Classic Poem

Swete were the sauce, would please ech kind of tast,
The life likewise, were pure that never swerved,
For spyteful tongs, in cankred stomackes plaste,
Deeme worst of things, which best (percase) deserved:
But what for that? this medcine may suffyse,
To scorne the rest, and seke to please the wise.

Though sundry mindes, in sundry sorte do deeme,
Yet worthiest wights, yelde prayse for every payne,
But envious braynes, do nought (or light) esteme,
Such stately steppes, as they cannot attaine.
For who so reapes, renowne above the rest,
With heapes of hate, shal surely be opprest.

Wherefore to write, my censure of this booke,
This Glasse of Steele, unpartially doth shewe,
Abuses all, to such as in it looke,
From prince to poore, from high estate to lowe.
As for the verse, who list like trade to trye,
I feare me much, shal hardly reache so high.