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A Tragicall Discourse of a dolorous Gentlewoman, dedicated to all those Ladyes that holdes good name precious.

You wiues that wish, to liue with worlds renowne,
And wisely way, the worth of precious fame:
Come heare the voice, that giues a woefull sowne.
Come heare her tale, that dare not shew her name
Come Countrey youth, come noble Courtly Dame.
And marke my words, whose workes in wondring daies,
With double blotte, redounds to my dispraise.
From tender yeares, till twenty two were past,
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I nourisht was, at pompe at pleasures paps,
But who can tell, how long our ioy shall last:
For greatest calmes, comes oft to thunder claps,
And sweetest hopes, doe change to sowrest haps,
O tickle time, that wanders swift as winde,
With haire before, and bare and bald behind.
No gripe nor hand, can take sure hold of thee,
Thou flitst so fast, and leaues the world at worst,
Looke what time brings, time takes away you see.
Good time is blest, bad time we hold accorst.
Time hurts them oft, that time did helpe at forst,
Looke what we haue, when youth is most in prime,
That shall we want, in age by course of time.
My fresh delights, doe fall and fade like flowre,
The blossomes gay, from beauties buds are gone,
Our state of life, doth alter euery howre,
As pleasures passe, come sorrowes pacing on,
The world it selfe, is like a rowling stone,
And on such wheeles, our tombling haps doe runne,
They slide as swift, as shadow in the Sunne.
Whiles carelesse witte, doth carry youth about,
(To sports and plaies, that doth from pastime rise)
The merry minde, is voide of feare and doubt,
And all the powres, are glad to please the eyes,
But when wilde head, or wanton waxeth wise,
The waighty thoughts, that deepe foresight retaines,
Brings troubled sleepes, and breaks the quiet brains.
In childishe daies, I made no count of chaunce,
When friends tooke care, to match me to their will,
So hoping long, good hap would me aduaunce,
I kept me free, from wedlockes bondage still.
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But parents wise, that had good worldly skill,
With open checks, rebukt the causes chiefe,
The more they stirde, the greater grew my griefe.
As when a sore, is rubde and handled hard,
The lesse it heales, because yee touch it neere:
O Fathers graue, if that you tooke regard,
How that with checks, you vse your children deere,
(Or in your moodes, you would some reason heere.
They should be ioynde, where they great ioy should haue.
And you of them, enioy the thing you craue.
But wilfull men, (that wealth may wrest awry)
Will force poore babes, to marry or to morne:
What father wil, the childe may not deny.
He hurts his shins, against the pricke shall spurne,
When match is made, it is past time to turne.
When silly Lambe, is to the slaughter led,
The Butchar brags, the simple Sheepe is dead.
And yet in deede, twere better children smart,
(And match in time, as cause and matter moues).
Then childrens choise, should breake the fathers hart
Or breede debate, as wilfull marriage proues,
Short is the ioy, of them that longest loues,
When want comes on, and woe begins to wring:
For lacke is thrall, and slaue to euery thing.
Loue is not now, as loue hath beene of old,
(A gamesome babe, to dandle on the knee)
Loue cares for nought, but land and bags of gold,
That keepes both man, and horse in stable free,
They haue no witt, that other louers be,
Wealth maister is, and porter of the gate:
That lets in loue, when want shall come to late.
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Well as it was, my friends could doe no good,
My fortune bore, the sway and ruled all,
And I full long, on will and freedome stood:
Till flesh and bloud, must needs to fancy fall.
And then though hap, and worldly wealth was small
I lighted where, I likte and loued well;
And where I vowde, for terme of life to dwell.
My choise was likte, for many gifts of grace,
He had, though wealth, sometime was not at will:
And for his sake, in many a noble place,
I welcome was, and purchast fauour still.
My candle blasde, like torch on top of hill:
And for content, of minde where loue doth rest.
Mine owne poore choise, might passe among the best.
Long liude we thus, at home and eke abroad,
When kindred cleane, in deede forsooke vs both.
What burthen fell, I helpt to beare the load:
And glad in world, to taste how Fortune goth,
The minde I had, to God and sacred othe,
Made me refuse, no trauaile for his sake,
Whome of free will, I choose to be my make.
The Seas we sailde, the land we rode about,
The Court we saw, the towne we dwelt long in:
The fields we walkt, the gardens gay throughout,
We went vnto, where many a feast hath bin,
We could not sincke, for hap held vp the chin.
He prosperd well, and looke what God had sent,
With louing wife, at home the same he spent.
He tooke great paines, to come by that he had,
And trauailde sore, through many a forraine soile:
To bring that home, that makes the houshold glad.
