The Worthines of Wales Wherein are more then a thousand seuerall things rehearsed: some set out in prose to the pleasure of the Reader, and with such varietie of verse for the beautifying of the Book, as no doubt shal delight thousands to vnderstand. Which worke is enterlarded with many wonders and right strange matter to consider of: All the which labour and deuice is drawne forth and set out by Thomas Churchyard, to the glorie of God, and honour of his Prince and Countrey |
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An Introduction for Breaknoke Shiere.
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 | The Worthines of Wales |  |
An Introduction for Breaknoke Shiere.
Is
bodie tyerd with trauaile, God forbid,
That wearie bones, so soone should seeke for rest:
Shall sences sleepe, when head in house is hid,
As though some charme, were crept in quiet brest.
And so bewitch, the wits with too much ease,
That duls good spreete, and blunts quicke sharpe deuice:
Which climes the Clowdes, and wades through deepest Seas,
And goes before, and breakes the frozen Ice,
To cleere the coast, and make the passage free
For trau'lers all, that will great secrets see.
That wearie bones, so soone should seeke for rest:
Shall sences sleepe, when head in house is hid,
As though some charme, were crept in quiet brest.
And so bewitch, the wits with too much ease,
That duls good spreete, and blunts quicke sharpe deuice:
Which climes the Clowdes, and wades through deepest Seas,
And goes before, and breakes the frozen Ice,
To cleere the coast, and make the passage free
For trau'lers all, that will great secrets see.
When quick conceyt, by slouth is rockt asleepe,
And fresh deuice, goes faynt for lacke of vse:
Along the limmes, doth lazie humours creepe,
And daylie breedes, in bodie great abuse.
If mettall fine, be not kept cleane from rust,
The brightest blade, will sure some cancker take:
And when cleere things, are staynd with drosse and dust,
They must be skour'd by skill, for profites sake.
Wit is nought worth, in ydle braine to rest,
Nor gold doth good, that still lyes lockt in chest.
And fresh deuice, goes faynt for lacke of vse:
Along the limmes, doth lazie humours creepe,
And daylie breedes, in bodie great abuse.
If mettall fine, be not kept cleane from rust,
The brightest blade, will sure some cancker take:
And when cleere things, are staynd with drosse and dust,
They must be skour'd by skill, for profites sake.
Wit is nought worth, in ydle braine to rest,
Nor gold doth good, that still lyes lockt in chest.
The soft Downe bed, and Chamber warm'd with fire,
Or thicke furd gowne, is all that sluggard seekes:
But men of spreete, whose hearts do still aspire,
Do labour long, with leane and lentten cheekes,
To trye the world, and taste both sweete and sower:
Who much doth see, may much both speake and write:
Who little knowes, hath little wit or power
To winne the wise, or dwell in worlds delight.
Feare not to toyle, for he that sowes in paine,
Shall reape with ioye, for store good Corne againe.
Or thicke furd gowne, is all that sluggard seekes:
But men of spreete, whose hearts do still aspire,
Do labour long, with leane and lentten cheekes,
To trye the world, and taste both sweete and sower:
Who much doth see, may much both speake and write:
Who little knowes, hath little wit or power
To winne the wise, or dwell in worlds delight.
Feare not to toyle, for he that sowes in paine,
Shall reape with ioye, for store good Corne againe.
In reachlesse youth, whiles fancie flewe with winde,
Feete could not stay, the bodie mou'd so fast:
For euery part, thereof did answer minde,
Till aged yeeres, sayd wanton daies were past.
If that be true, sound iudgement should be fraught
With grauer thoughts, and greater things of weight:
Sith sober sence, at lightnesse now hath laught,
Thy reason should, set crooked matters streight:
And newly frame, a forme of fine deuice,
That vertue may, bring knowledge most in price.
Feete could not stay, the bodie mou'd so fast:
For euery part, thereof did answer minde,
Till aged yeeres, sayd wanton daies were past.
If that be true, sound iudgement should be fraught
With grauer thoughts, and greater things of weight:
Sith sober sence, at lightnesse now hath laught,
Thy reason should, set crooked matters streight:
And newly frame, a forme of fine deuice,
That vertue may, bring knowledge most in price.
To treate of tyme, and make discourse of men,
And how the world, doth chop and chaunge estate,
Doth well become, an auncient writers pen:
If skill will serue, such secretes to debate.
If no, hold on the course thou hast begun,
To talke of Townes, and Castles as they are:
And looke thou doe, no toyle nor trauaile shun,
To set foorth things, that be both straunge and rare.
If age doe droope, and can abide no toyle,
When thou comest home, yet set out some sweete Soyle.
And how the world, doth chop and chaunge estate,
Doth well become, an auncient writers pen:
If skill will serue, such secretes to debate.
If no, hold on the course thou hast begun,
To talke of Townes, and Castles as they are:
And looke thou doe, no toyle nor trauaile shun,
To set foorth things, that be both straunge and rare.
If age doe droope, and can abide no toyle,
When thou comest home, yet set out some sweete Soyle.
Though ioynts waxe stiffe, and bodie heauie growes,
And backe bends downe, to earth where corps must lye:
And legges be lame, and gowte creepes in the toes,
Cold crampe, and cough, makes groning goast to crye.
When fits are past, if any rest be found,
Plye pen againe, for that shall purchase praise:
Yea though thou canst, not ride so great a ground,
As all ore Wales, in thyne old aged daies:
Forget no place, nor Soyle where thou hast bin,
With Breaknocke Shiere, than now this booke begin.
And backe bends downe, to earth where corps must lye:
And legges be lame, and gowte creepes in the toes,
Cold crampe, and cough, makes groning goast to crye.
When fits are past, if any rest be found,
Plye pen againe, for that shall purchase praise:
Yea though thou canst, not ride so great a ground,
As all ore Wales, in thyne old aged daies:
Forget no place, nor Soyle where thou hast bin,
With Breaknocke Shiere, than now this booke begin.
Shewe what thyne eyes, are witnesse of for troth,
And leaue the rest, to them that after liues:
When man is cal'd, away to graue be goeth,
Death steales the life, that God and nature giues.
Thou hast no state, nor pattent here on earth,
But borrowed breath, the bodie beares about:
Death daylie wayts, on life from hower of birth,
And when he lists, he blowes thy candle out.
Then leaue some worke, in world before thou passe,
That friends may say, loe here a writer was.
And leaue the rest, to them that after liues:
Death steales the life, that God and nature giues.
Thou hast no state, nor pattent here on earth,
But borrowed breath, the bodie beares about:
Death daylie wayts, on life from hower of birth,
And when he lists, he blowes thy candle out.
Then leaue some worke, in world before thou passe,
That friends may say, loe here a writer was.
My Muse thus sayd, and so she shranke aside,
As though some Spreet, a space had spoke to mee:
With that I had, a friend of myne espyde,
That stood farre of, behind a Lawrell tree.
For whom I cal'd, and told him in his eare
My Muses tale: but therewithall his eyes
Bedeaw'd his cheekes, with many a bitter teare,
For sorrowe great, that from his heart did rise.
Oh friend (quoth he) thy race I see so short,
Thou canst not liue, to make of Wales report.
As though some Spreet, a space had spoke to mee:
With that I had, a friend of myne espyde,
That stood farre of, behind a Lawrell tree.
For whom I cal'd, and told him in his eare
My Muses tale: but therewithall his eyes
Bedeaw'd his cheekes, with many a bitter teare,
For sorrowe great, that from his heart did rise.
Oh friend (quoth he) thy race I see so short,
Thou canst not liue, to make of Wales report.
For first behold, how age and thy mishap,
Agreed in one, to tread thee vnder foote:
Thou wast long since, flong out of Fortunes lap,
When youths gay blowmes, forsooke both braunch and roote.
And left weake age, as bare as barraine stocke.
That neither fruite, nor leaues will growe vpon:
Can feeble bones, abide the sturdie shocke
Of Fortunes force, when youthfull strength is gon:
And if good chaunce, in youth hath fled from thee,
Be sure in age, thou canst not happie bee.
Agreed in one, to tread thee vnder foote:
Thou wast long since, flong out of Fortunes lap,
When youths gay blowmes, forsooke both braunch and roote.
And left weake age, as bare as barraine stocke.
That neither fruite, nor leaues will growe vpon:
Can feeble bones, abide the sturdie shocke
Of Fortunes force, when youthfull strength is gon:
And if good chaunce, in youth hath fled from thee,
Be sure in age, thou canst not happie bee.
Tis hap that must, maintaine thy cost and charge,
By some such meane, as great good turnes are gote:
Els walke or ride, abroade the world at large,
And yet great mynd, but makes old age to dote.
