Wyth the sylver and the golde so bryght,
They nothing thynke on fortune varable,
Whyche al theyr ryches shal make transmutable.
The olde sawes they ryght clene abject,
Whych for our lernyng the poetes dyd wryte;
With avaryce they arose so sore infect,
They take no hede nothyng they wryte,
Whyche morally dyd so nobly endyte,
Reprovyng vyce, praysyng the vertue,
Whiche idelnes dyd evermore eschewe.