Classic Poem

Folks that are wickedly inclin'd
Are not to Modes of Vice confin'd —
Sir Roger with his Glass gets drunk,
His Butler sucks it thro' a Trunk:
So Women of the Town resort
As well to Paul 's, as to the Court —
'Tis not the Instrument or Place,
But only Peoples Want of Grace.

To set this Thought in proper Light,
One short Example I'll recite.
Dear R — — o , pardon, if to thee
Of little Use such Stories be;
Who know'st of sinning Fashions plenty,
And for one Tale canst tell me Twenty — —

Sir Ralph , a Debauchee of Fame,
Had almost wasted all his Flame —
Which tho' his Helpmate found too true,
His am'rous Cast so well she knew,
That she was ne'ertheless afraid
He'd still be piddling with her Maid —
A Mind, she thought, so us'd to roam,
Would ramble still, tho' nearer home:
And therefore, to prevent him there,
She always took peculiar Care,
That, whatsoever Betty did,
They ne'er should meet too near a Bed —
The cursed Bed was all she fear'd;
Of other Engine she ne'er heard.

No Visit would Cautilla pay,
No Pleasure take, by Night or Day,
But all the Beds were made before,
And she lock'd ev'ry Chamber Door —
Her Dressing-Room she never heeded;
There they might go for what they needed;
Nay, she could trust 'em any where,
Provided still no Bed was near —

And, as all Humankind is frail,
And the most watchful once may fail;
As all we do may fruitless prove,
Without a Blessing from above,
She daily, at her Elbow-Chair,
Put up for him a sep'rate Pray'r,
That Heav'n would please to turn his Heart,
And make him from the Flesh depart —

Nor did she miss, at proper Times,
To blacken all bad Women's Crimes;
And very gravely talk to Betty ,
(Who, by the Way, was young and pretty)
Of Chastity, and what a Sin
It was for Maids to let Men in — —

I know, to make my Tale compleat,
Two hundred Lines are wanting yet;
(Containing all Sir Ralpho 's Batteries,
As Presents, Vows, Intrigues, and Flatteries;
How Betty came at last to yield;
How long her Master kept the Field)
But La Fontaine is sometimes short;
And, having such a Pattern for't,
As my Design requires no more,
I'll finish with about a Score — —

The Pious always can't prevail,
Temptation's strong, and Flesh is frail;
In vain are all Cautilla 's Cares;
In vain her Precepts, and her Pray'rs;
Betty grows fat, or else 'tis worse,
My Lady taxes her of course — —
What Betty , has your Master done it?
Yes! Betty 's Tears and Tremblings own it —
You sawcy Baggage, how came this?
Upon what Bed pray, did he kiss? — —
Speak Hussy, where had you the Key? — —
When did he do it? speak I say — —
You lie with Men! you Slut you! Fie!
I never did — — You Whore, you lie!
No — — I was sitting — — Sitting! where?
Dear Madam, in your Elbow-Chair — —

I hope the Thesis I maintain,
By this Time, may be pretty plain — —
Could any human Means avail,
In what did poor Cautilla fail?
You'll say, she should have took more Care,
And not have left her Elbow-Chair — —
What then? was there no Method more?
Pray, could she take away the Floor? — —
She might have staid at Home — — she might,
But could not they have took a Flight?
Friend, had she known as much as you,
I'll warrant they'd have made it do — —
You have, perhaps, a wiser Wife — —
Did you ne'er cheat her in your Life?