THE Female Fireships.  
A satire AGAINST WHORING.  
In a Letter to a Friend, just come to Town.  — Hic Centauros— Gorgonas, Harpiasque Invenies— Mart. 
LONDON, Printed for E. Richardson. MDCXCI.   

EPISTLE TO THE READER.  
THink not that any sad Mishap,  
Of Swelling Groin, or Weeping Clap,  
Or Bubo, or venereous Shanker,  
Occasioned this Poetic Anger:  
Or that I've got that Plague of Life,  
A Fair, but Cursed Jilting Wife,  
Who deafens Neighbours with her bawling,  
And goes each Night a Caterwauling;  
Or reeling Home one Evening Drunk,  
I stumbled upon Straggling Punk;  
Who calling me her dearest Honey,  
From Fob conveyed away my Money;  
And in Revenge, upon the Master,  
Went home and wrote this biting satire.  
Or that by any Church's Sentence  
Am doomed to open White Repentance,  
To suffer Penance in one Sheet,  
Because 'twixt two I did the Feat:  
Or that some little Bastard rather  
Was left at Door to call me Father;  
While th' Mother on't designed to Trick me,  
By swearing in the Crowd 'twas like me.  
No, none (for best my Thoughts can tell me)  
Of these Misfortunes have befell me;  
But if you needs must know th' Occasion,  
Which put my Muse in such a Passion:  
A Friend of mine Young, Airy, Witty,  
Rich, Gallant, Well-beloved and Pretty,  
In two Years Time, by Punks in London,  
Was Clapped and Poxed, and clearly undone,  
Diseased and miserably Poor,  
And by his Friends turned out of Door,  
To Country goes to find Relief,  
Where in two Months he died of Grief.  
If this was not enough to rouse  
Resentments in a Friendly Muse,  
In all the Subjects used for satire,  
Show, if you can, a fitter Matter.  
All Poetry designs to please,  
And if in Doggerel Lines like these,  
You find but something for Discourse,  
I am, Dear Courteous Reader,  
Yours,   

THE FEMALE FIRESHIPS. A satire against Whoring.  
Welcome to Town thou most esteemed of Friends,  
Welcome as Rain, which on parched Earth descends;  
Thou Dear Companion of my vacant Hours,  
How oft did we on Isis' Banks Discourse?  
When we together led a College Life,  
Till I assumed that Settlement a Wife:  
Yet thy Amintor's not Uxorious grown,  
Nor will he for the Wife, the Friend disown.  
He loves his Strephon, with a Flame as strong  
As Death, yet will not his Dorinda wrong;  
Thou learned thou art as Athens was of old,  
And canst all Nature's Mysteries unfold:  
Yet to my Strephon's mind are still unknown,  
The Rules of Living in this wicked Town:  
Here are a thousand Traps, ten thousand Snares,  
Which Vice for unexperienced Youth prepares▪  
Unknown, unheard of, in those Shady Groves,  
Where Nymphs and Shepherds jointly tell their Loves.  
Permit me then t'expose one sort of Vice,  
And show the danger of the Precipice;  
Which may in you create a fixed abhorring,  
Of that so fashionable Mode, called Whoring.  
Methinks at naming of the Word you start,  
Ah happy Youth— unskilful in such Art;  
May you be still unlearned in such Schools;  
'Twas the desire to know, first made us Fools:  
But lest through inadvertency you run  
To those extremes, my Muse would have you shun;  
Suffer my Pen a little to explore,  
And show the Arts of Prostituted Whore.  
Women indeed to outward view they seem,  
But are their Sex's scandal, blot and shame;  
Like Angels they may seem in Dress, and mien,  
But could you view the frightful Fiend within,  
Who whets their lewd desires, and eggs them on,  
To act those Mischiefs they too oft have done;  
Not Midnight Spectres, nor sad Scenes of War,  
Would half so dreadful to your Sense appear;  
Not Cannibals upon the Indian Coast,  
Nor Desert Shores to Men by Shipwreck tossed  
Can be so dangerous, as are the Wiles,  
The treacherous Kisses, and bewitching Smiles  
Of Mercenary Jilts; whose only Trade,  
Is daily acting Love in Masquerade:  
True Cannibals, who can with ease devour,  
A dozen Men while Time shapes out an Hour.  
