That now I loath what I admired,
And my distasted appetite
So 'bhors the meate, it hates the sight.
For should we naked sinne discry
Not beautified
By th' ayde of wantonnesse and pride
Like some mishapen birth, 'twould lye
A torment to th' affrighted eye.
But cloath'd in beauty and respect.
Even ore the wise,