The Court of Cupid By the Author of the Meretriciad [i.e. Edward Thompson]. Containing the Eighth Edition of the Meretriciad, with great Additions. In Two Volumes |
 | I, II. |
| THE TEMPLE OF VENUS. |
| I. |
| II. |
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 | The Court of Cupid |  |
129
THE TEMPLE OF VENUS.
I. PART I.
Fiers Vainqueurs de la Terre,
Cedez à votre tour:
Le vrai Dieu de la guerre
Est le Dieu de l'amour,
Rousseau.
Cedez à votre tour:
Le vrai Dieu de la guerre
Est le Dieu de l'amour,
Rousseau.
Ye Heroes of Earth,
Whether Soldier or Tar,
Must acknowledge in turn that 'twas Love gave you birth:
That the soft God of Love is the monarch of mirth,
And the only true, great God of War.
Whether Soldier or Tar,
Must acknowledge in turn that 'twas Love gave you birth:
That the soft God of Love is the monarch of mirth,
And the only true, great God of War.
Love, and the Dame I sing, who first inspires
The thrilling Virgin with unhallow'd fires.
The thrilling Virgin with unhallow'd fires.
130
Say, lovely Goddess, why mankind so curst,
That Cull the second, pays like Cull the first?
Venus, declare, for you alone can tell,
Why lust drives Virtue from her hallow'd cell?
Say, by what rule the eldest Son's a cull,
Or why the fairest Daughter turns a trull?
How came we lull'd in ignorance, and rust,
Undone by gaming, and devour'd by lust?
Did education in the days of yore,
Consist in judgment of a Matadore?
Did Roman Virtue rise from games of Whist,
Or Grecian Orators from list! Oh! list!
Or Cincinnatus build that godlike name,
Like empty Britons on a Table's fame;
Vaunt, the whole globe contributes to his treats,
Whilst hundreds perish in the public streets?
Or Rome's œconomy distress the souls,
That bore her Eagles to the distant Poles?
Or do you think Camillus learnt like you,
His great experience from the game of Lue?
Was e'er a Noble like Manilius drove
From Court, for public cooing with a Dove!
No, nor a Father
hurt, (the tale how true)
'Tho' he debauch'd his very Daughter too.
There see extended in ignoble dust,
A weak, sad Sister, thro' a Brother's lust:
At White's behold, those filial, kind regards,
The Father starving, and the Son at cards.
These are the acts of Britons, shame to say,
Ruin'd by whoredom, or undone by play.
Rise I intreat thee Goddess from the main,
Diffuse thy influence o'er a Poet's brain,
To give to Beauty, what is Beauty's right,
Or weak's the pinion, and the Muse's flight;
For surely Virtue never dwelt with thee,
For Virtue Venus never went to sea:
Why should she in her first loose essay err,
When thy 'Beaux Monde concubinage prefer:
Smile sweet consent, a batter'd Vot'ry sings,
And bid thy Urchin flap his rosy wings!
That Cull the second, pays like Cull the first?
Venus, declare, for you alone can tell,
Why lust drives Virtue from her hallow'd cell?
Say, by what rule the eldest Son's a cull,
Or why the fairest Daughter turns a trull?
How came we lull'd in ignorance, and rust,
Undone by gaming, and devour'd by lust?
Did education in the days of yore,
Consist in judgment of a Matadore?
Did Roman Virtue rise from games of Whist,
Or Grecian Orators from list! Oh! list!
Or Cincinnatus build that godlike name,
Like empty Britons on a Table's fame;
Vaunt, the whole globe contributes to his treats,
Whilst hundreds perish in the public streets?
Or Rome's œconomy distress the souls,
That bore her Eagles to the distant Poles?
Or do you think Camillus learnt like you,
His great experience from the game of Lue?
Was e'er a Noble like Manilius drove
From Court, for public cooing with a Dove!
131
'Tho' he debauch'd his very Daughter too.
There see extended in ignoble dust,
A weak, sad Sister, thro' a Brother's lust:
At White's behold, those filial, kind regards,
The Father starving, and the Son at cards.
These are the acts of Britons, shame to say,
Ruin'd by whoredom, or undone by play.
Rise I intreat thee Goddess from the main,
Diffuse thy influence o'er a Poet's brain,
To give to Beauty, what is Beauty's right,
Or weak's the pinion, and the Muse's flight;
For surely Virtue never dwelt with thee,
For Virtue Venus never went to sea:
Why should she in her first loose essay err,
When thy 'Beaux Monde concubinage prefer:
Smile sweet consent, a batter'd Vot'ry sings,
And bid thy Urchin flap his rosy wings!
O! thou whom titles never yet made vain,
Knight, Baron, Member, Patriot, Acquitain,
Whether you choose at Renelagh to shine,
Or more luxuriously at Almacks dine;
Or court at Tomkins more mysterious rites,
Or shake with joy, the wining chair at White's:
Or if some dying female blest in thee,
Sighs for Vauxhall, and elemental tea:
Hear and relieve them with a Play, or Ball,
Who wont capitulate at Beauty's call:
Here smile, and prove the Patron of a page,
That flogs the follies of a dirty age.
Knight, Baron, Member, Patriot, Acquitain,
132
Or more luxuriously at Almacks dine;
Or court at Tomkins more mysterious rites,
Or shake with joy, the wining chair at White's:
Or if some dying female blest in thee,
Sighs for Vauxhall, and elemental tea:
Hear and relieve them with a Play, or Ball,
Who wont capitulate at Beauty's call:
Here smile, and prove the Patron of a page,
That flogs the follies of a dirty age.
Love's lovely Goddess from the Ocean sprung,
So greater fools than Hesiod whilom sung:
But where no matter, she a wanton girl,
Was found by Zeph'rus floating in a pearl;
The winds took pity on the little whore,
And kindly puff'd her to the Cyprian shore:
The circling Horæ saw the floating car,
And kindly sav'd her for the God of War:
Eunomia , Dica, and Irene fair,
Made the sweet baby their peculiar care:
Taught her the deepest mysteries of love,
Then bore the Beauty to the powers above.
To win the wanton every Hero prest,
And yet a Blacksmith stole her from the rest:
From that, dear Venus, ever deign'd to smile
Upon her Paphos, and the Cyprian Isle:
Abroad the Horæ wing their Daughter's fame,
And every fool burnt incense to her name:
In every place, a different name she bore,
In every place, was reverenc'd a Whore:
Rome, Athens, Sparta, Sicily, and Troy,
Fall to the Dutchess, and her poor blind Boy;
From thence it spread to Turkey and Delly,
Pass'd thro' Pegu, and crost the Chinese sea;
Rose at Canton, took Pekin in the way,
And penetrated to cold Zagathay :
The clime had no effect upon his wings,
So up to Petersburgh the puppy swings;
Perform'd strange wonders on an Empress Queen,
And poison'd Europe's hopes in poor Holstein:
To Sweden, Norway, and the frozen Isles,
Nay skin clad Lapland, felt the genial smiles:
Roll'd thro' an hundred Circles up to Prague,
And swam through Holland, for the Yatcht at Hague.
The purple sails belly'd with amorous airs,
Till Love met Mirth and Charles at Whitehall-stairs:
Then Temples grew like mushrooms to the Queen,
And the first Priestess nam'd, was Madam Gwyn:
Unthinking Monarch, whose prodigious lust,
Could raise up stock from Flounders, Sprats and dust:
Whose studies were, to raise venereal fame,
And hand to us the Cytherean game.
Is it a wonder, why the venom spread,
When Charles himself defil'd his Subject's bed?
From bad examples mighty evils spring,
Virtue's the brightest jewel in a King.
A thousand proofs the Poet might advance,
From Troy and Hellen, to the Whore of France:
Start! at the Scene upon the Baltic shore;
An Empress wading in her husband's gore;
What's Tullia's murder, or Lucretia's rape,
To Russia's Devil, in a female shape;
The want of Virtue in th'ambitious breast,
Is want of all, to make a Kingdom blest.
Thrice happy Monarch, when so justly nice,
That dare love Virtue, in the midst of vice;
O would thy moral arm extend abroad;
And move that wanton from a thoughtless Lord:
Reduce the Temples rais'd to lust and wine,
And lead sweet Virtue from her hallow'd shrine.
Go where you will, Impiety you meet,
And altars smoke to lust in every street;
Near to Hyde Park, is rear'd a stately Fane,
By giddy Mortals, impotent and vain.
So greater fools than Hesiod whilom sung:
But where no matter, she a wanton girl,
Was found by Zeph'rus floating in a pearl;
The winds took pity on the little whore,
And kindly puff'd her to the Cyprian shore:
The circling Horæ saw the floating car,
And kindly sav'd her for the God of War:
Eunomia , Dica, and Irene fair,
Made the sweet baby their peculiar care:
133
Then bore the Beauty to the powers above.
To win the wanton every Hero prest,
And yet a Blacksmith stole her from the rest:
From that, dear Venus, ever deign'd to smile
Upon her Paphos, and the Cyprian Isle:
Abroad the Horæ wing their Daughter's fame,
And every fool burnt incense to her name:
In every place, a different name she bore,
In every place, was reverenc'd a Whore:
Rome, Athens, Sparta, Sicily, and Troy,
Fall to the Dutchess, and her poor blind Boy;
From thence it spread to Turkey and Delly,
Pass'd thro' Pegu, and crost the Chinese sea;
Rose at Canton, took Pekin in the way,
And penetrated to cold Zagathay :
The clime had no effect upon his wings,
So up to Petersburgh the puppy swings;
Perform'd strange wonders on an Empress Queen,
And poison'd Europe's hopes in poor Holstein:
To Sweden, Norway, and the frozen Isles,
Nay skin clad Lapland, felt the genial smiles:
134
And swam through Holland, for the Yatcht at Hague.
The purple sails belly'd with amorous airs,
Till Love met Mirth and Charles at Whitehall-stairs:
Then Temples grew like mushrooms to the Queen,
And the first Priestess nam'd, was Madam Gwyn:
Unthinking Monarch, whose prodigious lust,
Could raise up stock from Flounders, Sprats and dust:
Whose studies were, to raise venereal fame,
And hand to us the Cytherean game.
Is it a wonder, why the venom spread,
When Charles himself defil'd his Subject's bed?
From bad examples mighty evils spring,
Virtue's the brightest jewel in a King.
A thousand proofs the Poet might advance,
From Troy and Hellen, to the Whore of France:
Start! at the Scene upon the Baltic shore;
An Empress wading in her husband's gore;
135
To Russia's Devil, in a female shape;
The want of Virtue in th'ambitious breast,
Is want of all, to make a Kingdom blest.
Thrice happy Monarch, when so justly nice,
That dare love Virtue, in the midst of vice;
O would thy moral arm extend abroad;
And move that wanton from a thoughtless Lord:
Reduce the Temples rais'd to lust and wine,
And lead sweet Virtue from her hallow'd shrine.
Go where you will, Impiety you meet,
And altars smoke to lust in every street;
Near to Hyde Park, is rear'd a stately Fane,
By giddy Mortals, impotent and vain.
Here debauchees, and Harlots later born,
Or martial youth, whom arms, and vice adorn;
Or wealthy Cits, whom riches rais'd to note,
Nay Justice too creeps here in thread-bare coat;
Men of all ranks, all characters attend,
And each before all powerful Beauty bend;
Law, War, Divinity, the Rich, the Sage,
Impetuous Youth, and cold lascivious Age:
Except the very wise, and very good,
But all the Nobles of the purest blood:
Both sexes here encrease, or lose their cares;
Miss in her teens, and Madam in white hairs.
The wearied husband, or the craving wife,
Oft' get a Bastard, or a p---x for life:
Ladies debauch themselves; while Southern shores,
First make them Nuns, for Priests to make them Whores.
