There are, which are not, or which should not be,
Some shaped like Saints, whose steps are not the way.
O let my Verse not name their infamy!
These hurt not all, but even the wandering eye,
Which fondly gapes for his own misery.
These do not harm the honest or the just,
The faithful lover, or the virtuous dame;
But those whose souls be only given to lust,
Care more for pleasure, than for worthy fame.
But peace, my Muse! For now, methinks I hear