Men-Miracles With other Poemes. By M. LL. St [i.e.Martin Lluelyn] |
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Sixth Miracle. |
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 | Men-Miracles |  |
Sixth Miracle.
Like wonder doe those folke beget,
Whose Armes and hands in Thighes are set,
They thrash their backes, as 'twere with flaile.
With that they weare behind a Taile.
Their wives too out of all mistaking,
For all the world are of that making.
Unlesse they beare, they think't a crime,
Foure babes at once (well in good time)
Two of their Barnes the selfe same day,
They doe preserve, and two they slay.
For milke, their breasts so much doe beare,
It makes them Cheeses all the yeare.
Sure for these Monsters fist it growes
In thigh, that it may reach their Toes,
And (if occasion be) it may
Scratch itching Corne on Rainy day.
Or else perhaps so neare 'tis put,
Cause hand they have much like to foot.
But oh, their Taile I must allow,
As large as that of Bull or Cow;
And reason good, their wives not flit,
To yeild them as much milke as it.
These Centaure Females have strange trades,
They're both the Cowes and Dairy-Maides.
And in this monstrous Common-weale,
They doe not Children beare, but veale.
And in their Cheese (good people hearke it)
Sell halfe themselves each Monday Market.
Whose Armes and hands in Thighes are set,
They thrash their backes, as 'twere with flaile.
With that they weare behind a Taile.
Their wives too out of all mistaking,
For all the world are of that making.
Unlesse they beare, they think't a crime,
Foure babes at once (well in good time)
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They doe preserve, and two they slay.
For milke, their breasts so much doe beare,
It makes them Cheeses all the yeare.
Sure for these Monsters fist it growes
In thigh, that it may reach their Toes,
And (if occasion be) it may
Scratch itching Corne on Rainy day.
Or else perhaps so neare 'tis put,
Cause hand they have much like to foot.
But oh, their Taile I must allow,
As large as that of Bull or Cow;
And reason good, their wives not flit,
To yeild them as much milke as it.
These Centaure Females have strange trades,
They're both the Cowes and Dairy-Maides.
And in this monstrous Common-weale,
They doe not Children beare, but veale.
And in their Cheese (good people hearke it)
Sell halfe themselves each Monday Market.
But stay (Kings truce) I thinke on't now
These neither Women are, nor Cow.
I say nor Cow, nor Wheat, nor Mastlyn,
For Cow is sorty for her Castlyn.
But here the Teeming Monster ambles,
Not to the Nurse, but to the Shambles.
These neither Women are, nor Cow.
I say nor Cow, nor Wheat, nor Mastlyn,
For Cow is sorty for her Castlyn.
But here the Teeming Monster ambles,
Not to the Nurse, but to the Shambles.
| Men-Miracles | |