PASQVILS Mistresse: Or THE WORTHIE AND vnworthie woman. VVith his description and pas­sion of that Furie, Iealousie.

¶Imprinted at London, for Thomas Fisher, and are to be soulde at his shoppe, at the Signe of the White Hart, in Fleetestreete. 1600.

❧ THE BEST MERI­riest wit in true honest kindnesse, not king Humfrey, but Humfrey King, God and a good wife make a happie man in this world.

LVstie Humfrey, honest wagge, hea­ring, of late, of your determination, to enter into the honourable course of kindnesse (which, after many mad Roundes, will be the best daunce to continue with) hopeing that you are olde enough to knowe what is good for your selfe, and yet not so wilful in conceipt, but you will take aduisement of your good friends; for the better instruction of your iudgement in this loues lawe-case, I haue thought good to set you downe such notes wor­thy memory, as may giue you great light, in the best way to your comfort: where, finding the true description of the worthy, and vnworthy woman, you may, by gods helpe, make a choyce worth the chusing. Pasquill sent them to me, and I to you; [Page] hoping, that if they be not as they should be, you will blame him, and not me. So, wishing thine honest heart as good fortune as my selfe, and as much better as shall please God; if you light well, to be glad, but not proude of it; if other­wise, to be as patient as your poore friendes (hoping, that you wil finde a iewell worth the kee­ping, and drosse but worth the discarding) I cō ­mit my booke to your kinde reading, & my loue to your like keeping: and so rest

Your affectionate friende, Salohcin Treboun.

❧ To the Reader.

PASQVILL, as you haue heard, ha­uing had many madde humours in his heade, could neuer be at quiet in his heart, till he had eased his minde of his melācholy: now of late, leauing boyes play to goe to coytes, to put toyes out of his heade, fell to studie of loue: which, finding out a Mistresse for his humour, put his wits to many good seruices, scarce worthie the reci­ting. But, in briefe, he was so graueled in the admiration of her perfections, that he look't so farre into her minde, as made him haue minde almost of nothing else; till, fin­ding the varietie of her inclination, hee grewe out of loue with loue: his mistresse was but a dreame, and wo­men were strange creatures: if they were as they should be, they were to hard to come by: if, as too many be, they were better lost than founde. And in this quandarie of quimeddledy, how now (according to the olde country Rounde, Take the best, and leaue the worst, and breake none of the pale) hee hath written his minde of all that came to his thought, hoping the best will be quiet, and the rest wil mende. And so, wishing euery man to take his fortune, as patiently as hee may, and to speake as well of him, as he list, he rests, after his olde fashion,


❧ Pasquill, in general, to women.

YEE that are worthie of honour, I wil­lingly giue it yee: yee that deserue ill, I will pray for yee, that God wil amend yee: but yee that are gratious, be not proud, least yee fallere yee be aware: and yee that are too blame, be not desperate; God is mercifull: a­mong yee all, let none be more pieuish than another, to take ill to her selfe. What is good take it, yee that deserue it: what is ill, I bequeath it to none at all: for, I knowe not her, whome particularly I will touch with imper­fections. Some kinde of shadowes I dreamed of, that were like women: which when I awooke, I found nothing such. And therfore, hoping all women will deserue some good thought, or other, I will honour the best, & pray for the worst, and so rest.



NOt shee, that braues a picture for a face,
Nor shee whose waste is little as a wand:
Nor shee whose eye can glance it with a grace,
Nor shee that hath a Spider fingred hand,
Nor shee that doth vpon her Tiptoes stand:
Nor shee that is with beauties drosse bedight,
Is she, of whom my Muse doth meane to write.
For Beautie fadeth like a Morning flower,
And sicknesse windes the bodie soone awry:
And Pride is but the shadowe of a power,
Nor in a finger, doth all fairenesse lie.
For when foote, hand, head, heart, and al must die,
And death hath made a Carcasse of a Creature,
What good do then the Ornaments of Nature?
No, no: there is an other kinde of thing,
Which in the heart doth grow, as some do gesse,
That secretly doth through the spirit spring,
And heauenly powers especially doe blesse:
Which as it growes, by measure, more or lesse:
Doth beautifie the bodie where it growes,
As wit and reason, all in wonder showes.
Which some do call the Quintessence of Nature:
Other set downe for reasons gouernment:
And some do call the forme of honours feature:
And other some the spirits Instrument,
That giues each limme, & sense, their ornament:
But all and some agree on this, I finde,
It is the wonder in a womans minde.
It is the Minde that giues the Maiestie:
The purest beautie, is within the Minde.
It is the Minde that makes the dignitie,
It is the Minde that makes the Nature kinde,
And keepes the eye, that neuer can be blinde:
It is the Minde that guids both heart & head:
For kill the Minde, the body is but dead.
