Of folys that stande so well in their owne conceyt that they thinke none so wyse, stronge, fayre, nor eloquent, as they ar themself.
We haue ouercome the malyce and enuy
Of suche as agaynst our Nauy did conspyre
Wherfore I shall my folys call quyckly
That they my Shyp may aparayle and atyre
Drawe nere ye Folys whiche syttynge by the fyre
Loke ay in a glasse to se your countenaunce
And in your owne dedis haue all your hole pleasaunce
Vnto my shyp I call hym to be Coke
The mete to dresse to other Folys echone
Whiche in his myrrour doth alway gase and loke
Whan he may get hym vnto a place alone
And though of colour and beaute he haue none