Agaynste Idlenes Poem by Nicholas Bacon

What bringethe ruste to Iron smothe?
Whye stynkethe water that dothe not moue?
Whye dothe the grounde that fertell was
Bare thorne and thistell in stede of grasse?
What bredethe mothe, what bredethe moulde
And thousandes like here lefte vntoulde?
Noe cause but this when all is soughte,
Neglecte throughe slothe thinges lye vnwroughte.
Likewise of man bothe bodye and mynde
By noe one thinge suche hurte dothe fynde
As they doe by slowe Idlenes,
Of all lewde vice the cheife foundres.
Noe canker can Iron eate soe sore
But Idlenes healthe hurtes muche more:
Nor noe grownde growe soe wylde for tylthe
As mannes mynde rude by Idle fylthe.
The mothe the moulde in manners growe
By suche shrewed seedes as it dothe sowe.
The mynde well wroughte still forthe dothe bringe
Some vertuous frute as his ofspringe.
The Idle mynde whiche fleshe and luste
Beinge vnwroughte nedes followe muste
His fleshelye frute muste nedes oute blowe:
Suche Carpenter suche chippes you knowe.
A witte whiche earste quicke and sharpe was
Throughe Idlenes is dulle as Asse,
And memorye not exercised
Growes slipperye, this is ofte tryed.
The Idle mann is soe tender
That strenghte thereby is full slender.
Besides to mann it dothe forthe bringe
Ill yrkesomenes moste lothesome thinge.
Thus mynde and witte delighte and strenghte
By Idlenes be loste at lenghte.