Classic Poem

Fayre words foule deeds, pretended and forethought,
Who can but hate, that holds the feare of God:
Fayne you that lyst, such practise prooues but nought,
Vyle diuelishe dristes, prouoke I OVES wrathfull rod,
Which sure will fall, if we in synne perseuer,
Shame is the fruite, of frawde and foule endeuor.

Wherein beholde, some maske in Nettes at Noone,
Yet deeme they walke in clowdes of close disguise:
Hoyste vp in thought, to reache beyonde the Moone,
When all the worlde, their couert cunning spyes.
But these to name, my pen and speeche shall spare,
Who medleth least, least cumbred is with care.

It me suffizen may to note their driftes,
That weene by wyles, the worlde to weald at will:
Their glosing shewes, their slye and guylefull shiftes,
To trayne such on, as fynde not out their skyll.
Whose turnes to serue, though fooles a tyme be dandled,
The wyser wincke, that see how things are handled.