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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Here followeth the Creation of an Earle of Penbroke in Latin.
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 | The Worthines of Wales |  |
Here followeth the Creation of an Earle of Penbroke in Latin.
This was set downe, for causes more then one,
The world beleeues, no more than it hath seene:
When things lye dead, and tyme is past and gone,
Blynd people say, it is not so we weene.
It is a tale, deuisde to please the eare,
More for delight, of toyes then troth may beare:
But those that thinks, this may a fable be,
To Authors good, I send them here from me.
The world beleeues, no more than it hath seene:
When things lye dead, and tyme is past and gone,
Blynd people say, it is not so we weene.
It is a tale, deuisde to please the eare,
More for delight, of toyes then troth may beare:
But those that thinks, this may a fable be,
To Authors good, I send them here from me.
First let them search, Records as I haue done,
Then shall they finde, this is most certaine true:
And all the rest, before I here begun,
Is taken out, not of no writers nue.
The oldest sort, and soundest men of skill
Myne Authors are, now reade their names who will:
Their workes, their words, and so their learning through,
Shall shewe you all, what troth I write of now.
Then shall they finde, this is most certaine true:
And all the rest, before I here begun,
Is taken out, not of no writers nue.
The oldest sort, and soundest men of skill
Myne Authors are, now reade their names who will:
Their workes, their words, and so their learning through,
Shall shewe you all, what troth I write of now.
Because many that fauoured not Wales (parsiall writers and historians) haue written & set downe their owne opinions, as they pleased to publish of that Countrey: I therefore a little degresse from the orderly matter of the booke, and touch somewhat the workes and wordes of them that rashly haue written more then they knewe, or well could proue.
As learned men, hath wrote graue works of yore,
So great regard, to natiue Soyle they had:
For such respect, I blame now Pollydore:
Because of Wales, his iudgement was but bad.
If Buckanan, the Scottish Poet late
Were here in sprite, of Brittons to debate:
He should finde men, that would with him dispute,
And many a pen, which would his works confute.
So great regard, to natiue Soyle they had:
For such respect, I blame now Pollydore:
Because of Wales, his iudgement was but bad.
If Buckanan, the Scottish Poet late
Were here in sprite, of Brittons to debate:
He should finde men, that would with him dispute,
And many a pen, which would his works confute.
But with the dead, the quick may neuer striue,
(Though sondrie works, of theirs were little worth)
Yet better farre, they had not bene aliue,
Than sowe such seedes, as brings no goodnesse forth:
Their praise is small, that plucks backe others fame,
Their loue not great, that blots out neighbours name,
Their bookes but brawles, their bable bauld and bare,
That in disdaine, of fables writers are.
(Though sondrie works, of theirs were little worth)
Yet better farre, they had not bene aliue,
Than sowe such seedes, as brings no goodnesse forth:
Their praise is small, that plucks backe others fame,
Their loue not great, that blots out neighbours name,
Their bookes but brawles, their bable bauld and bare,
That in disdaine, of fables writers are.
What fable more, then say they knowe that thing
They neuer sawe, and so giue iudgement streight:
And by their bookes, the world in error bring,
That thinks it reades, a matter of great weight.
When that a tale, of much vntroth is told:
Thus all that shines, and glisters is not gold:
Nor all the bookes, that auncient Fathers wrate
Are not alo'wd, for troth in euery state.
They neuer sawe, and so giue iudgement streight:
That thinks it reades, a matter of great weight.
When that a tale, of much vntroth is told:
Thus all that shines, and glisters is not gold:
Nor all the bookes, that auncient Fathers wrate
Are not alo'wd, for troth in euery state.
Though Cæsar was, a wise and worthie Prince,
And conquerd much, of Wales and England both:
The writers than, and other Authors since.
Did flatter tyme, and still abuse the troth.
Some for a fee, and some did humors feede,
When sore was healde, to make a wound to bleede:
And some sought meanes, their patient still to please,
When body throwe, was full of foule disease.
And conquerd much, of Wales and England both:
The writers than, and other Authors since.
Did flatter tyme, and still abuse the troth.
