Classic Poem

How comes it, gentlemen, that nowadays
When all of you so shrewdly judge of plays,
Our poets tax you still with want of sense?
All prologues treat you at your own expense.
Sharp citizens a wiser way can go —
They make you fools, but never call you so.
They in good manners seldom make a slip,
But treat a common whore with " ladyship";
But here each saucy wit at random writes,
And uses ladies as he uses knights.
Our author, young, and grateful in his nature,
Vows that from him no nymph deserves a satire;
Nor will he ever draw — I mean his rhyme —
Against the sweet partaker of his crime.
Nor is he yet so bold an undertaker
To call men fools; 'tis railing at their Maker.
Besides, he fears to split upon that shelf;
He's young enough to be a fop himself:
And if his praise can bring you all abed,
He swears such hopeful youth no nation ever bred.
Your nurses, we presume, in such a case
Your father chose because he liked the face;
And often they supplied your mother's place.
The dry nurse was your mother's ancient maid,
Who knew some former slip she ne'er betrayed.
Betwixt 'em both, for milk and sugar candy,
Your sucking bottles were well stored with brandy.
Your father to initiate your discourse
Meant to have taught you first to swear and curse,
But was prevented by each careful nurse:
For leaving " dad" and " mam" as names too common,
They taught you certain parts of man and woman.
I pass your schools, for there when first you came
You would be sure to learn the Latin name.
In colleges you scorned their art of thinking,
But learned all moods and figures of good drinking.
Thence come to town, you practise play, to know
The virtues of the high dice and the low;
Each thinks himself a sharper most profound:
He cheats by pence — is cheated by the pound.
With these perfections, and what else he gleans,
The spark sets up for love behind our scenes,
Hot in pursuit of princesses and queens:
There, if they know their man, with cunning carriage,
Twenty to one but it concludes in marriage.
He hires some homely room love's fruits to gather,
And garret-high rebels against his father.
But he once dead — —
Brings her in triumph with her portion down,
A twillet, dressing-box, and half a crown.
Some marry first, and then they fall to scouring,
Which is refining marriage into whoring.
Our women batten well on their good nature,
All they can rap and rend for the dear creature;
But while abroad so liberal the dolt is,
Poor spouse at home as ragged as a colt is.
Last, some there are who take their first degrees
Of lewdness in our middle galleries:
The doughty bullies enter bloody drunk,
Invade and grubble one another's punk;
They caterwaul and make a dismal rout,
Call " sons of whores", and strike, but ne'er lug out:
Thus while for paltry punk they roar and stickle,
They make it bawdier than a conventicle.