Classic Poem

Mine owne good friend, since thou so faine wouldst know,
What kynde of trade doth yeald the surest gaine,
My judgement, now, of some I meane to showe,
And after toyle, which quiteth best thy paine,
The merchant he, which cuts the mounting seas,
With course direct, as lyes his best availe,
The Spanish marte whose mynde sometime doth please,
With further reach some hoyst their hovering saile.
Some passe Maroccoes straights, by paineful toyle,
Some seeke to reape the fruites of Ciprus soyle.

But how or where they rome with oken blockes,
Their lives, their goods, doth rest in Neptunes handes,
In rage some times who rolles them on the rockes,
Or driven unknowne, they sinke on Sillaes sandes;
The gotten gaine they lookt, thus haplesse lost,
In lue of toyle, them selves be quite undone.
Now unto him which surrowes on the coast,
And hassard gaines on waltering waves doth shun,
Who gropes the oxe, who sheares the sheepe for gaine,
Is often doust with dewes of rotting raine.

The handie craft, who wins his breade by toyle,
With sweate of browe he gropes for others gaine;
He tylles the ground, he sowes with seede the soyle,
When others reape the harvest of his paine,
To lodge the lord who buildes the stately hall,
Yet glad to couch in cabben clad with reede,
For others joy who lives him selfe in thrall,
Who killes the sheepe, yet of the head doth seede;
His summers toyle doth serve for winters store,
From hand to mouth, good soule, he hath no more.
The captaine he, which climbes for high advaunce,
By piercing blade imbrude in enimies blood,
In martiall shewes who formost leades the daunce,
His souldiers trainde in warlike order good,
The pyke men plaste to stay the horsemens rage,
The musket wilde, aloofe to souse them downe,
The byll men fresh when handie stroakes must gage,
When gallants having charge doth cry Aloun!
Then tantara! he bids in battell ray,
Be mearching, mates, in hope of happie day.

But when to joyne the bloudie trumpe doth sounde,
The horsemen fling to breake the pikemens ray,
The roaring gunnes doth terrifie the grounde,
The feathred flightes the enimies face doth fray,
The currier swift doth rid the skonce of ake,
With streames of bloud the joyning vallies flowes,
And wounded wightes for life their heeles doth shake;
Who scapeth then, next brunt may go to pot:
Thus daungerous standes the souldier state, God wot.

The courtier nowe, which hops up by degree,
And haply heav'd to heigth of high renowne,
If he do swerve from top of tickle tree,
His courtly friends will helpe to throwe him downe,
Who fawned earst then wrayes the forme of hate,
He (honoured late) nowe glad to crouch and creepe;
Yet envie vile, with spite and soule debate,
So wreastes his guilt, that grace doth alwayes sleepe:
Expence and toyle is guerdond with disdaine,
A bare reward in recompence of paine.

The clowne doth clawe more coyne out of the ground
Then he whose skill doth reach the state of starres:
Of yore though men, though learning, were renound,
Wealth with those wits is nowe at mortall warres.
By physickes arte, to credite many mount,
Where lacke of skill doth murther many one,
A sorrie trust tyde to so hard acount,
To lende him pence that payes the death for lone;
And yet no doubt his gaine is gauld with griefe,
When conscience his doth call him murdring theefe.

Great be the rents the clergie doth receive;
More great their charge the count if conscience take,
If errours their, the simple doth deceive,
For both their misse amendes their soules shall make:
This desperate cure agrees not with my minde,
Although the gaine doth tempr my greedie thought;
If so it be that mystes of fraude doth blynde,
Or falshood faith from former grace hath wrought;
If trades of gaine be spyste with deepe deceit,
The lawyers hooke lyes hid in sweetest bayte.

If choketh fooles which hunger after strife:
Suppose that craft doth sore abuse his skill,
He sleas the purse, the others soule and life
By learnings lacke, and error oft doth kill.
He roystes in sylkes which merchants fetch a far;
Him glad to please the simple soule doth moyle,
His sugred charme witch angels to the bar,
His piercing pen the souldier oft doth foyle:
For solace sake, if he will to the court,
If any be, he soone shall see the sport.

He little weyes, so lawe be on his side.
The thundring threates which lordly might doth move.
If that his cause with countrie men be tride,
More harts he hath for feare then they for love;
He often pulles a personage from the priest,
And overrules by lawe both might and right,
A kildowe, sure, whom no man dare resist:
Godshield, that I with such a bug should fight!
And thus thou hearst of trades what I can say:
The lawe for gaine doth beare the bell away.