University of Virginia Library

I. VOLUME I

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COMMENDATORY VERSES

T. B. In prayse of Gasco[ig]nes Posies.

We prayse the plough, that makes the fruitelesse soyle
To bring forth corne, (through helpe of heavenly might)
And eke esteeme the simple wretches toyle,
Whose painefull handes doe labour day and night.
We prayse the ground, whereon the herbes do grow,
Which heale or helpe, our greeves and mortall paine,
Yea weedes have worth, wherein we vertue know,
For natures Art, nothing hath made in vaine.
We prayse those floures which please the secrete sense,
And do content, the tast or smell of man,
The Gardners paynes and worke we recompence,
That skilfull is, or aught in cunning can.
But much more prayse to Gascoignes penne is due,
Whose learned hande doth here to thee present,
A Posie full of Hearbes, and Flowers newe,
To please all braynes, to wit or learning bent.
Howe much the minde doth passe the sense or smell,
So much these Floures all other do excell.

E. C. In prayse of Gascoignes Posies.

In gladsome Spring, when sweete and pleasant shoures
Have well renued, what winters wrath hath torne,
And that we see, the wholesome smelling Floures,
Begin to laugh rough winters wracke to scorne:
If then by chaunce, or choyce of owners will,
We roame and walke in place of rare delightes,
And therein finde, what Arte or natures skill
Can well set forth, to feede our hungrie sightes:
Yea more, if then the owner of the soyle,
Doth licence yeelde to use all as our owne,
And gladly thinkes, the fruites of all his toyle,
To our behoofe to be well set and sowne.
It cannot be, but this so great desart
In basest breast doth breede this due regarde,
With worlde of thankes, to prayse this friendly part,
And wish that woorth mought pay a just rewarde.
Good Reader then, beholde what gallant spring
This booke brings forth, of fruites of finest sortes,
Be bolde to take, thy list of everie thing,
For so is ment. And for thy glad disportes
The paine was tane: therefore lo this I crave,
In his behalfe, that wrote this pleasant worke,
With care and cost, (and then most freely gave
His labours great, wherein great treasures lurke:
To thine avayle) let his desartes now binde thee,
In woorde and deede, he may still thankfull finde thee.

M. C. commending the correction of Gascoignes Posies.

The Beares blinde whelpes, which lacke both nayles and heare,
And lie like lumpes, in filthie farrowed wise,
Do (for a time) most ougly beastes appeare,
Till dammes deare tongue, do cleare their clozed eyes.
The gadde of steele, is likewise blunt and blacke,
Till file and fire, do frame it sharpe and bright:
Yea precious stones, their glorious grace do lacke,
Till curious hand do make them please the sight.
And so these floures, although the grounde were gay,
Whereon they grew, and they of gallant hew,
Yet till the badde were cullde and cast away,
The best became the worse by such a crew.
(For my part) then: I lyked not their smell,
But as they be, I like them pretly well.

R. S. In prayse of Gascoignes Posies.

T. Ch. In prayse of Gascoignes Posies.

Though goodnesse of the gold, needes no mans praise ye know,
(And every coyne is judgde and found, by weight, by stamp, or show)
Yet doth the prayse of men, give gold a double grace,
And makes both pearls and Jewels rich desirde in every place.
The horse full finely formde, whose pace and traine is true,
Is more esteemde for good report, than likte for shape and view.
Yea sure, ech man himselfe, for all his wit and skill,
(If world bestow no lawde on him) may sleepe in silence still.
Fame shewes the value first, of everie precious thing,
And winnes with lyking all the brute, that doth the credit bring.
And fame makes way before, to workes that are unknowne,
And peoples love is caried ther, where fame hir trump hath blown.
A cunning workman fine, in Cloyster close may sit,
And carve or paint a thousand things, and use both art and wit,
Yet wanting worldes renowne, may scape unsought or seene:
It is but fame that outruns all, and gets the goall I weene.
The learned Doctors lawd, that heales where other harmes,
By cōmon prayse of peoples voyce, brings pacients in by swarmes.
A goodly stately house, hath seldome any fame,
Till world behold the buildings through, and people see the same.
The Flowers and Posies sweete, in better price are held,
When those have praysde their vertues rare, that have their odor smeld.
So by these foresayd proofes, I have a pardon free,
To speake, to write, and make discourse, of any worke I see,
That worthie is of prayse: for prayse is all we get.
Present the worlde with labors great, the world is in your det,
It never yeeldes rewarde, nor scarce just prayse will give:
Then studie out to stand on fame, and strive by fame to live.
Our olde forefathers wise, saw long before these dayes,
How sone faint world would fail deserts, and cold would wax our prayse.
And knowing that disdeyne, for toyle did rather rise,
Than right renowne (whose goldē buds, growes up to starry skies)
Betooke their labors long, and every act they did,
Unto the Gods, from whose deepe sight, no secret can be hid.
And these good gracious Gods, sent downe from heavens hie,
(For noble minds) an endlesse fame, that throw the world doth flie.
Which fame is due to those, that seeke by new device,
To honor learning every way, and Vertue bring in price.
From Knowledge gardeyn gay, where science sowes hir seedes,
A pretie Posie gathered is, of Flowers, Hearbes, and Weedes.
The Flowers by smel are found, the hearbs their goodnes showes,
The Weedes amid both hearbs & flowers, in decēt order growes.
The soft and tender nose, that can no weedes abide,
May make his choise of holesome hearbes, whose vertues well are tride.
The fine and flowing wittes, that feede on straunge delites,
May tast (for seasning daintie mouthes) the bitter weede that bites:
The well disposed minde, and honest meaning man,
Shall finde (in floures) proude Peacoks plumes, and feathers of the Swan.
The curst and crabbed Carle, that Posies flings away,
By this (perhaps) may find some cause, with prettie floures to play.
The kinde and loving worme, that woulde his ladie please,
M[a]y light on some such medcin here, shal do them both much ease.
The Lad that lykes the schoole, and will good warning take:
May snatch some rules oute of this booke, that may him doctor make.
The hastie travayling head, that flies to foreyne place,
May wey by this what home is woorth, and stay his roving race.
The manly courage stoute, that seeketh fame full farre,
Shall find by this how sweete is peace, and see how soure is warre.
This Posie is so pickt, and choysely sorted throw,
There is no Flower, Herbe, nor Weede, but serves some purpose now.
Then since it freely comes, to you for little cost,
Take well in worth these paynes of him, that thinkes no labor lost:
To do his countrie good, as many others have,
Who for their toyles a good report, of worlde did onely crave.
Grudge not to yeeld some fame, for fruites that you receyve,
Make some exchaunge for franke good will, some signe or token leave,
To shew your thankfull harts. For if you love to take,
And have a conscience growne so great, you can no gift forsake,
And cannot give againe, that men deserve to reape,
Adieu we leave you in the hedge, and ore the stile we leape.
And yet some stile or verse, we after shape in ryme,
That may by arte shewe you a Glasse, to see your selves in tyme.
Thus wish I men their right: and you that judge amisse,
To mend your minds, or frame your Muse, to make the like of this.

G. W. In prayse of Gascoigne, and his Posies.

Reader rewarde nought else, but onely good report,
For all these pleasant Posies here, bound up in sundrie sort.
The flowers fayre and fresh, were set with painefull toyle,
Of late in Gascoignes Garden plot, a passing pleasant soyle.
Now weedes of little worth, are culde from out the rest,
Which he with double paine, did work, to gleane the bad frō best.
The state is very straunge, and fortune rare in use,
Whose heavie happe he neither helpes, nor blazeth their abuse.
In thundring verse he wrayes, where highest mindes be thrall,
Where mischeefe seekes to rayse it selfe, by force of others fall.
He pluckes the visour of, from maskes of peevish pride,
And wrayes what sowre (in sweet pretēce) the coustly corts cā hide.
In everie gallant flower, he setteth forth to show,
Of Venus thralles, the hap, the harme, the want, the weale, the woe.
He finely findes their faultes, whose welth doth foster wrong,
Who toucheth sinne (without offence) must plainly sing his song.
His loftie vaine in verse, his stately stile in prose,
Foretelles that Pallas ment by him, for to defende hir foes.
Wherwith to Mars his might, his lustie limmes are knit,
(A sight most rare) that Hectors mind, should match with Pallas wit.
By proofe of late appeared (how so reportes here ran)
That he in field was formost still, in spoyle the hynmost man.
No backward blastes could bruse the valour of his thought,
Although slie hap, forestoode his hope, in that he credite sought.
In fortunes spight he strave, by vertues to aspire,
Resolvde when due deserts might mount, then he should have his hire.
Thus late with Mars in field, a lustie Souldiour shewde,
And now with peace in Pallas schoole, he freendly hath bestowde,
On thee this heape of flowers, the fruites of all his toyle,
Whereof if some but simple seeme, consider well the soyle.
They grew not all at home, some came from forreyne fieldes,
The which (percase) set here againe, no pleasant savour yeeldes.
Yet who mislyketh most, the worst will hardly mend,
And he were best not write at all, which no man will offend.

P. B. to such as have heretofore found fault with Gascoignes Posies.

A. W. In commendation of Gascoigne and his Posies.

I praysed once a booke (whereby I purchast blame)
And venturde for to write a verse, before I knewe the same.
So that I was deceyvde, for when it came to light,
The booke deserved no such worde, as I therein did wright.
Thus lept I ere I lookt, and wandred ere I wist,
Which gives (me haggard) warning since, to trust no falkners fist.
And yet the booke was good, (by hap and not my skill)
But not a Booke of such contentes, as might my wordes fulfill.
Well now I neede not feare, these Posies here to prayse,
Bicause I knew them every flower, and where they grew alwayes.
And sure for my conceyt, even when they bloomed first,
Me thought they smelt not much amisse, no not the very worst.
Perhappes some daintie nose, no Batchlers button lykes,
And some at Pimpernell and Pinkes, a slender quarell pykes.
Some thinke that Gillyflowers, do yeeld a gelous smell,
And some (which like none herbe but Sage) say Finkell tastes not well.
Yet Finkell is of force, and Gillyflowers are good,
And Pinks please some, and Pimpernell doth serve to steynch the blood:
And Batchlers buttons be, the bravest to beholde,
But sure that flower were best not grow, which can abide no colde.
For slaunder blowes so shrill, with easterne envious windes,
And frosts of frumps so nip the rootes, of vertuous meaning minds
That few good flowers can thrive, unlesse they be protected,
Or garded from suspitious blastes, or with some proppes erected.
So seemeth by the wight, which gardened this grounde,
And set such flowers on every bed, that Posies here abounde.
Yet some tongues cannot well, affoorde him worthie prayse,
And by our Lorde they do him wrong, for I have sene his wayes,
And marked all his moodes, and have had proofe likewise,
That he can do as well in field, as pen can here devise.
Not many Monthes yet past, I saw his doughtie deedes,
And since (to heare what slaunder sayes) my heavie hart it bleedes.
Yet Reader graunt but this, to trie before thou trust,
So shalt thou find his flowers and him, both gallant, good and just.

I. B. In commendation of Gascoignes Posies.

I. D. In prayse of Gascoigne and his Posies.

If Virgill how to till the Earth, to every man doth tell,
And Galen he in Phisicks arte doth many men excell,
If Poets olde deserven prayse, by paynting out aright,
The frutes of vice, as Ovid doth, and many mo that wright,
By learned skill of many things: If such exalt their name,
And for their hyre, deserved prayse by trumpe of Ladie Fame:
Why should the Authour of this booke then leese his due desart,
Sith he so freendly here to us, hath shewed his skilfull arte?
The healthsome herbs and flowers sweet, frō weedes he hath divided,
The fruits of Gives in prison strōg he hath right wel decided.
Of warres also, and warriours to, even like a Martiall knight,
He hath discourst, and shewed the lottes, that thereupon do light:
Virgill is dead, and Galen gone, with Poets many more:
Yet workes of theirs be still alive, and with us kept in store.
This Authour lives, and Gascoigne hights, yet once to die most sure,
Alas the while that worthie wightes may not alwayes endure,
But workes of his among the best, for ever more shall rest,
When he in heaven shall take a place prepared for the blest.

The Printer in commendation of Gascoigne and his workes.

Chawcer by writing purchast fame,
And Gower got a worthie name:
Sweete Surrey, suckt Pernassus springs,
And Wiat wrote of wondrous things:
Olde Rochfort clambe the stately Throne,
Which Muses holde, in Hellicone.
Then thither let, good Gascoigne go,
For sure his verse, deserveth so.

The opinion of the aucthor himself after all these commendations.

What neede I speake my self, since other say so much?
Who seme to praise these poesies so, as if ther wer none such?
But sure my silly self, do find therein no smell,
Which may deserve such passing prayse, or seeme to taste so well.
This boone I onely crave, that Readers yet will deigne
(If any weede herein do seeme, his fellow flowres to stayne)
Then reade but others workes, and marke if that they finde,
No toyes therein which may dislike, some modest readers minde?
Reade Virgills Pryapus, or Ovids wanton verse,
Which he about Corinnaes couche, so clerkly can rehearse.
Reade Faustoes filthy tale, in Ariostoes ryme,
And let not Marots Alyx passe, without impeach of crime.
These things considred well, I trust they will excuse
This muze of mine, although she seem, such toyes somtimes to use.
Beleeve me Lordings all, it is a Poetes parte,
To handle eche thing in his kinde, for therein lieth his arte:
Lucillius ledde the daunce, and Horace made the lawe,
That poetes by Aucthoritie, may call (A dawe) A Dawe,
And eke (a hore) A Hore, but yet in cleanly wordes,
So that the vice may be rebukt, as though it were in bourdes:
This phrase sometimes I use, which (if it be a faute)
Condempne not all the rest therfore, that here in verse is taught,
Smell every poesie right, and you therein shall finde,
Fresh flowres, good hearbes, & holsome weedes, to please a skilfull minde.

His ultimum vale to Amorous verse.

Kinde Erato, and wanton Thalia,
(Whose name my muze, devoutly did invoke)
Adieu deare dames, Caliope sings alia,
Which are more worth, and smell not of the smoke.
And if blinde Cupide, chaunce to stryke a stroke,
I vowe my verse, Apocrypha shalbe,
In silence shutte, that none (but you) may see.

FLOWERS.

The Anatomye of a Lover.

To make a Lover knowne, by plaine Anatomie,
You lovers all that list beware, loe here behold you me.
Who though mine onely lookes, your pittie wel might move,
Yet every part shall playe his part, to paint the panges of love.
If first my feeble head, have so much matter left,
If fansies raging force have not, his feeble skill bereft.
These lockes that hang unkempt, these hollowe dazled eyes,
These chattering teeth, this trēbling tongue, well tewed with carefull cries.
These wan and wrinkled cheekes, wel washt with waves of woe,
Maye stand for patterne of a ghost, where so this carkasse goe.
These shoulders they sustaine, the yoake of heavy care,
And on my brused broken backe, the burden must I beare.
These armes quite braunfalne are, with beating on my brest,
This right hand weary is to write, this left hand craveth rest:
These sides enclose the forge, where sorrowe playes the smith,
And hote desire, hath kindled fire, to worke this mettall with.
The Anvile is my heart, my thoughtes they strike the stroake,
My lights and lunges like bellowes blow, & sighes ascend for smoake.
My secreete partes are so with secreete sorrowe soken,
As for the secreete shame thereof, deserves not to be spoken,
My thighes, my knees, my legges, and last of all my feete,
To serve a lovers turne, are so unable and unmeete,
That scarce they sustaine up, this restlesse body well,
Unlesse it be to see the boure, wherein my love doth dwell,
And there by sight eftsoone, to feede my gazing eye,
And so content my hungrie corps, tyll dollours doe me dye:
Yet for a just reward of love so dearely bought,
I pray you saye, loe this was he, whome love had worne to nought.

The arraig[n]ment of a Lover.

The passion of a Lover.

A straunge passion of a Lover.

The Divorce of a Lover.

Divorce me nowe good death, from love and lingring life,
That one hath pene my concubine, that other was my wife.
In youth I lived with love, she had my lustye dayes,
In age I thought with lingering life to stay my wādering wais,
But now abusde by both, I come for to complaine,
To thee good death, in whom my helpe doth wholy now remain,
My libell loe behold: wherein I doe protest,
The processe of my plaint is true, in which my griefe doth rest.
First love my concubine (whome I have kept so trimme,
Even she for whome I seemd of yore, in seas of joy to swimme:
To whome I dare avowe, that I have served as well,
And played my part as gallantly, as he that beares the bell)
She cast me of long since, and holdes me in disdaine,
I cannot pranke to please hir nowe, my vaunting is but vaine.
My writhled cheekes bewraye, that pride of heate is past,
My stagring steppes eke tell the trueth, that nature fadeth fast,
My quaking crooked joyntes, are combred with the crampe,
The boxe of oyle is wasted wel, which once dyd feede my lampe.
The greenesse of my yeares, doth wyther now so sore,

Such a sect there is that desire no longer lyfe thē whiles they are in love.

That lusty love leapes quite awaye, and lyketh me no more,
And love my lemman gone, what lyking can I take?
In lothsome lyfe that croked croane, although she be my make?
Shee cloyes me with the cough, hir comfort is but cold,
She bids me give mine age for almes, wher first my youth was sold.
No day can passe my head, but she beginnes to brall,
No mery thoughts conceived so fast, but she confounds them al.
When I pretend to please, she overthwarts me still,
When I wou[l]d faynest part with hir, she overwayes my will.
Be judge then gentle death, and take my cause in hand,
Consider every circumstaunce, marke how the case doth stand.
Percase thou wilte aledge, that cause thou canst none see,
But that I like not of that one, that other likes not me:
Yes gentle judge give eare, and thou shalt see me prove,
My concubine incontinent, a common whore is love.
And in my wyfe I find, such discord and debate,
As no man living can endure the tormentes of my state.
Wherefore thy sentence say, devorce me from them both,
Since only thou mayst right my wronges, good death nowe be not loath.
But cast thy pearcing dart, into my panting brest,
That I may leave both love and life, & thereby purchase rest.

The Lullabie of a Lover.

The lamentation of a lover.

Now have I found the waie, to weepe & wayle my fill,
Now can I ende my dolfull dayes, & so content my will.
The way to weepe inough, for such as list to wayle,
Is this: to go abord ye ship, where pleasure beareth sayle.
And there to marke the jestes, of every joyfull wight,
And with what winde and wave they fleet, to nourish their delight.
For as the striken Deare, that seeth his fellowes feede,
Amid the lustie [heard] (unhurt), & feeles himselfe to bleede
Or as the seely byrd, that with the Bolte is brusd,
And lieth aloofe among the leaves, of al hir pheares refusd,
And heares them sing full shrill, yet cannot she rejoyce,
Nor frame one warbling note to passe, out of hir mournfull voyce.
Even so I finde by proofe, that pleasure dubleth payne,
Unto a wretched wounded hart, which doth in woe, remaine.
I passe where pleasure is, I heare some sing for joye,
I see som laugh, som other daūce, in spight of darke anoy.
But out alas my mind, amends not by their myrth,
I deeme al pleasurs to be paine, that dwell above ye earth.
Such heavy humors feede, ye bloud that lendes me breath,
As mery medcins cannot serve, to keepe my corps from death.

