University of Virginia Library

[Most royall Prince, speede on thy comely pace]

Firste, Lady Beauty speaketh, and she attyred in very goodly garmentes as becommeth such a Dame.
Manhode.
Yet were I best, to kill this peeuish Boy,
Whome now she makes, hir chiefe and sole delight,
In whome she finds, such pleasure and such ioy,
That causelesse I, am cleane defaced quite.
Such gaudyes gay, are in his Peacocks face,
And skinne smootht vp, with shew of ydle hue,
That I do lodge, and languish in disgrace,
Though she of me, hath proofe of promise true.
Well, make thy choyce, and see what likes thee best,
View heere the death, of this thy darling now,
Or yeeld thy loue, to fancie my request,
Whose manly force, shall winne the conquest throw.

Beautie.
Naught shalt thou winne, by that which I shall lose,
Thou getst no gaynes, though I be thus bereft,
And though that I, betweene two mischiefes goes,
Where naught but bale, and wretched woe is less,
Yet thy reward, which doest assault my friend,
(In whose delight, my heart was fedde long whyle)
Shall be disdeyne, and hatered in the ende,
A guerdon fitte, for such a Tyrant vile.

Manhode.
This wretch is he, by whome I am annoyde,
He hath thy heart, though I deserue the same,
If wisely then, I do my harmes auoyde,
Why stey I sword, I can not purchase blame,
By cutting off, the cause of my distresse,
When he is gone, my lette shall be the lesse.

Beautie.
How canst thou say, thou doest dezerue my heart,
Which kilst my heart, and causest all my woe,

Manhode.
Since that thou takest, my dealing in such part,
I will delight, to wreake my wrath on foe.
In greeuing thee, most glad to heare me grone,
And art most pleasd, when Manhode makes his moane.

Beautie.
O gracious Prince, to thee my mone I make,
And prostrate fall, O Prince before thy foote,
With wonted grace, on me some pitie take,
O salue my sore, let sorrow find some boote.
I swelt in sighes, and sure shall dye to see
My friend dispatcht, and murthred in this wise,
O bid the wretch, come thrust his sword in me,
For from my loue, the cause of griefe doth rise.
I made the fault, then punish me therefore,
Shall silly Lamb, be ledde to slaughter thus?
Do eyther help, with death my endlesse sore,
Or with remorse, and ruth the case discusse,
If he do dye, by Mightie Ioue I sweare
I will not liue, if sword or knife be found,
With scratched face, with rent and torne heare,
I know at first, my corpse will fall in sound,
And then adue, my sprite shall steale away,
O Queene, in hast, now bidde the Tyrant stay,

Manhoode.
Since thou, O Prince, forbidst reuenge to take,
And wilst that men, should lose their time in loue,
Then marke my case, and giue me leaue to make
Myne owne defence, and so alleadge and proue,
And I will shewe my right and title good,
And that I do, deserue the thing I craue.
Though this fond wretch, alwayes my sute withstoode,
As one who long, in furies fittes doth raue,
Whome leawd delight, hath ledde out of the way,
(Which good Aduise, and ordred Iudgement keepe)
Whome Beauties blast hath bounst against the bay,
Where craggy rockes, and sands lye hidde in deepe,
A fond deuice to trust to paynted face,
And fasten fayth vpon so fickle stay,
To whome Dame Hebe, lends often guisefull grace,
Which euery yeare and day doth plucke away,
Whome sicknesse spoyles, and many sorowes moe,
Whome time doth eate and age at length deuoures,
Whome cares of mind do shake and alter so,
As Winter winds defaceth Sommer floures.
A snare for witte, a bayte for wanton youth,
A false conceyte, an error of the mind,
A fond delight, wherein there is no truth,
A poysoned dish, that doth the reason blind.
A colour cast on things that are but bace,
A glorious shew, to shrowde a homely part,
A rule to runne, a leawd and retchlesse race,
A deepe deceyte, which daunteth oft the heart.
In rage of youth, these pricking thistles growes,
Whiles Riot raygnes, and Folly beares the sway
In hoarie age, Deuice and Councell showes,
Where borrowed hew, and blossome fades away.
The weaker sexe, in beautie doth excell,
The infant hath, the sleeke, and smoothest face,
The hurtfull weede, which yeeldes allothsome smell,
To view of eye, doth vaunt a glorious grace.
In outward showes, in deede the trust is small,
They are but clokes, and vizards of deceight,
The vertuous mind, and manlike sprite is all,
Which gaynes renowme, and mounteth to the height.
Dame Venus loues, the fierce and warlike Knight,
Though once alas, she loud him to hir payne.
And Ladyes which, do loue and iudge aright,
Loue such as can, their cause with force maynteyne.
What could thys Boy, do for his mistresse sake?
Whome could this face, subdue in open field?
Iudge thou, O Queene, which of vs two could make
The better shift, and force the worst to yeeld.

