Times iourney to seeke his daughter Truth and Truths letter to Fame of Englands excellencie.

Times iourney to seeke his Daughter Truth:

And Truths Letter to Fame of Englands Excellencie.

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉 .

AT LONDON Imprinted by F. K. for Humfrey Lownes. 1599.

TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE AND MY SINGVLAR GOOD LORD, CHARLES EARLE OF Notingham, Baron of Effingham, Knight of the most noble order of the Garter, Lord high Admirall of England, Ireland and Wales, &c. and one of her Maiesties most Honorable priuie Councell.

YOur late fauourable intertainement (Right Honorable) vouchsafed to this my hard fauoured Childe, is now my incouragement againe to present her to you, clad in this new habite. She hath cause to shroude her selfe vnder Honours wing: for so rude is her habite, and so meane her parentage; that were not such patronage a safe refuge to her, when the malicious shall persecute her: I feare she would be accounted a roague; and for wandring abroad in so vnfauourable a time, be scourged with the whip of disgrace, and lashed with the sharpe rod of euery Criticks censure.

Those many fauours, which you honourably extended to my father, whilst he liued, and still continue to his name and children; claime a farre greater testimony of gratefulnes, then the greatest of my small indeuours can affoord: notwithstanding, accept a dutifull minde, witnessed in a rude sort; and when Time shall with some of his feathers, better cloath my scarce-feathered Muse: she will better testifie how highly she honours and admires your worth. In meane time pardon her present vnworthines, and once againe take in good worth this mine vnworthy present: whereof, hauing reason to rest perswaded, I leaue further to interrupt your serious affayres, and so humbly take my leaue.

Your Honours in all dutie, Peter Pett.

To the Reader.

TO intreate their fauour that cannot be discourteous, were superfluous: to craue fauour of the churlish, were friuolous. VVhat thou art, I know not; but if thou meanest to peruse my Muses labour, expect no great matters, least thy expectation be frustrated. It were folly to tell thee of my weakenes, hauing laide it open to euery eye: neither will I excuse it to thee; because I am ignorant of thy disposition. I am no Satyre to scourge thee, if thou snarle at me: yet feare I not the most piercing fang of peeuish enuie; being sufficiently armed against all censures, and therefore not to be harmed by thy censure.

Peter Pett.

TIMES IOVRNEY TO SEEKE HIS DAVGHTER TRVETH. AMidst some gra • er studies taking pause, To giue my tyred spirits some delight, And to refresh my wearie minde, because Sometime repose is very requisite: That I might take a little breathing flight, I left a while to trace Philosophie, To please my selfe with harmlesse Poetrie. With harmlesse Poetrie, not otherwise, Lasciuious writing doth not please my vaine▪ For vaine it is, such matters to deuise, As nothing else but note of folly gaine, A bootlesse labour, and a fruitlesse paine, Offensiue to the wise, and likte of none, But those which in their hearts make Follies throne. Disgrace to Poets commendable Art, Making that loath'd, which euery man would loue, If loue, and Cupids arrowes wanton smart, Were not the greatest motiue that doth moue Poets their wits, in sugred verse to proue. Ah, that to proue their wits most excellent, To such base meanes their wils should so be bent. Loue is too base a Subiect now to write of, Common to euery ballad-makers time, And farre vnfit for Scholers to indite of, For they should holde more pretious their time; And sure there cannot be a greater crime, Then to mispend time in so lewd a wise, As if we did the price thereof despise. For doe not men the pretio • s time mispend, Whilst they discourse of loues and louers • one? That cannot sort to any other end, Then make the hart of man soule Vices throne, That of it selfe to lewdnesse is so prone: Adding to smoaking flaxe a burning flame, Which at first touch doth set on fire the same. Not such was my intent or purposde drift, Pleasing to me was alwayes Poes • : A soule-infused faire celestiall gift, In rauishing with • eauenly harmony. But Loue vntunes that pleasant melody, Makes sweetest tunes to iarre and disagree, Makes Art a thrall, but Arte loues to be free. And therefore when I meant in measur'd style, To please my selfe and other not offend, I thought loue-matters ouer base and vyle, Nor of such toyes to write I did intend, But other wayes my cogitations bend, Three speciall sorts of writ I then did find, All which I well approued in my mind. The first is morall, and that sort indeed To carpe at Vices profitable is: To shew amongst good corne the noysome weed, And tell the World wherein it doth amis: For though the VVorld doth little count of this, Yet he that herein well imployes his pen, Well pleaseth God, and merits prayse with men. The second sorte is call'd historicall, That tells of sundry lamentable fates, Declares the life, the death, the pompe, the fall, Of Emperours, and mghty Potentates, Of Princes, and of other Magistrates: And this in it much profit doth contayne, By others harmes to warne them that remayne. The third sort that is allegoricall; Which vnder Metaphors, and couert phrase, Proposeth Vertue to the vew of all, Clad in a rich attyre: that whilst men gase Vpon the same, and on her beauties blase: Vnwares they learne to know fayre Vertues price, And see the foule deformity of Vice. And he that in this kynd can temper well Profit with sweet delight: vnto his prayse Well may we yeeld, and say he doth excell, And for his skill his fame to heauen vp rayse. So may we speake of Spe • sers golden layes, Whome neuer any man could equall yet, That in our tongue hath as a Poet writ. On these three sorts whilst I did ruminate, As taking respite which of them to chuse, That (when I should my selfe thus recteate) That little time I might not vainely vse, Nor such a pretious gift of God abuse: I found my wit more dull then it was wont, And myne 〈◊〉 seemed very blunt. Therefore I left my melancholy cell, To set an edge on myne inuention, Streight went I to a walke that likte me well, That I might make some disposition In order, of those things I thought vpon. For many thoughts (Maze-lyke) the mynd inclose Confusedly, till order them dispose. No sooner to this walke I entred then▪ But that a Subiect for my Muse I found, And presently gan fit it for my pen: For when I markt how chearefully the ground, The herbes, the plants▪ the trees about me round, Praysd their 〈◊〉 in their seuerall kynd, Thus I began to reason in my mynd: All creatures of th • Eternall God but 〈◊〉 , In seuerall sorts doe glorify his name • Things dumbe, and •••• ely sencelesse (as they ca • ) Yet seeme to prayse and magnify the same▪ Is