Abstersae Lacrymae.  
THE Poet Buffooned: OR, A VINDICATION OF THE Unfortunate Ladies, FROM THE Saucy REFLECTIONS, In a Late Doggrel satire, Against the Famous LOTTERY in Freemans-Yard.  
BY A Club of the Fair Sex for that purpose assembled.  Veniunt a dote Sagittae. 
London: Printed and are to be Sold by Randal Taylor, 1694.   

The Poet Buffoond, etc.  

AT a late Lotteries Decision,  
Among the gaping Crowds Division,  
Much like the Losers and the Winners,  
One Smiler and two hundred Grinners;  
A Brother of the Quill of Goose,  
Made bold to let some Doggrels loose;  
In paltry Rhyme to make a Sally,  
And the fair Feminine Vent'rers rally.  
This harmless Gall in Ink thus blended,  
So much incensed the fair offended,  
That straight a Common Council called,  
To have the saucy Scribbler maulled;  
This weighty Cause and high Pretention,  
The Summons to this Great Convention;  
Th' whose Tribe, Wife, Widow, Virgin, Miss,  
All met to dip their Rods in Piss;  
Together flocked for Storm like Porpus,  
Or Bacchanals for flogging Orpheus;  
Bloodier than Pilgrims from jago:  
And thus first spoke a fair Virago   

Ladies, when first we did convene,  
In Dreams of Gold, 'twas that sweet Scene,  
When tickling Hopes swelled high as Bumper,  
For three fair thousand Pounds; a Lumper,  
In one soft Hand, enough to move  
The whole Machine's of Life and Love.  
Love, did I say! and Reason good:  
'Tis the great End of Flesh and Blood.  
Although we long for Procreation,  
'Tis not for the empty Titillation,  
But for th' Service of the Nation;  
In loyal Truth and hearty Zeal,  
For building Props for Common-weal!  
Do we not see the sad Fatality,  
Of Yon-side Herring-ponds Mortality!  
And, therefore, 'tis we want the Joys  
Of Love, for raising thumping Boys,  
To make Recruits of young Commanders,  
And rear a Nursery for Flanders.  
If Fortune smiles, I know not why,  
But such a simple Girl as I,  
May nurse up Heroes from my Veins,  
The Mother of some young Lorrains.  
And shall a whifflng, scribbling Cur,  
Make all this snappish Noise and Stir:  
Because at Fortune's Shrine devoutly,  
We paid our Orisons so stoutly  
For the Great Prize, for Golden Darts,  
Loves surest Shafts for wounding Hearts.  
We'd have the barking Doggrel Poet,  
And the whole snarling World to know it;  
In our warm Zeal Loves Joys to crown,  
We lay this glorious Maxim down.  
The Itch lies not in tickling Placket,  
But in the jerking Monsieurs Jacket.   

A City Matron stood up next,  
And thus held forth on the same Text.  
Madam, said she, to your Applause,  
You've played the Champion of our Cause.  
But Curs will bite: The Fop so witty,  
Made some Flirt's too against the City:  
Told me, I prayed t'have great Prize drawn,  
To keep a Spark of Nerve and Brawn,  
To help my spiny Breed. Oh ho!  
My doggerel Rhimer, do I so!  
Does the dull Grubstreet Bard, poor Sot,  
Think that small Trip a Cheapside Plot!  
Can the false Cry he makes so much on,  
Lay any bar on my fair Scutcheon?  
I'd have him know, to bauk his Nonsense,  
I play the Dalilah with a Conscience.  
At Burg— s Lecture turn up white  
Ith' Morn; and kiss my Spark at Night.  
To graft my crested Husband's Horn,  
Out of vile Wantonness I scorn,  
Lewdness that crying Sin in fashion,  
Was always my Abomination.  
Ah no! to blow my blooming Rose,  
I twine my Arms and spread my Toes,  
Ith' hearty fear of Heaven, G— knows.  
Ah, Madam, did you know my Grief  
And crying Wants that call Relief;  
With weeping Eyes I sadly sing  
My Limberham at home, poor Thing,  
Is that dull Drone without a Sting.  
'Tis therefore, that I keep a Gallant,  
Because I would not hide my Talon.  
Can Have and Hold, for Worse or Better,  
Of Canon-Law, the formal Letter,  
Be such a dismal Yoke and Fetter,  
T' oblige us without Sense and Reason,  
'Gainst sovereign Nature t'act that Treason,  
As to let slip our teeming Season?  
Goodness forbid— In such a Case,  
We weak backsliding Babes of Grace,  
Those small Allowance-grains may give;  
For every thing you know would live.  
Or if a Sin, 'tis none of ours,  
It lies all at our Fumblers doors:  
And let them look to their Damnation:  
Enough we seek our own Salvation;  
Sport at our innocent Lamb-play,  
And choose to Heaven the sweetest way.  
If they want Lurchers for our Warren,  
The Game abroad is not so barren;  
Nor we such Fools, for Reasons twenty,  
To freeze in Summer, starve in Plenty.   

