Thy verse shall skourge like hell it will torment.
Have mercy on mee and my sinfull Muse
Which rub'd and tickled with thine could not chuse
But spend some of her pith, and yeild to bee
One in that chaste and mistique Tribadree.
Bassaes adultery no fruit did Leave,
Nor theirs, which their swollen thighs did nimbly weave,
And with new armes and mouths embrace and kiss,
Though they had issue was not like to this.
Thy muse, Oh strange and holy Lecheree