Upon A Sour-Breath Lady. Epig.

You say you'll kiss me, and I thank you for it;
But stinking breath, I do as hell abhor it.

Skoles stinks so deadly, that his breeches loath
His dampish buttocks furthermore to clothe;
Cloy'd they are up with arse; but hope, one blast
Will whirl about, and blow them thence at last.

Lungs, as some say, ne'er sets him down to eat
But that his breath does fly-blow all the meat.

Thou writes in prose how sweet all virgins be;
But there's not one, doth praise the smell of thee.

When I consider, dearest, thou dost stay
But here awhile, to languish and decay;
Like to these garden glories, which here be
The flowery-sweet resemblances of thee:
With grief of heart, methinks, I thus do cry,
Would thou hadst ne'er been born, or might'st not die!

Of four teeth only Bridget was possest;
Two she spat out, a cough forced out the rest.