 | Skialetheia |  |
To the Reader. 69.
Some dainte eare, like a wax-rubd Citty roome,Wil haply blame my Muse for this salt rhume,
Thinking her lewd and too vnmaidenly,
For dauncing this Iigge so lasciuiously:
But better thoughts, more discreet, will excuse
This quick Couranto of my merry Muse;
And say she keeps Decorum to the times,
To womens loose gownes suting her loose rimes:
But I, who best her humorous pleasance know,
Say, that this mad wench when she iesteth so
Which being more silent thinks worse being alone:
Then my quick-sprighted lasse can speake: for who
Knowes not the old said saw of the Still Sow.
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