Produced by David Starner, Fred Robinson and the Online Distributed
[Transcriber's Note: The following was proofread from what appear to
be scans of photocopies of a reproduction of the original text. On top
of the original's battered type-face and archaic spellings, this
preparer, and the proofreaders before him, have had to contend with
dirty or faded images and missing margins. We have made our best
guesses as to the missing letters, but in some cases we were stymied;
those few places are marked with [*?]. In addition, the most obvious
printer's mistakes (transposed, missing, obviously incorrect, and even
upside-down letters) have been corrected.]
* * * * *
Whores and Bawd's
Printed in the Year, 1706.
_Indeed we the Ladies of Pleasures, and those that stile themselves
Procurers in Love Affairs, highly resent the late Paper put out
against our Profession and bespattering of us for using only our own;
but since it is the Way of the World for most Men to be inclinable to
love Lac'd Mutton, I think it is their Duty to resent the Affront with
us so much, as to Satyrize the Author of the_ Fifteen Comforts of
Whoring, _who without is some young bashful Effeminate Fool or
another, that knows not how to say_ Boh to a Goose; _or some old
suffocated old Wretch so far pass'd his Labour, that he scolds for
Madness that he cannot give a buxom young Lass her Benevolence; or
else he may an hundred to one be one of Captain_ Risby's _Fraternity,
and so must needs be a Woman Hater by Course. But let him be what he
will, so long as our Impudence is Case-harden'd we value not his
Reflections, and therefore will not leave our Vocation tho' Claps and
Poxes shou'd be our Portion every Day for according to an eminent
Whore now Deceas'd,_
Clap, clap ye Whores, Clap as Clap can,
Some Clap to Women, we'll Clap the Men.
Whores and Bawds, Answer, &c.
_The first Comfort of Whoring, Answer'd._
No sooner does a Maid arrive to Years,
And she the Pleasures of Conjunction hears,
But strait her Maidenhead a Tip-toe runs,
To get her like, in Daughters or in Sons;
Upon some jolly Lad she casts her Eye,
And with some am'rous Gestures by the by;
She gives him great Encouragement to take
His fill of Love, and swears that for his sake
She soon shall Die; which makes the Youth so hot
To get about the Maiden's Honey-pot,
That promising her Marriage and the like,
They both a Bargain very quickly Strike;
[*?] Rubbers often take till she does prove
With Child, then she bids adieu to Love;
And e're she's brought to Bed away does Creep,
For fear he should the Wenche's Urchin keep.
_The Second Comfort of Whoring, Answer'd._
Now when a Maid has crackt her Maidenhead,
By being once or twice (Sir) brought to Bed,
Her Credit then's so broke that all her Wit,
And Policy cannot a Husband get;
But yet not being out of Heart she Cries,
From Marriage keeping I shall be more wise,
For if he's not a Fool he soon will find,
I had before I'd him to some been kind,
Then how he'd call me arrant Bitch and Whore,
And Swear some Stallion had been there before;
Then leave me, Wherefore I will single Live,
And my Invention to decoying give,
For as I was by fickle Man betray'd,
So Men by me too shall be Bubbles made,
Till the dull Sots clandestine Means do take,
In robbing Masters,for a Strumpets sake,
For which if they shou'd at the Gallows Swing,
Their End I'd in some merry Ditty Sing.
_ The Third Comfort of whoring answer'd._
What tho' of Whoring it is the mishap,
Sometimes for him that Ruts to get a Clap,
Or an Invetrate Pox which may expose
His private Sports by Eating off his Nose;
How many by hard Drinking will Roar out
With Aches, Rheumatism's or the Gout,
When in that gorging, guzling, tipling Sin
There is not half the Pleasure, that there's in,
The soft Embraces of a Woman who
Altho' she is not to one Moral true,
Does strive to please your height of amorous Lust,
With such a ravishing and pleasing Gust,
That wou'd an Eunuch tempt to tast the same,
But that he Tools does want to play the Game.
