The brainsick race that wanton youth ensues
Without regard to grounded wisdom's lore,
As often as I think thereon renews
The fresh remembrance of an ancient sore:
Revoking to my pensive thoughts at last
The worlds of wickedness that I have passed.

And though experience bids me bite on bit,
And champ the bridle of a better smack,
Yet costly is the price of after-wit,
Which brings so cold repentance at her back:
And skill that's with so many losses bought
Men say is little better worth than nought.

And yet this fruit I must confess doth grow
Of folly's scourge: that though I now complain
Of error past, yet henceforth I may know
To shun the whip that threats the like again:
For wise men, though they smart a while, had liever
To learn experience at the last, then never.