THE TRAGICALL AND TRVE Historie which happened betwene two English louers. 1563. written by Ber. Gar. 1565.
In aedibus Richardi Tottelli.
Cum Priuilegio.
To the Reader.
GOd the auctour of all goodnes (gentle Reader) hath diuerslie bestowed his manifolde gyftes on sondrie men: whearby, as in ending any great or effectuall enterprize many are called, some for learning sake, some for knowledge, sonne for experience, and some for strēgth to supporte ye brunt of the chardge: which all tende to none other ende, but to conclude the matter determined with good effect. Euen so our sauiour Christ to saue man, (which is diuerslie bent to go astraye) hath sent fourth his seuerall instrumentes sundrie wies to call him. Principallie by that inestimable Iuell his infallible worde, and the wourthye learned preachers of the same, nowe florishing? (God be praysed therfore.) Otherwies by men of knowledge, seen in the liberall Sciences, [Page] and so couertlie correcting vice by moralized sentences verie expediēt. Otherwies by some that hath through follie fallen into daungers, and by hys infinite mercy (their madnes perceiued) retourned▪ which do from their owne experience tell to fraile youth such daūgerous successe in their fonde attēptes: as some thearby: are perswaded, and leaue their precogitate purpozes. And otherwies by those that will boldlie begyn, foolishlie followe, and vnaduisedlie accomplish their intended enterprise: And thearby make them selues, through vntymelye Death or other myschiefe: terrible examples to the rest. And all alludeth none other thing, but by persuasion, terrour or exāple, to knit ye body of ye Church of god to ye worthie bed therof, our sauiour Christ. I am no deuine: I wolde to God I were. To take vppon me the name of learned: I dare not. Of experience: age will not let me speake. But the tragical [Page] history following, may wourke a terrour to all youth: rashlie and of themselfes tattēpt any thing. Note (louing frend) the matter succeding is of two English louers, both yonge, of lynage lyke substaū ciall ynough, maried by ye parentes cōsent of equall troth in keping the honourable bedde of matrìmony vndefiled, what shold I saie? both vertuous & louing: and yet their doinges not prospering. I must think good Reader, but I leaue ye iudgement to God, yt he was offended, bycause they both at first sight, rashly, vnaduisedlie, vnknowen, and without frendes consent, durst thrall themselues in the desire of vncleane lust (but I must terme it cleanelie, Cupides flama) and did not cal vppō God, for ye metenes of the matche, nor saught parentes consent, till (had the same been neuer so vnmete) they must haue graūted. Or ells ye loue grown from follie, and thought from loue, wold haue wrought the louers endes. If thou be a [Page] parent, that reades this same, looke vigelantlie to thie fraile childe, least thearby thou wourke thine owne sorrowe as in the ende of this historie. If thou be a childe, of what age soeuer thou be, thie Parentes or Guerdians lyuing, reade ouer the same, and think thine intent can be none bonester, then theirs that mynded chast wedlocke, thine entraunce no better, then by frendes consent, thie succession no better thē to win honour in the defence of thie prince and contrie: but thy ende may be better, then accused for treasō, faltes, to receiue thie mortall wounde, or die, as he or she did. well, thinke that the falt was comytted at first because without the feare of god and frendes corsentes craued in the begynning, they durst loue, and in themselfes contract maryage. And so consequentlie, as the falt at firste was don: the punishmēt at last was wrought by hym that leaueth nothing vnpunished [Page] which is not repēted. Beware the like. I haue promised to set at large, a thing of more effect, and greater moment: which shall not long be behinde. But this haue I begoon wyth, as with an instrument to whet my knyfe, to cut my pen cleane to cause it to wright the more pleasaūtlie, playnelie, and profitablie to the. Accept my good will, and staie thie iudgemēt til thou knowe myne intent, and deeme the best till then.
Farewell.
(?) Ber. Gar.
TO THE READER.
VVIthin the raged rocke, the vapours colde,
to small effecte, collects a waters course:
so weake at first: as scarce it dare be bolde,
to spread abrode, the newe obteyned fource.
Ere long growen to som strength: abroade doth goo,
and sheweth it selfe to those that haue delight:
to see the same although it cannot soo,
kepe on the course: for some that haue dispight.
At last fedde by the hedde, from whence at furst,
it (weakelie) came, findes fourth a channel depe:
and then though rancour swell, or Enuie burst,
the puysaunt fource, the channell still doth kepe.
And good for moste, doth worke his owne defence
not harming any, of purpose or pretence.
Euen so my Muse
FRom right dul hed, and vnapproued brayne,
with hart amasde, and colour pale of hewe:
hath heare set out, the dolefull ende of twayne,
that loued longe, whose fates are yet to rewe.
If this attempt may scape the gnawing fielde,
of hatefull spight, (not able to resist)
no doubt at all, thear is: that she shall yelde:
when wourthie wourkes, her weakenes shall assist.
whearin she meanes, ere longe to walke at large,
and then within that comelie channell depe:
(This ended ones,) to take a greater charge,
and thearin still soch decent ordre kepe:
As then a whit, she will not doubt nor feare,
the cruell wight, may let the passage hear
Of this my Muse.
The tragicall history of two English louers.
WHen that the boustrous Borias,
and Hiemps horie frost:
By iust retourne of Lady Ver,
their pinching power had lost:
That ladie staide the fyne of March,
in comelie course and hewe:
And lefte her seate to Estas then,
and bad the Pryme adewe.
Then Aprell entred in by kinde,
with swete and sugred streames:
And dailie dect the earth againe,
through aide of Phebus beames.
Then Tellus semed to tryme her tyre,
to welcome Estas gaye,
Eche fragrant flowre freshlie smelles:
and in leapes lustie Maye.
Whearin eche thing doth ioy by right,
that kinde hath wrought by berth,
And also those that cressiue are:
as Trees and rootes in earth.
What then hath power or strength at all?
what is it that hath might?
But Ioyouslie, will shewe it selfe:
as Nature geues delight.
In this swete moneth a virgin faire,
by birth of gentle bloode:
Her feauter fourmed passing well,
her stature tall and good:
In whome no shape at all did want,
that harte or Iee might seeke:
Ne colde Appelles for his lyfe,
depaynt or drawe the lyke.
Whose youth sent fourth her lyuelye hart,
with suche a pryncely pace:
As none that sawe her, but must iudge:
she came of wourthie race,
Her tire was tryme, yet sobre to,
not comon in these daies:
Of all the rest who sawe her then,
did iudge her wourthie prayse.
Ths pece, before Pigmalion
her like colde graue or carue:
Though he wear lyuing now againe,
Ten thowsande tymes wolde starue.
Aboutes the fieldes with equall Feeres,
in decent order set:
As if Diana had been theare:
a comelie course did fet.
Whearin (by chaunce) a wourthie wight,
did salue her in that place:
Their ioye and iesture both wear suche:
non had the better grace.
A man he was, in age but yonge,
of state both bigge and tall:
A face he had effemynate,
scant any bearde at all.
In whome thear wanted not the thing,
that kinde colde shape or giue:
Faire Absolon colde neuer die,
so longe as he did lyue.
And Nature gaue to hym a grace,
so sobre and so trymme:
As who so did delight a man,
must nedes delight in him.
A worlde it is to see howe farre,
some other some excell:
Scant Tullyes stile not my rude pen:
the dyfference can tell.
But groase shalbe my Simile,
since eloquence I lacke:
He passed more the comon sorte,
Then white excelleth blacke.
Yet as they met, they parted tho,
their gestures saide fare well:
Their faces shewed their fancyes pleasde
no wourde betwene them fell.
The maide kept on her stealing steps,
so did her mates eche one
The yong man fet a soking sigh,
his hart was almost gon.
Alas what hap haue I (saied he)?
what meanes this suddeyn stroke?
Oh Cupide nowe, thie dreadfull Darte:
my craised corps hath broke.
His ruddie chekes were chaunged pale,
he plucte his bonnet lowe:
He mused moche, that he sholde loue,
the wight he did not knowe.
Nor whear she dwelt, nor whence she came
nor any of her kynde:
Nor yet what way her course she bent,
nor whear her home to fynde.
Oh cruell boy that thus sholdst strike,
and bringe hym into thrall:
That was not yet an houre agoe,
the freest man of all.
He semed nowe, to wring his handes,
that carst did feele no greefe:
And homewarde gat with quaking steps
deuoyded of releefe.
Then Phebus gan shut vp his beames
then darkenes made it night:
Then pleasures none at all were seen,
but by the candell light.
And then this faire and famous dame,
thought tyme to go to bedde:
Wheare flowing fancyes followed her,
renewing in her hedde.
What wight he was that sholde salute
her in this comely wise:
She beat her brayne, and of that man,
she laie and did deuise.
And viewing in her waking hed
his gesture and his face:
His comely shape did brewse her brest
and fancy founde hym grace.
What wantes in hym (quod she) that I
this present daie haue seen:
Are not his vertues wonderous
his yeares freshe and grene.
Right happie weare the dame in deade
that might obteyne the grace:
In wedded bed and folded armes,
thie bodie to embrace.
With that she sought to set a side,
soch phansies and to slepe,
But Venus sparkes, which growe full great
gan towardes her harte to crepe:
And Cupide caught his Bowe in hande,
and drewe the strynge so farre:
As losed ones, the shafte and hedde
against her harte did Iarre.
Then loking vp, she sawe that none,
was in her chamber bye:
She felt what stroke she had receiued,
no slepe colde toche her Eye.
Then came she vnto Venus thrall,
and thus beganne to praye:
Most mightie goddes of them all,
geue eare what I shall saie.
I am become thie seruaunt that,
before did neuer loue:
Soch feruent force, thie sonn hath vsde
on me his power to proue.
What conquest shall he get by this,
though I through sorrowe die?
No praise at al: thus on a wretch,
his force and power to trie.
But if thou wilt cause this thie sonn,
againe his bowe to bende
And from the same with equall force,
an other arrowe send,
Into his hart, within whose breste
my harte doth rest and shall
Then will I saie thou arte a Iudge,
and iustest Iudge of all.
So, liuing shall I hym attayne:
Or ells we both shall dye:
Or at the least he shall not laugh,
when care both cause me crie.
Thus laie she waking all the night.
He spendes his tyme in teares.
They both are stroken with one Darte.
the one, the other feares.
He doubtes of her, She feareth hym,
See here of loue the fource:
Yet want of knowledge sunders them
they can haue no recourse.
The wearie night weares thus awaie
Aurora shewes her light
He leaues his bedde, he walkes abroade
of her to haue a sight.
No gate he sees, but he lokes in
no windowe wantes his Eye
No Lane, no Streat, no Place at all
whearin he doth not prie.
And walking thus from morne to night.
and foodeles coming soo:
Retournes into his restles bedde,
repleate with care and woo:
The ladie as her loue doth mourne,
soo likewies mourneth shee:
Her stomake fades, her flesh doth fall,
she is as sicke as hee.
The mother markes the daughters plight
with sorrowe of her mynde:
And of the sicknes of the childe,
she seekes the cause to fynde.
But secreat couert loue (alas)
Soo perceth flesh and fell:
As death might breake her hart, but she,
those secreates, wolde not tell.
Her mother who had ones been yonge
and felt of Cupides sting:
Did feede her childe, wih tender wourdes,
and poysing euery thing:
Myne owne (quod shee) discloase thine harte,
and roote of this thie greefe,
To hidden sores, the sikmans talke
must bring the first releefe.
To wourke on the by medecins Arte,
before thie case be knowen:
Thie death: my bayne, thie fathers fall:
to gether sholde be sowen.
Thou arte my childe, and from my lyfe,
Thie life did first proceade:
Oh seeke not then, by silence thus,
To shred my fatall threade.
Faire childe, (and then she kist her mouth,
Her teares did moyst the grounde
Disclose thie greefe, least lacke of talke,
Thie mothers Ioyes confounde.
Whie wepest thou? oh whie dost thou weepe?
redobling thus my woo:
The mayde lookt vp, but could not speake,
a traunce did take her soo.
The dolfull dame calles fourth the Nurse,
who first did weane the childe.
And stryuing bothe, the lothsome lyfe,
the sence againe doth yelde.
And then with heauy hart and teares,
she leaues her daughter soo:
And with right wofull waylyng sobbes
vnto her spouse doth goe.
Oh Syr (quod she) so long as we.
haue lyud together heare:
So iust a cause did not compell,
my griefe and griping cheare.
Our daughter man, our onely ioye,
and Iuell of our age.
With sicknes is full sore opprest,
eche parte of her doth rage.
And mortally I feare and doubte,
she stroken is with death.
So pale, so wanne her visage is,
so shorte she draweth her breath.
The Father who did tender her,
a man both sage and wise,
saide to his wief, then for her helth,
some meane we must deuise.
And not this rage as you beginne,
it tokeneth lytle wit:
And to our state and horye heares,
a thing right farre vnfit.
Goe to her yet with good aduice,
and geue her tyme to pawse.
Marke when her paine, doth greue her least,
then learne therof the cause.
The Mother who already had
endeuored with her might,
As you haue hearde, of this her greefe
to knowe the cause aright:
To god agayne was halfe dismaide
it greued moch her mynde:
But yet to pleas her husbande with
an errande she did fynde.
And coming to the chambre wheare
her daughter sicke did lie
A thousande couert meanes she saught
The roote therof to spie.
Her skilfull tonge with smiling talke
saide to her daughter than:
See here thie mother, howe she cares
To help the what she can.
That thou arte sicke, to trew it is
the cause therof discloase:
Tell me thie grefe my darling deare,
some trust in me repose.
Or if the roote of this thie care
from the doth hidden lie
The manners of thy painefull pangues
to me with spede discrie
The daughter viewde the mothers face
whiche cloase by her did stande:
She threwe her arme out of the bedde
and tooke her by the hand.
Oh you, from whence this corps of myne
(saide shee) did take releefe:
No lengre will I hide from you
the manner of my greefe.
Soch ardent heate doth bourne my harte,
as it is parching drie.
And floodes of fylthie frosen Ice
enrowndes it by and bye.
Thus hot, thus colde, thus drie, thus drownd
I lie heare in mye bedde:
Loo hear you knowe my greefe, and yet:
I nere the better spedde.
But howe I came by this disease
the lorde (not I) doth knowe
Content you then, your daughters mouth
no more to you can showe.
With that the virgin tournd her selfe
she sighed very sore:
Her wourdes did falter in her mouth
her tongue colde talke no more.
What heapes of greefe the mother felt
in hearing this discourse
Deame you that Parentes are by kynde
with pytte and remourse.
And yf that she poore hart (alas)
was drownde in sorrowe than
Note that it was a mothers parte:
who thearfore blame her can?
But she full warelie did witholde
her secret hidden greefe
Her inwarde care she couered still
she saught her childes releefe:
And spake thus to the aged Nursh
my true approued frende
In whome I haue affied most,
and will vntill myne ende
My daughter and your darling deare
of trust to you I leaue:
Of trust agayne with all my harte
good nursh do her receaue.
Nursh thou arte olde, and I am not yonge,
what thinkest thou her [...] disease?
What best is for her appitite?
what will her fancy please?
Madame (quod she) yf age and wit,
weare equall in my braine.
This your demaunde could I disclose,
and ease your daughters payne.
But age to much, to litle wit,
in women olde we finde.
But since it pleaseth you to aske,
I will disclose my mynde.
I feare least that the sparkes of loue,
are kindled in her brest:
And then (swete hart) the lord doth know,
how sore she is opprest.
Then must be learnd somewaies with whome
she so bewrapped is,
And warely must you graunt or not,
Take good aduice in this.
For if she be in Cupids thrall,
as you and I wot neare,
(Then is she in her golden pryme,
Of age full sixtene yeare)
And hauing choase her selfe, a mate,
and doubting your good will.
The dolefull doubte within her brest.
may sone your daughter spill.
Therefore a meane there must be founde,
by some that shee loues well:
That may prouoke by circumstaunce
her, all her mynde to tell.
Whiche thing by her once vttered,
and to your wisedome knowne.
Then of the herbes to euer her,
the seedes are surely sowen.
