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He that doth couyt the courtly lyfe to know
Yt it wyl please him, to take a lyttle payne
To rede thys treatyse, whych here doth folow,
Wherin it is discrybed, brefely, and playn.



F. S. to the reader.

Here hast thou expressed before thy eyse
The mysery and wretchednes of the lyfe curial
And howe that by fortune some dayly do ryse,
And contrarywyse by hee agean do fall.
Trust not to fortune which alway is variable
For some she will exalt & some she bringeth low
She is neuer true, constant and stable
But as tydes vse theyr tymes, to ebbe & to flow
Couetousnes causeth myschefe to ryse
Desyre of dignite with pompous ambicion
Whych the wyse man, doth alwaye dispyse
And is content, wyth hys vocation
Whē froward fortune, with frownyng face
At your inhauncinge, taketh grudge or enuy
In short tyme, she wyl you displace
And bring you to shame euen and mysery
All you yt ar called, vnto any hygh place
Be true vnto your, anoynted Kynge
And call vnto God, to geue you the grace
So to contynu, to your lyues endynge.
AMEN.