The Rocke of Regard :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Rocke of Regard

diuided into foure parts. The first, the Castle of delight: Wherein is reported, the wretched end of wanton and dissolute liuing. The second, the Garden of Vnthriftinesse: Wherein are many sweete flowers, (or rather fancies) of honest loue. The thirde, the Arbour of Vertue: Wherein slaunder is highly punished, and vertuous Ladies and Gentlewomen, worthily commended. The fourth, the Ortchard of Repentance: Wherein are discoursed, the miseries that followe dicing, the mischiefes of quareling, the fall of prodigalitie: and the souden ouerthrowe of foure notable cousners, with diuers other morall, natural, & tragical discourses: documents and admonitions being all the inuention, collection and translation of George Whetstons

Whetstone, George (1544?-1587?)

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To all the young Gentlemen of England, to whose perusing this Booke shall happen: George Whetstons wisheth both health and good hap.

Nicholas Bowyer in commendation of this Booke.

To praise the thing, that no man can dispraise,
Though it seeme vaine, yet trueth doth guard the checke,
Least pyning spite, the best with hate so paize,
That skillesse scoffes, do breake well meaninges necke,
For Art attaynde in science skilfull schoole,
Stands free from foe, except it bee a foole.

And for this woorke which Whetstons witt hath wrought,
Though rash report of findfault foes deface it,
Yet will the wise commend it as it ought,
The proofe is praise, when grudgers do disgrace it,
And in the ende that worke getts prick and prise,
Which frettes the foole, and doth content the wise,

That this is such good Reader see and say,
Bee iudge thy selfe, I cannot tell thee all,
To speake to short, defame the same I may,
And better rest, then rise to catch a fall,
Yet this I say, who so most faults shal finde,
In trying like will come an ace behinde.

R. C. in praise of Whetstons and his Rocke of Regard.

Reader reward, this gallant gift with thankes,
Whose worth is much, although the price be small,
Biancaes life, and Cressids subtile prankes,
Of wantons showes, the fortune and the fall,
Frizaldoes foile, at point of all his hap,
Of lawlesse lust, foretells the after clap.

What are the ioyes, and louers daily wronges,
Their sweete, their sowre, Rinaldo here doth showe,
The morall heede, in all these thriftlesse songes,
Doth proue him blest, that least of loue doth know,
But that that beares the pearle of praise away,
This Poet doth, the fall of vice bewray,

Bare faste hee setts, the maskes of peeuish pride,
Hee finds their faultes, that fostereth fraude with pence,
His searching Uerse, the couseners traynes hath spide,
Which hyde their craft, with cloake of plaine pretence,
The end of bralles, the beggery folowing dice,
Forewarneth youth, from haunting either vice.

The vertuous praisde, the vicious here are blamde,
Here liues their fame, that Uertues souldieurs ware,
For your behoofe this worthie worke was framde,
Of more emprice, then gold or iewels farre,

Loe thus from toyes, hath Whetston weand his Muse,
In thundring Uerse to threaten foule abuse.

Humfrey Turner in commendation of Whetston and his booke.

Reader for this his gift, with thankes good Whetston pay,
The worth runnes farre, beyonde the price, as seeing thou wilt say.
The matter in which woorke at large here to report,
(Unable man) though faine I would my skill a mile comes short.
Where bee the substance showes, I should a shadowe make,
In prayse of him, yet needes my Muse, some paines will vndertake.
And first I knowe of zeale, for yonkers heede hee made,
This gallant booke, which setts to sale, the crafte in euery trade.
With moral meaninges fault, delight it yeldeth store,
The vertuous praisde, the vicious checkt, here is: and would you more?
If this may not suffice, your selues peruse the booke,
And you shall finde to please your minde (percase) more then you looke.

Abraham Fleming vppon G. Whetstons worke.

Who , wisheth with pleasure refreshed to bee,
A Castle of comfort and passing delight,
Erected of purpose, (loe) here hee may see,
And painted with colours of pure blacke and white,
No bulworcke, no fortresse more strongly prepard,
And therefore well named the Rock of Regard,

Who wisheth for vauntage, to vewe and behold,
Unthriftines Garden where weedes do abound,
Hee hath leaue to enter, and is not controld,

T'xamine the nature of that gracelesse ground:
But so let him medle, with prudence prepard,
That still hee remember the Rock of Regard.

The Arbour of Uertue most pleasaunt in sight,
Who lysteth, when leasure best serueth, may see,
His labour in looking will learning requite,
For wisedome his guerdon is likely to bee:
His well meaning merits shal reape a reward,
If that he forget not the Rock of Regard.

Through th'Orchard of penaunce so passe and repasse,
That solace and sorrowe partake not a chaunge,
Take heede of the Serpent that grouels in grasse,
Th'experience is common, the Prouerbe not straunge,
In Whetstons wise warnings the same is declard,
Whose name is renowmd by his Rock of Regard.

In tenebris fulget.

Iohn wytton in commendation of this woorke.

Though Whetston be no caruing toole, yet vertue hath it such,
As will the durest metalls sharpe, though they be dulled much,
And sure the Author of this worke, whom wee do Whetston call,
To proue his nature, hits his name, to edge blunt wittes withall.
Hee moues, styrres vp, hee whets, hee sharpes, ech one doth hee inuite,
In vertuous wise, for to approch, his Castell of delight.
A Garden there vnto is ioynde, to solace you withall,
If wanton heate, offend your hart, in vertues Arbour stall.
An Orchard full of morall fruites for you hee hath prepard,
All this his learning leueld out, the Rock of good regard,
And for to vewe this gallant foyle, you freely leane may take,

Roame round about, take what you list, but see no spoyle you make,
The hearbs and fruits that therein are, doth serue both sicke and sound,
For to restore or to suppresse, as humours do abound.
There shall you finde, flowers and fruites, continually abide,
That makes or marres, that hurtes or salues, as they may be applide,
There may the sound collect and reape, his health, his wealth, and rest,
And if he please, so keepe him selfe preserued, with the best,
The youth with want newe surfited, his apples helpes anon,
If he detract his cure too long, the fault is then his owne,
More in his Ortchard counsel growes, to make preserue withall,
Gainst had I wist, and noysome neede, th'undoer of vs all,
All this in worthy Whetstons workes, with vauntage you may learne,
With thanks thē reader quite his paines, who heapes of gold doth earne.

The Castle of delight.

THE DISORDERED life, of Bianca Maria, countesse of Celaunt, in forme of her complainte, supposed at the houre of her beheading, for procuring the murder of Ardissino Valperga Earle of Massino.

The Argument for the Countesse of Celants complaint.

Giachomo Scaperdon a notable Vsurer, had a gallant damosell vnto his daughter, called Bianca Maria, who arriuing to sixtene or seuentene yeares of age, suche was her sightly shape and beautie, together with the possibilitie of great wealth, that loe, she was a stall to toule diuers suiters: in the end Vicount Hermes fancying the mayde, and louing her wealth, was an earnest suiter to marrie her. Bianca Maria (desirous of honour) consented to haue him. Vicount Hermes possest of this faire Ladie, sone found out her natural disposition to wantonnesse: yet narrowly eyeing her behauiour during his life, he preserued her credite. But oh, this good Vicount dyed, euen in the prime of his wiues wantonnesse, who then crying libertie, set her selfe to sale with open shame: diuers suiters she had, among the which, the count of Celant made suite of marriage, the title of a Coūtesse so pleased her, as she soone assented to be his wife: afterwarde she so cunningly handled the matter, as all the countrie spake of her lightnesse, ere her husband misdoubted her loyaltie. But whē she perceiued his mistrust, she left him & fled to Pauy, where she interteined Ardisino Valperga, Earle of Masino as her minion: but wearie of his custome, she chose Roberto Sanceuerino, Earle of Giazzo for her louer. Valperga thus scorned, railed at hir inconstācie, Bianca Maria, by Valperga thus opēly defamed, practiseth with Gazzo to murther Valperga, which whē Giazzo neglecteth, with very hate she leaueth Giazzo, and falles in loue againe with Valperga, with whom she practiseth to murther Giazzo, which Valperga discouered to Giazzo, and they both in suche sort painted out her lewdnesse, as for very shame she left Pauy, and fled to Mantua, where she interteined one Dom Pietro, a lustie yong captaine, to whom she bewrayed the iniuries of Valperga and Giazzo. Dom Pietro by and by promised, in penance of their shamelesse reportes, to dispatch their liues, which in part he wilfully performed. For one day, taking Valperga at aduauntage, he soudenly slue him, the murther & the murtherer discouered, Dom Pietro was taken, & confessed the whole matter, he in hope of amēdment was pardoned, and Bianca Maria Countesse of Celant, was condemned to be beheaded, whome you may suppose vppon the scaffold, readie to be executed, to complaine as followeth.

Among their falles, by wanton fate vntwist,
Let my lewde hap, remembred be I pray,
To salue whose harme to late coms had I wist,
Bloud cries for bloud, he craues none other pay:
For conscience sake, behould then now I wray,
With trickling teares, my deadly cheakes that warme,
The true report both of my hap and harme.

Good Ladies first, to you this tale I tell,
To you as chiefe this drirye plaint I preach,
Your hie estate, your vices cannot quell:
But as you liue your fame or shame doth streach,
With vauntage sure (such notes doth honour reach)
Your praise is raisde, as farre is blasd your blame:
Thus are your liues, y payst with parcial fame.

Let mee be proofe, and warning for you both,
Whose filthie life, so foule report hath spread,
That loe (constrainde) I showe the shame, I loth,
My wanton toyes, in thousand bookes are read,
My byrth, my blame, how lewde a life I lead,
My passing loue, my peeuish hate withall,
My murderous minde: in fine my filthie fall.

First for my birth, I must confesse, was base,
But bagges I had, this basenesse to supplie,

The Vicount Hermes her first husband kept her short

My forme was fine, I had a gallant face,
A sugred tongue, a passing pleasaunt eye,
Good gifts besides, to hoyse my happe on hie:
These lures in loue, the Uicount Hermes brought,
Who kept mee short to tame my wanton thought.

Bianca Maria was her name

But (ah) to soone my Lord to heauen did wend,
Who maugre will, Bianca kept in fame,
The coupe thus broke, wherein I long was pend,

Gōsago a lord about Mantua, an earnest suter.

I set my selfe, to saile with open shame,
Gonsago yet, did like mee with my blame,
But loe I stoopte, vnto the Celant Count,
Hee loude mee well, I likt a loft to mount.

Shee married, the Count of Celant, a lord of Sauoy.

Consent of friendes, accorded with our wills,
And wee forsooth in haste must married bee,
But raisde a loft, I quight forgot what quills.
What feathers first, to honour made mee flee?
As priestes forget, the sillie clearkes degree,
So I from cart, a Countesse framde by fate,
Throughe scorne abusde, my honour and estate.

No marueile why: For force the Cur to drawe,
The kestrill kyte, to cause the heron to quake,

Kitt will to kinde.

The rauening wolfe of lambes to stand in awe,
The myllers mare, a mannage good to make,
Or apes to daunce, while mules lie at the stake,
A botelesse toile, in fine you sure shall finde:
For counterfettes will still returne to kinde.

And thinke you those, that weare dame Fortunes crowne,
Whose homely friends, did hould the ploughe of late,
Can rightly rule, the scepter of renowne?
No, honour stoupes to nature, not to fate:
Yet Fortune heaues, a thousand to estate.
As in good moode, shee did of late by mee,
Who neuer knew, the vse of dignitie.

As by abuse, one proofe shal well appeare,

Pride.

First for my pride, my betters did mee scorne,
The poore did fawne, god wot, for very feare,
My luring life, did moue my lord to mourne,
Whose ielous sighes, foreshewed be feard the horne:
Yet wisely hee, his shrewde mistrust to show,
Usde secrete nippes, my faultes to make mee know.

I saw, and smilde, to see his true mistrust,
And yet in showe, I sight throwe sollen will,
As who should say, to thinke thy spouse vniust,
Thou doest her wronge, she neuer ment no ill,
She hath beene true, and so shee wilbe still,
For all his witte, thus found I out a wile,
To quenche suspect, forsoth a little while.

But rauening currs, their chaps can hardly hould,
When carren lies, before their hungry iawes,
The stragling kite, with chickes will sure be bould.
If once a wynge, shee spies a flight of dawes.
Soe ramping girles, regarde no modest lawes,
As profe appeares, by this my filthie flight,
I left my Lord, and stoale away by night.

Who hearing once, of this my gadding moode,
My vitall thread, vntwiste good care (quoth hee)
In fine her hate wil sure sucke out my bloode,
She loues me not, there is no third degree,
Thus ledde with feare, at large hee let mee flee,
I pinchte with neede, to praying forthwith fell,
And for my selfe, I shifted prettie well.

To plant my wares, in place of brauest vewe,

Pauie a towne vnder the gouernement of the Duke of Mantua.

In Pauie towne, a stately house I tooke,
I deckte my selfe, with weedes of lightest hewe,
To lure guestes, I sparde no wanton looke,

Ardissino Valperga

Valperga first, was choakt, with Cupids hooke:

Count of Massino, her first mynion at Pauie.

Hee sight, hee sobd, hee curst his sorrie chaunce,
Hee surde, hee searud, he did attendaunce daunce.

But squemish then Bianca Maria was,
His secrete sighes with scorne she quited still.

Note.

A parle yet, at length, was brought to pas,
Where safely hee, might shew his hidden will,
With sugred wordes, he wraid his suites at fill,
His life, his death, all in my power lay,
I was so kinde to loth this Lords decay.

They say, the mate is apt to mischiefe still,
Whose foule offence, with countenaunce is held,
So wantons forst, with their agreeing will,
When lust assaultes, will after learne to yeald,

Note.

No fame nor shame, can make them keepe the field,
To true a proofe, appeareth by mine end:
Then sinne not, dames, in hope for to amend.

I showe not this, to shape mine owne excuse,
My life I lothe, to salue my fowle amisse:
But for your heed, I blase this vile abuse,
Beware, beware, of Venus beastly blisse,
It feedes the flesh, and sterues the soule I wisse,
It honour staines, it is a shrine of shame,
A bitter sweete that breadeth nought but blame.

In mee too late, these faultes I did forsee,
Valperga so, my wanton humour fedde,
My fare was fine, I lackt no goulden glee,
The art of Loue, for exercise I redde,
And thus my life, in Venus court I ledde:
With wealth at will, I could but with and haue,
The toy I lackt, I neede not twise to craue.

And think you dames these visards yeld such sights,
As wanton girles may sighe to see their shame,

No: meekenes marres the maskes of fond delightes,
And fasting must, their frolicke bodies tame,
To Scriptures read, they must their leasure frame,
Then loath they will, both lust and wanton loue,
Be sure else, such ryggs my case shall proue.

But at my call, why did Valperga stoupe?
Why did not hee, foresee the fruites of lust?
Why did he come, at euery wanton whoope?
Why, why did hee, Bianca Maria trust?
Which to her Lord, had shewen her selfe vniust,
A man hee was, whom weakenes cannot scuse,
How could hee then, let loue him so abuse.

How could hee (ah:) Perforce I shew my shame,
As one whose tongue, a truth, will neatly tell,
I reaft his life, why slay I then his fame?
No reason why, saue I can nothing well,
For through my lure hee (wonne,) to folly fell,
If not so witcht, who list like case to proue,
Shal find, fine heads, are fraughted first with loue.

Then sith his ioy, all in Bianca lay,
What scuse hath shee, with hate to pay his loue?
Bee not abasht, the truth in wordes to wray,
Which thou in act, vntimely late didst proue:
What sullen moode, this peeuish scorne did moue?
And am I forst, to shew the fault I shame?
Sith needes I must, Good Ladies, note the same.

They say, who so with dropsie is aprayde,
The more hee drinckes, the more hee doth desire,
The greedie churle, is neuer well appayde,
Although he reape the gaine hee doth require,
So lust in rampes, is such a raging fire,
That most it heates, when most the same is drencht,
A hellish flame that neuer can be quencht.

Idlenesse and pride, the cause of wanton loue.

This fire in mee, was kindled first with pride,
But raysde to flame, with ease and wanton thought,
It raged so, no reason could mee guide,
My husbands sport, so small allayaunce wrought,
As him I left, for lustier laddes I sought:
Valperga then, a while supprest this fire,
But hee decayde, oor chaunge I did desire.

Roberto Sanseuerino Erle of Giazzo, Valpergas great friend, was her second louer. The traynes that intice to loue.

Giazzo next, was fauord in my sight,
Who forst mee not, his friend hee loued soe,
Hee knew I was Valpergas sole delight.
Hee scornde my winckes, my wanton loue in showe,
My priuie sighes, my wilie signes of woe,
But Spaniel like, by stripes to kindnes moude,
The more hee scornd, the more this lord I loude.

And when I sawe hee shunde inticeing baites,
Immodest rigg, I Ouids counsell vsde,
Where cleanly, I did couler shame with sleightes,
Through loue constrainde, which reason had abusde,
My penne did paint, what bashfull tongue refusde,
Which fewe suffisde, hee knew loue kept no lawe,
Hee was my ioy, of him I stoode in awe.

This proferd grace, did stowpe Giazzo straight,
Hee loude his friend, but more his owne delight,
The hooke of loue, hee swallowed with the baite,
No marueile why: Biancaes beautie bright,
Her braue arraye, and shee a Countesse hight,
Would force a man, himselfe and all forgoe,
And could hee chuse, when loue was offered soe?

No: neede to runne the creeple sure will teach,
A pleasaunt pray, a theefe inticeth soone,
As foxes hate the grapes, they cannot reach,

Note.

And wilie saintes, with showes are seldome wonne,
When as assuerde, their squemishnes is donne.

Euen such a saint, Giazzo proued in fine,
Hee loude no grapes, before hee reacht the vine.

Wel, thus at length, I won my wished ioy,
Hee came, in whome, my heart did wholy dwell,
To make him sport, Bianca was not coy,
She knew her game, and streight to daliaunce fell,
Where as this Lord behaude himselfe so well,
That loe I loath Valpergas drowsy sport,
And so with scorne I stayde his oft resort.

Thus reft (good soule) of her hee heald so deare,
His woonted sutes, a fresh hee put in vre,
Hee sight, hee serued, hee lookt with sorrie cheare,
But when no sute, nor seruice could procure,
My stragling loue, to stoupe vnto his lure,
By neede inforst, his dotage then hee reft,
And so with losse, my wanton pleasures left,

When mystes of lusce, were cleared from his eyes,
Disdaine forthwith, transformd his loue to hate,

Peeuish hate insueth passing loue.

Fye on my life, and lewdnes, lowde hee cries,
Hee heaues mee vp to filthie Faustines state,
A Layis byrde, for Masseline a mate,
A filth, a flurt, a bitch of Megraes kinde,
A rigg, a rampe, and all that came to minde,

But when I heard, my blame, hee blased thus,
Impatient I, began to stampe and stare,

A womans deadly hate.

To waile, to weepe, to wring my handes I wous,
To freate, to fume, to teare my golden heare,
In fine, as madd as euer was March hare,
I vowde to reaue Valperga of his life,
Which I performde (aye) me through peeuish strife.

While sporte was quicke, I did Giazzo moue,
To slay this Lord, in grace which whilome stoode,

But disposest, to winne his owne sweete loue,
Unciuil wretch, accoyde through sullen moode,
Hee blasde mee forth, as byrde of Layis broode,
Leaue off (quoth hee) I loth thy heauie cheere,
Valpergas tongue, shall buy this bable deare.

With which suffisde, I fell to kisses straight,
And shewde my selfe, more gamesome then of yore,

Giazzos frēdship towardes Valperga.

To tyce him on, I laide this wanton baite,
But hee which long, Valperga held in store,
Within his heart, my hatred did abhore:
Yet nay the lesse, my loue hee so did like.
As still hee said, hee stayde for time to strike.

But when I found, what fine delayes hee vsde,
All sweld, with wrath (quoth I) the prouerbe saith:
Proferde seruice, is euer more refusde,
And offerde loue, is quited syld with faith,
Without the hooke, the baite no poyson hath,

Note.

Yet haplie hee, for all his wiles may proue,
My peeuish hate, oore wayes my passing loue.

And in disdaine, the secrete gates I bard,

An honest couler to dissemble a lewd reuenge

Where in and out, Giazzo earst did goe,
I tould him plaine, his market cleane was mard,
I ment my faultes, vnto my lord to showe,
If which suffisde, I would no more do so,
To faine with chaunge, I did Giazzo pray,
With kindnes showne, contented for to stay.

Nigh tyred hee, my greedie lust to glut,
Full wel appayde, for trueth my faynings tooke,
Hee tooke no heede, how often times is shut
In sugred baite, a fowle and filthie hooke,
How hate is hidde full oft, with friendly looke,
Ne how the lewde, when grace is not their stay,

Note.

Refuse no meane, to worke their foes decay.

Euen such a filth I (forst) confesse I was,
I vsde this showe, to chase my foes mistrust,
Thereby to worke his fatall ende (alas)
When least hee thought, I would haue beene vniust,
Such cankered hate, my murdrous heart did rust,
Unto which ende, I for Valperga send,

She practised with Valperga whom late she scorned, to slay Giazzo. who should haue slaine him.

With yll, for good, to quite his faithful frend.

I knew the force, of new reuiued loue,
Now peeuish hate, more perfect made the same,
I likewise knew, newe friendship how to moue,
With pleasaunt lookes, y mixt with pretie blame,
I checkt him first, for foyling of my fame,
Perdona moy, ore showes againe with viewe,
Deare dame (quoth hee) I yeld, your tale is true.

Euen so (quoth I) and smiling vsde these wordes,
Confessed crimes, doth open penaunce chuse,
What plague you please (quoth hee) your thrall accordes,
That hee or you, shall execution vse,
Such power (quoth I) I meane not to refuse,
Yet hoping that, those faultes you will amende,
I pardon all, and take you for my frende.

And when I sawe him eager of delight,
A sighe I fetcht, and did Giazzo name,

A policie.

Valperga said, Giazzo to his might,
Was sure his friend (quoth I) I thinke in name,
But (ah) his deedes, will neuer proue the same,
And though I, loth, to sowe seditious strife,
Yet needes I must, for safegard of thy life.

In sooth (sweete friend) thy daungerous state I rew,
This trayterous mate, to moue thine ouerthrowe,
By guile God wot, with mee in frendship grew,
Betwixt vs friends, he first did hatred sowe,
Hee forged faultes, to keepe mee still thy foe,

And yet my heart, for al that hee could say,
Did loue thee well, although my tongue said nay.

Which when hee smeld puft vp with furie straight,
Hee vowde thy death for robbing of his ioy,
Which bloudie wordes, did force mee to vnfraight,
This bitter speach: Auawnt thou peeuish boy,
Thy filthy sight, Bianca doth annoy.
Beleeue mee, Lord, this tale is very true,
Beginne with him, before hee do with you.

These forced wordes, did rayse a soare mistrust,
Or haply else Giazzo might a smoakte,
But yet hee vowde, to feede my filthie lust,
With bloudie blade, his trayterous breath to choake,
And leaue hee toke, hee said to strike this stroake,

Note.

But loe hee went forthwith to Mantua,
Unto his friend, these secretes to bewray,

Which treason when Giazzo vnderstoode,
Who can auoyde (quoth hee) a strompets hate?
And thundring out, the stormes of furious moode,
With tearmes of scorne, hee did Bianca rate,
Out filth (quoth hee) twixt friends which sowes debate,
And in despight, a libel hee inuents,
Which (Lords) to you, Bianca here presents.

An Inuectiue written by Roberto Sanseuerino, Earle of Giazzo, against Bianca Maria, Countesse of Celant.

Who euer sawe, a thorne sweete grapes to yeeld?
Or sower slowes, vppon a vine to growe?
Who euer heard, a coward first in feeld?
The foreward wight, soonste feard with sight of foe?

Who euer knew, in time of any minde?
Good fall to bad, or kitt to flee from kinde?

If proofe ne peares, who may Bianca blame?
Whose father rose, to wealth by filthie fraude,
Her mothers life, y shrinde with endles shame,
Whose grandam was, in drowping dayes a bawd:
Shee onely left, of all this beastly store,
Must needes be worse, then parents were before.

What marueile then, if shee did flee by night,
And sent a horne, vnto her Lord and fere,
To blow the death, of all his braue delight,
That gadding moode, shee learned of sa mere,
Who lightly vailde, at ery wanton whoope,
How could shee then, but to Valperga stoope?

Ne can shee chuse, but proue the Prouerbe true,
(Won with a word, and lost with one yll looke)
Giazzo knowes, Bianca seekes for newe,
Hee whilome was, a vowell in her booke,
Giazzo wrought, Valperga out of grace,
Giazzo scornd, Valperga hath his place.

Yet both in lashe, at length this cressed leaues,
And Megra like, pursues their loue with hate,
Such is the fruite, of ruffians, roages, and theeues,
Which framde her heart, when shee was formde by fate,

Giachemo Scapar ione her father a great Vserer.

Her fathers liue (Scappardone being dead)
And diuers seedes, doth diuers natures breede.

(O happie man) Giazzo scornes her loue,
(Valperga blest) that knowes her murdrous minde,
Wee haue ynough, her truth let others proue,
And rest content, with what wee left behinde,
We suckte the sweete, let others drinke the draffe,
Wee eate the corne, what skilles, who chewes the chaffe.

The Countesse of Zeland, continueth in her complaint.

Now gallants iudge, if it with honour stands
For any Lord, a Lady thus to rate,
Or blase with scorne, their pleasure at her hands,
If it ne grees, with glory of their state,
Helpe to excuse Biancas deadly hate,
Who now beginnes, such bloudy newes to blase,
As endlesse shame, her infamie will raise.

Or giue her leaue, to vse what cloake she may,
For once report, wil much inlarge her misse,
In womens moodes, there is no meane they say,
They (scorned) loue, so huge their liking is,
Of force as great, their hate must be ywis,
What folly then Giazzos mynd did blame,
To think my wrath, would ceasse through open shame.

How could he wene, my friendship for to force,
By ringing out the lewdnesse of my life?
Sith shame compelles the bad, to fall to worse,
Where discord is, new wrong increaseth strife.
Reuenge is sought, where iniuries are rife,
Wast then the way, to reaue my wrangling hate,
Inuectiues vile to set vpp on my gate.

O, no, God wot, my mightie litle hart,
Was well nye burst, my blame was blased so,
These rymes I soung, with notes of musickes art,
Bianca namde, in euery wanton shew,
Constraind me wretch, from Pauie for to go,
To Mantua then, I did my iourney take,
Where open house, I kept for credits sake.

And placed there according to my will,
With bloudie hate my murdrous hart was bent,
Giazzo Lord, Valperga eake to kill,

A thousande feates of murder, I inuent:
As many feares my purpose did preuent:
I loth, yet would, and willing, stoode in awe,
Such brunts they byde that venter breach of lawe.

Till vice, vertue hath vanquisht in the feeld,
Then reason, lawe, rule, feare, and all adew,
Their minds, their harts, to nought but folly yeeld,
In spoile, they sport, they laugh at mischiefes new:
The proofe of which, alas, to late I rewe,
For when my feare, my furie put to flight,
I liuing dyde, till I had wrought my spight.

And sith this acte to doe, my minde did mase,
This traine I laide, to tyce a trustie frend:
In place of vene I gallants gaue the gase,
Their bonets vaild, Bianca streight did bend,
Through friendly showe, a bon iour for to send,
To parle oft, I did my selfe apply,
Before I trust, by talke each youth to try.

In making loue, they prettie prattle vsde,
But nought it vaild, to hault before the lame,
For I of yore, with wylie woordes abusde,
As children brent doe after dread the flame,
At sugred speache, I made a sporting game,
But ah (ay mee) to worke mine ouerthrow,
Untimely came, to Mantua dom Pietro.

Dom Pietro a lustie younge Capitaine her lustie louer.

This capitaine stoute, went flaunting too and fro,
Till loe (ill lucke) mee wretched, hee espyes,
My gallant port, beseemde a countesse show,
My beautie then, my braue arraye hee eyes,
While blinded loue into his fancie flyes,
And stryuing (hee) doth cause his fire increase,
Thus warres he founde, when most hee hoapte of peace.

Unarmed yet, to match with Cupids force,
With Conges kinde, hee wrayde his louing moode,
Next sighes he sends, to moue mee to remorse,
Then paintes his pen, thus straunge his fancies stoode,
My yea would saue, my nay should shead his blood,
Quicke aunsweare make, Dom Pietro hath decreede,
To liue in ioy, or else to die with speede.

These lines receiude, I spyed my nouis heate,
Who lookt and lackt, the recompence of loue,
Which scorne in mee, did cause him more to sweate,
Hee sight, I smilde, his ioy, my noy, did moue,
Which thwarting showes (past hope) inforst him proue
If that his lute soone might (his passions showne)
Could force his sweete, his hard mishap to mone,

But when I sawe, his loue did still increase,
As hee one night, lamenting layes did yell,
My gates were ope, in signe and show of peace,
In came this Lord, in minde his griefe to tell,
But loe abashte, he first to blushing fell,
In chamber frayes, of both my selfe the best
This onset gaue, to cheare my chosen guest.

Biancas breach, of chaste and modest lawe,
May seeme full straunge, to you my louing Lord,
To ope my gates, to one I neuer sawe,
When knowen friends, so falsifie their word,
Dread not (quoth he) Dom Pietro doth accord:
From sorrowes free, yet free Biancas slaue,
To like but what, his loue, desires to haue.

I aunsweard soone, with sugred showes full ofte,
Such Lords as you, faire Ladies still beguiles,
But suites obtainde, they sillie soules are scofte,
Then choice, in chaunge, your loue, and faith, exiles,
Not so, in mee (quoth hee) I want such wiles,

For proofe, commaund, what seruice pleaseth you,
The which performde, then thinke Dom Pietro true.

In hoape (quoth I) your wordes and deedes are one,
I first will trust, your faith, then after taste,
To quite your loue, Bianca is your owne,
Dom Pietro straight did execution haste,
And bashfull earst, his best beloude imbraste,
With sugred wiles, I so this gallant wrought,
As sure I was, a Goddesse in his thought.

Assurde of which, to sawce his sweetest sport,
A sighe I fetcht, and squemish faynde to bee,
Woe worth (quoth I) Giazzo lewde report,
Valpergas scorne, two Earles of hie degree,
Their traytrous tongues, so sore haue slaundred mee,
That death I wish, but destnie will not soe,
And they triumph, that wrought my timelesse woe.

Dom Pietro then, did bluster forth this speach,
(Ah) verlets vile, from natures lawe which swerue,
Ere longe I sure, your traytrous tongues will teach,
To slaunder her, whom duetie wills you serue,
And then hee vowde, with speede their flesh to carue:
Soone shall they proue (quoth hee) if I doe faine,
And you shall see, if deedes and woordes are twaine.

I glad of which, yet sad I seemde in showe,
And sighing said, looke to your selfe, my sweete,
Your hurt, my death, in hart I loue you soe,
Which friendly wordes, his furie more did heate,
Fare well (quoth hee) till I haue wrought this feate,
This hand and blade, their babling tōgues shal worme:
Which wordes with deedes, he (cruel) did performe.

For loe one night, hee did forestaule their way,
But weaklie armde, Valperga was intrapte,

Giazzo blest, was absent at this fray,
Oore wayde, with force, Valperga was intrapt,
That (ah) his death, vntimely there hee rapt,
Who dying cryde, Dom Pietro did the deede,
Streight, hew and crie, to search him out doth speede.

Hee found, forthwith, vnto the Duke was brought,
And paintes at large, my loue, and lothsome hate,
The suite of friendes, in grace, Dom Pietro wrought,
To salue my misse, repentaunce came to late:
Good Ladies yet, note well my fall, and fate,
My wealth, my weades, my sweete delights to shoe,
Intice, not warne, without the sauce of woe.

The thought of wonted pleasures increaseth the mysers paine.

But listen well, vnto my filthie fall,
Payse, blisse with bale, sweete life with sower end,
And you shall finde, my ioy oore wayde with thrall,
Of freedome reft, in prison closely pend,
Distrest, vnhelpt, forsooke of kinne and frend,
Yea, more then straying, so fowle my follies ware,
As gould, ne vayld, to cleare my clowdes of scare.

Ne could I (wretch) take well in worth my woe,
My former sweete, did so increase my sowre,
My homely cheare, my costly cates did show,
My prison vile, of yore, my princely bowre,
My laughing friends, by foes that then did lowre,
Controwld and scornde, who thousands did commaunde,
Once craue and haue, denyde now eche demaunde.

My lothsome couche, presenteth to my vewe,
My beds of doune: with thought of sweete delights,
Thus day and night, my wilfull harme I rewe:
Ech thought of grace, my conscience guilt affrights,
Yet (loth to die) against repentaunce fightes,
Till due desert, by lawe and Iustice lead,
Did dome my misse, with tosse of my poore head.

The which in place, I ready am to pay,
Acknowledging, my faultes before you all,
God graunt my life with such effect you way,
As you may be forewarned by my fall.
Of lawlesse loue, the end is bitter gall:
I now haue sayd, and for their witnesse crye,
How so I liude, I do repentant dye.

Cressids complaint.

The Argument, for Cressids complaint.

The inconstancie of Cressid, is so readie in euery mans mouth, as it is a needelesse labour, to blase at full her abuse towardes yong Troilus, her frowning on Syr Diomede, her wanton lures and loue, neuerthelesse, her companie scorned, of thousandes sometimes sought, her beggerie after brauerie, her lothsome leprosie, after liuely beautie, her wretched age, after wanton youth, and her perpetuall infamie, after violent death, are worthy notes (for others heede) to be remembred. And for as much as Cressids heires in euery corner liue, yea more cunning then Cressid her selfe, in wanton exercises, toyes, and inticements: to forewarne all men of such filthes, to persuade the infected, to fall from their follies, & to rayse a feare in dames vntainted to offend, I haue reported the subtile sleites, the leaud life, and euill fortunes of a Courtisane, in Cressid: name, whom you may suppose, in tattered weedes, halfe hungerstarued, miserably arrayde, with scabs, leprosie, and mayngie, to complaine as followeth.

You ramping gyrles, which rage with wanton lust,
Beholde in me, the bitter bloumes of chaunge.
Forworne with woe, who wallowes in the dust,
And lepre like, is double mayld with maynge,
For my desart, this fortune is not straunge,
Disdaine my life, but listen to my mone,
Without good heede, the hap may be your owne.

Though now I am, anoynted with annoy,
My hyde bepatcht, with scabs of sundry hewe,
I sometime was, the star of stately Troy,
With beautie blist, my venes as Azures blewe,
No fault in me, but that I was vntrue,
In Priams court, who did not Cressid like,
In lue of loue, who gaue she not the gleake.

Where I was lou'd, I seemed alwayes straunge,
Where litle waide, I won with gleames of grace,
My gadding mynd, had such delight in chaunge,
As seldome twice, the best I did imbrace,
And once beguild, with beautie of my face,
With ebbes of griefe, did fall his flouds of ioy,
He su'd and seru'd, but Cressid then was coy.

I did intice, king Priams sonnes to loue,
And did repine, the poorest, should go free,
My thralls for grace, a thousand wayes did proue,
On whom I smyld, a happie man was he,
The wisest wits, were thus bewitcht by me,
But as the hawke, in mewe, at randome liues,
Yet diet keepes her gorge, as seldome greues.

So I that liude, with store of foode at large,
When hunger pincht, on lustie youthes I prayd,

If boystrous lads, my gorge did ouercharge,
For tyring meate, the deintie boyes were wayde,
Thus with a meane, my prime of pride was staide,
Then was I faire, my traine with oyle was strickt
My feathers freshe, were dayly prunde and prickt.

No toy, no gaude, ne straunge deuise I see,
Though not the first, the same I second had,
Glad was the youth, that fastned ought on me,
Of braue array, in chaunge, I still was clad,
My cost to see, the courtly dames were mad,
They did repine, the peeres should Cressid loue,
When rascals, scarce, to them did liking moue.

Such fancies straunge, were figurd in my face,
As few there were, but my good will did moue,

The propertie of a courtesan to mainteine one with the spoile of another.

I traind them on, with outward shew of grace.
My garter one, another had my gloue,
My colours all, did weare in fine of loue,
But where in hart, I lou'd and liked best,
He euer wore the spoyle of all the rest.

Syr Diomede got, both brooch, and belt of cost,
The which in right, to Troilus belongs,
An eyesore sure, to him that lou'd me most,
Who might repine, but not reuenge his wrongs,
Least notes of hope, were turnd to desperate songs,
The rest did loue, as courtiers do in showe:
But he good soule, did pine away with woe.

Yet cruell I, did smile to see his smart,
Who somtime warmd, his woes with slender hap,
Which freesd againe, with frownings ouerthwart,
And when with ioy, he pratled in my lap,
With peeuish speach, I would his pleasures snap,
For wronging whom, the Troians did me paint,
In hart a fiend, in face and forme a Saint.

Then iudge you may, my beautie bare great sway,
Which thus inthrawld, by loue a Princes sonne,
My state no lesse, that durst his sutes denay,
A world it was, to heare what praise I wonne,
A wonder, more, how soone my pride was donne,
My forme did fade, my beautie prou'd a blase,
Or as a toy, which forced fooles to gase.

Painting common among Courtisans.

Declining yet, I had a present shift,
A painted face, did please a gasinge eye,
But surfled stuffe, prou'd no induring drift,
My slibber sauce, when wanton girles espie,
With open mouth, the same in court they cry:
Poore Cressid then no sooner came in place,
But fortie frumpes, were framed by her face.

Some said that I a passing picture drue,
Some would haue drawen, the figure of a sot,
The crabtreeface, would haue mee mend his hue,
Some in my cheeke, did faine to cleare a spot,
And all to rub my starche away, god wot,
If messellike, my painting so they pilde,
They smylde and said, my silke no colour hilde.

My selfe did laugh, to see my painting clearde,
The straung defects, that withered age did bring,
A horseface then, a tawnie hyde appearde,
A wrinkled mumpes, a foule mishapen thing,
A sea of hate, where liuely loue did spring,
Thus beauties beames, to clowdes of scorne to chaunge
So soone, mee thought was sure a myrrour straunge.

How euil the courtesies of a Courtesan is acquited, if she liue to be aged.

Yet so I preast, amid the Courtly crew,
Who once espyde, a fresh the sport begon,
Some said I lookt, now of a passing hew,
A scarfe some cryde, to keepe goodface from sunne,
Thus was I scornd, when youthful pride was don,

Some wild me learne, anew my A.B.C..
With backward reade, from H. to skip to B.

But as the Hawke to gad, which knowes the way,
Will hardly leaue, to cheake at carren crowes,
If long vnserude, she waites and wants her pray:
Or as the horse, in whom disorder growes,
His iadish trickes, againe wil hardly loose:
So they in youth, which Venus ioyes do proue,
In drouping age, Syr Chaucers iestes will loue.

