Willobie His Avisa :: :: University of Virginia Library

Willobie His Avisa

Or The true Picture of a modest Maid, and of a chast and constant wife. In Hexamiter verse. The like argument wherof, was neuer heretofore published [by Henry Willoby]

Willoughby, Henry (1574?-1596?)

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Abell Emet in commendation of Willobies Auisa.

In praise of Willobie his Auisa, Hexameton to the Author.

WILLOBIE HIS AVISA,

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The first triall of Avisa, before she was married, by a Noble man: vnder which is represented a warning to all young maids of euery degree, that they beware of the alluring intisements of great men.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

THE SECOND TEMPTATION of Avisa, after her marriage by Ruffians, Roysters, young Gentlemen, and lustie Captaines, which all shee quickly cuts off.

XIIII.

XV.

XVI.

XVII.

XVIII.

XIX.

XX.

XXI.

XXII.

The third trial; wherin are expressed the long passionate, and constant affections of the close and wary sutor, which by signes, by sighes, by letters, by priuie messengers, by Iewels, Rings, Golde, diuers gifts, and by a long continued course of courtesie, at length preuaileth with many both maides and wiues, if they be not garded wounderfully with a better spirite then their owne, which all are here finely daunted, and mildly ouer throwne, by the constant aunsweres, and chast replies of Auisa.

XXIII.

XXIIII.

XXV.

XXVI.

XXVII.

XXVIII.

XXIX.

XXX.

T. B. Being somewhat grieued with this aunswere, after long absence and silence, at length writeth, as followeth.

XXXI.

CANT. XXXI,

XXXII.

CANT. XXXII.

XXXIII.

CANT XXXIII.

DYDIMVS HARCO. ANGLO-GERMANVS.

XXXIIII.

XXXV.

XXXVI.

XXXVII.

XXXVIII.

XXXIX.

After long absence, D H. happening to come in on a tyme sodenly to her house, and finding her all alone amongst her maides that were spinning, sayd nothing, but going home wrate these verses following, which he called his Dum habui, and sent them vnto her.

XL.

XLI.

XLII.

XLIII.

XLIIII.

XLV.

XLVI.

XLVII.

XLVIII.

XLIX.

LI.

LII.

LIII.

LIIII.

LV.

LVI.

LVII.

LVIII.

LXI.

LXII.

LXIII.

LXIIII.

LXV.

LXVI.

LXVII.

LXVIII.

LXIX.

LXX.

LXXI.

LXXII.

LXXIII.

LXXIIII.

The Authors conclusion.

The resolution of a chast and a constant wife, that minds to continue faithfull vnto her husband.

The praise of a contented mind.

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After long absence, D H. happening to come in on a tyme sodenly to her house, and finding her all alone amongst her maides that were spinning, sayd nothing, but going home wrate these verses following, which he called his Dum habui, and sent them vnto her.

CANT. XL.

D. H. to AVISA. too constant.

Whyl'st erst I had my libertie,
To range the woodes where fancy list,
The cause of all my miserie,
By heedlesse hast my way I mist,
Vntill I found within a plaine,
A Christall Well, where Nimphes remaine.

As weary of this wild-goose race,
That led a skance, I know not where,
I chose at length a shadow place.
To take the cold and pleasant ayre,
But from the brinke of that same well,
I saw my heauen, or els my hell.

I saw a byrde from ioyning groue,
That soaring came with comely grace,
The Lillie and Vermillion stroue,
In mayden-like and louely face,
With seemely armes in steed of winges,
No clawes, but fingers set with ringes.

And in her hand she held a dart,
As being of Diana's trayne,
O that's the cause of all my smart,
And breeder of this endlesse paine,
The thing I sought not, there I find,
And lost the freedome of my mind.

While on her eies, my eies did hang,
From rolling eie there sprang a glance,
And therewith heard a sodayne clang,
That strake me in a deadly trance.
But wak't I sawe blind Cupids craft,
And in my hart the golden shaft.

I sewd for grace, but she deny'd.
Her laughty lookes she cast awry,
And when my folly she espy'd,
She laught to see my misery:
Away she soares, and from my sight
She smiling takes her parting flight.

You are the byrde that bred the bane,
That swelleth thus in restlesse thought,
You are the snare that thus haue tane,
And sences all to thraldome brought,
You are the Iaylor that do keepe
Your frend in bandes, and dungeon deepe.

Renowmed chaste Penelope,
With all her wordes could not redryue
Her sutors, till she set a day,
In which she would them answere giue,
When threedy spindle full was grow'n,
Then would she chuse one for her ow'n.

They dayly came to see the end,
And euery man doth hope to bee
The chosen man, to be her frend,
But womens wyles here men may see,
Her Spill was neuer fully spone,
For night vndid that day had done.

I hope the like you haue decreed,
That found you spinning but of late,
Would God your Spill were full of threed,
That might releeue my wretched state,
I will forget the wronges are past,
So you will chuse me at the last.

Chuse one at length, I know you will,
Let tryed faith for ten yeares space,
How euer that your spindle fill,
With ioy possesse that emptie place,
And if you will, I do protest,
My loue shall far surmount the rest.

These lines that hope for better speed,
As louing spyes are sent to see,
Where you haue sponne vp all your threed,
And what good hap is left for mee:
Let there returne, yet make him glad,
Whome loues dispayre hath made so sad.

D.H.

CANT. XLI.

Auisa her answere to D. H. a finall resolution.

If I be of Diana's trayne,
As trewe it is I must confesse,
I meruaile that you striue in vayne,
Where frutelesse hope yeelds no redresse:
For they must needes continue sad
That seeke for that, will not be had.

What seruile follie doth possesse
Your base conceite, that can abyde
Such piteous plaintes, and sutes addresse,
To them that do your sutes deryde?
For I can hardly thinke them wyse,
That try againe, repulsed thryse.

No Hellens rape, nor Troian warre,
My louing mate hath fors't away,
No Iunoes wrath, to wander farre,
From louing bed can make him stray,
Nor stay at all in forraine land,
But here I haue him still at hand.

My sweet Vlisses neuer stayes
From his desyred home so long,
That I should need such rare delayes
To Shield me from intended wrong,
My chiefe delightes are alwayes nye,
And in my bosome sweetely lye.

