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A few voluntary verses to the general readers.

If aged daies, had dryed vp my Muse
As summer drouth, hath partcht both hearb and grasse
Yet now compeld, my pen againe to vse
That world shall see, my minde is as it was
Looke for no gold, when I can giue but glasse
My morning dew, sun beames hath taken hence
And troubled springs, yeelds puddle water sence.
Take edge away, the knife can cut no more
Hard stony ground, can beare but little corne
Did appels sone, are rotten at the kore
Ne Figs nor Grapes, can come from pricking thorne
The glasse soone goes, from silke that long is worne
Hope for no fruit, when leaues forsakes the tree
So falleth out, betweene my verse and me.
When youth was fresh, and florisht as a flowre
The wits were quicke, and ready to conceiue
When age did frowne, and browes began to lowre
My skill grue scant, the muses did me leaue
Then tract of time, in head did cobwebs weaue
So rusty grew, the reason of the braine
And euer since, I lost my Poets vaine.
What though ripe wit, be now but bare and blunt
And fine deuice, of head is farre to seeke
And age can not, doe that which youth was wont
And pen scarce makes, a verse in halfe a weeke
And all my workes, not worth a little leeke
Yet what I doe, but bad or worthy praise
I neuer robd, no writer in my daies.
It is mine owne, I bring to Printers Presse
I haue by happe, a Hatchet in my hand
To hew the wood, (let it be more or lesse)
In what strange forme, I list to let it stand
though some be chips, let all bee iustly scand

Ne chips ne choice, nor nothing els I knew
But was well ment, and may abide the vew.
A Booke in Presse, that I my challenge name
Shall tell you more, of workes that I haue done
But blame me not, (since each man striues for fame)
To holde on right, the course wherein I runne
I ought to weare, the cloth my fingers spunne
I will so lowd, for bookes and verses crie
That sure no bird, shall with my feathers flie.
Some Peakocks then, will spread their tailes no more
Small boast is best, let touchstone trie out golde
I haue as yet, some tragedies in store
That like Shores wife, in verses shalbe tolde
Condemne no man, though he be waxen olde
A rough barkt tree, whose bowes but crooked grow
When season serues, some mellowd fruit may show.
A great olde Oake, long time will akornes beare
And small young graffes, are long in sprouting out
Some saie old wine, is liked euerie where
And all men knowes, new ale is full of grout
Old horse goes well, young tits are much to doubt
But sure old golde, is more esteemd then new
No Hawke compares, with Hagard in the mew.
Old men know much, though young men cal them fooles
Old bookes are best, for there great learning is
Old authours too, are daily read in Schooles
New sectes are nought, olde knowledge can not misse
Old guyes was good, and nothing like to this
Where fraude and craft, and finenesse all would haue
And playnest men, can neither pole nor shaue.
Olde fathers built, faire Colledges good store,
And gaue great goods, and landes to bring vp youth
Young men thinke skorne, to make of little more
And spends away, their thrift to tell the truth

Olde mindes were full, of mercie grace and ruth
And pitty tooke, of those that seemd to lacke
Young gallants gay, from poore doe turne their backe.
Olde customes good, at length becam good lawes
Olde lawes are likte, and honourd of the wise
Good men obey, the euils olde order drawes
Newe fond delights, olde fathers did despise
In olde graue heads, great skill and wisedome lies
Sounde councell comes, from age in time of neede
Olde mens aduice, is that which doth the deede.
Olde beaten waies, are readie still to hit
These new by-paths, leades men on many stiles
An olde prouerbe, hath no more wordes then wit
Newe fangled heades, at each light fancie smiles
Olde wisedome farre, surmounts young fondlings wiles
Experience is, the doctor eury daie
That carries close, all knowledge cleane away.
Young houndes are fleete, the olde hunts slowe and true
Olde dogges bite sore, if all his teeth be sound
Olde auncient friends, are better then the newe
In younglings loue, there is small suretie found
For like a toppe, fine fancie turneth round
Olde colth or silke, made in our elder daies
Weares long and firme, when new things soone decaies.
No further nowe, of age but to my taske
I tooke in hand, to shewe my duety throw
Yet licker sweete, comes none from emptie kaske
With vargis sowre, is fild olde barrell now
But reason must, inuent the meane and howe
I doe discharge, my duety as I ought
To make a booke, shall answere writers thought.
Nowe must my Muse, goe borrowe if I may,
My betters workes, to fill my matter full