My self for profe, whē wanton yeres were worne,
When lookes could yeald, no loue, but lothsome hate,
When in my face appeard the forme of scorne,
Whē lust for shame, with me might sound debate,
Although I did turne tayle to foules of state,
At vauntage yet, with baser byrdes I met,
On kytes I prayde, till I could partridge get.

But I so long, on carren crowes did pray,
My poysoned bloud, in colour waxed pale,
In natures ayde, myne age had wrought decay:
Now listen rampes, for here begins my tale,
Before my blysse, but now I blase my bale,
For Physickes arte, my surffets can not cure
Bound so perforce, the worst I must indure.

In seeking sport, my haire did shed in test,

The diseases that followe wanton and disordered liuing.

A sorrie ioy to ceaselesse sorrowe plight,
French feauers now, in me can take no rest,
From bones to flesh, from flesh in open sight,
With grinckcomes grease, beholde a monstrous wight,
My louers olde, with (fawth) their browes doth bend,
Of Cressids lust, loe here the lothsome end.

Glad is she now a browne breade crust to gnawe,

Beggerie the end of Courtesans.

Who deintie once, on finest cates did frowne,

To couch vpon soft seames, a pad of straw,
Where halfe mislikt, were stately beds of downe,
By neede enforst, she begs on euery clowne,
On whom but late, the best would gifts bestow,
But squemish then, God dyld ye she sayd no.

From top of state, to tumble thus to thrall,
Too froward sure, dame Fortune was in this,
But highest trees, in fine haue hardest fall,
A merrie meane, her parciall hand doth misse,
She pines wt paine, or bathes her thralles in blisse,
Best therfore then, for to withstand her might,
With sword of fame, in Uertues band to fight.

But (ah) in vaine, I frame excuse by fate,
When due desart, doth worke my ouerthrow,
Ne was I first by Fortune stauld in state,
My roome by byrth, did high renoune bestow,
Though wicked life, hath wrapt me now in woe,
A warning faire, a myrrour full of mone,
For gadding gyrles, a bone to gnaw vpon.

Take heede in time, least Had I wist you rew,
And thus perforce, I hold my tyred tong,
Me thinkes I heare, the bell to sound adew,
My withered corps, with deadly cold is clung,
A happier turne, if I had dyed yong,
My shrouding sheete, then had not beene of shame,
Who dying now, doth liue in filthy fame.

Siue bonum, siue malum, farna est.

[Poems from the Discourse of Rinaldo and Giletta]

The pyning wight, presented with reliefe.
With souden ioy, a while forgoes his sense:
The retchlesse youth, likewise besiegde with griefe,
With feare dismayd, forgets to vse defence:
Such is the force, of hastie ioy or woe,
As for the time, few knoweth what they doe.

And I vnwares, with both extremes forgone,
Subiect to loue, that neuer felt his force,
One while dismayd, I starude in wretched mone,
And straight through hope, I tasted sweet remorse,
Soust wt these stormes, whē I shuld moue my suit,
Small wonder though, a while I masked mute.

And yet (God wot) my sighes did plead amaine,
They broke the cloudes, that cowred all my care,
My ruthfull lookes, presented still my paine,
As who wold say: When wil she cleare thy scare?
Attending thus, when you should note my case,
The time forewent, ere I could sue for grace.

But now (constraynd) neede makes the creeple goe,
My festred sore (of force) some cure must seeke,
My woundes so bleed, I cannot hide my woe,
My hurt is heald, if you my seruice like,
Let egall loue, goe bath in wished blisse,
Suffiseth me, my maistresse hand to kisse.

Lo thus, deare dame, you know my case and cure,
It rests in you, my life to saue or spyll,
If you desire, I should these stormes indure,
Commaund my death, and I will worke your wyl,
If not in time, him for your seruant chuse,
Who liuing dies, till you his seruice vse.

Roberto Rinaldo

[When Sommers force is past, and Winter sets in foote]

When Sommers force is past, and Winter sets in foote,
The hart and strength of hearbs and trees, is nourisht by the roote.
The frostes and froward blasts, doth nip the naked spray,
The Sommer liuerie of the bowes, with colde is worne away,
Yet liues such rootes in hope, that Phœbus glimering beames,
Will once dissolue syr Hiems force, his frostes and ysie streames,
And lend reliefe at length, when he their lacke should see.
With coates of leaues to cloth their armes, fit garments for a tree.
Euen so both hope and dread, doth wage continuall fight,
Deare dame, in me, whose Sommers ioy, you raisde with friendly sight,
But loue, vnlookt (God wot) to yoke my wanton yeares,
Straight vsde his force, and base desart, consumd my ioy with feares,
It raysed frostes of scorne, my fire to ouerthrowe,
This chaungd the Sommer of your sight, to Winter of my woe:
Yet fled my heart to hope, who faintly feedeth me,
Your pittie passeth poore estate, where faythfull loue you see,
He shewes by secrete signes, your vertues euery one,
And sayes your beautie breedes no pride, that brueth all my mone.
But maugre friendly hope, base hap with me doth striue,
Who weares my flesh, with withered feare, how so my hart doth thriue
Which is the very cause, why I these colours weare,
The ground of hope, bewrayes my heart, the gards my desperate feare:
But if with graunt of grace, my griefes you meane to quite,
Both hope and dread shall soone be chaungd, to colours of delight.

Roberto Rinaldo.

[In bondage free I liue, yet free am fettered faste]

In bondage free I liue, yet free am fettered faste,
In pleasure paine, in paine I find a thousād pleasures plaste,
I frye, yet frosen am, I freese amid the fire,
I haue my wish and want my will, yet both as I desire,
I loue and liue by lokes, and loking workes my woe,
Were loue no god, this life were strange, but as he is, not so.
For through his aukward fitts, I suck such sweete in sower,
As I a yeare of dole would bide, to haue one lightning hower.
I like no life, but such, as worketh with his will,
His wil my wish, my wish to loue betyde good luck or ill,
No choyce shall make mee chaunge, or fancie new desire,
Although desire first blew the cole, that set my thoughtes on fire.
But fire, frostes and all, such calme contents doth moue,
As forst I graunt there is no life, to that is led in loue.
Yea base I thinke his thought, that would not gladly die,
To leade but halfe, of halfe an houre, in such delight as I.
Now thou deare dame, that workste, these sweete affectes in mee,
Touchsafe my zeale, that onely seeke, to serue and honour thee.
So shall my thralled brest, for fancies free haue scope,
If not, it helpes, I haue free will, to loue, and liue in hepe.

Roberto Rinaldo.

[More haste then neede, doth turne to waste]

More haste then neede, doth turne to waste,
and waste doth al thinges marre,
Your Haruest, is in grasse good Syr,
as hastie as you are.

This doubtfull ieast, among my ioyes,
my mystresse late did peppe,
But I reply, that backward haste,
can neuer blast my croppe.

For sith (sweete wench) my seede of loue,
hath taken roote in time,
And cleare escapt the frostes of scorne,
that pincht it in the prime.

Now that the spring time of your grace,
hath raisde it to an eare,
The kindely riping of the same,
in faith I litle feare.

For scorched sythes, like Summers sunne,
will hasten on this wheate,
And stormes of teares, as heauenly dewe,
shall nourish with the heate.

The ielous weedes of foule suspect,
which louers ioyes doth sting,
Shall cropped bee, with hooke of faith,
that fauour freash may spring.

Then banish dread, from thee deere dame,
my speede will worke no waste,
Since that the season serues so well,
our Haruest for to haste.

Roberto Rinaldo.

[Beautie leaue off to brag, thy brauery is but brayd]

Beautie leaue off to brag, thy brauery is but brayd,
Thou mayst (God wot) thy visard vaile, thy wanton maskes are wrayd.
Thy toyes in thy attyre, thy plumes fortells thy pride,
Thy coyues, thy caules, thy curling cost, thy surfling helpes are spide.
Thy gases are for guestes, that garish showes wil eye,
Else who so blinde, but that hee can a painted visage spie,

Then goe and market keepe, where chaffe is sowld for corne,
I hould (God wot) thy vauntes as vaine, thy lures, and loue I scorne,
For I beloued am, of one that thee doth passe,
In faith as much as finest gold, excelles the coursest brasse.
She needes no frizling feates, nor bumbaste for her breastes,
No glittring spangles for the gase, no ierkyns, iagges, nor iestes,
Her onely selfe a sunne, when thou art iudgde a starre,
Her sober lookes workes more regard, then all thy ruffling farre.
The reason is, the heauens, to reape the praise alone,
Did frame her eyes, her head, and handes of pearle and precious stone,
Which iewells needes no helpe, their beauties for to blase,
When brauery shadowes fowle defectes, or serues for wanton gase.
Besides her feature rare, her further fame to raise,
Her witt, her wordes, her workes in showe, doth winne a world of praise,
Then beautie haue no scorne, thy roome for to resigne,
To her, whose sundry markes of grace, thus shewes shee is diuine.
If not, thy champion chuse, if any dare auowe,
I doe the wronge, thee to abase, and her so to allowe,
And him I challenge forth, by force of fight to proue,
She hath no match, whom thus in heart, I honour, serue and loue.

Roberto Rinaldo.

[For faithfull loue, the hate I finde in lue]

For faithfull loue, the hate I finde in lue,
My vowe performde, the false of her behest,
The small reward, I reape for seruice true,
Her ioy to see, mee plunged in vnrest,
Doth force mee say, to finde an ende of paine,
O fancie die, thou feedest hope in vaine.

I sue for grace, shee smyles to see my smart,
I pleade for peace, shee seekes to sowe debate,
My sowre her sweete, my griefe doth glad her hart,
I fawne, shee frownes, I loue and shee doth hate,
Sith soe, I say, to finde an ende of paine,
O fancie die, thou feedest hope in vaine.

Starue thou desire, which keepeth life in loue,
And so my thought, from showring woe shall cease,
But loue aliue, while fancie hope may moue,
A lyuing death, my sorrowes will increase,
Wherefore I say, to finde an ende of paine,
O fancie die, thou feedest hope in vaine.

My fancies dead, I end of woes should finde,
My eyes, nay seas (God wot) of brackish teares
Would leaue to loue, whom loue hath made so blinde:
My thorned thoughtes, no more should foster feares,

But oh (aye mee) for to proroge my paine,
My fancies liue, and feedeth hope in vaine.

Doe what I can, I pray on plighted troth,
A (simple) thinke, shee will not breake this bonde,
I vowe to loue, I will not false my othe,
But, ah, I finde her false, and I too fonde:
Wherefore good death, at once delay my paine,
My fancies liue, and feedeth hope in vaine.

Roberto Rinaldo.

[Rinaldo, thy dissembling]

Rinaldo, thy dissembling, hath wrought my displeasure, &

A trecherous part.

although I will not shew how nor wherein thou art vniust, yet know thou, I know so well thy villanies, as no excuse shall remoue mee from reuenge. And if my vnpleasaunt lookes any way offende thee, assure thy selfe my heart tenne times more abhorreth thee: thereof let this my hand writing be a witnes, which I my selfe deliuer, to this ende, that thou mayst at once, end both thy hope, and vnregarded sute, by her that hates the more, then shee loues herselfe.

Giletta de Bologna.

[O needlesse fruit (of sinne the meane at first)]

O needlesse fruit (of sinne the meane at first)
Thou forcedst Eue, and Adam didst intice,
To byte their bale, for which the earth was curst,
And headlong they, from vertue fell to vice,
Thou wert the baite, that Paris gaue the Dame,
Who in reward, set stately Troy aflame.

Thou didst conuey, the louing write that woode,
Dianas nymphe, from chaste, to foule desire,
By thee too soone, I (wretched) vnderstoode,
Gilettas scorne, that chaung'd her loue to yre,
And not content, but when my woes were dead,
With former cares, thou combrest fresh my head.

O enuious fruit, in whom few vertues are,
Thy shew is all, but who so on thee feedes,

Shall hardly finde, thee helpe, but health impaire:
Then sith to man, such plagues thy beautie breedes,
Would God thy guilt, vpon each apple tree,
Igrauen were, for euery eye to see.

Roberto Rinaldo.

[Euen with the bloud that issues from his hart]

Euen with the bloud that issues from his hart,
Rinaldo (wretch) this sorrie boune doth craue,
There may be grauen (by some continuing Arte)
These woful words, vpon his timelesse graue.
Loe here he lies, that reaped hate for loue,
Which hard exchaunge, to slea him selfe did moue.

Epilogus.

Vide the fall of the C. of Celant fol. 16. a.

Loe here the fruits, of lust and lawlesse loue,
Loe here their faults, that vale to either vice,
Loe Ladyes here, their falles (for your behoue)

Cressids complaint. to. 22. d. Vide C. of Celant. fol. 2. a & fol. 10. b.

Whose wanton willes, sets light by sound aduice.
Here lords may learn, with noble dames to match:
For dunghill Kyte, from kinde wil neuer flye:
The vessell long, will of the liquor smatch,
Wherewith at first, the same we taste or trie.
Here Cressids life, her lucke, and lothsome end,
Their Fortunes paint, that Cressids heires are,
Her fall doth will, all wantons to amend,
Their lightning ioyes, are ioynd with yeres of care:

Vide C. of Celant. fol. 7. b. & fol. 13. b. Vide Frizaldo fol. 45.

Here youths, that see, a strumpets angrie moode,
May haply feare, to execute her hate:
Their hard luckes heere, ye purchase loue wt bloud,
Are warnings meete, for such as sowe debate.
And to be short, the sowre in sweetest loue,
Doth proue him blest, that least therof doth proue.

Formæ nulla fides.

THE GARDEN OF VNTHRIFTINESSE, wherein is reported the dolorous discourse of Dom Diego a Spaniard, together with his triumphe.

Wherein are diuers other flowers, (or fancies) of honest loue. Being the inuentions and collection of George Whestone, Gent.

Formæ nulla fides.

DOM DIEGO HIS dolerous discourse.

I (wretched) weary am of toile, good death delay my paine:
By words in waft, my works are lost, my wishes are in vaine.
I serue with faith, my hire is fraud, I loue & reape but hate,
And yet this woe doth wrong me most, I mourne without a mate.

For if one drop of hope were seene, though dride with scorne in sight,
I might with pyning Tantale ioyne, who sterues in sweete delight.
Or if I could but halfe the hill, roule vp the tumbling stone,
I had a mate of Sisyphus, to match with mee in mone.

But, oh, O not my hap more harde, they haue a scambling ioy,
But I no thought of sweete remorse, my souereigne is so coy.
My ioy in was, my woe in is, and so is like to bee.
My fancies turne, to firie sightes, aliue, my death to see.

The court, the court, where pleasure liues, with paine increast my care,
Eche blisse seemde bale, eche gleame of grace, did mist my ioyes wt scare.
Eche show of sport, my sorrowes moude, eche pleasure made mee plaine,
Yet there I preast, to feede on sight, digesting dire disdaine.

Were loue not blinde, this life were straunge, for one to loue his foe,
More straunge to haunt a place of harme, but most to ioy in woe.
But (Oh) who feeles, his aukeward fittes, and suckes ye sweete in soure,
Shall bide a yeare of dole with ease, to feele one lightning houre.

Such life I lykt, til fogge of scorne, did rise to dampe my ioyes,
Till secrete sighes, wrought open scoffes, till floutes did quite my ioye.
Untill the colours which I wore, my secrete mourning wrayde,
Till dauntes of friendes, till frumpes of foes, my feeble hope dismayde.

And till her bloudie hate was seene, of euery beetell sight,
Till then I neuer shronke, but sought with zeale, to quenche her spight,

But then (quoth I) Dom Diego wretch, bid Court, not care adue,
Some vnkouth haunt, thy fortune seemes, thy harmes alone to rue.

Thou gau'st thy woord, to die her loue, let word, in worke agree:
Her checking chaunge, her scorne for faith, is no excuse for thee.
A Hermits life, beseemes thy lucke, go haunt the Pyren hills.
To touch the foode, wee may not taste, increaseth hungry wills.

Therwith I vow'de, in defart houltes, alone to rue my harme,
Where fretting sighes, doth serue for fire, my frosen flesh to warme.
My foode, is aples, hawes, and heepes, such fruites as feede a beast,
Wilde monsters are companions mine, in hollow caues I rest.

A crabtree staffe my surest steede, my sterued legges to ease,
My thoughts new wounds, increaseth stil, whē cares I would appease.
The watchfull clocke, the warning bell, the harmonie I heare,
Is dreadfull noyes of dreadlesse beastes, of whom I liue in feare.

My studie is to way, and waile, that fortune thus doth lowre,
Wher wealth by wāt, once loue by scorne, my sweete by present sowre.
Where fethers flue, about my helme, a willowe wreath to weare,
My weedes of worth, by cote of leaues, sharpe flowes, for deintie fare.

My stately home, by hard exile, delight, by wythred woe,
Doth force (god wott) my wasted teares, through griefe, a fresh to flow,
My lute that sometime lent mee ease, hath neither frett nor stringe,
My sugred voice, with howling hoarst, forbids mee now to singe.

My penns are worne, my incke is done, my paper all is writ,
Yet halfe my passions and my paine, vnpainted are as yet,
So that for onely exercise, in trees and Marble stone,
My griefe to ease, I forced now, do graue my wretched mone.

Liue longe in blisse thou loftie Beeche, wherein this vow is writt,
No luring friend, nor lowring soe, Geneuras faith shall flitt.
To witnes now, her foule vntruth, Dom Diego writes belowe,
Her vowed faith, from knowen friend, is rest by sawning foe.

But chiefe of all, thou sacred stone, remaine thou sound and safe,
Continue thou these letters fresh, which are my Epitaphe,
Hard by this rough, and ragged stone, Dom Diego (wretched lyes,
Geneuras hate exiled him, yet louing her hee dies.

This homely tumbe, is all my helpe, to bring my death to light,
This must record my faithfull loue, and show my Ladies spight,
In time I trust some forrest Pan, or wandring pilgrime may,
Peruse my woes, and to my sweete, this sowre message wray.

To saue my faithfull boone vnbroke, to show my seruice iust,
My souereignes scorne, with face of faith, her treason cloakt with trust,
Me wretched Dom Diego forst, before my time to die,
My bones vnburied by this tumbe, makes proofe it is no lie.

And now good death, with speede diuorce, my soule from lothed life,
My ioyes are worne, my pleasures past, my peace, is channg'd to strife,
I see no meane of quiet rest, but onely death by thee,
The spare them death, whom pleasure haunters use thy force on me.

Dom Diego his triumphe.

Who can report that neuer tasted bale?
What difference is, tweene sorrow and delite?
And who may tell, a more triumphant tale,
Then hee in ioy, that late was kept in spite?
I am the man: in mone there was none such:
My mone is past, my mirth must be as much.

Sith so: alone, I rule in throne of ioy,
Of pleasures mount, I weald the golden Mace,
Then leaue to bragge, yon Princes proud of Troy,
Your brayd delights, by mee can haue no place,
Once beautes blisse, to vaunt doth make you bould,
I haue such hap, and tenne times more in hould.

And by your leaue, your Ladies blemisht are,
Aske Theseus, who first lopt fayre Hellens loue?
Syr Diomede, the spoile of Troylus ware,
Suppose them true, whom none could euer proue,
Your lightning ioyes, such lasting woes did brue,
As you may wish, your fames to die with you.

But Lady mine, I wrong thee much in this,
To peize thy praise, with such as liu'de or liue,
For natures toile, some wayes disabled is,
Shee frames our forme, but can no fortune giue,
But thou wert shapt (for feare of fortunes spight,)
Of precious moold, by force of heauenly might.

By heauenly might, and worthie well such toyle,
Whose liuely limms, the Indian riches showe,
Her haire fine gold, her front doth yuorie foyle,
Her eyes giue light, as diamonds there did growe,
Her words of worth (as cause doth cause her speake
Tweene rockes of pearle, their pleasaunt passage breake.

What should I say? of truth from top too to,
These precious gems, in beautie shee doth staine,
And more then that (besides the outward sho)
Their vertues shee, with vauntage doth retaine,
So that of force, I (forst) must her define:
Not bound to kinde, but wholy is diuine.

Thrise happie man (whose loue this Saint did lure)
Dom Diego late, euen very wretchednesse,
Now maist thou daunt (thy vauntage is so sure)
That none aliue thy pleasures halfe possesse,
Through chaunce of loue, do thousands chaunce on death,
But dying I, my loue inlargde my breath.

The scource of woe, is sauourie sauce to taste,
Our sweete delights, if once delight wee feele,
The rough repulse (if battring tyre be plaste)
Amends the spoile, when walles (perforce) do reele,
Of euery thinge, the goodnes doth increase,
If once afore, the losse did vs distresse.

Sufficient proofe, my lingring loue can shoe,
I tyred hope, ere time my truth could trie,

Yea desperate wretch, forworne with wreake of woe,
I left my sute, and sought the meane to die,
Now winning her, whose want wrought such annoy,
On former griefes, I graft my fruites of ioy.

In waxe say I, men easily graue their will,
In Marble stone, the woorke with paine is wonne,
But perfect once, the print remayneth still,
When waxen seales, with euery browse are donne:
Euen so in loue, soone wonne, as soone is loste,
When forst through faith, it bydes both fire & frost.

I can not vaunt of easie conquerd loue:
I graunt with faith, I foyle Geneuras scorne,
But now in peace, Distrust shall neuer moue,
One ielous thought, of wilde Acteons horne,
And yet forsooth, this feare hee liueth in,
To lose the wight, with words, that words did win.

O happie loue, whose torments proue so sweete,
O friendly foes, whose treason, tride my trueth,
O luckie man, Dom Roderic to meete,
Geneura thou, thrise honord, for thy ruth,
Thou, onely thou, (the rest of small auaile)
Didst saue my life, when hope and all did faile.

Now forth, I throw, my Gauntlet for this grace,
To chalenge such, as seeke to foile thy fame,
For sure the Armes, that durst my sweete imbrace,
Dares to defend, the honour of her name,
If which I faile, in prison let mee sterue,
So doome my fault, for so I should deserue.

The complaint of two louers, restrained from their wished desires, by the displeasure of their friendes.

We lucklesse wightes in thraldome lincked still,
May sit and singe, oure layes of deepe lament,
Whose wayward friendes, accoyde in sullen will,
Both stirre and striue, to sunder our consent,
And yet (God wot) their wreasting is in vaine,
One will serues both, pleasure and in paine.

Haue they desire, wee should bee shrinde in clay?
By sundring vs, that loues each other so?
Will they not know, Loue doth no Lawe obey?
Nor how hee wrappes, the wysest wightes in wo?
Thinke they that force, can force our selues to hate?
O, no, in vaine, they seeke to sowe debate.

Our plighted faith, shall neuer falled bee,
Constrainte of will, our wishes cannot yoke,
Our woordes in woorkes, in weale, and woe agree,
Such care wee haue, to keepe our vowe vnbroke,
O loue through whom, wee liue in this vnrest,
Once ease thy thralles, that thus obey thy hest.

Remoue their wrath, that woorkes to wrack our will,
That after stormes, wee may some sunne shine see,
The fault is thine, if loue betyde vs yll,
Which bound our selues, that thou mightst set vs free,
Wherefore vouchsafe (to sowre our sweete at last)
That gleames of Grace, our clowdes of woe may wast.

The Deuice of a Gentlewoman, to persuade her louer of her constancie, notwithstanding her show of hate, which shee onely vsed to quench the ielous suspicion of her friendes.

Sith fortune threates, to woorke our wreake of ioy,
By sowsing of our ship, in seas of yre:

Sith sullen thoughtes doth so our friends accoy,
As wayward will, still wresteth our desire:

I see no meanes, more meete for our behoue,
Then saile to strike, till stormes burst and gone,
Our lookes must hate, although our heart do loue,
Yea farre from wish, our woordes must menace mone.

And yet this shew, of force must needes seeme straunge,
Unto vs both, tweene whome was neuer strife,
But let it helpe, I neuer meane to chaunge,
But keepe my vowe, vnfallsed as my life.

These simple shiftes, wee silly wenches worke,
To quenche or coole, our ielous friends suspect.
Whose Lynxes eyes, in euery corner lurcke,
To trie, and spoy, what worketh our defect.

Thus farewell friend, I wilbe short with thee,
Thou knowest my loue, in darkest cloudes will shine,
And though in show, my woordes from woorkes agree,
Yet thinke I am, and euer wilbe thine.

The reiected louer, with earnest desire, pursues the sight of his disdainfull Mystresse.

The dampe of dole, hath chaoked my delight,
Sharpe frumpes at frostes, doth nip my silly ioy,
My glymering grace, is darkned with despight,
Yea sullen thoughtes, my souereigne so accoy.
As mistes of scorne, still falleth on my faith,
My cleare conceiptes, are clowded oore with care,
And yet my heart, aye mee no power hath,
To shunne the storme, that sheweth all this scare.
O straunge effectes, of blinde affected loue,
To haunt the yll, whereby our mischiefes moue.

Much like the flye, that buzzeth by the flame,
And makes a sport, to see the candle light,
Till she vnwares, be sindged in the same,
And so with death, doth buy her fond delight.
Or as the mouse, that frisketh by the trap,
At length is mou'd, to medle with the bayt,
Which weaues (God wot) the web of her mishap:
The bridge doth fal, and she is baind with weight,
Such sweete conceits, inticing sorrowes breede,
To sterne with woe, when ioy makes fare to feede.

With which effectes, I finde my fancies witcht,
I feele the flame, yet can not shun the fire.
Th'inticing trap, I see on treason pitcht,
And yet the bayte to byte, I haue desire,
But (O yll hap) to worke my harmes increase,
Both mischiefes want, the forerecyted force,
I finde no death my sorrowes to appease,
And so my state, then other misers worse:
But sure my fault, or fate ordaines it so,
And therfore I, do take in worth this woe.

A Gentlewoman falsely deceiued with faire wordes, forsweareth hereafter to be wonne with flattering promises.

Giue me my worke, that I may sit and sowe,
And so escape, the traines of trustlesse men,
I finde too true, by witnesse of my woe,
How yt faire wordes, wt faithles works they blen,
Much Syren like, with sweete inticing call,
We sillie dames, to witch, and wrap in thrall.

O cruell friend, whose false of faith I rue,
Thou forcest me, to count all men vniust,
For if that vow or othe might make one true,

Thou vsedst such, as well might force to trust:
But I betrayd, by too farre trusting thee,
Wil hencefoorth take, faire words euen as they be.

I will be deafe, though thousands sue for grace.
My sight as dym, if sights in silence plead,
Salt teares, no roth, within my hart shall place.
For this shall be my song, and dayly reade:
Poore I that liu'd, in thraldome linckt of yore,
Vnbound at length, will learne to loue no more.

The pitious complaint of Medea, forsaken of Iason, liuely bewraying the slipperie hold in sugred words.

Amid the desart woods, I rue and shew my fate,
Exild (O wretch) frō courtly ioyes, bereft of princes state,
O loue, from whence these plagues proceede,
For seruice true, is this thy meede?

What vaileth now my skil, or sight in Magickes lore,
May charmed hearbs, suffice to help, or cure my festred sore,
A salue I shapt, for others smart,
My selfe to ayde, I want the Arte.

I made the wayward Moone, against the Sunne to striue,
And gastly ghostes, from burial graues, ful oft I did reuiue,
To counterchaunge, the same with death,
In flowre of youth, some yealded breath.

What future harmes insude, I shewd to other wights,
And wanted skil for to preuent, my present pensiue plights.
Why did I leaue my natiue soyle,
In forreine land, to haue the foyle?

Thy loue (O Iason false) to winne I sparde no paine,
Although Medeas loyaltie, be guerdoned with disdaine,
The goulden fleece, thou wert to blame,
To beare away, I wonne the same.

But lordly lookes full oft, and slippry seruice eke,
To harmelesse Ladies haue beene vowde, to catch ye suters seeke.
And then depart, from plighted othe,
Their sugred woordes, yeelde sealdome trothe.

Where be ye carelesse vowes, & feareles othes thou sweare?
Whē I imbarkt frō Colches coast, ye mountaine waues did teare?
Where is thy faith, for goulden fleece,
To crowne mee Queene, of famous Greece?

Might not thy traytrous mind, in lue of friendships lore,
Forsake me (wretch) among my friends, but ye with saile and ore
Thou me conuaydst to place vnknowne,
Amonge wyld beastes to make my mone.

Who gainst their sauage kinde, do worke me (wretch) no yll,
But seemes for to lament my case, or else the Gods y will.
My lothed life, should lengthned bee,
To guerdon my iniquitie.

The forsaken louer, pretilie nippeth his Ladies inconstancie, for that (as he thought) shee matched with his baser in accompt, wherein coulerablie he discouereth both their names.

The Gallie slaue, which still doth stirre the ore,
If haplie hee, his wished hauen espies,
With restlesse toile, doth plie to be on shore,
Haile in a maine, my mates, hee cheerely cries,
But when with rough repulse, from blissefull bay,
Hee is inforst, on seas againe to stray:

Unhappie wight, then drownde in deepe despaire,
Powres forth his plaintes, with flouds of brackish teares.
With whome I now, do claime a partie share,

Imbarkt in hope, where will the stearne did wylde,
Thy faith was guide, which falsed me beguylde.

My sailes of sighes, my tackle framde of trust,
With blisse, and bale, thus armed was my barke,
Now vaunst on high, now throwne downe to ye dust,
Now fraught with ioy, now forst to care and carke,
Yet quiet calme, at length of friendships lore,
Did seeme to guide, my shiuered ship to shore,

And entring in, the narrowe brooke of blisse,
Triumph (quoth I) dame Fortune hath the foyle,
The mends is made, that quiteth euery misse,
Aduentrous boy, now reape thy fruits of toyle,
But trust to top, of Fortunes fickle wheele,
Thy faith did slide, and I began to reele.

For bitter blastes, of rage, and deepe disdaine,
My ankers lost, my ship so sore they shooke,
That I againe, was glad broad seas to gaine,
To scape the flats, within thy blisselesse brooke,
And whilste in hope, I winde and weather waite,
A baggish banke, I sawe, to passe thy straight.

Agrieud wherat, through hate I houng the lip,
And sayd too true, that waues, and women gree,
Which saues the boate, and spoiles the gallant ship:
So Ladies loue, lightes oft in base degree:
And then I vow'd, from which I will not swarue,
To haunt you both, no more then neede shall serue.

The louer attributeth his curelesse wound to chaunce, by louing long.

Long haue I lost my libertie,
Alas through loue, (long) haue I so.
(Long) haue I stoode in ieopardie,

In louing (long) through pyning woe,
Whose constant truth long, hath ben tryde,
Though (long) his suit hath ben denyde.

By batterie (long) the brasen wall,
The cannon shot, doth cleaue deface,
The longest trees in time doe fall,
Which (long) before had Boreas base,
The little brooke in running (long)
Doth turne into a riuer strong.

Then may it be I louing (long)
My pyning corps by (long) delay,
Can (long) abide the furie strong,
Of ghastly death which (long) doth stay,
His lingring stroke to haue it so,
That louing (long) should worke my woe.

A Sonet, wherin is showne the straunge effectes of loue.

In care I ioy, my mirth is mou'd by mone,
With flouds of want, I weare to ebbe my wo,
Appayd I rest, in restlesse griefe to grone,
By fainting hope, my friendly hap doth growe,
In waues of bale, I bathe in wished blisse,
My wealth in woe, in paine my pleasure is.

But how these hang, if so she search my harme,
These sewe suffice, the same to shew my (sweete)
To rayse her ioy, my selfe I wholy arme,
To freese, or fry, as she shal deeme it meete,
I bound, am free, and free, I yeald her slaue,
That's my delight, that she desires to haue.

And sith my sport, doth make my souereigns ioy,
And mirth she finds, to thwart my faith wt frūps,

I sad, am glad, my noy, may force her ioy.
My sowre, her sweete, my dole may cleare her dumpes,
Yea life I wish, this were to do her good,
Each day to wasts, a drop of guitlesse blood.

The louer wearied with a number of delayes, sues vnto his Ladie for pitie, or otherwise her speedie denyall, by death to worke a speedie dispatch of his languishing dayes.

If pitie may preuaile, to pearse your hart with ruth,
Sweete maistres lend your listning eare, to heare your seruants truth,
Whose faith hath chose you iudge, and iurie if you please,
If not, desart, shal trye this cause, your deintie mynd to ease.
The whole record, is writ, for rasing with my teares,
My witnesse is, my withered corps, ny famished with feares,
A thousand sighes besides, in open court will sweare,
You are the Saint, which with my heart, I honour, loue, and feare.
Disdaine, that workes delayes, mistrust that moues my mone,
No witnesse hath to hinder right, but false suspect alone,
Yet boulstred vp by scorne, they scoffe my loyall loue,
And kept me play, with forreine frumpes, til prickt by neede to proue,
If pitie could procure, your heart, my harme to rue,
I found remorse, was preast to heare, the plaint before your view,
And now good Lady note, my witnesse and my woe,
If I deserue your loue for loue, giue verdite yea, or no,
For daunted with delayes, for hap or harme I iumpe,
And knowe you once if sullen will, my faythful loue doth frumpe:
I will not languish long, in cursed Cupides flame,
Death in despight, shall rid me dole, and you shall beare the blame,
But if with souereigne grace, you may your seruants state
Yeald recompence, of loue betimes, least liking come too late,
To coole his flaming harte, by Cupide set on fire,
Through heate whereof a Whetstone colde, consumes with hote desire.

The thought of wonted ioyes, doubleth the miserable mans griefs.

I that whose youth, was lul'd in pleasures lap,
Whose wanton yeres, were neuer chargd wt care
Who made no flight, but reacht the pitch of hap,
And now besieg'd, with griefe at vnawares,
How can my hart, but bleede to thinke on this?
My ioy with was, my woe is ioynd with is.

With is? (Oh yea,) and euer wil be so:
Such hell is thought, to muse on ioyes forgone,
For though content, would faine appease my woe,
This myrthlesse note, continues fresh my mone,
O deare delight, with whome I dwelt in ioy,
Thy sowrest sweete, my sorrowes would destroy.

Destroy it would, but Oh, those dayes are past,
When to my wil, I found dame fortune wrought,
My fancies cleare, with cares are ouer cast,
Yet bootelesse hope, will not forsake my thought,
But still proroges, my griefe, that else would dye,
To vaine effect, when I my toyling spye.

The hap, and hard fortune of a carelesse louer.

My hart on hayh, with carelesse mind, I raūging freedomes fielde,
Blind Cupide, by arest vnwares, to beautie bad me yeald,
What yeald (quoth I) at beauties becke, as Venus slaue to serue?
May he whome freedome, alwayes fen, by bondage stoupe to sterue?

No, Cupide, no: with me go tell, dame beautie beares no sway,
Nor pleasure with her painted sheath, can make me Cupide pray:
This answere made, with winged feete he tooke his flight away,
And did impart, to beautie straight, his rest I would not bay.

With anger fraught, who foorth with wild, an armie should be had,
And captaines hauing charge them selues, in armour should be clad,
Her selfe she plaste in formost scont, with Pleasure in her hand,
And Lady Loue elected was, hygh Marshall of her hand.

Faire Venus in the rereward went, her sonne in ambush lay,
Thus Beautie and her warlike crue, did mearch in battel ray,
But I poore I, which feard no force, in freedomes lease at large,
Pursude my sport, with carelesse mynd, of Loue I tooke no charge.

But all too soone, I heard a sound, of dub, dub, in my eare,
And therewithall I sawe in sight, tenne aunchents to appeare:
Which poudred were with pyned hartes, in bloudy colours set,
Which forst me flee to wisdomes wood, to scape Dan Cupids net.

But craftie (he) in scoute there lay, who first gaue charge on me,
And brought me bound to Beauties barre, her prisoner for to be,
Then stinging loue, enforst me pray, Dame Pleasure plead my case,
But Beautie sayd in vaine I sude, in hope of future grace.

For martiall law, foorthwith (quoth she) thy hart in bale shall bounce,
Therwith she chargd her Marshal high, this sentence to pronounce,
To bate thy pride, which wouldst not stoupe, when beautie bent her lure,
Thy casting shall be clods of care, Saunce hope of happie cure.

With flouds of teares, thy dazeld eyes, thy sickly cheekes shall staine,
And Fancie with his fleating toyes, shall harbour in thy braine,
Thy heart shall poudred be with paine, thy guts with griefe to boyle,
Thy seething sighes, shall scalde thy lippes, to taste of inwarde toyle.

Thy intrales all shall parched be, with flames of fond desire,
The heauie perse of bodyes griefe, thy pyned legges shall tire:
Despaire then was the hangman made, which doome did Beautie please,
And I to bondage was bequeath'd, to liue in little ease,

Wherewith the Gem of Venus band, vnprayd of her bongre.
Did beg me wretch at Beauties hand, her prisoner for to be.

And after bowe of loyaltie, did let me goe at large,
Yea further payd my farewell fee, my bondage to discharge
In lue whereof at her commaund, my seruice loe is prest,
As homage due, for saued life, yea, more her slaue I rest.

The absent louer in pawne of his constancie, sendeth his heart to his Ladie.

Receiue , deare dame, as gage of worthy loue,
This pyned hart, bepoudred all with teares,
Whose poesie is (No fate, my faith can moue)
A rare accorde, in prime of rouing yeres,
When fancie sets a thousand thoughts on fire,
When faith is choakt, with smoke of filthy change,
When folly fumes, when flameth fond desire,
When raging lust, beyond his bounds doth range,
When euery bayte beguileth, brainsicke youth,
When newe found loue, the olde exileth still,
When sugred wordes, are sauced with vntruth,
What straunge consent, subdude my wanton wil?
Forsooth (sweet wēch) this stay thy vertue wrought
Thy rare report, this Metamorphose made,
And lest my youth, should wrōg thee wt som thought
I vse this helpe, all vaine desires to vade,
In absence loe, to leaue with thee my hart,
That al my ioy, may liue where thou doest rest,
I likewise vse, to free thy hidden smart,
By secrete sighes, which flies from couert brest,
My hart to send, to ioyne in ayde with thine,
That thou mayst ioy, although in paine I pyne.

The louer neither greatly fauoured, nor openly refused, compareth the wretchednesse of his estate, vnto the paines of hell.

Full fearefull is the talke of Tantals griefe,
Who hungersterues in seas of deintie fare,

Which failes to eb, when he should find reliefe,
And flowes againe, his hope with woes to ware,
And how in vaine poore Sisyphus doth mone,
To mountaine top, who stil doth roll the stone.

And reaching thus, the point of all his paine,
For ioy he leapes, downe falles his fruites of toyle,
Straight backe he runnes, to fetch the stone againe,
A new he rolles, but reapes his former foyle,
These be their plagues, which light in sathans trap,
To wish and want to hope, and haue no hap.

If then it be, a hell, in doubt to liue,
My selfe by proofe, can blase thereof the paine,
Who findeth grace, where scorn but late did grieue,
And fead with hope, with hate is steru'd againe,
For all his suite, who can no answere knowe,
If his sweete maistresse, loues him yea, or no.

