#106
Doctors of medicine or learning are equally prone
To slothful napping, succumb to sweetly silken pillows,
Nestling near a cosy stove to warm exhausted bones,
Gone from the universe and prey to the Devil's bellows.
A Venus dreamed can be rationalized as a patient
Appealing for mercy: "Touch me, cure me, oh, please relent!"
The rotting apple she leaves him is sufficient payment.
When Cupid walks on stilts he has no hands free for arrow
And bow, no desire to quicken desire, to speed blood's flow
To love's wound, or, is he the Doctor telling Venus, "No?"
So, the Devil's vapors have failed to stir the Doctor's lust,
And Venus has not tempted him with naked hips to thrust.
Virtue doesn't make one happy, the Doctor's frown suggests.
He's miserable dreaming the goddess's impish breasts.
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