The Spindle that you see me driue,
Hath fyld the spill so often trend,
My hartis fixt, since I did giue
My wedlocke faith to chosen frend,
Then leaue to sewe, since that you see
Your hap debarres your hope from mee.

I vse not oft to make reply
To lines that yeelde such wanton store,
Let this suffice, that I deny,
And after this, looke for no more,
My choise is bound, by lawfull band,
My oath is past, and that shall stand.

Alway the same Auisa.

CANT. XLII.

D. H. to chast Auisa perpetuall constancy.

This is inough: now I haue done,
I thinke indeed you do not faine,
As others haue, that haue beene wonne
In shorter space, with lesser paine,
And sith you will not yeeld in deed
To these my wordes, yet take good heed.

My former loue was onely lust,
As you in deed did truly say,
And they, such loue that rashly trust,
Do plant the plot of swift decay:
But they whom Grace doth make so wise,
To high renowne, will surely ryse.

If you had had a waxye hart,
That would haue melt at hot desyre,
Or chaffye thoughtes that could haue start,
And yeeld to burne at euery fyre,
What ere I did, or sayd before,
I should haue thought you but a whore.

Though saylers loue the common Port,
As safest harbour where to rest,
Yet wise men seeke the strongest fort,
And paper castells most detest:
Men cannot loue such as they know,
Will yeeld at sight of euery blow.

But now my loue by vertue bound,
No stormie blastes can make it quaile,
Your constant mind a frend hath found,
Whose honest loue shall neuer faile,
A faithfull frend in honest loue,
Whom lewd affections shall not moue.

If you this wanton fault forgiue,
No time in me shall euer find
Such lewd attemptes, while I do liue,
Now that I know your constant mynd,
My pen doth write, my hart hath swore,
My tounge such speech shall vse no more.

A thousand tymes I loue no more,
Then if I had my purpose wonne,
Of common loue I make no store,
But leaue it there where I begunne,
What oddes there is, now you may proue,
Twixt wicked lust and honest loue.

Now grant I pray this last request,
That fraudlesse hart doth frendly send,
That if my fayth deserue it best,
Accept me for your honest frend:
And if I seeke your spoile, or shame,
Then raze me out, and blot my name.

And if I shall this fauour find,
Then weare this ring, though you be loth,
As token of my simple mynd,
And perfect band of faithfull oath:
The posye is, No frend to faith
That will remaine, till both our death.

Esteeme not this a painted bait,
Or golden ball cast to deceaue:
If I do meane such lewd desait,
Let God my soule in tormentes leaue:
I say no more, but thus I end,
In honest loue your faithful frend.

D. H.

CANT, XLIII.

AVISA. to D. H.

You know that I haue laid my rest,
From which my mind shall neuer swerue,
If all be true that you protest,
Then shall you find, as you deserue:
All hidden truth tyme will bewraie,
This is as much as I can saie.

Alway the same Auisa.

CANT. XLIIII.

Henrico Willobego. Italo-Hispalensis.

[_]

H. W. being sodenly infected with the contagion of a fantasticall fit, at the first sight of A, pyneth a while in secret griefe, at length not able any longer to indure the burning heate of so feruent a humour, bewrayeth the secresy of his disease vnto his familiar frend W. S. who not long before had tryed the cur-

tesy of the like passion, and was now newly recouered of the like infection; yet finding his frend let bloud in the same vaine, he took pleasure for a tyme to see him bleed, & in steed of stopping the issue, he inlargeth the wound, with the sharpe rasor of a willing conceit, perswading him that he thought it a matter very easy to be compassed, & no doubt with payne, diligence & some cost in time to be obtayned. Thus this miserable comforter comforting his frend with an impossibilitie, eyther for that he now would secretly laugh at his frends folly, that had giuen occasion not long before vnto others to laugh at his owne, or because he would see whether an other could play his part better then himselfe, & in vewing a far off the course of this louing Comedy, he determined to see whether it would sort to a happier end for this new actor, then it did for the old player. But at length this Comedy was like to haue growen to a Tragedy, by the weake & feeble estate that H. W. was brought vnto, by a desperate vewe of an impossibility of obtaining his purpose, til Time & Necessity, being his best Phisitions brought him a plaster, if not to heale, yet in part to ease his maladye. In all which discourse is liuely represented the vnrewly rage of vnbrydeled fancy, hauing the raines to roue at liberty, with the dyuers & sundry changes of affections & temptations, which Will, set loose from Reason, can deuise. &c.

H. W.

What sodaine chance or change is this,
That doth bereaue my quyet rest?
What surly cloud eclipst my blisse,
What sprite doth rage within my brest?
Such fainty qualmes I neuer found,
Till first I saw this westerne ground.

Can change of ayre complexions change,
And strike the sences out of frame?
Though this be true, yet this is strange,
Sith I so lately hither came:
And yet in body cannot find
So great a change as in my mynd.

My lustlesse limmes do pyne away,
Because my hart is dead within,
All liuely heat I feele decay,
And deadly cold his roome doth win,
My humors all are out of frame,
I frize amid'st the burning flame.

I haue the feauer Ethicke right,
I burne within, consume without,
And hauing melted all my might,
Then followes death, without all doubt:
O fearefull foole, that know my greefe,
Yet sew and seeke for no releefe.

I know the tyme, I know the place,
Both when and where my eye did vew
That nouell shape, that frendly face,
That so doth make my hart to rew,
O happy tyme if she inclyne,
If not, O wourth theese lucklesse eyne.

I loue the seat where she did sit,
I kisse the grasse, where she did tread,
Me thinkes I see that face as yet,
And eye, that all these turmoyles breed,
I enuie that this seat, this ground,
Such frendly grace and fauour found.

I dream't of late, God grant that dreame
Protend my good, that she did meete
Me in this greene by yonder streame,
And smyling did me frendly greete:
Where wandring dreames be iust or wrong,
I mind to try ere it be long.

But yonder comes my faythfull frend,
That like assaultes hath often tryde,
On his aduise I will depend,
Where I shall winne, or be denyde,
And looke what counsell he shall giue,
That will I do, where dye or liue.

CANT. XLV.