Or martial youth, whom arms, and vice adorn;
Or wealthy Cits, whom riches rais'd to note,
Nay Justice too creeps here in thread-bare coat;
Men of all ranks, all characters attend,
And each before all powerful Beauty bend;
Law, War, Divinity, the Rich, the Sage,
Impetuous Youth, and cold lascivious Age:
136
But all the Nobles of the purest blood:
Both sexes here encrease, or lose their cares;
Miss in her teens, and Madam in white hairs.
The wearied husband, or the craving wife,
Oft' get a Bastard, or a p---x for life:
Ladies debauch themselves; while Southern shores,
First make them Nuns, for Priests to make them Whores.
O what a conscience has the Queen of joy!
To hold all Nature in her soft employ:
Temples on Temples; to lust Altars blaze
From th'holy Abbey down to Wapping ways:
A thousand more in Covent-Garden stand,
Two thousand more, in Ludgate and the Strand:
To palliate all, behold upon a Horse
The moral Monarch ride at Charing-Cross:
Where, when Night's sooty mantle hides the just,
Circle the Brutes, of Sodomy and lust.
Nor are thy shades less chaste St. James's Park,
When Men, like Owls, and Bats embrace the dark:
Where Dames of easy Virtue stray to please,
The foulest passions 'mongst the fairest Trees:
O would some virtuous soul aspire to move,
The acts of lewdness, from the shades of Love;
Not sit like Justice upon Drury's throne,
Grow rich from bribes, from all the Whores in Town.
To hold all Nature in her soft employ:
Temples on Temples; to lust Altars blaze
From th'holy Abbey down to Wapping ways:
A thousand more in Covent-Garden stand,
Two thousand more, in Ludgate and the Strand:
To palliate all, behold upon a Horse
The moral Monarch ride at Charing-Cross:
Where, when Night's sooty mantle hides the just,
Circle the Brutes, of Sodomy and lust.
Nor are thy shades less chaste St. James's Park,
When Men, like Owls, and Bats embrace the dark:
137
The foulest passions 'mongst the fairest Trees:
O would some virtuous soul aspire to move,
The acts of lewdness, from the shades of Love;
Not sit like Justice upon Drury's throne,
Grow rich from bribes, from all the Whores in Town.
'Twas when the lamps a solemn glim'ring spread,
And every Noise but Hackney-coaches dead;
The Poet glow'd with most unhallow'd fire,
Wore nature's frailty, in a gay attire:
Sir Umbra's self ne'er made a lovelier show,
He bloom'd, and scented like a birth-day Beau:
An harmless sword his heel submissive kist,
A clouded cane hung o'er the lilly wrist:
A tortoise box the neatest fingers grace,
And in the lid appear'd the sweetest face:
A very tulip in the mode of cloaths,
A standing pattern to St. James's Beaux:
In a sedan he took his formal seat,
And dingle dangle rode thro' Bury-street:
To virtuous
Fish, whom half the Bucks in Town
Had pay'd long visits, from her high renown:
If ever Venus left her natives skies
'Twas now, to bless the Hero with her eyes;
Who fell supinely, like the vernal dews,
Or fair Apollo, on the fairest Muse:
But violent passions ne'er continue long,
He sunk in metaphor, and died in song:
Reclin'd his head upon the dear one's lap,
And soar'd to vision in the luscious nap.
And every Noise but Hackney-coaches dead;
The Poet glow'd with most unhallow'd fire,
Wore nature's frailty, in a gay attire:
Sir Umbra's self ne'er made a lovelier show,
He bloom'd, and scented like a birth-day Beau:
An harmless sword his heel submissive kist,
A clouded cane hung o'er the lilly wrist:
A tortoise box the neatest fingers grace,
And in the lid appear'd the sweetest face:
A very tulip in the mode of cloaths,
A standing pattern to St. James's Beaux:
In a sedan he took his formal seat,
And dingle dangle rode thro' Bury-street:
138
Had pay'd long visits, from her high renown:
If ever Venus left her natives skies
'Twas now, to bless the Hero with her eyes;
Who fell supinely, like the vernal dews,
Or fair Apollo, on the fairest Muse:
But violent passions ne'er continue long,
He sunk in metaphor, and died in song:
Reclin'd his head upon the dear one's lap,
And soar'd to vision in the luscious nap.
Soft invocations now are out of use,
And all the stuff of Pindus, and the Muse:
'Tis Love I sing, 'tis Love my soul inspires,
I seek no aid from Heliconian fires.
And all the stuff of Pindus, and the Muse:
'Tis Love I sing, 'tis Love my soul inspires,
I seek no aid from Heliconian fires.
In that soft time, when Youth with vigour crown'd,
Wades in the seas of love till drunk, and drown'd;
I sought a Paphos of the greatest fame,
Assum'd a title, to obtain a Dame:
So high no Poet ever meant to soar,
Excepting Pope at Button's once before;
She mov'd a Venus—and receiv'd th'attack,
Equal to her with Ilium on her back;
So Trojan like, when wearied under arms,
In sleep, and vision, re-attack'd her charms.
Methought I lay in all that downy ease,
That Courtiers do, when Wives have learnt to please;
Lo! on a sudden all the roof expands,
And smiling Venus in her Chariot stands,
As soft, as sweet, as fair, as gay, as young,
As painters fancied, or as Poets sung:
She drew the reins, and gently stay'd the Doves,
Adonis blush'd—and Cupid kiss'd the Loves:
When Hebe fairer than the morning star,
Skimm'd through the air, and led me to the car.
The Doves obedient to their Charioteer,
Flutter their silver wings, and quicken their career.
Towns, Temples, Cities, lessen as we soar,
And quick as thought we lost this bawdy shore:
When Venus spoke—“Dear Naso pray attend,
“Believe that Venus is the poet's friend:
“'Tis Beauty fills the heart with soft desire,
“Stirs up the passions, sets the soul on fire,
“Deceives the sight, defaces Virtue's plan,
“Fixes her chains, and vassals all the man;
“Victorious always when she takes the field,
“The young, the aged, only gaze and yield:
“Silence in her is thunder to your hearts,
“Her eyes are lightnings, when Love's fire she darts;
“Her voice is weak, yet who'll refuse her call?
“Monarchs and bishops must promiscuous fall.
“Wander no more, an honest woman's rare,
“Nor seek new Beauties in the brown or fair:
“In a small village upon Barham Down,
“Remov'd from all the vices of the Town,
“Where rural Beauty in a russet guise
“Of homely truth, excels the pomp of lies:
“There Love, and Beauty live unknown to fame,
“Pollia she's call'd—and Phœbus gave the name;
“The decent Graces lent their aid divine,
“Then nam'd the happy composition thine:
“Fly to her arms, her every worth adore,
“Love her till you, and the belov'd's no more.”
This said, a dull confused sound a-far
Stole on th'attentive ear, like distant war
Of ships, when muttering heavy cannon roar,
Or southern seas, upon a rocky shore:
I turn'd, when lo! a noble fabrick stood,
Of Gothic form, amidst a raging flood
On a tremendous rock, where giddy crowds
Were falling higher than the fleeting clouds:
When Beauty smil'd, e'en rocks forgot to frown,
The turgid sea was in a moment down;
The silver Doves shot like the Evening star,
And Hebe took me from the silver car.
When Beauty's Queen forsook her airy seat,
What humble suppliants wait her silken feet.
Around her snowy neck and shoulders flew,
A flock of little Loves of rosy hue;
The Sports, the Joys on golden pinions move,
And Rapture, bursting hail'd her Queen of Love.
Wades in the seas of love till drunk, and drown'd;
I sought a Paphos of the greatest fame,
Assum'd a title, to obtain a Dame:
139
Excepting Pope at Button's once before;
She mov'd a Venus—and receiv'd th'attack,
Equal to her with Ilium on her back;
So Trojan like, when wearied under arms,
In sleep, and vision, re-attack'd her charms.
Methought I lay in all that downy ease,
That Courtiers do, when Wives have learnt to please;
Lo! on a sudden all the roof expands,
And smiling Venus in her Chariot stands,
As soft, as sweet, as fair, as gay, as young,
As painters fancied, or as Poets sung:
She drew the reins, and gently stay'd the Doves,
Adonis blush'd—and Cupid kiss'd the Loves:
When Hebe fairer than the morning star,
Skimm'd through the air, and led me to the car.
The Doves obedient to their Charioteer,
Flutter their silver wings, and quicken their career.
140
And quick as thought we lost this bawdy shore:
When Venus spoke—“Dear Naso pray attend,
“Believe that Venus is the poet's friend:
“'Tis Beauty fills the heart with soft desire,
“Stirs up the passions, sets the soul on fire,
“Deceives the sight, defaces Virtue's plan,
“Fixes her chains, and vassals all the man;
“Victorious always when she takes the field,
“The young, the aged, only gaze and yield:
“Silence in her is thunder to your hearts,
“Her eyes are lightnings, when Love's fire she darts;
“Her voice is weak, yet who'll refuse her call?
“Monarchs and bishops must promiscuous fall.
“Wander no more, an honest woman's rare,
“Nor seek new Beauties in the brown or fair:
“In a small village upon Barham Down,
“Remov'd from all the vices of the Town,
“Where rural Beauty in a russet guise
“Of homely truth, excels the pomp of lies:
“There Love, and Beauty live unknown to fame,
“Pollia she's call'd—and Phœbus gave the name;
141
“Then nam'd the happy composition thine:
“Fly to her arms, her every worth adore,
“Love her till you, and the belov'd's no more.”
This said, a dull confused sound a-far
Stole on th'attentive ear, like distant war
Of ships, when muttering heavy cannon roar,
Or southern seas, upon a rocky shore:
I turn'd, when lo! a noble fabrick stood,
Of Gothic form, amidst a raging flood
On a tremendous rock, where giddy crowds
Were falling higher than the fleeting clouds:
When Beauty smil'd, e'en rocks forgot to frown,
The turgid sea was in a moment down;
The silver Doves shot like the Evening star,
And Hebe took me from the silver car.
When Beauty's Queen forsook her airy seat,
What humble suppliants wait her silken feet.
Around her snowy neck and shoulders flew,
A flock of little Loves of rosy hue;
The Sports, the Joys on golden pinions move,
And Rapture, bursting hail'd her Queen of Love.
Wives with petitions 'gainst a sluggard Spouse,
Husbands declaiming 'gainst the marriage noose:
Widows in health imploring secret grants,
Virgins in sighs, confessing half their wants:
Stout roaring Batchelors demand her aid,
Old age for vigour to seduce the maid:
Dames whom experience long had rendered sage,
Bark at the Goddess to annul old age:
“Complaining round her altar many lay,
“Some of their loss some of their Love's delay;
“Some of their pride, some ardent suits disdaining,
“Some fearing fraud, some fraudulently feigning.”
Not Steuart's Levee ever half so full,
Tho' Scotland spares him to her poor and dull.
Amongst the crowd a blooming creature stood:
Lovely amidst her grief, and wept a flood:
And thus to Venus she preferr'd her prayer:
“Oh! will you lovely Goddess deign to hear
“The sad petition of an injur'd Maid,
“By man and Medlicot alas! betray'd.
“'Twas May O Goddess, and your Daughter young,
“I lent my ear to his alluring tongue:
“What could alas! an amorous Virgin do?
“He swore he lov'd me, I believ'd him too:
“He call'd on you to prove the flame how true,
“Intreated Hymen to unite the two:
“Declar'd he meant to bless me for my life,
“His view was honour, wou'd I be his Wife?
“Things were preparing for the gordion knot,
“Beg'd me to yield,—Oh! Goddess, had I not?
“A very vagrant thro' the World I rove,
“The scorn of Kindred, and the Man I love.
“The Goddess pity'd, wept, sigh'd, turn'd away;
“Ye beauteous maids, beware the ides of May!
Husbands declaiming 'gainst the marriage noose:
142
Virgins in sighs, confessing half their wants:
Stout roaring Batchelors demand her aid,
Old age for vigour to seduce the maid:
Dames whom experience long had rendered sage,
Bark at the Goddess to annul old age:
“Complaining round her altar many lay,
“Some of their loss some of their Love's delay;
“Some of their pride, some ardent suits disdaining,
“Some fearing fraud, some fraudulently feigning.”
Not Steuart's Levee ever half so full,
Tho' Scotland spares him to her poor and dull.
Amongst the crowd a blooming creature stood:
Lovely amidst her grief, and wept a flood:
And thus to Venus she preferr'd her prayer:
“Oh! will you lovely Goddess deign to hear
“The sad petition of an injur'd Maid,
“By man and Medlicot alas! betray'd.
“'Twas May O Goddess, and your Daughter young,
“I lent my ear to his alluring tongue:
“What could alas! an amorous Virgin do?
“He swore he lov'd me, I believ'd him too:
143
“Intreated Hymen to unite the two:
“Declar'd he meant to bless me for my life,
“His view was honour, wou'd I be his Wife?
“Things were preparing for the gordion knot,
“Beg'd me to yield,—Oh! Goddess, had I not?
“A very vagrant thro' the World I rove,
“The scorn of Kindred, and the Man I love.
“The Goddess pity'd, wept, sigh'd, turn'd away;
“Ye beauteous maids, beware the ides of May!
This said; a Youth as meagre, and as thin,
As a bad carcass quite devour'd by Sin:
Fell on his knees, (as erst a gallant Wight,
When other's merits made the thing a Knight .)
Hear, Venus hear, an humble vot'ry's prayer,
Then paus'd, or else the rest was lost in air:
She sigh'd, the Warrior sunk into the dust,
Then smil'd and rear'd him next a strumpet's Bust.
As a bad carcass quite devour'd by Sin:
Fell on his knees, (as erst a gallant Wight,
When other's merits made the thing a Knight .)
Hear, Venus hear, an humble vot'ry's prayer,
Then paus'd, or else the rest was lost in air:
She sigh'd, the Warrior sunk into the dust,
Then smil'd and rear'd him next a strumpet's Bust.
144
In rage a furious, ever greedy Dame
Flew to the Goddess, Obloquy her Name,
Rail'd at the sluggard she had got for life,
And curs'd the narrow circle of a wife:
Wish'd that her goodness would remove the man,
Or quite invert the matrimonial plan,
Begg'd she would send a philtrum to her aid,
And curs'd all Laws, but those, that lust had made:
The Goddess stagger'd by the Matron's voice,
Dismiss'd her happy, and condemn'd her choice.
Flew to the Goddess, Obloquy her Name,
Rail'd at the sluggard she had got for life,
And curs'd the narrow circle of a wife:
Wish'd that her goodness would remove the man,
Or quite invert the matrimonial plan,
Begg'd she would send a philtrum to her aid,
And curs'd all Laws, but those, that lust had made:
The Goddess stagger'd by the Matron's voice,
Dismiss'd her happy, and condemn'd her choice.
This Quean withdrawn, a Quaker in belief,
Appear'd in horns, the signet of his grief;
Declar'd his Wife a carnal act had done,
As never yet appear'd before the Sun:
By common law he try'd the horrid cause,
And cast the sturdy Author of his woes:
Begg'd that the Goddess would remove the Two,
And plant him where no horns, or Cuckolds grew;
The queen of love consented with a smile,
And Obadiah rested from his toil.
Appear'd in horns, the signet of his grief;
Declar'd his Wife a carnal act had done,
As never yet appear'd before the Sun:
By common law he try'd the horrid cause,
And cast the sturdy Author of his woes:
Begg'd that the Goddess would remove the Two,
And plant him where no horns, or Cuckolds grew;
The queen of love consented with a smile,
And Obadiah rested from his toil.
145
An
amorous Lady next, supply'd the place,
With Wit, and Beauty, but she wanted grace:
Close at her heels attends her injur'd mate,
The greatest Cuckold, in the greatest state:
In turns the two before the Goddess spoke,
Who sat attentive, and enjoy'd the joke;
My Lady Lucy once was nearly winning,
Until her maid produc'd her own fair linnen:
This was so plain, Venus began to stare,
Blush'd for her sex, and then divorc'd the Pair.
With Wit, and Beauty, but she wanted grace:
Close at her heels attends her injur'd mate,
The greatest Cuckold, in the greatest state:
In turns the two before the Goddess spoke,
Who sat attentive, and enjoy'd the joke;
My Lady Lucy once was nearly winning,
Until her maid produc'd her own fair linnen:
This was so plain, Venus began to stare,
Blush'd for her sex, and then divorc'd the Pair.
To these, succeed four characters well known,
To all the Men, and Matrons of the Town:
Two injur'd husbands, and as many wives,
The plague, and torment of each other's lives:
The first a Lady, most politely true,
The second, never even true to two:
The Men as various in their different wars
As Boys of Venus, and the Sons of Mars:
Each plead their cause with energy and strife,
The injur'd Husband, and the wanton Wife:
Enrag'd the Goddess stop'd the vile defence,
And branded two, to shame, and Impotence.
To all the Men, and Matrons of the Town:
Two injur'd husbands, and as many wives,
The plague, and torment of each other's lives:
The first a Lady, most politely true,
The second, never even true to two:
The Men as various in their different wars
As Boys of Venus, and the Sons of Mars:
Each plead their cause with energy and strife,
The injur'd Husband, and the wanton Wife:
Enrag'd the Goddess stop'd the vile defence,
And branded two, to shame, and Impotence.
146
The last that came was Virtue's lovely Child,
Chaste, noble, handsome, eloquent, and mild:
Soon as the Beauty dignify'd the place,
A secret gladness blush'd in every face;
Her name was eccho'd with unfeign'd applause,
And the bad wept with better men her cause:
When Venus first beheld the peerless Queen,
She broke the ring, and met her on the green,
Declar'd such charms were only made to rule,
Not fall a prey to such a frantic fool.
High in the air was tender Virtue seen,
To guard her daughter to the Paphian Queen:
As quick as thought she cut the yielding air,
And P* hail'd her Darling, and her care:
Honour and Truth support a brilliant crown,
And justice nam'd it—Lady P---'s own:
'Twas Virtue plac'd it on her lovely brow,
And Fame and Envy own, she wears it now.
The Maiden Chastity concludes the verse,
And with her voice the Sons of lust disperse,
All different ways, on different errands fly,
Many to Styx, not many to the sky:
Maids cross'd in Love attempt the rocky steep,
And fiery Widows plunge into the deep:
Old Age, and Youth, both foolishly inclin'd,
Are blown, and baffl'd by the baffling wind;
Some discontented with the Queen's decree,
Fly to the rocks, and plunge into the sea.
Unhappy Man, on whom the gifts of Fate,
Are thought bestow'd too early, or too late:
Search every page of life, you'll find a blot,
Was ever Man contented with his lot?
Chaste, noble, handsome, eloquent, and mild:
Soon as the Beauty dignify'd the place,
A secret gladness blush'd in every face;
Her name was eccho'd with unfeign'd applause,
And the bad wept with better men her cause:
When Venus first beheld the peerless Queen,
She broke the ring, and met her on the green,
Declar'd such charms were only made to rule,
Not fall a prey to such a frantic fool.
High in the air was tender Virtue seen,
To guard her daughter to the Paphian Queen:
As quick as thought she cut the yielding air,
And P* hail'd her Darling, and her care:
Honour and Truth support a brilliant crown,
And justice nam'd it—Lady P---'s own:
'Twas Virtue plac'd it on her lovely brow,
And Fame and Envy own, she wears it now.
The Maiden Chastity concludes the verse,
And with her voice the Sons of lust disperse,
All different ways, on different errands fly,
Many to Styx, not many to the sky:
Maids cross'd in Love attempt the rocky steep,
And fiery Widows plunge into the deep:
147
Are blown, and baffl'd by the baffling wind;
Some discontented with the Queen's decree,
Fly to the rocks, and plunge into the sea.
Unhappy Man, on whom the gifts of Fate,
Are thought bestow'd too early, or too late:
Search every page of life, you'll find a blot,
Was ever Man contented with his lot?
End of the First Volume.
Mr. Cibber (in the frontispiece of his letter to Mr. Pope) is depicted, tearing the English Homer at Button's from a naked Venus.
A Scot's Captain of the Navy knighted for bringing home an Express from Quebec in the reign of George the Second.
i
TO VENUS.
Venus, 'twas thou inspired'st my strains,
Sent love full gallop through my veins:
'Twas thou my Verses first didst speed;
And fill'd them with Lucretian seed;
That seed prolifick I proclaim,
That rais'd Lucretius' Roman name
To glorious, and immortal Fame.
Sent love full gallop through my veins:
'Twas thou my Verses first didst speed;
And fill'd them with Lucretian seed;
That seed prolifick I proclaim,
That rais'd Lucretius' Roman name
To glorious, and immortal Fame.
O! Venus hear your darling Son,
Smile, or your gallant Boy's undone!
Unless you aid,—he sinks in shame,
Who only rose to raise your fame.
'Tis thou O! Goddess that inspires,
All Nature through with fond desires;
'Tis thou that warms the Dove to coo,
And stirs the sturdy Bull to woo;
'Tis thou that stimulates the Wren,
And whips the Cock upon the Hen;
'Tis thou that makes the boar to sigh,
To grunt, and court within the Sty.
To quit the straw, or leave the wood,
And raise his passion in the mud;
'Tis thou provok'st the lazy pig,
To frisk in the venereal jigg:
'Tis thou that mak'st the Stallion snort,
And gives him vigour for the sport:
Nature, without thine aid wou'd rust,
Thou spur'st them all to love, to lust.
'Tis thou O! Goddess warms each part,
And trills about the virgin heart:
'Twas you sent Paris once Pell-Mell in,
'To Menelaus' lovely Helen.
'Twas you kick'd up the Trojan dust,
And got Miss Bab Briseis bust:
'Twas you that form'd th'Egyptian jade
Cleopatra, for the frisking trade;
'Twas you that made poor Tony spend,
Unto a loving fatal end;
And made the wanton Gypsy grasp
The pois'nous, slipp'ry, wriggling asp.
'Twas you that made Lucretia lewd,
And at the same time made her prude;
'Twas you which made the happy hit,
To whip her slave upon the spit;
She'd no objections to the prince,
That her enjoyment must convince;
But when found out, she went a Barking
Unto her Spouse against young Tarquin:
Let you alone dear gentle Venus,
You always can reveal or screen us.
Smile, or your gallant Boy's undone!
Unless you aid,—he sinks in shame,
Who only rose to raise your fame.
ii
All Nature through with fond desires;
'Tis thou that warms the Dove to coo,
And stirs the sturdy Bull to woo;
'Tis thou that stimulates the Wren,
And whips the Cock upon the Hen;
'Tis thou that makes the boar to sigh,
To grunt, and court within the Sty.
To quit the straw, or leave the wood,
And raise his passion in the mud;
'Tis thou provok'st the lazy pig,
To frisk in the venereal jigg:
'Tis thou that mak'st the Stallion snort,
And gives him vigour for the sport:
Nature, without thine aid wou'd rust,
Thou spur'st them all to love, to lust.
'Tis thou O! Goddess warms each part,
And trills about the virgin heart:
'Twas you sent Paris once Pell-Mell in,
'To Menelaus' lovely Helen.
'Twas you kick'd up the Trojan dust,
And got Miss Bab Briseis bust:
iii
Cleopatra, for the frisking trade;
'Twas you that made poor Tony spend,
Unto a loving fatal end;
And made the wanton Gypsy grasp
The pois'nous, slipp'ry, wriggling asp.
'Twas you that made Lucretia lewd,
And at the same time made her prude;
'Twas you which made the happy hit,
To whip her slave upon the spit;
She'd no objections to the prince,
That her enjoyment must convince;
But when found out, she went a Barking
Unto her Spouse against young Tarquin:
Let you alone dear gentle Venus,
You always can reveal or screen us.