[Thou with thy lookes on whom I loke full ofte]

Certaine verses written to a Gentlewoman whome hee liked very wel, and yet had never any oportunity to discover his affection, being alwayes bridled by jelouse lookes which attended them both, and therefore gessing by hir lokes, that she partly also liked him: he wrote in a booke of hirs as foloweth, being termed with the rest that follow the lokes of a lover enamoured.

With these verses you shall judge the quicke capacitie of the Lady: for she wrote thereunder this short aunswere.

Looke as long as you lyst, but surely if I take you looking, I will looke with you.

[I cast mine eye and sawe ten eyes at once]

And for a further proofe of this Dames quicke understanding, you shall now understande, that sone after this aunswere of hirs, the same Aucthour chansed to be at a supper in hir company, where were also hir brother, hir husband, and an old lover of hirs by whom shee had bene long suspected. Nowe, although there wanted no delicate viandes to content them, yet their chiefe repast was by entreglancing of lokes. For the Aucthour being stong with hotte affection, coulde none otherwyse relieve his passion but by gazing. And the Dame of a curteous enclination deigned (nowe and then) to requite the same with glancing at him. Hir olde lover occupied his eyes with watching: and her brother perceiving all this coulde not abstaine from winking, whereby hee might putte his Syster in remembraunce, least she shoulde too much forget hir selfe. But most of all her husbande beholding the first, and being evyll pleased with the seconde, scarce contented with the thirde, and misconstruing the fourth, was constrayned to playe the fifth part in frowarde frowning. This royall banquet thus passed over, the Aucthor knowing that after supper they should passe the tyme in propounding of Ryddles, and making of purposes: contrived all this conceipt in a Riddle as followeth. The which was no soner pronoūced, but shee coulde perfectly perceive his intent, and drave out one nayle with another, as also enseweth.

[What thing is that which swimmes in blisse]

In all this lovelie company was not one that coulde and would expound the meaning hereof. At last the Dame hir selfe aunswered on this wise. Syr, quod she, because your darke speach is much to curious for this simple company, I wyl bee so bolde as to quit one question with another. And when you have aunswered mine, it maye fall out per-adventure, that I shall somewhat the better judge of yours.

[I grooped in thy pocket pretty peate]

He held him selfe herewith contented: and afterwardes when they were better acquainted, he chaunsed once (groping in hir pocket) to find a letter of hir olde lovers: and thynking it were better to wincke than utterlye to put out his eyes, seemed not to understande this first offence: but soone after finding a lemman (the which he thought he sawe hir olde lemman put there) he devised therof thus, and delivered it unto hir in writing.

[A lymone (but no Lemmane) Syr you found]

The Dame within verie short space dyd aunswere it thus.

The lookes of a lover forsaken: written by a gentlewoman who passed by him with hir armes set bragging by hir sides, and lefte it unfinished as followeth.

Were my hart set on hoygh as thine is bent,
Or in my brest so brave and stout a will:
Then (long ere this) I coulde have bene content,
With sharpe reveng thy carelesse corpes to kill.
For why thou knowest (although thou know not all)
What rule, what raygne, what power, what segnory,
Thy melting minde did yeeld to me (as thrall)
When first I pleasd thy wandring fantisie.
What lingring lookes bewray'd thyne inward thought,
What panges were publisht by perplexcitie,
Such reakes the rage of love in thee had wrought
And no gramercie for thy curtesie.
I list not vaunt, but yet I dare avowe
(Had bene my harmelesse hart as harde as thine)
I coulde have bounde thee then for starting nowe,
In bondes of bale, in pangs of deadly pyne.
For why by profe the field is eath to win,
Where as the chiefteynes yeeld them selves in chaynes:
The port or passage plaine to enter in,
Where porters list to leave the key for gaynes.
But did I then devise with crueltie,
(As tyrants do) to kill the yeelding pray?
Or did I bragge and boast triumphauntly,
As who should saye the field were mine that daye?
Did I retire my selfe out of thy sight
To beat afresh the bulwarkes of thy brest?
Or did my mind in choyce of change delight,
And render thee as reffuse with the rest?
No Tygre no, the lyon is not lewd,
He shewes no force on seely wounded sheepe, &c.

[Howe long she lookt that lookt at me of late]

Howe long she lookt that lookt at me of late,
As who would say, hir lookes were all for love:
When God he knowes they came from deadly hate,
To pinch me yit with pangs which I must prove.
But since my lokes hir liking maye not move,
Looke where she likes, for lo this looke was cast,
Not for my love, but even to see my last.

An other Sonet written by the same Gentlewoman, uppon the same occasion.

I lookt of late and sawe thee loke askance,
Upon my dore, to see if I satte there.
As who should say: If he be there by chance,
Yet maye he thinke I loke him every where,
No cruell, no, thou knowest and I can tell,
How for thy love I layd my lokes a side:
Though thou (par case) hast lookt and liked wel,
Some newe founde lookes amide this world so wide.
But since thy lookes my love have so in chaynd
That to my lokes, thy liking now is past:
Loke where thou likest, and let thy hands be staynd,
In true loves bloud, which thou shalt lack at last,
So looke, so lack, for in these toyes thus tost,
My lookes thy love, thy lookes my life have lost.

To the same gentlewoman because she challenged the Aucthour for holding downe his head alwaies, and for that hee looked not uppon hir in wonted manner.

You must not wonder though you thinke it straunge,
To see me holde my lowring head so lowe:
And that myne eyes take no delyght to raunge,
About the gleames which on your face doe growe.
The mouse which once hath broken out of trappe,
Is sildome tysed with the trustlesse bayte,
But lyes aloofe for feare of more mishappe,
And feedeth styll in doubte of deepe deceipte.
The skorched flye which once hath scapt the flame,
Wyll hardlye come to playe againe with fyre.
Whereby I learne that greevous is the game,
Which followes fansie dazled by desire.
So that I wynke or else holde downe my head,
Because your blazing eyes my bale have bred.

The Recantacion of a Lover.

Now must I needes recant the wordes which once I spoke,
Fond fansie fumes so nie my noose, I nedes must smel ye smoke:
And better were to beare a Faggot from the fire,
Than wylfully to burne and blaze, in flames of vaine desire.
You Judges then give eare, you people marke me well,
I saye, both heaven and earth record the tale which I shall tell
And knowe that dread of death, nor hope of better hap,
Have forced or perswaded me to take my turning cap,
But even that mightye Jove, of his great clemencie,
Hath given me grace at last to judge, the trueth from heresie:
I saye then and professe, with free and faithfull heart,
That womēs vowes are nothing els, but snares of secret smart:
Their beauties blaze are baites which seeme of pleasant taste,
But who devoures the hidden hooke, eates poyson for repast:
Their smyling is deceipt, their faire wordes traines of treason,
Their wit alwaies so full of wyles, it skorneth rules of reason.
Percase some present here, have heard my selfe of yore,
Both teach & preach the contrary, my fault was then the more:
I graunt my workes were these, first one Anatomie,
Wherein I painted every pang of [loves] perplexitye:
Next that I was araignde, with George holde up thy hand,
Wherein I yeelded Bewties thrall, at hir commaund to stand:
Myne eyes so blinded were, (good people marke my tale)
That once I song, I Bathe in Blisse, amidde my weary Bale:
And many a frantike verse, then from my penne dyd passe,
In waves of wicked heresie, so deepe I drowned was.
All which I now recant, and here before you burne
Those trifling bookes, from whose lewde lore my tippet here I turne.
And hencefoorth wyl I write, howe mad is that mans minde,
Which is entist by any traine to trust in womankind.

Astolf being the goodliest personne in the worlde founde a dwarfe lying with his wife

I spare not wedlocke I, who lyst that state advance,
Aske Astolfe king of Lumbardie, howe trim his dwarfe coulde daunce.
Wherefore fayre Ladies you, that heare me what I saye,
If you hereafter see me slippe, or seeme to goe astraye:
Or if my tongue revolte from that which nowe it sayth,
Then plague me thus, Beleeve it not, for this is nowe my faith.

In prayse of Bridges, nowe Lady Sandes.

In Court who so demaundes what Dame doth most excell,
For my conceyt I must needes say, faire Bridges beares ye bell:
Upon whose lively cheeke, to proove my judgement true,
The Rose and Lillie seeme to strive for equall change of hewe:
And therewithall so well her graces all agree,
No frowning cheere dare once presume in hir sweete face to bee.
Although some lavishe lippes, which like some other best,
Wyll saye the blemishe on hir browe disgraceth all the rest.
Thereto I thus replie, God wotte they litle know,
The hidden cause of that mishap, nor how the harme dyd grow.
For when Dame nature first had framde hir heavenly face,
And thoroughly bedecked it, with goodly gleames of grace:
It lyked hir so well: Lo here (quod shee) a peece,
For perfect shape that passeth all Apelles worke in Greece.
This bayte may chaunce to catche the greatest God of love,
Or mighty thundring Jove himself that rules the roast above.
But out, alas, those wordes were vaunted all in vaine,
And some unsene were present there (poore Bridges) to thy pain.
For Cupide craftie boye, close in a corner stoode,
Not blyndfold then, to gaze on hir, I gesse it dyd him good.
Yet when he felt the flame gan kindle in his brest,
And hard dame nature boast by hir, to breake him of his rest,
His hote newe chosen love, he chaunged into hate,
And sodainly with mighty mace, gan rap hir on the pate.
It grieved Nature much to see the cruell deede:
Me seemes I see hir how she wept, to see hir dearling blede.
Well yet (quod she) this hurt shall have some helpe I trowe,
And quicke with skin she covered it, that whiter is than snowe.
Wherewith Dan Cupid fled, for feare of further flame,
Whē angel like he saw hir shine, whom he had smit with shame.
Lo thus was Bridges hurt, in cradel of hir kind,
The coward Cupid brake hir brow, to wreke his woūded mind,
The skar styll there remaines, no force, there let it be,
There is no clowde that can eclipse, so bright a sunne as she.

In prayse of Zouche late the Lady Greye of Wilton whome the auctor found in a homely house.

These rustie walles whome cankred yeares deface,
The comely corps of seemely Zouche enclose,
Whose auncient stocke derivde from worthy race,
Procures hir praise, where so the carkas goes:
Hir aungels face declares hyr modest minde,
Hyr lovely lokes the gazing eyes allure,
Hyr deedes deserve some endlesse prayse to finde,
To blaze suche brute as ever might endure.
Wherfore my penne in trembling feare shall staye,
To write the thing that doth surmount my skill,
And I will wish of God both night and daye,
Some worthier place to guide hir worthy will.
Where princes peeres hir due desertes maye see,
And I content hir servaunt there to bee.

Gascoignes praise of his mistres.

The hap which Paris had, as due for his desert,
Who favord Venus for hir face, & skornde Menervas art:
May serve to warne the wise that they no more esteme,
The glistering glosse of bewties blaze, than reason should it deme.
Dan Priams yonger son, found out ye fairest dame,
That ever trode on Troyane mold, what folowed of ye same?
I list not brut hir bale, let others spread it forth,
But for his parte to speake my minde his choice was little worth,
My meaning is but this, who markes the outward shewe,
And never grops for graftes of grace which in ye mind should grow:
May chance upon such choise as trusty Troilus had,
And dwel in dole as Paris did, when he would faine be glad.
How happie then am I whose happe hath bene to finde,
A mistresse first that doth excell in vertues of the mind.
And yet therewith hath joynd, such favoure and suche grace,
As Pandars niece (if she wer here) would quickly give hir place.
With in whose worthy brest, Dame Bounty seekes to dwel,
And saith to beawty, yeeld to me, since I doe thee excell.
Betwene whose heavenly eyes, doth right remorse appeare,
And pitie placed by the same, doth muche amende hir cheere.
Who in my daungers deepe, dyd deigne to doe mee good,
Who did relieve my heavy heart, and sought to save my blood.
Who first encreast my friendes, and overthrew my fooes,
Who loved al them that wisht me wel, & liked none but those.
O Ladies give me leave, I prayse not hir to farre,
Since she doth pas you al, as much, as Titan staines a starre.
You hold such servauntes deare, as able are to serve.
She held me deare, when I poore soule, could no good thing deserve.
You set by them that swim in all prosperitie,
She set by me when as I was in great calamitie.
You best esteeme the brave, and let the poorest passe,
Shee best esteemde my poore good wyll, all naked as it was.
But whether am I went? what humor guides my braine?
I seeke to wey ye woolsack down, with one poore pepper grain.
I seeme to penne hir praise, that doth surpasse my skill,
I strive to rowe against the tide, I hoppe against the hill.
Then let these fewe suffise, shee Helene staines for hewe,
Dydo for grace, Cressyde for cheere, and is as Thisbye true.
Yet if you furder crave, to have hir name displaide,
Dame Favor is my mistres name, dame Fortune is hir maid.

Gascoignes good morrow.

Gascoygnes good night.

When thou hast spent the lingring day in pleasure and delight,
Or after toyle and wearie waye, dost seeke to rest at nighte:
Unto thy paynes or pleasures past, adde this one labour yet,
Ere sleepe close up thyne eye to fast, do not thy God forget,
But searche within thy secret thoughts, what deeds did thee befal:
And if thou find amisse in ought, to God for mercy call.
Yea though thou find nothing amisse, which thou canst cal to mind,
Yet ever more remember this, there is the more behind:
And thinke how well so ever it be, that thou hast spent the daye,
It came of God, and not of thee, so to direct thy waye.
Thus if thou trie thy dayly deedes, and pleasure in this payne,
Thy life shall clense thy corne from weeds, & thine shal be ye gaine:
But if thy sinfull sluggishe eye, will venter for to winke,
Before thy wading will may trye, how far thy soule maye sinke,
Beware and wake, for else thy bed, which soft & smoth is made,
May heape more harm upō thy head, than blowes of enmies blade.
Thus if this paine procure thine ease, in bed as thou doest lye,
Perhaps it shall not God displease, to sing thus soberly:
I see that sleepe is lent me here, to ease my wearye bones,
As death at laste shall eke appeere, to ease my greevous grones.
My dayly sportes, my panch full fed, have causde my drousie eye,
As carelesse life in quiet led, might cause my soule to dye:
The stretching armes, ye yauning breath, which I to bedward use,
Are patternes of the pangs of death, when life will me refuse:
And of my bed eche sundrye part in shaddowes doth resemble,
The sūdry shapes of deth, whose dart shal make my flesh to trēble.
My bed it selfe is like the grave, my sheetes the winding sheete,
My clothes the mould which I must have, to cover me most meete:
The hungry fleas which friske so freshe, to wormes I can cōpare,
Which greedily shall gnaw my fleshe, & leave the bones ful bare:
The waking Cock that early crowes to weare the night awaye,
Puts in my minde the trumpe that blowes before the latter day.
And as I ryse up lustily, when sluggish sleepe is past,
So hope I to rise joyfully, to Judgement at the last.
Thus wyll I wake, thus wyll I sleepe, thus wyl I hope to ryse,
Thus wyll I neither waile nor weepe, but sing in godly wyse.
My bones shall in this bed remaine, my soule in God shall trust,
By whome I hope to ryse againe from death and earthly dust.

The introduction to the Psalme of De profundis.

The Skies gan scowle, orecast with misty clowdes,
When (as I rode alone by London waye,
Cloakelesse, unclad) thus did I sing and say:
Behold quoth I, bright Titan how he shroudes
His head abacke, and yelds the raine his reach,
Till in his wrath, Dan Jove have soust the soile,
And washt me wretch which in his travaile toile.
But holla (here) doth rudenesse me appeach,
Since Jove is Lord and king of mighty power,
Which can commaund the Sunne to shewe his face,
And (when him lyst) to give the raine his place.
Why doe not I my wery muses frame,
(Although I bee well soused in this showre,)
To write some verse in honour of his name?

Gascoignes De profundis.

Gascoignes Memories, written upon this occasion.

Hee had (in myddest of his youth) determined to abandone all vaine delightes and to returne unto Greyes Inne, there to undertake againe the studdie of the common Lawes. And being required by five sundry Gentlemen to write in verse somewhat worthye to bee remembred, before he entered into their fellowshippe, hee compiled these five sundrie sortes of metre uppon five sundrye theames, whiche they delivered unto him, and the first was at request of Frauncis Kinwelmarshe who delivered him this theame. Audaces fortuna juvat. And thereuppon hee wrote this Sonnette following.

The nexte was at request of Antony Kinwelmarshe, who delivered him this theame, Satis sufficit, and thereupon he wrote as foloweth.

John Vaughan delivered him this theame. Magnum vectigal parcimonia, where uppon he wrote thus.

The common speech is, spend and God will send,
But what sendes he? a bottell and a bagge,
A staffe a wallet and a wofull ende,
For such as list in bravery so to bragge.
Then if thou covet coyne enough to spend,
Learne first to spare thy budget at the brinke,
So shall the bottome be the faster bound:
But he that list with lavish hand to linke,
(In like expence) a pennye with a pound,
May chaunce at last to sitte a side and shrinke
His harbraind head with out dame dainties dore.
Hick, [H]obbe, and Dick, with clouts upon their knee,
Have many times more goonhole grotes in store
And change of crownes more quicke at cal then he,
Which let their lease and take their rent before.
For he that rappes a royall on his cappe,
Before he put one penny in his pursse,
Had neede turne quicke and broch a better tappe,
Or els his drinke may chance go downe the wursse.
I not denie but some men have good hap,
To climbe a lofte by scales of courtly grace,
And winne the world with liberalitye:
Yet he that yerks old angells out apace,
And hath no newe to purchase dignitye,
When orders fall, may chaunce to lacke his grace.
For haggard hawkes mislike an emptie hand:
So stiffely some sticke to the mercers stall,
Till sutes of silke have swet out all their land.
So ofte thy neighbours banquet in thy hall,
Till Davie Debet in thy parler stand,
And bids the welcome to thine owne decay.
I like a Lions lookes not worth a leeke
When every Foxe beguiles him of his praye:
What sauce but sorrow serveth him a weeke,
Which all his cates consumeth in one daye?
First use thy stomacke to a stand of ale,
Before thy Malmesey come in Marchantes bookes,
And rather were (for shifte) thy shirte of male,
Than teare thy silken sleves with teynter hokes,
Put feathers in thy pillowes great and small,
Let them be princkt with plumes, that gape for plummes,
Heape up bothe golde and silver safe in hooches,
Catche, snatche, and scratche for scrapings and for crommes
Before thou decke thy hatte (on high) with brooches.
Lette first thyne one hand hold faste all that commes,
Before that other learne his letting flie:
Remember still that soft fire makes sweet malte,
No haste but good (who meanes to multiplye:)
Bought witte is deare, and drest with sower salte,
Repentaunce commes to late, and then saye I,
Who spares the first and keepes the last unspent,
Shall finde that sparing yeeldes a goodly rent.

