* * * * *
Observe, ye chaste, who promenade the way
In spotless satin and unsullied fame,
Where, thro’ the crowded streets, in open day,
The painted wanton publishes her shame.
Can rounded arm, or well-developed bust
Pertain alike to women of our clime?
Can Kalydor disguise the cheek of lust,
Or Rouge conceal the ravages of time?