Of vnsounde freendes.

THe roote not pure, the braunches are infecte,
The tree vnsounde, the fruite and leaues are nought:
The grounde not good, the roote is in suspecte,
Of euery greef, the cause must first be sought.
For breake the bowes, and cleane dispoile the tree:
The roote lefte whole, a greater harme maie bee.

A sore vnsearcht, is seldome salued well,
As hatred hid, is harde to heale without:
The Doctour seeks, where eche disease doeth dwell,
And gropes the grounde, and so a voides the doubt.
First quenche the cause, in flames that doeth remaine:
The strawe on fire, the smoke will rise againe.

To cutte thy hande, when festred is thy foote,
Or pricke thy arme, when all thy hedde is sicke:
Ye be farre of, ye come not nere the roote,
Then this beleeue, ye are not nere the quicke.
So though the sworde, the simple putts to sacke:
The shippe you haue, and yet the sterne you lacke.