The Body as gross food they cast away,  
And only on the Blood and Marrow prey;  
With nice fantastic Appetites they burn,  
And nothing but the Spirits serves their turn:  
Not Naples, Rome, Messina, Scandaroon,  
Nor Venice the famed Adriatic Town;  
Not Paris, Lions, Blois, nor Fountain-bleau,  
Can in each place more Girls of Pleasure show,  
Than Whores of all degrees are daily known,  
To practise Lewdness in this pious Town;  
From the kept Mistress who resides at Court,  
To her who will for two Pence, act the Sport.  
Since then in Whoring there are found degrees,  
(For there's a kind of Government in Vice)  
Let's for a while survey the mighty Bliss,  
Attends the keeping Pentionary Miss,  
(A Practice custom has in Credit brought  
So far, it hardly is esteemed a Fault)  
If Haughty, when some Overtures you make,  
And tell her how you languish for her Sake;  
A swinging Fine by you must first be paid,  
And after that some Deeds of Jointure made  
Before you must attempt to taste the Joy,  
Which of itself does but too quickly cloy:  
When ever you your Amorous Visits pay,  
Some Present you must leave at going away:  
And if her Humorous Appetite requires,  
Some new Provocatives to languid Fires;  
The Dainties of the East you must prepare,  
And if she'll swallow Pearl, you must not spare;  
Nothing must e'er be thought too Good or Rich,  
To raise and heighten her Salacious Itch.  
If after all this mighty Cost and Pains,  
Her Heart were but the total of your Gains,  
Repentance would be light: But ah as soon,  
You may require fixation from the Moon;  
Cause Madam Cynthia still to have one Face,  
And stop the Sun in his Diurnal Race  
As make her Constant— tho' She Swears and Vows,  
That She her Love to no Man else allows;  
That you're the only Creature She can prise,  
Joy of her Heart, and Pleasure of her Eyes,  
And if you leave her off, poor Soul, she dies:  
Believe her not, for when She tells the Lie,  
The Devil's blush to hear the Perjury:  
When just perhaps before those Oaths she swore,  
Some Favourite Spark had issued out of Door,  
Blest with those Joys, you pay so dearly for.  
These First Rate Whores, if Trade they understand,  
Can never sail, unless they are well Man'd.  
When for their Favours you so tamely crave,  
Whether are you their Keeper, or their Slave?  
They scorn to be Monopolised by one,  
No— they are proud to imitate the Sun,  
Who does on meanest things his Beams display,  
So every one is Welcome, if he pay.  
But of this tedious constant way of Life,  
Which bears so near resemblance to a Wife,  
You weary grown, some other Mistress choose,  
And to the former all Supplies refuse:  
When you withdraw your Golden Showers of Grace,  
Like a true Jilt, she'll curse you to your Face:  
In vain to Constancy they make pretention,  
For loss of Love still follows loss of Pension.  
If in this keeping Humour you go on,  
And for new Faces ransack all the Town;  
Had you the Wealth of Croesus in your power,  
So that your very Thoughts could wish no more;  
Could you bribe Time to let you live an Age,  
Still blest with vigorous Heat and Youthful rage;  
Could you each Month command a new Embrace,  
And Reign Lord Regent, o'er the Female Race;  
Could you of Mistresses have such a Store,  
That Solomon compared to you was Poor;  
Yet you would find that Jilting, Falsehood, Lying,  
Counterfeit Sighs, and Subtle Arts of Dying,  
Feigned Tears, false Vows, and several Virtues more,  
Are Qualities inseparable from the Whore.  
Forgive me Strephon for my rash suppose,  
Too well the Theory of their faults he knows,  
And has too much of Learning, Wit and Art,  
Ever to dive into the Practic part:  
But whilst to fulsome Compliments I fly,  
I tax him with Insensibility.  
Strephon not Love a Woman? Is he Man?  
And can he from the Charming Sex refrain?  
No— but with Prudence moderates his Passion,  
And is not lewd, altho' 'tis grown the Fashion.  
