That I have only answer'd Mum,
To Letter which long since did come,
It is confest,
But that it ever kiss'd my Bum,
Is but a Jest.
I will not make you vain Excuses,
Which between senseless Fops the use is:
Those civil Fops, who without bidding,
Forswear themselves to shew good Breeding;
But Faults forgiven when confest
You are as Merciful as Priest;
No business for my self or Friend
Was 'cause I Letter did not send,
Nor F — cking can like you pretend.
For sure you cannot drink and F — ck,
Like Husband of St. James 's Duck;
Those by your leave, are mighty Talents,
Which only meet in wadling Gallants;
You I believe in low Thatcht-house,
With Cloris Vicar do Carouse,
And Kiss his Ruby and Clip'en;
But Thomas , you F — ck now in Shipen:
That's an Employment does not suit ye,
'Tis for your Officer a Duty:
So to each other Reason do,
You drink for him, he F — cks for you.
With Nut-brown Bowl at long Hall-Table,
You make't appear how you are able,
In Shipen, he with Nut-brown Bauble.
While you for him, make Neighbour Drunk,
He keeps your word with Bare-foot Punk;
Such as you call cheap wholsom Doxy,
Who will not Beggar you, nor Pox ye:
Such as for Apron green and Shoon,
In Ditch with Tinker, will lye down,
But she for Money will Swive none;
For poor Whore's Lace to garnish Pinner,
You may Tom (if you can) get in her;
For Shoe-strings blue, or Inkle Garters,
You may too get between her Quarters;
For F — cking she believes no Sin is,
But taking the Half-Crown; or Guinea's
But stay I think you News bespoke,
Of what is done, 'mong our Town Folk
Know then there is an end of Lent,
And Money given by Parliament,
Yet Nation still must Fast, and eke repent
By Prorogation some Ajourn
To the Fleet, 'till Priviledge return,
To Ireland , or Geneva some,
'Till theirs, and Court wants call 'em home:
To Dunkirk , Paris , or Mompelier ,
Cause of Consumptions they are ill here,
And in a hundred other Cities,
Our Commons sit in close Committees:
So Bayliff-Bum , like Noll so fierce
Can prating Multitude disperse,
And with their Priviledge wipe his Arse.
Now you wou'd know some White-hall News,
But my Obnoxious wary Muse
For want of Ale, begs your Excuse.
Yet you may know that from French King
Is lately come a well-bred Thing,
Who is not with a Challenge sent,
But with a Mourning Complement,
A formal Melancholy Drolling
Which Folks do use to call Condoling;
By which French King we must infer,
Is sorry, Duke's a Widdower,
But Dukes not sorry I dare Swear.
The Players, who had lost their Tongues
For Grief, again now stretch their Lungs,
And drunken Punk and Fop do sit
And brawl and sweat and stink in Pit;
And then in Hide-Park do repair
To make a Dust and take no Air,
And shortly, your Friend Vinegar ,
With whip in hand will make a Ring
While Brawny North, the West doth sling,
And then I hope you'l come to Town
With Captain, who is new gone down,
I wou'd turn o're the Leafe, but know
My Muse has tyr'd her self and you.