The Problem, "That My Lord Berkeley Stinks When He Is In Love"

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.