The Works in Verse and Prose of Nicholas Breton For the First Time Collected and Edited: With Memorial-Introduction, Notes and Illustrations, Glossarial Index, Facsimilies, &c. By the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart. In Two Volumes |
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 | The Works in Verse and Prose of Nicholas Breton |  |
3
A Floorish vpon Fancie.
As gallant a Glose, vpon so trifling a text as euer, was written.
Compiled by N. B. Gent.
4
To all younge Gentilmen,
That delight in trauaile to Forreine Countreis.
THE PREFACE.
A Prouerbe olde, and therewith true there is,
That haste makes waste: ech thing must haue his time:
Who high aspires must ever looke to this,—
To marke his steppes before he ginne to clime:
For who in climing takes no care at all,
Ere he get vp, is like to catch a fall.
That haste makes waste: ech thing must haue his time:
Who high aspires must ever looke to this,—
To marke his steppes before he ginne to clime:
For who in climing takes no care at all,
Ere he get vp, is like to catch a fall.
Who dooth desire to HONOR high to clime,
By due desart, must woorshippe first attaine:
Then for to seeke, in farther tract of time,
The meane, whereby to HONOR to attaine:
For he that thinkes to be a Lorde first day,
Will misse a Lorde, and prooue a Loute, straight way.
By due desart, must woorshippe first attaine:
Then for to seeke, in farther tract of time,
The meane, whereby to HONOR to attaine:
For he that thinkes to be a Lorde first day,
Will misse a Lorde, and prooue a Loute, straight way.
Who doth assault the huge high FORT OF FAME,
Must first beginne to scale the outward walles:
Long is the Ladder that dooth reach the same,
And happie he that gets vp without falles:
Tedious the time, the labour nothing short,
To take in hande to scale so high a Forte.
Must first beginne to scale the outward walles:
Long is the Ladder that dooth reach the same,
And happie he that gets vp without falles:
Tedious the time, the labour nothing short,
To take in hande to scale so high a Forte.
This Prouerbe olde, my selfe obserued well,
Who not assault the gallant FORT OF FAME:
But FANCIES FORTE, not minding there to dwell,
But for to see the secretes of the same:
And many times I thought to make retire,
But in the ende obtainéd my desire.
Who not assault the gallant FORT OF FAME:
But FANCIES FORTE, not minding there to dwell,
But for to see the secretes of the same:
And many times I thought to make retire,
But in the ende obtainéd my desire.
I scalde the walles, and got into the Fort
With ease inough, short time and little fight:
And there I sawe whereof I make report,
Eche thinge that was for to be seene worth sight:
And when that I sometime therein had past,
How, by good hap, I got away at last.
With ease inough, short time and little fight:
And there I sawe whereof I make report,
Eche thinge that was for to be seene worth sight:
And when that I sometime therein had past,
How, by good hap, I got away at last.
Now farre from this, I see THE FORT OF FAME,
A harder thinge, to giue assault vnto:
I dare not seeke the meane, to scale the same,
And, if I durst, I knowe not what to do:
In scalinge Fortes, my skill is too too small,
Then if I clime, I needes must catch a fall.
A harder thinge, to giue assault vnto:
I dare not seeke the meane, to scale the same,
And, if I durst, I knowe not what to do:
In scalinge Fortes, my skill is too too small,
Then if I clime, I needes must catch a fall.
By lying still, I can but little gaine,
By climing too, the feare is but a fall:
No praise in deede is gotten without paine,
Small hurte by falles, if bruze growe not withall:
No bruze nor fall takes hee that takes good heede,
No taking heede, great haste and little speede.
By climing too, the feare is but a fall:
No praise in deede is gotten without paine,
Small hurte by falles, if bruze growe not withall:
No bruze nor fall takes hee that takes good heede,
No taking heede, great haste and little speede.
Then when I clime, my selfe am warnde to learne
The way to scale, ere ought I take in hande:
To set my LADDER, wisely to discerne,
To choose a place, where it may surely stande:
Then for to make my LADDER of such stuffe
As I may trust, to treade on sure ynouffe.
The way to scale, ere ought I take in hande:
To set my LADDER, wisely to discerne,
To choose a place, where it may surely stande:
Then for to make my LADDER of such stuffe
As I may trust, to treade on sure ynouffe.
But then the ROVNDES must not be made of RIMES,
My feete will slippe, in treading on the same:
And REASON sayes, that who so fondly clymes,
Falles downe into the Ditche of foule Defame:
God keepe me thence, and helpe me so to clime,
That REASON yet, may rayse me vp in time.
My feete will slippe, in treading on the same:
And REASON sayes, that who so fondly clymes,
Falles downe into the Ditche of foule Defame:
God keepe me thence, and helpe me so to clime,
That REASON yet, may rayse me vp in time.
FINIS.
5
THE SCHOOLE OF FANCIE.
Methinkes I see you smile,
before you gin to reede,
At this same title of my Tale:
but, for you shall not neede,
To maruaile at the same.
First, read it to the ende,
And marke ye still, through all the tale,
wherto eche point dooth tend:
And you shall see I hope,
that this same title serues
Fit for this tale: els, sure my minde
from reason greatly swarues:
Who is expert in any Arte,
dooth beare a Maisters name:
Then he who cheefe is in an Art,
dooth well deserue the same.
Of Arte of lucklesse Loue,
first Fancie is the ground,
Although that Cupid, with his Dart,
doo giue the deadly wounde.
First, Fancie liking breedes,
and liking breedeth Loue,
And Loue thē breeds such passing pangs,
as many Louers prooue:
And when the troubled minde,
with torments is opprest,
Fancie dooth finde some secret meane,
to breede the hart some rest:
And Fancie, shee sometime,
to breede the Louers ioy,
A thousand sundrie wayes (at least)
dooth still her paines imploy:
She thinkes on this and that,
shee teacheth how to looue,
And tels the Louer what to doo,
as best for his behooue.
But least I go to farre,
and run too much at large
Out of the waye, and take no care
what thing I haue in charge:
I will begin to show,
what kinde of Schoole this is,
What orders too shee keepes therein.
First, lo the Schoole is this.
The roome bothe large and long,
and very darke of sight,
The most sight that her Schollers haue,
is chieflie by fier light:
Which fier dooth burne so bright,
as giues them light to see
To read such books, as there are taught:
but what this fier may bee,
Nowe thereby lyes a case.
Well marke what I doo wright,
And you shall know: for I my selfe,
haue seene it burning bright.
First, Fancie fetcheth coales,
and calles for Deepe desire:
By him shee setteth Vaine delight,
and biddes them blow the fire:
And when the fire once burnes,
for to maintaine the same,
The Colier Care, hee brings in coales
vnto this daintie Dame.
Hee makes his Coales of wood,
that growes on Haire braine hill:
The Groue is cald, the Thriftles thicke
of wilde and wanton will:
The wood is of small groth,
but stickes of Stubborne youth,
Which serues as fittest for that fier,
God wot, the greater ruthe:
Lo thus, this fier dooth burne,
and still dooth giue the light
To Fancies Schollers in her Schoole:
they haue none other sight:
Now, Sir, in this hot Schoole,
first Fancie highest sittes,
And out of all her Schollers still,
she takes the wildest wittes.
And those she takes in hands,
to teach the Art of loue:
Which being taught in that vain Art,
do soone fine schollers proue.
She teacheth them to mourne,
to flatter and to faine:
To speake, to write, and to indight,
to labor and take paine:
To go, to run, and ride,
to muse and to deuise:
To iuggle with a deerest freend,
to bleare the parents eyes:
To spend both landes and goods,
to venter Lim and life,
To make foes frends, and twixt deere frends,
to set debate & strife:
To doo, and vndoo too,
so that they may obtaine,
Their mistresse looue: and neuer care,
for taking any paine.
To iet in braue attire,
to please their Mistris eye:
Although perhaps they vtterly
vndoe themselues thereby.
To learne to singe and daunce,
to play on Instruments,
To speake choice of straunge languages,
to trie experiments
Straunge, seldome had in vse:
in fine, to tell you plaine,
To doo almoste they care not what,
their Ladies loue to gaine:
And thus in tract of time,
by such instructions,
Shee makes them tread, the perfect pathe
to their destructions:
Some other Schollers now,
are taught within her Schoole
By Vsshers that teach vnder her:
of which one is a foole
By nature and by name,
for Follie men him call;
And he will teach his Scholler soone,
to prooue a Naturall.
The second, Frenzie is,
in teaching too as bad:
For he will teach his Schollers most,
the way to make them mad:
The Vssher Follie first,
he teacheth to be bould,
Without aduice to giue no eare,
to counsaile that is tould:
To take delight in gauds,
and foolish trifling toyes,
In things of value, little worth,
to set his chiefest ioyes.
To prate without regarde,
of reason in his talke,
To think black white, and wrong for right,
& know not cheese frō chalke:
To loue the things in deede,
which moste he ought to hate:
For trifling toyes, with deerest freends,
to fall at dire debate:
To looue to play at Dice,
to sware his blood and hart,
To face it with a Ruffins looke,
and set his Hat a thwart.
To haunt the Tauernes late,
by night to trace the streetes,
And swap ech slut vpon the lippes,
that in the darke he meetes:
To laughe at a horse nest,
and whine too like a boy,
If any thing do crosse his minde,
though it be but a toy:
To slauer like a slaue,
to lie too like a Dog,
To wallow almost like a Beare,
and snortle like a Hog.
To feede too like a Horse,
to drinke too like an Oxe,
To shew himselfe in each respect,
a very very Coxe.
But such a Scholler now,
is chosen of grose wit,
Because that Beetle heads doo serue
for such instructions fit.
The other Usher now,
that Frenzie hath to name,
His kinde of teaching, hee againe,
another waye dooth frame:
Hee teacheth how to rage,
to sweare and ban and curse,
To fret, to fume, to chide, to chafe,
to doo all this and worse.
To teare his flesh for griefe,
to fill the aire with cryes,
To harbor hatred in his hart,
and mischiefe to deuise:
To hate all good aduice,
to follow witlesse will,
And, in the end, for want of grace,
to seeke himselfe to kill.
And sutch his Schollers are,
ripe wits, but wanting grace,
And sutch vngratious graffes, doo learne,
sutch gracelesse geare apace:
These Schollers all are young,
except that now and than,
To be a scholler with the rest,
there step in som ould man.
Who when that he a while,
hath bin in Fancie's Schoole,
Dooth learne in his olde crooked age,
to play the doting foole.
And such there are sometime,
(more pittie) for to see,
That in their crooked doting age,
would faine fine louers bee.
Which beeing in that Schoole,
doo prooue, for all their paine,
By Frenzie mad, by Folly fooles,
or els by Fancie vaine.
My selfe can tell too well,
for I haue seen the Schoole,
And learned so long there, till I prou'd
more halfe a very foole.
First, Fancie dandled me,
and held me on her lap:
And now and then, shee would me feede,
with worldly pleasures pap.
Shee tould mee, I was young,
and I my youth must spend
In youthfull sporte. I did not know,
how soone my life would end:
Be merry while I mought,
Set carke and care aside:
How mad were he, that mought in blisse,
and would in bale abide?
Such sugred speach of hers,
had soone intrapt mee so,
That I did thinke, that did me good,
that wrought (in deed) my wo:
Remayning thus a while,
at last I had an eye
To see how Folly taught his Youthes,
and some rules, by and by,
My selfe began to learne:
First this, for to be bould,
And to refuse to lend my eare,
where good aduise was tould.
In foolish trifling toyes
to take a great delight:
To take in hand to prate of that,
wherein I had no sight.
These rules I soone had learnd,
but when I came to that,
Where Ruffins card & dice, and sweare,
and ware aside their hat,
I read no farther then,
but up againe I went,
Unto my Mistrisse Fancie fine:
and straight downe shee me sent,
Unto the nether ende
of all her Schoole below,
Where Frenzie sat: and sweating hard,
he gan to puffe and blow.
He little likte my minde,
yet would I ye or no,
I learnd some of his raging rules,
ere I away did go:
I learnd to fret and fume,
though not to ban and curse,
And oft for griefe, to sigh and sob,
and many times doo worse:
But yet, I thanke my God,
I neuer had the will,
In greatest franticke fit I felt,
to seeke my selfe to kill.
But to make short my tale,
his lessons likte me not,
But up againe in haste I went,
to Fancie fond, God wot.
And lying in her lap,
I fell a sleepe anon:
Where sleeping so, I dreamed sore
that I was wo begon:
before you gin to reede,
At this same title of my Tale:
but, for you shall not neede,
To maruaile at the same.
First, read it to the ende,
And marke ye still, through all the tale,
wherto eche point dooth tend:
And you shall see I hope,
that this same title serues
Fit for this tale: els, sure my minde
from reason greatly swarues:
Who is expert in any Arte,
dooth beare a Maisters name:
Then he who cheefe is in an Art,
dooth well deserue the same.
Of Arte of lucklesse Loue,
first Fancie is the ground,
Although that Cupid, with his Dart,
doo giue the deadly wounde.
First, Fancie liking breedes,
and liking breedeth Loue,
And Loue thē breeds such passing pangs,
as many Louers prooue:
And when the troubled minde,
with torments is opprest,
Fancie dooth finde some secret meane,
to breede the hart some rest:
And Fancie, shee sometime,
to breede the Louers ioy,
A thousand sundrie wayes (at least)
dooth still her paines imploy:
She thinkes on this and that,
shee teacheth how to looue,
And tels the Louer what to doo,
as best for his behooue.
But least I go to farre,
and run too much at large
Out of the waye, and take no care
what thing I haue in charge:
I will begin to show,
what kinde of Schoole this is,
What orders too shee keepes therein.
First, lo the Schoole is this.
The roome bothe large and long,
and very darke of sight,
The most sight that her Schollers haue,
is chieflie by fier light:
Which fier dooth burne so bright,
as giues them light to see
To read such books, as there are taught:
but what this fier may bee,
Nowe thereby lyes a case.
Well marke what I doo wright,
And you shall know: for I my selfe,
haue seene it burning bright.
First, Fancie fetcheth coales,
and calles for Deepe desire:
By him shee setteth Vaine delight,
and biddes them blow the fire:
And when the fire once burnes,
for to maintaine the same,
The Colier Care, hee brings in coales
vnto this daintie Dame.
Hee makes his Coales of wood,
that growes on Haire braine hill:
The Groue is cald, the Thriftles thicke
of wilde and wanton will:
The wood is of small groth,
but stickes of Stubborne youth,
Which serues as fittest for that fier,
God wot, the greater ruthe:
Lo thus, this fier dooth burne,
and still dooth giue the light
To Fancies Schollers in her Schoole:
they haue none other sight:
Now, Sir, in this hot Schoole,
first Fancie highest sittes,
And out of all her Schollers still,
she takes the wildest wittes.
And those she takes in hands,
to teach the Art of loue:
Which being taught in that vain Art,
do soone fine schollers proue.
She teacheth them to mourne,
to flatter and to faine:
To speake, to write, and to indight,
to labor and take paine:
6
to muse and to deuise:
To iuggle with a deerest freend,
to bleare the parents eyes:
To spend both landes and goods,
to venter Lim and life,
To make foes frends, and twixt deere frends,
to set debate & strife:
To doo, and vndoo too,
so that they may obtaine,
Their mistresse looue: and neuer care,
for taking any paine.
To iet in braue attire,
to please their Mistris eye:
Although perhaps they vtterly
vndoe themselues thereby.
To learne to singe and daunce,
to play on Instruments,
To speake choice of straunge languages,
to trie experiments
Straunge, seldome had in vse:
in fine, to tell you plaine,
To doo almoste they care not what,
their Ladies loue to gaine:
And thus in tract of time,
by such instructions,
Shee makes them tread, the perfect pathe
to their destructions:
Some other Schollers now,
are taught within her Schoole
By Vsshers that teach vnder her:
of which one is a foole
By nature and by name,
for Follie men him call;
And he will teach his Scholler soone,
to prooue a Naturall.
The second, Frenzie is,
in teaching too as bad:
For he will teach his Schollers most,
the way to make them mad:
The Vssher Follie first,
he teacheth to be bould,
Without aduice to giue no eare,
to counsaile that is tould:
To take delight in gauds,
and foolish trifling toyes,
In things of value, little worth,
to set his chiefest ioyes.
To prate without regarde,
of reason in his talke,
To think black white, and wrong for right,
& know not cheese frō chalke:
To loue the things in deede,
which moste he ought to hate:
For trifling toyes, with deerest freends,
to fall at dire debate:
To looue to play at Dice,
to sware his blood and hart,
To face it with a Ruffins looke,
and set his Hat a thwart.
To haunt the Tauernes late,
by night to trace the streetes,
And swap ech slut vpon the lippes,
that in the darke he meetes:
To laughe at a horse nest,
and whine too like a boy,
If any thing do crosse his minde,
though it be but a toy:
To slauer like a slaue,
to lie too like a Dog,
To wallow almost like a Beare,
and snortle like a Hog.
To feede too like a Horse,
to drinke too like an Oxe,
To shew himselfe in each respect,
a very very Coxe.
But such a Scholler now,
is chosen of grose wit,
Because that Beetle heads doo serue
for such instructions fit.
The other Usher now,
that Frenzie hath to name,
His kinde of teaching, hee againe,
another waye dooth frame:
Hee teacheth how to rage,
to sweare and ban and curse,
To fret, to fume, to chide, to chafe,
to doo all this and worse.
To teare his flesh for griefe,
to fill the aire with cryes,
To harbor hatred in his hart,
and mischiefe to deuise:
To hate all good aduice,
to follow witlesse will,
And, in the end, for want of grace,
to seeke himselfe to kill.
And sutch his Schollers are,
ripe wits, but wanting grace,
And sutch vngratious graffes, doo learne,
sutch gracelesse geare apace:
These Schollers all are young,
except that now and than,
To be a scholler with the rest,
there step in som ould man.
Who when that he a while,
hath bin in Fancie's Schoole,
Dooth learne in his olde crooked age,
to play the doting foole.
And such there are sometime,
(more pittie) for to see,
That in their crooked doting age,
would faine fine louers bee.
Which beeing in that Schoole,
doo prooue, for all their paine,
By Frenzie mad, by Folly fooles,
or els by Fancie vaine.
My selfe can tell too well,
for I haue seen the Schoole,
And learned so long there, till I prou'd
more halfe a very foole.
7
and held me on her lap:
And now and then, shee would me feede,
with worldly pleasures pap.
Shee tould mee, I was young,
and I my youth must spend
In youthfull sporte. I did not know,
how soone my life would end:
Be merry while I mought,
Set carke and care aside:
How mad were he, that mought in blisse,
and would in bale abide?
Such sugred speach of hers,
had soone intrapt mee so,
That I did thinke, that did me good,
that wrought (in deed) my wo:
Remayning thus a while,
at last I had an eye
To see how Folly taught his Youthes,
and some rules, by and by,
My selfe began to learne:
First this, for to be bould,
And to refuse to lend my eare,
where good aduise was tould.
In foolish trifling toyes
to take a great delight:
To take in hand to prate of that,
wherein I had no sight.
These rules I soone had learnd,
but when I came to that,
Where Ruffins card & dice, and sweare,
and ware aside their hat,
I read no farther then,
but up againe I went,
Unto my Mistrisse Fancie fine:
and straight downe shee me sent,
Unto the nether ende
of all her Schoole below,
Where Frenzie sat: and sweating hard,
he gan to puffe and blow.
He little likte my minde,
yet would I ye or no,
I learnd some of his raging rules,
ere I away did go:
I learnd to fret and fume,
though not to ban and curse,
And oft for griefe, to sigh and sob,
and many times doo worse:
But yet, I thanke my God,
I neuer had the will,
In greatest franticke fit I felt,
to seeke my selfe to kill.
But to make short my tale,
his lessons likte me not,
But up againe in haste I went,
to Fancie fond, God wot.
And lying in her lap,
I fell a sleepe anon:
Where sleeping so, I dreamed sore
that I was wo begon:
Me thought that wisdome came,
and warned mee in hast,
To lothe sutch lessons as I learnd,
ere that my youth were past.
For short should be my sweet,
and time would passe away:
The man is in his graue too day
that liued yesterday:
Thy life (quod hee) poore soule,
is like vnto a flower,
That groweth but in daunger still
of cropping euery hower:
And if it be not cropt,
yet soone it will decay,
And like the flower, in little time,
it wither will away.
Thy pleasures wilbe paine,
thy game will turne to greefe,
And thou wilt seeke in vaine to late,
when yu wouldst finde releef:
Arise thou sluggish slaue,
out of that lothsome lap,
And be no longer like a Babe,
so fed with pleasures pap.
Lose no more labor so,
in sutch a witles Schoole,
Where as the best that thou canst gaine,
is but to prooue a foole.
Study some better Art,
for lo thy wits will serue
To learne to doo, that may in time,
a good reward deserue:
Better then best degree,
that thou art like to take
In Fancies schoole: I tell thee plaine,
therefore I say, awake,
Awake, in haste, awake,
and hie thee hence, I say:
Take warning in good time, poore soule,
for time will sone away:
But since that with such Youthes,
words seldome will preuaile,
With this same rod, thou foolish boy,
I meane to breech thy taile.
With which (me thought) he gaue
a ierke, that made me smart:
Which soden smart, although but small,
yet made me give a start:
And in my starting so,
I waked sodenly;
And so awakte, I cald to minde
my vision by and by.
Thus thinking on my dreame,
I heauy grew in minde,
Which by and by, when Fancie fond,
gan by my countenāce finde:
How now, my youth (quoth she)
what ailes thee seeme so sad?
What cāst thou think to cheare thy minde,
but that it shalbe had?
No, no, (quoth I) I not
beleeue these woords of thine.
Thou sausy slaue (quoth she) darest yu
mistrust these words of mine?
And, therewith in a rage,
Shee threwe me from her lap,
And with the fall, be shrew her hart,
I caught a cruell clap:
Wherwith, sumthing displeasd,
Why fine Mistris (quoth I)
What can you bide no iest? alas,—
And therwith, angerly,
Without or taking leaue,
or any duty done,
From Fancie in a rage I flong,
and out of dores I ronne:
And beyng out of doore,
these wordes me thought I said,
Fie on thee FANCIE, flatteryng flyrt,
I hold me wel apaide:
That I am got away,
out of thy skyllesse Scoole:
For now I see, thou wentst about
to make mee a right foole:
But now, that I am out,
by grace of God, I sweare,
While I doo liue, if I can choose,
neuer more to come there.
But Fancie, hearing this,
to make mee styll to stay,
To fetche mee in with pleasant sportes
inuented many a way:
But when I dyd perceiue
how neere mee still she came,
Then from her quite I floong in haste,
and so I left this Dame.
Loe, thus I tell you how,
I came from Fancies Scoole:
Where, learnyng but a little while,
I proou'd more halfe a foole:
Wherfore, since my good hap,
hath ben to come from thence,
Although with labour lost, in deede,
and some, too mutch expence:
I now haue thought it good,
to warne eche one my frende,
To keepe themselues from Fancies Schoole,
& so I make an ende.
and warned mee in hast,
To lothe sutch lessons as I learnd,
ere that my youth were past.
For short should be my sweet,
and time would passe away:
The man is in his graue too day
that liued yesterday:
Thy life (quod hee) poore soule,
is like vnto a flower,
That groweth but in daunger still
of cropping euery hower:
And if it be not cropt,
yet soone it will decay,
And like the flower, in little time,
it wither will away.
Thy pleasures wilbe paine,
thy game will turne to greefe,
And thou wilt seeke in vaine to late,
when yu wouldst finde releef:
Arise thou sluggish slaue,
out of that lothsome lap,
And be no longer like a Babe,
so fed with pleasures pap.
Lose no more labor so,
in sutch a witles Schoole,
Where as the best that thou canst gaine,
is but to prooue a foole.
Study some better Art,
for lo thy wits will serue
To learne to doo, that may in time,
a good reward deserue:
Better then best degree,
that thou art like to take
In Fancies schoole: I tell thee plaine,
therefore I say, awake,
Awake, in haste, awake,
and hie thee hence, I say:
Take warning in good time, poore soule,
for time will sone away:
But since that with such Youthes,
words seldome will preuaile,
With this same rod, thou foolish boy,
I meane to breech thy taile.
With which (me thought) he gaue
a ierke, that made me smart:
Which soden smart, although but small,
yet made me give a start:
And in my starting so,
I waked sodenly;
And so awakte, I cald to minde
my vision by and by.
Thus thinking on my dreame,
I heauy grew in minde,
Which by and by, when Fancie fond,
gan by my countenāce finde:
How now, my youth (quoth she)
what ailes thee seeme so sad?
What cāst thou think to cheare thy minde,
but that it shalbe had?
8
beleeue these woords of thine.
Thou sausy slaue (quoth she) darest yu
mistrust these words of mine?
And, therewith in a rage,
Shee threwe me from her lap,
And with the fall, be shrew her hart,
I caught a cruell clap:
Wherwith, sumthing displeasd,
Why fine Mistris (quoth I)
What can you bide no iest? alas,—
And therwith, angerly,
Without or taking leaue,
or any duty done,
From Fancie in a rage I flong,
and out of dores I ronne:
And beyng out of doore,
these wordes me thought I said,
Fie on thee FANCIE, flatteryng flyrt,
I hold me wel apaide:
That I am got away,
out of thy skyllesse Scoole:
For now I see, thou wentst about
to make mee a right foole:
But now, that I am out,
by grace of God, I sweare,
While I doo liue, if I can choose,
neuer more to come there.
But Fancie, hearing this,
to make mee styll to stay,
To fetche mee in with pleasant sportes
inuented many a way:
But when I dyd perceiue
how neere mee still she came,
Then from her quite I floong in haste,
and so I left this Dame.
Loe, thus I tell you how,
I came from Fancies Scoole:
Where, learnyng but a little while,
I proou'd more halfe a foole:
Wherfore, since my good hap,
hath ben to come from thence,
Although with labour lost, in deede,
and some, too mutch expence:
I now haue thought it good,
to warne eche one my frende,
To keepe themselues from Fancies Schoole,
& so I make an ende.
FINIS.
9
THE FORTE OF FANCIE.
THE ARGUMENT.
As FANCIE hath a SCOOLE,
so hath she too a FORT,
Of which, the chiefest points, my selfe,
wyll somwhat make report.
The ground wheron it stands,
and the foundation then:
How it is built, how it is kept,
and by what kynde of men:
What kinde of cheere she keepes,
who are her chiefest gesse:
What drink she drinks, who ar her cookes
yt al her meat do dres:
Whom most she loues, who is her foe,
& who againe her frend,
And how the Fort may soone be scald,
& ther to make an ende.
so hath she too a FORT,
Of which, the chiefest points, my selfe,
wyll somwhat make report.
The ground wheron it stands,
and the foundation then:
How it is built, how it is kept,
and by what kynde of men:
What kinde of cheere she keepes,
who are her chiefest gesse:
What drink she drinks, who ar her cookes
yt al her meat do dres:
Whom most she loues, who is her foe,
& who againe her frend,
And how the Fort may soone be scald,
& ther to make an ende.
THE FORTE OF FANCIE.
The ground wheron it stands,is haughtie Harebraine Hyll,
Hard by the Thick I tould you, of
wild and wanton will.
The fond Foundation is,
false Fortunes fickle wheele,
Which neuer stands, but stil eche way,
is ready for to reele:
Now here, now there againe,
with euerie blaste of winde:
Not as she list, but as it most
doth please Dame Fortunes mind.
The House it selfe is calde,
The Lodge of luckelesse Loue;
Within the whiche are diuers roumes,
beneath and eke aboue:
The names wherof anon,
I meane at large to showe:
But first, the outside of this House,
I must declare, I trow:
The commyng to the same,
the walles, the Gates, and then,
The base courts, courts & gardens
then, & then the gards of men:
The Porters to the Doores,
the Officers within:
And therefore, thus in order,
I wyll now my tale begyn.
The commyng to the same,
is by a great hie way,
Faire beaten plaine, with Fooles footsteps,
and troden euerie day:
The Soyle is pleasant sure,
bedeckt with gallant flowers,
But, being gatherd once, wil scarce
bide sweet aboue two houres:
And in this Soyle, there standes,
a Forrest large and wide,
Which is wel stoard wt thicks & woods,
the beasts therin to hide:
Of which great peece of grounde,
for to declare the name,
The Forrest (Sir) of Fooles it is:
loe, now you know the same:
And in this Forrest now,
this beaten way doth lie,
Which leadeth unto Harebraine Hyll,
the right way redyly.
At foote of this same Hyll,
and round about the same,
There is a Ditche, which Deepe
deceipt is calde by name:
Ouer this lies a Bridge,
but trust mee, verie weake:
For when you are in midst therof,
then sodenly twyll breake:
And downe into the diche,
of Deepe deceipt you fall:
Rise againe, as you can your selfe,
you get small helps at all:
The Bridge is calde, the breache
of perfect amytie:
Tis made of Hollow harts,
of such as wanted honestie:
Which, being rotten styll,
wyll neuer beare the waight
Of any man, but sodenly,
downe casts hym in Deceight:
Now sir, although you fall,
no bones shall yet be burst,
Nor what so euer hurt you take,
you feele it not at furst:
But beyng falne, if you
can make a shift to swym,
Though it be but a stroake or two,
yet may you get up trym,
Unto the bankes therof,
and so by shrubs that growe
Upon the bankes, to make a shift,
vp to the gate to goe:
But if you can not swym,
you may catch such a fall,
That you may chaunce, vnto your cost,
to catch a bruse withall:
Not swimming as in Seas,
for feare in deepe to drowne,
But swimming sir, in Worldly wealth,
for feare of fallyng downe.
But if that you can swym,
then soone perhappes you may,
By shrubs and bushes, to the Gates
make shift to finde a way.
Then beeing at the gates,
there shall you standing finde
A peltikg patch for Porter there,
of nature very kinde:
His name is Daliance:
a foolish crafty knaue,
Who needeth not, to let you in,
too much intreatie haue.
Welcome, good Sir (saith he)
now trust me, by my fay,
I thinke that you have trauailed
a wery peece of way:
Wilt please you to go in,
and take a little rest?
Thus by the Porter Daliance,
you go in as a guest.
Now if up to the gate
you cannot finde the way,
Then lustely to scale the walles
you must somewhat assay:
Which walles you soone may scale,
if you will take the paine,
Or els may quickly beat them downe
with beetel of your braine:
Few are to make defence,
and such as are, will stay
Their hands from dooing harm to you,
but rather, make you way.
And shall I show in kinde,
what gallants you shall see?
That for to garde this Forte are set,
and what their weapons bee?
It were a sporte to tell,
to set them out in kinde:
Well, I wyll showe them all, as well
as I can beare in minde:
First, loe, a Garde of Geese
and Ganders, in one rancke,
With doutie Duckes and Drakes hard by,
vpon an other bancke:
A sight of Asses then,
there stoode in Battell ray,
With Iackeanapeses on their backes:
and they stoode in the way
That leades into the Court:
further you can not passe,
Except you let a Iackeanapes,
to ride you lyke an Asse.
But if you wyll do so,
then may you passe vp straight,
Into th'inner Court (forsooth)
where long you shall not waight,
But out vnto the doore,
comes out an officer,
And gently (Sir) into the Hall,
this man wyll you preferre:
But now sir, wyll you know,
what meanes these Armies so,
That standes to gard Dame Fancies Fort?
well marke, & you shal know.
The Gard of Geese are first,
Vngratious Graftes of Youth,
That wallow euery wanton way,
and misse the trackt of trueth.
The Duckes (good Syr) are Doults,
as well both yong as olde,
That in that carelesse Court are set,
to keepe a foolysh holde.
The Asses they are Loutes,
of wisdome none at all:
Yet haue a certaine kinde of wit,
to play the fooles withall.
The Apes, that rides them now,
and rules them euerie way,
& turne their heads which way they list,
a thousand times a day,
Are Foolysh Apish toyes,
fond heads for to delite:
Not voide of reason vtterly,
though voide of wisdome quite.
Their Weapons are their Tongues,
wherewith they make a crye,
Away, I say, away, stand backe,
soft Syr, you come not by:
But if so bee they see,
one ridden like an Asse,
Then will they make but small a doo,
but let him gently passe.
Now Syr, thus like an Asse,
he goes to the Hall doore,
And there becomes a Man againe,
and stands an Asse no more:
Yet though his eares grow short,
he is not altered so,
But he shall beare an Asses head,
where euer so he go.
And be he Man or Asse,
Jacke an apes hee must beare,
As long as hee is in that Forte,
or els he bides not there.
Now Syr, at the Hall dore,
the Porter Pleasure standes:
He looks for, ere he farther go,
some money at his hands.
He lets in none for thankes,
he must haue money, hee:
He goes not in els, I am sure,
for so hee delt with mee.
But if hee him rewarde,
he brings him to the Hall,
And there the Vsher, by and by,
good Syr, hee meetes withall.
Hee entertaines you then,
in such a pleasaunt wise,
As makes you thinke you are arriude,
in place of Paradise.
Not long he bides with you,
but to the Chamberlaine
Hee brings you vp, where curiously
hee dooth you entertaine
With Bezoles manos,
imbrasings downe to knee:
With Cap of curtesie: and a grace,
the brauest that may bee.
This is a gentle youth,
but ere I farther go,
The names of these same Officers,
I plainely meane to show:
The Vsher of the Hall,
is called Vaine delight:
Hee entertaineth none, except
he be some witlesst wight.
The Chamberlaine is
called Curiositie,
And fellow with this Vaine delight,
and of affinitie:
For at request of this,
his fellow, Fond delight,
Hee brings you where of Fancie faire,
you soone may haue a sight:
And if you like him well,
hee workes so in the ende,
That hee will in your sute, foorthwith,
cause Fancie stande your freend.
To Fancie then, good Sir,
he brings you, by and by,
And there may you beholde her, how
she sitteth gallantlie:
Her Chamber large and long,
bedect with thousand toyes:
Braue hanging clothes of rare deuise,
pictures of naked boyes,
And Girles too, now and then,
of sixeteene yeeres of age:
That will within a yeare or two,
grow fit for mariage.
But they must haue a Lawne,
a Scarfe, or some sutch toy,
To shrowde their shamefastnes withall:
but if it be a boy,
Hee standes without a Lawne,
as naked as my naile:
For Fancie hath a sporte sumtime,
to see a naked taile.
Besides, in pictures too,
and toyes of straung deuise,
With stories of olde Robin Hood,
and Walter little wise:
Some showes of warre long since,
and Captaines wounded sore,
And souldiers slaine at one conflict,
a thousand men and more:
Of hunting of wilde Beastes,
as Lions, Bores, and Beares:
To see how one an other oft,
in sunder straungely teares.
Of gallant Citties, Townes:
of Gardens, Flowers, and trees:
Of choise of pleasant herbs, and fruits,
and such like toies as these:
These hange aboute the walles,
the floore now is troade
With pleasant flowers, herbs, & sweets.
which in her gardē grode.
But now, the names of them,
I purpose to descrie:
In steede of Fenell, Syr,
the first is Flatterie,
The other Herbe is Sawsinesse,
in steede of Sauourie:
In steede of Basell, now
there lyeth Brauerie:
And for sweete Southernwood, againe,
is secret Slauerie:
In steede of Isop, now,
there lies Inuention:
And in the steede of Camamill,
there lies Confusion:
The Flowers now are these:
in steede of Iylliflowers,
Fayre Iestes: that last not sweete, alas,
aboue two or three houres.
For Roses, Rages: which
wyll not so soone decay:
For Paunseies, pretie Practises,
that alter many a way:
For Marygoldes, Mischiefe:
for Walflowers, Wantonnesse:
For Pinckes, Presumption:
for Buttons, Businesse:
For Daysies, Doubtfulnesse:
for Violets, Viciousnesse:
For Primroses, Foolysh Pride:
for Cowslips, Carelesnesse:
With these flowers and Herbes,
with many moe (God wot)
Doth Fancie strow her Chamber floore,
whiche I remember not.
Now Syr, in this same roome,
thus brauely bedect,
Syts Fancie in her brauerie:
and Syr, in eache respect,
So serued in her kinde,
with her fine Chamberlayne,
That not for any thyng she hath,
that she needes to take payne.
Fine Curiositie,
her Chamberlaine, doth all
The seruice in her Chamber, Syr:
but the Vsher in the Hall
He doth her seruice too,
although not all so neere
Her person, as her Chamberlayne:
she houldeth him more deere.
The order how she sittes,
is this Syr, in a Chayre,
Fine carued out with Caruers worke,
and couerd, verie faire,
With a strange kind of stuffe:
the colour is all green:
Braue fringde and hang'd, with two fine Pearles,
the like but seldom seen:
Now Syr, her Chayre (in deede)
is but a Youthfull brayne,
Whose head is verie greene, in deed:
the Frindge, to tell you plaine,
Are Haires upon the head:
the Pearles, they are the Eyes:
Fast set vnto the head (good Syr,)
and loe, thus in this wise,
I shewe you Fancies seat:
but if the eyes dyd see,
What great dishonour tis to them,
in Fancies Chaire to bee:
They rather would fall off,
then hang in such a place,
Where they are ruld, when they mought rule,
and so to gayne disgrace.
But be they as they be,
I shewe you as they be:
Beleeue me, when that you come there,
then you your self shall see.
Well Sir, thus Fancie sits,
before whom you must stand,
Tyll she her selfe do bid you come,
and take you by the hande:
And that she soone wyll doo,
for she is curteous;
And where she takes a likyng too,
she is as amorous.
Now, beyng come to you,
these wordes first she wyll say,
She wyll be askyng, how at first,
you thither found the way?
Wherto, your Answere made,
then she wyll take the payne,
To shewe you all her roomes within,
and shee wyll entertayne
You in so braue a sorte,
that you shall thinke, a while,
You are in heauen: with sugred speeche
she wyll you so beguile.
Now, first, she leades you in,
into her Garden gay:
She shews you flowers, but tels you not,
how soone they wil decay:
Shee telles you this braue tree,
a gallant fruict wyll beare,
This is a gallant Princely Plum,
and this as braue a Peare:
This is a Pippyn right,
this is a Philbeard fine,
This is a Damson delicate:
but fewe suche fruictes as mine:
When God, he knowes, the Tree
whose fruictes she bragges on so,
Is but a plant of peeuishnes,
and brynges foorth fruits of woe.
