Classic Poem

All were to little for the merchauntes hande,
And yet my braverye bigger than his booke:
But when this hotte accompte was coldly scande,
I thought highe time about me for to looke:
With heavie cheare I caste my head abacke,
To see the fountaine of my furious race.
Comparde my losse, my living, and my lacke,
In equall balance with my jolye grace.
And sawe expences grating on the grounde
Like lumpes of lead to presse my pursse full ofte,
When light rewarde and recompence were founde,
Fleeting like feathers in the winde alofte:
These thus comparde, I left the Courte at large,
For why? the gaines doth seeldome quitte the charge.