The Worthines of Wales Wherein are more then a thousand seuerall things rehearsed: some set out in prose to the pleasure of the Reader, and with such varietie of verse for the beautifying of the Book, as no doubt shal delight thousands to vnderstand. Which worke is enterlarded with many wonders and right strange matter to consider of: All the which labour and deuice is drawne forth and set out by Thomas Churchyard, to the glorie of God, and honour of his Prince and Countrey |
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 | The Worthines of Wales |  |
O happie
princely Soyle, my pen is farre to bace,
My muse but serues in sted of foyle, to giue a Iewell grace.
My bare inuention cold, and barraine verses vaine,
When they thy glory should vnfold, they do thy Coūtrie staine.
Thy worth some worthie may, set out in golden lines,
And blaze ye same, wt colors gay, whose glistring beautie shines.
My boldnesse was to great, to take the charge in hand,
With wasted wits the braines to beat, to write on such a Land:
Whose people may compare, in high'st degree of praise,
With any now aliue that are, or were in elders daies.
Thy Townes and Castles fayre, so brauely stands in deede,
They should their honour much apayre, if they my verses neede.
A writers rurall rime, doth hinder thy good name:
For verse but entertaines the tyme, with toyes yt fancies frame.
With Tullies sugred tongue, or Virgils sharpe engine,
Thy rare renowne should still be rong, or sung in verse deuine.
A simple Poets pen, but blots white paper still,
And blurres the brute & praise of men, for want of cunning quill.
If Ouids skill I had, or could like Homer write,
Or Dant would make my muses glad, to please ye worlds delite.
Or Chawser lent me in these daies, some of his learned tales,
As Petrarke did his Lawra praise, so would I speak of Wales.
But all to late I craue, for knowledge wit and sence:
For looke what gifts ye Gods thē gaue, they tooke thē al frō hēce,
And left vs nought but bookes, to stare and pore vpon,
On which perchaūce blind bayard lookes, whē skil & sight is gō.
Our former age did floe, with grace and learned lore,
Then farre behind they come I troe, that striue to run before.
We must goe lagging on, as legges and limmes were lame,
And though long since ye gole was gon, & wit hath won ye game,
We shall haue roume to play, and tyme and place withall,
To looke, to reade, to write and say, what shall in fancie fall.
But woe is me the while, that ouerweenes in want,
When world may at my boldnes smile, to see my skill so scant.
Yet write in Countries praise, that I cannot set out,
And stands discourag'd many waies, to trauaile Wales about.
Yet take now well in worth, the works I haue begun,
I can no further thing set foorth, my daies are almost dun:
As candle cleere doth burne, to socket in small tyme,
So age to earth must needes returne, when youth hath past his pryme.
My muse but serues in sted of foyle, to giue a Iewell grace.
My bare inuention cold, and barraine verses vaine,
When they thy glory should vnfold, they do thy Coūtrie staine.
Thy worth some worthie may, set out in golden lines,
And blaze ye same, wt colors gay, whose glistring beautie shines.
My boldnesse was to great, to take the charge in hand,
With wasted wits the braines to beat, to write on such a Land:
Whose people may compare, in high'st degree of praise,
With any now aliue that are, or were in elders daies.
Thy Townes and Castles fayre, so brauely stands in deede,
They should their honour much apayre, if they my verses neede.
A writers rurall rime, doth hinder thy good name:
For verse but entertaines the tyme, with toyes yt fancies frame.
With Tullies sugred tongue, or Virgils sharpe engine,
Thy rare renowne should still be rong, or sung in verse deuine.
A simple Poets pen, but blots white paper still,
And blurres the brute & praise of men, for want of cunning quill.
If Ouids skill I had, or could like Homer write,
Or Dant would make my muses glad, to please ye worlds delite.
Or Chawser lent me in these daies, some of his learned tales,
As Petrarke did his Lawra praise, so would I speak of Wales.
But all to late I craue, for knowledge wit and sence:
For looke what gifts ye Gods thē gaue, they tooke thē al frō hēce,
And left vs nought but bookes, to stare and pore vpon,
On which perchaūce blind bayard lookes, whē skil & sight is gō.
Our former age did floe, with grace and learned lore,
Then farre behind they come I troe, that striue to run before.
We must goe lagging on, as legges and limmes were lame,
And though long since ye gole was gon, & wit hath won ye game,
To looke, to reade, to write and say, what shall in fancie fall.
But woe is me the while, that ouerweenes in want,
When world may at my boldnes smile, to see my skill so scant.
Yet write in Countries praise, that I cannot set out,
And stands discourag'd many waies, to trauaile Wales about.
Yet take now well in worth, the works I haue begun,
I can no further thing set foorth, my daies are almost dun:
As candle cleere doth burne, to socket in small tyme,
So age to earth must needes returne, when youth hath past his pryme.
Now Breakenoke shiere, as falleth to thy lot,
In place a peere, thou art not sure forgot:
Nor written of so much as I desire:
For sicknesse long, made bodie soone retyre
Unto the Towne where it was borne and bred,
And where perhaps, on turffe must lye my hed.
When labors all, shall reape a graue for rest,
And silent death, shall quiet troubled brest:
Then as I now, haue somewhat sayd on thee,
So shall some friend, haue tyme to write on mee.
Whose restlesse muse, and wearie waking minde,
To pleasure world, did oft great leasure finde:
And who reioyst, and tooke a great delight,
For knowledge sake, to studie reade and write.
In place a peere, thou art not sure forgot:
Nor written of so much as I desire:
For sicknesse long, made bodie soone retyre
Unto the Towne where it was borne and bred,
And where perhaps, on turffe must lye my hed.
When labors all, shall reape a graue for rest,
And silent death, shall quiet troubled brest:
Then as I now, haue somewhat sayd on thee,
So shall some friend, haue tyme to write on mee.
Whose restlesse muse, and wearie waking minde,
To pleasure world, did oft great leasure finde:
And who reioyst, and tooke a great delight,
For knowledge sake, to studie reade and write.
| The Worthines of Wales | |