The Scarabee, cannot indure the sente
Of fragant rose, moste bewtifull to see:
But filthie smelles, hee alwaies doth frequent,
And roses sweete, doe make him pine and die:
His howse, is donge: and wormes his neighbours are,
And for his meate, his mansion is his fare.
With theise hee lives, and doth rejoice for aie,
And buzzeth freshe, when night doth take her place,
From theise, he dies, and languisseth awaie:
So, whose delites are filthie, vile, and base,
Is sicke to heare, when counsaile sweete we give,
And rather likes, with reprobates to live.