THE Lost Maiden-head: OR, SYLVIA's Farewell to Love. A NEW satire AGAINST MAN.  
licenced, March 25. 1691.  
LONDON, Printed for H. Smith, in the Year MDCXCI.   

By way of Epistle: To all the Beaus, and Fortune-Hunters of this lewd Town of London.  
GENTLEMEN,  
Here's a small piece of your own handiwork, which you can't wonder is at last come home t'ye, and which is so extremely like ye, so much the very picture of ye, that all the world will certainly cry shane of ye if you don't own it. T'has indeed all those remarkable Features you are so justly proud of, and you can never find a better Glass wherein to see your own Constancy, Chastity, Innocence, &c. Never say 'tis a Baby of Clouts, a thing only made up for a Scarecrow, with no more Life or Soul in't than you yourselves after a Debauch: Don't tell me that Sylvia here is but a Cheat, a whimsy, a Name without any Truth or Reality belonging to't, for I appeal to your own Ingenuity, whether( if you don't lye confoundedly) you can't bring a Hundred Instances a-piece of ruined Virgins, who when you have run away with all they had, besides their Tongues, turn errand Termagants, rail, curse and very hearty wish you— what you so often wished yourselves a little before if you ever left 'em. I have but a very small parcel of business with ye more, being only to tell ye from Sylvia that if you rail at her never so much she has for once got the Whip-hand of ye; she has, like the French, first opened the Campaign, and is pretty even with you before you have begun, for all the dreadful things you can do when once you set about it, and she gives you free leave to call to mind a piece of Good advice which you may have red often enough against a Post— red, TRY, JUDGE, and SPEAK as you FIND.   

A satire, &c.  

SYLVIA of late a Coquett of Renown,  
The briskest, airiest little thing in Town,  
E're Love and Man did her fond Heart betray:  
Sylvia the wild, the witty and the gay,  
In Balls and Treats her easy moments past,  
And thought her Youth and Joys would ever last:  
And long they might had not her wayward Fate  
Decreed her happy Reign a shorter Date.  
Her Fate or Folly was't?  
Tho' she with neither justly quarrel can,  
What ruined more than both was perjured Man.  
A favoured Lover who one fatal Day,  
When she and all her virtues slumbering lay,  
stolen both her Heart and Maidenhead away:  
She wake't, and found him gone, while shane, disgrace, Face;  
Vexation and Despair supplied his place,  
With Daggers filled her Breast, with Blushes filled her  
While he to every Tavern-Friend will boast,  
How small a Price so great a Conquest cost,  
How soon, how willingly the Town was lost.  
filled with deep Bowls of Vengeance to the Brim,  
She scorns her Rage should be appeased with Him,  
charged to the full with just Revenge before,  
Lest she should Split, lets some few drops run o'er,  
At all the Sex let fly, and thus began  
To lash that ugliest, worst of Monsters, Man.   

shane— I defy thee, since my Vertue's lost,  
Why shoud'st thou any longer keep thy Post?  
Those who have Hope of Life may Fence and Ward,  
The Desp'rate never stand upon their Guard.  
O— could I all the hated Sex confounded,  
And with one Stab both Soul and Body wound:  
could I entail Diseases and Disgrace,  
With worse than Scotch Revenge Clap all their Race,  
Mankind a Victim to my Vengeance fall,  
The Universe but one great hospital,  
I'd willingly for twenty Ages live,  
And feel each Torment that I them could give.  
What Names of villainy shall I invent?  
What new unthought, unheard of Punishment  
Those worst of Brutes to Brand and to Torment?  
But that our Satyrs Justice may be clear,  
The Murd'rers first shall their Inditement hear:  
Hold up your Hands lost wretches at the Bar!  
Those Hands with which, high-rais'd to heaven, you swore  
You'd the deluded Fair eternally adore:  
With which so many Billets you have writ  
Full of false Passion and deceitful Wit;  
Answer for all your black and fowl Escapes;  
Your Treasons, murders, Perjuries and Rapes;  
Your Lies, your Thefts, your Blasphemies and Pride,  
And all the dreadful Roll of Sins beside,  
Loaded with which you'll to Perdition go,  
And sink into a Lake, as far below  
The place where the less guilty Devils fell,  
As heavenitself 'sremoved from deepest Hell.   

