He will play with thee at dice
Till thy golde is in his hande,
He will meete thee at the tennis court
Till he winne alle thy lande.
The brother of thy youth
When ye shared booke and bedde
Would eat himself the sugar plums
And leave thee barley bread:
But growing up to manhode
His hart is colder grown,
Aske in thy neede for barley bread
And he’ll give thee a stone.
The wife whom thou dost blesse
Alack, she is thy curse—
A bachelor’s an evil state,
But a married man’s is worse.
The lawyer at his deske
Good lawe will promise thee
Untill thy very last groat
Is given for his fee.
Thy baker, and thy brewer
Doe wronge thee night and morne;
And thy miller, he doth grinde thee
In grinding of thy corne.
Thy goldsmith and thy jeweller
Are leagu’d in knavish sorte,
And the elwande of thy tailor
It is an inche too shorte.
Thy cooke hath made thy dish
From the offals on the shelfe,
While fishe and fowle and savourie herbes
Are served to himselfe.
The valet thou dost trust,
Smooth-tongued and placid-faced,
Dothe weare thy brilliantes in his cappe
And thou wear’st his of paste.
Alack! thou canst not finde
Of high or lowe degree
In cott or courte or cabinett
A man of honestie.