oathable

Enough to make a whore forswear her trade ,
And to make whores a bawd . Hold up , you sluts ,
Your aprons mountant . You are not oathable ,
Although I know you’ll swear — terribly swear
Into strong shudders and to heavenly agues
Th’ immortal gods that hear you . Spare your oaths .
I’ll trust to your conditions . Be whores still .
And he whose pious breath seeks to convert you ,
Be strong in whore , allure him , burn him up .
Let your close fire predominate his smoke ,
And be no turncoats . Yet may your pains six months
Be quite contrary . And thatch your poor thin roofs
With burdens of the dead — some that were hanged ,
No matter ; wear them , betray with them . Whore
still .
Paint till a horse may mire upon your face .
A pox of wrinkles !