A satire against whoring, In Answer to a satire against Marriage.  
SLaves to Debauchery and Lustful Rage,  
That drain the Streets and prostitute the Stage,  
Begot in heat of Lust on Hackney Whores,  
Souls wrapped in Excrements of common Shores.  
Standing for patterns, 'fore the Limners Eye  
To draw the Lustful God Priapus by.  
Pox take 'em all! This Curse I doubts too late,  
It long has been, 'tis like, your Whoring Fate;  
Then all the Curses ever Sodom knew,  
Or pocky Jilts, light on your Race and You;  
Inflamed by Lust, may you with Passion move,  
And have the Pox returned instead of Love,  
May you with stinking Breathes pass Unadored,  
And Breath a fulsome Clap at every Word;  
May Dreams disturb by Night, and Whores by Day,  
And Ravenous Shankers eat your Flesh away;  
May Sores without, and Fervent Heat within,  
Consume and waste away your Loathsome Skin;  
May you be so debauched, so vilely Lewd,  
Till grown so great, Lust cannot be Renewed;  
Till one sad Ache expels another pain,  
And Claps in Circles meet with Claps again;  
Till Stone, and Gout, and Stranguries Contend,  
Which to Old-Nick your Lustful Soul shall send;  
Halting may you in Life's dull Journey go,  
Condemned to Stews above, and Hell below;  
May Bawling Bawds about your dwellings roam,  
And all your Spurious Issue haunt your home;  
Having spent all your Wealth in Lechery,  
May you unpitied on a Dunghill die;  
May all these Curses, and ten thousand more  
Than all the Angry Gods have in their Store,  
Light on you; then may Darted Vengeance come,  
With hoarded Bolts of Wrath to raise your Tomb.  
Gods! why o'er Nature did you take such Care,  
In making Women tightly Fair?  
Why build you dazzling Altars like the Skies,  
And do provide no better Votaries  
Than men? Lascivious men! whose Lustful frown  
Spoils all that's fair, and pulls what's Sacred down;  
Will all enjoy, and Married be to none,  
Though Nature dictates only to use one:  
In broken Language Beasts by pairs do prate,  
The cooing Dove bills but his Single Mate;  
But man, unbounded man! Attempts all ill,  
His Lust is grown as Boundless as his Will;  
That Name called Husband is of Terror full,  
The State Uneasy, Melancholy, Dull;  
The Kennel, Kitchen, Oyster, rampant Whore,  
Before a Wife, 's the Creature they Adore.  
What Sot would Wander? that has by his Side  
The Powerful Charms of a Smiling Bride,  
Cool as the coldest Night, and Chaster far  
Than Anchorets or Vestal Virgins are,  
Whose equal Love, does equal Heat Inspire,  
Prompted by Kindness not a base Desire;  
In whose Embraces gladly pass away  
Whole tedious years in but one Halcyon day.  
Fate Favours him, that makes him spend his Life,  
Doomed to those Golden Chains, to please a Wife.   

London, Printed for J. Green 1682.