I longed to kiss her kindly, and to greet
Her loving airs, so charming, and so sweet:
Nay, be not jealous, John, thou hast no cause,
This was whilst she within the modest laws
Of a true poet kept; she's nauseous grown,
Thou needs must blush to own her for thine own.
If thou has any grace; she's poor and spent,
So far from witty, that grows impudent.
O what a silly do, thou keep'st in vain,
About a medal thus to break thy brain;