Upon Craw.

If 'mongst my many poems I can see
One only worthy to be wash'd by thee,
I live for ever, let the rest all lie
In dens of darkness or condemn'd to die.

Rump is a turn-broach, yet he seldom can
Steal a swoln sop out of a dripping-pan.

Lulls swears he is all heart; but you'll suppose
By his proboscis that he is all nose.

The staff is now greas'd;
And very well pleas'd,
She cocks out her arse at the parting,
To an old ram goat
That rattles i' th' throat,
Half-choked with the stink of her farting.

In a dirty hair-lace
She leads on a brace
Of black boar-cats to attend her:
Who scratch at the moon,
And threaten at noon
Of night from heaven for to rend her.

A-hunting she goes,
A cracked horn she blows,
At which the hounds fall a-bounding;
While th' moon in her sphere
Peeps trembling for fear,
And night's afraid of the sounding.

To cleanse his eyes, Tom Brock makes much ado,
But not his mouth, the fouler of the two.
A clammy rheum makes loathsome both his eyes:
His mouth, worse furr'd with oaths and blasphemies.

Fie, quoth my lady, what a stink is here?
When 'twas her breath that was the carrionere.