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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VVhetstons inuectiue against Dice.
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 | The Rocke of Regard |  |
VVhetstons inuectiue against Dice.
My Muse to mount Parnassus hill,Which whilom tokst delight,
Faire Venus ioyes to set to vew,
And wray blind Cupids spite.
Go shrowde thy selfe in Limbo lake,
This dririe tale to tell,
Of Dice, to figure forth the frute,
A second showe of hell.
There craue the ayde of wrathfull sprites,
The Authors of this art,
And ioyne with them such hellish impes,
As waytes to woorke our smart.
For sure their plagues to paint aright,
Beseemeth well the toile,
Of him that pend the paines of hell,
How Plutoes thralles do broile.
The lustie youth, with lyuing left,
Whose woe is wealth and ease,
To line his purse with powling fines,
His tenaunts pence doth fease,
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As one that dreads no want,
These sneaking curs now raunge abrode,
To finde this nouis haunt.
One bitten dog aboue the rest,
Doth great acquaintaunce craue,
Whose kindred blasde, and friendship voucht
Hee treates of counsell graue.
Trust mee good cus, trust mee hee cries,
When first I left my guide,
This towne did weaue my webbe of cares,
Before that craft I spyde.
Eche shifting slaue, did search the meane,
A mate to make mee meete,
Then hee the names bewrayes of some,
Himselfe to make him sweete.
The lustie brute which feares no fraude,
Doth count his cunning blist,
Who thinkes he hath a faint in hand,
Yet shakes syr Sathans fist.
Their friendship new, by greeting oft,
Now grafted in their brest,
His kindred coynde in cousners stampe,
Inuites him as his guest.
Who kindly thankes him for his cost,
And craues amends to make,
Then trudge they to some tabling house,
Their hunger for to slake.
Where daintie fare great store they finde,
Their naperie faire and sweete,
And gallants gay, with Conges kinde,
Their comming for to greete.
A bounsing gyrle they sildome misse,
To furnish forth their messe,
Whose chyrping tongue, with pleasaunt speach,
Doth cheare her chosen gesse.
There shall you heare described plaine,
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Augmented newes of warlike frayes,
Where fortune late did lowre.
As cold as snow, some couch their scoffes,
And some to rayling prest,
In plesaunt speach some play the K,
And makes thereon a ieast.
And some so plainly figures forth,
The fruites of Venus court,
That honest eares doth scorne to heare,
Their vaine and vile report.
Their dinner done, they leaue this speach,
The gamsters call for dice,
Where posting Iacke to rub the bord,
Doth come euen with a trice.
To you, you furies, now I leaue,
This foule abuse to wray,
Their foysting shiftes my Muse doth mase,
Their othes my pen doth fray.
Tenne mine alowde some cogger cryes,
Three mine some youth doth say,
Gods bloud eleuen, (well sworne in faith,)
The caster cryes to pay.
Sixe is the maine, what do you sett,
Well tenne to sixe I haue,
Two fiues (gods hart) then for the house,
The boxer streight doth craue.
And nine: Come ye and nine this crowne,
Well, chaunce at it I say,
Aumes ase (gods wounds) t'is not my lucke,
Two maynes to throwe this day.
Some hypocrites, do murder othes,
Faire Gamsters for to seeme,
But of both euils, to choose the best,
The doubt were hard I deeme,
Perhaps some gallant fortune hauntes,
Good hap his hand doth guide,
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Doth lurke disdainfull pride.
Then roists hee in his ratling silkes,
And sortes with Venus dames,
Whose luring lookes, inforce his heart,
To frie in Cupids flames.
To traine him in, hee shall inioy,
Eche outward show of blisse,
In secrete sport they wilbe coy,
They feare to do amisse.
A sute of Laune my Lady lackes,
Or else some trifling cheane,
A cawle of gold, and other knackes,
My nouis purse must gleane.
The haggard then that checkt of late,
Will stoupe to fancies lure,
And inward bend at euery becke,
No storme shall chaunge procure.
Her christall eyes shall still be fixt,
To stare vppon his face,
Her daintie armes shall try their force,
Her louer to imbrace.
