The Complete Works of George Gascoigne In Two Volumes |
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 | The Complete Works of George Gascoigne |  |
Alexander Nevile delivered him this theame, Sat cito, si sat bene, whereupon hee compiled these seven Sonets in seq[u]ence, therin bewraying his owne Nimis cito: and therwith his Vix bene, as foloweth.
[1]
In haste poste haste, when first my wandring minde,Behelde the glistring Courte with gazing eye,
Suche deepe delightes I seemde therin to finde,
As might beguile a graver guest than I.
The stately pompe of Princes and their peeres,
Did seeme to swimme in flouddes of beaten goulde,
The wanton world of yong delightfull yeeres,
Was not unlyke a heaven for to behoulde.
Wherin dyd swarme (for every saint) a Dame,
So faire of hue, so freshe of their attire,
As might excell dame Cinthia for Fame,
Or conquer Cupid with his owne desire.
These and suche lyke were baytes that blazed still
Before myne eye to feede my greedy will.
2
Before mine eye to feede my greedy will,Gan muster eke mine olde acquainted mates,
Who helpt the dish (of vayne delighte) to fill
My empty mouth with dayntye delicates:
And folishe boldenesse toke the whippe in hande,
To lashe my life into this trustlesse trace,
Til all in haste I leapte a loofe from lande,
And hoyste up soyle to catche a Courtly grace:
67
Till in that haplesse haven my head was brought:
Waves of wanhope so tost me to and fro,
In deepe dispayre to drowne my dreadfull thought:
Eche houre a day eche day a yeare did seeme,
And every yeare a worlde my will did deeme.
3
And every yeare a worlde my will did deeme,Till lo, at last, to Court nowe am I come,
A seemely swayne, that might the place beseeme,
A gladsome guest embraste of all and some:
Not there contente with common dignitie,
My wandring eye in haste, (yea poste poste haste)
Behelde the blazing badge of braverie,
For wante wherof, I thought my selfe disgraste:
Then peevishe pride puffte up my swelling harte,
To further foorth so hotte an enterprise:
And comely cost beganne to playe his parte,
In praysing patternes of mine owne devise.
Thus all was good that might be got in haste,
To princke me up, and make me higher plaste.
4
To prinke me up and make me higher plaste,All came to late that taryed any time,
Pilles of provision pleased not my taste,
They made my heeles to heavie for to clime:
Mee thought it best that boughes of boystrous oake,
Should first be shread to make my feathers gaye.
Tyll at the last a deadly dinting stroake,
Brought downe the bulke with edgetooles of decaye:
Of every farme I then let flye a lease,
To feede the purse that payde for peevishnesse,
Till rente and all were falne in suche disease,
As scarse coulde serve to mayntayne cleanlynesse:
They bought, the bodie, fine, ferme, lease, and lande,
All were to little for the merchauntes hande.
5
All were to little for the merchauntes hande,And yet my braverye bigger than his booke:
But when this hotte accompte was coldly scande,
I thought highe time about me for to looke:
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To see the fountaine of my furious race.
Comparde my losse, my living, and my lacke,
In equall balance with my jolye grace.
And sawe expences grating on the grounde
Like lumpes of lead to presse my pursse full ofte,
When light rewarde and recompence were founde,
Fleeting like feathers in the winde alofte:
These thus comparde, I left the Courte at large,
For why? the gaines doth seeldome quitte the charge.
6
For why? the gaines doth seldome quitte ye charge,And so saye I, by proofe too dearely bought,
My haste mad wast, my brave and brainsicke barge,
Did float to fast, to catch a thing of nought:
With leasure, measure, meane, and many mo,
I mought have kept a chayre of quiet state,
But hastie heads can not bee setled so,
Till croked Fortune give a crabbed mate:
As busie braynes muste beate on tickle toyes,
As rashe invention breedes a rawe devise,
So sodayne falles doe hinder hastie joyes,
And as swifte baytes doe fleetest fyshe entice.
So haste makes waste, and therefore nowe I saye,
No haste but good, where wisdome makes the waye.
7
No haste but good, where wisdome makes the waye,For profe whereof, behold the simple snayle,
(Who sees the souldiers carcasse caste a waye,
With hotte assaulte the Castle to assayle,)
By line and leysure clymes the loftye wall,
And winnes the turrettes toppe more conningly,
Than doughtye Dick, who loste his life and all,
With hoysting up his head to hastilye.
The swiftest bitche brings foorth the blyndest whelpes,
The hottest Fevers coldest crampes ensue,
The nakedst neede hathe over latest helpes:
With Nevyle then I finde this proverbe true,
That haste makes waste, and therefore still I saye,
No haste but good, where wisdome makes the waye.
Sic tuli.
| The Complete Works of George Gascoigne | |