The Poems of Charles Sackville Sixth Earl of Dorset: Edited by Brice Harris |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
 | VI. |
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Mr. Etherege's Answer
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| VII. |
 | The Poems of Charles Sackville |  |
109
Mr. Etherege's Answer
As crafty harlots use to shrink
From lechers dozed with sleep and drink,
When they intend to make up pack
By filching sheets or shirt from back,
So were you pleas'd to steal away
From me, whilst on your bed I lay;
But long you had not been departed
When pinch'd with cold from thence I started;
Where missing you I stamp'd and star'd,
Like Bacon when he wak'd and heard
His Brazen Head in vain had spoke,
And saw it lie in pieces broke.
Sighing, I to my chamber make,
Where ev'ry limb was stiff as stake,
Unless poor p---, which did feel
Like slimy skin of new-stripped eel,
Or pudding that mischance had got,
And spent itself half in the pot.
With care I cleans'd the sneaking varlet
Which late had been in pool of harlot;
But neither shirt nor water cou'd
Remove the stench of lech'rous mud.
The Queen of Love from sea did spring,
Whence the best c---s still smell like ling.
But sure this damn'd notorious bitch
Was made o'th' foam of Jane Shore's ditch;
Or else her c--- could never stink
Like pump that's foul, or nasty sink.
From lechers dozed with sleep and drink,
When they intend to make up pack
By filching sheets or shirt from back,
So were you pleas'd to steal away
From me, whilst on your bed I lay;
But long you had not been departed
When pinch'd with cold from thence I started;
Where missing you I stamp'd and star'd,
Like Bacon when he wak'd and heard
His Brazen Head in vain had spoke,
And saw it lie in pieces broke.
Sighing, I to my chamber make,
Where ev'ry limb was stiff as stake,
Unless poor p---, which did feel
Like slimy skin of new-stripped eel,
Or pudding that mischance had got,
And spent itself half in the pot.
With care I cleans'd the sneaking varlet
Which late had been in pool of harlot;
But neither shirt nor water cou'd
Remove the stench of lech'rous mud.
The Queen of Love from sea did spring,
Whence the best c---s still smell like ling.
But sure this damn'd notorious bitch
Was made o'th' foam of Jane Shore's ditch;
Or else her c--- could never stink
Like pump that's foul, or nasty sink.
When this was done, to bed I went,
Where that whole day in sleep I spent;
But the next morning, fresh and gay
As citizen on holiday,
I wander'd in the spacious Town,
Amongst the bawds of best renown,
Making enquiry far and near
To find out fresh and wholesome gear.
To Temple I a visit made—
Temple, the beauty of her trade!
The only bawd that ever I
For want of whore could occupy.
She made me friends with Mrs. Cuffley,
Whom we indeed had us'd too roughly,
For by a gentler way I found
The nymph would f--- under ten pound.
So resty jades that scorn to stir,
Tho' oft provok'd by whip and spur,
By milder usage may be got
To fall into their wonted trot.
Where that whole day in sleep I spent;
110
As citizen on holiday,
I wander'd in the spacious Town,
Amongst the bawds of best renown,
Making enquiry far and near
To find out fresh and wholesome gear.
To Temple I a visit made—
Temple, the beauty of her trade!
The only bawd that ever I
For want of whore could occupy.
She made me friends with Mrs. Cuffley,
Whom we indeed had us'd too roughly,
For by a gentler way I found
The nymph would f--- under ten pound.
So resty jades that scorn to stir,
Tho' oft provok'd by whip and spur,
By milder usage may be got
To fall into their wonted trot.
But what success I further had,
And what discoveries good and bad
I made by roving up and down,
I'll tell you when you come to town.
And what discoveries good and bad
I made by roving up and down,
I'll tell you when you come to town.
Further, I have obey'd your motion,
Tho' much provok'd by pill and potion,
And sent you down some paltry rhymes,
The greatest grievance of our times,
When such as Nature never made
For poets daily do invade
Wit's empire, both the stage and press—
And what is worse, with good success.
Tho' much provok'd by pill and potion,
And sent you down some paltry rhymes,
The greatest grievance of our times,
When such as Nature never made
For poets daily do invade
Wit's empire, both the stage and press—
And what is worse, with good success.
—ETHEREGE.
| The Poems of Charles Sackville | |