Against Cayus that scorn'd his Metamorphosis

LAst day thy Mistris, Cayus, being present,
One hapt to name, to purpose not vnpleasant,
The Title of my mis-conceiued Booke:
At which you spit, as though you could not brooke
So grosse a Word: but shall I tell the matter
Why? If one names a Iax, your lips doe water.
There was the place of your first loue and meeting,
There first you gaue your Mistris such a greeting,
As bred her scorne, your shame, and others lafter,
And made her feele it twenty fortnights after:
Then thanke their wit, that make the place so sweet,
That for your Hymen you thought place so meet.
But meet not Maids at Madam Cloacina,
Lest they cry nine moneths after, Helpe Lucina.