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///My Muse not I:///

My mourninge muse awake from silent sleepe
by quakinge quille expresse thy martered mynde
sithe fathe is flede, it follie were to weepe
hoist vppe thy saile some happie harbor fynde

In payne I complayne
truthe cannot prevaile
dissemblinge disdaine
perverteth my weale.

Eache Witte is wysse to please the tickle tyme
Noe foole so fonde that knowethe how to fagne
the Cunninge Crue in favor seekes to rhyme
with those in fortunes grace, the knowe to raigne

All for advantage
theise Sicophantes play
Grey heades and yonge age
doe gape for a daye.

The flatterar will fawne where fortune smiles
Like subtill foxe to hyde his deepe deceite
in couerte cloude he walkes in watchfull wyles
he hides his hooke with sugred poysons beate

There wantes no allure
nor showe of good will
in wolfes to procure
the Silly lambes ill.

But truste as You trye reporte as You prove
I chose not to change (noe papiste) I prayse
of contrarie mynde disloiall I love
theire fathe is but feyned they flatter for ease

firme frendshipe is flede
ambicion is stronge
where lucar is heade
maynteyned is wronge.

Theise minsinge mates the Iuells of owr dayes
for filed phrase doe Mercurie excell
Theise bittersweetes the magistrates will please
with smylinge lookes as if they loved them well

but tyme tryeth all
false fathe wilbe spyed
when flatterars falle
true frendes wilbe tried

No cloude can cloake nor eloquence defend
but honeste hartes theise Sicophantes will knowe.
Theire Eccho vttereth all theire sleightes in ende
Like refuse malecontentes there frutes they showe

Tyme tryethe the truthe
tyme searcheth the harte
tyme teacheth yonge you<g>the
from Catholickes to starte./

 

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