N the Fields of Lincoln Inn,
Underneath a tatter'd Blanket,
On a Flock-Bed, God be thanked,
Feats of active Love were feen.
Phillis, who you know loves Swiving,
As the Gods love pious Prayers,
Lay moft Penfively contriving
How to Fuck with Pricks by Pairs.
Coridon's Afpiring Tarfe,
Which to Cunt had ne're fubmitted,
Wet with Am'rous Kifs, fhe fitted
To her lefs frequented Arfe.
Strephon's was a Handful longer,
Stiffly propt with cager Luft,
None for Champion was more ftronger,
This into her Cunt fhe thrust.
Now for Civil Wars prepare,
Rais'd by fierce inteftine Buftle.
When thefe Heroes meeting Juftle
In the Bowels of the Fair.
They Tilt and Thrust with horrid pudder,
Blood and Slaughter is decreed,
Hurling Souls at one another,
Wrapt in flakey Clots of Seed,
Nature had 'twixt Cunt and Arse
Wifely plac'd firm feparation,
God knows else what defolation
Had infu'd from Warring Tarfe.
Though Fate a difmal end did threaten,
It prov❜d no worse than was defir'd;
The Nymph was foundly Ballock-beaten,
Both the Shepherds foundly tir'd.
Upon his drinking a Bowl.
"Ulcan, contrive me fuch a Cup
As Neftor us'd of old,
Shew all thy Skill to trim it up,
Damask it round with Gold.
Make it fo large, that fill'd with Sack
Up to the fwelling Brim,
Vaft Toafts on the delicious Lake,
Like Ships at Sea may fwim.
Engrave not Battle on his Cheek,
With War I've nought to do,
I'm none of thofe that took Mastrich,
Nor Yarmouth Leaguer knew,
Let it no Name of Planets tell,
Fix'd Stars, or Constellation?
For I am no Sir Sydrophel,
Nor none of his Relation?
But Carve thereon a spreading Vine,
Then add two lovely Boys,
Their Limbs in Amorous Folds entwine,
Cupid and Bacchus my Saints are,
May Drink and Love still reign,
With Wine I wash away my Cares,
And then to Cunt again.
S Cloris full of harmless thoughts
Beneath a Willow lay,
Kind Love a youthful Shepherd brought
To país the time away.
She blush❜t to be encounter'd fo,
And chid the Amorous Swain
But as fhe ftrove to rife and go,
He pull❜d her down again.
A fudden Paffion feiz'd her Heart,
In fpite of her disdain,
She found a Pulfe in ev'ry Part,
And Love in ev'ry Vein.
Ah Youth (faid fhe) what Charms are thefe
That Conquer and Surprize?
Ah let me for unless you please,
I have no power to rise.
She fainting fpoke, and trembling lay,
For fear the thou'd comply;
Her lovely Eyes her Heart betray,
And give her Tongue the Lie.
Thus the whom Princes had deny'd,
With all their Pomb and Train,
Was in the lucky Minute try'd,
And yielded to the Swain.
Uoth the Dutches of Cl to Mrs. Kn
I'd fain have a Prick, but how to come by't, I defire you'll be fecret, and give your Advice, Though Cunt be not Coy, Reputation is Nice.
To fome Cellar in Sodom your Grace muft retire, There Porters with Black Pots fit round a Coal-fire. There open your Cafe,and your Grace cannot fail Of a Dozen of Pricks for a Dozen of Ale.
Ist fo, quoth the Dutches? Ay by God, quoth the (Whore; Then give me the Key that unlocks theBack door, For I had rather beFuckt with Porters & Carmen, Than thus be abus'd by C and G
Rife at Eleven, I Dine about Two,
I get Drunk before Seven,and the next thing I I fend for my Whore, when for fear of a Clap, I Spend in her Hand, and I Spew in her Lap; There we Quarrel and Scold till I fall afleep, When the Bitch growing bold,to my Pocket do's (creep. Then flily fhe leaves me, and to revenge the Af
At once the bereaves me of Money and Cunt.
If by chance then I wake, hot-headed and drunk,
What a Coil do I make for the loss of my Punk?
I ftorn, and I roar, and I fall in a rage,
And miffing my Whore, I Bagger my Page.
Then Crop fick all Morning, Trail at my Men,
And in Bed I lie yawning till Eleven agen.
Ove a Woman! y'are an Afs,
'Tis a moft infipid Paffion,
To Chufe out for happiness
The idleft part of God's Creation.
Let the Porter and the Groom,
Things defign'd for Dirty Slaves,
Drudg in Fair Aurelia's Womb,
To get Supplies for Age and Graves
Farewel Woman, I intend
Henceforth ev'ry Night to fit
With my Lewd Well-natur'd Friend,
Drinking, to engender Wit.
Then give me Health, Wealth, Mirth,and Wine,
And it bufie Love intrenches,
There's a fweet foft Page of mine,
Do's the Trickworth Forty Wenches.
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