The Thirteenth Comfort.

  But if amongst us there should chance to be,

One silly fond regardless foolish She,
That spight of all our Edicts will maintain
A League with that detested Creature Man:
Good Counsels first shall strive to bring her off,
But if the Fool will that good Counsel scoff,
If she the freedom of her Sex will leave,
And love a Wretch she knows that will deceive,
From Pity well exempt the Female Sot,
That wretched Thing a Husband be her Lot.

The Fourteenth Comfort.

  Jealous by Day, and Impotent by Night,

Have neither Shape nor Mein to please the Sight
Diseas’d in Body, and deform’d in Soul,
Conceited, Proud, yet all the while a Fool: 
May she with him spin out a tedious Life,
Blest with that much admir’d Title, Wife. 
And may no Female better Fate partake,
That prophane the wholsome Laws we make.

The Fifteenth Comfort.

  And may the silly Maid that is so blind, }

To trust Man’s Oaths that are as false as Wind, }
And only to her Ruin are design’d, }
That thinks her Vertue is a Plague of Life,
And will to cure it, yield as Whore or Wife. 
Find all the Ills that have before been said,
And lose for endless Plauges her Maiden-head,
Who will not bear what they infer a Pain,
And laugh at all the base Delights of Men.

FINIS.

* * * * *

THE

Fifteen PLEASURES

OF A

VIRGIN.

WRITTEN

By the suppos’d AUTHOR of

THE

Fifteen Plagues

OF A

Maidenhead.

Virtus, repulsæ nescia fortidæ,
Intimitatis fulget honoribus. Hor.  L. 3.  Od. 1.

LONDON:  Printed in the Year, 1709.

AN

APOLOGY

FOR

The Fifteen Plagues of a Maidenhead,
by the Imputed Author thereof.

  Suppose ’twas I, you thought, had drew my Pen

On Virtue, see I fight for her agen;
Wherefore, I hope my Foes will all excuse
Th’ Extravagance of a Repenting Muse;
Pardon whate’er she has too boldly said,
She only acted then in Masquerade;
But now the Vizard’s off, She’s chang’d her Scene,
And turns a Modest, Civil Girl agen;
Let some admire the Fops whose Talent lie
Inventing dull, insipid Blasphemy;
I swear I cannot with those Terms dispence,
Nor won’t be Damn’d for the Repute of Sense;
I cou’d be Bawdy much, and nick the Times,
In what they dearly Love; damn’d Placket Rhimes;
But that such Naus’ous Lines can reach no higher
Than what the Cod-Piece or Buffoons inspire.

  To noble Satyr, I’ll direct my Aim,

And bite Mankind, and Poetry Reclaim;
I’ll ever use my Wit another Way,
And next the Ugliness of Vice display.