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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Cressids complaint.
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Cressids complaint.
The Argument, for Cressids complaint.
The inconstancie of Cressid, is so readie in euery mans mouth, as it is a needelesse labour, to blase at full her abuse towardes yong Troilus, her frowning on Syr Diomede, her wanton lures and loue, neuerthelesse, her companie scorned, of thousandes sometimes sought, her beggerie after brauerie, her lothsome leprosie, after liuely beautie, her wretched age, after wanton youth, and her perpetuall infamie, after violent death, are worthy notes (for others heede) to be remembred. And for as much as Cressids heires in euery corner liue, yea more cunning then Cressid her selfe, in wanton exercises, toyes, and inticements: to forewarne all men of such filthes, to persuade the infected, to fall from their follies, & to rayse a feare in dames vntainted to offend, I haue reported the subtile sleites, the leaud life, and euill fortunes of a Courtisane, in Cressid: name, whom you may suppose, in tattered weedes, halfe hungerstarued, miserably arrayde, with scabs, leprosie, and mayngie, to complaine as followeth.
You
ramping gyrles, which rage with wanton lust,
Beholde in me, the bitter bloumes of chaunge.
Forworne with woe, who wallowes in the dust,
And lepre like, is double mayld with maynge,
For my desart, this fortune is not straunge,
Disdaine my life, but listen to my mone,
Without good heede, the hap may be your owne.
Beholde in me, the bitter bloumes of chaunge.
Forworne with woe, who wallowes in the dust,
And lepre like, is double mayld with maynge,
For my desart, this fortune is not straunge,
Disdaine my life, but listen to my mone,
Without good heede, the hap may be your owne.
Though now I am, anoynted with annoy,
My hyde bepatcht, with scabs of sundry hewe,
I sometime was, the star of stately Troy,
With beautie blist, my venes as Azures blewe,
No fault in me, but that I was vntrue,
In Priams court, who did not Cressid like,
In lue of loue, who gaue she not the gleake.
My hyde bepatcht, with scabs of sundry hewe,
I sometime was, the star of stately Troy,
With beautie blist, my venes as Azures blewe,
No fault in me, but that I was vntrue,
In Priams court, who did not Cressid like,
In lue of loue, who gaue she not the gleake.
Where I was lou'd, I seemed alwayes straunge,
Where litle waide, I won with gleames of grace,
My gadding mynd, had such delight in chaunge,
As seldome twice, the best I did imbrace,
And once beguild, with beautie of my face,
With ebbes of griefe, did fall his flouds of ioy,
He su'd and seru'd, but Cressid then was coy.
Where litle waide, I won with gleames of grace,
My gadding mynd, had such delight in chaunge,
As seldome twice, the best I did imbrace,
And once beguild, with beautie of my face,
With ebbes of griefe, did fall his flouds of ioy,
He su'd and seru'd, but Cressid then was coy.
I did intice, king Priams sonnes to loue,
And did repine, the poorest, should go free,
My thralls for grace, a thousand wayes did proue,
On whom I smyld, a happie man was he,
The wisest wits, were thus bewitcht by me,
But as the hawke, in mewe, at randome liues,
Yet diet keepes her gorge, as seldome greues.
And did repine, the poorest, should go free,
My thralls for grace, a thousand wayes did proue,
On whom I smyld, a happie man was he,
The wisest wits, were thus bewitcht by me,
But as the hawke, in mewe, at randome liues,
Yet diet keepes her gorge, as seldome greues.
So I that liude, with store of foode at large,
When hunger pincht, on lustie youthes I prayd,
If boystrous lads, my gorge did ouercharge,
For tyring meate, the deintie boyes were wayde,
Thus with a meane, my prime of pride was staide,
Then was I faire, my traine with oyle was strickt
My feathers freshe, were dayly prunde and prickt.
When hunger pincht, on lustie youthes I prayd,
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For tyring meate, the deintie boyes were wayde,
Thus with a meane, my prime of pride was staide,
Then was I faire, my traine with oyle was strickt
My feathers freshe, were dayly prunde and prickt.
No toy, no gaude, ne straunge deuise I see,
Though not the first, the same I second had,
Glad was the youth, that fastned ought on me,
Of braue array, in chaunge, I still was clad,
My cost to see, the courtly dames were mad,
They did repine, the peeres should Cressid loue,
When rascals, scarce, to them did liking moue.
Though not the first, the same I second had,
Glad was the youth, that fastned ought on me,
Of braue array, in chaunge, I still was clad,
My cost to see, the courtly dames were mad,
They did repine, the peeres should Cressid loue,
When rascals, scarce, to them did liking moue.
Such fancies straunge, were figurd in my face,
As few there were, but my good will did moue,
I traind them on, with outward shew of grace.
