Upon a certayne tyme as it befell
I was all pensyfe and thoughtfull in my herte
For sondry thynges whiche I knewe full well
Coude not be remedyed as touchynge my parte
Wherfore I ymagynynge from me to astarte
Suche thoughtes & fatasies comynge thrugh ydenes
And euen so I began this lytell mater or prosses
For as I haue redde in bokes and in storyes olde
Of all vyces the chefe rote of Idelnes
And yf it be as wyse men haue tolde
Whiche veryfyenge of the same playnly dyde expres
That of all synnes Slouthe is chefe maystres
Into the whiche lest I sholde fall I made for fere
This treatyse callyd ye chaunce of the dolorous louer
Not for no prasynge but my spyrytes to wake
Whiche at that tyme were full rude and dull
And so I you requyer that you wyll it take
Whiche that dothe entende for to rede it full
Or it to here and so I trust that you wyll
That slouthe to auoyde whiche enemy is to vertue
Thys werke I toke in honde that after dothe ensewe

Thus endeth the prologue