The lyght of trouth I lacke cunnying to cloke,
To drawe a curtayne I dare not to presume,
Nor hyde my matter with a misty smoke,
My rudenes cunnying doth so sore consume:
Yet as I may I shall blowe out a fume
To hyde my mynde underneth a fable,
By covert coloure well and probable.
Besechying your grace to pardon myne ignoraunce,
Whiche this fayned fable, to eschue idlenes,
Have so compyled nowe without doubtance,