A FLOORISH vpon Fanc …

A FLOORISH vpon Fancie.

As gallant a Glose vpon so triflinge a text, as euer was written. Compiled by N. B. Gent.

To which are annexed, ma­nie pretie Pamphlets, for pleasant heads to passe away idle time withal. By the same authour.

¶ Imprinted at London, by Richard Ihones. 6. Maij. 1577.

To all younge Gentilmen, that delight in trauaile to forreine Countreis.

YOu gallant Youthes, who are of minde, rather addicted to tra­uaile, through the world for experience in the diuersities, as well of Countreis, as customes: of men, as of manners: of lan­guages, as of other laudable points, too te­dious to discourse of: as well to the com­modity of your cuntry comfort of your pa­rents, content, of your freends as cheefly to your owne aduauncement: rather then to sit at home, as a chicke vnder a broode hen, esteeming warmth, the chiefest wis­dome: golde, their god: and a whole skinne aboue an honourable name: As many, the more pittie, by too much dandling of their Dads & making of their Mams do now [Page] a daies. To you my young Mates Isay. I here vnnamed (as younge as one) hauing lately taken in hand to passe a long Pyl­gremage to Parnassus hil, to Pallas and her Nimphes, to sue for a schollarship in the Schoole of Vertu: I was not far out of mine owne cuntrey, but suddenlie in a place vnknowne, a leage or two from any Towne, vnperfect to returne the way I went: standinge in a muze a while, not knowinge what best to doo, seeinge ma­nie footepathes leadinge diuerse waies: at laste I thought good to take the moste beaten way, as moste likely, to leade mee to some place of habitation, where for that night to take vp my lodginge, and the next morninge to enquire further onwarde on my Iourney. But not bea­ringe in minde that the broade waies are commonly beaten with beastes: And the [Page] foote pathes I mean are euer very narrow I foolishly folowed the Coxcomes Causey before me, which led me on a long streight to the forest of fooles, and so to the fort of Fancy: of which Forte, cum pertinen­cijs, of my comming thither, abode there, and return frō thence, I haue more largly then learnedly discoursed. Yet as it is, I hope it will serue your turnes (though not as a direction to the place I ment to go too, yet as a diswasion (in your trauaile) from that way, that hath led mee so much out of the way before you. Thus hoping to turne the thriftlesse fruit of my fond tra­uaile, to the commoditie of a great many of yee: that I hope some of yee will one day thancke me for: I wish you all, with my selfe, in trauaile, to treade the path that may bring vs all to perfect paradise.

The Preface.

A Prouerbe olde, and therewith trewe there is,
That, haste makes waste, ech thing must haue his time:
Who high aspiers, must euer looke to this,
To marke his steppes, before he ginne to clime:
For who in climing takes no care at all,
Ere hee get vp, is like to catch a fall.
Who doth desire, to Honor hie to clime,
By due desart, must worshippe first attaine:
Then for to seeke, in farther tract of time,
The meane, whereby to Honor to attaine:
For hee that thinckes, to bee a Lorde first day,
Will misse a Lorde, and proue a Loute streight way.
Who doth assault, the huge high Fort of Fame,
Must first beginne, to scale the outwarde walles:
Longe is the Ladder that doth reach the same,
And happie he that gets vp without falles:
Tedious the time, the labour nothing short,
To take in hande to scale so high a Forte.
This prouerbe olde, my selfe obserued well,
Who not assault, the gallant Fort of Fame:
But Fancies Forte, not minding there to dwell,
But for to see the secretes of the same:
And many times, I thought to make retire,
But in the ende, obtained my desire.
I scalde the walles, and got into the Fort
Wi [...]h ease inough, short time and little fight▪
And there I sawe, whereof I make report,
Ech thinge, that was for to be seene worth sight:
And when that I some time therin had past,
How by good hap, I got away at last.
Now farre from this, I see The Fort of Fame
A harder thinge, to giue assault vnto:
I dare not seeke the meane, to scale the same,
And if I durst, I know not what to doe:
In scalinge Fortes, my skill is too too small,
Then if I clime, I needes must catch a fall.
By lying still, I can but little gaine,
By clyminge too the feare is but a fall:
No praise in deede, is gotten without paine,
Smale hurte by falles, if bruze growe not withall:
No bruze nor fall, takes hee that takes good heede,
No takinge heede, great haste, and little speede.
Then when I clime, my selfe am warnde to learne
The way to scale, ere ought I take in hande,
To set my Ladder, wisely to discerne
To choose a place, where it may surely stande:
Then for to make my Ladder of such stuffe,
As I may trust, to treade on sure ynouffe.
But then the Roundes, must not be made of Ryme [...]
My feete will slippe, in treading on the same:
And Reason sayes, that who so fondly clymes,
Falles downe into the ditch of foule Defame,
God keepe me thence, and helpe me so to clyme,
That Reason yet, may rayse me vp in tyme.

THE SCHOOLE of Fancie.

ME thinkes I sée you smile, before you gin to réede,
At this same title of my tale: but, for you shall not néede
To maruaile at the same. First read it to the ende,
And marke yee stil through all ye tale, wherto eche point doth tende,
And you shall sée I hope, that this same title serues
Fit for the tale, els sure my minde from reason greatly swerues.
Who is expert in any Art doth beare a Maisters name:
Then hée who chéefe is in an Art, doth well deserue the same.
Of Art of luckles loue, first Fancy is the ground,
Although that Cupid, with his dart, doo giue the deadly wounde.
First, Fancy liking bréeds, and liking bréedeth loue,
And loue then bréeds, such passing panges, as many louers prooue:
And when the troubled minde, with torments is opprest,
Fancy doth finde some secret meane, to bréede the hart some rest:
And Fancy shée sometime to breed the louers ioy,
A thousand sundry waies (at least) doth still her paines imploy:
She thinkes on this and that, shée teacheth how to loue,
And tels the Louer, what to doo, as best for his behooue.
But least I go to far and run to mutch at large
Out of the way and take no care what thing I haue in charge,
I will begin to show, what kinde of Schoole this is,
What orders too shée kéepes therin. First lo, the Schoole is this.
The roome both large and long, and very darke of sight,
The most sight that her Schollers haue, is chiefly by fier light:
Which fier doth burne so bright, as giues them light to see
To read such books, as there are taught: but what this fier may bée
Now therby lies a case. Well marke what I doo wright,
And you shall know, for I my selfe, haue séene it burning bright.
[Page]First Fancie fetcheth coales, and calles for Deepe desire:
By him shée setteth Vaine delight and biddes them blowe the fire:
And when the fire once burnes, for to maintaine thesame,
The Colier Care, hee brings in coales vnto this dainty dame.
Hee makes his Coales of wood, that growes on Hare braine hill,
The [...]roue is cald, the Thriftles thicke of wilde and wanton will:
The wood is of small groth, but stickes of Stubborne youth,
Which serues as fittest for that fier, god wot, the greater ruth:
Lo thus, this fire doth burne, and still doth giue the light
To Fancies schollers in her schoole, they haue none other sight.
Now Sir, in this hot schoole, first Fancie highest sittes,
And out of all her schollers still, shée takes the wildest wittes.
And those shee takes in hand, to teach the Art of loue,
which being taught in that vayn Art, do soone fine schollers proue.
Shée teatheth them to mourne, to flatter and to faine,
To speake, to write, and to indight, to labor and take paine:
To go, to run and ride, to muse, and to deuise,
To iuggle with a déerest freend, to bleare the parents eyes.
To spend both landes and goods, to venter Lim and life,
To make foes frends, and twixt dere frends, to set debate & strife:
To doo and vndoo too, so that they may obtaine
Their mistresse loue: and neuer care, for taking any paine.
To iet in braue attire, to please their mistris eye:
Although perhaps they vtterly, vndoe themselues therby.
To learne to sing and daunce, to play on Instruments,
To speake choyce of straunge languages, to try experiments
Straunge, seldome had in vse: in fine, to tell you plaine,
To doo almost they care not what, there ladies loue to gaine.
And thus in tracte of time, by sutch instructions,
Shee makes them tread, the perfect path to their distructions:
Some other schollers now, are taught within her schoole
By Vsshers that teach vnder her, of which one is a foole
By nature and by name, for Follie men him call:
And hee will teach his scholler soone, to proue a naturall.
The second Frenzie is, in teaching too as bad,
For hee will teach, his schollers most the way to make them mad:
[Page]The Vssher follie first, hee teacheth to be bould,
Without aduice to giue no eare, to counsaile that is tould
To take delight in gauds, and foolish trifling toies,
In things of value, litle worth, to set his chiefest ioyes.
To prate without regard, of reason in his talke,
To think blacke white, & wrong for right, & know not chéese from chalke
To loue the things in deede, which most hee ought to hate:
For triflyng toyes, with deerest freends, to fall at dire debate.
To loue to play at dice, to sweare his blood and hart,
To face it with a ruffins looke and set his hat a thwart.
To haunt the Tauerns late, by night to trace the streetes,
And swap ech slut, vpon the lippes, that in the darke hee meetes:
To laughe at a horse nest, and whine too like a boy,
If any thing do crosse his minde, though it be but a toy:
To slauer like a slaue, to lye too like a dog,
To wallow almost like a Beare, and snortle like a Hog.
To féede too like a Horse, to drinke too like an Oxe,
To shew himselfe in eche respecte a very very coxe.
But sutch a scholler now, is chosen of grose wit,
Because that Beetle heddes do serue for such instructions fit.
The other Usher now, that Frenzie hath to name,
His kinde of teaching, hée againe another way doth frame:
Hée teacheth how to rage, to sweare and ban and curse,
To fret, to fume, to chide, to chafe, to doo all this and worse.
To teare his flesh for griefe, to fill the aire with cries,
To harbor hatred in his hart, and mischefe to deuise:
To hate all good aduice, to follow witles will,
And in the ende for want of grace, to seeke himselfe to kill.
And sutch his schollers are, ripe wits, but wanting grace,
And sutch vngracious graffes, doo learne, sutch gracelesse geare a pace:
These schollers all are young, except that now and than,
To be a scholler with the rest, there step in som ould man.
Who when that hée a while, hath bin in Fancies schoole,
Doth learne, in his olde crooked age, to play the doting foole.
And sutch there are sometime, (more pittie) for to see,
That in their crooked doting age, would faine fine louers bee.
[Page]Which béeing in that schoole, doo prooue, for all their paine,
By Frenzy mad, by Folly fooles, or els by Fancy vaine.
My selfe can tell too well, for I haue séene the schoole,
And learned so long there till I prou'd more halfe a very foole.
First Fancy dandled mée, and held mée in her lap:
And now and then, shée would mée féede, with worldly pleasures pap.
Shée tould mee I was young, and I my youth must spend
In youthful sporte, I did not know, how soone my life would end:
Be merry while I mought, set carke and care aside,
How mad were hée that mought in blisse, and would in bale abide?
Such sugred speach of hers had soone intrapt mee so,
That I did thinke, that did mée good, that wrought (in déed) my wo:
Remayning thus a while, at last I had an eye,
To see how Folly taught his Youthes, and some rules by and by
My selfe began to learne: First this, for to be bould,
And to refuse to lend my eare, where good aduise was tould.
In foolish trifling toyes to take a great delight:
To take in hand to prate of that, wherin I had no sight.
These rules I soone had learnd, but when I came to that,
Where Ruffins card & dice, and sweare, and ware aside their hat
I read no farther then, but vp againe I went,
Unto my mistris Fancie fine: and straight downe shee mee sent
Unto the nether ende of all her schoole below,
Where Frenzy sat: and sweting hard, hee gan to puffe and blow.
He litle likte my minde, yet would I ye or no,
I learnd some of his raging rules, er I away did go:
I learnd to fret and fume, though not to ban and curse,
And oft for griefe to sigh and sob and many times doo worse,
But yet I thanke my god I neuer had the will:
In greatest franticke fit I felt, to seeke my selfe to kill.
But to make short my tale, his lessons likte me not,
But vp agayn in haste I went, to Fancie fond, god wot.
And lying in her lap, I fell a slepe anon,
Where slepinge so I dreamed sore that I was wo begon:
¶ Me thought that Wisdome came, and warned mee in hast,
To loth sutch lessons, as I learnd, er that my youth were past.
[Page]For short should be my sweete, and time would passe away:
The man is in his graue tooday, that liued yesterday:
Thy life (ꝙ hee) poore soule is like vnto a flower,
That groweth but in daunger still of cropping euery hower.
And if it be not cropt, yet soone it will decay
And like the flower in litle time, it wither will away.
Thy pleasures wilbe paine, thy game will turne to greefe,
And thou wilt seke in vaine to late, when y woldest finde releefe:
Arise thou sluggish slaue, out of that lothsome lap
And be no longer like a babe, so fed with pleasures pap.
Lose no more labor so, in sutch a witles schoole
where as the best that thou canst gaine, is but to proue a foole.
Study some better Art, for lo thy wits will serue
To learne to doo, that may in time, a good reward deserue:
Better then best degree, that thou art like to take
In Fancies schoole: I tell thée plaine, therfore I say awake,
Awake in haste awake, and hie thee hence I say,
Take warning in good time poore soule, for time will sone away:
But since that with sutch Youthes, words seldome will preuaile,
With this same rod thou foolish boy I meane to breech thy tayle.
With which (me thought) hee gaue a ierke, that made mee smart:
Which soden smart, although but small, yet made me giue a start:
And in my starting so, I waked sodenly,
And so awakte, I cald to minde my vision by and by.
Thus thinking on my dreame I heauy grew in minde,
Which by and by when Fancie fond, gan by my countenance finde
How now my youth (quoth shee) what ailes thee seeme so sad?
What canst thou thinke to cheare thy mind but that it shalbe had?
No no (quoth I) I not beleue these words of thine.
thou sausy slaue (quoth she) darest yu mistrust these words of mine?
And therwith in a rage, shee threw me from her lap,
And with the fall beshrew her hart, I caught a cruell clap:
Wherwith sumthing displeasd, why fine mistris (quoth I)
What can you bide no iest? alas, and therwith angerly:
Without or taking leaue, or any duty done,
From Fanci [...] in a rage I flong and out of dores I ronne.
[Page]And béeing out of dore, these words me thought I sayd,
Fie on the Fancie flattering flirt, I holde me well apaide:
That I am got away, out of thy skillesse schoole,
For now I see, thou wentest about, to make mee a right foole.
But now that I am out, by grace of god I sweare,
While I doo liue, if I can choose, neuer more to come there.
But Fancie hering this to make mee still to stay,
To fetch mée in with pleasaunt sportes inuented many a way
But when I did perceiue how nere mée still shée came,
Then from her quite I flong in hast, and so I left this dame.
Lo thus I tell you how, I came from Fancies schoole,
Where learning but a litle while, I prou'd more halfe a foole:
Wherfore since my good hap, hath bin to come from thence,
Although with labor lost, in déede, and some, to mutch expence.
I now haue thought it good, to warne eche one my fréend,
To keep themselues from Fancies schoole, and so I make an ende.

THE FORTE of Fancie.
The Forte of Fancie.

