Ah! fon, now by thy loss art taught That seldom change the better brought: Content who lives with tried state, Need fear no change of frowning Fate; But who will seek for unknown gain, Oft lives by loss, and leaves with pain. DIG. I wot ne, Hobbin, how I was bewitch'd With vain desire and hope to be enrich'd: But, sicker, so it is, as the bright star Seemeth aye greater when it is far: I thought the soil would have made me rich, But now I wot it is nothing sich; For either the shepheards be idle and still, And led of their sheep what way they will, Or they be false, and full of covetise, And casten to compass many wrong emprise: But the more be fraught with fraud and spite, Ne in good nor goodness taken delight, But kindle coals of contest and ire, Wherewith they set all the world on fire; Which when they thinken again to quench, With holy water they do them all drench. They say they con to heaven the highway, But by my soul I dare undersay They never set foot in that same troad, But balk the right way, and strayen abroad. They boast they have the devil at command, But ask them therefore what they have pawn'd: Marry! that great Pan bought with dear borrow, To quit it from the black bower of sorrow. But they have sold thilk same long ago, For they woulden draw with them many moe. But let them gang alone a God's name; As they have brewed, so let them bear blame. HOB. Diggon, I pray thee speak not so dirk; Such mister saying me seemeth to mirk. DIG. Then, plainly to speak of shepheards' most what, Bad is the best; (this English is flat) Their ill haviour gars men missay Both of their doctrine, and their fay. They sayn the world is much war than it wont, All for her shepheards be beastly and blont. Other sayn, but how truly I n'ote, All for they holden shame of their cote: Some stick not to say, (hot coal on their tongue!) That such mischief graseth them among, All for they casten too much of world's care, To deck their dame, and enrich their heir; For such encheason, if you go nigh, Few chimneys reeking you shall espy. The fat ox, that wont lig in the stall, Is now fast stalled in their crumenall. Thus chatten the people in their steads, Alike as a monster of many heads: But they, that shooten nearest the prick, Sayn, other the fat from their beards doen lick: For big bulls of Bashan brace them about, That with their horns butten the more stout; But the lean souls treaden under foot, And to seek redress might little boot; For liker be they to pluck away more, Than ought of the gotten good to restore: For they be like foul quagmires overgrass'd, That, if thy galage once sticketh fast, The more to wind it out thou dost swink, Thou must aye deeper and deeper sink.