Poems by Matthew Stevenson | ||
Upon a Great Gamester that slights his Wife and keeps a Wench, and at Play lost his Brothers Cloak, who was bound for the Indies.
Two Ordinaries (Will.) will keep thee poor,I mean thy Gaming house, and gamesom whore.
If Appetite, or avarice provoke,
They like the Wind, and Sun strive for the Cloak?
Who, but a Fool, having a Wife of's own,
Would leave a temperate for a Torrid zone?
One, banish't Southwark, by the Surgeons-Hall
For fear she should infect the Hospital.
Whose painted visor with black patches smutch't,
Would drop like Sodomes Apples if but tuch't.
I thought yet (Will.) thou couldst not have been drawn,
Thy Brothers, (a poor Travellers) Cloak to pawn,
But I confess Plymouth's a good light stuffe,
And he's gone to a Country hot enough.
But, what, does more our wonder yet enhance,
You threw't away, and yet 'twas lost by chance.
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But look't on't, and saw't lost before your face.
What Clock-work's this, makes heart and elbow shake?
Folly's the strst, and fury the last stake.
Poems by Matthew Stevenson | ||