W. S.

VVell met, frend Harry, what's the cause
You looke so pale with Lented cheeks?
Your wanny face & sharpened nose
Shew plaine, your mind some thing mislikes,
If you will tell me what it is,
Ile helpe to mend what is amisse.

What is she, man, that workes thy woe,
And thus thy tickling fancy moue?
Thy drousie eyes, & sighes do shoe,
This new disease proceedes of loue,
Tell what she is that witch't thee so,
I sweare it shall no farder go.

A heauy burden wearieth one,
Which being parted then in twaine,
Seemes very light, or rather none,
And boren well with little paine:
The smothered flame, too closely pent,
Burnes more extreame for want of vent.

So sorrowes shrynde in secret brest,
Attainte the hart with hotter rage,
Then griefes that are to frendes exprest,
Whose comfort may some part asswage:
If I a frend, whose faith is tryde,
Let this request not be denyde.

Excessiue griefes good counsells want,
And cloud the sence from sharpe conceits;
No reason rules, where sorrowes plant,
And folly feedes, where fury fretes,
Tell what she is, and you shall see,
What hope and help shall come from mee.

CANT. XLVI.

H. W.
Seest yonder howse, where hanges the badge
Of Englands Saint, when captaines cry
Victorious land, to conquering rage,
Loe, there my hopelesse helpe doth ly:
And there that frendly foe doth dwell,
That makes my hart thus rage and swell,

CANT. XLVII.

W. S.

VVell, say no more: I know thy griefe,
And face from whence these flames aryse,
It is not hard to fynd reliefe,
If thou wilt follow good aduyse:
She is no Saynt, She is no Nonne,
I thinke in tyme she may be wonne.

At first repulse you must not faint,
Nor flye the field though she deny
You twise or thrise, yet manly bent,
Againe you must, and still reply:
When tyme permits you not to talke,
Then let your pen and fingers walke.

Apply her still with dyuers thinges,
(For giftes the wysest will deceaue)
Sometymes with gold, sometymes with ringes,
No tyme nor fit occasion leaue,
Though coy at first she seeme and wielde,
These toyes in tyme will make her yielde.

Looke what she likes; that you must loue,
And what she hates, you must detest,
Where good or bad, you must approue,
The wordes and workes that please her best:
If she be godly, you must sweare,
That to offend you stand in feare.

Wicked wiles to deceaue witles women.

You must commend her louing face,
For women ioy in beauties praise,
You must admire her sober grace,
Her wisdome and her vertuous wayes,
Say, t'was her wit & modest shoe,
That made you like and loue her so.

You must be secret, constant, free,
Your silent sighes & trickling teares,
Let her in secret often see,
Then wring her hand, as one that feares
To speake, then wish she were your wife,
And last desire her saue your life.

When she doth laugh, you must be glad,
And watch occasions, tyme and place,
When she doth frowne, you must be sad,
Let sighes & sobbes request her grace:
Sweare that your loue is trulyment,
So she in tyme must needes relent.

CANT. XLVIII.

H. W.

The whole to sicke good counsell giue,
Which they themselues cannot performe,
Your wordes do promise sweet reliefe,
To saue my ship from drowning storme:
But hope is past, and health is spent,
For why my mynd is Mal-content.

The flowring hearbes, the pleasant spring,
That deckes the fieldes with vernant hew,
The harmelesse birdes, that sweetly sing,

To dispaire of good successe in the beginning of any action, is alwayes a secret & most certaine forewarning of ill successe, that indeed doth often follow.

My hidden griefes, do still renew:
The ioyes that others long to see,
Is it that most tormenteth mee.

I greatly doubt, though March be past,
Where I shall see that wished May,
That can recure that balefull blast,
Whose cold dispaire wrought my decay:
My hopelesse cloudes, that neuer cleere,
Presage great sorrowes very neere.

I mirth did once, and musicke loue,
Which both as now, I greatly hate:
What vncouth sprite my hart doth moue,
To loath the thing, I lou'd so late?
My greatest ease in deepest mone,
Is when I walke my selfe alone.

Where thinking on my hopelesse hap,
My trickling teares, like riuers flow,
Yet fancy lulles me in her lap,
And telles me, lyfe from death shall grow:
Thus flattering hope makes me belieue;
My griefe in tyme shall feele relieue.

Good fortune helpes the ventering wight,
That hard attempts dare vndertake:
But they that shun the doubtful fight,
As coward drudges, doth forsake:
Come what there will, I meane to try,
Wher winne, or lose, I can but dye.

CANT. XLIX.

H. W. the first assault.

Pardon (sweet wench) my fancies fault,
If I offend to shew my smart,
Your face hath made such fierce assault,
And battred so my fencelesse hart:
That of my foe, my lyfe to saue,
For grace I am constraind to craue.

The raging Lyon neuer rendes
The yeelding pray, that prostrate lyes,
No valiant captayne euer bendes
His force against surrendering cryes:
Here I surrender roome and right,
And yeeld the fort at captaines sight.

You are the chieftaine, that haue layd
This heauie siege to strengthlesse fort,
And fancy that my will betrayd,
Hath lent dispaire his strongest port:
Your glauncing eyes as Cannon shot,
Haue pearst my hart, and freedome got.

When first I saw that frendly face,
Though neuer seene before that day,
That wit, that talke, that sober grace,
In secret hart thus did I say:
God prosper this, for this is she,
That ioy or woe must bring to me.

A thousand fewtures I haue seene,
For Trauelers change, & choyse shall see,
In Fraunce, in Flaunders, & in Spaine,
Yet none, nor none could conquere mee:
Till now I sawe this face of thyne,
That makes my wittes are none of myne.

I often said, yet there is one,
But where, or what I could not tell,
Whose sight my sence would ouercome,
I feard it still, I knew it well,
And now I know you are the She,
That was ordaind to vanquish me.

CANT. L.

AVISA.

What song is this that you do sing,
What tale is this that you do tell,
What newes is this that you do bring,
Or what you meane I know not well?
If you will speake, pray speake it playne,
Lest els perhaps you lose your payne.

My mynd surpris'd with houshold cares,
Tendes not darke riddles to vntwyne.
My state surcharg'd with great affares,
To Idle talke can lend no tyme;
For if your speeches tend to loue,
Your tonge in vaine such sutes will moue.

