THE
Poor Whore's Lamentation:
OR,
The Fleet-street Crack's Complaint
FOR
Want of TRADING.
To the Tune of, The Guinea wins her, etc.
Licensed according to Order.
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Pray hear my Lamentation
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young Gallants of the City,
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Without dissimulation
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Afford one grain of pitty;
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Unto a Lady of the Town,
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Cloath'd in a ragged tatter'd Gown,
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For Traiding's grown so dead,
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Upon my Maiden-head,
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That though abroad I stay,
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I do not yearn I say,
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Sometimes a groat a day;
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We are poor, the trade was never so before.
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I once did wear my Tower,
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Rich Silks and sumptuous Laces,
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They all were in my power,
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I got them by Embraces;
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My Chain and Locket both of Gold,
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Which was most delightful to behold,
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And Sparks did me adore,
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I rol'd in Guinneys store;
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This was a living Trade,
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My Plumes I then display'd,
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And kept my Waiting-maid,
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But now, now, their Trade will not such State allow.
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They treated me with Nector,
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To gain a minute's pleasure,
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Yet over them I'd hector
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And make them wait my leasure,
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I was the topping Crack of all,
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Noble Lords would at my Lodging call;
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I went in rich Array,
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Much like a Lady gay,
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But now my Sleves of Lawn,
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And Smocks are all in pawn,
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My Cullies are withdrawn,
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I strange, strange at such a sad and dismal change.
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My price it was a Guinny,
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Not long before last Easter,
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But now there is so many,
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I'm glad to take a Teaster,
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For why the Trade is spoil'd of late
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There's little Nancy, Bridget, Prue and Kate,
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They'll play at you no what,
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For Two-pence and a Pot;
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And thus quite through the Town,
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The prizes are run down,
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We ne'er get half-a-crown,
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Well paid, those Gillians has so spoil'd the Trade.
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There's Bridget, Prue, and Nancy,
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They'r fond and foolish Nises,
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If they a Cully fancy,
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They'll never stand for prizes,
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Immediately on him they'll dote,
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But this makes them wear a Thread-bare-Coat;
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And I among the rest,
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With sorrows am opprest,
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To see it worse and worse,
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If it continues thus,
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I shall be bound to Curse,
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Them all, who first did let their Prizes fall.
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I was as fair a Creature,
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As most was in the Nation,
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You never saw a sweeter,
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When in my Golden Station,
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My beauty is not much decay'd,
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For if I had but a living Trade,
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I shou'd be fine and gay,
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Then Gallants come away,
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My name is loving Nell,
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I do in Fleet-street dwell,
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And I shall use you well,
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Come amain, and raise my honour once again.
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