University of Virginia Library

MORAL AND DIDACTIC POEMS

38 A TRIBUTE TO WYATTS PSALMS

The greate Macedon, that out of Persy chased
Darius, of whose huge powre all Asia range,
In the riche arke yf Hommers rhymes he placed,
Who fayned gestes of heathen princes sange;
What holie grave, what worthye sepulture,
To Wyates Psalmes should Christians than purchase?
Where he doth painte the lively fayth and pure,
The stedfast hope, the sweet returne to grace,
Of iust David, by perfect penitence;
Where rulers may see, in a myrrour clere,
The bytter frute of false concupicence:
How Iurye bowght Vryas death full deere.
In princes hartes Godes scourge yprinted deepe
Mowght them awake out of their synfull sleepe.

39 AN EPIGRAM TO RADCLIFFE

My Ratclif, when they rechlesse youth offendes,
Receue thy scourge by others chastisement.
For such callyng, when it workes none amendes,
Then plagues are sent without aduertisement.
Yet Salomon sayd, the wronged shall recure;
But Wiat said true, the skarre doth aye endure.

40 SARDANAPALUS

Th' Assyryans king—in peas, with fowle desyre
And filthye lustes that staynd his regall harte—
In warr, that should sett prycelye hertes a fyre,
Vanquyshd, dyd yelde for want of martyall arte.
The dent of swordes from kysses semed straunge,
And harder then hys ladyes syde his targe;
From glotton feastes to sowldyers fare a chaunge;
His helmet, far aboue a garlandes charge.
Who scace the name of manhode dyd retayne,
Ffeble of sprete, vnpacyent of payne,
When he hadd lost his honour and hys right,—
Prowde, tyme of welthe, in stormes appawld with drede—,
Murdred hymself to shew some manfull dede,
Drenched in slouthe & womanishe delight.

41 THE HAPPY LIFE

Marshall, the thinges for to attayne
The happy life be thes, I fynde:
The riches left, not got with payne;
The frutfull grownd; the quyet mynde;
The equall freend; no grudge, nor stryf;
No charge of rule nor governance;
Without disease, the helthfull life;
The howshold of contynvance:
The meane dyet, no delicate fare;
Wisdom ioyned with simplicitye;
The night discharged of all care,
Where wyne may beare no soveranty;
The chast wife, wyse, without debate;
Suche sleapes as may begyle the night;
Contented with thyne owne estate,
Neyther wisshe death, nor fear his might.

42 THE GOLDEN MEAN

Of thy lyfe, Thomas, this compasse well mark:
Not aye with full sayles the hye seas to beat;
Ne by coward dred, in shonning stormes dark,
On shalow shores thy keel in perill freat.
Who so gladly halseth the golden meane,
Voyde of dangers aduisdly hath his home
Not with lothsom muck, as a den vncleane,
Nor palacelyke, wherat disdayn may glome.
The lofty pyne the great winde often riues;
With violenter swey falne turrets stepe;
Lightninges assault the hye mountains and cliues.
A hart well stayd, in ouerthwartes depe,
Hopeth amendes; in swete, doth feare the sowre.
God, that sendeth, withdrawth winter sharp.
Now ill, not aye thus: once Phebus to lowre
With bow vnbent shall cesse, and frame to harp
His voyce. In straite estate appere thou stout;
And so wisely, when lucky gale of winde
All thy puft sailes shall fil, loke well about,
Take in a ryft; hast is wast, profe doth finde.

43 THE AGES OF MAN

Laid in my quyett bedd, in study as I weare,
I saw within my troubled hed a heape of thoughtes appeare;
And every thought did shew so lyvelye in myne eyes,
That now I sight, and then I smylde, as cawse of thought did ryse.
I saw the lytle boye, in thought how ofte that he
Did wishe of Godd to scape the rodd, a tall yong man to be;
The yong man, eke, that feeles his bones with paynes opprest,
How he wold be a riche olde man, to lyve and lye att rest;
The ryche olde man, that sees his end draw on so sore,
How he wolde be a boy agayne, to lyve so moche the more.
Wheare at, full ofte I smylde, to see how all theise three,
From boy to man, from man to boy, wold chopp and chaunge degree;
And musinge thus, I thincke the case is very straunge,
That man from wealth, to lyve in woe, doth ever seeke to chaunge.
Thus thoughtfull as I laye, I saw my witheryd skynne
How it doth shew my dynted jawes, the flesshe was worne so thynne,
And eke my tothelesse chapps, the gates of my right way,
That opes and shuttes as I do speake, do thus unto me say:
“Thie whyte and horishe heares, the messengers of age,
That shew lyke lynes of true belief that this lif doth asswage,
Bides the lay hand, and feele them hanging on thie chyn,
The whiche do wryte twoe ages past, the thurd now cumming in.
Hang upp, therfore, the bitt of thie yonge wanton tyme,
And thow that theare in beaten art, the happyest lif defyne.”
Wheare at I sight, and said, “Farewell! my wonted joye;
Trusse upp thie pack, and trudge from me to every lytle boye,
And tell them thus from me, theire tyme moste happie is,
Yf, to their tyme, they reason had to know the truthe of this.”