Classic Poem

Upon the Author of the Play call'd Sodom

Tell me, abandon'd Miscreant, prethee tell,
What damned Pow'er, invok'd and sent from Hell
(If Hell were bad enough) did thee Inspire
To write what Fiends asham'd would blushing hear?
Hast thou of late embrac'd some Succubus,
And us'd the lewd Familiar for a Muse?
Or didst thy Soul by Inch oth' Candle sell,
To gain the glorious Name of Pimp to Hell?
If so; go, and its vow'd Allegiance swear,
Without Press-money, be its Voluntier:
May he who envies thee deserve thy Fate,
Deserve both Heav'ns and Mankinds scorn and hate.
Disgrace to Libels! Foil to very Shame!
Whom 'tis a scandal to vouchsafe to damn!
What foul Description's foul enough for thee,
Sunk quite below the reach of Infamy?
Thou covet'st to be lewd, but want'st the Might
And art all over Devil, but in Wit.
Weak feeble strainer at meer Ribaldry,
Whose Muse is impotent to that degree,
It had need, like Age, be whipt to Lechery.
Vile Sot! who clapt with Poetry art sick,
And voidst Corruption like a Shanker'd Prick,
Like Ulcers, thy Imposthum'd addle Brains
Drop out in Matter, which thy Paper stains:
Whence nauseous Rhymes by filthy Births proceed,
As Maggots in some Turd ingendring breed.
Thy Muse has got the Flowers, and they ascend
As in some greensick Girl, at upper End.
Sure Nature made, or meant at least 't have don't,
Thy Tongue a Clitoris, thy Mouth a Cunt.
How well a Dildoe would that place become,
To gag, it up, and make 't for ever dumb!
At least it should be syring'd —
Or wear some stinking Merkin for a Beard,
That all from its base converse might be scar'd:
As they a Door shut up, and mark't beware,
That tells Infection, and the Plague is there.
Thou Moorfields Author! fit for Bawds to quote
(If Bawds themselves with Honour safe may do't)
When Suburb-Prentice comes to hire Delight,
And wants Incentives to dull Appetite,
There Punk, perhaps, may thy brave works rehearse,
Frigging the senseless thing with Hand and Verse;
Which after shall (prefer'd to Dressing-Box)
Hold Turpentine, and Med'cines for the Pox:
Or (if I may ordain a Fate more fit
For such foul, nasty Excrements of Wit)
May they, condemn'd, to th' publick Jakes be lent.
(For me, I'd fear the Piles in Vengeance sent
Should I with them profane my Fundament)
There bugger wiping Porters when they shite,
And so thy Book itself turn Sodomite.