Oh what a want of her loose gallants have,
Since shee hath chang’d her window for a grave;
From whence shee us’d to dart out witt so fast,
And stick them in their coaches as they past!
Who now shall make well-colour’d vice looke pale?
Or a curl’d meteor with her eyes exhale,
And talke him into nothing? Who shall dare
Tell barren braines they dwell in fertill haire?
Who now shall keepe ould countesses in awe,
And, by tart similyes, repentance draw