When Momus, laughter-loving boy,
THALIA fill’d with pleasure,
At one home stroke, spring tides of joy
Swept off the virgin treasure:
The stroke gave birth to nature’s child,
A child, like fortune fickle;
So Momus laugh’d, Thalia smil’d,
And out pop’d little Pickle!
When Pickle came to London town,
Plain truth confirm’d this rumour,
A naval duke, of high renown,
Fell in with Pickle’s humour;
For art had lost the pow’r to charm.
Which wakes the passions sleeping,
So He, to quiet love’s alarm,
Took—nature into keeping.
Pickle’s rise gave birth to gall,
She scarcely was respected,
The green-room seem’d a surgeon’s hall,
Her body there dissected;
Tho’, both were sore, she had two eyes,
Said envy’s bitter daughter,
And while she prais’d her legs and thighs,
On c—t she threw cold water.
Syren C—h, of luscious look,
Envied Pickle’s belly,
Tho’ she hugg’d a CORNISH DUKE,
And her bravura K—y;
Thus do dukes and dollys meet,
Ye, Gods, how chaste this age is,
When horned husbands, in the suite,
Attend their wives as pages.
Lovely, lively, young, and fair,
M—a may-day blooming,
Skin as sleek as racing mare,
Just after finish’d grooming;
See her fashion, style, and grace,
Hear Polly Peachum warble,
And if your tears don’t wash your face,
Your heart’s a block of marble.
I hate the gothic stately pile,
The comic, tragic, ruin,
Give me the new, not the old style,
Some work of modern doing;
Miss C—f—d and Miss Ab—n,
Both sock and buskin bred, sir,
What would I give, I blush to own,
For both their maidenheads, sir.
Whither is S—e fled?
And where’s her cock of wax gone?
Who us’d to rear his crested head
Within her curly caxon!
When Jew Braham’s cabbage came,
She quitted Drury’s station,
To enjoy (was she to blame)
The early vegetation!
Becky W—s, who went to pot,
From burton ale and brandy,
Fonder was of Tippy Top,
Than children’s sugar candy;
No more the cut of Tippy’s frock,
No more his strut invites her,
’Tis now the cut of Israel’s cock
That comforts and delights her.
Still Mother M—r’s virtues mark;
She lives in chaste condition,
With her hautboy puffing P—k,
Who plays for his admission;
Most titled things I’ve heard her say,
Are dry b—s next-door neighbours,
Before such husky pipes can play,
Their bums are bang’d like tabors.
Jordan laughs at gibes and jeers,
At envy, spite, and spleen, sir,
And says, to mortify their ears,
“Ecod, I may be queen, sir;”
Her keeper, too, keeps up the farce,
Whose love of Jordan such is,
He bids her foes to kiss her a—e,
For he’s made her c—t a Duchess.
Long in love’s hammock may they swing,
Health, wealth, and peace abounding,
With all the bliss that life can bring,
To swell the scene surrounding;
So fill a bumper, ’tis the debt
That’s due from loyal freemen,
Here’s may the press between ’em get
A crew of gallant seamen.