University of Virginia Library

To the Reader.

Thargument.

By soddeyn sight, loue hath enflamed twaine,
and both do yelde. At last by frendes consent
they maried are: their restles mindes content.
then hated warres, eftsones renewes their paine
where to he goeth: and they feele both againe,
vnrest. But he for vertue made a knight
meanes to retourne, and then a naughtie wight,
laies treasons guilte, who for his hire is slaine
In Combate fyght: which did that Traitor craue
and eke (alas) the gentle knight hath found
in his defence, that brought him to his graue.
which knowen, of life his ladye doth confounde.
Her mother dieth, that dolful chaunce to spie:
her Father lyueth: but wisheth still to die.

The tragicall history of two English louers.

When that the bousterous Borias,
And hiemps hory frost:
By iust returne of lady Uer,
their pinching power had lost:
That lady stayde the fyne of March,
in comely course and hewe:
And left her seat to Estas then,
and bad the Pryme adewe.
Then Aprill entred in by kinde,
with sweete and sugred streames:
And dayly dect the earth againe,
through aide of Phebus beames.
Then Tellus seemed to trimme her tyre,
to welcome Estas gaye,
Eche fragrant flower freshly smelles:
and in leapes lusty Maye.
Wherein eche thing doth ioy by right,
that kinde hath wrought by byrth,
And also those that cressiue are:
as Trees and rootes in earth.
Who then hath power or strength at all?
what is it that hath might?
But Ioyously, wil shew it selfe:
as nature geues delight.
In this sweete moneth a virgin faire,
by birth of gentle blood:
Her feauter fourmed passing well,
Her stature tall and good:
In whom no shape at all did want,
that harte or Iee might seeke
Ne could Appelles for his life,
depaint or drawe the like.
Whose youth sent forth her liuely hart,
with such a princely pace:
As none that saw her but must iudge
she came of worthy race,
Her tyer was tryme, yet sober to,
Not common in these daies:
Of all the rest who sawe her then,
did iudge her worthy praise.
This peece, before Pigmalion
her like could graue or carue:
Though he were liuing now againe,
tenne thowsand times would starue.
Aboutes the fieldes with equall Feeres,
in decent order set:
As if Diana had been theare:
a comely course did fet.
Wherein (by chaunce) a worthy wight,
did salue her in that place:
Their ioye and iesture both were such:
none had the better grace.
A man he was in age but yong
of state both bigge and tall:
A face he had effeminate,
scant any beard at all.
In whome there wanted not a thing,
that kinde could shape or geue:
Faire Absolon could neuer dy,
so long as he did liue.
And nature gaue to him a grace,
so sober and so trimme:
As who so did delight a man,
must needes delight in him.
A worlde it is to see how farre,
some other some excell:
Scant Tullyes stile, not my rude pen,
the difference can tell.
But groase shalbe my Simile,
since eloquence I lack:
He passed more the common sorte,
Then white excelleth black.
Yet as they met they parted tho,
Their gesture saide farewell?
Their faces shewed their fansies pleasde
no worde betwene them fell.
The mayde kept on her steling steps
so did her mates eche one
The yong man fet a soking sigh,
his hart was almost gone.
Alas what hap haue I (said he)?
what meanes this sodein stroke?
Oh Cupide nowe, thy dreadfull Darte:
my craised corps hath broke.
His ruddy cheekes were chaunged pale,
he pluckte his bonet lowe:
He mused much, that he should loue,
the wight he did not knowe.
Nor where she dwelt, nor whence she came
nor any of her kinde:
Nor yet what way her course she bent,
nor where her home to finde.
Oh cruell boy that thus should strike,
and bring him into thrall,
That was not yet an houre agoe,
the freest man of all.
He seemed now, to wring his handes,
that earst did feele no greefe:
And homewarde gate with quaking steps
deuoided of releefe.
Then Phebus gan shut vp his beames
then darknes made it night,
Then pleasures none at all were seene,
but by the candell lyght.
And then this faire and famous dame,
thought time to go to bed.
Where flowing fancies followed her,
renewing in her hedde,
What wight he was that should salute
her in this comely wise.
She beate her braine, and of that man,
she laye and did deuise.
And viewing in her waking hed
his gesture and his face,
His comely shape did bruse her brest
and fancy found him grace.
What wants in him (quod she) that I
this present day haue seene,
Are not his vertues wonderous
his yeres fresh and greene,
Right happy were the dame in deede
that might obtaine the grace,
In wedded bedde and folded armes,
thy body to embrace.
With that shee sought to sett aside,
such fansies and to sleepe,
But Uenus sparkes, which grow full greate
gan towardes her hart to creepe.
And Cupide caught his bow in hand.
and drewe the string so farre,
As losed once, the shaft and hedde
against her hart did Iarre.
Than looking vp, she sawe that none,
was in her chamber by,
She felt what stroke shee had receiued,
no sleepe could touch her eye.
Then came she vnto Uenus thrall,
and thus began to pray.
Most mighty goddesse of them all
geue eare what I shal saye.
I am become thy seruant that
before did neuer loue:
Such feruent force, thy sonne hath vsde
on mee his power to proue.
What conquest shal he get by this,
Though I through sorow dye.
No praise at all: thus on a wretch,
his force and power to trie.
But if thou wilt cause this thy sonne,
againe his bowe to bende
And with the same with equall force,
an other arrow sende,
Into his hart, within whose breste
my hart doth rest and shall
Then wil I say thou art a iudge,
and iustest Iudge of all.
So, lyuing shal I him atteine:
or elles we both shall dye:
Or at the least he shal not laugh
when care doth cause me crye.
Thus lay she waking all the night.
He spendes his time in teares.
Thei both are striken with one dart,
The one, the other feares.
He doubtes of her, she feareth him,
See here of loue the fource:
Yet want of knowledge sunders them
they can haue no recourse.
The weary night weares thus away
Aurora shewes her light
He leaues his bedde, he walkes abroade
Of her to haue a sight.
No gate he sees, but he lookes in
No windowe wantes his Eye
No Lane, no Streate, no Place at al.
Wherein he doth not prie.
And walking thus from Morne to night.
and foodeles roming soe:
Retournes into the restles bedde,
repleate with care and woe.
The lady as her loue doth mourne,
so likewise mourneth shee:
Her stomake fades, her flesh doth fall.
she is as sicke as hee.
The mothers marke the daughters plight
with sorowe of her mynde:
And of the sicknes of the chylde,
she seekes the cause to fynde.
But secrete couert loue (alas)
so perceth flesh and fell:
As death might breake her hart, but shee,
those secretes, would not tell.
Her mother who had once been yong
and felt of Cupydes sting:
Did feede her childe, with tender woordes,
and poysing euerye thing.
Mine owne (quoth she) discloase thine harte,
and roote of this thy griefe,
To hidden sores, the sickemans talke
must bring the first reliefe.
To worke on thee by medecines arte.
before thy cause be knowne,
Thy death, my bayne, thy fathers fall,
together should be sowen.
Thou art my chylde, and from my lyfe,
thy lyfe did first proceede,
Oh seeke not then by sylence thus,
to shred my fatall thread.
Faire chylde, (and then she kist her mouth,
her teares did moist the grownd
Disclose thy griefe, least lack of talke,
thy mothers ioyes confound.
Why weepest thou? oh why dost thou weep?
Redoublig thus my woo,
The mayde lookt vp, but could not speake
a traunce did take her so.
The dolefull dame calse forth the Nursse,
who first did weane the childe,
And stryuing both the lothesome life,
the sence againe doth yeld.
And then with heauy hart and teares,
she leaues her daughter so,
And with right wofull wailing sobbes
vnto her spouse doth goe.
Oh sir (quod shee) so long as we
haue liud together here:
So iust a cause did not compell
my griefe and griping cheare.
Our daughter man, our onely ioye,
and Iuell of our age,
With sicknes is ful sore opprest,
eche part of her doth rage.
And mortally I feare and doubt,
She stroken is with death,
So pale so wanne her visage is,
so short she draweth her breath.
The father who did tender her,
a man both sage and wise,
Saide to his wife, then for her helth
some meane we must deuise.
And not thus rage as you begin,
it tokeneth little wit:
And to our state and hory heares,
a thing right farre vnfit.
Go to her yet with good aduise,
and geue her time to pawse,
Marke when her paine doth grieue her least,
then learne thereof the cause.
The mother who already had
endeuored with her might,
As you haue heard, of this her griefe
to knowe the cause aright:
To go againe was half dismaide,
if greued much her mynde.
But yet to please her husband with,
an errande she did finde.
And coming to the chamber where
her daughter sick did lye
A thowsand couert meanes she saught
the roote thereof to spye.
Her skilfull tongue with smiling talke
saide to her daughter then:
See here thy mother, how she cares,
to helpe the what shee can
That thou art sick, to trew it is
the cause thereof disclose:
Tell me thy griefe my darling deare,
some trust in mee repose.
Or if the roote of this thy care
from thee doth hidden lye
The maner of thy painful pangues
to me with speede discrie.
The daughter vielude ye mothers face
which cloase by her did stande:
She threwe her arme out of the bedde
and tooke her by the hand.
Oh you from whence this corps of myne
(said shee) did take reliefe:
Non lenger wil I hide from you
the maner of my greefe.
Such ardent heate doth bourne my harte,
as it is parching drye;
And floodes of filthy frosen Ice
enrowndes it by and by.
Thus hot, thus colde, thus drye, thus drownd
I lye heare in my bedde:
Lo heare you knowe my griefe, and yet,
I nere the better spedde.
But how I came by this disease
the lorde (not I) doth knowe
Content you then, your daughters mouth
no more to you can showe.
With that the virgin tournd her self
she sighed very sore:
Her wordes did falter in her mouthe,
her tongue could talke no more.
What heapes of griefe the mother felt
in hearing this discourse
Deeme you that parents are by kinde
with pitie and remorse.
And if that she poore hart (alas)
was dround in sorow than
Note that it was a mothers part:
who therefore blame her can?
But she ful warely did witholde
her secrete hidden griefe
Her inwarde care she couered still
she sought her childes releefe,
And spake thus to the aged Nursse:
my true approued frende
In whome I haue affied most,
and will vntill myne ende,
My daughter and your darling deare,
of trust to you I leaue,
Of trust againe with all my harte
good nursse do her receaue.
Nursse thou art olde, and I not yonge,
what thinkst thou her disease?
What best is for her appetite?
What will her fancy please?
Madame (quod she) if age and wit,
were equal in my braine,
This your demaund could I disclose,
and ease your daughters paine:
But age to much, to lytle wit,
in woman olde wee fynde:
But since it pleased you to aske,
I will disclose my mynde.
I feare that least the sparkes of loue,
are kindled in her breast:
And then (swete hart) the lord doth know,
how sore she is opprest.
Then must be learnd some waies wt whome
she so bewrapped is,
And warely must you graunt or not,
take good aduise in this.
For if she be in Cupides thrall,
As you and I wote neare,
(Then is she in her golden pryme,
of age full sixtene yeare)
And hauing chose her selfe a mate,
and doubting your good will,
The dolefull doubt within her breast,
may sone your daughter spill.
Therfore a meane there must be found,
by some that she loues well,
That may prouoke by circumstance
her all her mynde to tell.
Which thing by her once vttered,
and to your wisedome knowne.
Then of the herbes to cuer her,
the seedes are surely sowne.
Good Lady blame not myne aduise,
loue causeth me to speake,
And only loue and your request,
makes me my mynde to breake.
And one precept (if I may tearme
my foolish sentence so,
Take from my mouth, and marke it well
before you from me goe.
If you do like the choise that she
vnto her selfe hath made:
To graunt it then you neede the lesse
to doubt or be afraide.
But if the match be so vnmete,
as she may chaunce repent.
Yet may you not in rigrous sorte,
denye her your consent.
For as the fallyng drops of rayne,
which from the gutters gone:
In length of time and falling ofte,
doth pearse the marble stone,
That els by sodeine seas or floods,
ne mighty streames at furst:
By rigour nor by force at all
would yelde it selfe to burst:
So wise men haue long time of loue,
the like oppinion helde?
That loue in time mai be represt,
But wil not bee expelde.
Lo here, you here my fond aduise
my small approued skill:
Accept it as a womans tale,
proceeding of good will.
And as you leaue with me your childe,
So I the same receaue:
And that no thing shal want in me,
I trust you shal perceaue.
I geue thee thanks good gentle Nursse
for this thy sound aduise:
Thereby I trust my daughters health,
my ioye and all shall rise.
And vnto your discrecion,
to know my daughters mind:
I leaue the order and the waies
some perfect meanes to finde.
Herewith the mother goeth awaye
the nursse sittes by the chylde,
The nursse is growne an oratrice,
her tongue is smothly fielde.
The maide lookes vp the nursse it spies
Oh sweete hart saieth she than:
That God once sende you quiet health
that helpeth euery man.
Commaund euen what you may deuise:
your hed or hart to please:
What nursse (quod she) do holde your tongue
your talke doth me disease.
Lesse woordes to her that is so sicke
and much more quiet rest
(Me thinke your age should teach you wit)
that, for my state were best.
The nursse thus nipped to the brayne
she had no woord to saye:
A sobbing sigh the mother fette,
and tournde her hed a waye.
Nowe all the while the maiden thus
with pangues lay sore distrest.
Her loue (that second Troylus)
was neare the lesse opprest.
But all effebled was his strength
his mirth was growne to mone,
His flesh was fallen, his ioints were weake,
he could scant ryse alone.
Yet euery day in order dewe
by starry light he roase:
And ceased not to seeke his chaunce
till night the day did cloase.
Who first had seene so faire a face
and now seene him againe
Had been his harte more hard then flynt,
must yet bewaile his paine.
For they that loue, do knowe (elles none)
the heat of Cupides fire:
And loue can see, & none but loue
this dolfull mans desire.
Who, for to case his heauy harte
his lute would oft assaye
Yet, ere his fingers, past ye fretes,
he knewe not what to playe.
Then would he proue, by wonted voyce
some sollemne song to singe:
The notes wherein he wont reioice,
doth nowe but sorow bring.
Then forth his quiuer would he take
and saye to bende his Bowe,
Wherof the string he could not stirre
his strength was brought so lowe.
Then of eche thing he had delight
he called to his minde:
But al his ioyes did tourne to grefe
no comforte could he finde:
For that which earst in other cares
did moue him some delight
In this his gretest greefe of all
did work him most despight.
Thus when he saw that euery hap,
wherein hee wont to ioye:
Was now conuerted to mishap
and Fortune lookt acoye:
And that his life was nigh fordoon
and had no helth at al:
He thought to proue by medecins art,
what might to him befall:
And to his frende a man experte
a Doctour in that arte:
He gat him then in secret wise
and thus discloasde his hart.
A man I was of late (quoth he)
and past my time in sporte:
As fits my youthful yeares yet
though cares do cut me shorte:
A blisseful life I led a while,
I had that did me please:
So haue I now but what alas:
that may me most disease,
In couert wordes this could I couche
my griefe, and so to proue
Your skil: but what auailethe that,
my siknes came through loue.
But whom I loue, or what she is,
the gods not I can shewe:
A heauenly thing vnmete for me,
I think she bee to know.
And where I saw her once in dede,
(my witts do serue so wel)
Or dreamde of her, I stand in doubt,
of truth I cannot tell.
But this I knowe, alas and shall
by dreame or els by dede:
I that of late was like a man,
and now become a weade:
In sleape, nay: slomber as I lye,
I see her face to face to face:
I goe to her with louing chere,
to me she comes apace
I craue her loue: she graunts it me,
her hart I do desire,
I geue to her my hart and that
is al she doth require.
The matche is made, we clap our hands
she is my wedded wife:
I wake with ioye and finde her not
I then repent my life,
The seeming ioyes within my slepe,
doth growe to perfect care,
My brackish teares do wet my cheeks
and sorrow is my fare.
Like ioies as I within my slepe,
could neuer louer tell,
Like paines to mine, when I do wake,
were neuer felt in hell.
This is my griefe, and I of it
do fele the passing smart,
Do help me now & if thou canst,
I haue disclosde my hart.
Or if without recouery,
thou iudgest this my woe:
To rid my life prepare some thing,
and geue me ere I goe.
And al the substance that I haue,
I geue the for thine hire:
Saue vnto her my hart I yelde,
whose hart I do desire.
And when that I am dead and gone,
this onely do I craue:
This Epitaphe that thou wouldest write
in steele vppon my graue.
Not Troylus lieth here (god knovveth)
that Cressed loud so vvell:
But here lyeth one that in trevve loue,
did Troilus farre excell.
My Testameēt thus haue I made
my frend thy cunning trye:
and els do help my heauy happe,
or graunt that I may dye.
Whiles in this rage, this worthye wight
stoode wringing of his fist,
One knocked at the Doctours doore,
and euery thing was whist.
The latch was lose, a shade was sene
the dore gan to vnfolde,
A woman entred in there at,
the Doctour thought her bolde.
She brought an vrin in her hand.
whereon she praide to know
The Doctours skill and eke that he
some way to helth would shew.
Faire wife (quod he) stay here a while
while I do with my frende,
conclude our matter now begonne,
which almost is at ende:
And then wherin mine arte and I,
may satisfie your minde,
That in me is to doe you good,
right reddy shall you finde.
And then he saide vnto the man,
ful straunge is your request,
Content you with your paine awhile.
and I wil do my best.
To morow come to me againe,
Do follow mine aduise,
Thereby I trust your sore shal swage,
your helth again shal rise.
Till then set fansies cleane aside,
Let trouble not your hedde,
Endeuour to the most you may,
to rest in quiet bedde.
The louer thus left of his talke,
He gate him thence alone,
His wery legges did bow for faint,
his heauye hart did grone.
What heaps of grief he felt this night,
no louer but may gesse:
But I because they moue my teares
the same do here represse.
Then to the Doctour doth the Nursse
present the vrine thoe,
And to his closet, from the hall,
the Nursse and he doth goe.
and after certaine words he takes
the vrinall in hande,
She praieth by his learning that
the vrine might be scand.
With persing eie & skilful braine,
he doth the state peruse:
He warmes it by the fire againe,
its paines he doth refuse:
And viewing euery circle there,
did note the substaunce to,
and could not finde that needed ought
for Phisickes art to do.
But skilful learned men can oft
by circumstance preuaile:
And cause the rude Prepositor
to aske, and telt the tale.
Dame quod the Doctour to the Nursse,
I think it be your will:
And eke the cause why you did come,
to know herein my skil.
Note, of the corps of euery wight,
both feminyne and male:
A thousande secret maladies,
the inward parts assaile:
Which at the first this famous arte,
that I do here professe,
By certain rules infallible,
doth geue a certaine gesse.
As when the lightes, the longes or splene,
or els the noble harte:
The kydneis, raines or to bee short,
what other inward parte,
For lacke of moisture sicate war,
through moisture els do rot.
(For raging griefe in man is not
but eyther colde or whot)
Then by the sickmans vryn straight
expert men haue a rule:
(As I) I speake not bostingly,
by practise and by scoole.
Wherby wee knowe what inwardly
within the corps doth raigne,
Wherof procedes the maladye,
what eke will ease the paine.
The Elementes are fower, whereof
we mortal men are made,
And contraries they be eche one
as iustly may be saide:
As fyre, water, earth, and aire,
wherof if one abounde,
Aboue the rest: then in the corps
no perfect helth is found.
Thus twise twoe are the Elementes,
three principalles againe,
Ther is in man to wit, his hart,
his liuour, and his braine.
Now euery chiefe and princelye parte
which principalles we call:
To pourging place haue of right,
to pourge them selues withall
The braine behind the sickmans eare,
doth pourge his secret griefe,
The hart dothe through the armeholes sende
grose humors for reliefe.
The liuour some what lower stopes
and sendeth to the grindes,
That noysome to the blood, or els
vnto it selfe it findes.
And hereupon is found the rule,
that we Phisitions vse,
The circumstaunce within this state,
I perfectly peruse.
But oft when naught but perfect health,
is seene within the state,
Death is become vnto the sicke,
A felow walking mate.
And therefore we that learned be
professing Phisickes arte,
Do iudge when least is seene in state
that most doth gripe the hart.
Of troth then said the Nursse to him,
of all that ere I herde,
Your knowledge doth surmount the rest,
your cunning is preferde.
For as you, say the silly wenche
that did this water make,
Would seeme as shee no sicknes had
and yet doth neuer slake
Her panges, her paines, her freting fits,
her depe and deadly smarte:
Which wil ere long, in sonder shred
her yong and tender hart.
And if it be not sparks of loue,
that dothe the same possesse,
What it should be I promise you,
I haue no witt to gesse.
Nursse quod the Doctour you haue tolde
that I did meane to tell,
You shew a skilful aged hed,
I like your wordes ful well.
Her vryn shewth she is but yong,
and youth doth worke by kinde,
That youth from youth vnto it selfe,
a youthlye mate should finde.
Then mean you not quod aged Nursse,
to geue her some receate,
Of these her pangues, and burning plague
to cole the fretting heat.
No Nursse, loue neuer yet did burne
with heat of suche effecte:
But colde fourth with the Patients harte
as straungely did infecte.
Then if to quenche your burning heate,
colde surops I should geue,
When course doth come by colde ye knowe,
how should she longer liue?
What then is your aduice? (quod she)
a remedy to fynde,
Nought els but that you suffer her,
in rage to haue her mynde,
Nor do you alter what she saith,
where it be wrong or right,
But feede her fansy stil that waye
wherein she doth delight.
Whereby I trust in time her health
to her againe shal grow:
If not (good Nursse) this is my house,
let me the daunger know,
And I besides these fixed rules,
perchaunce, some way can finde:
But Nursse you know not all at first,
some shal remaine behynde.
Nursse boweth now the croked knee,
Nursse geues the Doctour thankes:
Nursse homewards parkes with better chere
and to her Lady prankes.
And I dare saye that in seuen yeare,
which passed last before:
The silly Nursse applied her not
to study any more:
Then now she ginnes to doe (poore soule)
in these her latter daies:
To sette the Doctours conning out,
and geue him worthy praise.
The gentlewoman olde (god wot)
that staide her coming home,
Tooke griefe because the Nursse did leaue
her childe so long alone.
And looking out did spie from farre
the fast vnwonted pace,
Of aged Nursse, she could not choose,
but muse at it a space.
Which when she sawe she did reiect
her first conceiued collour:
And gaue good eare to beldame Nursse
now sworne the Doctours scollour.
Nursse gladly would haue tolde the tale,
which earst she did pretende,
But that with hast, her breth made short
her sentence would not ende:
Which oft begon not ended tale,
did much the Lady flight:
Who saide, good Nursse take time ynough,
begin thy tale aright.
These passhons which I see in thee,
that trip thy tongue so sore,
Do double still my sorow, and
do make my griefe the more.
Good Lady (yet with shaking voice)
the Nursse beganne to saye:
Mourne not at all, all shalbe well,
this is a happy day.
I haue been with the skilfulst man,
that euer learning taught:
Who at the first (the water seen)
your daughters griefe hath saught,
And saith that other malady
is in her body none,
but Cupids dart (I wene he said)
it was that made her mone.
I craude of him some remedy,
of it to kill the yre,
He said that quiet gouernement,
would sonest quench that fyre.
If not, he chargd in any wise,
I should retourne againe,
And he by Phisike, or some arte,
would quench her raging pain.
This is the some let me alone,
your daughter yet to rule,
For I am growne the coninger,
by seeing Phisikes scoole.
The mother which to heare these newes,
with ioy was fully fraight:
(Her craysed childe left with the Nursse)
went to her husband straight.
To whome she wisely opened
the dolour of the maide,
In all that euer shee could see,
or was by Phisike saide.
To whom also the vryn was
by Nursse committed to,
What diet was prescribed, and
what els he ment to doe.
Then to the doctour in the morne,
to send was his request,
This was the fathers own deuyce,
this plesde the mother best.
Thus now the day is spent and gone,
The doctour goeth to bedde,
Where like a frende the sickmans sore
he calleth to his hedde.
And altogether hee doth not
forget the maidens state,
Because his frendes, & her disease
were both of equall rate.
And calling to his memory
the yong mans wofull race:
Wherein he had most rufully
abode nigh ten wekes space:
What torments & what tossing fits,
his frend lay tombling in
His brackish floodes fel frō his eyes,
and so embrewd his chin.
Whereby he shewde his nature good,
and how he would haue borne
His neighbours crosse, for care whereof
his beard he would haue torne.
But reason stept before his will
aduising him to take:
That way that best might helpe his frende
and so his sorow slacke.
And not to cast away the man
that elles could not recure:
In doing to him selfe this wrong
which he would nowe procure.
To reason wisely he did yelde
and vowed he would not shrinke
But that he would to aide his frende
do all that he might think.
Then calde he to his mynde the tale
that reason did him tell:
And eke the dolour of the mayde
he marked very well.
Perchaunce it is the will of god
(quod he) that I should doe:
That which he chargeth no man els
in copling of these two
He loueth more then feruently
but whome he doth not knowe:
She tastes of loue as bitterly,
towardes whom she cannot showe,
A likelyhood by this appeares,
I can none other deeme,
But that the one to others vse
is kept I must exteeme.
Thus tossing still his troubled braine
to worke his neighbors helth:
Dame nature sent out subtil slepe,
which caught his hart by stelth.
And then within two howers space
faire Lucifer the starre
Which plainly telth to euery thing
Aurora is not farre:
Gan gloriously to deck & shewe
her self within the skies:
Which he that long had watcht for it,
(the ardent louer) spies.
And therwithal he starteth vp,
and clothd him self so fast:
As to the doctours house he runnes
his points vntrust for hast.
He gaspith then, his breth was short
he would haue knoct at dore
But hast had made his members faint
he had thereto no power.
But when his strength and memory
retourned back againe,
He waieth not the doctours rest
ne yet regardes his paine:
But through a broken quarell that
he in the window spyed:
Awake (alas) your frinde is heare,
he to the doctour cried.
Who forthwith roase and let him in
and shewed a frindly face:
As friendly is to comforte frindes
in such distresfull cace.
Oh louing frind the sickman saide
eche thing doth worke me spite,
How much aboue all natures course
hath been this yerksome night?
I thinke the signes & planets to
and all and euery starre
Which in the ayre are fixt or moue
against my life to warre.
And yet vnhappy hated lyfe
that from me wil not flye,
And cursed art thou cruel death
that wilt not let me dye.
And cursed to I claime the time
wherein beginning was:
Of spousall twixt my parents, and
did after come to passe.
But be you cursed euermore
and hateful to the earth:
The day of my natiuitie
the hower of my byrth.
In which if that the liuing lorde
should iustice do aright:
No Sunne nor Mone, should shew it selfe,
No starre nor other light.
How good had nature bene to mee
If borne I had been dead?
Or stopped had my wesen been
when first I tasted breade,
Or when my feeble fingers first,
did touche or handle knife:
How cursed was mine arme alas
it did not rid my lyfe.
Why graunted not my fortune foule
a Cockatrice had been.
A present to my tender sight
the first that it had seen.
Why not amonges the Caniballes
were spent my yeares freshe
who in my sickenes would haue kild
me and haue eat my fleshe:
Or elles amonges the tyrant Turks
I had been captiue caught:
And then that dolour and that griefe
had now my quiet wraught.
The poets fayne, in heauy hell
sometime is quiet rest:
But I in earth from time to time,
am more and more opprest.
Why Uenus, art thou cruel blinde:
or seing wilt not see:
Or sitst thou still and laughest at
the wrong thou dost to mee.
Or dooth thy cruell sonne and thou
together both conclude:
In hating yong mens quiet state
their sences to delude:
What stay (quod the Phisition)
what meanes your frantique braine?
What booteth this vndecent talke:
what easeth it your paine.
So long haue I geuen eare to you
as doutful was my minde
Wher you of humain nature were
or elles of brewtish kinde.
Is ther no god at all thinke you:
how do you banne and curse:
Or do you think in him is not
tamende or make you worse:
But if you cannot pacifie
your rigour and your thrall,
Do seke some other frends aduice
come not to me at al.
I ioy to see your helthful blisse
I greue to see your paine:
And shortly hope recouerye
shal yet retourne againe,
Yf you can take this quietly
til God do send you rest:
He turneth alwaies commonlye
the hardest to the best.
And where you iudge that in the world
none hath so hard a hap,
What is there any alwaies may
sit in good Fortunes lap,
No happie is that man, & blest
at last that may aspire
And after many troubled daies
obteine his hartes desire.
Your tendre yeares cannot gesse
how farre it is vnmeete,
For witles youth before ye sowre
to feele, or tast the sweete.
What Iuel doth a man esteeme
that he doth lightly get,
So much as that by endles cost
and trauaile he doth fet:
Or what is that, which easelye
comes to a man alone
But that againe, as sodeinly
doth pas away anone.
Marke wel, and way within your hedde
that hard obteined grace
For euer cleaueth to a man
to death wil geue no place.
How much then are you bound to God
that worketh for the nones:
That all your cares together come
to ende your greeues at once.
Content your careful hart awhile,
within a month and lesse:
On my reproue, I warrant you
Your cares shal turn to blesse.
And he shal graūt you your desire
so that you serue him well:
And al the grefes that gripe you now
wil vtterly expell.
The louers plantes were watered
in ioy of this deuice
He yelded him both hand and harte
vnto his frends aduice.
Reiecting of his folly cleane
and womanly complaint
And hoping after good successe
which long had had restraint.
Thus talke, which makes ye time seme short
doth driue the time awaye:
The starres beginnes to hide themselues
it waxeth perfect day.
The Doctour shakes of sluggish slepe
and geues him selfe to rise
And willes the yong man laye him downe
and follow his aduice.
A quiet slepe perchāce may catch
your to much troubled hedde:
Unrestful men sometime take rest
in vnacquainted bedde.
To bed he goeth warm couered,
and falleth straight aslepe:
The Doctour leaues the sleping soule
vnto the lorde to kepe.
Perchaunce the hope of blisful ioyes
which he did trust should come
Did cause this swete & sodeine slepe
through al his powers to ronne.
Perchaunce it was the sodein ioy
that warmde his hart and brest
And other parts, that weare halfe deade
and brought them so to rest.
Perchaunce the new vnwonted ioy:
that now was in his braine
Did cause this sound & restful slepe
through want of wonted payne.
But likest is that nature would
to shew her power geue rest
To him that not in thre months space
did slepe in quiet nest:
I leaue the cause to learned men,
that therein haue more skill
And to the matter I beganne,
I must retourne and will.
The Doctour leaues the sick asleepe
and glad he is therefore:
He stealeth from his chambre, and
he standeth at his dore.
Where scantly he had taried
the eight part of an howre,
But aged Nursse he spied from farre
come from her maisters bower.
Which thing he would not seme to se
he lookt an other waye:
Til Nursse with curtesies two or thre
gan to the Doctour say,
Your good aduice (good gentle sir)
that you to me did tell:
My maister and my lady bothe
through me perceiue it wel.
And wish that they had long ago
sought out your dwelling place:
your counsel and your learned helpe
to ease the woful race:
That she these three months space hath rōne
of whom you saw the state:
But now good folke they deme with teares,
your cunning comes to late.
And I haue cause to sobbe and wayle
asmuch as anye shee
Because her neuer parting pain
my weeping eies do see.
This night (alas) this wicked night,
I thought her hart would breake
For sounding sighes, and soking sobbes
nolde suffer her to speake:
But lie and wepe, whose tender teares
haue so embrewd her chekes:
As Hellins husbands neuer was,
the dolefulst of the Grekes.
Now scarcely can she drawe her wynde
and by and by she cries:
As though she ment thereby to perce
the high and hugie Skies.
The racking of her sprites therewith
doth seme to rent her hert:
And I poore soule (aye me alas)
loke when she should depart.
But this causde not my cumming now
my maister doth requyre,
And that you would come see the sicke
with hart he doth desire.
Good Nursse your maister may commaunde
I yelde me to his wil,
He shut his dore, and with the Nursse,
he goeth to proue his skil.
The Nursse doth bring him to the house.
she telles her maister straight:
and forth he comes & welcomes him
for whom he long did waight.
With sober words, & comely chere,
tone gretes the other then:
Their meting was not woman like,
they met like sober men.
The fathers fained there, not straight
shewed forth his inward griefe:
Nor by and by he wailde his child
his words were not so reefe:
But thus began his wittie talke.
now sixtene winters past:
Accōpting frō ye tenth of marche,
which was amonst vs last,
My dame gaue vp, and toke her leaue
of yong wines wished sute,
And brought me out a daughter, as
the ende of al her frute.
In whom I ioyed very much,
I had no whench before:
But for her grace, and vertues sake,
I ioyed muche the more:
Yet sonnes I had, that might haue proued
good men a fower or fiue:
Death tooke them all, I was content
that she was left aliue.
In whom I ioyed for vertues sake
and parents duetye to:
As natures will becomes a lawe,
and forceth men to doe.
Now do you see, that god hath wilde,
such fate on me to fall,
She is become, my sonne, my heire,
mine onely childe and all.
And sicke she is, and very sicke,
the lord him selfe dothe knowe:
Your counsell and your help I craue,
your conning eke to shewe.
But what doth meane my witlesse woordes:
why do we lingring stand:
He wilde the Doctour walke with him,
and lead him by the hand,
Into a chamber princely deckt,
yet wonderous cloase & tyght:
So as the watchers had their willes
to haue it darke or light.
There laye the heauy penciue childe,
there sat the mother sadde:
There wanted naught, by money might
or frindship els be hadde.
And when the mother knew by Nursse,
and by her tatling talke,
That he the learned doctour was,
which with her spouse did walke:
She rose and left her wery stole
and did salute him then,
with such a welcome as was meete
to welcome frendly men.
Who could eftsones with equall grace,
salute the dame againe,
And also search, to shewe the Sire,
the daughters griefe and paine.
Her beating pulsies, he gan feele,
her temples and her feete,
And other such demonstratiues,
as apt he thought or meete.
And saide vnto the heauy maide,
Good hart thou art opprest:
with painfull pangues and freting fits,
which, god torne to the best.
Then to the parents both at once
the doctour gan to say,
Though I be bolde yet beare with me,
I pray you goe your waye:
And let me talke a little while
with this your childe alone,
Who will perchaunce the franker speake,
if that you both were gone.
They went, and he retourned backe
to the diseased childe,
And tooke her by the hand againe
with countenaunce, very mylde,
And saide to her swete hart I see
your to much troubled braine
wil not permit your tong to talke
without excessine paine,
Therefore applye your eare to me,
which am your faithful frende,
though yet vnknowen, the truth shal trye
my trauel in the ende,
And if you list that I shal saye,
the secretes that I see
some token that you are content,
vouch safe to shewe to mee.
With that she lickt her parched lips,
and faintly did she saye:
Good sir speake on your mynd to mee,
I know no cause of staye
Well then (quod he) I aske no more,
but that you heare me talke,
And blame me when disorderly,
my tongue or worde shal walke.
Heare doth the subtell doctour nowe
tell fourth the sickmans tale
And finding both their states alike,
thinkes therby to preuaile.
Not yet (quod he) two daies agoe
this iollye auncient mate,
(Appointing to the aged Nursse)
did bring to me your state,
Wheron my conning earnestlye,
and learning I did proue,
I must be plaine, your state did shew
your grief did grow by loue.
Then towards the cares continuāce,
I did adiect my mynde,
And that it was nigh three monthes olde,
my certeine rule did finde.
And searching by that argument,
the plannet and the daye,
I forthwith found (good Lady mine)
that in the midst of Maye:
By walke or talk, or otherwise,
you sought your most delight,
And therin lost your liberty,
by twink or sodeine sight.
Now, if my rule be certeine still,
as it was wont be sure:
Confesse to me: and doubt you not,
I shal your paines recure.
This herde did set the senses soe
within the virgin odde:
As els she thought it was a dreame,
els thought she him a god.
Whose perfect persing eye and skill,
so could detect her wound:
And therewithal twixt ioy and care,
she fell into a sounde.
But he whose praised skill (god wot)
exteamd it of no weight:
Did almost vse no force at all,
yet did releue her streight.
And then with fixed eye and face,
with colour pale and wanne,
With shaking flesh and quaking ioints,
her tale she thus beganne.
Take from my tastles mouth (saith she)
which is thrise double furde,
By meanes that not this senightes space,
no talke my tongue hath sturde,
This feeble foolish aunswere, that
from such a place shal fall:
Full rightly haue you told the truth,
my cause, my care and all.
And you that can by skill finde out
so secrete hidden griefe,
My thinkes againe your praised skill
may finde out my reliefe.
Well saith the doctour since you haue
to mee discloasde your hart,
Conceiue in mee no doubt at all,
for I will do my parte.
And this muche by my knowlege I
dare to you heare auowe,
That euery griefe which you haue felt,
shall turne to pleasure nowe.
For fortune hath been much your frende,
the constellacions tell,
And he on whom you set your loue,
Loues you againe aswell.
A man he is of noble blood
and hath eche lyngnament,
Of nature, and in fauour standes,
of euery Elyment.
His father dead, hee is his heire,
and Fortunes darling to,
You blame your chaunce, and what can more
good Fortune for you doe?
And if you will I wil discloase
this to your parents sight:
And you shall see your dearling to
this instant present night.
Would god (quoth she) right chierfully,
that these your wordes were true:
Then of my long and pinching paine
at all I do not rue.
The Doctour called then the Nursse
in sober wise and mylde,
And willes her praye the parents both,
come now and see their childe.
She runneth straight they come in haste,
no let doth cause them staye,
And forthwith in the childes behalfe,
the Doctour gins to saye.
Good sir in all extremities,
the cause must first be knowen:
And then with care and lesser toile,
the griefe is ouerthrowne.
When I came first you saide to me,
one onely childe you had:
Whose languishing extremitie,
did make your hart full sad.
You wild me know, and if I could,
the cause of her disease:
You wilde me vse my skilfulnes,
her pearsing paine to ease.
Thus haue I done, & this I aske
of you, as of my frinde.
To heare my tale, and graunt good will,
your daughters paine to end.
There is within this myle and lesse,
an heire that you do know:
Of noble blood, & worthy state,
his name I neede not shewe
Whose parents of continuance,
haue loued your parents long:
And you must loue the man againe,
or els you do him wrong.
He loues your daughter passing well
and she loue him againe,
And both they are extremely sick,
and loue doth cause the paine.
Your daughter you haue well brought vp,
at home she learnt to worke,
(As fits a maide,) but trauaile hath
shewed him both Iew and Turke.
His so dispended youthful daies,
did cause obliuion black,
By distaunce of the place and time,
their memories to racke:
And pul the face of tone of them
so farre from tothers sight,
As childish knowledge twixt them twaine,
was so deuoyded quight.
Yet was it equall chaunce to both,
at once to meete in fielde,
Where Cupydes stroke, vnknowne to them,
causde sone to other yelde:
Which done they both do get them home,
in this their ouerthrowe:
They loue (alas) and yet their loue
doth neither of them knowe.
This hath been griefe to both their hartes,
hereby they haue been tried,
Hereby their frindships and good willes,
both plaine and true is spied.
Hereon doth hang the helthful state,
and dolour of the mayde,
Hereon as on a prock or crutch,
the sick mans lyfe is stayde.
Which harde and when the parents sawe
whereto they both were bent:
The ioyed at the happy matche,
and gaue their cloase consent,
Although they warely did hold backe
their wordes within their bounde,
Least by their suddein ioye, their childe
might suddein death haue founde.
And this saide to the doctour then,
We thank you for your talke,
And painful trauaile, and do pray
that he and you would walk,
At pleasure when you list to come
to this our simple home,
And welcomer then you shalbe
this day there liueth none.
And cause I would not haue you think.
but I your paines regarde,
Haue heare (quod he) here is fiue poundes
accept this small rewarde.
Now was the parents inwarde care,
some what in better rest,
The maiden late that curst her selfe,
doth think her fortune blest,
And other houshold talke was not,
within that house that daye,
But that she woer might him selfe
come, euery one doth praye.
Now are the seruaunts al and some,
calde forthe vnto theire charge,
Now to the beauty of the house,
eche thing is set at large.
Now doth the mother with the childe,
consult of euery thing,
And how they might best welcome him
that should the Doctour bring.
I leaue to tell the virgins ioy
the halfe I cannot thinke:
Muche lesse then can I speak the same
Or write with pen or ynke,
Did not Eneas stealing steps
woorke to poore Dido wrong?
Did not alas Penelope,
think her Ulisses long?
Then think the lady lenger thoughte
to see whom she loud best
Whose princely presence only might
perfourme her quiet rest.
The Doctor yt thus wrought his feat
with ioy retourned backe:
And doubted much the sickman shoulde
or this some solace lacke.
But when he came vnto his house
and chambre where he slept
And did perceiue that al this while
a quiet slepe him kept
He toke things odoryferous
such as hee did suppose
Were comfortable to the sick
and coucht them nere his nose.
And with such things as he thought meete
he made a messe of meat
Which he thought best was for the sick
when he did wake to eate.
And least that in vnwōted sleape
some daunger might be found
His cunning hands did take his Lute
and thereon gan to sounde.
The armonye whereof, and eke
the sauour sweete did make
The waight of slepe to beare awaye
and causde the sicke to wake.
The noyse did cause his eies loke vp
therewith he felt the smel
And thought him selfe in Paradise
they pleasd his powers so wel.
How now? quod the Phisition
haue I not done you wronge?
Or feele you not some iniurie
by sleaping ouer long?
No, no, quod the distressed soule
I think that I was blest,
When firste throughe you and youre aduice
I laide me downe to rest.
And so I pray the liuing lord
From daunger you to kepe:
As I the more am quieted
by this my sugred slepe.
Oh, that my minde were quyeted
as this my body is:
Who then but I most happy mā
should fele most happy blisse?
First must you learne to creape (quod he)
then after must you goe
Then after may you ride or rūne
the course of things are so.
First hath a quiet sleape refresht
your weake, and ydle brayne,
Now feede on this which I haue made
let not your stomake frayne
And consequently shall appeare
what paine and heauie plighte
That I pore soule haue ventured
to bring you to delight.
The man as in a rage for ioy
conceued suche a trust,
As first the broth & then ye meate
into his throte he thrust.
And therewith loking vp in hast
and gasping yet for wind
Saide to the Doctour spedelye:
now let me know thy minde.
You haue (quod the Phisition)
conceiued your greefe by loue,
By loue againe texpell the same
It is in you to proue.
Then would you not think al your time
to be expended well?
To learne where she which hathe your harte
doth at this instant dwell.
And therewithal to bring you so
into your ladies grace,
As frankly you may talke your mynde
vnto her face to face.
And that with ioy she ioyouslye
in you should take delight
Would not think you this blissefulnes
auoide your sicknes quight?
Thrise happie weare I happye man
to that then aunswered he
If that my mortal eies might ones
these happie tidinges see.
Then should I think my frendly fate
texcell, all others farre
And farther to then brightest sonne
dothe passe the darkest star.
Then would I say good fortune had
ones turnd her whele aboute
And plaste him equal with the best
that earst she had shut out.
The happy life of Priamus
before the siege of Troye
For aye should then be shaded quyte
by meanes of this my ioye.
Then woulde I these so happy daies
aboue those daies extoll
Wherein the happy Hercules
enioyde the Lady Eoll.
Then Saturne put from princes throne
to prison and to paine:
And after set by Iupiter,
in kingly state againe:
Was not so high aduaunced yet
by fortune and her grace
Nor halfe so high as I should be
to see my ladies face.
What happy mā might euer say
that he had his desire:
So much as I, if I may to
my ladies loue aspire.
If that I might assuredly
so stand to fortunes grace
What wrong hath al my painefulnes
done me this quarters space.
None other but that sodein blisse,
should not my hart annoy.
Good fortune sent a prepratiue
to mittigate my ioy.
Then in my dreadful dolour, and
the midst of al my strife
My fortune faire hath sent to mee
my most desired life.
Wel then (quod the Phifition)
go put on some attyre
And come to me in comelye sorte
you shal haue your desire.
And then in token of the troth
that I to yon profest,
I will not faile to shewe you her
I know that you loue best.
And that in such a decent sort
as can pursue none ill,
I meane with both the parents &
els, al the frends good wil.
Oh, happy heauenly Fortune ye
so sodeinly can chaunge:
Oh that thou canst so frendly be
and yet canst seme so strange.
Now he yt earst did curse himself
his fate and al did banne,
Of al the rest that liue and ioye
accomptes him happiest man.
And he that as halfe buried,
went stoping to the grounde
Now as a courtly gentleman
in comely sort is founde.
Not roisting as the roisters vse
not gallant in the sight
Nor were his doings prodigall
ne yet in niggerdes plight.
Whiles in this comely clenlynes
the louer thus was drest,
The parēts house was trimmed vppe
the Doctour and the rest.
The sillie sicke releued dame
puttes on the same attire,
Which she did weare, when Cupid firste
did set her hart on fire.
The mother that would trimmer haue
the daughter ganne to blame
For leuing of her better weedes
and doing on the same.
Nay mother, saieth the smiling childe,
sins thus I haue been tost
I wil finde out my libertie
in weedes that I it lost.
I do reserue your pleasure yet
and yelde me to your will:
Nay Daughter, at your libertie
do chaunge or were them stil.
The frolike father he comes in
He sees that all is well
Hark saith the mother whose at gate,
doth no man here the bell:
The aged Nursse yt stāds in hope
the wished gestes were come
Steps out before the rest apace
and to the gate doth ronne.
Wher when she sees the Doctour and
with him so trym a wight:
Right comly she saluts thē both
most ioyfull of that sight.
The maister was enquired for
within he was, she saide
That they might speake with him forthwith
the learned doctour prayde.
Gon in the Nursse and telles the sire,
and dame, what gestes were there:
I come straight way the father saith,
desire them to come neare.
Now standes the yong man amorous
in hope of his reliefe,
Though doubtful passhons of the mynde
doth sheuer yet his teeth.
Downe comes the courtly gentleman,
and frendly doth embrace:
The Doctour and the woer to
and staieth so a space.
To whome the Doctour thus brake fourth:
the frendship and good cheare,
Which of your wourship I receiued
the last time I was heare:
Doth cause that I and this my frend
though to your cost and paine,
Do fynde the meanes (I warrant you)
to visite you againe.
Good cheare alas why say you so
you slaunder me ywis
But welcome are you both to mee
to such cheare as it is.
Oh that the muses which do dwell
on Hellicon the hill:
Or learned Pallas would step fourth
to aide my forward will:
Or that the learned sisters three
which passe all other men:
Would take vppon them but a while
to guyde and rule my penne.
Then should you heare how pleasantly
in short and sugred verse,
The passing ioyes of these two folke
my conning could rehearse.
How to the mother aged Nursse
doth geue the man a praise
Aboue the rest which wt her eies
she sawe in all her daies.
How that the mother, ere she sawe
the man, or ought was doon:
In token of her inwarde ioye
did name him for her sonne.
How that the sillie virgin coulde
no lenger time abyde,
But with her knife did piers a hole
where through her loue she spied.
And then how many sundry ioies
replenished her hart,
And eke the yong mans blesful state
before I would depart.
But since that in so surging Seas
I dare not hoyse my sale:
I must in baser sort (god wot)
tell fourth a rude mans tale.
Your welcome said the gentlemā
much better is to mee,
Then golde, or els without the same,
the greatest cheare should be.
Thus curteous wordes, were spent apace:
emonges this frindly men:
and from the hall, the father wild
them to the parlour then.
Where was the aged gentlewoman
where sate her daughter to:
Where one embrast the other as
the maner is to doo.
Where as the father with the Nursse
of purpose gan to talke:
And towardes the aged mother doth
the Doctour gin to walke.
The gentleman saide merely
since heare are weomen three
And two already are in talke,
the thirde is left for me.
And towardes her makes a stately course
her tender lips he kist,
Her fingers that were faire and long
encloasing in his fist.
In secreat sorte he vtterd then
his long vnquiet rest
To her, who art could not denye
but that she loued him best.
Oh happy man yt hast found out
the meane to quenche thine Ire,
And happy dame that Fortune hath
enricht with thy desire.
Who now may ioy but you alone:
who is so iustly glad:
as you that haue your hartes desire:
whose frendes good will is had.
The Nursse about her busines goes,
the father walkes aside,
But still the yonger couple doe
in talke together byde,
Their talke and tales doth please them both,
loath are they to departe:
And chaunging colours therwithall,
bewraies the ioyfull hart.
It groweth fast towardes supper time,
the mother eke doth praye,
The doctour and the woer to:
that they would come away.
Unhappy harmefull voice thinks hee,
it is that doth depart
Two bodies so ycoupled that
they both haue but one harte.
He thankes her yet for maners sake,
and yeldes him to her will:
That would haue solde his supper faine,
in talke to tary still.
The father and the mother bothe,
the woer and the mayde:
The doctour and a frend or two:
at supper heare are staide.
And first with some solempnitie,
the woer he is set,
And other Gestes in order due,
the father he doth set.
Here doth he playe the Hushers parte,
and can the office quite:
His wife he plaste at vpper ende,
and set his daughter right
against the man in whome good wenche
he knewe shee ioied much,
And he asmuch in her againe,
their linked loue was such.
No question nede demaunded bee
of dyet and of meate:
There wanted nought that might bee wisht,
but stomakes for to eate.
The parents stomakes, ioy had filde,
to see their daughter glad,
And ioy againe as ioyously
the louers filled had.
The rest did feede right merely,
and then beganne to talke,
as common is at euery feast,
where Bacchus wares do walke.
The father to the Doctour drank,
the mother to the geast
that reason taught by perfect skill
did loue her daughter best.
With all her hart, I say she dranke
to him in cup of golde,
Who pledgde the dame, & to the child
to drink he was as bolde.
Thus mery were they euery one,
right glad and wel apaide,
And she I think most glad of all
that almost nothing saide.
Whose ioyfull, kinde, and louing harte,
her pashons could not hide:
But that which might not from the mouth,
from harte and eye did slyde.
Now lookt she vp ful chierfully,
and then within a while:
Her colour chaungde from white to red,
and then againe did smyle
on him, to whome by happy chaunce,
she thought her wholy bound,
By whome againe her secrete thoughtes
with spedy flight were found.
Wherewith the father did breake out,
in decent sober sorte:
and that they all would heare his tale
he did his gestes exhorte.
They all attentiuely gaue eare,
their tongues and talke were still
Applying them with might and mayne,
to here the fathers will.
Who now his secrets doth detect
in plainest sort he can,
and looking on his daughter, thus
his sober talke began.
This mayden which you know right well
myne only daughter deare,
Hath choase this gentle gentleman,
vnto her only feare.
And he againe (I know not how)
doth in my daughters sight
conceiue his chiefe felicitie,
his comfort and delight.
Of tender yeares is the man,
my childe is yong also,
And youth by aunshent sawe is saide,
to reason is a foe.
Of worthy parentage he is,
of noble blood by berth,
His parents frendes to mine alwaies,
approued to the death.
His maners and behauiour,
are comely as you see:
His presence and his personage,
delightfull vnto me:
Endewed with possessions,
enricht with land and fee,
Not wanting ought that comely is,
in such a one to bee.
My childish daughter is not riche,
wel qualited nor feire,
Nor els wherein such one should ioy,
But that she is myne heire.
And I am aged thriftles man,
and like ynough to spend
my goods, and eke possessions,
before my life doth ende:
Then to so rich a gentleman,
to match so poore a wife:
Is but a meane to kendle cause
of endles care and strife.
Except you may vouchsafe good Sir,
a poore mans childe to take:
And of my daughter farre vnmeete,
your wife and fellow make.
Which if you do vndoubtedly,
the argument doth proue,
Your comming is of perfect zeale,
and but for puer loue.
Which if (your direct aunswer made)
I finde you that way bent:
My wife hath so perswaded me,
you shal haue my consent:
And when my Ladies life and myne
by death are once bereft:
You may accompt the same your owne
if any thing be left.
The Doctour would haue aunswered,
whose talke the louer brake,
And did erect al bashfulnes,
and to the father spake.
Right worshipful, my duety is,
to terme you so by right,
Because of long continuance,
you are a worthy knight.
To whom again of right I owe
a childly duety to,
As frendship, and your daughters lone,
enforceth me to do.
You know your daughter louethe mee
and I loue her againe:
And yet in doubt you stand to make
the matche betwene vs twaine.
Althoughe you can on my behalfe,
impute none other lacke,
But that not many aged yeares,
depende vpon my backe.
Age is a gift of nature that
she geues to many a one,
Wit comming by the deytie,
is geuen by god alone.
As Salomon was perfect wise,
a childe yet by his yeares,
And Daniel in iugdement seat,
an infant as appeares.
Do you not read that Ioseph to,
in youth discretion had,
Refraining foule adultery,
himself but yet a lad.
A thousand more, but that I will
not troble you a whit:
I could expresse in youthful yeares,
had sage and sober wit.
Againe, an auncient prouerbe is
with men that are ful sage,
that wit sometime in youth appeares,
and alwaies not in age.
I speak not herein bostingly:
or that I would haue thought,
that I my wisedome shoulde commende
or that my wit were ought:
But that I would seeme orderly
to aunswere to your tale,
and that to mine & her excuse
mine aunswer might preuail.
And to my parentes worthines,
and state of noble blood:
mine neuer were so worthy yet,
but yours were as good.
And where you say my frendes and youres
in amitie were knit:
I seeke to tye a surer knot,
and not to breake it yet.
And that my person and my self
are pleasant in your sight,
you cause me thereby to reioyce,
and in my self delight.
My rents and my possessions
and al my lands and fee,
as equal are vnto your childe,
as they are vnto me.
To whom me thinks you haue done wrong
in such sort to disgrace
a wight with worthy qualities,
and eke so faire a face.
I did not seeke your heire (god knoweth)
I sought this worthy dame:
Whose iust desert alredy craues,
an euerlasting fame.
As for your riches & your welth,
I pray the lord encrease:
And Nestors life I wish to you,
tenioy them al in peace.
And me thinks yt a meter matche
you saw not in your life,
Then to so wilde a gentleman,
to geue so sad a wife.
And how can I by any meanes,
a greater Iewel take:
Then to receiue & kepe for aye,
a wise and sober make.
The which if you bestow on me
your dede it selfe doth proue,
that you resolue your sorowz both
and knit the knot of loue.
And do this aunswere absolute,
within your hed conceiue
That either I must haue my hart
or you my life receiue.
Wherwith he fet a decent pawse
and ther with gan to smile:
and craued licence of the dame,
towardes her to talke a while:
Who lyked so the former tale,
the woer had begonne:
as so much more to glad him bad
say on my louing sonne.
My father (quod the gentleman)
I speak as I would haue:
with your consent, I thank you both
to me your daughter gaue.
You sittting by, me thought your face
your willing hart did shew:
And with his words your ioint consent
on me you did bestowe,
The maide whose good behauior
hath staide her words as yet
By clasping of her fingers faste,
did seeme the knot to knit.
And I yt seke your childe alone,
and craue none other good,
Receiue her so vnto my wife,
with al my hart and bloode.
And if that this construction,
be parfect say you then:
Unto my hungry hart and mind,
with free consent Amen.
With that the parents first begā
and then al at the borde,
And standers by, said al amen,
there was none other worde.
Oh ioyful sentence thus proclaimde
oh this obtained grace,
That hath with such, and so muche care,
ben sought so long a space.
Now doth the faire and frendly beames
splendiferus and brighte,
Of smiling Fortune shew themselues
in this desired night.
Now sorow doth absent her selfe
and ioy possesse her rome,
Within those hartes, whiche not long since
did think them nere there dome.
Now euery man doth wel commend
the freshe and filed wit,
Of him whose chierful comely talke,
doth fill their eares as yet.
Now lacketh nothing think they all,
but that the maiden faire:
Should frankly speak her inward thoughte
and so her minde declare.
Wherewith her countnance gan to change
she lifted vp her eyes,
The rudy colour in her chekes
eftsones began to rise.
Quod she vnto her father then
and so vnto the rest
The day of my natiuitie
the howre to was blest.
Wherein my yong, and yougthful sight
did presse and was so bolde
This firme & faithful louer true
at first for to beholde:
Perchance some here may think it is
a rude and rashful part?
A mayden in such wise and sorte
thus to declare her hart.
Wel next vnto this gentleman
this bargaine doth me touche:
Whose loue to me is not so great
but mine to him as much
To whom againe I yelde myself
obedient at demaunde,
And wedding once solempnised
his onely to commaunde.
He hath discloasd his honest minde
againe I for my parte
In recompence, for his rewarde
do geue to him my hart,
And yelde him frankly with the same
my free and true consent
My faith and al vnfainedly
vntil my life be spent.
Here might I name the humble thankes
that he his ladie gaue
Heare might I tell the sondry thoughts
the gests emonges them haue,
Heare might I shewe the parents mirth
their firme and fyxed ioyes,
The housholdes talke ye neighbors woordes,
and els a thousand toyes.
But you haue heard the long discourse
held al this supper space:
Then note the euening so is spent
depe night drawes on a pace.
The louers are ycopeled
and euery thing is wel
The father pointeth in the morne
the wedded day to tell
The banquets are in ordre due
by seruants taken vp:
And euery gest doth take his leaue
that then and there did suppe.
The new betrothed sonne in law
his reuerence done doth parte
And takes with him his wifes good wil
and leaues with her his hart.
If that the parents ioyed nowe
who therefore can them blame
Or what should let ye louers but
that they should do the same?
And why should not the happy man
lead now a pleasant night
whose happy hap had clen bereft
him of his sorrow quite.
I wil not shew the conference
that now in secret is
Betwixt the Doctour & the man
nor thinke vpon their blisse.
and with the maidens mery state
I haue no minde to mell
Because my hed cannot conceiue
nor penne expresse it wel.
But yet ye blisful night doth bate
the chiereful day drawes on
The louer thinkes in Fortunes grace
so much as he is none.
For soner had not wished daye
expelde the mantel blacke
And eke the pitchy cloudes of night
the ayre had on her backe:
But straight way he would get him vp
and gaue him self to rise:
That he might of the wedding daie
with his newe Sire deuise.
Now would he go, it was to sone:
then would he staie a while,
And phansies still that did renew
did former thoughtes exile.
When reason would not suffer him,
from thence so soone departe
He fixd his hed and beat his braine
on her that had his hart:
And gat him to the windowe whiche
did open towardes the home
of her, in whome he did delight
that had his hart alone.
And by the windes which thitherwardes
their flieng force did bende
vnto his lady, all his thoughts
in couert he did sende.
Now would he wishe he weare a cloude
and by and by a starre:
Or other thing he wayde not what
that force had from so farre:
Of her to haue a sight in whome
he long had pleasured so
Or els that time (alas) were come
that he him selfe might goe.
He wisht that mery Mercury
might sende vnto him winges
And els that longd to Poets art
he named a thousand thinges
Or that he had the dulcet voyce
of Nightingale or Larke:
Or that in musikes armony
he past eche other clarke
Or that he at this present tyme
more drye then Tantalus
Had both the conning and the harp
of famous Orpheus.
First would he vse his wished wings
and thither take his flight
Where of his lady he were sure
in bed to haue a sight.
And then his princely Poets art
should in right conning verse
Unto his ladye and his loue
ten thousand things rehearse:
That yet for lacke of lucky tyme
himselfe could not discloase,
Nor his so secrete matter durst
to any man repose.
Wherin, if Poets fyled verse
should seeme to her to long,
The rest in conning armony
should finish with a songe.
Then to her whome he wronged thus
so long awake to kepe
(As Orpheus did the dampned soules)
his harp should bring a sleepe.
As he poore soule, whose ioyfull hart
nolde suffer to take rest
Did alwaies beat his braines on her
that now he loued best:
So did the famous worthy dame.
with firme and fixed mynde:
Seeke out this long and wakeful night
a thousand waies to finde,
Whereby she most might please the man
or him most high aduaunce
That Fortune thus had made her mate
by good, and happy chaunce.
The louers braynes thus occupied
he casteth vp his eyes
Unto the craised cloudes of heauen
from whence he plainly spies
The horse of Phebus chariot
bigins their course to ronne
and sheweth vniuersally
theire gloab or golden sonne.
Which sight this ardent gentleman,
doth heare his warrant make
And thearupon his iourney doth
vnto the father take.
And eke doth praye the Doctour to
euen as he hath begoon
To goe with him and be his aide
till his attempts were woon.
Fast towardes the fathers mantion
these frendes together go
Their errand is, & they seeke out
the wedding day to knowe.
Where when they came the father was
the mother and the maide
Which on the comming of those guestes
had all this morning staide.
If that the Doctour welcome was
vnto the parents, knowe
That then the louer welcome was
vnto his wife: I trowe.
What neade I tell the breakfast which
they had prouided heare?
what boteth of the cost to speake
or of the royall cheere?
Or of the sugred sentences
the mother did expresse:
Thereby to woorke her sonne in lawe
the greater cause to blesse.
What vaileth of the golde to talke,
the plate, or of the rent,
Which there was seen, or by the Sire
might yearely be spent?
What neade I to expresse the heape
of golde and massie mucke
The father did appoint the childe
in token of good lucke.
What neade I name the louing toyes
betwixt the louers fell?
But wish the long continuance
of those that loued so well.
What vaileth that I should at all
heare play so fond a parte:
as might detect how eche of them
enioyed the others harte.
Should I declare how in the one
the other had delight?
No, no, I wil not wrong them so
but therof claime them quite.
Nor from the fathers answer will
deferre you any lenger:
Who namd ye wished wedding day
the twentith of September.
And shewe you, how they and their frendes
be glad and do reioyce:
To see so good succession,
had in so meete a choice.
Did Uenus thinke you ioy at all,
when she the apple had?
Did not her promys Paris ioy
and made his hart as glad?
Doth euery louer with his loue
content himselfe right well?
Then let them ioy a little while
whose ioy I cannot tell.
And talke we nothing of the toyle
the turmoyle and the race
The frendes had heare to compas thinges
within so shorte a space.
Nor of the letters were sent out
the kindredes to enuyte
Think not at all, for of the same
my penne no woord shal write.
But pas we ouer fourtene daies
which spedely were spent
The fyuetenth was the wedding day
set by the fathers stent.
In which of meare necessitie
I must make some discourse
Though yt the Muses in my need
of me haue non remourse.
The happy long desired day
gins scarce to shew her light:
Ne yet the ayre had scant vnlewst
the mantel of the night,
Ne had Aurora stretcht her armes
her slombers of to throwe
Ne had the skies alhidden yet
the starres which earst did show.
So sone as had the gentleman
put sluggishnes to flight,
And left his restles bed wherein
he rolled all this night.
Up calles he then his seruingmen
and willes their help to raye
Their happy maister happely
in this most happy daie.
Eche thought that came into his hed
but mirth and ioy did bring
He dreameth on mount Hellicon
he heares the Muses sing.
Now is he set on Fortunes lap
eche thing doth come aright,
And all his troubles and his cares
are now deuoided quite.
And so much more to glad him with
came to his window then
A sett of violles coningly
plaide on by conning men
Whose parfect play was vttered
with such a skilfull grace:
As he did thinke himself in heauen
or in a better place.
He thrust his hand into his purse
and what he therein founde:
Out of the window, for theire paynes
he threwe it to the grounde.
And wilde them that they should fourthwith
the rather for his sake
conuey them to his fathers house
and so his wife to wake.
Whose hest they hastly did obeye
whose mynde they did fulfill
Whose praise of liberalitie,
they do commend and will.
Where when they come they suddenly
such musike did resounde
As if Appollo from the heauens,
had sent it to the grounde.
Wherewith they loked out for ioye
that slept not long before:
The Sheperd shewd his teth, and saide
that Pan was at the dore.
The virgin whome the mother woulde
Not yet haue left her bedde,
No longer could abyde in couche,
but nedes must shew her hedde.
The father and the mother roase,
the melody was suche,
As who had hard the conningest,
might there haue hard asmuch
Of noble nature was the Sire,
and musike did regard,
And gaue the minstrels for their paine
a royall in rewarde.
The minstrelles that so sone could not
forget theire gotten gaine,
Do think in al their liues they not
bestowed a better paine.
And so drew on right chierefully
the freshe and pleasant day
which seene did the musitians
fast packe themselues away.
No sooner were they gone from thence
but then the louer came,
In whom I dare auow to you,
was nothing out of frame.
In sober garment clenly clad,
without respect of cost,
His lēt like chikes had got again
the flesh that earst they lost.
Whose comely salutation did
his Lady so ymbrace,
As they that saw it could but muse,
and wonder at his grace.
The parents did receiue their sonne,
in such a worthy wise,
As who that would haue wisht a thing
could better not deuise.
The mother toke him by ye hand,
and lead him round about:
To see the order of eche thing,
within and eke without.
And how she ment that al should be
in order did him tell,
The wourst whereof hee coulde not mende,
nor scarce could wish so well.
Thus whiles she viewed euery thing
the day gan fast to growe
and Titan gan his golden beames
from the southeast to throwe
Wherby he saw ye slippery time
away began to slide:
And that the matrons of ye town
came in to dresse the bride:
And yt the townish maidens did
about the gates gin flocke:
His heedy hed could not les deme
then it was eight a clocke.
From thence he thē retired backe
vnto his mantion straihgt
wher did right worthy gētlemen
a nombre for him waight:
Who greted him, and praide the lorde
to kepe him from anoye
And of the bargaine hee should make
to send him endles ioye.
He thanks them al, and stoopeth oft
he vaileth cap and knee,
and who yt vsde him courtlyest,
no courtlier was then he.
One of his seruants he did send
to church from him away:
To see the order of eche thing:
and how did weare the daye.
And whiles ye seruāt so was sēt
the rest a roo right fine
presented al the gentlemen,
with wafer cakes and wyne
Himselfe brought forth a standing pece
of gay and glistering gold:
Ympleat wt right good ypocrace
and drank to yong and old.
Then did retourne his man againe
whose reuerence made and doone
saide to his maister time was nowe
for seruice was begonne.
Wherewith the maister with some speede
and yet in order to:
Retourned backe vnto his wife,
as maner is to do.
With such a sort of gentlemen
pursuing at his traine:
So well ymatched with their likes
in order twayne and twayne:
As earst not in a hundreth yeares
the like could be espied,
To waight vpon a gentleman
in honour of a bride.
So sone as they were come in sight
nighe to the fathers dore,
A sort of semely seruitures,
of purpose set therefore.
Eftsones do go by course a rowe
from first vnto the last
presenting thē with fansies made
of purpose for repast.
And eke ye gentle Iem, the bride,
trimd vp in her attire:
As to her birth but decent was
and this day did require:
In humble sort did shew her selfe
and in right harty wise,
Did yeld them al as harty thāks,
as could her hart deuise.
To churche doth then the bride grome goe,
and al the rest araye,
And for the coming of the bride
not one but all do staye.
Who forthwith cometh oute in deede,
in such a fined frame:
As if of purpose it were done,
to winne eternal fame.
First was her countenaunce comely set
her eyes were fixt full sure,
Her face was faire, her cherry chekes,
her bewty passing pure.
Her brest out in a decent sort,
not proude at all she bare:
Her heare was loose, and on the same
a Cronet paste shee ware.
The collour of her heres did seme
to those that did beholde,
as if yt nature had them drawne,
of right and burnisht golde.
The length therof again is suche
as some did make to muse:
How wel so yong a womā might
so rare a Iewel vse.
Next that abouts her neck at lest
more then fiue double folde:
With Diamondes and with Saphires set,
she ware a chaine of golde.
Wherto a pendent tablet was
of such excessiue price,
As how I should esteme the same
surmounteth my deuise,
About the which a partlet was,
of carued worke so rare,
As through the workmanship thereof
eche Iewel shewed fare.
Her kirtel was of saten white,
embrodred very ritch
with siluer and her gowne was black
plaine veluet with a stitch.
About her wast a chaine of golde
the girding place possest,
And at the same did Iuels hang,
as ritche as was the rest
Uppon her armes the sleues did with
the partlet so agree,
as al together did delight,
the lokers on to see.
What should I say: nothing but well
could then beseene in place:
But of the rest the trimmest was
her gesture and her grace.
And proper two yong gentlemē,
in satten semely clad,
To churche did lead her and her handes
within their fingers had.
If that this merry morning thus
did euery man delight,
I think it pleasd the husband wel
the Ladie and the knight
Wel, as she was, to church she goes
pursued with a traine,
Of ladies and of gentilles such,
as not the world can staine.
Wher whē the fearful minister
did see so faire a face:
halfe doubtful in himselfe he thought
Diana was in place.
And loking on the man againe,
in trembling and in feare:
What god (thought he) shal I now matche
vnto this goddes heare.
But al his fond amased sprites,
at last retourned backe:
The peoples sight did aide his powers,
which sodein feare did racke.
And then with manly voice hee saithe
as comely as he can:
Who geues this bride (quod he) vnto
this Iolly gentleman.
One stepped forth right worshipful
appointed for that parte,
And saide I geue her to his vse,
to thee with al my hart.
Now spoken are the wedding wordes
now take they hand in hand,
Now is the wedding ring put on,
a firme and suer band.
Now al the folke within the churche
which scarce can stand for throng:
Cry vnto god in perfect ioy,
they may continue long,
whose decent doings in this day,
the churche did so adorne:
as none yt saw the same had sene
the like since they were borne.
Now flies there wafers in the churche
now Iunkets go about:
and some wt wine are washed so
they hardly can get out.
The husband wt the former train
doth get him home before:
And staith the comming of his wife
within her fathers dore,
And then two aunshent worthy knightes
the bridegromes kinsmen to
In honour of the bride stept forth
and thus much seruice do.
By either arme they take her there,
and homewards lead her than
And at her fathers doore do yelde
her to her wedded man.
He thankes them al with hand and hart,
and takes her by the fist,
Whose tender lips before them all
is by the husband kist.
And first he doth inuite his gests
that are of worships state,
And then of his familiars
spied by him at the gate.
Besides a worthy company
of states and ladies gaye,
that long before inuited were
against the wedding day.
What should I write? ye bride brought home,
the gestes are comely set:
Where plenty was, and mighty store,
of thinges were harde to get.
Where nothing wanted that the mynde,
the hed, or hart might wish,
No venson wilde, no delicate,
no fleshe, nor yet no fish:
No pleasant talke no change of wine,
not daintie dishe at all:
The want wherof might hurte the feast,
or might the worship gall.
The trompets sounded pleasātlye
the Cornets to were herd:
But alwaies were the viols and
the luting men preferd.
The warbling voice of queresters,
with aide of singing men,
The conning songes, the subtil note,
which were right common then.
The multitude confest, their likes
they neuer heard before,
For had Amphion been aliue
he could haue done no more.
Heare did the Brydegrome serue the bryde
The Bride vnto him dranke,
he did her pledge and with his hart
right humbly did her thank.
What should I say the pleasure that
eche pleasant hart had found,
Not only filde the empty skies
but did again resound,
and flewe from frend to frend so fast,
as euery man was gladde,
And in so great a multitude,
no frowning looke was hadde.
Well thus the dinner ended is,
Thus some do fal to talke,
and some to ease their filled gorge,
about the fielde do walke.
Some then do cast the barre and some
do geue their selfe to leape,
And euery man where he doth like
doth helpe to mende the heap.
Some daunce, some sing and some againe
eche maistery doth proue,
And some do talke of martiall feates,
and other some of loue.
And so the after none is spent
so supper time comes on
And euery gest at supper is
in order set anon.
The bridegrome hath his office left
he will no longer waight
The knight, the lady, and his wife
once set, he sitteth straight.
And as their fare at dinner was
so fare they now againe
But that the supper Iunkets were
the better of the twaine.
It seemd that Ceres cater was
and Bacchus brought them wine:
And Eosops selfe had supt wt them
so much there was and fyne.
But yet the maried couple were
more ioyfull to eche gest
then meat, or drinke, or armony
of Musicke or the rest.
Scant had they supped and their meate
in order tane awaye
But drome stroke vp, and in came light
more brighter then the daye,
So riche in tyre so croked fact,
with such disguised geare
I think no man had seene, as doo
the gay torchbearers weare.
As for the rest the company
could not remember when
In all their liues that they had seene
so trim disguised men.
They lokt about the parlor then
and did themselues aduaunce,
And matcht themselues with ladies faire
and gaue themselus to daunce.
And he that was most conningest
in daunsing trickes so tried,
Set forth himselfe and by the hand
did take the famous bryde.
They marched on, they striued all
who might excell the rest:
And euery one thought in him selfe
his conning was the best.
So spent they there an houres space
in daunsing and delight:
Right ioyful to themselues it was
right pleasant to the sight.
Then hugie heapes of golde they threw
out of their box, on borde
And therewithal a bale of dyce
with mum and not a worde.
Of gentlemen there was a route
that kept themselues in store
To plaie with thē, it was their wille;
they staied but therfore.
The maskers luck was very good
Mum, mum, they all do crye:
The drom strikes vp, about the house
the money gins to flye.
They leaue theyr playe, they gin to daunce
about the house arowe
They take theyr banket or repast
and thence againe do goe.
Thus now the wedding day is past
the wished tyme comes on
That toyl is left, and wearines
and euery man is gon.
The bride with matrons sad and wise
within her bed is layde:
Who tastes of euery Iunket, and
therewith do leaue the maide.
And so the wedded husband is
brought to his wedded wife
Which long he had desired, now
the ende of all his strife.
They both haue that which they can asks
naught els they can require
He hath his wife, and she her spouse
the end of her desire.
The cheare doth yet continue stil
a nyne or ten daies space:
In which no empty rome at all
is in the fathers place.
In ende wherof the courteous man
right free of harte and purse:
Doth recompence the seruants all
and eke his frend the Nursse,
In so large and so ample wies
as they themselues did muse
That so base folke, so rich a man
with larges so should vse.
And to his frend the Doctour doth
for al his frendship giue
An annual fee, right worth his paine
so long as he doth lyue.
Which done from parents house they drawe,
to Manour of his owne:
And lead their liues most pleasantly
in his wel stored home.
Wherin the wedded folkes haue ioy
a quarter of a yeare.
Such as few wedded men or none
could euer yet come neare.
Oh cruel cankred fortune that
canst heaue a harte so hie,
And to the same will yeld a cause
of slipping by and by.
Oh that thou canst so flatter men
with graunting their desire:
And wilt not suffer them to cleaue
to that they doe aspire.
To whome in al thy life almoste
thy frendship dost thou showe:
But when he thinkes him saefst of all
hath then his ouerthrowe.
What is he euer liued yet,
and did thee throughly trie?
But rather then to geue the thankes
may vengeaunce on thee crie.
How didst thou Priamus betray
through Paris flatering dreame?
How didst thou all his children slay
and spoylde him of his realme?
Howe Titan didst thou first aduance
by birth the king of Creete:
How after didst thou him suppresse
vnder king Saturns seete.
How Saturne didst thou eke begile
and Titan cause againe
To put him from the Realme of Creete
to prison and to paine.
How then also poore Titan was
by Iupiter vndon:
His realme by Saturne repossest
his kingdome ouerronne.
How then did Saturne seeke to slay
king Iupiter his frinde:
Which Iupiter did Saturne kill,
his father in the ende.
Oh Fortune didst thou euer yet
aduaunce a man on earth,
Which if he did affie in the
had not vntimely death.
Euen so thou hast extolled here
these sillie two therefore,
As feeling now the bitter sweete
might worke their wo the more.
Now hath my penne expressed heare
in vaine a sorte of toyes
Of louers fits, of youthful hartes
and of their wished Ioyes
Which after turnes from yl to worse
as tyme in order weares
You shal heare all, and if I can
expresse them, for my teares.
As Uenus hath been all this while
the cause of mirth and wo
Betwixt these two which vows their faith
from other shal not go:
So now the Marshall planets do
beginne to fall at iarre,
And noble Mars enclines the hartes
of Princes vnto warre.
Now winters force begins to fade
The springtime groweth on
The regions colde, the hugie frostes
within a while are goon.
Now, Uer, the nursse to euerything
doth in her pleasant mood
Geue sappe and moister, and to men
yeldes new and pleasant blood
Now those whose courage winters force
late had appaled quite
Recept of fresh & recent bloud
encourageth to fight.
The youth which winter made right glad
to lead a quiet life
Do now reioyce to talke & heare
of warre and cruel strife.
Nothing is talkt of in the towne
but meanes to vnderstand
Which way to auoyd the enemy
by water and by land.
The princes preparacion
his care and al his toyle
Is how to saue his honour and
to geue his foe the foyle.
Wherefore are valiaunt Champions
sought out both nere and farre
To strength the frontires of the Realme
to furnish eke the warre.
Olde stagers are from Garisons
calde forth and set at large
And of the vnapproued men
haue regiment and charge
Yong gentlemen of liuelyhode
and eke of courage to,
Are called out to trie themselues
their deuour then to do.
And he aduaunced, was preferde
alwaies before the rest:
that elles by strength or els by slight
could shew his courage best
Wherwith this strong taule gentleman
did euerie thing assay
And from the most or rather al
did beare the praise away.
And so the Bruit, did straight resounde
into eche Capteins eare
As none like him in towardlinez
nor manhood did appeare.
His liuing straight, his forwardnes,
so sone also was knowen
As was his strength & malines
by flying voyces blowne.
Heare whispering talke of Capteines is
some one to other herde
They prie on him, they marke him well
his doing is preferde.
At last two of the worthiest, of
the Capteines that were there
Did leaue the rest and towardes the man
ganne fast to draw them neare
And so much more tīcorage those
that els weare there in place
Knight courteously, they did salute
and eke did him embrace
Cōmending him in worthy wise
that there had don so wel
And of their graund commission
gins thus their tale to tel.
There is attempted, now (quod they)
against our noble prince
Such warres as in our fathers time
were not nor neuer since.
So couertly compacted, and
that in so close a wise
As may the secreat enemy
with hedde or harte deuise.
And would not haue it knowen at all
vntill they had begonne,
What their intent or meaning is
ne what they wil haue doone
Our valiaunt prince therof his minde
his purpose to hath bent,
Their malice and their minded force
to tame and to preuent.
Of purpose now his nauie, with
al other ships are made
Right reddy when he shall commaunde
their vntrue to enuade.
And so they fully occupied
in busse warre at home
shall quaile their courage, and their lust
that els abrode would rome.
Wherfore we haue commission
that captaines long haue beene
To chose out other capitaines
and souldiours to bring in.
In fine, we see your manlynes
we know your liuing large
we wish ye prince ten thousād had
so apt to take a charge.
So meete such matters to attēpt
with soldgers care to mell,
So like to take the same in hand
and like to end it well.
We therfore in ye name of God
and in the princes to
Commit two hundreth men in charge
to serue him vnder you.
And captaine ouer them you are
they are your seruants al
Prepare you then in redines
to serue when time shal call.
Therwith the gentleman doth speake
in sobre wise and sad
Your charge is ouer gret for me
in yeares yet a lad.
The Romaine Capteines very graue
were growen in yeares sore
And children had no charge at all
who are vnmete therefore.
Mars wil haue lusty men in dede
their princes quarels fight
But Capteines olde more graue then rashe
should geue to such their light.
I not denie, but fortune doth
sometime on bold men smile
But if their wits, not rule their strength,
how frownes she in a while:
I haue to serue my prince, my wil
my hart, my hed, my hand,
my body and my mouing goodes
my chatels and my land.
But what should in my princes ryght,
these thinges a whit preuaile:
If want of skil in al attempts
my forward wil should quaile.
Wel since the higher powers to you
did this commission make,
And that your countnaunce doth declare
my scuse no place wil take:
I yeld me to the wil of god,
and to good fortunes grace
And now cast of my wedding tire,
to ronne a soldgers race.
The captaines which vpon his talke
there staying did depend,
His aunswere made did take their leaue
and did his wit commende.
Lo here the wauering whele of fate,
see where she fawneth best
She sendeth troubles of ye minde
she hateth now his rest
Who lately thought, his cares were past
his ioies were permanent,
His troubles now beginning are
his happy daies were spent.
Now leaues he of his pleasant tales,
he chaungeth here his talke:
His songes are turned into cares
a capteines course to walke.
Now horse, now armour, he prouides,
and al munitions to:
That to a capteine doth pertaine
and is in him to do.
Now gins to breake his doleful chaunce
vnto his louing wife,
who rather thē to spare her spous
would chose to lose her life.
Which heard from bright and blooddy red
her chekes wax pale and wan,
With secret sobbes, and teares enough
her wailing tale began.
Swete harte, what falt in me is founde?
what trespas haue I done,
What doth alas constraine your hart
your wedded wife to shoon.
Haue I vnwares cōmitted ought
my loialtie to breake,
Which in so sharpe a sort you seeke,
on me poore wretch to wreak.
Haue I vnsemely doone the thing
indecent for a wife?
If ye, corect your owne swete hart
with losse of limme or life,
And part not from your promise thus
let me not languish so:
Do chaunge your minde reuert your hart
bend not your selfe to go.
Yet am I she you wedded late
yet doth my beawtie last,
yet haue I perfect confidence
your fancy is not past.
Let not then such vngentlenes
in noble hart appeare,
To leaue a woman desolate
in lesse space then a yeare.
What, think with what extremitie
our fixed loue begonne,
and god forbid with such swift foote
the race thereof were roon.
Alas, good wife, then quod the man
my teares nil let me speake,
And yet your wondrous weightie words
constraines my hart to breake.
Think not myne own, alas think not,
that I do from you goe
For any fault I find in you
accuse your selfe not so.
And from the heauens I pray the lorde
to let his vengeance fall
on me, if I conceiue in you
mistrust or falt at al.
And eke the hungry earth vnfold
her vncontented Iawe
and swallow me, euen yet a lyue
into her mighty mawe,
And al the plagues yt euer were
on earth, or euer shall
let light on me, I aske not one
but I demaunde them al:
If I do not accompt of you
asmuch as ere I did,
and yt your loue within my hart
in wonted wise is hid.
Againe you neuer did the thinge,
but pleased my desire,
and eke the sparks of loue in me,
are growne to perfecte fire
This do asparke, thus feruently
because you should haue trust
That I am yours not to chaunge,
vntill I turne to dust.
Nor then: if it be possible
the dead to haue his will
I meane to false my faith at all,
but to be youres still.
But now, the prince hath nede of men,
and so it doth befall,
That Fortune sore against my will,
a captaine doth me call.
You know good wife as well as I,
the consequents of yll,
That dayly doth betyde on those,
which either dare or will,
Their princes hestes to leaue vndone,
to satisfye their mynde,
All men may see they reape the sower
that seke such swete to finde.
Then since to sue it booteth not,
nor will come to auaile,
And to resist doth hinder much,
and nothing doth preuaile,
Consent that I my duity shewe,
in best wise that I can,
Since that my princes pleasure is,
to place mee like a man.
My carcas may the prince commaunde,
my hart is yours still,
Your harte againe the empty place,
within my brest doth fill.
Then since it is but for a space
that we shal thus depart,
And that we haue with fixed faith,
ychaunged hart for hart:
Content you heare to stay awhile,
with manly hart possest,
and I with yours in the filde
will shift and do my best.
Think how good Fortune hath of late,
shewde vs her fauour bright:
Perchaunce she meanes to honour vs
by guyding me aright.
Ofte haue we seene as great a shews
of battaile as is this,
where frendship hath preuented Mars,
and wrought the princes blisse.
Ne doth Bellona alwaies strike,
where as she list to lowre
But often geues them the swete,
to whome she shoes the sower.
And oft the wight that she doth warne,
to warlike wery paine,
she doth ere long giue golden rest
and eke aboundaunt gayne,
Also in filde hath many one,
as farre vnlike as I
Got honour in a month or two,
and kept it till he dye.
And therefore whether warre pursue
or peace towardes vs be prest,
graunt your good will that I may be
as forward as the rest.
You haue (then) quod the gentle wife,
discourst your matter well,
yet ner the lesse my grief is suche
as not my tongue can tell.
But since there is no remedy,
as reason you do shewe,
To him, I cannot kepe at home,
I must geue leaue to goe.
And I the wofulst wretch aliue
must with Penelope
kepe in my restlesse bedde alack
whiles you do passe the sea.
And since you say you leaue with mee
your harte, and myne againe
do take with you: it must then bee
one stroke betwene vs twaine.
Therefore as loue betwene vs is
and so continue shall
Let neither happy lucke nor chaunce
nor yll to you befall.
Nor other fortune what it bee,
that happens to your hand,
but by your letters I your wife,
the same may vnderstand,
By promise he doth grant to her
her sorowfull request:
and of his mynd in sober talke
declares to her the rest.
And afterwardes he doth prouyde
to make his ensin silke,
The halfe wherof as read as blood
the rest as white as milke.
Which ended once with such deuise
as all men might it knowe:
Thereunder gan he muster then,
his solgers on a rowe.
His olde lieutenant expert was
his sargaunt and the rest:
And who did wel, he for his time
was equal with the best.
His muster booke was furnished,
his clarke doth what he can,
He knoweth not the Capteins guyle
he wanteth not a man.
His nomber full, his furniture
prepared for the nones,
They all imbarkt, do take the sea
the warre groeth on at once.
His wife, amongs a hugie sorts
whith this gay sight did glad:
behelde the same euen with the harte
that wayling Dido had,
when false Eneas did her leaue
at Carthage in her bed,
whiles he the falsest man alyue,
the towne and citie fled.
And so they take their lothsome leaue
as wofull Troylus did,
with wailing woordes and teares ynough
when Cressed from her rid.
And whiles they cannot speake for wo,
and sorrow of the harte,
The anker weyde, the ship aloft,
they kisse and so departe.
The saylers do hoyse vp the sayles,
aright forewinde does blowe,
The mayne, the top, the missen, &
the sprite saile all arrowe.
The soulgers do the netting deck
the Pilote takes in hande
the rother, and an other soundes
to scape both rocke and sande,
The Barke is in her princely pryde,
her ordnaunce do discharge,
Their force wherein discried is,
their puissans set at large.
All men are mery in the ship,
eche man him self doth proue:
But he alone who cannot chose,
but think vpon his loue.
And she againe good soul doth stande
vppon a mountaine hie,
Still viewing the vnhappy Barke,
so long as she might spie,
The hull, the mast, the sayle the top
or any parte at all:
and then doth this vppon her knees
beholde the skies and call.
O thou the euerlyuing god,
do spede the course a right,
of yonder barke, and do the men
from drowning daunger quyght.
And as thou art a god I knowe
most constant true and iust,
Do helpe my loue as I alone,
in the do put my trust.
Let Neptune stay the surging Seas,
Let Eolus not blowe,
Nor graunt that they conioyntly do
their force or rigour showe.
Nor yet that any enemy
with them do fight or striue,
Before they in their wished port,
do luckely arryue.
With pensiue thoughtes she riseth thus
and leaues her praier so:
and she the wofulst wight aliue
vnto her home doth goe.
Where when she comes and misseth him
whome she doth most desire,
Then weping doth she waile her chaunce,
then puts she of her tyre.
and with the worst she may finde out
her comely corps is cladde,
And neuer did she mourne so sore,
but now she is as sadde.
She spendeth thus the doleful daye
the night comes on a pace,
She goeth to bedde, and of her spouse
fyndes there the empty place.
Her stomake straight appaleth so
such sobbes from her do starte,
As with her teares, to bleare her eies
and seme to rent her harte
she calleth to her memorie
her happy time of late:
The thought whereof doth so much more
augment her heauy fate.
Not Father can nor Mother may
appease the daughters greefe:
Nor frend can comfort her distresse
her sorow was so reefe.
Heare gins she now to curse the man
that she doth loue so well:
Untrue (she saith) thou art alas,
why dost thou thus rebell,
Against the lawes of God? by whiche
thou didst auow to me,
Foreuer: not so short a space
my constant spouse to bee.
And wilt thou leaue thy lady thus
and wilt thou from me go:
And wilt thou now absent thy selfe
and wilt thou leaue me so?
And canst thou now lye from the bedde
that thou didst so desire:
And canst thou woork my wo this wise
and proue thy self a lyer
And darst thou false thy fixed faith
and thine affied trust:
And darst thou now, thou hast obtaind
thus proue thy selfe vniust.
In faith I thought the Sea should first
by waters want be drye:
And that the sonne should eke forswere
the high and hugye skie:
Or that another Phaeton
should serue in Phoebus turne
And that the fyery footed horse
both sea and shore should burne:
Before thou wouldst without a cause
with me thy wife he wroth,
Or cruelly haue left me so
and so haue broke thy troth:
In faith since that it is in deede
and I to true it trie
I wil no more beleue thy words
before the day I dye.
Nor shal thy fawning letters help
thie treason to excuse
wherof thy present absens doth
thie loialtie accuse.
Wel wel thou shewest now thy kynde
thy doings do declare
that onely men in woing time
do flatter and speak faire.
Thus in her great extremitie
eche Ioint in her did shake
And faintnes made her staye a while
and then agayne she spake,
What am I wrothe and cruel wretch
or brutish beast by kinde:
Thus with my true and constant loue
such raging faltes to finde.
Who for him selfe or his defence
in absence cānot speake,
Whie dost thou then, oh wilful wench
thie rage and angre breake
On him that is thie husband and
thie loue and onely fire,
Allotted by the lyuing lord
euen to thie hertes desire
was he not prest by prīces powre
ful lothe he was to goe
Oh cruel carle how canst thou then
in absence blame him so.
Did not his sobbes his sighes, his teares
that trickled down his eye
His wailing voice, his gryping greefs
his dolful noyse and crie
Which did (against his wil break forthe
when he did hence depart,
Expresse vnto the (oh thou beast)
his true and constant hart:
Couldst thou at any time at all
conceiue with in thie minde
but al such grifs as gript thy hart
like place in his did finde:
Uniust thou art, (oh folish girle)
vnfaithful and vntrue
Unworthy art thou of the man:
Now geue thie hart to rewe.
That thus didst slaunder thie true loue
so sore without a cause,
How cāst thou craue ye aid of loue
a rebel to her lawes.
Ah cruel wretch that shewst thy selfe
vnworthy breth or life,
Would God thou hadst the murderer
or els the cruel knife.
That wel might here reuenge by right
the louer and his truthe
And for thie skilles slaunder sake
might bring thie selfe to ruthe.
Thus whiles ye ladies lāguisheth
her former talke and synne,
against her lord, her mother doth
to see her childe come in.
whom she doth find so ruthfullye
with teares beweped so:
As wher she might retourne againe
or to her daughter go
she stands in doubt: her hart doth faile
the teares break from her eyes
she kepes in couert al her cares
and to her daughter cries.
What daughter? what doth meane this grefe
what is it workes thie paine
Is al thy pleasure so sone past?
is care krept back againe:
Alas, shal neuer this mine age,
nor these my hory heares
Nor these my mistie eies beholde
thee but bewept with teares:
Good daughter guide thy selfe awhile
do not torment thee so:
Thie loue doth loue the passing well
let folish fancies goe.
Who in the world hath god enrichte
with fortune or with fate
So much as thou to whom is linkt
a man of such estate
As neither storme nor worldy wo
no flame nor yet no thundre
No sea no flud, nor other let
from thee can kepe a sundre
A lengre time, then princes cause
alone doth kepe him back
Yet nathelesse his harte, is thine
though thou his bodie lacke
Then homeward come with me, mine owne
reiect thie careful minde
And as I pleasure in the muche
some comforte in me finde.
My sonne, thy spouse, that faithful man
the fates wil guide by right
Ere long, he will send vs good newes
his hand begins to wright.
what cause hast yu to morn at al
sins that thy lord is well
His viage past, his chaunce is good
such wil his letters tell.
Oh, blame me not, good mother, saide
to her, her daughter deare,
If I the losse of such a spouse
so greatly dread and feare.
For neither hath ye Gretiā damez
nor Troians ladies found
Nor yet the hungrie earth it selfe
nor yet the cloddie ground,
Receiued so iust and true a man
as I haue for my parte
Whose truth (alas) so tried is
as now doth rent my hart.
I syt alone, my thinkes the seas
are growne in suche a rage,
By Eolus his whorling blastes
whose rigour wil not swage
As he wt surges heued to heauen
the ship doth straight way fall
The wallows thē do hide ye bark
the water drowns them all.
Then straight I se him in his arms
how strongly he doth fight
Here hath he slaine a gentleman
ther hath he kild a knight
This crowne by him ycraked is
that bodie doth he part,
Then coms a traitor at his backe
and thrusts him to the harte.
Should not these things encrease my care?
should not mine eies that spie,
My husbād slaine before my face,
prouoke my hart to die?
Alas pore wench the mother said
alas poore louer to.
Thy fancie willes, but reasō not
commaundes, the thus to do
If euery thing thou canst cōceiue
in hed, doth worke thee greefe
Thē thrise so manye heds againe
can bring thee no releefe.
Come come, come come, come home with me
come to thy fathers house
Come glad thy mothers heauy harte
till tidings of thie spouse
Shal ioy againe thie ioiles sprits
and geue the quiet life
That couldst not yet this twelue mōths space
auoyde inuented strife,
Now reason workes and nature to
the daughter doth cōmaund,
In this a thing so requysite
tobay the dames demaund
They home warde bend to fathers house
the time they would begile
Which princes cause, and mortall warre,
do keepe him on exile
Naught wanteth here that mirth may make
the daughter hath her wil,
But alwaies doth your husbands want
the daughters plaint fulfil.
So as no ioy nor ioyful thing
but doth augment her care
and so much more because she wil
her cursey not declare.
Whiles in this great perplexitie
this yong and tendre wight
bewails her husbandes absence thus
as she may do aright:
The noble man the louer true,
is tost vpon the seas,
Now at the wil of Eolus,
and then as Neptune please.
At last with wery course & paine
this weather beaten Barke,
doth of the hauen desired so,
espie a certaine marke.
Now mates the maister cries apace,
good newes to euery man,
How Iack thou scuruy lowsy boy
go tap and fil the Can.
Be mery maisters drink a pace,
now make we al good sporte,
Our viage almost ended is,
I see the wished port.
wherin by force we mean to lād
as we haue done the like,
By help of god, & by ye force
of bended bowe and pike.
Then ioy echeman within ye shyp
their sport is for a king,
and hey, how ioly rombelowe,
the saylers al do sing.
Here might you see what soldgers seeks
and how they tosse and toile,
on sea, & shore, on euerye wheare
to come to saque and spoile
But he alas alone good man
whose mind doth bring to sight
his milde and true companion,
his comfort and delight:
In secret place doth stay a while
and wipes his flowing eie,
Til often wiping of the same
doth al the moisture drie.
Then secretly he sendeth forth
a grone vnto the skies
Which from his faithful hart forthewith
vnto his ladies flies.
And then he sheweth him self abroade
right pewsaunt on the deck
And saith vnto the soldgers all
obedient at a beck:
My mates my frendes my brethern deare
my fellows all in filde,
Next God my prince, and wife you are
to whome my hart I yelde.
Yt is the place you see it well
Where we must proue by strife
How most toppresse our enemy
how least to harme our life.
I am your owne assuredly
both hed both hart, and hande,
I craue of you but willing harts
by me at neede to stande.
Which if I fynde I swere to you
that none of you shall lacke
Whiles I haue land or liuelihod
or clothing to my backe.
These woordes ones past they swere to hym
if he had cause to trye:
He should perceiue, not one but all,
with him would liue and dye.
Glad was the captaine of such men
glad was the solgers eke
The hauen to entre in best wies
they all a meanes do seake
The enemy doth shew his face
like to the forest boare:
The cannon and the culuer shot
about their eares do roare,
The skirmish enters very hot,
yet doth the barke preuaile:
and in they goe not losing ought,
but tearing of their saile:
Wherewith they are in quietnes
the entring brunt is past:
and they into their wished porte
are now arriued at last.
The mariners that labred sore
with strained voices cries,
Saint George, Saint George to borrough,
they so do pearse the skies.
The enemies perceiue therewith
their purpose they had lost,
They fynde that scantly wil their gaine
beare halfe their toyle and cost.
and then they leaue their rigour since
they can no more preuaile,
and do forthink the time they spent
which came to none auaile.
Well, night groes on a pace, & they
that can fynd out their nest,
Forgetting toyle, with mery mynds
do geue them selues to rest.
The worthy captaine yet thinkes on
his faire and famous wife:
Which is his goddes and to him
much sweter then his life.
Now takes he paper in his hand
to wright that he doth think:
Which redy is and pen also,
but hath no whit of ynke.
Then with a quill he maketh him
a Launcet very fyne:
And with a phillip prickes his thomb
the point is made so kine.
Whereout doth spring the bloddy drops
so fast as he can wright,
and serues his fyled penne to print
that could his head indight.
Theffect wherof ensueth heare:
my wits I will assay,
His princely proase, in this rude verse
to tell you as I may.
Myne owne, to you your owne doth heare,
his hasty letters sende,
Least silence should accuse his troth
and so he might offende.
Of paper had I store ynough,
my pennes did eke abound,
But to expresse my estate to you,
no drop of ynke was found.
But that could not my faith a whit
nor promise from you staye,
For I to shewe my dutye, did
fynde out another waye.
And cause I knewe my letters would
prouoke you some delight,
See here my shift which only was
with blood the same to wright.
I left your sonnye sight with teares,
and Neptunes realme possest,
where till we came to happy hauen,
we felte but little rest.
And when we sawe the port or place.
wherein discharge we must,
In despight of the ennemy
therein our barke we thrust.
And though by force of fighting foes,
and turmoyle we were tost:
The lord be praisd, we gat the hauen,
and yet no man we lost.
And other newes haue I not now,
but that I would heare tell,
That you my loue be still in helth,
then must I needes do well.
Wherin I pray you satisfye
my hungry mynd and harte,
and letters still for letters shall
my writting hand reuart.
Farewell my harte, farewell my life,
farewell myne onely make,
Though rude my letters be, yet do
accept them for my sake.
Commend me to your parents both,
commend me to your frendes,
Commend me to your self againe,
and thus my letter endes.
This letter to a messenger
he did deliuer streight,
That did conuey the same to her
he made it of such weight.
Which when she sawe, the bobbling blood
wrapt warme within her brest,
Her teeth did cut the string in twaine,
she could not be in rest,
Untill she saw theffect and did
the letters ouer read,
Then was her mynde wel quieted,
then was she glad in dead.
Then to her mother stept she vp,
with wilde and staring looke,
For ioy she could not speake a worde,
but tooke to her the booke.
At last, lo heare quod she madam
see what my loue doth wright,
to me, to you, and to my Sire,
that graue and aunshent knight.
It gladdeth me I promise you
more then my tongue can tell,
Now mother be we mery all,
my husband is so well.
For now my ioies are permanēt
my cares are voyded guyt,
Oh happy hand, and honest hart,
that canst such letters write.
Alas, alas, yet saide she then,
these letters do not showe,
where he be slaine, since he them writ,
how might I do to know.
Then spake the witty mother thus
and aunswerd her againe,
I think no comfort comes to thee,
but doth renew thy paine.
What dotest thou oh folish girle,
or art thou worse then mad?
Doth euery thing discomfort thee,
that ought to make thee glad?
Thy husband is in perfect helth
his letters so doth showe,
These phancies then before to late,
seeke from your mynde to throw.
and write to him right cherefully,
let him not see you sadde,
This shal in trouble comfort him,
and this shal make you gladde.
What take to you, your penne and ynke,
and satisfie his mynde.
He writ to you his letters first,
let him your aunswer fynde.
The daughter therwith did relent,
her former foolish parte:
And writ to him to this effect,
euen from her persed hart,
Thou art myne owne,
and I am thine againe:
Oh cruel sea, how canst thou cut
a boddy thus in twaine.
Great hast I had to heare of thee,
thy letters did mee good,
Yet hast thou don some wrong to me
to write them with thy blood.
No duety dost thou owe to me,
I am thy seruaunt prest,
should not my hart serue the because
I fynde thou louest me best?
I sorrow that my sight did cause
the to depart with teares,
and Neptune for his churlishnes,
a cankerd carle appeares.
And if I had the powr that hath
the mighty Ioue aboue,
He should repent thoffence he hath
doon vnto thee my loue.
For I do loue the passing well,
and will do during life,
which promise may compare with hers
that was Ulixes wife.
And if I breake the same Oh lord
then let thy vengeaunce fall
on me, and euery plague that is,
bestow them on me all.
But yet how couldst thou, when thou sawst
the porte in warlike case,
possessed with a womans hart,
geue charge to such a place.
Thou didst me wrong to venture so,
yet may I not the blame,
For better is to venture lyfe,
then ende with Cowherd shame.
And I am bound to thank the that
no soner camst to rest,
but vnto me thine own thou didst
discloase thy secrete brest.
I am in helth and haue no cause
now thou art wel to morne,
Saue that I think thine absēce long,
and craue thy quick retourne.
Till then, I pray the lorde defende,
thy most desyred life,
and sende thy happy presence once
vnto thy louing wife.
Thus hath your owne more then her owne
at large her mynde exprest,
and sendes you thankes from parents and
from kindred and the rest.
Fare well my harte my strengthe my power,
my comfort and my trust,
whose louer whiles I liue I am
and after death I must.
The messenger yt brought the bil
beres aunswere now againe,
and frankly is contented for
his trauaile and his paine
No soner comes he to the place,
or peece where battel lyes
but straight this worthy gētlemā
the messenger espies,
vppon the rampiers of the wall,
with pike in hand most stout
and who that presseth to come in
he and his men kepe out.
Now here he slaith a scaling mā,
now there he geues a stroke
Now this mans neck, now that mans leg,
is by his puiisance broke
And as in this extremitie
he dealeth blow by blow
whereby the stoutest enemy
his force & puisance knowe.
So since he wrote the letter last
so stout was hee in fight
as iust desert for vertues sake,
hath dubbed him a knight.
His ensign that of late was gay
the cullours fresh and newe,
Now part is torne, and part is burnt,
it lookes of other hewe
And he that tricke and trimly went
they wot that know the trade,
his armour burst, his coates are torne
and he a warriour made
Wel, nothing yet remaines so long
but endeth at the last,
So night comes on, they cānot se
the battry endes in hast,
The trompets sound, on either side
they looked for retreat,
Some wipe their faces sprent with blood
and other some with swete
Here one dismembred of his leg,
for surgeons help do crye
Here one would haue his paunch sowde vp
here dead some other lye.
Now drommes stricke vp and gin to call
eche soldger to his band,
Now both to know their losse and gaine
eche capteine takes in hande,
Now though this champions seruice was
right equal with the best,
His gaine is greate, yet was his losse
as litle as the least.
Whiles thus he stoode in fortunes grace
much more then other did
He thought vpon his secret frend
which in his hart lay hid,
And wisht of al the gods of loue
that he could think or name,
that they would by theire deities
some Ingin for him frame:
Wherby he might when sonne went downe
with his swete hart deuise
and be againe vpon his charge
ere Phebus list to rise
Thus wauering thoughtes possest his brain
his passhons were at strife,
whiles that the long desired mā,
brought letters from his wife
The sight whereof made him forthwith
more ioyful and more gladde
Then if he halfe the Regiment
of faire Europa had.
He read his louers passions
her constancy he spies
The ioy wherof did cause his teares
to trickle from his eyes
What should I say in blisfulnes,
he doth accompt him than
much more, & farre beyond ye state
of any wedded man.
Now doth he please ye messenger
and then he doth resorte
Unto the meriest company
he findeth in the fort.
Now moorning wedes are cast away
he ioies in musickes songe
which erst in heauy state of mind,
had languished ful long.
Of plesant matters be doth geue
his conning hand to write
Such as to her his lerned hedde,
most gladly doth endyte.
He leaueth of his painted proase,
he writeth now in verse,
Such as my skilles pen pretends
verbatim to reherse.
Take from thy husbands happy hand,
my true and louing wife,
The ioyful tidings which report
the end of absent strife.
And herken to thy lot wherby
the marshal gods prefarre,
the worship & the worthy fame
which I haue wonne by warre
For neuer came ther chance at al
that brought me to vnrest
but grew from good to better stil,
and ended with the best.
Oh heuenly happie fate & tyme
wherin I first was made
a man of warre, a soldgers guide
the princes fo to fade.
For neuer did I yet in armes
encounter wight at al
But eyther yelded to my grace
or tooke his fatall fall
Wherefore my darling deare, and Iem
some men do iudge by right
That thou art made a Lady, &
that I am made a knight.
And I my selfe wil come to thee
and that ere many daies
A parle hath concluded peace
to god geue al the praise.
And I wil once againe, my selfe
my louing wife possesse:
and yu thy spouse, my lamp of life
with equal ioy and blesse.
As we that found our selues agreeud
with parting paines of late,
with lucky lot ere long time pas
shal mete with mery fate.
My hart till then take thou and hand,
my sences al and some,
and couch them where thou thinkest it meete
vntil my selfe do come
whereof there shalbe no delay
(yf death my life not trip)
a lenger time or further space,
then with the formost ship.
Til then cōtent thy careful mind
till then think on me to:
as I of thee my lot alone
haue done and stil wil do.
Fare wel myne owne, fare wel oh swete
my comfort and my ioy
Mine ayde, my helper, and my hope
my succour in annoy.
Take paines no more do holde thy hand
enforce not thee to wright,
for ere thy leteers can reuert
my selfe wil be in sight.
And let my letters to thy frends
my harty thanks allude,
But I to thee do geue asmuch
and so I do conclude.
With flying foote these tidings came
vnto this Ladies sight,
Who neuer erst did feele like ioy
like comfort nor delight.
For not the thing vpon the earth
that kind hath wrought with molde,
Or moyned is beneath the ground
no not the finest gold
No perle, no Iem, nor iuels ritch
so much could glad this wife,
As did the letters which resound
the husbands helth and life.
For with the sodein sight therof,
the cristal streames did flow
euen from her verye eies & hart
and thence in ordre shewe
The secrets which she sought to hide
amidst her modest minde,
The like wherof, would christe ech man
might from his wedlock fynde
But since it is a thing as rare
as Phenix is to see,
such women in this world to liue
let her alone for me.
And speak we of the parents ioy
that doth ioy in the man
asmuch as any father may
or any mother can.
And how that they preparance make
against the knightes retourne
and how they incence & perfumes
in euery corner bourne.
And how the wedding bed is made
and els to make it shorte
There wanteth nought but him alone
whom they would haue resort.
Alas how often would the wife
goe view and see the skies
and make the craysed clowds of heauen
with euery winde that flies.
Alas how often lokes she vp,
to steples and to faines,
How often doth she marke the driftes
of moisty mistes and raynes,
And all to view the windes that would
send home to her againe
the man that she desired most
whose want was al her paine.
Alas how long in vaine she lookt
for that that would not be,
For that againe the gods had vowde
her eies should neuer see.
Oh dismol day, oh dāpned dome
so fast that followst on,
So sone as were the letters sent
and was the bearer gon:
Who may discloase the dreadful dart
without abundant teares:
Or who not drownd in brackish fluddes
may tend to it his eares.
My hart doth faile, my sences shake,
my heare vpright doth stand,
and eke to write the same, my penne
doth queuer in my hand.
Oh that when first I did pretend
this dreadful dome to wright,
My brayne had ben, so dull as not
a word it could endight.
Or els that all the fayry gods
which Poets fayne haue skill,
had lept at large, and set their handes
to aide my forward will.
and then no dought but teares ynowe
and wailing woords would bee
To mourne the mortal chaunce alas,
which shal not stay for me.
No sooner were, the letters gone
which you haue hard he sent
vnto his loue, nor sooner was
the bearer that way bent:
Then was an accusacion
against the knight ymade
by enuy and by traitours gylte
his worship to enuade.
And that in such a shamefull sorte
as would amaze eche eare,
The fond and false affirmed tale
with heauy hart to heare.
Which heard the knight could craue no lesse
but that in his behoofe,
his foe that had accusde him theare
might therof bring some proofe.
And did alledge by lawful rule
before the Piers that sat,
and also by dame natures law,
which did affirme it flat,
That heinous was thoffence of hym
that should his life assaile,
with lesings false which god forbid
should therein ought preuaile.
And therof claimde againe some proofe
before his face to heare,
that could (as he knew wel none could)
him thereof witnes beare.
The iudges deemd this iust demaund
good reason in their sight:
But when the prince a party is,
how hard is then to quight
The Lambe, that doth the wolf pursue
that seeketh only blood,
as is the knight sought here (god wot)
by him that nere did good.
Who said for answer what is he
that treason doth pretende?
Or els against his princes lawes
him self by force doth bende?
That wil make priuie any wight
vnto his wicked way?
Except to such from whom he hopes
of succour and of stay.
But this I say & eke wil swere
and will by combat try,
that he to prince a traitour is
and ought for treason dye.
And on this proof I offer heare
my gauntlet in the field,
and haue no doubt before you all,
to force the traitour yelde.
And this I think be proofe enough
for Mars demaundes no more:
wherefore I do accuse him still
a traytour as before.
Then saide the knight vnto his foe
vntrue thou art vniust:
and to much on thy manhood dust
put thine affied trust.
And first vnto my Piers I speake,
no lye my tongue shall tell:
For if I do, I praye the lord
my soule may burne in hell.
So clere I am from traitours gylte
or damage of my prince:
as is the childe this night brough fourth,
and scarce hath sucked since.
If deed, if woord, if thought at all
to such effect I put,
From ioye in earth, and blisse in heauen
good lord my body cut.
But false thou falsly dost accuse
my troth, and I will trye,
thy combate (Carle) here is my gloue
and I do the defye.
And in the liuing lorde my god
I haue affied trust,
thee & thy malice to subdue
in this my quarel iust.
The plaint and aunswer both is hard
alleged by these twaine
and eke the dredfull bloodye othe
before the Iudge is tane,
In which they both do stoutly sweare
by god that is of might,
His othe is true (but yet o lord)
thou knowest which is right.
Nothing remaines but to appoint
the bluddy battels daye,
and eke the place wherein the fight
wheron the iudges stay,
At last the iudgement is geuen vp,
and onely four dates tane,
wherin the dreadful dart of death,
is tried betwene these twaine.
In which time they do seeke which way
with courage them to arme:
and eke to practise fence, thereby
to worke their foe more harme,
And in such fight the maner is,
they know that see the same,
Two haue a man of either syde,
which frenchemen fathers name,
And are for manhood chosen out
and equall frendes they be,
whose office is, betwene the foes
an equall match to see.
That not the one in armour clad
the other naked saile:
Nor yet in oddes of edge or length
their weapons do preuaile.
But all their carke and trauaile is,
and subtiltye to seeke,
That equall be the matche and that
they both be armd alike.
Such two there are appointed heare
and men in dede they bee
as apt to take suche thing in hande
as euer man did see.
So neat to proyne the place wherein
this battel must be tryed,
So skilfull eke the plot to choose,
the wethers to deuyde,
That who so saw their perfectnesse
would therin take delight
as much as solgers wont to doe,
to see such combat fight.
The day drawes on, the one in red,
as fierce as forest bore,
comes in, to challenge blameles blood
as he hath done before.
and at his back his father standes
as I before discried,
and iointly both the knights repaire,
and stay they do abyde.
Who with his battel father comes,
his foe there to despight,
and eke to shew his giltles hart,
is clothed all in white.
The boustrous battell here begins
their strokes are passing sore,
The oddes of men, the lookers on
do very much deplore,
For why? the one a Ruffyn olde
in whome no drop of blood
there euer was: that did enforce,
or moue him vnto good:
The other was a famous man,
though yong a worthy knight,
Such one as did the bloddy man
for vertues sake dispight.
Oh lord with cruell strokes how oft
do they encounter heare?
how roundly doth the one lay on
that doth the other beare?
How many do with weping eyes
as they may do full well,
Lament the churlish chaunce alas,
that there that day befell:
And eke bewaile the harmful hap
of those that here did trye,
their manhod and theire mighty force
whereof the one must dye.
How were ye harts of some apald
how do some other quake,
to see the bluddy blowes were geuen
which only death doth must slake.
And those that loued their prince and realme
had heare no power to chose
But to bewail the deaths of those
the realme was like to lose.
Alas when blood on either side,
had blynded so the face
of those did fight, as by their piers
they parted were aspace.
And proined were as is the guise,
but to renew their breth,
how sharply doth the one again
pursue the others death?
Oh cruel fight thus helde, & sharpe
whose stripes are dealt so sore,
as still the wished victory
hanges doubtfull more and more.
Unhappy thrust that then were thrown
and sore did hurt the knight,
But yet the traitours harme was suche
as he no more tould fight.
Then prostrate lying on the ground,
thus to the knight he spake,
Not of desert but of despight
at first this quarel brake.
Wherefore before this company
I do the mercy crye,
and claime the cleare, and graunt my self
most worthy for to dye.
Oh lord the thundring noys that flewe,
with skriches shrill and hye,
From mouthes of men, to him in heauen
that guides the starry skye.
And gaue him thankes, that he had causde
the truthe thus to be knowne,
and that the guylty man was by
the guiltles, ouerthrowne.
Wherewith the knight forgaue the falte,
yet payde to him his dewe:
and with his sword he thrust him in,
and so the traitour slewe.
Amazd I am here to expresse
the seconde crye and shout,
that ioy did make to passe the mouthes
of all the famous rowte,
That looked on and praised god
that he was ridde from blame,
whose iust desert did claime by right
to be the childe of fame.
whose golden tromp did soūd full far,
how did the knight him trie
and how because the traitour so,
by puissaunt arme to die.
It cometh to the ladies eare
what act her knight had done,
how that in fight he slew his foe,
and kept his honour wonne.
Which wrought in her and al her frendes
such perfect ioy and blesse,
as now they thought themselues cut of
from care and heauines.
For fame nor yet had spred abrode
the knightes most cruel wound,
nor how in chaire he was brought home
nor how he ganne to swound,
Nor how that present night alas
that famous man did die,
Nor how his soldgers and his frends
like children roare and crye:
nor how he is brought to ye church
with mourning of the drōmes,
Nor how the knight is brought to graue
with mightie shot of gonnes.
Nor how his ensigne trayled is
with sorow on the ground,
Nor how nothing but sobbes and teares
in al the towne is found.
This resteth dead they ioy apace
they shoot at other marke
vntil the comming home (alas)
of the vnhappy bark.
Then is this tidings told at large,
to soone the lady heares,
her heuy hart nould let her speke
nor could she shed her teares:
But straight she casted vp her sight
vnto the clowdy skie,
She fet a grone which rent her hart
and therwithal did crye,
vnto that god from whom doth glyde,
the golden glistering sonne,
From sight of whom no wight at all
hath power himselfe to shonne.
And said, oh mightie king of gods
oh thou that liuest for ay,
Impute it not to me for sinne
that loue doth force me say.
Didst thou not geue to me a man
that nature did adorne,
with giftes of grace, that did excel
the rest that ere were borne:
The secret substaunce of ye soule
in him did eke habounde,
And nothing but thy feare and grace
within that man was found
And that I should the vertues touch
which to the body long,
Didst thou not send him helth o lorde
and madest his body strong.
And deckst him with eche honour that
this worlde mighte him yelde,
and sēst him worship, which he woon
by stretched arme in filde.
How coulst thou thē in fragrāt youth
amidst his honor got,
By traitours hand let him be slaine
whom could no treason spot?
Ah, that I wretched wight haue cause
with thee thus to dispute,
whom al the world, no saint nor deuill
is hable to confute.
What? should I curse my fate oh lord?
or rather craue to dye,
Or should I piers the mighty heauēs
with hye and hugye crye,
Since that my cursed chaunce is such
as neither can I haue,
my loue aliue, nor yet my selfe
be buried in his graue:
Wel, wel, oh lord remyt my sinnes
euen through thy mercy most
wherwith she stretched forth her armes
and yelded vp the gost.
Much strogling was but none auaile
her sences al were gone
Her lymmes were stiffe, her body straight
as colde as marble stone.
Thamased mother saw this chaunce
and ruthfully she spake
To this effect did I pore soule
al this preparaunce make.
Then let the worlde and these that liue
if aught be left take all,
and for thy mercies sake good lorde
send me my fatal fall.
Let me not liue and lead my life
a barren wife in age,
Nor yet to ronne the ruful race
of rigours that do rage
But since thou hast in suddein sorte
bereft me of my sonne,
And of my daughter to, whose liues
had yet long race to ronne,
And that I can nor may not aske
their liues againe to haue,
Graūt at the least that I may be
a fellow in her graue,
And so our bodies may agayne
in coffin iointly lye
That like as she by me did liue
so I by her may dye.
Herewt her face did wax ful pale,
her body gan to faint,
and easely was god knoweth to spye
how death coule her attaint.
She shryked out, and said oh death,
I feele thy force begins
Oh god for Christes sake do graunt
forgeuenes of my synnes.
Wherwith she did geue vp the gost,
as did her child before,
her fatal threde was shride in twaine,
and she could liue no more.
For neither could their force nor might
no bowing downe nor paine
reuoke her traunce, nor bring to her
her lothed life againe.
The father saw that he had lost
his daughter sonne and wife,
Would faine haue died, but yet doth last
his heauy hated life.
The seruaunts and the neigbors al
and many men vnknowne,
do taste the dolfull heauines,
that these their deathes haue sowen.
In aunshent houshold tombe the dame
and childe Sepulture haue,
and many conning epitaphs
is set vppon their graue.
And those that knew them euery one
and sees the siers vnrest,
Do iudge of both, ye wemens hap
in sorrow was the lest.
God graūt him quiet life to liue
his cares away to pluck,
God send so true a hart to all
yet lord some better lucke.