AN Halfe-penny-worth of Wit, in a Pennyworth of Paper. OR, The hermits Tale.  
The third Impression.  
LONDON Printed for Thomas Thorp, by the Assignment of Edw: Blount. 1613.   

To the Right Honourable the Countess of Sussex.  
IN times of former ages (honourable fair Lady) I have often heard, that Usury, Lying, and Flattery, were worse excommunicate out of Court and Commonwealth, then threadbare cloaks or greasy boots out of the Presence. O they were virtuous men in those days, & would give the devil his due, if it were but in wearing devils breeches. Surely I am grown into such infinite amours of their honest packstaff plainness, that sincerely and verily, I do mean, as it were, to imitate it. First, for Usury, I hate it worse than any empty purse, and you shall have none of me, I beseech God to inspire me but with half so many good words, as may countervail the hundredth part of the principal of your gracious favours towards me. Next for lying, in no line of this Book shall you find me liable, (if I be not condemned for too much speaking the troth, I care not) and to make you know, that I am old Tom-tel-troth indeed, I will give you a taste whereby you may judge of the rest. Item. I say I am no Scholar, if that be a lie I refer me to the judgement of the learned, who if they but pose me in the pedigree of a Noun and pronoun, I strait cross and bless myself, & think they begin to conjure. Again, I affirm that thus being no Scholar, but a simple honest Dunce, as I am, that cannot say B to a Battledore, it is very presumptuously done of me, to offer to hey-pass and repass it in Print so, when my Ancestors scarce ever heard of a Pen & Inkhorn, & much more presumptuously, it being such a course homespun linsey woolsey web of wit as it is, to shroud it under the protection of so high a parsonage, who are more worthy to patronize the divine Muse of Apollo, or the thundering spirit of Homer, than this Country dance of the world's end, or harsh Lancashire Hornpipe. Tax me who dare, or who can, that herein my tongue doubles one syllable. Marry some excuse would do well, for this my Eagle-soaring, and too too forward attempting, and yet I need not neither, for out of your own superabounding good nature you would supply it though I let it alone; & yet I will not let it alone, but throw some light vail, of spotless pretended well-meaning, over it, to huke & mask it from public shame & obloquy: Faith, no more but this, I see my inferiors in the gifts of learning, wisdom, & understanding, torment the Print daily with lighter trifles and jiggalorums, than my russet Hermit is, which hath made me the bolder to shoulder in amongst them. They clap a pair of French spurs on the heels of Vice to rowell open the womb of that resty jade Iniquity, & let all the loath-some guts & garbage of his paunch issue out to putrefy and infect the fresh air of Paul's Churchyard; I curb sin with a double snaffle of reprehension, & turn & wind him with my smart wand of correction to what virtuous manage I please. Therefore for my good meaning, not Art, am I to be seen & allowed. For my insolence in presenting this homely bundle of Hermit's wands to so sacred a Madam, under this covert baron it shall march, that weak houses require the strongest props, and the poor must pay their fines to their Lord or Lady whatsoever, be it but in pepper-cornes, or single halfpences. My Book I entitle, A halfpenny worth of wit in a pennyworth of paper, whereby it draws somewhat near to the matter & the purpose. If you accept it well, there is no man that will accept it ill, and except you stray from the world's ordinary custom (that take Vintners leaden halfpenny tokens for sound payment) you cannot accept of it amiss. Imagine this one of them, for either it will pass for a halfpenny or nothing. But soft I have let pass my last relic of antiquity, which is there horrible and terrible detestation of flattery, & my religious comformation thereunto. I have proved myself guiltless of lying & usury, & if my Book will not save me from being haltered for flattery, I would it were treason to write & read, or Gal, Gum, & Copperis whereof Ink is made, were held more odious than poison: all the flattery that I will use (if it be flattery to speak truth) shall be to pronounce that you are truly virtuous, fair, wise, & honourable: & so I leave you, desiring pardon for my boldness, and praying for your increase of felicity to your dying day.  
Your Honour's most zealous devoted humble Servant. Humphrey King.   

