To the Small Poxe

Envious and foule disease, could there not be
One beautie in an Age, and free from thee?
What did she worth thy spight? were there not store
Of those that set by their false faces more
Then this did by her true? She never sought
Quarrell with Nature, or in ballance brought
Art her false servant; Nor, for Sir Hugh Plat,
Was drawne to practise other hue, then that
Her owne bloud gave her: Shee ne're had, nor hath
Any beliefe, in Madam Baud-bees bath,
Or Turners oyle of Talck. Nor ever got
Spanish receipt, to make her teeth to rot.
What was the cause then? Thought'st thou in disgrace
Of Beautie, so to nullifie a face,
That heaven should make no more; or should amisse
Make all hereafter, had'st thou ruin'd this?
I, that thy Ayme was; but her fate prevail'd:
And scorn'd, thou'ast showne thy malice, but hast fail'd.