None of the whales length; for they reach’d her knees:
Off with her head, and then shee hath a middle:
As her wast stands, shee lookes like the new fiddle,
The favorite Theorbo, (truth to tell yee,)
Whose neck and throat are deeper then the belly[107].
Have you seene monkyes chain’d about the loynes,
Or pottle-potts with rings? Just soe shee joynes
Her selfe together: A dressing shee doth love
In a small print below, and text above.
What though her name be King, yet tis noe treason,