If secrete yea, this Item would but giue,
I loue in hart, where most in shewe I hate,
To free suspect, thus straungely do I liue,
To plight my fayth, where scorne doth faine debate,
Unto my smart, it were a sweete reliefe,
Then should my lute, sound notes of ioy, not griefe.

Then would I laugh, to see my Lady pout,
And smyle when most, she wroūg her mouth awry,
A signe of fayth, should seeme each thwarting flout,
And iealous feare, farre from my hart should fly,
Although in armes, my foe did her imbrace,
If once she fleard, with fancie on my face.

If open no, would will my suites to cease,
I know the worst, and so adieu to smart,
A hastie death, my sorrowes could appease,
Or languor would soone pierce my pyning hart,

Thus death were worsse, how so my fortune fell,
But nowe aliue, I feele the paines of hell.

By gleames of grace, I reape a hote reliefe,
With storms of scorne, I freese againe with feare,
Thus flouds of ioy, do fall to eb with griefe,
And doubtfull hope, desired hap doth weare,
In fauour most, I moue her still to loue,
Soft she replyes, I must your patience proue.

I feare to say, be plaine with yea, or no,
Least in her pettes, no, please her peeuish thought,
And scorne with all, my ioyes do ouerthrowe,
So forward haste, wt backward speed were bought,
Thus am I forst, to daunce attendance still,
God graunt for al, in fiue I get good will.

G. W. to the signe of the brasen bell.

And not without desart, I thee a tyrant call.
Which saue a scorne thou madst of me, to eache mishape art thrall,
Thy credite is the church, O false vnfriendly bell
When as thou soundest the marridge ioyes, or ringst the carefull knell.
The souldier in distresse, by the alarum makes,
And when good hap doth him aduaunce, thy sides he rudely shakes,
Digressing from his state, to toyle of baser chaunce.
A thrall thou art, to Hick and Steuen, in euery morris daunce,
The hinde doth decke his horse, with belles to make him free,
The harmelesse foole, vpon his cap doth make a scorne of thee,
Besides to sauage beastes, a seruile slaue thou restes,
The deintie dog in Ladies lap, is iueld with thy iestes.
The mounting faulcon loft, bewrayes by thee her stande,
By thee the hobby dares the larke, before he well be mande.
Of yore this phrase I learnd, when things ne framed well,
A capcase for the foole to call, a cockscomb and a bell,
Then canst that thus arte scornd, besides thy seruile strokes,
A tryumph make vpon his teares, whom loue, ne lust prouokes.

To like thy maistresse lookes, and loue her as his life,
Who wel is bent to quite thy toyle, when stinted is his strife,
He sure would thee aduaunce, from brasse to glittering golde,
If that by pearcing peales thou wouldst, his sorrowes once vnfolde,
Thou seest what sighes I sende, and howe my suites be payd:
Thou seest my maistresse smyle with grace, and graunt she earst denayd,
Thou seest me Cupids thrall, her loue in league with hate,
Thou seest my blisse is wayd with bale, when wrath doth weaue debate:
Thou seest my greatest ioyes, are counterpeisde with paine:
Thou seest my myrth is mixt with mone, when iealousie doth reigne,
Yet when she smyles, thou spar'st, my sorrowes to deface,
And when she frownes, thou fearst to speake, to winne her wonted grace.
Well, sith through feare or scorne, thou lettst me languish still,
I present now will plead for grace, to winne my wished will,
And first good tong prepare, to tell a louers tale,
Sound foorth my ioyes, aduaun'st by hope, by dyre despaire my bale,
And when mistrust infectes my Ladies hautie hart,
Then scalding sighes, giue you the charge, to shew my ceaselesse smart.
But if she list to toy, and smyle with friendly face,
With easie force then armes assay, thy maistresse to imbrace:
Then sorrowe seeke reuenge, vpon her ruby lips,
Then wounded hart receiue the cure of cruell Cupids nips,
Thus forward vaunce your selues, the maister griefes to wray:
The silent man still suffers wrong, the prouerbe olde doth say.
And where aduenture wants, the wishing wight ne thriues.
Faint heart, hath ben a common phrase, faire Lady neuer wiues.

The louer blameth his Ladies mistrust, wherin is figured the passions of an earnest louer.

What fancie fond did force your mynde,
My deare to iudge me so vnkinde,
As one of wits bereau'd,
To breake the bendes of loyaltie,
As one deuoyd of honestie?
No, no, you are deceaud.

For where such perfect amitie,
Is linckt with true fidelitie,
By no meanes Iunos iealousie
A sunder may it part.
For since with you, I fell in loue,
Assigned by the Gods aboue,
My heart did neuer seeke to proue,
From yours once to start.
For proofe to try what I haue sayd,
Marke how my flesh, away doth fade,
And inward parts doth fret:
For who can hide the slankering fire,
But that it will shewe foorth his ire,
By vertue of his heate.
So those ypearst with Cupides dart,
Cannot so closely cloake their smart.
But that they must complaine,
Their scalding sighes, their sorowes shewe,
Their colour fading too and fro,
Beares witnesse of their paine,
Their sowre sitting in secrete nookes,
When others laugh, their lowring lookes,
Declares them caught in Cupides hookes,
And fare as men forlorne.
Their often making of their mone,
Their solemne sitting all alone,
In places secrete and vnknowne,
Still cursing they were borne.
Are tokens true the Poet sayth,
To whome these Turtles vowe their faith,
If fayning we may trust.
Certes these torments all men greeue,
And therefore sure I do beleeue,
Their sayings to be iust.
Wherfore to guerdon loyall loue,
My deare such fancies from you moue,
As Enuie late did faine.

For truly I protest to yon,
The heauens shall fall ere I vntrue,
My loyaltie will staine.
And time I trust will so prouide,
When eluish Enuie shall her hide,
From bale to blisse truth shall vs hide,
To top of Fortunes wheele.
Where we to banishe fell annoy,
Stil liue repleate with blissefull ioy,
Still lauding of the blinded boy,
Whose force we off did feele,
Till time obtaines that happy day,
Let no conceite your mynd affray,
In iudging me vntrue.
Which blessed houre shall hap with speede,
Or else my will shall want his meede,
And thus sweete wench adue.

The infortunate louer determineth rather desperately to end his sorrowes, then to proroge them with bootelesse hope.

The trayterous mate, by law adiudg'd to dye,
If feare of death, should worke this foule effect,
In hope Saunce hap, his secrete to escrye,
Or slaunder forge to peach the vnsuspect,
Proroging thus, his life by dallying death,
Besides his gilt, with shame shuld stop his breath.

In desperate frayes, where raunsome is denyde,
Base were the minde, in hope of grace to yeald,
Whose courage else, might daūt his enimies pride,
And so by force, with fame, to win the field,
For where our wrong, doth worke our ouerthrow,
In vaine we hope, to weare away our woe.

And why shuld I, with hope persuade my thought,
To bath in blisse, past bondes of my desart,
For my base hap, my loue to high is sought,
Whom fauour none, but frownings ouerthwart,
Alas can reape, at my sweete maistresse hands:
I loue, she hates, and thus my fortune stands.

With withered woe, my life I weare away,
Where often I heare, thundring in my thought,
Through loue of her, my friendes and foes to say,
Upon my selfe, I wilfull murther wrought:
Then sith my death, this strange report shal shape,
In vaine for grace, till later gaspe I gape,

Nay, wretche diuorce, delayes from wished death,
Cut through ye thred, which care cōsumes to slowe,
Thy mounting mind, despiseth seruile breath,
And canst thou yeald, to fortunes ouerthrowe?
Thy dome is death, by Ladies scorne decreed,
Needs most thou dye, then best to dye with speede.

Some friend wil write, on my vntimely tumbe,
With faithfull zeale, I so my Goddesse seru'd,
My life, my loue, my liuing all and some,
I reaft, and left, before my fancie sweru'd,
And when my suit, her mou'd to angry moode,
To worke amends, I sacrifisde my bloud.

Verses of complaint, deuised for a well meaning louer, to moue his maistresse to pitie.

Now cease good Lady cease, to weaue my further woe,
Where scorne hath worne my ioyes to eb, let pitie force them flowe.
To you, I sue and serue, to you I waile and weepe,
For you my restlesse eyes doth watch, when other men do sleepe.

To you my sighes I send, which makes my heart to bleede,
For you my teares, like Tiber streames, from dazeled eyes proceede:
No wealth I do enioy, but that I wish you part,
No griefe doth gaule, your daintie minde, but I do ease your smart.
To rowle in bagges of golde, in choise I would detest,
In faith for to inioy your loue, and harbour where you rest,
If you I might inioy, I now forworne with woe,
To former ioyes would be restorde, in spite of him sayes noe,
No torment then should vexe, or nippe my heauie hart,
All gulfes of griefe, shall soone be damde, which drownes my ioyes in smart,
Of age, I should triumphe, and death I would defie,
And fortunes force I could withstand, for all her crueltie.
In you to saue or spill, in you to make or marre,
In you it restes to end my woes, or cause my further care.
Twixt life and death I stand, twixt hope and deepe despaire,
Till louing lines for pyning woe, returnes a luckie share.

The complaint of a gentlewoman being with child, falsely forsaken.

What gulfes of griefe, may well receiue,
The teares which I in vaine do spend,
What faithlesse wight, durst once deceiue,
By falsehoode foule, so firme a friend,
With lose, who wrayes how well shee lou'de,
When choise for chaunge his fancie moude.

Though reason would, I should refraine,
His blame, my shame, for to bewray,
Good Ladies yet, my pinching paine,
Inioynes mee here, the truth to say,
Whose wretched plight, and pensiue state,
Surmounteth farre, Queene Didoes fate.

What meanst thou wretch, from ioy exilde,
To yeald vnto his fained teares?
With carelesse vowes why wert begilde,

And fearelesse othes, the traytor sweares,
Ere nuptial rites, whie didst thou trust,
His faith, and yeelde vnto his lust?

Thou Iason false by periurde flight,
Thou Theseus thefte, decypherest plaine,
I Dido wretch (thou Troyan knight)
Here equall griefes, in breast sustaine,
I iustly say, which wordes I rue,
All men be false, and none be true.

The fruites ysprong, by our desire,
My wealth, thou waste, might moue thy hart,
To graunt, the rightes, which loue require,
And search a salue, to cure my smart,
But sith thy faith, thou doest forgoe,
Come death and end my wretched woe.

Yet Ladies all beware by mee,
To rue sweete woordes, of fickle trust,
My heaped harmes, let warning bee,
How filed talke, doth proue vniust,
And rule your loue by reasons lore,
Least future plagues, you do deplore.

Against one which wrote a slaunderous libell in dishonour of a Ladie.

Yhacht thou wert in enuies nest,
Whose murthering tongue, might not suffice
To woorke a Ladies great vnrest,
But that with penne thou didst deuise,
Uile vice to paint, in vertues place,
Her spotlesse life, for to disgrace.

Whose sacred head, with wisedome fraught,
As guided by Dame Pallas skill,
Her deintie minde Minerua taught,
The good to loue, to leaue the ill,
Then may it bee, shee doth deserue,
Report from reasons lore to swerue.

Noe, no, thou wretch, and Uiper vile,
From natures lawe, which dost rebell,
The world doth know, thy giltie gile,
In dungeon darcke, hence forth now dwell,
For all men doth, thy sight repine,
From manly actes, which doest decline.

The heauens do frowne, with earthly foode,
Thy carren corpes, should nourisht bee,
Thou onely byrde of Uipers broode,
And bitter braunch of rankors tree,
A Harpie for thy filthie factes,
For God and man, abhorres thy actes.

Unseene henceforth, thou caitife couche,
Thou murtherer vile of others fame,
How durst thou once presume to touche,
The honour due vnto her name,
And make report that Dian chaste,
Faire Venus knightes in bedde imbraste.

Allotting to her harmlesse tongue,
All rusticke speach, with Stentors voice,
Disdayning them whom loue hath stonge,
For that with chaunge, shee makes her choice:
Not carefull of her curious charge,
But gladly rowes in euerie barge.

How may it bee such fertile soyle,
Well tilde and sowne with happie seede,

Can chuse in recompence of toyle,
But yeeld thee fruites of Venus meede,
Why worke I her so great abuse,
For giltlesse fact, to frame excuse.

My paines herein deserues no praise,
For all men knowes, more then I write,
But thou that didst this rumour raise,
If that thou darst so show thy might,
As truth maintaine thy slaundrous wordes,
Committing triall to our swordes.

Who readie am her to defend,
Till wounded corpes, with bloud begord,
Of worldly woes do make an end,
By froward force, of slaundrous sword,
Or recant, to make will I,
And for offence, her mercie crie.

The vnfortunate louer is persuaded his misshap to grow by destinie.

Yet was not Hellens face, ne Parris faire,
Untimely which did weaue the Troyans woe,
For former faultes, the Gods agreede in ire,
With future panges, their vengeance downe to throwe,
And making choyse, as instrument withall,
That Parris loue, should king Priames thrall.

Such heaped harmes, within the Heauens beene,
For one mans case, to cause anothers care,
Unfriendly so, the fates mens happes do spin,
In partiall wise, to yeelde eche wight his share,
Then loue, why should I cursse, or skorne lawe,
Or blame the dame one whom I stande in awe.

Her vertues rare, her pearelesse beautie bright,
Her Pallas witt, I ioynde with Sabas skill,

My restlesse eyes, which couets to her sight,
Are not the fates, which forceth mee this ill,
For hier sprites, deuised long agoe,
My youthfull yeares, should passe in pyning woe.

The discommodities of forst marriages, by the example of Venus and Vulcan: supposed for the more plaine explayning of the inconueniences, to be written to a couetous carle, hauing but one onely daughter, refused the offers of diuerse gentlemen, some beeing of good worship: and married her, vnto an old croked coffing crust, for his great wealthes sake.

In prime of pride, when Venus minde, to Iunos rites aspirde,
A wealthie cruste, to catch her vp, her father then desirde,
Perusing well his subiectes states, who best might be her feare,
At length hee chus'de a Croydon chuffe, to wooe his daughter deare.
Whose wealth I do confesse was great, y gott by endlesse toyle,
At smithes forge, with daily heate, his apish face did broyle.
This gallant squire, a wooing rid, his face bee grimde with dust,
And comming to her fathers house, this daintie Dame hee bust.
Who at the first this Lady bright, some monster thought to bee,
Retyring backe, affright shee was, his vglye shape to see.
But in the ende her fathers threates, and Vulcans giftes full braue,
Did force her daintie minde to yeelde, this crabtree peece to haue.
The marriage rites in hast were wrought, in presence of them all,
Then hee this pearelesse dame conuayde, vnto his rusticke hall.
Whereas the rest solemnised, her friends they did depart,
The which once done, then streight begunne, the summe of all her smart,
For hee fell to his former toyle, before the dawning day,
Where bounsing blowes on stythie smit, the sturdie steele to tame,
(Debard of rest) did force her wish, to tast of wedlockes game.
And as it is no newes to tell, at all nor seeming straunge,
How louers they do neuer lacke, whose mindes bee bent to chaunge.
Here mightie Mars, y cleaped God of warre and battell ray,
Enforste to yeeld as Cupids thrall, and eke his hestes obey.
Determined to giue attempt, to fraught his heart with blis,

Though conquest hard, yet glorie great, quoth hee the guerdon is.
Before her eyes his siege hee plantes, like Phœbus rayes that shan,
Assault hee gaue, shee did resist, hee made no batterie than.
But one repulse his valiaunt heart, in no respect amasde,
Hee shot againe, the bulwarkes fell, and all the walles were raisde.
The fort thus wonne, as hee did wish, hee trode on pricking thornes,
To gaine the spoile of Vulcans toile, and arme his head with hornes.
The which without resistaunce great, hee ioyed at his will,
But Ielousie the gulfe did force to feare and dread that ill.
Which in the end, when true hee found, hee framed by his arte,
A chaine to tie these louers fast, so that they might not starte.
And then for all the Gods hee sent, to see this laughing game,
Where they in meede of pleasures past, receiued open shame.
Loe here the bitter fruites wherewith, such mariages be fraught,
Where wealth doth winne, the womans will, and vertue set at naught.
Such chaunce may hap to the old snudge, inforst by greedie gaine,
Where pence possesse the daughters loue, the man shee doth disdaine.
And so fare well at this my verse, mee thinkes I heare thee snuffe,
But doggrell rime, were farre to good, to greete a dunghill chuffe.

The forsaken louer sheweth to what intent he weareth Tawnie, bewraying the bondage that wanton Dames bring their thralles vnto.

My fancie once in fayre carnation stoode,
And trueth to say, I liued in delight,
But loe (such is the fruites of wanton moode)
Both Dye, and dayes, are chaunged with despight,
In Tawnie now, I forced am to goe,
(Forsaken wretch) my mystresse scorne to shoe.

And would to God, who notes my wretched weedes,
Would wisely shunne, the baites that beautie lay,
Her sweete receites, an ill digestion breedes,

Once bound ynough, her thralles must needes obey,
Yea worse then that (though loue seeme nere so hott)
When all is done, forsaken is their lott.

This is the badge, that Creffids heyres do giue,
They lure with grace, and loose with deadly hate,
Beware of them you that in freedome liue,
If not, behold, a patterne of your fate,
Euen I my selfe, do weare this Tawnie hue,
To shewe I seru'd, a Cressid most vntrue.

The reiected louer, determineth, either to purchase his Ladies speedie reconcilement, or els desperatly to die.

Of thee, deere dame, faine would I learne the trueth,
If hee that bringes, the innocent in band,
Or (so betrayde) who slayeth him faunce ruth,
Is thought herein to haue the bloudiest hand?
If hee that doth, the faultlesse first betray,
Then cruell, note the wordes, that I shall say.

I am the man, that longe can hardly liue,
You with your scorne, betrayde mee to despaire,
Then though my hand the deadly wound do giue,
The murtherer, it wilbe said you are,
But if you shame, such fowle report to proue,
Now yeeld, sweete wench, or neuer graunt to loue.

Behold the blade, that shall confirme my faith,
My woes consent, in wanton yeares to die,
I liue to heare, but what your aunsweare saith,
Once lapt therein, my life or death doth lie,
For trust mee now, I (wretched) haue decreede,
To winne your loue, or else to die with speede.

The louer being wounded at the Bathe, sues vnto his Lady for pittie.

I Bathing late, in Bathes of souereigne ease,
Not in those bathes where beauties blisse doth flowe
But euen at Bathe, which many a guest doth please,
But loe mishap, those waues hath wrought my woe.
There loue I sawe, her seemely selfs to laue,
Whose sightly shape, so sore my heart did heate,
That soone I shund, those streames my selfe to saue,
But scorching sighes, so set mee in a sweate,
That loe I pine, to please my peeuish will,
And yet I freese, with frostes of chilling feare,
Thus in extremes, I liue and languish still,
Without releefe, my restlesse woes to weare.
I blame the bathe, as bruer of my bale,
To giue mee dregges, when others drinke delight
Thus to the streames, I tell a senselesse tale,
Time to beguile, when absence spittes her spite.
But now perforce, I sue to thee (sweete wench,)
With teares I pleade, for pittie and for ruth,
But if thou scornst, my scorched heart to quench,
Doe but commaunde, and death shall trie my truth,
This blemish then, by thee, the bathe shall gett,
Which many one, to health hath helpt of yore,
A meane to mashe men, in dame beauties nett,
And can not giue, a salue to cure their sore,
Which if you shame, then say no more but soe,
I yeeld to loue, those woordes will ease my woe.

The louer to his Ladie in Durance.

Abandon care, from daintie breast,
bewaile no more your fate,
For why the Gods to pittie dreast,
will chaunge his stormie state.

And graunt you ioy, at your desire,
though rancor rage like Aetna fire.

Her aunsweare.

The prouerbe saith, whilst grasse doth growe,
For want of foode the steede doth sterue,
So hope perplext, with pining woe,
From reasons lore so oft doth swerue,
That dyre despaire, doth winne the forte,
Where hope for succour should resorte.

A description of Ielousie.

A fearefull thought, which neuer doth remoue,
But when in armes, hee holdes his heartes delight,
A wrangling hate, where once was passing loue,
Oft cold with hope, yet neuer quenched quite,
More cleare in sightes, then woordes this woe is seene,
Sowne by suspect, but rooted with debate,
Wacht with mistrust, whilst that the eare is greene,
Through ripe mowne downe, with syth of mortall hate,
Is ielousie.

To a disdainfull Dam.

Disdainful dame why didst thou scorne, the wight that wisht thee wel,
May peeuish pride a harbour haue, where beautie doth excell?
No rascall here did seeke to sport, or ioyne with gentle race,
Though hautie lookes (thy forme except) were showne in basest place.

The haggard gill, despiseth oft, to pray on princely fowle,
To straggle out at carren crowe, and checke with vglie Owle.
Thy gadding trickes, pursues her trade, with vauntage in defect,
Haile fellowe mett, with basest sort, the best thou dost detect.

Beleeue how that thy forme was framde, by fonde Narcissus glase,
Dame beauties giftes full fickle are, and fade as doth the grasse,

Thy goulden haires, to hoarie graie, will chaunge their glittering hue,
Thy Lays life, and luring lookes, no doubt thy bane will brue.

Thy face so fresh, in prime of youth, will wrinkled be with age,
Then taunting tongue, from scorneful nipps, dame nature will assuage.
Thy mountaine breasts, which beares such bredth, thy pride in princely gate,
Thy graces al in tracte of time, wil chaunge their former state.

Then shalt thou feele the force of scorne, what fruites frō pride proceede,
The Ace of hartes, will haunt the stocke, thy chiefest helpe at neede.

The louer in praise of his Ladie.

Apelles, O, thou famous Greeke,
Thy praise vnto my eares doth sounde,
Since thou so farre abroade didst seeke,
In countries through the world so rounde,
Till thou hadst drawen forth Venus shape,
Whose beautie past, Syr Paris rape.

O that thy fortune had beene such,
To light whereas, my Lady liues,
Whose glistering beautie, is so much,
As to thinke on, my heart it ryues,
For Venus shee doth passe as farre,
As doth the Sunne, each shyning starre.

Eche gift, which nature could deuise,
By arte my Ladie, E, retaynes,
A sacred head, which to surmise,
The trueth, all other farre it staines,
Her haires bee of so glistering hewe,
As gold they stayne, to outward vewe.

Her christall eyes, her sugred tongue.
From whence such pleasaunt wordes do floe,
That lyking binds, both old and younge,

The ground to loue, where shee doth goe,
Her cherrie cheekes so fresh of hewe,
Her veynes much like to Azurs blewe.

Her Rubie lippes, her snowish necke,
Her proper chin, her christall breast,
Her pleasaunt veynes, whose pappes do decke,
Her comely corpes, so finely preast,
Her slender armes, with milke white hands,
Would catch the Gods in Cupids bands.

Her other partes so finely wrought,
Doe passe my wittes for to recite,
For why it seemde dame Nature sought,
In Court, eche gorgious gearle to spite,
When first of mould, shee did her frame,
Shee is so beautiful a dame.

Noe maruell though, the Græcian king,
Did shape his course, through fishfull floud,
From hatefull Troy, his wife to bring,
Or els in Phrygia leaue his bloud,
If halfe such beautie, in Hellen were,
As is in this my Ladie faire.

If Briseis beautie, were so bright,
Her comely syces, so exceld,
None may blame Achilles flight,
When raging loue, his heart compeld,
To leaue his Lord amid his foes,
A salue to search, to cure his woes.

Nor yet Vlysses none may blame,
Though frencie, hee himselfe did faine,
Because without reprochfull shame,
Hee would avoide the Græcian traine,

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The which to Troy, their course did shape,
To fetch againe Syr Paris rape.

If that the beautie, equall were,
Of chaste Penelope his wife,
To match with this my Lady rare,
For whom I hazard would my life,
Amid a troupe of Troyans fell,
My fancie shee doth feede so well.

An aunswere to a Gentlewoman by loue constrained to sue to him whom of late she scorned.

Nie driuen to death by raging loue, reuiu'de by happie meanes,
I smile you seeke, yt earst you scornd, with those your siluer streames.
Now time performes, my words proue true, when as I was your thrall,
Your sugred ioyes, in flowting mee, would turne to bitter gall.

Else not the name of Goddesse iust, dame Venus doth deserue,
Unlesse her seruauntes, shee aduaunce, and makes her foes to sterue.
Your scalding sighes, let witnes bee, what sorrowes I sustainde,
When as with pitious plaintes I shewd, ye panges that most mee painde.

But thou spronge vp of Tygers seede, ingratefull dame I say,
When as with teares, I su'de for grace, wouldst smile & goe thy way.
Now let mee laugh a while I pray, to see the plungde in paine,
This is the salue to cure the smart, that thou art like to gaine.

For why the childe, but younge once burnt, the fierie flame doth dreed,
So I once bounde and now am free, will tast no louers meed.

The contemptuous louer finding no grace where hee faithfully fauoureth, acknowledgeth his former scorne, vsed toward loue, to be the onely cause of his miseries.

In bondage as I liue, attacht with Cupids mace,
Exilde from ioy, bereft of blisse, past hope of future grace,

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My selfe is iudge, I do deserue,
Without reliefe in paine to sterue.

I smilde when I was free, at those which fettred ware,
But I (God wott) with beauties baite, was caught in Cupids snare,
When least I thought of such a woe,
My choise, in chaunge, was sleating soe.

But now with soaking sighes, to one I sue for grace,
Whose presence when I do approch, the straight doth shunne the place.
My sight, my sighes, my teares nor truth,
Her stoanie heart can moue to ruth.

Yet loue, that liues by hope, a fresh enforsed mee to proue,
With pen to pleade, what bashfull tongue, dismayed was to moue.
But loe in vaine to her I write,
For loue my guerdon, is despight.

I serue a froward saint, a Tigers whelpe I froe,
Shee smiles to see mee wade in smart, her wish my wretched woe.
And yet in truth shee blamelesse is,
My onely fault inforceth this.

She is but instrument, my selfe, the very cause,
Why I consume wt cureles griefe, for scorning Cupids lawes,
Wherefore (sith loue is sworne my foe)
Diuorce mee death, from lingring woe.

And then for others heede, this sillie boune I craue,
That I vppon my timelesse tombe, this Epitaphe may haue.
The thing, that causde mee here to lie,
Was scorning loue at libertie.

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Epilogus.

Vide fo. 65. fo. 73. b. 80. & 95

For wantons heede, heere wrayed is the thrall,
Of louing wormes: how both they freese and frie,
How sweetest thoughtes, are sawst with bitter gall.

Vide. 93.

How care, them cloyes, that liue in ielousie,
What yll successe, stolne marriages ensue,

Vide. 93.

How forst consentes, sield beare a louing hart,

Vide 74. 75 b.

How sugred woordes to late, faire Ladies rue,

Vide 72. a.

How vaine they striue, that louers seeke to part.

Vide 90. a.

How enuious tongues, are apt to sowe debate,
How fancie bringes, the stoutest mindes in awe,

Vide 97. 87.

How louers wrongde, from loue do fall to hate,

Vide. 94,

How ramping rigges, regard no modest lawe.
How lingring loue, doth oft mislyking moue,

Vide 93.

How gallants giftes, fond women oft allure,
How pride & ease, preferre mens thoughtes to loue,

Vide 100.

How lawlesse lust, all mischiefe puts in vre.
How scorneful dames (yt set mens sutes at nought,)
Of such as seru'd, are glad to seeke reliefe,

Vide. 74. a. 100.

How louing thralles, from fetters free are taught,
To shunne the snares, that snarled them in griefe.
And to conclude, in euery Page is wrayde,
A lightning ioy, a life of lacke is loue,
Who loueth least, which proues is best appaide,
For womens mindes as wether cockes will moue.
Wherefore these toyes, who liste to read aright,
Shall finde Loues woes, not how to loue I write.

FINIS.

103

The Arbour of Uertue. A VVORKE CONTEINING the chaste and honourable life, of a Bohemian Ladie, to the which is adioyned, the complaint of two Hungarian Barons, that wagerd the spoile of her Chastitie.

VVherein, are the seuerall prayses of certaine English Ladies and Gentlewomen: being the translation, collection, and inuention, of George Whetstons Gent.

Formæ nulla fides.

105

To the right Honourable, and vertuous Lady, Iana Sibilla Greye, now of Wilton, George Whetstons, wisheth a longe and happie life.

106

The Arbour of Vertue.

The Argument of the following discourse of Lady Barbaraes vertuous behauiours.

A Boemian knight, named Vlrico, married a vertuous Lady, called Barbara. Vlrico being a little nipt with pouertie, woulde faine haue supplyed his want, by seruice in the warres, which aduenture, he long delayed, through the iealous suspicion of his wiues behauiour, notwithstanding his imaginations quieted, by the direction of a cunning Negromancer, named Pollacco, hee craued intertainment of the king of Hungarie, the king (vouchsafing his request) imployed him in the warres against the Turke: the warres ended, Vlrico (laden with honour) returned vnto the kings court, where one day the Lord Alberto, the Lord Vdislao, and he reasoned of womens behauiours. The Hungarian barons helde opinion, there was no woman so chaste, but might be won to wantonnesse. Vlrico (in his Ladies behalfe) reasoned to the contrarie. In the end, they grewe into this heate of argument, that both the Lordes wagered their landes to his, that if he durst abyde the triall, that the one of them, within two monethes woulde obtaine bodily delight with his wife. Vlrico accepted of their lay, the wager beeing set downe in writing, the King and Queene were both witnesses of the match. Alberto gaue the first aduenture in these louing affaires to winne her to wantonnesse. The Lady finding his humour, by policies (as a theefe that sought to rob her honour) caused him to be imprisoned, where to bridle his wanton affections, she made him to spin for his victuals. Alberto (in hope of libertie) discouered to the Lady the whole wager, and how that the Lord Vdislao would come about that enterprise, who in very deede shortly visited her castle: whome she likewise made foorth comming, and in penaunce of his offence, hee reelde the thread Alberto spon: the King and Queene hearing of their successe, had the Lady in high estimation, awarded Vlrico the lande, and banished the barons for their slaunderous opinion.

As supreme head of Hungarie, a king there whilcome reign'd,
Coruinus hight, whose worthy force, a worlde of praises gain'd,
What law & iustice, once had made, throgh rule he neuer broke
He cherisht friendes, he chast his foes, wt many a sturdy stroke,
Ymou'd through zeale, wt clattering armes, he stoupt S. Mahomes pride,
The Turkish crue from Christian boundes, he chast on euery side,
This noble prince vnto his spouse, a gallant Lady chusde.
A matrone in her mayden yeres, such modestie she vsde.
By whom she had three valliant sonnes, three vertuous daughters eake,
Which worthy ympes, in wisdomes lore, did liue without their like.
Besides with haps to heape his ioyes, his subiectes greede so well,
That foes could finde, no hollowe hearts, against him to rebell,
As vassell to which noble king, there was a Boeme knight,
A valiant and a ventrous Lord, Vlrico was he hight.
In prime of force, he plyde the warres, his parents purse to ease,
His parents dead, he home returnd, his tenants pence to fease.
But small was left to pray vpon, his auncestours did desire,
By dint of blade, not bagges of drosse, to honour to aspire.
Which when Vlrico wisely wayde, and wanted on account,
He bent him selfe with hassard life, by seruice for to mount.
But loe by lot, he hit in loue, a wonder small to tell,
Saue that his Ladies vertues did, her beautie braue excell.
Her portion yet (God wot) was small, yet all in wisdome lay,
A dowrie little reackt vpon, where churles doth beare asway,
But Beautie here affection raysde, then Uertue friendship wrought,
These two conioynd, in seemely dame, in loue Vlrico brought.
The earth (quoth he) is sure the Lords, the fruites thereof his wracke.
And may it be, the begger then, shall clawe his seruants backe,
O no, no wight as yet hath seene, the righteous begge his breade,
Although the lewd through foule offence, are often nipt with neade,
And if I should for gaine (quoth he) vnto some wanten bend,
Which venter into Cornewall would, her honestie to send.
Vlrico (haplesse) then should be, a common scorne of men,
Delight to dele, from pleasure paine, should chaunge his fortunes then.

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To swimme in wealth he meanes not so, to hassard his delight,
He somewhat hath, and more may get, by manhood, and by might,
Thy choise, if once, thou winst thy choice, in spight of Fortunes wracke,
Will saue what thy aduentures gaines, for to relieue thy lacke.
Then maist thou liue in forreine soyle, without a iealous braine,
Then maist thou taste, at thy returne, sweete pleasure for thy paine.
Why standst thou then amasde (quoth he) thy honest suite to moue,
The silent man, the prouerbe sayth, hath sildome hap in loue,
Confesse that constant, long thou liu'dst, y linckt in beauties bandes,
And challenge freedome for thy truth, at thy sweete maistresse handes.
This wayd, Vlrico hies in haste, whereas his Lady liues,
And there her friends in her behalfe, him intertainment giues,
As time did serue, he shewd his zeale, vnto his only ioy,
She likte his words, but more him selfe, how so she seemed coy,
His gallant shape, his vertues straunge, his honour neuer stainde,
His truth once knowne, the truth to tell, her loue, had soone obtainde,
And quickly eake, with friendes consent, them Iunoes rites doth glad,
He had his will, and she her wish, and what would more be had?
The nuptiall feastes, y finished, Vlrico with his dame,
Bids friends adewe, to castle his, they do their iourney frame,
Where one doth rayse the others ioy, one rids the others care,
And thus contented with their choice, in ioy their dayes they weare,
Till neede at length Vlrico nips, who was in spending free,
His rents but small, these two accounts, will hardly well agree,
And yet to poll his tenants poore, his honest mynde doth greaue,
What then, he faine would serue his leage, but loth his wife to leaue.
See here how passing loue is apt, to rayse a iealous feare,
Withouten cause, we so do dread, the thing we hold full deare.
Vlricos mynd, despiseth want, yet dreads to seeke reliefe,
In absence, least his Ladyes chaunge, should worke his greater griefe,
And thus in silence long he mournes, and ebs his ioyes with woe,
Till secrete sighes, and heauie lookes, his inward harmes foreshewe,
Which haply when his spouse espide, to cleare his cloudes of scare,
Sweete heart (quoth she) vnto thy wife, thy hidden sorrowes share,
So shall thy cares abridged be, so shall I knowe thy mynde,
And haply in my counsell thou, some comfort sweete maist finde.
These words Vlrico likte so well, as straight he tels the truth,

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Of present want, of meane to wealth, in order as insu'th,
Mine owne (quoth he) you know my state, or present lacke withall,
Our charge is great, our myndes are high, our liuing is but small,
Of force we must our brauerie leaue, or seeke some way of gaine,
And vayling to the valliant mynde, is sure a matchlesse paine,
This is the meane to mend our want, to serue my souereine leage,
Who now is bent with might and maine, the Turke for to besiege,
Those warres, ere this, I well haue tryde, vnder Cilia Count,
Those warres, I trust, shal force thy feare with wealth, & fame to mount,
But ah (aye me) I loth, yet would, vnfolde what makes me stay,
But sith sweete wench, loue is the cause, allowe what I shall say,
Long wisht, at length I won thy loue, O gem of al my ioy,
As loth I am to leaue thee now, least absence make thee coy.
I call to mynd fayre Helens moode, who trudg'd with Troian knight,
When as her Lord was forst from home, with forreine foes to fight.
The ruffling rout at Ithaca, Vlysses farre from home,
Doth force a thousand fearefull thoughts, within my head to rome.
Then Penelopes constancie, this dread would gladly weare,
She plaste alone, without her leake, a fresh doth raise my feare:
The speach of womans meekenesse eake, my thoughtes doth run among,
And straight my thinkes I motions heare, that do Vlrico wrong.
In mynd I viewe, what batterie is, against thy beautie bent,
In thought I see, what sharpe assaults, in sugred wordes are sent,
What fearelesse othes, what carelesse vowes, do flee, to foyle thy fame,
In fine thou forst, with yealding will, dost blot thy name with blame,
Then rage I straight, ye (harmelesse) gainst, as thogh these toyes wer true
And straight I checke, those raunging thoughts, with reason that insue.
Vlrico fye, why wrongs thy wife, so fouly with mistrust,
Whom hitherto thou couldst not finde, in worde, or deede vniust,
Whose modestie thou seest abhorres, with rufflers for to prate,
To saue thy wealth, whose mynd to worke, giues wanton youth ye mate,
Whose life, with foule and leaude offence, report could neuer spot,
What cause hast thou Vlrico then, her fame with feare to blot?
To breake this brall, faire Barbara (so was this Lady namde)
With prettie nippes, with pardon mixt, this answere foorthwith framde:
Well sayde (quoth she) first faine you feare, to free my shrewd mistrust,
That choise and chaunge, in wanton court, wil make you proue vniust,

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But simple I accept your shewe, and faith I trust to finde,
But to my Lord, if so he please, I yet will shewe my minde,
I long ere this, haue wayde our want, and thought on meanes of gaine,
And sure I sawe, the way for wealth was as you did explaine.
Yet durst I not, vnfolde the same, vnto my louing Lord,
Before his words foreshewd his thoughts, with mine did wel accord,
By seruice you shall credite winne, by seruice likewise fame,
By seruice you shall riches reape, as you deserus the same,
By seruice, fauour with our prince, acquaintance in the court,
You sure shall finde, slacke not these helpes, your wife doth you exhort:
If God with children, blesse our life, their youth from vices freed,
Your credite after in the court, will stand them in some steede,
And in your absence I so well, will to your causes see:
As you shall haue reliefe abroade, sufficient left for mee.
Yea sure, to braue it with the best: yet liue within our boundes,
Such skyll I haue to most auayle, to rate and rent our groundes,
And knowe you once, my hart is high, if liuing, there to stretch,
Yet stoupe I will to please my Lord, to liue as rents will retch.
And thus Vlrico doest thou heare, what thy poore wife can say,
In wealth, in want, abroade, at home, thy she will obay.
Whose modest tale Vlrico heard, with patience to the end,
And sayd, to vse her sound aduise, long earst his thought did tend:
And now I am resolu'd (quoth he) the warres sweete wife to ply,
Let worst betyde that may befall, I sure with fame shall dye.
Yet ere I go, my friends shall know my mynd, and state at large,
But of my lande, my house and goods, none shall but you haue charge.
And in this moode, from friend to friend, so long he did resort,
That at the length Pollaccos skill, he heard by fonde report,
Of whome was sayd by secrete Arte, he could such wonders doe,
As none could worke an acte in thought, but he the same would shoe.
He could informe the louing worme, if his faire Ladie fainde,
Or if she lou'd, yea if she had, her honour euer stainde,
For ramping rigges to Venus ioyes, their nature proane that feales,
He could worke meanes of sport without, a Tympanie with heales.
Strange charmes he had to force them loue, that late to hate were bent,
He could foretell, what hap, what harme, the heauens to vs ment,
With thousand sleights of hidden skill, which I omit to write,

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Yet turne I to Vlricos thought, when rumour did recite,
Pollaccos learning thus at large, who sayed in his mynde,
To free my iealous head from feare, a meane now shall I finde,
Pollaccos knowes if that my wife, her selfe will faithfull shewe,
Or if she doth her honour staine, I absent, yea, or no,
If in this iourney she be iust, then dread for aye adue,
If she be false, I fellowes haue, whose wiues are founde vntrue,
Once feare, yet frets my hart as sore, as if such fault were wayde,
With that Vlrico postes with speede, to craue Pollaccos ayde.
And comming to his homely house, he doth Pollacco greete,
And craues to speake a worde with him, where he should thinke it meete.
They both vnto a Garden walke, and thus Vlrico sayde,
Your speciall giftes in secrete Artes, to me of late bewrayde,
Compels me now (Pollacco friend) to craue your friendly might:
My sute is small, and yet be sure, great gaine your paine shall quite.
In what I can Pollacco sayd, I rest at your commaund,
Then vse your Arte (quoth he) I pray, to graunt this poore demaund.
Truth is, I meane with speede to serue, my souereine in the warres,
Yet iealous thoughts, I wot not why, with this accorde still iarres,
Sometime my Ladies zeale in shewe, doth banish dread with hope,
But straight againe, mistrust doth giue, to fearefull fancies scope,
And thus to naught auayle, I weare my golden time in woe,
Such is the force of passing loue, to feare for euery showe,
But now Pollacco to my suite, by arte I craue to knowe,
In absence mine, if that my wife be faithfull, yea, or no,
Let worst betide, yet so I shall, my dread exile (quoth he)
Such feates you can, and therfore nowe, let will with skill, agree,
Pollacco masde, to heare this tale, to this effect replyde,
That Science to, her schollers yet, such secretes had denyde,
And how should I, dissolue this doubt, that learned iudges dread,
Conceiue the best, ne wrongs the worst, saunce knowledge of the dead,
And therefore Syr Vlrico cease, your suite surmounts my skill,
What so (quoth he) of skill befalles, graunt but agreeing will,
Whereon Pollacco thus replyde, sith nycenesse will not serue,
I graunt I know by Arte this acte, but vse from lawe doth swerue.
Yet breach of lawe I hazarde will, to free Vlricos dout,
Stay here (quoth he) to worke this feate, I will now go about.

