A clerke lifes modest figure beares:
His crowne is heaven, black weeds he weares,
And showes a mind halfe dround in teares.
"None is so poore of sence or eyne,
To whom a souldier doth not shyne:
At ease, like sprightles beasts lives thyne,
Helms, and barb'd horse, do weare out myne.
"Mine low with armes makes foe-towrs ly,
And when on foote he fight doth try,
While his fayre squire his horse holds by,