The Steel Glas.  
A Satire compiled by George Gascoigne Esquire.  
Together with The Complaint of Phylomene. An Elegy devised by the same Author.  Tam Marti, quàm Mercurio. 
Printed for Richard Smith.   


TAM MARTI QVAM MERCURIO    

To the right honourable his singular good Lord the Lord Grace of Wilton, Knight of the most honourable order of the Garter, George Gascoigne Esquire wisheth long life with increase of honour, according to his great worthiness.  
RIght honourable, noble, and my singular good Lord: if mine ability were any way correspondent too the just desires of my heart, I should yet think all the same unable to deserve the lest part of your goodness: in that you have always deygned with cheerful look to regard me, with affabylitie to hear me, with exceeding courtesy to use me, with grave advice to direct me, with apparent love to care for me, and with assured assistance to protect me. All which when I do remember, yet it stirreth in me an exceeding zeal to deserve it: and that zeal begetteth bashful dread too perform it. The dread is ended in dolours, and yet those dolours receive the very same affection, which first moved in me the desire to honour and esteem you. For whiles I bewail mine own unworthiness, and therewithal do set before mine eyes the lost time of my youth misspent, I seem to see a far of (for my comfort) the high and triumphant virtue called Magnanimity, accompanied with industrious diligence. The first doth encourage my fainted heart, and the second doth begin (already) to employ my understanding, for (alas my good Lord) were not the cordial of these two precious Spiceries, the corrosive of care would quickly confound me.  
I have misgoverned my youth, I confess it: what shall I do then? shall I yield to misery as a just plague appointed for my portion? Magnanimity saith no, and industry seemeth to be of the very same opinion.  
I am derided, suspected, accused, and condemned: yea more than that, I am rigorously rejected when I proffer amends for my harm. Should I therefore despair? shall I yield unto iellosie? or drown my days in idleness, because their beginning was bathed in wantonness? Surely (my Lord) the Magnanimity of a noble mind will not suffer me, and the delightfulness of diligence doth utterly forbid me.  
Shall I grudge to be reproved for that which I have done in deed, when the sting of Emulation spared not to touch the worthy Scipio with most untrue surmises? Yea Themistocles when he had delivered all Greece from the huge host of Xerxes, was yet by his unkind citizens of Athens expulsed from his own, and constrained to seek favour in the sight of his late professed enemy, But the Magnanimity of their minds was such, as neither could adversity overcome them, nor yet the injurious dealing of other men could kindle in their breasts any lest spark of desire, to seek any unhonourable revenge.  
I have loitered (my lord) I confess, I have lain streaking me (like a lubber) when the sun did shine, and now I strive all in vain to load the cart when it raineth. I regarded not my comeliness in the Maymoone of my youth, and yet now I stand prinking me in the glass, when the crows foot is grown under mine eye. But what?  
Aristotle spent his youth very riotously, & Plato (by your leave) in twenty of his youthful years, was no less addicted to delight in amorous verse, than he was after in his age painful to writ good precepts of moral Philosophy. What should I speak of Cato, who was o●de before he learned latin letters, and yet become one of the greatest Orators of his time? These examples are sufficient to prove that by industry and diligence any perfection may be attained, and by true Magnanimity all adversity are easy to be endured. And to that end (my very good lord) I do here presume thus rudely to rehearse them. For as I can be content to confess the lightness wherewith I have been (in times past) worthy to be burdened, so would I be glad, if now when I am otherwise bend, my better endeavours might be accepted. But (alas my lord) I am not only enforced still to carry on my shoulders the cross of my carelessness, but there withal I am also put to the plunge, too provide (●uen now) weapons wherewith I may defend all heavy frowns, deep suspects, and dangerous detractions. And I find myself so feeble, and so unable to endure that combat, as (were not the cordials before rehearsed) I should either cast down 〈◊〉 armour and hide myself like a recreant, or else (of a malicious stubborness) should busy my brains with some Stratagem for to execute an envious revenge upon mine adversaries.  
But neither will Magnanimity suffer me to become unhonest, nor yet can industry see me sink in idleness.  
For I have learned in sacred scriptures to heap coals upon the head of mine enemy, by honest dealing: and our saviour himself hath encouraged me, saying that I shall lack neither works nor service, although it were noon days before I came into the Market place.  
These things I say (my singular good lord) do renew in my troubled mind the same affection which first moved me to honour you, nothing doubting but 〈◊〉 your favourable eyes will vouchsafe to behold me as I am, and never be so curious as to inquire what I have been.  
And in full hope thereof, I have presumed to present your honour with this Satire written without rhyme, but I trust not without reason. And what soever it be, I do humbly dedicated it unto your honourable name, beseeching the same too accept it with as gracious regard, as you have in times past been accustomed too behold my travails. And (my good Lord) though the scornful do mock me for a time, yet in the end I hope to give them all a rib of roast for their pains. And when the virtuous shall perceive indeed how I am occupied, then shall detraction be no less ashamed to have falsely accused me, than light credence shall have cause to repent his rash conceit: and Gravity the judge shall not be abashed to cancel the sentence unjustly pronounced in my condemnation. In mean while I remain amongst my books here at my poor house in Walkamstowe, where I pray daily for speedy advancement, and continual prosperity of your good Lordship. Written the fifteenth of April, 1576.  
By your honours most bownden and well assured George Gascoigne.   


N. R. in commendation of the Author, and his works.  

IN rousing verse, of Mauors bloody reign,  
The famous Greek, and Maro did excel.  
Grave Senec did, surmount for Tragic vain,  
Quick Epigrams, Catullus wrote as well,  
Archilochus, did for lambickes pass,  
For comic verse, still Plautus peerless was.   

In Elegies, and wanton love writ lays,  
Sans peer were Naso, and Tibullus deemed:  
In satires sharp (as men of much praise)  
Lucilius, and Horace were esteemed.  
Thus divers men, with divers veins did writ,  
But Gascoigne doth, in every vain indite.   

And what performance he thereof doth make,  
I list not vaunt, his works for me shall say:  
In praising him Timantes trade I take,  
Who (when he should, the woeful cheer display,  
Duke Agamemnon had when he did wail,  
His daughter's death with tears of small avail:   

Notskild to countershape his mournful grace,  
That men might deem, what art could not supply)  
devised with painted vail, to shroud his face.  
Like sort my pen shall Gascoignes praise descry,  
Which wanting grace, his graces to rehearse,  
Doth shroud and cloud them thus in silent verse.    

Walter Rawely of the middle Temple, in commendation of the Steel Glass.  

Sweten were the sauce, would please each kind of taste,  
The life likewise, were pure that never swerved,  
For spiteful tongues, in cankered stomachs placed,  
Deem worst of things, which best (percase) deserved:  
But what for that? this medicine may suffice,  
To scorn the rest, and seek to please the wise.   

Though sundry minds, in sundry sort do deem,  
Yet worthiest wights, yield praise for every pain,  
But envious brains, do naught (or light) esteem,  
Such stately steps, as they cannot attain.  
For who so reaps, renown above the rest,  
With heaps of hate, shall surely be oppressed.   

Wherefore to writ, my censure of this book,  
This Glass of Steel, unpartially doth show,  
Abuses all, to such as in it look,  
From prince to poor, from high estate to low,  
As for the verse, who list like trade to try,  
I fear me much, shall hardly reach so high.    

Nicholas Bowyer in commendation of this work.  

FRom lays of Love, to satires sad and sage,  
Our Poet turns, the travail of his time,  
And as he pleased, the vain of youthful age,  
With pleasant pen, employed in loving rhyme:  
So now he seeks, the gravest to delight,  
With works of worth, much better than they show.  
This Glass of Steel, (if it be marked aright)  
Descries the faults, as well of high as low.  
And Philomela's fourfold just complaint,  
In sugared sound, doth shroud a solemn sense,  
'Gainst those whom lust, or murder doth attaint.  
Lo this we see, is Gascoignes good pretence,  
To please all sorts, with his praiseworthy skill.  
Then yield him thanks in sign of like good wil     

The Author to the Reader.  

TO vaunt, were vain and flattery were a fault.  
But truth to tell, there is a fort of fame,  
The which I seek, by science to assault,  
And so to leave, remembrance of my name.  
The walls whereof are wondrous hard to climb:   

And much to high, for ladders made of rhyme.  
Then since I see, that rhymes can seldom reach,  
Unto the top, of such a stately Tower,  
By reason's force, I mean to make some breach,  
Which yet may help, my feeble fainting power,  
That so at last, my Muse might enter in,  
And reason rule, that rhyme could never win.   

Such battering tire, this pamphlet here bewrays,  
In rymelesse verse, which thundereth mighty threats,  
And where it finds, that vice the wall decays,  
Even there (amain) with sharp rebukes it beats.  
The work (think I) deserves an honest name,  
If not? I fail, to win this fort of fame.   
Tam Marti, quàm Mercurio.   

