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,
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.

FINIS.

The Maids Vindication:

OR, THE

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:

OR,

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,
With all the Plagues and Ills of Wh----re or Wife.

The Second Comfort.

Tell me you Grave Disputers of the Schools,
You learned Coxcombs, and you well read Fools;
You that have told us, Man must be our Head,
And made Dame Nature Pimp to what you've said,
Tell me where are the Joys of womans Life,
When she consents to be a wedded Wife:
Much less if she too kind and easie proves,
And grants her Heart to one that swears he loves,
I will not call her W----re, because I know
'Twas his false Oaths and Lyes that made her so:
But you that would to your own selves be just,
Nor Friend nor Husband but with caution trust.

The Third Comfort.

And first, the greatest lasting'st Plague of Life,
Husband; the Constant Jaylor of a wife,
A proud insulting dominering thing,
Abroad a subject, but at Home a King,
There he in State does Arbitrary Reign,
And lordlike pow'r do's o'er his wife maintain.
For when she puts the Marriage Garments on,
The pleasures Ended e'er 'tis well begun:
But Plagues increase and hardly e're have done,
The joy he Courted he dispises now,
And do's a perfect Married Nausiance grow,

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The Fourth Comfort.

It's Jealousie that maggot of the pate,
Possess the Sot, how violent's his hate,
What curst suspitions haunt his tortur'd Mind,
And make him look for what he would not find,
Nothing but Females must i'th House appear,
And not a Dog or Cat, that's Male be there,
Nay lest the unhappy wife shou'd have her longings,
He cuts out all the Men i'th Tapstry Hangings,
And if a harmless Letter's to her sent,
He'll make it speak worse sense than e'er it meant.

The Fifth Comfort.

In a Curst Chamber, Cloyster'd up for Life,
Loves Female Innocence miscall'd a wife,
Deny'd those Pleasures are to Virtue granted,
Yearly the Devil of a Husband haunted,
for a Release she cannot Hope nor Pray,
Till milder Death takes him, or her away,
If her she's happy, and if him she's bless'd,
Till to her arms she takes a second Guest.

The Sixth Comfort.

If Beauty, Wit, or Com[*?]aisance would do,
There's women that can all these wonders show,
Beauty that might new fire to Hermit lend,
And wit which serves that Beauty to defend,
who courted, cou'd do wonders with those Charms,
Till Parson conjur'd her to Husbands Arms,
And tho' the same perfections still remain
Yet nothing now can the dull Creature gain,
No looks can win him, nor no Smiles invite,
He now does her, and her Endearments slight,
And leaves those Graces which he shou'd adore,
To dote upon some Ugly suburb whore,
whilst poor neglected Spouse remains at home,
with discontent and Sorrow overcome,
No prayers, nor tears, nor all the Virtuous arts.
which women use to tame Rebellous Hearts.
Can the Incorrigible H[*?] move,
And make him own his once so promis'd love,

The Seventh Comfort

Oh she a happy, too too happy Bride,
That has a Husband snoring by her side,
Belching out Fumes of undigested wine,
And lies all Night like a good natur'd Swine,
whose Snoring serves as Musick to her Ears,
And keeps true Confort with her silent Tears,
That can himself no more than Chaos move,
And still neglects the great affair of love,
She may indeed assume the name of wife,
But others know she's but a Nurse for life.

The Eighth Comfort.

A drunken Husband tho may have good nature,
But here's a fullen Matrimonial Creature,
will ask, and will not, will ask, and will deny
Is Peevish, Cross, and cannot tell for why,
Not one kind look he will to Spouse afford,
Scarce speake at all, at least not one good word,
All the obliging arts that she can use,
To reconcile this angry pevish Spouse,
Avail no more, than if she took delight,
In washing Bricks, or Swarthy Negroes white,
Lyons, and Tyger Men have learnt to tame;
Retaining nothing frightful but the Name,
But Man, unruly man, that Beast of reason,
'Gainst women still continues in his Treason.
No Charms his damn'd ill nature can release,
Satan, must only Satan disposes.

The Ninth Comfort.

Nor Marriage is alone the dang'rous shelf,
On which a woman may destroy her self,
Believe no whineing Fool that Swears he loves,
And for your Pity to his Passion moves:
with fair decoying words he glids the Cheat,
Tells her the Sin, nor Danger are so great,
The joy is past the reach of Humane view,
And adds it will for ever bind him to be True:
But oh! if Maids upon this Quicksand run,
They're lost past hope, and are for e'er undone,

The Tenth Comfort.

Another swears he'll keep you all your Life,
Without the ugly Names, of Man and Wife.
And to that End what Arts, what Tricks are laid,
T' insnare the Virtuous Young unthinking Maid,
What rev'rend Bawd's made use of to Entice,
The Fair one's liking to that Modish Vice.
How she at last is guided to his Arms,
Where for a while he Doats upon her Charms.
But long she can't the airy Title hold,
Her look'd for Joys are scarce a Twelve Month Old,
Before Kind Keeper takes another Miss,
By sad Experience weary grown of this.

The Eleventh Comfort.

Are these the Sov'reigns then that we must own,
Must we before their Golden Calves bow down,
Forgive us Heav'n, if we renounce the Elves,
And make a Common-wealth among our Selves,
Whereby the Laws that we shall there Ordain.
We'll make it Capital to mention Man,
Man! we'll for ever banish from our sight,
Not talk by Day, nor think of them by Night,
We'll shun their Courtship, as we do the Plague,
And loath 'em more than they a Toothless Hagg.

The Twelfth Comfort.

'Tis not their Sighs, Crying, nor Prayers,
Their subtile Whinings, nor Treacherous Tears,
That shall one kind Return for ever gain,
But when t' oblige us they've done all they can,
We'll laugh, deride, and scorn the Foppish Sex,
And wrank Invention for new ways to vex,
Till they to shun us, prompted by Despair,
Or Drown themselves, or hung in cleanly Air.

The Thirteenth Comfort.

But if amongst us there should chance to be,
One silly fond regardless foolish She,
That spight of all our Edicts will maintain
A League with that detested Creature Man:
Good Counsels first shall strive to bring her off,
But if the Fool will that good Counsel scoff,
If she the freedom of her Sex will leave,
And love a Wretch she knows that will deceive,
From Pity well exempt the Female Sot,
That wretched Thing a Husband be her Lot.

The Fourteenth Comfort.

Jealous by Day, and Impotent by Night,
Have neither Shape nor Mein to please the Sight
Diseas'd in Body, and deform'd in Soul,
Conceited, Proud, yet all the while a Fool:
May she with him spin out a tedious Life,
Blest with that much admir'd Title, Wife.
And may no Female better Fate partake,
That prophane the wholsome Laws we make.

The Fifteenth Comfort.

And may the silly Maid that is so blind,
To trust Man's Oaths that are as false as Wind,
And only to her Ruin are design'd,
That thinks her Vertue is a Plague of Life,
And will to cure it, yield as Whore or Wife.
Find all the Ills that have before been said,
And lose for endless Plauges her Maiden-head,
Who will not bear what they infer a Pain,
And laugh at all the base Delights of Men.
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FINIS.