Her Rubie lippes, by stelth shee will,
Bee ioyning vnto his,
With courage vaunst, her friend to force,
To fall to Venus blisse.
Then will shee play Galatheas part,
To make his ioy more sweete,
By striuing yeeld, who neuer thought,
From such deuise to fleete.
To frame excuse for late offence,
The queane will cog apace,
She will alledge his sugred woordes,
His gallant giftes of grace:
So wrought within her horish minde,
As naught auailde defence,
For to withstand his sharpe assaultes,
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Naught crauing for her kindnes showen,
Saue constancie in him,
Then shee that rues her chastice spoild,
In seas of ioyes shall swim.
Which subtile speach doth force her friend,
Within his minde to say,
In beuties showe, my choice doth passe,
Syr Paris pearelesse pray,
Aduentrous boye, now bathe in blisse,
In scorne of Fortunes rage,
Thy good successe, in former sutes,
Good happe doth still presage,
But all this while, his purse is sicke,
It purgeth more and more.
Then runnes hee to his former vaine,
To cure his soudaine sore.
Where coemates, if hee chaunce to lacke,
The deuill is in the rome,
The maister will supply the want,
Till more resort doth come.
Who chiefely in this hellish house,
Doth God in peeces teare,
With quicke repentaunce then hee cries,
A beast hee is to sweare.
Which woordes more true is then his othe,
When most hee cogs and scowle,
For one may shape an Oxes sconce,
By patterne of his iowle,
My younge mans purse, that earst was sicke,
Here reapes but small reliefe,
His newe receite doth scowre to fast,
Cheape side must cure his griefe.
Then to the Goldsmithes straight hee runnes,
Where most his credite is,
Crackt Angels there be currant coyne,
Eight shillinges worth a peece.
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In faith is pretie gaine,
The lender may well liue thereon,
The paiment is the paine.
Then as a man with loue once matcht.
At length yet wonne the fort,
His Lady yeelding to his lust,
Doth thyrst for Venus sport.
So doth this youth to be at dice,
Thinke euery houre three,
One bone was sure, the frame of both,
In nature so they gree.
Now fortune frownes, that late did laughe,
To quite him for his scorne,
Ill lucke doth chaunge his chaunce of gaine,
Good lott is quite forlorne,
One by and maine, at euery throw,
His Angell runnes astray,
He fretts & fumes, he stamps & stares,
Hee leaues a maine to pay.
His setters some, they loosers bee,
They will not so be seru'd,
They wilbe paid gods wounds his hart
Forthwith shall els be caru'd.
With monie lost, his couler stirde,
Hee bids them do their worst,
And if they dare appoint the place,
Gods bloud hee wilbe first.
The box then at his bosom goes,
His dagger now hee drawes,
They parted are, they do agree,
Abrode to try them dawes.
Then Smithfeeld ruffians flocke apace,
And Fletestrete hacksters hew,
The enimies meete, of ircksom hell,
They do present the shew.
Draw, draw, the villaines kill, they cry,
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Some thrust fiue yeards ere foe do come,
To keepe him out at length.
The broken blades they busse about,
The more the Cutlers gaine,
Some hops for neede, which faine would go
Some lies in streate nie slaine.
Some siouins sleues will buttoned bee,
That downe theyr weapons fall.
The Barber waites, the wounded wights
Lookes like the whited wall.
To rue his hap on euery side,
His fained friends do flocke,
His minion kinde to wrap his wounds,
Will now bestow her smocke.
Not all for greefe of his mischaunce,
This kindnes they do showe,
But greedie gaping after gaine,
If death should ease his woe.
His daunger past, by Surgions art,
They do present their bill,
The which defraide (with other charge)
His feeble purse doth kill.
He keeping home when debtes were due,
And payment none was made.
Doth breede mistrust in Merchants minds,
His credite ginns to vade.
To sell his land, full loth hee is,
A thred hee fairely spinnes,
To morgage it hee fully minds,
To thriue hee now beginnes.
Now blewberds bagges doth beare the sway,
Did snudges smell him out,
Good simple soules they plainly meane,
Yet trauerse euery doubt.
An hundreth pound they venter will,
On land fiue hundreth worth,
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Poore subtile men forsooth.
