As the dulce downie barbe beganne to gre,
  So was the well thyghte texture of hys lore;
  Eche daie enhedeynge mockler for to bee, 105
  Greete yn hys councel for the daies he bore. 
  All tongues, all carrols dyd unto hym synge,
  Wondryng at one soe wyse, and yet soe yinge.

  Encreaseynge yn the yeares of mortal lyfe,
  And hasteynge to hys journie ynto heaven, 110
  Hee thoughte ytt proper for to cheese a wyfe,
  And use the sexes for the purpose gevene. 
  Hee then was yothe of comelie semelikeede,
  And hee had made a mayden’s herte to blede.

  He had a fader, (Jesus rest hys soule!) 115
  Who loved money, as hys charie joie;
  Hee had a broder (happie manne be’s dole!)
  Yn mynde and boddie, hys owne fadre’s boie;
  What then could Canynge wissen as a parte
  To gyve to her whoe had made chop of hearte? 120

  But landes and castle tenures, golde and bighes,
  And hoardes of sylver rousted yn the ent,
  Canynge and hys fayre sweete dyd that despyse,
  To change of troulie love was theyr content;
  Theie lyv’d togeder yn a house adygne, 125
  Of goode fendaument commilie and fyne.

  But soone hys broder and hys syre dyd die,
  And lefte to Willyam states and renteynge rolles,
  And at hys wyll hys broder Johne supplie. 
  Hee gave a chauntrie to redeeme theyre soules; 130
  And put hys broder ynto syke a trade,
  That he lorde mayor of Londonne towne was made.

  Eftsoons hys mornynge tournd to gloomie nyghte;
  Hys dame, hys seconde selfe, gyve upp her brethe,
  Seekeynge for eterne lyfe and endless lyghte, 135
  And sleed good Canynge; sad mystake of dethe! 
  Soe have I seen a flower ynn Sommer tyme
  Trodde downe and broke and widder ynn ytts pryme.

  Next Radeleeve chyrche (oh worke of hande of heav’n,
  Whare Canynge sheweth as an instrumente.) 140
  Was to my bismarde eyne-syghte newlie giv’n;
  ’Tis past to blazonne ytt to good contente. 
  You that woulde faygn the fetyve buyldynge see
  Repayre to Radcleve, and contented bee.

  I sawe the myndbruch of hys nobille soule 145
  Whan Edwarde meniced a seconde wyfe;
  I saw what Pheryons yn hys mynde dyd rolle;
  Nowe fyx’d fromm seconde dames a preeste for lyfe. 
  Thys ys the manne of menne, the vision spoke;
  Then belle for even-songe mie senses woke. 150

ON HAPPIENESSE, by WILLIAM CANYNGE.

  Maie Selynesse on erthes boundes bee hadde? 
  Maie yt adyghte yn human shape bee founde? 
  Wote yee, ytt was wyth Edin’s bower bestadde,
  Or quite eraced from the scaunce-layd grounde,
  Whan from the secret fontes the waterres dyd abounde? 
  Does yt agrosed shun the bodyed waulke,
  Lyve to ytself and to yttes ecchoe taulke?