Vain, sinful art! who first did fit
Thy lewd loathed motions unto sounds,
And made grave music like wild wit
Err in loose airs beyond her bounds?
What fires hath he heaped on his head?
Since to his sins (as needs it must,)
His art adds still (though he be dead,)
New fresh accounts of blood and lust.
Leave then young sorceress; the ice
Will those coy spirits cast asleep,
Which teach thee now to please his eyes
Who doth thy loathsome mother keep.
But thou hast pleased so well, he swears,
And gratifies thy sin with vows:
His shameless lust in public wears,
And to thy soft arts strongly bows.
Skilful enchantress and true bred!
Who out of evil can bring forth good?
Thy mother’s nets in thee were spread,
She tempts to incest, thou to blood.