There was a time with me, when every eye Did scorch like flame: if one looked cold on me, I straight accused myself of mortal sins: Each fopling was my master: I have lied From very fear of mine own serving-maids.

Sir Fopling is a fool so nicely writ, The ladies would mistake him for a wit; And, when he sings, talks loud, and cocks, would cry, I vow, methinks, he's pretty company: 10 So brisk, so gay, so travell'd, so refined, As he took pains to graff upon his kind.