The Rocke of Regard diuided into foure parts. The first, the Castle of delight: Wherein is reported, the wretched end of wanton and dissolute liuing. The second, the Garden of Vnthriftinesse: Wherein are many sweete flowers, (or rather fancies) of honest loue. The thirde, the Arbour of Vertue: Wherein slaunder is highly punished, and vertuous Ladies and Gentlewomen, worthily commended. The fourth, the Ortchard of Repentance: Wherein are discoursed, the miseries that followe dicing, the mischiefes of quareling, the fall of prodigalitie: and the souden ouerthrowe of foure notable cousners, with diuers other morall, natural, & tragical discourses: documents and admonitions being all the inuention, collection and translation of George Whetstons |
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P. P. Inuectiue against his toung.
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 | The Rocke of Regard |  |
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P. P. Inuectiue against his toung.
Thy rash reuenge (O tatling toung) I rue,Although with truth, thou slaundredst late thy foe,
The prouerbe olde, by proofe I finde too true,
Who fightes with words, doth wound him selfe with woe,
The ciuil lawe, so fauours fame and name,
As strumpets knowne, by wantons oft resort,
Are sildome put to any open shame.
Les open sight, makes proofe of Venus sport,
Who so is toucht, with any foule abuse,
Though common speach, the same for truth confirme,
The common lawe, the guiltie will excuse,
If proofe by oth, ne makes the knowledge firme,
Thus wanton fylthes, and wily churles are scus'd,
If secretly, they worke their foule amis,
Yet needely they, which are by these abus'd,
Must haue a meanes, to vse reuenge ywis,
Where oft their toung, is first addrest to fight,
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Which knowne he straight, both seeke to match their might,
And first begins, their griefes for to conspire,
My selfe by such makes proofe, this tale is true,
Who weend to feare, with threatning words my foe,
At which he smilde, preuenting what he knewe,
Woulde be a meane, to worke his ouerthrowe,
Yea worse then that, he tryst me for me toung,
With actions heuge, for slaundering of his fame,
For which my purse, an honest quest so stuong,
That euer since, in faith it hath beene same.
Thus losse to me, no hurt to him at all,
O babbling toung, thy rash reuenge hath wrought,
Else blowes in lawe, had giuen him cause to brall,
Of both the best, though best reuenge be naught,
For bobs do feare, when words not ioynd with deede,
In wrangling mynds, more cnackred thoughts doth breede.
| The Rocke of Regard | |