To all his Honourable Friends, or Honest dispersed Wellwishers whereso-ever.  
IT would well become a devote Hermit to begin with Grace and Peace unto you, but that I hold frivolous, since if you want Grace, go by jeronimo, you are no friends for me: and if you be not men of Peace, it is not my hermits Staff, and my little bucker-clapdish, that will appease you, wherefore Shokkatorum, that which will be shall be. If you will be quiet and leave your mocking tongue you may, if not, flout on by leave, the more sport it breeds you, the gladder I am (as the Scotchman says) that I have it for you. Cunning Lawyers, upon the false mistaking of a T. or an N. or putting in a dash overplus (if the Debtor be rich and able roundly to fee them) will make a Writ of Error of any thing: do not so by me I beseech you, for I am a very bad writer of Orthography, and can scarce spell my Abcie if it were laid before me. The Printer may help me to deliver to you true English, but as I am a true man to God and the King, he finds it not in my Copy. I mean well, that I am sure, and if I had better means to express, I would make you better understand it: in the mean time, what is but mean, take it in as good part, as if it were the highest treble that the clearest Poetical warbling throat could shrill or quaver forth. Dangerous misinterpreting I fear not, 
Since Envy, that black venomed To add swollen Elf,  
Near slanders a clear conscience to itself.   
Only if you could a little dispense here and there with a hard Rhyme or two, (in which yet you shall not say but there is some reason) and my verses that are like Cheaters false Dice of high-men and low-men, one while eights, now tens, another while foure-teenes, and sometimes six, I will number you, (though I keep no numbers) in the fore-most rank of my benefactors and favourers. Me thinks a King by birth as I am, should not debase himself to entreat so much. And yet I remember an old schoolboys game of King by your leave (ever since I was a boy myself) and so I am afraid you will cry, King by your leave, we are to have about with you, bear it off with the head and shoulders how you can. But if you do, upon all the Cans and quart-pots about London I will be sworn, (all Wine-pots from this general rule excepted, for them I have forsworn till Michaelmas, unless the new wine of Peru, that is made of no Grape, but a strange fruit in the West-indies, and is more comfortable to the brain and the stomach, than any restorative or cordial whatsoever) upon them I say I will abjure and renounce, all claim or interest I have had in that wicked word of Poetry, and bind myself and my heirs, never more to be publicans and sinners, (or sinners in public) in that unfortunate Art of Printing. It hath been told me, that those that are slain with the Indians poisoned arrows, die with their mouths shut, and how the Butchers in Germany, kill their sheep after the self-same order, by tying a cord about their mouths, and so strangling them, that their flesh may be more swollen and puffed up: so would I die, by my good will, if this my labour miscarry, and have my mouth closed up from ever speaking or writing henceforward. Had I had learning enough, I would have framed an invective against learning, because, I know, none save the learned will find fault with me: but seeing I have it not, I must here end my Epistle, and desire such as descend to deeply into my shallowness, no otherwise to esteem of my writings then of Drums and Trumpets in war: which are not used so much to stir up men to fury, as to teach them to march in measure.  
Yours, as you conceit me, HUMPHREY KING.   

HOW dares the Author pass unto the Press,  
Where satires, Essays, Epigrams do swarm,  
The Comic, and the stately Tragic verse,  
And Caltha metamorphosed with a charm?  
A strong imagination wrought this thing,  
His name being King, he thinks himself a King.   

In discommendation of the Author.  
IT is no Tale, the Hermit is belied,  
The Author over-awed, or much beguiled.  
Time past spoke plain, and did no vices hide,  
Time present must be pleased like a child.  
christian thy book anew, then dost thou well,  
And call it Truth, a Tale's an Infidel.   

KIng never proved more King in any thing,  
Then in this plainsong, freedom of a King:  
Plain unaffected style, yet vices sting;  
Why (King) I see y faith thou'lt needs be King.  
Conueniunt rebus nomina saepe suis.   


