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)^[1]
Rose might turn burdock, and pine-apples cones;

VIII.

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?

1. First edition:—
   And my face bear his brand—mine, that once bore Love's badge elate!