Follies Anatomie :: :: University of Virginia Library

My treatise next must touch (thogh somwhat late)
A woman creature most insatiate.
See this incarnate monster of her sex,
Play the virago, vnashamde, perplext.
See Omphale her effeminated king,
Basely captiue; make him doe any thing.
Her whole discourse is of Guy Warwicks armes,
Of errant Knights, or of blinde Cupids charmes.
Her ciuill gesture, is to faigne a lie
In decent phrase, in true Ortographie.
Her modest blush, immodest shame, O fy,
'Tis grand disgrace to blush, indignity.
She counts him hut a Nazard, halfe a-mort,
That will not iumble, vse dame Venus sport.
To kisse, to cull, t'admire her painted face
And doe no more; ignoble, vile disgrace.
She likes his humor which plaies for the marke,
Affects the man that's expert in the darke.
With costly vnguents she depaints her browes,
Calls them the palace of chast Hymens vowes.
And yet this statue for her honor'd trade,
With eu'ry vassaile will be vnderlaide.
Her sole delight is fixed in a fan,
Or to walke vsherd by a proper man.

Nature hath polisht each externall part
Of this vile dame with Oratories Art;
Making each limb an Oratour, defence,
To maske her scandall with some good pretence,
Doe but conferre and note her priuate speech,
Her diuine frame, will passe your humane reach.
Shee'l complement, pathetically act
A tragick story, or a fatall fact.
Liuely discouer Cupid and his bowe,
Manage his sauage quiuer in her brow,
Court so compleately, rarely tune a song,
Thas she will seeme a Dido for a tongue;
And by the vertue of all-conquering sight,
Infuse euen life in him, that has no sprite.
Her golden phrase will rauish so your eares
With amorous discourse, pale louers teares,
That you would iudge her rarest parts diuine,
Deeme her a virgin of chast Vestaes shrine.
Yet this proud Iezabell, so nice, demure,
Is but a painted Sepulchre impure.
Shee seemes a Saint (in conference being hard)
Yet is more spotted then the Leopard.
Though she bestow her vigilancie, care,
In coyning phrases, pouncing of her hayre:
Yet are her Legends, golden masse of wit,
But like Apocrypha, no sacred writ.
All's not authenticall the which she pleades,
Or wholsome doctrine, that she daily reades.

Cease, austere Muse, this counterfeit to touch:
Y'haue spoke Satyricall, I doubt, too much.
Ile rather pitty, then enuy, inuay,
Their Kalender of wretch'nesse to display,
Shutting my Muse in silence, least she strip
This Saint-like creature with a Satyres whip.
I blush, my quill with so immodest face
Abruptly pointed at her great disgrace,
Loathing the subiect of a Satyres stile,
Discernes desert, which should this sect defile.
Pardon my Muse (kinde sirs) she whips not all
Whom we in specie do women call.
'Tis Corinths Lais, Romes confronting whore,
Which like the Hellespont we run on shore;
Such as resemble Dian in their deedes,
I meane in giuing large Actæons heads.
These are the Subiects which demerit blame,
And such we tax with earths eternall shame.
Applauding such chast Philomels, whose loue,
Idem, per idem, doth most constant proue.