An ANSWER TO THE Poor Whore's Complaint, In a Letter, from a Bully Spark of the Town, to Mistress nel, the common Crack of Fleet-street; containing his Sorrow for her sad Complaint.  
To the Tune of, The Guinea wins her, &c.  

AS I was ranging Nelly,  
Through famous London City,  
The Heart within my Belly,  
Did grieve and ache with Pity,  
For there I heard the Women sing,  
Till they made the very Streets to ring,  
That you were poor and bare,  
And had no Smock to wear:  
What Mistress nel, thought I!  
Sure this must be a lie,  
But straight they did reply,  
It was true, she having nothing scarce to do.   

You had a good beginning,  
And lived in seeming Glory,  
But now your lace and linning  
Is gone to Purgatory;  
My meaning is the Broaker's claws;  
Now I have considered what's the cause  
That you so Poor are made,  
'tis ean for want of Trade;  
The Bullies Hearts may ache,  
And their Foundations shake,  
When Cracks in Fleet-street broke;  
For I know, it soon will prove their overthrow.   

Ah! nel, there is too many,  
With Impudence attended,  
When there should not be any,  
But what from Cracks descended;  
Yet here they come up ev'ry week,  
From the very Devil's Arse-a-peak,  
Both East, West, North and South,  
And out of Nelly's Mouth  
They Eat the bread of famed,  
And tho' from York they came,  
It is a burning shane  
This should be, when of the Trade they are not Free.   

But Nelly, with Submission,  
This might be regulated;  
Then draw up your Petition  
To be incorporated;  
The parliament of Women, they  
In their wisdom may find out a way,  
By some new Female-Law,  
To keep the Cracks in awe,  
And make the number low,  
For now in Troops they go,  
Therefore, some Laws I know  
Must be made, or they will ruin quiter the Trade.   

There ought to be ●o other,  
According to Discretion,  
But those whose tender Mother,  
Was of the same Profession;  
But here's Doll, Bridget, Kate and Prue,  
A ragged tribe of Deal knows who,  
Took up the Trade of late,  
And work at any rate;  
They do at Corners ply,  
And as Men passes by,  
They have them in their eye,  
Ah! poor nel, this clearly spoils thy living well.   

From Fleet-street to the Tower,  
In all the Nanny-housen,  
There's common Cracks a power,  
Full five and fifty Thousand,  
A now to over-run the Land;  
Therefore let's endeavour out of hand,  
These Gillions to suppr●ss,  
And make the number less,  
For if we don't subdue,  
This tattered ragged crew,  
'twill be the worse for you,  
nel, I know, 'tis they that keeps the Prizes low.    

LONDON: Printed for J. Bissel, near the Hospital-gate in West-Smithfield.