The Court of Cupid :: :: University of Virginia Library

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

Thompson, Edward (1738?-1786)

[epigraph]

I, II.

[VOL. I., II.]

TO That amiable, virtuous, gallant Wight, F--- B--- D. Knight.

THE MERETRICIAD.

MERETRICIOUS MISCELLANIES.

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THE MERETRICIAD.

Meretricem ego item esse reor, Mare ut est; quod des, devorat, Plaut. Truc.

Give to a whore the whole within your power,
And like the ocean she'll that whole devour.

Immortal Denham in far earlier times,
Tun'd this soft maxim in melodious rhymes:
That mild Parnassus, nor her milder streams,
E'er made some poets, or the poet's themes;
For many sure there are, who've sung, and sing,
Yet never sip'd at the Castalian spring;
Which plainly proves the Muse the poet made,
And since invok'd to ev'ry Dunce's aid.

Now to avoid the beaten path of old,
I'll make a Muse,—if not as good,—as bold:
And since she's modern, to protect her name,
I've stole her out the Drawing Rooms of Fame.
She's no Castalian water-drinking Muse,
Champaigne, and Burgundy, she quaffs profuse:
Nor does she naked rake about the groves,
With hair dishevell'd to bemoan her Loves,
Nor does she like a vulgar Latin Muse,
Tramp through the woods without her silken shoes;
Far softer carpets grace her steps, and seat,
Softer than Sylvan moss to savage feet.
And if she chuses to indulge an hour,
'Tis not in th'umbrage of the darkling Bow'r,
But on a couch of regal feather'd down,
Where foolish thought ne'er introduc'd a frown.
Ch---'s the Muse, she dare aspire to rise,
And pluck the di'monds from the starry skies.
O had the Poet half her amorous fire,
He'd raise her triumph, and his note the high'r:
But he'll invoke, while invocation's just,
To spur his pen, as Venus spurs her lust.

Then deign dear Matron, (Widow, Miss, or Dame,
Two, all, or either, or which is thy name,
For thou'rt in life a mystery, not in trade,
Yet if approv'd the better,—honour'd Maid!)
To aid an infant poet—lately sprung,
From royal lewdness,—not Plebeian dung,
To chant the triumphs, and exploits of A---
Who is not quite so fat, yet quite as rash.
Say, must she sing the most minute affairs,
Done and transacted in the realm of hairs?
But hold my Muse,—won't that be rather nice
With her, whose only passion's carnal dice,
Where little good is link'd to so much vice;
It is—so in a whisper wrap it clean,
More of a whore, or less, she'd better been.

How durst you soar so high, kind honour'd Maid,
Without invoking Wilmot's lathy shade,
Whose gen'rous soul pursu'd this theme in death,
And rail'd at lewdness with his parting breath;
At last declar'd his ev'ry art in vain,
To scour this lewd Augean stable clean:
Presumptuous Muse, t'attempt so hard a theme,
To make a limpid of a mudded stream;
When ev'ry wench, who bears but common charms,
Condemns the traitor, while the treason warms.
But since my Ch* won't her aid refuse,
Who knows what fortune with so lewd a Muse?
Suppose we but the nobler vermin rout,
One poison's best to drive another out!

O lovely H*, whose lovelier name,
Stood first, and foremost, in the rolls of fame;
Such fame, as Venus bore with Pagan Gods,
When public stews she made of their abodes;
Fair Cytherea's Queen despis'd her Lord,
In that, Earth's Goddess too has kept her word;
Although the Blacksmith-God detected Mars,
In the soft conflict of their am'rous wars,

And brought the whole Pantheon to behold,
How his wife gave him horns, and rais'd her gold;
He, gentle Blacksmith, blest the wanton dame,
And (like the moderns) pocketted his shame:
But since old age has wrinkled her decoy,
She vows a virtuous life's the only joy;
Teaches chaste maxims to her lovelier Girls,
To bird-lime Monarchs, and to marry Earls.
Not that she don't desire with equal gust,
But who'd imbody such a piece of lust?
Not G---'s self with all his breadth and length,
With all his prowess, and his martial strength.

Thy sister, Goddess, who has long been known,
For carnal acts in the politer town,
Now gravely sits, as gravely takes the air,
And vows her spouse, her only love and care;
What moving miracles, these times afford,
Lo Lady V--- sleeps constant with her Lord!
Happy it is, when Females turn in time,
And, like this beauty, ever keep their Prime.
Rouge we put on, to vamp a batter'd face,
As crooked Fops set off their corps with lace:

What don't our Ladies owe to Pompadore,
She gives the ugly charms, the beauty more,
Blanches the rural, rosy British cheek,
And if too pale, crimsons the dimple sleek?
With witty Su---er , have you lately been,
Was it at tea, before she'd time to clean?
Did you not stare to see her pebbl'd face,
Observe it now! with ev'ry blooming grace.
Ladies wear vizards now throughout the Town,
You rarely meet a female with her own;
Down from the Dutchess to the Wench in place,
All have their morning, and their evening face.
What things has France exported to this isle,
To spoil our beauties, and corrupt our stile;
Return 'em genuine, and take back Belleisle!

Thee, Lucy thee, whose meagre smutty charms,
Diverted first the Soldier under arms,
Or if he wanted when his guard was out,
A little nonsense on the silent flute,

Then you supinely laid your matches by,
And to the music join'd the melting sigh;
Say, was it there Orlando heard thy hymns,
There did he grow enamour'd of thy limbs?
O happy Knight, whose judgment could draw out,
Such shining beauties, from a lousy clout;
Yet matchless Lucy do not think I blame,
Thy great ambition of a Lady's name,
Nor do I care, how, when, or where the Knight
Disturb'd thy oceans in the shades of night:
Let the world talk, for scandal's never dumb,
What beats a lady's finger and a thumb.
How shall my Muse, my Lucy now approach,
Exalted from a basket to a Coach?
Nothing emboldens but her not being prude,
And kind indeed, if only kind as lewd;
Then say, soft Lucy, when you rode in state,
Why would you drive at Phaëtonick rate?
Suppose your keeper was a bit decay'd?
He was no less a man than you a maid;

Why fly your Sire, with those new whiten'd charms,
To loll and wallow in a turnkey's arms?
And when you'd quite exhausted Newgate's lust,
You seiz'd poor Palmer with as great a gust:
Inhuman thirst, thou very vital drain,
Lewder than all the whores in Charles's reign.
But that, and more, thee Lucy, she'd excus'd,
Had you Ben Johnson's tippling head refus'd;
Where Usher, you and Bewly oft got drunk,
And then pull'd caps with some less dirty Punk,
When Bridgman made his last dear will and groan,
A good annuity was then thy own;
With this proviso—that you'd rake no more,
Nor play the vagrant, mercenary whore.
Alas! thy many actions since hath shown,
Thou could'st not quit the bottle and the town.
Oft has the Muse beheld thy tott'ring feet,
And pray'd that instant for the widest street;
But then 'twas night, and little to be seen,
So no great matter whether foul or clean.

At fam'd Bob Derry's where the Harlots throng,
My Muse has listen'd to thy luscious song;
And heard thee swear like worser Drury's Punk,
The man should have thee, who could make thee drunk;
Cit, Soldier, Sailor, or some bearded Jew,
In triumph reeling, bore thee to some stew.
At other times more riotous than lewd,
Then nought but swords, blood, tears, and oaths ensu'd:
So dire a conflict surely ne'er was known,
A worse sedition Hellen has not sown.