And this same mind, that monarcheth the thought
Wherein it doth by inspiration dwell,
By whom, the ground of euery grace is sought,
The eye to see, eare heare, the tongue to tell,
How euery sense may in it selfe excell,
This minde I say, the maiestie of Nature,
Is onely it, that makes the perfect Creature.
This minde, the gift of the Supernall grace,
Descending from the life of Mercies loue,
Which in true musique skorns to touch the Base,
But (in the height of honours best behooue)
Doth the true consort of contentments prooue:
This minde is it, that in true happinesse,
Doth onely make a womans worthinesse.
For, let her be as faire as Curds and Creame,
Yet if her minde be made of Milke and Cheese,
Her water is but like a common streame,
That in a puddle doth her honour leese.
A Waspish minde is not for hony Bees:
While the true minde, where honour hath her height,
Can not descend into a base conceit.
And let her be a bagge of golde for wealth,
Yet, if withall she beare a begger minde:
The gratious eye, that sees the spirits health,
Knowes that the heart that is to hell enclinde,
In vertues heauen can neuer honour finde:
While the true minde, where vertue hath her place,
Makes gold but drosse, to purchase honors grace.
And let her be a very Ape for wit,
Yet, if she be enclinde to Monkies toyes:
Vertue, that doth the heart to honour fit,
Findes it too full of follies fowle annoyes,
To seeke the Iewell of true Graces ioyes:
While wisdome showes, that in the soule doth sit,
There is no honour in an Apishe wit.
And let her be a Ladie for her honour,
Yet if shee be of an vngentle minde,
What heart of worth that will attend vpon her?
That can not grace true vertue in her kinde:
But like a Buzzard, let her beate the winde,
While the true minde that hath true honor pro­ued,
Makes gratious kindnesse worthily beloued.
Thus, let her be, faire, wealthie, noble, wise:
Yet if these be not inly in the minde,
In the cleare iudgement of true wisdomes eyes,
Shee is no Creature of an Angels kinde:
While shadowes do but Indiscretion blinde.
No, tis the minde, that the true worth retaineth:
That all by vertue, endlesse honour gaineth.
For, if I may describe a worthie woman,
Worthie of honour in the highest kinde
(Such, as but such one, knowne to few, or no man)
But by the module of a heauenly minde,
If that mine eye be not conceited blinde,
I will set downe how gratious thoughts bring forth
The perfect wonder of a womans worth.
If shee be faire without, gratious within,
Noble of birth, and in demeanour kinde:
Welthie in purse, yet will with bounty winne
The worthy honour of a Noble minde:
Such a rare Phoenix in the world to finde,
And to be matched in her worth by no man,
May well describe the wonder of a woman.
But if her beautie be a common blaze,
To fire the heart of euery foolish head:
Or like a glasse, be euery woodcockes gaze,
By fond affectes to bring a foole to bed:
If such ill humours haue the spirit fedde,
Where wisdom wants to giue the minde a grace,
It makes a picture of a painted face.
And if she be of Noble Parentage,
Yet turne her minde vnto a meaner string:
And by the want of honours cariage,
Will grace a begger, and disgrace a King,
And leaue a Larke to heare a Cuckoe sing:
Vnfitly was that honours title giuen her,
Whē a base minde hath to such beggery driuen her.
And if she be as rich as Croesus was,
Yet if her minde be giuen to greedinesse:
And doth for wealth more than for honour passe:
And thinkes no honour but in wealthinesse:
In the true Rules of honours worthinesse,
She is as farre from true Nobilitie,
As an olde Churle from true Gentilitie.
And if she be as wise as wit can make her,
Yet if that wisdome doe not guide her mind,
Such Apish humours will so ouertake her,
That oftentimes she will be wilfull blinde,
And loose the worth that better wit might finde:
And then the wit that hath but folly proued,
Will make her little worthy to be loued.
Oh then, let vertue gouerne beauties eye,
And honours loue, a noble spirit Nurse:
Let wisdome, wit, to cares discretion tye,
And Bounty keepe the wealthy Ladies Purse:
So in the blisse where neuer fell a curse,
Perfections grace the spirit of that kinde,
That so can make a bodie of a minde.
For such a bodie of a minde so framed,
Containes more worth then passion can expresse.
Which wonder, being in a woman named,
In honours title can deserue no lesse
Then Reasons grace in Natures worthinesse:
Which on the earth in any one well knowne,
Might make her only, by her selfe, alone.
The Noble minde regards true Noblenesse,
And bends no eye vpon a base aspect:
Reiecteth pride, rewardeth thankfulnesse;
And vnto vertue hath a chiefe affect:
And is not of the subtill humour'd sect:
But plainely sees and markes, & loues the hart,
That onely seekes for honour by desart.
It loues no creeping that doth sinell of craft,
Where faire before doth hide the fowle behinde:
Nor is it pleased in a sugred draft,
That fils the stomacke onely but with winde:
Nor loues a Falcon of a Buzzards kinde:
But like a Phoenix soaring in the Sunne,
Begins to liue when that her life is done.
