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Satire 7.

[I praie you speake is not this tyme growne straunge]

I praie you speake is not this tyme growne straunge,
When feeble woemen vnto warriours chaunge?
Tis not the Coutte dame Lusta doth commend,
Hir daies 'fore seiged Cytties shee will ende.


Hir humor brookes noe Court-like dalliance,
But loues th'incounter of true valliance.
Milke-sopps are men which lulls in Ladies sapps,
And dare not bide (like hir) loud Culu'ryn clapps.
Per-due shee'le lie, and somtyme Centry stand,
And Kiu'la crie, with fire-lock in hir hand.
This is a wench will make all Courtiers sham'd,
If once hir actes be to their eares but nam'd.
I, this is shee which has such seruice showne,
As now shee is an Auncient-bearer growne.