¶The vvorkes of a young wyt, trust vp with a Far­dell of pretie fancies, profitable to young Poetes, preiudicial to no man, and pleasaunt to euery man to passe away idle tyme withall.

Whereunto is ioyned an odde kynde of wooing, with a Banquet of Com­settes, to make an ende withall. Done by N. B. Gentleman.

¶The Letter [...], to the Reader.

I Haue both heard & read oft tymes, that Bookes and Cheeses may very well be likened one to the other, in this poynt: for the diuersitie of mens iudgementes giuen of them. For they are wares both, to be loo­ked on for loue, and bought for money. The Cheese once out of the Presse, shortly after comes to market to be solde: where (perhaps) it is ta­sted of many, before it be bought. And bookes once imprin­ted, are presently in shoppes, where many peruse them, ere they be solde. Nowe▪ some that haue tasted the Cheese, wil say (per­chaunce) tis too drye: an other wyl say, tis too ful of whaye▪ the third wyll say, the meate is good, but it is yll handled: the fourth wil (contrary) say, it lookes better then it is. Come an­other, he wyl say, Berlady tis prety good meate. Some wyl say, It is litle worth: and some wyll say, It is starke naught, but that is an euyl toungd felow. Some wyl say, Tis Cheese: thats a blunt whorson. Some wyl say, Twil serue: he is to be borne withal. Some wyl say, Tis good meate when one is hungry: he is woorthy to haue a peece of it (if he can get it) when he hath nothing els to dynner. Some wyl like it very well, and giue money for it: he is most worthy to haue it, & much good may it doo hym. And thus of Bookes, and so of this my booke among others. Some wyl say, It is too dry, it wants the sap of Sapience, neither hath it yenough of the Runnet of Rea­son. Some other wyl say, It is too sul of the whay of wanton­nesse, which in wise mens taste, seemes very sowre. Some wyll say, The inuention is prety, but it is yll pend. Some other wyll more commend the pennyng, then the matter. Some wyl say, It is prety Poetrie. Some wyl say, It is meane stuffe. And some (perhaps) wyl say, It is bald ryme, not worth the reading: but that is a malicious Lob, for my lyfe. Some wyll say, Tis verse: he speakes his mynd plainly. Some wyl say, Twil passe for Po­aetrie: [Page] let hym passe for & cetera. Some wyl say, It is good e­nough to reade, when a man hath nothing els to doo: he may reade it (if he can come by it) in such idle tyme. Some (per­haps) wyll prayse it more then it deserues, and geue coyne for it, rather then goe without it. Such are best woorthy to haue it: and wel may it like them, when they haue bought it. Well, such as like it not, I pray you beare a good tongue, and let it alone, and God be with you. I wish you well, and perhaps I wyl agaynst the next Terme, prouide you some other newe ware for your olde golde. Tyll when, and euer, I wish you all, with my selfe, the grace of God, and well to fare.

From my lodgyng this .xiiii. of May. Anno Domini. 1577.
Your poore Countreyman, N. B. ✚

The woorkes of a young wit.

Primordium.

The Farmer, he, that newe breakes vp a ground:
and dooth not know, what fruit, the soyle will yeelde.
The cheapest seede, that (lyghtly) may be found,
be (commonly) bestowes vpon that fielde.
For tryall, first, as (best for his behoue,)
by proofe of that, how better graine wil prooue.
And as I thinke the cheapest kynde of grayne,
on newe digd grounde the Farmer can bestowe,
Whereof to reape some profit for his payne,
are Otes, a grayne which euery man dooth knowe:
Which proouing yll, his losse can be but small,
if well, such gaynes, as he may lyue withall.
What sayd I? otes? Why, Otes there are I see,
of diuers kyndes, as some are counted wylde:
And they are light: and yet with them some be,
in steed of better many tymes beguyld.
And sure I thinke that wylde lyght kynde of grayne,
my selfe haue sowne, within my barren brayne.
But tis no matter, smal hath been my cost:
and this is first tyme that I sturd my brayne,
Besydes, I haue, but little labour lost,
in idle tyme to take a little payne.
And though, I loose, both payne, and grayne in deede:
my ground, I crowe, will serue for better seede.
For as the Farmer, though his croppe be yll,
the seede yet lost will fatten well the grounde.
And when he seekes for better grayne to tyll,
and sowes good grayne, then is the profit found.
For, all the first, that good was, for no grayne,
will beare good fruite, but with a little payne.
[Page] So my rude brayne, that at the fyrst (God wote)
was good for naught, no kynd of fruite would yeelde
New broken vp, will now yet beare an Ote,
and as I hope, wil prooue a prety field:
I lyke it tothe better, that I fynd,
the Otes so sowne, do not come vp in kynd.
For surely, all the Otes I sowed, were wilde,
and light God wote: and cheape, they cost me nought▪
And now if that I be not much beguild,
they prooue good Otes, and will be quickely bought:
Mary my croppe I reape is very small,
but what is lost, my ground is made withall.
And when I till, and sow a better grayne,
mine Otes so lost, I shall not then repent:
My profite then, will so requite my payne,
as I shall thinke, my labour pretly spent:
And eke in time, I hope with taking payne,
to make it fit, to beare a right good grayne.
These Otes (alas) are fonde and foolish toyes,
which, often tymes, doo enter in the minde:
The thoughtes of which, giue cause of griefe or ioyes,
which are so lighte, as turne with euery winde.
And, suche wilde Otes, I meane wilde thoughts God knowes,
are all the grayne that in my ground now growes.
But yet I see that all the Otes I sowde,
I meane the thoughts that enter in my minde,
Are not come vp: not halfe of them is showde:
and some come vp, are blowen away with wynde.
The rest that stand, are such as here you see,
which if you lyke, then take them as they be.
These thoughts in deede, were causes of such crimes,
as in my bookes here playne apparant be:
[Page 4] Which, as I sat halfe idle many tymes,
I wrote (God wote) at randon, as you see:
Which though they be but wilde lyght Otes in deede,
will make my ground yet fit for better seede.
Now I haue thought on thousand causes mo
then I haue showne, as well of griefe as ioye:
Some are forgot, and those I cannot showe:
and when I wrote vpon too fond a toye,
And that withall my selfe mislykte the same,
strayght to the fyre, for feare of further blame.
But such as these which by desert in deede,
I here doo terme toyes of an idle head [...]
Are all the croppe, that yet of al my seede
I reape this yeere, the rest I thinke be dead:
But they so lost, will better make my braine,
to yeelde good fruite, wh [...] so I tyll agayne.
For I protest as thus aduisde, at lest,
next tyme I tyll, to sowe some better grayne:
Untill which tyme, I friendly you request,
to take in woorth these first fruites of my brayne:
Accounting thus my braine a new digd ground,
my rimes wilde Otes, which euery where abound.
And for my labour more then halfe quite lost,
Laugh not yet at me, for my folly such:
Nor haue regard at all vnto my cost,
my paines were most, although not very much:
Which paines so spent, these trifling toies to write:
I haue imploide to purchase thy delight.
Which though but toyes, yet if they like thee well,
yeeld friendly thankes: and so my friend farewell.
Finis.

¶The Author standing in a study whether to write or no, wrote as foloweth.

SHal I presume to presse into the place,
where Poetes stand, to trie theyr cunnyng skyll?
Fie, no, (God wote) I must not shewe my face
among such men, they come from Pernasse hyll.
Where ech one findes a muze, to guide his pen:
and what should I doo then among such men.
No, no, (God wot) it is yenough for me,
to stand without, and hearken at the doore.
And through the key hole somewhat for to see,
of orders theirs, although I doo no more:
To see, I meane, how all the Poets wryte,
and how their Muzes, helpe them to endite.
Except I doo, lyke Bayarde hould by chaunce,
thrust in at doore, and take no leaue at all:
In seeking so, my selfe for to aduaunce,
agaynst my will, may hap to catch a fall:
In ventring so, perhaps yet I may see,
among them al, somewhat to profit me.
Perhaps I may, and likelyer of the two,
for such my paynes, get nothing but a flout:
Lo, thus in doubt, I know not what to doo,
to presse in place, or still to keepe me out:
To stand without, I can but little gaine,
to be too bould, but laught at, for my payne.
Laught at quoth I, but tush, if that be all,
I must not feare, to presse in Poets place:
For laughing loud, can breede a hurt but small,
it doth, but shewe some asse, or lobcockes grace
In him that laughes, for Poetes will no: vse,
the simplest wight that is, for to abuse.
[...]
[Page 5] for feare of floutes, of some odde mocking mate:
The wisest men, this once, I doo not doubt,
in ech respect, such il demeanure hate:
They rather will regard, mine earnest will,
and let me in, then I should stand out still.
And Pallas, shee would send from Pernasse hill,
some learned muze, to helpe me to endite:
In writing to, who so myght guide my quill,
that I myght somewhat like a Poet wryte:
The Poetes too would helpe, rather then I,
should loose the loue I haue to Poetry.
Then, if (perhappes) I wryte with simple skill,
the wisest he ades, (I trust) will pardon me:
They will regarde my good and earnest will,
and thinke in tyme, some better stuffe to see:
Which by Gods helpe (ere long) in hope I stand,
some finer matter, for to take in hand.

¶The Author mynding to wryte somewhat, yet not resol­ued what: wrote in verse certayne demaundes with him­selfe what to write, as foloweth.

A Prouerbe olde there is, which wise men count for true,
that oft of sluggish idlenesse, great euils do ensue.
Which Prouerbe old, and true, when I do cal to mynde:
to set my self about strayght way, I somwhat seek to find.
For feare least sitting stil, when I haue nought to doo,
some thriflltes thought myne idle mynde would set it selfe vnts.
Sometyme I sit and reade, such bookes as lykes me best,
sometyme a learned graue discourse, sometyme a pleasaunt iest,
Sometyme I take my penne, and then I fall to wryte,
to learne to frame a letter fayre, sometime I doo indite,
Some prety odde conceit, to please my selfe withall,
sometyme agayne I musick vse, although my skil be smal.
Lo thus I reade, I write, I doo [...], and sing,
[Page] and all to eschew idlenes, that is so vile a thing.
And now not long ago, not hauing much to doo,
but thinking best what kynde of woorke to set my selfe vnto.
I tooke my pen and Inke, and thought in deede to write
some kind of prety pleasant toy, my minde for to delight.
But scarce I had begun, but then I thought againe,
in countryes profit for to write, to take a little payne:
And thinking so, alas, vnto my selfe, quoth I,
what can I write, that any man may profit gayne thereby?
My yeares are very young, experience but small,
my learning lesse, & (God he knowes) my wisedome least of al.
And being then so young, and inexpert also,
and wisedome want to iudge in mynd, which way the world wil go,
What almost can I write, but I must gayne thereby,
but labour lost, and many a flout, for writing so fondly?
To write of pleasant toyes to purchase deepe delyght,
why euery Rimer writes such stuffe, then what shall I endite?
Some Ditties of despite? No, yet I like that w [...]rse:
shall I then write some ruffing rime to sweare, and banne, and curse?
Fie, that were woorst of all: shall I then write of kings:
of princely Peeres, and Princes courtes, and of such gallant things?
No, no, no wordes of them, what euer so they be:
Quod supra nos nihil ad nos, then let them be for me:
Shall I go lower then, and write of meaner sorte?
well, if I doo, I must take heede what tales I doo reporte.
What, shall I tell their faultes, and how they may amend?
why, they will bid me mend my selfe, ere I doo reprehend:
What? shall I take in hand the truth in deede to teach?
thē some wil say, beware your Geese, the Fox begins to preach.
Shall I then write of warres? oh no, I am too young:
I neuer seru [...]ce saw in rield, then I must hold my tongue:
What? shall I write of ships, and sayling in the seas?
alas, my skill in saylors art is scarcely worth two peas.
What? shall I write of Quirkes and Quidities in law?
no, no, for then I by and by, should shewe my selfe a Daw.
What then? of fruites or plants, of floures, hearbes and trees,
[Page 6] of drawing kno [...]s, & setting slips, and such like toyes as these?
Tush no, the Gardner saies, my cunning is but small:
and therfore I must hold my peace, and meddle not withal.
To such as rulers be, their duties shall I tel?
why, they wil bid me rule my selfe, and then I shall doo well.
What? shall I somwhat write of thriftie husbandry?
then shall I shame my selfe (alas) for none so ill as I.
What? shall I set out rules for to be taught in schoole?
I am so young a scholar, I should prooue my selfe a foole.
Shall I tell scholars then, what is their due to doo?
lets see good orders, say young boyes, you set your selfe vnto.
What shall I write of sinne? what shame dooth growe therby:
why, some will bid me mend for shame, for no man woorse then I
Of vertue shal I speake, how it dooth purchase Fame?
then some that see may sinful life, wil bid me peace for shame.
Why then what may I write? if neyther this nor that,
nor tother Theame wil serue my turne, good faith I know not what
I may resolue vpon, but what my Muse thinkes best
to write vppon, I ready am to write at her request.
For why, I playnly see, Dame Pallas sure hath sent
some Muse to me, to helpe me now some matter to inuent.
And as me thinkes in mynd, shee greatly me dooth moue,
to write some dolorous discourse, of lots of luckelesse loue:
Which since shee so desires, I am content to show,
what passion once a louer pend, opprest with endlesse woe:
And if my Muse agayne doo chaunce to change her mynd,
then shal you see to her content, what matter I wil fynd.
Now looke what so I write, referre it to my Muse,
and blame not me, but let her fault my folly quite excuse.
And take in worth, I craue, as shee my mind doath moue,
this dole [...]id and most strange discourse, that first I write of loue.

