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THE PILGRIMAGE TO PARADISE.

From all those courses of a vaine conceit
Where vertue proues her honor hath no place,
Vnto the Sunne of that bright shining heighte:
Where all the graces haue their highest grace,
My Muse is weande by wisedomes sounde aduise,
To make her pilgrimage, to paradise.
Which pilgrimage, is not, as poets faine
Nor pieuish people, blindely doe conceiue:
A kinde of walke, that worldly wealth may gaine,
Whereby the deuill, doth the worlde deceiue:
But, tis a walke, of onely vertues will,
And to be founde, but by the spirits skill.
Now, they that must this trauaile take in hande,
Are onely fiue, ech differente in theire nature,
Which, with consent, doe all contented stand,
To yeeld theire seruice, to one onely creature:
By whom they are vnto theire comforte led:
And, as hee fares, are found, aliue or dead.
Now lies this walke, alonge a wildernes,
A forrest, ful of wild, and cruell beastes:
The earth vntilde, the fruit vnhappines,
The trees all hollow, full of howletes nestes,
The aier vnholsome, or so foule infected:
As, hardely restes, that may not be reiected.
But to goe on with my intended tale
Fiue seruants, ledde by one chiefe lord, there were:
Which, all were sworne in either blisse, or bale,
Their masters fortune, faithfully to beare:
And so resolu'de, to see, their seruice done,
On gods good speed their trauaile thus begonne.
The lorde and Master, first the Muses called,
And bad them stay, their straying kinde of Musing:
Whose pure conceite, their spirits so apalled,
As made them haue, their humors in refusing:
And make their state, but on that only story,
That was the grace, of their eternall glory.
Then gaue a charge to euery one, aparte,
To keepe the compasse of a true conceite:
What euery one should haue for her desart,
That, to her hope, could keepe the high waie streight:
And then his seruants, soundely did aduise,
How they shoulde finde the path to paradise.
The first, his charge, was onely but to see,
What best might please, and what might worst offend:
What obiects might but all as abiects be,
What harme to scape, what honour to attende:
Afarre, neare hand, each side, before, behinde,
How best to guide a pure, and perfect minde.
The seconde calde, his charge was but to heare,
In sweetest sounds, which was the soundest sweete:
What graces might, in Musickes grounde appeare,
And where the honors of the humors meete:
What carefull notes, doe comfort best conclude,
While Sirens songes, doe but the soule delude.
The third then calde, was charg'd to take the sent.
Of euery flower and herbe, within the fielde:
Which might but grow whereas their graces went,
What fauoure might, the sweetest profit yeelde:
And what might hurt, least that the braine displeased.
The body might perhaps be all diseased.
The fourth then calde, did take his charge, to tast,
Of euery fruite, that should become their foode:
What beast might nourish, and might sweetest last,
And, in their trauaile most might doe them good:
How sweete with sower, might best be tempred so.
As t'one the tother might not well forgoe.
Then came the fifte, who tooke his charge to feele,
The grauelde causey from the hollow grounde:
How best the toe, might trust vnto the heele,
When settled faith had surest footing founde:
And so by leasure finde, where sweetely lies,
The louely path, that leades to paradise.
When thus ech one, had learnèd what to doe,
Instructed by the guide vnto their grace:
Weying the worth, they were to walke vnto,
Wishing, and longing, to beholde the place.
Onwards they passe, but with two poore attendauntes,
And, (on the earth) but with two poore defendauntes.
7

Their cariage was, but an vnwildy trunke,
Wherein to neare their trash, was laied their treasure,
With weight whereof, their shoulders often thruncke,
Before they came, vnto their place of pleasure.
But let that passe, vntill the time be cumme
To make the reckening of a Roial summe.
But to goe on as I did first intend,
To tell the course of these resoluèd creatures,
To take a trauaile, that should neuer ende,
A note, aboue the reache of earthly natures:
Lo, thus it was, at least as he did write,
That seemde he winckt not, when he hit the white.
Along the walke, the walke, alas to long,
Amidde the haples hils, and dolefull dales:
Where sighes and sobs, doe sound but sorrows song,
While sweetest truthes are crost by sorie tales:
And darkest cloudes, are clapt before the sunne,
These wary creatures, haue their waie begunne.
A path vnpleasant where no pleasure was,
That earthly people easely might perceiue:
A passage harde, and narrow for to passe,
But for the life, that of his life tooke leaue:
To passe the lake where death, and sorrow lies,
And kill them both to come to paradise.
Wherein no sooner were they all set forth,
With resolution neuer to returne:
There did appeare a light of little worth,
A mocking ioie, whose ende was but to morne:
Vpon the left hand, of this selly creature,
Venus, faire painted with her finest feature.
Who, wanting nothing that might wel adorne
A cunning dame, to compasse her desire:
With looke askaunce, as if shee had in scorne,
A meaner hope, then might a heauen aspire:
With strange deuises of a world of toies,
Would stoope his passage to his further ioies.
And vp she standes a tipto, in her state,
As, if the earth too base were for her feete:
With such a glaunce, as if shee had in hate,
That lesse then Monarches, should her presence meete:
When, with such smiles, so neare this walke she went,
As made them wonder what the vision ment.
When he, that first had taken charge to view,
What might their trauaile hinder or auaile:
Finding that in his sight a dimnes grew,
Whereby the cleernes of his sence might faile:
Feeling the humor, growe vnto an itche,
Beganne to feare the wonder was a witch.
When of the sodaine, holding vp his hande,
Betwixte his sight, and this same perlous thing:
Hauing no leasure, on his thoughtes to stande,
What issue would, of this ill humor spring,
Went on alonge and kepte his walke aright,
Vntill this vision vanisht out of sight.
When on the right hand fourthwith did appeare,
Diana, shee of whom the poets writ:
A dame of state, yet with such smiling cheere,
As shewd, where kindenes did with honor sit:
Who with her nimphes, appareld all in white,
Did seeme to pure an obiect for his sight.
When fearing, that the poets did not faine,
That did set forth Diana for diuine:
When in her Beauty was so bright a vaine,
As seemde, that Phœbus on her face did shine:
Betwixt his sight, and this conceiuèd sunne,
Helde vp his hande, ere any hurte was donne.
And thus betwixt first Venus then Diane,
Onwardes he goes, his right intended way,
And noting well what he had vndertane,
And that a stoppe might cause to longe a staie,
Keeping the path, looking on neither side,
He followes on his best belouèd guide.
When, walking on, his hopèd happy way,
Vpon the left hande rose a sodaine sounde,
Which might haue beene a most vnhappy staie,
But that a sodaine remedy was found,
For he that knew her Musicke was a charme,
His hearing stopt, for feare of further harme.
And this was he that had the charge to heare,
And harken soundly to each secret sounde.
What noise might not by any meanes cum neare,
And where the Muses soone woulde be aground,
Who hauing heard but how her harpe was stronge,
Would not vouchsafe the hearing of her songe.
But when shee saw how hardly shee was vsed,
Her Beauty first barde from the walke of blisse,
And then her Musicke so in skorne refused,
As idle noise, wherein no honor is,
Awaie shee went all angry as shee was,
And left the poore man, on his waie to passe.
When, on the right hand of the sodeine rose,
An other sound, but of a deeper sweete,
Where sure Diana, with her Nimphes had chose
The ground of grace where all the Muses meete,
To shew the world the heauenly harmony,
Where Nightingales, doe make a company.
When hee that heard the sweetnes of the sound,
Fearing what hurt might quickly growe vpon it,
If once his Muse, vnhapply might be drownde,
In worldes delight, ere wit had ouergonne it.
The hearing stopt, of his vnworthy sence:
Of such a sound, of such an excellence.
But when Diana plainly gan to find,
That one of all the world, had warning tooke:
For comming neere vnto Acteons kinde,
And that her siluer sound was so forsooke,
Away shee went, but yet, with this sweet blessing,
Vertue is plac'd where pride may not be pressing.
8

