The Whores and Bawds Answer to the Fifteen Comforts of Whoring | Page 6

here's a fullen
Matrimonial Creature,
will ask, and will not, will ask, and will deny

Is Peevish, Cross, and cannot tell for why,
Not one kind look he
will to Spouse afford,
Scarce speake at all, at least not one good word,

All the obliging arts that she can use,
To reconcile this angry
pevish Spouse,
Avail no more, than if she took delight,
In washing
Bricks, or Swarthy _Negroes_ white,
Lyons, and Tyger Men have
learnt to tame;
Retaining nothing frightful but the Name,
But Man,
unruly man, that Beast of reason,
'Gainst women still continues in his
Treason.
No Charms his damn'd ill nature can release,
_Satan_,
must only _Satan_ disposes.
_The Ninth Comfort._
Nor Marriage is alone the dang'rous shelf,
On which a woman may
destroy her self,
Believe no whineing Fool that Swears he loves,

And for your Pity to his Passion moves:
with fair decoying words he
glids the Cheat,
Tells her the Sin, nor Danger are so great,
The joy
is past the reach of Humane view,
And adds it will for ever bind him
to be True:
But oh! if Maids upon this Quicksand run,
They're lost
past hope, and are for e'er undone,
_The Tenth Comfort._
Another swears he'll keep you all your Life,
Without the ugly Names,
_of Man and Wife_.
And to that End what Arts, what Tricks are laid,

T' insnare the Virtuous Young unthinking Maid,
What rev'rend
Bawd's made use of to Entice,
The Fair one's liking to that Modish
Vice.
How she at last is guided to his Arms,
Where for a while he
Doats upon her Charms.
But long she can't the airy Title hold,
Her
look'd for Joys are scarce a Twelve Month Old, Before _Kind Keeper_
takes another Miss,
By sad Experience weary grown of this.
_The Eleventh Comfort._

Are these the Sov'reigns then that we must own,
Must we before their
Golden Calves bow down,
Forgive us Heav'n, if we renounce the
Elves,
And make a Common-wealth among our Selves,
Whereby
the Laws that we shall there Ordain.
We'll make it Capital to mention
Man,
Man! we'll for ever banish from our sight,
Not talk by Day,
nor think of them by Night,
We'll shun their Courtship, as we do the
Plague,
And loath 'em more than they a Toothless Hagg.
_The Twelfth Comfort._
'Tis not their Sighs, Crying, nor Prayers,
Their subtile Whinings, nor
Treacherous Tears,
That shall one kind Return for ever gain,
But
when t' oblige us they've done all they can,
We'll laugh, deride, and
scorn the Foppish Sex,
And wrank Invention for new ways to vex,

Till they to shun us, prompted by Despair,
Or Drown themselves, or
hung in cleanly Air.
_The Thirteenth Comfort._
But if amongst us there should chance to be,
One silly fond regardless
foolish She,
That spight of all our Edicts will maintain
A League
with that detested Creature _Man:_
Good Counsels first shall strive to
bring her off, But if the Fool will that good Counsel scoff,
If she the
freedom of her Sex will leave,
And love a Wretch she knows that will
deceive,
From Pity well exempt the _Female_ Sot,
That wretched
Thing a _Husband_ be her Lot.
_The Fourteenth Comfort._
Jealous by Day, and Impotent by Night,
Have neither Shape nor Mein
to please the Sight
Diseas'd in Body, and deform'd in Soul,

Conceited, Proud, yet all the while a Fool:
May she with him spin out
a tedious Life,
Blest with that much admir'd Title, _Wife_.
And
may no Female better Fate partake,
That prophane the wholsome
Laws we make.

_The Fifteenth Comfort._
And may the silly Maid that is so blind, } To trust Man's Oaths that are
as false as Wind, } And only to her Ruin are design'd, } That thinks her
Vertue is a Plague of Life,
And will to cure it, yield as Whore or Wife.

Find all the Ills that have before been said,
And lose for endless
Plauges her Maiden-head,
Who will not bear what they infer a Pain,

And laugh at all the base Delights of Men.
_FINIS._

THE
Fifteen PLEASURES
OF A
VIRGIN.
WRITTEN
By the suppos'd AUTHOR of
THE
Fifteen Plagues
OF A
Maidenhead.
_Virtus, repulsæ nescia fortidæ,
Intimitatis fulget honoribus._ Hor. L.
3. Od. 1.
LONDON: Printed in the Year, 1709.
AN

APOLOGY
FOR
The Fifteen Plagues of a Maidenhead,
by the Imputed Author thereof.
Suppose 'twas I, you thought, had drew my Pen
On Virtue, see I fight
for her agen;
Wherefore, I hope my Foes will all excuse
Th'
Extravagance of a Repenting Muse;
Pardon whate'er she has too
boldly said,
She only acted then in Masquerade;
But now the
Vizard's off, She's chang'd her Scene, And turns a Modest, Civil Girl
agen;
Let some admire the Fops whose Talent lie
Inventing dull,
insipid Blasphemy;
I swear I cannot with those Terms dispence,

Nor won't be Damn'd for the Repute of Sense;
I cou'd be Bawdy
much, and nick the Times,
In what they dearly Love; damn'd Placket