Flow off in semen and a lecher whilesUnlive my life-tide. Who could ever thinkFrom lute the lutanist should cut him clear?But you, ereeld's marasmus do me dead,Desist, I pray you from vain diligence,Nor hang a buckle on Priapus' yard.

The Gods and Goddesses deny thy teethA bait, a whetting, neighbour cunnilinge!Thro' whom my girl (once strong and never false,But with her swift untiring paces wontTo visit us), that hapless Labdacé,Swears for her ditches she can hardly crawl.

Although with yard distent (Priapus!) weighted(Wherewith our poet did reprove thee hereIn verse), on no wise deign thereat to blush;