Made by old fumblers, for the HARLOT’s curse.
Bridewell’s the sentence, then, to all who’re poor,
But, gold well tipp’d, will save the flashy WHORE;
And the good magistrate some clause will find
To soften evidence unto his mind;
Perhaps at night, considering the case,
Indulge his feelings in a close embrace;
Will, at the tavern, circulate his glass,
And take, with glee, his bottle and his lass.
Go to the Commons[1], to the Arches go,