heav'n in her birth shew'd ev'ry darling care,
And made her beauteous as her angels are:
All these, and more the sweet Carrelia shar'd,
A spotless angel to the town repair'd:
58
The sigh, the wish, the joy of all she prov'd
All prais'd to please, without one thought to truth,
All try'd by flatt'ry to corrupt her youth;
Dukes, Lords, and Princes could admire, could swear,
“Heaven never made an angel half so fair;”
(For common words with Nobles have a force,
Which other men may use till they are hoarse)
Flatt'ry alas! the bane of womankind,
Pour'd by degrees its poison in her mind;
Flatt'ry the curse of all the lovely sex,
The rock where Women make their fatal wrecks,
Smooth, pleasing poison which the mind receives,
Tho' conscious of the endless wound it gives.
Ye undeluded shun the flow'ry shore,
Nor split, where thousands have been wreck'd before!
Flatt'ry alas! her sugar'd poison pours,
Like venom'd snakes beneath the fairest flowers.
59
In youth a weeping Nun, without one friend,
To a thatch'd cot retir'd to end her days;
Searching with broken contrite heart the ways
Of Heav'n for happy Penitents reserv'd,
(For more or less in life we all have swerv'd.)
But Heav'n attentive hears the Sinner's pray'r,
And from the drooping soul—removes the care:
Gives that reviving Hope to all below,
That, bliss succeeds this temporary woe.
Hence Charity! and Indignation rush
With all ethereal fire and rage, to crush
The Wretch, that gather'd first this flow'ret gay,
Then cast it like a “loathsome weed away.”
Curs'd be the Wretch that can seduce the Fair,
Then, drive 'em forth to all the stings of care!
For all the riches of the golden West,
I would not have the Hell in L---w---th---r's breast!
Heav'n keep me poor, and steady to my trust,
Firm tho' unhappy, and tho' tempted just.
Nay, might I choose—I would be stak'd in flames,
Rather than damn'd like Twitcher and Sir James.
With all ethereal fire and rage, to crush
The Wretch, that gather'd first this flow'ret gay,
Then cast it like a “loathsome weed away.”
Curs'd be the Wretch that can seduce the Fair,
Then, drive 'em forth to all the stings of care!
For all the riches of the golden West,
I would not have the Hell in L---w---th---r's breast!
Heav'n keep me poor, and steady to my trust,
Firm tho' unhappy, and tho' tempted just.
60
Rather than damn'd like Twitcher and Sir James.
That first great Demi-rep, first Queen of hearts,
Whose wanton love reduc'd all hero's parts;
She who brought mighty Cæsar on his knees,
To pay the turnpike to the seat of ease:
That flowry seat on Ida's mid-land shore,
Where none e'er enter'd but did first adore:
A worship follow'd by the Prince and Slave;
At once our cradle, and at once our grave;
A truth fulfill'd by Men of each degree,
From love-sick Anthony to love-sick Me.
Hail Cleopatra of the shining East!
Who first made lust a dish at ev'ry feast;
Fair Demi-rep from whom profusion rose
In lust, in lux'ry, pageantry, and cloaths:
Who will not fire at that lascivious thought,
When on his back Apollodorus brought
A rich Mattress, fill'd with a richer treat,
And laid the jewel down at Cæsar's feet:
O how the Blood trills at the luscious scene,
A Cæsar bleeding with a maiden queen!
From Cleopatra's wanton, giddy steps,
Arose the wanton race of Demi-reps:
Such are the changes of our state below,
The scene of joy becomes a scene of woe;
Anthony falling shuns Octavius' grasp,
And Cleopatra courts the fatal asp!
Whose wanton love reduc'd all hero's parts;
She who brought mighty Cæsar on his knees,
To pay the turnpike to the seat of ease:
That flowry seat on Ida's mid-land shore,
Where none e'er enter'd but did first adore:
A worship follow'd by the Prince and Slave;
At once our cradle, and at once our grave;
A truth fulfill'd by Men of each degree,
From love-sick Anthony to love-sick Me.
Hail Cleopatra of the shining East!
Who first made lust a dish at ev'ry feast;
Fair Demi-rep from whom profusion rose
In lust, in lux'ry, pageantry, and cloaths:
Who will not fire at that lascivious thought,
When on his back Apollodorus brought
A rich Mattress, fill'd with a richer treat,
And laid the jewel down at Cæsar's feet:
O how the Blood trills at the luscious scene,
A Cæsar bleeding with a maiden queen!