My garter one, another had my gloue,
My colours all, did weare in fine of loue,
But where in hart, I lou'd and liked best,
He euer wore the spoyle of all the rest.
As few there were, but my good will did moue,
I traind them on, with outward shew of grace.
My garter one, another had my gloue,
My colours all, did weare in fine of loue,
But where in hart, I lou'd and liked best,
He euer wore the spoyle of all the rest.
Syr Diomede got, both brooch, and belt of cost,
The which in right, to Troilus belongs,
An eyesore sure, to him that lou'd me most,
Who might repine, but not reuenge his wrongs,
Least notes of hope, were turnd to desperate songs,
The rest did loue, as courtiers do in showe:
But he good soule, did pine away with woe.
The which in right, to Troilus belongs,
An eyesore sure, to him that lou'd me most,
Who might repine, but not reuenge his wrongs,
Least notes of hope, were turnd to desperate songs,
The rest did loue, as courtiers do in showe:
But he good soule, did pine away with woe.
Yet cruell I, did smile to see his smart,
Who somtime warmd, his woes with slender hap,
Which freesd againe, with frownings ouerthwart,
And when with ioy, he pratled in my lap,
With peeuish speach, I would his pleasures snap,
For wronging whom, the Troians did me paint,
In hart a fiend, in face and forme a Saint.
Who somtime warmd, his woes with slender hap,
Which freesd againe, with frownings ouerthwart,
And when with ioy, he pratled in my lap,
With peeuish speach, I would his pleasures snap,
For wronging whom, the Troians did me paint,
In hart a fiend, in face and forme a Saint.
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Then iudge you may, my beautie bare great sway,
Which thus inthrawld, by loue a Princes sonne,
My state no lesse, that durst his sutes denay,
A world it was, to heare what praise I wonne,
A wonder, more, how soone my pride was donne,
My forme did fade, my beautie prou'd a blase,
Or as a toy, which forced fooles to gase.
Which thus inthrawld, by loue a Princes sonne,
My state no lesse, that durst his sutes denay,
A world it was, to heare what praise I wonne,
A wonder, more, how soone my pride was donne,
My forme did fade, my beautie prou'd a blase,
Or as a toy, which forced fooles to gase.
Declining yet, I had a present shift,
A painted face, did please a gasinge eye,
But surfled stuffe, prou'd no induring drift,
My slibber sauce, when wanton girles espie,
With open mouth, the same in court they cry:
Poore Cressid then no sooner came in place,
But fortie frumpes, were framed by her face.
A painted face, did please a gasinge eye,
But surfled stuffe, prou'd no induring drift,
My slibber sauce, when wanton girles espie,
With open mouth, the same in court they cry:
Poore Cressid then no sooner came in place,
But fortie frumpes, were framed by her face.
Some said that I a passing picture drue,
Some would haue drawen, the figure of a sot,
The crabtreeface, would haue mee mend his hue,
Some in my cheeke, did faine to cleare a spot,
And all to rub my starche away, god wot,
If messellike, my painting so they pilde,
They smylde and said, my silke no colour hilde.
Some would haue drawen, the figure of a sot,
The crabtreeface, would haue mee mend his hue,
Some in my cheeke, did faine to cleare a spot,
And all to rub my starche away, god wot,
If messellike, my painting so they pilde,
They smylde and said, my silke no colour hilde.
My selfe did laugh, to see my painting clearde,
The straung defects, that withered age did bring,
A horseface then, a tawnie hyde appearde,
A wrinkled mumpes, a foule mishapen thing,
A sea of hate, where liuely loue did spring,
Thus beauties beames, to clowdes of scorne to chaunge
So soone, mee thought was sure a myrrour straunge.
The straung defects, that withered age did bring,
A horseface then, a tawnie hyde appearde,
A wrinkled mumpes, a foule mishapen thing,
A sea of hate, where liuely loue did spring,
Thus beauties beames, to clowdes of scorne to chaunge
So soone, mee thought was sure a myrrour straunge.
Yet so I preast, amid the Courtly crew,
Who once espyde, a fresh the sport begon,
Some said I lookt, now of a passing hew,
A scarfe some cryde, to keepe goodface from sunne,
Thus was I scornd, when youthful pride was don,
Some wild me learne, anew my A.B.C..
With backward reade, from H. to skip to B.
Who once espyde, a fresh the sport begon,
Some said I lookt, now of a passing hew,
A scarfe some cryde, to keepe goodface from sunne,
Thus was I scornd, when youthful pride was don,
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With backward reade, from H. to skip to B.
