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. Plasmos recantation.
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 | The Rocke of Regard |  |
P. Plasmos recantation.
Before
the world, I here recant my life,
I do renounce, both lingring loue and lust,
My wanton will, with wisedome once at strife,
Hath lost the fielde, the type of fansies trust.
I do renounce, both lingring loue and lust,
My wanton will, with wisedome once at strife,
Hath lost the fielde, the type of fansies trust.
My sugred toung, bepoudred all with teares,
To chase mistrust, from my sweete maistresse mynde,
With simple speach, from humble sprite now weares,
That fauour I, with my sweete Christ may finde.
To chase mistrust, from my sweete maistresse mynde,
With simple speach, from humble sprite now weares,
That fauour I, with my sweete Christ may finde.
My seattered sighes, which I on earth did strowe,
I gather vp, and sende them to the starres,
As messengers, of my lamenting woe,
Twixt sine and soule, so mortall is the warres.
I gather vp, and sende them to the starres,
As messengers, of my lamenting woe,
Twixt sine and soule, so mortall is the warres.
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Sith I repent, no shame it is to wray,
My former life, how farre from grace it sweru'd,
Although from truth, I silly sheepe did stray,
As good men God, so I my Goddesse seru'd.
My former life, how farre from grace it sweru'd,
Although from truth, I silly sheepe did stray,
As good men God, so I my Goddesse seru'd.
Her fauour heauen, I reckt her frowning hell,
I swam in ioy, when I attaind her grace,
I sunke in noy, when she with wrath did swell,
Such strange effectes, were shrowded in her face.
I swam in ioy, when I attaind her grace,
I sunke in noy, when she with wrath did swell,
Such strange effectes, were shrowded in her face.
Saint Pandor then, my aduocate I made,
Who pynde my purse, yet fead my foolish vaine,
A thousand scornes, with my fond sight did fade.
My suite in wordes, such slender grace did gaine,
Who pynde my purse, yet fead my foolish vaine,
A thousand scornes, with my fond sight did fade.
My suite in wordes, such slender grace did gaine,
As Gods of olde, my Goddesse honoured is,
Which sacrifice, of kine and calues did craue,
But she inioynd, in penance of my mis,
For fashion sake, that first I yeald her slaue.
Which sacrifice, of kine and calues did craue,
But she inioynd, in penance of my mis,
For fashion sake, that first I yeald her slaue.
With vowe of fayth, my suite then must I showe,
But suites of lawne with toyes of deeper coste,
The duties were, which I for grace did owe,
Such costly grace, then found were better loste.
But suites of lawne with toyes of deeper coste,
The duties were, which I for grace did owe,
Such costly grace, then found were better loste.
But mistes of loue, did so bedim my eyes,
That wealth was slaue vnto my wanton thought,
Glad was my purse, when he the toy espies,
Which with my loue, a perfect liking wrought.
That wealth was slaue vnto my wanton thought,
Glad was my purse, when he the toy espies,
Which with my loue, a perfect liking wrought.
But I too sharpe, did spurre so free a wretch,
He pynde to naught, to please her peeuish mynde,
Then lacke too late, this lesson did me teach,
I seru'd no saint, but one of Sathans kynde.
He pynde to naught, to please her peeuish mynde,
Then lacke too late, this lesson did me teach,
I seru'd no saint, but one of Sathans kynde.
Who when she sawe, pure neede to play his part,
With iealous speach, gan straight to, faine debate,
My second choice she sayde, possest my heart,
As though pure loue, had hatcht this souden hate,
With iealous speach, gan straight to, faine debate,
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As though pure loue, had hatcht this souden hate,
But well I sawe, despight did forge suspect,
And iealous speach, was set to colour scorne.
My charge not change, did frame with foule defect.
She fained griefe, I wretch with woe forworne.
And iealous speach, was set to colour scorne.
My charge not change, did frame with foule defect.
She fained griefe, I wretch with woe forworne.
My plees of want, then purchase little grace,
She wild me loue, where I my wealth did waste,
For my nice choice, she reckt her selfe too base,
Which here and there, in change a new was plast.
She wild me loue, where I my wealth did waste,
For my nice choice, she reckt her selfe too base,
Which here and there, in change a new was plast.
Fonde fansie then, presented to my will,
In desperate panges, to pine away with paine,
Or purchase pence, on top of Shooters hill,
If I escape, my bootie grace would gaine.
In desperate panges, to pine away with paine,
Or purchase pence, on top of Shooters hill,
If I escape, my bootie grace would gaine.
For him that earst, both hope and hap did vaunce,
To desperat thoughts, to vayle his former blisse,
Blame not his mynde, to cure this sorrie chaunce,
If ventur'd life, did worke amends of misse.
To desperat thoughts, to vayle his former blisse,
Blame not his mynde, to cure this sorrie chaunce,
If ventur'd life, did worke amends of misse.
And syth (quoth I) I must a martyr be,
Then burne to naught, wt blase of Cupides brands,
A gentler death, is hanging on a tree,
I may escape, the bowget makers hands.
Then burne to naught, wt blase of Cupides brands,
A gentler death, is hanging on a tree,
I may escape, the bowget makers hands.
In spight of scorne, which haunts my Ladies hart,
Then shall I swim, in seas of former grace,
And sorrow shall finde, recompence of smart,
With foulded armes, when I my ioy imbrace.
Then shall I swim, in seas of former grace,
And sorrow shall finde, recompence of smart,
With foulded armes, when I my ioy imbrace.
These drousie dumps, which driues me to despaire
Shall purged be, with drugs of droynses store,
I glad, he mad, then mumping in his chaire,
When steede is stolne, too late shall shut the dore.
Shall purged be, with drugs of droynses store,
I glad, he mad, then mumping in his chaire,
When steede is stolne, too late shall shut the dore.
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Thus I vile wretche, led on by wanton lust,
A triumphe made, within my wicked thought,
How I by hap, the harmelesse threw to dust,
Ere I escapt, or had the mischiefe wrought,
A triumphe made, within my wicked thought,
How I by hap, the harmelesse threw to dust,
Ere I escapt, or had the mischiefe wrought,
But oh (sweete Christ) thy grace this folly stayd,
Thou cleardst my sight, which mistes of loue did bleare,
Unto whose praise, my conscience hath bewrayd,
My former life, deuoyde of godly feare.
Thou cleardst my sight, which mistes of loue did bleare,
Unto whose praise, my conscience hath bewrayd,
My former life, deuoyde of godly feare.
Thou crau'st (good Lord) no other aduocate,
But prayer mine, to purchase heauenly grace,
The which thou sayst, doth neuer come too late,
If I repent, when prayer pleades my case.
But prayer mine, to purchase heauenly grace,
The which thou sayst, doth neuer come too late,
If I repent, when prayer pleades my case.
A contrite hart, is the sweete sacrifice,
That thou dost seeke, ere we thy fauour winne,
The which, deare God, with sighes & weeping eyes,
I offer vp in recompence of sinne.
That thou dost seeke, ere we thy fauour winne,
The which, deare God, with sighes & weeping eyes,
I offer vp in recompence of sinne.
Attending still, when triall of my fayth,
Shall treade downe death, & Sathan force to reele,
And boldly say, till latter gaspe of breath,
My soul through faith, ye ioyes of heauen doth feele.
Shall treade downe death, & Sathan force to reele,
And boldly say, till latter gaspe of breath,
My soul through faith, ye ioyes of heauen doth feele.
| The Rocke of Regard | |