Quintus is burnt, and may thereof be glad;
For being poor, he hath a good pretence
At every church to crave benevolence,
For one that had by fire lost all he had.

Mother of the gods, beloved Night, one thing I beg of you, ah, I beg of you, Holy Night, companion in my love-revels!
If any one now lies happy under one cover with Heliodora, warmed by her sleep-cheating flesh, let the torch be extinguished. And let him lie asleep on her breast, another Endymion.

By want of shift since lice at first are bred;
And after, by the same increased and fed:
Crambo, I muse how you have lice so many;
Since all men know you shift as much as any.

Thou evermore dost ancient poets blame,
For feigning Venus wife to Vulcan lame.
I blame the stars, and Hymen too, that gave
A fair straight wife to thee, a foul lame knave:
And nought doth ease my grief but only this,
Thy Venus now hath got a Mars to kiss.

You promise mountains still to me,
When over-night stark drunk you be;
But nothing you perform next day:
Henceforth be morning drunk, I pray.

Gnat, swift messenger, fly from me and when you touch the tip of Zenophile's ear, murmur this:
" Sleepless he waits you, but you sleep, O heavy-eyed forgetter of your lover! "
Fly! Hey, friend of the Muse, fly! But hum gently lest you waken her husband and arouse his jealousy against me.
If you bring her here I will gird you with a lion's skin, O most magnanimous gnat, and I will give you a club to carry in your hand!

Shrill-humming, impudent gnats, suckers of human blood, two-winged night beasts, I beseech you, let Zenophile sleep tranquilly for a little — look, here is my own flesh, devour it.
I implore them fruitlessly. These beasts of prey delight to luxuriate on delicate flesh. But I warn you to cease your insolence, vile beasts, or you will learn the weight of jealous hands!

TO ALL POOR SCHOLARS .

Fail ye of wealth, of wealth ye still will fail,
None but fat sows are now greased in the tail.

Being the 11th of December.

Why this day's shorter than the rest,
A modern bard full well has guest,
The sun who shines the year about,
And ev'ry lesser light puts out,
This day submits, and will not rise,
But lends his rays to Stella 's eyes.

Milo lives long in France, and while he's there
His ground bears nought, his wife doth children bear.
Why should th' one barren, th' other fertile be?
His ground lacks ploughing up, so doth not she.