Alexander Nevile delivered him this theame, Sat cito, si sat bene, whereupon hee compiled these seven Sonets in seq[u]ence, therin bewraying his owne Nimis cito: and therwith his Vix bene, as foloweth.

Richarde Courtop (the last of the five) gave him this theame, Durum æneum & miserabile ævum, and thereupon hee wrote in this wise.

When peerelesse Princes courtes were free from flatterie,
The Justice from unequal doome, the quest from perjurie,
The pillers of the state, from proude presumption,
The clearkes from heresie, the commones from rebellion:
Then right rewardes were given, by swaye of dewe desarte,
Then vertues derlinges might be plaste aloft to play their part:
Then might they coumpt it true, that hath beene sayde of olde,
The children of those happie dayes, were borne in beds of golde,
And swadled in the same: the Nurse that gave them sucke,
Was wife to liberallitie, and lemman to good lucke.
When Cæsar woon the fielde, his captaines caught the Townes,
And every painful souldiours purse was crammed ful of crownes.
Licurgus for good Lawes, lost his owne libertie,
And thought it better to preferre common commoditie.
But nowe the times are turnde, it is not as it was,
The golde is gone, the silver sunke, and nothing left but brasse.
To see a King encroache, what wonder should it seeme,
When commons cannot be content, with countrie Dyadeeme?
The Prince maye dye a babe, trust up by trecherie,
Where vaine ambition doth move trustlesse nobillitye.
Errours in pulpit preache, where faith in priesthood failes,
Promotion (not devotion) is cause why cleargie quailes.
Thus is the stage stakt out, where all these partes be plaide,
And I the prologue should pronounce, but that I am afraide.
First Cayphas playes the Priest, and Herode sits as king,
Pylate the Judge, Judas the Jurour verdict in doth bring,
Vaine tatling plaies the vice, well cladde in ritche aray,
And poore Tom Trooth is laught to skorn, with garments nothing gay.
The woman wantonnesse, shee commes with ticing traine,
Pride in hir pocket plaies bo peepe, and bawdry in hir braine.
Hir handmaides be deceipte, daunger, and dalliaunce,
Riot and Revell follow hir, they be of hir alliaunce:
Next these commes in Sim Swashe, to see what sturre they keepe.
Clim of the Clough then takes his heeles, tis time for him to creepe:
To packe the pageaunt up, commes Sorrow with a song,
He say[s] these jestes can get no grotes, & al this geare goth wrong:
Fyrst pride without cause why, he singes the treble parte,
The meane hee mumbles out of tune, for lacke of life and hart:
Cost lost, the counter Tenor chanteth on apace,
Thus all in discords stands the cliffe, and beggrie singes the base.
The players loose their paines, where so fewe pence are sturring,
Their garmēts weare for lacke of gains, & fret for lack of furring.
When all is done and past, was no part plaide but one,
For everye player plaide the foole, tyll all be spent and gone.
And thus this foolishe jest, I put in dogrell rime,
Because a crosier staffe is best, for such a crooked time.

And thus an ende of these five Theames, admounting to the number of .CCLVIII. verses, devised ryding by the way, writing none of them untill he came at the ende of his Journey, the which was no longer than one day in ryding, one daye in tarying with his friend, and the thirde in returning to Greyes Inne: and therefore called Gascoignes memories.

My recklesse race is runne, greene youth and pride be past,
My riper mellowed yeeres beginne to follow on as fast.
My glancing lookes are gone, which wonted were to prie,
In everie gorgious garishe glasse, that glistred in mine eie.
My sight is now so dimme, it can behold none such,
No mirrour but the merrie meane, can please my fansie much.
And in that noble glasse, I take delight to vewe,
The fashions of the wonted world, compared by the newe.
For marke who lyst to looke, eche man is for him selfe.
And beates his braine to hord & heape, this trashe & worldly pelfe.
Our handes are closed up, great giftes go not abroade,
Fewe men wyll lende a locke of heye, but for to gaine a loade.
Give Gave is a good man, what neede we lashe it out,
The world is wondrous feareful now, for danger bids men doubt.
And aske how chaunceth this? or what meanes all this meede?
Forsoothe the common aunswere is, because the Lord hath neede.
A noble jest by gisse, I finde it in my glasse,
The same freeholde our saviour Christ, conveyed to his asse.
A texte to trie the trueth, and for this time full fitte,
Fo[r] where should we our lessons learne, but out of holy writte?
First marke our onely God, which ruleth all the rost,
He sets a side all pompe and pride, wherein fond wordlings boast.
His trayne is not so great, as filthy Sathans band,
A smaller heard maye serve to feede, at our great masters hand.
Next marke the heathens Gods, and by them shall we see,
They be not now so good fellowes, as they were wonte to be.
Jove, Mars, and Mercurie, Dame Venus and the rest,
They bāquet not as they were wont, they know it were not best.
So kinges and princes both, have left their halles at large,
Their privie chambers cost enough, they cut off every charge.
And when an office falles, as chaunce somtimes maye bee,
First kepe it close a yere or twayne, then geld it by the fee.
And give it out at last, but yet with this proviso,
(A bridle for a brainsicke Jade) durante bene placito.
Some thinke these ladders low, to climbe alofte with speede:
Well let them creepe at leisure thē, for sure the Lord hath neede.
Dukes Earles and Barons bold, have learnt like lesson nowe,
They breake up house & come to courte, they live not by ye plowe.
Percase their roomes be skant, not like their stately boure,
A field bed in a corner coucht, a pallad on the floure.
But what for that? no force, they make thereof no boast,
They feede them selves with delycates, and at the princes cost.
And as for all their men, their pages and their swaynes,
They choke thē up with chynes of beefe, to multiply their gaines.
Themselves lie neere to looke, when any leafe doth fall,
Such cromes were wont to feede pore gromes, but nowe ye Lords licke al.
And why? oh sir, because, both dukes & lords have neede,
I mocke not I, my text is true, beleeve it as your creede.
Our Prelates and our Priests, can tell this text with mee,
They can hold fast their fattest fermes, and let no lease go free.
They have both wife and childe, which maye not be forgot,
The scriptures say the Lord hath neede, and therfore blame them not.
Then come a little lower, unto the contrye knight,
The squire and the gentleman, they leave the countrye quite,
Their Halles were all to large, their tables were to long,
The clouted shoes came in so faste, they kepte to great a throng,
And at the porters lodge, where lubbers wonte to feede,
The porter learnes to answere now, hence hence the Lord hath neede.
His gestes came in to thicke, their diet was to great,
Their horses eate up all the hey, which should have fed his neate:
Their teeth were farre to fine, to feede on porke and souse,
Fyve flocks of sheepe could scarce maintaine good mutten for his house.
And when this count was cast, it was no biding here,
Unto the good towne is he gonne, to make his frends good cheere.
And welcome there that will, but shall I tell you howe:
At his owne dish he feedeth them, that is the fashion nowe,
Side bords be layed aside, the tables ende is gonne,
His cooke shall make you noble cheere, but hostler hath he none.
The chargers now be changde, wherein he wont to eate,
An olde frutedish is bigge ynough to hold a joynte of meate.
A sallad or a sauce, to tast your cates with all,
Som strāg devise to feede mēs eies, mēs stomacks now be small.
And when the tenauntes come to paie their quarters rent,
They bringe some fowle at Midsommer, a dish of Fish in Lent,
At Christmasse a capon, at Mighelmasse a goose:
And somewhat else at Newyeres tide, for feare their lease flie loose.
Good reason by my troth, when Gentlemen lacke groates,
Let Plowmen pinche it out for pence, & patch their russet coates:
For better Fermers fast, than Manner houses fall,
The Lord hath neede, than says the text, bring old Asse colt & all.
Well lowest nowe at last, let see the contrye loute,
And marke how he doth swink & sweat, to bring this geare about:
His feastinges be but fewe, cast whipstockes clout his shoone,
The wheaten loafe is locked up as sone as dinners doone:
And where he wonte to kepe a lubber, two or three,
Now hath he learnd to kepe no more, but Sim his sonne and he,
His wife and Mawde his mayd, a boye to pitch the carte,
And turne him up at Hollontide, to feele the winter smarte:
Dame Alyson his wife doth knowe the price of meale,
Hir bride cakes be not halfe so bigge as she was wont to steale:
She weares no silver hookes, she is content with worsse,
Hir pendantes and hir silver pinnes she putteth in hir pursse.
Thus learne I by my glasse, that merrie meane is best,
And he most wise that finds the meane, to keepe himselfe at rest.
Perchaunce some open mouth will mutter now and than,
And at the market tell his mate, our landlordes a zore man:
He racketh up our rentes, and keepes the best in hand,
He makes a wōdrous deale of good out of his own measne land:
Yea let suche pelters prate, saint Needam be their speede,
We neede no text to answer them, but this, The Lord hath nede.

An Epitaph upon Captaine Bourcher late slaine in the warres in Zelande, the which hath bene termed the tale of a stone as foloweth.

A devise of a Maske for the right honorable Viscount Mountacute

written upon this occasion, when the sayde L. had prepared to solemnize twoo marriages betweene his sonne and heyre, and the Daughter of syr William Dormer Knight, and betweene the sonne and heyre of syr William Dormer, and the Daughter of the said L. Mountacute: there were eight Gentlemen (all of blood or alliaunce to the sayd L. Mountacute) which had determined to present a Maske at the daye appointed for the sayd marriages, and so farre they had proceeded therein, that they had alreadye bought furniture of Silkes, &c, and had caused their garmentes to bee cut of the Venetian fashion. Nowe then they began to imagine that (without some speciall demonstration) it would seeme somewhat obscure to have Venetians presented rather than other countrey men. Whereupon they entreated the Aucthour to devise some verses to bee uttered by an Actor wherein might be some discourse convenient to render a good cause of the Venetians presence. The Aucthour calling to minde that there is a noble house of the Mountacutes in Italie, and therwithall that the L. Mountacute here doth quarter the coate of an auncient English Gentleman called Mounthermer, and hath the inheritaunce of the sayde house, dyd thereupon devise to bring in a Boye of the age of twelve or .xiiii. yeeres, who should faine that he was a Mounthermer by the fathers side, and a Mountacute by the mothers side, and that his father being slaine at the last warres against the Turke, and he there taken, hee was recovered by the Venetians in their last victorie, and with them sayling towardes Venice, they were driven by tempest upon these coastes, and so came to the marriage upon report as followeth, and the sayde Boye pronounced the devise in this sort.

The refusal of a lover, writen to a gentlewoman who had refused him and chosen a husband (as he thought) much inferior to himselfe, both in knowledge, birth, and parsonage, wherin he bewraieth both their names in clowdes, and how she was won from him with swete gloves, and broken ringes.

I cannot wish thy griefe, although thou worke my wooe,
Since I profest to be thy friend, I cannot be thy foe:
But if thinges done and past, might well be cald agayne,
Then would I wishe the wasted wordes, which I have spent in vayne:
Were yet untold to thee, in earnest or in game,
And that my doubtfull musing mind, had never thought ye same.
For whiles I thee beheld, in carefull thoughtes I spent,
My liking lust, my luckelesse love which ever truely ment.
And whiles I sought a meane, by pittie to procure,
Too latte I found that gorged haukes, do not esteme the lure.
This vauntage hast thou then, thou mayest wel brag and boast.
Thou mightest have had a lustye lad of stature with the most,
And eke of noble mind: his vertues nothing base,
Do well declare that he desends, of auncient worthy race.
Save that I

Know not

not his name, and though I could it tell,
My friendly pen shall let it passe, bicause I love him well.
And thou hast chosen one of meaner parentage,
Of stature smale and therewithall, unequall for thine age.
His

Good qualities.

thewes unlike the first, yet hast thou hote desire,
To play thee in his flitting flames, God graunt they prove not fire.
Him holdest thou as deare, and he thy Lord shall bee,
(Too late alas) thou lovest him, that never loved thee.
And for just profe hereof, marke what I tell is true,
Some dismold daye shall chaunge his minde, and make him seeke a new.
Then wylt thou much repent, thy bargaine made in haste,
And much lament those perfumd Gloves, which yeeld such sower taste,
And eke the falsed faith, which lurkes in broken ringes,
Though hand in hand say otherwise, yet do I know such thinges.
Then shalt thou sing and saye, farewell my trusty Squyer,
Would God my mind had yeelded once, unto thy just desire.
Thus shalt thou wayle my want, and I thy great unrest,
Which cruel Cupid kindled hath, within thy broken brest.
Thus shalt thou find it griefe, which earst thou thoughtest game,
And I shall heare the wearie newes, by true reporting fame.
Lamenting thy mishap, in source of swelling teares,
Harding my heart with cruell care, which frosen fansie beares.
And though my just desert, thy pittie could not move,
Yet wyl I washe in wayling wordes, thy careles childishe love.
And saye as Troylus sayde, since that I can no more,
Thy wanton wyll dyd waver once, and woe is me therefore.

Pride in Court written by a Gentlewoman in Court, who (when shee was there placed) seemed to disdaine him, contrarie to a former profession.

When daunger keepes the doore, of Ladye bewties bowre,
Whē jelouse toyes have chased Trust out of hir strōgest towre.
Then faith and trooth maye flye, then falshood winnes the field,
Then feeble naked fautlesse heartes, for lacke of fence must yeeld.
And then prevailes as much to hoppe against the hyll,
As seeke by suite for to appease a froward Ladies wyll.
For oathes and solempne vowes, are wasted then in vaine,
And truth is compted but a toye, when such fond fancies raigne.
The sentence sone is sayde, when will it selfe is Judge,
And quickly is the quarrell pickt, when Ladies list to grudge.
This sing I for my selfe, (which wroate this weary song)
Who justly may complaine my case, if ever man had wrong.
A Lady have I serv'd, a Lady have I lov'd,
A Ladies good wyll once I had, hir yll wyll late I prov'd.
In countrey first I knewe hir, in countrey first I caught hir,
And out of countrey nowe in Court, to my cost have I sought hir.
In Court where Princes raigne, hir place is nowe assignde,
And well were worthy for the roome, if she were not unkinde.
There I (in wonted wise) dyd shewe my selfe of late,
And found that as the soile was chang'd, so love was turnd to hate.
But why? God knowes, not I: save as I sayde before,
Pitie is put from porters place, and daunger keepes the dore.
If courting then have skill, to chaunge good Ladies so,
God send eche wilful Dame in Court, some wound of my like wo.
That with a troubled head, she may both turne and tosse,
In restlesse bed when she should sleepe and feele of love the losse.
And I (since porters put me from my wonted place)
And deepe deceipte hath wrought a wyle to wrest me out of grace:
Wyll home againe to cart, as fitter were for mee,
Then thus in court to serve and starve, where such proude porters bee.

This question being propounded by a Dame unto the Aucthour, to witte, why he should write Spreta tamen vivunt, he aunswereth thus.

Despysed things may live, although they pine in payne:
And things ofte trodden under foote, may once yet rise againe.
The stone that lieth full lowe, may clime at last full hye:
And stand a loft on stately towr's, in sight of every eye.
The cruell Axe which felles the tree that grew full straight:
Is worne with rust, when it renewes, and springeth up on height.
The rootes of rotten Reedes in swelling seas are seene:
And when eche tide hath tost his worst, they grow againe ful greene.
Thus much to please my selfe, unpleasauntly I sing.
And shrich to ease my morning minde, in spite of envies sting.
I am nowe set full light, who earst was dearely lov'd:
Som new foūd choise is more estemd, than yt which wel was prov'd.
Some Diomede is crept into Dame Cressides hart:
And trustie Troylus nowe is taught in vaine to playne his part.
What resteth then for me? but thus to wade in wo:
And hang in hope of better chaunce, when chaunge appointeth so.
I see no sight on earth, but it to Chaunge enclines:
As litle clowdes oft overcast, the brightest Sunne that shines.
No Flower is so freshe, but frost can it deface:
No man so sure in any seate, but he maye leese his place.
So that I stand content (though much against my mind)
To take in worth this lothsome lot, which luck to me assynd,
And trust to see the time, when they that nowe are up:
May feele the whirle of fortunes wheele, and tast of sorrowes cup.
God knoweth I wishe it not, it had bene bet for mee:
Styll to have kept my quiet chayre in hap of high degree.
But since without recure, Dame Chaunge in love must raigne:
I now wish chaunge that sought no chaūge, but constāt did remaine.
And if suche chaunge do chaunce, I vowe to clap my hands,
And laugh at them which laught at me: lo thus my fansie standes.

In trust is Treason, written by a Lover, leaning onelye to his Ladies promises, and finding them to fayle.

The straightest Tree that growes upon one onely roote:
If that roote fayle, wyll quickly fade, no props can do it boote.
I am that fading plant, which on thy grace dyd growe,
Thy grace is gone wherefore I mone, and wither all in woe.
The tallest ship that sailes, if shee too Ancors trust:
When Ancors slip & Cables breake, her helpe lyes in the dust.
I am the ship my selfe, mine Ancor was thy faith:
Which now is fled, thy promise broke, & I am driven to death.
Who climeth oft on hie, and trusts the rotten bowe:
If that bow breake may catch a fall, such state stand I in now.
Me thought I was a loft, and yet my seate full sure:
Thy heart dyd seeme to me a rock which ever might endure.
And see, it was but sand, whome seas of subtiltie:
Have soked so with wanton waves, that faith was forst to flye.
The flooddes of ficklenesse have undermined so,
The first foundation of my joy, that myrth is ebb'd to wo.
Yet at lowe water markes, I lye and wayte my time:
To mend the breach, but all in vaine, it cannot passe the prime.
For when the prime flood comes, which all this rage begoon:
Then waves of wyll do worke so fast, my piles are over roon.
Dutie and dilligence which are my workmen there,
Are glad to take up tooles in haste, and run away for feare.
For fansie hath such force, it overfloweth all,
And whispring tales do blow the blasts, that make it ryse & fall.
Thus in these tempests tost, my restles life doth stand:
Because I builded on thy wo[rd]es, as I was borne in hand.
Thou weart that only stake, wereby I ment to stay:
Alas, alas, thou stoodst so weake, the hedge is borne away.
By thee I thought to live, by thee now must I dye:
I made thee my Phisicion, thou art my mallady.
For thee I longde to live, for thee nowe welcome death:
And welcome be that happie pang, that stops my gasping breath.
Twise happie were that axe, would cut my rotes downe right:
And sacred were that swelling sea, which would consume me quight.
Blest were that bowe would breake to bring downe climing youth,
Which craks aloft, and quakes full oft, for feare of thine untruth.

The constancie of a lover hath thus sometimes bene briefly declared.

That selfe same tonge which first did thee entreat
To linke thy liking with my lucky love:
That trustie tonge must nowe these wordes repeate,
I love thee still, my fancie cannot move.
That dreadlesse hart which durst attempt the thought
To win thy will with mine for to consent,
Maintaines that vow which love in me first wrought,
I love thee still, and never shall repent.
That happie hande which hardely did touch,
Thy tender body to my deepe delight:
Shall serve with sword to prove my passion such
As loves thee still, much more than it can write.
Thus love I still with tongue, hand, hart and all,
And when I chaunge, let vengeance on me fall.

