Precious dear,
your good cheer
is my hope
while you cope
with forced rest.
Vim and zest
please regain,
then unchain
your front gate—
do not wait—
and emerge,
please, I urge
you, my sweet.
Come and eat
once you're up—
we shall sup
on fruit jam,
cheese and ham,
and some cake.
No mistake—
if your fast
chanced to last,
Clem observes,
your lush curves
would grow thin.
So dig in
and stay near,
precious dear.

Sweetest rose,
heaven knows
your stay's hell.
So get well!
Noonday sun
waits for one
laid abed,
flushed and red,
growing pale,
not to ail.
Instead, tan—
for this man
would bestow
golden glow
to your cheek.
Trim and sleek,
figure fair,
please beware
that you may
come to weigh
but a sigh.
Have some pie!
Health and life:
butterknife
on your dish—
fondest wish
of Marot's,
sweetest rose.