"The next place that they came unto Was the meer Barathrum of wo, Where lay a miserable pack Of men that dy'd for honours sake, Some that had drown'd themselves in River, Others thrust Ponyard through Liver, Because forsooth they cou'd not sip Nepenthe from a Mistress lip. Some that had been past worldly hope And ended all their cares with rope; But were become the unhappier (Out of the Frying-pan into the fire,) For here they'r cramb'd up in a hole Which always lies bedung'd and foul. As for with brooms and mops to cleanse it I wonder who in conscience means it, Because like privy or a sink The more 'tis stir'd the more 'twill stink."