At length a troop of horse came down,
And quarter'd in a neighb'ring town.
The cornet he was tall and young,
And had a moft bewitching tongue.
They faw and lik'd. The fiege begun,
Each hour he fome advantage won.
He ogled first ;-she turn'd away ;-
But met his eyes the following day.
Then her reluctant hand he feizes;
That foon fhe gives him, when he pleases.
Her ruby lips he next attacks :--
She ftruggles ;-in a while fhe fmacks.
Her fnowy breast he then invades :
That yields too after fome parades ;
And of that fortress once poffeft,
He quickly mafters all the reft.
No longer now a dupe to fame,
She fmothers or refifts her flame,
But loves without or fear or shame.
So have I feen the Tory race
Long in the pouts for want of place,
Never in humour, never well,
Wishing for what they dar'd not tell;
Their heads with country notions fraught,
Notions in town not worth a groat;
These tenets all reluctant quit,
And step by step at laft fubmit
To reafon, eloquence, and Pitt.
At first to Hanover a plum Was fent-They fay-" A trivial fum, "But if he went one tittle further,
"They vow'd and fwore, they'd cry out murder." Ere long a larger fum is wanted;
They pifh'd and frown'd-but ftill they granted.
He push'd for more-and more again-
"Well, money's better fent than men."
Here virtue made another stand-
'No-not a man fhall leave the land.”
"What?—not one regiment to Embden ?"
They start; but now they're fairly hemm'd in.
These foon, and many more are fent.-
They're filent-Silence gives consent.
Our troops, they now can plainly fee,
May Britain guard in Germany:
Hanoverians, Heffians, Pruffians,
Are paid t' oppofe the French and Ruffians:
Nor fcruple they with truth to say,
They're fighting for America.
No more they make a fiddle-faddle
About an Heffian horse or faddle;
No more of Continental measures,
No more of wafting British treasures;
Ten millions, and a vote of credit-
'Tis right-he can't be wrong, who did it
They're fairly fous'd o'er head and ears,
And cur'd of all their ruftic fears.
IN ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING.
So, lost to sense of shame and duty,
Doll came to town, to fell her beauty:
Cælia, her friend, with heart-felt pain,
Had preach'd up virtue's lore in vain :
In vain the try'd each winning art;
For Doll had lewdnefs in her heart.
Thus bent to be a fordid whore,
She knock'd at Proftitution's door ;
Holles arofe, and let her in,
And stroak'd her cheek, and chuck'd her chin;
While far from whimpers, fobs, or weeping,
Doll curt'fy'd, and was foon in keeping :
Now in Hyde Park she flaunts by day,
At night she flutters at the play.
This keeper and a fecond died;
Now Doll is humbled in her pride.
At length fhe comes upon the town;
First palms a guinea, then a crown;
Nay, Slander fays, that underhand
The forlorn wretch would walk the Strand;
"Till grown the scorn of man and woman,
A pot of beer would buy Doll Common.
VOL. IV.
Mean time, deep fmit with honest flame, Celia efpous'd a youth of fame;
From the chafte bed fair iffue fprung;
With peals of joy the country rung.
Again the matron pregnant grown,
Now haftens to lie in, in town.
There near the Park, Doll Common found her,
(Her little family around her)
Then Doll began-So, modest miss!
Is all your prud'ry come to this ?
Why, by your apron's round, I fee,,
You're e'en a ftrumpet rank, like me:
Quite cur'd of all your ruftic fears,
"And fairly fous'd o'er head and ears.”
Coy fimp'ring maids I find can fin:
For fhame, your belly's at your chin:
In spite of all your virt'ous lore,
You're now become an arrant whore.
Fair Cælia's cheek a blufh o'erfpread;
And thus with calm difdain fhe faid;
That love poffeffes me, 'tis true;
Yet, heav'n be prais'd! I am not you:
My head's with country notions fraught,
"Notions to you not worth a groat."
Aided by ev'ry virt'ous art,
A gen'rous youth has won my heart.
Yet never did I yield my charms,
Till honour led me to his arms.
My charms I never bafely fold;
I am no prostitute for gold;
On my own rents I liv'd before,
Nor has
my William added more.
Wealth is our fcorn; our humble labours
Aim but to serve, or fave our neighbours.
See-Heav'n has bleft our chafte embrace;
Behold this little fmiling race,
The offspring of an honest bed ;-
Here, Senegal, hold up your head:
This tawny boy, his parents' boast,
Shall bring us gold from Afric's coaft.
And mark thefe twins of Indian mien,
This Louisbourg, and that Du Quesne:
Their bold and honeft looks prefage
They'll be our comfort in old age.
And if the babe that fwells my womb,
To a propitious birth shall come,
O'erjoy'd I'll bless the happy day,
And call our child America.
Thus Cælia fpake with modest grace, But rage deform'd the harlot's face a Her firey eyes began to roll,
A hag in look, a fiend in foul;
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