Poore flea, then thou didst die,
Yet by so faire a hand,
That thus to die was Destine to command:
Thou die didst, yet didst trie
A louer's last delight,
To vault on virgine plaines, her kisse, and bite:
Thou diedst, yet hast thy tombe
Between those pappes, O deare and stately roome!
Flea, happier farre, more blest
Than Phœnix burning in his spicie nest.