When these were gon, that might haue stopte his waie,
Had he not kepte the course of better care,
A new devise, againe to breede his staie,
Came Flora forth, with all hir fairest ware,
Laying abroad the wardrope of her wealth,
Her fairest flowers, and fittest herbes for health.
But he that had the charge to take the sente,
Of euerie sauoure, both the sower and sweete,
Knowing what best might comforte or contente,
How, weedes were all to tread but vnder feete,
The holsome sauoure to his seruice vsed,
And faire flourd weedes, as poison foule refused.
But when that Flora, saw her great disgrace:
Witherèd with griefe, she shrunke into the ground,
And, (as it seemed) displeasèd with the place,
For that so little fauour their she found:
She lets him goe, vntill anone he met,
An other Lady, with an other let.
And this was she, of whom the Poets writ,
Ceres the Princes of the Pesaunts treasure,
Who both for tast, and eke for hunger fit,
Did onely worke, but for the bellies pleasure:
Who, with a cornu copia, sweetely dight,
Would staie the spirit with the flesh delight.
But he that had the charge, to take a tast
Of every fruit, whereon they were to feede,
What soone would rot, and what would longest last,
And what would proue the sweetest foode indeede:
Vpon his lippe his little finger plas't:
As if her gift were vtterly disgras't.
Not that the present seemèd of no price,
But that their comforts were of other kinde,
And that (God wot) it was a base deuise,
With belly pleasures to abuse the minde:
Which Ceres seeing, parted in a rage,
And left the pilgrime to his pilgrimage.
Which, selly creature, softly going on,
Encountred with more crosses than before:
A world of fooles, and deuils many a one.
In shape of men, in shape, and somewhat more:
Which labourd sore, to make some stoppe, or stay,
To hinder loue, in hitting vertues waie.
But he, whose charge, was charily to feele,
What grounde was best to grounde his footing on:
Spurnde with his toe, and kickt of with his heele,
Their stumbling stones, till all the stops were gone:
Which, when they saw, his blisse they could not balke,
They ranne away, and left him to his walke.
By which good howre, when heauens had happly tried,
How constant care, his passage, truely past:
And in the harte, no vile desire did bide,
While patient will, was with discretion plac't:
They rockt the rules of nature sence asleepe,
While Angels songs, the soule did waking keepe.
But, waking wit, that had no will to rest,
Till ioie might come, vnto her iourneies ende:
And that the spirit was not fully blest,
Till humble faith, might see her heauenly friende
Awakte this pilgrime, from his pensiue vaine,
And set him sweetely on his waie againe.
When, passing on, they fell into a wood,
A thicket full of brambles, thornes, and briers:
A graceles groue, that neuer did man good,
But wretched endinges of the worldes desires:
Where Snakes, and Adders, and such venumd things,
Had slaine a number, with their cruell stinges.
Some, Metamorphosde, like Acteon, were,
Diana smiling at their lewde desires:
Some Semitawres, and some, more halfe a Beare,
Other halfe swine, deepe wallowing in the miers:
All beastly mindes, that could not be reformed,
Were to the shapes of their owne shame transformed.
There might he see, a Monkey with an Ape,
Climing a tree, and cracking of a nut:
One sparrow teache an other how to gape,
But not a tame one, taught to keepe the cut:
And many a jacke daw, in his foolish chat,
While parets prated of they knew not what.
There might he see Beares baited all with dogges,
Till they were forst to fly into their dennes:
And wilde Bores, beating of the lesser hogges,
While cocks of game, were fighting for their hens:
A little ferret, hunting of a Cunny,
And how the olde Bees, suckt the yoūg Bees hony.
There might he heare the lions in their roaring,
While lesser beastes, did tremble at the sounde:
There might he see, Buls one an other goaring,
And many a harte sore hunted with a hounde,
While Philomene, amid the quechy springe,
Woulde cease her note, to heare the Cuckoe sing.
There might he see a faulcon beaten downe
By carrein crowes, that croste her in her flight.
A russet Jerkin, face a veluet gowne,
While base companions, braude a noble Knight:
And crafty foxes creepe into their holes,
While little hoppes were climing lofty poles.
There might he see the Satyrs in their daunces,
Halfe men, halfe beastes, or deuils in their kindes:
There might he see the Muses, in their traunces,
Lie downe as dead, as if they had no mindes:
There might he see, in all, so little good,
As, made him wish, he had bene through the wood.
Yit in the path, wherein he sweetely past,
No euill thing, had power to take a place:
No venumde serpent, might his poison caste,
No filthy monster, nor illfauourd face:
No lyon, Beare, dogge, Moncky, foxe, nor Crow,
Could stoppe the waie, where vertue was to goe.
9

When, forwardes, on they had not trauailde farre,
But that they met, a monster fowle, and fell:
Armde, as it seemde, with all the world to warre,
And none but heauen, could of his conquest tell:
Seuen were his heads, seuen tailes, ech taile a sting,
And but one body: oh most beastly thing.
Now, on the left hand of this passage stoode,
This ougly horror, hate of al good nature:
When on the right hand glauncing through the wood,
Through sunny beames came downe a blessed creature:
Angell at least, by heauenly Mercy sent,
To comfort vertue, where discretion went.
White was her weede, and shining was her face,
Her fetherde winges, did glister all like golde:
And in her eie shee caried such a grace,
As was on earth, too glorious to beholde.
Which made the pilgrime on his knees adore her,
As one vnworthy once to stande before her.
But when shee saw humilities affection,
Wonne from the world to seeke for heauenly fauour,
And that the soule by wisdomes sound direction
In sacred flowers, should finde the sweetest fauour:
Shee raisde him vp, and badde him there receiue,
The true delightes, should not the soule deceiue.
When lifted vp, by that faire hande of loue,
That brought the hart an vnknowne happines
And euery seruant, sweetly did approue,
A blessing in their Masters blessednes:
With silent thoughtes, they humbly did attende
The words, that did their comfort comprehende.
Poore wretch quod shee, thy faithfull patient hart
The highest powers in pitty doe regarde:
Where true repentance pleades for no desart.
But bounties grace, where Mercy giues rewarde:
The heauens haue harde thy humble happy praier,
To helpe thy hope, and keepe thee from despaire:
The labour that thy loue hath tane in hande,
Thy trauaile, minding neuer to retire:
The happy staie, whereon thy hope doth stande,
Where humble praier but pitty doth aspire:
Haue got thee grace in Mercies glorious eies,
To finde the path that leades to paradise.
This is the path, that patience onely treades,
Where life doth goe on pilgrimage to loue:
Whose humble hart, the holy spirite leades,
Vnto the height of blessed hopes behoue:
Whom graces garde, till perils al be past,
And faith resolu'de, doe finde her rest at last.
Since thou hast scapte the vaunt of Venus vaine,
And not presumde Diana to approch:
Since Flora coulde no further fauour gaine,
Nor Ceres coulde thy carefull thought encroch:
Since fooles, and deuils, all are driuen awaie,
Bide but a night, and thou shalt see the daie.
Since thou hast scapte the way of wretchednes,
Where shameles mindes to shamefull shapes are turned,
And founde the waie of fairest blessednes
Where hart enflamde, with vertues fire hath burned:
Keepe on the pathe, and turne on neither side,
Grace to thy hope will be a happy guide,
Thinke it not long to cumme to heauen at last,
Nor linger time to hinder happy speede:
Feare not the sunne, though skies be ouercast,
And let a candell stande the night in steede:
So marke the light that liues in Vertues eies.
And loue shall leade thee straight to paradise.
Feare not the foes, nor forces thou shalt meete,
For thou shalt meete with monsters, many a one:
But faith resolu'de treds fortune vnder feete,
Where vertue comes, will vices all be gone.
Hell cannot hurt, whom heauenly powers defend,
Where grace begins, hope makes a happy end.
Lo neere at hand, he that would hurt thee most,
An ougly Monster, full of all corruption:
By whose illusion many soules haue lost,
Their liuely hopes, by lewdenes interruption.
A Lier, Theife, and master of all evill,
The sier of sinne, the fiende of hell, the deuill.
Seauen are his heades, as many are his tailes.
Each head a tongue, and euery taile a sting:
And woe to them, with whom his tongues prevailes.
Within the compase of his tails to bringe.
But skorne his wordes, or quite him with disgrace,
And thou shalt kill, or make him fly the place.
His body is the very sinke of sinne,
Into which hole, all hellish filth doth runne:
A plague of pride, presumption did beginne,
An endles plague, that was in pride begunne:
Where every head the body standes in steed,
With poisoned soules, the filthy paunch to feede.
His swordes, are wordes with which he is to fight,
Whose forces can but faithles hartes offende:
For, if hee looke but once at vertues light,
He faintes for feare, and feeles his forces ende:
But heare him speake and neuer feare his spight,
When vertue laughes at vanites delight.
His greatest head, and that doth gape most wide,
Is proude Ambition, swallowing worldly wealth:
Which faithles soules infectes with filthy pride,
Killing the spirit for the bodies health:
Vpon which head, he beares a triple crowne,
That, (Vertue sees) is neere his tumbling downe.
In which great head, his tongue is all vntruth,
Lies, to bewitch the worlde vnto his will:
The ease of Age, the high conceit of Youth:
Are greatest groundes of his vngratious skil:
To gouerne States, is such a stately thinge:
What slaue is he that would not be a King?
10