With us indeed you have been civil,
And with the great have play'd the Devil:
'Twas you turn'd Lady Sarah's head,
And put Lord William in her bed:
Cupid and you your flames still waft on,
And burnt young O---y up for G*.
Passion and lust puft up the gale,
And kindled Kitty H.'s tail:
Then quick again as brimstone match,
My Lady B* did catch:
No Engines cou'd prevent or hinder;
V*t too she took like tinder:
Nothing in short could burn so quick,
Out of the Kingdoms of old Nick:
No Thames-street fire had half the merit,
Tho' made of sugar, oil, and spirit,
Nor did they blaze or make such flames,
As burnt in these unquenched Dames.
However Venus keep it up,
Still reign the toast of Bacchus' cup!
To Love, pray smooth the Turnpike road,
Let kissing still remain the mode;
In me provoke the Darling passion,
And flirting ever keep in fashion:
'Tis what you like, 'tis what we love,
We're taught to rev'rence folks above:
It is a homage I shall pay,
To your sweet Daughters ev'ry day;
And when I'm past all worship here,
Transport me to your heavenly sphere,
With seeing you, O! make me blest,
Lull me upon your velvet breast;
No earthly Babby e'er shall tipple,
As I will Venus of your nipple:
And if such sucking won't create,
And fit me for th'Elysian state;
Let me drink nectar, still be jolly,
And spend Eternity with Polly.
And with the great have play'd the Devil:
'Twas you turn'd Lady Sarah's head,
And put Lord William in her bed:
iv
And burnt young O---y up for G*.
Passion and lust puft up the gale,
And kindled Kitty H.'s tail:
Then quick again as brimstone match,
My Lady B* did catch:
No Engines cou'd prevent or hinder;
V*t too she took like tinder:
Nothing in short could burn so quick,
Out of the Kingdoms of old Nick:
No Thames-street fire had half the merit,
Tho' made of sugar, oil, and spirit,
Nor did they blaze or make such flames,
As burnt in these unquenched Dames.
However Venus keep it up,
Still reign the toast of Bacchus' cup!
To Love, pray smooth the Turnpike road,
Let kissing still remain the mode;
In me provoke the Darling passion,
And flirting ever keep in fashion:
'Tis what you like, 'tis what we love,
We're taught to rev'rence folks above:
v
To your sweet Daughters ev'ry day;
And when I'm past all worship here,
Transport me to your heavenly sphere,
With seeing you, O! make me blest,
Lull me upon your velvet breast;
No earthly Babby e'er shall tipple,
As I will Venus of your nipple:
And if such sucking won't create,
And fit me for th'Elysian state;
Let me drink nectar, still be jolly,
And spend Eternity with Polly.
1
II. PART II.
Under how hard a fate are Women born,
Prais'd to their ruin or expos'd to scorn.
If they want Beauty, they of love despair,
And are besieged like frontier Towns if fair.
Prais'd to their ruin or expos'd to scorn.
If they want Beauty, they of love despair,
And are besieged like frontier Towns if fair.
Have you not seen an awkward Country Clown,
Grin at the Wax-work, and the signs in Town?
With Sister Mall, a buxom rosy lass,
Who came forsooth to see the Queen's fine Ass:
Or gape an hour, at finding out the Black
At Temple-Bar, that grins, and winds a Jack:
Or at a Monkey, Lord, Lord, John behold!
What wonderous things these people make for gold:
Next See St Paul's, Guildhall, the Bridge, and Tower,
And wait till Gog and Magog dine at four:
The Meuse, Tall Woman, Palace, Charing Cross,
And the Life-guards-man stuck upon his horse:
But last the Abbey, where a gabling Cull,
Relates what air puffs in his empty skull;
He praises ev'ry Bust, and ev'ry grave,
As Milton learned, and as Marlborough brave;
Thus gold to every Blockhead rears a bust,
Where Fame should crown, the Wise, the Brave, and Just.
Grin at the Wax-work, and the signs in Town?
With Sister Mall, a buxom rosy lass,
Who came forsooth to see the Queen's fine Ass:
Or gape an hour, at finding out the Black
At Temple-Bar, that grins, and winds a Jack:
2
What wonderous things these people make for gold:
Next See St Paul's, Guildhall, the Bridge, and Tower,
And wait till Gog and Magog dine at four:
The Meuse, Tall Woman, Palace, Charing Cross,
And the Life-guards-man stuck upon his horse:
But last the Abbey, where a gabling Cull,
Relates what air puffs in his empty skull;
He praises ev'ry Bust, and ev'ry grave,
As Milton learned, and as Marlborough brave;
Thus gold to every Blockhead rears a bust,
Where Fame should crown, the Wise, the Brave, and Just.
Thus fill'd with wonder to their farm repair,
Make Father, Mother, and the Children stare,
How that they saw the King, nay heard him speak,
And wou'd have din'd wi'em but 'twas washing week;
Thus did I gaze in Love's Pantheon lost,
Or Fools in London at a Cock-Lane Ghost.
Make Father, Mother, and the Children stare,
How that they saw the King, nay heard him speak,
And wou'd have din'd wi'em but 'twas washing week;
Thus did I gaze in Love's Pantheon lost,
Or Fools in London at a Cock-Lane Ghost.
3
Four faces had the Fane of different dates,
To each were five and twenty brasen gates,
Open to both the poor, and regal call,
For love is general, and receiv'd at all.
Here amorous Sons, who fell at Beauty's shrine,
Here female Honour, truly drawn divine:
Here mighty Chiefs who fought in Virtue's cause,
Here Beauties blush, that follies were their foes:
Here horrid lusts sit trembling o'er their rapes,
Here injur'd Virgins wear angelic shapes:
Here wanton age stoops ridicul'd in brass,
While Impotency points—the lovely Lass:
Here Monks recluse on living pass-times frown,
And Nuns half dare to meditate in stone.
To each were five and twenty brasen gates,
Open to both the poor, and regal call,
For love is general, and receiv'd at all.
Here amorous Sons, who fell at Beauty's shrine,
Here female Honour, truly drawn divine:
Here mighty Chiefs who fought in Virtue's cause,
Here Beauties blush, that follies were their foes:
Here horrid lusts sit trembling o'er their rapes,
Here injur'd Virgins wear angelic shapes:
Here wanton age stoops ridicul'd in brass,
While Impotency points—the lovely Lass:
Here Monks recluse on living pass-times frown,
And Nuns half dare to meditate in stone.
Soft breathe the flutes—the massy doors unfold,
Stupendous vault! the roof of fretted gold,
Rais'd on an orient granite collonade,
Where foliage twin'd, and naked Cupids play'd;
Two lovely forms the spacious entrance grace,
And each a beauty of Idalian race;
High above all, and exquisitely done,
Appear'd th'amours of Venus, and her son:
From th'Ocean rising to cœlestial bliss,
And as she rose the waters clung to kiss,
What she with wining female coyness try'd
To vail, what none wou'd ever wish to hide.
Stupendous vault! the roof of fretted gold,
Rais'd on an orient granite collonade,
Where foliage twin'd, and naked Cupids play'd;
Two lovely forms the spacious entrance grace,
And each a beauty of Idalian race;
High above all, and exquisitely done,
Appear'd th'amours of Venus, and her son:
4
And as she rose the waters clung to kiss,
What she with wining female coyness try'd
To vail, what none wou'd ever wish to hide.
There on a cloud, with every beauty grac'd
She loll'd, and with her gay Adonis plac'd
In a soft attitude of love, and joy,
And fine the contrast of the nut-brown Boy:
Their arms, and legs irregularly twine,
Their looks declaring more than joys divine.
She loll'd, and with her gay Adonis plac'd
In a soft attitude of love, and joy,
And fine the contrast of the nut-brown Boy:
Their arms, and legs irregularly twine,
Their looks declaring more than joys divine.
The next the warmest conflict of her wars:
Where the dear Creature conquers sturdy Mars,
The dull procuress snoring fast asleep,
The Blacksmith calls the Gods to have a peep;
Poor Venus blush'd, who wou'dn't at the shock?
Catch'd with a Man, and she without a smock.
Where the dear Creature conquers sturdy Mars,
The dull procuress snoring fast asleep,
The Blacksmith calls the Gods to have a peep;
Poor Venus blush'd, who wou'dn't at the shock?
Catch'd with a Man, and she without a smock.
Will not our times as plain a case afford,
A Goddess married to a vulgar Lord:
What would you have the pretty creature do?
When married A*n to a fish like you:
Can you, if nothing's good at home, my Lord,
Blame a wise wife, who gets it cheap abroad?
A Goddess married to a vulgar Lord:
What would you have the pretty creature do?
When married A*n to a fish like you:
Can you, if nothing's good at home, my Lord,
Blame a wise wife, who gets it cheap abroad?
5
Ladies suppose you're guilty of the crime?
(I love the Fair, as Poets love their rhime)
In spite of all the panders you procure,
Some will surprise in the most secret hour:
Night, and a Bagnio may conceal a while,
But time, and day at last will tell the guile.
David, that chaste good man in days of yore
Uriah slew, and made his wife a whore:
Heav'n saw the damn'd adul'try he had done,
And made the crime as public as the Sun.
(I love the Fair, as Poets love their rhime)
In spite of all the panders you procure,
Some will surprise in the most secret hour:
Night, and a Bagnio may conceal a while,
But time, and day at last will tell the guile.
David, that chaste good man in days of yore
Uriah slew, and made his wife a whore:
Heav'n saw the damn'd adul'try he had done,
And made the crime as public as the Sun.
A living wou'd not save a Parson's life,
When a lewd Lord debauch'd a dear lov'd wife;
A broken heart destroy'd the holy man,
He lives a knave, and she an Harridan.
When a lewd Lord debauch'd a dear lov'd wife;
A broken heart destroy'd the holy man,
He lives a knave, and she an Harridan.
What dire effects from regal secrets rise,
See Scarborough curses God, and madly dies!
He told to Love, what woman could not hold,
So man's betray'd thro' vanity, or gold:
But what could prompt that Dutchess to relate
A thing, which kill'd her friend, and hurt the state?
The Fair must own, and men with pity grieve,
The Salique maxim, “Woman's but a sieve.”
'Tis plain they kill, “But yet I can't define”,
How it's as easy as they use carmine?
'Tis hell, 'tis horror, it is all that's bad,
And no excuse if all the sex are mad.
God made a Devil, and portray'd it Fair,
Then call'd it Woman to encrease our care.
See Scarborough curses God, and madly dies!
He told to Love, what woman could not hold,
So man's betray'd thro' vanity, or gold:
But what could prompt that Dutchess to relate
A thing, which kill'd her friend, and hurt the state?
6
The Salique maxim, “Woman's but a sieve.”
'Tis plain they kill, “But yet I can't define”,
How it's as easy as they use carmine?
'Tis hell, 'tis horror, it is all that's bad,
And no excuse if all the sex are mad.
God made a Devil, and portray'd it Fair,
Then call'd it Woman to encrease our care.
Who would believe this after years of love,
As loving, cooing as a turtle Dove:
Nought was so good, so constant to his bed,
But when he broke his leg, it turn'd her head;
She could not bear to nurse, so stretch'd her scope,
And tugging broke the matrimonial rope:
Pick'd Paddy up, well clad in all but cloaths,
Who beat her husband's goodness, by the nose:
But it's the mode, for Ladies to elope,
From pretty Kitty, down to madam P*.
Yet if a busband's either lame, or brown,
Are you to kiss with all the Fops in Town?
Oh! Virtue come, thou jewel of the Fair,
'Tis Virtue only makes a happy pair;
A handsome Woman is a joy, agreed,
A virtuous Woman is a bliss indeed.
As loving, cooing as a turtle Dove:
Nought was so good, so constant to his bed,
But when he broke his leg, it turn'd her head;
She could not bear to nurse, so stretch'd her scope,
And tugging broke the matrimonial rope:
Pick'd Paddy up, well clad in all but cloaths,
Who beat her husband's goodness, by the nose:
But it's the mode, for Ladies to elope,
From pretty Kitty, down to madam P*.