Tush world growes hard, each man will say me nay
Some cannot spare, a little locke of wooll
So greedely, for pealfe they plucke and pull
But namely some, so watch and pry for fame
That they with wordes, will hinder mens good name.
Spite is a sparke, of fire that flies in thaire
And makes a cracke, like pouder in a dagge
Spite hides foule thoughts, in lookes and speeches faire
Whose wordes rests not, as long as tongue may wagge
Spite of himselfe, will boldly boast and bragge
To hurt by hate, the hart that harmeles is
For spite like snake, in euery hedge can his.
Who flings a stone, at euery dogge that barkes
A wearie arme, is surelie like to haue
Though enuy shootes, his bolts at many markes
Pride wins not all, the glory he doth craue
Some will not giue, the dead good words in graue
Howe should the quicke, then get bad worlds goodwill
When hollowe harts, but harbours hatred still.
March on plaine booke, although thou passe the pikes
Some marshall man, will saue a souldiers life
Holde in thy head, from those that thee mislikes
In skornefull daies, I knowe disdaine is riefe
Thy gladsome verse, stirs vp more mirth then strife
So Prince thou please, thine owne desire thou hast
Come cleare from court, care not for enuies blast.
Thus Readers all, I bid you heere farewell
And to the Prince, a simple tale I tell.
FINIS.

A HANDEFVLL OF GLADSOME VERSES GIVEN TO THE QUEENS Maiesty at Woodstocke this prograce.

I most presume of all
(A boldnes more then needs)
To come where flowers sweet sent lets fall
And I bring nought but weeds.
But though the fountaine springs
From whence all learning flowes
By study great, great science brings
And therewith duety showes.
The barraine ground of mine
That seld sweet roses beares
May yeeld some word or pleasant line
Shall please your Princely eares.
But as an Oaten pipe
When shepheard plaies a round
Can moue no matter of delite.
By strangnes of the sound.
So verse puft vp with quill
And cunning sleight of braine
(Where swift conceite conceiues at will
Some grace of Poets vaine.)
No pearsing passage findes
To enter as it would
In great estates, whose noble mindes
Knowes quickly glasse frow gould.
A tale of plaine plowe man
That roughly runneth on
Finds frowns for fauor now and than
When gracious lokes are gone.

What meanes my Muses weake,
In heate of humor newe:
So neere graue heads to write or speake,
Of things I seldome knewe.
As one start out of sleepe,
Tels dreames and visions rare,
To those that talke of dreames no keepe,
Nor doth for fancies care.
Our english Idle rimes,
To this is here compard:
Whose rouing reasons often times,
Reapes nought but small regard.
For learned sages wies,
That much haue seene and red:
Who knowes the course of stars in skies,
And what may well be sed.
And all the liberall artes,
Haue at their fingers ends:
They for their giftes and speciall partes,
Which God to scholers sendes.
Are worthie hearing still,
They bring the sugred cuppe:
They are the nurses of good skill,
That fosters children vppe.
They with the muses talke
As all things were their owne
And like the Gods doe closely walke
In secret clouds vnknown
Uaine verses haue no power
Great vertue to perswade
They are but blossomes of a flowre
(Whose beauty soone doth fade)

That pleaseth men a while,
with wordes of no great weight:
A speech that may some eares beguile
A fine and pretty sleight.
A ripe inuention rare,
That springs on deepe deuice:
But verse is worne so weake and bare,
It beares but little price.
Because so many braines,
Runnes verses out of breath:
And posting wits with thankeles paines,
Hath ridden rime to death.
Though Poets in time past,
As Virgill and the rest:
Go[illeg.]e crownes and many a famous blast,
To make them hold vp crest.
Yet most of them poore men,
Like byrdes but newely pluckt:
For Ovid that through gift of pen,
Did seeme that drye he suckt.
The springes of learned lore,
He had hard hap withall:
Homer had no great golde in store,
Nor worldly wealth at call.
And since, fewe Poets rose,
To any worthy place:
And some scarce got meate drink & clothes
So poore was Poets case.
If Poets lucke be such,
That daily they decline:
And writers neuer can be rich,
For all their flourish fine.

