OF all the sinnes that euer raign'd,
Since wickednesse hir world began:
That Natures beautie most hath stain'd,
Within the wretched hart of Man:
And neerest doth to hell allude,
Is that of fowle Ingratitude.
It kills the Eie of Reasons sight,
With fowle obliuions foggy mists:
And makes the spirit to delight,
But in the harmes of had I wists:
And mires the soule in sinnes fowle flud,
While lack of grace, can see no good.
It studies onely to destroie,
A gentle spirit with despight:
And knowes no part of Heauenly ioy,
That pleads so in the Diuels right:
It is a hagge, that heauens doe hate,
And, dwels, but with the Reprobate.
It bringeth foorth such shamefull Euill,
Out of the shamelesse wicked minde:
As by suggestion of the Diuell,
Makes Nature goe against hir kinde:
When Men that should bee Vertues friends,
Become but Machauilian fiends.
There is no thought can bee so vile,
Nor word can sound so ill a worth:
Nor cursed state, so ill a stile,
As can Ingratitude set foorth:
Which was the curse of Adams seede,
And neuer since did better deede.
VVhere it doth once infect the hart,
The Sonne doth wish the Fathers death:
The Wife doth seeke the Husbands mart,
The Brother stops the Sisters breath:
The Neighbour, and the neerest friend,
Will plot each others speedy end.
It makes the Seruant to forget,
His duty to his Maisters loue:
The Subiect all his wits to set,
Rebellion to his Prince to proue:
The Villaine for a Comfortlent,
For to beetraie the Innocent.
It maketh Man forget his God,
In whom alone hee hath his beeing:
His Comfort and his Mercies Rod,
Whereof his Soule can haue no seeing:
Vntill to late in hell he findes,
How God doth hate vngratefull mindes.
Oh what it doth, or doth it not?
That may agrieue an honest minde:
To see the power that Sinne hath got,
Vpon the curse of humane kinde:
While Comfort, Kindnesse, Care, and Cost,
Vpon vnthankfulnesse are lost.
Oh Hellish Worme, that eates the wombe,
Wherein it lay, to looke abroade:
And plots the Meane to make his Tombe,
Whose house had beene his chiefe aboade:
While faithlesse friends make hellish fiends,
God send all Iudasses such ends.
A King that on a time ordain'd,
A punishment for euery vice:
Was asked, why hee did refraine?
On this to set downe his deuice:
It is quod hee, beeyond my wit,
I leaue to God to punish it.
As who should say, the sinne were such,
As did all other so exceede:
That were the torment nere so much,
It were no more then it did neede:
That all the world might warning winne,
To flie the thought of such a sinne.
Oh, how much worse then any Beast,
It makes the shape of Man to proue?
For shape is most, and Man is least,
That so doth swarue from Natures loue:
And in the hate of honours Nature,
Becomes the worst of any creature.
Fie, fie, vpon Ingratitude,
The Sinne of Sinnes that euer was:
That doth the soule to much delude,
And brings the world to such a passe:
That lack of loues Gratuitie,
Hath almost worne out Charitie.
Of Wormes, the Viper is the worst,
That eates the Bowells that did breed him:
Of Birds, the Cuckoe most accurst,
That kils the Sparrow that did feed him:
And is not Man more halfe a Diuell?
That so requiteth good with Euill?
A poore Man going to a wood,
Within the Snow an Adder found:
When, wishing how to doe it good,
Did take it vp, from off the ground:
And fearing of no future harme,
Did in his bosome keepe it warme.
But comming home vnto the fire,
No sooner hee had loosde his Coate:
But, to requite his kinde desire,
The Adder bit him by the throate:
Now whereto doth this tale alude?
But onely to Ingratitude:
There was a Lyon as I reade,
Who had a Thorne got in his foote:
Which in his trauaile fore did bleede,
While to his hart the payne did shoote:
With which, vnto his Denne hee came,
And fell to licking of the same.
When, as hee stoode hee spied a Man,
VVho had beene thether fled for feare:
And in his hart, with griefe beegan,
To mourne his haplesse beeing there:
Yet, seeing how the Lyon stoode,
Aduentured to doe him good.
And feeling softly where it stucke,
So cunningly did beate about:
As with his mouth first fell to sucke,
Then, with his Teeth, did get it out:
And after did such help apply,
That hee was eased by and by.
And when the Lyon felt such ease,
Hee reacht him out a Princely Pawe:
As who should say to such as please,
I carry comfort in my Clawe:
And to requite his kindnesse then,
Hee led him foorth out of his Den.
