Sprung from a Garden plot: A wonder praisd
Above conceit: whose strength did farre excell
All other lands; take thou my kind farewell.
And last Franciscan Friers, O painted Tombes!
Where vice and lust lurke low, beneath your wombes;
Whose hearts, like Hell, doe gape for greed of gold,
That have Religion, with your conscience sold,
To you I say a poxe, O flattering Friers!
And damn’d deceivers, borne & bred for Leyers,
Whose end my purse implores; O faithlesse fellowes!