University of Virginia Library

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.