A POEM On the new WELLS AT ISLINGTON.  

BEtimes i'th Morn I Rose up 'tother Day,  
When fair Aurora did her Beams display;  
And Glittering Phaebus from his drowsy Bed,  
With cheerful Light the Fields did overspread:  
At Islington to the new Wells I came,  
Which are of late renowned with so much famed:  
I Entred, and I wondered to Behold  
Such a great Company in such a Fold.  
Here Ladies Fine and Gay were sipping up,  
One was the third, 'tother the second Cup.  
Tag, Rag, and Bobtail, there were drinking too;  
Waters more fit than Wine for such a Crew.  
Ladies and Butchers Wives you there might see,  
Bulkers and Whores, higgle de pigle de.  
Some drink the Waters to promote Child-bearing,  
Others to keep the Body in good wearing:  
Green-sickness Girls, they in whole Troops do come,  
To wash a way the Dirt they've eat at Home:  
Others to Purge away unlawful Issues,  
Come in their Silks, their satins, and their Tissues.  
Some Pockey Courses to these Wells do come,  
That have not Mercury to Flux at Home:  
Or if they had, 'tis here they meet: Gallants  
You must not think that all that come are Saints.  
The Waters too breed Stomach's to their Meat;  
I fear some of 'em have not Bread to Eat.  
Here you may see a Spewing by your side,  
A City Coxcomb by his Country Bride.  
How does your Waters pass to Day? says Jenny,  
I've drank six Pints that are well worth a Guiney;  
They come so freely from me, and so Cool,  
I Vow to you this is the seventh Stool.  
With this Discourse they passed away the time,  
And wash away their nastty Filth and Slime.  
By a mischance I fell into a Trap,  
'Twas my Misfortune, and my great Mishap  
To wander in the Womens walk, where none  
Are sufferr'd for to walk but they alone;  
I was no sooner entred but they fell  
A Hooting at me like the Devil in Hell:  
Never was Man so bawled at by such Curs,  
Nor Dogs Bark more at Beasts in lions Furs.  
There is a Lady there, as People say,  
That takes but eight long Hours in every Day,  
To part her Eye-brows, and put on false Hair,  
And thinks her self most wonderfully Fair:  
If once you saw her, she would make you more,  
Than Dire Maegera's snaky Locks abhor.  
Physicians say this Water is most rare;  
Turnbridge and Epsom, are not to Compare.  
Now are there then so many Cuckolds made,  
Cuckoldom now is almost grown a Trade.  
So many undertakers that 'tis grown  
A mere Monopoly to walk upon:  
We shall at last have every Pond a Well,  
'Twas so in Ancient Dayes, as Stories tell.  
Instead of Wine this Water let's carovie,  
Our grandam Eve had never other Bouse:  
Let us no more with Wine be Drunken Sots,  
But ever stick unto our Water-Pots.    

LONDON, Printed by George Croom, at the Blue-Ball in Thames-street, over against Baynard's Castle, 1684.