The Fifteen Comforts of Matrimony: Responses From Women

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!