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Poems

or, A Miscellany of Sonnets, Satyrs, Drollery, Panegyricks, Elegies, &c. At the Instance, and Request of Several Friends, Times, and Occasions, Composed; and now at their command Collected, and Committed to the Press. By the Author, M. Stevenson
 
 

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Upon a Rusty Patch on an Iron Face.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Upon a Rusty Patch on an Iron Face.

Mad Scab have at ye; you expect a claw,
To keep the leachery of your itch in awe.
But 'twill not do, I dare not come so nigh,
For scabs are Cabins where the Vermin lye.
Why hast thou like a fool, thy Mony spent,
To make that pocky blotch a Persian Tent?
Thou didst a Whore and Clap together get,
And thou hadst torn her Scarf to cover it.
The Pox wou'd fain peep out there, but that you
Are so asham'd, you clap the Casement too.

71

Thou shouldst to contradiction be a kin,
To wear a beauty spot upon thy Chin:
No, no; there is no beauty in the case;
'Tis but a knot upon thy Wainscoat face.
But will your Copy-hold endure the tutching,
Why then in plain, 'tis a blot in your Scutchin.
Which we must not a patch, but plaister call,
Not bought at Change, but beg'd at th' Hospital.
Nor dost thou patch, but botch; why dost not send
And draw the hole up with a Cobler's End?
Your goodness is broke out, and therefore (Sir)
The wodden Draper's turn'd a Plaisterer.
VVhy dost thou finger't so? and keep a coil,
To trim a face, that is it self a foil.
Indeed I question which the foil wou'd be,
The leporous looks, or rusty taffitie.
Yet hast thou, when a Gyrn thou dost advance,
A merry, of a murry countenance.
Westphalia here brings her resemblance in,
Thy Face the Bacon is, thy Spot the Skin.
Yet not to bring thy Visage in disgrace,
Come, hang't, 'twill serve for a good riding face.