THE
COMPLAINT
OF
All the She-Traders
IN
Rosemary-lane, Black-Mary's-Hole, Ratcliff, Dog-and-Bitch-Yard, Moor-fields, and
Petticoat-lane, against the City Cheats, or the New Coffee-houses, about Charing-
Cross, Westminster, Covent-garden, Fleet-street, and those parts of the Town.
To the Tune of an Orange.
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A Curse of your Shams, ye Coffee-house Dames,
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Who, insted of extinguishing, cherish mens Flames;
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How finely you draw the poor Genleman in,
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With your Devils Commander, Wine, to the Sin
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Fornication.
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Sobriety cloaks your Lust, with a Pox,
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While we deal more plainly, like honester Fokes,
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Altho' we can hardly keep open our Dores,
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For all we maintain the perfectest Whores
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In the Nation.
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When Miss is with Kid, that shame may be hid,
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For a Coffee-house for her strait Money is bid,
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Where Bantling comes out, and then she's as pure
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As a Girl of fifteen, that ne'r play'd the Whore
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But in Fancy.
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At Night to the Star the Bullies repair,
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Where Robin has fix'd a Planet more fair;
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Whose Aspect alone portends more annoy
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Than the glitt'ring Flames that devour'd old Troy:
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O brave Nancy.
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Strait Nancy comes down in her flowr'd Sattin Gown,
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And in scoring ten Shillings she cheats but a Crown,
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Too little (alas!) to maintain the Jade's pride,
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And the lavish Expense of her Bully beside,
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I must tell ye.
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Chocolat, Syder, Mum, flows all o're the Room,
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Of which ('tis believ'd) Madam Nancy drinks some;
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But to Robin this Drinking is but a meer Task,
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For he swears he can't sleep without t'other Flask
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In his Belly.
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The Flasks go round, and the Glasses are crown'd,
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Till some fall o'fighting, and then to the ground;
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When Robin and Nancy th' advantage do take
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Of picking their Pockets before they do wake,
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Of their Silver.
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If Gold was there, you boldly may swear,
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They got it by means not honest or fair;
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For whatever they cram into Fob or to Gut,
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You may be all confident is nothing but
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What they Pilfer.
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Then from Rosemary-lane, we all do complain,
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From Black-mary's Hole, from Ratcliff again,
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From Dog-and-Bitch-Yard, and from famous Moor-fields,
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To the Sparks of this End of the Town, of the Ills
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We lye under.
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In time then appease our harsh Miseries,
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Or the cruel Affliction you Gallants will seize,
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Else we shall be forced e'r many a day
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To turn honest Women all; which you will say,
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Is a Wonder.
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O Petticoat-lane! that long did'st maintain
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The Quack, that pretends to cure the Rein,
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How low art thou fall'n from thy Trade in a trice,
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What before for a George, may now for a Sice
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Be procured.
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Then let us All a Council call,
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And cry out amain, A Hall! a Hall!
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For such damn'd Impositions were ne're before known,
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Since Damaris Page, here, and can be by none
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Here endured.
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Let's muster our Force, both our Foot and our Horse,
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Those who ride on Crutches and those who halt worse,
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And let us proclaim it Expulsion by law,
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To those who from our Assistance withdraw,
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Or lye Skulkers.
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For 'ti'n't worth our while to Buttock and File,
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And to Clap is both our own Pain and our Toil;
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Then either offord us in Visits relief,
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Or some of the Traders may find to their grief,
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We'll turn Bulkers.
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