The mysteries of love & eloquence, or, The arts of wooing and complementing as they are manag'd in the Spring Garden, Hide Park, the New Exchange, and other eminent places : a work in which is drawn to the life the deportments of the most accomplisht persons, the mode of their courtly entertainments, treatments of their ladies at balls, their accustom'd sports, drolls and fancies, the witchcrafts of their perswasive language in their approaches, or other more secret dispatches ...

The OLD GILL.

IF you will be still, Then tell you I will, Of a lovely old Gill, Dwelt under a hill: Her Locks are like sage, That's well worn with Age, And her visage would swage A stout mans Courage.

Teeth yellow as Box, Clean out with the Pox; Her Breath smells like Lox, Or unwiped Nocks: She hath a devilish grin, Long hairs on her chin, To the soul footed Fien, She is nearly a Kin.

She hath a beetle brow, Deep Furrows enow, She's ey'd like a Sow, Flat nos'd like a Cow: Lips swarthy and dun, A mouth like a Gun, And her tattle doth run, As swift as the Sun.

On her back stands a Hill, You may place a Wind-mill, And the Farts of her gill, Will make the sails trill: Her neck is much like, The foul swines in the Dike, Against Crab-lice and Tike, A blew pin in her pike.

Within this Anno, There dwells an Hurricano, And the rise of her Plano, Vomits smoak like Vulcano: But a pox of her twist, It is always bepist, And the Devil's in his list, That to her Mill brings grist.

'Ware the dint of her dirt, She will give you a flirt, She has always the squirt, She is loose and ungirt: Want of wind makes her pant, Till she fizzle and rant, And the hole in her gant, Is as deep as Levant.

Yea deep as any well, A Furnace or Kell, A bottomless cell, Some think it is Hell: But I have spoken my fill, Of my Lovely old Gill, And 'tis taken so ill, I'le throw by my Quill.