Could she her longing eyes forbear to fixOn his fine feather, and his coach and six!Enrich'd by plunder, he could never missThe favour, who would buy the venal bliss.No matter how he got his wealth, by war,And blood: she cares not, if she has her share.The upstart forward was, 'tis said, in fight,And in the field of battle made a knight:But had his honour come without his gold,His, sure, had been like my reception, cold.To men of merit how could she be coy,Yet to a murd'rer prostitute the joy?That head which lolls upon your panting breast,Was lately cover'd with a plumy crest.Can you the bully to your bed admit ?Are his hard limbs for ladies' dalliance fit ?His hands in your embrace you'll find embru'dWith clotted, and perhaps with guiltless blood;How awkward must it be for you to feel,Near yours, his thigh that late was cas'd with steel