In greenest grasse the winding snake,
With poysoned sting is soonest found,
A cowardes tongue makes greatest cracke,

Idlenesse the mother of all foolish wannesse.. Dauid being idle fell to strange lust.

The emptiest caske yeeldes greatest sound,
To hidden hurt, the bird to bring,
The fouler doth most sweetly sing.

If wandering rages haue possest
Your rouing mynd at randame bent;
If idle qualmes from too much rest,
Fond fancyes to your lust haue sent:
Cut off the cause that breedes your smart,
Then will your sicknesse soone depart.

The restles mynd that reason wantes,
Is like the ship that lackes a sterne,
The hart beset with follyes plantes,
At wisdomes lore repynes to learne:

Noblemen gentlemen. and Captaynes by idlenesse fall to all kynd of vices.

Some seeke and fynd what fancy list,
But after wish that they had mist.

Who loues to tread vnknowen pathes,
Doth often wander from his way,
Who longes to laue in brauest bathes,
Doth wash by night, and wast by day:
Take heed betyme, beware the pryse
Of wicked lust, if you be wyse.

CANT. LI.

H. W

Vnwonted lyking breedes my loue,
And loue the welspring of my griefe,
This fancy fixt none can remoue,
None send redresse, none giue reliefe,
But onely you, whose onely sight
Hath fors't me to this pyning plight.

Loue oft doth spring from due desart,
As louing cause of true effect,
But myne proceeds from wounded hart,
As scholler to a nouell sect:
I bare that lyking, few haue bore,
I loue, that neuer lou'd before.

I loue, though doubtfull of successe,
As blindmen grope to try the way;
Yet still I loue because I gesse,
You loue, for loue cannot denay,
Except you spring of sauadge kynd,
Whome no desartes, nor loue can bynd.

Of all the graces that excell,
And vertues that are cheefly best,
A constant loue doth beare the bell,
And makes his owner euer blest:
How blame you then the faithfull loue,
That hath his praise from God aboue.

Can you withstand what fates ordayne?
Can you reproue dame Natures frame?
Where natures ioyne, shall will disclaime?
Acquite my loue, beare they the blame,
That snuffe at faith, & looke so coy,
And count true loue but for a toy.

If fortune say it shal be so,
Then though you lyke, yet shall you yeeld,
Say what you list, you cannot go
Vnconquerd thus from Cupids field,
That loue that none could euer haue,
I giue to you, and yours I craue,

CANT. LII

AVISA.

Well, you are bent I see, to try
The vtmost list of follies race,
Your fancy hath no power to fly
The luring baite of flattering grace,
The fish that leapes & neuer lookes,
Fyndes death vnwares in secret hookes.

You say you loue, yet shew no cause,
Of this your loue, or rather lust,
Or whence this new affection groes
Which though vntryde, yet we must trust,
Dry reeds that quickly yeeld to burne,
Soone out to flamelesse cinders turne.

Such raging loue in rangling mates,
Is quickly found, and sooner lost;
Such deepe deceate in all estates,
That spares no care, no payne nor cost:
VVith flattering tongues, & golden giftes,
To dryue poore women to their shiftes.

Examine well, & you shall see
Your truthlesse treason tearmed loue,
VVhat cause haue you to fancy mee,
That neuer yet had tyme to proue,
What I haue beene, nor what I am,
Where worthie loue, or rather shame?

This loue that you to straungers bare,
Is like to headstrong horse and mule,
That ful-fed nyes on euery mare,
Whose lust outleapes the lawfull rule,
For here is seene your constant loue,
VVhome strange aspects so quickly moue.

Besides you know I am a wife,
Not free, but bound by plighted oath,
Can loue remaine, where filthy life
Hath staind the soile, where vertue gro'th?
Can loue indure, where faith is fled?
Can Roses spring, whose roote is dead?

True loue is constant in her choise,
But if I yeeld to chuse againe,
Then may you say with open voice,
This is her vse, this is her vaine,
She yeelds to all, how can you than
Loue her that yeeldes to euery man?

CANT. LIII.

H. W.

If feare and sorrow sharpe the wit,
And tip the tongue with sweeter grace,
Then will & style, must finely fit,
To paint my griefe, and waile my case:
Sith my true loue is counted lust,
And hope is rackt in spitefull dust.

The cause that made me loue so soone,
And feedes my mind with inward smart,
Springs not from Starres, nor yet the Moone,
But closly lies in secret hart:
And if you aske, I can not tell,
Nor why, nor how, this hap befell.

If birth or beautie could haue wrought,
In lustlesse hart this loues effect,
Some fairer farre my loue haue sought,
Whose louing lookes I did reiect.
If now I yeeld without assault,
Count this my fortune or my fault.

You are a wife, and you haue swore,
You will be true. Yet what of this?
Did neuer wife play false before,
Nor for her pleasure strike amis?
Will you alone be constant still,
When none are chast, nor euer will?

A man or woman first may chuse
The loue that they may after loth;
Wo can denie but such may vse
A second choice, to pleasure both?
No fault to change the old for new;
So to the second they be trew.

Your husband is a worthlesse thing,
That no way can content your mind,
That no way can that pleasure bring,
Your flowring yeares desire to find:
This I will count my chiefest blisse,
If I obtaine, that others misse.

Ther's nothing gotten to be coye,
The purer stampe you must detest,
Now is your time of greatest ioye,
Then loue the friend that loues you best,
This I will count my chiefest blisse,
If I obtaine that others misse.

CANT. LIIII.

AVISA.

That others misse, you would obtaine,
And want of this doth make you sad,
I sorrow that you take such paine,
To seeke for that, will not be had,
Your filed skill the power doth want,
VVithin this plot such trees to plant.

Though some there be, that haue done ill,
And for their fancie broke their faith:
Yet doe not thinke that others will,
That feare of shame more then of death:
A spotlesse name is more to me,
Then wealth, then friends, then life can be.

Are all vnconstant, all vnsound?
VVill none performe their sworen vow?
Yet shall you say, that you haue found,
A chast, and constant wife I trow:
And you shall see, when all is doone,
VVhere all will yeeld, and all be woone.

Though you haue bin at common schoole,
And enterd plaints in common place;
Yet you wil proue your selfe a foole,
To iudge all women void of grace:
I doubt not but you will be brought,
Soone to repent this wicked thought.

Your second change let them alow,
That list mislike their primer choice,
I lou'd him first, I loue him now,
To whom I gaue my yeelding voice,
My faith and loue, I will not giue
To mortall man, while he doth liue.

What loue is this, that bids me hate,
The man whom nature bids me loue?
What loue is this, that sets debate,
Twixt man and wife? but here I proue:
Though smothed words seeme very kind,
Yet all proceed from deuilish mind.

CANT. LV.

H. W.

From deuilish mind? well wanton well,
You thinke your strength is very sure,
You thinke all women to excell,
And all temptations to indure.
These glorious braggs shew but your pride:
For all will yeeld, if they be tride.

You are (I hope) as others bee,
A woman, made of flesh and blood,
Amongst them all, will you goe free,
When all are ill, will you be good?
Assure your selfe, I do not faine,
Requite my loue with loue againe.

Let me be hangd if you be such,
As you pretend in outward shoe:
Yet I commend your wisdome much,
Which mou'd me first to loue you so:
Where men no outward shewes detect,
Suspicious minds can nil suspect.

But to the matter; tell me true,
Where you your fancie can incline,
To yeeld your loue, for which I sue,
As fortune hath intangled mine:
For well I know, it's nothing good,
To striue against the raging flood.

What you mislike, I will amend,
If yeares I want, why I will stay,
My goods and life here I will spend,
And helpe you still in what I may:
For though I seeme a headlong youth,
Let time be triall of my truth.

Your name by me shall not be crackt,
But let this tongue from out my iawes,
Be rent, and bones to peeces rackt,
If I your secrets doe disclose,
Take good aduisement what you say,
This is my good, or dismall day.

CANT. LVI.

AVISA.

Yes, so I will, you may be bold,
Nor will I vse such strange delaies;
But that you shall be quickly told,
How you shall frame your wandring waies:
If you will follow mine aduise,
Doubt not but you shall soone be wise.

To loue, excepting honest loue,
I can not yeeld, assure your mind;
Then leaue this frutelesse sute to moue,
Least like to Sysyphus you find,
With endlesse labour, gainelesse paine,
To role the stone that turnes againe.

You want no yeares, but rather wit,
And dew forecast in that you seeke,
To make your choice that best may fit,
And this is most that I mislieke;
If you be free, liue where you list,
But still beware of, Had I wist.

Serue God, and call to him for grace,
That he may stay your slipperie slides,
From treading out that sinfull trace,
That leades where endlesse sorrowe bides,
Thus shall you wisely guide your feete;
Though youth and wisedome seldome meete.

And if you find, you haue no gift,
To liue a chast and matelesse life,
Yet feare to vse vnlawfull shift,
But marry with some honest wife,
With whom you may contented liue,
And wandring mind from folly driue.

Fly present pleasure that doth bring
Insuing sorrow, paine and griefe;
Of death beware the poys'ned sting,
That hatcheth horror sance reliefe,
Take this of me, and in the end
I shall be thought your chiefest frend.

CANT. LVII.

H. W.

If then the welspring of my ioy,
A floud of woe, in fine become,
If loue ingender loues annoy,
Then farewell life, my glasse is runne:
If you thus constant still remaine;
Then must I die, or liue in paine.

Thrice happie they, whose ioyned harts,
Vnited wils haue linckt in one,
Whose eies discerne the due desarts,
The griping griefe, and grieuous grone,
That faith doth breed in setled mind,
As fancies are by fates inclind.

And shall I role the restlesse stone?
And must I proue the endlesse paine?
In curelesse care shall I alone,
Consume with griefe, that yeelds me gaine?
If so I curse these eies of mine,
That first beheld that face of thine.

Your will must with my woe dispence,
Your face the founder of my smart,
That pleasant looke fram'd this offence,
These thrilling gripes that gall my hart,
Sith you this wound, and hurt did giue,
You must consent to yeeld relieue.

How can I cease, while fancie guides
The restlesse raines of my desire?
Can reason rule, where folly bides?
Can wit inthrald to will retire?
I little thought, I should haue mist,
I neuer feard of, Had I wist.

Let old men pray, let setled heads
Inthrall their necks to wedlocke band,
Shrend golden gyues, who euer weds
With pleasant paine, shall take in hand:
But I will be your faithful frend,
If health by hope you yeeld to send.

CANT. LVIII.

AVISA.

What filthy folly, raging lust,
What beastly blindnes fancy breeds?
As though the Lord had not accurst,
With vengeance due, the sinfull deeds?
Though vaine-led youth with pleasure swell,
Yet marke these words that I shall tell.

Gen. 38. 24 Whoremoungers burnt.

Who so with filthy pleasure burnes;
His sinfull flesh with fierie flakes
Must be consum'd; whose soule returnes
To endlesse paine in burning lakes.
You seeme by this, to wish me well,
To teach me tread the path to hell.

Call you this (Loue) that bringeth sin,
And sowes the seeds of heauie cheere?
If this be loue, I pray begin,
To hate the thing I loue so deere;
I loue no loue of such a rate,
Nor fancie that, which God doth hate.

But what saith he that long had tryde

Prouer. 5. 3.

Of harlots all the wanton slights;
Beware least that your hart be tyde,
To fond affects by wanton sights:
Their wandring eies, and wanton lookes
Catch fooles as fish, with painted hookes.

Their lippes with oyle and honie flow,
Their tongs are fraught with flattering guile;
Amidst these ioyes great sorrowes grow;
For pleasures flourish but a while,
Their feete to death, their steps to hell,
Do swiftly slide, that thus do mell.

Then flie this dead and dreadfull loue,
This signe of Gods reuenging ire;
Let loue of God such lust remoue,
And quench the flames of foule desire:
If you will count me for your frend,
You must both workes and words amend.

CANT LXI.

H. W. To AVISA my friendly foe.

[_]

With this bitter reply of Auisa, H. W. being somewhat daunted, yet not altogether whithout hope, went home to his house, and there secretly in a melancolike passion wrote these verses following.

The busie Gnat about the candle, houering still doth flie,

Sixaine,

The slimie Fish about the bayt, still wauering doth lie,
The fearefull Mouse about the trap doth often try his stength,
Vntill both Gnat, and Fish and Mouse, be taken at the length,
Euen so vnhappie I, do like my greatest baine,
Vnlesse you do with speede, release my mortall paine.

