Forswear! That mortal discontent is through
thy night and melancholy maiden grace.
Yield thy drunken manner, yon lover, she
is fair winter and all dream—I beseech
thee, see her vulgar vehemences hence:
Her seemingly merry (mis)demeanor
is a simple masquerade. Watch her as
she watches others, shielded by fancies.
All she admires on you? Thy codpiece.
Behold her as I do, stripped of costume!
Her venomous ways won’t be thy downfall
if you hear the sparrow’s, not vulture’s, call
Let wind blow away her sickly perfume;
‘Tis never sweeter than that of our bloom.