The Contention bettwyxte Churchyeard and Camell vpon Dauid Dycers Dreame sett out in suche order, that it is bothe wyttye and profytable for all degryes. Rede this littell comunication betwene Churchyarde: Camell: and others mo: Newlye Imprinted and sett furthe for thy profyt gentill Reader |
 |
The Surreioindre vnto Camels reioindre |
 | The Contention bettwyxte Churchyeard and Camell |  |
The Surreioindre vnto Camels reioindre
What lyfe may lyue, long vndefamde, what works may be so pureWhat vertuous thing, may florish so ye fautles may, endur
What things be past, or yet to come, that freely may reioyce,
Or who can saye he is so iust, he feares not slādrous voyce.
This Slaunderous peals, doth ring so loud, he soūndes in euery eare,
whose craft can fayn, such pleasaunt tunes, as truth wer present theare.
But it is falshed, fraught with fraude, & synges a note to hye,
Though that he bring, some plesaunt poyntes, for to maintayn a lye.
The simple wyts, ar soone begylde, through sclaunderes sweete deceayt,
But those that knowes, suche fishing hokes, shal sone perceyue the bayt.
Unto whose eares, and iudgegements eke, I doo commende my workes,
with healpe of truthe, I hope to flee, ye venome of this Beast.
Or els I trust, in his owne turne, to cast him at the least.
Although he whet, his teeth at me, and styngs me with his tonge,
Yet with the iust, I am content, to learne to suffre wrong
Synce Princes peares, and Kyngs themselues, their Acts and godly lawes.
Are sclaundred oft, through euyltonges, and blamed without cawes.
Looke what is doone, & truly mēt, to put thīgs in good stay
Are wrested, & peruerted oft, by euylltonge I say.
The Preachers voyce, which threineth wrath, the synfull to reduse.
Doth purchase hate, for tellyng truth: lo, this is mans abuse.
The chylde doth blame, the byrchē rod, whose stryps may not be sparde.
Bicause his wits, vnto his welth, hath verismal regard
The wiked sort, whose vice is knowne, by those which writes their lyues.
Can not abyde, to heare their fauts, but styll against theym striues.
The horse can not abyde the whyp, bycause it mends his pace,
Thus eche thinge hates, his punishement, we see before our face,
Therfore I blame, this man the lesse, whiche sclandreth me so much.
And casteth venome, lyke the Tode, bicause his fautes I touch:
What cause in me, what hate in him, what mattier hath he sought,
within this Dauy Dicars Dreame, whiche for the best was wrought.
Unto the good, it is not yll, nor hurtfull vnto none.
Nor vnto those, that loues ye lyght, it is no stūblyng stone.
But thos that stāds, to watch a time, the innocent to spyll,
Out of the sweete, and fayrest floure, the spider poysō takes.
And yet the Bee, doth feede theron, & ther wt hony makes.
The Caterpiller, spils the fruit, whiche God made for mans foode,
The fly lyke wyse, wher he dothe blow, dothe styll more harme than good.
Thus may you see, as men doo take, ye things wherō thei loke
They may it turne, to good or bad, as they applye the booke
But euery man, to his owne worke, an honest menīg hath.
Or els those hasty, sclanders tonges, might do good men moch scath.
He feeles moch ease, that suffere can, all thynges as they doo hap.
who makes a pyt, for other men, may fall in his own trap
who flynges a stone, at euery dooge, which barketh in the strete,
Shal neuer hau, a iust reuēg nor haue a pacient sprete.
Therfore I suffre, all your wordes, which is mine enemi knowne,
I could you serue, with taunting tearmes, and feede you with your owne.
But I mīde not to chock your tale, before the worst be tolde.
Then may I haue, fre choyce and leaue, to shew you wher you scolde.
Good syr if I shulde you salute, as you saluted me.
Then skuld I call you, Dauy too, and so perchauce you bee.
Ye multiplye, fyue names of one, a progeny you make.