Men in all ranks, all characters of life,
Promiscuous mingle in the doubtful strife,
Broomsticks, swords, poakers, stools, chairs, fists, and tongs
Together class, for Lucy's drunken wrongs,
Bowls, glasses, bottles whiz about the ears,
And wound regardless, Citizens and Peers:
The females blubber, kneel, shriek, pray and swear,
Tearing caps, laces, sattins, silks and hair:
Now, now the city, now the army beat,
Till the loud clamours reach the public street,

Chairmen, Links, Coachmen, Waiters, Nightmen, Pimps,
Crowd to see fair play—to the Culls and Nymps:
The noise at last, the drowsy watchmen catch,
And twirl their rattles, for their brother watch;
Away they hobble, with their lights and clubs,
A little conscious they'll receive the drubs:
Join the confusion, hoping to subdue
This bloody, ever fighting Motley crew;
But all in vain—they only serve to raise
The fire, as fuel to create more blaze.
Heard you that rush of woe,—those horrid cracks,
Ten lanthorns broke, ten watchmen on their backs!
A greater ruin Derry's never saw;
Two Jews were kill'd, a Bobwig and a Beau:
At last the Constables with numbers beat,
And crown the Warriors with a Round-house treat,
By them in triumph Lucy's bore away,
A captive Queen, to wait the blushing day;
She in her arms embrac'd a drunken Beau,
And with him snor'd upon a truss of straw,

Rose the next morning with her batter'd corps,
And march'd in matchless bronze to Fielding's door;
O let the rigid sentence be forgot,
For Bridewell never was my Lucy's lot.

Debates being done, with Bewly she return'd,
And with dear Usher, for fresh riots burn'd;
The Shakespear's Head, the Rose, and Bedford Arms,
Each alike profit from my Cooper's charms.
But oh! alas! how fully can we weep,
Fat Weatherby sunk in eternal sleep:
She rests, large Quean, from kitchen's greasy storms,
And's wheel'd in solemn dirge for hungry worms.
Weep, weep, my Lucy, Weatherby's no more,
A loss like this you never knew before;
Usher, Orlando, Weatherby are gone;
In dismal sackcloth all the worthies moan!

The greatest deeds a nine days wonder are,
But Lucy laugh'd between each falling tear;
Sought a new seat for Bacchanalian chat,
And fix'd her standard at the Golden Cat;

Where she enjoys whatever's great or low,
The brawny Chairman, or the lathy Beau.
This I'll assert—for it's her real due;
Witty with candour, in her friendships true;
Moves with good-nature, dignity and ease,
Form'd to torment the soul, and yet to please:
Erase thy vices with the sliding day,
The Muse invites thee to attempt to pray:
Nor let thy wit immerge thy reason too,
Tho' thine is pleasing, as it's ever new.

Fisher thou'rt young,—but in the rolls of fame,
Who can, or dare eclipse a Kitty's name.
Let antique poets sing romantic loves,
Of Ladies visited by Bulls, or Doves,
Or to their arms secrete—the dearest Man,
A vig'rous Stallion, or a diving Swan:
These trivial stratagems perplex no more,
'Tis deem'd an honour to be call'd a Whore.

The fairest, sweetest Debauchee below,
A timber'd Son of Liffey, and a Beau,
My Muse maintains it, and she'll prove it too,
Kitty, ne'er harm'd so many maids as you.

Each flirting slut, on whom's bestow'd some charms,
When e'er she sees thee, thrills with lewd alarms,
Swings to the glass, finds beauties she ne'er had,
And, fill'd with vanity, runs chariot mad.
“View Kitty Fisher, who the other day
“In grogram drudg'd—now ravishingly gay,
“Nay wore check'd aprons—that, I've oft' been told,
“Now she wears none—but drags a train of gold;
“Nor is she handsome, that, we all allow;
“But peacock's feathers beautify the daw.
“Then why mayn't I as well as Fisher pass?
“The men all tell me, I'm a pouting lass.”

Thus has thy grandeur, and ill-gotten fame,
Debauch'd the Virgin—and the darling name.
Kitty, my Muse will not pretend to say,
Who first deflower'd or brought thee into play:
So many make pretensions to the fact;
Since you've forgot they cannot be exact.
Some say an Ensign, some an am'rous Knight,
A Suburb 'prentice,—some a Serjeant Kite;

Many have paid for't, who could well afford,
A gay Sea Captain, and an old Sea Lord;
Who of all these can we the Hero dub?
It may be one, or all of Arthur's Club.

Ye Gods! when future ages read this o'er,
Will they believe, to keep a painted Whore,
A thousand Nobles of the British Line,
Of different ages, could promiscuous join?
Peruse the Antients, nothing could employ
So many tails, unless the siege of Troy,
An Eastern Fair, to consecrate her dust,
At Memphis rais'd a Pyramid of lust:
And lovely Lais of Trinacria's Isle,
Who all the youth of Corinth did defile,
Whose greedy, thirsty, mercenary soul,
The greatest presents only cou'd controul.
Our Lords, like sage Demosthenes, ne'er said:
But buy repentance, at the harlot's bed.
Nor Philip's mad, enthusiastic son,
When thro' the East, his arms victorious run.

In his debauches ne'er exceeded this,
Tho' grand Persep'lis flam'd, to please his Miss .
One man may err, like Alexander drunk:
But who would club, to feed a craving punk!

But tell me, Kitty, where was all thy art,
Amongst these numbers not to steal one heart;
When sep'rate you enjoy'd the wining man,
What could resist a well-laid bedded plan?
Then where were all thy mercenary schemes,
To lose the settlement, the best of themes!
It was thy dullness, and thy snowy touch,
Or man had never thought he lov'd too much.
Who besides thee, pray would not sweat and toy,
T'imbibe at once some profit and some joy,
Nay bear one Heir to all—a lovely boy?
A nurse who's skill'd in all the Gossip's clack,
To ev'ry Cully can a likeness tack,
Will swear he is a Bishop's, or a Lord's,
And with a striking feature, prove her words.

O Kitty think, had you but mov'd in tune,
What mighty things your son, and you had done;
E'en Cleopatra, with her orient grace,
Was but a Gypsy to thy lov'lier face;
You might have shone, he out-whipp'd Phaeton,
And drove the Chariots of the Stars and Sun.
Oh! shame and scandal to thy charms and birth,
To hobble in a vis a vis on Earth.
The only thing amongst that mighty club,
Entitles thee a monumental dub,
Was, when a noble Lord had cause to rue,
The paying twice for what he cou'd not do;
The deed by Matrons will recorded stand,
A Lord in bed with Venus,—and unman'd!
This was a merry, and a witty deed,
Surpassing all the beauties of thy steed;
Say, did that mincing, spotted Palfrey run,
To lay thee down in earnest, or in fun?
Unpolish'd Horse to be so nobly rid,
And flirt, and gambol, like a wanton kid.
Suppose thy Rider really made thee proud,
Why little Pye-ball'd,—why so very rude?
Saint George himself, ne'er rode a softer pace,
Nor like thee, Kitty, mov'd with such a grace.

My Muse she weeps, O had it been a mare!
My own dear Pegasus had got an heir.
But this is worse—O this—e'en makes her bleed:
Lo! Hermitage upon the pye-ball'd Steed.
Some doubts she has, and may they prove no worse:
Take care you fall no lower than your horse!
Remember this, and from a Muse who's just,
Thy man's a bankrupt, both in purse, and lust;
And tho' the Sun shines, yet may fortune frown,
And quite reduce, both him, and Mrs. Brown .
Mankind's deceitful, you have had your swing,
Remember Lockheart wore a brilliant ring.
Kitty repent, a settlement procure,
Retire, and keep the Bailiffs from the door.
Too well thou'rt known, too long you've play'd the whore,
Put up with wrinkles, and pray paint no more:

No more thou'rt thought a subject for the town,
Reject Miss Kitty, for plain Mrs. Brown.

