Classic Poem

When as the Nightingale sang Pluto's Mattins ,
And Cerberus cri'd three Amens at a Howl,
When Night-wandring Witches put on their Pattins,
Midnight as dark as their Faces are Foul:
Then did the Furies doom
That the Night-Mare was come;
Such a mishapen Groom
Puts down Su. Pomfret clean.
Never did Incubus
Touch such a filthy Sus ,
As this foul Gypsie Quean.

First on her Goosberry Cheeks I mine eys Blasted,
Thence fear of vomiting made me retire
Unto her Blewer Lips, which when I Tasted
My Spirits were duller than Dun in the Mire;
But when her Breath took place,
Which went an Usher's pace,
And made way for her Face,
You may guess what I mean.
Never did Incubus
Touch such a filthy Sus ,
As this foul Gypsie Quean.

Like Snakes engendring were platted her Tresses,
Or like to slimy streaks of Ropy Ale;
Uglier than Envy wears, when she confesses
Her Head is periwig'd with Adder's Tail.
But as soon as she spake,
I heard a Harsh Mandrake:
Laugh not at my Mistake,
Her Head is Epicene.
Never did Incubus
Touch such a filthy Sus ,
As this foul Gypsie Quean.

Mystical Magick of Conjuring Wrinckles;
Feeling of Pulses, the Palmstry of Hags,
Scolding out Belches for Rhetorick Twinckles,
With three Teeth in her Head like to three Gags:
Rainbows about her Eyes,
And her Nose weather-wise,
From them the Almanack lies,
Frost, Pond and Rivers clean.
Never did Incubus
Touch such a filthy Sus ,
As this foul Gypsie Quean.