I reade in Poets faigned bookes,
That wise Vlysses wandring came,
Where Circes through her fawning lookes,
Did worke his men a spightfull shame.
She causde them quaffe great bowles of wine,
And presently they turnde to swine.
But hee which followed vertue still,
Refusde to taste this proffered charme,
And would not worke her beastly will,
As one that doubted farther harme.
Her witchcraftes and enchantmentes straunge,
Were not of force this man to chaunge.
The world with his alluring toyes,
Is Circes witch of whome they write:
Which temptes vs with her sugred ioyes,
And makes vs swimme in such delight,
That wee so play with pleasures ball,
As if there were no God at all.
If man would way, what enemies
Are alwayes prest him to deuoure,
Mee thinkes from sinne hee should arise,
And make defence with all his power.
For why, the world, the flesh, and deuill,
Doe neuer cease to worke vs euill.
These so bewitch our foolish braines,
That nought wee force eternall paine:
And euery one in sinne remaines,
As if hell were a fable vaine.
Alas wee are seduced so,
That all true heartes do bleede for woe.
The sheepe doth yeerely yeelde his fleese,
The plodding Oxe the plow doth draw:
And euery thing in willing wise,
Keepes and obayes dame Natures law:
But man in witte, which should excell,
Against his Lord doth still rebell.
Ech doth deferre from day to day,
And thinkes the morow to amend:
But death arestes vs by the way,
And sodainly some makes their end.
O wretched case that they bee in,
Which die, and not lament their sinne!
Thou silly man, still feare the Lord,
Thy former sinnes with speede forsake:
The iudgement day in minde record,
In which ech soule account must make,
Confesse thy faultes to God therefore,
Repent, amend, and sinne no more.