What A Deformed Thief This Fashion Is.

Dost Thou Love Hawking? Thou Hast Hawks Will Soar Above The Morning Lark.

As A Decrepit Father Takes Delight To See His Active Child Do Deeds Of Youth, So I, Made Lame By Fortune's Dearest Spite, Take All My Comfort Of Thy Worth And Truth.

And Do So, Love, Yet When They Have Devised What Strainèd Touches Rhetoric Can Lend, Thou, Truly Fair, Wert Truly Sympathized In True Plain Words By Thy True-telling Friend; And Their Gross Painting Might Be Better Used Where Cheeks Need Blood; In Thee It Is Abused.

O Horror! Horror! Horror! Tongue Nor Heart Cannot Conceive Nor Name Thee!

Thrust Your Head Into The Public Street, To Gaze On Christian Fools With Varnish'd Faces.