H. His Deuises for his owne exercise, and his Friends pleasure [by Thomas Howell] |
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A Winters Morning muse.
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 | H. His Deuises |  |
A Winters Morning muse.
As by occasion late, towards Brutus Citie olde,With quiet pace alone I rode, in winter sharp & colde.
In my delating brains, a thousand thoughts were fed,
And battaile wise a warre they made, in my perplexed hed.
I thought on tymely change, and musde on yerely waste,
How winter aye deuours the welth, that pleasant sommer plast.
I sawe the naked Fields vnclothde on euery side,
The beaten bushes stand al bare, that late were deckt with pride.
Whose fainting sap was fled, and falne from top to roote,
Eche tree had newe cast of his Cote, and laid him at his foote.
The smale and syllie Byrds, sat houering in the hedge,
And water Fowles by Wynter forst, forsooke the Fenny sedge.
Thus Nature altering quite, her earthly childrens cheere,
Doth shewe what brittle stay of state, and feeble holde is heere.
Who as in slender things, she shewes her yerely might,
So doth she like attempt her force, in all degrees aright.
For as I musing rode, I plainely might perceaue,
That like both change and chance there was, mans state that did bereaue
I sawe the mounting minde, that clymbde to reach the Skyes,
Aduanced vp by Fortunes wheele, on tickle stay that lyes,
Fall soone to flat decay, and headlong downe doth reele,
As fickle Fortune list to whyrle, her rounde vnstable wheele.
Was neuer Prince of power, so safe in his degree,
But deemde sometime the meaner sort, to syt more sure then hee.
And highest type of worldly hap, vncertaine doe endure.
Why thirst we so to raigne? why hunger we for heape?
Why presse we forth for worldly pompe, wt brech of quiet sleape?
Which lyke a Mothe eates out, the gaine of godly lyfe,
With all that stretch their vaine desyre, to wrest thys worlde in stryfe.
Whose fruite of toyling paine, by sweate and sorrow sought,
Is lost in twinckling of an eye, our name consumde to nought.
Yea though by worldly wyles, we thousande driftes deuise,
A God there is that laughes to scorne, the wisedome of the wise.
When thus along my waye, I diuersly had musde,
I founde whome Fortune high did heaue, on sodaine she refusde.
Then he by Uertue stayde, me thought the rest did passe,
So farre as doth the purest Golde, the vile and basest brasse.
Euen he I deemed blest, that wearing Uertues Crowne,
Doth liue contēt, not caring ought, how Fortune smile or frowne.
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