Good Lady blame not myne aduyse,
loue causeth me to speake,
and onely loue and your request,
makes me my mynde to breake.
And one precept (if I may tearme
my folish sentence soe,
Take from my mouth, and marke it well,
before you from me goe.
If you do like the choise that shee
vnto her selfe hath made:
To graunt it then you nede the lesse
to doubt or be a fraide.
But if the matche be so vnmete,
as she may chaunce repent.
Yet may you not in rigrous sorte.
denye her your consent.
For as the fallyng drops of rayne,
which from the gutters gone:
In length of tyme, and fallyng ofte,
doth pearse the marble stone,
That els by sodeine seas or floods,
ne myghty streames at furst:
By rigour nor by force at all,
woulde yelde it selfe to burst:
So wise men haue long tyme of loue.
the lyke oppinion helde:
That loue in time may be represt,
but will not be expelde.
Lo here, you heare my fond aduice,
my small approued skill:
Accept it as a womans tale,
proceading of good will.
And as you leaue with me your child,
so I the same receiue:
And that nothing shall want in me,
I trust you shall perceiue.
I geue the thankes good gentle Nursh,
for this thy sounde aduise:
Therby I trust my daughters health,
my ioye and all shall rise.
And vnto your discrecion,
to know my daughters mynd:
I leaue the ordre and the waies
some parfect meanes to fynde.
Heare with the mother goeth awaie
the nursh sites by the childe,
The nursh is growen an oratrice.
her tongue is smothelie field
The maide lokes vp, the nursh it spies
Oh swetehart saieth she than:
That God ones sende you quyet helth
that helpeth euery man.
Comaund euen what you may deuise
Your hed or harte to please:
What nursh (quod she) do holde your tongue
your talke doth me disease.
Lesse wourdes to her that is so sike
and moch more quiet, rest
(Me thinkes your age sholde teache you wyt)
that, for my state were best.
The nursh thus nypped to the brayne
shee had no wourde to saie:
A sobving sigh the mayden fette,
and tournde her hed awaye.
Nowe all the while the mayden thus
with pangues lase sore distrest
Her loue (that seconde Troylus)
was neare the lesse opprest.
But all effebled was his strengthe
his mirth was growen to moue
His flesh was fallen, his iointes wear weake,
he could scant ryse alone.
Yet euerye daie in ordre dewe
by starry light he roase:
And ceased not to seake his chaunce
till night the daie did cloase.
Who first had seen soo faire a face
and nowe seen hym againe
Had been his harte more hard then flynt
must yet bewayle his payne.
For they that loue do knowe, (elles none)
the heat of Cupids fire:
And loue can see, and none but loue
this dolfull mans desire.
Who, for to ease his heauie harte
his lewte wolde ofte assaye
Yet, ere his fyngers, spast the freates
the knewe not what to playe.
Then wolde he proue, by wonted voyce
some sollemne songe to sing:
The notes whearin he wont reioyce
doth nowe but sorrowe bring.
Then from his quyuer wolde he take
and saie to bende his Bowe
Whearof the string he colde not stire
his strength was brought so lowe.
Then of eche thing he had delight
he called to his minde:
But all his ioyes did tourne to greefe
no comforte, colde he fynde
For that which earst in other cares
did moue him some delight
In this his greatest greefe of all
did wourke him most dispight.
Thus when he sawe that euery hap,
whearin he wont to ioye:
Was nowe conuerted to mishap
and Fortune lookt acoye:
And that his life was nigh fordoon
and had no helth at all:
He thought to proue by medesins arte
what might to him befall.
And to his frende a man experte
a Doctour in that arte:
He gat him then in secrete wies,
and thus discloasde his harte.
A man I was of late (quod he)
and past my tyme in sporte:
as fits my youthfull yeres yet
though cares do cut me shorte.
A blisfull life I led a while,
I had that did me please:
So haue I nowe, but what alas?
That may me most disease,
In couert woordes thus could I couche
my grife, and so to proue
your skill: but what auaileth that,
my sicknes came through loue.
But whome I loue, or what she is,
the gods not I can shewe:
A heauenly thing, vnmete for me,
I think she be to knowe.
And where I sawe her once in dede,
(my wits do serue so well)
Or dreamde of her, I stand in doubte,
of truth I cannot tell.
But this I know, alas and shall
by dreame or els by dede:
I that of late was like a man,
am nowe become a weade:
In sleape, nay: slomber as I lye,
I see her face to face:
I goe to her with louing chere,
To me she comes a pace:
I craue her loue: she graunts it me,
her hart I doe desire,
I geue to her my hart and that
is all she doth require.
The match is made, we clap our handes
she is my wedded wife:
I wake with ioy and find her not,
I then repent my lyfe.
The seeming ioyes within my sleepe,
doth growe to perfect care,
My brackish teares do weat my cheekes,
and sorrow is my fare.
Like ioyes as I within my slepe,
coulde neuer louer tell:
Like paines to myne, when I do wake,
were neuer felt in hell.
This is my griefe, and I of it
do feele the passing smarte:
Do helpe me now, and if thou canst,
I haue disclosde my hart.
Or if without recouery,
thou iudgest this my woe:
To rid my life prepare some thing,
and geue me ere I goe.
And all the substaunce that I haue.
I geue the for thine hire:
Saue vnto her my hart I yelde.
whose harte I do desire.
And when that I am deade and gone,
this onely do I craue:
This Epitaph that thou wouldest wright
in steele vppon my graue.
Not Troylus lieth here (god knoweth)
that Crossed looud so well:
But here lyeth one, that in trewe loue,
did Trollus farre excell.
My Testament thus haue I made
my frend, thy cunning trye:
and els do helpe my heauy happe,
or graunt that I may dye.
Whiles in this rage, this worthy wight
stoode wringing of his fist:
One knocked at the Doctours dore,
and euery thing was whist.
The latche was loose, a shade was seene,
the dore gan to vnfolde,
A woman entred in thereat,
the Doctour thought her bolde.
she brought an vryn in her hand,
wherein she praide to knowe
The Doctours skill and eke that he
some waye to helth would showe.
Faire wife (quod he) staye here a while,
while I do with my frende,
conclude our matter now begonne,
which almost is at ende.
And then wherin myne arte and I,
may satisfie your mynde,
That in me is to doe you good,
right reddy shall you finde.
And then he saide vnto the man,
full straunge is your request,
content you with youre paine a while,
and I will do my best.
To morow come to me againe,
Do follow myne aduyse,
Thereby I trust your sore shal swage,
your helth againe shal rise.
Till then set fancies cleane a side,
let trouble not your hedde,
Endeuour to the most you maye,
to rest in quiet bedde.
The louer thus left of his talke,
he gate him thence alone,
His wery legges did bow for fainte.
his heauy hart did grone.
What heapes of griefe, he felt this night,
no louer but may gesse:
But I because they moue my teares,
the same do here represse.
Then to the Doctour doth the Nursh
present the vryn thoe,
and to his closet, from the hall,
the Nurshe and he doth goe.
And after certaine wordes, he takes
the vrynall in hande,
She prayeth by his learning that
the vryn might be scande.
With persing eye and skillfull braine,
he doth the state pervse:
He warmes it by the fire againe,
no paines he doth refuse:
And viewing euery circle there,
did note the substaunce to,
and coulde not fynde that neded ought
for Phisikes art to do.
But skilfull learned men can ofte
by circumstance preuaile:
And cause the rude Propositor
to aske, and tell the tale.
Dame quod the Doctour to the Nursh.
I thinke it be your will:
And eke the cause why you did come,
to know herein my skill.
Note, of the corps of euery wight,
both feminyne and male:
A thousand secret maladyes,
the inward part assayle.
Which at the first this famous arte,
that I do here professe,
By certaine rules infallibly,
doth geue a certeine gesse.
As when the lyghtes, the longes, or splene,
or els the noble harte:
The kidneys, raignes, or to be short,
what other inwarde parte,
For lacke of moisture sicate wax,
through moysture els do rot.
(For raging griefe in man is not
but eyther colde or hot)
Then by the sickmans vryne straight
expert men haue a rule:
(As I) I speake not bostingly,
by practise and by scoole,
Whereby we knowe what inwardly
within the corps doth rayne,
Whereof procedes the maladye,
what eke wil ease the paine.
The Ellymentes are foure, whereof
we mortall men are made,
And contraries they be eche one
as iustly may be saide,
As fyre, water, earth, and aire,
wherof, if one abounde,
Aboue the rest: then in the corps
no perfect helth is founde.
Thus twise two are the Ellymentes
three principalles againe,
Ther is in man: to wit, his hart,
his liuour, and his braine.
Now euery chiefe and princely parte
which principalles we call:
To pourging places haue of right,
to pourge themselues withall.
The braine behind the sickmans eare,
doth pourge his secrete griefe,
The harte doth through the Armeholes sende,
grose humours for relife.
The lyuour somewhat lower stoopes,
and sendeth to the grindes,
That noysome to the blood, or els,
vnto it self it findes.
And hereuppon is founde the rule.
that we Phisitions vse,
The circumstaunce within this state,
I perfectly peruse.
But oft when nought but parfect helth,
is sene within the state,
Death is become vnto the sicke.
a fellow walking mate.
And therefore we that learned be
professing Phisickes arte,
Do iudge when least is seene in state,
that most doth gripe the harte.
Of trothe then saide the Nursh to hym,
of all that ere I herde,
Your knowledge doth surmount the rest,
your connyng is preferde.
For as you sayethe silly wenche,
that did this water make,
Would seme as she no sicknes had
and yet doth neuer slacke
Her panges, her paines, her freting fits,
her depe and deadly smart,
Which will ere long, in sonder shred
her yong and tender harte.
And if it be not sparkes of loue,
that doth the same possesse,
What it should be I promise you,
I haue no wit to gesse.
Nursh quod the doctour you haue tolde
that I did meane to tell.
You shewe a skilfull aged hed,
I like your woordes ful well.
Her vryn shewth she is but yong,
and youth doth woorke by kinde,
That youth from youth vnto it selfe,
a youthly mate shoulde fynde.
Then meane you not quod aged Nursh,
to geue her some receate,
Of these her pangues, and burning plague
to cole the freting heat.
No Nursh, loue neuer yet did burne
with heat of such effect:
But colde fourth with the Patients hart
as straungely did infect.
Then, if to quenche her burning heate,
colde surops I should geue,
When course doth come by colde ye know,
how should she longer liue?
What then is your aduice? (quod she)
a remedy to fynde,
Nought els but that you suffer her,
in rage to haue her mynd:
Nor do you alter what she saith,
where it be wrong or right,
But feade her fansy still that waye,
wherein she doth delight.
Whereby I trust in tyme her health
to her againe shal grow:
If not (good Nursh) this is my house,
let me the daunger know.
And I besides these fixed rules,
perchaunce, some way can finde:
But Nursh you know not all at first,
some shall remaine behinde.
Nursh boweth now the croked knee,
Nursh geues the Doctour thankes:
Nursh homewardes packes with better chere
and to her Lady prankes.
And I dare saye that in seuen yeare,
which passed last before:
The silly Nursh applied her not
to study any more:
Then now she ginnes to doe (poore soule)
in these her latter daies:
To set the Doctours conning out,
and geue him worthy praise.
The gentlewoman olde (god wot)
that staide her comming home,
Tooke griefe because the Nursh did leaue
her childe so long alone.
And looking out did spie from farre
the fast vnwonted pace,
Of aged Nursh she coulde not choose,
but muse at it a space.
Which when she sawe she did reiect
her first conceiued collour:
And gaue good eare to Beldame Nursh
nowe sworne the Doctours scollour.
Nursh gladly would haue tolde the tale,
which earst she did pretende,
But that with haste, her breth made short
her sentence woulde not ende:
Which ofte begonne not ended tale,
did much the Lady flight:
Who saide, good Nursh take tyme ynough,
beginne thy tale aright.
These passhons which I see in thee,
that trip thy tongue so sore,
To double still my sorrow, and
do make my griefe the more.
Good Lady (yet with shaking voice)
the Nursh beganne to saye:
Mourne not at all, all shalbe well,
this is a happy day.
I haue bene with the skilfulst man,
that euer learning taught:
Who at the first (the water sene)
youre daughters griefe hath saught,
And saieth that other malady
is in her body none,
But Cupids darte (I wene he saide)
It was that made her mone.
I craude of him some remedy,
of it to kill the yre,
He saide that quiet gouernement,
woulde soonest quench that fire.
If not, he chargde in any wise,
I shoulde retourne againe,
And he by Phisike, or some arte,
woulde quenche her raging paine.
This is the some, let me alone,
your daughter yet to rule,
For I am growen the conninger,
by seing Phisiks scoole.
The mother which to heare these newes,
with ioy was fully fraight,
(Her craysed childe left with the Nursh)
went to her husband straight.
To whome she wisely opened
the dolour of the maide,
In all that euer shee coulde see,
or was by Phisike saide.
To whome also the vryn was
by Nursh comitted to,
What dyet was prescribed, and
what els he ment to doe.
Then to the doctour in the morne,
to send was his request.
This was the fathers owne deuice,
This pleasde the mother best,
Thus now the day is spent and gone,
The doctour goth to bedde.
Wheare like a frende the sicmans sore
he calleth to his hedde.
And altogether he doth not
forget, the maydens state
Because his frendes, and her disease
weare both of equall rate.
And calling to his memorie
the yongemans wofull race:
Whearin he had most ruefully
aboad nighten wekes space.
What torments, and what tossing fites
his frende laie tombling in
His brackish floodes fell from his eyes
and soo embrewd his chyn.
Wherby he shewed his nature good,
and howe he wolde haue borne
His neighbours crosse, for care wherof
his beard he wolde haue torne.
But reason stept before his will
aduising him to take:
That waie that best might helpe his frende
and so his sorrowe slake.
And not to cast away the man
that elles coulde not recure:
In doing to hymselfe this wronge
which he wolde nowe procure.
To reason wislie he did yelde
and vowed he wolde not shrinke
But that he wolde to aide his frende
do all that he might thinke.
Then calde he to his mynd the tale
that Reason did him tell:
And eke the dolour of the mayde
he marked verie well.
Perchaunce it is the will of god
(quod he) that I sholde doo:
That which he chargeth no man elles
in copling of these two
He loueth more then feruentlie
but whome he doth not knowe:
She takes of loue as bytterly,
towardes whome she cannot showe.
A lykelyhoode by this appeares
I canne none other deme
But that the one to others vse
is kept I must exteme.
Thus tossing still his trobled brayne
to wourke his neighbours helth
Dame Nature sent out subtell slepe,
which caught his hart by stelth.
And then within two howres space
fayre Lucifer the starre
Which plainely telth to euery thing
Aurora is not farre:
Gan gloriouslye to decke and shewe
her selfe within the skies:
Which he that longe had watcht for it,
(the ardent louer) spies.
And therwithall he starteth vp.
and clothd hymselfe so fast:
As to the Doctours house he ronnes
his poyntes vntrust for hast.
He gaspeth then, his breath was shorte
he wolde haue knockt at dore
But hast had made his membres faynct
he had thearto no power.
But when his strength and memorie
retourned backe agayne
He wayeth not the Doctours rest
no yet regardes his paine:
But through a broken querell that
He, in the windowe spide:
Awake (alas) your frende is heare
he to the Doctour cried.
Who fourthwith roase, and let hym in
and shewed a frendlie face:
As frendely is to comforte frendes
in soch distrestfull cace.
Oh louing frende the sickman saide
eche thing doth wourke me spight
Howe much aboue all Natures course
hath been this yerksome night?
I think the signes, and planetes to
and all and euery starre
Which in the ayre, are fixt or moeue
against my lyfe do warre.
And yet vnhappie hated lyfe
that from me will not flie,
And cursed arte thou cruell Death
that wilt not let me dye.
And cursed to I clayme the tyme
whearin beginning was:
Of spousall twixt my parentes, and
did after come to pas.
But be you cursed euermore
and hatefull to the earth
The daie of my natiuitie
the houre of my bearth.
In which if that the lyuing lorde
sholde iustice do aright
No Sonn, nor Mone, sholde shewe it selfe,
no Starre nor other light.
Howe good had nature been to me
If borne I had been deade?
Or stopped had my wesen been
when first I tasted breade.
Or when my feeble fyngers first
did toche or handle knife
How cursed was mine arme alas
it did not rid my lyfe?
Whie graunted not my fortune foule
a Cockatrice had been
A present to my tendre sight
the first that it had seen.
Whie not amonges the Caniballes
were spent my yeares fresh
Who in my sicknes wolde haue kilde
me and haue eat my flesh?
Or elles amonges the tyrant Turkes
I had been captiue caught:
And then that dolour and that greefe
had now my quyet wraught.
The poets fayne in heuie hell
sometyme is quiet rest:
But I in earth from tyme to tyme
am more and more opprest.
Whie Venus, arte thou cruell blynde?
or seeing wilt not see?
Or first thou stil and laughest at
the wrong thou dost to me.
Or doth thie cruell sonn, and thou
together both conclude:
In hating yonge mens quyet state
their sences to delude?
What staye (quod the Phisition)
what meanes your frantique braine?
What booteth this vndecent talke?
What easeth it your payne?
So long haue I geuen eare, to you
as doutfull was my minde
Wheare you of humane nature weare
or elles of brewtysh kynde.
Is ther no god at all thinke you?
howe do you banne and curse?
Or do you think in hym is not
tamende or make you wourse?
But if you cannot pacifie
your rigour and your thrall,
Doo seeke some other frendes aduice,
come not to me at all.
I ioye to see your helthfull blisse
I greue to see your payne:
And shortlie hope recouerie
shall yet retourne againe.
Yf you canne take this quyetlie
till God do sende you rest:
He tourneth alwaies comonly
the hardest to the best.
And where you iudge that in the world
none hath so harde a hap,
What? is thear anny alwaies may
sit in good Fortunes lap?
No: happie is that man, and blest
at last that maye aspire
And after many trobled daies
obteyne his hartes desire,
Your tendre yeares cannot gesse
how farre it is vnmeate,
For witles youthe before the soure
to feele, or tast the sweate.
What Iuell doth a man esteame
that he doth lightlye get,
Somoche as that by endles cost
and trauayle he doth set?
Or what is that, which easelie
comes to a man alone
But that againe, as soddenly
doth pas away anone?
Marke well, and waie within your hed
that harde obteyned grace
Foreuer cleaueth to a man
to death will geue no place.
Howe moch then are you bounde to God
that wourketh for the nones:
That all your cares together come
to ende your greues at ones?
Content your carefull harte awhile,
within a moneth and lesse:
On my reprofe, I warrant you
Your cares shall tourne to blesse.
And he shall graunt you your desire
so that you sarue hym well:
And all the grefes that gripe you nowe
will vtterlie expell.
The louers plantes were watered
in ioye of this deuice
He yelded hym both hand and harte
vnto his frendes aduice,
Reiecting of his follie cleane
and womanly complaint
And hoping after good successe
which long had had restraynt.
Thus talke, which makes the tyme seme short
doth driue the tyme awaie:
The Starres begynnes to hide themselfes
it waxeth parfect daie.
The Doctour shakes of sluggish slepe
and geues himselfe to rise
And willes the yongeman laie him downe
and followe his aduise.
A quiet slepe perchaunce may catch
your tomoch trobled hedde:
Vnrestfull men sometyme take rest
in vnacqueynted bedde.
To bed he goeth warme couered,
and falleth straight a slepe:
The Doctour leaues the sleping soull
vnto the lorde to kepe.
Perchaunce the hope of blosfull ioyes
which hee did trust sholde come
Did cause so swete and soddeyne slepe
through all his powres to ronne.
Perchaunce it was the soddeyne ioye
that warmde his hart and brest
And other partes, that weare halfe deade
and brought them so to rest.
Perchaunce the newe vnwonted ioye.
that nowe was in his brayne
Did cause this sounde and restfull slepe
through want of wonted payne.
But likest is that nature wolde
to shewe her power geue rest
To hym that not in thre monethes space
did slepe in quiet nest
I leaue the cause to learned men,
that thearin haue more skill
And to the matter I beganne,
I must retourne and will.
The Doctour leaues the sick a slepe
and glad he is thearfore:
He stealeth from his chambre, and
he standeth at his dore.
Wheare scantly he had taried
the eight parte of an howre,
But aged Nursh he spied from farre
come from her maisters bowre.
Which thing he wolde not seeme to see
he lookt an other waye,
Till Nursh with curtesies two or thre
gan to the Doctour saie.
Your good aduice (good gentle sir)
that you to me did tell:
My master and my ladie bothe
through me perceiue it well.
And wish that they had longe ago
sought out your dwelling place:
Your counsell and your learned help
to ease the wofull race:
That she these thre monethes space hath roon
of whome you sawe the state:
But nowe good folke they deme with teares
your conning comes to late.
And I haue cause to sobbe and wale
asmoch as anny shee
Because her neuer parting paine
my weping eyes do see.
This night (alas) this wicked night,
I thought her hart wolde breake
For sounding sighes, and soking sobbes
nolde suffre her to speake:
But lie and wepe, whose tendre teares
haue soo embrend her chekes:
As Hellins husbandes neuer was,
the dolefulst of the Grekes.
Now scarcelie canne she drawe her wynde
and by and by she cries:
As though she ment thearbie to perce
the high and hugie Skies.
The racking of her sprites thearwith
doth seeme to rent her hart:
And I pooer soule (aye me alas)
looke when she sholde departe.
But this causde not my cumming nowe
my maister doth requyre,
And that you wolde come see the sike
with harte he doth desire.
Good nursh your maister may commaunde
I yeld me to his will,
He shut his dore, and with the Nursh,
he goeth to proue his skill.
The Nurshe doth bring him to the house,
she telles her maister strayght:
and fourth he comes and welcomes him
for whome he long did waight.
With sober wourdes, and comely chere,
tone greetes the other then:
Theire meting was not woman lyke,
they met like sober men.
The fathers fained cheere, not straight
shewed fourth his inwarde griefe:
Nor by and by bewailde his childe,
his wordes were not so reefe.
But thus beganne his wittie talke,
now sixtene winters past:
accompting from the tenth of March,
which was amongest vs last.
My dame gaue vp, and tooke her leaue
of yong wifes wisshed sute,
And brought me out a daughter, as
the ende of all her frute.
In whome I ioyed very much,
I had no wenche before:
But for her grace, and vertues sake,
I ioyed muche the more.
Yet sonnes I had, that myght haue proeud
good men, a foure or fyue:
Death tooke them all, I was content
that she was left alyue.
In whome I ioyde for vertues sake,
and parents duetye to:
As natures will becomes a lawe,
and forceth men to doe.
Nowe do you see, that god hath wilde,
such fate on me to fall,
She is become, my sonne, myne heire,
myne onely childe and all.
And sike she is, and very sicke,
the lorde him selfe doth know:
Your counsell and your helpe I craue,
your conning eke to shewe.
But what doth meane my witlesse wordes?
why do we lingring stand?
He wilde the Doctour walke with him,
and lead him by the hand,
Into a chamber princely decte,
yet wonderous close and tight:
So as the watchers had theire willes
to haue it darke or light.
There laye the heauy penciue childe,
there sat the mother sadde:
There wanted naught, by money might
or frindship els be hadde.
And when the mother knewe by Nursh
and by her tatling talke,
That he the learned Doctour was,
which with her spouse did walke,
She rose, and leaft her wery stoole
and did salute him then,
with suche a welcome as was mete
to welcome frendly men.
Who coulde eftsones, with equall grace,
salute the dame againe,
And also search, to shewe the Sire,
the daughters griefe and paine.
Her beating poulsies, he gan feele,
her temples and her feete,
And other such demonstratiues,
as apt he thought or meete.
And saide vnto the heuye mayde,
Good hart thou art opprest:
with painfull pangues and freting fits,
which god torne to the best.
Then to the parents both at once,
the Doctour gan to saye,
Though I be bolde yet beare with me,
I pray you goe your waye:
And let me talke a little while
with this your childe alone,
Who will perchaunce, the franker speake,
yf that you both were gone.
They went, and he retourned backe
to the diseased childe,
And toke her by the hand againe
with countnaunce very mylde,
And saide to her swere hart I see
your to muche troubled braine
will not permit your tongue to talk
without excessiue paine.
Therefore apply your eare to me,
which am your faithfull frende,
though yet vnknowen, the truth shall trie
my trauaile in the ende,
And if you list that I shall saye,
the secretes that I see
some token that you are content,
vouch safe to shewe to me.
With that she lickt her parched lips,
and faintly did she saye:
Good sir speake on your mynd to me,
I knowe no cause of staye.
Well then (quod he) I aske no more,
but that you heare me talke,
And blame me when disorderly,
my tongue or woorde shal walke.
Heare doth the subtell Doctour nowe,
tell fourth the sickmans tale:
And finding both their states alike,
thinkes therby to preuaile.
Not yet (quod he) two daies agoe,
this iollye auncient mate,
(Appointing to the aged Nursh)
did bring to me your state.
Whereon my conning earnestly,
and learning I did proue,
I must be plaine, your state did shewe
your greefe did grow by loue.
Then towardes the cares continuance,
I did adiecte my mynde,
And that it was night three monethes old,
my certeine rule dyd fynde.
And searching by that argument,
the plannet and the daye,
I fourthwith founde (good Lady myne)
that in the midst of maye:
By walke or talke, or otherwise,
you sought your most delight,
And therin lost your libertie,
by twinke or sodeine sight.
Now, if my rule be certaine still,
as it was wont be sure:
Confesse to me: and doubt you not,
I shall your paines recure.
This hearde did set the sences soe
within the virgin odde:
As els she thought it was a dreame,
els thought she him a god.
Whose perfect persing eye and skill,
so coulde detect her wounde:
And therwithall twixt ioy and care,
she fell into a sounde.
But he whose praised skill (god wot)
exteamd it of no weighte:
Did almost vse no force at all,
yet did releue her straight.
And then with fixed eye and face,
with colour pale and wanne,
With shaking flesh and quaking ioynts,
her tale she thus beganne.
Take from my castles mouth (saith shee)
which is thrise double furde.
By meanes that not this sennightes space,
no talke my tongue hath sturde,
This feeble folish aunswere, that
from such a place shall fail:
Full rightlye haue you tolde the truth,
my cause my care and all.
And you that can by skill fynde out
so secrete hidden griefe,
My thinkes againe your praised skill
may fynde out my reliefe.
Well saith the doctour since you haue
to me discloasde your harte,
Conceiue in me no doubt at all,
for I will do my parte.
And this muche by my knowlege I
dare to you heare auowe,
That euery griefe which you haue felt,
shal torne to pleasure nowe.
For Fortune hath bene much your frende,
The constellacions tell,
And he on whome you set your loue,
Loues you againe aswell.
A man he is of noble bloode,
and hath eche lygnament,
Of nature, and in fauour standes,
of euery Ellyment.
His Father dead, he is his heire,
and Fortunes darling to,
You blame your chaunce, and what can more
good Fortune for you doe?
And if you will, I will discloase
this to your parents sight:
and you shall see your dearling to
this instant present night.
Would god (quod she) right chierfully
that these your woordes were true:
Then of my long and pinching paine
at all I doe not rue.
The Doctour called then the Nursh
in sober wise and mylde,
And willes her pray the parents both,
come nowe and see theire childe.
She ronneth straight: they come in haste,
no let doth cause them slaye,
And fourthwith in the childes be halfe,
the Doctour gins to saye.
Good Sir in all extremities,
the cause must first be knowen:
And then with lesser care and toyle,
the grefe is ouerthrowne.
When I came first you said to me,
one onlye childe you had:
Whose languishing extremitie,
did make your hartfull sad.
You wild me know, and if I coulde,
the cause of her disease:
you wilde me vse my skilfulnes,
her piersing paine to ease.
Thus haue I done, and this I aske
of you, as of my frende,
To heare my tale, and graunt good will
your daughters paine to ende.
There is within this myle and lesse,
an heire that you do know:
Of noble blood, and worthy state.
his name I nede not shewe.
Whose parents of continuance.
haue louede your parents long:
And you must loue the man againe,
or els you doe him wrong.
He loues your daughter passing wel,
and she loues him againe,
And both they are extremely sicke,
and loue doth cause the paine.
Your daughter you haue wel brought vp,
at home she learnt to wurke,
(As fits a maide,) but trauaile hath
shewed him both Iewe and Turke.
His soo dispended youthful daies,
did cause Obliuion black,
By distaunce of the place and time,
theire memories to racke:
And pul the face of tone of them
so farre from tothers sight,
As childish knowledge twixt them twaine,
was so deuoyded quight.
yet was it equall chaunce to both,
at once to mete in fielde,
Where Cupides stroke, vnknowne to them,
causde tone to other yelde:
Which done they both do get them home,
in this theire ouerthrowe:
They loue (alas) and yet theire loue
doth neither of them knowe.
This hath bene griefe to both theire hartes,
hereby they haue beene tried,
Hereby theire frindships and good willes,
both plaine and true is spied,
Hereon doth hang the helthfull state,
and dolour of the mayde,
hereon, as on a procke or crutch,
the sickemans lyfe is stayde.
Which hard and when the parents sawe
wherto they both were bent:
They ioyed at the happy matche,
and gaue theire cloase consent,
Although they warely did hold backe
theire wordes within their bounde,
Least by theire suddeine ioye, theire childe
might suddein death haue founde.
And thus saide to the doctour then,
We thanke you for your talke,
and paynfull trauaile, and do praye
that he and you woulde walke,
At pleasure when you list to come
to this our simple home,
And welcomer then you shalbe
this daye there liueth none.
And cause I would not haue you thinke,
but I your paines regarde.
Haue heare (quod he) here is fyue poundes
accept this small rewarde.
Now was the parentes inward care,
somewhat in better rest,
The mayden late that curst her selfe,
doth thinke her fortune blest,
and other housholde talke was not,
within that house that daye,
But that the woer might him selfe
come, euery one doth praye.
Now are the seruauntes all and some,
calde fourth vnto theire charge,
Now to the beawtie of the house,
eche thing is set at large.
Now doth the mother with the childe,
consult of euery thing,
And howe they might best welcome hym
that sholde the Doctour bring.
I leaue to tell the virgins ioye
the halfe I cannot thinke:
Moche lesse then canne I speake the same
Or wright with penne or ynke.
Did not Eneas stealing steps
wourke to poore Dido wrong?
Did not alas Penelope,
thinke her Vlyxes longe?
Then thinke the ladie lengre thought
to see whome she loeud best
Whose pryncely presence onely might
perfourme her quiet rest.
The Doctour that thus wrought his feat
with ioye retourned backe:
And doubted moche the sickman sholde
or this some solace lacke.
But when he came vnto his house
and chambre wheare he slept
And did perceiue that all this while
a quiet slepe hym kept
He tooke thinges oderyferous
soch as he did suppose
Were comfortable to the sicke
and cocht them neare his nose.
And with soche thinges as he thought mete
he made a messe of meat
Which he thought best was for the sick
when he did wake to eate.
And least that in vnwonted sleape
some daunger might be founde:
His conning handes did take his Lute
and thearon gan to sounde.
The armonye wheareof, and eke
the sauour sweete did make
The waight of slepe to weare awaye
and causde the sicke to wake.
The noyse did cause his eyes loke vp
thearwith he felt the smell
and thought hym selfe in Paradise
they pleasd his powers so well.
Howe nowe? quod the Phisition
haue I not doon you wronge?
Or feele you not some iniurie
by sleaping ouer longe?
No, no, quod the distressed soule
I thinke that I was blest,
When first through you, and your aduyce
I laide me downe to rest.
And soo I pray the lyuing lorde
From daunger you to kepe:
As I the more am quieted
by this my sugred slepe.
Oh, that my mynde were quieted
as this my bodie is:
Who then but I most happie man
sholde feele most happie blysse?
