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[The Courte of Vertu

contaynynge many holy songes, Sonettes, psalmes and ballettes] [by John Hall]

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A song shewing that no commoditie is without a discommoditie.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

A song shewing that no commoditie is without a discommoditie.

[_]

Syng this as, I am the man whome God. &c.

As I dyd sytte and muse
Once by my selfe alone,
The wretched state of worldly wights
The mind was fixed on:
Howe no commoditie
May here with man indure,
Without some discommoditie,
To shewe it selfe vnpure.
By fyre we haue great ayde
In colde vs for to warme:
Whiche in an houre somtime doth burne,
Rewarding vs with harme.
We may lyue certayne dayes,
Without both drinke and meate:
But without ayre not one moment,
The lack would be so great.

[107]

Yet somtyme by his rage
We mortall men doe fynde,
That trees houses and cattell eke
Are ouerthrowne with wynde.
The water who can lack,
That in this worlde doth byde?
Yet many one therin is drownde,
By great aboundyng tyde.
The earth wheron we dwell,
And seke great welth to fynde,
In sekyng to possesse the same,
With iudgement vayne and blynde:
When we thynke to possesse
This earth that we attende,
Behold the same possesseth vs,
In it we take our ende.
The Sommer whiche doth repe
Our sede, both corne and frute,
Alas to hot, this heate to hot,
With men thus goeth the brute.
And as with sommers heate
We doe complayne and scoulde:
So do we wayle on wynters chere,
And blame hym for his coulde.
No welth without some wo,
No Ioy without some care,
No blysse without his dolefull bale:
Thus wretched men doe fare.

108

We seke for sugred welth,
As we should aye dwell here,
The bytter galle of mysery,
Therfore doth strayte appere.
The wyne that cheres the hearte,
Doth ofte tymes vexe the brayne:
And woman made was for mans helpe,
Who doth hym ofte great payne.
Sometyme we call for dryth,
Some tyme we aske for rayne:
Some tyme we saye we haue to much,
Of eche thus we complayne.
In musyke we delyght,
And calle for it some tyme:
Wherof we sone be wery lo,
And blame our selues of cryme.
And iudge our selues to be
Both vayne, fonde, and vnpure:
Because our myrth without sorowe,
No long tyme doth indure.
And whyle this dredfull care
Had fraughted thus my breste.
I me bethought what myght be founde,
To purchase here moste rest.
And that we myght let passe,
With lesse disease of mynde:
These contraries that vs assaulte,
Of so repugnant kynde.

[108]

And temperance was the thyng.
That then came to my thought:
A better ayde in suche a case,
Is no where to be sought.
And therin seke to fynde
The wyll of God aboue:
And doe the dedes prescribed vs,
Within the lawe of loue.