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 | Poems on Affairs of State |  |
Quacks
set out Bills, Jack-Pudding makes Harangues,
And Thief, at Tyburn, speaks before he hangs:
I pray you then give ear to what I say,
For this to me is Execution-day.
Tyburn the Stage is, Boxes, Galleries, Pit,
Where you, our Judges, and our Hangman sit;
Of Nonsense tender, tho severe to Wit.
To-day we fear you not, we've hit your Taste,
And when that's pleas'd, we cannot sure be cast.
And Thief, at Tyburn, speaks before he hangs:
I pray you then give ear to what I say,
For this to me is Execution-day.
Tyburn the Stage is, Boxes, Galleries, Pit,
Where you, our Judges, and our Hangman sit;
Of Nonsense tender, tho severe to Wit.
375
And when that's pleas'd, we cannot sure be cast.
Meanly contented with the vulgar Way,
Some make the Heroine, Virtuous in a Play:
But the bold tragick Genius of our Stage,
With Novelty resolves t'oblige the Age,
And with a Heroine Punk the Ladies will engage.
He from the Sock, the PROSTITUTE transplants,
And swells the humble Whore with Buskin'd Rants.
His Whore, indeed, repents the slippery Fault;
But, like the rest, it is not, till she's caught.
She is not sorry, that she'as play'd the Whore,
But that, discover'd, she can do't no more.
Thus, while his Punk his Buskins boldly ramps,
Like Bajazet, his Hero cuckol'd stares and stamps.
He with no Laurel Wreaths his Brow adorns,
But, while those vulgar Ornaments he scorns,
Above his Brethren he exalts his Horns.
Confederate Cuckolds then come clap this Play!
Our lucky Bard devotes to You this Day.
No Doodle, Dashwood, Wiseacre is here,
Or any of the puny Race, that us'd t'appear.
The Cuckold now assumes a haughtier Air,
With brandish'd Dagger stabs the yielding Fair,
So little Woman's Frailty is his Care.
Ye horned Herd, from Wapping to Whitehall,
Approach, in Triumph, he invites You all;
So strong a Party made, he cannot fear his Fall.
Some make the Heroine, Virtuous in a Play:
But the bold tragick Genius of our Stage,
With Novelty resolves t'oblige the Age,
And with a Heroine Punk the Ladies will engage.
He from the Sock, the PROSTITUTE transplants,
And swells the humble Whore with Buskin'd Rants.
His Whore, indeed, repents the slippery Fault;
But, like the rest, it is not, till she's caught.
She is not sorry, that she'as play'd the Whore,
But that, discover'd, she can do't no more.
Thus, while his Punk his Buskins boldly ramps,
Like Bajazet, his Hero cuckol'd stares and stamps.
He with no Laurel Wreaths his Brow adorns,
But, while those vulgar Ornaments he scorns,
Above his Brethren he exalts his Horns.
Confederate Cuckolds then come clap this Play!
Our lucky Bard devotes to You this Day.
No Doodle, Dashwood, Wiseacre is here,
Or any of the puny Race, that us'd t'appear.
The Cuckold now assumes a haughtier Air,
With brandish'd Dagger stabs the yielding Fair,
So little Woman's Frailty is his Care.
Ye horned Herd, from Wapping to Whitehall,
Approach, in Triumph, he invites You all;
So strong a Party made, he cannot fear his Fall.
| Poems on Affairs of State | |