The rewarde of Wickednesse Discoursing the sundrye monstrous abuses of wicked and vngodlye worldelinges: in such sort set downe and written as the same haue beene dyuersely practised in the persones of Popes, Harlots, Proude Princes, Tyrauntes, Romish Byshoppes, and others. With a liuely description of their seuerall falles and finall destruction. Uerye profitable for all sorte of estates to reade and looke vpon. Nevvly compiled by Richard Robinson |
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The torment of Tiranny, and the reward
for his vvickednesse; Being a King called Mydas: VVhich Tirannouslye,
swallowed not onely his Countrey for Lucre sake,
but his householde Seruauntes also.
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 | The rewarde of Wickednesse |  |
The torment of Tiranny, and the reward for his vvickednesse; Being a King called Mydas: VVhich Tirannouslye, swallowed not onely his Countrey for Lucre sake, but his householde Seruauntes also.
Thus as wee left these Romish Roges, of whome I spake of late,Wee chaunste so heare a woeful wight, yt did bewaile his state.
And Tiranny his name was calde, who lou'd to leime the poore,
And suppe the gaine of sweating browes, for to increase his store.
This mighty mate ne mercy mindes, when he on soile did dwell,
But eate vp all on euery side, as they that want can tel.
The widow and the Fatherles, the Stranger that doth toyle:
His household Seruitours and al, hee seeketh for to spoyle.
Whome lended hee his eares vnto, but onelye vnto suche,
As vnto Pluto sacrifizde theyr soules to gaine him muche?
Tyl at the last his Tiranny, the ayre corrupt with smell,
Whereat the Skies, did turne theyr hewe, and Limbo gan to yell.
The Mountaines roare by Eccos voice, into the Heauens hye,
The scrikes and cryes of wronged wights, and al togeather flye.
The Preachers powred teares apace, repentance styl they cryde,
But al in vaine, his eares were stopte, such newes he might not bide.
His stoared groūd, his racked rents, his heards of goats, with sheepe & graine,
His prouling pickthāks, made him to forget his duty cleane:
Whom when yt Ioue perusde, and searchte his flintish Pharaos heart,
Upon the snappe grimme Mors he sends, to stick him with his Dart.
Who wound him so, that Atropos to line straight laid the launce,
Gods people by this Tyrants death, from bondage to aduaunce.
Whose wandring ghost, to Carons bote, with fearful grones is gone,
To dwell among the damned sprites, for other hope is none:
Where, in a pit, a place is pitchte, a woeful chayre to sit,
In molten mettall to the Crowne, a place for Tyrantes fit.
His officers bande him round about, with bagges of money thrust,
Which neuer cease, with gnashing teeth, to lend him many a dust.
Medusa is his Coke, to dresse this wretche his meate.
Which sets before him crawling Snakes, and vgly Todes to eate.
His counsellers bee retcht on length, theyr Guts on hookes bee torne,
Thus lost & torne, with torments great, with thūderbolts bethwakt,
On forkes & fleshhooks streind & stretcht, eche ioynt from other crakt,
And to augment this Misers griefe, with hookes they hale him out
Uppon a frosen scaffolde hoyst, this Tyraunt lookes about:
Where hellish Hegges and Furies shewe a sight t'increase his paine
Which is the ioyfull Eden fieldes, where saued soules remaine.
The blisfull bankes there might he see, the valleyes sweete & fayre,
Where wants no floures of noble taste, for to perfume the ayre.
All kinde of fruites do shew themselues, and readie ripe they hynge,
Of pleasures passing man to wishe, there wantes no kinde of thinge.
Pernassus hill to base a bancke, to be comparde to this,
Or Helicon in such respect, a weedie pyngle is.
Nor Cithera pearle of all the earth, is ought but counterfet,
Though it were deckt with all the golde, that Alexander get.
Tho I had dronke and supped vp, sweete Aganippes well,
Or Gabanelus skilfull floodes, yet want I skill to tell
The heapes of ioyes, this ioyfull fielde is garnished with all,
Doth much surmount this worldly blisse, thrise more then suger gall
For there Sir Tellus doth not taste of Hiemps frosen face,
Nor Boreas bragges the weakest twigge, sturs not within that place.