¶A prety passion, pend in the behalfe of a Gentleman, who trauailyng into Kent, fell there in loue: and ventring both landes, lymme, and lyfe, to doo his Mistresse seruice, in long time reapt nothing but losse for his labour, which losse, by yll lucke, in lamentable verse, he wrote to his beloued Lady, which, how shee tooke in woorth, that restes.

VVHen I sometyme, reuolue within my mynd,
the sorowes straunge, that some men seemes to showe:
And therwithal consider eke in kinde,
the causes first, wherof their griefes doo growe:
And then compare, their pangues with myne agayne,
I finde them al, but pleasures to my paine.
For why, ech one can make a plaine discourse,
howe euery sorowe dooth assaile his mynde:
Then iudge (alas) howe farre my woes are woorse,
when none aliue, can set them out in kinde.
And if I could, my pangues at large expresse,
yet am I sure, they are remedilesse.
Why am I sicke? yea sure, I am not well,
where lyes my griefe? in body? or in mynde?
In both, God w [...]t, which more I cannot tell,
and I am sure, Phisition none to finde,
That can deuise, to cure my straunge disease,
saue God and you, who may when so you please.
God knowes my griefe: you onely wrought the same,
I feele the paine, though howe, I cannot showe:
God knowes my helpe: and you, O noble Dame,
the onely meane, to minister doo knowe.
Oh helpe me then, whiles I am yet aliue:
least that for life, I can no longer striue.
Howe holdes my griefe? alas both hot, and colde:
[...]ot with desire, and cold againe with feare:
[Page 7] Warme, when I doo thy beauties beames beholde,
and quake with cold, to be, and thou not there.
Lo thus I liue, tormented as you see:
and wyll you not some pitie take on me?
But what is it, a kinde of feuer then,
that holdes me thus, in these extremities?
Yea sure, it is a plaine Quotidien,
that keepes mee styll, in these perplexities:
That day and night, dooth so my mynde molest,
as neuer lets my body be at rest.
Is then an ague such a straunge disease?
why, many so are sicke, and easily curde:
Yea, but the sicknesse of the mynd, no ease
by Phisickes arte, can euer haue procurde.
Such is my griefe, which makes me thus protest,
vntyll I dye, I neuer looke for rest.
The griefe of mynde? why there are diuers kinds,
of sundry sorrowes, in the mynde of man:
To eche of which, the sicke man dayly fyndes,
a sundry kinde of comfort now and than:
Yet for my selfe, I stil protest my griefe
is such almost, as cannot finde reliefe.
What griefe is that? That no man feeles the lyke?
a secret sorrowe that cannot be showne.
For hidden hurts, who can for comfort seeke?
but he, to whom the cause of griefe is knowne:
Yet fare I woorse, who know my strange disease:
yet cannot shewe it, nor yet seeke for ease.
What may it be? some secret pang of loue?
or contrary? some hurt that growes by hate?
Alas of both, the dayly pangs I prooue,
[Page] and that so sore, as may be wondred at:
To bide them both, but how? that seemeth straunge,
How? Why alas, I haue them by exchaunge.
For why, my trade is still to liue by losse,
I beater loue, in hope to gayne good will:
My brused Barke, straunge tempestes dayly tosse,
and keepe her in the seas of sadnes still:
And when at last, shee comes from forreyne soyle,
then see the fruites of all her tedious toyle.
First Merchaundise is Malice, without cause,
and packt within a bagge of bitter bale:
Then next, is bookes of Lady Venus lawes,
which yeeld small gayne, their studies are so stale.
Then sugred speeches, mixt with sowrenes so,
as all my wares, doo yeeld me nought, but wo.
And thus, my shippe once set on sorrowes shore,
for all my wares, I custome pay to care:
Which done, to saue some charges, that growe more,
I beare them home, to saue the Porters share:
For which I thinke, I merite mickle gayne,
I beare, God wot, with such an extreeme payne.
And when I come, vnto my home at last,
my luckeles lodge, for so in deede it is,
And that of all my wares accompt I cast,
what losse by that, what gayne agayne by this:
At last, alone in sorrowes shoppe I sit,
and sell my wares, to my bewitched witte.
Who, when he wayes what they are woorth in deede,
and yit perhappes is oftentimes deceiud:
In taking Reisons, in good reasons steede,
which in good tast, may easely be perceyud:
He thinkes at first, he cannot giue too much,
for such fine fruite, for why there are none such.
[Page] But God he knowes, when he a while hath fedde
on Reisons sweete, ere they be full disgest:
He soone shall find such woorking in his head,
as that his hart shall haue but litle rest:
And if among his Reisons sweete, by chaunce
he eate a Figge, that brings him in a traunce.
For oft in Figges, are secrete fetches wrought,
some Figges are fruites, that growe of foule disdayne▪
Some of despight, and all such Figges are nought,
yet such be mine, which come not out of Spayne:
But growe hereby, but ouer Sea, in Rent,
and thither twas, for all my wares, I went.
From thence it was, that all my wares I had,
and there I caught the cause of all my griefe:
There fell I sicke, ther was I almost madde,
and there it is, that I must seeke reliefe:
But all in vayne, for why I playnly see,
the heauenly fates, doo wholly frowne on me.
Yet restlesse quite, this rest I rest vppon,
either to die, and so my sorrowes end:
Or els, when all my wofull wares be gon,
God will at last, some better shipping send:
And you deare dame, who onely know my griefe,
will waile my wo, and lend me some reliefe.
You made the Reisons that doo make me loose,
your liking first, at lest in outward showe,
And you agayne, the Figges did make me choose,
and made me tast, to woorke my deadly wo:
And you alone haue Sinamon, to binde
your friendly liking, to my louing minde.
You haue in deede the Priumes of pitie sweete,
to coole the heate, of my so hot desire:
[Page] My quaking hart, falles quiuering at your feete,
to craue the comfort, of your fansies fire:
Your lowring lookes, doo make me sorrow so,
and your sweet loue, can onely end my wo.
Then wey my case, and when you thinke vppon
the sorrowes small, that some men seeke to shewe:
And see agayne, how I am woo begon,
and that the cause of all my griefe, you know:
Uouchsafe deare dame, some sweete reliefe to giue,
yet ere I dye, for long I cannot liue.
And thus adue, God long prolong thy dayes,
and plant some pity in thy princely mind:
To lend him helpe, who liues a thousand wayes,
perplext with payne, and can no comfort find:
But by thy meanes, and therefore thus I end,
Lady farewell, God make thee once my friend.
Finis.

¶My Muse hauing heard this, told me that patience was the best Medicine for such a sickenesse. And thereuppon wild me wryte vppon Patience, as followeth.

NO sickenesse such, as is the griefe of minde,
no cunning more, then for to cure the same:
Rare is the helpe, yet this I plainly find,
for euery sore, some salue dooth Phisicke frame:
And so I thinke in deepest of distresse,
some meane there is, to lend the mind redresse.
But what that is, no writer shewes the name,
experience makes ech man himselfe to know:
But for my part, sure patience is the same,
in greatest griefe, whereby my ease doth growe:
[Page 9] And so I iudge, in greatest griefe of minde,
that other men the like reliefe doe finde.
For proofe whereof, the passing panges of loue
who dare denie, the greatest griefe that is,
Which from the minde, no meane can wel remoue,
but many wayes, torments it sore I wis.
In this I saye so greate a mallady,
patience perforce is only remedy.
Where Patience comes, despaire with foule anoie
is driune awaye, and hope supplies the place:
Hope comforte bringes, and comforte causeth ioie,
and one Ioie bringes an other Ioye apace.
Oh sweete reliefe, chiefe comforte of the minde:
God graunte me thee, in all my griefes to finde.
Finis.

¶My Muse likte so well of this Pamphlette, that shee willed me to write agayne vpon it, at whose commaunde I wrote as folowes.

IN greatest care, what is the comforte chief?
the thing obteinde, that moste the minde desires▪
But wanting that, what moste will lende relief?
the remedy, that reason chief requires,
Is patience, to please the mourning minde,
whereby the harte some ease (thoughe small) dothe finde.
Who stands contente, with suche happe as dothe fall,
with hope of better, cheeres his heuy harte:
Who discontente with anger frets his gall,
is like to liue, in panges of greater smarte.
[Page] Then as I sayde, so now I saye agayne,
patience dothe ease the minde of mickle paine.
Patience procures the comforte of the harte,
driues out despaire, and setteth hope in place,
Easeth the minde, oppreste with grieuous smarte
asswageth muche greate paines in litle space
What more? the best and only meane I finde,
in greatest griefe, for to relieue the minde.
Oh precious pearle, and very rare, God wote
and harde, to harde, in time of griefe to finde.
Wretched the wighte, (alas) that finds thee not,
but happy hee that keepes thee in his minde.
Blessed the God, that firste did thee ordaine
to ease the harte, opprest with greatest paine.
Finis.

¶By that tyme that I had finished this Pamphlet vpon pa­tience, wyth hanginge downe my hedde ouer my paper, mine eyes grue redde, and ranne on water, wherevpon my muse tooke occasion, to thinke, vpon the hurte of the eye sighte, and presentely willed me to write vpon the same, as foloweth.

THree thinges there are, that greately hurte the sight,
which by the eye, doe breede the harts disease,
And being seene, as well by daye as nighte,
vnto the minde doe breede but litle ease.
Of which three, one, dothe partely breede delighte:
the other two, breede nothinge but despighte.
The furste, and wurste, is this (alas) to see
a foe fare well, and deerest friende decay [...].
[Page 10] The seconde sighte, then which, what worse maye be?
is sorrowes smoke, that riseth nighte and daye
From fancies fier, which from the harte to hedde,
dothe so ascende, as makes the eyes looke redde.
Now to the third, what more can hurt the sight?
then to behold a fayre and gallant dame:
Then fall in loue, and labour day and night,
to gayne her loue, yet not obteyne the same:
Then thus I end, what more can hurt the sight,
then these three things which here I doo recite?
Finis.

¶Now my Muse gan sodaynely enter into the cogitation of the state of man, and thereupon wilde me to write these few verses following.

OH wretched state of miserable man,
who, let him haue what so he can desire▪
Yea let him craue, what so deuise he can,
and eke obteyne the thing he dooth require:
Yet such (we see) is our ambitious minde,
as yet in deede, dooth neuer quiet find.
For to beginne with this perplexitie,
the Captiue, he that lies in prison pent:
Oh, what a heaune, sayes he, is liberty,
let him get out, and all his riches spent,
Oh then, sayes hee, coyne makes the merry man,
let him haue wealth, and then, what lackes hee than?
If hee be rich, perhappes he hath the gout,
what followes then? what heaune is health sayth hee [...]
Let him haue health, then honor out of doubt,
he seeketh next: and let him noble be,
[Page] What seekes he then? to stand in Princes grace:
which had, what then? himselfe the regall, mace.
If he be Prince, what then? a quiet seate:
which if he get, what then? his subiects loue:
That once obtaind, what then? some glory great?
and glory got, what then? by armes to prooue
Tenlarge his Realme: which got, what then but this?
to wish the rule of al the world were his?
Which sure I think, that if some man myght haue,
yet would his mind not sit at quiet rest:
But he would wish and somewhat seeke to craue,
which might (perhaps) in deede auaile him least:
Therefore say I [...]oh wretched state of man,
whom God can scarce content with what he can.
But for my selfe, God graunt me grace to craue,
that he may thinke most meete for me to haue:
God saue our Queene, and God her Realme defend,
confounmd her foes, and thus I make an end:
When that this vile and wretched world is past,
God send vs all the ioyes of heauen at last. Amen.
Finis.

¶These verses being read, my Muse be thought her selfe of a proper Gentlemā, who hauing been sometime a braue fel­low, and liued gallātly in Courte by Fortunes frownes, fro­ward dealing of friendes, and flattery of friendly foes, so­daynly sonke, and was forced for want of that he wished, for to leaue the court, and end his lyfe among the coun­trey: Crue, where dolefully he dyed: at whose departure from Court, and passage to the Countrey, I gaue hym in Verse too reade in ydle tyme thys dolefull Adio, which heere I recite. The man is dead, his name not expressed. Wherefore I hope no man will finde faulte with the recitall: if any doe, the matter is not great, and therefore at all aduentures thus it was.

