I thought to hate, I cannot hate, although that I should dye. (5) A foe most sweete, a friend most sower, I ioy for to embrace; I hate the wrong, and not the wight, that workt my woefull case: What thing it is I know not I, but yet a thing there is, That in my fancie still perswades, there is no other blisse. The ioyes of life, the pangues of death, it makes me feele eche daie, (10) But life nor death, this humor can, deuise to weare awaye: Faine would I dye, but yet in death, no hope I see remaines, And shall I liue? since life I see, a course of sory paines. What is it then that I doe seeke, what ioye would I aspire, A thing that is diuine belike, too high for mans desire.
FINIS. F. K.
Euill to him that euill thinketh. +
T He subtill slily slightes, that worldly men doe worke, The freendly shewes, vnder whose shade, most craft doth often lurke Enforceth me alas, with yernfull voyce to say, Woe worthe the wilie heads, that seekes the simple mans decay.
(5) The bird that dreades no guile, is soonest caught in snare. Eche gentle harte deuoyde of craft, is soonest brought to care: Good Nature soonest trapt, which giues me cause to saie, woe worthe the wilie heades, that seeke the simple mans decay.
I see the serpent vile, that lurkes vnder the greene, +(10) How subtilly he shrowdes himselfe, that he may not be seene: And yet his fosters bane, his learing lookes bewray, woe worthe the wilie heades that seekes, the simple mans decay.
Woe worth the feyning lookes, on fauour that we doe waite, woe worth the feyned friendly heart, that harbours deepe deceipt: (15) woe worthe the Uipers broode, oh thrise woe worthe I say, All worldly wilie heades, that seekes the simple mans decay.
FINIS. M. Edwardes.