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The Poetical Entertainer

Or, Tales, Satyrs, Dialogues, And Intrigues, &c. Serious and Comical. All digested into such Verse as most agreeable to the several Subjects. To be publish'd as often as occasion shall offer [by Edward Ward]

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A wealthy Yeoman of Renown,
Residing in a Country Town,
Had chosen for his Wife a Woman
Whose Lust had made her Tail too common;
Among the rest of her Gallants,
That satisfy'd her Female Wants,
She had a strong-back'd Bully-Blade,
Cut out for riding such a Jade,
Who, by his Nonsence and his Noise,
Jack-pudding Tricks and am'rous Toys,

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And other things we must not Name,
So pleas'd the Cockles of the Dame,
That him the Dowdy fancy'd best,
And kiss'd much oftner than the rest.
From whence it justly may be noted,
That Wantons, to their Lust devoted,
Chuse Fellows by their Backs, not Brains,
To pleasure their Concupiscence.
At length, by Revelling and Ranting,
Horse-racing, Tipling, and Gallanting,
Thackum, for by that Name alone
The blust'ring Blade was chiefly known,
Had brought himself so very low
In Pocket, that the Country Beau
Was forc'd to hang upon the Skirt
Of her with whom he us'd to Sport,
And live like that salacious Louse
That plagues the Fair, and sticks so close,
In lushious Parts criniferous.

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Nor had she any way to succour
The craving Hand that us'd to stroke her,
But by those Sleights which all such Hussies
Will practise that Cornute their Spouses.
The Key could not be left a Minute
In the old Chest, but she was in it:
No Money could his Pockets keep,
Them she examin'd in his Sleep;
And now and then a silver Spoon,
Or Thimble, would be strangely gone;
Which Rob'ry, to be sure, was laid
Upon the guiltless Man or Maid;
Or some poor Gammar who, at Door,
Had beg'd Skim-milk but just before.
By such collusive Arts as these
She fed her Spark, till, by degrees,
She'd made away with e'ery thing,
That would the ready-Peny bring
And that by Day or Night could be
Remov'd without Discovery;

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Which shews what kind intriguing Dames
Will do for those that feed their Flames,
And how they'll knock things out of Joint,
At home, to gain a ticklish Point.
For Lust, alas, admits no Bridle,
There's no Discretion in the middle,
Where things will dance without a Fiddle.