Classic Poem

Fair ladies, number five,
Who in your merry freaks,
With little Tom contrive
To feast on ales and steaks.
While he sits by a-grinning,
To see you safe in Sot's Hole,
Set up with greasy linen,
And neither mugs nor pots whole.
Alas! I never thought
A priest would please your palate;
Besides, I'll hold a groat,
He'll put you in a ballad:
Where I shall see your faces
On paper daubed so foul,
They'll be no more like Graces,
Than Venus like an owl.
And we shall take you rather
To be a midnight pack
Of witches met together,
With Beelzebub in black.
It fills my heart with woe,
To think such ladies fine,
Should be reduced so low,
To treat a dull divine:
Be by a parson cheated!
Had you been cunning stagers,
You might yourselves be treated
By captains and by majors.
See how corruption grows,
While mothers, daughters, aunts,
Instead of powdered beaux,
From pulpits choose gallants.
If we who wear our wigs
With fantail and with snake,
Are bubbled thus by prigs;
Zounds, who would be a rake?
Had I a heart to fight,
I'd knock the Doctor down;
Or could I read and write,
Egad I'd wear a gown.
Then leave him to his birch;
And at the Rose on Sunday,
The parson safe at church,
I'll treat you with Burgundy.