H. His Deuises :: :: University of Virginia Library

Where none but Nature is the guyde, Minerua hath no parte,
Then you her Nurcelings beare with him, yt knows no aide of arte.
I wake my wyts to please my selfe, nought reaking praise or blame,
I force my pen to purge my brayne, though matter small I frame.
In which attempt, if lack of skill, haue led my Muse awry,
Let my well meaning minde the misse, in eche respect supply.
If patterns wrought by Arte, of curious workman here thou seeke,
Thy trauayle then thou shalt but lose, to looke and neuer leeke.
But if good will may thee suffise, peruse, and take thy pleasure,
In Natures schoole my little skill: I learned all by leasure.
Here nothing placed is, that may the vertuous sorte offende,
Though enuious Carpers barke and snarle, at things they scarce can mende.
Whose chiefest grace is wise to seeme, by blotting others deedes,
Whose paynted flowers in proofe full oft, fall out but stincking weedes.
The chaste desyre with honest ryme, mislykes no whitt in minde,
But venomde Spyders poyson take, where Bee doth honey finde.
With greater ease a fault is founde, then well to welde the reste:
It differs much to tell the tale, and words misplaste to wreste.
By patterns here displayed to thee, thou mayst perhaps preuente
The poysoning bayts of bitter sweete, whose blisse brings sharp euente.
Disloyall loue and filthie lust, thou here art taught to flee:
With other Sawes to sundry endes, though hewed rough they bee.
That lyfe is lyke a Bubble blowne, or smoke that soone doth passe,
That all our pleasures are but paynes, our glorie brittle glasse.
That Fortunes fruites are variable, no holde in Princely mace:
That womens myndes are mutable, that death drawes on apace.
That worldly pompe is vanity, that youth vnwares decayes:
That high estate is slipperie, that onely vertue stayes,
Here learne thou mayst: with diuers notes, gaynst fraude and flattery,
That may suffise to warne the wise, to voyde such battery.
And eke thou here mayst viewe and see, howe Bewtie cruell haste:
Doth make, to shun the gallant face, where she but late was plaste.
That she is Natures priueledge, and so is sayd to bee
Because she seldom giues that gyfte, but where she cause doth see.

That beawtie is a dumbe disceite, not hauing worde or arte:
And yet with silente crafte she can, perswade the hardest harte.
She conqueres where she coms by kinde: for Creatures faire procure,
By naked lookes, such yeelding harts, as they wishe to allure.
Whose vayne delyghts if thou desier, thy thryfte goes to the grounde,
(And yet by honest loue we see, the greatest wealth is founde.)
Apollos troope my faults will passe, and waye my want herein,
Whose freindly fauor if I gaine, I prise not Pan a pin.
The trauell myne, the pleasure thine, if ought thou here doe leeke,
Thy good reporte, for paynes ymployed is sole rewarde I seeke.

Uirtus honorem parit.

Delightfull Discourses to sundry purposes.

No assurance but in Vertue.

Who wisely skans, the weake and brittle stayes,
That Natures Imps, within thys vale possesse,
The dyuers haps, the straunge vncertayne wayes,
That headlong forth we runne beyonde all gesse,
Shall soone perceyue, that euery worldly ioye,
Short pleasures yeelds, imixte with long anoye.

Though whorde of heaped store, for more delight,
Our Cofers keepe, to please our greedie luste:
Yea, though our time we passe in ioyfull plight,
And in thys lyfe repose our chiefest trust,
Yet worldly pompe, when all is sayde and done,
Doth vade away, lyke Snowe against the Sonne.

A tyme of byrth Dame Nature doth vs giue,
A tyme to dye shee lykewise doth prouyde:
No sooner doe we fyrst beginne to liue,
But straight to death vnwares away we slyde,
And yet alas, our fancies are so frayle,
That all our ioye is here to hoyse vp Sayle.

But such as set their Heauen of lingering lyfe,
In pleasures lap, whose froward tickle wheele
(Sayth wisdoms sonne) with frowning turne is ryse,
To drowne their blisse, that blyndly so doe reele,
By searche shall fynde, eche fleeting pleasure vaine,
When Uertues Impes, with Uertue highe shall raigne.

Then who so sees, the Sugar strawde on Gall,
And shunnes the same, by sacred Uertues skill:

Shall safely stande, when Follyes children fall,
That heedlesse holde, Dame pleasures wanton will,
Thus Uertue stayeth, when Uices steps doe slyde,
So are they blest, that doe in Uertue byde.

Prosperitie ought not cause presumption, nor aduersitie force dispayre.

Where Fortune fauoreth not, what labor may preuaile?
Whō frowning fate wil needs thrust down, what shal he win to waile?
With pacient mind to yeeld, is sure the soundest way,
And cast our cares and griefe on him, that fatall force doth sway.
For Death with equall pace, doth passe to Princes gate,
And there as at the Cottage poore, doth knock in one like state.
The tyme or maner how, the highst no more can tell.
Then poorest Peysant placed here, in base estate to dwell.
Sithe then such feeble stay, in mortall might we finde,
Why should the wante of worldly drosse, in dole once daunt our minde.
The Tylman pore in toyle, that spends the weary day,
Whose welth will scarce supply his wante, when some whoorde heaps ye play.
Fals not to flat dispaire, ne yet his labor leaues,
Though scarce ye stubble prooues his share, when others shock the sheaues
But liues with mind content, more free frō care & strife,
Then those yt hunger highest hap, where dangers dwel most rife.
Though prowde ambition blinde, puft vp with glory vaine,
Detest their state that riches wante, with hawty high disdaine.
The Seas oft troubled are, by winds that whyrling flye,
When shallow streams yeeld water cleere, in valleis low yt lye.
High Mountaynes set on fyre, by lightning eke we see,
When Pastures placed vnderneath, in nothing altered bee.
The formost fronte in fight, are neerest deadly wounde,
The lofty tree is soonst blowne down, & leueld with the grounde.
So such as thirst to clymbe, to daunger most are thrall,
Whose slyding glory sawced is, with honey mixt with Gall.
For who so gript with griefe, if Fortune liste to lowre,
As those that earst did feede at full, vpon her fayrest flowre?

Which change full oft hath falne, through her vnconstantnesse,
And whome she lately laught vpon, throwne downe remedilesse.
Was Alexander great, that many daungers past,
For all his mightie conquest wonne, not slayne himselfe at last?
A kings sonne eke I finde, for Fathers tyranny,
Constraynde to worke a Smith in Forge, by harde necessity.
Such is the fading force, of Fortunes fickle powre,
Whose fruitfulst fruite both rypes and rottes, in lesse space then an howre.
Such is her tickle trust, such are her slipper steps,
That what she seemes to sowe in ioy, with sorrow oft she reaps.
Attribute all to him, that fate doth guyde therefore,
With wylling mind embrace thy lot, where rich thou be or pore.

Once warnde, twice armde.

Whylste slye deceyte, by sleight of smyling cheare,
Yeeldes tickling hope, to dandle on our dayes:
We dread no guyle, no doubling drift we feare,
Our sounde beliefe such setled trust doth rayse.
But when in fyne, we finde our selues misled.
We blame the frawde that so our fancies fed.

And gripte with griefe, our former trust we wayle,
Exclayming lowde that falshood so can fayne,
When glosing shewes clokt vnder friendships vayle,
Fals out but sleyght, to foster hope in vayne.
Loe thus full oft, what deemde hath bene the sunne.
Proofe Cynthea findes, whose course more lowe doth runne.

As some haue tryde through time and trauell spente,
Who traynde by trust, haue deemde good hap there plast,
Had swayed the soyle, where ruine all to rente,
Hath due desart, with rigour downe defast.
Whose short regarde, for long imployed toyle,
May warne the wise of frawde to feare the foyle.

Flattery the Vayle of Frawde.

Fayre words foule deeds, pretended and forethought,
Who can but hate, that holds the feare of God:
Fayne you that lyst, such practise prooues but nought,
Uyle diuelishe driftes, prouoke Ioues wrathfull rod,
Which sure will fall, if we in synne perseuer,
Shame is the fruite, of frawde and foule endeuor.

Wherein beholde, some maske in Nettes at Noone,
Yet deeme they walke in clowdes of close disguise:
Hoyste vp in thought, to reache beyonde the Moone,
When all the worlde, their couert cunning spyes.
But these to name, my pen and speeche shall spare,
Who medleth least, least cumbred is with care.

It me suffizen may to note their driftes,
That weene by wyles, the worlde to weald at will:
Their glosing shewes, their slye and guylefull shiftes,
To trayne such on, as fynde not out their skyll.
Whose turnes to serue, though fooles a tyme be dandled,
The wyser wincke, that see how things are handled.

No greater contrariety, then in the passions of Loue.

In wyll to strong, in worke to weake is loue,
In hope to bolde, in feare more faynte then needes:
In thought a thousand guyles it stryues to proue,
In guyle, suspition painefull passions breedes.
Suspition easely yeelds to light beleefe,
And light beleefe to iealousie is thrall,
The iealous mynde deuoures it selfe with griefe,
Thus loue at once doth frye, freese, ryse and fall.
On pleasures paste to thinke, it takes delighte,
Whyles present blisse, by fonde conceyte it balkes,

Although the fruite it fynde, be pensiue plight,
For better chaunce, yet carelesse on it walkes,
These are the seedes that Venus Baby sowes,
As taste they shall, the bitter crop that mowes.

In vttering of sorrowe, some solace.

My carefull case, and pensiue pyning plight,
Constraynth my Pen, against my will to wright:
The plunged state, wherein I lyue and dwell,
Doth force me forth, my dolefull tale to tell.

My heaped woes, all solace sets asyde,
Whose secret smarte (alas) I faine would hyde,
But as the subiect Oxe, to yoke must yeelde,
So vanquisht wightes, are forste forsake the feelde.

My lucklesse lotte, denies me all releife,
I seeke for helpe, but finde increase of griefe.
I languishe still, in long and deepe dispaire,
Yet shunne to shewe the cause of this my care.

I couet nought, that reason might denye,
Ne doe I seeke by meanes to mounte on hye:
But what I seeke, if I the same might finde,
Then easde should be, mine vncontented mynde.

Miserie the ende of Letchery.

O fylthy Letchery,
Fyre of foule fraylty,
Nursse to ympietie,
Warre, pryde and ielousie,
Whose substance is gluttony,
Whose smoke is infamy,
Whose sparkes are vanity,
Whose flame obscurity,
Whose coles impurity,
And ashes mysery.

The paines of Louers great, but mine grieuous.

The Frost in flame that Louers finde,
And swelting heat in chilly colde,
So quite contrary are by kinde,
As strange it seemeth to beholde,
Strange is the feare that makes them fainte,
And strange the care that chokes their ioy,
Yet stranger passions me attaynte,
The onely Nursse of mine annoy.

Ruine the rewarde of Vice.

To you fayre Dames whose bewties braue do floorish,
To you whose daintie dayes in ioyes are spent:
To you whose prayse Dame Nature seekes to poolish,
To you whose fancie Venus doth frequent.
To you I wryte with harte and good intent,
That you may note by viewe of what I say,
How Natures giftes soone vade and slyde away.

Your loftie lookes, time downe full lowe shall raze,
Your stately steps age eke will alter quite:
Your fraile desyre that kindleth Cupids blase,
Whose heate is prone to follow foule delight,
The whip shalbe, that shall you sharply smite:
When euery vice that sproong of Fancies fittes,
Repentance brings, to those the same committes.

Is not the pride of Helens prayse bereft?
And Cresside staynde, that Troian Knight imbrased:
Whose bewties bright but darke defame hath left,
Unto them both through wanton deedes preferred.
As they by dynte of Death their dayes haue ended,
So shall your youth, your pompe, and bewties grace,
When nothing else but vertue may take place.

Then shake of Uice ye Nymphes of Cressids Crue,
And Uertue seeke, whose praise shall neuer die:
With fylthie lust your bodies not imbrue,
As did this Ilion Dame most wickedly,
Whose blisse by bale was plagude so greeuously,
That loe her lyfe in Lazars lodge she ended,
Who erst in Courte most curiouslye was tended.

Her Corps that did King Priams sonne delight,
Consumde with cares, sent forth sad sighes full colde:
Her azurde vaynes, her face and skinne so white,
With purple spottes, seemde vgly to beholde.
Eche lymme alas corruption gan vnfolde,
In which distresse, and bitter straine of ruth,
She begges her bread, for falsing fayth and truth.

No sorrow then might salue her lewde offence,
Nor raze the blotte that bred her black defame:
Her dolefull daies alas founde no defence:
Twas now to late to shunne the sheete of shame,
Which had bewrapt her wrackfull blemisht name,
So brode was blowne her crime and cursed case,
That worlds bewrayed her frowning fates disgrase.

Loe here the ende of foule defyled lyfe,
Loe here the fruite that sinne both sowes and reapes:
Loe here of Uice the right reward and knyfe,
That cuttes of cleane and tumbleth downe in heapes,
All such as tread Dame Cressids cursed steppes,
Take heede therfore how you your pryme do spende,
For Uice brings plagues, and Uertue happy ende.

The best Natures, soonest abused.

Betwixte my hope and dreade, grewe such debate,
When fyrst I sought these naked lynes to frame,
That long I pawsde, as doubtfull to dilate,
Whether best proceede, or else leaue of the same.
Tyll hope at last, dispayre doth banishe quight,
And wylles my Pen assay in verse to wright.

Feare not (quoth hope) to shewe thy wylling will,
(Smale seedes sometyme may light on gratefull grounde:)
If none had wrote but Clarks of Tullies skill,
Sweete sawes had sunck, which now aflote are founde,
Then cast of dread, dispayre no whyt at all,
Diseases great are cuerd with Medicins small.

These cheerefull wordes, no sooner gan reuiue
My Muse, but straight in mynde I me bethought,
How Gnatos secte through flattery doe contriue,
Eche guilefull glose, tyll they their wyles haue wrought,
Whose great abuse, though briefely here I touch,
I spare to speake, what might be sayde of such.

Of friendship sounde, though sundry yeelde a showe,
Yet fewe there be, in whome is tryed trust:
Such frawde in friendly lookes doth dayly growe,
That who most fawnes, ofte proues the most vniust:
Who sooner shall well meaning mindes betray,
Then such as best can Sinons pagent play.

As Saylers earst, by Sirens songs alurde,
Deuoured were that lackt Vlisses skill,
So Noble minds by such haue bene procurde,
To credite toyes, that turnde to greater ill.
The Serpent wise, to stop hir eares deemes meete,
When Charmer seemes to charme with voyce most sweete.

For lyke as shadowe plaste before the eyes,
Is not the thing that it doth represent:
Nor al prooues Gold that shines when touchstone tries,
Though fayre it seeme vnto some foule intent:
No more doe words that passe from flattering sorte,
Yeelde such effect as they doe oft report.

Some friendship faine to giue the greater gleeke,
Displeasures doubt another sort constraines:
To soothe vp things, which they perhaps mislike,
By meanes whereof vnseene, great mischiefe raignes.
Some fawne to serue their turne, where fortune smiles,
But if she frowne, they flee with all their wiles.

Such shewes right well, comparde may be to shade,
That seelde is seene, but where the Sunne doth shine:
For as those shapes with euery clowde doe vade,
So Flatterers faile if Fortune once decline.
Use Serpents skill against this subtill kinde,
Floodes drowne no Fields, before some brack they finde.

As fyre doth fine, and seperate Golde from drosse,
And shews the pure and perfite from the vyle:
So tryed is when wrackfull stormes doe tosse,
The faythfull friend from such as meane but guyle.
For like as Doues delight in buyldings newe,
To Cressus Court, so flocks Corebus crewe.

Let wisedome therfore weld your wayes and deedes,
Whose prudent poise brings darkest doubts to light:
To quick mistrust in trustiest, treason breedes,
The hastie credite oft deemes wrong for right.
Accounte of those, whome Uertues raigne doth guyde,
For such will stande, when glosing Gnatos slyde.

He lykeneth his lotte to Virgils.

Though Virgils Uearse, for loftie style were rare,
Surmounting farre my feeble Muses might:
Yet in this poynte my case I may compare
With his, what tyme another claymde his right,
And say with him, though I the seede did sowe,
Another seekes the fruite therof to mowe.

Like as the toyling Oxe the Plow doth pull,
And hath but stalkes, when others share the eares:
Or as the sheepe that Nature clothes with wooll,
Brings forth the Fleece, the shearer from him sheares,
Euen much alike it fareth now with me,
That forst the ground, where others reape the Fee.

I bred the Bees, thou wouldst the Honey haue,
I tylde the soyle, thou seekste by guyle the gaine:
I owe the Tree, thou doest the branches craue,
Thou prickst for prayse, where none but I tooke paine.
What deedes denie, some wynne by naked wordes,
I hatchte the broode, though thou possesse the byrdes.

Who so doth holde the light, whilst others Maske,
No Masker is perdie, you know right well:
Nor all whose shewes would clayme the greatest taske,
Deserues the same, when truth her tale doth tell.
Though mine the wrong, yet seemes the losse so light,
As shame forbids me more therof to write.

All of greene Willow, Willow, Willow, Willow, Sithe all of greene Willow shall be my Garland.

Imbrace your Bayes sweetely, that smile in loue,
And deck you with Lawrell, that dwell in delight
To me most vnhappy, still spurnde by dispight
Is giuen writhed Willows to expresse my state right

Pursuing the Panther whose sweete doth abound,
A most cruell Uiper my hard fate hath found:
Whose nature to Spyders I well may compare,
That mercylesse murders, whats caught in her snare.

The Lyon doth tender the beast that doth yeelde,
The Tyger seemes constant, once conquerd in fielde:
Bellona shewes fauour to Captiues that sue,
But Venus refuseth my dolors to rue.

How shall I to ease me vnburden my brest,
Of these pensiue passions that breeds my vnrest:
When speech wanteth powre, when voyce is vnprest,
And wyt wanteth cunning to compasse loues hest.

Yet what auayles words, where eares words doe flee,
Though words to the minde, true messengers bee?
Or what vayleth wyt, where wyll is vntowarde?
The sacrifice lost, where Saints be so frowarde.

All of greene Lawrell.

To sing of sorrowe still,
Attending Venus will,
Were now but lack of skill,
Pittie lyes deade:

Then cast of mourning cheare,
Let ioyfull plight appeare,
Where clowds doe neuer cleare,
Comfort is fledde.
Looke vp to the Lawrell, and let Willow goe,
And trust to the true friend, imbrace not thy foe,
Sing all of greene Lawrell:
By trauaile who stryueth, to winne thanklesse wight,
Is lyke one that washeth a black a Moore white,
Let all of greene Lawrell bedeck thy Garland.
Though some distill their teares,
That wrythed Willow weares,
Yet fainte not at their feares,
Seeme not to dread:
The wisest haue done so,
The Ualiant wrapt in wo,
Haue taken ouerthrow,
By Fancie led.
Where wyt is constrayned by will to giue place,
Their songs are of sorrow, that ioyes would embrace,
Sing all of greene Lawrell.
Let no deceytfull shewes of Venus bright shine,
Haue power once to pierce the sounde harte of thine,
So shall the greene Lawrell set forth thy garland,
Waygh not the wauering minde,
That fleetes with euery winde,
Tyll thou some stay doe finde,
Trust not to farre.
Unto Dame Constancy,
Bende still thy battery,
Flye fast from flattery,
With bewtie make warre.
So shall thy well lyking not harme thee at all,
For fayth fixed firmely, such fauour will fall,
That all of greene Lawrell, &c.

When others in dolor their wrack shall bewayle,
Thy shyp on the sounde seas in safetie may sayle,
Where crownde with greene Lawrel, in ioy thou shalt sing.

No newe fancies, shall alter olde lyking.

Though Paris prayse, Apollos Impe gan stayne,
When change of choyce his fickle humor fedde,
And Carthage cryes, with strayned voyce complayne,
On periurde Prince, by night that faithlesse fledde.
Though Iasons heste Medea founde vntrue,
And others mo there be whose fancye past:
That skorne the olde still haunting after newe,
Wythin whose hartes no leeking long may last,
Yet tyll syr Phebus beames shall lose their light,
And Ocean Seas doe cease to ebbe and flowe:
Untill the day shall turne to perfite night,
And Natures course against her kinde shall goe.
My fixed fayth vnspotted shall remayne,
What would you more, I vowe I doe not fayne.

A Dreame.

When Phebus bright was setled in the West,
And darknesse dimme, the earth had ouerspread:
When sylent night, that moues eche thing to rest,
With quyet pawse, had plaste me in my bed,
In slombring Dreame, me thought I heard a wyght,
His woes bewayle, that grewe through loues despyght.

Whose wearing weede and vestures all were greene,
Saue that his loynes with black were girded rounde:
And on his brest a badge of blewe was seene,
In signe his fayth and truth remayned sounde.
He sighed oft and said, O blisfull hier,
When hope with hap, may ioye in his desier.

But still to hope, and finde therein no fruite,
To be in bed, and restlesse there remayne:
To seeke to serue, and daylie make pursute,
To such as set but light of weary payne,
Doth breede such balefull dole within the brest,
As quyte bereaues all ioye and quyet rest.

Though taste of sower, deserue the sweete to gayne,
Yet cruell Fate I see the same denyes:
So that desyre and wisdome prooues but vayne,
Without accorde and fauour of the Skyes.
But stedfast hope, seeme not (quoth he) to quayle,
The heauens in tyme, may turne to thine auayle,
Scarse had he thus his wofull speeche concluded,
When wake I did, and sawe my selfe deluded.

The lamentable ende of Iulia Pompeis Wyfe.

Sore plungde in greeuous paynes and wofull smarte,
Bedewed with trickling teares on Death like face:
Downe trylles the drops on cheekes & sighs from hart,
To heare and see her husbands dolefull case.
Thus goes thys spouse, the wofull Iulia,
Besprent with bloud, when Pompeis Cote she saw,

Downe dead she falles in lamentable sounde,
Of sence bereft (so great was sorrowes strayne)
The chylde conceyude within by deadly wounde,
Untymely fruite came forth with pinching payne.
When all was done, for loue her lyfe she lost,
For Pompeis sake, shee yeelded vp her Ghost.

So dead she laye, bewaylde with many teares,
A Matrone wise, a famous Ornament:

O Cæsar she had seene full cheerefull yeares,
If thou with Pompey couldst haue bene content,
But ciuill warres hath wrought this fatall stryfe,
To Pompey death, to Iulia losse of lyfe.

Secrecy, for some sorrowes, a needefull remedy.

Like as the captiue Wight, in chayned lincks doth lye,
And hopes at Sise to be releast, is thē condemde to dye.
Euen so alas my lot, by frowning fate doth fall,
That sought to feede on sweete delight, but found most bitter Gall.
My restlesse labor lost, I iustly may compare,
To Sisiphus that neuer sleepes, and griefe to Titius care.
For after sundry stormes, when calme I thinke to finde,
More rougher rage a new doth rise, to straine my daunted minde.
And when my quelling cares, I seeke by meanes to cure,
Most deepest dynte of inwarde woe, alas I doe endure.
Prometheus pincht with payne, nor Ixion whyrlde on wheele.
More grypes by griefe doe not sustaine, then I vnhappy feele.
The somme of my vnrest, yet couert will I keepe,
And secretly my sorrowes sup, when others sounde doe sleepe.
To ease my pensyue brest, a Uearse though here I frame,
The bursting forth of sorrows mine, shal breed no further blame.
My sydes shall shryne this smart, my hart shall wast with woe,
Ere I the secrete of my cause, bewray to friend or foe.
Saue onely to the Saint, that swayes my lyfe at wyll,
Whose pittie may prolong the same, or crueltie may kyll.

The ende of lyfe, the begynning of blysse.

Why shoulde we feare to dye?
Or seeke from Death to flye,
When Death the way doth make,
Eche worldly woe to slake,
By whome we passe to ioye,
Where neuer comes annoye.

Our tryflying tryumphs heere,
Though we esteeme them deere,
Are like to vapours vayne,
That waste with little rayne.
Deluding Dreames in deede,
Whereon our fancies feede.

What yeelde our pleasures all,
But sweetenesse mixt with Gall,
Their pryme of chiefest pride,
Unwares away doth slide,
Whose shewe of sweete delight,
Oft dymmes our perfyte sight.

Though Ioue in loftie seate,
Haue placed Princes great,
With Regall rule to raigne,
His glory to explaine,
Yet vades their pompe and powre,
As doth the wythred Flowre.

Loe here the surest staye,
The worlde doth yeelde vs aye,
Thy dearest friend to daye,
To morrow falles away,
Whose wante thou doest bewayle,
When teares may nought preuayle.

Sithe lyfe is myserie,
Uoyde of felicitie,
Full of anxietie,
Giuen to impietie,
The death I happy call,
That doth bereaue such thrall.

They soonest yeelde remedy, that haue felt lyke extremetie.

The flames of fyre and clowds of cold, repugnant in my brest,
Hath quite exiled me from ioy, and reft all quiet rest.
Yet oft (alas) in shewe I smile, to shade my inwarde smarte,
When in my laughter waues of woe, well nie do burst my harte.
Whose driery thoughts I would to God, were seene so ful to thee,
As mine afflicted minde in payne, doth powre them out on mee.
So should perhaps thy frozen hart, now harde as Flintie stone,
Within thy brest wt melting teares, take ruth on this my mone.
But as he well cannot discerne, what tempest Saylers trye,
That neuer crost the checking tydes, yt surge with waues on hye.
No more canst thou my cares descry, for wante of ryper skill,
Although in deede the shewes thereof, doe pleade for pittie still.
In vayne therfore my pensiue plaintes, by Pen I doe expresse,
When both thy will and want of skill, denies to yeelde redresse.
The cruell fates (I feare) forbids, that I such blisse should finde,
Or sacred Ioue some other hap, hath to my share assignde.

A Poesie.

[Sithe follye tis to wishe, what may not be enioyed]

Sithe follye tis to wishe, what may not be enioyed,
And wisdom to eschew the harmes, wherwith we are anoyed.
Let reason guyde thy thoughts, when fancie most doth fight,
And count him victor of the Field, that conquers bewties might.

Vnthankfulnesse of minde, a monster in Nature.

On thanklesse Friend, whose trauayle is imployde,
With Asses Damme shall reape ingratefull meede:
Whose wanton Fole by her sweete mylke acloyde,
Oft kicks the Nurse, that doth it choycely feede.

As doe the Uipers broode, whose yongling long,
When mothers care with tender loue hath cherisht:
Requite the same with such vngratefull wrong,
That in rewarde, her lyfe by them is perisht.
Whose Nature is vnkindly to deuoure,
The wombe whence fyrst they tooke their lyuing powre.
To whom we may the vngratefull sorte compare,
That Uiper lyke seeke spoyle, where they should spare.

Noble minds eyther conquer, or couer.

As Scipio smylde to cloke his couert smarte,
What tyme he sawe his happy state declyne:
So some alike doe shadowe griefe of harte,
With outwarde myrth, when inwardly they pyne.
And to the worlde yeelde forth such shewes of ioye,
As fewe would deeme, they once did tast annoye.
When they in deede, with Scipios griefe complayne,
Their short regarde, for long employed payne.

Vng ie seruirey.

To serue but one, a constant courage showes,
Who serueth more, he rightly serueth none:
Base is the minde that bends so many Bowes,
Next God, a Prince we ought obey but one.
One God, one Prince, he serues, defends and feares,
Vng ie seruirey, for his worde that beares.

Doe, or be still.

The shallow streames, doe murmour more then deepe,
And Cowards bragge, that dares no weapons prooue:
Those Dogs byte least, that greatest barkings keepe,
Some do but fayne, whose shewes seeme farre in loue.
Sounde is the Tree, whence friendships fruite doth spring,
Doe or be still, let none but Syrens sing.

He denies quickly, that giues slowly.

Lingring delayes, slacke payments doe foreshowe,
Better no promise, then no performance:
Sleight are the sorrowes, slakte with comforts slowe,
Eyther sende, or ende, yeelde some assurance.
Shyfting delaye, mislyking oft doth breede,
They soone denye, whose Suters slowly speede.

Women are wordes, Men are deedes.

If nought but wordes in women to be founde,
Then what are they, men, women, or Monsters,
That yeelde lyke fruite? or else a hollowe sounde,
Which substance none, but ayre forth vtters.
By deedes and not by words, men praise obtayne,
Monsters, no men, whose deedes their words doe stayne.

Enuye euer depraueth deserte.

Thou snarling Curre, that crept in Maunger lyes,
And lets the Courser there to reache his right:
Thy malice great, and swelling false surmise,
Thou out shouldst barke, before thou secrete bite,
But sythe thy cankcred nature (needes I see,)
Must byte or burst, I open warre denownce,
Against thy kinde, what euer so thou bee,
Which seeks by guile our buyldings downe to bownce.
With Syrens voyce thy tune thou seekst to fayne,
As though in deede our braynes so barren were:
We could not compasse tryflyng toyes most playne.
Unlesse our light we sought some other where.
Thou barkst abrode of Bookes, from whence it came,
But can thy head (in fayth) no better gesse:

The toyes themselues doe bid thee cease for shame,
Lest more thou spurne, more folly thou expresse.
Well Momus mate, and sonne of Zoylus secte,
That so canst carpe at euery wylling minde:
Raze nothing downe, till something thou erecte,
Spare others spoyle, sythe nought in thee we finde.
Let them enioye the fruites of their desyre,
That seekes good will, and craues no other hyre.

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.

Then to my selfe I sayde, if Fortune stande vnsure,
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.

Mans lyfe likened to a Stage play.

Sithe earth is Stage whereon we play our partes,
And deedes are deemde according to desartes,
Be warie how thou walkst vpon the same,
In playing thy parte, thy course vprightly frame.

Remember when thy tale is tolde, straight way
Another steps on stage his part to playe,
To whome thou must resigne thy former state,
As one that hath already playde his mate.

All welth, pompe, powre, high hap and princely Mace,
Must yeelden be to such as shall take place,
As things but lente, to play our parts withall,
Our meede no more, then our desarts doe fall.

