Wits: Fittes and Fancies Fronted and entermedled with Presidentes of Honour and Wisdome. Also: Loves Ovvle. An idle conceited dialogue betwene Loue, and an olde man ... A. C. [i.e. by Anthony Copley] |
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 | Wits: Fittes and Fancies |  |
The old man.
Tell me naked wretch of sin,
My gates are shut, how cam'st thou in,
Thou hast committed Burglarie,
To venture all so hardily into my gardin.
I thought my age and good aduise,
Had rid this garden long ere this
Of all thy baggage fooleries,
Thy weedes and briery fallaces, and sowre seeds of sin.
Goe to (sirrha) get you gone,
Let an aged man alone,
All retyred as you see
To record repentingly his youthes amisses.
Neither is this sap-lesse tree,
Fit for woonted iollitie:
Her fruites and floures are long agoe,
Withered in her root below all to anguishes.
All her greene, and sweetes are done,
Her shadowes dead for want of sonne:
All is bryer, and nettle now,
That whilom was a gallant bough, and faire flourished.
You come not now as earst you did
Into a garden beautifid:
With beds and Allies, hearbes and floures,
Faire Chrystall streames, and banquet-boures, like heauen ouer hed.
The Nightingale hath not been heere,
Heard to sing this many a yeere;
Frost and snow, and winters night,
Haue defac'd her beauty quight, and slaine her glory.
This house, whose battlements on hie,
Whilom faire, brau'd the lofty skie,
Towring in pride, and luxurie
The top of vaine felicity: such was my folly.
See now a cottage it is becoom
Of withered sedge, fearne, brake and broome,
Ay-me, a rotten reed I am,
A cripple, iuyce-lesse aged man, deceast to pleasure.
Then get thee gone thou wanton boy,
Seeke out some other place of ioy:
This garden is a solitude,
With ghostly sollaces indu'd; I haue no leasure
To entertaine nor thee, nor thine,
Fooles and furies of ruine.
Oh, how happy are they all
That neuer tasted of the gall of thy leud delights.
Wretched boy, I tell thee true,
Thou art a traitor to thy crue;
Protesting gracious complements,
Yet ministring but discontents, and all ill dispights.
These are thy trim benignities,
Incontinent desire of ease,
Enuie, disdaine, and ielosie,
Doubt, teares, and captiuitie, and all is foolerie.
Selfe-loue, vainglorie, passion,
Vnrest and desperation,
Intemperance, and enmitie,
Vaine hope, and melancholy, and impiety;
Griefe, brabble, waste and crueltie,
Effeminate solemnitie,
Treason, distrust, disloyaltie,
And after all comes beggerie, and late repentance;
These are thy balefull outrages,
And benefits of little ease;
Ramping rages against reason,
Neuer yet out of season among thy Orphans.
Loue.
These angry tearmes doe represent
You neuer skill'd my blandishment;
My peace, my sweetes, my lullabies,
Wherwith al soules I ciuillize, that bid me welcome.
Old.
Yes, well I ken thy stonishments,
And dangers by experience:
This same sin-writhled trunke of mine,
Is a fragment of thy ruine, and base martyrdome.
This night-shade garden well areeds
That all thy solaces are seeds,
And weeds of woe:thy sweets but snares
T'intangle soules in hell vnwares, ridiculously.
A gracious garden once it was,
Al ouer-floured with solace
Till that thy brutish barbarisme,
Through fallacies made entry in, such was my frailty.
And now it is, Oh now it is
A briery and weedy wildernes:
The map of infelicity,
A rag of all indignity: a badge of heauy chear.
Loue.
Good aged Father, for I see
Your tearmes are tearmes of iniurie,
And flint with flint affoordes but fire,
I list not answere you in ire. but will forbeare.
And all according to my name,
My language shall be free from blame:
How euer you in ignorance,
And chollericke misgouernance distaine your reuerence.
Old.
Adulterate synceritie,
Thy faire face is fallacie:
Thy speech is all hypocrisie,
And all thy drist is fellonie, and deadly vengeance.
As mildest Oyles are most of force,
To penetrate the stubborn'st corse,
So happily thou hop'st with sweetes,
To draw me downe into the deepes of all thy dangers.
Snakes and serpents oft haue I seene,
Faire-rowlling on the grassie greene,
Their peckles pleasant to the eye,
Yet haue they needles inwardly, to sting by-standers.
Not that I feare thy poisonous sting,
Or any danger thou canst bring:
For well I wot these hoary heares,
Are Mithredate against the feares of thy infection,
Loue.
Now that I proffer to replie,
Why stop yee your eares so iealously?
Old man.
The bird that sees & knowes the snare
Blame it not, if it beware, of apprehension.
Loue.
Be not so mis-preiudicate.
Old man.
Better now then all too late.
For though in shew thou seem a friend
Yet mischiefe is the latter end of thy dissignment.
Loue.
Yet heare a while what I wil say
Good for euill I will appay:
Thy disdaine, and contumelie,
I will recompence with glory, and most sweet content.
And though that you oppose your will
To contradict my kindnesse still;
Yet shall my gentle patience
Exemplify my good pretence, to make you blessed.
