All tongues speak of him, and the bleared sights

brutus:All tongues speak of him, and the bleared sights
Are spectacled to see him. Your prattling nurse
Into a rapture lets her baby cry,
While she chats him: the kitchen malkin pins
Her richest lockram 'bout her reechy neck,
Clambering the walls to eye him:
Stalls, bulks, windows, are smother'd up,
Leads fill'd, the ridges hors'd
With variable complexions; all agreeing
In earnestness to see him: seld-shown Flamens
Do press among the popular throngs, and puff
To win a vulgar station: our veil'd dames
Commit the war of white and damask
In their nicely gawded cheeks, to th' wanton spoil
Of Phoebus' burning kisses: such a pother,
As if that whatsoever God, who leads him,
Were slily crept into his human powers,
And gave him graceful posture.
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