Whatever he writes is always polluted with some conceit:


Where the sun's fruitful beams give metals birth,
Where he the growth of fatal gold does see,
Gold, which alone more influence has than he.


In one passage he starts a sudden question to the confusion of
philosophy:


Ye learned heads, whom ivy garlands grace,
Why does that twining plant the oak embrace;
The oak for courtship most of all unfit,
And rough as are the winds that fight with it?


His expressions have sometimes a degree of meanness that surpasses
expectation;


Nay, gentle guests, he cries, since now you're in,
The story of your gallant friend begin.


In a simile descriptive of the morning: