From a Bestiary
continued

                        II.
CUNT is a kind of mollusk, which is found,
Not in a shell, but in a grassy mound;
Nor must it live in water, like an oyster,
For in itself it maketh its own moisture.
Unlike the Cock, none other hath its name,
And so it serveth ill the punster's game;
Its origins I know not, I admit;
St. Isidore doth not go into it.
But I think its devilish cunning is the source,
For it was put on earth to cause remorse.
Though it hath no shell that closeth with a snap,
Physiologus says 'tis still a trap:
Like Whale, that lureth prey with its sweet breath,
It smelleth good, and lureth Cock to death;
For of all the holes there are that Cock might enter,
Cunt is the hole of holes, the epicenter.

And thus with thee, O Man! Thou art sucked in,
Longing to know what treasures lie within;
The outer world will not suffice for thee;
Thou strugglest long, as if to plumb the sea:
Then thinking to rest upon some grassy knoll,
There all the time, beneath you, gapes the hole.