The Life and Poems of Richard Edwards By Leicester Bradner: A Dissertation Presented to the Faculty of the Graduate School of Yale University in Candidacy for the Degree of Doctor of Philosophy |
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Faire woordes make fooles faine.
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 | The Life and Poems of Richard Edwards |  |
3. Faire woordes make fooles faine.
In youthfull yeeres when fyrst my young desyres began,
To pricke mee foorth to serue in Court a sclender tall young man:
My Fathers blessing then I askt upon my knee,
Who blessing me with trembling hand, these woordes gan say to me:
My sonne, God guide thy way, and shielde thee from mischaunce,
And make thy just desartes in Court, thy poore estate to advaunce.
Yet when thou art become one of the Courtly trayne,
Thinke on this proverbe old (qd he) that faire woordes make fooles faine.
To pricke mee foorth to serue in Court a sclender tall young man:
My Fathers blessing then I askt upon my knee,
Who blessing me with trembling hand, these woordes gan say to me:
My sonne, God guide thy way, and shielde thee from mischaunce,
And make thy just desartes in Court, thy poore estate to advaunce.
Yet when thou art become one of the Courtly trayne,
Thinke on this proverbe old (qd he) that faire woordes make fooles faine.
This counsell grauely geuen, most strange appeares to me,
Tyll tract of time, with open eyes, had made me plainely see,
What subtill sleightes are wrought, by painted tales deuise,
When hollowe hartes with freendly shoes the simple doo entise
To thinke al golde that shines to feede their fonde desire,
Whose shiuering cold is warmd with smoke, instead of flaming fire.
Sith talke of tickle trust, dooth breede a hope most vaine,
This prouerbe true by proofe I finde, that faire woordes make fooles faine.
Tyll tract of time, with open eyes, had made me plainely see,
What subtill sleightes are wrought, by painted tales deuise,
When hollowe hartes with freendly shoes the simple doo entise
To thinke al golde that shines to feede their fonde desire,
Whose shiuering cold is warmd with smoke, instead of flaming fire.
Sith talke of tickle trust, dooth breede a hope most vaine,
This prouerbe true by proofe I finde, that faire woordes make fooles faine.
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Faire speache alway doeth well, where deedes insue faire woordes,
Faire speache againe, alway dooth euil, that busshes geues for birdes.
Who hopes to haue fayre woordes, to trye his luckie lot,
If I may counsel let him strike it, whyle the iron is hotte.
But them that feede on cloddes, insteade of pleasaunt grapes,
And after warning often geuen, for better lucke still gapes,
Full loth I am, yet must I tell them in woordes plaine,
This prouerbe old proues true in them, that faire words makes fooles faine.
Faire speache againe, alway dooth euil, that busshes geues for birdes.
Who hopes to haue fayre woordes, to trye his luckie lot,
If I may counsel let him strike it, whyle the iron is hotte.
But them that feede on cloddes, insteade of pleasaunt grapes,
And after warning often geuen, for better lucke still gapes,
Full loth I am, yet must I tell them in woordes plaine,
This prouerbe old proues true in them, that faire words makes fooles faine.
Wo woorth the time that woordes, so slowly turne to deedes,
Wo worth the time, yt faire sweete floures, are growē to rotten weedes.
But thrise wo woorth the time, that trueth is fled,
Wherein I see how simple hartes, with woordes are vainely fed.
Trust no faire woordes therefore, where no deedes doo ensue,
Trust words, as skilful Falkeners doo trust Haukes that neuer flew.
Trust deedes, let woordes be woordes, which neuer wrought me gaine,
Let my experience make you wyse, and let woordes make fooles faine.
Wo worth the time, yt faire sweete floures, are growē to rotten weedes.
But thrise wo woorth the time, that trueth is fled,
Wherein I see how simple hartes, with woordes are vainely fed.
Trust no faire woordes therefore, where no deedes doo ensue,
Trust words, as skilful Falkeners doo trust Haukes that neuer flew.
Trust deedes, let woordes be woordes, which neuer wrought me gaine,
Let my experience make you wyse, and let woordes make fooles faine.
M. Edwardes.
| The Life and Poems of Richard Edwards | |