Madam, another Dame replied,  
Your Cause you've amply justified:  
I have a Husband, none o'th' best too,  
And graft him just the selfsame Crest too.  
Not that I've your high Charge to lay;  
Mine, true, is Man enough that way.  
Has Youth, Wit, Humour, Shape and Size,  
So lovely in the Female Eyes.  
But his great Fault not to dissemble,  
His Heart's no bigger than my Thimble:  
And for that Cause I fork his Poll;  
For I hate Cravens from my Soul.   

Hold, Madam, cried her Lefthand Mate,  
You run on at too brisk a Rate.  
'Tis fit we seriously dispute,  
Consider first, 'ere we cornute.  
For Cuckoldom and its Appurt'nance,  
Are things of Weight and of Importance.  
Brow-Antlers, not like Mushroom shoots,  
Should spring up from substantial Roots.  
And by our common Crabstock Laws,  
Should not be grafted without Cause.  
Before Spouse rid in Cuckold's Haven,  
Had you good Proofs he was a Craven?   

Good Proofs! replied the angry Dame;  
Ah Madam, urge no more my shame:  
For oh! to talk my Wrongs yet louder;  
Yes, I have Witness with a Powder.  
To make his Craven-breed plain out,  
Beyond the shadow of a Doubt;  
He was, in short, a Member loyal,  
Of the disbanded Reg— t R—.   

When the young Dames had passed their Votes,  
And all chirped Love in several Notes;  
At last the toothless Beldame grumbled,  
And thus her Indignation mumbled.  
Your rascal Rhimer with his Jeers,  
Paid no more Reverence to my Years:  
But said, I prayed for the great Sum,  
To buy new Coral for old Gum.  
Young Sauce, what then? Is't harm to pray for't,  
Or get a Play-thing when we pay for't?  
What tho' with Charity we borrow,  
Our Copulation-Feats t'our Sorrow,  
Lay no Foundation for to Morrow?  
As out o'th' Verge of Propagation;  
Love has no Superanuation.  
The Female Seasons never passed:  
Our dancing Days hold out tothth' last.   

Here a whole general Hum went round,  
T'applaud the Beldame's Sense profound;  
Her Wisdom, Politics and Gravity,  
Had reached the depth o'th' whole Concavity.  
Dull Men, our Sex so far unlike,  
We have Steels when they've no Flints to strike.   

When several long Disputes had passed,  
It came tothth' Grand Resolve at last;  
After a Mess of Chat most plenty,  
T' a Nemine Contradicente,  
That in th' Enclosure Wedlock Grange,  
Or Cuckoldoms more open Range,  
The Vein of Love's soft Titillation,  
Was the great Work of their Creation.  
Besides, 'twas the whole Courts Opinion,  
That Love is perfectly Dominion.  
And as in every other Throne,  
Whether by Twenty filled or One;  
A single sovereign Hand it be▪  
That steers our managed Helm a Lee;  
Or a whole Brotherhood Common-weal,  
Sat forty Stamps t'our one broad Seal.  
That's as our Constitutions bear,  
Or our Love's Throne has room to spare.  
Reign long, short; Spouse in peace or strife,  
With drudging Sceptre for whole Life;  
Or a more short Reign-power in play,  
Set up High-Steward for a day:  
Whatever to our Seat we lift,  
Prerogative in Love's but Gift;  
Husband or Gallant, either way,  
De facto or De jure sway:  
All challenge equal Claim divine,  
Or in, or out of the right Line.   