Gentle Reader I pray you before you read to correct these faults ensuing.  
Leaf Line. Fault. Correction. A. 2. First page. 18. receive revived  Eadem 32. fainted fainting A. 2 Second page 25. even now new B. 2 First page 6. this deceit their deceit  Eodem. 2 page 18. second seemly second stemly  Eadem. 21. wood. wooed B. 3. Second page. 17 from fraud through fraud B. 4 second. Margin of them of the theme C. 4 First page. 5. king knight F. 1 First page. 9 greediness greedy guiles I 1 second page. 2. byrded bryded K. 3 First page 19 astonied astoind  Eadem. 20 advance advante P. 3 First page. 6. fie false and Fie fierce and Q. 3 second page. 10 then vae vobis vae vobis than   

THE STEEL GLASS.  

THe Nightingale, (whose happy noble heart,  
No dole can daunt, nor fearful force affright,  
Whose cheerful voice, doth comfort saddest wights,  
When she herself, hath little cause to sing,  
Whom lovers love, because she plains their griefs,  
She wraies their woes, and yet relieves their pain,  
Whom worthy minds, always esteemed much,  
And gravest years, have not disdained her notes:  
(Only that king proud Tereus by his name  
With murdering knife, did carve her pleasant tongue,  
To cover so, his own foul filthy fault)  
This worthy bird, hath taught my weary Muse,  
To sing a song, in spite of their despite,  
Which work my woe, withouten cause or crime,  
And make my back, a ladder for their feet,  
By slanderous steps, and stairs of tickle talk,  
To climb the throne, wherein myself should sit.  
O Phylomene, then help me now to chant:  
And if dead beasts, or living birds have ghosts,  
Which can conceive the cause of careful moan,  
When wrong triumphs, and right is overtrodde,  
Then help me now, O bird of gentle blood,  
In barren verse, to tell a fruitful tale,  
A tale (I mean) which may content the minds  
Of learned men, and grave Philosophers.   

And you my Lord, (whose hap hath heretofore  
Been, lovingly to read my reckless rhymes,  
And yet have deignde, with favour to forget  
The faults of youth, which past my hasty pen:  
And therewithal, have graciously vouchsafed,  
To yield the rest, much more than they deserved)  
Vouchsafe (lo now) to read and to peruse,  
This rimles verse, which flows fro troubled mind.  
Since that the line, of that false caitiff king,  
(Which ravished fair Phylomene for lust,  
And then cut out, her trusty long for hate)  
They live, they live, (alas the worse my luck)  
Whose greedy lust, unbridled from their breast,  
Hath ranged long about the world so wide,  
To find a prey for their wide open mouths,  
And me they found, (O woeful tale to tell)  
Whose harmless heart, perceiude not this deceit.   

But that my Lord, may plainly understand,  
The mysteries, of all that I do mean,  
I am not he whom slanderous tongues have told,  
(False tongues in deed, & crafty subtle brains)  
To be the man, which meant a common spoil  
Of loving dames, whose ears would hear my words  
Or trust the tales devised by my pen.  
I n'am a man, as some do think I am,  
(Laugh not good Lord) I am in deed a dame,  
Or at the lest, a right Hermaphrodite:  
And who desires, at large to know my name,  
My birth, my line, and every circumstance,  
Lo read it here, Plain dealing was my Sire,  
And he begat me by simplicity,  
My sistr and I, into this world were sent, 
.   
My sisters name, was pleasant Poesys,  
And I myself had Satyra to name,  
Whose hap was such, that in the prime of youth,  
A lusty lad, a stately man to see,  
Brought up in place, where pleasures did abound,  
(I dare not say, in court for both mine ears)  
Began to woe my sister, not for wealth,  
But for her face was lovely to behold,  
And therewithal, her speech was pleasant stil. 
Where may be commonly found a meeter wooer for pleasant poetry, than vain Delight? Such men do many times attend upon vain delight.   
This Nobles name, was called vain Delight,  
And in his train, he had a comely crew  
Of guileful wights: False semblant was the first,  
The second man was, Flearing flattery,  
(Brethrens by like, or very near of kin)  
Then followed them, Detraction and Deceit.  
Sym Swash did bear a buckler for the first,  
False witness was the second seemly page,  
And thus well armed, and in good equipage,  
This Gallant came, unto my father's court,  
And wood my sister, for she elder was,  
And fairer eke, but out of doubt (at lest)  
Her pleasant speech surpassed mine somuch,  
That vain Delight, to her addressed his suit.  
Short tale to make, she gave a free consent,  
And forth she goeth, to be his wedded make,  
Entyst percase, with gloss of gorgeous show,  
(Or else perhaps, persuaded by his peers,)  
That constant love had herbord in his breast,  
Such errors grow where such false Prophets preach.   

How so it were, my Sister liked him well,  
And forth she goeth, in Court with him to dwell,  
Where when she had some years ysoiorned,  
And saw the world, and marked each man's mind,  
A deep Desire her loving heart inflame,  
To see me sit by her in seemly wise,  
That company might comfort her sometimes,  
And sound advice might ease her weary thoughts:  
And forth with speed, (even at her first request)  
Doth vain Delight, his hasty course direct,  
To seek me out his sails are fully bend,  
And wind was good, to bring me to the bower,  
Whereas she lay, that mourned days and nights  
To see herself, so matched and so deceived,  
And when the wretch, (I cannot term him bet)  
Had me on seas full far from friendly help,  
A spark of lust, did kindle in his breast,  
And bade him hark, to songs of Satyra.  
I silly soul (which thought no body harm)  
'Gan clear my throat, and strove to sing my best,  
Which pleased him so, and so inflame his heart, 
Satirical Poetry is sometimes ravished by vain Delight.   
That he forgot my sister Poesys,  
And ravished me, to please his wanton mind.  
Not so content, when this foul fact was done,  
(Yfraught with fear, lest that I should disclose  
His incest: and, his doting dark desire)  
He caused strait ways, the foremost of his crew  
With his compear, to try me with their tongues: 
False semblant and flattery. can seldom beguile satirical Poetry.   
And when their guiles, could not prevail to win  
My simple mind, from track of trusty truth,  
Nor yet deceit could blear mine eyes from fraud,  
Came Slander then, accusing me, and said,  
That I entist Delight, to love & lust.  
Thus was I caught, poor wretch that thought none ill.  
And furthermore, to cloak their own offence,  
They clapped me fast, in cage of Misery, 
The reward of busy meddling is Misery.   
And there I dwelled, full many a doleful day,  
Until this thief, this traitor vain Delight,  
Cut out my tongue, with Razor of Restraynte,  
Lest I should wray, this bloody deed of his.   

And thus (my Lord) I live a weary life, 
note now & compare this allegory to the story of Progne & Philomele   
Not as I seemed, a man sometimes of might,  
But womanlike, whose tears must venge her harms.  
And yet, even as the mighty gods did deign  
For Philomele, that though her tongue were cut  
Yet should she sing a pleasant note sometimes:  
So have they deigned, by their divine decrees,  
That with the stumps of my reproved tongue,  
I may sometimes, Reprovers deeds reprove,  
And sing a verse, to make them see themselves.   

Then thus I sing, this silly song by night,  
Like Phylomene, since that the shining Sun  
Is now eclypst, which wonted to lend me light.   

And thus I sing, in corner closely cowcht  
Like Philomene, since that the stately cowrts,  
Are now no place, for such poor birds as I   

And thus I sing, with prick against my breast,  
Like Philomene, since that the privy worm,  
Which makes me see my reckless youth misspent,  
May well suffice, to keep me waking still.   

And thus I sing, when pleasant spring begins,  
Like Philomene, since every jangling bird,  
Which squeaketh loud, shall never triumph so,  
As though my muse were mute and durst not sing.   

And thus I sing, with harmless true intent,  
Like Philomene, when as percase (mean while)  
The Cuckoo sucks mine eggs by foul deceit,  
And licks the sweet, which might have fed me first.   

And thus I mean, in mournful wise to sing,  
A rare conceit, (God grant it like my Lord)  
A trusty tune, from ancient cliffs conveyed,  
A plain song note, which cannot warble well.   

For whiles I mark this weak and wretched world, 
Here the substance of them beginneth   
Wherein I see, how every kind of man  
Can flatter still, and yet deceives himself.  
I seem to muse, from whence such error springs,  
Such gross conceits, such mists of dark mistake,  
Such Surcuydry, such weening over well,  
And yet in deed, such dealings too too bad.  
And as I stretch my weary wits, to weigh  
The cause thereof, and whence it should proceed,  
My battered brains, (which now be shrewdly bruised,  
With camnon shot, of much misgovernment)  
Can spy no cause, but only one conceit,  
Which makes me think, the world goeth still awry.   