And thus the villaine would the world perswade,
To prowde attemptes that may presume to high:
But earthly ioies wil make him proue a Iade,
When vertue speakes of loues diuinity:
Where humble hart, doth to that heauen aspire,
Where is no place for any proude desire.
The seconde heade, is wicked avarice,
Choking itselfe, with trash in steade of treasure:
Whose tongue, is treason that can best deuise,
To hurte the spirite, with the bodies pleasure:
But talke of vertues ioie in misery,
And he wil pine to death in penury.
The thirde foule head, is filthy Gluttony,
Deuouring more then it can well digest:
Leading the harte to loathsome villany,
And of a man doth make an ougly beaste:
But, answere him with fasting, and with praier,
The very wordes will kill him with their aier.
The fourth bad head, is beastly slothfulness,
Sleeping, and snorting, like a filthy swine:
Loosing the time in loathsome idlenes,
Dreaming of that, which neuer was diuine:
But answere him, with vertues carefull watching,
He faintes, and falls, to finde his ouermatching.
The fifte vile heade, is filthy lechery,
Which leades the hart, to hateful wickednes:
His tongue, a forge of fancies treachery,
To bring the soule, to all vnhappines:
But, answere him, with vertues chaste desire,
And, he will bite his very taile for ire.
The sixte is enuy, full of malice fraught,
Feeding on snakes, that faine would vertue stinge:
Which, where they finde their forces come to nought,
Into his mouth they backe their poison bring:
But say how patience, leades to paradise,
He frets, and fumes, and in impatience dies.
The seventh is murther, most accursèd head
Whose tongue is blasphemy, all dide in blood:
Which, with the harts of harmeles creatures feade,
Lappes in the broath of an infernall foode:
But, saie how vertue doth for vengeance crie,
And dead he falles, or els awaie doth flie.
Now, beare these heauenly lessons all by harte,
And take these bookes to benefite thy minde;
In each of which is hidde a secret arte,
Whose proper vse, maie profite in his kinde:
But chiefly doe this holly booke peruse,
Where speciall comfortes, maie thy spirit chuse.
When, hauing giuen into his humble hande,
Seuen sundry bookes, whereon to vse his wit:
And last, the staie, whereon the state did stande,
Of happy life, where heauenly loue doth sit,
The holy booke, of vertues blessèd vaine:
Home shee returnes vnto her heauen againe.
Which, when the pilgrime humbly did beholde,
Carrying in minde, the comforts of his hart:
Which, to his faith, her fauour did vnfolde,
To keepe the soule from an infernall smart:
Against the fury of this fiende of hell
Onwardes he goes, God speede his passage well.
When, not to stand on circumstance too long,
He meetes anon with this same monster thing:
Who, by illusion, of the Sirens song,
Would seeke a worlde in bondage how to bring.
Turning himselfe into a thousand shapes,
To feare fond children, and to cosen Apes.
And first, he looks like to fiery light,
Which would consume, what so did crosse his waie:
But soone was donne the force of his despight,
Where vertue came he had no power to staie:
And then, he would become a speaking birde,
But God once namde, he durst not speake a worde.
And by and by, he would become a Beare,
To feare young children with a foolish noise:
But when a man, a beast can neuer feare,
He founde it prou'de olde children were no boies:
When, by and by, he woulde become an Ape,
Oh beastly thing, too neare a humaine shape.
But, when that vertue founde the vile effect
Of Apish humors, with the Monckish mindes,
Shee wholy did the vermins iestes reiect,
And forst him seeke for shapes of other kindes:
When all his sleightes, could doe him little boote,
For, vertue knew, the deuil by his foote.
No, though into an Angell faire of light,
He coulde transforme him selfe, for to deceiue:
Yet coulde he not his foote keepe out of sight,
But, vertue coulde his filthy clawe perceiue:
So by his foote, shee plainely did descrie him,
Bidding auaunte foule fiende, shee did defie him.
Whenas the pilgrime lifting vp his eies,
To heauenly powers from hell for to defende him:
Sweete Christ once namde, awaie the Serpent flies,
And, for a while vnable to offende him:
Til once againe the heauens had giuen him leaue,
To doe his worst, sweete vertue to deceiue.
When in the shape whereof before I spake,
With his seuen heads, the wicked Serpent standes:
With such a sounde, as made the earth to shake,
As halfe the worlde were subiect to his handes:
When first, his head of pride began to speake,
And, to this pilgrime did this poison breake.
Thou little wretch, quod he, of lesser worth,
In humaine shape I know not what to name:
Whom honors spirit, neuer coulde bring forth,
To seeke the fortune of imperial fame:
How didst thou fal into this forlorne path,
Wherein the worlde so little pleasure hath.
11

Where, see the ground of euery secret griefe
Which mortifies the body with the minde:
Subiect to euery crosse, and for reliefe,
Pitty, the whole that thou must hope to finde:
Patience a paine set downe, life but a death,
Where care, and sorrow draw a sickely breath.
Where eies must be embasèd to the ground,
Their pleasing humors, barrèd to beholde:
And bended knees, to cappe and courtzy bounde,
While barèd head, must bide the bitter colde:
The minde must stoupe, the hande must loose his strength,
The hart must droupe, and life must yeelde at length.
Is this the reach of Reasons noble wit?
To see a world, and seeke for nothing in it,
In such a chaire doth charie humor sit?
To know a worke of worth and not beginne it:
Who could of power conceiue of kingly pleasure,
Would no conceit in such a comfort measure.
Humility? a iolly creeping thought,
Patience, a prety purgatory:
Sorrow, a fit, for the phisitian wrought
And death a gentill ende of misery:
Fasting and praier, al the spirits pleasure,
Notes for a King, to looke vpon at leasure.
No, stoupe no thought, seeke only to subdue,
Set no conceit in honor with a crowne:
In begger minde, true conquest neuer grew,
The village is a cotage to the towne:
The Monarchy, doth shew the noble minde,
He hath no life that cummes of lower kinde.
What slaue wil serue, that easely may commaunde?
What Sence wil stoupe, that may be set alofte?
Who wil desire, that needes not to demaunde?
Who loues the boordes may haue his bedde made softe?
Or who regardes the rascall beggers teares?
That may haue Musicke to contente his eares.
What poore conceit, wil begge for crūmes of bread?
May haue his table furnisht all with cates?
Or breake his hart with hammers of his head?
May passe his humors with his pleasing mates:
Faire, wise, rich, learned, valiant, young, and olde,
Power is the hande, doth at commandement holde.
And so he stopt, but swelling with such pride,
As if his braine would haue with poison burst:
To whom, the pilgrime presently replied,
Avaunt foule fiende, and Monster most accurst:
Thou hate of heauen, and greatest hagge of hell,
What wicked tale hast thou presumde to tell.
Wretched, blasphemous spirit of presumption,
Ougly in shape, and horrible in sence,
Thou cursèd substance of the souls consumption,
The heauens displeasure, and the worlds offence:
That knowst no worth, and art not worth the knowing,
Rot in thy roote, ere thou haue further growing.
Thou wicked witch, fonde fortunes first deuiser,
To bring a desperate spirit to defame,
And by illusion, first the soules supriser,
That heares thy wordes, and wil beleeue the same:
How durst thou once presume so neere this path,
Where hatefull humor, neuer passage hath.
Thou grounde of griefe, heere is the grounde of grace,
Thou foule infection, heere is fairest health,
Thou crosse of crosses, heere is comfortes place,
Thou pitties want, and heere is pitties wealth,
Thou dire impatience, dole, and deadly strife,
Curst be the death that stoppes the waie of life.
Whose blinded eies, are barde all blessed light,
Whose crooked knees, are crampt for crafty creeping:
Whose triple crowne, in vertues humble sight,
Will breake thy necke, and rest in better keeping:
Whose hart subdued, by hande of heauenly strength,
Must liue in paine of neuer ending length.
Canst thou the rage of wil, the rules of wit?
Is all the world, ought els but vanitie?
Who in the chaire of chaunging choise doth sit,
Knowes nothing of diuine humanity,
Nor in conceit, can comfort truly measure,
That knows not pride the plage of high displeasure.
Humility, high Angels happy thought,
While patience, is the deuils purgatory:
Sorrow a fit, for faithes phisitians wroughte,
While high heauens mercy, endes worldes misery:
Fasting, and praier, happines procuring,
While true repentance is but hope enduring.
Then stoupe foule pride, whom heauens did full subdue,
Know that thy crowne is cumming tumbling downe:
Vertue doth see how by ilusion grew,
The worldes disgrace, to grace thee with a crowne:
Monarch of mischiefe, such is all thy minde,
Nor hath he life that cummes of such a kinde.
His seruice, freedome, that made thee a slaue,
His seate alofte, that makes thee lie full lowe:
His wante a welth, that sees thee nothing haue,
His boorde a bed, that makes thee watch for woe:
His almes sweete, that saues the beggers teares,
While thou hast nought but cries to fill thine eares.
A poore conceite, that starues for lacke of crums,
And yet will tell the worlde of delicates:
Who ofte for hunger feedst vpon thy thumbes,
When death and sorrowe, are thy hellish mates:
Faire, wise, riche, learned, valiant, olde, and young,
Take heede of pride, and of his poisned tongue.
And with what worde I knowe not how it fell,
But, downe the crowne, came tumbling on the grounde:
Whenas the head, with anger seemde to swell,
Like an Aposthume, of a poisoned wounde:
Which breaking inwarde, of the sodaine shroncke
Into the body: oh most beastly troncke.
12