Permit me now Dear Strephon, to relate,  
The Tricks and Wiles of Whores of Second Rate;  
The Playhouse Punks, who in a loose Undress,  
Each Night receive some Cullies soft Address;  
Reduced perhaps to the last poor half Crown,  
A tawdry Gown and Petticoat put on,  
Go to the House, where they demurely sit  
Angling for Bubbles, in the noisy Pit:  
Not Turks by Turbans, Spaniards by their Hats,  
Nor Quakers by Diminutive Cravats  
Are better known, than is the Tawdry Crack  
By Vizor-Mask, and Rigging on her Back.  
The Playhouse is their place of Traffic, where  
Nightly they sit, to sell their Rotten Ware;  
Tho' done in silence and without a Crier,  
Yet he that bids the most, is still the Buyer;  
For while he nibbles at her Amorous Trap,  
She gets the Money, but he gets the Clap.  
Entrenched in Vizor Mask they Giggling sit,  
And throw designing Looks about the Pit,  
Neglecting wholly what the Actors say,  
'Tis their least business there to see the Play:  
But if some unexperienced Youth by chance,  
Bestows upon 'em an obliging Glance,  
And in his Rustic manner offers Love,  
These slow Advances, they know how t'improve;  
Like Stubborn Towns, when first they view the Foe,  
Some signs of vigorous Resistance show,  
Till pressed too hard by their opponent Fate,  
Make Terms, and freely then Capitulate.  
So these at first appear too nice and coy,  
And scorn the kind pretences of the Boy;  
Laugh loud to show their Wit, and in the Strife,  
Act Modesty and Virtue to the Life.  
Th' unthinking Lad more fond by distance grown,  
Bears up his Thoughts, and briskly bushes on,  
Till they at last contented to comply,  
(As overcome by Importunity)  
Accept a Coach (still Masked and in Disguise)  
Whilst he with his new gotten Female Prize  
To Tavern hastening, where a Splendid Treat,  
Opens his Eyes and quickly shows the Cheat;  
Their Seeming Virtue off with Mask is thrown,  
And they appear True Women of the Town.  
If Dancing, Singing, Swearing, Impudence,  
Can make Impressions upon easy sense,  
And She, he thought a Goddess just before,  
Now proves an Errand Rampant true bred Whore:  
And in the Height of Wine, if he's but willing  
Will soon unrig herself, for one poor Shilling.  
These sights his lustful Fever serve to cure,  
Or else like Oil to Fire, inflame it more;  
So doubly flushed with Wine and Love at last,  
Their fatal Kindness he attempts to taste:  
Fatal indeed, but too too often prove,  
These stolen snatches of unlawful Love;  
Delusions charm his reason for a while,  
And every thing about him seems to smile;  
Pleased with the Raptures of his new found Bliss,  
Fancies there is no other Paradise:  
But sober Reason must at last take place,  
And he, tho' late, perceives his own disgrace;  
For when he lay entranced in Celia's Lap,  
He little thought 'twould terminate in Clap:  
So finds the total Sum of all his gains  
Are Saffold's Pills, to Cure all sorts of Pains.  
Methinks I read a Pity in your Eyes,  
While you these Mercenary Jilts despise;  
But tho' I cannot blame your generous Passion,  
Yet I shall now inflame your Indignation;  
For these may well be thought no Whores at all,  
Compared with those which we Night-Walkers call:  
Cracks, who to Hell's black Service are so true,  
That they may claim Damnation as their Due:  
For Witches, who by Contract serve the Devil,  
Were never Instruments of half the evil  
Performed by these Nocturnal Privateers,  
In the small space of a few Rolling Years;  
These Pirates of the Night no Prizes spare,  
From Callow Youth, to Age with Silver Hair,  
Who greedily the cursed occasion snatches,  
Board you, and clap you underneath their Hatches;  
Like Owls all day they still remain within,  
And seldom are until the Twilight seen;  
Then with some Fine gay clothes took up on Tally,  
To public Streets, these lewd Smock-Vermin Sally;  
With such an air of Impudence they tread,  
As if in Hell's chief Boarding School were bred;  
Their Eyeballs rolling round from place to place,  
Each Man they meet, they stare him in the Face;  
If raw and unexperienced in the Town  
They stop him, and as if to them was known,  
Lord! Cousin— (confidently will they say)  
I have not seen your Eyes this many'day:  
But if he seems surprised, or stand his Guard on,  
They then retire— with Sir I ask your Pardon,  
You are so like the Man I took you for,  
Not Peas resemble one another more:  
Sometimes at this false Bait the Gudgeons bite,  
And to a Tavern, with these Birds of Night  
Retire, to take one new Acquaintance Pint;  
Where if for one half hour they sit and laugh,  
We freely may conclude the Devil was in't,  
If he comes off with Purse and Codpiece safe.  