The fruite of foes written to a Gentlewoman, who blamed him for writing his friendly advise in verse unto another lover of hyrs.

The cruell hate which boyles within thy burning brest,
And seekes to shape a sharpe revenge, on them yt love thee best:
May warne all faithfull friendes, in case of jeopardie,
Howe they shall put their harmelesse hands, betweene the barck & tree.
And I among the rest, which wrote this weary song,
Must nedes alledge in my defence, that thou hast done me wrong.
For if in simple verse, I chaunc'd to touch thy name,
And toucht the same without reproch, was I therefore to blame?
And if (of great good will) I gave my best advise,
Then thus to blame without cause why, me thinkes thou art not wise.
Amongst olde written tales, this one I beare in mind,
A simple soule much like my selfe, dyd once a serpent find.
Which (almost dead for colde) lay moyling in the myre,
When he for pittie tooke it up, and bro[u]ght it to the fyre.
No sooner was the Snake, recured of hir griefe,
But straight shee sought to hurt the man, that lent hir such reliefe.
Such Serpent seemest thou, such simple soule am I,
That for the weight of my good wil, am blam'd without cause why.
But as it best beseemes, the harmelesse gentle hart,
Rather to take an open wrong, than for to plaine his part:
I must and will endure, thy spite without repent,
The blame is mine, the triumph thine, and I am well content.

A Lover often warned, and once againe droven into fantasticall flames by the chase of company, doth thus bewayle his misfortunes.

The lover encouraged by former examples, determineth to make vertue of necessitie.

The delectable history of sundry adventures passed by Dan Bartholmew of Bathe.

The Reporter.

Dan Bartholmew his first Triumphe.

Resigne king Priams sonnes, that princes were in Troy,
Resigne to me your happy dayes, and boast no more of joy:
Syr Paris first stand forth make aunswere for thy pheare,
And if thou canst defend hir cause, whome Troy did bye so deare:
What? blush not man, be bold, although thou beare some blame,
Tell truth at last, and so be sure to save thy selfe from shame.
Then gentle Sheapheard say: what madnesse dyd thee move,
To choose of all the flowers in Greece, foule Helene for thy love?
Needs must I coumpt hir foule, whose first frutes were forlorne,
Although she solde hir seconde chaffe, above the price of corne.
Alas, shee made of thee, a noddye for the nonce,
For Menelaus lost hir twise, though thou hir foundst but once.
But yet if in thine eye, shee seemde a peerelesse peece,
Aske Theseus ye mighty Duke, what towns she knew in Greece?
Aske him what made hir leave hir wofull aged sire,
And steale to Athens gyglot like: what? what but foule desire?
Alas poore Paris thou didst nothing else but gleane,
The partched eares which he cast by, when he had reaped cleane:
He slivde the gentle slippe, which could both twist and twind,
And growing left the broken braunch, for thē that came behind,
Yet hast thou fild the world with brute, (the more thy blame,)
And sayest, that Hellens bewty past each other stately dame,
For profe thou canst alledge the tast of ten years warre,
And how hir blazing beames first brought both Greece & Troy to jarre.
No no, thou art deceivde, the drugs of foule despite,
Did worke in Menelaus will, not losse of such delighte,
Not love, but lothsome hate, not dolour, but disdain,
Did make him selfe a sharpe revēge, til both his foes were slain,
Thy brother Troylus eke, that gemme of gentle deedes,
To thinke howe he abused was, alas my heart it bleedes:
He bet about the bushe, whiles other caught the birds,
Whome crafty Gresside mockt to muche, yet fede him still with words.
And god he knoweth not I, who pluckt hir first sprong rose,
Since Lollius and Chaucer both, make doubt upon that glose.
But this I knowe to well, and he to farre it felte,
How Diomede undid his knots, & caught both brooch and belt,
And how she chose to change, and how she changed still,
And how she dyed leaper like, against hir lovers will.
Content you then good knightes, your triumphe to resigne,
Confesse your starres both dimme and darke, wheras my sunne doth shine:
For this I dare avow, without vaunt be it told,
My derling is more faire than she, for whome proud Troy was solde.
More constant to conteyne, than Cresside to be coy,
No Calcas can contrive the craft, to traine hir out of Troye,
No Diomede can drawe hir setled harte to change,
No madding moode can move hir mind, nor make hir thoughtes to range.
For hir alone it is, that Cupide blindfolde goes,
And dare not looke for feare least he his libertie should loose:
At hir dame Venus chafes, and pines in jelowsie,
Least bloudy Mars should hir espie, and chang his fantasie,
Of hir the Quene of Heaven doth stand in dreadfull doubt,
Least Jove should melte in drops of gold, if once he find hir out.
Oh that my tonge had skill, to tell hir prayse aright,
Or that my pen hir due desertes, in worthy verse could write:
Or that my minde could muse, or happie heart conceive,
Some words that might resound hir worth, by high Minervas leave.
Oh how the blooming joyes, do blossome in my brest,
To think within my secret thought, how far she steines ye rest.
Me thinkes I heare hir speake, me thinkes I see hir still,
Me thinkes I feele hir feelingly, me thinkes I know hir will.
Me thinkes I see the states which sue to hir for grace,
Me thinkes I see one looke of hirs repulse them all apace.
Me thinkes that houre is yet, and evermore shall be,
Wherein my happie happe was first, hir heavenly face to see:
Wherein I spide the writte, which woond betweene hir eyne,
And sayd behold, be bold, for I, am borne to be but thine.
Me thinks I feele the joyes, which never yet were felt,
Whome flame before yet never toucht, me thinks I feele them melt.
One word & there an end, me thinks she is the sunne,
Which only shineth now a daies, she dead, ye world were done.
The rest are twinkling starres, or Moones which borow light,
To comfort other carefull soules, which wander in the night.
And night God knowes it is, where other Ladies bee,
For sure my dame adornes the day, there is no sunne but shee.
Then lovers by your leave, and thinke it nothing strange,
Although I seme with calme content, in seas of joyes to range:
For why, my sailes have found both wind and waves at wyll,
And depthes of all delightes in hir, with whome I travell styll.
And ancors being wayed, I leave you all at large,
To steare this seemelye Shippe my selfe, suche is my mistresse charge.

Dan Bartholmew his second Triumphe.

Dan Bartholmewes his third Triumphe.

Yf ever man yet found the bathe of perfect blisse,
Then swimme I now amid the seas where nought but pleasure is.
I love and am beloved, without vaunt be it tolde,
Of one more faire then she of Greece, for whome proud Troy was solde.
As bountifull and good as Cleopatra Queene,
As constant as Penelope, unto her make was seene.
What would you more? my penne, unable is to write,
The least desert that seemes to shine within this worthy wight.
So that (for nowe) I ceasse with handes helde up on hye.
And crave of God that when I chaunge, I may be forst to dye.

The Reporter.

Dan Bartholmewes Dolorous discourses.

I have entreated care to cut the thread,
Which all to long hath held my lingring life,
And here aloofe nowe have I hyd my head,
From company thereby to stint my strife.
This solitarye place doth please me best,
Where I may weare my wylling mind with moane,
And where the sighes which boyle out of my brest,
May skald my heart, and yet the cause unknowne.
All this I doe, for thee my sweetest sowre,
For whome (of yore) I counted not of care,
For whome with hungrie jawes I dyd devoure
The secrete baite which lurked in the snare:
For whome I thought all forreine pleasures paine,
For whome againe, all paine dyd pleasure seeme,
But onely thine, I found all fansies vaine,
But onely thine, I dyd no dolours deeme.
Such was the rage, that whilome dyd possesse,
The privie corners of my mazed mind:
When hote desire, dyd compt those tormentes lesse
Which gaind the gaze that dyd my freedome bind.
And now (with care) I can record those dayes,
And call to mind the quiet lyfe I led,
Before I first beheld thy golden rayes,
When thine untrueth yet troubled not my hed.
Remember thou, as I can not forget,
Howe I had layde, both love, and lust aside,
And howe I had my fixed fancie set,
In constant vowe, for ever to abide.
The bitter proofe of panges in pleasure past,
The costlye tast, of hony mixt with gall:
The painted heaven, which turnde to hell at last.
The freedome fainde, which brought me but to thrall.
The lingring sute, well fed with freshe delayes,
The wasted vowes which fled with every winde:
The restlesse nightes, to purchase pleasing dayes,
The toyling daies to please my restlesse minde.
All these (with mo) had brused so my brest,
And graft such grefe within my groning heart,
That had I left Dame fansie and the rest,
To greener yeeres, which might endure the smart.
My wearie bones did beare away the skarres,
Of many a wound received by disdaine:
So that I found the fruite of all those warres,
To be naught else but panges of unknowen paine.
And nowe mine eyes were shut from such delight,
My fansie faint, my hote desires were colde,
When cruell hap, presented to my sight
The maydens face, in yeeres which were not olde.
I thinke the Goddesse of revenge devisde,
So to bee wreackt on my rebelling wyll,
Bicause I had in youthfull yeeres dispisde,
To taste the baites, which tyste my fansie styll.
Howe so it were, God knowes, I cannot tell:
But if I lye, you Heavens, the plague be mine,
I sawe no sooner, how delight dyd dwell
Betweene those litle infantes eyes of thine,
But straight a sparkling cole of quicke desire,
Dyd kindle flame within my frozen heart,
And yelding fansie softly blewe the fire,
Which since hath bene the cause of all my smart.
What neede I say? thy selfe for me can sweare,
Howe much I tendred thee in tender yeares:
Thy life was then to me (God knowes) full deare,
My life to thee is light, as nowe appeares.
I loved the first, and shall do to my last,
Thou flattredst first, and so thou wouldst do styll:
For love of thee full many paines I past,
For deadly hate thou seekest me to kyll.
I cannot nowe, with manly tongue rehearse,
How sone that melting mind of thine dyd yelde,
I shame to write, in this waymenting verse,
With howe small fight, I vanquisht thee in fielde:
But Cæsar he, which all the world subdude,
Was never yet so proude of Victorye,
Nor Hanyball, with martiall feates endude,
Dyd so much please himselfe in pollicie,
As I (poore I) dyd seeme to triumphe then,
When first I got the Bulwarkes of thy brest,
With hote Alarmes I comforted my men,
In formost ranke I stoode before the rest,
And shooke my flagge, not all to shewe my force,
But that thou mightst thereby perceive my minde:
Askaunces

As who should say:

lo, nowe coulde I kyll thy corce,
And yet my life is unto thee resinde.
Well let this passe, and thinke uppon the joye,
The mutuall love, the confidence, the trust,
Whereby we both abandoned annoye,
And fed our mindes with fruites of lovely lust.
Thinke on the Tythe, of kysses got by stealth,
Of sweete embracinges shortened by feare.
Remember that which did maintaine our helth,
Alas alas why shoulde I name it here.
And in the midst of all those happie dayes,
Do not forget the chaunges of my chaunce,
When in the depth of many waywarde wayes,
I onely sought, what might thy state advaunce.
Thou must confesse how much I carde for thee,
When of my selfe, I carde not for my selfe,
And when my hap was in mishappes to be,
Esteemd thee more, than al the worldly pelfe.
Mine absente thoughtes did beate on thee alone,
When thou hadst found a fond and newfound choice:
For lacke of thee I sunke in endlesse mone,
When thou in chaunge didst tumble and rejoyce.
O mighty goddes needes must I honor you,
Needes must I judge your judgmentes to be just,
Bicause she did for sake him that was true,
And with false love, did cloke a fained luste.
By high decrees, you ordayned the chaunge,
To light on such, as she must needes mislike,
A meete rewarde for such as like to raunge,
When fansies force, their feeble fleshe doth strike.
But did I then give brydle to thy fall,
Thou head strong thou accuse me if thou can?
Did I not hazard love yea life and all,
To warde thy will, from that unworthy man?
And when by toyle I travayled to finde,
The secrete causes of thy madding moode,
I found naught else but tricks of Cressides kinde,
Which playnly provde, that thou weart of hir bloud.
I found that absent Troylus was forgot,
When Dyomede had got both brooch and belt,
Both glove and hand, yea harte and all god wot,
When absent Troylus did in sorowes swelt.
These tricks (with mo) thou knowst thy self I found,
Which nowe are needelesse here for to reherse,
Unlesse it were to touche a tender wound,
With corosives my panting heart to perse.
But as the Hounde is counted little worth,
Which giveth over for a losse or twaine,
And cannot find the meanes to single forth
The stricken Deare which doth in heard remaine:
Or as the kindly Spaniell which hath sprong
The prety Partriche, for the Falcons flight,
Doth never spare but thrusts the thornes among,
To bring this byrd yet once againe to sight,
And though he knowe by proofe (yea dearely bought)
That selde or never, for his owne availe,
This wearie worke of his in vaine is wrought,
Yet spares he not but labors tooth and nayle.
So labord I to save thy wandring shippe,
Which reckelesse then, was running on the rockes,
And though I saw thee seeme to hang the lyppe,
And set my great good wyll, as light as flockes:
Yet hauld I in, the mayne sheate of the minde,
And stayed thy course by ancors of advice,
I woon thy wyll into a better winde,
To save thy ware, which was of precious price.
And when I had so harbored thy Barke,
In happy haven, which saufer was than Dover,
The Admyrall, which knewe it by the marke,
Streight challengde all, and sayd thou wert a rover.
Then was I forst in thy behalfe to pleade,
Yea so I dyd, the Judge can saye no lesse,
And whiles in toyle, this lothsome life I leade,
Camest thou thy selfe the faulte for to confesse,
And downe on knee before thy cruell foe,
Dydst pardon crave, accusing me for all,
And saydst I was the cause, that thou didst so,
And that I spoone the thred of all thy thrall.

These thinges are mistical and not to bee understoode but by Thaucthour him selfe.

Not so content, thou furthermore didst sweare
That of thy selfe thou never ment to swerve,
For proofe wherof thou didst the colours weare,
Which might bewray, what saint thou ment to serve.
And that thy blood was sacrificed eke,
To manyfest thy stedfast martyrd mynde,
Till I perforce, constraynd thee for to seeke,
These raging seas, adventures there to finde.
Alas, alas, and out alas for me,
Who am enforced, thus for to repeate
The false reports and cloked guyles of thee,
Whereon (to oft) my restlesse thoughts do beate.
But thus it was, and thus God knowes it is.
Which when I founde by playne and perfect proofe,
My musing minde then thought it not amisse,
To shrinke aside, lamenting all aloofe,
And so to beate my simple shiftlesse brayne,
For some device, that might redeeme thy state.
Lo here the cause, for why I take this payne,
Lo how I love the wight which me doth hate:
Lo thus I lye, and restlesse rest in Bathe,
Whereas I bathe not now in blisse pardie,
But boyle in Bale and skamble thus in skathe,
Bycause I thinke on thine unconstancie.
And wylt thou knowe howe here I spend my time,
And howe I drawe my dayes in dolours styll?
Then staye a while: give eare unto my rime,
So shalt thou know the weight of all my wyll.
When Titan is constrained to forsake,
His Lemans couche, and clymeth to his carte,
Then I begin to languishe for thy sake,
And with a sighe, which maye bewray my smarte,
I cleare mine eyes whome gumme of teares had glewed,
And up on foote I set my ghostly corse,
And when the stony walles have oft renewed
My pittious plaintes, with Ecchoes of remorce,
Then doe I crye and call upon thy name,
And thus I saye, thou curst and cruell bothe,
Beholde the man, which taketh griefe for game,
And loveth them, which most his name doe lothe.
Behold the man which ever truely ment,
And yet accusde as aucthour of thine yll,
Behold the man, which all his life hath spent
To serve thy selfe, and aye to worke thy wyll:
Behold the man, which onely for thy love,
Dyd love himselfe, whome else he set but light:
Behold the man, whose blood (for thy behove)
Was ever prest to shed it selfe outright.
And canst thou nowe condemne his loyaltie?
And canst thou craft to flatter such a friend?
And canst thou see him sincke in jeoperdie?
And canst thou seeke to bring his life to ende?
Is this the right reward for such desart?
Is this the fruite of seede so timely sowne?
Is this the price, appointed for his part?
Shall trueth be thus by treason overthrowne?
Then farewell faith, thou art no womans pheare:
And with that word I staye my tongue in time,
With rolling eyes I loke about eache where,
Least any man should heare my raving rime.
And all in rage, enraged as I am,
I take my sheete, my slippers and my Gowne,
And in the Bathe from whence but late I came,
I cast my selfe in dollours there to drowne.
There all alone I can my selfe conveye,
Into some corner where I sit unseene,
And to my selfe (there naked) can I saye,
Behold these braunefalne armes which once have bene
Both large and lustie, able for to fight,
Nowe are they weake, and wearishe God he knowes
Unable now to daunt the fowle despight,
Which is presented by my cruel foes.
My thighes are thin, my body lanck and leane,
It hath no bumbast now, but skin and bones:
And on mine Elbowe as I lye and leane,

Another misterie.

I see a trustie token for the nones.
I spie a bracelet bounde about mine arme,
Which to my shaddowe seemeth thus to saye,
Beleeve not me: for I was but a Charme,
To make thee sleepe, when others went to playe.
And as I gaze thus galded all with griefe,
I finde it fazed almost quite in sunder,
Then thinke I thus: thus wasteth my reliefe,
And though I fade, yet to the world, no wonder.
For as this lace, by leysure learnes to weare,
So must I faint, even as the Candle wasteth,
These thoughts (deere sweet) within my brest I beare,
And to my long home, thus my life it hasteth.
Herewith I [f]eele the droppes of sweltring sweate,
Which trickle downe my face, enforced so,
And in my body feele I lykewise beate,
A burning heart which tosseth too and fro.
Thus all in flames I sinderlyke consume,
And were it not that wanhope lendes me wynde,
Soone might I fret my fa[n]cyes all in fume,
And lyke a Ghost my ghost his grave might finde.
But frysing hope doth blowe ful in my face,
And colde of cares becommes my cordiall,
So that I styl endure that yrksome place,
Where sorrowe seethes to skalde my skinne withal.
And when from thence or company me dri[ve]s,
Or weary woes do make me change my seate,
Then in my bed my restlesse paines revives,
Until my fellowes call me downe to meate.
And when I ryse, my corpse for to araye,
I take the glasse, sometimes (but not for pride,
For God he knowes my minde is not so gaye)
But for I would in comelynesse abyde:
I take the glasse, wherein I seeme to see,
Such wythred wrinckles and so fowle disgrace,
That lytle marvaile seemeth it to mee,

Another misterie.

