I have oft wondred, why Thou didst elect
Thy Mistris of a stuff none could affect
That wore his Eyes in the right place. A Thing
Made up, when Nature's powers lay slumbering.
One, where all pregnant imperfections mett
To make hir Sexe's scandall: Teeth of Jett,
Haire dy'd in Orpment, from whose fretfull hue
Canidia her highest witchcrafts drew:
A Lipp most Thin and Pale, But such a Mouth
Which, like the Poles, is stretched North and South:
A Face so colour'd, and of such a forme,
As might defyance bidd unto a Storme:
And the complexion of her sallow hide
Like a wrack't Body wash't up by the Tide:
Eyes small: A Nose so to hir Vizard glew'd
As if 'twould take a Plannet's Altitude:
Last, for her Breath; 'tis somwhat like the smell
That does in Ember-weekes on Fishstreet dwell:
Or as a man should fasting sent the Rose
Which in the savoury Bear-garden growes.
If a Fox cures the Paralyticall,
Hadst thou ten Palseys, shee'd out-stink them all.
But I have found thy plott: sure thou didst try
To put Thyself past Hope of Jealousy:
And whilst unlearned Fooles their Senses please,
Thou cur'st thy Appetite by a Disease;
As many use, to kill an Itch withall,
Quicksilver, or some biting Minerall.
Dote upon handsome things each common man
With little study and lesse labour can:
But to make Love to a Deformity,
Only commends thy great ability,
Who from hard-favour'd Objects drawst content,
As Estriches from Iron nutriment.
Well take hir, and like mounted George, in bed
Boldly atchieve thy Dragon's mayden-head:
Where (though scarce sleep) thou may'st Rest, confident
None dares beguile thee of thy Punishment.
The sinne were not more foule he should committ,
Then is that Shee, with whome he acted it.
Yet take this comfort. When old age shall raze
Or Sickness ruine many a good Face,
Thy choice cannot impaire. No cunning curse
Can mend that Night-peece: That is, Make her worse.