Some man that to contention is inclin’de;
With any thing he sees, a fault wil finde,
As, that is not so good, the same’s amisse,
I have no great affection unto this.
Now I protest I doe not like the same,
This must be mended, that deserveth blame,
It were farre better such a thing were out,
This is obscure, and that’s as full of doubt.
And much adoe, and many words are spent
In finding out the path that humours went,
And for direction to that Idle way
Onely a busie tongue bears all the sway.
The dish that Aesope did commend for best;
Is now a daies in wonderfull request,
But if you finde fault on a certaine ground,
Weele fall to mending when the fault is found.