‘Poets
are born’ – & so are whores – the trade is
Grown
universal – in these canting days
Women
of fashion must of course be ladies
&
whoreing is the business – that still pays
Playhouses
Ball rooms – there the masquerade is
–
To do what was of old – & now adays
Their
maids – nay wives so innoscent & blooming
Cuckold their spouses to seem honest women
Milton
sung Eden & the fall of man
Not woman for the name implies a wh—e
&
they would make a ruin of his plan
Falling
so often they can fall no lower
Tell
me a worse delusion if you can
For
innoscence – & I will sing no more
Wherever
mischief is tis womans brewing
Created from manself – to be mans
ruin
The
flower in bud hides from the fading sun
&
keeps the hue of beauty on its cheek
But
when full blown they into riot run
The hue turns pale & lost each ruddy
streak
So
’t’is with woman who pretends to shun
Immodest
actions which they inly seek
Night
hides the wh–e – cupboards tart & pasty
Flora was p-x-d – & womans
quite as nasty
Marriage
is nothing but a driveling hoax
To
please old codgers when they’re turned of forty
I
wed & left my wife like other folks
But
not untill I found her false & faulty
O
woman fair – the man must pay thy jokes
Such makes a husband very often naughty
Who
falls in love will seek his own undoing
The road to marriage is – ‘the road to ruin’
Love
worse then debt or drink or any fate
It
is the damnest smart of matrimony
A
hell incarnate is a woman-mate
The
knot is tied – & then we loose the honey
A
wife is just the protetype to hate
Commons
for stock & warrens for the coney
Are
not more trespassed over in rights plan
Then this incumberance on the rights of man
There’s
much said about love & more of women
I
wish they were as modest as they seem
Some
borrow husbands till their cheeks are blooming
Not
like the red rose blush – but yellow cream
Lord
what a while those good days are in coming –
Routs
Masques & Balls – I wish they were a dream
–
I wish for poor men luck – an honest praxis
Cheap food & cloathing – no corn laws or taxes
I
wish – but there is little got bye wishing
I wish that bread & great coats
ne’er had risen
I
wish that there was some such word as ‘pishun’
For
ryhme sake for my verses must be dizen
With
dresses fine – as hooks with bait for fishing
I
wish all honest men were out of prison
I
wish M.P’s. would spin less yarn – nor doubt
But burn false bills & cross bad taxes out
I
wish young married dames were not so frisky
Nor
hide the ring to make believe they’re single
I
wish small beer was half as good as whiskey
& married dames with buggers would
not mingle
There’s
some too cunning far & some too frisky
&
here I want a ryhme – so write down ‘jingle’
&
there’s such putting in – in whores crim con
Some mouths would eat forever & eat on
Childern
are fond of sucking sugar candy
&
maids of sausages – larger the better
Shopmen
are fond of good sigars & brandy
&
I of blunt – & if you change the letter
To
C or K it would be quite as handy
& throw the next away – but I’m your
debtor
For
modesty – yet wishing nought between us
I’d hawl close to a she as vulcan
did to venus
I
really cant tell what this poem will be
About
– nor yet what trade I am to follow
I
thought to buy old wigs – but that will kill me
With
cold starvation – as they’re beaten hollow
Long
speeches in a famine will not fill me
&
madhouse traps still take me by the collar
So
old wig bargains now must be forgotten
The oil that dressed them fine
has made them rotten
I
wish old wigs were done with ere they’re mouldy
I
wish – but heres the papers large & lusty
With
speeches that full fifty times they’ve told ye
–
Noble Lord John to sweet Miss Fanny Fusty
Is
wed – a lie good reader I ne’er sold ye
–
Prince Albert goes to Germany & must he
Leave
the queens snuff box where all fools are strumming
From addled eggs no chickens can be coming
Whigs
strum state fiddle strings untill they snap
With cuckoo cuckold cuckoo year by year
The
razor plays it on the barbers strap
–
The sissars grinder thinks it rather quere
That
labour wont afford him ‘one wee drap’
Of
ale or gin or half & half or beer
–
I wish prince Albert & the noble dastards
Who wed the wives – would get the noble bastards
I
wish prince Albert on his german journey
I
wish the Whigs were out of office &
Pickled
in law books of some good atorney
For ways & speeches few can
understand
They’ll
bless ye when in power – in prison scorn ye
&
make a man rent his own house & land –
I
wish prince Alberts queen was undefiled
– & every man could get his wife with
child
I
wish the devil luck with all my heart
As
I would any other honest body
His
bad name passes bye me like a f—t
Stinking
of brimstone – then like whisky toddy
We
swallow sin which seems to warm the heart
– There’s no imputing any sin to God –
he
Fills
hell with work – & is’n’t it a hard case
To leave old whigs & give to hell the carcass
Me–b—ne may throw his wig to little Vicky
&
so resign his humbug & his power
&
she with the young princess mount the dickey
On
ass milk diet for her german tour
Asses
like ministers are rather tricky
I
& the country proves it every hour
W–ll—gt–n
& M–lb—n in their station
Coblers to queens – are phisic to
the nation
These
batch of toadstools on this rotten tree
Shall
be the cabinet of any queen
Though
not such coblers as her servants be
They’re
of Gods making – that is plainly seen
Nor
red nor green nor orange – they are free
To
thrive & flourish as the Whigs have been
But
come tomorrow – like the Whigs forgotten
You’ll find them withered stinking dead &
rotten
Death
is an awfull thing it is by God
I’ve said so often & I think so now
Tis
rather droll to see an old wig nod
Then
doze & die the devil don’t know how
Odd
things are wearisome & this is odd –
Tis
better work then kicking up a row
I’m
weary of old Whigs & old whigs heirs
& long been sick of teazing God with prayers
I’ve
never seen the cow turn to a bull
I’ve
never seen the horse become an ass
I’ve
never seen an old brawn cloathed in whool –
But I have seen full many a bonny lass
&
wish I had one now beneath the cool
Of
these high elms – Muse tell me where I was
O
– talk of turning I’ve seen Whig & Tory
Turn imps of hell – & all for Englands glory
I
love good fellowship & wit & punning
I
love ‘true love’ & God my taste defend
I
hate most damnably all sorts of cunning –
I
love the Moor & Marsh & Ponders End –
I
do not like the song of ‘cease your funning’
I love a modest wife
& trusty friend
–
Bricklayers want lime as I want rhyme for fillups
– So here’s a health to sweet Eliza Phillips
LP 89 amongst other places