Though Artemisia talks, by fits,

Of councils, classics, fathers, wits;

Reads Malebranche, Boyle, and Locke:

Yet in some things methinks she fails--

'Twere well if she would pare her nails,

And wear a cleaner smock.

Haughty and huge as High-Dutch bride,

Such nastiness, and so much pride

Are oddly join'd by fate:

On her large squab you find her spread,

Like a fat corpse upon a bed,

That lies and stinks in state.

She wears no colours (sign of grace)

On any part except her face;

All white and black beside:

Dauntless her look, her gesture proud,

Her voice theatrically loud,

And masculine her stride.

So have I seen, in black and white

A prating thing, a magpie height,

Majestically stalk;

A stately, worthless animal,

That plies the tongue, and wags the tail,

All flutter, pride, and talk.