Sir,
In reading your letter alone in my hackney,
Your damnable riddle, my poor brains did rack nigh.
And when with much labour the matter I cracked,
I found you mistaken in matter of fact.

A woman's no sieve (for with that you begin)
Because she lets out more, than e'er she takes in.
And that she's a riddle, can never be right,
For a riddle is dark, but a woman is light.
But grant her a sieve, I can say something archer,
Pray what is a man? he's a fine-linen searcher.

Now tell me a thing that wants interpretation,
What name for a maid, was the first man's damnation?
If your worship will please to explain me this rebus,
I swear from henceforward you shall be my Phoebus.