Foule blot and shame lives under trimme attires:
Worlde soone casts off the hackney horse it hiers:
And when bare nagge is ridden out of breath,
Tibbe is turn’d loose to feed on barren heath.
58.*
Of flowers a while men doe gay poses make:
The sent once past, adue dry withered leaves:
Love lasts not long, prickt up for pleasure’s sake:
Straw little worth, when corne forsaks the sheaves:
A painted post the gazar’s eye deceives: