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A pleasaunte Laborinth called Churchyardes Chance

framed on Fancies, uttered with verses, and writtee[n] to giue solace to eury well disposed mynde: wherein not withstanding are many heauie Epitaphes, sad and sorowfull discourses and sutche a multitude of other honest pastymes for the season (and passages of witte) that the reader therein maie thinke his tyme well bestowed. All whiche workes for the pleasure of the worlde, and recreation of the worthie, and dedicated to the right honourable sir Thomas Bromley, Knight, Lorde Chancelour of Englande [by Thomas Churchyard]
 

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Of vnsounde freendes.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Of vnsounde freendes.

The roote not pure, the braunches are infecte,
The tree vnsounde, the fruite and leaues are nought:
The grounde not good, the roote is in suspecte,
Of euery greef, the cause must first be sought.
For breake the bowes, and cleane dispoile the tree:
The roote lefte whole, a greater harme maie bee.
A sore vnsearcht, is seldome salued well,
As hatred hid, is harde to heale without:
The Doctour seeks, where eche disease doeth dwell,
And gropes the grounde, and so a voides the doubt.
First quenche the cause, in flames that doeth remaine:
The strawe on fire, the smoke will rise againe.
To cutte thy hande, when festred is thy foote,
Or pricke thy arme, when all thy hedde is sicke:
Ye be farre of, ye come not nere the roote,
Then this beleeue, ye are not nere the quicke.
So though the sworde, the simple putts to sacke:
The shippe you haue, and yet the sterne you lacke.
FINIS.