TO grace the man whom all the Grace's favour,  
Lies not within the compass of my quill,  
Suffice it his most plausible behaviour,  
Draws all the happy choice of wits, and skill,  
To love, admire, affect, and dignify,  
Himself, and these his labours pleasing lines.  
'mongst whom my zeal presumes to signify  
Some love to him, in whom such virtue shines.  
An Hermit's Tale, an Hermit's Heart declareth;  
Sincere the one, so spotless pure the other,  
That with the virtues evermore it shareth,  
By no means suffering ill the good to smother.   

Go then sweet Hermit's Tale, and tell the wisest,  
Perfection lives not still in the precisest.   
Vincor, non vinco.   


THat I have loved, and most respected thee,  
True-honest Humphrey: I do here protest,  
And that the world shall witness it with me,  
Embrace this sign of love amongst the rest;  
Wilt thou have more? my word I will engage:  
Nay further yet: I'll take a solemn oath,  
By the Red-herring thy true Patronage,  
And famous Nash, so dear unto us both:  
By all the Bowers that we have reveld in,  
Our merry times, that gallop hence so fast,  
By all the hours we have together been,  
By all our vows of friendship that have past:   

By these I swear my love, and thy work graced,  
On her rich worth, and honoured Titles placed.    


LAtely the Muses from their forked hill  
Descending down into our humbler vale,  
To taste the fruits of Industry and Skill  
In makers of this time: Beheld thy Tale.  
Which, though it did appear empty of Art,  
(As that thy modesty hath still professed)  
Yet this fair censure they did all impart:  
Thy love to Arts therein was well expressed.  
But when they saw to whom it was designed,  
(A Lady of her graces; so inspired  
With every bounty both of form and mind,  
As of the Muse's selves, she is admired)   

They vowed, thy work should live; and with one voice,  
Approved thy judgement in so sweet a choice.   
Suus cuique mos.   

AN Halfe-peny-worth of Wit, in a Pennyworth of Paper. ALIAS. ¶ The hermits Tale.  

WAlking by a Forest side,  
An ancient Hermit I espied,  
White was his head, old was his face,  
Pale were his looks, obscure his place,  
And in his hand I might behold  
A book all torn and very old;  
I willing both to see and know  
His place, and why he lived so,  
Went to salute him, as unknown,  
To be a partner of his moan,  
He being of an humble spirit,  
As one that heaven would inherit,  
A friendly welcome to me gave,  
And brought me to his homely Cave,  
Where he had lived full twenty years,  
And for his sins shed many tears;  
Thinking every hour to die,  
Knowing the world's unconstancy.  
Then sat he down, and to me told:  
I once was young, but now am old,  
And welcome is mine age to me,  
That no more changes I may see;  
For I have seen from time to time,  
The highest fall, the lowest clime:  
Contrary to that we expect,  
To make us know the world's defect,  
How time and death doth still presage  
The fickleness of every age  
Like to the Moon that hath no power,  
Loving to change, both day and hour.  
Unhappy men that live therein,  
Where nought is found but death and sin.  
Then gentle youth, if you would know  
heavens delight, the world forego,  
For worldlings, very seldom can  
Two Masters serve, both God and man.  
For if a man your Master be,  
You then must sin as well as he,  
To smooth his taste, and please his vain,  
How much so ere the sin contain.  
If he a Tyrant do profess,  
Then must his servant be no less;  
Or if an Atheist he be known,  
So must you be, or else be gone:  
For I have heard a proverb old,  
Be ruled by him that hath the gold.  
Such are the errors of our age,  
When souls for gold are laid to gauge:  
A substance that wise men besot,  
A pleasure full of pain, God wots.  
When I was young, as you are now,  
I spent my youth, I know not how,  
Rating my pleasure at such a price,  
More worth, then heavens Paradise.  
These worldly pleasures are but toys  
Unto the high celestial joys,  
Where God doth sit on Zion hill  
To give the doom of good and ill,  
Then if you knew how sweet it is  
To meditate on heavens bliss,  
You sure would leave all worldly strife  
And live with me, an hermits life.   

