A pleasaunte Laborinth called Churchyardes Chance framed on Fancies, uttered with verses, and writtee[n] to giue solace to eury well disposed mynde: wherein not withstanding are many heauie Epitaphes, sad and sorowfull discourses and sutche a multitude of other honest pastymes for the season (and passages of witte) that the reader therein maie thinke his tyme well bestowed. All whiche workes for the pleasure of the worlde, and recreation of the worthie, and dedicated to the right honourable sir Thomas Bromley, Knight, Lorde Chancelour of Englande [by Thomas Churchyard] |
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Uerses that weare giuen to a moste mightie personage.
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 | A pleasaunte Laborinth called Churchyardes Chance |  |
Uerses that weare giuen to a moste mightie personage.
O pearlesse
Prince, if penne had purchast praise,
My parte was plaied, long since on publike stage:
Sith Leaden worlde, disdaines the golden daies,
With face of Brasse, men must go through this age.
Though Poetts prate, like Parret in a cage,
Poore Tom maie sitte, like Crowe vpon a stone,
And cracke harde Nutts, for Almonds sure are gone.
My parte was plaied, long since on publike stage:
Sith Leaden worlde, disdaines the golden daies,
With face of Brasse, men must go through this age.
Though Poetts prate, like Parret in a cage,
Poore Tom maie sitte, like Crowe vpon a stone,
And cracke harde Nutts, for Almonds sure are gone.
A Figge for verse, and filed gallant stiles,
Whose romblyng noyes, but thonders in the aire:
For pleasant wordes, procures but scorns and smiles,
Or clokes colde showres, in calmie weather faire.
My spised termes, are dround in deepe despaire,
Yong witts hath ronne, old Churchyard out of breath:
And babblyng bookes, hath ridden Rime to death.
Whose romblyng noyes, but thonders in the aire:
For pleasant wordes, procures but scorns and smiles,
Or clokes colde showres, in calmie weather faire.
My spised termes, are dround in deepe despaire,
Yong witts hath ronne, old Churchyard out of breath:
And babblyng bookes, hath ridden Rime to death.
Bothe Prose and Rime, doeth goe a beggyng now,
And Finenesse fraes, so sauours on the schoole:
That learnyng leanes, vnto a rotten bowe,
And Science walks, but like a ridyng foole.
Yea tong and penne, are bothe to weake a toole,
To woorke for gaine, in greedie worlde God knowes:
Where Fortunes flood, to needlesse riuer goes.
And Finenesse fraes, so sauours on the schoole:
That learnyng leanes, vnto a rotten bowe,
And Science walks, but like a ridyng foole.
Yea tong and penne, are bothe to weake a toole,
To woorke for gaine, in greedie worlde God knowes:
Where Fortunes flood, to needlesse riuer goes.
Some drinkes their fill, yet mak's the worlde beleue
Well hedde is drie, where water freely glides:
When poore men weepe, sutche laugh within their sleue
And smothly looke, yet wisely watche their tides.
In brimmest stormes, their Barks at Anker rides,
When sutche as I, the sturdie tempest tries:
And yeelds to shocks, as swellyng surges ries.
Well hedde is drie, where water freely glides:
When poore men weepe, sutche laugh within their sleue
And smothly looke, yet wisely watche their tides.
In brimmest stormes, their Barks at Anker rides,
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And yeelds to shocks, as swellyng surges ries.
More bold then wise, to trouble Cæsars eares,
With bare deuise, and deawe of barraine braine:
But dangers doubt, and dread of further feares,
Bids homely gest, be bolde and plie the maine.
Through hazardes greate, a gobb of gold we gaine,
The Dice must ronne, and sutche as light on lucke:
Maie liue from lacke, and weald this worldly mucke.
With bare deuise, and deawe of barraine braine:
But dangers doubt, and dread of further feares,
Bids homely gest, be bolde and plie the maine.
Through hazardes greate, a gobb of gold we gaine,
The Dice must ronne, and sutche as light on lucke:
Maie liue from lacke, and weald this worldly mucke.
The Marchant thriu's, through ventring ship and goods,
(If vessell scape, a flawe or Pirats sleight:)
The Soldiours gaine, their fame by manly moods,
And winns the feeld, where coward dare not feight.
The suter maie, not sleepe in things of weight,
But watche and speake, and venter boldly throwe:
Thei come by fruite, that clims the highest bowe.
(If vessell scape, a flawe or Pirats sleight:)
The Soldiours gaine, their fame by manly moods,
And winns the feeld, where coward dare not feight.
The suter maie, not sleepe in things of weight,
But watche and speake, and venter boldly throwe:
Thei come by fruite, that clims the highest bowe.
Blinde Deastnie deals, the dole when all is done,
Toile reaps but teares, and trothe hath emptie hande:
In vaine the wise, about the worlde doeth roune:
For staie of state, that doeth in Destnie stande.
The haplesse then, doeth builde his house on sande,
No penne preuailes, no seruice winns reward:
Till labours long, by Fortune be prefard.
Toile reaps but teares, and trothe hath emptie hande:
In vaine the wise, about the worlde doeth roune:
For staie of state, that doeth in Destnie stande.
The haplesse then, doeth builde his house on sande,
No penne preuailes, no seruice winns reward:
Till labours long, by Fortune be prefard.
Where Ladders lacke, in vaine the clouds he climes,
No connyng helpes, nor courage can doe good:
At Cannon mouthe, then laye doune idell Rimes,
And win the reste, by death and losse of blood.
Where seas are drie, in vaine we fishe the modd,
Where neither suite, nor seruice getteth grace:
Flie from the foile, and giue fonde Fortune place.
No connyng helpes, nor courage can doe good:
At Cannon mouthe, then laye doune idell Rimes,
And win the reste, by death and losse of blood.
Where seas are drie, in vaine we fishe the modd,
Where neither suite, nor seruice getteth grace:
Flie from the foile, and giue fonde Fortune place.
It maie be so, amid the moste extreemes,
When fire would burne, so snatche the coales awaie:
If fauour were, in triall as it seems,
The noble Court, alone were Churchardes staie,
The fountaine hedde, where bubblyng springs do plaie,
Is fittest place, for tree but newly cropt:
If Cocke would ronne, and Conduit were not stopt.
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If fauour were, in triall as it seems,
The noble Court, alone were Churchardes staie,
The fountaine hedde, where bubblyng springs do plaie,
Is fittest place, for tree but newly cropt:
If Cocke would ronne, and Conduit were not stopt.
Who stands belowe, and looks till Apples fall,
(And hopes to eate, that others shaketh doune:)
Is like to catche, a shadowe from a wall,
Or watche a ball, that neuer giu's reboune.
Constrainde to crie, to her that wears the croune,
I waite myne howre, or foerst to parte the lande:
Thus helplesse man, seek's helpe at Cæsars hande.
(And hopes to eate, that others shaketh doune:)
Is like to catche, a shadowe from a wall,
Or watche a ball, that neuer giu's reboune.
Constrainde to crie, to her that wears the croune,
I waite myne howre, or foerst to parte the lande:
Thus helplesse man, seek's helpe at Cæsars hande.
FINIS.
| A pleasaunte Laborinth called Churchyardes Chance | |