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And Hunton, with his long tool,
Not as his mark of man, but fool;
Whofe tail, and follies, make his life,
Only useful to his wife :

All thefe, with foul infection tainted,
Long ago had been transplanted
Far from the court, that fo the reft,
That yet were found, might fcape the peft;
But as that vile difeafe the itch,

Does fome lewd natures fo bewitch;
That it they always chufe to catch,
For meer indulgence but to fcratch :
So faction does with fome prevail,
For a bare colour but to rail.
Honeft Frank was one of thefe,

In's heart, lov'd them, and their disease;
Honeft Frank, who's but a noddy,
Yet rails as well as any body:
And, as facred libels fhow,
Publish'd not many days ago:
A certain lord was but a cur;
(To which opinion few demur :)
So honeft Frank, might I fpeak, mine
Is naturally fomething canine:

For as fome cur, whom's mafter owns,
To love, and gives him crufts and bones;
Tho' kindly fed, will yet be running
Abroad, where carrion lies a funning;
So Frank tho' he no filling need,
On rotten faction loves to feed;
With which, when he does back refort,
He flinks intolerable at court?
And for occafions of this nature,
Has been of late a lazy creature ;
Tho' better had he minded duty,
And fo efcap'd this war with beauty.
Beauty, which fhines in Nancy's face,
As much as he does in his place:
Majestic wrinkles deck her brow,
And godly glaring eyes below;
That fill with maudlin kindness shine,
The foft effects of brandy wine,

Rich carbuncles adorn her nofe.

The envy of her sober foes:

And from her lips difcourfes fall,
That makes her welcome to Whitehall.
Whether one day fhe enter'd fhining,
Juft as Frank was come from dining:
But who the fequel cou'd have gueís'd,
To fee how they at first carefs'd;
How cheek by jowl they kindly walk'd,
And with what tenderness they talk'd!
My dearest Nan, fays he, what whores
Are freshest now? Quoth Nan, my doors,
Heav'n knows, ne'er open'd to receive
A lover, fince you last took leave :
Whom still to ferve my will remains,
Tho' you ne'er pay me for my Pains.

Pay thee, (quoth he) Nan! pay for wenching?
When e'en our tables are retrenching?
Says Nancy, ah! thou falfely fearet:
'Tis love I want; not coin, my dearest;
'Tis thee I love, 'tis thee I doat on,
More than a child that puts new coat on :
To fee thee walk, I love thy trip,,
I love the drops upon thy lip:
Thy juft cravet, thy reg'lar wig,
My little pug, my dapper pig.
When with defire of thee I ftretch,
I've no fciatica, nor stitch.

Quoth Frank, in rage; avant, you bitch.
Have I, for this, thro' all my life,
Kept civil distance with my wife;
Study'd fine fpeeches from romances,
And in my age led country dances ?
Do I for this, ev'n at this hour,
Cheat every creature in my pow'r ;
Gripe from the poor the utmost farthing,
To keep my credit up at carding?
Do I for this, affect a grace,
And paint my old John-apple face;
-Only to have a bawd adore me;
No, I'll have virgins fall before me.

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Virgins,

Virgins, quoth Nan! and then the hung
A tongue out, full two handfuls long,
And with defire or malice ftung,
Lick'd o'er the thickest painted place,
And spoil'd entirely that day's face.
But who can speak the noife and din,
The fury that did then begin;

The oaths, the out-cries, and the blows,
When Francis catching Nancy's nofe,
With furious gripe expreffing hate,
Squeez'd nine large infects out of that,
Then with a shock upon her cheft,
So ftirr'd the brandy in her breaft;
That an eructive figh she fent,
Which, as it through the region went,
Such wond'rous influence did bear,
A foaring owl dropt headlong there,
Drunk with fophifticated air;
Which omen much ill luck bespoke ;
For, the next tilt, the hero broke.
The famous wand describ'd above,
The enfign of his power and love:
But at the fame time conqueft got,
And doom'd the vanquish'd bawd to pot:
To porter's lodge he fent her jogging,
To purchase liberty by flogging,
And thus concluded was the fray,
Betwixt the knight and lady gay.

T

A Satire on the Players.

