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The SCANDAL.
Upon Mrs. K. C. raising one.
1656.
How now, mad Kitling, peevish Brat!
Canst thou no sooner see, than scrat?
That all who see thee, justly doubt
Alecto in her Swathing-clout.
21
Thou sought'st to wound me with this lie?
What's my offence? is it not this,
Because I do no oftner kiss?
What Fool would do himself the wrong,
To venture half so near thy Tongue?
Far worse than Snakes, or Adders are;
Thou dangers dost at both ends bear.
Thou'rt worse than Scorpions, who bring
A cure themselves for those they sting.
But thou'rt all o're with Venom smear'd;
Thy very Looks are to be fear'd;
Not that thy Glances have a spice
Of Venus, but of Cockatrice.
Nor boast thy Flaxen Curls; they be
As well signs of a Leprosie.
That Rock of Tow upon thy Head,
Prove there are Poyson-pates, not Red.
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