Choice extract of thy Sex, where we
May finde what's in it good in thee:
Of so refin'd a temperature,
Can you then Angels be lesse pure?
Impurer dregs of flesh and blood,
Nature by dirt makes great not good.
When Nature made thee so refin'd,
Surely she portraict'd out the minde.
Nothing presents thee to my sense,
Speaks lesse then an Intelligence.
Who'd folio's of thy Sex reade o're,
Since in Epitome he findes more?