Answer.  
FAther or friend, what ere you be,  
A happy man you seem to me,  
The happiest man this day on earth,  
Blest in your age, and at your birth;  
Whose heavenly words my heart hath won,  
To live with you, and be your son:  
Leaving the world, too full of woes,  
Where sins and errors daily flows,  
And take me to your homely Cell,  
Where sweet content doth ever dwell;  
Then if you please to take the pain,  
For Christ's sake, a soul to gain,  
Your counsel grave on me bestow,  
That true religion I may know:  
For all Kings Christened are at wars  
For Conscience, and religious jars;  
And controversies now have made  
One King on other to invade,  
With war, with death, and famishment,  
Each other still they do torment;  
With Christian's blood they die the ground,  
Piercing sweet babes with many a wound,  
And aged men with silvered hairs,  
There groveling lie, in blood and tears;  
What sin, what death, soever befall,  
They make Religion cause of all.  
A grievous thing, when they shall come  
To give account for all and some  
Before that God that knows their thought,  
If they for true Religion fought:  
Or whether for ambitious pride  
They meant Religion to divide;  
And so to kindle God's displeasure  
For Kingdoms, Crowns, and worldly Treasure;  
Knowing them all to be illusions,  
To bring our souls into confusions,  
And make us wish, ere we have done,  
Such wars had never been begun.  
Where Christians seek each others blood,  
Their meaning seldom can be good.  
But if our wars were like to them  
Which were before jerusalem,  
Against the Turks, which there abode,  
Sworn enemies unto our God,  
What happy men than had we been,  
So to have died, and cleared our sin?  
Whereas (God wots) we now do go  
To seat our Brother's overthrow.  
Alas! if they in wars that die,  
Did not confess a Trinity:  
Or if that Heathen men they were,  
Without all knowledge, faith or fear  
Of Christ that died to save mankind  
From death and hell, to him assigned;  
Then without any offence at all,  
They might take pleasure in our fall.   

Hermit.  

MY son of wars you have complained,  
Which is a plague for sin ordained;  
A plague that God himself hath chose,  
His wrath and justice to disclose:  
And for my part, I must confess,  
Our sins (my son) deserve no less.  
Christ knows we have deserved more  
Than ever our fathers did before:  
And yet we say, they never knew  
Where true Religion ever grew.  
For they were still instructed then  
By Friars and Monks, old ancient men,  
Such as did then attribute all  
Unto Saint Peter, not to Paul.  
Saying that Christ had chose alone,  
Him for the Rock, and corner stone,  
And unto him the keys resigned,  
To open, shut, to lose and bind.  
Taking the word as it was spoken,  
And not the sense it did betoken:  
And so by Peter's superiority,  
The Pope doth challenge his authority.  
But come my son, time doth us call.  
we'll leave our Christ to judge of all.  
And go with me, I'll teach thee how to spend  
The Summer day in solace with thy friend,  
Where thou shalt see the pleasure of this wood,  
Exceeds all other, were they near so good.  
Hear dwells poor men that never use to swear,  
But yea and nay, and by the weeds they wear.  
far be it from them to wrong his holy Name  
That gave them life, and leave to use the same.  
To him they call; and still for mercy cry,  
Because they know in justice all must die;  
They live secure, and free from any strife,  
And think Content to be the sweetest life:  
And so it is, to such poor men as these,  
That look for nought, but how their God to please.  
See how they labour all day till they sweat,  
And take great pains, and all to get them meat.   