Yet if a busband's either lame, or brown,
Are you to kiss with all the Fops in Town?
Oh! Virtue come, thou jewel of the Fair,
'Tis Virtue only makes a happy pair;
A handsome Woman is a joy, agreed,
A virtuous Woman is a bliss indeed.
7
On either hand a thousand forms appear'd,
To Virtue, Beauty, Lust and Folly rear'd;
Here old amours thought buried with their slaves,
Rise true from noble, or ignoble graves:
High above all the fatal youth I view'd,
Who every female, not himself subdu'd;
Th'unhappy Umpire of a tender cause,
Founder of Grecian, and the Trojan woes:
Whom Venus lov'd, altho' he ruin'd Troy,
And for adult'ry canoniz'd the Boy .
Such were the favours of the Cyprian Fair,
And now the mode of pure St. James's air:
Or why should wanton C---h rise in fame,
A maid of honour dub'd for deeds of shame?
Or why applaud his Grace's virtuous life;
Because his goodness keeps another's wife:
Blush grandeur blush! at such adult'rous deeds,
And act the god-like part when Virtue bleeds.
Not rear to Infamy the marble Bust,
Or with libations quench the Harlot's Lust:
Blush grandeur blush! on your incestuous beds,
Ye wicked Stars hide your diminish'd heads!
To Virtue, Beauty, Lust and Folly rear'd;
Here old amours thought buried with their slaves,
Rise true from noble, or ignoble graves:
High above all the fatal youth I view'd,
Who every female, not himself subdu'd;
Th'unhappy Umpire of a tender cause,
Founder of Grecian, and the Trojan woes:
Whom Venus lov'd, altho' he ruin'd Troy,
And for adult'ry canoniz'd the Boy .
Such were the favours of the Cyprian Fair,
And now the mode of pure St. James's air:
Or why should wanton C---h rise in fame,
A maid of honour dub'd for deeds of shame?
Or why applaud his Grace's virtuous life;
Because his goodness keeps another's wife:
Blush grandeur blush! at such adult'rous deeds,
And act the god-like part when Virtue bleeds.
Not rear to Infamy the marble Bust,
Or with libations quench the Harlot's Lust:
Blush grandeur blush! on your incestuous beds,
Ye wicked Stars hide your diminish'd heads!
8
How droll was miss Europa in her cull,
O! what a Gothic taste! a God, a Bull:
Between her thighs the Beast declares his pride,
And she in rapture hugs his hairy side:
Thus rav'd a Brother, when a noble Lord
A Hunter stole, and gallop'd her abroad:
The best bred Filly ever prest a course,
Steel to the bottom, run against a-horse:
No man knows better how to break, or bit,
And seven to two, he backs the pretty Tit:
O! damme, bottom, bottom Boy indeed,
He knows a Wag, to cross, or mend a Breed:
Pray in a Pembrook have you seen her ride,
Champing the bit in all Equestrian pride:
A sweeter creature never wagg'd a tail,
And push her starting—hang me if she fail.
If e'er my Lord should sell the little Mare,
I'll try for Pegasus to get an heir.
His Grace, or Shaftow, gallop, walk, or trot 'em,
We have it hollow, Boy, the Filly's bottom.
Would not an Heiress in these 'lopeing days,
Straddle an Ox if she could get no chaise?
Rather than sigh away nights, days, and morns,
They'll ride the Bull, or hang upon his horns:
What won't the Girl do full of flesh and blood,
To have the thing she doats on; bad or good?
Where lies the diff'rence between Kitty's cull,
And fair Europa and her milking Bull?
I'll tell you friend;—but then, 'tis inter nos,
One, took O'Kelly—t'other Sampson Bos.
O! what a Gothic taste! a God, a Bull:
Between her thighs the Beast declares his pride,
And she in rapture hugs his hairy side:
Thus rav'd a Brother, when a noble Lord
A Hunter stole, and gallop'd her abroad:
The best bred Filly ever prest a course,
Steel to the bottom, run against a-horse:
No man knows better how to break, or bit,
And seven to two, he backs the pretty Tit:
O! damme, bottom, bottom Boy indeed,
He knows a Wag, to cross, or mend a Breed:
Pray in a Pembrook have you seen her ride,
Champing the bit in all Equestrian pride:
A sweeter creature never wagg'd a tail,
And push her starting—hang me if she fail.
If e'er my Lord should sell the little Mare,
I'll try for Pegasus to get an heir.
His Grace, or Shaftow, gallop, walk, or trot 'em,
We have it hollow, Boy, the Filly's bottom.
Would not an Heiress in these 'lopeing days,
Straddle an Ox if she could get no chaise?
Rather than sigh away nights, days, and morns,
They'll ride the Bull, or hang upon his horns:
What won't the Girl do full of flesh and blood,
To have the thing she doats on; bad or good?
9
And fair Europa and her milking Bull?
I'll tell you friend;—but then, 'tis inter nos,
One, took O'Kelly—t'other Sampson Bos.
Here gathering flowers stood sweet Sicilia's Miss,
Herself the sweetest, pluck'd by gloomy Dis ;
So Fanny fell, whose charms e'en worlds adore,
Surpassing art, and all the Flowers she bore:
I wish the Angel had not such a rod,
A man so very like the grimy god:
Pluto one day may ease her of her load,
And Angels place her in a calm abode.
Herself the sweetest, pluck'd by gloomy Dis ;
So Fanny fell, whose charms e'en worlds adore,
Surpassing art, and all the Flowers she bore:
I wish the Angel had not such a rod,
A man so very like the grimy god:
Pluto one day may ease her of her load,
And Angels place her in a calm abode.
Semele next receives the Thunderer's fires,
And in extatic joys beneath expires:
The times are chang'd—the Men may try their skill,
But Women now, are plaguey hard to kill:
Men have expir'd in the connubial deed,
But, Puppy like, the Ladies suck and feed.
And in extatic joys beneath expires:
The times are chang'd—the Men may try their skill,
But Women now, are plaguey hard to kill:
Men have expir'd in the connubial deed,
But, Puppy like, the Ladies suck and feed.
Next sigh'd Narcissus to himself a slave;
And pretty Echo pining in a Cave.
God knows we've plenty sigh, and plenty pine,
From hoary ninety, down to verdant nine;
See dear Sir Jessy for himself expires,
And prettier Biddy faints with strange desires;
There old Sir Fumble toys a long, long hour,
And Betty swears—it's out of woman's power;
These things are common in this dirty Town,
From Mother Goadbey up to Mrs. Brown.
Scandal with all's a very favourite dish,
From Maid's of honour, up to Charlottee Fish;
On such a trifle, why should much be said?
“She only took a Gentleman to bed;”
And every day the Quality do more,
Making her tender one a Baker's score:
Few Echos pine, they hardly wait to hope,
For if Pappa denies—“Egad elope;”
It's in the City now so plain a truth,
You'll hardly see a Footman that's a youth,
Many not quite so nice the Coachmen take,
Smack of the whip they love for driving sake:
Scotland, and Scots are all poor England's care,
Her Men they trammel, and debauch her Fair:
But how could Ovid tell such monstrous lies,
How a stout youth rejected Echo's sighs!
Such silly stuff might do in times of yore,
But baulk a City Miss—“She turns a whore:”
Nothing persuades me that the Tale is right,
But still the Huzzy holds her sex's spite:
Say what you will, and let the Gypsy hear,
She tells it far and near, like Miss Poitier.
And pretty Echo pining in a Cave.
10
From hoary ninety, down to verdant nine;
See dear Sir Jessy for himself expires,
And prettier Biddy faints with strange desires;
There old Sir Fumble toys a long, long hour,
And Betty swears—it's out of woman's power;
These things are common in this dirty Town,
From Mother Goadbey up to Mrs. Brown.
Scandal with all's a very favourite dish,
From Maid's of honour, up to Charlottee Fish;
On such a trifle, why should much be said?
“She only took a Gentleman to bed;”
And every day the Quality do more,
Making her tender one a Baker's score:
Few Echos pine, they hardly wait to hope,
For if Pappa denies—“Egad elope;”
It's in the City now so plain a truth,
You'll hardly see a Footman that's a youth,
Many not quite so nice the Coachmen take,
Smack of the whip they love for driving sake:
Scotland, and Scots are all poor England's care,
Her Men they trammel, and debauch her Fair:
But how could Ovid tell such monstrous lies,
How a stout youth rejected Echo's sighs!
Such silly stuff might do in times of yore,
But baulk a City Miss—“She turns a whore:”
11
But still the Huzzy holds her sex's spite:
Say what you will, and let the Gypsy hear,
She tells it far and near, like Miss Poitier.
Here smooth Alpheus thro' a secret sluice
Sub terra steals, to kiss his Aretheuse:
And after various turns of adverse woe,
The thrilling streams of Love united flow:
How phrensy rages in the Poet's themes,
Comparing bliss in Love to river's streams;
Was that our case, what deluges would flow,
And headlong bear us to the Thames below:
Say, who wou'd walk Pall-mall, or Drury-lane?
When doors and windows gush'd like spouts of rain:
The tide of Lust was never very low,
The ebb is trifling to the constant flow:
Our Ladies won't admit the secret plan,
But where they like, in publick show the Man;
Attend Vauxhall, the Glasses, or the Play,
You'll find O'Kelly hugg'd about like Tray;
Why close about what's trivial as a pin,
“To use what Nature gave, is sure no sin!”
Thus modern Matron's palliate modern ill,
As Doctors cheat them with a gilded Pill:
Should they commit a sin, (can Ladies sin?)
They with their alms drive to the Magdalene:
There with repenting few join Sunday's pray'r,
And go twice more to make the Parson stare.
Sub terra steals, to kiss his Aretheuse:
And after various turns of adverse woe,
The thrilling streams of Love united flow:
How phrensy rages in the Poet's themes,
Comparing bliss in Love to river's streams;
Was that our case, what deluges would flow,
And headlong bear us to the Thames below:
Say, who wou'd walk Pall-mall, or Drury-lane?
When doors and windows gush'd like spouts of rain:
The tide of Lust was never very low,
The ebb is trifling to the constant flow:
Our Ladies won't admit the secret plan,
But where they like, in publick show the Man;
Attend Vauxhall, the Glasses, or the Play,
You'll find O'Kelly hugg'd about like Tray;
Why close about what's trivial as a pin,
“To use what Nature gave, is sure no sin!”
12
As Doctors cheat them with a gilded Pill:
Should they commit a sin, (can Ladies sin?)
They with their alms drive to the Magdalene:
There with repenting few join Sunday's pray'r,
And go twice more to make the Parson stare.
Next Erythibolus appear'd in flames,
Where blind Sesostris burnt adulterate Dames.
How many Dames would burn to one blind Knight,
Before chaste Urine would restore his sight?
'Tis hard to say, so many you'd destroy,
Smithfield for years must blaze a feu de joy:
I don't approve the trial of our wives,
That one man's sight should risk a million's lives:
But where's Sir John's great right, I can't devise?
For, like old Argus, Merc'ry sealed his eyes.
Where blind Sesostris burnt adulterate Dames.
How many Dames would burn to one blind Knight,
Before chaste Urine would restore his sight?
'Tis hard to say, so many you'd destroy,
Smithfield for years must blaze a feu de joy:
I don't approve the trial of our wives,
That one man's sight should risk a million's lives:
But where's Sir John's great right, I can't devise?
For, like old Argus, Merc'ry sealed his eyes.
13
Here Cheop's
Daughter breathes once more in stone,
And lust declares the Pyramid her own.
A droll conceit, a monument to raise,
And may surprise in these more virtuous days;
One stone she levy'd on each am'rous Cull,
Mod'rate enough, considering such a Trull:
But don't you think we've Ladies now alive,
To her one pyramid would build ye five?
