The Baseness of Whores
Trust no more, a wanton Whore,
If thou lov’st health and freedom,
They are so base in every place,
It’s pity that bread should feed ’um.
All their sence is impudence,
Which some call good conditions.
Stink they do, above ground too,
Of Chirurgions and Physitians.
If you are nice, they have their spice,
On which they’le chew to flout you,
And if you not discern the plot,
You have no Nose about you.
Furthermore, they have in store,
For which I deadly hate ’um,
Perfum’d geare, to stuffe each eare,
And for their cheeks Pomatum.
Liquorish Sluts, they feast their guts,
At Chuffs cost, like Princes,
Amber Plumes, and Mackarumes,
And costly candy’d Quinces.
Potato plump, supports the Rump,
Eringo strengthens Nature.
Viper Wine, so heats the chine,
They’le gender with a Satyr.
Names they own were never known
Throughout their generation,
Noblemen are kind to them,
At least by approbation:
Many dote on one gay Coat,
But mark what there is stampt on ’t,
A stone Horse wild, with toole defil’d,
Two Goats, a Lyon rampant.
Truth to say, Paint and Array,
Makes them so highly prized.
Yet not one well, of ten can tell,
If ever they were baptized.
And if not, then tis a blot
Past cure of Spunge or Laver:
And we may sans question say
The Divel was their God-father.
Now to leave them, he receive them,
Whom they most confide in,
Whom that is, aske Tib or Sis,
Or any whom next you ride in.
If in sooth, she speaks the truth,
She sayes excuse I pray you,
The beast you ride, where I confide,
Will in due time convey you.