Might choke the Devil with a Pox;
Whose dainty twinings did entice
The whole monopoly of Lice;
Her Forehead next is to be found,
Resembling much the new-plough'd ground,
Furrow'd like stairs, whose windings led
Unto the chimney of her head;
The next thing that my Muse descries,
Is the two Mill-pits of her Eyes,
Mill-pits whose depth no plum can sound,