Forgetting house and husband left behind, } Even children too, she sails before the wind; } False to them all, but constant to her kind. } But, stranger yet, and harder to conceive, She could the playhouse and the players leave. Born of rich parentage, and nicely bred, She lodged on down, and in a damask bed; Yet daring now the dangers of the deep, On a hard mattress is content to sleep. Ere this, 'tis true, she did her fame expose; But that great ladies with great ease can lose. The tender nymph could the rude ocean bear, So much her lust was stronger than her fear. But had some honest cause her passage prest, The smallest hardship had disturbed her breast. Each inconvenience makes their virtue cold; But womankind in ills is ever bold. Were she to follow her own lord to sea, What doubts and scruples would she raise to stay? Her stomach sick, and her head giddy grows, The tar and pitch are nauseous to her nose; But in love's voyage nothing can offend, Women are never sea-sick with a friend. Amidst the crew she walks upon the board, } She eats, she drinks, she handles every cord; } And if she spews, 'tis thinking of her lord. } Now ask, for whom her friends and fame she lost? What youth, what beauty, could the adulterer boast? What was the face, for which she could sustain To be called mistress to so base a man? The gallant of his days had known the best; } Deep scars were seen indented on his breast, } And all his battered limbs required their needful rest; } A promontory wen, with grisly grace, Stood high upon the handle of his face: His blear-eyes ran in gutters to his chin; His beard was stubble, and his cheeks were thin. But 'twas his fencing did her fancy move; 'Tis arms, and blood, and cruelty, they love. But should he quit his trade, and sheath his sword, Her lover would begin to be her lord. This was a private crime; but you shall hear What fruits the sacred brows of monarchs bear:[111] The good old sluggard but began to snore, When, from his side, up rose the imperial whore; She, who preferred the pleasures of the night To pomps, that are but impotent delight, Strode from the palace, with an eager pace, To cope with a more masculine embrace. Muffled she marched, like Juno in a cloud, Of all her train but one poor wench allowed; One whom in secret-service she could trust, The rival and companion of her lust. To the known brothel-house she takes her way, } And for a nasty room gives double pay; } That room in which the rankest harlot lay. }