Small poems of Divers sorts | ||
69. An Epitaph on a Penitent Bawde.
Here lies a good woman (to speak but the truth)Who liv'd by her Tail all the days of her youth:
And when she was old, and none could endure her,
Stuck still to the Flesh, and became a Procurer:
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That she cri'd a peccavi for all her lewd courses.
Small poems of Divers sorts | ||