Two persons stood in the Pillory this Week for Sodomy, and were sadly maul’d.
(Mist’s Weekly Journal – 12th November 1726)
I look to the sun, but it does not warm
as we’re kicked, shoved on to the caravan;
Jeered and debased as the lowest worm.
The frictions of rope at wrist and neck burn,
and I can turn only slightly to watch them;
the murderous mob waiting in the streets.
They don't even know who I am
yet they carry armloads of vegetable rot.
All sound seems to seep away up there
when you're forced to look down.
The light is brighter, even the air
is softer than the finest eiderdown.
Then the first missile is struck in your face, your eye,
and even through the pain, you must not, must not cry.