What dreamest thou, drunkard, drowsy pate?
Thy lust and liking is from thee gone;
Thou blinkard blowboll, thou wakest too late.
Old proverbe says,
That byrd ys not honest
That fyleth hys owne nest.
I say, thou mad March hare,
I wonder how ye dare
Open your jangling jaws
To preach in any clause,
Like prating popping daws,
Against her excellence,
Against her reverence,
Against her pre-eminence,
Against her magnificence,
That never did offence.