University of Virginia Library

My Ladie of Lennoyes graces Epitaphe.

You noble dames of greatest birth, whose fame to clouds would flye.
On this cold cors with warme good will, bowe doune your iudgyng eye.
To see how fleshe and blood must fall, to dust when race is ronne:
And worldly brute, and honours blaste, shall ende where it begonne.
If stately name, or high renowne, might make her bodie liue:
Or Princes blood, to life and breath, might here a patente giue.
This Ladie had not tasted death, nor felte in sondrie thyngs:
Suche crossyng chance, and froward fate, as to her graue she brings,
Was neuer wight, with troubles toste, so sore and past them soe:
For in her breast from tender yeres, a gulffe of greef did floe.
Scan that whiche best, can skill of woe, her sorrowes were so greate:
That when I waie a dram thereof, my face and browes doe sweate.
But though she founde her fortune harde, a staied mynde she bore:
A worthie hedde where sober witte, by heapes laie hid in store.
Her gesture shewd from whence she came, her words moste graue & wyes
And honours beame, like burnyng Lampe, did blase amid her eyes.
A presence that could freends cōmaunde, and hold her foes full mute:
A noble harte where bounties budds, did blome and beare good frute.
What needs more words to proue a trothe, so rare her vertues were:
That who presumes, to hit them right, maie misse the marke I fere.
As you that mourne, are cladde with blacke, in white her soule doeth shine:
Transformd frō fleshe to angels kinde, or sacred shape deuine.
Where fortunes threate, cā doe no harme, nor worldly foile she fears
And eche good ghost in glorie greate, doeth make an ende of tears.
Her life my gaine, her death my losse, her fauour helpt my state:
Her laste farewell leaues freends behinde, to waile the losse too late.

An Epitaphe of sir Nicholas Bacon Knight, late Lorde Keeper.

The lodestarre that good Pilotts likt, crept vnder cloude of late:
A suddaine storme hath knapt in twoo, a staffe of publicke state.
Out of our goodlie golden Ryng, is falne a precious stone:
The lande that sutche a Iewell lacks, hath cause to morne and mone.
The babes that seeth their parents dye, of duetie sheds some teares,
But when a Pillar falleth doune, that countries burthen beares.
The common wealth doeth bide a shocke, and ioynts in sonder shake:
If not in steade of auncient propp, a newe defence we make.
A father to all forward witts, who fostred lawe and right:
A Sunne that shone through highest clouds, yet gaue belowe greate light.
Who will not waile that knowes the want: well Englande sutche a glas:
Shall seldome shine in thee againe, as worthie Bacon was.
A flood of sence and sugred sappe, came flowyng from his braine:
Ne Tulles toung, nor Petracks penne, nor stoute wise Catoes vaine.
Maie not surmount the philed phrase, and reche of Bacons hedd:
His voice was smothe as Organe pipe, and looke what Bacon sedd.
Was held for Lawe & iudgement greate, the sentence was so swete:
The words were of so deepe a fetche, and sprong from suche a sprete.
He spent no speeche nor words in waste, and where his promes past:
Performance hasted out of hande, and followd on as faste.
To God, to Prince, and Iustice rules, a greate regard he tooke:
Not on the man, but on the cause, and matter would he looke.
Disposde and bente to doe muche good, but namely vnto those:
To whom dame vertues learned lore, did gifts of grace disclose.
His countries care cutts of his daies, and brings thē dim dark night:
That wisely cannot waye the weight, and worth of sutche a wight.
He liues in laude and lanterne like, he lastes with blasyng fame:
We die, & world weares out our praise, where shines his noble name.
Moste noble are those burnyng lampes, moste clerest light thei shoe:
That leaues a torche which giues vs light, whē hēce frō vs thei goe.

Sir Hugh Pauletts Epitaphe.

No verse a vailes, ne teares maie serue, to waile the want at full:
My witts are weake, my words but bare my penne but base and dull.
To frame in forme and stately stile, the lines I ought to write:
I finde my muse orecome with cares, my reason banishe quite.
My hedde so fraught with cold conceits, of newes I knowe full well:
That I had rather crie and rore, and shrillie houle and yell.
Then treate of dreadfull deaths despite, who daiely doeth deuoure:
The noblest fruits of Natures mould, and pluckes the purest flowre.
Death neither looks on mens renowne, nor who maie best be spard:
But like a Theef stealls life awaie, and striks without regard.
Not takyng those that vertue wants, and fills the worlde with vice:
But snapps vp suche that people praise, & worlde holds moste in price.
As loe of late to well was seen, when Paulet left his life:
Forsooke his freends, desired the graue, and went from worthy wife:
To liue and lodge in loftie Skies, where blessed angells are:
And good mens souls doe suretie finde, and rest from worldly care.
No maruell though our troubled sprits, doe make a swete exchange:
And leaues this sowre and bitter soile (and will some coūtrie strāge.)
To goe where Gods in glorie sitts, and where our home must bee:
Yet in my mynde suche partyng is, a wonder greate to see.
When men by toile and labour long, haue purchast suche a praise:
Attainde to wealth and honour bothe (through seruice sondrie waies.)
And on the suddaine leaue these pomps, and pleasures here possest:
As did this knight of whom I spake, who bore about in brest.
A noble harte a constant mynde, a iollie courage greate:
A warme good will to common wealth, that neuer wanted heate.
Brought vp in armes and Marciall feats, a maister of that arte:
Whiche oft in feeld and countreis cause, did plaie a manly parte.
As birth was good and noble sure, so all he went about:
Was good and worthie eurie waie, and noble still throughout.
In office oft, and by his Prince, to credite called still:
In matters graue and thyngs of weight, of deepe foresight and skill.
No talker of good Fortune won, nor boster for vaine bruite:
A tree that seldome blossomde showd, & yet brought forth good fruite
As calme and milde as Sommer winds, that neuer water moues:
And yet as stout to cruell Kites, as gentill with the Doues.
A bodie apte to beare the brunt, of paines and labour long:
A hedde that could conceiue the beste, and sone could put vp wrong.
A freende that vsde no fained phrase, and surely one of those:
That dealt with parfite plainnesse so, he neuer purchaste fose.
A settled rocke a staied trothe, that no deuice could staine:
A Paulet yea a piller too, where Paulet did remaine.
An aide to sutche as wanted helpe, a father free and franke:
To those that onely for good tourns, but barely yeelded thanke.
What resteth more in any man, then was in hym I saie:
Thus Paulet wan a noble brute, and bore the same awaie.
Where vertue at the dreadfull howre, when trompet sounds a loude:
(Emong the cheef and chosen Lambes,) shall sit in sacred cloude.

Sir VVillyam Courtneis Epitaphe.

By death eche life is knowen, as darkenesse tries out light,
By life is man made like the Gods, where life is ledde a right.
Whiles Courtneis life did laste, his glorie hid remainde:
But now he hath sutche rare renowne, as fewe or none attainde.
The worlde setts forthe his fame, in sutche a liuely sorte:
That to the Angells eares aboue, is blowen thereof reporte.
Whiche newes is lickte so well, the heauens holde them bleste:
Whē God shall bid vnlocke the gates, embrace this newe come gest.
But though the heauens ioye, the yearth with teares is filde:
And kinde hath cause to curse her self, that suche a tree hath spilde.
By sicknesse sent in spight, to spoile the spraise and all:
And made grene leaues forsake their bowes, ere fruit wer ripe to fall.
Me thinke I heare hym saie, would God had been my chance:
To hitte on death in open feeld, by chardge of enemies Lance.
Lament ye Courtlike Lordes, a plaie feere loste you haue:
Sende forthe some sighes a long the seas, to sobb vpon his graue.
That buried is at Hawne, with warlike pompe and shotte:
Whiche range his knell as is the gise, alas to sone God wotte.
Well, worthie goe thy waie, how many of thy name:
Are lefte behinde to tread thy stepps, and winne but halfe thy fame.
How should sutche gifts be graft, without some power deuine:
Sutche vertues dwell in one mans breast, as harbred were in thine.
A Courtney by thy name, a Courtier kindly borne:
A perfite peece not painted out, a coine vnclippte or worne.
One of so right a stampe, that streight did currant passe.
In euery place of his repaire, where sondrie golds were glasse.
His face bewraied at first, what hope of hym to haue:
His works performde that tonge brought forth, his hand full largely gaue.
A hedde that ofte had paste, dame Prudens mustere books:
A countnance as his courage was, no forsed Lyons looks.
A harte, storehouse of trothe, a minde no ire might moue:
An eare that watcht for well coucht words, a grace that gatt mutche loue.
His liberall Nature shewed, full ofte to eche degree:
Where bountie wants (set birthe a side,) ye can not noble bee.
Now better kisse his steppes, then at his praise to kicke:
Well maie men roue about his marke, but none shall hit the pricke.
What mournyng makes his wife, that sutche a housbande loste:
His babes, his men, his neighbours eke, and all the Westerne coste.
Well geasts, your Hoste is gone, turne horse an other waie:
The shrine is robbde, the saincte is fled, where ye were wont to staie.
The sacred godds receiue, emong them where thei are:
With as muche mirth as maie be made) the sprite ye Courtney bare.

Sir VVillyam Pickryngrs Epitaphe.

My sences slept in rest, the quiet couche I take:
When worlds reporte with hurlyng brute, badde sluggishe muse awake.
And whett the blunted witts, on mournyng matter newe:
(A heauie happe, a soddaine chance,) that thousandes ought to rewe.
What fortune is befalne, in worlde quoth I of late:
Is any braunche or member hurte, that erst hath serude the state.
Or is some sproute decaied, or tree blowne doune by blast:
That through mans skill & sweate of browes, might growe & stande ful fast.
There is quoth, Fame to me, a worthie wight gone hence:
Now dedde that late was quicke and ripe, of iudgement wit & sence.
And Pickryng was his name, whose mynde was sure so greate:
The noble browes bare witnesse plain, where hāmers still did beate.
A man that credite wonne, by seruice sondrie waies:
A Tully bothe with penne and tong, at proofe moste worthie praies.
And surely from the Gods, the rarest gifts posseste:
That euer in these drousie daies, did lodge in one mans breste.
Looke not I should rehearse, what all his vertues weare:
But looke amid these worldly happs, how he hym self did beare.
When Fortune turnde her face, he smothly let it slide:
The want of will at no tyme could, in looks nor life be spide.
If happe had faunde on hym, he changde no chere therefore:
In equall ballance stoode the weight, of chaunces lesse or more.
As wisedome clockte his cares, so stoutnesse staied his minde:
And custome taught hym how to taste, the toiles that here we finde.
In learned Platoes rules, good Pickryng pleasure tooke:
And shonde the worlde to sort hym self, with gladsome golden booke.
Emong a worlde of men, in deede fewe freends he chose:
Yet with a manly modest meane, he could reclaime his foes.
His port and presence sutche, he was for Court full fitte:
And for his graue and deepe foresight, he might in councell sitte.
The life that here he ledde, giues still sufficient light:
For skilfull heads and scannyng minds, to wrest his maners right.
Now hath he that he sought, and dwells aboue in blis:
Where good mens soulls as worlde thei leaue, at length shall meete with his.
When Fame had told her tale, I cald for paper streight:
And in suche verse as here you reade, I put these words of weight.

Maister Hampdens Epitaphe.

Good life is knowen through deathes despite, and when to graue wee goe:
Good life steppes forthe of shroudyng sheete, and doeth our vertues showe.
The yearth can claime but fleshe and bones, and leaue the reste to fame:
The heauens lookes, but for the soule, and worlde retaines good name.
So somwhat man doeth leaue behinde, that shines like lanterne clere
Note well the same ye mourners all, that stands about this bere.
And doe but liue as Hampden did, and get that garlande gaie:
And smell but on that posey sweete, that Hampden boare awaie.
What liuyng man can make reporte, he harmde hym any where:
So vpright was the harte in breast, that Hampdon still did beare.
His harte was iuste, his hands were franke, his words were meeke & milde:
A presence that declarde his minde, was harmlesse as a child.
A gladsome countenance would he shewe, when sorowe searcht hym throwe:
Though Fortune frounde, she could not chaunge, his cherefull merie browe.
A pleasant freende, cleane voide of fraude, bothe honest true and wise:
In court so loude that now the teares, ronnes gushing frō their eyes.
When thei but speake of Hampdens name, an offcer liked so well:
Shall neuer sure from countrey come, in Court againe to dwell.
O happie is that Prince that hath, sutche seruantes at the neede:
And blessed is that lande and soile, that doeth sutche subiects breede.
Thrise happie is the wife I trowe, that sutche a housbande findes:
And perfect honest is that man, that Hampdens vertue mindes.
Good birthe and auncient blood doeth breede, in noble nature still:
Good maners & good life withall, whiche wins the worlds good will.
So Hampdens waies did well declare, from whence began his race:
And told what marke he thought to hit, when death bid life giue place
Well freend the Goddes hath graunted thee, that thou hast sought so long:
A croune of glorie for thy life, or els thei doe thee wrong.
Here we be lefte in wicked worlde, and finde but fewe like thee:
Wherefore my sprite through clouldie skies, would after Hampdon flee.
Though thou hast ronne thy race before, I followe on full faste:
And hope aboue in Abrahams breast, our soules shall meete at laste.

My Ladie Baggnalles Epitaphe who died at the Nuerie.

Loe here a ladie lies, whose life greate glory won
A mornyng Starre, a Lampe of daie: that shone as bright as Sonne.
A goodly glasse of Steele, that scornde to take a staine:
A Mirrour that did liuely showe, a perfecte picture plaine.
An aide to straungers still, that staide within her gates:
As noble a Nourse to neighbours all, as freendly to estates.
A spryng of larges streams, a well of wifely waies:
A vertuous dame, that vice subdued, a pearle of peerlesse praies.
A fountaine full of faithe, her plaiefeere founde the same:
In eurie pointe that did adorne, a comely sober dame.
From natiue soile she brought, faire lands and freends greate store:
And matcht wt Niclas Baggnall knight, to whō faire babes she bore.
O Nuerie thou wast once, of this sweete sainct the shrine:
And now the soile of sighes and sobbs, and wofull weepyng eyne.
For thou hast lately loste, by lothsome Deaths disgrace:
The Lanterne gaie, and louyng Lampe, that beautified that place.
Harke worlde how Fame reports, (and Ecco doeth resounde:)
The hidden heaps of heauenly gifts, that did in her abounde.
A happie houswife knowne, the ioye of housbands breast:
A wise and worthie warrant bothe, to chere eche honest geast.
And as she did present, dame Beautie throughly still:
So nothyng might compare to reache, beyond her franke good will.
To poore a present helpe, to ritche her house was free:
A foe to none, her nature sutche, she honoured eche degree.
Belou'd of greate and small, as one were blest from birthe:
No hurder vp of heauie baggs, (the drousie drosse of yearth.)
But made her treasure house, in clouds and heauens hye:
Where soulls doe hugg, and sprits of men, in Abrams brest doeth lye
Yea all on yearth she did, was doen to that intent:
And sure no soner lefte she life, but thether straight she went.
So now I leaue her there, escapt from worldly blaste:
Whiles of her fame, all Irelande ryngs, and shall whiles world doth laste.

An Epitaphe of one maistres Blunt, The Ladie Pauletts sister.

You worthie wiues that vertue seeks, and blotlesse liues doe lead:
With bitter tears be dewe your cheeks, when you these verses read.
And looke you mourne as matrons doe, whose modest maners maie:
By outward woe and heauie lookes, their hidden harms bewraie.
Blacke gounes & blasyng torches bigg, doeth bryng her to the graue
To whom the Gods when she had life, greate gifts of glorie gaue.
Her housbande houlls and wryngs his hands, as after corse he goes:
And neibours loue bursts out in sighes, & worlde suche sorowe shoes.
As cropp and roote of woman kinde, were loste and laied full loe:
A gracious life is geste and known, when hence the ghost doeth goe.
Then Blount bedeckt with blessed brute, passe on to heauens hie:
And leaue thy freends and children all, behinde to waile and crie.
The losse of sutche a Iewell rare, more ritche then pearle or gold:
More meete to dwell in breast of man, then lodge in ashes cold.
Unfitt for worme O wifely dame. the worlde hath seldome bredd:
A wife of sutche a worthie fame, and suche a noble hedde.
As meeke as Lambe of looks or woords, of councell ripe and sounde:
Of harte moste milde where humble thoughts, & bountie did abound.
A Nourse of Nurture eurie waie, to child and houshold bothe:
A Mirrour to the simple sort, and fountaine full of trothe.
The housbandes ioye, the freends delite, the neighbours comfort too:
A willyng minde, and readie hande, when she good turne might doo.
That feels she now where angells syng, and good mens souls do rest
And where we cease from worldly toile, I meane in Abrams brest.
Where loe I leaue her till we meete, full faste our date drawes on:
And we the self same stepps must tread, that she before hath gon.

Maister VValter Archer his Epitaphe, an auncient Borgis of Kilkenie

In beaten Brasse, or grauen Gold, a good mans Fame should shine:
Or written faire, with lukewarme blood, I wishe were eurie line.
Of mans renowne, for sure to base, is ynke and paper here:
Or all our arte, and skill of penne, to paint their praises clere.
That well deseru'd whose worthie liues, did showe there was small odds:
Betwene the doyngs of the iuste, and maner of the godds.
Greate is the grace, of them that gaze, on high with staied looke:
And cars not so their honest names, be written in the booke.
Of life good Lorde, yea threfolde blest, are those that liues vpright:
And holds their heads to heauen gates, with deepe and secret sight.
Then preace in place, good Archer now, thy blotlesse life is sutche:
No verse hath grace, nor stile maie reche, to giue thee laude to mutche
Thy coūtrie rings of thy great praise, thy waies were found so wise:
That from the graue, vnto the clouds, thy ripe renowne doeth rise.
Moste cleane and vpright thoughts did dwell, amid thy manly minde
Of tried trothe, thy soile throughout, did all thy doyngs finde.
Bothe Solon and Lycurgus lawes, thy Ciuill maner shoes:
Eche worde of thine a sentence was, like flood that freashly floes.
A welle of witte, sprong from thy hedde, a tong of temprance right:
A grace to winne, and purchace freends, at vewe and present sight.
A Toby to his children all, yea Iob for happie state:
A father graue, that well bestowd, the worldly goods he gate.
A Iewell to Kilkenie sure, when toune besieged was:
A worthie Burges stoute of harte, that could through perills passe.
Of stature meane, of maner milde, and sure as I haue hard:
A verie shadowe of a sainct, so shapte in some regard.
His ende did showe, what life he ledd, his neighbours doe recorde:
He was a plant of speciall grace, and member of the Lorde.
Wherefore dere freends, yt reads these lines, be sure his soule is well:
And he through Christ doeth triumph still, on dreadfull death and hel.
And sitts as safe in Abrams breast, as babe in mothers lappe:
Moste glad are Adams ofspring all, that meets sutche blessed happe.

The Lorde Braies Epitaphe.

Crie out thou worlde and Court, and saie that loste ye haue:
A better Iewell for his daies, then your desarts doe craue.
But small ye waie the losse, of hym and others eke:
Of whose good nature when ye neede, ye are full farre to seeke.
Whiche maks your plague the more, though least ye thinke thereon:
When ofte ye wishe them here againe, that long are dedde and gon.
As Gold from Lead is knowne, sutche diffrence is in deede:
In men, and more vnlike thei are, then flowre is vnto weede.
Lorde Braie declares the same, who was so clere a Lampe:
That fewe or none my iudgement giues, are left vs of that stampe.
So currant for the Court, so comely in the felde:
So right a sparke of Natures moulde, hath here been seen but selde.
His face did full present, a manly worthie minde:
His woords set forthe a further skill, then all mens heds could finde.
His life could none mislike, his Nature (throughly good:)
His hande more freely gaue awaie, then worlde well vnderstood.
A harte where honour dwelt, a corps full trimly knitte:
A shape as kinde had breath'd hym out, a hedde where lackt no witte.
O Braie thou borest awaie, the banner of renowne:
Let none thinke scorne to followe thee, in feeld in court nor toune.
I take a heauie leaue, of thee and so I cease:
And leaue thee flikeryng in the aire, before the God of peace.

Sir Jhon Constables Epitaphe.

In lookyng through these worldly happs, (so walkyng where I would:)
And waiyng well with equall paies, the weight of yearthly mould.
I heard a sadd, and priuie voice, as though some fearfull spreete:
(In hollowe Caue, or vaute of stone) had spoke from shroudyng sheete.
It badde me looke to true report, that Tymes cheef daughter is:
And sett a side all fonde affects, whiche leads the penne amis.
Thou hast quoth he for fauours sake, prais'd some thou didst not knowe:
I was thy freende, wherefore in verse, my course of life doe showe.
These woords pronouncst, he silence kept, and vanisht so awaie:
His soule to Skies, his fame to worlde, his corps to clotts of claie.
Then to my Muse, I gan repaire, with harte as cold as stone:
And so with dolefull verse bewaield, the death of good sir Ihon.
Who ledde his life in greate renowne, and neighbours loue with all:
And seru'd the state on his owne charge, when prince did please to call
By Northen broils that bred mutche bale, and subiects trothes were tried
His great good will to dueties bounds, & loiall faith was spied.
He alwaies stoode to rightfull thyngs, and would not swaie a wrie:
To any pointe, wherein reproche, or losse of name did lye.
A freende that was not lightly loste, and did good tournes bestowe:
Where cause requirde & librall hart, through bounties springs should flowe.
A house he kept of greate expence, and daiely at his doore:
(With that good store that God him blest,) he helpt to feede ye poore.
He married twise in noble race, and kept a noble traine:
And freely gaue good seruaunts Farms, to recompence their paine.
He bare to freends sutche perfite loue, that to the howre of death:
He neuer failed any one, as long as he had breath.
He had greate suites and troubles too, that many sorrows bryngs:
Yet ere he died with worship greate, he ended all those thyngs.
He gaue good lands, for Scholers weale (as was the auncient gies)
And made an Almes house for the poore, in Halsham where he lyes.
All Holdernesse that knewe hym well, doeth misse his presence now:
So iuste and worthie eurie waie, were all his doyngs throw.
But when the fruite of tree is ripe, or men be at the beste:
Doune doe thei drop, & at the length, in yearth with worms thei rest.
Yet good mens ghosts, do clime the clouds, & drawes where God in trone.
Brings chosen lambs, to endlesse ioy, frō worldly care & mone

The phantasticall Monarkes Epitaphe.

Of the fickle faithe of men.

Of a Flatterer and a Backbiter.

The tamest foule, and wildest beast, that euery man maie knowe:
Is sure a subtill flattryng freende, and sclandryng tong I trowe.
The one bit's sore behinde, thy backe, the other blears thyne eyes:
And still deceiu's thee to thy face, with nought but fained lyes.
The Doue is meeke and tame of kinde, but yet a Flattrar fine:
More tamer is, and shewes more arte, then all the Muses nine.
For he can so transforme hym self, you shall not see hym right:
Though through stone walls like Linx ye lock, or could haue Argos sight.
And he that bit's vnto the bones, is wilde as Bucke in chace:
And hides his hedde moste monster like, that dare not shewe his face.
The Colt that skipps before the dame, is not so light as he:
Malboche hath sutche a forked tong, it stingeth worse then Bee.
Malboche, doeth lodge the shamlesse clap, that goes as fast as Mill:
Malboche is like a common skolde, that must be chattyng still.
Malboche can creepe in credits grace, and Court it too some tyme:
And make a stale and snare to catche, the simple soule in Lyme.
The mightie Mastiue brought to Beare, bit's not like scolding tong
A Larum all the countrey cries, where that loude bell is rong.
And when it hath begonne a braule, awaie in haste it goes:
And will abide by nothyng sure, for feare of bobbs and bloes.
But though Malbouche do breede muche strief, the Flattrar passeth all:
For he lyes lullyng in the lapp, and like a painted wall.
Full faire and smothe he shoes to sight, when loe a rotten poste:
He prou's yet seems a holie sainct, and is a curssed ghoste.
Well two thei are, the wilde & tame, that works this world mutche woe.
The wilde he hinders honest name, the tame no freend but foe.
But how to spie these monsters out, in deede I can not tell:
Except with wisedomes iudgyng hed, ye marke them bothe so well.
That when thei speake and babble mutche, thei meane to lay a baite:
To take and trap the harmelesse harte, in netts of meere decaite.
Now here is taught you how to find, these twaine by outward vewe:
Though bothe of thē begiles this worlde, with charms & nifles newe.

A good description of a freende.

The Bee doeth trauell long, and wonders paine doeth take,
From herbe to flowre, frō flowre to weede, a hony combe to make
The Ante with no lesse art, in season due doeth toile,
And learns vs how to helpe our selues, in this vncertaine soile.
So man that knowledge hath, to woorke with witte and sence,
Prouides for harm's that maie befall, a buckler of defence:
That neither want nor woe, shall quaill the noble minde,
Nor cast through care, and froward happ, the forward harte behinde.
And sure the surest staie, that any wight maie gette,
Is freendship if in sureties grounde, the graffe thereof be sette:
Yea so it serues the tourne, and salues eche sore and greef,
As Honie combe in tyme of neede, is onely Bees releef.
And sutche prouision bare, as Ante doeth make I gesse,
At greate extremes in eurie pointe, true freendship doeth expresse:
When all these worldlyngs faile, and faithe on yearth doeth fainte,
(And pride with poisoned serpēts tongs, like Parats prate & paint.)
To freendship maie we come, as to a fountaine sweete:
That yeelds freshe water many waies, to quench the thirstie spreete.
And there wee maie be bolde, to drinke or drawe our fill,
For where the moistnesse feed's the flood's, the springs are ronnyng stille
Emong the bruitest beastes, and wildest birds that bee,
An inward likyng flattly fixte, of freendship shall you see.
Should we then make it straunge, that feelyng hath to knowe,
The lawe and league of blamelesse loue, and iudge the freend frō foe:
No sure our glorie growes, moste gaie on freendships ground.
And suger sweete, are all those fruit's, that springs on iudgemēt soūd
When fauour makes the waie, and letts desarts come in,
And modest maners milde of mode, doeth wisedomes credite win:
The freendship vertuous is, and like full long to laste,
And as a rocke against eche storme, it standeth firme and faste.
This freedship first was bredd, emongs the Gods aboue,
And fostred since in fleshly breasts, and fed with frendly loue:
And so it was embraste, of worthie skilfull braines,
Who to this daie with care of minde, this freendship still retaines.
And more it bears the bruite, beyonde all yearthly things,
And flees as farre as any fame, hath powre to spred her wings:
And frendship triumphe makes, on Fortune in despight,
And marcheth full amid her face, and so subdues her quight.
No sorrowe nor mishappe, no greef nor torment strange,
Maie frame by force, or froward meane, true freendships mynde too change:
For paines with equall weight, doe freends imparte and deale,
As though within twoo priuate willes, there were a commonweale.
And looke what one doeth taste, the other feeles in deede,
And eche of them with helpyng hande, supplies the others neede:
In minde thei meete and matche, and talke together still,
When distance of the tyme and place, denies them of their will.
When furthest of thei seeme, thei ioyne in ioye and blis,
And eurie smart that absence breeds, a present pleasure is.
The fraude and finesse now, and tickle trothe in man,
Maks faithe and freendship thrise as sweete, as when it first began.
In these dessemblyng dates, who findes a freende I trowe,
Hath founde a seconde Phenix sure, and needes no further goe:
Shrine vp that sainct in golde, locke vp that Iewell riche,
Ye cannot in no measures meane, of freendship make too mitche.