Saving your Tale, good Father, what be those,  
That in their looks decipher many woes,  
And many times they seem to make a show  
As though from whence they came, they feign would go,  
Impatient of the crosses God hath sent  
Them for their good, because they should repent.  
Well said (my son) thy judgement I commend,  
For Man hath crosses to none other end,  
And he is happiest that can suffer any  
For his sake, that for us hath suffered many.  
Hast thou not heard a song of Phillida,  
Of Herpilus, and eke Coren?  
why these, my son, be they.  
The one is Coren, that once took  
delight his Hawks to lure,  
Th'other Herpilus, (poor man)  
that all pain did endure  
For Phillida, and that is she,  
which oft did flowers twine,  
And Garlands make of Violets,  
to please her Corens mind.  
But he regarded not her love,  
nor when she frowned or smiled  
It moved not him, he never cared,  
for once he was beguiled.  
And yet she was the fairest Maid  
that ever nature framed,  
And all the Shepherds would rejoice  
when Phillida was named.  
But Time, the enemy to Youth,  
sent Sickness, Beauty's cross,  
As messenger, to tell her now  
she is not as she was:  
Her golden hair, her forehead smooth  
her quick full speaking eye,  
Her comely nose, her lips  
where love did banquet royally,  
Have changed their hue, for what can last,  
or hold that will away?  
Like judas fatal Elder-tree,  
so looks poor Phillida.  
Her hair with Daffodils dight  
Ewrethed with purple-silke,  
Is now within a nightcap tide,  
unkembed, as white as milk.  
Her forehead all with furrows filled  
that was so smooth and white,  
Her eyes (the Cabinets of love)  
have lost their wont sight;  
Her nose is sharp, her jaws are fallen,  
her lips that were so red,  
Now looks like Siluer-ore untried,  
and no teeth in her head.  
Ah son, if they in Court that live  
did once but think of this,  
They soon would find amongst themselves  
how they had done amiss,  
In pampering up their filthy flesh  
which is a slave to time,  
An enemy unto the soul,  
a mass of filth and slime.  
But come my son, we'll now go home  
unto our homely Cave,  
And leave poor Phillida to mourn  
that wisheth for her grave.  
For Herpilus, and eke Coren,  
of whom the Muses song,  
They vowed to die with Phillida,  
because they loved so long.   

Father, I never heard a Tale  
to move a man to ruth,  
And make him think of all his sins  
committed in his youth  
As this which you have told;  
A terror unto those  
Which in their beauty, wit, or strength,  
do confidence repose.   

It is no terror (son) to those  
which mean not to repent,  
They never think of crooked age,  
nor of their youth misspent;  
But headlong run from sin to sin,  
like sheep that go astray,  
Yet now and then for fashion sake  
they make a show to pray;  
And come to Church, and knock and kneel,  
because they may be taken  
For honest, good, and godly men,  
that have the world forsaken.   

'Tis true Sir, I have heard of those  
that under show of zeal;  
Would hate the time, & curse the state,  
and at the Clergy rail;  
Ill minded men, envious, and proud,  
dissentious, full of wroth,  
Monstrous dissemblers, filled with sin,  
in whom there is no troth;  
These zealous men, mean to erect  
a Church, ere it be long,  
Where Papist never set his foot,  
nor never Dirge was song;  
Mean while, for fear their faction break,  
they think it best behoves them,  
To meet in Barnes, and there to Preach,  
even as the Spirit moves them,  
And there they pray, before they Preach,  
in heart, with one accord,  
That they may never laugh, for fear  
they do offend the Lord;  
Then starteth up a brother strait  
upon a wicker Chair,  
And talks of sin, and how it reigns  
amongst us every where;  
How every state is discontent,  
How many sin, how few repent:  
What Maypoles, and what Whitsonales,  
What ringing, and what oldwives tales,  
Are now believed to be the way  
To save us all another day.   

My son, these men will near endure the touch,  
They know too little, and they speak too much,  
Their looks are smooth, like Silver purified,  
They will prove Copper, when they shall be tried.  
I never heard of these which seem so pure,  
Which for Christ's sake would martyrdom endure,  
And yet no doubt, as long as peace remains,  
Their conscience will endure any pains.  
But if the God of war abroad should range,  
And catch these men that long to see a change,  
You than should see them all within one day,  
For very fear of death, to turn Turke-way.  
But come my son, sit down and let us eat  
These homely cates, in steed of better meat,  
And leave these men that envy so the state,  
To die like dogs, that can do nought but prate.   

