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Eleg: 2.a|
As ye sweet sweate of roses in a still, [f. 14]
As that wch from chaf'd Muscatts pores doth trill,
As the allmighty balme of the'early East
Such are the sweat dropps on my Mistres brest.
And on her neck her skin such lustre setts
They seeme no sweat drops but pearle carcanetts.
Ranck sweaty froth thy Mistres brow defiles
Like spermatique issue of ripe menstrous biles.
Or like ye Scūm, wch by needs lawles law
Enforc'd, Sanserraes starved Men did draw
from perboyld shoes and bootes and all the rest
Wch weare wt any soueraigne fatnes blest.
And like vile lying stones in saffrond tinne
Or warts or wheales they hang vpon her skinne.
Round, as ye world''is her head on euery side
Like to yt fatal ball wch fell on Ide.
Or yt whereof God had such iealousy
As for the rauishing thereof we dy:
Thy head is like a roughewen Statue of ieat
Where marks for eyes, nose, mouth, are yet scarse sett;
Like ye first Chaos, or flat seeming face
Of Cinthia, when th'Earthes shadows her embrace.
Like Proserpines whight bewty-keeping chest,
Or Ioues best fortunes Vrne, is her faire brest.
Thyne like Worme-eaten truncks clothd in Celes skin
Or graue that's durt without, and stinch wthin.
And like ye slender stalke at whose end stands
The Woodbine quiuering, are her armes, and hands.
Like rough-barkd Elmeboughs, or the russet skin
Of Men late skourg'd for madnes or for sin,
Like sun-parch'd quarters on the City gate
Such is thy tann'd skins lamentable state.
And like a bunch of ragged Carrets stand
The short swolne fingers of thy gowty hand.