The heade of pride thus suddainely consumde,
Or shroncke into this filthy sincke of sinne:
The second head, foule Auarice presumde,
With wicked wordes, the miser mindes to winne:
Ah, begger, worme, and needy wretch quod he,
What dost thou thinke that will become of thee.
Hath patience bred in thee this poore conceite,
That colde and hunger be thy harts content?
Doest thou not see, how manie thousandes waite,
In honors fielde, vpon the golden tente?
Or knowest thou not, power, wisedome, wit and pleasure,
All haue their Essence, in the golden treasure.
What face so faire, that is not grac't in golde,
What wit of worth, but hath in golde his wonder?
What learning, but with golden lines doth holde,
What state so high, but gold will bring him vnder?
What thought so sweete, but gold doth better season,
And what rule best, but in the golden reason.
Be lorde of landes, and cram thy chest with coine,
Feare nought but neede, mony will make a friende:
Let conscience learne the cunning to purloine,
Wit without welth, hath but a wofull ende:
The golden scepter, and the golden crowne,
Doth make the subiect on his knees come downe.
The grounde is fat, that yeeldes the golden fruite,
The study high, that hits the golden state:
The labour sweete, that gets the golden suite,
The reckning right, that makes the goldē rate:
The hap is sure, that golden hap doth holde,
And rich is gaine, that serues the god of golde.
And with that worde the wicked thing did cease,
When presently the pilgrime thus replied:
Oh cursed cancker, crosse of conscience peace
Whose hatefull harte, doth all ill humors hide:
Thou kindling cole of an infernall fire,
Die in the ashes of thy dead desire.
Impatient spirite liuing all by spoile,
Drunke like the dropsy, and yet euer drye:
Consumde with care, and tirèd out with toyle,
Seeminge to liue, and yet dost ever die:
How durst thou so the name of god blaspheme,
To giue to drosse so great a Diademe.
Thou stone-colde hart, with hungring after coine,
My care in heauen, doth seeke my hartes content:
Thou scrapst for pelfe, I seeke not to purloine,
In Vertues field, I seeke but mercies tent
When wisedome findes, in power of highest pleasure,
The world al trash, compared to heauenly treasure.
Fowle is the faire that hath in gold her grace,
Worthles the wit that hath in wealth his wonder:
Vnlearnèd lines, put gold in honors place,
Wicked the state, that will to coine cume vnder:
Base the conceite, that seasonde is with golde,
And begger rules, that such a reason holde.
Thou plodst for landes, I seeke a liuing place,
Thou fearste but neede, I, mony make no frinde:
Thy conscience, cunning, and my care is grace,
Thy wits welth, wo, my harts wish heauen at ende:
Thy golde is drosse, and vertue is my crowne,
Where hartes submission, puls ambition downe.
Earth giues thee golde, heauens giue me higher grace,
Men study wealth, but Angels wisedomes state:
Laboure seekes pence, loue hath a higher place,
Death makes thy reckening, life is all my rate:
Thy happe is hell, my hope of heauen doth holde,
God giue me grace: die deuill with thy golde.
And with that worde, the heade beganne to shrincke,
The face dead pale, and hollow grew the eies:
And so, at laste, did all, and wholy sincke
Into that hell, that heade of Auarice:
When vp did start the heade of Gluttonie,
Vomiting out theese wordes of villany.
Poore braun falne begger, whereon dost thou feede?
Well fare the mouth, that feedes the belly full:
What staruing humor standes thy wit in steede,
The want of victuaile, makes the body dull:
I finde it true no triumph to a feast,
The belly full the bones will be at rest.
Some feede their eies with staring on the starres,
And starue the body to content the minde:
Some with their wittes will be so long at warres,
They grate on crusts, when other men haue dinde:
But let the franticke so their humor please,
Giue me the life, of meate, and drinke, and ease.
When that the earth doth giue vs pleasing foode,
What reason is it nature shoulde refuse it?
If reason finde, what wil doe nature good,
What bootes to haue it, if we doe not vse it?
Then let me feede, while I haue power to eat,
The mouth was made to giue the body meat.
Oh when the tongue is pleasèd with a tast,
The stomacke feeds vntil the heart do laugh,
And then a cuppe with a carowsing cast,
And then a health out of a frindely quaffe:
Then workes the braine in such a blessed wise,
As if the body were in paradise.
When thinking more to speake, his mouth ranne ouer,
With beastly humors, loathsome to beholde,
And in such sort, as he coulde not recouer,
Till that he did, his filthy sence vnfolde:
When stopping so, the pilgrime gan replie,
Die ougly venum in thy villany.
Thou filthy, fat, and ouerfoggy flesh,
Foule bagpipe-cheekes, eies starting from the head:
Whom heauenly humors neuer can refresh,
That all in hel, hast made thy hateful bedde:
Heauens let me fast, from such a loathsome feast,
Where to much feeding makes a man a beast.
13

