On a Painted Lady with Ill Teeth

Were men so dull they could not see
That Lyce painted; should they flee,
Like simple birds, into a net,
So grossly woven, and ill set,
Her own teeth would undo the knot,
And let all go that she had got.
Those teeth fair Lyce must not show,
If she would bite: her lovers, though
Like birds they stoop at seeming grapes,
Are dis-abus'd, when first she gapes:
The rotten bones discover'd there,
Show 'tis a painted sepulcher.