The Argument.
AS Fancie hath a Schoole, so hath shee too a Fort.
Of which, the cheifest points, my selfe, will sumwhat make report:
The ground wheron it standes, and the foundation then,
How it is built, how it is kept, and by what kinde of men.
What kinde of cheere shee keepes, who are her cheifest gesse.
What drink she drinks, who are her cookes, that al her meat do dres.
Whom most shee loues, who is her foe, and who againe her freende,
And how the Forte, may soone be scalde: and there to make an ende.
THe ground wheron it stands, is hauty Hare braine hill,
Hard by the thick, I tolde you of, Wilde and wanton will:
The fond foundacion is, false fortunes fickle Wheele,
Which neuer standes, but stil eache way is ready for to réele:
Now here, now there agayn, with euery blast of winde,
Not as shee list, but as it most doth please dame Fortunes mynde,
The house it selfe is calde, The lodge of luckles loue.
Within the which, are diuers roomes, beneath and eake aboue:
The name wherof anon, I meane at large to show,
But first, the outside [...]f this house, I must declare, I trow:
The comming to the same, the walles, the gates, and then
The base courts, Courts, & gardens then, & then the gards of men.
The Porters to the dores, the officers within,
And therfore thus, in order, I will now my tale begin.
¶The comming to the same, is by a great high way,
Faire beaten plaine, with fooles foot steps, and trodden euery day
The soile is pleasaunt sure, bedeckt with gallant flowers,
But being gathered once, wil scarce bide swéet aboue two howers:
And in this soile, there standes, a Forest large and wide,
Which is well storde with thickes & woods the beastes therein to hide:
[Page]Of which great péece of ground, for to declare the name,
The Forrest Sir of fooles it is, lo now you know the same:
And in this Forrest now, this beaten way doth ly,
Which leadeth vnto Harebraine hill the right way redely.
At foote of this same hill, and round about the same,
There is a diche which Deepe deceipte, is called by that name:
Ouer this lies a Bridge, but trust mee, very weake,
For when you are on midst therof, then sodenly twill breake:
And downe into the diche of Deepe deceipte you fall,
Rise againe as you can your selfe, you get small helpe at all.
The bridge is calde The breache of perfect amitie,
Tis made of Hollow harts, of sutch as wanted honestie▪
Which beeing rotten still, will neuer beare the waight
Of any man: but sodainly, downe castes him in deceipt.
Now Sir although you fall, no bones shall yet bee burst,
Nor whatsoeuer hurt you take, you feele it not at furst.
But being falne, if you can make a shift to swim,
Though it bee but a stroke or two, yet you may get vp trim
Unto the bankes therof, and so by shrubs that growe
Upon the bankes, to make a shift, vp to the gate to goe:
But if you cannot swim you may catch such a fall,
That you may chaunce vnto your cost, to catch a bruse withall.
Not swimming as in seas, for feare in deepe to drowne
But swimming syr in Worldly wealth for feare of falling downe.
But if that you can swim, then soone perhaps you may,
By shrubs and bushes to the gates make sh [...]ft to finde a way.
Then being at the gates, there shall you standing finde
A pelting patch for Porter there, of nature very kinde:
His name is Daliance, a foolish crafty knaue
Who needeth not to let you in, too mutch intreatie haue.
Welcome good Sir (saith hee) now trust mee by my fay,
I thinke that you haue trauailed a wery péece of way,
Wilt please you to go in, and take a litle rest?
Thus by the Porter Daliance you go in as a guest.
Now if vp to the gate you cannot finde the way,
Then lustely to scale the walles you must sumwhat assay.
[Page]Which walles you soone may scale, if you will take the payn,
Or els may quickly beat them down, with béetell of your brayne:
Few are to make defence, and sutch as are, will stay
There hands from dooing harm to you, but rather make you way.
And shall I show in kinde, what gallants you shall sée?
That for to garde this Forte are set, and what their wepons bée?
It were a sporte to tell, to set them out in kinde:
Well, I will show them all, as well as I can beare in minde.
First lo, a Garde of Geese, and Ganders in one rancke,
With doutie Duckes and Drakes harde by, vpon an other bancke:
A sight of Asses then, there stood in battell ray,
With Iacke an apeses on their backes: and they stoode in the way
That leades vnto the Court: further you cannot passe,
Except you let a Iacke a napes, to ride you like an Asse.
But if you will doo so, then may you passe vp straight
Into th'inner court (forsooth) where long you shall not waight.
But out vnto the dore, cums out an officer,
And gently Sir into the Hall, this man will you prefer.
But now Sir, will you know, what meanes these Armies so
That stands to garde dame Fancies fort? well marke and you shall know [...]
The garde of Geese, are first Vngracious graffes of youth
That wallow euery wanton way, and misse the trackt of truth:
The Duckes (good Syr) are Doults ▪ as well both younge as olde,
That in that carelesse court, are set to kéepe a foolish holde.
The Asses, they are Lout [...]s ▪ of wisdome none at all,
Yet haue a certaine kinde of wit, to play the fooles with all.
The Apes that rides them now, and rules them euery way,
And turne their heds which way they list, a thousand times a day
Are Foolish apish toyes ▪ fond heds for to delite:
Not voide of reason vtterly, though voyd of wisdome quite.
Their Weapons are their Tongues, wherwith they make a cry,
Away I say, away, stand backe, soft Syr, you come not by:
But if so bée they see, one ridden like an Asse,
Then will they make but small adoo, but let him gently passe.
Now Syr, thus like an Asse, hée goes to the Hall doore,
And there becomes a Man againe, and standes an Asse no more:
[Page]Yet though his eares grow short, hée is not altered so,
But hee shall beare an Asses hed, where euer so hee go.
And bee hee Man or Asse, Iacke an apes hée must beare
As long as hee is in that Forte, or els hée bides not there.
Now Syr, at the hall dore, the porter Pleasure standes,
Hée lookes for, er hee farther go, some mony at his handes:
Hee lets in none for thankes, hee must haue mony, hee,
Hee goes n [...]t in els, I am sure, for so hée delt with mée.
But if hee him rewarde, he brings him to the Hall,
And there the Vsher by and by, good Syr, hee meetes withall:
Hee entertaines you then, in such a pleasaunt wise,
As makes you thinke, you are ariude, in place of Paradise.
Not long hee bides with you, but to the Chamberlaine
Hée brings you vp, where curiously hee doth you entertaine
With Bezoles manos, imbrasings downe to knée:
With Cap of curtesie: and a grace, the brauest that may bée.
This is a gentle youth, but er I farther go,
The names of these same Officers, I plainly meane to show:
The Vsher of the hall, is called Vaine delight:
Hée entertaineth none, except hee bee some witles wight.
The Chamberlaine is called Curiositie,
And fellow with this Vaine delight, and of affinitie:
For at request of this, his fellow, Fond delight,
Hée brings you where of Fancie faire, you soone may haue a sight
And if you like him well, hée workes so in the ende,
That hée will in your sute forth with, cause Fancie stande your freend.
To Fancie then good Syr, hee brings you by and by,
And there may you behould her, how shee sitteth gallantlie:
Her chamber large and long, bed [...]e with thousand toies:
Braue hanging clothes of rare deuise, pictures of naked boies,
And [...]irles too now and then, of sixteene yeares of age:
That will within a yeare or two, grow fit for mariage.
But they must haue a Lawne, a Scarfe, or some sutch toy,
To shroud there shamefastnes with all: but if it be a boy,
Hee standes without a Lawne, as naked as my naile:
For Fancie hath a sporte sumtime, to see a naked tayle.
[Page]Besides in pictures too, and toies of straung deuise
With stories of ould Robin hood, and Walter litle wis [...]
Some showes of warre long since, and Captaines wounded sore,
And souldiers slaine, at one conflict, a thousand men and more.
Of hunting of wilde beastes, as Lions, Bores and Beares,
To see how one an other oft, in sunder straungly teares.
Of gallant Citties, Townes, of Gardens, Flowers, and trees:
Of choise of pleasant herbs, and fruits, and such like toies as these
These hang about the walles, the floore now is strode
With plesant flowers, herbs & sweets, which in her gardē grode.
But now, the names of them I purpose to descrie:
In steede of Fennell Syr, the first, is Flatterie:
The other herbe is Sausines, in steed of Sauorie:
In steede of Basell, now there lieth Brauerie:
And for sweet Sothernwood, againe is secret Slauerie:
In steed of Isop, now there lies Inuencion:
And in the steed of Cama [...]ell, there lies Confusion:
The flowers now are these, in steed of Gilliflowers,
Faire iestes: that last not sweet alas, aboue two or three howres:
For Roses, Rages: which will not so soone decay,
For Paunseis, Pretie practises, that alter many a way:
For Marigoldes, Mischiefe: for Walflowers, Wantonnes:
For Penckes, Presumption: for Buttons, Busines:
For Daisies, Doubtfulnes: for Violets, Viciousnes:
For Primroses, Foolish pride: for Couslips, Carelesnes:
With these flowers and herbs, with many mo (god wot)
Doth Fancie strow her Chamber flower, which I remember not.
Now Syr, in this same roome, thus brauely bedect,
Sits Fancie in her brauerie: and Syr in eache respect,
So serued in her kinde, with her fine Chamberlaine,
That not for any thing shée hath, that shee needes too take payne.
Fine Curiositie her Chamberlaine doth all
The seruice in her chamber, Syr: but the Vsher in the Hall,
Hee doth her seruis too, although, not all so neere
Her person, as her Chamberlaine: shee houldeth him more deere.
[Page]The order h [...]w she sittes, is this syr, in a Chaire,
Fine caru [...]d out with Caruers worke, and couerd very faire:
With a straung kinde of stuffe, the colour is al gréen,
Braue Frindge and hangde, with two fine Pearles, the like but seldom séen:
Now Syr, her Chaire (in deede) is but a Youthfull braine,
Whose head is very greene, in deede: the Frindge, to tell you plaine
Are Heares vpon the head: the Pearles, they are the Eyes:
Fast set vnto the head (good Syr:) and lo thus in this wise,
I shew you Fancies seat: But if the eies did see
What great dishonour tis to them, in Fancies chaire too bée:
They rather would fall of, then hange in sutch a place,
Where they are rulde, when they mought rule, and so to gayne disgrace.
But be they as they bée, I shew you how they bée:
Beléeue mee, when that you come there, then you your self shal see.
Well Syr, thus Fancie sits, before whom you must stand,
Till shée her selfe doo bid you come, and take her by the hand:
And that shée soone will doo, for shée is curteous,
And where shée takes a liking too, shée is as amorous.
Now béeing come to you, these wordes first shée will say,
Shée will bee asking how at first, you thither found the way?
Wherto your answere made, then shee will take the paine
To shew you all her roomes within, and shée will entertaine
You in so braue a sorte, that you shall thinke, a while,
You are in heauen: with sugred speech shée will you so beguile.
Now first shée leades you in, into her Garden gay
She shews you flowers, but tels you not, how soone they wil decay.
Shee tels you this braue tree, a gallant fruit will beare,
This is a gallant Princely Plum, and this as fine a Peare:
This is a Pippen right, this is a Filberde fine:
This is a Damson delicate, but few sutch fruits as mine:
When God hee knowes, the tree, whose fruits shee bragges on so,
Is but a plant of peeuishnes, and brings forth fruits of w [...].
Her Plum, is but a Pate that puffed is with pride,
Which either quickly rotten growes or breakes out on some sid [...].
Her Peare is an olde plant that bringeth Outward ioy,
To sight, at least: but eaten once, will choke you with annoy.
[Page]Her Pippen is a Crabbe, that growes on S. Iohns wood,
Which makes a shew of a faire fruit, but in taste is not [...].
This is a Secreat fo, that séemes a Faithfull freend,
But will be sure, who trust in him, to faile them in the ende.
Her Filberds haue faire shales, but Carnels all are gone:
Her Damsons are deceiptfull fruits as hard as any stone:
Harde: how? not hard in hand, nor very hard in taste:
But béeing swallowd, very hard for to digest at last.
These Trees with many mo, which I not call to minde,
In Fancies gallant Garden plot, you shalbe sure to finde.
Now in this Gardein more, alas, I had forgot:
About the midst therof (I gesse) there standes a prety plot,
Wherin is made a Maze, all bordered with Wilde breere,
Set all about the bankes with Rue, that grew there many a yere.
Iust in the midst wherof, a huge high Mount doth stand,
Which grew by nature in y place, not made by Gardeners hand.
The Hill on the one side, is made much like a Harte,
And as like to a Hed againe vpon the other parte.
And in this Mount, there dwels a number of mad men:
Some mad in hart, and some in hed, and euery one his den.
Upon the Harte side, stands The caue of crueltie,
A currish knaue, which with his téeth, still gnashing close doth lie.
By him hath foule Despight a filthy Den likewise,
Which in that lothsome lodge of his, still fretting daily lyes.
By him horrible Hate, hath eke a kinde of Caue,
Like a foule hole: but good inough for such a filthy slaue:
Upon the hedside now, lies Melancoly first,
Hee beates his head with studie so, as if his braines would burste.
By him vile Enuie next, foule [...]end with fiery eies
Bound about hed with Serpent skinnes, in lothsome māner lies.
Right ouer him doth keepe, fierce Frenzie in his caue:
Hee frets, hee fumes, hee stampes and stares, & neuer lins to raue
Aboue them all, vpon the top of this same hil,
Dwels Madnes, Maister of them all: and with him, witles Will:
His lodge is like a house, that had bin built of stone,
That had bin ouerthrown, and nought left but the walles alone:
[Page]It hath a kinde of r [...]fe, but all vncouered:
So that the raine vpon him falles, as hee lies in his bed.
And for the manner now how he lies, credit mee,
It is the straungest sight me thinkes, that euer I did see.
His Bedsted is of Wood, ingrauen with Vgly faces:
And standes more halfe a sunder, burst in twenty sundry places:
His Bed with fethers stuft, but all the Downe flowne out:
And those that bide, are stubborne quilles, yt pricke him round a­bout.
Upon an ould crackt Forme, by his bedside there lyes,
Duld instruments of Musicks sound, all broke in wondrous wise.
A Lute, with but three strings, and all the pinnes nere out:
The belly crackt, the backe quite burst, and riuen round about:
His Virginals, with neuer a iacke, and halfe the keyes.
His Organes, with the bellowes burst, and battred many wayes.
His Fife, three holes in one: his Harpe, with nere a stringe:
Great pittie trust mee for to see, so broken euery thinge:
A Pen and Inke hee hath and Paper too hard by,
But paper quite in pieces torne, pen burst and Inkhorne drie.
He feedes of Fancies fruites, that in her Garden growe,
He drinkes of Drugges of foule Despight, a beastly broth I trow.
He feares no heate nor colde, for if with heate he glow,
The waues of woe will coole him streight, y there by Tides do flow
For through this Forrest runnes, The Seas of sorrow sore:
Whose Waues do beate against this Forte, that bordereth on the shore.
And if with colde he quake, the heate of raging ire
Will quickly warme him so, that he shall neede none other fire:
In raging Franticke fittes, he passeth foorth the day
In straunge perplexities, himselfe tormenting many a way.
Amonge many mad toyes, I saw him play one parte,
With looke full fierce I saw him holde, a Dagger to his Hart
Redie to kill himselfe, and with his heare vpright,
He cried, he would rather die, then bide sutche deepe dispight:
At which same crie of his, me thought, that euery one
Within their Caues, all sodeinly did make a piteous mone:
With which amazed halfe, not knowing what to say,
By helpe of God, I know not how, but straight I got away.
[Page]And then I was agayne, with [...]ancie by and by,
Out of the Maze in her Gardeine: who led me presently,
As she will you likewise, if you will: backe againe
Into her house: where you will thinke, in heauen for to r [...]aine.
The Entrie first before you come vnto the Hall,
Is set out gallantly with toyes, and that of cost not small.
The Pauements are of stone, which Hard harts haue to name,
They grow all in a minde of man, and thence she hath the same:
Aboute the Entrie walles, do hange deuises straunge:
And by the brauerie of the same, mutche like the Low exchange.
From Entrie then you come, streight way vnto the Hall:
And that with manie Iewels riche, is hanged round [...] withall
The roome it selfe is long and therwith somewhat wide,
And for the fashion in my minde, not much vnlike Cheapeside:
There hang great store of gaudes, of which the Vsher straight
Doth offer to Dame fancies eie, and therfore there doth wayght.
Chaines, Iewels, Cups & Pots: Pearls, precious stones & Kings
Fine whissels, Corrals, Buttons, Beads, & such like costly things
Fine Brooches for your Hat, fine Aglets for your Cap,
Fine Tablets for a gallant dame, to hang before her lap.
These thinges with many mo in this same Cheapeside Hall
Hath Vaine delight, to please Fancie his Mistris minde withall.
Now though shee sée them all, her Chamberlain must chuse
What hee best thinkes wil like her minde, & what she wil refuse.
That Chamberlaine (you know) is Curiositie
Hée euer chooseth all the ware, that Fancie fond doth buye.
Now from the Hall, vnto the Parlor straight you go
Which as the Hall with Iewels riche is brauely hanged so:
The roome is long, not large, I met it not with féete,
But as I gesse, in fashion tis, much like to Lombarde streete:
This roome the Vsher too, doth looke too with the Hall:
Well, there within a litle while, you quickly will see all:
Which beeing seene, you passe into the other roome,
Which called is her Counting house: wherin when you be come,
There shall you see her bookes, that treates of many toyes
And most of them doo show, the cause of louers greifes or ioyes.
[Page]Some volumes Syr, doo treate of naught but Vanitat [...]
But very [...]ew that speakes a worde of perfect Sanitate
Some auncient authors write, De arte a mandi.
Which who so studies throughly, runs mad or ere hee die.
And in the steed of Tullies workes, written De officijs,
There standes Tom [...]atlers treatise Syr, De fine brandicijs:
Among the rest are some, Belle discorce d'amore,
And some doo write discourses, De graundissimo dolore:
Some bookes doo make discourse of Pride and Foule disdayne,
Some letters Amatorie are: some of Dispite agayne.
Some Pretie pamplets are, some Posies, Satirs some:
Some doo discourse of Falconrie, and some of Day of doome.
And they are called Drommes: and some tell pretie tales
Of Lapwings, Swallowes, Fesant cockes, & noble Nightingales
Some Songes and Sonets are, and some are Louers layes,
Some Poets paint The panges of loue, a thousand sundry wayes.
Now with sutch bookes as these, with other such like toyes,
Doth Fancie store her Counting house, for to instruct her boyes
And girles too now and than: at least if they doo reede,
And in sutch vaine Discourses, most her selfe delightes indeede.
Now Syr, when you haue seene her fine Librarie there:
Shee shews you then her other roomes, & leads you euery where.
But sure her Counting house, of all that ere I see,
Is built as like to Poules Church yarde, as euer it may bee.
Now next shee leades you too, her Wardrope of fine cloth,
Of diuers kindes of colours Syr: what laugh you Syr of trothe?
Beleeue mee, when that you to Fancies fort doo go:
And if you come into her court, then you shall finde it so.
The colours of her cloth, are faire and very gay:
White, Red, Blew, Greene, Carnation, Yealow, & Popingay.
Of blackes but very few: but other colours store,
Of mingled colours, or such as I tolde you of before.
Now shee that keepes that roome, is a young pleasant dame
And Wantonnes, I trow it bee, that Fancie calles her name
Now Wantonnes againe, shee keepes a pretie knaue
That euery day, deuiseth still, new fashions for to haue:
[Page]Hée hath a knaui [...] head, fine knackes for to inuent,
Wherof good store of cloth, in haste in fashions may be spent:
In gardes, in weltes, and iags, in laying cloth vpon cloth:
And this same youth a Tailor is, for men and women both.
His name is Fond deuise: hee came of Apish race,
A man, for such a mistris méete, and fit for such a place.
But for dame Fancie [...]ine, no garments Syr hée makes
But first the vew her Chamberlaine Curiositie takes:
And if hee like it well, then will shee stand content,
If not, his labour all is lost, and cost in vaine is spent.
Now this same Wardrop Syr, is likest in my minde,
To Watling streete, of any place, that euer I could finde.
Now Syr, from thence you come when you haue seene all there:
You go into her Gallarie, a roome that I dare sweare
The like is seldome seene, for gallant setting out:
If one shoulde trauaile euerie daie, almost the worlde about
For choice of gallant stuffe, and fine deuises strange
No place so like that ere I see, as is The high Exchange:
Such purses, gloues, and pointes, of cost and fasshion rare
Such cutworkes, partlets, sutes of lawne, bongraces, & such ware:
Such gorgets, sléeues, and ruffes, lininges for gownes, and calles,
Coiffes, crippins, cornets, billaments, muske boxes, & swéet balles
Pincases, picketoothes, bearde brushes, comes, néedels, glasses, belles
And manie such like toies, as these: that Gaine to fancie sels.
But yet of all these toies, not one will Fancie buye,
Except, they first bée looked on by Curiositie:
But Follie manie times, standes at his elbow so,
That makes him choose the worse sumtime, and let the better go:
Well, there not longe you bide, but downe you come againe
Into the hall beneath good Syr, where longe you not remaine:
But to the Kitchin streight, she forthwith leadeth thee:
Where, how she dresseth all hir meate, the order thou shalt sée
And what kinde cookes she hath, and how they make their fyre,
To reast, to séeth, to broile, to bake, and what you will desire:
The roome is narow syr, in which a Harth all bare
On which the Cooke, powers on his coales, & kindels thē with care,
[Page]Then layes he to the Spit, if any meate be roast,
And if the fyre be once a flame, then it beginns to toast,
The meate that most he roastes, for Fancies dantie tooth,
Are Partridges, larkes, plouers gréene, & such fine foule (for sooth)
The Coles are made of stickes, of stuborne youth (god wot)
which kindle quickelie of themselues, and blowinge néedeth not:
The kinde of woode is Will, drie without Sapience sappe:
The lobcoke Lust, from thriftlesse thicke, doth bring thē in his lap:
Which wood with lying still, is growne so very drie,
That with a Sparke of Sporte, alasse, they kindle by and by.
The Cooke is Carelesse calde: the fowles he roastes are these:
For Larkes, are lookes: for Plouers, thoughts: for Partridge, Practises:
The Larkes, are Lookes: which when they liue, doe flye:
But beinge stroken deade, they serue for Fancie by and by:
The Partridge, Practises: which liuing, séeme so good,
That they are put vnto the fyre, to serue for Fancies [...]oode:
For, as the Partridge kéepes hir selfe close to the grounde,
Bicause by colour of hir coate, she may not so bee founde:
So Practises, that shift: to kéepe themselues vnseene,
Are Foules most fit for Fancies tooth, and now for Plouers gréene
Greene thoughts, that flye about: now heere, now there againe:
But if by chaunce, by Cupids dart, they hap for to be slaine.
Then lyinge but a while, at this same flaminge fyre,
They make in déede a meate that most, Fonde Fancie doth desyre,
Now hauing séene all this, then shall you sée harde by
The Pastrie, Meale house, and the roome wheras the Coales do ly:
The Coalehouse, is a Cau [...]e of care and miserie.
The Pastrie is a Place of open Patcherie.
The Mealehouse, is a Place with seate mischiefe fraught
For sure, the Meale is made of Corne, y is much worse thē naught.
The Corne is called Rye: and diuerse kindes there bee.
Of this same Rye: as you your self, when you are there shall see:
For there is one kinde, Rye, is called knauerie:
An other Flat [...]rie, with Trecherie, and Patchreie:
An other Trumperie, an other Mockerie,
And Baudrie too: and yet the best is but a kinde of Rye,
[Page]Whereof the Meale is made, that maketh Fancies breede:
And that is baked in the braine, of a hot foolish head:
The Graine is sowne by sondrie slaues: of which one Beastlinesse,
The other Secrete sausinesse: an other Traiterousnesse,
An other Piuishnes, and an other Wilfulnesse,
With Loutishnesse, and many mo, which I cannot expresse:
And reaped by such slaues, too Fancie, slaues, in déede
Which bringe the Corne, into The Barne of beggerie, with spéede:
They now that thresh the Corne, are two stronge sturdie knaues,
Who haue great béetels in their hands, in sted of Threshing staues
Of whome to tell the names, first, Lobcocke litle wit,
And Waywarde will: a good tough knaue, hee stands, his fellow sit,
They with their Betels in their handes, or heades at least,
Doo make it readie for the Mill: then he that grindes the gréest,
Is, Manie better Syr, an arrante craftie knaue,
Who with his toulinge, wilbe sure, a good rounde gaine to haue.
Now Syr, this Mill doth stande, vpon an Hill on hie,
Whose sailes are driuen by blasts of winde, and so grinde merely.
Now Syr, the Corne thus grounde, to Fancies Forte streight way
The Miller comes and: in the house there down his Meale doth lay
Now Syr, when you haue bene, in all these offices,
And that at Fancies handes, you finde such loue and gentlenesse,
To shewe you all hir house: but soft, I had forgot,
To speake of hir Bed Chamber fine, which now Syr, I will not
Let slippe for any thinge: the Roome it selfe is rounde,
And in the night doth stand hir Bed, with Curtens brauely bound.
The Walles hangde all with Hope, on thone side verie faire:
Upon the other side againe, darke hangings of dispaire.
Strange pictures by hir Bed: on thone side, sites of greefe,
On thother side, to euerie pange, a present sweet releefe.
Upon the one side, sweet accorde, on thother Dire debate,
Upon the one side, Naked loue: on thother, Couerde hate.
On [...]hone side, Prodigies, with pleasaunt Dames in Ioye,
On thother side, Chauing Peascods: in greefe and greate anoye.
These diuers contraries, with manie thousandes mo,
When Fancie gazeth on a while, she is amazed so,
[Page]That musinge so a while, she slumbreth at the last,
And being in a slumber so, she sléepeth, but not fast:
Her Bed is all of Downe, whereon she lies so soft,
As any Ladie in this land: and at her Bed a loft,
Are written in faire hande, and easie for to reede:
(Although I seeme a louelie dame, I lothsome am in deede)
This solempne sentence, who euer so doth see,
And doth consider the contentes, will neuer like of me.
Her bedde is thus bedeckte: the curteynes are of Saye,
Not gréene, nor yealow, red, nor blew, nor white, nor popingaye
No Silke nor (Cruell saye, what then maie be the same?
This Say is calde, saye for thy selfe, lo nowe ye knowe the name.
Her Couering, curious cost: her Blankets, Louers blisse:
Her Sheetes, are shiftes: to shroud her self. Her quiltes, are quidities.
Her Pillowes, they are poyntes: that louers lea [...]e vpon.
Her Bolster, is a beggars bagge: when coine and goods are gone.
Her Bed she lies vpon is a younge mellowe braine:
where Fancie softlie lies and sleepes, and neuer féelith paine.
And of such beds, she hath such stoare of choise (by roode)
That (if so be) she like not one, an other is as good.
Of which, some are so softe, that she doth like them so,
That with her liynge in them long, they more halfe rotten growe:
And if they be not turned, or ere they go to farre,
In time, both braine, and hedde, and all, she wilbe sure to marre.
Thus shall you sée her bed, and chamber brauely deckte:
And euery roome within her house, set out in eche respect,
So gallantlie: that as I saide, I saie againe,
You sure will thinke (at first) a while, in heauen for to remaine.
Thus, when that Fancie fine, hath led you rounde about.
Her statelie house, in euerie roome: then shall you sée a loute,
Come with a napkin fine, about his bodie bounde,
Into the chamber, there where first dame fancie fine you founde:
He comes to laie a cloth, vpon Dame fancies bourde:
And then to bringe in all hir cates: and trust me (at a worde)
It is so strange a sighte, to sée her serued so,
As I shall neuer see the like, where euer so I go.
[Page]Her Table is a Forme, that stands without a frame.
And none but she and her compeeres, can [...]it vpon the same:
Her Stooles, stande without feete, I cannot shew you how,
Though I haue séene them (credite me) I haue forgot them now.
But you shall sée them there, if thither you will go.
Now Sir, when you are there, and see this order soo,
Then vnto dinner streight, she goeth by and by:
There shall you sée her fine Compeeres, that beare her companie.
First, vpper most she sittes, in a great maiestie:
Then sits there downe by her a dame, called Ladie vanitie.
Then downe sits her Compeeres, Follie and Fransie both:
Such companie, as for to kéepe, a wiseman woulde be loth.
Her Waitors at her borde, are Curiositie
Her Chamberline: and next to him stands Carelesnesse harde by:
The Cooke that drest the meate: then Nodcoke naturall,
Then Iacke an apes, and busie bee, worst manered of them all:
Thus furnishist is this borde, with waitors in such sorte:
The meates whereof she féedeth most, I néede not make report,
I spake of them before: but for her kinde of drinke,
No béere, nor ale, nor wine it is: and what then doe you thincke:
It is a drincke composde, of drugges of diuers sortes.
Discourtesie, Disdaine, Dispight: and mingled with Disportes,
Sappe of faire Semblaunce, with secret simulation.
With Ioice of herbes of hollow hartes, and faithfull protestation:
These drugges with manie mo, puts Fancie in her drinke,
Which though they sumwhat please the tast, yet make the bosome stinke:
And workes so in their heads, that are not vsed thertoo,
That maks thē more half mad: for greif, they know not what to do
Now syr, this is her drincke, her meate before you konw,
Her seruauntes I haue shewne you too, that do attende her so.
Now Syr, when you haue fed, of Fancies fare one daie:
I doe beleeue that you will wishe, your selfe, next day away.
I promise you (of troth) I did when I was there,
And I woulde not be there againe, for twentie pounde I sweare.
And more then wishinge too, at borde a loude I cride:
I woulde I were awaie, this fare, I cannot I abide.
[Page]Which when that Fancie sawe, she tooke me from the boorde,
And thrust me out of dores, in hast, not speakinge any worde.
And flonge me downe the steares, wherewith I caught a fall.
That greeued me sore: but yet (me thought) I stood cōtent with al.
The vsher of the Hall, he tooke mee by and by,
And out of doores too in like sorte, he thrust me presently.
Then euery Iacke an apes that rid vpon an Asse,
Was readie for to ride me still, as I the Courte did passe.
The Geese and Ganders hist, the Duckes cride quack at mee:
Thus euerie one woulde haue a flyrt, ere I coulde get out frée.
The Porter Daliaunce, hee draue me out in hast,
And thrust me down so harde the Hill, my neck was almost brast.
And vp I rose againe, though brused verie sore,
And ment, if once I gat awaie, for to come there no more.
Well, limpinge as I coulde, I hit the beaten waie,
Of fooles foote stepps: through Forrest back, that led me so astraie.
And backe againe I came, to Learninges narrow lane,
And there I hit The trackt of Truth, that I should first haue tane,
That leaues the Forrest quite: which when I had hit on,
I staide a while, and there my walke I gan to thincke vpon:
And thincking so, I saw a scholler comming by,
That came from learned Vertues Schoole: and sighing heauely,
I calde him vnto me, and tolde him of my wo,
Of my sore fall, from Fancies Forte, and how I caught it so.
Which when that he had harde, he tooke me by the hande,
And béeing verie weake (in d [...]eacute;ede) scarse able for to stande.
Hee led me to a house of Wisdome, an olde man,
His Father (as he saide) he was: and there I rested than.
This Ientle youth, if I doe not forget the same,
Is Honest Reason: so I thincke, his Father cald his name.
Where, beeing but a while, my tale I gan to tell,
To him, of this my gentle walke: whereat he laughed well.
And laughinge so, (quod hée) go youth, here take a booke,
And write now for remēbrance thine, yt when thou chance to looke
Upon the same againe, then thou mayest take heede still.
Of leauinge Wisdoms narow Lane, and follow wanton Will.
[Page]Lo thus at his commaunde, I wrot it by and by,
And this it was, beleeue me now, or els (at least) I lye.

¶ IN DISPIGHT of Fancie.

