Poetical recreations consisting of original poems, songs, odes, &c. with several new translations : in two parts
Barker, Jane.

From Ovid's Amorum, lib. 2. El. 4. and Lucretius, lib. 4. That he loves Women of all sorts and sizes.

PRess'd with my thoughts, I to consession fall,
With anxious fears, till I lay open all;
I sin and I repent, clear of the score,
Then afterward relapse in Sin the more.
My self I guide, like some swist Pinnace toss'd
In Storms; the Rudder gone, and Compass lost;
No certain shape or features stint my mind,
I still or Love a thousand Reasons find;
Melodiously one sings, then straight I long
To quaver on her Lips, ev'n in her Song.
If she be vers'd in Arts, and deeply read,
I'm taken with her learned Maiden-head:
Page  143Or if untaught, and ignorant she be,
She takes me then with her simplicitie.
I like whom rigid Education fools,
Who wou'd not try to put her past her rules;
Though look demure, her Inclinations-swerve,
And, once let loose, she jigs without reserve.
Sanguine her looks, her colour high and good,
For all the rest I trust her flesh and blood.
Here living Snow my passion strangely warms,
And streight I wish her melting in my Arms;
White, Red, or Guinny black, or Gypsey brown,
My dearly-well-beloved ev'ry one.
If she is tall, my courage mounts as high,
To stamp some new heroick Progeny:
If little, oh how quick the Spirit moves!
If large, who wou'd not rowl in what he loves?
The lean provokes me with her naughty rubs;
But if she's plump, 'tis then my pretty Fubs;
And doubtless one might truck convenient sport,
With either fat, or lean, or long, or short,
With yellow Curls Aurora pleas'd her Fop,
And Leda (Iove well saw) was black-a-top.
Page  144The black or yellow are alike to me,
My Love will suit with ev'ry History.
If Caelia sing, she, like a Syrene, draws;
If she sing not, we kiss without a pause:
I love to rifle amongst Gems and Dress;
Yet lumber they to God-like nakedness.
Buzzards and Owls on special quarry fall,
Mine is a gen'rous Love, and flies at all.
I like the Rich, 'cause she is pamper'd high,
And merry Beggar love for Charity;
Widow or Wife, I'm for a Pad that's made;
If Virgin troth, who wou'd not love a Maid?
If she be young, I take her in the nick;
If she has Age, she helps it with a trick.
If nothing charms me in her Wit or Face,
She has her Fiddle in some other place.
Come ev'ry sort and size, the great or small,
My Love will find a Tally for 'em all.

The foregoing Elegy having been Publish'd imper∣fect, is here Printed from the best Copy.