Some for a fee, and some did humors feede,
When sore was healde, to make a wound to bleede:
And some sought meanes, their patient still to please,
When body throwe, was full of foule disease.
The worldly wits, that with each tyme would wagge,
Were caryed cleane, away from wisedomes lore:
They rather watcht, to fill an emptie bagge,
Than touch the tyme, then present or before:
Nor car'd not much, for future tyme to come,
They rould vp tyme, like threede about the thome:
And when their clue, on trifles all was spent,
Much rotten stuffe, vnto the garment went.
Were caryed cleane, away from wisedomes lore:
They rather watcht, to fill an emptie bagge,
Than touch the tyme, then present or before:
Nor car'd not much, for future tyme to come,
They rould vp tyme, like threede about the thome:
And when their clue, on trifles all was spent,
Much rotten stuffe, vnto the garment went.
Which stuffe patcht vp, a peece of homely ware,
In Printers shop, set out to sale sometyme:
Which ill wrought worke, at length became so bare,
It neither seru'd, for prose nor pleasant ryme:
But past like chat, and old wiues tales full vayne,
That thunders long, but neuer brings forth rayne:
A kynd of sound, that makes a hurling noyse,
To feare young babes, with brute of bugges and toyes.
In Printers shop, set out to sale sometyme:
Which ill wrought worke, at length became so bare,
It neither seru'd, for prose nor pleasant ryme:
But past like chat, and old wiues tales full vayne,
That thunders long, but neuer brings forth rayne:
A kynd of sound, that makes a hurling noyse,
To feare young babes, with brute of bugges and toyes.
But aged sires, of riper wit and skill,
Disdaines to reade, such rabble farst with lyes:
This is enough, to shewe you my goodwill
Of Authors true, and writers graue and wise.
Whose pen shall proue, each thing in printed booke,
Whose eyes withall, on matter straunge did looke:
And whose great charge, and labour witnesse beares,
Their words are iust, they offer to your eares.
Disdaines to reade, such rabble farst with lyes:
Of Authors true, and writers graue and wise.
Whose pen shall proue, each thing in printed booke,
Whose eyes withall, on matter straunge did looke:
And whose great charge, and labour witnesse beares,
Their words are iust, they offer to your eares.
Each Nation had, some writer in their daies
For to aduaunce, their Countrey to the Starres:
Homer was one, who gaue the Greekes great praise,
And honord not, the Troyans for their warres.
Liui among, the Romaines wrate right mitch,
With rare renowne, his Countrey to enritch:
And Pollidore, did ply the pen a pace,
To blurre straunge Soyles, and yeeld the Romaines grace.
For to aduaunce, their Countrey to the Starres:
Homer was one, who gaue the Greekes great praise,
And honord not, the Troyans for their warres.
Liui among, the Romaines wrate right mitch,
With rare renowne, his Countrey to enritch:
And Pollidore, did ply the pen a pace,
To blurre straunge Soyles, and yeeld the Romaines grace.
Admit they wrate, their volumes all of troeth,
(And did affect, ne man nor matter then)
Yet writer sees, not how all matters goeth
In field: when he, at home is at his pen.
This Pollidore, sawe neuer much of Wales,
Though he haue told, of Brittons many tales:
Cæsar himself, a Uictor many a way,
Went not so farre, as Pollidore doth say.
(And did affect, ne man nor matter then)
Yet writer sees, not how all matters goeth
In field: when he, at home is at his pen.
This Pollidore, sawe neuer much of Wales,
Though he haue told, of Brittons many tales:
Cæsar himself, a Uictor many a way,
Went not so farre, as Pollidore doth say.
Kings are obayd, where they were neuer seene,
And men may write, of things they heare by eare:
So Pollidore, oft tymes might ouerweene,
And speake of Soyles, yet he came neuer there.
Some runne a ground, that through each water sailes,
A Pylot good, in his owne Compasse failes:
A writer that beleeues in worlds report,
May roue to farre, or surely shoote to short.
And men may write, of things they heare by eare:
So Pollidore, oft tymes might ouerweene,
And speake of Soyles, yet he came neuer there.
Some runne a ground, that through each water sailes,
A Pylot good, in his owne Compasse failes:
A writer that beleeues in worlds report,
May roue to farre, or surely shoote to short.