AH, féeble Fancie, now thy force is nothing worth,
Thou hadst me in thy Castel once, but now I am got forth
Thou baarst a gallant flagge of lustie brauerie,
But I haue séene yt all thy showe, is but méere knauerie.
Thy Fethers flaunt a flaunte, are blowne awaie with winde,
And Falshood is the trustie Troth, that one in thée shallfinde.
Thy valure is but vaunts, thy weapons are but wordes,
Thou vsest Shales, in stéede of Shot, and signes in steede of swords.
Thy Forte is of no force, each foole maie scale the same.
And thou thy selfe art but a flirt, and not a noble Dame.
As some doo thee accompt, I know thee too too well,
And none but Dawes, and Doltes, within thy foolish Forte do dwell.
Thy castell is in déede, a Caue of miserie,
A place in short space for to bring a man to beggerie.
Thy Forte defended is, by Duckes and gardes of Geese,
By Iacke an Apes, Asses too, and such gallants as these.
Thy déepe delight is all in foolish triflinge toyes,
Thou makest a man in things of nought, to set his chiefest ioyes.
Thy Schoole maie well be called, The Schoole of littell skill,
Thy Schoolers most are waywarde wits that follow wanton will.
[Page]Thy Lessons lothsome are, thy selfe a Mistris too
Of naught but Mischiefe which thou most doost make thy Schollers doo
Thy Pleasure bréeds Mans paine, thy Game doth turn to Greefe,
Thou woorkest many Deadly woe, but few doost lend reléefe.
Thou makest a man to gaine Dishonour and Defame,
Thou makest him thinke a Stinking Slut too bee a Gallant dame.
Thou makest him Hang on hope, and drowne in Deepe dispaire:
Thou makest him like a mome to build, High Castels in the ayre.
Thou makest him thinke Black, White, & when that all is knowne
Thou makest him Like an asse to see A fooles head of his owne.
Thou art The cause of care, but comfort very small,
And so what euer is amisse thou art the cause of all.
My selfe haue seene all this that I report and more,
Thou madest mee thinke yt did mee good, that greeued me ful sore
But long I was so blinde, thou so hadst dimd my sight,
That I could neuer see the craft of this thy deepe dispight.
Till I out of thy Forte, was clerely got away,
And came to Graue aduises house, where now I hope to stay.
Where when I was arriued by helpe of a deere frende:
Trewe reason, one with whom I meane, to keepe till life do ende.
Now when that I came there, he did declare to me
What ment that foolish Forte of thine, and all that I did se.
Which when I well had markt, I did not all repent,
My labour in my Iourney so, although my cost I spent.
Because thy nature so, and deeds I did discry,
Which deeds of thine, I doe detest, and the [...] I doe defie.
And now vnto the worlde, in deepe despight of thee,
I shew what a vaine flirte thou art, that euery man may see.
I haue set out thy Forte, thy Force, and eke thy Schoole
Thy Vshers too that teach therin, a mad man and a foole.
Thy lothsom lessons too, and how by greate good happe
I am got out, although longe first, out of thy lothsome lappe.
What shall I farther say, I haue set out in kinde,
Eche peeuish poynt I know in thee, for euery man to finde,
Therefore let fall thy flagge, and all thy brauerie,
I haue at large I thinke, set out thy subtill slauerie:
[Page]And that in such a sorte, as who so lust to réede,
My whole discourse of thy disceipte, will learns for to take héede.
Of all thy gallant showe, they know now what it is,
Thou long hast liued vnknowen alas, but now discride I wis.
And for my [...], thy Fo [...]e I know so well I swere,
That I doo meane to kéepe me thence and neuer to come there,
But if I doe looke vp, and follow thee againe,
Then kéepe me fast within the Forte, and plague me for my paine.
But trust I meane it not, with Reason here my freende,
I meane to liue in thy dispight, and so I make an ende.
And yet before I make a flat ends ere I goo,
I will dischardge my stomacke quite, and bid thée farwell so.

¶A Foole, Dame Fancies man, speakes in defence of his Mistris.

WHat meanes that mad man troe, that railes on Fancie [...]o:
That sekes to do hir such dispight, & sweres himself hirso
The man mistakes himselfe, it is not Fancie sure,
That for to fall into such rage, doth him so much procure.
Why Fancie is a fréende, to euerie curteous Knight,
Why Fancie is the chiefest thinge, that doth the minde delight.
Why Fancie was the cause, wonders first were founde,
Of manie fine deuises strange, first Fancie was the grounde.
[Page]Why, Fancie is the thinge, that moueth men to loue,
And tells the Louers what to doo, as best for their behoue.
Fancie, findes prettie toyes, to please each Courtelie Dame,
Fancie to passe the time in sporte, inuenteth many a game.
To Courtiers many one, a good fréende Fancie standes,
She makes them reape good liking, at their louing Ladies hands
Shee made the Poets olde, deuices to indite,
Which they in writinge left behinde, for other mens delight.
Shee seeketh vnto none, but many seeke to hir:
And those who are seruaunts still, she seeketh to preferre
To high degree in time: and that in Court (perchaunce)
Shee helpeth them, and many waies, doth seeke them to aduaunce.
Now som (perhaps) againe, that are of grossest wit,
And by their dispositions, for Follie Schollers fit.
Those now (perhaps) in déede, she letteth all alone,
with Follie onelie to rewarde, and them regardeth none.
But those that are againe of quicke capacitie,
Who can consider Vertue wise, from Foolish Vanitie.
Such men she chéefelie loues, and such although they know hir
Shall haue small cause in tract of time, in deede for to beshrow hir.
I may not speake too much, for I am partiall:
But what I haue saide, it is true, for I haue tride it all.
And therefore sure the man, that rayleth on hir so,
Hath done hir wronge, without iust cause, to stand so much hir so.
Faire wordes are euer best, backebitinge is too bad.
And therfore I doo thinck the man, is either dronke or mad,
That seekes hir such dispight, so much without desarte.
And by hir countenaunce it séemes, it gréeues hir to the harte.
To be so much abusde, but what, no remedie,
A wicked tongue doth saie amisse, and will doe till he die:


ALas poore silly wretch, now maiest thou wéepe and wai [...]e,
For now thy Forte is of no force, thou canst no more pre­uaile.
Fancie let [...]all thy flag, thy brauerie is discride,
Thy shifts are seene, wherewith thou thoughtest, thy self from sight to hide
The man is got away, whō late I entertainde:
And lo by him I am defamde, and all my state is stainde.
Why did I not him féede, with some more sweete repaste?
Why did I not deuise to dresse, some toy to please his taste?
I put into his drincke, too much Drugges of dispight,
Thou moughst allayd the bitternes, with drammes of swéet delight
Why didst thou in a rage, first flinge him from thy lappe?
And leaue to féede him any more, with worldly pleasures pap?
Why did I in my rage, not speakinge anie worde:
Take him so roughlie at the first, and set him from my boorde?
And thrust him out of doores, in such a scornefull wise:
Thou hadst bene better let him dinde, and let himselfe to rise.
Why didst thou throw him downe the steares in such a sorte?
That hee of thy discurtesie may iustlie make report.
And beinge falne downe so, why didst thou Vaine delight
Thrust him out of doores by force, in such dispight?
You Iacke an Apeses too, why caught you at him so?
To ride him like an Asse, as he alonge the Courte did go.
Why did you hisse you Geese? and Duckes why cride you quacke,
To raile on him? why did you not more gently let him packe?
Why didst thou Daliaunce, so thrust him out of doore?
That made him catch so great a fall, and bruze himself so sore.
A las what blame I you? my selfe I ought to blame,
For if I had forbidden it, you had not done the same?
Coulde none of all my Flowers, so faire and swéete of smell,
Cause him to haue desire againe, within my Forte to dwell?
[Page]Coulde not my Bedchamber, with all my Pictures faire,
Make him yet ere he die againe, thither to make repaire.
Alasse, I feare he sawe the wordes at my Beds hed.
And out of doubt I feare in déede, that sentence he hath redde.
And that hath caused him, to loth my Bed and mée,
But coulde not all the other sightes, that in the Chamber hée
Did sée to moue delight, make him forget the same,
Oh no, well Fancie yet séeke none at all to blame,
But euen thy onely selfe, who tookest so small regarde
Unto a Stranger in such sorte, and handle him so harde.
Well, since that hee is gone, and that I am discride,
And that from him my shiftes alasse, I can no longer hide
I must a warninge take, the next that come againe,
Unto my Forte for seruice mine, better to entertaine.
And though he thus begon, I doubt not but there be,
Some youthes a broade yet in the worlde, yt wil come séeke out me,
But all that I can euer haue, to ease my paine,
Will neuer doe me halfe that good, as to see him againe.
Which if I euer haue, I now not sorow soo,
But I shall then reioyce asmuch, and ridde me of my woo,
Untill which time alasse, I languish still in paine,
And so shall doe vntill I see, my gentle youth againe.


FOnde Fancie now farwell, thy Lodginge likes me not,
I serued thee long full like a slaue, yet litle gaines I got,
Yet though I say my selfe, no slaue that euer serude,
Of any mistris in this world haue more reward deserud
But hee that bindes himselfe apprentise to a Patch,
At seauen yeares ende, will this be sure, to gain sum foolish catch.
So Nodcoke I, that longe haue serued thee like a slaue,
For my rewarde by dew desart, Repentaunce gained haue.
Thou neuer badst me goo, but I woulde runne with speede,
If thou didst bid mee staie again, two biddinges should not neede.
When I had better runne, when thou didst bid me staie,
And better staide then goo on foote, to breede mine owne decaye.
When thou didst bid mee looke, I readie was to marke,
And woulde not loose the thinge so soone, no not in greatest darck.
When better I had been, for to haue shut mine eye,
Then for to cast mine eye on that, should worke me wo there by.
When thou didst bid me like, I loued by and by:
When thou againe badst me mislike, I hated contrarie.
What shall I further saye, thou nothinge badst me doe
But I was willinge by and by, for to agree thereto.
But what for all my paines, haue I now reapt in fine,
A goodly gaine Repentance sore, of such great follie mine:
When thou didst bid me goo, my running made me fall:
When thou didst bid me stay againe, twas for no good at all.
Thou madst me studie ofte, but what fonde trifling toies,
The Arte of loue, and of the cause of louers greefes and Ioyes.
Thou madst me thincke longe while, that louers greefe was game,
And that no Ioy coulde be compard, vnto a gallant Dame.
Thou madst me thincke longe time, no pleasure like to that,
With Curtisans in their kinde, to doe I saie not what.
Thou madst me halfe amazed, sum time with franticke fits,
and now and then with thoughtes of loue, almost out of my wits.
[Page]Thou maadst me take delight, in Lodge of Loue to dwell,
And for to coumpt that thinge a heauen, which rather was a hell.
Thou maadst me thinck that Loue did purchase heauenly Ioy,
Which now I see did purchase pain, & wrought naught but annoy.
Thou maadst me take delight, to [...]et in braue attire,
Which now I finde was more in deede, then reason did require,
In Fethers flaunt a flaunt, and tossinge in the winde,
Thou maadst me take delight, which now a follie great I finde.
Thou maadst mee take delight in singularitie,
In Tailors worke to haue a tricke, that none shoulde haue but I.
Thou maadst me coumpt a praise, some fasshion to deuise,
Wherewith I sought in wisemens [...]ight my selfe for to disguise.
Thou maadst me spende my time, in vaine and folish toies,
And euer didst withdraw my minde, from séekinge perfect Ioyes.
Thou maadst mee thincke it was a heauen, For to go gay,
But neuer hadst me looke in time, how longe it would hould way.
In fine, as longe as I was Scholler at thy Schoole,
For all the learninge that I got, I prooued my selfe a foole.
Thou didst withdraw my minde from Perfect pietie,
And maadst me cheifely to delight in worldely vanitie.
But now since that I see, that it hath pleased god,
To plague me well for my desarts, with smart of mine owne rod:
And giue me grace to finde, what gréefes by thee doe grow,
And that although vnto my cost, thy nature naught I know.
What gaines by thee are got, what pinchinge penurie,
What greefe of minde, what plague of purse, what wretched miserie:
I now forsake thee quite, and neuer meane to dwell,
Neere thee by fifteene thousande myle, and so Fancie, farewell.
THE TOYES OF an Idle …

THE TOYES OF an Idle Heade: Contayninge many pretie Pamphlets, for plea­sant heads to passe away idle time withall.

By the same Auctor. N. B.

¶The Preface.

MY friend, who so thou bee, that faine wouldst buy this booke,
so passe away the time thereon, in ydle times to looke:
If so thou fyndste that like thee not, yet pardon graunt to mee,
And wish me from thy harte no worse, then I wish vnto thee.
Against my will it shall be much, if many I offende,
With these rude rymes which I haue made, vnto none other ende
But as I sayde before, for want of other glee,
For pleasaunt heads to looke vpon, when they at leysure bee.
But some there are I must confesse, gainst whom in great despight,
Some running rymes which here you see, I chaunced to indight.
But such I count my deadly foes: and such one if thou bee
That bu [...]est my boke, then take the same in deepe despight of thee.
But if you be my frien [...], and take all in good parte
That there you fynde: and thinke it is for want of better Arte.
Then here with right good will, I offer it to thee,
And doe but thanke me for my paynes, it is ynough for mee.
Of troth I promise yee, t'is not for want of will,
That rudely thus in rymes I run, but want of better skill.
For if that I had Ouids pen, ech worde in printe to place,
Or Homers excercyse I had, to giue my verse a grace.
Or Tullies Eloquence to talke▪ as I in minde thought best,
Or Aristotles pregnant wit, that passeth all the rest.
Some prety peece of worke▪ perhaps then moughtst thou fynde,
Among so many mery toyes, that mought content thy minde.
But tush, my beetle brayne, can no such fruictes bring forth,
My v [...]es are but ragged rimes, and therefore little worth.
My head vnhoodded yet, I ready am to flye,
At euery little paltrye bird, that goeth whisking by,
I neuer haue respect to any kinde of Game,
Like to the hooded Hauke: that kepte a long while tame
[Page]When that her Ga [...]e doth spring, she knowes it by the whurre,
And then to make a wing thereat, she gi [...]es offyst to st [...]rre.
But till the Game be sprong, on fyst she pearcheth still,
But I (God wot) to choose my game, haue no such kinde of skill.
I stryke at what I may, and geue God thankes for all,
And stande contented with the same till better doth befall.
And glad I am sometime, to pray vpon a Byrde,
I haue no wit to waye the best, but euery worthelesse worde
I ready am in ryme to put, although my reason be
But small (God wot,) and that too small, as you may plainly see.
But since you see my simple head, vnhooded (as it is,)
Accept the symple fruict therof, and be content with this.
Vntill I haue the skill, to flye at better Game,
Which when I kill, you shall be sure to taste some of the same.
But if ye now disdayne these Byrdes, whereon I pray,
With better game hereafter I, perhaps will flye away.
And lyke a very Churle, then will I parte with none,
But feede vpon the best thereof, vnto my selfe alone.
Where few or none shall see, what foode I feede vpon,
No▪ nor yet where I hyde the same, till all be spente and gone.
Wherefore my friende I say, if so thou doest desyre,
More of my workes, and wouldst not haue the rest throwne in the fyre.
Skorne not these ragged rymes, but rather soone amend,
What so thou fyndst that likes thee not, and so I make an ende.
Wishing thee well to fare, if so thou be my friend,
But if my foe, then ill and worse, and so agayne I end.

¶A prety Dittie in despight of Fantasye.

¶The Argument.
¶Since Fantasye fyrst mooued mee,
To ryme thus rudely as you see.
A prety Dittye of Despight
Gaynst Fantasy, fyrst will I wry [...].
NOw by my troth, I cannot ch [...]se but [...]myle,
To see the foolish [...]yttes of Fantasye:
With what deceites she doth the mynde beguyle,
As pleaseth best her great inconstancye.
As well the wysest, as the [...] man,
Shee troubleth, I tell you, now and th [...]n.
And no denyall if shée lyketh once,
It must be had what euer so it bée:
And ech day new Deuices for the [...],
Only to please Mistresse fonde Fant [...]sy.
For she can neuer lyke one thing two dayes,
Though it deserue neuer so great a prayse.
This thing to day, to morrow that agayne,
And yet the next day neyther of them both:
That now she likes, anon she will disdayne,
And whome she loued, séemeth now to loath.
Thus chopping still, and chaunging euery day,
With vayne delightes she leades the mynde away.
She makes the Louer thinke his Lady fayre,
Although she be as foule, as foule may bée:
Shee makes him eke, build Castles in the Ayre,
And very farre in Milstones for to sée.
And in the ende, I thinke if all were knowne,
Shée makes him sée, a Fooles head of his owne.
Shée makes my Lady so much to e [...]éeme,
Of her gréene pratling Parratte in the Cage:
This makes her eke her little Page to déeme,
The fynest Boye in England of his age.
This makes her set more by h [...]re tame whyte Deare,
Then some would doe by twenty poundes a yeare.
And who can choose but laugh to thinke vpon,
Such froward fittes of foolish fantasy?
And how alas the minde is woe begon,
If that it hath not each thing by and by,
That she desyres, what euer so it be,
Cost lyfe or death, it must be had, we sée.
Shée féedes the mynde of man, with many a toye,
Shee makes himselfe to séeke his owne decay:
In thinges of nought, shée makes him set his ioye,
And from all Uertue leades him quyte away.
And shée it is that vaynly caused mée,
Agaynst her selfe to ryme thus as you sée.

¶A dolorous discourse, of one that was bee­witched with Loue.

¶The Argument.
¶Since that the passing pangues of loue,
Which many Louers ofte doe prooue.
I fynd the cause from time to tyme,
That made men shew their mindes in ryme▪
I doe intend in verses few,
A dolorous discourse to shew,
Of one that was bewitcht in loue,
What passing pangues he ofte did prooue.
In which God wot, the more his payne,
Euen till his death he did remayne.
IF I had skill to frame a cunning Uearse,
Wherein I mought my loathsome lyfe lament,
Or able were in rymes for to rehearse,
The gryping gréefes, that now my harte haue hent [...].
Such priuy pangues of loue I could descry,
As neuer any Louer felt, but I.
Some say they fréeze, they flame, they flye alofte,
And yet they fall, they hope, and yet they feare:
The feeld once wonne, yet ielousye full ofte,
With vyle suspect, their yrkesome hartes doth teare.
They liue and lacke, they lack, and yet they haue,
And hauing yet, they lack the thing they craue.
They bide in blisse amid their weary bale,
With heauy hartes, they shew a smyling face:
In figures thus, they tell a mournfull tale,
And set their sorrow out with such a grace.
That who so reades the same and markes it well,
Would thinke a Louers tormentes worse then Hell.
Then thinke you what vyle tormentes doe I féele,
When all these pangues are but Flea bytes to myne:
I neuer came to top of Fortunes whéele,
But vnderneath in dolours still doe pyne.
I neuer flew, whereby to haue a fal [...],
Yet stoope I ofte, although my gate be small.
Am I not then in case much worse then they?
That flye sometimes, although they fall as fast:
Oh yes, my case let any Louer way,
And they shall sée, I neuer yet [...] tast,
One sugred ioye, that they haue swallowed ofte,
That flye and fall, although they fall not softe.
For they that flye although they catch a fall,
Yet whyle they flye, the tyme so ioyfull is▪
The harme they take by falling is but small,
For when vnto themselues they thinke on this,
What a fyne flight, but euen ere whyle they had,
For ioye thereof, they can not long be sad.
But Fortune neuer yet so fauoured mée,
To lend me winges to take one little flight,
Whereby the harme by falling I mought sée,
Or yet in flying fynde the déepe delight.
I cannot call to mynde one ioyfull day,
Which for a time, my sorrowes may allay.
But lye along all weryed with this woe,
And know not how to prooue to make a flight:
With chilling colde, my ioyntes are frozen so,
That when I stryue but euen to stande vpright,
I feele my féebled limbes to faynt so fast,
That staggering still, downe flat I fall at last.
My harte it selfe is bitten so with fro [...]t.
That all my sences now are waxed nome:
My tongue his taste of pleasaunt ioyes hath lost,
My minde with [...]uell care is ouercom▪
My dazled eyes are waxed dimme with teares,
Which shew the state wherein my lyfe it weares.
Myne eares waxe deafe, no pleasaunt tunes they heare,
That may reuiue with dole my dulled brayne:
Where I was wonte with Musicke for to cheare
My heauy harte: now séemes a deadly payne.
For ech swéete note, I heare men play or sing,
Thorough myne eare like thunder clappes doth ring.
But thus to liue, oh what a lyfe is t [...]is [...]
To liue (alas) my sences all bestraught:
Though straunge it séeme, yet trust me true it is,
Such chilling cold my sences all hath caught.
That I can neither heare, nor féele, nor sée,
Nor smell, nor taste, and yet aliue must bée.
And shall I tell how [...] I c [...]ught this colde?
By looking long vpon thy louely face:
For when I did thy heauenly hew behold,
And markte there with thy braue and comly grace.
Good Lord thought I, what worthy wight is this?
Some heauenly Dame, then Venus sure it is.
Venus quoth I? with that I [...] for feare,
And shut the windowes of my séeing shoppe:
For gréefe whereof my ha [...] did swelte I sweare,
Then gan I striue agaynst the hill to hoppe.
With gazing eyes to s [...]are on thée agayne,
Whose only lookes haue wrought me all this payne.
But when I heard a name to [...]hée assignde,
And saw thou werte an earthly Creature:
Then gan I thus imagine in my minde,
Which way mought I this Ladyes loue procure.
To me poore Page that thus sore wounded lye,
At poynt of death, yet dying cannot dye.
But when I saw mine owne vnworthinesse,
And could not call to minde and due desarte:
Whereon I mought presume in this dis [...]resse,
To craue of thee some salue for this my smarte.
With gréefe thereof, I caught this chilling cold,
Which quaking yet, my quiuering corps doth holde.
Yet lookte I loe, and stared still on thée,
Thinking thereby to fynde some ease of payne:
But straight me thought, I sawe thée looke awrye,
As who should say, thou di [...]st my lookes disdayne.
Which lowring looke, droue me into this fytte,
Which God he knowes how it tormentes me yet.
But yet I must confesse at fyrst deare dame,
That whote desyre my gréefe hath caused so.
But by and by my fi [...]rce and fyry [...],
Was quickly quenchte, [...] waues of weary wo.
In which wet waues, I too and [...] [...]m tost,
Seeking in vayne, to fynde [...] quyet cost.
Now (noble Dame) since that thou [...] playne,
How fyrst I caught this gréefe that gripes my harte:
And makes me thus [...] of payne,
Since that in thée it lyes to ease my smar [...].
And only thée, (deare dame) doe not denye
To helpe me now, for if thou doest, I dye.
But thinke vpon my bitter passion,
And eke the passing pangues wherein I pyne:
And how fast bound without redemption,
I lynger foorth this loathsome lyfe of myne:
And how thou mayest with spéede, if thée it please,
Both set me frée, and cure my straunge disease.
Which if thou wilte, I know for certaynty,
Thou canst not choose, but lend me some reléefe:
Thou wilt, beholding my calamity,
Lend some one graine of comfort to my gréefe.
Which when thou doest: for a Phisitians fee,
A noble name thy greatest gayne shall [...]ée.
And so deare Dame, when thou doest thinke vpon
The lothsome lyues that Louers oft rehearse:
Among the rest, let this of mine be one,
Which here to thée doth shewe it selfe in vearse.
Then shalt thou sée how farre my passyon,
In pangues of loue hath pasde them euery one.

