Fine madam Would-Be, wherefore should you fear,
That love to make so well, a child to bear?
The world reputes you barren: but I know
Your 'pothecary, and his drug says no.
Is it the pain affrights? That's soon forgot.
Or your complexion's loss? you have a pot,
That can restore that. Will it hurt your feature?
To make amends, you are thought a wholesome creature.
What should the cause be? Oh, you live at court;
And there's both loss of time, and loss of sport,
In a great belly: Write then on thy womb,
'Of the not born, yet buried, here's the tomb.'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem