A Second Burlesque LETTER written for a Friend , suppos'd to be a CUCKOLD'S GHOST , coming from Hell , and answering a Satyr of STUM CLARET his Brother Vintner ; With a Conjugal Reprimand to SALACIA his late Mournful WIDOW . IN Limbo where there loudly howls Cuckolds , and Cuckold makers Souls , Where Courtiers with their Wealth and Wits Are dam'd as well as snivelling Cits ; And Lady fair , with shape Divine , Are rank'd with Ioan that milk'd the Kine . Where Country Knight , and Country Clown , Esquire and Plowmen are all one ; To shew all Fools whom Pride does seize , Hell and the Grave know no degrees ; There is a dismal smoaky hole , The Cell of many a wretched Soul , Whose sin of Marriage was occasion Of his remediless Damnation . A Crue of Ghosts infest this place , Pale Monsters of so strange a Race , That tortur'd Imps this Cavern shun , As far more dreadful than their own , Round a blew fire compos'd of Souls , Of Rampant Wives instead of Coals , Poor Cockolds come , and fry by turns , And thump each other with their Horns , Like Rutting Deer , with Antlets large , Or Rams they vigorously charge , Doom'd to this kind of Punishment , For giving an ill President ; And changing blessed single Life , For that perpetual Plague a Wife , From this forlorn Eternal Grave , Which Belzebub calls Cuckolds Cave , This Melancholly Brimstone Bed , I come to answer Tory Ned , And school a Woman that Surprizes , Nay quite out-does all Hell with vices : But first , Dull Ghost , how can it be , That thou shouldst dare to lash at me , With thy late senceless Poetry . Thou hast in Hell , I'm sure , thy share , If Devils can shew Justice there , For every deadly Sin of thine , Millions against thy head Combine Whom thou hast poyson'd with dam'd Wine , And though I'm with these Horns made rich , For marrying a Salacious B— Shake thine and mine in Bag together , You'll find there's Chastity in neither ; Thine would have fear'd no Tongues reproach , For setting of her Cask a broach , Had not Age cool'd her by degrees , And sunk the Liquor to the Lees , Then what a Plague make thee a roaring , And scribling on my Fubses whoring ; For were she in her Fame as Odious , As the lewd Wife of Cesar Claudius , That twenty five one Morning try'd , Yet went away unsatisfi'd ; Or pos'd the World in these lewd times With a new Catalogue of Crimes , She in the vicious Mystery Could ne'er out-do thy Wife and thee ; The cause of all her Crimes have been , Because to thee she's near of Kin , She might have prov'd a hopeful piece Had she not chanc'd to be thy Neice ; For as in Cocks of Game there is A Metal which can never miss , Where if the Breed be true , not one , Shall ever leave the Pit and Run : So 'tis in Kindred understood , Vertue and Vices run i'th Blood , And Whores and Rogues from each Relation , Descend to th' twentieth Generation ; If this be true , thou wretched Ghost , How didst thou dare to leave thy Post , When thou wert bottling Molten Lead , Which is in Hell thy daily Trade , As punishment for many a Cheat , Done in thy Transitory State , To Dam thy self by Poetry Upon Agario and me ? Thy haggard Genius vilely spends Her Heat , for know , as Fate intends Cuckolds are always made by friends , 'Tis your friend still that tops your Spouse , For strangers come not to your House , At least to have acquaintance there , Like friends familiarly and near , And I with him am satisfi'd , In all things that concerns my Bride , For whether Husbands are or no , If their Wives itch , it will be so ; Therefore leave off , Good Ned , in time , And tempt no more my Rage in Rhime , For I Agario's Muse inherit , And double portion of his Spirit ; And shall so thump thy clodded Brain , If thou dost dare to write again , The Devil shall think it an Abuse , To have in Hell so dam'd a Muse , And send thee back to mortal Life , Condemn'd to a worse Plague thy Wife . And now I talk of Wives , I groan To think how I must maul my own , Though ill , I will not let thee use her , I have a Title to abuse her ; And must long smother'd silence break , Losers have always leave to speak , And if that common Rule prevail , Sure Cuckolds