A warnyng from Courte.

LOoke not for deedes, when wordes driu's of the tyme,
Thei reape but weedes, that sowes on barraine grounde,
Trust not to age, when youth is paste his prime:
Showe not plaine face, where finenesse doeth abounde,
Hope not for grace, where Flattrie faunes like whelpe,
But haunt the place, where hope hath readie helpe.

Spende little wealthe, where witte and tyme is loste,
Creepe from colde Court, where freendshipps fire goes out:
Matche not with Pride, nor leane to painted poste,
Seeke rather Death, then liue in daiely doubt.
Where Enuie liu's, and Loue is tournde to luste:
Good minds doe dye, and worlde is not to truste.

The Sirens song, deceiu's the simple eare,
The hissyng Snake, giu's warnyng eare he styng:
Greate pitts are hid, in water smothe and feare,
The hollowe bell, doeth make the sweetest ryng.
Thus daunger dwells, where least the doubt appeers:
And pleasant feelds, doe yeeld moste scratchyng Breers.

The plainest folke, are in the roughest soile,
The subtlest hedds, to golden hules repaire:
Who shuns gaie showes, shall scape from Fortunes foile,
Foule weather hangs, in Cloudie smilyng aire.
I can no more, but bidde the wise beware:
Of gallant Court, that weares vaine glorie bare.