'Tis not for Pleasure Nightly thus they troth,  
That by long custom they have quite forgot;  
Like Men, who their indulgent Palates feast  
So long, till they at last quite lose their Taste:  
No, 'tis for Money— Money is their aim,  
For Love they do not understand the Name.  
Let the Gallant be Blackamoor or Jew,  
Ugly, and of an Aethiopian Hue;  
Deformed like Aesop, and as old as Parr,  
If he has Money, he's their only Dear,  
Their Love, their Life, their Soul, their other Half,  
Like Jews they still adore the Golden Calf:  
Yet what's the Profit of their mighty pains,?  
And how do they improve their ill-got Gains?  
Some Swearing Bulley runs away with all  
The Pence, which did from Cullies Pocket fall,  
In stroling Walks, from Strand to Leaden-hall.  
Cursed, doubly cursed, is Life of Common Whore,  
She Sweats, takes Pains, and yet is always Poor,  
And who to merit Hell can suffer more?  
In Pairs like unclean Beasts they walk the Street,  
And if one overcharged with Drink they meet  
They seize his Pocket, as their lawful Game,  
For Whore and Thief are in one sense the same:  
Till twelve at Night, these Lustful Gypsies stroll  
In quest of Money, by the pickt-up Fool:  
Shame to their Sex, and Scandal to the Brute,  
Who ne'er permits the Male a second Bout;  
But they— tho' void of Pleasure and Delight,  
Can Weekly bear a dozen Leaps a Night,  
From Men of all Complexions, Tempers, Ages,  
From Beardless Youths, to Reverend Grave Old Sages;  
Till tired with Shaking of their worn out Bums,  
Through Allies reel, to their respective Homes.  
Breath breath a while, my overheated Muse,  
Before you enter their accursed Stews;  
Where Aches, Buboes, Shankers, Nodes and Pox,  
Are hid in Females Dam'd Pandora's Boxes.  
Think of the quiet Days, the calmer Nights,  
The grateful Pleasures, and the soft Delights,  
The large Exemption, from all noisy Strife,  
And other Joys attend the Virgin Life;  
Thus fortified against their Tinsel Charms,  
Advance with Courage and defy their Arms.  
What Man's a Stranger to the famed Report,  
Of the Religious Nuns of Sals'bury Court?  
Who daily standing at their Convent Door,  
And plying, seem to cry, next Whore, next Whore;  
Like Algerines who Christian Vessels spy,  
Hang out false Colours to deceive the Eye;  
So who (but him who knows it is their Trade)  
Would think a Coffee-house a Brothel made?  
The sober Sign is hung out for a Stale,  
The Treat within, is Punk and Bottle-Ale:  
If with a feigned Sobriety you come,  
And unconcernedly survey the Room,  
The Jilts who for your Money only burn,  
Will quickly see you are not for their turn;  
Well skilled in Physiognomy they know,  
Whether you'll be their Property or no:  
But if they read the Cully in your Face,  
They come up to you, with a dam'd Grimace,  
My Dear (cries one) lets leave this dirty Hole,  
And go up Stairs my Jewel, shall's my Soul?  
If with her fulsome flattery you comply,  
(As some Men scarce have power to deny)  
Bottles of Mead, Mum, Cider, all at once,  
Fly faster to the Room, than Bombs at Mons;  
The Reckoning flaming, and grave Matron gone,  
And you with Mistress Vp-tail left alone;  
What follows— let my modest Reader guests,  
My Muse forbids that I one hint express.  
