Diluvium Lachrymarum.  
A REVIEW OF THE Fortunate& unfortunate ADVENTURERS.  
A satire in Burlesque, Upon the FAMOUS LOTTERY, Set up in FREEMANS-YARD in CORN-HILL.  Te colimus Fortuna Deam— 
London, Printed and are to be Sold by Randal tailor. 1694.  
Price Three Pence.   

A REVIEW OF THE Fortunate and Unfortunate, &c.  

IN Freemans-Yard, the Heart of City,  
The Scene of our ensuing Ditty,  
Was late set up a Lott'ry Famous,  
To please some Wise, some Ignoramus.  
By dint of wondrous Expectation,  
That sweetest mortal Titillation,  
No less than Fifty Thousand Tools,  
A jolly Crew of gaping Fools;  
Of all Degrees, and of all Ages,  
Up from young Fops to grave old Sages;  
All Compounds too, or Course or Gay,  
That e're were made of Adams day;  
Diana, Venus, Fair or Fowl,  
And Jug and Madam, Cheeg by jowl;  
Ermine and vermin, Rags and Scarlets,  
Promiscuous all, both Lords and Varlets,  
Citts Sons, and the Court Sires that got em;  
All Merchant-Venturers in one Bottom.  
The old Ark ne're was better filled,  
That clean, unclean, all Cattle held:  
'twas here all Voices, strong or Feeble,  
All Tongues, all Pipes from Base to treble,  
Roarers or Wheesers, Squeakers, Grunters;  
joined in full Cry for Fortune-Hunters.   

Our Theatre this Pride may vapour,  
'twas once a School for Jigg and Caper:  
Fit Scene our Fortunes Stage t' advance;  
For all that Win, I am sure, may Dance.  
Here on erected Council-Board,  
Like Bessus's Brothers of the Sword,  
Sit the grand Oracles to disjoint  
The Blank, prise, soft or knotty point.  
ranked by Groom-Porter Mussulman,  
The Muf●i of this great Divan;  
With Hospital sweet Youths up-lifted,  
Young Lambs with Innocence well gifted;  
Who little Ganymedes sit ready;  
Fit hands to hold our Scales more steady.   

But, ●'re we come to th' grand Decision,  
First let's prepare for dazzling Vision.  
Up in a proud balcon above,  
The Orb of Beauty and of Love,  
Behold a Gaudy Troop Divine,  
In glorious Constellation Shine;  
Stars with their several Beams endued,  
Of First or Second Magnitude.  

Nor come they here, so Blithe and Gay,  
With killing Eyes to wound and slay,  
Their common work of every Day;   
No, they have more important matters,  
Not only idle bare Spectators,  
But Int'ress'd-parties: not to wrong 'em;  
Whole hundred watering mouths among 'em;  
Fair Rivals all for the great prise,  
The Sexes Darling, Bulk and size:  
Like the fair Candidates of Old  
For Paris glittering Ball of Gold.  
And well their flattering hopes they build:  
For what 'gainst Beauties Charms can shield?  
Our Deity is not so blind,  
But to that Sex she must be kind.   

Here a young Beauty weary grown  
Of chariot and Two Steeds alone;  
Both home-bred Palfreys too, course Ware,  
Too poor to bear a load so fair;  
A prouder Rich Great Coach to fix,  
Wants thousands Three for Flanders Six.  
Another Maiden Dame, most Trim,  
With oil in Virgin Lamp full Brim,  

To have and hold for Charms t' invite,  
And wed an honest Brawny Knight;  
Wants just that Sum her Lamp to light.    

A Third of Constitution tender,  
Of the same melting Female Gender,  
In Purse and Beauty somewhat low,  
Wants that Sum too, to keep a Beau.   

A bounce City Dame stood by,  
And vowed, with turned up white of Eye,  
Were the Lot hers, how fine, dear Joy,  
She'll dress her Eldest apprentice Boy;  
Buy him a galloping Pad-nag Scowrer,  
To ride to Epsome down before her.   

Another Buxom City Matron,  
Who for a Boy had taken Pattern  
From Nerve and Brawn to help her need,  
And mend her spiny City Breed;  
If Fortune her dear Lot would Crown,  
Her Spark at 'tother end of Town,  
( By Venus and by Mars she swore)  
Dear Rogue, should trayl a Pike no more.  
No; by her troth, whate'er it cost,  
She'll mount him to a higher Post.  
But oh, what tickling hopes she's wrapped in,  
To see Lot rise to make a Captain.   

