The Surrejoindre unto Camels rejoindre,
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WHat lyfe may lyve, long undefamde, what workes may be so pure,
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What vertuous thing, may florish so, that fautles may endure:
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What things be past, or yet to come, that freely may rejoyce,
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Or who can say he is so just, he feares not sclaunderous voyce.
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This Sclaunderous peales, doth ryng so loud, he soundes in every eare,
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Whose craft can fayn, such plesaunt tunes, as truth wer present theare.
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But it is falshed, fraught with fraude, and syngs a note to hye,
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Though that he bring, some plesaunt poynts. for to maintayn a lye.
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The simple wyts, at soone begylde, through sclaunders sweete deceayt,
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But those that knowes, such fishing hokes, shal sone perceyve the bayt.
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Unto whose eates, and judgements eke, I doo commende my workes,
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To save me from, the Serpents stynge, which under flowers lorkes.
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With healpe of truthe, I hope to flee, the venome of this Beast.
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Or els I trust, in his owne turne, to cast him at the least.
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Although he whet, his teeth at me, and styngs me with his tonge,
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Yet with the just, I am content, to learne to suffre wrong.
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Synce Princes peares, & Kyngs themselves, their Actes & godly lawes,
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Are sclaundred oft, through evyl tonges, and blamed without cawes.
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Looke what is doone, and truly ment, to put things in good stay,
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Are wrested, & perverted oft, by evyll tonges I say.
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The Preachers voyce, which thretneth wrath, the synfull to reduse,
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Doth purchase hate, for tellyng truth: lo, this is mans abuse.
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The chylde doth blame, the byrchen rod, whose strypes may not be sparde,
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Bicause his wyts, unto his welth, hath very small regarde.
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The wycked sort, whose vice is knowne, by those which writes their lyves,
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Can not abyde, to heare their fauts, but styll against theym stryves.
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The horse, cannot abyde the whyp, bicause it mends his pace,
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Thus eche thing hates, his punishment, we see before our face,
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Therfore I blame, this man the lesse, which sclaundreth me so mouch,
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And casteth venome, lyke the Tode, bicause his fauts I touch:
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What cause in me. what hate in him, what matter hath he sought,
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Within this Davy Dicars Dreame, which for the best was wrought.
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Unto the good, it is not yll, nor hurtfull unto none.
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Nor unto those, that loves the lyght, it is no stumblyng stone.
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But those that stands, to watch a tyme, the innocent to spyll,
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May wrest the truth, cleane out of frame, & turne good thyngs to yll.
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Out of the sweete, and fayrest floure, the spydre poyson takes,
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And yet the Bee, doth feede theron, and therwith hony makes.
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The Caterpiller, spyls the fruit, which God made for mans foode,
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The fly likewyse, wher he doth blow, doth styl more harme than good.
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Thus may you see, as men doo take, the things wheron they looke,
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Thei may it turne, to good or bad, as they applye the booke.
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But every man, to his owne worke, an honest meanyng hath,
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Or els those hasty, sclaunders tonges, might do good men moch scath.
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He feeles moch ease, that suffre can, all thyngs as they doo hap,
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Who makes a pyt, for other men, may fall in his owne trap
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who flynges a stone, at every dogge, which barketh in the strete,
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Shall never have, a just revenge, nor have a pacient sprete.
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Therfore I suffre, al your wordes, which is myne enemy knowne,
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I could you serve, with taunting tearmes, & feede you with your owne
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But I mynde not, to chocke your tale, before the worst be tolde,
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Then may I have, free choyce and leave, to shew you wher you scolde.
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Good syr if I, shulde you salute, as you saluted me,
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Then shuld I call you, Davy too, and so perchaunce you be.
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Ye multiply, fyve names of one, a progeny you make,
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As your desent, dyd come from thence, wherof you lately spake.
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Though such as you, have nycknamed me, in gest and halfe in scorne,
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Churchyard I am, in Shrewisbury towne, thei say wher I was borne
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You put your name, to others workes, the weaklings to begilde.