Then seeke a better trade,
And fling away thy quill:
And take a mattoke and a spade,
And digge downe Maulvorne hill.
Twere better labour so,
By sweat of browes to liue:
Then like a threedbare Poet goe:
That hath no bread to giue.
Yet men may seeke to thriue,
By verse or stately prose:
Against ill chaunce, or streame to striue,
Both strength and time we lose.
Uerse well deuisde and framde,
Wins friends and feareth foes
So writer shape, vnharmd or blamd,
For treading on mens toes.
Where angry cornes doth growe,
Yea verse breedes merry bloud:
When each sad word to world doth showe
A liuely sentence good.
Uerse maketh many knowen,
That els forgotten are:
Who brings odde versis of their owne,
And prints no borrowd ware.
Who watcheth not their hours,
To steale and picke away:
From others gardens goodly flowres,
To make their posies gay.
Thus some doe borrowe much,
And then on braues doe stand:
A begger so may soone be rich,
He borne to rent nor land.

Great princes haue made verse,
And favred poetrie well:
Uerse hath a grace the clouds to pearce,
And clime where Gods doe dwell.
In verse great vertue is,
If worke well passe the file:
And verse gets grace, with that or this,
To make the Prince to smile.
Then many knacks we proue,
Our credite well to keepe:
And tell how Lords for Ladies loue,
Will lie all day a sleepe.
And faine when they awake,
In verse or letters long:
That they doe die for mistresse sake,
And suffer too much wrong.
A large discourse thereof,
Twere good to tell in deede:
But some would say I iest and scoffe,
And speake more wordes then neede.
Nay better talke of bogges,
That walkes in dead mens shapes:
Or tell of little pretty pogges,
As Monkies Owles and Apes.
A tale of two ours long,
Blinde peoples eares to please
Nay that were like a Syreins song,
That shipmen heares on seas.
Strange Farlees fathers tolde,
Of feendes and hagges of hell:
And how that Syrses when she would,
Could skill of sorcerie well.

And how old thin faste wiues
That rosted crabs by night
Did tell of monsters in their liues
That now proue shadowes light.
And told what Marlin spoke
Of world and times to come
But all that fire doth make no smoke
For in mine eare doth home.
Another kinde of Bee
That sounds a tune most strange
A trembling noise, of words to me
That makes my countenance change.
Of old Hobgoblings guise
That walkt like ghost in sheetes
With maides that would not early rise
For feare of Bugs and spreets
Some say the fayres faire
Did daunce on bednall greene,
And fine familiars of the aire
Did talke with men vnseene.
And oft in moone shine nights
When each thing draws to rest
Was seene dum shoes and vggly sights
That feared evry guest.
Which lodged in the house
And where good cheere was great
Hodgepoke would come & drink carows
And mounch vp all the meat.
But where foule sluts did dwell
Who vsde to sit vp late
And would not scowre their pewter well
There came a mirrie mate.

To kitchin or to haule,
Or place where spreets resort:
Then downe went dish & platters all,
To make the greater sport.
A further sport fell out,
When they to spoile did fall:
Rude Robin good fellow the lowt,
Would skime the milke bowls all.
And search the cream pots too,
For which poore milke maide weepes,
God wot what such mad gests will doe:
When people soundly sleepes.
Then world full merry was,
And gossips made good glee:
And men for wealth did little passe,
Good mindes were franke and free.
And some found heapes of gold,
Long hid in hollow ground:
And tript with timbrels where they would
Full many a frisking round.
These are but fabuls faind,
Because true stories old:
In doubtfull daies are more disdaind,
Then any tale is tolde.
These toies cuts of the cares,
That worldly causes brings:
And drawes the heauy wind vnwares,
To thinke on better things.
As when a may game comes,
Before a sort of states:
With morrice daunsers flutes and drums
That common weals debates.

The motion of the mirth
Though simple be the show
May moue the saddest man on earth
To gladsome thoughts I trow.
But how farre of am I
Now brought from wit and sence
To tell a tale smels like a lie
Before so great a Prince,
O pardon my rash wit
Sweete Queene and soueraigne deare
For he that doth in heauen sit
Knowes mine intent is cleare.
From all offence in minde
For when I tooke this taske
Each toy and fancy head could finde
(as man disguisde in maske.)
To make you laugh or smile
I tooke in hand to write
But now with troth another while
(And banish fables quite.)
My pen shall armed be
In this sweete cause and soile
To sheeld my muse, my verse and me
From blemish blot or foile.
Now as by heaunly grace
You past through many a sheere
So Roial Prince this auncient place
Hath hap to haue you heere.
Old Woodstocke house is glad
It shall haue stone and lime
That long with Iuy hath bin clad
To shew the ruen of time.