61
Arose the wanton race of Demi-reps:
Such are the changes of our state below,
The scene of joy becomes a scene of woe;
Anthony falling shuns Octavius' grasp,
And Cleopatra courts the fatal asp!
Fortune, whose favours are promiscuous hurl'd,
The giddy Mistress of a giddy world;
To thee, vain goddess, still our altars blaze,
Still swell to thee the various notes of praise:
To thee the labour of each head and hand,
To thee our travels both by sea and land;
The Poet's lay, the Statesman's subtle scheme,
The air-built castle, and the golden dream.
Neptune's rough sons who e'er his surges sweep,
And tempt with swelling sails the awful deep,
In many an oath thy changing power revere,
As through the storm or lengthen'd calm they steer.
For thee the hardy Veterans sustain,
The heats of summer, and the winter's rain:
E'en Priests themselves to thee have learnt to pray,
And mitred heads confess thy sacred sway:
Physick's grave tribe, and Law's rapacious crew,
And traffick's Sons, all toil alike for you:
By thee the Arts and Sciences avail,
And tardy Justice lifts her equal scale.
Say then, blind Goddess, while we have in view
Thy various gifts, and variously pursue!
Say, shall the hungry Poet by his lay,
Exulting eat the dinner of the day?
Shall some dull Lord deep smit with love of verse,
For panegyrick give the needed purse?
Or is he doom'd by thy unkinder pow'r,
Fasting to write in thrice exalted floor?
Where unmolested spiders spread the snare,
Where stand the sheetless bed, the broken chair;
Where to defend the bard from blasts of night,
Rags in the casement keep out wind and light.
The giddy Mistress of a giddy world;
To thee, vain goddess, still our altars blaze,
Still swell to thee the various notes of praise:
To thee the labour of each head and hand,
To thee our travels both by sea and land;
The Poet's lay, the Statesman's subtle scheme,
The air-built castle, and the golden dream.
Neptune's rough sons who e'er his surges sweep,
And tempt with swelling sails the awful deep,
In many an oath thy changing power revere,
As through the storm or lengthen'd calm they steer.
For thee the hardy Veterans sustain,
The heats of summer, and the winter's rain:
62
And mitred heads confess thy sacred sway:
Physick's grave tribe, and Law's rapacious crew,
And traffick's Sons, all toil alike for you:
By thee the Arts and Sciences avail,
And tardy Justice lifts her equal scale.
Say then, blind Goddess, while we have in view
Thy various gifts, and variously pursue!
Say, shall the hungry Poet by his lay,
Exulting eat the dinner of the day?
Shall some dull Lord deep smit with love of verse,
For panegyrick give the needed purse?
Or is he doom'd by thy unkinder pow'r,
Fasting to write in thrice exalted floor?
Where unmolested spiders spread the snare,
Where stand the sheetless bed, the broken chair;
Where to defend the bard from blasts of night,
Rags in the casement keep out wind and light.
Some few, thus struggle still in virtue's cause,
Nor find protection in their Country's Laws.
They who first painted Fortune drew her blind,
A giddy Strumpet giving alms to wind:
She has been partial since this world began,
And ever steady to the worthless man;
Call these not chance!—Let these inspire your hate!
See B--- possessing M---ue's estate!
See learned M---ue unpitied roam,
And friendless begging both abroad and home!
Here Angel-Pity turn thy tender eye,
See Lloyd and Genius in one prison die!
Are these the proofs of fortune's general care,
O! damn her—damn her here and ev'ry where!
O! let me, Churchill, offer at thy shrine,
One line of friendship, one warm, honest line!
Let me with truth defend thee from the rage
Of him, who blasted thine like Shakespear's page !
One, who with ranc'rous envy, could sit down,
Conceive a lie, and spread it round the town:
Could try the Prince of
Poets to dethrone,
Whose name shall out-live Envy, brass a stone:
Faults he had some, but the superior weight
Of all his sterling virtues was so great,
To poise them both, if Envy should prevail,
While equal-handed Justice held the scale,
Virtue would sink to earth, and the rebound
Would shake the adverse vices to the ground
Nor find protection in their Country's Laws.
63
A giddy Strumpet giving alms to wind:
She has been partial since this world began,
And ever steady to the worthless man;
Call these not chance!—Let these inspire your hate!
See B--- possessing M---ue's estate!
See learned M---ue unpitied roam,
And friendless begging both abroad and home!