Old.
Oh what a medly haue we heer?
Poison mixt with dainty cheere;
Thy words and looks are good inough
But care and hell is in the-proofe therof possessed.
Then fie vpon thy pipe and thee,
I list not heare thy melodie,
I am too olde a Marriner,
For Syrenes songs to endanger, then prate no more.
Loue.
These fierce offences specify,
Your Natures harsh obliquitie;
Wherfore Ile leaue you to the same,
And in compassion of your blame, all to deplore.
The Judge to doome a wretch to die
Answerlesse, is iniurie:
Yet you condemne mine innocence,
Without admitting my defence, vngentle Father.
Old.
Nay, say not so, I am content
To listen to thy argument,
Condition that thou stand aloofe,
And interrupt not my disproofe, but heare my answere.
For I am willing in this case,
To doe thy trumperie due disgrace,
As wel by powre of argument,
As by the sprite of discontent and just rude-language,
Then ware th'infringe not my decree,
But prate thy prates aloofe from me,
For feare thy filth infect the aire,
And so possesse me vnaware with one or other rage.
Loue.
Alas you much mistake my might,
My powre it is no powre of spight,
Milde, and merry ciuility,
And arme in arme in vnitie is my Philosophy.
Which (for I see your good intent
Is now dispos'd to argument)
I hope so well to iustifie,
As you will thinke it honestie, and thanke me highlie.
Nor will I challenge for my paines,
Anie mercenarie gaines:
But onlie as you credite me,
So liue you euer merrilie, and I am pleased.
Now in the front of your aggriefe,
You tearme me a fellon and a theefe:
I say, he is no theefe that takes
That which another freely forsakes, to be so eased.
Besides, to take a thing away,
The owner gazing on the praie,
Nor contradicting, but agrees,
And claps his hands, and glad hee is, what theeuery is this?
Then heerin haue you wronged me,
To blot me with such infamie.
Old.
Nay, nay, that tearm is all too true,
How er'e I list not prooue it now for verie drowsinesse.
I feele a myst com'd ouer mine eies,
Fowle befall thy sorceries;
But well I wot to be aueng'd,
I'le sleepe thy prattle to an end: then prate thy heart out.
Loue.
I: so my swauetie assignes
Rest to rage and angrie mindes:
Then sleep your sleep in peace & blesse,
I hope you will heare me nearthelesse, I doe not doubt.
For why my speeches are a voice
Strong in powre, and not in noise,
Full possessing the hearers eare,
Deafe or dead although he were, so sweet it pierceth.
And since you cannot ease your mind,
With tearmes ynough of raging kind:
In sooth you can not better doe,
Then take a nap an houre or two, for rest remildeth.
Meane while I'le sing sweet Lullabies,
And warlble foorth my swauities,
To shew you as by argument,
How precious is my blandishment, and merrie bounties.
Tell me naked wretch of sin,
My gates are shut, how cam'st thou in,
Thou hast committed Burglarie,
To venture all so hardily into my gardin.
I thought my age and good aduise,
Had rid this garden long ere this
Of all thy baggage fooleries,
Thy weedes and briery fallaces, and sowre seeds of sin.
Goe to (sirrha) get you gone,
Let an aged man alone,
All retyred as you see
To record repentingly his youthes amisses.
Neither is this sap-lesse tree,
Fit for woonted iollitie:
Her fruites and floures are long agoe,
Withered in her root below all to anguishes.
All her greene, and sweetes are done,
Her shadowes dead for want of sonne:
All is bryer, and nettle now,
That whilom was a gallant bough, and faire flourished.
You come not now as earst you did
Into a garden beautifid:
With beds and Allies, hearbes and floures,
Faire Chrystall streames, and banquet-boures, like heauen ouer hed.
Heard to sing this many a yeere;
Frost and snow, and winters night,
Haue defac'd her beauty quight, and slaine her glory.
This house, whose battlements on hie,
Whilom faire, brau'd the lofty skie,
Towring in pride, and luxurie
The top of vaine felicity: such was my folly.
See now a cottage it is becoom
Of withered sedge, fearne, brake and broome,
Ay-me, a rotten reed I am,
A cripple, iuyce-lesse aged man, deceast to pleasure.
Then get thee gone thou wanton boy,
Seeke out some other place of ioy:
This garden is a solitude,
With ghostly sollaces indu'd; I haue no leasure
To entertaine nor thee, nor thine,
Fooles and furies of ruine.
Oh, how happy are they all
That neuer tasted of the gall of thy leud delights.
Wretched boy, I tell thee true,
Thou art a traitor to thy crue;
Protesting gracious complements,
Yet ministring but discontents, and all ill dispights.
These are thy trim benignities,
Incontinent desire of ease,
Enuie, disdaine, and ielosie,
Doubt, teares, and captiuitie, and all is foolerie.
Vnrest and desperation,
Intemperance, and enmitie,
Vaine hope, and melancholy, and impiety;
Griefe, brabble, waste and crueltie,
Effeminate solemnitie,
Treason, distrust, disloyaltie,
And after all comes beggerie, and late repentance;
These are thy balefull outrages,
And benefits of little ease;
Ramping rages against reason,
Neuer yet out of season among thy Orphans.
