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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| A pretty toye, written vpon a Ladyes propounding
of a Riddle to her friende. |
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 | The Works in Verse and Prose of Nicholas Breton |  |
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.
| The Works in Verse and Prose of Nicholas Breton | |