Classic Poem

Where wanteth iudgement and aduised eye,
To noate or coate, the thyng that is amisse,
Good Riche a wiseman hardly can denye,
But that your Bo ke by me ill mended is:
My hedde suche pleasure can not brooke by gis
Whose long distresse hath laied his Muse to rest,
Or duld his Sprightes, or sences at the left.

Some errours yet, if any suche there bee,
Your willyng mynde, maie quicklie them subdue,
For wisemen winke, when often tymes thei see,
Yet fooles are blynde, when moste thei seeme to vewe,
Of proude contempt this mischief doeth ensue,
That he that scornes the fruite of honest toile,
From bace regard, hymself can scarce assoile.

The wisest men, for that thei mortall were,
Did runne amisse, and kept not leuell still,
Some wanton woorkes, some grauer stile did beare,
Yet eche proceeded from the self same quill.
Wee ought not thinke, that those mens myndes were ill,
For sure the vice, that thei did laye in sight,
Was for to make it growe in more despight.

I leaue thee now, my Muse, affordes no more,
A dolefull dumpe, pulles backe my pleasaunt vaine,
Looke thou for praise, by men of learned lore,
Despise the skoffe, that growes from shuttle braine,
For me I honour thee for taking paine,
And wishe eche youth, that spendes his tyme amisse,
Would fixe his penne to write suche woorkes as this.