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The house breakes truce (for it is dayly tir'd)
Because for bawd'ry it was never hir'd.
And being frighted; 'tis growne strange and bald,
In feare it shall a bawdy house be cal'd.

147

So with consumption it doth pine away,
And being distrest, invites the night to stay,
To hide its shame, it's vext for what it did,
And being guiltie, it would faine be hid.

The roofe that hid them, fals into a swound:
And by degrees drops downe unto the ground
With griefe, that ever it should be so vile,
And in revenge, it chides away the tile:
Gives warning that 'twill stand no longer under,
They fall with feare, and so breake all in sunder.

The morphew wals are growne so bleake and thin,
They have (through anguish) lost the outward skin.
Alas, poore house! 'twould grieve a man to see
That everie storme should take revenge on thee!
The candi'd frost doth make the sore encrease,
Nor milder warmth will once admit of peace:
Because they kept them from the raging weather,
Their punishment is, they must rot together.

The guiltie windows batter'd with assaults,
Repent, that e're they did conceale their faults:
The stones, the winde, do bring it so about,
That by degrees they pick the quarrels out,
Blaze forth their shame, and witnesse now bring in,
That with consent condemnes them for their sin.
Faine would they speake, but cannot speake aright;
The lead's so heavie, and the glasse so light.

The chamber-floore doth sink with deep conceit;
And doth disdaine to beare this sinfull weight.
One side blames th' other, and they part in spleene:
Which parting seemes a little hell betweene;
Time does refuse to quit it from the staines:
The more 'tis washt, the more the filth remaines.

The bed-stead screeks, with sad and dolefull tones,
And vents complaints, being over-charg'd, it grones,

148

Seeks to be eas'd: the head doth blame the feet,
The feet the sides; the testerne that doth see't,
Doth start for feare, that it must beare the blame,
For winking at, and cov'ring of their shame,
Doth change it selfe to sundry ugly shapes,
To fright from sin these vile lascivious Apes.
The posts do vex, which do abate their strength,
And grow so feeble, that they fall at length.

The curtain rods (what honest man did forge them?)
Do now conceit that they were made to scourge them.
The hooks do hold them that they cannot do it;
So they are guiltlesse, being willing to it.

The rings that run these curtain rods along,
Before were silent; now they find a tongue,
To pratle forth their shame: and do disgrace them;
Though they are brasse, they cannot yet outface them,
They are not freed, the canker runs about,
Without, within, to eat the substance out.

The curtaines too 'cause they were eas'ly drawn
To hide their lust, and did upon them fawn,
Now shrink away: their colour quite doth change
As being sharers; i'st not very strange
That senselesse things, should be asham'd of sin,
And suffer for't? the moths do now begin,
To seek revenge, and make of them a prey,
And dare resolv'd to eat them quite away.
They do but Iustice: so do all the rest
That haunt their ghosts: for they to war are prest.

The bed is thought to beare the greatest blame,
That did with patience underlay the shame:
The tike complains the feathers are so light,
As they at noone are so they are at night.
But they reply, and very well they may
Confesse they're light; but not so light as they;

149

They must not chide, being gentle, milde and soft;
But when they came, 'tis prov'd they grumbl'd oft.
They shew a reason why they blame the tick,
They could not flie out, 'cause it was so thick.

The cord is question'd; being rack'd below,
Begins to yeeld; what ever it doth know,
Now blabs it out; receiving many checks,
'Twold needs be loose to catch them by the necks:
But being crost, it cannot vengeance do,
It swels with malice, till it breaks in two.

The pillows which did bear their musty pates,
Do fret with anger, 'cause as coupled mates,
They gave them ease; but now they do deny it,
They smell the rot, and do at last defie it.