it not then an 〈…〉 That man should be 〈…〉 Of whome God 〈◊〉 him Lord 〈…〉 Each tree doth seeme tenne thousand tongues to haue, With them to laude the Lord omnipotent: Each leafe, that with Windes gentle breath doth waue, Seemes as a tongue to speake to this intent, In language admirably excellent. Leaues better tongues, then tongues that leaue their duty, And loue to talke of nothing but of beauty. The sundry sorts of fragrant floures doe seeme, Sundry discourses God to glorify, Far sweeter volumes may we them esteeme, Then such as handle with diuersity, The traynes and stratagems of fantasy: For all these creatures in their seuerall sorte, Prayse God, and man vnto the same exhort. But man (his nature is so strangely dull, And yet so prone to wickednes and sinne) As that (vnlesse God forcibly him pull, And plucke him from himselfe) h'will nere begin To thinke on God, that doth inclose him in With hourely blessings, (for man is so rude, He renders nothing but ingratitude.) On this I thought to set my Muse on worke, And on this matter largely to dilate: To shew how in mans hart this vice doth lurke, And to vpbrayde each sorte and each estate, That for Gods benefits are so ingrate. As thus I thought, I playne me thought did heare, A voyce that seemed to be vtterd neare. Distinct it was, and thus it playnely spake: Take hold of Time when Time approacheth • ye, For time doth very little tari • nce make, VVith soaring wings▪ he soone from thee will fly. No sooner was this spoke, but by and by Time stood by me, and least he should be gone, I stayd him with this sodayne question. Time whether doest thou hast? tell me I pray, And (if thou wilt) I'le thee accompany: No (answered he) for Time must not delay, Thou wantest wings with aged Time to fly. This sayd, away he turnd: but sodaynly, I tooke fast hould vpon his front of hayre, And straight he mounted me into the Ayre. Wherein I was deceiued: for I thought Onely by force, to make him intermit A while his course: but that auayled nought, Nought forceth it him to inforce a whit; For Time doth alwayes hould delay vnfit. But when I saw my selfe deluded so, I prayd ould Time, that he would let me go. No (answered Time) for sith I haue thee heere, Thou shalt be now ould Times companion: And Time shall make vnto thy Muse appeare, A Subiect fit for her to vary on: Then seate thy selfe myne aged backe vpon, And take thou note of that which thou shalt see, As in this iourney thou shalt passe with mee. Content (sayd I) and vp my selfe I reared, In hope to see some accident most strange: Time had so cheard me that I no thing feared, And therefore car'd not whether Time did range: Nor did it grieue me, that he made me change My first intent to write in former strayne, For that I meant it to resume agayne But now I meane to tell what then I saw, (Laying aside that purpose for a while.) Things that perhaps might admiration draw, If I could cunningly compose my stile, Or eloquently my designements file; Herein my want I freely doe confesse, But from the matter I too much digresse. Already had we left fayre Europes clyme, And lost the sight of Englands watry sands: Now o're the Oceans mayne gan flitter Time, And straight we were in vew of other lands, Perceauing kenne of other sundry strands, Aswell of Ilands as of continent; The sight whereof my mind did much content. Of sundry wonders I could make report, That in these places Time did shew to me: Of sauage men, and of a thousand sort Of monsters, which (but that I them did see) I would haue thought impossible to bee. Some brutish beasts I saw in forme of men, Of stranger shape then can be shewd by p •• . But one thing did I marke especiallie: As Time flew on with swift and winged speede, Great multitudes, did still together 〈◊〉 , With such vnwonted sight their eyes to • eede: And many knew not what Time was in deede, But as they gaz'd on him, they changed were: The maner how you presently shall heare. Young babes that sucked at their mothers breast, That late in tender wombe did them conceaue, Could in their laps no longer take their rest, But presently their mothers bosome leaue; And in a moment doe they strength receiue, That but euen now could neither goe nor stand, And were inwrapped in their cradle band. And streight they grow vnto perfection, In wit, in strength, and euery other thing: But this their prime is very quickly gon; Time vnto them a suddaine change doth bring. For as he further flies with nimble wing, Their glorie presently begins to quaile, Their sences to decay, their strength to faile. And then become they as they were at first: For ere that Time was yet gone out of sight, Children againe, and fitter to be nurst; Then otherwise they were, betest of might; Nothing was left them for their lifes delight. And Time no sooner was quite fled away, But presently they were transformd to clay. Some also lost the sight of flying Time In chiefest strength: for Time oft made such hast, That when they were amidst their chiefest prime, He left them: then their glorie was disgraste, Their life was perioded, their strength defaste. Their springing flowres, Time cropt vncourteouslie, As he did from them so vntimely flie. So haue I seene a lillie-colonrd ro • e; (A bud at morne, more beautifull at noone) Clad in as glorious vest • res as are those, That doe intobe the siluer-cloathed Moone: When as the same is plucked ouer soone, The beautie fades, it withereth and dyes, Though clad in Floraes fairest liueries. And euery sort of men (what ere they were, Of what so ere condition or estate) That thus on Time stood gazing euery where, When Time was fled, then came their dr • ery fate, For to recall him then it was too late: And many knew him not, till he was gone, When for his want they made their dying mone. This seemed strange to me, and made me aske Of aged Time how these things came to passe: Time answering sayd, it's my appointed taske. And, for all flesh is like to fading grasse, And mans state farre more brittle then is glasse: In me life doth begin, in me it ends, And on me as my seruant it attends. For euer since the euer-liuing God Gaue me beginning at the first to be, He charged me no where to make a • od, And charged Life that it should follow me: Hence doe proceed the changes that you see. Time being fled, Life is concluded euer, Longer then Time stayes, Life continues neuer. Yet thousand thousands are, that doe not know The mighty power God to Time doth giue: Though Time be able soon to ouerthrow The strongest thing, that on the earth doth liue. But that which principally doth me greiue Is mans contempt of me: and this indeed Makes me to fly from them with swifter speed. For otherwise perhaps I would aduise me, And though I needs must hast, yet would I not Make so much hast, if they did not dispise me: But when I see on them contempts foule blot, So