A pleasant conceite penned in verse Collourably sette out, and humblie presented on New-yeeres day last, to the Queenes Maiestie at Hampton Courte. Anno. Domini. 1593.

A pleasant conceite penned in verse Collourably sette out, and humblie presented on New-yeeres day last, to the Queenes Maiestie at Hampton Courte. Anno. Domini. 1593.

Table of contents

Title page

To the Queenes most excellent Maiestie.

A pleasant conceite.

To the generall Readers.

§

§

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A Pleasant conceite penned in verse. Collourably sette out, and humblie presented on New-yeeres day last, to the Queenes Maiestie at Hampton Courte.

Anno. Domini. 1593.

AT LONDON, ¶Printed by Roger Warde, dwelling in Holburne at the signe of the Castle.

To the Queenes most excellent Maiestie.

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MAY it please your Maiestie, so long as breath is in my breast, life in the hart, and spirit in the heade, I cannot hold the hand frō penning of some acceptable deuice to your Maiestie, not to compare (in mine own ouer weening) with the rare Poets of our florishing age, but rather counterfeyting to sette foorth the workes of an extraordinarie Painter, that hath drawne in a pleasant conceite, diuers flowers, fruites, and famous Townes: which pleasant conceite I haue presumed (this Newe-yeeres day) to present to your Maiestie, in signe and token that your gracious goodnesse towardes me oftentimes (and cheefely now for my pencyon) [Page] shal neuer goe out of my remembrance, with all dutifull seruices, belonging to a loyall subiect. So vnder your princely fauour & protection, praying for your prosperous preseruation and Royall estate, I proceede to my purposed matter.

Your Maiesties humble Seruaunt, Thomas Churchyard.

A pleasant conceite.

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THE Painter thought, to please his owne delite,

With pictures faire, as poore Pigmalion did:

But staring long, on kindly Red and White,

He found therein, a secrete nature hid.

A frayde to fall, like Flie in flaming fire,

He finely cast, cold water on desire,

So shaping grapes, and graine another while,

At his owne workes, the Painter gan to smile.

Because with grapes, the byrds were once begield,

And men might dote, on goodly corne and graine:

At more conceits, this merry man he smield,

As though he had, possest some Poets vaine,

As Petrarch had, who did his tryumphs make,

In sweetest sorte, for Lady Lawraes sake.

Thys Painter tooke, in pensell such a ioy,

As hee could make, much matter of a toy.

A rush a reede, a feeble feather light,

Was ground enough, for him to worke vpon:

What euer came, to mind to view or sight,

Stoode for good cloth, to clap hys collours on.

But his most skill, was how to sette forth flowers,

And showe at full, trym Townes and stately Towers.

Not eu'ry Towne, he meant not now to tuch,

For that their names, cannot auaile him much.

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NOrth-hampton first, the Painter tooke in hand,

As cheefest work, his pensel lately drew:

Because the plot, did come from forraine land,

In that faire forme, as doth appeare to you.

Not roughly heaw'd, as tymber is in haest:

But smoothed well, and with great honor graest.

A woorthy peece, of workmanship so rare:

With golden Fleece, North-hampton may compare.

WArwicke he drewe, in collours sad and graue,

In elders dayes, a noble name it bore:

It builded was, on vertues rare and braue,

As auncient seates, and Citties were of yore.

The walles were reard, on constant Rock ful fast,

That durst abide, the brunt of enuies blast.

The streetes were paude, with plainnes mixt with grace,

Where good report, fild vp each empty place.

The houses hie, shone bright against the sun,

And all the walkes, and steps were smoth & cleere:

This famous Towne, great loue & laud hath wun,

As by the brute, of world doth well appeare.

It stands and staies, on honors pillers large,

Sure props that can, beare vp a greater charge,

When Warwicke thus, the Painter sette in frame,

He turnd his hand, to Townes of stranger name.

BEdford he made, in goodly sumptuous sort,

With collours ritch, bedeckt and cleere set out:

Like Towne of state, as strong as warlike Fort,

With wise aduice, well senced round about,

Not to be won, the watch and ward was such,

Ne fraude nor force, durst not attempt it much.

Bedford is blest, for from that house and soyle,

Sprunge many a branch, that neuer yet tooke foyle.

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OLde Lyncolne now, that stands on mighty Mount,

Yet lowe in earth, the first foundation lyes:

He drew for that, it was of great account,

And lifted vp, in fauour to the skyes.

The best we know, did loue olde Lyncolne well

In former age, her beautie did excell.