Quatraine.

The light foote hart desires the waters brooke,
The dogge most sicke the greenest grasse doth craue.
The wounded wight for surgeon still doth looke,
Vntill both hart, and dogge, and wight their medicine haue:
But I with griefe th' vnhappiest of them all,
Do still delight to be my enemies thrall.

Deuxaine.

Mine enemie I say, though yet my sweetest frend,
If of my sorrowes I may see some speedie holsome end.

Chi la dura, la Vince.

FINIS.

CANT. LXII.

AVISA. her reply to H. VV.

The busie Gnat for want of wit,
Doth sindge his wings in burning flame,
The Fish with baite will headlong flit,
Till she be choked with the same;
So you with Gnat and Fish will play,
Till flame and foode worke your decay.

The heedlesse Mouse, that tries the trap,
In hast to reach her harts desire,
Doth quickly find such quainte mishap,
That barres her strength from free retire,
So you will neuer ceasse to craue,
Till you haue lost that now you haue.

The hart, the dogge, the wounded wight,
For water, grasse, and Surgeon call,
Their griefes and cures, are all but light,
But your conceite surpast them all;
Except you change your wanton mind,
You shall no ease, nor comfort find.

Alway the same Auisa.

CANT. LXIII.

H. W. prosecuteth his sute.

Will not your laughty stomacke stoupe?
Will not this selfe conceite come downe?
As haggard louing mirthlesse coupe,
At friendly lure doth checke and frowne?
Blame not in this the Faulkners skill,
But blame the Hawkes vnbridled will.

Your sharp replies, your frowning cheare,
To absent lines, and present vew,
Doth aie redouble trembling feare,
And griping griefes do still renew,
Your face to me my sole reliefe,
My sight to you your onely griefe.

O lucklesse wretch, what hap had I,
To plant my loue in such a soile?
What furie makes me thus relie
On her that seekes my vtter spoile?
O Gods of loue what signe is this,
That in the first, I first should mis?

And can you thus increase my woe,
And will you thus prolong my paine?
Canst kill the hart that loues thee so,
Canst quit my loue with foule disdaine?
And if thou canst, woe worth the place,
Where first I saw that flattering face.

And shall my folly proue it trew,
That hastie pleasure doubleth paine,
Shall griefe rebound, where ioye grew?
Of faithfull hart is this the gaine?
Me thinks for all your graue aduise,
(For giue my thought) you are not wise.

Would God I could restraine my loue,
Sith you to loue me can not yeeld,
But I alas can not remoue
My fancie, though I die in feeld;
My life doth on your loue depend,
My loue and life at once must end.

CANT. LXIIII.

AVISA.

What witlesse errors do possesse
The wretched minds of louing fooles,
That breathlesse runne to such distresse,
That liuely heate fond sorrowe cooles?
They reke not where they stand or fall,
Deny them loue, take life and all.

It seemes a death to change their mind,
Or alter once their foolish will,
Such od conceites they seeke to find,
As may their childish fancies fill,
It makes me smile thus, now and then,
To see the guise of foolish men.

I can not stoupe to wandring lure;
My mind is one, and still the same;
While breath, while life, while daies indure,
I will not yeeld to worke my shame,
Then if you striue and stirre in vaine,
Blame but the fruites of idle braine.

If I do sometimes looke awrie,
As loth to see your blobered face,
And loth to heare a yong man crie,
Correct for shame this childish race,
And though you weepe and waile to mee,
Yet let not all these follies see.

Good Harry leaue these raging toyes,
That thus from restlesse fancie flow,
Vnfit for men, not meete for boyes,
And let's a while talke wisely now;
If that you loue me as you say,
Then cease such madnes to bewray.

If honest loue could breed content,
And frame a liking to your will,
I would not sticke to giue consent,
To like you so, and loue you still,
But while lust leades your loue awrie,
Assure your selfe, I will denie.

CANT. LXV.

H. W.

And is it lust that welds my loue?
Or is it but your fond surmise?
Will you condemne, before you proue?
How can I thinke you to be wise?
O faithfull hart, yet thrice accurst,
That art misdeemd thus at the first.

If lust did rule my restlesse hart,
If onely lust did beare the sway,
I quickly could asswage my smart,
With choise, and change, for euery day,
You should not laugh to see me weepe,
If lust were it that strake so deepe.

And yet at first, before I knew,
What vaine it was that bled so sore,
Wher lust or loue, to proue it trew,
I tooke a salue that still before
Was wont to helpe, I chose me one,
With whom I quencht my lust alone.

Yet this (sweete hart) could not suffise,
Nor any way content my mind,

A bad argument to proue good loue.

I felt new qualmes, and new arise,
And stronger still, and strong I find,
By this, I thus doe plainely proue,
It is not lust, but faithfull loue.

And yet to proue my loue more sure,
And sith you will not false your faith,
This pining plight I will indure,
Till death do stop your husbands breath;
To haue me then if you will say,
I will not marrie, till that day.

If you will giue your full consent,
When God shall take your husbands life,
That then you will be well content,
To be my spouse and louing wife,
I will be ioyfull as before,
And till that time, will craue no more.

CANT, LXVI.

AVISA.

No more; no more, too much of this,
And is mine ynch become an ell?
If thus you writh my words amis,
I must of force, bid you farwell,
You shew in this your louing bent,
To catch at that, I neuer ment.

I thought at first, (but this my though
I must correct;) that simple loue,
In guilles hart these fits had wrought.
But I; too simple I, now proue,
That vnder shew of great good will,
My harts delight you seeke to spill.

He loues me well, that tils a trap,
Of deepe deceite, and deadly baine,
In dreadfull daungers thus to wrap
His friend by baites of flering traine:
Though flattering tongues can paint it braue
Your words do shew, what loue you haue.

I must consent, and you will stay
My husbands death. Obtaining this,
You thinke I could not say you Nay:
Nor of your other purpose mis,
You are deceiu'd, and you shall trie,
That I such faith, and friends defie.

Such fained, former, faithlesse plot
I most detest, and tell you plaine,
If now I were to cast my lot,
With free consent to chuse againe,
Of all the men I euer knew,
I would not make my choice of you.