Earth fill thine eies, heauens feede my humble hart.
Drosse fil thy belly, Grace content my minde:
Of worldly Iunckets take thy pleasing part,
Grace, giue my soule, one crum, and I haue dinde:
So with thy frensies, doe thy fansie please,
Heauens be my rest, whom earth can neuer ease.
Earth feedes of earth, heauens giue the spirit foode,
Nature corrupted lost the key of reason:
The body knowes not of the spirits good,
Vse is abuse, where truth is saust with treason:
Then role, and tumble in thy beastly riot,
The dish of mercy, be my spirits diet.
O when the tongue is toucht with cruel fire,
The stomacke feedes, of an infernal flame:
A cuppe of coles to quench a foule desire,
A cureles hart, consuming in the same:
Then workes the spirit with such woful cries,
As proues in hel, was neuer paradise.
When this same filthy hedde of Glotony,
Beastly bedight with his abhorrèd diet:
Chokèd with venum of such villany,
As breedes the ground of natures most desquiet:
Soncke backe into the belly of the beast,
Which of such spirites made his speciall feast.
When started vp the head of slouthfulnes,
With ougly clawes picking his gummy eies:
Who with the noddes of natures heuines,
Did in few wordes, this filthy speech deuise:
What humor wretch, doth thee so waking keepe,
That thou canst fèede vpon so little sleepe.
Sleepe is the pride of ease, the height of pleasure,
The Nurse of nature, and the rule of rest:
The thoughtes attonement, and the sences treasure,
The bedde of loue, that likes the body best:
Against vnrest the only remedy
And onely medicine to ech mallady.
And therewithall vnwilling more to speake,
Such heauy qualmes his hart had ouercome:
With stretching yawnes, as if his Iawes would breake,
He stopt his speech, as wholy stroken dumme:
When nodding of his head from side to side,
To his deafe eares, the pilgrime thus replied.
Thou cursèd serpent, grounde of al disgrace,
By Idlenes begetting Ignorance:
Which dost the sprigges of fairest rootes deface,
With loathsome course of lifes discountenaunce:
And makst a pleasure of the spirits paine,
Die in thy dreame, and neuer wake againe.
Sleepe is the soules disease, the mindes dispight,
The Curse of Nature, and the crosse of rest:
The thoughtes disquiet, and the darkesome night,
Wherein the spirit likes the body lest:
A losse of time and reasons malladie,
Where death is found but sorrowes remedy.
The watching virgins kindely were receiued,
When such as slept did loose their happy houre:
In dreames, the sences often are deceiued,
When waking wits finde shadowes haue no power.
Then sleepe thy last, where life hath neuer place,
God graunt my soule, to watch, and praie for grace.
When thus the head of hateful slouthfulnes,
Was soncke into the filthy sincke of Sinne:
The harmeful head of al vnhappines,
Did lechery, this loathsome tale beginne:
Alas poor pilgrime, childe of chast desire,
Hast thou bin burnt thou canst not bide the fier?
A gentle iest, a man to be a maide,
What minsing humor doth the sences measure?
That Nature can of beauty be afraide,
And loose her prime before she know her pleasure:
Fleshe hath no fauour in diuinity,
Nor Nature, pleasure in virginity.
The childe that knowes not how to make his choice,
Must be a babe, so babishe let him bee:
But he that knowes, how better to reioice,
Will seeke a worlde, where sweeter thoughtes agree:
No, thinke of loue to be that pleasing thought,
That, for his will sets all the worlde at nought.
What figure findes not loue out of a face?
What humors notes he not, in euery heare?
In beauties eies, what stars doth he not place,
What roses in her cheekes, doth he not beare?
What hony in her lippes, and sweeter worth?
In her faire ground but he can gather forth.
It whets the wit, and doth embolden will,
And maketh Arte to worke beyond her selfe:
It maketh nature, study reasons skill,
And in her humors, play the pretty elfe:
It bringeth fancy to a deinty feast,
And makes a man, that woulde be els a beast.
What deinty glaunces passe from eies to eies?
When sweete conceites, are secretly conceiued?
What comfortes can the kissing hearts deuise?
Where kinde effectes of fauour are receiued:
Age can reporte, and youth doth daily prooue,
Their is no comforte to the course of loue.
And with that worde, did ende his wicked charme:
Vnto which sounde, the pilgrime gan reply,
Thou hatefull head, and grounde of euery harme,
Venum, compounded all of villany:
A foule infection of the fairest creature,
Die in the filth of thy corrupted nature.
Thou sleepy slouth, that figurste out the swine,
With groueling humors, tumbling on the grounde:
Thou canst not thinke, vpon a thought diuine,
But liu'st in dreames, where all deceits are founde;
How durst thou speake in that foule thoughts defence,
Which breedeth nothing but the soules offence.
14

Vertue and vice, were neuer friendes in deede,
Diana knowes that Venus is no maide,
But faith, that doth on heauenly blessing feede,
Of foolish beauty maie be well afraide:
When Natures pleasure in virginity
Shewes flesh hath fauoure in diuinity.
And, where the spirit doth the sences measure,
There is no place to let thy poison in:
When Natures pride, is but in vertues pleasure,
Life only endes, that did in loue beginne:
Where temperāce rules in reasons chast desire,
Will keepe the harte, from thy infernall fire.
Thou wretched childe, of natures wicked choice.
Accursèd bable, and so euer bee:
That makste the flesh in filth for to reioice,
Wherein the spirite doth but sorrowe see:
Calst thou it loue, that is but lewde conceite?
Die in thy lust, that art the soules deceite.
Ciphers the figures, found in beauties face,
Humors of heares, illusions of the minde:
The heauenly stars in earth haue neuer place,
Where painted roses, haue no perfect kinde:
Her hony, gall, and what shee can bring forth,
The best, and all, is worse then nothing worth.
It blunts the wit, with to much boldning will,
And forceth Arte, for to forget her selfe:
It draweth Nature, quite from vertues skill,
When wilfull reasone plaies the wicked elfe:
Where, better fast, then fall to such a feast
As makes a man in deede become a beast.
What deuilish glaunces passe twixt graceles eies,
When base contents, most beastly are conceiued:
What crosses more, can kissing hartes deuise,
Then when the spirits ruine is receiued,
Age may repent, and youth with sorrow proue.
Who followes lust, can neuer come to loue.
Oh, what a fire is filthy lechery,
Whose substance is but all of gluttony,
Whose sparcles are, but only ribaudry,
Whose filthy smoke, is foulest infamy,
Whose ashes, are but all vncleanelines,
Whose hatefull ende is hellish beastlines.
Which true description, did so discontent
The harmefull head of hatefull lechery,
As when she saw of the ende of her intent
Crost, in the course of all her trechery,
Shee bit her taile, with such vnholsome breath,
As with her biting, stung her selfe to death.
When spake the head of enuy all infected,
With ougly Snakes, whereon shee seemd to feede:
Thou foole quod shee, what hath thy hart affected,
Wilt thou endure, thine ABC, to reede?
Canst thou abide to see an other goe,
Towardes the wealth, that thou dost wish for so?
Equality is but a childish humor,
He is alone, that keepes the lofty seate:
What voice is hard? where al are in a rumor,
Or who is seru'd, where euery one is great?
Why, patience is the paterne of a villaine,
That neuer came neare to a Kings pauilion.
And with that word she fed vpon her Snakes,
As if her heart, did like none other foode:
Whereto the pilgrime soone this answere makes,
Vgratious grifte, and voide of heauenly good:
Feede on thy Snakes, vntill the poison fill thee,
And thine owne cancker with corruption kill thee.
Equality is childrens blessednes,
Where many brethren are but one in loue:
The voice hard sweete, whose sounde is holinesse,
And God wel seru'd, where graces glory proue:
And he that patience paternes for a villaine,
Shal neuer know the King of heauens pauilion.
Thou neuer readst the booke of Christ his Crosse,
Nor canst endure so sweete an ABC:
But thou art bounde to liue with labours losse,
Where al the woes of al the world maie be:
God giue my spirit, grace to seeke no more,
Then goe the waie his Sainctes haue gone before.
When, (as it seemde) the venum wrought so sore,
Within the hart, as poisnèd so the heade,
As shrinking downe, it sight, and spake no more,
But with the rest the filthy body fedde:
When started vp the head of murthring wrath,
As newly cumme from out summe bloody bath.
Who gratting of his teeth with knitting brow,
Shaking his fist, as if he mente to fight:
Thou patch quod he, where art thou plodding now?
Hath patience thinkst thou, such a princely might:
That shee can thee against my force defende,
And bring thee safely to thy Iourneies ende?
My life is most to lay me downe in blood,
I can endure no daunting of mine eie:
I onely loue to feede on bloody foode,
Whom I once cease on, they are sure to die:
How durst thou then approch so neere my sight,
Whose fury standes withal the worlde to fight.
Poore patient hartes are tost from post to post,
When bloody swordes doe walke the worlde with wonder:
Poor patience many a patrimony lost,
While will resolu'de, put wit and reason vnder:
Patience is oft from princely seate puld downe,
While bloody mindes, do brauely beare the crowne.
Pitty is knowen sometime to marre a citty,
And Anger, oftentimes is cause of quiet:
Sometime as good be wilful as be witty,
When bloody dishes make a dainty diet:
What armes of honor to a bloody field?
Where Angers hande, make patient harts to yeelde.
15

