University of Virginia Library

II
Satires

CV

[Myne owne John Poyntz, sins ye delight to know]

Myne owne John Poyntz, sins ye delight to know
The cawse why that homeward I me draw,
And fle the presse of courtes wher soo they goo
Rather then to lyve thrall vnder the awe
Of lordly lookes, wrappid within my cloke,
To will and lust lerning to set a lawe,
It is not for becawsse I skorne or moke
The power of them to whome fortune hath lent
Charge over vs, of Right, to strike the stroke;
But trew it is that I have allwais ment
Lesse to estime them then the common sort
Off owtward thinges that juge in their intent
Withowte Regarde what dothe inwarde resort.
I grawnt sumtime that of glorye the fyar
Dothe touche my hart: me lyst not to report
Blame by honowr and honour to desyar;
But how may I this honour now atayne
That cannot dy the coloure blake a lyer?
My Poyntz, I cannot frame my tonge to fayne
To cloke the trothe for praisse, withowt desart,
Of them that lyst all vice for to retayne.
I cannot honour them that settes their part
With Venus and Baccus all their lyf long,
Nor holld my pece of them alltho I smart.
I cannot crowche nor knelle, nor do so great a wrong
To worship them like God on erthe alone,
That ar as wollffes thes sely lambes among.
I cannot with my wordes complayne and mone
And suffer nought; nor smart wythout complaynt,
Nor torne the worde that from my mouthe is gone.
I cannot speke and lok lyke a saynct,
Vse wyles for witt and make deceyt a plesure,
And call crafft counsell, for proffet styll to paint.
I cannot wrest the law to fill the coffer,
With innocent blode to fede my sellff ffat,
And doo most hurt where most hellp I offer.
I am not he that can alow the state
Off highe Cesar and dam Cato to dye,
That with his dethe dyd skape owt off the gate
From Cesares handes, if Lyvye do not lye,
And wolld not lyve whar lyberty was lost:
So did his hart the commonn wele aplye.
I am not he suche eloquence to boste,
To make the crow singing as the swanne,
Nor call the lyon of cowarde bestes the moste,
That cannot take a mows as the cat can:
And he that diethe for hunger of the golld
Call him Alessaundre, and say that Pan
Passithe Apollo in musike manyfolld;
Praysse Syr Thopas for a noble tale,
And skorne the story that the knyght tolld;
Praise him for counceill that is droncke of ale;
Grynne when he laugheth, that bereth all the swaye,
Frowne when he frowneth and grone when he is pale;
On othres lust to hang boeth nyght and daye:
None of these poyntes would ever frame in me.
My wit is nought, I cannot lerne the waye:
And much the lesse of thinges that greater be,
That asken helpe of colours of devise
To joyne the mene with eche extremitie,
With the neryst vertue to cloke always the vise;
And as to pourpose like wise it shall fall
To presse the vertue that it may not rise;
As dronkenes good felloweshippe to call,
The frendly ffoo with his dowble face
Say he is gentill and courtois therewithall;
And say that Favell hath a goodly grace
In eloquence, and crueltie to name
Zele of Justice and chaunge in tyme and place;
And he that sufferth offence withoute blame
Call him pitefull and him true and playn
That raileth rekles to every mans shame.
Say he is rude that cannot lye and fayn,
The letcher a lover, and tirannye
To be the right of a prynces reigne.
I cannot, I; no, no, it will not be,
This is the cause that I could never yet
Hang on their slevis that way as thou maist se
A chippe of chaunce more then a pownde of witt.
This maketh me at home to hounte and hawke
And in fowle weder at my booke to sitt.
In frost and snowe then with my bow to stawke;
No man doeth marke where so I ride or goo;
In lusty lees at libertie I walke,
And of these newes I fele nor wele nor woo,
Sauf that a clogg doeth hang yet at my hele:
No force for that for it is ordered so,
That I may lepe boeth hedge and dike full well.
I ame not now in Fraunce to judge the wyne,
With saffry sauce the delicates to fele;
Nor yet in Spainge where oon must him inclyne
Rather then to be owtewerdly to seme.
I meddill not with wittes that be so fyne,
Nor Flaunders chiere letteth not my sight to deme
Of black and white, nor taketh my wit awaye
With bestlynes, they beestes do so esteme;
Nor I ame not where Christe is geven in pray
For mony, poisen and traison at Rome,
A commune practise vsed nyght and daie:
But here I ame in Kent and Christendome
Emong the muses where I rede and ryme;
Where if thou list, my Poynz, for to come,
Thou shalt be judge how I do spend my tyme.

