A thing create, that all things passes,
Whom nature blest with all hir graces;
O clerkes, in you blisse all blisse places."
This hard speech Phillis hardly takes,
And thus she Floras pacience crakes;
"Thou lov'st a man pure love forsakes,
That God his godles bellie makes.
"Rise, wretch, from this grosse extasie,
A clerke sole epicure thinke I.
No elegance can bewtifie