Though thou so well dydst like the noble face.
The noble face was faire and freshe of hewe,
My wrinckled face is fowle and fadeth fast:
The noble face was unto thee but newe,
My wrinckled face is olde and cleane outcast:
The noble face might move thee with delight,
My wrinckled face could never please thine eye:
Loe thus of crime I covet thee to quite.
And styll accuse my selfe of Surcuydry:
As one that am unworthy to enjoye,
The lasting fruite of suche a love as thine,
Thus am I tickled styll with every toye,
And when my Fellowes call me downe to dyne,
No chaunge of meate provokes mine appetite,
Nor sauce can serve to taste my meates withall,
Then I devise the juyce of grapes to dight,
For Sugar and for Sinamon I call,
For Ginger, Graines, and for eche other spice,
Wherewith I mixe the noble Wine apace,
My Fellowes prayse the depth of my devise,
And saye it is as good as Ippocrace.
As Ippocrace saye I? and then I swelt,

Another misterie.

My faynting lymmes straight fall into a sowne,
Before the taste of Ippocrace is felt,
The naked name in dollours doth mee drowne,
For then I call unto my troubled mynde,
That Ippocrace hath bene thy daylye drinke,
That Ippocrace hath walkt with everye winde.
In bottels that were fylled to the brinke,
With Ippocrace thou banquetedst full ofte,
With Ippocrace thou madst thy selfe full merrye,
Such cheere had set thy new love so alofte,
That olde love nowe was scarcely worth a cherry.
And then againe I fall into a traunce,
But when my breth returnes against my wyll,
Before my tongue can tell my wofull chaunce,
I heare my fellowes how they whisper still.
One sayth that Ippocrace is contrary,
Unto my nature and complexion,
Whereby they judge that all my malladye,
Was long of that by alteration.
An other sayth, no, no this man is weake,
And for such weake, so hote thinges are not best,
Then at the last I heare no lyar speake,
But one which knowes the cause of mine unrest,
And sayth, this man is (for my life) in love,
He hath received repulse, or dronke disdaine.
Alas crye I: and ere I can remove,
Into a sowne I sone returne againe.
Thus drive I foorth, my doolefull dining time,
And trouble others with my troubles styll,
But when I here, the Bell hath passed prime,
Into the Bathe I wallowe by my wyll,
That there my teares (unsene) might ease my griefe,
For though I starve yet have I fed my fill,
In privie panges I count my best relife.
And still I strive in weary woes to drench,
But when I plondge, than woe is at an ebbe,
My glowing coles are all to quicke to quenche.
And I (to warme) am wrapped in the webbe,
Which makes me swim against the wished wave,
Lo thus (deare wenche) I leade a lothsome life,
And greedely I seeke the greedy grave,
To make an ende of all these stormes and strife,
But death is deafe, and heares not my desire,
So that my dayes continewe styl in dole,
And in my nightes I feele the secrete fire,
Which close in embers, coucheth lyke a cole,
And in the daye hath bene but raked up,
With covering ashes of my company,
Now breakes it out, and boyles the careful cuppe,
Which in my heart doth hang full heavily.
I melt in teares, I swelt in chilling sweat,
My swelling heart, breakes with delay of paine,
I freeze in hope, yet burne in haste of heate,
I wishe for death, and yet in life remaine.
And when dead sleepe doth close my dazeled eyes,
Then dreadful dreames my dolors do encrease.
Me thinkes I lie awake in wofull wise,
And see thee come, my sorrowes for to cease.
Me seemes thou saist (my good) what meaneth this?
What ayles thee thus to languish and lament?
How can it be that bathing all in blisse:
Such cause unknowne disquiets thy content?
Thou doest me wrong to keepe so close from me
The grudge or griefe, which gripeth now thy heart,
For well thou knowest, I must thy partner be
In bale, in blisse, in solace, and in smarte.
Alas, alas, these things I deeme in dreames,
But when mine eyes are open and awake,
I see not thee: where with the flowing streames,
Of brinishe teares their wonted floods do make.
Thus as thou seest I spend both nightes and dayes,
And for I find the world did judge me once,
A witlesse wryter of these lovers layes,
I take my pen and paper for the nonce,
I laye aside this foolishe ryding rime,
And as my troubled head can bring to passe,
I thus bewray the torments of my time:
Beare with my Muse, it is not as it was.

The extremitie of his Passion.

[Lo thus (deere heart) I force my frantike Muse]

Lo thus (deere heart) I force my frantike Muse,
To frame a verse in spite of my despight,
But whiles I doo these mirthlesse meeters use,
This rashe conceite doth reve me from delight.
I call to minde howe many loving layes,
Howe many Sonets, and how many songes,
I dyd devise within those happie dayes,
When yet my wyl, had not received wronges.
All which were evermore regarded so,
That litle fruite I seemd thereby to reape,
But rather when I had bewrayed my woe,
Thy love was light, and lusted styll to leape.
The rimes which pleased thee were all in print,
And mine were ragged, hard for to be read,

Another misterie.

Lo deere: this dagger dubbes me with this dint,
And leave this wound within my jelous head.
But since I have confessed unto Care,
That now I stand uppon his curtesie,
And that the bale, which in my brest I bare,
Hath not the skill to kyll me cunningly,
Therefore with all my whole devotion,
To Care I make this supplication.

His libell of request exhibited to Care.

[What greater glory can a Keysar gaine]

What greater glory can a Keysar gaine,
If madde moode move his subjectes to rebell,
Than that at last (when all the traytours traine,
Have trode the pathe, of deepe repentaunce well,
And naked neede with Cold and Hunger both,
Hath bitten them abrode in forren land,
Whereby they may their lewde devises loth.
When hairbraind haste, with cold advise is scande)
If then at last, they come upon their knee,
And pardon crave with due submission:
And for this cause, I thinke that Care of me,
Was moved most, to take compassion.
For now I find, that pittie prickes his mind,
To see me plonged still in endlesse paine,
And right remorse, his princely heart doth bind,
To rule the rage wherein I do remaine.
I feele my teares doe now begin to stay,
For Care from them their swelling springs doth soke,
I feele my sighes their labours now allaye,
For Care hath quencht the coles that made thē smoke.
I feele my panting heart begins to rest,
For Care hath staide the hammers of my head,
I feele the flame which blazed in my brest,
Is nowe with carefull ashes overspread.
And gentle Care, hath whet his karving knife,
To cut in twaine the thread of all my thrall,
Desired death nowe overcommeth life,
And wo still workes to helpe in haste with all.
But since I feele these panges approching so,
And lothed life begin to take his leave,
Me thinkes it meete, to give before I go,
Such landes and goodes, as I behind me leave.
So to discharge my troubled conscience,
And eke to set an order for my heyre,
Who might (perhaps) be put to great expence,
To sue for that, which I bequeath him here.
Wherefore (deere wenche) with all my full intent,
I thus begin to make my Testament.

His last wyll and Testament.

In Jove his mighty name, this eight and twentith day,
Of frosted bearded Januar, the enemy to May:
Since Adam was create, five thousand yeeres I gesse,
Five hundreth, forty more and five, as stories do expresse.
I being whole of minde, (immortall Gods have praise)
Though in my body languishing with panges of paine alwayes,
Do thus ordaine my wyll which long in woes have wepte,
Beseeching mine executours to see it duely kept.
Fyrst I bequeath my soule on Charons boate to tende,
Untill thy life (my love) at last may light on luckye ende,
That there it may awaite, to wayte upon thy ghost,
Whē thou hast quite & clene forgot what pranks now please thee most.
So shall it well be seene whose love is like to mine:
For so I meane to trye my truth, and there tyll then to pine.
My body be enbalmde, and cloased up in chest,
With oyntments and with spiceries of every sweete the best:
And so preserved styll untill the day do come,
That death divorce my love from life, & trusse hir up in tombe.
Then I bequeath my corps to couche beneathe hir bones,
And there to feede the greedy wormes that linger for the nones.
To frette uppon her fleshe, which is to fine therefore,
This service may it doe hir yet, although it do no more.
My heart (as heretofore) I must bequeathe to Care,
And God he knowes, I thinke the gift to simple for his share.
But that he may perceive, I meane to pay my dew,
I will it shall be taken quicke, and borne him bleeding new,
As for my funerals, I leave that toye at large,
To be as mine executours wyll give thereto in charge.
Yet if my goodes will stretche unto my strange device,
Then let this order be observ'd, mine heyre shall pay the price:
First let the torche bearers be wrapte in weedes of woe,
Let all their lightes be virgin waxe, because I lov'de it so.
And care not though the twist be course that lends them light,
If fansie fume, & freewil flame, then must they needs burn bright.
Next them let come the quier, with psalmes and dolefull song,
Recording all my rough repulse and wraying all my wrong.
And when the deskant singes, in treeble tunes above,
Then let fa burden say, (by lowe) I liv'd and dyde for love:
About my heavy hearse, some mourners would I have,
Who migh[t] the same accompany and stand about the grave,
But let them be such men, as maye confesse with me,
How contrary the lots of love, to all true lovers bee.
Let Patience be the Priest, the Clarke be Close conceipt,
The Sextin be Simplicitie, which meaneth no disceipt.
Let almes of Love be delt, even at the Chaunsell doore,
And feede them there with freshe delayes, as I have bene of yore:
Then let the yongest sort, be set to ring Loves Bels,
And pay Repentance for their paines, but give thē nothing else,
Thus when the Dirge is done, let every man depart,
And learne by me what harme it is to have a faithfull hart.
Those litle landes I have, mine heyre must needes possesse,
His name is Lust, the landes be losse, few lovers scape with lesse.
The rest of all my goodes, which I not here rehearse,
Give learned Poets for their paines, to decke my Tombe with verse:
And let them write these wordes upon my carefull chest,
Lo here he lies, that was as true (in love) as is the best.
Alas I had forgot the Parsons dewe to paye,
And so my soule in Purgatorye, might remaine alway.
Then for my privie Tythes, as kysses caught by stealth,
Sweete collinges & such other knackes as multiplied my wealth:
I give the Vickar here, to please his greedie wyll,
A deintie dishe of suger soppes, but saust with sorrow stil:
And twise a weeke at least, let dight them for his dishe,
On Fridayes and on wednesdaies, to save expence of fishe.
Nowe have I much bequeathed and litle left behinde,
And others mo must yet be served or else I were unkinde.
Wet eyes and wayling wordes, Executours I make,
And for their paines ten pound of teares let either of them take.
Let sorrow at the last my Supravisor be,
And stedfastnesse my surest steade, I give him for his fee.
Yet in his pattent place this Sentence of proviso,
That he which loveth stedfastly, shall want no sauce of sorrow.
Thus now I make an ende, of this my wearie wyll,
And signe it with my simple hand, and set my seale there tyll.
And you which reade my wordes, although they be in rime,
Yet reason may perswade you eke, Thus lovers dote sometime.

The Subscription and seale.

My mansion house was Mone: from Dolours dale I came,
I Fato: Non Fortuna, hight, lo now you know my name:
My seale is sorrowes sythe, within a fielde of flame,
Which cuts in twaine a carefull heart, yt sweltreth in the same.

[Alas, lo now I heare the passing Bell]

Alas, lo now I heare the passing Bell,
Which Care appointeth carefullye to knoule,
And in my brest, I feele my heart now swell,
To breake the stringes which joynde it to my soule.
The Crystall yse, which lent mine eyes their light,
Doth now waxe dym, and dazeled all with dread,
My senses all, wyll now forsake me quite,
And hope of health abandoneth my head,
My wearie tongue can talke no longer now,
My trembling hand nowe leaves my penne to hold,
My joynts nowe stretch, my body cannot bowe,
My skinne lookes pale, my blood now waxeth cold.
And are not these, the very panges of death?
Yes sure (sweete heart) I know them so to bee,
They be the panges, which strive to stop my breath,
They be the panges, which part my love from thee.
What sayd I? Love? Nay life: but not my love,
My life departes, my love continues styll:
My lothed lyfe may from my corpse remove,
My loving Love shall alwayes worke thy wyll.
It was thy wyll even thus to trye my truth,
Thou hast thy wyll, my truth may now be sene,
It was thy wyll, that I should dye in youth,
Thou hast thy wyll my yeares are yet but grene.
Thy penaunce was that I should pine in paine,
I have performde thy penaunce all in wo,
Thy pleasure was that I should here remaine,
I have bene glad to please thy fansie so.
Nowe since I have performed every part
Of thy commaunde: as neare as tongue can tell,
Content thee yet before my muse depart,
To take this Sonet for my last farewell.

His Farewell.

Farewell deere Love whome I have loved and shall,
Both in this world, and in the world to come,
For proofe whereof my sprite is Charons thrall,
And yet my corpse attendant on thy toome.
Farewell deere sweete, whose wanton wyll to please
Eche taste of trouble seemed mell to me,
Farewell sweete deare, whose doubtes for to appease,
I was contented thus in bale to be.
Farewell my lyfe, farewell for and my death,
For thee I lyv'd for thee nowe must I dye,
Farewell from Bathe, whereas I feele my breath
Forsake my breast in great perplexitie,
Alas how welcome were this death of mine,
If I had dyde betweene those armes of thine?

The Reporters conclusion.

Lenvoye.

The fruites of Warre,

written uppon this Theame, Dulce Bellum inexpertis, and it was written by peecemeale at sundrye tymes, as the Aucthour had vacaunt leysures from service, being begon at Delfe in Hollande, and dyrected to the ryght honourable the Lord Greye of Wylton as appeareth by the Epistle Dedicatory next following.

Dulce bellum inexpertis.

L'envoié.

Go little Booke, God graunt thou none offende,
For so meant hee which sought to set thee foorth,
And when thou commest where Soldiers seeme to wend,
Submit thy selfe as writte but little woorth:
Confesse withall, that thou hast bene too bolde,
To speake so plaine of Haughtie hartes in place,
And say that he which wrote thee coulde have tolde
Full many a tale, of blouds that were not base:
He coulde have writte Dan Dudleyes noble deedes,
Whose like hath since bene harde on earth to finde,
Although his Vertue shewes it selfe in Seedes,
Which treade his tracks, and come not farre behinde.
He might have sung of Grey the woorthie prayse,
Whose ofspring holdes the honor of his sire:
He coulde declare what Wallop was alwayes,
What Awdelie seemde, what Randell did require.
He coulde say what desertes in Drewrie be,
In Reade, in Bryckwell, and a meany moe:
But bashfulnesse did make him blush, least he
Should but eclypse their fames by singing so.
Suffiseth this, that still he honors those
Which wade in warres to get a woorthie name,
And least esteemes the greedie snudge, which goes
To gayne good golde, witho[u]t respecte of fame.
And for the thirde sorte, those that in dystresse
Do drive their dayes, till drummes do draw them out,
He coumpts him selfe to bee nor more nor lesse,
But even the same: for sure withouten doubt,
If drummes once sounde a lustie martch in deede,
Then farewell bookes, for he will trudge with speede.

[_]

Corected, perfected, and finished.

HEARBES.

The Frute of reconciliation,

Written uppon a reconciliation betwene two freendes.

The hatefull man that heapeth in his mynde,
Cruell revenge of wronges forepast and done,
May not (with ease) ye pleasaunt pathway finde,
Of friendly verse which I have now begone,
Unlesse at first his angry brest untwinde,
The crooked knot which canckred choller knit,
And then recule with reconciled grace.
Likewise I finde it sayde in holy write,
If thou entend to turne thy fearefull face,
To God above: make thyne agreement yet,
First with thy Brother whom thou didst abuse,
Confesse thy faultes, thy frowardnesse and all,
So that the Lord thy prayer not refuse.
When I consider this, and then the brall,
Which raging youth (I will not me excuse)
Did whilome breede in mine unmellowed brayne,
I thought it meete before I did assay,
To write in ryme the double golden gayne,
Of amitie: first yet to take away
The grutch of grief, as thou doest me constrayne,
By due desert whereto I now must yeeld,
And drowne for aye in depth of Lethes lake,
Disdaynefull moodes whom frendship cannot weelde:
Pleading for peace which for my parte I make
Of former strife, and henceforth let us write
The pleasant fruites of faythfull friends delight.

[This vaine availe which thou by Mars hast woonne]

Two gentlemen did run three courses at the Ring for one kisse to be takē of a fair gentlewoman being then present, with this condicion, that the winner should have the kisse, and the loser be bound to write some verses upon the gaine or losse therof. Now it fortuned that the winner triumphed, saying, he much lamented that in youth he had not seen the warres. Whereupon the loser compyled these following, in discharge of the condition above rehearsed.

[The feeble thred which Lachesis hath spoone]

Not long after the writing hereof: he departed from the company of his sayd friend (whom he entirely loved) into the west of Englande, and feeling himselfe so consumed by womens craft that he doubted of a safe returne: wrote before his departure as followeth.

He wrote to the same friend from Excester, this Sonet following.

A hundreth sonnes (in course but not in kind)
Can witnesse well that I possesse no joye:
The feare of death which fretteth in my mind
Consumes my hart with dread of darke anoye.
And for eche sonne a thousand broken sleepes
Devide my dreames with fresh recourse of cares:
The youngest sister sharpe hir sheare she keepes,
To cut my thred, and thus my life it weares.
Yet let such daies, such thousand restlesse nights,
Spit forth their spite, let fates eke showe their force:
Deathes daunting dart where so his buffet lights,
Shall shape no change within my friendly corse:
But dead or live, in heaven, in earth, in hell
I wilbe thine where so my carkase dwell.

He wrote to the same friend from Founteine belle eaü in Fraunce, this Sonnet in commendation of the said house of Fountaine bel'eaü.

Not stately Troye though Priam yet did live,
Could now compare Founteine bel'eaü to passe:
Nor Syrian towers, whose loftie steppes did strive,
To climbe the throne where angry Saturne was,
For outward shew the ports are of such price,
As skorne the cost which Cesar spilt in Rome:
Such works within as stayne the rare devise,
Which whilome he Apelles wrought on toome.
Swift Tiber floud which fed the Romayne pooles,
Puddle to this where Christall melts in streames,
The pleasaunt place where Muses kept their schooles,
(Not parcht with Phœbe, nor banisht from his beames)
Yeeld to those Dames, nor sight, nor fruite, nor smell,
Which may be thought these gardens to excell.

He wrote unto a Skotish Dame whom he chose for his Mistresse in the French Court, as followeth.

Lady receyve, receive in gracious wise,
This ragged verse, these rude ill skribled lines:
Too base an object for your heavenly eyes,
For he that writes his freedome (lo) resignes
Into your handes: and freely yeelds as thrall
His sturdy necke (earst subject to no yoke)
But bending now, and headlong prest to fall,
Before your feete, such force hath beauties stroke.
Since then mine eyes (which skornd our English dames)
In forrayne courtes have chosen you for fayre,
Let be this verse true token of my flames,
And do not drench your owne in deepe dispayre.
Onely I crave (as I nill change for new)
That you vouchsafe to thinke your servaunt trew.

A Sonet written in prayse of the browne beautie, compiled for the love of Mistresse E. P. as foloweth.

The thriftles thred which pampred beauty spinnes,
In thraldom binds the foolish gazing eyes:
As cruell Spiders with their crafty ginnes,
In worthlesse webbes doe snare the simple Flies.
The garments gay, the glittring golden gite,
The tysing talk which flowes from Pallas pooles:
The painted pale, the (too much) red made white,
Are smiling baytes to fishe for loving fooles.
But lo, when eld in toothlesse mouth appeares,
And hoary heares in steede of beauties blaze:
Then had I wist, doth teach repenting yeares,
The tickle track of craftie Cupides maze.
Twixt faire and foule therfore, twixt great and small,
A lovely nutbrowne face is best of all.