SInce secret spighte hath sworne my woe,
and I am driune by desteny
Agaynst my will, (God knowes) to goe
from place of gallante company:
And in the steede of sweete delighte,
to reape the fruites of foule despighte:
As it hath been a custome longe,
to bidde farewell when men departe,
So will I singe this solempne songe,
farewell, to some, with all my harte:
But those my friendes: but to my foes,
I wishe a Nettle in their nose.
I wishe my friendes, their harts contente,
my foes agayne, the contrary:
I wishe my selfe, the tyme were spente,
that I muste spende in misery.
I wishe my deadly foe, no wurse,
then wante of friendes, and empty purse.
But now my wishes thus are donne,
I muste beginne to bidde farewell:
With friendes, and foes, I haue begonne,
and therefore, now I can not tell
What firste to chuse, or ere I parte,
to write a farewell from my harte.
Firste, place of worldely paradyse,
thou gallante courte, to thee farewell:
[Page] For frowarde fortune me denyes,
now longer neere to thee to dwell,
I muste goe lyue I wot not where,
nor how to lyue when I come there.
And nexte, adue you gallante Dames,
the chiefe of noble youthes delighte,
Untowarde fortune now so frames,
that I am banishte from your sighte:
And in your steede, agaynste my wil,
I muste goe liue with cuntry gill.
Now nexte, my gallante youthes farewell,
my lads that ofte haue cheerde my harte:
My grief of minde no to [...]ng can tell,
to thinke that I muste from you parte.
I now muste leaue you all (alas)
And liue with some, odde lobcocke Asse.
And now farewel, thou gallante Luite,
with instruments of Musickes sounds,
Recorder, Citren, Harpe and Fluyte,
and heaunely deskants on sweete grounds:
I now muste leaue you al in deede,
and make some Musicke on a reede.
And now you stately stamping steedes
and gallante geldings faire adue:
My heauy harte for sorrow bleedes,
to thinke, that I muste parte with you:
And on a strawne paniel sitte,
and ride some country carting tit [...]e.
And now farewel bothe speare and shielde,
Caliuer, Pistoll, Ha [...]gubus
[Page 12] See, see, what sighes my harte dothe yeelde,
to thinke that I muste leaue you thus,
And laie aside my Rapier blade,
and take in hande a ditching spade.
And now farewell all gallant games
Primero and Imperial,
Wherewith I vsde with courtely Dames
to passe awaye the time with all:
I now muste learne some country playes
for ale and cakes on holy dayes.
And now farewell eche deinty dishe,
with sundry sorts of sugred wine,
Farewell I saie fine flesh and fishe,
to please this deinty mouth of mine:
I now (alas) muste leaue all theese,
and make good cheere with bread and cheese.
And now all orders due farewell,
my table laide when it was noone:
My heauy harte, it irkes to tel,
my deinty dinners all are doone:
With leekes and onions, whigge and whaye,
I muste contente me as I maie.
And farewell all gaie garments now,
with Iewels riche of rare deuise:
Like Robin hood, I wot not how,
I must goe raunge in woodmens wyse,
Cladde in a Cote of greene or gray,
and gladde to get it if I maye.
What shall I saie? but bidde adne
to euery dramine of sweete delighte,
[Page] In place where pleasure neuer grew,
in dungeon deepe, of foule despight:
I must (ay me) wretch, as I may,
goe sing the song of well away.
Finis.

¶My Muse somewhat melancholy with the reading of this pitifull parting of this poore Gentleman, standing a while in a great dumpe, suddaynly can call to mynde a dolefull discourse of a very sorrowfull shroue Sondayes Supper, which a luckelesse louer not long agoe was at. Who fyt­ting at boord with his maliciyous Mistres, receyued of her such vndeserued frownes, and vncurteous speaches, as being returned home to his lodging after supper, sitting in his chamber all alone, and calling to minde the perylles he had past for her sake, and the coyne he had spent in her seruice, repenting him selfe, as well of his labour as cost, both lost, Wrote in rage a fewe Verses of his yll happe: which waylfull woordes my Muse gaue me thus to write.

OH wretched wight, what fates doe frowne on thee?
haue destenies decreed thee such distresse?
Shalt thou none end of this thy sorrowes see?
and caust thou tell no where to seeke redresse?
Then sit, and sigh, and sobbe, and though long furst,
at last, thy hart with bitter payne will burst.
Looke luckeles wretch, behold the pleasaunt sport,
the liuely lookes that twixt sweete louers passe:
In ioyfull wise how friendes to friendes resort,
to make good cheere, and thou poore wretch (alas)
Mayst sit alone, and find no mery mate,
to comfort thee, in this thy wretched state.
Where other feede on fine and deinty fare,
and fil their eares, with Musickes heauenly sounde,
And haue their harts, almoste deuoide of care,
and feele no woe, to worke their secret wounde:
I selly wretche, a thousande torments finde,
eche daye by daye, for to molest my minde.
And for my cheere, firste messe, is myserie,
[...]erude in the dishe of foule and deepe despighte:
Then, sorrowes Salliet, so vnsauorie:
as, (God he knowes) in taste yeelds small delighte:
Repentance roote, then haue I laste of all,
whose taste I finde, as bitter is as gall.
Then fruites of folly, serued in at laste,
and for sweete com [...]its, sondry kinds of care,
Which, God he knowes, doe yeelde suche bitter taste,
as wretched he, that feedeth on suche fare:
Yit, so feede I, which when that I haue eate,
comes churlishe lookes, for to disgest my meate.
My Musicke now, is beating on my breste,
and sobbing sighes, which yeelde a heauy sounde,
My harte with panges of paine is ouerpreste,
which daily grow, by woe his deadly wounde:
For company, in steede of louing freinde,
I finde a foe, a fury, and a fiende.
And for delights, in dumpes I passe my dayes,
I weepe for woe, when other sing for Ioie,
I stand perplexte, a thousande sundry wayes,
and know no meane, to ridde me of anoye,
But muste (aye me) perforce stil stande contente,
to dwell in dole, vntill my dayes be spente.
Finis.

¶This donne, my Muse began to thinke vpon the estate of louers, and tolde me that he was muche to blame, to rage in suche sorte for a frowne or a foule worde, he muste a­bide twenty worse Banquets (excepte fortune be his greate friende) ere he atteine to his desire. For quoth shee: Dulcu [...] non n [...]uit, qui non gustauit amarum. and therewithall, vpon the same wordes wilde me write as foloweth.

BU [...] by the sweete, how shoulde wee know the sowre,
but by a blacke, how shoulde wee know a white:
How shoulde a man enioye one ioyfull houre,
that hath not knowne some sorow by despite?
What shall I saie? what pleasure can he know,
that hath not passe some pang of deadly woe?
The hungry fedde, know beste what is good cheere,
and poore once riche, who better knoweth welthe?
Who knowes good cheape, but he that hathe bought deere?
and sick [...] once hole, can Iudge how good is helthe.
Beleeue me now, none better knowes contente,
then he, that hathe some tyme in trouble spente.
But what of him that neuer knew contente?
that tastes no sweete, but bitter, sharpe, and sowre:
And all his dayes hathe still in trouble spente,
and can not hope, to finde one happy houre?
Whom none aliue, (but one) that comforte can,
God make that one, to helpe him wretched man.
Finis.

¶This donne, my Muse studiynge of the straunge estate of luckeles louers. bethoughte her selfe of a disdainfull dame, whom God had blest with better beauty then by her be­hauiour many wayes shee seemed worthy of, and chiefely, for her discourteous dealinge with a gentleman her faith­full louer, who euery way had deserued her fauoure, and was by equality worthy of her in euery respecte: who seing her vntowarde dealing, wrote vpon the same in his study alone certeine verses, which as they were giuen me by my Muse to write, were these folowing.

VVHat gyfte so good? but folly may abuse.
what state so highe? but fortune sets ful low:
What gemme so rare? but fansy maie refuse,
what Ioie so great? but Frenzie turnes to woe,
What faith so firme? but Fury doth mistruste.
what wighte so stronge? but Loue layes in the duste.
What force so stronge? but wo may make ful weake,
what fury great? but wit may moderate:
What Frenzy such? but werines may breake,
what fansy firme? but welthe wil alienate:
What fortunes power? but wisedome maye with stande:
what folly that? but will doth take in hande.
What wretched wo? but tyme turnes to delighte,
what wit so fine? but treason may entrappe:
What wery limme? but treasure maketh lighte,
what welthe so great? but wastes by euil happe:
What man so wise? but fancy sets to schoole,
by lawes of loue to learne to play the foole.
What gyfte so good? as beauty in a mayde,
what more abuse? then proudely vse the same:
What Ge [...]me to loue? which proudely is denaide,
what madnes more? then is in suche a Dame:
My faith so firme, what fury dothe mistruste,
with foule disdaime, to sting me in the duste?
But oh that God shoulde so his gifts bestow,
where wit doth wante, to gouerne them arighte:
And (aie me wretche) that euer I shoulde know,
their suche abuse, to worke my harts despighte▪
And wo to them, that so good gifts abuse,
that pride shoulde cause good profers to refuse.
Finis.

¶This donne my Muse gan cal to minde a prety shorte so­lemne fansy, that the same man wrote in the tyme of his loue, touchinge his il hap, which presentely she willed me to pen, in this maner.

FLy fansy fonde, and trouble me no more,
for where thou likst, thou findst vnlucky lot:
Die deepe desire, and vexe me not so sore,
for doe thy beste, and it auaileth not,
Leaue lowring loue, to breede me still suche grief,
as by no meanes, can euer finde relief.
Fie fansy fie, why didste thou fixe mine eye,
on suche a starre as so hathe dimde my sighte:
Agayne, desire why didste thou clime so hye?
where thou canste neuer reache vnto the heighte.
And cruell loue, why didste thou yeelde me so,
a slaue to her, that daily workes my woe?
But all in vaine I crye, my fansy still
doth like her beste, who wurste doth like of me,
And my desire doth thinke, perforce he will
assaulte the forte, that scaled can not be:
And loue doth force me honour her in hart,
who laughes at mee, to see me liue in smarte.
Finis.

¶Now gan my Muse sodeinly to leaue me, and I somwhat we­ry with writing, walked abroad, to take the aire: but being not gon far from my lodging, I mette with a noble man, my right good Lord, who would (no nay) haue me with him to his lodging, where I had not been long, but he commaun­ded me to wryte him some Verses. I craued of his Lordship a Theame to wryte vppon▪ none would he graunt, but wild me to write what I would. I not knowing what of a sodayne myght best fit his fansy, and yet desyrous to pen that myght like his Lordshyppe, standyng a while in a stu­dye, at last at all aduentures I wrote that which I dyd as­sure my selfe myght no way much mislyke hym, which with the helpe of my Muse who mette me there of a so­dayne, and vnseene or heard, would whisper me in the eare with what inuention shee thought best: such as by good happe my Lord liked better of, then it was worthy, which was as followeth.

MY Lord commaundes, that I in hast doo write,
somewhat in Uerse, a charge too great for me,
Whose barreine brayne can no such Uerse endite,
as worthy were my louely Lord should see:
And therefore thus, in halfe despayre I stand,
to write or no, or what to take in hand.
Yet write I must, I see no remedy,
My Lord Commaundes, and I must needes obey:
And therefore though I shame my selfe thereby,
Yet write I must, I see there is no nay:
And therefore thus, not knowing what to write,
this ragged rime, at randon I endite.
In hope my Lord will well except my will
at his commaunde, that seekes to doo my best:
And not regard my too too simple skill,
and were it not, on this my hope did rest:
[Page] I should be so discomforted to write,
that I should sure no Uerse at all endite.
Therefore my Lord, I first must pardon craue,
for rudenes such as in my rime you find:
I know my Lord, your Lordshippe cannot haue
a Uerse of me, that may content your minde:
My yeares are young, experience but small,
my learning lesse, and wisedome least of all.
And therefore thus I shrinke, and shame to wryte,
but yet, in hope your Lordshippes noble minde
Will pardon that which fondly I endite,
and well accept such Uerses as you find,
I thus haue wrote, (God wot) with little skill,
at your commaund, this Aliquid Nihil.
Finis.

¶This toye (though little woorth) yet likte my Lord so wel, as presentely he wild me to discourse vppon Aliquid, and let [...] Nihil alone, at whose commaund, with the helpe of my Muse, I wrote in this wise.

SOmewhat doth beare some sauour, some men say,
and where nought is, the King dooth loose his right:
The poore that begges from doore to doore, al day,
is safe, if he a penny get by night:
The little child that learnes the Christes crosse row,
is better learnde, then he that nought dooth knowe.
A cruste is better then no bredde at all,
and water serues where is ther drinke:
Some wit doth well, though wisedome be but small,
tis better swim a stroke or two, then sinke:
Better one eye, one legge, and but one hand,
then be starke blinde, and cannot sturre, nor stand.
Yet, to a Prince, a pound of pennies seemes
a thing of nought, no summe almost at all:
Agayne, in schooles, the learned Doctor deemes
a good gramarian, but a scoller small:
Yet doo the poore a penny somewhat finde,
and ABC. doooth trouble a childes mynde.
And though the Baker count a Lofe no bredde,
and Uintner count good Beere, no drinke at all:
And in comparison of a deepe hedde,
a right good wit haue vnderstanding small,
Yet poore chawe crusts, and sup worse Broth then Beere,
and wit must serue, where wisedome is not neere.
And though the man that sees with both his eyes,
dooth thinke a man with one eye sees but ill:
And he that hath his limmes all sound likewise,
may thinke the lame on ground must needes ly still,
Yet one eye sees, one legge may helpe to stand,
and he may sturre, that hath but o [...]e good hand.
But this I graunt, a penny (sure) to be
but little coyne, to make a mery hart:
And so I thinke the childrens. ABC.
but little knowledge, to a learned arte:
And small in deede, the sauour is I know,
that by these two, is likely for to grow.
And crustes (I thinke) doo lend reliefe but hard,
and cold the comfort that dooth water yeeld:
And wisdome too, from wit may not be spard,
two strokes in swimming, saues a man but seelde:
One eie sees ill, one legge but lamely standes,
he numly sturres, that lackes one of his handes.
And thus I graunt, and therefore now agayne,
I thinke these summes, as good as nought at all:
[Page] I craue and haue my penny for my payne,
and yet (God wot) it lendes me comfort small:
I can ech letter in my Christes crosse rowe,
and yet in deede, me thinkes I nothing knowe.
I chaw on crust, yet ready am to starue,
I water drinke, which makes me cold at hart:
My wit I see, from wisedome quite dooth swarue,
I striue to swim, but cannot learne that art:
Dimme is my sight, I stifely sturre my handes,
and on my limmes, my body numly standes.
But as I first begun, I end agayne,
somewhat doth well, although the summe be small:
A little plaster, doth aswage much payne,
hee onely blest, that needeth nought at all:
Who countes al summes on earth, a summe but small
to heauenly ioyes, which summe God send vs all.
Finis.