_The fourth Comfort of Whoring answer'd._
Tho' Buboes, Nodes and Ulcers are the Marks,
Of many a wanton Beau and am'rous Sparks
And many a lustful Lecher oft complains
Of restless Days and damn'd nocturnal Pains,
Nays go into a Flux o dozen Weeks,
Is't not the Man himself these Sorrow seeks?
Besides, how often see you go astride
A Miss, as if she was with Packthread ty'd;
Who's Poxt and Clapt as much as you can be,
And undergoes a deal of Misery,
To give your wanton Appetites content,
[*?] feeding you with Flesh, altho' in Lent:
Therefore as the old Woman very Tart
Once said, when against Thunder she did Fart,
'Twas only tit for tat, so if the Men
Do clap the Whores, and Whores Claps them agen,
Tis only tit for tat; tis very true,
What's good for Goose is good for Gander too.
_The fifth Comfort of Whoring answer'd._
What if a Man is in a marry'd State?
Confin'd to one does am'rous Heat abate,
Or shew me him (altho' he were in need.)
That always wou'd upon one Diet feed
When once a Woman's by a Man enjoy'd
For good and all, his Appetite is cloy'd.
Therefore he fixes on some wanton Miss
Whom rather than his Wife behalf he'd Kiss,
For as it's oft reported now a days,
A Thing that's fresh, fresh Courage, too will raise
_The Sixth Comfort of Whoring, Answer'd_
What Man wou'd shun the Plagues of Pox and Pills,
Or all the ails that are in Doctors Bills,
Rather than not be circled in the Arms
Of one that tempts you with a thousand Charms,
And tho' she long has lost her Maidenhead,
Yet such Dexterity she'll shew in Bed,
That, Sir, your Mouth wou'd water o're and o're,
To feed again upon a skilful Whore.
_The seventh Comfort of Whoring Answer'd._
'Tis true, the Fop that thinketh to secure'd
To himself, in private Lodgins some fine Whore
He is a Fool, for she'll not be confin'd,
To any Man altho' he's are so kind;
For being then high Pampered and Fed,
In absence of her Cull she takes to Bed
Another, that with Gold allures her too,
That she may not to her Gallant be true;
For thinks she, when her Chap is tir'd quite,
And turns her off in others to delight,
From all she can she'll privately receive,
Which may her great Necessities relieve,
When that she bids adieu her Master's Bed,
To get by publick jilting Tricks her Bread.
_The eighth Comfort of Whoring, Answer'd._
If any Man's in Love with any Whore,
Why ought he not to lavish all his Store
Upon her? Since, to make the Fop admire,
Those prety Features which sets him a fire,
She's often at the Charge of Velvit Hoods,
Silk Stockins, Velvit Scarves and other Goods,
Lac'd Shoes, rich Mantoe's, Gloves and Diamond Rings
Fine Linnen, Gowns, and other costly things.
_The ninth Comfort of Whoring Answer'd_
If any has a Jilt some time sustain'd,
Who has imperious o're his Pocket reign'd,
And he's grown weary of so sweet a Life,
Or else being jealous takes to him a Wife;
The Whore can do no less than fling and tear,
And on th' inconstant Coxcomb Vengeance swaer,
For leaving her in this her state of Sin;
And let the World know what the Spark has been,
Unless a Pension he to her allows,
That she may not his Roguery disclose.
_The tenth Comfort of Whoring Answer'd._
T'is true we Harlots work by various means,
And act our Parts behind too diff'rent Scenes;
Sometimes we do a Bastard lay to those,
That never did so much as touch our Cloaths;
Perhaps too ne'er were in our Company,
So Guineas get by this same Subtilty;
And many times a Pocket too we pick,
For at no mischief will a Strumpit stick;
For once a Woman's bad, there's no relief
By being only Whore, but also Thief.
_The Eleventh Comfort of Whoring, Answer'd._
We'll have you know, of Whores are very few,
That will to any Man be ever true;
To us all Men for Money are alike,
With Skips as soon as Beaus we bargains strike;
And gad no sooner is a Cully gone,
But quick another in his Room gets on.
_The Twelfth Comfort of Whoring Answer'd._
Besides great Charges we are at for Cloaths,
To tempt the Fancies of our cringing Beaus,
We Pimps and Bullies keep to be our Bail,
When Sharping Bailiffs nabb us for a Jayl.
_The Thirteenth Comfort of Whoring Answer'd._
Again as we to _Bridewel_ oft are sent,
To undergo a flauging Punishment,
A bribe to him that Whips us then is gi'n,
To have Compassion to our tender Skin.
_The Fourteenth Comfort of Whoring Answer'd._
With pretty winning ways we do assure,
Our selves to bring the Woodcocks to our Lure
As ogling wishfully, and having Tongue,
Which tho' 'tis false, yet with good Language hung
And if we have a Voice that's good, we sing
And _Syren_ like our Fops to ruin bring;
Then how we Strumpets do rejoyce to see,
The wiser Sex undone by Lechery.
_The Fifteenth Comfort of Whoring Answer'd._
But now good lack-a-day our Trade's so bad,
That truly Customers can scarce be had,
Through those sly Whore's that do in privat dwell,
So (but a story sad it is to tell)
Our common Whores can scarce their Livings get
By all the means of an intrieguing Wit.
For _Drury Lane_, in _Fleetstreet_ or the _Strand_,
Hours we walk e're any by the Hand,
Will take us, wherefore as we daggle home,
Some prick-louse _Taylor_ strutting up will come,
With whom for want we're forced to comply,
for one poor two pence wet, and two pence dry.
* * * * *
Written by Madam B - - le.
Printed by F.P. near _Fleet-street_, 1707.
Fifteen Plagues of a
_The First Plague._
The Woman Marry'd is Divinely Blest,
But I a Virgin cannot take my Rest;
I'm discontented up, as bad a Bed,
Because I'm plagued with my Maiden-head;
A thing that do's my blooming Years no good,
But only serves to freeze my youthful Blood,
Which slowly Circulates, do what I can,
For want of Bleeding by some skilful Man;
Whose tender hand his _Launcet_ so will guide,
That I the Name of _Maid_ may lay aside.
_The Second Plague._
When I've beheld an am'rous Youth make Love,
And swearing Truth by all the Gods above,
How has it strait inflam'd my sprightly Blood
Creating Flames, I scarcely should withstood,
But bid him boldly march, not grant me leisure
Of Parley, for 'tis Speed augments the Pleasure.
Sirrah! tis my Misfortune not to meet
With any Man that would my Passion greet,
If he with balmy Kisses stop'd my Breath,
From which one cannot die a better Death,
Or stroke my Breasts, those Mountains of Delight,
Your very Touch would fire an Anchorite;
Next let your wanton Palm a little stray,
And dip thy Fingers in the milky way:
Then having raiz'd me, let me gently fall,
Love's Trumpets sound, so Mortal have at all.
But why wish I this Bliss? I wish in vain,
And of my plaguy Burthen do complain;
For sooner may I see whole Nations dead,
But I find one to get my Maiden-head.
_The Third Plague._
She that her Maiden-head does keep, runs through
More Plagues than all the Land of _Egypt_ knew;
A teazing Whore, or a more tedious Wife,
Plagues not a Marry'd Man's unhappy Life,
As much as it do's me to be a Maid,
Of which same Name I am so much afraid,
Because I've often heard some People tell,
They that die Maids, must all lead Apes in Hell;
And so 'twere better I had never been,
Than thus to be perplex'd: _God save the Queen._
_The Fourth Plague._
When trembling Pris'ners all stand round the Bar,
A strange suspence about the fatal Verdict,
And when the Jury crys they Guilty are,
How they astonish'd are when they have heard it.
When in mighty Storm a Ship is toss'd,
And all do ask, What do's the Captain say?
How they (poor Souls) bemoan themselves as lost,
When his Advice at last is only, Pray!
So as it was one Day my pleasing Chance,
To meet a handsome young Man in a Grove,
Both time and place conspir'd to advance
The innocent Designs of charming Love.
