The Female Fire-Ships A satyr against Whoring. In a Letter to a Friend, just come to Town [by Richard Ames] |
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EPISTLE TO THE READER. |
 | The Female Fire-Ships |  |
EPISTLE TO THE READER.
Think not that any sad Mishap,
Of Swelling Groin, or Weeping Clap,
Or Bubo, or venereous Shanker,
Occasion'd this Poetick Anger:
Or that I've got that Plague of Life,
A Fair, but Cursed Jilting Wife,
Who deafens Neighbours with her bawling,
And goes each Night a Catterwawling;
Or reeling Home one Evening Drunk,
I stumbled upon Stragling Punk;
Who calling me her dearest Honey,
From Fob conveyed away my Money;
And in Revenge, upon the Master,
Went home and wrote this biting Satyr.
Or that by any Churches Sentence
Am doom'd to open White Repentance,
To suffer Penance in one Sheet,
Because 'twixt two I did the Feat:
Or that some little Bastard rather
Was left at Door to call me Father;
While th' Mother on't design'd to Trick me,
By swearing in the Croud 'twas like me.
No, none (for best my Thoughts can tell me)
Of these Misfortunes have befel me;
But if you needs must know th'Occasion,
Which put my Muse in such a Passion:
A Friend of mine Young, Airy, Witty,
Rich, Gallant, Well-belov'd and Pretty,
In two Years Time, by Punks in London,
Was Clapt and Poxt, and clearly undone,
Diseas'd and miserably Poor,
And by his Friends turn'd out of Door,
To Country goes to find Relief,
Where in two Months he dy'd of Grief.
If this was not enough to rouze
Resentments in a Friendly Muse,
In all the Subjects us'd for Satyr,
Shew, if you can, a fitter Matter.
All Poetry designs to please,
and if in Dogrel Lines like these,
You find but something for Discourse,
I am, Dear Courteous Reader,
Of Swelling Groin, or Weeping Clap,
Or Bubo, or venereous Shanker,
Occasion'd this Poetick Anger:
Or that I've got that Plague of Life,
A Fair, but Cursed Jilting Wife,
Who deafens Neighbours with her bawling,
And goes each Night a Catterwawling;
Or reeling Home one Evening Drunk,
I stumbled upon Stragling Punk;
Who calling me her dearest Honey,
From Fob conveyed away my Money;
And in Revenge, upon the Master,
Went home and wrote this biting Satyr.
Or that by any Churches Sentence
Am doom'd to open White Repentance,
To suffer Penance in one Sheet,
Because 'twixt two I did the Feat:
Was left at Door to call me Father;
While th' Mother on't design'd to Trick me,
By swearing in the Croud 'twas like me.
No, none (for best my Thoughts can tell me)
Of these Misfortunes have befel me;
But if you needs must know th'Occasion,
Which put my Muse in such a Passion:
A Friend of mine Young, Airy, Witty,
Rich, Gallant, Well-belov'd and Pretty,
In two Years Time, by Punks in London,
Was Clapt and Poxt, and clearly undone,
Diseas'd and miserably Poor,
And by his Friends turn'd out of Door,
To Country goes to find Relief,
Where in two Months he dy'd of Grief.
If this was not enough to rouze
Resentments in a Friendly Muse,
In all the Subjects us'd for Satyr,
Shew, if you can, a fitter Matter.
All Poetry designs to please,
and if in Dogrel Lines like these,
You find but something for Discourse,
I am, Dear Courteous Reader,
Yours,
| The Female Fire-Ships | |