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And keepe the wife, and houshold folke from foile,
And I tooke care, that nothing went to spoile,
And looke in deede, what things that I did lacke,
Was seene in face, or found vppon my backe.
The world might see, I went in garments good,
Though small I brought, to him as I confesse:
I spent him much, and at great charge I stood.
Which brings strong harts, somtime to great distres.
But neuer that, might make his loue the lesse.
For looke how he his liking first beganne,
In fine for troth, he proude the selfe same manne.
I could not sleepe, but where in bed he lay,
I could not eate, but where he sate at boorde:
I could not laugh, when liking was away,
I silent sat, gaue he but halfe a woorde.
Ill newes of him, strake me with mortall sword,
His minde and mine, did draw so in one yoke,
The selfe same fittes, he felt where of I spoke.
Full seauen yeares, this constant course we kept,
Though often times, there happened houshold iarrs,
And tratling tales, that in betweene vs crept.
Made many wounds, where yet remains the scarrs.
Yet alwaies peace, tooke vp our brawling warrs,
And we did seeke, to salue each others sore:
And passe old griefes, and thinke thereon no more.
Sweete is that peace, that patcheth vp great harmes,
Sharpe is the warre, that teares a house in twaine.
Woe worth those words, that brings in braules by swarms.
Darke be those cloudes, that alwaies threatens raine.
Curst be the cause, that breedeth woe and paine,
And damnde in Hell, those subtill spirites shal be:
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That councell gaue, to part my choise from me.
Well as our chaunce, together was to ioyne,
And dwell long while, as here in briefe you hard:
So happe came on, (through hope of wealth or coine)
And drew my choise, where he might be prefarde,
To warres, and I, that had a great regard:
To him that time, when I his minde did know:
Gaue my consent, that he to warres should goe.
With sighes and sobs, and bitter teares among,
We parted tho, with promise surely past:
That one should heare, from other ere twere long,
And sadly so, we seured at the last,
His goods, his gold, his friends both firme and fast.
He left me then, to comfort me withall,
But nere a childe, as Fortune so did fall.
He past the seas, and sent me tokens still,
And money such, as might supply my neede:
And for to shew, his faith and great good will,
Long Letters large, he made that I might reede.
Of promise past, and to come home in deede,
But to what end, should serue this businesse great,
My minde was turnde, warme loue had lost his heat.
A new fine man, both young and apt for chaunge,
I chose, and cleane, forgat my former ioy:
And in a while, I was become so straunge.
As Hagard Hauke, that takes in head a toy,
And flees from Lure, and waxeth nice and coy.
My wedlocke now, not hearing of these newes,
Made no hast home, till I was ore the shewes.
Yet knacks I wrought, to bleare my husbands eies,
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I made a bruite, be blowne that I was dead:
When that he heard, he did his life despise:
And so forsooke, sleepe, rest, and tast of bread,
He rent his haire, he sadly shooke his head,
He walkt the woods, and shunned all repaire,
As one would be, deuourd with fowles of thaire.
He daily bledde, when little foode he tooke,
He would not come, where woemen were in place,
And he so leane, and like a Ghost did looke.
That Death it selfe, was seene amid his face,
A noble Earle, as he beheld this case:
Brake with the man, that thus tormented was,
And so in sports, the troubled time did passe.
But ague fits and sicknesse followed on,
That in poore plite came home my husband thoe,
Not leane in purse, but bare and neere the bone,
The bodye then, was worne with warre and woe,
And yet full sound, as al the world might know,
His limmes I saw, but I so nice did waxe:
There was no flame, of fire might come to flaxe.
For I could weepe, and quench by cunning art,
The hottest loue, that euer husband bore:
And so two yeares, I plaied a Foxes part,
Which ere I die, I may repent full sore,
My husbands bedde, I shund, and furthermore,
I fainde I had, a sickenesse let it goe,
I neuer minde, that folly forth to shoe.
A finer tricke, to compasse that I sought,
I plaide through sleight, and casting figures trim:
To my good man, a bastard girle I brought,
And from my friend, presented her to him:
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Hee saw thereby, the flud runne ore the brime,
Yet kept it close, and sayd nothing at all:
Till out by chaunce, might further matter fall.
And alwayes would, my husbande tell mee plaine,
I did him wronge, to keepe mee from his bedde:
But I could vse, him in a pleasaunt vaine.
And make him soone, forgett that hee had sedde.
My doore was lockt, howe ere I layde my head,
My maydes and I, kept solempne cheare alone:
Howeuer playne, poore husbande made his mone.
Two yeares this wise, I shoeffled Cardes full cleane,
Till husband spied, a Letter of my hande:
Whereby hee found, what follie I did meane,
But I was bent, against my deede to stande.