When (as it seemde) halfe stuffèd vp with blood,
Stopping his tale the pilgrime thus replied:
Choke vp thy throat, with that foule butchers food,
That neuer couldst the sounde of mercy bide:
But dost consume the hart of many a creature,
Die in the fury of thy filthy nature.
Fret, fume, and chafe, I feare not of thy force,
I plod with patience where thou canst not cumme:
My patience hath such power in her remorse,
As furies sences quickely wil benumme:
And by her prowesse, stoutly so defende me,
That thou, nor thine, nor ought els can offende me.
Then lie, and bath, and tumble in thy bloode,
And stare, and stampe, til thou hast donne thy worst.
Thy foule adherents, I haue all withstoode,
And thou, art but a spirit all accurst:
Who though thou makst a number know thy might,
Where patience cums, thou hast no power to fight.
Poore patient harts, are tost from paine to peace,
When bloody swords, do breede but hellish woes:
And patience patrimony is no leace,
But in a grounde, where grace and wisedome growes:
And patience sits with an immortal crowne,
Where tiraunt heads to hel are beaten downe.
Pitty must be the princesse of a citty,
And Anger breedeth nothing but disquiet:
Wilful is good, so that the wil be witty,
Where bloode is bard the dish of mercies diet;
What Armes of honor, to that heauenly fielde,
Where patience force, makes angers fury yeelde.
At which last worde, the fretting furious head,
Fel with the rest, into that sincke of sinne.
And with the body fel downe stroke as dead,
When patience did this pilgrimes ioy beginne:
With praysing heauens, and vsing humble praier,
To comforte hope, and keepe of al dispaire.
When leauing so the ougly Monster slaine,
Onwardes she leades him on his happy way.
Where ioiful pleasure after feare of paine,
Had set his sences at so sweete a staie:
That now, he thought no Monster could offende him,
He had such proofe, that patience woulde defende him.
But when the heauens that pitty haue of nature.
And know that sences, woulde be gladde of rest:
Although the spirite, waking keepe the creature,
Vnto such worke, as like the wisedome best:
Into their garde, did will the Angels take him,
Vntill they wilde the spirite shoulde awake him.
Bvt when the spirite little time coulde spare
Vnto the harte, to giue the senses rest:
And reason founde that vertues happy fare,
Was in the hande, wherewith the soule is blest:
He wilde the sences from their sleepe arise,
And follow patience to their paradise.
When hauing past the path along the wood,
They came vnto a shore, neare to a sea:
Where lofty waues did threaten little good,
When rocks with patience make a drowning plea:
Where stormes, and tempests, flawes, and rocks, and sands,
The perils shew, wherein the seaman standes.
With patience heere the pilgrime must imbarke,
Within a shippe the Buonauenture named:
When in a Mappe he found out many a marke,
Whereby conceite his course most happly framed:
And to be shorte, with a resoluèd minde,
They hoist vp sailes, God sende a merry winde.
When as they founde the tide would tary none,
And little wit it was to loose the winde,
What grounde was best to cast their ancker on,
And how they might their surest passage finde:
To scape the rockes, and to auoide the sandes,
And keepe their carriage out of pirots handes.
And so, along the surging seas they slide,
Till passing by capa di buon speranza,
Not farre from thence, they did intende to ride
Till some sweete winde that vertue ben auanza:
Would bid them hoice their sailes and to be gone,
Towardes the heauen they were to hope vpon.
Where, after sounding, casting ancker out,
And striking saile, and winding vp the cable,
Setting in order all thinges rounde aboute,
As well as such young Mariners were able:
With such good thoughtes as might the time beguile,
They fell to walke vpon the boordes awhile.
And riding but a while, an one they spied,
A fisher man, all in his boate alone,
With euery billow tost from side to side,
As made them feare his last farewell anone:
When moued with the pitty of good nature
They calde aboorde this silly wretched creature.
With much adoe, the creature came aboorde,
And tooke the pilgrime humbly by the hande:
And onely sight, but did not saie a word,
But, as a man that halfe amasde did stande:
Till by entreaty of sweete patience,
Hee was content to haue some conference.
Alas quod hee good Masters, heere yee see
A selly creature in a sory case:
A wofull story to be tolde of mee,
Borne to the death of sorrow and disgrace:
Curst from my cradell, with a thousand crosses,
Where fortune turnes my labours all to losses.
I have not alwaies liu'de a fisher man,
Through other courses, I my course haue runne:
It is but late, that I this life beganne,
Where little good, hath yet my laboure donne:
But yet I like the kinde of life so well,
I woulde not chaunge it with a king to dwell.
16

For first I was a gallant in my youth,
And then I courted youthfull kinde of people:
But when my tale was tolde, to tell a truth,
I founde although the sexton kept the steeple,
The bels sometimes against his will were rong,
When talking clappers could not holde their tongue.
I founde that cost was often kindely taken,
And costly kindnes was a common thing:
I found the needy friend was soone forsaken,
And he that had the crownes was halfe a king:
I founde that flattry was a fine conceite,
And gold was seru'd, where better gifts did waite.
I found faire beauty like a blasing starre,
But oftentimes, the moone was in a mist,
And many a one, was with his wits at warre,
While reason reade the rules of had I wiste:
I founde sweet musicke sounde in many a place
While empty purses were in weeping case.
I founde a thousande prety foolishe toies,
That were too tedious now for to recite,
I founde againe that there were further ioies,
Then I coulde see but by the sunny light:
Which for mine eies could neuer come to see,
Ha done quod I, this is no life for me.
Then to the warres forsooth a little while,
To followe drummes, and trumpets to the fielde:
But oh how will doth wofull wit beguile,
When want of comfort makes the conscience yeeld:
And yet, when peace doth make an ende of strife,
Surely the souldiers is the princely life.
But, for I did but little time bestow,
Amidde the fielde to seeke for honors fame:
And fortune sought my comfortes ouerthrow,
Before my hart had entrance to the same:
I lefte that life, and to the seas I gat,
Where, how I liu'd I neede not tell you that.
I thinke your selues can tel as wel as I,
If not, alas, it is no ease to learne:
So many labours in the life doe lie,
As are not in a daie for to discerne:
A daie, a month, nor many a yeare, God wot,
As I could tel, if I haue not forgotte.
First I did learne to set my compasse right,
And by my compasse, how my course to run
To marke each point, as wel by day as night,
By night, to marke the stars, by day the sunne:
Then take the Mappe, to look for rockes and sandes,
Of which ful ofte, the shippe in daunger standes.
Then narrowly to looke to euery leake,
And when the winde did serue to hoise my sailes:
To sounde the depth, where seas beginne to breake,
And strike my saile, when once my searoome failes:
To arme my fightes, and plant nine ordnaunce so,
I might not stande, in feare to meete my foe.
Then did I learne to stande and guide the sterne,
And now and then to helpe to hoise vp ancker:
And otherwhiles the cunning to discerne,
To dresse hir sides to keepe hir from the cancker:
My termes of arte, and patient to be painefull,
And how to hope to make my voiage gainful.
To lie ful colde, and harde, and fare full thinne,
To frame my carkas to vnkindest natures,
To beare of stormes, and in a calme beginne
To learne to kill the little creeping creatures:
To eate a fusty cake, and teinted fish,
And one fresh morsell, make a deinty dish.
To make no conscience, so there came in gaine,
When siluer crosses, keepe of many a curse:
A pitteous case to see the Merchant slaine,
For his owne goods to fil the pirots purse:
To sweare, and stare, vntil we come to shore,
Then rifty tufty, each one to his skore.
The Master, he sometime would fall asleepe,
The Masters mate to much vpon the can:
The boson, he his cabin tooke to keepe,
And in the cookerome, there the rie begane:
When all and some, in halfe a droncken swowne,
Would leaue the shippe, to sincke, themselues to drowne.
But, when I saw the kinde of life was such,
The griefe to great for any true good minds:
The labour sore, the sorrow was too much,
To seeke for that which but repentance finds:
I left the shippe, with manie a sorrie note,
And tooke me sweetely to my little boate.
And heere, my trade is poore, yet ful of peace,
And peace is riches, though my trade be poore:
The sea is large, whose landlorde makes no lease,
I toile for fishes, and I seeke no more:
When stormes arise, vnto the heauen I high me
And in the sunne-shine, set me downe and drie me.
But, for I see the barke, wherein you ride,
Of Buonaventure hath the blessed name,
And patience is a pure a perfect guide
Vnto the fauour of eternal fame:
I hope the course is good that you intende,
Heauens bring you happly to your Iournies end.
This poore mans tale when thus the pilgrime harde,
He did along his company entreate,
Promising him, a pilgrime poore rewarde,
Besides his hope, his comfort woulde be great,
If heauens did fauoure vertues enterprise,
Humbly to passe the path to paradise.
But, when the fisher harde that fairest worde,
Of paradise, once sounding in his eare;
He gaue consent and hoist his boat aboarde,
And casting of al sorrow, care, and feare:
They hoist vp sailes, windes seru'de, what would you more,
Onwardes they goe, God sende them well a shore.
17