Now to begin with another man, take these verses written to be sent with a ryng, wherein were engraved a Partrich in a Merlines foote.

A loving Lady being wounded in the spring time, and now galded eftsones with the remembrance of the spring, doth therfore thus bewayle.

An absent Dame thus complayneth.

Much like the seely Byrd, which close in Cage is pent,
So sing I now, not notes of joye, but layes of deep lament.
And as the hooded Hauke, which heares the Partrich spring,
Who though she feele hir self fast tied, yet beats her bating wing:
So strive I now to shewe, my feeble forward will,
Although I know my labour lost, to hop against the Hill.
The droppes of darke disdayne, did never drench my hart,
For well I know I am belov'd, if that might ease my smart.
Ne yet the privy coales, of glowing jellosie,
Could ever kindle needlesse feare, within my fantasie.
The rigor of repulse, doth not renew my playnt,
Nor choyce of change doth move my mone, nor force me thus to faint.
Onely that pang of payne, which passeth all the rest,
And cankerlike doth fret the hart, within the giltlesse brest.
Which is if any bee, most like the panges of death,
That present grief now gripeth me, and strives to stop my breath.
When friendes in mind may meete, and hart in hart embrace,
And absent yet are faine to playne, for lacke of time and place:
Then may I compt their love, like seede that soone is sowen,
Yet lacking droppes of heavēly dew, with weedes is overgrowē.
The Greyhound is agreev'd, although he see his game,
If stil in slippe he must be stayde, when he would chase the same.
So fares it now by me, who know my selfe belov'd
Of one the best, in eche respect, that ever yet was prov'd.
But since my lucklesse lot, forbids me now to taste,
The dulcet fruites of my delight, therfore in woes I wast.
And Swallow like I sing, as one enforced so,
Since others reape the gaineful crop, which I with pain did sow.
Yet you that marke my song, excuse my Swallowes voyce,
And beare with hir unpleasant tunes, which cannot wel rejoyce.
Had I or lucke in love, or lease of libertie,
Then should you heare some sweeter notes, so cleere my throte would be.
But take it thus in gree, and marke my playnsong well,
No hart feeles so much hurt, as that, which doth in absence dwell.

In prayse of a Countesse.

The Lover declareth his affection, togither with the cause thereof.

A Lady being both wronged by false suspect, and also wounded by the durance of hir husband, doth thus bewray hir grief.

A Riddle.

A lady once did aske of me,
This preatie thing in privitie:
Good sir (quod she) faine would I crave,
One thing which you your selfe not have:
Nor never had yet in times past,
Nor never shall while life doth last.
And if you seeke to find it out,
You loose your labour out of doubt:
Yet if you love me as you say,
Then give it me, for sure you may.

The shield of Love. &c.

Councell to Duglasse Dive written upon this occasion. She had a booke wherein she had collected sundry good ditties of divers mens doings, in whiche booke she would needes entreate the aucthor to write some verses. And thereupon he wrote as followeth.

To binde a bushe of thornes amongst sweete smelling floures,
May make the posie seeme the worse, and yet the fault is ours:
For throw away the thorne, and marke what will ensew?
The posie then will shew it selfe, sweete, faire, and freshe of hew.
A puttocke set on pearch, fast by a falcons side,
Will quickly shew it selfe a kight, as time hath often tride.
And in my musing minde, I feare to finde like fall,
As just reward to recompence my rash attempts withall.
Thou bidst, and I must bowe, thou wilt that I shall write,
Thou canst commaund my wery muse some verses to endite.
And yet perdie, thy booke is fraught with learned verse,
Such skill as in my musing minde I can none like reherse.
What followes then for me? but if I must needes write,
To set downe by the falcons side, my selfe a sillie kight.
And yet the sillie kight, well weyde in each degree,
May serve sometimes (as in his kinde) for mans commoditie.
The kight can weede the worme, from corne and costly seedes,
The kight cā kill the mowldiwarpe, in pleasant meads yt breeds:
Out of the stately streetes, the kight can clense the filth,
As mē can clēse the worthlesse weedes, frō fruteful fallowed tilth.
And onely set aside the hennes poore progenie,
I cannot see who can accuse the kight for fellonie.
The falcon, she must feede on partritch, and on quayle,
On pigeon, plover, ducke & drake, hearne, lapwing, teale, & raile,
Hir hungrie throte devours both foode and deintie fare,
Whereby I take occasion, thus boldly to compare.
And as a sillie kight, (not falcon like that flie,
Nor yet presume to hover by mount Hellycon

The Hill where poetes fayne that the Muses sleepe.

on hie)
I frendly yet presume, upon my frends request,
In barreine verse to shew my skill, then take it for the best.
And Douty Douglasse thou, that art of faulcons kinde,
Give willing eare yet to the kight, and beare his words in minde.
Serve thou first God thy Lord, and prayse him evermore,
Obey thy Prince and love thy make, by him set greatest store.
Thy Parents follow next, for honor and for awe,
Thy frends use alwaies faithfully, for so commands the lawe.
Thy seemely selfe at last, thou shalte likewise regard,
And of thy selfe this lesson learne, and take it as reward:
That looke how farre deserts, may seeme in thee to shine,
So farre thou maist set out thy selfe, without empeach or crime.
For this I dare avow, without selfe love (alight)
It can scarce be that vertue dwell, in any earthly wight.
But if in such selfe love, thou seeme to wade so farre,
As fall to foule presumption, and judge thy selfe a starre,
Beware betimes and thinke in our

A true exposition.

Etymologie,
Such faults are plainly called pryde, and in french

Over-weening.

Surcüydrye,
Lo thus can I pore kight, adventure for to teach
The falcon flie, and yet forewarne, she row not past hir reach.
Thus can I weede the worme, which seeketh to devoure
The seeds of vertue, which might grow within thee every houre.
Thus can I kill the mowle, which else would overthrow
The good foundacion of thy fame, with every litle blowe.
And thus can I convey, out of thy comely brest,
The sluttish heapes of peevish pride, which might defile the rest.
Perchance some falcons flie, which will not greatly grutch,
To learne thee first to love thy selfe, and then to love to mutch,
But I am none of those, I list not so to range,
I have mās meate enough at home, what need I thē seeke change.
I am no peacocke I: my feathers be not gay,
And though they were, I see my feete such fonde affectes to stay,
I list not set to sale a thing so litle worth,
I rather could kepe close my creast, than seeke to set it forth.
Wherefore if in this verse, which thou commandst to flowe,
Thou chaunce to fall on construing, whereby some doubtes may grow,
Yet grant this onely boone, peruse it twice or thrice,
Disgest it well ere thou condemne the depth of my devise.
And use it like the nut, first cracke the outward shell,
Then trie the kirnell by the tast, and it may please thee well.
Do not as barbers do, which wash beards curiously,
Then cut them off, then cast them out, in open streetes to lie.
Remember therewithall, my muze is tied in chaines,
The goonshot of calamitie hath battred all my braynes.
And though this verse scape out, take thou thereat no marke,
It is but like a hedlesse flie, that tumbleth in the darke.
It was thine owne request, remember so it was,
Wherefore if thou dislike the same, then licence it to passe
Into my brest againe, from whence it flew in hast,
Full like a kight which not deserves by falcons to be plast:
And like a stubbed thorne, which may not seeme to serve,
To stād with such sweete smelling floures, like praises to deserve.
Yet take this harmelesse thorne, to picke thy teeth withall,
A tooth picke serves some use perdie, although it be but small.
And when thy teeth therewith, be piked faire and cleane,
Then bend thy tong no worse to me, than mine to thee hath bene.

Councell given to master Bartholmew Withipoll a little before his latter journey to Geane. 1572.

Mine owne good Bat, before thou hoyse up saile,
To make a furrowe in the foming seas,
Content thy selfe to heare for thine availe,
Such harmelesse words, as ought thee not displease.
First in thy journey, jape not over much,
What? laughest thou Batte, bicause I write so plaine?
Beleeve me now it is a friendly touch,
To use fewe words where friendship doth remaine.
And for I finde, that fault hath runne to fast,
Both in thy flesh, and fancie too sometime,
Me thinks plaine dealing biddeth me to cast
This bone at first amid my dogrell rime.
But shall I say, to give thee grave advise?
(Which in my head is (God he knowes) full geazon)?
Then marke me well, and though I be not wise,
Yet in my rime, thou maist perhaps find reason.
First every day, beseech thy God on knee,
So to direct thy staggring steppes alway,
That he which every secrete thought doth see
May holde thee in, when thou wouldst goe astray:
And that he deigne to sende thee safe retoure,
And quicke dispatche of that whiche is thy due:
Lette this (my Batte) be bothe thy prime and houre,
Wherin also commend to Nostre Dieu,
Thy good Companion and my verie frend,
To whom I shoulde (but time woulde not permitte)
Have taken paine some ragged ryme to sende
In trustie token, that I not forget
His curtesie: but this is debte to thee,
I promysde it, and now I meane to pay:
What was I saying? sirra, will you see
How soone my wittes were wandering astraye?
I saye, praye thou for thee and for thy mate,
So shipmen sing, and though the note be playne,
Yet sure the musike is in heavenly state,
When frends sing so, and know not how to fayne.
The nexte to GOD, thy Prince have still in mynde
Thy countreys honor, and the common wealth:
And flee from them, which fled with every wynde

There are to many of them in every countrey.

From native soyle, to forraine coastes by stealth:
Theyr traynes are trustlesse, tending still to treason,
Theyr smoothed tongues are lyned all with guyle,
Their power slender, scarsly woorthe two peason,
Their malice much, their wittes are full of wyle:
Eschue them then, and when thou seest them, say,
Da, da, sir K, I may not come at you,
You cast a snare your countrey to betraye,
And woulde you have me trust you now for true?
Remembre Batte the foolish blink eyed boye
Which was at Rome, thou knowest whome I meane,

A Misterie.

Remember eke the preatie beardlesse toye,
Whereby thou foundst a safe returne to Geane,
Doe so againe: (God shielde thou shouldst have neede,)
But rather so, than to forsweare thy selfe:
A loyall hearte, (beleeve this as thy Creede)
Is evermore more woorth than worldly pelfe.
And for one lesson, take this more of mee,
There are three Ps almost in every place,
From whiche I counsell thee alwayes to flee,
And take good hede of them in any case,
The first is poyson, perillous in deede
To such as travayle with a heavie pursse:
And thou my Batte beware, for thou hast neede,
Thy pursse is lynde with paper, which is wursse:
Thy billes of credite wil not they thinkst thou,
Be bayte to sette Italyan hands on woorke?
Yes by my faye, and never worse than nowe,
When every knave hath leysure for to lurke,
And knoweth thou commest for the shelles of Christe:
Beware therefore where ever that thou go,
It may fall out that thou shalte be entiste
To suppe sometimes with a Magnifico,
And have a Fico foysted in thy dishe,
Bycause thou shouldest disgeste thy meate the better:
Beware therefore, and rather feede on fishe,
Than learne to spell fyne fleshe with such a Letter.
Some may present thee with a pounde or twaine
Of Spanishe soape to washe thy lynnen white:
Beware therefore, and thynke it were small gayne,
To save thy shirte, and cast thy skinne off quite:
Some cunning man maye teache thee for to ryde,
And stuffe thy saddle all with Spanishe wooll,
Or in thy stirrops have a toye so tyde,
As both thy legges may swell thy buskins full:
Beware therfore, and beare a noble porte,
Drynke not for thyrste before an other taste:
Lette none outlandishe Taylour take disporte
To stuffe thy doublet full of such Bumbaste,
As it may cast thee in unkindely sweate,
And cause thy haire per companie to glyde,
Straungers are fyne in many a propre feate:
Beware therefore: the seconde P. is Pryde,
More perillous than was the first by farre,
For that infects but bloud and leaves the bones,
This poysons all, and mindes of men doth marre,
It findeth nookes to creepe in for the nones:
First from the minde it makes the heart to swell,
From thence the flesh is pampred every parte,
The skinne is taught in Dyers shoppes to dwell,
The haire is curlde or frisled up by arte:
Beleeve mee Batte, our Countreymen of late
Have caughte such knackes abroade in forayne lande,
That most men call them Devils incarnate,
So singular in theyr conceites they stande:
Nowe sir, if I shall see your maistershippe
Come home disguysde and cladde in queynt araye,
As with a piketoothe byting on your lippe,
Your brave Mustachyos turnde the Turky waye,
A Coptanckt hatte made on a Flemmish blocke,
A nightgowne cloake downe trayling to your toes,
A slender sloppe close couched to your docke,
A curtold slipper, and a shorte silke hose:
Bearing your Rapier pointe above the hilte,
And looking bigge like Marquise of all Beefe,
Then shall I coumpte your toyle and travayle spilte,
Bycause my seconde P, with you is cheefe.
But forwardes nowe, although I stayde a while,
My hindmost P, is worsse than bothe these two,
For it both bones and bodie doth defile,
With fouler blots than bothe those other doo.
Shorte tale to make, this P, can beare no blockes,
(God shielde me Batte, should beare it in his breast)
And with a dashe it spelleth piles and pockes
A perlous P, and woorsse than bothe the reste:
Now though I finde no cause for to suspect
My Batte in this, bycause he hath bene tryde,
Yet since such Spanish buttons can infect
Kings, Emperours, Princes and the world so wide,
And since those sunnes do mellowe men so fast
As most that travayle come home very ripe
Although (by sweate) they learne to live and last
When they have daunced after Guydoes pype:
Therfore I thought it meete to warne my frende
Of this foule P, and so an ende of Ps.
Now for thy diet marke my tale to ende,
And thanke me then, for that is all my fees.
See thou exceede not in three double Us,
The first is Wine, which may enflame thy bloud,
The second Women, such as haunte the stewes,
The thirde is Wilfulnesse, which dooth no good.
These three eschue, or temper them alwayes:
So shall my Batte prolong his youthful yeeres,
And see long George againe, with happie dayes,
Who if he bee as faithfull to his feeres,
As hee was wonte, will dayly pray for Batte,
And for

Sir William Morgan of Pencoyde.

Pencoyde: and if it fall out so,
That James a Parrye doo but make good that,
Which he hath sayde: and if he bee (no, no)
The best companion that long George can finde,
Then at the Spawe I promise for to bee
In Auguste nexte, if God turne not my minde,
Where as I would bee glad thy selfe to see:
Till then farewell, and thus I ende my song,
Take it in gree, for else thou doest mee wrong.

Gascoignes woodmanship written to the L. Grey of Wilton upon this occasion

the sayd L. Grey delighting (amongst many other good qualities) in chusing of his winter deare, & killing the same with his bowe, did furnishe the Aucthor with a crossebowe cum pertinenciis and vouchsaved to use his company in the said exercise, calling him one of his woodmen. Now the Aucthor shooting very often, could never hitte any deare, yea and oftentimes he let the heard passe by as though he had not seene thē. Whereat when this noble Lord tooke some pastime, and had often put him in remembrance of his good skill in choosing, and readinesse in killing of a winter deare, he thought good thus to excuse it in verse.

Gascoignes gardnings, whereof were written in one end of a close walke whiche he hath in his Garden, this discourse following.

In that other ende of his sayde close walke, were written these toyes in ryme.

In a chayre in the same Garden was written this followyng.

If thou sitte here to viewe this pleasant garden place
Think thus: at last will come a frost, & all these floures deface:
But if thou sitte at ease to rest thy wearie bones,
Remember death brings finall rest to all oure greevous grones.
So whether for delight, or here thou sitte for ease,
Thinke still upon the latter day, so shalt thou God best please.

Upon a stone in the wall of his Garden he had written the yeare wherein he did the coste of these devises, and therewithall this posie in Latine.

Quoniam etiam humiliatos, amœna delectant.

Gascoignes voyage into Hollande. An. 1572. written to the right honourable the Lorde Grey of Wilton.

A straunge conceyte, a vayne of newe delight,
Twixt weale and woe, twixte joy and bitter griefe,
Hath pricked foorth my hastie penne to write
This woorthlesse verse in hazarde of repreefe:
And to mine

best beloved

Alderlievest Lorde I must endite
A wofull case, a chippe of sorie chaunce,
A tipe of heaven, a lively hew of hell,
A feare to fall, a hope of high advance,
A life, a death, a drearie tale to tell.
But since I know the pith of my pastaunce
Shall most consist in telling of a truth,
Vouchsafe my Lord

in good worth

(en bon gré) for to take
This trustie tale the storie of my youth,
This Chronicle which of my selfe I make,
To shew my Lord what healplesse happe ensewth,
When heddy youth will gad without a guide,
And raunge untide in leas of libertie,
Or when bare neede a starting hole hath spide
To peepe abroade from mother Miserie,
And buildeth Castels in the Welkin wide,
In hope thereby to dwell with wealth and ease.
But he the Lord (whome my good Lord doth know)
Can bind or lose, as best to him shall please,
Can save or spill, rayse up or overthrowe,
Can gauld with griefe, and yet the payne appease.
Which thing to prove if so my L. take time,
(When greater cares his head shall not possesse)
To sitte and reade this raunging ragged rime,
I doubt not then but that he will confesse,
What falles I found when last I leapt to clime.
In March it was, that cannot I forget,
In this last March upon the nintenth day,
When from Gravesend in boate I gan to jette
To boorde our shippe in Quinborough that lay,
From whence the very twentith day we set
Our sayles abrode to slice the Salt sea fome,
And ancors weyde gan trust the trustlesse floud:
That day and night amid the waves we rome
To seeke the coast of Holland where it stoode.
And on the next when we were farre from home,
And neare the haven whereto we sought to sayle,
A fearly chaunce: (whereon alone to thinke
My hande now quakes, and all my senses fayle)
Gan us befall: the Pylot gan to shrinke,
And all agaste his courage seemde to quayle.
Whereat amazed, the Maister and his mate
Gan aske the cause of his so sodeyne chaunge,
And from alofte the Stewarde of our state,
(The sounding plumbe) in haste poste hast must raunge,
To trye the depth and goodnesse of our gate.
Mee thinkes (even yet) I heare his heavie voyce,

Fadom & a half, three ho.

Fadome three, foure, foote more, foote lesse, that cride:
Mee thinkes I heare the fearefull whispring noyse,
Of such as sayde full softely (me beside)
God graunte this journey cause us to rejoyce,
When I poore soule, which close in caban laye,
And there had reacht till gaule was welneare burst,
With giddie head, my stumbling steppes must stay
To looke abroade as boldly as I durst.
And whyles I hearken what the Saylers saye,
The sownder sings, fadame two full no more.
Aloofe, aloofe, then cried the Maister out,
The Stearesmate strives to sende us from the shore,
And trustes the streame, whereof wee earst had doubt,
Tweene two extreeme thus were we tossed sore,
And went to

When all sayles are takē downe.

