Cytherea

But crafty Cytherea planned meanwhile / new arts, new schemes: that Cupid should conspire, / in likeness of Ascanius, to beguile / the queen with gifts, and kindle fierce desire, / and turn the marrow of her bones to fire.

Has Fashion iced that snowy breast / Where Cytherea's doves might rest, / Till sighs of Songland, sore distrest, / Its feelings may not harrow?

The gloved and jewelled bards who sing / Of Pippa, Maud, and Guinevere, / Have hardly done the 'handsome thing' / For you, my inky Cytherea.