'Let the rude spear in me work with its natural wont!' Whenas the Rigid God espied a wight Crisping his head with curling-tongs aglow That he be likest to a Moorish maid, 'Ho thou! (cried he) we tell thee, catamite; However much thou toast and curl thyself Is then a damsel more of worth, I ask, Than are the hairy honours of thy yard?'