I am Pride; I disdain to have any
parents. I am
like to Ovid's Flea; I can creep
into
every
corner
of
a
wench. Sometimes, like a periwig, I sit upon
her
brow.
Next, like a necklace, I hang about her
neck.
Then, like a fan of
feathers, I kiss her,
and then tur-
ning
myself
to
a
wrought
smock
do
what
I
list.
But
fie,
what a smell is here? I'll not
speak a word more for a
king's
ransom, unless the ground be perfumed, and covered
with cloth of arras.