Myn owne John Poynz, sins ye delight to know

Myn owne John Poynz, sins ye delight to know
The cause why that homeward I me drawe :
And fle the presse of courts wher so they goo :
Rather than to live thrall, under the awe
Of lordly lokes, wrappid within my cloke :
To will and lust lerning to set a lawe ;
It is not for bicawse I skorne and moke
The power of them, to whome fortune hath lent
Charge over us, of Right, to strike the stroke :
But true it is that I have alwayes ment 'o
Lesse to estime them then the common sort,
Of owteward thinges, that judge in their entent.
Withowte regarde what doeth inward resort.
I grant some tyme that of glory the fyer
Doth touch my hert; me list not to report
Blame by honor, and honor to desire.
But how may I this honor now attayne.
That cannot dy the color blak a Iyer ?
My Poynz, I cannot frame me tune to fayne,
To cloke the trothe for praise withoute desart,
Of them that lyst all vice for to retayne.
I cannot honour them that settes their part
With Venus and Baccus all theire lyff long ;
Nor hold my pece of them al tho I smart.
I cannot crowche nor knelle to do so grete a wrong,
To worship them, lyke Gode on erthe alone.
That ar as wollffes thes sely lambes among.
I cannot with wordes complayne and mone,
Nor suffer nought; nor smart withoute complaint;
Nor torn the word that from my mouth is gone :
I cannot speke and loke lyke a saint ;
Use wiles for witt, or make deceyt a pleasure ;
And call craft counceill, for proffet styll to paint.
I cannot wrest the law to fill the coffer
With innocent blode to fede my sellff fat;
And doo most hurt where most help I offer.
I am not he that can alow the state
Of high Cesar, and dam Cato to dye,
That with his deth dyd skape oute of the gate
From Cesares handes (if Lyve do not lye),
And would not lyve when lyberty was lost;
So did his hert the common wele aplye,
I am not he suche eloquence to boste
To make the crow singing as the swan;
Nor call the Lyon of cowardes bestes the moste
That cannot take a mous as the cat can ;
And he that dythe for hunger of the gold
Call him Alessaundre ; and say that Pan
Passeth Apollo in musicke manyfold ;
Praise Syr Thopias for a nobyll tale,
And skorne the story that the knyght told;
Praise him for counceill that is droncke of ale,
Grynne when he laugheth that bereth all the swaye,
Frown when he frowneth and grone when is pale ;
On othres lust to hang boeth nyght and daye ;
None of these poyntes would ever frame in me,
My wit is nought, I cannot lerne the waye ;
And much the lesse of thinges that greater be
That asken helpe of colours of devise
To Joyne the mene with eche extremitie;
With the neryst vertue to cloke alwaye the vise ;
And as to pourpose, likewise it shall fall
To presse the vertue that it may not rise
As dronkenes, good felloweshipp to call ;
The frendly ffoo with his dowble face.
Say he is gentill, and courtois therewithall ;
And say that favell hath a goodly grace
In eloquence ; and crueltle to name
Zele of Justice ; and chaunge in tyme and place ;
And he that sufferth offence withoute blame
Call him pitefull ; and him true and playn
That raileth rekles to every mans shame ;
Say he is rude that cannot lye and fayn ;
The Letcher a Lover; and tirannye
To be the right of a prynces reigne.
I cannot I, no no it will not be !
This is the cause that I could never yet
Hang on their slevis that way, as thou maist se,
A chipp of chaunce more than a pownd of witt.
This maketh me at home to hounte and to hawke.
And in fowle weder at my booke to sitt ;
In frost and snowe then with my bow to stawke ;
No man doeth mark where so I ride or goo;
In lusty lees at libertie I walke ;
And of these newes I fele nor wele nor woo,
Sauf that a clogg doeth hang yet at my hele.
No force for that; for it is ordered so,
That I may lepe boeth hedge and dike full well.
I ame not now in Ffraunce to judge the wyne
With saffry sauce the delicates to fele.
Nor yet in Spaigne where oon must him inclyne
Rather then to be outewerdly to seme ;
I meddill not with wittes than be so fyne.
Nor Fflaunders chiere letteth not my sight to deme
Of black and white, nor taketh my wit awaye
With bestlynes; they beestes do so esteme.
Nor I ame not where Christe is geven in pray
For mony, poison and traison at Rome,
A comune practise used nyght and daie.
But here I ame in Kent and Christendome,
Emong the muses where I rede and ryme.
Where if thou list, my Poynz, for to com,
Thou shalt be Judge how I do spend my tyme.