I' th' face of madam, lord, knight, gent, cit, squire;
Who (when but ruffled into the least pet)
With cellar door-key into pocket get—
Then no more ale; and now the fray begins!
'Ware heads, wigs, hoods, scarfs, shoulders, sides, and shins!
While these dry'd bones, in a Westphalian bag,
(Through the wrinkled weasan of her shapeless crag)
Send forth such dismal shrieks and uncouth noise,
As fills the town with din, the streets with boys;
Which makes some think, this fierce she-dragon fell