Thy trauaile past, shewes what may after fall,
Long iourneys breedes, disease and sicknesse oft:
Thou hast not health, nor wished wealth at call,
That glads the heart, and makes men looke aloft.
No sorer snib, nor nothing nips so neere,
As feele much want, yet shewe a merrie cheere.
By some such meane, as great good turnes are gote:
Els walke or ride, abroade the world at large,
And yet great mynd, but makes old age to dote.
Long iourneys breedes, disease and sicknesse oft:
Thou hast not health, nor wished wealth at call,
That glads the heart, and makes men looke aloft.
No sorer snib, nor nothing nips so neere,
As feele much want, yet shewe a merrie cheere.
My newfound friend, no sooner this had sayd,
(Which tryall knowes, both true and words of weight)
But that my mynd, from trauaile long was stayd,
Saue that I tooke, in hand a iourney streight,
To Breakenoke Towne, whose Seate once throughly pend,
(With some such notes, as season serues therefore)
There all the rest, of toyle should make an end,
Sith aged limmes, might trauaile Wales no more.
Right sorie sure, I can no further go,
Content perforce, sith hap will haue it so.
(Which tryall knowes, both true and words of weight)
But that my mynd, from trauaile long was stayd,
Saue that I tooke, in hand a iourney streight,
To Breakenoke Towne, whose Seate once throughly pend,
(With some such notes, as season serues therefore)
There all the rest, of toyle should make an end,
Sith aged limmes, might trauaile Wales no more.
Right sorie sure, I can no further go,
Content perforce, sith hap will haue it so.
Some men begin, to build a goodly Seate,
And frames a worke, of Timber bigge and large:
Yet long before, the workmanship be greate,
Another comes, and takes that plot in charge.
Men may not doe, no more then God permits,
The mynd it thinkes, great things to bring to passe:
But common course, so soone orecomes the wits,
In peeces lyes, mans state like broken glasse.
We purpose much, but little power we finde,
With good successe, to answer mightie minde.
And frames a worke, of Timber bigge and large:
Yet long before, the workmanship be greate,
Another comes, and takes that plot in charge.
Men may not doe, no more then God permits,
The mynd it thinkes, great things to bring to passe:
But common course, so soone orecomes the wits,
In peeces lyes, mans state like broken glasse.
We purpose much, but little power we finde,
With good successe, to answer mightie minde.
Well, that discourse, let goe as matter past,
To Breakenoke now, my pen and muse are prest:
And sith that Soyle, and towne shalbe the last,
That here I meane, to touch of all the rest,
In briefest sort, it shalbe written out:
Yet with such words, as caries credit still,
As other works, in world can breede no dout:
So this small peece, shall shewe my great good will,
That for farewell, to worthie Wales I make,
That followes here, before my leaue I take.
To Breakenoke now, my pen and muse are prest:
And sith that Soyle, and towne shalbe the last,
That here I meane, to touch of all the rest,
In briefest sort, it shalbe written out:
Yet with such words, as caries credit still,
So this small peece, shall shewe my great good will,
That for farewell, to worthie Wales I make,
That followes here, before my leaue I take.
O happie
princely Soyle, my pen is farre to bace,
My muse but serues in sted of foyle, to giue a Iewell grace.
My bare inuention cold, and barraine verses vaine,
When they thy glory should vnfold, they do thy Coūtrie staine.
Thy worth some worthie may, set out in golden lines,
And blaze ye same, wt colors gay, whose glistring beautie shines.
My boldnesse was to great, to take the charge in hand,
With wasted wits the braines to beat, to write on such a Land:
Whose people may compare, in high'st degree of praise,
With any now aliue that are, or were in elders daies.
Thy Townes and Castles fayre, so brauely stands in deede,
They should their honour much apayre, if they my verses neede.
A writers rurall rime, doth hinder thy good name:
For verse but entertaines the tyme, with toyes yt fancies frame.
With Tullies sugred tongue, or Virgils sharpe engine,
Thy rare renowne should still be rong, or sung in verse deuine.
A simple Poets pen, but blots white paper still,
And blurres the brute & praise of men, for want of cunning quill.
If Ouids skill I had, or could like Homer write,
Or Dant would make my muses glad, to please ye worlds delite.
Or Chawser lent me in these daies, some of his learned tales,
As Petrarke did his Lawra praise, so would I speak of Wales.