¶This discourse ended, and perused, my Lord was somwhat earnest with me, ere I should depart from him, to write in lyke manner some discourse vppon Nihil, and let Aliquid a­lone: which though it seemed vnto me heard (at the first) yer minding to do my Lord any seruice I could, I tooke in hand, with the helpe of my Muse, to write these verses following.

VVHat must I doo? write nothing? no, not so,
of nothing, I must somewhat seeke to wryte
Of nothing? Why? What can I write, I trowe
nothing yeeldes nothing, whereon to endite:
But there are choise of nothings now I see,
of which I knowe not, which is giuen to me.
But let me see, what these new nothings be,
what matter too, they giue to write vppon:
[Page 17] One nothing is, as I remember me,
a new nothing, which many a day agen,
Children were woont to hang vpon their sleeues:
now let me see what this new nothing giues.
Ah, now I find it showes a prety iest,
when children cry, be it or Gyrle or boy:
To still them strayght, and make them be at rest,
new nothing is a pleasant prety toy:
So, new nothing I see, when children cry,
is a fit member in the nursery.
No more of new nothings, but now againe,
an old nothing there is, and what is that?
That men doo vse, and some vnto their payne,
doo learne to know the meaning of that what:
Twixt creditours it is as some men say,
a few fayre woordes, where is no coyne to pay.
Besydes these nothings now, a thyrd there is,
which some doo nothing to the purpose call,
That nothing to the purpose now is this,
when wisemen fall in talke, among them all
If some odde foole doo seeme to prate and clatter,
and all his talke tend nothing to the matter.
Now a fourth nothing I doo call to mynd,
and that is, nothing in comparison:
The meaning of which nothing, this I find,
an entrance, nothing to that which is done:
A penny to a pound, will seeme so smal,
as in manner seemeth naught at all.
Another nothing now, is nothing thought,
as when a man that hath a thing to doo,
[Page] Dooth thinke it easie, as a thing of nought,
and yet, when that he sets himselfe thereto,
He findes his nothing such a some, in deede,
as more then he can well dispatch with speede.
One nothing more, that nothing is in deede,
where credit, coyne, nor wit, nor wisedome is:
New nothing, old nothing, nothing to stand in steede,
nor nothing in comparisson, I wis.
These nothings now, my selfe, I thinke possesse,
and I beleeue, fewe men that can haue lesse.
Now nothing thought, is this my fond discourse,
of all these nothings clapt together so:
Then which I thinke, there can be nothing worse,
and may therefore for nothing iustly goe.
Yet who the like dooth set himselfe vnto,
shall finde a foolishe peece of woorke to doe.
And thus my Lorde, I must confesse in deede,
I showe my nought or no capacitie:
To giue your Lordship such a toye to reede,
as dooth coutanei nothing but vanitie.
Yet since to write of nothing I was wild,
your Lordshippes hest (I hope) I haue fulfild.
If not so well, as dooth in deede content,
I pardon craue, my will did wishe the best:
If I had knowne, what had your lordship ment
To haue had done, I should haue soone been prest
To beate my braines, according to my skill,
for to haue writ, according to your will.
But since my theame, was nothing els but this,
a ba [...]e nothing for to endite vpon:
If I by chaunce haue wrote somewhat amisse,
[Page 18] And haue besides the rules of reason gon,
I stande in hope, your Lordshippes noble minde,
will pardon all, which nothing worth you finde.
Finis.

¶This discourse finished, and deliuered vnto my Lorde, after some talke had with his Lordship, I tooke my leaue of him, and returnde home to my lodging, but by the way, I chaun­ced to passe by three or foure gardens: & loking ouer a Pale into one of the sayd gardens, to take the sweete ayre of di­uers floures and herbes that grue neere vnto the pale, Ie­spyed sitting on a Cammamell bancke vnder two or three trees, to shade them from the parching heate of the sunne, three gallant ladyes: of which one so farre in beautie ex­celled the rest, as my thought I could not content my selfe enough with the singular comforte of her sweete counte­naunce, but let this suffice, that I stoode there gazing, til the sweete soule, to my extreme sorrow, and hartes griefe, de­parted the place, and then wyth a heauie hart as I coulde I returnde to my lodging, where long I had not been, but my Muse came to me, and seeing me sit in that solempne sort, wyld mee write somewhat of the cause of my dumpes. I not knowing what to write in that perplexitie of mynde, wrote as my Muse bad me, in praise of the garden for the Ladyes sake whom I had seene there, and yet for letting her goe so soone, fell out a little with it, in verse, as followeth.

IF one may praise a place for harbouring a guest,
in whom the stay of his delight, and chiefest ioye dooth rest:
And eke may curse the place that harbouring her so,
vnto his dolour deepe, againe to soone did lether goe:
Then let me praise the place where lodged my delight,
And curse it to, that let her goe, so soone out of my sight:
[Page] Short was the tyme (God wote) I did her sight enioy:
by want of which, I feare long tyme to liue in great anoye.
Foure or fiue houres were all that I, and that but feeld,
this gallant Lady now and than by fits sometyme beheeld,
But from the [...] first that I beheld her face,
God knowes within my wretched hart, how beautie hers tooke place:
Mine eye grue bladshed strayght, for Cupid hit the vaine,
that goes downe strayght vnto my hart, and there begunne my paine:
Then gan my stomacke worke, my braine distempred to,
thus greeued in eye, head, and hart, I knew not what to doo.
But to content my selfe, with comfort now and than,
of her sweet lookes, aright reliefe for such a wofull man:
Which came alas but seeld, yet euer when they came,
God knowes, I cannot shewe the ioyes I reaped by the same.
But what: I goe too farre, I ment to prayse a place,
for harbouring a heauenly dame for beautie and good grace:
And I am telling of the fran [...]icke fittes of loue,
and of the hurt I caught thereby, and pangs that I doo proue:
But I will leaue it now, and speake somewhat in prayse,
of such a place, as dooth deserue due prayse a thousand waies.
What place is chose as chiefe to breede the minds delyght,
that was the place wherin I first did gayne this Ladies sight:
Some thinke for gallant show the Court can haue no peere:
but I more gallant count the place, where first I saw my deere.
For gold and Iewels rich, some speake much of Cheapside,
but there a Iewel, that may make them all their Iewels hide:
Some loue in Paules Churchyarde, to spend ech day by day,
to see of learned vertues lawes, what auncient writers say:
The vertues of my booke I cannot well declare,
but I beleeue what so they be, it showes them all that are:
It prudence playne descries, it loues no wrong at all,
it Fortitude dooth much commend, but temperate withall:
I tell you of a booke, but trust me tis a dame,
who what I say, in ech respect dooth well approue the same,
By vertuous noble mynd, by comely courtly grace:
blest be the booke, woorthy the wight, and happy be the place.
[Page 19] Some counts the Painters shop, for pictures fayre and bright,
and fine proportions, a place the minde for to delight.
Then come, and heere behold no foolish painted peece,
but liuely dame, that soone may staine Appelles work in Greece.
Some thinke where Musicke is, that place for to be best,
the doleful minde for to delight, and set the hart at rest:
For musicke sweete (alas) no melodie I deeme
so sweet, as my sweet mistresse voyce, that musicke I esteeme.
Some thinke that Gardens sweet, with flowres, hearbes, & trees,
with knots and borders, sets & slips, & such like toyes as these,
To be the chiefest place, for to delight the minde,
and there doo seeke in saddest moods, some solace for to finde.
Their Iudgements like I wel, for trust me, I thinke so,
that such a place wyl soonest rid the mournyng minde of wo.
And in such place, I meane, in Garden sweete I founde
by sight, the chiefe of my delight, yet causer of my wounde,
My mistresse deere, I meane the comfort of my hart:
and yet againe, by absence now, the causer of my smart.
By her againe, I sawe in Garden where shee sat,
fayre flowres, sweet hearbes, braue trees, fine knots, & borders too, but what,
Upon my mistresse stil, was fixd my stedfast eye,
no flowre nor hearbe, knot, border, tree, coulde make me looke a­wry:
Untyl at last, too soone (alas) shee went away,
and then for sorow howe I sighd, for shame I may not say.
But should I shame my selfe? thus much I would protest,
her then departure from my sight, yet breedes my harts vnrest.
Ha gallant Garden, yet which once with sweets didst hold
so braue a dame, whose worthy prayse can neuer wel be told:
It [...] gramercy yeeld, that with the pleasaunt smel
of thy sweete flowres couldst finde the meane, to keepe her there so wel.
But hadst thou kept her stil, where now I geue thee praise,
I would in hart haue honord thee, til death should end my daies.
What, could no gallant ant tree, nor yet the pleasaunt ayre
of s [...]me sweete flowre, make her desire againe to thee repayre?
Surely some stinking weede among thy hearbes doth grow,
that giues y [...] sent, that caused her for to mistike thee so.
[Page] Or from some fruitlesse tree some Catterpiller fell,
vpon her lap to her mislike, somewhat she likd not wel.
I knowe not what it was, but many things I doubt,
but what it was, what so it was I would it had been out.
If that it were a weede, God soone destroy the roote,
if noysome sight of fruitlesse tree, God lay it vnder foote.
If Catterpiller fel, to woorke her harts annoy,
I craue of God, through all the world such vile wormes to de­stroy:
And chiefely in that place, that none may there remayne,
if euer she to my delyght doo chaunce to come agayue:
If neyther these was cause, I know not what to say,
but curse thee in my hart, for that thou letst her go away.
But since that shee is gon, to thee a flat farewell,
and I my selfe from pleasant sweetes in dolefull de [...] will dwel:
And thus till she returne, quight voyde of all delight,
adue to thee, farewell to her, and foule fall fortunes spight.
Finis.

¶Now by that tyme this discourse was full finished, it grue somewhat late in the nyght: wherevppon I growing some­what drousy, had rather desire to rest then write any more: wherupon my Muse left me, and I layd me down to sleep, and being a sleepe, I sodaynly fell into a most straunge dreame, which in the morning, awake, I cald to mynde, and as I could, I put it into verse, in order as followeth.

A peece of a Preface before the dreame.

Straunge are the sights that some in sleepe shall see,
and straunger much, then, haue been seene by day.
For proofe whereof you heere shall heare of me:
as I of late halfe in a slumber lay,
A most strange dreame I sodaynly fell in:
which dolefull dreame, (marke well) did thus begin.

The dreame followes.