It maketh patience kill each discontent,
And reason comforts in their kindes to measure:
It breedes the humour of the best intent,
And tels the heart, what should be her chiefe trea­sure:
And but in heauen doth place the spirits pleasure:
It liues on earth, but hath not heere her liuing,
While heauenly loue hath al her essēce giuing.
What worth hath wonne the fairest womēs fame?
But that which honor in the minde hath wrought:
And what hath wrought the truest honors frame?
But that which vertue in the minde hath taught:
To which the bodie is a thing of naught:
For in the minde the gratious spirit dwelleth,
That giues the groūd, wherein each sēse excelleth.
The gratious glorious Queene of womankinde,
The virgine Marie, mother of all Blisse,
What wonne her honour, but an humble minde?
That shewes the vaine where truest vertue is:
Leading the soule it cannot goe amisse:
But in perfection plainely hath approued,
The onely life that is of God beloued.
Venus was faire, but to Diana, fowle:
Minerua wise, till Pallas came in place:
But oh, to match an Eagle with an Owle,
A baggage spirit with an Angels face:
Honour can neuer yeelde to such disgrace.
No: vertues hand, that giueth honours crowne,
Wil strike the thought of al dishonour downe.
Oh, the true noble beautie of the minde,
The hearts chiefe riches, and the spirits treasure,
That doth the soule to sacred seruice binde,
That only seekes in Paradise her pleasure,
Hath euen of heauen already made a seisure,
And shewes where vertue doth the wit refine,
It makes the creature to be knowne Diuine.
It makes the eye of beauty blesse true honour,
And honour grace the heart of humblenesse,
And wisdome make best wits to waite vpon her,
While wealth rewardeth seruice thankfulnesse:
And fils the minde so full of worthinesse,
As where such true perfections are approued,
Can not but be of heauen and earth beloued.
Penelope was constant in her loue:
Which to her beauty gaue a glorious grace:
Did not Lucretia as great honour proue,
Against Tarquinius, in a wofull case?
Oh, modest beautie hath a blessed face:
But faire and noble, constant, wise, and kind
Doe shewe an Angell in a womans minde.
Oh this same minde, a spirit of that power,
That ioyes in nothing but in doing good:
And will omit no meane, no place, nor hower,
That may bring in the height of honours slood,
Caries no falshood, in too faire a hoode,
But, onely grieues at an vngratious Nature,
Doth in a woman make a worthy Creature.
Oh that same minde of true humilitie,
Doth gaine more grace, then mountain mines of golde:
Where the true badge of true Nobilitie:
Doth shewe the honour that will euer hold,
While baggage humours will be bought & sold:
Where beggers pride, the Towre of Babilon,
Will quickly fall vnto confusion.
To shewe examples of our former times,
In true recording of those worthy mindes,
That would but fill my paper vp with Rimes
Of commendations, in deserued kindes,
Which wisdomes iudgement in perfection finds,
It were too tedious: let thus much suffice,
To shewe the mind wherin true honour lies.
But, as in all things, contrarietie
Doth shew the difference twixt the good and bad:
And in all humours, the varietie
Shewes which deserueth chiefest to be had:
Which makes the minde most grieuous or most sad:
So let me shewe the trueth of euery token,
That makes a woman, in her fame forespoken.
If that her eyes doe trowle like tennis balles,
Her tongue be alwaies licking of her lips:
Her heeles be so vpon the slippery falles,
They scarce haue power to carrie vp her hips:
If that she tread awry among her trips:
Although her face be like an Angell painted,
Ho there alas, her credit will be tainted.
If that her tongue be like an Aspen leafe,
Her haire vnkembed like a Cart-horse taile:
Her fingers ends like to a threshed sheafe,
Her gate be like vnto a garden snaile:
While winter dust hangs knotted at her saile,
And haue a minde to answere euery part,
She is a darling for the diuels dart.
If she be basely borne, and vilely bred,
Dogged in Nature, sottish in conceite:
A Camels visage and a beetle head,
And holde her nose vp to a steeples height,
And yet can scarcely on a trencher waite:
Though she be nointed with the Curriersoyle,
She will be counted but a filthie royle.
If she make curtzy like Maide Marian,
And weare her linnen neuer so well slickt:
And be the flower of all the frying pan,
And haue her bosome with a Nosegaie stickt:
And in her tyre be neuer so betrickt:
And shall be married to the Bailifes sonne:
She shal be but the wench, when all is done.
If she can aske, what lacke you Gentleman,
And with good words make profit of her ware:
If she can turne the Kirrling in the pan,
And knowes both how to spend & how to spare,
And how to shift, to make a priuate share:
She may doe well, for one of her vocation:
But ther's the top of all her commendation.
