The Whores and Bawds Answer to the Fifteen Comforts of Whoring | Page 3

us then is gi'n,
To have
Compassion to our tender Skin.
_The Fourteenth Comfort of Whoring Answer'd._
With pretty winning ways we do assure,
Our selves to bring the
Woodcocks to our Lure
As ogling wishfully, and having Tongue,

Which tho' 'tis false, yet with good Language hung And if we have a
Voice that's good, we sing
And _Syren_ like our Fops to ruin bring;

Then how we Strumpets do rejoyce to see,
The wiser Sex undone

by Lechery.
_The Fifteenth Comfort of Whoring Answer'd._
But now good lack-a-day our Trade's so bad,
That truly Customers
can scarce be had,
Through those sly Whore's that do in privat dwell,
So (but a story sad it is to tell)
Our common Whores can scarce their
Livings get
By all the means of an intrieguing Wit.
For _Drury
Lane_, in _Fleetstreet_ or the _Strand_, Hours we walk e're any by the
Hand,
Will take us, wherefore as we daggle home,
Some
prick-louse _Taylor_ strutting up will come,
With whom for want
we're forced to comply,
for one poor two pence wet, and two pence
dry.
_FINIS._

THE
Fifteen PLAGUES
OF A
Maiden-Head
Written by Madam B----le.
[Illustration]
LONDON:
Printed by F.P. near _Fleet-street_, 1707.
THE
Fifteen Plagues of a
Maiden-Head, _&c._

_The First Plague._
The Woman Marry'd is Divinely Blest,
But I a Virgin cannot take my
Rest;
I'm discontented up, as bad a Bed,
Because I'm plagued with
my Maiden-head;
A thing that do's my blooming Years no good,

But only serves to freeze my youthful Blood,
Which slowly
Circulates, do what I can,
For want of Bleeding by some skilful Man;

Whose tender hand his _Launcet_ so will guide,
That I the Name
of _Maid_ may lay aside.
_The Second Plague._
When I've beheld an am'rous Youth make Love,
And swearing Truth
by all the Gods above,
How has it strait inflam'd my sprightly Blood

Creating Flames, I scarcely should withstood,
But bid him boldly
march, not grant me leisure
Of Parley, for 'tis Speed augments the
Pleasure.
Sirrah! tis my Misfortune not to meet
With any Man that
would my Passion greet,
If he with balmy Kisses stop'd my Breath,

From which one cannot die a better Death,
Or stroke my Breasts,
those Mountains of Delight,
Your very Touch would fire an
Anchorite;
Next let your wanton Palm a little stray,
And dip thy
Fingers in the milky way:
Then having raiz'd me, let me gently fall,

Love's Trumpets sound, so Mortal have at all.
But why wish I this
Bliss? I wish in vain,
And of my plaguy Burthen do complain;
For
sooner may I see whole Nations dead,
But I find one to get my
Maiden-head.
_The Third Plague._
She that her Maiden-head does keep, runs through More Plagues than
all the Land of _Egypt_ knew;
A teazing Whore, or a more tedious
Wife,
Plagues not a Marry'd Man's unhappy Life,
As much as it
do's me to be a Maid,
Of which same Name I am so much afraid,

Because I've often heard some People tell,
They that die Maids, must
all lead Apes in Hell;
And so 'twere better I had never been,
Than

thus to be perplex'd: _God save the Queen._
_The Fourth Plague._
When trembling Pris'ners all stand round the Bar, A strange suspence
about the fatal Verdict,
And when the Jury crys they Guilty are,

How they astonish'd are when they have heard it.
When in mighty
Storm a Ship is toss'd,
And all do ask, What do's the Captain say?

How they (poor Souls) bemoan themselves as lost,
When his Advice
at last is only, Pray!
So as it was one Day my pleasing Chance,
To
meet a handsome young Man in a Grove,
Both time and place
conspir'd to advance
The innocent Designs of charming Love.
I
thought my Happiness was then compleat,
Because 'twas in his Pow'r
to make it so;
I ask'd the Spark if he would do the Feat,
But the
unperforming Blockhead answer'd, _No_.
Poor Prisoners may, I see,
have Mercy shewn,
And Shipwreck'd Men may sometimes have the
Luck,
To see their dismal Tempests overblown,
But I poor Virgin
never shall be F----.
_The Fifth Plague._
All Day poor I do sit Disconsolate,
Cursing the grievous Rigor of my
Fate,
To think how I have seven Years betray'd,
To that dull empty
Title of a Maid.
If that I could my self but Woman write,
With what
transcendent Pleasure and Delight,
Should I for ever, thrice for ever
Bless,
The Man that led me to such Happiness.
_The Sixth Plague._
Pox take the thing Folks call a Maiden-head,
For soon as e'er I'm
sleeping in my Bed,
I dream I'm mingling with some Man my Thigh,

Till something more than ord'nary does rise;
But when I wake and
find my Dream's in vain,
I turn to Sleep only to Dream again,
For
Dreams as yet are only kind to me,
And at the present quench my
Lechery.

_The Seventh Plague._
Of late I wonder what's with me the Matter,
For I look like Death,
and am as weak as Water,
For several Days I loath the sight of Meat,

And every Night I chew the upper Sheet;
[*?]e such Obstructions,
that I'm almost moap'd,
And breath as if my Vitals all were stop'd.
I
told a Friend