And brought him through a wildernesse,
Into a high way, neere a towne:
When in a Princely gentlenesse,
Before his face, hee sat him downe:
And with his Pawe as Poets tell,
Did giue a Kingly kinde farewell.
Now shortly after it befell,
This Lyon was by hunters caught:
And as the story seemes to tell,
Vnto an Emperour was brought:
And with great Ioy and Iolitie,
Presented to his Maiestie.
VVhich Lyon kept, as others are,
That so are caught, and so are brought:
To seede vpon such hungry fare,
As, tamnesse had his stomacke taught:
Did liue such Trayterous harts to teare:
As to such death condempned were.
Whete Long this Lyon had not beene,
But that the Man that heal'd his wound:
Whose Eie had neuer Treason seene,
Nor Spirit such a thought had found:
Iniuriously was apprehended,
And vnto such a death condempned.
Who beeing brought vnto the Den,
Whereas the Lyon fiercely stood:
To teare in peeces, those ill men,
That fed him with their poisoned blood:
Before his face did kindelie stand,
And pawde and lickt him on the hand.
The lookers on amaz'd to see,
The Lyon thus the Man entreate:
Did wonder what the cause should bee,
His loue to him should bee so great:
And to the Emperour did tell,
What all before their Eies beefell.
Who comming thether to behold,
The truth of that hee thus had heard:
And seeing still the prisoner hold,
His place with him: a great reward
Did promise him, the cause to show,
That made the Lyon vse him so.
When, of the Lyon, taking leaue,
VVith kissing of his Kingly foote:
To make his Maiestie conceiue,
The truth of all euen from the roote:
Hee ript vp all that hee had done,
VVhereby this Lyons loue beegunne.
The Emperour well pleas'd to heare,
How euery point and part did grow:
Before his presence made appeere,
The wretches that had wrong'd him so:
And threw them in his wrathfull power,
Vnto the Lyon to deuower.
VVho spared none but slew them all,
The Man was Royally rewarded:
The Note to this effect did fall,
That thanckfulnesse was much regarded:
The Lyon still remain'd his friend,
And so the story made an end.
Oh Lord that euer Man should liue,
In hate of loues forgetfulnesse:
And that a Lions loue should giue,
Such notes of Noble thanckfulnesse:
VVhich all in one doe but conclude,
The Princely grace of Gratitude.
Then, shew no Vipers venum vile,
To gnaw the bowells, that did breed thee:
Nor Cucko like, doe loue beguile,
To kill the Sparrow that did feede thee:
But Lionlike doe thanckfull proue,
To him that hath deseru'd thy loue.
Remember what thou hast Receu'd,
Of vvhom, why, how, and what, and where:
And, let it bee, as well perceu'd,
Thou doste retourne thy kindenesse there:
That perfect thanckfulnesse may proue,
The Nature of the Lions loue.
If that thou finde thy Mistresse kinde,
Dishonor not hir qualitie:
If that a noble friend thou finde,
Skoffe not his liberalitie:
If meane men buie thy companie,
Requit them not vvith villanie.
If that thy Father doe commend thee,
Bee thou not bad to shew his blindnesse:
And if thy friend a saddell lend thee,
Steale not his Horsse to quite his kindnesse:
But chiefely doe not seeke his blood,
Whose loue hath liu'd to doe thee good.
Forget not God, that gaue thee life,
Defame not him that is thy friend:
Bee not vnfaithfull to thy wife,
And hold on honest to the end:
For when the Knaues bee all discarded,
A poore small tromp may be regarded.
Doe not with Connies vndermine,
The Castle where thy Captaine liues:
Nor Counterfet with a Diuine,
To cheate the Charitie hee giues:
Least when the world doth see thy shame,
Both God and Man doe hate thy name.
Leaue not a Man to seeke a beast,
A Monster is nor flesh, nor fish,
And where thou hast receu'd a feast,
Returne not home a poisoned dish:
Least they that finde thy hellish Nature,
Doe hold thee for a hatefull Creature.
In summe, for all let this suffice,
To warne thee from Ingratitude:
Beehold it with your inward Eies,
And let it not your soule delude:
For Truth doth write that Time may reede,
It is a graft of Gracelesse seede.
Which growes but in a wicked ground,
And beares no fruit but Infamie:
And many times is blasted round,
With Hellish breath of Blasphemie:
Yet with ill humours moystned so,
As makes it wickedlie to grow.
But from this wicked Hellish thing,
That so infects the minde of Man:
And with a most infernall sting,
The wofull state of Life beegan:
And doth abuse good Creatures thus,
Good Lord of such deliuer vs.
FINIS.