So faest him down, and swore when all was scande
It was not mine, but as hee soundly slept:
To his beds side, my mayde and I wee stept.
And heaude him vp, and so from bolster than,
Wee tooke his purse, wherein the Letter laye:
When that wee had, wee left the sillie man,
As saffe as hee, that sleepes in Cocke of haye,
Well, when he lookt, in purse the other daye,
And found my fraude, and falshood as it was:
Out of the doore, in furie did hee passe.
Yet came againe, that night and so fell sicke,
(The cause whereof, soone after you shall here:)
Full long hee lay, and toucht so neere the quicke,
That he was like, to buy that sicknesse dere.
But when on foote, hee stept and all was cleare,
He bad farewell, false wife, God send thee grace:
Thy wicked wayes, makes husband giue thee place.
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I saw how world, would wonder at this act,
And straight new tales, on husband ganne I rayse:
With forged lies, and rayling reasons rackt,
That still should sound, vnto his most disprayse.
I faynde one while, hee vsed wanton wayes,
With euery mayde, that hee might touch or see:
And then he was, to sicke a soule for mee.
Then poore hee was, I sayde to cloke my pride,
When this serude not, I swore the man was madd,
And in his rage, would beate mee backe and side,
So euery daie, a new deuice I had.
To make the world, beleeue hee was too bad,
And at the length, when all I had was sold:
My mayde and I: goe trie the world we wold.
So shutting doore, and trussing vp my packe,
I flang from home, not bidding friendes farewell:
But I had not, no sooner turnde my backe,
But husband heard, how all this matter fell.
And yet alone, awhile hee let mee dwell,
Till that hee saw, I was so farre past shame:
I carde not what, became of honest name.
Indeed the house, where I my residence made,
With lustie Lads, was haunted euery houre,
And I had those, that well could tosse the blade,
To take my part, if husband ganne to lowre.
His friendes were weake, and I with strongest power,
Beganne to bragge, and threaten him full sore:
And had preparde, a bloodie band therefore.
I sought to bring, my brethren to this braule,
But they were wise, and would no quarrell take:
And putting off, the harmes that might befall,
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They wisely wrought, a freindly peace to make.
But euer I, good counsell did forsake,
And thought to make, my husband hide his heade:
By practise still, till he poore man were dead.
Yet in a moode, when least I lookt therefore,
He came and tolde, me all was much amisse:
Whereat I cried, alas and lowde I rore,
For neighbours helpe, who quickely hearing this,
Came thrusting in, as ofte the manner is,
How now good folke, quoth he with bended brow:
Tweene man and wife, dare you bee sticklars now.
No in good fayth, quoth they and so retierd,
But still I lookt, for other succour there:
And for that thing, that husband then desired,
I tooke no care, I ment a further feare.

For poisning her maister,
To bring him in, yet maide in giuing eare,
To honest wordes, fell downe on knees at last:
And pardon craude, for priuie knauerie past.
My husband then, forgaue her and tooke leaue,
In hope my mind, would gentle waxe thereby:
But I that ment, my husband to deceaue,
In better place, beganne a greater crie.
Where women were, that markt my weeping eye,
And thought indeed, I had beene handled ill:
So stayde me there, perforce among them still.
My husband swore, I should receiue no harme,
And home againe, I should be safely brought:
But I had taught, the women such a charme,
They would not then, depart from me for nought.
That could be sayde, thus hee like waxe was wrought,
And tempred so, that home without his wife:
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He went awaie, the more my shamelesse life.
When shamefall lookes, forsooke my modest face,
I waxt so bold, I blusht no more than blocke:
Then clapt on Robes, of gaie vaine-glories grace,
With colours faire, to paint a foule blacke stocke.
Yet calde I was, a Henne for each good Cocke,
A morsell sweete, a whetstone fine forsoth:
To set on edge, on euery daintie tothe.
I carde not how, my husband murthred were,
By Magicks force, or any Diuilish arte:
I shonde his sight, and presence euery where,
As one that lodgde, disdaine in hatefull harte.
And still I playde, full many a filthie parte,
To rid him hence, and take awaie his life:
Who God preserude, to plague a paltring wife.
And for to hide, those brainesicke prankes of mine,
I had a knacke to breake the marriage bande:
And so a dragme, or draught of poyson fine,
I did deuise, to hap in husbands hand.
And as that cuppe, on tables ende did stand,
With feruent thirst, he came and so it raught,
And in that heat, dranke of the mortall draught.
When guiltie heart, should make my face to blushe,
I braude it out, in silkes and Ueluets gaye:
And carde not what, world sayde of mee a rushe,
For I tooke time, ere time would weare awaye.
