The Fourth Volume of the Writings Of the Author of the London-Spy ::

Bless me how pale and wither'd do I look?
How dull my Skin, how strangely am I broke?
Are these the Charms that so inslav'd the Town?
Or these the Eyes that have such Conquests won?
Sure I'm bewitch'd, this cannot be the Face
I us'd my self to doat on in my Glass,
That was all airy, beautiful and gay;
This mark'd with Age and wrinkled with Decay,
Those Cheeks would blush without the help of Art,
These Lanthorn Jaws would make a Lover start,
That Face had Eyes that sparkl'd like a Gem,
This Looks too dull and dead to be the same,

Those lovely Brows were full of Cole-black Hair,
These are inclin'd to grey and almost bare;
Those Lips were soft and of a Crimson Dye,
These have their Colour lost, are parch'd and dry;
Surely my Glass is false, this cannot see
The Charming Creature that I us'd to be,
She had a Mouth with Ivory Teeth beset,
These are reduc'd to Stumps as black as jet;
Her Nose was finely shap'd, from redness free,
This full of Rubies, stain'd with Ratifee;
Her Forehead lofty, smooth and full of Grace,
This blotch'd and furrow'd like a Granam's Face,
Her conquering Smiles the coldest Heart could fire,
And in the strictest Vertue raise Desire;
But these ill favour'd Looks do rather fright
The Amorous Youth than feed him with Delight.

Confound the Sex that led me first astray,
And taught my Youth to hasten on Decay,
Who by their Flatteries won me to their Arms,
And pleas'd their Lust with my unwary Charms:

Where are you now ye sighing Fops and Beaus,
With all your fulsome Lies and treacherous Vows,
Whose Guineas us'd to fly, and happy he
That could with Gold seduce me to be free;
Who is't adores me now my Beauty's fled,
What gen'rous Fool solicites for my Bed?
Which of you all, now I am past your sport,
Will give a generous Crown tow'rds my Support?
Not one, but leave me now I'm old and worn,
To serve some flogging Leachers beastly turn;
Or else with tatter'd Scarf, without a Charm,
To hang for bread upon some Bailiff's Arm.
Curse on ye Dog that did my Youth betray,
Pox, Pills and Potions, hasten your decay,
From Female Witchcraft may you ne'er be free,
Still love but always disapointed be;
Not by the Lady you wou'd fain debauch,
But may your Manhood fail when you approach
Lov's secret Lab'rinth, where the Blessing lies,
And when she's falling may you never rise,
But still in vain your lustful ends pursue,
And teaz the longing Dame but nothing do,

Till vex'd and tir'd, she bounces from the Bed,
Ne'er the more Whore, or e'er the less a Maid:
Thus may your Lust be the Disease of Age,
And still torment you till you quit the Stage,
But when you hug the Object you admire,
May Impotence still frustrate your Desire,
And make you fumble on till you expire,

University of Virginia Library

A Wither'd Whore's Peep INTO A Looking-glass at Forty.