Loue.
These angry tearmes doe represent
You neuer skill'd my blandishment;
My peace, my sweetes, my lullabies,
Wherwith al soules I ciuillize, that bid me welcome.
Old.
Yes, well I ken thy stonishments,
And dangers by experience:
This same sin-writhled trunke of mine,
Is a fragment of thy ruine, and base martyrdome.
This night-shade garden well areeds
That all thy solaces are seeds,
And weeds of woe:thy sweets but snares
T'intangle soules in hell vnwares, ridiculously.
A gracious garden once it was,
Al ouer-floured with solace
Till that thy brutish barbarisme,
Through fallacies made entry in, such was my frailty.
A briery and weedy wildernes:
The map of infelicity,
A rag of all indignity: a badge of heauy chear.
Loue.
Good aged Father, for I see
Your tearmes are tearmes of iniurie,
And flint with flint affoordes but fire,
I list not answere you in ire. but will forbeare.
And all according to my name,
My language shall be free from blame:
How euer you in ignorance,
And chollericke misgouernance distaine your reuerence.
Old.
Adulterate synceritie,
Thy faire face is fallacie:
Thy speech is all hypocrisie,
And all thy drist is fellonie, and deadly vengeance.
As mildest Oyles are most of force,
To penetrate the stubborn'st corse,
So happily thou hop'st with sweetes,
To draw me downe into the deepes of all thy dangers.
Snakes and serpents oft haue I seene,
Faire-rowlling on the grassie greene,
Their peckles pleasant to the eye,
Yet haue they needles inwardly, to sting by-standers.
Not that I feare thy poisonous sting,
Or any danger thou canst bring:
For well I wot these hoary heares,
Are Mithredate against the feares of thy infection,
Now that I proffer to replie,
Why stop yee your eares so iealously?
Old man.
The bird that sees & knowes the snare
Blame it not, if it beware, of apprehension.
Loue.
Be not so mis-preiudicate.
Old man.
Better now then all too late.
For though in shew thou seem a friend
Yet mischiefe is the latter end of thy dissignment.
Loue.
Yet heare a while what I wil say
Good for euill I will appay:
Thy disdaine, and contumelie,
I will recompence with glory, and most sweet content.
And though that you oppose your will
To contradict my kindnesse still;
Yet shall my gentle patience
Exemplify my good pretence, to make you blessed.
Old.
Oh what a medly haue we heer?
Poison mixt with dainty cheere;
Thy words and looks are good inough
But care and hell is in the-proofe therof possessed.
Then fie vpon thy pipe and thee,
I list not heare thy melodie,
I am too olde a Marriner,
For Syrenes songs to endanger, then prate no more.
Loue.
These fierce offences specify,
Your Natures harsh obliquitie;
Wherfore Ile leaue you to the same,
And in compassion of your blame, all to deplore.
Answerlesse, is iniurie:
Yet you condemne mine innocence,
Without admitting my defence, vngentle Father.
Old.
Nay, say not so, I am content
To listen to thy argument,
Condition that thou stand aloofe,
And interrupt not my disproofe, but heare my answere.
For I am willing in this case,
To doe thy trumperie due disgrace,
As wel by powre of argument,
As by the sprite of discontent and just rude-language,
Then ware th'infringe not my decree,
But prate thy prates aloofe from me,
For feare thy filth infect the aire,
And so possesse me vnaware with one or other rage.
Loue.
Alas you much mistake my might,
My powre it is no powre of spight,
Milde, and merry ciuility,
And arme in arme in vnitie is my Philosophy.
Which (for I see your good intent
Is now dispos'd to argument)
I hope so well to iustifie,
As you will thinke it honestie, and thanke me highlie.
Nor will I challenge for my paines,
Anie mercenarie gaines:
But onlie as you credite me,
So liue you euer merrilie, and I am pleased.
You tearme me a fellon and a theefe:
I say, he is no theefe that takes
That which another freely forsakes, to be so eased.
Besides, to take a thing away,
The owner gazing on the praie,
Nor contradicting, but agrees,
And claps his hands, and glad hee is, what theeuery is this?
Then heerin haue you wronged me,
To blot me with such infamie.
Old.
Nay, nay, that tearm is all too true,
How er'e I list not prooue it now for verie drowsinesse.
I feele a myst com'd ouer mine eies,
Fowle befall thy sorceries;
But well I wot to be aueng'd,
I'le sleepe thy prattle to an end: then prate thy heart out.
Loue.
I: so my swauetie assignes
Rest to rage and angrie mindes:
Then sleep your sleep in peace & blesse,
I hope you will heare me nearthelesse, I doe not doubt.
For why my speeches are a voice
Strong in powre, and not in noise,
Full possessing the hearers eare,
Deafe or dead although he were, so sweet it pierceth.
And since you cannot ease your mind,
With tearmes ynough of raging kind:
In sooth you can not better doe,
Then take a nap an houre or two, for rest remildeth.
And warlble foorth my swauities,
To shew you as by argument,
How precious is my blandishment, and merrie bounties.
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