When leauing Scilla to those silly guides,
That careles are to keepe their course aright:
By curst Charibdis, on he smoothly slides,
Till by good happe they had a land in sight:
To which they made with might and maine as fast
As windes woulde serue, and got to shore at last.
Yet, let me tel you, ere they came a shore,
As through the Oceā they did make their way:
Tempests arose, and many a winde blew sore,
That threatened ofte the course of their decay:
Besides the pirots that they put to flight,
Which chrost their course with many a cruell fight.
One where they saw wrakes lie without reliefe,
An otherwhere, whales tumbling in the waues:
An other while, vnto their deadly griefe,
Stormes threaten sore, the fishes maws their graues:
Yet when the worst of all these ills were past,
Safely arriu'de they came to shore at last.
Where, wethring of themselues against the sunne,
First praising God, by his almighty power,
That guided them since first their course begunne,
And brought them safely to that happy howre:
The hart laide downe, the sences all to rest,
While angels watch the waking spirit blest.
Bvt, when the spirit had but little time,
To giue the sences leaue to take their rest,
Nor was the laboure little for to clime,
The fiery ashes, of a Phoenix nest:
Hee bad them sweetely from their sleepe arise
And set them in their path to paradise.
Where walking on, they met on their right hande,
A worlde of people, making pitteous mone:
Some lost their goods, some other lost their lande,
Their parents some, and some, their friends were gone:
Not one of all, but some way were oppressed,
When all, and some, in some, where al distressed.
The Courtier, hee complainde, of loues disgrace,
The souldier, he cried out, of lacke of paie:
The lawier, lacke of hearing of his case,
The client, how his coine went to decaie:
The merchaunt, of the losse of his aduenture,
The prentice of the bandes of his Indenture.
The landlorde, of his tenaunts beggery,
The passinger of lacke of amity:
The tenaunt, of the landlordes misery,
The begger, all, of lacke of charity:
The churchmen, of their small possessions,
The laiemen, of the church transgressions.
Now, on the left hande, went another crue,
A hatefull sort, of hellish company:
Which, to their welth, and wortheles honor grue,
By wicked workes, of wofull villany:
Which, by the trades of Machauile instructed,
Were by the deuill, to his hel conducted.
One, he blasphemde, and murthred many an othe,
Another, made of honesty, a iest:
An other made a tush, at faith, and troth,
An other boasted of a bloudy feast:
And some, in power, how will did gouerne reason,
And other, of their pollicy in treason.
The Courtier, boasted of his braue attire,
What lordshippes, he had laid vpon his backe:
The souldier bragde what townes he set on fire,
How many citties he had helpt to sacke:
The lawier, of his quidities, and quirkes,
The client, of the knowledge of his ierkes.
The landlorde, of his tenants slauery
And, how hee kept the pesauntes all in awe:
The tenant of his cunning knauery,
When with his landlorde he could go to law:
The Merchant, how his gaines were brought about,
The prentice, how he got his freedome out.
The churchmen, they wente boasting on their tenthes,
And twenties too, and yet they would haue more:
The Laiemen, of their laying lines at lengthes,
And how a chalke did make a pretty skore:
The passinger, of fainèd amity,
The begger, of the bagge of charity.
After all these, vpon the right hand went,
A selly foole, for so I tearme him right:
With wringing hands, that seemèd to lament
Some crossing humor to a vaine delight:
For, loue forsooth, and nought but loue it was,
That made a woman make a man an Asse.
Of Venus frailty and of Cupids blindenes
He cried out, oh, that euer they were borne:
And of his mistris more then most vnkindnes,
That did so much his truest seruice skorne:
Yet, still he lou'de her, and he did so loue her,
It was his death, he neuer coulde recouer.
And then he sight, and sobde, and hong the head,
And wept, and wailde, and cast vp both the eies,
And in a trance, as if a man were dead,
Or did some dying kinde of fit deuise:
Vntill he walkte, and then he cried oh loue,
That euer louer shoulde such sorrowe proue.
And then he redde his verses and his rimes,
Wherein he praisde her to to, out of reason,
And then he sight to thinke how many times,
He watcht, the day, the night, the hower, the season
To finde some fruite of her deseruèd fauoure,
But al his flowers, were weedes that had no sauour.
And then farewell, and then againe farewell,
And farewell loue, and farewell louely sweete,
And farewel sweete, where loue doth sweetly dwel.
And farewell dwelling, for loue sweetenes meete:
And farewell meeting, with loues stately store,
And farewell loue, for hee coulde liue no more.
18

And thus the pilgrime let the poore man goe,
To loose his will, and seeke his better wits:
Which he had lost with following fancy so,
Vnto the fury of these franticke fits:
That in his hart, had wrought that mallady,
That he must die, there was no remedy.
Now on the left hande went another creature,
Or rather spirit in an ougly shape:
Hollow dead eies, and most ilfauourde feature,
Mopping and mowing, like an olde she-Ape:
Which in the fury of youthes frenzy,
To crosse loues ioie, is callèd Ielousy.
Cursing that euer Venus was so faire,
Or Cupid had the power to bende his bow:
Or euer worde had passage through the aier.
From fansies tongue, to beauties eares to go:
When trickling humors, in affections brest,
By feare of ioies is Ielousies vnrest.
Then winckt, and pinckt, and leerde and honge the lippe,
And seemde to start, at euerie sodaine breath:
And grounde her teeth, as though some priuy nip,
Within her head, did fret her hart to death:
When out she mumbled, most vnhappy loue,
That makst the minde, these passions to approue.
But when the pilgrime saw her agony,
And, in what taking, wretched thing, she was:
Little contented, with such company,
He giues her leaue vpon her way to passe:
And keepes his course, vntil anone he came,
Vnto a citty,—needles is the name.
Where entring in, on each side of the gate,
He found it poorely al with beggars garded:
And by the forefront of that feeble state,
He thought smal wealth where poore were so rewarded:
Til entered further in the streetes he founde,
A worlde of wealth in euery streete abounde.
I meane such welth, as worldly people chuse,
To make the comfort of their chiefest kinde:
And such a bait as wicked spirites vse,
To blinde the sight of a bewitchèd minde:
In euery shoppe, or siluer golde or wares,
To starue the poore, and fill the rich with cares.
When noting wel, by euery doore he went,
He saw each house was with a plage infected:
Where, though they liu'de content with discontente,
Were in the rules of better cares reiected:
For, though the poison did not kill at first
Yet did they swel, vntil at last they burst:
One house was plagèd with a wicked master,
An other, with a most accursèd dame:
An other with a childe that was a waster,
An other, with a seruant out of frame:
The rich men, most were plagèd with disease,
The poore men, with smal vermin, and with fleas.
One house was plagde with cursing and with banning,
An other house with swearing, and blaspheming:
An other, where fonde minions fell to manning,
An other frighted, after foolish dreaming:
Some plagde with sorrow, for their losse of treasure,
And some with torment after to much pleasure.
A number plagues to tedious to recite
In euerie corner, compast all the citty:
Where power did wrong, and poore men had no right,
And golden purses had to little pitty:
When many a creature in ful pitteous case,
Did proue the citty an vnhappy place.
But, when the pilgrime saw on euery side
Their outwarde wealth so ful of inwarde wo:
And in that state, there was no blisse to bide,
Where euery house, alas was plagèd so:
Knowing withal, his trauaile wisht no staie,
Thorough the streets he hastely made his way.
Vntil at last he came vnto a lane,
That ledde him to an vniuersity:
Where, by the notes that he had quickely tane,
He founde a wonderful diuersity:
In young opinions, touching points of arte,
And how one scholer, tooke on others part.
Now, heare the plague, he found but in conceit,
Where some were right and other some were wrong:
Some followde wil, and wrought vpon deceit,
Some louèd truth, and songe none other song.
When leauing scolers to their learnèd case,
Ruing the plague, with reuerence lefte the place.
When passing on, ledde all by patience hande,
The happy guide vnto his hopèd grace:
While reasons state, did all resoluèd stande,
In paradise to seeke his resting place:
While heauenly powers, the hart did waking keepe,
In vertues armes, the sences fel a sleepe.
Bvt stil, the spirit, that had care to keepe
The hart awake vnto his happy way,
Had little time, to let the sences sleepe,
Lest smallest stoppes, might cause to long a staie:
And therefore wakt them from their sleepy vaine,
And sweetely set them in their path againe.
Where, walking on, vnto a court they came,
Where they behelde a worlde of beauties welth:
A stately prince, and many a princely dame,
Discoursing, more of pleasure then of health:
Where honors presence was so highly garded,
As each conceit of base desire discarded.
The Counsaile, graue, as best beseemde their place,
The Courtiers, gallant, full of fine conceite:
The Ladies, faire, and full of honours grace,
The Seruantes, wise, that humbly did awaite:
Nothing amisse, that Nature coulde deuise,
To please the humor of Affections eies.
19

