Classic Poem

Against Rontses base pride, light waight and too much affected nicifinity.

R ONTA'S the onely widdow now of price:
But yet to sell her ware is nothing nice;
And yet she is, for she her mayds commands
To vse with customers, their legs and hands
And when she speakes she simpers like a mare
That eating thistles were with painefull care.
She lookes like Saturne (sowrest of the gods)
While all her fingers (ringd like curtaine-rods)
Successiuely appeare her stuffe to showe:
Which she doth prize aloft, though it be lowe:
For she hath nothing that is not of price:
Her very stink's too good for al the dice:
 Then if some beast this runt of price would owe
 He must come to her shop his worth to show:
 Where (if she like it) he may bull this cow.