A light Bondell of liuly discourses called Churchyards Charge presented as a Newe yeres gifte to the right honourable, the Earl of Surrie, in which Bondell of verses is sutche varietie of matter, and seuerall inuentions, that maie bee as delitefull to the Reader, as it was a Charge and labour to the writer, sette forthe for a peece of pastime, by Thomas Churchyarde |
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VVritten to the good Lorde Maior (of
London now in office) called Sir Nicholas Woodroffe Knight.
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 | A light Bondell of liuly discourses called Churchyards Charge |  |
VVritten to the good Lorde Maior (of London now in office) called Sir Nicholas Woodroffe Knight.
The tyme showes all, as fire woorks waxe, in tyme greate thyngs are doen,Tyme weau's the web, and wrought the flaxe, that paine through tyme hath sponne:
Tyme must be sought, tyme must be vsde, tyme must be tempred well,
Els out of tyme, in any sorte, the tale is that we tell.
So tyme moues pen, & sturrs the muse, (that time had lulld a slepe,)
To write of tyme and matter sutche, as maie good credite kepe:
Then my good Lorde, to former tyme, I doe referre my verse,
And auncient yeres, with elders daies, that can great things reherse.
Tyme brought the sworde (that eche one fears) to rule the rurall sort,
Tyme wanne this Citie hye renowne, and gatt it good report:
Time made the chosen Maior a knight, and time did greater things,
For tyme made subiects loue the lawe, and honour rightfull Kyngs.
Thus tyme was nours, and mother bothe, to chosen children here,
And tyme out worne, takes life of trothe, so showes like candle clere.
Whiche time my verse reuiu's againe, and bringeth freshe to minde,
The tyme that long is paste before, and thousandes left behinde:
For those that in this present tyme, list looke on Elders daies,
Who in their tyme did some good deeds, and reaped peoples praise.
As gwerdon for the tyme well spent, and vertues right reward,
That giuen is to graffs of grace, that God doeth mutche regard:
As tyme hath taught, good men to rule, and made the bad obaie,
So tyme hath rooted vp all weedes, that made good flowers decaie.
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And is a Lampe, or shinyng Sunne, to Countries sillie shade:
For Ciuill maners here began, and Order roote did take,
Whē sauage swaines in rubbishe soiles, did ciuill life forsake.
Here wit throwe wisedome weldeth wealth, & worlde good tyme attends,
And God through trafficks toile & paine, a worlde of treasure sends:
Here states repaire, and lawes are tried, and noble customes shine,
Here dwells the Sages of the worlde, and all the Muses nine.
The Court it self, & Innes of court (where wit & knowledge floes,)
Haunts here as terme and time cōmands, and people comes & goes:
Here are Embastours feasted still, and forraine kynges haue bin,
Here are the wheeles of publike state, that bryngs the pagent in.
And here is now the Maiden toune, that keepes her self so cleane,
That none can touche, nor staine in trothe, by any cause or meane.
Then here ought be no member left, that maie infecte the reste,
Whip faultors hence, and plage the worst, and make but of the beste:
Let stubburne route be taught to worke, bid paltrars packe awaie,
Giue Idell folke no lodgyng here, cause wantons leaue their plaie.
Searche out the haunts of noughtie men, & break the nest of theues,
Yea plucke their liurey oer their eares, and badges from their sleues:
That breeds misrule, and rudenesse showes, so shall the Ciuill seate,
(As Lanterne to all Britaine lande) remaine in honour greate.
Demaūde how thredebare figboies liue, & swearing dāpned spretes,
Reforme those blading desprate dicks, that roiste aboute the stretes:
Disperse that wicked shamelesse swarme, that cares not for reproch,
Purge eury house from gracelesse geastes, that setts all vice abroche.
Rebuke those common alehouse knights, yt spends awaie their thrift,
And aske on Benche where Iustice sitts, how roges & beggers shift:
Teache railyng tongs to tune their speeche, and talke of that is fitte,
Holde in the rashe and harebraine hedds, by Lawe and Orders bitte.
Knowe whence these sausie libells come, yt faine discord would make,
And woorke by art and crafte to pluke, the styng from subtil Snake:
This Citie is no harbryng place, for vessells fraught with vice,
Here is the soile and seate of kyngs, and place of precious price.
Here worthies makes their mancions still, & buildeth stately towers
Here sitts the Nobles of the realme, in golden halles and bowers:
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Thou art a staie in tyme of peace, a help in cause of warre,
A feare to foes, a ioye to freends, a Iewell in our daies,
That well maie matche with any Toune, or seate of greatest praise:
Here people are so meeke and milde, that forraine nations throwe,
In Ciuill sort, with wealth and ease, maie liue in quiet nowe.
What Citie can make hoste and saie, (greate God be blest therfore)
It doeth so many straungers feede, and so maintaine the store:
For here the more the number is, the lesse of want we finde,
Of corne and cates, sutche store is here, it answers eche mans minde.
Waye well the hearth of other realmes, and you shall see in deede,
The plentie of this little Isle, supplie our neighbours neede:
In worlde who trauailes any where, and then repaireth here,
Shall finde eche thing good chepe at home, that is abroade full dere.
And none but London note it well, doeth keepe one stint and rate,
Of vittailes in the market place, looke throughout eury state:
Yea, here when God for wicked life, his bountie will withdrawe,
The Maior and brethren shonneth dearth, by rule and noble lawe.
Here is prouision for the poore, and who that markes the same,
Shall see that worthie Sages graue, deserues a noble name:
My boldnesse now (O my good lorde,) excuse through my good will,
That euer in my Countries praise, is prest and readie still.
And where the noughtie liues of some, are touched by my penne,
It is for Londons honour spoke, that can reforme sutche menne:
Whiche in this stately shepheards folde, like rotten shepe doe liue,
And who for want of lookyng too, doe ill example giue.
God graunt whiles worthie Woodroffe rules, (& euery other yere,
There comes no Mothes emong good men, nor Caterpillars here:
Thus wishyng well, in Londons laude, my penne I must excuse,
To Printer sent these verses plaine, of this laste mornyngs muse.
FINIS.
| A light Bondell of liuly discourses called Churchyards Charge | |