Flee from the press, and dwell with soothfastness;
Suffice thee thy good
Though it be small;
For hoard hath hate, and climbing tickleness
Press
Hath envy, and weal is blent o'er all
Savour no more than thee behove
Shall;
Read well thyself, that other folk canst read;
And truth thee shall
Deliver, it is no dread

Paine thee not each crooked to redress
In trust of her that turneth as a ball;
Great rest standeth in little business:
Beware also to spurn against a nail;
Strive not as doth a crocke with a wall;
Deeme thyself that deemest others' deed
And truth thee shall deliver, it is no dread

What thee is sent, receive in buxomness;
The wrestling of this world asketh a fall;
Here is no home, here is but wilderness
Forth, pilgrim! Forthe beast, out of thy stall!
Look up on high, and thank thy God of all!
Weive thy lust, and let thy ghost thee lead
And truth thee shall deliver, it is no dread