Not he that playeth the stateliest parte most praise,
Nor he that weares the ryches robe alwaies,

But he whose Uertues shall exceede the reast,
How so his seate be with the great or least.

Take heede therfore, and kepe eche Cue so right,
That Heauen for hyre vnto thy lotte may light.
With greedie minde so wrest not worldly gayne,
That soule doe spill, for slyding pleasures vayne.

Suffised be with that sufficient is,
And seeke the things that bring eternall blisse,
So shalt thou here not onely purchase prayse,
But after eke enioy most happie dayes.

To his Mistresse.

Maye name of seruaunt, to familier seeme,
For such whose seruice neuer swarude awry?
Can Noble mindes so base of those esteeme,
That freely yeelde for them to liue or dye?
No, no, some further fetche conceyued is,
Which hath withdrawne from me that wonted name:
How so it be, if I be more amisse,
Then sounde good will hath once desarued blame.
The wrekfull Gods powre downe vpon my hed,
Such sharpe reuenge as neuer man did feele:
And let my Ghost in Lymbo lowe be led,
To Tantals thyrst, or prowde Ixions wheele.
What wouldst thou more? if I not wishe thee well,
In Plutos Den, then let me lyue and dwell.

Rewarde doth not alwayes aunswere deserte.

Sith my desyre is prest to please,
Though not with glosing showe:
And eke my deeds if proofe were made,
Should tell what fayth I owe.
Whereto shall I impute my hap,
To Fate or wante of skill:
When nought I finde but tickle trust,
Where most I meane good will.

Who hurte, must heale.

The sparkes of loue within my brest, doe daylie so increase,
That euery vain on fyre is set, which none but yu mayst cease.
So that in thee consists my woe, in thee likewise my wealth,
In thee with speede to hast my death, in thee to giue me health.
O pittie then his restlesse state, that yeeldes him to thy will,
Sithe loe in thee it wholy lyes, my life to saue or spill.
That neyther doe I glose or faine, I Ioue to witnesse call,
Who knows the heat of fixed harts, when they to loue are thrall,
And shall I thus a wofull Wight, in rigor still remayne?
Shal such as smale good wil me beare, thy grace frō me restrayne
Shall false perswation so preuaile, to let our wished ioye?
Shall fayth and troth for their rewarde, reape naught but sharpe annoy?
Or else shal want of pyning welth, retract my iust desier.
Do not the Gods at pleasure theirs, the lowe estate raise higher?
Is not the worlde and all therein, at their disposing still?
Doth it not rest in them to giue, and take from whom they will.
No recklesse race then shalt thou runne, ne follow vaine delight,
In yeelding help to cure his harme, that holds thee dearst in sight.
Ne yet from tip of Fortunes wheele, yu shalt ne slide nor swarue,
Such hope I haue of better hap, the Fates do yet resarue.
Thy person, not thy pelfe, is all I wishe and craue,
Which more I vowe I do esteeme, then heaps of coyne to haue.

The greatest Princes aye by proofe, lead not the pleasantst lyfe,
Nor euery maide that maryeth welth, becoms the happiest wyfe.

Of Loue.

And if Loue be Lorde, who or what is he?
If Loue be not, who then bereaues my rest?
If no suche thing, alas what ayleth me?
What breedes suche broyle, what woundes my yeelding brest?
To tell what tis, doth passe my knowledge farre,
But who so loues I see doth liue in warre.

Of Bayes and Willow.

Shewe forth your Bayes that boaste of sweete delightes,
For I ne may such blisfull hap attayne:
The Willow branche most fit for wofull wightes,
Beholde I beare, a badge of secret payne.
Which loe my sides enshryne, and shall doe still,
Till cruell Fate hath wrought on me her will.

An Epitaph vpon the death of the Lady Katherine, late Countesse of Pembrooke.

If suche doe mourne, whose solace is bereft,
And sighs seeme sharpe to those whom sorrowes sting:
If cares increase where comforte none is left,
And griefs do grow, where pensiue thoughts do spring
Then be we sure, our Lorde in sadde annoy,
Doth wayle her death, whose lyfe was all his ioy.

If he (alas) with sobs her losse bemones,
May seruaunts spare their sighes abroade to sende?

Shall they in secret shrowde their gryping grones,
When maysters playnts may haue no power to ende?
No, no, deepe dole our pensiue sides would pearce,
If we in teares our sorrowes not rehearce.

Then mourne with me my wofull fellows all,
And tryll your teares your drooping cheekes adowne:
Gushe forth a gulfe of griefes, let floodes downe fall,
To wayle her wante, that sprang of high renowne.
Who whyles she liude, did sundry seeke to ayde,
But Death, O Death, thou hast them all dismayde.

The cheerefull spring that doth eche soyle adourne,
With pleasant showes, whereby delight is taken:
Doth moue our mindes, alas the more to mourne,
Our Ladie lost in source of sorrowes shaken.
Which loe in Uer to heauen hath tane the waye,
To her great gayne, but oh to our decaye.

If Princes loue, if husbands care or Coyne,
If Noble friends, if proofe of Phisicks lore:
By long attempt could sicknesse vndermoyne,
Or search of forrein soyle might health restore.
We should not yet haue seene the sonne to vade,
Whose clipsed light, hath turnde our shyne to shade.

But when the twyste of this our tyme is wownde,
No meanes by man may serue the same to stretch:
Our lottes are layde, our bodyes haue their bownde,
Tyme swiftly runnes with short and curelesse breatch.
Though world we weld in seate of Princely sway,
Yet swarues our state, as shade that slydes away.

The glittering shewes of highest glory heere,
Consumes to nought, like clowds disperst with winde:

And all that Nature from the earth doth reare,
Returnes againe, whence first it came by kinde:
But Uertues webbe, which loe this Lady sponne,
Shall last for aye, now these her dayes be done.

Her praise on earth lyke Palme shal florishe still,
Her Noble deedes shall liue and neuer dye:
Her sacred steps that sought eche vice to kill,
Shall mounte aloft, though lowe in earth she lye.
Who euen when latter pangues opprest her most,
Did mercy craue in yeelding vp the Ghost.

What would you more, her lyfe and death was such,
As deeper head could not commend to much.

Ultimum vale.

Farewell thou Pearle that Princes fauour founde,
Farewell the Saint that shielded our annoy:
Farewell the Hauen whose harbor was full sounde,
Farewell the Barke that brought her Chiefetaine ioy.

Farewell thou Spowse to him that held thee deare,
Farewell the Lampe that gaue such gladsome light:
Farewell of modest Dames a Mirrour cleare,
Farewell the shryne where vertue shyned bright.

Farewell thou minde that mente to no wight ill,
Farewell the harte that lodged honor aye:
Farewell the hande that helpt the needie still;
Farewell the staffe that sought the weake to stay.

Loe here in teares my last farewell I take,
What Heauens will haue, the earth must needes forsake.

In aduersitie, is best seene Vertues excellency.

When Boreas rough, had leauelesse left eche tree,
And horie Hiems gan his raigne to holde:
In walking forth, I might discerne and see,
A stately Palme, her branches greene vnfolde.
At sight whereof, when I a tyme had mused,
By malice meanes, I sawe the tree abused.

I sawe howe swelling Enuye in the top,
Sat shrowded close, embrasing slaunders cup:
By whome stoode Hate, aye ready prest to crop,
Ech springing spray, so soone as they shot vp.
And Flattery eke, did fiske from place to place,
By Synons arte, to seeke the Palmes disgrace.

As Tennys Ball, yet make the highest bownde,
When greatest powre is plaste to presse the same:
Or as a Bell sends forth the brimmest sownde,
When deepest downe the Ringer plucks the frame.
Euen so in sort, this Tree did rise and spring,
That Enuye sought by burden low to bring.

Which to your vertues may alude right well,
Though Malice fainte, to matche you with her might:
Yet fewe so sure in these our dayes doe dwell,
That Enuye neuer spurnes with deepe dispight.
If such then be, or if hereafter shall,
The Gods graunt you, as to the Palme doth fall.

Sorrowe disclosed, somewhat eased.

Sithe kindled coales close kept, continue longest quick,
And secret smarte with greater power, the pensiue minde doth prick.
Why should I cloke the griefe, from whence such passions grow,
Unlesse my braine by Pen I purge, my brest they ouerflow.
When night with quyet pause, eche creature cals to rest,
Through quelling cares & pinching thoughts, I lye so sore oprest,
That from my setling downe, vntill the tyme I rise,
Sleepe hardly wins the force to close, my watchful drooping eies.
The Skrich Owle me besides, her dolefull tunes doth shreeke,
Whose cryes my cares may represent, that rest in vaine do seeke.
To thinke on the mishaps, which daylie me betyde,
When surest hope of sweete redresse, I see away doth slyde.
The hardest harte by proofe, doth yeelde an inwarde pante,
When good desyres are deprest, by wrack of Irus wante.
Wante makes best natures fall, that else would vpright stand:
Want makes the valiant faynt in feares, though strong be harte & hand.
Want drowns in dollor deepe, the pleasants wits ye bee,
Want daunts the finste conceited head, and makes it dull we see.
Wante makes the olde wyfe trot, the yong to run outright,
Wante makes the noblest hart & mind, to seeme but base in sight.
Wante makes the Lyon stowte, a slender pray to leeke,
Want plucks the Pecocks plume adown, want makes ye mighty meeke
Want is the sowrce whence sorrows spring, yt hasts ye lifes decay,
Want loads the hart with heaped cares, that crush al ioys away.
Neede hath no lawe some say, extremes, extremes doe vrge,
The passions that by want do pain, what phisick wel may purge?
Unhappy is the hower, that such sharp sicknesse brings,
And thrise vnhappy is the wretch, whom want so deadly stings.
Aye me that such sowre sawce, false Fortune should procure,
When slylie forth she seemes to throw, her traine on golden lure.
By sleight whereof she doth, a piersing poyson place,
Ful closely coucht on pleasant bayte, to worke our more disgrase.

As I but lately tryed, who doe her guyle so taste,
That secretly I sup the smarte, that my good dayes defaste.
The time that I began to enter fyrst to lyfe,
Would God the sisters three had cut, the threed with fatall knyfe.
Would God that Death had bene, with bowe and arrows bente,
To pierce the woful hart of mine, which now with care is spent.
Whose hard and crooked fate, increasing euery hower,
Doth force me wake when others sleepe, where Fortune doth not lower.
And when the dawning daye, I doe perceyue and see,
And how syr Tytan vaunts himselfe, full braue in fyrst degree,
Whose gladsome golden beames, doe moue eche thing to ioye,
Saue onely me, whose wrackfull woes, haue wrought my sadde annoy.
Then from my couch I creepe, al clad with cloke of care,
And forth to walke in desarte woodes, my selfe I doe prepare.
Where none but wofull wights, do wandring waile their griefe
Where violence doth vengeance take, where neuer comes relief.
Where pleasure playes no parte, nor wanton lyfe is ledde,
Where daintie lookes no danger makes, nor nice desyre is fedde.
Where former ioyes doe vade, and turne to passions strange,
Where al delights condemde are shut, in sharp repentāce grange
Where sorrowe sits, with head hangde on her brest,
And wrings her hands for follies past, her present paines yt prest.
Where Dolor ruthfull Dame, with sad Dispaire doth dwell,
Where Furies fierce doe swarme & flock, not distant farre from Hell.
Euen there in dolefull Den, driue forth I doe the day,
Whereas my painefull piercing woes, at no time finde delay.
Within whose troubled head, such throng of thoughts do rise,
That nowe on this, and then on that, in minde I still deuise.
Among great thoughts throwne vp, I downe will set the least,
How syllie birde in prison pente, tane from the Nurse in neast.
Doth ioye in that her lyfe, so much as though she might,
From wood to wood, or fielde to fielde, at pleasure take her flight.
By whome I learne how man, from Cradle aye brought vp,
In base estate that neuer felt the taste of pleasures Cup,
Doth holde himselfe so well, content with his degree,
That he in lyfe doth seldome seeke, his state more high to see.

But I as Byrde vnlyke, that flewe in prime her flight,
Through gallant groues & fertyle fields, in ioys & sweete delight.
Which shall no sooner feele her selfe to be restraynde,
From her such wonted libertie as sometime she retaynde,
But forthwithall she doth, such inwarde woe conceyue,
That yeelding vp her pleasures past, her life therwith doth leaue.
When as the byrde in Cage, doth sporting sing and playe,
Who neuer found the place wherein, she felt more happy daye.
Loe thus the greater oft, are taught by things but small,
To knowe what restlesse griefe it breedes, from fortunes grace to fall.
I therfore wishe my lyfe, which all to long doth laste,
In symplest sort had euer bene, from tyme to tyme ypaste.
So I by custome should, haue likt my present paye,
Which now by tast of wrackfull change, in woe do wast awaye.

Omnis fortuna superanda ferendo est.

Of sufferance comes ease.

Who wayles at paine of sorrowes deadly smarte,
By wayling much encreaseth sorrowes might:
In greatest griefes who shewes the quiets harte,
By pacience driues sharpst griefe to speedy flight.
Repine, griefe growes, be still, griefe soone decayes:
Suffrance the salue for griefe at all assayes.

As Balles if throwne gainst stones do soone rebounde,
But fast they stick, if cast they be at durte:
So griefs nought harme where yeelding none is found:
Once fainte, and then they cause some mortall hurte.
By proofe and tryall, this most true we finde,
Least hurte by griefe is done to stowtest minde.

Pacience and stowtnesse lodged in thy brest,
Shall voyde from thence, griefe sorrow and vnrest.

A. M. Vt animo, sic amico.

H. His Reply to his friend, A. M.

The helthfull wight, with pleasure well may sing,
And courage hie to cheare the sicke may shewe:
But if disease his happy state should sting,
Those loftie tunes would fainte and fall more lowe.
For Turrets tops that seemes to reach the Skyes,
By thundring stormes to shieuers smale are shaken,
The strongest holde where stowtest Souldiours lyes,
Mauger their might, more greater force hath taken.
The soundest shyp long tost with tempest, leakes,
In wrastling windes, the hugie Cables fayle:
The brasen peece surchargde with powder breakes,
And valiant hartes orewhelmde in woe, do quayle.
The craggy Clyftes by floodes are fret at length,
The hardened steele obeyes the hammers stroke,
The stiffest bow still bente, doth lose his strength,
Base Fortunes blowes, all ioy likewise doth choke.
How maye he then possesse a quiet minde,
That cause of rest doth seelde or neuer finde.

H. to himselfe.

Whom desteny shall denye,
A happy lyfe to finde:
Why should he wayling lye,
With pensiue hart and minde.
What gaine by mourning got,
What lost by little care:
When needs must light to lot,
What desteny doth prepare.

Written to a most excellent Booke, full of rare inuention.

Goe learned booke, and vnto Pallas sing,
Thy pleasant tunes that sweetely sownde to hie
For Pan to reache, though Zoylus thee doth sting,
And lowre at thy lawde, set nought thereby.
Thy makers Muse in spight of enuies chinne,
For wise deuise, deserued praise shall winne.

