Con mala Muger el remedio Mucha Tierra por el medio.
I have oft wondred why thou didst elect Thy Mistress of a stuff none could affect,
That wore his eyes in the right place.
A thing Made up, when Natures powers lay slumbering.
One, where all pregnant imperfections met To make her sexes scandal:
Teeth of jet,
Hair dy'd in Orpment, from whose fretful hew Canidia her highest Witch-crafts drew.
A lip most thin and pale, but such a mouth Which like the Poles is stretched North and South.
A face so colour'd, and of such a form,
As might defiance bid unto a storm:
And the complexion of her sallow hide Like a wrack't body washt up by the Tyde:
Eyes small: a nose so to her vizard glew'd As if 'twould take a Planets altitude.
Last for her breath, 'tis somewhat like the smell That does in Ember weeks on Fishstreet dwell;
Or as a man should fasting scent the Rose Which in the savoury Bear-garden growes.
If a Fox cures the Paralyticall,
Had'st thou ten Palsies, she'd out-stink them all.
But I have found thy plot: sure thou did'st trie To put thy self past hope of jealousie:
And whil'st unlearned fools the senses please,
Thou cur'st thy appetite by a disease;
As many use to kill an itch withall,
Quicksilver or some biting Minerall.
Dote upon handsome things each common man With little study and less labour can;
But to make love to a Deformity,
Onely commends thy great ability,
Who from hard-favour'd objects draw'st content,
As Estriches from iron nutriment.
Well take her, and like mounted George, in bed Boldly archieve thy Dragons Maiden-head:
Where (though scarce sleep) thou mayst rest confident None dares beguile thee of thy punishment:
The sin were not more foul he should commit,
Then is that She with whom he acted it.
Yet take this comfort: when old age shall raze,
Or sickness ruine many a good face,
Thy choice cannot impair; no cunning curse Can mend that night-peece, that is, make her worse.
