The Fifteen Comforts of Matrimony: Responses From Women

 
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.
 

FINIS

THE FIFTEEN PLAGUES OF A MAIDEN-HEAD

Written by Madam B–le

LONDON:

Printed by F.P. near Fleet-street, 1707

THE

Fifteen Plagues of a

Maiden-Head, &c

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,