University of Virginia Library

G. W. In prayse of Gascoigne, and his Posies.

Reader rewarde nought else, but onely good report,
For all these pleasant Posies here, bound up in sundrie sort.
The flowers fayre and fresh, were set with painefull toyle,
Of late in Gascoignes Garden plot, a passing pleasant soyle.
Now weedes of little worth, are culde from out the rest,
Which he with double paine, did work, to gleane the bad frō best.
The state is very straunge, and fortune rare in use,
Whose heavie happe he neither helpes, nor blazeth their abuse.
In thundring verse he wrayes, where highest mindes be thrall,
Where mischeefe seekes to rayse it selfe, by force of others fall.
He pluckes the visour of, from maskes of peevish pride,
And wrayes what sowre (in sweet pretēce) the coustly corts cā hide.
In everie gallant flower, he setteth forth to show,
Of Venus thralles, the hap, the harme, the want, the weale, the woe.
He finely findes their faultes, whose welth doth foster wrong,
Who toucheth sinne (without offence) must plainly sing his song.
His loftie vaine in verse, his stately stile in prose,
Foretelles that Pallas ment by him, for to defende hir foes.
Wherwith to Mars his might, his lustie limmes are knit,
(A sight most rare) that Hectors mind, should match with Pallas wit.
By proofe of late appeared (how so reportes here ran)
That he in field was formost still, in spoyle the hynmost man.
No backward blastes could bruse the valour of his thought,
Although slie hap, forestoode his hope, in that he credite sought.
In fortunes spight he strave, by vertues to aspire,
Resolvde when due deserts might mount, then he should have his hire.
Thus late with Mars in field, a lustie Souldiour shewde,
And now with peace in Pallas schoole, he freendly hath bestowde,
On thee this heape of flowers, the fruites of all his toyle,
Whereof if some but simple seeme, consider well the soyle.
They grew not all at home, some came from forreyne fieldes,
The which (percase) set here againe, no pleasant savour yeeldes.
Yet who mislyketh most, the worst will hardly mend,
And he were best not write at all, which no man will offend.