The Settlement of Love thus stated,  
And the whole amorous Cause debated;  
What has the scribbling Fop pulled down,  
From their most dreadful too just Frown?  
Audacious Snarler as to dare,  
Thus boldly ridicule the Fair;  
For no more Fault, but bending Knee,  
To Cupid's Sister-Deity;  
Fortune the blind and the adored,  
Perhaps with too warm Zeal implored;  
That verial Feminine Bigotry,  
To draw the lumping Prize in Lottery;  
Only soft Talon to improve,  
And lay't out all in hearty Love.   

But now to come tothth' dismal Chapter,  
His Penance for Poetic Rapture;  
Some hearty Prayers were backwards read,  
To pour down Vengeance on his Head.  
First, if to Grace, from Feminine Gender,  
This Doggrel-monger's a Pretender;  
May even his best Heroics Parrot,  
Only to dirty Drab in Garret.  
hang's a doom, too soft, to choose him;  
No let the Knot of Wedlock noose him:  
Tie him to some hot-blooded Scamper,  
Her Veins all Merc'ry, his all Camphire;  
As shall his towering Fret bedight,  
The monumental Mum▪ glass height.  
To this House-plague in Twin-conjunction,  
The common Curse o'th' Threadbare Function:  
May the Parnassus hungry Delver,  
ne'er dig up even a Rhyme to Silver.  
Livings and Lands be more unknown,  
Then the North-point o'th' frozen Zone.  
Not even one Foot in's own Utopia;  
But his whole Portion, Cornucopia.   

The Poet damned with such dire Dudgeon,  
And left to swallow this hard Gudgeon;  
Straight a new Cause was called: The Question  
Was here put round, with what Digestion,  
After their Longings and their Shortens,  
They bore their own to blank Misfortunes.   

One Damsel opened her Bosom frank,  
And swore that when her Lot ris blank,  
It struck t'her Heart, so all o'th' sudden,  
As made her give the Crow a Pudding.   

How, says her Neighbour, is that all!  
I had a sadder Chance befall.  
For, when sweet Expectation crossed,  
I saw my Hopes and Longings lost;  
It gave my Heart so sad a break,  
I vow it made me spring a Leak.  
I find myself in that strange taking;  
(Something's the Fault) that Sleep or Waking▪  
In spite of all my best Preventives,  
I swear I've lost my whole Retentives.   

Here a fair Maudlin that stood by,  
Put Finger into lovely Eye.  
Name not (she cried) your puny Loss,  
Compared with my dire Weeping-Cross.  
My Lots all blank and Hopes come short-all,  
Not Dose of Savin half so mortal,  
It struck me so, indeed it did;  
Alas, it made me drop a Kid.  
Short of my time full three months' scantling,  
Miscarried of the sweetest Bantling,  
The fairest well-got thumping Boy,  
The Father's Hope and Mothers Joy.   

A fair Companion by her side:  
To this sad Story thus replied.  
Madam, 'tis true, your Loss was grievous;  
But my hard Fortune's more mischievous.  
Your Grief has lost one Boy, no more:  
But mine will lose me half a score.  
It sticks so close, that so beguiled,  
I fear t'has my whole Teeming spoiled.  
Of all Delights t'has so bereft me,  
The very sweets of Love has left me.  
'Tis true, I'have Cock o'th' Game (be't spoke  
T'his Glory) good as e'er struck stroke.  
Yet when kind Spouse bestirs his Stump,  
I meet him in such sad cold Dumps,  
From all my once soft Twines and Hug,  
I'm grown a perfect Drone and Slug;  
For oh! those hideous Sorrows seize me,  
That even poor Play-thing cannot please me:  
I so bemoan me and bedole me,  
That not Benevolence can console me.   

Here Nan, the Jolly Vintner's Daughter,  
Burst out into a downright Laughter.  
Oh Rome! (she cried) it is decreed,  
That Miracles are not ceased indeed.  
A Grief so mort, not taste Love's Joy!  
Woman so sick, as past the Toy!  
T' our Sex's Wonder and Confusion,  
I know not what's your Constitution.  
For my own Griefs, I'll boldly say,  
Mine worked the clean contrary way.  
No sooner came the doleful sound,  
I'd drawn in Blanks a whole five Pound,  
But to cheer up my drooping Head,  
I took our Drawer, Frank, to Bed.  
Forced a kind Cup of Love to borrow,  
To lighten Losses and drown Sorrow.   
FINIS.