BARLEY-breake, OR, A VVarning for VVantons, Written by W. N. Gent.
Printed at London by Simon Stafford, dwelling in the Cloth-fayre, neere the red Lyon, 1607.
TO THE VERTVOVS AND chaste Maiden, Mistresse Eliz. G. daughter to the VVorshipfull Rob. C. Esquire, yours in seruice W.N. wisheth all fortunes smiles, with the dew of immortall felicitie.
IT is not vnknowne (right vertuous) amongst the wise, the sillie Oaten pipe, winded by a rurall Shepheard, vnder a shadowing Hawthorne, sprouting on a champion mountaine, hath beene as highly esteemed, as the curious strained Lute, sounded by the cunning Musician in the richest chamber of the Court of the most potentate Princes, and that a sillie braunch reft from an Oliue tree, hath beene as acceptable, as the most precious perle dragd from the sands of the Ocean. Then, seeing the zeale lyeth not in the gift, but in the giuer: I shall entreat you as gratefully to accept this my Treatise, as I deliuer it, not for the worth, but as a testimonie of the zeale and duety from me belonging, which so long time I haue studied how to manifest. And thus hoping there shall be nothing herein construed contrarie to my simple meaning, neither my presumption held in disdaine, I end, though not forgetting my bounden duetie to your VVorshipfull Parent and my very good friend, to whom if this my Pamphlet may cause mirth, as an Arbour test, it hath his desire, and my hopes accomplished.
[...]
Then one in others rights would not intrude,
But each lamented at his neighbours paine:
None gaue a cause to sue or to besu'de,
The weight of conscience wanted not a graine.
By pleasant springs the young and youthfull sort
Would sit and talke of their vnfained loue,
Whose simple truth would in a word report
More faith and zeale, then in an age we proue.
Why, Parents then would let their children goe
To plaies and reuells both by night and day;
Where now they dread & feare their ouerthrow:
For rape and murder lurke in euery way.
A Shepheard then secure might lye and sleepe,
Hauing a care his victuall were not stole
By Wolues and Curs that in the hillocks keepe,
And range abroad, while
Somnus gaines the gole.
Thus would he fill his daughter with a sound,
Whilst she poore girle did see her mates at play:
His words againe might very well rebound:
For why, her minde was fix'd another way.
But on a time the Lads and Lasses came,
Entreating
Elpin that she might goe play.
He said she should (
Euphema was her name)
And then denyes: yet needs she must away.
To
Barley-breake they roundly then 'gan fall:
Raimon, Euphema had vnto his mate:
For by a lot he won her from them all:
Wherefore young
Streton doth his fortune hate.
But yet ere long he ran and caught her out,
And on the backe a gentle fall he gaue her.
It is a fault which iealous eyes spie out,
A maide to kisse before her iealous father.
Old
Elpin smiles, but yet he frets within.
Euphema faith, she was vniustly cast.
She striues, he holds, his hand goes out, and in:
She cries, Away, and yet she holds him fast,
Till sentence giuen by an other maid,
That she was caught according to the law:
The voice whereof this ciuill quarrell staid,
And to his make each lusty lad 'gan draw.
Euphema now with
Streton is in hell:
(For so the middle roome is alwaies cald)
He would for euer, if he might, there dwell;
He holds it blisse with her to be inthrald.
The other run, and in their running change:
Streton 'gan catch, and then let goe his hold,
Euphema, like a Doe, doth swiftly range,
Yet taketh none, although full well she could,
And winkes on
Streton, he on her 'gan smile,
And faine would whisper something in her eare.
She knew his mind, and bid him vse a wile,
As she ran by him, so that none did heare.
Some other pastimes then they would begin;
And to looke hands one doth them all assummon.
Varietie is good in euery thing,
Excepting onely Gods and earthly women.
Then hand in hand they make a circle round,
And with a napkin one must goe about,
And looke behinde what lad, this same is found,
Mu
[...]
[...] to
[...] her that so markt him out.
[...]Where we will leaue them to their feast, and bed,
Whichatter supper they entend to see,
And treat of Cratchets now in
Stretons head,
Vpon the mountaines restlesse wanders he.
His sheepe, for him, might all at riot run,
And told themselues, or else do what they would:
He teares no woe, he dreads no losse to come,
The Shepheardesse hath all his thoughts in hold:
His studie is, which way he might contriue
A place and time, where they might fit confer,
And how he might a cause sufficient giue,
To make his loue and passion knowne to her.
One while he thinkes to send his griefe in time,
And therein praise her cruell conquering eyes:
But then he feares she will some error finde:
For she was faire, and therewith passing wise.
Then thinkes he on what words he should depend,
If he should hap to finde a time and place:
One was too meane, another to no end;
This word obscure, and that was too too base.
In the conclusion, he doth beate his braine,
When through the matter he hath swiftly run:
Then all atresh begin doth he againe,
As farre to seeke as when he first begun.
Much like vnto a Player on a stage,
When he forgets the thing that he should doe,
As one distract doth
exit in a rage,
That faine would act, but yet he knowes not how.
Perplexed thus, he spends the silent night,
Vntill
Aurora with a blushing red,
Comes as a Herald to proclay me the light
Of heauens bright taper rising from his bed.
And then e're long, he might afarre perceaue
Old
Elpins dogge come driuing of the flocke;
Wherat the champion mountaines he 'gan leaue,
And by the way he shrouds behinde a rocke,
Where he might see, and yet might not be seene,
Old
Elpin and his pretie snowy maid,
Louingly paceyng vp alongst the greene,
Vnto the mountaine, where Bawle for them staid:
And to a shade, where they did vse to sit,
(For by this time the Sun was got on high)
Prepare they did to shun the scorching heate:
The Ewes 'gan feede, the lambes are frisking by.
And
Elpin now some storie will reuiue,
To feast the time as it did passe along;
And from
Calisto he doth it deriue,
And
Iupiter, and of
Calistos wrong.
One tale (quoth he) will steale the day away,
Whilst that our flocke in shadow chew the cud:
Then of a Nymph my purpose is to say;
But not of her whom
Ioue bore on the flood,
Nor yet of her that caught was fetching water,
Nor yet o
[...] her whom
Nessus earst did wrong,
Nor yet of her whom
Iason so did flatter,
Nor of the three that
Cacus kept so long:
Nor of the Queene that
Carthage did inclose;
Nor will I speake of faire
Lucrecias rape,
Ne tell a storie of the
Albion Rose,
Nor
10 yet, of Cow that had the shape.
[...]Learned examples for the virgine life,
Whose contemplation highly past all other:
Not tedious chat, but all in comely briefe,
She craues the goddesse leaue to liue together.
Who gladly graunts, and by the hand her takes,
And next
Calisto kindly doth embrace her.
For ioy whereof
Ioues suttle inwards quakes,
Whose hopes depended wholy to deface her.
Vnto the Cloyster, all in seemely ray,
For to install this new-elected Nun,
This sacred traine with Musicke take the way,
Where, with importance euery rite is done.
Looke how a Foxe, when he intends to take
A silly lambe, his purpose to obtaine,
Staukes farre at first, for feare some dogs awake,
Then neere and neere, till he the lambe hath staine.
So walkes flye
Ioue with his
Calisto forth,
A furlong first, the next day three or foure,
Then backe againe, with tales of note and worth,
Some fetcht from heauen, and some from earth far lower.
So long at last vnto a shadow groue
They straid, so farre quite out of sound or cry.
Which thing well noted of dissembling
Ioue,
Soone sate him downe the faire
Calisto by;
As who would say, Let's rest: for walkes are weary.
Where laughing, they claspe eithers iuory hands,
Prooue strength of armes, as maids will being merry,
Clip wrests, draw lots, meat wastes with silken bands.
And now although the game began in sport,
The filly Nymph rude earnest doth sustaine:
It's vaine to striue, or vse the womans arte,
Screeke out, or struggle, prayers are but vaine.
Ioue shewes himselfe, but to
Calistos griefe,
He her deflour'd, and straight to heauen flies,
Where he doth kisse Queene
Iuno his iealous wife,
To blind the scape from her all-watchfull eyes.
Calisto maid, a maid? nay, there Hyde,
The snowy one, who was a maid ere while,
Tis she (I meane) whose fortunes are descryde,
Lamenting sits, that euen now did smile.
The day was gone, and
Phebus maskt his face,
The antike world is shut in robes of night:
Yet she poore soule, bewayling still her case,
Asham'd henceforth to gaze vpon the light.
Yet in the end she doth recall to mind,
That what was past, no wight the act did know,
And that close action much the world doth blind.
All are not maids that virgins are in show.
Considering this, she wipes her blubbered eyes,
And charg'd with feare, she mends her ruffled clothes,
And for excuse, her wits she doth surprise
For her delay; so to the Cloyster goes,
As light as euer Nymph or damzell trod:
No change of fortune may
Diana spy;
No marke is seene of any foyle she had;
Front bolt-vpright, she neuer stept awry:
And making there (as wily women can)
Excuse worth credit for her long delay,
[...]But wherefore beat I thus the sencelesse ayre?
Why warble I these vaine and frutelesse words,
Whilst he relentlesse Leatcher keepes him there,
Where he's supreme, and pittie none affords?
Why doe I not complaine vnto the gods?
Calisto, doe; let him beare shame with thee:
Shew how he did betray thee to the woods;
Let
Iuno know how he hath dealt with me.
Yet, foolish wench, tis vaine, if so thou thinke,
That to thy plaints the gods will credit giue:
Noe, they will rather at his falshood winke:
Thy information they will not beleeue.
Like stormes on plaines, with threats hee'le beare thee downe.
A silly lambe a Lyon cann't defame?
Heele vnto tortures haue thee drag'd and bound,
If thou his scapes shouldst once detect or name.
And thus (God wot) doe mountaines take their freakes,
But euermore poore mole-hils beare the blame.
The
Owle may see the haughtie
Eagle scapes:
But none durst once accuse him for the same.
THis said, she spies
Diana with her traine,
With course directed to a fountaine, where
The loftie trees coole shadow doth containe,
Where she did vse to wash her body bare.
Faine would she hide: but
Dian she espies,
And called her, whose heast she doth obay;
And standing vp, she wipes her watery eyes,
And to the fountaine with them takes the way.
Good God, what tis for silly maides to shift,
When conscience writes some action in the cheeke!
She hangs the head, her eyes she durst not lift
Vp from the ground, the ayre she did not like.
The Nymph, that euer by
Dianas side
Went cheeke by iowle, bearing a stately port,
Now lurkes behind, not willing to be ey'd,
Byting her lips, as one asham'd in hart.
Which caus'd a muttring 'mongst the virgine rout,
And some supposed she had stept amisse:
Her very count'nance may dissolue the doubt,
Her cheeke bewrayes, that it had caught a kisse.
But being come vnto the siluer streame,
Where naked all attend to wash the Queene,
Calistos robes no more may hide her shame:
Ioues suttle freak's apparent to be seene.
Calistos griefe is publike to their eyes;
Her slender hands may not her belly hide.
The goddesse spies, and therewith out she cryes,
Strumpet, auaunt, thy whoredome is descride.
The Nymphs all shouted: but the sorry one
On bended knees desires to be heard:
But hopelesse soule, attention had she none.
For her exile their voyces all accord.
Away she goes, as one expeld from Court,
And liues in deserts, as a wight forlorne,
Where, to the world (as ancient fame reports)
And to her woe, was hayrie
Arcas borne.
From whom
Arcadia tooke at first the name,
The Sonne of
Ioue, a
Satire first became:
The angry
Iuno, to augment her fame,
Vpon the Nymph a Bearish shape doth frame.
[...]When Pinkes and Cowslips, shall be made a bed,
Vpon whose gentle leaues secure wee'le sleepe,
Lockt one to other, whilst red lips doe wed,
Inuiron'd with armes, brests sweete kissing meete,
Cast ouer with a vale of beautyous Lillyes,
Vpon which mantle shall curiously be drawne
A thousand stories by renown'd
Apelles,
Where we will see how louing soules doe fawne.
If these delights, with many thousand more,
May in thy brest moue matter of regard,
Let me no longer thus distrest implore:
But with a smile my loyall loue reward.
VVIth that, he takes her by the Iuory hand,
And silent stands to heare her make reply;
When that her lookes giue him to vnderstand,
That womens thoughts doe on such subiects lye.
And shee with silent motion giues consent,
Not noting once the fraud of golden showres,
Nor how too late, betrayed maides repent
Themselues, in suffring men to plucke their flowres,
But suffers
Streton to doe what he would:
Her mind is dauncing on this promist pleasure.
Away will I, (lest Pandor proue I should)
Leauing
Euphema to repent by leasure.
ANd now of
Elpin, whom we touch't before,
That home was run, deluded with a wile,
And view'd his house, his windowes and his dore,
Whilst crafty
Streton stole his blisse the while.
And when his eyes, the messengers of ioy,
Had backe return'd the tidings of no wrong,
With hems, and sighs, he shakes away annoy,
And to the deserts 'gan he pase along;
Where all that day he spends in whoopes and calls:
But from his child the ayre doth nothing lend,
When greater dread his trembling hart inthrals,
Supposing that she had
Adonis end.
And when the clouds had maskt the face of heauen,
And cole-blacke shade, the subiect of all illnesse,
Had full possest the seate that time had giuen,
And in her mantle wrapt vp all in stilnesse,
He sate him downe, girt with extremest woe.
O, why did Nature such affection breed,
That parents eyes with teares should ouerflow,
And dim their glasses for their gracelesse seed?
For after he with sighs had toll'd her knell,
And clensd the brooke of grones that staid the flood,
With wringed hands, Adue (quoth) he) farewell,
The onely comfort of my withered blood:
Farewell the face, that duld the fatall knife,
Farewell the brest, that heaued out such layes,
Farewell the shield and target of my life,
Farewell the whole supporter of my dayes:
And welcome thou blacke mistres of the night,
In thy sad armes let me alwaies sleepe:
O let me not reuiue to see the light,
O let the Sunne beneath for euer keepe:
And from the darke and hideous scowling clouds,
Powre stormes of vengeance on this cursed place;
Blow Northerne blasts, and scatter downe these shrouds,
Eare vp the roots from
Terras pampered face:
[...]And therefore shew the role of this thy care,
Shew out the burden of thy warbling hart,
And vnto thee I likewise will declare
As sad a tale in euery point and part.
So may one helpe another in a straine:
Ile sigh, whilst thou deliuerst out thy griefe;
And thou shalt pitty, whilst my part doth rayne,
And meete at last both with a weary life.
HEreat the other pleased seem'd to be,
And by the hand he
Elpin doth inuite
To sit by him, beside an Oaken tree,
Whose burly branches kept the Caue from light.
And after they vpon a brace of pipes,
Had many sollum mournefull tunes o'rerunne,
The scarlet eyes of one the other wipes,
When
Elpins mate his tale he thus begun:
Stretons Fathers tale.
THe cause I moane, is not for any losse,
If reason might dame Natures errour master:
But follies bred within the bones of vs,
Stand farre without the cure of wisdomes plaster.
And where affection buyldes her habitation,
Admit it be in ne're so base a soyle,
What counsell can with strongest protestation,
Withdraw it foorth, or ease vs of that toyle?
My selfe, whom age should bynde in Wisdomes lore,
And through experience tread the path that's best,
May not refraine from that which makes me sore,
But loue the vulture that doth gnaw my brest.
A gracelesse sonne, an off-spring of my bloud,
In whom my youth had stored vp his ioy,
To be a comfort when I nothing cou'd,
Hath stolne my Goats, and packt himselfe away,
And tane with him a wily wanton maid,
Euphema hight, whom I this present morne
Found in his lap, as she asleepe was laid,
Whilst he with flowers did her head adorne,
And at my showing suddenly arose,
And in a moment flung out of my sight,
And hither came (at least I so suppose)
And in this caue I hop't on them to light.
Elpins answere to Stretons Father.
ENough, enough, toe much: oh, say no more,
(Quoth weary
Elpin) thou hast poysoned me:
Forbeare, forbeare to rub me on that sore,
That inward bleeds, and may not cured be.
Thy Goats? my girle, hath one felon stolne;
Accurst for one, and damned for the other:
Woe to the day and place where he was borne;
Shame to his father, and horrour to his mother.
Stretons Fathers reply.
CEase, bawling caitife, I thy words disdaine,
Quoth
Stretons Father, shame be to thy selfe:
If she be thine, she is as lewd as mine:
Then cease to dote so on a wanton elfe.
The fathers loue the child to ill doth harden,
When that it stands so publike she may view it,
Whereby presuming on her Fathers pardon,
She iumps so far, till she with shame doth rue it.
They both are naught, so naught
[...]et both them run:
One day they'le wish they had kept parents rules:
An aged eye can oft see things to come,
When greener heads account vs doating fooles.
Put vp thy Pipe; let's get vs to our flockes:
And let them gad, till they repentance catch:
When
Hyems shall vpon them shake his lockes,
Their grazing feast will haue a wearish tarch.
When siluer showres congeale to hardned hayle,
When pleasant meads conuert to marish ground,
When stately trees of sap their leaues shall fayle,
Or when the wind shall tumble
Progne downe;
Then shall we see our Grasse-hoppers to come,
And with the words of mercy cloy our eares,
When foolish we with pittie ouercome,
Shall fondly shead a thousand pardoning teares.
Whereat they rose, and sighing tooke their way
Vnto the mountaine where the Shepheards plaid,
Where woefull
Elpin passed many a day,
In deepe laments for his too carelesse maid.
And on a time, as he alone was sate,
Neere to a fountaine or a liuely spring,
Vnto a Pipe made of a ramping Oate,
With strained voice he lowdly thus 'gan sing.
Elpins Song.
THe harshie rockes are all to totters rent,
The frisking lambs haue left their wonted playes,
Faire
Philomele is dombe and discontent,
The scowling clouds abbridge our sun-shine dayes.
The seemely Lilly hangs her louely head,
The Violet dies, with the Carnation white;
Faire Marigold infolds no more her seede,
The frugrant Rose is withered with despight:
The earth is barren, ciuilitie is dombe,
Our brightest daies are foggie, soule, and blacke:
O time it is, O time, when wilt thou come,
And shew the Lambe, whose comming many lacke?
ANd ending this, though more he would haue sung,
Had not
Euphema to his sight appeard,
Who at his feete with hands together wrung,
And wombe bewraying what within it bear'd,
Lies pleading for remission of her fact,
With vowed promise to transgresse no more,
Whose sudden fight her Fathers life-strings crackt,
And falling downe, he ended his implore.
Well might she waile: but death his owne will keepe,
Well might she rocke and shocke her Fathers corse:
Well might she fit her downe by him and weepe,
That 'twixt them twaine pale death had made diuorce.
Now stands she speechlesse, choakt with inward woe,
And with her hands her Iuorie brest doth beate,
Cursing in hart what brought her hereunto.
Thus women will, but when it is too late.
And then on
Streton she 'gan lowd exclaime,
Who had forsaken her in this her neede,
Leaning a marke for shame to take her aime.
The vulgar fruit that springs from wanton seede.
Euphemas Lamentation.
VVAS I (quoth she) the chiese
Arcadian maid?
Was I the wardrop of my Fathers treasure?
I was, I was: but all's at riot laid.
My iewel's changed for a fruitlesse pleasure.
O, heare I not the birds bewray my fact?
O, see I not the flockes abhorre my sight?
Behold, behold, the world lothing thy act:
See how they scorne, who in thee tooke delight.
Then looke on, you, whom
Iasons would allure,
See here the Musicke of a yeelding song:
Read what it is to build on vowes impute.
The sweetest words containe oft greatest wrong.
Beautie, without the ornament of honour;
Is like a Rose whom Spiders haue bereft,
The pure sweete odour time bestowd vpon her,
Loth'd of the Bees when hony none is left,
And pittied as a Deare amongst an heard,
When he with soyle hath al him ouer-dight,
Whose company they will not once afford,
But beate him hence, as lothing such a sight.
But whereunto doe I this breath applie?
Why draw I thus the pourtract of my fate?
Why rather doe I not despaire and die,
And cancell vp my life with honours date?
Now that base lust lies publike, voide of harbour,
Spreading abroad the ensigne of transgression,
Now vertuous triumphs haue forsooke the arbour,
Leauing the seate where shame hath ta'ne possession;
Prepare, vaine flesh, you that conspir'd with shame,
Ope wide your veines to let out wanton streames,
Resolue, resolue to die. And with the same,
An armed blade euen at her brest she aimes.
Looke, how a villen toucht with consciences dart,
When at his feete he lies, whom he would slay,
Pots forth his hand, and then repents in hart,
Now vowes to strike, but horror bids him stoy:
Euen so her hand the knife pluckes to and fro,
Fearing to hurt the bosome which it loues,
Whilst feare and scorne threats each others woe,
One crying, Stab; the other still reproues.
Thus standing in suspence 'twixt life and death;
Death arguing feare, life crying out dishonour:
When resolution hating lothed breath,
Confutes pale feare to let in death vpon her,
Then
Dido like she pears'd the frame of Nature;
When through the bulwarke of her crimson blood,
Deaths roaring cannon spoyles the worke and feature,
Breaking the stage whereon liues action stood.
But what is fate, if we conceiue with measure?
Who beares the badge of fortune, rules not her.
The deeds of men are voide at heauens pleasure:
Our doome decreed, we cannot mead, nor marre.
Whilst this her blood the scornefull earth embrac'd,
Before the set of liues declining sun,
The caitife
Streton being thither chac'd
By Wolues, and Beares, whose force he sought to shun,
And looking round which way he best might take,
His eyes did spy this dismall spectacle,
The sight whereof made ioynts and synewes shake.
And as he gaz'd, behold, a miracle.
Those sauage beasts, whose iawes he sought to flie,
Had in a moment compast him about,
As who would say, Villaine, behold her die.
And therewithall the ayre and wood throughout
Did ring and sound with noyse of beasts and birds,
Who at him bay'd and star'de as at an
Owle:
Kites, Crowes, and Buzzards, Iayes, with woluish heards,
Rookes; Pies, and Oopes, and each deuouring sowle.
Amongst the rest, a blacke and filthie bird
Sate on a skrange, and cries, A rope, a rope.
Whose ougly voyce to
Streton plaine was heard;
And seeing hope of life stood past all hope,
Aloud replies, A rope? why, I haue none:
If die I must, come sunder these my quarters.
A prating Parrot sitting all alone,
Him answere makes, Goe hang thee in thy garters.
With that, in haste his garters he puts off.
A nimble Ape his topman strait will bee,
And hangs vp
Streton, whil
[...]t a Monkie did scoffe.
Crying, Good fruite, good fruite doth beare the tree.
The
Owle forth-with a solemne dirge doth sing:
With that, the Rauen seaz'd vpon his eyes.
His funerall condold, and euery thing,
They left his bones a banquet for the flies.
FINIS.