Therfore ye yonge Studentes of the Chauncery:
(I speke nat to the olde the Cure of them is past)
Remember that Justyce longe hath in bondage be
Reduce ye hir nowe vnto lybertye at the last.
Endeuer you hir bondes to louse or to brast
Hir raunsome is payde and more by a thousande pounde
And yet alas the lady Justyce lyeth bounde.
Thoughe your fore Faders haue take hir prysoner
And done hir in a Dongeon nat mete for hir degre
Lay to your handes and helpe hir from daungere
And hir restore vnto hir lybertye
That pore men and monyles may hir onys se
But certaynly I fere lyst she hath lost hir name
Or by longe prysonment shall after euer be lame.
* * * * *
Of Auaryce or Couetyse and prodygalyte.
[Illustration: Ye that ar gyuen ouer moche to Couetyse
Come nere, a place is here for you to dwel
Come nere ye wastfull people in lyke wyse
Youre rowme shall be hye in the Topcastell
Ye care for no shame, for heuen nor for hell
Golde is your god, ryches gotten wrongfully
Ye dame your soule, and yet lyue in penury.]
He that is besy euery day and houre
Without mesure, maner, or moderacion
To gather riches and great store of treasoure
Therof no ioy takinge, confort nor consolacion.
He is a Fole: and of blynde and mad opynyon
For that which he getteth and kepeth wrongfully
His heyre often wasteth moche more vnthryftely.
While he here lyueth in this lyfe caduke and mortal.
Ful sore he laboureth: and oft hungry gothe to bed
Sparinge from hymselfe: for hym that neuer shal
After do hym goode. thoughe he were harde bested.
Thus is this Couetous wretche so blyndly led
By the fende that here he lyueth wretchydly
And after his deth damned eternally.
There wandreth he in dolour and derknes
Amonge infernall flodes tedyous and horryble
Let se what auayleth than all his ryches
Ungracyously gotyne, his paynes ar terryble
Than wolde he amende but it is inpossyble
In hell is no order nor hope of remedy
But sorowe vpon sorowe, and that euerlastyngly.
Yet fynde I another vyce as bad as this
Whiche is the vyce of prodygalyte
He spendyth all in ryot and amys
Without all order, pursuynge pouertye
He lyketh nat to lyue styll in prosperite
But all and more he wastyth out at large
(Beware the ende) is the leste poynt of his charge.
But of the couetous somwhat to say agayne
Thou art a fole thy soule to sell for riches
Or put thy body to labour or to payne
Thy mynde to fere, thy herte to heuynesse
Thou fole thou fleest no maner cruelnesse
So thou may get money, to make thy heyr a knyght
Thou sleest thy soule where as thou saue it myght
Thou hast no rest thy mynde is euer in fere
Of mysauenture, nor neuer art content
Deth is forgoten, thou carest nat a here
To saue thy soule from infernall punysshement
If thou be dampned, than art thou at thy stent
By thy ryches which thou here hast left behynde
To thy executours, thou shalt small comforte fynde
Theyr custome is to holde fast that they haue
Thy pore soule shall be farthest fro theyr thought
If that thy carkes be brought onys in the graue
And that they haue thy bagges in handes cought
What say they, than (by god the man had nought)
Whyle he here lyuyd he was to lyberall
Thus dampned is thy soule, thy ryches cause of all
Who wyll denay but it is necesary
Of riches for to haue plenty and store
To this opynyon I wyll nat say contrary
So it be ordred after holy lore
Whyle thy selfe leuest departe some to the pore
With thy owne hande trust nat thy executours
Gyue for god, and god shall sende at all houres
Rede Tullius warkes the worthy Oratour.
And writen shalt thou fynde in right fruteful sentence
That neuer wyseman loued ouer great honour.
Nor to haue great riches put ouer great diligence
But onely theyr mynde was set on Sapience
And quyetly to lyue in Just symplycite.
For in greatest honour is greatest ieoperdye.
He that is symple, and on the grounde doth lye
And that can be content with ynoughe or suffisaunce
Is surer by moche than he that lyeth on hye.
Nowe vp nowe downe vnsure as a Balaunce.
But sothly he that set wyll his plesance
Onely on wysdom and styl therfore labour.
Shal haue more goode than all erthly tresour.
Wysdom techeth to eschewe al offence.
Gydynge mankynde the ryght way to vertue.
But of couetyse Comys all Inconuenyence.
It cawseth man of worde to be vntrue.
Forswerynge and falshode doth it also ensue.
Brybery and Extorcion, murder and myschefe.
Shame is his ende: his lyuyinge is reprefe.
By couetyse Crassus brought was to his ende.
By it the worthy Romayns lost theyr name.
Of this one yl a thousand ylles doth descende.
Besyde enuy, Pryde, wretchydnes and Shame.
Crates the Philosopher dyd Couetyse so blame:
That to haue his mynde vnto his stody fre.
He threwe his Tresour all hole into the see.
But shortly to conclude. Both bodely bondage.
And gostly also: procedeth of this couetyse.
The soule is damned the body hath damage
As hunger, thyrst, and colde with other preiudice.
Bereft of the ioyes of heuenly Paradyse.
For golde was theyr god and that is left behynde
Theyr bodyes beryed the soule clene out of mynde