CVI

[My mothers maydes when they did sowe and spynne]

My mothers maydes when they did sowe and spynne,
They sang sometyme a song of the feld mowse,
That forbicause her lyvelood was but thynne,
Would nedes goo seke her townyssh systers howse.
She thought her self endured to much pain,
The stormy blastes her cave so sore did sowse,
That when the forowse swymmed with the rain
She must lye cold and whete in sorry plight;
And wours then that, bare meet then did remain
To comfort her when she her howse had dight,
Sometyme a barly corn, sometyme a bene,
For which she laboured hard boeth daye and nyght,
In harvest tyme whilest she myght goo and glyne;
And when her stoore was stroyed with the flodd,
Then well awaye, for she vndone was clene.
Then was she fayne to take in stede of fode
Slepe if she myght her hounger to begile.
‘My syster’, quod she, ‘hath a lyving good,
And hens from me she dwelleth not a myle.
In cold and storme she lieth warme and dry,
In bed of downe the dyrt doeth not defile
Her tender fote; she laboureth not as I;
Richely she fedeth and at the richemans cost,
And for her meet she nydes not crave nor cry.
By se, by land of delicates the moost
Her Cater sekes and spareth for no perell;
She fedeth on boyled bacon, meet and roost,
And hath therof neither charge nor travaill;
And when she list the licour of the grape
Doeth glad her hert, till that her belly swell’.
And at this Journey she maketh but a Jape;
So fourth she goeth, trusting of all this welth
With her syster her part so for to shape
That if she myght kepe her self in helth
To lyve a Lady while her liff doeth last,
And to the dore now is she come by stelth
And with her foote anon she scrapeth full fast.
Th'othre for fere durst not well scarse appere,
Of every noyse so was the wretche agast.
At last she asked softly who was there;
And in her langage as well as she cowd,
‘Pepe’, quod the othre, ‘syster I ame here’.
‘Peace’, quod the towne mowse, ‘why spekest thou so lowde?’
And by the hand she toke her fayer and well.
‘Welcome’, quod she, ‘my sister, by the Rood’.
She fested her, that Joy it was to tell
The faere they had; they drancke the wyne so clere,
And as to pourpose now and then it fell,
She chered her with ‘how syster, what chiere?’
Amyddes this Joye befell a sorry chaunce
That well awaye the straunger bought full dere
The fare she had, for as she loked ascaunce
Vnder a stole she spied two stemyng Ise
In a rownde hed with sherp erys; in Fraunce
Was never mowse so ferd, for tho th'unwise
Had not I-sene suche a beest before,
Yet had nature taught her after her gyse
To knowe her ffoo and dred him evermore.
The towney mowse fled: she knewe whether to goo.
Th'othre had no shift but wonders sore
Ferd of her liff; at home she wyshed her tho,
And to the dore, alas, as she did skipp,
Thevyn it would, lo, and eke her chaunce was so,
At the threshold her sely fote did tripp,
And ere she myght recover it again
The traytour Catt had caught her by the hipp,
And made her there against her will remain,
That had forgotten her poure suretie and rest
For semyng welth wherin she thought to rayne.
Alas, my Poynz, how men do seke the best
And fynde the wourst by errour as they stray!
And no marvaill, when sight is so opprest,
And blynde the gyde; anon owte of the way
Goeth gyde and all in seking quyete liff.
O wretched myndes there is no gold that may
Graunt that ye seke, no warre, no peace, no stryff,
No, no, all tho thy hed were howpt with gold,
Sergeaunt with mace, hawbert, sword, nor knyff
Cannot repulse the care that folowe should.
Eche kynd of lyff hath with him his disease.
Lyve in delight evyn as thy lust would,
And thou shalt fynde when lust doeth moost the please
It irketh straite and by it self doth fade.
A small thing it is, that may thy mynde apese.
Non of ye all there is that is so madde
To seke grapes vpon brambles or breers,
Nor none I trow that hath his wit so badd
To set his hay for Conys over Ryvers,
Ne ye set not a dragg net for an hare,
And yet the thing that moost is your desire
Ye do mysseke with more travaill and care.
Make playn thyn hert that it be not knotted
With hope or dred and se thy will be bare
From all affectes whome vice hath ever spotted;
Thy self content with that is the assigned
And vse it well that is to the allotted.
Then seke no more owte of thy self to fynde
The thing that thou haist sought so long before,
For thou shalt fele it sitting in thy mynde.
Madde, if ye list to continue your sore,
Let present passe and gape on tyme to come
And diepe your self in travaill more and more.
Hens fourth, my Poynz, this shalbe all and some:
These wretched fooles shall have nought els of me
But to the great god and to his high dome
None othre pain pray I for theim to be
But when the rage doeth led them from the right
That lowking backward vertue they may se
Evyn as she is so goodly fayre and bright;
And whilst they claspe their lustes in armes a-crosse,
Graunt theim, goode lorde, as thou maist of thy myght,
To frete inward for losing such a losse.

