Upon Mistris Mallet, an Unhandsome Gentlewoman, who made Love unto Him

Have I renounc’t my faith, or basely sold
Salvation, and my loyalty, for gold?
Have I some forreigne practice undertooke
By poyson, shott, sharp-knife, or sharper booke
To kill my king? have I betrayd the state
To fire and fury, or some newer fate,
Which learned murderers, those grand destinies,
The Jesuites, have nurc’d? if of all these
I guilty am, proceed; I am content
That Mallet take mee for my punishment.
For never sinne was of so high a rate,
But one nights hell with her might expiate.
Although the law with Garnet, and the rest,
Dealt farr more mildly; hanging’s but a jest
To this immortall torture. Had shee bin then
In Maryes torrid dayes engend’red, when
Cruelty was witty, and Invention free
Did live by blood, and thrive by crueltye,
Shee would have bin more horrid engines farre
Than fire, or famine, racks, and halters are.
Whether her witt, forme, talke, smile, tire I name,
Each is a stock of tyranny, and shame;
But for her breath, spectatours come not nigh,
That layes about; God blesse the company!
The man, in a beares skin baited to death,
Would chose the doggs much rather then her breath;
One kisse of hers, and eighteene wordes alone
Put downe the Spanish Inquisition.
Thrice happy wee (quoth I thinking thereon)
That see no dayes of persecution;
For were it free to kill, this grisly elfe
Wold martyrs make in compass of herselfe:
And were shee not prevented by our prayer,
By this time shee corrupted had the aire.
And am I innocent? and is it true,
That thing (which poet Plinye never knew,
Nor Africk, Nile, nor ever Hackluyts eyes
Descry’d in all his East, West-voyages;
That thing, which poets were afrayd to feigne,
For feare her shadowe should infect their braine;
This spouse of Antichrist, and his alone,
Shee’s drest so like the Whore of Babylon;)
Should doate on mee? as if they did contrive
The devill and she, to damne a man alive.
Why doth not Welcome rather purchase her,
And beare about this rare familiar?
Sixe markett dayes, a wake, and a fayre too ’t,
Would save his charges, and the ale to boot.
No tyger’s like her; shee feedes upon a man
Worse than a tygresse or a leopard can.
Let mee go pray, and thinke upon some spell,
At once to bid the devill and her farwell.