Are ye so dainty with a dirty parchment
And so slipshod to smirch our reputations?
You men! God’s arms! What ken ye of true women?
You stuff one doll and name it Modesty,
And bid her mince and giggle, hang her head
And ogle in her sleeve; another poppet
You make of snow and name St. Innocence:
She sits by moonlight in a silver night-gown
And sighs love-Latin in a nunnery.
By Corpus bones! is not a mare a horse?