This seat nay sure this shrine,
That thousands now doth praise:
That did preserue, by power diuine,
The Phœnix of our daies.
And in a cruell age,
When might did right great wrong:
This house was made the Phœnix cage,
And held her here so long.
That no proude tyrants power,
Had force to touch her then:
True harted people eury houre,
And prayers of good men.
Kept Phœnix safe and sound,
And brought her to the crowne:
Who doth in vertues so abound,
Shee raignes with great renowne.
And further flies her fame,
And spreads for gifts most rare:
Then all the princes we can name,
Let foes speake what they dare.
Nowe humble subiects true,
Whereof you haue great store:
A triple crowne, presents to you,
Of fame for euer more.
And such as neuer sawe,
Your Maiestie till nowe:
Full neare the coatch do daily drawe,
We see wherefore and howe.
The people swarmes like Bees
When Prince abroad doth ride:
And some climes vp to tops of trees,
As soone as shee is spied.

Yea such as saw her first
Doe after trudge a maine
Who haue in hart, so great a thirst
To see her once againe.
That they stand gazing still
A fresh on Phœnix face
As though they neuer had there fill
Of looking on her grace.
Comes this of custome old
That subiects ows a king
No sure it rather doth vnfolde
An inward secreet thing.
Of kindely zeale they beare
By nature not by art
Ioynd fast with duty loue and feare
That flowes from faithfull hart.
A speciall warme goodwill
For neuer King was seene
More truely serude, more followd still
More honord then our Queene.
Some noble cause there is
That workes such wonder now
Then who hath sence to vew of this
And can search causes throw.
Discus this cause a right
But if world credit me
In liuely sort, and open sight
I doe such graces see.
In your most gratious raigne
That daily shines so cleare
As neuer none shall reach or staine
Nor euer could come neare.

This grace which God doth giue
Whereon great graces groe
Makes Prince loue peace and long to liue
And long a prograsse goe.
This grace great Ioue hath sent
To garde your grace from harme
That Practise foule, nor false intent
Nor wordes nor deedes nor charme.
Nor forraine force nor warres
Nor proude attempts shall feare
For God that guides sun moone and stars
Shall saue you eury where.
O sacred Soveraigne sweete,
Our faire red rose and white
We fall on knees at Cesars feete
To see our worlds delite.
And on her life depend
That now the sworde doth swaie
The Lord of hosts doth her defend
In such a kinde of way.
That nothing may impeach
Her heaunly graces great
For sure it passeth humane reach
To touch her sacred seat.
So raigne good Queene in rest
Full free from all anoye,
As one the Lord aboue hath blest,
To be all Englandes ioye.
FINIS.

Verse of variety to all those that honors the onely Phœnix of the worlde, which verses are but xx. lines and hath in them ten waies, finde out the same who pleaseth.

My Phœnix feathers faire, as Phebus beames bespreades the skie
Shades face from partching aire, in hoat extreames and wether dry
[illeg.] by the aire shee liues, dame kinde her selfe will haue it so
And life and breath shee giues, as farre as Phœnix force may go
[illeg.] them shee lists aduaunce, the faurets of our happy time
[illeg.] whom her eie doth glance, vnto the clowds shee makes them clime
[illeg.] where doth Phœnix frowne, as fortunes wheele were turned quite
[illeg.] flings proud Pecockes downe, some fauls in lash and worlds despite
[illeg.]; Eagle mounting skies, in roiall sort like stately King
Doth daunt each bird that flies, if hee but clap his feathred winge
And where hee lists to pray, on any soule that life doth beare
[illeg.] Hawke makes flight that day, nor dare come well in presens there)
[illeg.] Phœnix in her guies, with princely pompe as you may see,
Doth dazell clearest eies, and dailye conquers each degree:
And strikes base people blinde, that makes their God of worldly drosse:
Who beares no noble minde, and digges and delues for mucke and mosse:
Wherefore you courtiers nowe, the prime and buds of youthfull blisse:
Confesse your duetie throwe, if you can iudge what vertue is.
But one in these our daies, and shee a Queene nowe note it well:
[illeg.] immortall praise, that doth in worthy Brittaine dwell.
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