Now steams of Garlick through the nostrils passage
Made thorough-faires, hell take their bold embassage,
With these mundungus and a breath that smells
Like standing-pools in subterraneall cells,
Compos’d Pomanders to out-stink the Devil,
Yet strange to tell, they suffer’d all this evil,
Nor to make water all the while would rise,
The women sure had spunges ’twixt their thighs:
To stir at this good time they thought was sin,
So strictly their devotion kept them in.