Equestrian Hermitage, an answer deign,
Why for a Moor, quit genteel De---l---n?
The fault (like all thy sex) is not in you,
You did your best, he wanted something new:
Women by use, increase their love and joy,
But men more variable, disgust and cloy:
Thus like a crab-louse clings the haggard scold,
The more you scratch, its keeps the firmer hold.
Is it thy amorous disposition say?
That lulls thee with the black Arabian Bey,
Their nature's hotter, and their colour's rare,
And that's sufficient to allure a Fair.
But tell me Hermitage, amongst the sons
Of Butchers, Draymen, Brewers, Chairmen, Duns,
Could you not find a sturdy youth to please,
And give thy meretricious passions ease?
Is such thy conscience, appetite, and want,
That Tripoli can give what Britain can't?
Pursue the scheme, enjoy the swarthy race,
Till they perceive the vizard on thy face.

But here observe the Juliet of her days,
Fall'n from the pinnacle of public praise,
Oft' with encomiums has the playhouse rung,
Enraptur'd with the music of thy tongue,
Oft' has the Virgin sympathiz'd thy doom,
And wept for Juliet in the silent tomb:
Nor griev'd we less when Bellamy withdrew,
Yet we forgave thee for the golden view.
How did the Town applaud thy happy choice,
Altho' in thee she lost the sweetest voice?
But if the ties of mother will not bind,
How weak are women, ignorant, and blind!
Not all the rhet'ric of a Courtier's tongue,
Or that of mother from thy tender young,
Were found sufficient to subdue thy lust,
Tho' quite corroded, by corrosive rust,
When Metham had thee, such a deed as this
Was merely modish, and became a Miss;
But yet his tenderness, could not subdue,
That thirst of dear variety in you:
All he could say that itch could not destroy,
To bind the Mother to the loveliest Boy.
Calcraft you left in search of new delight,
And roll'd in wanton joy with gay Dick W.

But since Old Time has worn the dimple sleek,
And furrow'd wrinkles o'er the blushing cheek,
Who would imagine you would play the whore,
And fly in raptures to the Irish shore?
But women crave while man's a drop to give,
Nor cease to lust, until they cease to live.
If e'er these lines should reach thy flinty heart,
Fly to thy babes—and act the mother's part;
But if they'll not induce thee to return,
Disgrace, and shame, must seal a Juliet's urn.

With regal grace H---t fills the fretting Stage,
And would do honour to the Train, and page;
But see she quits the operative plan,
To sleep in peace, with an Endearing man.
The awful Theatre of late's become,
A mere receptacle for ev'ry Strum:
You might as well have spar'd your spouting pains,
And clung with honour, to your honest grains;

If H*t, a Sister Muse, must do thee right,
Thou'rt Envy's self—with all thy Sex's spite;
Of all thy stamp, the most carniv'rous Trull,
Adam's whole race, thou'd grapple as one Cull.
Swear not the Muse's is a partial pen,
Because thou'rt avaritious H*t of men;
She'll give thee all the merits that are fair,
Nay, kindly wish thee to a greater share:
You have been tender o'er a Sister's health,
And sav'd the Fair-one by your care and Wealth;
For Charity in Harlot, King, or Cowl,
The world must own denotes a noble Soul.

Behold, what's here! a lovely Form of joy,
A fairer Hellen, for a greater Troy;
How could pollution such a Genius wed,
A genius worthy of the chastest bed.
How came she lost in ignorance and rust,
A common prostitute to common lust?
Mur---y if e'er thy deeds, or Summer plays,
Deserv'd encomiums, or the publick's praise,
'Tis now, for introducing to the light,
The peerless Elliot, for the Town's delight.

Let Poet's wrangle, and be-rhyme thy Muse,
Contemn the papers, and the two Reviews:
Let them for barren Pindus' Hill contend,
Decline the low pretension Naiad friend;
Let witlings snarl, let George's Coffee-house sneer,
Let Midwife Bogmaids, drop the muddy tear,
Let all the Scrubs of bare Parnassus bawl,
Let Lloyd prepare the coffin and the pall;
Exert thy talents to their highest pitch,
Then with thy Naiads flounder in Fleet-Ditch.

Thou'st nurst and rais'd a Genius for the stage,
At once to lash, and please a frantic age:

Pritchard, Yates, Cibber, now are all undone,
Clive, Hart, and Pope, must either hide or run:
These are thy triumphs, thy exploits O Poll,
What pretty things you've done, with toll—de—roll.
Let Garrick sheath his Shakespear's tragick knife,
Bind up the antient plays, and Jealous Wife,
Play on my Sons the Citizen, and Maid,
But dread the Rosciad, and implore his aid;
Let Managers anonimously sue,
And beg my Lord to grant the Wishes too,
The King protects you, let the play perplex,
And with pay'd Bentley halloo,—Vivat Rex.
Yet still my Summer Sons the vict'ry's great,
See Rich and Garrick, bow beneath your feet!
And may my Hooper still appear as new,
To all the Town, as she appear'd to you.

What's tripping here more lively than the rest,
If mirth is bliss, then she's supremely blest:
'Tis Nancy Dawson, at a nearer ken,
Fam'd to delight the Fair, and please the men;
Thy motions Nancy are beyond dispute,
Nor does the fame they've got thee S---h---r doubt.
Only for house-rent has that Jockey rode?
Or does he ride, as in Love à la mode?
If so, Iv'e done; it proves you really kind:
I think he rides too heavy, tho' behind:
Tho' you cant bear the whip, you like the spur,
You're game egad—too much for such a cur.
Well, dance on Nancy , keep the beaten rout,
And burn your Rider, as you was burnt out;
Kennedy leave not in the flames to fry,
Poll by the whip and spur will run and die;
Steel to the bottom, only rather hot;
But time and rust the fairest things will rot;
In trot and gallop, you so please these days;
Sure you must amble sweetly in a chaise;

But since it's fashion, and if we agree,
I'd rather drive you Nancy Vis à vis.
Forgive a chatt'ring, simple, wanton Muse,
She cannot mean you for the Livery's use:
How quick the changes of the Harlot's bed,
Shuter has Kennedy, and Dawson's dead.
Incline thine ear, and Madam Marriot weep,
Who ruin'd all, by an extatick leap.
What can have harm'd our gay Italian Belles,
To make sweet Petit dance at Sadler's Wells!

Have courage Muse, for Courage you address,
Aspire like her, but ne'er diminish less,
Say, Female Banker, will you condescend
To spare a trifle, to a Muse, your friend?
'Tis true she's old, but common never known,
And yet no stranger to a sensual town;
She slept with men of ev'ry rank and age,
Down from his Highness to his humble Page;
But want will visit oft' the Noble's door,
And when the outside's rich, the inside's poor;
Grant a few scores at what per Cent you will,
Nor doubt my honour, on a trivial bill.
Thus in your nets, as preying Spiders lie,
You seize the harlot, as they seize the fly;

Grant a few pounds, at double premium full,
Then 'rrest the hussy with some dying Cull.
The worst I wish, is, really to thyself,
Only to starve on such ill-gotten pelf.
What could a Knight see in thy ugly face,
To be hum-bug'd of fifty pounds of lace?
But that's not rare, for thousand have before,
Paid for a maiden-head, and bought a whore.

Of all the daughters Venus ever had,
So fair as Fordyce none, or half so mad;
The greatest pleasure that she ever chose,
Was, to set friends together by the nose;
Not stand for trifles to create a pother,
To leave one Brother, and enjoy another:
Or riot at the Rose, or Bedford Arms,
And fire the Bob-wigs, to dispute her charms;
Her passion riot, she had none for drink,
Her taste and will, deliver'd in a wink;
Few men she chose, but fewer still admir'd,
Chinese and carnal arts, but little fir'd:
Yet where she lov'd, no barriers could prevent,
To give a mutual joy, was all she meant;
Two things she bore, amongst her sex but rare,
Contempt of money, and a foe to care,

Friend to a Mercer, and a scarlet coat,
Ever receiving, but without a groat,
Ne'er build, ye fair, upon her hated plan,
To fly from room to room, from man to man;
Pause here my Muse, nor scrawl an harsher word,
She did live chastely, with the chastest Lord.
Him, she resign'd to finish nature's work,
And chose a prison with her dearest Burk.