Here Angel-Pity turn thy tender eye,
See Lloyd and Genius in one prison die!
Are these the proofs of fortune's general care,
O! damn her—damn her here and ev'ry where!
O! let me, Churchill, offer at thy shrine,
One line of friendship, one warm, honest line!
Let me with truth defend thee from the rage
Of him, who blasted thine like Shakespear's page !
One, who with ranc'rous envy, could sit down,
Conceive a lie, and spread it round the town:
64
Whose name shall out-live Envy, brass a stone:
Faults he had some, but the superior weight
Of all his sterling virtues was so great,
To poise them both, if Envy should prevail,
While equal-handed Justice held the scale,
Virtue would sink to earth, and the rebound
Would shake the adverse vices to the ground
Hail gentle York the patron of the fair,
Who make the sex your study and your care!
In all so humble, and in all so good,
To mix in vulgar veins your noble blood!
Husbands, whose wives you honour, own with truth,
How much they owe to your more vig'rous youth!
How much you ease the labour of their reins,
By the effusions of your gen'rous veins!
You have the thanks of our more aged sires,
Teaching their daughters more unhallow'd fires!
Your noble acts to all the Dames are known,
Who raise the seed you scatter up and down.
To give due praise kind Spouses can't forbear,
Cuckolds to D---l brown, and M---t fair.
Does a Peer die?—behold your gen'rous deeds,
Your comforts to the Widow in her weeds!
The sweetest Widow Venus e'er design'd
Had died for grief, had G---r not been kind;
Had he not cheer'd with cordial drops her heart,
Transfix'd by Death's, his own, and Love's keen dart.
Should your kind influence e'er affect my Dame,
To feel the warmth of a right noble flame,
Let the sad secret never come from you,
And I shall think her quite as fair and true:
Let my sweet Mistress kiss with whom she will,
Let me not know it I am easy still!
I do not care if I'm deceiv'd if pleas'd;
Which way it is,—tho' of my money eas'd.
I ne'er am studious jealous facts t'obtain,
Without to feel the horns within the brain:
The cuckold's cares I give to Master Ford,
Or some old impotent deluded Lord:
Or him who thought his artifices sage,
By cooping up his Lady in a cage!
I have not jealousy to swell my woes,
And wish my Dame may never give me cause!
God keep her true, or keep the news from me,
Nor damn me 'mongst the sons of Jealousy!
Make me not studious to find out my shame,
Like one suspicious of his gentle Dame!
When sickness had reduc'd the body low,
He with a face of penitence and woe,
Declar'd a fatal poison he had giv'n,
Soon she wou'd stand before the judge of Heav'n:
Confess, nor thus retire my dear lov'd wife,
Top full of sin from this adult'rous life!
Have you not cuckol'd me my gentle Fair,
Speak, and your bosom will be freed from care!
But should you bear a lie to that high world,
That body must be to the Devil hurl'd!
Confess sweet soul before you reach the grave,
Have you not cuckol'd me?—“Yes, once, I have.”
But once!—“yes twice”—only dear Wife but twice!
“Forgive dear Spouse, indeed, indeed but thrice.”
Now all the good he gets of this good wife:
She wears the breeches, he the horns for life.
Who make the sex your study and your care!
In all so humble, and in all so good,
To mix in vulgar veins your noble blood!
Husbands, whose wives you honour, own with truth,
How much they owe to your more vig'rous youth!
How much you ease the labour of their reins,
By the effusions of your gen'rous veins!
65
Teaching their daughters more unhallow'd fires!
Your noble acts to all the Dames are known,
Who raise the seed you scatter up and down.
To give due praise kind Spouses can't forbear,
Cuckolds to D---l brown, and M---t fair.
Does a Peer die?—behold your gen'rous deeds,
Your comforts to the Widow in her weeds!
The sweetest Widow Venus e'er design'd
Had died for grief, had G---r not been kind;
Had he not cheer'd with cordial drops her heart,
Transfix'd by Death's, his own, and Love's keen dart.
Should your kind influence e'er affect my Dame,
To feel the warmth of a right noble flame,
Let the sad secret never come from you,
And I shall think her quite as fair and true:
Let my sweet Mistress kiss with whom she will,
Let me not know it I am easy still!
I do not care if I'm deceiv'd if pleas'd;
Which way it is,—tho' of my money eas'd.
I ne'er am studious jealous facts t'obtain,
Without to feel the horns within the brain:
66
Or some old impotent deluded Lord:
Or him who thought his artifices sage,
By cooping up his Lady in a cage!