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Anon he comes, with picture framde, much like Vlricos wife,
So long (quoth he) this forme keepes faire, she liues an honest life,
If yellowe, tempted then she is, if blacke with merrie gayles,
Unto the Cornish mount god buoy in hast, her honour sayles.
This knowne (appayd) Vlrico sayd, in hope thy words are true,
Holde here thy hyre, my hart is easde, and so good friend adue.
Away he goes, and to his wife, his houshold charge commits,
Which done, while winde and whether seru'd, vnto the seas he gets:
Such speede he made, as soone he at Albe regale lands.
The king there lay, Vlricoes suite, who shortly vnderstands,
And gladly intertained him, yea, gaue him pay in peace,
Which grace, when foes inforst in fight, did double force increase,
As proofe ere long appeared plaine, the Turke began to sturre,
Which causde the king to cry alar'm, to chase this gracelesse curre.
The valliant wightes, in armour dight, their forward myndes do shewe,
Each thing prepard for souldiers vse, to warres these gallants goe,
Mustapha Basca, had the charge, of all the princes power,
Vlrico was his Colonel, preferd in happie houre.
Post haste they made, vntill they came, within their enimies sight,
Then bustling to their bloudy tooles, they shewe good willes to fight.
At trumpets sound, the horsemen fling, the shot to skyrmish fall,
The archers with their feathred dartes, both horse and man doth gall.
The furie of the forward wightes, to handie stroakes then bring,
Here houlbards hewe, there bloudy swords, on battered targets sing.
Som faint with wounds, som flee for feare, som fight to saue their friend,
Thus eyther side, king Harrie knockes, both doth receiue, and lend:
The battell long continued hote, each would faine victor bee,
But to be short, for all their force, in fine the Mahomes flee,
The Turke his pryde abated well, and all things quiet made,
Mustapha Basca, and his charge, return'd with honour lade.
The Ladies nowe (with many a kysse) receiue their souereine Lords,
And euery man to see his friend, a buon venu affordes.
In court there doth no triumph want, these captaines to delight,
At iustes, some vse their force in sport, that late did fiercely fight:
Some makes report of wreakefull warres, the blisse, and eake the bale,
Some loytrers in their Ladies lappes, doth tell a wanton tale:
Some haue an ore in others boate, some colours do expound,

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And some doth note their heauie lookes, whome Cupides dart did wound,
Syr Vlrico, among this crue, some exercise did vse,
To whome at length Alberto sayde, syr knight, I can but muse,
That you that haue a Ladie faire, two yeares from her haue stayde,
You knowe a womans force (God wot) a long is easily layde,
You knowe that loue with leasure ioynde, makes wantons to be bolde,
She hath her will, health, wealth, and ease, she rules and not contrould,
With all these helpes she sure will wish, to taste some wanton ioy,
Then if she haue her wish at will, thinke you she will be coy?
Whereto Vlrico thus replyde, I answere not for all,
But sure my wife will constant be, what fortune so befall,
She is no gadder farre from home, she helpes not beauties blase,
Her words and workes are modest both, she giues no youthes the gase
With honest exercises still, she fansies fonde preuentes,
To heare my good successe abroade, her carefull mynde contents.
Syr knight quoth Vdislao then, since so you loue your wife,
Beshrewe me if that my reply, do sowe sedicious strife,
You haue enough, what would you more, let others haue a snatch.
Alberto sayde, will he or nill, she would in corners catch:
And to be short, both Lordes affirme, that Ladie liueth not,
If that a wise and valiant knight, her honour can not blot.
Vlrico did deny it flat, they still affirmd it true,
And thus they pleade vntill the queene, their controuersie knewe,
Who for that these barons so wrought, a slaunder to her sect,
Their foolish, rash, and iudgement false, she sharply did detect,
Alberto (fuming at this cheacke) this answere made the queene,
Not for to moue your grace to wrath, our argument hath beene,
Yet if Vlrico like the match, my lande to his I lay,
How that ere twice the Moone hath cast, her horned head away,
I battell will his browes so well, as hornes thereon shall growe,
Prouided that his wife afore, the wager doth not knowe.
And further, if I win her loue, his Ladie so he vse,
As if that she her honour did, in no respect abuse.
The yong Lord Vdislao would, the selfe same wager try,
Vlrico armde him selfe to take, their proffers by and by.
Indentures to assure this match, ingressed were in haste,
The couenants as before exprest, were in the perchment plaste,

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The king and Queene gaue free consent, the wager should be laid,
Th'indentures seald, by either part, and all thinges sure are made.
It was agreed Alberto should, the battering tyre lay,
If Lady Barbara did resist, Vdislao should assay.
With sharpe assault of wanton wordes, to batter downe her praise,
If two monethes shee could make defence, these Lords, their siege should raise,
And lose their liuing for their hire, which smal misliking breedes,
See, see, the fonde effectes of hope, Alberto forward speedes.
And spies in fine the castle walles, wherein this Lady lay,
Who safe arriued at his Inn, streight chaungde his riding ray,
And clothd a newe, as pleasd his minde, it was not longe ere hee,
To see Vlricos castle hyde his heartes delight to see.
To purchase welcome first he tould, Vlricos happie state,
And hauing causes in those coastes, hee durst not passe his gate,
Before hee had, to her his wife, those welcome tidings shard,
To finde occasion to returne, how shee his Lady fard.
Dame Barbara (ioyfull of these newes) requested him to take,
In worth: such intertainment, as her power was to make,
The Lord Alberto made no bones, to be his Ladies guest,
But like a Courtier braue and bould, vouchsafed her request,
Till supper time with honest talke, shee wisely held him tacke,
When supp hee should, of daintie fare, shee sawe he had no lacke,
Alberto (feasted like a prince) prickt forth with pleasaunt braine,
Assayed many times to fall, into some louing vaine,
Dame Barbara though faine shee would, haue broke this botelesse prattle,
Least he should thinke, his welcome heard, did hould him tacite in tatle,
Which courtesie hee construed thus, The Dame that is content,
To listen to a tale of loue, to loue will soone consent:
Forgetting how of force they must, some such discourses heare,
Or to to coy, their friends forsake, which manners will not beare.
But leaue I that, Alberto thought, his match was meetely sure,
And still to stoupe, this modest dame, hee threw his wanton lure,
Hee flattering questions moned oft, shee pretily answerde all,
At length, into his louing sute, hee soberly did fall.
And with a sighe deare dame (quoth hee) admitt my faithfull zeale,
Who forst through loue, must needs vnfould, that faine I would cōceale,

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Your beautie, birth and comely shape, report so hie hath prisde,
That trust mee as I heard you namd, in thought, I thus surmisde,
This Lady staynes, syr Paris rape, in face, in forme and hew,
And as hee lou'd through brute of fame, so I in faith do you,
And try who list, loue wounds so sore, if hee empayreth health,
His thralles can hardly be restord, by reason, witt, or wealth.
Their souereignes grace, must be their salue, naught else cā work their rest,
Unlesse they will abridge their dayes, of both the bads, the best,
I loue I graunt beyond my reach, for to recant I striue,
But loue I must, and loth I am, to liue and die aliue,
My helpe is on my selfe, that I vntimely murther try,
My woes consent, yet haue I vowde in your sweete sight to die.
Despaire hath sped me to this place, my sorrowes to appease,
My tale is tould, you knowe my trueth, preserue mee if you please,
This louing zeale, so sharpely showne, did strike the Lady mute,
Her answere now, was farre to seeke, shee hated so his sute,
Alberto, that did note this chaunge, in words, in lookes and all,
Thought how his shape & friendly shoes, had brought her hart in thrall.
And theretofore to vntie her tongue, hee slily stole a kisse,
She litle said, and yet she thought, there was no woe to this,
And as shee musde, shee found a meane, his follies to reproue,
But yet the feate must {needes} be wrought, with fained shewe of loue,
Which shee so finely counterfets, as if shee lou'de in deede,
Or that her cause of straungenes late, of passion did proceede,
Alberto thus aduaunst with hope, afresh nowe pleades for ruth,
She stands not greatly on his sute, but falls to faine his truth,
The knight (by proofe of pleasures past) when she this issue tooke,
Though sure with sugred wordes, she had deuoured Cupids hooke,
And (as he thought) to free suspect, for othes he spared not,
That neither chaunge, or any chaunce, should him, with falsehood blot,
Fewe wordes to waste, she faind at length, shee was content to loue,
And pointed both a time and place, a pleasaunt tast to proue.
But least by absence from your Inn, quoth she, suspicion grow,
I nowe bequeath you to your ease, when to returne you know.
Alberto luld with thoughtes of ioy, vnto his lodging goes,
Who thinkes, eche houre a yeare till that, the morrowe morning shoes.
Well yet at length, the houre came, that flattred him with grace,

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Who all too hastle hide him selfe, to his appointed place,
Arriued there a pretie minx (directed wel before)
Unto a lodging brought this Lord, and locked fast the dore,
When he was safe awaye she went, for ioy Alberto hopt,
But see, a chaunge, too late he spyde, he was in prison popt,
The windowes made of yron barres, the walles of stone and clay.
A bed he found, but farre vnfit, he thought for Venus play,
Is this a place of ioy (quoth he) O no I am betrayde,
He had no sooner spake these words, but came saire Barbaras mayde,
Who at a grate Alberto calles, to whom she vsde these words,
This is the courtsie syr knight (quoth she) my Ladie you affordes.
First like a theefe sith that you sought, to rob her of her fame,
She hath in prison layde you fast, your lawlesse loue to tame.
And further (to allay your heate) vnlesse you daily spinne,
This distaffe laden full of flaxe, your fare will be but thinne,
This sayd, the distaffe in she throwes, and bad him thus adieu,
My tale is tolde, you knowe your taske, nowe worke as pleaseth you.
Alberto at these sorrie newes, straight to this choller waxe,
Shall I from martiall exercise, fall nowe a spinning flaxe?
Shall I that liu'd at libertie, in prison thus be pend,
Shall I be sys'd of meate and drinke, that late so much did spend?
And shall a Ladie foyle me thus, whose hart the stoutest quaild,
There with he stroue to breake the doores, but small his force auaild.
His griefe but greene with termes of hate, he blam'd this Ladie oft,
And supperlesse so went to bed, which was not very soft,
But in respect of other plagues, he thought the hardnesse small,
Who tyred with tormenting thoughts, a sleepe did quickly fall,
When he had sleapt the night away, and cares digested well,
Sharpe hunger so assayld this Lord, as he to spinning fell,
His goutie and yll shapen thredes, so moued him to smyle,
That well he likt the exercise, his sorrowes to beguile.
At dinner time dame Barbaras mayde, was to Alberto sent,
To share his lowance like his worke, to whome this courtoll went,
And rudely calles to see the yarne, he had that morning sponne,
Alberto (eger of his meate) deliuerd what was donne,
By Saint Marie (quoth this queane) your buswiuerie is good.
And after she had frumpt him well, she fetcht his sorrie foode,

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A weeke or more, these hungrie meales, in worth Alberto tooke,
In hope of grace, which came so slowe, as he his hope forsooke.
See, yet desire of libertie, see nowe the fruites of neede,
See here how theeues their fellowes peche, see, see, how hope doth feede,
Alberto for dame Barbara sendes, to whom he shewes at large:
The wanton wager, words, and workes, as I haue giuen in charge.
And how that Vdislao would, ere long attempt the like.
Which straunge discourse the Ladie did, into a wonder strike.
Oh God (quoth she) what cause giue I, men should suspect my life,
I neuer clim'd beyonde my reach, I am a louing wife.
And comes there yet another Lord, that would my vertues staine,
Well let him come, he shall abide, hard penance for his paine.
This sayde, she wild the gaylor see, Alberto spinne apace,
His newes thus recompenced were, whome nowe I leaue a space,
To shewe what rumor in the court, in euery corner roung,
Some say Albertos ioyes were such, as loth to part he soung.
Vlrico oft his image viewd, to see what hue it bare,
And all the while it yealowe seemd, he liu'd in perilous feare,
But when it turnd to white againe, what so the courtiers say,
He knewe Alberto had the foyle, and he had won the lay,
The other competitor thought, his fellowes ioyes too great.
So that to haue a share with him, he posted till he sweate,
And posting thus he at the length, Vlricos castle spyde,
And making then more haste then speede, post haste he thether hyde
Who safe arriu'd where he did wish, to make his welcome more,
He had an errant readie stampt, yea two or three in store,
He first commended to this dame, her husbandes happie health,
His speciall credite with his prince, his fame and heapes of wealth,
And how on causes of his owne, into these coastes he came,
And how he heard in happie time, his friend Vlricos name,
And also how not farre from thence, did dwell his Ladie faire,
And howe he bounde by courtesie, to see her did repaire.
The Ladie smiled in her mynde, to heare this currant scuse.
And yet dissembling what she thought, she friendly did him vse.
Yea courteously she crau'd he would, his causes yet adiourne,
And at his friend Vlricos house, with her awhile soiourne.
Her gentle offer to accept, this Lord was nothing nice,

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And yet ere longe her courtesie, he bought at too hie-price,
Well both (contented, as it seemd) into the castle goe,
Where as faire Barbara glads her friend, with welcomes great in shoe,
She talkt, she walkt, shee satt, she stoode, as likt this gallant best,
Yea many a straunge discourse, did passe, betweene her, and her guest,
In fine to towle, this lord in loue, a sighing shee began,
And asked how Alberto farde, as if shee lou'de the man,
The lord, Vdislao did take, this motion in good part,
Who smyld and said, in secrete thought, Alberto had her heart,
And for to strike her in a mase, quoth hee, I wott not well,
Since last he vew'd these countrye costes, where as my frend doth dwel,
Faire Barbara, as though she feard, this lords welfare did faine,
And is hee not (quoth shee) returnde, vnto your court againe?
This lure thus throwne to worke some hope, in Vdislaos breast,
The Lady broke the prattle off, and fell to feast her guest,
The lusty Hungarian lord, likt well, her kindnes showne,
Yet still he for aduauntage stayde, to make his passions knowne,
Whose subtiltie, when shee espide, t'imbolden him the more,
Against her will, her eyes did seeme, more wanton then of yore,
And trained thus to treate of loue, at length his tongue found scope,
She made it nice, yet not so straunge, but he might feede on hope,
Hee feeding still, on showe of grace, was loth to leaue the feeld,
She faring, as shee likt his talke, by peece meales gan to yeeld.
In fine she fainde how that his sute, had wonne her to agree,
And how shee would sometime that night, her louers lodging see,
Untill which time this frolicke lord, committed her a Dio,
A fainde good night, shee likewise gaue, and wild her seruaunts shoe,
Him, where he should that night be lodgde, whose lodging was prepard,
Next chamber to the prison where, Alberto hardly farde,
Well Vdislao went to bedde, full fraught with secrete ioy,
And still he lookt when his faire dame, would kepe her promist foy,
But all in vaine, he gapt for grace, she glad he had him catcht,
Yet see, the fond conceites in loue, in hope, the night he watcht,
He hard no noyse, no mouse could steare, but streight in thought he smild
O welcome Lady (quoth his heart) but when he was beguild,
He Sopor blamd, for charging her, with to much drowsie sleepe,
But of his faultes, and wager fond, at all he tooke no keepe,

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Wel al this night with fancies tost, no sleepe lodgde in his breast,
When morning came, this comfort came to set his heart at rest,
Dame Barbaras mayde, brought him a reele, and yearne Alberto made,
She tould him he, should reele the same, for that he had assaide
To robbe her Lady of good fame, to her then life more deare,
If he refusde, to doe his taske, he should haue sorrie cheare,
Loke you for neither meate nor drinke, before your worke be donne,
And syr (quoth shee) t'incourage you, the thread Alberto sponne,
Hee is your neighbour, fare you well, I can no longer stay,
These sorrie newes Vdislao nie, out of his wittes did fray,
Alberto toke his pennaunce ill, but he did tenne times worse,
Hee rag'd, he rau'd, the Ladies scorne, himselfe, and all did curse,
But what for that? how so he did, himselfe agreeued feele,
One of these euills, hee needes must chuse, to sterue or else to reele,
And of both bads, the best he chusde, in fine to worke he fell,
His rash attempt, had this successe, which he deserued well.
Nowe that this vertuous dame hath gott, the conquest of her foes,
These lordinges pennaunce for their pride, she to their seruants shoes,
In whose behalfe, her bountie here, I must of force commende,
They wanted not, for daintie fare, how so they fast were pend,
These barons men, (at libertie) streight posted to the Court,
And of their lords imprisonment, there make they large report,
These newes of note, about the Court, went flinging euery where,
So longe as both the king and Queene, these gallants fortunes heare,
The king to learne the certaine truth, to Lady Barbara sent,
His chauncelour, and other Lords, where as they found fast pent,
Lord Alberto and Vdislao, Alberto spinning thread,
And Vdislao reeling it, with fretting well nie dead,
The Lady shewde the newe come Lords the matter all and some,
And how to tame their lawlesse loue, the barons bid this dome,
The Chauncelor what earst is showne, returned to the king,
Whose pleasure was, he should with him, with speede both parties bring
They all arriued at the Court, the king iudg'd out of hand,
Vlrico had the wager wonne, and he should haue the land,
And more against the spoiled lords, with iustice to perseuer,
In penaunce of their lauish tongues, they were exilde for euer,
Faire Barbara, for foyling them, did to this honour mount

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She was the chiefe about the queene, in credite and account,
Whereas she liued many dayes, and holde her wish at will,
Nowe being deade in worthy fame, her vertues liueth still.

Virescit vulnere virtus.

The complaint of the Lorde Alberto and Vdislao, the two Hungarian barons, that vnaduisedly wagered their land, to winne the vertuous Ladie Barbara to wantonnesse: Who hauing the foyle (besides the losse of their liuings) for their slaunderous opinions, were condemned to perpetuall exile.

Come gallants come, by both our falles take heede,
With our fonde faults, you most infected are,
You worke more wrong, in slaunder then in deede,
And yet in deede, your flatterie worketh scare.
Learne, learne, by vs, too lauish speach to spare,
Large offers though, faire Ladies ofte intice,
Thinke there be dames, that will not vaile to vice.

First mende your owne, ere others faults you blame,
See that your life, before you teach you trie,
Plucke out the beame, that blindes your sighte with shame,
So may you finde a moate in others eye,
What yet you note, reproue not openly,
Obserue this course, heare, see, and say the best,
For lauish words, procureth much vnrest.

Had we but wayde, that halfe experience shewes,
We might haue liu'd, in honour as of yore,
The want we waile and warne you by our woes,
The least of which, your hearts would much abhorre,

Their exile.

For what may be, then this a mischiefe more,
Once lustie Lords, nowe prisd at lowest rate,
And free men borne, to liue in banisht state.

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What noble mynde, whose hands could weapons vse?
Would brooke his handes, should eyther reele or spinne,
To feede on crustes, what foole would not refuse?
Whose coursest fare, a messe of meate hath bin,
In this distresse, perforce we liued in,
Too hard a plague, say you for fault so small,
We thinke not so, that haue indurd the thrall.

For who at full, may value honest fame?
Whose wound so deepe, as his that slaunders carud?
Our slaundrous thoughts, suspected euery dame,
Our slaundrous toungs, sayd all from vertue swaru'd,
For which exile, we worthily desaru'd,
She vsde vs well (whose praise we sought to spoyle)
In huswiues trades, for meate to make vs moyle.

Our lande we lost, by lawe and wager both,
He wonne it well, that ventured for the same,
But worse then these (the which to shewe I loth)
Our follies leaue, a memorie of shame,
Unto vs both, a corsiue to our name,
Well what is paste, too late we call againe,
Sufficeth nowe, we warne with proofe of paine.

And knowe ye first, what raisd this slaundrous thought,
Forsooth our liues, in loytring daliance spent,
We other doomde, by faults that they had wrought,
And ioynd with this, their spoyles, by fonde consent,
Which yealded bound, vnto our louing bent,
Did make vs thinke, at euery wanton whoope,
To lures of loue, a Ladie faire would stoope.

What yet we thought, our toungs did sore recoyle,
In slaundring them, our liues for to accuse,
For who so vaunts,, of any louing spoyle,
Confesseth howe, him selfe he doth abuse,
The greatest vice, that worthy mynds may vse.

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Deseruing wel, their worth, who should not praise,
Deseruing ill, much lesse a thousand wayes,

Oh stay we here, what meaneth our aduise?
When we God wot, so much of counsell neede?
And how againe, shall we vnhappie rise?
Alberto speake, what way shall we proceede?
And art thou mute? Vdislaoes hart doth bleede,
Oh (men forlorne) how wretched is our state?
Whome heauen and earth, oppresse with heapes of hate.

Who will esteeme, our manhoods and our might?
By Ladies force, to carde, to spinne, and reele,
Where so we liue, all women will vs spight,
And cause they haue, with such disdaine to deale,
Yet plagues ynow, we else in penance feele,
O slaunder thou, on vs these haste brought,
Foule fall the cause, thou harboredst in our thought.

Had wretched we, for treason banisht bin,
Some would haue ru'de, our miserie and mone,
But slaundrous speach, is such a hatefull sinne,
As slaunders falls, lamented are of none,
In bookes of shame, their faults are rolld alone,
Their names are scornd, their presence ten times more,
All filthy vice, that all men thus abhore.

This resteth then, for vs vnhappie men,
To leade our liues, in houltes and vncouth woods,
A hollowe caue, to make our homely den,
To foyle hunger, with apples, hawes, and buds,
For nobles borne, God wot, but sorrie foodes,
There we, poore we, must rue our harmes alone,
Or monsters make, companions in our mone.

O friendly death, our worldly farewell giue,
From hated fleshe, our loathed life diuorce,

123

Spare them good death, the which in pleasure liue,
And vse at once, on vs thy matchlesse force,
To thee alone, our woes sues for remorce,
When all is done, our helpe remaines in thee,
Then strike with speede, our sorrowes for to free.

In praise of the right H. the Ladie I.S.G. of Wilton.

Where loue affects, or flatterie forgeth praise,
There fayles no will, faire Ladies fames to wray,
But Art I lacke, such parciall notes to raise,
Truth guardes the checke, in what I write or say,
And warded thus, when all their wit is showne,
I boldly vaunt (although in barren verse)
This Ladie staines, their Ladies euerie one,
She shewes in workes, what they in wordes rehearse,
Past natures reach (a gift of great imprise)
Her faultlesse life, puts slaunder to his shifts,
And yet she hath what Nature could deuise,
To set a glosse, vpon her gallant gifts,
Besides all this, she hath such fortune lent,
As both commends, and doth her selfe content.

In praise of my L. E. R.

The pearles of praise, that decke a noble dame,
Exceede the price, of any Iuellers showe,
Yea beauties gifts, are but a glosse of fame,
In vertues soyle, these precious iuels growe,
And that the dame, whome I do here commend,
Hath store of both, my able proofe attend.

A passing wit is, lodged her head,
The which is deckt, with haires of golden hewe,
Her modest eyes, are sild with gases lead,
And yet they staine, bright Diamonds in viewe,
Her words of worth, doth win her toung such praise,
As when she speakes, the wisest silent slayes.

124

Besides her shape, which sightly is in showe,
Her mynd is with, these noble gifts possest,
Her bountie doth, beyond her beautie goe,
A care she hath, to ease the thrall distrest,
Thus is she deckt, and this is she I say,
That weares and beares, these pearles of praise away.

In praise of my L. Cecil of Bourlegih.

The cruell warres, that Nature long did moue,
By force to plucke, good Uertue from her throne,
Appeasd in peace, to shewe the fruits of loue,
Of precious mould, kynde faults to worke anon,
And hauing shapt this seemely dame of clay,
For Uertues helpe, she sent her straight away.

When Uertue viewd, dame Natures worthy skill,
With great delight, she kist this Ladies face,
And then (to shewe, that Nature wisht her will)
She posted to, her treasure house of grace,
Her golden shewes, where she good Ladie spoyles,
To decke this dame, thus was she both their toyles.

And with these gifts, into the world she came,
Whereas she doth, in worthy credite rest,
Yea sure her life, so beautifieth her name,
As Enuie graunts (who sildome sayes the best,
Her wit, her weedes, her words, her workes and all,
So modest are, as slaunder yealdes her thrall.

In praise of Maistresse M. H. now Bridges.

Beautie with brags of late, wild vertue yeald her thrall,
But soone ye Gods to stay their strife; a parlement did call,
And fame wt thundring tromp, was wild their subiects cite,
Be credite of their thrals to shew, who was of grete & might,
Beautie against this day, her prowdest shewes prepard,

125

And sure a troupe of gallant gyrles, her seemely selfe did gard,
Their spangels, wrought, a gase eche dame in feathers flauntes,
Their straung attyres, their cuts & cost, foreshewd, their scorneful vaūts,
They looked all askaunce, when beautie claymde, her right,
That loe the Gods amased were, to see so proude a sight.
Anon good Uertue comes, with traine of bashfull Dames,
Whose modest lookes, wrought more regard, then Beauties blasing flames,
A silence now was made, that they their sutes might moue,
Both Ladies sue for souereigne rule, and thus their titles proue,
Proude Beautie vaunts on powre, poore Uertue on desart,
And by your leaue, for all her bragges, the worst had Beauties part.
Her showes were blemisht much, with surfling and such like,
Which knowne, beautie (through feare of foyle) into a mase did strike.
Who gasing rounde about faire Brydges did espie,
Whose seemely feature forme and shape, did much delight her eye,
And scorning other proofe, she Bridges calld in place,
Who (to sett foorth, her sightly selfe) apeard with bashfull grace,
Quoth Beautie: see my toyle, you Gods, nowe iudge aright,
Halfe part with you quoth Uertue streight, my gifts adorne this wight:
For bountie guides her thought, which beautie farre excells,
And pittie rules her noble heart, where pride in Beautie dwells,
To loue, and Lawlesse lust, where beauties lures doe traine,
She winns a calme, yet friendship firme, with showe of chaste disdaine,
A meane contents her minde, where Beautie is extreame,
What botes thee then, good beautie thus, to striue against the streame.
Shee onely shall suffice, if thereto thou agree,
To showe and proue, by dome of Ioue, the best of thee, or mee,
I will (quoth Beautie) stand, to that that Ioue awards,
Ioue waying wel their worthie worke, thus both their toile rewards.
Hee ruled Uertue should, be at wayes best in name,
Yet Beautie during Bridges life, should sway in equal fame.
Loe thus betweene these Dames the bloudie frayes did seace,
But Bridges bore the praise a way, for making of this peace.

The praise of mistresse A. C.

Jf Troyians stoute, that fought in Hellens band,
Small wayd their liues, their Lady to preserue,

126

What doubt, what death, what hell should mee withstand,
To worke C. will the captaine that I serue,
Who doth in deede, as farre fayre Hellen passe.
As good, doth bad, or gold the corsest brasse.

For first shee hath in feauture, forme and face,
What Hellen had, or beautie could deuise,
And therewithall, she hath so chast a grace,
To hold them backs, with fancies fonde that fries,
That (loe) they choose to pine in secrete paine,
Before their sutes, should moue her to disdaine.

She showes them grace, that sorrowes their armis,
Beyonde desert, her bountie doth reward,
Her modest minde, by vertue guided is,
Her sober lookes, doth worke a rare regard,
Although in court, her roume is hie, shee knowes,
Yet likes shee not, to feede on curious showes.

A care shee hath (which showes, a louing wife)
To loue and like, but what contents her fere,
With these good giftes, commended is her life,
Such one is C. whom I haue praised here,
Euen shee, is shee, denie it who that dare,
That doth both kinds, and vertues iewels ware.

In praise of mistresse A. H.

Vaine is the vaunt, that runnes beyonde desert,
Small is the praise, that proofe will not commend,
Shame is their fall, that mounteth fames by arte,
Truth is the gard, that writers doth defend,
And Trueth I haue, my naked Uerse to clothe,
But skill I want, this pearelesse peece to praise,
In fairenes who doth passe the Dame in troth,
Whose beautie wrought, the Troyans bloudye fraies,
Withal to showe, what nature did pretend,

127

In framing her, an endlesse fame to finde,
She wrought such meanes, as vertue doth commend,
Her gallant shape, with worthy giftes of minde,
What would you more, then faire and vertuous both,
That both she is, but search where shee doth liue,
(Beyonde my reach) report their telling troth,
This modest mayde, a matchlesse praise doth giue,
Loe this is al (though further would my will,)
I write of her, for want of able skill.

The saucie pesaunts present, vnto his souereigne mistresse.

Lady receiue thy pesaunts gift in gree;
(Whose will is much, although his worth be small)
A gift it is, that best beseemeth thee,
Whose vertues hould, thy beauties rare in thrall,
So that, sith that, you liue without a match,
Garde you your fame, with this well meaning watch.

Thinke that you liue in gase of enuies eyes,
Whose sight doth search, in secretst thought of minde,
Thinke false suspect, about you still hath spies,
Will forge offence, where they no fault can finde,
Thinke deepe disdaine, would blot your life with blame,
For that alone you weare the pearlesse of fame.

And yet fayre dame (incountring all their might)
These following rules, if you imprint in minde,
Your enuious foes, shall pine away with spite.
First choose a friend, whose wordes in workes you finde,
With courtesie, a straunger intertaine,
But louing sutes cutt off with chaste disdaine.

Thinke sugred wordes as Syrens songes, do wound,
All is not gold, in sight that seemeth gay,
In carelesse trust, is euer treason sound,

128

Then shunne the baites, that philed tongues do lay,
With proude reuenge, racke not your yeelding foe,
Lest nettels doe, amonge sweete flowers groe.

Mount with your minde, by Uertue to the skies,
Uaile yet your eares, the mysers a mone to heare,
From all extreames, in spite of enuies spies,
In calme delight, your dayes, so shal you weare,
Thus (souereigne) ends, your sausie pesaunts songe.
Accept it well, or else you do him wronge.

Epilogus.

Loe Ladies heare (if you can vse it well,)
An Arbour fenst, from burning fire and frost,
A place it is where pride shall neuer dwell,
Nor fortune worke a mase, doe shee her worst,
A place wherein the worthie dame should liue,
Whom no extreame, may change from vertuous thought,
Euen such a place, my Muse (faire dames) doth giue,
To you, the which, with double toile is wrought.
Here may you see, by lampes of others liues,
A president, to liue in worthie name,
Here may you see, when death your dayes depriues,
In spight of death remembraunce of your fame.

Virescit vulnere virtus.

The Ortchard of repentance: Wherein is reported, the miseries of dice, the mischiefes of quarelling, and the fall of prodigalitie.

Wherein is discouered the deceits of all sortes of people.

Wherein is reported, the souden endes of foure notable Cousiners.

With diuers other discourses, necessarie for all sortes of men. The whole worke, the inuention and collection of George Whetstons Gent.

Formæ nulla fides.

TO THE RIGHT WORSHIPFULL, Syr Thomas Cicill knight, GEORGE WHETSTONS wisheth aduauncement to honor, according to his worthinesse.

The honest minded mans aduentures, his largesse: and his farewell to the world. A worke discouering, the subtilties of all sortes of men.

1

Repyne not, friends, to view the forme of scorne,
Skew not to see, a figure fresh of ruth,
A crooked peece, with withered age forworne,
In drouping dayes, whome beggerie pursuth.
A sorrie crop, for seede of all his youth,
Who moylde, who toyld, who gaped after gaine,
When losse ensude, a poore reward for paine.

2

Though straunge at first my tale may seeme in sight,
Yet wisely wayde, the cause appeareth playne,
Why backward hap, my foreward hope did quite.
Why losse I found, where I did looke for gayne.
Why pouertie, I reapt in lue of paine,
For trye who list, and he by proofe shall see,
With honest myndes, the world will hardly gree.

3

Which of it selfe, a kingdome is of sinne,

The kingdom of the world described.

The deuill is prince, whose pomp doth neuer fade,
Deceite and Craft, his chiefest counsellers bin.
Extortion foule, his treasurer is made,

The deuils of ficers.

Couetousnesse, is merchant of his trade.
Uile Usurie, his racking rents doth rake,
As auditour, account doth Briberie take.

4

Within his court, these vipers beareth sway:
First false suspect, high chamberlain they call,
Who raps thē down, which mount by honest way,
Disdaine controuls, the wightes which be in thral.
Then grudge the garde, doth place them in the hal.
Mistrust and spight, doth dayly watch and ward.
And malice is, the captaine of the garde.

5

Enuie and Hate, the presence doore doth keepe,
Which eluish elfes, dame Uertue still deryde,
Or if she knocke, the sottes will be a sleepe,
Next to the diuel, the court doth Lecherie guyde,
On whom attends, dame Pleasure, Lust, & Pryde.
What office beares, the Glutton with the rest,
Or drunken sot, to shewe it were a iest.

6

Debate and strife, the coastes doth dayly scowre,
Well meaning mynds, to see they do repyne,
Though Fortune laugh, ye world on thē doth lowre,
Her subiects sleepe, and snore like fatted swyne,
When hunger sterude, with want the vertuous pyne,
No wonder though they leade this lothsome life,
For worldly rule, with vertue is at strife.

7

But I too long, do tyre you with this tale,
To wray the rule, the worldly wretches haue,
Who hath in blisse, when others boyle in bale,
Who do commaund, when others gladly craue,
Yet shame and all, they leaue to fill their graue,
I ment and meane, to shewe his ouerthrowe,
Whose honest mynd, became his chiefest foe.

8

His first aduenture in the court.

I first by cost, did seeke in court to mount,
A needefull helpe, in court to purchase grace,
But fowly short, I fell vpon account,

The flatterer thriueth in the Court.

I quite forgot, to flatter and to face,
The thrall to scorne, the best for to imbrace,
I su'd I seru'd, I did attendance daunce,
And still I thought, desart would me aduaunce.

9

Note.

I lookt aloft, and brau'd it with the best,
The charge mine owne, no countnance did I lacke,
Whilest pence were ryfe, I was a welcome guest:

In vnkind recompence.

I ayded those, whom spitefull scorne did sacke,
Which one aduaunst, were first yt threwe me backe,

With conges kynde, the gallants would me greete,
With cap and knee, the meaner did me meete.

10

The sneaking curres, by bryberie layd a traine,
A myle to catch, before they fell the crumbes,
I thought desart, perforce would fasten gaine,
On me which gape, but gained nought but plumbes,
For former graunts, still nickt me oore the thumbes,
The drawlatch thriu'd, my selfe who helpt to grace,
As well as he, which bare the proudest face.

11

He enuide I, of either part the thrift,
Since Fortune smylde, vpon the silly sot,
I thought aloft, no doubt she would me lift,
So spent in hope, for feare I spared not,
By cost I sayd, that worship still was got,
But I so long, did spende vpon the store,
That all was gone, then could I spend no more.

12

Then countnance straight, with sower face did frowne,

For sakt brauerie, and leue thy credite in the court.

And credite next, began to slip aside,
Disdaine and spight, with speede then threwe me downe,
In this distresse, whom earst I helpt I tryde,
Who gaue good words, but no reliefe applyde:
Thus quight forsooke, I in the briers stucke,
And cryde perforce, a vengance of yll lucke.

13

I thought mishap, my fortune did withstand,
And meere good hap, to others gaine assignde,
I little thought, that Item in the hand,
Remembrance was, a friend in court to finde,
Or some for some, could leade a stately mynde,
Ne flatterie I, did feare should be prefarde,
Ere seruice true, had reapt his full rewarde.

14

I could not thinke, the court two faces had,

Description, of the court.

In fauour faire, fresh, sweete, fraught with delight,

When in disgrace, the wrongside turnes as sad,
Sullen, sowre, sharpe, the shewe of deepe despight,
As Syrens songs, bewitch the simple wight,
I quite forgot, in short to shewe you plaine,
The prouerb old, faire words do make fooles faine.

15

I simply ment, but subtly was beguilde,
A Crocodile, deceiues with fained teares,
But pray obtaind, it turnes to monsters wilde,

Fained friends

With fayned friends, in fine euen so it fares,
Which snarled be, in froward fortunes snares,
They crouch & creepe, til they haue that they wish.
In your distresse, they wey you not a rush.

16

But certes they, which neuer tasted bale,
Persuaded be, that all men bathe in blis,
So sure he thinkes, truth seemes each sugred tale,
Whose honest mynd, did neuer meane amis,
The speach of craft, he counts a mockerie is,
Both losse and gaine (he saith) doth Fortune giue,
And still he hopes, on after hap to liue.

17

My selfe the proofe, which reackt my courtly fal,
A backward blast, a fit of froward fate.
Some other way, to hay she would me call,
With double mendes, to vaunce my poore estate,
As gleames of ioy, do followe cloudes of hate,
Thus lights I held (bewitched with faire wordes)
Or bushes beate, while other lymde the byrdes.

18

I still relie'ud, the wights that were distrest,
Although they would, they could do me no good.
Which cold excuse, soone cut off my request,
A night cap sure, or else a lyned hoode,
Beseemde my skonce, I sware by sweete S. Roode,
Which like a foole; on would and could did feede,
When simple I, with deede, relieu'd their neede.

