Lydia, in Heaven's Name
Why melts young Sybaris in thy Flame?
Why doth he bed-rid lie
That can indure th' intemp'rate Skie?
Why rides he not and twits
The French great Horse with wringled bits?
Why shuns he Tybur's Flood,
And wrastlers Oyle like Vipers Blood?
Nor hath His Flesh made soft
With bruising Arms; having so oft
Been prais'd for shooting farre
And clean delivered of the Barre?
For shame, why lies he hid
As at Troy's Siege Achilles did,
For fear lest Mans Array
Should Him to Manly Deeds betray?