I have not jealousy to swell my woes,
And wish my Dame may never give me cause!
God keep her true, or keep the news from me,
Nor damn me 'mongst the sons of Jealousy!
Make me not studious to find out my shame,
Like one suspicious of his gentle Dame!
When sickness had reduc'd the body low,
He with a face of penitence and woe,
Declar'd a fatal poison he had giv'n,
Soon she wou'd stand before the judge of Heav'n:
Confess, nor thus retire my dear lov'd wife,
Top full of sin from this adult'rous life!
Have you not cuckol'd me my gentle Fair,
Speak, and your bosom will be freed from care!
But should you bear a lie to that high world,
That body must be to the Devil hurl'd!
67
Have you not cuckol'd me?—“Yes, once, I have.”
But once!—“yes twice”—only dear Wife but twice!
“Forgive dear Spouse, indeed, indeed but thrice.”
Now all the good he gets of this good wife:
She wears the breeches, he the horns for life.
Life is a state of trial upon earth,
And virtue only gives immortal worth:
Woman is frail, and Man's apostate born,
Whom she should treat with all her sex's scorn;
Base are the deeds of Man to womankind,
But ills should not pervert the virtuous mind:
In spite of stratagem, allurement, need,
She that is virtuous still, is great indeed:
She that has virtue wears a coat of mail,
Which all the wiles of Vice cannot assail.
Whether 'tis ease in Man or thirst of gain,
Or vice in Woman, I will not maintain!
But be it which it may in both 'tis bad,
And feeble the excuse to call them mad!
If lustful passions lead the Dame astray,
Or a vile Husband drive her out for pay!
If vanity or dress allure her mind,
To forfeit fame and letcher with Mankind!
Or if to add a feather to his head,
Spouse make her truckle to some Noble's bed!
If one small spice of these is found in each,
It needs no Jemmy Twitcher to impeach:
Curs'd is their state, nor should such base born slaves
Be earth'd, with common rogues in common graves.
A stinking Cuckold he, and she a Punk,
In spite of Fl---r---, Dn---ln--- and D---.
And virtue only gives immortal worth:
Woman is frail, and Man's apostate born,
Whom she should treat with all her sex's scorn;
Base are the deeds of Man to womankind,
But ills should not pervert the virtuous mind:
In spite of stratagem, allurement, need,
She that is virtuous still, is great indeed:
She that has virtue wears a coat of mail,
Which all the wiles of Vice cannot assail.
Whether 'tis ease in Man or thirst of gain,
Or vice in Woman, I will not maintain!
But be it which it may in both 'tis bad,
And feeble the excuse to call them mad!
68
Or a vile Husband drive her out for pay!
If vanity or dress allure her mind,
To forfeit fame and letcher with Mankind!
Or if to add a feather to his head,
Spouse make her truckle to some Noble's bed!
If one small spice of these is found in each,
It needs no Jemmy Twitcher to impeach:
Curs'd is their state, nor should such base born slaves
Be earth'd, with common rogues in common graves.
A stinking Cuckold he, and she a Punk,
In spite of Fl---r---, Dn---ln--- and D---.
Virtue in Woman's like the virgin snow;
Which while it keeps it's purity and show,
Maintains it's beauty: but one viscious flaw
Fouls and destroys it like a sudden thaw.
Woman will hold long sieges for a name,
And like Lucretia bleed to raise a fame:
No whining Preacher, nor no Courtiers lies,
Tho' e'er so cunning, politick, or wise,
No Soldier's glory, nor no miser's purse;
Nor can the Pope with his eternal curse,
Frighten a Woman to bestow her charms,
Unmov'd she'll stand and Virtue all her arms.
Her truth, her honour shall the world convince
She's chaste;—and yet she'll truckle to a Prince.
But that is loyalty: you'll ne'er persuade
Women that Kings can make them less a maid.
Man they'll withstand—yet long for untast'd joy,
And then resign their bauble for a toy:
All have their prices, Yarmouth prov'd the thing,
She stood the world, but could not stand a King.
Some Men are happy with a handsome wife,
And many doubly wretched drag through life:
Handsome and good, indeed are handsome things,
But how few these attend! Beauty has wings,
And in a breath is gone, and all her charms,
When we think safe and virtuous in our arms
'Tis very strange the sudden flights she'll take,
A Saint this moment, and the next a Rake.
