Loe, heere I lye, Neuer to rise againe: Thy Mothers poyson'd: I can no more, the King, the King's too blame.

Now must I lye most confidently.

But canst thou swear stoutly, and lye handsomely.

O may the earth lye lightly on his Course, Sprinckle his ashes with your flowers and teares; The love and dainties of mankind is gone.

Ay, but he's a Man of Wit too, Cousin, and knows when Women protest most, they likely lye most.

Thou wert not like some, our small Poets who Could not be Poets, were not we Poets too; Whose wit is pilfring, and whose veine and wealth In Poetry lyes meerely in their stealth; Nor didst thou feele their drought, their pangs, their qualmes, Their rack in writing, who doe write for almes, Whose wretched Genius, and dependent fires, But to their Benefactors dole aspires.

Wee make no doubt of that; come into a chamber, ye shall lye downe awhile; perhaps youle bee stiffe anon, then you shall use your legges, the more you strive with it the better.

Truely you must lye close together (the Servants I meane), for I am so thrust with Guest