If shee can flaunt it brauely at her doore,
And haue her Ruffes, cleere starched and well set,
Her Stomacher beare out a yard before,
Her Motley cheekes with pure Vermilion wet,
And for a skoffe be found in no mans debt:
Yet, he that sees her cloath, & knowes the woll,
Findes her a Gugin but to hang a Gull.
If she can play vpon an Instrument,
And sing, and turne the white vp of the eye.
And tell a tale of wantons merriment,
And fleere and flatter, laugh, and looke awry,
And make a shewe for very loue to die:
Yet may her minde be of so vile a making,
That scarce her body may be worth the taking.
But, if she haue the gift to brawle and skolde,
To skowle, and frowne, to lowre, & hang the lip:
And be not past a hundreth winters olde,
And like a flower, that a frost doth nip:
And goes no further than a flea can skippe:
How euer wicked wealth hath ouergon her,
He needs no other plague that lights vpon her.
And, if she knowe not how to make her readie,
Nor what to weare, nor how to speake, nor looke:
But in her humours will be proud and heddy:
And neuer reade, but in a golden booke,
And will be caught but with the golden hooke:
Surely, I feare, her golde is all but drosse,
And he that buies her, will but liue by losse.
And if she be in her conceite so muddy,
She hath no minde, but of her home made cloath:
Or in her wicked humours be so bloudy,
She cares not how she fils the diuels froath,
Nor how she sweare, nor how she coyne an oath:
Oh such an egge so full of hellish euill,
Is cuen a morsell fit to feede the diuell.
And she that is into a beast transformed,
By all the humours of vnhumane Nature:
And by good counsaile, will not be reformed,
But is resolu'd to be a wicked creature
(How euer like a woman be her feature)
Who euer hath to doe with her, shall finde
She is a woman of a wicked kinde.
And shee that credits euery tale she heeres,
And tels her minde to euery idle eare:
And euery idle fiddling gossippe cheeres,
That can but flatter, prate, and lye, and sweare:
And now and then, let fall a fained teare:
Such a good gossippe with her huswifery,
Will quickly bring a man to beggery.
If she be fowle, ilfauor'd, and worse fac't,
Wry mouth'd, crooke legd, lame handed, & squint eyde:
And euery way so thoroughly disgrac't,
As for a monster might be made a bride:
Whose vgly face doth no ill feature hide:
If such a creature may be worth the wooing,
Woe be to him that hath the deede in dooing.
But if she be but breasted like a Cowe,
Neckt like a wilde goose, toothed like a dogge:
Lipt like a horse, & snowted like a Sowe,
Breath'd like a Foxe, and sprited like a logge,
And in effect, halfe sister to a hogge:
Yet thinke her penny is good currant mony,
Hard is his hap that takes her gall for hony.
But if that she can simper like a Mare,
And like a Hobby horse can holde her heade,
Prate like a Parrat, like an Owlet stare,
And sleepe and snort before she goe to bed,
And in her pocket haue a crust of breade,
And play the wanton on a wodden bench,
Who wold not cast his gorge for such a wēch?
But if shee can saie yea, and no forsoothe,
And fie, and tushe, and how now, pray away:
And blowe her nose, and picke a rotten tooth,
And weare her best cloathes on a holiday,
And skim the creame pot when her dam's away,
And make her spindle twist without a whirle,
Who would not spend his groat for such a girle?
But if she get the garland on the greene,
By truly treading of a Morris daunce:
Or in a wheat Cart, as she sits vnseene,
Vnto her lubber can conuey a glaunce,
To bring a poore man in a pittious traunse:
Who would not daunce vntill he could not stād,
That had so sweete a pigeon by the hand.
If she be sluttish, pieuish, and vntoward,
Wilful, and wanton, lazie, curst, and sullen,
Franticke, and foolish, whincling, and froward,
And scarce can make a threed of russet wollen,
But must be taught how to put vp her pullen:
To haue a wench well followed with such fits,
Would make a poore man halle beside his wits.
If that her eyes be bleer'd, and runne a water,
Her nose hang dropping all the Summer long,
Her mouth doe slauer, and her teeth doe chatter,
Her breath be for the swinish nose too strong,
And ban, and cursing be her howrely song,
With such a Beldame who is forc't to dwell,
Needes in this world to haue no other hell.
But, if she doe but loue the nappy Ale,
And lye a bed vntill eleuen a clocke,
And secretly can set her ware to sale,
For a redde Petticoat or a Canuas Smocke,
Diue in a pocket, or can picke a locke,
And call her husband Rascall, Foole, and Scab,
Neuer seeke further for a filthie Drabbe.
But if she haue a filthy brasen face,
That will not blush, what euer weather fall,
Sweare, and speake baudie, thinke of no disgrace,
Play with all commers, cogge, and throwe at all,
And tosse her kindnesse like a Tennis ball:
In the true course of vices declaration,
She is the Nurse of all abhomination.
