And let thy tunge no more suche wordes say
For god hath vs made all of one stuf certayne
As one potter makyth of one clay
Vessels dyuers, but whan he must them lay
Vpon the kyll with fyre them there to dry
They come nat all to good, moste comonly
Doth this erthyn pot his maker dispyse
Whether it be made of fassyon good or yll
Saynge why dost thou make me in this wyse
Wherfore mad man I reade the to be styll