Fine Madame Would-Be, wherefore should you feare,
That love to make so well, a child to beare?
The world reputes you barren; but I know
Your 'pothecarie, and his drug sayes no.
Is it the paine affrights? That's soone forgot.
Or your complexion's losse? You have a pot
That can restore that. Will it hurt your feature?
To make amends, yo'are thought a wholesome creature.
What should the cause be? Oh, you live at court,
And there's both losse of time and losse of sport
In a great belly. Write, then, on thy wombe,
Of the not borne, yet buried, here's the tombe.