THE Poor Whore's Lamentation:  
OR, The Fleetstreet Crack's Complaint FOR Want of TRADING.  
To the Tune of, The Guinea wins her, etc.  

Licenced according to Order.   

PRay hear my Lamentation  
young Gallants of the City,  
Without dissimulation  
Afford one grain of pity;  
Unto a Lady of the Town,  
Clothed in a ragged tattered Gown,  
For Traiding's grown so dead,  
Upon my Maidenhead,  
Tha● though abroad I stay,  
I do not yearn I say  
Sometimes a groat a day;  
We are poor, the trade was never so before.   

I once did wear my Tower,  
Rich Silks and sumptuous Laces,  
They all were in my power,  
I got them by Embaces;  
My Chain and Locket both of Gold,  
Which was most delightful to behold,  
And Sparks did me adore,  
I rolled in Guinneys' store;  
This was a living Trade,  
My Plumes I then displayed,  
And kept my Waiting-maid,  
But now, now, their Trade will not such State allow.   

They treated me with Nectar,  
To gain a minute's pleasure,  
Yet over them I'd hector  
And make them wait my leisure,  
I was the topping Crack of all,  
Noble Lords would at my Lodging call;  
I went in rich Array,  
Much like a Lady gay,  
But now my Sleves of Lawn,  
And Smocks are all in pawn,  
My Cullies are withdrawn,  
I strange, strange, at such a sad and dismal change.   

My price it was a Guinny,  
Not long before last Easter,  
But now there is so many,  
I'm glad to take a Taster,  
For why the Trade is spoiled of late  
There's little Nan●y, Bridget, P●ue and Kate,  
They'll play at you not what,  
For Twopences and a Pot;  
And thus quite through the Town,  
The prizes are run down,  
We ne'er get half-a-crown,  
Well paid, those Gillians has so spoiled the Trade.   

There's Bridget, Prue and Nancy,  
They're fond and foolish Nises,  
If they a Cully fa●cy,  
They'll never stand for prizes,  
Immediately on him they'll door,  
But this makes them wear a Thread-bare-Coat;  
And I among the rest,  
With sorrows am oppressed,  
To see it worse and worse,  
If it continues thus,  
I shall be bound to Curse,  
Them all, who first did let their Prizes fall.   

I was as fair a Creature,  
As most was in the Nation,  
You never saw a sweeter,  
When in my Golden Station,  
My beauty is not much decayed,  
For if I had but a living Trade,  
I should be fine and gay,  
Then Gallants come away,  
My name is loving Nell,  
I do in Fleetstreet dwell,  
And I shall use you well,  
Come amain, and raise my honour once again.    

LONDON: Printed for J. Bissel, near the Hospital in West-Smithfield.