 | Maggots |  |
98
On a Discourteous Damsel that call'd the Right Worshipful Author—(an't please ye!) Sawcy Puppy.
A PANEGYRIC.
Ugly! ill-natur'd! impudent, and proud!
Sluttish! nonsensical! and idly loud!
Thy Name's a ranker Scandal to my Pen,
Than all thy words could be spew'd up agen.
Yet will I do thy Ugliness the grace,
To touch thee, tho' I'm forc'd to turn my face;
Touch thee as Surgeon touches rotten sores,
Touch thee as Nurses T---, or Beadles Whores.
Sluttish! nonsensical! and idly loud!
Thy Name's a ranker Scandal to my Pen,
Than all thy words could be spew'd up agen.
Yet will I do thy Ugliness the grace,
To touch thee, tho' I'm forc'd to turn my face;
Touch thee as Surgeon touches rotten sores,
Touch thee as Nurses T---, or Beadles Whores.
Belch of a Toad whom Hell to Mortals sends,
Vampt up from Bottle-Ale and Candles-ends.
Hadst thou no Dick with whom thou mightst be free,
Thus to let fly thy Whetstone-jeers on me?
What Skip-kennel without his eyes offence,
Taught thee all this Dog-and-bitch Eloquence?
Thou for Doll Troop, hadst ended Ragoo's strife,
He'd hang'd, and never ventur'd such a Wife.
That thick deformity which daubs thy Snowt
Would make a Hell-soul'd Ravisher devout.
An Incubus from such a Face would flee;
'Twould baulk a Satyr more deform'd than thee.
E'ne get a Mask, or with thy Visage daunted,
The Londoners will swear their Streets are haunted:
Below the Plague, below the Pox and Itch,
Take your own Farewell, You're a sawcy Bitch.
Vampt up from Bottle-Ale and Candles-ends.
Hadst thou no Dick with whom thou mightst be free,
Thus to let fly thy Whetstone-jeers on me?
What Skip-kennel without his eyes offence,
Taught thee all this Dog-and-bitch Eloquence?
Monsieur Ragoo, an Officer in a Troop of Horse, having taken occasion to step aside a plundering, was to be hang'd a little: But however the chance turn'd, he had choice given him, either to take a vertuous Lady call'd Doll Troop, to be his Wedded Wife, or else to snickle up: after deep consideration upon the case, and weighing the Circumstances, &c. he resolv'd to cast Lots; the Lay was so even, to decide what himself could not do, and so got the worse end of the staff, without Redemption to be all-to-be-marry'd.
He'd hang'd, and never ventur'd such a Wife.
99
Would make a Hell-soul'd Ravisher devout.
An Incubus from such a Face would flee;
'Twould baulk a Satyr more deform'd than thee.
E'ne get a Mask, or with thy Visage daunted,
The Londoners will swear their Streets are haunted:
Below the Plague, below the Pox and Itch,
Take your own Farewell, You're a sawcy Bitch.
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