TO THE FREQUENTERS OF A LOW TAVERNSalacious Tavern and ye taverner-host,From Pileate Brothers the ninth pile-post,D'ye claim, you only of the, mentule boast,D'ye claim alone what damsels be the bestTo swive: as he-goats holding all the rest?Is't when like boobies sit ye incontinent here,One or two hundred, deem ye that I fearTwo hundred . . . . at one brunt?Ay, think so, natheless all your tavern-frontWith many a scorpion I will over-write.For that my damsel, fro' my breast took flight,By me so lovèd, as shall loved be none,Wherefor so mighty wars were waged and won,Does sit in public here. Ye fain, rich wights,All woo her: thither too (the chief of slights !) All pitiful knaves and by-street wenchers fare,