From the balcon you might behold ye,  
The Region of the Fair, I  told ye,  
A Philde chamber ogle down,  
Perkt in her Ladies cast-off Gown.  
Oh, if the great prise would but hit her,  
Lord! what a Husband she should get her:  
No less than Squire, her Masters Son,  
A Conquest that her Charms have won:  
In Love's soft Chains she has him fast;  
For oh, what amorous looks he' has cast;  
Has kist her twenty times and more,  
And stroked her Bubbies half a score.   

A Country Girl that stood below,  
To the same Tune her sighs let flow;  
Oh help me to a lumping prise,  
To shine in my dear Dicky's Eyes:  
Without the Pence, alas poor Nan,  
I fear thou'lt die, and ne're taste Man.   

Amongst the wishing longing Fair,  
Some at their first, some their last Prayer,  
Whether for Husband or for Spark,  
Still that dear Creature Man's the Mark:  
So went for Three fair Thousand pound  
The soft Ejaculations round.   

Nor do the Witty, Young, and Fair,  
join only in the general Prayer:  
Wrinkles and Furrows, Age and Crutches,  
Want the great prise too in their Cluthces.  
A beldame, who from Pouch, God wot,  
Had dropped an Angel for a Lot,  
More Shillings than sh' had Teeth, heaven knows,  
Tho' one a Colts one, under Rose,  
On Marrow-bones devoutly humbles,  
And her first morning Dirge she mumbles,  
Both her dry fists to heaven up lifts ye,  
To Beg great prise: And near twice Fifty,  
Hopes in mere Charity 'twill come,  
To buy new Coral for old Gum;  
A sum will purchase Husbands plenty,  
And get a Boy of five and Twenty.  
For what though Blind, Lame, Halt and Cripple,  
No Teat so old but has a Nipple.   

But to leave Ache, Disease, and Wrinkles,  
That snuff of Life in Socket twinkles;  
And to return to th' Fair and Young,  
The sweeter subject of our Song.  
Some of their weaker Faiths that dare  
Not altogether trust to Prayer,  
resolved the Planets to inlook:  
To red their Doom, in Fates high Book,  
Who but great partridge should they follow,  
That Modern Oracle of Apollo.   

Two Exchange Fillies, more particular,  
To that Great Sage made plaints Auticular;  
And gained those wonderful Predictions  
From Stars too high, for lies or Fictions,  
That instantly the high flown Tits  
Threw off their Suitors, sneaking Cits;  
Left the poor Rogues to Hemp or Willow:  
Their Heads disdained so poor a Pillow.  
Down from their Garrets, three full Scory,  
To Lodgings Rich, in Pomp and Glory,  

They made their Entry in full State;  
So Cocksure of their golden Fate,  
disdained to dine in less than Plate.   
And when in their sublimer Dreams,  
Their Contemplations glittering theme,  
Visions of Love appear before us,  
( Love of all Joys fills up the Chorus)  
They scorn the Thought of Servants humbler  
Than Quality with Steeds and Rumbler.  
Or if by chance they stoop so low  
To think of Cit born Veins, or so;  
The least will pin upon their sleeve  
Must be that paltry Thing, a Shr—  
But what if that dire Chance betid 'em,  
That this Gold shower should fall befide' em.  
If they e're live to see that Loss,  
That too unhappy Weeping across;  
Yet their great Prophet's not mistaken;  
Though they lose Theirs, he saves his Bacon.  
Infallible Prediction's meant not  
But only, if our Sins prevent not.  
Poor Things, some Frailties sad mis-hap  
Can only make it miss their Lap.  
But, Ladies, above all the Rest  
Twelve Damsels of St. Dustans-West,  
The plain domestics of the kitchen,  
To get a prise felt that strange itching;  
In a close Cellar-Consult got,  
They clubbed their Stocks to buy a Lot;  
Ten Pence a piece made just ten Shilling:  
Though Purse is weak, yet Flesh is willing.  
Now for the Masculine Devotion—  
Their Pulses too beat the same motion.  
Here you might see a Father Gripe  
Shrug up, and his Mustachios wipe;  
Fortune, he thinks, in Duty bound,  
To lot him one poor Thousand Pound;  
As, Dirt to Dirt, obliged at least  
To fill him one more Iron Chest.  
There a Young Heir implores the Bliss:  
Begs the great prise to keep a Mis●.  
If his soft Prayer propitious Heaven hears,  
Cares not if Daddy lives these seven Years.  
A POET too,( by chance God wor,)  
Had raised the sum to buy a lot.  
Thinks one Great prise worth twenty Bays:  
To Fortune too would Altars raise;  
Only th' unhappy Name of wit,  
He was afraid would spoil his Hit:  
For Fortune, by her constant Rules,  
Is only bound to favour Fools.  
But of this vast prize-gaping Host  
The Beaus and Lovers make the most:  
To any other Interests move  
There's Twenty want it all for Love:  
Some to buy Hackney Milk, and some  
For Milchers of their own at Home.  
In short, the mighty Goddess Fortune,  
Such contradicting Vows Importune,  
Her Deity with Devotion hugged,  
This way and that way pulled and tug'd,  
Her Ears on every side so lug'd.  
For all Hopes teemed: not one stood Barren;  
Whilst Prayers crost Prayers like Hares in Warren.  
Another sort with Prayers most hearty,  
Were bribing Fortune to their Party,  
( In hopes to fix her slippery Deity,)  
By wondrous promised Feats of Piety.  
One, if to him the great prise falls,  
Will build a Pillar of St. Paul's.  
Another Zealous Ananias,  
To spend no less in Uses pious,  
If t' his Saint-Hand, the Lot assurges,  
He'll found a Meeting-House for B—  
A roaring roister that stood near him,  
And hap'd by chance to particular him,  
What means( quoth Spark) the canting Wigion;  
Wouldst thou Court Fortune with Religion?  
Hast not thou learnt, a Fop so Old,  
That Pluto is the God of Gold.  
And Sin and Wickedness good store,  
Are the best beggars at his Door?  
If hopes of speeding were to Pray for't,  
Oons, man, Ide take a wiser way for't;  
Promise and Vow, 'twixt Mad and Drunk,  
To spend it all on Wine and Punk.  
The Saint held up his Hands, and blessed him:  
Nay, and 'tis thought( that Fright possessed him)  
He'had crossed himself: only 'twas Popish;  
And for that Cause not quiter so modish.  
A Jovial Lad( who ill could spare it,  
When pinched from Bottle, Friend, and Claret)  
paid for ten Tickets Angels ten,  
I hopes of vast Returns again.  
And when the sober crowd of wise ones  
Were paying Fortune their Orisons;  
He scorned to bend a Knee before her,  
That sickle Gypsy's blind Adorer:  
In her whole Wheel defied each spoken,  
resolved a Heavenlyer Power t'invoke,  
T' Implore the mighty God of Bub.  
Her titterish Ball! no, his sound Tub.  
If the great Lot falls to his share,  
He swears by Bacchus he'ell repair  
The barbarous Lewis only shane,  
The burning Heydelburgs dire flamme;  
Refoun'd at his own proper Cost  
The Tun that Conflagration lost.  
But now to come to dire Conclusion,  
And paint the Phyzes of Confusion:  
T' a brace of hundreds and a half,  
That only have the luck to laugh;  
No less then nine and Forty Thousand,  
Seven Hundred Fifty Gapers cozened,  
What Grins, Good L— d, and what Grimaces  
Was there in all those losing Faces.  
Here you might hear a whole half hundred,  
With a loud peal of Curses thundered,  
Death!( they all cry.) The happy neck,  
Drawn by a Fortunate Sir Dick!  
fallen to a Man of Wealth and Honour!  
Fortune the Jilt, a Pl— light on her.  
A sum enough for the preserving  
Half a score Honest Lads from starving.  
Some losing Gaimsters swore and damned.  
Lott'ry! was e'r● the World so shamed!  
From Venice, with a Pox! brought o'er  
From the da●'● Babylonian Shore!  
Desi●'d, most ●●tain, for our Ruin:  
For the poor Protestants undoing:  
A Popish-Plot, they all declare it;  
Nor doubt but the Great O— s can Swear it.  
But above all, a Country Fellow,  
Who had ventured brace of Tens in Yellow;  
And travelled twice ten long deep Mile.  
Through Thick and Thin, o'er Hedge and style,  
To see sweet Fortune kind and Frank;  
Zooks, when he foun I his hopes all Blank,  
Had chi but lost it at All-Vours,  
( cries Lout) 'mongst honest Country Bores,  
Chi had not cared one fingle Farthing;  
Chi'd had good Bub then int' hard Bargain;  
But here chi've made a woeful 'bout on't:  
A mon can't wet his Whistle out on't:  
Nor de'el one thonk your Porter-Grvm  
Will con a mon for all that sum.  
But, oh, my Masters, what surprise,  
Ith● penitential Beauteous Eyes;  
So many Fair Expectants cheated,  
And all their amorous hopes defeated,  
What Pencil, Reader, must I borrow,  
To draw that naked Face of Sorrow?  
All the True Colours should I lay on,  
I hazard more than old actaeon.  
No, Ladies, not t' incur your Frown,  
Nor his hard forked Doom pull down;  
The bold Adventure Ile give o'er:  
Put on your Masks, Ile see no more.   
FINIS.