Whether St. James's-street, or Seathing-lane,
I will not say—It is not Lady V*.
Guess on my Friend, perhaps you may come nigher,
I say, she'd build ten more, and ten times higher.
And lust declares the Pyramid her own.
A droll conceit, a monument to raise,
And may surprise in these more virtuous days;
One stone she levy'd on each am'rous Cull,
Mod'rate enough, considering such a Trull:
But don't you think we've Ladies now alive,
To her one pyramid would build ye five?
Whether St. James's-street, or Seathing-lane,
I will not say—It is not Lady V*.
Guess on my Friend, perhaps you may come nigher,
I say, she'd build ten more, and ten times higher.
There Capuan Virgins conquer with their charms,
What Rome confess'd superior to her arms:
The Whores of Capua rais'd the Hero's
tomb,
A heavier blow than Cannæ prov'd to Rome.
Is not our Garden now a viler womb
To us, than damn'd Seplasia was to Rome:
Blush Britons, blush, nor glory in a fame,
That Virtue cannot tell, nor Honour name.
What Rome confess'd superior to her arms:
14
A heavier blow than Cannæ prov'd to Rome.
Is not our Garden now a viler womb
To us, than damn'd Seplasia was to Rome:
Blush Britons, blush, nor glory in a fame,
That Virtue cannot tell, nor Honour name.
And lastly, see! Apollodorus
brings
A coarse matrass, fill'd with the sweetest things:
Like the lewd Monk in print, who seems to crack,
Hot for the fair provision on his back;
At the device, see vigorous Cæsar stare!
And so should I—if brought me in a chair.
Why so surpriz'd because the Hero kneel'd,
Had he not buss'd her—“Lord, the Monster's steel'd!
Yes, doubtless, steel'd—but still he show'd a heart,
As soft, as Cleopatra's softest part:
Pagans reflect—could flesh, could blood withstand,
Fair Cleopatra, with the softest hand:
This whirling egg—(our world) forgot to move,
Nature stood silent—swallow'd up in Love:
More eyes by Myriads on the Beauty wait,
Than when the fools of Venice jolt in state:
What modern Lord could ward the darts she hurl'd,
To conquer him, who conquer'd all the world.
A coarse matrass, fill'd with the sweetest things:
Like the lewd Monk in print, who seems to crack,
Hot for the fair provision on his back;
At the device, see vigorous Cæsar stare!
And so should I—if brought me in a chair.
Why so surpriz'd because the Hero kneel'd,
Had he not buss'd her—“Lord, the Monster's steel'd!
15
As soft, as Cleopatra's softest part:
Pagans reflect—could flesh, could blood withstand,
Fair Cleopatra, with the softest hand:
This whirling egg—(our world) forgot to move,
Nature stood silent—swallow'd up in Love:
More eyes by Myriads on the Beauty wait,
Than when the fools of Venice jolt in state:
What modern Lord could ward the darts she hurl'd,
To conquer him, who conquer'd all the world.
Beneath this Queen, and exquisitely done,
Lay poor Actæon, by his Hounds out-run:
Was naked Dian now to try the force
Of Beauty's charms, upon New-Market-Course;
What pretty tricks amongst the Great she'd play;
Change to a horse his Grace—my Lord to Tray;
One hundred Squires, would make one hundred hounds,
And Shaftow in a Stag, might maze the grounds;
A good fat Countess too might prove a Mare,
And Black and all Black cover for an Heir:
Sir James might shine a Stallion on the Course,
And prove the pleasures of a leaping Horse:
I dare not say, the things that would be done,
In earnest many—and a few in fun.
Actæon's case, was like St. A---l---n's fate,
Hounds, Dice, and Women, got his whole Estate.
Lay poor Actæon, by his Hounds out-run:
Was naked Dian now to try the force
Of Beauty's charms, upon New-Market-Course;
What pretty tricks amongst the Great she'd play;
Change to a horse his Grace—my Lord to Tray;
One hundred Squires, would make one hundred hounds,
And Shaftow in a Stag, might maze the grounds;
A good fat Countess too might prove a Mare,
And Black and all Black cover for an Heir:
16
And prove the pleasures of a leaping Horse:
I dare not say, the things that would be done,
In earnest many—and a few in fun.
Actæon's case, was like St. A---l---n's fate,
Hounds, Dice, and Women, got his whole Estate.
Here Sappho sings, who living sung in vain,
To bind th'affections of the Lesbian Swain.
This is not Cattlee's case—tho' Tower-hill rung
With Newgate's ditties, from her lisping tongue:
Her voice prevail'd, and pierc'd Sir Francis' ears,
And now alike kills Citizens and Peers;
Fortune's a Whore—and tho' the Brimstone's blind,
Yet shoeless Merit has known Fortune kind;
As you have seen the soft melodious Lark,
She left the ground to charm a noon-tide Park;
You've heard her sing, perhaps you've seen her walk;
But have you heard the pretty Angel talk?
Lord how she talks! her words are fair as milk,
And when she moves, it's on the wings of silk.
But why such trappings when ye take the air?
Is it, good Sir, to make the vulgar stare?
Why keep a concubine my gay Sir Bl*,
When even robb'd of that which makes a rake!
Let Cattlee go, pass all your time at White's,
Desert the Women, and the Bill of Rights.
To bind th'affections of the Lesbian Swain.
This is not Cattlee's case—tho' Tower-hill rung
With Newgate's ditties, from her lisping tongue:
Her voice prevail'd, and pierc'd Sir Francis' ears,
And now alike kills Citizens and Peers;
Fortune's a Whore—and tho' the Brimstone's blind,
Yet shoeless Merit has known Fortune kind;
As you have seen the soft melodious Lark,
She left the ground to charm a noon-tide Park;
You've heard her sing, perhaps you've seen her walk;
But have you heard the pretty Angel talk?
Lord how she talks! her words are fair as milk,
And when she moves, it's on the wings of silk.
17
Is it, good Sir, to make the vulgar stare?
Why keep a concubine my gay Sir Bl*,
When even robb'd of that which makes a rake!
Let Cattlee go, pass all your time at White's,
Desert the Women, and the Bill of Rights.
Here Cephalus fatigu'd begs Aura's aid,
And curious Procris bleeds beneath the shade:
A pretty moral to the City Dames,
Who ape being jealous to indulge their flames:
Persuade their husbands 'tis their wonderous Love;
Inkle believes—“Don't cry? come kiss my Dove?”
The better bred, have better ways by far,
My Lady Betty weds a brilliant Star:
But that's for Rank—they hardly speak for life,
It is enough she's call'd my Lady Strife:
My Lord comes down, my Lady saunters up,
He calls for dinner, she desires to sup;
To White's he hobbles, and she swings to prayers,
He snores with Fisher—And John gets his heirs:
Thus live the very Gay, and very Great,
The happiest Mortals in the marriage state:
There's no deception, all's above the board,
He hates my Lady—and she hates my Lord:
If they should meet be certain it's by chance,
At Drum, Ring, Rout, Court, Concert, Play, or Dance:
“My Lord, your Lordship, here's a charming Sun;”
“Madam, your Ladyship”—Ah! Charles,—who won?
No jealous cares corrode the noble's breast,
Where e'er the magnet draws they sleep the best.
But City Wives deceive with jealous flames,
And cram the Bagnio's under borrow'd names:
Find features like the Dad each rising day,
Tho' got by him who drove the husband's dray:
No wonder Cits are brawney without brains,
When the dull composition's mixt with grains.
Ladies suppose, we breathe the morning air,
To tickle Trouts, or hunt the timid Hare?
Why should ye grieve, or pray why should ye stir?
The curious woman must for ever err:
'Twas that gave Procris an untimely fall,
Damn'd curiosity undoes ye all.
If inclination leads to drop the strife,
You must improve from “Coleman's jealous Wife.”
And curious Procris bleeds beneath the shade:
A pretty moral to the City Dames,
Who ape being jealous to indulge their flames:
Persuade their husbands 'tis their wonderous Love;
Inkle believes—“Don't cry? come kiss my Dove?”
The better bred, have better ways by far,
My Lady Betty weds a brilliant Star:
But that's for Rank—they hardly speak for life,
It is enough she's call'd my Lady Strife:
My Lord comes down, my Lady saunters up,
He calls for dinner, she desires to sup;
To White's he hobbles, and she swings to prayers,
He snores with Fisher—And John gets his heirs:
18
The happiest Mortals in the marriage state:
There's no deception, all's above the board,
He hates my Lady—and she hates my Lord:
If they should meet be certain it's by chance,
At Drum, Ring, Rout, Court, Concert, Play, or Dance:
“My Lord, your Lordship, here's a charming Sun;”
“Madam, your Ladyship”—Ah! Charles,—who won?
No jealous cares corrode the noble's breast,
Where e'er the magnet draws they sleep the best.
But City Wives deceive with jealous flames,
And cram the Bagnio's under borrow'd names:
Find features like the Dad each rising day,
Tho' got by him who drove the husband's dray:
No wonder Cits are brawney without brains,
When the dull composition's mixt with grains.
Ladies suppose, we breathe the morning air,
To tickle Trouts, or hunt the timid Hare?
Why should ye grieve, or pray why should ye stir?
The curious woman must for ever err:
19
Damn'd curiosity undoes ye all.
If inclination leads to drop the strife,
You must improve from “Coleman's jealous Wife.”
Here chaster Caunus
tender of his fame;
His Sister flies—for an unnatural flame.
It shocks my soul—yet, oft' these things have been,
And are, oh! horror, daily to be seen:
It gives me strange unnatural alarms,
When Brothers hang upon a Sister's charms:
I love my Sister, as I love my blood,
I love her strictly—as a Brother shou'd:
Shun, Brothers, shun, the foul incestuous flame,
Curst let him be, who wounds a Sister's fame!
His Sister flies—for an unnatural flame.
It shocks my soul—yet, oft' these things have been,
And are, oh! horror, daily to be seen:
It gives me strange unnatural alarms,
When Brothers hang upon a Sister's charms:
I love my Sister, as I love my blood,
I love her strictly—as a Brother shou'd:
Shun, Brothers, shun, the foul incestuous flame,
Curst let him be, who wounds a Sister's fame!
When sweet Ophelia breathes the morning air,
The sullen wrinkle quits the brow of care:
In love, as manners rude the Mob must see her,
And mealy Bakers pressing mark the Peer:
The Play or Park are free for me as Burk,
Or how dare Blacksmith's shove a Duke of York?
'Tis honest ease peculiar to our Isles,
And on the glorious freedom, Edward smiles.
All love Ophelia—till her Brother's seen
To handle, dandle, you know what I mean.
'Tis British freedom checks the blackest crimes,
And Wilkes's freedom purifies the times:
Noble exertion in a noble cause,
Thou Pyramid of worth 'gainst boreal laws.
How eloquence in godlike PRAT prevails,
“I dare like him commit a Prince of Wales. ”
The tongues of Britons are as free as air,
In praise or censure of her Court, or Fair:
O! Caunus fly, and save Ophelia's fame,
Nor blast a sister with eternal shame:
At incest shudder! unpolluted fly!
A Byblis rather let Ophelia die.
The sullen wrinkle quits the brow of care:
In love, as manners rude the Mob must see her,
And mealy Bakers pressing mark the Peer:
20
Or how dare Blacksmith's shove a Duke of York?
'Tis honest ease peculiar to our Isles,
And on the glorious freedom, Edward smiles.
All love Ophelia—till her Brother's seen
To handle, dandle, you know what I mean.
'Tis British freedom checks the blackest crimes,
And Wilkes's freedom purifies the times:
Noble exertion in a noble cause,
Thou Pyramid of worth 'gainst boreal laws.
How eloquence in godlike PRAT prevails,
“I dare like him commit a Prince of Wales. ”
The tongues of Britons are as free as air,
In praise or censure of her Court, or Fair:
O! Caunus fly, and save Ophelia's fame,
Nor blast a sister with eternal shame:
At incest shudder! unpolluted fly!