¶ A Gentleman being on a Christmas Eue in a very sollitary place, among very solemn company: where was but small cheare, lesse myrth, and least musick: being very ear­nestly entreated to sing a Christmas Caroll, with much adoe, sung as followeth.

NOw Christmas draweth neare,
And most men make good cheare,
With heigh, how, care away:
I lyke a s [...]elye mo [...]e,
In drowsy dumpes at home,
Will naught but fast and pray.
Some syng and daunce for lyfe,
Some Carde and Dyce as ryfe,
Some vse olde Christmas Games:
But I oh wretched wight,
In dole both day and night
Must dwell, the world so frames.
In Court what prety toyes,
What fyne and pleasaunt ioyes,
To passe the tyme away?
In countrey naught but care,
Sower Cheese curdes, chiefest fare,
For Wyne, a Bole of Whay.
For euery daynty dishe
Of Flesh or else of Fishe
And for your Drincke in Courte:
A dish of yong fryed Frogges,
Sodde houghes of mezled Hogges,
A cuppe of small Tap worte.
And for ech courtly syght,
Ech shew that may delight
The eye, or else the minde:
In Countrey thornes and brakes,
And many miery lakes,
Is all the good you finde.
And for fyne Enteryes,
Halles, Chambers, Galleryes,
And Lodginges many m [...]e:
Here desert Wooddes or playne [...],
Where no delight remaynes,
To walke in too and fro [...].
In Court for to be shorte,
For euery prety sporte,
That made the harte delight:
In countrey many a gréefe,
And small or no releefe,
To ayde the wounded wight.
And in this Deserte place,
I Wretch in wofull case,
This merry Christmas tyme:
Content my selfe perforce,
To rest my carefull corse:
And so I end my ryme▪

¶In the latter ende of Christmas, the same Gentleman was lykewyse desyred to sing: and although against his will, was content to syng as followeth.

THe Christmas now is past,
And I haue kepte my fast,
With prayer euery day:
And like a country Clowne,
With nodding vp and downe,
Haue past the tyme away.
As for old Christmas Games,
Or daunsing with fyne Dames,
Or shewes, or prety playes:
A solemne oath I sweare,
I came not where they were,
Not all these holy dayes.
I did not syng one noate,
Except it were by roate,
Still buzing lyke a Bée:
To ease my heauy harte,
Of some, though little smart [...],
For want of other glée.
And as for pleasaunt wyne,
There was no drincke so fyne,
For to be tasted héere:
Full symple was my fare,
If that I should compare,
The same to Christmas chéere.
I saw no kinde of sight,
That might my minde delight,
Beléeue me noble Dame:
But euery thing I saw,
Did freat atwo my maw,
To thinke vpon the same.
Upon some bushy balke,
Full fayne I was to walke,
In Wooddes from trée to trée:
For wante of better roome,
But since my fatall doome,
Hath so appoynted mée.
I stood therewith contente,
Till Christmas full was spente,
In hope that God will sende:
A better yet next yeare,
My heauy harte to cheare,
And so I make an ende.

¶The same man being in very great dumpes the same tyme, being likewise intreated to wryte some dolefull Dittie of his owne inuention, wrote as followeth.

WHat griping gréefs, what pinching pangues of payne?
What deadly dinte of déepe and darcke annoye?
What plague? what wo, doth in this world remayne?
What Hellish happe? what wante of worldly ioye?
But that (oh Caytife) I doe daylye byde,
Yea, and that more then all the world besyde.
If euer man had cause to wish for death,
To cut atwo this lucklesse lyne of lyfe:
Why stryue not I with spéede to stoppe my breath?
Since cruell care, not lyke a caruing knyfe,
But lyke a Sawe, still hackling to and froe,
Thus gnawes my harte with grypes of weary woe.
What doe you thinke I iest, or that I fayne?
Or Louer lyke, my lyfe I doe lament?
Or that my fyttes are fancies of the brayne,
Which wauer still, and neuer stande content?
Or that my sighes are nought but signes of sloath?
Oh thinke not so, beleeue me on my troath.
This I protest before my God on hye,
If that I could my doloures well declare:
I thinke I should such priuy p [...]ngues descrye,
Of sorrowes smarte, as surely seldome are
Séene now adayes: I thincke especyally,
Yea seene or felte, of such a Youth as I.
But some perhaps will ask [...], what is my woe?
What is the thing that makes me so to mourne?
And why I walke so solemne too and froe?
I aunswere thus: such fyry flames doth burne,
Both day and night, within my boyling brest:
That God he knowes, I take but little rest.
But shall I tell, how fyrst this flame arose?
And how these Coles were kyndled at the furst?
I may not so my dolloures deepe disclose:
For credit me, I would fayne if I durst.
But since, alas, I may not as I would,
Let this suffice, I would fayne if I could.
What if I could? nay durst: what did I say?
For if I durst, I know full well I could:
What could I doe? no whit more then I may,
I know that too: but yet if that I would.
I could doe much more then I meane to doe,
As thus aduisde: but whether doe I goe?
What néede so many wordes? so much a doe?
To blaze the broyles that I doe dayly byde:
Or else to tell of tormentes too too too,
Wherewith I am beset on euery syde.
These few wordes naught haue serued the tourne I trowe,
Then thousand plagues, but pleasures none I knowe.

¶A prety gyrde geuen by a Gentlewoman, to her seruaunt, wherevpon the verses were made as followeth.
¶Farewell Youth, to your vntruth.

WHen as thou badst, farewell to myne vntrueth,
I hope thou spakest it but in iest deare Dame:
Or else for that you thought that euery youth,
Most commonly, is touched with the same:
Such youthes there are, I must confesse in déede,
As with vntrueth their Ladyes fancies féede.
But what of that: tush, I am none of those,
Though youthly yeares I cannot well denye:
For rather lyfe then trueth, I chuse to lose,
By trueth I meane my true fydelitye:
Which who so breakes, to him, as to a youth,
Thou mayest well say: farewell to thine vntruth.
But yet good Lady, say not so to mé [...],
Till thou doest sée, my trueth by falshood staynd,
Which when thou seest, then iustly spit at mée,
As at a slaue, whose truth is all but faynd:
But till that tyme, say not to myne vntrueth,
Farewell agayne, but onely to my youth.
For all vntruethes I vtterly denye,
And to my trusty trueth, I stowtly stand:
And who so list agaynst the same replye,
Gainst him with spéede; I goe with sword in hand:
Into the Féeld, the same for to defend,
For loe in this, my credit doth depend.
And though (perhaps) most commonly ech youth,
Is geuen in déede, to follow euery gaye:
And some of these are touched with vntruth,
Yet some there be, that take a better waye:
And stande vpon their truth and honesty,
More then vppon their foolish brauery.
Which two, I count to be the chéefest poynctes,
That ech man ought to build his lyfe vpon:
And these hold I my chéefe and strongest ioynctes,
For what were I, when these two poynctes are gone?
Wherefore deare Dame, as I begon I end:
My Youth I graunt, and trueth I still defend.

¶It chanced not long after that this Gentle­man happened to be in the company of his very friend, which at Dyce lost much money: and after his losse, entreated him to write some despightful Ditty to disswade him from Cards and Dyce: which with much intreaty he graunted, and wrote as followeth.

MY Friend I say if thou be wyse,
Use not to much the Cardes and Dyce:
Least, setting all at sincke and syce,
Doe make thée know the cost:
Twill make thée weare a thinne light purse,
Twill make thée sweare, and ban, and curse:
Twill make thée doe all this and worse,
When once thy Coyne is lost.
Therfore take héede in tyme, I say:
For tyme at Dyce runnes fast away,
No tyme worse spente, then at Dyce play,
I put thée out of doubt:
And say not, but it was thée tolde,
The nearer that thy purse is polde,
The more still friendship waxeth colde,
Yea all the world throughout.
And then when once thy coyne is g [...]n [...],
And friendes to helpe thée thou haste none,
Nor house nor Land to liue vpon,
Oh then, what wilt thou say?
Well, once I might haue taken héede,
I had a trusty friend in déede,
That tould me true how I [...]ould spéede,
If I did hold this way.
For who continues in this vayne,
Of setting still, both [...]ye and mayne,
But in the ende he shall be fayne,
To leaue it will or nill:
And doe the thing that doth despight
Most men, though some it doth delight,
To them that play to holde the light,
Full ill agaynst their will.
Leaue therfore (friend) while thou art w [...]ll.
And marke the wordes [...],
If once thy lande thou fall to s [...]ll,
Thy credite will [...]:
[Page]And care not thou, though Gamsters say,
These Gamsters, Roysters call I may:
What Dastard darest thou not play?
Howe, reach this man a Chayre.
Well, if he bring it, sit thée downe,
Or else goe out into the towne:
If not, then walke thée vp and downe,
And beare a tyme his scoffe:
And thou shalte sée within a while,
How thou mayest fynely at him smile:
When he would gladly wish a file,
To file his yrons off.
For commonly such Knaues as these,
Doe ende their lyues vpon thrée trées:
Or lye in prison for their fees,
For all their bragging out:
And though one yeare they goe full gay,
And euery day play lusty play:
Yet with a Rope they make a fray,
Cre seuen yeare goe about.
And therefore say they what they list,
Take thou still heede of had I wist:
And vse not too too much thy fist,
To shaking of the Dice:
For fyrst thy gayn [...] [...] but sm [...]ll,
The credit lesse, thou [...] with all:
Thy estimation least of all,
Though deare thou buy th [...] price.
Good Lord was not that man halfe madde,
That once a prety lyuing had:
And would not rest, but out must gadde,
To Cardes and Dyce in haste:
And vsed them so lustily,
Setting, and throwing carelesly:
Till in shorte space full foolishly,
He spent euen all at laste.
Euen so wilt thou I promise thée,
If thou doe not geue eare to mée:
And leaue thy trouling of a Dye,
And that with spéede my friend:
For they that vse so lustily,
The Cardes and Dyce most commonly:
Are eyther brought to beggery,
Or hang else in the ende.
And now farewell, since that I may,
As now, no longer with thée stay:
My counsayle therefore beare away,
And leaue that vayne delight:
That now thou hast in Cardes and Dyce,
And learne betimes for to be wyse:
Once well warnde, is as good as twyse,
And so my friend good night.

An other Dittie after that, made by the same man (after a sorte) in defence of Cardes and Dice, as followeth.

TO play at Dyce, is but good sporte,
So it be vsed in good sorte:
But who delightes in Cardes and Dyse,
In déede, I cannot count him wyse:
For he that playes till all be gone,
With Robin Hoode and little Iohn,
May trace the Wooddes: for wyse men say,
Kéepe somewhat till a rayny day.
But will you therefore generally,
Disprayse the Dyce so spightfully▪
What thing so good that now is vsde,
But by a foole may be abusde?
I speake not this vnto that ende,
That you should thinke I would defend
Dyce playing vniuersallye,
But onely vsed moderately.
For who so long doth vse the Dyce,
Till he thereof hath knowen the pryce,
I meane till almost all [...]e gone,
Then marke this straight way such a one,
Beginnes to learne to cogge apace,
Whereby he doth so much disgrace,
The Cardes and Dyce, that men doe fear [...]
To play, for Coggers euery where.
But if that coggers all were barde,
And cleanly cutters of a Carde,
And euery Gamster would play square,
Then some men would hope well to fare,
[Page]And then would few so much despy [...]e,
As now they doe, both Cardes and Dyse,
For neyther Cardes nor Dyce be naught,
If men would vse them as they ought.
For how can Cardes or Dyce hurte those,
That care not whether they win or lose?
But who doe so? such men these are,
As play no more then they may spare:
And when they c [...]me to any Game,
They make a pastime of the same:
But hab or nab, spéede well who may,
And merrily so will spend the day.
And what is lost too, [...]are well it,
Neuer chase nor freate a whit,
And they that vse play in this sorte,
With Cardes and Dyce make preaty sporte.
Then therefore since both Cardes and Dyce,
Be good for some men, as I say:
Who doth abuse them is not wyse.
Nor worthy in my minde to play.
Therefore as I begone, I ende,
Moderate play I doe defend.

¶ An other tyme not long after, he chaunced to be in his friendes and betters house: being in his bed aboute midnight, by chaunce awake, heard in the next chamber a Page of the Ladyes of the house, lamenting as he lay in his bed, verye sore his vnhappy estate: which as he could well bea [...]e away in the morning, put it in verse only for his own reading, to laugh at, but being by his friend intreated, put it as you see among his Toyes (as one not the least) which was as followeth.

THat I would not perswaded bée,
In my yong rechlesse youth:
By playne experyence I sée,
That now it proueth truth.
It is Toms song, my Ladyes Page,
That seruice is no heritage.
I hard him syng this other night,
As he [...]ay all alone:
Was neuer Boye in such a plight,
Where should he make his mo [...]e.
Oh Lord quoth he, to be a page,
This seruice is none heritage.
Myne Uncle tolde me tother day,
that I must take great paine:
And I must cast all sloath awaye,
If I séeke ought to gaine.
For sure quoth he, a painefull Page,
Will make seruice an heritage.
Yea sure, a great commoditie,
If once Madame he doe displease:
A cuffe on the eare, two or thrée,
He shall haue, [...]inally for his ease.
I would for me he were a Page,
For to possesse this heritage.
I rubbe and brush almost all day,
I make cleane many a coat [...]:
I séeke all honest meanes I may,
How to come by a groate.
I thinke I am a painefull Page,
Yet can I make no heritage.
Why? I to get haue much a doe,
A Kirtle nowe and than:
For making cleane of many a [...],
For Ales, or Mistresse Anne.
My Ladies Maydes will [...] Page,
Alwayes of such an heri [...].
The wenches they get Coyf [...]s and Cawles,
Frenchhoodes and Partlets [...]ke:
And I get nought but checks and braw [...]s,
A thousande in a wéeke.
These are rewardes méete for a Page,
Surely a goodly heritage.
My Ladies maydes to must I please,
But chiefely Mistresse Anne:
For else by the Masse she will disease,
Me vyly now and than.
Fayth she will say, you [...] Page,
Ile purchase you an heritage.
And if she say so by the [...]de,
Tis Cock I warrant i [...]:
But God he knowes, I were as good,
To be without it:
For all the gaynes I get [...]oor [...] Page,
Is but a slender Heritage.
I haue so many folkes to please,
And créepe and kneele vnto:
That I shall neuer liue at ease,
What euer so I doe:
Ile therefore be no more a Pag [...],
But séeke some other heritage.
But was there euer such a pa [...],
To speake so lowde as I:
Knowing what hold the mayde [...] will c [...]tch,
At euery fault they spye:
And all for [...] [...]ore [...]age,
To purchase me an heritage.
And if that they may h [...]re [...],
I were as good be [...]angde:
My Lady shall kno [...] [...] by [...],
And I shall sure be bangde:
I shall be vsed [...] a Page,
I shall not loose mine heritage.
Well yet I hope the tyme to s [...]e,
When I may run as fast:
For wandes for them, as they for me,
Eare many dayes be past:
For when I am no longer Page,
Ile geue them vp m [...]e heritage.
Well, I a whyle must stand content,
Till better happe doe fall:
With such pore state as God hath sente,
And geue him thankes for all.
Who will I hope, sende me pore Page
Then this, some better heritage.
With this, with handes and eyes,
Lifte vp to heauen on high:
He sighed twise or thrise,
And wepte to piteously.
Which when I saw, I wisht the Page,
In fayth some better heritage.
And wéeping thus good God quoth he,
Haue mercy on my soule:
That ready I may be for thée,
When that the bell doth knoule.
To make me frée of this bondage,
And partner of thine heritage.
Lord graunt me grace so thée to serue,
That at the latter day:
Although I can no good deserue,
Yet thou to me mayest say.
Be thou now frée, that werte a Page.
And heare in heauen haue heritage.

¶The same man being desyred the next day following, to sing som prety song to the Virginals, by a Gentle­woman that he made no small accoumpt of: was faine Extem­pore to endite, and sing as followeth.

AMid my ioyes such gréefe I fynde,
That what to doe, I know not I:
My pleasures are but blastes of wynde,
Full well euen now, and by and by,
Some sodayne pangues torment me so,
That I could euen crye out for wo.
And yet perforce no remedy,
Néedes must I laugh, when I could m [...]urne:
Yea, ofte I sing when presently,
To teares my singing could I tourne:
Such lucke haue Gamsters some men say,
Winne, and loose, and all in a day.
But some there are whome fortune still,
Giues leaue to winne, and seldome lose:
Oh would to God I had my will,
That I might soone be one of those.
That are in fortunes [...]auour so,
Then néede I not thus playne of wo.
For if that I were sure at least,
For to obtayne that I would craue:
Yea though it were but one request,
I would desyre no more to haue.
I aske but euen one happy day,
Let me doe after as I may▪
And sure I sée no remedy,
But euen to hope on happe alone:
And that is it that comfortes me,
For when hope sayles, all ioyes are gone.
Therefore what with hope and dispayre,
My ioyes lye houering in the ayre.
Which would to God would eyther fall,
Or else be driuen quyte away:
That I might haue no hope at all,
or else that I might happily say.
Now haue I found the thing I sought,
Now will I take but little thought.
Well, yet I hope or e [...]e I dye,
To light on such a happy day:
That I may syng full merrily,
Not, heigh ho wele, but care away.
The Ship full many tempestes past,
Hath reacht the quyet Hauen at last.

¶The next daye after that hee had written this passyon of Loue, dyuers Gentlewomen being then in the house: he was intreted by two or three of them at once, to make some verses: and one amōg the rest, being very desyrous to haue her request fulfylled, brought him a pen, and ynke, and Paper: with earnest intreaty, to make some verses vpon what matter he though best himselfe: he very vnwilling to write, not knowing of a sodayne, how to please them al in vearse, and yet desirous to graunt all their requestes, with muche adoe, was in the ende in­treated to wryte, as followeth.

WHat? shal I write som prety toy, wil that like Ladies best?
Or shall I pen ye prayse of one fayre dame, aboue the rest?
Or shall I wryte at randon else, what fyrst coms in my brain?
No, no: for words once flowen abroade, can not be cald againe.
Why then since none of these will serue, what other kind of stile
shall I picke out to wryte vpon? now sure I [...]éedes must smile,
To thinke vpon my béetle brain, that can no fruite bring forth,
But such baldictum rimes as these, as are not reading worth.
Fayth Ladies but for shame, I would not write one word at al,
In ryme (at least) because you sée, my reason is so smal.
But since it is such as it is, in déede small and to small,
I must desyre you for this once, to stand consent withall.
And take the same in as good parte, as if a wyser man
Had better done: because you sée, I doe the best I can.
And more then can, you cannot craue: for if you doe of mée,
Before you aske be sure to goe without, I promise yée.
But any thing that well I [...], commaund you all of me,
And I will doe the best I can, to please each one of ye.
And thus as humbly as I can, I craue of you to lend,
Your pacience to my rudenesse this, and so I make an ende.
[Page]Full sory that I cannot wryte, so fynely as I would,
To like your fancies all alyke, for if I could, I would.
And so agayne fayre Ladies all, in curteous sorte I craue,
As I deserue your fauours so, and friendships let me haue.

¶Not many dayes after, he saw a Gentle­woman in the house, whom he accoumpted his deare Mistresse beginne to shew her euell countenaunce without cause, and to make very much of another, whome he thoughte very vnwor­thy of such good happe: and being not a little agreeued to see himselfe causlesse to grow dayly so much out of countenaunce, and his aduersary so vnworthely esteemed: wrote one daye a­mong other, halfe a sheete ofPaper in verse: wherein he priuily shewed his aduersaries vnworthynesse, his Mistresses inconstā ­cy, and his owne euill happe: and finding a fitte tyme, deliuered the wryting to his sayde Mistresse: which, howe shee tooke in worth, that restes: the verses were these.

WHen Flattery falles to play the [...]lée [...]ing Knaue,
And tryed trust is put out of conceite:
And cogging crafte, by subtill shiftes can haue,
The gaynes, for which doth faythfull seruice w [...]ight.
Then déepe deceite, must néedes possesse the parte,
That doth in déede belong to due desarte.
When fond suspect, shall cause a faythfull friend,
To déeme amisse of friend, without desarte,
And coye conceite, shall cause a fynall end,
Of friendship there, where friendes were linkte in harte.
Then double dealing must of force preuaile,
To winne reward, and faythfull friendship faile.
When men are scornde, and shadowes are estéemde,
And shels are saude, and Kernels cast away:
And deedes be done, and wordes for deedes be déemde,
And outward brauery beares the bell away.
Then honest meaning must goe chaunge his minde,
Or else is sure a colde reward to finde.
But when in déede, vyle Flattery false is found,
And tryed trust doth reape his due reward:
And deepe deceite, is digged vnder ground,
And cogging crafte, can get no tale be harde.
Then right may haue, that reason doth requyre,
And due desarte, may haue his deepe desyre.
Lo, thus deare Dame, this for my selfe I wryte,
My troth I trow, your selfe haue tryed well:
For which (alas) I reape nought but despight,
The iust cause why, God knowes, I cannot tell.
Except by stealth, some fléering flattering Knaue,
Hath got the gaynes, which I deserue to haue.
Or else perhaps, some false suspect hath bread
Mislyking some, of me without desarte:
Or coye conceite hath entred in your head,
To hate the man, who honoures you in harte,
Or double dealing, séekes some secreate meane,
Betwixt true friendes, true loue to banish cleane.
Or else I doubt some shadow of a man,
In my despight some gallaunt wordes hath vsde:
On whome I vow to doe the best I can,
To seeke reuenge, where I am so abusde.
Wherefore good Lady, if such any bée.
I humbly craue, hyde not his name from mée.
That I with spéede may giue him his desarte,
Or else receaue my iust and due reward:
For then when you shall see my honest harte,
I doe not doubt your harte will be so harde.
But you at last, although fyrst somewhat long,
Will make amendes to me for euery wrong.
And thus in hope, no false and fonde suspect,
Of liking yours, shall cause such sodeine chaunge:
And that you will such coye conceites reiect,
As to your friend, doe make you séeme so straunge.
I rest the tyme that reason doth requyre,
When my desarte may haue his déepe desyre.

¶ Not long after seeing his Aduersary still creeping in countenaunce, and himselfe almost excluded: sitting on a day alone in his Chamber, thinking of the despight of For­tune, & the want of discrecion, in his discourteous Dame: wrote in haste these verses following.

OH what a spight it is, vnto a noble harte,
To sée a scabbe without all due desarte.
With no account of credit, nor of fame,
To winne the loue, of any gallant Dame.
Which valiant hartes, with trauayle great and payne,
Hauè much adooe, long tyme for to obtayne.
My selfe I count of valiancie but small,
Yet such as may my credit well defend:
And such as in my Mistresse honour shall
Be well content, with spéede my lyfe to spende.
Which, let me spende, and spende, and spend agayne,
Yet shall another sucke my sugred gayne.
With much adoe, I once did fauoure winne,
Of one in deede, a fayre and gallante Dame:
Which my good happe no sooner did beginne,
But by and by, to ouerthrow the same,
A priuy Patch, a whoreson skuruy Knaue,
Inioyed the fruictes, that was my righte to haue.
His fléering face, her péeuish fancye pleasde,
My tryed troth was put of conceyte:
He gladde, I sadde, he well, and I diseasde,
He caught the Fish, for which I layde the bayte.
He idle sate, and nothing did all day,
And yet at night did beare the Bell away.
But since I see, that cases so fall out,
That valyaunt hartes so little are regarded:
And gallaunt Dames will séeme to loue a Loute,
And let a noble youth goe vnrewarded.
I will no more henceforth such trauayle spende
In cases such, and so I make an ende.