For Phebus hee his golden beames, disperseth here and there:
And Iupiter the siluer droppes from skies doth cause retire.
(In season due) to mol fie these fieldes of endelesse blisse,
Where none may come but such as by the Goddes appoynted is.
Whose garmentes be as white as snow, on instrumentes they sing.
And neuer cease, but praysing God, of earth, and heauen king.
And crownes vpon their heads they were, & aungels foode they eate,
Still Gloria in excelsis sing to'th Lambe vpon the seate.
There might this Tyraunt well beholde the poore whome he oprest.
Amid these ioyes for euermore, appoynted for to rest.
And such as least he did esteeme, and all he rent with wrong,
Their happie life eche houre did see, and daylie hearde their song.
Which when he hearde, a triple paine assaultes this caytiues ghost.
When hee did way his mundane mucke, and heauens treasure lost:
In equall ballaunce when he tryed, how Conscience him accusde,
(Quoth hee) fie on you Impes of hell, that thus haue me abusde.
And taught him how Goddes people poore, for gaines to rend & teare.
To ride, to runne, to hale, and drawe, as bondeslaues euery houre,
To whippe and scourge no mo then all, that were within his poure.
But Oh (quoth hee) let all the worlde example take by mee,
Let neuer greatest Prince on earth thinke other but to dye.
Oh, fye on goodes, thryse fye on golde, and tentimes fie on such
As shall procure great mightie men, the poore by wrong to touch.
And then he wrange his handes for wo, what happe had I (quoth hee)
To lende my eares to Dunghil Doltes, at their commaunde to bee,
And banisht from my seruice quite, the bloode of gentle race,
Which alwayes counsaylde me to minde, mine honor and my grace?
But as the Rauens seeke their praye, or Woolfe the spoyle pursues,
So did the Churles by meanes of me, eache where their furie vse.
The sonnes of Theeues & rustick Carles, might leade me as they list,
So that the gobs of gloring golde, they brought to freight my fist.
Yet as they spoylde the coast abroade (from me) so did they pinche,
So that at euerye elne, I scarce receyued halfe an inche.
I pitied not the Wydowes cause, nor fatherlesse I wayde,
Both townes and countries rounde about, to pastures great I layde.
Yet had I mines, with vineyardes large, with corne and cattell store
Yea Lordships, lands, parckes houge & wide, yet stil I lookt for more.
Mules and Camels infinite, Townes and Castles greate,
Thus Fortune with hir smiling lookes, hir worldly hookes can bayte
To catche the couetous Tyrant with, to present to Plutos grace,
Whose wickednesse he doth rewarde full well within this place.
And then hee lookt vpon these slaues, much yll (quoth he) betide,
You verlots borne, that thus bewitcht a Prince of such a pride.
Much yll and wo may hap so thee, thou foule deformed slaue.
And all thy mates that mooued mee, this mundan mucke to craue.
The childe vnborne curse you & yours, the hils shall sounde the same,
The stones in streets cry out on you, the skies proclaime your shame.
The heauens abhor both you and yours: hel rend you with his iawes,
And Furies all in Stigion streames, torment you with their clawes.
Much more he sayde but what it was, for skrikes we coulde not tell,
His men of trust and hee that time, in tormentes so did yell.
But still they bang him with these bagges, like madmen in their rage
And streite these furies with their hookes, did moūt him from ye stage.
Till at the length, of him nor his, we coulde not see nor here.
But ouer the pit with letters blacke, this sentence there was pende
This is the place of iust rewarde for Tyrauntes in the ende.
Then by and by, a thundring voyce came poudering vp the pitte,
(Which sayde) remember thende you men, in chayres of state that sit.
For Pluto is the Iaylor here, to mightie Ioue aboue:
He pardons none but all alike, (take heede it doth behooue)
Which words did make my hart to shrink, as flowers doe in Iune,
So that to speake one worde for life, I durst not once presume.
But in my heart I wisht all men, King Mydas mucke to flee,
And speciallye the number that of mightie honor bee.
For they that reade the Poetes workes, shal here of Mydas much,
And how he crau'de all to be golde that he might feele or touche.
But though the Poets fabled so, and I in dreames doe faine,
Yet let not Tyrauntes better trust, but taste of Plutos paine.
| The rewarde of Wickednesse | |