Churchyardes farewell.
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AS witte is never good
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till it bee deerely bought:
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So freends untill their truth be tride,
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may passe for thinges of nought.
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For freendship all in woordes,
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a kinde of flattringe is.
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And if I thinke my woorthiest freende
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may be abusde by this,
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I ought in plaine flat termes
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to shewe him what I thinke,
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And blaze the meaninge of my minde
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by paper, pen, and Inke.
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Because the doores be barde,
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where my good will should pas:
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And buzzinge Bees do creepe in place,
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where Churcheyards credite was.
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The fowlers mery pype
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betraies the careles byrde:
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And fleeringe fawners lye in waite,
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to geeve their freends a gyrde.
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When fortune turnes hir face,
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beware the Syrenes songe:
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Beware the busie Clawbackes fine
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whose freendship lastes not longe.
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Thinke you the flyes doo flocke
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aboute the fleashe in vaine?
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Dooth not the Bee seeke out the flower
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some hony there to gayne?
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Doo courtiers all for love,
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approche the princes gates?
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Dooth plainnesse in these double daies,
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repaire to great estates?
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No sure in maskinge robes
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goeth mischiefe muffled nowe:
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And subtile sleightes with snakish stings,
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doo lodge in smilinge browe.
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And your affections blinde,
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hath you bewitched so,
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Ye have no power to finde your freendes,
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nor to descerne your fo.
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Ye fill the fleesinge fistes,
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and let the needie lacke:
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And sharpe their teeth whose crafty tungs
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can byte behinde your backe.
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I pray you tell me now,
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if hap woulde let you slyde,
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How many would through thick & thinne
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for love with you abide?
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Perhaps a heape of suche
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could hungry hangers on,
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Whose nature geves the courte a fygge
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when worldly hap is gon.
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Can you not see the cause,
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that bringes them swarminge in?
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And where the wheele of Fortune swayes,
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the worlde favour winne?
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Had not your elders wise,
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good triall of suche trashe?
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Did you not see what woorthy wittes
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at length were lefte in lashe:
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By trustinge some to farre,
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and heapinge hope in those
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That seemed freends to outwarde sight,
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and yet were secrete foes?
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O let me licence have
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to painte these pecocks out,
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Whose fethers wavereth with the winde
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and so turnes taile aboute:
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Yet flicker with their winges,
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to faune the face awhile,
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Untill their sodaine flight they take,
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and so their freends beguile.
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What should we judge of them,
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that stare in faces still:
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Where lo, for all their curtsie great,
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they beare but small good will.
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And where they seldome come,
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but when some sute they have:
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They make a signe to see my Lorde,
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yet seeke by sleight to crave.
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What makes them watch their howres,
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and thrust in thickest preest.
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It is for freendship that they beare
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unto a certaine lease.
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My Lorde must helpe to get,
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now crowche and kneele they all:
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Now stand they up like sainctes in shrine,
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or nayld against a wall?
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Now figge they here and there,
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as thornes were in their heeles
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Now trudge aboute these whirlegigges,
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as worlde did runne on wheeles.
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Now cast they freendly lookes,
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all over the chambers gaye.
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Now geve they place as God were there,
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now turne they every waye.
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Now talke they trimme in printe,
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and prate of Robin hood:
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Much like the knightes of Arthers courte,
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that knew full well their good.
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Some through a finer meane,
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doo creepe in credites lappe:
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And vale their bonettes by devise,
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as favour folowed cappe.
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Suche Juglers bleare your eies,
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and smile within their sleeve:
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When honour in his harmles moode
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Dooth best of them beleeve.
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Were you but once a daye,
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in simple servauntes place,
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And like a looker on ye stoode,
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to prie upon this case:
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Then should ye throughly see,
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who plaies the wily foxe:
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And how the Wolfe can frame himselfe,
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to draw in yoke like oxe.
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Then shoulde the mufled men,
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shew foorth their faces bare
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And therby noble hartes shoulde learne
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to knowe what flatterers are.
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The glory of your state,
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heaves up your hed so hie:
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That many thinges doo scape your vewe,
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whiche we see full with eye.
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And who is now so bolde,
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that dare flat warninge geve,
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To suche as in toppe of pompe,
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or princely plasures lyve.
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I muse what new founde chaunce,
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hath so disguisde the state
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That men oft times for speakyng plaine,
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doo purchace endlesse hate.
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Whilest fraude and fained cheere
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dooth evell honour feede:
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And noman dare a plaister geve,
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to heale the wounde in deede:
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Full fickle shall you walke,
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and never wante disease.
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They should be banisht from your courte
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that are so glad to please
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With twittell twatlyng tales.
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The truth like larm bell.
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Should shortly sounde in tender eares
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and learne you to doo well.
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But sure the sweetest nuttes
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doo noorishe woormes apace,
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And flatterers of the finest stampe,
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in courte have finest place.
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I am to plaine therefore,
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my penne hath drunke to muche?
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An alie hed makes idle hande,
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the quicke to neere to touche.
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Nay, nay, some one must speake,
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although the vice it bee:
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Or els the play were done ye wot,
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then Lordinges pardon mee.
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For free of every Hance
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I thanke the gods I am,
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And serves no turne but for a vice,
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since first to courte I came.
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To make the Ladies laugh,
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that leades the retchles lives
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Who late, or never woodcocke like
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at later Lammas thrives.
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Yet if the foole had gotte,
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at his departinge thence
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A night cap, or a motley coate,
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or els some spendinge pence.
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It had bene well enough:
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but nothinge there I founde
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For nothinge from their budgets fell
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they were so straitly bounde.
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Ye lie sir Daw in deede,
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canst thou so longe be there
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But needes must fall into thy handes,
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some paringe of the peare?
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A hungry paringe Lorde
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he hath that there doth weight:
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He watcheth like a greedy hounde
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that standeth at receight:
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That oft for lacke of game,
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runnes home his panche to fill
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Or sterves in forest or in parke,
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at least at kepers will.
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Looke what to courte he brought
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it is consumed and gone
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And there the fleash of every jointe,
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is worne unto the bone.
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The carraine crowes of Cheape
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in steyng bones so bare
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Would clap the fell in counter too,
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to breede him further care.
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Nay fie on such good hap,
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on Souldiers faith I sweare:
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To sell the Courte and Cittie bothe,
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and he that takes me there.
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Let him cut of mine eares,
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and slitte my nose aright
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And make a curtoll of the beast,
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that hath a hed so light.
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To linger out my yeeres
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for moone shine in the well
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A hood, a hood, for such a foole,
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a bable and a bell.
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A coxcombe is to good
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for such a calfe I trow.
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As of my Lorde my leave I take,
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so now againe I go.
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Where fortune shall assigne,
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my staffe to light or fall.
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And thus I know a truer freende,
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was not amonge them all.
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Then to my power I was,
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to you and all your race
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Nor unto whome I dayly wishe,
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more blesse happe and grace.
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