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HE cenfuring world, perhaps may not esteem
A fatire on fo fcandalous a theme,

As a ftage-ape; yet, merely for the fake
Of novelty, I'll once a trial make:
For who can hold to fee the foppish town,
Admire fo fad a wretch as Betterton;
Is't for his legs, his fhoulders, or his face,
His formal stiffness, or his aukward grace ?
A fhop for him had been the fittest place.
But brawny Tom the play-house needs must chufe,
The villains refuge, the whores rende'vouz.

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Then

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Then in comes Smith, that murders every shape,
The crying lover and the fquinting ape;
So very dull in both, that you may fee,
Sorrow turn'd mirth, and mirth turn'd tragedy:
Passion he ridicules; so whines, and cries,

That you wou'd fwear, he fomewhat more than dies;
Then, by his antic poftures, men of sense
Do fay, he plays Jack pudding, not a prince.
Since fo it is, Will, e'en in time be wise,
Stick to the bottle; there thy talent lies:
But for the stage, (conceited, malapert,)

Thou'rt worse than ftrolling Coif, or strutting Burt.
You fmock-fac'd lads, fecure your gentle bums;
For, full of luft and fury, see he comes!

'Tis bugg'ring Nokes, whofe damn'd unwieldy t-
Weeps, to be bury'd in his footman's a-
Unnatural finner, lecher without sense,

To leave kind whores, to dive in excrements!
Roaring mad Cave, is the reproach o' th'age;
Scandal to all, but the lewd, fhameless stage:
The coffee-houses, and the taverns fcum,
Drunk every night, the looby, tumbling home,
Alarms the watch. His chiefeft eloquence,
Does lie in many oaths, and little sense:
Egad, he'd make a swinging evidence!
But now, the character of one you'll read.
Who ftrove fo long a fool to be believ'd,
That at the laft he is a fool indeed :
Witness his bant'ring nonfenfe and his noise,
Stealing from ftall, and fooling with the boys.
If ftill thou play'ft fuch tricks, the world fhall fee
The diff 'rence 'twixt Jack Sparks, and Tony Lee,
Which is the filly'ft cur, the dog or thee.

The next might e'en have acquiefc'd; but he,
Big with the hopes of popularity,
Muft play again: altho' it be decreed
That wife prophetick fhou'd his omen read.
When first he ftrutted on, faith, I was there :
Who's there? cry all, a puppet, not a player.
But, when he nam'd a god, the fparks did fear,"
The very pop wou'd make a god appear;
A god to him's no more than bottle-beer.
G

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Goodman

Goodman the thief fwears 'tis all womens lots
To doat upon his ugliness and pox.

Many by common punks have been betray'd,
But to be jilted by a filly maid,

Is a damn'd thing: Wiltshire, I'd be afham'd,
At laft among the cuckolds to be nam'd,
Thou'dft better ftill have led a whoring life,
Than to be plagu'd with poverty and wife.
Jevon's chief bus'nefs is to fwear and eat ;
He'll turn procurer for a dish of meat :
Elfe the poor hungry ruffian muft, I fear,
Live on grey-peafe and salt for half the year.
The reft, tho' moving in a lower fphere,
Are no less villains than their masters are ;
So fharping and so infolent a crew,
Long as old Tyburn stood, it never knew:
But fame does fay, their equals you may find
Of th' other fex; fo lewd in every kind,

You'd fwear that rogue and whore had both combin'd.
Imprimis, Slingsby has the fatal curfe,

A lady's honour with a player's purse :
Tho' now the is fo plaguy haughty grown,
Yet, 'gad, my lady, I a time have known,
When a dull whiggish poet wou'd go down.

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That scene's now chang'd; but, prithee, dowdy beast,

Think not thyself an actress in the leaft;

For fure thy figure ne'er was feen before :

Such arfe-like breafts, ftiff neck, and monftrous gore,
Are certain antidotes against a whore.

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But antiquated S- /fwears in rage,

She knows not what's the lewdness of the stage:
And I believe her, now her days are paft ;
Who'd tempt a wretch that on meer force is chaft ?
Yet in her youth, none was a greater w~:
Her lumpish hufband Og can tell you more.
There's one, Heav'n blefs us! by her curfed pride,
Thinks from the world her brutish luft to hide;
But will that pafs in her, whose only fenfe,
Does lie in whoring, cheats, and impudence?
One that is pox all o'er, Barry her name,
That mercenary, prostituted dame;

Whose

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