A
HUE and CRY
AFTER
Beauty and Virtue.
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WHere are you fled? I've sought in every Street,
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But can no Beauty nor no Virtue meet:
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I've fought both Hills and Dales, but all in vain,
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Sure they're transported o're the British Main.
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True Beautys lost, or cover'd o're with Paint,
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I find a hundred Whores for every Saint:
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I know not where to ask, nor to what place
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To run to find a True Bred English Face;
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The Spanish Paint, and the French Patches now
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Do over-spread the Chin, the Cheek, the Brow;
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Beauty's besmear'd, for every little Jade
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Doth make another Face than Nature made.
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Those that were born with a fresh Countrey hue,
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By Paint have lost it; Give the Devil his due.
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Whoring and Painting flourish now so well,
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We hardly know where Honest Women dwell:
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Virtue is out of Fashion; she's a Saint
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That can with Art and Skill Sing, Whore, and Paint.
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Every Apprentice Cod-piece almost itches
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To run a-tilt at those polluted Bitches:
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They are such Hair-brain'd Coxcombs, Idle Fops,
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That they regard no Masters, nor no Shops,
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Whilst these bewitching Charms appear in sight,
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Who with false Jewels, and false Face, shine bright.
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Gone are the Golden dayes, when the Chief Whore
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Was with Disdain, flung in the Common Shore.
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[2]
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Few Rosamonds are poyson'd now: we find
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All sorts of People to a Whore prove kind.
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They ought to be abhorr'd, as the worst Fates,
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Like Moths, they waste both Bodies and Estates:
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They bring on us worse than AEgyptian curses,
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They waste our Credits, and consume our Purses:
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Yet we, fond men, are such bewitched Fools,
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We spend our time onely in Venus Schools;
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We run our brittle Ships against those Rocks,
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As if we long'd to slave them with the Pox.
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Whilst we thus Vicious are, it is not strange
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That we from Beauty and from Virtue range:
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Curse on those cursed Charms, that like old Eve,
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Draw Cullies on, with Apples in their sleeve.
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A painted, patched face I count the Charmes
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That draw so many Cullies to their Arms.
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Fine Feathers make fine Birds, we're wont to cry,
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Would they lay Patches, Perfumes, and Painting by,
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They would be far more comely to the Eye.
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Loath and abhor them, for their base Design
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Is both to Damn your Soul, and Sink your Coyn.
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As Rosamond, or as Jane Shore, go serve them,
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Keep back your Coin, and you'l be sure to starve them.
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They will not Work, they covet to be Idle;
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Learn to be Honest, let them bite o'th' Bridle:
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Such filthy Vermin do deserve no pity,
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But Want and Hunger, both in Town and City.
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Brand them like Cain, let Whores wear Whorish marks,
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Wee'l know them then in Streets as well as Parks.
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Thus shall our Land be happy, You be blest,
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And Whores have neither Coin, nor Food, nor Rest.
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