‘I cannot, seeing she’s woven of such bad stuff,
Set colours on a harlot bad enough.
Nothing did make me when I lov’d them best,
To loath them more than this: when in the street
A fair, young, modest damsel, I did meet;
She seem’d to all a dove, when I pass’d by,
And I to all a raven: every eye
That followed her, went with a bashful glance;
At me each bold and jeering countenance
Darted forth scorn: to her, as if she had been