An ANSWER
TO THE
Poor Whore's Complaint,
In a Letter, from a Bully Spark of the Town, to
Mistress Nell, the common Crack of Fleet-street; containing
his Sorrow for her sad Complaint.
To the Tune of, The Guinea wins her, etc.
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AS I was ranging Nelly,
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Through famous London City,
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The Heart within my Belly,
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Did grieve and ake with Pity,
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For there I heard the Women sing,
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Till they made the very Streets to ring,
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That you were poor and bare,
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And had no Smock to wear:
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What Mistress Nell, thought I!
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Sure this must be a lye,
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But strait they did reply,
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It was true, she having nothing scarce to do.
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You had a good beginning,
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And liv'd in seeming Glory,
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But now your lace and linning
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Is gone to Purgatory;
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My meaning is the Broaker's claws;
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Now I have consider'd what's the cause
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That you so Poor are made,
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'Tis ean for want of Trade;
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The Bullies Hearts may ake,
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And their Foundations shake,
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When Cracks in Fleet-street brake;
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For I know, it soon will prove their overthrow.
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Ah! Nell, there is too many,
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With Impudence attended,
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When there should not be any,
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But what from Cracks defended;
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Yet here they come up e'ry week,
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From the very Devil's Arse-a-peak,
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Both East, West, North and South,
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And out of Nelly's Mouth
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They Eat the bread of Fame,
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And tho' from York they came,
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It is a burning shame
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This should be, when of the Trade they are not Free.
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But Nelly, with Submission,
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This might be regulated;
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Then draw up your Petition
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To be incorporated;
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The Parliment of Women, they
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In their wisdom may find out a way,
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By some new Female-Law,
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To keep the Cracks in awe,
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And make the number low,
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For now in Troups they go,
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Therefore, some Laws I know
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Must be made, or they will ruin quite the Trade.
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There ought to be no other,
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According to Discretion,
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But those whose tender Mother,
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Was of the same Profession;
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But here's Doll, Bridget, Kat, and Prue,
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A ragged tribe of Deal knows who,
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Took up the Trade of late,
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And work at any rate;
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They do at Corners ply,
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And as Men passes by,
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They have them in their eye,
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Ah! poor Nell, this clearly spoils thy living well.
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From Fleet-street to the Tower,
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In all the Nanny-housen,
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There's common Cracks a power,
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Full five and fifty Thousand,
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A now to over-run the Land;
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Therefore let's endeavour out of hand,
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These Gillions to suppress,
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And make the number less,
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For if we don't subdue,
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This tatter'd ragged crew,
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'Twill be the worse for you,
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Nell, I know, 'tis they that keeps the Prizes low.
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