As your desent, dyd comme from thence, wher of you lately spake.
Though such as you, haue nyck named me, in gest and halfe in scorne,
Churchiard I am, in Shrewisbury towne, thei say wher I was borne
You put your name, to others works, ye weklings to be gild.
Me thinke you are, somwhat to younge, to father such child
The truthe ther of, is eeth to know, a blynd mā may discus
You say, I did not aunswer you: I could no mattier finde
Nor yet can see, excepte I shulde, at folli wast my minde
The gretest shame, and most reproch, that any man may haue,
Is for to write, or scoulde with fooles, hose nature is to raue.
Synce railing rims, orcoms your wits, talke on and bable styll,
I not entende, about suche chats, my pē nor speche to spil.
I neither fume, nor chaunge my moode, at ought that you haue sayde.
The world may iudge, your railyng tong, full like a beast hath brayd.
And where you say, you can poynt out, by lyne and leuell both.
Of all the, whens, of Dycars dreame, you say you knowe the troth.
It is a wilfull ignoraunce, to hyde, I knowe full well,
I faute, agaynst Iuppiters seate, or agaynst his counsell.
You shew yourselfe, not Iupiters frende, if you can truly proue.
A faute in me, & doeth it hyde for feare or yet for loue.
As for my works, & thankles paynes, in this & such lik case.
I shall be redi to defende, whē you shall hide your face.
Thīke you I feare, what you cā do, my groūde is iust & true
On euery worde, which I did speak, I fore not what ye brue
Fyll all your chargers, as ye list, and dishes euery chone,
when they be full, and rūneth ore, I will cast you a bone.
whiche shall be harde, for you to pyke, though that your wits be fyne,
I can sone put you out of sqar from your leuell and lyne:
I wyll not answere word for worde, to your reioindre yet,
Because I fynde no matter there, nor yet no poynt of wyt,
But brabling blasts, and frātike fyts, & chyding in ye ayre,
Why doo you fret thus with yourself, fye man do not dispayre:
I thinke you shuld be right wel kept, if you be frended theare:
If you were scourged once a day, and fed with some warm meate.
You wolde come to your self again, after this rage of heate
This may be said without offēce, if ye your wyts you had
You wolde not lye nor rail on me, nor fare as you wer mad.
But as it is a true prouerbe: ye threatned man lyues long,
Your words cā neither hang nor draw, I feare not your yl tong.
The world is such it doth cōtempne, all those that vertue haue.
An euell tong hath no respect whose name he doth depraue
what is the cause of mortall food, which dothe in frendes arise,
But comenly these sclaunder tonges, whiche still delyts in lyes:
who maketh war, who soweth strife, who brīgeh Realmes to ruine:
But plenty, pride and euell tonges, whose voyce is nere in tune,
The roote and branche and chefeest groūde, of mischeefs all and some,
Is euyll tongues, whose sugred words, hath wyse mē ouercome,
The proofe wher of you put in vse, your words ye frame and set,
To creepe into some noble hertes, a credit for to get.
The eatyng worme within ye nut, ye sweetest curnell seke,
So doo you drawe where gayne is got, and there you looke full meeke.
But vnder those fayr angels loks is hyd a deuelish minde
I durst lay oddes who trust you long, ful false he shall you finde.
Now to returne vnto thee cause, whiche made you first to write,
You shew your selfe to be a foole, to answer me in spite.
Is not well worth when fruit is cheape, ye paring of a peare
Your sodain stormes and thūdre claps, your boasts and braggs so loude.
Hath doone no harme thogh Robyn Hood, spake with you in a cloud.
Go learne againe of litell Ihō, to shute in Robyn Hods bowe,
Or Dicars dreame shalbe vnhit, and all his, whens, I trowe,
Thus hear I leaue, I lyst not write, to aunswere wher you rayle:
He is vnwise that striues wt fooles, wher words can not preuayle.
| The Contention bettwyxte Churchyeard and Camell | |