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 |
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R. C. answere to G. W. opinion of trades.
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 | The Rocke of Regard |  |
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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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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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.
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.
| The Rocke of Regard | |