Who views thee well, and notes thy course aright,
And syftes eche sence that couched is in thee:
Must needes extoll the minde that did thee dight,
And wishe the Muse may neuer weary bee.
From whence doth flowe such pithe in filed phrase,
As worthiest witte may ioy on thee to gase.

How much they erre, thy rare euent bewrayes,
That stretch their skill the Fates to ouerthrow:
And how mans wisedome here in vaine seekes wayes,
To shun high powers that sway our states below.
Against whose rule, although we striue to runne,
What Ioue forefets, no humaine force may shunne.

But all to long, thou hidste so perfite worke,
Seest not desyre, how faine she seekes to finde:
Thy light but lost, if thou in darknesse lurke?
Then shewe thy selfe and seeme no more vnkinde.
Unfolde thy fruite, and spread thy maysters praise,
Whose prime of youth, graue deeds of age displaies.

Go choyce conceits, Mineruas Mirrour bright,
With Rubies ritch yfret, wrought by the wise:

Purfled with Pearle, and decked with delight,
Where pleasure with profite, both in their guise.
Discourse of Louers, and such as folde sheepe,
Whose sawes well mixed, shrowds misteries deepe.

Goe yet I say with speede thy charge delyuer,
Thou needst not blushe, nor feare the foyle of blame:
The worthy Countesse see thou follow euer,
Tyll Fates doe fayle, maintaine her Noble name.
Attend her wyll, if she vouchsafe to call,
Stoope to her state, downe flat before her fall.

And euer thanke thou him, that fyrst such fruite did frame,
By whome thy prayse shall liue, to thy immortall fame.

Where Sorrowe is setled, delyght is banished.

The Sable sadde bewrapped hath my lymmes,
(A sute most fyt for one repleat with griefe.)
Whose strayned hart in sowrce of sorrowe swymmes,
Where wrackfull woes at no tyme finde reliefe.
Whose foode is feare, whose drinke is dolor deepe,
Whose sawce is sighes, whose tast sharpe passions are:
Whose rest is ruthe, where sorrowes neuer sleepe,
Whose comfort clipsed is with clowds of care.
Whose helpe is frozen, whose hap hath hard euente,
Whose hope is queld with clogge of colde dispayre:
Whose trust is tyerd, whose toyle in vaine is spente,
Whose pensiue plaintes but beate the barreyn ayre.
Where nought I finde, but drugges of bitter taste,
Whose dolefull dayes in darke annoye do waste.

The complainte of a sorrowfull wight, founde languishing in a Forrest.

When spring in lyuely greene, eche fielde hath deckt anewe,
And strowde the soyle with flowers sweete of sundry kinds of hewe.
What time the cheerefull buds, & blossoms braue in sight,
Inuites the weary dulled minde, abroad to take delight.
Then I by fancie led, a tyme to sporte and play,
To Forrest fayre of pleasant ayre, began to take the way.
And as I past through out a Ualley fayre and greene,
Where sundrye sweete & rare delights, I earst had heard & seene.
All whuste I found it tho, such silence was there kept,
As if it midnight then had beene, and all thing sounde had slept.
Whereat amazde I stoode, and listning long, might heare,
At last a dolefull sounding voyce, with lowe lamenting cheare,
In shrubs hard shrowded by, a wofull wight there lay,
Whose corps through care & lingering griefe, was welny worne away.
Where powring out his plainte he curst the tyme, and when
That fyrst on earth he placed was, to lead his lyfe with men.
Whose selfeloue seemth so sweete, that friendship yeeldes no tast,
And double dealing gaines such price, that plainenesse is displast.
Alas, quoth he the Babes, one wombe brought forth and bare.
Will nowe obiect, what are we bounde, the one to others care.
Whereas good nature bids, go meete thy friends distresse,
And beare some parte of his mishap, that he may beare the lesse.
If friend to friend thus doe, who faster friend should bee,
Then he (alas) in thy distresse, that nought will doe for thee.
Ah wofull man he sayth, thy lotte hath falne thee so,
That sowrce of sorrowes thee besets, with waues of wailful wo.
When he where fauour most, thou shouldst by nature finde,
Doth causelesse shake thee of in care, & shewes himselfe vnkinde.
O wretch in dolor drencht, O minde with mone opprest,
O gulfe of griefe, O sea of sighes, that straine the pensiue brest.
If wel by Pen thou couldst, thy present passions showe,
The hart that hardned nowe remaines, woulde soone relente I knowe.

But sith my hap is such, as reape may no redresse,
Come forth you Forrest Driads all, your mournefull Tunes expresse.
Drawe neere you Satyrs fower, and straine your dolefull cryes,
To wayle the woes of him (alas) in languor deepe that lyes.
Be witnesse woodes and Fields, ye Trees recorde my bale,
You Naides eke that haunt the Springs, repeate my wofull tale.
And say vnto the wight, that bydes vnfriendly bente,
How death would be so sweete to me, as ioy to his contente.
For better twere of bothe, then restlesse still remayne,
By ending quyte my lothed lyfe, to ende my lingering payne.
Here sparing further speeche, aside he cast his eye,
And fynding me, as one dismayde, away he sought to flye.
Whose will when I perceaude, to shunne my sight full bente;
I to him stept, and askte the cause, that moude him to lamente.
Wherto no worde he gaue, but stands like one amazde,
And with a strange and gastly looke, long tyme on me he gazde.
His face was thinne and leane, his collour dim as leade,
His cheeks were wanne, his body weake, his eyes deepe sunck-in head.
His hart straynde, his minde tost, his wyt with woe nere worne,
A rufull thing it was (alas) to viewe him so forlorne.
With deepe fet sighe from brest, sent forth by inwarde payne,
His feeble voice and foltring tongue, he gan at last to strayne.
And thus to me he sayde: O what art thou in wo:
Me Myser wretche that here dost finde, with griefe perplexed so?
Whose present state to learne, why dost thou thus require?
Smale gayne to thee, great paine to me, to yeelde to thy desire.
Yet sithe against my will, thine eares haue heard the plainte,
Which in this desarte place I paste, to ease my brest attainte.
Thus much at thy request, I further will reueale,
As for the rest this corps of mine, for euer shall conceale.
Whom earst a friend I founde, me causlesse hath forsaken,
What wouldst thou more this is the summe, that I with sighes am shaken.
But cruel fate I feare, doth force it so to be,
Adue farewell, let this suffice, inquier no more of me.
Which saide away he goes, God knoweth a wofull wight,
And leaues me there with sorrow fraight, yt sought to take delight

Of Fancie.

The kindled sparkes of fyre, that Fancies motions moue,
Do force me feele, though I ne see, nor know not what is loue.
Desyre on ruth doth runne, imbracing griefe for game,
Whose ioye is like the Flies delight, that fries amid the flame.
It yeelds and mercy craues, yet wots not who makes warres,
The only thing it sees or knowes, is one that loue preferres.

Aunswere.

[You loue belike to freese amid the flame]

You loue belike to freese amid the flame,
To weepe in ioye, to ioy in great distresse:
To laugh in teares, to leape and yet be lame,
Midst greeuous myrth & gladsome heauinesse.
To sinck in dread, and not to seeke redresse,
You Titius lyke doe play this wofull parte,
Your loue the Grype that tyers vpon your harte.

Euer sought, neuer founde.

The more I striue, the stronger is my thrall,
The stronger thrall, the weaker still mine ayde:
The weaker ayde, the greater griefe doth fall,
The greater griefe, the more with doubt dismayde.

Where lyfe I reache, there dollor biddes me die,
In sweetest soyle, I straine the greatest Snake:
My cares increase, when comfort drawes most nie,
From dainty pray, I pearsing poyson take.

Still pynde in colde, I parched am with heate,
As fyre I flye, vpon the flame I runne:

In swelting gleames, my chylly corps I beate,
Congealde to Ice, where shynes the cleerest sunne.
Loe thus I lyue, and lyuing thus I dye,
Drownde in dispayre, with hope aduaunced hye.

A Poesie.

[The valiant minde, by venture gaines the Goale]

The valiant minde, by venture gaines the Goale,
Whyles fearefull wightes in doubt doe blow the coale.

Aunswere.

[But wary wightes, by wisedome shunne the snare]

But wary wightes, by wisedome shunne the snare,
When venterous minds through hast, are wrapt in care.

Euery thing is as it is taken.

Some onely for disporte, a kinde of myrth doth rayse,
For which of some they finde dislyke, of some they purchase prayse.
The Tale that some clowte vp, with rude vnciuill sence,
Doth more delight the eares of some, then sweetest eloquence.
The Foole sometimes doth please, when wise aside are shake,
Then true it is that euery thing, is as men liste it take.

Who hath by knowledge skyll, of euery foote the length,
Or can he always hit the marke, yt drawes the greatest strength?
Some carpe at others factes, that nought themselues will vewe,
And some by high disdaine doe seeke, to mende Apelles shue.
What some in others spurne, themselues would not forsake,
But wylie Foxe from lofty Uine, doth vow no grapes to take.

A worde paste forth in sporte, to earnest oft doth turne,
So where there was no fire before, great flames on sodain burne

Not one mans children all, eche Nature is not leeke,
But who hath mean to measure wil, shal giue the greater gleeke.
First looke then leape, the blind doth run in many a brake,
And eche thing still by proofe we see is as men list it take.

Who so doth rule his rage, by wisdoms sacred skill,
No doubt shal shunne ful great annoy, that follows rashnes still.
And who his tongue can stay, till place and time doe serue,
His mind at large may better speake and greater praise deserue.
Though friends like friends would shade, the sun beams for thy sake.
Yet al things are assuredly, as men them list to take.

But al not friends in deede, of friendships bounds that bostes,
Take heede, no house may long indure, propt vp wt rotten postes.
Some rotten are at harte, yet beares a friendly face,
And vnder cloke of fawning shews, a Serpents sting thimbrace.
Tis hard to know of whom we certaine counte may make,
For though they smile, yet thee they deeme, as they thee list to take.

As they thee list to take, suche shalbe their reporte,
Malicious minds are euer prest against the vertuous sorte.
Be chary in thy choice, least frawde thy faith abuse,
Of sundrie sectes embrace the best, the flattering flock refuse.
Thus warely runne thy race, eschew the lurcking Snake,
Imbrace the good, as for the rest, no force how they thee take.

To his Lady of her doubtfull aunswere.

Twixt death and doubtfulnesse,
Twixt paine and pensiuenesse,
Twixt Hell and heauynesse,
Rests all my carefulnesse.

O vaine securitie,
That will not libertie,
Fye on that fantasie,
That brings captiuitie.

My lyfe is lothsomnesse,
My pleasure pastimelesse,
My ende your doubtfulnesse,
If you be mercylesse.

In doubt is iealosie,
Hope helpeth miserie,
Most women commonly,
Haue aunswers readily.

Helpe best welcome, when most needefull.

The bitter smarte that straines my mated minde,
Through quelling cares that threate my woful wrack:
Doth prick me on against my wyll I finde,
To pleade for grace, or else to pine in lack.
As fainting soule sokt vp with sickly paine,
Prayeth Phisicks aide in hope of helth againe.

Whilste Sea roomes serues, the shipman feares no foyle,
In quiet Porte there needes no Pilotes Arte:
But when through wearie winters tyring toyle,
Cleere Sommers calmes to carefull clowds conuarte.
And streaming stormes at hand do danger threate,
Then Masters ayde is sought in perrill great.

So I right Noble Peere and Lodestarre mine,
Whose Pynnis smale an vpright course hath ronne:
In seruice yours, am forced nowe in fine,
Mine ancors worne, my sayles and tackling donne,
In humblest wise your honors help to craue,
My foredriuen ship from swallowing vp to saue.

You are the Hauen whereon my hope depends,
And I the Barck vpon the drie shore dryuen:
You eke the lan̄de that cheerefull Pilotte lends,
And I the wight, whom Seas to wrack hath giuen.
What resteth then, if Harbour you denye,
But that my shyp must perishe, sinck and dye?

For now to late to sownde some other shore,
And he that hath and should by nature ayde:
Withdrawes his hande, and sayth he may no more,
Loe thus alas, I liue lyke one dismayde.
Twixte death and doubt, still surgde vpon the sande,
Stayde vp by hope to light on fyrmer lande.

But oh, O me, where Autumne fruitelesse slydes,
A barren hope to Hiems falles by kinde:
In Haruest tyme, whose trauaile nought prouydes,
A nypping Winter shall be sure to finde.
So carelesse youth that wastes his yeares in vaine,
In age repents bereft of hope or gaine.

As yeares increase, vncertaine hope seemes harde,
When sicknesse sharpe hath gathered greatest force:
Then Phisicks cure doth seeme a sweete rewarde,
Which you may yeelde, if please you take remorse.
My stepdame strange, I Fortune yet doe finde,
Which makes me more to dread some wrack behind.

For where I seeke the depth of hope to sounde,
To helpe my selfe, and stay my credite still:
To fronte my course, doth crooked hap rebounde.
Through such I feare, as euer mente me ill.
Or else in state I stande the most accurst,
(If seruice long me shrowde not from the wurst.)

Though some be slowe to reache reliefe at neede,
And with delayes the matter will delate:
Yet Noble minde then sheweth it selfe in deede,
By gyuing strength vnto the weakned state,
I seeke no store to lyue and lye at rest,
I wishe but ayde in that I am opprest.

Which if you graunt, you shall great honor gayne,
And eke encourage those of yonger dayes:
With cheerefull hope themselues & friends to strayne,
To serue a wyght that so his seruaunt stayes.
And I releast from wrackfull woes vnrest,
Will blase your praise tyll lyfe shall faile my brest.

Of the Golden worlde.

The golden worlde is past sayth some,
But nowe say I that worlde is come:
Now all things may for Golde be had,
For gayne of Golde, both good and bad.
Now honour hie for Golde is bought,
That earst of greater price was thought.
For Golde the Foole alofte doth rise,
And ofte is plaste aboue the wise.
For Golde the subtile shewe their skill,
For Golde the wicked winne their will.
For Golde who shunnes to wrest a wrong,
And make it seeme as right and strong?
Who spares to pleade as pleaseth thee,
If bring thou doe a golden fee?
The Fatherlesse is quyte forgot,
Where golden giftes doe fall to lot.
For Golde the Wyddow is opprest,
And rightfull heyres are dispossest.
Poore Irus cause at dore doth stande,
If Crœsus come with Golde in hande.

What mischiefe may almost be thought,
That now for Golde not daylie wrought?
A heape of ylles for Golde are clokte,
Yea vice for Golde hath vertue chokte.
For gayne of Golde the Flatterer smyles,
And on thee fawnes with sundry wyles.
I will not here through golden traps,
Say Louers light in Ladies laps.
But briefe to bee, what can you craue,
That now for Golde you may not haue?
Then truth to tell, and not to fayne,
Right now the golden worlde doth raygne.

A. W.

[The wante of Coyne so grypes my brest]

The wante of Coyne so grypes my brest,
That what to doe I know not best,
I trudge, I toyle, I seeke, I sue,
But aye good hap bids me adue.

Aunswere. H.

