When wee conceive what snatching is in Spaine!
I, whilst I write, and doe the newes repeate,
Am forc’t to call for breakfast in, and eate:
And doe you wonder at the dearth the while?
The flouds that make it run in th’ middle ile,
Poets of Paules, those of duke Humfryes messe,
That feede on nought but graves and emptinesse.
But heark you, noble sir, in one crosse weeke
My lord hath lost a thowsand pound at gleeke;
And though they doe allow but little meate,