To Fine Lady Would-be

Fine Madam Would-be, wherefore should you fear,
That love to make so well, a child to bear?
The world reputes you barren: but I know
Your pothecary, and his drug, says no.
Is it the pain affrights? that's soon forgot.
Or your complexion's loss? you have a pot,
That can restore that. Will it hurt your feature?
To make amends, you are thought a wholesome creature.
What should the cause be? oh, you live at court;
And there's both loss of time, and loss of sport,
In a great belly: Write then on thy womb,
" Of the not born, yet buried, here's the tomb."