A Mornings Ramble: OR, Islington Wells Burlesqt.  
SAted with Love and Wine last Night,  
The Joys that yield us most Delight.  
I took my Leave, and stole to Bed,  
But Rose this Morn with Aching-Head.  
To ease my Pain, and take the Air,  
I did to Islington Repair;  
Where every Whore, and every Rogue,  
Meet at the Wells so much in Vogue:  
Resolving with myself to stay,  
And drive an Hour or two away.  
I entered in, and viewed the Place,  
With every squeamish Breeding Face,  
Of City Wives, who thither come,  
Whilst their poor Cuckolds wait at Home.  
Hoping the Springs may do them Good,  
To Purge their Veins, and clear their Blood.  
When they alas have no Design,  
Only to tipple off their Wine:  
And treat those Brawny Lads they Hire,  
To do the Drudgery they require.  
But walking on, I chanced to see  
A pretty piece of Comedy.  
A Spark in Gown and Slippers stood,  
Courting a Wench who'd newly Spewed:  
Madam I Grieve, or I'm a Turk,  
To see the Waters upwards Work.  
And fear your Stomach is too Cold,  
Since Purging Streams you cannot hold.  
Take my Advice if you are ill,  
To enter in, and take a Gill  
Of cooling Nants, that may support  
The weakness of your Stomaches Fort:  
And Faith and Troth I'll Treat you freely,  
With that which I am sure will Heal ye.  
This offer was no sooner made,  
But being Mistress of her Trade,  
She soon accepts; when of a sudden  
She shook and Quaked like any Pudden.  
The reason straight I could not tell,  
But soon perciev'd her Guts Rebel:  
And that which made her Spew before,  
Now through her Tail Worked three times more.  
With that she Cursed the fatal Hour,  
And trudged away to Secret Bower.  
In hopes when once she had done her Stool,  
Back to return and catch the Fool.  
But powerful Waters Worked so fast,  
She thought she should have Purged her Last,  
And e'er she reached the place designed,  
As Cotton of his Dido feigned,  
A Yellow Aromatic Matter,  
Dropped down her Heels comixed with Water.  
When this I'd seen, away I strayed,  
And met a Quack in Plush arrayed,  
With Crowds of People at his Heels,  
Like a Scotch Meeting in the Fields.  
With Looks Demure he made a stand,  
Taking his Hat into his Hand;  
And to the People thus held forth,  
My Friends did you but know the worth,  
The value of these English Spaws,  
With nothing else you'd fill your Maws.  
So Medicinal, and so good,  
'Tis better for you than your Food.  
At which a general Hum went round,  
That made the Neighbouring Fields Resound.  
The Doctor when the noise was done,  
Made Reverend Scrape, and thus went on,  
If Barren Womb does want specific,  
To make her Fruitful and Prolific;  
These Waters will effect the Cure  
In nine months' time you may besure.  
They ease the Gout and also Claps,  
Beyond the danger of Relapse.  
People may talk of Epsom Wells,  
Or Tunbridge Springs which most Excels;  
I'll tell you by my ten years' practice  
Plainly what the matter of fact is.  
Those are but good for one Disease,  
To all Distempers this gives Ease.  
But in the midst of this Oration  
A Roguish Cheat had fixed his Station,  
Close by the Learned Doctor's side  
Whose Pocketts both were well Supplied.  
And in a trice he stole a way  
The ready Cash he'd gained that Day.  
I had no sooner left this Place,  
But walking on with gentle pace,  
And Musing Thoughts that oft do Clog us,  
I stepped into the women's Boghouse:  
Where four or five together fat,  
Like Hunted Hares upon the Squat.  
But straight endeavouring to retire,  
They flew upon me with such Ire;  
Threatening my Carcase down to fling,  
And make me favour worse than Ling.  
With much ado I scaped the Danger,  
And fled like Lightning from their Anger:  
Resolving when I had reached the Door,  
To see those Shitten Wells no more.   

London, Printed by George Croom, for the Author. 1684.