Umber was painting of a lion fierce, And, working it, by chance from Umber's erse Flew out a crack, so mighty, that the fart, As Umber states, did make his lion start.
Urles had the gout so, that he could not stand; Then from his feet it shifted to his hand: When 'twas in's feet, his charity was small; Now 'tis in's hand, he gives no alms at all.
Ursley, she thinks those velvet patches grace The candid temples of her comely face; But he will say, whoe'er those circlets seeth, They be but signs of Ursley's hollow teeth.
So long, it seem'd, as Mary's faith was small, Christ did her woman, not her Mary call; But no more woman, being strong in faith, But Mary call'd then, as St. Ambrose saith.
Scobble for whoredom whips his wife and cries He'll slit her nose; but blubbering she replies, "Good sir, make no more cuts i' th' outward skin, One slit's enough to let adultery in.
Though a wise man all pressures can sustain, His virtue still is sensible of pain: Large shoulders though he has, and well can bear, He feels when packs do pinch him, and the where.