Tho' Artemisia Talks, By Fits, Of Councils, Classics, Fathers, Wits; Reads Malbranche, Boyle, And Locke; Yet In Some Things Methinks She Fails, 'Twere Well If She Would Pare Her Nails, And Wear A Cleaner Smock. Haughty And Huge As High-Dutch Bride, Such Nastiness, And So Much Pride Are Oddly Join'D By Fate: On Her Large Squab You Find Her Spread, Like A Fat Corpse Upon A Bed, That Lies And Stinks In State. She Wears No Colours (Sign Of Grace) On Any Part Except Her Face; All White And Black Beside: Dauntless Her Look, Her Gesture Proud, Her Voice Theatrically Loud, And Masculine Her Stride. So Have I Seen, In Black And White A Prating Thing, A Magpye Hight, Majestically Stalk; A Stately, Worthless Animal, That Plies The Tongue, And Wags The Tail, All Flutter, Pride, And Talk.