Classic Poem

But Woe is mee! who have so quick a Sent
— — To Catch perfumes pufft out from Pincks, and Roses
And other Muscadalls, as they get Vent,
— — Out of their Mothers Wombs to bob our noses.
— — And yet thy sweet perfume doth seldom latch
— — My Lord, within my Mammulary Catch.

Am I denos'de? or doth the Worlds ill sents
— — Engarison my nosthrills narrow bore?
Or is my smell lost in these Damps it Vents?
— — And shall I never finde it any more?
— — Or is it like the Hawks, or Hownds whose breed
— — Take stincking Carrion for Perfume indeed?

This is my Case. All things smell sweet to mee:
— — Except thy sweetness, Lord. Expell these damps.
Breake up this Garison: and let me see
— — Thy Aromaticks pitching in these Camps.
— — Oh! let the Clouds of thy sweet Vapours rise,
— — And both my Mammularies Circumcise.

Shall Spirits thus my Mammularies suck?
— — (As Witches Elves their teats,) and draw from thee
My Dear, Dear Spirit after fumes of muck?
— — Be Dunghill Damps more sweet than Graces bee?
— — Lord, clear these Caves. These Passes take, and keep.
— — And in these Quarters lodge thy Odours sweet.