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“The fitchew nor the soiled horse goes to’t with a more riotous appetite. Down from the waist they are Centaurs, though women all above. But to the girdle do the gods inherit. Beneath is all the fiend’s. There’s hell, there’s darkness, there is the sulphurous pit, burning, scalding, stench, consumption; fie, fie, fie, pah, pah! Give me an ounce of civet, good apothecary, to sweeten my imagination.”

The fitchew nor the soiled horse goes to't With a more riotous appetite.

The polecat survives as Fitch, Fitchett, and Fitchew— "Fissau, a filch, or fulmart."

Behold yon simpering dame, Whose face between her forks presageth snow; That minceth virtue, and does shake the head To hear of pleasure's name; The fitchew, nor the soiled horse, goes to it With more riotous appetite.

Often, of course, and especially in the talk of Edgar as the Bedlam, they have no symbolical meaning; but not seldom, even in his talk, they are expressly referred to for their typical qualities—'hog in sloth, fox in stealth, wolf in greediness, dog in madness, lion in prey,' 'The fitchew nor the soiled horse goes to't With a more riotous appetite.'