A myrrour for man where in he shall see the myserable state of thys worlde

¶ A Myrrour for man where in he shall see the myserable state of thys worlde . O Man remember , from hence thou shalte passe Lyke as thy fygure , ones sene in a glasse Doeth vanysshe awaye , yea , so shall thy breath Bring earth vnto earth , when strike the doth death Thys world , wyse men cal , a thorow fayre to the Folowe thou it not , from vyce do thou flee Seke after knowledge , the trueth to auaunce Desyre not to see , thy neyghbours myschaunce Beware of thre thynges , print them well in mynde The deuyl , the fleshe , the worlde that is blynde Feare God and thy Prince , be looth to offende Take nothing in hande , but thincke on the ende Let wysdom the rule , and knowledge wyth al Than thou shalt stand fast , wher other men fall Yf thou wyll auoyde , greate aduersytie Let other mens fautes , be myrrour to the Or yf thou wylt leade , a lyfe wyth great ease Do as most men do , thou shalt feawe displease Desire not to haue , no more than thy owne For corne is not had , but wher sede is sowen Thorowe coueteousnes , is all out of turne And many riche realmes , it hath brought to ruyne Some men haue treasure , and hartes ease at wyll Yet euer wyshinge , and neare hath theyr fyll Soch fylthy lucre , enbraceth theyr har●es So that thei may haue , thei force not who smartes And though they haue all , yet for more they gape They drinke both the wyne , & lokes for the grape Whych maketh the poore , ryght sore to lament For they haue nothing , but for dobble rent They wold wyn theyr fode , wyth labour and sweat Yet all wyl not helpe , theyr rent is so great And wher they were wont , to vpholde a plowe Now skarce can they fynd , the grasse for a cowe Theyr chyldren do watche , as haukes for their praye Yet can they not get , one good meale a daye Soch woful morninge , as is in Englande Was neuer before , I dare take in hande In euery place , where as I do walcke I heare men complayne , and thys is thayr talcke O Lord God they saye , now heare our requeste And comfort the poore , that are sore oppreste The riche that fares well , and hath nothing skant Doth neuer conceaue , what the poore doeth want But yf that some men , on them take no rueth They are all vndone , this is the playne trueth I wold this were knowen , among the best forte Than shuld the poore men , soone haue some conforte The rich are fayre flowres , the poore ar but weedes Yet God shal take count of euery mans dedes And when that the Lord , shall syt in Iudgement Than they that dyd wronge , ryght sore shal repent Therfore o thou man , that fayne wold do well Lyue thou according , to Christes gospell Folowe not theyr steps , whose dedes are vniust Remembre thys world , shal turne vnto dust Yf conscyence be slayne , wyth pompe and ryches Wysdome is turned , to greate folyshnes Of no kynd of thyng , desyre not to myche Yf thou be contente , than sure thou arte ryche Better is lyttel , wyth ease to posses Than with moche trouble , to haue greate ryches As sycknes and health , can neuer agre So golde wythout rest , is but mysere Beholde wel thys world , take warnynge in tyme And marke how they fall , that vseth to clyme Euen nowe a dayes , soche wonders are sene As many men thought , coulde neuer haue bene Some men from honor , are brought to great care And endeth theyr lyues ryght naked and bare Some men from nothynge , do come to estate And yet at the lengthe , are infortunate Some men lyueth in welth , and pleasure long whyll Yet sodaynely gone , and put in exyll Syns wealth nor honor , on earth hath no rest A poore godly lyfe , I thynke it is best Amonge all degrees , a faute may be spyed Whych maketh thys worlde , to lye a tonesyed Lordes were ones liberal , but nowe waxe they harde The poore and nedye , they lytle regarde Iudges geue Iudgement , sometimes not with right Lawyers for money , hyedes tru●th out of syght Byshops and preachers , seke lyuynges agayne And whan they waxe ryche , they take lytle payne Marchantes & craf●es men , selles