[If nipping neede Legittimus constraynde]

If nipping neede Legittimus constraynde,
in hande to grype the heauie Hammer great:
With which through wante his Princely corps he paynde,
on stythie hard, in Vulcans trade to beat.
If he (I say) of crowned king the sonne,
by fate was forste such bitter blastes to bide:
Dispaire not thou thy wrackfull race to runne.
for welth as shade from eche estate doth slide.
Pluck vp thy harte, thy hap not yet so harde,
since Princes great haue felt a fall more deepe:
King Dionise from regall rule debarde,
for his reliefe a Grammer schoole did keepe.
By which thou mayste thy wandring minde suffise,
That Fortunes wheele now vp, now down doth rise.

Of Friends.

As fyre doth fine and seperate Golde from drosse,
And shews the pure and perfite from the vyle:
Right so is tryde, when nipping stormes doe tosse,
A faythfull friend, from such as meane but guyle.
Whylste Fortune smyles, and thou no wante dost feele,
Of friends no doubt thou shalt haue heaped store,
But if she once doe whyrle aside hir wheele,
They slinke away, as though vnknowne before.

Lyke Doues that leaue the olde and ruynous towre,
And flocking flye to buyldings braue and new:
So fayned friends, when fortune seemes to lowre,
Their flight do take, and bids thee straight adew,
Thus he which earst had friends on euery side,
Not hauing one, alone doth now abide.

Answere. E. L.

[If perfite tryall might as soone be had]

If perfite tryall might as soone be had,
Of perfite men, as of the pure Golde:
It were not hard to know the good from bad,
Their difference soone might easilye then bee tolde.
For Fyre lesse than in an houres space,
Will finde the fault of Golde, and make it plaine,
But men haue meanes to counterfeyt such grace,
That they will aske at least a yeare or twaine.
And yet at last will not be tryde at all,
For some perchance will byde a toutch or two,
And will not seeme to flye whan you shall fall:
But offer you what they and theirs can doe.
Yet not so sounde as they should be in deede,
But make a meanes to make you serue their neede.

Reply to the same.

[That longer tyme the Friend than Golde should trye]

That longer tyme the Friend than Golde should trye,
I neuer yet denide nor would defende:
How fayned friends do fayle, if fate doe wrye,
Is totall summe wherto my tale doth tende.
For euery thing hath certaine tyme I knowe,
The full effect to worke of Natures charge,
The tender twig in tyme a tree doth growe,
And little Babes in tyme doe proue more large.
Some fruite scarce rype, when some doe drop away,
Some bloume, some beare according to their kinde,

Some soone shoote vp, some longer space doe stay,
Eche taketh the time that Nature hath assignde.
The Marble stone in time by watery drops
Is pierced deepe, and eke in time doth fall,
The stately towres with fine and curious tops,
For time in time, no doubt tryes all in all.
Which triall firste, occasion seekes to make,
As fyre by heate the Golde doth fine and pure,
In neede likewise occasion men shall take,
A friend to try, from such as stande vnsure.
But some a time will seeme to stay say you,
And after fayle, perceyuing further neede:
No doubt you here haue aymde the marke to true,
For suche is sure the fruite of subtile seede.
These friends are like to one that vndertakes,
To runne the race, whereby to gayne the prayse:
Who running well, at first, on sodaine slakes,
And in the midst his race leaues off and stayes.
Not aye doth proue the glorious morning showe
The fayrest day, ne all that shines is golde:
And therefore friends in deede are harde to knowe,
For some a storme or two, like friendship holde.
The flowres yet in tyme from weedes appeare,
Whose difference first in spring we scarce discerne,
The sunne orecast with clowde in time doth cleere,
And eke in time our friends from such we learne.
For as one tutch or two no perfite proofe
Doth make of friends, no more doth Golde one heate.
Yet tyme vs tels who links, who lyes aloofe,
Who byrds doth yeelde, and who the bushe doth beate.
Wherfore I ende, as Golde by fyre is tryde,
So friends by proofe at needefull tymes are spyde.

Another way.

[When once you haue false fortunes fickle wheele]

When once you haue false fortunes fickle wheele,
perceyude with paine, and tryde with troubled toyle:
The sound to see, and forged friend to feele,
it is not harde, for falshed hath the foyle.
If then you finde that Fortune stands your foe,
let wisedome welde your wit, and all your wayes:
So fayned friends their fayth that doe forgoe,
shall be ashamde, and you attaine to prayse.
For though the wheele with care do cast you downe,
Yet Pallas playes, when Fortune false doth frowne.

To his Friend M. S.

If friendship true be tryde when welth doth fayle,
from such as fayne, and flee if fortune lowre:
If he a friend that seemes not then to quayle,
but seekes to helpe and ayde his friend to powre.
My Staplee then a friend thou art in deede,
That helps thy friend in time of nipping neede.

In mediocritie, most safetie.

As meane in Musicke soundeth beste,
So meane estate liues most in reste.
The higher clymde, the fall more deepe,
The deeper fall, the doubler paine,
Declyning paine doth carefull keepe,
In man eche liuely limme and vaine.
Which prooues what change or chaunce doe fall,
Contented meane exceedeth all.

To the same.

[The high estate is daungerous]

The high estate is daungerous,
The poore degree is burdenous.
The welthie sorte are couetous,
The needie soule is dolorous.
The youthfull Imps are prodigall.
The aged be to riches thrall.
The bolder men foolehard ye call,
And fearefull wightes are dastards all.
Then yll eschew, embrace things cleane,
Well fare the sweete and golden meane.

That valiant hartes are desyrous to aspyre.

Eche valiaunt harte and Noble minde,
with loftie courage hye:
The mightie Mountayne seekes to scale,
and lets the Molehill lye.

Aunswere.

[The mounting minde that hasts to climbe]

The mounting minde that hasts to climbe,
when Fortune whirles her wheele:
With double dolour is deprest,
if downe he chaunce to reele.

Another waye.

[To climbe to high must needes be nought]

To climbe to high must needes be nought,
the feare to fall doth breede disease:
To sinke to lowe brings carefull thought,
dispayring payne can neuer please.
The golden meane giues quiet rest,
Who liues betwene extremes doth best.

To his Friend E. R. of the Bee.

Where as thy minde I see doth mounte,
to buylde thy nest on hye:
I thinke it good in meaner sorte,
thy wings thou guyde to flye.
For loftie trees on Mountayne toppes,
with euery blustering blaste
Are shaken sore, when trees belowe
doe stande both firme and faste.
The Bee whose force but feeble is,
to Beastes of bigger powre:
Hir selfe doth feede with Hony sweete,
when greater taste things sowre.
Which prooues the meane with minde content,
more happy lyfe we see:
Than is to taste the sowre, and sitte
in seate of highe degree.
From thorny shrubs and barren soyle,
swete sap the Bee doth sucke:
When bigger beastes in fertyle Fields,
with nipping stormes are stucke.
And he within his symple Cell,
doth dwell in safety sounde:
When such as seeke to sayle aloft,
in dole are oft times drounde.
Seeke not therefore with troubled minde,
at stately porte to riue:
But liue content as doth the Bee,
within his homely Hiue.
So shall thy foode be Honie sweete,
though Fortune smile or frowne:
And eke in safetie shalt thou sit,
when higher tumble downe.

Sure counsell, sounde friendship.

Of Louers restles lyues I lyste not wryte,
Let learned heads describe their painefull plight,
But playne in termes, I wishe thee euen so well,
As those that can fine Tales for Louers tell.

Whose friendly meaning if thou wilt receaue,
Detest disloyall loue, to Uertue cleaue,
And seeke by honest meanes thy state to stay,
The vertuous lyfe doth syldome bring decay.

Counte not the byrds that vndisclosed bee,
Waygh words as winde that yeelds no certaintie,
For polisht words that deedes doe neuer yeelde,
May likened be vnto the barreyn Feelde.

Prouyde in youth, thy aged yeares to keepe,
And let fayre speeche go lulle the fonde a sleepe,
Sir Machiauell such cunning nowe hath tought,
That wordes seeme sweete when bitter is the thought.

Whilst youth, strength, skyll, welth, friends & coyne wil stretch,
Thou fayre art borne, by many a guilfull fetch,
But if these helpes but once beginne to fainte,
Adieu farewell, colde comfort findes complainte.

Take heede therefore, retyre in time from those,
To serue their turnes, that teach their tongues to glose.
Whose golden shews, although do promise much.
In proofe fall out but Copper in the touch.

They performe not best, that promise most.

What holde in hope, or trust to fayre allure,
Shee that my sweetest yeares beguylde can tell:
By whome I learne there is no way so sure,
Ne speedier meane to guyde a man to hell.
Loe, he that liste such fayned hope to prooue,
Shall subiect liue, and nere raigne ouer loue.

The pleasure of her piercing eyes me thought,
Should be the lightes that leade to happinesse:
Alas I was to bolde, but she more nought,
To false suche fayth, and meaning nothing lesse,
What heauen is hid in loue, who seekes to see,
Must sue and serue a better Saint than shee.

Though tyme hath stayed the rage of my desyre,
Yet doth her sight renewe my festred wounde:
I cursse the arte that causde me to aspire,
In hope of truthe, where no trust could be founde.
But tyll my soule shall breake this carefull gayle,
Loue may not maystred be, nor I preuayle.

Bewtie the bayte of Vanitie.

A flattering forme hath showes that soone doe passe,
And vade away as doth the wythered grasse.
The more it hastes to reache the rypest yeares,
The more it faylth, and worse the forme apeares.
Of pleasant Flowers, the Rose that hath no Peere,
The Uiolets freshe, and Lyllies whyte and cleere.
Doe not alwayes retaine their hewe and sente,
And floorishe still with smell most redolente.
So though thou seeme of feature passing all,
And bearst the forme and fame as principall.

Whose bewtie shewes, hath blasde thy shape in sight,
Which thou in Glasse to view, takest great delight.
Yet tyme on poollisht forme shall furrows plowe,
And wrythed wrinckles peere on blemisht browe.
That lothe thou shalte, to note thy changed hewe,
And hate thy forme in Mirror bright to viewe.
Loe Ladie fayre, that bewtie is but vaine,
Experience shewes, when Uertue voyde of staine,
Doth florishe freshe, whome if thou doe embrace.
The more she growes, the greater is her grace.

Of Fortune.

O fortune false how double are thy deedes,
Thy painted Flowres are nought in proofe but weedes.
Who are brought downe, by thy most frowarde frownes,
Still subiect liue, and trouble them redownes.
To slipper happes annexed are their dayes,
To Lyons force, their bodyes are but prayes.
What so they winne by meritte or deserte,
Is from them rest, by power that doth subuerte.
Now welthy men doe tell the wisest tales,
And muck is made an equall weyghing schales.
No reason yet, but right should be of force,
And vertue would that wante should finde remorse.
But as the tossed Barke bydes better blysse.
And sharpest thrall in tyme released is,
And as the feeble Reedes are rente by Seas,
Yet spring againe, when swelling waues appease.
So hope I will, though now the ebbe be lowe.
A spring in time with former course may flowe.

A Sonet.

[If wayghtie burthens may be light]

If wayghtie burthens may be light,
Or fayre deniall det requite:
If Iustice can be termed error,
Or drosse for good and perfite treasor.
If Maye may be without delyte,
Or Snowe of other hewe than whyte,
If Cunning can be without skill,
Or women without headstrong will,
If Pardon where there is no synne,
Or Losse where euery man doth winne,
If Paradise in Hell you see,
Or sylent whereas women bee.
Then shall not Loue be termed hate,
Nor lowe degree the happiest state,
But all this must prooue contrarie,
And therfore Loue is Loyaltie.
Flee it, and it will flee thee,
Follow it, and it will follow thee.

To her Louer, that made a conquest of her, and fled, leauing her with childe.

At stryfe to whome I might,
commit my secret teares:
My heart the Mountaynes sight,
and hollow Eccho feares.

I doubt the Dryades,
amids the Forrest chase,
And thinking on the Seas,
I dread the Marmayds grace.

What shall I trust the Skyes?
then me the windes bewray:
Poore soule whom Ioue denyes,
eche caytife doth betray.

Ha heauy hart, thy meede,
O tell, tell out thy minde:
Ponder his fylthie deede,
that left his shame behinde.

And lyke a Cowarde fledde,
fearing the chylde vnborne:
Whose mother hee should wedde,
that hath the Babe forsworne.

Was euer Mayde so madde,
that might her fayth forgo?
Was euer boy so badde,
to vse a mayden so?

His teares did me beguyle,
and cleane opprest my powre,
As doth the Crocodile,
in seeking to deuoure.

Howe could I well denie,
when needes it must be so:
Although a shamefull I,
should haue a shamelesse no.

O faythlesse friend my guylte,
that first with guyle began:
O foolishe friend that spylte,
her mirror on the man.

What hath thy Country done,
or natiue soyle anoyde:
To force thee it to shonne,
wherein thy Louer ioyde.

No forrein Hauen can hide,
ne colour thine intent:
If lyfe in Babe abide,
that doth thy fault present.

And when thy fame hath worne,
within th' Italian coste:
Thou shalt be laught to scorne,
of them that loude thee moste.

The Gods will haue a share,
in gyuing him his hier:
That faythlesse falsly sware,
and prooude himselfe a lier.

And I thy mortall foe,
by fylthie lust beguylde:
To wreake me of my woe,
will slay thy silly childe.

In stead of quiet graue,
wherein his corse should rest:
Thy Impe his hearse shall haue,
in bowels of a beast.

My daintie tamed wombe,
that to thy share befell:
Shal finde no doubt a tombe,
amids the mayds in hell.

Being burdened to fayne his good will, he aunswereth thus.

If mine thy little care,
if thine my restlesse state,
If thine the brunts in brest I beare,
of mine to loue or hate.
Then trie thou shouldst to true,
that falsshood naught did frame:
Though now my smarts thou list not rue,
but makes my griefe thy game.
But out alas I die,
this change is nothing so:
For I in languishe still doe lye,
and fawne on thee my foe.
Who smiles to see my smarte,
and laughes when I doe weepe:
Regarding naught my faythfull harte,
yet from me dost it keepe.
Thus harte to faine vnskilde,
in being whole is broke:
In health is hurte, aliue is kilde,
by dinte of dolors stroke.
And being mine, is stolne,
and led by lyking lust:
Doth leaue the waye of certaine stay,
and leane to tickle trust.
Thou sayst I doe not loue,
would God thou didst not lye:
Such fond affects may nothing moue,
such one thou sayst as I.
The Sages sure were wise,
yet forced now and then:
By flashing flames of Cupids fyre,
to shewe themselues like men.

Dame Natures force will shewe,
what so therfore befall:
Tis sure my simple state so lowe,
thou dost mislike with all.
My thoughts doe mounte on hie,
though Fortune seeme but base:
Whose yeelding walles before thee lye,
to reare or downe to rase.

Chaunge of Country, shall not chaunge fancie.

To syfte my fate in forrein soyle,
a time though I depart:
Yet distaunce none, ne tyme, nor toyle
shall pluck from thee my hart.
But as I earst vnfaynedly,
haue vowde me wholy thyne:
So will I stande assuredly,
howe ere the worlde enclyne.

Where abilitie fayleth, wyll suffyceth.

If knowledge mine could compasse wylling will,
To sounde her fame, so well as deedes deserue:
Or if in Uerse by prayse of Poets skill,
I able were to wryte what I reserue.
Then should my pen put forth what now I holde,
And to the worlde her vertues rare vnfolde.