IN lucklesse land (a wofull tale to tell)
where neuer griefe of any pleasure grue,
The luk­les [...]e land.
Where dire disdayne and foule despight doo dwell:
and of such churles a currish kinde of crue,
It was my hap (me thought) not long agoe,
The wildernes of wo.
to trauayle through the wildernes of woe.
And walking long about this wildernes,
at last vnto a huge great Heth I came,
In the wil­dernes of woe the Heth of h [...] uines.
Which Heth was cald the Heth of heauines,
and sure me thought might right wel beare that name:
For on the same I could see no such thing,
as any way, myght any comfort bring.
The ground al bare, without or hedge or tree,
saue here and there a Breere or Nettle bush:
No fruite nor floure, nor hearbe that I could see,
The de­scription of the He [...]
nor Grasse almost, but here and there a rush:
And Mosse, and Bents, and full of ragged stone,
and dwelling houses neare it nere a one.
Well,
The first vi­sion.
walking long vpon this Heth alone,
at last I stayd, whereas I heard me thought,
The voyce of one that made a piteous mone,
and this he sayd, too long I wretch haue sought
For some relief, but now too late I see,
there is no hope of comfort left for me.
And therefore home I backwardes will returne,
and draw my dayes in dole out as I can:
And stand content perforce to wayle and mourne,
in endlesse griefe (aye me) poore wretched man,
And with that woord, he fetcht a sigh so deepe,
as would haue made the hardest hart to weepe.
Now hearing thus this waylfull [...]oyce, at last
I cast about his person to espie,
[Page] And by and by, with looke more halfe agast,
al skinne and bones, as one at poynt to die,
This woful wight (me thought) in pitious plight,
plodding alone, appeared to my sight.
And towardes me (me thought) he drewe so neere,
as I mought plaine ech part of him descrye:
And viewing wel his sad and mournfull cheere,
with heauie looke, leane face, and hollowe eye:
With Lathlike legges, and carkas worne to bones,
I heard hym fetch ful many greeuous grones.
And downe he sate vpon a ragged stone,
and sighd, and sobd, in such a piteous sort:
As (credit me) of but halfe his mone,
it were a world, in kinde to make report.
But to be short, his bitter teares did showe,
his heauy hart abode a world of woe.
Well, with this sight in mynde I heauy greue,
yet heauy so, I thought to go and see,
What he myght ayle, and yet to tell you true,
his onely syght had halfe appauled me:
Yet neerthelesse, with much adoo, at last
vnto the place whereas he sat, I past.
And comming to the place whereas he sat,
I spake to him, and tooke him by the hand:
My friende, quoth I, I pray thee tel me what
may cause thee thus in such sad plight to stande
Alas, quoth he againe, with heauy cheere,
what doo I ayle? foud wretch what doost thou heere
My seely selfe am driune by destinie,
in doleful dumpes to spend my weery dayes:
[Page 21] In places, voyde of pleasaunt company,
Opprest with griefe, a thousand sundry wayes:
But how camst thou vnto this luckelesse land,
And to this place where now I see thee stand.
I wayle thy case, but thou wilt wayle it more,
ere that thou doest get out hence againe:
Heere is no salue to heale the smallest fore,
nor any helpe to ease the lyghtest paine:
But whosoeuer heere doth catch a griefe,
let him be sure to die without reliefe.
Heere is no comfort for the heauy hart,
nor sparke of ioy, to cheere the mourning mynde:
Causes enow, to breede an endlesse smart.
but healing helpes, but fewe or none to finde.
Heere nothing is, but sorrow, care, and griefe,
and comfort none, nor hope to finde reliefe.
Aie me (thought I) what kynde of speeche is this,
how might I doe, to get me hence againe?
With that quod hee, come wretched wyght Iwis,
thou little know [...]e as yet (god wot) the paine
That thou art lyke, and that ere long to knowe,
For thou shalt come into a world of woe.
At which his woordes more halfe amazde in minde,
I drouping stood, as one at poynt to dye:
And therewith all (me thought) I gan to fynde,
more inward griefe, then now I can descrie.
In which sadde plight as I a whyle dyd stande,
he rose (me thought) and tooke me by the hande.
And ledde me on, along this peuishe plaine,
vntill at last we came vnto a hill.
[Page] And there forsoothe, me thoughte we stayde agayne,
wherewith quoth he,
The [...].
awhile now staye heere stil,
And view the heapes of harmes that day by daye
doe fall to men, to bringe them to decay.
And there (me thoughte) he shewde me firste a knight,
a gallant youthe, and sprong of noble race,
That went to warres,
[...]
and being foilde in fighte,
was captiue tane, vnto his great disgrace,
And being had, downe streight the hill was ledde,
bounde hande and foote, and hanginge downe his hedde.
Whyther hee wente, that shall you know anon,
For I in order meane eche thing to show,
And therfore well,
[...] seene [...]ere.
when this same knighte was gon,
there came a sight of rouers on a row,
Late ta [...]e at sea, and there no remedy,
were brought perforce vpon three trees to dy.
They once dispatcht,
The third.
I saw a battel foughte,
a town was sackte: and man and childe was slaine,
The weemen there the souldiours besought
to saue their childrens liues, but all in vaine:
They still were slaine, and they that fledde away,
ranne downe the hill (me thought) an other way.
Thus gazyng long, I caste mine eies about
vpon the hill, (me thought) an other way,
And there (me thought) I saw a lusty route
of gallante youthes, cladde all in riche araye,
And suddenly (me thought) a fray began,
and one againste an other fiercely ranne.
Anon (me thought) one had his eyes thruste out,
an other los [...]e a legge, and half a hande,
[Page 22] The thirde was shrowdely wounded rounde about,
The [...] fights of [...].
another loste both legges, and could not stand,
Some slayne outright, and they that could, away
ranne downe the hill, and so gan ende the fray.
These youthes thus gonne, (me thought) I saw hard by,
The first
a table stande, and thereon cardes, and dise:
To which (me thought) came gallants presently,
and drew their bagges, and to [...]t with a trise
Anon (me thought) some chafde lyke men half madde,
and lost almoste eche crosse of coine they had.
And they that thus had lost their coine at playe,
with heauy harte gan leaue the company,
And downe the hill, (me thought) they tooke their waye,
and looking after them, so by and by
He thought the rest were gon all euery one,
and Cardes, or Dise, or Tables, there was none.
These men thus gone (me thought) I saw alone,
a propre man of personage, but poore,
In beauy plight,
The [...] and last seen [...] [...]
goe making piteous mone,
halfe lyke a man that begde from doore to doore,
And yet a man might finde well by his face:
that he was (sure) sprong of no rascall race.
Hee lykewise tooke his waie downe streighte the hill,
ploddinge alone, God wo [...] in heauy plighte,
But let him goe, as I thus stayed stil,
me thought it grew somwhat darke towardes night.
And stayinge so, the wretche that stoode by me,
thus sayde to me: marke heere what thou dost see.
But there, I saw harde happes a thousand more,
then heere I can almost well call to minde,
[Page] But with those syghts in hart ag [...]ieue [...] sore:
and yet in [...] more such sad sights to finde,
Amazd I stood, as one more halfe agast,
to see the haps that on that hill had past.
And standing so, alas my friend, quoth I,
what doost thou call the name of this same hill?
Hill of hard hap they call it commonly,
where none doo come, but sore agaynst their will [...]
Thus is it cald, quoth he, but now (alas)
thy selfe art lyke along this Hyll to passe.
And to be short, along on still we went,
and to the hill we onwardes tooke our way:
And sure I know not what the matter ment,
but the foote path (me thought) I went in, lay
Directly so, as he that made such mone,
crossed the path before me all alone.
Well on we went vpon this haplesse hil,
[...] vale [...].
vntill at last we came vnto a vale,
Where I may say, I was agaynst my will:
for I will tell you the most dolefull tale,
Of that I saw, that euer any man,
doubtlesse did see, since first the world began.
First there I saw darke prisons built of stone,
he mise­ [...]s seene [...]re.
with yron barres, and boltes, and fetters cold:
And many a one that made a piteous mone:
that lay in them (agaynst their wils) in holde.
Among the rest (alas) a pite [...]s sight,
[...]
me thought I saw the gallant youthfull knigh [...],
That bound, was le [...] along the hill before,
in dungeon deepe close kept and settered fast:
[Page 23] Where all in vayne his hap lamenting sor [...],
in sobbing sighes his lothsome life he past:
A piteous sight, beleeue me, for to see,
so braue a youth in such a state as he.
In other prisons saw I many lye,
Second sight of mis [...]ry [...]
some men for debt, and some for robbery:
Some men sore sicke, almost at point to dye,
some begd in holes, in extreame misery:
And many moe in such a rufull sort,
as for my lyfe I cannot make reporte.
Now next me thought I saw lame Criples poore,
that limping went and begd for Christ his sake:
Third.
That had liud well, now begd from doore to doore:
and few or none, of them would pity take,
But still they went lamenting of their griefe
to many one, but could get no reliefe.
Among the rest, me thought I did espie
some of those youthes that fought vpon the hill,
[...]ourth.
With wodden legs, and some but with one eie,
go begging foode, their hungry guts to fill:
Lamenting there, but God wote all to late,
their froward hap, and their such wretched state.
But let them be, then saw I more (alas)
a piteous sight, beleeue me, for to see,
With bitter teares and cries poore women passe,
more halfe bestraught, along the vale by me:
And sure me thought the mone that they did make,
with very griefe did make my hart to ake.
Which viewing well, me thought I playne did see,
the women, that went running from the towne
[Page] That late was sackte, go to and fro by me,
with sighes and sobbes, and heddes all hanging downe,
[...]
Lamenting sore, but God wot all in vayne,
the losse of goods, and child, and husband slayne.
Then saw I more some men in wretched state,
quite mouilesse, and ill appareled:
That welthy were, and liude at ease of late,
[...]
now had no lodge wherein to hide their hed,
But ragde and torne, without or coyne or friend,
in beggers state, were like their liues to end.
Among the which, (me thought) I sawe at last,
the youthes that lost their coyne at dise of late,
Now growne so poore,
Eight.
as had no coyne to wast,
but begging went, in miserable state:
A grieuous sight to see such youthes as they,
so sodaynly, to fall to such decay.
But let them go, then further saw I next,
a dolefull sight, and that did grieue me sore:
Wherewith (me thought) I was so sore perplexte,
as nought I saw (me thought) did grieue me more:
[...].
Which sight was this, (me thought) I plaine did see,
a man alone, come plodding hard by me.
Which man me thought, seemde doubtles to be he,
that all alone, I saw go downe the hill:
Tenth. And last seene [...].
And this he sayd, ah wretched wretch, (aye me)
the heauy hart, what will no sorrowe kill,
But shall I thus still pine, in endles woe?
haue destenies decreed it shalbe so?
What didst thou meane to leaue thy natyue soyle,
thy landes, and goods, and parents, kith and kin?
[Page 24] And take in hand this tough and tedious [...],
and now abide the state that thou art in [...]
Hath little loue, fonde wretch subdude thee so?
to driue thee into such a world of w [...]e?
Yea, luckeles loue hath onely bred my hale,
the force of loue, perforce hath conquerd me:
And driune me now, into this dolefull dale,
where I can yet no kinde of comfort see:
But here am like, bereft of all delight,
to end my dayes, in dumpes of deepe despight.
I trauayle here to tire my reffles minde,
that being tirde perforce might fall to rest:
But here (alas) no place of rest I finde,
but still must walke, with endles woes opprest:
Wel may I sigh, and sobbe, and waile, and weepe,
but waking woes will neuer let me sleepe.
Yet rest I must, there is no remedy,
but where might I goe seeke a resting place?
Oh Lord that I could finde some lodging nye,
or cotage poore, yea were it nere so base:
But well I see, since none I here can haue,
I will goe see, if I can find a caue.
And therewithal, me thought, he went away,
towardes the foote of hard happes hill hard by,
Whereas a while (me thought) I saw him staye,
with sighing sobbes lamenting rufully:
But mourning so, I wo [...] not how anon,
I lookte aside, and he (me thought) was gon.
Which muzing at, of him that was with me,
me thought I askde whyther he might be gon.
To which he sayde, come on and thou shall see:
for I will bring thee to the place anon.
[Page] And by and by (ere I was w [...]re) me thought,
vnto the place hee me directly brought.
Where being come, me thought I gan espie,
a foule darke hole, full lothsome to beholde:
Yet nerethelesse we went in presently,
but being in, me thought it was so colde,
That all my lymmes, with colde dyd almost quake,
And euen my hart with very colde dyd ake.
The caue me thought was large, and somewhat rounde,
made in proportion much lyke a mans head:
Where walking long,
The ca [...]e of care. Vnder hard hap [...] b [...]ll.
anon me thought I founde,
sitting alone, a man almost halfe dead,
With wrinckled browes, and hollow watry eyes,
reading a booke in very dolefull wise.
And by and by, me thought, I plaine dyd see,
the man againe whose sight I late had lost:
With booke in hande, as heauy as mought be,
at study close, with carkas lyke a ghost,
Uttring these woordes, oh curteous care I craue,
now let me see what lesson I must haue.
Wherewith me thought the man with watry eyes,
and scouling browes that seemde so like a ghost,
[...]
Gan take a booke, and when in wailfull wyse,
a thousand leaues he to and fro had tost:
He aunswered this, no lesson heere I finde,
in this distresse, that may releeue thy minde.
With that me though the rose, and tooke his waye,
within the caue, but whyther, let that passe:
And of the rest that in the caue did staye,
let me say somewhat, of their state alas:
[Page 25] Some propre youthes, and some faire gallante Dames,
which well I knew, but now forget their names.
To these poore soules this man half like a ghost,
The book [...] of [...]
who as I learnde by name was called Care,
Gan lessons reede, of which I thinke the most
were, of the braine the vertues to declare:
Which whom they serude out of the caue they ran,
the rest gan follow all, the wo [...]ull man
That wente before along this wretched caue,
tormented sore in great and deepe distresse:
And soughte in vaine the thinge he could not haue
vnto his grief to finde some sweete redresse,
But where think you, they founde him at the laste?
where all good hope of comforte quite was paste.
Sittinge (alas) vpon a sory seate
by a poore soule close by a smoky fire
Seate of so­rowe in caue of care vnder ha [...]d haps [...].
And neyther crumme of eyther bread or meate
they had (alas) nor oughte they did desire:
But weepinge sat with sighes and sobbes soo deepe,
as woulde haue made a stony harte to weepe.
Upon which seate in letters faire to reede
was writen this in vale of miserye:
In caue of care, a dolefull denne in deede,
is so [...]rowes seate, and that vile wretche am I.
And that was he, righte ouer there whose hedde
did stand this solemne sentence, to be redde.
Well on this seate they sat all downe anon,
and I (me thoughte) sat downe among the rest.
[...]
But (credite me) desirous to be gon
I felte my harte with grief so sore opprest:
[Page] But credite me, desirous to be gon,
I felte my harte, with grief so sore oppreste.
But what of that? I coulde not as I woulde,
and therefore there muste byde still, as I coulde.
And sitting there, it were a worlde to tell,
the sundry sorts of sorrowes I did see:
Sundry sorrowes.
But credite me, if that there be a hell,
doubteles I thinke that it, if any be
Suche, and so many were the sorrowes there,
as sure the lyke are to be seene no where.
There saw I some, to teare their fleshe for grief,
some sygh, and sobbe, some beating of their breste,
Some crying out, for some sparke of relief,
some more half dead, and not one man at rest,
For dyuerse causes, some for losse of loue,
and they were wurste, that suche sore panges did proue.
Some did in vaine the losse of friendes lamente,
some losse of Lands, some husbande, and some wyfe,
Some of the welth that they in wast had spente,
and euery man quyte wery of his lyfe.
But those that wayld theyr losse of loue, alas,
of all the panges (me thought) yet they did passe.
For one of them that lost theyr ladies loue,
in Iewels ware theyr Mystris Counterfeate
The sight whereof suche sodeine grief did moue,
as though before, his grief was very great,
And suche in deede as did tormente him sore,
yet sight of that, did make it ten tymes more.
Some other thought vpon their luckeles loue,
and then with teares would sigh, in pyteous sorte,
[Page 26] And diuerse wayes such sodayne pa [...]ges did proue,
as for my life I cannot make reporte:
I want the skill to set out halfe in kinde,
the sundry sorrowes, that I there did finde.
But this I say, I thinke there is no paine,
no kind of griefe of body nor of minde,
The grea­test sorrow griefe of loue.
No secret pange, but there appeareth playne,
and euery man, that commeth there may finde:
And as I said, so now I say againe,
the panges of loue doo breede the greatest paine.
Well, sitting thus, aside I cast mine eye,
Dungeon of De­spai [...]e. Once in
and there me thought, I saw a dungeon deepe,
And on the wall, was written but hard by,
this is the dungeon, that despayre dooth keepe:
Who commeth heere, till death shall pine in paine,
and once come in, gettes neuer out agayne.
And therewithall, a doore was opened,
and one or two went in there presently,
But hauing scarcely well put in their hedde,
they wroung their handes, and made a p [...]eous crye,
And sodaynely, did such a shriking make,
as made me start, and therewithall awake.
And then awake I gan to call to minde,
this vision strange,
Sodayne waking.
that thus appearde to me:
Theffect of which, who so could iustly finde,
I doo not doubt some matter rare should see:
And thus I end, when worldly woes are past,
God send vs all the ioyes of heaune at last.
Finis.