If female softness, and endearing grace,
May, in the Muse's records, claim a place,
Dunn must not pass unsung,—there are I know
Some snarling few, the Muse's wrath below,
Some wretches dead to nature and to sense,
Who love to find out faults in excellence.
Faults she hath some, and all with justice rue,
That one so fair should ever prove untrue:
But still it's prudent to resign her Bags,
What beauty now can live on love and rags!
'Tis strange the Ladies, to set off their youth
Will ever deviate from the paths of truth:
Mistaken notion to pretend to raise
A reputation, on so weak a base;

Somewhat too vain, in fabled notes she sings,
An antient lineage drawn from Gods and Kings;
But leave such arts to those, whose form requires
Helps weak as these, to fan love's dying fires.
Blest in thyself despise the thoughts of race,
We ask no parents for so fair a face:
The rigid judge must bring thy faults to veiw;
But candour triumphs, finding them so few;
Scarce would she wish those blemishes forgot,
Was ever Venus yet without a spot?
That thou art Woman, we have known before,
I never thought thee less, nor wish'd thee more.

Behold a face, as fair as great in fame,
A very Venus, with an Hervey's name;
High in the known venereal list she stands,
Fam'd for the loveliest legs, the fairest hands:
She bears one fault, as such, we must impeach,
If with Adonis—she would eat her peach;
She is the Cytherea of the land,
And built her Temple, but it would not stand.

Indust'rious Fair, she spar'd no corp'ral pains,
Nor Stretfield neither, to encrease their gains;
What could declare so soon, the Bankrupt Pair,
But want of cattle, fasting, fresh, and fair?
Causes sufficient, to bring in the Bums,
So stop'd,—as City Kings, for greater sums.
If a stagnation proves in all the trades
Of corn, oil, tea, tobacco, harlots, maids,
Business in course immediately must drop,
And, like Miss Hervey, each must shut up shot.
The coronation causes want of fish,
And flesh, nay ev'ry other common dish;
The torn down hussies some sev'n years ago,
Trim up once more, to flash, and make a show;
They will not vend as erst they did their ware,
But all keep brac'd, for coronation fair;
Wait for the Company's return to town,
And even twist their noses at a crown:
The only place to find what's nice and rare,
Is in the Abbey, or the scaffold fair:
Prebends, Deans, Deacons, now torment no more
Their dog'd-ear'd Bibles, to the blue-coat poor;
Their holy charge, with rev'rence is resign'd,
To things more modern, worldly, and refin'd;

Sermons, Psalms, Lessons, never waft a care;
No priest's so happy, as when free from pray'r;
As for the reliques of the brave, and just,
Peace they must keep, they've had their dust to dust.
If ought would wish to shed the pious tear,
'Tis marble busts, for want of mattin pray'r;
(In which the genius of Roubiliac's seen,
Surpassing all that are, or e'er have been.)
But these will never toll the morning bell,
A long vacation, makes the cassock swell.
Why grieve the loss of trade Herveyan fair?
When the same cause effects our daily pray'r.
Reside in peace till pageant times are o'er,
You'll never be a bit th'inferior whore.

But how has wedlock murder'd that sweet form,
Too weak to bear the buffets of a storm:
You shou'd have scorn'd e'en Jove as swan, or bull,
To cross the seas, much more a modern cull:
The very ship was watch'd by scools of fish,
To have the taste of such a high made dish:
Thrice happy fish that could at last devour,
That body, which I've fed upon before!

It is a bliss upon this whisking land,
To have, what pagan gods must take at second hand.

What's here! a doubtful, visionary fair,
That, like a juggler's ball, is here, and there;
Stole from the confines of the old Welsh Queen,
But for the universe, would not be seen;
Why gentle Charlotte did you not repair,
At the appointed time to drown my care?
I wrote, I sent five porters up and down,
Tore down the bells, and tore this Bagnio gown,
But heard no tidings of my joy and wish,
Abus'd the waiters,—raving oh! my Fish!
“My Maid was out, I rav'd and tore my hair,
“Your billet kiss'd, return'd it back with care;
“But why not break the wafer, gentle Belle?
“My tears declare—I cannot read or spell.”
The honest speech, so pleas'd the rapturous youth,
He clasp'd dear Charlotte, as a country truth.
Will you forgive me, this unhallowed wit,
For Welch declares that Fish can read a-bit!

The Muse is pleas'd to find you thus improve,
There must be genius—where there's so much, love:
Perfection, it is none, to write, or read,
The greater Dunce, the greater mark of breed:
Therefore sweet Charlotte must by face, and head,
Rank high in dignity, being highly bred.

See Charlotte Hays, as modest as a saint,
And fair as ten years past, with little paint;
Blest in a taste which few below enjoy,
Preferr'd a prison to a world of joy:
With borrow'd charms, she culls th'unwary spark,
And by th'Insolvent Act parades the Park.

So great a saint is heavenly Charlotte grown,
She's th'first lady abbess of the town;
In a snug entry leading out Pell-Mell,
Which by the urine a bad nose may smell;
Between th'Hotel, and Tory Almack's house,
The nunn'ry stands for each religious use:

There, there repair, you'll find some wicked whight,
Upon his knees both morning, noon, and night.

Close at her heels, trips fairer Nancy Vane,
Entomb'd sev'n years, and lo! she rose again!
Refraught with goods, displays a Deardian shop,
And hums by turns, the Vet'ran, and the Fop.
Thus art and stratagem encreaseth trade,
And Welch, on letchers, palms her for a maid.

There without art, dame nature will appear
In matchless Massey, little worse for wear:
Bend here, ye harlots, with unfeigned grace!
And own cosmetics, never touch'd that face,
She never vended goods unduty paid,
Nor gave one daub, to mend a batter'd trade;
Just as she bedded, rose the peerless lass,
She never turn'd to use the pocket glass;
A venal trick, trump'd up by batter'd jades,
And practis'd now by all the twirl-mop maids:
Unmatch'd shall peerless Massey grace my lay,
Nor want a guinea, while a Bard can pay.

O giddy Muse—indelible reproach,
To pass Miss Davis, tho' she lost her coach:
Say pretty Polly, will you deign a nod?
She humbly kisses thy posterior rod;
But if you'll not, the tickler you must use,
And as you flog the Vet'rans, flog the Muse.
Hold! hold! thy hand, my fair incensed Fair,
Commit not sacrilege thro' dire despair?
Observe the form, that thou'rt intent to harm,
A sister beauty, blest with ev'ry charm!
O pretty Poll! will nought thy ire restrain;
Must a poor Muse for Kitty plead in vain?
Won't all the powers of Ranelagh withstand,
The little ruin of thy little hand?
O shame, Miss Polly, to thy worshipp'd face,
Not to regard the grandeur of the place!
But rush to battle without fear or care,
Nor spare my Lord—nor spare his Lady's hair;
O what a body! with a soul so big!
To beat the powder from a Noble's wig:
To beat Miss Fisher in that giddy place,
Became Miss Davis' fury, form, and face.
The world must stare, two Heroines to see,
Fighting for peeping Tom of Coventry.

Thee, of all harlots, joy portray'd to please,
To cool the mind, and give the body ease:
Granted an art, peculiar to thy bed,
To lay the living, and to raise the dead;
Since flesh is frail, and subject to mishaps,
Luck, from the blackest rhyme, protect Miss Caps.

But lo! what's here, that interrupts the song;
Something rough painted, ugly, bold, and long,
The Proteus, S---p---ns, fam'd for legs and shape,
Sly as a fox, and antick as an ape:
She has this prudence, to retain her cull,
And like the Cretan dame, conceals her Bull.

