All riddels made by letters, names or armes,
Are yong and false, far worse then witche’s charmes.
38.
I knowe thou musest at this lore of mine,
How I, no studient, should haue learned it:
And dost impute it to the fume of wine
That stirs the tongue, and sharpneth vp the wit:
But harke, a friend did teach mee euery whit,
A man of mine, in all good knowledge rife,
For which hee guiltlesse lost his learned life.