Reason you claim, but prove it if you can  
Yours only— No, 'tis Pride's the Soul of Man.  
With ease, 'tis true, you will yourselves persuade  
For Man the whole Creation's only made;  
The Earth, the Fire, the Air, th' unruly Waves,  
And We and every Creature else his Slaves.  
Fancies the Elements tremble at his word,  
And stiles himself their Monarch, and their Lord.  
If on the Floods he frown they dare not stay,  
But softly roll to distant Shores away,  
Bow their curled Heads and silently obey.  
If he the Sun commands, he must stand still,  
Nor can he move one step his flaming Wheel:  
The Moon and Stars with all their cheerful Light,  
Are but his Link-boys when he walks by Night.  
The Winds hold their rude Breaths till he is past,  
" Or reverently in murmers breath their last.  
His Shape and forms divine, erect, and fair,  
contrived to taste the lightsome heavenly Air,  
Upright he stalks, the Skies and Stars can view,  
( Tho' that as well his kindred monkeys do;)  
All Independent, uncontrolled and free,  
Has Springs of Action in himself, and he  
Of all the Brutes alone pretends to Liberty.  
His Mind unforced and voluntary still,  
And half a God in Intellect and Will:  
When this with stupid Ignorance is stained,  
And that in Vices Fetters tamely chained,  
When all his Body full of Plagues and Sin,  
Without expressing every all within,  
With Angers Fever his hot Eye-balls roll,  
Ambition's dropsy swells his thirsty Soul;  
Unconstant as that Sex at which they rail  
So oft when their Allurements can't prevail;  
One single blast of Fancy turns the Scale.  
judgement and Sense are words they affect to use,  
But either quiter neglect, or them abuse,  
And if they choose at all, the worst they choose.  
Show me another Beast who e're did feel  
Half his Diseases—? see from Head to Heel  
What odious, foul, deformed Contagions breed,  
And Death's kind Hand for their Physician need:  
No Hospital can cure 'em but the Grave.  
— But I forget— too soberly I Rave.  
They in their height of Pride—  
Think Woman only made to be their Slave.  
The very Sex, a Brothel built by Jove,  
To hold their Superfluities of Love:  
A decent Ditch, when the Tide runs too high,  
By prudent Nature made to drain it dry.  
Good serviceable Beasts of burden, when  
The Journey's o'er, turned out to graze again.   

Ah would my fond, my foolish Sex pursue  
( Almost as foolish and as fond as you)  
Those Maxims for their profit I'd lay down,  
Wee'd quickly make you tremble at our frown;  
Know how to value more the slighted Bliss,  
And half a day petition for a Kiss—  
— Ah no— you never more should come so near,  
Wee'd banish you where we no more might hear  
Your hated Names,— to some far distant place,  
Better the World stood still than you disgrace  
The Age to come with such a poisonous Race.  
Or if we should think fit to leave behind  
The best of bad, just to preserve our kind,  
( And the Example would be dangerous too,)  
Drudges to us as we before to you,  
What Males were born, wee'd Eunuchs make, or else,  
With care crush the young Vipers in their shells.  
Or if we them some Nine-days time allow,  
Preserve the sprawling Brats some sport to show;  
Then in a Puddle them like Kitlins drown,  
Lest their too numerous stock the House should over-run;  
A very few would be enough to stay  
To eat the Scraps, and scar the Rats away.   

If such their Pride, Hell only knows their Lust,  
Nor need they more— 'twill scorch their Souls to dust.  
If with no Objects slake't— O Aretine,  
Speak from those sooty flames which round thee twine  
Whose Fire the hottest is, or Ours or Thine?  
Who all those shapes of Sin did first invent,  
For which the cooler Fiends thee now torment  
With equalled various shapes of Punishment?  
Men blame us that we early learn to sin,  
But how much sooner all their Sex begin?  
Had they but strength, like that incestuous Twin  
Which Histories describe, who mixed before  
They came to Light, i'th' very Womb they'd whore.  
Debauch the Nurse as at her Breast they lay!  
And like hot Jove, on their own Sisters prey.  
For when to School they first each other led,  
They'll Bawdy-Books before the Horn-book red;  
Nay sell their very Testament for fail,  
Or swap it for some Godly Book with—  
One Form the other teach, and by degrees  
They're tolerably skilled in Wickedness.  
From height of villainy each other prise,  
And faster far in Lust than Learning rise;  
Till, by fifteen, by some lewd Strumpet met,  
Or Father's Maid, a Brat or Clap they get:  
This nursed, that cured, to th' University,  
If, as sometimes, they're next remove should be,  
They faster there  
Proceed in Wickedness than in Degree,  
And on fowl Trulls contrived by Providence  
As Antidotes to all Concupiscence,  
Ugly as is the nasty Sin they act,  
Beget their Like, and when at last the Fact  
Betrays itself, the Father is concealed,  
( Poor Creature, he'd be ruined if revealed)  
For when the little Bastard comes to Town,  
On Valuable Consideration,  
Some ragged Scrape-Trencher the Brat must own;  
Who dares accuse them for't? now all is well,  
Their Reputation tight, and sound's a Bell;  
If any saucy Wights against them prate,  
They've Friends which them will— ay that they will.   