If she can smooth it with a Carde of ten,
And speake no word, but truely, and indeede,
And seeme as though she could abide no men,
And had no ioy, but holy bookes to reede,
Looke like a flower, and be a wicked weede,
And for her gaine can play the Parasite,
She were a fit wife for an Hypocrite.
If she be neither honest, faire, nor kinde,
Well fac't, wel bodied, handed, legg'd, nor footed,
Good hart, good thought, good nature nor good minde:
But in the poyson of all rancour rooted,
And in the mire vp to the knees be booted:
Such a strāge monster, fit to match with no mā,
I thinke twere pittie should be cald a woman.
But, if shee can vse cunning words of Art,
To make her copper seeme good currant coyne:
And weepe, & sweare her loue is from the heart,
And with an humour iumpe, and Issue ioyne,
And finely so can giue a foole the foine:
Though she her matters carry nere so cleane,
She shall be but a conny-catching queane.
But, if she be a foole that can not speake,
But only blush, and looke the tother way:
And will alone into a corner sneake,
Because, alas, she knowes not what to say,
But loues with children, & with fooles to play:
Such a sweete Parnell, if a man were mad,
Might thinke himselfe halfe happie if he had.
But, if she can but picke her fingers ends,
And pare her nailes, and wash, & wipe her hands:
Runne to the Faire, be merry with her friends,
And tell her mother how the market stands,
And picke the sheaues, who euer make the bands:
Such an odde Mawkin were a mistresse fit,
To make a rich man with the begger sit.
But, if she can both seawe, and knit and spinne,
Seawe slight, knit false, and spin a rau'led threede,
And cunningly can play Ioane Siluer pinne,
With idle humours, how a foole to feede,
If such a lesson she can kindly reede,
She and a Tinker, in a market towne,
Would helpe to cosen many a silly clowne.
But, if she can be quiet, and content,
Speake faire, make curtsie, feare for to offend:
And looke as sober as a Iacke of Lent,
What is amisse, be carefull to amend,
And bring distempers to a quiet end:
Oh such a wench would be a member fit,
To cosen twenty thousand with her wit.
But, if she haue no patience in her passions,
No settled humour, but all in selfe wil,
No pleasing fansie, but in proouing fashions,
Nor for her meale, goe further than the Mill,
And cares not whether it be good or ill:
Such a vile baggage, were a purgatory,
To sinke a very soule in misery.
She that is giuen but to all wickednesse,
And loues to liue but all in wantonnesse,
And will be led but all by wilfulnesse,
And spend her yeares but all in wretchednesse,
Not caring how to ende in wofulnesse:
Such a fowle fiend is fit in filthinesse,
To match the diuell in his hellishnesse.
She that can looke a head, and stroake a beard,
And picke a moath, and finely set a ruffe,
And make her selfe of euery flie afeard,
And seeme to take all idle wordes in snuffe,
And weare no cloath but of the purest stuffe,
And make her Coll a Nightcap for the cough,
God helpe the man: for she is well enough.
She that can haue her breakefast in her bed,
And sit at dinner like a maiden Bride,
And all the morning learne to dresse her head,
And after dinner, how her eye to guide,
To shewe her selfe to be the childe of pride,
God, in his mercy, may do much to saue her:
But what a case were he in that should haue her!
She that will ride but on an ambling Nagge,
And trauell not aboue a mile an howre,
Will not be pleased but with the golden bagge,
And haue her coyne come raining like a showre,
And giue an Angell for a Gilliflowre:
That is a wench, that if she had a spring,
Would make a begger, that were halfe a King.
She that can walke the by-lanes and the Allies,
And make close matches twixt yōg lads & wēches
And from the mountaines can suruey the vallies,
And lay such Ambuscadoes in her trenches,
That she will make her profit of her benches:
Such an odde whiffler swears that shewil thriue,
As long as she can finde one man aliue.
But if she will be cosened with faire speech,
And think all golde that makes a glistring show,
And doth mistake a blacke thorne for a Beech,
Because she doth no better timber knowe,
If heedelesse will doe feele a helpelesse woe,
What saies the wag that got the wēch with child?
Had she beene wise, she had not beene beguilde.
She that can neither boyle, nor bake, nor brue,
Nor rarely well conceited for her wit:
Nor scarcely honest, nor was euer true,
But euery way, an idle headed Tit,
Yet thinkes her selfe for a good husband fit:
Oh, how accursed was that creature borne,
That tooke that wench, to dub him with a horn!
But, hoping there is no such kinde of woman,
But twas a dreame of some mistaken creatures,
That women will be curst, nor false to no man,
But of good humours, & of better Natures,
And haue their fancies fitting to their features,
I will describe those gratious womens liues,
That make good husbāds happy, in their wiues.
She that is faire, and wise, curteous and kinde:
Patient to beare the crosses of conceite,
Of Nature milde, and of an humble minde,
Constant in loue, and free from all deceit,
And will the time of her content awaite:
Such a true virgine, to become a wise,
Will make a man to knowe a happie life.
