Mr. HAINES's Second Recantation : A PROLOGUE intended to be spoken by him dress'd in a Turkish habit . MY Reconversion , Sirs , you heard of late , I told you I was turn'd , but not to what , The truth disguis'd for Cause best known to me ; But now what really I am , Stroking his Mustaches . — you see ; In vain did English Education work , My Faith was sixt , I always was a Turk ; Besides my rambling Steps ere I came home , Constantinople reach'd as well as Rome , And by the Mufti , who nice Virtue priz'd , For being so Circumspect , was Circumcis'd ; 'Tis true , I did endeavor to refuse , That dam'd old silly Custom of the Iews , Because I was asham'd of being shown , I was too plump a Babe , an Infant too well grown ; But they would finish what they had begun , So between Turk and Iew my Jobb was done ; I wish the promis'd blessing may appear , I'm sure , I bought Religion plaguy dear ; For to be free , I greater Danger ran Of being an Eunuch , than a Musselman ; But Constancy takes strangly in that Place , My manly Suffering won the Peoples Grace , I gain'd their Hearts , their chiefest Secrets saw , We whor'd and got Drunk contrary to Law : I had five Wives , thank the dear Prophet for it , A Black , a Blew , a Brown , a Fair , a Carrot , And by the way , 'tis worth your Observation To note , the sollid Wisdom of that Nation : Wives , are like Spannels there , and when ye marry You need but whistle , Wife must fetch and carry , A pretier Custom , if I understand , Than 'tis in England here where they Command ; The Ladies here may without Scandal shew Face , or white Bubbies , to each Ogling Beau ; But there close veil'd , not one kind Glance can fall , She that once shews her Face , will shew ye all ; Wits there are too , but Poet there's but one , A huge unweildy jarring Lute and Tunn , That spite of all my Parts the Laurel won , Not for his skill in Satyr , or in Lyricks , Or for his humble Stile in lofty Panegyricks , Or the rare Images that swell his Noddle , But sitting up and Joking o'er a Bottle . His Patron's Wit , still as his own is us'd , Yet never had a Friend , but he abus'd , What is his own has neither Plot nor Soul , Nor ever one good thought but what he stole ; Eating , not Writing , is his proper Function , Supper's his Sacrament , his Extreme Unction ; Like Whores condemn'd , that free themselves from Chains ; He pleaded for't his Belly , I my Brains , But Poet Belly routed Poet Haines : Missing this Post , I get into the Wars , But finding quickly there's were real jars , Not liking that robust Confusion there , Sneak'd off in time , to get Commission here , Well knowing that what ever wrongs are righting . You London Blades , have wiser ways than fighting .