To The Deformed X. R.
As scriveners sometime delight to see
Their basest writing, Nature has in thee
Essay'd how much she can transgress at once
Apelles' draughts, Durer's proportions;
And for to make a jest and try a wit,
Has not (a woman) in thy forehead writ,
But scribbled so, and gone so far about,
Indagine would never smell thee out,
But might exclaim, here only riddles be,
And Heteroclites in physiognomy.
But as the mystic Hebrew backward lies,
And algebra's guess'd by absurdities,
So must we spell thee; for who would suppose
That globous piece of wainscot were a nose;
That crook'd et caeteras were wrinkles, and
Five Naper's bones, glued to a wrist, an hand?
Egyptian antiquaries might survey
Here hieroglyphics Time hath worn away,
And wonder at an English face more odd
And antic, than was e'er a Memphian god;
Eras'd with more strange letters than might scare
A raw and inexperienced conjurer;
And tawny Afric blush to see her fry
Of monsters in one skin so kennell'd lie:
Thou may'st without a guard her deserts pass,
When savages but look upon thy face.
Were but some Pict now living, he would soon
Deem thee a fragment of his nation;
And wiser Ethiopians infer
From thee, that sable's not the only fair.
Thou privative of beauty, whose one eye
Doth question metaphysic verity;
Whose many cross aspects may prove anon,
Foulness more than a mere negation:
Blast one place still, and never dare t' escape
Abroad out of thy mother Darkness' lap,
Lest that thou make the world afraid, and be
Even hated by thy nurse — Deformity.
Their basest writing, Nature has in thee
Essay'd how much she can transgress at once
Apelles' draughts, Durer's proportions;
And for to make a jest and try a wit,
Has not (a woman) in thy forehead writ,
But scribbled so, and gone so far about,
Indagine would never smell thee out,
But might exclaim, here only riddles be,
And Heteroclites in physiognomy.
But as the mystic Hebrew backward lies,
And algebra's guess'd by absurdities,
So must we spell thee; for who would suppose
That globous piece of wainscot were a nose;
That crook'd et caeteras were wrinkles, and
Five Naper's bones, glued to a wrist, an hand?
Egyptian antiquaries might survey
Here hieroglyphics Time hath worn away,
And wonder at an English face more odd
And antic, than was e'er a Memphian god;
Eras'd with more strange letters than might scare
A raw and inexperienced conjurer;
And tawny Afric blush to see her fry
Of monsters in one skin so kennell'd lie:
Thou may'st without a guard her deserts pass,
When savages but look upon thy face.
Were but some Pict now living, he would soon
Deem thee a fragment of his nation;
And wiser Ethiopians infer
From thee, that sable's not the only fair.
Thou privative of beauty, whose one eye
Doth question metaphysic verity;
Whose many cross aspects may prove anon,
Foulness more than a mere negation:
Blast one place still, and never dare t' escape
Abroad out of thy mother Darkness' lap,
Lest that thou make the world afraid, and be
Even hated by thy nurse — Deformity.
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