I see and sigh, (because it makes me sad)  
That peevish pride, doth all the world possess,  
And every wight, will have a looking glass  
To see himself, yet so he seeth him not:  
Yea shall I say? a glass of common glass,  
Which glistreth bright, and shows a seemly show,  
Is not enough, the days are past and gone,  
That Berral glass, with foils of lovely brown,  
Might serve to show, a seemly favoured face.  
That age is dead, and vanished long ago,  
Which thought that steel, both trusty was & true,  
And needed not, a foil of contraries,  
But showed all things, even as they were in deed.  
In stead whereof, our curious years can find  
The crystal glass, which glimseth brave & bright,  
And shows the thing, much better than it is,  
Beguiled with foils, of sundry subtle sights,  
So that they seem, and covet not to be.   

This is the cause (believe me now my Lord)  
That Realms do rue, from high prosperity,  
That kings decline, from princely government,  
That Lords do lack, their ancestors good will,  
That knights consume, their patrimony still,  
That gentlemen, do make the merchant rise,  
That plowmen beg, and craftsmen cannot thrive,  
That clergy quails, and hath small reverence,  
That lay-men live, by moving mischief still,  
That courtiers thrive, at latter Lammas day,  
That officers, can scarce enrich their heirs,  
That Soldiers starve, or preach at Tyburn cross,  
That lawyers buy, and purchase deadly hate,  
That merchants climb, and fall again as fast,  
That roisters brag, above their betters room,  
That sycophants, are counted jolly guests,  
That Lais leads a Lady's life aloft,  
And Lucrece lurks, with sober bashful grace.   

This is the cause (or else my Muse mistakes)  
That things are thought, which never yet were wrought,  
And castles built, above in lofty skies,  
Which never yet, had good foundation.  
And that the same may seem no feigned dream,  
But words of worth, and worthy to be weighed,  
I have presumed, my Lord for to present  
With this poor glass, which is of trusty Steel,  
And came to me, by will and testament  
Of one that was, a Glassemaker in deed.   

Lucylius, this worthy man was named,  
Who at his death, bequeathed the crystal glass, 
A famous old satyri●cal Poet.   
To such as love, to seem but not to be,  
And unto those, that love to see themselves,  
How foul or fair, soever that they are,  
He 'gan bequeath, a glass of trusty Steel,  
Wherein they may be bold always to look,  
Because it shows, all things in their degree.  
And since myself (now pride of youth is passed)  
Do love to be, and let all seeming pass,  
Since I desire, to see myself in deed,  
Not what I would, but what I am or should,  
Therefore I like this trusty glass of Steel.   

Wherein I see, a frolic favour frounced 
The author himself.   
With foul abuse, of lawless lust in youth:  
Wherein I see, a sampson's grim regard  
Disgraced yet with Alexander's beard: 
Alexander magnus had but a small beard.   
Wherein I see, a corpse of comely shape  
(And such as might beseem the court full well)  
Is cast at heel, by courting all to soon:  
Wherein I see, a quick capacity, 
He which will rebuke other men's faults, shall dowel not to for get his own imperfections.   
Berayed with blots of light Inconstancy:  
An age suspect, because of youths misdeeds.  
A poet's brain, possessed with lays of love:  
A Caesar's mind, and yet a Codrus might,  
A Soldiers heart, suppressed with fearful dooms:  
A Philosopher, foolishly fordone.  
And to be plain, I see myself so plain,  
And yet so much unlike that most I seemed,  
As were it not, that Reason ruleth me,  
I should in rage, this face of mine deface,  
And cast this corpse, down headlong in despair,  
Because it is, so far unlike itself.   

And therewithal, to comfort me again,  
I see a world, of worthy government,  
A common wealth, with policy so ruled, 
Common wealth.   
As neither laws are sold, nor justice bought,  
Nor riches sought, unless it be by right.  
No cruelty, nor tyranny can reign,  
No right revenge, doth raise rebellion,  
No spoils are ta'en, although the sword prevail,  
No riot spends, the coin of common wealth,  
No rulers hoard, the country's treasure up,  
No man grows rich, by subtlety nor sleight:  
All people dread, the magistrates decree,  
And all men fear, the scourge of mighty jove.  
Lo this (my lord) may well deserve the name,  
Of such a land, as milk and honey flows.  
And this I see, within my glass of Steel,  
Set forth even so, by Solon (worthy wight)  
Who taught king Croesus, what it is to seem,  
And what to be, by proof of happy end.  
The like Lycurgus, Lacedaemon king,  
Did set to show, by view of this my glass,  
And left the same, a mirror to behold,  
To every prince, of his posterity.   

But now (ay me) the glazing crystal glass  
Doth make us think, that realms and towns are rich  
Where favour sways, the sentence of the law,  
Where all is fish, that cometh to the net, 
Common voe.   
Where mighty power, doth over rule the right,  
Where injuries, do foster secret grudge,  
Where bloody sword, makes every booty prize,  
Where banqueting, is counted comely cost,  
Where officers grow rich by princes' pens,  
Where purchase comes, by covin and deceit,  
And no man dreads, but he that cannot shifted,  
Nor none serve God, but only tongtide men.  
Again I see, within my glass of Steel,  
But four estates, to serve each country Soil,  
The King, the Knight, the Peasant, & the Priest.  
The King should care for all the subjects still,  
The King should fight, for to defend the same,  
The Peasant he, should labour for their ease,  
And Priests should pray, for them & for themselves.   

But out alas, such mists do blear our eyes,  
And crystal gloss, doth glister so therewith,  
That Kings conceive, their care is wondrous great 
Kings.   
When as they beaten, their busy restless brains,  
To maintain pomp, and high triumphant sights,  
To feed their fill, of dainty delicates,  
To glad their hearts, with sight of pleasant sports,  
To fill their ears, with sound of instruments,  
To break with bit, the hot courageous horse,  
To deck their hauls, with sumptuous cloth of gold,  
To clothe themselves, with silks of strange devise,  
To search the rocks, for pearls & precious stones,  
To delve the ground, for mines of glistering gold:  
And never care, to maintain peace and rest,  
To yield relief, where needy lack appears,  
To stop one ear, until the poor man speak,  
To seem to sleep, when justice still doth wake,  
To guard their lands, from sudden sword and fire,  
To fear the cries of guiltless suckling babes,  
Whose ghosts may call, for vengeance on their blood,  
And stir the wrath, of mighty thundering jove.   

I speak not this, by any english king,  
Nor by our Queen, whose high for sight provides,  
That dire debate, is fled to foreign Realms,  
While we enjoy the golden fleece of peace.  
But there to turn my tale, from whence it came,  
In olden days, good kings and worthy dukes,  
(Who saw themselves, in glass of trusty Steel)  
Contented were, with pomps of little price,  
And set their thoughts, on regal government.   

An order was, when Rome did flourish most, 
Veleri max. lib. a. Cap. 3.   
That no man might triumph in stately wise,  
But such as had, with blows of bloody blade  
Five thousand foes in foughten field foredone.  
Now he that likes, to look in Crystal glass,  
May see proud pomps, in high triumphant wise,  
Where never blow, was dealt with enemy.   

When Sergius, devised first the mean  
To pen up fish, within the swelling flood,  
And so content his mouth with dainty fare,  
Then followed fast, excess on Prince's boards,  
And every dish, was charged with new conceits,  
To please the taste, of uncontented minds.  
But had he seen, the strain of strange devise,  
Which Epicures, do now adays invent,  
To yield good smack, unto their dainty tongues:  
Can he conceive, how princes paunch is filled  
With secret cause, of sickness (often) unseen,  
While lust desires, much more than nature craves,  
Then would he say, that all the Roman cost  
Was common trash, compared to sundry Sauce  
Which princes use, to pamper Appetite.   

O Crystal Glass, thou settest things to show,  
Which are (God knoweth) of little worth in deed.   

All eyes behold, with eager deep desire,  
The Falcon fly, the greyhound run his course,  
The baited Bul, and Bear at stately stake,  
These Enterluds, these new Italian sports,  
And every god, that glads the mind of man:  
But few regard, their needy neighbours lack,  
And few behold, by contemplation,  
The joys of heaven, ne yet the pains of hell.  
Few look to law, but all men gaze on lust.   

A sweet consent, of musics sacred sound,  
Doth raise our minds, (as rapt) all up on high,  
But sweeter sounds, of concord, peace, and love,  
Are out of tune, and jar in every stop.   

To toss and turn, the sturdy trampling stead,  
To bridle him, and make him meet to serve,  
Deserves (no doubt) great commendation.  
But such as have, their stables fuly fraught,  
With pampered jades, aught therewithal to weigh,  
What great excess, upon them may be spent,  
How many poor, (which need nor brake nor bit)  
Might therewith all, in godly wise be fed, 
Deut. ●●.   
And kings aught not, so many horse to have.   

The sumptuous house, declares the prince's state,  
But vain excess, bewrays a prince's faults.   

Our bombast hose, our triple double ruffs,  
Our suits of Silk, our comely guarded capes,  
Our knit silk stocks, and spanish leather shoes,  
(Yea velvet serves, oft-times to trample in)  
Our plumes, our spangs, and all our quaint array,  
Are prickingspurres, provoking filthy pride,  
And snares (unseen) which lead a man to hell.   