may have leave to rail . * Oh thou sworn Foe to all my Ease , Thou curst disturber of my Peace , When living I no rest could have , Nor now can find it in the Grave , Thy mischiefs are so manifold , They have pierc'd through the crumbling Mould , And rais'd me from the shades agen To be divulger of thy Sin , Wast not enough , oh thou Obsceen . Proud , Salt , Lascivious , Rampant Quean ; That I've endur'd the Countries scorns , And drawn within my Hat my Horns ; And when I've broach'd some Hogshead new , Have seen some other Tapping you ; Yet small account o' th' Object made , Believing 'twas to force a Trade : Have I not hid my Patient Noddle , When Bully Rock has call'd for Bottle , And took you to some inner Room , To beat a March upon your Drum ? Nay , to complete thy nauseous Crimes , When friend Agario came sometimes ; When thou with flattering Smiles hast met him , And thy Mouth water'd to be at him ; I like a Man that knew good breeding , Have slipt away no matters heeding , Because a Friend of him we made , And for each kiss he soundly paid , And canst thou be a base Detractor , Of one so much thy benefactor , And with dam'd Female spite decry , One that knew all as oft as I , That did our Family such good , And was so free t' amend our Blood ; To us and to our Son , Pox Rot him , Was full as kind as if he got him , Though a true Rogue as ever twang'd , And will in all due time be hang'd , For to what end can he be brought , That by thy Morals has been taught ; And canst thou , worse than Fiend of Hell , Thou Jilt incomprehensible ; Canst thou forswear things plain as light , Nay things unquestionably right , And does not Pillory plague thy Mind With loss of Ears which wretches find , That are in spite of Conscience blind ; Plain is thy Sexes vice by thee , Made obvious to Posterity : That when a Woman once grows Lewd , No Art can turn her back to good , The spreading Seed has taken root , And spite of Industry will shoot , Our wholsome grain we vainly sow , Spite of our Art the Tares will grow , And gay and flourishing appear , As if the Devil had sow'd 'em there ; No Women of the former times Arriv'd to know thy heighth of Crimes , Thy falshood , baseness , Perjury , Ingratitude and Villany , Were never known in this degree ; For had the Scripture e'er exprest , A Woman with thy Devils possest , Our Saviour would have been in doubt Whether his Power could cast'em out , The Herd of Swine had been too small , And never have contain'd 'em all ; How happy then is that good Man , That Cloaks thy Sins now I am gone , That at the Mark still widely shoots , And wears with pleasure my old Boots , Or if the truth were plainly found , The Boots of all the Country round ? Faith if a Cuckold e'er behav'd Himself with Merit to be sav'd , Thy Case , poor Fool , is singular , For thou hast so much Hell from her , 'Tis even pity thou shouldst know A second Penance here below . Couldst thou not find , egregious Sot , Why thou wert married , or for what ? Could'st thou be Ignorant of all The Vermin in her Trap did fall ? And never know ' til 'twas too late , Thy morsel was but for a Bait ; Or that it was thy noble place To Father all her spurious Race , That if she whelp'd a squauling Lad , The Todpole Imp might call thee Dad ; Although by Men of all degrees . Compounded like a Chetworth Cheese ; Or was it really thy want , Brought thee to wed this Widow Saint , As no one knows a wretches Case , Except he feels the same distress , If so , thou'rt fall'n from bad to worse , No Poverty is half the Curse Of him that has to dam his Life , A Rampant Strumpet for his Wife , Thus say the Fates , and lastly tell Thy pretious Mate , that I from Hell , And Fiends that fill each gloomy Room , Where she at last must surely come , Ascend to purge each vile Offence , And urge her to repent her Sins , With Tears deny what late she swore , And never henceforth play the Whore ; Else from my melancholly Tomb , With Troops of Ghosts agen I'll come , And fiercely drag her hence to slaughter , Where all her Priests and Holy Water , With all the Aid and Fopperies they can make , Shall never have the power to bring her back .