The ruddockes redde do tempt his eyes,
The instruments be made,
In faith to sowre his sweete receite,
Before digestion had,
Some vnaduised statute hee,
Without defesaunce wrought,
Doth enter in, their gold to gaine,
Their guiles hee feareth nought,
They perchment reape, hee gold doth gleane,
Who toyles in straitest yoke,
For present state, I will not iudge,
Hereafter strikes the stroke.
Now hee for feare of sergeants sauce,
That sicknes late did faine,
In euery streate, which sight presents,
His presence you may gaine,
The Mercers bookes for silkes bee crost,
His debtes bee now defraide,
The remnaunt doth the dice consume,
Of all, which worst is paide,
Redeeming day, drawes on a pace,
His monie cleane is gone,
His creditors through late mistrust,
Forsooth will lend him none.
Then doth hee trudge to Holdfastes house,
His great distresse to wray,
Of him to get a longer time,
His monie for to pay.
Who aunswers, fayre, that God forbid,
My conscience I should stretch,
To take aduauntage of a day,
(Oh false dissembling wretch,)
The fained woordes hee simply trustes,
The merchaunt did accord,
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For matters of recorde,
Now is he forst to try his friendes
His monie to prouide,
Where he on flocks may see them fleete,
Which fawned in his pride.
Yet some there be for his distresse,
Whose harts with bale wil bleede,
And findes the meane to lend him coyne:
Well fare a friend at neede.
Aduaunst with ioy, to pay his pence,
In haste now is he gone,
But cut throte giues a cooling carde,
For monie he will none,
His lande is his, by forfaite plaine,
Which is too sweete to lose,
For kindnesse yet, he will be franke,
He playes now with his hose,
Holde twentie poundes, besides to drinke,
How like ye of this match.
For fiue to haue fiftene with him,
In faith is but a snatch.
The youth againe, will haue his lande,
Or else (Gods wounds) he sweares,
The pillorie for cousining him,
Shall moth eate both his eares,
And in this chafe, he doth depart,
Sub penas for to fetch,
Which raunge abroade in euery streate,
To catch the cousining wretch,
Who caught, his prankes of deepe deceite,
The youthlings plaint bewayes,
And shewes ere time of forfeit came,
He gaue him longer dayes,
To answere which denying all,
The craftie carle now speedes.
With rough reply, the plaintiue soothes,
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The gnawing worme, of conscience vile,
Now bites at Blewbeards brech,
He feares sol fa, in cousners cliffe,
His eares too hye shall stretch,
Which makes him trudge, to finde his mates,
The frie of Sathans crue,
For to consult how to avoyde,
The shame that might ensue.
The packe of knauerie then they ope.
Their craftie bondes they viewe,
One shifting knaue, a forfeit findes,
To make their enimie rue.
The rest with open mouth doth crye,
To catch poore cousenee,
By durance hard, to make him yeald,
Which else would not agree.
Then lay they traines, of Comin seede,
To toll this pigeon in,
Whose chiefest feathers soone be pulde,
Once snarled in their gin.
The counter serues, him for a cage,
Where breeding holes there be,
But louer lights, to scape away,
This doue cote lackes we see,
For him that earst did raunge abroade,
This ayre is not fit.
The Bench he thinks, more freedome hath,
For to refresh his wit.
More haste then needes, he findes a meane,
His causes to remooue,
And that the body come with him,
The writ doth charge the shreeue,
Well mand then comes he to the barre,
The iudge commaundes away,
Then tipstaues snatch him vp in haste,
They make no long delay.
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Untill the court doth rise,
Then guarded to the mershals house,
This lustie gallant hies,
Who passing through the porters lodge,
Then findes no iesting game,
For Burton with his booke of doome,
Requesteth him his name.
Roger Woodcocke of vnthriftes rowe,
What gentleman or squire,
Ten grotes and two pence you must pay,
I do but right require.
Which payd, a while to viewe the house,
He lets him go at large,
But soone the vermine comes againe,
To giue the second charge.
