That thy Bite be Louder
Oh, strumpet cur! Thy tooth has made thy bed,
‘Twas oerexpos’d and battered too, by sound
Which emanated from thy mangy head.
Thy lips should be thy purse, and coin surround,
As speech is silver, so it has been said,
Is silence golden. Let thee build a mound
Of ducats then, and like a monk be wed
To muteness, lest responding to thy hound.
Though Duchesses and Ladies prattle free,
Their realm, no muzzle thine exists within.
The noble Knight, shouldst he to heav’n reach;
Shall win his verby Damsel. Yet, to me,
No Hell could be a Hell, shouldst, in his sin,
This Doggerel procure a quiet beetch.