Sick and Tired of Harlots

I am utterly at my wits end when it comes to these harlots that roam the streets surrounding the Thame. They bewitch and corrupt all that is good and noble within our citizens, gentry and even peerage, transmuting fine men of Britannia into shadowy blackguards and knaves.

Their deceit knows no bounds. Why, just a fortnight ago, a young slag in maiden's clothing was impersonating an upstanding, respectable broad of aristocratic stock within the gilded streets of Whitehall (where I make my living as a statesman), pretending that I had deflowered her after I solicited her services with gold as if she was a lowly lady of the night. Lo and behold, it turns out she in fact had been deflowered long ago by some negroids who had come by ship from our colonial holdings in the Carib and below the Nile.

All I had ever longed for was to rear fine lads bearing my golden locks and sapphire eyes that a fine maiden of great stature and noble blood would undertake the noble obligation as a woman of Britannia, to raise my offsprings. Instead, for a distance as great as the number of leagues that one of Her Majesty's ironclads could sail, I see none in a dress save for those of less than respectable trades, even insofar as of a diabolical and sinful nature.

From what great heights has this great kingdom fallen, from the heights of the lords and ladies of England and Arthur with his gallant knights at the round table, to this city of sewage and fog, infested by Spainard women in brothels and the blasted Normans and Bretons pillaging London bare of her upstanding women.