George Whetstone

Whylst grasse, doth growe ofte sterues the seely stéede.

Well, I wyll set a face of brasse on it.

Byrds of a fether, best flye together.

The riche mans wealth, is moste enemye vnto his health.

What is this world, a net to snare the soule, A masse of sinne, a desart of deceipt, A momentes ioy, an age of wrecched dole: A lure from grace, for flesh a lothsome baite, Unto the minde a canker worme of care, Unsure, uniust, in rendring …