I'll tell you, Father, of a Tale  
that is in Skelton's rhyme,  
A foolish Tale, but yet a Tale  
to drive away the time;  
Of a very pleasant lad  
my Tale I must begin,  
That came into a house, by chance,  
where Sectaries did Inn,  
And being in their company,  
not knowing what they were,  
He was as merry as a Pie,  
still skipping here and there,  
Till at the last a civil Sire  
came mildly towards him,  
And like a man of God, rebuked  
this youngman for his sin.  
This merry Lad, mused at the man,  
as one loath to offend,  
Saying, if he had done amiss,  
he would be glad to mend.  
Night drew on, Supper came in,  
they all with one consent  
Desired this youngman's company,  
and he was well content.  
He sadly sat all Supper while,  
and not a word he said:  
And as they did, so would he do.  
They after supper prayed,  
And Chapters read, and sung a Psalm  
all to instruct the youth,  
What great delight he ought to have  
in reading of the truth.  
When that the Lord was served thus,  
they called a reckoning presently,  
And would not let this young man pay,  
but thanked him for his company.  
This pleasant Lad mused at the men,  
yet being far from scorning,  
Entreated them to break their fast  
with him the next day morning.  
They thanked him all with one consent,  
but especially Master Powes,  
Desired him to bestow no cost,  
but only Beef and Brows.  
You shall have nothing ease (quoth he)  
welcome shall be your chief,  
And so good-night, until we meet  
all at a piece of beef,  
The morning came, & there they met,  
the boy that knew his time,  
Set them down to breakfast strait,  
and then began his rhyme.  
You are welcome hearty, unto lusty Humphrey,  
Welcome here must be your chief  
To a friendly piece of Beef,  
Such as was used in ancient time  
When housekeeping was in prime;  
When the Beef and Brews flourished,  
When the silly souls were nourished,  
Then 'twas a wonder to the poor  
To see a Porter keep the door,  
Then were silly harmless folks,  
Plain chimneys than were full of smokes:  
Every table than was spread,  
And furnished out with Beef and bread,  
Every man than took a pleasure  
In his house to spend his treasure.  
Who was then the Gentry's Guest?  
The Widow poor, that's oft oppressed,  
The Soldiers with their wounds and scars  
Bleeding for their Country's wars.  
Then in the Country dwelled true pity,  
Now Christmas is but for the City;  
A Gentleman of small revenue,  
Had then the poor for his retinue.  
Wast not then a merry time  
When thy neighbour came to mine,  
Canst thou lend me twenty pound  
For to buy a piece of ground?  
Without statute, or a bond  
Their word as good as any hand.  
Then men of ancient calling  
Loved no pride for fear of falling,  
Country Russet was their wearing,  
And Kendal green, for fear of tearing.  
The Clothier scarce the Mercer knew,  
Now Silkworms make the Sheep to rue,  
The Ploughman lived, sweet was his pain,  
The Tailor now sweeps up his gain.  
If any now do take compassion,  
'Tis to check the oldest fashion;  
Yet paying for new fashions gold,  
In spite of all, the new is old.   