(At gracelesse games, and many a shamelesse playe)
And sowing seedes, that Nettle flowers brought foorth:
I reapt but weedes, or thistles nothing woorth.
I rufled long, when husbande barely went,
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And faste him out, in streets or ciuill towne,
My freends did force the man to stand content,
It was no boote, to striue or sweare me downe.
For I had made the world on him to frowne,
And raisde a brute, that he was bedlem mad:
Thus loe, of him the conquest still I had.
My haunt was such emong the noblest sorte,
That I was calde a sober Sibill sage:
And worthy wits would build on my reporte,
For I knew how to flatter euery age.
And alwaies wrought to make my husband rage
Wherby his life in hazard hard might fall:
And I the while run cleane away with ball.
I loued not one but lusted after all,
The puddell foule, was fittest for a gigge:
The fountaine faire did drinke like bitter gall,
In filthy mud I wallowd like a pigge.
About the streets was gadding gentle rigge.
With clothes tuckt vp to set bad ware to sale:
For youth good stuffe, and for olde age a stale.
A louing looke could make a Gudgeon bite,
A fine dugard could fetch in scoles of fish:
A cunning knacke could stir vp colde delight,
A glittring girle could feede a wantons wish.
And who doth not desire a dainty dish,
Whose sugred taste breeds secret eger moode:
That fame would feed, & findes most fearfull food.
I could in street bestur and stretch my limmes,
As though some sprite were vnder outward show
Who angleth not for fish that smoothly swims?
At pleasant mark who doth not bend the bowe?
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Small shafts are shot at many a carraine Crowe,
Then if faire birds doo hap to come in way:
Blame not the Hauke that makes of foule a pray.
Not beauty here, I claime by this my talke,
For browne and blacke I was God blesse the marke:
Who cals me faire dooth scarce know Cheese from chalke,
For I was formd when winter nights was darke.
And Natures workes tooke light at little sparke,
For kinde in scorne had made a moulde of Iette:
That shone like cole, wherin my face was set.
Three yeeres I straied like waffe that waxeth wilde,
Two more at least I lay from husbands bed:
And all this while I vsde him like a childe,
For at no time I neither wrote ne sed.
Ne sent to him, such toyes I had in head.
That stomacke stiffe thought not to stoupe a whit:
For stubborne Colte in teeth had got the bit.
He let me run oer hedge, oer hill and dale.
And would not plucke the raines of bridle back:
I could tell why, but therby hangs a tale,
Would make me blush and shew of grace great lacke.
I had my will, whiles all thing went to wracke,
What needs more words, I ran so rude a race:
I neuer thought againe to turne my face.
What sleight scapes free, from subtill searching head,
What wit workes not to serue lewde womens wyles:
What practise flies the foile of stained bed,
What is not wonne with words or worldly guiles.
What will not yeeld and faune where Fortune smiles,
What time is lost to gaine that women craue:
And all proceeds from waiward will we haue.
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If that we loue, the fury lasts not long,
If once we hate, our malice hath no end:
If that we minde to offer husband wrong,
We want no wit the quarrell to defend.
Our stuborne hart had rather break then bend,
And custome hath among vs made such lawes:
That all our sexe will take our part and cause.
And where the floud and streame of strife doth runne,
In comes the tide of dayly troubles great:
Yea where a storme or braule is once begun,
All bitter blasts repairs and breathes out heat.
the eyes will stare, the face will frowne and sweat,
The tung must clap, the head wil shake and nod:
And hart within hath cleane forgotten God.
Freends must be wrought with blades to band it out,
Foes must be whipt and scourged in their kinde:
Worlde shalbe tost and turned round about,
Still to maintain the mischeefe of the minde.
Tale bearers then shall lye within the winde,
To bring bad newes and set the house a fier:
That flamde before with sparkes of spites desire.
My practise strange can all these plagues vnfolde,
That better were lapt vp in silence heere:
Too late to call againe that tung hath tolde,
The wise should sell their words and worship deere.
But since in world my selfe I cannot cleere,
I wil goe through this heauy tale of mine:
That world may well at wicked waies repine.
Long after this he heard that I lay sicke,
And then from Court he comes with right great speed:
Qo comfort me that was both sound and quick,
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To play the Fox or knaue againe for need.
But though that time I would not be agreede,
I tooke his wine and sent him so away:
With scorne enough in signe of parting day.
For since that time he neuer saw my face,
Nor had no minde to come where was my haunt:
And since that storme I had so little grace,
In euery soile I make my boste and vaunte.
I conquerd him and so I doo you graunt,
For three yeeres more I haue doon what I please:
And liue at large in lust and lordly ease.
