Small arrowes, cruell heads, that fell and forked bee, Which being shot from out those bowes, a cruel way will flee. They seldome vse to shoo their horse, vnlesse they ride In post vpon the frozen flouds, then cause they shall not slide, He sets a slender calke, and so he rides his way. The horses of the countrey go good fourescore versts a day, And all without the spurre, once pricke them and they skippe, But goe not forward on their way, the Russie hath his whippe To rappe him on the ribbes, for though all booted bee, Yet shall you not a paire of spurres in all the countrey see. The common game is chesse, almost the simplest will Both giue a checke and eke a mate, by practise comes their skill. Againe they dice as fast, the poorest rogues of all Will sit them downe in open field, and there to gaming fall Their dice are very small, in fashion like to those Which we doe vse, he takes them vp, and ouer thumbe he throwes Not shaking them a whit, they cast suspiciously, And yet I deeme them voyd of art that dicing most apply. At play when Siluer lacks, goes saddle, horse and all, And eche thing els worth Siluer walkes, although the price be small. Because thou louest to play friend Parker other while, I wish thee there the weary day with dicing to beguile. But thou weart better farre at home, I wist it well, And wouldest be loath among such lowts so long a time to dwell. Then iudge of vs thy friends, what kinde of life, we had, That neere the frozen pole to waste our weary dayes were glad. In such a sauage soile, weere lawes do beare no sway, But all is at the king his will, to saue or else to slay. And that sans cause, God wot, if so his minde be such. But what meane I with Kings to deale? we ought no Saints to touch. Conceiue the rest your selfe, and deeme what liues they lead, Where lust is Lawe, and Subiects liue continually in dread. And where the best estates haue none assurance good Of lands, of liues, nor nothing falles vnto the next of blood. But all of custome doeth vnto the prince redowne, And all the whole reuenue comes vnto the King his crowne. Good faith I see thee muse at what I tell thee now, But true it is, no choice, but all at princes pleasure bow. So Tarquine ruled Rome as thou remembrest well, And what his fortune was at last, I know thy selfe canst tell. Where will in Common weale doth beare the onely sway, And lust is Lawe, the prince and Realme must needs in time decay. The strangenesse of the place is such for sundry things I see, As if I woulde I cannot write ech priuate point to thee. The colde is rare, the people rude, the prince so full of pride, The Realme so stored with Monks and nunnes, and priests on euery side: The maners are so Turkie like, the men so full of guile, The women wanton, Temples stuft with idols that defile The Seats that sacred ought to be, the customes are so quaint, As if I would describe the whole, I feare my pen would faint. In summe, I say I neuer saw a prince that so did raigne,