The Author's Mock Song to Mark Antony

When as the night-raven sung Pluto's matins
And Cerberus cried three amens at a howl,
When night-wandering witches put on their pattens,
Midnight as dark as their faces are foul;
Then did the furies doom
That the nightmare was come.
Such a misshapen groom
Puts down Su. Pomfret clean.
Never did incubus
Touch such a filthy sus
As this foul gypsy quean.

First on her gooseberry cheeks I mine eyes blasted,
Thence fear of vomiting made me retire
Unto her bluer lips, which when I tasted,
My spirits were duller than Dun in the mire.
But then her breath took place
Which went an usher's pace
And made way for her face!
You may guess what I mean.
Never did, &c.

Like snakes engendering were platted her tresses,
Or like the slimy streaks of ropy ale;
Uglier than Envy wears, when she confesses
Her head is periwigged 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, &c.

Mystical magic of conjuring wrinkles;
Feeling of pulses, the palmistry of hags;
Scolding out belches for rhetoric twinkles;
With three teeth in her head like to three gags;
Rainbows about her eyes
And her nose, weather-wise;
From them the almanac lies,
Frost, Pond, and Rivers clean.
Never did incubus
Touch such a filthy sus
As this foul gypsy quean.