Her Plum is but a Pate,
that puffed is with pryde:
Which eyther quickly rotten growes,
or breakes out on som side:
Her Peare is an olde plant,
that bringeth Outwarde ioye
To sight, at least: but, eaten once,
wyll choake you with annoy.
Her Pippyn is a Crabbe,
that growes in Sainct Iohns wood:
Which makes a shewe of a faire fruict,
but in taste is not good.
This is a secreate foe,
that seemes a faythfull frende,
But wyll be sure, who trust in him,
to faile hym in the ende.
Her Fylberds haue faire shales,
but Kernelles all are gone,
Her Damsons are deceiptfull fruicts,
as hard as any stone:
Harde: how?—not hard in hand,
nor very hard in taste,
But beyng swallowd, very hard
for to digest at last.
These Trees, with many mo
which I not call to mynde,
In Fancies gallant Garden plot
you shalbe sure to finde.
Now in this Gardein, more
alas, I had forgot:
About the midst therof (I gesse)
there standes a prety plot,
Wherin is made a Maze,
all bordered with Wilde breere,
Set all about the bankes with Rue,
that grew there many a yere.
Just in the midst wherof,
a huge high Mount dooth stand,
Which grew by nature in yt place,
not made by Gardeners hand:
The hill on the one side,
is made much lyke a Hart,
And as like to a Hed againe
vpon the other part.
And in this Mount, there dwels
a number of mad men:
Some mad in hart and some in hed,
and euery one his den.
Upon the Hart side, stands
the cave of crueltie,
A currish knaue, which with his teeth,
still gnashing, close doth lie.
By him hath foule Despight
a fylthy Den lykewise,
Which, in that lothsome lodge of his,
Still fretting, dayly lyes.
By him horrible Hate,
hath eke a kinde of Caue,
Like a foule hole: but good inough
for such a filthy slaue:
Upon the hedside now,
lies Melancoly first,
Hee beates his head with studie so,
as if his braines would burst.
By him vile Enuy next,
foule fiend, with fierie eyes,
Bound about hed wt Serpent skinnes,
in lothsome manner lies.
Right ouer him dooth keepe
fierce Frenzie, in his caue:
Hee frets, hee fumes, he stampes and stares,
& neuer lins to raue.
Aboue them all, vpon
the top of this same hill,
Dwels Madnes, Maister of them all,
and with him, witles Will:
His lodge is like a house,
that had bin built of stone,
That had bin ouerthrowne, & nought
left but the walles alone:
It hath a kinde of roofe,
but all vncouered:
So that the raine vpon him falles,
as hee lies in his bed:
And for the manner now
how he lies, credit mee,
It is the straungest sight mee thinkes,
that euer I did see.
His Bedsteed is of Wood,
ingrauen with Vgly faces:
And standes more halfe a sunder, burst
in twenty sundry places:
His Bed with fethers stuft,
but all the Downe flowne out:
And those yt bide, are stubborne quilles,
yt prick him round about.
Upon an olde crackt Forme,
by his Bedside, there lies
Ould instruments of Musicks sound,
all broke in wondrous wise.
A Lute, with but thre strings,
and all the pinnes neere out:
The belly crakt, the back quite burst,
and riuen round about.
His Virginals, with neuer a iack,
and [but] halfe the keyes:
His Organes, with the bellowes burst,
and battred many waies.
His Fife, three holes in one:
his Harpe, with neare a string:
Great pittie, trust me, for to see,
so broken euery thing.
A Pen and Inke he hath,
and Paper too hard by,
But paper quite in peeces torne,
pen burst, and Inkhorne drie.
He feedes of Fancies fruites,
that in her Garden growe,
He drinks of Drugs of foule Despight,
a beastly broth I trow.
He feares no heat nor colde,
for if with heate he glow,
The waues of wo wil coole him streight,
yt there by tides do flow.
For through this Forrest runnes,
the Seas of sorrow sore:
Whose Waues do beate against this Fort,
that bordereth on the shore.
And if with colde he quake,
the heate of raging ire
Will quickly warme him so, that he
shall neede none other fire.
In raging Frantick fittes,
he passeth foorth the day
In straunge perplexities, himselfe
tormenting many a way.
Among many mad toyes,
I saw him play one parte,
With looke full fierce I saw him holde,
a Dagger to his Hart,
Redie to kill himselfe.
and with his heare vpright,
He cryed, he would rather die,
then bide sutche deepe dispight:
At which same crie of his,
me thought that euery one
Within their Caues, all sodeinly
did make a piteous mone:
With which amazed halfe,
not knowing what to say,
By helpe of God, I know not how,
but straight I got away.
And then I was againe
with Fancie, by and by,
Out of the Maze in her Gardeine:
who led me presently,
As she will you likewise,
if you will: backe againe
Into her house: where you will thinke
in heauen for to remaine.
The Entrie first, before
you come vnto the Hall,
Is set out gallantly with toyes,
and that of cost not small.
The Pauements are of stone,
which Hard harts haue to name:
They grow all in a minde of man,
and thence she hath the same:
About the Entrie walles,
doo hang devises straunge:
And, by the brauerie of the same,
much like the Low Exchange.
From Entrie then you come
streight way vnto the Hall;
And that with manie Jewels riche
is hanged round withall.
The roome it selfe is long,
and therewith somewhat wide,
And for the fashion, in my minde,
not much unlike Cheapeside:
There hang great store of gaudes,
of which the Vsher straight,
Dooth offer to Dame Fancies eie.
and therfore there dooth waight,
Chaines, Jewels, Cups, & pots:
Pearles, precious stones, & Rings,
Fine whistels, Corals, Buttons, Beads,
& such like costly things:
Fine Brooches for your Hat,
fine Aglets for your Cap,
Fine Tablets for a gallant Dame,
to hang before her lap.
These things, with many mo,
in this same Cheapeside Hall,
Hath Vaine delight, to please Fancie,
his Mistris minde withall.
Now though she see them all,
her Chamberlain must chuse
What he best thinkes will like her minde,
& what she wil refuse.
That Chamberlaine (you know)
is Curiositie:
He euer chooseth all the ware,
that Fancie fond dooth buye.
Now from the Hall, vnto
the Parlor straight you go,
Which, as the Hall, with Jewels riche,
is brauely hanged so:
The roome is long, not large,
I met it not with feete:
But, as I gesse, in fashion tis,
much like to Lombarde streete:
This roome the Vsher too,
dooth looke too, with the Hall:
Well, there within a little while
you quickly will see all:
Which, beeing seene, you passe
into the other roome,
Which called is her Counting house:
wherin when you be come,
There shall you see her bookes,
that treates of many toyes,
And most of them doo show the cause
of louers greefes or ioyes.
Some volumes Syr, doo treate
of naught but Vanitate,
But very few that speakes a worde
of perfect Sanitate.
Some auncient Authors write
De arte amandi:
Which who so studies throughly,
runs mad or ere he die:
And, in the steede of Tullies workes,
written De officijs,
There standes Tom tatlers treatise, Syr,
De fine Brandicijs:
Among the rest are some,
Belle discorce d'amore,
And some doo write discourses
De graundissimo dolore:
Some bookes doo make discourse
of Pride and Foule disdaine,
Some letters Amatorie are:
some of Despite againe.
Some Pretie Pamphlets are,
some Posies, Satirs some:
Some doo discourse of Falconrie,
and some of Day of Doome;
And they are called Drummes:
and some tell pretie tales
Of Lapwings, Swallowes, Fesant cocks,
& noble Nightingales:
Some Songes and Sonets are,
and some are Louers layes:
Some Poets paint The pangs of loue,
a thousand sundry waies.
Now with such bookes as these,
with other such like toyes,
Dooth Fancie store her Counting house,
for to instruct her boyes,
And girles too, now and than:
at least, if they doo reede:
And in such vaine Discourses, most
her selfe delights indeede.
Now Syr, when you haue seene
her fine Librarie there:
She shewes you then her other roomes,
& leades you euery where.
But sure her Counting house,
of all that ere I see,
Is built as like to Poules Church yarde,
as euer it may bee.
Now next she leades you too
her Wardrope of fine cloth,
Of diuers kindes of colours Syr:
what, laugh you Syr, of trothe?
Beleeue mee, when that you
to Fancies Forte doo go:
And if you come into her Courte,
then you shall finde it so.
The colours of her cloath
are faire and verie gay:
White, red, blewe, greene, Cernation,
Yelow and Popyniay:
Of blackes, but very few:
but other colours store
Of mingled colours, or suche as
I tolde you of before:
Now, she that keepes that roume
is a yonge pleasant Dame,
And Wantonnesse I trow it be,
that Fancie calles her name:
Nowe Wantonnesse againe,
shee keepes a pretie knaue,
That euery day deviseth styll,
newe fashions for to haue.
He hath a knauish head,
fine knackes for to inuent,
Wherof good stoare of cloathe, in haste,
in fashions may be spent:
In gardes, in weltes, and iagges,
in laying cloath upon cloath:
And this same youth a Tailor is,
for men and women bothe.
His name is Fond deuise:
he came of Apish race:
A man, for such a mistris meete,
and fit for such a place:
But for Dame Fancie fine,
no garments Syr, he makes:
But first the view her Chamberlaine
Curiositie takes:
And if he like it well,
then will she stand content:
If not, his labour all is lost,
and cost in vaine is spent.
Now this same Wardrop Syr,
is likest, in my minde,
To Watling streete, of any place,
that euer I could finde.
Now Syr, from thence you come:
when you haue seene all there,
You go into her Gallarie,
a roome that I dare sweare,
The like is seldome seene
for gallant setting out:
If one should trauaile euerie day,
almost the world about,
For choice of Gallant stuffe,
and fine deuises strainge:
No place so like, that ere I see,
as is The high Exchange:
Such purses, gloues, and pointes,
of cost and fashion rare,
Such cutworks, partlets, sutes of lawne,
bongraces, & such ware:
Such gorgets, sleeues, and ruffes,
linings for gownes, and calles,
Coiffes, crippins, cornets, billaments,
muske boxes & sweet balles,
Pincases, picktoothes, bearde brushes,
comes, needels, glasses, belles,
And manie such like toies as these:
that Gaine to Fancie sels.
But yet, of all these toyes,
not one will Fancie buye,
Except they first be looked on
by Curiositie:
But Follie, manie times,
standes at his elbow so,
That makes him choose the worse sometime,
and let the better go:
Well, there not longe you bide,
but downe you come againe
Into the Hall beneath good Syr,
where longe you not remaine:
But to the Kitchin streight,
she forthwith leadeth thee:
Where, how she dresseth all her meate,
the order thou shalt see.
And what kinde cookes she hath,
and how they make their fyre
To roast, to seeth, to broile, to bake,
and what you will desire:
The roome is narow syr,
in which a Harth, all bare,
On which the Cook powers on his coales,
& kindels thē with care:
Then layes he to the Spit,
if any meate be roast:
And if the fyre be once a flame,
then it beginnes to toast.
The meate that most he roastes,
for Fancies daintie toothe,
Are Partridges, larkes, plouers greene,
& such fine foule (for sooth).
The Coles are made of stickes,
of stuborne youth (God wot)
Which kindle quicklie of themselues,
and blowing needeth not:
The kinde of woode is Will,
drie, without Sapience sappe:
The lobcoke Lust, from thriftlesse thick,
both bring thē in his lap:
Which wood with lying still,
is growne so verie drie,
That with a Sparke of Sporte, alasse,
they kindle, by and by.
The Cooke is Carelesse calde:
the fowles he roastes, are these:
For Larks, are looks; for Plouers, thoughts:
for Partridge, Practises:
The Larkes are Lookes:
which when they liue, doe flie:
But beeing stroken dead, they serue
for Fancie, by and by:
The Partridge, Practises:
which, liuing, seeme so good,
That they are put vnto the fyre
to serue for Fancies foode:
For as the Partridge keepes
her selfe close to the grounde,
Because, by colour of her coate,
she may not so be founde:
So Practises, that shift,
to keepe themselues vnseene,
Are Foules most fit for Fancies tooth:
and now, for Plouers greene,
Greene thoughts, that flie about:
now here, now there againe:
But if, by chaunce, by Cupids dart,
they hap for to be slaine.
Then lying but a while,
at this same flaming fire,
They make in deede a meate, that most
fond Fancie doth desire.
Now hauing seene all this,
then shall you see, hard by,
The Pastrie, Mealehouse, and the roome,
wheras the Coales do ly:
The Coalehouse is a Caue
of care and miserie:
The Pastrie, is a Place
of open patcherie:
The Mealehouse, is a Place,
with set mischiefe fraught,
For sure, the meale is made of corne,
yt is much worse then naught.
The Corne is called Rye:
and diuers kindes there bee
Of this same Rye: as you your self,
when you are there shall see.
For there is one kinde Rye,
is called Knauerie:
Another, Flatterie,
with Tretcherie, and Patcherie:
An other Trumperie,
an other Mockerie,
And Baudrie too: and yet the best
is but a kinde of Rye,
Wherof the Meale is made,
that maketh Fancies bread:
And that is baked in the braine,
of a hot foolysh head:
The Graine is sowne by sundrie slaues:
of which one, Beastlinesse,
The other Secrete sawcinesse:
another Trayterousnesse:
An other Peeuishnesse,
and another Wilfulnesse,
With Lowtishnesse, and many moe,
which I can not expresse:
And reaped by suche slaues,
to Fancie, slaues, in deede,
Which bring the Corne into the Barne
of Beggerie, with speede:
They now, that thresh the Corne
are two stronge sturdie knaues,
Who haue great beetles in their hands,
in steed of thrasshing staues:
Of whome to tell the names:
first, Lobcocke, little wit,
And wayward Wyl: a good tūgh knaue:
he stands, his fellowes sit:
They with their Beetels in
their hands, or heades, at least,
Doo make it readie for the Myll:
then he that grindes the griest,
Is Many better sir,
an arrant craftie knaue:
Who, with his toulyng, wyll be sure,
a good round gaine to haue.
Now sir, this Myll doth stand,
vpon an Hyll on hie,
Whose Sayles are driuen by blastes of winde,
& so grind merely:
Now Syr, the Corne thus grounde:
to Fancies Fort, streight way,
The Myller coms, and in the house,
there down his Meale doth lay:
Now Syr, when you haue ben
in all those Offices,
And that at Fancies handes, you finde
suche loue and gentlenesse,
To shewe you all her House:
but soft, I had forgot
To speake of her Bedchamber fine,
which now sir, I wyll not
Let slippe, for any thing:
the Roome it selfe is rounde,
And in the night dooth stand hir Bed,
with Curtens brauely boūd.
The Walles hangde all with Hope,
on thone side verie faire:
Vpon the other side againe,
darke hangings of dispaire.
Strange pictures by hir Bed:
on thone side, fittes of greefe,
On thother side, to euerie pange,
a present sweete releefe.
Upon the one side, sweete accorde,
on thother Dire debate,
Vpon the one side, Naked loue:
on thother, Couerd hate.
On thone side, Prodigies,
with pleasaunt Dames in ioye,
On thother side, Chauing Peascods:
in greefe and great annoye.
These diuers contraries,
with many thousands mo,
When Fancie gazeth on a while,
she is amazed so,
That musing so a while,
she slumbreth at the last,
And beeing in a slumber so,
she sleepeth, but not fast:
Her Bed is all of Downe,
whereon she lies so soft,
As any Ladie in this land:
and at her Bed a loft,
Are written in faire hande,
and easie for to reede:
(Although I seeme a louelie dame,
I lothsome am in deede)
This solempne sentence,
Who euer so dooth see,
And dooth consider the contents,
will neuer like of me.
Her Bed is thus bedeckte:
the Curteynes are of Saye,
Not greene, nor yealow, red nor blew,
nor white, nor popiniaye:
No Silke, nor Cruel Saye:
what then may be the same?
This Say is calde, saye for thy selfe:
lo, nowe you know the name.
Her Couering, Curious cost:
her Blankets, Louers blisse:
Her Sheets are Shifts: to shroud her selfe.
her quilts, are quidities:
Her Pillowes, they are Points:
that Louers leane vpon.
Her Bolster, is a Beggar's Bagge:
when coine and goods are gone.
Her Bed she lyes vpon,
is a yonge Mellowe braine:
Where Fancie softlie lyes and sleepes,
and neuer feeleth paine.
And of such Beds, she hath
such stoare of choise (by roode)
That (if so be) she like not one,
an other is as good.
Of which, some are so softe,
that she dooth like them so,
That with her lying in them long,
they more halfe rotten growe:
And if they be not turned,
or ere they go to farre,
In time, both braine, and head, and al
she wilbe sure to marre.
Thus shall you see her Bed
and Chamber, brauely deckte:
And euery roome within her house,
set out in each respect,
So gallantlie: that as
I saide, I saye againe,
You sure will thinke (at first) a while,
in heauen for to remaine.
Thus, when that Fancie fine,
hath led you rounde about
Her statelie house, in everie roome:
then shall you see a loute,
Come with a napkin fine,
about his body bound,
Into the chamber, there where first
Dame Fancie fine you found:
He comes to laye a cloth,
vpon Dame Fancies boorde:
And then to bringe in all her cates:
and trust me (at a worde)
It is so strange a sighte,
to see her seruéd so,
As I shall neuer see the like,
where euer so I go.
Her Table is a Forme,
that stands without a frame,
And none but she and her compeeres,
can sit vpon the same:
Her Stooles, stande without feete,
I cannot shew you how,
Though I haue seene them (credite me)
I haue forgot them now.
But you shall see them there,
if thither you will go.
Now sir, when you are there,
and see this order soo,
Then unto Dinner straight,
she goeth by and by:
There shall you see her fine Compeeres,
that beare her companie.
First, vpper most she sittes,
in a great maiestie:
Then sits there downe by her, a Dame
called Ladie vanitie.
Then downe sits her Compeeres,
Follie and Frenzie both:
Such companie, as for to keepe,
a wiseman would be lothe.
Her Waitors at her borde,
are Curiositie,
Her Chamberlaine; and next to him
stands Carefulnesse hard by:
The Cooke that drest the meate:
then Nodcoke naturall,
Then Iacke-an-apes and busie Bee,
worst manered of them all:
Thus furnisht is this boorde,
with waitors in such sorte:
The meates whereof she feedeth most,
I neede not make report:
I spake of them before:
but for her kinde of drinke,
No beere, nor ale, nor wine it is:
and what then doo you thinke?
It is a drinke composde,
of drugges of diuers sortes,
Discourtesie, Disdaine, Dispigh:
and mingled with Disportes,
Sappe of faire Semblaunce,
with secret Simulation.
With Ioice of herbes of hollow hartes.
and faithfull protestation:
These Drugges, with many mo,
puts Fancie in her drinke:
Which though they sumwhat please the tast,
yet make the bosom stinke:
And workes so in their heads,
that are not used theretoo,
That maks them more half mad: for greif,
they know not what to do.
Now syr, this is her drinke:
her meate before you know:
Her servaunts I haue showne you too,
that do attend her so.
Now Syr, when you haue fed,
of Fancies fare one day:
I doo beleeue that you will wishe,
your selfe, next day away.
I promise you (of troth)
I did when I was there:
And I would not be there againe,
for twentie pound, I sweare.
And more then wishing too,
at borde aloude I cride:
I would I were away, this fare,
I cannot I abide.
Which when that Fancie sawe,
she tooke me from the boorde,
And thrust me out of dores in haste,
not speaking any worde.
And flonge me downe the steares,
wherewith I caught a fall,
That greeued me sore: but yet (me thought)
I stood cōtent withal.
The vsher of the Hall,
he tooke me by and by,
And out of doores too in like sorte,
he thrust me presently.
Then euery Iacke-an-apes,
that rid upon an Asse,
Was ready for to ride me still,
as I the Courte did passe.
The Geese and Ganders hist,
the Duckes cride quack, at mee:
Thus euerie one would haue a flyrt,
ere I could get out free.
The Porter Daliaunce,
he draue me out in haste,
And thrust me downe so hard the Hill,
my neck was almost brast.
And vp I rose againe,
though bruséd verie sore,
And ment, if once I gat away,
for to come there no more.
Well, limping as I coulde,
I hit the beaten waye,
Of fooles foote steps: through Forrest back,
that led me so astraye.
And back againe I came,
to Learning's narrow lane:
And there I hit The trackt of Truth,
that I should first haue tane,
That leaues the Forrest quite:
which when I had hit on,
I staide awhile, and there my walke
I gan to thinke vpon:
And thinking so, I saw
a Scholler comming by,
That came from learnéd Vertue's Schoole:
and, sighing heauely,
I calde him vnto me,
and tolde him of my wo,
Of my sore fall, from Fancies Forte,
and how I caught it so.
Which when that he had harde,
he tooke me by the hande,
And beeing verie weake (in deede)
scarse able for to stande:
He led me to a house
of Wisdome: an olde man,
His Father (as he saide) he was:
and there I rested than.
This Jentle youth, if I
do not forget the same,
Is Honest Reason: so I thinke,
his Father cald his name.
Where, beyng but a while,
my tale I gan to tell
To hym, of this my gentle walke:
wherat he laughéd well,
And laughing so (quoth he)
go, Youth, here take a booke,
And write now, for remēbrance thine,
yt when thou chance to looke
Upon the same againe,
then thou mayst take heede styll,
Of leauyng Wisdome's narrow Lane,
and follow wanton wyll:
Loe, thus at his commaund,
I wrote it by and by:
And this it was, beleeue me now,
or els (at least) I lye.
is by a great hie way,
Faire beaten plaine, with Fooles footsteps,
and troden euerie day:
The Soyle is pleasant sure,
bedeckt with gallant flowers,
But, being gatherd once, wil scarce
bide sweet aboue two houres:
And in this Soyle, there standes,
a Forrest large and wide,
Which is wel stoard wt thicks & woods,
the beasts therin to hide:
Of which great peece of grounde,
for to declare the name,
The Forrest (Sir) of Fooles it is:
loe, now you know the same:
And in this Forrest now,
this beaten way doth lie,
Which leadeth unto Harebraine Hyll,
the right way redyly.
At foote of this same Hyll,
and round about the same,
There is a Ditche, which Deepe
deceipt is calde by name:
Ouer this lies a Bridge,
but trust mee, verie weake:
For when you are in midst therof,
then sodenly twyll breake:
And downe into the diche,
of Deepe deceipt you fall:
Rise againe, as you can your selfe,
you get small helps at all:
The Bridge is calde, the breache
of perfect amytie:
Tis made of Hollow harts,
of such as wanted honestie:
Which, being rotten styll,
wyll neuer beare the waight
Of any man, but sodenly,
downe casts hym in Deceight:
Now sir, although you fall,
no bones shall yet be burst,
Nor what so euer hurt you take,
you feele it not at furst:
But beyng falne, if you
can make a shift to swym,
Though it be but a stroake or two,
yet may you get up trym,
10
and so by shrubs that growe
Upon the bankes, to make a shift,
vp to the gate to goe:
But if you can not swym,
you may catch such a fall,
That you may chaunce, vnto your cost,
to catch a bruse withall:
Not swimming as in Seas,
for feare in deepe to drowne,
But swimming sir, in Worldly wealth,
for feare of fallyng downe.
But if that you can swym,
then soone perhappes you may,
By shrubs and bushes, to the Gates
make shift to finde a way.
Then beeing at the gates,
there shall you standing finde
A peltikg patch for Porter there,
of nature very kinde:
His name is Daliance:
a foolish crafty knaue,
Who needeth not, to let you in,
too much intreatie haue.
Welcome, good Sir (saith he)
now trust me, by my fay,
I thinke that you have trauailed
a wery peece of way:
Wilt please you to go in,
and take a little rest?
Thus by the Porter Daliance,
you go in as a guest.
Now if up to the gate
you cannot finde the way,
Then lustely to scale the walles
you must somewhat assay:
Which walles you soone may scale,
if you will take the paine,
Or els may quickly beat them downe
with beetel of your braine:
Few are to make defence,
and such as are, will stay
Their hands from dooing harm to you,
but rather, make you way.
And shall I show in kinde,
what gallants you shall see?
That for to garde this Forte are set,
and what their weapons bee?
It were a sporte to tell,
to set them out in kinde:
Well, I wyll showe them all, as well
as I can beare in minde:
First, loe, a Garde of Geese
and Ganders, in one rancke,
With doutie Duckes and Drakes hard by,
vpon an other bancke:
A sight of Asses then,
there stoode in Battell ray,
With Iackeanapeses on their backes:
and they stoode in the way
That leades into the Court:
further you can not passe,
Except you let a Iackeanapes,
to ride you lyke an Asse.
But if you wyll do so,
then may you passe vp straight,
Into th'inner Court (forsooth)
where long you shall not waight,
But out vnto the doore,
comes out an officer,
And gently (Sir) into the Hall,
this man wyll you preferre:
But now sir, wyll you know,
what meanes these Armies so,
That standes to gard Dame Fancies Fort?
well marke, & you shal know.
The Gard of Geese are first,
Vngratious Graftes of Youth,
That wallow euery wanton way,
and misse the trackt of trueth.
The Duckes (good Syr) are Doults,
as well both yong as olde,
That in that carelesse Court are set,
to keepe a foolysh holde.
The Asses they are Loutes,
of wisdome none at all:
Yet haue a certaine kinde of wit,
to play the fooles withall.
The Apes, that rides them now,
and rules them euerie way,
& turne their heads which way they list,
a thousand times a day,
Are Foolysh Apish toyes,
fond heads for to delite:
Not voide of reason vtterly,
though voide of wisdome quite.
Their Weapons are their Tongues,
wherewith they make a crye,
Away, I say, away, stand backe,
soft Syr, you come not by:
But if so bee they see,
one ridden like an Asse,
Then will they make but small a doo,
but let him gently passe.
Now Syr, thus like an Asse,
he goes to the Hall doore,
And there becomes a Man againe,
and stands an Asse no more:
Yet though his eares grow short,
he is not altered so,
But he shall beare an Asses head,
where euer so he go.
And be he Man or Asse,
Jacke an apes hee must beare,
As long as hee is in that Forte,
or els he bides not there.
Now Syr, at the Hall dore,
the Porter Pleasure standes:
He looks for, ere he farther go,
some money at his hands.
11
he must haue money, hee:
He goes not in els, I am sure,
for so hee delt with mee.
But if hee him rewarde,
he brings him to the Hall,
And there the Vsher, by and by,
good Syr, hee meetes withall.
Hee entertaines you then,
in such a pleasaunt wise,
As makes you thinke you are arriude,
in place of Paradise.
Not long he bides with you,
but to the Chamberlaine
Hee brings you vp, where curiously
hee dooth you entertaine
With Bezoles manos,
imbrasings downe to knee:
With Cap of curtesie: and a grace,
the brauest that may bee.
This is a gentle youth,
but ere I farther go,
The names of these same Officers,
I plainely meane to show:
The Vsher of the Hall,
is called Vaine delight:
Hee entertaineth none, except
he be some witlesst wight.
The Chamberlaine is
called Curiositie,
And fellow with this Vaine delight,
and of affinitie:
For at request of this,
his fellow, Fond delight,
Hee brings you where of Fancie faire,
you soone may haue a sight:
And if you like him well,
hee workes so in the ende,
That hee will in your sute, foorthwith,
cause Fancie stande your freend.
To Fancie then, good Sir,
he brings you, by and by,
And there may you beholde her, how
she sitteth gallantlie:
Her Chamber large and long,
bedect with thousand toyes:
Braue hanging clothes of rare deuise,
pictures of naked boyes,
And Girles too, now and then,
of sixeteene yeeres of age:
That will within a yeare or two,
grow fit for mariage.
But they must haue a Lawne,
a Scarfe, or some sutch toy,
To shrowde their shamefastnes withall:
but if it be a boy,
Hee standes without a Lawne,
as naked as my naile:
For Fancie hath a sporte sumtime,
to see a naked taile.
Besides, in pictures too,
and toyes of straung deuise,
With stories of olde Robin Hood,
and Walter little wise:
Some showes of warre long since,
and Captaines wounded sore,
And souldiers slaine at one conflict,
a thousand men and more:
Of hunting of wilde Beastes,
as Lions, Bores, and Beares:
To see how one an other oft,
in sunder straungely teares.
Of gallant Citties, Townes:
of Gardens, Flowers, and trees:
Of choise of pleasant herbs, and fruits,
and such like toies as these:
These hange aboute the walles,
the floore now is troade
With pleasant flowers, herbs, & sweets.
which in her gardē grode.
But now, the names of them,
I purpose to descrie:
In steede of Fenell, Syr,
the first is Flatterie,
The other Herbe is Sawsinesse,
in steede of Sauourie:
In steede of Basell, now
there lyeth Brauerie:
And for sweete Southernwood, againe,
is secret Slauerie:
In steede of Isop, now,
there lies Inuention:
And in the steede of Camamill,
there lies Confusion:
The Flowers now are these:
in steede of Iylliflowers,
Fayre Iestes: that last not sweete, alas,
aboue two or three houres.
For Roses, Rages: which
wyll not so soone decay:
For Paunseies, pretie Practises,
that alter many a way:
For Marygoldes, Mischiefe:
for Walflowers, Wantonnesse:
For Pinckes, Presumption:
for Buttons, Businesse:
For Daysies, Doubtfulnesse:
for Violets, Viciousnesse:
For Primroses, Foolysh Pride:
for Cowslips, Carelesnesse:
With these flowers and Herbes,
with many moe (God wot)
Doth Fancie strow her Chamber floore,
whiche I remember not.
Now Syr, in this same roome,
thus brauely bedect,
Syts Fancie in her brauerie:
and Syr, in eache respect,
So serued in her kinde,
with her fine Chamberlayne,
12
that she needes to take payne.
Fine Curiositie,
her Chamberlaine, doth all
The seruice in her Chamber, Syr:
but the Vsher in the Hall
He doth her seruice too,
although not all so neere
Her person, as her Chamberlayne:
she houldeth him more deere.
The order how she sittes,
is this Syr, in a Chayre,
Fine carued out with Caruers worke,
and couerd, verie faire,
With a strange kind of stuffe:
the colour is all green:
Braue fringde and hang'd, with two fine Pearles,
the like but seldom seen:
Now Syr, her Chayre (in deede)
is but a Youthfull brayne,
Whose head is verie greene, in deed:
the Frindge, to tell you plaine,
Are Haires upon the head:
the Pearles, they are the Eyes:
Fast set vnto the head (good Syr,)
and loe, thus in this wise,
I shewe you Fancies seat:
but if the eyes dyd see,
What great dishonour tis to them,
in Fancies Chaire to bee:
They rather would fall off,
then hang in such a place,
Where they are ruld, when they mought rule,
and so to gayne disgrace.
But be they as they be,
I shewe you as they be:
Beleeue me, when that you come there,
then you your self shall see.
Well Sir, thus Fancie sits,
before whom you must stand,
Tyll she her selfe do bid you come,
and take you by the hande:
And that she soone wyll doo,
for she is curteous;
And where she takes a likyng too,
she is as amorous.
Now, beyng come to you,
these wordes first she wyll say,
She wyll be askyng, how at first,
you thither found the way?
Wherto, your Answere made,
then she wyll take the payne,
To shewe you all her roomes within,
and shee wyll entertayne
You in so braue a sorte,
that you shall thinke, a while,
You are in heauen: with sugred speeche
she wyll you so beguile.
Now, first, she leades you in,
into her Garden gay:
She shews you flowers, but tels you not,
how soone they wil decay:
Shee telles you this braue tree,
a gallant fruict wyll beare,
This is a gallant Princely Plum,
and this as braue a Peare:
This is a Pippyn right,
this is a Philbeard fine,
This is a Damson delicate:
but fewe suche fruictes as mine:
When God, he knowes, the Tree
whose fruictes she bragges on so,
Is but a plant of peeuishnes,
and brynges foorth fruits of woe.
Her Plum is but a Pate,
that puffed is with pryde:
Which eyther quickly rotten growes,
or breakes out on som side:
Her Peare is an olde plant,
that bringeth Outwarde ioye
To sight, at least: but, eaten once,
wyll choake you with annoy.
Her Pippyn is a Crabbe,
that growes in Sainct Iohns wood:
Which makes a shewe of a faire fruict,
but in taste is not good.
This is a secreate foe,
that seemes a faythfull frende,
But wyll be sure, who trust in him,
to faile hym in the ende.
Her Fylberds haue faire shales,
but Kernelles all are gone,
Her Damsons are deceiptfull fruicts,
as hard as any stone:
Harde: how?—not hard in hand,
nor very hard in taste,
But beyng swallowd, very hard
for to digest at last.
These Trees, with many mo
which I not call to mynde,
In Fancies gallant Garden plot
you shalbe sure to finde.
Now in this Gardein, more
alas, I had forgot:
About the midst therof (I gesse)
there standes a prety plot,
Wherin is made a Maze,
all bordered with Wilde breere,
Set all about the bankes with Rue,
that grew there many a yere.
Just in the midst wherof,
a huge high Mount dooth stand,
Which grew by nature in yt place,
not made by Gardeners hand:
The hill on the one side,
is made much lyke a Hart,
And as like to a Hed againe
vpon the other part.
And in this Mount, there dwels
a number of mad men:
13
and euery one his den.
Upon the Hart side, stands
the cave of crueltie,
A currish knaue, which with his teeth,
still gnashing, close doth lie.
By him hath foule Despight
a fylthy Den lykewise,
Which, in that lothsome lodge of his,
Still fretting, dayly lyes.
By him horrible Hate,
hath eke a kinde of Caue,
Like a foule hole: but good inough
for such a filthy slaue:
Upon the hedside now,
lies Melancoly first,
Hee beates his head with studie so,
as if his braines would burst.
By him vile Enuy next,
foule fiend, with fierie eyes,
Bound about hed wt Serpent skinnes,
in lothsome manner lies.
Right ouer him dooth keepe
fierce Frenzie, in his caue:
Hee frets, hee fumes, he stampes and stares,
& neuer lins to raue.
Aboue them all, vpon
the top of this same hill,
Dwels Madnes, Maister of them all,
and with him, witles Will:
His lodge is like a house,
that had bin built of stone,
That had bin ouerthrowne, & nought
left but the walles alone:
It hath a kinde of roofe,
but all vncouered:
So that the raine vpon him falles,
as hee lies in his bed:
And for the manner now
how he lies, credit mee,
It is the straungest sight mee thinkes,
that euer I did see.
His Bedsteed is of Wood,
ingrauen with Vgly faces:
And standes more halfe a sunder, burst
in twenty sundry places:
His Bed with fethers stuft,
but all the Downe flowne out:
And those yt bide, are stubborne quilles,
yt prick him round about.
Upon an olde crackt Forme,
by his Bedside, there lies
Ould instruments of Musicks sound,
all broke in wondrous wise.
A Lute, with but thre strings,
and all the pinnes neere out:
The belly crakt, the back quite burst,
and riuen round about.
His Virginals, with neuer a iack,
and [but] halfe the keyes:
His Organes, with the bellowes burst,
and battred many waies.
His Fife, three holes in one:
his Harpe, with neare a string:
Great pittie, trust me, for to see,
so broken euery thing.
A Pen and Inke he hath,
and Paper too hard by,
But paper quite in peeces torne,
pen burst, and Inkhorne drie.
He feedes of Fancies fruites,
that in her Garden growe,
He drinks of Drugs of foule Despight,
a beastly broth I trow.
He feares no heat nor colde,
for if with heate he glow,
The waues of wo wil coole him streight,
yt there by tides do flow.
For through this Forrest runnes,
the Seas of sorrow sore:
Whose Waues do beate against this Fort,
that bordereth on the shore.
And if with colde he quake,
the heate of raging ire
Will quickly warme him so, that he
shall neede none other fire.
In raging Frantick fittes,
he passeth foorth the day
In straunge perplexities, himselfe
tormenting many a way.
Among many mad toyes,
I saw him play one parte,
With looke full fierce I saw him holde,
a Dagger to his Hart,
Redie to kill himselfe.
and with his heare vpright,
He cryed, he would rather die,
then bide sutche deepe dispight:
At which same crie of his,
me thought that euery one
Within their Caues, all sodeinly
did make a piteous mone:
With which amazed halfe,
not knowing what to say,
By helpe of God, I know not how,
but straight I got away.
And then I was againe
with Fancie, by and by,
Out of the Maze in her Gardeine:
who led me presently,
As she will you likewise,
if you will: backe againe
Into her house: where you will thinke
in heauen for to remaine.
The Entrie first, before
you come vnto the Hall,
Is set out gallantly with toyes,
and that of cost not small.
The Pauements are of stone,
which Hard harts haue to name:
14
and thence she hath the same:
About the Entrie walles,
doo hang devises straunge:
And, by the brauerie of the same,
much like the Low Exchange.
From Entrie then you come
streight way vnto the Hall;
And that with manie Jewels riche
is hanged round withall.
The roome it selfe is long,
and therewith somewhat wide,
And for the fashion, in my minde,
not much unlike Cheapeside:
There hang great store of gaudes,
of which the Vsher straight,
Dooth offer to Dame Fancies eie.
and therfore there dooth waight,
Chaines, Jewels, Cups, & pots:
Pearles, precious stones, & Rings,
Fine whistels, Corals, Buttons, Beads,
& such like costly things:
Fine Brooches for your Hat,
fine Aglets for your Cap,
Fine Tablets for a gallant Dame,
to hang before her lap.
These things, with many mo,
in this same Cheapeside Hall,
Hath Vaine delight, to please Fancie,
his Mistris minde withall.
Now though she see them all,
her Chamberlain must chuse
What he best thinkes will like her minde,
& what she wil refuse.
That Chamberlaine (you know)
is Curiositie:
He euer chooseth all the ware,
that Fancie fond dooth buye.
Now from the Hall, vnto
the Parlor straight you go,
Which, as the Hall, with Jewels riche,
is brauely hanged so:
The roome is long, not large,
I met it not with feete:
But, as I gesse, in fashion tis,
much like to Lombarde streete:
This roome the Vsher too,
dooth looke too, with the Hall:
Well, there within a little while
you quickly will see all:
Which, beeing seene, you passe
into the other roome,
Which called is her Counting house:
wherin when you be come,
There shall you see her bookes,
that treates of many toyes,
And most of them doo show the cause
of louers greefes or ioyes.
