Churchyards farewell.  
AS wit is never good  
till it be dearly bought:  
So friends until their truth be tried,  
may pass for things of nought.  
For friendship all in words,  
a kind of flattering is.  
And if I think my worthiest friend  
may be abused by this,  
I ought in plain flat terms  
to show him what I think,  
And blaze the meaning of my mind  
by paper, pen, and Ink.  
Because the doors be bard,  
where my good will should pass:  
And buzzing Bees do creep in place,  
where Churcheyards credit was.  
The fowler's merry pipe  
betrays the careless bird:  
And fléeringe fawners lie in wait,  
to give their friends a gird.  
When fortune turns her face,  
beware the sirens song:  
Beware the busy clawbacks fine  
whose friendship lasts not long.  
Think you the flies do flock  
about the flesh in vain?  
Doth not the be seek out the flower  
some honey there to gain?  
Do courtiers all for love,  
approach the prince's gates?  
Doth plainness in these double days,  
repair to great estates?  
No sure in masking robes  
goeth mischief muffled now:  
And subtle sleights with snakish stings,  
do lodge in smiling brow.  
And your affections blind,  
hath you bewitched so,  
Ye have no power to find your friends,  
nor to discern your foe.  
Ye fill the fleesinge fists,  
and let the needy lack:  
And sharp their teeth whose crafty tongues  
can bite behind your back.  
I pray you tell me now,  
if hap would let you slide,  
How many would through thick & thin  
for love with you abide?  
Perhaps a heap of such  
could hungry hangers on,  
Whose nature gives the court a fig  
when worldly hap is gone.  
Can you not see the cause,  
that brings them swarming in?  
And where the wheel of Fortune sways,  
the world favour win?  
Had not your elders wise,  
good trial of such trash?  
Did you not see what worthy wits  
at length were left in lash:  
By trusting some to far,  
and heaping hope in those  
That seemed friends to outward sight,  
and yet were secret foes?  
O let me licence have  
to paint these peacocks out,  
Whose feathers wavereth with the wind  
and so turns tail about:  
Yet flicker with their wings,  
to faun the face awhile,  
Until their sudden flight they take,  
and so their friends beguile.  
What should we judge of them,  
that stare in faces still:  
Where lo, for all their curtsy great,  
they bear but small good will.  
And where they seldom come,  
but when some suit they have:  
They make a sign to see my Lord,  
yet seek by sleight to crave.  
What makes them watch their hours,  
and thrust in thickest priest.  
It is for friendship that they bear  
unto a certain lease.  
My Lord must help to get,  
now crouch and kneel they all:  
Now stand they up like saints in shrine,  
or nailed against a wall?  
Now fig they here and there,  
as thorns were in their heels  
Now trudge about these whirlegigges,  
as world did run on wheels.  
Now cast they friendly looks,  
all over the chambers gay.  
Now give they place as God were there,  
now turn they every way.  
Now talk they trim in print,  
and prate of Robin hood:  
Much like the knights of Arthur's court,  
that knew full well their good.  
Some through a finer mean,  
do creep in credits lap:  
And vale their bonnets by devise,  
as favour followed cap.  
Such jugglers blear your eyes,  
and smile within their sleeve:  
When honour in his harmless mood  
Doth best of them believe.  
Were you but once a day,  
in simple servants place,  
And like a looker on ye stood,  
to pry upon this case:  
Then should ye thoroughly see,  
who plays the wily fox:  
And how the Wolf can frame himself,  
to draw in yoke like ox.  
Then should the muffled men,  
show forth their faces bare  
And thereby noble hearts should learn  
to know what flatterers are.  
The glory of your state,  
heaves up your head so high:  
That many things do scape your view,  
which we see full with eye.  
And who is now so bold,  
that dare flat warning give,  
To such as in top of pomp,  
or princely pleasures live.  
I muse what new found chance,  
hath so disguised the state  
That men oft times for speaking plain,  
do purchase endless hate.  
Whilst fraud and feigned cheer  
doth evil honour feed:  
And noman dare a plaster give,  
to heal the wound in deed:  
Full fickle shall you walk,  
and never want disease.  
They should be banished from your court  
that are so glad to please  
With twittell twattling tales.  
The truth like larm bell.  
Should shortly sound in tender ears  
and learn you to do well.  
But sure the sweetest nuts  
do noorishe worms apace,  
And flatterers of the finest stamp,  
in court have finest place.  
I am to plain therefore,  
my pen hath drunk to much?  
An alley head makes idle hand,  
the quick to near to touch.  
Nay, nay, some one must speak,  
although the vice it be:  
Or else the play were done ye wots,  
than Lordings pardon me.  
For free of every Hance  
I thank the gods I am,  
And serves no turn but for a vice,  
since first to court I came.  
To make the Ladies laugh,  
that leads the reckless lives  
Who late, or never woodcock like  
at later Lammas thrives.  
Yet if the fool had got,  
at his departing thence  
A night cap, or a motley coat,  
or else some spending pence.  
It had been well enough:  
but nothing there I found  
For nothing from their budgets fell  
they were so straightly bound.  
Ye lie sir Daw in deed,  
canst thou so long be there  
But needs must fall into thy hands,  
some paring of the pear?  
A hungry paring Lord  
he hath that there doth weight:  
He watcheth like a greedy hound  
that standeth at receight:  
That oft for lack of g●me,  
runs home his paunch to fill  
Or starves in forest or in park,  
at least at keepers will.  
Look what to court he brought  
it is consumed and gone  
And there the flesh of every joint,  
is worn unto the bone.  
The carrion crows of Cheap  
in steing bones so bare  
Would clap the fell in counter too,  
to breed him further care.  
Nay fie on such good hap,  
on soldiers faith I swear:  
To sell the Courts and City both,  
and he that takes me there.  
Let him cut of mine cares,  
and slit my nose aright  
And make a curtal of the beast,  
that hath a head so light.  
To linger out my years  
for moon shine in the well  
A hood, a hood, for such a fool,  
a babble and a bell.  
A coxcomb is to good  
for such a calf I trow.  
As of my Lord my leave I take,  
so now again I go.  
Where fortune shall assign,  
my staff to light or fall.  
And thus I know a truer friend,  
was not among them all.  
Then to my power I was,  
to you and all your race  
Nor unto whom I daily wish,  
more bless hap and grace.  
ꝙ churchyard.  
FINIS.   

¶ Printed in Fleetstreet, for Edward russel.