-You have no foul,
That makes you weigh fo light: bought it,
And half a crown hath fold it :
Tis like the common fhore, that still receives
All the town's filth. The fin of many men
Is within you; and thus much I fuppofe,
That if all committers ftood in a rank,
They'd make a lane (in which your fhame might dwell
And with their spaces reach from hence to hell:
Nay, I fhall urge it more, there has been known
As many by one harlot maim'd and difmember'd,
As would have ftuff'd an hofpital: this I might
Apply to you, and perhaps do you right:
O y'are as bafe as any beast that bears,
Your body's ev'n hir'd, and so are theirs.
For gold and fparkling jewels, (if he can)
You'll let a few get you with Chriftian:
Be he a Moor, a Tartar, though his face
Look'd uglier than a dead man's fcull;
Could the devil put on a humane shape,
If his purfe fhake out erowns, up then he gets;
Whores will be rid to hell with golden bits.
So that y'are crueller than Turks, for they
Sell Chriftians only, you fell your felves away.
Why thofe that love you, hate you; and will term you
Lickorifh damnation : wish themselves half funk
After the fin is laid out, and ev'n curfe
Their fruitless riot, (for what one begets
Another poifons): luft and murder hit;
A tree being often fhook, what fruit can knit?
Dekker's First Part of the Honeft Whore 1. A harlot is like Dunkirk, true to none, Swallows both English, Spanish, fulfome Dutch, Back-door'd Italian, laft of all the French, And he sticks to you 'faith, gives you your diet, Brings you acquainted, first with monfieur doctor, And then you know what follows.
Rank, ftinking, and most loathfome, mifery !
1. Methinks a toad is happier than a whore,
That with one poifon fwells, with thousands more
The other ftocks her veins: harlot, fie, fie!
You are the miferableft creatures breathing,
The very flaves of nature: mark me elfe,
You put on rich attires, other eyes wear them;
You eat, but to fupply your blood with fin:
And this ftrange curfe ev'n haunts you to your graves,
From fools you get, and spend it upon flaves:
Like bears and apes, y'are baited, and fhew tricks
For money, but your bawd the sweetness licks.
Indeed you are their journey-women, and do
All bafe and damn'd works they lift fet you to:
So that you ne'er are rich; for do but shew me,
In prefent memory, or in ages past,
The fairest and most famous courtezan,
Whose flesh was dearest, that rais'd the price of fin
And held it up; to whofe intemp'rate bofom,
Princes, earls, lords, the worst has been a knight,
The mean'st a gentleman, have offer'd up
Whole hecatombs of fighs, and rain'd in show'rs
Handfuls of gold, yet for all this, at laft
Difeafes fuck'd her marrow, grew fo poor,
That fhe has begg'd ev'n at a beggar's door.
And (wherein heav'n has a finger) when this idol
From coast to coaft has leap'd on foreign fhores,
And had more worship, than th' outlandish whores;
When fev'ral nations have gone over her,
When for each fev'ral city the has seen,
Her maidenhead has been new, and been fold dear :
Did live well there, aud might have dy'd unknown,
And undefam'd; back comes fhe to her own,
And there both miferably lives and dies,
Scorn'd ev'n of those that once ador'd her eyes:
As if her fatal circled life thus ran,
Her pride fhould end there, where it first began.
Dekker's First Part of the Honeft Where.
A ftrumpet is one of the devil's vines ;
All the fins like fo many poles, are stuck
Upright out of hell, to be her props, that
She may fpread upon them: and when she's ripe,
Every flave has a pull at her, then
Muft the be preft: The young beautiful grape
Sets the teeth of luft on edge, yet to tafte
That liquorifh wine, is to drink a man's
Own damnation.
Dekker's Second Part of the Honeft Whore Were harlots therefore wife, they'd be fold dear; For men account them good but for one year: And then, like Almanacks whose dates are gone, They are thrown by, and no more look'd upon.
