 | More fooles yet |  |
A woman hater.
Misoginos that lately lou'd a wench,Wisheth them now the torture of the French:
Let me not liue (sayth he) men are befoolde,
In being by such creatures ouer-rulde.
What can a man discerne in such a creature,
A little paultry beautie, forme, and feature:
Which is but trash of no preheminence,
Then why is't powerfull to distract your sence?
Tell me what women are, that you adore them,
Surely naught, being so you should abhorre them:
What vertues haue they which do merrit praise,
As many as this weeke hath Christmas dayes.
What qualities, inconstancy, and pride,
Still in lasciuious actions occupied.
O peace Misoginos, why do'st thou wrong them?
Thou wilt cōmend them whē thou art among thē:
But will you know how this his hate was bred,
A wench in Turnbull-street did breake his head.
| More fooles yet | |