What helps it thou wert given to please my wench?
Birds' hapless glory, death thy life doth quench.20
Thou with thy quills might'st make green emeralds dark,
And pass our scarlet of red saffron's mark.
No such voice-feigning bird was on the ground,
Thou spok'st thy words so well with stammering sound.
Envy hath rapt thee, no fierce wars thou mov'dst;
Vain-babbling speech, and pleasant peace thou lov'dst.
Behold how quails among their battles live,
Which do perchance old age unto them give.