AN EPIGRAM ON A PAINTED LADY WITH ILL TEETH.

Were men so dull they could not see That Lyce painted; should they flee, Like simple birds, into a net So grossly woven and ill set, Her own teeth would undo the knot, And let all go that she had got. Those teeth fair Lyce must not show If she would bite; her lovers, though Like birds they stoop at seeming grapes, Are disabused when first she gapes; The rotten bones discover'd there, Show 'tis a painted sepulchre.