[Illustration: Ye that ar gyuen ouer moche to Couetyse Come nere, a place is here for you to dwel Come nere ye wastfull people in lyke wyse Youre rowme shall be hye in the Topcastell Ye care for no shame, for heuen nor for hell Golde is your god, ryches gotten wrongfully Ye dame your soule, and yet lyue in penury.] He that is besy euery day and houre Without mesure, maner, or moderacion To gather riches and great store of treasoure Therof no ioy takinge, confort nor consolacion. He is a Fole: and of blynde and mad opynyon For that which he getteth and kepeth wrongfully His heyre often wasteth moche more vnthryftely. While he here lyueth in this lyfe caduke and mortal. Ful sore he laboureth: and oft hungry gothe to bed Sparinge from hymselfe: for hym that neuer shal After do hym goode. thoughe he were harde bested. Thus is this Couetous wretche so blyndly led By the fende that here he lyueth wretchydly And after his deth damned eternally. There wandreth he in dolour and derknes Amonge infernall flodes tedyous and horryble Let se what auayleth than all his ryches Ungracyously gotyne, his paynes ar terryble Than wolde he amende but it is inpossyble In hell is no order nor hope of remedy But sorowe vpon sorowe, and that euerlastyngly. Yet fynde I another vyce as bad as this Whiche is the vyce of prodygalyte He spendyth all in ryot and amys Without all order, pursuynge pouertye He lyketh nat to lyue styll in prosperite But all and more he wastyth out at large (Beware the ende) is the leste poynt of his charge. But of the couetous somwhat to say agayne Thou art a fole thy soule to sell for riches Or put thy body to labour or to payne Thy mynde to fere, thy herte to heuynesse Thou fole thou fleest no maner cruelnesse So thou may get money, to make thy heyr a knyght Thou sleest thy soule where as thou saue it myght Thou hast no rest thy mynde is euer in fere Of mysauenture, nor neuer art content Deth is forgoten, thou carest nat a here To saue thy soule from infernall punysshement If thou be dampned, than art thou at thy stent By thy ryches which thou here hast left behynde To thy executours, thou shalt small comforte fynde Theyr custome is to holde fast that they haue Thy pore soule shall be farthest fro theyr thought If that thy carkes be brought onys in the graue And that they haue thy bagges in handes cought What say they, than (by god the man had nought) Whyle he here lyuyd he was to lyberall Thus dampned is thy soule, thy ryches cause of all Who wyll denay but it is necesary Of riches for to haue plenty and store To this opynyon I wyll nat say contrary So it be ordred after holy lore Whyle thy selfe leuest departe some to the pore With thy owne hande trust nat thy executours Gyue for god, and god shall sende at all houres