Pra’y by your leave, make mo?sieur humors roome

That oft hath walk’d about Duke Humphries tombe

And sat amongst the Knights to see a play,

And gone in’s suite of Sattin ev’ry day,

And had his hat display a bushie plume,

And’s verie beard deliver forth perfume.

But when was this? aske Frier Bacons head

That answered Time is past, O time is fled!

Sattin and silke was pawned long agoe,

And now in canvase, no knight can him knowe.

His former state, in dark oblivion sleepes,

Onely Paules Gallarie, that walke he keepes.