 | 1. |
 |
|
|
| 2. |
 | The Workes of Benjamin Jonson |  |
LXII. To Fine Lady Would-bee.
Fine Madam Would-bee, wherfore should you feare,That love to make so well, a child to beare?
The world reputes you barren: but I know
Your' pothecary, and his drug sayes no.
Is it the paine affrights? that's soone forgot.
Or your complexions losse? you have a pot,
That can restore that. Will it hurt your feature?
To make amends, yo'are thought a wholesome creature.
What should the cause be? Oh, you live at Court:
And there's both losse of time, and losse of sport
In a great belly. Write, then on thy wombe;
Of the not borne, yet buried, here's the tombe.
| The Workes of Benjamin Jonson | |