We wander in more dout than mortall man can thynke. 
       And oft by our foly and wylfull neglygence
     Our shyp is in great peryll for to synke. 
       So sore ar we overcharged with offence
       We see the daunger before our owne presence
     Of straytis, rockis, and bankis of sonde full hye,
     Yet we procede to wylfull jeopardye.

     We dyvers Monsters within the se beholde
       Redy to abuse or to devour mankynde,
     As Dolphyns, whallys, and wonders many folde,
       And oft the Marmaydes songe dullyth our mynde
       That to all goodnes we ar made dull and blynde;
     The wolves of these oft do us moche care,
     Yet we of them can never well beware....

     About we wander in tempest and Tourment;
     What place is sure, where Foles may remayne
     And fyx theyr dwellynge sure and parmanent? 
       None certainly:  The cause thereof is playne. 
       We wander in the se for pleasour, bydynge payne,
     And though the haven of helth be in our syght
     Alas we fle from it with all our myght.

     [Footnote 6:  Floats.]

     [Footnote 7:  Fools.]

     [Footnote 8:  Quite rid himself of.]

     [Footnote 9:  Single.]

     [Footnote 10:  Enough.]

     OF HYM THAT TOGYDER WYLL SERVE TWO MAYSTERS

     A fole he is and voyde of reason
       Whiche with one hounde tendyth to take
     Two harys in one instant and season;
       Rightso is he that wolde undertake
       Hym to two lordes a servaunt to make;
     For whether that he be lefe or lothe,
     The one he shall displease, or els bothe.

     A fole also he is withouten doute,
       And in his porpose sothly blyndyd sore,
     Which doth entende labour or go aboute
       To serve god, and also his wretchyd store
       Of worldly ryches:  for as I sayde before,
     He that togyder will two maysters serve
     Shall one displease and nat his love deserve.

     For he that with one hounde wol take also
       Two harys togyther in one instant
     For the moste parte doth the both two forgo,
       And if he one have:  harde it is and skant
       And that blynd fole mad and ignorant
     That draweth thre boltis atons[11] in one bowe
     At one marke shall shote to[o] high or to[o] lowe....

     He that his mynde settyth god truly to serve
       And his sayntes:  this worlde settynge at nought
     Shall for rewarde everlastynge joy deserve,
       But in this worlde he that settyth his thought
       All men to please, and in favour to be brought
     Must lout and lurke, flater, laude, and lye: 
     And cloke in knavys counseyll, though it fals be.

     If any do hym wronge or injury
       He must it suffer and pacyently endure
     A double tunge with wordes like hony;
       And of his offycis if he wyll be sure
       He must be sober and colde of his langage,
     More to a knave, than to one of hye lynage.