And, while the maids to know her now begin,
Clears, with that precious milk, her muddy skin
For which, though exiled to the frozen main,
She’d lead a drove of asses in her train!
But tell me now: this thing, thus daubed and oiled,
Thus poulticed, plastered, baked by turns and boiled,
Thus with pomatums, ointments, lacquered o’er—
Is it a face, pray tell me, or a sore?
—Satires.