Are all soon wither’d, broke, forgotten,
In Folly ripe, in Reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw, and ivy-buds,
Thy coral clasps, and amber studs,
Can me with no enticements move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.
What should we talk of dainties, then,[5]
Of better meat than’s fit for men?
These are but vain; that’s only good
Which God hath blessed and sent for food.