Next they'll to th' Inns of Court perhaps repair,  
Find cleanlier Whores, and Gowns less ragged wear,  
Stroll every Night from Playhouse to the Stews,  
Or in the Morning their neat Laundress use:  
cuckolded their Barber by some fine Intrigue,  
And slily cheat at once of Wife and Wig;  
Or at some well frequented Tavern near,  
Tip the fly wink to the kind Barr-keeper;  
Or wanting her assistance scour the Street,  
And like mad ox run over all they meet;  
Till in the Counter or a Hot-House penned,  
They've time their Bodies and their Souls to mend.  
Think on their Fames irreparable slain,  
In Tub of Tribulation roar for pain,  
And vow they'll Whoring leave— till they come out again.   

But this, alas! is but the first degree,  
The could Efforts of Northern Lechery,  
Is there no worse?— speak conscious Italy.  
Each Eminent Sinner there your silence break,  
Speak you, and O thou Holy Lecher speak!  
What Sins you act, nor ever seek the dark,  
And why you make the Stews your Churches mark?  
Let all those miserable Wretches tell,  
Who there for Sodoms Sins feel Sodoms Hell!  
Let those who have on Sodoms 'vice refined,  
Those who have changed not only Sex but Kind,  
Where frighted Beasts cannot in safety feed,  
Where injured Turkies gobble out the dead.   

I might go on, and tell ye in a trice,  
The many humorous freaks of this fowl 'vice,  
What various Scenes the Eastern World affords,  
What Emperors have done, and Kings and Lords:  
But there's a thousand Sins that call me on  
To lash your Sex— I must with this have done,  
And now to your Unconstancy be gone.   

No doubt when I this Accusation bring,  
You ll think't an Inconsiderable thing,  
Hardly worth Naming this, nor worth the time  
To answer— 'tis a virtue not a Crime,  
You'll laughing fall— perhaps too, witty be,  
And swear you're Constant in Unconstancy;  
How can we justly those Unconstant call  
You'll say who always are in Love with all?  
But, Sir, if this Excuse will serve for you,  
I hope our Sex as well may use it too.  
For a Just Answer you'll not this receive,  
Nor must you think to take unless you'll give.  
The Waves, the Winds, the Vows of Whores are true,  
And firm as Fates Decrees compared to you.  
Tell me how far this Wave will wet the ground,  
Or in what Point the Wind will next be found,  
When 't has just shifted all the Compass round:  
Then I'll pretend, and not before, to find  
What Oaths sufficient are the Faith to bind  
Of false, deceitful, perjured, damned Mankind:  
Nay at the very Gods themselves you scoff,  
Pretending that at Lovers Vows they laugh;  
That careless of your Broken Oaths they be,  
And make 'em Partners in your perjury.  
Thus have you often ruined and betrayed  
The Hearts of some too kind believing Maids:  
Thus did my Traitor mine— but had I known  
His Treason e'er the Panther's Face was shown;  
E'er to my Heart or Breast I'd let him come,  
I'd have embraced some Viper in his room;  
Or Asps, which Cleopatra's Lovers were,  
And cured at once her Passion and Despair,  
Or to the Hilt had plunged a Dagger there.  
Too credulous Sex, by my sad ruin learn  
Your Lover's Truth from falsehood to discern;  
Or if you think that task impossible,  
Remember my advice, for I can tell,  
By sad Experience, what will serve as well;  
Think 'em all false, for all are false as Hell.  
Laugh at their Tears, as they would yours despise,  
should they but once obtain their wished-for prise;  
And shun, like Death, for ever shun their Eyes.  
Their Eyes, their Tears, their Voice, their amorous Smiles,  
Worse than th' Hyaena's or the Crocodiles.  
This will without Insults his Prey devour,  
And that the murdered carcase will deplore;  
But falser Man when once his work is done,  
Triumphing leaves the Prey, his Tears are gone,  
Tho' 'twould retrieve what's past, he has not one.  
'tis not enough that he the Conquest gain,  
Unless he Triumphs too,( so proud! so vain!)  
Unless th' Inglorious Captive wears his chain.  
Witness sad Leuca's Rock, and witness you  
Whom dark despair and falsehood thither drew!  
Each naked Shade upon the Stygian cost,  
Still kept behind 'em while so many crosst,  
In Lands of restless pain for ever lost.   

