This hard speech Phillis hardly takes, And thus she Floras pacience crakes; "Thou lov'st a man pure love forsakes, That God his godles bellie makes. "Rise, wretch, from this grosse extasie, A clerke sole epicure thinke I. No elegance can bewtifie A shapeles lump of gluttonie. "His hart sweete Cupids tents rejects, That onely meate and drinke affects: O Flora, all mens intelects Know souldiers vows, shun those respects. "Meere helpes for neede his minde suffiseth, Dull sleepe and surfetts he despiseth, Loves trump his temples exerciseth, Cooradge and love, his life compriseth. "Who with like band our loves combineth? Even Natures law thereat repineth; My love in conquests palme-wreths shineth, Thine feasts deforms, mine fight refineth." Flora hir modest face enrosed, Whose second smile more fayre disclosed, At length with mooving voyce she losed What art in her storde brest reposed. "Phillis, thy fill of speech thou hast, Thy witt with pointed wings is grast, Yet urdgest not a trueth so vast, That hemlocks lillies have surpast. "Ease loving clerkes thou holdst for cleere, Servants to sloth and bellie cheere; So envie honor would enpheere,[10] But give me eare, Ile give thee answere. "So much enjoyes this love of myne, He nere envies, or hirs, or thyne; Household stuffe, honny, oyle, corne, wine, Coyne, jewels, plate, serve his designe. "Such pleasing store have clerks bylying, As none can fayne their dignifying: There, Love clasps his glad wings in flying, Love ever firme, Love never dying. "Loves stings in him are still sustained, Yet is my clerke nor pinde nor pained: Joy hath no part in him restrained, To whom his love beares thoughts unfained. "Palled, and leane, is thy elected, Poore, scarce with cloths or skin contected, His sinews weake, his brest dyjected, For nothing causde maks nought effected. "Approching neede is Loves meere hell, Souldiers want gyfts to woo loves well: But clerks give much, and still heaps swell, Their rents and riches so excell." "Right well thou knowst" (Phillis replide) "What in both arts and lyves abide, Likely, and clenly thou hast lide: But thus our difference is not tride. "When holy-day the whole world cheeres, A clerke lifes modest figure beares: His crowne is heaven, black weeds he weares, And showes a mind halfe dround in teares. "None is so poore of sence or eyne, To whom a souldier doth not shyne: At ease, like sprightles beasts lives thyne, Helms, and barb'd horse, do weare out myne. "Mine low with armes makes foe-towrs ly, And when on foote he fight doth try, While his fayre squire his horse holds by, Mine thinks on me, and then they dy.