great a stayne, and such a gracelesse spot, The hare ne're faster fleeth when she's pursude, Then I doe fly from those that are so rude, By this, Time hauing left our hemispheare, With Phoebus fiery steeds kept equall pace: Now to myne eyes another did appeare, Wherein the Sun did take another race, As in this our Horison he doth trace: Nor doth he euer rest as Poets faigne; That course once done, he straight returnes agayne. All this time, had I not of Time inquired, Toward what place his winged course he bent: Which thing because to know I much desyred, I gan to question him of his intent, And prayd him tell mee to what place he went: I long (sayd I) good father Time to know, Whether thou flyest now, and hastest so. I fly (said Time) and restlesse neuer cease, About the World, and as thou seest the Sonne, Euen so my sonne doth Time: nor doth decrease His force, but as when first his course begonne, It shall continue till his course be donne. For time shall come, when Time himselfe must dy, And that time now approacheth very ny. But vntill then, this course I still must keep: For to this day I nere repose did take, Nor since the world began did euer sleep, (For then my charge imposde I should forsake) Vntill my death I euer must awake. Thus haue I done fiue thousand yeares, and more, And till I leaue to be, thus must I sore. But when I thee did my companion take, I meant to leade thee to the house of Fame, Where I must shortly inquisition make, For a pure virgin of vnblemisht name: Whose great perfection (though some dare to blame) Is admirable, and beyond • ompare, Most excellent, most exqu ••• te, and rare. I meane vnspotted Truth, whom many deeme My daughter: and because when she was yong I fostred her, they therefore doe esteeme, (Yet falsely) that from my loynes she is sprong. But Truth (though wicked men she liue among) Is of no mortall powers borne or bred; Bu • calld my child, cause I her nourished. And though her foster-father Time must dy, When once his race appointed is expired; Yet Truth shall euer liue immortally. And shortly shall her beauty be admired, And euery where the same shall be desired. Then they which haue so much prophan'd her name, Shall reape disgrace, & well deserued shame. And for I know that Fame can well declare, To me where my supposed daugh • er is: To her I therefore now doe make repaire. And when Fame hath acquainted me with this, I thinke thou then wilt nothing thinke amis, Thou ca •• st with me: that thou mayst make it known, Where Truth remaynes, and where her face is shown. But loe, I now discerne farre of the ken, Of Fames great castle; whence she takes her flight, To trumpet sundry newes in eares of men▪ Some of great moment, others of delight, And others tragicall, which doe affright. Then gan we nearer to the 〈◊〉 to draw, And I will tell you what I further saw. Amongst th' Antipodes there is a hill, Which farre beyond the cloudes it selfe doth stretch. And farre beyond that region, which still Is fild with vapors which the Sun-beames fetch, And from the earth exhale. That monstrous wretch, Which gainst the heauens did wage persumptuous warre, Is not ore whelmd with such an hill by farre. No not Olimpus may with it compare, Which farre aboue the middle region goes, And penetrates the liquid cloudes that are About the same, and doe the same inclose: Though on the same (as Plinie sayth) there growes, Of tender plants, and fruitfull trees great store; That are so high, no cold can make them hore. On highest top of this great hill there stood, A goodly Pallace framed large and wide: At foot of this same hill, a spatious wood, That • emd this mountaine in on euery side. Moreouer in this Pallace I espyde, A thousand windowes open euery way, And many doores nere shut by night or day. At euery one of which there thrungd a prease, Of rumours, and reports: Some of debates, Some told of warres, and others blabd of peace. Some talk tof Empyers, and of ruind states; And some of men whome Fortunes malice mates, Such a confusion neuer did I see, In one conclusion did not two agree. Vpon this castles toppe of christall gl • sse Stood a fayre turre • : where Fame had 〈…〉 There sate shee, and in hand a 〈◊〉 of brass • Shee held, and therewith to the world made knowne, The sundry newes, and tales of euery one Of those Reportes, that to her castle came; And as they b • ought them, shee disperst the 〈◊〉 . Her trumpets sound was loud, and very 〈◊〉 : Reporting euery matter very cleare; Which when it once was sounded forth, did fill The wood which to that hill adioyned neare; In which a thousand tatling Ec • h • es were, That iterated euery vttered sound, And made the same throughout the world rebound▪ And euen as many streames (that ioyne at last) From many sundry parts doe meet together, Till all in selfe same current 〈◊〉 on fast, Vnto the wide vast boundlesse Ocean▪ whether Their course them leades (for they are charged 〈◊〉 her) So all reports flow swiftly vnto Fame, Who to the worlds great Sea straight sends the • ame▪ Now aged Tim • nigh to this castle drew, Where all these things I orderly did note, (As in so short a • pace I could them vew, For else I might haue had more things to quote) And now that Time about the • ame did flote, He asked some Reportes that thronged there, If they could tell where Truth his daughter were. One answered, shee was of late in Spay • e: Another sayd, shee was exilde from Fra •• ce: Another sayd, shee no where did remayne: Another sayd some her did countenaunce: Another sayd, so tragicke was her chaunce, Her sacred body was of life bereauen, And her sweet soule fled vnto God in heauen. When Time saw in them such vncertainty, Of them no longer would he thus inquire: But (soaring vp) he vnto Fame did hye, Who at his sudden comming did admire. But her Time earnestly did then desire, To fly with him, because he might not stay, And many things he must vnto her say. Straight Fame attyr'd her in her wingd array, And from her backe layd downe her costly weed: And for Time would admit of no delay, Time flew before, Fame followed with speed; And as shee flew, it seemed shee did reed, What you shall heare anon; meane time giue eate, And what first past you shall in order heare. At last Fame ouertooke vs, and then sayd, God saue thee Time: what wouldst thou Fame command? (Regreeting made) Time instantly her prayd, That shee would make knowne to him out of hand, Where Truth his daughter was, and in what land Shee now remayn'd: I haue not seen her long, And I doe feare (saith he) shee suffreth wrong. Knowest thou not that (then answerd to him Fam • ) Which throughout euery land my trumpets ro • e, Hath sounded forth, and hath disperst the same: No accident that hapned hertofore, What ere it were, haue I reported more. Doth Truth her face so much in England maske, That Time of me should such a