More from John Lyly
What bird so sings, yet so does wail? Oh, 'tis the ravished nightingale. "Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu," she cries, And still her woes at midnight rise.
For wenches, wine, and lusty cheer, Jove would leap down to surfeit here.
O! for a bowl of fat Canary, Rich Palermo, sparkling Sherry.
None is happy but a glutton.
: Were women never to fair, men would be false. : Were women never so false, men would be fond.
Be valyaunt, but not too venturous. Let thy attyre bee comely, but not costly.