Let this suffice, and do not stay
On hope of that which will not be,
Then cease your sute, go where you may,
Vaine is your trust, to hope on me.
My choice is past, my hart is bent,
While that remaines to be content.

Now hauing tract the winding trace
Of false resemblance, giue me leaue,
From this to shew a stranger grace,
Then heretofore, you did perceaue,
Gainst frendlesse loue if I repyne,
The fault is yours, & none of myne.

CANT. LXVII.

H. W.

I will not wish, I cannot vow,
Thy hurt, thy griefe, though thou disdaine,
Though thou refuse, I know not how,
To quite my loue with loue againe:
Since I haue swore to be thy frend,
As I began, so will I end.

Sweare thou my death, worke thou my woe,
Conspire with greefe to stop my breath,
Yet still thy frend, & not thy foe
I will remayne vntill my death:
Choose whome thou wilt, I will resigne,
If loue, or faith, be like to mine.

But while I wretch too long haue lent
My wandering eyes to gase on thee.
I haue both tyme, & trauell spent
In vaine, in vaine: and now I see,
They do but frutelesse paine procure,
To haggard kytes that cast the lure.

When I am dead, yet thou mayst boast,
Thou hadst a frend, a faithfull frend,
That liuing liu'd to loue thee most,
And lou'd thee still vnto his end:
Though thou vnworthy, with disdaine
Did'st force him liue, and dye in paine.

Now may I sing, now sigh, and say,
Farewell my lyfe, farewell my ioy,
Now mourne by night, now weepe by day,
Loue, too much loue breedes myne annoy:
What can I wish, what should I craue,
Sith that is gon, that I should haue.

Though hope be turned to dispaire,
Yet giue my tongue leaue to lament,
Beleeue me now, my hart doth sweare,
My lucklesse loue was truly ment:
Thou art too proud, I say no more,
Too stout, and wo is me therefore.

Felice chipuo.

CANT. LXVIII.

[_]

Auisa hauing heard this patheticall fancy of H.W. and seeing the teares trill downe his cheekes, as halfe angry to see such passionate follie, in a man that should haue gouerment, with a frowning countenance turned from him, without farder answere, making silence her best reply, and following the counsell of the wise, not to answere a foole in his folly lest he grow too foolish, returted quite from him, and left him alone. But he departing home, and not able by reason to rule the raginge fume of this phantasticall fury, cast himselfe vppon his

bed, & refusing both foode & comfort for many daies together, fell at length into such extremity of passionate affections, that as many as saw him, had great doubt of his health, but more of his wittes, yet, after a long space absence, hauing procured some respite from his sorrowes, he takes his pen & wrate, as followeth.

H. W

Lyke wounded Deare, whose tēder sydes are bath'd in blood,
From deadly wound, by fatall hand & forked shaft:
So bleedes my pearced hart, for so you thinke it good,
With cruelty to kill, that which you got by craft:
You still did loth my lyfe, my death shall be your gaine,
To dye to do you good, I shall not thinke it paine.

My person could not please, my talke was out of frame,
Though hart and eye could neuer brooke my loathed sight,
Yet loue doth make me say, to keepe you out of blame,
The fault was only mine, and that you did but right,
When I am gon, I hope my ghost shall shew you plaine,
That I did truly loue, and that I did not faine.

Now must I fynd the way to waile while lyfe doth last,
Yet hope I soone to see, the end of dolefull dayes;
When floudes of flowing feares, and creeping cares are past,
Then shall I leaue to sing, and write these pleasant layes:
For now I loth the foode, and bloud that lendes me breath,
I count all pleasures paine that keepe me from my death.

To darke and heauy shades, I now will take my flight,
Where nether tongue nor eye shall tell or see my fall,
That there I may disiect these dregges of thy dispight,
And purge the clotted blood, that now my hart doth gall:
In secret silence so, Perforce shall be my song,
Till truth make you confesse that you haue done me wrong.

Gia speme spenta.

H. W.

[_]

Auisa refusing both to come or send him any aunswere, after a long & melancholike deliberation, he wrate againe so as followeth.

CANT. LXIX

H. W.

Though you refuse to come or send,
Yet this I send, though I do stay,
Vnto these lynes some credit lend,
And marke it well what they shall say,
They cannot hurt, then reade them all,
They do but shew their maisters fall.

Though you disdaine to shew remorce,
You were the first and onely wight,
Whose fawning features did inforce
My will to runne beyond my might:
In femall face such force we see,
To captiue them, that erst were free.

Your onely word was then a law
Vnto my mynd, if I did sinne,
Forgiue this sinne, but then I saw
My bane or blisse did first beginne,
See what my fancy coulde haue donne,
Your loue at first, if I had wonne.

All fortune flat I had defyde,
To choice and change defyance sent,
No frowning fates could haue denyde,
My loues pursute, & willing bent,
This was my mynd, if I had found
Your loue as myne, but halfe so sound.

Then had I bad the hellish rout,
To frounce aloft their wrinckled front,
And cursed haggs that are so stout,
I boldly would haue bid auaunt,
Let earth and ayre haue fround their fill,
So I had wrought my wished will.

No raging storme, nor whirling blast,
My setled heart could haue annoyd,
No sky with thundering cloudes orecast
Had hurt, if you I had enioyd,
Now hope is past, loe you may see,
How euery toy tormenteth mee.

Chi cerca troua.

CANT. LXX.

H. W.

With oken planckes to plane the waues,
What Neptunes rage could I haue fear'd
To quell the gulfe that rudely raues,
What perill could haue once appear'd?
But now that I am left alone;
Bare thoughts enforce my hart to grone.

With thee to passe the chamfered groundes,
What force or feare could me restraine?
With thee to chase the Scillan houndes,
Me thinkes it were a pleasant paine,
This was my thought, this is my loue,
Which none but death, can yet remoue.

It then behoues my fainting sprite,
To lofty skyes returne againe,
Sith onely death bringes me delite,
Which louing liue in curelesse paine,
VVhat hap to strangers is assind,
If knowne frendes doo such fauour find.

How often haue my frendly mates
My louing errours laught to scorne,
How oft for thee found I debates,
VVhich now I wish had beene forborne:
But this & more would I haue donne,
If I thy fauour could haue wonne.