But all to late I craue, for knowledge wit and sence:
For looke what gifts ye Gods thē gaue, they tooke thē al frō hēce,
And left vs nought but bookes, to stare and pore vpon,
On which perchaūce blind bayard lookes, whē skil & sight is gō.
Our former age did floe, with grace and learned lore,
Then farre behind they come I troe, that striue to run before.
We must goe lagging on, as legges and limmes were lame,
And though long since ye gole was gon, & wit hath won ye game,
We shall haue roume to play, and tyme and place withall,
To looke, to reade, to write and say, what shall in fancie fall.
But woe is me the while, that ouerweenes in want,
When world may at my boldnes smile, to see my skill so scant.
Yet write in Countries praise, that I cannot set out,
And stands discourag'd many waies, to trauaile Wales about.
Yet take now well in worth, the works I haue begun,
I can no further thing set foorth, my daies are almost dun:
As candle cleere doth burne, to socket in small tyme,
So age to earth must needes returne, when youth hath past his pryme.
My muse but serues in sted of foyle, to giue a Iewell grace.
My bare inuention cold, and barraine verses vaine,
When they thy glory should vnfold, they do thy Coūtrie staine.
Thy worth some worthie may, set out in golden lines,
And blaze ye same, wt colors gay, whose glistring beautie shines.
My boldnesse was to great, to take the charge in hand,
With wasted wits the braines to beat, to write on such a Land:
Whose people may compare, in high'st degree of praise,
With any now aliue that are, or were in elders daies.
Thy Townes and Castles fayre, so brauely stands in deede,
They should their honour much apayre, if they my verses neede.
A writers rurall rime, doth hinder thy good name:
For verse but entertaines the tyme, with toyes yt fancies frame.
With Tullies sugred tongue, or Virgils sharpe engine,
Thy rare renowne should still be rong, or sung in verse deuine.
A simple Poets pen, but blots white paper still,
And blurres the brute & praise of men, for want of cunning quill.
If Ouids skill I had, or could like Homer write,
Or Dant would make my muses glad, to please ye worlds delite.
Or Chawser lent me in these daies, some of his learned tales,
As Petrarke did his Lawra praise, so would I speak of Wales.
But all to late I craue, for knowledge wit and sence:
For looke what gifts ye Gods thē gaue, they tooke thē al frō hēce,
And left vs nought but bookes, to stare and pore vpon,
On which perchaūce blind bayard lookes, whē skil & sight is gō.
Our former age did floe, with grace and learned lore,
Then farre behind they come I troe, that striue to run before.
We must goe lagging on, as legges and limmes were lame,
And though long since ye gole was gon, & wit hath won ye game,
To looke, to reade, to write and say, what shall in fancie fall.
But woe is me the while, that ouerweenes in want,
When world may at my boldnes smile, to see my skill so scant.
Yet write in Countries praise, that I cannot set out,
And stands discourag'd many waies, to trauaile Wales about.
Yet take now well in worth, the works I haue begun,
I can no further thing set foorth, my daies are almost dun:
As candle cleere doth burne, to socket in small tyme,
So age to earth must needes returne, when youth hath past his pryme.
Now Breakenoke shiere, as falleth to thy lot,
In place a peere, thou art not sure forgot:
Nor written of so much as I desire:
For sicknesse long, made bodie soone retyre
Unto the Towne where it was borne and bred,
And where perhaps, on turffe must lye my hed.
When labors all, shall reape a graue for rest,
And silent death, shall quiet troubled brest:
Then as I now, haue somewhat sayd on thee,
So shall some friend, haue tyme to write on mee.
Whose restlesse muse, and wearie waking minde,
To pleasure world, did oft great leasure finde:
And who reioyst, and tooke a great delight,
For knowledge sake, to studie reade and write.
In place a peere, thou art not sure forgot:
Nor written of so much as I desire:
For sicknesse long, made bodie soone retyre
Unto the Towne where it was borne and bred,
And where perhaps, on turffe must lye my hed.
When labors all, shall reape a graue for rest,
And silent death, shall quiet troubled brest:
Then as I now, haue somewhat sayd on thee,
So shall some friend, haue tyme to write on mee.
Whose restlesse muse, and wearie waking minde,
To pleasure world, did oft great leasure finde:
And who reioyst, and tooke a great delight,
For knowledge sake, to studie reade and write.
| The Worthines of Wales | |