Now Zoilus is ill, 'tis said;
But rumour's a deceiver.
'Tis only that his scarlet bed
Has given him scarlet fever.

He longed to make a fool's display
(Good health alone prevented)
Of downy cushions, hangings gay
With Tyrian dyes and scented.

Not Aesculapius' art divine
Is needed, I assure him;
If he would change his bed for mine
I know that it would cure him.