But sithe in me such sacred lore doth fayle,
I leaue the same to Sophos learned brayne:

As one whose bare and naked Muse doth quayle,
To vndertake her glory to explayne.
Least lack of skill that might in me appeere,
Should clipse the light which now doth shine so cleere.

A perfite Pearle it selfe doth shewe so well,
That naught it needes a foyle to blase the same:
Her prayse lykewise, the rest doth so excell,
That finer wittes will spred her Noble name.
What should I then vpon her feature stande,
Which shewes it selfe lyke sunne against the sande?

Her curious shape, who views and doth not prayse,
In Noble minde the second is to none:
Not Fortune, but deserts, her fame doth rayse,
For Fortune bowes to Uertues loftie throne.)
Where loe she setled sits, in seate so bright,
As Hesper cleere with gleames of glittering light.

Mans impietie, faynes false Deitie.

Lust long is faynde a God of loue to hee,
Whose peeuishe power some deeme is dangerous.
A cunning Archer that could neuer see,
Set forth he is, with shaftes right perillous.
A wanton winged boy forsooth he is,
And Venus sonne, whom she doth clip and kisse.

Down from the Heauens he shoots the flaming dartes,
That Fancie quickly burnes with quenchlesse fyre:
Bereauing Reason quite in all her partes,
Preferring wyll with doting fond desyre.
Is this a God? no, no, a Diuell sure,
To fylthie lust that doth the weake allure.

For Gods to Uertue, not to vices winne,
Their powers prouoke to good and not to yll:
Tis gainst their kinde to foster fylthie sinne,
Eche heauenly grace, doth heauenly giftes fulfyll.
Then you that fayne Dan Cupide is a God,
Recante in tyme, least Ioue reach forth his rod.

In loue smale iarres, sometime breede best content.

What state more sweete, more pleasant or more hie,
Then loues delight, where hartes doe ioyntly ioye?
If vyle suspect, feare and ielosie,
With gawling grudge did not the same annoy.
Yet where this sowre, with sweete somedeale doth blende,
Loues perfection oft it doth amende.

For thirst the water sauourie makes to seeme,
And after fasting, meate is had in price:
He knowes not peace, nor can thereof esteeme,
That in the warres hath neuer broke the Ice.
Hope is reuiude, and shakes of sorrowes past,
When seruice long doth reape rewarde at last.

Distaunce of Friends maye suffred be with ease,
When safe returne exiles eche former feare:
The farther of, the more doth meeting please,
Things hardly had, obtaynde, are holden deere.
Despayre not then, though eyes debarred bee,
From that fayre fight, the hart doth howerly see.

What Nature seuereth, Arte hardly ioyneth.

In fayth doth frozen Ianus double face,
Such fauour finde, to match with pleasant Maye:
May Horie Hiems now sweete blisse imbrace,
Where fertyle Iune by flatte repulse had nay.
No surely no, though iealous heades misdeeme,
A false vntroth to me they same doth seeme.

For Frost with Fyre may neuer long agree,
And Maye by course ought mayntaine Venus right:
When shyuering Ianus doth denie we see,
The pleasing sporte that May would most delight.
Then iealous slaunder shut thy chaps for shame,
Depraue them not, whose deedes are voyde of blame.

Since sprinkling showres of sweete Auroraes fludde,
In Hiems raigne are dryed vp with colde:
Whose Syluer drops bedewes the blowming budde,
And makes the fertyle soyle her fruite vnfolde.
Who can beleeue? not I, I vowe in deede,
That Ianus olde should gaine such youthfull meede.

He wysheth well to the Crabbe and Maple Tree in Milfeelde, for the Ladies sake that met there vnder them.

The cheerefull byrde that skips from tree to tree,
By skilfull choyse doth rooust and rest at night:
Although by wing and wil she may go free,
Yet there he pearkes, where most he takes delight.
As Thrush in thorne, and golden Finch in Fearne,
Great byrds in groues, the smale in bushie hedge:
The Larke alowe, in loftie tree the Hearne,
And some in Fenne, doe shrowde themselues in sedge.

So some men bost in Bayes, whose branch they beare,
Some Hawthorne holde, as chiefe of their delight:
Some wofull wights, the wrethed Willows weare,
Some Roses reach, and some the Lyllies white.
Some Plane tree praise, as great Darius sonne,
Whose oft recourse thereto, doth wel expresse,
That vertues rife therin this Prince had wonne,
To lyke the same aboue the rest I gesse.
The Oliander eke, whose Roselike floure,
Fayre Polixene so passing well did please:
Some lift aloft, and some the Pien pure,
Yet trees I know that farre surmounteth these.
Not for their daintie fruites, or odoures sweete,
Ne yet for sumptuous shewe that others yeelde:
But for the Ladies sakes, which there did meete,
I giue them prayse as chiefest in the fielde.
O happy trees, O happy boughes, whose shade
Ishrouded hath such Noble vertuous wightes:
By whom you were, and are a Mirror made,
Who of your selues doe yeelde no great delightes.
O fertyle ground, in yeelding wise that lends,
Such causes great of Ladies perfite ioyes,
O blissefull place so fit for faithfull friends,
In pleasures ryfe, to rid them from anoyes.
What wonder may it be, to those shall heare,
In Maple hard, or crooked Crabbe tree sowre:
Such sugred talke, such iests, such ioyfull cheare,
Such mylde affects, as if t'were Cupids bowre?
Nowe sith these Noble Nimphes ybreathed haue,
Upon these plants, in vttering forth their minde:
If any seeke their secrecie to craue,
High Ioue I pray these trees may shewe their kinde.
Help Satyrs eke, you Gods that keepe the wood,
The poysoning breath of Boreas rough resist:
And thou whose syluer drops bedewes eche bud,
Refreshe these trees with sweete Auroraes mist.

And Ioue if thou in Milfeelde shew thy might,
Conuert them soone, to fruites of more delight.
That Maple may be Mulberie,
And Crabbe tree eke a Medler be.

Being charged with finenesse, he answereth thus.

Not fine good Lady mine,
but playne as playne may be:
Your curious hed may finenesse frame,
it longeth not to me.
My symple meaning plaine,
not carued with mincing stile:
Unfayned friendship seekes to shew,
deuoyde of frawde or guile.
No Gnatos parte I play,
ne like Corebus crue:
By glosing words to seeke to painte,
or publishe more than true.
My cheefe delight to please,
is all which I desire:
With nising Nimphes I list not deale,
whose lookes aloft aspire.
Plaine truthe aye yeelds such trust,
as needes no fined phrase:
And my delight hath lesse desire,
Dame bewties beames to blase.
Whose heasts in harte I holde,
and will till time I die:
Yet truth might truely match delight,
with things that seeme more hie.
But needelesse here to tell,
What all men sees right well.
Where nicenesse fine is fled,
Doth vertue spring and spred.
Let finenesse then be plaste,
Where finenesse is embraste.

Such Saintes, such seruice.

Thy countnance changde, though clokt in couert sort,
Not all things well, long since did make report.
Though thou vnkinde, and twise vnkinde againe
To me thy friend, wouldst not imparte thy paine.
See yet at last, how tyme the truth hath tolde,
What thou wouldst not, loe time doth here vnfolde.
No doubtfull drift whereon demurre dependes.
So close is kept, that time not tries and endes.
And art thou changde? doth fansie so perswade?
To heape thy harme, doe secrete flames inuade?
Wilt thou from me so hide thy cause of pine?
Hast thou forgot, I rest still wholy thine?
Where is become thy manly minde, which late
Could so dehort thy friend, in fraile estate?
May one so well approou'd in Pallas feelde,
By view of symple peere, seeme thus to yeelde.
Shall Bussard blinde, thy constant dealing daunt?
Arte thou so fonde, with carren Kyte to haunt?
Or wilt thou stoupe, and bend thy selfe to serue,
A thanklesse Trull, whose deeds right naught deserue?
Whose peeuishe pride, descries the Pecocks grace,
Though she God wot, be farre more vile and base.
Naught else but wante of wyt, makes pride presume,
The feete well viewd, downe fals the Pecocks plume.
Whose owne conceyte, so dimmes her dazeled sight,
That deeme she doth for day, the duskishe night.
To base she is for thee to lure and call,
Though she by lofty lookes would conquer all.
Thy foode to fine her fylthy gorge to fill,
Of daintie pray to iudge, she hath no skill.
By course of kinde, she doth for carren craue,
Be rulde by me, her diet let her haue.

Doe way the Kyte, that so doth scratch and scowle,
My Keeper kepe henceforth some finer fowle.
For looke as vessel aye, yeelds certaine taste
Of licoure, such as fyrst therein was plaste.
So dunghill byrdes, on dunghill still we finde,
To shewe the branch whence fyrst they came by kinde.
Cast of therfore thy care and changed cheare,
Call home thy hart, let woonted plight appeare.
Hoyse vp thy sayles, and launch from wrackful shore,
Who runnes on rockes, oft brused is full sore.

I follow what flyeth from me.

I viewe the fertile tree,
but fruite I none may get:
Most daintie foode I see,
yet starue for wante of meate.

Where drinke stands me before,
there greatest drougth I take:
My thirst encreast the more,
when most I would it slake.

So hunger stryues to feede,
when hap withholds repast,
So thirst craues drinke with speede,
when thrall sayth stay a cast.

Thus Tantals toyle I trie,
against the streame that rowe:
As hope would heaue me hie,
dispaire doth sinke me lowe.

No griefe to wante of due regarde.

Where sorrow sunck in breast, hath sokt vp euery ioye,
What comfort there but cruel care, the source of sharpe anoy?
Adieu delightfull dayes that wretch right well may say,
Whose good endeuour made him dreame, till wakt wt cold decay.
Adieu deluding hope, that lulde thee so on sleepe,
As sleepe thy sences so bereaude, that waking yet dost sleepe.
Sith all the fruite thou findst, for long imployed paine,
Falles out but brakes & brambles sharpe, how mayst thou teares refraine.
When ruth is made rewarde, for fayth that fauour sought,
What hart can choose but pine away, in plaint & pensiue thought?
And cursse eche practise still, through drift of glosing guiles,
That dandled on true meaning minds, by frawde & hellish wiles.
To serue their turnes tyll they, vnto the bones are worne,
And then on sodaine shake them off, in greatest neede forlorne.
Most like the wormes that feede vpon the kernels sweete,
Forsaking huske when foode is spente, to perishe vnder feete,
So they the hartes of men, doe gnawe in peeces smale,
When youth and coine are both consumde, yt leaues them to their thrale.
As some by to much proofe, haue tryed all to true,
Enforst to bid their golden time, so fruitlesse spent adiewe.

Of Anger.

A poyson piercing to the death,
A Traytor to the lyfe:
A Foe to friendships constancie,
a friend to deadly stryfe.
Armed agaynst good counsels force,
weake in aduersitie:
A spoyler of such guiltlesse blood,
as is condemde by thee.
A troubled wyt, a reaklesse hande,
a wrathfull hart to spill:

A partiall Iudge, a iealous wyfe,
where anger hath her will.
A wastefull pursse, a greedie Foe,
a false suspecting thing:
A tickle stay, a prowde disgrace,
a cruell Serpents sting.
A whip to ease, a rack to rule,
a furie to good rest.
A black infecting Spring they saye,
that poysons man and beast.
A hastie heate, a burning flame,
a wylde deuouring whelpe:
A forcelesse winde, a furie short,
and last a silly helpe.

A New yeares gyfte.

L Long may you lyue, and happy yeares enioye,
A Among your friends, to staye in blisfull state
D Deuoyde of Foes, safe shrowded from annoye.
I In all your workes: God graunt you happy fate,

K Kindle your care to compasse heauenly things:

P Presse downe the worlde, let not his power preuayle.
E Esteeme him not, a Syrens song he sings.
M Most happy they, where most his flatteries fayle.
B Beginne no acte, but fyrst foresee the ende:
R Reache forth your hande to helpe the needie still,
O Obserue such rules as may your state defende.
O Offence forbeare: feare euer to doe ill.
K Knowe God and seeke his holy hests to holde,
E Example giue, to make the good more bolde.

Another.

[L Let wisedome welde your witte and all your wayes]

L Let wisedome welde your witte and all your wayes,
A Among the best your credite twill enhaunce:
D Detest eche Uice, by Uertue purchase prayse,
I In Noble moulde, a Noble minde aduaunce.

M March on with those gainst frayle desyres that fight,
A And gayne the Gole where glorye grief doth dwell:
R Resist eche wrong, endeuour to doe right;
I Imbrace good will of such as wishe you well.

S Suspend to deeme the worst, what euer breede,
A And poyse eche poynte before you verdit giue,
V Untill you syft the depth of doubts in deede,
I It skill shall shewe to let the matter liue.
L Last beare in minde as course doth chaunge the yeare,
E Euen so all Natures workes in time doe weare.

Another.

[L Lay downe your Pens, that pen vnworthy prayse]

L Lay downe your Pens, that pen vnworthy prayse,
A Aduaunsing Dames which naught may claime by right:
D Direct your course a Ladies fame to raise,
I In eche respect that well deserues your light.

G Grace is a gifte deuyne giuen from aboue,

C Cancell the scrowles that others praise pretende:
A All writs are voyde that substance none doe proue,
V Uertue and blood, this Lady both commende.
E Eche perfite good in her doth fyrmely rest,
N Noble by byrth, by Nature affable,
D Disposed well, all ill she doth detest,
I In euery action modest and stable.
S Set shape aside, where Uertue hath no place,
H Here shape and Uertue both are ioynde in Grace.

Another.

[T Tyme and trust doth trie both weake and sure]

T Tyme and trust doth trie both weake and sure,
O O blisfull hap that trust in time maye reache:

T The patients paine which sicknesse doth procure,
H Hath health or ende, at last to be his leache.
E Effects (alas) I see doe fall out harde,

L Lost labor reapes the crop of lyngering griefe,
A And friendships force, through falshoode is debarde.
D Despite denies deserte to reache reliefe,
I I see some smyle as they wers gyrte with gladnesse,

S Stayde vp by hope, though drencht in deepe dispayre:
P Preferring sporte, but daunted downe with sadnesse.
E Enioying nought, yet faine to flye in th' ayre.
K Kept farre from you (God graunt) all such annoye,
E Embraste to be with them that lyue in ioye.

An Epitaph.

What hydes this hearse but quiet silente reste,
The surest ende of his vncertayne time:
Whome neyther sworde, nor fyre, nor age opprest,
But to his Ghost gaue way, in haste to clime
Aloft, loe here the iustice of such fatall breath,
To haue a God the author of his death?
Fayth and good nature, honor death and lyfe,
The Noble harte procureth fauour moste,
These markes, these flowres of his age are ryfe,
Wherein both soule and shrine may iustly boste.
Where his desyres lodge, the Gods can tell,
Here lyeth the corse that liued and died so well.

A Dreame.

