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 |
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
Frenos complaint.
|
 | The Rocke of Regard |  |
112
Frenos complaint.
I see
(quoth hee) death spares no sortes of men,
Our bagges of drosse, may not withstand his might,
To moyle and toile for pelfe what bootes it then?
No whit, God knowes, if wee could see aright.
But worldly cares our minds bewitched soe,
As thoughtes of heauen, silde in our brestes do dwell,
The prouerbe saith (the more such fathers woe)
Happ'is the childe, whose father goes to hell.
But such prouerbes, more common are then true,
Silde children keepe, that fathers lewdly gett,
And trust mee wealth, if after want ensue,
With double griefe, the needie thrall doth frett,
To what ende then, for mucke, take wee such care?
To damne our selues, and worke our childrens scare,
Our bagges of drosse, may not withstand his might,
To moyle and toile for pelfe what bootes it then?
No whit, God knowes, if wee could see aright.
But worldly cares our minds bewitched soe,
As thoughtes of heauen, silde in our brestes do dwell,
The prouerbe saith (the more such fathers woe)
Happ'is the childe, whose father goes to hell.
But such prouerbes, more common are then true,
Silde children keepe, that fathers lewdly gett,
And trust mee wealth, if after want ensue,
With double griefe, the needie thrall doth frett,
To what ende then, for mucke, take wee such care?
To damne our selues, and worke our childrens scare,
O wicked world, so sweete thy torments seeme,
That when men tast, thy drugges of vaine delight,
Their onely heauen, thy thralles do thee esteeme,
With mistes of mucke, thou blindest so their sight,
That (wretched) they, whilst that in health they liue,
As Swine in myre, do wallowe in their faultes.
An others fall, nor conscience can them meeue,
To waile their sinnes, till grislie death assaultes,
The thought of whom, as thornes do pricke mee (wretch)
Alas, mee thinkes, I see his ghastly shape,
What did I meane, to name him in my speach,
And can I not his furious force escape,
Oh noe, my sinnes, beginneth now to swarme,
To matche with him, my selfe howe should I arme?
That when men tast, thy drugges of vaine delight,
Their onely heauen, thy thralles do thee esteeme,
113
That (wretched) they, whilst that in health they liue,
As Swine in myre, do wallowe in their faultes.
An others fall, nor conscience can them meeue,
To waile their sinnes, till grislie death assaultes,
The thought of whom, as thornes do pricke mee (wretch)
Alas, mee thinkes, I see his ghastly shape,
What did I meane, to name him in my speach,
And can I not his furious force escape,
Oh noe, my sinnes, beginneth now to swarme,
To matche with him, my selfe howe should I arme?
My conscience cryes, confesse thy wicked life,
My wicked life, such monstrous fraude presents,
As in my selfe, I finde a hell of strife,
My gracelesse deedes, the hope of grace preuents,
I see, I see, howe fierie fiendes do yell,
Before hie Ioue my wicked soule to haue,
My secrete sinnes, condemnes mee (wretch) to hell,
They be so huge, that nothing can me saue,
Where is the booke, wherein Gods will is writ?
They say there in, is balme that sinne can cure,
What ment I (wretch) I neuer studied it?
The booke is large, my life will not indure,
So longe, as I may reade, and reape such grace,
The fault is mine, I might, while I had space.
My wicked life, such monstrous fraude presents,
As in my selfe, I finde a hell of strife,
My gracelesse deedes, the hope of grace preuents,
I see, I see, howe fierie fiendes do yell,
Before hie Ioue my wicked soule to haue,
My secrete sinnes, condemnes mee (wretch) to hell,
They be so huge, that nothing can me saue,
Where is the booke, wherein Gods will is writ?
They say there in, is balme that sinne can cure,
What ment I (wretch) I neuer studied it?
The booke is large, my life will not indure,
So longe, as I may reade, and reape such grace,
The fault is mine, I might, while I had space.
I faint, I faint, my life will needes away,
False Frenos now, of force must yeeld to death,
These farewell woordes, good friends yet note I pray,
Prepare your selues ere latter gaspe of breath,
So spend your liues, as if you daily dyde,
Leste tarde you, by death (perhaps) be tane,
Note well my fall, in top of all my pride,
Before I wist, hee gaue mee (wretch) my bane,
By worldly wealth, for which I tooke such care,
I needes must leaue, in no good order sett,
A soudaine chaunge, the chaunce yet nothing rare,
This is the proofe of goods, that fraude doth get,
Loe this is all, that death will let mee say,
But what is short, may best be borne away.
False Frenos now, of force must yeeld to death,
These farewell woordes, good friends yet note I pray,
Prepare your selues ere latter gaspe of breath,
So spend your liues, as if you daily dyde,
Leste tarde you, by death (perhaps) be tane,
Note well my fall, in top of all my pride,
Before I wist, hee gaue mee (wretch) my bane,
By worldly wealth, for which I tooke such care,
I needes must leaue, in no good order sett,
114
This is the proofe of goods, that fraude doth get,
Loe this is all, that death will let mee say,
But what is short, may best be borne away.
| The Rocke of Regard | |