Your worship knowes the losse sayth he,
My maister should sustaine,
If any prisoner should escape,
Their ease his little gaine,
And therefore each of you he may,
By lawe in yrons lay,
Yet he for pitie trusteth you,
Your penance is to pay.
For them three halfpence in the pound,
Your actions yeald thus much,
Which trifle for your ease to giue,
Your worship neede not grutch.
Then may you in the garden walke,
When you haue payd your fees.
Thus euery way the poore is pincht,
To plucke him on his knees.
An answere faire the prisoner makes,
Which doth content the time,
Then he to seeke his fellow mates,
The stayres straight doth clime,
Some subtile lawyer soone he findes,
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To whome he shewes, his lucklesse lot,
Enforst by shifting slaues.
And lastly, to his skill commends,
If yron fees be due.
Extortion plaine, the Lawyer sayth,
His wordes be very true,
The statute here at large I haue,
Set downe for prisoners ease.
The Gaylor can by lawe receiue,
A groate, no more for fees,
And in your other causes I
The snudge will sharply yoke,
But looke your counsell lackes no coyne,
For monie strikes the stroke.
Which monie killes the heart of him,
Whome present neede doth pine,
Yet he at first, do share him fees,
As though he had a mine,
And all on hoyh, he rashly reakes,
His prisonment a scorne,
And vainely vaunts, to plague his foe,
Till Saturday at morne.
Corrections then be sharply giuen,
To them which monie lackes,
Now Burton comes for yron fees,
My youth now stoutly crakes,
If he extort where is no right,
The statute to prepare,
And sweares to make him pay the paine,
And damage for his share.
But here no lawe nor right do rule,
Ne vaileth threats nor crakes.
With boltes and shackles on his shins,
His loaden heeles he shakes.
Where late was golde, an yron chaine,
Do well beseeme the necke,
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With manacles be deckt,
And nowe they will him coole his feete,
He cloyde with yrons great,
For all his lawe, is glad to pay,
Yea more then that entreate.
Thus he that thought Caribdis rockes,
By wisedome to escape,
By follie fell in Sillaes gulfe,
His greater griefes to shape,
How speedes he nowe in all his suites,
When all his pence be spent?
Unfeed do Lawyers ply his cause,
Till newe receit of rent?
Nay, Niclas nihil dicet sure,
To nip him to the hart,
In execution layes him vp,
For feare that he should start,
He fast, his fained friends yet free,
To see him be not rash,
And Mynx his minion hath a mate,
And leaues him in the lash.
For Haggard like, she will not stoope,
But where she gets her pray,
His coyne consumd, his courage coolde,
In hope she will not stay.
What restes nowe, to this lucklesse man,
What pen his woes can wray,
Of friends forlorne, of freedome reft,
And he at beggers bay.
Thus gaulde with griefe his Lawyer yet,
This slender shift doth vse,
And sayth that prisoners be opprest,
And all men do refuse,
To ease their wants, and therefore sure,
The best is to agree,
He may the better plague his foes,
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Which freedome so doth feede his hart,
Whome present bondage nippes,
That he through hope before his hap,
For ioy now hops and skips,
And then in hast, for holdfast sends,
Agreement for to make.
But once or twise he must be praid,
Ere hee the paines will take,
And then with one or two he comes,
And vp and downe be iets,
Nowe do I smile to shewe the speach,
Betwixt these counterfets.
The youth that roughly rayld of late,
A pitious plaint doth paint,
The diuell him selfe in Christian shewe,
Doth counterfet a Saint,
But after many wordes of griefe,
That either part can say,
The youth perforce the candle holdes,
And beares the blame away,
And gladly yealdes him selfe in fault,
Whose crauing suite nowe is,
That cutthrote will, release him of
The penance of his mis,
And take such order as they both,
In friendly league may liue.
The more that he in prison spendes,
The lesse he hath to giue,
As though that conscience mou'd his mynd,
The merchant doth lament,
Through peeuish pride and hautie hart,
His pence and time mispent,
And order takes his owne the gaine,
The losse he leaues to him,
Which thought wtout dame wisdomes bark
In seas of ioyes to swimme.
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The statute to prefare,
Nor for the cousning shiftes he vsde,
To cloy the churle with care.
