Classic Poem

Dear Dean, since in cruxes and puns you and I deal,
Pray why is a woman a sieve and a riddle?
'Tis a thought that came into my noddle this morning,
In bed as I lay, sir, a-tossing and turning.
You'll find, if you read but a few of your histories,
All women, as Eve, all women are mysteries.
To find out this riddle, I know you'll be eager,
And make every one of the sex a Belphegor.
But that will not do, for I mean to commend 'em;
I swear without jest, I an honor intend 'em.
In a sieve, sir, their ancient extraction I quite tell;
In a riddle I give you their pow'r and their title.
This I told you before; do you know what I mean, sir?
“Not I, by my troth, sir.” Then read it again, sir.

The reason I send you these lines of rhymes double,
Is purely in pity, to save you the trouble
Of thinking two hours for a rhyme as you did last,
When your Pegasus cantered in triple, and rid fast.
As for my little nag which I keep at Parnassus,
With Phoebus's leave, to run with his asses,
He goes slow and sure, and he never is jaded
While your fiery steed is whipped, spurred, bastinaded.