A petty Courtier, of small Estate and Sense,
Stood hearkning by, and cry'd it was the P——ce.
Your Pardon, Sir, I knew it not before,
For my Mistake depended on his Whore,
One had Latona to'ther has L——r.
Next to the Grotto let us bend our Eye,
The Grotto, Patron of Iniquity,
Speak O ye Trees with kind refreshing Shade,
How many Whores have at your Roots been made;
Alas; how small the Number to what now,