But what mean I to run so far?  
My foolish words may breed a scar,  
Let us talk of Robin Hood,  
And little john in merry Shirewood,  
Of Poet Skelton with his pen,  
And many other merry men,  
Of May-game Lords, and Summer Queens,  
With Milkmaid's, dancing o'er the Green's,  
Of merry Tarlton in our time,  
Whose conceit was very fine,  
Whom Death hath wounded with his Dart,  
That loved a Maypole with his heart.  
His humour was to please all them  
That seem no Gods, but mortal men,  
For (saith he) in these our days,  
The Cobbler now his Last down lays,  
And if he can but read, (God wots)  
He talks and prates he knows not what,  
Of Maypoles, and of merriments  
That have no spot of ill pretence.  
But I wonder now and then,  
To see the wise and learned men,  
With countenance grim, and many a frown  
Cries, Masters, pluck the Maypole down.  
To hear this news, the Milkmaid cries,  
To see the sight, the Ploughman dies.  
'Tis a jest to see when they begin  
For to pluck down such wooden sin.  
Foolish men, and faithless too,  
That still profess, and nothing do.  
The Sectaries were in a rage,  
and knew not what to say,  
They spit, and chafed, and stamped amain,  
and would have gone away.  
This merry Lad began to laugh,  
and to them thus replied,  
You see it stands not with my youth  
from pleasure to be tide,  
I love to sit and laugh,  
not to offend the wise,  
I care not for their company  
that honest mirth despise:  
Those that be Saints abroad,  
whose substance shadows be,  
Let them go seek Precisian-sects,  
they are no mates for me.  
And when you are at home,  
think of this proverb told,  
The Tree is still known by his fruit,  
if it be near so old.  
The poor men went away,  
all discontent in mind,  
And had no pleasure to their meat,  
but left it all behind.  
Now, Father, be you judge  
who played the better part,  
They with their zeal, or else the boy  
that spoke with all his heart.   