al thynges to deare And tell them who ●●yst , that wyl they not heare Great bankets are kepte , where good is plente To noryshe theyr lustes , nothynge is deynte Baylyfs and sheryfs , one faute they punyshe And seeth a hundreth , encrease and floryshe Gentyl men were wont , examples to geue Whych caused poore men , ryght well for to lyue But now who lyues worse , than men of renowne O howe is vertue , so sone layde downe Women do wander , wyth euery doctryne And some do dyspute , moche lyke a deuyne Yong men are blynded , so wyth vayne glory That wyse men do laghe , at theyr great folly Men shoulde learne wysedome , at men graue & saege Who doteth so moche , as men doeth in aege Thus vpon hye thynges , I wyll geue no saute It may be well sene , that fewe is wythout faute But sens that the lorde , thys world dyd begynne Was neuer yet sene , so moche vyce and synne As is now vpon earth , amonge more and les Whose dedes yf you mark , may beare good witnes The father doth now , dysceaue hys owne chylde Who trusteth hys brother , is oft tymes begylde Dysceyt and falshed , puts ryght out of place Trueth kepeth sylence , thys is a sore case Sweryng and whoredome , dysemblaunce and crafte For all theyr preachynge , yet wyl not be lafte Usery is held , wyth them that seme wyse Nowe for a ryght trade , of good marchaundyse All thynges are turned , so farre oute of frame That men lyue now , lyke beastes wythout shame Now those that do well , is worne out of thoughte But pryuye pyckthankes , are made vp of nought Flatterers wyth tales , doeth worke men moche woo Whose wordes are as swyft , as shaft out of boo Defame and sklander , are busy ryght ofte About all estates , wyth wordes fayre an softe Yf vertue come not , and vanyshe all thys Thys word can not last , not longe as it is I truste ones to se , that men shal abore Theyr vycyous lyues , and repente it sore Than god shall sende grace , from heuen aboue To set vs in rest , and brotherlye loue Than we shal se peace , wher now is dyscorde And syng psalmes wyth hert , in prayse of the lorde The poore shall lyue well , the ryche shall reioyce Than god shall haue laude , of euery mans voyce The earth shal encrease , and bringe forth moch sede Than shall we not wante , no good thing we nede In euery kyngdom , shal be rest and peace All maner of plagues , at that tyme shall seace So that al vyces , both braunches and rote Shall wyther away , and lye vnder fote Than we shal prospere , and lyue in good health And all thynges shall turne , vnto our owne wealth God shall so loue vs , yf we do bewayle Ther shall no daunger , agaynst vs preuayle Nor no mysfortune , shall make vs afrayed For God shall so be , oure succour and ayde Ryght happye is he , that lyueth tyll than To see soch great loue , betwene God and man ¶ Here haue I set forth , after a playne sorte The state of thys worlde , in sentens ryght shorte For the thou blynde man , that goeth astraye I lyghten thys lampe , to learne thee the waye Now here is two wayes , do those which thou wylte Ether to be safe , or els to be spylte I can do no more , but shewe thee the ryght To chaunge the yll lyfe , lyes not in my myght I wold that my wordes , were grauen in stone That al the whole worlde , myght loke them vppon Althoughe they haue heard , as moch as I know Yet think they on wartes , when trompets doth blowe The oftner they se , a thynge that is yll The lesse cause they haue , to beare it good wyll Yf I could thonder , in euery mans eares I wold them exhort , wyth wepynge and teares Yet many do teache , and fewe do amende They take lytle hede , what tyme they do spende Though plage vpon plage , doth shew them gods yre Yet for to lyue wel , they haue no desyre Nowe what shulde I more , on soche thynges deffyne Man hath no more grace , than god doeth assyne Therfore vnto god , I wolde haue them crepe And for theyr great synnes , to morne wayle & wepe He wyl them receaue , and geue them a place Wher angels do lyue , by syght of hys face . Finis quod Thomas Churschard . God saue the Kyng .