Not many dayes after, seeing his Mistresse discourteous dealing, began to put her away, and chuse himselfe an other Mistresse: and being then in the Christmas tyme, pre­sented his new Mistresse, with a new yeares Gifte, in this sorte.

THis little Toye to thée, for wante of better shifte,
I here presume for to present, as a small Newyeares gifte.
The value small whereof, weigh not I humbly craue,
But take in worth his great good will, whose friendly harte you haue.
To vse braue vaunting words, will winne naught but disdain.
But valiant déeds with words but few, be they that credit gain.
[Page]Therefore for to be bréefe, thus much I doe protest,
That if to worke your harts content, within my power it rest:
Commaund what so thou wilt, if I denye the same,
God let me neuer haue good looke, of any noble Dame.
But you perhaps will thinke, these wordes are all but wynde:
But doe not so: first trye, then trust, and fancy as you fynde.
And let not false suspect, once cause you for to deeme,
That there is any one alyue, whome I doe more estéeme.
But as I doe protest, so count me your deare friend,
Who lykes, who loues, who honours you: & so I make an end.

¶A verse or two written Extempore, vppon a sighe of a Gentlewoman.

I Sigh to sée thée sigh, the iust occasion why,
God knowes, and I perhappes can gesse vnhappily.
But whatsoeuer I thinke, I meane to let it passe,
And thus in secrete sorte, to thinke vnto my selfe (alas)
Poore little seely soule, God quickly comforte thée,
Who could his sighes refrayne, a Dame in such sad sorte to see:
The cause whereof I gesse, but not the remedy:
I would I could a medicine frame, to cure thy mallady.
For if it were in mée, or if it [...] bée,
To doe the thing oh noble Dame, in déede to comforte thée,
My hart, my hand, my sword, my purse, which (though) but smal
At your commaund I offer here, all ready at your call.
Of which if any shrinke, when you vouchsafe to trye,
As I deserue, disdayne me then, and God then let me dye.
And thus from honest harte, as one your faythfull friend,
In few vnfayned friendly wordes, farewell: and so an ende.

¶Verses written vpon this occasion: a yong Gentleman, falling in loue with a fayre yong Damsell, not knowing how to make manifest vnto her, the greate good wyll he bare her, vsing certayne talke vnto her, in the end of her talke demaunded of her, whether she could or no: she answered yea, vpon her which yea, he wrote these verses following, and found time to present them vnto her presently, as he wrote them.

IF thou canst reade, then marke what here I wryte?
And what thou readst, beléeue it to be true:
And doe not thinke, I doe but toyes indyte,
For it thou marke in tyme what doth insue,
Then thou ere long, perhappes shalt easily fynde,
The effect of that, that may content thy mynde.
And to be playne, I lyke and loue thée well,
And that so well, as better cannot be:
What should I say? I wish that I did dwell,
In place where I thy selfe mought dayly sée.
That yet at least, I mought inioy her sighte,
In whom doth rest the sta [...] of my delighte.

¶A Gentleman talking on a time with a yong Gentlewoman, being apparreled very plainly, she tolde him [...] was too playne for him, he must go seeke some gallanter [...] more meete for his tooth: to which, aunswering his mynde afterwarde, wrote vpon the same as followeth: and gaue them vnto her to reade.

WHen first I saw thée clad, in couloures blacke and whyte,
To gaze vpon thy séemely selfe, I tooke no small delight.
Thy blacke betokens modesty, thy whyte a Uirgins mynde,
And happy he may thinke himselfe, that such a one can fynde.
That which is paynted out, with colours fresh and gay,
Is of it selfe but little worth, the colours set away.
But that deserueth prayse, which of it selfe alone,
Can shew it selfe in playnest sorte, and craueth helpe of none.
What should I further say? let ech man choose his choyce,
Though some in paynted toyes delight, in playnnesse I reioyce.
And why? because my selfe am playne, as you doe sée,
And therefore to be playne with you, your plainnesse liketh me.
The playnnesse of your mynde, and eke your playne attyre,
For gaye and gallaunt Cotes is not, the thing that I desyre.
But noble gallaunt minde, and yet too there with plaine,
For now and thē in gallant [...], doth déepe deceite remaine.
But for in you fayre Dame, both noble gallant minde,
And therwith meaning playne in déede, I now do plainly finde.
Chuse others what they list, this playnly I protest,
Your gallant minde in playne attyre, it is that likes me best.

❧A comparison betweene a slippery stone, and a trustlesse friend.

AS he that treades on slippery stones, is like to catch a fall,
So he that trustes to trothlesse friends, shal il be delt withal.
But he that lookes before he leapes, is lykest sure to stande,
So he that tryes or ere he trust, shall be on surer hande.
But once foūd out a good sure ground, kéepe there thy footing fast
so charyly kéep a faithful friend, whose friendship tride thou hast
for as some grounds that séeme ful sure, in time wil much decay
so som false friends yt séeme ful true, at néede will shrink away.
And as within some rotten groundes, some hidden holes we sée,
So in the hartes of faythfull friendes, so many mischiefes bée.
Therefore I bréefely bidde my friends, for to beware in tyme,
For feare of further after clappes, and so I end my ryme.

❧A Dolorous discourse.

IF he who lingers forth a loathsome lyfe,
In weary wyse, exprest with endlesse woe:
To whome care still standes [...] hackeling knyfe,
To teare the harte that is tormented so:
Who neuer felte one howre, nor sparke of ioy,
But deepe lyes drownde in Gulfe of foule annoy.
Whom Fortune euer frownde on in his lyfe,
And neuer lent one lucky looke at all:
With whome the Moone and Starres are all at stryfe,
Who all in vayne doth dayly crye and call:
For comforte some, but yet receiueth none,
But to himselfe his gréefe must still bemone.
Whose gréefe first grew, in time of tender yeares,
And yet doth still continue to this daye:
Who all bexent doth chaunge, among the Breares,
And still hang fast, and cannot get awaye:
Who euery way which he doth séeke to goe,
Doth fynde some block, that doth him ouerthrow.
Who neuer was, is not, nor lookes to bée,
In way of weale, to ridde him of his woe:
Who day by day, by proofe too playne doth sée,
That Desteny hath sworne it shall be so:
That he must liue with tormentes so opprest,
And till he die, must neuer looke for rest.
If such a one may well be thought to be,
The onely man that knoweth misery:
I may well say, that I (poore man) am hée,
Who dayly so doe pyne in penury:
Whose heauy harte is so opprest with gréefe,
As vntill death doth looke for no reléefe.
To swim and sinke, to burne and be a colde,
To hope and feare, to sigh and yet to sing:
And all at once, are louers fyttes of olde,
To many knowen, to som [...] [...] common thing:
But still to synke, frye, feare, and alway sigh,
Are patterns playne, that death approcheth nigh.
And doest thou then swéete Death approch so neare,
Welcome my friend, and ease of all my woe:
A friend in déede, to me a friend most deare,
To ease my harte that is tormented so:
Happy is he who lightes on such a friend,
To bréede his ioyes, and cause his gréefes to end.

¶ A letter sente by a Gentlewoman in verse, to her Husband being ouer sea.

WHat greater gréefe, then léese a chéefest ioy?
Then why liue I, that lacke my cheefe delight?
My friend I meane, for whom thus in annoy,
In weary wyse, I passe both day and night.
For loe, a friend in déepest of distresse,
To friend doth yéeld, of euery gréefe redresse.
His company doth often driue away;
Such dolefull thoughtes as mought tormente the minde:
With friend, a friend, to passe ech dolefull daye,
Of comforte greate, may many causes finde.
A friend sometime, but with is only sight,
His dolefull friend doth many times delight.
No greater ease is to some heauy harte,
Yea, when it is with greatest gréefes opprest:
Then trusty friendes, to whome for to imparte,
Such cause of gréefe, as bréedes it such vnrest.
For ofte by telling of a dolefull tale,
The tongue doth ease, the breast of mickle bale.
If harte be glad, what myrth can then be more?
Then when true friendes doe méete with merry cheare,
The gréefe forgotte, of absence theirs before,
By presence had, doe soddaine ioyes appeare.
What shall I say? as I begone I ende,
No ioye to loue, no gréefe to losse of friend.
Then my sweete friend in this my déepe distresse,
Let me inioy thy company agayne:
For thou alone must purchase my redresse,
And ease my harte, that thus doth pyne in payne.
Thou arte the friend, that euen but with thy sight,
Mayest me poore soule, thy dolefull friend delight.
What now can ease my pyning pensiue harte,
Thus day and night with tormentes sore oppreste:
Then vnto thée, my friend for to imparte,
Such cause of gréefe, as bréedes me such vnrest.
For ofte by telling of this dolefull tale,
My tongue will ease, my brest of mickle bale.
If thou werte here, my harte that now is sadde,
To thinke on thée whose absence bréedes my wo:
With thoughts on thée, would soone become so glad,
As should forget those gréefes that gripe me so.
And as before, so now agayne I ende,
I feare to dye, for want of thée my friende.
Thou arte my friend, chiefe fr [...]end, and onely Feare,
My Iemme of ioy, my Iewell of delight:
God onely knowes, for thy swéete sake my deare,
How I in dole doe passe ech day and night.
Come therefore, come, with spéede come home agayne,
To comfort her, that thus doth pine in payne.
¶Thy louing Wyfe and faythfull friend, And so will bide, till life doe end.

¶ One sitting in dolefull dumpes by himselfe alone, thinking to haue written some dolorous discourse, was let by occasion: and so for wante of tyme, wrote but only syxe lynes and lefte them vnfinished: the verses were these. (I lyke them, and therefore thought good to place them amonge other imperfections.)

MY hand here houering standes, to write some prety toye,
My mourning mind for to delight, y wants al worldly ioye.
And Fancy offereth eke, fyne toyes for to indite vpon,
To comforte thus my heauy harte, that is thus woe begon.
But all in vayne, for why? my mind is so opprest with gréefe,
As all the pleasures in this world, can lend me no reléefe.
Finis imperfecta.

❧A dolorous verse written by him, that in deede was in no small dumpes, when he wrote them.

IF any man doe liue of ioyes berefte,
By heauens I sweare, I thinke that man am I:
Who at this hower no sparke of ioy haue lefte,
But leade a lyfe in endlesse mysery.
I sigh, I sobbe, I cannot well expresse,
The gréefes I byde, without hope of redresse.
So many are the causes of my griefe,
That day by day tormentes my mourning mynde,
As that almost there can be no reléefe,
To ease my harte, till ease by death I fynde.
What shall I say? what pangues but I abyde?
What pleasure that, but is to me denyde?
What sappe of sorrow but I dayly taste?
What mite of myrth, that I can once attayne?
What foule despight doth follow me as faste,
To plague my harte with pangues of deadly payne?
Ten thousand Poets cannot paynt the smarte,
That I abyde within my harmelesse harte.
And why doe I by pen then séeke to shew,
The passing pangues that I doe dayly byde?
The pangues I paynt by pen (God wot) are few,
Comparde to those, which I on euery syde,
Am fayne to féele: and that is worst of all,
Without all hope of any helpe at all.
Then you alas, that reade this mourning vearse,
Waye with your selues what loathsome lyfe I leade:
And let your hartes some sparke of pitty p [...]arce,
To see me thus (as one amazde) halfe dead.
Striuing for lyfe, desyring still to dye,
And yet perforce must pyne in penury.
And thus an end of wryting here I make,
But not an end of mourning, God he knowes:
For when I seeke one [...]orrow to forsake,
Another gréefe a new as freshly growes.
So that of force my selfe I must content,
To dwell in dole, vntill my dayes be spent.

❧A Gentleman hauing made promise vnto his Mistresse, to come vnto her vpon a certayn appoynted day, to doe her seruice, brake promise with her, but the next day fol­lowing, thinking her haste of necessitye so great, but then he might come soone ynough to accomplishe such matters as hee was wonte to doe, came: and confessing his faulte of breach of promise, professing it agaynst his wil, shewing his earnest desire of more haste, craued pardon and recouery of credit loste, in verse as followeth.

THough yesterday I brake my word, & therby purchasd blame
Yet now too day, as you may sée, I come to kéepe the same.
And though this be not halfe ynough, my fault to counteruaile,
Yet do not you my word mistrust, though once my promise fails
For if ye knew the vrgent cause, that kepte me so away,
And therewith saw mine earnest haste, to come agayne this day
For to recouer credit lost: I doe my selfe assure,
With little sute I should ywis, your pardone soone procure.
Well, to be shorte, I hope no harte is of such crueltye,
But that in an offender, will regard humillitye.
And since that noble Ladies all, are pittifull by kinde.
Let some remorce good Lady mine, take roote within your mind
And doe not me your seruaunt poore, for one smal fault disdaine,
But let me by my due desarte, your fauour get agayne.
And though yt once I brake my word, in matters of smal weight
Yet thinke not therefore otherwyse, in me to rest deceight.
For in a case of credit loe, wherein my worde I giue,
If that I shrinke or eate my word, then God let me not liue.
And if in me to doe you good, by word or deede it rest,
Unto my power, I solemne vow doe make, to d [...]e my best.

¶A Gentleman being on a time desyred of diuers of his friendes sitting togeather in companye, to make some verses, which he graunted, and yet not knowing howe to please them al, and yet willing to perfourme his promise, wrote as followeth.

SOme pleasaunt heades delight in prety toyes,
And some count toyes, most méete for foolish boyes.
Some greatly loue to heare a merry ryme,
Some stately styles, which doe to honour clyme.
Some loue no rymes, what euer so they bée,
And some mens mindes, with verses best agree.
Thus euery one hath by himselfe a vayne,
Which all to please, it were to great a payne.
Which since I sée tis farre too much for mee,
To wryte what may with all mindes best agrée.
I thinke it best since I haue nothing don,
To make an ende of that is scarce begon.
So shall I well my promise p [...]st fulfill,
In wryting thus according to my skill.
Which promise made of myne, I trow was this,
To wryte a ryme, and heare a ryme there is.
Wherein although but little reason be,
Yet ryme [...]re is, and sence ynough for me.

¶A prety Epigram, vpon Welth and Will.

WHere Welth doth want, there Will can beare no sway,
And where Will wants, there Welth can make no way.
In many thinges Welth greatly rules the roste,
In some things too, selfe will, will beare a sway.
To winne the wager, Welth will spare no cost,
Which to subuerte, Will worketh many a waye:
And in the end let welth [...] what he can:
Yet commonly Will standes the stowter man.

¶A Gentleman marking his Mistresse an­gry countenaunce without cause, tolde her of it in verse as fol­loweth.

BY countenaunce of face a [...] may fynde,
(I say fayre Dame, by outward view of face)
Such sundry thoughtes as occupye the mynde:
Sometime by one, and este another grace.
Looke with that thoughtes the mynde is aye possessed,
Straight by the l [...]kes, the same is playne expr [...]ed.
The frowning face, declares a froward harte,
And skouling browes a sullen stomack showes:
The glauncing lookes of priuy grutch a parte,
Which hidden lyes within the harte, God knowes.
The staring looke declares an earnest minde,
The trouling eye, vnconstant as the winde.
The smy [...]king looke declares a merry minde,
When smyling lookes are for [...] from heauy harte:
For some can smyle, that in their hartes could fynde,
To wéepe (God wot) of gréefe to ease their smarte.
But who so smirking smyles with mery cheare,
That counten [...]unce sh [...]wes, that some good newes is neare.
Some fynely vse a wincking kinde of wyle,
Some looke alofte, and some doe still looke downe:
And so [...]e can fayne a frowning kinde of smyle,
And some can smyle that in their hartes doe frowne,
And so doe I, and so doe many moe,
That laugh sometime, when we could wéepe for woe.
But euery looke, a meaning doth declare,
Some good, some had, some mery, and some sad:
The countenaunce shewes how euery one do [...]h fare,
Some gréefe, some ioy, some sullen, and some mad.
And though that many be by lookes deceyued,
Yet by the lookes, are meaninges playne perceyued.

❧Some other Gentlewomen in the compa­ny, angry with this toye: pleasde with these prety verses follo­wing,

AH be not angry so, my wordes were but in iest,
And more then that, I ment them not, by you I doe protest.
I saw no lookes to light, nor frowning ouermuch,
Nor any such like sullein lookes, as might shew inward grutch.
Nor smyling wantonly, but with such modesly,
As might declare a merry minde, but with sobriety.
[Page]But such as séeme to p [...]ute, without iust cause in déede,
Or else vpō their friends wil fayn, a frowning more then néede.
Or giglet lyke will laugh, or else with anger swell,
And deale in lookes disdaynfully, with them that wish them wel
Gaynst such it is I wright, but none of you are namde,
Then do not you accuse your selues, and you may go vnblamde.
And this what I haue sayd, take well in worth therefore,
If I did ill agaynst my will, I will doe so no more.

¶A prety toye written vpon Tyme.

AS I of late this other day, lay musing in my bed,
And thinking vpon sundry toyes, that then came in my hed.
Among the rest I thought vpon, the setting out of Tyme,
And thinking so vpon the same, I wrote this ragged ryme.
Tyme is set out with head all balde, saue one odde [...]lock before,
Which lock if once you do let slip, then looke for Tyme no more.
But if you hold him fast by that, and stowtly doe him stay,
Then shall ye know how he doth passe, before he goe his way.
And if you kéepe him tyde by that, good seruice will he doe,
In euery worke what so it be, that you will put him to.
So that you looke vnto his worke, that he not ydle stand:
For if he doe, some Knauish worke, himself will take in hand.
And thē twere better want the knaue, thē haue him serue you so
When you do think he doth you good, yt he should work your wo.
I reade besydes he paynted is, with winges forsooth to flye,
And Mower lyke with Sythe in hand, and working earnestly.
And in his worke still singing thus: This da [...]e I boldly say,
Saue Vertue, all thinges I cut downe, that stand within my way.
[Page]But Vertue neuer will decay, she goes before me still,
But since I cannot, let her stand, Ile cut else where my fill.
But tis no matter, hold him fast, by that same lock I say,
And neither words, nor yet his wings, shal help him get away.
By chance my selfe haue caught him fast, but euē this other day,
And by that locke I hold him fast, for slipping yet away.
And by that locke as thus aduisde, I meane to hold him so,
But I will knowe or ere he passe, which way he meanes to go.
And since I caught him so, I thinke he hath not ydle stood,
But somewhat he is doing still, although but little good.
And as this morning I by chance, did sée him ydle stande,
I thought it good to make him take, a Pen and Inck in hande.
And hauing little else to doe, to spende a little tyme,
In true discription of himselfe, to pen this trifling ryme.
Which time nor well, nor yet ill spent, stands til an other time,
Some better seruice for to doe, and so I ende my rime.

❧A prety Discourse of a hunted Harte, Written by a Gentleman, vnto his Mistresse.

TO reade a dolefull tale, that tels of nought but greefe,
And of a man that pynes in payne, and lookes for no releese.
Whose hope of death seemes sweete, & dread of lyfe seemes sower,
Who neuer bid one merry month, one weeke, one day, or hower.
In such a tale I say, if any doe delight,
Let him come read this verse of myne, that here for troth I wright.
And though the speech seeme darke, the matter shall be playne,
And he pore wretch of whō it treates, to well doth feele the paine.

❧A prety Discourse of a hunted Hart.

THere is a pretye Chase, wherein doth rest a Hart,
Wherin for his abode (poore wretch) he kéepes one only part.
Adioyning to this chase, there is a prety place,
where stands a Lodge, wherin doth dwel, the Lady of the chase.
This Lady now and then for sport, somtime for spight,
To hunt this s [...]lly harmlesse Harte, doth take a great delight.
And how? with houndes (alas) and when she huntes for sport [...],
With little Whelps that cānot bite, she hunts him in this sort.
Two little whelpes I say she casteth of at once,
To course and eke to feare him with, as méetest for the nonce.
And with these little whelps, she bringes him to the bay
And then at bay she takes them vp, and let him goe his way.
And if for spight she hunt, she takes another way:
She casteth of no little whelps, to bring him to the bay.
But cruell byting Curres: at once she castes of all,
And with those cruell cankred Curres, she followes him to fall:
And being (falne poore wretch) pyning in extreame payne,
She casteth of her cruell curres, and lets him ryse agayne
Untill she hunts agayne, to make her selfe like sporte,
And then euen as she is disposde, she huntes him in lyke sorte.
Thus liues this harmlesse Harte, opprest with endlesse wo,
In daunger still of death by Dogges, and yet cannot dye so.
And neyther daye nor night, he féedeth but in feare,
That these same Dogs should lye in wayte, to course him euery where.
Thus restlesse restes this Harte, and knowes not how to rest,
Whose hope of death in midst of course, is it that likes him best.
God sende him better rest, or spéedy death at least,
To rid him of his great vnrest, and bréede him quyet rest.

❧The meaning of the Tale.

BUt wherto tendes this Tale? what first may meane this Chase?
And then the Harte, which in ye same doth keepe one only place?
The Plot where standes the Lodge, the Lodge, and then the Dame,
which hunts the Harte: & last the Dogs which do pursue the game?
A meaning all they haue: which meaning I must showe?
And that so plaine as in each point, the meaning you may knowe.
My Carkase is the Chase, my Harte the sellye Harte:
Which for his rest, my woefull brest, doth keepe that onely parte.
The Platte where standes the Lodge, my Head I count that place:
My Minde the Lodge, my Loue the Dame, & Ladie of the Chase.
Her Dogges of diuerse kindes, that doo my Harte pursue,
Sometime to baye, sometime to fall, are these that doo ensue.
And first the Dogges, with which shée huntes sometime for sport
To bring my Harte vnto the baye, and leaue him in that sort.
Are these beleeue mee nowe: Discountenaunce is the fyrst.
The seconde is Discourtes [...]e, and of the two, the worst.
Discountenaunce hee comes first, and feares mée in this wyse:
He hangs his lyppe, holds downe his head, & lookes vnder his eyes.
And with that angry looke, hee feares mée in such sort,
That I maye not abyde the same, and then beginnes the sport.
For then shée casteth of Discourtesse that Curre:
And then do what I can, alas, my Harte beginnes to sturre.
And weerie halfe at laste, I stande with them at baye:
and so at baye for my defence: I somewhat gynne to saye.
Which sayde, shee then takes of those hylding Curres againe.
And leaue mée tyll shée hunt againe, thus pyning all in paine:
And nowe the Cruell Curres, with which shée takes delight,
To hunt my Hart euen tyll he fall, are these: not first, Despight,
But fowle Disdaine: then hée, which Curres do course him soe,
That to the fall they bring mée ofte, and yet then let mée goe:
So that my Harte doth lyue, but howe? alas, in dreade
Of these same deuillish Dogges: & so styll shall, tyll I bée dead.
[Page]Who would not blame this Dame, that thus without desart.
With these her cruell cankred Curres, doth hunt this séely Hart,
And curse those cruell Curres, that thus doe make her sport:
Both day and night without cause why, doe hunt him in such sort.
And wish this séely Hart with endeles griefes opprest,
To scape the daunger of the Dogges, and finde some quiet rest,
But wish who li [...]t to wish, except that you, déere Dame,
Among the rest do wish that wish, no wish wyl helpe the same.
But if that you in déede, so wish among the rest,
And hartely do wish that wish, your wish wyll helpe him best.

