ON MAMURRA'S MISTRESSThat Ametina, worn-out whore,Me for a myriad oft would bore,That strumpet of th' ignoble nose,To leman, rakehell Formian chose.An ye would guard her (kinsmen folk)Your friends and leaches d'ye convoke:The girl's not sound-sens'd; ask ye naughtOf her complaint: she's love-distraught.

ON A STRUMPET WHO STOLE HIS TABLETSCome, Hendecasyllabics, many as mayAll hither, every one that of you be!That fulsome harlot makes me laughing-stockAnd she refuses at our prayer restoreOur stolen Note-books, an such slights ye bear. Let us pursue her clamouring our demands."Who's she?" ye question: yonder one ye sightMincingly pacing mime-like, perfect pest,With jaws wide grinning like a Gallic pup.Stand all round her dunning with demands, "Return (O rotten whore!) our noting books.