Besides these Jilts we mentioned just before,  
There are of several kinds a thousand more,  
Religious Whores, who go to Church to Prayer,  
(Thomas that's the smallest business they have there)  
Who with one Eye look up to Heaven with Passion,  
And with the other, wink an Assignation:  
Love and Devotion are so near of Kin,  
She cannot think good Nature is a Sin.  
There are a sort of Cloistered Punks beside,  
Who to be Virtuous thought, will take a Pride;  
Reserved they live, in mighty State and Fashion,  
And who dares scandalise their Reputation?  
At Tunbridge and at Epsom Well's each year,  
Like People of best Quality appear:  
Blush when they hear a Word they judge obscene,  
While thousand lewd Ideas lurk within;  
With Artful Wil●s they take a Pride to vex,  
And bid defiance to the other Sex:  
But if at last betrayed by Inclination,  
Or overcome by your too Foolish Passion;  
Or if by Presents most magnetic Charms,  
You are at length conducted to her Arms;  
Not Fleetstreet Cracks who on young Striplings prey,  
Are half so Lewd and Impudent as they.  
When they the Night like Messalina past,  
Appear next Morning like Lucretia chaste;  
Like Jilts whose Arts some holy Pages fill,  
They wipe their Mouths and say they've done no ill.  
What Pity 'tis the Bawds of this lewd Town  
Who have some thousands of each Sex undone,  
Should want their Statues made of lasting Brass,  
And fixed at, or very near the place,  
Where they their various Scenes of Lewdness taught,  
And thought their vilest Practices no fault;  
Like fiery Pillars they would mark the way,  
In which wild Youths too aptly run astray;  
Then would no Bewly, Swatford, Temple, Whipple,  
Cresswell nor Cousins, who so loved the Nipple;  
Nor other Female Fachesses' unknown,  
Want that disgrace is due to Vice alone;  
For this old Maxim does all Mankind know,  
That She that's once a Whore, is always so;  
Not Pox nor Gout can 'ere confine desire,  
Nor can old Age extinguish lustful Fire;  
Like Sparks raked up in Embers 'tmay return,  
In fury, and with Rage and Passion burn.  
But whilst my Muse their ways to Strephon shows,  
I teach those very Crimes I would expose:  
Yet if wise Spartans when their Slaves were Drunk,  
Exposed them reeling to their children's scorn,  
With the same Reason I may paint the Punk,  
Not that my Friend their hated ways may learn,  
But in his Mind those just Ideas frame,  
That shunning of the Vice, he may avoid the shame.  
Had you (but Heaven forbid 'tshould ever be)  
Spent all upon these Sinks of Infamy,  
And wholly slighting all good Moral Rules,  
Ruined your Fortune in their Vaulting Schools,  
Softened your Mind by Wheedles of lewd Whore,  
And spent so long, till you could spend no more;  
Reduced and Poor and leading to a Jail,  
And would one Crown your Corpse from Durance Bail;  
Did you to some of them your Wants propound,  
On whom you once had spent five hundred Pound;  
Not only they'd deny your small Request,  
But make your very Poverty their Jest.  
Would you a Miserable Scene survey,  
Step to the Lock in Southwark any day,  
Where you will with a kind of Horror view,  
Clapped Sparks in Fluxes, Penitently stew;  
The Sight's so nauseous, in my Soul I think,  
This very instant Time, I smell the Stink.  
Thus I've of Whores a short Description made,  
And touched the great Arcana's of their Trade,  
For by what Name soever they are known,  
Their proper Title sure is Legion;  
The Egyptian Plague of Locusts heretofore  
Is tolerable, to the Plague of Whore.  
And now with me will Gentle Strephon join,  
And think a Virtuous Woman all Divine;  
By contraries some things are best set off,  
For let the vicious Libertines still scoff,  
If Strephon's happy in a Charming Bride,  
In Life's rough Seas with her we'll safely ride;  
While they poor daring rash unthinking Elves,  
Expose their Barks to Shipwrecks, Rocks and Shelves;  
Where Waves are never calm nor weather clear,  
But Storms and Tempests last the Circling Year.  
FINIS.