❧A straunge Dreame.

¶VVho so he be on earth, that wisely can deuine
Vppon a Dreame: come shewe his skyl, vpon a Dreame of mine,
VVhich if that well he marke, sure he shall finde therein,
Great misteries I gage my lyfe, which Dreame did thus begin.
ME t [...]ought I walked too and fro, vpon a hilly land,
So long, tel euen with wéerinesse, I could wel scarcely stand
And wéery so (mee thought) I went to leane against an Oke,
Where leaning but awhyle, mée thought, the tree in peeces broke.
From which, me thought, to saue my life I lightely skipt away,
And at the first, the sight thereof my senses did dismay:
But when I stayed so a whyle, and looked rounde about,
And sawe no other dreadfull sight, I knewe not what to doubt,
But to some house (mée thought) alas, I wisht my selfe full fayne:
But when I looke, and could not see one house vpon the playne:
[Page]Good Lord (thought I) where am I nowe▪ what desart place is this
Howe came I here? what shall I doo▪ my hart full fearefull is.
And therewithall (mée thought) I [...]ll flat downe vppon my knée:
And humble praiers made to God, on highe to comfort mée.
And praying so, vppon my knées, mée thought, there did appeare
A gallaunt Lady, all in white, with mery ioyfull ch [...]re,
Holding a Citterne in her hand, wherewith to mée she came:
And gaue it mee desiring mée, to play vppon the same.
More halfe afeard, to sée this sight, O Lady fayre quoth I.
My skyll too simple is, God wot, to sound such hermony.
Yet playe quoth shee, the best thou canst, it shall suffice I say,
Doo thy good wyll, I craue no more, and therfore (pray thée) play.
With that, mée thought, I tooke the same, and sounded by and by,
Not knowing what I dyd myselfe, a Heauenly hermony,
Unto which tune the Lady then, so swéete a song did sing:
As if I coulde remember it, it were a Heauenly thing.
Of all which song one onely steppe I styll d [...]e bea [...] in minde,
And that was this: There is no ioye, vnto [...] of minde,
No plague, to pride: no woe, to want: no greefe, to lucklesse loue:
No foe to fortune: friend to God: no trueth, tyll [...]yall proue.
No Serpent, to sclaunderous tongue: no corsey vnto care.
No losse, to want of liberty: no griefes, to Cupids snare.
No foole, to fickle fantasy, that turnes with euery winde.
No torment, vnto Ielosy, that styll disturbes the minde.
Lo, this was all I bare in minde, the rest I haue forgot:
Unto my greife, O God he knowes: but since I haue it not,
Well, let it passe: this Lady fayre when she had sung her song,
She layde mee downe a Napkin fayre vppon the ground along:
As white as snowe: which when I sawe, I m [...]zed what she ment:
But, then (mée thought) frō thence, againe a lyttle space she went,
And calde mee thus? hoe maides I say? when wyll you come away.
Tis time that dinner redy were: tis very nere middaye:
Wherwith, mée thought, from out no house, but frō a bushy bancke.
came out eight Damsels, all in white: two and two in a rancke:
In order right: and euery one, a fine Dish in her hand,
Of sundry meates, some this, some that, and down vpon the land:
[Page]They layde mée downe their Delycates, wheras this Napkin lay▪
Which done, fowre of thē staied styl, the rest went straight away,
Unto the place frō whence they came, the Bushy Banke (I meane)
And sodenly, I wot not howe, they all were vanisht cleane.
But, to goe onwardes with my Dreame, in order briefe I wyll,
To make discourse of these fowre Dames, behind that staied styl,
First, one of them fell downe on knée, and solempnely sayde Grace:
Another, shee with Pleasant Herbes, bestrowed all the place.
The thirde▪ shée with a Bason fayre▪ of water swéete did stande,
The fourth, demurely stoode, and bare a Towell in her hand,
I standing styll, as one amazd, to sée so straunge a sight:
Yet séeing nothing, but might serue my minde for to delyght,
The Lady (Mistris) of them all, that kept her Royall seate
Rose vp, and comming towardes mee, did greately mée entreate,
To come vnto her stately b [...]rde: séeing me styll yet to stand
Amazed so, s [...]e [...] he [...] selfe, and tooke mée by the hand.
Come on, and [...] downe, quoth shée, be not afrayde I say,
And [...]ate quoth [...], for well I knowe, thou hast not dinde to daye.
Fayre Dame, quoth I▪ I cannot eate, my stomacke serues mee not,
Therefore I pardon craue: quoth she, thou art affraide I wot:
To see this seruice here so straunge: indéede, tis straunge to thee,
For men, but [...], or none, d [...]e come our seruice here to sée.
And h [...]py [...]hou m [...]ist thinke thy self, that thou [...]amst here this day,
Fo [...] [...]ery fewe [...] byll, can hap to hyt the way.
We liue within these desart woodes, lyke Ladies all alone,
With M [...]sicke, passing forth the day, and [...]ellows we haue none,
Wée are not like the wretches of the world, in many a place,
That many si [...]es, for feare or shame, dare scarsly shew their face.
We spende the day in fine disport, somtime, with Musicke sweete,
Somtime with Hunting of ye Hart, somtime, as we thinke meete,
With other Pastimes, many one: somtyme with pleas [...]nt talke.
We passe ye tyme, somtime for sport, about the Fyelds we walke,
With Bowe and Arrowes (Archar like,) to kill the stately Déere,
Which being slayn, we roste & bake, & make our selues good chéere
Our meate, we roste againe the Sunne, wee haue none other fire,
Swéete water Springs, do yéelde vs drinke, as good as we desire.
[Page]For herbs and roots, we haue great store, here growing in the wood,
wherwith we many dainties make, as we our selues thinke good▪
In Sommer time, our Houses here: are Arbers made of Trees,
About the which in sommer time, do swarme such Hiues of Bée▪
As leaues vs then, of hony sweete, such store as well doth serue,
In stéede of Sugre, all the yeare, our fruictes for to preserue.
Besides, they yeld vs store of waxe which from the Hiues we take:
And for our lights, in winter nights, we many Torches make.
For then our houses all are Caues, as well thy selfe shalt see,
UUhen thou hast dinde, for I my self, wil go and shew them thée,
Therefore, be bolde and feare no more, for thou [...]halt go with mee,
From perils al, within this place, I wyll safeconduct thee:
And tast of one of these same herbes, which thou thy selfe likst best,
The fayrest flower, trust me oft times▪ is not the hulsomme [...].
But as for these same herbes, or flowers, [...]
There is not one, but is right good, [...]
Take wher thou lyst I geue thée leaue▪ [...]
pul of thy gl [...]ue, & wash thy hands. [...] maid broug [...]t m [...]
A bason fayre, of water cleare, which ga [...] [...] so sweete:
That credit me, mée thinkes almost, that I doe smell it yet.
UUherein I softly dipt my hands, and straight to wipe the same,
Uppon her arme, a towel brought, an other gallant dame.
Of whome. I could none other doe, but take in court [...]ous sorte,
UUith humble thankes, for seruice suche, and so for to be short.
UUith reuerence done, vnto the Dame, who kept her [...] seate▪
I sat me downe: and hongerly (mée thought) I fell to eate.
First of a S [...]let, that mée thought, hard by my trencher stoode:
UUhereof at first, mee thought the tast, was reasonable good.
But being downe, if left (alas) a bitter tang behinde:
Then that I left, and thought to taste, some herbes of other kind,
And there withall, I gan of her, in humble sort to craue,
The roote, that I had tasted so, what name the same might haue▪
It is Repentaunce roote, quoth shee, whose taste, though bitter bée:
Yet in the Spring time, holsome [...]is▪ and very rare to see:
But, in the ende of all the yeare, when it is nothing worth▪
In euery foolishe fielde it growes, to shewe the braunches forth.
[Page]But, if the taste thou lykest not, then set awaye the same,
And taste of somwhat else, quoth she, & straight (at hand) a Dame.
Stoode réedy by, at her commaunde, to take the Dish away:
Which done, then of an other herbe, I gan to take a say,
Which better farre did please my taste, wherof I fedde o [...] well.
Good Lady, quoth I, of this herbe vouchsafe to mée to tell
The proper name? This holsome herbe: is called Hope (quoth shée)
And happy [...]e who of this herbe, can get a peece of mée,
This herbe preserues the life of man, euen at poincte of death.
whē they are spéechles, often times, this herbe doth l [...]nd thē breth.
This driues Dispaire, frō brainsick heds, this salueth many a sore:
This is releife, to euery greife, what vertue can be more?
Féede wel theron, quoth she, and thou shalt [...]nde such ease of mind,
As by no meanes, but onely that, is possible to finde.
O Lady fayre quoth I, I humble thanckes doe yeilde,
For this thy friendly fauour great, but nowe, if to the fyelde,
Wheras this herb so rare doth grow, if you wyl deigne (faire dam [...])
[...] to conducte: and shewe mee eake, the true roote of the same,
Twise happy shal I thincke my selfe, that thus by chaunce I found,
So courteouse a noble Dame, and such a fertyl grounde.
The roote (quoth she) yes, thou shalt sée, when thou hast dinde anon,
Both roote and herbe & [...]ake the ground, which it doth grow vpon.
Dine Lady, quoth I, I haue dinde: this herbe hath fyld mée so,
That when you wyll, I ready am vnto that grounde to goe.
Which gr [...]unde, and roo [...]e for to behould, I haue so great desire,
That tyll I sée the sam [...], mée thinkes, my hart is styll on fyre.
Well, then quoth shée, since after it I sée thou longest so,
I wyll my dinner shorter make, and with thée I wyll goe,
And bring thée to the place, where thou both roote and herbe shalt sée:
And gather eake a peece therof, and beare awaye with thee.
And therwith from the boorde shée rose, and tooke mée by the hand,
And led mée ouerthwart, mée thought, a peece of newe digd land,
And so from thence into a wood, in midst wherof, mee thought:
Shee brought mée to a greate wilde Maze, which sure was neuer wrought
By Gardeners hāds, but of it self, I rather gesse it grew,
The order of it was so straunge, of troth, I tell you true.
[Page]Well, in, into this Maze we went: in midst whereof wée founde,
In comly order, well cut out, a pre [...]y péece of grownde,
The portrayture whereof, was lyke the body of a man,
which viewing well, foorthwith mee thought thys Lady gan▪
To knéele her downe vpon the grounde, hard by the body loe,
and there she shewed mée the herbe, that I desired soe:
And [...]ake the order howe it grewe▪ which viewing well at last,
Shée brake a péece, and gaue it mée to take therof a taste,
Fresh frō ye groūd: which d [...]n straight way, wel now ye roote qd she,
Thou lookest for: but stay a whyle, and th [...] it strayght shalt see,
The roote is like an other root [...], but onely that in n [...]e:
In difference from all other rootes: and to declare the same,
When thou hast séene it▪ thou shalt knowe: [...] therwithal quoth shee▪
Come heere, beholde the roote which thou desirest so to see:
And therwith digging vp a [...], shee [...] verye pl [...]ne,
The fashion of it howe it grewe, and [...] she [...] agayne
The Turfe in place, wheras it was: O Lady fayre quoth I.
If one should seeme to cut the roote, [...] [...]ould y herb then dye?
No no quoth shee, vntyll the roote be plucked quite a [...]ay:
the roote it selfe, [...] sure of this▪ wyll neuer quite [...].
Then would I cr [...] a péece therof (quoth [...]) O [...] D [...]e.
That I may knowe it, if againe, I cha [...]e to ta [...]e the same.
The taste quoth shee vnpleasaunt is, I tell thee that before:
But where the roote. doth rancor breed▪ ye herb [...] wyl [...] the sor [...].
But yet to make thee for to knowe, the taste therof, quoth shee,
She raisde the Turfe, and of the roote she brake a peece for mee:
And downe she layde the same againe, in order as she found.
That scarsely wel it could be seene, that shee had raisde ye ground.
Well, I had my desyre therein, but tasting of the same,
It was so bitter in my mouth, that to allaye the same,
I was full glad to take the herbe: which as t [...]e Dame did say,
The bitter taste of that vile roote, did quickly driue away.
And then in humble sort, quoth I, O fayre and courteous Dame,
Since that this roote, (as you doe say) doth differ much in nam [...]
From other rootes, O let mee knowe what his true name may bée▪
His name quoth she, Necessitie is, truely credit mée▪
[Page]And of these Rootes, some lesse then some: but bigger that they bée,
The more doth Hope spred forth his leaues: & som do go with mee.
Nowe I haue showne thee thy desyre, this hearb, this ro [...]te, & groūd,
I back again wyl bring thee to ye place, wher first thy self I found.
So to be short, we b [...]cke returnde vnto the place againe,
From whence we went, where sitting styll, attendant did remain
These fowre faire Dames, whom ther we left: But al y dishes they,
And what else on the Boorde was left, they al had borne away.
Well, being come vnto the place, vp rose they all at once:
And to this Ladie reuerence dyd, and lykely for the nonce.
They knew their Mistresse minde right well, her vse belike it was,
Of water cleere vpon the ground, they full had set a Glasse.
Hard by the Glasse, a Towell fayre, and by the Towell, Flower [...]:
Loe, Youth quoth she, how likst thou now this seruice heere of ours?
Coul [...]st thou thus lyke, to lyue in woods, & make thy chiefe repaste?
On hearbs▪ and rootes, as we do heere? or else the lyfe thou haste?
Troubled, tormented, euery howre, and that with endlesse griefe?
In [...]ope of helpe▪ and nowe againe, dispayring in reliefe?
Styll to reserue? We heere thou seest, do lyue in quietnesse:
Wée passe the tyme without all care, in myrth and ioyfulnesse.
Wée feare no foe, wée féele no woe, we dreade no daungers great,
we quake not here, with too much cold, nor burn with extréem heat.
UUe wish not for great heaps of gold, such trash we do despise,
We pray for health, & not for wealth: and thus in pleasant wyse
UUe spende the daye full ioyfully, we craue no rytch attyre:
This thinne white wéede, is euen asmuch, as we do héere desire.
UUée haue our Musicke sweete besydes, to sollace nowe and than
Our wéery minds, with other sports: and now, how saist thou man!
If thou mayst haue thy choyce, which wouldest thou rather do?
Leade heere thy lyfe, lyke one of vs, or else returne vnto
The loathsome lyfe, that now thou leadst? pause on this that I saye▪
If th'one thou chuse, héere tary styl: if th'other, hence away.
Thou must returne from whence thou comst, I put it to thy choyce:
If th'one thou chuse: of thy good happe, thou euer mayst reioyce:
But if thou chuse amysse: poore wretch, then thank thy self therfore,
Consider well, vpon my wordes: as yet I saye no more.
[Page]With that more halfe amazd [...] hereat still standing in a muze,
Not knowing what were best, to doe, to take or to refuze
The proffer made mée by this Dame, I humblye fell on knée:
Beseeching God, to graunt mée of his grace, to gouerne mee,
To make mée chuse that choyce, ye best mought please his holy wyll:
And sitting so in humble wise, on knée thus praying still,
The Dame expecting earnestly, some aunswere at my hand.
So long, quoth shée, vpon this choyce: why doo you studying stand?
Some aunswere briefely let mée haue, what euer so it bee:
What? wilt thou back retorne againe? or wilt thou bide with me?
One way fayre Dame, quoth I, I gladly here would staye,
And leade my life here styll with you: but nowe, another way,
Reason perswades mée, to returne: thus in a doubt twixt both,
I one way lou [...], the lyfe I led: another way I loth.
So that remayning thus in doubt, a certaine aunswere for to giue,
Whether backe agayne for to returne, or in these wods to liue
I most desire, I cannot sure: therefore I pardon craue,
And for an aunswere flat, I may some longer respit haue?
O no quoth she, I cannot graunt thée longer tyme, not nowe
To pause vpon these words of mine: and therfore since that thou
Wylt backe returne, loe, here behold, this narrow foote path here,
Go followe this, vntyll thou comst vnto a Temple néere:
Then leaue this pathe, and presently, crosse ouer to the same:
And there for further help frō thence, your praiers humbly frame
Unto Dame Pittie, and her tell, that strayght from mée you came,
And she wyll helpe you for my sake, Dame Patience is my name,
And for a token true, that you were sent to her by mée:
Say, Patience, vvyll Pittie moue, and she wyll credit thée:
And so farwell, when thou hast ben, a yéere or more away,
If thou wilt hither make returne, and be content to stay,
Though thou béest woūded many a way, & plagde with many a sor [...]
thou shalt haue ease of euery greef: & thē what wouldst haue more?
And so my Youth quoth shée, adue, I may no longer stay,
Haue good regard to this foote path, for feare thou goe astray:
And for a farewell, eare thou goest, to mee thy courteous friend,
In song come beare a part with mée, which being at an ende,
[Page]Then fare thou well: and therewithal an Instrument she tooke,
And bade one of her Maides with spéede▪ go fetch her forth a booke,
Which term [...]d was, T [...]e trackt of tyme, which by [...] by me thought,
Ere one coulde well say, thus it was: in humble wyse she brought,
UUith such an humble reuerence, doune to this noble Dame:
That sure it would haue do [...] one good, for to haue seene the same.
UUell, opening the Booke of Songs, and looking well therein:
At last she stayde, and on she playde, which Song dyd thus begin.
VVho seketh farre in Time shal find, great choyce of sūdry change,
In Time a man shall passe the Pikes, of peryls wonderous strange:
But he that trauaileth long Time, to seeke content of minde,
And in the ende in trackt of Time▪ his owne desire shall finde,
And being well, is not content, to keepe him where he is.
His Time is lost, vnworthy he to finde the place of blisse:
One Time, a fault may be forgeuen, but if thou once obtayne
the place of res [...]: marke well the way, vnto the same agayne.
For if thou once doe misse the way, or hast the same forgot,
thou wander mayst, a tediouse Time, & neare the neere, God wot:
Therefore in Time I warne thee well to haue a greate regarde:
the vvay thou goest, for to returne, for trust mee it is hard.
And so for vvant oflonger Time, I needes must make an ende,
take [...]ime enough, marke vvel thy vvay, and so farvvel my friend.
Tyll [...]ime, I see thee here againe, vvhich [...]ime let me not see,
tyl Time thou canst content thy self, to spend thy Time vvith me:
And so take [...]ime vvhile [...]ime vvyll serue, els [...]ime vvyl slyp avvay,
So once againe adewe quoth shee, I can no longer stay.
With y me thought this heauenly Dame, with all her maides was gon:
And I poore soule▪ vpon the hyll, was left so al alone:
Where taking héede, vnto the path, which shée had shewde mée so,
Crosse ouerthwart the hyll (mée thought) I gan to goe:
At foote whereof, harde by the path, mée thought a Riuer ran,
and down ye streame in a smale boat, me thought there came a mā
And by and by he calde to mée, to aske me if I would,
Come take a boat to crosse the streame? and if I would, I shoulde:
Nowe crosse the riuer strayght (mée thought) I sawe a beaten way,
Lykely to leade vnto some Towne, whereat I gan to stay:
[Page]But nought I sayd: and therwithal (mée thought) I plaine dyd sée,
The Dame who late had left mée quite, approching néere to mée.
And being néere come to mée, mée thought she stoutly sayde,
why do you lose your labour so? what cause hath héere you stayde?
Keepe on your way, and lose no Tyme, and happy sure art thou,
Thou tookst not boate or ere I came? but quite past danger now:
My selfe wyll bring thée thyther, where the Temple thou shalt sée,
wherto I gaue thee charge to go, and so (mée thought) quoth shee,
Come follow mée, and by and by no great waye we had gon.
But strayght she brought me to the hyll, this Temple stood vpon.
And ther (me thought) these words she said. Go knock at yōder dore
And say thou art a seely vvight, cast vp on sorrovvers shore:
Brought in the Barke of vvearie b [...]l [...], cast vp by vvaues of vvoe,
The Barke is burst, thou saude alyue, dost vvander too and froe.
To seeke some place of quiet rest, and vvandring so about
The hyl of Hope, vvhere Patience, dvvels, by chance thou foundest out,
From vvhome thou presently dost c [...]me a message to declare.
Beare this in minde, thou shalt get in, well warrant thee I dare.
And when thou comst into the Church, marke wel on the right hād▪
within the Quyre all cladde in why [...]e, doth Lady Pittie stande.
To whome with humble reuerence. saye this for thy behoue▪
I do beleeue that Patience, in tyme vvyl Pittie moue.
And thus this lesson I thèe leaue, which if thou heare in minde,
Assure thy selfe▪ straight at her handes, some fauor for to finde.
And thus, quoth shée, againe farewel, though me no more thou see,
Tyll backe thou dost returne againe, yet I wyll be with thee,
And guide thee so, where so thou goest, that thou thy self shalt see,
In many Melancholike moodes, thou shalt be help [...] by mee.
And therwithall, I knowe not howe, she vanished away,
And I vnto the Temple straight, began to take my way.
And to the doore, as I [...]ad charge me thought I came.
And tooke the ring▪ in my hand▪ and knocked at the same:
Who knocketh at the doore, quoth one? A silly vvight, quoth I,
Cast vp of late▪ on sorrovves shore, by tempests soddenly:
Brought in the barke of vveary bale, cast vp by vvaues of vv [...]e,
Since vvhen, to seeke some place of rest, I vvandred too and froe,
[Page]And vvandring so, I knevve not hovve, vnto a mount I came,
VVhereas I found in comely sort, a noble courteous Dame:
The Moūt is cald, the Hyl of Hope, where doth Dame Patience dwel:
From whome I come: Welc [...]me quoth he, I know the Lady wel.
With that the doore, was opened, and in (mée thought) I went,
Wherewith mée thought, I hard a voice, a sobbing sighe that sent,
Wherewith somwhat amazd, at first though greatly not afraide,
Styll staring round about (awhile) this stately Church, I stayde:
And as before Dame Patience, to mee at parting tolde,
Within the Quier, on the right hand (mée thought) I did behold
A gallant Dame, all clad in white, to whome for my behoue,
These wordes I sayde: Dame Patience, I Hope vvyll Pittie moue:
With that (me thought) this Lady saide, I know thy deepe distresse,
and for my friēd Dame Patience sake, thou shalt haue som redresse.
And therewithall, mée thought she sayde, vnto an aged sire,
Which in the Temple, hard by sate: Father I thee desire
To shewe this Youth, the perfect path vnto the place of rest,
Who long hath wandred vp & down, with torments sore opprest,
Dame Patience, hath stoode his friend, and sent him vnto mee,
To lend him helpe vnto this place, where he desires to bee:
Lady quoth he, I cannot go my selfe abrode to day,
But I wyll send, my seruaunt here, to shewe him the right way:
Whose company, if he wyll kéepe, beléeue mée he shall finde
In little time, a place that may right well content his minde.
Which if he doe not, yet let him, with him returne to mée,
And then my selfe, wyll go with him: it shall suffice quoth shée▪
Go sirra, quoth shée, followe well, his man where so he goes,
And take good heede, that in no wise, his company you loose:
For if you lose▪ his company, you lose your labour quite.
But followe him, your gaine parhaps, your trauyle shal requite.
His name quoth shée, True Reason is, my Father VVisdoms man,
Whome if you followe to the place of rest, conduct you can.
So sirra, quoth shee, go your wayes, be rulde by him I say:
And though [...]e leade you now & thē, through some vnplesant way
Yet followe him, where so he goes, doe as I bidde you doe:
And he in time, the perfect place of rest, can bring thée too.
[Page]And so, farewell Lady, quoth I, I humble thankes do geue,
To you and eke this good olde man: and sure whyle I do lyue,
You two I vowe, and eke besides the noble curteous Dame,
That sent mée hyther vnto you, Dame Patience by name:
In harte I euer honour wyll: And honest Reason loe.
For taking paines vnto the place of rest, with mée to goe,
To recompence his paines, I vowe, to stande his faithfull friende,
To followe him, and to be rulde by him vnto mine ende.
And if I seeke to slyppe from him, I wylling aye wyll bée,
That as he lyst, he shall doo due correction vpon mée.
So Lady, I my leaue doo take: And therewithall, me thought,
The good olde m [...]n, fast by the hande vnto the doore me brought▪
And at the doore (me thought) dyd part, this good olde man and I,
And Reason ▪ he came stepping forth, to beare me company:
Or else to leade me to the place, whereas we then should goe:
But as in euery mery moode, doth happe some sodaine woe.
So in this Dreame, as wee (me thought) were going on our waye▪
I knowe not well, at what (alas) we soddainly gan staye.
And staying so, a Phesant Cocke, harde by me I gan sée,
Which flying by me, crew so lowde, as that he waked mée.
And thus my Dreame was at an ende: which when that I awooke,
I tooke my penne, and as you see, I put it in my booke.
Which for the straungenesse of the same, surely perswadeth mée:
It doth some straunge effect pretende, what euer so it bée.
THe huge highe Mountaine fyrst of all? and then the broken Trée?
And then the Lady soddainly, that dyd appeare to mée?
The Napkin lying on the ground? and then the Dames that [...],
In order so, with Dishes all, vnto this noble Dame?
And wherfore onely fowre of them, went backe againe away:
And other fowre attendaunt styll, vpon this Dame dyd staye?
And what should meane the geuing of the Cytter [...]e, vnto mée
to playe vpon? and that my selfe should sound such Harmonie,
Which neuer playde on lyke before? and then the Song that shee,
Unto the tune that I so playde, dyd sweetly syng to mée.
[Page]Then what should meane the order that, the Maidens dyd obserue▪
As they vpon this stately Dame, attendaunt styll dyd serue?
The Bason, Towel, & the Flowres, wherwith shee strawd ye place?
And one alone among the rest, so humbly saying Grace?
What meant her stately keeping, of her royall Princely sca [...]e?
And what shee meant by bydding mée, to wash before I eate?
And when as one amazed so: shee dyd beholde mee stande:
What shee should meane to ryse her selfe, & take mee by the hand?
Then what should meane the bytter roote, that first I fed vpon:
And tasting of the herbe of Hope, the bytter taste was gon?
Then what should meane my great desyre, to see that herb to grow:
And how the Lady ledde mee straight: wheras shee mée dyd show
The herbe, the roote, the ground & all? and why I then dyd craue,
Of that same roote or ere I went, a lytle taste to haue?
Then what should meane the cutting vp the Turfe, to let mée sée
the roote? and then then the breaking of a peece thereof for̄ mée?
Then what shold meane ye laying down, the Turfe euē as she foūd,
So closely as could scarse be seene, that she had styrde the ground?
And then what ment, the greate wilde Maze, the Image of a man,
Whereas it grewe? and after that our backe returning than?
What ment the glasse of water, that at our returne wée founde:
The towel and the flowers best [...]es, downe lying on the ground?
Then what Dame Patience should meane, for to demande of mee.
Howe I did lyke her seruice there, and whether I coulde be
Content to lyue with her or not, or backe returne to chuse:
And that shee put it to my choice, to take or to refuse?
And backe returnde to my olde lyfe, then what she ment to say:
If well I chose, I mought reioyce, for to haue seene that day?
If contrary why then I mought, but thancke my selfe therefore?
And bad me pause vpon her words, and then would say no more?
Then what should meane my kneeling so, and praying then of mine
To God for grace, to take and chuse, to please his wyll diuine?
Then what the Lady ment in hast, as I was kneeling so,
To aske to that she did demaunde, an aunswere yea or no?
Then what my doubtfull answere meant, and pardon I dyd craue,
That for an aunswere flat, I might some longer respit haue?
[Page]And why she would no respit giue? then what the path way meāt?
And what she ment, in that she mée, vnto the Temple sent?
The lesson that she gaue mee then? and then Dame Pitty too?
And what besides at the Church doore, she further bad mee doo?
Then at our parting, the sweet song, which rāne of Tyme so much?
what y shold mean, & what should mean, our choice of musick such?
Her song once done, what then should meane the vanishing away,
Wherewith my selfe at first awhyle, amazed so did stay?
But going onwardes, on my way, what ment the riuer then,
That ran so néere the path? and then the Boate? and then the man?
And then what should be meant in that, he called so to mée,
To take a bote, to crosse the streame? the way that I dyd sée:
Lykely to leade vnto some Towne? what too was meant by that,
Whereto I made no aunswer, but, I stayed looking at?
And then againe, what meant the Dame, who vanished awaye,
To come vnto mée there againe, and what shée meant to saye.
I happy was, I had not tane a Boate, or ere shée came:
And how from thence, with mée vnto the Temple néere she came?
Then what should meane the lesson, that shée gaue mée for to saye,
At the Church doore? and then againe, he [...] vanishing away?
Then what should meane the stately Church? and as I sayd before,
The lesson, that I dyd rehearse, when I came to the doore?
Then what should meane ye sight I heard? then what ye Lady meāt,
Apparrelled in white, to whome Dame Patience had mee sent.
Then what my kneeling meant to her? and then my words I sayde?
And that at my first entring in, I was so much afrayde?
And what should meane the answere then, the Lady gaue to mée:
And howe that from Dame Patience, I came shee dyd well see?
Then what should meane her saying, that shee knew right well my grief?
And for Dame Patience sake, I shold be sure to find relief?
Then what should meane the aged man, of whom shée dyd request,
To take the paines, to bring mée to the place of quiet rest?
Then what the olde man [...]ant to say, he could not goe that daye,
But he would send his serua [...]nt then, to bring mée on the waye?
Then what the Lady meant to saye, that should as then suffice:
And charging mee his company, to keepe in any wyse?
[Page]And then what meant the Lady then, to bydde mée farewell soe?
And thē what meant this old mans mā, that forth with me did go?
And then my thankes vnto the Dame, and to the good olde man?
And to Dame Patience, my friend? and eke our parting than
at the Church doore, with ye olde syre? And thē what should be meāt
By him that for to bring mée to the place of Rest was sent?
And then what should be meant by this, in going of our waye?
I knowe not howe, but soddainly, we both at once gan staye.
And last of that accursed Cocke: what should the meaning bee,
That in his flying crew so lowde: as that he waked mee.
Which Cocke, I am perswaded sure, if that he had not béene:
Some wōdrous sight in trauailing, I doubtl [...]sse should haue séen.
And that which grieues mée most of all, the place of quiet rest:
That man would sure haue brought mée too, wher now with grief opprest,
I must perforce liue as I do: and only haue this ease,
To praye vnto Dame Patience, my sorrrowes to appease.
Who promisde mée at parting last: that though I her not sée,
Long tyme againe, in open sight, yet she would be with mée.
And guide mee so from place to place, where euer so I goe:
That I by her shall finde great ease, of many a deadly woe.
In hope whereof, thus as you see, my wearie lyfe I spende,
tyll I the place of rest attaine and so I make an ende.
This Dreame is straunge, and sure I thinke it doth Pronosticate,
Some straunge effect, what so it is: but since I know not what
It doeth pretende: I styll wyll wyll praye, to God me to defende,
In daungers all both daye and night, vnto my lyues ende.
And when this loath some lyfe I ende, with torments so opprest▪
In heauen I maie at latter daie, enioye a place of rest.

