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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In Dispight of Fancie.
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 | The Works in Verse and Prose of Nicholas Breton |  |
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.
| The Works in Verse and Prose of Nicholas Breton | |