My Julia's chaste and winsome cheer,

Her comely lip, her coral ear,

And eke her knickerbocker gear,—

These be the theme of rhyming folk,

Whereof the skill I here invoke

In malediction of her poke;

In that it passeth human wit

By sleight of hand withal to hit

Upon the pathless track of it.

Though Julia's self therein dispose'

That napkin with the which she blows

For sorry rheum her Greekish nose,

Not if she search with heavy pain

Shall she by taking thought attain

To look upon the thing again;

To him alone of mortal clay

That picketh pokes beside the way

Their deeps are open as the day.

Whenas her alms she would disburse,

In vain she probeth for her purse,

Whereat the beggars shrewdly curse;

Even so their teeth do felons gnash

That lightly lift her ready cash,

Which he that stealeth stealeth trash.

Oft-times she doth full bravely hold

Her breezy reticule of gold

Within her digits' dainty fold;

As certain maids, I well believe,

Do wear th' affections on their sleeve

For any worthless wight to reave.

But though her purse not suffer rape,

Mischance is like in other shape

To put on her a saucy jape;—

If so my lady at the mart

For very joyaunce of her heart

Do purchase her a pasty tart,

Let her not make essay to bring

So beauteous and frail a thing

Within her poke's encompassing;

Lest, sitting down with weary stress,

Unheedful of its buxomness,

She make a right unseemly mess!

Certes a man purblind may see

For these offences needs must be

Some comfortable remedy;

Whoso deviseth such an one,

I trow that his inventiÒn

Shall soothly pouch the peerless bun.