To Fine Lady Would-Be

Fine madam Would-Be, wherefore should you fear, That love to make so well, a child to bear? The world reputes you barren: but I know Your 'pothecary, and his drug says no. Is it the pain affrights? That's soon forgot. Or your complexion's loss? you have a pot, That can restore that. Will it hurt your feature? To make amends, you are thought a wholesome creature. What should the cause be? Oh, you live at court; And there's both loss of time, and loss of sport, In a great belly: Write then on thy womb, "Of the not born, yet buried, here's the tomb."