YOU Squires o' th' shade, that love to tread In gloomy night, when day's in bed; That court the Moon, supposing she Likes such a watchful industry; Read here a story, it will make Your eyelids droop, when she's awake. 'Tis not the horrid noise of wars, Consequent chances, wounds and scars, The dangers of the foaming Deep, Nor all the bugbear Fates, that keep Fond men in awe, Hobgoblins, Sprites, Dire dreams in dark and tedious nights, A troubled conscience, nor the sense Of man's despairing diffidence, That can present so sad a face Of black affliction, as this place. The sneaking rascals, lowsy whores, The creaking of the dismal doors, That stink of stinks that fumes within, (Symptoms of beasts that dwell therein) So rot the air, cameleons could Not live unpoison'd with such food; There's reason for 't, no Mortal can Step from the excrement of Man; And that which should howe'er be sweet, Is like the rest; I mean, their meat; The locusts of the wilderness Are sweetmeats to their nasty mess. I could say more; the place provokes me, But that the vile tobacco chokes me. |