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                    THE

        Sailor Turn'd Pyrate :

                           OR ;

            A SCOURGE

                          FOR

            A Preſs Gang.

Written by a Gentleman who was unlawfully
    Detain'd in Cuſtody by thoſe Mercileſs Soul-
    Hawlers.

OAſſiſt me, ye Powers that have Rhimes at Command,
And Apollo ſtand by me with a Lift of thy Hand,
While I puzzle my Brains for Invectives and Satyr,
In Return for Affronts of an Inſolent Nature :
That the Fleet ſhould have Men, all People agree,
But what Devil bid you make a Seaman of me ?
Your Servant, Lieutenant, I beg your Excuſe,
It's your Buſineſs to take up the Vagrant and Looſe ;
Not Men of Employments that Work for their Lives,
And Sweat to get Bread for their Children and Wives ;
Not ſuch Whoſe Deſcent, and whole Learn'd Education,
Exalts 'em beyond any Fore-Maſt-Man's Station.
For Shame, your Commiſſion no longer Abuſe,
To the Gaming-Houſe Tables, the Mint, and the Stews,
To Derby Alehouſes you'd better Repair,
There are that will fit what you want to a Hair ;
Stern Bullies, Kept Sharpers that live on their Whores,
Admirers of Chalk, and great Lovers of Scores,
Such whoſe Lives to themſelves is a Burthen and Pain,
Who are fit for the Gallows, may be fit for the Main.
Says Jack in an Office, Sweet Sir, not ſo faſt,
No words, but Depoſite, or your Sentence is Paſt !
We live by the Rich, by the Poor who ſhould Starve ?
Five Guineas acquits you, or elſe you muſt Serve.
Can you think a Lieutenant his Fortune can make,
By ſqueezing a Kix that's ſo dry as a Rake ?
Time enough for that Practice when our All lies at Stake.
There, take them, and with them what Malice can vent,
And know that the Muſe can Injuſtice Reſent,
                                    A                                                Can

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