Marry, God forefend! Martius swears he'll stab: Phrygio, fear not, thou art no lying drab. What though dagger-hack'd mouths of his blade swears It slew as many as figures of years Aquafortis eat in't, or as many more As methodist[430] Musus kill'd with hellebore In autumn[431] last; yet he bears that male lie[432] With as smooth calm as Mecho rivalry. How ill his shape with inward form doth fage,[433] Like Aphrogenia's ill-yoked marriage! 10 Fond physiognomer, complexion Guides not the inward disposition, Inclines I yield; thou sayst law; Julia, } Or Cato's often-curst Scatinia, } Can take no hold on simp'ring Lesbia. } True, not on her eye; yet alum oft doth blast The sprouting bud that fain would longer last. Chary Casca, right pure, or Rhodanus, Yet each night drinks in glassy Priapus.[434] Yon pine is fair, yet foully doth it ill 20 To his own sprouts; mark, his rank drops distill Foul Naples' canker[435] in their tender rind. Woe worth, when trees drop in their proper kind! Mistagogus, what means this prodigy? When Hiadolgo speaks 'gainst usury, When Verres rails 'gainst thieves, Milo doth hate Murder, Clodius cuckolds, Marius the gate Of squinting Janus shuts? Run beyond bound Of _Nil ultra_, and hang me when one's found Will be himself. Had nature turn'd our eyes 30 Into our proper selves, these curious spies Would be ashamed: Flavia would blush to flout When Oppia calls Lucina help her out, If she did think Lynceus did know her ill, How nature art, how art doth nature spill. God pardon me! I often did aver, _Quod gratis grate_, the astronomer An honest man; but I'll do so no more. His face deceived me; but now, since his whore And sister are all one, his honesty 40 Shall be as bare as his anatomy, To which he bound his wife. O, packstaff[436] rhymes! Why not, when court of stars shall see these crimes? Rods are in piss--ay, for thee, empirick, That twenty grains of opium will not stick To minister to babes. Here's bloody days, When with plain herbs Mutius more men slays Than ere third Edward's sword! Sooth, in our age, Mad Coribantes need not to enrage The people's minds. You, Ophiogeni[437] 50 Of Hellespont, with wrangling villainy The swoll'n world's inly stung, then deign a touch, If that your fingers can effect so much. Thou sweet Arabian Panchaia, Perfume this nasty age: smug Lesbia Hath stinking lungs, although a simp'ring grace, A muddy inside, though a surphuled[438] face. O for some deep-searching Corycean, To ferret out yon lewd Cinædian![439] How now, Brutus, what shape best pleaseth thee? 60 All Protean forms, thy wife in venery, At thy enforcement takes? Well, go thy way, She may transform thee, ere thy dying day.