Classic Poem

Let Fools praise Faces, cry to Breeches fie,
Mine Arse on each Affected Face, I cry;
Who will mine Arse, that is, my Mistress's,
Expose, to make its Credit more, not less;
Will her mine Arse, with my Love, and its Praise,
Raise in Esteem above the finest Face;
Which does, with Love to her, my Fancy raise;
To which her fair Face me had n'er inclin'd,
Before I saw her beautiful behind;
Of whose Mien, worse I do not think a whit,
For having neither Eyes or Nose to it;
The Want of which, in any other Face,
Wou'd a Maid's Fame or Beauty, more Disgrace;
The Want of which, I think, mine Arse's Praise;
For what serve all fine Features, Nose, Lip, Eye?
But to make Faces look affectedly;
By which, as they more Lovers think to make,
Them less, they by more Affectation take;
By their Good Features Multiplicity,
Which but as more, look more affectedly;
Heightning their Pride, which them but more disgraces,
By mending their Good Looks, spoils their Good Faces;
Who surely, by their having but too many
Good Features, ne'r leave till that they leave any;
By Affectation still to make 'em more,
Make 'em less taking, than they were before;
Much Art, is Nature's worst Disparagement,
That Credit, which it aims at, to prevent;
Beauty does Wants imply, requiring Aid,
Deformity, by Affectation's made,
And Beauty, by Repairs, seems most decay'd;
Then, what! serve each Fine Feature, Lip, or Eye,
Which Graces, 'spight of Nature, multiply?
But, to make Good Looks look Affectedly,
Or proudly, to make Womens Good Looks prove,
Of Invitations, but the Checks to Love;
Thus, us, to love them, greatest Beauties move
Less, by their Good Looks, Multiplicity,
Which Pride and Affectations multiply,
To make the Best Looks, look most Uglily;
For when, with more Art, Women more wou'd please,
And take us more, they satisfie us less;
With Artful Looks, and Motions, too constrain'd,
Make our Love, they wou'd move more, at a stand;
But the Dear Bum is grateful to our Love,
Whether it, for us, does lie still, or move;
Has not an Eye to Languish, Lip to Pout,
To Toss up, or take Snuff at us, a Snout;
Or Mouth, or Cheek, with borrow'd Teeth, or Red,
Without a Word said, Kissing to forbid;
No Motions has, which Men Affected call,
Hers to beget Love, still are Natural;
She, but her Modesty, the more to show,
Still hides her self, as the best Beauties do;
Whence she, not like Mask'd Beauties, is by Men,
For hiding so her self, thought most Unclean,
But more desir'd, for hiding, to be seen;
Whence, like a Bold Friend, still to Beauty, I
Make of it now here, a Discovery;
As when, by Force, Men, to no Maid's Disgrace,
Pull off the Vizard, from the Beauteous Face;
So that I wou'd, my Mistress's Back-Side
Have shown, not to its Shame, but to its Pride,
To have its Fame not blam'd, but justify'd;
For such, its Modesty has always been,
That it before, by Man, was never seen;
Or ever, with its Good Will, took a Touch,
From Bold Man, but what she did to him grutch;
Was, in its Looks and Actions, Spotless so,
Hard, White, and Cold as Press'd, or Driven Snow;
Whose constant Silence spoke its Modesty,
In being never heard in Company;
Thus it, but like a Bashful Lover too,
Does its Good Breeding, by its Silence, show,
At least its Modesty, by speaking Low;
Its Bold Speech still endeavouring, to restrain,
Tho', that its Silence does, as to the Vain,
O'th' Modest Female Sex, become its Pain;
Whose Silence does, Respect to Lovers prove,
Since them, its Speech wou'd from it, more remove;
For as Loud Winds, wou'd down Stiff Pine-Trees blow,
Which the more Gentle, more assist to grow;
So will a Fart (saving to you Respect)
Blow down that, which a Sigh made more Erect;
But for its Credit, which it kept with Men,
This Beauty was as seldom heard, as seen;
Whose Owner's Fall (since it was on her Face)
Showing her Back-Side, was not her Disgrace;
But, to her Honour was, since to her Praise,
Whose Fall did her more, in Men's Value, raise;
Since my Love's made so Modest by't (I find)
Tho' 'twas before, to go before inclin'd,
It now wou'd be more Proud, to come behind;
Such was the Dear, Plump, Fair Thing, that the Sight,
That it did, from me, take my Seeing quite;
Fixing my Eyes upon its Snow (I find)
Like other Snow gaz'd on, it made me Blind;
So Blind, that I, my Way to Bliss, no more
Can find, by Groping, as I did before;
For which, this Paper must make my Excuse,
Which now I Dedicate but to its Use,
The Best Breech scarce, the Worst Muse will refuse;
Nor the most Coarse Sense, or most Beastly Wit,
Which the Worst Poet, on Worst Paper, writ,
When, for its Credit, it had Use of it;
Wherefore, that my Verse may more useful be,
Dear Bum! I Dedicate it now to thee;
This Paper send you, to your Honour now,
Since that Uncleanness wou'd dishonour you,
Wou'd lessen you, nay my Love to you too;
Then I, your Truest Lover, may be stil'd,
Who send you this, to keep you undefil'd;
To serve you, like your Truest Friend, indeed,
That is, to serve you (Dear Bum!) at your need;
That at my need so, you might serve me too,
By your Best Motions, Love's Best Bus'ness do;
Who, the Support of Love's Best Bus'ness art,
For, if in Love, you did not Play your Part,
(My Dear Back-Side!) I shou'd not give a Fart,
For your Fore-Side, if that you did not move,
By which, thou art the Balance made of Love,
Which useless wou'd (but for thy Motion) prove;
Thus thou, Dear Bum! art thy Dame's Honour, Praise,
So far from being her Shame, or Disgrace;
That, but for thee (Dear Bum!) we shou'd not like her,
Who, but for thee, Love's Balance, were no Striker;
Since Women, like Clocks, but for Motion too,
Not half so well, our Past-time sure wou'd grow;
Who, like Clocks from their Motion, have their Pow'r,
To give their Keepers the more Happy Hour.