Speak O ye Trees with kind refreshing Shade,
How many Whores have at your Roots been made;
Alas; how small the Number to what now,
This one, this happy Night, alone will shew
So many, that each conscious _Dryad_ flees,
Lest she too should be ravish'd thro' the Trees.

Next rattling Dice invite th' attentive Ear,
Lords loudly laugh, as loud the Bullies swear:
The Country Knight o'th' Shire sells his Estate,
And here with Heart intrepid meets his Fate;
So they withdrew to quench their glowing Flame,
And to preserve the Honour of her Name;
For oh! sad Fate as they ascend the Stairs,
At the Room Door her good _Mamma_ appears,
Soon as she spies her Child with Looks demure,
She charges her to keep her _Vessel pure_:
Miss pertly answers to avoid her Doom,
_Mamma_, whose Hat and Wig is in the Room?
The good old Dame yeilds at the just Reproach,
Cries--_Well my Dear, don't take too much!_

Thus various Joys soon waste the fleeting Night,
And Sleep and Lust the Croud to Bed invite;
Some in their Truckle-Beds to snore all Day,
Others in Gambols with their Wh----es to play;
The Dunghill Trapes, trickt up like virtuous Trull,
If by good Chance, she gets a _Dupe_ or Cull;
On Tallyman intrudes twelve Hours more,
And for a clean Shift presumes to run a Score.