Classic Poem

So soft and amorously you write
Of cunt and prick, the cunt's delight,
That were I still in lantern sweating,
Swallowing of bolus or a-spitting,
I should forgive each injury
The pocky whores have offered me,
And only of my fate complain
Because I must from cunt abstain.
The powerful cunt! whose very name
Kindles in me an amorous flame!
Begins to make my pintle rise,
And long again to fight Love's prize!
Forgetful of those many scars
Which he has gotten in those wars.
This shows Love's chiefest magic lies
In women's cunts, not in their eyes:
There Cupid does his revels keep,
There lovers all their sorrows steep;
For having once but tasted that,
Their mysteries are quite forgot.
This may suffice to let you know
That I to cunt am not a foe,
Though you are pleased to think me so;
'Tis strange his zeal should be in suspicion
Who dies a martyr for's religion.
But now to give you an account
Of Cuffley, that whore paramount!
Cuffley! whose beauty warms the age,
And fills our youth with love and rage,
Who like fierce wolves pursue the game,
While secretly the lecherous dame
With some choice gallant takes her flight
And in a corner fucks all night.
Then the next morning we all hunt
To find whose fingers smell of cunt,
With jealousy and envy moved
Against the man that was beloved.
Whilst you to Echo teach her name,
Thus it becomes the voice of fame
In every corner of the Town.
We here proclaim her high renown
Whilst you within some neighboring grove
Indite the story of your love,
And with your penknife keen and bright,
On stately trees your passion write,
So that each nymph that passes through
Must envy her and pity you.
We at the Fleece or at the Bear,
With good case knife, well whet on stair
(A gentle weapon, made to feed
Mankind and not to let him bleed)
A thousand amorous fancies scrape.
There's not a pewter dish can scape
Without her name or arms which are
The same that Love himself does bear.
Here one, to show you love's no glutton,
In the midst of supper leaves his mutton,
And on his greasy plate, with care,
Carves the bright image of the fair.
Another, though a drunken sot,
Neglects his wine and on the pot
A band of naked Cupids draws,
With pricks no bigger than wheat straws.
Then on a nasty candlestick
One figures Love's hieroglyphic,
A couchant cunt and rampant prick.
And that the sight may more inflame,
The lookers-on subscribe her name:
Cuffley! — her sex's pride and shame.
There's not a man but does discover
By some such action he's her lover.
But now 'tis time to give her over,
And let your Lordship know you are
The mistress that employs our care.
Your absence makes us melancholy,
Nor drink nor cunt can make us jolly,
Unless we've you within our arms,
In whom there dwells diviner charms.
Then quit with speed your pensive grove,
And here in Town pursue your love;
Where at your coming you shall find
Your servants glad, your mistress kind,
All things devoted to your mind.