question aske? No (Time) her bea • tyes are not hid I know, No more then is the Sun in clearest Sky: When as no gloomy cloud lets him to show His goulden light; but thou so swift doest fly, As that Trueths mansion thou canst not descry, Marke and Ile tell thee where thy daughter is, And make thee glad to heare thy daughters blisse. When Henry liu'd Truths farre-renowned frend, In Englan • highly then she honourd was: And so continu'd she till thou didst end His life, and worthy Edwards life alas. Then Enuy so her purpose brought to passe, England disgraced all her glory, and Misled by Enuy banisht truth her land. All comfortlesse, sad and disconsolate, Poo • e Truth opprest to take her passage hyde: She tooke her barke alone, and (scorning mate, Where she was so abu'sd) was brought with tyde. At last into the Ocean gulfe so wyde: Where many waues her little barke did crosse, And many billowes bitterly it tos • e. And fayne she would swift flying Time haue seene, To him of this her sorrow to complaine (Now banished, late honoured as a Queene) But when she saw her wishes were but vayne, She left to wish, yet could not greife restrayne. At last I chauncing nigh that way to fly, Her thus oppressed did I then espy. Her cheekes were blubbered, her hayre was torn • Her garments • ent, and all besprent with teares, Her hands she wrung, and looked all forlorne, Her heart was full of agonyes and feares, And euery while her eyes to heauen she • eares. Soone as she saw me, she did comfort take: Aud from her passions did her selfe awake. She askt if I could tell her, where Time were: I answerd, that I had not seen him long; But that I merueiled to see her there. Fayre Lady Truth, who hath done you this wrong, (Sayd I) but griefe then • e •• ered her tongue. At last she (sobbing) sayd she was misused, Iniustly, and 〈◊〉 abused. Then offred I my selfe on her t'attend, That if I could, I might her somewhat cheare: But on the suddayne did from heauen descend A glorious Angel, bright and very cleare, Whome God (for that he houldeth Truth most-deare) Did send to comfort her in this distresse, Least too much griefe, would her too much oppresse. And thus he spake: sweet Goddesse without spot, Feare not fayre virgin, be not so dis • ayd: Thinke not that God hath sacred Truth forgot, Or that h'will suffer thee to be betrayd: Cheare vp thy selfe let passion be allayd. Most pleasing newes, God now by me hath sent thee, Which when thou knowest, I know it will content thee. Thine enemies in England now are dead; (For thy sake God hath made their liues but short) And Englands crowne set on a virgins head, In whome of graces such a sort consort, That no tongue her perfections can report. Hast thither, and though England wronged thee, Thy wrongs redresse Elizabeth will see. This sayd, he takes the guiding of the helme: And Truth reioyc'd that shee such comfort had, (Whome late a Sea of griefe seemd to o • ewhelme) And now shee was as ioyfull, and as glad, As shee before was comfortlesse and sad: Shee thanked God for this great benefit, And backe to Englands shore her barke doth flit. I flew before, as swift as roules the Sky: And on my trumpet did I sound aloud, That Truth approached▪ presently did hy, To euery shore, a prease, and thronging croud, To see where Truths barke would it selfe inshroude. Elizabeth no sooner heard of this, But that shee sayd shee had obtaynd her wish. For when Truth was 〈◊〉 , this matchlesse Queene, Did her imbrace, and 〈◊〉 graciously: The people which not lo • g her face had se •• e, Witnest their ioy by an applauding cry, And fayre Eliza thank't God hartily, That T •• th againe in safety was re • ou • ned, For whose long absence shee so long had mourned. And as when Tully was recal'd agayne From wrongfull banishment, Rome did reioyce: In euery street there followd him a trayne, To welcome him with glad and ioyfull voyce, Of whome they thought their Gods made speciall choyce To doe Rome good; so England weclom'd Truth, And made her quite forget her former ru • th. And now with chast Elizabeth shee dwels, Highly adored, and admir'd of all: My trompe abroad her rare perfection tels, Whereby in many lands shee holds the ball, And multitudes are subiect to her call: For though in England shee hath residence, In other lands shee hath prehemince. And thus good Time I vnto thee haue tolde, Where sacred Truth thy daughter's intertayned: No point in this my tale can be controlde; No sentence in the same is false or fayned; Vpon sure grounds the same is all sustayned. And that no place of doubting may remayne, Behold a witnesse to confirme it playne. See here a 〈◊〉 from thy daughters 〈◊〉 : Who for she heard of 〈…〉 , The brood of E •• y that most loathsome else, Did spread of England in malicious sort: That shee might me from blasing it dehort: (Least I should giue th • m credence, to preuent me) Of Englands Excelle • ce, this writ shee sent me. Wherein thou mayst confirmed playnly • ee, By testimonie of Truths sacred pen, All which I now haue vttered to thee, And daily sounds my trompe in ea • e • of men. Heare thou this letter read good Time, and then Iudge thou of Fame, as thou shalt find iust cause • Fault her, if shee haue spoke one faul • y clause. This was the letter which I sayd before, It seemed Fame did read on as shee flew, And to o're take swift-paced Time did so're: And here in following termes it doth insue, Declaring Fames report to be most true, And with it witnessing the great renowne. Of glorious England▪ and Elizaes crowne▪

TRVTHS LETTER TO FAME OF ENGLANDES EXCELLENCIE. ADmired Fame, by all men honoured: Thou due rewarder of all great desarts: Thou that doest make men liue when they are dead; Thou cherisher of honour-breathing harts: Parent of valour: Nurse of sacred Arts; Take thou a little truce with false surmises, And marke what Truth thee to report aduises. Speake thou of England, and her excellence: Straine thou aloft thy trompets roaring blast: Tell thou to all her great preheminence; And (as through euery land thou flyest fast) Let Englands worth be neuer ouerpast, That all the VVorld may wonder much at this, That such a wonder in the VVorld there is. And first declare in what an high account, Shee houldeth Truths most sacred deity: Her kindnesse now to me doth farre surmount, Her late vnkindnesse shewd to me, when I Was forced into banishment to fly: The chiefe efficient of which direfull woe, Was cruell Enuy my malicious foe. But now, no 〈…〉 (What ere they were in ages • ou •• of 〈◊〉 , Amongst whome I in greatest honour 〈◊〉 ) Did e • er prize me 〈◊〉 a higher rate, Then England doth, or more increase my state. No nation 〈…〉 more, Then glorious Engl • nd doth 〈◊〉 now adore. Thou sawst how shee did welcome me, when as Vpon her shore I was agayne arriued: Thou sawst how great my intertainment was, (Though Enuy late had me of