And these fiue yeeres I haue doon what I can,
By tung and art and figures that I cast:
And euery way to shame my plaine good man,
which shame I feare will sure be mine at last.
I am so learnd I can play loose and fast,
My skill is such in Planets hye and low:
I rule the Skies and heauens where I goe.
Good Fortunes sure some say that I can tell,
And many things by figures I vnfolde:
I say no more but wish that all were well,
For he that doth this wicked world beholde.
whose Godhead seeeth into this massie moulde.
Knowes well how oft I tread my shooe awry:
And in what plight my sinfull soule dooth lye.
And if this God regarde with angry cheere,
The vice on earth that vainely we commit:
And straitly looke vnto my dooings heere,
And like a Iudge in trembling conscience sit.
I am condemd, there serues ne force nor wit,
Out is my Lamp, the oyle hath lost his light:
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And my faire day is turnd to foule blacke night.
The searching heads that sifts my manners throw,
Will shrinke aside when I draw neere their view:
The wiuely dames that seeth my blotted brow,
In my behalfe will blush and change their hue.
The gentle harts that others harmes doth rue,
Will much lament my life so lewdly runne:
And cleane vntwist the threed good name hath spun.
The basest dame (whose faults are borne in brest)
Wil scorne to heare my folly blazde abroad:
The frumping flocke at me will make a iest,
The spitefull swarme wil poulte and swell like tode.
My guilty minde that beares moste heauy lode,
Will sinke downe right when worlde shall talke of grace:
And shame her selfe will slubber all my face.
The two braue boies I had from husbands bed,
That Stoner got, staines now my honest name:
And witnes beares to world when I am dead,
Of secret sins that purchast open shame.
I kept that close long like a cunning dame,
Till husband had found out my paultring life:
Then he at Bathe forsooke his cogging wife.
The foule reports that dayly I giue him,
Rebounds like ball to mine owne bosome straight:
Yet I with craft fac'te out the matter trim,
But still I beare the blot for all my sleight.
My backe so crackes vnder this heauy weight,
That all the ioynts and bones I beare about:
[illeg.]foldes my faults and filthy manners out.
The sober sorte that sets by noble brute,
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Will shake their heads as they my boldenesse spie:
The clapping tungs will neuer sure be mute,
Shreawd people all, will shewe alowryng eye.
But still I feare, the Lorde that sits on hye,
Will loke more strange, on me so late disgraste:
Then all the worlde that here beneath are plaste.
The Church wherin both faith and hand I gaue,
Shall witnes beare of breach of promise due:
The spousall bed and mariage day so braue,
Shall make me calde forsworne and most vntrue.
the holye booke, the olde law and the new,
Against my soule shall such sharpe sentence giue:
In other worlde where sprite desires to liue.
Let matrons chaste, and modest wiues eche one,
That falshood hates, and loues their troth to keepe:
In fury come, and fling at me a stone,
And let no wight my death bewaile nor weep.
Let daies vnrest and dreadfull dreames in sleepe,
Pursue me still and bring me to my graue:
Since God and man I so offended haue.
The steps I tread shall tell me my offence,
the feelds I walke shall bring my fault to minde,
The harmes I did in worlde shall haste me hence,
The wealth I wish shall waste and weare with winde.
The fame I seeke shall fling me far behinde,
And all good things that vertuous wiues enioy:
At my most need shal turne to mine annoy.
The wise that weighes my wiles in ballance right,
Shall see my wit want weight and be but bace:
The foole himselfe shall finde my iudgement light,
In making choise to chop and change my race.
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The poore shall point at me in euery place,
The rich, and those that sway and rule doth beare:
With curbe of Law shall bring lewde life in feare.
The freends I had shall froune and shun my sight,
The foes I haue shall follow me with shame:
The neighbour loue that pleasde me day and night,
Shall now draw backe and looke on losse of name.
The merrie mate and homely countrey dame,
And all the towne and soyle where I was borne:
In Parish Church shall laugh my life to scorne.
The bande once broke that God himselfe hath blest.
Brings worldly woe, and curses in by swarmes:
The mariage marde that God made for mans rest,
Turnes vpside downe, from happie helpe to harmes.
The Bridall bed defiled with lothsome charmes,
Breedes wicked smoke, and smoothing slanders base:
On whose foule fume a worlde of people gaze.
The knot of loue vnknit by hateful cause,
Calles greefes to count, and cries to clouds for aide:
The lewde contempt and breach of sacred lawes,
Makes euery howre offendour sore afraid.
The fickle faith that is with scourges paide,
Bids falshood flie the plague that is preparde:
For those who lookes to life with small regarde.
