A wanton woman is the figure of imperfection; in nature an ape, in
quality a wagtail, in countenance a witch, and in condition a kind of
devil. Her beck is a net, her word a charm, her look an illusion, and
her company a confusion. Her life is the play of idleness, her diet the
excess of dainties, her love the change of vanities, and her exercise
the invention of follies. Her pleasures are fancies, her studies
fashions, her delight colours, and her wealth her clothes. Her care is
to deceive, her comfort her company, her house is vanity, and her bed is
ruin. Her discourses are fables, her vows dissimulations, her conceits
subtleties, and her contents varieties. She would she knows not what,
and spends she cares not what, she spoils she sees not what, and doth
she thinks not what. She is youth's plague and age's purgatory, time's
abuse and reason's trouble. In sum, she is a spice of madness, a spark
of mischief, a touch of poison, and a fear of destruction.