Classic Poem

[ Nowhere safe ]

Prepare for Death, if here at Night you roam,
And sign your Will before you sup from Home.
Some fiery Fop, with new Commission vain,
Who sleeps on Brambles till he kills his Man;
Some frolick Drunkard, reeling from a Feast,
Provokes a Broil, and stabs you for a Jest.
Yet ev'n these Heroes, mischievously gay,
Lords of the Street, and Terrors of the Way;
Flush'd as they are with Folly, Youth and Wine,
Their prudent Insults to the Poor confine;
Afar they mark the Flambeau's bright Approach,
And shun the shining Train, and golden Coach.

In vain, these Dangers past, your Doors you close,
And hope the balmy Blessings of Repose:
Cruel with Guilt, and daring with Despair,
The midnight Murd'rer bursts the faithless Bar;
Invades the sacred Hour of silent Rest,
And plants, unseen, a Dagger in your Breast.

Scarce can our Fields, such Crowds at Tyburn die,
With Hemp the Gallows and the Fleet supply.
Propose your Schemes, ye Senatorian Band,
Whose Ways and Means support the Sinking Land;
Lest Ropes be wanting in the tempting Spring,
To rig another Convoy for the K — g.

A single Jail, in A LFRED 's golden Reign,
Could half the Nation's Criminals contain;
Fair Justice then, without Constraint ador'd,
Sustain'd the Ballance, but resign'd the Sword;
No Spies were paid, no Special Juries known,
Blest Age! But ah! how diff'rent from our own!

Th'Imperiall Strumpet with one Maid, stole out
In her night-hoods, and having cast about
Her black haire, a red perriwigge; she got
Into the Stewes, where th'old rugge still was hot;
Had a spare roome, kept for her. There gold-chain'd,
Bare breasted stood, her name Lycisca fain'd;
High borne Britannicus , thy womb display'd;
Smil'd upon all that came, her bargaine made.
And when the Wenches were dismis'd, she last,
('Twas all she could) sadly the doore made fast,
And many thirsted-for encounters try'd,
Departed tir'd with men, not satisfy'd,
And foul'd with candle-smoak, her cheeks smear'd o're,
The Brothell-steame she to her pillow bore.