Thy dupes and dancers, ushering the courtier
To kiss beneath thy glove the goose-girl’s hand,
Or snub, behind the poor familiar rogue
And clown, some god that hides in Momus’ mask.
Nay, but not she—my gentle Prioress!
Though all the rest, in born disguisements, be
Basted and togg’d with huge discrepancy,
She wears the proper habit of her soul.
Dear God! how harmony like hers unchains
Delight from the lugg’d body of Desire