THE JUSTICE too, who puts the laws in force, Must seem a tyrant over us, of course; Produce each hum-drum act, from bad to worse, Made by old fumblers, for the =HARLOT=’s curse. _Bridewell_’s the sentence, then, to all who’re poor, But, _gold well tipp’d_, will save the _flashy_ =WHORE=; And the good magistrate some clause will find To soften evidence unto his mind; Perhaps at night, considering the case, Indulge his feelings in a close embrace; Will, at the tavern, circulate his glass, And take, with glee, his bottle and his lass. GO to the _Commons_[1], to the _Arches_ go, Where, for divorces, people sue, we know. The Judges and the Proctors, so devout, Would, with the culprit, wish to have a bout. _Adultery_, tho’ call’d a crying sin, Without they’re paid, would not be worth a pin: They’ll sell you licences to get a bride, And, on complaint, divorces have beside. O happy land! where such good laws remain, That you may wed, and be unwed again; That sacred knot, recorded so on high! Those who have money may with ease untie; Yet there’s no sister ever this deplores, Because it adds so to the list of =WHORES=. [1] Doctor’s Commons. ASK at that place where Lords and Commons sit, To shew at once their eloquence and wit; Who rule the nation, and its laws provide, Lift high our fame, the legislation guide; From the Right Rev’rend, in the prelate’s place, The noble Count, or more exalted Grace: Or of the members on the lower side, Whose consequence by none can be deny’d; Ask F——x and S——dw——h; aye, and many more, If they, at times, have each not had a =WHORE=? THE question’s foolish, ev’ry one must guess They all are guilty—either more or less! Were they but stigmatiz’d, as women are, Condemn’d a load of infamy to bear, Their Honours, and Right Honourables too, Would fear to bring their faces forth to view. Why then should we be thus condemn’d alone, When they are guilty, equal, ev’ry one; Were there no men, no =WHORES= there sure could be, They strive to make us so, in each degree. HAVE we a face that’s exquisitely fair, They spread their nets, that beauty to ensnare; Is modesty and innocence our guide, To try to ruin it is all their pride; If we are humble, they our hopes will raise, Strive to undo us still, a thousand ways; Gold, flattery, and treach’ry, they employ, The object which delights them to destroy; Then cast aside, neglected or forgot, We’re doom’d to pine, to languish, and to rot: Or if, when such delusive arts are o’er, We go to others—each is then a =WHORE=! YE Rogues of Fortune, and ye Rogues of Pow’r, Who ruin females in the guardless hour; Who may be =Sons of WHORES=, for what you know, Attend to what my artless pen can shew.