On which ships, men, are lost, body and bones.
The poem itself begins thus:
Time was, John Lawreat, when thy pretty muse,
Young, plump, and buxome, no man would refuse;
Though thou did'st poorly prostitute her store,
And, for vile pence, made her a hackney whore.
Against the rules of art, Phœbus is just;
Her former lovers does her now disgust;
And I, that once in private loved her well,
Nay, sometimes smiled at her Achitophel,