Classic Poem

You Squires o' th' shade, that use to tread
In gloomie night, when Day's in bed;
That court the Moon, supposing, shee
Likes such a watchfull Industrie;
Read here a storie; it will make
Your eye-lids droop, when shee's awake.
'Tis not the horrid noise of warres,
Consequent chances, wounds, and scarres,
The dangers of the foaming deep,
Nor all the Bugbear-Fates, that keep
Fond men in awe, Hobgoblins, Sprites,
Dire dreams in dark, and tedious Nights,
A troubled Conscience, nor the sense
Of Man's despairing diffidence,
That can present so sad a face
Of black Affliction, as this place.

The sneaking Rascalls, lowsie Whores,
The creaking of the dismall dores,
That stink of stinks, that fumes within,
(Symptoms of Beasts that dwell therein)
So rot the ayr, Cameleons cou'd
Not live unpoysoned with such food;
There's Reason for't, no Mortall can
Step from the excrement of Man.
And that (which should, howere, be sweet)
Is like the rest; I mean, their meat.
The Locusts of the wildernes
Are sweet-meats to their neasty Messe.
I could say more, the place provokes mee,
But that the vile Tabacco choaks mee.