A warnyng from Courte.

Of a Courtiers life, and how the worst sorte findes beste Fortune.

Of woordes spoken by a greate personage.

I liue that dieth eurie howre, my glasse is nere hande ronne,
I fall awaie as doeth a flowre, that withers in the Sonne:
O death dispatche my dolefull daies, defar no tyme here in,
Good Lachis make thou no delaies, my fatal threde to spin.
Thou Clarke I saie, that for thy fee, dooth ryng the carefull knell,
Now let me haue some helpe of thee, to tolle my passyng bell.
If by the waie I maie prouoke, to shorten now my life,
This hande of myne shall strike the stroke, ye sone shall stint my strife:
I muse why God did me create, and breathd life in my breste,
And brought me vp to this estate, that nere enioyed no reste.
Why was I fed with milke so oft, and pampred vp so long,
Why was I rockt and laied so softe, and lullde with many a song:
Why was not I vntymely borne, when Nature had me wrought,
That liueth thus as man forlorne, and still consumes with thought.
The Midwife might haue eas'd all this, if strangled had I bin,
Then had my soule been saffe in blis, that now lyes dround in sin.
But looke what God assignde is doen, what should I reason more,
O Lorde my God what hast thou won, in plagyng me so sore:
What honour canst thou haue by me, what glorie canst thou haue,
What seruice can I doe to thee, that wisheth thus my grave.
And in this plite to dye thou knowest, so farre from quiet frame,
Before I should yeeld vp the ghost, I might blaspheme thy name:
The worlde disdains to see my wealth, the heauens on me froune,
The yearth and aire denies me health, and Fortune keeps me doune.
The daie I driue awaie with care, the night I waile and weepe,
The sighes & sobs that comes vnware, doeth wake me in my slepe:
The foode that should my life sustaine, I finde therein small taste,
My blood dries vp in eurie vaine, loe how I weare and waste.
Thus eurie thing doeth change his kinde, to worke my woe you see,
And nothyng seru's me to my minde, I fall in sutche degree:
Would God my graue, were ready found, my shroudyng shete & al,
And dreadfull Death were surely bounde, to come when I doe call.

A description of Desire.

Of a vicious woman.

Of vnsounde freendes.

A matter of fonde Cupid, and vain Venus.

In Peascod time whē hound to horne, giu's eare til Buck be kilde
And little laddes with pipes of corne, sat keepyng beastes a filde:
I went to gather strawberies tho, by woodes & groues full faire,
And parchte my face with Phebus so, in walkyng in the aire.
That doune I laied me by a streame: with bowes all ouer clad,
And there I meate the straungest dreame, that euer yong man had:
Me thought I sawe eche Christmas game: eche reuell all and some,
And euery thyng that I can name, or maie in phansie come.
The substaunce of the sights I sawe, in silence passe thei shall,
Because I lacke the skill to drawe, the order of theim all:
But Uenus shall not passe my penne, whose maidens in disdaine,
Did feede vpon the harts of menne, that Cupides bowe had slaine.
And that blinde boye was all in blood, be bathed to the eares,
And like a conquerour he stood, and scorned louers teares:
I haue quod he more harts at call, then Cæsar could commaunde,
And like the Dere I make them fall, that runneth ore the lande:
One droppes doune here, an other there, in bushes as thei grone,
I bende a scornefull carelesse eare, to heare them make their mone.
Ahe sir quod honest meanyng then, thy boyely bragges I heare,
Whē thou hast woūded many a man, as hounts man doeth the deare
Becomes it thee to triumphe so, thy mother will it not,
For she had rather breake thy bowe, then thou shalt plaie the sot.
What sausie Marchaunt speaketh now, saied Uenus in her rage,
Art thou so blinde, thou knowst not howe, I gouerne euery age:
My sonne doeth shoote no shafte in waste, to me the boye is bounde,
He neuer founde a harte so chaste, but he had power to wounde.
Not so faire Goddes quod Freewill, in me there is a choise,
And cause I am of myne owne ill, if I in thee reioyse:
And when I yeeld my self a slaue, to thee or to thy sonne,
Suche recompence I ought not haue, if thyngs be rightly done.
Why foole steppe forthe Delight & said, whē thou art cōquered thus
Then loe dame Lust that wanton maide, thy mistresse is iwus:
And Lust is Cupids darlyng deare, behold here where she goes,
She crepes the milke warme fleshe so nere, she hides her vnder cloes
Where many priuie thoughts doe dwell, a heauen here on yearth,
For thei haue neuer minde of hell, thei thinkes so muche on merth:
Be still good meanyng quod good Sport, let Cupid triumph make,
For sure his kyngdome shalbe shorte: if we no pleasure take.
Faire Beautie and her plaie feers gaie, the Uirgines vestall too,
Shall sitte and with their fingers plaie, as Idell people doe:
If honest Meanyng fall to froune, and I good Sporte decaie,
Then Uenus glorie will come doune, and thei will pine awaie:
In deede quod witte this your deuise, wt strangnes must be wrought
And where you see these women niece, and looketh to be sought.
With scoulyng browes their follies checke, and so giue thē the sigge,
Let Fancie be no more at becke, when Beautie lokes so bigge:
When Uenus heard how thei conspirde, to murther women so,
Me thought in deede the house was fired, wt stormes & lightnyng tho:
The thunderbolt through windowes burst, & in their stepes awight,
Whiche seemd some soule or sprite a curst, so vglie was the sight.
I charge you Ladies all quod he, looke to pour selues in haste,
For if that men so wilfull be, and haue their thoughts so chaste:
And thei can treade on Cupides breast, and marche on Uenus face,
Then thei shall slepe in quiet reste, when you shall waile your cace.
With that had Venus all in spite, sturde vp the Dames to Ire,
And Luste fell cold, and Beautie white, satte babblyng with Desire:
Whose muttryng words, I might not marke, mutche whispring there a roes,
The daie did lower, the Sonne waxt darke, awaie eche Ladie goes.
But whether went these angrie flocke, our Lorde hymself doeth kno,
Wherewith full loudely crewe the Cocke, and I awaked so:
A dreame quod I, a Dogge it is, I take thereon no keepe,
I gage my hed, sutche toyes as this, doeth spring for lacke of sleepe.

This showes the vanitie of some hopes.

The meetyng of twoo noble knightes of the Garter (sir Henry Sidney, and the Erle of Essex) in Irelande, twoo miles beyond Dradath the xxj, of September, and 17 yere in the raigne of our souerain ladie Quene Elizabeth.

As order is the staie of states, a blisse to eurie age,
A knot of loue, a bande of peace, a rule yt gouerns rage:
So order drue, two noble wights, that of the order are,
To mete by order as it fell, a sight full strāge and rare.
For selde is seen, in Irishe soile, where order doeth but glance
That ij. which doth ye garter were do mete by suche a chance
The one an Erle, a Mars more like, that God of battaill is:
The other sutche a Mirror knowne, as Irelande maie not mis.
The one hath lighted sutche a Lampe, where on the rest maie gase,
Yea all the torches in the lande, waxe dim where this doeth blase:
The other hath through modest meanes, and Marciall maners both,
Pluckt frō warme brest, the peoples harts, ye bears good wil to troth
The bruite of these, are blowne so far, their names therby are known
These are no Gemms of forraine mines, but Iewells of our owne.
The more that Enuie hides their praise, the bigger doe thei shine,
As cleere renowme, were shouded safe, by secret power deuine.
In louyng league, of well won laude, these lordes their liu's do lead,
And through this thanklesse thwartyng world, ye steps of honor tread
Bothe bent to serue, & fitte therfore, their ventures claimes the same,
And bothe for greatnesse of their mindes, doe merite equall fame:
A ioye to see suche iewels ioyne, so thought the lookers on,
A pearle of price, in any place, agrees with precious stone.
The Gods thē selu's, did make this matche, through ordryng things a right.
The heauens cast of cloudie clokes, and clapt on mantells light.
To showe how glad the Planetts were, in meetyng nobles twaine,
When one the other fetcht to toune, with sutche a troupe and traine:
The season sweete, and Phebus shone, so cleare from christall Skie,
As worlde were willyng to bestowe, on them a welcome eye.
The Prince that hath suche members here, is happie sondrie waies,
The soldiours that shall serue them bothe, shall win immortal praies.
The people that by outward signes, an inward meanyng knewe,
Bade sluggishe Muses whet their skill, on matter worthie vewe:
Then tooke I penne, and put in verse, these thyngs wt great post hast
In larger volume looke for more, if this be well embrast.

Of my Lorde cheef Baron that was.

The Sittern sweete whose siluer sounde, (the sloggards witts awakes:)
Through chaunge and choice, of notes newe founde, a pleasant Musicke makes.
The Lute that best is likte of all, a solempne noyes doeth yelde,
And moste delites the cunnyng heddes, that in that arte are skilde:
The Harpe whose twang and stroke is strange, is vsed eury where,
His many stryngs and warblyng sound, so mutche delites the eare.
The milde Recorder hath a place, where sweete Concordance is,
The Cornet and the Howboies bothe, maie matche and sound wt this
The Uirginall with quiet noyes, must matched be I trowe,
The stiller that the Musick is, the better doeth it showe:
But some had rather heare for chaunge, a cherefull ryng of bells,
Who fains the noies doeth pearte the aire, and thonder crack expels.
In elder daies when stormes arose, and tempests rough did rore,
Thei loudly rang the halloude bell, for cause I told before.
In tounes of warre where watche & ward, is kept with worthy gard
The Larum bell that warnyng giues, in deede maie ill be spard:
When Prince remoues the bells thei ryng, & at hie feasts and times,
In forraine lande a noble noies, is made of bells and chimes.
The blest birthe daie of Kyngs and Queenes, wt bells is honord still,
In signe of Princes happie raignes, and Subiects greate good will:
A ryng of bells is heard farre of, and pleaseth many a minde,
Now nere thei sound, then farre thei seem, as bloes the gale of winde.
But I delite in passyng Bell, for that doeth plainly shoe,
As one from hence doeth take his leaue, so hence we all must goe:
A passyng Bell then shall it be, that makes best Musicke here,
It tiugs and tolls what we are worthe, and sounds in eare so clere.
That eche man knowes the passyng Bell, is best in these our daies,
Let Lute and Sittern then giue place, and yeeld to Bell the praies.

Of a noble personage.

The Sonne that shrouds, in lowryng cloudie Skies,
Shines clere and faire, when foggie Mists are gon:
The mornyng Starre, that slepes long ere it rise,
Awakes them all, that listes to looke thereon.
The hidden gold, in treasure house that lies,
By showe of foile, setts forthe a precious stone:
The graines of Corne, that deepe in yearth remaines,
Sprouts vp at length, and quitts the Plowmans paines.
So hartes opprest, that heauie are a while.
Laughes greef to scorne, when Fortune makes them smile:
The Birde in cage, must suffer for a space,
Till freedome comes, and makes her proue her wings,
The prisners poore, maie purchase Princes grace:
And quenche their thirst, where pleasant fountaine springs.
The mournyng minde, maie showe a cherefull face,
When merrie cause, a present comfort bryngs:
No happe so harde, no greef so greate I trowe,
But maie through tyme, conuert to ioye from woe.
Then sigh no more, O pensiue troubled breste,
Who sowes in care, is sure to reape in reste.

A letter in Maie, sent to Maister Henry Knowles house at Gobbyns.