First must you learne to creape (quod he)
then after must you goo
Then after may you ride or roon
the course of thinges are soo.
First hath a quiet sleape refresht
your weake, and yele brayne.
Nowe feede on this which I haue made
let not your stomake frayne
And consequently shall appeare
what payne and heuie plight
That I poore soule haue ventured
to bringe you to delight.
The man as in a rage for ioye
conceued soch a trust,
As first the broth and then the meat
into his throat he thrust.
And thearwith loking vp in hast
and gasping yet for wynde
Saide to the Doctour specelye:
nowe let me know they mynde.
You haue (quod the Phisitian)
conceiued your greefe by loue,
By loue agayne texpell the same
It is in you to proue.
Then wolde you not thinke all your tyme
to be expended well?
To learne wheare she which hath your harte
doth at this instant dwell.
And thearwithall to bring you so
into your ladies grace
As frankly you may talke your mynde
vnto her face to face.
And that wyth ioye she ioyouslie
in your sholde take delight
Wolde not thinke you this blisfulnes
auoide your sicknes quight?
Thrise happie weare I happie man
to that then aunswered he
If that my mortall eyes might ones
these happie tyndinges see.
Then sholde I thinke my frendlie fate
texcell, all others farre
And farther to then brightest sonn
doth passe the darkest starre.
Then wolde I saie good Fortune had
ones tornd her whele aboute
And plaste hym equall with the best
that carst she had shut out.
The happie lyfe of Priamus
before the siege of Troye
For aye sholde then be shaded quyte
by meanes of this my ioye.
Then wolde I these so happie daies
aboue those daies extoll
Whearin the happie Hercules
enioyde the lady Eoll.
Then Saturne put from princes throne
to pryson and to payne:
And after set by Iupiter,
in kingly state agayne:
Was not so heigh aduaunced yet
by fortune and her grace
Nor halfe so heigh as I sholde be
to see my ladies face.
What happie man might euer saie
that he had his desire:
So moch as I, yf I may to
my ladies loue aspire.
If that I might assueredlie
soo stande in Fortunes grace
What wronge hath all my paynfulnes
don me this quarters space.
None other, but that suddeyn blysse
sholde not my harte anoye
Good Fortune sent a prepratiue
to mittigate my ioye.
Then in my dredfull dollour, and
the midst of all my stryfe
My Fortune faire hath sent to me
my most desired lyfe.
Well then (quod the Phisitian)
go put on some attire:
And come to me in comely sorte
you shall haue your desire.
And then in token of the troth
that I to you profest:
I will not faile to shewe you her
I know that you loue best.
And that in soch a decent sorte
as can pursue none ill
I meane with both the parentes and
elles, all the frendes good will.
Oh, happie heauenly Fortune that
so suddeynly can chaunge:
Oh that thou canst soo frendly be
and yet canst seme so straunge:
Nowe, he that earst did curse himselfe
his fate and all did banne,
Of all the rest that lyue and ioye
accomptes hym happiest man
And he that as halfe buried,
went stooping to the grounde
Nowe as a courtlie gentleman
in comely sorte is founde
Not roysting as the roysters vse
not gallant in the sight
Nor weare his doinges prodigall
ne yet in niggerdes plight.
Whiles in this comely clenlynes
the louer thus was drest
The parentes house was trymmed vp
the Doctour and the rest.
The sillie sicke releued dame
putes on the same attyre
Which she did weare, when Cupid first
did set her hart on fyre.
The mother that wolde trymmer haue
the daughter ganne to blame
For leauing of her better weedes
and doing on the same.
Nay, mother, saith the smylyng childe.
sins thus I haue been tost
I will fynde out my lybertie
in weades that I it lost.
I do reserue your pleasure yet
and yelde me to your will:
Naie Daughter, at your lybertie
do chaunge or weare them still.
The frolike father he comes in
he sees that all is well
Harke saith the mother whose at gate?
doth no man hear the bell?
The aged Nursh that standes in hope
the wyshed gestes were come
Steps out before the rest a pace
and to the gate doth roonne.
Whear when the sees the Doctour and
with him so trym a wight:
Right comely she salutes them both
most ioyful of that sight.
The maister was enquired for
within he was, she saide
That they might speake with him forthwith
the learned Doctour praide.
Gon is the Nursh, and telles the sire,
and dame, what gestes were theare:
I came straight way the father saith:
desire them come neare.
Now standes the yonge man amarous
in hope of his releefe
Though doutfull passhones of the mynde
doth shiuer yet his teeth.
Downe comes the courtly gentleman
and frendlie doth embrace:
The Doctour and the woer to
and staieth soo a space.
To whome the Doctour thus brake fourth:
the frendship and good cheare
Which of your wourship I receiued
the last tyme I was heare
Doth cause that I and this my frende
though to your cost and payne,
Do fynde the meanes (I warraunt you)
to visit you agayne.
Good cheare, alas why saye you soo
you slaunder me ywis
But welcome are you both to me
to soch chear as it is.
Oh that the muses which do dwell
on Hellicon the hill
Or learned Pallas wolde step fourth
to aide my froward will.
Or that the learned sisters thre
which pas all other men:
Wolde take vppon them but a while
to guyde and rule my penne.
Then sholde you heare howe pleasauntlie
in shorte and sugred verse
The passing ioyes of these two folke
my conning cold rehearse,
Howe to the mother aged Nursh
dothe geue the man a prayse
Aboue the rest which with her eies
she sawe in all her daies.
Howe that the mother, ere she sawe
the man, or ought was doon:
In token of her inwarde Ioye
did name hym for her soon.
How that the sillie virgyn coulde
no lengre tyme abyde,
But with her knife did piers a hole
whear through her loue the spied.
And then how many sundrie ioyes
replenysshed her hart,
And eke the yongemans blesfull state
before I wolde depart.
But sins that in so surging Seas
I dare not hoyse my sale,
I must in baser sorte (god wot)
tell fourth a rudes mans tale.
Your welcome saide the gentleman
moch better is to me,
Then golde, or elles without the same,
the greatest cheare sholde be.
Thus curteous wourdes, were spent apace:
emonges this frendlie men:
and from the hall, the father wilde
them to the parlour then.
Whear was the aged gentlewoman
whear sat her daughter to:
Whear one embrast the other as
the maner is to doo.
Whear as the father with the Nursh
of purposes gan to talke
And towardes the aged mother doth
the Doctour gin to walke.
The gentleman saide merelye
sins hear are wemen thre
And two alreadie are in talke,
the third is left for me.
And towardes her makes, a stately course
her tendre lyps he kist.
Her fingers that wear fayre and longe
encloasing in his fist,
In secreat sort he vttered then
his longe vnquiet rest
To her (who axt) colde not denye
but that she loued hym best.
Oh happie man that hast found out
the meane to quenche thine Ire,
And happy dame that Fortune hath
enricht with thy desire.
Who now may ioy but you alone?
who is so iustly glad?
as you that haue your hartes desire:
whose frendes good will is had.
The Nursh about her busines goes,
the father walkes aside,
But still the yonger couple do
in talke together byde.
Theire talke and tales doth pleas them both,
loath are they to depart:
And chaunging collours therwithall,
bewraies the ioyfull harte.
It groweth fast towardes supper tyme,
the mother eke doth praye,
The Doctour and the woer to:
that they would come awaye.
Vnhappy harmefull voyce thinkes he,
it is that doth depart
Two bodyes so ycopled that
they both haue but one harte:
He thankes her yet, for manners sake,
and yeldes him to her will:
That would haue solde his supper fayne,
in talke to tarry still.
The father and the mother both,
the woer and the maide:
The Doctour and a frend or two,
at supper heare are staide.
And first with some solempnitie,
the woer he is fet,
And other Gestes in order due,
the father he doth set.
Here doth he playe the Husshers parte,
and can the office quyte:
His wife he plaste at vpper ende,
and set his daughter right
against the man in whome good wenche
he knewe she ioyed much,
And he asmuche in her againe,
theire linked loue was suche.
No question nede demaunded be
of diet and of meate:
There wanted nought that might be wisht,
but stomakes for to eate.
The parentes stomakes, ioy had filde,
to see theire daughter glad,
And ioy againe as ioynouslye
the louers filled had.
The rest did feede right merely,
and then beganne to talke,
as common is at euery feast,
where Bacchus wares do walke.
The father to the Doctour drank,
the mother to the geast
that reason taught by perfect skill,
did loue her daughter best.
With all her hart, I saye she dranke
to him in cup of golde,
Who pledgde the dame, and to the childe
to drink he was as bolde.
Thus mery weare they euery one,
Right gladde and well apaide,
And she I thinke most gladde of all
that almost nothing saide,
Whose ioyfull, kinde, and louing harte,
her pashons coulde not hide:
But that which might not from the mouthe,
from harte and eye did slyde.
Now lookt she vp full chierefully,
and then within a while:
Her collour chaungde from white to red,
and then againe did smyle,
on him to whome by happy chaunce,
she thought her holely bounde,
By whome againe her secrete thoughtes
with spedy slight were founde.
Wherewith the father did breake out,
in decent sober sorte.
and that they all woulde heare his tale,
he did his gests exhorte.
They all attentiuely gaue eare,
theire tongues and talke were still
Applying them with might and mayne,
to here the fathers will.
Who now his secretes doth detect,
in plainest sort he can,
and looking on his daughter, thus
his sober talke beganne.
This mayden whiche you know right well
myne only daughter deare,
Hath choase this gentle gentle man,
vnto her onely feare.
And he againe (I know not howe)
doth in my daughters sight
conceiue his chiefe felicitie.
his comfort and delight.
Of tender yeares is the man,
my chielde is young also,
And youth by aunshent sawe is saide,
to reason is a foo.
Of worthy parentage he is,
of noble blood by birth,
His parents frendes to myne alwaies,
approued to the death.
His maners and behauiour,
are comely as you see:
His presence and his parsonage)
delightfull vnto me:
Endewed with possessions,
enricht with land and fee,
Not wanting ought that comelye is,
in such an one to bee.
My childish daughter is not ritche,
well qualited nor feire,
Nor els wherin such one should ioye,
but that she is myne heyre.
And I an aged thriftles man,
and like ynough to spend
my goodes, and eke possessions,
before my lyfe doth ende,
Then to so ritch a gentleman,
to match so poore a wife:
Is but a meane to kendle cause
of endles care and strife.
Except you may vouchsafe good Sir,
a poore mans childe to take,
And of my daughter farre vnmete,
your wife and fellow make.
Whiche if you do vndoubtedlye,
the argument doth proue,
Your comming is of perfect zeal,
and but for puer loue.
Which if (your direct aunswere made)
I fynde you that way bent:
My wife hath so perswaded me,
you shall haue my consent:
And when my Ladyes lyfe and myne,
by death are once bereft:
you may accompt the same your owne,
if any thing he lefte.
The Doctour would haue aunswered,
whose talke the louer brake,
And did reiect all bashfulnes,
and to the father spake.
Right worshipfull, my duetye is,
to tearme you so by right,
Because of long continuaunce,
you are a worthy knight.
To whome againe of right I owe
a childly dewtye to:
As frendship, and your daughters loue,
enforceth me to doe.
Yow know your daughter loueth me,
and I loue her againe:
And yet in doubt you stand to make
the match betwine vs twaine.
Although you canne on my behalfe,
ympute none other lacke,
But that not many aged yeres,
depende vppon my backe.
Age is a gift of nature that
she geues to many one,
Wit comming by the deytie,
is geuen by god alone.
As Salomō was parfect wise,
a childe yet by his yeres,
And Daniell in iudgement seat,
and infant as appeares.
Do you not reade that Ioseph to,
in youth discresion had,
Refrainyng foule adultery,
him selfe but yet a lad.
A thousand more, but that I will
not trouble you a whit:
I could expres in youthfull yeres,
had sage and sober wit.
Againe, an auncient prouerbe is,
with men that are ful sage,
that wit sometime in youth appeares,
and alwaies not in age.
I speake not herein bostingly:
or that I woulde haue thought,
that I my wisedome should commend,
or that my wit weare ought:
But that I woulde seme orderly
to aunswere to your tale,
and that to myne & her excuse
myne aunswere might preuaile.
And to my parents wourthines,
and state of noble blood:
myne neuer were so worthy yet,
but youres were as good.
And where you say my frendes and youres
in amytie were knit:
I seeke to tye a suerer knot,
and not to breake it yet.
And that my person and my selfe,
are pleasaunt in your sight,
you cause me thereby to reioyce,
and in my selfe delight.
My rents and my possession,,
and all my landes and fee,
as equall are vnto your childe,
as they are vnto me.
To whome me thinkes you haue done wrong
in such sorte to disgrace
a wight with worthy qualities,
and eke so faire a face.
I did not seeke your heire (god knoweth)
I sought this worthy dame:
whose iust desert already craues,
an euerlasting fame.
As for your riches and your welth,
I pray the lorde encrease:
And Nestors lyfe I wish to you,
tenioy them al in peace.
And me thinkes that a meter match,
you sawe not in your lyfe
Then to so wilde a gentleman,
to geue so sad a wyfe.
and how can I by any meanes,
a greater Iuel take:
Then to receiue and kepe for aye,
a wise and sober make.
The which if you bestowe on me,
your dede it selfe doth proue:
that you resolue your sorrowes both,
and knit the knot of loue.
And do this aunswere absolute,
within your hed conceiue
That either I must haue my hart,
or you my lyfe receiue.
Wherewith he set a decent pawse,
and therewith gan to smyle:
and craued licence of the dame,
towardes her to talke a while:
Who lyked so the former tale,
the woer had begonne:
as so much more to glad him bad,
saye on my louing sonne.
My father (quod the gentleman)
I speake as I woulde haue:
with your consent, I thank you both,
to me your daughter gaue.
You sitting by, me thought your face
your willing hart did show:
And with his wordes your ioynct consent
on me you did bestowe,
The mayde, whose good behauiour
hath staide her wordes as yet:
by clasping of her fingers fast,
did seeme the knot to knit.
And I that seeke your childe alone,
and craue none other good:
Receiue her so vnto my wyfe,
with all my hart and blood.
And if that this construccion,
be parfecte saye you then:
vnto my hungry hart and mynd,
with free consent Amen.
With that the parents first began,
and then all at the borde,
and standers by, said all amen,
there was none other worde.
Oh ioyfull sentence thus proclaymde
oh thys obtained grace,
that hath with soch, and so much care,
bene sought so long a space.
Now doth the faire and frendly beames
splendiferous and bright,
Of smyling Fortune shewe themselues
in this desyred night.
Nowe sorrow doth absent her selfe,
and ioy possesse her rome,
Within those hartes, which not long since
did thinke them nere theire dome.
Nowe euery man doth well commend
the fresh and filed wit,
Of him whose chierfull comely talke,
doth fill theire eares as yet.
Nowe lacketh nothing think they all,
byt that the maiden faire:
shoulde frankly speake her inward thought,
and so her mynd declare.
Wherewith her countnaunce gan to change,
she lifted vp her eyes,
The ruddie collour in her chekes
eftsones begon to ryse.
Quod she vnto her father then
and so vnto the rest
The daie of my natyuitie
the howre to was blest
Whearin my yonge, and youthfull sight
did pres and was so bolde
This firme and faithfull louer true
at first for to beholde:
Perchaunce some hear may think it is
a rude and rashfull parte:
A mayden in soch wies and sorte
thus to declare her harte.
Well next vnto this gentleman
this bargaine doth me touch:
Whose loue to me is not so great
but myne to him as much
To whome againe I yelde myselfe
obedient at demaunde,
And wedding ones solempnised
his onelie to comaunde.
He hath discloasd his honest mynde
againe I for my parte
In recompence, for his rewarde
do gyue to hym my harte.
And yelde hym franckly with the same
my free and true consent
my faith and all vnfaynedlie
vntill my lyfe be spent.
Heare might I name the humble thankes
that he his ladie gaue,
Heare might I tell the sundrie thoughtes
the gestes emonges them haue,
Heare might I shewe the parentes mirth
their firme and fixed ioyes.
The householdes talke ye neighbours wourdes
and elles a thousand toyes.
But you haue heard the longe discourse
helde all this supper space:
Then note the euening so is spent
depe night drawes on apace.
The [...]ers are ycopeled
[...] [...]uery thing is well
Th [...] [...]her poyncteth in the morne
[...] [...]edding daie to tell
The banquetes are in ordre due
by seruantes taken vp:
And euery gest doth take his leaue
that then and thear did sup.
The newe betrothed sonn in lawe
his reuerence don doth parte
And takes with him his wifes good will
and leaues with her his hart.
If that the parentes ioyed nowe
who thearfore can them blame?
Or what sholde let the louers but
that they sholde do the same?
And whie sholde not the happie man
leade nowe a pleasaunt night
Whose happie hap had cleane berefte
hym of his sorrowe quyte.
I wyll not shewe the conference
that nowe in secreat is
Betwixt the Doctour and the man
nor thinke vppon their blysse.
And with the maydens merry state
I haue no mynde to mel
Bycause my hed cannot conceiue
nor penne expresse it well.
But yet the blysfull night doth bate
the chierfull daie drawes on
The louer thinkes in Fortunes grace
somoch as he is none.
For soner had not wished daie
expelde the mantell blak
And eke the pitchie cloudes of night
the ayre had on her back
But straight waie he wolde get hym vp
and gaue hymselfe to rise
That he might of the wedding daie
with his newe Sire deuise
Nowe wolde he go, it was to sone:
then wolde he staie a while.
And phansies still that did renewe
did former thoughtes exile.
When reason wolde not suffre hym
from thence so soone departe
He fixt his hed and beat his brayne
on her that had his harte
And gat hym to the windowe which
did open towardes the home
of her, in whome he did delight
that had his hart alone.
And by the windes which hitherwardes
their flieng force did bende
vnto his ladie, al his thoughtes
in couert he did sende.
Nowe wolde he wish he weare a clowde
and by and by a starre:
Or other thing he wayde not what
that fource had from so farre:
Of her to haue a sight in whome
he longe had pleasured so
Or elles that tyme (alas) were come
that he hymselfe might go.
He wisht that merry Marcurie
might send vnto hym winges
And elles that longd to Poets arte
he named a thousand thinges
Or that he had the dulcet voyce
of Nightingale or Larke:
Or that in musickes armonie
he past eche other clarke
Or that he at this present tyme
more drie then Tantalus
Had both the conning and the harp
of famous Orpheus.
First wolde he vse his wished winges
and thither take his flight
Whear of his ladie he were sure
in bed to haue a sight.
And then his princely Poets arte
sholde in right conning verse
Vnto his ladie and his loue
ten thousand thinges rehearse:
That yet for lacke of lucky tyme
hymselfe colde not discloase
Nor his so secreat matter durst
to any man repose.
Whearin, yf Poets fyled verse
sholde seme to her to longe,
The rest in conning armonie
sholde finish with a songe.
Then to her whome he wronged thus
so long awake to kepe
(As Orpheus did the dampned soules)
his harp sholde bring a slepe.
As he poore soule, whose ioyfull hart
nolde suffre to take rest
Did alwaies beat his braynes on her
that nowe he loued best:
So did the famous wourthie dame
with firme and fixed mynde
Seeke out this longe and wakefull night
a thousande waies to fynde,
Whearby she most might pleas the man
or him most high aduaunce
That Fortune thus had made her mate
by good, and happie chaunce.
The louers braynes thus occupied
he casteth vp his eyes
Vnto the craysed cloudes of heauen
from whence he playnelie spies
The horse of Phebus chariot
begins their course to ronn
and sheweth vnyuersally
their gloabe or golden sonn.
Which sight this ardent gentleman
doth heare his warraunt make
And thearuppon his iourney doth
vnto the father take.
And eke doth praye the Doctour to
euen as he hath begoon
To goe with hym and be his aide
till his attemptes were woon.
Fast towardes the fathers mantion
these frendes together go
Their errand is, and they seeke out
the wedding daie to knowe.
Whear when they came the father was
the mother and the mayde
Which on the coming of those guestes
had all this morning stayde
If that the Doctour welcome was
vnto the parentes, knowe
That then the louer welcome was
vnto his wife: I trowe.
What neade I tell the breakefast which
they had prouided heare?
What boteth of the cost to speake
or of the royall cheere?
Or of the sugred sententes
the mother did expresse
Therby to wourke her sonn in lawe
the greater cause to blesse.
What vaileth of the golde to talke,
the plate, or of the rent,
Which thear was seen, or by the Sire
might yearely be spent?
What neade I to expresse the heape
of golde and massie muke
The father did appoynct the childe
in token of good lucke.
What neade I name the louing toyes
betwixt the louers fell?
But wish the longe continuaunce
of those that loued so well.
What vaileth that I sholde at all
heare play so fonde a parte
as might detect howe eche of them
enioyed the others harte
Sholde I declare howe in the one
the other had delight?
No, no, I will not wronge them so
but thearof clayme them quyt.
Nor from the fathers aunswere will
deferre you any lengre:
Who naemd the wished wedding daie
the twentyth of Septembre.
And shewe you, how they and their frendes
be glad and do reioyce:
To see so good succession.
had in so mete a choyce.
Did Venus thinke you ioy at all
when she the apple had?
Did not her promys Paris ioye
and made his hart as glad?
Doth euerye louer with his loue
content hymselfe right well?
Then let them ioye, a lytle while
whose ioyes I cannot tell.
And talke we nothing of the toyle
the turmoyle and the race
The frendes had heare to compas thinges
With in so shorte a space.
Nor of the letters weare sent out
the kindredes to enuite
Thinke not at all, for of the same
my penne no wourde shall wryte.
But pas we ouer fourtene daies
which spedely were spent
The fyuetenth was the wedding daie
set by the fathers stent.
In which of meare necessitie
I must make some discourse
Though that the Muses in my nede
of me haue no remourse,
The happie long desiered daie
gins scarce to shewe her light
Ne yet the ayre had scant vnlewst
the mantell of the night
Ne had Aurora stretcht her armes
her slombres of to throwe
Ne had the skies alhydden yet
the starres which earst did showe.
So sone as had the gentleman
put sluggishnes to flight
And left his restles bed whearin
he rolled all this night.
Vp calles he then his saruingmen
and willes their help to raye
Their happie maister happelie
in this most happie daie.
Ech thought that came vnto his hed
but myrth and ioye did bring
He dreameth on mount Hellicon
he heares the Muses sing.
Nowe is he set in Fortunes lap
eche thing doth come aright,
And all his trobles and his cares
are nowe deuoyded quyte.
And somoch more to glad hym with
came to his windowe then
A set of violles conninglye
plaide on by conning men
Whose parfect play was vttered
with soch a skilfull grace
As he did thinke hymselfe in heauen
or in a bettter place.
He thrust his hand into his purse
and what he thearin founde:
Out of the windowe, for their paynes
he threwe it to the grounde.
And wild them that they sholde fourthwith
the rather for his sake
conuey them to his fathers house
and soo his wife to wake.
Whose best they hastly did obeye
whose mynde they did fulfill
Whose prayse of lyberalitie?
they do comend and will.
Whear when they come, they suddeinly
such musicke did resounde
As if Appollo from the heauens,
has sent it to the ground.
Wh [...]arwith they loked out for ioye
that slept, not longe before:
The Shepherd shewd his teth, and saide
that Pan was at the dore.
The virgin whome the mother would
not yet haue left her bedde,
No longer could abyde in couche,
but nedes must shewe her hedde.
The father and the mother roase,
the melody was such,
As who had hearde the conningest,
might there haue harde asmuche.
Of noble nature was the Sire,
and musike did regarde,
And gaue the Minstrelles for theire paine
a royall in rewarde.
The minstrelles that so sone could not
forget theire gotten gaine,
Do think in all theire lyues they not
bestowed a better paine.
And so drewe on right chierfully
the freshe and pleasant daye:
which seene did the musitians
fast packe themselfes awaye.
No sooner were they gone from thence,
but then the louer came,
In whome I dare auowe to you,
was nothing out of frame.
In sober garment clenly clad,
without respect of cost,
His lent like chikes had got againe,
the flesh that earst they lost.
Whose comely salutacion did
his Lady so ymbrace,
As they that sawe it coulde but muse,
and wonder at his grace.
The parentes did receiue theire sonne,
in such a worthy wise,
as who that woulde haue wisht a thing,
coulde better not deuise.
The mother tooke him by the hand,
and lead him rounde about:
To see the order of eche thing,
within and eke without.
And how she ment that all shoulde be
in order did him tell,
The wourst whereof he could not mend,
nor scarce coulde wish so well.
Thus whiles she vewed euery thing,
the day ganne fast to growe
and Titan gan his golden beames,
from the southeast to throwe:
Whereby he saw that slippery tyme
away began to slyde:
And that the matrons of the towne
came in to dresse the bryde:
And that the townish maydens did
about the gates gin flocke:
His heedie hed coulde not lesse deame,
then it was eight a clocke.
From thence he then retired backe
vnto his mantion straight:
Where did right worthye gentlemen
a nomber for him waight:
Who greted him, and praide the lorde
to kepe him from anoye
And of the bargaine he shoulde make
to send him endles ioye.
He thankes them all, and stoopeth ofte,
he vayleth cap and knee,
and who that vsde him courtlyest,
no courtlier was then he.
One of his seruaunts he hid sende
to churche from him away▪
To see the order of eche thing:
and how did weare the daye.
And whiles that seruaunt so was sent
the rest a roo right fine
presented all the gentlemen,
with wafer cakes and wyne.
Himselfe brought furth a standing pece
of gay and glistring golde:
Ympleat with right good ypocrace,
and dranke to yonge and olde.
Then did retourn his man againe,
whose reuerence made and done
saide to his maister, tyme was now
for seruice was begonne.
Wherewith the maister with some speede
and yet in order to:
Retourned backe vnto his wife,
as maner is to do.
With such a sorte of gentlemen
pursuyng at his trayne:
So well ymatched with their likes
in order twayne and twayne:
As earst not in an hundreth yeares
the like coulde be espide,
to waight vppon a gentleman
in honour of a bride.
So sone as they were come in sight
night to the fathers dore,
a sorte of semely Seruitures,
of purpose set therefore
Eftsones do goe by course arowe,
from first vnto the last
presenting them with fancyes made
of purpose for repast.
And eke that gentle Iem, the bride,
trymd vp in her attyre:
As to her birth but decont was
and this day did require,
In humble sort did shewe her selfe,
and in right harty wise,
Did yeld them all as harty thankes,
as coulde her hart deuise.
To churche doth then the bridegrome goe,
and all the rest araye,
And for the comming of the bryde,
not one but all do staye.
Who forthwith cometh oute in dede,
in such a fyned frame:
As if of purpose it were done,
to winne eternall fame.
First was her countnaunce comely set,
her eyes were fixt full sure,
Her face was faire, her cherry chekes,
her beawtye passing pure.
Her brest out in a decent sort,
not proude at all she bare:
Her heare was loose, and on the same
a Cronet paest she ware.
The collour of her heares did seeme
to those that did beholde,
as if that nature had them drawne,
of bright and burnisht golde.
The length therof againe is such,
as some did make to muse:
How well so yong a woman might
so rare a Iewel vse.
Next that aboutes her necke at least,
more then fiue double folde:
With diamondes and with Saphiers set,
she ware a chaine of golde.
Whereto a pendent tablet was
of such excessiue price,
As howe I shoulde esteme the same,
surmounteth my deuise.
Aboue the which a partlet was,
of carued worke so rare,
As through the workmanship thereof
eche Iewel shewed fare.
Her kirtell was of satten white,
embrodred very ritch
with siluer, and her gowne was blacke
plaine veluet with a stitch.
About her wast, a chaine of golde
the girding place possest,
And at the same did Iuels hang,
as riche as was the rest.
Vppon her armes the sleues did with
the partlet so agree,
as all together did delight,
the lookers on to see.
What shoulde I saye? nothing but well
could then be seene in place:
But of the rest the trimmest was
her gesture and her grace.
And proper two yong gentlemen,
in satten semely clad,
To church did leade her, and her handes
within theire fingers had.
If that this merry morning thus
did euery man delight,
I thinke it pleasd the husband well,
the Lady and the knight.
Wel, as she was, to church she goes,
pursued with a trayne
of ladyes and of gentilles such,
as not the world can staine.
Where with the fearefull minister,
did see so faire a face:
halfe doubtfull in himselfe he thought
Diana was in place.
And looking on the man againe,
in trembling and in feare:
What god (thought he) shall I nowe matche
vnto this goddes heare.
But all his fond amased sprites,
at last retourned backe:
The peoples sight did ayde his powers,
which suddein feare did racke.
and then with manly voice he saith
as comely as he can:
Who geues this bride (quod he) vnto
this Iolly gentleman.
One stepped forth right worshipfull
appoynted for that parte,
And saide I geue her to his vse,
to thee with all my harte.
Now spoken are the wedding wordes
Now take they hande in hande,
Nowe is the wedding ring put on,
a firme and suer band.
Nowe all the folke within the churche
which scarce can stande for thronge:
Crye vnto god in perfect ioye,
they may continue long.
whose decent doinges in this daye,
the churche did so adorne:
and none that sawe the same had seene
the lyke since they were borne.
Now flies there wafers in the church,
nowe Iunkets go about:
and some with wyne are washed so
they hardly can get out.
The husband with the former traine
doth get him home before:
And staith the comming of his wife
within her fathers dore,
And then two aunshent worthy knightes,
the brydegromes kinsmen to
In honour of the bride stept forth,
and thus much seruice do.
By eyther arme they take her theare,
and homewardes leade her than,
And at her fathers doore do yeld
her to her wedded man.
He thankes them all with hand and hart,
and takes her by the fist:
Whose tender lips before them all
is by the husband kist.
And first he doth inuite his gests
that are of worships state,
And then of his familiars
spied by him at the gate.
Besides a worthy companye
of states and Ladies gaye,
that long before inuited were
against the wedding daye.
What shuld I wright? ye bride brought home,
the gestes are comely set:
Where plentie was, and mighty store,
of thinges were harde to get.
Where nothing wanted, that the mynde.
the hed, or harte might wish,
No venson wilde, no dillicate,
no fleshe, nor yet no fishe:
No pleasant talke, no change of wyne,
nor daintie dishe at all,
The want wherof might hurt the feaste,
or might the worship gall
The trompets sounded pleasantly
the Cornets to were herde:
but alwaies were the vtolles and
the lutyng men preferd.
The warbling voyce of queresters,
with ayde of singing men,
The conning songes, the subtill note,
which were right common then.
The multitude confest, theire likes
they neuer heard before,
For had Amphion bene aliue,
he could haue done no more.
Heare bid the Bridegrome serue the bride
The Bride vnto him dranke,
He did her pledge and with his hart
right humbly did her thanke.
What should I saye the pleasure that
eche pleasaunt hart had found,
Not onely filde the emptie skies
but did againe resounde,
and flewe from frend to frende so fast,
as euery man was gladde,
And in so greate a multitude,
no frowning looke was hadde.
Well thus the dinner ended is,
Thus some do fall to talke,
and some to ease their filled gorge,
about the fielde do walke.
Some then do cast the barre & some
do geue theire selfe to leape,
And euery man where he doth like
doth healpe to mende the heap.
Some daunce, some sing and some againe
eche maistery doth proue,
And some do talke of martiall feates,
and other some of loue.
And so the after none is spent
so supper time comes on
And euerie gest at supper is
in ordre set anon.
The Bridgrome hath his office lefte
he will no longer waight
The knight the ladie and his wife
ones set, he sytteth straight.
And as their fare at dynner was
so fare they nowe agayne
But that the supper Iunketes were
the better of the twayne
It, semde that Ceres cater was
and Bacchus brought them wyne
And Eosops selfe had supt with them
somoch thear was and fyne.
But yet the maried cople were
more ioyfull to eche gest
then meat, or drinck, or armonie
of Musicke, or the rest.
Scant had they supped and their meate
in ordre tane awaye
But drome stroke vp, and in cam light
more brighter then the daie,
So riche in tyre, so croked fact
with soch disguysed geare
I thinke no man had seen, as doo
the gay torchbearers weare.
As for the rest the companie
colde not remembre when
In all their lifes that they had seen
so tryme dysguysed men
They lokt about the parlour then
and did themselfes aduaunce,
And matcht themselfes with ladies faire
and gaue themselfes to daunce
And he that was most conningest
in daunsing trickes so tride
Set fourth hymselfe and by the hand
did take the famous bride
They marched on, they striued all
who might excell the rest
And euerie one thought in hymselfe
his connig was the best.
So spent they ther an houres space
in daunsing and delight
Right Ioyfull to themselfes it was
right pleasaunt to the sight.
Then hugie heapes of golde they threwe
out of their box, on borde
And thearwithall a bale of dyce
with mum and not a worde,
Of gentlemen thear was a route
that kept themselfes in store
To play with them, it was their willes
the staies but thearfore.
The maskers lucke was very good
Mum, mum, they all do crie
The brom strikes vp, aboutes the house
the mony gins to flie.
They leaue their playe, the gin to daunce
about the house arowe
They take their banket or repast
and thence againe do goo.
Thus nowe the wedding daie is past
the wyshed tyme coms on
That toyle is lefte, and wearines
and euerie man is gon.
The bride with matrons sad and wise
within her bed is layde
Who tasts of euery Iunket, and
thearwith do leaue the mayde.
And so the wedded husbande is
brought to his wedded wife
Which longe he had desired, nowe
the ende of all his strife.
They both haue that which they can aske
naught elles they can require
He hath his wife, and shee her spowse
the ende of her desire.
The cheare doth yet continue still
a nyne or ten daies space
In which no emptie rome at all
is in the fathers place.
In ende whearof the curteous man
right free of harte and purse
Doth recompence the seruantes all
and eke his frende the Nursh,
In so lardge and so ample wies
as they them selfe did muse
That so base folke, so ritch a man
with larges so sholde vse.
And to his frende the Doctour doth
for all his frendship giue
An annuall fee, right worth his paine
so long as he doth lyue
Which donn from parentes house they drawe
to Manour of his owne
And lead their lyues most pleasauntly
in his well stored home.
Whearin the wedded folkes haue ioy
a quarter of a yeare
Soch as fewe wedded men or none
colde euer yet come neare
Oh cruell cankred fortune that
canst heaue a harte so hie
And to the same, wyll yelde a cause
of slipping by and bye
Oh that thou canst so flatter men
with graunting their desire
And wilt not suffer them to cleaue
to that they do aspire
To whome in all thie life almost
thie frendship dost thou showe?
But when he thinkes him saefst of all
hath then his ouer throwe.
What is he euer lyued yet
and did the throughlie trie?
But rather then to geue the thankes
may vengeaunce on the crie.
Howe didst thou Priamus betray
through Paris flatring dreame?
Howe dist thou all his children slaie
and spoylde hym of his Realme?
Howe Titan didst thou first aduaunce
by berth the king of Creete?
Howe after dist thou hym suppresse
vndre king Saturns feete?
How Saturne didst thou eke begile
and Titan cause agayne
To put hym from the Realme of Creete
to pryson and to payne.
Howe then also poore Titan was
by Iupiter vndon:
His Realme by Saturne repossest
his kingdom ouerroon.
Howe then did Saturne seeke to slaie
King Iupiter his frende?
Which Iupiter did Saturne kil
his father in the ende.
Oh Fortune didst thou euer yet
aduaunce a man on earth
Which yf he did affie in the
had not vntymelie death?
Euen so thou hast extolled heare
these sillie two thearfore
As feling now the bytter sweete
might wourke their wo the more.
Nowe hath my penne express'd heare
in vayne, a sort of tooyes
Of louers sytes, of youthfull hartes
and of their wyshed Ioyes
Which after tornes from yll to worse
as tyme in ordre weares
You shall heare all, and yf I canne
expresse them, for my teares.
As Venus hath been all this while
the cause of mirth and wo
Betwixt these two which vows their faith
from other shall not go.
So nowe the Marshall planets do
begynne to fall at farre,
And noble Mars enclines the hartes
of Princes vnto warre
Nowe winters force begynes to fade
the springtyme groweth on
The regions colde, the hugie frostes
within a while are goon.
Now, Ver, the nursh to euery thing
doth in her pleasant mead
Geue sappe and moyster, and to men
yeldes newe and pleasant blood
Nowe those whose currage winters force
late had appalled quyte
Recept of fresh and recent blood
encorageth to fight.
The youth which wynter made right gl [...]d
to lead a quyet lyfe
Do now reioyce to talke and heare
of warre and cruell stryfe
Nothing is talkt of in the towne
But meanes to vnderstande
Which way tanoye the enemy
by water and by lande
The prynces preparacion
his care and all his toyle
Is howe to saue his honour and
to geue his foe the foyle
Whearfore are valyaunt Champions
saught out both nere and farre
To strength the frontires of the Realme,
To furnyshe eke the warre
Olde stagers are from Garisons
calde forth and set at lardge
And of the vnapproued men
haue regiment and charde
Yonge gentlemen of lyuelyhode
and eke of corage to
Are called out to trie themselfes
their deuour then to do
And he aduaunced, was preferde
alwaies before the rest:
that elles by strength, or elles by slight
colde shewe his courage best
Whearwith this stronge tale gentleman
dyd euerie thing assaye
And from the most, or rather all
did beare the prayse awaye
And so the Bruyt, did straight resounde
into eche Capteyns eare
As none like hym in towardelines
nor manhood did appeare
His lyuing straight, his forwardnes,
so sone also was knowen
As was his strength and manlines
by flyeng voyces blowne.
Heare whispering talke of Capteyns is
from one to other herde
They prie on hym, they marke hym well
his doing is preferde.
At last two of the worthiest, of
the Capteines that were theare
Did leaue the rest and towardes the man
ganne fast to drawe them neare
And somoch more tyncorage those
that elles wear thear in place
Right curteouslie, they dyd salute
and eke did hym embrace
Comending hym in wourthie wies
that thear had doon so well
And of their graund comyssion
gins thus their tale to tell.
Theare is attempted nowe (quod they)
against our noble prynce
Such warres as in our fathers tyme
were not, nor neuer sins
So couertlie compacted, and
that in so close a wise
As may the secreat ennemye
with hed or harte deuise
And wolde not haue it knowen at all
vntill they had begoon
What their intent or meaning is
ne what they will haue doon
Our valyaunt prince thearof his mynde
his purpose to hath bent
Their malice and their mynded force
to tame and to preuent
Of purpose nowe his nauie, with
all other ships, are made
Right reddy when he shall comaunde
their vntrue to enuade.
And soo they fully occupied
in buesie warre at home
shall quayle their corage, and their lust
that elles abroade wold rome.
Whearfore we haue comyssion
that capteyns longe haue been
To chose out other Capitayns
and soldiours to bring in.
In fyne, wee see your manlines
wee knowe your lyuing lardge
We wyshe the prince, ten thousand had
so apt to take a chardge.
So meete such matters to attempt
with Soldgers care to mell,
So like to take the same in hande
and like to ende it well
We thearfore, in the name of God
and in the princes to
Comyt two hundreth men in chardge
to serue hym vndre you.
And captaine ouer them you are
they are your seruantes all
Prepare you then in reddines
to serue when tyme shall call,
Thearwith the gentleman doth speake
in sobre wies and sade
Your chardge is ouer great for me
in yeares yet a ladde.
The Romayne Capiteins verie graue
were grown in yeares sore
And children had no chardge at all
who are vnmete therefore.
Mars will haue lustie men in dede
their princes quarelles fight
But Capiteins olde more graue then rashe
sholde geue to such their light.
I not denye, but fortune doth
sometyme on bolde men smyle
But if theire witts, not rule theire strength,
how frownes she in a while:
I haue to serue my prince, my will,
my hart, my hedde, my hande:
my boddy and my mouing goodes
my chatels and my lande.
But what should in my princes right,
these thinges awhit preuaile:
If want of skill in all attempts
my forward will shoulde quayle.
Well since the higher powers to you
did this commission make,
And that your countnaunce doth declare
my scuse no place will take:
I yeld me to the will of god,
and to good Fortunes grace:
And now cast of my wedding tyre,
to ronne a solgers race,
The captaines which vppon his talke,
theire staying did depend,
His answere made, did take their leaue,
and did his wit commende.
Lo heare the wauering whele of fate,
see where she fawneth best
She sendeth troubles of the mynde,
she hateth now his rest,
Who lately thought, his cares were past
his ioyes wer permanent,
His troubles now beginning are,
his happy dayes are spent.
Now leaues he of his pleasant tales,
he chaungeth here his talke:
His songes are tourned into cares,
a captaines course to walke.
Now horse, now armour, he prouides,
and all municions to:
That to a captaine doth pertaine,
and is in him to do.
Now gins he breake his dolfull chaunce
vnto his louing wife,
who rather then to spare her spouse
would chose to loase her life.
Which hearde, from bright and bloddy red
her cheekes wax pale and wan,
With secret sobbes, and teares enough
her wayling rale began.
Swete harte, what falt in me is founde▪
what trespas haue I done,
what doth alas constraine your hart,
your weded wife to shoon.
Haue I vnwares committed ought,
my loyaltie to break,
which in so sharpe a sort you seeke,
on me poore wretch to wreak.
Haue I vnsemely doone the thing
in decent for a wife?
If ye correct your owne, swete hart
with losse of lymme or lyfe.
And part not from your promise thus
let me not languish so:
Do chaunge your mynde, reuert your hart
bend not your selfe to go.
Yet am I she you wedded late,
yet doth my beawtye last,
yet haue I perfect confidence
your fancy is not past.
Let not then such vngentlenes,
in noble hart appeare,
To leaue a woman desolate,
in lesse space then a yeare
What, think with what extremitie
our fixed loue begonn,
and god forbid, with such swifte foote
the race thereof were roon.
Alas, good wife, (then quod the man)
my teares nill let me speake,
and yet your wondrous weighty woordes
constraines my hart to breake.
Think not myne owne, alas think not,
that I do from you go
For any falt I fynde in you
accuse your selfe not so.
And from the heauens I pray the lorde
to let his vengeaunce fall
on me, if I conceiue in you,
mistrust or falt at all.
and eke the hungry earth vnfolde
her vncontented Iawe
and swallow me, euen yet a lyue
into her mighty mawe,
And all the plagues that euer were
on earth, or euer shall
let light on me, I aske not one
but I demaunde them all:
If I do not accompt of you
asmuch as ere I did,
and that your loue within my hart,
in wonted wise is hid.
againe you neuer did the thing,
but pleased my desire,
and eke the sparkes of loue in me,
are growne to perfect fire
This do a sparke, thus feruently,
because you shoulde haue trust,
That I am youres not to chaūge,
vntill I turne to dust.
Nor then: if it be possible
the dead to haue his will
I meane to false my faith at all,
but to be youres still
But nowe, the prince hath nede of men,
and so it doth befall,
That Fortune sore against my will,
a captaine doth me call.
You know good wife as well as I,
the consequents of yll,
That dayly doth beride on those,
whiche either dare or will,
Theire princes hestes to leaue vndone,
to satisfye theire mynde,
All men may see they reape the sowre
that seeke such swete to finde.
Then since to sue it booteth not,
nor will come to auaile,
and to resist doth hinder much,
and nothing doth preuaile.
Consent that I my duty shewe,
in best wise that I can,
Since that my princes pleasure is,
to place my like a man.
My carcas may the prince commaunde,
my harte is youres still,
Your harte againe the emptye place,
within my brest doth fill.
Then since it is but for a space
that we shall thus depart,
And that we haue with fixed faith,
ychaunged hart for hart:
Content you heare to staye awhile,
with manly hart possest,
and I with youres in the fielde
will shift and do my best.
Think how good Fortune hath of late,
shewde vs her fauour bright,
Perchaunce she meanes to honour vs
by guyding me a right.
Ofte haue we seene as great a shewe
of battaile as is this,
where frindship hath preuented Mars,
and wrought the princes blisse.
Ne doth Bellona alwaies strike,
whereas she list to lowre,
But often geues them the swete,
to whome she showes the sowre,
And ofte the wight that she doth warne,
to warlike wery paine,
she doth ere long geue golden rest,
and eke aboundaunt gayne.
Also in fielde hath many one,
as farre vnlike as I
God honour in a month or two,
and kept it till he dye.
And therfore whether warre pursue
or peace towardes vs be prest,
graunt your goodwill that I may bee
as forward as the rest.
You haue (then quod the gentle wife,
discourst your matter well,
yet ner the lesse my griefe is such
as not my tongue can tell.
But since there is no remedye,
as reason you do showe,
To him, I cannot kepe at home,
I must geue leaue to goe.
And I the wofulst wretch alyue
must with Penelope
kepe in my restles bedde alack
whiles you do passe the sea.
And since you saye you leaue with me
your hart, and myne againe
do take with you: it must then be
one stroke betwene vs twaine.
Therfore as loue betwene vs is
and so continue shall
Let neither happy lucke nor chaunce,
nor yll to you befall.
Nor other fortune what it be,
that happens to your hand,
but by your letters I your wife,
the same may vnderstand.
By promise he doth graunt to her
her sorrowfull request
and of his mynde in sober talke
declares to her the rest.
And afterwardes he doth prouide
to make his ensign, silke,
The halfe wherof as red as blood
the rest as white as milke.
Which ended once with such deuise,
as all men might it knowe:
There under gan he muster then,
his solgers on a rowe.
His olde lewetenaunt expert was
his sargaunt and the rest:
And who did well, he for his time
was equall with the best.
His muster booke was furnished,
his clarke doth what he can,
He knoweth not the Capteins guyle
he wanteth not a man.
His nomber full, his furniture
prepared for the nones,
They all imbarkt, do take the sea
the warre groth on a tones.
His wife, amongs a hugy sorte
which this gay sight did glad
behelde the same euen with the harte
that wailing Dido had,
when false Eneas did her leaue
at Carthage in her bed,
whiles he the falsest man a liue,
the towne and citie fled.
And so they take theire lothsome leaue
as wofull Troylus did,
with wailing woordes and teares ynough
when Crossed from her rid.
And whiles they cannot speake for wo,
and sorrow of the harte,
The anker weyde, the ship aflote,
they kis and so depart.
The saylers do hoyse vp the sailes,
a right forwynd doth blowe,
The mayne, the top, the myssen, and
the sprite saile all arrowe.
The soulgers do the netting deck,
the Pilot takes in hande,
the rother, and an other soundes
to scape both rocke & sande.
The Barke is in her princely pryde,
her ordnaunce do discharge,
Theire force wherein discried is,
theire puissaunce set at large.
All men are mery in the ship,
eche man him selfe doth proue:
But he alone who cannot chose,
but think vppon his loue.
And she againe good soule doth stande
vppon a mountaine hie,
Still viewing the vnhappy Barke,
so long as she might spie,
The hull, the mast, the top, the sayle,
or any parte at all,
and then doth this vppon her knees
beholde the skies and call.
O Thou the euerliuing god,
do spede the course a right,
of yonder barke, and do the men
from drowning daunger quyght.
And as thou art a god I knowe
most constant true and iust,
Do helpe my loue as I alone
in the do put my trust.
Let Neptune staye the sourging Seas,
Let Eolus not blowe,
Nor graunt that they conioynctly do
theire force or rigour showe.
Nor yet that any ennemy
with them do fight or striue,
Before they in theire wished porte,
do luckely arryue.
With pensiue thoughtes she riseth thus
and leaues her prayer so
and she the wofulst wight alyue
vnto her home doth go.
Where when she commes and mysseth him
whome she doth most desire,
Then weping doth she waile her chaunce,
then puts she of her tyre
and with the worst she may find out
her comely corps is cladde,
And neuer did she mourne so sore,
but nowe she is as sadde.
She spendeth thus the dolefull day,
the night coms on a pace,
She goth to bedde, and of her spouse
fyndes there the empty place.
Her stomake straight appaleth so
such sobbes from her do starte,
As with her teares, to bleare her eies
and seme to rent her harte
she calleth to her memorie
her happie tyme of late
The thought whearof doth so moche more
augment her heuie fate.
Not Father can nor Mother may
appease the daughters greefe
Nor frende canne comforte her distresse
her sorowe was so reefe.
Hear gins she nowe to curse the man
that she doth loue so well
Vntrue (she saith) thou arte alas,
whie dost thou thus rebell,
Against the lawes of God? by which
tho didst auowe to me,
Foreuer: not so short a space
my constant spouse to be.
And wilt thou leaue thie ladie thus
and wilt thou from me go
And wilt thou nowe absent thie selfe
and wilt thou leaue me so
And canst thou nowe lie from the bedde
that thou didst so desier
And canst thou wourke my wo this wise
and proue thie selfe a lyer
And darst thou false thie fixed faithe
and thine affied trust
And darst thou nowe, thou hast obteynd
thus proue thie selfe vniust.
In faith I thought the Sea sholde first
by waters want be drie
And that the soon sholde eke forswere
the hie and hugie skie:
Or that an other Phaeton
sholde serue in Phoebus torn
And that the fyery footed horse
both sea and shore sholde bourne:
Before thou woldst without a cause
with me thie wyfe be wroth,
Or cruelly haue lefte me so
and so haue broke thie troth.
In fayth sins that it is in deade
and I to true it trie
I will no more beleue thie wourdes
before the daie I die.
Nor shall thie fawning letters help
thie treason to excuse
wherof thie present absence dothe
thie loialtie accuse.
Well well thou shewest now thie kinde
thy doinges do declare
that onely men in woing tyme
do flatter and speake fayre
Thus in her great extremytie
ech Ioynct in her did shake
And faynctnes made her staie a while
and then agayne she spake.
What am I warth and cruell wretch
or brutish beast by kinde?
Thus with my true and constant loue,
soch raging, faltes to fynde.
Who for hym selfe or his defence
in absens cannot speake,
Whie dost thou then, oh wilfull wench
thie radge and angre breake
On hym that is thie husband and
thie loue and onely fyre
Allotted by the lyuing lorde
euen to thie hartes desire
Was he not prest by princes power
full loth he was to go
Oh cruell carle howe canst thou then
in absence blame hym so
Did not his sobbes his sightes, his teares,
that trickled downe his eye
His wayling voyce, his gryping greefe
his doulfull noyse and crie
Which did (against his will) break forth
when he did hence depart
Expresse vnto the (oh thou beast)
his true and constant hart?
Coldst thou at any tyme at all
conceiue with in thie mynde
But all soch greefes as gripte thie hart
lyke place in his did fynde?
Vniust thou arte, (oh folish girle)
vnfaithfull and vntrue,
Vnwourthie arte thou of the man:
Now giue thy hart to rewe.
That thus didst sclaunder thie true loue
so sore without a cause,
How canst thou craue the aide of loue
a rebell to her lawes.
Ah cruell wretch that shewst thie selfe
vnwourthie breth or lyfe
Wold God thou hadst the murderer
or elles the cruell knife.
That well might heare reuenge by right
thie louer and his truthe
And for thie skilles sclaunder sake
might bring thie selfe to ruthe
Thus whiles the ladie languyshed
his former talke and synne
agaynst her lorde, her mother doth
to see her childe come in
Whom she doth fynde so ruthfully
with teares beweped so:
As, whear she might retourne agayne
or to her daughter go,
she standes in doubte: her hart doth fayle
the teares, breake from her eyes
she kepes in couert all her cares
and to her daughter cries
What daughter? what doth meane this grefe?
what is it wourkes thie payne?
Is all thie pleasure so sone past?
is care krept back againe?
Alas, shall neuer this myne age,
nor these my horie heares.
Nor these my mystie eyes, beholde
the but bewept with teares?
Good daughter guyde thie selfe awhile
do not torment the soo:
Thie loue doth loue the passing well
let folish fancies goo.
Who in the world hath God enricht
with fortune or with fate
Somoch as thou? to whome is linkt
a man of soch estate
As neyther storme nor worldly woo
no flame nor yet no thondre
No sea, no flud, nor other let
from the can kepe a sondre.
A lengre tyme, then princes cause
alone doth kepe hym back
Yet nay the lesse his harte is thyne
though thou his boddie lacke
Then homewarde come with me, myne owne
reiect thy carefull mynde
And as I pleasure in the moche
some comforte in me fynde.
My soon, thy spouse, that faithfull man
the fates will guyde by right
Ere longe, he will send vs good newes
his hand begins to wright
What cause hast thou to morne at all
sins that thy lord is well
His voiage past, his chaunce is good
soch will his letters tell.
Oh, blame me not, good mother, saide
to her, her daughter deare
If I the losse of soch a spouse
so greatlie dread and feare
For neither hath the Gretian dames
nor Troyan ladies founde
Nor yet the hungry earth her selfe
nor yet the cloddie grounde
Receiued, so iust and true a man
as I haue for my parte
Whose truth (alas) so tried is
as now doth rent my harte.
I syt alone, my thinkes the seas
are grown in such a rage
By Eolus his whorling blastes
whose rigour will not swage
As he with sourgies heaued to heauen
the ship doth straightway fall
The wallowes then do hide the barke
the water drowns them all.
Then straight I see hym in his arme
howe stronglie he doth fight
Heare hath he slaine a gentilman
thear hath he kild a knight.
This crowne by hym ycracked is
that boddie doth he parte,
Then coms a traytour at his backe
and thrustes hym to the harte.
Shold not these thinges encrease my care?
Sholde not myne eyes that spie,
My husbande slaine before my face,
prouoke my harte to die?
Alas pooer wench the mother saide
alas poore louer to:
Thie fancie willes, but reason not
comaundes, the thus to do.
If euery thing thou canst conceiue
in hed, doth worke thee greefe
Then thrise so many hedes againe
can bring thee no releefe.
Come come, come come, come home with me
come to thy fathers house
Come glad thie mothers heauie harte
Till tidinges of thie spouse,
Shall ioye agayne thie ioyles sprites,
and geue the quyet lyfe
That coldst not yet this twelue moneths space
auoyde inuented stryfe,
Nowe reason wourkes and nature to
the daughter doth comaunde,
In this a thing so requysite
tobey the dames demaunde
They homewarde bende to fathers house
the tyme they woulde begile
Which princes cause, and mortall warre,
do kepe hym on exile.
Naught wanteth heare that mirth may make
the daughter hath her will,
But alwaies doth the husbandes want
the daughters playnct fulfill.
So as no ioy nor ioyfull thing
but doth augement her care
And somoch more because she will
her corsey not declare.
Whiles in this great perplexitie
this yonge and tendre wight
bewayles her husbandes absence thus
as she may do aright:
The noble man the louer true,
is tost vppon the seas,
Now at the will of Eolus,
and then as Neptune please.
At last with wery course and paine,
this weather beaten Barke,
doth of the hauen desiered so,
espie a certaine marke,
Nowe mates the maister cries a pace,
good newes to euery man,
Haw Iack thou scuruy lowsy boye
go tap and fill the can.
Be mery maisters drink a pace,
now make we all good sporte,
our voyage almost ended is,
I see the wyshed porte.
Wherein by force we meane to land,
as we haue done the like,
by helpe of god, and by the force
of bended bowe and pyke.
Then ioye ech man within the ship,
theire sport is for a king,
and hey, how, ioly rombelowe,
the saylers all do sing.
Here might you see what solgers seeke
and howe they tosse and toyle,
on sea, a shore, and euery where,
to come to saque and spoyle.
But he alas alone good man
whose mynde doth bring to sight
his mylde and trewe companyon,
his comfort and delight:
In secrete place doth stay a while,
and wypes his flowing eye,
Till often wiping of the same
doth all the moyster drie
Then secretlie he sendeth fourth
a grone vnto the skies
Which from his faythfull harte fourthwith
vnto his ladies flies.
And then he sheweth hym selfe abroad
right pewsaunt on the deck
And saith vnto his solgers all
obedyent at a beck
My mates my frendes, my brethern deare
my fellowes all in fielde
Next God my prince, and wyfe you are
to whome my hart I yelde
Yen is the place you see it well
Whear we must proue by stryfe
Howe most toppresse our enemye
how least to harme our life.
I am your owne assuredlie
both hed both hart, and hand
I craue of you but willing hartes
by me at nede to stande
Which if I fynde I swere to you
that none of you shall lake
Whiles I haue lande or liuelihod
or clothing to my bak.
These wourdes ones past, they swere to hym
yf he had cause to trie:
He sholde perceiue, not one, but all,
wyth hym wolde lyue and die.
Glad was the captaine of soch men
glad was the solgers eke
The hauen to entre in best wies
they all a meanes do seeke
The ennemy doth shewe his face
lyke to the forrest boare
the cannon and the culuer shot
about their eares do roare.
The skirmish enters very hot,
yet doth the barke preuaile
and in they goe not losing ought,
but tearing of theire sayle:
Wherwith they are in quietnes,
the entring brunt is past
and they into their wished porte
are now arryued at last,
The mariners that babred sore
with strained voices cries,
Saint George, Saint George to borough and
they so do pearse the skies.
The enemies perceiue therwith,
theire purpose they had lost,
They fynde that scantly will theire gaine
beare halfe theire toyle and cost.
and then they leaue theire rigour since
they can no more preuaile,
and do forthink the tyme they spent
which came to none auayle.
Well, night groes on a pace, and they
that can find out their nest,
Forgetting toyle, with mery mynds
do geue them selues to rest.
The worthy captaine yet thinks on
his faire, and famous wife:
Whiche is his goddes and to him,
much sweter then his lyfe.
Now takes he paper in his hande,
to wright that he doth thinke:
Which reddy is and pen also,
but hath no whit of ynke.
Then with a quill he maketh him
a Launcet very fyne:
and with a phillip pricks his thombe
the point is made so kine,
wherout doth spring the bloddy drops
so fast as he can wright,
and serues his fyled penne to print,
that coulde his hed indight.
Theffect wherof ensueth heare:
my wits I will assaye,
His princely proase, in this rude verse
to tell you as I may.
Myne owne, to you your owne doth heare,
his hasty letters sende,
Least scilence should accuse his troth
and so he might offende.
Of paper had I store ynoughe,
my pens did eke abounde,
But to expresse my state to you,
no drop of ynke was founde.
But that coulde not my faith a whit
nor promise from you staye,
For I to shewe my dewty, did
fynde out a nother waye.
And cause I knewe my letters woulde
prouoke you some delight,
See here my shift which onely was
with blode the same to wright.
I left your sonnye sight with teares,
and Neptunes realme possest,
where till we came to happy hauen,
we felt but little rest.
And when we sawe the porte or place.
wherein discharge we must,
In despight of the ennemye
therein our barke we thrust,
And though by force of fighting foes,
and turmoyle we were tost:
The lord be praisd, we gat the hauen,
and yet no man we lost.
And other newes haue I not now,
but that I woulde heare tell,
That you my loue be still in helth,
then must I nedes do well.
wherein I pray you satisfye
my hungry mynde and hart,
and letters still, for letters shall
my writting hand reuart.
Farewell my harte, fare well my life,
fare well myne onely make,
Though rude my letters be, yet do
accept them for my sake.
Commend me to your parents both,
commend me to your frindes,
Comend me to your selfe againe,
and thus my letter endes.
This letter to a messenger
he did deliuer streight,
That did conuey the same to her,
he made it of such weight,
Which when she sawe, the bobbling blood
wrapt warme within her brest,
Her teeth did cut the string in twaine,
she could not be in rest,
Vntill she saw theffect and did
the letters ouer reade,
Then was her mynde wel quyeted,
then was she glad in dead,
Then to her mother stept she vp,
with wild and staring looke,
For ioy she coulde not speake a worde,
but tooke to her the booke.
At last, lo heare quod she madame,
se what my loue doth wright,
to me, to you, and to my Sire,
that graue and aunshent knight.
It gladdeth me I promise you
more then my tongue can tell,
Nowe mother be we mery all,
my husband is so well.
For now my ioyes are permanent
my cares are voyded quyt,
Oh happy hande, and honest harte,
that canst such letters write.
Alas, alas, yet saide she then,
these letters do not showe,
where he be slaine, since he them writ,
how might I doe to know.
Then spake the witty mother thus
and aunswerd her againe,
I think no comfort comes to the,
but doth renew thy payne.
What dotest thou oh foolish girle,
or art thou worse then mad?
Doth euery thing discomfort thee,
that ought to make the glad?
Thy husband is in perfect helth
his letters so doth showe,
These phancies then before to late,
seeke from your mynde to throwe.
and wright to him right cherefully,
let him not see you sadde,
This shall in trouble comfort him,
and this shal make you gladde.
What take to you, your penne and ynke,
and satisfye his mynde,
He wrytt to you his letters first,
let him your aunswer fynde.
The daughter therwith did relent
her former foolish parte:
And writ to him to this effect
euen from her piersed hart.
Thou art myne owne thou saiest myne owne,
and I am thyne againe:
Oh cruel sea, how canst thou cut
a boddy thus in twaine.
Great hast I had to heare of thee,
thy letters did me good,
Yet hast thou doon some wrong to me,
to write them with thy blood.
No dewty dost thou owe to me,
I am thy seruant prest,
should not my hart serue the because
I fynde thou louest me best?
I sorrow that my sight did cause
the to depart with teares,
and Neptune for his churlishnes,
a cankerd carle appeares.
And if I had the powr that hath
the mighty Ioue aboue.
He should repent thoffence he hath
doon vnto the my loue.
For I do loue the passing well,
and will do during lyfe,
which promise may compare with hers
that was Vlixes wife.
And if I breake the same Oh lord,
then let thy vengeans fall
on me, and euery plague that is,
bestow them on me all.
But yet how couldest thou, when thou sawst
the porte in warlike case,
possessed with a womans hart,
geue charge to such a place.
Thou didst me wrong to venture so,
yet may I not the blame:
For better is to venture lyfe
then ende with Cowherd shame.
and I am bounde to thank the that
no soner camst to rest,
but vnto me thyne owne thou didst
discloase thy secret brest.
I am in helth and haue no cause
now thou art well to morne,
Saue that I think thine absence long:
and craue thy quicke retourne.
Till then, I pray the lorde defende,
thy most desyred lyfe,
and send thy happy presence once
vnto thy louing wife.
Thus hath your owne more then her owne
at large her mynde exprest,
and sendes you thankes from parents and
from kindred and the rest.
Farewell my hart, my strength my power,
my comfort and my trust,
whose louer whiles I liue I am,
and after death I must.
The messenger that brought the bill,
beares aunswer now againe,
and frankly is contented for
his trauaile and his paine.
No sooner comes he to the place,
or peece where battell lyes,
But streight this worthy gentleman
the messenger espies,
vppon the rampiers of the wall,
with pike in hand most stout,
and who that presseth to come in,
he and his men kepe out.
Now here he slaith a scaling man,
nowe theare he geues a stroke,
Nowe this mans necke, now that mans legg,
is by his puysaunce broke
And as in this extremitie
he dealeth blow by blow
whereby the stoutest enemy
his force and puesaunce knowe.
So since he wrote the letter last,
so stout he was in fight,
as iust desert for vertues sake,
hath dubbed him a knight.
His ensign that of late was gaye
the cullours fresh and newe,
nowe parte is torne, and part is burnt,
it lookes of other hewe.
And he that tricke and trymly went,
they wot that know the trade,
his armour burst, his coates are torne,
and he a warriour made.
Well, nothing yet remaines so long,
but endeth at the last,
So night comes on, they cannot see,
the battry, endes in hast,
The trompets sounde, on either side,
they looked for retreat,
Some wipe theire faces sprent with blood,
and other some with swete
Here one dismembred of his legge,
for Surgens help doth crye,
Here one woulde haue his paunch sowde vp
here dead some other lye.
Nowe dromes strike vp and gin to call
eche solgers to his band,
Nowe both to know their losse and gaine,
eche captaine takes in hande.
Now though this champions seruice was
right equall with the best.
His gaine is great, yet was his losse
as little as the least.
Whiles thus he stoode, in Fortunes grace
much more then other did
He thought vppon his secrete frende
which in his harte laye hid.
And wisht of all the gods of loue,
that he coulde think or name,
that they woulde by theire deities
some Ingin for him frame:
Whereby he might when sonne went downe
with his swete hart deuise,
and be againe vppon his charge
ere Phebus list to rise.
Thus wauering thoughts possest his braine
his passhons were at strife,
whiles that the long desyred man,
brought letters from his wife.
The sight whereof made him fourthwith,
more ioyfull and more gladde
Then if he halfe the Regiment
of faire Europa had.
He read his louers passions
her constancy he spies
The ioye whereof did cause his teares
to trickle from his eyes
What should I saye in blisfulnes,
he doth accompt him than
much more, and farre beyonde the state
of any wedded man.
Now doth he please the messenger
and then he doth resorte
vnto the meriest company
he fyndeth in the forte.
Now mournig wedes are cast away
he ioyes in musikes songe:
which erst in heauy state of mynde,
had languished full long.
Of pleasant matters he doth geue
his conning hand to wright,
Such as to her his learned hedde,
most gladly doth endyte.
He leaueth of his painted proase,
he wrighteth now in verse,
Suche as my skilles penne pretends
verbatim to reherse.
Take from thy husbandes happy hande,
my true and louing wife,
The ioyfull tydinges which report
the ende of absent strife.
And harken to thy lot whereby
the marshall gods prefarre,
the worship and the worthy fame
whiche I haue wonne by warre.
For neuer came there chaunce at all
that brought me to vnrest,
but grewe from good to better still,
and ended with the best.
Oh heuenly happy fate and tyme,
wherin I first was made
a man of warre, a solgers guyde
the princes foo to fade.
For neuer did I yet in armes
encounter wight at all,
But eyther yelded to my grace,
or tooke his fatall fall.
Wherfore my darling deare, and Iem,
some men do iudge by right,
That thou art made a Lady, and
that I am made a knight.
[...]nd I my selfe will come to the
and that ere many daies
A parle hath concluded peace
to god geue all the prayse.
And I shall once againe, my selfe
my louing wife possesse:
and thou thy spouse, my lamp of life
with equall ioy and bles.
And we that founde our selfes agreeud
with parting paines of late,
with lucky lot ere long time pas
shall mete with mery fate.
My hart till then take thou and hand,
my sences all and some,
and couch them where thou thinkes it mete
vntill my selfe do come
whereof there shalbe no delay
(yf death my lyfe not tryp)
a lenger tyme or further space,
then with the formost ship.
Till then content thy carefull mynde
till then think on me to:
as I of thee my lot alone
haue done and still will do.
Fare well myne owne, fare well oh swete
my comfort and my ioye,
Myne ayde, my helper, and my hope
my succour in anoye.
Take paines no more, do holde thy hand
enforce not the to wright,
for ere thy letters can reuert
my selfe wilbe in sight.
And let my letters to thy frindes
my harty thankes allude,
But I to the do geue asmuch,
and so I do conclude.
With flying foote these tydings came
vnto this Ladyes sight,
who neuer erst did feele like ioy
like comfort nor delight.
For not the thing vppon the earth
that kind hath wrought with molde,
Or moyned is beneath the grounde
no not the fynest golde
No pearle, no Iem, nor iuelles ritche
so much coulde glad this wife,
as did the letters which resounde
the husbandes helth and lyfe.
For with the sodeine sight therof,
the christall streames did flow
euen from her yuery eyes, and hart
and thence in order shewe
The secretes which she sought to hyde
amidst her modest mynde,
The like wherof, would christ eche man
myght from his wedlock fynd.
But since it is a thing as rare
as Phenix is, to see,
such women in this worlde to liue,
let her alone for me.
And speake we of the parents ioy
that do ioy in the man
asmuch as any father may,
or any mother can.
And howe that they preparaunce make
against the knightes retourne,
and how they incence and perfumes
in euery corner bourne.
And howe the wedding bed is made,
and els to make it shorte
There wanteth nought but him alone
whome they would haue resorte.
Alas how often woulde the wife
go viewe and see the skies,
and make the craysed clowdes of heauen
with euery wynd that flyes.
Alas how often lookes she vp,
to steples and to faynes,
howe often doth she marke the driftes
of moysty mysts and raynes.
And all to viewe the wyndes that woulde
send home to her againe
the man that she desired most
whose want was all her payne.
Alas howe long in vayne she lookt
for that that would not be,
For that againe, the gods had vowde
her eyes should neuer see.
Oh dismoll day, oh dampned dome
so fast that followst on,
So soone as were the letters sent,
and was the bearer gon:
Who may discloase the dreadfull darte
without haboundant teares?
Or who not drownde in brackish floddes
may tend to it his eares
My hart doth faile, my sences shake,
my heare vpright do stande,
and eke to wright the same, my penne
doth queuer in my hand.
Oh that when first I did pretend
this dreadfull dome to wright,
My brayne had bene, so dull as not
a word it coulde endight
Or elles that all the fayry gods,
which Poets fayne haue skill,
had lept at large, and set theire handes
to aide my forwarde will.
and then no doubt but teares ynow
and wayling woordes would be
To mourne the mortall chaunce alas,
which shall not stay for me.
No sooner were, the letters gone,
whiche you haue hard he sent
vnto his loue, nor sooner was
the bearer that way bent:
Then was an accusacion
against the knight ymade
by enuy and by traytours gylte
his worship to enuade.
and that in such a shamefull sorte
as woulde amaze eche eare,
The fond and false affirmed tale
with heauy hart to heare.
Which heard the knight could craue no lesse
but that in his behoofe,
his foe that had accusde him theare
might therof bring some proofe.
And did alledge by lawfull rule
before the Piers that sat,
and also by dame natures lawe,
which did affirme it flat,
That heinous was thoffence of him
that shoulde his life assaile,
with lesinges false which god forbid
should therin ought preuaile.
And therof claymd agayne some proofe
before his face to heare,
that coulde (as he knewe well none coulde)
him therof witnes beare.
The Iudges deemd this iust demaunde
good reason in theire sight,
But when the prince a partie is,
how harde is then to quight
The Lambe, that doth the wolfe pursue
that seeketh onely blood,
as is the knight sought here (god wot)
by him that nere did good.
Who said for aunswere what is he
that treason doth pretende?
Or els against his princes lawes
him selfe by force doth bende?
That will make priuie any wight
vnto his wicked way?
Except to such from whome he hopes
of succour and of stay.
But this I saye and eke will swere
and wil by combat try,
that he to prince a traitour is
and ought for treason dye.
And on this proofe I offer heare
my gauntlet in the fielde,
and haue no doubt befor youe all,
to force the traitour yelde.
And this I think be profe enough
for Mars demaundes no more
wherfore I do accuse him still
a traytour as before.
Then saide the knight vnto his foo
vntrue, thou art vniust.
and tomuche on thy manhood dust
put thine affied trust.
And first vnto my Piers I speake,
no ly my tongue shall tell:
For if I doo, I p [...]y the lorde
my soule may burne in hell.
So clere I am from traytours gylte
or damage of my prince:
as is the childe this night brought fourth,
and scarce hath sucked since.
If dead, yf worde, yf thought at all
to such effect I put,
From ioyes in earth, and blisse in heauen
good lord my body cut.
But false thou falsly dost accuse
my troth, and I will try,
thy combate (Charle) heare is my gloue
and I do the defye.
And in the liuing lorde my god
I haue affied trust,
the and thy malice to subdue
in this my quarel iust.
The plaint and aunswer both is harde,
alleged by these twayne,
and eke the dreadfull blooddy othe
before the Iudge is tane,
In whiche they both do stoutly sweare
by god that is of myght,
His othe is true (but yet olorde)
thou knowest which is right.
No thing remaines but to appoint
the bloddy battels daye,
and eke the place wherein to fight
wheron the iudges stay,
At last the iudgement is geuen vp,
and onely four dayes tane,
wherin the dreadfull darte of death,
is tried betwene these twayne.
In which tyme they do seeke which way
with corrage them to arme.
and eke do practice fence, thereby
to worke theire foe more harme.
And in such fight the maner is,
they know that see the same,
Two haue a man of either syde,
which frenchmen fathers name,
And are for manhoode chosen out
and equall frindes they be,
whose office is, betwene the foes
an equall match to see,
That not the one in armour clad
the other naked saile
Nor yet in oddes of edge, or length
their weapons do preuaile.
But all theire carke and trauaile is,
and subteltie to seeke,
That equall be the matche and that
they both be armd alike.
Such two there are appointed heare
and men in dede they bee
as apt to take such thing in hande
as euer man did see
So neat to proyne the place wherin
this battell must be tryed,
So skilfull eke the plot to choose,
the wethers to deuyde.
That who so sawe, their perfectnes
would theirein take delight
asmuch as solgers wont to doe,
to see such combat fight.
The day drawes on, the one in red
as fierce as forrest bore,
comes in, to challenge blameles blood
as he hath done before
and at his backe his father standes
as I before discride,
and ioinctly both, the knights repaire,
and stay they do abyde.
Who with his battel father comes,
his foe theare to despight,
and eke to shewe his giltles hart,
is clothed all in white.
The boustrous battell here beginnes
theire strokes are passing sore,
The oddes of men, the lokers on
do very muche deplore,
For why? the one a Ruffyn olde
in whome no drop of blood
there euer was: that did enforce
or moue him vnto good:
The other was a famous man,
though young a worthy knight,
Such one as did the bloddy man
for vertue sake dispight.
Oh lord with cruell strokes how ofte
do they encounter heare?
how roundly doth the one lay on
that doth the other beare?
How many doe with weping eyes
as they may do full well,
Lament the churlish chaunce alas,
that theare that day befell:
And eke bewaile the harmfull hap
of those that here did trie,
theire manhod and their mighty force,
wherof the one must dye.
How were the harts of some apalde,
how do some other quake,
to see the bluddy blowes were geuen
which onely death must slake.
And those that loeud theire prince and realme
had heare no power to chose
But to bewaile the deathes of those
the Realme was like to lose.
Alas when blood on either side,
had blynded so the face
of those did fight, as by theire piers
they parted were a space,
And proyned were as is the guise,
buf to renew theire breth,
howe sharply doth the one again
pursue the others death?
Oh cruel fight thus helde, and sharpe
whose stripes are dealt so sore,
as still the wished victory
hanges doubtfull more and more.
Vnhappy thrusts that then were thrown
and sore did hurt the knight,
But yet the traytours harme was suche
as he no more could fight.
Then prostrate lying in the grounde,
thus to the knight he spake,
Not of desert but of despight
at first this quarel brake.
Wherefore before this company
I do the mercy crye,
and claime the cler, and graunt my selfe
most worthy for to dye.
Oh lorde the thundring noys that flewe,
with skriches shrill and hye,
From mouthes of men, to him in heauen
that guydes the starry skye.
And gaue him thankes, that he had causde
the truthe thus to be knowne,
and that the guylty man was by
the guyltles, ouerthrowne
Wherewith the knight forgaue the falte,
yet payde to him his dewe,
and with his sworde he thrust him in
and so the traytour slewe.
Amazd I am here to expresse
the seconde crye and shute
that ioy did make to passe the mouthes
of all the famous rowte,
That looked on and praysed god
that he was ridde from blame,
whose lust desert did claime by right
to be the childe of fame.
Whose golden trump did sound ful farre,
how did the knight him trye,
and how he causde the traytour so,
by puissaunt arme to dy.
It cometh to the Ladyes eare,
what act her knight had done,
howe that in fight he slew his foe,
and kepte his honour wone.
Which wrought in her and all her frendes
such perfect ioye and blesse,
as nowe they thought them selues cut of
from care and heauines.
For fame not yet had spred abrode
the knightes most cruell wounde,
nor how in chayre he was brought home,
nor how he ganne to swound,
Nor how that present night alas
that famous man did dye,
Nor how his solgers and his frindes
like children roare and crye:
Nor how he is brought to the church
with mourning of the dromes,
Nor howe the knight is brought to graue
with mightie shot of gonnes.
Nor howe his ensigne trayled is
with sorrow on the grounde,
Nor how nothing but sobbes and teares
in all the towne is founde.
This resteth dead, they ioy a pace,
they shoot at other marke,
vntill the comming home (alas)
of the vnhappy bark.
Then is this tidinges tolde at large,
to soone the lady heares,
Her heauy harte noulde let her speake
nor could she shed her teares:
But streight she casted vp her sight
vnto the clowdy skie,
She set a grone which rent her hart,
and therwithall did crye,
vnto that god from whome doth glyde,
the golden glistring sonne,
From sight of whome no wight at all
hath power him selfe to shonne.
And said, oh mighty king of gods
oh thou that lieust for ay,
Impute it not to me for sinne,
that loue doth force me saye,
Didst thou not giue to me a man
that nature did adorne
with giftes of grace, that did excell
the rest that ere were borne?
The secrete substaunce of the soule
in him did eke habounde
And nothing but thy feare and grace,
within that man was founde,
And that I should the vertues touch
which to the body long,
Didst thou not send him helth olorde
and maedst his body strong.
And deckst him with eche honour that
this worlde might to him yelde,
and sentst him worship, which he woon
by stretched arme in fielde.
How couldst thou then in fragrant youth
amidst his honor got,
By traytours hand let him be slaine,
whome coulde no Treason spot?
Ah, that I wretched wight haue cause
with the thus to dispute,
whome all the worlde, no sainct nor deuill
is hable to confute.
What? should I curse my fate oh lord?
or rather craue to dye,
Or should I piers the mighty heauens
with hye and hugye crie,
Since that my cursed chaunce is such
as neither can I haue
my loue alyue, nor yet my selfe
be buried in his graue
Well, well, oh lorde remyt my sinnes
euen through thy mercy most
wherwith she stretched fourth her armes
and yelded vp the gost.
Much strogling was but none auayle
her sences all were gone
Her lymbes were stiffe, her body straight
as colde as marble stone.
Thamased mother sawe this chaunce,
and ruthfully she spake
To this effect did I poore soule
all this preparaunce make.
Then let the worlde and those that liue
yf aught be left, take all,
and for thy mercyes sake good lord,
send me my fattall fall.
Let me not liue, and lead my life
a barren wife in age,
Nor yet to ronn the rufull race
of rigours that do rage
But since thou hast in soddeine sorte
bereft me of my sonne,
And of my daughter to, whose lyues
had yet long race to ronne,
And that I can, nor may not aske
theire liues againe to haue
Graunt at the least that I may be
a fellow in her graue.
And so our boddyes may againe
in coffyn iointly lye,
That like as she by me did liue,
so I by her may dye.
Herewith her face did wax full pale,
her body gan to faint,
and easy was, god knoweth to spye
how death could her attaint.
She shriked out, and said oh death,
I feele thy force begins
Oh god, for Christes sake do graunt
forgeunes of my sinnes.
Wherwith she did geue vp the gost,
as did her child before,
her fatall threde was shride in twayne
and she coulde liue no more.
For neither coulde their force nor might
no bowing downe nor payne
reuoke her traunce, nor bring to her
her lothed life againe.
The father sawe, that he had lost
his daughter sonne and wife,
Would faine haue dyed, but yet doth last
his heauy hated life.
The seruauntes and the neighbours all
and many men vnknowne,
do tast the dolefull heauines,
that these theire deathes haue sowen.
In aunshent howshold tombe the dame
and childe Sepulture haue,
and many conning Epitaphs
is set vppon their graue.
And those that knewe them euery one
and sees the siers vnrest,
Do iudge of both, the wemens hap
in sorrow was the lest.
God graunt him quyet life to lyue
his cares away to pluck,
God send eche loue so true a harte,
yet lorde some better lucke.
Finis.
B. G.
¶ Imprinted at London in Fletestrete within Temple barre, at the signe of the hande and starre, by Richard Tottyll.
Anno. 1565.