Like a wrack'd body wash'd up by the tide:
Eyes small: a nose so to her vizard glued
As if 'twould take a Planet's altitude.
Last for her breath, 'tis somewhat like the smell
That does in Ember weeks on Fish-street dwell;
Or as a man should fasting scent the Rose
20Which in the savoury Bear-garden grows.
If a Fox cures the paralytical,
Hadst thou ten palsies, she'd outstink them all.
But I have found thy plot: sure thou didst try