A poore Knight his Pallace of priuate pleasures Gallantly garnished, with goodly Galleries of strang inuentio[n]s and prudently polished, with sundry pleasant Posies, & other fine fancies of dainty deuices, and rare delightes. Written by a student in Ca[m]bridge. And published by I. C. Gent |
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To his freend Richard Bontly. |
 | A poore Knight his Pallace of priuate pleasures |  |
To his freend Richard Bontly.
Beyond sea a boy, beyond sea wilt thou wend,Christ sheelde my birde, and keepe my childe from care:
And thinke on it when wee a sunder are:
For when I heard, thy ship thou didst prepare,
To sulke the seas, and sorrow foming flood:
(Alas my boy) absence did make mee feare,
And want of time, did streeke my minde in moode,
But sith that Ioue, hath so esteemde it good.
To turne thy minde, and keepe thee heare a while,
Loe if it rayne, I send to thee a hoode:
To keepe thee dry, and daungers to exyle,
To keepe the dry, least raine thy clothes defile.
Then way it well, which shall bee sayd of mee,
And though perhaps thou doo not like the stile:
Of truth I know, the matter fit for thee,
First feare the Lord, which ruleth Heauen and sea:
And euery thinge that mooueth in the same,
Which when thou seest, let God remembred bee:
And thinke on him, which euery thing did frame,
The subiectes here, beholde to thee I name.
For euery thing is too long to rescite,
The Heauen, the Earth, the Water, and the flame:
The Sunne, the Moone, the day and clowdy night,
Such is his powre, such is force and might.
Which when thou seest, then thus begin to muse,
O Lord thou knowest, eche thing is in thy sight:
It is but vayne, my sinne for to excuse,
But graunt mee Lorde, thy graces so to vse.
That to thy praise it may redound at last,
For without grace eche thing I shall abuse:
Thus thinke my freend, when thou the seas art past,
Another thing I warne thee of in haste.
Eche forran lande, hath many a subtill sleyght,
And forrain snares, will make thee soone agast:
Ech sundry place hath many a sundry bayt,
Here lurketh one in Dungeon of deceit.
An other there, in secret Den doth ly,
The Romish Church for thee will lay great wayte:
But oh my freend, from pelting Papistes fly,
Fly, fly from those, kepe not their company,
For surely freend, they stinge so secretly:
That if the wound, begin once to be colde,
It is as hard the same for to vnfolde:
As to remoue the Pope out of his place,
Trust not to far, good freend bee not to bolde:
Least you be sicke, before you know your case.
Another thing, beware of in your race:
Beware I say, of those which fawne with guile,
Which merily will cheare you in the face:
And sooth you foorth: with many a wanton smile,
And heapes of wordes, they sticke not to compile.
I neede not name them in more plainer sort,
Which rediest bee, at all times to beguile.
Eschue all such, vnto your owne comfort,
Unto their tentes, in no wise doo resorte.
But when they becke, beware least that you bow,
Oh gentill freend, eschue that filthy sport:
And say your freend, of this hath counselled you,
Then if thou meane, his counsell to allow.
And thinke on it, when you haue past the Sea,
Then shall you see, and for this perceiue how:
Thou of hye Ioue, shalt alwaies blessed bee,
Blessed I say, so will hee comfort thee.
That though thou chance, not to returne againe,
(God sheeld my childe, and keepe both thee and mee)
Yet shall thy soule, alofte with him remaine,
And though thou chance, to soiorne longe in Spayne:
In Germany, in France, or els in Rome,
Do not forget, that minde for to retaine:
Which erst thou hadst, when thou therto didst come,
Remember still, the dreadfull day of dome:
Be curteous still, bee sober, meeke, and wise,
And hasten thee vnto thy natiue home:
Ill company, see that thou doost dispise,
Least that by them, some danger should arise:
And if thou chance in Venice for to stay,
I say no more, thou knowest what I surmise,
And wish him well, to make no more delay:
But to returne when time shall him permit,
And this is all, thou knowest what more to say:
Which vnto Pen, I meane not to commit,
Thou knowest my minde, and so know I thy wit:
Loe this is all, I geue vnto thy taske,
And thus farewell, vnto a season fit:
Whose safe returne, of mighty Ioue I aske.
| A poore Knight his Pallace of priuate pleasures | |