right depriued, And to disgrace me stra • agems contriued) But I haue greater arguments to proue, The greatnesse of her kindnesse and her loue. For when my former griefe was quite disperst, And thought of former wrong farre cha'sd away, My graces (which with cloudes were hidden erst) Gan to disclose, and suddenly display Themselues, and all their beauty to be wray In great perfection, which when England saw, Great admiration from her did it draw. Astonisht with my graces most diuine, (For Truth, of Truth, may iustly speake the truth) And rauisht with fayre Truths rare beauties shine; It grieued her that my so grieuous ruth, Shee so had suffred: and to me shee su • h, That I no longer would retayne in mind, My late disgrace which prou'd her too vnkind. Which easily obtaind, shee promist mee, And with a solemne oath her selfe shee bound: That I should presently perceiue and see, How glad shee was, she had my fauour found. Immediatly in selfe same minutes stound, Into my hands shee freely did deliuer Two elfes that were my vowed en'mies euer. Enuy the one, and Superstition The other was: both these two did procure, Those iniuries poore Truth to fall vpon, I meane those wrongs which I did late indure: For so fayre England did me then assure, They my disastres and distresses bred, By their sole meanes I so was iniured. Enuy shee tolde good England that I sought, To circumuent her by some treachery: And so to bring her glorious state to nought. For sure shee sayd (there was no remedy) If still shee intertayn'd me courteously, Her glory of necessity must fall, And all her pompe be perioded withall. And Superstition shee her selfe inuested, In a rich habite; which was not her owne: For well shee knew that shee should be det • sted, If what she were indeed it should be knowne, And so might all her drifts be ouerthrowne. She deckt her selfe with many a pretious gemme, And on her head shee set a diademme. And thus to England came shee, and to hir Sayd shee was Truth, and Truth did but deceaue hir▪ And shee with Enuy kept so foule a stir, That England fear'd I would of life bereaue hir: For still they tolde hir, I nere meant to leaue hir, Till I had made hir stat • most miserable, Which only Truth makes truly admirable. All this did England vnto me declare, And sayd these twayne hir sutly did beguile, (For Superstition durst with me compare, And E • uy robd me of my rightfull stile, To grace therewith hir mate that wretch so vile.) Fayre Truth (saith shee) know surely this for truth, Had not these been, nere should haue been thy ruth. Their subtilty simplicity abused, And by their craft they did me ouer reach: Or else thou nere shouldst haue been so misused: But now these hellish caitifes I will • each, What t'is t'wixt thee and mee to make a breach. For now I know them, and here captiues haue them, Appoint their doomes, not all the World shall saue them. The which when I did to hir selfe referre, And tolde hir Truth doth not delight in blood: Shee sayd that Enuy shee would quick interre, And that same other wretch foe to my good, Should steruing pine, and dy for want of food, Thus Truth (saith shee) I will reuenge thy wrong, And for my fault make full amends ere long. This said, shee pluckt from Superstitions backe, My glorious ornaments, and gorgeous weeds: For mine they were, and to supply her lacke, Shee stole them from me: and such lewd misdeeds It is by which, hir progeny still speeds. Thus stript, a foule deformed hagge shee seemd, I wondred how shee could be • o esteemd. Then straight shee led them both vnto their doome, And thus shee vsde Truths greatest enemies: Though Superstitions Sonne still liue at Rome, Yet (for my many grieuous iniuries, And for shee wrought me such indignities) Her selfe was staru'd, and Enuy felt such paine, As shee deseru'd; though still hir brood remaine. Thus England dealt for me, and more then so; Her loue yet further did it selfe extend: Shee did not onely thus reuenge my woe, But also gainst my foes my right defend: Listen good Fame, and with attention lend Thine eare vnto my tale, whilst I declare, Her loue to me, her kindnes, and her care. Proud Superstitions Sonne, soone as he knew, His mothers death was onely for my sake: He gathered an host a mighty crew, With which he ment gainst England warre to make, And forcibly me from her hands to take. So great and puissant his forces were, He thought her hart would be o'rewhelmd with feare. For with him ioyned was his cursed sister, That odious and notorious whore of Babet: Her mothers death shee knew, and likewise mist her Aswell as he. And with her such a • able Of paramours she had, as seemed able The greatest state on earth to ru • nate, And bring to greatest pompe a tragicke fate. Thus mand began to manage forth his warre, And proudly sent to England this defiance, That shee should looke for enemies from farre, If still with Truth shee kept so great allyance: Such warre in auntient times did wage those giants, That gainst the heauenly powers as Poets wright, Opposd themselues and their presuming might. Yet (if shee would deliuer to his hand, Truth that he might on her reuengement take,) He sent her word he would not hurt her land: But if shee did this profer made forsake, Then should his wrath it selfe vp-rouse and wake, To which he thought shee could make no resistance, Though God from heauen should giue her his assistance. These menaces not feared her a whit, Shee weighd them not but bid him doe his worst, In spight of him Truth should in safety sir; (She sayd) nor should a monster so acucrst, Make her to satiate his bloody thurst. Truth loue I well (saith shee) and well I know, Truths champions God will sheild from ouerthrow. This answer made Truth • enemies inraged, And foming poyson swore that Truth should dye, Or England • li • e should be for hers ingaged: Not knowing Truth • ust liue immorally, And liue to see the cu • sed progeny Of Superstition, consumed quite, Though now against me they are bold to fight. Towards England straight they hye in furious hast, Intending to destroy 〈◊〉 , To leaue her land all desolate and wast, And bring her selfe into captiuitye▪ And thus resolu'd, i • swarmes they 〈…〉 ▪ The Diuill lent them 〈…〉 : But God from 〈…〉 When England heard my foes 〈…〉 , Together gathred she her 〈…〉 To fight for Truth whome 〈…〉 Meaning to shew no pitty, • o • emo • e, To them that sought 〈…〉 Away with me shee hasts my foes to 〈◊〉 , In little kindnesse m •• ning them to greet▪ At last they met in a large spatious playne, Wholy vnlyke in shew: their troupes did pa •• e▪ For multitude, the drops in showers of 〈◊〉 ▪ The other sorte was nothing so alas, Compar'd to them▪ like some small • idge of grasse In field of come: or more for my intent, As seems least yle, to larg • st conti • ent. As those small troupes with which the 〈◊〉 Did braue and dare