A Pleasant conceite penned in verse Collourably sette out, and humblie presented on Newe-yeeres day last, to the Queenes Maiestie at Hampton Courte. Anno. Domini. 1593 [by Thomas Churchyard] |
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To the generall Readers. |
 | A Pleasant conceite penned in verse |  |
To the generall Readers.
Reade with good will, and iudge it as ye ought,
And spare such speech, as fauour can bestow:
So shall you find, the meaning of his thought,
That did this work, in clowd and collours show.
Wrest things aright, but doe no further goe.
In ballance thus, wey words with equall weight,
So wisdoms skill, shall scanne the matter streight.
And spare such speech, as fauour can bestow:
So shall you find, the meaning of his thought,
That did this work, in clowd and collours show.
Wrest things aright, but doe no further goe.
In ballance thus, wey words with equall weight,
So wisdoms skill, shall scanne the matter streight.
The booke I calld, of late My deere adiew,
Is now become, my welcome home most kinde:
For old mishaps, are heald with fortune new,
That brings a balme, to cure a wounded mind.
From God and Prince, I now such fauour find,
That full a floate, in flood my shyp it rydes,
At Anchor-hold, against all checking tydes.
Is now become, my welcome home most kinde:
For old mishaps, are heald with fortune new,
That brings a balme, to cure a wounded mind.
From God and Prince, I now such fauour find,
That full a floate, in flood my shyp it rydes,
At Anchor-hold, against all checking tydes.
The houre is come, the Seas doe swell againe,
And weltring waues, comes rowling in a pace:
The stormes are calmd, with one sweete shewer of raine,
That brought my Barke, vnto the Porte of grace,
Where clowdes did frowne, now Phœbus shewes his face.
And where warme sunne, shines throwly cleere and faire,
There no foule mists, nor fogs infects the ayre.
And weltring waues, comes rowling in a pace:
The stormes are calmd, with one sweete shewer of raine,
That brought my Barke, vnto the Porte of grace,
Where clowdes did frowne, now Phœbus shewes his face.
And where warme sunne, shines throwly cleere and faire,
There no foule mists, nor fogs infects the ayre.
The Sayler stayes, at anchor in good roade,
Till winde blowes ore, ill weather from the seas:
The Pilot wise, will not put out a broade,
Till winde serues well, and men may sayle with ease.
The Writer first will his owne fancie please,
Than to the rest, that will no word mistake,
He sends those scrowles, that studious man did make.
Till winde blowes ore, ill weather from the seas:
The Pilot wise, will not put out a broade,
Till winde serues well, and men may sayle with ease.
The Writer first will his owne fancie please,
Than to the rest, that will no word mistake,
He sends those scrowles, that studious man did make.
The learned sort, scannes euery labour well,
But beetle-braines, cannot conceiue things right:
And if good works, comes where disdaine doth dwell,
Despight in hast, bloes out cleere candles light.
I hope this booke, comes not in enuies sight.
Whose staring lookes, may make my betters blush,
Yet all his chat, nor babble worth a rush.
But beetle-braines, cannot conceiue things right:
And if good works, comes where disdaine doth dwell,
Despight in hast, bloes out cleere candles light.
I hope this booke, comes not in enuies sight.
Whose staring lookes, may make my betters blush,
Yet all his chat, nor babble worth a rush.
If he mislike, a babe but newly borne,
It is condemnde, for no offence at all:
Ne wit nor skill, can scape the scowling scorne,
Of bold male boush, that like ban-dog doth ball.
The sugar sweet, he turnes to bitter gall.
The Vargis sower, hath not so sharpe a tast,
As hath his words, that spyte will spend in wast.
It is condemnde, for no offence at all:
Ne wit nor skill, can scape the scowling scorne,
Of bold male boush, that like ban-dog doth ball.
The sugar sweet, he turnes to bitter gall.
The Vargis sower, hath not so sharpe a tast,
As hath his words, that spyte will spend in wast.
No Writer now, dare say the Crowe is blacke,
For cruell Kytes, will craue the cause and why:
A faire white Goose, beares feathers on her backe,
That gaggles still, much like a chattring Pye.
The Angell bright, that Gabrill is in sky,
Shall know that Nashe, I loue and will doe still,
When Gabrils words, scarce winnes our worlds good will.
For cruell Kytes, will craue the cause and why:
A faire white Goose, beares feathers on her backe,
That gaggles still, much like a chattring Pye.
The Angell bright, that Gabrill is in sky,
Shall know that Nashe, I loue and will doe still,
When Gabrils words, scarce winnes our worlds good will.
No force, my hope, lyes not in hatefull men,
That cannot helpe, themselues in time of neede:
So I please those, that haue the gyft of pen,
Or such as can, thinke well of that they reede,
The bargaine is, well made and wonne indeede.
That dogge scarce bites, that daily lowde doth barke:
Each winde beates not, true Archers from theyr marke.
That cannot helpe, themselues in time of neede:
So I please those, that haue the gyft of pen,
Or such as can, thinke well of that they reede,
The bargaine is, well made and wonne indeede.
That dogge scarce bites, that daily lowde doth barke:
Each winde beates not, true Archers from theyr marke.
In rouing sort, my feeble shafts so flies,
Drawne to the head, yet from my head doth goe:
I wish but that, my shooting please the wise,
That lookes vpon, or dooth a marke man knoe,
The rest God mende, let him be friende or foe.
Thus now no more, but as I turne about,
This worke I end, till greater bookes comes out.
Drawne to the head, yet from my head doth goe:
I wish but that, my shooting please the wise,
That lookes vpon, or dooth a marke man knoe,
The rest God mende, let him be friende or foe.
Thus now no more, but as I turne about,
This worke I end, till greater bookes comes out.
FINIS.
| A Pleasant conceite penned in verse | |