A pleasaunte Laborinth called Churchyardes Chance framed on Fancies, uttered with verses, and writtee[n] to giue solace to eury well disposed mynde: wherein not withstanding are many heauie Epitaphes, sad and sorowfull discourses and sutche a multitude of other honest pastymes for the season (and passages of witte) that the reader therein maie thinke his tyme well bestowed. All whiche workes for the pleasure of the worlde, and recreation of the worthie, and dedicated to the right honourable sir Thomas Bromley, Knight, Lorde Chancelour of Englande [by Thomas Churchyard] |
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VVritten from the Countrey twentie yere
agoe, to one that poorely remaines at the Courte yet.
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 | A pleasaunte Laborinth called Churchyardes Chance |  |
VVritten from the Countrey twentie yere agoe, to one that poorely remaines at the Courte yet.
[19]
Maie happ to winne, and sure to lose:
For losse is liker there to fall,
Then any happie chaunce at all.
Yet some cold Courtiars daiely thinke,
That at the spryng a man maie drinke:
The Welle hedde maie be stopt you see,
Then emptie must the Bocketts bee.
Where many drawe, and preace is greate,
Or thousands doe the Market beate:
There things are skant, and ware is deare,
The moe the geasts, the barer cheare.
The Court is like, a Mearmaids song,
That flattereth many people long:
And paieth them with a priuie nippe,
First braurie brings a begerly whippe:
And nexte vaine hope, doeth lead the blinde,
To looke for that, thei neuer finde.
Some set for birdes, and catche a Gnatt,
And some doeth lose, bothe leane and fatt.
I muse how men, bewitched are,
To sitte in Court, to gase and stare.
Eche one vpon an others face,
Naie herein resteth all the grace:
The Peacocke prides hym in his plume,
And doeth bothe tyme and wealth consume.
In pikyng of his feathers gaie,
The Cousloppe not so braue in Maie:
As Courtiar is that clapps on all,
Who hopes for Larkes when skie doth fall.
Some drawes to Court, when all is gon,
And those are called hangers on:
That neither wagies haue ne fee,
But thether come to heare and see.
And rubbe out tyme with lickyng crommes
That droppeth out of hongrie thommes.
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And some there be that vse to rome:
And prouleth for a pittaunce bare,
Where often emptie dishes are.
Some thrusteth all into the poke,
And hideth Manchetts vnder cloke:
And many other morsells sweete,
The almes whiche poore, should haue in streete.
Is montcht in corners by sutche meane,
It is no shame to carry cleane:
Thei saie that liues by this deuise,
I fare as one that flyngs the Dice.
And caste eche chaunce sutche is my freake,
Yet minde I but of Courte to speake:
The Courte is place of sutche repaire,
There must be needes Dick shifters aire,
Of euery sorte bothe good and bad,
At some one tyme maie there be had:
The fauner and the frounyng browe,
The stately stalkes that will not bowe.
The hollowe lookes, the hautie minde,
The scornefull face, the Bayard blinde:
The whisperer and the whinyng Pigge,
The subtell sheepe that lookes full bigge.
The counterfaite that semeth golde,
The coward and the countenaunce bolde:
The graue, the wise, and worthie bothe,
All kinde of sorts, I tell thee trothe.
Is founde in Court, but worst in deede,
So many haunteth there for neede.
Thou were as good goe holde the Plowe,
As in the Court seeke Fortune nowe:
A thousande gapes for one mans gaine,
And fifteene hundreth lose their paine.
Scarce one is holpen by good happe,
The fruitfull tree, hath lost his sappe:
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Eche thyng is vnder double locke.
And bountie is so straightly laest,
That franknesse now is cleane defaest:
He that can learne vs how to spare,
Is our white sonne, thus runnes the Hare.
The dogges maie pinche, but seldome bite,
All sience of hope are banisht quite:
The largnesse that in Court hath dwelt,
Can neither now be seen nor felt.
Eche riuer ronnes into the sea,
And there the floodes consume awaie:
And nought retournes to vs againe.
But little streams and dropps of raine.
I feare the worlde is at an ende,
Then thinke not thou the Court shall mende:
As worlde decaies, so Court doeth weare,
Yet euery thing should florishe theare.
Thou foole trust not to noddes and becks,
Nor wordes that are as drie as kecks:
In Court sutche things full plentie are,
When Cloke and Hatte, and all is bare.
And to the bones thou shalt be worne,
The Court shall giue thee but a scorne:
A proper weede to keepe thee warme,
God shilde my freend from suche a charme.
Let them in Court, goe waite and prie,
That haue good cause, and liues thereby:
Looke to the countrey that thou drawe,
And liue in compasse of the lawe.
And loue thy Prince, and feare his sworde,
And from my house, I sende thee worde:
It is as vaine in Court to hope,
As seeke a blessyng of the Pope.
Come let vs ride abrode this Spryng,
As mery a harte as any kyng:
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God knowes who liues an other Lent.
Thou seest how quickly men be gon,
So thus farewell, myne owne good Ihon:
From Court dispatche thee if thou maie,
That we maie meete ere Easter daie.
FINIS.
| A pleasaunte Laborinth called Churchyardes Chance | |