19

These hashards hard, might honest mindes defile,
What Haruest worse, then weedes to reape for corne?

Miserie can hardly winne the vertuous, to vice.

But though the lewde, do laugh if Fortune smile,
And frowne as fast, if that the fyxsen scorne,
Yet wealth, ne woe, no friendly minde can turne,
For happ they leaue no honest way vnsought,
But feedes on hope, by value of their thought.

20

Wel, thus perforce, I left the costly Court.
Hie time to trudge, when coine, and clothes were spent,
The souldiers gaine, was rounge with sweete report,
By them which wist not, what their losses ment,
At ventures yet, to see the warres I went,
Resolu'd by them, to rise or leese my breath,
For seruile life, I worse despisde then death.

21

Appointed well, and souldier like arayde,

His seconde aduenture in the warres,

I left my friends, and throngd amid my foes,
Although at first, the thundring shott mee frayde,
In fine saunce feare, I lent such lustie blowes,
That soone my fame, throughout the Campe arose,
With better pay, to credite then I grue,
And thus a flaunte, to care I badde adue.

22

In desperate frayes, gaue charge my band & I,
By manly force, our eager foes to foyle,
Not one then flie, but rather chus'de to die,
And where they foyld, I let them fleece the spoyle,
For trueth to say, that tythe, deserude their toyle,
I neuer nickt the poorest of his pay,
But if hee lackt, hee had before his day.

23

They cheerisht thus, when neede inforst them fight,

A good Capitaine makes good souldiers.

On foes they slewe, in face of all the shott,
As wolues the sheepe, doe spoile or sore affright,
Their enimies soe, did flie or goe to pott,
Such lyll they layde, vppon their pates God wott,

Sith fame I reapt, thus by their restlesse paine,
I could not choose, but let them gleane the gaine.

24

Such was my hap, to reach the honour still,
In hie attemptes, I gaue the ouerthrowe,
Thus fortune long, did frame vnto my will,
But I forgot, how soone shee playes the shrowe,
Euen where of late shee fauour most did showe,
I ouerslipt the time that seru'd for thrift,
As though the warres, ne did their chaunces shift.

25

In poore repastes, whose courtesie is such,
To leaue to cut, till lurchers old haue caru'd,
They seeldome say, shal surfet of too much,
Yet haply may, with want be hunger staru'd,
Who so in spoile, so stayes till all be seru'd,
Besides his blowes, an easie burthen beares,
Each for himselfe, where souldiers shift and shares.

26

But whilste I stode in fickle fortunes grace,
And swam in wealth, of want I neuer thought,
I toke no heede how age drewe on a pace,
Or brused bones at home for safetie sought,
To liue vppon the gaine that youth had caught,
But when I could, sith then I would not thriue,
Whē faine I would, then could with me did striue.

27

The sowre sauce of swete reported war.

For when the warres, my chiefest strength had worne,
When wounded flesh did faint at bloudy blowes,
When fortune thwart, her fawning face did turne,
When faithfull friendes, were reft by raging foes,
When foule debate amonge our souldiers rose,
When treason foyld, where force could neuer speede,
When hollowe heartes did droupe away at neede.

28

When thus of warres, I felt the sower taste,
Which seemed sweete, by speach I heard of yore,

For worne with toile, I homewards trudgst in haste,
My skinne well paide, with woundes and bruses sore,
But sure of pence, I had but slender store,
Thus did I spend the time that serude for thrift,
And left old age in drowping dayes to shift.

29

Yet simple I, did thus persuade my minde,
Now that the warres do naught but honour yeeld,

His last aduēture in the coūtrye made him a starke begger.

And cost in Court, did cast mee farre behinde,
My way to thriue, was tilling of the feeld,
A charge God wott, vnmeete for mee to wield
A farmer fresh, I fell then to the plow,
And coste abridgst, yet cares I had ynow.

30

I then did trust, the trueth of euery swayne,
And thought that I, a sight of lubbers kept,
When others housd, my hay lay sowst in raine,
My corne did shead, before the same was reapt,

Yll seruaunts.

Or spoild with beastes, whilst lasie Robin slept,
I bought at worst, yet sould I vnder foote,
A poore increase, can spring of such a roote.

31

Thus long with losse, the Farmer stoute I playde,
Till out of house and home, pure neede mee prest,
With beggerie bitt, then was I sore dismayd,
To trie my friendes, yet I my selfe addrest,
With squaymish lookes, who intertainde their guest,
With sower showes, my want could well endure,

An old prouerb, beggers must be no choosers.

For small reliefe, then, none was better sure.

32

In what I could, my host then did I please,
With quippes, and nippes, who cutt mee ore the thumbes,

In what contēpt the riche haue their poore friends.

But floutes in faith, could not mee so disease,
That from the borde, I gathered not the crumbes,
For poore men pincht, are glad to pray on plumbes,
Hayted and baited, time thus did I weare,
Hard lodgde, worse clothd, not cloyd with costly fare,

33

This companion was Craft.

And fettered thus (God wot) in chaynes of woe,
I sleeping once, mee thought before my vew,
A mate I sawe, that earst I did not knowe,
God speede (quoth hee) quoth I the like to you,
Acquainted thus, such friendship did insue,
As I to him, my former Fortunes shoe,
My hap, my harme, my want, my weale, my woe.

34

Which to discourse, a tedious tale I tould,
Which well hee marckt, and smyled in his thought,
Good friend hee said, thou waxest very ould,
For whom foresight, some succour should haue sought,
But well I see, thou youth hast spared nought,
Yet all thy life, thou moyldst and toyldst for gaine,
Hard was thy hap, that losse still aunsweard paine.

35

No fortune yet, but follie in thy selfe,
That losse thou reapst, in recompence of paine,
Thy course was wrounge, a pace to prowle vp pelfe,
For falsehoode must, or flattery compasse gaine,
Or else in faith, thy moyling is in vaine,
Deserte is dasde, with dyrefull enuies driftes,
And honest mindes, are put vnto their shiftes.

36

But listen well, and I will shortly showe,
How that thy want in drowping dayes shall die,
The way I know, how euery state doth growe,
From base degree, to wealth and honour hie,
Thy conscience yet, must beare with briberie,

Lewde counsell.

With falsehoode, fraude, feare not to vse deceites,
To fishe for wealth, those are the sweetest baites.

37

If thou doest loue, a faithlesse priest to bee,
If Courtiers life, in thee hath lyking wrought,
In merchauntes fraude, if thou wouldst deepely see,
If Lawyers gaine, doth tempt thy greedie thought,
If through the warres, aloft thou wouldst bee brought,

In countrie cares, if thou wouldst beate thy braine,
If Cheters craft, thou weanst, is full of gaine.

38

If by these trades, releefe thou meanst to reape,
Doe thus, and thus, and thou with wealth shalt swell,
With that hee wrayed, of huge deceiptes a heape,
The least whereof, would send a man to hell,
At which amasde (quoth I) good frend farewell,
I like thee not, thy counsell is full euill,
I liued well, I will not die a deuill.

39

At which adue, my mate to sigh I sawe,
Who sorrie was, hee had bestowde such talke

Note.

On mee, whose tale, to no deceite could drawe,
And in this chafe, away the man did walke,
And waking then, I vp and downe did stalke,
Who in my selfe, did finde a hell of thought,
To see what wyles, to compasse wealth are wrought.

40

Desire of wealth, forthwith my heart did wound,

Desire of goods draw our mindes frō goodnes.

My honest minde, did blame my greedie venye,
Thus in my selfe, a heape of harmes I found,
Afraide of fraude, yet glad to compasse gaine,
Thus both I blamde, and thankt the cousiners paine,

The remembraunce of death, hindereth vs from wickednes.

But as by chaunce, I looking in my glasse,
Mee thought I saw, how death by mee did passe.

41

With that (quoth I) away with golden glee,
Auaunt desire, of greedie gathering gaine,
Wouldst thou him binde, which whilome liued free,

The godly cōtemue riches, compassed by deceite.

Away goe trudge, thy toyling is in vaine,
The world I scorne, with my sweete Christ to raine,
No subiect I, of sathans Emiyre came,
Christ is my leage, to serue the deuill I shame.

A Larges to the world.

42

My knowledge yet, vnto the world y knowne,

The knowledge of decceite, is necessarie for the good.

May haply warne, my friends to shunne this baite,
Amonge the lewde, this seede is hugely sowne,
They daily take, this bitter sweete receite,
For why their foode, is rapine and deceite,

A large larges.

My larges yet, to all I franckly giue,
Within this world, that haue desire to liue.

43

The Cleargi.

The Cleargie they, no worldly creatures are,
They cost contemne, their weedes but homely bee,
Heauen feedes their soules, their paunche hath pouer fare,
They goodes despise, but what with Scriptures gree,
To helpe the poore, whose want they daily see,
Well these I see, esteemeth not my gift,
To get their thankes, and haue I neare a shift?

44

Yes, yes forsooth: (wel fare the fruits of fraud)
They wedded are (a needefull helpe gainst sinne)
Their sonnes full oft, desireth more a gaude,
Then at their bookes, their fathers fame to winne,
Their daughters scorne, to knit, to card, or spinne,
They Gentles are, as braue as is the best,
They royst in silkes, and gad to euery feast.

45

With smal expence, this pride is not maintaind,
And when you die, your lyuing bids adue,
If naught you spare, their brauerie then is staind,
They must forsake, their wonted Courtly crue.
Or make some shift, though shame thereof insue.
Which to preuent, this counsel Craft doth giue,
To proule for them, whilst you in wealth do liue.

46

Scorne you the Pope: scorne not to clawe his coine,
His titles leaue: lease not the selfe same gaine,
(You colours haue) how so you pence purloine,
Decayed schooles, you may erect againe,
You may relieue, the needie mysers paine,

With many moe, whom penurie doth pearce,
For lacke of skill, which scapes my worthlesse vearse.

47

The Courtier hee, will thanke mee for my gift,

The Courties

Hee spendeth much, yet little hath to spend,
Some say this course doth seeldome compasse thrift,
Yet freely here, his state for to amend,
To bragge it out in brauery to the end,
The Courtier younge, a lesson loe I tell,
The elder sort, doth knowe the forme full well.

48

For credite sake, you needes must brauely serue,
And credite wonne, is quickly worne away,
Get vp your crumbes, therfore, ere grace doth swerue,
Fawne still on them, that beare the greatest sway,
Attendaunce daunce, when others plie their play,
The mightiest please, how so their mindes are ledde,
For wisest wittes, with some conceites are fedde.

49

With lawyer soone, see thou thy selfe acquaint,
Which knowes what giftes, are in the Princes hands,
What lyes conceald, by reason of attaint,
What fee, what farme, amonge his leages landes,
Drawes to an end, that clarkly vnderstandes,
What office yeeldes, a gaine aboue the rest,
What penall lawe, to begge for thee is best.

50

Who finely drawes a pattent for a neede,
And Pattents see, you alwayes haue in store,
A time may serue, when haply you may speede,
Which fitted not so well a yeare before,
And by the way, this care haue euermore,
Well to foresee, to whom yon wray your minde,
Least in your sutes you slender fauour finde.

51

Your charge is great, shift therefore for your selfe,
For facion sake, yet flatter to their face,

But vse no course, in prowling vp of pelfe,
And if mishappe, doth throw one out of grace,
Bee readie preast, to prease into his place,
For why your ioy, comes by your neighbours thrall,
Then be not nyce, to rise where hee doth fall.

52

The souldier stoute, whom fortune still doth tosse,

The souldier.

To shadowe fraude, forsothe hath fynest shoe,
His sweetest gaynes are sawste, with sower losse,
Yea life full oft, to reach releefe must goe,
Here faintes his friend, there fightes his mortall foe,
Here bulletes towze, at vnawares him meete,
There hawlberds hewe, here bilmen doth him greete.

53

If in this dole, hee chaunce to reach a rap,
In faith at home, hee findes a could releefe,
Best therefore then, whilst fortune fittes for hap,
Hee shift for one, for feare of future greefe,
The souldier once, is neuer tearmde a theefe,
How so hee wronges, how so hee spoyles and spends,
And reason good, his life oft makes amends.

54

The poorer sort, yet seeldome compasse thrift,
To helpe whose want, Mast Craft doth vse this way,
(A pettie helpe) for such as loue to shift,
To watch and ward, to filche his fellowes pray,
To sacke the wight, that gladly would obey,
To spoile his friend, as one hee doth not knowe,
If ought be said, hee toke him for his foe.

55

But now to you, which haue both charge and sway,
You must be braue, for fame and credite sake,
Yet must you pinch, no souldier of his pay,
Lest nipt with neede (poore slaue) his heeles hee take,
In heate of blowes, before his head doth ake,
What then (well kept) a few will do more good,
Then store of lowtes, which feare to loose their blood.

56

Dead payes will helpe, to cheerish all the rest,
And likewise you, shall finde therein some gaine,
And when to filch, your souldiers are addrest,
Fleese you their pray, thē chide them for their paine,
For stragling out, from resoue of their traine,
Ne spare to spoile, when force doth foile your foe,
Take time and tide least fortune play the shroe.

57

The lawyer hee, wt doubtes that dulls his braine

The Lawyer.

For tenne yeares space, his time in studie spends,
Ere practise his, doth purchase stoare of gaine,
Too long a plague, so long to fawne on friends,
And spend on stoare in hope of after mends,
And therefore sure, deceite deserues no curse,
For working meanes, meane while to fill his purse.

58

And yet in sooth, a grote will buy his gift,
A booke of notes, remembraunce t'is to ease,
Wherein is writ full many a prettie shift,
Post facto stuf, and Non est factum please,
By larger grauntes, the lease away to fease,
Conditioned releases, how to frame,
By former wordes, the latter for to lame.

59

Such quillets nyce, when thus you noted haue,
Some practise needes, must print them in your thought,
Set such at Lawe, in wordes as late but straue,
And when they both in backhouse ditch are brought,
To poule them both, let some deuise be wrought,
Forget not this, when writings hit your hand,
(If youthes them owe) with doubtes to lame his land.

60

With hope of gaine, his greedy minde else moue,
To voyde some graunt, or worke some leases wracke.
A lease of trust, then must the title proue,
At leasure yet, this timelesse trust turne backe,
Your interest small, his greatest right will sacke,

For once in proofe, this prouerbe still doth last,
A little lyme, A foule will fetter fast.

61

Physicians.

Physicians now, that weyes how weake wee are,
Newe cures must search, our griefes are now so straunge,
Old Gallens drugges, our time vnfitteth farre,
Augmented then, his cures abroade must raunge,
For healthlesse men, on euery hope will chaunge,
But once reteynde, be sure thou vse this course,
Another blame, although thy selfe be worse.

62

The practise of a lewde Physician.

See your receites, some lightning yeeld at first,
To worke conceites within your patients thought,
Persuade him still, his paine is at the worst,
Yet heale and harme, till wished gaine be wrought,
But for the poore, see some releefe be sought,
And for your paines, let rich men (greeued) pay,
No cure performde, your custome will decay.

63

Officers.

But now to you whom office doth aduaunce,
For your behoofe, I (forst) imploy my paine,
You come deuaunt, vppon a sorrie chaunce,
Yea stocke you set, vppon a tickle maine,
Durant le vie, no longer lastes your gaine,
And ere you sway, some thousand poundes must flee,
Which is not raysde (in hast) vppon your fee.

64

In tenne yeares space, fiue hundred markes a yeare,
Unto his heire, who purchase not to leaue,

One officer by honestie, discouereth the deceites of the lewde.

Shall sure be blamde, of mysers euery where,
If truth cause lacke, most say the rest deceaue,
If all be false, few will such faultes conceiue,
Once wronge you must a thousand for this gaine,
How voyde you then, the penall statutes paine.

65

You are forbid inroulements for to rase,
To fit your friend, or foile your hated foe,

To saue old seales, to giue forg'd writtes their grace,
To chaunge records, a frendly turne to showe,
For once you may both helpe and ouerthrowe,
Yet vse you must, both meanes by slie deuise,
But frosted bee, for feare of slippery yse.

66

Prouide a cloake, to couler stil your crime,
Then worke your will, Apollo oft doth sleepe,
But if your wyles, do come to light in time,
To salue such misse, some carelesse seruaunt keepe,

A notable cloake.

Plague him with blame, when you the profite reape
What if sharpe checkes, do put you in some feare,
The gaine remaines, ye tauntes in time doth weare.

67

Mas gaylor, needes, must taste of this my gift,

Gaylors.

Extortion cryes, against his yron fees,
What then in hould, this is your onely shift,
With shackles huge, your prisoners to displease,
Thus pincht (good soules) they will pay, pray, and please,
Pence poucht ne dreade, although they stoutly crake,
To vse redresse, poore prisoners vnde lacke.

68

Now gallants learne, whom brauery still consumes,

Younge Gentlemen.

To royst in silkes, to flaunt in coulers gay,
To pranke your wiues, vp in their Pecockes plumes,
To snuffe to scorne, to looke beyond your sway,
To finde a mint, to feede your mindes with play,
To hauke, to hunt, to boast, to braule, and fight,
Which are the thoughtes that feede you with delight.

69

This cost is more, then carelesse, youthes forethinke.
But cost, ne care, their hautie mindes can vaile,
Syth not, see fines, your farmers Cofers shrinke,
Of timber trees, then strike the loftie saile,
The bodies next, will serue for bord and pale,

If all these helpes, your charge will not defraye,
But still your names, in merchauntes iornalls staye,

70

To flote your mindes, if house and land must flee,
To two or three, the same giue graunt, and sell,
Caue emptor, to thy assuraunce see,
Hap well, hap ill, some speedeth pretie well,
The rest must take their fortune as it fell,
Shift you for one, the world to fraude is bent,
Coyne stayes your friend, when fleering wordes are spent.

71

Come merchaunts come, and take in worth my gift,
Whose Lynxes eyes, in younge mens state doe prie,

Merchaunts.

Their losse your gaine, their spending is your thrift,
They broche your bagges till all their lyuing flie:
But holla hoe, a bug is Usurie,
Hee houldes you backe, from three times tenne to take,
On morgage good, least no returne you make.

72

What resteth then, your coyne will rust saunce vse,
And statute loane, cannot content your thought,
Well fare a shift, both lawe and them t'abuse,
You know in prime, each thing is easily wrought,
The dog to draw, the horse to order brought,
The skillesse youth, is wonne with euery gaude,
The reason is his thought is free from fraude.

73

To worke this feate, see that you vse this course,

Religiō without deuotion.

When dolefull knell, doth bidde a churle adue,
Send streight to know, on whom death vsd this force,
Not to this end your neighbours fate to rue,
But of his heire in hast is share a vew,
If hee be younge, well left and easily wonne,
To feede his dame, see wordes and workes be donne,

74

Some prettie summe on small assuraunce lend,
If youth be slowe, at leasure bid him pay,

Some times bestowe, good counsell as his friend,

Crosbytinge, a cusnage vnder the couler of friendship.

But helpe him to ech toy, to make him gay,
To pay for all, at length, will come a day,
By peecemeales thus, in lash hee wilbe brought,
In daunger once, let this deuise be wrought.

75

Get some to rest, and vexe this thriftlesse youth,

Note this policie.

Not at thy sute (although by thy consent)
To free himselfe from catchpoles litle ruth,
For thy goodwill, to thee his minde is bent,
To mone his state, his time and coyne mispent,
To faine thy heart, to his behoofe is fixt,
Then let aduise, with prettie tauntes be mixt.

76

But to conclude, lend him his turne to serue,

Be daūgerous to enter into a statute to a marchaunt.

Yet binde him sure, least hee do slip away,
In statutes, which, lands, goods and body sterue,
Twentie to one, hee forfets at his day,
The vauntage then, will double vsaunce pay,
Extent on land, the sale will slaunder soe,
That fee in fine, on easie prise will goe.

77

You Burgoses, which sell the costly stuffe,

Burgoses.

That wares to ebb, our gallants goodes and land,
This lesson learne, and vtter wares ynough,
Beyonde the price, of paying downe in hand,
His state and stay, first wisely vnderstand,

To take ware on trust, a notable vsurie.

Close fisted then, deliuer him thy ware,
But binde him sure, if thou his paiment feare.

78

If day hee breake, let Commens be no Leache,

A worthie custom in London.

No forfet once, the citie custome giues,
In the hoystinges, an outlawes note him teache,
Beare with his talk, his crakes, and yreful tauntes,
Lawe will him stoupe, in spight of all his vauntes,

Selling wares on credite, collusion.

Collusion thoe, this dealing some do reake.
Yet iumpe thou thus, a penal law to breake.

Scriueners.

Come Scriueners come, the frie of all abuse,
Deceite beseemes you best of any men,
Why blush you so, you neede not frame excuse,
You are to helpe a thousand with your pen,
Chetors, Cousners, merchauntes, your selues like men,
Good reason you haue store of subtile skill,
Sith you are meanes, each misers bagge to fill.

80

Bee sure you haue, the groundes of lawe by rote,
What wordes vnlose, and what as fast do binde,
Eche quillet nyse, see that you neerely note,
In paper booke, as tendes to fraude you finde,
In morgages, leafes, couenauntes vnkinde,
Conditions, bondes, feoffments, Graunts, & cetera,
In some one point, the craftie iacke still play.

81

For craft is that, that doeth you credite gaine,

Monie takers

Rich Burgoses, your chiefest clients are,
They lay the plot, but you must take the paine,
Monie takers to meash in meates of care,
They fast, farewell, such will no vauntage spare,
Thus sith your trade, doth tend to falsehoode vile,
Good reason you, acquaint your selfe with guile.

82

Cousiners.

This monstrous mate, had neede of thousand shiftes,
To feede the thoughtes of those whose forme hee beares,
A lawyers head, hee hath full stuft with driftes,
A simple looke, to free rash youthes of feares,
A flatterers tongue, to feede beleeuing cares,
A harlots face, to witche with wanton sight,
A tyrauntes heart, to wound the harmelesse wight.

83

A scriueners fist, a lackyes legge to trudge,
A merchauntes minde, to mountaines that aspires,
A gluttons throte, to shewe hee is no snudge,
What gaine may bee, vngleand, this monster then desires,
What youth vnspoilde, whose wreake this feend conspires,

And sith this mate, so manyes turne must serue,
This course, for cheates, Craft willes him to obserue.

89

First flatterie thou, must prye abroad for pray,
Thou wily must, eache gallauntes state escrie,
Companion like, with them, thou needes must play,
If able youth, Dice neede, to nip thou spie,
Unto his helpes, be sure thou haue an eye,
And one some lose, drawe neare and note his mone,
And proferre him, supplie on easy lone.

90

Now merchaunt hide, thy hooke in golden baite,
In plaine, Iohns name, yet let this dealing bee,
His simple show, will couler foule deceite,

Note this policie.

To make false deedes, let maister Lawyer see,
To get them scald, vse scriueners policie,
To meash him sure, let flatterie still assay,
But be not yet, to eger of your pray.

91

With friendly show, first worke him in conceite,
Then Epicure, thy bountie, let him feele,
To witch his witts, make mystresse Mynxe a baite,
Hee snarled once, ryng out the Cousners peale,
To forge, to rase: such stuffe then make him scale,
As ouer soone, will put him to his shift,
Noe force for that, hee might haue eyde his thrift.

92

But fraude bewrayde, if wronged youth complaine,

By the imprisoning of the complainant, the cousiner agreeth without open shame.

Then tyraunt start, to saue the rest from shame,
To stay his sute, by catchpoles lay a trayne,
With Actions huge, his crased credite lame,
In prison popt, there is no laughing game,
There friends do faile, if monie ebbeth lowe,
His sute is cold, his lawyer wilbe slowe.

Hee nipt with neede, and reft of freedome both,
As one halfe dead, in hast will sue for ease,

First make it coy, as men to greement loth,

Right Cousiners stand vppon their credite.

His slaundrous plaint, so doth your trueth displease,
As trial must this foule report appease,
In fine yet come, and ere you goe agree,
And featherlesse, let my yonge maister flee.

94

Make shiftes.

An other sort of cheating mates there are,
By neede inforst, that sues to Craft for ayde,
Whom thriftlesse life, hath wrapt in heapes of care,
In prison throwne, of succour cleane dismayde,
Whose wealth is worne, of friends, whose woe vnwayde,
Whose hautie heartes, gainst thraldome yet do spurne,
Neede workes for these, some shiftes, to serue their turne.

95

If any such, ripe witte, or learning haue,
Want ioynde with Craft, this counsell doth bestow,
(To flaunte it out, in outward shew full braue)

Counterfet Astronomers.

To faine eche acte, yea thought by art they know,
A salue for loue, fooles fortunes for to shoe,
Goods stolne or lost, with a vengeaunce for to fetch,

Phisitian:

Or faine thou art for euery griefe a leach.

96

But at the first to make your cunning knowne,

Baudes.

A baude or two, send pryinge round about,
Where louing wormes, or sickly wightes are throwne,
Old churles some haue, some loue and reape a flout,
Some sicknes catch, by keeping reuell route,
To wightes thus grieu'd, though slender helpe you giue,
Use shewe of skil, in hope to make them liue.

97

If fortune hap, to hitt some heartes desire,
You neede no trumpe, your knowledge for to spred,
But by the way, giue mother Bee her hire,
Then wil shee prate to bring a patch to bed,
And vouch for proofe, how such and such haue sped,
Although in trueth, this shifting is but theft,
Your coates for this, the hangeman silde hath reft.

98

You holy gyrles, the hindmost in my gift,

Courtesans.

Be formost yet, in fraud and foule abuse,
While beautie lastes, in blooming yeares to shift,
For your behoofe, this counsell craft doth vse,
To make it nyce, large offers to refuse,
Alooft to stand, if Vobis (rich) do sue,
The more you flee, the more he followes you.

99

If carelesse boyes, your coynesse cannot brooke,
Such gallants win, with outward shew of grace,
They swallowing vp, with sugred bayte the hooke,
With carelesse toyes, their fancies can not chase,
And when you stoupe, their hote desires t'imbrace,
Looke to your match, the world is full of wyle,
And well you wot, how sugred words beguile.

100

Still haue an eye, to beauties vading blase,
And prye for dames, which soone in prime will be,
On painted stuffe, though often gallants gase,

Painting, may helpe a courtesan, but ther end is a baude and a begges.

The wily sort, your surfling straight will see,
To fit their turnes, sticke not to play the Bee,
Scorne not for gaine, in age to holde the doore,
They once were yong, yt were your bandes before.

101

And now (my larges giuen) farewel foule guile
Farewel (O world) no wile shal make me rich,
My mynd abhorres, welth won by falshoodes vyle,
To mount by fraud, I loth such loftie pitch,
I can not scratch, the harmelesse, ere they itch,
If due desart, proude Flatterie pyneth still,
I list not fawne, play hypocrite that will.

102

Fare wel, fare wel (O world) farewel againe,

His farewell to the world, a degression that shewes a of al this couetousnesse.

Thou now God wot, frō wonted course doest reele
The clergie once, in preaching tooke great paine,
Whose words in works, bare witnes of their zeale
Most now in words, but few in workes reueale,

They teach with toung, when thought on tything is,
O wicked world, thy wealth is cause of this.

103

O world accurst, in court thou settest pryde,
Whose mynions are, fraude, flatterie, and disdaine,
They pyne desart, before his truth be tryde,
They forge offence, well meaning mindes to staine,
They cast at al, yet sildome lose amaine,
Wo worth ye world, thy brauerie works the wracke,
Of such in court, as well deserue, and lacke.

104

The souldier stout, foreseeing small reliefe,
For seruice doone, if spoyled home he comes,
Is forst to play, no souldier but the theefe,
When fortune fits, to gather vp his crumbes,
For once at home, poore store of pence he thumbes,
O world thy wealth, with rulers worketh so,
As what they haue, they hardly will forgo.

105

The lawe first made, to weede out wrongs for right,
To yeald amends, vnto the poore opprest,
Is wrested nowe, for fauour or for spight,

Arbitriment, best for poore men.

Nowe monie, so corrupts the Lawyers breast,
That daying is, for poore mens suits the best:
Yea such effects, in worldly muche doth lurke,
As iudges harme, where helpe they ought to worke.

106

Fine fare and slouth, diseases strange do breede,
And grieued wights, will spare no cost for ease,
But golden fees, so doth Physicians feede,
As seelde or nere, they rich mens paines appease,
With drinks and drugs, they still do them displease,
O wicked world, thy welth first wrought their grief,
Thy wealth againe, doth hinder their reliefe.

107

Desire of gaine, make offices so leape,
As solde they be, not giuen, who best deserues,

Who buyeth deare, feelde thriues by selling cheape,
Who wrongeth yet, from honest getting swerues,
No force for that, fewe nowe such course obserues,
Thus pelfe (O world) first makes the Doner toule,
To leauie mendes, the Done needes must poule.

108

Each pleasant paine, each sweete inticing sowre
O world thou workst, our wanton yeres to witch,
And not content, we should our selues deuour,
But churles thou sett'st, to clawe vs ere we itch,
Thou burnst the byrde, and bastes tho bacon flitch,
O spiteful world, thou hap frank harts dost grutch,
And grieuest churles, by giuing of too much.

109

The merchant once, bent all his care to seas,
In forreine soyle, he sought desired gaine,
Then was his toyle, to common wealth an ease,

Vsurie, a newe trade of merchandise.

And he deseru'd, his wish in lue of paine,
But nowe at home, he findes a sweeter vaine,
Sance venter nowe, he will in wealth abound,
Foule fall the wight, this second trade that found.

110

The reacklesse heede, youthes haue in large expence,
To flaunt it out, their cost, no care, to thriue,
Inticeth churles, with shewe of good pretence,
In prime of pride, their maintnance to depriue,

Cousiners not without friends of calling.

For lymed once, small bootes (the wrong'd) to striue,
Right Cousners haue such helps, & friends at neede,
As struange it is, to see how cleare they speede.

111

Thy pryde, O world, doth breede such wanton thought,
As most men nowe, receiue dame Venus hyre,
To stoupe faire dames, such sharp assaults are sought,
Such proffers large, such wiles to winne desire,
As wonder t'is, what fortes are set on fire,
Who sinneth not, is such a gnawing bone,
To raise this siege, that fewe will throwe a stone.

112

Fye on the world, fye on thy foule deceites,
Fye on thy fraude, thy flatterie and thy pryde,
Fye on thy shifts, thy subtilties, and sleites,
Fye on thy cloakes, thy filthy crimes to hyde,
Adieu, adieu, I can thee not abyde.
And thee O God, for euermore I laude,
For keeping me, vntainted so with fraude.

113

A comfort to the godly in miserie.

For though I haue, consumd my dayes in thral,
Now death drawes neere, my coūt is quickly made,
And well I wot, death doth all sorts appall,
The prince, the poore, yea men of euery trade,
Who lewdly liues, with recknings huge is lade,
Thus worldlings griefe, where mine doth eb, doth flowe,
A sorrie sweete, to end with sowre woe.

114

A bolde chalenge.

Through conscience, I feele no thought of hell,
I conquer'd haue, of dreadful death the feare,
Where is thy sting, where doth thy furie dwell?
Where is thy force (O Death) wher is thy speare,
Assault say I, that with my Christe I were?
I ready am, both euening, noone, and morne,
The diuell, the world, and all their works I scorne.

Lenuoy.

115

You worldlings chiefe, to you this tale I tell,
God graunt my words, be to your woundes a leache,
The fruites of fraude, vntold, you knowe too well,
Yea better then, my naked Muse can teach,
But to this end, this dririe plaintes I preach,
That hencefoorth you, to getting haue such eye,
As you may liue, as though you dayly dye.

116

And least the lewde, should wrest my worde amis,
I do exempt the good of euery trade,

The which I trust, will not repine at this,
To shew thy praise, this checking verse was made,
The Clergie first, at whome a glaunce I had,
Of them there be, great store of preachers good,
To shewe the truth, that will not spare their blood.

117

There are in court, that liue in worthy fame,
And well deserue, renoune, and credite both,
Some officers, will take no bribes for shame,
Some laweyers, are to sowe dissention loth,
And citizens, with whome I seemde so wroth,
I needes must graunt (how so my Muse did square)
Of euery trade, a number honest are.

118

The souldier now, whom I do honour much,
(How so I toucht) their faults that do offend,
I graunt we haue, of noble souldiers such,
(As maimes to fame) that will those vices shend,
I blame none such, the rest I wish amend,
Physicians good (as many sure there be)
Will not repine, the lewde reprou'd to see.

119

How so I toucht, some scriueners faults at quicke,
There are of those, I knowe of honest fame,
Such haue no cause, against my Muse to kicke,
Nor yet the lewde, that wisely weyes the same,
I blase abuse, yet touch no creatures name,
Yea to be short, I nypt no sort of men,
That truly can, with malice charge my pen.

Veritas non querit angulos.

G. W. opinion of trades (as touching gaine) written to his especiall friend, maister R. C.

Mine owne good friend, since thou so faine wouldst know,
What kynde of trade, doth yeald the surest gaine,

My iudgement now, of some I meane to showe,
And after toyle, which quiteth best thy paine,
The merchant he, which cuts the mounting seas,
With course direct, as lyes his best auaile,
The Spanish marte, whose mynde sometime doth please,
With further reach, some hoyst their houering saile.
Some passe Marroccos straights, by painful toyle,
Some seeke to reape, the fruites of Ciprus soyle,

But how or where, they rome with oken blockes,
Their liues, their goods, doth rest in Neptunes handes,
In rage some times, who rolles them on the rockes,
Or driuen vnknowne, they sinke on Sillaes sandes,
The gotten gaine they lookt, thus haplesse lost,
In lue of toyle, themselues be quite vndone,
Now vnto him, which furrowes on the coast,
And hassard gaines, on waltering waues doth shun,
Who gropes the oxe, who sheares the sheepe for gaine,
Is often doust, with dewes of rotting raine.

The handie craft, who wins his breade by toyle,
With sweate of browe, he gropes for others gaine,
He tylles the ground, he sowes with feede the soyle,
When others reape, the haruest of his paine,
To lodge the Lord, who buildes the stately hall,
Yet glad to couch, in cabben clad with reede,
For others ioy, who liues him selfe in thrall,
Who killes the sheepe, yet of the head doth heede,
His summers toyle, doth serue for winters store,
From hand to mouth, good soule he hath no more.

The captaine he, which climbes for high aduaunce,
By piercing blade, imbrude in enimies blood,
In martiall shewes, who formost leades the daunce,
His souldiers trainde, in warlike order good,
The pyke men plaste, to stay the horsemens rage,
The Musket wilde, aloofe, to souse them downe,

The byll men fresh, when handie stroakes must gage,
When gallants hauing charge, doth cry Aloun,
Then tantara, he bids in battell ray,
Be mearching mates, in hope of happie day,

But when to ioyne, the bloudie trumpe doth sounde,
The horsemen fling, to breake the pikemens ray,
The roaring gunnes, doth terrifie the grounde,
The feathred flightes, the enimies face doth fray,
The currier swift, doth rid the skonce of ake,
With streames of bloud, the ioyning vallies flowes,
And wounded wightes, for life their heeles doth shake,
Who scapeth then, next brunt may go to pot,
Thus daungerous standes, the souldier state God wot.

The courtier nowe, which hops vp by degree,
And haply heau'd, to heigth of high renowne,
If he do swerue, from top of tickle tree,
His courtly friends, will helpe to throwe him downe,
Who fawned earst, then wrayes the forme of hate,
(He honourd late) nowe glad to crouch and creepe,
Yet Enuie vile, with spite and foule debate,
So wreastes his guilt, that grace doth alwayes sleepe,
Expence and toyle, is guerdond with disdaine,
A bare reward, in recompence of paine.

The clowne doth clawe, more coyne out of the ground,
Then he whose skill, doth reach the state of starres,
Of yore though men, though learning were renound,
Wealth with those wits, is nowe at mortall warres,
By Physickes arte to credite many mount,
Where lacke of [illeg.], doth murther many one,

The three following, are the trade of surest gaine.

A sorrie trust, tyde to so hard acount,
To lende him pence, that payes the death for lone,
And yet no doubt, his gaine is gauld with griefe,
When conscience his, doth call him murdring theefe.

Great be the rents, the Clergie doth receiue,
More great their charge, the count if conscience take,
If errours their, the simple doth deceiue,
For both their misse, amendes their soules shall make,
This desperate cure, agrees not with my minde,
Although the gaine, doth tempt my greedie thought,
If so it be, that mystes of feaude doth blynde,
Or falshood faith, from former grace hath wrought,
If trades of gaine, be spyste, with deepe deceit,
The Lawyers hooke, tyes hid in sweetest bayte.

It choketh fooles, which hunger after strife,
Suppose that craft, doth sore abuse his skill,
He sleas the purse, the others soule and life,
By learnings lacke, and error oft doth kill,
He roystes in sylkes, which merchants fetch a far,
Him glad to please, the simple soule doth moyle,
His sugred charme, witch Angels to the bar,
His piercing pen, the souldier oft both foyle,
For solace sake, if he will to the court,
If any be, he soone shall see the sport.

He little weyes, so lawe be on his side,
The thundring threates, which Lordly might doth moue,
If that his cause, with countrie men be tride,
More harts he hath, for feare then they for loue,
He often pulles, a personage from the priest,
And ouerrules, by lawe, both might and right,
A kildowe sure, whom no man dare resist,
Godshield, that I with such a king should fight:
And thus thou hearst, of trades what I can say,
The lawe for gaine, doth beare the bell away.

Formæ nulla fides.

R. C. answere to G. W. opinion of trades.

I thought (my George) thy Muse would fully fit,
My troubled mynde, with heast of setled doome,
And tell the trade, wherein I sure might sit,
From nipping neede, in wealthy walled roome,
But out alas, in tedious tale,
She telles the toyles of all,
And forgeth fates, t'attend estates,
That seeld or neuer fall.

Bereauing so, the hope that earst I held,
To finde at last, a sight to set me sure,
In profites path, my thriftlesse feete to weald,
Or walke the way, that age might well indure.
Sith haplesse haps, or conscience crackes,
Or toyles of tedious waight,
She proues the fees, of all degrees,
Each course with cares affraight.

And yet I smell, whereto thy tale doth tend,
And smyle to see, thy queint conceit therein,
I write not here, thy meaning to amend,
Against thy wordes, this answere I begin.
In prime to touch, the merchants trade,
Which furrowes fishfull floodes,
Whose hap thou saist is lightly hurt,
With losse of life and goods.

Thou saist his ship, sits sincking on the sande,
Of Sillas seas, or on Caribdis rockes,
When nothing lesse, the sea more sure then land,
Then fenced fortes, more trustie hollowe blockes.
Let Neptune rage, with wayward waues,
A figge for Aeoles windes,
By anchors stay, in harbour gay,
The merchants succour findes.

As for the man that furrowes in the fielde,
Distrusting gaines, that waltering waues afforde,
The fees that oxe, and fruitfull sheepe doth yeelde,
And parched fieldes, and northren dewes accorde,
His paines do passing pleasure quit,
When greenie landes appeares,
He smyles in sweate, when haruest heate,
Dries vp the corned eares.

The craftes man, he that liues by handie skill,
By toyle and trade, obtaineth needefull gaines,
Ynough 's as good, as any feast, sith will
And quiet mynde contented so remaines,
He liues at rest in meane estate,
Contemning fortunes blast,
While such as hye aloft to flye,
He sees to fall as fast.

The noble hart, whome nature pricks to prancke,
In martiall fieldes, amid the clattering crewe,
For high renoune, to furnish vp the ranke,
Thy Muse to daunt (oh) how the same I rewe.
Sith pen, ne tong, nor minde can match,
With due deserued hire,
The factes of those, which force their foes,
By helmets helpe retire.

The courtier he, that hops for high degree,
At last attaines, his wel deserued hap,
For seruice done, he must rewarded be,
And gwerdon his, the marke he leueld at,
Which gotten, if he loose againe,
The fault ascribe his owne,
But setled wits, escape the fits,
To carelesse courtiers knowne.

The masking mynd, that mounts amid the starrs,
And wakes to write, by skill of planets course,
Foretels of dearth, of plentie, peace, and warres,
Of temperate times, of hoarie Hyems force,
Not only skill, but lasting fame,
When death depriues his dayes,
He reapes with groates, to garde his coates,
Art thriues at all assayes.

Physicians dregs, who tasteth not betime,
May come too short, if faintnesse feare to bleede,
Mas doctours drinke, deserues this praise of mine,
I neuer knewe the man, it stoode in steede,
Yet one kynde tale, and one kynde drinke,
One doctour sure hath got,
A tawnie veluet coate and pouch,
What others get God wot.

Though rents be great, that runs to clergies share,
And more th'account, their soules doth rest vpon,
Yet Christe his truth, to preach if nere they spare,
But feede the flocke, the account is cast anon,
And in reward of seruice done,
At last appointed houre,
Where Christ doth reigne, they shall attaine,
To shroude in heauenly bowre.

The Lawyer he, the man that measures right,
By reason, rule, and lawe, conioynd in one,
Thy rouing Muse, squares much with his delight,
Whose only toyle, all states depend vpon:
For Lawyer gone, good right adieu,
Dicke Swash must rule the reaste,
And madding might, would banish quite,
Tom Troth from English coast.

In corner close mid bookes of crabbed sense,
For ten yeres day, sith sore he beates his braines,
To finde the right, of things from foule offence,
Who can depriue such toyle of hoped gaines.
In doubtfull doomes he reaues the right,
And throweth force along,
With doubtfull praise, his fame to raise,
In fayth thou dost him wrong.

A briefe discourse, of the discommodities of quarelling written at the request of his especiall friend and kinseman, maister Robert Cudden of Grayes In.

As manhood is a vertue great, where wisedome rules the sword,
As great a vice it is to brall, for euery trifling word,
The rayling speach, the fearelesse othes, the standers by affright,
When quarellers like curtall curres, do barke before they bite,
But if their brauling turne to blowes, his count comes very scant,
For sixe pence strife, to buy a sword, and buckler if he want,
A reckning worsse to catch a licke, but worst the losse of life,
One of which euils, lightly haunt, the man which liues in strife,
Who so is hurt doth feele the smart, who hurtes in feare doth liue,
His foe to seeke a sharpe reuenge, some desperate stroke will giue,
If lucklesse blowe should pierce the hart, the one to death giues place,
The other liues in slender hope, to haue the princes grace.
Though suite of friendes, his pardon gets, appeale doth pinch his pursse,
But gnawing of the conscience guilt, then all will grieue him worsse,
What greater spite then spoyled limmes, with houghed legs to limp,
Or with a wood, or yron hand, the maimed arme to ympe.
This mone he findes at straungers handes, a colde amends in fayth,
A proper man, as one shall see, see what mishap he hath,
But they that know his bralles, doth say, no force, it skilleth not,
His hassard hap, hath hit the white, at which his follie shot,
His friends do count, by this mischaunce, how he doth nothing loose,
Who else would kyll, or sure be kilde, a sorrie choice to choose.
But (ah) good couse, at this my verse, the reader smyle I see,

Who sayes, behold how far from words, his deeds doe disagree,
If halfe this reason rulde his rage, his rashnesse had not caught,
A maimed hand (which true I graunt) nor tryall had me taught,
The goodnesse halfe of such a lym, which by the lesse I finde,
But sith mishap would haue it so, this shewes an honest mynde,
To warne his friends the vice to shun, whose proofe bewrayes the woe,
If late repentance wrought him helpe, he would no more do so.

The vnhappie man contemneth Fortune, and cleaueth to Hope, assured once to reach good hap by vertuous Industrie, in the despite of Fortune.

Sweete is the thought, where hope persuadeth hap.
Although the mynd, be fed with faint desire,
The dunghil drone, would mount to honours lap,
If forward thoughts, to Fortune could aspire,
The ventrous knight, whom Vallor doth aduaūce,
First cuts off dread, with hope of happie chaunce.

If hope of fame, supprest not feare of death,
In face of shot, the souldier would not run,
Or recke so small, the losse of liuely breath,
If spoyle thereof, a slender glory won.
Nor merchants would, so seeke out forreine soyle,
If hope of gaine, ne recompenst their toyle.

The murdrous mate, the traitour, and the theefe,
By conscience guilt, that bathes in bitter teares,
In hope of grace, doth sucke out sweete reliefe,
Which wears to eb, their flowing tyde of feares,
Then sith she feeds, the wights forworne with wo,
Why should I faint, though Fortune be my fo.

Whose thought doth climbe, by vertue, not by vice,
To whom perforce, proude Fortune yeldes a thral,
Suppose (sly hap) may hinder my deuice,
Feare feedes the heart, that faintes for euery fall,

If first come short, then frame a newe account,
The forward mynde, a thousand wayes may mount.

Thou seest that doultes, whome only hap aduaunce,
Dare ouerrule their betters farre in wit,
Which vailde their hope, to euery sorrie chaunce,
What may he then, whose hap with skill is knit,
Bare sway by will, as well in wrong as right,
Grudge may his foes, but not withstande his might.

Yet hardly men, by vertue do aspire,
Spight sowes suspect, till their desart be tryde,
But once aduaunst, is that the wise desire,
In fauour they, for fortunes chaunge prouide,
Then though at first, thou light in Enuies trap,
Small were by losse, which neuer earst hadst hap.

If so it be, in hope I forward set,
To raunge the world, as fortune shall me driue,
A happy toyle, if credite so I get,
As sure I shall, for what is he aliue,
But hath good hap, within so large a scope,
God and Saint George, send fortune as I hope.

How great a follie the conceit of excellencie is.

Where as dame Nature hath bestow'd, a speciall gift of wit,
And learning won by trauell long, with natures lore is knit.
If wisdome then do rule his toung, the tryall of his skill,
A passing praise among the wise, no doubt but win he will,
But once infect, with fonde conceit, how he doth others passe.
So feeding on his painted speach, wil proue a passing asse,
Or if he seekes by reasons rule, the scoffer to disgrace,
Which makes a scorne, of sounde aduice, and loues to floute and face.
Or when his equalles list to sport, to waste their sharpe annoy,
His glorious toung, is grauely bent, to countermaund their ioy.

If once they do espy his veine, their vice they wil him fake,
Then sots will straight be on his top, the residue sport to make,
If argument his betters moue, howe so the same doth growe,
If he defende or proue with them, before their mynde he knowe,
Too malapert they will him recke, and so their toil adiourne,
Thus too familiar speach in him, vnto contempt will tourne,
Where haply else, to try his wit, them selues will him request,
To shewe his reasons and his mynde, which side he liketh best,
For ofte the best, the baser choose, and leaues the high estate,
But knowes againe, when to be strange, lest he shuld proue checke mate
In honest myrth, is wisedome seene, as time thereto doth fit,
For grauest heads must haue a meane, for to refresh their wit,
Fewe wordes they say, in order plaste, the wise mans tale doth wray,
And silence is an answere fit, the noddies toung to stay,
But ouer halte in seeking praise, some myndes persuade the still,
Their knowledge silence will conceale, what then auailes their skill?
When as betweene the both extreames, a modest meane doth lye,
For to direct the wisemans tong, as needes the vse shall try.

Against ingratitude.

Periander of Corinth sometime prince,
A lawe ordainde, ingratefull chuffes to paine,
Which was on proofe, who could a churle conuince.
To reape rewardes vnrecompenst againe,
To leuie mendes, he should no longer liue,
For why (quoth he) suche men deserues no grace,
As gladly take, and grudge againe to giue,
A needefull lawe, this shamelesse sect to chace,
For what may be, a viler fault then this,
To be vnkinde, to father or to friend,
Or how may men amend their foule amisse.
Which scornes ye wights, which dayly them defend.
A Farmer once, a frozen snake did finde,
With pitie mou'd, who layd her by the fire,
The snake reuiu'd, did shewe her selfe vnkinde,
But what ensu'd, he siue her for her hire.

A morall rule, ingratefull wights to warne,
How thanklesse they, do quite a friendly turne,
But out alas, those varlets be so stearne,
That viper like, they lawe and dutie spurne,
We dayly see, the parents painfull toyle,
Their restlesse care, their children well to traine.
We likewise see, how thanklesse children spoyle,
Their parents goods, or wish them dead for gaine.
The good man oft, the friendlesse childe doth keepe,
And fosters him, with many a friendly grote,
who seekes his spoyle, when he is sound asleepe,
Or gives consent, to cut his maisters throte,
We see some men, aduaunst to honours hye,
By helpe of such, which once did beare a sway,
Which quite forget, what feathers forst them flye,
If founders theirs, by froward chaunce decay,
The traitrous mate, whose prince doth cal to grace.
Is subiect straight, to sowe seditious strife,
No maruell then, to root out such a race.
If Corinth king, ordained losse of life,
But if in vre, we nowe should put his doome,
Ingratefull gnufes, each gallowes so would cloy,
That scarcely theeues, to hang shuld haue a roome.
To ease the iust, whom dayly they annoy,
Yet doubt I not, some meanes would be preparde,
To cut them off, for both may well be sparde.

The euill fortune of a couetous person, and what profite ariseth by the death of a churle.

A desperate wight, his fortunes foule to free,
(By wilfull death) to rid his cares did choose,
But as he trudgd, to totter on a tree.
Untimely there, his loathed life to loose,
(A rare good hap) a pot of golde he found,

The gold hee rapt, his rope hee left behind,
Anon a carle, came sheaking through the ground,
In steede of gold, a rope who there did finde,
Which haplesse sight, so nipt him at the hart,
That loe for woe, hee pissed where hee stoode,
At length (quoth hee) this cord shall cure my smart,
And so hee hung himselfe in sullen moode.
The sight were fayre, if euery bough did beare,
Such kinde of fruites, till caren churles were choakt,
Whose deathes inforce, a thousand well to fare,
Their liues the poore, as many wayes hath yoakt.
The wormes reioyce, vppon a churle to gnawe,
The poore man then, whom hee did pinch of yore,
Hath pennie dole, and meate to fil his mawe,
Where scarcitie was, forthwith appeareth store.
Pray for his soule, the common people crie,
As for his life, the world full well may spare,
His hordes of gold, about the house then flie,
Catch who catch may, his goods a hundred share.
His heapes of corne, to euery market sailes,
Which close hee kept, in hope of some deare yeare,
And where hee sparde, the parings of his nailes,
His sonne may spend and make his friends good cheare,
If such increase, comes by a carrens death,
Who would not wish, a cord to stop his breath?

A briefe description of death.

Death is a piller to the Prince,
true iustice to vphold,
A terrour to the trayterous mate,
his secretes to vnfould,
A stedfast stay to common weales,
a webbe of worldlings woe,
A father to the harmelesse wight,
vnto his friend a foe.

An Epitaphe vppon the death of Henrie Cantrell of Lincolnes Inne Gent. by his friend R. C.

Sith vertuous life, death neuer may depriue,
But liueth (ay) amidde the glorious crew,
Lament not then, our, Cantrell is aliue,
In heauen, on highe, with chaunged life a new,
Then death no dole, sith life therein remaines,
But glad, hee gone, to blisse from worldly paines.

From wreake of woe, from cutt of cares anoye,
From fainting frends, frō dole of doubtful dome,
From vaine delights, the counterfet of ioy,
From sobbing sighes, whence sorrowes seedes do come,
From dread to die, sith death doth cleare vs quit,
Lament not then, good Henrie Cantrells hit.

The dalying dayes, that here wee lead alonge.
On earthlie mould, fills vp the sacke with sinnes,
Here mirth with mone, is alwayes mixt amonge,
To sowre our sweete, here fortune neuer linnes,
Hence pleasure packes, no ioy can here remaine,
No swalowed sweete, not purgde with pills ef paine.

Then laude the Lord, lament no whit at all,
Though it hath pleasd, his will and heauenly hest,
From wretched vs, this happie youth to call,
For (sure I say) his soule him liked best.
Thus best hee calls, and leaues the worst alone,
His mercie such, our heaped sinnes to mone.

Howe great a vice it is either for the vertuous, or valiaunt man, to accompanie himselfe with men of base condition, when as (acknowledging his dutie) hee may aduenture into the companie of the best.

Where vertue may, or vallor one aduaunce,
To base his hap, a loute to liue belowe,
Or credite seeke, with men of meanest chaunce.
A fearefull hart, a dunghill minde doe showe,
On thornes no grapes, but sower slowes doth growe,
Euen so by settes, no fame, but shame doth rise,
A faire catch, for such to count thee wise.

The forward minde, doth couet this at least,
To prease, where hee is poorest of the traine,
And not to liue, with those (himselfe) the best,
For sure hee shall, a lowsie kingdome gaine,
Where vnder him, do none but beggers raine,
By learninges lore, who doth the idiot schoole,
In fiue wil proue himselfe a passing foole.

The highest trees, doth keepe the vnder spray,
From Phœbus gleames, from, sugred dewes that fall,
So mounting mindes, aloft doth beare the sway,
When meaner wittes, doth liue belowe in thrall,
They sucke the sweete, when sottes do gnawe the gall,
They wrong, by might, their will makes right a mome,
Who prickes at such, but seeldome shooteth home.

Such is their force, where credite beareth sway,
A perfect tale, although the wronged tell,
Their thwarting speach, what they mislike, will stay,
The wronged wight, with wrath may haply swell,
And pleades a fresh, though not so passing well,
Then sausie knaue, how mallapeart hee is,
Away go packe, your purpose you shall mis.

But if the sot, which in their fauour stand,
Do stammer forth, a patched tale of lyes,
Their helping speach, will force him vnderstand,
The way and meanes, afresh for to deuise,
To frame his talke, from shew of trueth to rise,
A vertue straunge, their wordes can bring to passe,
That fooles seeme wise, the wise in shew an Asse.

What freer life, then others to commaund?
What happier state, then for to liue in rest?
What greater wealth, then what a man demaund?
What credite like, the countnaunce of the best?
For thralles it were, a heauen to reach the lest,
But they aloft, whom vertue doth aduaunce,
If more may bee, inioy more happie chaunce.

Who will not then; both seeke and double seeke,
To reach this hap, with hazard at the first,
The foreward wight, though fortune giue ye gleeke,
A fresh will toyle, till that his hart doth burst,
If still shee frowne, in faith the man is curst,
A fall (saith he) who recketh such a losse,
An asse shall ride, and no hie sturring horsse.

For proofe againe, the huge and mightie oke,
Whose withered roote, from falling cannot stay,
But downe hee comes, by sturdie Boreas stroke,
His fall god wot, doth crush the vnder spray,
Euen so it fares, with those that beareth sway,
If by mishap they wrapped be in thrall,
The poore doth beare, the burthen of their fall.

For where as mindes, by mischiefe raisde too hie,
Sedition sowe, their natiue soils to wring,
When Princes might doth make such rebels flie,
The leaders chiefe, well horst away do fling,
When pesaunts stay and Sursum corde sing,

They sue for grace, safe in anothers land,
When toyling thralles, are truffed out of hand.

If in abuse, of both their states be best,
Although the best, in faith is very bad,
Deseruing well, they are farre better blest,
They roist in silkes, whē clownes in raggs are clad,
They haue their will, and what can more be had,
Who will not then, how so fly hap saith nay,
Seeke out this chaunce, if vertue sayes hee may?

An Epitaphe on the death of the right worshipful maister Robert Wingfield, of Vpton in the countie of Northampton Esquier.

To shewe their cause of dole, whom Wingfields death doth pearse,
Good muse take thou a little paine, his vertues to rehearse,
Hee wel was knowne to spring, from house of auncient name,
Yea leaue his Armes, and blase his actes, and you shall see the same.
His zeale to serue his God, his care to saue his soule,
His stoute contempt of Romish ragges, their taxe, their tyth, and toule.
The Gospell, that hee lou'd, his life that showde no lesse,
Bare witnesse that in words and workes, the trueth he did professe.
Beleeue his blessings else, which hee receyu'd from hie,
The first long life, in happie health, till age inforst him die.
And then this comfort sweete, to free his age from feares,
Hee sawe his children liue and like, in credite many yeares,
Sufficient wealth hee had, ynough hee thought a feast,
Hee had ynough, hee spent ynough, and with ynough deceast.
His credite with his Prince continued from his youth,
(A sight most rare) in office plast, hee trust, returnde with trueth.
Full fiftie yeares and twoe, a Iustice place hee vsde,
For common peace, and profite both, hee seeldome paynes refusde,
Hee weeded wronges from right, by law, and not by ame,
Hee kept this course, to helpe the poore, the lewd againe to blame.
His life vpright and iust, hee ioyde in no mans thrall,
His dealings were both lou'd, and likt, among his neighbours all.

His bountie at his bord, his store for euery sort,
The hie, the lowe, the riche, the poore, wrought him a rare report.
And thus long time hee liu'de, in credite and in loue,
Till death to worke, his ioy, our griefe, his force began to proue.
But yet hee sicknes sent, for to forewarne him first,
Whose honest minde, whose conscience cleare, straight bade him doe his worst.
And so with hope of heauen, vnto the graue hee vailde,
Of which hee glad, his friendes as sad, if sorrowe ought preuailde.

Uiuit post funera virtus.

An Epitaphe on the death of the right worshipfull maister Iohn Ayleworth Esquier.

If men may waile their losse, that death hath ridde from woe,
Then giue mee leaue to weepe my fill, my sorrowes so to showe.
And though to bathe in teares, small botes, now hee is gone,
Yet none can leaue, so firme a friend, and showe no signe of mone.
When brainesicke I a bruse, with ouer brauery caught,
Hee first did cure my neede with coyne, then soundly thus me taught,
Bee stayde: for rowling stones, do sildome gather mosse.
I tryde his ayde, I likt his wordes, and still shall rue his losse.
His losse not I alone, but thousands more lament,
His children, friends, & seruaunts poore, with brackish teares are sprent.
But Oh you sillie poore, whom neede doth nip and pearce,
With hart, with hand, with might & maine, your heapes of woe rehearse.
Crye, out of cruell death, for reauing your reliefe,
You are the wightes, that haue (God wott) the greatest cause of griefe.
When hunger faintes your heartes, when you with cold shall frease,
The lacke of Ayleworths foode and fire, your starued limms to ease.
When might would marre your right, his counsell sound and sure,
His open purse to pleade your cause, the paines hee but in vre.
When you (poore soules) shall misse, with him that was your stay,
Then shall your griefes appeare as greene, as hee had dyde to day.
These were his fruites of faith, these almes hee did of zeale,
Hee wayde no showe, his woordes, in workes, the Gospell did reueale.

EXHORTATIO.

O life of much auaile, O worldlings it insue,
So shall you not be ledde by gold, but gold be rulde by you,
So shall you keepe him bright, that mouldeth in your chest,
So shall the world speake well of you, your conscience so in rest.
The sweetest ioyes of all, though death your farewell giue,
So, so: your soules with his in heauen, your fames on earth that liue.

An Epitaphe in the order of an admonition, written on the death of his verie friend Iohn Note of Grayes Inne Gent. Vntimely flaine the 2. of Nouember 1575.

With teares in thought imprint, both frem and knowen frende,
Three speciall notes of much auaile, by Notes vntimely ende.

Note first his honest life, or euery sort was lou'd,
Learned hee was and vertuous both, his manhoode throughly prou'd,
A gallant witte hee had the which hee gouernde so,
As did content all sortes of men, when cause the vse did show.
Hee had both health and wealth, his fortune was to hard,
And yet in spite of froward chaunce, Fame shall his vertues gard.

His life would followed bee, his death forwarnes his friends,
(A note of worth) of quarreling, that still with mischiefe endes.
And yet with such abuse, I meane not him to tuch,
But this I say (hee prou'd it true) by once hee fought to much,

Another note hee leaues, the which to showe I quake,
His speeding wound so rest his sense, as word hee neuer spake.
Gods pleasure in the cause, I leaue for to dispute,
Hee knewe his thoughts, wee knowe his life: then iudge t'were better mute.
Yet learne you by his fate (if you examples feare,)
You haue no charter of your life, then best you do prepare,
Your selues eche houre to die, least you be tarde tooke,
You are here warnd, with ouer proofe, into your conscience looke.

Hora mortis uncertissima.

An Epitaphe on the death of his especiall friend, Thomas Cornelius Gent slaine in the Prince of Orenge his seruice in Holland.

You lustie youthes that sometime were his friends,
Cornelius life, here may you liuely reade,
In spite of death his vertues neuer endes,
Whose worthie pathes, are meete for you to treade,
At home hee seeld, in any quarels fell,
All sortes hee pleasd, hee vsde himselfe so well.

When Flushing frayes, were roung with sweete report,
Our English youthes, post hast them thether hie,
Where as they found (Godwot) but sorrie sport,
Farre from the speach, that of the gaine did flie,
With whom in hope, who hap did well deserue,
Away hee goes the Orenge Prince to serue.

And plaste at length, amonge the drunken Dutch,
Hee quite forgot, hee went to fight for pence,
The marke of fame, was that hee sought to touch,
The which he hit, before hee parted thence,
With slender pay, at first hee was content,
And yet his minde, stil with the foremost went.

Though harebrainde youthes, at such preferment spurne,
And gape for charge, ere they them selues can guide,
Although hee had, of friends to serue his turne,
Hee left such sute, till his desert were tride,
In all Al-armes, to fight hee soone was prest,
In heate of blowes, as forward as the best.

That hee vnsawe, syld, skirmishes there were,
(Such paines hee tooke, to scale the fort to fame,)
The coine hee had hee grudged not to share,
For their reliefe, that sickly were or lame,

Of euery sort thus wonne hee worthie praise,
From best to worst, that seru'd in Holland fraies.

Two yeares and more hee tasted souldiers toiles,
And did escape when other men were slaine,
But keeping still a coile in bloudie broiles,
(I sighe to show,) God wot hee caught his baine,
Who being dead, though no man may reuiue,
Yet shall my Muse, his vertues keepe aliue.

Mors honesta ignominiosæ vitæ præferenda.

VVhetstons inuectiue against Dice.

My Muse to mount Parnassus hill,
Which whilom tokst delight,
Faire Venus ioyes to set to vew,
And wray blind Cupids spite.
Go shrowde thy selfe in Limbo lake,
This dririe tale to tell,
Of Dice, to figure forth the frute,
A second showe of hell.
There craue the ayde of wrathfull sprites,
The Authors of this art,
And ioyne with them such hellish impes,
As waytes to woorke our smart.
For sure their plagues to paint aright,
Beseemeth well the toile,
Of him that pend the paines of hell,
How Plutoes thralles do broile.
The lustie youth, with lyuing left,
Whose woe is wealth and ease,
To line his purse with powling fines,
His tenaunts pence doth fease,

Then doth hee beare a loftie saile,
As one that dreads no want,
These sneaking curs now raunge abrode,

A cheating merchaunt lokes like a sneaking cur.

To finde this nouis haunt.
One bitten dog aboue the rest,
Doth great acquaintaunce craue,
Whose kindred blasde, and friendship voucht
Hee treates of counsell graue.
Trust mee good cus, trust mee hee cries,

Crosbiting a kinde of cousoning vnder the couler of frendship.

When first I left my guide,
This towne did weaue my webbe of cares,
Before that craft I spyde.
Eche shifting slaue, did search the meane,
A mate to make mee meete,
Then hee the names bewrayes of some,
Himselfe to make him sweete.
The lustie brute which feares no fraude,
Doth count his cunning blist,
Who thinkes he hath a faint in hand,
Yet shakes syr Sathans fist.
Their friendship new, by greeting oft,
Now grafted in their brest,
His kindred coynde in cousners stampe,
Inuites him as his guest.
Who kindly thankes him for his cost,
And craues amends to make,
Then trudge they to some tabling house,
Their hunger for to slake.
Where daintie fare great store they finde,
Their naperie faire and sweete,
And gallants gay, with Conges kinde,
Their comming for to greete.
A bounsing gyrle they sildome misse,
To furnish forth their messe,
Whose chyrping tongue, with pleasaunt speach,
Doth cheare her chosen gesse.
There shall you heare described plaine,

Eche forreine towne and towre,

The table exercise.

Augmented newes of warlike frayes,
Where fortune late did lowre.
As cold as snow, some couch their scoffes,
And some to rayling prest,
In plesaunt speach some play the K,
And makes thereon a ieast.
And some so plainly figures forth,
The fruites of Venus court,
That honest eares doth scorne to heare,
Their vaine and vile report.
Their dinner done, they leaue this speach,
The gamsters call for dice,
Where posting Iacke to rub the bord,
Doth come euen with a trice.
To you, you furies, now I leaue,
This foule abuse to wray,
Their foysting shiftes my Muse doth mase,
Their othes my pen doth fray.
Tenne mine alowde some cogger cryes,
Three mine some youth doth say,
Gods bloud eleuen, (well sworne in faith,)
The caster cryes to pay.
Sixe is the maine, what do you sett,
Well tenne to sixe I haue,
Two fiues (gods hart) then for the house,
The boxer streight doth craue.
And nine: Come ye and nine this crowne,
Well, chaunce at it I say,
Aumes ase (gods wounds) t'is not my lucke,
Two maynes to throwe this day.

Murderers of othes.

Some hypocrites, do murder othes,
Faire Gamsters for to seeme,
But of both euils, to choose the best,
The doubt were hard I deeme,
Perhaps some gallant fortune hauntes,
Good hap his hand doth guide,

His purse aflote, within his brest,
Doth lurke disdainfull pride.

Monie lightly wonn, is a lightly spent.

Then roists hee in his ratling silkes,
And sortes with Venus dames,
Whose luring lookes, inforce his heart,
To frie in Cupids flames.
To traine him in, hee shall inioy,
Eche outward show of blisse,
In secrete sport they wilbe coy,
They feare to do amisse.
A sute of Laune my Lady lackes,

Luers to stoupe a Curtisane.

Or else some trifling cheane,
A cawle of gold, and other knackes,
My nouis purse must gleane.
The haggard then that checkt of late,
Will stoupe to fancies lure,
And inward bend at euery becke,
No storme shall chaunge procure.
Her christall eyes shall still be fixt,
To stare vppon his face,
Her daintie armes shall try their force,
Her louer to imbrace.
Her Rubie lippes, by stelth shee will,
Bee ioyning vnto his,
With courage vaunst, her friend to force,
To fall to Venus blisse.
Then will shee play Galatheas part,
To make his ioy more sweete,
By striuing yeeld, who neuer thought,

A rape vnpunishable.

From such deuise to fleete.
To frame excuse for late offence,
The queane will cog apace,
She will alledge his sugred woordes,
His gallant giftes of grace:
So wrought within her horish minde,
As naught auailde defence,
For to withstand his sharpe assaultes,

Shee lyes it was his pence.
Naught crauing for her kindnes showen,
Saue constancie in him,
Then shee that rues her chastice spoild,
In seas of ioyes shall swim.
Which subtile speach doth force her friend,

Fairewords makes fooles faine.

Within his minde to say,
In beuties showe, my choice doth passe,
Syr Paris pearelesse pray,
Aduentrous boye, now bathe in blisse,
In scorne of Fortunes rage,
Thy good successe, in former sutes,
Good happe doth still presage,
But all this while, his purse is sicke,
It purgeth more and more.
Then runnes hee to his former vaine,
To cure his soudaine sore.
Where coemates, if hee chaunce to lacke,
The deuill is in the rome,
The maister will supply the want,
Till more resort doth come.
Who chiefely in this hellish house,

Like maister, like scholers.

Doth God in peeces teare,
With quicke repentaunce then hee cries,
A beast hee is to sweare.
Which woordes more true is then his othe,
When most hee cogs and scowle,
For one may shape an Oxes sconce,
By patterne of his iowle,
My younge mans purse, that earst was sicke,
Here reapes but small reliefe,
His newe receite doth scowre to fast,
Cheape side must cure his griefe.
Then to the Goldsmithes straight hee runnes,
Where most his credite is,

A notable vsurie.

Crackt Angels there be currant coyne,
Eight shillinges worth a peece.

Foure pound in twentie, for a moneth,
In faith is pretie gaine,
The lender may well liue thereon,
The paiment is the paine.
Then as a man with loue once matcht.
At length yet wonne the fort,
His Lady yeelding to his lust,

Both infections can hardly bee cured.

Doth thyrst for Venus sport.
So doth this youth to be at dice,
Thinke euery houre three,
One bone was sure, the frame of both,
In nature so they gree.
Now fortune frownes, that late did laughe,

There is no certaintie in dicers fortunes.

To quite him for his scorne,
Ill lucke doth chaunge his chaunce of gaine,
Good lott is quite forlorne,
One by and maine, at euery throw,
His Angell runnes astray,
He fretts & fumes, he stamps & stares,
Hee leaues a maine to pay.
His setters some, they loosers bee,
They will not so be seru'd,
They wilbe paid gods wounds his hart
Forthwith shall els be caru'd.
With monie lost, his couler stirde,
Hee bids them do their worst,
And if they dare appoint the place,
Gods bloud hee wilbe first.

Dicers quarrells.

The box then at his bosom goes,
His dagger now hee drawes,
They parted are, they do agree,
Abrode to try them dawes.
Then Smithfeeld ruffians flocke apace,
And Fletestrete hacksters hew,
The enimies meete, of ircksom hell,
They do present the shew.
Draw, draw, the villaines kill, they cry,

Then some do shewe their strength,
Some thrust fiue yeards ere foe do come,
To keepe him out at length.
The broken blades they busse about,

An il wind that driues no man to profite.

The more the Cutlers gaine,
Some hops for neede, which faine would go
Some lies in streate nie slaine.
Some siouins sleues will buttoned bee,
That downe theyr weapons fall.
The Barber waites, the wounded wights
Lookes like the whited wall.
To rue his hap on euery side,
His fained friends do flocke,
His minion kinde to wrap his wounds,
Will now bestow her smocke.
Not all for greefe of his mischaunce,

Some visite the sicke more in hope of gaine, then deuotion.

This kindnes they do showe,
But greedie gaping after gaine,
If death should ease his woe.
His daunger past, by Surgions art,
They do present their bill,
The which defraide (with other charge)
His feeble purse doth kill.
He keeping home when debtes were due,
And payment none was made.
Doth breede mistrust in Merchants minds,
His credite ginns to vade.
To sell his land, full loth hee is,
A thred hee fairely spinnes,

What ensues after morgaging.

To morgage it hee fully minds,
To thriue hee now beginnes.
Now blewberds bagges doth beare the sway,
Did snudges smell him out,
Good simple soules they plainly meane,
Yet trauerse euery doubt.
An hundreth pound they venter will,
On land fiue hundreth worth,

In Scriueners craft consist their lawe,
Poore subtile men forsooth.
The ruddockes redde do tempt his eyes,
The instruments be made,
In faith to sowre his sweete receite,
Before digestion had,

A statute a perilous bonde.

Some vnaduised statute hee,
Without defesaunce wrought,
Doth enter in, their gold to gaine,
Their guiles hee feareth nought,
They perchment reape, hee gold doth gleane,
Who toyles in straitest yoke,
For present state, I will not iudge,
Hereafter strikes the stroke.
Now hee for feare of sergeants sauce,
That sicknes late did faine,
In euery streate, which sight presents,
His presence you may gaine,
The Mercers bookes for silkes bee crost,

A welcome guest.

His debtes bee now defraide,
The remnaunt doth the dice consume,
Of all, which worst is paide,
Redeeming day, drawes on a pace,
His monie cleane is gone,

Credite once lost is not easilie obtained againe.

His creditors through late mistrust,
Forsooth will lend him none.
Then doth hee trudge to Holdfastes house,
His great distresse to wray,
Of him to get a longer time,
His monie for to pay.
Who aunswers, fayre, that God forbid,
My conscience I should stretch,
To take aduauntage of a day,
(Oh false dissembling wretch,)
The fained woordes hee simply trustes,
The merchaunt did accord,

As though bare wordes were good discharge,

Bare words an yll plea, against matter of recorde.

For matters of recorde,
Now is he forst to try his friendes
His monie to prouide,
Where he on flocks may see them fleete,
Which fawned in his pride.
Yet some there be for his distresse,

Necessitie tries frends

Whose harts with bale wil bleede,
And findes the meane to lend him coyne:
Well fare a friend at neede.
Aduaunst with ioy, to pay his pence,
In haste now is he gone,
But cut throte giues a cooling carde,
For monie he will none,

A cooling carde.

His lande is his, by forfaite plaine,
Which is too sweete to lose,
For kindnesse yet, he will be franke,
He playes now with his hose,
Holde twentie poundes, besides to drinke,
How like ye of this match.
For fiue to haue fiftene with him,
In faith is but a snatch.
The youth againe, will haue his lande,
Or else (Gods wounds) he sweares,
The pillorie for cousining him,
Shall moth eate both his eares,
And in this chafe, he doth depart,
Sub penas for to fetch,
Which raunge abroade in euery streate,
To catch the cousining wretch,
Who caught, his prankes of deepe deceite,
The youthlings plaint bewayes,
And shewes ere time of forfeit came,
He gaue him longer dayes,
To answere which denying all,
The craftie carle now speedes.
With rough reply, the plaintiue soothes,

His plaint of truth proceedes,
The gnawing worme, of conscience vile,
Now bites at Blewbeards brech,
He feares sol fa, in cousners cliffe,
His eares too hye shall stretch,
Which makes him trudge, to finde his mates,
The frie of Sathans crue,
For to consult how to avoyde,
The shame that might ensue.
The packe of knauerie then they ope.
Their craftie bondes they viewe,
One shifting knaue, a forfeit findes,
To make their enimie rue.

Lewde coūsell.

The rest with open mouth doth crye,
To catch poore cousenee,
By durance hard, to make him yeald,
Which else would not agree.
Then lay they traines, of Comin seede,

Comin a Gauntalias a Serpent.

To toll this pigeon in,
Whose chiefest feathers soone be pulde,
Once snarled in their gin.
The counter serues, him for a cage,
Where breeding holes there be,
But louer lights, to scape away,
This doue cote lackes we see,
For him that earst did raunge abroade,
This ayre is not fit.
The Bench he thinks, more freedome hath,
For to refresh his wit.
More haste then needes, he findes a meane,
His causes to remooue,
And that the body come with him,
The writ doth charge the shreeue,
Well mand then comes he to the barre,
The iudge commaundes away,
Then tipstaues snatch him vp in haste,
They make no long delay.

Safe lockt they leaue him vnder charge,
Untill the court doth rise,
Then guarded to the mershals house,
This lustie gallant hies,
Who passing through the porters lodge,
Then findes no iesting game,
For Burton with his booke of doome,
Requesteth him his name.
Roger Woodcocke of vnthriftes rowe,
What gentleman or squire,
Ten grotes and two pence you must pay,

A gentle admittance

I do but right require.
Which payd, a while to viewe the house,
He lets him go at large,
But soone the vermine comes againe,
To giue the second charge.
Your worship knowes the losse sayth he,

A gentle persuasion.

My maister should sustaine,
If any prisoner should escape,
Their ease his little gaine,
And therefore each of you he may,
By lawe in yrons lay,
Yet he for pitie trusteth you,
Your penance is to pay.
For them three halfpence in the pound,
Your actions yeald thus much,
Which trifle for your ease to giue,
Your worship neede not grutch.
Then may you in the garden walke,
When you haue payd your fees.
Thus euery way the poore is pincht,
To plucke him on his knees.
An answere faire the prisoner makes,
Which doth content the time,
Then he to seeke his fellow mates,
The stayres straight doth clime,
Some subtile lawyer soone he findes,

The Kings Benche neuer without a subtil Lawyer.

Who great acquaintance craues,
To whome he shewes, his lucklesse lot,
Enforst by shifting slaues.
And lastly, to his skill commends,
If yron fees be due.
Extortion plaine, the Lawyer sayth,
His wordes be very true,
The statute here at large I haue,
Set downe for prisoners ease.
The Gaylor can by lawe receiue,
A groate, no more for fees,
And in your other causes I
The snudge will sharply yoke,
But looke your counsell lackes no coyne,
For monie strikes the stroke.
Which monie killes the heart of him,
Whome present neede doth pine,
Yet he at first, do share him fees,
As though he had a mine,
And all on hoyh, he rashly reakes,
His prisonment a scorne,
And vainely vaunts, to plague his foe,

Saturday a heauie daye to needie prisoners.

Till Saturday at morne.
Corrections then be sharply giuen,
To them which monie lackes,
Now Burton comes for yron fees,
My youth now stoutly crakes,
If he extort where is no right,
The statute to prepare,
And sweares to make him pay the paine,
And damage for his share.

Might ouercomes right.

But here no lawe nor right do rule,
Ne vaileth threats nor crakes.
With boltes and shackles on his shins,
His loaden heeles he shakes.
Where late was golde, an yron chaine,
Do well beseeme the necke,

His wrystes in steade, of braslets braue,
With manacles be deckt,
And nowe they will him coole his feete,
He cloyde with yrons great,
For all his lawe, is glad to pay,

Necessitie obeys not lawe.

Yea more then that entreate.
Thus he that thought Caribdis rockes,
By wisedome to escape,
By follie fell in Sillaes gulfe,
His greater griefes to shape,
How speedes he nowe in all his suites,
When all his pence be spent?
Unfeed do Lawyers ply his cause,
Till newe receit of rent?
Nay, Niclas nihil dicet sure,

Nihil dicet, a vauntage a cousiner seekes.

To nip him to the hart,
In execution layes him vp,
For feare that he should start,
He fast, his fained friends yet free,
To see him be not rash,
And Mynx his minion hath a mate,
And leaues him in the lash.
For Haggard like, she will not stoope,
But where she gets her pray,
His coyne consumd, his courage coolde,
In hope she will not stay.
What restes nowe, to this lucklesse man,
What pen his woes can wray,
Of friends forlorne, of freedome reft,

A miserable estate.