Good fauoure.
Yet let me pleade, my cause before my Queene
As thou hast done, and sentence after craue,
Then shall the truth, of our two sutes be seene,
I craue no spoyle, but wish the thing I haue.
Why should my beautie, purchase my disgrace?
Why should my prayse, become mine vtter shame?
Why should Dame Natures giftes be thought so base,
Which heeretofore haue bin in greater name?
Who euer could, enforce the Gods with might,
To yeeld themselues, as conquerd with his strength?
Yet Beautie hath, subdude them with his sight,
And made them bend, and bow to him at length.
Whome force subdues, with sadde vnwilling heart,
Submittes themselues, and greeue at euery stroke:
Who Beautie winnes, and gaynes vnto his part,
They gladly graunt, to take the pleasant yoke.
Thy strength thou mayst, full many a Winter hide,
Till time doth serue, to shew the same in place,
Sweete Beautie can, no moment be vnspide,
But doth delight, each one with gladsome grace.
Dame Natures shew, and Ritches Beautie is,
A Heauenly gift, to rauish euery eye,
A perfite Pearie, wherein is naught but blisse,
Delight of men, delight of Gods on high.
Apollo pleasd, himselfe with Golden heare,
Heabe delightes, the Gods with comely hue,
God Venus oft, hir tender brest did teare,
When she Adonis death was fayne to rue.
Phœbus did mourne, when his delight was slayne,
With great mishappe, and error of his hand,
But Gannimed, about with Ioue doth raigne.
And wayting on, his Nectars cuppe doth stand.
What should I speake, of him who at the brooke,
The wanton Nimphes, in loue supprisd away,
Or him whome Phœb, in to hir Charriot tooke,
Or him, whose beautie dimd the morning grey,
The Gods in beautie, passe each mortall wight,
And men surmount, in forme the fayrest beast,
And yet of them, some are more braue in sight,
Whose natures are, more fined than the rest.
The vgly Tode, swels out his poyson cold,
A crabbed corpse, commes of a churlish kind,
No ragged mold, the vertue rare can hold,
A seemely face, declares a modest mind.
The fayrest Horse will swiftest runne his race,
The gallantst Hound, will soonest wind his game,
What neede I more, to treate vpon this cace,
The hearers shall, be iudgers of the same,
If Beauties giftes, and fauoure you exile,
Then Manhode must, be heere preferd the while.

Dezart.
Stay iudgement Prince, and let my cace be know{en}
Whose friendly toyle, deserues to reape his gayn{e}
Mine earnest sute, may not be thus orethrowen,
So long employd, in hope and endlesse payne.
I see these men, prease boldly heere in place,
Vnfolds great words, and long debates the cace:
And braues it out, with goodly gallant Shewes,
Which I will not, eclips nor blot at all,
My clayme is good, and that iust God he knowes,
What neede I then, my right in question call.
I haue no force, nor skill in marshiall field,
I boast not of my fresh and flouring hue,
Nor yet neede not, in any poynt to yeeld,
That can alleadge, Dezarts and seruice true.
My trauell then, and truth may not be lost,
Nor my good will, be recompenst with wrong,
Nor he that hath, with tempestes sore bin tost,
And tasted griefes, and bitter torments long,
May not so soone, be shaken off for nought,
I take fine tearmes, to shew my secret thought.
The Gods accepts, our dutie in good part,
The Prince rewards, the billes of our request,
The greatest men, consider but the heart,
The friendly meanes, can tame the wildest beast.
And Women who, in softest mouldes be cast,
Whose tender heartes, rues on our carefull cryes,
Must needes be wonne, with louing meanes at last,
To ease our playntes, and wipe our watered eyes.
True loue of right, must recompenced be,
Dezart must needes, flye farre beyond the rest,
Then graunt O Prince, this pretious prise to me,
Whose loyall loue, claymes place aboue the best.

Good fortune.

Then talke the other three priuilie togither, and Manhoode speakes to Good Fortune as followes.
Manhode.
Me thinkes most fond, and weakely commes hee heere
Alone to three, if we togither stoode:
And though in deede, we buy the quarrell deere,
And pay therefore, the sweetest of our bloud,
Yet let vs shew, the noble hearts of men,
For since he sayth, we all our labour lose,
Not one of vs, shall neede to sorow then,
Nor care a figge, how ere the matter goes.

Dezart.
A greed, though I Dezart haue double wrong,
I will reuenge the same by dint of sword,
And you shall see, I will not dallie long
To do my best, sith I haue spoke the word.
Despayred men, dare fight with Fortune still,
And scratch for life, as long as breath will last,
When hope is gone, I know no better skill,
But bide the brunt, till all the broyle be past.
Let loue and life, togither make an ende,
The heart shall feele, and hand shall head defend.

Good fauoure.
Though I speake last, that first found speciall grace,
In formost sight, looke you for tender yeares,
And iudge him not, a Milke soppe by his face,
That stoutely like a Man at neede appeares.
Great skorne I thinke, good Fortune should haue all,
And reape the right, that laboure long hath sowen,
Yea, Fauoure hath perhappes more friends at call,
Than you would thinke, or to the world is knowen.

Heere follow the Speeches of the water Nymphes, which should haue bin shewed vpon the Thurseday, had not euill weather hindered the same.
The first Nymphes Speech.
The seconde.
The thirde.
The fourth and last that called them into their caue.