 | The Knave of Harts |  |
A slothfull Knaue.
I vvretch in want, and woe, doe pine and lacke,A suite of ragges and tatters on my backe,
VVherein the itching Vermine doe abound,
Is all my wealth; and yet my limbes be sound,
No sicknesse, nor defect in any part:
But I detest all labour with my heart,
With worke and taking paines I will not deale,
Ile rather begge; yea, play the theefe and steale,
Before Ile put my body in a sweate,
And make my hands the earners of my meate.
I make my account, food is of natures giuing:
And that the world is bound to finde me liuing:
And therefore till that Death doe intercept,
Now we are borne, we must, and will be kept.
Doth not experience teach in these our dayes,
A man must be beholding many wayes
To wealthy Churles, that licke the Kingdoms fat,
And begge for worke? Friends I will none of that:
I neuer was so farre in loue with moyling,
To begge, or steale, cuts off much pains & toiling.
| The Knave of Harts | |