Th' _Arch-Fiend_ this _saintly Sinner_ spied, And with malicious Pleasure ey'd, Well pleas'd to think that he had found Such a _Hell-Factor_ above Ground; And thus began th' infernal Sprite-- "_Libidinoso!_ if I'm right! Art thou that Son of mine on Earth, Whose deeds so loud proclaim thy Birth? Of whom so many Strumpets tell Such Tales as get Thee Fame in _Hell_? But Children know not whence they spring, Whether by Beggar got, or King; Yet I by _certain Marks_ can know, Whether Thou art _my Child_, or no. Uncase--and let me see your Waist-- For there are private Tokens plac'd, By which _my own_ I know--if there No secret Lines of mine appear, I claim Thee not--but if I see The two _Initials_ _F_ and _P_, Then art Thou _mine_--nay, never start-- And _Heav'n_ can claim _in Thee_ no Part"-- And now his sapless Trunk he stripp'd, Like Culprits sentenc'd to be whipp'd, When lo! th' _Initials_ rose to View, And prov'd the Fiend's Conjecture true. And all his Waist (detested Brand!) Was scribbled with the _Dev'l's short Hand_; Was mark'd with _Whoredom_, _Lust_, and _Letchery_, _Malice_, _Hypocrisy_, and _Treachery_, With _Envy_, _Lying_, and _Betraying_, With _Fasting_, _Wenching_, _Fiddling_, _Praying_, And all the _Catalogue of Sin_ Deeply engraven in his Skin-- Pleas'd the _grim Pow'r_ survey'd, and smil'd, Embrac'd and said--"My darling Child, Blest was the Hour, and blest the Spot, Where Thou, _my 'Bidin_, wert begot. Know then, you're not what You profess, Her Son, whose Lands you do possess; No--Thou'rt _my wayward Son_, a Witch Litter'd thee in a loathsome Ditch; And (for all Creatures love the Young Which from their proper Loins are sprung) To this old Mansion thee convey'd, And in an Infant's Cradle laid: And when the _Sorc'ress_ plac'd thee there, She stole away the _native Heir_-- Right well hast Thou, my Boy, repaid The _Obligations_ on thee laid, And to thy Parents' Int'rest true Hast prov'd thy Fortunes were thy due-- Go on--and, if thou canst, do more (But 't may not be) than heretofore-- Keep the same Path You always trod, And be an Enemy to _God_; Apply your Fortune to oppress, And harrass _Virtue_ with Distress; To hide your Blemishes use Paint, To screen the _Villain_ play the _Saint_; Affect _Religion_, _Church_ frequent, Kneel, _seem_ to pray, and keep up _Lent_-- _Charity_ too must be display'd, But _Charity in Masquerade_; Give _Alms_--but not to those that need, But only for the _Gallows feed_; Whene'er you meet a _preaching Thief_, Be prompt to reach him out Relief; If _Liars_, _Flatt'rers_, _Pandars_, _Pimps_, Or any of my vagrant Imps, Approach Thee, to thy Mansion take, And give them Welcome for my Sake;