University of Virginia Library

My earliest flame, to whom I owe
All that a Captain needs to know;
Dress, and quadrille, and air, and chat,
Lewd songs, loud laughter, and all that;
Arts that have widows oft subdued,
And never fail'd to win a prude;
Think, charmer, how I live forlorn
At quarters, from Corinna torn.
When thou, my fair one, art away,
How shall I kill that foe, the day?
The landed 'squire, and dull freeholder,
Are sure no comrades for a soldier;
To drink with parsons all day long,
Misaubin tells me wou'd be wrong:
And nunn'ry tales, and Curl's Dutch whore
I've read, 'till I can read no more.
At noon I rise, and strait alarm
The semptress' shop, or country farm;
Repuls'd, my next pursuit is a'ter
The parson's wife, or landlord's daughter:
Oft at the ball for game I search,
At market oft, sometimes at church,
And plight my faith and gold to boot;
Yet demme if a soul will do't—
In short our credit's sunk so low,
Since troops were kept o'foot for shew,
All that for soldiers once run mad,
Are now turn'd Patriots, egad!
And when I boast my feats, the shrew
Asks who was slain the last review.
Know then, that I and captain Trueman
Resolve to keep a miss—in common:
Not her, among the batter'd lasses,
Such as our friend Toupét caresses,
But her, a nymph of polish'd sense,
Which pedants call impertinence;
Train'd up to laugh, and drink, and swear,
And railly with the prettiest air—
Come dimpled smiles, and stealing sighs,
The lisp, the luscious extasies,
The sideling glance, the feeble trip,
The head inclined, the pouting lip
Come, deckt in colours, which may vie
With Iris, when she paints the sky.
Amidst our frolicks and carouses
How shall we pity wretched spouses!
But where can this dear soul be found,
In garret high, or under ground?
If so divine a fair there be,
Charming Corinna, thou art she.
But oh! what motives can persuade
Belles, to prefer a rural shade,
In this gay month, when pleasures bloom,
The park, the play—the drawing room—
Lo! birthnights upon birthnights tread,
Term is begun, the lawyer fee'd;
My friend the merchant, let me tell ye,
Calls in his way to Farinelli;
What if my sattin gown and watch
Some unfledg'd booby 'squire may catch,
Who, charm'd with his delicious quarry,
May first debauch me, and then marry?
Never was season more befitting
Since convocations last were sitting.
And shall I leave dear Charing-cross,
And let two boys my charms ingross?
Leave temple, play-house, rose and rummer,
A country friend might serve in summer!

The town's your choice—yet, charming fair,
Observe what ills attend you there.
Captains, that once admir'd your beauty,
Are kept by quality on—duty;
Cits, half a crown for alms disburse,
From templars look for something worse:
My lord may take you to his bed,
But then he sends you back unpaid;
And all you gain from generous cully,
Must go to keep some Irish bully.
Pinchbeck demands the tweezer case,
And Monmouth-street the gown and stays;
More mischiefs yet come crowding on,
Bridewell,—West-Indies—and Sir John—
Then oh! to lewdness bid adieu,
And chastly live, confin'd to two.