Dedicated to the Youth of the present Age.

By the Author of the Fifteen Comforts of Matrimony.

LONDON
Printed in the YEAR, 1706.

The PREFACE.

I am in a little pain lest the Title shou'd give Offence to some, whom I am unwilling to disoblige; yet I hope be more Judicious, when they see the design will allow it both their Pardon and Approbation: for 'tis more than a little odds, had I call'd it the Fifteen Plagues of Whoring, whether the young Gentlemen most concerned in it, would have given themselves the trouble to peruse it. As they are Children in their Actions, they must be dealt with like Children, and have their Horn-books Gi[*?]ou the back. This is all the Apology I have to make; which I hope the Moral will explain, and supply all else that might be said upon that Head. Among all other Debaucheries, as the principal, and leading Vice, I shall begin with Whoring.

The Fifteen Comforts of Whoring

The First Comfort of Whoring.
No sooner Youth throws off his Infant Plays,
The harmless Pastime of his happier Days
But past a Child, is still in Judgement so,
And studies first what he is not to know,
Pleasure and Sence his easie Soul entice,
Spurr'd forward by his Native Love to Vice:
A Mistress now his Fancy entertains,
And Youthful Vigour boils within his Brains.
The poor lost Maid he do's with Oaths intice;
And loads his Soul with twenty Thousand Lyes;
Promises Marriage, Love, a hundred things,
Till both himself and her, he to destruction brings.
At length he finds his falsity repaid,
And draws the Curse of Heaven on his Head.
The Second Comfort of Whoring.
By this some Lewder Harlot is Carrest,
Who plays the Tyrant in his Am'rous Breast;
The Charming Syren touches e'ery String,
To keep his busie Fancy on the Wing;
All by her whiles, she binds her Captive fast,
Sooths him at first, and bubbles him at last.
To feed her Pride, clandestine means he'll take,
Rob Friends, or Master; for the Harlot's sake,
Still to the greatest Ill's he do's descend,
And Ruin only; Ruin Seals his End.
The Third Pleasure of a Town Life.
What Nature has not done, a Harlot will,
(For sure Destruction is her boasted Skill:
One Scarce to the full Bloom of Life attain'd,
Before of Cramps and Aches he complains,
Curses the Jilt—looks pale and wan withal:
Wither'd like Fruit by their untimely fall,
Go's thro' a hated Course of nauseous Pills,
And spends a little thousand Pocky Bills:
Perhaps at length he do's get free from pain,
But the Effects on't all his Life remain.
The Fourth Pleasure of a Town Life.
Another hardly does escape so well,
From Purgatory he drops into Hell;
Where like a branded Sacrifice he comes,
And in the Flame the Harlot lit, consumes:
Of Buboes, Nodes, and Ulcers he complains,
Of Restless Days, and damn'd nocturnal Pains.
Nor less than into six Weeks Flux he goes:
Comes out a Shadow, pale and Meagre shews,
If Heaven spare that Ornament his Nose:
Thus all his Youthful Vigor's threwn away,
And e're his time he dwindles to decay.
The Fifth Comfort of a Town Life.
This married, settled in the Joys of Life,
A handsom Trade, and an endearing Wife;
Does yet a mind incontinent betray,
And for a Night of Pleasure dearly pay:
Having received a Favour from his Miss,
He kindly gives it to a Friend of his:
The Wife, (for that the Marriage Rites say still)
Must bear a part both of the Good or Ill.
She finds what pity 'tis she e'er had known,
Since for no Crime, nor Pleasure of her own,
Reveals it to him, knowing not at first,
What might the Cause be—tho' she fear'd the worst.
He strives to pacifie her twenty ways
Blushes—or wou'd do if he'd any Grace.
Tells Her the truth in Penetential strain,
And vows he'll never do the like again,
She weeps, forgives him all—but must endure,
The manner, and the Charges of a Cure;
Where One in twenty scarce so perfect be,
But that they leave it to Posterity.
The Sixth Comfort of a Town Life.
Or where they 'scape the plagues of Pox and Pills,
The Sin is liable to fifty Ills,
Of equal Danger, tho' a diff'rent Cure,
As he that dreading Claps wou'd Sin secure;
For soon the pliant Wretch he has beguil'd
Hath to his Charge and wonder prove with Child:
At which, 'tmay properly be said a Man,
Leaps from the Fire to the Frying-pan,
This for his Reputation sake must be reveal'd
When Claps are only as a Jest reveal'd
She's now Remov'd—Deliver'd—and the Nurse;
Comes thick and threefold to Exhaust his Purse;
A blessed Life that woful Mortal bears,
With Nurse and Child, and Mother in his Ears.
Arm'd with a Thousand things that must be had,
Till they have drein'd him poor and made him mad:
What better (had he been convin'd before,)
He had Transgress'd with some Obedient Whore.
The Seventh Pleasure of a Town Life.
Another that he may his Joys secure,
Turns Limbetham and keep some Gaudy whore,
Thinks her his own—when Satan knows her his mind,
Is like her Body not to be confin'd,
As constant as the Moon, she plays her part,