Oh I could say such things would make ye weep,
With Daughters Sires; Brothers with Sisters sleep!
Many by incest thus to ruin fall,
And growing Sodomy will damn us all.
Which while it keeps it's purity and show,
Maintains it's beauty: but one viscious flaw
Fouls and destroys it like a sudden thaw.
Woman will hold long sieges for a name,
And like Lucretia bleed to raise a fame:
No whining Preacher, nor no Courtiers lies,
Tho' e'er so cunning, politick, or wise,
No Soldier's glory, nor no miser's purse;
Nor can the Pope with his eternal curse,
69
Unmov'd she'll stand and Virtue all her arms.
Her truth, her honour shall the world convince
She's chaste;—and yet she'll truckle to a Prince.
But that is loyalty: you'll ne'er persuade
Women that Kings can make them less a maid.
Man they'll withstand—yet long for untast'd joy,
And then resign their bauble for a toy:
All have their prices, Yarmouth prov'd the thing,
She stood the world, but could not stand a King.
Some Men are happy with a handsome wife,
And many doubly wretched drag through life:
Handsome and good, indeed are handsome things,
But how few these attend! Beauty has wings,
And in a breath is gone, and all her charms,
When we think safe and virtuous in our arms
'Tis very strange the sudden flights she'll take,
A Saint this moment, and the next a Rake.
Oh I could say such things would make ye weep,
With Daughters Sires; Brothers with Sisters sleep!
70
And growing Sodomy will damn us all.
Enough of Women! Gods, it stabs my heart,
When I'm to prove they've play'd th'adult'rous part!
Oh, can you, after this flagitious rhime,
Hail me the gentle Naso of my time!
Venus attend thy am'rous Poet's pray'r,
If e'er my pen unjustly wounds the Fair,
Nine fold return the stab, I'll own it just,
From thee fair Queen of Beauty, Joy and Lust!
When I'm to prove they've play'd th'adult'rous part!
Oh, can you, after this flagitious rhime,
Hail me the gentle Naso of my time!
Venus attend thy am'rous Poet's pray'r,
If e'er my pen unjustly wounds the Fair,
Nine fold return the stab, I'll own it just,
From thee fair Queen of Beauty, Joy and Lust!
Enough of Woman!—H*n stand forth,
The smallest, greatest Cuckold in the North.
With little F---th, and less C---y,
That ye a lewd Triumverate may be,
Like Cæsar, Lepidus, and Anthony;
In lewdness only, not in truth or sense,
To which you must allow you've no pretence;
Ye know not even the soft art of love,
As ev'ry strumpet upon town can prove!
Shame on such Senators, such green old Peers,
Old in debauchery, tho' young in years?
Have ye not Wifes and Mistresses?—yet still,
Go we to Ranelagh, or where we will
We find you there; for ye like jackalls prowl
About for prey, and smell at ev'ry hole.
At noon you're on the hunt, and in the dark
We find you fumbling in the streets or Park,
Sober; for it would be a praise if drunk,
And some excuse for hugging of a punk.
Turn and observe the lux'ry of the times,
From high to low do we not study crimes?
What are our statesmen, but a venal crew,
Voting this day for me, the next for you?
The smallest, greatest Cuckold in the North.
With little F---th, and less C---y,
That ye a lewd Triumverate may be,
Like Cæsar, Lepidus, and Anthony;
In lewdness only, not in truth or sense,
To which you must allow you've no pretence;
Ye know not even the soft art of love,
As ev'ry strumpet upon town can prove!
Shame on such Senators, such green old Peers,
Old in debauchery, tho' young in years?
71
Go we to Ranelagh, or where we will
We find you there; for ye like jackalls prowl
About for prey, and smell at ev'ry hole.
At noon you're on the hunt, and in the dark
We find you fumbling in the streets or Park,
Sober; for it would be a praise if drunk,
And some excuse for hugging of a punk.
Turn and observe the lux'ry of the times,
From high to low do we not study crimes?
What are our statesmen, but a venal crew,
Voting this day for me, the next for you?
When Rome at length, by various tempests tost,
Her antient fame and liberty had lost,
A horse in Se---te sat; here let him sit,
He'll have more votes than Honesty or Pitt!
Walpole, like old Caligula cou'd buy
You all if he had cash,—I cannot lie,
And call these golden days; I swear they're worse
Than those, which did the sons of Sodom curse.