But even Inconstancy, your Darling 'vice,  
Must now make room for gripping Avarice:  
How justly our Sex you charge with loving Gold,  
Who at a Price by yours are bought and sold.  
Who first, allured by its deceitful Shine,  
Went down and fetched it from its native Mine.  
conjured that Spirit up, which first did dwell  
So very near its own dark mansion, Hell;  
But tho it readily obeyed your call,  
You cannot lay it till t' has damned you all:  
Your Selves, your World, 'twill into shivers tear,  
And scatter the torn relics round the Air.  
Yet this your Idol is, for this you'll part  
With any 'vice, tho never so near your Heart.  
This virtues, Beautys, Merits place supplies,  
The best Love-powder 'tis to close your Eyes.  
She that wants this, tho prudent, chast and fair,  
She, think you, all things wants and must despair:  
Or if you ought like Love vouchsafe to show,  
Like Wasps at Honey, 'tis but touch and go.   

Guilty or Not— a thousand Ghosts stand by,  
A thousand Fiends if you these Facts deny,  
Each Town, each Kingdom, every Place and Age  
Are marked with your black Lust, Revenge, and Rage,  
Unconstancy, and Treachery, and Pride;  
'tis now too late, nor can they be denied:  
Hear then the Sentence with Despair and Fear,  
Thieves, Villains, Lechers, Traytors, Murd rers, hear!  
And that you in your Pain may find your Sin,  
Wee'll with your Lust, your Hell-born Lust begin.   

Impotent wishes burn you, vain desire  
Consume your entrails with a silent Fire  
Like Aetna's hole, belch stinking Sulphur out,  
All boiling flamme within, and Frost without;  
Till all your odious carcase crusted o'er,  
Appear one Scab, one noisome putrid Sore,  
All burnt and scorched like that unhappy Shore.  
Till even the pesthouse dare not you receive,  
Lest you should there a worse Infection leave:  
exposed to public view, to fit your Pride,  
Without one Rag your running Wounds to hid;  
Till thence so fast the poisonous Matter flow,  
It marks a tract behind where e're you go:  
Till cleanlier Lepers would not near you lye,  
And even the squeamish Hogs forsake their sty,  
When you intrude into their Company:  
Or fled by all, or forced from Place to Place,  
Like wounded dear, by all the Brutal race;  
Till of some Dunghill safe possession got  
Into the same deliberately you rot;  
Then form some Pestilential vapour there,  
Which driven by Winds around th' infected Air;  
You grow more fatal now than whilst alive,  
And plague and poison those who yet survive:  
Variety of Pains their portion be,  
To match and punish their inconstancy.  
Now could, now hot; now grinding Aches seize  
Their Limbs, and every Hour some new Disease.  
stabbed round, like Porcupines, from Head to Heel,  
And every poor a different Torment feel.  
fistulas, Wounds and Ulcers all about,  
And now and then for change— the ston or Gout.  
Stranguries, Colicks, Fevers, Quinzies, Gripes,  
Till all their Bowels rot like Rags of Tripes:  
Yet so damned Covetous, that racked with these,  
They would not pay one single Groat for ease.  
Then sand just Fate, if yet thou art not weary  
With Plagues, some cheating Quack or apothecary;  
Let 'em not gratis rot, but sink their Store,  
With Glasses piled from their Bed-side t'th' Door,  
With which torment 'em deeper than before?  
Bolus on Bolus down their Gulle●s cr●mm'd,  
And Pills, as Chain-shot into C●●●●on rammed:  
physic, which may of each ill taste partake,  
And all the nauseous Slops their Art can make.  
Squills, Aloes, Myrrh, sweet, bitter, salt and sow'r—  
For t'other end— a Glister once an Hour  
I've done— and if there's any this out-live,  
I'll out of mere Compassion them forgive.   
FINIS.