Printed for the Society of Vice

“ So all those slow coaches, who a rise scarce can get;
Come, pay your respect to Our Lady St. Bridget;
She'll warm up your blood till it boils in your veins,
And your penis all his pristine vigour regains.
Let the birch be your love, St. Bridget your saint,
Never flinch from the rod, nor think of a faint;
Swish - swish - let it fall, till the glow of desire.
Will run thro' your senses, and set them on fire.
Ah! then you can fuck! and fuck, ah! so well! ”