Your healthfull house that holdes me here, with heapes of sweete delite,
(Where Courtlike fare not countrey chere, I finde, and thereof write:
Makes me forgett the dompishe daies, that hatefull soiles did yelde,
And feedes my fancie many waies, with pleasures of the feeld.
For here the birdes doe chure and charme, as bells of Osney ronge,
Or els the pretie boyes of Poules, amidde the clapper songe:
Methinke the trees doe tremble still, and that the yearth should shake
When Nightyngalls in Mornyng graie, their merie Musick make.
For through their throats thei thrust their notes, as Organ pipes did sound
Te deum and faburthen sweete, the Quere had chanted round
Here is no noies of churlishe Choughs, nor piuishe chattryng Pye,
Nor screkyng Oule the poste of Death, that mak's a fearfull crye.
Nor pratyng Paret dare not preace, in compasse of this place,
Nor no proude Pecocke commeth here, for all his stately grace:
This soile doeth breede no scornfull bird, in whom disdain doth dwell
This is a heauen of it self, that stands so farre from hell.
No deuelishe minde maie nestell here, for feare thei scoule and lowre,
This is a pleasant plot of ground, where Gods haue bilt their bowre
Who made a lawe on paine of death, that none aproche the seate,
Except his sweete conceited speeche, prouoketh laughter greate:
Those hoggishe hedds and lompishe lobbs, that muse on mischeef still
Are banisht from this fruitfull vaill, to digge at Mauuorne hill.
And yet the dullest dolt that is, maie happe to mende his spreete,
If when his grossest humour comes, he tast the nector sweete:
That I haue founde, for loe here dwelles, a noble nurse in deede,
Who for the weaknesse of mens braines, she hath so fine a seede.
It heales the hedache and the cough, and comforts so the wittes,
That man vpon the present helpe, forgetts his former fitts:
This merrie medson workes in me, a masse of matter good,
It makes me walke, yea eate and slepe, and gather so mutche blood.
That now greate gobbins gins to growe, vpon my Lenten cheekes,
And leggs are filde with fatt and fleshe, that was as leane as Leekes:
Whiche you shall see and well perciue, if long you walke in Poules,
And so I saie in takyng leaue, Adue good maister Knowles.

Of the want of will.

Of twoo vertuous sisters.

When youth was in his prime, and Pecockes plumes were gaie,
(And loe amid my laughyng eyen, twoo pretie babes did plaie:)
I spake of merrie sports, that fedde my fancie than,
But trackt of tyme hath taught me now, to bee a grauer man.
And iudge by iuste regard, of worldly things the weight,
And learne the witte and sence to see, the deepenesse and the height:
Of eche thing vnder Sonne, so that in aged daies,
I neither leane to leude delites, nor stoupe to wanton waies.
If sweete desires are dedde, and luste hath taken leaue.
And follies freaks are throughly fledde, that did vaine youth disceiue
My speeche maie credite claime, of all that heares the same,
And I maie freely giue them laude, by verse that merits Fame.
Then preace in place twoo Nimphs, that I at Ipswitche sawe,
Posses suche praies as vertue yeelds, by sentence of her lawe:
And for your maners milde, (a beautie to good life,)
I wishe that eche of you in deede, maie proue a worthie wife.
And liue to parents ioye, and reape renoume therefore,
And if vnto your owne content, my harte could wishe you more:
You should not haue bare lines, at this my laste a due,
But thondryng blast of endlesse Fame, with praies should honor you.

Translated out of Latine.

True wedlocke is, true bondage treble fold,
A double greef, of feeble fleshe and spreete:
So man is drawne, as Oxe in market sold,
That he maie be, for endlesse labour meete.
Who takes a wife, is ledde in yoke to drawe,
And feelyng paine, to paine he yeelds from birth,
Takyng, is caught, and bryngs hym self in awe:
And seruyng still, is made a drudge on yearth,
The text showes here, who beste by marrage winns,
In wearie Lome, a webbe of woe he spinns.

A discription of the goodnesse that growes in Cicilia.

Whiles rangyng youth did ronne about, as rage of humour roes,
A reatchlesse race I rowlled on, as water ebbes and floes:
And though through toile my tyme consumde, yet triall taught me well,
Here is a place (for all our pompe) where pilgrims ought to dwell.
But wildnesse edgde me forward faste, to se these worldly ioyes,
And greedie minde of glory vaine, (that poffes men vp with toyes)
Badde wanton will ronne all on hedde, and neuer looke behinde:
Till age on youth had clapt his clokes, by cruell course of kinde,
Thus haled through the hauen mouth, where heapes of hazards are,
Full vnder saile through swellyng seas, my ship and I did fare:
And passyng so to sondrie soiles, I sought some suertie still,
But that was past my compasse cleane, and farre beyond my skill,
For sutche as seekes in Sillas seas, a saffetie for his Barke,
Maie driue a midde Charibdes cliu's, and misse the full sea marke:
Well, as my shipp found winde at will, so did I make my saile,
And landyng tooke in sondrie soiles, when sea roume seemd to faile.
So France and Flaunders sawe I through, and other lands a score,
Where vessells in the rode might ride, and none might goe on shore:
But barely was I vittailde still, and seldome voide of want,
(And neuer founde good gale of winde,) as weather were so skant.
It had no will to serue my tourne, in all my iourneis greate.
Untill I cast a better course, and founde a noble seate:
That men doe call Cicillya, where loe sweete Cipres groes,
And many other precious things, more sweete then Muskie roes.
No soner sought I succour there, but straight waies had I aide,
As though that Deastnie did decree, my Barke should there be staied
O fruitfull soile full fraught with grace, the dewe of heauen fall,
Bothe daie and night like siluer showres, vpon thy vertues all:
Come wandryng wights yt seekes for happ, in wilde depe streams & flods
And se with feelyng sence what gifts, in Cicill growes & buds
I praies the name and blesse the plot, and kisse suche perfit grounde,
That yeelds suche fruit and doeth in deede, in blessed things abounde:
If tong had arte to showe at full, the fulnesse of this soile,
The tong should worke and pē should cease, or serue in place of foile.
To set forthe fame of lande vnknowne, yet knowne to skilfull men,
And knowne againe to Gods thē selues, that rules bothe tong & pen.

A matter of repulce, goyng to the Sea.

When will and winde doe iarre, and Neptune proues a foe,
A man maie venter farre, yet haue no powre to goe:
Admit that Ioue doe smile, if other Gods doe lowre,
We must abide a while, and watche the happie howre.
For eury God in Skies, a seurall nature haue,
And sure greate quarrells rise, by suites that men doe craue:
Of Gods whose sondrie moods, a masse of matter showes,
Some are the Gods of goods, and where that Fortune flowes.
Thei followe tide and tyme, and some are Gods of game,
And some in clouds doe clime, and flies as faste as Fame:
Some alwaies like the seas, and some the lande embrace,
Some lou's to take their ease, and quaff's and bibbs a pace:
Some are the Gods of graine, and flowrs and fruit's likewise,
So now to breake my braine, about these Gods in Skies.
It were but labour loste, yet how should people saile,
Or ride to any coste, when hope of Gods doe faile:
First proue a courage bolde, and goe to feeld and feight,
If Mars his loue waxe cold, ye shalbe conquerd streight.
Where Venus frounes make loue, and see what lucke ye finde,
If Oelus liste not moue, in vaine ye looke for winde:
So many thyngs by name, are rulde through Gods in aire,
And Gods good lucke doe frame, in weather foule or faire.
But Gods doe dwell so hye, and I so lowe remaine,
I knowe not where to crie, nor yet to whom complaine:
A greater greef I feele, a fortune somwhat strange,
So swift tourns Fortunes wheele, that still the winde doeth change.
When I to shipp would goe, no soner tourne I backe,
But streight a gale doeth blowe, where I the winde did lacke:
This prou's like eurie suite, that I doe take in hande,
For others catche the fruite, when at reward I stande.
My Deastnie is enrould, (O maister of Roulls I feare,)
Where winde doeth blowe so cold, there comes no Sommer theare:
And though that Sonne doe shine, it giu's but little heate,
Some saie worse lucke is myne, and my mishap is greate.
Thus here in verse I showe, what winde doeth me a reste,
In hope before I goe, the winde mill bloweth at Weste:
Till then my penne shall walke, where I doe finde good will,
To make my freends to talke, on Churchyardes fortune still.

Of one that for vertues sake honored a freend.

As freendship is a league of Loue, and showes the harte within,
So some affection is the ground, whereon it doth begin
And reason offreth causes why, sutche freendship breeds in thought,
Thus reason is the kindly cause, that all these things hath wrought.
Some hold opinion fancie works, by secret motions sweete,
A meane to make the honest minde, and faithfull frendship meete:
Deserts dare claime no place hereof, for where good turns haue past
Small fauour comes, and world forgetts, the plain good will at last.
Then reason from affection brought, must nedes the cause perswade,
Wherewith the fancie workes the webbe, and so is freendship made:
When man and woman is in frame, and shapt as I haue saied,
Their hartes prepars a perfite place, where frendship maie be staied
Wee see eare pleasures are possest, or any profite rise,
A choice or likyng knitts the knot, of freendship with the wise:
The iudgement doeth election make, when all affects are blinde,
And freendship triumphes in no where, but in a noble minde.
It scornes to dwell with daintie freaks, that flickers here and there,
And flitts as feathers doe with winde, and restes no certaine where:
The worthie wights that wisely waies, ye weight of meere good wil,
Are cheefest mansion house and seate, for worthy freendship still.
But loe a question now doeth rise, I doe demaunde to knowe,
Of freendships rule or reasons lore, whiche maie the furthest goe:
First freendship marcheth formost man, and leau's behinde the rest,
Then reason comes in second rancke, and seeks to doe his best.
Yet freendship is not greater sure, then reason in degree,
For freendship is but very bare, where reason wants you see:
When witte hath well conceiu'd a cause, by rule and reasons greate,
Then frendship showes this force at full, as fire by flame shoes heats
I knowe not well whiche ruleth moste, the reason that I haue,
Or els the frendship that I beare, where faithe doeth frendship craue:
Good reason leads my fancie forthe, affection yeelds thereto,
And freendship followes on as faste, as freendship ought to doe.
Thus loe my reason and my sence, in frendships league is bound:
Whiche bondage is but free consent, for freendly fauour found.

VVritten from the Countrey twentie yere agoe, to one that poorely remaines at the Courte yet.

Who spends his tyme, in Court God knowse,
Maie happ to winne, and sure to lose:
For losse is liker there to fall,
Then any happie chaunce at all.
Yet some cold Courtiars daiely thinke,
That at the spryng a man maie drinke:
The Welle hedde maie be stopt you see,
Then emptie must the Bocketts bee.
Where many drawe, and preace is greate,
Or thousands doe the Market beate:
There things are skant, and ware is deare,
The moe the geasts, the barer cheare.
The Court is like, a Mearmaids song,
That flattereth many people long:
And paieth them with a priuie nippe,
First braurie brings a begerly whippe:
And nexte vaine hope, doeth lead the blinde,
To looke for that, thei neuer finde.
Some set for birdes, and catche a Gnatt,
And some doeth lose, bothe leane and fatt.
I muse how men, bewitched are,
To sitte in Court, to gase and stare.
Eche one vpon an others face,
Naie herein resteth all the grace:
The Peacocke prides hym in his plume,
And doeth bothe tyme and wealth consume.
In pikyng of his feathers gaie,
The Cousloppe not so braue in Maie:
As Courtiar is that clapps on all,
Who hopes for Larkes when skie doth fall.
Some drawes to Court, when all is gon,
And those are called hangers on:
That neither wagies haue ne fee,
But thether come to heare and see.
And rubbe out tyme with lickyng crommes
That droppeth out of hongrie thommes.
That saues a crust for Kate at home,
And some there be that vse to rome:
And prouleth for a pittaunce bare,
Where often emptie dishes are.
Some thrusteth all into the poke,
And hideth Manchetts vnder cloke:
And many other morsells sweete,
The almes whiche poore, should haue in streete.
Is montcht in corners by sutche meane,
It is no shame to carry cleane:
Thei saie that liues by this deuise,
I fare as one that flyngs the Dice.
And caste eche chaunce sutche is my freake,
Yet minde I but of Courte to speake:
The Courte is place of sutche repaire,
There must be needes Dick shifters aire,
Of euery sorte bothe good and bad,
At some one tyme maie there be had:
The fauner and the frounyng browe,
The stately stalkes that will not bowe.
The hollowe lookes, the hautie minde,
The scornefull face, the Bayard blinde:
The whisperer and the whinyng Pigge,
The subtell sheepe that lookes full bigge.
The counterfaite that semeth golde,
The coward and the countenaunce bolde:
The graue, the wise, and worthie bothe,
All kinde of sorts, I tell thee trothe.
Is founde in Court, but worst in deede,
So many haunteth there for neede.
Thou were as good goe holde the Plowe,
As in the Court seeke Fortune nowe:
A thousande gapes for one mans gaine,
And fifteene hundreth lose their paine.
Scarce one is holpen by good happe,
The fruitfull tree, hath lost his sappe:
There springes but blossoms from the stocke,
Eche thyng is vnder double locke.
And bountie is so straightly laest,
That franknesse now is cleane defaest:
He that can learne vs how to spare,
Is our white sonne, thus runnes the Hare.
The dogges maie pinche, but seldome bite,
All sience of hope are banisht quite:
The largnesse that in Court hath dwelt,
Can neither now be seen nor felt.
Eche riuer ronnes into the sea,
And there the floodes consume awaie:
And nought retournes to vs againe.
But little streams and dropps of raine.
I feare the worlde is at an ende,
Then thinke not thou the Court shall mende:
As worlde decaies, so Court doeth weare,
Yet euery thing should florishe theare.
Thou foole trust not to noddes and becks,
Nor wordes that are as drie as kecks:
In Court sutche things full plentie are,
When Cloke and Hatte, and all is bare.
And to the bones thou shalt be worne,
The Court shall giue thee but a scorne:
A proper weede to keepe thee warme,
God shilde my freend from suche a charme.
Let them in Court, goe waite and prie,
That haue good cause, and liues thereby:
Looke to the countrey that thou drawe,
And liue in compasse of the lawe.
And loue thy Prince, and feare his sworde,
And from my house, I sende thee worde:
It is as vaine in Court to hope,
As seeke a blessyng of the Pope.
Come let vs ride abrode this Spryng,
As mery a harte as any kyng:
A poore man hath that is content,
God knowes who liues an other Lent.
Thou seest how quickly men be gon,
So thus farewell, myne owne good Ihon:
From Court dispatche thee if thou maie,
That we maie meete ere Easter daie.

Of an iniurie by faunyng freendes.

I saile with shaken Shippe, through swellyng seas to saffeties shore,
And scape the scornefull whippe, that lyes in waite to scourge me sore:
And hauyng winde at will, in scoulyng clouds, I leaue disdaine,
Yea more by happ then skill, I beate the bellowe backe againe.
That would orewhelme my Barke, and swallowe vp, the silly boate,
Ere that the full sea marke, had set the tossed ship a flote:
In deede the gale is good, and God that gides, the sterne and all,
At ebbe hath sent a flood, where tide was neuer thought to fall.
Packe hence ye Pirates proude, the fleete is gone, ye get no pries,
When ship as swift as cloude, from weltryng wau's a lofte doth rise
And cutts the waters wilde, like sieth that shares, both grasse & corne,
In sothe you are begide, to lurke in creeks, and fishe for scorne.
When hoffyng sailes are hoiste, and shipman hath, escapte the race,
Greate folly for a Foist, through floodes to followe on the chace:
Your painted Galleis gaie, till caulmes doe come, dare sturre no ore,
Then crepe close vnder baye, and hide your heads, when seas do rore.
O busie bablars all, your tattlyng tournes, to trifles still,
And though you brede a braule, the worlde maie se, ye want your wil:
I haue out saild you cleane, and plaste my self in Princes traine,
And keeps a merrie meane, when you in discord beates your braine.
Wherfore your iarryng partes, doth sho frō whence your notes doth ryes,
Ye want the cunnyng artes, to blind my witts, or bleare myne eyes.
The more you strain your voice, to bryng good Musick out of frame,
The lesse you maie reioyce, to see how I haue founde the same:
And so with smilyng songs, I laugh and leaue, you more and lesse,
And put vp many wrongs, that tyme and Fortune maie redresse.

Of the quietnesse that plaine Countrey bryngeth.

Emong the rustie rockes, bothe rough and harde by kinde,
Where weather beats, and stormes are brim, for eche small blast of winde:
Where spryngs no forraine fruites, nor deinties are not sought,
Where common pleasures made for man, are not in Marketts bought.
Where growes no grapes of wine, to glad the griped breast,
Nor stands no bowres to banket in, yong wantons for to feast:
Where people are not fine, nor yet no fooles I trowe,
But plaine as in the twoo pickt staffe, and plainly doe thei goe.
I settled am to liue, and likes my lotte as well,
As thei that haue a richer home, or with greate Princes dwell:
Now finde I eache thyng sweete, that sowre I thought before,
That in tymes paste did please me moste, now me delites no more.
The toune and stony streets, I weary am to tread,
The feeld but asks a Motley cote, as homely folks are clead:
Now Frese and Kendall greene, maie serue in stead of Silke,
And I that fedde on Courtly fare, maie learne to feede on Milke.
And take sutche countrey chere, as easily is maintainde,
No dishe of gift but sutche in deede, as sweat of browes haue gainde.
No platters full of bribes, these mountaines forthe doe bryng,
A quiet morsell there is cald, a bankett for a kyng:
To eate and slepe in rest, to laugh and speake from feare,
To be an honest neighbour namde, is all that men seeke theare:
No hollownesse of hartes, no hautie waies are likte,
No painted sheathes, no Peacocks proude, yt haue their fether pikte.
Are seen vpon these hilles, nor in the dale likewise,
Where those that dwell in cottage poore, doe princely halls despise:
A cruse of cold sowre whey, the Sugred cupp doeth passe,
In gilted boules doeth poison lurke, that spied is in the glasse.
The poore man tastes hym self, the Prince dare not doe so,
Then better is the sured life, then doubtfull daies I troe:
Did not Diogenes, set more store by his tonne,
Then of the worldly kyngdomes all, that Alexander wonne.
Did not that might prince, these wordes with tong expres,
If Alexander were I not, make me Diogenes:
Since kyngs would change their states, & holds the meane life best,
Then blame not me where I doe like, I seeke to finde some rest.

Of a fearfull Dreame.

Of a harde worlde.

Hardnesse is hedstrong, and will not be hampred,
Larges straite laced, and Pride to mutche pampred:
Spende all with sparyng, is so well acquainted,
That librall free harts, in shrine maie be saincted.
Holdfast will giue nought, wealth semeth needy,
Well hedde is stopped, full mouthes are greedy:
Leane flies are feedyng, that long hath been pined,
None maie be lookt too, till honger hath dined.
Standbacke saieth stoutnesse, let freends be first placed,
Flattrars are faured, and trothe still defaced:
Meane well the harmlesse, is euer kept fastyng,
Doe wrong dreeds nothyng, the death euerlastyng.
Feare nought speeds better, then doubt of offendyng,
Marre all that michar, thinks nere of a mendyng:
Conscience can catche all, yet talke muche of Iesu,
Neede helpe who listeth, ye finde fewe that ease you.
Hye office forgetteth, loe frends that nere failed,
Tyme paste nothyng thought on, when some wept and wailed:
Seeke praies can promes, and swiftly repents hym,
When ye call on hym, full close he absents hym.
Newe sleights vnsaury, is now the ryng leader,
Old trothe small set by, that was the true treader:
Uertue abused, the worlde ouer floweth,
What this will come to, at length the Lorde knoweth.
Mischeef thus Maister, men bent to sutche madnesse,
Maie change ere we ween, our mirthe to great sadnesse.

Made against Idell and vain Rimes.

A penne emploied to vertues things, a croune of glory gains,
But idell verse small profite brings, the ynke but paper stains:
And fills the worlde with follie greate, that spryngs on fancies fitts,
Whiche blotts good name, and dulls the minde, and doeth abuse the witts.
The wanton ryme for reatchlesse youth, a pleasant bable is,
Or els a Lanterne voide of light, that leads poore Lambs a mis:
What shame is this to here how men, hath loste their sence for loue,
And daiely dye in leude desiers, that doeth mutche mischeef moue.
What fondnesse can be more then that, when louers saie to here,
The Goddes of my life and death, and ground of gladsome chere:
What blasphemie is it to call, a creature by that name,
Which God hymself of right should beare, and best deseru's the same.
Put vp your pennes you Poets vaine, that piuishe rimes doe make,
For shame leaue of your Venus songs, that keepeth vice awake:
Flyng all your Fables in the fire, and followe vertues lore,
That plants the perfite feare of God, where vice was graft before.
His feare kepes kyngs & kyngdomes vp, and sendeth subiects peace,
For blesse he but the barrain soile, there eche thyng doeth increace:
The feelds doe florishe full of corne, the Haruest is full greate,
The emptie Barnes maie plentie crie, and hongrie findeth meate.
If men did waie what wealth doeth rise, by feare of God alone,
(And what faire works true wisedoms frams, vpō the corner stone)
Thei would no other buildyngs make, nor ron and gad so faste,
To toyes and trifles any where, whose blosomes maie not laste.
Wherefore awaie with wanton trashe, sutche ware is waxen stale,
Shut vp your shopps you Printers all, that setts vain Rimes to sale:
And looke vpon the booke of life, and there your cunnyng showe,
For all the rest but shadowes are, as worthie heads doe knowe.

Of the vanitie of youth.

When I wanton beardlesse boye, became first Venus thrall,
My cheeks were smoth, my browes full plain, and rounde as tennis ball:
My face well filde with liuely blood, as youth did paint me out,
With curled heare mutche like the grasse, that in the Spryng doeth sprout.
With Spathauks eyes in forhed set, bothe graye and gredie eke,
And euery member furnisht well, there was no thyng to seke:
With harte as merry as the birde, that syngs on eury spraie,
With body cled in diuers hewes, as freshe as flowre in Maie.
But all these beuties tooke their leaue, from me a long tyme sence,
And in their place is come a geaste, I can not tell from whence:
But lodge he doeth within my bones, thei call hym Age I trowe,
A droupyng snogg that on his backe, hath fardells full of woe.
Who nill I will I must I beare, and yet it lames me mutche,
My shulders maie my singers curse, when thei the packe did toutche:
With sloupyng doune to take it vp, my youth I haue let fall,
And after youth went my delits, and body pleasures all.
For furred garments now I call, that did in Girkin Iette,
And fire must kepe me from the Frost, or els no warmth I gette:
The blood forsakes the outward parts, and palenesse there remains,
With feuers cold and crampyng stitche, are shronken vp my vaines.
The skinne lyes flat on eury ioynt, vnsemely to your sight,
And I vnfit for Uenus sprots, by daie or candell light:
With eye delits I feede my luste, and couetyng desire,
But when I should maintaine the flame, I giue but smoke for fier.
My hollowe lookes maks some to laugh, yt hears my youthfull tong,
When that for age and aking limmes, my knell might well be rong:
I call my reatchlesse yeres to count, whose recknyng fears my witts
For he that maie controll the same, within my conscience sitts.
And saieth my dallyng daies are doen, as grauer yeres encreace,
So should I leaue my former vice, and all my follie seace:
Whereat I waie my short tyme here, my leude life long abusde,
And to the glas I stept to see, how youth hath me refusde.
As Peacocke then letts fall his taile, that his black feete hath seen,
So cast I doune my painted sheath, that once was gaie and green.
And welcome saie I siluer heares, your hoary colour white,
Hath ouercome my youthfull yeres, and quenched my delite.

VVritten of a gentleman, whose name is in the verses.

My happ was good, to finde a freende, of sutche ripe sence and skill,
As could deserne by deepe foresight, the weight of my good will:
The welcome greate, for small desarts, and freendly fauour found,
Hath shriend my harte in Lambeth house, and there my bodie bound.
Enroule my name, emong those freendes, of whom a count ye make
Waie well my woords, and as you doe, of woorks some triall take:
Paies eury promes paste my mouthe, and you muste looke for then,
Adeeper draught and higher stile, to come from Churchyards pen.
Receiue in gree, the offred gift, that Newe yeres daie brings forthe,
(Keepe these bare verses as a pledge, of matter muche more worthe)
And you shall heare the hammers beate, & thompe out other newes,
Releef is come to heauie hedde, and comforts now my mewes.
Gon is the greesly gloumyng daie, that kept the Sonne in shade,
Out stepps my hope with sailes a flant, that earst no triumph made:
Dispaire hath drounde hymself in seas, and as cold courage sailde,
Good Pilotts came and sturde the sterne, and so my Ship preuailde.
If Silla and Charibdes cliues, could threaten my decaie,
Vaine were the braggs of rustie rocks, and mountains all I saie:
Except the Gods doe froune on me, the straits I minde to pas,
Though shipp be forste, to trie the tides, where neuer ship man was:
Hit glads me muche, that I shall saile, with winde & weather bothe,
Enbarkt with those that order kepes, and holds by right and trothe.
Giue sea roume Lorde in stormes distresse, if any tempest ries,
Retourne I will not till it seems, my barke shall touche the Skies:
Aloufe ye mates, ron from the shore, my voiage holde I on,
Come from your cabbeus soldiours all, ere that the tide be gon:
Encreace your wealth, and worke a pushe, whiles others looke vpō.

Non est fides super terram.

There is no faithe, vpon the yearth, as faithe was wont to bee,
For faithe with fraude and finenesse now, hath chopt and changde degree:
Faithe is a firme and faste beleef, that first from vertue came,
And fraude and finenesse is a wolfe, that looketh like a Lamme.
Then where is fast beleef my freends, that neither faints nor quails,
But finenesse is not farre to seke, and fraude you knowe preuails:
So as the Psalme affirmes & showes, no faithe on yearth we finde,
This hollow world, & hatefull daies, shews nought but hollow mind:
We stretch out words, as farre as wit, and skill of man maie reach,
As though in deede a subtell Foxe, before the Geese should preache:
But of good woorkes we are so spare, we laie them vp in store,
As though thei should take leaue of world, and should be seen no more.
Thus faithe is fled, or tree is dedde, that should beare fruit ye knowe,
Then trust no bowe, that brings but leau's, and blossoms for a show:
Beleeue no goodly painted postes, that rotten are within,
Beleeue no fliryng fained face, nor sleeke and smothed skin:
Beleeue no courtlike kissyng hands, and bowying bodie doune,
Beleeue no false dissemblyng browes, that ought of Nature froune.
Beleeue no othes nor promes patcht, and peeced with desaite,
Beleeue not those that feeds thine eyes, with sweete & pleasant baite:
Beleeue no tune that likes the eare, and doeth displease thine harte,
Beleeue not hym, on stage that plaies, the merrie vises parte.
Beleeue no freend that faunes too fast, he meanes to make thee faule,
Beleeue no sweete and sugred speache, for therein lyes the Gaule:
Beleeue no more then good is found, for badde is moste in place,
And goodnesse in this gracelesse tyme, the people least embrace:
On yearth there is no faithe God wott, for closely vnder tong,
The snake doeth lodge, the serpēts crepe, & there mans hart is stōg.
I could showe heaps of mischeeu's greate, that follows mā frō birth,
But to the wise, let this suffice, there is no faithe on yearth.

Of a disdainfull persone.

A letter to maister Cressie.

Where first I footyng founde, and fancie fauour sought,
And offred faithe with greate estates, a free accesse had wrought:
I meane emong the rocks, bothe rough and harde by kinde,
Where stormes doe striue and weather beats, for eury blaste of winde.
Where growes no Grapes for wine, to glad the griped brest,
Nor deintie heads ne wearie bones, finds bedds of Doune to rest:
I once againe doe staye, and loe suche harber haue,
As wandryng yers and tossed daies, amid greate tempests craue.
Full long before this tyme, as Court did me deceaue,
In countrey close emong sharpe shrubs, I shapt by bones to leaue:
But dazeled dum delights, did drawe my bodie thence,
And cleane be witcht wilde wandryng witts, where I haue wisht me sence:
Yet as with piuishe pompe, did Pilgrime wearie waxe,
And knowledge sawe the cuttyng curbs, of connyng courtly knacks.
I iudgde what diffrence was, betwene the mountaines hye,
And carpetts fine where flatterers flocke, & depe disdaine doeth lye:
And smothely mischeef smiles, yet leanes on Ladies lappes,
And at rebound ere ball come doune, can snatch vp worldly happes:
The massie mountaine greate, that mossie mantell weares,
Breeds no sutche goates nor grinnyng kidds, nor fostereth no sutche feares.
For there poore people plaine, in ragged garments goe,
And loues the blunt and blotlesse life, and hates the painted showe:
And feeds as thei doe liue, not farcst with falshodd fine,
Nor pampred vp with Frenche conceipts, & mightie Spanish wine:
No crafte nor cautell creeps, in cuppes of cold sowre whaie,
For gilded gobblet hides the harmes, that glasse will soone bewraie.
So saied I long ere this, so sweare I now withall,
So some haue founde ere Cæsars daies, in goodly golden hall:
O welcome witte well bought, though deere I paied for thee,
Thou bringst for losse of tyme at Court, in countrey gaine to me.
Where now myne aged limmes, must grace or graue abide,
And Peacocke gaie let fall his plumes, for all his pompe and pride:
And where a harber good, I hope my Barke hath founde,
Where ship shall still finde flood at will, whē thousands are a groūd.

A speciall trifle on a fickle woman.

When pleasure could no more desire, & will his wish had won,
When fancie past the flaming fire, and loue his race had ron:
Whē eury ioy ye hart would haue, in gladsom brest was foūd
And nothing lackte that loue could craue, to salue a festred wound.
When suites were hanged on ye hedge, and plaints were out of place,
And liking great gaue faith in pledge, ye pains should purches grace:
Naie rather when the fruite was had, that growes on top of tree,
And claspyng hande tooke by good happ, the Honie from the Bee:
And eight yeres trothe was throughly tried, a proffe not cōmon sure,
(That any hauke the pearche would bide, or like so long on lure:)
Then fickle freaks made Hagard soer, and shakte of bells in spite,
And plainly ment to come no more, for Gill would plaie the Kite.
Her freend but past the fomyng seas, and hence a space remainde,
But Gill would needs to take her ease, for pleasure be retainde:
Another where, O iudge my freends, what wrong I suffer here,
And let the dealyngs of vs bothe, before the worlde appere.

Uerses written on the Muster that was made by the Pensioners before the Queene.

As Mars beganne to bende his browe, and Soldiours sought for warre,
And Uulcane made the armour shine, as bright as Uenus starre:
I listned to the Trompet loude, that sounds a bloodie blaste,
And so emong the Marciall men, an armed Pike I paste.
Now whether goes this noble crue, quoth I O liuely boyes,
Leaue of saied witt suche leaude demaunds, suffice to heare the noies:
Of Drom and Trompet in the feeld, and marche without delaye,
Be pleasde to serue when Prince doeth call, content thee wt thy paie.
On went the clattryng harnes streight, and vp to horse we mount,
The Muster maister and his clarke, came bothe to take a count:
Of all the poulls that paste in ranke (like Soldiours for the broile,)
And paied them wages by the monthe, that els would liue by spoile.
It was an other worlde to se, the bands how trim thei weare,
And eury one in collours gaie, his owne deuice did beare:
Upon the barbs that seru's for shocke, whē trompet slaughter soūds,
And Cannon shot like tennis balls, in Soldiours lapps rebounds:
A goodly troupe of armed men, did passe the Muster thoe,
Whiche was to freend as glad a sight, as fearfull to the foe.
I sawe a sacred Sibbell sage, (attired in mournyng weeds,)
Sitte sadly in her Cotche the while, to see the fomyng steeds:
That plaied vpon the pleasant Bitte, and bore the hedde so braue,
As though their lookes to coward mindes, a tremblyng terror gaue.
These Palfraies praunced ore the plaine, and on their backs did ride,
In warlike sort a worthie bande, that well the horse could gide:
Some for deuise in firie flames, were painted finely then,
And so about the smothryng smoke, there was some arte of pen.
And some weare all embrued in blood, a badge of warre ye wotte,
That Soldiours for reward of toile, in feeld haue often gotte:
Some leaned vnto pillars large, some lacked propps to staie,
Some lighted candells at a torche, whose Lamps did burne awaie.
Some flue wt wings as Cupid doth, some to the clouds would clime,
Some hedlong fell into the seas, thus loe as seru'd the tyme:
Thei drue in collours their deuice, the showe was so sett out,
It me amasde and many more, that there did gase about.
But yet I markt a freend of myne, full richly trimde and cled,
Who shone as bright as Phebus doeth, amid his golden bed:
He satte all closed in a hope, and leaned on his arme,
As though he feard some outward happ, or felt some inward harme.
And to declare some odde conceipt, of fancies falne in thought,
As he this tyme was deckt in gold, and robes full finely wrought:
The next daie after came he in, as he some freend had loste,
For horse and man was throughly turnde, to black frō gold emboste.
I dreamed on that straunge deuise, when I came home at night,
And rouled vp and doune in hedde, the noble warlike sight:
That I had seen the daie before, and in my sweuen thoe,
Me thought that Cupid with a dart, gaue this blacke knight a blowe.
That pearced through his coate of steele, and stroke hym ded withall,
Yet Uenus staied hym in her hande, as he to ground did fall:
O bloodie boye what hast thou doen, quoth she to Cupid streight,
Thou shalt no more be Uenus sonne, (by all the Gods on height.)
I sweare, a vaunt out of my sight, this man shall lue againe,
Whereat the luke warme blood began, to comfort eury vaine:
And gaspyng wide a breath he tooke, and so recoured there,
I cried a loude amid my slepe, and wakened with the feare.
Loe what it is to ronne abroad, where Marciall people bee,
It makes men dreame of buggs and bears, & things that thei did see:
Yet suer well worthe the lookyng on, the sight was that I sawe,
I tell you trothe a fewe sutche bands, would kepe our foes in awe.
And beautifie bothe court and feeld, and win our lande mutche fame,
In happie howre the Pensionars here, did first begin their name:
In happie tyme the Prince did place, sutche props about the state,
I saie no more in eury cace, God giue them happie fate.

VVritten of the Queene, when her highnesse was in trouble.

Mistrust not trothe, that truely meanes, for eury gellows freake,
In stead of wrong condempne not right, no hidden wrathe to wreake:
Looke on the light of fautlesse life, how bright her vertues shine,
And measure out her stepps eche one, by leauell and by line.
Deem eache desart by vpright gesse, whereby your praise shall liue,
If mallice would be matcht with might, let hate no iudgemēt giue:
Enforce no feare with wrestyng witts, in quiet consciens breste,
Leane not your ears to busie tongs, whiche breedeth muche vnreste:
In doubtfull drifts wade not to farre, it wearies but your minde,
Searche not to know ye secret hart, whose thoughts are hard to finde.
Avoide frō you those hatefull hedds, whiche helps to heape mishaps,
Be slowe to heare the flattrars voice, who creepeth in your laps:
Embrace their lou's that wills you good, & sporne not at their praies
Trust not to mutche vnto your selues, for tickle are your staies.
How should your seate be settled sure, or stande on stedfast grounde,
So propped vp with hollowe harts, whose suretie is vnsounde:
Giue faithe to those that feares for loue, and not that loue for feare,
Regard not those that force compells, to please you eury wheare:
All this well waied and borne awaie, shall stablishe long your state,
Continually, with parfite peace, in spite of{posyning} hate.

Verses giuen the Quenes highnesse at windsor.

My penne doeth quake in tremblyng hande, as harte discouraged weare,
My mewes me failes, my sences blushe, my skill creepes backe for feare:
To write the verse that duetie crau's, O Lodestarre clere of light,
Whose beautie dims the Son by daie, & darks the Moone by night.
Thou wretched mā call home those works, yt carelesse bore thy name
And sift the purest of those lines, this verse of newe to frame:
You Poets all of this ripe age, who hath the cunnyng braines,
Come moist my drie & dulled pen, with your sweete flowyng vaines.
For I write not of yearthly mould, this is some sparke deuine,
The selfsame Goddes as I gesse, pleased Parris eyne:
Yea Pallas witte, and Iunoes praise, this Uenus leades awaie,
Th'aple of gold she hath possest, in scorne of who saie naie.
Praise not your ladies where she comes, ye courtiers for your liues,
Boste not in little flowryng Nimphs, in maids ne married wiues:
Except you minde to answere this, before hye Ioue in Skyes,
Whose Iustice will giue sentence sure, against your blinded eyes.
A sacred Queene, a stately port, what neede I cloke it more,
Hath won the fame of beauties boste, when she least lokes therefore:
And least acount of beautie makes, for loe full deepe in breste,
Her vertues blome, her gifts doe budde, her heauenly graces rest.
Whiche is the marke my pen shotes at, if witte maie bring about,
To spread her sutche eternall fame, as worlde shall nere wipe out:
A further gift shall tyme vnfolde, if this maie fauour finde,
As statelier stile, and higher verse, shall serue the makers minde.
After this was deliuered, all my deuises and showes in progra-
ses euery where, attended to no other purpose, but for the hono-
ryng of her highnesse moste excellent vertues.

A Newe yeres gift to the Erle of Ormond, giuen at Kilkennie, when the Erle of Essex was in Irelande.

An auncient gise hath been, this daie for diuerse drifts,
(Emong our freends to wishe good yere,) and giue some Newe yeres gifts:
Yea of the meanest man, the greatest Prince will take,
And none that can conceiue good will, doe freendly gifts forsake.
And sure this custome old, in Court full long I kept,
Till close in bosome like a Snake, cold thanklesse harts were crept:
But when I sawe them swell, and looke for ritcher ware,
(Yea gape for brauer blossoms gaie, thā barrain branch could spare)
I helde my talent deere, and sette my penne a side,
As one that scornde to sowe good corne, and reape disdainfull Pride:
Perhapps some iudged streight, this was a crauyng kinde,
And eager hauke for pleasaunt praie, did houer in the winde.
I aunswere those conceits, let it be tried and founde,
That euer to the plaiers hands, did any baule rebounde:
Or euer any wight, for twentie yeres deuice,
Gaue one good tourne, or yelded thyng, of any fame or price.
Then let me beare the blame, of crauer in this cace,
O my goon Lorde, who blusheth not, before the niggards face:
To showe an emptie bagge, why all our countrey knowes,
That Carpet knights could neuer spare, the droppyng of their nose.
And Courtiars at receipt, doe lye them selu's as nere,
As connyng dogge that drawes a sute, and pouleth doen the dere:
Then this must noted be, that all the paines I tooke,
Of faithfull mynde must needes arise, and not of greedy looke.
Whiche minde awakes me now, to haules a noble wight,
With welcome home, and crie all haile, Achilles Marciall knight:
Yea mightie Mars hym self, thy countrey can recorde,
When oft from feeld thou hast retournde, a victor and a Lorde,
That lande is threfolde blest, that many sutche can showe,
That prince full saffe shall slepe in rest, that can bid sutche men goe:
To serue, when neede requires, though hate would hide the same,
Who well deseru's should well belikt, eche man ought haue his fame
Eche thing ought be esteemd, as loe the valure is.
I knowe no other name for gold, but gold, then note well this,
I florishe not with penne, to faune or flatter here:
For if I finde with baser bruite, ye doe begin this yere:
And noble nature change, and tourne to other trade,
An other kinde of nippyng verse, be sure, there shalbe made.
For vertues sake a lone, I honour you in deede,
So take the gift and waie it well, and doe these verses reede:
And where the minde is fraught, with any sparke of grace,
Redouble that, so Churchyards verse, shall honor Ormonds race.

A touche stone to trie an error from a trothe.

If I maie aske, and you maie tell, I praie you let me knowe,
Why are so fewe, prefarde in Court, yet thether still we goe:
Why wanders worlde, where charge is greate, and chance is hardly wonne,
The ritche and wise, exchaunge their wealthe, for shadowes in the Sonne.
Why spend thei heaps of weightie wealth, for toies and trifles light,
Where times and howres doe alter still, and daie is tournd to night:
Good diet changde to basest chere, good tourns to badd disgrace,
Good words to taūts, good works to wiles, & plainnes finds no place
Come men to gase, and not to get, to spende and not to spare,
To rise with pompe and fall in debt, and ruine ere thei beware:
That bagge & bare reward can court, thee giue to keepe thoe warme,
But vnder that cold courtly knacke, there lyes a further harme.
To countrey in thine youth or age, thou must retourne againe,
Where lands are sold, & rents are shronk, in seams of garmēts vaine:
Then tell me what good happ in court, thou founds or left behinde,
Naie thou hast brought a corzie thence, that nere shall out of minde.
For whiche the world shall point at thee, whē scarce well worth a pin
Yong maister is for all his pompe, and braury he was in:
In court if Cocke be tournd from thee, the spring will ron awrie,
Admit at Well thou wilt not drawe, thou goest to please thine eye.
What are the sports and pleasures there, is waityng sutche an ease,
Is staryng on the twinklyng starrs, a thing that maie thee please:
Is Flattrie to be followd so, is Finenesse sutthe a saint,
That Plainnesse must from coūtrey go, and learne in court to paint.
O blinde beleef, and boldnesse greate, that thinks gaie golden hall,
The gladsome seate of sweete content, and worldly glories all:
Who sailes the Seas, and sees the waw's, and surges rise a loft,
Will wishe amid those striuyng streams, his feete on lande full oft.
But when bigge bounsyng bellowe beats, against bare rotten barke,
(And ship is tost with tomblyng tides, in Winter nights full darke:)
Farewell freshe water soldiour streight, thy harte or gaule is broke,
Thy bodie would be in a moode, at home by chimneis smoke.
The Court to Sea I doe compare, where calme aperes long while,
(And frēds that tourns wt fortunes whele, in face will laugh & smile:)
But let them once but see the lacke, the calmie clouds will lowre,
And brauest speeche, and sweetest words, will turne to bitter sowre.
He seru's not one, but waites on all, that there would placed bee,
And bounde he is at becke and call, to hye and loe degree:
Now trudge and trott at one mans heeles, then to an other streight,
Not that good happ is got with witt, and fauour comes by sleight.
But for one man, hath but one voice, and seldome speake he will,
To doe thee good except sutche speeche, proceeds of deeper skill:
But my demaund is why doest thou, that maiest frō court liue well,
Desire to chaunge thy heauens blis, to feele the paines of hell.
First all thy sailes must be a flant, that ship full winde maie haue,
Is that no paine to clap on clouts, and make free minde a slaue:
Next must thou waite, & stande full still, or turne like wether cocke,
Where eury thing that thou doest craue, is vnder double locke.
Then for thy foode thou must make shifte, or thrust amid the throng,
Where alwaies those that best deserue, doe suffer greatest wrong:
On fastyng daies, thy purse is plaegde, when triumphs comes adue,
Auoide the preace, the Court throughout, is filde with faces newe.
When strangers come, the people swarme, like Bees about ye hiue,
Then maiest thou not in Court be bold, nor yet with stranger striue:
To tablyng houses hye thee then, so purse doeth neuer reste,
And he is at no lettle charge, in Court that speedeth beste.
Then tell what brings thee thether thus, perharps faire goodly shose
Whose beauties passeth as a flowre, and withers like a Rose:
Naie Tom will be a lustie boye, and knowne for credite sake,
Emong the beste that of hye harts, a good a count maie make.
Why Court makes not but a fewe, and those I saie are thei,
That holds wt Hare, and hunts with hound, & goes with game a wey
If that but fewe in Court doe thriue, why doe sutche nombers flock,
Where fortune borrows all thei haue, and paies them with a mocke.
If ten within one Princes raigne, the Court doeth well aduaunce,
Ten score comes home by weping crosse, or finds but croked chance:
A yere or twoo might well suffice, to trie what grace will growe,
A longer tyme but breeds an ebbe, where Fortunes flood should flow.
To tarry till our tyme ronnes out, that none can call againe,
Is losse of wealthe, and spoile of witt, and breake of slepe and braine:
Some happly for thy shape or sence, in Court maie make the staie,
But bite not at those baited hookes, whose net fine fishe betraie.
Some offers helpe that lou's greate trains, and would be waited on,
Sutche feede themselfs with newe consaits, when old deuice is gon:
And leads poore yonglyngs like the lambs, yt must go suck the eawes
Seeke not in Court for suche fine frends, but shrine suche saincts for shreaus.
Some neither tells what thei will doe, nor will doe aught at all,
Yet giueth hope to haplesse men, and so letts fauour fall:
Emong them catche it who that can, as good take smoke from fire,
(Or shadowe from the shinyng Sonne,) as by that waie aspire.
Some are not to be spoken with, but those haue cunnyng shifts,
To driue out tyme, and lengthen suits, with long delaies and drifts:
Some speake thee faire to sucke out sapp, frō goodly blouming tree,
So traps the sillie hongrie Mouse, whose haste no harmes can see.
When thou hast spied these sorts of men, and found muche labor lost,
Why dost thou by thy courtyng thus, with suche great charge & cost:
I aske where many are vndoen, why doe the rest repaire,
For them that seeketh to be solde, it is no common faire:
Nor common plot to feede vpon, if nagge be leane before,
Court rather is a presious place, that still maintaines the store.
A priuate soile to fatte a fewe, that happ hath hedged in,
A ground for those that from their birthe, hath alwaies happie bin:
The greatest nomber haue great skoupe, and roulm enough at will,
Where thei maie grosly pike vp cromes, or feede on grasse their fill.
A dishe and daintie of the Court, no meate for mowers is,
Then why to court doeth come suche preace, I praie you tel me this:
Greate nombers haue been spoiled there, and fewe in deede prefard,
But suche as worlde thought best vpon, and Gods thē selues regard.
Full fortie yeres by tourne and tymes, the Court I haunted haue,
And still in hope of doyng well, I thought desarts should craue:
Now wrote I Rimes, then made I bokes, then song before the best
Made plaies in peace, and for the warres, a soldiour ready prest.
In eury Prograsse nere the Prince, with some newe odde deuice,
A merrie Christmas man at home, not stately, strange, nor nice:
But glad to please and purchace freends, and yet for all these things,
My bells are of, and I abroad, maie flie if I had wings:
O gallants gaie when your ritche robes, begins to change their hue,
The Court will hang the hed a side, and bidde you all adue.
Youth lasts not long, age sone decaies, and goes like candell out,
To fall of leafe eche fruite shall yeeld, that earst in spring did sprout:
But as newe parts and plaiers still, stepps vp vpon the stage,
So gallants to the Court will come, and did in eury age.
But I mutche muse, why people swarme, where suretie is vnsound,
And few are helpt, & thousadns haue, muche sharpe misfortune found.

For the losse of a mightie and noble mannes fauour.

If tears maie trie my truthe, that trickle doune my cheeks,
Or if good will by proofe be knowne, in yeres, in daies, or weeks:
Then doe I wrong receiue, where freendship craue I moste,
And where in deede with eury storme, my vessell hath been toste.
And through the tempests all, my ship hath safly sailde,
And yet no seas might hurt my Barke, my hope hath so preuailde:
O helpe you Courtiars now, and Soldiours eury chon,
To waile my plage and present state, my Fortune fled and gon.
And waile this wofull worlde, wherein moste freends doe faint,
And namely sutche as trackt of tyme, hath taught by tongs to paint.
And promesd more by words, then will or worke performs,
Sutche haue the kirnells eaten all, and are the greedy worms:
That gnawes the harts of men, in peeces eury daie,
And sutche haue ledde my shipp alas, a wearie wilsome waie.
From whence if I retourne, I shall but wander still,
And finde no seas to saile vpon, that maie content my will:
Fie on my countrey soile, there is no suretie founde,
A chancelesse race myne age must trie, amid a doubtfull grounde.
Here haue I hoiste my saile, as hie as winde can blowe,
Here had I freends whose nodd or becke, a worlde maie ouerthrowe:
And still my staiyng staffe, did stande by one alone,
Whose gentill harte is now become, as hard as Marble stone.
To me the cace is sutche, the mischeef so is mine,
When I am worne vnto the bones, he letts me starue and pine:
And letts me sinck or swim, or shift by sleight of braine,
As though my hedde so gamesome were, to set on eury maine.
Thus freendship feble growes, and men can causlesse change,
And will this daie familiar be, and waxe to morne full strange:
I will goe fishe for Fate, through floods and salt sea fome,
And rather dye on wretched rocks, then perishe here at home.
Emong my chefest freends, amid my natiue soile,
Where neuer earst in any point, I suffred blot or foile:
Where all the worlde maie see, I suckt vp many a wrong,
Where well awaie the ritche maie thinke, a poore man liu's to long:
Where let my truthe be tried, I clame no small reward,
And where if fortune doe me right, the prince ought me regard.

Verses that were giuen to the Quenes maiestie.

As Thonder cracks with horlyng noies, ronns ratlyng through the Skies,
For feare whereof greate flocks of Sheepe, to Folde or couert flies:
Or as the dreadfull Iudges voice, of life sharpe sentence giu's,
And causeth captiu's quake for feare, that vnder mercie liu's.
So hearyng from your highnesse mouth, a worde of wōders weight,
Like hound I clapped doune my eares, & coutcht in kenell streight:
And droupyng in this worlds disdain, that drounds eche good desart,
I suckt vp sighes as sorrowe shapt, to breake a blistred harte.
Yet gripyng greef in gronyng brest, bred no sutche swellyng sore,
But salue of sweete contented minde, had healed long before:
Though nere the dongeon of dispaire, in darcknesse did I dwell,
And Caron came with carefull boate, to rowe me doune to hell.
I held my hands to heauen hye, where hope and helpe is had,
And so apeald to hym aboue, that heauie minds maie glad:
Feare not quoth he of froward Fate, that fast on people fauls,
Nor shon not (for a cottage poore) the princely golden hauls.
In Court thou shalt thy credite seeke, for she who scepter beares,
Shall showe thee fauour when I list, and looke vpon thy teares:
Her iudgement tries the gold frō drosse, & where doeth vertues bud,
She frankly speaks and frely giu's, and flings forthe worldly good.
When he that rules the hartes of kyngs, had told this tale to me,
To court I came for cause well knowne, and knelyng on my kne:
At closet dore where Prince doeth passe, to praier mildly than,
I found by words and gracious lookes, I was a happie man.
O blessed be that cherefull browe, where Phebus beams did shine,
And euerlastyng light remaine, amid those blessed eyne:
That like the starrs or Lampe of daie, that blaseth broad in Skies,
Doeth driue darke clouds & night awaie, whē blostryng blasts arise.
And as there burns greate gifts of grace, in her like candle clere,
So God vphold her blessed face, emong vs many a yere.

A rebuke to vaine louers.

Of fained frendshippe.

In freends are found a heape of doubts, that double dealyng vse,
A swarme of sutche I could finde out, whose crafte I could accuse:
A face for loue, a harte for hate, those faunyng freends can beare,
A tong for trothe, a hedde for whiles, to fraude the simple eare.
In humble port is poison packt, that plainnesse can not spie,
Who credits all and can not se, where stingyng serpents lye:
With hastie trust the harmlesst harte, is easily hampred in,
And made beleue it is good Gold, that is but Lead and Tin.
The first deceipt that blears our eyes, is fained faithe profest,
The second trap is gratyng talke, that gropes eche strangers brest:
The third deuice is greetyng words, with collours stretched out,
Whiche bids suspect to feare no snares, nor dread no dangers doubt:
The last and worst is long repaire, that crepes in frendshipps lappe,
And daiely haunt that vnder trust, deuiseth many a trappe:
Loe how false frends can frame a fetche, to win their wills wt wiles,
And sause their sleights with sugred sopps, & shadoe hurt wt smiles.
To sarue their lusts are sondrie sorts, that practise diuerse kinds,
Some carry Honie in their mouths, & venome in their minds.
Thus where that custome nousleth men, in vice and foule abuse,
No feare of God nor losse of name, there maners maie reduce:
Me thinke the stones within the streete, should crie out at this cace,
And eury one that should them meete, should shon their double face.

Uerses that weare giuen to a moste mightie personage.

The louers of the worlde.

Of a noble mynde.

The noble minde that scornes to stoupe, at base and wretched things,
As quicke as thought, mountes vp the Skies, with swifte aspiryng wings:
Not lookyng doune, to dedde delits, that drounds the witts in drosse,
(And carries weake and simple brains, about with mucke and mosse.)
But bearyng harte and hedde so hie, as iudgement well maie goe,
The hautie sprit climes through the clouds, & leau's vain world beloe
I meane the manly courage greate, that stoutly striues for state,
Disdains the doltishe donghill Kites, and flies the Fancons greate.
And commyng once to mountain topp, from whence men se the vale,
A loft it keepes like gallant Barke, that hath a bouncyng gale:
Then clap on cloutes and sea roume seeke, adue the doubtfull shore,
In shallowe streame, or riuers small, we harbour ship no more.
To loftie seas whose wawes do worke, with eche small wind ye bloes
Set course and Barke, that Pilotes sage, maie se how fortune goes:
The minde is base that diggs and delues, where Deastnie scorns to dwel
In highest soiles are heauēs sought, on earth is nought but hel.
Who holds doune hed & hangs the groine, a cowards hart he bears,
He dares not looke on shinyng Sonne, that eury shadowe fears:
His combe is cutte his courage gon, that droupes or takes disgrace,
The medson for a greate mischaunce, is merrie chearfull face.
The swetest nutts and fairest fruites, from topps of trees we take,
On highest rocks or stately bowes, gaie birds their neasts thei make
And nere the ground tame dawes do breed, & simple doues you finde,
The carrain Crowe flies here beloe, when hauke doeth soer ye winde,
Wherefore let noble mindes alone, their course doeth passe our skill:
Their harts are fild with pleasant hops, that feeds their fancies still.

