No, I'll no sharers have in my delight,
180I'll have it one and only, else good night.
'Tis a fine thing to see a satin paint
That fears to lose her beauty in a press,
That only cares to be precisely quaint,
And spends a twelvemonth's pleasure on a dress:
To see this stroke his honour, and he clip her,
Span ev'ry part, and unresisted lip her.
But I do not in a rank humour rail
'Gainst sober purples, and discreeter robes,