To clime the high and hauty hyll,
Where Poets preace for praise by skyll,
I list no labour waste:
The water Nimphes I neuer vewde,
Nor Ladies of the Lake persewde,
That poore Acteon chaste:
King Arthurs Knights long since are fled,
In force that did excell,
And all those Ladies nowe lye dead,
Whose lyues olde Poets tell,
Reuealing, their dealing;
I purpose not to wryte:
But dreaming, a straunge thing
Loe heere I doe recyte.

A fayre Pauillion finely pight,
In sleepe appeared in my sight,
Amidst whereof in greene and white,
The Goddesse sate of all delight,
Be set about with Ladies true,
Which did to her such seruice due,
As fewe I deeme, the like hath seene.
Idone to any earthly Queene.
Her Nimphes all they were,
Of such comely cheere,
Helens face, may giue place,
Where they appeere.

These Ladies on this Goddesse bright,
Attendance gaue both daye and night,
To worke what she would will:
Some sitting heere, some standing there,
As for the tyme they placed were,

According to their skill:
For Venus then in Maiestie,
Me thought at Banket sate,
Attended on most curiously,
As best beseemde her state,
Some seruing,
Some caruing,
In Office as they stoode,
Some playing,
Some singing,
With glad and cheerefull moode.

That sure me thought in Heauen I was,
To see this sight it so did passe,
But at the last, this Banket past,
Of Suters then a Noble route
There did appeare, with drooping cheare,
Beseeching Venus them to heare,
Who straight enclynde, with wylling mynde
To peise the playntes that eche put out.
Wherewithall kneelde downe,
A wight of renowne,
Who cryde thus, O Venus,
Let fate cease to frowne.

Haue pyttie on her painefull plight,
Whose lyfe is led without dellight,
In sighes and sorrows still:
My youth saide she with age I waste,
For wealth my Parents me so plaste,
God knoweth against my will.
With that another stept in place,
And craude with wayling voyce,
O Noble Goddesse of thy grace,
Graunt me my wished choyce,
Thus seeking, Dame liking,

They call on Venus hie:
Still suing, renewing,
Their plaintes with watry eie.

Some out doe crie on ielousie,
And some of great vncourtesie,
With teares complaine, that finde disdaine
Where they haue loued faythfully.
Another sorte, doe eke resorte,
Exclayming lowde on false reporte,
Whereby their fame, and Noble name
Without desert, oft brute doth blame.
And some Ladies say,
Their Lords runne astray,
Whose wanting, and scanting
Oft works their decay.

As thus in course eche made his plainte,
I wofull wretch through loue attainte,
In prease my selfe did vaunte:
And vnto Venus as I thought,
I hasted fast, and her besought,
My Ladies loue to graunte.
But out alas, euen therewithall
A sodaine thundring noise:
As heauen and earth should faile and fall,
My sprites from sleepe did raise.
Then waking, hart aking,
I languisht lay in wo,
Bewayling, the fayling,
Of wyshed purpose so.

And to my selfe loe thus I saide,
What straunged sight hath me dismaide.
May Uisions rare, or dreames declare.
Such sodaine change from ioy to care.

From great delight, such mouing cheare,
May Goddesses abide to heare?
No, no, naught else but fansie sure,
My yeelding harte doth lead and lure.
Aye the wight to minde,
Where loue doth me binde,
Whose seruaunt, attendant
The Gods me assignde.

Loue asketh loue.

I sawe of late a wofull wight,
That wyllow twigges did winde to weare:
Whose face declarde the pensife plight,
Which he through loue did present beare.
He lookte aloft as though he would
Haue clymed to the starry skies,
But still he stood as though he could
Not once lift vp his heauie thies.
His feathered hands he forced forth,
And thyther fayne he would haue fledde,
But wofull man it was no worth,
For all his limmes were lade with ledde.
You are the bright and starrie skye,
I am the man in painefull plight:
My limmes are lade I cannot flye,
My wings may not sustaine my weight.

I reade howe loue did Gismond wounde,
The childe of Tancred Salerne king:
Her fauour Guistarde constante founde,
She fancied else no other thing,
For riches nought, nor for his wealth,
Whereof he had but little store,
His vertue was her onely health,
She likte that well, she sought no more,

They had their hoped hap and ioye,
If Tancred could contente him so,
But he by working their annoye,
Unto himselfe brought greatest wo.
You are that Gismond fayre and bright;
Would I had Guistards vertuous life,
And Tancred chast cleane out of sight,
Then would I wyshe for such a wife.

Some saye howe Luna loued one,
Of lowe estate and little fame,
By name yclipt Endimion,
Whose loue was quite deuoyde of blame.
In Laëmi hill it thus befell,
She sawe him sit all sadde alone,
Tis I (quoth she) I knowe full well,
For whom he mournes and makes his mone.
She shamed not of Laëmi hill,
Nor yet of Louers simple state,
But soone consentes vnto his will,
And him did choose to be her mate.
O Luna looke vpon thy Loue,
Endimion makes his mone to thee:
Be not abasht, let pittie moue,
That loue for loue may yeelden bee.

The variable thoughts of a Louer.

I liue in hope and yet despayre,
Reioysing most when griefe doth growe:
I mounte aloft aboue the ayre,
Yet lead my life in Limbo lowe.

I neuer seeke, though much I finde,
Yet finde I nought and still doe seeke:

I see what best contents my minde,
When most in minde I doe misleeke.

One holdes me in captiuitie,
So sure that I ne once may swerue:
Albeit I liue at libertie,
As free from bands that I deserue.

R. T.

[The shyp that late I sawe beare loftie sayle]

The shyp that late I sawe beare loftie sayle,
Deepe lanched in the waues of waters wilde:
Whose courage stowte I deemde no storme might quayle,
When I her viewde so fast and fyrmely fielde.
With tempest tost, is forst now sayle to streeke,
And in her prime doth houering harbour seeke.

Aunswere.

[Though streaming stormes, force ship to harbor haste]

Though streaming stormes, force ship to harbor haste,
To whom the Seas with rigor great threates wrack:
Whose cables cut, and ankers worne to waste,
Is forste streeke sayle in her so great a lack.
When Neptune yet with Septer plaste in hande,
Shall calme the furious rigour of the Flood:
This Shyp repayrde, may safely sayle to lande,
Nought dreading Eolus breth, that her withstood.
So H. doth hope his Howlke such porte shall finde,
When stormes be past, as will content his minde.

Another waye.

[Let none mislike a man for his mishap]

Let none mislike a man for his mishap,
But thinke how chance doth check the greatest might:
Aeneas he, Vlisses worthy wight,
By lande and seas, did danger great entrap,
None for deserts are lulde in Fortunes lap.
Chaunce roules vs rounde, and reaks ne wrong nor right,
Ne lewde is he on whom lewde luck doth light.

Was not Iobe iust, though sokte in sorrowes sap.
They erre that deeme all goes as men deserue,
At length Aeneas ranne his weary race:
Vlisses eke and Iobe, God did preserue,
So I poore wretch whom Fortune doth disgrace,
Do hope thylke God will guyde my crased barge,
Which beates the seas, whilst none of her takes charge.

B. [Godlynesse passeth ryches.]

The slender store that verteous wights possesse,
More worth then is the wickeds great excesse.
Yet strange to see what toyle some worldlings take,
For ryches vaine, that soone will them forsake.
Whose greedie guttes, no reason may suffice,
The muck on moulde so blinded hath their eyes.

His aunswere to one that wrote, faynte hartes that feare to synne, fayre Ladyes syldome winne.

He much more valiaunt is,
whose steps are slow to sinne:
Then who so seekes vnlawfull meanes,
his Ladies loue to winne.
And greater prayse deserues,
his will that can subdue:
Than thou which boldly brags, to gaine
the thing thou well mayst rue.
A pleasure short thou seekst,
procuring lasting paine:
A poyson sweete thou dost imbrace,
that sundry wightes haue slaine.
A dore that lets in Death,
a scourge that whips the Soule:

A vice that Uertue ouerthrowes,
who doth it not controule.
A flame of burning fyre,
that reaues all reasons rules:
A gulfe of foule desire,
that oft makes wise men fooles.

To I. N.

Good wyll put forth my Pen in haste,
and made me bolde to craue:
And Loue lay on me sore to seeke,
that I suppose you haue.
Pleasure drew forth my doubtfull care,
and helde my hande aright:
And Use transported like a guyde,
the vaine desyre I wright.
Hope flattered so these troubled thoughtes,
that comforte of the paine:
Would force me to appose thy pen,
with fansies of the braine.
Slowe of it selfe my little skill,
but that thy truth profest:
Will pardon bothe my light offence,
and graunt this poore request.
To tell if ayre maye alter greefe,
or where like luck betide:
Thy selfe, that vnder Country Hauens,
doste seeke thy selfe to hide,
And if loue bee, what thing it is,
if not, what moues my paine:
Good Nedham wryte, or come in haste,
and I shall wryte againe.

H. To his mishap.

The Gallie slaue that stirres the fleeting Ore,
In foming Seas, to cut the mounting waue:
With heauie cheere doth wish the gladsome shore,
In hope that ende his thraldome then shall haue.
Or else doth hope amidst his pyning wo,
That ship will sinke, and ende his trauell so.

The sickly wight whom Feuers pinche full sore,
With gasping breath, and panting hart in bed:
And yeelds himselfe content with Natures lore,
Reuoltes againe, who was by hope misled,
If vitall breath yet chaunce to fayle him than,
Now past his paine, becomes a happy man.

An ende of woes these seelie folke obtayne,
An ende of thrals at length by meanes they finde:
Deuoyde of cares, and I as wretch remayne,
To whom aliue the Gods aboue assignde.
That lyuing yet, a thousande times should dye.
And long time dead, vnburied yet should lye.

Falsyfying of Fayth, breedes many complaynts.

My idle head retaynes the busie hope,
My gasing eye giues ouer her desyre:
My reaching hand would after fauor grope,
My legs yeelde vp and leaue me in the myre.
Tis light t'outrunne, but not to outread the wise,
Thus finde I strife to hinder my deuise.

The time too shorte, to weare so speedie greefe,
I still pursue, that shunnes my wylling holde:

Skill is to weake to yeelde my woe releefe,
My cares lyke clowds, infect my hart with colde.
So that if heat should melt so cruell frost,
My heart were drownde, and all the loue were lost.

Betweene two Adamants of equall weyght,
I am the peece of yron to beholde:
Wythout desert, loe I am made the baight,
Denide the ioy that my desyres wolde.
My taste of loue, is lost as you may gesse,
That know how Sickmen sauour bitternesse.

Who would his will, must beare the bitter lot,
The Faucons foote distraynth the Princes hande:
When loue was made, his eyes were quite forgot,
The highest towers in greatest danger stande.
O slipper holde, that for a silly eye,
Can finde no peace, but euer seekes to die.

Die, and doe all the wretched traine of loue,
To know the torment of my boyling smarte:
Her might on me pore man she ment to prooue,
Whom I had thought, should heale my wounded harte.
O cruell penance to my pore desyre,
In such great heat to bring me to the fyre.

To his Song, sent to his Mistresse.

Song in the sweete place,
Where as my Ladie was
walking.
Thinke if thou shouldst stande,
She would reach out her hande,
wylling.
Touch not her tendernesse,
Stoupe to her statelinesse,
hie thee.

Spirite without carkesse,
Mercurie bodilesse,
ply thee.
Tell her I will come,
Knowing not howe soone,
speede well.
Loue may no let haue,
This is all I craue,
farewell.

A Poesie.

[The streaming stormes, that fast on me doe flowe]

The streaming stormes, that fast on me doe flowe,
The secrete sighes that waste my wofull breast:
The Isie colde I feele like flakes of Snowe,
The hidden harmes that breede my great vnreast.
By Fancies force doe cause such troublous tyde,
That shyp nowe shakes, which late in roade did ryde.

Aunswere.

[Where reason rules, affections fonde doe flye]

Where reason rules, affections fonde doe flye,
And bewties beames smale bittirnesse may breede:
Where wisdome will, by vertues skill doth tye,
Cupidos flames are quenched forth with speede.
Let reason then thy will by wisedome guyde,
So shalt thou safely shunne this stormie tyde.

The vanitie of rytches.

The stately Pallace Princely plaste,
For who hath most of such a store, the more he feares as thrall
the hoorde of glyttering Golde:
The Patrimony large of landes,
cannot from sicknesse holde.
Nor can they cure the crased corps,
or deck the minde at all:

Golde is the Father to the Flock,
of Flatterers by lotte:
It is the summe of griefe or woe,
who hath, or hath it not.
For who it hath, he quakth in feare,
least Fortune robbe his thrifte:
Who hath it not, laments because,
he knowes not how to shifte.
Wherfore of ritch or poore I iudge,
as wisedome smale I hente:
In best estate is he, with his
that liues with minde contente.

Discorde makes weake, what concorde left strong.

The quyet pawse that silente night,
Doth bring from trauayles past:
Of daye no sooner had by sleight,
A slumber on me cast.
But in my sleepe there did appeare,
Sixe sauadge men in mosse and haire.

A Fagot bounde the foremost wight,
Me thought in hande did beare:
Which ioyntly and alone through might,
All sought to breake and teare,
Yet still in vaine their strength they tryde,
Eche parte to other was so tyde.

Till wresting long, a stick at last,
One forth by sleight doth wring,
Whereby the Bundell knitte so fast,
A sunder soone they fling.
Then eche a seuerde peece doth spoyle,
Which late conioynde, no force could foyle.

This done me seemde they vanishte quite,
And there my Dreame did ende:
Yet so amazed with the sight,
That out a sighe I sende.
I curst the frawde that friends defast,
Whose broken bande eche harme doth hast.

The wrack of Realmes hereby is wrought,
The force of Foes increast:
The spoyle of famous Princes sought,
And right by wrong supprest.
Foule fall therefore the guyle of those,
That friendships bande doe seeke to lose.

And happy they that doe restraine,
Their eares to heare when Syrens faine.

Of one that came to borrow money.

In loane what losse, I want and would,
Two Gods I bring to entreate for Golde,
Perswasion may procure the thing,
That force would vndertake to bring.

Aunswere.

[The losse of Friends by bringing home againe]

The losse of Friends by bringing home againe,
Such Interest I seeke not so to gleane,
Two Goddesses to match your Gods there be,
Inopie and Impossibilitie.

Truth feareth no tryall.

The Muses calde a Courte of late,
Wherein they deemde of sundry deedes:
To scan eche cause in seate they sate,
The summond peere and law proceedes,
The truth they sought of all mens harts,
And deemde of eche by his desarts.

So some were saude, and some I sawe,
Condemde to dye by Iustice might:
Among the which by course of lawe
Approcht to barre a worthy wight,
Whome festred Enuy sought to spoyle,
By forged lyes his fayth to foyle.

Upon whose talke he was araynde,
Holde vp thy hande quoth Doubt by name,
Thou art accused to haue staynde
Thy credite, and thy fayth with shame.
And briefe to be, by verdite iuste,
Condemde thou art for thine vntruste.

To whom the Captiue gan reply,
I graunt if this be prooued true:
That I well worthy am to dye,
And here I craue no more of you.
But perfite triall of my case,
(The guiltie onely pleads for grace.)

A Queste was then impanelde newe,
And his accusers calde in sight:
Suspition did the sute pursue,
He was indited by Despite.
The Muses nowe with all the rest,
Made Conscience foreman of the quest.