Darins in the field, Compar'd to those o're who • e he conquest wo • , (When proud 〈…〉 • as to yield, Ma • ger the force he had himselfe to shield) Such England had, compared in the power, That now prepared was her to 〈◊〉 . Or as thos • little force • , once oppos • d Against great Xerxes nauy) which was though • Impossible by force to be 〈…〉 Or vnto any hazard to be brought) Such England had, compar'd with their • that sough • To bring her state to ruin for my sake; Because she would not Truth • defence 〈◊〉 . Yet England 〈…〉 , Nor terrefide by their 〈…〉 : Couragiously her 〈◊〉 she forw •• d led, And did her selfe midst th • ckest th • ong intrude, That with their 〈◊〉 her ha •• 〈◊〉 be imb •• de. Straunge that a 〈◊〉 should so valiant be, And such an anci ••• 〈◊〉 as is 〈◊〉 . Backt with such helpe as I to her could yield, At the first on • er, and first furious shocke, So fiercely she he • brandisht blade did wield; That they who first her little force did mocke, And thought, they might their harts securely rocke On sleep, were made from 〈◊〉 to run, and stray, Her force, and feircene • did the • so dismay. But • o, a new supply did them renew▪ For as they thus were da •• ted and dismayd, An host of • eends we might approaching vew▪ That tow'rds vs came with enlignes all displayd, Fearing their kingdome should be sore decayd, If England o're Truths enmyes should preuaile, They hastned thus, to make her courage quaile. But God (which alwaies doth Truths cause defend) Our prayers to him most benignely hard, And downe from heauen he gratiously did send, Legions of Angels, that they might me gard. And England from all daungers safely ward. So soone as England saw, God help'd her so▪ She cared nor for 〈◊〉 , no • any foe, Straight Superstitions Sonne she doth dismou • t, From of his palfrey where he proudly sa • e, Commaunding him to render an account Of his presumption; and to tell her what Made him so bolde whilst this I wondred a • ▪ His sister managing a monstrous beast, With murther and with bloud her hate did fea • t. Which (when I saw) to her in • ag'd I hide, But presently she trembling turnd her backe▪ In no wise she my presence would abide. I followed amayne her monsters tracke, Nor did I meane my swift pursuite to slacke. Still did she runne, to shunne my fierce incounter, For well she knew I did in force surmount her. As flees the sable Night from dayes approach, Fearing to looke 〈…〉 in the f • ce, (For when 〈…〉 her siluer • oach, Night trips apace, and leaues to her the place) So fled this str •• pet from me in thi • 〈◊〉 , Nor durst 〈…〉 to look on mee, But posting 〈…〉 I follow'd her to 〈…〉 , Thinking to ouertake her, but in 〈◊〉 ▪ Which place 〈◊〉 it my 〈◊〉 and hates) Did make mee presently 〈…〉 Or else this strump •• had not 〈◊〉 vn • l • y • e. Backe I retu •• 〈◊〉 England, whome I found Mongst slaughterd 〈…〉 For Superstitio • s 〈…〉 , Yet wounded so that presently he dyed, Or seemd to dye: 〈…〉 And closely got himselfe 〈…〉 Repenting that 〈…〉 Disrob'd, and naked, was he glad 〈…〉 That 〈…〉 His forces also all dispersed 〈◊〉 , And cut in pieces, or else 〈…〉 Nothing but bloudy 〈…〉 And thus for Trueth 〈…〉 Ayded by God, 〈…〉 To 〈…〉 And say • 〈…〉 . This victory thus happily obtained, Triumphant backe with Englan • 〈◊〉 I led, Hoping shee now had firmely me regained: A crowne imperiall plac'd she on my head, And promist I should not be 〈◊〉 ; Though with her bloud shee did reuenge my wrong, For well shee knew that God would make her strong. And now these forty yeares I haue remayned With her in honour, and in maiesty: And as when shee at first mee intertayned, (I meane first after my great misery) Shee welcomd me (thou knowest) most louingly; So still her loue continueth the same, And still 〈◊〉 doth adore Truths sacred name. And is not this good Fame an excellence? Did euer any nation more for me? Or stand more stoutly to my rightes defence? And righteous quarrell? Surely if it be An excellence, to 〈◊〉 Truth: then shee Fames approbation deserueth well; For in this excellence 〈◊〉 doth excell. Of Englands matchlesse Queene make next report, A matchlesse the ame, and 〈◊〉 fitting Fame: A matter of high m • ment, great import: Elizabeth no sooner 〈◊〉 thou name, But Enuyes brood will hyde their heads for shame, Not daring once her worth to fault or blame, When worthily thou shalt declare the same. Now could I wish some sacred Muses skill, In sugred tunes her excellence to tell: Then should my tale with admiration fill Thine eares, to heare how much she doth excell: For Excellence it selfe in her doth dwell. What should I say? Ah I want words to say, What one she is, her graces to display. Religion hath in her such interest, For her sake Truth intirely doth she loue, And such possession in her sacred brest Hath Pietie, that vnto God aboue, Her thoughts and her affections soaring moue: As if she did terrestriall things despise, And scornd the world and worldly things to prise. Strange in a Monarch of such maiesty: For humane nature is so fraile by kinde; That being once aduanced, by and by God we forget, no • will retayne in minde Those benefits from him we still doe finde. But she of honour and of dignitie, Maketh a step therewith to mount on hie. As towres aloftie Eagle, still alo •• ▪ And doth to take a lower flight d •• daine, When as to pierce the cloudes she seemeth 〈◊〉 , As if she sought some sacred seate to gaine, Amongst the Star • es in glory to remaine: Euen so Eliza striues aloft to mount, And of these baser things makes none account. True, prince-ennobling, faite celestiall grace: Infusde by God himselfe into the minde: Inforcing nature to resigne her place, That otherwise is of her selfe inclinde: Happy are they from God such fauour finde; Ah happie, yea thrice happie sure are those, Whose minds thus graciously God doth dispose. And happie England, to whome God hath graunted A Princesse so religiously deuoted: For else might Truth still haue remayned daunted, And England still on Superstition doted. And happely so soone had not been noted Her slie deceit, had not Eliza beene, Whom God made chiefest meanes to make it seene. But ah I faint, I finde my selfe too weake, To beare so great a burthen, or to treat Of such rare excellence: though Truth can speake Nothing but truth, her taske is ouer great, To tell Elizaes worth, or shew the seat, That euery speciall grace hath in her hart, In minde, in body, and in euery part. Poets of Pallas oft reported much, And would Fame know what they did meane thereby? In auncient times ne're liued any such, But they of Englands Queene did prophecy. Compare their writings with her worth, to try The trueth hereof, then shalt thou plainely see, Neuer was any Pallas, if not shee. Pallas from Ioue himselfe drew her 〈◊〉 , And is not Englands-Queene 〈◊〉 child? Else sure shee could not 〈…〉 So vertuous, religious, and