University of Virginia Library

An Epigram on The Court Pucell.

Do's the Court-Pucell then so censure me,
And thinkes I dare not her? let the world see.
What though her Chamber be the very pit
Where fight the prime Cocks of the Game, for wit?
And that as any are strooke, her breath creates
New in their stead, out of the Candidates?
What though with Tribade lust she force a Muse,
And in an Epicæne fury can write newes
Equall with that, which for the best newes goes
As aërie light, and as like wit as those?
What though she talke, and cannot once with them,
Make State, Religion, Bawdrie, all a theame.
And as lip-thirstie, in each words expence,
Doth labour with the Phrase more then the sense?
What though she ride two mile on Holy-dayes
To Church, as others doe to Feasts and Playes,
To shew their Tires? to view, and to be view'd?
What though she be with Velvet gownes indu'd,
And spangled Petticotes brought forth to eye,
As new rewards of her old secrecie!
What though she hath won on Trust, as many doe,
And that her truster feares her? Must I too?
I never stood for any place: my wit
Thinkes it selfe nought, though she should valew it.
I am no States-man, and much lesse Divine
For bawdry, 'tis her language, and not mine.
Farthest I am from the Idolatrie
To stuffes and Laces, those my Man can buy.
And trust her I would least, that hath forswore
In Contract twice, what can shee perjure more?
Indeed, her Dressing some man might delight,
Here face there's none can like by Candle light.
Not he, that should the body have, for Case
To his poore Instrument, now out of grace.
Shall I advise thee Pucell? steale away
From Court, while yet thy fame hath some small day;
The wits will leave you, if they once perceive
You cling to Lords, and Lords, if them you leave
For Sermoneeres: of which now one, now other,
They say you weekly invite with fits o'th'Mother,
And practise for a Miracle; take heed
This Age would lend no faith to Dorrels Deed;
Or if it would, the Court is the worst place,
Both for the Mothers, and the Babes of grace,
For there the wicked in the Chaire of scorne,
Will cal't a Bastard, when a Prophet's borne.