Maggots or, Poems on Several Subjects, Never before Handled. By a Schollar [i.e. Samuel Wesley] |
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Advice to Monsieur Ragoo, who had his choice either to be Hang'd or Married.
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Advice to Monsieur Ragoo, who had his choice either to be Hang'd or Married.
Take Courage poor despairing Lover!Walk up! walk up, and e'ne turn over!
Who Mounts the Bridal Bed is madder
By far, than him that Mounts the Ladder.
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The Hempen, than the Marriage Noose?
Or in so plain a Case would faulter,
And take the Ring to leave the Halter;
Since you perhaps slight my Authority,
Look back! look back on beauteous Doroty!
Who often without Wit or Fear,
Bids a whole Troop-Come on if they dare!
Come on! she crys, nor should they scare me,
Tho' Xerxes 'twere and all his Army.
There's Doll: who knows what mischief follows?
Here's nothing but a single Gallows.
His prudence who would not admire,
That leaps from Frying-pan to Fire?
See if you dare, you quiv'ring Booby,
Those Lips of Pearl, that Snowt of Ruby:
Within, (I would not do her wrong)
There hangs a Clapper-alias-Tongue,
It shakes the Church, and rives the Steeple,
And when it Rings—beware good People!
Then, tho' perhaps you'll at it wonder,
Sowres all the Neighbours Ale like Thunder:
As Lyons roar to Mouses squeaking;
So Christ-church Tom, and Tom of Pequin
(Tho' we in this the Jesuits anger,)
Are both but Saints-bells to her Twanger:
To Hell she scorns to be beholding,
She deafs the Devils Dam with scolding;
Her face still Lavers when she washes,
Her Face which sneaks behind Proboscis.
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And e're you Kiss her let 'em view her:
They'll fifty Dung-carts round her place,
To clear the Kennel of her Face;
But all in vain since all too late,
The Dirt is now concorporate:
Inveterate Dirt of sev'n years standing,
That scorns to wagg for their commanding;
And all her Frame you now may call
Without a Figure—One Mud-wall.
Which this great Rule to'th' Life expresses,
'Tis Uniform—In Uglinesses.
But O! what Sea-weed may compare
With her strong Onion-Ropes of Hair.
Step back a little! call the Thatcher,
No Peruke-maker e're could match her:
No Nets are they, no Cupids fetter,
But Halters plain; nor worse, nor better.
If thus her upper features show,
Thy Mermaid sure's meer Devil below;
If all this in her Wast-coat's noted,
O how is she Be-petticoated!
Now of two Ills chuse you the least,
(And which that is may soon be guest)
Woo you the Rope, and not the Beauty,
And bid the Hangman do his Duty.
| Maggots | |