The sheets are found more guilty than the rest;
For why? in them those vermin made their nest:
Their shame's made open, for the secret sin
Which they must own; they look both black and thin,
And fear that penance they must do at Pauls,
When e're their partners go to purge their soules.
(Time eite 'em in; judge, is't not very fit
For all such persons? shame may teach them wit.)
They'd turn to many to remove that curse,
And tie the penance onely to the purse.
If't he not likely to be brought about,
They'l fee the washer then, to wash them out.
Shall innocents thus suffer in their places,
What they deserve? and quit them from disgraces?

Nor can I cleare the coverlet or quilt,
From being sharers in this hatefull guilt,
That overlookt them in their curst delight;
And was so carelesse, be it wrong or right:
'Twas never mov'd to vex 'em; let its shades
Dwell still in Newgate, or with Bridewell jades,

150

Where shame's in use: the Cut-purse too shal crave it;
Then let the dunghils cast lots which shall have it!

The stools, and chaires, when on them they do sit,
Doe trembling fall into an aguish fit;

The table mournes for bearing of their meat,
Which feeds their lusts: it's weake, the burthen great,

The posts, that did uphold this house so long,
Begin to sink; if they had but a tongue,
They'd beg for pardon, promising no more
To prop such basenesse, or defend a whore.
Sed, sactum est; though now they do abhor it,
They with the rest are like to suffer for it.
The ashie wormes shew justice, ever when
They have crept through, they creepe cleane through agen,
Eat out the strength that's seated in the heart,
Quite past recoverie, 'though they feele no smart:
Sharp execution! 'tis their bawdie hire,
Iust fit for nothing, but for flaming fire.

The groundsell being tender-hearted stones,
Do pine away, and change, like dead mens bones:
And melt with teares: faine would they shrink away,
But finde no passage; so are forc'd to stay.
They chide the lime, for holding them together,
And hate the men that first did bring them thiter;
They being sorrie (when the cause is tri'd)
Shall have this favour, by the high-way side,
They still shall stand, as monuments of shame,
And shall bewray the place from whence they came.

But now the dore, for being often lockt,
Which made them fearlesse; being jeer'd, and mockt,
Fals in a palsie; open then it flyes,
Cals out in passion, to invite some eyes
To see their folly; but the hooks were crosse:
The hinges (fearing they should suffer losse)

151

Part from the dore; the lock is chiefly shent,
(Being pliable) 'cause it did give consent
To come and go, with turning of a hand,
Much like a Pander: and did all withstand
That would oppose them in this cursed way.
But then the lock layes blame upon the key,
For forcing it to whatsoe're it did;
The key had freedome, but the lock was hid.

The wrangling key pleads, keeping much ado;
The nailes were forc'd, yet they were guiltie too:
They loose their hold; the hooks, and hinges sever,
The key is gone; the lock does his endevor,
To purchase freedome: th' dore as faine would cleave
In sunder; but, it cannot yet get leave:
For execution in a worser kinde,
(Iustice decrees, not long e're he shall finde)
Must be his doome: the lock, hooks, hinges must
Dye with the nailes, a lingring death with rust.
The key's pursu'd (though it be stept aside)
With Argus eyes, and shall be strictly tri'd,
When it is found, as chiefly guiltie in't;
And then this story shall be put in print.

These hatefull Brutes now frighted are away,
By these extremes; but cannot go by day;
For Sol disdaines to give them any light,
And they're asham'd to come in peoples sight;
Nay, silent night (though shamelesse) would not owne them,
They are so vile, had she before not knowne them.
Darknesse prepares for each a sable coat,
Vshers them out, unto a place remote,
Owles tune their organs, as they go along,
The Screech-Owles cries are mixed too among:
The nimble Bats do frisk along before,
The Polcat's call'd, and he brings many more.

152

The subtile Wee sell followes on behinde,
And nightly Beetes singing in their kinde.
The Mouse was wisht, but would not help to place them,
Welfare the Rat, he came, but not to grace them.

Well, gone they are; but whither, who can tell?
My Muse wants sente to track them by the smell:
Nor is it wholsom: yet to cleare the score,
If they amend not, she will tell you more.