Of Witel, and the Burse, and what ’twill cost
To get that back which was this summer lost.
So fall to praising of his lordship’s hair,
Ne’er so deformed, I swear ’tis sans compare:
I tell him that the King’s does sit no fuller,
And yet his is not half so good a colour:
Then reach a pleasing glass, that’s made to lye
Like to its master most notoriously:
And if he must his mistress see that day,
I with a powder send him strait away.”