She that is carefull ouer that she hath,
Painfull in that she wisely vndertaketh,
And will not tread out of discretions path,
But all fond idle thriftlesse waies forsaketh,
That to the least of her dishonour maketh,
She, that is knowne to haue this kinde of cariage,
Will make a man halfe happie in her mariage.
She that doth loue to keepe within her house,
And to the doore can haue a watchfull eye:
She in her heade that will not leaue a louse,
Nor in her heart a thought to goe awry,
From the true course of vertues constancy,
And keeps the honor of her husbāds bedding,
Doth make a man twise happy in her wedding.
She that doth goe to Church but for deuotion,
And feareth God, and loues his word in deede,
And in her heart will harbour no ill motion,
That may her fancie with corruption feede,
And in her garden will abide no weede:
She, to that man, that on her vertue staies,
Giues a prolonging of his happie daies.
She that forbeares to talke with euery Tit,
And will not bend her eare to euery tale,
And will employ the spirit of her wit,
In keeping passions in true patience pale,
And for a Nut will not mistake a shale:
But shun all sly conceits that may beset her,
Wil make his life thrice happy that can get her.
She that can truely iudge twixt good and ill,
And paints her face, but with a Maiden blush,
And to the best doth euer bend her will,
And cramp all thoughts that would true honour crush,
And make her soule vnto her minde a brush,
And loues entirely, where she takes affection,
Makes mans life happie in his loues direction.
She that is Nobly borne, and Princely bredde,
Heauenly enclin'd, and holily disposed,
A Sarahs spirit, and a Indiths head,
And haue her comforts in that care enclosed,
That haue their rest in vertue all reposed:
Such an Angelicall Creature in a wife,
Might make a king to knowe a happie life.
She that doth rather loue to heare than speake,
And rather striues to vnderstand than teach,
And neuer will the bands of honour breake,
Nor euer seeke to clime aboue her reach,
Nor in her thoughts let folly make a breach:
Such a wise wench, in true wits wealthinesse,
Will make a man finde his lifes happinesse.
Shee that will rather a defect amend,
Then to defend, or any way excuse,
Nor coine a lie, nor an vntrueth defend,
Nor from a friend a good aduise refuse,
Nor the true honour of her loue abuse,
Nor hath that blame, that worthily may blot her
Makes the man happy, for a wife hath got her.
She that will weare according to her calling,
Such decent garments as she may maintaine,
And will not in her busbands eare be bawling,
To feede her humour with an idle vaine,
And make his purse beyond his penny straine:
Such a kinde wench, that so her will doth cary,
Doth make him happy that doth liue to marry.
She that can goe to market for her meate,
And not stay twatling there with good wife Twat,
Come home and dresse it, and can kindly eate
That which God sendes, and be content with that,
And take the leane together with the fat,
Know when to be a spender, when a sauer,
Wil make a poore man happy that could haue her.
She that doth weare but her owne proper heare,
And hath no beautie, but of Natures blisse,
Can not commaund a kinde of fained teare,
But when iust cause of hearty sorrowe is,
And rich, or poore, will neuer runne amisse:
Such a true wench, to make a happie wife,
Would make a man to leade a blessed life.
She, that doth beare the eye of modestie,
The face of grace, minde of humilitie,
The tongue of trueth, the heart of honesty,
The parentage of true Gentilitie,
In the true notes of true Nobilitie,
In my conceit, would surely prooue a wife,
To make a Lord, to lead a happie life.
She that is full of liberalitie,
And to the begger neuer shuts her doore,
And loues to keepe good hospitalitie,
And hath delight for to relieue the poore,
Yet hath a care for to enrich her store,
Doth make a man a very happie Creature,
That marries with a wench of such a Nature.
She that doth hate to brabble, brawle and scolde,
To sweare, and lie, and talke of Robin Hood:
And will no longer any question holde,
Then while she wel may make her iudgemēt good
To prooue that shee her selfe hath vnderstood:
Such a rare wench, for a well gouernd wit,
Wold make him happy that were matcht with it.
She that is free from infamies deface,
Wealthie in lands, her Cophers full of golde,
Her minde of vertue, and her heart of grace,
And doth no honour but in vertue holde,
That true sweete Ladie be she young or olde,
Will make that man to leade a happie life,
That knowes what makes man happy in a wife.
Shee that is mistresse of her owne affection,
And vnto reason hath subdued her will,
And will not harken vnto imperfection,
To leaue the good to entertaine the ill:
In the true rules of my experience skill,
I thinke that woman where she is a wife,
Doth make a man to know a happy life.
Shee that in wealth and wo, sicknes, and health,
Is all alike vnto her setled loue,
And in the world doth count her chiefest wealth,
But in the life but of her turtle doue,
And seekes on earth no other heauens to proue:
In my conceit, who had her to a wife,
Had no small means to make a happy life.
