Could I convert my farts to rifts;
Since I, the first, for farting die,
Close up the place from whence they fly;
To commit my crime, I think ye’ll scarce,
If once you do cork up your arse.
And now since women stones do carry,
Men need not in the world tarry.
Judge if such women be chaste complete,
With forty stones between their feet.
But since ’tis so, ye will come on,