The Eleventh Plague.

  A Maiden head!  Pish, in it’s no Delight,

Nor have I Ease, but when returning Night,
With Sleep’s soft gentle Spell my Senses charms,
Then Fancy some Gallant brings to my Arms: 
In them I oft the lov’d Shadow seem
To grasp, and Joys, yet blush I too in Dream. 
I wake, and long my Heart in Wonder lies,
To think on my late pleasing Extasies: 
But when I’m waking, and don’t yet possess,
In Sleep again I wish to enjoy the Bliss: 
For Sleep do’s no malicious Spies admit,
Yet yields a lively Semblance of Delight. 
Gods! what a Scene of Joy was that! how fast
I clasp’d the Vision to my panting Breast? 
With what fierce Bounds I sprung to meet the Bliss,
While my wrapt Soul flew out in ev’ry Kiss! 
Till breathless, faint, and softly sunk away,
I all dissolv’d in reaking Pleasures lay.

The Twelfth Plague.

  Happen what will, I’ll make some Lovers know

What Pains, what raging Pains I undergo,
Till I am really Heart-sick, almost Dead,
By keeping that damn’d thing a Maiden-head. 
Which makes me with Green Sickness almost lost,
So pale, so wan, and looking like a Ghost,
Eating Chalk, Cindars, or Tobacco-Pipes,
Which with a Looseness scowers all my Tripes;
But e’er I’ll longer this great Pain endure,
The Stews I’ll search, but that I’ll find a Cure.

The Thirteenth Plague.

  Let doating Age debate of Law and Right,

And gravely state the Bounds of Just and Fit;
Whose Wisdom’s but their Envy, to destroy
And bar those Pleasures which they can’t enjoy. 
My blooming Years, more sprightly and more gay,
By Nature were design’d for Love and Play: 
Youth knows no Check, but leaps weak Virtue’s Fence,
And briskly hunts the noble Chace of Sense! 
Without dull thinking I’ll Enjoyment trace,
And call that lawful whatsoe’er do’s please. 
Nor will my Crime want Instances alone,
’Tis what the Glorious Gods above have done;
For Saturn, and his greater Off-spring Jove,
Both stock’d their Heaven with Incestuous Love.

The Fourteenth Plague.

  If any Man do’s with my Bubbies play,

Squeeze my small Hand, as soft as Wax or Clay,
Or lays his Hands upon my tender Knees,
What strange tumultuous Joys upon me seize! 
My Breasts do heave, and languish do my Eyes,
Panting’s my Heart, and trembling are my Thighs;
I sigh, I wish, I pray, and seem to die,
In one continu’d Fit of Ecstacy;
Thus by my Looks may Man know what I mean,
And how he easily may get between
Those Quarters, where he may surprize a Fort,
In which an Emperor may find such Sport,
That with a mighty Gust of Love’s Alarms,
He’d lie dissolving in my circling Arms;