How live the Moors, which spurn at glistering pearl,  
And scorn the costs, which we do hold so dear?  
How? how but well? and wear the precious pearl  
Of peerless truth, amongst them published,  
(Which we enjoy, and never weigh the worth.)  
They would not then, the same (like us) despise,  
Which (though they lack) they live in better wise  
Than we, which hold, the worthless pearl so dear.   

But glittering gold, which many years lay hid,  
Till greedy minds, 'gan search the very guts  
Of earth and clay, to find out sundry moulds  
(As red and white, which are by melting made  
Bright gold and silver, metals of mischief)  
Hath now inflame, the noblest Princes hearts  
With foulest fire, of filthy Avarice,  
And seldom seen, that kings can be content  
To keep their bounds, which their forefathers left:  
What causeth this, but greedy gold to get?  
Even gold, which is, the very cause of wars,  
The nest of strife, and nurse of debate,  
The bar of heaven, and open way to hell.   

But is this strange? when Lords when Knights & Squires  
(Which aught defend, the state of common wealth)  
Are not afraid to covet like a King?  
O blind desire: o high aspiring hearts.  
The country Squire, doth covet to be Knight, 
Knights.   
The Knight a Lord, the Lord an Earl or a Duke,  
The Duke a King, the King would Monarch be,  
And none content, with that which is his own.  
Yet none of these, can see in Crystal glass  
(Which glistereth bright, & blears their gazing eyes)  
How every life, bears with him his disease.  
But in my glass, which is of trusty steel,  
I can perceive, how kingdoms breed but care,  
How Lordship lives, with lots of less delight,  
(Though cap and knee, do seem a reverence,  
And courtlike life, is thought an other heaven)  
Than common people find in every coast.   

The Gentleman, which might in country keep  
Aplenteous boor de, and feed the fatherless,  
With pig and goose, with mutton, beef and veal,  
(Yea now and then, a capon and a chick)  
Will break up house, and dwell in market towns,  
Aloytring life, and like an Epicure.   

But who (mean while) defends the common wealth?  
Who rules the flock, when shepherds so are fled?  
Who stays the staff, which should uphold the state?  
Forsooth good Sir, the Lawyer leapeth in,  
Nay rather leaps, both over hedge and ditch,  
And rules the roast, but few men rule by right.   

O Knights, O Squires, O Gentle bloods yborn,  
You were not borne, alonely for yourselves:  
Your country claims, some part of all your pains.  
There should you live, and therein should you toil,  
To hold up right, and banish cruel wrong,  
To help the poor, to bridle back the rich,  
To punish vice, and virtue to advance,  
To see God served, and Belzebub suppressed.  
You should not trust, lieftenaunts in your room,  
And let them sway, the sceptre of your charge,  
Whiles you (mean while) know scarcely what is done,  
Nor yet can yield, account if you were called.   

The stately lord, which wonted was to keep  
A court at home, is now come up to court,  
And leaves the country for a common prey,  
To pilling, polling, bribing, and deceit:  
(All which his presence might have pacified,  
Or else have made offenders smell the smoke.)   

And now the youth which might have served him,  
In comely wise, with country clotheses clad,  
And yet thereby been able to prefer  
Unto the prince, and there to seek advance:  
Is feign to cell, his lands for courtly clouts,  
Or else sits still, and liveth like a lout,  
(Yet of these two, the last fault is the less:)  
And so those imps which might in time have sprung  
Aloft (good lord) and served to shield the state,  
Are either nipped, with such untimely frosts,  
Or else grow crooked, because they be not pruned.   

These be the Knights, which should defend the land,  
And these be they, which leave the land at large.  
Yet here percase, it willbe thought I rove  
And run astray, besides the king's high way,  
Since by the Knights, of whom my text doth tell  
(And such as show, most perfect in my glass)  
Is meant no more, but worthy Soldiers  
Whose skilin arms, and long experience  
Should still uphold the pillars of the world.  
Yes out of doubt, this noble name of Knight,  
May comprehend, both Duke, earl, lord, Knight, Squire,  
Yea gentlemen, and every gentle borne.   

But if you will, constrain me for to speak  
What soldiers are, or what they aught to be  
(And I myself, of that profession)  
I see a crew, which glister in my glass,  
The bravest band, that ever yet was seen: 
Soldiers   
Behold behold, where Pompey comes before,  
Where Manlius, and Marius ensue,  
Aemilius, and Curius I see,  
Palamedes, and Fabius maximus,  
And eke their mate, Epaminondas lo,  
Protesilaus and Phocyan are not far,  
Pericles stands, in rank amongst the rest,  
Aristomenes, may not be forgot,  
Unless the list, of good men be disgraced.   

Behold (my lord) these soldiers can I spy  
Within my glass, within my true Steel glass.   

I see not one therein, which seeks to heap  
A world of pence, by pinching of dead pays, 
Covetous Soldiers   
And so beguiles, the prince in time of need,  
When muster day, and foughten field are odd.  
Since Pompey did, every the common heaps,  
And Paulus he, (Aemilius surnamed)  
Returned to Rome, no richer than he went,  
Although he had, so many lands subdued,  
And brought such treasure, to the common chests,  
That fourscore years, the state was (after) free  
From grievous task, and imposition.  
Yea since again, good Marcus Curius,  
Thought sacrilege, himself for to advance,  
And see his soldiers, poor or live in lack.   

I see not one, within this glass of mine,  
Whose feathers flaunt, and flicker in the wind, 
Soldiers more brave than valiant.   
As though he were, all only to be marked,  
When simple snakes, which go not half so gay,  
Can leave him yet a furlong in the field:  
And when the pride, of all his peacocks plumes,  
Is daunted down, with dastard dreadfulness.  
And yet in town, he jetted every street,  
Proud Crassus' bags, consumed by covetise,  
Great Alexander, drowned in drunkenness,  
Caesar and Pompey, spilled with privy grudge,  
Brennus beguiled, with lightness of belief,  
Cleômenes, by riot not regarded,  
Vespasian, disdained for deceit,  
Demetrius, light set by for his lust,  
Whereby at last, he died in prison penned.   

Hereto percase, some one man will allege,  
That Prince's pence, are pursed up so close,  
And fairs do fall so seldom in a year,  
That when they come, provision must be made  
To fiend the frost, in hardest winter nights.   

Indeed I find, within this glass of mine,  
justinian, that proud ungrateful prince, 
●ngrateful 〈◊〉.   
Which made to beg, bold Belisarius  
His trusty man, which had so stoutly fought  
In his defence, with every enemy.  
And Scypio, condemns the Roman rule,  
Which suffered him (that had so truly served)  
To lead poor life, at his (Lynternum) farm,  
Which did deserve, such worthy recompense.  
Yea herewithal, most Soldiers of our time,  
Believe for truth, that proud justinian  
Did never die, without good store of heirs.  
And Romans race, cannot be rooted out,  
Such issue springs, of such unpleasant buds,   

But shall I say? this lesson learn of me,  
When drums are dumb, and sound not dub a dub, 
What every soldier should be in time of peace.   
Then be thou eke, as mewet as a maid  
(I preach this sermon but to soldiers)  
And learn to live, within thy brauries bounds.  
Let not the Mercer, pull thee by the sleeve  
For suits of silk, when cloth may serve thy turn,  
Let not thy scores, come rob thy needy purse,  
Make not the catchpol, rich by thine arrest.   

Art thou a Gentle? live with gentle friends,  
Which will be glad, thy company to have,  
If manhood may, with manners well agreed.  
You have forgot, my greatest glory got.  
For yet (by me, nor mine occasion)  
Was never seen, a mourning garment worn.  
O noble words, well worthy golden writ.  
Believe me (Lord) a soldier cannot have  
Too great regard, whereon his knife should cut.   

Ne yet the men, which wonder at their wounds,  
And show their scars to every comer by, 
Bragger's and such as boast of their wounds.   
Dare once be seen, within my glass of Steel,  
For so the faults, of Thraso and his train,  
(Whom Terence told, to be but bragging brutes)  
Might soon appear, to every skilful eye.  
Bold Manlius, could close and well convey  
Full thirty wounds, (and three) upon his head,  
Yet never made, nor bones nor brags thereof.   

What should I speak, of drunken Soldiers?  
Or lechers lewd, which fight for filthy lust? 
Drunken and lecherous soldiers.   
Of whom that one, can sit and bybbe his fill,  
Consume his coin, (which might good courage yield,  
To such as march, and move at his command)  
And makes himself, a worthy mocking stock  
Which might deserve, (by sober life) great laud.  
That other dotes, and driveth forth his days  
In vain delight, and foul concupiscence,  
When works of weight, might occupy his head.  
Yea therewithal; he puts his own fond head  
Under the belt, of such as should him serve,  
And so becomes, example of much evil,  
Which should have served, as lantern of good life:  
And is controlled, whereas he should command.  
Augustus Caesar, he which might have made  
Both feasts and banquets bravely as the best,  
Was yet content (in camp) with homely cates,  
And seldom drank his wine unwatered.  
Aristomenes, deigned to defend  
His dames of prize, whom he in wars had won,  
And rather chose, to die in their defence,  
Then filthy men, should foil their chastity.  
This was a wight, well worthy fame and praise.   