¶This dolefull discourse, of this drowsye dreame beyng fynished, my Muse that left me ouer nyght, came to me agayne, and [...]ught to my mynde the deli­cate Lady whom I tooke view of in a Garden of which Garden (for her sake,) I wrote my mynde at my comming to my lodging, as before my dreame dooth here appeare▪ the remembrance of whose heauenly hiew, with perfect proportion of e [...]he parte from top to toe, with most [...]are inward vertues (greatly gessed and almost playnly perceiued by outward countenance) set me of the sodayne in such a pe [...]ple vitie, as more halfe in a maze my Muse wild me pre­sently to write thus madly of my passion as you see, which was as followeth.

VVHat hap so hard, as lucklesse lottes of loue?
what irkesome tyme, to louers dolefull dayes?
What griping griefes, to pangs that louers proue?
what trauayle tough, to louers weary wayes?
What dolefull doome, to louers froward fate?
what lothsome lyfe, to wretched louers state?
Lo, such a lyfe leade I, though gaynst my will,
I liue quoth I, no no, I dye, I dye:
I dye quoth I, no no, I liue still, still.
I dying liue, that wretched lyfe leade I,
I loth the dayes that thus in dole I spend:
and yet agayne not wish them at an end.
Yet [...]uld I wish my sorrow some redresse,
and would be glad that all my dole were donne:
But would not wish my lyfe one halfe houre lesse:
though all my griefes were yet anewe begonne.
For onely loue hath bred me this vnrest,
and I of force must yeeld vnto his hest.
My lyking first did breede my lucklesse loue,
and loue agayne hath bred my malady,
My maladie dooth breede the pangs I proue,
the pangs I proue doo finde no remedy.
[Page 27] Yet must I liue, and may not wish to dy,
to end my griefes, Oh what a lyfe leade I?
Finis.

¶A dialogue betweene a louer, an his beloued.

The louer to his Lady.
IF due desartes may reape desires,
good madam, graunt me my reward:
If reason yeeld, that right requires,
then let my suite at last be hard:
If neither these will serue, why than,
for pitties sake heare a poore man.
Her aunsweare.
Desartes (be sure) will reape desire,
if you of me deserue reward,
What reasonably you will require,
I am content, you shalbe hard:
And last of all, for pitties sake,
lets see, I pray, what mone you make.
The louer to his Lady.
The thing good Lady I desire,
is fauour yours, which I deserue,
The thing by reason I require,
is due reward to those that serue:
The thing for pitties sake I craue,
is comfort to my griefe to haue.
Her aunsweare.
My fauour that you so desire,
I cannot see how you deserue:
[Page] [...]e dooth my reason yet require,
that all should haue reward that serue:
Ne yet thy sickenesse such I see,
as should me moue to pity thee.
His reply.
Let pity then regard procure,
where is at al no due desart,
And lend some comfort, for to cure
the sicke, that pines in secret smart:
And then will reason iustly say,
that you are noble euery way.
Her aunsweare.
No sir, reason dooth giue, you say,
of right, reward to due desart,
Then if that you can showe some way,
for to deserue some ease of smart,
Doubt not, but pitie will procure
some kinde of salue, your sore to cure.
His reply.
I thinke good Lady I deserue,
in that in deede I doo desire:
And if the poore man that dooth serue,
by reason may reward require,
Then both by reason, and desart,
I may craue pitie for my part.
Her aunsweare.
In that you doo in deede desire,
your truth is for to be regarded:
[Page 28] And reason lykewise doth require,
that seruyce true, shoulde be rewarded,
And pitty sayth, the poorest man
must be relieued, now and than.
His reply.
In humble wise, then I desire,
regarde my truth, rewarde the same,
Let humble reason eke require
your fauour so deserude, faire Da [...]e,
And pity me poore man God wot,
that liues (alas) but ioieth not.
Her Aunswere, and so an ende.
Then thus I graunte thee thy desire,
my fauour friendely, what I may,
But if that further you require,
by reason I muste say you nay,
Til pity moue me to regarde,
to giue a poore man his rewarde.
Finis.

¶Now this Gentileman one day standing in a greate muze of his Mystris, and in a straunge perplexity for the loue of her, sodeinly starte oute of his study, and beyng alone in his Chamber, tooke Pen and Incke and Pa­per, and in halfe a madde moode, wrote vpon the state of louers: which I (hauing some acquaintaunce with hym) one daye comming in to his Chamber founde lynge in his window, which hauing read ouer, I bare in mynde as I coulde, yet hauyng almoste for­gotten it, my Muse brought it agayne to my remem­braunce, and made me wryte as foloweth: which though it were imperfect, and not full finished, yet for that it somwhat likde me, I haue heere placed it with other im­perfections.

OH bitter bale that wretched louers bide,
now well, now il, now vp, now downe agayne:
Now clime, now fall, now stand, now backewarde slide,
now ioye with hope, now faynt with feare againe:
Now simile, now sigh, now sing, now seeme to crye,
now well in health, now sicke, now liue, now dye.
And as their ioyes by diuers meanes arise,
euen so their griefes, of sundry causes growe:
Some ioye to gaze vpon their Ladies eies,
and thinke in deede, they make a heaunely showe,
Some more doo marke the feature of their face,
some most will view her comely gallant grace.
Some greatly note the colour of her heare,
some view her body, some her hart, some arme:
Some legge, some foote, and some looke euery where,
but how now? soft, why fayth I meane no harme:
I doo but speake of louers day delyght,
for in the darke, you know there is no syght.
Now as their ioyes, so see what sorowes spring,
euen of those things that wrought the hartes delight,
First from the eies, which as to some they bring
a heaunely ioye, so breede they others spight,
For all one face, can as wel laugh as lowre,
by which such lookes, it yeeldes both sweete and sowre.
For proofe (alas) my seely selfe I vowe,
a smiling looke dooth much my hart reuiue:
And let me see my Lady knit her brow,
that frowne my hart into despayre dooth driue.
[Page 29] Thus to be briefe, my mystris only eye,
may make the meane to make me liue or dye.
Finis.

¶Not long after he had written these verses, his Mystris vpon a coy conceit, began to frowne on him, and giue him very euill countenance, which he perceyuing, made ma­ny meanes to moue her to pity, but when nothing would serue his turne, he in great griefe one day sytting alone in his Chamber, wrote in lamenting verse these lines fol­lowing, which being my chance to read, my Muse brought me now in remembrance of, and wild me to write as folo­weth.

IF wailfull woordes myght any pity mooue,
or sighes, or sobbes, or dayly bitter teares:
Then myght my bale bewray to my beh [...]oue,
the wretched state, wherein my lyfe it weares:
But what will me preuayle to shewe my griefe?
when I am sure to dye without reliefe.
For peeuish pride possesseth pityes place,
and rigor rules where sweete remorse did raygne:
Disdayne is growne so great with beaulties grace,
that humble sute can now no fauour gayne:
A froward change (more pitie) God he knowes,
that gentle dames should growe such stately shrowes.
But since the worlde is growne to such a passe,
that courtesie is chaungd to crueltie,
And malice lurkes where open meekenes was,
[...]nd frownes doo stand for friendly amitie:
I must (aye me) perforce content remayne,
vntill the world doo change ane we agayne.
Or els, be sure to keepe my selfe aloofe,
where Bullet shot of big lookes flee I see:
[Page] Or armour make of patience of proofe,
to breake their force that may happe light on me
And when I see that all the shot are past,
then liue in hope, that shee will yeeld at last.
Finis.

¶Not many dayes after, this youth languishing dayly, for lacke of his Mistris loue, willing to let his Mistris vnder­stand of the woe he abode, and daylye lyude in for her sake: One daye in Verse he wrote his mynde vnto her, And founde meanes to delyuer it vnto her. Which how shee receiude or requited, I must not reueale, let it suffice that I onelye came by the Verses, and that fryendlye I lende them you to reade, which ar these that followe.

BEhold I craue oh noble dame no feigned painted tale,
but read in deede a true discourse of the most bitter bale,
That euer any man abode, since first the world began,
which wretched state, (alas) is [...]ine, and I that woful man.
I can not showe in kinde the summe of all my smart,
no pen can paint, nor tongue can tell the tormentes of my hart,
No hart almost can thinke, nor mynd conceaue but mine,
how there should growe such passing pangs as those wherein I pine,
But my poore hart doth feele, & minde conceaues to wel,
although my tongue doth want the skill in order how to tell,
Yet thus much I can saye, no bale but I abide,
no pleasure that in all the world, but is to me denide,
And if aboue all griefes, a secret griefe there be,
that restes in one odde man alone, that sure doth rest in me:
And for to showe good proofe that it must needes be so,
my wretched state may witnes well, in me a world of woe:
The [...]aies I passe in dumpes, in doleful dreames the nightes,
eche minute of an houre, in mone, quite voyde of al delightes,
My heauy hart is furst with sorrow so opprest,
as neuer restes, but beates, and throbbes within my woful brest.
[Page 30] And when in minde I tosse the tormentes of my harte,
I [...]gh, I sobbe, I waile, and weepe, and so augment my smart:
And mourning dayly thus, my brayne distempers so,
as makes me hang euen like a logge my hedde, wheras I goe.
Mine eyes with shedding teares growe hollowe in my hedde:
my flesh is falne, skin grown to bones, & like a man halfe dead,
I still consume with care, and thus quite worne with woe,
I linger furth a lothsome life, the Lord of heaune doth knowe▪
What shall I say? my hart is so opprest with griefe,
as all the pleasures in this world can lende me no reliefe,
Saue onely one (alas) which one, I feare will see,
me die for sorrow for her sake, ere shee wil pitie me:
Alas what haue I sayd, and is it then a shee?
yea sure it is, now iudge your selfe what shee this shee may be.
But what hard hart had shee that sawe my sorrow such,
and could relieue me in this case, & her good will would grutch?
Beleeue me now I vowe, thou art that onely shee,
who wrought my woe, and in my woe can onely comfort me:
Yea thou deere dame art she, for whom such thought I take,
and for the want of thy sweete loue it is such mone I make.
Be not then hard of hart, but some sweete comfort lend,
vnto this heauy hart of mine, whose life is neere at end:
That I may iustly say in hart yet before I die,
I found a friend of noble mind, in mine extremitie.
And if it be my happe to liue, oh noble dame,
thē I may say, thou saudste my life, for sure thou dost the same.
Consider of my case, and when you see me next,
some signe of comfort shew to him, that is thus sore perplext.
Untill which time deere dame, and till last gaspe of breath:
farewell frō him who lookes frō thee, for cause of life or death.
In hast God send good speed, from me thy seruaunt true,
receiue these lamentable lines, and so sweete soule adue.
By him who rests, at thy reliefe,
to liue in ioy, or pine in griefe.
Finis.

NOw I am sure you thinke the man was in a marueilous taking when he wrote, and doubtles so he was, and so let him be, til God send him better hap by desart to get fauor of his Mystris, or presente death, too ridde him out of his perplexities: for I am sure, that he woulde rather wishe for, then long to remaine in the wretched state that now he euery way stands in. But since my wishes can neyther doe him good, nor he him selfe can finde no meanes too get ease of griefe, I refer him to the helpe of God, who can helpe euery man that trusteth in him, and praieth for his helpe: and so, letting him reste in his per­plexity, till God only cende him deliueraunce, I leaue to write now any further of him or his passions.

Finis.

¶A prety tale with the Morall vpon the same.

A Praeface.

IN fayned tales a man somtyme may finde,
in secret sorte some prety matter mente:
Which meanings oft when they are founde in kinde,
they breede too some, yea many mynds contente,
For proofe whereof, my selfe a tale will tell,
I read of late, that likte me very well.

¶The Tale.

A Stoute strong Oke, grue by a riuer side:
by which harde by, there grue a weake small reede:
The stately Oke, full puffed vp which pride,
disdaind to stande so neere so weake a weede.
And in olde tyme, when trees, and stones coulde speake,
thus to the reede hee gan his stomacke breake.
Thou peeuish thing, and apishe wretch (quoth hee)
What doost thee heere? suche neighbours I disdaine,
Which too and froo, thus tossed still I see,
as euery waue woulde seeme too rende in twaine.
I see right well, thou arte to base of minde,
to stoupe so low, at euery puffe of winde.
The simple reede still wagging to and fro,
gan aunswere thus, ah gallant syr quoth hee:
None of vs bothe our endes (as yet) doe know,
you may in tyme, come lye along by me:
Contente your selfe, I pray you let me stande
with in your ditche, I trouble not your lande.
Contending thus, a sodeine tempest came,
and to be shorte, downe fell this lusty tree:
The litle reede beholding of the same,
alas Good syr: what doe you heere quoth hee?
Of all your strengthe, what may now becumme?
to which the Oke coulde aunswere nought, but numme.
His harte was burste, and there starke dead hee lay,
the reede he liude, and grue there gallant still,
The Oke so burst, the Landlorde bare away,
and then the reede had all the worlde at will,
Untill with age he grue so very dry,
that sappe did wante, a [...]d then he needs must dy.
And farewell he, and so the tale did ende,
which though in deede, a fayned toy it was,
Yet he that marks, whereto the same dothe tend,
may finde Iwis, that simple soules alas,
Doe hold vp hedde, when gallant syr doth fall,
and breaks perhaps, both hedde, and hart, and all.
Finis.

¶An other prety Tale of a Pygeon, and an Ante, with the Morall vpon the same.

A Doue sometyme did sit vpon a tree,
which grue, by chaunce, hard by a water spring,
Where prety foole, as Pygeons natures (be)
shee proyning sat, and pecking of her wing,
And beyng faire, when all her worke was donne,
shee cooing sat, with breste agaynst the sonne.
But ere shee slepte, about shee gan to pry,
for feare some foe woulde bidde her to a feast,
And prying so, downe righte shee cast her eye,
and there shee saw a prety litle beast,
By frowarde happe, but how I can not tell,
a litle Ante into the water fel:
And there was lyke in daunger deepe to drowne,
which when the doue, a litle while behelde,
A litle twigge, by chaume shee brake her downe,
to clyme the banke, some helpe therby to yeelde:
And by good happe, but with a litle payne,
it serude so well, as helpde her out agayne.
Then slepte the doue, the ante shee crepte about,
and dryde her selfe, agaynst the glosyng sonne,
But soddenly, see what a chaunce fell out,
a fouler lo, to set his nets begonne,
To catche the doue, that sat vpon the tree:
which when the Ante, the prety wretche did see,
Shee slily crepte into the Foulers shoe
and there, so harde shee bit him by the heele,
As hee in rage not knowing what too doe,
the smarte was such, that he therby did feele,
[Page 32] [...]s hee there with his engynes gan let fall,
and so both lost his laboure, cost, and all.
For with the noyse the pigeon gan awake,
and so awake, the fouler did descrye,
And so descride, her flighte away did take,
and so by happe, did saue her selfe thereby:
The Ante againe shee s [...]ly crepte away,
into the grasse, where hidde from hurte shee lay.
Finis.

The Morall.

NOw see, what matter this old toie conteines,
twixte beastes and birds, behold what thankfull minde,
And yet twixte men, vngratefull some remaines,
yea moste perhaps, where they moste good doe finde:
Which proues, (me thinkes) a pitty not the leaste,
to see a man wurse naturde then a beast.

¶An odde gretinge, and as madde a wooing betweene a clowne of the country, and his sweete harte. Whose names were Simon and Susan. Simon ouertaking his fore­said sweete Susan, hauing some former acquaintance with her, and yet not all so frolyke, as to clappe her on the lippse in a cold morninge after the country fashion, wente cunningly as he durst to worke with her: salu­ting her with some friendely speeche, which shee as hand­somly aunswered. The wordes betweene them were these that folow: I laught at them hartely when I hearde them, and I persuade my selfe, that some that reade this recorde of them, will smyle a litle at it, be they neuer so solemne. I pende them for myne owne plea­sure. I hope they will displease none, who lykes not the reading of it, turne ouer the leafe, and you shall finde somwhat els to your contentmente. Well, to the matter, though women are comonly full of toung, and ready of speeche, yet when they ar wooed, they muste be firste spoken to, or els they will condemne their woer for a foole: and therefore Simson hauing on his considering cappe, although not a man of the greatest capacity, yet as his audacity serude him, he boldely brake forth into this salutacion.

Simon.
[Page]
Faire maide well ouertane, what? whyther now so fast?
Sus.
To market Sim. tis nyne a clocke, had not I need make hast:
Sim.
But sof [...]e fire makes sweet malte, [...]ush you take to much payn.
Sus.
The world is hard, they must take pain that look for any gayn.
Sim.
Well saide, but what? me thinks you ginne to thriue to soone.
Sus.
Who lies in bedde till Dinner tyme, gaines litle after noo [...]e.
Sim.
Why then betymes is best eche matter to beginne.
Sus.
Who lettethe s [...]ppe conuenient tyme, is litle like to winne:
Sim.
Oh but how shoulde one finde that same conueniente tyme?
Sus.
Why tis no more, but taking May, While it is in the prime.
Sim.
May growes on euery bushe, and Tyme is common too.
Sus.
But that May is not wurth a rushe: that Tyme will litle doo.
Sim.
Why what, are there moe Mayes? and moe tymes to thē one?
Sus.
So I haue hearde, but for my self, sure I can tell of none.
Sim.
I pray thee, tell me
Sus.
What tymes and Mayes they be?
Sus.
I tolde thee once: I know them not, then aske no more of me.
Sim.
Yet one thing woulde I craue, if that with leaue I may:
Sus.
I am content too aunswere you, so that no harme you say.
Sim.
If that my woordes offende, think them against my will.
Sus.
Thē be aduisde before you speak, els kepe your words in stil.
Sim.
I may think to speake well, yet may be tane amisse,
Sus.
Speak plain, and I wil take you right, in dark speeche doubt there is.
Sim.
Yet plainene [...] now a dayes is counted patchery.
Sus.
Yet plainenes with plain folkes is best, as suche as you, & I.
Sim.
Then plainly let me know: what meanes that May in pryme.
Sus.
I tolde you once, it is no more, but taking tyme in tyme.
Sim.
In deede tyme wysely tane, bringes many thinges to passe.
Sus.
[Page]
Then who doth loose conuenient time, may wel be thought an asse.
Sim.
How happy is that man whom time doth serue a right?
Sus.
And he whom no time fitly serues, vnhappy is that wight.
Sim.
Fortune is friend to fooles, and wise men haue ill happe.
Sus.
But wise men warily wil watch, to sit in fortunes lappe.
Sim.
Some men may watch and waite, yet nere a whit the nere.
Sus.
Who lies and sleepes in sowing time, shal reape smal gaine that yere.
Sim.
And yet who sowes too soone, at reaping will repent.
Sus.
Better too soone yet then too late, when all the yeere is spent.
Sim.
The grayne that first is sowne, I trow be called Rye.
Sus.
But knauish weedes so choke that corne, it prooues but trompery.
Sim.
What say you then of Otes? they must be latest sowne.
Sus.
But some will sowe them first of all, and mowe them scarce halfe growne.
Sim.
Wel, but Otes sowne in time, wil proue a prety graine.
Sus.
But who doth seeke to sowe wild Otes, shal reape but little gaine.
Sim.
In deede I thinke wilde Otes, are scarcely woorth the mowing.
Sus.
And yet I see young husbandmen, doo thinke them woorth the sow­ing.
Sim.
Among good Otes perhaps they sowe some now and then.
Sus.
But who doth sow the good with badde, is no good husbandman.
Sim.
Perhappes too vnawares, they sow some heere and there.
Sus.
How they are sowne I know not, but they come vp euery where.
Sim.
When they are sowne with Rye, they ranckest growe in deede.
Sus.
Well it is pity for to sowe such trashe, among good seede.
Sim.
Why? then is Rie good corne?
Sus.
Yea, if it be right graine.
Sim.
If otherwise what then?
Sus.
Why then, I eate my word agayne.
Sus.
But goe to Sim. in fayth me thinkes I smell a Rat.
Sim.
A Rat my wench, I pray thee say, what doest thou meane by that.
Sus.
Nay softly Sim. a while, I leaue you that to gesse.
Sim.
I gesse thee an vnhappy Girle, and thou wilt proue no lesse.
Sus.
Why I thanke God, I had no great il happe of late.
Sim.
Goe to I say, I see iwis, thou hast a shrewishe pate.
Sus.
You gesse me by your selfe, I am contente to beare it.
Sim.
Beare it good Sus, yea and more to then this, I no whit feare it.
Sus.
How meane you bearing Sim. although I beare with you,
yet will I beare no more then needes, with none I tell you true.
Sim.
No reason, marry wench, you are my friend I see.
[Page] that hauing been so bolde with you, that you will beare with me.
Sus.
Think not I am your foe, and though I be a shrow,
a shrow is better then a sheepe, you will confesse I trow.
Sim.
Suche gentill shrowes as you, are to be borne withal.
Sus.
You neuer tryde my shrowishnes,
Sim.
but yet I gesse it small.
Sus.
I hearde my father once say, sittinge at his Table,
a shrow profitable, might serue a man reasonable.
Sim.
Wel sayd
Sus.
for your self, but leauing of your iest,
will you a matter aunswere, that I woulde of you request?
Sus.
Yea
Sim.
that I will.
Sim.
then.
Susan
let me know
Si.
What thou doest meane, I pray thee now to say, that such a shrow
as profit brings, might any man of reason well content,
what ere your fathers words did meane, would I knew what you mente.
Sus.
I meane playn as I sayd, suche shrowes as profit bring,
may men of reason well content, I ment none other thing.
Sim.
Yes
Sus.
if I were sure, I mought no whit offende,
I could perhaps giue a shrowde gesse whereto your woords doo tende.
Sus.
Why Simon say thy minde, I freely giue thee leaue.
Sim.
Why then my wenche, I tel thee playn, I thus muche doo con­ceaue▪
I am, as wel thou knowst, my fathers only sonne,
thou knowst agayne, how madly I my youthfull race haue ronne,
and now I thinke thou seest, how I beginne to thryue,
and thryuing now you may suspecte, that I would seeke to wyue:
and seeking now to wyue, I better were to chuse,
a shrowishe wench, then sheepish shut, which reason woulde refuse.
Sus.
In deede you misse not muche, for hee that well doth know
the differēce twixt shrowes & sheepe, wi [...]l chuse the womā shrow.
Sim.
Yet I haue herde some say, that both in charge doo keepe,
they founde more ease, and profit to, by keepyng of theyr sheepe.
Sus.
But take my meaning right, and I can easely show,
how that a sheepe can not compare in goodnes with a shrow.
Sim.
I pray thee say thy minde, that reason woulde I see:
twixte shrowes & sheepe, to make plain proof, that shrows should better be.
Sus.
Then Simon marke my woordes, a shrowe may haue a face,
as faire as sheepe, and fairer too, and beare as good a grace.
Sin.
Yet some will say that shrowes, are long chinde, & sharp nos [...]e,
[Page] and froward frowning marres their face, whē they are il disposd.
Sus.
But frownes are quickly gon: when sulleine skouling sheepe
wil pout and swel, and in their mynds will malice longer keepe.
Sim.
No: sheepe are kinde of hart, who rather seeme to dye,
to haue vnkindnes offerd them, then skoule so sulleinly.
Sus.
Yea, some I thinke in deede, put finger in the eye,
to counterfeit good nature so, somtyme without cause why.
Sim.
Yea say you so, in deede, haue women such odde shiftes?
Sus.
Yea men and women both, sometyme doo vse deceitful drifts.
But as I sayd of shrowes, although they frowne a while,
yet by and by their anger past, they will as kindly smile.
Sim.
In deede
Sus.
sulleine sheepe are woorse then any shrowes,
but of the two if one must chuse, the choice is hard God knowes,
Yet wenche I pray thee, on some other reason showe,
to shewe the badnes of a sheepe, and goodnes of a shrowe.
Sus.
Why? Shrowes will saue a sheepe, and gayn perhaps a Hog,
when sheepe can scarcely saue themselues, without the shepherds Dog
Sim.
Sheepe doo nought but giue suck vnto the litle Lamme,
and if she be a lambe her selfe, then shee must after damme.
and if shee be well kept, perhaps shee will seeme fayre,
but if shee fall a litle sicke, her beautie soone will payre.
Besides, they subiect are to many sicknesses,
the cough, the rot, and many mo too tedious to expresse,
and if they fall once sicke, what cost with phisicke then?
such cost, as if they lye long sicke, vndooeth many men.
And yet when all is donne, the peeuish hielding dye,
and then must mourne, for loosyng of a foolish harlotrye.
Sus.
When shrowes can tend the sheepe, and looke vnto the lambe,
and now and then as duetie wils, they wil vnto the damme,
and when they finde them selues or sicke or yll at ease,
a pynte of Malmesey phisicke is, that cureth their disease.
a cuppe of ale and graynes, a posset of good sacke,
will make them mery at the hart, and strengthen wel the backe.
and more halfe dead to day, tomorrow vp agayne,
about the house, as mery as if they had forgot the payne:
not puling like a [...], that if her finger ake,
[Page] Must haue her dinner in her bedde with a white buttarde Cake,
And for a se [...]ightes space, keepe her bedde euery day,
And so doo spend her husbandes thriht, and take no care which way.
And when shee comes abroade, goe puling vp and downe,
Husband in fayth I am not wel, when make you vp my Gowne?
Shall I goe like proude euery day, and Sondaies in the same?
Good
Sim.
if you serue me so you are too much too blame.
And thus gay geere is all, they set their mindes vppon:
But thinke not how the world will goe, when coyne is spent & gon.
Now many other things, I could as easely show,
To proue a sheepe may not compare in goodnes with a shrow.
Sim.
Berlady
Sus.
well sayd, thy reasons well approue
Commodious shrowes, far more then sheepe doe iustly merite loue:
And wert thou such a shrowe, as so wouldst saue a sheepe,
I soone would wishe my selfe the charge, so good a shrow to keepe.
Sus.
If, and, or, but, and such, are woordes for Lawyers fit:
Who will not venter at a marke, is neuer like to hit.
Of women sheepe from shrowes are hard to be espide:
What thing can perfectly be knowne, till it be throughly tride.
Sim.
Nought venter nothing haue, in deede so some wil say,
But some in ventring oft to farre, doo woorke their owne decay:
And he that takes in hand to venter on a wife,
Is like to gayne, by ventring so, a woe or ioyfull life:
Now then ere a man chuse, he had neede well to know
The disposition of his wife, if shee be sheepe or shrowe.
But to the purpose
Su.
that first I ment to say,
And that which was the only cause, that made me come this way:
For to be playne, is this, be thou or sheepe or shrow,
A sheepe thou art not out of doubt, nor greatly shrow I trowe.
This is my minde my wenche, now I would seeke to thriue,
And that I thinke no man can doo, vnlesse he seeke to wiue,
And hauing now desire to wedde, and take to wyse a wi [...]e,
With whom to liue vppon myne owne, and leade an honest life,
And yet not hauing set my loue on any one,
Mine owne good Susan, now that we be both here al alone,
I pray thee tell me now, coulde such a shrow as thou,
Content thy selfe with such a sheepe as I, how sayst thou now?
Sus.
[Page]
A sheepe, nay by the Roode, I rather would haue guest
you, more a Hog like, then a sheepe: But touching your request,
I thus doo answeare you: it lyes not in my hand:
What pleaseth God, I must of force with that contented stand.
And if you can content your selfe to match with me,
I doo not thinke a matter small should make vs disagree.
Sim.
Giue me thy hand of that.
Sus.
Nay soft, bar handes I pray,
Sim.
No hand? why then, I see we shall no bargayne make to day.
Sus.
Bargayne? why no.
Sim.
soft, what bargayne should we make?
I haue no ware for you, I must at market mony take.
Sim.
Yet would I cope with you for some ware that you haue,
that you will not at market sell. But pray thee let me craue,
thus much yet at thy handes, thou wilt not angry be,
what ere I say, for in good sooth, I doo but iest with thee.
Sus.
Then if you doo but iest, it may be as you say,
we are not like as I doo think, to bargayne sure to day.
Sim.
Tush Susan you take me wrong, I sweare vnsaignedly,
giue me thy hand, and we will make a bargayne by and by.
Sus.
Oh Sim. I say barre handes, lets heare the matter f [...]rst,
For some I know with wringing hands, their giuing hands haue curst.
But say your mynde, and then I will contented stand,
if that I lyke the bargaine well, to let thee haue my hand.
Sim.
Then bargayne we or not, the matter wench is this:
I fayne would haue the for my wyfe: what, shall I hit or misse?
If well thou canst content thy selfe to match with me,
giue me thy hand and heere is mine, and we wil soone agree.
Sus.
Sayst thou so Sim? Content. Here hold and haue my hand.
Sim.
A bargayne then.
Sus.
Ryght willingly I doo contented stand.
Sus.
Let vs to market then, there shall I meete my Neame,
about eleuen a clocke lets meett [...], [...]nd eate a [...]sse of Creame.
At the old Sarsins head be there and slay for mee,
by then my market will be doone, and I wil come to thee.
Sim.
Contented wench, and bring thy brother to,
we will be mery, and w [...]ll haue a quart of wine or two.
A messe of Serwaberies, and Cheries, and good cheare,
and so farewel, tis forward daies, the clock strikes [...] I heare.
[Page] Thus parxed
Sim.
and
Su.
to market goes the mayde,
to Tauerne goes my gentle
Sim.
who holdes him well apayd,
that he hath got
Sus.
hand, the bargayne now is made,
A coltish Iacke shall wedded be, vnto askittish Iade.
in fielde the handes were [...], in Tauerne now shall be
the match made vp, now who were there, some prety sport should see.
So farewell to them both, the bargayne is begun,
God send such shrowes such sheepe as he, and so my tale is dun. see.
Fiuis.

¶A gentleman being of late at an odde banquet, where were diuers women of diuers dispositions, and being serued in at the table diuers comfits of sundry sorts, being come home from the supper to his owne lodging, sitting alone in his chamber, hee compared the women with the comfites, in verse as followeth.

NOt long agoe as I at supper sat,
whereas in deede I had exceeding cheere,
In order serude, with choyce of this and that:
with Flaggons fild with wine, and ale, & beere,
I did behold, that well set out the rest,
a troupe of dames, in braue attyre addrest.
Great was our cheare, yet supper being done,
to furnish furth the table new agayne,
Of sundry sorts a banquet new begonne:
of Apples, Peares, Marmlade, and Marchpayne,
Sucket, sugarde Almondes, and canded Plummes:
with many other prety [...].
And marking well ech prety daynty dish,
of comfittes sweete I gan great store behold:
For which I saw how many gan to fishe,
and at the last, I was my selfe so bold,
[Page 36] Of euery sort to take vp two or three,
which from the boorde I bare away with me.
Now let the Comfittes in my pocket rest,
and let me view the company a while:
Of women kinde, whose view did like me best,
how some could frowne, and other sweetly smile:
Some could looke coy, in halfe a skorneful wise,
and some would stare, and same looke vnder eyes.
Some by sharpe nose would seeme to be a shrow,
and some more halfe a sheepe by countenance,
Some sulleine seemde, by looking downe to lowe,
some gentle seemde, by casting friendly glaunce,
Some seemed proude, by looking too too hye,
and some, would cast on all a friendly eye.
Now gan I gesse by outward countenance,
the disposition of eche deinty dame,
And though perhappes I missed some by chaunce,
I hit some right, I doo not doubt the same:
But shall I tell of eche one what I gest,
no [...]ie, for why, fond tatling breedes vnrest.
But let them be such as they were, by chaunce,
our banquet doone, we had our musicke by:
And then you knowe the youth must needes goe daunce,
first Galiardes, then Lar [...]us, and H [...]idegy,
[...]id lustie gallant, all floures of the broome,
and then a hall, for dauncers must haue roome.
And to it then, with set and turne about,
chaunge sides, and crosse, and minse it like a hau [...]e:
Backeward and forward, take handes the [...], in and out,
and now and then, a litle holsome talke:
[Page] That none could heare, close rounded in the eare:
well I say nought, but much good sport was there.
Then myght my Minion heare her mate at will,
but God forgiue all such as iudge amisse:
Some men I knowe, would soone imagin yll,
by secret spying of some knauish kisse:
But let them leaue such ielousie for shame,
dauncers must kysse, the law allowes the same.
And when friends meete, some mery signe must passe,
of welcomming vnto ech others syght:
And for a kisse, thats not so much (alas)
Dauncers besydes may clayme a kisse of ryght,
After the daunce is ended, and before:
but some will kisse vpon kisse: that goes sore.
Why it may be they daunce the kissing daunce,
and then they must kisse oftentymes in deedee,
And then although they ouershoote by chaunce,
and kisse perhaps more often then they neede,
Tis ouersight, their skill perhappes is smal,
young Dauncers kisses, must needes be borne withal.
Then let them kisse, and coll, and let me leaue
to tatle so of kissing, as I doo:
For some alas halfe angry I perceaue,
haue lost I thinke some friendly kisse or two.
And all by my fond pratling on the same:
for bashfaste folkes will seeldome kisse for shame.
But tis a sport to see some dauncers kisse,
some bluntly laye their Ladies on the lippes:
Some kissing smacke, and thinke it not amisse:
some laye their handes vppon their Ladies hippes:
[Page 37] To make theyr arme an easy resting place,
whyle they may smouch theyr lady on the face.
Some deinty dames wil proudely turne theyr cheeke,
in skornefull wyse to eny man to kisse,
And then God wot, young dauncer is to seek,
and knowes no way, but turne her head to his:
Which kisse, to them that kissing know in kinde,
dothe make them smyle, and laugh to, in theyr minde.
Now Courtiers some, in dauncing vse to kisse,
but in what sort, let them that list goe marke,
And I say nought, but only this I wishe,
eche gallant youth, or in the light or dark,
With his sweet soule, conuenient place to kisse.
no more, what? why? who is displeasde with this?
Faire Ladyes? no: young gallants? such, muche lesse:
olde Syrs? yea: why? theyr kissing sweet is donne,
What though, I know they can not but confesse.
and olde shaune Fryer wil kisse an vnshorne Numne:
Then for Gods sake, let young folkes, coll and kisse,
when oldest folkes, will thinke it not amisse.
But what? I had almost my self forgot,
to tel you on of this same gentle crue,
Some were alas, with dauncing growne so hot,
as some must sit, while other dauncde anew:
And thus forsoothe, our dauncing helde vs on,
till midnight full, hygh tyme for to be gon.
But too beholde the graces of eche Dame,
how some would daunce, as though they did but walke,
And some would trippe, as though one legge were lame.
and some woulde my [...]se it, like a sparrow haulke,
[Page] And some woulde daunce vpright as eny bolt,
and some wolde [...]eape and skippe lyk a young colt.
[...] some would fige, as though she had the Itche,
and some woulde bow halfe crooked in the Ioyntes,
And some woulde haue a tricke, and some a twitche,
some shooke their armes, as they had hong by poyntes.
With thousandes more that were to long to tell,
b [...]t made me laugh my hart sore, I wot wel.
[...]ut let them passe, and now syr must wee parte,
I thank you sir for my exceeding cheere:
Welcome (quoth the good man) with all my hart,
i [...] fayth the market serues but ill to yeere:
When one could not deuise more meate to dresse:
Iesus though I, what meanes this foolishnes.
But let that passe, then parting at the dore,
beleeue me now, it is a sport to see
What stirre there was, who shoulde goe out before:
suche courtsies loe, with pray you pardon me,
You shal not chuse, in fayth you are to blame,
good sooth though I a man woulde think the same.
Now beyng forthe, with much adoe at last,
then part they al, eche on vnto theyr house,
And who had markde the prety lookes that past,
from priuy friende vnto his prety mouse,
Woulde say with me, at twelue a clocke at night,
it was a parting (trust me) wurth the sight.
But let them part, and passe in God his name,
God speede them well I pray, and me no wurse,
Some are gon, with dauncing almost lame,
and some goe light, by meanes of empty purse:
[Page 38] And to be short, home hyeth euery one,
and home goe I, vnto my lodge alone.
Where being come, desirous to take rest,
to bedde I goe, where scarce asleepe, me thought,
I was new bidden to an other feast,
where to the boorde great delicates were brought:
Among which cates, such store of Comfites came,
as that my thought, I wondred at the same.
At last I wakde, and being well awak [...],
I sawe sunne shine, and vp my thought I sat:
Wherewith, I heard some what a ratling make,
but for my life could not imagin what:
But at the last, I shooke the clothes agayne,
and then streight way I did discerne it plaine.
The night before, at supper where I was,
of sundrie sor [...]es of [...], two or three,
Into my pocket priuily alas,
I had conueied, and no man seeing me:
Which Comfites made the foolish ratling so,
as I did sturre the clothes to and fro.
Then tooke I out my Comfites by and by,
minding in deede to lay them in a chest:
But as odde fansies fall out sodaynly,
so will I tell you of a prety iest,
That as I lay thus muzing in my bedde,
marking my Comfites, came into my hedde.
I choose me out ech Comfite seuerally,
and tooke a tast by one and one, of al:
Some one me thought, did tast too lushiously,
so [...]e bitter sweete, and had a t [...]ng withall:
[Page] Some smelt of Muske, and those were prety geere,
some care awayes, and they are rare this yeere.
Now as I tooke of euery one a tast,
my euening dames, came to my morning minde:
By one and one, from first vnto the last,
and thinking so, my thought I could in kinde:
Compare the com [...]ites with the women right,
whereof forthwith I thus began to write.
First, I gan take long comfites for to tast,
and hauing scarcely swallowde downe the same:
They brought (me thought) vnto my minde at last,
a very fayre, tal, braue, and galla [...]t dame:
Now in the comfit was a bitter pill,
so in the dame, might be some bitter will.
Now did I gesse the pill an Orenge pill,
which though at first in [...]ast it [...] seemde:
Yet must I not say therefore, it was ill,
but woorthy was for to be well esteemde:
So womens wils that bitter seeme at furst,
in time perhappes, are not yet found the wurst.
The Comfites then I tasted next, were rounde,
wherein I found small Coriander seedes,
Whose tast, although at first I fulsome founde,
Yet must I not dispraise them more then needes:
For as I find, and as Phisitians say,
that they in deede, are holsome many a way.
These Comfites then did bring vnto my minde,
a round, plumpe wench, which fulsome seemde at furst:
Whom if perhaps I had well knowne [...] kinde,
of all the troupe, mought not be thought the wurst:
[Page 39] What doo you laugh? well, I haue seene ere now,
a prety pigge of an ill fauoured Sowe.
Then next to these, I Ginger Comfites tooke,
whose tast did set my mouth all in a heate,
These Comfites, like the long Comfites did looke,
and as I found, were holsome for to eate:
And though my mouth, with heate began to smart,
I found they did great comfort to my hart.
These Comfites made me thinke vppon a dame,
of statu [...]e tall, and yet not very hye:
Whose lookes, mought set his mouth and hart on flame,
who would desire to tast her thoroughly:
And yet perhappes, when all her heat were past,
shee might his hart well comfort at the last.
The next I tooke, were biskets Sir, to taste,
which made me thinke vppon a prety wenche:
When sodainely I heard in posting hast,
some cryde fire, fire, and othersome cryde quench,
Hard vnderneath my windowe where I lay:
with which amazde, I layd my penne away.
Out of my bedde, on went my clothes apace,
and furth goe I to helpe to quench the fire:
But all was well, for why by Gods good grace,
it ceased soone, and as I drewe me nier,
So many hands were helping at the same,
I saw it nere quite quenched ere I came.
Which when I saw, I home returnd againe,
and hauing left my chamber doore vnshutte,
When I came vp, I found the footesteppes playne,
vppon the floore, of some odde lickorous s [...]utte:
[Page] That had dispatchde my Comfites euery one,
for credite me, good sooth they left me none.
Which had they not been so conueide awaye,
I would haue wrote my deskant of the rest:
[...]ut since they are so gon, fayth farewell they,
the next, I wil locke safer in my chest:
Till when, take these that I haue wrote vppon,
for credite me, now all the rest are gon.
Finis.

Imprinted at London, nigh vnto the three Cranes in the Vintree, by Thomas Dawson, and Thomas Gardyner.

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