Muse drop the curtain, nor behold this act,
Two sisters glorying in a carnal fact:
Shrink at these times, like darker days of yore,
Two sisters playing with one man the whore.
Repent O Gar---ks, quit the Bolton Queen,
Nor e'er together in the Row be seen.
Next lend your ears,—and list the grave intreat,
O spare a Sister, spare St. James's-Street:

Learn her to hate a sensual wicked town,
And chuse a place more virtuous than the Crown!

View a continuance of th'incestuous scene,
O would some guardian virtue intervene!
And lead the Igmires with a conscious shame,
To weep their greatest loss, their virgin fame.
O royal Hampton, thy belov'd retreat,
Is fam'd for all that's elegant, and sweet;
Thy Sylvan shades the chastest beauties throng,
The noblest subject of the poet's song:
Say, what could cause a Noble to destroy,
Two lovely Virgins, chastity and joy?
What cou'd provoke the dire incestuous gust,
To murder Virtue, for the sake of lust!
And then ignobly to deny support,
Stood cast, and censur'd, in a public court;
Like a Lord Mayor who for some marriage feat,
Did, at St. Martin's, penance in a sheet.
But th'eldest I---g---m---e like a knowing wife,
Obtain'd a weighty settlement for life.

Learn then of her, ye fair, who's fair and kind,
To grant no favours, 'till the parchment's sign'd!

What's pregnant here, so very big and rare,
The strong resemblance of a country fair?
Blest she's in that, and blest with vig'rous youth,
But Clemens never deviates into truth.
Above the rest, her genius I prefer,
For who can propagate a lie like her.
She's sick, she faints, she's dead, well, rich, and poor,
All at a breath,—but mostly in an hour.
See at her feet an humble suppliant kneel,
To plead his passion without sense to feel;
In scraps of plays, and many a tortur'd line,
Hums, hah's, and foams, to tell her she's divine;
Starts, pauses, groans, then raves, with clinched fist,
A King, then swain, now Ghost, list, list, oh list!
Gives father, mother, friend, and her this line,
“Let Cæsar have the world, if Sally's mine.”
The youth she kiss'd, and with a Syren's grace,
Declar'd the child was his,—and nam'd the place:

Another comes, another, and two more,
The whole she hums, and would as many score:
Lords, Knights and Captains, Commoners and Scribes,
Each draws the purse—as he the stuff imbibes:
Each claims his right, she proves the child his own;
Yet all the while 'twas got by Mr. Town;
The whole is settl'd, but the infant's name,
Who kindly died the very day it came.
Of all the Nymphs that Venus ever bred,
Of all the living, and of all the dead,
None ever had the cunning, and the art,
To thumb the guineas, and to steal the heart:
She twigs the Vet'ran, wins the youth's regards,
And plays in turns on him the harlot's cards;
The rosy Hebe, has with thousands lain,
And humm'd them all from Faulkenor down to F*.
This is her maxim,—and as good, as true,
Some men for profit, some for pleasure too.

Davis, a second Circe in her wiles,
Who, Syren-like, enchants ye, and beguiles;
You may as well drink of that witch's bowl,
As let this Gipsy captivate your soul:

Sings, swears, She riots o'er the sparkling wine,
Until she makes ye, like Ulyssus'—swine.
The Rose and Shakespear owe a deal to thee;
Begot by lewdness upon infamy;
Which tender name thy genius has retain'd,
And by the title thou hast thousands gain'd.
In younger days, when Prostitution found,
And took thee, grov'ling from thy mother ground,
When thy ambition had no higher rolls,
Than following Carmen, to pick up their coals;
Or raise a laugh, to show thy greater art,
Steal a few handfuls from the loaded cart;
Perhaps, to raise a mob, a sister fight,
Or with a Chairman snore away a Night:
These were thy triumphs, thy exploits before,
The blackest Princess of a common shore;
Where oft' you've grop'd for iron, not in vain,
And sifted cinders high, in Gray's-Inn Lane.
Who wou'd imagine from so mean a thing,
So fair a face, so sweet a Strum cou'd spring:
Shocking it was such eyes as thine should be
Hidden in filth, and viler infamy.

Betsy, delight and ravish with thy tongue,
Nor mind the Cinder-heap from whence you sprung:
Remember this, repent in time and pray,
For mushrooms rise and perish in a day!
Preserve thy beauties, and thy warbling breath,
And eke retain thy Manners to thy death!

Thy deeds, O French! deserve an abler pen,
To paint thy devastations brought on men;
Tho' thou art living, yet they're obsolete,
If ought perpetuates, it's some endless gleet:
You had your hot, nay and your Cold-Well too,
And he that dabbl'd, did his dabble rue;
I know you shone, I know you knew to please,
And pickle some too with the French disease.

Look down my Muse, for thou in all must rule,
And ev'ry praise in store confer on Pool;
A Venus drawn with all Apollo's skill,
To wound in colours, and in life to kill:
As good as fair, in all surpassing kind,
The gentlest manners, with the truest mind.

Stand Hero's stand! she moves; again O move!
Gay Queen of Beauty, Rapture, Pleasure, Love;
Scarce is it possible, so fair a face,
(Adorn'd with manners dignity and grace,
Replete with all the eloquence of Love,
In fire a sparrow, tenderness a Dove;)
Could sue in vain, or could a mortal be
So very frozen, not to kneel to thee.
Could thy lewd clime Hibernia raise a boy,
To scorn the Queen of Beauty, Love, and Joy;
A clime so fam'd in the venereal wars,
What Venus is there bears not Irish scars?
Thrice happy Sons, to be endow'd with parts,
To pain, to please, and win the dearest hearts—
Thou ne'er produc'd but one that could resist,
The charms of Hebe when a Cambridge kist.
Soon may'st thou find a thaw in heavenly charms,
And melt a soft chaste snow ball in her arms.

How various are our tastes of Woman-kind,
To all we're partial, and in some we're blind:
One loves the brown, others the black, or fair,
Some die for eyes, others for teeth or hair:

Some men you'll find disgusted at a squint,
To have one, others will bestow the Mint:
Some can despise the charms of lovely you,
Yet fall a Martyr to a sattin shoe.
A scarlet cloak, white leg, and linnen gown,
Will win a smile—when card'nals raise a frown:
A clean check'd apron often does more harm,
Than all that Milliners can make to charm:
I've known a man in love with no one thing
About a Beauty, but her apron string:
The close French night caps, or your English mobs,
Oft' rifle hearts—yet oftner rifle fobs:
Great things are done by pattens and a mop,
Or a Miss painted in a Mill'ners shop:
Dappers love women that are wonderous tall,
Maypoles love you because you're wonderous small:
'Tis true you're small, a very Fairy Queen,
A nosegay gather'd on St. James's Green:
Pluck'd on the sweetest Banks, the sweetest flower,
The pride, the bloom, the Beauty of an hour.

So Murray rose, but Lord how long ago?
When Bath was young, and Nash an infant Beau:
Soar'd from her basket, to a Chariot Fame,
And lives this moment with the best good name.
And may you Allen still pursue the roads,
That lead from Bailiffs, Bagnios, Pimps and Bawds:
Beauty fair Allen like the flowers you bore,
Are the sad emblems of a Garden Whore.

I've done my utmost to restrain my pen,
But still your deeds drag Satire from his den.
Was not the caution in another name,
To save yourself, your child, your dearer Fame,
Sufficient Madam, but you'll still persist,
And tho' maintain'd by one, by hundreds Kist.
A giddy Mother to forget her case,
Tho' begg'ry lately star'd you in the face;
And then so meanly prostitute, to down
To ev'ry Suburb 'prentice about Town.
Once more I give the caution to reform,
Accept the hint, nor brave the threat'ning storm,
I'll tell a name, a tale, a Cull will cure,
Unless you drive those puppies from your door:

Satire's a spider, full of venom too,
And keeps a Web to 'tangle such as you.
'Tis pity makes me here omit your name,
Nor die, condemn'd to everlasting shame.