She that is wholly giuen to godlynesse,
And hates to leade the life of wantonnesse,
And hath true patience in vnhappinesse,
And onely seekes the spirits wealthinesse,
In the true weight of honours worthinesse:
If that a man were in hearts heauinesse,
With such a wife might liue in blessednesse.
Now, hoping that (although the birde be rare)
The Phoenix in a woman may be found,
And doubting not, but many women are
Of their good husbands happinesse the ground,
I wish the wise a womans worth to sound,
And deerely loue her for that worthinesse,
That makes a man to liue in happinesse.
But, if that Youth for wealth wil match with Age,
And witlesse age, will dote on wanton Youth,
If discontent doe growe to rancors rage,
When hollow hearts do hammer with vntruthe,
If ruine then be subiect vnto ruthe,
What shall I say? but sobbe for such a woing,
Where kindnesse hath no cōfort in the doing.
Make then thy choyce, not all alone by chaunce,
Let reason guide thine eye, honour thy minde,
Vertue thy heart, and so thy thought aduance,
That wisdomes care may happie comfort finde:
That if that fortune fall to be vnkinde,
Yet heauenly loue, that doth the life reioyce,
Will make thee happie in a heauenly choyce.
If thou canst get thee wealth, then doe not want:
But chiefely take good heed thou want not grace.
For gratious spirits in the world are skant:
And conscience liues in such a pittious case,
That faith on earth can hardly shewe her face:
And simple loue alas, without some liuing,
Is like a present hardly worth the giuing.
And therefore leauing each one to their lot,
To like, to loue, and liue as likes them best,
To keepe their choyce, or if it like them not,
When as they feele their spirits most opprest,
To vse their best discretion for their Rest,
I wish good husbands all to haue good wiues,
And all good louing wenches all good liues.
So hoping that the best will be content
To know the worst must haue a time to mend:
Who haue bin ill may haue a good intent,
To bring bad humours to a better end,
Vnto your kindnesse kindly I commend
Pasquils mad humour, to describe a woman,
Fit to be lou'd of all, or lik't of no man.

❧ PASQVILS DESCRIPTION OF HIS Mistresse, with a passion vpon the Ielousie of her match.

MY sweete Muse beholde a creature,
Of the world the sweetest feature,
Garnisht with those inward graces,
That adorne the fairest faces:
Which described in their essence,
Shew the earth a heauenly presence.
Haires, no haires, but golden wires,
Binding life in loues desires:
Eyes no eyes, but starry glories,
Reasons states, and honours stories:
Cheekes enchaining hearts beholding,
Lippes maintaining loues vnfolding.
Necke, no necke, but alablaster,
Natures mistresse, Reasons master:
Breasts, not breasts, but beauties moūtains,
Of Mine [...]uas milke the fountaines:
Armes embracing loues deseruing:
Hands vnlacing loues preseruing.
Belly, no, but Venus bedding,
All too faire for Vulcans wedding,
Nauell, not, but Natures signet,
All the graces grau'n within it:
For the secret sweete of reason,
Careful thoughts must speak no treason.
Thighes, no thighes, but beauties pillers,
Made for beauties best welwillers:
Knees, not knees, but Pallaes bending,
While Diana was commending:
Legs, no legs, but honours passage,
To the life of louers message.
Feete, no feete, but fauours staying,
Where no fauours are decaying:
Toes, not toes, but each a token
Of more trueth, then may be spoken:
That in all, for much perfection,
Natures draught by loues direction.
This faire creature▪ wonder-woman,
Scene to few, and knowne to no man,
By those heauenly powers created,
That haue hellish humours hated,
While the Angels all were sleeping,
Fell to cursed creatures keeping.
Cursed creatures, carnall diuels,
Hates of good, and grounds of euils,
Wronging vertue, killing reason,
Vowing trueth, but working treason:
These, oh these, by loues illusion,
Wrought the course of my confusion.
Hatefull course in heart concealed:
But, by hell to be reuealed:
In wich briefely is contained,
Neuer eased, euer pained:
In which cruell cares termented,
Liues my comfort discontented.
Pittie weepes to see this wonder,
Loue and vertue liue asunder,
Honour sigheth without ceasing
To beholde this hell increasing,
And the heart of loue is dying,
While he heares his darling crying.
Oh how is the soule agrieued,
Where no sorrowes are relieued,
And where crosses are so many,
Nor the comforts can be any!
Thinke if this be hell mistaken,
So of heauenly hopes forsaken.
But, oh wicked wretched fre [...]nzy,
That hast so corrupted fancy,
Helplesse, hopelesse, matchlesse shamelesse,
Dost thou thinke thou shalt be namelesse?
No: the world shall knowe thine euill:
Ielouzie, thou art the diuell.
