|The fitchew, nor the soiled horse,
goes to 't
With a more riotous appetite.
Down from the waist they are
Though women all above:
But to the girdle do the gods inherit,
Beneath is all the fiends';
There's hell, there's darkness,
Burning, scalding, stench,
fie, fie! pah, pah! Give me an ounce
good apothecary, to sweeten my
there's money for thee.