And he at beggers bay.
Thus gaulde with griefe his Lawyer yet,
This slender shift doth vse,
And sayth that prisoners be opprest,
And all men do refuse,
To ease their wants, and therefore sure,
The best is to agree,
He may the better plague his foes,

Abroad when he is free.
Which freedome so doth feede his hart,
Whome present bondage nippes,
That he through hope before his hap,
For ioy now hops and skips,
And then in hast, for holdfast sends,
Agreement for to make.

Any cōpanion.

But once or twise he must be praid,
Ere hee the paines will take,
And then with one or two he comes,
And vp and downe be iets,
Nowe do I smile to shewe the speach,
Betwixt these counterfets.

The one through necessitie, the other through hypocrisie. The prouerbe verified.

The youth that roughly rayld of late,
A pitious plaint doth paint,
The diuell him selfe in Christian shewe,
Doth counterfet a Saint,
But after many wordes of griefe,
That either part can say,
The youth perforce the candle holdes,
And beares the blame away,
And gladly yealdes him selfe in fault,
Whose crauing suite nowe is,
That cutthrote will, release him of
The penance of his mis,
And take such order as they both,
In friendly league may liue.
The more that he in prison spendes,
The lesse he hath to giue,
As though that conscience mou'd his mynd,
The merchant doth lament,
Through peeuish pride and hautie hart,
His pence and time mispent,
And order takes his owne the gaine,
The losse he leaues to him,
Which thought wtout dame wisdomes bark
In seas of ioyes to swimme.

From prison free he nothing myndes,

The lawe prouides a remedy, for extortion, &c but the lacke of execution emboldeneth churles to breake thē.

The statute to prefare,
Nor for the cousning shiftes he vsde,
To cloy the churle with care.
But runnes vnto his former vaine,
If ought he haue to play,
To posting then he somewhat puts,
His commons to defray,
Some Cheater haply will him teach,
Some coging trickes at dice,
Whereby he may mainteine him selfe,
If therein he be wise.
Then is he set a sale to toule,
Some other yonkers in,
To make them bite at vnthrifts bayte,
While he their pence doth win.
Some can not brooke this seruile life,

Ventures barge.

But needes in ventures barge,
Will seeke a price, but howe they speede,
I leaue to shewe at large.
The sweete report of souldiers gaine,

Souldiers gaine.

By them that lacke the sower,
Persuadeth straight some ventrous mynde,
To scale dame Fortunes bower.
But Flushing frayes, hath wrought such feare,

Flushing.

That they suspend their hope,
If one did gaine, then two were slaine,
The thirde did stretch a rope,
And beggers most returnd againe,
Unto their natiue soyle,
For Holland yealded litle thrift,
In lue of all their toyle.
And some with trifles seekes to thriue,
But fewe do speede so well,
And with a litle haply learnes,
Repentance for to spell.
The seruing man, that plyes this vaine,

Of seruing men.

A shorter cut doth make,
He hath no fines to fill his purse,
Nor racked rents to rake,
His way for to supply his want,
Is by the Scottish cog.
But finely he must strike his dye,
Least yrons do him clog.
And worse then that, to make him sure,

The hangmans cog.

In haste doth hangman speede,
Where he in cogging winnes the coate,
For that he strikes him dead.

Of husbandmen. &c.

The plowman, and the poorest sort,
Which toyles and sowes the soyle,
And sixe pence by the day doth gaine,
In recompence of toyle,
If he at night, consume at play,
The price of all his hire,
His wife with hunger well may sterue,
His children freese for fire.
O horned hap, of hatefull harme,
O venom vile to tell,
O greedie gulfe of endlesse griefe,
O horror next to hell,
O foule infection, fraught with care,
O sinke of such a sent,
Which neuer leau'st thy poysned thrals,
Till all their wealth be spent
For not in vaine, Agrippa writ,
The fiends of yre you made,
An Art most fit for hellish ympes,
And not for Christians trade.

Pride.

A spring from whence all vice did flowe,
Of peeuish Pride the nurse,
For note the dicer, roystes in silke,

Lecherie.

When pence be pert in purse.
Then must he prease in pleasures court,
To be of Venus traine,

Which soone will purge his foggie purse,
From all their pinching paine.
His body earst that able was,

Sloth.

To serue at eache assay,
By sloth, &c. is so weake,
That faintnesse bids him stay,
To shewe the valure of his mynde,
Till natures griefe be easde.
His fearelesse othes will feare the diuell,

Blasphemie

When losse hath him displeasde,
When malice moues him to reuenge;

Wrath.

His quarels do excell,
His carelesse slashing at his foe,
Doth wray the fourme of hell.
An Epicure for his fare,

Gluttonie. Couetousnesse.

Such is his costly cates,
His mynde is bent to snatch and catch,
Yea more to rob his mates,
When all is spent and credite crackt,

Despaire.

Despaire then strikes the stroke,
And makes him gape in hope of plumbes,
For pence will shun his poke.
And thus you heare in ragged ryme,
For so be seemes the worke,
What veines of vice, what lakes of losse,
In dogged dice doth lurke,
For loftie verse vnfitly serues,
To paint the plagues of hell,
Though not the same, yet next thereto,
This dogrell rime doth tell.
How youthes from rod, to freedome leapt,

The sum of the whole discourse.

Are thrall to sharper whips,
Whom cousner first, whom cutthrote next,
Whome lawyer lastly nips.
The braunches of the cousners tree,
Are whordome, theft, and pride,
From cutthrotes rout, doth bondage spring,

With losse on euery side.
The Lawyer lickes that they haue left,
And lets him sinke or swim,
Pure neede then makes him leane on those,
That earst did liue by him.
Although at large I here do touch,
Each vice in his degree,

Exceptions

A speciall meaning hath my wordes,
To graunt that some there be,
By rules of lawe, which rightly liue,
And not which rules the lawe,
To wrest the sense to serue their turne,
Their clyents coyne to clewe,
Some merchaunts rise by honest meanes.
And not by craftie shiftes,
Some tabling halles in fayth I iudge,
Are free from cheters driftes,
The which I trust will not repine,
Or quite my toyle with blame,
Nor yet the guiltie well may grudge,
Which wisely wayes the same.

Quod nocet docet.

The fearlesse othes that dicers vse.

Fiftie apples of admonition, late growing on the tree of good gouernment: bestowed on his especiall friends and companions, the Gentlemen of Furniuals In.

God 1. Prince. 2. Officers. 3.

Serue , loue, and dread you God on high, obey your Prince on earth,
Unto your betters dutie shewe, be they by rule or byrth.

Lawe. 4. Expence. 5. Scarcitie 6.

Liue you within the bounds of lawe, and tether of your fee,
For lightly after one yeares store, of scarcitie commeth three.

Studie. 7. Fraude. 8.

Use studie when your wits are fresh, and aptest to conceiue,
But studie not the fruites of fraud, your neighbour to deceiue.

Use exercise with such a meane, as workes your bodies wealth,

Exercise 9. Sloth. 10.

And too much toyle doth hinder strength, & sloth impayreth health,

Make choice to choose such companie, as are of honest fame,

Companie. 11. Vnthrifts. 12.

For to be seene with thriftlesse men, impayreth your good name.

Use modestie in all your wordes, despraise no man too much,

Modest talke. 13. dispraise. 14.

For lauish speach breeds great vnrest, in you and them you tuch.

Make you no shewe of such conceit, how others you excell,

The cōceit of excellencie. 15.

For if you doe, the wise will say, wit with a foole doth dwell.

Inforce your selfe, silence to vse, when others tell a tale,

Silence. 16.

For babble then, both troubleth them, and sets your wits to sale.

Haue care to vse some recompence, where you beholding are,

Recōpence 17. Ingratitud. 18.

For trust me with ingratitude, no honest mynde can bare.

What so your friend commits to you, be euer secrete found,

Secretnes. 19. Toung. 20.

Who giues his toung much libertie, doth all his body wound.

Beware of taylers curious cuts, for they will shake your bags,

Taylers. 21. Apparel. 22.

The merrie meane I holde for best, tweene roysting silkes & rags.

The tipling tauerne, and such like, to haunt haue small desire,

Tauernes. 23. Drunkenes. 24.

Of all reports it is the worst, to be a drunken squire.

Who quarels much hath care enough, with mischiefe oft he ends,

Quareling. 25. Pertaking. 26,

Saūce need throw not your selus in brals, in need assist your friēds

Shun you ye trains of wantō dames, whose bayts are sweet in tast

Wanton dames. 27.

But yet in truth, helth, welth, and fame, the courtesan doth wast.

As high way vnto beggerie, beware of dogged dice.

Dice. 28.

The greatest cause of blasphemie, a vaine of filthy vice.

Out of the merchants iurnals keepe, buy sildome wares on trust,

Wares on trust. 29.

Such vsurie bites aboue the rest, do try it who so lust.

Morgage. 30. Cutthrots. 31.

In neede make choice to sell out right, before you morgage lande.
What so befalls, looke for no grace, at any cutthrotes hande.

Sealing and safe keping of writings. 32. 33.

Looke what you seale, read ere you seale, therin trust no mās truth
And writings seald, keepe safe your owne, lest had I wist ensuth.

Suretiship. 34. Friendship. 35.

Haue great regard to suretiship, all is not golde that shines,
Yet stretch your selues, to help your friend, wt penurie that pines.

Marriage. 36. An ill wife. 37.

Whē wedlock life, doth like your mynd, match wt a vertuous maid
The mischiefe of the contrarie, a plague next hell is sayd.

Countrie. 38. London. 39.

And married wel, the citie leaue, sing then Pierce Plowmans song,
For women vsde, to London once, will euer thether long.

Neghbors. 40. Good report. 41.

Where so you liue, haue great regarde, to vse your neighbor well,
A good report in my conceit, doth riches farre excell.

House keeping. 42. Poore. 43.

What some consume in painted pride, good house keep you withal.
Relieue the poore in any case, let chaps walke in your hall.

Seruant. 44. Flatterer. 45.

Intreate your honest seruant well, giue him his hired due,
The flatterer and the make bate wretch, in any wise eschue.

Wrangling in the lawe. 46.

Account that wrangling in the lawe, is enimie to rest,
A spoyle of fame, a losse of time, a theefe that robs your chest.

Duties of an honest mā. 47.

This reckoning make to serue your selues, you are not only born,
Your countrie, friends, & children looke, each one for som good turn.

Reliefe. 48.

Three sorts of men, with speciall care, salue you their needy griefe,
The scholer forced from his booke, abroad to seeke reliefe.

The souldier spoyled in ye wars, whose hassard works your peace,
And next the simple husbandman, who toyles for your increase.

So spend your time, as you may leaue, some monument of fame,

Fame. 49. Death. 50.

Preferre an honest death, before a life prorog'd with shame.

Quod cauere possis, stultum est admittere.

A caueat to G. W. at his going into Fraunce, written by his friend R. C.

Post haste, since so thou mak'st, the coast of Fraunce to see,
Thy frends aduice in baren verse, good George yet take wt thee,
Haue thou a haught disdaine, which art a Bryttan bred,
At thy returne, to proue howe that, French follies filles thy hed,
In natiue soyle disguis'd, thy selfe God shield thou showe,
In coate, in cloake, in hat, in hose, a French man like to go,
French shoes, made fast with pointes, in doublets syde and wide,
Which French men weare (God wot) for ease, sute not thy selfe through pride
What tendeth to thy thrift, to folow, not refuse,
Keepe thou one seruant and no more, but not as french men vse,
For wages pay not words, as is the guise of Fraunce.
Array him not, in tattered rags, french like, or nakt to daunce.
One meale, no more a day, is pittance very small,
To like wel of, such french like fare, few English yeomen fall,
Let gesture, words, nor weedes, inforce thy friends to say,
Behold a frenchman wher he flaunts, if face be turn'd away.
Which face french like to sute, good George take special heede,
In taste the baites are very sweete, that do such cankers breede.
For to pronounce thy wordes, yea french and all first lose,
Afore thou spoyle thy English tong, with snufling in the nose,
Thou knowest what I meane, thy wit is good and quicke:
Yet wise men oft before they looke, fast in the myre sticke.
But ere thou rashly leape, the ditches I reueale,
The plainesse of my Muse bewrayes my warning is of zeale.
My ioy thy profite great, if thy returne do showe,
Thy trauell tends to countries good, not french man like to goe.
The rage of retchlesse youth, thy trauell did allay,
And not thereby with proudest shewe, to royst in garments gay,
That thou canst yeald account, what is the countries state,

What newes of note, do run abroade, as well of loue as hate,
These fruits thy friends expect, at thy returne to reape,
But stay I here, into aduice, my Muse too farre doth creepe,
She ment not to direct, how thou shouldst vse thy time,
She ment french follies, for thy heede, to touch in naked rime,
Well, since she rou'd so farre, alowe what she hath sayde,
My inward wish (for thy auayle) she hath no more but wrayde.

Viue & vale.

Whetstons Dreame.

I waying once, my harmes by others health,
By iust account, I found the selfe same thing,
Which weaud my wo, did worke anothers wealth,
Which wrought my pain, to some did pleasure bring
Thus cloyd with care, to see my lucklesse lot,
My senses fayld, as though I were a sot.

Yet Sopors beames, so could not cleare my brest,
But stormes of care, did shower in my thought,
Thus slumber sweete, did yeald but little rest,
For pinching paine, supprest that pleasure wrought,
But as my woes, did wander here and there,
My thought I sawe, an aged man appeare.

Yet such a one, as care me seemd to cloy,

Patience.

And Patience, he did name him selfe to me,
Who had me straight, to bannish all annoy,
And of these doubtes, I soone an end should see,
Then I with him, pursude the most resort,
Unto a place, which seemde a princes court.

Whereas my thought, sat crownd a famous queene,
By due desart, to beare the regall sway,
Whose princely rule, hath seldome earst ben seene,

As though the Gods, dame nature did obey,
That iustice should, degrade them of each grace,
Her to inuest, with rule of vertues mace.

Upon whose grace, did nobles graue attend,
By whose foresight, in peace her subiects liue,
And valiaunt peeres, were ready to defend,
If forreine force, would once aduenture giue,
By warlike frayes, to worke our great vnrest,
With fire, sworde, and piercing speare in rest.

Within this court, clothed in honest shewe,
Was Enuie, Hate, Ambition, and Deceit,
On whome to waite, whereas these fiends did go,
Base minded wights, were ready at the gate,
Which neuer sought, that vertue should aduance,
Their hautie mindes, to height of happie chance.

There might I see, of men another race,
Which seemd to wayle, their woes wt weeping eye,
Whom these same sprites, had shakē once of grace,
By false suspect, and filthy flatterie,
And well I markt, how they did crouch & creepe,
And all for grace, which euermore did sleepe,

Then I espide, another valiant crewe,
Which lookt aloft, by vertue to aspire,
Unto the roome, to their desart ydewe,
If due desart, had reapt deserued hire,
But vertue gapt, and gained nought but plums,
For flatterie catcht, before they fell the crums.

Quoth grayberd then, such once was my good hap,
To be aduaunst, to height of great renoune,
But I too soone, was caught in Enuies trap,
Where false suspect, by flatterie kept me downe,
Then patience I, perforce a vertue made,

And left with losse the countries tickle trade.

The foorth we go, into another place,
By outward shew, wher saints my thought did sit,
Whose gentle speach, presaged endlesse grace,
There loose their gaine, they voucht by sacred writ,
These prelates were, their words deseru'd their roome,
But sure their deedes, I leaue to others doome.

Hypocrisie did beare a vengeance sway,
His double tong, did bleare the clergies eye,
He still affirmde, t'was true that they did say,
Gainst their deuice, a thousand woes did cry,
Mas Ignoraunce, a minister was made,
Who babbled much, yet wist not what he sayd.

Yet sure this clarke, did so in scriptures creepe,
As voucht the same, to cloake each crime he could,
Pasce oues, he tooke for grasing sheepe,
Which well he fed, and daily viewd his fould,
And yet this sot, with pence procur'd such grace,
As oft he wrought, true preachers out of place.

Then out we goe, into a pleasant plaine,
In armour bright, where gallants we espy,
The captaine stird, the souldiers rawe to traine,
Of some vnwisht, vnwares their foes drewe nye,
The cannon crackes, like thunder claps did sing,
At trumpets sound, the horse men forward fling.

In formost frunt, the fearelesse youthes did fight,
Which honour sought, and so with honour dyde,
The fencer there, prou'd not the forwardst wight,
Base minded Dick, the spoyle, not blowes applyde,
The coward yet, a loofe did catch a licke,
As soone as he, which throngd among the thicke,

When fearelesse blowes, had driuen their foes away,
To slash and slay the cowards did not spare,
When spoile was giuen, the souldiers paines to pay,
Who best deseru'd, did reape the barest share,
Thus vallor fought, and falshoode fleest the spoile,
The coward thriu'de, who least of all did toile.

These bloudie broiles mee thought, wee then forsooke,
And soone wee slipt into a stately hall,
Now well apayde about the same I looke,
For glad I was, I scapt the souldiers thrall,
And proudly then, I throngd amid the preace,
For that their weedes bewrayde, the men of peace.

Within this hall, were kept the Princes courtes,
Where Lawyers sate, as Iudges in the same,
To shew their griefes, more hast then needes resortes,
Both hie and lowe, the riche and poore of name,
Pro et contra, for pence at euery barre,
In right and wronge, the lawyers were at iarre.

In faith quoth I, these men deserueth praise,
For Iustice cause, which thus imployes their paine,
But I to hie a note, their names did raise,
In right or wrong, they still did gape for gaine,
And as I walkt, I saw one wrapt in woe,
Which much complainde, of matter de post facto.

Speake English man, what meanes these words (quoth I,)
Oh syr hee said, a quillet in the lawe
Alas it is, which makes mee howle and crie.
And looking backe another man I sawe,
Of whom I askt, why hee did looke so glum,
Hee plagued was, with plees of non est factum.

I smyling then, to heare the clownish drone,
By neede inforst, to talke hee wist not what,

But as I learnd the cause of all his mone,
More pittie sure, a lawyers friend how that,
To pay him pence did enter into band,
The which hee seald, and liuered with his hand.

But after catcht, by craft the selfe same bill,
The former seale, he falslie toke away,
Another seald, the same which he did spill,
And vnsuspect the bond there downe did lay,
Which forfet once, in law they fall at iarre,
The seale was off, was pleaded then in barre.

There might I see releasses finely framde,
Prouided yet, that if such thinges were done,
Which latter wordes, by former force were lamde,
Who so releast, a faire thred then hee spunne,
With thousand toyes, which I do here omitt,
Did cousening Craft within his capcase knitt.

I lately feard, to see the fearelesse blowes,
The proud attempes, assayd by desperate men,
Here rouled bookes, my manhoode ouer throwes,
I durst not bide, the truncheon of a pen,
Yet well I markt, how mercie bared sway,
The conquerd wightes, were prisoners sent away.

But for this grace, their raunsome sure was great,
The gaylor fleest, the lawyer had a share,
If pence were spent, cold yrons made him sweate,
Hard beds well payde, poore cheere was costly fare,
Agreeued much, extortion bare such sway,
To patience, I, mee thought these words did say.

Can cousening shiftes, thus conscience foyle in sight?
Where is no right, may hellhoundes thus extort?
Shall periurie condemne the guiltlesse wight?
And may it bee, suborning, should support?

The lewde in lies, when grace is not their stay?
Can Iustice rule, a right, with parciall sway?

Content thy selfe, quoth patience then to mee,
Good lawes are made, to punish their amisse,
But pence their wronge, doth couler oft wee see,
And want doth ware, the poore mans right I wisse,
And thus thou seest, presented to thy sight,
The prouerbe old, how might doth maister right.

Then out wee goe, I glad to leaue this hell,
But soone wee shipt into as hard a vaine,
Where Usurie with bagges of gold did swell,
Who much complainde of penall statutes paine,
And ioynde with craft, the same for to preuent,
Now this, now that, the myser doth inuent.

On casuall chaunce, I may my monie lend,
Yet hassard small, shall happen by my marte,

A perilous casualtie.

If I my wife, my seruaunt, child or friend,
Do goe to Powles, and home againe reuert,
Then twentie in the hundred you shall pay,
This gaine is small, forsooth doth Holdfast say.

Collusion then, did catch him by the backe,
And feasde his pence, which songe loth to depart,
To leuey mends, the harmles went to wracke,
Thus salued was his sore by others smart,
Couetousnes, went myching vpp and downe,
His iacket pilde, and threadbare was his gowne.

But banckrowte sure, did braue it with the best,
His cape of cloth, with veluet linde within,
His hoase of silke, with stitches straunglie drest,
More cost hee said, more worship did him win,
But well I markt, how soone this pride decayd,
His heeles he tooke, when debtes should be defrayd.

Some kept their house, and durst not shewe their face,
Some were betrayde, and came in cutthrotes handes,
Then plees of neede, did purchase, litle grace,
Past starting now, they tyde in Darbyes bandes,
In prison vile, of force must lye and rott,
Till they haue paid, their debt and cost God wott,

Then forth wee goe, into a paltrie towne,
Where vnderprops, eche stagering house did stay,
I chaunste to meete, a sillie countrie clowne,
Of whom I askt, what wrought their townes decay,
Who aunswerd straight, your masships honour sees,
Yond goodly place, that pluckt vs on our knees.

Yond stately walles, our chiefest stones did steale,
Which were the stay vnto our feeble farmes,
For want of strength, then did our houses reale,
And worse then that to worke our greater harmes,
Inclosures great, so in our commons creepe,
Where kine wee kept, wee scase can keepe a sheepe.

Yet racked rentes, increase our landlords gaine,
Wee moile, wee toile, wee worke, both morne and Euen,
Our landlords reape, reward for all our paine,
To pay our rentes, and make the world euen,
Doe what wee can, wee compasse very hard,
With farmers now, the wonted world is mard.

When hee did raise, besides his Landlords rent,
Old gold good store, to serue him at his neede,
The cribel loafe, about his bord then went,
Salt beefe, good souce, their hungrie mawes did feede,
A stand of ale, hee euer had in store,
Well come gossipe, a cruse of ale to the dore.

Then droyling Dicke, and toyling Tom did sturre,
To mucke his ground, to make a fatter croppe,

To serue his hogges, poore Madge his maide did spurre,
For winters cold, he hedge rowes large might loppe,
To ride abroade, he seeldome lackt a mare,
And in this sort the fermers life did ware.

But now god wott, our rentes we hardly pay,
To barlie crustes is turnde our cribel bread,
Where beefe, brawne, souce, our hungers did allay,
On cruddes and cheese, wee hungerly do feede,
A pecke of malte, doth make him ale good store:
Wellcome gossip, no drinke now to the dore.

Where Hicke and Tom, his boyes about did moyle,
He delues, hee digges, he labours for his hire,
And Ioane his wife, perforce herselfe doth droyle,
In steede of woode, now pestrow makes good fire,
Where earst hee ridde abroade vppon his nagge,
For falling now, on tenne toes hee doth lagge.

Thus Iohn Adroynes, did wray the farmers woe,
And I mee thought did pittie much their want,
Quoth patience then now time doth serue to showe,
The cause why care, thy heauie hart doth haunt,
Thou sayest thy want, is weade with others wealth,
Thy harmes are payste, with wrighes of others health.

Good reason why, thou viewdst in courtiers trade,
Both good and bad, a like did gaine expecte,
A like, not so the good by vertuous ayde,
The bad did seeke by traynes of false suspect,
The best to throw, from grace despite to spell,
Whilst they by craft, did catch such crummes as fell.

How hypocrites with shew of honest life,
In fauour creepes, when goodmen be disdainde,
How souldiers winne the field with bloudy knife,
When cowards filch, which their aduenture gainde,

How cutthrotes thriue, where conscience beares no sway,
When simple men, with want are worne away.

Loe thus thou seest the toyle of good and badde,
Thy owne the choice, their want or wealth to shunne,
The good with care, when craft with cost is cladde,
Yet if thou meanst the good mans race to runne,
Of patience here receiue dame vertues sheeld,
Which to thy fame, a sure forte will yeeld,

Noe poore mans cry, the conscience large shal blame,
Ne common speach a cutthroate wil thee call,
Report of craft, then shall not wronge thy fame,
Ne men will say, thy pride will haue a fall,
This bene he cast, for mee to gnaw vpon,
And said Adieu, of force I must begon.

I waking then amased in my minde,
Through this my dreame, gan checke my busie braine.
But better wayde, some fruite therein I finde,
Which aunswers full, of this report the paine,
And craues a place, of dutie with the rest,
Prouided yet, the reader do not wrest,

My wordes amisse, which doe no euill import,
To taunt the lewde, to praise the good a worke,
A fancie framde, to teach the simple sort,
What huge deceite, in honest shew doth lurke.
A toy to warne, the lewd by others shame,
To shunne such faultes, as breedeth filthie blame.

Inuentions of P. Plasmos touching his hap and hard fortune, vnto the which is annexed the sundrie cōplaintes; foure notable couseners, the instrumentes of his greatest troubles: which in the prime of their mischieuous enterprises, with soudaine death and vexation were straungelie visited. At the end of euery of the said inuentions, for the more plaine knowledge of them, is the reporters admonition in prose both pleasant and profitable.

P. Plasmos triumphe.

Paris vsurped roome resigne, in Lady Pleasures Court.
Thy mungrell choice in such a flurte, deserues a foule report,
Whose kytish trickes, in gadding moode with euery checke to stray,
God knowes I want both Art and witt, in coulers fresh to wray.

Sufficeth yet, thy mart to mare, shee bitt at euery baite,
Wher one good turne, in toile thou reapst, thy passage was not straight,
Why wronge I thus, poore Hellen now, shee was to good for thee,
Whom fate did cast from Priams court, a sheepeherd poore to bee.

Whereas in Ida mount, thou wraydst thy willful will ywisse,
Which wealth and wisedome didst refuse, to bathe in wanton blisse,
Yet sure thy blisse was brude with bale, thy selfe will iudge the fame,
What blush not man to blase a truth, in faith it is no shame.

Thy ielous thought supprest thy ioy, thy foes increast thy feare,
Thy loue in Armes, lou'de larumes wilde, imbracements to forbeare,
Thy kinsemen slaine, thou reft of loue, and life in litle time,
What peeuish pride then moues thy thought, dame pleasures mount to clime?

Auaunt, auaunt, giue place to him, whom fortune still doth guide,
Whose choice doth passe without her plague, faire Hellen in her pride,
Within whose hart doth pittie rule, in whom dame bountie dwells,
To whom faire Venus yeeldes her ball, her beautie so excels.

Her constant loue, longe wisht I wonne, she mou'de no goddis yre,
She shed no bloud, shee slue no friend, shee set no towne on fire,
Her modest life exiles mistrust, and ielousie doth chace,
In faith I feare no lowde Al'armes, when I my loue embrace.

And yet I dare with Paris ioyne, if Paris scorne her praise,
I enter now the listes of loue, my Ladyes fame to raise,

And proudely there my gauntlet throwes, a quarell streight to snatch,
With him yt dare maintaine she liues, which may faire Lymo, match.

Let lingring louers rest of rest, whom scorne hath left in lash.
Let carelesse suters try their force, to praise their painted trash.
Let happie wightes, which bath in blisse, my sharpe incounter proue,
Whom Venus with aspect of grace, hath linckt to yeelding loue.

And let them eake through passing ioy, which stands in pleasures grace,
Bestow their force if that they dare, my fortunes to deface.
Who bathes in waues of wished blisse, wt braue delight who maskes:
Who findes amends for euery misse, who hath but what hee askes.

[I dreaming once (me thought) dame beautie bad me craue]

I dreaming once (me thought) dame beautie bad me craue,
The thing that fed my fācie best, & I the same should haue.
My choice was quickly made, I beautie likt so well,
And yet I su'de my maistresse might, her seemely selfe excell.

Who smyling in her thought, to see my small foresight,
Such one (quoth shee) thou shalt inioy, make much of thy delight:
Unto which ende forsooth, for fortune straight shee sought,
Who did present a sightly girle, vnto my wanton thought.
My promise is performde (quoth shee) sweete friend adieu.
My fancie rendred forth with thankes, as though it had beene true:
But when I wooke and miste, this passing louely wight:
A murdred sighe, the fancie checkte, that raisde my late delight,
And fretting, forth I goe, fonde fancies for to chase,
But loe by Lady fortune signde, I chaunst to spy thy face.
Then to my selfe I said, cease Plasmos to be sad,
This is the Dame, thou didst possesse, in dreame that earst thou had,
Acquaintaunce for to craue, aduentrous boy assay,
Thou wert not nise, ne I abasht, my secretes to bewray,
I showde thee all and some, what I in vision sawe,
Thou wart mine owne by beauties dome, vnlesse thou scorndst her law,
My wordes did like thee well, or praises that I vsde,
And smyling saidst, Dame beauties hest, must no wayes be abusde,
Thus after slender sute, thou knowste whom I enioyde,
But easily wonne, as soone thou wert, through sullon will accoyde,
And in thy wrangling rage, I sawe thee raunge for newe:
I chafte through sight, Dame beautie blamd, cause Laymos was not true.
Which soone I did recant, and yeelded for to haue,
My sute performde at beauties hands, in forme as I did craue.
I askst a gallant gyrle, which vaild at first assault,
I askte no faith, nor none I found, in whom was then the fault?
In him who now will learne, to make his match more sure,
And as for thee thou dost but hinde, to stoupe to euery lure.

[Fowle fall thee false suspect, so thriue thou ielous thought]

Fowle fall thee false suspect, so thriue thou ielous thought,
Woe worth you both, you reard the hate, that all my harme hath wrought:
You did enuie my hap, when late I liu'de in ioy,
You slaunder forg'd, you mou'd mistrust, you made my souereigne coy.
Shee wronged saunce offence, good reason hath to hate,
But you no cause of filthie strife, twixt friends to set debate,
But sith my heart did yeeld such motions to beleeue,
Both heart, head, and euery veine, with fretting thoughtes to greeue:
First loue renue thy force, my ioyes for to consume,
And when desire hath blowen the cooles, till all my fancies fume:
Then conscience guilt, detect my follies day and houre,
And base desert exile remorse, see dreade, my sweete thou soure,
Disdaine, persuade my minde, my Ladies passing loue
Is chaungd to scorne, from scorne to hate, from hate reuenge to proue.
Tormenting passions eake, abate my pride in showe,
Then scaulding sighes present my state, vnto my friendly foe:
Which when shee once hath seene, with wrecke of my delight,
Despaire, end me dole with death, in my sweete mistresse sight,
But least shee beare the blame, of this my bloudy hand,
I craue vpon my timelesse tumbe, this Epitaphe may stand.

Loe heare doth lie his corps,
Himselfe for woe who slue,
That Ielous thoughts, his Lady blamde,
She euer liuing true.

P. Plasmos in praise of his Purse.

Come prettie purse, the iewell of my ioy,
The daintie soile, wherein delight is sowen,
Thou well deseru'st the title of a Ioy,
Who doth not feare, whereas thy force is knowen?
Who dare rebell, where thou dost rule and reigne?
Thou foylest kinges, by force of treason vile,
Thou clokest craft, with flattrie, feare or gaine,
When Iustice should vncase his crooked guile.
By thee escapes the traytour and the theefe,
The murdrous mate, which languisht late in woe,
Thou werst to ebb, their tossing tydes of greefe,
And graftest myrth, where mone but late did growe.
To maske with pride, thou art a visard fitt,
Thou heau'st him vp, which held the plough of late,
Thou telst his tale, which wants both Art and witt.
Thou wodcocke setst, before the wise estate,
The wilie churle, which wronges the wretch full oft,
The cousening mate whose mischiefe neuer endes,
Should sol fa singe in couseners cliffe aloft.
But that thou cloakst their craft with wealthie friends,
The thriftlesse childe by thee doth looke full hie,
Whose sparing friends at home the plough doth hold,
In Court thou art the badge of brauerie.
Who doth not fawne on gentle maister gold?
Deformed girles, by thee are made full faire,
Dame Venus stoupes through thee to Vulcans lure,
The coffing churle, doth match with beauties heire.
Such straunge consents can Lady Coyne procure,
Why stay I then, sweete purse thee to embrace?
Whose ayde I vsde, when fortune most did lowre,
My clowdes of scare, thou cleardst with gleames of grace,
My bale to blisse, to sweete, thou chaungst my sowre,
Thou sau'dst my life, with passing loue nie pinde,
Which friendly turnes, are written in my minde.

P. Plasmos complaint of want.

I whilome writ a iest, what ioyes my purse did plant,
But now I wray with litle lust, the woes of withered want.
When Purse with pence did flow, a thousand friends I found,
Now wōted wealth doth weare to ebb, their frēdship runnes aground.
When Coyne I had in claw, my wronges weare doomde for right,
Since neede did nippe, my rightfull sutes was ouermayde with might.
When wealth I had at wil, my wished ioyes were wrought,
Now want doth choke those iestes with care, & cloyes my braynes with thought.
With wealth I freedome wonne, by wealth my woes did weare,
Through lacke, restrainte of libertie, doth foyle my hope with feare.

With Coyne I seruaunts kept, which serued for mine ease,
By neede inforst, now am I faine, to pray, to pay, and please.
I ratlted then in silkes, by brauerie of my bagges,
But pouer man, now am I glad, to royst in rotten ragges.
My purse me oft preferd, to play, in pleasures lappe,
Wel may I wish, but want I shal, by wāt to reach such hap.

P. Plasmos to his mishap.

How should I frame my plaint, how shall I tell my tale?
Whom should I blame, whom shall I bane as worker of my bale?
Sith heauen and earth, are bent to bruse mee with their hate,
What bootes mee (wretch) to rage at fraude, or raile on lucklesse fate?

Whom neuer hap did haunt, but thousand harmes affraide,
In prime of youth, vntimely death, first tooke my surest ayde,
Then rose a lawlesse friend, that likt my rouing youth,
Hee gaue mee will, to sucke my wealth (alas the more the ruth.)

I lothed forced thrift, hee liked no expence,
And Tutors loue not for to toile, without reward of pence,
Which lacke to late I rue, The greater mischiefe mine,
But yet my thought, at which offence, perforce doth thus repine.

Why scornde I merchaunts trade, with baites of frande to fish?
Sith craft doth onely compasse wealth, and wealth is that wee wish,
Or placed at my booke, why plide I not the same?
Why sought I not by morall rules, my madding yeares to tame.

Sith rule must leade our life, or els wee liue awry,
Why Aristotles wise precepts, then did I not apply?
Why likt I not the Lawe, where huge deceites are sowen,
Sith wee by lawe, do hurt our foe, and hold that is our owne.

But leapt to libertie, that longe I did desire,
Why was my hart, so set on hoygh, beyond my reach t'aspire?
Why was I wedded so to peeuish will and pride?
Sith pride are will and foes to wit, and witt our wayes should guide.

But most of all to loue, why was I wretch so thrall?
Why sought I so, by raging lust, my gadding yeares to gall?

Sith neither loue nor lust, doth yeeld a quiet rest,
Why made I choice of both the euills, when bad was very best?

Ah (Laymos) once my loue, by froward fate my foe,
Ah (Laymos) first by the I knew, the workers of my woe,
But (Liros) most vnkinde, both spoild of loue and ruthe,
Ah (Liros) thou doest wound my hart, to thinke on thine vntruth.

Why did I trust thy faith, or fearelesse othes thou sware,
Thy fayned vowes, thy sugred woords, of my welfare thy care,
Sith faith is turnde to fraude, and woordes to workes vniust,
Why likte I wretch thy wilye tongue, sith treason quiteth trust.

And did I thus deserue? in faith thy selfe be iudge:
If Plasmos had, did Liros lacke? O no hee did not grudge,
To giue thee what thou wouldst, yea more then thou couldst craue,
What cankred thought then mou'de thy minde, his life and all to haue?

Whose murdrous marke (ay mee) my maymed fist can showe.
Although thou feardst, to strike the stroake, the strife thy hart did sowe,
And should I spare thee then, of death to stand in awe?
O, Noe, my conscience bids mee strike, betide what may of lawe.

Although the worst befall, death quites but death againe,
And sure there is no ioy to death to such as pine in paine,
Why miste my hart the blowe, that hitt my harmelesse wrist,
My hart it was that wrought offence, and not my faultlesse fist.

My hart did trust these mates, my hart did slurre this strife,
My hand did naught, but make defence, to saue my sillie life,
My hart deuisde the toyes, which puft mee vppe with pride,
My hart inforst my eye to loue, which manly fist defide.

And yet my hand, not hart, is plagued for others mis,
Too parcial sure, in my conceite, the heauens were in this,
Too parcial (wretch) not so, t'was neither heauen nor happe,
But harebrainde youth, which leapt the hedge, and left the open gappe.

T'was youth which stouped first, to Laymos wanton lure,
T'was youth that likt the wily wordes, which Liros put in vre,
T'was youth through smal forsight, that wrought poore Plasmos thral,
T'was youth, so present want were serud, that feard no future fall.

T'was youth that made him maske, with visard of delight,
Delight (not so) but dririe dread, to shunne the merchants sight,
And Dread the scourge of youth, for safegard of me wretch,
Did lodge me vp with needie griefe, while craft did play the leach,

In deede he playde the leach, to ease my present lacke,
But what should serue for future store, his physicke put to sacke.
He toylde in my behalfe, God wot I durst not steare,
Least, craftie traine should tol me in, the merchants wily snare.

And dread did daunt me so, that death I did desire,
Before a life of freedome reft, my hart did so aspire,
A tayle yet cloyde the land, which should me frolike make,
Where (Timeles trust) to curtoule it, did so the ioynt mistake.

That land will bleede to death, if conscience worke no cure,
Such waste wrought haste, for freedomes sake, to trust ere I were sure,
A pestlence blowe, forsooth it hurt not lande alone,
But spoyld my fist by filthy strife, and maymd my hart with mone.

Of which I youth may thanke, he snarld me in this snare,
Of force to trust, or else to sterue, with dread, distresse, and care,
Where Trust for best I chusd, although it prou'd the worst,
Such backward hap, doth euer haunt, the man that is accurst.

[Why do I liue (quoth he) to see this lothsome sight]

Why do I liue (quoth he) to see this lothsome sight,
Sith iustice is this day diuorst, and wrong is matcht with might,
Where cousnage was the clarke, where pollage was the priest,
Where deepe deceit, which gaue this dame, was father of the feast,
Where brydemen were abuse, where briberie bare the cup,
Where greedie earls as chiefest guestes, in euery boll did sup,
Where coyne was cater made, where cost the cookerie drest,
Where catchpoles false did fill the cups, at this great marriage feast,
Where parasites did prate, to free each sullen moode,
Wher cheting churles did fill their paūch, where poore mē steru'd for food,
Where countenance once dynde, and might haue cheard his mates,
Wide open then, but not before, the porter set the gates,
Yet thousandes preast to see, the res'due of the sport,
Some cloyd by craft, some foyld by force, for succour did resort,
But well I sawe (quoth he) which sight I sore did rue,
How blastes of scorne the belly Gods, among the needie blue,
How wealth did smile at want, how riches railde on right,
How vertue was supprest by vice, how pitie by despight,
How false suspect did forge, a thousand {flim flam} stayes.
In rightfull suites to tyre the poore, with cost and long delayes.
Anon the musicke soundes, and force his office shewd,
Well meaning mindes he wrapt so hard, that they his hart beshrewd,
First falshoode makes his choice, next flatterie takes his chaunce,
Then tag and rag about the house, deceitfull measures daunce.
A curious maske at night, the bridemen doth ordaine.
With shews of fraud to feed their thoghts, which care not how they gain,
Abuse did leade the bride, extortion maskt with craft,
To see deceit come hobbling on, a hundred carrens laught.
Pure neede to get a place, was glad to holde a torch.
But iustice during all this sport, was placed in the porch,
Good Ladie then (quoth he) alas and well away,
You sometime did possesse this place, this whilome was your day.