This is that same inward treason,
That hath so confounded reason:
This is that same hellish humour,
Fils the world so full of rumour:
This is it that kils the louer,
That he neuer can recouer.
This is that same hellish fiende,
That was neuer vertues friend:
This is that same foolish blindnesse,
That confoundeth louers kindnesse:
This is it, by proofe of many,
Neuer yet did good to any.
Then, on thee, and thy possessor,
Wilfull follies plaine professor,
(That hast so my mistresse wronged,
And her helplesse woes prolonged)
Fall the curse of loues confusion,
By the death of loues illusion.

A description of Ielousie.

VVIthin the hart ther breeds a kind of thought
Begotten (as some gesse it) by the eye:
But, I doe rather thinke it to be wrought,
By a blinde sight that euer lookes awry,
And only feedes but of a Lunacy:
Which being gotten kindly in the head,
Workes a weake wit, to bring a foole to bed.
It thinks it knowes not what, nor how, nor why:
But once perswaded, twill not beremooued,
Cares for no trueth, belieueth euery lye,
That hath apparance, though it be not prooued,
Loues but in feare, and feares it is not loued,
Frets, chafes, and grieues, and neuer is at rest:
Because the worst doth euer doubt the best.
It workes, and watches, pries, and peeres about,
Takes counsell, staies; yet goes on with intent,
Bringes in one humour, puts another out,
And findes out nothing but all discontent,
And keepes the spirit still so passion-rent,
That in the world, if that there be a hell,
Aske, but in loue, what ielousie can tell.
It would haue more then all it doth possesse,
And turnes content vnto a crosse conceite,
It brings discretion but into distresse,
Where feare doth onely but on folly waite,
While doubts do only dwell vpon deceite:
It doth abuse the wit, distract the minde,
And knows not what to seeke, nor how to finde.
It doth amaze the eye, enchaunt the eare,
And wholie kils the stomackes appetite.
With spightfull thoughts it doth the spirit teare,
And keepes poore patience in a pitious plight,
While darke suspicion makes the day a night:
It is, in summe, a very hellish fiende,
That neuer yet was loue, nor beauties friend.
It is a plague, that Nature was ordained,
In beauties eie, to wounde the heart of loue,
An inward poyson, that hath throughly vain'd
The haplesse wit, that workes for wils behoue,
To make a Iacke Dawe of a turtle Doue,
Where best, contentmēts are too much abused,
While wilfull follies can not be excused.
It is the death of ioy, twixt man and wife,
Where loue is too much loaden with mistrust:
It makes the maide to feare the married life,
Least firmest faith should fall to be vniust:
It beats the braine and grindes the wit to dust,
It makes the wise a foole, the wealthie poore,
And her that wold kepe house, to ope the dore.
Oh, tis a childe of an vnhappie choyce,
Nurst by the milke of an ilfauour'd beast:
Which neuer suffers reason to reioyce,
But keepes the heart within an Hornets neast,
Which nought but venome bring into the breast:
It is, in summe, a kinde of secret ill,
That neuer yet did good, nor euer will.
How it hath handled many a haplesse heart,
Let them describe it, that do better knowe it:
But how it workes the sowles continuall smart,
He that is able, let him truely showe it,
Or seeke by all meanes how he may forgoe it:
But for my selfe, I say no more but this,
God blesse me from it, and my misteris.
And such as will be madde, let them be so.
Who cannot iudge of good, conceiue it ill.
He, that will take a finger for a toe,
Must either blame his wit, or else his will,
That knowes his folly, and will be so still.
Who will be ledde but onely by illusion,
Must be content to fall vpon confusion.
And thus my friend, what so thou be that readest
These fewe inuectiue lines of Iealousie
(Hoping that thou thy fancie better feedest,
Then with the aspen leaues of Lunacy,
Whose iuyce giues nothing, but inconstancie)
I wish thy loue more kindly to be borne,
Or for thy iealous head, a huge great horne.
What? art thou angry? are thy ribbes so gaid,
They cannot bide the chinking of a spurre?
Be still a while: and be not so appald:
A thousand gownes are surd with Cony furre:
Euery one's not dead, that hath the Murre:
Loue [...]s may looke, and laugh, and happ'ly like:
But many a one may frowne, that wil not strike.
Because her eye is faire, shall thine be fowle?
Because that she is wise, wilt thou be fond?
Because that thee doth smile, must thou needs scoule?
Because that she is free, wilt thou be bod?
Oh make not to a puddle of a pond:
Be ple [...]sd to thinke of euery thing the best.
F [...]r, Ielousie is but an idle iest.
Mistrust doth argue but a misconceit:
Suspi [...]ion, s [...]ewhat in thy selfe amisse:
Doubt, but a dreaming only on deceite:
Feare, but a curse, where neuer fell a blisse,
Tush, smile, and laugh, em [...]ace, and coll & kisse,
And thou shalt liue as merry as a cricket,
While Iealousie shall stand without the wicket.

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