Some volumes Syr, doo treate
of naught but Vanitate,
But very few that speakes a worde
of perfect Sanitate.
Some auncient Authors write
De arte amandi:
Which who so studies throughly,
runs mad or ere he die:
And, in the steede of Tullies workes,
written De officijs,
There standes Tom tatlers treatise, Syr,
De fine Brandicijs:
Among the rest are some,
Belle discorce d'amore,
And some doo write discourses
De graundissimo dolore:
Some bookes doo make discourse
of Pride and Foule disdaine,
Some letters Amatorie are:
some of Despite againe.
Some Pretie Pamphlets are,
some Posies, Satirs some:
Some doo discourse of Falconrie,
and some of Day of Doome;
And they are called Drummes:
and some tell pretie tales
Of Lapwings, Swallowes, Fesant cocks,
& noble Nightingales:
Some Songes and Sonets are,
and some are Louers layes:
Some Poets paint The pangs of loue,
a thousand sundry waies.
Now with such bookes as these,
with other such like toyes,
Dooth Fancie store her Counting house,
for to instruct her boyes,
And girles too, now and than:
at least, if they doo reede:
And in such vaine Discourses, most
her selfe delights indeede.
Now Syr, when you haue seene
her fine Librarie there:
She shewes you then her other roomes,
& leades you euery where.
But sure her Counting house,
of all that ere I see,
Is built as like to Poules Church yarde,
as euer it may bee.
Now next she leades you too
her Wardrope of fine cloth,
Of diuers kindes of colours Syr:
what, laugh you Syr, of trothe?
Beleeue mee, when that you
to Fancies Forte doo go:
And if you come into her Courte,
then you shall finde it so.
The colours of her cloath
are faire and verie gay:
White, red, blewe, greene, Cernation,
Yelow and Popyniay:
Of blackes, but very few:
but other colours store
15
I tolde you of before:
Now, she that keepes that roume
is a yonge pleasant Dame,
And Wantonnesse I trow it be,
that Fancie calles her name:
Nowe Wantonnesse againe,
shee keepes a pretie knaue,
That euery day deviseth styll,
newe fashions for to haue.
He hath a knauish head,
fine knackes for to inuent,
Wherof good stoare of cloathe, in haste,
in fashions may be spent:
In gardes, in weltes, and iagges,
in laying cloath upon cloath:
And this same youth a Tailor is,
for men and women bothe.
His name is Fond deuise:
he came of Apish race:
A man, for such a mistris meete,
and fit for such a place:
But for Dame Fancie fine,
no garments Syr, he makes:
But first the view her Chamberlaine
Curiositie takes:
And if he like it well,
then will she stand content:
If not, his labour all is lost,
and cost in vaine is spent.
Now this same Wardrop Syr,
is likest, in my minde,
To Watling streete, of any place,
that euer I could finde.
Now Syr, from thence you come:
when you haue seene all there,
You go into her Gallarie,
a roome that I dare sweare,
The like is seldome seene
for gallant setting out:
If one should trauaile euerie day,
almost the world about,
For choice of Gallant stuffe,
and fine deuises strainge:
No place so like, that ere I see,
as is The high Exchange:
Such purses, gloues, and pointes,
of cost and fashion rare,
Such cutworks, partlets, sutes of lawne,
bongraces, & such ware:
Such gorgets, sleeues, and ruffes,
linings for gownes, and calles,
Coiffes, crippins, cornets, billaments,
muske boxes & sweet balles,
Pincases, picktoothes, bearde brushes,
comes, needels, glasses, belles,
And manie such like toies as these:
that Gaine to Fancie sels.
But yet, of all these toyes,
not one will Fancie buye,
Except they first be looked on
by Curiositie:
But Follie, manie times,
standes at his elbow so,
That makes him choose the worse sometime,
and let the better go:
Well, there not longe you bide,
but downe you come againe
Into the Hall beneath good Syr,
where longe you not remaine:
But to the Kitchin streight,
she forthwith leadeth thee:
Where, how she dresseth all her meate,
the order thou shalt see.
And what kinde cookes she hath,
and how they make their fyre
To roast, to seeth, to broile, to bake,
and what you will desire:
The roome is narow syr,
in which a Harth, all bare,
On which the Cook powers on his coales,
& kindels thē with care:
Then layes he to the Spit,
if any meate be roast:
And if the fyre be once a flame,
then it beginnes to toast.
The meate that most he roastes,
for Fancies daintie toothe,
Are Partridges, larkes, plouers greene,
& such fine foule (for sooth).
The Coles are made of stickes,
of stuborne youth (God wot)
Which kindle quicklie of themselues,
and blowing needeth not:
The kinde of woode is Will,
drie, without Sapience sappe:
The lobcoke Lust, from thriftlesse thick,
both bring thē in his lap:
Which wood with lying still,
is growne so verie drie,
That with a Sparke of Sporte, alasse,
they kindle, by and by.
The Cooke is Carelesse calde:
the fowles he roastes, are these:
For Larks, are looks; for Plouers, thoughts:
for Partridge, Practises:
The Larkes are Lookes:
which when they liue, doe flie:
But beeing stroken dead, they serue
for Fancie, by and by:
The Partridge, Practises:
which, liuing, seeme so good,
That they are put vnto the fyre
to serue for Fancies foode:
For as the Partridge keepes
her selfe close to the grounde,
Because, by colour of her coate,
she may not so be founde:
So Practises, that shift,
to keepe themselues vnseene,
16
and now, for Plouers greene,
Greene thoughts, that flie about:
now here, now there againe:
But if, by chaunce, by Cupids dart,
they hap for to be slaine.
Then lying but a while,
at this same flaming fire,
They make in deede a meate, that most
fond Fancie doth desire.
Now hauing seene all this,
then shall you see, hard by,
The Pastrie, Mealehouse, and the roome,
wheras the Coales do ly:
The Coalehouse is a Caue
of care and miserie:
The Pastrie, is a Place
of open patcherie:
The Mealehouse, is a Place,
with set mischiefe fraught,
For sure, the meale is made of corne,
yt is much worse then naught.
The Corne is called Rye:
and diuers kindes there bee
Of this same Rye: as you your self,
when you are there shall see.
For there is one kinde Rye,
is called Knauerie:
Another, Flatterie,
with Tretcherie, and Patcherie:
An other Trumperie,
an other Mockerie,
And Baudrie too: and yet the best
is but a kinde of Rye,
Wherof the Meale is made,
that maketh Fancies bread:
And that is baked in the braine,
of a hot foolysh head:
The Graine is sowne by sundrie slaues:
of which one, Beastlinesse,
The other Secrete sawcinesse:
another Trayterousnesse:
An other Peeuishnesse,
and another Wilfulnesse,
With Lowtishnesse, and many moe,
which I can not expresse:
And reaped by suche slaues,
to Fancie, slaues, in deede,
Which bring the Corne into the Barne
of Beggerie, with speede:
They now, that thresh the Corne
are two stronge sturdie knaues,
Who haue great beetles in their hands,
in steed of thrasshing staues:
Of whome to tell the names:
first, Lobcocke, little wit,
And wayward Wyl: a good tūgh knaue:
he stands, his fellowes sit:
They with their Beetels in
their hands, or heades, at least,
Doo make it readie for the Myll:
then he that grindes the griest,
Is Many better sir,
an arrant craftie knaue:
Who, with his toulyng, wyll be sure,
a good round gaine to haue.
Now sir, this Myll doth stand,
vpon an Hyll on hie,
Whose Sayles are driuen by blastes of winde,
& so grind merely:
Now Syr, the Corne thus grounde:
to Fancies Fort, streight way,
The Myller coms, and in the house,
there down his Meale doth lay:
Now Syr, when you haue ben
in all those Offices,
And that at Fancies handes, you finde
suche loue and gentlenesse,
To shewe you all her House:
but soft, I had forgot
To speake of her Bedchamber fine,
which now sir, I wyll not
Let slippe, for any thing:
the Roome it selfe is rounde,
And in the night dooth stand hir Bed,
with Curtens brauely boūd.
The Walles hangde all with Hope,
on thone side verie faire:
Vpon the other side againe,
darke hangings of dispaire.
Strange pictures by hir Bed:
on thone side, fittes of greefe,
On thother side, to euerie pange,
a present sweete releefe.
Upon the one side, sweete accorde,
on thother Dire debate,
Vpon the one side, Naked loue:
on thother, Couerd hate.
On thone side, Prodigies,
with pleasaunt Dames in ioye,
On thother side, Chauing Peascods:
in greefe and great annoye.
These diuers contraries,
with many thousands mo,
When Fancie gazeth on a while,
she is amazed so,
That musing so a while,
she slumbreth at the last,
And beeing in a slumber so,
she sleepeth, but not fast:
Her Bed is all of Downe,
whereon she lies so soft,
As any Ladie in this land:
and at her Bed a loft,
Are written in faire hande,
and easie for to reede:
(Although I seeme a louelie dame,
I lothsome am in deede)
This solempne sentence,
Who euer so dooth see,
17
will neuer like of me.
Her Bed is thus bedeckte:
the Curteynes are of Saye,
Not greene, nor yealow, red nor blew,
nor white, nor popiniaye:
No Silke, nor Cruel Saye:
what then may be the same?
This Say is calde, saye for thy selfe:
lo, nowe you know the name.
Her Couering, Curious cost:
her Blankets, Louers blisse:
Her Sheets are Shifts: to shroud her selfe.
her quilts, are quidities:
Her Pillowes, they are Points:
that Louers leane vpon.
Her Bolster, is a Beggar's Bagge:
when coine and goods are gone.
Her Bed she lyes vpon,
is a yonge Mellowe braine:
Where Fancie softlie lyes and sleepes,
and neuer feeleth paine.
And of such Beds, she hath
such stoare of choise (by roode)
That (if so be) she like not one,
an other is as good.
Of which, some are so softe,
that she dooth like them so,
That with her lying in them long,
they more halfe rotten growe:
And if they be not turned,
or ere they go to farre,
In time, both braine, and head, and al
she wilbe sure to marre.
Thus shall you see her Bed
and Chamber, brauely deckte:
And euery roome within her house,
set out in each respect,
So gallantlie: that as
I saide, I saye againe,
You sure will thinke (at first) a while,
in heauen for to remaine.
Thus, when that Fancie fine,
hath led you rounde about
Her statelie house, in everie roome:
then shall you see a loute,
Come with a napkin fine,
about his body bound,
Into the chamber, there where first
Dame Fancie fine you found:
He comes to laye a cloth,
vpon Dame Fancies boorde:
And then to bringe in all her cates:
and trust me (at a worde)
It is so strange a sighte,
to see her seruéd so,
As I shall neuer see the like,
where euer so I go.
Her Table is a Forme,
that stands without a frame,
And none but she and her compeeres,
can sit vpon the same:
Her Stooles, stande without feete,
I cannot shew you how,
Though I haue seene them (credite me)
I haue forgot them now.
But you shall see them there,
if thither you will go.
Now sir, when you are there,
and see this order soo,
Then unto Dinner straight,
she goeth by and by:
There shall you see her fine Compeeres,
that beare her companie.
First, vpper most she sittes,
in a great maiestie:
Then sits there downe by her, a Dame
called Ladie vanitie.
Then downe sits her Compeeres,
Follie and Frenzie both:
Such companie, as for to keepe,
a wiseman would be lothe.
Her Waitors at her borde,
are Curiositie,
Her Chamberlaine; and next to him
stands Carefulnesse hard by:
The Cooke that drest the meate:
then Nodcoke naturall,
Then Iacke-an-apes and busie Bee,
worst manered of them all:
Thus furnisht is this boorde,
with waitors in such sorte:
The meates whereof she feedeth most,
I neede not make report:
I spake of them before:
but for her kinde of drinke,
No beere, nor ale, nor wine it is:
and what then doo you thinke?
It is a drinke composde,
of drugges of diuers sortes,
Discourtesie, Disdaine, Dispigh:
and mingled with Disportes,
Sappe of faire Semblaunce,
with secret Simulation.
With Ioice of herbes of hollow hartes.
and faithfull protestation:
These Drugges, with many mo,
puts Fancie in her drinke:
Which though they sumwhat please the tast,
yet make the bosom stinke:
And workes so in their heads,
that are not used theretoo,
That maks them more half mad: for greif,
they know not what to do.
Now syr, this is her drinke:
her meate before you know:
Her servaunts I haue showne you too,
that do attend her so.
Now Syr, when you haue fed,
of Fancies fare one day:
18
your selfe, next day away.
I promise you (of troth)
I did when I was there:
And I would not be there againe,
for twentie pound, I sweare.
And more then wishing too,
at borde aloude I cride:
I would I were away, this fare,
I cannot I abide.
Which when that Fancie sawe,
she tooke me from the boorde,
And thrust me out of dores in haste,
not speaking any worde.
And flonge me downe the steares,
wherewith I caught a fall,
That greeued me sore: but yet (me thought)
I stood cōtent withal.
The vsher of the Hall,
he tooke me by and by,
And out of doores too in like sorte,
he thrust me presently.
Then euery Iacke-an-apes,
that rid upon an Asse,
Was ready for to ride me still,
as I the Courte did passe.
The Geese and Ganders hist,
the Duckes cride quack, at mee:
Thus euerie one would haue a flyrt,
ere I could get out free.
The Porter Daliaunce,
he draue me out in haste,
And thrust me downe so hard the Hill,
my neck was almost brast.
And vp I rose againe,
though bruséd verie sore,
And ment, if once I gat away,
for to come there no more.
Well, limping as I coulde,
I hit the beaten waye,
Of fooles foote steps: through Forrest back,
that led me so astraye.
And back againe I came,
to Learning's narrow lane:
And there I hit The trackt of Truth,
that I should first haue tane,
That leaues the Forrest quite:
which when I had hit on,
I staide awhile, and there my walke
I gan to thinke vpon:
And thinking so, I saw
a Scholler comming by,
That came from learnéd Vertue's Schoole:
and, sighing heauely,
I calde him vnto me,
and tolde him of my wo,
Of my sore fall, from Fancies Forte,
and how I caught it so.
Which when that he had harde,
he tooke me by the hande,
And beeing verie weake (in deede)
scarse able for to stande:
He led me to a house
of Wisdome: an olde man,
His Father (as he saide) he was:
and there I rested than.
This Jentle youth, if I
do not forget the same,
Is Honest Reason: so I thinke,
his Father cald his name.
Where, beyng but a while,
my tale I gan to tell
To hym, of this my gentle walke:
wherat he laughéd well,
And laughing so (quoth he)
go, Youth, here take a booke,
And write now, for remēbrance thine,
yt when thou chance to looke
Upon the same againe,
then thou mayst take heede styll,
Of leauyng Wisdome's narrow Lane,
and follow wanton wyll:
Loe, thus at his commaund,
I wrote it by and by:
And this it was, beleeue me now,
or els (at least) I lye.
FINIS.
In Dispight of Fancie.
Ah, feeble Fancie, nowthy force is nothing worth:
Thou hadst me in thy Castel once,
but now I am got forth:
Thou barst a gallant flagge
of lustie brauerie,
But I haue seene yt all thy showe,
is but meere knauerie.
Thy Fethers flaunt a flaunte,
are blowne awaie with winde,
And Falshood is the trustie Troth,
that one in thee shall finde.
Thy valure is but vauntes,
thy weapons are but wordes:
Thou vsest Shales, in steede of Shot,
and signes in steede [of] swords.
19
each foole maie scale the same,
And thou thy selfe art but a flirt,
and not a noble Dame,
As some doo thee accompt:
I know thee too too well,
And none but Dawes & Doltes, within
thy foolish Forte do dwell.
Thy Castell is, in deede,
a Caue of miserie,
A place in short space for to bring
a man to beggerie.
Thy Forte defended is,
by Duckes and gardes of Geese,
By Iacke an Apes, Asses too,
and such gallants as these.
Thy deepe delight is all
in foolish trifling toyes:
Thou makest a man in things of nought,
to set his cheefest ioyes.
Thy Schoole maie well be called,
the Schoole of littell skill,
Thy Schoolers most are waywarde wits,
that follow wanton wil:
Thy Lessons lothsome are,
thy selfe a Mistris too,
Of naught but Mischeefe, which thou most
doost make thy Schollers doo.
Thy Pleasure breeds Man's paine,
thy Game doth turne to Greefe:
Thou woorkest many Deadly woe,
but few doost lend releefe.
Thou makest a man to gaine
Dishonor and Defame,
Thou makst him thinke a Stinking Slut
to bee a Gallant dame.
Thou makes him Hang on hope,
and drowne in Deepe dispaire:
Thou makest him, like a mome, to build
High Castels in the aire.
Thou makest him thinke Black White,
& when that all is known,
Thou makest him Like an Asse, to se
a fooles head of his owne.
Thou art The cause of care,
but comfort very small,
And so, what euer is amisse,
thou art the cause of all:
My selfe haue seene all this
that I report, and more:
Thou madest me thinke yt did mee good,
that greeuéd me ful sore.
But long I was so blinde,
thou so hadst dimd my sight,
That I could neuer see the craft
of this thy deepe dispight:
Till I out of thy Forte,
was clerely got away,
And came to Graue aduises house,
where now I hope to stay.
Where when I was arriued,
by helpe of a deere frende:
Trew reason: one with whom I meane,
to keepe till life do ende.
Now when that I came there,
he did declare to me,
What ment that foolish Forte of thine,
and all that I did se:
Which when I well had markt,
I did not all repent
My labour in my Journey so,
although my cost I spent.
Because thy nature so,
and deeds I did discrie:
Which deeds of thine, I doo detest,
and thee I doo defie.
And now unto the worlde,
in deepe despight of thee,
I shew what a vaine flirte thou art,
that euery man may see.
I haue set out thy Forte,
thy Force, and eke thy Schoole:
Thy Vshers too, that teach therein,
a mad man and a foole:
Thy lothsom lessons too,
and how, by great good happe,
I am got out, although long first,
out of thy lothsome lappe.
What shall I farther say,
I haue set out, in kinde:
Eche peeuish poynt I know in thee,
for euery man to finde.
Therefore, let fall thy flagge,
and all thy brauerie;
I haue at large, I thinke, set out
thy suttill slauerie:
And that, in such a sort,
as who so lust to reade,
My whole discourse of thy dispight,
will learne for to take heede.
Of all thy gallant showe,
they know now what it is:
Thou long hast liued unknowen, alas,
but now descride, I wis.
And for my selfe, thy Forte
I know so well, I sweare,
That I doo meane to keepe mee thence,
and neuer to come there:
But if I doo looke vp,
and follow thee againe:
Then keepe mee fast within the Forte,
and plague me for my paine.
But trust me, I meane it not:
with Reason here, my frend,
I meane to lyue in thy dispight,
and so I make an ende.
And yet before I make
a flat ende, ere I go,
I wyll discharge my stomache quite,
and byd thee farewell so.
FINIS.
20
A Foole,
Dame Fancies man, speaketh in Defence of his Mistresse, Fancie.
What meanes that mad man, tro,that railes on Fancie so?
That seekes to do her such dispight,
& sweres himself her fo:
The man mistakes himselfe,
it is not Fancie, sure,
That for to fal into such rage,
doth him so much procure.
Why, Fancie, is a frende,
to euery curteous Knight:
Why, Fancie, is the chiefest thing,
that doth the minde delight.
Why, Fancie, was the cause,
that wunders first were founde:
Of many fine deuices strange,
first, Fancie was the ground:
Why, Fancie is the thing,
that mooueth men to loue,
And telles the Louers what to doo,
as best for their behooue:
Fancie, findes pretie toyes,
to please each Courtly Dame:
Fancie, to passe the time in sporte,
inuented many a game.
To Courtiers many a one,
a good frende Fancie standes:
She makes them reap good lyking, at
their louing Ladies' hands:
She made the Poets olde,
deuices to endight,
Which they in wrightyng, left behind,
for other men's delight.
She seeketh vnto none,
but many seeke to her:
And those who are her servaunts styll,
she seeketh to preferre
To high degree in time:
and that in Court (perchaunce)
She helpeth them, and many wayes,
doth seeke them to advaunce.
Now some (perhaps) againe,
that are of grosest wit,
And, by their dispositions,
For Follye Schollers fit:
Those now (perhaps) in deede,
she letteth all alone,
With Follie, onely, to rewarde,
and them regardeth none.
But those that are againe,
of quicke capacitie,
Who can consider Vertue wise,
from foolysh Vanytie:
Suche men she chieflie loues,
and suche, although they know her,
Shall haue smal cause, in tract of time,
in deed, for to beshrow her.
I may not speake too muche,
for I am partiall,
But what I haue said is true,
for I have tried all.
And therfore, sure the man,
that rayleth on her so,
Hath done her wrong, without iust cause,
to stand so much her fo.
Faire wordes are euer best,
backbiting is too bad.
And therfore, I doo thinke the man,
is either dronke or mad,
That seekes her suche despight,
so much without desarte:
And, by her countenance, it seemes,
it greeues her to the hart
To be so muche abusde: but wot
you what, no remedie:
A wicked tongue doth say amisse.
and will do tyll I die.
FINIS.
21
The Lamentacion of Fancie.
Alas, poore seelie wretche,now maiste thou weepe and wayle:
For now, thy Forte is of no force,
thou canst no more preuayle.
Fancie, let fall thy flagge,
thy brauerie is descride,
Thy shifts are seene, wherwith thou thoughtst,
thy selfe from sight to hide.
The man is got away,
whom late I entertainde:
And loe, by him I am defamde,
and all my state is staind:
Why did I not him feede,
with some more sweete repaste?
Why dyd I not deuise to dresse,
some toy, to please his taste?
I put into his drinke,
too much Drugges of despight:
Thou moughtst allayd the bitternes,
with drams of sweet delight.
Why didst thou, in a rage,
first fling him from thy lap,
And leaue to feede him any more,
with Worldly pleasures pap?
Why did I, in my rage,
not speakyng any worde,
Take him so roughly at the first,
and set him from my boorde?
And thrust him out of Doores,
in such a scornfull wise:
Thou hadst ben better let him dinde
and let himself to rise.
Why didst thou throw him downe
the Steares in such a sorte?
That he of thy discurtesie
may iustly make report:
And beeing falne downe so,
why didst thou, Vaine delight,
Thrust him out of doores
by force, in such dispight?
You, Jacke an Apeses too,
why caught you at him so?
To ride him like an Asse, as he
along the Courte did go?
Why did you hisse, you geese?
and Duckes, why cride you quacke,
To raile on him? why did you not
more gently let him packe?
Why didst thou, Daliaunce,
so thrust him out of doore?
That made him catch so great a fall
and bruze himself so sore.
Alas, what blame I you?
my selfe I ought to blame:
For, if I had forbidden it,
you had not done the same:
Coulde none of all my Flowers,
so faire and sweete of smell,
Cause him to haue desire, againe
within my Forte to dwell?
Coulde not my Bedchamber,
with all my Pictures faire,
Make him yet ere he die againe,
thither to make repaire?
Alasse, I feare he sawe
the words at my Beds head:
And, out of doubt, I feare in deede,
that sentence he hath read:
And that hath causéd him
to lothe my Bed and me:
But could not all the other sights,
that in the Chamber he
Did see, to mooue delight,
make him forget the same?
Oh no, well Fancie, yet
seeke none at all to blame,
But euon thy onely selfe,
who tookste so small regarde
Vnto a Stranger in such sorte,
and handle him so harde.
Well, since that he is gone,
and that I am discride;
And that from him my shiftes, alasse,
I can no longer hide:
I must a warning take,
the next that come againe
Vnto my Forte, for seruice mine,
better to entertaine.
And though he thus be gone,
I doubt not but there be,
Some youthes abroade yet in the worlde,
yt wil come seeke out me:
But all that I can euer
haue, to ease my paine,
Will neuer doe me halfe that good
as to see him againe:
Which if I euer haue,
I now not sorrow so,
But I shall then reioyce asmuch,
and ridde me of my wo.
Untill which time, alasse,
I languish still in paine,
And so shall doo, vntill I see,
my gentle youth againe.
FINIS.
22
A FAREWELL To Fancie.
Fonde Fancie, now farewell,thy Lodging likes me not:
I serued thee long, full like a slaue,
yet little gaines I got.
Yet though I say my selfe,
no slaue that euer seru'de
Of any Mistris in this world,
haue more rewarde deseru'd.
But he that bindes himselfe
apprentise to a Patch,
At seauen yeares ende, will this be sure,
to gain sum foolish catch.
So Nodcoke I, that longe
haue serued thee like a slaue;
For my rewarde, by dew desart,
Repentaunce gainéd haue.
Thou never badst me go,
but I would runne with speede:
If thou didst bid me staie againe,
two biddings should not neede.
When I had better runne,
when thou didst bid me staie,
And better staide then goe on foote,
to breede mine owne decaye.
When thou didst bid me looke,
I readie was to marke,
And would not loose the thing so soone,
no, not in greatest darke.
When better I had beene,
for to have shut mine eye,
Then for to cast mine eye on that,
should worke me woe thereby.
When thou didst bid me like,
I loouéd, by and by:
When thou againe badst me mislike,
I hated contrarie.
What shall I further say,
thou nothing badst me doe,
But I was willing, by and by,
for to agree thereto.
But what, for all my paines
haue I now reapt in fine,
A goodly gaine, Repentaunce sore,
of such great follie mine:
When thou didst bid me go,
my running made me fall:
When thou didst bid me stay againe,
twas for no good at all.
Thou madste me studie ofte,
but what?—fonde trifling toyes:
The Arte of Loue, and of the cause
of louers greefes and ioyes.
Thou madste me think, long while,
that louers greefe was game,
And that no ioye could be compard,
vnto a gallant Dame.
Thou madst me thinke long time,
no pleasure like to that,
With Curtisans, in their kinde,
to doe, I say not what.
Thou madste me halfe amazde,
sometime, with frantick fits,
And, now and then with thoughts of loue
almost out of my wits.
Thou maadst me take delight,
in Lodge of Loue to dwell:
And for to coumpt that thing a heauen,
which rather was a hell.
Thou maadst me thinke that Loue
did purchase heauenly Joy:
Which now I see did purchase paine,
& wrought naught but annoy.
Thou maadst me take delight
to iet in braue attire:
Which now I finde was more, indeede,
than reason did require.
In Fethers flaunt a flaunt,
and tossing in the winde,
Thou maadst me take delight, which now
a folly great I finde.
Thou maadst me take delight
in singularitie,
In Tailors worke to haue a tricke,
that none should haue but I.
23
some fashion to deuise,
Wherewith I sought in wisemens sight,
my selfe for to disguise.
Thou maadst me spend my time,
in vaine and foolish toyes,
And euer didst withdraw my minde,
from seeking perfect ioyes.
Thou maadst me thinke it was
a heauen, For to go gaye,
But neuer badst me looke in time,
how long it would hould way.
In fine, as long as I
was Scholler at thy Schoole:
For all the learning that I got,
I proou'd my selfe a foole.
Thou didst withdraw my minde
from Perfect pietie,
And maadst me cheefely to delight
in worldly vanitie.
But now, since that I see,
that it hath pleaséd God,
To plague me well for my desarts,
with smart of mine owne rod:
And giue me grace to finde,
what greefes by thee doe grow,
And that, although vnto my cost,
thy nature naught I know.
What gaines by thee are got,
what pinching penurie,
What greef of minde, what plague of purse,
what wretched misery:
I now forsake thee quite,
and neuer meane to dwell,
Neere thee, by fifteene thousand mile:
and so, Fancie farewell.
FINIS.
24
The Toyes of an Idle head:
verye pleasaunte and delectable, to passe away idle time withall.
THE PREFACE.
[_]
This preface, omitted from the edition used here (1582), has been interpolated from the 1577 edition.
To passe away the time thereon, in ydle times to looke:
If so thou fyndste that like thee not, yet pardon graunt to mee,
And wish me from thy harte no worse, then I wish vnto thee.
Against my will it shall be much, if many I offende
With these rude rymes which I haue made vnto none other ende,
But as I sayde before, for want of other glee,
For pleasaunt heads to looke vpon, when they at leysure bee.
But some there are, I must confesse, gainst whom in great despight
Some running rymes, which here you see, I chaunced to indight.
But such I count my deadly foes: and such one if thou bee
That buiest my boke, then take the same in deepe despight of thee.
But if you be my friend, and take all in good parte
That there you fynde: and thinke it is for want of better arte,
Then here with right good will I offer it to thee,
And doe but thanke me for my paynes, it is ynough for mee.
lxiii
That rudely thus in rymes I run, but want of better skill.
For if that I had Ouid's pen, ech worde in printe to place,
Or Homer's exercyse I had, to giue my verse a grace,
Or Tullie's Eloquence to talke, as I in minde thought best,
Or Aristotle's pregnant wit, that passeth all the rest,
Some prety peece of worke perhaps then moughtst thou fynde
Among so many mery toyes, that mought content thy minde.
But tush, my beetle brayne can no such fruictes bring forth;
My verses are but rugged rimes, and therefore little worth.
My head vnhooded yet, I ready am to flye
At every little paltrye bird, that goeth whisking by.
I neuer haue respect to any kinde of Game,
Like to the hooded Hauke that, kepte a long while tame,
When that he Game doth spring, she knowes it by the whurre,
And then, to make a wing thereat, she ginnes of[f] fyst to sturre.
But till the Game be sprong, on fyst she pearcheth still,
But I (God wot) to choose my game haue no such kinde of skill.
I stryke at what I may, and geue God thankes for all,
And stande contented with the same, till better doth befall.
And glad I am sometime to pray vpon a Byrde,
I haue no wit to waye the best, but euery worthelesse worde
I ready am in ryme to put, although my reason be
But small (God wot), and that too small, as you may plainly see.
But since you see my simple head vnhooded (as it is),
Accept the symple fruict therof, and be content with this.
Vntill I haue the skill to flye at better Game,
Which when I kill, you shall be sure to taste some of the same.
But if ye now disdayne these Byrdes, whereon I pray,
With better game hereafter I perhaps will flye away.
And lyke a very Churle, then will I parte with none,
But feede vpon the best thereof vnto myself alone,
Where few or none shall see, what foode I feede vpon,
No, nor yet where I hyde the same, till all be spente and gone.
Wherefore, my friende, I say, if so thou doest desyre
More of my workes, and wouldst not haue the rest throwne in the fyre,
Skorne not these ragged rymes, but rather soone amend,
What so thou fyndst that likes thee not, and so I make an ende.
Wishing thee well to fare, if so thou be my friend,
But if my foe, then ill and worse, and so agayne I end.
Finis.
A pretty Dittie in despight of Fantasie.
THE ARGUMENT.
Since Fantasye fyrst mooued mee,To rime thus rudely, as you see:
A prety Dittye of Despight,
Gaynste Fantasy, first will I write.
Now, by my troth, I cannot chuse but smile,
To see the foolish fittes of Fantasie:
With what deceits she dooth the mind beguile,
As pleaseth best her great inconstancie.
As well the wisest as the foolish man,
She troubleth, I tell you, now and than.
To see the foolish fittes of Fantasie:
With what deceits she dooth the mind beguile,
As pleaseth best her great inconstancie.
As well the wisest as the foolish man,
She troubleth, I tell you, now and than.
And no denyall: if she lyketh once,
It must be had, what euer so it bee:
And each day new Deuices for the nonce,
Onely to please Mistresse fonde Fantasye.
For she can neuer like one thing two dayes,
Though it deserue neuer so great a praise.
It must be had, what euer so it bee:
And each day new Deuices for the nonce,
Onely to please Mistresse fonde Fantasye.
For she can neuer like one thing two dayes,
Though it deserue neuer so great a praise.
This thing to day, to morrow that againe,
And yet the next day neither of them bothe:
That now she likes, anon she will disdaine,
And whom she louéd, seemeth now to loath.
Thus chopping still, and chaunging euery day,
With vaine delights, she leades the minde away.
And yet the next day neither of them bothe:
That now she likes, anon she will disdaine,
And whom she louéd, seemeth now to loath.
Thus chopping still, and chaunging euery day,
With vaine delights, she leades the minde away.
She makes the Louer thinke his Lady fayre,
Although she be as foule as foule may bee:
Shee makes him eke, build Castles in the ayre,
And very farre in Milstones for to see.
And in the ende, I thinke if all were knowne,
Shee makes him see, a Fooles head of his owne.
Although she be as foule as foule may bee:
Shee makes him eke, build Castles in the ayre,
And very farre in Milstones for to see.
And in the ende, I thinke if all were knowne,
Shee makes him see, a Fooles head of his owne.
Shee makes my Lady so much to esteeme
Of her greene pratling Parratte in the Cage:
This makes her eke her little Page to deeme,
The finest Boye in England, of his age:
This makes her set more by her tame white Deare,
Then some would doo by twenty pounds a yeare.
Of her greene pratling Parratte in the Cage:
This makes her eke her little Page to deeme,
The finest Boye in England, of his age:
This makes her set more by her tame white Deare,
Then some would doo by twenty pounds a yeare.
And who can choose but laugh, to thinke vpon
Such frowarde fittes of foolish fantasie?
And how, alas, the minde is woe-begon,
If that it hath not each thing, by and by,
That she desires, whateuer so it be:
Cost life or death, it must be had, we see.
Such frowarde fittes of foolish fantasie?
And how, alas, the minde is woe-begon,
If that it hath not each thing, by and by,
That she desires, whateuer so it be:
Cost life or death, it must be had, we see.
Shee feedes the minde of man with many a toye,
Shee makes himselfe to seeke his owne decay;
In thinges of nought, she makes him set his ioye,
And from all Vertue leades him quite away.
And shee it is, that vainely causéd me,
Against her selfe to rime thus, as you see.
Shee makes himselfe to seeke his owne decay;
In thinges of nought, she makes him set his ioye,
And from all Vertue leades him quite away.
And shee it is, that vainely causéd me,
Against her selfe to rime thus, as you see.
FINIS.
25
A dolorous Discourse,
of one that was bewitched with loue.
THE ARGUMENT.
Since that the passing panges of looue,Which many Loouers ofte doo prooue:
I fynde the cause, from time to time,
That made men shew their mindes in rime.
I doo intend, in verses few
A dolorous discourse to shew,
Of one that was bewitcht in looue:
What passing pangues he ofte did prooue.
In which, God wot, the more his paine,
Euen till his death he did remaine.
If I had skill to frame a cunning Vearse
Wherein I mought my loathsome life lament,
Or able were in rimes for to rehearse
The gryping greefes, that now my heart haue hent:
Such priuie panges of looue I could descrie,
As neuer any Louer felt but I.
Wherein I mought my loathsome life lament,
Or able were in rimes for to rehearse
The gryping greefes, that now my heart haue hent:
Such priuie panges of looue I could descrie,
As neuer any Louer felt but I.
Some say they freeze, they flame, they flie alofte,
And yet they fall, they hope, and yet they feare:
The feeld once wonne, yet ielousie full ofte
With vile suspect, theyr yrkesome hearts dooth teare.
They liue and lacke, they lack, and yet they haue,
And hauing, yet they lack the thing they craue.
And yet they fall, they hope, and yet they feare:
The feeld once wonne, yet ielousie full ofte
With vile suspect, theyr yrkesome hearts dooth teare.
They liue and lacke, they lack, and yet they haue,
And hauing, yet they lack the thing they craue.
They bide in blisse, amid their weary bale,
With heauie hearts, they show a smiling face:
In figures thus, they tell a mournefull tale,
And set their sorrow out with such a grace,
That who so reades the same, and markes it well,
Would thinke a Louer's torments worse then Hell.
With heauie hearts, they show a smiling face:
In figures thus, they tell a mournefull tale,
And set their sorrow out with such a grace,
That who so reades the same, and markes it well,
Would thinke a Louer's torments worse then Hell.
Then thinke you, what vyle torments doo I feele,
When all these pangues are but Flea-bytes to mine:
I neuer came to top of Fortune's wheele,
But vnnerneath, in dolours still doo pine:
I neuer flew, whereby to haue a fall,
Yet stoope I ofte, although my gate be small.
When all these pangues are but Flea-bytes to mine:
I neuer came to top of Fortune's wheele,
But vnnerneath, in dolours still doo pine:
I neuer flew, whereby to haue a fall,
Yet stoope I ofte, although my gate be small.
Am I not then in case much worse then they
That flye sometimes, although they fall as fast?
Oh yes, my case let any Louer way,
And they shall see, I neuer yet did taste
One sugred ioye that they haue swallowed ofte,
That flye and fall, although they fall not softe.
That flye sometimes, although they fall as fast?
Oh yes, my case let any Louer way,
And they shall see, I neuer yet did taste
One sugred ioye that they haue swallowed ofte,
That flye and fall, although they fall not softe.
For they that flie, although they catch a fall,
Yet while they flie, the time so ioyfull is:
The harme they take by falling is but small,
For when vnto themselues they thinke on this,
What a fyne flight, but euen ere while they had:
For ioye thereof, they cannot long be sad.
Yet while they flie, the time so ioyfull is:
The harme they take by falling is but small,
For when vnto themselues they thinke on this,
What a fyne flight, but euen ere while they had:
For ioye thereof, they cannot long be sad.
But Fortune neuer yet so fauoured mee,
To lend me winges to take on little flight,
Whereby the harme by falling I mought see,
Or yet in flying fynde the deepe delight.
I cannot call to minde one ioyefull day,
Which, for a time, my sorrowes may allay.
To lend me winges to take on little flight,
Whereby the harme by falling I mought see,
Or yet in flying fynde the deepe delight.
I cannot call to minde one ioyefull day,
Which, for a time, my sorrowes may allay.
But lye along all weryed with this woe,
And know not how to prooue to make a flight:
With chilling colde, my ioyntes are frozen so,
That when I striue but euen to stande vpright,
I feele my feebled limbes to faint so fast,
That staggering still, downe flat I fall at last.
And know not how to prooue to make a flight:
With chilling colde, my ioyntes are frozen so,
That when I striue but euen to stande vpright,
I feele my feebled limbes to faint so fast,
That staggering still, downe flat I fall at last.
My harte it selfe, is bitten so with frost,
That all my sences now are waxed nome:
My tongue his taste of pleasaunt ioyes hath lost,
My minde with cruell care is ouercome:
My dazeled eyes are waxed dimme with teares,
Which shew the state wherein my life it weares.
That all my sences now are waxed nome:
My tongue his taste of pleasaunt ioyes hath lost,
My minde with cruell care is ouercome:
My dazeled eyes are waxed dimme with teares,
Which shew the state wherein my life it weares.
Mine eares waxe deafe, no pleasaunt tunes they heare,
That may reuiue with dole, my dulled braine:
Where I was wonte with Musicke for to cheare
My heauy heart, now seemes a deadly paine.
For each sweete note I heere men play or sing,
Thorough mine eare, like thunder clappes, dooth ring.
That may reuiue with dole, my dulled braine:
Where I was wonte with Musicke for to cheare
My heauy heart, now seemes a deadly paine.
For each sweete note I heere men play or sing,
Thorough mine eare, like thunder clappes, dooth ring.
But thus to liue, oh what a lyfe is this?
To liue (alas) my sences all bestraught:
Though straunge it seeme, yet trust me true it is,
Such chilling cold my sences all hath caught,
That I can neither heare, nor feele, nor see,
Nor smell, nor taste, and yet aliue must bee.
To liue (alas) my sences all bestraught:
Though straunge it seeme, yet trust me true it is,
Such chilling cold my sences all hath caught,
That I can neither heare, nor feele, nor see,
Nor smell, nor taste, and yet aliue must bee.
And shall I tell how fyrst I caught this colde?
By looking long vpon thy louely face:
For when I did thy heauenly hew behold,
And markt therewith thy braue and comly grace:
Good Lord, thought I, what worthy wight is this?
Some heauenly Dame, then Venus sure it is.
By looking long vpon thy louely face:
For when I did thy heauenly hew behold,
And markt therewith thy braue and comly grace:
Good Lord, thought I, what worthy wight is this?
Some heauenly Dame, then Venus sure it is.
Venus, quoth I? with that I winckte for feare,
And shut the windowes of my seeing shoppe:
For greefe whereof my heart did swelte, I sweare:
Then gan I striue against the hill to hoppe.
With gazing eyes to stare on thee againe,
Whose only lookes haue wrought me all this paine.
And shut the windowes of my seeing shoppe:
For greefe whereof my heart did swelte, I sweare:
Then gan I striue against the hill to hoppe.
With gazing eyes to stare on thee againe,
Whose only lookes haue wrought me all this paine.
26
But when I heard a name to thee assignde,
And sawe thou werte an earthly Creature;
Then gan I thus imagine, in my minde,
Which waye mought I this Ladyes Loue procure,
To me poore Page, that thus sore wounded lye
At point of death: yet dying cannot die.
And sawe thou werte an earthly Creature;
Then gan I thus imagine, in my minde,
Which waye mought I this Ladyes Loue procure,
To me poore Page, that thus sore wounded lye
At point of death: yet dying cannot die.
But when I sawe mine owne vnworthinesse,
And could not call to minde a due desarte:
Whereon I mought presume, in this distresse,
To craue of thee some salue for this my smarte:
With greefe thereof, I caught this chilling colde,
Which, quaking yet, my quiuering corps dooth holde.
And could not call to minde a due desarte:
Whereon I mought presume, in this distresse,
To craue of thee some salue for this my smarte:
With greefe thereof, I caught this chilling colde,
Which, quaking yet, my quiuering corps dooth holde.
Yet lookte I, loe, and stared still on thee,
Thinking thereby to finde some ease of paine:
But straight, me thought, I sawe thee looke awrye,
As who should say, thou didst my lookes disdaine.
Which lowryng looke droue me into this fytte,
Which God he knowes, how it torments me yet.
Thinking thereby to finde some ease of paine:
But straight, me thought, I sawe thee looke awrye,
As who should say, thou didst my lookes disdaine.
Which lowryng looke droue me into this fytte,
Which God he knowes, how it torments me yet.
But yet I must confesse at fyrst, deare dame,
That whot desyre my greefe hath caused so:
But, by and by, my fierce and fierie flame,
Was quicklye quenchte with waues of wearie wo:
In which wet waues, I too and fro am tost,
Seeking in vaine, to finde some quiet cost.
That whot desyre my greefe hath caused so:
But, by and by, my fierce and fierie flame,
Was quicklye quenchte with waues of wearie wo:
In which wet waues, I too and fro am tost,
Seeking in vaine, to finde some quiet cost.
Now (noble Dame) since that thou seest plaine,
How fyrst I caught this greefe that gripes my harte,
And makes me thus to pine in pangues of paine:
Since that in thee it lyes to ease my smarte,
And only thee: (deare Dame) doe not denye
To helpe me now, for if thou doest, I dye.
How fyrst I caught this greefe that gripes my harte,
And makes me thus to pine in pangues of paine:
Since that in thee it lyes to ease my smarte,
And only thee: (deare Dame) doe not denye
To helpe me now, for if thou doest, I dye.
But thinke vpon my bitter passion,
And eke the passing pangues wherein I pyne:
And how fast bound, without redemption,
I lynger foorth this loathsome lyfe of mine:
And how thou mayest with speede, if thee it please,
Both set me free, and cure my straunge disease.
And eke the passing pangues wherein I pyne:
And how fast bound, without redemption,
I lynger foorth this loathsome lyfe of mine:
And how thou mayest with speede, if thee it please,
Both set me free, and cure my straunge disease.
Which if thou wilte, I know for certaynty
Thou canst not choose, but lend me some releefe:
Thou wilt, beholding my calamity,
Lend some one graine of comfort to my greefe:
Which when thou doest, for a Phisitions fee,
A noble name thy greatest gayne shall bee.
Thou canst not choose, but lend me some releefe:
Thou wilt, beholding my calamity,
Lend some one graine of comfort to my greefe:
Which when thou doest, for a Phisitions fee,
A noble name thy greatest gayne shall bee.
And so, deare Dame, when thou doest thinke vpon
The lothsome lyues that Louers oft rehearse:
Among the rest, let this of mine be one,
Which here to thee dooth shewe itselfe in vearse:
Then shalt thou see how farre my passyon,
In pangues of loue, hath paste them euery one.
The lothsome lyues that Louers oft rehearse:
Among the rest, let this of mine be one,
Which here to thee dooth shewe itselfe in vearse:
Then shalt thou see how farre my passyon,
In pangues of loue, hath paste them euery one.
[Now Christmas draweth near, & most mē make good cheare]
A Gentleman being on a Christmas Eue in a very sollitary place, among very solemn Company: where was but small cheare, lesse myrth and least musicke: beeing very earnestly entreated to sing a Christmas Caroll, with much adoe sung as followeth.
Now Christmas draweth near, & most mē make good cheare,
With heigh how, care away:
I lyke a siely mome, in drowsy dumpes at home,
Will naught but fast and pray.
With heigh how, care away:
I lyke a siely mome, in drowsy dumpes at home,
Will naught but fast and pray.
Some syng and daunce for lyfe, some Carde and Dyce as ryfe,
Some vse olde Christmas Games:
But I, oh wretched wight, In dole both day and night
Must dwell: the world so frames.
Some vse olde Christmas Games:
But I, oh wretched wight, In dole both day and night
Must dwell: the world so frames.
In Court, what pretty toyes, what fyne and pleasaunt ioyes,
To passe the tyme away:
In countrey nought but care, sower Cheese curdes, chiefest fare,
For Wyne, a Bole of Whay.
To passe the tyme away:
In countrey nought but care, sower Cheese curdes, chiefest fare,
For Wyne, a Bole of Whay.
For euery daintie dish, of Flesh or else of Fish,
And for your Drinke in Courte:
A dish of young fryed Froogges, Sodde houghes of mezled Hogges,
A cuppe of small Tap worte.
And for your Drinke in Courte:
A dish of young fryed Froogges, Sodde houghes of mezled Hogges,
A cuppe of small Tap worte.
And for ech Courtly sight, ech shew that may delight
The eye, or else the minde:
In Countrey Thornes and brakes, and many miery lakes,
Is all the good you finde.
The eye, or else the minde:
In Countrey Thornes and brakes, and many miery lakes,
Is all the good you finde.
And for fine Enteries, Halles, Chambers, Galleryes,
And Lodginges many moe:
Here desert Wooddes or plaines, where no delight remaynes,
To walke in too and froe.
And Lodginges many moe:
Here desert Wooddes or plaines, where no delight remaynes,
To walke in too and froe.
In Court, for to be shorte, for euery prety sporte,
That may the heart delight:
In Countrey many a greefe, and small or no releefe,
To ayde the wounded wight.
That may the heart delight:
In Countrey many a greefe, and small or no releefe,
To ayde the wounded wight.
And in this Desarte place, I, Wretch, in wofull case,
This merry Christmasse time:
Content my selfe, perforce, to rest my carefull corse:
And so I end my rime.
This merry Christmasse time:
Content my selfe, perforce, to rest my carefull corse:
And so I end my rime.
[The Christmas now is past, and I haue kept my fast]
In the latter end of Christmas, the same Gentleman was likewise desired to sing; and although against his will, was content to singe as followeth.
The Christmas now is past, and I haue kept my fast,
With prayer euery day:
And like a Country Clowne, with nodding vp and downe,
Haue past the time away.
With prayer euery day:
And like a Country Clowne, with nodding vp and downe,
Haue past the time away.
27
As for old Christmas Games, or daunsing with fine Dames,
Or shewes, or prety playes:
A solemne oath I sweare, I came not where they were,
Not all these holy dayes.
Or shewes, or prety playes:
A solemne oath I sweare, I came not where they were,
Not all these holy dayes.
I did not sing one noate, except it were by roate,
Still buzing like a Bee:
To ease my heauy harte, of some, though little smarte,
For want of other glee.
Still buzing like a Bee:
To ease my heauy harte, of some, though little smarte,
For want of other glee.
And as for pleasaunt Wine, there was no drinke so fine,
For to be tasted heere:
Full simple was my fare, if that I should compare,
The same to Christmas cheere.
For to be tasted heere:
Full simple was my fare, if that I should compare,
The same to Christmas cheere.
I sawe no kinde of sight, that might my minde delight,
Beleeue me, noble Dame:
But euery thing I saw, did freat at wo my maw,
To thinke vpon the same.
Beleeue me, noble Dame:
But euery thing I saw, did freat at wo my maw,
To thinke vpon the same.
Upon some bushy balke, full faine I was to walke
In Wooddes, from tree to tree,
For wante of better roome: but since my fatall doome,
Hath so appointed mee:
In Wooddes, from tree to tree,
For wante of better roome: but since my fatall doome,
Hath so appointed mee:
I stoode therewith content, till Christmas full was spente,
In hope that God will sende
A better yet next yeare, my heauie heart to cheare:
And so I make an ende.
In hope that God will sende
A better yet next yeare, my heauie heart to cheare:
And so I make an ende.
[What griping greefes, what pinching pangues of payne?]
The same man beeing in very great dumpes the same time, beeing likewise intreated to write some dolefull Dittie of his owne inuention wrote as followeth.
What griping greefes, what pinching pangues of payne?
What deadly dinte, of deepe and darke annoye?
What plague? what wo, dooth in this world remaine?
What Hellish happe? what wante of worldly ioye?
But that (oh Caytife) I do dayly bide,
Yea, and that more then all the world beside.
What deadly dinte, of deepe and darke annoye?
What plague? what wo, dooth in this world remaine?
What Hellish happe? what wante of worldly ioye?
But that (oh Caytife) I do dayly bide,
Yea, and that more then all the world beside.
If euer man had cause to wish for death,
To cut atwo this lucklesse lyne of life:
Why striue not I, with speede to stoppe my breath?
Since cruell care, not like a caruing knife,
But like a Sawe, still hackling to and froe,
Thus gnawes my heart, with gripes of weary woe.
To cut atwo this lucklesse lyne of life:
Why striue not I, with speede to stoppe my breath?
Since cruell care, not like a caruing knife,
But like a Sawe, still hackling to and froe,
Thus gnawes my heart, with gripes of weary woe.
What, doo you thinke I iest, or that I faine?
Or, Louer-like, my life I doo lament?
Or that my fyttes are fancies of the braine,
Which wauer still, and neuer stande content?
Or that my sighes are nought but signes of sloath?
Oh, thinke not so, beleeue me, on my troath.
Or, Louer-like, my life I doo lament?
Or that my fyttes are fancies of the braine,
Which wauer still, and neuer stande content?
Or that my sighes are nought but signes of sloath?
Oh, thinke not so, beleeue me, on my troath.
This I protest before my God on hie,
If that I could my doloures well declare:
I thinke I should such priuie pangues descrie
Of sorrowes smarte, as surely seldome are
Seene nowadayes: I thinke, especially:
Yea, seene or felte, of such a Youth as I.
If that I could my doloures well declare:
I thinke I should such priuie pangues descrie
Of sorrowes smarte, as surely seldome are
Seene nowadayes: I thinke, especially:
Yea, seene or felte, of such a Youth as I.
But some perhaps will aske, what is my woe?
What is the thing that makes me so to mourne?
And why I walke so solemne too and froe?
I aunswer thus: such fyry flames dooth burne
Bothe day and night, within my boyling brest,
That, God he knowes, I take but little rest.
What is the thing that makes me so to mourne?
And why I walke so solemne too and froe?
I aunswer thus: such fyry flames dooth burne
Bothe day and night, within my boyling brest,
That, God he knowes, I take but little rest.
But shall I tell how fyrst this flame arose?
And how these Coles were kindled at the furst?
I may not so my dolloures deepe disclose:
For credit me, I would faine, if I durst:
But since, alas, I may not as I would,
Let this suffice, I would faine, if I could.
And how these Coles were kindled at the furst?
I may not so my dolloures deepe disclose:
For credit me, I would faine, if I durst:
But since, alas, I may not as I would,
Let this suffice, I would faine, if I could.
What if I could? nay, durst: what did I say?
For if I durst, I know full well I could:
What could I doe? no whit more then I may:
I know that too: but yet, if that I would,
I could doe much more then I meane to doe,
As thus advisde: but whether doo I goe?
For if I durst, I know full well I could:
What could I doe? no whit more then I may:
I know that too: but yet, if that I would,
I could doe much more then I meane to doe,
As thus advisde: but whether doo I goe?
What neede so many words, so much a doe?
To blaze the broyles that I doe dayly byde:
Or else to tell of tormentes too and fro,
Wherewith I am beset on euery syde:
These few wordes mought haue serued the tourne, I trowe:
Ten thousand plagues, but pleasures none I knowe.
To blaze the broyles that I doe dayly byde:
Or else to tell of tormentes too and fro,
Wherewith I am beset on euery syde:
These few wordes mought haue serued the tourne, I trowe:
Ten thousand plagues, but pleasures none I knowe.
A pretty gyrd, giuen by a Gentlewoman to her servaunt whereupon these Verses were made as followeth.
Farewell Youth, to your vntruth.
When as thou badst farewell to myne vntrueth,
I hope thou spakest it but in iest, deare Dame:
Or else, for that you thought that euery youth,
Most commonly is touched with the same:
Such youthes there are, I must confesse, in deede,
As with vntrueth their Ladies fancies feede.
I hope thou spakest it but in iest, deare Dame:
Or else, for that you thought that euery youth,
Most commonly is touched with the same:
Such youthes there are, I must confesse, in deede,
As with vntrueth their Ladies fancies feede.
28
But what of that: tush, I am none of those,
Though youthly yeares, I cannot well denie:
For rather lyfe then trueth, I chuse to lose:
By trueth, I meane my true fidelitie:
Which who so breakes, to him, as to a youth,
Thou mayest well say: farewell to thine vntrueth.
Though youthly yeares, I cannot well denie:
For rather lyfe then trueth, I chuse to lose:
By trueth, I meane my true fidelitie:
Which who so breakes, to him, as to a youth,
Thou mayest well say: farewell to thine vntrueth.
But yet, good Lady, say not so to mee,
Till thou dooest see, my trueth by falshood staynd:
Which when thou seest, then iustly spit at mee,
As at a slaue, whose trueth is all but faynd:
But till that time, say not to mine vntrueth
Farewell againe, but onely to my youth.
Till thou dooest see, my trueth by falshood staynd:
Which when thou seest, then iustly spit at mee,
As at a slaue, whose trueth is all but faynd:
But till that time, say not to mine vntrueth
Farewell againe, but onely to my youth.
For all vntruethes I vtterly denye,
And to my trusty trueth, I stoutly stand:
And who so list against the same replye,
Gainst him with speede, I goe, with sworde in hande:
Into the Feeld, the same for to defend:
For loe, in this my credit dooth depend.
And to my trusty trueth, I stoutly stand:
And who so list against the same replye,
Gainst him with speede, I goe, with sworde in hande:
Into the Feeld, the same for to defend:
For loe, in this my credit dooth depend.
And though (perhaps) most commonly, each youth
Is giuen in deede, to follow euery gaye:
And some of these are touched with vntruth,
Yet some there be, that take a better waye:
And stande vpon their trueth and honesty,
More then vppon their foolish brauerie.
Is giuen in deede, to follow euery gaye:
And some of these are touched with vntruth,
Yet some there be, that take a better waye:
And stande vpon their trueth and honesty,
More then vppon their foolish brauerie.
Which two I count to be the cheefest poinctes
That ech man ought to builde his life vpon:
And these holde I my cheefe and strongest joynctes:
For what were I, when these two poinctes are gone?
Wherefore, deare Dame, as I begon I end:
My Youth I graunt, and trueth I still defend.
That ech man ought to builde his life vpon:
And these holde I my cheefe and strongest joynctes:
For what were I, when these two poinctes are gone?
Wherefore, deare Dame, as I begon I end:
My Youth I graunt, and trueth I still defend.
[My freend, I saye, if thou be wise]
It chaunced not long after, that this Gentleman happened to be in the company of his very friend, which at Dyce lost much money: and after his losse, entreated him to write some despightfull Ditty, to diswade him from Cards and Dice: which with much intreaty he graunted, & wrote as followeth.
My freend, I saye, if thou be wise,
Use not to much the Cardes and Dyce:
Least, setting all at sincke and syce,
Doe make thee know the cost:
Twill make thee weare a thinne light purse,
Twill make thee sweare, and ban, and curse:
Twill make thee doo all this and worse,
When once thy Coyne is lost.
Use not to much the Cardes and Dyce:
Least, setting all at sincke and syce,
Doe make thee know the cost:
Twill make thee weare a thinne light purse,
Twill make thee sweare, and ban, and curse:
Twill make thee doo all this and worse,
When once thy Coyne is lost.
Therefore, take heede in time, I say:
For time at Dice runnes fast away,
No time worse spent then at dyce-play,
I put thee out of doubt:
And say not, but it was thee tolde:
The nearer that thy purse is polde,
The more still friendship waxeth colde,
Yea, all the worlde throughout.
For time at Dice runnes fast away,
No time worse spent then at dyce-play,
I put thee out of doubt:
And say not, but it was thee tolde:
The nearer that thy purse is polde,
The more still friendship waxeth colde,
Yea, all the worlde throughout.
And then, when once thy coyne is gone,
And friends to helpe thee thou hast none,
Nor house nor Land to live vpon:
Oh then, what wilt thou say?
Well, once I might haue taken heede,
I had a trusty freend in deede,
That tould me true how I should speede,
If I did hold this way.
And friends to helpe thee thou hast none,
Nor house nor Land to live vpon:
Oh then, what wilt thou say?
Well, once I might haue taken heede,
I had a trusty freend in deede,
That tould me true how I should speede,
If I did hold this way.
For who continues in this vaine
Of setting still, bothe bye and mayne,
But in the ende he shall be faine
To leaue it, will or nill:
And doe the thing that dooth despight
Most men, though some it dooth delight,
To them that play to holde the light,
Full ill against their will.
Of setting still, bothe bye and mayne,
But in the ende he shall be faine
To leaue it, will or nill:
And doe the thing that dooth despight
Most men, though some it dooth delight,
To them that play to holde the light,
Full ill against their will.
Leaue therefore (friend) while thou art well,
And marke the woordes that I thee tell:
If once thy lande thou fall to sell,
Thy credit will impaire:
And care not thou, though Gamsters say,—
(These Gamsters, Roysters call I may)
What, Dastard, darest thou not play?
Howe, reach this man a Chaire.
And marke the woordes that I thee tell:
If once thy lande thou fall to sell,
Thy credit will impaire:
And care not thou, though Gamsters say,—
(These Gamsters, Roysters call I may)
What, Dastard, darest thou not play?
Howe, reach this man a Chaire.
Well, if he bring it, sit thee downe,
Or else go out into the towne:
If not, then walke thee vp and downe,
And beare a time his scoffe:
And thou shalt see within a while,
How thou mayest finely at him smile:
When he would gladly wish a file,
To file his yrons off.
Or else go out into the towne:
If not, then walke thee vp and downe,
And beare a time his scoffe:
And thou shalt see within a while,
How thou mayest finely at him smile:
When he would gladly wish a file,
To file his yrons off.
For commonly, such knaues as these
Doe ende their lyves vpon three trees:
Or lye in Prison for theyr fees,
For all their bragging out:
And though one yeare they goe full gaye,
And euery day play lusty play:
Yet with a Rope they make a fraye,
Ere seuen yeare goe about.
Doe ende their lyves vpon three trees:
Or lye in Prison for theyr fees,
For all their bragging out:
And though one yeare they goe full gaye,
And euery day play lusty play:
Yet with a Rope they make a fraye,
Ere seuen yeare goe about.
And therefore, say they what they list,
Take thou still heede of, had I wist:
And vse not too too much thy fist,
To shaking of the Dice:
For fyrst, thy gaine will be but small,
The credit lesse, thou gettest with all:
Thy estimation least of all,
Though deare thou buy the price.
Take thou still heede of, had I wist:
And vse not too too much thy fist,
To shaking of the Dice:
For fyrst, thy gaine will be but small,
The credit lesse, thou gettest with all:
Thy estimation least of all,
Though deare thou buy the price.
Good Lorde, was not that man halfe madde,
That once a prety lyuing had:
And would not rest, but out must gadde,
To Cardes and Dyce in haste:
And vsed them so lustily,
Setting, and throwing carelesly:
Till in shorte space, full foolishly,
He spent euen all, at laste.
That once a prety lyuing had:
And would not rest, but out must gadde,
To Cardes and Dyce in haste:
29
Setting, and throwing carelesly:
Till in shorte space, full foolishly,
He spent euen all, at laste.
Euen so wilt thou, I promise thee,
If thou doe not giue eare to me,
And leaue thy trouling of a Dye,
And that with speede, my friend:
For they that vse so lustily
The Cardes and Dyce, most commonly
Are eyther brought to beggery,
Or hang else in the ende.
If thou doe not giue eare to me,
And leaue thy trouling of a Dye,
And that with speede, my friend:
For they that vse so lustily
The Cardes and Dyce, most commonly
Are eyther brought to beggery,
Or hang else in the ende.
And now, farewell! since that I may,
As now, no longer with thee stay:
My counsaile, therefore, beare away,
And leaue that vaine delight,
That now thou hast in Cardes and Dyce:
And learne betimes for to be wise:
Once well warnde, is as good as twise:
And so, my freend, good night.
As now, no longer with thee stay:
My counsaile, therefore, beare away,
And leaue that vaine delight,
That now thou hast in Cardes and Dyce:
And learne betimes for to be wise:
Once well warnde, is as good as twise:
And so, my freend, good night.
[To play at Dice is but good sporte]
An other Dittie, after that, made by the same man (after a sorte) in defence of Cardes and Dice, as followeth.
To play at Dice is but good sporte,
So it be vsed in good sorte:
But who delights in Cardes and Dyse,
In deede, I cannot count him wise:
For he that playes, till all be gone,
With Robin Hoode and little John,
May trace the Wooddes: for wise men say,
Keepe somewhat till a rayny day.
So it be vsed in good sorte:
But who delights in Cardes and Dyse,
In deede, I cannot count him wise:
For he that playes, till all be gone,
With Robin Hoode and little John,
May trace the Wooddes: for wise men say,
Keepe somewhat till a rayny day.
But will you, therefore, generally
Disprayse the Dyce so spightfully?
What thing so good, that now is vsde,
But by a foole may be abusde?
I speake not this vnto that ende,
That you should thinke I would defend
Dyce playing vniversallye,
But onely used moderately.
Disprayse the Dyce so spightfully?
What thing so good, that now is vsde,
But by a foole may be abusde?
I speake not this vnto that ende,
That you should thinke I would defend
Dyce playing vniversallye,
But onely used moderately.
For who so long dooth vse the Dyce
Till he thereof hath knowen the price:
I meane, till almost all be gone:
Then marke this, straight way, such a one,
Beginnes to learne to cogge a pace:
Whereby he dooth so much disgrace
The Cardes and Dyce, that men doo feare
To play, for Coggers euery where.
Till he thereof hath knowen the price:
I meane, till almost all be gone:
Then marke this, straight way, such a one,
Beginnes to learne to cogge a pace:
Whereby he dooth so much disgrace
The Cardes and Dyce, that men doo feare
To play, for Coggers euery where.
But if that Coggers all were barde,
And cleanly cutters of a Carde,
And euery Gamster would play square:
Then some men would hope well to fare.
And then would few so much despise,
As now they doe, both Cardes and Dyse:
For neyther Cardes nor Dice be naught,
If men would vse them as they ought.
And cleanly cutters of a Carde,
And euery Gamster would play square:
Then some men would hope well to fare.
And then would few so much despise,
As now they doe, both Cardes and Dyse:
For neyther Cardes nor Dice be naught,
If men would vse them as they ought.
For how can Cardes or Dice hurt those,
That care not whether they win or lose?—
But who doe so? such men these are
As play no more then they may spare:
And when they come to any Game,
They make a pastime of the same;
But hab or nab, speede well who may,
And merrily so will spend the day.
That care not whether they win or lose?—
But who doe so? such men these are
As play no more then they may spare:
And when they come to any Game,
They make a pastime of the same;
But hab or nab, speede well who may,
And merrily so will spend the day.
And what is lost too, farewell it,
Neuer chafe nor freate a whit.
And they that vse play in this sorte,
With Cardes and Dyce make preaty sporte.
Then, therefore, since both Cardes and Dyce
Be good for some men, as I say:
Who dooth abuse them, is not wise,
Nor worthy, in my minde to play.
Therefore, as I begone, I ende,
Moderate play I doe defend.
Neuer chafe nor freate a whit.
And they that vse play in this sorte,
With Cardes and Dyce make preaty sporte.
Then, therefore, since both Cardes and Dyce
Be good for some men, as I say:
Who dooth abuse them, is not wise,
Nor worthy, in my minde to play.
Therefore, as I begone, I ende,
Moderate play I doe defend.
[That I would not perswaded be]
An other time, not long after, he chaunced to be in his friends and betters house: being in his bed about midnight, by chaunce awake, heard in the next chamber a Page of the Ladyes of the house, lamenting, as he laye in his bed, very sore his vnhappie estate: which as he could well beare away in the morning, put it in verse only for his owne reading, to laugh at: but being by his friend intreated, put it, as you see, among his Toyes (as one not the least), which was as followeth.
That I would not perswaded be,
in my yong rechlesse youth:
By plaine experience I see,
that now it prooueth truth:
It is Toms song, my Ladyes Page,
That seruice is no heritage.
in my yong rechlesse youth:
By plaine experience I see,
that now it prooueth truth:
It is Toms song, my Ladyes Page,
That seruice is no heritage.
I hard him sing this other night,
as he lay all alone:
Was never Boie in such a plight,
where should he make his mone?
Oh Lord, quoth he, to be a Page,
This seruice is none heritage.
as he lay all alone:
Was never Boie in such a plight,
where should he make his mone?
Oh Lord, quoth he, to be a Page,
This seruice is none heritage.
30
Mine Uncle told me tother day,
that I must take great paine:
And I must cast all sloath away,
if I seeke ought to gaine:
For sure, quoth he, a painefull Page
Will make seruice an heritage.
that I must take great paine:
And I must cast all sloath away,
if I seeke ought to gaine:
For sure, quoth he, a painefull Page
Will make seruice an heritage.
Yea sure, a great commoditie,
if once Madame he doe displease:
A cuffe on the eare, two or three
he shall haue, smally for his ease.
I would, for me he were a Page,
For to possesse his heritage.
if once Madame he doe displease:
A cuffe on the eare, two or three
he shall haue, smally for his ease.
I would, for me he were a Page,
For to possesse his heritage.
I rubbe and brush almost all day,
I make cleane many a coate:
I seeke all honest meanes I may,
how to come by a groate:
I thinke I am a painefull Page,
Yet I can make no heritage.
I make cleane many a coate:
I seeke all honest meanes I may,
how to come by a groate:
I thinke I am a painefull Page,
Yet I can make no heritage.
Why? I to get haue much a doe
a Kirtle now and than:
For making cleane of many a shooe,
for Ales, or Mistresse Anne.
My Ladies Maides will wipe the Page,
Alwayes of such an heritage.
a Kirtle now and than:
For making cleane of many a shooe,
for Ales, or Mistresse Anne.
My Ladies Maides will wipe the Page,
Alwayes of such an heritage.
The wēches they get Coifes and Cawles,
Frēchhoods & partlets eeke:
And I get naught but checks and brawles,
a thousand in a weeke:
These are rewardes meete for a Page,
Surely a goodly heritage.
Frēchhoods & partlets eeke:
And I get naught but checks and brawles,
a thousand in a weeke:
These are rewardes meete for a Page,
Surely a goodly heritage.
My Ladies maides too, must I please,
but chiefly mistresse Anne:
For else, by the Masse, she will disease
me vily, now and than.
Faith, she will say, you whorson Page,
Ile purchase you an heritage.
but chiefly mistresse Anne:
For else, by the Masse, she will disease
me vily, now and than.
Faith, she will say, you whorson Page,
Ile purchase you an heritage.
And if she say so, by the roode,
'tis Cock I warrant it:
But God he knowes, I were as good
to be without[en] it.
For all the gaines I get, poore Page,
Is but a slender heritage.
'tis Cock I warrant it:
But God he knowes, I were as good
to be without[en] it.
For all the gaines I get, poore Page,
Is but a slender heritage.
I haue so many folkes to please,
and creepe and kneele vnto:
That I shall neuer liue at ease,
what euer so I doe:
Ile therefore be no more a Page,
But seeke some other heritage.
and creepe and kneele vnto:
That I shall neuer liue at ease,
what euer so I doe:
Ile therefore be no more a Page,
But seeke some other heritage.
But was there euer such a patch,
to speake so lowde as I:
Knowing what hold the Maides will catch,
at euery fault they spie:
And all for spight at me, poore Page,
To purchase me an heritage.
to speake so lowde as I:
Knowing what hold the Maides will catch,
at euery fault they spie:
And all for spight at me, poore Page,
To purchase me an heritage.
And if that they may heare of this,
I were as good be hangde:
My Lady shall know it, by Gis,
and I shall sure be bangde:
I shall be vsed like a Page,
I shall not loose myne heritage.
I were as good be hangde:
My Lady shall know it, by Gis,
and I shall sure be bangde:
I shall be vsed like a Page,
I shall not loose myne heritage.
Well, yet I hope the time to see,
when I may run as fast,
For wandes for them, as they for me,
ere many dayes be past:
For when I am no longer Page,
Ile give them vp mine heritage.
when I may run as fast,
For wandes for them, as they for me,
ere many dayes be past:
For when I am no longer Page,
Ile give them vp mine heritage.
Well, I a while must stand content,
till better happe doo fall:
With such pore state, as God hath sent,
& giue him thankes for all:
Who wyll, I hope, send me, poore Page,
Then this, some better heritage.
till better happe doo fall:
With such pore state, as God hath sent,
& giue him thankes for all:
Who wyll, I hope, send me, poore Page,
Then this, some better heritage.
With this, with hands and eyes
lift vp to heauen on high:
He sighed twise or thrise,
and wepte to, piteously.
Which when I saw, I wisht the Page
In faith, some better heritage.
lift vp to heauen on high:
He sighed twise or thrise,
and wepte to, piteously.
Which when I saw, I wisht the Page
In faith, some better heritage.
And weeping thus, good God, quoth he,
haue mercy on my soule:
That ready I may be for thee,
when that the bell dooth knoule:
To make me free of this bondage,
And partner of thine heritage.
haue mercy on my soule:
That ready I may be for thee,
when that the bell dooth knoule:
To make me free of this bondage,
And partner of thine heritage.
Lord, graunt me grace so thee to serue,
that at the latter day:
Although I can no good deserue,
yet thou to me mayest say:
Be thou now free, that werte a Page,
And heere in heauen haue heritage.
that at the latter day:
Although I can no good deserue,
yet thou to me mayest say:
Be thou now free, that werte a Page,
And heere in heauen haue heritage.
[Amid my ioyes, such greefe I fynde]
The same man beeing desired the next day following, to singe some prety song to the Virginalles, by a Gentlewoman that he made no small accoumpt of: was faine, Extempore, to endite, and sing as followeth.
Amid my ioyes, such greefe I fynde,
That what to doo, I know not I:
My pleasures are but blastes of winde:
Full well euen now, and by and by
Some sodaine panges torment me so,
That I could euen crie out for wo.
That what to doo, I know not I:
My pleasures are but blastes of winde:
Full well euen now, and by and by
Some sodaine panges torment me so,
That I could euen crie out for wo.
31
And yet perforce no remedy:
Needes must I laugh when I could mourne:
Yea, ofte I sing, when presently
To teares my singing could I tourne.
Such luck haue Gaimsters, some men say,
Winne, and loose, and all in a day.
Needes must I laugh when I could mourne:
Yea, ofte I sing, when presently
To teares my singing could I tourne.
Such luck haue Gaimsters, some men say,
Winne, and loose, and all in a day.
But some there are, whom Fortune still
Giues leaue to winne, and seldome lose:
Oh, would to God, I had my will,
That I might soone be one of those
That are in Fortunes fauour so:
Then neede I not thus playne of wo.
Giues leaue to winne, and seldome lose:
Oh, would to God, I had my will,
That I might soone be one of those
That are in Fortunes fauour so:
Then neede I not thus playne of wo.
For if that I were sure, at least,
For to obtaine that I would craue;
Yea, though it were but one request,
I would desire no more to haue:
I aske but euen one happy day,
Let me doo after as I may.
For to obtaine that I would craue;
Yea, though it were but one request,
I would desire no more to haue:
I aske but euen one happy day,
Let me doo after as I may.
And sure I see no remedy,
But euen to hope on happe alone:
And that it is that comfortes me:
For when hope fayles, all ioyes are gone.
Therefore, what with hope and dispayre,
My ioyes lye houering in the ayre.
But euen to hope on happe alone:
And that it is that comfortes me:
For when hope fayles, all ioyes are gone.
Therefore, what with hope and dispayre,
My ioyes lye houering in the ayre.
Which, would to God, would eyther fall,
Or else be driuen quite away:
That I might haue no hope at all,
Or else that I might happily say:
Now haue I found the thing I sought,
Now will I take but little thought.
Or else be driuen quite away:
That I might haue no hope at all,
Or else that I might happily say:
Now haue I found the thing I sought,
Now will I take but little thought.
Well, yet I hope, or ere I dye,
To light on such a happy day:
That I may sing full merrily,
Not, heigh ho wele, but care away:
The Ship, full many tempests past,
Hath reacht the quiet Hauen at last.
To light on such a happy day:
That I may sing full merrily,
Not, heigh ho wele, but care away:
The Ship, full many tempests past,
Hath reacht the quiet Hauen at last.
Finis.
[What, shall I write some prety toy?]
The next day after that he had written this passion of Loue, dyuers Gentlewomen being then in the house: he was intreted by two or three of them at once, to make some verses: and one among the rest, being very desirous to haue her request fulfilled, brought him a Pen, and ynke, and Paper: with earnest intreaty, to make some verses, upon what matter he thought best himselfe: he, very vnwilling to write, not knowing of a sodain, how to please them all in vearse, and yet desirous to graunt all their requests, with much adooe, was in the end intreated to write, as followeth.
What, shall I write some prety toy?will that like Ladies best?
Or shall I pen the praise of one
faire Dame, abooue the rest?
Or shall I write at randon else,
what fyrst comes in my braine?
No, no: for words once flowen abroade,
can not be cald againe.
Why then, since none of these will serue,
what other kinde of stile,
Shall I picke out to write upon?—
now sure, I needes must smile,
To thinke vpon my beetle brain,
that can no fruite bring foorth:
But such Baldictum rimes as these,
as are not reading worth.
Faith, Ladyes, but for shame, I would
not write one word at all,
In ryme (at least) because you see,
my reason is so small.
But since it is such as it is,
indeede small and too small:
I must desyre you, for this once,
to stand content withall.
And take the same in as good parte,
as if a wiser man
Had better done: because you see,
I do the best I can.
And more then can, you can not craue:
for if you do of me,
Before you aske, be sure to go
without, I promise ye:
But any thyng that well I can,
commaund you all of me:
And I wyll do the best I can,
to please each one of ye:
And thus, as humbly as I can,
I craue of you to lend
Your pacience to my rudenesse this:
and so I make an ende.
Full sory that I cannot write,
so finely as I would,
To like your fancies all alyke,
for if I could I would:
And so agayne, fayre Ladies all,
in curteous sort I craue,
As I deserue your favours so,
and friendshyps, let me haue.
[When Flatterie falles to play the fleeryng knaue]
Not many dayes after, hee sawe a Gentlewoman in the house, whom he accounted
32
When Flatterie falles to play the fleeryng knaue,
And tried trust is put out of conceight:
And cogging craft by subtyll shiftes can haue
The gaynes, for which doth faythfull seruice waight;
Then deepe deceight must needes possesse the parte
That doth in deede belong to due desarte.
And tried trust is put out of conceight:
And cogging craft by subtyll shiftes can haue
The gaynes, for which doth faythfull seruice waight;
Then deepe deceight must needes possesse the parte
That doth in deede belong to due desarte.
When fond suspect, shall cause a faythfull frende
To deeme amisse of friend, without desart:
And coy conceight, shall cause a finall ende
Of friendshyp there, where friendes were linckt in hart:
Then double dealyng, must of force preuaile
To winne reward, and faythfull friendship faile.
To deeme amisse of friend, without desart:
And coy conceight, shall cause a finall ende
Of friendshyp there, where friendes were linckt in hart:
Then double dealyng, must of force preuaile
To winne reward, and faythfull friendship faile.
When men are scornde, and shadowes are esteemde,
And shels are sau'd, and kernels cast away:
And deedes be done, and woords for deedes be deemde,
And outward brauery beares the bell away:
Then honest meaning may go chaunge his minde,
Or else is sure a colde rewarde to finde.
And shels are sau'd, and kernels cast away:
And deedes be done, and woords for deedes be deemde,
And outward brauery beares the bell away:
Then honest meaning may go chaunge his minde,
Or else is sure a colde rewarde to finde.
But when, in deede, vile flatterie false is found,
And tryed Trust dooth reape his due rewarde:
And deepe deceite is digged vnder ground,
And cogging craft can get no tale be harde:
Then right may haue that reason dooth require,
And due desarte may haue his deepe desire.
And tryed Trust dooth reape his due rewarde:
And deepe deceite is digged vnder ground,
And cogging craft can get no tale be harde:
Then right may haue that reason dooth require,
And due desarte may haue his deepe desire.
Lo thus, deare Dame, this for my selfe I write:
My troth, I trow, your selfe haue tryed well:
For which (alas) I reape nought but despight,
The iust cause why, God knowes, I cannot tell:
Except, by stealth, some fleering flattering knaue
Hath got the gaines, which I deserue to haue.
My troth, I trow, your selfe haue tryed well:
For which (alas) I reape nought but despight,
The iust cause why, God knowes, I cannot tell:
Except, by stealth, some fleering flattering knaue
Hath got the gaines, which I deserue to haue.
Or else, perhaps, some false suspect hath bread,
Misliking some, of me, without desarte:
Or coye conceyte hath entred in your head
To hate the man who honoures you in harte:
Or double dealing seekes some secreate meane,
Betwixt true friendes, true loue to banish cleane.
Misliking some, of me, without desarte:
Or coye conceyte hath entred in your head
To hate the man who honoures you in harte:
Or double dealing seekes some secreate meane,
Betwixt true friendes, true loue to banish cleane.
Or else, I doubt, some shadow of a man,
In my despight, some gallant wordes hath usde:
On whome I vow to doe the best I can
To seeke reuenge, where I am so abusde:
Wherefore, good Lady, if such any bee:
I humbly craue, hide not his name from mee.
In my despight, some gallant wordes hath usde:
On whome I vow to doe the best I can
To seeke reuenge, where I am so abusde:
Wherefore, good Lady, if such any bee:
I humbly craue, hide not his name from mee.
That I, with speede, may giue him his desarte,
Or else receaue my iust and due reward:
For then, when you shall see my honest harte,
I doe not doubt your harte will be so harde,
But you at last, although fyrst somewhat long,
Will make amends to me for euery wrong.
Or else receaue my iust and due reward:
For then, when you shall see my honest harte,
I doe not doubt your harte will be so harde,
But you at last, although fyrst somewhat long,
Will make amends to me for euery wrong.
And thus, in hope no false and fonde suspect
Of liking yours, shall cause such sodaine chaunge:
And that you will such coye conceyts reiect,
As to your friend, doo make you seeme so straunge:
I rest the time that reason dooth require,
When my desarte may haue his deepe desyre.
Of liking yours, shall cause such sodaine chaunge:
And that you will such coye conceyts reiect,
As to your friend, doo make you seeme so straunge:
I rest the time that reason dooth require,
When my desarte may haue his deepe desyre.
[Oh! what a spight it is vnto a noble harte]
Not long after, seeing his Aduersary still creeping in countenance, and himselfe almost excluded: sitting on a day alone in his Chamber, thinking on the despight of Fortune & the want of discretion, in his discourteous Dame: wrote in haste these verses following.
Oh! what a spight it is vnto a noble harte
To see a Scabbe, without all due desarte,
With no account of credit nor of fame,
To winne the loue of any gallant Dame.
Which valyant harts, with trauaile great and paine,
Haue much adooe, long time for to obtaine.
To see a Scabbe, without all due desarte,
With no account of credit nor of fame,
To winne the loue of any gallant Dame.
Which valyant harts, with trauaile great and paine,
Haue much adooe, long time for to obtaine.
My selfe I count of valiancie but small,
Yet such as may my credit well defend:
And such as in my Mistresse'honour shall
Be well content, with speede my lyfe to spend:
Which, let me spend, and spend, and spend againe,
Yet shall an other sucke my sugred gaine.
Yet such as may my credit well defend:
And such as in my Mistresse'honour shall
Be well content, with speede my lyfe to spend:
Which, let me spend, and spend, and spend againe,
Yet shall an other sucke my sugred gaine.
With much a doo, I once did fauoure winne,
Of one, in deede, a fayre and gallant Dame:
Which my good happe no sooner did beginne,
But by and by, to ouerthrow the same,
A privie Patch, a whoreson scuruy Knaue,
Inioyed the fruictes that was my right to haue.
Of one, in deede, a fayre and gallant Dame:
Which my good happe no sooner did beginne,
But by and by, to ouerthrow the same,
A privie Patch, a whoreson scuruy Knaue,
Inioyed the fruictes that was my right to haue.
33
His fleering face, her peeuish fancie pleasde,
My tryed troth was put out of conceyte:
He gladde, I sadde, he well, and I diseasde:
He caught the Fish, for which I layde the baite.
He idle sate, and nothing did all day,
And yet at night did beare the Bell away.
My tryed troth was put out of conceyte:
He gladde, I sadde, he well, and I diseasde:
He caught the Fish, for which I layde the baite.
He idle sate, and nothing did all day,
And yet at night did beare the Bell away.
But since I see, that cases so fall out,
That valyaunt hearts so little are regarded:
And gallaunt Dames will seeme to loue a Loute,
And let a noble youthe goe vnrewarded:
I will no more, henceforth, such trauaile spende
In cases such: and so I make an ende.
That valyaunt hearts so little are regarded:
And gallaunt Dames will seeme to loue a Loute,
And let a noble youthe goe vnrewarded:
I will no more, henceforth, such trauaile spende
In cases such: and so I make an ende.
[This little Toye to thee]
Not many dayes after, seeing his Mistresse' discourteous dealing, began to put her away, and chuse himself an other Mistresse: and, beeing then in the Christmas time, presented his new Mistresse with a new yeares Gifte, in this sorte.
This little Toye to thee,for wante of better shifte,
I heere presume for to present,
as a small Newyeares gifte.
The value small whereof,
weigh not, I humbly craue:
But take, in worth, his great good will
whose friendly heart you haue.
To vse braue vaunting words,
will winne naught but disdaine:
But valiant deeds, with words but few,
be they that credit gaine.
Therefore, for to be breefe,
thus much I do protest:
That if to worke your harts content,
within my power it rest,
Commaund what so thou wilt:
if I denye the same,
God let me never haue good looke,
of any noble Dame.
But you, perhaps, will thinke,
these wordes are all but winde:
But doo not so: first trie, then trust,
and fancie, as you finde.
And let not false suspect,
once cause you for to deeme,
That there is any one aliue,
whom I doo more esteeme.
But, as I doo protest,
so count me your deare friend,
Who likes, who loues, who honours you:
and so I make an end.
[I sigh to see thee sigh]
A verse or two written Extempore, vpon a sight of a Gentlewoman.
I sigh to see thee sigh:the iust occasion why,
God knowes: and I, perhappes,
can gesse, vnhappily.
But whatsoeuer I thinke,
I meane to let it passe:
And thus, in secrete sorte, to thinke
vnto my selfe (alas)
Poore little seely soule,
God quickly comfort thee,
Who could his sighes refraine, a Dame
in such sad sorte to see?
The cause whereof I gesse,
but not the remedy:
I would I could a medicine frame,
to cure thy mallady.
For if it were in mee,
or if it euer bee,
To doo the thing, oh noble Dame,
in deede, to comforte thee:
My hart, my hand, my sword,
my purse, which (though) but small,
At your commaund I offer heere,
all ready at your call.
Of which if any shrinke,
when you vouchsafe to trie:
As I deserue, disdaine me then,
and God then let me dye.
And thus, from honest harte,
as one your faithfull friend,
In few vnfayned friendly wordes,
farewell: and so an ende.
[If thou canst reade, then marke what heere I write]
Verses written vpon this occasion: a yong Gentleman, falling in loue with a faire yong Damsell, not knowing how to make manifest vnto her the great good will he bare her: vsing certaine talke vnto her, in the end of her talke demaunded of her, whether she could or no? she answered yea: vpon which yea, he wrote these verses following, and found time to present them vnto her presently, as he wrote them.
If thou canst reade, then marke what heere I write:
And what thou readst, beleeue it to be true;
And doo not thinke, I doo but toyes indite:
For, if thou marke in time what dooth insue,
Then thou, ere long, perhaps, shalt easily fynde
The effect of that, that may content thy minde.
And what thou readst, beleeue it to be true;
And doo not thinke, I doo but toyes indite:
For, if thou marke in time what dooth insue,
Then thou, ere long, perhaps, shalt easily fynde
The effect of that, that may content thy minde.
34
And, to be plaine, I lyke and loue thee well,
And that so well, as better cannot be:
What should I say? I wish that I did dwell
In place where I thy selfe mought dayly see:
That yet, at least, I mought injoy her sight
In whom doth rest the stay of my delight.
And that so well, as better cannot be:
What should I say? I wish that I did dwell
In place where I thy selfe mought dayly see:
That yet, at least, I mought injoy her sight
In whom doth rest the stay of my delight.
[When first I saw thee clad]
A Gentleman talking on a time with a yong Gentlewoman, being apparreled very plainly, shee tolde him she was too plaine for him, he must go seeke some gallanter Geste, more meete for his tooth: to which, answering his minde afterwarde, wrote vpon the same as followeth: and gaue them vnto her to reade.
When first I saw thee cladin coloures blacke and white,
To gaze vpon thy seemely selfe
I tooke no small delight.
Thy blacke betokens modestie,
thy white, a Virgins minde:
And happy he may thinke himselfe,
that such a one can fynde.
That which is painted out
with colours fresh and gay,
Is of it selfe but little worth,
the colours set away:
But that deserueth praise,
which of it selfe alone
Can shew it selfe in playnest sorte,
and craueth helpe of none.
What should I further say?
let ech man choose his choice:
Though some in painted toyes delight,
in plainnesse I reioyce.
And why? because my selfe
am plaine, as you doo see,
And therefore, to be plaine with you,
your plainnesse liketh me:
The playnnesse of your minde,
and eke your plaine attyre:
For gaye and gallant Cotes is not,
the thing that I desyre.
But noble gallaunt minde,
and yet too therewith plaine:
For now and then, in gallant minds,
dooth deepe deceite remaine.
But for in you, fayre Dame,
bothe noble gallant minde,
And therewith meaning plaine in deede,
I now doo plainly finde.
Chuse others what they list,
this plainely I protest:
Your gallant minde in plaine attire,
it is, that likes me best.
A comparison betweene a slippery stone and a trustlesse friend.
As he that treades on slippery stones,is like to catch a fall,
So he that trustes to trothlesse friends,
shall ill be delt withall.
But he that lookes before he leapes,
is likest sure to stande:
So he that tryes or ere he trust,
shall be on surer hand.
But once found out a good sure ground,
keepe there thy footing fast:
So charyly keep a faithfull friend,
whose friendship tride thou hast.
For as some grounds that seeme full sure,
in time will much decay,
So some false friends that seeme full true,
at neede will shrinke away.
And as within some rotten groundes,
some hidden holes we see,
So in the hartes of faithfull friends,
so many mischiefes bee.
Therefore, I breefely bidde my friends
for to beware in time,
For feare of further after clappes:
and so I end my rime.
A Dolorous discourse.
If he who lingers foorth a loathsome lyfe,
In weary wyse, exprest with endlesse woe:
To whom care still stands, as a hackeling knife,
To teare the heart that is tormented so:
Who neuer felte one howre, nor sparke of ioy,
But deepe lyes drownde in Gulfe of foule annoy.
In weary wyse, exprest with endlesse woe:
To whom care still stands, as a hackeling knife,
To teare the heart that is tormented so:
Who neuer felte one howre, nor sparke of ioy,
But deepe lyes drownde in Gulfe of foule annoy.
Whom Fortune euer frounde on in his life,
And neuer lent one lucky looke at all:
With whome the Moone and Starres are all at strife,
Who all in vaine dooth dayly crie, and call
For comforte some, but yet receiueth none,
But to himselfe his greefe must still bemone.
And neuer lent one lucky looke at all:
With whome the Moone and Starres are all at strife,
Who all in vaine dooth dayly crie, and call
For comforte some, but yet receiueth none,
But to himselfe his greefe must still bemone.
Whose greefe first grew in time of tender yeares,
And yet dooth still continue to this daye:
Who, all berent, dooth chaunge among the Breares,
And still hang fast, and cannot get awaye:
Who euery way, which he dooth seeke to goe,
Dooth finde some block that dooth him ouerthrow.
And yet dooth still continue to this daye:
Who, all berent, dooth chaunge among the Breares,
And still hang fast, and cannot get awaye:
Who euery way, which he dooth seeke to goe,
Dooth finde some block that dooth him ouerthrow.
Who neuer was, is not, nor lookes to bee,
In way of weale, to ridde him of his woe:
Who day by day, by proofe too plaine, dooth see
That Desteny hath sworne it shall be so:
That he must liue with torments so opprest,
And till he die, must neuer looke for rest.
In way of weale, to ridde him of his woe:
Who day by day, by proofe too plaine, dooth see
That Desteny hath sworne it shall be so:
That he must liue with torments so opprest,
And till he die, must neuer looke for rest.
If such a one may well be thought to be
The onely man that knoweth misery:
I may well say that I (poore man) am hee;
Who dayly so doo pine in penury;
Whose heauy heart is so opprest with greefe,
As, vntill death, dooth looke for no releefe.
The onely man that knoweth misery:
35
Who dayly so doo pine in penury;
Whose heauy heart is so opprest with greefe,
As, vntill death, dooth looke for no releefe.
To swim and sinke, to burne and be a-colde,
To hope and feare, to sigh and yet to sing:
And all at once, are louers fyttes of olde,
To many knowen, to some a common thing:
But still to synke, frye, feare, and alway sigh,
Are patterns plaine, that death approcheth nigh.
To hope and feare, to sigh and yet to sing:
And all at once, are louers fyttes of olde,
To many knowen, to some a common thing:
But still to synke, frye, feare, and alway sigh,
Are patterns plaine, that death approcheth nigh.
And doost thou then, sweete Death, approche so neare?
Welcome, my friend, and ease of all my woe:
A friend in deede, to me, a friend most deare,
To ease my heart that is tormented so:
Happy is he who lightes on such a friend,
To breede his ioyes, and cause his greefes to end.
Welcome, my friend, and ease of all my woe:
A friend in deede, to me, a friend most deare,
To ease my heart that is tormented so:
Happy is he who lightes on such a friend,
To breede his ioyes, and cause his greefes to end.
A Letter sent by a Gentlewoman, in verse, to her Husband, being ouer sea.
What greater greefe, than leese a cheefest ioy?
Then why liue I, that lacke my cheefe delight?
My friend I meane, for whom thus, in annoy,
In weary wise, I passe both day and night:
For loe, a friend, in deepest of distresse,
To friend dooth yeeld of euery greefe redresse.
Then why liue I, that lacke my cheefe delight?
My friend I meane, for whom thus, in annoy,
In weary wise, I passe both day and night:
For loe, a friend, in deepest of distresse,
To friend dooth yeeld of euery greefe redresse.
His company dooth often driue away
Such dolefull thoughts as mought torment the minde
With friend, a friend to passe ech dolefull daye,
Of comfort great, may many causes finde:
A freend, sometime, but with his only sight
His dolefull friend dooth many times delight.
Such dolefull thoughts as mought torment the minde
With friend, a friend to passe ech dolefull daye,
Of comfort great, may many causes finde:
A freend, sometime, but with his only sight
His dolefull friend dooth many times delight.
No greater ease is to some heauy heart,
Yea, when it is with greatest greefes opprest:
Then trusty friendes, to whom for to imparte
Such cause of greefe, as breedes it such vnrest:
For ofte, by telling of a dolefull tale,
The tongue dooth ease the brest of mickle bale.
Yea, when it is with greatest greefes opprest:
Then trusty friendes, to whom for to imparte
Such cause of greefe, as breedes it such vnrest:
For ofte, by telling of a dolefull tale,
The tongue dooth ease the brest of mickle bale.
If heart be glad, what myrth can then be more,
Then when true friends doo meete with merry cheare?
The greefe forgotte of absence theirs before,
By presence had, doo soddaine ioyes appeare.
What shall I saye? as I begone I end,
No ioye to loue, no greefe to losse of friend.
Then when true friends doo meete with merry cheare?
The greefe forgotte of absence theirs before,
By presence had, doo soddaine ioyes appeare.
What shall I saye? as I begone I end,
No ioye to loue, no greefe to losse of friend.
Then, my sweete friend, in this my deepe distresse,
Let me inioy thy company againe:
For thou alone must purchase my redresse,
And ease my heart, that thus doth pine in paine.
Thou art the friend, that euen but with thy sight
Mayest me, poore soule, thy dolefull friend, delight.
Let me inioy thy company againe:
For thou alone must purchase my redresse,
And ease my heart, that thus doth pine in paine.
Thou art the friend, that euen but with thy sight
Mayest me, poore soule, thy dolefull friend, delight.
What now can ease my pyning pensiue heart,
Thus day and night, with torments sore opprest:
Then vnto thee, my friend, for to imparte
Such cause of greefe, as breedes me such vnrest?
For ofte, by telling of this dolefull tale,
My tongue will ease my brest of mickle bale.
Thus day and night, with torments sore opprest:
Then vnto thee, my friend, for to imparte
Such cause of greefe, as breedes me such vnrest?
For ofte, by telling of this dolefull tale,
My tongue will ease my brest of mickle bale.
If thou werte heere, my heart that now is sadde,
To thinke on thee, whose absence breedes my wo,
With thoughts on thee would soone become so glad,
As should forget those greefes that gripes me so:
And, as before, so now againe I ende,
I feare to die, for want of thee my friend.
To thinke on thee, whose absence breedes my wo,
With thoughts on thee would soone become so glad,
As should forget those greefes that gripes me so:
And, as before, so now againe I ende,
I feare to die, for want of thee my friend.
Thou art my friend, chiefe freend, and onely Feare,
My Jemme of ioy, my Jewell of delight:
God onely knowes, for thy sweete sake, my deare,
How I in dole doo passe ech day and night.
Come, therefore, come: with speede come home againe,
To comfort her, that thus dooth pine in paine.
My Jemme of ioy, my Jewell of delight:
God onely knowes, for thy sweete sake, my deare,
How I in dole doo passe ech day and night.
Come, therefore, come: with speede come home againe,
To comfort her, that thus dooth pine in paine.
Thy louing Wife, and faithfull friend,
And so will bide, till life doo end.
And so will bide, till life doo end.
[My hand here houering stands]
One sitting in dolefull dumpes by himselfe alone, thinking to haue written some dolorous discourse, was let by occasion: and so, for want of time, wrote but onely sixe lynes, and left them vnfinished: the verses were these. (I like them, and therefore thought good to place them among other imperfections.)
My hand here houering stands,to write some prety toye,
My mourning mind for to delight,
yt wants all worldly ioye:
And Fancy offereth eke,
fyne toyes for to indite vpon,
To comfort thus my heauy heart,
that is thus woe begon.
But all in vaine: for why?
my minde is so opprest with greefe,
As all the pleasures in this world
can lend me no releefe.
Finis imperfecta.
A dolorous verse, written by him, that in deede was in no small dumpes, when he wrote them.
If any man doo liue of ioyes berefte,
By heauens I sweare, I thinke that man am I;
Who at this hower, no sparke of ioy haue lefte,
But leade a life in endlesse mysery:
I sigh, I sobbe: I cannot well expresse
The greefes I bide, without hope of redresse.
By heauens I sweare, I thinke that man am I;
Who at this hower, no sparke of ioy haue lefte,
But leade a life in endlesse mysery:
I sigh, I sobbe: I cannot well expresse
The greefes I bide, without hope of redresse.
So many are the causes of my greefe,
That day by day torments my mourning minde,
As that almost there can be no releefe
To ease my heart, till ease by death I fynde.
What shall I say? what pangues but I abide?
What pleasure that but is to me denyde?
That day by day torments my mourning minde,
36
To ease my heart, till ease by death I fynde.
What shall I say? what pangues but I abide?
What pleasure that but is to me denyde?
What sappe of sorrow but I dayly taste?
What mite of myrth, that I can once attaine?
What foule despight dooth follow me as faste,
To plague my heart with pangues of deadly paine?
Ten thousand Poets cannot paint the smarte
That I abide, within my harmelesse heart.
What mite of myrth, that I can once attaine?
What foule despight dooth follow me as faste,
To plague my heart with pangues of deadly paine?
Ten thousand Poets cannot paint the smarte
That I abide, within my harmelesse heart.
And why doo I by pen then seeke to shew
The passing pangues that I doo dayly bide?
The pangues I paint by pen (God wot) are few,
Comparde to those, which I on euery syde
Am faine to feele: and that is worst of all,
Without all hope of any helpe at all.
The passing pangues that I doo dayly bide?
The pangues I paint by pen (God wot) are few,
Comparde to those, which I on euery syde
Am faine to feele: and that is worst of all,
Without all hope of any helpe at all.
Then you, alas, that reade this mourning vearse,
Waye with your selves what loathsome life I leade:
And let your hearts some sparke of pitty pearce,
To see me thus (as one amazde) halfe dead:
Striuing for life, desyring still to dye,
And yet, perforce, must pine in penurie.
Waye with your selves what loathsome life I leade:
And let your hearts some sparke of pitty pearce,
To see me thus (as one amazde) halfe dead:
Striuing for life, desyring still to dye,
And yet, perforce, must pine in penurie.
And thus an end of writing heere I make,
But not an end of mourning, God he knowes:
For when I seeke one sorrow to forsake,
Another greefe a new as freshly growes:
So that of force, myselfe I must content
To dwell in dole, vntill my dayes be spent.
But not an end of mourning, God he knowes:
For when I seeke one sorrow to forsake,
Another greefe a new as freshly growes:
So that of force, myselfe I must content
To dwell in dole, vntill my dayes be spent.
[Though yesterday I brake my word]
A Gentleman hauing made promise unto his Mistresse to come unto her vpon a certaine appointed day, to doo her seruice, brake promise with her: but the next day following, thinking her haste [not] of necessitie so great but then he might come soone inough to accomplishe such matters as he was wonte to doo, came: and confessing his faulte of breache of promise, professing it against his will, shewing his earnest desire of more haste, craued pardon and recoverie of credit lost, in verse as followeth.
Though yesterday I brake my word,& therby purchasde blame:
Yet now to day, as you may see,
I come to keepe the same.
And though this be not halfe inough
my fault to counteruaile:
Yet do not you my word mistrust,
though once my promise faile.
For if ye knew the urgent cause
that kept me so away,
And therewith saw mine earnest haste
to come againe this day,
For to recouer credite lost:
I doo my selfe assure,
With little sute I should ywis,
your pardon soon procure.
Well, to be shorte, I hope no hart
is of such crueltie,
But that, in an offender, will
regard humilitie.
And since that noble Ladies all
are pittifull by kinde,
Let some remorce, good Lady mine,
take roote within your minde.
And doo not me, your seruaunt poore,
for one small fault disdaine:
But let me, by my due desarte,
your fauour get againe.
And though yt once I brake my word,
in matters of small weight:
Yet thinke not, therefore, otherwise
in me to rest deceight.
For in a case of credit, loe,
wherein my worde I giue,
If that I shrinke or eate my word,
then God let me not liue:
And if in me to doo you good,
by worde or deede, it rest;
Vnto my power, I solemne vow
doo make, to doo my best.
[Some pleasaunt heads, delight in prety toyes]
A Gentleman beeing on a time desyred of diuers of his friendes, sitting togeather in company, to make some verses, which he graunted, and yet not knowing howe to please them all, and yet willing to perfourme his promise, wrote as followeth.
Some pleasaunt heads, delight in prety toyes,
And some count toyes, most meete for foolish boyes:
Some greatly loue to heare a merry rime,
Some stately styles, which doo to honour clime:
Some loue no rimes, what euer so they bee,
And some mens mindes with verses best agree.
And some count toyes, most meete for foolish boyes:
Some greatly loue to heare a merry rime,
Some stately styles, which doo to honour clime:
Some loue no rimes, what euer so they bee,
And some mens mindes with verses best agree.
Thus euery one hath by himselfe a vaine,
Which, all to please, it were to great a paine:
Which since I see t'is farre too much for mee,
To write what may with all mindes best agree:
I thinke it best, since I haue nothing don,
To make an ende of that is scarce begon.
Which, all to please, it were to great a paine:
Which since I see t'is farre too much for mee,
To write what may with all mindes best agree:
I thinke it best, since I haue nothing don,
To make an ende of that is scarce begon.
So shall I well my promise past fulfill,
In writing thus, according to my skill:
Which promise made of mine, I trow was this,
To write a rime: and heare a rime there is:
Wherein although but little reason be,
Yet rime there is, and sence ynough for me.
In writing thus, according to my skill:
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To write a rime: and heare a rime there is:
Wherein although but little reason be,
Yet rime there is, and sence ynough for me.
A prety Epigram, vpon Welth and Will.
Where Welth doth want, there Will can bear no sway;And where Will wants, there Wealth can make no way.
In many things, Welth greatly rules the roste,
In some things too, selfe will, will beare a sway.
To winne the wager, Welth will spare no cost,
Which, to subuert, Will worketh many a way:
And, in the end, let Welth doo what he can,
Yet, commonly, Will stands the stouter man.
[By countenaunce of face, a man may fynde]
A Gentleman, marking his Mistresse angrie countenaunce without cause, tolde her of it in verse, as followeth.
By countenaunce of face, a man may fynde
(I say, fayre Dame, by outward view of face)
Such sundry thoughts, as occupie the minde:
Sometime by one, and efte another grace.
Looke, with that thoughts the minde is aye possessed
Straight by the lookes the same is plaine expressed.
(I say, fayre Dame, by outward view of face)
Such sundry thoughts, as occupie the minde:
Sometime by one, and efte another grace.
Looke, with that thoughts the minde is aye possessed
Straight by the lookes the same is plaine expressed.
The frowning face declares a froward harte,
And skouling browes a sullen stomack showes:
The glauncing lookes, of priuie grutch a parte,
Which hidden lyes within the heart, God knowes:
The staring looke declares an earnest minde,
The trouling eye, vnconstant as the winde.
And skouling browes a sullen stomack showes:
The glauncing lookes, of priuie grutch a parte,
Which hidden lyes within the heart, God knowes:
The staring looke declares an earnest minde,
The trouling eye, vnconstant as the winde.
The smyrking looke declares a merry minde,
When smiling lookes are forste from heauy heart:
For some can smile, that in their hearts could finde
To weepe (God wot) of greefe to ease their smarte.
But who so smirking smiles with merry cheare,
That countenance shewes that some good newes is neare.
When smiling lookes are forste from heauy heart:
For some can smile, that in their hearts could finde
To weepe (God wot) of greefe to ease their smarte.
But who so smirking smiles with merry cheare,
That countenance shewes that some good newes is neare.
Some finely vse a winking kinde of wile,
Some looke alofte, and some doo still looke downe:
And some can fayne a frowning kinde of smile,
And some can smile, that in their hearts doo frowne:
And so doo I, and so doo many moe,
That laugh sometime, when we could weepe for woe.
Some looke alofte, and some doo still looke downe:
And some can fayne a frowning kinde of smile,
And some can smile, that in their hearts doo frowne:
And so doo I, and so doo many moe,
That laugh sometime, when we could weepe for woe.
But euery looke, a meaning dooth declare,
Some good, some bad, some mery, and some sad:
The countenaunce shewes how euery one dooth fare,
Some griefe, some ioye, some sullen, and some mad:
And though that many be by lookes deceiued,
Yet by the lookes are meanings plaine perceiued.
Some good, some bad, some mery, and some sad:
The countenaunce shewes how euery one dooth fare,
Some griefe, some ioye, some sullen, and some mad:
And though that many be by lookes deceiued,
Yet by the lookes are meanings plaine perceiued.
[Ah, be not angrie so]
Some other gentlewomen in the company, angrie with this toye, pleasde with these prety verses following.
Ah, be not angrie so,my words were but in iest:
And more then that, I ment them not
by you, I doo protest.
I saw no lookes to light,
nor frowning ouer much,
Nor any such like sullein lookes,
as might shew inward grutch.
Nor smiling wantonly,
but with such modestie,
As might declare a merry minde,
but with sobriety.
But such as seeme to poute,
without iust cause, in deede:
Or els, vpon their friends will faine,
a frowning, more then neede:
Or, giglet like, will laugh,
or else with anger swell,
And deale in lookes disdainfully,
with them that wish them well:
Gainst such it is I wright,
but none of you are namde:
Then do not you accuse yourselues,
and you may go vnblamde.
And this, what I haue sayd,
take well in worth, therefore:
If I did ill against my will,
I will doo so no more.
A prety toye written upon Time.
As I, of late, this other daylay musing in my bed,
And thinking vpon sundrie toyes,
that then came in my head:
Among the rest, I thought vpon
the setting out of Tyme:
And thinking so vpon the same,
I wrote this ragged rime.
Time is set out, with head all balde,
saue one odde lock before:
Which locke, if once you doo let slip,
then looke for Time no more.
But if you hold him fast by that,
and stoutly doo him stay;
Then shall ye know how he dooth passe,
before he goe his way.
And if you keepe him tide by that,
good seruice will he doo
In euery worke, what so it be,
that you will put him to:
So that you looke vnto his worke,
that he not idle stand:
For if he doo, some knauish worke
himself will take in hand.
38
then haue him serue you so;
When you doo think he dooth you good,
yt he should worke your wo.
I reade, besydes, he painted is
with winges, forsooth, to flie:
And Mower like, with Sithe in hand,
and working earnestly:
And in his worke still singing thus:
This dare I boldly saye,
Saue Vertue, all things I cut downe,
that stand within my way.
But Vertue neuer will decay,
she goes before me still:
But since I cannot let her stand,
Ile cut elsewhere my fill.
But tis no matter, hold him fast
by that same lock, I say,
And neither words, nor yet his wings,
shall help him get away.
By chaunce my selfe haue caught him fast,
but euen this other day;
And by that locke I holde him fast,
for slipping yet away.
And by that locke, as thus aduisde,
I meane to holde him so,
But I will know, or ere he passe,
which way he meanes to go.
And since I caught him so, I thinke
he hath not idle stood,
But somewhat he is dooing still,
although but little good.
And as this morning I, by chaunce,
did see him idle stand,
I thought it good to make him take,
a Pen and Inck in hande:
And hauing little else to doo,
to spend a little time,
In true discription of himselfe
to pen this trifling rime.
Which time, nor well nor yet ill spent,
stands till an other time,
Some better seruice for to doo:
and so I ende my rime.
A PRETY DISCOVRSE OF A HVNTED Harte, written by a Gentleman unto his Mistresse.
To reade a dolefull tale,
that tels of nought but greefe,
And of a man that pines in paine,
and lookes for no releefe;
Whose hope of death seems sweet,
& dread of life seems sower,
Who neuer bid on[e] merry month,
one weeke, one day, or hower.
In such a tale, I say,
if any doe delight,
Let him come read this verse of mine,
that heer for troth I wright.
And though the speech seeme darke,
the matter shall be plaine:
And he, poore wretch, of whom it treats,
too wel doth feele the paine.
that tels of nought but greefe,
And of a man that pines in paine,
and lookes for no releefe;
Whose hope of death seems sweet,
& dread of life seems sower,
Who neuer bid on[e] merry month,
one weeke, one day, or hower.
In such a tale, I say,
if any doe delight,
Let him come read this verse of mine,
that heer for troth I wright.
And though the speech seeme darke,
the matter shall be plaine:
And he, poore wretch, of whom it treats,
too wel doth feele the paine.
A prety Discourse of a hunted Hart
There is a pretye Chase,wherein dooth rest a Hart:
Wherin for his abode (poore wretch)
he keepes one only part.
Adioyning to his chase,
there is a prety place,
Where stands a Lodge, wherin dooth dwell,
the Lady of the chase.
This Lady, now and then,
for sport, sometime for spight,
To hunt this silly harmlesse Harte
dooth take a great delight.
And how? with hounds (alas)
and when she hunts for sporte,
With little Whelpes, that cānot bite,
she hunts him in this sort.
Two little whelpes, I say,
she casteth off at once,
To course, and eke to feare him with,
as meetest, for the nonce.
And with these little whelps
she bringes him to the bay:
And then, at bay she takes them vp,
and let him goe his way.
And if for spight she hunt,
she takes another way:
She casteth of no little whelps,
to bring him to the bay,
But cruell byting Curres:
at once she castes of all:
And with those cruell cankred Curres,
she followes him to fall:
And being falne (poore wretch)
pining in extreame paine,
She casteth off her cruell curres,
and lets him rise againe:
Untill she hunts againe,
to make her selfe like sporte:
And then, euen as she is disposde,
she hunts him in like sorte.
Thus liues this harmelesse Heart,
opprest with endlesse wo:
In daunger still of Death by Dogges,
and yet cannot dye so.
And neither day nor night,
he feedeth but in feare,
That these same Dogges should lye in waite,
to course him euery where.
39
and knowes not how to rest:
Whose hope of death, in midst of course,
it is that likes him best.
God send him better rest,
a speedy death at least,
To rid him of his great vnrest,
and breede him quiet rest.
The meaning of the Tale.
But wherto tends this Tale?what first may meane this Chase?
And then the Harte, which in ye same
doth keep one only place?
The Plot where stāds the Lodge,
the Lodge, & then the Dame
Which hunts the Hart: & last, the Dogs
which do pursue the game?
A meaning all they haue:
which meaning I must showe,
And that so plaine, as in each point
the meaning you may knowe.
My Carkase is the Chase,
my Heart the selly Harte:
Which, for his rest, my woefull brest,
dooth keepe that onely parte.
The Platte where stands the Lodge,
my head I count that place:
My Minde the Lodge, my Loue the Dame
& Lady of the Chase.
Her Dogges of diuers kindes,
that doo my Heart pursue,
Sometime to baye, sometime to fall,
are these that doo ensue.
And first, the Dogges with which
she hunts sometime for sport,
To bring my Harte vnto the baye,
and leaue him in that sort,
Are these, beleeue me now.
Discountenaunce is the fyrst,
The second is Discourtesie,
and of the two, the worst.
Discountenaunce hee comes fyrst,
and feares me, in this wise:
He hangs his lip, holds downe his head,
& lookes vnder his eyes.
And with that angry looke
hee feares me in such sort,
That I may not abide the same:
and then beginnes the sport.
For then shee casteth of
Discortesie, that Curre:
And then doo what I can, alas,
my Heart beginnes to sturre.
And wearie halfe at last,
I stand with them at baye:
And so at baye, for my defence,
I somewhat ginne to saye.
Which sayde, shee then takes of
those hylding Curres againe,
And leaue me, till she hunt againe,
thus pining all in paine:
And now the Cruell Curres,
with which she takes delight
To hunt my Hart euen till he fall,
are these: not first, Despight,
But fowle Disdaine: then hee,
which Curres doo course him soe
That to the fall they bring me ofte,
and yet then let me goe.
So that my Harte dooth liue—
but howe? alas, in dreade
Of these same deuillish Dogges: & so
still shall, till I bee dead.
Who would not blame this Dame,
that thus, without desart,
With these her cruell cankred Curs
dooth hunt this seely Hart:
And curse those cruell Curres,
that thus doo make her sport:
Bothe day and night, without cause why,
do hunt him in such sort.
And wish this seely Hart,
with endelesse griefes opprest,
To scape the daunger of the Dogges,
and finde some quiet rest.
But wish who list to wish,
except that you, deere Dame,
Among the rest, do wish that wish,
no wish wyll helpe the same.
But if that you, in deede,
so wish among the rest,
And hartely do wish that wish,
your wish will helpe him best.
A straunge Dreame.
Who so he be on earth,
that wisely can deuine
Vpon a Dreame: come shewe his skyll
vpon a Dreame of mine:
Which, if that well he marke,
sure he shall finde therein
Great misteries, I gage my life:
which Dreame did thus begin.
that wisely can deuine
Vpon a Dreame: come shewe his skyll
vpon a Dreame of mine:
Which, if that well he marke,
sure he shall finde therein
Great misteries, I gage my life:
which Dreame did thus begin.
Me thought I walked too and fro,
vpon a hillie land,
So long, till euen with wearinesse,
I could wel scarcely stād.
And weery so (me thought) I went
to leane against an Oke:
Where leaning but a while, me thought,
the tree in peeces broke.
From which, me thought, to saue my life
I lightly skipt away:
And at the first, the sight thereof
my senses did dismay:
But when I stayed so a while,
and looked rounde about,
And sawe no other dreadfull sight,
I knew not what to doubt.
But to some house (me thought) alas,
I wisht my selfe full faine:
But when I lookte, I could not see
one house vpon the plaine:
Good Lord (thought I) where am I now?
what desart place is this?
How came I heere? what shall I doo?
my heart full fearefull is.
And therewithall (me thought) I fell
flat downe vpon my knee,
And humble praiers made to God
on high, to comfort me [OMITTED]
Holding a Citterne in her hand,
wherewith to mee she came:
And gaue it me, desiring mee
to play vpon the same.
More halfe afeard to see this sight,
O Lady fayre! quoth I,
My skyll too simple is, God wot,
to sound such harmony.
Yet playe, quoth shee, the best thou canst,
it shall suffice, I say;
Doo thy good will, I craue no more,
therefore, [I] (praye thee) play.
With that, mee thought, I tooke the same,
and sounded, by and by,
(Not knowing what I did myselfe,)
a Heauenly harmony.
Unto which tune, the Lady then
so sweete a song did sing:
As, if I could remember it,
it were a Heauenly thing.
Of all which song, one onely steppe
I still doo beare in minde,
And that was this—There is no ioye
vnto content of minde:
No plague, to pride: no woe, to want:
no greefe, to lucklesse loue:
No foe to fortune, friend to God:
no trueth, tyll tryall prooue.
No Serpent, to sclaunderous tongue:
no corsey, vnto care:
No losse, to want of libertie:
no griefes, to Cupids snare.
No foole, to fickle fantasie,
that turnes with euery winde:
No torment, vnto Jelosy,
that still disturbes the minde.
Lo, this was all I bare in minde,
the rest I haue forgot:
Vnto my griefe, O God, he knowes:
but since I haue it not,
Well, let it passe: this Lady fayre
when she had sung her song,
She layde me downe a Napkin faire
vpon the ground along,
As white as Snowe: which when I saw,
I muzed what she ment:
But then (mee thought) frō thence againe,
a little space she went,
And calde mee thus: Hoe, maides, I say!
when will you come away?
Tis time that dinner ready were,
tis very neere midday.
Wher with, mee thought, from out no house,
but frō a bushy bancke,
Came out eight Damsels, all in white:
two and two in a ranck,
In order right, and euery one
a fine Dish in her hand,
Of sundry meates: some this, some that,
and down vpon the land
They laide me downe their Delycates,
wheras this Napkin lay:
Which done, fowre of thē staied stil,
the rest went straight away
Unto the place frō whence they came,
the Bushy Banke (I meane)
And sodenly, I wot not howe,
they all were vanisht cleane.
But, to goe onwardes with my dreame
in order briefe I will,
To make discourse of these fowre Dames
behind that staied still.
First, one of them fell downe on knee,
and solempnely sayd Grace:
Another, she with Pleasant Herbes
bestrowed all the place:
The thirde, she with a Bason fayre
of water sweete did stand:
The fourth, demurely stoode, and bare
a Towell in her hand.
I standing still, as one amaz'd,
to see so straunge a sight,
Yet seeing nothing but might serue
my minde for to delight;
The Lady (Mistris) of them all,
that kept her Royall seate,
Rose vp, and comming towards me
did greatly me entreate
To come vnto her stately boorde:
seeing me still yet to stand
Amazed so, she came herselfe,
and tooke me by the hand:
Come on, and sitte thee downe, quoth she,
be not afraide, I say:
And eate, quoth she, for well I know
thou hast not dinde to daye.
Faire Dame, quoth I, I cannot eate,
my stomack serues me not:
Therefore, I pardon craue. Quoth she,
thou art afraide, I wot,
To see this seruice heere so straunge:
indeede, tis straunge to thee:
For men but fewe or none do come
our seruice heere to see.
And happy thou maist thinke thy self,
that thou camst heere this day,
For very fewe vnto this hill
can hap to hit the way.
We liue within these desart woods,
like Ladyes, all alone:
With Musick, passing forth the day,
and Fellows we haue none:
We are not like the wretches of
the world, in many a place,
That many liues, for feare or shame,
dare scarsly shew their face.
We spend the day in fine disport,
somtime with Musicke sweete,
Somtime with Hunting of ye Hart,
somtime, as we thinke meete,
With other Pastimes, many one:
sometime with pleasant talke
We passe ye time, somtime for sporte,
about the Fields we walke,
With Bowe and Arrowes (Archer-like)
to kill the stately Deere:
Which, being slaine, we roste & bake,
& make our selues good cheere:
Our meate we roste againe the Sunne,
we haue none other fire:
Sweete water Springs do yeelde vs drinke,
as good as we desire.
For herbe and roots, we haue great store,
here growing in the wood,
Wherwith we many dainties make,
as we our selues think good.
In Sommer time, our Houses here,
are Arbers, made of Trees:
about the which, in sommer time,
do swarme such Hiues of Bees,
As leaves vs then, of hony sweete,
such store as well dooth serue
Insteede of Sugre, all the yeare,
our fruites for to preserue.
Besides, they yelde vs store of waxe,
which from the Hiues we take:
And for our lights, in winter nights,
we many Torches make.
For then our houses all are Caues,
as well thy selfe shalt see,
When thou hast dinde: for I my self
will go, and shew them thee:
Therefore, be bolde, and feare no more,
for thou shalt go with me:
From perils all, within this place,
I will safeconduct thee:
And taste of one of these same herbes,
which thou thy selfe likst best:
The fayrest flower, trust me, oft times
is not the holsommest.
But as for these same herbes, or flowers,
that stand vpon my boord:
There is not one but is right good,
beleeue me, on my word.
Take wher thou list, I giue thee leaue:
but first, my friēd, (quoth she)
Pul of thy gloue, & wash thy hands.—
Wherwith, a maid brought me
A bason faire, of water cleare,
which gaue a sent so sweete,
That, credit me, me thinkes almost,
that I doo smell it yet.
Wherein I softly dipt my hands,
and straight, to wipe the same,
Vpon her arme, a towell brought,
an other gallant dame:
Of whom, I could none other doo,
but take in courteous sorte,
With humble thanks for seruice such:
and so, for to be short,
With reuerence done vnto the Dame,
who kept her stately seate,
I sat me downe: and hongerly,
(me thought) I fell to eate.
First of a Salet, that, me thought,
hard by my trencher stoode:
Whereof, at first, me thought the tast
was reasonable good:
But being downe, it left (alas)
a bitter tang behinde:
Then that I left, and thought to taste
some herbes of other kind.
And therewithall, I gan of her,
in humble sort to craue,
The roote that I had tasted so,
what name the same might haue:
It is Repentance roote, quoth she,
whose taste though bitter be,
Yet in the Spring time holsome tis,
and very rare to see.
But in the ende of all the yeare,
when it is nothing worth,
In euery foolish fielde it growes,
to shewe the braunches forth:
But if the taste thou likest not,
then set away the same,
And taste of somewhat else, (quoth she)
& straight (at hand) a Dame
Stoode reedy by, at her commaund
to take the Dish away:
Which done, then of an other herbe,
I gan to take a say,
Which better farre did please my taste,
whereof I fedde on well.
Good Lady, quoth I, of this herbe
vouchsafe to me to tell
The proper name? This holsome herbe,
is called Hope (quoth she)
And happy he, who of this herbe,
can get a peece, of me.
This herbe preserues the life of man,
euen at poincte of death:
Whē they are speechles, often times,
this herbe doth lend thē breth.
This driues Dispaire, frō brainsick heds,
this salueth many a sore,
This is reliefe, to euery griefe:
what vertue can be more?
Feede well thereon, quoth she, and thou
shalt finde such ease of mind,
As by no meanes, but onely that,
is possible to finde.
O Lady faire, quoth I,
I humble thankes doo yeelde,
For this thy friendly fauour great:
but now, if to the fyelde
Wheras this herbe so rare doth grow,
if you wil deigne (faire dame)
Me to conducte: and shewe me eke,
the true roote of the same:
Twise happy shall I thinke my selfe,
that thus, by chaunce, I found
So courteous a noble Dame,
and such a fertil ground.
The roote (quoth she) yes, thou shalt see,
when thou hast dinde anon,
Both roote and herbe & eke the ground
which it doth grow vpon.—
Dine Lady, quoth I, I haue dinde:
this herbe hath fyld me so,
That when you will, I ready am
vnto that ground to goe.
Which ground and roote for to behould
I haue so great desire,
That till I see the same, me thinkes,
my hart is still on fyre.
Well then, quoth shee, since after it
I see thou longest so,
I will my dinner shorter make,
and with thee I will goe:
And bring thee to the place, where thou
both roote and herb shalt see,
And gather eke a peece therof,
and beare away with thee.
And therwith, from the boorde she rose,
and tooke me by the hand,
And led me ouerthwart, me thought,
a peece of new digd land:
And so from thence into a wood,
in midst wherof, me thought,
She brought me to a great wilde Maze:
which sure was neuer wrought
By Gardeners hāds: but of itself,
I rather gesse it grew:
The order of it was so straunge:
of troth, I tell you true.
Well, in into this Maze we went:
in midst whereof we founde,
In comely order, well cut out,
a prety peece of grownde.
The portrayture whereof, was like
the body of a man:
Which, viewing well, foorthwith,
me thought, this Lady gan
To kneele her downe, vpon the ground,
hard by the body, loe:
And there she shewed me the herbe,
that I desired soe:
And eke the order howe it grew:
which viewing well, at last
She brake a peece, and gaue it mee
to take thereof a taste,
Fresh frō ye ground: which don, traight way,
Well now, ye roote, qd she,
Thou lookest for: but stay a while,
and thou it straight shalt see.
The roote is like an other roote,
but onely that in name:
In difference from all other rootes:
and, to declare the same,
When thou hast seene it, thou shalt knowe
(& therwithall, quoth she,)
Come heere, beholde the roote, which thou
desirest so to see:
And therwith, digging up a Turfe,
she shewde me very plaine
The fashion of it, how it grewe:
and downe she laide againe
The Turfe in place whereas it was:
O Lady fayre, quoth I,
If one should seeme to cut the roote,
what? would ye herb then die?
No, no, quoth she, vntill the roote
be plucked quite away,
The roote it selfe, be sure of this,
will neuer quite decay.
Then would I craue a peece thereof,
(quoth I) O noble Dame,
That I may know it, if againe
I chaunce to taste the same.
The taste, quoth she, vnpleasaunt is,
I tell thee that before:
But where the roote, dooth rancor breed,
ye herbe wil salue the sore.
But yet to make thee for to knowe
the taste thereof, quoth she:
She raisde the Turfe, and of the roote
she brake a peece for me.
And downe she layde the same againe,
in order as she found:
That scarsely well it could be seene,
that she had raisde ye ground.
Well, I had my desire therein:
but tasting of the same,
It was so bitter in my mouth,
that to allaye the same,
I was full glad to take the herbe
which, as the Dame did say,
The bitter taste of that vile roote,
did quickly driue away.
And then, in humble sort, quoth I,
O fayre and courteous Dame,
Since that this roote (as you doo say)
dooth differ much in name
From other rootes, O let me know
what his true name may be?
His name, quoth she, Necessitie
is, truely credit me.
And of these Rootes, some lesse then some:
but bigger that they be,
The more doth Hope spred forth his leaues:
& som do go with me.
Now I haue showne thee thy desire,
this hearb, this roote, & groūd,
I back againe will bring thee, to ye place
wher first thy self I foūd.
So, to be short, we backe returnde
vnto the place againe,
From whence we went: where, sitting still,
attendant did remaine
These fowre faire Dames, whom ther we left:
but al ye dishes they,
And what else on the Boorde was left,
they all had borne away.
Well, beeing come vnto the place,
vp rose they all at once:
And to this Lady reuerence did,
and likely, for the nonce.
They knew their Mistresse minde right well,
her vse belike it was:
Of water cleere vpon the ground,
they full had set a Glasse.
Hard by the Glasse a Towell faire,
and by the Towell, Flowers:
Loe, Youth, quoth she, how likst thou now
this seruice heer of ours?
Couldst thou thus like to liue in woods,
& make thy cheefe repaste
On hearbs and rootes, as we do heere?
or else the life thou haste?
Troubled, tormented, euery howre,
and that with endlesse griefe:
In hope of helpe, and now againe
despayring in reliefe?
Still to reserue? We heere thou seest
doo lyve in quietnesse:
We passe the time without all care,
in myrth and ioyfulnesse:
We feare no foe, we feele no woe,
we dread no daungers great:
We quake not here with too much cold,
nor burn wt extreme heate:
We wish not for great heapes of gold,
such trash we do despise:
We pray for health & not for wealth:
and thus, in pleasant wise,
We spende the day full ioyfully:
we craue no ritch attire,
This thinne white weede is euen asmuch
as we do here desire.
We haue our Musique sweete, besides,
to sollace, now and than,
Our weerie minds with other sports:
& now, how saist thou, man?
If thou maist haue thy choyce,
which wouldst thou rather do?
Leade heere thy lyfe, lyke one of vs,
or els returne vnto
The loathsome lyfe, that now thou leadst?
pause on this that I say:
If th' one thou chuse, here tary styll:
if th' other, hence away
Thou must returne from whence thou comst,
I put it to thy choyce:
If th' one thou chuse, of thy good happe
thou euer mayst reioyce:
But if thou choose amisse, poore wretch,
then thank thy self therfore:
Consider well vpon my words,
as yet I saye no more.
With that, more halfe amazde hereat,
still standing in a muze,
Not knowing what were best to doe,
to take or to refuze
The proffer made me by this Dame,
I humbly fell on knee:
Beseeching God to graunt me of
his grace to gouerne me,
To make me chuse that choice yt best
mought please his holy will:
And sitting so, in humble wise,
on knee thus praying still:
The Dame, expecting earnestly
some annswer at my hand,
So long, quoth she, vpon this choice,
why doo you studying stand?
Some aunswer briefely let me haue,
what euer so it be:
What? wilt thou back returne againe?
or wilt thou bide with me?
One way, faire Dame, quoth I,
I gladly here would stay,
And leade my life here still with you:
but now another way
Reason perswades me to returne:
thus in a doubt twixt bothe,
I one way loue the life I led,
another way I lothe.
So that remaining thus in doubt,
a certaine aunswer for to giue,
Whether back againe for to returne,
or in these woods to liue
I most desire, I cannot sure:
therefore, I pardon craue,
And for an aunswer flat, I may
some longer respit haue?
O no, quoth she, I cannot graunt
thee longer time, not nowe
To pause vpon these words of mine:
and therefore, since that thou
Wylt backe returne, loe, here behold,
this narrow foote path heere:
Go, follow this, vntill thou comst
vnto a Temple neere:
Then leaue this pathe, and presently
crosse ouer to the same:
And there, for further help frō thence,
your praiers humbly frame
Unto Dame Pittie, and her tell
that straight from me you came,
And she will help you, for my sake:
Dame Patience is my name:
And for a token true, that you
were sent to her by me:
Say, Patience will Pittie mooue,
and she will credit thee:
And so, farewell, when thou hast been
a yeere or more away,
If thou wilt hither make returne,
and be content to stay:
Though thou beest woūded many a way,
and plagde with many a sore,
Thou shalt haue ease of euery greef:
& thē what wouldst haue more?
And so, my Youth, quoth she, adue,
I may no longer stay:
Haue good regard to this foote path,
for feare thou goe astray:
And for a farewell, eare thou goest,
to me, thy courteous friend,
In song come beare a part with me:
which, being at an ende,
Then fare thou well: and therewithall
an Instrument she tooke,
And bad one of her Maides with speede,
go fetch her forth a booke,
Which termed was, The trackt of time:
which by & by, me thought,
Ere one could well say, thus it was:
in humble wise she brought,
With such an humble reuerence,
doune to this noble Dame:
That sure it would haue done one good,
for to haue seen the same.
Well, opening the Booke of Songs,
and looking well therein:
At last she staide, and on she plaide:
which Song did thus begin.
Who seeketh far, in time shall finde
great choice of sūdry change:
In time a man shall passe the Pikes
of peryls wonderous strange.
But he that trauaileth long Time,
to seeke content of minde:
And in the end, in trackt of Time
his owne desire shall finde:
And beeing well, is not content
to keepe him where he is:
His time is lost, vnworthy he
to finde the place of blisse.
One Time a fault may be forgiuen,
but if thou once obtaine
The place of rest: marke well the way
vnto the same againe.
For if thou once doo misse the way,
or hast the same forgot:
Thou wander maist, a tedious Time,
& neare the neere, God wot.
Therefore, in Time I warne thee well
to haue a great regarde:
The way thou goest for to returne:
for trust me, it is hard.
And so, for want of longer Time,
I needes must make an ende:
Take time enough, marke wel thy way,
and so, farewell, my friend,
Till Time I see thee heere againe:
which Time let me not see,
Till Time thou canst content thy self,
to spend thy Time with me.
And so take time, while time will serue,
else Time will slip away:
So once againe, adew, quoth she,
I can no longer stay.
With yt, me thought, this heauenly Dame,
with all her maides, was gon:
And I, poore soule, vpon the hill,
was left so all alone:
Where taking heede vnto the path,
which she had shewde me so:
Crosse overthwart the hill,
(me thought) I gan to goe.
At foote whereof, harde by the path,
me thought a Riuer ran,
And down ye streame, in a small boat,
me thought there came a mā:
And by and by he cald to me,
to aske me if I would
Come take a boat to crosse the streame?
and if I would, I should:
Now crosse the riuer straight (me thought)
I sawe a beaten way
Likely to lead vnto some Towne:
whereat I gan to stay:
But nought I said: and therewithall
(me thought) I plaine did see
The Dame who late had lefte me quite,
approching neere to me:
And beeing neere come to me,
me thought she stoutly saide,
Why do you lose your labour so?
what cause hath heere you staide?
Keepe on your way, and lose no Time,
and happy sure art thou,
Thou tookst not boate or ere I came:
but, quite past danger now:
My selfe will bring thee thither, where
The Temple thou shalt see
Whereto I gave thee charge to go:
and so, (me thought) quoth she,
Come follow me: and by and by
no great way we had gon,
But straight she brought me to the hill,
this Temple stood vpon.
And ther (me thought) these words she said:
Go, knock at yōder dore,
And say thou art a seely wight,
cast vp on sorrowes shore;
Brought in the Barke of wearie bale,
cast vp by waues of woe:
The Barke is burst, thou sav'de aliue,
dost wander too and froe,
To seeke some place of quiet rest:
and wandring so about
The hil of Hope, where Patience dwels,
by chance thou foundest out:
From whom thou presently doost come,
a message to declare:
Beare this in minde, thou shalt get in,
well warrant thee I dare.
And when thou comst into the Church,
mark wel on the right hand,
Within the Quire, all cladde in white,
dooth Lady Pittie stand:
To whom, with humble reuerence,
saye this for thy behoue:
I doo beleeue that Patience
in time will Pittie moue.
And thus this lesson I thee leaue:
which if thou beare in minde,
Assure thy selfe straight, at her hands,
some fauor for to finde.
And thus, quoth she, againe farewell,
though me no more thou see,
Till backe thou doost returne againe,
yet I will be with thee:
And guide thee so, where so thou goest,
that thou thy selfe shalt see,
In many Melancolike moodes,
thou shalt be helpt by me.
And therewithall, I know not how,
she vanished away:
And I vnto the Temple straight
began to take my way.
And to the doore, as I
had charge, me thought I came:
And tooke the ring [with] in my hand,
and knocked at the same:
Who knocketh at the doore, quoth one?
A silly wight, quoth I,
Cast vp of late, on sorrowes shore,
by tempests soddenly:
Brought in the Barke of weary bale,
cast vp by waues of woe:
Since when, to seeke some place of rest
I wandred too and froe.
And wandring so, I knew not how,
vnto a Mount I came,
Whereas I found in comely sort,
a noble courteous Dame.
The moūt is cald the Hill of Hope,
wher doth Dame Patiēce dwel:
From whom I come: Welcome, quoth he,
I know the Lady wel.
With that the doore, was opened,
and in, (me thought) I went:
Wherewith, me thought I hard a voyce
a sobbing sigh that sent.
Wherewith somewhat amazd at first,
though greatly not afraide,
Still staring round about (a while)
this stately Church, I staide.
And as before Dame Patience,
to me at parting tolde,
Within the Quier, on the right hand,
(me thought) I did behold
A gallant Dame, all clad in white,
to whom, for my behoue,
These words I sayd, Dame Patience,
I hope, will Pittie mooue.
With that (me thought) this Lady sayd,
I know thy deepe distresse:
And for thy friēd, Dame Patiēce sake,
thou shalt haue som redresse.
And therwithall, me thought, she saide
vnto an aged Sire,
Which in the Temple hard by sate:
Father, I thee desire
To shew this Youth, the perfect path
vnto the place of rest,
Who long hath wandred vp & down,
with torments sore opprest.
Dame Patience hath stoode his friend,
and sent him vnto me,
To lend him helpe vnto this place,
where he desires to be.
Lady, quoth he, I cannot go
my selfe abroade to day,
But I will send my seruant here,
to shew him the right way:
Whose company if he will keepe,
beleeue me, he shall finde
In little time, a place that may
right well content his minde.
Which if he do not, yet let him
with him returne to me,
And then my selfe will go with him.
It shall suffice, quoth she:
Go, sirra, quoth she, follow well
[t]his man, where so he goes:
And take good heede, that in no wise
his company you loose:
For if you lose his company,
you lose your labour quite:
But follow him, your gaine perhaps
your trauaile, shall requite:
His name, quoth she, True Reason is,
my Father Wisdoms man:
Whom, if you follow, to the place
of rest, conduct you can.
So, sirra, quoth she, go your wayes,
be rulde by him, I say:
And though he leade you now & thē
through some vnplesant way,
Yet follow him where so he goes:
doo as I bid you doe,
And he, in time, the perfect place
of rest, can bring thee too:
And so, farewell, Lady, quoth I,
I humble thankes do giue
To you, and eke this good olde man:
and sure, while I doo liue,
You two, I vowe, and eke besides
the noble curteous Dame
That sent me hither vnto you,
Dame Patience by name,
In hart I euer honour will:
and honest Reason loe,
For taking paines, vnto the place
of rest with me to goe.
To recompence his paines, I vowe
to stand his faithfull friend,
To follow him, and to be rulde
by him vnto mine ende.
And if I seeke to slippe from him,
I willing aye will be,
That, as he list, he shall doo due
correction vpon me:
So Lady, I my leaue doo take:
and therewithall, me thought,
The good olde man, fast by the hande
vnto the doore me brought:
And at the doore (me thought) did part,
this good olde man and I:
And Reason, he came stepping forth,
to beare me company:
Or else to leade me to the place
whereas we then should goe:
But as in euery merry moode,
dooth happe some sodaine woe:
So in this Dreame, as we (me thought)
were going on our waye,
I know not well at what (alas)
we suddainly gan staye:
And staying so, a Phesant Cocke
hard by me I gan see,
Which, flying by me, crew so lowde,
as that he waked me.
And thus my Dreame was at an end:
which, when that I awoake,
I tooke my penne, and as you see
I put it in my booke:
Which, for the straungenesse of the same,
surely perswadeth mee,
It dooth some straunge effect pretend,
what euer so it be.
vpon a hillie land,
So long, till euen with wearinesse,
I could wel scarcely stād.
And weery so (me thought) I went
to leane against an Oke:
Where leaning but a while, me thought,
the tree in peeces broke.
From which, me thought, to saue my life
I lightly skipt away:
And at the first, the sight thereof
my senses did dismay:
40
and looked rounde about,
And sawe no other dreadfull sight,
I knew not what to doubt.
But to some house (me thought) alas,
I wisht my selfe full faine:
But when I lookte, I could not see
one house vpon the plaine:
Good Lord (thought I) where am I now?
what desart place is this?
How came I heere? what shall I doo?
my heart full fearefull is.
And therewithall (me thought) I fell
flat downe vpon my knee,
And humble praiers made to God
on high, to comfort me [OMITTED]
Holding a Citterne in her hand,
wherewith to mee she came:
And gaue it me, desiring mee
to play vpon the same.
More halfe afeard to see this sight,
O Lady fayre! quoth I,
My skyll too simple is, God wot,
to sound such harmony.
Yet playe, quoth shee, the best thou canst,
it shall suffice, I say;
Doo thy good will, I craue no more,
therefore, [I] (praye thee) play.
With that, mee thought, I tooke the same,
and sounded, by and by,
(Not knowing what I did myselfe,)
a Heauenly harmony.
Unto which tune, the Lady then
so sweete a song did sing:
As, if I could remember it,
it were a Heauenly thing.
Of all which song, one onely steppe
I still doo beare in minde,
And that was this—There is no ioye
vnto content of minde:
No plague, to pride: no woe, to want:
no greefe, to lucklesse loue:
No foe to fortune, friend to God:
no trueth, tyll tryall prooue.
No Serpent, to sclaunderous tongue:
no corsey, vnto care:
No losse, to want of libertie:
no griefes, to Cupids snare.
No foole, to fickle fantasie,
that turnes with euery winde:
No torment, vnto Jelosy,
that still disturbes the minde.
Lo, this was all I bare in minde,
the rest I haue forgot:
Vnto my griefe, O God, he knowes:
but since I haue it not,
Well, let it passe: this Lady fayre
when she had sung her song,
She layde me downe a Napkin faire
vpon the ground along,
As white as Snowe: which when I saw,
I muzed what she ment:
But then (mee thought) frō thence againe,
a little space she went,
And calde mee thus: Hoe, maides, I say!
when will you come away?
Tis time that dinner ready were,
tis very neere midday.
Wher with, mee thought, from out no house,
but frō a bushy bancke,
Came out eight Damsels, all in white:
two and two in a ranck,
In order right, and euery one
a fine Dish in her hand,
Of sundry meates: some this, some that,
and down vpon the land
They laide me downe their Delycates,
wheras this Napkin lay:
Which done, fowre of thē staied stil,
the rest went straight away
Unto the place frō whence they came,
the Bushy Banke (I meane)
And sodenly, I wot not howe,
they all were vanisht cleane.
But, to goe onwardes with my dreame
in order briefe I will,
To make discourse of these fowre Dames
behind that staied still.
First, one of them fell downe on knee,
and solempnely sayd Grace:
Another, she with Pleasant Herbes
bestrowed all the place:
The thirde, she with a Bason fayre
of water sweete did stand:
The fourth, demurely stoode, and bare
a Towell in her hand.
I standing still, as one amaz'd,
to see so straunge a sight,
Yet seeing nothing but might serue
my minde for to delight;
The Lady (Mistris) of them all,
that kept her Royall seate,
Rose vp, and comming towards me
did greatly me entreate
To come vnto her stately boorde:
seeing me still yet to stand
Amazed so, she came herselfe,
and tooke me by the hand:
Come on, and sitte thee downe, quoth she,
be not afraide, I say:
And eate, quoth she, for well I know
thou hast not dinde to daye.
Faire Dame, quoth I, I cannot eate,
my stomack serues me not:
Therefore, I pardon craue. Quoth she,
thou art afraide, I wot,
To see this seruice heere so straunge:
indeede, tis straunge to thee:
For men but fewe or none do come
our seruice heere to see.
41
that thou camst heere this day,
For very fewe vnto this hill
can hap to hit the way.
We liue within these desart woods,
like Ladyes, all alone:
With Musick, passing forth the day,
and Fellows we haue none:
We are not like the wretches of
the world, in many a place,
That many liues, for feare or shame,
dare scarsly shew their face.
We spend the day in fine disport,
somtime with Musicke sweete,
Somtime with Hunting of ye Hart,
somtime, as we thinke meete,
With other Pastimes, many one:
sometime with pleasant talke
We passe ye time, somtime for sporte,
about the Fields we walke,
With Bowe and Arrowes (Archer-like)
to kill the stately Deere:
Which, being slaine, we roste & bake,
& make our selues good cheere:
Our meate we roste againe the Sunne,
we haue none other fire:
Sweete water Springs do yeelde vs drinke,
as good as we desire.
For herbe and roots, we haue great store,
here growing in the wood,
Wherwith we many dainties make,
as we our selues think good.
In Sommer time, our Houses here,
are Arbers, made of Trees:
about the which, in sommer time,
do swarme such Hiues of Bees,
As leaves vs then, of hony sweete,
such store as well dooth serue
Insteede of Sugre, all the yeare,
our fruites for to preserue.
Besides, they yelde vs store of waxe,
which from the Hiues we take:
And for our lights, in winter nights,
we many Torches make.
For then our houses all are Caues,
as well thy selfe shalt see,
When thou hast dinde: for I my self
will go, and shew them thee:
Therefore, be bolde, and feare no more,
for thou shalt go with me:
From perils all, within this place,
I will safeconduct thee:
And taste of one of these same herbes,
which thou thy selfe likst best:
The fayrest flower, trust me, oft times
is not the holsommest.
But as for these same herbes, or flowers,
that stand vpon my boord:
There is not one but is right good,
beleeue me, on my word.
Take wher thou list, I giue thee leaue:
but first, my friēd, (quoth she)
Pul of thy gloue, & wash thy hands.—
Wherwith, a maid brought me
A bason faire, of water cleare,
which gaue a sent so sweete,
That, credit me, me thinkes almost,
that I doo smell it yet.
Wherein I softly dipt my hands,
and straight, to wipe the same,
Vpon her arme, a towell brought,
an other gallant dame:
Of whom, I could none other doo,
but take in courteous sorte,
With humble thanks for seruice such:
and so, for to be short,
With reuerence done vnto the Dame,
who kept her stately seate,
I sat me downe: and hongerly,
(me thought) I fell to eate.
First of a Salet, that, me thought,
hard by my trencher stoode:
Whereof, at first, me thought the tast
was reasonable good:
But being downe, it left (alas)
a bitter tang behinde:
Then that I left, and thought to taste
some herbes of other kind.
And therewithall, I gan of her,
in humble sort to craue,
The roote that I had tasted so,
what name the same might haue:
It is Repentance roote, quoth she,
whose taste though bitter be,
Yet in the Spring time holsome tis,
and very rare to see.
But in the ende of all the yeare,
when it is nothing worth,
In euery foolish fielde it growes,
to shewe the braunches forth:
But if the taste thou likest not,
then set away the same,
And taste of somewhat else, (quoth she)
& straight (at hand) a Dame
Stoode reedy by, at her commaund
to take the Dish away:
Which done, then of an other herbe,
I gan to take a say,
Which better farre did please my taste,
whereof I fedde on well.
Good Lady, quoth I, of this herbe
vouchsafe to me to tell
The proper name? This holsome herbe,
is called Hope (quoth she)
And happy he, who of this herbe,
can get a peece, of me.
This herbe preserues the life of man,
euen at poincte of death:
Whē they are speechles, often times,
this herbe doth lend thē breth.
42
this salueth many a sore,
This is reliefe, to euery griefe:
what vertue can be more?
Feede well thereon, quoth she, and thou
shalt finde such ease of mind,
As by no meanes, but onely that,
is possible to finde.
O Lady faire, quoth I,
I humble thankes doo yeelde,
For this thy friendly fauour great:
but now, if to the fyelde
Wheras this herbe so rare doth grow,
if you wil deigne (faire dame)
Me to conducte: and shewe me eke,
the true roote of the same:
Twise happy shall I thinke my selfe,
that thus, by chaunce, I found
So courteous a noble Dame,
and such a fertil ground.
The roote (quoth she) yes, thou shalt see,
when thou hast dinde anon,
Both roote and herbe & eke the ground
which it doth grow vpon.—
Dine Lady, quoth I, I haue dinde:
this herbe hath fyld me so,
That when you will, I ready am
vnto that ground to goe.
Which ground and roote for to behould
I haue so great desire,
That till I see the same, me thinkes,
my hart is still on fyre.
Well then, quoth shee, since after it
I see thou longest so,
I will my dinner shorter make,
and with thee I will goe:
And bring thee to the place, where thou
both roote and herb shalt see,
And gather eke a peece therof,
and beare away with thee.
And therwith, from the boorde she rose,
and tooke me by the hand,
And led me ouerthwart, me thought,
a peece of new digd land:
And so from thence into a wood,
in midst wherof, me thought,
She brought me to a great wilde Maze:
which sure was neuer wrought
By Gardeners hāds: but of itself,
I rather gesse it grew:
The order of it was so straunge:
of troth, I tell you true.
Well, in into this Maze we went:
in midst whereof we founde,
In comely order, well cut out,
a prety peece of grownde.
The portrayture whereof, was like
the body of a man:
Which, viewing well, foorthwith,
me thought, this Lady gan
To kneele her downe, vpon the ground,
hard by the body, loe:
And there she shewed me the herbe,
that I desired soe:
And eke the order howe it grew:
which viewing well, at last
She brake a peece, and gaue it mee
to take thereof a taste,
Fresh frō ye ground: which don, traight way,
Well now, ye roote, qd she,
Thou lookest for: but stay a while,
and thou it straight shalt see.
The roote is like an other roote,
but onely that in name:
In difference from all other rootes:
and, to declare the same,
When thou hast seene it, thou shalt knowe
(& therwithall, quoth she,)
Come heere, beholde the roote, which thou
desirest so to see:
And therwith, digging up a Turfe,
she shewde me very plaine
The fashion of it, how it grewe:
and downe she laide againe
The Turfe in place whereas it was:
O Lady fayre, quoth I,
If one should seeme to cut the roote,
what? would ye herb then die?
No, no, quoth she, vntill the roote
be plucked quite away,
The roote it selfe, be sure of this,
will neuer quite decay.
Then would I craue a peece thereof,
(quoth I) O noble Dame,
That I may know it, if againe
I chaunce to taste the same.
The taste, quoth she, vnpleasaunt is,
I tell thee that before:
But where the roote, dooth rancor breed,
ye herbe wil salue the sore.
But yet to make thee for to knowe
the taste thereof, quoth she:
She raisde the Turfe, and of the roote
she brake a peece for me.
And downe she layde the same againe,
in order as she found:
That scarsely well it could be seene,
that she had raisde ye ground.
Well, I had my desire therein:
but tasting of the same,
It was so bitter in my mouth,
that to allaye the same,
I was full glad to take the herbe
which, as the Dame did say,
The bitter taste of that vile roote,
did quickly driue away.
And then, in humble sort, quoth I,
O fayre and courteous Dame,
Since that this roote (as you doo say)
dooth differ much in name
43
what his true name may be?
His name, quoth she, Necessitie
is, truely credit me.
And of these Rootes, some lesse then some:
but bigger that they be,
The more doth Hope spred forth his leaues:
& som do go with me.
Now I haue showne thee thy desire,
this hearb, this roote, & groūd,
I back againe will bring thee, to ye place
wher first thy self I foūd.
So, to be short, we backe returnde
vnto the place againe,
From whence we went: where, sitting still,
attendant did remaine
These fowre faire Dames, whom ther we left:
but al ye dishes they,
And what else on the Boorde was left,
they all had borne away.
Well, beeing come vnto the place,
vp rose they all at once:
And to this Lady reuerence did,
and likely, for the nonce.
They knew their Mistresse minde right well,
her vse belike it was:
Of water cleere vpon the ground,
they full had set a Glasse.
Hard by the Glasse a Towell faire,
and by the Towell, Flowers:
Loe, Youth, quoth she, how likst thou now
this seruice heer of ours?
Couldst thou thus like to liue in woods,
& make thy cheefe repaste
On hearbs and rootes, as we do heere?
or else the life thou haste?
Troubled, tormented, euery howre,
and that with endlesse griefe:
In hope of helpe, and now againe
despayring in reliefe?
Still to reserue? We heere thou seest
doo lyve in quietnesse:
We passe the time without all care,
in myrth and ioyfulnesse:
We feare no foe, we feele no woe,
we dread no daungers great:
We quake not here with too much cold,
nor burn wt extreme heate:
We wish not for great heapes of gold,
such trash we do despise:
We pray for health & not for wealth:
and thus, in pleasant wise,
We spende the day full ioyfully:
we craue no ritch attire,
This thinne white weede is euen asmuch
as we do here desire.
We haue our Musique sweete, besides,
to sollace, now and than,
Our weerie minds with other sports:
& now, how saist thou, man?
If thou maist haue thy choyce,
which wouldst thou rather do?
Leade heere thy lyfe, lyke one of vs,
or els returne vnto
The loathsome lyfe, that now thou leadst?
pause on this that I say:
If th' one thou chuse, here tary styll:
if th' other, hence away
Thou must returne from whence thou comst,
I put it to thy choyce:
If th' one thou chuse, of thy good happe
thou euer mayst reioyce:
But if thou choose amisse, poore wretch,
then thank thy self therfore:
Consider well vpon my words,
as yet I saye no more.
With that, more halfe amazde hereat,
still standing in a muze,
Not knowing what were best to doe,
to take or to refuze
The proffer made me by this Dame,
I humbly fell on knee:
Beseeching God to graunt me of
his grace to gouerne me,
To make me chuse that choice yt best
mought please his holy will:
And sitting so, in humble wise,
on knee thus praying still:
The Dame, expecting earnestly
some annswer at my hand,
So long, quoth she, vpon this choice,
why doo you studying stand?
Some aunswer briefely let me haue,
what euer so it be:
What? wilt thou back returne againe?
or wilt thou bide with me?
One way, faire Dame, quoth I,
I gladly here would stay,
And leade my life here still with you:
but now another way
Reason perswades me to returne:
thus in a doubt twixt bothe,
I one way loue the life I led,
another way I lothe.
So that remaining thus in doubt,
a certaine aunswer for to giue,
Whether back againe for to returne,
or in these woods to liue
I most desire, I cannot sure:
therefore, I pardon craue,
And for an aunswer flat, I may
some longer respit haue?
O no, quoth she, I cannot graunt
thee longer time, not nowe
To pause vpon these words of mine:
and therefore, since that thou
Wylt backe returne, loe, here behold,
this narrow foote path heere:
Go, follow this, vntill thou comst
vnto a Temple neere:
44
crosse ouer to the same:
And there, for further help frō thence,
your praiers humbly frame
Unto Dame Pittie, and her tell
that straight from me you came,
And she will help you, for my sake:
Dame Patience is my name:
And for a token true, that you
were sent to her by me:
Say, Patience will Pittie mooue,
and she will credit thee:
And so, farewell, when thou hast been
a yeere or more away,
If thou wilt hither make returne,
and be content to stay:
Though thou beest woūded many a way,
and plagde with many a sore,
Thou shalt haue ease of euery greef:
& thē what wouldst haue more?
And so, my Youth, quoth she, adue,
I may no longer stay:
Haue good regard to this foote path,
for feare thou goe astray:
And for a farewell, eare thou goest,
to me, thy courteous friend,
In song come beare a part with me:
which, being at an ende,
Then fare thou well: and therewithall
an Instrument she tooke,
And bad one of her Maides with speede,
go fetch her forth a booke,
Which termed was, The trackt of time:
which by & by, me thought,
Ere one could well say, thus it was:
in humble wise she brought,
With such an humble reuerence,
doune to this noble Dame:
That sure it would haue done one good,
for to haue seen the same.
Well, opening the Booke of Songs,
and looking well therein:
At last she staide, and on she plaide:
which Song did thus begin.
Who seeketh far, in time shall finde
great choice of sūdry change:
In time a man shall passe the Pikes
of peryls wonderous strange.
But he that trauaileth long Time,
to seeke content of minde:
And in the end, in trackt of Time
his owne desire shall finde:
And beeing well, is not content
to keepe him where he is:
His time is lost, vnworthy he
to finde the place of blisse.
One Time a fault may be forgiuen,
but if thou once obtaine
The place of rest: marke well the way
vnto the same againe.
For if thou once doo misse the way,
or hast the same forgot:
Thou wander maist, a tedious Time,
& neare the neere, God wot.
Therefore, in Time I warne thee well
to haue a great regarde:
The way thou goest for to returne:
for trust me, it is hard.
And so, for want of longer Time,
I needes must make an ende:
Take time enough, marke wel thy way,
and so, farewell, my friend,
Till Time I see thee heere againe:
which Time let me not see,
Till Time thou canst content thy self,
to spend thy Time with me.
And so take time, while time will serue,
else Time will slip away:
So once againe, adew, quoth she,
I can no longer stay.
With yt, me thought, this heauenly Dame,
with all her maides, was gon:
And I, poore soule, vpon the hill,
was left so all alone:
Where taking heede vnto the path,
which she had shewde me so:
Crosse overthwart the hill,
(me thought) I gan to goe.
At foote whereof, harde by the path,
me thought a Riuer ran,
And down ye streame, in a small boat,
me thought there came a mā:
And by and by he cald to me,
to aske me if I would
Come take a boat to crosse the streame?
and if I would, I should:
Now crosse the riuer straight (me thought)
I sawe a beaten way
Likely to lead vnto some Towne:
whereat I gan to stay:
But nought I said: and therewithall
(me thought) I plaine did see
The Dame who late had lefte me quite,
approching neere to me:
And beeing neere come to me,
me thought she stoutly saide,
Why do you lose your labour so?
what cause hath heere you staide?
Keepe on your way, and lose no Time,
and happy sure art thou,
Thou tookst not boate or ere I came:
but, quite past danger now:
My selfe will bring thee thither, where
The Temple thou shalt see
Whereto I gave thee charge to go:
and so, (me thought) quoth she,
Come follow me: and by and by
no great way we had gon,
But straight she brought me to the hill,
this Temple stood vpon.
45
Go, knock at yōder dore,
And say thou art a seely wight,
cast vp on sorrowes shore;
Brought in the Barke of wearie bale,
cast vp by waues of woe:
The Barke is burst, thou sav'de aliue,
dost wander too and froe,
To seeke some place of quiet rest:
and wandring so about
The hil of Hope, where Patience dwels,
by chance thou foundest out:
From whom thou presently doost come,
a message to declare:
Beare this in minde, thou shalt get in,
well warrant thee I dare.
And when thou comst into the Church,
mark wel on the right hand,
Within the Quire, all cladde in white,
dooth Lady Pittie stand:
To whom, with humble reuerence,
saye this for thy behoue:
I doo beleeue that Patience
in time will Pittie moue.
And thus this lesson I thee leaue:
which if thou beare in minde,
Assure thy selfe straight, at her hands,
some fauor for to finde.
And thus, quoth she, againe farewell,
though me no more thou see,
Till backe thou doost returne againe,
yet I will be with thee:
And guide thee so, where so thou goest,
that thou thy selfe shalt see,
In many Melancolike moodes,
thou shalt be helpt by me.
And therewithall, I know not how,
she vanished away:
And I vnto the Temple straight
began to take my way.
And to the doore, as I
had charge, me thought I came:
And tooke the ring [with] in my hand,
and knocked at the same:
Who knocketh at the doore, quoth one?
A silly wight, quoth I,
Cast vp of late, on sorrowes shore,
by tempests soddenly:
Brought in the Barke of weary bale,
cast vp by waues of woe:
Since when, to seeke some place of rest
I wandred too and froe.
And wandring so, I knew not how,
vnto a Mount I came,
Whereas I found in comely sort,
a noble courteous Dame.
The moūt is cald the Hill of Hope,
wher doth Dame Patiēce dwel:
From whom I come: Welcome, quoth he,
I know the Lady wel.
With that the doore, was opened,
and in, (me thought) I went:
Wherewith, me thought I hard a voyce
a sobbing sigh that sent.
Wherewith somewhat amazd at first,
though greatly not afraide,
Still staring round about (a while)
this stately Church, I staide.
And as before Dame Patience,
to me at parting tolde,
Within the Quier, on the right hand,
(me thought) I did behold
A gallant Dame, all clad in white,
to whom, for my behoue,
These words I sayd, Dame Patience,
I hope, will Pittie mooue.
With that (me thought) this Lady sayd,
I know thy deepe distresse:
And for thy friēd, Dame Patiēce sake,
thou shalt haue som redresse.
And therwithall, me thought, she saide
vnto an aged Sire,
Which in the Temple hard by sate:
Father, I thee desire
To shew this Youth, the perfect path
vnto the place of rest,
Who long hath wandred vp & down,
with torments sore opprest.
Dame Patience hath stoode his friend,
and sent him vnto me,
To lend him helpe vnto this place,
where he desires to be.
Lady, quoth he, I cannot go
my selfe abroade to day,
But I will send my seruant here,
to shew him the right way:
Whose company if he will keepe,
beleeue me, he shall finde
In little time, a place that may
right well content his minde.
Which if he do not, yet let him
with him returne to me,
And then my selfe will go with him.
It shall suffice, quoth she:
Go, sirra, quoth she, follow well
[t]his man, where so he goes:
And take good heede, that in no wise
his company you loose:
For if you lose his company,
you lose your labour quite:
But follow him, your gaine perhaps
your trauaile, shall requite:
His name, quoth she, True Reason is,
my Father Wisdoms man:
Whom, if you follow, to the place
of rest, conduct you can.
So, sirra, quoth she, go your wayes,
be rulde by him, I say:
And though he leade you now & thē
through some vnplesant way,
46
doo as I bid you doe,
And he, in time, the perfect place
of rest, can bring thee too:
And so, farewell, Lady, quoth I,
I humble thankes do giue
To you, and eke this good olde man:
and sure, while I doo liue,
You two, I vowe, and eke besides
the noble curteous Dame
That sent me hither vnto you,
Dame Patience by name,
In hart I euer honour will:
and honest Reason loe,
For taking paines, vnto the place
of rest with me to goe.
To recompence his paines, I vowe
to stand his faithfull friend,
To follow him, and to be rulde
by him vnto mine ende.
And if I seeke to slippe from him,
I willing aye will be,
That, as he list, he shall doo due
correction vpon me:
So Lady, I my leaue doo take:
and therewithall, me thought,
The good olde man, fast by the hande
vnto the doore me brought:
And at the doore (me thought) did part,
this good olde man and I:
And Reason, he came stepping forth,
to beare me company:
Or else to leade me to the place
whereas we then should goe:
But as in euery merry moode,
dooth happe some sodaine woe:
So in this Dreame, as we (me thought)
were going on our waye,
I know not well at what (alas)
we suddainly gan staye:
And staying so, a Phesant Cocke
hard by me I gan see,
Which, flying by me, crew so lowde,
as that he waked me.
And thus my Dreame was at an end:
which, when that I awoake,
I tooke my penne, and as you see
I put it in my booke:
Which, for the straungenesse of the same,
surely perswadeth mee,
It dooth some straunge effect pretend,
what euer so it be.
The huge highe Mountaine, fyrst of all?
and then the brokē tree?
And then the Lady, soddainly,
that did appeare to me?
The Napkin lying on the groūd?
& then the Dames that came
In order so, with Dishes all,
vnto this noble Dame?
And wherefore, onely fowre of them
went backe againe away:
And other fowre attendaunt still
vpon this Dame did staye?
And what should meane the giuing
of the Citterne, vnto me
To playe vpon? and that my selfe,
should sound such Harmonie,
Which neuer playde on like before?
and then the Song that she
Vnto the tune that I so playde,
dyd sweetley sing to me?
Then what should meane the order, that
the Maidens did obserue,
As they vpon this stately Dame,
attendaunt still did serue?
The Bason, Towel, & the Flowres,
wher with she strawd ye place?
And one alone among the rest,
so humbly saying Grace?
What ment her stately keeping of
her royall Princely seate?
And what she ment, by bidding me,
to wash before I eate?
And when, as one amazed, so
she did behold me stande:
What she should meane to rise her selfe
& take me by the hand?
Then what should meane the bytter roote
that first I fed vpon:
And tasting of the herbe of Hope,
the bitter taste was gon?
Then what should meane my great desyre
to see that herb to grow:
And how the Lady ledde me straight,
whereas she me did show?
The herbe, the roote, the ground, & all,
and why I then did craue
Of that same roote, or ere I went,
a little taste to haue?
Then what should meane the cutting vp
the Turfe, to let me see
The roote? and then the breaking of
a peece thereof for me?
Then what should meane ye laying down,
the turfe, evē as she foūd,
So closely as could scarse be seene,
that she had styrde the ground?
And then what ment the great wilde Maze,
the Image of a man
Whereas it grew? and after that
our backe returning than?
What ment the Glasse of water, that
at our returne we found:
The towel, and the flowers besides,
downe lying on the ground?
Then what Dame Patience should meane,
for to demaund of me,
Howe I did like her seruice there,
and whither I could be
Content to liue with her or not,
or backe returne to chuse?
And that she put it to my choice,
to take or to refuse?
And backe returnde to my olde life,
then what she ment to say:
If well I chose, I mought reioyce,
for to haue seene that day?
If contrary, why then I mought
but thanke my selfe therefore?
And bad me pause vpon her words,
and then would say no more?
Then what should meane my kneeling so,
and praying thē of mine
To God, for grace to take and chuse,
to please his will diuine?
Then what the Lady ment in hast,
as I was kneeling so,
To aske to that she did demaund
an aunswer, yea, or no?
Then what my doubtfull aunswer ment,
and pardon I did craue,
That for an aunswer flat, I might
some longer respit haue?
And why she should no respit giue?
then what the path way ment?
And what she ment, in that she me
vnto the Temple sent?
The Lesson that she gaue me then,
and then Dame Pitty too?
And what besides, at the Church door,
she further bad me doo?
Then, at our parting, the sweete song
which ran of Time so much?
What yt shold mean, & what should mean
our choice of musick such?
Her song once done, what then should meane
the vanishing away,
Wherewith my selfe at first a while
amazed so did stay?
But going onwards on my way,
what ment the Riuer then
That ran so neer the path? and then
the Boate? and then the man?
And then what should be ment, in that
he called so to me,
To take a Boate to crosse the streame?
the way that I did see,
Likely to leade vnto some towne?
what too was ment by that
Whereto I made no aunswer, but,
I stayed looking at?
And then againe, what ment the Dame
who vanished away,
To come vnto me there againe,
and what she ment to saye?
I happy was I had not tane
a Boate or ere she came:
And how from thence with me, vnto
the Temple neere she came?
Then, what should meane the lesson, that
she gaue me for to say
At the Church doore? and then againe,
her vanyshing away?
Then what should meane the stately Church?
and, as I sayd before,
The lesson that I did rehearse
when I came to the doore?
Then what should meane ye sighe I heard?
then what ye Lady ment,
Apparrelled in white, to whom
Dame Patience had me sent?
Then what my kneeling ment to her,
and then my words I sayde?
And that at my first entring in
I was so much afraide?
And what should meane the aunswer then
the Lady gaue to me?
And how that from Dame Patience
I came, she did well see?
Then what should meane her saying, that
she knew right well my grief:
And for Dame Patience sake, I shold
be sure to find relief?
Then what should meane the aged man,
of whom she did request
To take the paines to bring me to
the place of quiet rest?
Then what the old man ment to say,
he could not go that day,
But he would send his servaunt then,
to bring me on the way?
Then what the Lady ment to say
that should as then suffice:
And charging me his company
to keepe in any wise?
And then what ment the Lady then,
to bydde me farewell soe?
And thē what ment this old mans mā,
that forth with me did go?
And then my thanks vnto the Dame,
and to the good olde man?
And to Dame Patience, my friend,
and eke our parting than
At the Church doore, with ye olde Sire?
and thē what should be ment
By him, that for to bring me to
the place of Rest was sent?
And then, what should be ment by this,
in going of our way,
I know not how, but soddainly
we both at once gan staye?
And last, of that accursed Cocke:
what should the meaning be,
That in his flying crew so lowde,
as that he waked me?
Which Cocke, I am perswaded sure,
if that he had not beene:
Some wondrous sight, in trauailing,
I, doubtles, should haue seen:
And that which grieues me most of all,
the place of quiet rest
That man would sure haue brought me too:
where now, with grief opprest,
I must perforce liue as I do,
and only haue this ease,—
To pray unto Dame Patience
my sorrowes to appease:
Who promisde me, at parting last,
that though I her not see
Long time againe in open sight,
yet she would be with me:
And guide me so from place to place,
where euer so I goe,
That I by her shall finde great ease
Of many a deadly woe.
In hope whereof, thus, as you see,
my wearie life I spende,
Till I the place of Rest attaine:
and so I make an ende.
This Dreame is strainge: and sure, I thinke
it dooth Pronosticate
Some straunge effect, what so it is:
but since I know not what
It dooth pretend: I still will praye
to God, me to defend
In daungers all, bothe daye and night,
vnto my lyues end.
And when this loathsome life I end,
with torments so opprest,
In Heauen I may, at latter daye,
enioye a place of rest.
and then the brokē tree?
And then the Lady, soddainly,
that did appeare to me?
The Napkin lying on the groūd?
& then the Dames that came
In order so, with Dishes all,
vnto this noble Dame?
And wherefore, onely fowre of them
went backe againe away:
And other fowre attendaunt still
vpon this Dame did staye?
And what should meane the giuing
of the Citterne, vnto me
To playe vpon? and that my selfe,
should sound such Harmonie,
Which neuer playde on like before?
and then the Song that she
Vnto the tune that I so playde,
dyd sweetley sing to me?
Then what should meane the order, that
the Maidens did obserue,
As they vpon this stately Dame,
attendaunt still did serue?
The Bason, Towel, & the Flowres,
wher with she strawd ye place?
And one alone among the rest,
so humbly saying Grace?
What ment her stately keeping of
her royall Princely seate?
And what she ment, by bidding me,
to wash before I eate?
And when, as one amazed, so
she did behold me stande:
What she should meane to rise her selfe
& take me by the hand?
Then what should meane the bytter roote
that first I fed vpon:
And tasting of the herbe of Hope,
the bitter taste was gon?
Then what should meane my great desyre
to see that herb to grow:
And how the Lady ledde me straight,
whereas she me did show?
The herbe, the roote, the ground, & all,
and why I then did craue
Of that same roote, or ere I went,
a little taste to haue?
Then what should meane the cutting vp
the Turfe, to let me see
The roote? and then the breaking of
a peece thereof for me?
Then what should meane ye laying down,
the turfe, evē as she foūd,
So closely as could scarse be seene,
that she had styrde the ground?
And then what ment the great wilde Maze,
the Image of a man
Whereas it grew? and after that
our backe returning than?
What ment the Glasse of water, that
at our returne we found:
The towel, and the flowers besides,
downe lying on the ground?
Then what Dame Patience should meane,
for to demaund of me,
47
and whither I could be
Content to liue with her or not,
or backe returne to chuse?
And that she put it to my choice,
to take or to refuse?
And backe returnde to my olde life,
then what she ment to say:
If well I chose, I mought reioyce,
for to haue seene that day?
If contrary, why then I mought
but thanke my selfe therefore?
And bad me pause vpon her words,
and then would say no more?
Then what should meane my kneeling so,
and praying thē of mine
To God, for grace to take and chuse,
to please his will diuine?
Then what the Lady ment in hast,
as I was kneeling so,
To aske to that she did demaund
an aunswer, yea, or no?
Then what my doubtfull aunswer ment,
and pardon I did craue,
That for an aunswer flat, I might
some longer respit haue?
And why she should no respit giue?
then what the path way ment?
And what she ment, in that she me
vnto the Temple sent?
The Lesson that she gaue me then,
and then Dame Pitty too?
And what besides, at the Church door,
she further bad me doo?
Then, at our parting, the sweete song
which ran of Time so much?
What yt shold mean, & what should mean
our choice of musick such?
Her song once done, what then should meane
the vanishing away,
Wherewith my selfe at first a while
amazed so did stay?
But going onwards on my way,
what ment the Riuer then
That ran so neer the path? and then
the Boate? and then the man?
And then what should be ment, in that
he called so to me,
To take a Boate to crosse the streame?
the way that I did see,
Likely to leade vnto some towne?
what too was ment by that
Whereto I made no aunswer, but,
I stayed looking at?
And then againe, what ment the Dame
who vanished away,
To come vnto me there againe,
and what she ment to saye?
I happy was I had not tane
a Boate or ere she came:
And how from thence with me, vnto
the Temple neere she came?
Then, what should meane the lesson, that
she gaue me for to say
At the Church doore? and then againe,
her vanyshing away?
Then what should meane the stately Church?
and, as I sayd before,
The lesson that I did rehearse
when I came to the doore?
Then what should meane ye sighe I heard?
then what ye Lady ment,
Apparrelled in white, to whom
Dame Patience had me sent?
Then what my kneeling ment to her,
and then my words I sayde?
And that at my first entring in
I was so much afraide?
And what should meane the aunswer then
the Lady gaue to me?
And how that from Dame Patience
I came, she did well see?
Then what should meane her saying, that
she knew right well my grief:
And for Dame Patience sake, I shold
be sure to find relief?
Then what should meane the aged man,
of whom she did request
To take the paines to bring me to
the place of quiet rest?
Then what the old man ment to say,
he could not go that day,
But he would send his servaunt then,
to bring me on the way?
Then what the Lady ment to say
that should as then suffice:
And charging me his company
to keepe in any wise?
And then what ment the Lady then,
to bydde me farewell soe?
And thē what ment this old mans mā,
that forth with me did go?
And then my thanks vnto the Dame,
and to the good olde man?
And to Dame Patience, my friend,
and eke our parting than
At the Church doore, with ye olde Sire?
and thē what should be ment
By him, that for to bring me to
the place of Rest was sent?
And then, what should be ment by this,
in going of our way,
I know not how, but soddainly
we both at once gan staye?
And last, of that accursed Cocke:
what should the meaning be,
That in his flying crew so lowde,
as that he waked me?
Which Cocke, I am perswaded sure,
if that he had not beene:
48
I, doubtles, should haue seen:
And that which grieues me most of all,
the place of quiet rest
That man would sure haue brought me too:
where now, with grief opprest,
I must perforce liue as I do,
and only haue this ease,—
To pray unto Dame Patience
my sorrowes to appease:
Who promisde me, at parting last,
that though I her not see
Long time againe in open sight,
yet she would be with me:
And guide me so from place to place,
where euer so I goe,
That I by her shall finde great ease
Of many a deadly woe.
In hope whereof, thus, as you see,
my wearie life I spende,
Till I the place of Rest attaine:
and so I make an ende.
This Dreame is strainge: and sure, I thinke
it dooth Pronosticate
Some straunge effect, what so it is:
but since I know not what
It dooth pretend: I still will praye
to God, me to defend
In daungers all, bothe daye and night,
vnto my lyues end.
And when this loathsome life I end,
with torments so opprest,
In Heauen I may, at latter daye,
enioye a place of rest.
A prety Toye written vpon this Theame:
A man a sleepe, is not at rest.
Although the heart a sleepe,the bones be all at rest,
Yet man a sleepe, his minde is oft
with many thoughts opprest.
He dreames of this and that:
sometime with trifling toyes
His onely minde is troubled sore:
sometime of pleasaunt ioyes
His minde dooth run in sleepe:
sometime, he dreames of Kinges,
Of Princes Courts & princely feates,
and of such gallant thinges:
And, by and by, is out
in midst of all his dreame,
And from the Court to country Clowns,
and of a messe of Creame:
Of Cattle in the feelde,
of woods and pasture groundes,
Of Hawking, Fyshing, Fowling too,
& hunting hare with hoūds:
And sodeinly, vnwares,
he leaues his countrey sport,
And from the countrey, by and by,
to Cittie dooth resort.
And there a thousand things
at once runs in his minde:
The gallant shops of sundry sortes,
and wares of sundry kinde:
The precious Pearles and stones
on Goldsmiths shops that shine:
And then the Horsehead, but hard by
and then a cuppe of Wine.
Besides all gallant showes,
yet one aboue the rest,
The Marchaunts wiues, with other dames,
in fine attire adrest,
That at their dores, sometime
on Sundayes vse to sit:
This when some doo behold by day,
by night they dreame of it.
And then they fall in loue,
although their sute be small:
For in the Morning once awakte,
they haue forgotten all.
Some dreame of cruell warres,
of men slaine here and there:
And all the Fields with bodyes dead
nye couered euery where.
And by and by, the warres
not scarcely halfe begon:
But who dooth get the victory,
and then the warres are done.
And sodeinly againe,
he cannot tell which way,
He is at sea, and there he sees
great Fishes gan to play:
And straight a tempest comes,
that makes the waues to rore:
And then he seeth how the Ships
doo saile in daunger sore.
Anon he sees his ship
with billowes beaten so:
That comes at last a sodaine waue,
that dooth her ouerthrow:
And there, both she, and all
her Marriners are dround:
Yet he himselfe, he knowes not how,
is safely set on ground.
He onely is at shore,
when all the rest are lost:
And there he sees, how other ships
with tempests like are tost.
And there he stands not long,
but straight a suddaine chaunge:
He carryed is, he knowes not how,
into a Countrey straunge:
And there he speakes a speech
he neuer spake before:
And once awake againe, perhaps,
he neuer shall speake more.
A thousand things too, more,
a man dooth thinke to see
49
nor yet are like to be.
For I my selfe haue dreamde,
in sleepe, of sightes so straunge,
And, in the midst of all my dreame,
of sodaine sundry chaunge:
That, in the morne awake,
I could but merueile much,
What cause by day, by night should driue
me into dreaming such.
But sitting so a while,
sometime I call to minde
A prouerbe olde, which some count true,
but I meere false doo finde:
That is, That man asleepe
dooth lie at quyet rest:
For many sleepe, yt haue their mindes
with many greefes opprest.
Some Dreame of Parents death,
or death of some deare friend:
Some dreame of sorrowes to insue,
and pleasures at an end.
And dreaming so, I thinke
that man is not at rest,
Although he sleepe, his heart is yet
sore troubled in the brest.
The Boye that goes to Schoole
dooth dreame of Rods by night,
His breech too, ready for the rodde:
and in a soddaine fright
He starteth in his sleepe,
and waketh therewithall:
And then say I, although he sleepe,
his rest can be but small.
Some thinke in sleepe they are
in Field with foe at fight,
And with their fysts they buffet them
that lie with them by night.
And are they not at rest,
although they sleepe, say you?
In deede they haue a kinde of rest,
but rest, I wot not how.
And many causes moe
of great vnquiet rest,
I could declare, that are in sleepe:
but these that are exprest
May well suffice, I hope, to prooue
my iudgement good in this:
That minde of man is troubled much,
when moste a sleepe he is.
Another Toye written in the praise of a Gilliflower, at the request of Gentlewomen: and one, aboue the rest, who loued that Flower.
If I should choose a prety Flower,
For seemely show, and sweetest sente:
In my minde, sure, the Gilliflower
I should commend, where so I wente:
And if neede be, good reasen too
I can alledge why so I doe.
For seemely show, and sweetest sente:
In my minde, sure, the Gilliflower
I should commend, where so I wente:
And if neede be, good reasen too
I can alledge why so I doe.
The Crimson coulour, fyrst of all,
Dooth make it seemely to the eye:
The pleasaunt savour therewithall
Comfortes the braine too, by and by:
For collour then and sweetest smell
The Gilliflower must beare the Bell.
Dooth make it seemely to the eye:
The pleasaunt savour therewithall
Comfortes the braine too, by and by:
For collour then and sweetest smell
The Gilliflower must beare the Bell.
This is in Pots preserued we see,
And trimly tended euery day:
And so it dooth deserue to bee,
For sure, if I mought plainly say:
If it would prosper in my Bedde,
I would haue one at my Beds head.
And trimly tended euery day:
And so it dooth deserue to bee,
For sure, if I mought plainly say:
If it would prosper in my Bedde,
I would haue one at my Beds head.
What laugh you at? you thinke I iest,
I meane plaine troth, I promise ye:
The Gilliflower dooth like me best
Of all the Flowers that ere I see.
And who that dooth mislike the same,
In my minde, shall be much too blame.
I meane plaine troth, I promise ye:
The Gilliflower dooth like me best
Of all the Flowers that ere I see.
And who that dooth mislike the same,
In my minde, shall be much too blame.
A pretty toye wrytten in the praise of a straunge Springe in Suffolke.
I neuer trauailde countreys farre,whereby strange things to see,
As woods and waters, Beasts & byrds,
wherein such vertues bee,
As are not common to be had,
but seeldome to be found:
And hearbes and stones, of nature such,
as none are on the ground.
But as I haue red of many one,
and surely, in my minde,
As well at home as farre abroad,
I many straung things finde.
But many men whose runing heads,
delights abroad to range,
Whose fancies fond are dayly fed,
With toyes and choice of change:
What euer their owne soyle dooth yeeld,
they do no whit esteeme:
But far fet & deare bought, that they
most worthy praise doo deeme.
But tis no matter, let that passe,
ech one, where he thinkes best,
Choose what and whē and where he likes,
& leue his frends the rest.
And let me speake in praise of that,
which worthy, in my minde,
And therewith, rare like to be seene
in England, here I fynde.
No beast, nor byrde, no stick nor stone,
no hearbe nor flower it is,
No foule nor Fish, no metall strange:
nought but a Spring ywis.
50
so sweete and delicate:
That happy he may thinke himselfe,
that may come sip thereat.
To speake in praise thereof at large,
it were to much for me,
As it deserues; but if I were
a Poet, as some be:
Sure I would spend a little time
to let the world to know,
That out of our small Iland yet,
so fyne a Spring dooth flow.
In Ouids Metamorphosis
I read there of a Spring,
Whereby Narcissus caught his bane,
[and] only with looking
Long while vpon the same: for loe,
the water shone so cleare,
That thorow the same, the shadow of
his face did so appeare,
That he forgetting quite himselfe,
fell so enamoured
Of his owne face, that there he lay
as one amazde, halfe dead:
So long, till at the last,
for want of very foode,
He fell starke madde, and lost his life
in place whereas he stoode:
And after his ghost yeelded vp,
(at least, as Poets faine,)
His Corps was turned to a flower
which there did stil remaine:
Which flower, if I doo not mistake,
is tearmde the Lilly white.
If this be false, blame Ouid then,
that such a tale would write.
But if it had beene true,
when he so sore was greeued,
Had he but come vnto this Spring,
he had beene soone releeued:
For in this Spring he should haue seene
no shadowes of a face,
But such a face as should in deede
his owne so much disgrace,
That he should haue forgotte his owne,
if this he once did see.
Now he that doth desire to know
wher this same Spring should be:
In Suffolke soyle, who so best list,
let him I say go seeke:
And he may hap to see a Spring
he neuer saw the leeke.
[A prety Tale of late I heard]
A Gentleman on a time, hauing three Sonnes: and being very desirous to haue them brought vp at an Universitie: being very well acquainted with a yong Gentleman, who he knew had spent some yeares at Oxford, desyred him to choose a Tutor there, for his three Children, which as he thought were fyttest to bring them vp as well in learning as good behaviour: which he was contented to doe: and hauing chosen a Tutor for them, not long after, hauing a great desire to see them doo well, wrote their Tutor a Letter, and with the Letter a pretty Tale in verse, to mooue him to haue a great care of them: the Letter I let alone: but the tale I haue thought good to shew forth among these prety Toyes, as one not the worste: which tale was as followeth.
A little Preface before the Tale.
A prety Tale of late I heard,a learned wise man tell:
Wherto I gaue attentiue eare,
and markte it very well:
Touching the bringing vp of youth,
and who were fittest men,
In learning and good quallities,
to bring vp children.
Which Tale, when I had heard told out,
of troth, it likte me so,
That to the like, I were content
againe ten myles to go.
Well: as it was, I did full ofte
reuolve the same in minde:
And many prety poincts therein
I many tymes did finde.
And as one day vnto my selfe,
by chaunce, I did rehearse
Eche poinct therein, I tooke my Penne
and put it into verse.
Which Tale so pend, according to
my simple skill, I send
To you: for dyvers causes Syr:
first, for that it doth tend
Vnto a little matter, that
there is twixt you and me:
It hath (I trow) somwhat respect,
vnto the Children three:
The three yong Gentlemen,
which to you, as my friend,
I gaue in charge, to rule and teach:
and so I make an end.
51
The Tale followeth in this manner.
A gentleman, that had two sonnes,
desirous was to see
Them both in learning traded up:
for which, great counsale hee,
Of diuers often did require,
what Tutors he might choose
To put these prety Puples too,
that rightly might them vse.
And vnder whom they likely were
their labours to haue lost.
Well: to be breefe, so many men
so many mindes there were:
Some would say this, some other that,
& som were here, som there.
Some sayd, they thought that liberty
was ill for Children:
Some other sayd, that lawfull twas
and needefull, now and then:
Some sayd, the rod should be the sword,
to keepe Children in awe:
And other some, such cruelty
counted not worth a strawe.
Some sayd, that Children should
surpressed be by feare:
Some thought, to rule by gentlenesse,
a better way it were.
Some said, that children were
by nature bent to play,
Which from their learning, in short space,
will drawe them soone away:
Fro which, by feare to keepe them still,
the rod should be the meane:
Least little smack of liberty
would quickly marre them cleane:
And vse would make great masteries,
for so, by keeping in
And harde applying of their bookes,
they profite would therein.
Some other then, that thorowly
this matter did discusse,
To that opinion contrary,
alleadged reason thus:
Children, by nature, are not bent
to any kinde of play;
Their minds are euē halfe made by thē
that gouerne them alway:
And that, to keepe their minds frō play,
the rod should be no meane;
And that by feare for to subdue,
that were not worth a beane.
As for examples sake, (quoth one)
at first, take me a Childe,
Who hath a prety ready wit,
although of nature wilde:
And let him learne to daunce,
to shoote, and play at ball,
And any other sporte: but put
him to his booke withall:
And when he is abroade,
if fayre he doo not shoote,
Or when he gins to daunce,
if false he chaunce to foote,
Then pay him, breech him thorowly,
favour him not at all:
And now and then correct him well,
though for a fault but small.
If that he trip, or misse his time,
vp with him, by and by:
Let him not slip with such a fault,
but pay him presently.
And you shall see that ofte, for feare,
his legges will quiuer so,
That he shall neuer learne to daunce,
nor scarcely well to go.
And when in feeld he drawes not cleane,
his arrow in his bowe,
Knock him vpon the fingers harde:
and you shall see, I trow,
That in a while his fyngers ends,
for feare will quiuer so,
That he will neuer learne aright,
to let his Arrow go.
Now if he be harde at his booke,
although he learne not well,
Either forget, or conster false:
at fyrst, doo gently tell
Him of his faulte, and if
that he do plye it harde,
Giue him an Apple or a Peare,
or some such childes rewarde:
And trust me, you shall see, the schoole
shall be his chiefe delight:
And from his booke he seeld will be,
or neuer, if he might.
Wherefore, by reason thus I prooue,
that children be not bent,
But that their natures much are made
by Tutors gouernment.
But this I graunt as requisite,
with reason to correct:
Lest children oft for lacke thereof,
their faults too much neglect.
But as a sworde, to set it vp
in schoole to open sight,
I like not that: for tis to some
at fyrst to great a fright.
Their eyes are so vpon the rodde,
they little minde their booke:
For childish feare will cause them still
upon the Rodde to looke:
And so their eyes quite from their bookes
not only drawes away,
But eke their minds, as much and more
then any kinde of play:
Wherefore a Rod I would in schooles
should be kept out of sight,
To make the Children to their bookes
to haue a more delight.
desirous was to see
Them both in learning traded up:
for which, great counsale hee,
Of diuers often did require,
what Tutors he might choose
To put these prety Puples too,
that rightly might them vse.
And vnder whom they likely were
their labours to haue lost.
Well: to be breefe, so many men
so many mindes there were:
Some would say this, some other that,
& som were here, som there.
Some sayd, they thought that liberty
was ill for Children:
Some other sayd, that lawfull twas
and needefull, now and then:
Some sayd, the rod should be the sword,
to keepe Children in awe:
And other some, such cruelty
counted not worth a strawe.
Some sayd, that Children should
surpressed be by feare:
Some thought, to rule by gentlenesse,
a better way it were.
Some said, that children were
by nature bent to play,
Which from their learning, in short space,
will drawe them soone away:
Fro which, by feare to keepe them still,
the rod should be the meane:
Least little smack of liberty
would quickly marre them cleane:
And vse would make great masteries,
for so, by keeping in
And harde applying of their bookes,
they profite would therein.
Some other then, that thorowly
this matter did discusse,
To that opinion contrary,
alleadged reason thus:
Children, by nature, are not bent
to any kinde of play;
Their minds are euē halfe made by thē
that gouerne them alway:
And that, to keepe their minds frō play,
the rod should be no meane;
And that by feare for to subdue,
that were not worth a beane.
As for examples sake, (quoth one)
at first, take me a Childe,
Who hath a prety ready wit,
although of nature wilde:
And let him learne to daunce,
to shoote, and play at ball,
And any other sporte: but put
him to his booke withall:
And when he is abroade,
if fayre he doo not shoote,
Or when he gins to daunce,
if false he chaunce to foote,
Then pay him, breech him thorowly,
favour him not at all:
And now and then correct him well,
though for a fault but small.
If that he trip, or misse his time,
vp with him, by and by:
Let him not slip with such a fault,
but pay him presently.
And you shall see that ofte, for feare,
his legges will quiuer so,
That he shall neuer learne to daunce,
nor scarcely well to go.
And when in feeld he drawes not cleane,
his arrow in his bowe,
Knock him vpon the fingers harde:
and you shall see, I trow,
That in a while his fyngers ends,
for feare will quiuer so,
That he will neuer learne aright,
to let his Arrow go.
Now if he be harde at his booke,
although he learne not well,
Either forget, or conster false:
at fyrst, doo gently tell
Him of his faulte, and if
that he do plye it harde,
Giue him an Apple or a Peare,
or some such childes rewarde:
And trust me, you shall see, the schoole
shall be his chiefe delight:
And from his booke he seeld will be,
or neuer, if he might.
Wherefore, by reason thus I prooue,
that children be not bent,
But that their natures much are made
by Tutors gouernment.
But this I graunt as requisite,
with reason to correct:
Lest children oft for lacke thereof,
their faults too much neglect.
But as a sworde, to set it vp
in schoole to open sight,
I like not that: for tis to some
at fyrst to great a fright.
Their eyes are so vpon the rodde,
they little minde their booke:
For childish feare will cause them still
upon the Rodde to looke:
And so their eyes quite from their bookes
not only drawes away,
But eke their minds, as much and more
then any kinde of play:
Wherefore a Rod I would in schooles
should be kept out of sight,
To make the Children to their bookes
to haue a more delight.
52
Another graue gray headed syre,
that harde them reason so,
Thus said: So many shrewd curst boyes,
& wāton wags I know,
And eke so many Schoolemaisters,
that lack good gouernment,
That many prety Boyes will mar,
that are of minds well bent:
That sure I know not what to say,
but, trust me, in my minde,
A good Tutor, whereto a child
is bent, can quickly finde;
And as he findes the nature of
the Childe, euen so he may,
By gentle meanes, euen as he list,
soone leade him euery way.
So, that to keepe him in good awe,
correction, now and than,
He iustly use with gentlenesse,
as a good Tutor can.
Well: at the last, this Gentleman,
when he had heard at large
Their true oppinions euery one,
at last, he gaue in charge
His two Sonnes to two sundry men:
whereof the one was milde,
And euer sought by gentle meanes
for to bring vp a Childe:
The other was of nature fierce,
and, therefore, rather sought
With store of stripes for to bring vp
such children as he taught.
The children both of nature like,
in time did differ much;
The difference of gouernment,
of Tutors, theirs was such.
The one did prooue a proper Youth,
and learned for his time:
And by his learning afterward,
to honour high did clyme.
This, was by him brought vp,
that was of nature milde,
And euer sought by gentle meanes,
for to bring vp a Childe.
The other prooued but a blocke,
a Dunsicus, an Asse:
Because, with too much cruelty,
he often dulled was.
This, was brought vp by him
that was so fierce of minde:
That thought the Rod should be the sword,
to rule a child by kinde.
The Father sory, afterward,
to see his Child so lost:
And seeing, that his other sonne,
did euer profite most:
Tooke him away from that fierce foole,
and put him presently
To him that was the mylder man,
praying him, earnestly,
To see if that he could in time,
quicken his dulled wit:
Desiring him thereto to vse
such meanes as he thought fyt.
Well: at the last, with much adoe
he tooke a little paine:
And tooke in hand to sharpen then,
his dulled braine againe:
And many maisteries did prooue,
but rigour none he vsde:
For that before he had so much
by thother ben abusde:
But euer sought, by gentle meanes,
to make him voide of feare;
And so in time did alter much,
his nature as it were.
He made him boulder to his booke,
therefore, more willing to
His study still: but yet, alas,
whateuer he could doe,
He could not make him like vnto
his brother any way:
Although he striu'de, and tooke great pains,
asmuch as in him lay:
Yet euery way he mended had,
his nature very much:
The gentle meanes, he euer vsde
in teaching him, were such.
Well: to be short, when that
this Gentleman did see,
The difference twixt his two sons:
There shall no more, quoth he,
Of children mine be put to Schoole
to such as still doo vse
To rule the Children by the rod:
I rather aie will chuse
To put my children vnto those,
that are of nature milde,
And know by loue and gentlenesse,
how to bringe vp a childe.
And thus the tale was at an ende.
and now, Sir, euen as he,
The Gentleman that had two sonnes,
desirous was to see
Them both in learning traded vp:
euen so, no lesse, am I
Desirous for to see these youthes,
bothe learnedly
And vertuously brought vp,
as much as if they were
The neerest kinsmen that I haue,
or brethren deere, I sweare.
Wherefore, good Syr, as I in you
my faithfull trust repose:
Vouchsafe to take such pains with them.
that they no time do lose:
And for correction, now and than,
to him that dooth not well,
I meane not to instruct you Sir:
your selfe can better tell
Then I, what longs thereto:
therefore, as you shall finde,
Vse your discretion Sir, therein
according to your minde.
Thus you haue heard the milder man
the better Scholler made:
And yet, a bridell must be had,
for a wilde brainesicke Jade.
But for your prety Coltes, I hope,
no bridle you shall neede:
I hope you easely shall them bende,
with a small twined threed.
My meaning is, I hope they will
themselues eche order so,
That you shall neede to take small care
almost which way they go.
Yet now and then, though without neede,
somwhat looke out, I pray:
Least that they hap by Company
for to be led astray.
For though their natures well be bent,
yet you know, now & than,
Ill company oft times, God wot,
dooth marre an honest man:
And they, you know, are all but young,
and youth delights in toyes,
And toyes frō learning quite & clean,
withdraweth wanton boyes.
Yet in good faith, I hope, good Syr,
your prety Puples three,
Will bothe in learning, and all things,
by you so ruled be:
And eke vnto their bookes, besides,
will haue so great desire:
That earnest more, or dilligent,
you cannot well require.
Well: I haue put them all to you,
you only must be he,
That as well to their learning, as
behauiour must see.
I sought not out three sundry men,
to put these children too,
To see which of them would doo best,
and which againe would do
Worst of the three: but all vnto
your charge I doo commit,
To teache and gouerne, by such meanes,
as you alone thinke fit.
And as I haue them giuen in charge
to you, euen so I craue
That you will see your Schollers so,
themselues each way behaue;
And bring them vp in learning so,
that when from you they part,
I to haue found a Tutor such,
first will be glad in heart:
And you your selfe another day,
may be full glad to see
Their vertuous life, & then may say,
these were brought vp by me.
Their Father then, whose tender care
is for to see them all,
In learning daily to succeede,
and further there withall
In good behaviour eke,
may well in hart reioyce:
That I in this behalfe haue made
so good and happy choice,
As to finde out, so fit a man,
to put his children too.
As vnder whom, they all in time,
so will are like to doe.
And I my selfe, the more for that,
may stande your bounden friend:
And he reward you for your paines:
and so I make an ende.
that harde them reason so,
Thus said: So many shrewd curst boyes,
& wāton wags I know,
And eke so many Schoolemaisters,
that lack good gouernment,
That many prety Boyes will mar,
that are of minds well bent:
That sure I know not what to say,
but, trust me, in my minde,
A good Tutor, whereto a child
is bent, can quickly finde;
And as he findes the nature of
the Childe, euen so he may,
By gentle meanes, euen as he list,
soone leade him euery way.
So, that to keepe him in good awe,
correction, now and than,
He iustly use with gentlenesse,
as a good Tutor can.
Well: at the last, this Gentleman,
when he had heard at large
Their true oppinions euery one,
at last, he gaue in charge
His two Sonnes to two sundry men:
whereof the one was milde,
And euer sought by gentle meanes
for to bring vp a Childe:
The other was of nature fierce,
and, therefore, rather sought
With store of stripes for to bring vp
such children as he taught.
The children both of nature like,
in time did differ much;
The difference of gouernment,
of Tutors, theirs was such.
The one did prooue a proper Youth,
and learned for his time:
And by his learning afterward,
to honour high did clyme.
This, was by him brought vp,
that was of nature milde,
And euer sought by gentle meanes,
for to bring vp a Childe.
The other prooued but a blocke,
a Dunsicus, an Asse:
Because, with too much cruelty,
he often dulled was.
This, was brought vp by him
that was so fierce of minde:
That thought the Rod should be the sword,
to rule a child by kinde.
The Father sory, afterward,
to see his Child so lost:
And seeing, that his other sonne,
did euer profite most:
Tooke him away from that fierce foole,
and put him presently
To him that was the mylder man,
praying him, earnestly,
To see if that he could in time,
quicken his dulled wit:
Desiring him thereto to vse
such meanes as he thought fyt.
Well: at the last, with much adoe
he tooke a little paine:
And tooke in hand to sharpen then,
his dulled braine againe:
And many maisteries did prooue,
but rigour none he vsde:
For that before he had so much
by thother ben abusde:
But euer sought, by gentle meanes,
to make him voide of feare;
And so in time did alter much,
his nature as it were.
He made him boulder to his booke,
therefore, more willing to
His study still: but yet, alas,
whateuer he could doe,
He could not make him like vnto
his brother any way:
Although he striu'de, and tooke great pains,
asmuch as in him lay:
Yet euery way he mended had,
his nature very much:
The gentle meanes, he euer vsde
in teaching him, were such.
Well: to be short, when that
this Gentleman did see,
The difference twixt his two sons:
There shall no more, quoth he,
Of children mine be put to Schoole
to such as still doo vse
To rule the Children by the rod:
I rather aie will chuse
To put my children vnto those,
that are of nature milde,
And know by loue and gentlenesse,
how to bringe vp a childe.
And thus the tale was at an ende.
and now, Sir, euen as he,
The Gentleman that had two sonnes,
desirous was to see
Them both in learning traded vp:
euen so, no lesse, am I
Desirous for to see these youthes,
bothe learnedly
And vertuously brought vp,
as much as if they were
The neerest kinsmen that I haue,
or brethren deere, I sweare.
Wherefore, good Syr, as I in you
my faithfull trust repose:
Vouchsafe to take such pains with them.
that they no time do lose:
And for correction, now and than,
to him that dooth not well,
I meane not to instruct you Sir:
your selfe can better tell
53
therefore, as you shall finde,
Vse your discretion Sir, therein
according to your minde.
Thus you haue heard the milder man
the better Scholler made:
And yet, a bridell must be had,
for a wilde brainesicke Jade.
But for your prety Coltes, I hope,
no bridle you shall neede:
I hope you easely shall them bende,
with a small twined threed.
My meaning is, I hope they will
themselues eche order so,
That you shall neede to take small care
almost which way they go.
Yet now and then, though without neede,
somwhat looke out, I pray:
Least that they hap by Company
for to be led astray.
For though their natures well be bent,
yet you know, now & than,
Ill company oft times, God wot,
dooth marre an honest man:
And they, you know, are all but young,
and youth delights in toyes,
And toyes frō learning quite & clean,
withdraweth wanton boyes.
Yet in good faith, I hope, good Syr,
your prety Puples three,
Will bothe in learning, and all things,
by you so ruled be:
And eke vnto their bookes, besides,
will haue so great desire:
That earnest more, or dilligent,
you cannot well require.
Well: I haue put them all to you,
you only must be he,
That as well to their learning, as
behauiour must see.
I sought not out three sundry men,
to put these children too,
To see which of them would doo best,
and which againe would do
Worst of the three: but all vnto
your charge I doo commit,
To teache and gouerne, by such meanes,
as you alone thinke fit.
And as I haue them giuen in charge
to you, euen so I craue
That you will see your Schollers so,
themselues each way behaue;
And bring them vp in learning so,
that when from you they part,
I to haue found a Tutor such,
first will be glad in heart:
And you your selfe another day,
may be full glad to see
Their vertuous life, & then may say,
these were brought vp by me.
Their Father then, whose tender care
is for to see them all,
In learning daily to succeede,
and further there withall
In good behaviour eke,
may well in hart reioyce:
That I in this behalfe haue made
so good and happy choice,
As to finde out, so fit a man,
to put his children too.
As vnder whom, they all in time,
so will are like to doe.
And I my selfe, the more for that,
may stande your bounden friend:
And he reward you for your paines:
and so I make an ende.
TWO OR THREE PRETY TOYES giuen to a Gentilman, to set about his Counting-house.
What man can beare a lofty saile,
Where fortune frownes, and friends doo faile?
Where fortune frownes, and friends doo faile?
And who so low, but he may rise,
By fortunes aide, and friends aduise?
By fortunes aide, and friends aduise?
What wo to hate? what ioye to love?
What stranger state, then both to prooue?
What stranger state, then both to prooue?
What treasure, to a friend in deede?
What greater spight, then faile at neede?
What greater spight, then faile at neede?
What wisdome more, then for to learne
The trueth from falshood to discerne?
The trueth from falshood to discerne?
From which false dealing God defend
Those that meane well: and so I end.
Those that meane well: and so I end.
[Pitie, oh Lord thy Servaunts heavy heart]
A Gentleman being requested by a Gentlewoman, to pen her a Prayer in verse, wrot at her request, as followeth.
Pitie, oh Lord thy Servaunts heavy heart,Her sinnes forgiue, that thus for mercy cryes:
Judge no man (Lorde) according to desart,
Let fall on her with speede thy healthfull eyes:
In hart who prayes to thee continually,
Putting her only trust of God in Thee.
Lorde, Lorde, to thee for mercy still I call,
Oh, set me free, that thus am bound and thrall.
[Plant Lorde, in me the tree of godly lyfe]
Not many dayes after, he chaunced to walke with the same Gentilwoman in a Garden: and was againe then intreated
54
Hedge me about with thy stronge fence of faith:
If thee it please, vse eke thy proyning knife,
Least that, oh Lord, as a good Gardiner saith:
If suckers draw the sappe from bowes on hie,
Perhaps in tyme the top of tree may die.
Let, Lord, this tree be set within thy Garden wall
Of Paradise, where growes no one ill sprig at all.
A pretty toye, written vpon a Ladyes propounding of a Riddle to her friende.
A lady once, in pleasaunt sorte,
A question did demaunde of mee,
For want as then of other sporte:
Without offence, good Sir (quod she):
May I craue thus much at your hande,
To haue a riddle rightly scand?
A question did demaunde of mee,
For want as then of other sporte:
Without offence, good Sir (quod she):
May I craue thus much at your hande,
To haue a riddle rightly scand?
Whereto I soone gaue this replye:
Madame, you know full harde it is
To reade a Riddle perfectly;
The wisest men may iudge amisse.
But shew the effect of your request,
And you shall see me doo my best.
Madame, you know full harde it is
To reade a Riddle perfectly;
The wisest men may iudge amisse.
But shew the effect of your request,
And you shall see me doo my best.
THE RIDDLE.
Why then, a thing there is, quod she,That breedeth many, deadly smart:
Which none can feele, nor heere, nor see,
And yet with greefe consumes the heart:
For which is founde none other ease,
But euen the cause of the disease:
Now this is my desire, (quoth she)
To be resolv'de what this may be?
THE ANSWER.
These doubts (Madame) quod I, to skan,
Requires some time, and that not small:
They trouble would a wiser man
Then I, by roode, to deale withall.
But yet, faire Dame, the doubt of this
I hope to finde, and not to misse:
I can but gesse vpon a doubt,
I will not sweare to find it out.
But as I judge, Madam, quod I,
It seemes Appollos sicknesse sure,
On whom he cryed piteously,
That neuer any herbe could cure:
Nor any Phisicke finde releefe,
To helpe or ease him of his greefe:
Which plainly, Madam, for to name,
Is lucklesse loue, Dame Venus game.
Which spightfull sporte for to attaine
Some so doo dull their sences all:
That in the ende, with to much paine
They doo become sore sicke with all:
And so remaine, vntill they haue
Some players such as they doo craue.
For euery Player cannot please
Eche pacient to playe with all:
For then, to cure his straunge disease,
He some should haue soone at his call:
But he must haue whom eche would craue,
Els he, poore soule, small rest shall haue.
Requires some time, and that not small:
They trouble would a wiser man
Then I, by roode, to deale withall.
But yet, faire Dame, the doubt of this
I hope to finde, and not to misse:
I can but gesse vpon a doubt,
I will not sweare to find it out.
But as I judge, Madam, quod I,
It seemes Appollos sicknesse sure,
On whom he cryed piteously,
That neuer any herbe could cure:
Nor any Phisicke finde releefe,
To helpe or ease him of his greefe:
Which plainly, Madam, for to name,
Is lucklesse loue, Dame Venus game.
Which spightfull sporte for to attaine
Some so doo dull their sences all:
That in the ende, with to much paine
They doo become sore sicke with all:
And so remaine, vntill they haue
Some players such as they doo craue.
For euery Player cannot please
Eche pacient to playe with all:
For then, to cure his straunge disease,
He some should haue soone at his call:
But he must haue whom eche would craue,
Els he, poore soule, small rest shall haue.
This Madam, for ought I can see,
The meaning of your doubt must be:
Which, if you like not, good Madam,
Let it euen passe from whence it came.
The meaning of your doubt must be:
Which, if you like not, good Madam,
Let it euen passe from whence it came.
My Lady lawght: Is loue, quod she,
A spight and sporte, to both at ones?
Now thou hast giuen me, credit me,
A resolution, for the nones:
Tis loue, in deede: thou hast founde out
The misterie of all my doubt:
And for thy paines, as to a friend,
I yeelde thee thancks:—and there an end.
A spight and sporte, to both at ones?
Now thou hast giuen me, credit me,
A resolution, for the nones:
Tis loue, in deede: thou hast founde out
The misterie of all my doubt:
And for thy paines, as to a friend,
I yeelde thee thancks:—and there an end.
[First, to thy seemely selfe]
A Letter sent vnto a Gentilwoman in verse, wherein he gaue great thanks for both good cheere and other curteous entertainement he had receiued at her hands, beeing in the Country at her house. The Gentilwomans name was Mistris Lettis.
First, to thy seemely selfe,my selfe I doo commend:
And for thy friendly cheere & cost
ten thousand thanks I send:
Which able to requite,
I know I shall not be:
But to my power, I will deserue
as much as lyes in me.
But yet, of all thy cates,
one dish aboue the rest
I euer since doo beare in minde,
which fare dooth like me best:
Which deinty dish (my deare,)
If I mought plainly name,
Lettys it is, a houlsome hearbe:
thyselfe doost know the same.
An herbe that we haue here:
but yet I plainely finde
That Lettys, from our Lettys heere,
dooth much digresse in kinde:
For in that Lettys, such
vertues soone I found,
55
dooth grow vpon our ground:
This Lettys sweete art thou,
in which I so delight:
And God he knows what griefs I bide,
for wanting of thy sight.
No cates, that I can taste,
but seeme all gall to me:
When that in minde I feede vpon
the fresh recorde of thee:
And so, my Lettys sweete,
vnto thy selfe farewell!
And thinck no cates like Lettys fine,
can like me halfe so well.
A Riddle propounded by a Gentleman to a Gentilwoman whom he loued, but was a suter, but secretly.
The thing on earth you most desire,and yet of all you lest would chuse:
That often times you doo require,
and yet I know you will refuse:
And that here present you may see
All this is one: what may it be?
Her aunswer, as prety.
Good Sir, the selfe same thing that youaboue all things doo most esteeme:
And that in deede is present now,
and to your selfe you deerest deeme:
That doo you take it, out of doubt,
That I would chuse, yet be without.
[Perhaps you thinke, that all for spight]
A Ditty in despight of a very olde man, who was suter to a very young Gentilwoman: written by a young Gentilman, who was then (in deede) suter to the same Lady.
Perhaps you thinke, that all for spightI writ this running verse,
Wherein I doo such deepe dispraise
of doting fooles rehearse:
No, no (good faith) I hate no man:
but yet, to such a snudge,
Of force I must, I cannot chuse,
but beare a certaine grudge.
For as one way I honour age,
so such olde doting doltes,
That, at the age of three score yeares,
would faine seeme but young coltes:
Those crusty chaps I cannot loue,
the Diuell doo them shame:
God let them neuer haue good lucke
of any noble Dame,
Much lesse th[e] loue: alas, my heart,
it rendes for very greefe,
To thinke vpon the crabbed crust,
that vile old doting theefe,
That seekes to robbe thee of all ioyes,
and me of my delight:
Wo woorth that so shall seeke,
to winne a worthy wight:
And seeme to match a miching Carle
with such a pearlesse peece,
As neuer yet, Appelles fine,
could paint the like in Greece.
Well, well, this is the world, (we see)
tis money makes the man,
Yet shall not money make him yong
againe, doo what he can:
No, nor yet honest sure, I iudge,
nay more, for troth I know,
The older still, the more in crafte,
his braines he dooth bestow.
And crafte and Knauery commonly,
with crooked crabbed age,
With Auaryce and Jelosy,
dooth make a mariage.
These are the fruites of froward age,
which thou shalt reape, God wot:
When thou wilt say, oh, had I wist,
in faith then would I not.
Well, say not yet but thou art warnde,
by him that likes thee well,
Thou comber not thy comly corps,
with such a Coystrel:
Whose crusty chaps, whose Aly nose,
whose lothsom stinking breath,
Whose toothles gumms, whose bristled beard,
whose visage, all like death,
Would kill an honest wench to view:
and so it will doo thee,
If so thou hap to match thy selfe
with such a snudge as he.
My counsaile therefore follow, wench,
cast of the crabbed knaue:
And henceforth, not one merry word,
ne looke yet let him haue:
But frowne vpon the froward foole,
and when thou seest him glad,
Knit thou thy browes, hang down thy head,
& then seeme yu most sad.
As who would say, the crabbed lookes
of his old doting age
Of force you know must needes offend,
a youthfull personage:
Let therfore crummes, as fyttest is,
with crustes then linked be:
For trust to this, that like to like,
will euer best agree.
56
A prety Toye in rime.
MISERO INFORTUNATO SOLO: LAMENTING HIS EUILL HAPPE, IN DISPAYRE OF HELPE.
Whē purse grows pild, & credit cracks,
& friends begin to faile,
To comfort then a heauy heart,
alas, what may prevaile?
Audita vox confortans.& friends begin to faile,
To comfort then a heauy heart,
alas, what may prevaile?
Yet doo not thou dispayre at all,
but comfort thou thy minde:
Though credit, purse, & friends be gone,
somwhat is left behinde.
but comfort thou thy minde:
Though credit, purse, & friends be gone,
somwhat is left behinde.
Misero.
Somewhat, alas, oh, tell me now,
what somwhat that may be:
That so in this my deepe distresse,
is left to comfort me.
what somwhat that may be:
That so in this my deepe distresse,
is left to comfort me.
Vox.
Why doost thou craue to know the thing
wherof yu canst not doubt?
Necessity ere long, I wis,
will make thee finde it out.
wherof yu canst not doubt?
Necessity ere long, I wis,
will make thee finde it out.
Misero.
Necessitie, alas, I see,
too ready is at hand:
Yet can I not, doo what I can,
thy meaning vnderstand.
too ready is at hand:
Yet can I not, doo what I can,
thy meaning vnderstand.
Vox.
Why? doste thou not thy selfe assure,
there is no mallady,
But physick hath in store for it,
some kinde of remedy.
there is no mallady,
But physick hath in store for it,
some kinde of remedy.
Misero.
No, credit me, I feare there is
no meane to cure my greefe:
If there be any, let me craue
how I may find releefe.
no meane to cure my greefe:
If there be any, let me craue
how I may find releefe.
Vox.
Wylt thou doo as I bid thee doo?
and thou shalt soone finde ease:
Although thou be not at the first,
quite rid of thy disease.
and thou shalt soone finde ease:
Although thou be not at the first,
quite rid of thy disease.
Misero.
If that thy counsaile well I like,
I will agree thereto:
To ease my heart of this despayre,
I care not what to doo.
I will agree thereto:
To ease my heart of this despayre,
I care not what to doo.
Vox.
Haue patience then, rage not to much,
let reason rule thy minde:
And be thou sure, in little time,
some comfort for to finde.
let reason rule thy minde:
And be thou sure, in little time,
some comfort for to finde.
Misero.
But pacience dooth come perforce:
and what is forst (God wot)
Dooth more and more torment the minde:
then pacience easeth not.
and what is forst (God wot)
Dooth more and more torment the minde:
then pacience easeth not.
Vox.
Yet pacience procureth hope,
and hope driues out dispaire:
And where Dispaire is driuen away,
there comfort dooth repayre.
and hope driues out dispaire:
And where Dispaire is driuen away,
there comfort dooth repayre.
Misero.
Oh, but hope oftentimes is vaine,
and dooth deceiue the minde:
Therefore, in hope I thinke, alas,
but comfort small to finde.
and dooth deceiue the minde:
Therefore, in hope I thinke, alas,
but comfort small to finde.
Vox.
Let hope then grow by due desart,
then followes good successe:
For reason showes, who seekes for ease,
shal some way finde redresse.
then followes good successe:
For reason showes, who seekes for ease,
shal some way finde redresse.
Misero.
Oh, but alas, those dayes be past
for to reward desart:
And that the more, dooth cause dispayre,
for to torment my heart.
for to reward desart:
And that the more, dooth cause dispayre,
for to torment my heart.
Vox.
What though such daies are past, in deede,
yet daies wil come again,
Wherein desarts shall reape desyre,
and pleasure win for paine.
yet daies wil come again,
Wherein desarts shall reape desyre,
and pleasure win for paine.
Misero.
But while the grasse dooth grow, oft times
the silly steede he sterues:
And he, God wot, shall reape small gaine,
in only hope, that serues.
the silly steede he sterues:
And he, God wot, shall reape small gaine,
in only hope, that serues.
Vox.
Yet serue in hope, and hope in God,
and seeke well to deserue:
And let the Horse doo what he list,
be sure thou shalt not sterue.
and seeke well to deserue:
And let the Horse doo what he list,
be sure thou shalt not sterue.
Misero.
Now like I well this lesson thine,
God well in heart to serue:
For he, in deede, who hope in him,
will neuer let them sterue.
God well in heart to serue:
For he, in deede, who hope in him,
will neuer let them sterue.
[Needs must I write, & know not what]
A Gentleman beeing in his friends house, in the Country, was by him earnestly intreated after Dinner, before his departure, to make him some verses. But would giue him no theame to write
57
why then euen as it is,
Accept the same, and blame me not,
if ought you find amis.
On bushy bankes what else,
but thornes and bryars grow?
What looke you for, but raine,
when stormy winds gin blowe?
What looke you for, of me,
some learned kinde of verse?
You are deceaude: I cannot I,
but ragged rimes rehearse.
But what? me thinkes you say,
I make too much adoo,
Considering how little yet,
I haue done hetherto:
And since I graunted haue
so little time to write,
Some pithy shorter sentence, would
a wiser man indite.
In deede syr, true it is,
my fault I do confesse,
And since I haue no longer time
my meaning to expresse,
Remaine in doubt what I would doo,
if I had longer time:
And so, with thanks for my good cheare,
I rudely end my rime.
But if so be you haue
some prety kinde of stile,
Whereon you doo desire some verse,
if you will stay a while,
A day or two, or so,
or till I come againe,
Then you shall see, that I in time
will temper so my braine,
And whet my wittes a new,
that I will promise you,
Some prety peece of verse thereon,
more then I can doo now.
And thus, I leaue you here,
vntil I come againe,
This rude and ragged rime to reade:
and so, in rest remaine.
Verses made upon this Theame:
Little medling, breedes mickle rest.
My youthfull yeares are spent,
old age comes stealing on,
And bids me now, fond Fancies fits,
no more to thinke vpon.
Of worthy Wisdome I,
some lessons now haue learnde,
Whereby the difference twixt wit
and will, I haue discernde:
Among all which, this one,
where euer so I be,
To keepe still secrete to my selfe
what so I here or see.
Which, since of lessons all
I doo not count the worst,
I doo intend his graue aduise,
in this to follow first.
Fyrst in thy selfe, quoth he,
all faults thou must amend,
Before in other men thou seeke,
one fault to reprehend.
Of Cato eke I learnd,
it is no little shame,
To find that fault in other men,
wherein I am to blame.
To hold my peace, therefore,
I count it alwayes best:
And keep in minde the old sayd saw,
thereof comes mickle rest.
old age comes stealing on,
And bids me now, fond Fancies fits,
no more to thinke vpon.
Of worthy Wisdome I,
some lessons now haue learnde,
Whereby the difference twixt wit
and will, I haue discernde:
Among all which, this one,
where euer so I be,
To keepe still secrete to my selfe
what so I here or see.
Which, since of lessons all
I doo not count the worst,
I doo intend his graue aduise,
in this to follow first.
Fyrst in thy selfe, quoth he,
all faults thou must amend,
Before in other men thou seeke,
one fault to reprehend.
Of Cato eke I learnd,
it is no little shame,
To find that fault in other men,
wherein I am to blame.
To hold my peace, therefore,
I count it alwayes best:
And keep in minde the old sayd saw,
thereof comes mickle rest.
I see a flattering knaue
is set by, now and then,
Of greatest heads, as much and more,
then twenty honest men:
But let me rue the same,
since I cannot amende it:
I mought a witlesse foole be thought
to seeke to reprehend it.
is set by, now and then,
Of greatest heads, as much and more,
then twenty honest men:
But let me rue the same,
since I cannot amende it:
I mought a witlesse foole be thought
to seeke to reprehend it.
Some Lawyer sees, at fyrst,
which way the case will go:
Although he list not, at the fyrst,
to tell his Clyent so:
But what meanes he by that?
alas, doo you not see,
Your pence may make you picke it out,
and so they shall, for me.
What boote were it, for me,
their meaning to betray:
And so, no profite to my selfe,
to take their gaines away?
which way the case will go:
Although he list not, at the fyrst,
to tell his Clyent so:
But what meanes he by that?
alas, doo you not see,
Your pence may make you picke it out,
and so they shall, for me.
What boote were it, for me,
their meaning to betray:
And so, no profite to my selfe,
to take their gaines away?
The Marchaunt man he sees too, syr,
by your hye lusty lookes,
That shortly he shall finde your hand.
deep in his reckening bookes.
Bids he you then beware
betimes, of had I wist?
No, no, but lets you lash it out
as long syr, as you list.
Or as you can, at least:
and if you aske me why,
He will no better counsaile giue,
and what he meanes thereby?
Your losse of Lands, ere long,
shall learne you how to know,
As well as I can teach you Syr,
and better too, I trow.
And so shall I offend
the Marchaunts nere a whit,
By showing of their silken snares,
that in their shops doo sit.
by your hye lusty lookes,
That shortly he shall finde your hand.
deep in his reckening bookes.
Bids he you then beware
betimes, of had I wist?
No, no, but lets you lash it out
as long syr, as you list.
Or as you can, at least:
and if you aske me why,
He will no better counsaile giue,
and what he meanes thereby?
Your losse of Lands, ere long,
shall learne you how to know,
As well as I can teach you Syr,
and better too, I trow.
58
the Marchaunts nere a whit,
By showing of their silken snares,
that in their shops doo sit.
Your Tenaunt too he sees,
that by your trim gay Coates,
Some Lease is shortly to be let,
then gets he vp his Groates:
And purseth vp his pence,
and coms with coyne in hande
To craue of your good Maystership,
to hyre a peece of Lande.
And wot you wherefore Syr,
your Farmer finds this feate?
To come with Coyne, ready in hand,
your freenship to intreate:
When that your goods are gone,
and you the losse doo see
Of brainsick bargaines made in haste,
to maintaine brauery:
The smart thereof, at last,
shall shew you then their shiftes:
Then shall you easely discerne,
their double dealing driftes:
Which I dare not descry,
I am so chargde, you see,
To make no words of any thing,
what euer so it be.
that by your trim gay Coates,
Some Lease is shortly to be let,
then gets he vp his Groates:
And purseth vp his pence,
and coms with coyne in hande
To craue of your good Maystership,
to hyre a peece of Lande.
And wot you wherefore Syr,
your Farmer finds this feate?
To come with Coyne, ready in hand,
your freenship to intreate:
When that your goods are gone,
and you the losse doo see
Of brainsick bargaines made in haste,
to maintaine brauery:
The smart thereof, at last,
shall shew you then their shiftes:
Then shall you easely discerne,
their double dealing driftes:
Which I dare not descry,
I am so chargde, you see,
To make no words of any thing,
what euer so it be.
Your servaunt last he sees,
your feathers gin to fall,
And sees your Farmer buy you out,
of house and land and all.
No longer then he likes
your seruice Syr, adew,
And if you meane to keepe a man.
you must go seek a new.
And aske you me by this,
what may his meaning be?
Sure, if you see it not your selfe.
you shall not know for me.
your feathers gin to fall,
And sees your Farmer buy you out,
of house and land and all.
No longer then he likes
your seruice Syr, adew,
And if you meane to keepe a man.
you must go seek a new.
And aske you me by this,
what may his meaning be?
Sure, if you see it not your selfe.
you shall not know for me.
As for the higher powers,
they are too high for me:
What faults are to be found in them,
I list not seeke to see:
Let finde their faults themselues,
so shall they best be pleasde:
And for my silence, I am sure
I shall not be diseasde.
they are too high for me:
What faults are to be found in them,
I list not seeke to see:
Let finde their faults themselues,
so shall they best be pleasde:
And for my silence, I am sure
I shall not be diseasde.
But to the rest againe,
that are of meaner sorte;
Of their fine fetches, secretly,
I somewhat will reporte:
For openly, God wot,
I nothing dare descry:
Who hurts not me, nor yet my friends,
I will not hurt them, I.
But they who doo me harme,
I doo not meane to spare:
To bid my friends in each respect,
of such for to beware.
that are of meaner sorte;
Of their fine fetches, secretly,
I somewhat will reporte:
For openly, God wot,
I nothing dare descry:
Who hurts not me, nor yet my friends,
I will not hurt them, I.
But they who doo me harme,
I doo not meane to spare:
To bid my friends in each respect,
of such for to beware.
From Cittizens to Clownes,
what secret shifte they haue:
It is a sport to see a Clowne
how he can play the Knaue.
The Badger fyrst, one Knaue
that hunts the market place,
When Corne is cheape, to buy good store.
now therby lyes a case.
What should he mean by that?
oh syr, when corne growes deere,
I need not tell you what he means,
your selfe shall know next yere.
what secret shifte they haue:
It is a sport to see a Clowne
how he can play the Knaue.
The Badger fyrst, one Knaue
that hunts the market place,
When Corne is cheape, to buy good store.
now therby lyes a case.
What should he mean by that?
oh syr, when corne growes deere,
I need not tell you what he means,
your selfe shall know next yere.
The toleyng Myller then,
when he hath tollde his sacke,
He findes a trade to fill it vp,
if any meale doo lacke.
Now what meanes he by this?
this feate how dooth he frame?
The Milstones greete among ye meale,
wil make you finde the same.
when he hath tollde his sacke,
He findes a trade to fill it vp,
if any meale doo lacke.
Now what meanes he by this?
this feate how dooth he frame?
The Milstones greete among ye meale,
wil make you finde the same.
The Baker then, that sees
that meale dooth grow so deare,
He findes a shyfte to hold his gaines,
how euer goe the yeare.
But what is that his shifte?
the Bakers man can tell,
And I say nought, but little loaues
will show it pretely well.
that meale dooth grow so deare,
He findes a shyfte to hold his gaines,
how euer goe the yeare.
But what is that his shifte?
the Bakers man can tell,
And I say nought, but little loaues
will show it pretely well.
Some other crabbed Carles,
of canckred cutthroates kinde,
That buy whole groaues of woods at once:
and shal I speak my mind,
What they doo meane thereby?
oh no sir, by the roode,
The Collier & the poore man knowes,
when they do buy their wood.
of canckred cutthroates kinde,
That buy whole groaues of woods at once:
and shal I speak my mind,
What they doo meane thereby?
oh no sir, by the roode,
The Collier & the poore man knowes,
when they do buy their wood.
The Collyer yet to gaine,
will play the craftie Clowne:
He works a knack, yet in his sack,
when coales doo come to towne:
But how he works that shifte,
I pray you aske not me:
But whē you see him shoote his coales,
thē marke what dust you see.
will play the craftie Clowne:
He works a knack, yet in his sack,
when coales doo come to towne:
But how he works that shifte,
I pray you aske not me:
But whē you see him shoote his coales,
thē marke what dust you see.
Another sort of clownes there are
that liue by buying corne,
That secretly vse knauish shiftes,
that are not to be borne:
And these are Maltmen cald:
but what their shiftes should be,
I need not tell, by speered Mault
the Bruer soone will see.
that liue by buying corne,
That secretly vse knauish shiftes,
that are not to be borne:
And these are Maltmen cald:
but what their shiftes should be,
I need not tell, by speered Mault
the Bruer soone will see.
The Bruer then, he findes
a shifte, to make a gaine:
But what is that? small drinke (alas)
doth show it too too plaine.
a shifte, to make a gaine:
But what is that? small drinke (alas)
doth show it too too plaine.
Another sort of Clownes there are,
that droauers are by name:
That Heards of Cattell buy at once:
what meane they by the same?
Oh syr, although I know,
I must not say my minde:
But when the poore man buyes a Cow,
then he the cause shall [finde.]
that droauers are by name:
That Heards of Cattell buy at once:
what meane they by the same?
59
I must not say my minde:
But when the poore man buyes a Cow,
then he the cause shall [finde.]
Another sort there are,
which some doo Grasiers call:
And for their secret kinde of gaine,
they are not least of all:
But how they make theyr gaine,
I list not to descrie,
The Butcher, when he Buyes his Beefes,
he better knowes thē I.
which some doo Grasiers call:
And for their secret kinde of gaine,
they are not least of all:
But how they make theyr gaine,
I list not to descrie,
The Butcher, when he Buyes his Beefes,
he better knowes thē I.
The Butcher too againe,
he is no foole, I trowe:
He findes deuice to make a gaine,
how euer Cattell go.
But shall I tell you how?
oh sir, I must not, I:
But marke you price & Butchers weight,
your Beefe when you do buy.
he is no foole, I trowe:
He findes deuice to make a gaine,
how euer Cattell go.
But shall I tell you how?
oh sir, I must not, I:
But marke you price & Butchers weight,
your Beefe when you do buy.
The Chaundler then, yt of
the Butcher Tallow buies:
If he buy deere, then wyll he worke
a feate in secret wise,
To make a secret gaine:
but what feate may that be
I dare say nought, but some the same
by watry lights may see.
the Butcher Tallow buies:
If he buy deere, then wyll he worke
a feate in secret wise,
To make a secret gaine:
but what feate may that be
I dare say nought, but some the same
by watry lights may see.
Some wealthy fellowes are,
that trauell here and [t]here,
And buy up almost all the Wooll
they can get euery where:
And doo you seeke to know
what they may meane by that?
The Draper, when you buy your Cloth,
can quickly tell you what.
that trauell here and [t]here,
And buy up almost all the Wooll
they can get euery where:
And doo you seeke to know
what they may meane by that?
The Draper, when you buy your Cloth,
can quickly tell you what.
Tush, many such things moe,
I see ofte times, God wot,
Which I would helpe too if I could,
but (alas) I cannot.
Therefore, since I cannot,
I thinke it alwayes best,
To take good heede and hold my peace,
for scilence breeds much rest.
If Scilence, then, breede rest,
why haue I pratled so?
Yet haue I nothing saide, I hope,
whereof just grutch may grow.
But if against my will
I any doo offend,
I pardon craue, I spake in sporte,
and so I make an ende.
The iust will liue upright,
and make an honest gaine:
And if I thinke to mend a knaue,
my labour is in vaine.
But honest men, or els
what euer so they be,
Let Countrey, Prince, and freends alone,
and let them be for me.
But he that wisheth ill,
to Countrey, Prince and freend,
I will not keepe his counsaile sure,
but rather seeke his ende:
But els, as I am warnde,
so doo I thinke it best,
To medle little any way,
and so to liue at rest.
I see ofte times, God wot,
Which I would helpe too if I could,
but (alas) I cannot.
Therefore, since I cannot,
I thinke it alwayes best,
To take good heede and hold my peace,
for scilence breeds much rest.
If Scilence, then, breede rest,
why haue I pratled so?
Yet haue I nothing saide, I hope,
whereof just grutch may grow.
But if against my will
I any doo offend,
I pardon craue, I spake in sporte,
and so I make an ende.
The iust will liue upright,
and make an honest gaine:
And if I thinke to mend a knaue,
my labour is in vaine.
But honest men, or els
what euer so they be,
Let Countrey, Prince, and freends alone,
and let them be for me.
But he that wisheth ill,
to Countrey, Prince and freend,
I will not keepe his counsaile sure,
but rather seeke his ende:
But els, as I am warnde,
so doo I thinke it best,
To medle little any way,
and so to liue at rest.
A solempne and repentant Prayer, for former life mispent.
Oh heavenly Lord, who plain doost seeye thoughts of ech mās heart:
Who sendest some continuall plague,
& some release of smart:
Pittie, O Lorde, the wofull state,
wherein I dayly stand,
And onely for thy mercies sake,
now helpe me, out of hande.
And as it was thy pleasure fyrst,
to plague me thus with greefe:
So canst thou, Lorde, if thee it please,
with speede send me releefe.
I must of force confesse, O Lorde,
I can it not denye,
That I deserue these plagues and worse,
and that continually:
Yet doo not thou therefore on me
thy Judgements iust extend:
But pardon me, and graunt me grace
my life for to amend.
And banish (Lord) from me,
delights of worldly vanitie,
And lend me helpe, to pace the pathes,
of perfect pietie.
And truely so to treade the pathes,
and in such godly wise,
That they may bring me to the place,
of perfect paradice:
And not to wander vp and downe,
in wayes of weary wo,
Where wicked wily wanton toyes,
do leade me too and fro:
The Sap of Sapience likes me not,
that pleaseth not my taste:
But fonde delight, that wicked weede,
was all my chiefe repaste:
Wherein, as hooke within the baight,
so doo I plainly finde
Some hidden poyson lurking lyes,
for to infect my minde:
But wherefore doo I finde it now?
because, I now doo see
That, wanting smart, I wanted grace,
for to acknowledge thee.
60
doo feele thy punishment:
I doo lament my folly great,
and all my sinnes repent:
And to thy heauenly throane, O Lord,
for mercy I appeale,
To send me (Lord) some heauēly salue,
my greevous sores to heale.
Beholde, O Lord, my sorrowes such,
as no man dooth endure:
And eke, my greevous sicknesse such
as none but thou canst cure:
And as thou art a gratious God,
to men in misery,
So pitty me, that thus (O Lord)
doo pine in penurie:
And as thou art a help to all
that put their trust in thee:
So (luld in this my deepe distresse)
some comfort lend to me.
And hold, O Lord, thy heauy hand,
and lay thy scourge aside:
For (Lord) the greevous smart thereof,
I can no longer bide.
Forgiue my sinnes, forget the same,
beholde my humble heart,
Who, onely Lord, doo trust in thee,
for to releeue my smart:
And after this my wretched life:
Lord, graunt me, of thy grace,
That I in heauen, at latter daye,
may haue a ioyfull place.
FINIS.
| The Works in Verse and Prose of Nicholas Breton | |