O captains come, and Soldiers come apace,  
Be hold my glass, and you shall see therein,  
As though the god of wars (even Mars himself)  
Might well (by him) be lively counterfeit,  
Though much more like, the coward Constantine.  
I see none such, (my Lord) I see none such,  
Since Photion, which was in deed a Mars  
And one which did, much more than he would vaunt,  
Contented was to be but homely clad.  
And Marius, (whose constant heart could bide  
The very veins, of his forwearied legs  
To be both cut, and carved from his corpse)  
Can never yet, contented be to spend,  
One idle groat, in clothing nor in cates.   

I see not one, (my Lord) I see not one 
Soldiers who (for their own long continuance in service) do seem to despise all other of latter 〈◊〉, and especially such as are learned.   
Which stands somuch, upon his painted sheath  
(Because he hath, perchance at Bolleyn been  
And loitered, since then in idleness)  
That he accounts, no Soldier but himself,  
Nor one that can, despise the learned brain,  
Which joineth reading with experience.  
Since Palamedes, and Ulysses both,  
Were much esteemed for their policies  
Although they were not thought long trained men.  
Epamynondas, eke was much esteemed  
Whose Eloquence, was such in all respects,  
As gave no place, unto his manly heart.  
And Fabius, surnamed Maximus,  
Can join such learning, with experience,  
As made his name, more famous than the rest.   

These bloody beasts, appear not in my glass,  
Which cannot rule, their sword in furious rage, 
Soldiers over cruel without any regard.   
Nor have respect, to age nor yet to kind:  
But down goeth all, where they get upper hand.  
Whose greedy hearts so hungry are to spoil,  
That few regard; the very wrath of God,  
Which grieved is, at cries of guiltless blood.  
Pericles was, a famous man of war,  
And victor eke, in nine great foughten fields,  
Whereof he was the general in charge.  
Yet at his death he rather did rejoice  
In clemency, than bloody victory.  
Be still (quoth he) you grave Athenians,  
Who whispered, and told his valiant facts)   

Art thou a serving man? then serve again,  
And stint to steal as common soldiers do.   

Art thou a craftsman? take thee to thine art,  
And cast off sloth, which loytreth in the Camps.   

Art thou a ploughman pressed for a shift?  
Then learn to clout, thine old cast cobbled shoes,  
And rather bide, at home with barley bread,  
Than learn to spoil, as thou hast seen some do.   

Of truth (my friends, and my companions eke)  
Who lust, by wars to gather lawful wealth,  
And so to get, a right renowned name,  
Must cast aside, all common trades of war,  
And learn to live, as though he knew it not.   

Well, thus my Knight hath held me all to long,  
Because he bore, such compass in my glass.  
High time were then, to turn my weary pen,  
Unto the Peasant coming next in place.  
And here to writ, the sum of my conceit,  
I do not mean, alonely husbandmen,  
Which till the ground, which dig, delve, mow, and sow,  
Which swink and sweat, whiles we do sleep and snort  
And search the guts of earth, for greedy gain,  
But he that labours any kind of way. 
Peasant's   
To gather gains, and to enrich himself,  
By King, by Knight, by holy helping Priests,  
And all the rest, that live in common wealth,  
(So that his gains, by greediness be got)  
Him can I count, a Peasant in his place. 
Strange Peasant's   
All officers, all advocates at law,  
All men of art, which get goods greedily,  
Must be content, to take a Peasant's room.   

A strange devise, and sure my Lord will laugh,  
To see it so, desgested in degrees.  
But he which can, in office drudge, and droy,  
And crave of all, (although even now a days,  
Most officers, command that should be craved) 
Officers.   
He that can share, from every pension paid  
A Peter penny weighing half a pound,  
He that can pluck, sir Bennet by the sleeve,  
And find a fee, in his plurality,  
He that can wink, at any foul abuse,  
As long as gains, come trolling in therewith,  
Shall such come see themselves in this my glass?  
Or shall they gaze, as godly good men do?  
Yea let them come: but shall I tell you one thing?  
How ere their gowns, be gathered in the back,  
With organ pipes, of old king Henry's clampe,  
How ere their caps, be folded with a flap,  
How ere their beards, be clipped by the chin,  
How ere they ride, or mounted are on mules,  
I count them worse, than harmless homely hinds,  
Which toil in deed, to serve our common use.   

Strange tale to tell: all officers be blind,  
And yet their one eye, sharp as Lynceus sight,  
That one eye winks, as though it were but blind,  
That other pries and peekes in every place.  
Come naked need? and chance to do amiss?  
He shall be sure, to drink upon the whip.  
But privy gain, (that bribing busy wretch)  
Can find the means, to creep and couch so low,  
As officers 〈◊〉 never see him slide,  
Nor hear the trampling of his stealing steps.  
He comes (I think,) upon the blind side stil.   

These things (my Lord) my glass now sets to show,  
Whereas long since, all officers were seen  
To be men made, out of another mould.  
Epamynond, of whom I spoke before  
(Which was long time, an officer in Thebes)  
And toiled in peace, as well as fought in war,  
Would never take, or bribe, or rich reward.  
And thus he spoke, to such as sought his help:  
If it be good, (quoth he) that you desire,  
Then will I do, it for the virtues sake:  
If it be bad, no bribe can me infect. 
There are to few such officers.   
If so it be, for this my common weal,  
Then am I borne, and bound by duty both  
To see it done, withouten further words.  
But if it be, unprofitable thing,  
And might impair, offend, or yield annoy  
Unto the state, which I pretend to stay,  
Then all the gold (quoth he) that grows on earth  
Shall never tempt, my free consent thereto.   

How many now, will tread Zeleucus steps?  
Or who can bide, Cambyses cruel doom?  
Cruel? nay just, (yea soft and peace good sir)  
For justice sleeps, and Troth is jested out.   

O that all kings, would (Alexander like)  
Hold evermore, one finger straight stretched out,  
To thrust in eyes, of all their master thieves. 
●alse ●udges.    

But Brutus died, without posterity,  
And Marcus Crassus had none issue male,  
Cicero slipped, unseen out of this world,  
With many more, which pleaded roman pleas,  
And were content, to use their eloquence, 
〈◊〉.   
In maintenance, of matters that were good.  
Demosthenes, in Athens used his art,  
(Not for to heap, himself great hoards of gold,  
But) still to stay, the town from deep deceit  
Of Philip's wiles, which had besieged it.  
Where shall we read, that any of these four  
Did ever plead, as careless of the trial?  
Or who can say, they builded sumptuously?  
Or wrong the weak, out of his own by wiles?  
They were (I trow) of noble houses borne,  
And yet content, to use their best devoir,  
In furthering, each honest harmless cause.  
They did not rout (like rude unringed swine,)  
To root nobility from heritage.  
They stood content, with gain of glorious fame,  
(Because they had, respect to equity)  
To lead a life, like true Philosophers.  
Of all the bristle bearded Advocates  
That ever loved their fees above the cause,  
I cannot see, (scarce one) that is so bold  
To show his face, and feigned phisnomy  
In this my glass: but if he do (my Lord)  
He shows himself, to be by very kind  
A man which means, at every time and tide,  
To do small right, but sure to take no wrong.   

And master Merchant, he whose travail aught 
Merc●●●   
Commodiously, to do his country good,  
And by his toil, the same for to enrich,  
Can find the mean, to make Monopolies  
Of every ware, that is accounted strange.  
And feeds the vain, of courtiers vain desires  
Until the court, have courtiers cast at heel,  
Quia non habent vestes Nuptiales.   

O painted fools, whose harebrained heads must have  
Moore clotheses at once, than might become a king:  
For whom the rocks, in foreign Realms must spin,  
For whom they card, for whom they weave their webs  
For whom no wool, appeareth fine enough,  
(I speak not this by english courtiers  
Since english wool, was ever thought most worth)  
For whom all seas, are tossed to and fro,  
For whom these purples come from Persia,  
The crimson, and lively read from Ind:  
For whom soft silks, do sail from Sericane,  
And all quaint costs, do come from farthest coasts:  
While in mean while, that worthy Emperor, 
August. 9   
Which ruled the world, and had all wealth at will,  
Can be content, to tire his weary wife,  
His daughters and, his niepces everichone,  
To spin and work the clotheses that he should wear,  
And never card, for silks or sumptuous cost,  
For cloth of gold, or tinsel figurie,  
For Baudkin, broydrie, cutworks, nor conceits.  
He set the ships, of merchantmen on work,  
With bringing home, oil, grain, and saurie salt  
And such like wares, as served common use.   