Of latter tyme, her credite was not small:

For some doe say, that Lyncolne past them all.

KYldare came now, to minde among the rest,

A right fayre seate, and so sette foorth it was:

As Gods aboue, and nature had her blest,

Which seem'd to sight, as cleere as Christall-glas.

From Hawthorne bough, whose blossoms brings in May

Kyldare did come, and ioyes therein this day.

Kyldare commaunds, more men than thousands do,

Yet dutie bids, it be commaunded to.

HArtford he calld, vnto remembraunce than,

A Towne where Tearme, is kept as cause doth craue:

It fauourd is, and likt of each good man,

It dooth in world, it selfe so well behaue.

Gallant and gay, and gladsome to the sight:

Framde from the stock, that still growes bolt vpright.

Most meeke of minde, and plaine in eu'ry part:

Where dutie ought, show loue and loyall hart.

NOwe Huntington, was drawne in order due,

As did become, the value of that seate:

The honour olde, the name is nothing new,

The worth not small, the soyle and place is great.

The buildings fayre, and stately too withall,

Stands strong and sure, as doth a Brasen wall.

Full glad to please, both God and man indeede,

And prest to serue, the Prince in time of neede.

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WOster that once, like Huntington did looke,

Stoode still farre off, as it would not be knowne:

Yet soft and fayre, in ranke her place she tooke,

She worthy was, of right to haue her owne.

In fame and praise, and worldly honor both,

In noble name in vertue grace and troth.

If Painter had, not toucht this Towne no way,

God knowes thereof, what might good people say.

SOuth-hampton came, in view and iudgement now,

A Hauen towne, of great esteeme and praise:

Of nature good, and well disposed throw,

And nobly hath, bestowd both yeeres and daies.

A princely Porte, where shyp shall safely ryde,

Against all stormes, how euer turnes the tyde.

From Mountague, whose trueth no time might staine,

South-hampton tooke, her forme and manner plaine.

PEmbroke a pearle, that orient is of kind,

A Sidney right, shall not in silence sit:

A gemme more worth, then all the gold of Ind,

For she enioyes, the wise Mineruaes wit,

And sets to schoole, our Poets eu'ry where:

That doth presume, the Lawrell crowne to weare.

The Muses nine, and all the Graces three:

In Pembrokes bookes, and verses shall you see.

NOwe Shrewsbrie shal, be honourd as it ought,

The seate deserues, a right great honour heere:

That walled Towne, is sure so finely wrought,

It glads it selfe, and beautifies the sheere.

Her beautie standes, on bounty many waies,

That neuer dyes, but gaines immortall praise.

Her honor growes, on wished well won fame:

That people sounds, of Shrewsbries noble name.

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OXford came last, like sober Sibbill sage,

Whose modest face, like faire Lucyna shone:

Whose stayed lookes, decors her youthfull age,

That glisters like, the Alablaster stone,

Her blotlesse life, much laude and glorie gate,

And calld her vp, to be a great estate.

The Diamond, dooth lose his daintie light,

And waxeth dim, when Oxford comes in sight.

THese Townes and all, the people dwelling there,

And all the rest, that loues theyr Country well:

And all true harts, and subiects eu'ry where,

That feareth God, and doe in England dwell,

Salutes with ioy, and gladnes this New yeere,

Our gracious Queene, and soueraigne Lady deere.

All wished haps, and welcome fortunes to,

Still waites on her, as handmaides ought to doe.

With long good life, with peace and perfect rest,

And all good gifts, that euer Prince possest.

The Painter stayed so, yet rising from the floore,

To Courte then did he goe, to Presence Chamber doore:

And peeping throw the same, he saw in euening late,

Full many a noble Dame, sitte neere the cloth of state.

Where the stood 5. faire flowers, whose beauty bred disdaine,

Who came at certain houres, as Nymphs of Dians traine.

Those goodly Nimphes most gay, like Goddesses diuine,

In darkest night or day, made all the Chamber shine.

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Dame kinde with collours new, gaue them such liuely grace.

As they had tooke theyr hue, from faire bright Phoebus face,

If such faire flowrs ꝙ he, in Presence men may find,

In Priuey-chamber sure, some faire sweet saints are shrind.

The Painter as he might, with that did him content,

And wondring at the sight amaz'd he homeward went.

Where he is drawing still, some works of stranger kind,

If this may gaine good will, for plaine true meaning mind.

