A pleasaunte Laborinth called Churchyardes Chance framed on Fancies, uttered with verses, and writtee[n] to giue solace to eury well disposed mynde: wherein not withstanding are many heauie Epitaphes, sad and sorowfull discourses and sutche a multitude of other honest pastymes for the season (and passages of witte) that the reader therein maie thinke his tyme well bestowed. All whiche workes for the pleasure of the worlde, and recreation of the worthie, and dedicated to the right honourable sir Thomas Bromley, Knight, Lorde Chancelour of Englande [by Thomas Churchyard] |
 |
The louers of the worlde.
|
 | A pleasaunte Laborinth called Churchyardes Chance |  |
The louers of the worlde.
I see
their sleights, and secrete science,
That sues to serue, and are out caste:
I see those Dames, that drawes the lines,
That shutts the netts, when fishe are fast.
I see some stande, and craue a looke,
Like eager haukes, that watche their praie:
For want of baite, thei bite the hooke,
Like louyng wormes, thei spende the daie.
That sues to serue, and are out caste:
I see those Dames, that drawes the lines,
That shutts the netts, when fishe are fast.
I see some stande, and craue a looke,
Like eager haukes, that watche their praie:
For want of baite, thei bite the hooke,
Like louyng wormes, thei spende the daie.
I see some smile, that makes men smart,
Whiche liu's vnlearnde, in louers lawes:
Yet with their witts, and wilie arte,
With fondlyngs foode, thei feede the Dawes.
Light triflyng toies, will children please,
As well as gold, or presious stones:
The faunyng whelpps, thinkes them at ease,
When fleshe is gone, to gnawe the bones.
Whiche liu's vnlearnde, in louers lawes:
Yet with their witts, and wilie arte,
With fondlyngs foode, thei feede the Dawes.
Light triflyng toies, will children please,
As well as gold, or presious stones:
The faunyng whelpps, thinkes them at ease,
When fleshe is gone, to gnawe the bones.
I see there still, and quiet sorte,
Whiche sitts and marks, these ianglyng Iayes:
Yet findeth game, and goodly sport,
To see sutche birds, caught in the spraies.
I see them laugh, when louers lowre,
There doettyng tyme, hath taught them witte:
Who knowes what meanes, bothe sweete and sowre,
Will flie the force, of fancies fitte.
[34]
Yet findeth game, and goodly sport,
To see sutche birds, caught in the spraies.
I see them laugh, when louers lowre,
There doettyng tyme, hath taught them witte:
Who knowes what meanes, bothe sweete and sowre,
Will flie the force, of fancies fitte.
I see some sheepe, but yet no fooles,
Whiche vse to roome, emong the rout:
Yea skilfull scholers, of the schooles,
For thei can chuse, the fairest out,
The Hunter knowes, the fattest Deare,
Amid the heard, where game doeth ronne:
These men like wise, as doeth appeare,
Emong the Starrs, findes out the Sonne.
Whiche vse to roome, emong the rout:
Yea skilfull scholers, of the schooles,
For thei can chuse, the fairest out,
The Hunter knowes, the fattest Deare,
Amid the heard, where game doeth ronne:
These men like wise, as doeth appeare,
Emong the Starrs, findes out the Sonne.
I see how crafte, can cloke his care,
And paint his plaints in paper plaine:
As Marchants doe, set forthe their ware,
And lye full loude, for little gaine.
I see how trothe, would tell his taile,
And through he goes emong the swarme:
I see how beutie makes a stale,
To take yong frie, that thinks no harme.
And paint his plaints in paper plaine:
As Marchants doe, set forthe their ware,
And lye full loude, for little gaine.
I see how trothe, would tell his taile,
And through he goes emong the swarme:
I see how beutie makes a stale,
To take yong frie, that thinks no harme.
Mutche more is seen, that scapes myne eyes,
An Argoes were, full rare to finde:
This is a glasse, to showe the wise,
That wilfull loue, is euer blinde.
It thinks it doeth, it self so shroude,
That none can see, his trade nor trace:
How should he walke, with in a cloude,
When loue is written in his face.
An Argoes were, full rare to finde:
This is a glasse, to showe the wise,
That wilfull loue, is euer blinde.
It thinks it doeth, it self so shroude,
That none can see, his trade nor trace:
How should he walke, with in a cloude,
When loue is written in his face.
Finis.
| A pleasaunte Laborinth called Churchyardes Chance | |