THE PROBLEM,

Did ever problem thus perplex,

Or more employ the female sex?

So sweet a passion who would think,

Jove ever form'd to make a stink?

The ladies vow and swear, they'll try,

Whether it be a truth or lie.

Love's fire, it seems, like inward heat,

Works in my lord by stool and sweat,

Which brings a stink from every pore,

And from behind and from before;

Yet what is wonderful to tell it,

None but the favourite nymph can smell it.

But now, to solve the natural cause

By sober philosophic laws;

Whether all passions, when in ferment,

Work out as anger does in vermin;

So, when a weasel you torment,

You find his passion by his scent.

We read of kings, who, in a fright,

Though on a throne, would fall to sh —.

Beside all this, deep scholars know,

That the main string of Cupid's bow,

Once on a time was an a — gut;

Now to a nobler office put,

By favour or desert preferr'd

From giving passage to a t —;

But still, though fix'd among the stars,

Does sympathize with human a —.

Thus, when you feel a hard-bound breech,

Conclude love's bow-string at full stretch,

Till the kind looseness comes, and then,

Conclude the bow relax'd again.

And now, the ladies all are bent,

To try the great experiment,

Ambitious of a regent's heart,

Spread all their charms to catch a f —

Watching the first unsavoury wind,

Some ply before, and some behind.

My lord, on fire amid the dames,

F — ts like a laurel in the flames.

The fair approach the speaking part,

To try the back-way to his heart.

For, as when we a gun discharge,

Although the bore be none so large,

Before the flame from muzzle burst,

Just at the breech it flashes first;

So from my lord his passion broke,

He f — d first and then he spoke.

The ladies vanish in the smother,

To confer notes with one another;

And now they all agreed to name

Whom each one thought the happy dame.

Quoth Neal, whate'er the rest may think,

I'm sure‘ twas I that smelt the stink.

You smell the stink! by G — d, you lie,

Quoth Ross, for I'll be sworn‘ twas I.

Ladies, quoth Levens, pray forbear;

Let's not fall out; we all had share;

And, by the most I can discover,

My lord's a universal lover.