A HUE and CRY AFTER Beauty and Virtue.  

WHere are you fled? I've sought in every Street,  
But can no Beauty nor no Virtue meet:  
I've sought both Hills and Dales, but all in vain,  
Sure they're transported o'er the British Main.  
True Beauty's lost, or covered o'er with Paint,  
I sinned a hundred Whores for every Saint:  
I know not where to ask, nor to what place  
To run to find a True bread English Face;  
The Spanish Paint, and the French Patches now  
Do over-spread the Chin, the Cheek, the Brow;  
Beauty's besmeared, for every little Jade  
Doth make another Face than Nature, made.  
Those that were born with a fresh country hue,  
By Paint have lost it; Give the Devil his due.  
Whoring and Painting flourish now so well,  
We hardly know where Honest Women dwell:  
Virtue is out of Fashion; she's a Saint  
That can with Art and Skill Sing, Whore, and Paint.  
Every Apprentice Cod-piece almost itches  
To run a-tilt at those polluted Bitches:  
They are such hare-brained Coxcombs, Idle Fops,  
That they regard no Masters, nor no Sho●s,  
Whilst these bewitching Charms appear in sight,  
Who with false Jewels, and false Face, shine bright.  
Gone are the Golden dayes, when the Chief Whore  
Was with Disdain, flung in the Common Shore.  
Few Rosamonds are poisoned now: we find  
All sorts of People to a Whore prove kind.  
They ought to be abhorred, as the worst Fates,  
Like Moths, they waste both Bodies and Estates:  
They bring on us worse than egyptian curses,  
They waste our Credits, and consume our Purses:  
Yet we, fond men, are such bewitched Fools,  
We spend our time onely in Venus Schools;  
We run our brittle Ships against those Rocks,  
As if we longed to slave them with the Pox.  
Whilst we thus Vicious are, it is not strange  
That we from Beauty and from Virtue range:  
Curse on those cursed Charms, that like old Eve,  
Draw Cullies on, with apple in their sleeve.  
A painted, patched face I count the charms  
That draw so many Cullies to their Arms.  

Fine Feathers make fine Birds, we're wont to cry,  
Would they lay Patches, Perfumes, and Painting by,  
They would be far more comely to the Eye.   
loathe and abhor them, for their base Design  
Is both to Damn your Soul, and Sink your coin.  
As Rosamond, or as Jane Shore, go serve them,  
Keep back your Coin, and you'l be sure to starve them.  
They will not Work, they covet to be Idle;  
Learn to be Honest, let them bite o'th' Bridle:  
Such filthy Vermin do deserve no pity,  
But Want and Hunger, both in Town and City.  
Brand them like Cain, let Whores wear Whorish marks,  
Wee'l know them then in Streets as well as Parks.  
Thus shall our Land be happy, You be blessed,  
And Whores have neither Coin, nor Food, nor Rest.    
FINIS.