Her house did daily swarm with such as pretended more then common kindness to me. Several my Parents approved of as wealthy, and propounded them to me, whom I only disliked for want of comeliness. One I confess I could have fancied highly for his wit, had not his formation been so extravagant and preposterous. O the innumerable quantity of Poetick brats which _Pallas_-like sprang out of his head, and so pestred my Chamber, that I could hardly sleep for the trampling of their feet: some whereof appear’d so fair unto me from a Father so foul, that I have carried them in my bosome to converse with them among the solitary shades. I protest civility could scarce keep me from laughing outright every time I saw him, his whole composure appear’d to me so ridiculous. For first, his head seem’d to sink down into his brest, his eyes flaring affrighted at the danger, whilst his mouth continually gaped, as if it intended to cry out for help: his back and brest bunched out, as if a wallet stuffed at both ends had hung over his shoulder behind and before. Though extravagant enough, you could not say he shewed much waste. Had you seen him on a rainy day, by the length of his leggs (yet of dwarfish stature) you would have thought him mounted on stilts, and wading through the dirt with a boy at his back. Now let me skip over his person, and only tell you how I served him, and then I have done with him. That day I saw him not, I had his representation sent me, which was good diversion, but his presence was insufferable: to the intent therefore that I might be rid of him, I sent him these lines. SIR, _You are the Son of _Esop_, for I find Legitimation by your shape and mind; Deform’d ye are alike, thence’t is thought fit That such defects should be supply’d by wit. Your aspect’s monstrous foul, yet don’t complain, Your issues fair, the product of your brain. But stay, I must recal my self for know My praises are like to your self, too low: Troth when I view you well, my fancy must Imagine you much like a Capon trust, Or like Sir _Hudibras_, nick-nam’d _All-feather_, Or like one ty’d both neck and heels together: Nor do not think Pygmean Sir that I Will fall in love with meer deformity; Then court some Succubus, a fiend will be A fitter match: so think no more on me._