THeyr names are heere, that honour much our state,

Who dwels in Court, or Courtiars were of late:

Who sendes to Court, theyr New-yeeres gifts to show,

Our gracious Prince, the homage that they owe.

FINIS.

To the generall Readers.

REade with goodwill, and iudge it as ye ought,

And spare such speech, as fauour can bestow:

So shall you find, the meaning of his thought,

That did this work, in clowd and collours show.

Wrest things aright, but doe no further goe.

In ballance thus, wey words with equall weight,

So wisdoms skill, shall scanne the matter streight.

The booke I calld, of late My deere adiew,

Is now become, my welcome home most kinde:

For old mishaps, are heald with fortune new,

That brings a balme, to cure a wounded mind.

From God and Prince, I now such fauour find,

That full a floate, in flood my shyp it rydes,

At Anchor-hold, against all checking tydes.

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The houre is come, the Seas doe swell againe,

And weltring waues, comes rowling in a pace:

The stormes are calmd, with one sweete shewer of raine,

That brought my Barke, vnto the Porte of grace,

Where clowdes did frowne, now Phoebus shewes his face.

And where warme sunne, shines throwly cleere and faire,

There no foule mists, nor fogs infects the ayre.

The Sayler stayes, at anchor in good roade,

Till winde blowes ore, ill weather from the seas:

The Pilot wise, will not put out a broade,

Till winde serues well, and men may sayle with ease.

The Writer first will his owne fancie please,

Than to the rest, that will no word mistake,

He sends those scrowles, that studious man did make.

The learned sort, scannes euery labour well,

But beetle-braines, cannot conceiue things right:

And if good works, comes where disdaine doth dwell,

Despight in hast, bloes out cleere candles light.

I hope this booke, comes not in enuies sight.

Whose staring lookes, may make my betters blush,

Yet all his chat, nor babble worth a rush.

If he mislike, a babe but newly borne,

It is condemnde, for no offence at all:

Ne wit nor skill, can scape the scowling scorne,

Of bold male boush, that like ban-dog doth ball.

The sugar sweet, he turnes to bitter gall.

The Vargis sower, hath not so sharpe a tast,

As hath his words, that spyte will spend in wast.

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No Writer now, dare say the Crowe is blacke,

For cruell Kytes, will craue the cause and why:

A faire white Goose, beares feathers on her backe,

That gaggles still, much like a chattring Pye.

The Angell bright, that Gabrill is in sky,

Shall know that Nashe, I loue and will doe still,

When Gabrils words, scarce winnes our worlds good will.

No force, my hope, lyes not in hatefull men,

That cannot helpe, themselues in time of neede:

So I please those, that haue the gyft of pen,

Or such as can, thinke well of that they reede,

The bargaine is, well made and wonne indeede.

That dogge scarce bites, that daily lowde doth barke:

Each winde beates not, true Archers from theyr marke.

In rouing sort, my feeble shafts so flies,

Drawne to the head, yet from my head doth goe:

I wish but that, my shooting please the wise,

That lookes vpon, or dooth a marke man knoe,

The rest God mende, let him be friende or foe.

Thus now no more, but as I turne about,

This worke I end, till greater bookes comes out.

FINIS.

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Information about this book

Title statement

A pleasant conceite penned in verse Collourably sette out, and humblie presented on New-yeeres day last, to the Queenes Maiestie at Hampton Courte. Anno. Domini. 1593.

Churchyard, Thomas, 1520?-1604.

Edition statement

1593

Publication

Publisher

Text Creation Partnership,

Place of publication

Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) :

Date

2003-11 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1).

ID [DLPS]

A18751

ID [STC]

STC 5248

ID [STC]

ESTC S105041

ID [EEBO-CITATION]

99840771

ID [PROQUEST]

99840771

ID [VID]

5301

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Early English books online.

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(EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A18751)

Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 5301)

Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1475-1640 ; 526:18)

Source

— A pleasant conceite penned in verse Collourably sette out, and humblie presented on New-yeeres day last, to the Queenes Maiestie at Hampton Courte. Anno. Domini. 1593., Churchyard, Thomas, 1520?-1604..

Extent

[14] p.

Printed by Roger Warde [in the shop of J. Charlewood], dwelling in Holburne at the signe of the Castle,. At London :: [1593]. (Dedication signed: Thomas Churchyard.) (Charlewood's name from STC.) (Signatures: A-B⁴ (-A1).) (The last leaf is blank.) (Reproduction of the original in the Henry E. Huntington Library and Art Gallery.)

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