Such Leaders never Country had before,
Our very convicts blush on yonder shore;
Defy their palsied Mother, and dispute
The acts of Twitcher, H---, and B---.
There was a time when honest Members came
To this great Town, to raise their Country's fame:
Their souls all free, not venally profuse,
With twice sol'd shoes they stump'd it to the House.
Wives staid at home, but now the turnpikes bring,
All to learn vice, buy pins, and see the King;
'Tis on the turnpikes that we ought to rail,
The turnpikes where sin runs upon the nail.
Thus Vice and Luxury in days of yore
Sunk Rome, as Athens it had sunk before;
And England now at a strange je-hu rate,
Seems to be driving down the steep of Fate.
Thus have I seen at some snug Cit's abode,
Full in the dust upon the northern road,
The York post-coach from Highgate's lofty brow,
Whirling and clatt'ring to the plain below.
Her antient fame and liberty had lost,
A horse in Se---te sat; here let him sit,
He'll have more votes than Honesty or Pitt!
Walpole, like old Caligula cou'd buy
You all if he had cash,—I cannot lie,
And call these golden days; I swear they're worse
Than those, which did the sons of Sodom curse.
72
Our very convicts blush on yonder shore;
Defy their palsied Mother, and dispute
The acts of Twitcher, H---, and B---.
There was a time when honest Members came
To this great Town, to raise their Country's fame:
Their souls all free, not venally profuse,
With twice sol'd shoes they stump'd it to the House.
Wives staid at home, but now the turnpikes bring,
All to learn vice, buy pins, and see the King;
'Tis on the turnpikes that we ought to rail,
The turnpikes where sin runs upon the nail.
Thus Vice and Luxury in days of yore
Sunk Rome, as Athens it had sunk before;
And England now at a strange je-hu rate,
Seems to be driving down the steep of Fate.
Thus have I seen at some snug Cit's abode,
Full in the dust upon the northern road,
The York post-coach from Highgate's lofty brow,
Whirling and clatt'ring to the plain below.
73
Lechers, at least be prudent in this state,
Bring in your strumpets at the postern gate!
Nor strut in vice, amidst the day's bright glare,
To show mankind what little things ye are:
Give up these tinsel toys to idle youth,
And let the acts of falsehood, yield to truth.
With you the feats of Venus ill agree,
Leave those to Spencer, Hamilton and Me.
Bring in your strumpets at the postern gate!
Nor strut in vice, amidst the day's bright glare,
To show mankind what little things ye are:
Give up these tinsel toys to idle youth,
And let the acts of falsehood, yield to truth.
With you the feats of Venus ill agree,
Leave those to Spencer, Hamilton and Me.
An unfortunate Niece of a late Alderman of York, whose viscious disposition hurried her down the precipice of lust and folly—in spite of education, or the tears of Kindred.
Charles the 12th of Sweden, when 16 years old, marched against Copenhagen, (the capital of Denmark) and made a vow to abstain from women and wine—which Voltaire tells us he most religiously performed: we know that he had resolution—or brutality—or apathy, or whatever you please to call it: to refuse a visit from the Countess of Conismar, a Sweedish Lady of birth and fashion; celebrated through Europe for her wit and beauty. She made many visits and many efforts to see the cold Hero—(which he only called a conquest of his passions, to obviate and avoid those evils which the fair-sex brought upon Caesar and Alexander.) However, she exercised her wit and charms in vain; and the last efforts were these. She took an opportunity of meeting him in a narrow lane on horseback, when he could not pass the coach;—upon which, she alighted—he saluted her, never spoke a word, but turned his horse and rode off: a galling mortification to solliciting beauty. She was a mistress of the living languages, and composed a poem to win the favours of this Hero; wherein she makes all the Gods, but Venus and Bacchus, speak highly of his fame. The piece concludes, thus:
“Enfin chacun des dieux dis courant à sa gloire,
“Le placoit par avance au temple de Memoire:
“Mais Venus, ni Bacchus n'en dire pas un mot.”
When all the Gods did of his glories boast,
And Mem'ry plac'd him in her highest post;
Sweet Venus sigh'd, and Bacchus past the toast.
“Le placoit par avance au temple de Memoire:
“Mais Venus, ni Bacchus n'en dire pas un mot.”
When all the Gods did of his glories boast,
And Mem'ry plac'd him in her highest post;
Sweet Venus sigh'd, and Bacchus past the toast.
I believe I may say, that it was the first time those bewitching Sisters, Beauty and Poesy, failed with a youth under 20.
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