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