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Me thinke you are, somwhat to younge, to father such a childe.
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The truth therof, is eeth to know, a blynde man may discus,
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Ye are in nombre, mo then one, ye saye, bee good to us.
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You say, I did not answere you: I could no mattier fynde,
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Nor yet can see, excepte I shulde, at folly wast my wynde.
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The greatest shame, and most reproch, that any man may have,
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Is for to write, or scolde with fooles, whose nature is to rave,
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Synce railing ryms, ore coms your wits, talke on & babble styll,
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I not entende, about such chats, my pen nor speche to spyll.
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I neither fume, nor chaunge my moode, at ought that you have sayde,
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The world may judge, your railyng tong, full like a beast hath brayd.
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And where you say, you can poynt out, by lyne and levell both,
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Of all the, whens, of Dycars dreame, you say you knowe the troth.
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It is a wilfull ignoraunce, to hyde, I knowe full well,
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A faute, agaynst Juppiters seate, or agaynst his counsell.
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You shew your selfe, not Juppiters frende, if you can truly prove,
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A faute in me, and doth it hyde, for feare or yet for love.
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As for my works, and thankles paynes, in this and such like case,
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I shall be redy to defende, when you shall hide your face.
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Thinke you I feare, what you can do, my grounde is just and true;
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On every worde, which I dyd speake, I force not what ye brue.
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Fyll all your chargers, as ye list and dishes everychone,
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when they be full, and runneth ore, I will cast you a bone.
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Whiche shall be harde, for you to pyke, though that your wits be fyne,
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I can sone put, you out of square, from your levell and lyne:
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I wyll not answere worde for word, to your rejondre yet,
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Because I fynde no matter their, nor yet no poynt of wyt,
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But brabling blasts, and frantike fyts, and chyding in the ayre,
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why doo you fret thus with your self, fye man do not dispayre:
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Though that your wyts, be troubled sore, if you in Bedlem weare,
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I thinke you shuld be right wel kept, if you be frended theare:
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yf you were scourged once a day, and fed with some warme meate,
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You wolde come to yourself againe, after this rage of heate.
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This may be said without offence, if that your wyts you had,
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you wolde not lye nor raile on me, nor fare as you wer mad,
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But as it is a true proverbe: the threatned man lyves long,
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your words can neither hand nor draw, I feare not your yll tong.
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The world is such it doth contempne, all those that vertue have,
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An evell tong hath no respect, whose name he doth deprave.
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what is the cause of mortall food, whiche dothe in frendes aryse,
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But comenly these sclaunder tonges, which styll delyts in lyes:
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who maketh war, who soweth strife, who bringeth Realmes to ruine:
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But plenty, pride, and evell tonges, whose voyce is nere in tune,
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The roote and braunche and cheefest grounde, of mischeefs all and some,
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Is evyll tongues, whose sugred words, hath wyse men overcome,
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The proofe wherof you put in use, your words ye frame and set,
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To creepe into some noble hertes, a credit for to get.
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The eatyng worme within the nut, the sweetest curnell seeke,
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so doo you drawe where gayne is got, and there you loke full meeke.
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But under those fayre angels lokes, is hyd a develish mynde,
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I durst say odds who trust you long, full false he shall you finde.
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Now to returne unto the cause, which made you first to write,
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you shew your selfe to be a foole, to answer me in spite,
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The first and last that I have seene, of all your nipping geare,
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Is not well worth when fruite is cheape, the paring of a peare.
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your sodayn stormes and thundreclaps, your boasts and braggs so loude,
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Hath doone no harme thogh Robyn Hood, spake with you in a cloud
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Go learne againe of litell Jhon, to shute in Robyn Hoods bowe,
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Or Dicars dreame shal be unhit, and all his, whens, I trowe.
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Thus heare I leave, I lyst not write, to answer wher you rayle:
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He is unwise that strives with fooles, wher words can not prevayle.
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