THE
Witty Harlot;
Or, The
French King in the Powdering Tub.
Tune, I Love you more and more each day. Licensed according to Order.
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GReat Lewis in a mighty heat
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Was coming from his Bagnio,
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Endeavouring there to Cure by sweat
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His Fistula in Anno:
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An Ogling Prostrate met his Chair,
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He gazing on the Creature,
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So Young, so Fair,
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And full of Air,
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He doted, he doted on each Feature,
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Her Charming looks so much prevail'd,
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They rais'd the Monarchs Passion,
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Who thought her Beauty far excell'd
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All others in his Nation;
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A Peer attending soon was sent
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To make the Kings addresses,
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Who could not rest
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Till he was blest,
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With her soft sweet, with her soft sweet Embraces.
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The Courtier with all subtle Art,
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Declar'd his Sov'raigns Passion,
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And in soft speeches did impart
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His Monarchs Inclination,
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She Proud to think so great a Heart
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was Conquer'd by her Features,
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Did soon resort
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To view the Court,
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With all its fair, with all its fair fine Creatures.
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What Nature wanted, art supply'd
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With Patches, Paint, and Dresses,
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Assuming to a stately Pride,
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Fit for a Kings Embraces:
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The wanton Dame with looks demure,
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Disguis'd her jilting Nature,
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No cunning Whore,
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E're lookt before,
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So like a Chast, so like a Modest Creature.
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The Court her Beauty all Admir'd;
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And stood in Admiration;
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The King (whose Leachery Love had fir'd;
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Soon shew his Am'rous Passion,
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The glances from her eyes she sent,
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so Charming were and Pleasing,
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The Kings Intent,
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And her Consent,
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Their Eyes betray'd, their Eyes betray[']d by gazing
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To close Apartment, she was led
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A Postrate to his pleasure,
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But e're the Monarch rose from Bed,
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she Poxt him out of measure.
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And e're the symtoms did appear,
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Five hundred Crowns he gave her,
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Who soon fled o're
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Toth' English shore,
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where any Spark, where any Spark may have her
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