The brainsicke race that wanton youth ensues,
Without regard to grounded wisdomes lore,
As often as I thinke thereon, renues
The fresh remembrance of an ancient sore:
Reuoking to my pensiue thoughts at last,
The worlds of wickednes that I haue past.

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

And yet this fruit, I must confesse, doth growe
Of follies scourge: that though I now complaine
Of error past, yet henceforth I may knowe
To shun the whip that threats the like againe:
For wise men though they smart a while, had leuer
To learne experience at the last, than neuer.