To some (by thee made happy) poet's line;
I love thee not for voice or slender small:
But wilt thou know wherefore? fair sweet, for all.
Faith, wench, I cannot court thy sprightly eyes,
With the base-viol plac'd between my thighs;
I cannot lisp, nor to some fiddle sing,
Nor run upon a high-stretch'd minikin;
I cannot whine in puling elegies,
Entombing Cupid with sad obsequies;
I am not fashion'd for these amorous times,