And faith that’s all; for they have no rich fansies,
No Poets are, nor Authors of Romances.
There sits a Lady fine, painted by Art,
And there sits curious Mistris Fiddle-cum-fart:
There sits a Chamber-maid upon a Hassock,
Whom th’ Chaplain oft instructs without his Cassock:
One more accustom’d unto Curtain-sins,
Than to her thimble, or to handle pins.
O what a glosse her forehead smooth adorns!
Excelling Phœbe with her silver horns.