She is a right ftrumpet; I ne'er knew any
Of their trade rich two years together: fieves
Can hold no water, nor harlots hoard up
Money; they have many vents, too many
Sluices to let it out; taverns, taylors, bawds,
Panders, fidlers, fwaggerers, fools and knaves,
Do all wait upon a common harlot's
Trencher; fhe is the gally-pot to which
Thefe drones fly; not for love to the pot, but
For the fweet fucket within it, her money, her money.
Honeft, it must be by ftrong antidotes;
"Tis rare, as to fee panthers change their spots:
And when the's once a ftar, fix'd and fhines bright,
Tho' 'twere impiety then to dim her light,
Because we fee fuch tapers feldom burn
Yet 'tis the pride and glory of fome men,
To change her to a blazing ftar again.
A drab of ftate, a cloath of filver flirt!
Her train borne up, her foul trails in the dirt.
N 2
Ask but the thriving'it harlot in cold blood,
She'd give the world to make her honour good:
Perhaps you'll fay but only to the duke's fon
In private why, the firft begins with one,
Who afterwards to thousands proves a whore;
Break ice in one place, it will crack in more.
Tourneur's Revenger's Tragedy.
Your punk is like your polititian; for they
Both confume themselves, for the common people :
And your punk of the two, is the better
Member; for fhe, like a candle to burn
Others, burns herself.
Not fale-ware, mercenary stuff, that ye may
Have i'th' fubburbs, and now maintain traffick with
Ambaffadors fervants; nor with landreffes,
Like your ftudents in law, who teach her to
Argue the cafe fo long, till fhe find a
Statute for it; nor with mistress filkworm
In the city, that longs for creams and cakes,
And loves to cuckold her husband in fresh
Air; nor with your waiting gentlewoman,
That is in love with pcetry, and will
Not part with her honour, under a copy
Of fine verfes, or an anagram; nor
With your coarse lady herself, that keeps a
Stallion, and cozens the old knight, and
His two pair of fpectacles, in the shape
Of a ferving man; but with your rich, fair,
High-fled, glorious, and fpringing cat a mountains,
Ladies of blood, whofe eyes will make a foldier
Melt, and he were compcs'd of marble; whofe
Ev'ry fmile hath a magnetick force to
Draw up fouls, whofe voice will charm a fatyre,
And turn a man's pray'r into ambition;
Make a hermit run to hell for a touch
On her, and there hug his own damnation.
Shirley's Grateful Servant.
Then let us be friends, and moft friendly agree: The pimp, and the punk, and the doctor are three ; They cannot but thrive, when united they be :
The pimp brings in cuftom; the punk fhe gets treasure; Of which the phyfician is fure of his meature,
For work that she makes him, in fale of her pleasure :
For which, when the fails by diseases or pain,
The Doctor new vamps and upfets her again.
Richard Brome's City Wit.
O that I should love a whore, a very
Common cocatrice! my thoughts are drown'd in
A gulf of fin; fhe's a very cannibal,
Which doth devour man's flesh, and a horfe-leach
That fucks out. mens beft bloods perfection:
A very pris'ners box that ope's for ev'ry
Man's benevolence.
Peacocks and whores are near ally'd,
Since both their tails maintain their pride.
She is as harlots fair, like gilded tombs,
Goodly without, within all rottenness :
She's like a painted fire upon a hill,
Set to allure the froft-nipt paffengers,
And ftarve them after hope: fhe is indeed
All fuch as ftrumpets are, angel in fhew,
Devil in heart.
The harlot is the broad way unto hell,
A labyrinth, a ditch, a poifnous well :
She is a nightly glow-worm, canker'd brass,
A common inn, a fink, a broken glass:
Her love is luft, her lover is a slave,
Her arms are fetters, and her bed's a grave.
Ufe thy own fountain; ftollen waters please
Lafcivious minds, and breed the foul's disease.
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