My falcon now is sharp and passing empty, And till she stoop she must not be full-gorged, For then she never looks upon her lure.

On Tuesday last A falcon, now tow'ring in her pride of place, Was by a mousing owl hawked at and killed.

Say, will the falcon, stooping from above, Smit with her varying plumage, spare the dove? Admires the jay the insect's gilded wings? Or hears the hawk when Philomela sings?

The falcon and the dove sit there together, And th' one of them doth prune the other's feather.

Alas, how love can trifle with itself!

He that loves to be flattered is worthy o' the flatterer.