No rouffling troupe that swash and swill vp wine,
Can ward the blowes that wrath of God sends downe:
No cunning knacks nor knacking fetches fine,
Can conquer troth and thrust him out of towne.
No treasons traine can take way true renowne,
No cloud can cloke the craft that all men findes:
No salue but grace can heale infected mindes.
246

My hollow heart hath lost the hope I had,
What drops in now, doth doubt and daunger bring:
In husbands eares, I spake that made me glad,
With newfound friends, I talke that makes me wring.
The first good will, from vertuous loue did spring,
The last delite, and all that since fell out:
Began on lust, and needs must end in doubt
Now open streets, by Oule flight must I walke,
And secret nookes, and shifts must shadow fleight:
Except I care not what the world doth talke,
And mind to frame a crooked matter streight.
And then though pride, holdes head a wonders height,
Shame pluckes downe heart, and makes mee blush at last:
But well away, that signe of grace is past.
Though in the teeth, I haue the bridle got,
And that I run beyond my riders reach:
I dare not sing, in queere too hie a note,
For feare of checke, and tuter do me teach.
I play boe peepe, least people me appeach,
I seeme a Saint, when diuelish things I meane:
Yet much adoo, I haue to carrie cleane.
O wretched change, that brings repentance oft,
O bitter sweet, whose tast deceiues vs all:
O poysoned lust, that puffes vp pride aloft,
O gracelesse game, full farc'st with sugred gall.
O tripping trust, that swiftly giues a fall,
O spitefull sport, that spends thy youth in shame:
And brings thine age, in horrour and defame.
O greedy will, that gaines but griefe of minde,
O gnawing worme that frets the conscience still:
O wicked Art, that strikes the senses blind,
247

O leude desire, more hote than Ethna hill,
O beastly blisse, begun on bold consait:
And doth bewitch, them all that bites the bayte.
O paultring playe, and peeuish pastime vaine,
O sliding ioy, that sinckes where suretie swims:
O perlous toye, and pleasure mixt with paine,
O Peacocke proude, that still fond feathers trims.
O lustie blood, nay wanton lothsome limes,
That stoupes to filth, and costly carrein gaye:
That giues bad gold, and steals good name awaye.
My merry mates, and minsing minions fine,
Speakes faire a while, to winne their leude desire:
But wilely world, can let me starue and pine,
And for reward, can giue a flout or flire.
So lead mee on, and leaue me in the mire,
And blab all out, that hath been closely wrought:
O prankes of youth, O painted thing of nought.
O puddell foule, that seemes at first full faire,
O cause of care, and source of sorrow sowre:
O deadly hope, and ground of deepe dispaire,
O pleasant weede, and stincking rotten flowre,
O rauening wolues, that doth poore wiues deuoure,
O smiling theeues, that robbs the chastest harte:
O trayterous tongues, that can play Iudas parte.
You layd your traynes, as Foulers laies his nette,
You bosome Snakes, your sting hath me vndone:
By louing you, at length what shall I gette,
When you me lothe, where shall the cast off run.
Wo worth that wight, that woing first begun,
Curst be the craft, that causeth clamours ryes:
And vengeaunce fall, vppon your staring eyes.
248

A plague consume, your songes and subtell sutes,
A wildfire catch, your combrous knauish braynes:
A murrein take, your soule vntimely fruites,
A canker eate, your handes and azure vaines.
The Haggs of Hell, reward you for your paines,
Both pen and ynke, and all that helpt desire:
(And you your selues) I wish in flaming fire.
Fie on your scroules, and Pistells full of lies,
An Oten strawe, for all your stately stiells:
Your frisled haire, and noughtie new-fond guise,
Your Lordly lookes, your simpring shameles smilles
Your wanton talke, and priuie wincking willes,
I here bequeath, to Sathan and his crue:
Good fellows fitte, for such false ladds as you.
You are the frothe, and scumme of worldes delite,
The dalling whelpes, that can with feathers playe:
Of mischiefs all, the marke, the butte, and white
The iolly Frie, that followes flood each waie.
The gallant flocke, the stately starres of day,
The busie Bees, that can no honey make:
But spoylers of, each fruit and flowre yee take.
The waiting dogges, that bite before they barke,
The couching currs, that snatch at euery flie:
The figboies fine, that iuggles in the darke,
The cunning crue, that at receit can lie.
The sooking sponge, that drawes faire fountains dry,
The greedy houndes, that follows eurie game:
The blott and staine, of each good womans name.
A robe or ring, or trifling token bare,
You giue for that, you neuer can restore,
Then are you gone, you haue your wished fare,
249

In straunger streames, you loue to stire your Ore.
If honest wiues, but knew your prankes before.
They would as soone, see of your suttle heds:
As by your drifts, goe staine their husbands bedds.