But as the Hawke to gad, which knowes the way,
Will hardly leaue, to cheake at carren crowes,
If long vnserude, she waites and wants her pray:
Or as the horse, in whom disorder growes,
His iadish trickes, againe wil hardly loose:
So they in youth, which Venus ioyes do proue,
In drouping age, Syr Chaucers iestes will loue.
Will hardly leaue, to cheake at carren crowes,
If long vnserude, she waites and wants her pray:
Or as the horse, in whom disorder growes,
His iadish trickes, againe wil hardly loose:
So they in youth, which Venus ioyes do proue,
In drouping age, Syr Chaucers iestes will loue.
My self for profe, whē wanton yeres were worne,
When lookes could yeald, no loue, but lothsome hate,
When in my face appeard the forme of scorne,
Whē lust for shame, with me might sound debate,
Although I did turne tayle to foules of state,
At vauntage yet, with baser byrdes I met,
On kytes I prayde, till I could partridge get.
When lookes could yeald, no loue, but lothsome hate,
When in my face appeard the forme of scorne,
Whē lust for shame, with me might sound debate,
Although I did turne tayle to foules of state,
At vauntage yet, with baser byrdes I met,
On kytes I prayde, till I could partridge get.
But I so long, on carren crowes did pray,
My poysoned bloud, in colour waxed pale,
In natures ayde, myne age had wrought decay:
Now listen rampes, for here begins my tale,
Before my blysse, but now I blase my bale,
For Physickes arte, my surffets can not cure
Bound so perforce, the worst I must indure.
My poysoned bloud, in colour waxed pale,
In natures ayde, myne age had wrought decay:
Now listen rampes, for here begins my tale,
Before my blysse, but now I blase my bale,
For Physickes arte, my surffets can not cure
Bound so perforce, the worst I must indure.
In seeking sport, my haire did shed in test,
A sorrie ioy to ceaselesse sorrowe plight,
French feauers now, in me can take no rest,
From bones to flesh, from flesh in open sight,
With grinckcomes grease, beholde a monstrous wight,
My louers olde, with (fawth) their browes doth bend,
Of Cressids lust, loe here the lothsome end.
A sorrie ioy to ceaselesse sorrowe plight,
French feauers now, in me can take no rest,
From bones to flesh, from flesh in open sight,
With grinckcomes grease, beholde a monstrous wight,
My louers olde, with (fawth) their browes doth bend,
Of Cressids lust, loe here the lothsome end.
Glad is she now a browne breade crust to gnawe,
Who deintie once, on finest cates did frowne,
To couch vpon soft seames, a pad of straw,
Where halfe mislikt, were stately beds of downe,
By neede enforst, she begs on euery clowne,
On whom but late, the best would gifts bestow,
But squemish then, God dyld ye she sayd no.
Who deintie once, on finest cates did frowne,
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Where halfe mislikt, were stately beds of downe,
By neede enforst, she begs on euery clowne,
On whom but late, the best would gifts bestow,
But squemish then, God dyld ye she sayd no.
From top of state, to tumble thus to thrall,
Too froward sure, dame Fortune was in this,
But highest trees, in fine haue hardest fall,
A merrie meane, her parciall hand doth misse,
She pines wt paine, or bathes her thralles in blisse,
Best therfore then, for to withstand her might,
With sword of fame, in Uertues band to fight.
Too froward sure, dame Fortune was in this,
But highest trees, in fine haue hardest fall,
A merrie meane, her parciall hand doth misse,
She pines wt paine, or bathes her thralles in blisse,
Best therfore then, for to withstand her might,
With sword of fame, in Uertues band to fight.
But (ah) in vaine, I frame excuse by fate,
When due desart, doth worke my ouerthrow,
Ne was I first by Fortune stauld in state,
My roome by byrth, did high renoune bestow,
Though wicked life, hath wrapt me now in woe,
A warning faire, a myrrour full of mone,
For gadding gyrles, a bone to gnaw vpon.
When due desart, doth worke my ouerthrow,
Ne was I first by Fortune stauld in state,
My roome by byrth, did high renoune bestow,
Though wicked life, hath wrapt me now in woe,
A warning faire, a myrrour full of mone,
For gadding gyrles, a bone to gnaw vpon.
Take heede in time, least Had I wist you rew,
And thus perforce, I hold my tyred tong,
Me thinkes I heare, the bell to sound adew,
My withered corps, with deadly cold is clung,
A happier turne, if I had dyed yong,
My shrouding sheete, then had not beene of shame,
Who dying now, doth liue in filthy fame.
And thus perforce, I hold my tyred tong,
Me thinkes I heare, the bell to sound adew,
My withered corps, with deadly cold is clung,
A happier turne, if I had dyed yong,
My shrouding sheete, then had not beene of shame,
Who dying now, doth liue in filthy fame.
Siue bonum, siue malum, farna est.
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