Of doubtfull hope.

Of the flantyng worlde.

This worlde is all a flant, like Ship full vnder saile,
As swift to gather as the Aute, and slowe to giue as Snaile:
The Ante in Sommer tyme, prouides for Winters foode,
The Snaile as slowly doeth he clime, so doeth he little good.
The one learnes man to saue, the other slowly glides,
To bid men worke as tyme thei haue, to walke & watch their tides,
That lesson of the Snaill, is slowlie lookte vnto,
So that this sillie creepyng soule, full little good can doe.
And hourders vp of wealthe, are in the selfsame plite,
Yet doeth the Ante for deepe foresight, mans iudgement more delite.
But flantyng late came vp, the gise is somewhat newe,
The Rainboes collours doeth it beare, and yet it hath no hewe:
The glorie of the same, tenne thousande stains will take,
And scarce the wisest men doe knowe, of flantyng what to make.
He flants with others flowres, she brau's in boroude weedes,
But neuer none could reape good fruite, of sutche vain rotten seedes:
This flantyng squares it out, and keeps a cruell coile,
But in the ende this newe founde toye, doth bryng them all to spoile,
On braury it begonne, with beggrie shall it ende,
This bowe is shapte of sutche a wood, shall either breake or bende,
A flant a flant my boyes, but flante to farre farewell,
Make mutche of worlde, ye neither come in heauen nor in hell.
The saincts disdaine your pompe, the Deuills feare your pride,
Then purchace Purgatorie nowe, and there let flantyng bide:
So flounce and flant your fill, good worlde should wearie waxe,
Of strange deuise that sturrs the state, to strife through newe founde knacks.

Of a fantasticall dreame taken out of Petrarke.

A fancie as an answere to that dreame.

Some feele by dreams more ioye, then any other waie,
And those doe steale suche sport by nights, thei care not for the daie:
The sicke as well as sounde, hath sutche consaits in breste,
By slombryng slepes, and sweuons sweete, thei dreame thei haue some reste.
The thirstie thinks by dreame, he drinks and cool's his heate,
But that I call a cold deuise, to quenche a feuer greate:
So loue that liu's with dreams, on fancies foode maie feede,
Yet want as mutche a slepe or wake, as thei that starue for neede.
If pleasure we conceiue, through sight the same doeth growe,
Then wakyng is the cheefest freend, and slepe a mortall foe:
The eye must first be fixt, ere senses feelyng finde,
And so in slepe some watchyng sprite, awakes the drousie minde.
Though body seems to slepe, and takes his ease in bedde,
The vitall vaines are woorkyng still, and soule is neuer dedde:
Thus proue I that we wake, when slepe beclipps the ghoste,
And wakyng witts and stirryng blood, doeth comfort nature moste.
A dreame more life doeth showe, then death or lompishe slepe,
And by the motion of suche dreams, our soule and life we kepe:
So graunt I that our sleepes, a wakyng Nature haue,
For slepe it self is nought but death, as bedde presents the graue.
Though beast is praisde for slepe, yet man hath better moode,
To wake and seeke through breathyng brest, to liue by angels foode:
Then let leude fancie slepe, with beast and if you please,
It is the quicke and wakyng muse, that moste my sence doeth ease.

A fantasie on fifteene woordes, endyng all in one letter.

If freendship faint or Fortune faile, and flood forsakes to flowe,
Yet call for hope to hoise vp saile, a gale of winde maie blowe:
When sorrowe comes and sighes encrease, with wicked worldly woe,
Beleue the beste of badde mischaunce, and ease thy burthen soe,
The child that neuer felt the rodde, maie out of order goe,
The horse that can no bridell bide, no pace nor traine will showe:
Tis better freend reforme thy fauts, then take rebuke of foe,
The wood yt breaks whē it should bend, will neuer make good bowe.
That hart is weake which for small greef, cōsums & melts like snow,
The rose nor flowre is nere the worse, that doeth nere nettell growe:
A man maie suffer mutche in harte, though shooe doe nipp his toe,
A quiet man maie liue full long, that dwells in house with shroe.
The Faucon flies a stately gate, in spite of carraine Crowe,
Some maks a merry gladsome chere, yet feles great care ye knowe
Some haue a sadde and heauie minde, and walks as light as Doe.
Thus sutche as beare a pacient brest, doe conquere that thei craue,
And those that striu's against the stream, shall seldome pleasure haue.

Of the strong and the weake.

The weakest goes to wall, who wanteth freends must faste,
Thei saie the strongest will haue all, would God that worlde were paste:
For feeble force I haue, with worlde to tugge and toile,
And lackyng tooles to poule and shaue, I yeeld me to the spoile.
Of those that spares no sleight, nor witte to winne their will,
Who seems to make the crooked streight, yet liu's by fleecyng still:
The weake hath feble knees, to clime the clouds ye knowe,
The strong takes home from the Bees, and seru's his fancie soe.
The strong and mightie flood, sweeps all before hym cleane,
And tourns vp drosse bothe sande and mudde, and keepes no kinde of meane:
A sillie shallowe streame, can doe but little boote,
It neither breaks doune massie banks, nor tears vp trees by roote.
The weake is vanquisht still, the strong will victor bee,
The strong with weake, nor weake wt strong, will neuer well agree:
When sound and sicke doe like, and colde and heate are one,
Or mosse & mucke for might & maine, maie matche wt marble stone
Then strong and weake shall ioyne, till then saie naie who shall,
The strong will triumphe on the weake, & weake shall goe to wall.

Of Youth and Age.

Full dearely haue I bought, the yeres that youth hath spent,
The longer life the more vnrest, and still the lesse content:
To see that I haue seen, and bee a child againe,
I would not wishe this worlde to winne, to liue and passe sutche paine.
To skipp from age to youth, who had sutche scope and choice,
Perchaunce he would be yong to chuse, and in the same reioyce:
For children carelesse liue, and fears not Fortunes fall,
When men doe dread eche poffe of winde, yea though the storme bee small,
But sure a wearie race, these children haue to ronne,
And many sorrowes shall thei taste, before their course be done.
As in my self the proofe, who can not count his care,
Nor learne the rest that after comes, how thei shall shon the snare:
The wilfull will not learne, thei saie that knowes the arte,
Till his own rod hath made hym smart, & youth hath plaied his part.
The tales of trauled men, are helde for fained lyes,
Untill the straungnesse of their toile, bee seen before our eyes:
Then trie that liste to tread, the trace of youths desire,
And thei that feeles the flames to hott, I knowe will feare the fire.
I wishe them well to speede, that will sutche fancies cheape,
And God thē grant when age doeth come, some better corne to reape
Then I whose youth consumes, with wearie wanton waies,
That hath but labour for my fruite, and dumpishe dolefull daies:
Loe these are all the ioyes, that from our birthe we haue,
The worlde to tosse the tyme to spende, the yearth to be our graue.

Of the short estate of man.

My restlesse life, hath reapt that woe hath sowne,
The daies tormoile brings home but bitter smarte:
I liue with wolues, in sauage woodds vnknowne,
Where Tigers whelpes, do feede on harmles hart
O cage of care, wherein no birde can syng,
But dolefull tunes, that maie no Musicke showe:
And though eche man, knowes well where greef doeth wryng,
Yet can no life, discharge it self of woe.
Then Hell is here, finde Heauen where you can,
In banisht blisse, our bodies wander still:
And out of breathe, ronnes wretched sprite of man,
Beguilde by hope, and gaddyng greedy will.
Thus life is death, and death is moste desir'd:
Where labryng mynde, with wearie life is tir'd.

The praise of mistres Mabell Browne, wherein vertue is honoured.

Of wandryng and gaddyng abroad.

Drawe home betyme, ere Youth take leaue and Age vpon thee growes,
And doe not thou thy self deceiue, with hope of worldly showes:
Whose pōpe doeth nought but please thine eyes with that thou canst not haue,
And carries the like cloude in Skyes, to that should be thy slaue.
What seest thou foole in princely hauls, that maie a poore man eas,
Whose state is toste with tennis balls, and turns with winde & seas:
He courts some while that cart doeth driue, ere many yeres run out,
And thei that moste for Fortune striue, doe liue in furthest dout.
A thriftlesse sonne enioyes their store, and therewith serues his lust,
When those are gone that sweate therefore, and troden in the dust:
What profite bryngs thy wearie bones, of vncouth sights abrode,
It wears but feete vpon the stones, and doeth the conscience lode.
Ten thousande yeres heape vp in hedde, and all therein hath paste,
And marke eche thing is doen and sedd, and waie the same at last:
And thou shalt see it breaks but braine, and breeds but greef in brest,
Thus trauaill needs must lose his paine, when home must be thy rest.
The harte desires the eye doeth craue, a sight of all thyngs don,
When proofe thereof a man shall haue, what hath our trauaill won:
A triumphe but a pagent seems, when paste is all the sho,
All other thyngs that man estemes, man lothes at length also:
Wherefore thou pilgrime too and fro, take vp thy trusse in haste,
For tyme & al things here I knowe, with thee will weare and waste.

Of faire thynges and foule, where in a vertuous Ladie is sette out.

As God bestowde his grace, on thee through heauenly skill,
By comely shape and forme of face, and worldly wealthe at will:
So people doe suppose, (that beares an vpright minde,)
Amid thy noble inward breast, dame Uertues giftes are shrinde.
For God makes nothyng lame, his woorks so perfite bee,
That hidden graces aunswers oft, the outward shape we see:
The ritche and precious pearle, that shines to sight ye knowe,
Haue many vertues in the same, besides the outward showe.
The goodly glittryng gold, hath Nature to restore,
Some peece of health ye sicknesse brought, by greef consumde before:
The flowre whose beautie faire, delites the eye full well,
Is freend by kinde to medsons sweete, and sharps our sence by smell.
The ground that smothly lookes, bears fruits and herbs enowe,
And yeelds the Idle Landlorde rent, and feeds the houshold throwe:
Thus from faire things I proue, some goodnesse men maie reape,
And where that beautie budds & bloums, doeth bountie hord & heape
Els all this goodly worlde, is but like painted poste,
Or as a picture dombe and dedde, that hath ne sprite nor ghost.
If Phebus wanted heate, and did no grace retaine,
For all his beames and glorie greate, he should but shine in vaine:
I doubt not but the Gods, hath furnisht you so well,
That life and good renowme can showe, where vertue ought to dwel
My penne but mou's your minde, of that ye like to here,
A iewell that the Gods embrace, and worlde doeth holde full dere:
A lampe that long shall laste, whose light shall nere goe out,
But burne & blase as bright as torche, whiles breath ye beare about.
If people did but note, what doeth by vertue ryes,
The meanest wight wt wings of fame, would seke to mount ye skies:
Or followe them whose stepps, doeth eche good gift aduaunce,
Thei know full well what measure means, that leads dame vertues daunce,
I leaue you to the rounde, holde on the trace a while,
And as the bell beginns to sound, at Churchyards verses smile.

Of an enemie.

VVritten in the beginnyng of Kyng Edwardes raigne, whiche verses are called Dauie Dicars Dreame.

When faithe in freendes beare fruite, and foolishe fancies fade,
And craftie catchers come to nought, and hate greate loue hath made:
When fraude flieth farre from toune, and loitrers leaue the feelde,
And rude shall runne a rightfull race, and all men be well wilde.
When gropers after gaine, shall carpe for common wealthe,
And wilie woorkers shall disdaine, to figge and liue by stealthe:
When wisedome walkes a loft, and follie sitts full lowe,
And vertue vanquishe pampred vice, and grace beginns to growe.
When Iustice ioynes to truthe, and Lawe lookes not to meede,
And bribes helpe not to builde faire bowrs, nor giftes greate glottōs feede:
When honger hides his hedde, and plentie please the poore,
And niggards to the needie men, shall neuer shut their doore.
When double darke deceipt, is out of credite worne,
And faunyng speeche is falshed founde, and craft is laught to scorne:
When Pride whiche pickes the purse, gapes not for garments gaie,
Nor Iauels weare no veluet wedes, nor wādring witts beare swaie.
When ritches wrongs no right, nor power poore put backe,
Nor couetous creepes not into Court, nor learned liuyng lacke:
When slipper sleights are seen, and farre fetches be founde,
And priuate profite and self loue, shall bothe be put in pounde.
When debt no Sergeant dreeds, and Courtiers credite keepe,
And might mells not wt Merchandise, nor lordes shall sell no sheepe:
When lucre lasts not long, and hourd greate heaps doeth hate,
And euery wight is well content, to walke in his estate.
When truthe doeth tread the streats, and liers lurke in den,
And Rex doeth raigne and rule the rost, and weeds out wicked men:
Then balefull barnes be blithe, that here in Englande wone,
Your strife shall stint I vndertake, your dreadfull daies are done.