In marriage house, is friendly fastnesse found,
Though fare be meane, content fills vp the dish:
In bordell bowre, sweete banquets are vnsound,
Though dainties there, wee haue at will and wishe,
At home we take, in worth cold flesh or fish,
For warme good will, doth season so the cheere,
That with small coste, we banquet all the yeere.
Abroad wee sit, as though we were affearde,
And scarce dare feede, or talke for taunts and nipps:
At home we rule, in spight of husbands bearde,
And play the Cooke, and so may licke our lipps.
Abroad for nought, our tongue is tane in tripps,
And then great hart, can neyther drinke nor eate:
Thus deere is bought, abroad our borrowde meate.
Looke what is sayd, at home in cloth is lappt,
There speach is free, and honey sports wee vse:
O well awaie, that this misfortune hapt,
And that I did, my husband so abuse.
That I haue brought, my selfe into a muse,
Lost home thereby, lost God and good mens praise:
And now must run, a gadding all my daies.
A plague most fit, for them that vse to change,
A scourge wherein, the wrath of God is seene:
A staffe of strife, for pilgrime nothing strange,
A bleeding wounde, that makes my sorrow greene.
A sore rebuke, for wits that ouer weene,
A heauy crosse, and sent me for the nones:
250

To breake my will, and yet to bruse no bones.
But since my will, did weaue this wofull webbe,
That needs must make, a weede for wantons weare
And that my flood, is like to fall to ebbe,
By [illeg.] of will, that ought low saile to beare.
To punish Soule, that else some other where,
Might suffer smart, I vow in hand to take,
A better life, and so false world forsake.
Away proud pompe, and costly garments nice,
Come mourning gowne, & clothe the careful wight:
Awaie vaine showes, and open signes of vice,
Come vertue now, and giue my Lampe more light.
Come Summers day, adue darke winters night,
I loue to liue, and looke about mee farre:
When wound is heald, time may amend the scarre.
Away young Frie, that giues leawd Counsell nowe,
Awaie old trotts, that sets young flesh to sale:
Awaie foule sluttes, whose filth doth blott my browe,
Away trimme tongues, that neere told honest tale,
Awaie bold beastes, whose brabble bred my bale,
Away rude Waspes, you stong me through the brest.
Go hide your heades, and let me liue in rest.
Awaie wild giggs, that bounceth like a topp,
Awaie tame louts, that fawne like whelps for nought:
Awaie light heades, that loues to chaunge and chopp,
Awaie fine witts, that many mischiefs wrought,
Awaie flee Snakes, that my destruction sought,
Away false shrewes, that neuer none may trust:
But such leawd girls, as are beguilde by lust.
Awaie faire speach, that me bewitch to long,
251

Away fowle workes, that fild my face with blurs,
Come home poore sence, that led my fancy wrong:
And packe from me, you priuy biting curs,
That sticketh still, together like wilde burs,
And where ye touch, ye bring away the wull.
So from fine cloth, pure honest name yee pull.
Tis time to looke, how good report was lost,
And prop vp house, that now is neere to fall:
A wretched bruite, flies through the aire in post.
A whirling winde, may come and trip downe all,
And though I list, not come at husbands call:
I may not fly, from God and follow man,
That still deuours, like Wolfe what sheepe he can.
The sweetest wine, at length will waxe full sowre,
It proues sharpe sauce, that once had sugred taste:
Fond fancies freaks, will fade as fast as flowre,
And wantons loue, with sports will weare and wast.
When hard in armes, new commers are embrast.
Farewell old friend goe play you where you wull:
The Hauke hath praide, the Haggards gorgs is full.
Loue staies not long, it is but one yeares birde,
A foolishe fitte, that makes wilde wits goe madde:
A gallant Coult, that runneth for a girde,
A lime rod fine, to catch a lusty ladde:
A youthfull prancke, that makes age looke full sadde,
A merry mate, so long as money lasts,
Good for a flight, then of her bels shee casts.
Loue tarries not, it is a posting game,
That hath such hast, it goes we know not where,
Now faire and fatte, then crooked leane and lame,
Now plaies boe peepe, now fisking here and there.
252

Now balde as Coote, now trim with fresled heare,
Now gay and glad, now shrewd and scarce wel pleasd
Now sound as Chicke, now sicke and soone diseasd.
With dalling much loue will be easly tierd,
When loue is cloyed, the roile at gresse must ronne:
When hoofe is whole; the hackney may be hierd,
When corne is solde, the market cleane is done.
It ends with hate, that was with loue begonne,
It may be loathd, that long on liking lay:
Lust lacks no wings, when loue wil flie away.
