THAT no fair woman will, wonder not why, Clap, Rufus, under thine her tender thigh; Not a silk gown shall once melt one of them, Nor the delights of a transparent gem. A scurvy story kills thee, which doth tell That in thine armpits a fierce goat doth dwell. Him they all fear full of an ugly stench, Nor's 't fit he should lie with a handsome wench. Wherefore this noses' cursed plague first crush, Or cease to wonder why they fly you thus. |