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AN EPIGRAM ON THE COURT PUCELL, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Does the court pucell then so censure me
Last Line: Will call it a bastard, when a prophet's born.


Does the court pucell then so censure me,
And thinks I dare not her? Let the world see.
What though her chamber be the very pit
Where fight the prime cocks of the game, for wit?
And that as any are struck, her breath creates
New in their stead, out of the candidates?
What though with tribade lust she force a muse,
And in an epicoene fury can write news
Equal with that, which for the best news goes,
As airy light, and as like wit as those?
What though she talk, and cannot once with them
Make state, religion, bawdry, all a theme?
And as lip-thirsty, in each word's expense,
Doth labour with the phrase more than the sense?
What though she ride two mile on holidays
To church, as others do to feasts and plays,
To show their tires? To view, and to be viewed?
What though she be with velvet gowns endued,
And spangled petticoats brought forth to eye,
As new rewards of her old secrecy?
What though she hath won on trust, as many do,
And that her truster fears her? Must I too?
I never stood for any place: my wit
Thinks itself naught, though she should value it.
I am no statesman, and much less divine;
For bawdry, 'tis her language, and not mine.
Farthest I am from the idolatry
To stuffs and laces, those my man can buy.
And trust her I would least, that hath forswore
In contract twice; what can she perjure more?
Indeed, her dressing some man might delight,
Her face there's none can like by candle-light.
Not he, that should the body have, for case
To his poor instrument, now out of grace.
Shall I advise thee, pucell? Steal away
From court, while yet thy fame hath some small day;
The wits will leave you, if they once perceive
You cling to lords; and lords, if them you leave
For sermoneers: of which now one, now other,
They say you weekly invite with fits o'th'mother,
And practise for a miracle; take heed,
This age would lend no faith to Dorrel's deed.
Or if it would, the court is the worst place,
Both for the mothers and the babes of grace,
For there the wicked in the chair of scorn,
Will call it a bastard, when a prophet's born.





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