Dramatic Romances

“Were the object less mean, would he stand
At the swing of my hand! 
For obscurity helps him and blots
The hole where he squats.” 
So, I set my five wits on the stretch
To inveigle the wretch. 
All in vain!  Gold and jewels I threw,
Still he couched there perdue;
I tempted his blood and his flesh,
Hid in roses my mesh, 20
Choicest cates and the flagon’s best spilth: 
Still he kept to his filth.