CVII

[A spending hand that alway powreth owte]

A spending hand that alway powreth owte
Had nede to have a bringer in as fast,
And on the stone that still doeth tourne abowte
There groweth no mosse: these proverbes yet do last.
Reason hath set theim in so sure a place
That lenght of yeres their force can never wast.
When I remembre this and eke the case
Where in thou stondes I thowght forthwith to write,
Brian, to the, who knows how great a grace
In writing is to cownsell man the right.
To the, therefore, that trottes still vp and downe,
And never restes: but runnyng day and nyght
From Reaulme to Reaulme, from cite, strete and towne;
Why doest thou were thy body to the bones,
And myghtst at home slepe in thy bed of downe
And drynck goode ale so nappy for the noyns,
Fede thy self fat and hepe vp pownd by pownd?
Lykist thou not this? ‘No’. ‘Why?’ ‘For swyne so groyns
In stye and chaw the tordes molded on the grownd,
And dryvell on pearles, the hed still in the maunger,
Then of the harp the Asse to here the sownd.
So sackes of durt be filled vp in the cloyster,
That servis for lesse then do thes fatted swyne.
Tho I seme lene and dry withoute moyster,
Yet woll I serve my prynce, my lord and thyn,
And let theim lyve to fede the panche that list,
So I may fede to lyve both me and myn.’
By god, well sayde, but what and if thou wist
How to bryng in as fast as thou doest spend?
‘That would I lerne’; and it shall not be myst
To tell the how: now hark what I intend.
Thou knowest well first who so can seke to plese
Shall pourchase frendes where trowght shall but offend.
Fle therefore trueth: it is boeth welth and ese.
For tho that trouth of every man hath prayse,
Full nere that wynd goeth trouth in great misese.
Vse vertu as it goeth now a dayes:
In word alone to make thy langage swete,
And of the dede yet do not as thou sayse;
Elles be thou sure thou shalt be farre vnmyt
To get thy bred, eche thing is now so skant.
Seke still thy proffet vpon thy bare fete.
Lend in no wise for fere that thou do want,
Onles it be as to a dogge a chese;
By which retorne be sure to wyn a kant
Of half at lest, it is not good to lese.
Lerne at Kittson that in a long white cote
From vnder the stall withoute landes or feise
Hath lept into the shopp; who knoweth by rote
This rule that I have told the here before.
Sumtyme also riche age begynneth to dote:
Se thou when there thy gain may be the more.
Stay him by the arme where so he walke or goo;
Be nere alway: and if he koggh to sore,
When he hath spit, tred owte and please him so.
A diligent knave that pikes his maisters purse
May please him so that he withouten mo
Executour is, and what is he the wourse?
But if so chaunce you get nought of the man,
The wedow may for all thy charge deburse.
A ryveld skyn, a stynking breth, what than?
A tothles mowth shall do thy lips no harme:
The gold is good, and tho she curse or ban,
Yet where the list thou maist ly good and warme;
Let the old mule byte vpon the bridill,
Whilst there do ly a swetter in thyn arme.
In this also se you be not Idell:
Thy nece, thy cosyn, thy sister or thy doghter,
If she be faire, if handsom be her myddell,
Yf thy better hath her love besoght her,
Avaunce his cause and he shall help thy nede.
It is but love, turne it to a lawghter.
But ware I say so gold the helpe and spede,
That in this case thow be not so vnwise
As Pandare was in suche a like dede;
For he the ffooll of conscience was so nyse
That he no gayn would have for all his payne.
Be next thy self, for frendshipp beres no prise.
Laughst thou at me? Why do I speke in vayne?
‘No, not at the, but at thy thrifty gest.
Wouldest thou I should for any losse or gayne
Chaunge that for gold that I have tan for best,
Next godly thinges, to have an honest name?
Should I leve that? then take me for a best?’
Nay, then, farewell, and if you care for shame
Content the then with honest pouertie
With fre tong what the myslikes to blame
And for thy trouth sumtyme aduersitie:
And therewithall this thing I shall the gyve—
In this worould now litle prosperite,
And coyne to kepe as water in a syve.