The Man that led me to such Happiness.


_The Sixth Plague._

Pox take the thing Folks call a Maiden-head,
For soon as e'er I'm sleeping in my Bed,
I dream I'm mingling with some Man my Thigh,
Till something more than ord'nary does rise;
But when I wake and find my Dream's in vain,
I turn to Sleep only to Dream again,
For Dreams as yet are only kind to me,
And at the present quench my Lechery.


_The Seventh Plague._

Of late I wonder what's with me the Matter,
For I look like Death, and am as weak as Water,
For several Days I loath the sight of Meat,
And every Night I chew the upper Sheet;
[*?]e such Obstructions, that I'm almost moap'd,
And breath as if my Vitals all were stop'd.
I told a Friend how strange with me it was,
She, an experienc'd Bawd, soon grop'd the Cause,
Saying, _for this Disease, take what you can,
You'll ne'er be well, till you have taken Man._
Therefore, before with Maiden-heads I'll be
Thus plagu'd, and live in daily Misery,
Some Spark shall rummage all my Wem about,