Upon Lungs. Epig.

Linnet plays rarely on the lute, we know;
And sweetly sings, but yet his breath says no.

Fie, quoth my lady, what a stink is here?
When 'twas her breath that was the carrionere.

Lulls swears he is all heart; but you'll suppose
By his proboscis that he is all nose.

Skoles stinks so deadly, that his breeches loath
His dampish buttocks furthermore to clothe;
Cloy'd they are up with arse; but hope, one blast
Will whirl about, and blow them thence at last.

Skinns, he dined well to-day: how do you think?
His nails they were his meat, his rheum the drink.

Luggs, by the condemnation of the Bench,
Was lately whipt for lying with a wench.
Thus pains and pleasures turn by turn succeed:
He smarts at last who does not first take heed.