But now, to solve the natural cause
By sober philosophic laws;
Whether all passions, when in ferment,
Work out as anger does in vermin;
So, when a weasel you torment,
You find his passion by his scent.
We read of kings, who, in a fright,
Though on a throne, would fall to sh--.
Beside all this, deep scholars know,
That the main string of Cupid's bow,
Once on a time was an a-- gut;
Now to a nobler office put,
By favour or desert preferr'd
From giving passage to a t--;
But still, though fix'd among the stars,
Does sympathize with human a--.
Thus, when you feel a hard-bound breech,
Conclude love's bow-string at full stretch,
Till the kind looseness comes, and then,
Conclude the bow relax'd again.
And now, the ladies all are bent,
To try the great experiment,
Ambitious of a regent's heart,
Spread all their charms to catch a f--
Watching the first unsavoury wind,
Some ply before, and some behind.
My lord, on fire amid the dames,
F--ts like a laurel in the flames.
The fair approach the speaking part,
To try the back-way to his heart.
For, as when we a gun discharge,
Although the bore be none so large,
Before the flame from muzzle burst,
Just at the breech it flashes first;
So from my lord his passion broke,
He f--d first and then he spoke.
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