Classic Poem

As manhood is a vertue great, where wisedome rules the sword,
As great a vice it is to brall for every trifling word;
The rayling speach, the fearelesse othes, the standers by affright,
When quarellers, like curtall curres, do barke before they bite;
But if their brauling turne to blowes, his count comes very scant,
For sixe pence strife to buy a sword and buckler if he want.
A reckning worsse to catch a licke, but worst the losse of life;
One of which evils lightly haunt the man which lives in strife.
Who so is hurt doth feele the smart, who hurtes in feare doth live;
His foe to seeke a sharpe revenge some desperate stroke will give:
If lucklesse blowe should pierce the hart, the one to death gives place,
The other lives in slender hope to have the princes grace.
Though suite of friendes his pardon gets, appeale doth pinch his pursse,
But gnawing of the conscience guilt then all will grieve him worsse.
What greater spite then spoyled limmes, with houghed legs to limp,
Or with a wood or yron hand the maimed arme to ympe.
This mone he findes at straungers handes a colde amends, in fayth,
A proper man as one shall see, see what mishap he hath!
But they that know his bralles doth say, no force, it skilleth not,
His hassard hap hath hit the white at which his follie shot.
His friends do count by this mischance how he doth nothing loose:
Who else would kyll, or sure be kilde, a sorrie choise to choose.
But (ah!) good couse, at this my verse the reader smyle I see,
Who sayes, behold how far from words his deeds doe disagree:
If halfe this reason rulde his rage, his rashnesse had not caught
A maimed hand (which true I graunt), nor tryall had me taught
The goodnesse halfe of such a lym, which by the losse I finde.
But sith mishap would have it so, this shewes an honest mynde,
To warne his friends the vice to shun, whose proofe bewrayes the woe:
If late repentance wrought him helpe, he would no more do so.