A Byblis rather let Ophelia die.
Unconquer'd Daphne grac'd the grand abode,
She, who so scornful scorn'd the Delphic god.
Great was the scorn, a god too did you say?
Miss turn'd her tail upon—“ah! lack-a-day?”
Lord, what a tramp 'twould be to find another?
That would deny a handsome Man, a Lover.
What wild conceits that puppy Ovid had,
But duller folks swear every Poet's mad:
Should Ch* die, I hope she'll be forgiven,
If of a Rape, she'll surely go to Heav'n:
A thing of that kind—if the Man was rash,
Might kill indeed, the tender small miss A*;
For such another pretty fairy Queen,
Has never totter'd o'er St. James's Green:
Their pretty noses now are out of joint,
'Tis said V***t twists his Lordship's point:
Such in's and out's, such various up's and down's,
Are grown quite modish in our country towns:
Keep kissing on, the game is in and out,
These are thy triumphs, thy exploits, O Bute.
But why such spite against these Ladies eke?
Their greatest sin I'm sure's a painted cheek:
If against them the gates are shut above,
It is a crime below to paint and love;
Age may cure love, but why abolish paint?
What's half so frightful as a pale fac'd Saint?
I like to see a handsome Corpse in bed,
Blushing on those who weep about the dead;
Your smaller sins, great alms, and Doctor Rock
May move; if not, the Magdalene, and Lock.
Fisher may yet repent, tho' deep the taint,
And little Davies die a little Saint;
If Lucy err'd—still that's no reason, why
Cooper must not reform before she die:
Tho' Mother Douglass fed on flesh all Lent,
Yet Foot and Whitfield made the Bawd repent:
I'm not a Cit, in condemnation rank,
That Rice is damn'd because he robb'd their Bank:
I hope the very worst may be forgiv'n,
And even M---l---n too may go to heav'n;
The greatest merit which the Son hath bore,
Amongst his Creditors, he bilk'd his Whore.
Retir'd a while from Bailiffs—not from care,
And made an Av'ry of a house of Prayer:
Domitien like he drew the bow—in lies,
And kill'd his younger days, in killing flies:
At length th'insolvent act reliev'd the soul,
Like a poor crawling tortoise from his hole.
A youth to practise on so base a plan,
What must he prove, ye Devils, when a Man?
Should he send bread to Hunger in a cave,
Honour must spurn the morsel that he gave:
Let him repent to ease a breast of care,
And with these juster Sisters hope in prayer.
She, who so scornful scorn'd the Delphic god.
21
Miss turn'd her tail upon—“ah! lack-a-day?”
Lord, what a tramp 'twould be to find another?
That would deny a handsome Man, a Lover.
What wild conceits that puppy Ovid had,
But duller folks swear every Poet's mad:
Should Ch* die, I hope she'll be forgiven,
If of a Rape, she'll surely go to Heav'n:
A thing of that kind—if the Man was rash,
Might kill indeed, the tender small miss A*;
For such another pretty fairy Queen,
Has never totter'd o'er St. James's Green:
Their pretty noses now are out of joint,
'Tis said V***t twists his Lordship's point:
Such in's and out's, such various up's and down's,
Are grown quite modish in our country towns:
Keep kissing on, the game is in and out,
These are thy triumphs, thy exploits, O Bute.
But why such spite against these Ladies eke?
Their greatest sin I'm sure's a painted cheek:
If against them the gates are shut above,
It is a crime below to paint and love;
Age may cure love, but why abolish paint?
What's half so frightful as a pale fac'd Saint?
22
Blushing on those who weep about the dead;
Your smaller sins, great alms, and Doctor Rock
May move; if not, the Magdalene, and Lock.
Fisher may yet repent, tho' deep the taint,
And little Davies die a little Saint;
If Lucy err'd—still that's no reason, why
Cooper must not reform before she die:
Tho' Mother Douglass fed on flesh all Lent,
Yet Foot and Whitfield made the Bawd repent:
I'm not a Cit, in condemnation rank,
That Rice is damn'd because he robb'd their Bank:
I hope the very worst may be forgiv'n,
And even M---l---n too may go to heav'n;
The greatest merit which the Son hath bore,
Amongst his Creditors, he bilk'd his Whore.
Retir'd a while from Bailiffs—not from care,
And made an Av'ry of a house of Prayer:
Domitien like he drew the bow—in lies,
And kill'd his younger days, in killing flies:
At length th'insolvent act reliev'd the soul,
Like a poor crawling tortoise from his hole.
A youth to practise on so base a plan,
What must he prove, ye Devils, when a Man?
23
Honour must spurn the morsel that he gave:
Let him repent to ease a breast of care,
And with these juster Sisters hope in prayer.
Near virtuous Daphne, sat the Roman Maid,
Philotis she, in lilly white array'd;
Like to the morn, when first her blushing face,
Sheds o'er the gloomy world her heavenly grace,
What can't a Virgin do, in Beauty's bloom?
As much in England as she did in Rome:
Only suppose the Maids in this great Town,
(For great, or small, they'll bring a Cæsar down)
Should France attack us in voluptuous ease,
Like Men they could but act—and botch a Peace.
They must succeed on this unconquer'd plan;
Tell me the Maid, that can not beat her Man?
Many there are I know will vanquish ten,
Is not that monstrous odds against the Men?
Sampson was mortal strong; yes, so I've read,
But how much stouter Dalila in bed?
She was a wife, or if you will a Whore,
Allow her both, we've maids would beat a score.
That's needless, friend, for Wives are plaguey tough,
At least I'm sure their Husbands groul enough:
Yes, but our kinds are various as our meat,
Try from Whitechapel-Bars—to Audley-Street:
Maids you'll meet myriads—but the Virgin rare,
And less at Court, perhaps, than in Rag-Fair:
If from their parts such streams of goodness gush,
Grant public portions to the Well, and Bush:
Is there a slip-shod Dotard lives this day,
That does not kneel more times to whore, than pray?
Then what's the good man's adoration, Friend?
Beauty—and will be to the world's long end:
Beauty in all has rul'd this whirling egg,
By shape, face, tongue, et cætera, or leg;
And will command, when these chaste lines are gone,
And their chaste Poet dead—without a stone.
Come, sacred sleep, and happily profound,
When no Scotch Thistle dare profane the ground.
Thrice happy thought—thou'lt fold more happy death,
Him, who curst Scotland with his dying breath.
I can love Scotsmen—when they're good, and brave,
But why Scots love a Scot—when known a Knave?
There must be some damn'd curse upon the Crew,
For Heaven mark'd ye, when she black'd the Jew:
You'll call me bitter,—yes, I am as gall,
Whene'er I meet a Scot without a Saul:
Yes, special soles, I've heard the Cobler swear,
But when made upper-leathers gall in wear:
O! wretched times, when such a wretched Crew,
Fill ev'ry place from Wapping—down to Kew:
Hold—no, I'll speak my mind tho' Hell's wide jaws
Should gape, it is my King and Country's cause;
Why flinch, why fear? I'm honest English born,
I neither dread the Mon, his leer, or scorn:
Hope better times, for sure they can't be worse:
And on her bitter foes, I breathe my bitter curse.
Philotis she, in lilly white array'd;
Like to the morn, when first her blushing face,
Sheds o'er the gloomy world her heavenly grace,
What can't a Virgin do, in Beauty's bloom?
As much in England as she did in Rome:
Only suppose the Maids in this great Town,
(For great, or small, they'll bring a Cæsar down)
Should France attack us in voluptuous ease,
Like Men they could but act—and botch a Peace.
They must succeed on this unconquer'd plan;
Tell me the Maid, that can not beat her Man?
Many there are I know will vanquish ten,
Is not that monstrous odds against the Men?
24
But how much stouter Dalila in bed?
She was a wife, or if you will a Whore,
Allow her both, we've maids would beat a score.
That's needless, friend, for Wives are plaguey tough,
At least I'm sure their Husbands groul enough:
Yes, but our kinds are various as our meat,
Try from Whitechapel-Bars—to Audley-Street:
Maids you'll meet myriads—but the Virgin rare,
And less at Court, perhaps, than in Rag-Fair:
If from their parts such streams of goodness gush,
Grant public portions to the Well, and Bush:
Is there a slip-shod Dotard lives this day,
That does not kneel more times to whore, than pray?
Then what's the good man's adoration, Friend?
Beauty—and will be to the world's long end:
Beauty in all has rul'd this whirling egg,
By shape, face, tongue, et cætera, or leg;
And will command, when these chaste lines are gone,
And their chaste Poet dead—without a stone.
25
When no Scotch Thistle dare profane the ground.
Thrice happy thought—thou'lt fold more happy death,
Him, who curst Scotland with his dying breath.
I can love Scotsmen—when they're good, and brave,
But why Scots love a Scot—when known a Knave?
There must be some damn'd curse upon the Crew,
For Heaven mark'd ye, when she black'd the Jew:
You'll call me bitter,—yes, I am as gall,
Whene'er I meet a Scot without a Saul:
Yes, special soles, I've heard the Cobler swear,
But when made upper-leathers gall in wear:
O! wretched times, when such a wretched Crew,
Fill ev'ry place from Wapping—down to Kew:
Hold—no, I'll speak my mind tho' Hell's wide jaws
Should gape, it is my King and Country's cause;
26
I neither dread the Mon, his leer, or scorn:
Hope better times, for sure they can't be worse:
And on her bitter foes, I breathe my bitter curse.
Who don't adore the virtue of that wife
,
Who dar'd to spare an honour'd husband's life?
And who don't shudder for that Royal Lord?
Presented with a parchment, or a sword:
A cursed choice—and by the Woman giv'n,
He thought a Sister to the Saints in Heav'n:
Priests caus'd the Crocodile to murder here,
Blush holy Rogues!—blush Queen, thou Russ, thou Bear!
Run o'er the Hist'ries of the states of yore,
And all have moulder'd in the Priest, and Whore:
Strange fascination!—that the gown, and cowl,
Should bear about a more enlighten'd soul:
Thanks to our stars—we take our prayers in ease,
We hear the Parson, and we pay his fees:
They learn at present Peace in every School,
And like the City fools address by rule:
In body fat, in form, and manners full,
Prolix in words, and technically dull;
That they're but men, we always knew before,
And if they're never less—we ask no more.
Who dar'd to spare an honour'd husband's life?
And who don't shudder for that Royal Lord?
Presented with a parchment, or a sword:
A cursed choice—and by the Woman giv'n,
He thought a Sister to the Saints in Heav'n:
Priests caus'd the Crocodile to murder here,
Blush holy Rogues!—blush Queen, thou Russ, thou Bear!
Run o'er the Hist'ries of the states of yore,
And all have moulder'd in the Priest, and Whore:
Strange fascination!—that the gown, and cowl,
Should bear about a more enlighten'd soul:
Thanks to our stars—we take our prayers in ease,
We hear the Parson, and we pay his fees:
27
And like the City fools address by rule:
In body fat, in form, and manners full,
Prolix in words, and technically dull;
That they're but men, we always knew before,
And if they're never less—we ask no more.
Standing alone, an exquisitely fair,
Virtue in youth, blush'd innocently bare,
Damocles he, who bore a spotless name,
Who nobly perish'd, to preserve his fame.
O! would a spark of thy dear fame revive!
In this vile City where such scoundrels thrive!
Where man with man, O! monstrous to unfold,
Basely debase themselves thro' lust, or gold:
And when condemn'd to die dare name the Lord,
Will save these Villains from their right—a cord:
Does not this truth too daily wound the ear?
Thieves hang'd at Tyburn—Sons of Sodom—where?
Blush, Justice blush, nor let a purse prevail,
If men of rank disgrace a British Jail:
The man who asks five guineas on the road,
Does he offend mankind so much, or God?
Think you Paul Lewis had so base a vice?
Tho' dying justly with a Whore and Rice.
