Friends sit and banter wit,
She'll shape a well-turned phrase, a subtle jest to hit.
In short, my sole delight
(Why, pipe, you sputter so!),
Whose angel visage bright
(And at me ashes throw!)
Shall never rival fear. You're jealous now, I know.
Nay, pipe, I'll not leave thee;
For of thy gifts there's one
That's passing dear to me