And, let me not, to slightly ouerpasse,
The pleasing ground of euery priuate grace:
Where euery sence, so sweetely pleasèd was,
As brought the wits into a wondrous case:
And such a case, as had not vertue ben,
To garde their sence they had ben ouerseene.
To see the presence of a princely Queene,
To marke the course of graue discretion care:
To note the sightes that are but seldome seene,
Where youthes desartes in beauties fauoure are:
To heare the musicke of most siluer voices,
And finde the restes wherein the song reioices.
To see what pleasure, power hath in her hande,
To heare how youth, can courte his kinde desire,
To see, how wisedome doth in power commaunde,
And finde how beauty sets the hart on fier,
While humble seruauntes, shewe their diligence:
Are not these notes for sweete experience?
To see how vertues are in honor placed,
To see the agèd all with reuerence serued,
To see the humble by their seruice graced,
And beauties fame by faithfull loue preserued,
To see peace, plenty wisedome, honour, loue:
Are these not pleasures, for the hart to proue?
Now heere the pilgrime did beginne to feare,
Some of his seruants woulde be stolne awaie,
Either the Sente, the Tast, the Eie, the Eare,
Or els the Feeling woulde be forst to staie:
Yet, for they sware their seruice to his will,
He fearde the lesse, to leade them from their ill.
And when he sawe, what perill was in greatnes,
What idle thoughtes, in youthfull humors sit,
And what a folly, was in to much featenes,
Where beauties wonders did but blinde the wit:
And what long suites, did gaine but little grace,
And last what daungers doe possesse the place.
With humble praier vnto the powers on high,
To blesse that prince and all those princely peeres,
Which in the honour of discretions eie,
Were calde the wonders of these latter yeeres:
From care, and cost, fancy, and wisedomes folly,
He tooke his walke vnto a waie more holly.
Where ere they came, they came yet by the way,
Vnto a Campe, or rather, kingly fielde:
Where, many a stop, did feare too long a stay,
Such choice of honors, did such humours yeelde:
Where horse and foote, were so in order planted,
As, no direction, in discretion wanted.
The chiefe commaunder in his stately tente,
With noble mindes of Martiall men attended:
For euery doubt of euery ill intent,
With strongest gardes of watche and warde defended:
Whose graue discretion rulde by sounde aduise,
Performde the plot of many a rare deuise.
To see the carefull Collonels directed,
Ech to his quarter, and his regiment:
And how ech Captaine, valiauntly effected,
The wonder grace of warlike gouernement:
To see the true discharge of euery office,
And then the honor of aduentures seruice.
To note the greate prouision euery waie
For victuaile first, munition, armor, shot;
For forrege for their horse, for grasse and hay,
And such prouaunte, as cheapest may be got:
For euery grounde, for euery quarter fit,
Are not the workes for euery simple wit.
To heere the drummes and fife the larum strike,
The horses neie, and then the trumpets sounde,
To see the horsemen charge vpon the pike,
And then the pikemen laie the horse on grounde,
To heare the Canons roar, the small shot rattle,
And see their triumph, that doe winne the battaile.
To marke the ordering of a court de garde,
To note the rules in walking of the rounde,
The Scintenils, and euery watch, and warde,
And of the mines, and working vnder grounde:
To marke the planting of their Ambuscados,
And in the night, their sodaine canuassados.
To see a Citty sende her bullets out,
Against the force of all her cruell foes,
To see her wals, all fortified about,
To beare the force of all their cruell blowes:
To make her foes, perforce their siege to raise,
And through the world to winne a wonder praise.
Are heere not sights of force to staie the eie?
Or soundes, of power for to inchaunt the eare,
Nay, maie not wel the hart be drawn awry,
From all conceites, to keepe his compasse there:
Sure, so it had, had not the spirit still,
Preseru'de the sences from a secret ill.
For, then againe, to see a citty sackte,
Her buildings ruinde, and her people slaine:
Her wals, al razèd, and her castles crackt,
And al her welth, but in a woful vaine:
Her olde men mourning, and her young men dying.
The mothers weeping, and their children crying
To see her streetes, al runne with streames of blood.
Her houses burning, al in flames of fier:
To see her state, that al in honor stoode,
Yeelde to the forces of their foes desire:
Her roial strength, become a ruful storie,
And death, and sorrow, ende of al her glorie.
To see the fielde, with dead men ouerspread,
To see the aire infected al with smoake:
To see, the valiaunt Caualieros dead,
And many a soldiour hurt with many a stroake:
To see the steedes, lie tumbling on the earth.
And through the campe a Sickenes or a dearth.
20

To see the soldiour starue, with lake of foode,
And, in his march, to die with lacke of drincke:
To see the rich men liue on poore mens bloode,
And one close humor, at another wincke:
To see each Captaine, euerie waie anoied,
And, by disorder, all the campe destroied
Did make the pilgrime willing to depart
The place so ful of daunger and distresse:
Where wits might worke but woful was the arte,
Where one mans health, bred many heauines:
And therefore making there but little staie
He followes patience on another way.
And on they walke, vntil anone they came,
Vnto a Church, not built of lime or stone
But that true Church, of that Immortal fame
That is worldes wonder, and heauens loue alone:
Whose head is Christ, whose Martirs are his pillers
And al whose members, are his wordes wel-willers.
The gate, is Grace, Contrition, is the key,
The locke, is loue, the porter, Penitence:
Where humble faith, must heauenly fauour stay,
Till pity talke with vertues patience:
While angels sighes, the sinners waie deuise,
To haue his entraunce into paradise.
Which is in deede the plot of al perfection,
Drawne by the compasse of diuine conceite,
Whose line, is life laide by his loues direction
Who makes al flesh vpon the spirite waite:
Whose flowers are fruites of faithes eternal fauour,
Sweete to the soule, in euerliuing sauour.
Now in this grounde, doth liue this glorious King,
Of mercies life, amidde the fire of loue,
Who, as the sunne, doth cause the flowers to spring,
So, by his fire, makes faith her comfort proue:
When heauenly ruth doth vertues roote so nourish,
That, her faire flowers shall grow and euer floorish.
Now heere the herbes were wholsome sentences,
Which purge the hart, of euery idle thought:
And for each grasse, a grace of wit and sences,
By heauenly blessing from the spirit brought:
In midst whereof the well of life doth spring,
About the which the Angels sit and singe.
Heere is the light that makes the sunne to shine,
Heere is the brightnes of the morning light,
Heere is the sunne, that neuer doth decline,
Heere is the daie, that neuer hath a night,
Heere is the hope of euerliuing blisse,
And comforte, that beyonde all knowledge is.
Heere neuer weede, had euer power to growe,
Nor euer worme coulde make an herbe to wither,
But in the path, where all perfections goe,
Vertue and Nature, kindely went togither,
And heauenly dewes, did al the fruites so cherish,
That, neither fruit, nor herbe, nor flower could perish.
Heere neuer sorrow for the thought of losses,
Heere euer labour and yet neuer weary;
Heere neuer feare, of any fatal crosses,
Heere neuer mourning, and heere euer merry:
Heere neuer hunger, thurst, nor heat, nor cold,
But take enough, and stil the store doth holde.
Heere is the sky, the sun, the moone, and stars,
Set for a dial, by the heauens direction:
Heere neuer cloude their brightest shining barres,
But show their brightnes in their best perfection:
Heere, is in some the sweetest light of al,
From which al lightes haue their original.
Heere neuer foote of wicked pride presumed,
But is excluded heauenlie paradise:
Heere is the aier with sweetest sweetes prefumed,
While sinners sighes is blessed sacrifice:
When faithful soules in Angels armes embraced,
Are in the eie of glorious fauour graced.
Heere are the virgins playing, Angels singing
The Saintes reioicing, and the Martirs ioying.
Heere sacred comfortes to the conscience springing,
And no one thought of discontent anoying:
Heere hurt was none, and feare of death is neuer,
But heere is loue, and heere is life for euer.
Heere sorrowes teares, doe quenche the heate of Sinne.
And fire of loue, doth kindle life againe:
Heere doth the grounde of glory first beginne,
And heere is Vertue, in her highest vaine:
Heere, is in some the state of honours story,
And of all goodnes, the eternall glory.
And heere is, lo that heauenly paradise,
Whereto the pilgrime, made his pilgrimage:
Where sacred mercy first did solempnize,
The spirite to the fleshe in mariage:
And here the hart did finde his spirit blest,
To bring the sences to eternall rest.
Gloria in excelsis Deo.
In this true plot of reasons highest pleasure,
The heaunly court, of the high King of Kings:
Where sacred spirits, haue their speciall treasure
And sweetest comfort, of contentments springs:
God bring your sences, by your harts desire,
To feel the comfort of his kingly fier.
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