Suffice unto thy good, though it be small, / For hoard hath hate, and climbing tickleness; (uncertainty) / Praise hath envie, and weal is blent o’er all.
That thee is sent receive in buxomness: / The wrestling of this world asketh a fall. / Here is no home, here is but wilderness. / Forth, pilgrim, forth—on, best out of thy stall. / Look up on high, and thank the God of all.
Trusse up thy packe, and trudge from me, to every little boy, / And tell them thus from me, their time most happy is, / If to theyr time they reason had, to know the truth of this.
