The Whores and Bawds Answer to the Fifteen Comforts of Whoring | Page 4

how strange with me it was,
She, an experienc'd Bawd,
soon grop'd the Cause,
Saying, _for this Disease, take what you can,

You'll ne'er be well, till you have taken Man._
Therefore, before
with Maiden-heads I'll be
Thus plagu'd, and live in daily Misery,

Some Spark shall rummage all my Wem about,
To find this
wonderful Distemper out.
_The Eighth Plague._
Now I am young, blind _Cupid_ me bewitches,
I scratch my Belly,
for it always itches,
And what it itches for, I've told before,
'Tis
either to be Wife, or be a Whore;
Nay any thing indeed, would be
poor I,
N'er Maiden-heads upon my Hands should lie,
Which till I
lose, I'm sure my watry Eyes
Will pay to Love so great a Sacrifice,

That my Carcass soon will weep out all its Juice,
Till grown so dry,
as fit for no Man's use.
_The Ninth Plague._
By all the pleasant Postures of Delight,
By all the Twines and Circles
of the Night,
By the first Minute of those Nuptial Joys,
When Men
put fairly for a Brace of Boys,
Dying a Virgin once I more do dread,

Than ten times losing of a _Maiden head_;
For tho' it can't be seen
nor understood,
Yet is it troublesome to Flesh and Blood.
_The Tenth Plague._
You heedless Maids, whose young and tender Hearts Unwounded yet,
have scop'd the fatal Darts;
Let the sad Fate of a poor Virgin move,


And learn by me to pay Respect to Love.
If one can find a Man fit for
Love's Game,
To lose one's Maiden-head it is no Shame:
'Tis no
Offence, if from his tender Lip
I snatch a tonguing Kiss; if my fond
Clip
With loose Embraces oft his Neck surround,
For Love in Debts
of Nature's ever bound.
_The Eleventh Plague._
A _Maiden head_! Pish, in it's no Delight,
Nor have I Ease, but when
returning Night,
With Sleep's soft gentle Spell my Senses charms,

Then Fancy some Gallant brings to my Arms:
In them I oft the lov'd
Shadow seem
To grasp, and Joys, yet blush I too in Dream.
I wake,
and long my Heart in Wonder lies,
To think on my late pleasing
Extasies:
But when I'm waking, and don't yet possess,
In Sleep
again I wish to enjoy the Bliss:
For Sleep do's no malicious Spies
admit,
Yet yields a lively Semblance of Delight.
Gods! what a
Scene of Joy was that! how fast
I clasp'd the Vision to my panting
Breast?
With what fierce Bounds I sprung to meet the Bliss, While
my wrapt Soul flew out in ev'ry Kiss!
Till breathless, faint, and softly
sunk away,
I all dissolv'd in reaking Pleasures lay.
_The Twelfth Plague._
Happen what will, I'll make some Lovers know
What Pains, what
raging Pains I undergo,
Till I am really Heart-sick, almost Dead,
By
keeping that damn'd thing a Maiden-head.
Which makes me with
Green Sickness almost lost,
So pale, so wan, and looking like a Ghost,

Eating Chalk, Cindars, or Tobacco-Pipes,
Which with a Looseness
scowers all my Tripes;
But e'er I'll longer this great Pain endure,

The Stews I'll search, but that I'll find a Cure.
_The Thirteenth Plague._
Let doating Age debate of _Law_ and _Right_,
And gravely state the
Bounds of Just and Fit;
Whose Wisdom's but their Envy, to destroy


And bar those Pleasures which they can't enjoy.
My blooming Years,
more sprightly and more gay,
By Nature were design'd for Love and
Play:
Youth knows no Check, but leaps weak Virtue's Fence, And
briskly hunts the noble Chace of Sense!
Without dull thinking I'll
Enjoyment trace,
And call that lawful whatsoe'er do's please.
Nor
will my Crime want Instances alone,
'Tis what the Glorious Gods
above have done;
For _Saturn_, and his greater Off-spring _Jove_,

Both stock'd their Heaven with Incestuous Love.
_The Fourteenth Plague._
If any Man do's with my Bubbies play,
Squeeze my small Hand, as
soft as Wax or Clay,
Or lays his Hands upon my tender Knees,

What strange tumultuous Joys upon me seize!
My Breasts do heave,
and languish do my Eyes,
Panting's my Heart, and trembling are my
Thighs;
I sigh, I wish, I pray, and seem to die,
In one continu'd Fit
of Ecstacy;
Thus by my Looks may Man know what I mean,
And
how he easily may get between
Those Quarters, where he may
surprize a Fort,
In which an Emperor may find such Sport,
That
with a mighty Gust of Love's Alarms,
He'd lie dissolving in my
circling Arms;
But 'tis my Fate to have to do with Fools,
Who're
very loth and shy to use their Tools,
To ease a poor, and fond
distressed Maid,
Of that same Load, of which I'm not afrad
To lose
with any Man, tho' I should die,
For any Tooth (good Barber) is my
Cry.
_The Fifteenth Plague._
Alas! I care not, Sir, what Force you'd use,
So I my Maiden-head
could quickly lose:
Oft do I wish one skill'd in _Cupid_'s Arts,

Would quickly dive into my secret Parts;
For as I am, at Home all
sorts of Weather,
I kit,----as Heaven and Earth would come together,
Twirling a Wheel, I sit at home, hum drum,
And spit away my Nature
on my Thumb;
Whilst those that Marry'd are, invited be
To Labours,

Christnings, where the Jollitry
Of Women lies