O! venal age—when men are not afraid,
By breeches buckles to declare their trade:
Feeding to-day, Cameleon like, on air,
To-morrow shining like a Miser's heir:
Behold e'en virtue in a common whore!
Expiring, smiling, glorying in her gore!
Peace injur'd shade!—thy bleeding wounds I'll tell,
Nor spare that wretch, that would not spare Miss Bell.
Haunt him dear Ghost in the remotest climes,
I'll rack him living with unnatural crimes:
Thou more than beast—so foul a deed to dare,
And when deny'd—to wound a form so Fair.
Where rose that trivial meteor of a Spark?
That fleeting phantom of a noon-day Park?
Where rose, where lives, this dainty fine drawn thing?
This strutting nothing on the cob-web wing?
This mighty pretty form in boots, or hose?
This form distinguish'd by the length of nose?
Where sprung, where feeds this insect of a day?
Is he a moving mistery of clay?
Or does he pray subsist?—“Hush, do not name;”
—On the excrescence of some courtly Dame?
Or does he?—no, enough, pray hold your tongue!
“He is a man of fashion, and he's young:”
Better and better still—suppose we try,
Will he at Haddock's—a Damocles die?
Why burn? that cannot answer any end,
No, no—unless to try his virtue Friend:
Pshaw, a romantick joke, a mad desire,
To try the virtue of a man in fire;
But then, if virtuous, is he to survive?
Yes, with the Gods above he'll surely live.
If Rogues will try for that precarious boon,
Fielding, and you will scald them all in Town.
Virtue in youth, blush'd innocently bare,
Damocles he, who bore a spotless name,
Who nobly perish'd, to preserve his fame.
O! would a spark of thy dear fame revive!
In this vile City where such scoundrels thrive!
Where man with man, O! monstrous to unfold,
Basely debase themselves thro' lust, or gold:
And when condemn'd to die dare name the Lord,
Will save these Villains from their right—a cord:
Does not this truth too daily wound the ear?
Thieves hang'd at Tyburn—Sons of Sodom—where?
28
If men of rank disgrace a British Jail:
The man who asks five guineas on the road,
Does he offend mankind so much, or God?
Think you Paul Lewis had so base a vice?
Tho' dying justly with a Whore and Rice.
O! venal age—when men are not afraid,
By breeches buckles to declare their trade:
Feeding to-day, Cameleon like, on air,
To-morrow shining like a Miser's heir:
Behold e'en virtue in a common whore!
Expiring, smiling, glorying in her gore!
Peace injur'd shade!—thy bleeding wounds I'll tell,
Nor spare that wretch, that would not spare Miss Bell.
Haunt him dear Ghost in the remotest climes,
I'll rack him living with unnatural crimes:
Thou more than beast—so foul a deed to dare,
And when deny'd—to wound a form so Fair.
Where rose that trivial meteor of a Spark?
That fleeting phantom of a noon-day Park?
29
This strutting nothing on the cob-web wing?
This mighty pretty form in boots, or hose?
This form distinguish'd by the length of nose?
Where sprung, where feeds this insect of a day?
Is he a moving mistery of clay?
Or does he pray subsist?—“Hush, do not name;”
—On the excrescence of some courtly Dame?
Or does he?—no, enough, pray hold your tongue!
“He is a man of fashion, and he's young:”
Better and better still—suppose we try,
Will he at Haddock's—a Damocles die?
Why burn? that cannot answer any end,
No, no—unless to try his virtue Friend:
Pshaw, a romantick joke, a mad desire,
To try the virtue of a man in fire;
But then, if virtuous, is he to survive?
Yes, with the Gods above he'll surely live.
If Rogues will try for that precarious boon,
Fielding, and you will scald them all in Town.
30
Here Atalanta show'd her pretty face,
Undone like many Girls at Epsom race;
Ye Bow-Street Hags, why prostitute the charms,
Of injur'd beauty, in a Gambler's arms?
A sett of cursed thieves, and more than Jew,
Who'll bilk a needy harlot of her due;
Ye Youths, who glory in the name of Rake,
Avoid a Gambler as you wou'd a Snake;
In words they're tempting as the summer seas,
And all their studies are the arts to please;
They'll stile you Colonel, Captain, Squire, or Lord,
But doubt their honour—and they wear a Sword.
Have you not seen a wanton, giddy fly,
Catch'd as he careless pass'd the cobweb by,
Flutter in vain his little gauzy wings,
And fall a martyr to the spider's stings?
Whores may have honour, but a Gambler can't,
They're thieves in chariots, and they're thieves in want:
It is a thousand pities Fielding's blind,
Or else such pests could never marr mankind:
In Russel-Street
, there's held a cursed Court,
Where these card Cannibals in herds resort:
Where Templers game for more than they can pay,
And wisely sink like Ghosts at dawn of day:
The City Fool here struts to show his sword,
Loses one hundred—and he's sent abroad:
The flashy Heir, perhaps more hot than wise,
Fights with a Scoundrel, and a Scoundrel dies.
Thus Atalanta, fair deluded Maid,
By gold was tempted, and by Man betray'd:
Gold changes natures, makes the Black a White,
The Coward brave; foul, fair; and error right:
It will do every thing in these poor days,
But make a Churchill give a Scotsman praise:
No, that it cannot do, give what you will,
Tho' Audley-street should march to Shuter's-hill:
Curse on the power of gold, and curse its slaves,
Great is the curse—for I have curs'd all Knaves;
What havock does is make in this huge town,
It raises Rogues, and tumbles Merit down;
Thousands it ruins, and as many makes,
Filth drives his coach, and Wotley cleans the jakes;
For debts at Play, my Lady pawns her plate,
New-Market mortgages my Lord's estate;
To-day Change-Alley makes an hundred Jews,
To-morrow Moses cleaneth Aaron's shoes:
Touchit himself has made an awful stop,
The books examin'd W---h displays his shop:
So men in trade like boys on planks appear,
One on the ground, the other high in air.
A Woman once refus'd great Jove's address,
Yet, in a shower of gold he gain'd access:
Well, so he might—and I with wings the same,
Would reach a beauty of the greatest fame:
Had I the purse of Clive, I'd try the scheme,
And 'kiss from Plymouth, up to Humber's stream.
Money, alas! will purchase all their charms,
Or how can L---g---r defile their arms?
'Tis very rare, yet some there are resist;
And nobly pay to be more nobly kist:
Happy's the man on whom such favours fall,
And if she's handsome, it is more than all.
Descend, O gold! and in a heavy show'r,
And let me try thy more than mighty pow'r!
Walking, farewel; proud chariot roll my pride;
And let me jostle with the rogues that ride:
My crest a Thistle—(who with scorn dare treat it?)
Asses supporters, and the motto—Eat it.
Bett at New-market—and at Arthur's play:
And drive o'er ev'ry villain in my way:
A knight I must be—not without a Post,
Treat Whigs with claret—and the King my toast.
For such a plate, what jockey will not start?
In hope of gaining Lady W**'s heart.
Undone like many Girls at Epsom race;
Ye Bow-Street Hags, why prostitute the charms,
Of injur'd beauty, in a Gambler's arms?
A sett of cursed thieves, and more than Jew,
Who'll bilk a needy harlot of her due;
Ye Youths, who glory in the name of Rake,
Avoid a Gambler as you wou'd a Snake;
In words they're tempting as the summer seas,
And all their studies are the arts to please;
They'll stile you Colonel, Captain, Squire, or Lord,
But doubt their honour—and they wear a Sword.
Have you not seen a wanton, giddy fly,
Catch'd as he careless pass'd the cobweb by,
Flutter in vain his little gauzy wings,
And fall a martyr to the spider's stings?
Whores may have honour, but a Gambler can't,
They're thieves in chariots, and they're thieves in want:
It is a thousand pities Fielding's blind,
Or else such pests could never marr mankind:
31
Where these card Cannibals in herds resort:
Where Templers game for more than they can pay,
And wisely sink like Ghosts at dawn of day:
The City Fool here struts to show his sword,
Loses one hundred—and he's sent abroad:
The flashy Heir, perhaps more hot than wise,
Fights with a Scoundrel, and a Scoundrel dies.
Thus Atalanta, fair deluded Maid,
By gold was tempted, and by Man betray'd:
Gold changes natures, makes the Black a White,
The Coward brave; foul, fair; and error right:
It will do every thing in these poor days,
But make a Churchill give a Scotsman praise:
No, that it cannot do, give what you will,
Tho' Audley-street should march to Shuter's-hill:
Curse on the power of gold, and curse its slaves,
Great is the curse—for I have curs'd all Knaves;
What havock does is make in this huge town,
It raises Rogues, and tumbles Merit down;
Thousands it ruins, and as many makes,
Filth drives his coach, and Wotley cleans the jakes;
32
New-Market mortgages my Lord's estate;
To-day Change-Alley makes an hundred Jews,
To-morrow Moses cleaneth Aaron's shoes:
Touchit himself has made an awful stop,
The books examin'd W---h displays his shop:
So men in trade like boys on planks appear,
One on the ground, the other high in air.
A Woman once refus'd great Jove's address,
Yet, in a shower of gold he gain'd access:
Well, so he might—and I with wings the same,
Would reach a beauty of the greatest fame:
Had I the purse of Clive, I'd try the scheme,
And 'kiss from Plymouth, up to Humber's stream.
Money, alas! will purchase all their charms,
Or how can L---g---r defile their arms?
'Tis very rare, yet some there are resist;
And nobly pay to be more nobly kist:
Happy's the man on whom such favours fall,
And if she's handsome, it is more than all.
33
And let me try thy more than mighty pow'r!
Walking, farewel; proud chariot roll my pride;
And let me jostle with the rogues that ride:
My crest a Thistle—(who with scorn dare treat it?)
Asses supporters, and the motto—Eat it.
Bett at New-market—and at Arthur's play:
And drive o'er ev'ry villain in my way:
A knight I must be—not without a Post,
Treat Whigs with claret—and the King my toast.
For such a plate, what jockey will not start?
In hope of gaining Lady W**'s heart.
These, and a thousand more appear'd in stone,
Themselves forgotten, and their deaths unknown:
Many perhaps expir'd thro' lust, or shame,
And some when dead to bear a tinkling name:
Romantick Lovers crowd the outward wall,
Doubtless undone by love and folly all:
Thousands above to madness near allied,
Liv'd in Romance, and in a duel died:
Numbers unfinish'd fill'd the nether place,
Of various Kingdoms, but of modern Race:
And might we judge too from the mighty store,
Our fools in love, surpass the fools of yore.
Themselves forgotten, and their deaths unknown:
Many perhaps expir'd thro' lust, or shame,
And some when dead to bear a tinkling name:
Romantick Lovers crowd the outward wall,
Doubtless undone by love and folly all:
Thousands above to madness near allied,
Liv'd in Romance, and in a duel died:
34
Of various Kingdoms, but of modern Race:
And might we judge too from the mighty store,
Our fools in love, surpass the fools of yore.
Sesostris the second being blind, the oracle of Brutus declared, he would recover his sight by using the Urine of a woman, who had known no man but her husband—He tried his own wife, and many more to no effect; and lastly, found the remedy in a Gardener's wife, whom he made his Queen—burning the adultresses in Erythibolus.
Cheops, king of Egypt, had a Daughter, who requiring a stone of each gallant, with them built a pyramid.
Hannibal, says Valerius Maximus, had now got such a relish for pleasures, that he was more frequently seen in a place of debauchery, call'd Seplasia, than in the camp; a place, where it was a crime for a Roman to appear in.
Apollodorus bore Cleopatra on his back through the streets of Alexandria, folded in a matrass, and laid the beautiful burden at Cæsar's feet—The Roman Hero, out of true military compassion, took care of her all night.
A Maid Servant at Rome, who, when the State was weak, was given to the Fidenates, whom she betrayed, when drunk, by a signal; for which service the Maid Servants were free, and had portions out of the public treasury.
| The Court of Cupid | |