CELMONDE.
Sometyme the wyseste lacketh pore mans rede.
Reasonne and counynge wytte efte flees awaie.
Thanne, loverde, lett me saie, wyth hommaged drede
(Bieneth your fote ylayn) mie counselle saie; 271
Gyff thos wee lett the matter lethlen[53] laie,
The foemenn, everych honde-poyncte, getteth fote.
Mie loverde, lett the speere-menne, dyghte for fraie,
And all the sabbataners goe aboute. 275
I speke, mie loverde, alleyne to upryse
Youre wytte from marvelle, and the warriour to alyse.