Which makes her grieve to see a pudding creep,
For Creeping puddings only please the wise.
Not that a hard-row’d herring should presume
To swing a tyth pig in a Cateskin purse;
For fear the hailstons which did fall at Rome,
By lesning of the fault should make it worse.
For ’tis most certain Winter woolsacks grow
From geese to swans if men could keep them so.
Till that the sheep shorn Planets gave the hint
To pickle pancakes in Geneva print.