Transform’d Apollo to a homely swain,

And Jove himself into a golden rain.

These shapes were tolerable, but by the mass

He’s metamorphosed me into an ass.

Upon My Lady Carlisle’s Walking in Hampton Court Garden

thom.: Didst thou not find the place inspired,

And flowers, as if they had desired

No other sun, start from their beds,

And for a sight steal out their heads?

Heardst thou not music when she talked?

And didst not find that as she walked

She threw rare perfumes all about,

Such as bean-blossoms newly out,

Or chafed spices give? —

j. s.: I must confess those perfumes, Tom,

I did not smell; nor found that from

Her passing by ought sprung up new.

The flowers had all their birth from you;

For I passed o’er the self-same walk

And did not find one single stalk

Of anything that was to bring

This unknown after-after-spring.

thom.: Dull and insensible, couldst see

A thing so near a deity

Move up and down, and feel no change?

j. s.: None, and so great, were alike strange;

I had my thoughts, but not your way.

All are not born, sir, to the bay.

Alas! Tom, I am flesh and blood,

And was consulting how I could

In spite of masks and hoods descry

The parts denied unto the eye.

I was undoing all she wore,

And had she walked but one turn more,

Eve in her first state had not been

More naked or more plainly seen.

thom.: ’Twas well for thee she left the place;

There is great danger in that face.

But hadst thou viewed her leg and thigh,

And upon that discovery

Searched after parts that are more dear

(As fancy seldom stops so near),

No time or age had ever seen

So lost a thing as thou hadst been.

j. s.: I must confess those perfumes, Tom,

I did not smell; nor found that from

Her passing by ought sprung up new.

The flowers had all their birth from you;

For I passed o’er the self-same walk

And did not find one single stalk

Of anything that was to bring

This unknown after-after-spring.

Upon T.C. Having the Pox

Troth, Tom, I must confess I much admire

Thy water should find passage through the fire;

For fire and water never could agree:

These now by nature have some sympathy:

Sure then his way he forces, for all know

The French ne’er grants a passage to his foe.

If it be so, his valour I must praise,

That being the weaker, yet can force his ways;

And wish that to his valour he had strength,

That he might drive the fire quite out at length;

For, troth, as yet the fire gets the day,

For evermore the water runs away.

The Deformed Mistress

I know there are some fools that care

Not for the body, so the face be fair;

Some others, too, that in a female creature

Respect not beauty, but a comely feature;

And others, too, that for those parts in sight

Care not so much, so that the rest be right.

Each man his humour hath, and, faith, ’tis mine

To love that woman which I now define.

First I would have her wainscot foot and hand

More wrinkled far than any pleated band,

That in those furrows, if I’d take the pains,

I might both sow and reap all sorts of grains:

Her nose I’d have a foot long, not above,

With pimples embroider’d, for those I love;

And at the end a comely pearl of snot,

Considering whether it should fall or not:

Provided, next, that half her teeth be out,

Nor do I care much if her pretty snout

Meet with her furrow’d chin, and both together

Hem in her lips, as dry as good whit-leather:

One wall-eye she shall have, for that’s a sign

In other beasts the best: why not in mine?

Her neck I’ll have to be pure jet at least,

With yellow spots enamell’d; and her breast,

Like a grasshopper’s wing, both thin and lean,

Not to be toucht for dirt, unless swept clean:

As for her belly, ’tis no matter, so

There be a belly, and a cunt below;

Yet, if you will, let it be something high,

And always let there be a timpany.