University of Virginia Library

A Satyre called the Coni-borrowe.

Now in the name of fate what Saint is she,
That keepes a shop of publicke Brothelrie?
Harbours the sharking Lawyer for his pence,
And Martir-like consumes his euidence?
Nusles my damned Atheist, makes him curse
Nature and fortune, that his thin-lin'd purse
Should be depriv'd of crowns: do you ask what St?
This Saint was sent from th' fiery Regiment.
A Sodome-apple, a lasciuious staine
To vertues habite, or a whore in graine,
A sucke-blood, Hyene, feigning Crocodile
VVorse then the monster bred on th' banks of Nyle,
A purple Strumpet, Gangrene to the stare,
Earths-curse, hels-blisse, soules-soile, & Angels hate.
Smoothed Damnation, smothered infamie,
Horror to Age, and youths calamity,
Pritty-fac'd diuell of a ginger pace,
Grace-lesse in all saue that her name is Grace,
Soules-running vlcer that infects the heart,
VVith painting, purfling and a face of Art.
Star blasting honour, vertues foe, exprest
By hating where she seemes to fancy best.
Vow-breaking periure, that her selfe adornes,
VVith thousand fashions, and as many formes.
Creature of her owne making, hollow trunke,
A Christian Paganis'd with name of Punke.
A Cell, a hell, where she'le no others haue,
The common Palliard-Pandor, Baud, or slaue,
A cage of vncleane birds, which is possest,
Of none saue such as will defile their nest.
VVhere fries of Hell hounds neuer come abroade,
But in that earthly Tophet make aboade.
VVhere bankrupt Factors to maintaine a state,
Forlorne (heauen knows) and wholy desperate,
Turne valiant Boults, Pimps, Haxtars, roaring boyes,
Till flesht in bloud, counting but murders toyes,
Are forc't in th' end a dolefull Psalme to sing,
Going to Heauen by Derick in a string.
It's you damn'd prostitutes that soyle this land,
VVith all pollutions, haling downe the hand
Of vengeance and subuersion on the State,
Making her flowrie borders desolate.
It's you that ruine ancient families,
Occasion bloodshed, pillage, periuries.
Its you that make the wicked prodigall,
Strips him of fortune, heritance, and all,
Its you that makes new Troy with factions bleede,
As much or more then euer old Troy did.
Its you (sin-branded wantons) brings decay,
To publique states. Its you that hate the day,
But honour night: where euery female sinner
Resembles th' Moone, that has a man within her.
Lasciuious Burrowes, where there nothing are,
But toused, sullied, and ore iaded ware.
No musick but despaire, no other note,
Saue some French-language from a prophane throat:
Noe other Accent then the voyce of hell,
Where Stygian Circe mumbles ore her spell
Shakes her pox-eaten ioynts, and sends for spies,
To gaine her traders two sin tempting eies.
Where she in praise and honour of her trade
Saies, that the Stewes were in th' beginning made,
For the aduancement of a publick good,
And well it may, if rightly vnderstood:
For if in pleasures there such bitters be,
As still repentance lackies vanitie?
If lust that's cal'd by th' sensuall Epicure,
The best of mouing pleasures, and the lure,
That for the instance makes our organs rise,
Thinking that plase we'r in is Paradice.
If she (I say) bring forth no fruit at all,
Saue news from'th Spittle, or the Hospitall.
Drie rewmes, cararchs, diseases of despaire,
Puritane-sniueling, falling of the haire.
Akes in the ioynts, and ring-worme in the face,
Cramps in the nerues, fire in the priuy place.
Racking the sinews, burning of the gall,
Searing the vaines, and bowels most of all:
Drying the head, which natur's wont to feede,
Sucking the blood, whence all distempers breede.
If best of pleasures haue no other end,
Mong'st earths delights, thē haue we cause t'extend,
Our pure affections to an higher ayme,
Then to corrupt the honour of our name.
For present appetite: I thanke thee whoor,
Thou hast instructed me to haue a power
Ouer my sence by reason rectified,
And hast well neere my senses mortefied:
I know thy habit (and I once haue sworne,
But now recant it) that no earthy forme
Was of like composition, but conceiuing,
That th' period of thy pleasure was in hauing,
And that thy lust was but desire of gaine,
I curb'd my selfe that I should be so vaine.
To spend my state, my stock, my name, my nature,
On such a brittle fickle, faithlesse creature.
Fond was my iudgement when my reason straid,
To soile the honourd title of a maide,
With brothell greeting, or a painted trunke,
A rotten Tombe, a Basiliske, a Punke.
For tell me whore? what bewty's in thee showne,
Or mouing part that thou canst say's thine owne?
The blush that's on thy cheeke I know is made
By'th Painters hand, and not by nature laid:
And that same rosie-red, and lillie white,
Which seemes t'include a volume of delight.
Is no more thine, then as it may be said;
Faire is the waineskote when it's varnished.
Yea I haue heard some of thy consorts say,
Thy night-face is not that thou wearst by day.
But of a different forme, which vnderstood,
Rightly implies too faces in one hood.
Now my (prodigious faery) that canst take,
Vpon occasion a contrary shape.
Thou that canst varie habits and delight,
To weare by day what thou putst of at night.
Thou that with tempting motiues of despaire,
Braiding the net-like tresses of thy haire,
Smoothing thy brazed front, oyling thy skin,
Taking a truce with Satan, and with sinne.
How canst thou thinke that I will loose the light,
Of my deare soule, to please mine appetite?
How canst thou thinke that for a moments sweete,
Wherein the height of pleasures, sorrows meete.
I will engage that essence of delight
For time eternall, measure infinite?
How canst thou thinke I am so void of sense,
Or blinde, as not to know thy impudence?
True, I was blind, when thy sin-Syren voice,
Made me despise my selfe, and make a choice
Of soules seducing Error: I was blinde,
When I did hope contented ioyes to finde
In so profane a couer: Blinde was I,
When I expected ought but vanitie.
In such an odious harbour: blinde I was
To looke for vertue in so vile a case.
But now the glorious essence of my soule
Tels me, For all thy vertue thou art foule.
Spotted with Ermins, and that vanitie,
Of which thar't proud, is like a leprosie.
VVich runnes to euery vaine, whose very breath,
Poisons the tutcher with infectious death.
For whats complexion if I should speake true,
(That which thou wears I meane) but what the Iew
Of lothsome compositions's vsd to make,
As th' fat of Serpents, and the slough of snakes,
VVith cursed spittle or fleagme commixed is,
And canst thou thinke this face deserues a kisse?
No, odious Lecher that beslubbered face,
That entertaines no signe nor slampe of grace,
That sin-reflecting eye, whose piercings are,
VVounds to the soule, and to the mind a care,
That artificiall blush, that painted cheeke,
VVhich neuer seekes, what woman-hood shold seek,
That whorish looke drain'd from a wanton mind,
Shall make me hate, where I was once inclin'd,
Shall make me hate? O that I did not hate,
Before this time: but sorrow's nere too late,
If feruent, and may I excluded be,
If my resolues proceed not inwardly.
Farewell, but well I doubt thou canst not fare,
So long as thou dost lodge in this dispaire:
Preuent me then the cause, and thou shalt see,
The effect thereof will soone preuented be:
Till then adew: for till that time I sweare it,
Thy Connie-burrow is not for my Ferret.