Yea for my life, those merchants were not wont  
To lend their wares, at reasonable rate,  
(To gain no more, but Cento por cento,)  
To teach young men, the trade to sell brown paper,  
Yea Morris bells, and billets too sometimes,  
To make their coin, a net to catch young fry.  
To bind such babes, in father derbi's bands,  
To stay their steps, by statute Staples staff,  
To rule young roisters, with Recognisance,  
To read Arithmetic once every day,  
In Woodstreat, Bredstreat, and in Pultery  
(Where such schoolmasters keep their counting house  
To feed on bones, when flesh and fell is on,  
And yet be cumbered with a concubine.   

Not one of these, will read the holy writ  
Which doth forbidden, all greedy usury,  
And yet receive, a shilling for a pound.   

Not one of these, will preach of patience,  
And yet be found, as angry as a wasp,   

Not one of these, can be content to sit  
In Taverns, Inns, or Alehouses all day,  
But spends his time, devoutly at his book.   

Not one of these, will rail at ruler's wrongs,  
And yet be blotted, with extortion.   

Not one of these, will paint out worldly pride,  
And he himself, as gallant as he dare.   

Not one of these, rebuketh avarice,  
And yet procureth, proud pluralities.   

Not one of these, reproveth vanity  
(While he himself, with hawk upon his fist  
And hounds at heel,) doth quite forget his text.   

Not one of these, corrects contentions,  
For trifling things: and yet will sue for tithes.   

Not one of these (not one of these my Lord)  
Will be ashamed, to do even as he teacheth.   

My priests have learned, to pray unto the Lord,  
And yet they trust not in their lyplabour.   

My priests can fast, and use all abstinence,  
From vice and sin, and yet refuse no meats.   

My priests can give, in charitable wise,  
And love also, to do good alms deeds,  
Although they trust, not in their own deserts.   

My priests can place, all penance in the heart,  
Without regard, of outward ceremonies.   

That Physic, thrive not over fast by murder:  
That Numbering men, in all their evens and odds  
Do not forget, that only Unity  
Unmeasurable, infinite, and one.  
That Geometry, measure not so long,  
Till all their measures out of measure be:  
That Music with, his heavenly harmony,  
Do not allure, a heavenly mind from heaven,  
Nor set men's thoughts, in worldly melody,  
Till heavenly Hierarchies be quite forgot:  
That Rhetoric, learn not to overreach:  
That Poetry, presume not for to preach,  
And bite men's faults, with satires corrosives,  
Yet pamper up her own with poultices:  
Or that she dote not upon Erato,  
Which should invoke the good Calliope:  
That Astrology, look not over high,  
And light (mean while) in every puddled pit:  
That Grammar grudge not at our english tongue,  
Because it stands by Monosyllaba,  
And cannot be declind as others are.  
Pray thus (my priests for universities.  
And if I have forgotten any Art,  
Which hath been taught, or exercised there,  
Pray you to god, the good be not abused,  
With glorious show, of overloding skill.   

Now these be past, (my priests) yet shall you pray  
For common people, each in his degree,  
That God vouchsafe to grant them all his grace. 
For the Coninaltie   
Where should I now begin to bid my beads?  
Or who shall first be put in common place?  
My wits be weary, and my eyes are dim,  
I cannot see who best deserves the room,  
Stand forth good Peerce, thou ploughman by thyname,  
Yet so the Sailor saith I do him wrong:  
That one contends, his pains are without pear,  
That other saith, that none be like to his,  
In deed they labour both exceedingly.  
But since I see no shipman that can live  
Without the plough, and yet I many see  
(Which live by land) that never saw the seas:  
Therefore I say, stand forth Peerce ploughman first,  
Thou winst the room, by very worthiness.   

Behold him (priests) & though he stink of sweat 
〈◊〉 〈◊〉   
Disdain him not: for shall I tell you what?  
Such clime to heaven, before the shaven crowns.  
But how? forsooth, with true humility.  
Not that they hoard, their grain when it is cheap,  
Nor that they kill, the calf to have the milk,  
Nor that they set, debate between their lords,  
By ear-ring up the balks, that part their bounds:  
Nor for because, they can both crouch & creep  
(The guilefulst men, that ever God yet made)  
When as they mean, most mischief and deceit,  
Nor that they can, cry out on landlords loud,  
And say they rack, their rents an ace to high,  
When they themselves, do sell their landlord's lamb  
For greater price, than ewe was wont be worth.  
I see you Peerce, my glass was lately scowrde.  
But for they feed, with fruits of their great pains,  
Both King and Knight, and priests in cloister penned:  
Therefore I say that sooner some of them  
Shall scale the walls which lead us up to heaven,  
Than cornfed beasts, whose belly is their God,  
Although they preach, of more perfection.   

And yet (my priests) pray you to God for Peerce,  
As Peerce can pinch, it out for him and you.  
And if you have a Paternoster spare  
Then shall you pray, for Sailors (God them sand  
Moore mind of him, when as they come to land,  
For toward shipwreck, many men can pray)  
That they once learn, to speak without a lie,  
And mean good faith, without blaspheming oaths:  
That they forget, to steal from every freight,  
And for to forge, false cockets, free to pass,  
That manners make, them give their betters place,  
And use good words, though deeds be nothing gay.  
But here me thinks, my priests begin to frown,  
And say, that thus they shall be overcharged,  
To pray for all, which seem to do amiss:  
And one I hear, more saucy than the rest,  
Which asketh me, when shall our prayers end?  
I tell thee (priest) when shoemakers make shoes,  
That are well sowed, with never a stitch amiss,  
And use no craft, in uttering of the same:  
When Tailors steal, no stuff from gentlemen,  
When Tanners are, with Corriers well agreed,  
And both so dress their hides, that we go dry:  
when Cutlers leave, to sell old rusty blades,  
And hide no cracks, with solder nor deceit:  
when tinkers make, no more holes than they found,  
when thatchers think, their wages worth their work,  
when colliers put, no dust into their sacks,  
when maltemen make, us drink no firmentie,  
when Davie Diker digs, and dallies not,  
when smiths shoe horses, as they would he shod,  
when millers, toll not with a golden thumb,  
when bakers make, not barm bear price of wheat,  
when brewers put, no baggage in their beer,  
when butchers blow, not over all their flesh,  
when horse-coursers, beguile no friends with jades,  
when weavers weight, is found in housewives web.  
(But why dwell I, so long among these lowts?)   

When mercers make, more bones to swear and lie,  
When vintners mix, no water with their wine,  
When printers pass, none errors in their books,  
When hatter's use, to buy none old cast robes,  
When goldsmiths get, no gains by soldered crowns,  
When upholsters, sell feathers without dust,  
When pewterers, infect no Tin with lead,  
When drapers draw, no gains by giving day,  
When perchmentiers, put in no ferret Silk,  
When Surgeons heal, all wounds without delay.  
(Tush these are toys, but yet my glass showeth al.)   

When purveyors, provide not for themselves,  
When Takers, take no bribes, nor use no brags,  
When customers, conceal no covine used,  
When Seachers see, all corners in a ship,  
(And spy no pens by any sight they see)  
When shreeves do serve, all process as they aught,  
When bailiffs strain, none other thing but strays,  
When auditors, their counters cannot change,  
When proud surveyors, take no parting pens,  
When Silver sticks not on the Tellers fingers,  
And when receivers, pay as they receive,  
When all these folk, have quite forgotten fraud.   

(Again (my priests) a little by your leave)  
When sycophants, can find no place in court,  
But are espied, for Echoes, as they are,  
When roisters ruffle not above their rule,  
Nor colour craft, by swearing precious coals:  
When Fencers fees, are like to apes rewards,  
A piece of bread, and therewithal a bob  
When Lays lives, not like a lady's pear,  
Nor useth art, in dying of her hear.  
When all these things, are ordered as they aught,  
And see themselves, within my glass of steel,  
Even then (my priests) may you make holiday,  
And pray no more but ordinary prayers.   

And yet therein, I pray you (my good priests)  
Pray still for me, and for my Glass of steel  
That it (nor I) do any mind offend,  
Because we show, all colours in their kind.  
And pray for me, that (since my hap is such  
To see men so) I may perceive myself.  
O worthy words, to end my worthless verse,  
Pray for me Priests, I pray you pray for me.   
FINIS. Tam Marti, quàm Mercurio.   

EPILOGUS.  

ALas (my lord) my haste was all to hot,  
I shut my glass, before you gazed your fill,  
And at a glimpse, my silly self have spied,  
A stranger troop, than any yet were seen:  
Behold (my lord) what monsters muster here,  
With Angel's face, and harmful hellish hearts,  
With smile looks, and deep deceitful thoughts,  
With tender skins, and stony cruel minds,  
With stealing steps, yet forward feet to fraud.  
Behold, behold, they never stand content,  
With God, with kind, with any help of Art,  
But curl their locks, with bodkins & with braids,  
But die their hear, with sundry subtle sleights,  
But paint and slick, till fairest face be foul,  
But bombast, bolster, frisle, and perfume:  
They mar with musk, the balm which nature made,  
And dig for death, in dellicatest dishes.  
The younger sort, come piping on apace,  
In whistles made offine enticing wood,  
Till they have caught, the birds for whom they birded.  
The elder sort, go stately stalking on,  
And on their backs, they bear both land and fee,  
Castles and Towers, revenues and receipts,  
Lordships, and manors, fines, yea fermes and al.  
What should these be? (speak you my lovely lord)  
They be not men: for why? they have no beards.  
They be no boys, which wear such side long gowns.  
They be no Gods, for all their gallant gloss.  
They be no devils, (I trow) which seem so saintish.  
What be they? women? masking in men's weeds?  
With dutchkin doublets, and with jerkins iaggde?  
With Spanish spangs, and ruffs fet out of France,  
With high copt hats, and feathers flaunt a flaunt?  
They be so sure even Woe to Men in deed.  
Nay then (my lord) let shut the glass apace,  
High time it were, for my poor Muse to wink,  
Since all the hands, all paper, pen, and ink,  
Which ever yet, this wretched world possessed,  
Cannot describe, this Sex in colours dew,  
Not no (my Lord) we gazed have enough,  
(And I too much, God pardon me therefore)  
Better look of, than look an ace to far:  
And better mum, than meddle overmuch.  
But if my Glass, do like my lovely lord,  
We will espy, some sunny summers day,  
To look again, and see some seemly sights.  
Mean while, my Muse, right humbly doth beseech,  
That my good lord, accept this venturous verse,  
Until my brains, may better stuff devise.   
FINIS: Tam Marti, quàm Mercurio.   

The complaint of Phylomene. An Elegy compiled by George Gascoigne Esquire.  Tam Marti, quàm Mercurio. 
IMPRINTED AT London by Henry Binneman, for Richard Smith.  
Anno Domini 1576.   

To the right honourable, my singular good Lord, the L. Grace of Wilton, Knight of the most noble order of the Garter.  
Right noble, when I had determined with myself to writ the Satire before recited (called the Steel Glass) and had in mine Exordium (by allegory) compared my case to that of fair Phylomene, abused by the bloody king her brother by law: I called to mind that twelve or thirteen years past, I had begun an Elegy or sorrowful song, called the Complaint of Phylomene, the which I began too devise riding by the high way between Chelmisford and London, and being overtaken with a sudden dash of Rain, I changed my copy, and struck over into the Deprofundis which is placed amongst my other Poesies, leving the complaint of Phylomene unfinished: and so it hath continued ever since until this present month of April. 1575. when I begun my Steel Glass. And because I have in mine Exordium to the Steel Glass, begun with the Nightingales notes: therefore I have not thought amiss now to finish & piece up the said Complaint of Philomene, observing nevertheless the same determinate invention which I had propounded and begun (as is said) twelve years now past. The which I presume with the rest to present unto your honour, nothing doubting but the same will accept my good intent therein. And I further beseech that your lordship will vouchsafe in reading there of, to guess (by change of style) where the renewing of the verse may be most apparently thought to begin. I will no further trouble your honour with these rude lines, but beseech of the almighty long to preserve you to his pleasure. From my poor house in Walkamstowe the sixteenth of April 1575.  
Your L. bounden and most assured George Gascoigne.   

PHILOMENE.  

IN sweet April, the messenger to May  
When hoonie drops, do melt in golden showers,  
When every bird, records her lovers lay,  
And western winds, do foster forth our flowers,  
Late in an even, I walked out alone,  
To hear the descant of the Nightingale,  
And as I stood, I heard her make great moan,  
Waymenting much, and thus she told her tale.   

These thriftless birds (quoth she) which spend the day,  
In nedlesse notes, and chant withouten skill,  
Are costly kept, and finely fed always  
With dainty food, whereof they feed theirfil.  
But I which spend, the dark and dreadful night,  
In watch & ward, when those birds take their rest,  
Forpine myself, that Lovers might delight,  
To hear the notes, which break out of my breast.  
I lead a life, to please the lovers mind,  
(And though god wots, my food be light of charge,  
Yet silly soul, that can no favour find)  
I beg my bread, and seek for seeds at large.  
The Throstle she, which makes the wood to ring  
With shryching loud, that loath some is to hear,  
Is costly kept, in cage: (O wondrous thing)  
The Mavis eke, whose notes are nothing clear,  
Now in good sooth (quoth she) sometimes I weep  
To see Tom Tyttimouse, so much set by.  
The Finche, which singeth never a note but peep,  
Is fed aswell, nay better far than I  
The Jennet and the Lark, they sing aloft,  
And counted are, as Lords in high degree.  
The Brandlet saith, for singing sweet and soft,  
(In her conceit) there is none such as she.  
Canara birds, come in to bear the bell,  
And Goldfinches, do hope to get the goal:  
The tattling Awbe doth please some fancy well,  
And some like best, the bird as Black as coal.  
And yet could I, if so it were my mind,  
For harmony, set all these babes to school,  
And sing such notes, as might in every kind  
Disgrace them quite, & make their courage cool.  
But should I so? no not so will I not.  
Let brutish beasts, hear such brute birds as those.  
(For like to like, the prover be saith I wots)  
And should I then, my cunning skill disclose?  
For such unkind, as let the cukowe fly,  
To suck mine eggs, whiles I sit in the thick?  
And rather praise, the chattering of a pie,  
Than her that sings, with breast against a prick?  
Nay let them go, to mark the cuckoos talk,  
The jangling jay, for that becomes them well.  
And in the silent night then let them walk,  
To hear the Owl, how she doth shryche and yell.  
And from henceforth, I will no more constrain  
My pleasant voice, to sound, at their request.  
But shroud myself, in dark some night & rain,  
And learn to couch, full close upon my nest.  
Yet if I chance, at any time (percase)  
To sing a note, or twain for my disport,  
It shallbe done, in some such secret place,  
That few or none, may there unto resort.  
These flatterers, (in love) which falsehood mean,  
Not once approach, to hear my pleasant song.  
But such as true, and stead fast lovers been,  
Let them come near, for else they do me wrong.  
And as I guess, not many miles from hence,  
There stands a squire, with pangs of sorrow priest,  
For whom I dare, avow (in his defence)  
He is as true, (in Love) as is the best.   

Him will I cheer, with chanting all this night:  
And with that word, she 'gan to clear her throat.  
But such a lively song (now by this light)  
Yet never heard I such another note.  
It was (thought me) so pleasant and so plain,  
Orphaeus harp, was never half so sweet,  
Tereu, Tereu, and thus she 'gan to plain,  
Most piteously, which made my heart to grieve,   

Her second note, was fie, fie, fie, fie, fie,  
And that she did, in pleasant wise repeat,  
With sweet reports, of heavenly harmony,  
But yet it seemed, her gripes of grief were great.  
For when she had, so song and taken breath,  
Then should you hear, her heavy heart so throb,  
As though it had been, overcome with death,  
And yet always, in every sigh and sob,   

She showed great skill, for tunes of unisone,  
Her jug, jug, jug, (in grief) had such a grace.  
Then stinted she, as if her song were done.  
And ere that past, not full a furlong space,  
She 'gan again, in melody to melt,  
And many a note, she warbled wondrous well.  
Yet can I not (although my heart should swelled)  
Remember all, which her sweet tongue did tell.   

But one strange note, I noted with the rest  
And that said thus: Nêmesis, Némesis,  
The which me thought, came boldly fro her breast,  
As though she blamed, (thereby) some thing amiss.   

Short tale to make, her singing sounded so,  
And pleased mine ears, with such variety,  
That (quite forgetting all the weary woe,  
Which I myself felt in my fantasy)  
I stood astonied, and yet therewith content,  
Wishing in heart that (since I might advance,  
Of all her speech to know the plain intent,  
Which grace herself, or else the Gods did grant)  
I might therewith, one further favour crave,  
To understand, what her sweet notes might mean.  
And in that thought, (my whole desire to have)  
I fell on sleep, as I on staff did lean.  
And in my slumber, had I such a sight,  
As yet to think thereon doth glad my mind.  
Me thought I saw a darling of delight,  
A stately Nymph, a dame of heavenly kind.  
Whose glittering gite, so glimsed in mine eyes,  
As (yet) I not, what proper hue it bore,  
Ne therewithal, my wits can weldevise,  
To whom I might her lovely looks compare.  
But truth to tell, (for all her smile cheer)  
She cast sometimes, a grievous frowning glance,  
As who would say: by this it may appear,  
That Just revenge, is priest for every chance,  
In her right hand, (which to and fro did shake)  
She bore a scourge, with many a knotty string,  
And in her left, a snaffle Bitten or broke,  
Bebost with gold, and many a jingling ring:  
She came apace, and stately did she stay,  
And whiles I seemed, amazed very much,  
The courteous dame, these words to me did say:  
Sir Squire (quoth she) since thy desire is such,  
To understand, the notes of Phylomene,  
(For so she height, whom thou call'st Nightingale)  
And what the sound, of every note might mean,  
Give ear a while, and harken to my tale.   

