Earl j/Rochester. 175

This may suffice to let you know,

That I to Love am not a Foe,

Tho’ you are pleas’d to think me so.

’Tis llrange his Zeal (hould b’in Suspicion, *

Who dies a Martyr for’s Religion.

But now to give you an AccountOf Cuffley, that Whore Paramount!

Cuffley! whose Beauty warms the Age,

And fills our Youth with Love and Rage ;

Who, like fierce Wolves, pursue the Game,

While secretly the letch’rous DameWith some choice Gallant takes her Flight,

And in a Corner lies all Night ;

Then the next Morning we all hunt,

To find whose Fingers smell of ——- ;

With Jealousy and Envy mov’dAgainst the Man that was belov’d :

Whilst you within some neighb’ring GroveIndite the Story of your Love,

And with your Pen-Knife keen and bright,

On stately Trees your Passion write;

So that each Nymph that passes through,

Must envy her and pity you »

We at the Fleece, or at the Bear,

With good Case-Knife, well whet on Stair,

A gentle Weapon, made to seedMankind, and not to make 'em bleed,

A thousand am’rous Fancies scrape :

There’s not a Pewter-Difh can ’scapeWithout her Name, or Arms, which areThe fame that Love himself does bear.

Here one, to shew you Love's no Glutton,

1’ th’ Midst of Supper, leaves his Mutton,

*4

And