mild, T' were hard if Truth should be herein beguild. Immortall Pallas they declar'd to be, This Queenes immortall falne 〈◊〉 did 〈◊〉 . Pallas, those 〈…〉 , For depth of wisedome, and lot 〈…〉 , And doe not 〈…〉 , Wayting vpon her as her handmaydes still, To execute her pleasure and her • ill▪ Eliza they could not haue 〈…〉 , VVisedome and learning both support her 〈◊〉 . Her Wisedome, is as farre beyond compare, With most of weaker 〈◊〉 , or 〈◊〉 kynd: As brightest 〈◊〉 , that in the heauens are, Comparde with 〈…〉 that euer shinde: Or smallest glo-wormes men by night doe finde. What talke I of her 〈◊〉 ? such Wisedome can, Be very hardly found in any man. Witnesse her gouerment this forty yeares, So wonderfull 〈◊〉 , and ra • ely wise. Wise is the Pylot that his 〈◊〉 then steeres In safety, when as greatest stormes arise, And euery billow mounteth to the Skies, And wise Eliza, that 〈…〉 so guydes, In spite of sternest foes, • e 〈◊〉 betydes. Millions of billowes menace the decay Of Englands common wealth; yet not preuayle, Nor can they make her giue them any way, Or any whit to beare the lesser sayle; They can not hurt her, for their force doth fayle: God teacheth her, to rule the helme so well, Her barke doth breake them, when they proudest swell. And as for Learnings admirable graces, Let Learnings selfe her learning testifie: That pen which in this Subiect largely traces, At full herein her worth to amplifie, In many volumes need historifie. Her excellence in excellentest Artes, Requires more skill, then Arte to me imparts. In sacred letters she so skilfull is, So expert, and so well experienced: Her match to find •• is difficult (Iwis) (I meane a prince that is so deeply red, In holy writ) for nere was registred, By auntient Time in any monument, One prince in sacred skill more excellent. List her, but speake, or write what tongue she will, Of sacred languages, or other wise; Her talke, her stile, appeare so full of skill, As all the Muses did the same deuise. But how alas can lines such worth comprise? Her talke, her stile, are both celestiall, Her wisedome, and her skill angelicall, Pallas moreouer they declar'd to be Victorious 〈…〉 : And may not one meere blind perceiue and see, They prophecide of Englands princely head? All whose deseignes so prosp'rously haue sped, She neuer went without the Victorie, Since she obtaind the English monarchie. Thus Fame (thou seest) that Englands gouerness • Is Pallas selfe, for Wisedome, learning, and For faire victorious fortunate successe, In euery action which she takes in hand. Oh happy common wealth, oh happy land. Pallas she is, and Vertues Palla • e eke, What theme more glorious needeth Fa • e to seeke? Her Fortitude, her neuer dauntedmind, Contemning troubles of aduersity, (Which all that liue sometime of 〈…〉 ) Her worthy princely 〈◊〉 Her Temperance in calme prosperity▪ Are such that no pen 〈◊〉 Expresse the sam • or praise them 〈◊〉 . And yet two 〈…〉 by, More then by all these that haue yet been named. And as those two great 〈…〉 , Which for the worlds two 〈…〉 first were named, Whose presence 〈…〉 ; Euen so E • iza is adorned by Her Chastity, and 〈…〉 . Should I her Chastity striue to declare? So pure? so matchlesse so immaculate? So spotlesse? and so admirably rare? Nere should I satisfie, or satiate My thirsty pen herein; nor moderate My wandring Muse, that would too tedious be, And so perhaps too troublesome to thee. This gemme of price, this ornament of worth, This precious pearle, this • ewell of esteeme, I leaue to thee at full to set it forth: That to the World Elizabeth may seeme, Dianaes selfe; and all the World may deeme, The paragon of Chastity she is, Whome neuer any could excell in this. And yet her Equity it equalleth, And is as excellent and rare as that: Hon'ring asmuch diuine Elizabeth: For this makes also her admired at, Asmuch as any prince that euer sat On Regall throne, and hard it is to name, One liuing now her equall in the same. Iustice and mercy she in ballance layeth, The • e equally to counterpoyse each other, And with them all her actions wisely wayeth, Not suffring one to ouerpoise another: So deales with dearest children tender mother. Her iustice great, her mercy is as great, Iustice, and Mercye, both wait on her seat. There wait they, and when she determines ought, Both of them plead: and both their sentences She wisely makes together to be brought, And by them both deemes what most fitting is: Taking away from them all diffrences; And so in one she both of them combines, And both together in one band conioynes. When Iustice strikes then Mercie tells her how, And shewes her whome she with her sword should smite; Eliza made to Equity a vow, By heauens, by earth, and by her scepters right, Iustice and mercy she would counite: Sacred and mild is that seuerity, When Iustice linked is with clemency. Canst thou this Excellence Fame too much prise? For England such a worthy prince to haue? So learned? and so admirably wise? So vertuous? religious? and graue? So chast? so iust? so mercifull to saue? Speake what thou canst, for this, Truth dares auer, Thou canst not speake too worthily of her▪ And next adioyne her worthy Senatours: Declare their Wisedome, and their grauity: I meane Elizabeth's wise Counsailours, Supporting stayes to Englands pollicy, Vpholding it as Atlas doth the sky. A speciall Excellence thou shouldst omit, If mention of their worth thou shouldst forget. For their graue wisedome, and wise grauity, Tell thou the world that they fage Catoes are: Nestors in Counsell, when they prudently What best doth fit for Englands good declare. For loue vnto their Countrey, them compare To Parents in their childrens tender loue, Which neuer from them will the same remoue. And well thou maist to Parents loue compare Their tender loue vnto their nation: So fatherly it is, so great their care; It seemeth greater then th'affection, That Parents beare their best indeared Sonne, A happie blessed Aristocratie, In such a farre-excelling Monarchie. I tell thee Fame their worthie names will grace Thy tale, and thy discourse in euery eare: And therefore in thy swift continuall race, Forget thou not the same: but let all heare, And let it to succeeding times appeare, (As thou through euery land shalt swiftly passe) How farre herein faire England doth surpasse. Next speake of Englands dauntlesse Warriours, (T'will grace thy trumpe to grace them with her sound) Braue Martialists, victorious Conquerours, Worthy eternally to be renound, And with immo • tall glorie to be cround. Tell their deserts, and fame-deseruing laude, That all the world may to their worth applaud • . Vpon their plumed crests doth Honour fit In glorious weeds, as great 〈◊〉 , Instructing them as pupils what is fit, Whilst they to her obedience professe: In all their actions she is gouernesse, Nor will they once from Honours