I thought my Happiness was then compleat,
Because 'twas in his Pow'r to make it so;
I ask'd the Spark if he would do the Feat,
But the unperforming Blockhead answer'd, _No_.
Poor Prisoners may, I see, have Mercy shewn,
And Shipwreck'd Men may sometimes have the Luck,
To see their dismal Tempests overblown,
But I poor Virgin never shall be F - - .
_The Fifth Plague._
All Day poor I do sit Disconsolate,
Cursing the grievous Rigor of my Fate,
To think how I have seven Years betray'd,
To that dull empty Title of a Maid.
If that I could my self but Woman write,
With what transcendent Pleasure and Delight,
Should I for ever, thrice for ever Bless,
The Man that led me to such Happiness.
_The Sixth Plague._
Pox take the thing Folks call a Maiden-head,
For soon as e'er I'm sleeping in my Bed,
I dream I'm mingling with some Man my Thigh,
Till something more than ord'nary does rise;
But when I wake and find my Dream's in vain,
I turn to Sleep only to Dream again,
For Dreams as yet are only kind to me,
And at the present quench my Lechery.
_The Seventh Plague._
Of late I wonder what's with me the Matter,
For I look like Death, and am as weak as Water,
For several Days I loath the sight of Meat,
And every Night I chew the upper Sheet;
[*?]e such Obstructions, that I'm almost moap'd,
And breath as if my Vitals all were stop'd.
I told a Friend how strange with me it was,
She, an experienc'd Bawd, soon grop'd the Cause,
Saying, _for this Disease, take what you can,
You'll ne'er be well, till you have taken Man._
Therefore, before with Maiden-heads I'll be
Thus plagu'd, and live in daily Misery,
Some Spark shall rummage all my Wem about,
To find this wonderful Distemper out.
_The Eighth Plague._
Now I am young, blind _Cupid_ me bewitches,
I scratch my Belly, for it always itches,
And what it itches for, I've told before,
'Tis either to be Wife, or be a Whore;
Nay any thing indeed, would be poor I,
N'er Maiden-heads upon my Hands should lie,
Which till I lose, I'm sure my watry Eyes
Will pay to Love so great a Sacrifice,
That my Carcass soon will weep out all its Juice,
Till grown so dry, as fit for no Man's use.
_The Ninth Plague._
By all the pleasant Postures of Delight,
By all the Twines and Circles of the Night,
By the first Minute of those Nuptial Joys,
When Men put fairly for a Brace of Boys,
Dying a Virgin once I more do dread,
Than ten times losing of a _Maiden head_;
For tho' it can't be seen nor understood,
Yet is it troublesome to Flesh and Blood.
_The Tenth Plague._
You heedless Maids, whose young and tender Hearts
Unwounded yet, have scop'd the fatal Darts;
Let the sad Fate of a poor Virgin move,
And learn by me to pay Respect to Love.
If one can find a Man fit for Love's Game,
To lose one's Maiden-head it is no Shame:
'Tis no Offence, if from his tender Lip
I snatch a tonguing Kiss; if my fond Clip
With loose Embraces oft his Neck surround,
For Love in Debts of Nature's ever bound.
_The Eleventh Plague._
A _Maiden head_! Pish, in it's no Delight,
Nor have I Ease, but when returning Night,
With Sleep's soft gentle Spell my Senses charms,
Then Fancy some Gallant brings to my Arms:
In them I oft the lov'd Shadow seem
To grasp, and Joys, yet blush I too in Dream.
I wake, and long my Heart in Wonder lies,
To think on my late pleasing Extasies:
But when I'm waking, and don't yet possess,
In Sleep again I wish to enjoy the Bliss:
For Sleep do's no malicious Spies admit,
Yet yields a lively Semblance of Delight.
Gods! what a Scene of Joy was that! how fast
I clasp'd the Vision to my panting Breast?
With what fierce Bounds I sprung to meet the Bliss,
While my wrapt Soul flew out in ev'ry Kiss!