Hull, untill we leyzure had
To talke at large, and eke to know the cause
What moode had made our Pylot looke so sad.
At last the Dutche with butterbitten jawes,
(For so he was a Dutche, a Devill, a swadde,
A foole, a drunkarde, or a traytour tone)
Gan aunswere thus:

You be to soone

Ghy zijt te vroegh here come,

It is not good tide,

Tis niet goet tijt and standing all alone,
Gan preache to us, which fooles were all and some
To trust him foole, in whom there skill was none.
Or what knew wee if Albaes subtill brayne
(So to prevent our enterpryse by treazon)
Had him subornde to tice us to this trayne
And so him selfe (per Companye and seazon)
For spite, for hate, or else for hope of gayne.
This must we thinke that

the Duke.

Alba would not spare
To give out gold for such a sinfull deede:
And glistring gold can oftentimes ensnare,
More perfect wits than Holland soyle doth breede.
But let that passe, and let us now compare
Our owne fond fact with this his foule offence.
We knew him not, nor where he wond that time,
Nor if he had Pylots experience,
Or Pylats crafte, to cleare him selfe from crime.
Yea more than that (how voyde were we of sense)
We had small smacke of any tale he tolde,
He powrde out Dutch to drowne us all in drinke,
And we (wise men) uppon his words were bolde,
To runne on head: but let me now bethinke
The masters speech: and let me so unfold
The depth of all this foolish oversight.
The master spake even like a skilfull man,
And sayde I sayle the Seas both day and night,
I know the tides as well as other can,
From pole to pole I can the courses plight:
I know France, Spaine, Greece, Denmarke, Daūsk & all,
Frize, Flaunders, Holland, every coast I know,
But truth to tell, it seldome doth befall,
That English merchants ever bend their bowe
To shoote at Breyll, where now our flight should fall,
They send their shafts farder for greater gayne.
So that this haven is yet (quoth he)

unknowen

unkouth,
And God graunt now that England may attayne
Such gaines by Breyll, (a gospell on that mouth)
As is desired: thus spake the master playne.
And since (saide he) my selfe knew not the sowne,
How could I well a better Pylot fynde,
Than this (which first) did saye he dwelt in towne,
And knew the way where ever sat the wynde?
While we thus talke, all sayles are taken downe,
And we to Hull (as earst I sayd) gan wend,
Till full two houres and somewhat more were past.
Our guyde then spake in Dutch and bad us bend
All sayles againe: for now quod he (at last)

It is good tide that know I well

Die tijt is goet, dat heb ick weell bekend.
Why staye I long to ende a wofull tale?
We trust his Dutch, and up the foresayle goes,
We fall on knees amyd the happy gale,
(Which by Gods will full kynd and calmely blowes)
And unto him we there unfolde our bale,
Whereon to thinke I wryte and weepe for joye,
That pleasant song the hundreth and seventh Psalme,
There dyd we reade to comfort our annoye,
Which to my soule (me thought) was sweete as balme,
Yea farre more sweete than any worldly toye.
And when he had with prayers praysd the Lord,
Our

Lusty gallants

Edell Bloetts, gan fall to eate and drinke,
And for their sauce, at takyng up the borde
The shippe so strake (as all we thought to sinke)
Against the ground. Then all with one accorde
We fell againe on knees to pray apace,
And therewithall even at the second blowe,
(The number cannot from my minde outpace)
Our helme strake of, and we must fleete and flowe,
Where winde and waves would guide us by their grace.
The winde waxt calme as I have sayde before,
(O mightie God so didst thou swage our woes)
The selly shippe was sowst and smitten sore,
With counter buffetts, blowes and double blowes.
At last the keele which might endure no more,
Gan rende in twayne and suckt the water in:
Then might you see pale lookes and wofull cheare,
Then might you heare loude cries and deadly dinne:
Well noble minds in perils best appeare,
And boldest harts in bale will never blinne.
For there were some (of whome I will not say
That I was one) which never changed hew,
But pumpt apace, and labord every way
To save themselves, and all their lovely crew,
Which cast the best fraight overboorde away,
Both corne and cloth, and all that was of weight.
Which halde and pulde at every helping corde,
Which prayed to God and made their conscience streight.
As for my self: I here protest my Lorde,
My words were these: O God in heaven on height,
Behold me not as now a wicked wight,
A sacke of sinne, a wretch ywrapt in wroth,
Let no fault past (O Lord) offende thy sight,
But weye my will which now those faults doth lothe,
And of thy mercy pittie this our plight.
Even thou good God which of thy grace didst saye
That for one good, thou wouldst all Sodome save,
Behold us all: thy shyning beames displaye,
Some here (I trust) thy goodnesse shall engrave,
To be chast vessels unto thee alwaye,
And so to live in honour of thy name:
Beleve me Lord, thus to the Lord I sayde.
But there were some (alas the more their blame)
Which in the pumpe their onely comfort layde,
And trusted that to turne our griefe to game.
Alas (quod I) our pumpe good God must be,
Our sayle, our sterne, our tackling, and our trust.
Some other cried to cleare the shipboate free,
To save the chiefe and leave the rest in dust.
Which word once spoke (a wondrous thing to see)
All hast post hast, was made to have it done:
And up it commes in hast much more than speede.
There did I see a wofull worke begonne,
Which now (even now) doth make my hart to bleede.
Some made such hast that in the boate they wonne,
Before it was above the hatches brought.
Straunge tale to tell, what hast some men shall make
To find their death before the same be sought.
Some twixt the boate and shippe their bane do take,
Both drownd and slayne with braynes for hast crusht out.
At last the boat halfe fraighted in the aire
Is hoyst alofte, and on the seas downe set,
When I that yet in God could not dispaire,
Still plide the pumpe, and patiently did let
All such take boate as thither made repaire.
And herewithall I safely may protest
I might have wonne the boate as wel as one,
And had that seemed a safetie for the rest
I should percase even with the first have gone.
But when I saw the boate was over prest
And pestred full with moe than it might beare,
And therwithall with cherefull looke might see
My chiefe companions whome I held most deare

Yorke and Herle.

(Whose companie had thither trained me)
Abiding still aboorde our shippe yfeare:
Nay then (quoth I) good God thy will be done,
For with my feeres I will both live and dye.
And eare the boate farre from our sight was gon
The wave so wrought, that they (which thought to flee
And so to scape) with waves were overronne.
Lo how he strives in vaine that strives with God
For there we lost the flowre of the band,
And of our crew full twentie soules and odde,
The Sea sucks up, whils we on hatches stand
In smarting feare to feele that selfe same rodde.
Well on (as yet) our battred barke did passe,
And brought the rest within a myle of lande,
Then thought I sure now neede not I to passe,
For I can swymme and so escape this sande.
Thus dyd I deeme all carelesse like an Asse,
When sodaynely the wynde our foresayle tooke,
And turnd about and brought us eft to Seas.
Then cryed we all, cast out the ancor hooke,
And here let byde such helpe as god may please:
Which ancor cast, we soone the same forsooke,
And cut it off, for feare least thereupon
Our shippe should bowge, then callde we fast for fire,
And so dischargde our great gunnes everychone,
To warne the towne thereby of our desire:
But all in vayne, for succor sent they none.
At last a Hoy from Sea came flinging fast,
And towards us helde course as streight as lyne.
Then might you see our hands to heaven up cast
To render thanks unto the power devine,
That so vouchsafte to save us yet at last:
But when this Hoy gan (welneere) boorde our barke,
And might perceive what peryll we were in,
It turnd a way and left us still in

care

carke,
This tale is true (for now to lie were sin)
It lefte us there in dreade and daungers darke.
It lefte us so, and that within the sight
And hearing both of all the peare at Breyll.
Now ply thee pen, and paint the foule despite
Of drunken Dutchmen standing there even still,
For whom we came in their cause for to fight,
For whom we came their state for to defende,
For whom we came as friends to grieve their foes,
They now disdaynd (in this distresse) to lend
One helping boate for to asswage our woes:
They sawe our harmes the which they would not mend,
And had not bene that God even then did rayse
Some instruments to succor us at neede,
We had bene sunk and swallowed all in Seas.
But Gods will was (in way of our good speede)
That on the peare (lamenting our mysease)
Some englishe were, whose naked swordes did force
The drunken dutch, the cankred churles to come,
And so at last (not moved by remorce,
But forst by feare) they sent us succor some:
Some must I say: and for to tell the course,
They sent us succor saust with sowre despite,
They saved our lives and spoylde us of the rest,
They stale our goods by day and eke by night,
They shewed the worst and closely kept the best.
And in this time (this treason must I wryte)
Our Pylot fled, but how? not emptie handed:
He fled from us, and with him did conveye
A Hoy full fraught (whiles we meane while were landed)
With pouder, shotte, and all our best araye:
This skill he had, for all he set us sanded.
And now my Lord, declare your noble mynde,
Was this a Pylot, or a Pilate judge?
Or rather was he not of Judas kynde:
Which left us thus and close away could trudge?
Well, at the Bryell to tell you what we finde,
The Governour was all bedewed with drinke,
His truls and he were all layde downe to sleepe,
And we must shift, and of our selves must thinke
What meane was best, and how we best might keepe
That yet remaynd: the rest was close in clinke.
Well, on our knees with trickling teares of joye,
We gave God thanks: and as we might, did learne
What might be founde in every

A Small bote.

pynke and hoye.
And thus my Lord, your honour may descerne
Our perils past, and how in our anoye
God saved me (your Lordshippes bound for ever)
Who else should not be able now to tell,
The state wherein this countrey doth persever,
Ne how they seeme in carelesse mindes to dwell.
(So did they earst and so they will do ever)
And to my Lord for to bewray my minde
Me thinkes they be a race of Bulbeefe borne,
Whose hartes their Butter mollyfieth by kinde,
And so the force of beefe is cleane outworne:
And eke their braines with double beere are lynde:
So that they march bumbast with buttred beere,
Like soppes of browesse puffed up with froth,
Where inwardely they be but hollowe geere,
As weake as winde, which with one puffe up goeth:
And yet they bragge, and thinke they have no peere,
Bicause Harlem hath hitherto helde out,
Although in deed (as they have suffred Spayne)
The ende thereof even now doth rest in doubt.
Well, as for that, let it (for me) remaine
In God his hands, whose hand hath brought me out,
To tell my Lord this tale nowe tane in hande,
As howe they traine their trezons all in drinke,
And when them selves for drunk can scarcely stande,
Yet sucke out secretes (as them selves do thinke)
From guests. The best (almost) in all their lande,
(I name no man, for that were brode before)
Will (as men say) enure the same sometime,
But surely this (or I mistake him sore)
Or else he can (but let it passe in rime)
Dissemble deepe, and mocke sometimes the more:
Well, drunkennesse is here good companie,
And therewithall per consequens it falles
That whordome is accompted jollitie:
A gentle state, where two suche Tenisballes
Are tossed still and better bowles let lie.
I cannot herewith from my Lord conceale,
How God and Mammon here do dwell yfeare,
And how the Masse is cloked under veale
Of pollicie, till all the coast be cleare.
Ne can I chuse, but I must ring a peale,
To tell what hypocrytes the Nunnes here be:
And how the olde Nunnes be content to go,
Before a man in streates like mother B,
Untill they come wheras there dwels a Ho,
(Re:ceyve that halfe, and let the rest go free)
There can they poynt with finger as they passe,
Yea sir, sometimes they can come in themselfe,
To strike the bergaine tweene a wanton lasse,
And Edel bloets: nowe is not this good pelfe?
As for the yong Nunnes, they be bright as glasse,
And chaste forsooth, met v: and anders niet:
What sayde I? what? that is a misterie,
I may no verse of such a theame endite,
Yong Rowlande Yorke may tell it bet than I:
Yet to my Lorde this little will I write,
That though I have (my selfe) no skill at all,
To take the countnance of a Colonel,
Had I a good Lieutenant general,
As good John Zuche wherever that he dwel,
Or else Ned Dennye (faire mought him befal)
I coulde have brought a noble regiment
Of smugskinnde Nunnes into my countrey soyle:
But farewell they as things impertinent,
Let them (for me) go dwell with master Moyle,
Who hath behight to place them well in Kent.
And I shall well my sillie selfe content,
To come alone unto my lovely Lorde,
And unto him (when riming sporte is spent)
To tel some sadde and reasonable worde,
Of Hollandes state, the which I will present,
In Cartes, in Mappes, and eke in Models made,
If God of heaven my purpose not prevent.
And in meane while although my wits do wade
In ranging rime, and fling some follie foorth,
I trust my Lorde will take it well in woorth.

WEEDES.

The fruite of Fetters: with the complaint of the greene Knight, and his Farewell to Fansie.

The complaint of the greene Knight.

Why live I wretch (quoth he) alas and wellaway,
Or why beholde my heavy eies, this gladsome sunny day?
Since never sunne yet shone, that could my state advaunce,
Why live I wretche (alas quoth he) in hope of better chaunce?
Or wherefore telles my toung, this drearye dolefull tale,
That every eare might heare my grieefe and so bemone my bale?
Since eare was never yet, that harkened to my playnte,
Why live I wretch (alas quoth he) my pangs in vaine to paint?
Or wherfore dotes desire, that doth his wish disclose,
And shewes the sore that seeks recure, thereby to ease my woes?
Since yet he never found, the hart where pyttie dwelt,
Why live I wretch (alas quoth he) alone in woe to swelt?
Why strive I with the streame, or hoppe against the hill,
Or search that never can be founde, or loose my labor still?
Since destenies decreed, must alwayes be obeyde,
Why live I wretch alas (quoth he) with lucke thus overleyde?
Why feedes my heart on hope? why tyre I still on trust?
Why doth my minde still muse on mirth? why leanes my life on lust?
Since hope had never hap, & trust always found treason,
Why live I wretch alas (quoth he) where all good luck is geazon?
The fatal Sisters three, which spun my slender twine,
Knew wel how rotten was the yarne, frō whence they drew their line:
Yet have they woven the web, with care so manifolde,
(Alas I woful wretch the while) as any cloth can holde:
Yea though the threeds be cowrse, and such as others lothe,
Yet must I wrap alwayes therin, my bones and body both:
And weare it out at length, which lasteth but too long.
O weaver weaver work no more, thy warp hath done me wrong:
For therin have I lapt my light and lustie yeares,
And therin haplesse have I hapt, mine age and hoarie heares:
Yet never found I warmth, by jetting in thy jaggs,
Nor never can I weare them out, although they rende like raggs.
The May-moone of mine age, I meane the gallant time
When coales of kinde first kindled love, & plesure was in prime,
All bitter was the frute, which still I reaped then,
And little was the gaine I got, comparde by other men.
Teare-thirstie were the Dames, to whome I sued for grace,
Some stonie stomackt, other some, of high disdainful race.
But all unconstant (ay) and (that to thinke) I die,
The guerdon which Cosmana gave, can witnesse if I lie.
Cosmana was the wight to whome I wished well,
To serve Cosmana did I seeme, in love to beare the bell:
Cosmana was my god, Cosmana was my joy,
Ay me, Cosmana turnde my mirth, to dole and dark anoy:
Revenge it Radamanth, if I be found to lie,
Or if I slaunder hir at all, condemne me then to die.
Thou knowst I honored hir, no more but all too much,
Alas thou knowst she cast me off, when I deservde no grutch.
She dead (I dying yet) ay me my teares were dried,
And teeth of time gnew out the grief, which al to long I tried,
Yet from hir ashes sprung, or from such subtile molde,
Ferenda she, whome everie eye, did judge more bright than golde.
Ferenda then I sawe, Ferenda I behelde,
Ferenda servde I faithfully, in towne and eke in fielde:
Ferenda coulde not say, the greene Knight was untrew,
But out alas, the greene Knight sayde, Ferenda changde for new:
Ferenda did hir kinde: then was she to be borne,
She did but weare Cosmanes cloutes, which she in spite had torne:
And yet betwene them both they waare the threeds so neere,
As were they not of steele or stone, they coulde not holde yfeere.
But now Ferenda mine, a little by thy leave:
What moved thee to madding moode? why didst thou me deceave?
Alas I was al thine, thy selfe can say no lesse,
And for thy fall, I bathed oft in many a deepe distresse:
And yet to do thee right, I neyther blame thy race,
Thy shining selfe, the golden gleames that glistred on thy face,
Nor yet thy fickle faith, shall never beare the blame,
But I, whome kinde hath framd to finde, a griefe in everie game:
The high decrees of heaven, have limited my life,
To linger stil wher Love doth lodge, yet there to sterve in strife.
For proofe, who list to know what makes me nowe complaine,
Give eare unto the greene Knights tale: for now begins his paine.
When rash unbridled youth had run his recklesse race,
And caried me with carelesse course, to many a great disgrace,
Then riper mellowed yeares, thought good to turne their trade,
And bad Repentance hol[d] the reines, to rule the brainsicke jade:
So that with much to doo, the brydle helde him backe,
And Reason made him byte on bit, which had a better smacke:
And for I felte my selfe, by feeblenesse fordoonne,
And panting still for lack of breath, as one much overroonne.
Therefore I toke advise, to walke him first awhile,
And so at length to set him up, his travayles to beguile:
Yea when he curried was, and dusted slicke and trimme,
I causde both hey and provander to be allowde for him:
Wherat (alas to thinke) he gathered flesh so fast,
That still he playd his coltish pranks, when as I thought thē past:
He winched still alwayes, and whisked with his taile,
And leaping over hedge and ditch, I sawe it not prevaile
To pamper him so proude: Wherfore I thought it best,
To travaile him (not as I woont) yet nay to give him rest.
Thus well resolved then, I kept him still in harte,
And founde a pretie provander appointed for his parte,
Which once a day, no more, he might a little tast:
And by this diet, made I youth a gentle jade at last:
And foorth I might him ride, an easie journeying pace,
He never strave with middle age, but gently gave him place:
Then middle age stept in, and toke the helme in hande,
To guide my Barke by better skill, into some better lande.
And as eche noble heart is evermore most bent,
To high exploites and woorthie deedes, where honor may be hent:
So mine unyolden minde, by Armes gan seeke renowne,
And sought to rayse, that recklesse youth had rashly tūbled downe.
With sworde and trustie targe, then sought I for to carve
For middle age and hoarie haires, and both their turnes to sarve:
And in my Carvers roome, I gan to cut suche cuttes,
And made suche morsels for their mouthes as well might fill their guttes,
Beside some overplus, (which being kept in store)
Might serve to welcome al their friends, with foison evermore:
I meane no more but this: my hand gan finde such happe,
As made me thinke, that Fortune ment, to play me in hir lappe:
And hope therwith had heavde, my heart to be so hie,
That still I hoapt, by force of armes, to climbe above the Skie:
I bathed still in blisse, I ledde a lordelie life,
My Souldiers lovde and fearde me both, I never dreaded strife:
My boord was furnisht stil, with cates of dainty cost,
My back wel clad, my purse wel lynde, my woonted lack was lost,
My bags began to fil, my debtes for to discharge,
My state so stoode, as sure I seemde to swim in good lucks barge:
But out and well away, what pleasure breedes not paine?
What sun cā shine without a cloud, what thūder brings not rain?
Such is the life of man, such was the luck of me,
To fall so fast from hiest hap, where sure I seemde to be.
Five hundred sundrie sunnes (and more) could scarcely serve,
By sweat of brows to win a roome, wherin my knife might carve:
One onely dismall day, suffised (with despite)
To take me from my carvers place, and from the table quite.
Five hundred broken sleepes, had busied all my braynes,
To find (at last) some worthy trade, that might increse my gaynes:
One blacke unluckie houre, my trade hath overthrowen,
And marrde my marte, & broke my bank, & al my blisse oreblowen.
To wrappe up all in woe, I am in prison pent,
My gaines possessed by my foes, my friends against me bent:
And all the heavy haps, that ever age yet bare,
Assembled are within my breast, to choake me up with care.
My modest middle age, which lacks of youth the lust,
Can beare no such gret burdēs now, but throwes them in the dust:
Yet in this piteous plight, beholde me Lovers all,
And rewe my grieves, least you your selves do light on such a fal.
I am that wearie wretch, whom love always hath tyred,
And fed me with such strange conceytes, as never man desired.
For now (even now) ay me: I love and cannot chuse,
So strangely yet, as wel may move the wisest mindes to muse.
No blasing beauty bright, hath set my heart on fire,
No ticing talke, no gorgeous gyte, tormenteth my desire,
No bodie finely framde, no haggarde Falcons eie,
No ruddie lip, no golden locks, hath drawne my minde awrie:
No teeth of shining pearle, no gallant rosie hiew,
No dimpled chinne, no pit in cheeke, presented to my view:
In fine, no such delights, as lovers oft allure,
Are cause why thus I do lament, or put my plaintes in ure:
But such a strange affect, as both I shame to tell,
And all the worlde may woonder much, how first therin I fell.
Yet since I have begonne (quoth he) to tell my griefe,
I wil nought hide, although I hope to finde no great reliefe.
And thus, (quoth he) it is: Amongst the sundrie joyes
Which I conceivde in feates of warre, and all my Martial toyes,
My chaunce was late to have a peerlesse firelock peece,
That to my wittes was nay the like, in Turkie nor in Greece:
A peece so cleanly framde, so streight, so light, so fine,
So tempred and so polished, as seemeth worke divine:
A peece whose locke yet past, for why [it] never failde,
And though I bent it night and day, the quicknesse never quailde:
A peece as well renforst, as ever yet was wrought,
The bravest peece for breech and bore, that ever yet was bought:
The mounture so well made, and for my pitch so fit,
As though I see faire peeces moe, yet fewe so fine as it:
A peece which shot so well, so gently and so streight,
It neyther bruzed with recule, nor wroong with overweight.
In fine and to conclude, I know no fault thereby,
That eyther might be thought in minde, or wel discernde with ey.
This peece then late I had, and therin tooke delight,
As much as ever proper peece did please a warlike wight.
Nowe though it be not lost, nor rendred with the rest,
Yet being shut from sight therof, how can I thinke me blest?
Or which way should I hope, that such a jewell rare,
Can passe unseen in any campe where cunning shooters are?
And therewith am I sure, that being once espied,
It never can escape their hands, but that it will be tried:
And being once but prooved, then farewel frost for me,
My peece, my locke, and all is lost, and I shall never see
The like againe on earth. Nowe Lovers speake your minde,
Was ever man so strangely stroke, or caught in such a kinde?
Was ever man so fonde? was ever man so mad?
Was ever man so woe begone? or in such cares yclad?
For restlesse thus I rest, the wretchedst man on live,
And when I thinke upon this peece, then still my woes revive.
Nor ever can I finde good plaister for my paine,
Unlesse my lucke might be so good, to finde that peece againe.
To make my mourning more, where I in prison pine,
I daily see a pretie peece, much like that peece of mine,
Which helps my hurt, much like unto a broken shinne,
That when it heales, begins to ytch, and then rubs off the skinne.
Thus live I still in love, alas and ever shall,
As well content to loose my peece, as gladde to finde my fall:
A wonder to the worlde, a griefe to friendlie mindes,
A mocking stocke to Momus race, and al such scornefull hindes,
A love (that thinke I sure) whose like was never seene,
Nor never warlike wight shal be in love as I have beene:
So that in sooth (quoth he) I cannot blame the Dames,
Whome I in youth did moste esteeme, I list not foile their fames,
But there to lay the fault, from whence it first did flowe:
I say my Fortune is the root, whence all these griefes did grow.
Since Fortune then (quoth he) hath turnde to me hir backe,
Shall I go yeeld to mourning moane, and cloath my self in blacke?
No no, for noble mindes can beare no thraldome so,
But rather shew a merrie cheere, when most they wade in wo.
And so will I in greene, my careful corpse aray,
To set a bragge amongst the best, as though my heart were gay:
Not greene bicause I hope, nor greene bicause I joy,
Nor greene, bicause I can delight in any youthfull toy:
But greene, bicause my greeves are alway fresh and greene,
Whose roote is such it cannot rot, as by the frute is seene.
Thus sayde, he gave a groane, as though his heart had broke,
And from the furnace of his breast, sent scalding sighes like smoke:
And sighing so, he sate in solitarie wise,
Conveying flouds of brynish teares, by conduct of his eyes.
What ende he had God knoweth, Battello writes it not,
Or if he do, my wittes are short, for I have it forgot.

