The ethie ringletts of her notte-browne hayre
  What ne a manne should see dyd swotelie hyde, 50
  Whych on her milk-white bodykin so fayre
  Dyd showe lyke browne streemes fowlyng the white tyde,
  Or veynes of brown hue yn a marble cuarr,
  Whyche by the traveller ys kenn’d from farr.

  Astounded mickle there I sylente laie, 55
  Still scauncing wondrous at the walkynge syghte;
  Mie senses forgarde ne coulde reyn awaie;
  But was ne forstraughte whan shee dyd alyghte
  Anie to mee, dreste up yn naked viewe,
  Whych mote yn some ewbrycious thoughtes abrewe. 60

  But I ne dyd once thynke of wanton thoughte;
  For well I mynded what bie vowe I hete,
  And yn mie pockate han a crouchee broughte,
  Whych yn the blosom woulde such sins anete;
  I lok’d wyth eyne as pure as angelles doe, 65
  And dyd the everie thoughte of foule eschewe.

  Wyth sweet semblate and an angel’s grace
  Shee ’gan to lecture from her gentle breste;
  For Trouthis wordes ys her myndes face,
  False oratoryes she dyd aie deteste:  70
  Sweetnesse was yn eche worde she dyd ywreene,
  Tho shee strove not to make that sweetnesse sheene.

  Shee sayd; mie manner of appereynge here
  Mie name and sleyghted myndbruch maie thee telle;
  I’m Trouthe, that dyd descende fromm heavenwere, 75
  Goulers and courtiers doe not kenne mee welle;
  Thie inmoste thoughtes, thie labrynge brayne I sawe,
  And from thie gentle dreeme will thee adawe.

  Full manie champyons and menne of lore,
  Payncters and carvellers have gaind good name, 80
  But there’s a Canynge, to encrease the store,
  A Canynge, who shall buie uppe all theyre fame. 
  Take thou mie power, and see yn chylde and manne
  What troulie noblenesse yn Canynge ranne.

  As when a bordelier onn ethie bedde, 85
  Tyr’d wyth the laboures maynt of sweltrie daie,
  Yn slepeis bosom laieth hys deft headde,
  So, senses sonke to reste, mie boddie laie;
  Eftsoons mie sprighte, from erthlie bandes untyde,
  Immengde yn flanched ayre wyth Trouthe asyde. 90

  Strayte was I carryd back to tymes of yore,
  Whylst Canynge swathed yet yn fleshlie bedde,
  And saw all actyons whych han been before,
  And all the scroll of Fate unravelled;
  And when the fate-mark’d babe acome to syghte, 95
  I saw hym eager gaspynge after lyghte.

  In all hys shepen gambols and chyldes plaie. 
  In everie merriemakeyng, fayre or wake,
  I kenn’d a perpled lyghte of Wysdom’s raie;
  He eate downe learnynge wyth the wastle cake. 100
  As wise as anie of the eldermenne,
  He’d wytte enowe toe make a mayre at tenne.