How hapneth Lucre, hath infected so your mate,
How chaunceth Truth, did suffer Craft, to enter in your gate,
What though that gaine did sowe, some seedes of Iealousie,
Might not (Remorse) attonement make, betweene thy feere and thee?
Is Conscience nowe exilde, who sometime counseld Might,
For to regard dame Iustice suite, and not to striue with right?
Are honest myndes nowe fled, doth rigour rule the rest?
Is Iustice nowe diuorst from might, doth wrong nowe scoure the coste?
Doth countenaunce cloake such crimes, as iustice did vncace?
Dare couseners false defende their faults, with shew of honest face?
They dare and doe God wot, by maintenaunce of might,
Why liue I then alas, he sayd, sith no man fauours right?
With that adieu good hope, and welcome woe (quoth he)
I see no gleames of grace appeare, my cloudes of scare to free.

P. Plasmos description of couseners.

A Lawyers head, to drawe a craftie deede.
A Harlots looke, to witch with wanton sight,
A Flatterers toung, with sugred words to feede,
A Tyrants hart, to wound the harmelesse wight,
To toll with cheare, a greedie gluttons gorge.
A Merchants mouth, of falshoode truth to forge.

A Scriueners fist, by nimblenesse to race,
To scrape, to forge, to counterfet a name,
A Lackies leg, to trudge in euery place,
A desperate mind, which dreads no kinde of shame:
These lims well linckt, and set on couseners soyle,
A worke were sure, of all the diuels the toyle.

For each of them, a fiende in force can binde,
Yet some I graunt, by vertue guides their place,
But sildome tis, that Kit ne followes kinde,
If one be good, a score doth want the grace,
But all in league, their dealings lewde beware,
For then they do, the diuell and all of scare.

P. P. Inuectiue against his toung.

Thy rash reuenge (O tatling toung) I rue,
Although with truth, thou slaundredst late thy foe,
The prouerbe olde, by proofe I finde too true,
Who fightes with words, doth wound him selfe with woe,
The ciuil lawe, so fauours fame and name,
As strumpets knowne, by wantons oft resort,
Are sildome put to any open shame.
Les open sight, makes proofe of Venus sport,
Who so is toucht, with any foule abuse,
Though common speach, the same for truth confirme,
The common lawe, the guiltie will excuse,
If proofe by oth, ne makes the knowledge firme,
Thus wanton fylthes, and wily churles are scus'd,
If secretly, they worke their foule amis,
Yet needely they, which are by these abus'd,
Must haue a meanes, to vse reuenge ywis,
Where oft their toung, is first addrest to fight,

Whose furious threats, forewarnes their foe of yre,
Which knowne he straight, both seeke to match their might,
And first begins, their griefes for to conspire,
My selfe by such makes proofe, this tale is true,
Who weend to feare, with threatning words my foe,
At which he smilde, preuenting what he knewe,
Woulde be a meane, to worke his ouerthrowe,
Yea worse then that, he tryst me for me toung,
With actions heuge, for slaundering of his fame,
For which my purse, an honest quest so stuong,
That euer since, in faith it hath beene same.
Thus losse to me, no hurt to him at all,
O babbling toung, thy rash reuenge hath wrought,
Else blowes in lawe, had giuen him cause to brall,
Of both the best, though best reuenge be naught,
For bobs do feare, when words not ioynd with deede,
In wrangling mynds, more cnackred thoughts doth breede.

[In gayle of griefe in closde, of worldly friendes forlorne]

In gayle of griefe in closde, of worldly friendes forlorne,
Thy mercy Lord to safe my mone, vnto my prayers turne,
Hide not thy heavenly face, from him that lies in thrall,
High time and tide good God it is, to heare my plaint & call,
My dayes consume with griefe, my myrth is mard wt mone,
My hart doth wast like withred grasse, my graue & I am one
My flesh with thoughts doth fret, in shew I am a ghoste,
I drencht in bale, my foes in blisse, I harmd, of hap they bost,
The world cōmends their welth, & spites my withered woe,
Yea dooms my doings by my dole, theirs by delight in showe
Thus wrongd, and scornd I am, which crosse I do imbrace,
Attending when thy mercy (Lord) my miseries shall chace,
Which ioyne with iustice thine, to foyle my foes in sight.
So shall I praise, and others feare, thy maiestie and might.

[To thee (O Lord) with hart and voice I sing]

To thee (O Lord) with hart and voice I sing,
Whose mercy great, from dole to sweete delight,
From mone to myrth, my troubled spirite did bring,
Yea more thy yre, hath foyld my foes in sight,
They liue in want, that flourisht late in wealth,
They grone with griefe, yea lacke both help & helth,

Their conscience guilt, doth gall them through their gaine,
And yet they waste, more faster then they winne,
Thus sweete prou'd sowre, their pleasure turnd to paine,
Yea liuing dyde, to thinke vpon their sinne,
Their shadowes feard, so souden was their fall,
But more their death, when destenie did them call.

Their mone amasd, a thousand wretches moe,
Who sight and shrynkt, through motions of deceit,
To heare report, this thundring threat to throwe,
Foule fall the fraude, to breede our bale a baite,
A bitter sweete that rots, ere it be ripe,
A liuing care, to soule a deadly stripe.

But how with hap, the pikes of harme I past,
Of murdrous mates, of myndes on mischiefe set,
Whose snares for me, them selues did fetter fast,
Whose baites for me, them measht in beggers net,
Inforst men say, of God, loe here the might,
Which heales the harmd, and lames ye lewd in sight.

But I whose scare, thy heauenly helpe did cleare,
Will daily sing, with mynd, with hart and voyce,
To thee (O Lord) be honour, laude, and feare,
Which foyldst my foes, and madst me to reioyce,
Laude for thy grace, and honour to thy name,
Feare cause thy wrath, doth put the lewde to shame.

P. Plasmos farewell to wanton pleasures.

Dame Venus be content, thy seruaunt should depart,
Who long hath bath'd in beauties blisse, yet swam in seas of smart,
And willing nowe with losse, to leaue his wanton sport,
Repentance hath reclaimed him, from pleasures statly court,
Good loue my gouernesse, thy charge that erst did raunge,
Is well content, to carelesse youth, to leaue his choice in chaunge,
My colours fresh and gay, my pride in peacocks plumes,
I now resigne to Cupides thralls, whose head with fancie fumes,
My sugred wordes that earst, did wray my suites at large,
My scalding sighes, to quench mistrust, when iealousie gaue charge,
I will to salue their sore, whome false suspect doth byte,
My vaunting speach I giue to those, which soiourne with delight,
And fansie earst my friend, of force I must forsake.
And lust my choice, I leaue to those, which rowes in leachers lake,
For wisdome rules my will, and reason bids retire,
Least frosen feares, through faythlesse loue, doth followe hote desire,
Expence doth nip my purse, my pride is pincht with paine,
Aspiring mynde hath caught a fall, my lacke is linckt with gaine,
Yet losse this lesson learnd, how pence my pleasure wrought,
Not pleasure pence, but purses paine, when neede the bottome sought,
A noddie for the nonce, for faithlesse flurtes to flout.
Poore want was rayd, in ragged clothes, amongst dame pleasures rout.
Which picture when I sawe, in fauour like my lacke,
Disdaine my thought, did drowne my ioy, despaire did bruse my backe.
Pure neede then prickt me foorth (in faith) good mistresse mine,

Ere scorne should worke me out of grace, my seruice to resigne.
For if you rightly wey, my want by former wealth,
Your selfe will iudge, I can not serue, without the ayde of stealth.
Then wrong will seeke reuenge, with tryall of his bande,
And iustice soone will sentence giue, to truce me out of hande.
Then conscience will accuse, my coste in Venus court,
And warne my friendes by these my woes, to shun dame pleasures sport,
And (loth to dye) will curse, the causers of my smart,
Thus with your blame, my one the shame (perforce) I shall depart.

P. Plasmos recantation.

Before the world, I here recant my life,
I do renounce, both lingring loue and lust,
My wanton will, with wisedome once at strife,
Hath lost the fielde, the type of fansies trust.

My sugred toung, bepoudred all with teares,
To chase mistrust, from my sweete maistresse mynde,
With simple speach, from humble sprite now weares,
That fauour I, with my sweete Christ may finde.

My seattered sighes, which I on earth did strowe,
I gather vp, and sende them to the starres,
As messengers, of my lamenting woe,
Twixt sine and soule, so mortall is the warres.

100

Sith I repent, no shame it is to wray,
My former life, how farre from grace it sweru'd,
Although from truth, I silly sheepe did stray,
As good men God, so I my Goddesse seru'd.

Her fauour heauen, I reckt her frowning hell,
I swam in ioy, when I attaind her grace,
I sunke in noy, when she with wrath did swell,
Such strange effectes, were shrowded in her face.

The religion of wanton louers like the papistes.

Saint Pandor then, my aduocate I made,
Who pynde my purse, yet fead my foolish vaine,
A thousand scornes, with my fond sight did fade.
My suite in wordes, such slender grace did gaine,

As Gods of olde, my Goddesse honoured is,
Which sacrifice, of kine and calues did craue,
But she inioynd, in penance of my mis,
For fashion sake, that first I yeald her slaue.

With vowe of fayth, my suite then must I showe,
But suites of lawne with toyes of deeper coste,
The duties were, which I for grace did owe,
Such costly grace, then found were better loste.

But mistes of loue, did so bedim my eyes,
That wealth was slaue vnto my wanton thought,
Glad was my purse, when he the toy espies,
Which with my loue, a perfect liking wrought.

But I too sharpe, did spurre so free a wretch,
He pynde to naught, to please her peeuish mynde,
Then lacke too late, this lesson did me teach,
I seru'd no saint, but one of Sathans kynde.

Who when she sawe, pure neede to play his part,
With iealous speach, gan straight to, faine debate,

101

My second choice she sayde, possest my heart,
As though pure loue, had hatcht this souden hate,

But well I sawe, despight did forge suspect,
And iealous speach, was set to colour scorne.
My charge not change, did frame with foule defect.
She fained griefe, I wretch with woe forworne.

My plees of want, then purchase little grace,
She wild me loue, where I my wealth did waste,
For my nice choice, she reckt her selfe too base,
Which here and there, in change a new was plast.

Fonde fansie then, presented to my will,
In desperate panges, to pine away with paine,
Or purchase pence, on top of Shooters hill,
If I escape, my bootie grace would gaine.

For him that earst, both hope and hap did vaunce,
To desperat thoughts, to vayle his former blisse,
Blame not his mynde, to cure this sorrie chaunce,
If ventur'd life, did worke amends of misse.

And syth (quoth I) I must a martyr be,
Then burne to naught, wt blase of Cupides brands,
A gentler death, is hanging on a tree,
I may escape, the bowget makers hands.

In spight of scorne, which haunts my Ladies hart,
Then shall I swim, in seas of former grace,
And sorrow shall finde, recompence of smart,
With foulded armes, when I my ioy imbrace.

These drousie dumps, which driues me to despaire
Shall purged be, with drugs of droynses store,
I glad, he mad, then mumping in his chaire,
When steede is stolne, too late shall shut the dore.

102

Thus I vile wretche, led on by wanton lust,
A triumphe made, within my wicked thought,
How I by hap, the harmelesse threw to dust,
Ere I escapt, or had the mischiefe wrought,

But oh (sweete Christ) thy grace this folly stayd,
Thou cleardst my sight, which mistes of loue did bleare,
Unto whose praise, my conscience hath bewrayd,
My former life, deuoyde of godly feare.

Thou crau'st (good Lord) no other aduocate,
But prayer mine, to purchase heauenly grace,
The which thou sayst, doth neuer come too late,
If I repent, when prayer pleades my case.

A contrite hart, is the sweete sacrifice,
That thou dost seeke, ere we thy fauour winne,
The which, deare God, with sighes & weeping eyes,
I offer vp in recompence of sinne.

Attending still, when triall of my fayth,
Shall treade downe death, & Sathan force to reele,
And boldly say, till latter gaspe of breath,
My soul through faith, ye ioyes of heauen doth feele.

P. Plasmos farewell to folly.

Farewell yon fading ioyes,
Which fancie forst me loue,
Adieu'go trudge, your tickle toyes,
Though late, too soone I proue.

103

O wandring head leaue off,
Fonde fancies to imbrace,
And sugred toung nowe cease to scoffe,
Or others to disgrace,

Forsake, O luring eyes,
To faine the louing art,
And scalding sighes be you no spies,
To wound a womans hart.

O mynde with verses vaine,
No more thy selfe acquaint,
Forsake in time, faire Venus game,
Ere age doth thee attaint.

O hart on hoyh y set,
Be warnd by wisedomes lawe,
So shalt thou scape blinde Cupides net,
Of which thou stoodst in awe.

Beware of tenne and foure,
Which be the cheaters fare,
Least hassards hard, thy sweete do soure,
And make thy purse full bare.

This double charge I giue,
To you vnhappie handes,
From quarels fond, y free to liue,
As foe to life and landes.

Now last to you my legges,
Which be my bodies stay,
Frame not your gate as men on egges,
Whome busting doth affray.

Nor yet so stoutly stride,
As mens that beares would binde,

104

For stately steps bewrayes the pride,
Which harbours in the mynde.

My other members all,
Be rulde by reasons lore:
Let vertue reigne, where vice did stall,
And former faults deplore.

Least future plagues you pricke,
To worke your greater paine,
For why against the thornes to kicke,
I count it more then vaine.

Nunquam sero.

105

The complaint of one Lyros a notable Cousener, supposed at the houre of his death.

Amonge their falles, by filthie fraude which fell,
Let my mishappe, registred be I pray,
Whose wanton toyes, whose wily trickes to tell,
But cheefe of all, whose wofull plight to wray,
No doubt the lewde, will bring to better stay,
For whose behoofe, loe here I paint my thrall,
My happ, my harme, my life, my death and all.

Noe shame it is for mee to showe my euill,
Though gracelesse life, from wisedomes lore did swerue.
A sinne it were to liue and die a deuill,
So soule and all, with Tantals hope should sterue,
My warning here, for others heede may serue:
Fresh harmes they say, will force men to beware,
When had I wist, comes after still the faire.

Then couseners first, to you my tale I streach,
God graunt my wordes, to heale your woundes auaile,
But you will say, my selfe doth neede a Leach,
To heire my head, to helpe eche perisht naile,
To ridde my scabbes, my Leprosie to scaile,
To cleare my eyes, which are now darke and dim,
My nummed ioyntes, to make both lith and trim.

I neede God wot, if neede could fauour winne,
But out alas, too late doth come the cure,
When God is bent to punish filthie sinne,
Though longe hee stayes in fine hee striketh sure,
Best therefore then, ere you his wrath procure,
You see your helpe (with his precept agree)
Ante languorem, medicinam adhibe.

106

Prouide a salue, before that sicknes come,
Prouide a mends, for sinne and foule amisse,
Before Gods wrath, your due desert doth dome,
For note deare friends, I whilome bathde in blisse,
I swam in ioy, my heart at woe did hisse,
I then had strength, with health, and wealth at will.
My hap was cleare, I sawe no clowdes of ill.

Then muse you will, to see so rare a chaunge,
As manly force, to faile in prime of youth,
As faire to foule, as health to scabbes and maunge,
As hap to harme, as ioy to greefe and ruth,
But listen well and marke what woordes ensuthe,
And you shall see what forced mee to fall,
What wrought my woe, what turnde by ioy to thrall.

First weene that wealth did puffe mee vp with pride,
Next forme and force, enforst me to aspire,
Then loue and lust, into my brest did glide,
Last fretting thought so set my heart on fire,
That mariage needes, must coole my hoate desire,

He was a wanton liuer.

My choice was good, if chaunge had beene exilde,
But follie, faith and fancie, truth begilde.

My wandring will directed mee this course,
Which brainesicke youth, did duelie treade and trace,
And entred once, I fell from bad to worse,
I made a pray, of euery yeelding face,
Such wanton lust, doth follow want of grace,
Ne was this life, defrayde with small expence,
And I (God wott) had not a mine of pence.

While coyne did last, yet carelesse did I spend,
A poore increase, can spring on such a roote,
When coyne was spent ne did my fancies end,
With youth to striue, for reason t'was no boote,
No lacke could treade my follies vnder foote:

107

While land did last, my want I did supplie,

A backward purchase.

With purchases, of Dedi, concessi.

My liuing sould, and monie in my purse,
My lauish minde, had neuer thought of lacke,
To gelt or saue, I quite forgot the course,
For euery toy my Testours went to wracke,
Which did my bagges, vnto the bottome sacke,
My coyne consumde, and yearely rents thus gone,
What refuge then? once credite had I none.

Yet liue I must, neede doth obey no lawe,
To worke for wealth, yet wist I not the way,
The scourge for sinne, did keepe mee still in awe,
I durst not steale, for feare of Tyborne play,
And other shiftes, I knewe not to assay,
But to be short, to soone, to soone t'was knowne,
My will was good, to take more then mine owne.

Then wily mates, whose subtile eyes did see,
In yonkers states, and markt, their youthfull vaine,
Made choice of mee, the Instrument to bee,

He was made an instrument to execute other cousners deuises.

In wanton trackes, vnwayed youthes to traine,
Their wiles, my wishe, so sweete was speach of gaine,
My tongue was good, my manhoode had in price,
My life was lewde, I knewe and vsde eche vice.

Companion fitt, for rufflers nowe adayes,
Whose wills rule witt, and rage, doth reason yoke,
Of which I searcht, a crue of thriftlesse strayes,
Whom lewdly I to lewdnes did prouoke,
They bitt my baite, but other did them choke,
I bore the name, when others layde the bane,
The shame was mine, and others gleande the gaine.

But, Oh, I sigh, to wray what wrought my thrall,

Plasmos the man hee abused,

O Plasmos nowe, I swoone through thought of thee,

108

I must confesse, the goad that did the gall,
Was too too sharpe for friendship thine so free,
I turnde my coate, ere thou couldst fettered bee,
My wanton toyes, could hardly thee intrap,
My falsed trust (aye mee) wrought thy ill hap.

And must I shewe, wherein I was iniust?
Shame sayes, conceale, my conscience wil not soe,
I was a friend, whose treason quited trust,
A counseller lewde, that wrought my clientes woe,
Where I was lou'd, I hated saue in shoe,
Yea twise accurst, for mucke his life I sought,
Whose bloud and good, for me hee ventred oft.

Hee forged deedes.

I forged deedes, when fayled free consent,
I rased roules, to mend what hast did marre,
I put in vre, what coemates mine inuent,
My woordes, were graue, as firme my friendship ware,
And yet forsooth, to showe what mould I bare,
I prou'de it true, how Cito ad suam.
Redierint, res fictæ naturam.

For though my weedes, foreshewde a settled minde,
God knowes, my woorkes, my wanton humour wraide,
The wyser sort, my follies soone did finde,
They sawe full well, my fancies were not staide,
Yet Plasmos hee of fraude was not afraide,
And truth to tell, I baynde him with such baite,
As hardly hee, could smell out my deceite.

Officers about the recouery of P. P. land suspected the deceite.

Wise officers, my falsehoode yet suspect,
To purchase land, they thought my store to small,
And all to late, to Plasmos they detect,
(As they supposde) I sought to worke his thrall,
Their sorrie newes, did nip him to the gall,
Who like a man of hope, of helpe dismayde,
Reportes the trust, through which I him betraide.

109

Our foule deceite amas'de the hearers much,
They Plasmos wild, from greement kept aloofe,
That open shame our villanies might tuch.
Our falles would be a warning of behoofe,
Our fraude thus found, before it came to proofe,
What course were best? should wee confesse our fault?
Noe, noe: wee ment to bide the first assault.

In euery Court our cousenages did ring.
Which bouldly wee, vppon our othes denide,

Periurie.

For wee that dar'd commit so foule a thing,
Uppon our othes, ne cared though wee lyde,
Yet durst wee not abide till trueth were tride,
In couseners clyffes, wee feard sol fa to chaunt,
Howe so wee seemde, on honestie to vaunt.

Yea (wretched) I, that bore the blame of all,
Peccaui soung, through pricke of conscience griefe,
How others scapt, I sawe my shamefull fall,
I mou'de my mates, to salue our great mischiefe,
In time: or wee, should suffer much repreafe,
But they that vsde, then cousenage in my name,
If worst befell, knewe I should bide the shame.

To make amends, would neuer yeeld consent,
What should I doe? still Plasmos shot at mee,
False Frenos, yet the mischiefe did inuent,

Frenos the Scriuener that deuisde the cousenage.

I plowde the lande, the profite reaped hee,
Hee bounde me so, saunce him I could not gree,
And thus through neede (which I to show abhorre)
Against my will, looke what hee would I swore.

Our cousenage knowen, our likelyhoode of paine,
My earnest sute, to some good end to growe,
Once mou'd him not, to leaue ill gotten gaine,
Hee neuer blusht, in conscience nor in showe,
But craft on craft, hee layde to heape our woe,

110

T'ware straunge to heare, the wealthy friends hee found,
Which ioynde with him, to make our fraude seeme sound.

And boulstred thus, for slaundring vs with truth,
Our actions huge, poore Plasmos ouerlayde,
Wee knewe in neede, friends faild, the more the ruth,
Thus double wrong'd (his huge distresses waide)
To cleare his land, good store of coyne hee paide,
Least share whereof, in faith, to mee did fall,
Yet of this end, I was the glad'st of all.

From open shame, my selfe I iudged free,
I tooke no heede, to salue my conscience gall,
But God that doth all secrete dealinges see,
Prouided whippes to scourge our sinnes withall,
And I that bare the blame of Plasmos thrall,
As sure I was the instrument of it,
The first man was, that God with vengeaunce smit.

His miseries.

My onely child, which should haue had the land,
With Plasmos bloud, that faine I would haue bought,

His sonne sodainly died.

Not sicke in sight, first dyed out of hand,
Which heauie hap distempered so my thought,
As straight I was into a quarterne brought,

A quarterne ague.

Whose frosen fittes, brought downe my youthfull pride.
Do what I could, it held mee till I dide.

He brought himselfe in daunger, to play the cousener for others commoditie. His instrumēt

A house I kept, till I to cousening fell,
But loe beguilde, euen with mine owne deceite,
My house I left, and did in corners dwell,
To lay mee vp, still Plasmos lay in waite,
Sometimes I was caught with a Sergeaunts baite,
And through a grate, Presta quesimus sounge,
With care on care, thus daily was I stounge.

He lost his wit He lost his memorie.

I that sometime, had wily witt good store,
As one bestrackt, forgot what late I spake,

111

For all my cheates, still was I very poore,

His friendes forsoke him in pouertie.

My friends did faile, none would relieue my lacke,
On euery side, I (wretched) went to wracke,
Yea Frenos he that drue the cousening plott,
Deuourde the gaine, and gaue mee neuer a iott.

Two yeares well nie, I liued in this woe,
God wot, not worth the ground whereon I went,
And when I thought, my ioyes againe would flowe,
Unhappie I, (that Plasmos murder ment)
Unto such ire, the hie Iehoua bent,
That (ah) in steede of drinke my thrist to slake,
I poyson dronke, my timelesse ende to make.

See couseners see, my present lothsome state,
Loe here the ende of all my wanton race,
Behold the man, that was so frolicke late,
A leaper foule, in body, legges and face,
At point of death, cryes out to God for grace,
A warning fayre, a mirror full of mone,
For greedie churles, a bone to gnawe vppon.

Amende in time, before Gods wrath you sturre,
Beware by mee, false Frenos and the rest,
Quod diffeertur, be sure, non aufertur,
Unlesse euen from the bottome of your breast,
You both repent, and to amends are preast,
Loe here my tale, and life will haue an ende,
God pardon mee, and graunt you to amende.

112

Frenos complaint.

I see (quoth hee) death spares no sortes of men,
Our bagges of drosse, may not withstand his might,
To moyle and toile for pelfe what bootes it then?
No whit, God knowes, if wee could see aright.
But worldly cares our minds bewitched soe,
As thoughtes of heauen, silde in our brestes do dwell,
The prouerbe saith (the more such fathers woe)
Happ'is the childe, whose father goes to hell.
But such prouerbes, more common are then true,
Silde children keepe, that fathers lewdly gett,

Goods ill got are lewdlye spent.

And trust mee wealth, if after want ensue,
With double griefe, the needie thrall doth frett,
To what ende then, for mucke, take wee such care?
To damne our selues, and worke our childrens scare,

O wicked world, so sweete thy torments seeme,
That when men tast, thy drugges of vaine delight,
Their onely heauen, thy thralles do thee esteeme,

113

With mistes of mucke, thou blindest so their sight,
That (wretched) they, whilst that in health they liue,
As Swine in myre, do wallowe in their faultes.
An others fall, nor conscience can them meeue,
To waile their sinnes, till grislie death assaultes,
The thought of whom, as thornes do pricke mee (wretch)
Alas, mee thinkes, I see his ghastly shape,

When death attacheth the wicked, the thought of their sinne is more greuous then death.

What did I meane, to name him in my speach,
And can I not his furious force escape,
Oh noe, my sinnes, beginneth now to swarme,
To matche with him, my selfe howe should I arme?

My conscience cryes, confesse thy wicked life,
My wicked life, such monstrous fraude presents,
As in my selfe, I finde a hell of strife,
My gracelesse deedes, the hope of grace preuents,
I see, I see, howe fierie fiendes do yell,
Before hie Ioue my wicked soule to haue,
My secrete sinnes, condemnes mee (wretch) to hell,

Our owne sinnes giue euidēce against vs afore the highest.

They be so huge, that nothing can me saue,
Where is the booke, wherein Gods will is writ?
They say there in, is balme that sinne can cure,
What ment I (wretch) I neuer studied it?
The booke is large, my life will not indure,

Bible.

So longe, as I may reade, and reape such grace,
The fault is mine, I might, while I had space.

I faint, I faint, my life will needes away,
False Frenos now, of force must yeeld to death,
These farewell woordes, good friends yet note I pray,
Prepare your selues ere latter gaspe of breath,
So spend your liues, as if you daily dyde,
Leste tarde you, by death (perhaps) be tane,
Note well my fall, in top of all my pride,
Before I wist, hee gaue mee (wretch) my bane,
By worldly wealth, for which I tooke such care,
I needes must leaue, in no good order sett,

114

A soudaine chaunge, the chaunce yet nothing rare,
This is the proofe of goods, that fraude doth get,
Loe this is all, that death will let mee say,
But what is short, may best be borne away.

Caphos complaint.

The Prouerbe saith, as good wee eate the deuill,
As sup the broth, wherein his body boilde,
As good wee do, as giue consent to euill,
Which sorrie doome, my coloured scuse hath foild,
My conscience throbs, though I no fraude deuis'de,
My onely name, that shadowed foule deceite,
In God his sight with Frenos fall is pris'de,
I feele my sinnes, pluckes downe my soule with weight,
Yea Lyros and false Frenos both I knowe,
But leade the way, that I must shortly goe.

115

Farre yet I am vnfit for such a iournie,
My compt falls short, that I to God must giue,
If hee charge mee, with filthie periurie,
It will not serue (to saue mee from repreue,)
To say how that, for feare of after shame,
A manifest vntrueth, I durst not sweare,

A pretie kind of periurie.

But Frenos gott, a post knight of my name,
In steede of mee, that did both sweare and steare,
I must confesse, I gaue thereto consent,
And God no doubt, will punish my intent.

My subtile sleightes, to shadowe foule abuse,
May well lye hid, and no man knowe the same,
But God doth knowe, the fraude I put in vse,
(For others keede) deserued open shame.

Note.

The man that is with sicknes neuer vext,
Hath seeldome care what kinde of meate hee eates,
When such as are, with surfets oft perplext,
Seeme daintie still, to feede on diuers meates,
In worldly churles, obserued is the like,
They feede on fraude, till infamie them strike,

Marke well my woordes, you (worldlinges) of all sortes,
But citizens, your natures best I knowe,
There are of you haue meetely good reportes,
For riches sake, and outward honest showe,
But how you get, your monstrous heapes of gold,
Your conscience knowes, and I can some what tell,
Your secret craft, so seeldome is controld,
As what you gett, you thinke you gett it well,
But how so heere, your reckonings seemeth true,
A day will come, when you shall count a newe.

Bee you reclaymde, by others soudaine fall,
Sighe for your owne, when others shames you see,
Thinke that they are but patternes of your thrall,
If iustice should on you auenged bee,

116

A thousand wayes, the highest seekes to winne,
Our worldly mindes, from loue of worldlie ioyes,
But if wee still, will wallowe in our sinne,
The plagues are sharpe, with which he vs destroyes,
To stay whose wrath, I hould the next way is,
While wee haue space, to sorrowe our amis.

Death comes God wot, euen like a myching theefe,
With conscience cleare, some wardes his wily blowe,
And some againe hee gawls with soudaine greefe,
Whose thoughtes of sinne, doth worke their double woe,
Had I but wayde, the halfe, that now I wray,
My coemates endes, had made mee fitt for death,

A sweete comforte.

But that is past, this is my onely stay,
Gods mercie salues, at latter gaspe of breath,

Presumptious sinnes.

And yet thereof, let no man hope to farre,
Presumptious sinnes, of all, the greatest are.

Pimos complaint at the houre of his death.

Aye mee (quoth hee) the case is altered quite,
My wylie skill, that chaungde the sense of lawe,
My cunning Pleas, that made a wronge seeme right,
Are nowe the bones, whereon my conscience gnawe,

117

They force mee graunt, the good from euill I knewe,
The good I left, the euill too late I rue,

The common lawe, the which I studied longe,

The common lawe was takē out of Gods lawe.

I finde condemnes mee wretch of many a crime,
The lawe it selfe (how so we wreast it wronge)
Of God his lawe, was founded in the prime,
Then since in one, they both agree in troth,
Abuse of one, must be abuse of both.

And sure the one I turned as I list,
If I were wrong'd, the lawe amends could make,
If I did wronge, the lawe such power mist,
The case was chang'de the wronged might go packe
Such helpes I had, such quillets of delay,
That all seemde true, that (subtile) I did say,

But now I am, attached to appeare,
Afore a Iudge, at no mannes faultes that winkes,
The diuell declares, how I haue liued here,

The diuel declares our offences before God, our conscience is the witnes of our wickednes.

My conscience guilt, giues euidence me thinkes,
To learne the lawe, sith studie I did vowe,
For breach of lawe, I am indited nowe.

Before my God mee seemes I charged am,
For ayding those, with credite, coyne, and skill,
Whose lewde deceites, deserued whippes of shame,
And that to make me guiltie of their ill,
Consentientes (your lawe sayth Ioue doth say,)
Et agentes, plectentur pari pȩna.

My guiltie minde, confesseth streight the act,
False Frenos fraud, was boulstered vp by mee,
Condemnde of this, streight comes an other fact,
I wronged men, against all equitie,
When lawe doth say, Hoc facias alteri,
In right and wronge, quod vis tibi fieri.

118

This bitter doome, giuen by the doome of lawe,
Mee sinnefull wretch, as guiltie striketh mute,
The men I wrong'd within my conscience gnawe,
I spared none through pittie, nor through sute,
What lawe did giue, since I for vauntage tooke,
In breach of lawe, should I for fauour looke?

Note.

O noe, I must, in proper person pleade,
Plaine not guiltie, or guiltie of the crime,
No forreine Plea, may now delayaunce breede,
Untrauerst goes, the Venu and the time,
No aduocate, or letters here may serue,
The Iudge is bent to iudge as I deserue.

I guiltie am, I must of force confesse,

Ignoraunce will not serue.

By ignoraunce, these faultes, yet would I scuse,
But I, vile I, that had men in distresse,
And did their Pleas of ignoraunce refuse,
Mee thinkes that God, doth rule mee ore with this,
Non excusat, ignorantia iuris.

And thus I lye, with deadly sicknes pinde,
Yea more, my soule beseng'd, with sinnefull greefe,
The more I seeke, to pacifie my minde,
The further off, I (wretched) finde releefe,
My dealinges great, or rather great deceite,
Fall out folowde, as I no count can streight.

Do what I can, the cause that causde my ioy,
When fleshe, and bloud, was sedde with worldly gaine,
Is nowe the cause, that causeth my annoye,
Now feare of hell, in place of fleshe doth raigne,

The soule & flesh are at cōtinuall warre.

The soule, and fleshe, impugnes the other so,
As what likes one, doth worke the others woe.

What meane wee then (sith th'one wee must displease,
To serue the flesh, that beares no lasting sway?

119

And leaue the soule, that couets still our ease,
Who (foyling flesh) in heauen doth liue for aye,
What worser match, can any creature make,
Incerta then, pro certis thus to take.

O sinfull wreth, had I this ende foreseene,
I had not nowe, come short vpon account,
I would haue lik't, and lou'd the merrie meane,
Which euer doth, to reckoning best amount.
For violents, do sildome long indure,
They alwayes come, from fortune most vnsure.

O wicked man, had I seene heauen in thought,
Had I seru'd God, like as in shewe of zeale,
I had not thus, for poore mens liuings sought,
Nor purchast hell, for lande for others weale,
Had I well wayde, how tickle was my life,
I had ere this, appeasd my conscience strife.

Or had I thought, (O most vnhappie wight)
Looke what I gaue, that measure should I reape,
I sure had giuen, to euery man his right,
This wicked world, had not luld me asleape,
I had not then, bene carelesse of my end,
My soule had watcht, deathes furie to defend.

But (oh) in me, the contrarie was plaste,
I was intyste, on baytes of sinne to feede,
Which charm'd receits, seemde suger sweete in taste,
But (oh) they say, sweete meate sowre sauce doth neede,
Neede or not neede, I proue the prouerbe true,
My brittle ioyes, my endlesse woes do brue.

My conscience loathes, what liked well my life,
My conscience rues, the gaine I got by guile,
My conscience feeles, the woes of wrangling strife
My conscience weepes, at that my life did smile,

120

My conscience bleedes, through that life thought a blisse,
My conscience wailes, what life thought not amisse.

Well, sith my life, this wretched woe hath wrought,
Would God my life, (nay death through foule abuse)
Were noted so, as all men might be taught,
By scriptures rule, their talents here to vse,
And specially, about their studies wall,
For lawyers heed, would God were writ my fall.

Through sight whereof, no doubt they would refuse,
To fish for gaine, with nets of foule deceit,
To worke delayes, they would no pleadings vse,
They sure would thinke, they had account to straight,
My vexed mynde, at death still in their eye,
Would will them liue, as they did dayly dye.

If to such good, my souden fall would proue,
Would life would last, to tell a larger tale,
But how it proue, in vaine for life I moue,
Death nowe assaults, and (wretched) I must vale,
My breath doth fade, the bell doth sound away.
From whence I came, I needes must turne to clay.

The reporters conclusion, as touching the report of Paulus Plasmos aduentures, and Lyros, Frenos, Caphos, and Pimos falles.

Who telles a tale at large, of others smart,
In his report, some errour needes must shape,
Some blamed are, some praisde, beyond desart,
In this discourse (such slaunder to escape)
It seemd me best, to vse but netes of heede,
And leaue at full, for to report the deede.

Yet some will say, I wrong poore Plasmos here,
To make his youth, the cause of his mishaps,

121

When he good soule (who fraude did little feare)
Was slily snarld, in sneaking couseners traps,
In deede, my heart did bleede, his plaints to showe,
And much I blamde, the workers of his woe.

And yet forsooth, what so of him is sayde,
In my conceit, is nothing sayde but truth,
For sure his woes, if they be wisely wayde,
Some wayes may be, imputed to his youth,
For first of all, his brauerie was the bayte,
These couseners mindes, that egged with deceite.

Then sith him selfe, was guiltie of his thrall,
His fortunes wrayd, may wanton gallants warne,
From rash clyming, for feare they catch a fall,
And by his woes, vnwayed youthes may learne,
To trust them selues, fewe others out of sight,
For timelesse trust, wrought Plasmos much despight.

And for their falles, by fraude that sought to mount,
Although that they, not halfe their faults report,
Yet in their plaints are notes of good account,
Forewarninge faire, and words of mylde exhort,
And for the rest (how so they liu'd awry,
Let it suffice, they did repentant dye.

122

Epilogus.

Vide fol. 38. Vide fol. 80. vsque. 96. Vi. 24. A. &. 50

Loe here the fruits, that growe of selfe conceits,
Loe here their falles, that leape before they looke,
Loe gallants here, the sweete inticeing baytes,
Wherein lyes hid, the couseners poysoned hooke.

Vide. 50. vs. 66

From maskes of pryde, here are the visards pluckt.

Vide. 50.

Of dogged dice, loe here the deadly yll.

Vide. 98. &. 99

See here how drie, the louers purse is suckt,
That yealdes to please, a wanton Ladies will.

Vide. 87.

Who noteth here, what treason lurkes in trust,
Before he trust, may haply learne to trie.

Vide. 7. A.

Who sees faire words, saust here with workes vniust,
May haue in scorne, the shewes of flatterie.

Vide. 36. 47.

Who marketh here, the bitter end of frayes,
Of more emprise, may holde a quiet life.

Vide. 73. B.

Who seeth here, in lawe the long delayes,
May loue the worse, to liue in wrangling strife.

Vide. 6.

Without good heede, who so in court doth plant,
May here perceiue, his beggerie in the end.

Vide. 85.

Who wayeth here, the woes of withered want,
Were worse then mad, beyond his boundes to spend.

Vide. 17. C. vsque. 25. &. 49. vs. 66. &. 70. vs. 78. Vide. 66. 78. Vide. 46.

Who would auoyde, the snares that worldlings set,
And who would knowe, their wiles and foule abuse,
Who hath desires, an honest fame to get,
Who in his kinde, inticing golde would vse,

May here finde rules, his life for to direct,

Vide. 45. vs. 49

Here liues their fames, that vertues souldiers ware,

121

And here againe, their dealings I detect.

Vide. 16. 49. 70.

To swimme in wealth, that will no vauntage spare.

Here here discourst, may worldlings see their falles,

Vide. 105. A. vsque ad finē.

Which wey not how, so riches they may winne,
Here may they see, how sore Gods vengeance galles,
When he is bent, to punish filthy sinne,

All this and more, my Muse at large reports,
All this my Muse (for your auaile) did hit,
In lue whereof, she friendly you exhorts,
To take in worth, what of good will is writ.

Quod cauere possis, stultum est admittere.

FINIS.