The continuance of the Author, upon the fruite of Fetters.

The greene Knights farewell to Fansie.

The pleasant Fable of Ferdinando Jeron[i]mi and Leonora de Valasco, translated out of the Italian riding tales of Bartello.

[Faire Bersabe the bright once bathing in a Well]

[Of thee deare Dame, three lessons would I learne]

Of thee deare Dame, three lessons would I learne:
What reason first persuades the foolish Fly
(As soone as shee a candle can discerne)
To play with flame, till shee bee burnt thereby?
Or what may move the Mouse to byte the bayte
Which strikes the trappe, that stops hir hungry breth?
What calles the bird, where snares of deepe deceit
Are closely coucht to draw hir to hir death?
Consider well, what is the cause of this,
And though percase thou wilt not so confesse,
Yet deepe desire, to gayne a heavenly blisse,
May drowne the minde in dole and darke distresse:
Oft is it seene (whereat my hart may bleede)
Fooles play so long till they be caught in deede.
And then
It is a heaven to see them hop and skip,
And seeke all shiftes to shake their shackles off:
It is a world, to see them hang the lip,
Who (earst) at love, were wont to skorne and skoff.
But as the Mouse, once caught in crafty trap,
May bounce and beate against the boorden wall,
Till shee have brought hir head in such mishap,
That downe to death hir fainting lymbes must fall:
And as the Flie once singed in the flame,
Cannot commaund her wings to wave away:
But by the heele, shee hangeth in the same
Till cruell death hir hasty journey stay:
So they that seeke to breake the linkes of love
Strive with the streame, and this by paine I prove.
For when
I first beheld that heavenly hewe of thine,
Thy stately stature, and thy comly grace,
I must confesse these dazled eies of mine
Did wincke for feare, when I first viewd thy face:
But bold desire did open them againe,
And bad mee looke till I had lookt to long,
I pitied them that did procure my paine,
And lov'd the lookes that wrought me all the wrong:
And as the byrd once caught (but woorks hir woe)
That strives to leave the limed twigges behind:
Even so the more I strave to parte thee fro,
The greater grief did growe within my minde:
Remedilesse then must I yeeld to thee,
And crave no more, thy servaunt but to bee.

[Love, hope, and death, do stirre in me such strife]

Love , hope, and death, do stirre in me such strife,
As never man but I led such a life.
First burning love doth wound my hart to death,
And when death comes at call of inward griefe,
Colde lingering hope doth feede my fainting breath
Against my will, and yeeldes my wound reliefe:
So that I live, but yet my life is such,
As death would never greve me halfe so much.
No comfort then but only this I tast,
To salve such sore, such hope will never want,
And with such hope, such life will ever last,
And with such life, such sorrowes are not skant.
Oh straunge desire, O life with torments tost
Through too much hope, mine onely hope is lost.

[In prime of lustie yeares, when Cupid caught mee in]

[A cloud of care hath covred all my coste]

[Dame Cinthia her selfe (that shines so bright]

[That selfe same day, and of that day that hower]

That selfe same day, and of that day that hower,
When she doth raigne, that mockt Vulcan the smith,
And thought it meete to harbor in hir bower,
Some gallant gest for hir to dally with,
That blessed houre, that blist and happie daye,
I thought it meete, with hastie steppes to go
Unto the lodge, wherin my Lady laye,
To laugh for joye, or else to weepe for woe.
And lo, my Lady of hir wonted grace,
First lent hir lippes to me (as for a kisse)
And after that hir bodye to imbrace,
Wherein dame nature wrought nothing amisse.
What followed next, gesse you that know the trade,
For in this sort, my F[r]ydaies feast I made.

[Beautie shut up thy shop, and trusse up all thy trash]

Beautie shut up thy shop, and trusse up all thy trash,
My Nell hath stolne thy finest stuffe, & left thee in the lash
Thy market now is marde, thy gaines are gone god wot,
Thou hast no ware, that maie compare, with this that I have got
As for thy painted pale, and wrinckles surfled up:
Are deare ynough, for such as lust to drinke of every cup:
Thy bodies bolstred out, with bumbact and with bagges,
Thy rowles, thy ruffes, thy caules, thy coifes, thy Jerkins & thy Jagges.
Thy curling, and thy cost, thy friesling and thy fare,
To court to court with al those tois & there set forth such ware
Before their hungrie eies, that gaze on every gest,
And choose the cheapest chaffaire still, to please their fancy best.
But I whose stedfast eies, coulde never cast a glaunce,
With wādring loke, amid the prese, to take my choise by chaūce
Have wonne by due desert, a perce that hath no peere,
And left the rest as refuse all, to serve the market there:
There let him chuse that list, there catche the best who can:
A painted blazing baite may serve, to choke a gazing man.
But I have slipt thy flower, that freshest is of hewe:
I have thy corne, goe sell thy chaffe, I list to seeke no new,
The windowes of mine eies, are glaz'd with such delight,
As eche new face seemes full of faultes, that blaseth in my sight:
And not without just cause, I can compare her so,
Loe here my glove I challenge him, that can, or dare say no.
Let Theseus come with clubbe, or Paris bragge with brand,
To prove how faire their Hellen was, that skourg'd the Greciā land:
Let mighty Mars himselfe, come armed to the field:
And vaunt dame Venus to defēd, with helmet, speare, & shield.
This hand that had good hap, my Hellen to embrace,
Shal have like lucke to [foyle] hir foes, & daūt them with disgrace.
And cause them to confesse by verdict and by othe,
How farre hir lovelie lookes do steine, the beauties of them both.
And that my Hellen is more faire then Paris wife,
And doth deserve more famous praise, then Venus for hir life.
Which if I not perfourme, my life then let me leese,
Or else be bound in chaines of change, to begge for beauties feese.

[The stately Dames of Rome, their Pearles did weare]

The stately Dames of Rome, their Pearles did weare,
About their neckes to beautifie their name:
But she (whome I doe serve) hir pearles doth beare,
Close in hir mouth, and smiling shewe, the same.
No wonder then, though ev'ry word she speakes,
A Jewell seeme in judgement of the wise,
Since that hir sugred tongue the passage breakes,
Betweene two rockes, bedeckt with pearles of price.
Hir haire of golde, hir front of Ivory,
(A bloody heart within so white a breast)
Hir teeth of Pearle lippes Rubie, christall eye,
Needes must I honour hir above the rest:
Since she is fourmed of none other moulde,
But Rubie, Christall, Ivory, Pearle, and Golde.

[What state to man, so sweete and pleasaunt weare]

[I could not though I would: good Ladie saie not so]

I could not though I would: good Ladie saie not so,
Since one good word of your good wil might sone redresse my wo,
Where would is free before, there could can never faile:
For profe, you see how gallies passe where ships cā bere no saile,
The wearie marriner where skies are overcast,
By readie will doth guide his skil and wins the haven at last,
The pretie bird that singes with pricke against her brest,
Doth make a vertue of hir nede, to watche when others rest,
And true the proverbe is, which you have laide apart,
There is no hap can seeme to hard unto a willing heart.
Then lovelie Ladie mine, you saie not as you should,
In doutful tearms to answere thus: I could not though I would.
Yes yes, full well you know, your can is quicke and good:
And wilfull will is eke too swift, to shed my guiltlesse blood.
But if good will were bent as prest as power is,
Such will would quicklie find the skil to mende that is a misse.
Wherefore if you desire to see my true love spilt,
Commaund and I will slea my selfe, that yours maie be the gilt,
But if you have no power to saie your servaunt naie,
Write thus: I maie not as I would, yet must I as I maie.

[With hir in armes that had my hart in holde]

With hir in armes that had my hart in holde,
I stoode of late to pleade for pitie so:
And as I did hir lovelie lookes beholde,
Shee cast a glaunce upon my rivall foe.
His fleering face provoked hir to smile,
When my salt teares were drowned in disdaine:
He glad, I sad, he laught, (alas the while)
I wept for woe: I pin'd for deadlie paine.
And when I sawe none other boote prevaile,
But reason rule must guide my skilfull minde:
Why then (quod I) olde proverbes never faile,
For yet was never good Cat out of kinde.
Nor woman true but even as stories tell,
Wonne with an egge, and lost againe with shell.

[And if I did what then?]

In praise of a gentlewoman who though she were not verye fayre, yet was she as harde favoured as might be.

If men may credite give, to true reported fames,
Who doubtes but stately Rome had stoore of lustye loving Dames?
Whose eares have bene so deafe, as never yet heard tell,
Howe far the freshe Pompeia, for beautie dyd excel.
And golden Marcus he, that swaide the Romaine sword,
Bare witnesse of Boemia, by credite of his word.
What neede I mo rehearse? since all the world dyd know,
How high the floods of beauties blaze, within those walles dyd flowe.
And yet in all that choyse a worthy Romaine Knight,
Antonius who conquered prowde Egipt by his might,
Not al to please his eye, but most to ease his minde,
Chose Cleopatra for his love, and left the rest behind.

She was an Egiptian.

A wondrous thing to reade, in all his victorye,
He snapt but hir for his owne share, to please his fantasie.
She was not fayre God wot, the countreye breades none bright,
Well maye we judge hir skinne the foyle, because hyr teeth were white.
Percase hyr lovelye lookes, some prayses dyd deserve,
But browne I dare be bolde shee was, for so the soyle dyd serve.
And could Antonius forsake the fayre in Rome?
To love his nutbrowne Ladye best, was this an equall doome?
I dare well say dames there, did beare him deadly grudge,
His sentence had beene shortly sayde, if Faustine had bene judge.
For this I dare avow, (without vaunt be it spoke)
So brave a knight as Anthony, held al their necks in yoke:
I leave not Lucrece out, beleeve in hir who lyst,
I thinke she would have lik'd his lure, & stooped to his fist.
What mov'd the chieftain then, to lincke his liking thus?
I would some Romaine dame were here, the question to discusse.
But [I that] read her life, do finde therein by fame,
Howe cleare hir curtesie dyd shine, in honour of hir name.
Hir bountie did excell, hir trueth had never pere,
Hir lovely lokes, hir pleasant speech, hir lusty loving chere.
And all the worthy giftes, that ever yet were found,
Within this good Egiptian Queene, dyd seeme for to abound.
Wherefore he worthy was, to win the golden fleece,
Which scornd the blasing starres in Rome, to conquere such a peece.
And shee to quite his love, in spite of dreadfull death,
Enshrinde with Snakes within his Tombe, did yeeld hir parting breath.

Allegoria.

If fortune favord him, then may that man rejoyce,
And thinke himself a happy man by hap of happy choice.
Who loves and is belov'd of one as good, as true,
As kind as Cleopatra was, and yet more bright of hewe.
Hir eyes as greye as glasse, hir teeth as white as mylke,
A ruddy lippe, a dimpled chyn, a skyn as smoth as silke.
A wight what could you more, that may content mannes minde,
And hath supplies for ev'ry want, that any man can finde.
And may him selfe assure, when hence his life shall passe,
She wil be stong to death with snakes, as Cleopatra was.

The praise of Phillip Sparrowe.

[Thy byrth, thy beautie, nor thy brave attyre]

Farewell with a mischeife, written by a lover being disdaynefullye abjected by a dame of highe calling, Who had chosen (in his place) a playe fellow of baser condition: & therfore he determined to step a side, and before his departure giveth hir this farwell in verse.

The doale of disdaine written by a lover disdainfully rejected contrary to former promise.

Mars in despite of Vulcane written for an absent lover (parted from his Lady by Sea.)

Patience perforce, wherein an absent lover doth thus encourage his Lady to continew constant.

A letter devised for a yong lover.

Receive you worthy Dame, this rude & ragged verse,
Lend wylling eare unto the tale, which I shall nowe rehearse.
And though my witlesse woordes might moove you for to smile,
Yet trust to that which I shal tel, & never marke my stile.
Amongst five hundreth Dames, presented to my view,
I find most cause by due desert, to like the best of you.
I see your beautie such, as seemeth to suffice,
To binde my heart in linckes of love, by judgement of myne eyes.
And but your bounty quench, the coales of quicke desire,
I feare that face of yours wyll set, ten thousand hearts on fire.
But bounty so aboundes, above al my desart,
As that I quake and shrinke for feare, to shewe you of my smart.
Yet since mine eye made choice, my hart shal not repent,
But yeeld it self unto your wyl, & therwith stand content.
God knowth I am not great, my power it is not much,
The greater glorye shall you gaine, to shew your favour suche.
And what I am or have, all that I yeeld to you,
My hande and sworde shall serve alwayes, to prove my tongue is true.
Then take me for your owne, and so I wyl be still,
Beleeve me nowe, I make this vowe, in hope of your good wyll.
Which if I may obtaine, God leave me when I change,
This is the tale I meant to tell, good Lady be not strange.

Davids salutacions to Berzabe wherein are three sonets in sequence, written uppon this occation.

The deviser hereof amongst other friendes had named a gentlewoman his Berzabe, and she was content to call him hir David. The man presented his Lady with a booke of the Golden Asse, written by Lucius Apuleius, and in the beginning of the booke wrote this sequence. You must conferre it with the Historye of Apuleius, for else it wyll have small grace.

Soone acquainted, soone forgotten, As appeareth here by an uncourteous farewell to an inconstant Dame.

If what you want, you (wanton) had at will,
A stedfast minde, a faythfull loving heart:
If what you speake you woulde performe it still,
If from your worde your deede did not reverte:
If youthfull yeares your thoughtes did not so rule,
As elder dayes may scorne your friendship fraile,
Your doubled fansie would not thus recule,
For peevish pryde which nowe I must bewaile.
For Cresside faire did Troilus never love,
More deare than I esteemde your freamed cheare,
Whose wavering wayes (since nowe I do them prove)
By true reporte this witnesse with me beare:
That if your friendship be not to deare bought,
The price is great that nothing gives for nought.