Of doues I haue a dainty paire Which, when you please to take the aier, About your head shall gently houer, Your cleere browe from the sunne to couer, And with their nimble wings shall fan you That neither cold nor heate shall tan you, And like umbrellas, with their feathers Sheeld you in all sorts of weathers.
Myrtale often smells of wine, but, wise, With eating bay-leaves thinks it to disguise: So nott with water tempers the wine's heate, But covers it. Henceforth if her you meete With red face and swell'd veynes, modestly say, "Sure Myrtale hath drunk o' th' bayes today?"
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