Wherewith Suspition fled for feare,
Despite durst not maintaine his sute,
The cause was calde, the captiue cleare,
Thus did the last, the fyrst confute.
And he that earst should needes haue dide,
No trespasse made, when truth was tride.

Loe thus beholde, the guyltlesse wight,
Had Conscience not bene present tho:

Through false report and deepe despight,
Condemde had beene to death to go.
By which you well may learne and see,
The faultlesse ofte condemned bee.

Let pittie therfore moue your minde,
To stay your doome till truth be tryde:
So you by search shall easily finde,
That I from truth did neuer slyde.
As tyme by triall shall declare,
I aske no more, so spoyle or spare.

He complayneth his mishap, with promise to keepe her honor.

The wandring Outlaw borne to woe,
and bred a banisht man:
Untaught the suttle sleights of loue,
of loue this tale began.
When fyrst my sences dranke the sweete,
that gaue my body blood:
I felt no Foe to let my loue,
nor God against my good.
Tyll luste misreckned my delightes,
my wandring ioyes to ende:
And founde her out to stay such toyes,
to stande my trustie friende.
I boast the graunt if all were giuen,
it may, would God it might:
O happie man, more happie mayde,
if all had hit aright.
Mishap withholdes no meane to hope,
to purchase my pretence:
Beautie me rauisht first, and now
reuength without offence.

Thus like a childe agayne, vntaught
the sleightes of dayntie mindes:
Such nurture take I of my Nurse,
as Nature iustly bindes.
These sides enshrine her stately loue,
if other thoughts she haue:
She shall possesse that I professe,
and yet her honor saue.

G. To his Ladye.

I see in loue some farther fetch there is,
Than reason can reueale to me that would:
Accuse the cause that makes me think amis,
And finde the fault of such vntempred mould.
Of sundry workes doe diuers wonders growe,
Yet skill shewes why, and how they should be so.

I see the Sunne both moue, and melt, and chaunge,
At once both dry and dew the dustie sande:
Yet are the raging stormes of loue so straunge,
As I forbeare the cause to vnderstande.
Except I should impute it to the wurst,
And curse the kinde that neuer Louer durst.

I see the starre that guydes my stirring loue,
The goodly Saint that sacrifice deserues:
Sometime I sayle, and sinke for feare to prooue,
And oft my solemne obsequies reserue,
Yet but for loue her passing giftes deuine,
Nature had neuer made them halfe so fine.

I see the secrets of my wofull eyes,
Must seeke to rest on no such perfitnesse:
Would they had kept her still aboue the skyes,
Where first she tooke alluring comlynesse;
But sith her shape no mortall man may craue,
Yeelde honor such as fittes her best to haue.

For smale offence, smale punishment.

My Lady giues the reyne to her despite,
And lightly she beleeues what others fayne:
With death she vowes my seruice to requite,
And payes me not with like good will againe,
So that she seekes to trusse vp my good will,
With trusting those that euer ment me ill.

The murdring Knyfe for my offencelesse crime,
I see preparde to gore my guyltlesse blood:
The cruell voyce of rough condemning rime,
Hath scapte her mouth, and maye not be withstood.
Yet let her date my death with this one line,
Here lyeth my Seruant buryed in his Shrine.

If mercie fayle, there is no other charme,
If that preuayle, vngracious luck farewell:
My guiltlesse trespasse shall escape the harme,
That enuye wisht on me to haue befell.
Of my estate, let her say yea, or nay,
I most regarde her doome for to obay.

From heauen the grace of gentle minds descends,
And like the maker should the matter bee:
Then let my Mistres when she wrath pretends,
Affects of mercie in the Gods foresee,
And when she graunts to follow them in that,
Let her recure and pardon she knowes what.

Loues myghtinesse growes by Louers weaknesse.

If power of warre had yeelded to renowne,
Of curteous hartes, the Gods had then agreede:
Disgraded Saturne had not tumbled downe,
Nor loue had durst in Goldlike Artes proceede.
O cowardly Gods against your kinde to see,
Your selues, your sonnes, the slaues of loue to bee.

Could loue take league with Ioue against his will,
Or staine the streame of Neptunes water Springs:
And could not Pluto keepe his honor still,
But giue the Heauens and Hilles to other kings?
In faith the face amongst sweete soules should dwell,
That conquered these, in spite of powers in Hell.

A comparison of his troubles.

Great swelling floodes are soone dried vp,
with meaner calmes I see:
And mightie Frostes, with gentle heate
are woont dissolude to bee.
The darkest clowdes in th'ayre tost,
depart with no great winde:
Yet can the tempest of my care,
no quyet harbor finde.

I. K. to H. being sicke.

The sickly state, thou griped art withall,
When brute had blowne and sounded to mine eare:
From eare to heart, the sodaine noyse did fall,
And there begins to change my choise of my cheare.

For choyce is past, needes must I match with mone,
When hope is crackt, what comfort may endure?
The best parte eke of me, to greefe is gone.
Scant then the partes beside, may well be sure,
Yet feare not H. quayle not, be of good cheare,
Thy Keeper bids thee haue a hardy harte:
Be lyke a man, the weather will be cleare,
If not, for thee, yet cause not me to smarte.
So being bolde in thine extremitie,
Thou shalt saue two, that is both thee and me.

Aunswere H.

[The plunged state wherein I restlesse lay]

The plunged state wherein I restlesse lay,
When these thy lynes were brought before my view:
A certaine tyme began to cease and stay:
And still mee thought my pinching paine withdrew,
To heare from thee, such comfort did ensue,
But when at last, I learned had thy greefe,
My comfort fledde, bereft was all releefe.

And then a newe my crased corps in paine,
Lay languisht long, not knowing what were best,
A thousand thoughts within my troubled braine
So mooude my minde, that vnneth could I rest,
The slypping ioyes that worldly wights possest.
Loe then I sawe, full soone awaye did slide,
And nothing was, that still might stande or bide.

No Forte so strong, no Bulwarke raysde so sure,
But tyme consumes and tumbleth downe at last:
Mannes force is frayle, and lyke the feeble flowre,
That bendes and breaks with euery little blast,
His dangers great, his pleasures soone surpast,
As now by me appeares, whose ioyes doe vade,
Whose griefe doth grow, whose comfort glides to glade.

Whose lyfe lyke smoke, doth slylie slynck awaye,
Whose Rock is reelde, whose fatall threed is spunne,
Whose dreame doth ende, whose, slumbring sleepe doth staye,
Whose web is wouen, whose Glasse is welnie runne,
Whose parte is playde, whose tale is tolde and done,
Whose will doth yeelde to leaue this wretched vale,
Where naught is sure, but driry Death most pale.

Of Friendship.

Who holds himselfe most deare, and hath his wante,
Although he would, he may not store his friend:
But he that seekes his secrets there to plante,
Where wealth is free, shall finde a quyet ende.
Giue me the poorest man to triumph on,
Or welthiest friend, or let me liue alone.

Aunswere. G. H.

[Giue me the equall friend, for greater state]

Giue me the equall friend, for greater state
Will euer grudge the wante of lowe degree,
And eke the meane repine at welthier mate,
Thus enuy breakes what friendship did decree.
By iuste agreeing porte no iarre doth grow,
Where wealth ne wante denies the friendly show.

H. To M.

The crased Barke full oft is saued by Pylots care,
The greatest griefes by pleasant ioyes asswaged are.
The daylie toyles by some quiet rest are alwayes eased,
The vexing spirites by Musike sweete, seeme somewhat pleased.
My onely ioy regarde you this my wofull case,
Sith none but your disdaine, my sorrow can delace.

Admonition to his Friend.

If thou wilte be rightfull,
Alwayes stande thou faythfull.
To doe well be carefull,
Note friends and be thankfull.

Uaine talke flye and learne wit,
Marke wise speeche and loue it.
Alwayes praye, and boast not,
Eschue pride, and vaunte not.
Hate no man, disdaine not,
Take time and sleepe not.
Eche vertue trayne iustly,
Regarde betters wisely.
Offend no wight wrongly,
And declare alwayes truely.
So God sure will loue thee,
And good men will praise thee.
When Uertue shall grace thee,
All fame shall embrace thee.

Who seekes this Worlds felicitie, Fyndes nothing else but vanitie.

Who seekes on earth to finde, his Mansion sure to dwell,
Forsakes his God, forgets his heauen, & hies him fast to hell.
For why no flesh hath force, eternitie to finde,
But as of Clay it came, to Clay it must conuert by kinde.
If Bewtie blynde thine eyes, or Coyne it be thou craue,
Be sure therof they clogge thy soule, whē carcasse comes to graue.
Not strength, not honors stage, nor Empire helde alone,
But conscience cleere must only serue, before the heauenly throne
Suppose before thy Prince, thy onely tale surmounts,
Tryumph not thou, for th'angels trumpe, calles thee to more acounts.
More pleasure here thou takes, in toyes on earth below,
More feeble thou, more force is theirs, to yeelde thine ouerthrow.
No comfort doe conceaue, in vaine and tryflying toyes,
No minutes myrth can counteruayle, aye during deepe annoyes.
On earth the force of flood, and flame thou doest desyre
To shun, then chiefely seeke to auoyde, the force of endlesse fyre.
On earth thou doest desyre, delights that be but vayne,
In heauen the whylst thou dost neglecte, the ioy yt shall remayne.
Then dye on earth to liue, and liue on earth to dye,
Repose thy trust in heauenly things, and ioy eternallye.

To a Flatterer.

As soundes from hollow things,
doe nought but ayre implie:
So words from faythlesse friends,
shewe nought but flatterie.

Aunswere.

[Calme Seas least feared bee]

Calme Seas least feared bee,
more daunger when they swell:
Yet in all Tydes we see,
they vse to sounde them well.

Reason and Fansie doe often varie.

Where Fansie bids vs runne, and Reason staye,
And presse our powres, that frayltie nought preuayle:
Affection blinde doth beare so great a swaye,
That we in greatest danger hoyse vp sayle.
We burne our selues, and yet doe blowe the fyer,
And trust the ayde that leaues vs in the myer.

Desyre assayes with Fansies winges to flye,
When hap with holdes, to yeelde our will successe:
Hope would aduaunce itselfe vnto the skye,
Despayre sinkes downe, and sits in sad distresse.
Desyre, dispayre, hope, hap, by fansie prest,
Thus ioyne their battayle in affections brest.

Reason resistes, vayne hope, hopes Lead will swymme,
Wyt would preuayle, affection will not yeelde:
Desyre with Frayltie ventures lyfe and lymme,
Inforcing Reason to forsake the fielde.
And thus with Fancies lore our reason ledde,
In Follies brake, we oft bring fooles to bedde.

Looke ere you leape, beware least footing fayle,
Example take by poore Acteons fall:
We thinke that pretie fansie may preuayle,
And therfore listen to his luring call.
But when most greedie Dogs doe vs deuour,
Fancie stands aloofe, not able to succour.

A little bewhing Curre doth oft procure,
Assault of greater Dogs, as doth appeare,
So while we rashely yeelde to Fansies lure,
More eger Curres are readie vs to teare.
Our owne desyre, affection, lust, and will,
Are those same Dogs which doe their maysters kill.

Yet neyther counsayle, wisedome, sence, nor arte,
Can brydle youth from his desyred ioye:
Graue precepts haue no power to staye his harte,
From working of his owne extreme annoye:
And though our selues doe know such things are vayne,
Yet doe we seeke the selfe same things to gayne.

What madnesse thus to stryue against all sence?
To sue, where Reason would we should refrayne:
Against all counsayle thus to make pretence,
And voyde of wisedome so to beate our brayne,
To buye repentance with so deepe desyre,
And with such heate to set our thrift on fyre.

And yet no helpe, when Fansie freightes our boate,
But Follyes force, perforce will hoyse vp sayle:
Till midst the waues of had I wist we floate,
We thinke our pleasant course should neuer fayle.
Unlesse Gods speciall grace doe make a stay,
Our nature weake thus works her owne decay.

A Poesie.

[Sith nothing stayes in good or happy state]

Sith nothing stayes in good or happy state,
Where Uice aboundes and Uertue doth abate:
Why doe we not our lyues with speede reforme?
That Conscience cleere may feele no gnawing worme.

Certaine Verses translated out of Petrark, concerning Rome, written by him many yeares since.

A flame from Heauen streame downe vpon thy head
Thou wicked one, that from the water colde,
And Acornes wilde, (that whilom was thy bread)
Arte mightie made, enrichte by others Golde.
Since thy delight is setled all on ill,
Shame thee destroy, and sorrow soone thee spill.

Thou Nest in whome the treasons hatched are,
That through the worlde abroad are spred this hower:
Slaue to Wine, chambring and delicious fare,
Where Lust doth trye the strength of all her power.
In Closets thine, yong gyrles and aged Siers,
With Belzabub doe daunce in foule desiers.

He Bellowes, Fyre, and looking Glasse doth beare,
Amidst them all, but why I blushe to tell:
Naked to wyndes, and bare foote late thou were,
No beddes of Downe vnto thy share befell.
Course clothes did serue thy corps from colde to shrowde,
Scarce God thy peere, thou now art growne so prowde.

Thou Babilon that buyldes thy Neast so hye,
By couetous frawde thy sack to brimme dost sill,
With Gods great wrath and vices out that flye:
Whose poysning smell a worlde of soules doe kill.
Gods to thy selfe thou makst, not Ioue nor Pallas,
In Venus and Bacchus is all thy solace.

In searching long, what should of thee ensue,
My selfe with toyle I feeble brought and lowe:
But at the length mee seemde a Soldan newe,
I sawe preparde to worke thy ouerthrowe.
That will erect Baldacco seat for those,
Which (though not when I would) shall thee depose.

Thy Idols on the grounde shall scattered lye,
Thy Towers prowde to heauen that enimies bee:
And Turrets all by fyre downe shall flye,
Then shall iust soules the friends of vertue, see
The golden worlde a newe beginne to raigne,
And auncient works shew forth themselues againe.

Thou sorrowes source, the sinke of many a one,
Thou Schole and Temple whence all errors growe:
Once Rome, but nowe that cruell Babilon,
For whom the worlde in teares doth ouerflowe,
Exclayming on thy cursed wickednesse,
Bewrapped in the vayle of holynesse.

O Forge of false deceyte, prison to yre,
Where goodnesse dyeth, and euils all are bredde:
To those that liue, thou art a hellish fyre,
The ruine eke of many wretches deade.
A wonder straunge though spared thou be yet,
If Christ in fine not treade thee vnder feete.

Thy ground was fyrst on humble pouertie,
But nowe thy pride doth presse thy Founders downe:
Thou shamelesse strumpet seeking suffraintie,
Where rests thy hope? what in thy triple crowne?
In thy adulteries or base borne rytches
Begotte in guile? vaine are all such wytches.

Since Constantine may nowe returne no more,
The mournefull worlde that sighes thy state to see:
Consume and cut thee quick vnto the core,
That all to long is forst to beare with thee.
Of Rome the fall, here Petrark doth vnfolde,
As view they may, that list the same beholde.

In patientia, victoria.

FINIS.