'Tis strange that in a Country where
Our Ladies are so Kind and Fair,
So Gay, and Lovely, to the Sight,
So full of Beauty and Delight;
That Men should on each other doat,
And quit the charming Petticoat.
Sure the curs'd Father of this Race,
That does both Sexes thus disgrace,
Must be a Monster, Mad, or Drunk,
Who, bedding some prepostrous Punk,
Mistook the downy Seat of Love,
And got them in the Sink above;
So that, at first, a T[oa]d and They
Were born the very self same Way, [i.e. from the anus according to folklore]
From whence they draw this cursed Itch,
Not to the Belly, but the Breech;
Else who could Woman's Charms refuse,
To such a beastly Practice use?
'Tis true, that Swine on Dunghills bred,
Nurs'd up in Filth, with Offel fed,
Have oft the Flow'ry Meads forsook,
To wallow Belly deep in Muck;
But Men who chuse this backward Way,
Are fifty Times worse Swine than they:
For the less Savage four-leg'd Creature,
Lives but acording to his Nature:
But the Bug[ge]ranto two leg'd Brute,
Pursues his Lust contary to't;
The brawny Boar will love his Sow;
The Horse his Mare; the Bull his Cow;
But Sodomites their Wives forsake,
Unmanly Liberties to take,
And fall in Love with one another,
As if no Woman was their Mother:
For he that is of Woman born,
Will to her Arms again return;
And surely never chuse to play
His Lustful Game, the backward Way.
But since it has appear'd too plain,
There are such Brutes that pass for Men;
May he that on the Rump so doats,
Be Damn'd as deep as Doctor Oates,[Titus Oates]
That Scandal unto all black Coats.