Success Hath Made Me Wanton.

Spread Yourself Upon His Bosom Publicly, Whose Heart You Would Eat In Private.

Poets Are Far Rarer Birds Than Kings.

Success Hath Made Me Wanton.

Neither Do Thou Lust After That Tawny Weed Tobacco.

Poor Worms, They Hiss At Me, Whilst I At Home Can Be Contented To Applaud Myself, . . . With Joy To See How Plump My Bags Are And My Barns.