¶A prety toye written vpon this Theame: A man a sleepe, is not at rest.

ALthough the harte a sléepe, the bones be all at rest,
Yet man asléepe, his minde his ofte with many thoughts opprest.
He dreames of this and that, sometime with trifling toyes,
His only mynde is troubled sore: sometime of pleasaunt ioyes
His minde doth run in sléepe: sometime he dreames of Kinges,
Of Princes Courts, & princely feates, & of such galant thinges.
And by and by, is out, in midst of all his dreame,
And from the court, to country Clowns, & of a messe of creame:
Of Cattle in the feelde, of woods and pasture groundes,
Of Hawking, fyshing, Fowling too, & hunting hare with hoūds.
And sodeinly vnwares, he leaues his countrey sport,
And from the countrey by and by, to cittie doth resort.
And there a thousand thinges at once, runs in his minde,
The gallant shops of sundry sortes, and wares of sundry kinde.
The precious pearles & stones, on Goldsmiths shops that shine:
And then the Horsehead, but hard by, and then a cuppe of wyne.
Besides all gallant showes, yet one aboue the rest,
The Marchants wyues, with other dames, in fine attire adrest,
That at their dores, sometime on Sundayes vse to sit,
This when some doe behold by day, by night they dreame of it.
And then they fall in loue, although their sute be small,
For in the morning once awakte, they haue forgoten all.
Some dreame of cruell warres, of men slayne here and there,
And all the fieldes with bodyes dead, nie couered euery where.
And by and by the warres, not scarcely halfe begon,
But who doth get the victory, and then the warres are done.
And sodeinly agayne, he cannot tell which way,
He is at sea, and there he sées great Fyshes gin to play.
And strayght a tempest comes, that makes the waues to rore,
And then he seeth how the Ships, doe sayle in daunger sore.
Anon he sées his ship, with billowes beaten so,
That comes at last a sodeine waue, that doth her ouerthrow.
[Page]And there both shée, and all her Marriners are dround:
Yet he himselfe, he knowes not how, is safely set on ground.
He onely is at shore, when all the rest are lost,
And there he sées how other ships, with tempests like are tost.
And there he stands not long, but straight a suddayne chaunge,
He carryed is, he knowes not how, into a countrey straunge.
And there he speakes a spéech, he neuer spake before,
And once awake, agayne perhaps, he neuer shall speake more.
A thousand things too more, a man doth thinke to sée
In sléepe sometimes, that neuer were, nor yet are like to bée.
For I my selfe, haue dreamde in sléepe, of sightes so straunge,
And in the midst of all my dreame, of sodayne sundry chaunge.
That in the morne awake, I could but merueile much,
What cause by day, by night should dryue, me into dreaming such.
But sitting so a whyle, sometyme I call to mynde,
A prouerbe olde, which some count true, but I méere false doe fynde.
That is. That man a sleepe doth lye at quyet rest,
For many sléepe, yt haue their minds, with many gréefs opprest
Some dreame of Parentes death, or death of some deare frend,
Some dreame of sorrowes to insue, and pleasures at an end.
And dreaming so I thinke, that man is not at rest,
Although he sléepe, his harte is yet, sore troubled in the brest.
The Boye that goes to Schoole, doth dreame of Rods by night,
His bréech too ready for the rodde, and in a sodaine fright
He starteth in his sleepe, and waketh therewithall,
And then say I, although he sléepe, his rest can be but small.
Some thinke in sléepe they are, in field with foe at fight,
And with their fysts, they buffet them, that lye with thē by night
And are they then at rest? although they sléepe say you,
In déede they haue a kynde of rest, but rest I wot not how.
And many causes moe, of great vnquyet rest,
I could declare that are in sléepe, but these that are exprest
May well suffice I hope, to prooue my iudgement good in this,
That mynde of man is troubled much, when moste a sleepe he is.

¶Another Toye written in the prayse of a Gilliflower, at the request of Gentlewomen, and one aboue the rest, who loued that Flower.

IF I should choose a prety Flower,
For séemely show, and swéetest sente:
In my minde sure, the Gilliflower,
I should commend, where so I wente.
And if néede be, good reason too,
I can alledge why so I doe.
The Crimson coulour fyrst of all,
Doth make it seemely to the eye:
The pleasaunt sauour therwithall,
Comfortes the brayne too, by and by,
For collour then, and swéetest smell,
The Gilliflower must beare the bell.
This is in pots preserued we sée,
And trimly tended euery day:
And so it doth deserue to bée,
For sure if I mought playnly say.
If it would prosper in my bedde,
I would haue one at my beds head.
What laugh you at? you thinke I [...]est,
I meane playne troth I promise yée:
The Gilliflower doth like me best,
Of all the flowers that ere I sée.
And who that doth mislike the same,
In my mynde shall be much too blame.

❧A prety toye written in the prayse of a straunge Spring, in Suffolke.

I Neuer trauayld countreys farre, wherby strange things to sée
as woods, and waters, beasts, & byrds, wherin such vertues bee
As are not common to be had, but séeldome to be found,
And hearbes & stones of nature such, as none are on the ground.
But I haue red of many one, and surely in my mind,
As well at home as farre abroad, I many straunge things find.
but many men whose running heads, delights abroad to range,
whose fancies fond are dayly fed, with toyes & choyce of change.
what euer their owne soyle doth yéeld, they doe no whit es [...]eeme
But far fet, & dere bought, yt they most worthy praise doe déeme.
But tis no matter, let that passe, ech one where he thinkes best,
choose what, & whē, and where he likes, & leue his frends the rest
And let me speake in prayse of that, which worthy in my mind,
And therewith rare like to be [...]éene, in England here I fynde.
No beast, nor byrd, no stick no [...] stone, no hearb nor flower it is,
No foule, nor fish, no metal strange, nought but a Spring ywis.
But such a Spring so cleare, so fayre, so swéete and delicate,
That happy he may thinke himselfe, that may come sip thereat.
To speake in prayse thereof at large, it were to much for mee,
As it deserues, but if I were a Poete: as some bée,
Sure I would spend a little time, to let the world to know,
That out of our small Iland yet, so fyne a Spring doth flow.
In Ouids Metamorphosis, I reade there of a Spring,
Whereby Narcissus caught his bane, only with looking
Long whyle vpon the same: for loe, the water shone so cleare,
That thorow the same, the shadow of his face did so appeare.
That he forgetting quite himselfe, fell so enamored,
Of his owne face, that there he lay, as one amazde, halfe dead.
So long till at the last, for want of very [...]oode,
He fell starke madde, and lost his life in place whereas he stoode
And after his ghost yéelded vp, at least as Poets fayne,
His Corps was turned to a flower, which there did stil remain:
[Page]Which flower if I doe not mistake, is tearmde the Lilly whyte
If this be false, blame Ouid then, that such a tale would wryte.
But if it had bene true, when he so sore was gréeued,
Had he but come vnto this Spring, he had bene soone reléeued.
For in this Spring he should haue séene, no shadows of a face,
But such a face as should in déede, his owne so much disgrace,
That he should haue forgotte his owne, if this he once did see,
now he that doth desire to know, wher this same spring shold be
In Suffolke soyle, who so best list, let him I say go séeke,
And he may hap to sée a Spring, he neuer saw the léeke.

A Gentleman on a tyme, hauing three sons: and being very desyrous to haue them broughte vp at an Vni­uersitie: being very well acquaynted with a yong Gentleman, who he knew had spent some yeares at Oxforde, desyred him to choose a Tutor there, for those his three Children, which as hee thought were fyttest to bring thē vp, as well in learning, as good behauyour: which hee was contented to doe, and hauing cho­sen a Tutor for them, not long after hauing a great desyre to see them doe well, wrote their Tutor a letter, and with the Letter, a prety Tale in verse, to mooue him to haue a great care of them: the Letter I let alone, but the tale I haue thought good to shew forth among these prety Toyes, as one not the worst, whiche Tale was as followeth.

¶A little Preface before the Tale.

A Prety Tale, of late I heard, a learned wyse man tell,
Whereto I gaue attentiue [...]are, and markte it very well.
Touching the bringing vp of youth, and who were fyttest men,
In learning and good quallityes, to bring vp children.
Which Tale when I had heard told out, of troth it likte me so,
That to the lyke I were content, agayne ten myles to go.
[Page]Well as it was I did full ofte, reuolue the same in mind,
And many prety poynctes therein, I many tymes did finde.
And as one day vnto my selfe, by chaunce I did rehearse
Eche poynct therin, I tooke my penne, and put it into verse.
Which Tale so pend, according to my symple skill, I send
to you: for diuers causes Syr, fyrst for that it doth tend
Vnto a little matter that, there is twixt you and mee:
It hath (I trow) somwhat respect, vnto the Children three,
The three yong Gentlemen which to you, as my friend,
I gaue in charge to rule and teach: and so I make an end.

❧The Tale followeth in this manner.

A Gentleman that had two sonnes, desyrous was to sée
Them both in learning traded vp, for which great counsaile hée
Of diuers often did requyre, what Tutors he might choose,
To put these prety Puples too, that rightly might them vse.
And vnder whom they mought in tyme, in learning profit most,
And vnder whom they lykely were, their labours to haue lost.
Well, to be bréefe, so many men, so many mindes there were,
Som wold say this, some other that, & som were here, som there.
Some sayd they thought that liberty, was yll for Children,
Some other sayd that lawfull twas, and néedefull now & then.
Some sayd the rod should be the sword, to kéepe children in awe,
And other some such cruelty, counted not worth a strawe.
Some sayd that children should, surpressed be by feare:
Some thought to rule by gentlenesse, a better way it were.
Some sayd that children were by nature bent to play,
Which from their learning in short space, wil draw them soone away.
Fro which by feare to kéepe thē still, the rod should be the meane
Least little smacke of liberty, would quickly marre them cleane
And vse would make great masteries, for so by kéeping in,
And harde applying of their bookes, they profite would therein.
Some other then that thorowly this matter did discusse,
To that opynyon contrary, alleadged reason thus.
[Page]Children by nature are not bent, to any kynde of play,
Their minds are euē half made by thē, that gouern them alway
And y to kéepe their minds frō play, the rod should be no meane,
And that by feare for to subdue, that were not worth a beane.
As for examples sake (quoth one) at first take me a chyld,
Who hath a prety redy wit, although of nature wyld:
And let him learne to daunce, to shoote, and play at ball,
And any other sporte, but put him to his booke withall:
And when he is abroade, if fayre he doe not shoote,
Or when he gins to daunce, if false he chaunce to foote.
Then pay him, bréech him thorowly, fauour him not at all,
And now and then correct him well, though for a fault but smal
If that he trip or misse his tyme, vp with him by and by,
Let him not [...]lip with such a fault, but pay him presently.
And you shall sée that oft for feare, his legges will quiuer so,
That he shall neuer learne to daunce, nor scarcely well to go.
And when in feeld he drawes not cleane, his arrow in his bow,
Knocke him vpon the fyngers harde, and you shall sée I trow,
That in a whyle his fyngers ends, for feare will quiuer so,
That he will neuer learne aright, to let his arrow go.
Now if he be harde at his booke, although he learne not well,
Eyther forget, or con [...]ter false: at fyrst doe gently tell
Him of his faulte, and if that he doe plye it harde,
Giue him an Apple, or a Peare, or some such chyldes rewarde.
And trust me you shall see, the schoole shall be his chéefe delight,
And from his booke, he séeld will bée, or neuer if he might.
Wherefore by reason thus I prooue, that children be not bent,
But that their natures much are made, by Tutors gouernmēt.
But this I graunt as requisite, with reason to correct,
Lest children oft for lacke thereof▪ their faultes to much neglect.
But as a sworde, to set it vp, in schoole to open sight,
I lyke not that, for tis to some, at fyrst to great a fright.
Their eyes are so vpon the rodde, they little minde their booke,
For childish feare will cause them still, vpon the rodde to looke.
And so their eyes quyte from their bokes, not only draws away
But eke their minds, as much and more, then any kinde of play
[Page]Wherefore a rod I would in scholes, should be kept out of sight,
To make the Children to their bookes, to haue a more delight.
¶Another graue gray headded syre, that harde them reason so,
Thus sayd, so many shrewd curst toyes, & wāton wags I know
And eke so many Schoolemaysters, that lack good gouernment,
That many prety Boyes wil mar, that are of minds well bent.
That sure I know not what to say, but trust me in my minde,
A good Tutor, whereto a chyld is bent, can quickly fynde.
And as he fyndes the nature of the chyld, euen so he may,
By gentle meanes, euen as he list, soone leade him euery way.
So that to kéepe him in good awe, correction now and than,
He iustly vse with gentlenesse, as a good Tutor can.
Well, at the last this Gentleman, when he had heard at large,
Their true opynyons euery one, at last he gaue in charge.
His two sonnes, to two sundry men, wherof the one was milde
And euer sought by gentle meanes, for to bring vp a childe.
The other was of nature fierce, and therefore rather sought,
With store of stripes for to bring vp, such children as he tought.
The Children both of nature like, in tyme did differ much,
The difference of gouernment, of Tutors theirs were such.
The one did prooue a proper Youth, and learned for his tyme,
And by his learning afterward, to honour high did clyme.
This was by him brought vp, that was of nature mylde,
And euer sought by gentle meanes, for to bring vp a Chylde.
The other proued but a blocke, a Dunsicus, an asse,
Because with too much cruelty, he often dulled was.
This was brought vp by him, that was so fierce of minde,
That thought y rod should be the sword, to rule a child by kinde.
The Father sory afterward, to sée his Child so lost,
And seing that his other sonne, did euer profite most.
Tooke him away from that fierce foole, and put him presently,
To him that was the mylder man, praying him earnestly.
To sée if that he could in tyme, quicken his dulled wit,
Desyring him thereto to vse, such meanes as he thought fyt.
Well, at the last with much adoe, he tooke a litte payne,
And tooke in hand to sharpen then, his dulled brayne agayne.
[Page]And many ma [...]ries he did prooue, but rigour none hee [...]sde,
For that before, he had so much, by thother ben abusde.
But euer sought, by gentle meanes, to make him void of feare,
And so in time, did alter much, his nature as it were.
Hee made him boulder to his booke, therfore more willinge to
His study still, but yet alas, what euer hee coulde doe
Hee coulde not make him like vnto, his brother any way,
Although he striude, and tooke great pains, asmuch as in him lay.
Yet euery way he mended had, his nature verie much,
The gentle meanes, he euer [...]e, in teaching him were such.
Well to be short, when that this Gentilman did see,
The difference, twixt his two sons, there shall n [...] more quoth he,
Of children mine, [...]e put to Schoole, to such as still do [...] vse,
To rule the children by the rod: I rather ai [...] will chuse,
To put [...]y children vnto those, that are of nature mil [...]e,
And know by l [...] and gent [...]nesse, [...] a [...]il [...].
And thus, the tale was at an ende. [...],
the Gentilman that had two so [...]nes, desirous was to see
Them both in learning traded vp [...]e [...]en so no l [...]se [...] I,
Des [...]rous for to s [...] these Youthes, both learn [...]ly,
And vertuously brought vp, as [...]ch [...]s if they were
The néerest hinsmen that I haue, or br [...]thren d [...]ere, I sweare.
Wherefore good Syr, as I in you, my faithfull trust repose,
Uouchsafe, to take such pains with them, that they no time [...] lose.
And for correction, now and than, to him that doth not well,
I meane not to instruct you [...]ir, your selfe can better tell
Th [...]n I what long [...] thereto: ther [...]fore, as you shall finde,
Use your discretion Sir therein, accordinge to your minde.
Thus you haue heard, the milder man, the better Schollar made,
And yet, a bridell must be had, for a wilde brainesicke Iade.
But for your prety Coltes, I ho [...]e no [...]ridle you shall neede:
I hope you easely shall them bende, with a small twined thréed.
My meaning is, I hope they will, themselues eche order so:
That you shall neede, to take small care, almost which way they go.
Yet now and then, though without néede, somwhat looke out I pray
Least that they hap, by Company, for to bee led astray.
[Page]For though, their [...]atures well be bent: yet you kno [...] now & then,
Ill company oft tymes, god wot, doth marre an honest m [...]n:
And they you know, are al [...] [...]ut young, and Youth de [...]ights in toyes
And toyes, frō lear [...]g quit & cleane, wit [...] wanton boyes:
Yet in [...]ood faith. I hope good [...]r, yo [...]r prety P [...]ples three,
Will both in lear [...]ing, a [...] all things, by you so r [...]led bee.
And eke vnto their b [...]kes, [...] haue so great desire:
That earnest more, or dilige [...]t, you cannot well require.
Well, I haue put them all to you, you [...]ly mu [...] be hee,
Th [...]t as [...]ell to their le [...]rning, as be [...]uiour [...]ust se [...].
I sought not out▪ three [...]ondry men, to put these children too
To see, which [...]f them [...]lde [...] best, and which againe would doo
Worst of the three, but all vnto your charge I [...]oe commit,
To teache and go [...]erne, by such meanes, as you alone thinck fit.
And as I [...]e, the [...] [...]i [...]e [...] i [...] charge, to you, euen so I cra [...]e
Th [...] [...] e [...]ch way behaue
And [...] so, that when from you they part,
I to haue found a Tutor such, [...] [...]ill be gl [...]d in hart.
And you your [...] glad to see:
Their vertuous [...] b [...]o [...]ght vp by me.
Their Father [...], is for to [...] them all
In l [...]r [...]ing d [...]ily to [...], and further therewith [...]ll
In good behauiour eke, may well in hart reioyce:
That I in thi [...] behalf, haue made so good and happy choy [...]e
As to finde out, so [...]it a man, to put his children too.
As vnder whom, they all in time, so well are like to [...].
And I my selfe, the more for that, may [...]ande your [...]oun [...]en fri [...]nd:
And he reward you for your paines, and so I make an ende.

