Classic Poem

You , tho' a Sinner, have your Thoughts on High,
But for Love of a Lord, wou'd live, or die;
You love a Lord so, you to Bed wou'd take,
(But for his Title's, not his Person's sake,)
Even a Dwarf too, with his crooked Back;
Rather, than for a Lady not be known,
Lady of Pleasure, wou'd be call'd in Town;
Wou'd lose, to gain that Title, your Good-Name,
Purchase your Honour, tho' but with your Shame,
Till that your Pride, your Honour wou'd defame;
My Lord May'r shou'd, (tho' but a Fishmonger,)
Deal for your Old-Ling, your salt Stinking-Ware;
You'd live a Lord's Wench, for his Wife to pass,
And, out of Love of Honour, bear Disgrace;
To be call'd Countess, for a Bawd wou'd go,
Wou'd be a Bitch, to be call'd Duchess too;
You love a Sunday , tho' then forc'd to pray,
Because 'tis call'd, The Lord's peculiar Day;
You'd buy your Honour, with your Honesty,
At Court grow Higher, by your Infamy,
Deny your Love, your Pride to gratifie;
Till Honour, which your Pleasure does prevent,
Becomes your Reason's worst Disparagement;
Then, for your Honour, lessen your damn'd Pride,
By which, your good Sense more is vilify'd;
Since you more Blame, to get more Honour, gain,
Which makes you to be valu'd less, more vain;
For your Pride, which does at more Honour aim,
Becomes more by your seeking, more your Shame;
Since your Pride with more Honour wou'd increase,
To make Mankind's Esteem for you the less;
Which but augmenting more your Vanity,
Wou'd make more Honour, more your Infamy.