Page:The heptalogia, or, The seven against sense - a cap with seven bells (IA heptalogiaorseve00swin).pdf/51

 Grief might grind my cheeks down, age make sticks of my bones, (Though a queen drowned in tears must be worth more than Madge elate) Rose might turn burdock, and pine-apples cones;

My skin might change to a pitiful crone's, My lips to a lizard's, my hair to weed, My features, in fact, to a series of loans; Thus much is conceded; now, you, concede You would hardly salute me by choice, John Jones?