Venus and Hebe both were truly fair,
But which the fairest, Ch* can't declare:
Skill'd in the tender arts of love divine,
As you're below in those of lust, and wine:
Two sweeter souls, in sattin never walk'd,
Two more harmonious tongues, have never talk'd:
Sisters ye are in beauty, wit and Grace,
But grieve that iniquity holds a place:
I wish ye every joy from mighty sums,
And hope you'll think before the winter comes:
China's an emblem of a lovely frame,
How fragil's China? Beauty's quite the same:
Rogers reflect—your Beauty's but a flower,
Rais'd, budded, blown, and wither'd in an hour.
You may reject th'advice, but time will show it:
You had no friend so honest, as your Poet.

What various lies we tell to please the Fair,
To make the Fairies vainer than they are:
Flattery, has ever prey'd on female youth,
A girl of breeding hates the name of truth:
In our first days when Eve was in her bloom,
And goodly Adam was her rigid doom:
That first best Man requir'd no gloss of art,
To win the fairest Woman to his heart;
And tho' the first, sweet perfect female made,
Had the best upright man to be her aid:
Yet she, in spite of all that Heaven cou'd do,
Grew sick of Bliss, and sigh'd for something new:
Gadded abroad, met Flatt'ry in her way,
And made a reck'ning we shall never pay:
Thus with the Women rests the maxim still,
“Have it we must; the risk be what it will.”
Pope I admire, where once the Wit let fall,
That women have no characters at all:
Most truly true, and every day approv'd,
Amongst the Fools a-loving, and belov'd;
Ask but the sex themselves, the maxim's true,
Did ever Polly praise her Sister Sue?

This they allow—which proves th'assertion good,
“That Mrs. King's no better than she shou'd,”
First Mrs. Manly rails at Mrs. Drew,
So scandal gallops up from Hull to Kew:
'Twas madam Eve that put it first about,
And live it must while Scandal forms a rout:
'Tis all in vain, talk, write, do what you will,
Woman's a sad, bad contradiction still.
Was I to court a pretty blooming Queen,
I'd feed her squirrel first, or praise her screen:
If she admires a dog, you're doubly snug,
To her be civil, but adore dear Pug:
Sometimes in love indifference may take,
Not from a Clown, but often from a Rake:
'Twas my misfortune, and the case was thus,
I lost an heiress by lampooning Puss:
She was antique, a morsel for old Nick,
But then the Darbies stung me to the quick:
I ap'd the Captain, strutted up and down,
As bold as any Gambler about town:
But what was worse, and only t'other day,
I lost a beauty by offending Tray:

I swore, and lied as much as Soldier cou'd,
And prov'd her plainly more than flesh and blood;
But all in vain, the ever injur'd Tray,
Bark'd at my visits till I went away.
Betty if this should ever reach thine ear,
Ask for my pardon, Betty do by Dear?
I swear in print, if e'er I come to tea,
I'll double thee, the elemental fee:
Try, and erase, the little injury done
That cursed, dirty little Bitches Son:
Is there no kind reversion in the eye,
To make me live, or must I bravely die!
Will you believe me when I swear, and say,
I did not know him, when I kick'd poor Tray:
Have pity Wilmot do not look askew,
On one who'll ever love, your dog and you:
Be cautious Lovers how your heels you trust,
You very rarely find a lap-dog just,
Witness my fate, once thought prodigious snug,
The loveliest Woman, with the prettiest Pug.

Things are so chang'd, e'en C---h---y wou'd not squall,
To see St. Paul's deck'd for a city hall:

This mighty town is so devour'd with lust,
There's barely lodging for the chaste, and just:
Who in the name of wonder would conceit,
A stew, a Fruiterers in St. James's street:
'Tis very true, and you may daily deal
For Fruit, or Ladies, with good Mrs. N---
The sweetest Belle, here meets her stinking spark,
After a morning's stroll about the Park:
Buys a few pippins, then retires to please
Himself, in all the elegance of ease:
Pippins have ever fatal prov'd before,
From Eve in Eden down to Pompadore:
But don't mistake all Fruiterers from this,
Are modish Channels now to modern bliss:
That is not always Friend, a general case;
Mark at the Milliners a painted Face:
That's a true mark of infamy, and sin,
The shop shut up, Sir, “you may venture in.”
Think you it's possible the ribband trade,
Without some different stitchings to its aid,
Could keep so many pretty gilded Queens?
No, no, they have far better ways and means.
There is a rank superior in the air,
Call'd Chamber Milliners where Qual repair;

These keep their Blacks, here Chariots too are driv'n,
And Bank-bills fly like eagles towards heaven.
'Twas here they search'd, when Kitty Hunter fled,
And found a Nymph and Baronet in bed:
The Knight he swore, Miss blush'd, the scandal flew,
And dearer V** is no longer new.
To tell the whole, old Homer would employ,
And beat the Fools he march'd to conquer Troy.

So have I seen a brilliant Star retire,
And leave the nighted lover in the mire:
Such was thy influence o'er this mighty Town,
Then Ross withdrew e'en Pleasure learnt to frown.
O happy man, I do not know his name,
Tho' bless'd so long with thy seraphic frame;
We'll call it generous, when he resign'd,
So sweet a creature to divert mankind:
Return'd what mighty London griev'd in you;
Surpass'd by none, and parallel'd by few.
Tho' earthly born, the rival of the skies,
In form a Goddess, with an Angel's eyes:

Rise, Beauty rise, where Angels only soar,
'Tis yours to rule, and mortals to adore.
May you when weary here, cœlestial shine,
And soar from more than mortal to divine:
Assume your seat amongst your native Stars,
And conquer Venus, by subduing Mars:
Prove the whole mixture of the Muses dross,
And dull the Graces with the charms of Ross.

We've sung the living.—Now let's drop a tear
Upon the first, and fairest, Harlot's bier:
Who living mov'd superlatively fair,
In Wit Minerva, with Idalia's air.
So young a Muse, can never dare to raise
Her little note, on such a form of praise;
Yet still a wretch in these Saturnian times,
Could teaze her Ghost in the most wretched rhymes:
The worst, sad outcast of the fools of verse,
Not fit to drive a Garreteer's hearse;

Base grease of rhyme, with less than mongrel's tongue,
A mere vile mushroom of a Scribbler's dung:
If ought would move her injur'd Ghost to rise,
Thy jargon would, to tare thy Muse's eyes:
Read this, and fly, sad base-born abject slave,
And pilgrim like, do penance at her grave:
Inscribe these lines to Fame, and Beauty writ,
(And transcribe on till I allow thee wit.)
Here lies the pride of Beauty, sense, and shame;
Who dare to Woffington refuse this fame!

How in the first edition cou'd we pass
Amongst the fam'd, the fam'd itinerant lass?
Who by her motions in the wriggling trade,
Two sterling thousands, fairly, cleanly made;
What must be done, when grown so very rich!
Travel in whoredom's a peculiar itch;
Yet that was hers, and mighty odd—forsooth!
She skim'd from Dover, to the milder South:
Swung from Versailles, up to the Paisbàs:
Then down in raptures to the banks of Po:
Thro' gay Ausonia wore the regal smile,
And ap'd a Princess of Britannia's Isle;

Maintain'd the circle of affected grace,
A very Steuart in the very face.
When cash grew low, with dignity she swung,
From the soft warb'lings of the Eunuch's tongue,
Plan'd out a rout according to her purse,
And reach'd sad Calais just two thousands worse;
Roll'd o'er the turgid billows of the sea,
And read new fortune in the dregs of tea;
Review'd the cliffs from whence enrich'd she sail'd,
But 'spite of ev'ry effort—tears prevail'd;
To town return'd, resum'd the Harlot's chair,
No bird's back-side so poor, or half so bare.
Thus Steuart liv'd, but now grown rather stale,
We kindly pay her—just to hear her tale.

