Verses that weare giuen to a moste mightie personage.

O Pearlesse Prince, if penne had purchast praise,
My parte was plaied, long since on publike stage:
Sith Leaden worlde, disdaines the golden daies,
With face of Brasse, men must go through this age.
Though Poetts prate, like Parret in a cage,
Poore Tom maie sitte, like Crowe vpon a stone,
And cracke harde Nutts, for Almonds sure are gone.

A Figge for verse, and filed gallant stiles,
Whose romblyng noyes, but thonders in the aire:
For pleasant wordes, procures but scorns and smiles,
Or clokes colde showres, in calmie weather faire.
My spised termes, are dround in deepe despaire,
Yong witts hath ronne, old Churchyard out of breath:
And babblyng bookes, hath ridden Rime to death.

Bothe Prose and Rime, doeth goe a beggyng now,
And Finenesse fraes, so sauours on the schoole:
That learnyng leanes, vnto a rotten bowe,
And Science walks, but like a ridyng foole.
Yea tong and penne, are bothe to weake a toole,
To woorke for gaine, in greedie worlde God knowes:
Where Fortunes flood, to needlesse riuer goes.

Some drinkes their fill, yet mak's the worlde beleue
Well hedde is drie, where water freely glides:
When poore men weepe, sutche laugh within their sleue
And smothly looke, yet wisely watche their tides.
In brimmest stormes, their Barks at Anker rides,
When fire would burne, so snatche the coales awaie:
If fauour were, in triall as it seems,
The noble Court, a lone were Churchardes staie,
The fountaine hedde, where bubblyng springs do plaie,
Is fittest place, for tree but newly cropt:
If Cocke would ronne, and Conduit were not stopt.

Who stands belowe, and looks till Apples fall,
(And hopes to eate, that others shaketh doune:)
Is like to catche, a shadowe from a wall,
Or watche a ball, that neuer giu's reboune.
Constrainde to crie, to her that wears the croune,
I waite myne howre, or foerst to parte the lande:
Thus helplesse man, seek's helpe at Caesars hande.