Of a Courtiers life, and how the worst sorte findes beste Furtune.

THis parshall worlde, prefarres the fained face,
And beates hym backe, that beares the blotlesse browe:
As one might saie, thei stande in Fortunes grace,
That worst deseru's, and best can flatter now,
He reaps no Corne, that helps to holde the Plowe.
His gaine is small, that labours till he grones,
He bears the loade, that hath the weakest bones.

The wiely hedde, hath witte to watche his howres,
Like Foxe and Wolfe, that seru's them selu's you see:
The idell hands, that neuer planted flowres,
Takes Honie sweete, from sillie labryng Bee.
Though Fauken faire, for Ducke or Partrige flee,
He feedes on Beefe, or other baser meate:
Thus are thei seru'd, that oft doe toile and sweate.

Some rouns full swift, yet still the wager loes,
Men haue sutche sleight, to tripp their fellowes doune:
We knowe not how, the wheele of Fortune goes,
Nor wherein rests, our wealth or right renowne.
The tromp of Fame, giu's sutche vncertaine sowne,
That badd are good, and good haue but badd lucke:
In happie thyngs, or gaine of worldly mucke.

Next walkyng Iaads, and whipyng horses heeles,
Is Soldiours craft, and waityng Courtiers trade:
The one in feeld, bothe cold and honger feeles,
The other here, at home a drudge is made.
Well all is one, to sitt in Sonne or shade,
If happ giue all, no matter who doeth sowe:
He reaps moste Corne, whose Sieth shall furthest goe.