Did e'er a quality possess the man,
That sought a fame upon the baseless plan
Of Woman's ruin.—Does not the Soul recoil?
To see Man study to seduce, and spoil:
Man, he is none—a monster's far too great
For him, who means to hurt the Virgin's state.
What cou'd produce, or rear that manly shape;
And grant one passion—to commit a rape:

Bestow'd a form, without one good beside!
A compound, made of ignorance, and pride,
Swell'd with all evils that Pandora nam'd,
And ev'ry other vice the world since fram'd;
Can earth produce a character like this?
Yes! and he wounds when e'er he stoops to kiss:
Behold those Forms, on whom he whilom smil'd,
Thrice wise, and lovely—now alas! defil'd;
Yet still the Fair, are so intent to please,
They'll love the Serpent if he bends his knees;
Nay curse his heart, and dread a Sister's fall,
And prove the pleasure, tho' they dread the gall.
Could such a form so lovely—so divine,
So sweet, so wise, so innocent—as thine?
Be so regardless of a C*t's fame,
To blast thyself, thy family, thy name:
Soft, gentle Fair, whom Heav'n design'd to please,
Not fall a prey to scandal and disease;
How could the purest mind be so betray'd!
To yield a wretch the honours of a Maid.
Too well you knew the character he bore,
Too well you knew a Female's fate before,

And yet so ravish'd with a manly form,
To board the bark—and brave the coming storm,
O C*t, C*t, had I known thee then,
Thy wrongs had never mov'd the Muse's pen;
The noble honour'd Sisterhood had strove,
To hide the wretch from memory, and love:
Think, when he'd gather'd all the bloom of May,
He rose, and smelt, and cast the sweets away,
Inform'd the parent of a Daughter's fate,
Smil'd on her folly—and unhappy state.
Would ye, ye Fair, be cautious whom ye prove,
Ye rarely meet a true return in Love:
The Man of Courage, and the Man of Sense,
Never betray the lovely innocence;
By Heav'n they're sent to save and guard the Fair,
And make your Virtue their peculiar care;
The fool alone disturbs your bless'd repose,
The Men of Sense were never Virtue's foes.

I love a widow that repairs to town
To jigg, and flirt, her bumpkin up and town;
Brings up a babe to prove her virtuous life;
And would persuade you that she was a wife:

A worn-out cant trump'd up so long before,
It only proves her a far greater whore.
We've eyes, and see—nay ears, and hear thee too,
And tongues, sweet Madam—which, must censure you.

If on a Chariot—e'er a boy you find,
Or when Mam walks, he, twenty steps behind;
Or in the Park, or some less public walk,
A child in hand, the maid a scarlet cloak,
You in your mental memorandum place,
Both babe and Lady of the spurious race.

Murray and Corbet thus came up to town,
Club for a Carriage, tho' they need a gown:
Try all they can, to pass for something great,
The very method that betrays their state.
So men in liquor (like a tawdry punk)
Aim to speak plain, by which they prove they're drunk.

With these, how fam'd that northern part's become
Of Tyburn road—for Foreigner and Strum.

Here all Embassadors, prodigious snug,
Preserve their fair ones from the City Bug:
Many around the Abbey choose to fleet,
But Doctors vow no air's like Marg'ret-Street.
Here from the morning to the midnight hour,
Rap, rap, rap, rap, my Lord is at the door.
When gone—anon—you hear the Templer's strut,
He, like my Lord too—loves a game at put.
A Captain next pops in too, wond'rous sly,
He thinks unseen, because he winks an eye;
Presents the King most sweetly set in gold,
Then marches off to quarters, stout and bold.
An essenced Beau, the last attacks the Dame,
And sighs all night, the pureness of his flame:
Five times the golden picture smartly gives,
She vows, he is the sweetest man that lives:
Early away the dear Sir Umbra trips,
Vowing no coral can excel such lips.
Next day at noon, my Lord makes his approach:
But at the corner leaves the motto'd Coach;
He hopes she's well, and free from ev'ry care,
She vows, she's ever sad but when he's there.
Thus Ladies pick our pockets, and our brains,
And we, still blinded—rest their dying Swains:

It's quite the same with horses, Lord, or you,
The whole they drive alike—Je up—je hu.

Now stare the world—now, prodigies begin!
Behold, a learned Banker's Clerk ta'en in.
By what, by whom; how, say? now, when or where,
At th'Coronation, or the Smithfield Fair:
Neither, yet both, and that may too surprize,
A ging'bread bargain—and a market Prize.
But how was this dear harmless youth to blame!
She bore a Burford's dignity and name:
Prov'd five and twenty thousand pounds debt clear,
And good eight thousands sterling too per year.
Egad dull reader, you'll excuse this whim,
It might have humm'd wise you, as well as him.
Suppose it had?—well then suppose it had?
In course the world must surely call thee mad.
Think with what dignity and Love she mov'd,
Who durst refuse, when by an Angel lov'd:
She spoke the living languages as pat,
As old tea gossips gabble out their chat:

All things she knew—whilst I was green and young,
I'm not the first undone by woman's tongue:
Think what a genius, if but chaste as smart,
The clearest head, with sure the vilest heart:
Her wit and genius she would hardly use,
Unless to bilk her lodgings, or the stews;
Her only aim was pageantry and stuff,
The dear duration, trivial as her snuff:
The boy Adonis had he seen the Jay,
Had hated Venus to this very day:
In shape so lovely there ne'er was another,
Cupid might even hugg'd her for his Mother.
These names she bore, as need and profit drew,
Merchant, Barnes, Errington, and Morgan too:
In each she mov'd with well affected ease,
And tho' fictitious, never fail'd to please.
Her false connubial cant would stagger truth,
Her maiden stratagems betray'd my youth;
A Widow, Miss, or Wife perhaps to day,
In France her husband, or alas! at sea;
When she address'd, a pleasing Maid she mov'd,
I gaz'd, I wonder'd, and alas! I lov'd.
She show'd the virtues of the sweetest mind,
By genius nourish'd, and by time refin'd;

I only weep, a wit like her's should raise,
So vile a fabrick on so firm a base.
Forgive me reader, for I cannot rail,
Tho' e'en her deeds have merited a jail.
Yet let us hope she may repent the crime,
And find forgiveness in a transport clime.

O what a name! rever'd in days of yore,
As Maid, Queen, Princess, Dutchess, Countess—Whore,
When e'er the round O dignifies a name,
So surely blown from out the Trump of Fame:
These names in verse run smooth as apple-barrows,
O' Connillo's, O' Brien's, and O' Harra's,
'Kelly's, O' Lochlin's, and O' Courcy's too,
Have been great men and waded Liffey thro';
From them fair Nelly you derive your name,
And genuine beauties must establish fame:
Such soft endearing symmetry of parts,
Must soften Hermits down to Lover's hearts:
Why should Hibernia let her daughters roam,
Why not confin'd to conquer hearts at home?
Dublin should stop these beauties with her tolls,
And not export them to torment our souls;

Will not, O'Brien Dublin then suffice?
But Britain too must suffer from your Eyes:
Have mercy beauty—and pray learn to feel,
And clasp the Suppliant when he aims to kneel.

Now turn my Muse, behold, this pomp of woe!
The dull procession, and the dirge how slow.
Whores, Bawds, and Pimps, make up the grateful train,
To mourn the bodies which old Nick has ta'en.
An hundred watchmen, with their lights and polls
Proceed, but now omit their midnight calls;
Ten ragged green girls, for the garden's praise,
With tops of leeks, and nettles strew the ways;
Then big in flesh see mother Eastsmith stride,
With Gould and Gaudby, waddling by her side;
To bear their trains, behind three pages creep,
Hill, Yews, and Doddington, almost asleep:
Then two, by two, a dozen Bagnio pimps,
Behind them move, as many torn down nymps:

Next from each playhouse, with the salt-box come
A Snuffer, Sweeper, Trumpeter, and Drum;
Then solus, hops a dull Orchestran flute,
Behind him waddles a theatric Mute:
Now, of each House, five under-strappers came,
Behind, as many Guinea Tits of fame,
Dress'd in a flimsy, unbecoming woe,
Pumping for tears, but not a tear will flow:
The chief of these, for tongue and scandal known,
Miss Innis she, no gliber upon town;
Behind her four of less ignoble fames,
Rhymer, Moor, Mitchell, Droheda their names,
Jenkins, and pretty Biddy Wingfield bore
The tatter'd ensigns of the tatter'd Corps:
Behind them Brabsant, Benson, Cook, and Bland,
Then Carey, solus, with a nightman's wand;
Next mov'd six Bailiffs, hung with horrid writs,
Which almost frighted Gardner into fits,
Who behind them, assum'd her awful stand,
With a memento mori in her hand:

In solemn cloaks, just hir'd for the time,
Ten Bagnio Chairmen, hobble on in rhyme,
Follow'd by Steward, Hambleton, and Trail,
Who, for the night, had just obtain'd a bail;
With Whips revers'd, twelve Hackney coachmen mov'd,
Then Sagroe fair, and Buckley the belov'd,
Spencer, Gore, Monday, Kingsborough and Gold,
March'd on as solemn as St. Paul's is toll'd;
Above the rest, majestic Elliot's seen,
Deck'd in a modern mantle of pea-green;
Her right-hand fill'd with things unfit to tell,
The left, the bloody knife that slew Miss Bell;
Stamford and Loudon walk'd in flaming red,
And Gifford with a jordan on her head,
In which the incense for the sacred rite,
Was neatly cover'd from the vulgar's sight.
Solus, advanc'd a garden claret blade,
Crown'd with a paper Cap, of bills unpaid,
Silent and sad as any Rogue cou'd be,
That halter'd rode, to dreaded Tyburn tree;
Behind, in snowy sattin, Holmes advanc'd,
In spite of ev'ry pious effort danc'd:

High on a wand the will of Douglas hung,
And Bet the praises of the Donor sung;
Round her five infants, fam'd for shrillest sounds,
Alternate echo'd,—Holmes five hundred pounds.
High above all, was fam'd Sall Parker seen,
Dress'd in a sooty, dismal bumbasin;
Drawn by three horses in a muddy wain,
Hired at the George in antient Drury-Lane;
Her hands alternate o'er each mourner's head,
Ordure, with opium mixt, profusely spread;
Three Negro boys, of curst Antigua's clime,
Deputed Cupid's, for the dismal time;
Wain rumbl'd, wheels groan'd, with the weighty charge,
As muddy Thames does with my Lord Mayor's barge:
Two Gambian Virgins fan'd the painted Doll,
And two more bore an Indian par-asol:
Next, to make up the Motley, howling pack,
A Steed bore Bence and Harden back to back;
Walkers, full eighty, from the Strand appear,
As many Garden shoe-blacks, grace the rear;

A thousand links on either side for grief
Weep as they burn,—and Buckhurst lo! their chief.
Thus, from the realms of honour'd Drury-Lane
Came this procession to the Garden Fane;
Of which fam'd Derry was appointed priest;
And tho' in function greatest, yet was least!
When all were gather'd in the hallow'd rails,
Bob, from a topsy-turvy basket hails!
“We're here assembl'd on the noblest themes,
“To mourn great Douglas, Wheatherby, and Whemes;
“To lay the ghost of Devenpot that stalks,
“And frights the watchmen in their midnight walks;
“To bind Miss Cassel's ever restless soul,
“Which shocks the Hum—hums with her cloister'd howl;
“And to exhort each godly pious whore,
“To live, and die, as they have done before:”
This said, he took the pot from Gifford's head,
And o'er a crazy stall the incense spread;
Which Buckhurst fir'd by order with his link,
And thro' the mob, the wind diffus'd the stink;

When lo! again the priest, dread silence broke,
And thus renew'd his grating, dismal croak:
“Earth lightly lay;—thou world revere their names,
“And justice do their morals, and their fames.”
Whores, Bawds, and Bunters, Panders, Boys, and Men,
In cadence hoarse, re-bellow out—Amen.
When in confusion the procession broke,
And ev'ry mourner march'd, eclips'd in smoak;
All diff'rent ways, on diff'rent errands run,
Men to undo! and girls to be undone.

Who are the parents of this lady is a doubt with many; yet it is allowed by most that she is nobly descended. She was ever admired by the circle of the Beau monde for her beauty, great abilities, and her wit and taste in the politer arts:—however, that passion for intrigue, which is implanted in us by the God of Love—allured her so much astray, as to make lady H--- say—“the little creature is grown so infamous, that I cannot countenance her any longer.”—She quitted baron H--- to marry captain F--- of the navy, a man as boisterous in his manners as she was delicate.

This Lady was by this satire, and a celebrated preacher, converted to the ways of Magdalenes, and married by him; to shew the efficacy of his new Doctrine.

Sir Orlando B---.

The late Comedian.

Anson.

Cheop's daughter.

A Courtesan of Corinth, who asked so great a price for a night's lodging, that made Demosthenes say, “He would not buy repentance so dear.”

Sicily.

Thais.

Such was the extravagance of this Nymph, that a subscription club was formed at White's to support her—and the Dupes possessed the Girl alternately.

The late Mr. Chetwynd, who died of a decline at Montpelier. After his death she married Mr. N. but falling into a consumption, expired in his arms at the three tons in the city of Bath; by whom she was loved and lamented, and in the latter part of her life proved a religious penitent.

Her name as House-keeper.

After this most accomplished woman had quitted Mr. Thrale, she went into keeping to Sir E. D---g--- where she did not continue long, before she returned to Drury Lane Theatre.

Mr. Robert Lloyd, who died with grief in the Fleet-prison, upon the death of his much loved friend Mr. Churchill—was the greatest classical scholar of his time, and author of many prosaic and poetical pieces of much merit: and a severe satirist against Mr. Murphy.—What Ascanius says to Euryalus in Virgil—may with truth be applied to them.

One fame, one faith, one fate, shall both attend,
My Life's companion, and my bosom friend.

She went by this name before that of Elliot. She was a handsome woman, descended of humble parents—but amassed near 8,000 l from the bounties of her two last keepers, Augustus H. and his H. the D. of C. in whose services she was not quite so steady as prudence could wish—she died soon after her discharge from the last personage.

These Ladies houses were burnt in Manchester buildings.

Pasiphæ.

The sign where she's 'prentice.

One of the names of Venus.

A paultry Performance, intitled, Woffington's Ghost.

Quite weary'd of my part I quit the stage,
And curse the Cringers of a lying age:
How can an honest Muse expect to live,
When Rogues, Thieves, Pimps, and Sons of Sodom thrive:
Whoredom's to these, an honourable trade,
You ne'er meet Honour,—but you may a Maid:
I never held my tongue, or told a lye,
Int'rest I've none,—and Int'rest I defy;

Unhappy now is honest England's lot,
For all but Scotchmen are by G---d, forgot:
O'er the rough seas I'll traverse with my rhime,
And search for virtue in a Savage clime.

YE whores repent, put on your deepest weeds,
See half the world maintains young Ganymedes!
Go to the Magdalene, there pious bawl,
And Charley Dingley will accept ye all:
The sons of Sodom now escape a jail,
Easy as Peter did, when Angels gave him bail.

Adieu, ye fair,—adieu voluptuous time;
All Fools adieu—adieu ye Fools of rhime.