But runnes vnto his former vaine,
If ought he haue to play,
To posting then he somewhat puts,
His commons to defray,
Some Cheater haply will him teach,
Some coging trickes at dice,
Whereby he may mainteine him selfe,
If therein he be wise.
Then is he set a sale to toule,
Some other yonkers in,
To make them bite at vnthrifts bayte,
While he their pence doth win.
Some can not brooke this seruile life,
But needes in ventures barge,
Will seeke a price, but howe they speede,
I leaue to shewe at large.
The sweete report of souldiers gaine,
By them that lacke the sower,
Persuadeth straight some ventrous mynde,
To scale dame Fortunes bower.
But Flushing frayes, hath wrought such feare,
That they suspend their hope,
If one did gaine, then two were slaine,
The thirde did stretch a rope,
And beggers most returnd againe,
Unto their natiue soyle,
For Holland yealded litle thrift,
In lue of all their toyle.
And some with trifles seekes to thriue,
But fewe do speede so well,
And with a litle haply learnes,
Repentance for to spell.
The seruing man, that plyes this vaine,
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He hath no fines to fill his purse,
Nor racked rents to rake,
His way for to supply his want,
Is by the Scottish cog.
But finely he must strike his dye,
Least yrons do him clog.
And worse then that, to make him sure,
In haste doth hangman speede,
Where he in cogging winnes the coate,
For that he strikes him dead.
The plowman, and the poorest sort,
Which toyles and sowes the soyle,
And sixe pence by the day doth gaine,
In recompence of toyle,
If he at night, consume at play,
The price of all his hire,
His wife with hunger well may sterue,
His children freese for fire.
O horned hap, of hatefull harme,
O venom vile to tell,
O greedie gulfe of endlesse griefe,
O horror next to hell,
O foule infection, fraught with care,
O sinke of such a sent,
Which neuer leau'st thy poysned thrals,
Till all their wealth be spent
For not in vaine, Agrippa writ,
The fiends of yre you made,
An Art most fit for hellish ympes,
And not for Christians trade.
A spring from whence all vice did flowe,
Of peeuish Pride the nurse,
For note the dicer, roystes in silke,
When pence be pert in purse.
Then must he prease in pleasures court,
To be of Venus traine,
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From all their pinching paine.
His body earst that able was,
To serue at eache assay,
By sloth, &c. is so weake,
That faintnesse bids him stay,
To shewe the valure of his mynde,
Till natures griefe be easde.
His fearelesse othes will feare the diuell,
When losse hath him displeasde,
When malice moues him to reuenge;
His quarels do excell,
His carelesse slashing at his foe,
Doth wray the fourme of hell.
An Epicure for his fare,
Such is his costly cates,
His mynde is bent to snatch and catch,
Yea more to rob his mates,
When all is spent and credite crackt,
Despaire then strikes the stroke,
And makes him gape in hope of plumbes,
For pence will shun his poke.
And thus you heare in ragged ryme,
For so be seemes the worke,
What veines of vice, what lakes of losse,
In dogged dice doth lurke,
For loftie verse vnfitly serues,
To paint the plagues of hell,
Though not the same, yet next thereto,
This dogrell rime doth tell.
How youthes from rod, to freedome leapt,
Are thrall to sharper whips,
Whom cousner first, whom cutthrote next,
Whome lawyer lastly nips.
The braunches of the cousners tree,
Are whordome, theft, and pride,
From cutthrotes rout, doth bondage spring,
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The Lawyer lickes that they haue left,
And lets him sinke or swim,
Pure neede then makes him leane on those,
That earst did liue by him.
Although at large I here do touch,
Each vice in his degree,
A speciall meaning hath my wordes,
To graunt that some there be,
By rules of lawe, which rightly liue,
And not which rules the lawe,
To wrest the sense to serue their turne,
Their clyents coyne to clewe,
Some merchaunts rise by honest meanes.
And not by craftie shiftes,
Some tabling halles in fayth I iudge,
Are free from cheters driftes,
The which I trust will not repine,
Or quite my toyle with blame,
Nor yet the guiltie well may grudge,
Which wisely wayes the same.
Quod nocet docet.
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