And like a Viper preys upon his Heart:
Draws him so poor, till like her Slaves,
Which she bestows on some smart Fop she loves,
For this is with 'em a perpetual Rule,
They never Love the Person that they fool,
This he perceives not till it is too late,
Till Ruined in his Person and Estate.
And then good Night, when all his money's gone,
Miss leaves him too, to ply about the Town.
The Eighth Pleasure of a Town Life.
But above all—if't be within thy Power,
Oh Fate! to Curse me any mortal more,
Let him be him that does so wretched prove,
To be with some Intriging Jilt in Love:
Nay, tho' in part to mollifie his pain,
We'll say the Harlot chance to Love again?
I mean such Love as Lewdness can impart,
Bred in the Blood—but never in the Heart.
With softning presents he would Cure her mind,
To him, and only to him, to be Kind.
But were the Indies all within his Pow'r
To give, he would but lavish all his Store,
He might confine the Sea, as soon as her.
What then (since Love no Rival will submit)
Must he indure that with this plague do's meet:
When every Thought is Death and Discontent
To know, what he wants power to prevent,
The case can only this conclusion have,
He's twice more wretched than a Galley-slave.
The Ninth Pleasure of a Town Life.
This has some Jilt for a long time sustain'd,
Who has Imperious o'er his Pocket reign'd;
At length grown weary of so loose a Life,
Or for some other Cause, he takes a wife:
The Jilt now like a Fury flings and tears,
Ten thousand Oaths to be reveng'd she swears:
Threatens to come before his very Door,
For Whores are plagues that never give you o'er:
There in the open Street to act the Scene,
And let the World know what a Spark he's been:
This; may be some fair promises prevents,
If constantly attended with the pence;
For Whores and Fidlers this one Rule advance,
Of old; no longer Pipe, no longer Dance.
But if the Promis'd Pension he withdraws,
The Fury then again Exerts her Claws:
Thus he a charge, continual intails,
Besides the Curse, the Noise, and all things else;
The Tenth Pleasure of a Town Life,
Another Harlot works by various means,
And acts a Jilt's true part behind the Scenes,
[*?]nds the kind Bubble of a pliant Size,
And Spreads a subtle Net to catch her Prize,
With greater ease to drive him in the same,
She first obtains his Residence, and Name,
Two useful Perquisites for her design;
The Shallow Easie Fop to undermine;
A Mesiage next she sends to let him know,
Convey'd by some such useful Rogue as R----w;
That she's with Child—and by the Love she bore,
It must be him—for she was never so before.
Which he with wonderful Surprize receives,
And for the present some few Guineas gives,
Thus he's impos'd on by a wretched Cheat,
And er'e he finds it out; pays dearly for his Wit.
The Eleventh Pleasure of a Town Life.
Nor this alone Debauch'ry comprehends,
The forward Age to other vice descends,
And Youth e're he'as attain'd good Sence to think,
Addicts himself with Pride, to swear and drink:
[*?]'s Rules Immoral from Example take,
And e're he's turn'd of fifteen, turns a Rake:
[*?]ots in Sin—(nothing that's Lewd shall scape
And on his Virgin Health commits a Rape,
Forsaking Reason—grows to Vice a Slave,
And e'r he's Thirty drops into his Grave.
The Twelfth Plague of a Town Life,
Another has a better Progress made,
And binds himself Apprentice to the Trade;
A parboyl'd Sot, without one Spark of Grace,
Whose nightly Sins are number'd on his Face:
Which with the Rags upon his back make out,
The very Arms and Ensigns of a Sot:
Who like a Rat into Some Corner goes,
And dies Unpittied both by Friends and Foes.
The Thirteenth Pleasure of a Town Life.
What do's that Man deserve? to whom his Fate;
Has given an ample Stock or an Estate?
(That has, perhaps, besides a tender Wife;
Yet into Riot and Excess do's fall,
And in debauchery consumes it all?
And to his Sure Destruction makes such hast;
He do's in Body, with his Substance waste:
Lives till he want what he had misemply'd
And is like one that God had curs'd, Destroy'd.
The Fourteenth Pleasure of a Town Life.
But say that this a Constitution has,
Firm and unshaken as a pile of Brass
Yet who'd Endure the Palsies, aching Heads?
The pains, the Qualms, that nightly Drinking breeds?
Perpetual disorder draggs him on,
Business Neglected, and himself Undone,
A Wretched Life he spends till threescore Years,
And then the Fruits of Drunkeness appears.
The Fifteenth Pleasure of a Town Life.
Satyr and couculde—and sum the Evils up,
Shew the great wonder how the Land shou'd 'scape,
From Fires, Famines, Pestilence and Rage,
To crush so vile, so proffligate an Age?
For let the Church be Empty as it will,
You'll see the Play-house, and the Taverns fill:
Whole Afternoons, whole Nights they'll Squander there,
Yet can't Spare one poor Minute on't for Pray'r,
This is the Sum of a Licentious Town,
Where Lewdness is into Example grown.

FINIS.