The eye is iudge, as Lanterne cleere of light,
That searcheth through, the dim and darkest place:
The gladsome eye, giues all the bodie sight,
It is the glasse, and beautie of the face.
But where no face, nor iudging eye doth come,
The sence is blynd, the spirit is deaffe and dome:
For wit can not, conceiue till sight send in
Some skill to head, whereby we knowledge win.
That searcheth through, the dim and darkest place:
It is the glasse, and beautie of the face.
But where no face, nor iudging eye doth come,
The sence is blynd, the spirit is deaffe and dome:
For wit can not, conceiue till sight send in
Some skill to head, whereby we knowledge win.
If straungers speake, but straungely on our state,
Thinke nothing straunge, though straungers write amis:
If straungers do, our natiue people hate,
Our Countrey knowes, how straunge their nature is.
Most straunge it were, to trust a forayne foe,
Or fauour those, that we for straungers knowe:
Then straungely reade, the bookes that straungers make,
For feare ye shroude, in bosome stinging Snake.
Thinke nothing straunge, though straungers write amis:
If straungers do, our natiue people hate,
Our Countrey knowes, how straunge their nature is.
Most straunge it were, to trust a forayne foe,
Or fauour those, that we for straungers knowe:
Then straungely reade, the bookes that straungers make,
For feare ye shroude, in bosome stinging Snake.
The straungers still, in auncient tyme that wrate,
Exalt themselues, and keepes vs vnder foote:
As we of kynd, and nature doe them hate,
So beare they rust, and canker at the roote
Of heart, to vs, when pen to paper goeth,
Their cunning can, with craft so cloke a troeth,
That hardly we, shall haue them in the winde,
To smell them forth, or yet their finenesse finde.
Exalt themselues, and keepes vs vnder foote:
As we of kynd, and nature doe them hate,
So beare they rust, and canker at the roote
Of heart, to vs, when pen to paper goeth,
Their cunning can, with craft so cloke a troeth,
That hardly we, shall haue them in the winde,
To smell them forth, or yet their finenesse finde.
Of force then must, you credite our owne men,
(Whose vertues works, a glorious garland gaynes)
Who had the gift, the grace and arte of pen:
And who did write, with such sweete flowing vaynes,
That Honey seem'd, to drop from Poets quill:
I say no more, trust straungers and ye will,
Our Countrey breedes, as faithfull men as those,
As famous too, in stately verse or prose.
(Whose vertues works, a glorious garland gaynes)
Who had the gift, the grace and arte of pen:
And who did write, with such sweete flowing vaynes,
That Honey seem'd, to drop from Poets quill:
I say no more, trust straungers and ye will,
Our Countrey breedes, as faithfull men as those,
As famous too, in stately verse or prose.
And trueth I trowe, is likte among vs best:
For each man frounes, when fabling toyes they heare,
And though we count, but Robin Hood a Iest,
And old wiues tales, as tatling toyes appeare:
Yet Arthurs raigne, the world cannot denye,
Such proofe there is, the troth thereof to trye:
That who so speakes, against so graue a thing,
Shall blush to blot, the fame of such a King.
For each man frounes, when fabling toyes they heare,
And old wiues tales, as tatling toyes appeare:
Yet Arthurs raigne, the world cannot denye,
Such proofe there is, the troth thereof to trye:
That who so speakes, against so graue a thing,
Shall blush to blot, the fame of such a King.
Condemne the daies, of elders great or small,
And then blurre out, the course of present tyme:
Cast one age downe, and so doe orethrow all,
And burne the bookes, of printed prose or ryme:
Who shall beleeue, he rules or she doth raigne
In tyme to come, if writers loose their paine:
The pen records, tyme past and present both,
Skill brings foorth bookes, and bookes is nurse to troth.
And then blurre out, the course of present tyme:
Cast one age downe, and so doe orethrow all,
And burne the bookes, of printed prose or ryme:
Who shall beleeue, he rules or she doth raigne
In tyme to come, if writers loose their paine:
The pen records, tyme past and present both,
Skill brings foorth bookes, and bookes is nurse to troth.
| The Worthines of Wales | |