Iii

"Were the object less mean, would he stand At the swing of my hand! For obscurity helps him and blots The hole where he squats." So I set my five wits on the stretch To inveigle the wretch. All in vain! Gold and jewels I threw; Still he couched there perdue; I tempted his blood and his flesh, Hid in roses my mesh, Choicest cates and the flagon's best spilth; Still he kept to his filth.