Two or three prety toyes giuen to a Gentilman, to set about his Counting house.

What man can beare a lofty sa [...]le,
Where fortune fro [...]nes, and friendes doe fayle?
And who so low, but hee may ryse,
By fortunes aide, and friendes aduise?
What wo to hate? what ioye to loue?
What stranger state, then both to prooue?
What treasure, to a friende in deede?
What greater spight, then faile at neede?
What wisdome more, then for to learne,
The trueth from falshood to discerne?
From which false dealimg, god defend,
Those that meane well, and so I ende.

A Gentilman being requested by a Gentilwoman, to pen hir a Praier in verse, wrot at h [...]r request as foloweth.

PItie oh Lord thy seruaunts h [...]auy hart,
her sinnes forgiue, that thus for mercy cries:
Iudge no man (Lorde) according to desart,
Let fall on her with spéede thy healthfull eyes.
In hart who prayes to thée continually,
Putting her only tru [...] oh God in thée.
Lorde, Lorde, to thée for mercy still I call,
Oh, set me free that thus am bound and thrall.

Not many daies after he chaunced to walke with the same Gentilwoman in a garden: and was againe then entreated by hir, to make her an o­ther prayer, which presently hee pend, speaking with the termes of a Gardiner, as foloweth.

PLant Lorde in me the trée of godly lyfe,
Hedge me about with thy stronge fence of faith:
If thee it please vse eke thy proyning knife,
Least that, oh Lorde▪ as a good Gardiner saith:
If suckers draw the sappe from bowes on hie
Perhaps in tyme the top of trée may die.
Let Lorde this trée bée set within thy Garden wall
Of Paradise, where growes no one ill sprig at all.

A prety toye written vpon a Ladies propoundinge a Riddle to hir friende.

A Lady once in pleasaunt sorte,
A question did demaunde of mee,
For want as then of other sporte,
Without offence, good Sir (quod shée):
Maie I craue thus much at your [...],
To haue a Riddle rightly scand?
Whereto I soone gaue this Reply,
Madame you know full harde it is,
To reade a Riddle perfectly,
The wisest men maie Iudge amisse:
But shew theffect of your request,
And you shall sée me doo my best.
The Riddle.
Why then a thinge there is quod shée,
That bréedeth many deadly smart:
Which none can féele, nor héere, nor sée,
And yet with gréefe, consumes the hart.
For which is founde none other ease,
But euen the cause of the disease:
Now this is my desire quoth shée,
To be resolu'de what this maie be?
The Answere.
These doubts (Madame) quod I to skan,
Requires some time, and that not small,
They trouble wolde a wiser man,
Then I by roode to deale withall:
But yet faire Dame the doubt of this,
I hope to finde, and not to misse,
I can but gesse vpon a doubt,
I will not sweare to finde it [...].
But as I Iudge Madam quod I,
It séemes Appollos sickenesse sure
On whom he cried piteously,
That neuer any herbe coulde cure:
Nor any Phisicke finde reliefe,
To helpe or ease him of his grée [...]e.
Which plainly Madam for to name,
Is lucklesse loue Dame Venus game.
Which spightfull sport for to [...],
Some so doe dull their sences all:
That in the ende with to much paine,
They doe become sore sicke with all:
And so remaine vntill they haue,
Some players such as they doe craue.
For euery Player cannot please,
Ech patient to playe with all:
For then to cure his straunge disease,
Hee some shulde haue sone at his call:
But he must haue whom eche wolde crau [...]
Els hee poore soule small rest shall haue▪
This Madam for ought I can see
The meaning of your doubt must bee,
Which if you like not good Madam:
Let it euen passe from whence it came.
My Lady [...]awght: is loue quod shee
A spight, and sporte, to both at ones
Now thou hast giuen me, credit me:
A resolution for the nones.
Tis loue in deede thou hast founde out,
The misterie of all my doubt:
And for thy paynes as to a friende,
I yeelde thee thancks and there an [...].

A Letter sent vnto a Gentilwoman in verse, wherein hee gaue great thanks for both good cheere, and other curteous entertain­ment hee had receiued at her hands, beinge in the Country at her house. The Gentil­womans name was mistris Lette [...].

FIrst, to thy seemely selfe, my selfe I doe commend,
And for thy friendly cheere & cost, ten thousand thanks I sende
Which able to requite, I know I shall not bee:
But to my power I will deserue, as much as lies in me:
But yet of all thy cates, one dish aboue the rest,
I euer since doe beare in minde, which fare doth lyke me best:
Which deinty dish (my deere), if I mought plainely name,
Lettys it is, a houlsome hearbe, thy selfe dost know the same.
An herbe that wee haue here, but yet I plainly finde,
That Lettys from our Lettys heere, doth much digresse in kinde:
For in that Lettys such vertues soone I found,
As fewe or none the lyke I finde, doth grow vpon our grounde:
This Lettys sweet art thou, in which I so delight:
And God he knowes what griefes I bide, for wanting of thy sight.
No cates that I can taste, but seeme all gall to me,
When that in mynde I feede vp on the fresh recorde of thee:
And so my Lettys sweet, vnto thy selfe farewell,
And thinck no cates lyke Lettys fine, can lyke me halfe so well.

A Riddle propounded by a Gentil­man to a Gentilwoman whom he lo­ued, but was a suter, but secretly.

THe thinge on earth you most desire.
And yet of all you lest wolde chuse:
That often times you doe require,
And yet I know you will refuse:
And that here present you may see,
All this is one, what may it bée?

Hir answere as pretie.

GOOD Sir, the selfe same thinge that you
Aboue all things doe most estéeme,
[...]nd that in deede is present now,
And to your selfe you déerest déeme.
That doe you take it out of doubt,
That I wolde chuse, yet bee without.

¶A Ditty in despight of a very olde man, who was suter to a very young Gen­tilwoman, written by a young Gentilman, who was then (in deede) suter to the same Lady.

PErhaps you thincke, that all for spight I writ this running verse,
Wherein I doe such deepe dispraise of doting fooles rehearse:
No no (good faith) I hate no man, but yet to such a snudge,
Of force I must, I cannot chuse, but beare a certeine grudge.
For as one way I honour age, so such olde doting doltes,
That at the age of thrée score yeares wolde faine séeme but young coltes.
[Page]Those crusty chaps I can not loue, the Diuell do them shame,
God let them neuer haue good looke, of any noble Dame,
Much lesse the loue: alas, my harte it rendes for very greefe,
To thinke vpon the crabbed crust, that vyle old doting theefe
That séekes to robbe thée of all ioyes, and me of my delight,
Wo worth that so shall séeke to winne a worthy wight.
And séeme to match a miching Carle, with such a pearlesse péece.
As neuer yet Appelles [...]yne, could paynt the lyke in Greece.
Wel, wel, this is the world, (we sée) tis money makes the man,
Yet shall not Money make him yong agayne, doe what he can.
No nor yet honest sure I iudge, nay more for troth I know,
The older still, the more in craft [...], his braynes he doth bestow.
And crafte and Knauery commonly with crooked crabbed age,
With Auaryce and Ielosy, doth make a maryage.
These are the fruites of froward age, which thou shalte reape God wot,
When thou wilt say, oh had I wist, in fayth then would I not.
Well say not yet but thou art warnde, by him y likes thee wel,
Thou comber not thy comly corps, with such a Coystrel.
Whose crusty chaps, whose Aly nose, whose lothsome stinking breath
whose tothles gums, whose bristled beard, whose visage al like deth
Wold kil an honest wench to view, and so it wil do thée,
If so thou hap to match thy selfe, with such a snudge as hée.
My counsayle therfore follow wench, cast of the crabbed knaue,
And henceforth not one merry word, ne looke yet let him haue.
But frown vpon the froward foole, and whē thou séest him glad
Knit thou thy brows, hāg down thy head, & then séeme y most sad
As who should say, the crabbed lookes of his old doting age,
Of force you know must néedes offend, a youthfull parsonage.
Let therfore crums as fyttest is, with crustes then linked bee,
For trust to this, that like to like, will euer best agree.

¶A prety toye in ryme.

¶Misero infortunato solo, lamenting his euill happe, in despayre of helpe.
WHen purse growes pyld, and credit crackes,
And friends begin to fayle:
To comforte then a heauy harte,
Alas what may preuayle?
Audita vox confortans.
Yet doe not thou dispayre at all,
But comfort thou thy mynde:
Though credit, purse, and friends be gone,
Somewhat is lefte behynde.
Somewhat alas, oh tell me now,
What somwhat that may be?
That so in this my déepe distresse,
is lefte to comforte me.
Why doste thou craue to know the thing,
Whereof thou canst not doubt?
Necessity ere long I [...]is,
Will make thée fynde it out.
Necessitie alas I sée,
To ready is at hand:
Yet can I not, doe what I can,
Thy meaning vnderstand.
Why? doste thou not thy selfe [...]
There is no mallady:
But Phisick hath in store for it,
Some kinde of remedy.
No credit me, I feare there is
No meane to cure my gréefe:
If there be any, let me craue▪
How I may fynde reléefe.
Wilt thou doe as I bid thée d [...]e▪
And thou shalt soone fynde eas [...]
Although thou be not at the fyrst▪
quite rid of thy disease.
If that thy counsayle well I like,
I will agrée thereto:
To ease my harte of this despayre,
I care not what to do.
Haue pacience then, rage not to much,
Let reason rule thy mynde:
And be thou sure in little tyme,
Some comforte for to fynde.
But pacience doth come [...],
And what is forst (God wot:)
Doth more and more torment the mynde,
Then pacience easeth not.
Yet pacience procureth hope,
And hope driues out dispayre:
And where Dispayre is driuen away,
There comforte doth repayre.
Oh, but hope oftentimes is vayne,
And doth deceiue the minde▪
Therefore in hope I thinke [...],
But comforte small to fynde.
Let hope then grow by due defart,
Then followes good successe:
For reason showes, who séekes for ease,
Shall some way fynde redresse.
Oh but alas, those dayes be past,
For to reward desart:
And that the more, doth cause dispayre,
For to torment my hart.
What though such dayes are past in déede,
Yet dayes will come agayne:
Wherein desartes shall reape defyre,
And pleasure win for payne.
But whyle the grasse doth grow ofte tymes,
The séelly steede he [...]:
And he [...] wot shall reape small gayne,
In only hope, that ser [...].
Yet serue in hope, and hope in God,
And séeke well to deserue:
And let the Horse doe what he lift,
Be sure thou shalt not ster [...]e.
Now like I well this lesson thyne,
God well in harte to serue:
For he in déede, who hope in him,
Will neuer let them ster [...]e.

¶ A Gentleman being in his friends house, in the country, was by him earnestly intreated after Dinner, be­fore his departure, to make him some verses. But woulde giue him no Theame to write vpon▪ he not knowing what to wryte that best mought like his fancy, yet willing to graunt his re­quest, wrote as followeth.

NEeds must I write, & know not what: why thē euen as it is
Accept the same and blame me not, if ought you find amis.
On bushy bankes what [...]
What looke you for but rayne, when [...]tormy [...] gi [...] blow?
What looke you for of mée? some [...] [...]ind of verse,
You are deceaude: I cannot I, [...]
But what? me thinkes you say, I make too much adoo,
Considering how little yet, I haue [...] [...]atherto.
And synce I graunted haue, so little [...]yme to wryte,
Some pythy shorter [...]
In déede Syr true it is, my fault I [...]
And synce I haue no [...]
Remayne in doubt what I would [...]
And so with thankes for my good cheare, I rudely end my ryme.
But if so be you haue some prety kinde of style,
Whereon you doe desyre some verse, if you will stay a whyle,
A day or two, or so, or till I come agayne,
Then you shall sée that I in tyme, will tem [...]er [...]o my [...]rayne.
And whet my wittes anew, that I will promise you▪
Some prety péece of verse thereon, more then I can doe [...]ow.
And thus I leaue you here, vntill I come agayne,
This rude and ragged ryme to r [...]de, and so in rest remayne.

¶ Verses made vppon this Theame: Little medling, breedes mickle rest.

MY youthfull yeares are spent, old age comes stealing on,
And bids me now fond Fancies fits, no more to think vpō
Of worthy Wisdome I; some lessons now haue learnde,
Whereby the difference twixt wit and will, I haue discernde.
Among all which: this one, where euer so I be,
To keepe still secrete to my selfe, what so I here or see.
Which since of lessons all, I d [...]e not count the worst,
I doe intende his graue aduyse, in this to follow furst.
Fyrst in thy selfe quoth he, all faultes thou must amend,
Before in other men thou seeke, one fault to reprehend.
Of Cato eke I learnd, it is no little shame,
To fynde that fault in other men, wherein I am to blame,
To hold my peace therefore, I count it alwayes best,
And kéepe in minde the old sayd saw, therof comes mickle rest.
¶ I sée a flattering knaue, is set by now and then,
Of greatest heads as much and more, then twenty honest men.
But let me rue the same, [...]ince I cannot amend it,
I mought a wit [...]esse f [...]le be thought▪ to séeke to reprehend it.
¶Some Lawyer [...]ée [...] at fyrst, which way the case will go,
Although he list not at the fyrst, to tell his Clyent so:
But what meanes he by that? alas doe you not sée,
Your pence may make you picke it out, and so they shal for mée.
What boote were it for me, their meaning to betray,
And so no pro [...]e to my selfe, to take their gaynes away?
¶ The Marchaunt man he sées too syr, by your hye lusty lookes,
That shortly he shall fynde your hande, déepe in his reckoning bookes.
Bids he you then beware betimes, of had I wist,
No no, but lets you lash it out, as long syr as you list?
Or as you can at [...]east, and if you aske me why:
He will no better counsayle giue, and what he meanes therby?
Y [...]r lo [...] of L [...]nds ere long, shall learne you how to know,
As well as I can teach you Syr, and better too, I tro [...]
[Page]And so shall I offend the Marchauntes nere a whit,
By showing of their silken snares, that in their shops doe sit,
¶ Your Tenaunt too he sées, that by your trym gay Coates,
Some Lease is shortly to be let, then gets he vp his Groates,
And purseth vp his pence, and come with coyne in hande,
To craue of your good Maystership, to hyre a péece of Lande.
And wot you wherefore▪ Syr, your Farmer fynds this feate?
To come with Coyne ready in hand, your friendship to intreate
When that your goods are gone, and you the losse doe sée,
Of braynsick bargaynes made in haste, to mayntayne brauery:
The smart thereof at last, shall shew you then their shiftes,
Then shall you easely discerne, their double dealing driftes,
Which I dare not descry, I am so chargde you see,
To make no wordes of any thing, what euer so it bée.
¶Your seruaunt last he sées, your feathers gin to fall,
And sées your Farmer buy you out, of house and Land and all.
No longer then he lykes your seruice Syr, adew,
And if you meane to kéepe a man, you must go séeke a new.
And aske you me by this, what may his meaning bée?
Sure if you sée it not your selfe, you shall not know for mée.
¶ As for the higher powers, they are too high for mée,
What faultes are to be found in them, I list not séeke to sée:
Let fynde their faultes themselues, so shall they best be pleasde,
And for my silence I am sure, I shall not be diseasde.
¶ But to the rest agayne, that are of meaner sorte,
Of their fyne fetches secretly, I somewhat will reporte.
For openly God wot, I nothing dare descry,
Who hurts not me, nor yet my friends, I will not hurt them I.
But they who doe me harme, I doe not meane to spare,
To bid my friendes in each respect, of such for to beware.
¶ From Citizens to Clownes, what secret shifte they haue,
It is a sport to sée a Clowne, how he can play the Knaue.
The Badger fyrst one Knaue, that hauntes the market place,
When Corn is cheape, to buy good store, now therby lyes a case.
What shuld he mean by that? oh syr, when corn [...] growes dere,
I néed not tel you what he means, your self shal know next yere
[Page]¶ The toleing Myller then, when he hath tollde the sacke,
Hée findes a trade to fyll it vp, if any meale doo lacke.
Nowe what meanes hee by this? this feate howe dothe hee frame?
The Mylstone greete among y meale, wyl make you find the same.
¶ The Baker then that sees, that meale doth growe so deere,
Hée findes a shyfte to gaine somewhat, howe euer goe the yéere.
But what is that his shyfte? the Bakers man can tell,
And I saye nought, but lytle loaues, wyll shewe it pretely well.
¶ Some other kinde of clownes, or craftie knaues by kinde,
That buye whole groues of woods at once, what shal I speake my minde,
What they doo meane thereby, D [...] no syr by the roode,
The Coliar & the poore man knowes, whē they doo bye their wood.
¶ The Colyar yet▪ to gaine wyll playe the crafty clowne:
He works a knack yet in his sack [...], when coales do come to Towne
But howe he worke [...] that shyfte, I praye you aske not mée,
But when you see him shoote his coles, then mark what dust you sée.
¶ Another sort of Clownes there are, that lyue by buing Corne:
That secreetely vse knauish shiftes, that are not to bee borne.
And these are Ma [...]lt men calde: but what their shyftes should bée,
I néede not tell: by speered mault, the Bruer soone wyll see.
¶ The Bruer then [...]e findes a shifte, to make a gaine,
But what is that? smal drinke alas, doth shew it too too plaine.
¶ Another sort of Clownes there be, that Drouers are by name:
That heards of Cattell buie at once? what meane they by ye same?
Oh syr, although I knowe, I must not saye my minde,
But when the poore man buyes a Cow, then he the cause shal finde,
¶ Another sort there are, which some doo Grasiers call,
And for their secréete kinde of gaine, they are not least of all.
But howe they make their gaine, I lyst not to descrie:
The Butcher when he buies his Béefes, hée better knowes then I.
¶ The Butcher too againe, hée is no foole I trowe.
Hée findes deuise to make a gaine, howe euer Cattell goe:
But shall I tell you howe, Oh syr I must not I,
But marke your weight of bones & pricks, in meate when you doo buye.
¶ The Chaundler then, that of the Butcher tallowe buyes,
If hée buye déere, then wyll hée worke a feate in secreete wise
[Page]To make a secreete gaine: but what feate maye that bée?
I dare saye nought, but some the same by watry Lyghts wyll sée.
¶ Some welthy fellowes are, that trauell here and there,
And buye vp almost all the wooll, they can get euery where:
And doo you seeke to knowe what they maye meane by that?
The Draper when you buye your cloth can quickly tell you what.
Tush, many such things moe, I see ofte tymes, God wot,
Which I would helpe too if I coulde▪ but (alas) I can not.
Therefore since I can not, I thinke it alwayes best,
To take good h [...]ede & holde my peace, for silence bréedes much rest.
If silence then breede rest, why haue I prattled so?
Yet haue I nothing sayde I hope, whereof iust grutch may growe,
But if against my wyll I any doe offende:
I pardon craue, I spake in sporte, and so I make an ende.
The iust wyll lyue vpright, and make an honest gayne,
And if I thinke to mend a Knaue, my labour is in vaine:
But honest men, or else what euer so they be:
Let Countrey, Prince, and Freindes a lone, and let them be for me.
But he that wissheth yll to Countrey, Prince, and freind,
I wyll not keepe his counsayle sure, but rather seeke his ende.
But else as I am warnd. so doe I thinke it best,
To meddle little any way, and so to lyue at rest.

❧A solempne and Repentant Praier, for former tyme mispent.

OH heauenly Lord, who plaine dost see the thoughts of each mans harte,
vvho sendest some continuall plagues, & some release of smart:
Pittie O Lorde, the wofull state, vvherein I daily stande,
Onely for thy mercies sake, nowe helpe mee out of hande.
And as it vvas thy pleasure, fyrst to plague mee thus vvith griefe.
So canst thou Lord if thee it please, vvith speede send me reliefe.
I must of force confesse O Lorde, I can [...]t not denie.
That I deserue these plagues and vvorse, and that continually,
Yet do not thou therfore on me thy iudgement iust extende,
But pardon lende, and graunt me grace my life for to amende.
And banish (Lord) from mee, delights of vvorldly vanitie,
And lende me helpe to pace the pathes of perfect pietie.
And truely so to treade the pathes, and in such godly vvise,
That they may bring me to the place of perfect Paradise.
And not to vvander vp and downe in vvaies of vveerie wo,
VVhere vvicked vvyly vvanton toyes, do leade me too and fro.
The smacke of Sapience, lykde me not, that pleased not my taste,
But fonde delight that vvicked vveede, vvas all my chiefe repaste.
VVherin as hooke vvithin the bayte, so do I plainely finde,
Some hydden poison lurking lyes, for to infect my minde.
But vvherefore doe I finde it nowe? because I nowe doe see,
That wanting smart I wanted grace, for to acknowledge thee.
But nowe O Lorde, that I so sore doe feele thy punishment:
I doe lament my folly great, and all my sinnes repent.
And to thy heauenly throane, O Lord, for mercy I appeale,
To send me (Lord) some heauenly salue, my grieuous sores to heale.
[Page]Behold (O Lord) my sorrowes such, as no man doth endure,
And eke my grieuous sicknesse, such as none but thou canst cure.
And as thou art a gratious God to men in myserie,
So pittie mee that thus, O Lorde, do pine in penurie.
And as thou arte a helpe to all that put their trust in thee.
So lulde in this my deepe distresse, some comfort lende to mee.
And holde O Lord thy heauy hand, and laye thy scourge asyde,
For Lord, the grieuous smart thereof I can no longer byde,
Forgeue my sinnes, forget the same, beholde my humble harte:
VVho onely Lorde doth trust in thee, for to relieue my smarte.
And after this my vvretched lyfe: Lord graunt me of thy grace▪
That I in heauen at latter daye, maye haue a ioyfull place.

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