University of Virginia Library

Upon the Author of a Play call'd Sodom

Tell me abandon'd Miscreant, prithee tell,
What damned Pow'r invok'd and sent from Hell;
(If Hell, were bad enough) did thee inspire,
To write, what Fiends asham'd wou'd blushing hear?
Hast thou of late embrac'd some Succubus?
And us'd the lewd Familiar, for a Muse?
Or didst thy Soul, by Inch' oth' Candle sell,
To gain the glorious Name of Pimp, to Hell?
If so; go, and its vow'd Allegiance swear,
Without Press Money, be its Voluntiere:
May he who envies thee, deserve thy fate,
Deserve both Heav'ns, and Mankinds, scorn, and hate.
Disgrace to Libels! Foyle to very shame,
Whom 'tis a scandal to vouchsafe to damn.
What foul discriptions foul enough for thee,
Sunk quite below the reach of infamy?
Thou covet'st to be lewd, but want'st the might,
And art all over Devil, but in Wit.
Weak feeble Strainer, at meer ribaldry,
Whose Muse, is impotent to that degree,
'T had need like Age, be whipt to Lechery.
Vile Sot! who clapt with Poetry art sick,
And void'st Corruption, like a Shanker'd Prick.
Like Ulcers, thy impostum'd Addle Brains,
Drop out in Matter, which thy Paper stains:
Whence nauseous Rhymes, by filthy Births proceed,
As Maggots, in some T---rd, ingendring breed.
Thy Muse has got the Flow'rs, and they ascend,
As in some Green-sick Girl, at upper end.
Sure Nature made, or meant at least t'have don't,
Thy Tongue a Clytoris, thy Mouth a C---t:
How well a Dildoe, wou'd that place become,
To gag it up, and make't for ever dumb?
At least it shou'd be syring'd—
Or wear some stinking Merkin, for a Beard,
That all from its base converse, might be scar'd.
As they a Door shut up, and mark'd beware,
That tells infection, and the Plague is there.
Thou Moorfields Author, fit for Bawds to quote,
(If Bawds themselves, with Honor safe may do't)
When Suburb Prentice, comes to hire delight,
And wants incentives to dull Appetite,
There Punk, perhaps, may thy brave works rehearse,
Frigging the senseless thing, with Hand, and Verse.
Which after shall (preferr'd to Dressing Box)
Hold Turpentine, and Medicines for the Pox.
Or (if I may ordain a Fate more fit)
For such foul, nasty, Excrements of Wit,
May they condemn'd to th'publick Jakes, be lent,
For me I'd fear the Piles, in vengeance sent
Shou'd I with them prophane my Fundament)
There bugger wiping Porters, when they shite,
And so thy Book it self, turn Sodomite.