Loue must haue change, to season sweete delite,
Loues minde wil range, like Spaniel in the field:
Loue lookes like Doue, when she wil proue a Kite,
Loue seekes to rule, shee hath no minde to yeelde,
Loue will haue scope, loue is restrained seelde.
If loue lack a ought, she showes a lowring eye,
And then for nought, the babe wil pule and cry.
Loue must be kolld, and kissed round about,
Loue must goe gay, and painted like a poste,
Loue must be peecst, and patcht with many a clout,
Loue is a sprite, a shadow or a Ghost:
A needelesse charge, that seldome quits the cost,
A practise bought, with many a thred bare purse,
A wretched blisse, that I and mine may curse.
It is the skum, and onely drosse of youth,
That brings booth soule, and body in decay:
A kinde of talke, wherein there is no truth.
A Courting trade, that doth much craft bewray,
A wily Foxe, a wanton full of play:
A Sainct to show, a Deuil God he knose,
That me betrayde, and made me freedome lose.
253

The Horse runs farre, that neuer turns againe,
The beaten childe, is learnd to feare the rod:
The double minde, may fall to meaning plaine:
They may amend, that feeles the feare of God.
The clouds may cleere, that long hath threatned rain
The time ill spent, if reason will redeeme:
Cals home wild wits, from toies that are extreme.
Youth takes his course, and followes fancies freakes
Age all reforms, and sore repents time past:
The bow long bent, ye know in processe weakes,
Hard things at first, may gentle waxe at last.
Who often fawls, is taught to stand full fast.
And few there are, but slides or fawls down right,
In youth or age, our iudgements are so light.
When wit is bought, (and folly throughly waied,)
An ounce of skill, is worth a pound of drosse:
Till body smart, the minde is neuer staied,
Gaine is not likt, till we haue tasted losse.
Some say ech one, is borne to beare his crosse,
My heauy faults, now burthens breast so sore:
That heere or hence, I must be scourgd therefore.
Sweete are those stripes, that breaks ne bone nor lim
(And yet sets sound, the soule and body both:)
Sowre are those ioyes, and worldly braurie trim,
That downe to hell, with damned people goth.
Sweete are sharpe words that tels leud life the troth
Sowre is sweete sauce, that cloyes the stomacke still
Sweete are those nips, that doth restraine the wil.
The pampred horse, that still in stable stands,
Will waxe a iade, if spurre ne wand he taste,
The wild-hed Colt, is tamde by riders hands.
254

Ane so through bitte, is made well traind and past,
Al hedstrong things, are not reformde in hast:
But when regard, lookes back where blindnes went
The perill past, bids pompe and pride repent.
Great is the scope, that greedy wil desires,
Smal gaine or grace, doth grow by gadding out,
With heauy lode, the weary legs retiers:
And heartfull fraught, of worldly dread and dout
And sure the ground, from whence al vice doth sprout
Is gadding geres, that loues abroad to gase:
Who shame sends home, in great sad muse and mase.
And when in dores, dame dalliance close is drawn,
And notes what blot, she did escape without:
Shee thinkes in streete, she put her name to pawne,
Or went abroad, to play the bare banckrout,
Where wanton eyes, did naught but stare about,
Where all a flant, at full like shippe with saile.
Fine minions march, as braue as Peacocks taile.
The crooked backe, must bolstred be by arte,
The tawny skinne, must shine by some trim knack,
The twinkling lookes, for sport must play their part
The perwickes fine, must curle wher haire doth lack
The swelling grace, that fils the empty sacke:
And ietting pace, with lims stretcht out ful streight,
To patch out pride, are matters of great weight.
Then fie on al, such trashe and trompry vile,
That sets forth shades, in Sunny day to shine:
My youth is past, I cannot world beguile,
Men wil not looke, for babes in hollowd eyen.
A witherd grape, hangs now on rotten vien.
From blasted branche, the berry round is gone,
255

A dosky glasse, is little lookte vppon.
Wherefore I vowe, to weare a sory vaile,
To shrowd the face, that few or none will like:
And get some shell, to holde in head like Snaile,
For former faults, in conscience so doth strike.
That I doe feare, I shall my selfe mislike:
If shadowes doe, not cloke defects I haue,
Or death dispatch, and send me to my graue.
Now note my tale, you dames of gentle blood,
Now waile with me, al such as playes my part:
Now let my harmes, doe harmelesse people good
Now bid al wiues, defie this deuilish arte,
For my conceite, is such a deadly darte,
That where I goe, or walke in any place,
Me thinkes my faults, are written in my face.

This discarded Gentlewoman went awalking twentye yeares, and yet cannot finde the waie home to her husband.

FINIS.
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