Oh darke disceite, with painted face for sho, Oh poysned bayte, that makes vs eger still, Oh fayned frend, deceiuing people so, Oh world, of thee, we cannot speake too ill: Yet fooles wee are that bend so to thy skill: The plague and scourge that thousands dayly feele, Should warne the wise to shun thy whirling wheele. 5. But who can stop the streame that runnes full swift? Or quench the fyre that is crept in[1970] the strawe? The thirsty drinkes, there is no other shift, Perforce is such that neede obayes no lawe: Thus bounde wee are in worldly yokes to drawe, And cannot stay, nor turne agayne in tyme, Nor learne of those that sought too high to clyme. 6. My selfe for proofe, loe, here I now appeare, In woman’s weede, with weeping watred eyes, That bought her youth and her delights full deare, Whose Iowde reproch doth sound vnto the skies: And bids my corse out of the graue to ryse, As one that may no longer hyde her face, But needes must come and shew her piteous case. 7. The sheete of shame, wherein I shrowded was, Did moue mee oft to playne before this daye, And in myne eares did ring the trompe of brasse, Which is defame, that doth each thing[1971] bewraye: Yea, though full deade and lowe in earth I laye, I heard the voyse, of mee what people sayde, But then to speake, alas, I was affrayde. 8. And nowe a tyme for mee I see preparde, I heare the lyues and falles of many wights: My tale therfore the better may bee harde, For at the torch the litle candell lights: Where pageants bee, smale things fill out the sights: Wherefore geue eare, good _Churcheyard_,[1972] do thy best My tragedy to place among the rest. 9. Because the[1973] truth shall witnes well with thee, I will rehearse in order, as it fell, My lyfe, my death, my dolefull desteny, My wealth, my woe, my doing euery deale, My bitter blisse, wherein I long did dwell: A whole discourse by[1974] mee, _Shore’s_ wife by name, Now shalt thou heare as thou hadst seene the same. 10. Of noble bloud I cannot boast my byrth, For I was made out of the meanest molde, Mine heritage but seuen foote of th’earth,[1975] Fortune ne gaue to mee the gifts of golde: But I could brag of nature, if I wolde, Who fild my face with fauour fresh and fayre, Whose beauty shon like Phœbus in the ayre. 11.*