Before the Prieft: fhe thus begins,
And, fobbing, blubbers-forth her fins
"Who could that tempting man resist?
My virtue languish'd, as he kiss'd ;
"Iftrove - till I could strive no longer:
"How can the weak fubdue the stronger-?"
The Father afk'd her where and when?
? and what fort of men?

How many

By what degrees her blood was heated?
How oft' the frailty was repeated?
Thus have. I feen a pregnant wench
All flush'd with guilt before the bench:
The Judges (wak'd by wanton thought)
Dive to the bottom of her fault;
They leer, they fimper at her fhame,
And make her call all things by name.
And now to fentence, he proceeds,
Prefcribes how oft' to tell her beads;
Shews her what Saints could do her good,
Doubles her fafts, to cool her blood.

Eas'd of her fins, and light as air,
Away the trips, perhaps to prayer.

'Twas no fuch thing. Why then this hafte ?
The clock has ftruck, the hour is past;

And, on the fpur of inclination,
She fcorn'd to bilk her affignation.

Whate'er fhe did, next week fhe came,

And piously confeft the fame.

The

The Prieft, who female frailties pity'd,
Firft chid her, then her fins remitted.

But did fhe now her crime bemoan
In penitential sheets alone ?
And was no bold, no beastly fellow
The nightly partner of her pillow?
No, none for next time in the grove
A bank was confcious of her love.
Confeffion-day was come about,
And now again it all must out.
She feems to wipe her twinkling eyes:
"What now, my child?" the Father cries.
Again" fays fhe-With threatening looks,
He thus the proftrate dame rebukes:

"Madam, I grant there 's fomething in it, "That virtue has th' unguarded minute; "But pray now tell me what are whores, "But women of unguarded hours? "Then you must fure have loft all shame. "What! every day, and still the fame, "And no fault elfe! 'tis ftrange to find "A woman to one fin confin'd! "Pride is this day her darling paffion, "The next day Slander is in fashion; "Gaming fucceeds; if Fortune croffes, "Then Virtue's mortgag'd for her losses ; "By use her favourite vice fhe loaths, "And loves new follies like new cloaths: "But you, beyond all thought unchaste, "Have all fin center'd near your waist !

I

Whence is this appetite fo ftrong?
Say, Madam, did your mother long?
"Or is it luxury and high diet
"That won't let virtue fleep in quiet?"
She tells him now, with meekest voice,
That she had never err'd by choice;
Nor was there known a virgin chafter,.
'Till ruin'd by a fad disaster.

That fhe a favourite lap-dog had,
Which (as the stroak'd and kiss'd) grew mad;
And on her lip a wound indenting,

First fet her youthful blood fermenting.

The Prieft reply'd, with zealous fury,

You fhould have fought the means to cure ye.

Doctors by various ways, we find, "Treat thefe diftempers of the mind. "Let gaudy ribbands be deny'd

To her who raves with fcornful pride; "And, if religion crack her notions, "Lock-up her volumes of devotions; "But, if for man her rage prevail, "Bar.her the fight of creatures male. "Or elfe, to cure fuch venom'd bites, And fet the fhatter'd thoughts arights; They fend you to the ocean's fhore, "And plunge the patient o'er and o'er."

The dame reply'd, "Alas! in vain "My kindred forc'd me to the main "Naked, and in the face of day: "Look not, ye fishermen, this way!

"What

↔ What virgin had not done as I did ?
"My modeft hand, by nature guided,
"Debarr'd at once from human eyes
"The feat where female honour lies;
"And, though thrice dipt from top to toe,
"I still fecur'd the poft below,

And guarded it with grasp so fast
"Not one drop through my fingers past.
"Thus owe I to my bashful care,
"That all the rage is fettled there."

Weigh well the projects of mankind;
Then tell me, Reader, canft thou find
The man from madness wholly free?
They all are mad - fave you
and me.
Do not the statesman, fop, and wit,
By daily follies prove they 're bit?
And, when the briny cure they try'd,

Some part ftill kept above the tide ?

Some men (when drench'd beneath the wave) High o'er their heads their fingers fave:

Thofe hands by mean extortion thrive,

Or in the pocket lightly dive:
Or, more expert in pilfering vice,
They burn and itch to cog the dice.
Plunge-in a courtier; ftrait his fears
Direct his hands to ftop his ears.
And now truth feems a grating noise,
He loves the flanderer's whispering voice;

C 3

He

He hangs on flattery with delight,
And thinks all fulfome praise is right.
All women dread a watery death:
They fhut their lips, to hold their breath;
And, though you duck them ne'er fo long,
Not one falt drop e'er wets their tongue':
'Tis hence they scandal have at will,
And that this member ne'er lies ftill

THE