How oily-fingered unto supple knees,
370How fain to th' music of our wire cages.
How quaintly you supply the usher's room,
How sweetly you can act the privy-groom.
Much more in blazoning your matchless worth,
And counting all your specials, might I say—
But nature ne'er a second did bring forth,
Which to such known perfections can say nay.
I'll cease to praise them, lest my praises make
Your veins of pride with self-conceit to ache.