'Let the rude spear in me work with its natural wont!'

Whenas the Rigid God espied a wightCrisping his head with curling-tongs aglowThat he be likest to a Moorish maid,'Ho thou! (cried he) we tell thee, catamite;However much thou toast and curl thyselfIs then a damsel more of worth, I ask,Than are the hairy honours of thy yard?'