precepts swer • e, Whome whilst they serue, all honour they deserue. On Honour still attendeth Victory, To grace their deeds with prosperous euent: Directing them to wield couragiously, Their conqu'ring blades to foes astonishment, (Who thinke Reuenge her selfe mongst them is sent, Whilst Englands worthies fury they doe see, And feele their force from which they would be free.) Their looks, as lightning dwell foemens eyes, Their hands forge thunder to their warlike looke, Their swordes from hands send foes their destinyes, Writ by the Fates in neuer fayling booke: And Victory their swords ne're yet forsooke. Their lookes, their swords, make enemies to wonder, Their looks are swords, their sword • 〈◊〉 them in sunder. How many times Truths battailes haue they fought, To tame my haughty aduersaryes pride? How many times (their drifts to period brought) Haue I triumphant them returning spide, Charged with en'mies spoyles on euery side? Erect thou Fame due trophees to their prayse, That meriteth to match thy selfe in dayes. Great Rome in pride and prime of her estate, Whome many histories doe honour so, (Though now she is become degenerate) Was ne're so glorious for her Scipio, For Caesar Pompey and for others moe: As England is for her braue warriours, That are to these far • e farre superiours. Fame-hon'red Anniaball, that could commaund Coy Fortune, and could haue her at his becke. (When as it seemed shee vpon him faund, And humbled at his feet her scornfull necke, As if she feared him to counterchecke) Made ne're so glorious Carthage lofty walls, As England is for many Anniballs. Leaue then to talke of famous Scipio, Report no more the worthy facts at all Of Caesar, Pompey, that excelled so, And once grac'd auntient Rome before her fall: Talke nor of Carthaginian Anniball. At least (Fame) if thou needs their worth wilt praise, See that aboue them, thou these worthies rayse. As when the radiant Sun shines in the sky, The lesser starres giue place that grac'd the night: Euen so (Fame) when as thou shalt worthily Declare their worths, that Englands battails fight, Their splendour will obscure the others light. Eos may shine a time, but when the Sunne Guilds the Hor • son, then his light is donne. Sawst thou their valour shew it selfe but once, Against the enemies of Englands good, How many of them they destroy at once, And how they bathe their brandisht blades in blood, Wading in gore, as in some watry flood: Then wouldst thou say, and boldly wouldst auerre, Iustly before all, Truth doth them preferre. Mounted vpon Bell • naes chariot, (Honor their guide, their handmayd Victory, Like to fierce Lions all inrag'd, and hot With anger, they amongst their foes doe flie, Dispersing all their force immediately: As oft the Sun dissolues some sullen cloude, That dares presume his beautie to inshroude. Their feete, they still vpon the necks aduaunce Of Englands proudest foes, and tread them downe, Inforcing them their glory to inhaunce, And knowledge dutie to Elizaes Crowne: Thus Englands Worthies spread her great renowne, Now tell me Fame, if in this excellence England hath not the sole preheminence. A greater Excellence doth still remaine; Englands faire daughters, (yet vnmentioned) Whose beautie no deformitie doth staine: Once Learning with her nursing milke them fed, But now by them is Learning nourished. Their excellence makes England excellent, For that she hath so great an ornament. But of their worth, now to make worthy mention And euery other Excellence to tuch Of matchles England; is not my intention, Already I haue prou'd there is none such, Hereafter I (perhaps) will shew, how much For euery other thing she doth surmount, And all her Excellence I will recount. In meane time, Fame (now meane I to be short) Say bouldly, that no nation doth excell Great England: for thou bouldly mayst report, What faultlesse Truth desireth thee to tell: So doing Fame thou canst not doe but well. If Enuies brood affirme thy tale not true, Tell them Truth saith all this is Englands due. FINIS.

The Conclusion. VVHen Fame to Time had read this letter ouer, Time was well pleasd, such pleasing newes to heare, Fame tooke her leaue and backe againe did houer, Time still flew on; and now gan to appeare Bright Phoebus rayes in this our hemispheare: With whome we all this while our course did take, And Fame now gone Time thus vnto me spake. Loe how the heauen (that late so much did droupe, For • itans forced absence) now doth cleare: How fast the gloomy cloudes away doe troupe; Behould how Tellus (on whose cheekes appeare Sad drops of late shed teares) her selfe doth cheare; And glad to see the Suns so fayre vprise, Smyleth, and seems to wipe her weeping eyes. As ioyfull as these seeme, so glad am I: Yea and more ioyfull farre beyond compare, Then for the Suns faire light, seeme Earth or Sky, To heare that sacred Truth so well doth fare. This hath disburthened my hart of care, That lately much misdoubted her estate, Whome well I knew the World did causeles hate. Now well I see that all commaunding Ioue, (That rules and ouer-rules in euery thing) Vnspotted Truth doth most intirely loue. How then can she be made an vnderling, That is the dearling to so great a king? Now sure I am she neuer shall decay, Though all the World conspire her to betray. Ah England, keep her still, and loue her still, And she will be a staffe vnto thine age. Preserue her still in honour, and she will Preserue thee safe against thine en'myes rage. What ere they be that warre gainst thee shall wage, Sh'will hemme thee in as with a brasen wall, To liue secure and none shall make thee thrall. No sorrowes blemish shall thy beauty staine, Nor Age character wrinckles on thy brow: So long as England shall Truths right maintayne, So long to none her princely neck shall bow; Safe shall she dwell, and this I dare auow, (Truth countenanced) Peace, or Victory, Shall England euermore accompany. As Time thus spake, (I tir'd with watching long, And ouerweari'd with this wandering) Mine eyes complaynd that they had suffred wrong, Which had no rest in all this iourneying: Whilst thus mine eyes their rights were chalenging, I drousie waxing, fell at last on sleep; Yet aged Time his passage on did keep. What past whilst thus I slept I know not well: But when I wak'd, my selfe I strangely found Amidst that walke, where (as I first did tell) I heard the voice that Times approach did sound. Vp I arose, Times absence did me wound, At last I spide him flying yet in fight, And home I hide these accidents to wright. What censure passe hereon, I greatly care not: If thou my noble Patron pardon me, Let other readers carpe at me and spare not: Sith these vnpolisht lines must publisht be, For euery criticks eye my faults to see; Let them detract, and blame my skills defect, And scorne my Muse, so thou wilt me protect. FINIS.