Till breathless, faint, and softly sunk away,
I all dissolv'd in reaking Pleasures lay.
_The Twelfth Plague._
Happen what will, I'll make some Lovers know
What Pains, what raging Pains I undergo,
Till I am really Heart-sick, almost Dead,
By keeping that damn'd thing a Maiden-head.
Which makes me with Green Sickness almost lost,
So pale, so wan, and looking like a Ghost,
Eating Chalk, Cindars, or Tobacco-Pipes,
Which with a Looseness scowers all my Tripes;
But e'er I'll longer this great Pain endure,
The Stews I'll search, but that I'll find a Cure.
_The Thirteenth Plague._
Let doating Age debate of _Law_ and _Right_,
And gravely state the Bounds of Just and Fit;
Whose Wisdom's but their Envy, to destroy
And bar those Pleasures which they can't enjoy.
My blooming Years, more sprightly and more gay,
By Nature were design'd for Love and Play:
Youth knows no Check, but leaps weak Virtue's Fence,
And briskly hunts the noble Chace of Sense!
Without dull thinking I'll Enjoyment trace,
And call that lawful whatsoe'er do's please.
Nor will my Crime want Instances alone,
'Tis what the Glorious Gods above have done;
For _Saturn_, and his greater Off-spring _Jove_,
Both stock'd their Heaven with Incestuous Love.
_The Fourteenth Plague._
If any Man do's with my Bubbies play,
Squeeze my small Hand, as soft as Wax or Clay,
Or lays his Hands upon my tender Knees,
What strange tumultuous Joys upon me seize!
My Breasts do heave, and languish do my Eyes,
Panting's my Heart, and trembling are my Thighs;
I sigh, I wish, I pray, and seem to die,
In one continu'd Fit of Ecstacy;
Thus by my Looks may Man know what I mean,
And how he easily may get between
Those Quarters, where he may surprize a Fort,
In which an Emperor may find such Sport,
That with a mighty Gust of Love's Alarms,
He'd lie dissolving in my circling Arms;
But 'tis my Fate to have to do with Fools,
Who're very loth and shy to use their Tools,
To ease a poor, and fond distressed Maid,
Of that same Load, of which I'm not afrad
To lose with any Man, tho' I should die,
For any Tooth (good Barber) is my Cry.
_The Fifteenth Plague._
Alas! I care not, Sir, what Force you'd use,
So I my Maiden-head could quickly lose:
Oft do I wish one skill'd in _Cupid_'s Arts,
Would quickly dive into my secret Parts;
For as I am, at Home all sorts of Weather,
I kit, - - as Heaven and Earth would come together,
Twirling a Wheel, I sit at home, hum drum,
And spit away my Nature on my Thumb;
Whilst those that Marry'd are, invited be
To Labours, Christnings, where the Jollitry
Of Women lies in telling, as some say,
When 'twas they did at Hoity-Toity play;
Whose Husband's Yard is longest, whilst another
Can't in the least her great Misfortune smother,
So tells, her Husband's Bauble is so short,
That when he Hunts, he never shews her Sport.
Now I, because I have my Maiden-head,
Mayn't know the Pastimes of the Nuptial Bed;
But mayn't I quickly do as Marry'd People may,
I'll either kill my self, or shortly run away.
* * * * *
_The_ Maids _Vindication:_
Fifteen Comforts of living a Single Life.
Being an _ANSWER_ to the _Fifteen
Plagues of a Maiden-head_.
_Written by a Gentlewoman._
_London_, Printed for _J. Rogers_ in _Fleet-Street_, 1707.
_The_ Maids _Vindication:_
The Fifteen Comforts of
being a Maid, _&c._
_The First Comfort._
Ye _British_ Maids with _British_ Beauty blest,
Wife as you're Fair, of ev'ry Grace possest,
Do not the least degenerate from your Worth,
Nor be less Chaste because you're thus set forth;
Have Patience then, and I'll revenge your Cause,
And all the deep Designs of wicked Men expose,
Shew the dear Comforts of a Single Life,