In sadness my good son,  
I never yet did hear,  
A Tale to that effect,  
so much to please mine ear;  
My judgement I will stay,  
until our better leisure,  
I'll show thee here a book my son,  
wherein thou mayst take pleasure:  
Hear shalt thou read my son  
a volume of despair,  
The death of many a conquering king,  
their lives, and what they were,  
The wisdom of this world,  
the frailty of our age,  
Our present time now acting sin  
like Players on a stage.  
I writ it with this hand  
that once could guide a pen,  
And set my Lance into my rest  
as well as other men.  
But (oh) those days are past,  
and now I wish to have  
For all my service done,  
a white sheet and a grave.  
My Cask of steel is to a nightcap turned,  
My shining Armour to a gown of grey,  
My youthful heart, which once with beauty burned  
Like dreams illusions, vading pass away,  
Even as the night doth from the glorious day.  
My Naples Courser is a bank of earth,  
Whereon I sit to manage all my sins,  
Twixt life and death, which are borne mortal twins.  
My bridle now must be my Beads,  
The golden bosses books,  
And all my Sonnets must be prayers  
Whereon devotion looks,  
My Lance turned to a Palmer's staff  
Which once was painted brave,  
And all my followers be my sins,  
To bring me to my grave.  
The shield which now my Page  
Unto my Prince must give,  
Is (time misspent) An aged man.  
that can no longer live.  
Believe me son, I would not live  
For to be young again,  
To be great Emperor of the world  
The world I so disdain.  
judge you if I say true,  
Read this, and know my mind,  
They that have eyes, may see the world,  
Or else they are borne blind:  
It is a world of care,  
The greatest Prince that reigns  
Hath not half pleasure in his Crown  
To equal all his pains.  
And he that lives in Court,  
And can but favour win,  
What ere he was, he may be sure  
That all will follow him.  
The surly Ushers than  
Will do him any grace,  
That told him but a week before  
He did not know his place;  
His fellows of the Guard,  
When he comes to the door,  
Will all stand up and make a leg,  
That would sit down before.  
But if this man be proud,  
And full of high disdain,  
Caring for nothing else at all  
But for his private gain.  
Then Envy moved in heart,  
A jury strait doth call,  
Inditing that usurping man  
Conspiring his downfall.  
And strait he doth inform  
The jury what he was,  
That now usurps, and hates the poor  
And doth his betters cross.  
The Poet hearing this,  
Pulls forth a book of Tables,  
And makes a subtle rhyme,  
Much like to Esop's fables;  
Then being foreman, tells a Tale  
That was not much regarded,  
How men of virtue and of worth,  
Did wander unrewarded:  
So he that lives in Court,  
And doth not seek to have  
The love of every private man,  
And of the poorest slave,  
Let him be sure of this,  
If Fortune chance to frown,  
Envy in time will turn the wheel  
And throw him headlong down.  
Who would be such a man  
When Time his fortune reads,  
That he must leave his Offices,  
And take him to his beads,  
And in a shirt of hair,  
Repent his time misled,  
And give his treasure to the poor,  
Whom he hath injured.  
This were the way to go  
In peace unto his grave,  
For none without they do repent,  
Can any mercy have.  
But lives there such a man?  
No sure there can be none,  
We all are Lambs, no Foxes now,  
The devil's dead and gone,  
No sure: if he were dead,  
The Poets than would leave  
To write of those that follow him,  
And all the world deceive.  
But farewell to the world  
Unless I come by stealth,  
It never cares to grace such men  
As want both wit and wealth.  
I cannot kiss my hand  
Nor lout below the knee,  
Nor take a feather from your gown,  
You know such men there be.  
In world one undermines  
another to no end,  
And worst they speed,  
who most in hope do spend,  
Envied they are,  
on whom but Fortune smiles,  
Though those smiles turn  
to nothing otherwhiles.  
The mighty, seeking  
to enlarge their might,  
Into contempt oft tumble  
down outright.  
The Lawyer's Client  
crouching on his knees,  
Prevaileth nought,  
except he bring large fees.  
The Citizen, the Scholar,  
and the Boor,  
Without a largesse,  
are thrust out of door.  
Bravery, the gallant novice  
thinks doth all,  
When it consumed,  
his credit is but small.  
Valour and Wit,  
proud on their tiptoes stand,  
And think chief dignities  
they may command.  
When that a fool,  
a Parasite, a Pander,  
Betwixt them steps,  
and they are set to wander.  
So from the head  
unto the foot it fares,  
Each one supplanteth  
other unawares.  
The wisest builders,  
against after storms,  
Fishing for honour,  
bait their hooks with worms;  
Worms that do dig  
and delve for them all day,  
Yet to all ravenous birds  
are left a prey.  
In Commonwealth  
how many vainly dream  
Of Indian Mines,  
that fish against the stream?  
How many, that but having  
one good bite,  
A nod, or least glance  
from their Mistress sight,  
Cost upon cost, clap thick  
and threefold on,  
And never cease,  
till they be quite undone.  
How many that do fish before the Net,  
Who offices before they fall do get,  
And count all fish into their Net doth chance,  
Whom nought so vile, but serveth to advance.  
All these pursuing gain, not true content,  
Fish for their bane, their toil is fruitless spent.  
This is the world my son,  
Then now some comfort give  
To me poor man, my time is come  
I can no longer live  
Mine age, my blessed age,  
Wherein I do rejoice,  
Hath lent me time for to repent,  
And sing with Angel's voice,  
Hymns, Anthems, Laude, and Praise  
Unto the King of Kings,  
Which out of this wild wretched world  
Poor souls to heaven brings.   

You Poets all and some  
That writ of Esop's fables,  
Conceiting plots to please the world  
Notes from your book of Tables;  
methinks that Ajax should you call,  
To make wast-paper of you all  
That spend your time to please the time,  
With fictions, tales, and idle rhyme,  
Leaving the mark that should be hit,  
To praise God's glory, and your wit.  
Oxford and Cambridge was erected  
For Virtue, not for vice protected.  
Ah, son, I faint, mine age and I  
Are striving now who first should die:  
My will is made, I have no wealth,  
But wishes, prayers, content, and health,  
To thee my son, and all my friends  
That credit to this vain world lends.  
My swolne-sicke heart, with death is tossed,  
Like to a football in a frost;  
God bless thee son, now close mine eyes,  
I hope my soul to heaven flies.  
And thus I end my hermits Tale  
Which is of much ruth,  
It proves there is no hope in age,  
Nor certainty in youth.   

As for this homely Tale,  
And he that made the same,  
Hath neither learning, wealth, nor wit,  
And scarce can write his name.    
FINIS.