Venter, pluma, Venus, laudem fugiunt
Why fliest thow hence? and turn'ste awaie thie face?
Thow glorie brighte, that men with fame doest crowne:
GLO. Bycause, I have noe likinge of that place,
Where slothfull men, doe sleepe in beddes of downe:
And fleshlie luste, doth dwell with fowle excesse,
This is no howse, for glorie to possesse.
But, if thow wilte my presence never lacke,
SARDANAPAL, and all his pleasures hate,
Drive VENUS hence, let BACCHUS further packe,
If not, behowlde I flie out of thie gate:
Yet, if from theise, thow turne thie face awaie,
I will returne, and dwell with thee for aie.