I saw your gardens passing fyne,
VVith pleasant flowers lately dect,
With Couslops and with Eglentine,
When wofull Woodbyne lyes reiect:
Yet these in weedes and briars meet,
Although they seeme to smell so sweet.

The dainty Daysy brauely springes,
And cheefest honour seemes to get,
I enuy not such frendly thinges,
But blesse the hand that these haue set:
Yet let the Hysope haue his place,
That doth deserue a speciall grace.

Viui, Chi vince.

CANT. LXXI.

H. W.

Bvt now farewell, your selfe shall see,
An odd exchange of frends in tyme,
you may perhappes then wish for mee,
And waile too late this cruell cryme:
Yea wish your selfe perhaps beshrewd,
That you to me such rigor shewd.

I cannot force you for to like,
Where cruell fancy doth rebell,
I must some other fortune seeke,
But where or how I cannot tell:
And yet I doubt where you shall find
In all your life so sure a friend.

Of pleasant dayes the date is donne,
My carcase pyneth in conceat,
The lyne of lyfe his race hath runne,
Expecting sound of deathes retreat:
Yet would I liue to loue thee still,
And do thee good against thy will.

How can I loue, how can I liue,
Whil'st that my hart hath lost his hope,
Dispaire abandons sweet reliefe,
My loue, and life haue lost their scope:
Yet would I liue thy feature to behold,
Yet would I loue, if I might be so bold.

These verses exceed measure, to shew that his affections keepe no compasse, and is exceeding loue.

My griefe is greene, and neuer springes,
My sorrowe full of deadly sap,
Sweet death remoue these bitter thinges,
Giue end to hard and cruell hap:
Yet would I liue, if I might see,
My life, or limmes might pleasure thee.

Farewell that sweet and pleasant walke,
The witnesse of my faith and wo,
That oft hath heard our frendly talke,
And giu'n me leaue my griefe to show,
O pleasant path, where I could see
No crosse at all but onely shee.

Il fine, fa il tutto.

CANT. LXXII.

H. W.

Like silly Bat, that loues the darke,
And seldome brookes the wished light,
Obscurely so I seeke the marke,
That aye doth vanish from my sight,
Yet shall she say, I died her frend,
Though by disdaine she sought mine end.

Faine would I cease, and hold my tong,
But loue and sorrow set me on,
Needes must I plaine of spitefull wrong,
Sith hope and health will both be gon,
When branch from inward rind is fled,
The barke doth wish the body dead.

If euer man were borne to woe,
I am the man, you know it well,
My chiefest friend, my greatest foe,
And heauen become my heauie hell,
This do I feele, this do I find:
But who can loose, that God will bind?

For since the day, O dismall day,
I first beheld that smiling face,
My fancie made her choice straight way,
And bad all other loues giue place,
Yea since I saw thy louely sight,
I frize and frie, twixt ioye and spight.

Where fond suspect doth keepe the gate,
There trust is chased from the dore,
Then faith and truth will come too late,
Where falshod will admit no more;
Then naked faith and loue must yeeld,
For lacke offence, and flie the feeld.

Then easier were it for to chuse,
To crale against the craggie hill,
Then sutes, then sighs, then words to vse,
To change a froward womans will,
Then othes and vowes are all in vaine,
And truth a toye, where fancies raigne.

Ama, Chi ti ama.

CANT. LXXIII.

H. W.

My tongue, my hand, my ready hart,
That spake, that felt, that freely thought,
My loue, thy limbes, my inward smart,
Haue all performed what they ought,
These all do loue you yet, and shall,
And when I change, let vengeance fall.

Shall I repent, I euer saw
That face, that so can frowne on mee?
How can I wish, when fancies draw
Mine eies to wish, and looke for thee?
Then though you do denie my right,
Yet bar me not from wished sight.

And yet I craue, I know not what,
Perchance my presence breeds your paine,
And if I were perswaded that,
I would in absence still remaine,
You shall not feele the smallest griefe,
Although it were to saue my life,

Ah woe is me, the case so stands,
That sencelesse papers plead my wo,
They can not weepe, nor wring their hands,
But say perhaps, that I did so,
And though these lines for mercie craue,
Who can on papers pittie haue?

O that my griefes, my sighs, my teares,
Might plainely muster in your vew,
Then paine, not pen, then faith, not feares,
Should vouch my vowes, and writings trew,
This wishing shewes a wofull want,
Of that which you by right should grant.

Now fare thou well, whose wel-fare brings
Such lothsome feare, and ill to me.
Yet heere thy friend this farwell sings,
Though heauie word a farwell be.
Against all hope, if I hope still,
Blame but abundance of good will.

Grand Amore, grand Dolore,

Inopem me copia fecit. H. W.

CANT, LXXIIII.

AVISA. her last reply.

Your long Epistle I haue read,
Great store of words, and little wit,
(For want of wit, these fancies bred)
To aunswere all I thinke not fit,
But in a word, you shall perceaue,
How kindly I will take my leaue.

When you shall see sweete Lillies grow,
And flourish in the frozen yse,
When ebbing tides shall leaue to flow,
And mountaines to the skies shall ryse,
When roring Seas do cease to raue,
Then shall you gaine the thing you craue.

When Fish as haggard Hawkes shall flie,
When Seas shall flame, and Sunne shall freese,
When mortall men shall neuer die,
And earth shall yeeld, nor herbe nor trees,
Then shall your words my mind remoue,
And I accept your proffered loue.

When Thames shall leaue his channell drie,
When Sheepe shall feede amidst the Sea.
When stones aloft, as Birds shall flie,
And night be changed into Day,
Then shall you see that I will yeeld,
And to your force resigne the feeld.

Till all these things doe come to passe,
Assure your selfe, you know my mind,
My hart is now, as first it was,
I came not of dame Chrysiedes kind,
Then leaue to hope, learne to refraine,
Your mind from that, you seeke in vaine.

I wish you well, and well to fare,
And there with all a godly mind,
Deuoid of lust, and foolish care,
This if you seeke, this shall you find.
But I must say, as erst before,
Then cease to waile, and write no more.

Alway the same Auisa.

[_]

H. W. Was now againe striken so dead, that hee hath not yet any farder assaid, nor I thinke euer will, and where he be aliue or dead I know not, and therfore I leaue him.