*At the Bear-Bait.* Have a look, Mattie, at the pins on that rowdy spectator teasing the bear Harry Hunks. Long and slender they are, just the way I like ’em. Too bad Harry has spurted blood all over the man’s silken hose. Still, I’d do him.

*On London Bridge.* Will you notice the pretty display of severed heads on pikes? Serves those papists right for defying the Protestant queen. Oh, and glance at the well-formed man showing the skulls to his poppets. I’d welcome his shanks in bed, wouldn’t I?

*By the Thames.* Ah, you can view all of London from this spot on the riverbank, Mattie. And observe the bulging calves of the waterman there docking his boat. The river has soaked his stockings up to the cod--yum! There now, I’ve winked at him, and the Puritan turns his craft about to get away! And I was set to do him like a sex-starved pirate.

*At the Game of Bowls.* Do you spy the bowler over there, Mattie, with pegs thick as tree trunks? Oh, when he bends to release the ball, his thigh muscles nearly burst his canions. I’m dying to touch him. Let’s do this: when the game is over, we’ll press around him with the other ladies, and I’ll sink my hand in his meat. He’ll never know who ’twas.

*Outside a House of Resort.* Cast an eye, Mattie, on the stealthy movements of the gentleman coming out the back door! Oh, the way his nether stocks cling to him! I fancy a knock-kneed man, I do. Even though his nose is half eaten away by syphilis and dripping on his doublet, I’d do him. No doubt of it. I’ve done plague victims, Mattie, if they’re of sound legs.

*Among the University Wits.* Will you gaze upon the walking parts of the young poet Marlowe! How they keep rising upward, vanishing at last into his venetians and peascod belly. Is it warm in here, Mattie, or is it me? Innkeeper, a cool ale for a maid who has sweated through all of her five petticoats!

*In the Countryside.* Ah, isn’t the air fresh out here, away from the rotting offal and putrid filth of the town? And will you mark the stilts on that shepherd in his field! He’d fetch me, if he didn’t stink so of sheep. Worse than Fleet Ditch, he is. Fie, Mattie, let’s withdraw. I’d sooner do a Catholic.

*At the Cliffs of Dover.* The chalk cliffs of Dover are not so white, Mattie, as the creamy kickers of the man stopping before us with his yellow, bowlegged companion. The companion, to be sure, has jaundice and rickets, but the other! Be he a poet, I wonder? Do the cliffs inspire him? My dear, I’m about to kneel before him, kiss his gams, and extemporize an *Ode to Legs.* I’ll do him after, of course, while you do Sir Rickets.

*At the Swan Theater.* Sure and I’ll pay the extra penny for a seat up front to watch that long-stemmed player prance about! Do you see him, Mattie? No, not that swollen parcel of dropsies, the player over there. No no, my dear, not that stuffed cloak-bag of guts, either. Are you blind today, my sweet? Yes, the one standing stage left with the garters of blue ribbon. Don’t his snug slops stir your honeypot?

*In Whitehall Palace.* Take a gander, Mattie, at the spindleshanks standing by Her Majesty. That’s Walter Ralegh. How I adore his lean shins! And do you note the intricate design on his nether stocks? That shows the quality of a knight. I’d give my right arm to embrace him; the left one too. There, I’ve whistled for him. But why is the Queen looking my way?

*At the Public Scaffold.* If only he weren’t about to lop off my lips and tongue for sassing Good Queen Bess, I’d do this handsome flogger, Mattie. I quite like his full paned trunkhose. And the fleshy thighs of him, good lord! But my lips! He’s grabbed my lips, Mattie! My dear! Oh! (*Loses her lips and tongue and can no longer speak.*)