Book VI, Epigram 93: De Thaide

Thais smells as ill as doth a Fullers vate
That long hath steepd, broke in the street of late:
The tyred Goats not more ranck, the breath and breech
Of Lyons, nor stripd Dogs-skins in a ditch;
Nor adle egg that putrifying lyes,
Nor pot of rotten fish that stinking dyes.
That she may change this plague for some sweet scent,
Naked and oft she doth the Baths frequent,
And shines with Oyle, lyes in sharp fennell hid,
Or in bean meale twice or thrice covered.
When safe by thousand slights her self she thinks,
When all's done, Thais still all Thais stinks.