The Praise of Thick and Short
John Collop (!)
If the round figures the most perfect be,
Th’ perfection of thy sex sure’s most in thee.
Nature imperfect there is understood,
Where up to legs they run for want of blood.
Here’s no lank piece stuff’d out with clothes to cheat,
Bag-pudding like, thou’rt all without deceit.
With thy broad shoulders there’s no slender waste:
Lest it might fall in two, must be strait lac’d.
Each part’s alike, thou art as thick as long,
Shoulders and waste have one proportion.
In parchment cloth’d, no skeleton here discovers,
To kill lust in them, death unto her lovers.
No bones stick out to threaten those draw near,
Sword-like through th’ scabberd of the flesh appear.
Thy quavering flesh to all that do draw nigh,
At every touch presents an harmony.
Sure far above the Musick of the spheres,
Th’ harmony of th’ whole Globe in thee appears.