Damon to a Foul Maid That Courted Him

WHat mean'st thou Bacca, Can my senses feast
Upon the members of a parboyl'd Beast?
What boarish appetite thinkst thou I have
That thou shouldst court me, who'd first wed a grave,
And death hug in my Arms, then such a hag,
Whose hide pouch'd like a shrivl'd, pudding-bag,
Reaks like another Aetna; thy sous'd face
And hawkle nose has not so good a grace
As Madam monkies; few Hairs on thy scalpe,
Thy mouth is Taenarus, thy Teeth an alpe,
But that no snow, but soot lyes always there,
In other parts like a deformed Bear
Not yet lick'd into fashion. Think'st thou Man
Not turned Beast, forsake his reason can
To fall int' such a sink: Thou stinking Trull
Thou must like Pasiphae lie with a Bull,
Or couple with a boare thy next of kin;
For never hope you Man can tempt to sin,
For he that dost it, were I to judge his pain,
Should be (and 'tis enough) to do't again.