The Gods are good, they hear the hearty prayers,  
Of such as crave without a crafty will,  
With favour eke, they further such affairs,  
As tend to good, and mean to do none ill.  
And since thy words, were grounded on desire,  
Whereby much good, and little harm can grow,  
They granted have, the thing thou didst require,  
And lovingly, have sent me here by low,  
To paraphrase, the piteous pleasant notes,  
Which Phylomene, doth darkly spend in spring,  
For he that well, Dan Nasoes verses notes,  
Shall find my words to be no feigned thing.  
Give ear (sir Squire quoth she) and I will, tell  
Both what she was, and how her fortunes fel.   

The fable of Philomela.  

IN Athens reignde sometimes,  
A king of worthy fame,  
Who kept in court a stately train,  
Pandion was his name.   

And had the Gods him given,  
No holly bread of hap,  
(I mean such fruits as make men think  
They lie in fortune's lap)   

Then had his golden gifts,  
lain dead with him in tomb,  
Ne but himself had none endured,  
The danger of his doom.   

But smile luck, bewitched,  
This peerless Prince to think,  
That poison cannot be conveyed  
In draughts of pleasant drink.   

And kind become so kind,  
That he two daughters had,  
Of beauty such & so well given,  
As made their father glad.   

See: see: how highest harms,  
Do lurk in ripest joys,  
How covertly doth sorrow shroud,  
In trymmest worldly toys.   

These jewels of his joy,  
Become his cause of care,  
And beauty was the guileful bait,  
Which caught their lives in Snare.   

For Tereus' Lord of Thrace,  
Because he came of kings,  
(So: weddings made for worldly wealth  
Do seem triumphant things)   

Was thought a worthy match,  
Pandion's heir to wed:  
Whose eldest daughter chosen was,  
To serve this king in bed.   

That virgin Progne height,  
And she by whom I mean,  
To tell this woeful Tragedy,  
Was called Phylomene.   

¶ The wedding rites performed,  
The feasting done and passed,  
To Thrace with his new wedded spouse  
He turneth at the last.   

Where many days in mirth,  
And jollity they spent,  
Both satisfied with deep delight,  
And cloyed with all content.   

¶ At last the dame desired  
Her sister for to see,  
Such coals of kindly love did seem  
Within her breast to be.   

She prays her Lord, of grace,  
He grants to her request,  
And hoist up sail, to seek the coast,  
Where Phylomene doth rest.   

He passed the foaming seas,  
And finds the pleasant port,  
Of Athens town, which guided him  
To King Pandion's court.   

There: (lovingly received,  
And) welcomed by the king,  
He showed the cause, which thither then  
Did his ambassade bring.   

His father him embraced,  
His sister kissed his cheek,  
〈◊〉 all the court his coming was  
Rejoiced of every Greek.   

O see the sweet deceit,  
Which blindeth worldly wits.  
How common people's love by lumps,  
And fancy comes by fits.   

The foe in friendly wise,  
Is many times embraced,  
And he which means most faith & troth  
By grudging is disgraced.   

¶ Fair Phylomene came forth  
In comely garments clad,  
As one whom news of sister's health  
Had moved to be glad,   

Or woman's will (perhaps)  
Inflame her haughty heart,  
To get more grace by crumbs of cost,  
And princke it out her part.   

Whom he no sooner saw  
(I mean this Thracian prince)  
But straight therewith his fancies fume  
All reason did convince.   

And as the blazing brand,  
Might kindle rotten reeds:  
Even so her look a secret flame,  
Within his bosom breeds.   

He thinks alley sure long  
Till he (with her) were gone,  
And her he makes to move the mirth,  
Which after made her moan.   

love made him eloquent  
And if he craved too much,  
He then excused himself, and said  
That Progne's words were such.   

His tears confirmed all  
Tears: like to sister's tears,  
As who should say by these few drops  
Thy sister's grief appears.   

So finely could he sane,  
Thàt wickedness seemed wit,  
And by the laud of his pretence,  
His lewdness was acquit.   

Yea Phylomene set forth  
The force of his request,  
And craved (with sighs) her father's leave  
To be hirsisters guest.   

And hung about his neck  
And collingly him kissed,  
And for her wealth did seek the woe  
Whereof she little witted.   

Mean while stood Tereus,  
Beholding their affects,  
And made those pricks (for his desire)  
A spur in all respects.   

And wished himself her sire,  
When she her sire embraced,  
For neither kith nor kin could then  
Have made his meaning chaste.   

¶ The Graecian king had not  
The power for to denay,  
His own dear child, & son in law  
The thing that both did pray.   

And down his daughter falls,  
To thank him on her knee,  
Supposing that for good success,  
Which hardest hap must be.   

But (lest my tale seem long,)  
Their shipping is prepared:  
And to the shore this aged Greek,  
Full princely did them guard.   

There (melting into moan)  
He used this parting speech:  
Daughter (quoth he) you have desire  
Your sister's court to seech.   

Your sister seems like wise,  
Your company to crave,  
That crave you both, & Tereus here  
The self same thing would have.   

Ne could I more withstand  
So many deep desires,  
But this (quoth he) remember all)  
Your father you requires,   

And thee (my son of Thrace,)  
I constantly conjure,  
By faith, by kin, by men, by gods,  
And all that seemeth sure,   

That father like, thou fiend  
My daughter dear from scathe,  
And (since I count all leisure long)  
Return her to me rathe.   

And thou my Phylomene,  
(Quoth he) come soon again,  
Thy sister's absence puts thy sire,  
To too much privy pain,   

Herewith he kissed her cheek,  
And sent a second kiss  
For Progne's part: and (bathed with tears)  
His daughter doth he bliss.   

And took the Thracyan hand,  
For token of his truth,  
Who rather laughed his tears to scorn,  
Than wept with him for ruth.   

The sails are fully spread,  
And winds did serve at will,  
And forth this traitor king conveys  
His pray in prison still.   

Ne could the Barbarous blood,  
Conceal his filthy fire,  
hay: Victory (quoth he) my ship  
Is fraught with my desire.   

Wherewith he fixed his eyes,  
Upon her fearful face.  
And still beheld her gestures all,  
And all her gleams of grace.   

Ne could he look a side,  
But like the cruel cat  
Which gloating casteth many a glanc  
Upon the silly rat.   

¶ Why hold I long discourse?  
They now are come on land,  
And forth of ship the fearful wench  
He leadeth by the hand   

Unto a silly shroud,  
A sheepcote closely built  
Amid the woodds, where many a lamb  
Their guiltless blood had spilled,   

There (like a lamb,) she stood,  
And asked with trembling voice,  
Where Progne was, whose only sight  
Might make her to rejoice.   

Wherewith this caitiff king  
His lust in lewdness leapt,  
And with his filthy fraud full fast  
This simple maid entrapped.   

And forth he flung the rains,  
Vnbridling blind desire,  
And meant of her chaste mind to make  
A fuel for his fire.   

And all alone (alone)  
With force he her suppressed,  
And made her yield the wicked weed  
Whose flower he liked best.   

What could the virgin do?  
She could not run away,  
Whose forward feet, his harmful hands  
With furious force did stay.   

Alas what should she fight?  
Few women win by fight:  
Her weapons were but weak (god knows)  
And he was much of might.   

It booted not to cry,  
Since help was none at hand,  
And still before her fearful face,  
Her cruel foe did stand.   

And yet she (weeping) cried,  
Upon her sister's name,  
Her fathers, and her brothers (o)  
Whose fact did foil her fame.   

And on the Gods she called,  
For help in her distress,  
But all in vain: he wrought his will,  
Whose lust was not the less.   

¶ The filthy fact once done,  
He gave her leave to greet.  
And there she sat much like a bird,  
New scaped from falcons feet,   

Whose blood embrues herself,  
And sits in sorry plight,  
Ne dare she prune her plumes again,  
But fears a second flight.   

At last when heart came home,  
Discheveld as she sat,  
With hands upheld, she tried her tongue,  
To wreak her woeful fate.   

O Barbarous Greek (quoth she)  
By Barbarous deeds disgraced,  
Could no kind coal, nor pities spark,  
Within thy breast be placed?   

Can not my father's hests,  
Nor my most ruthful tears,  
My maydenhoode, nor thine own yoke,  
Affright thy mind with fears?   

Can not my sister's love  
Once quench thy filthy lust?  
Thou foilst us all, and eke thyself,  
We grieved, and thou unjust.   

By thee I have defiled  
My dearest sisters bed  
By thee I count the life but lost,  
Which too too long I led.   

By thee (thou Bigamus)  
Our father's grief must grow,  
Who daughters twain, (& two too much)  
Upon thee did bestow.   

But since my fault, thy fact,  
My father's just offence,  
My sister's wrong, with my reproach,  
I cannot so dispense.   

If any Gods be good  
If right in heaven do reign,  
If right or wrong may make revenge,  
Thou shalt be paid again.   

And (wicked) do thy worst,  
Thou canst no more but kill:  
And o that death (before this guilt)  
Had overcome my william.   

Then might my soul beneath,  
Have triumphed yet and said,  
That though I died discontent,  
I lived and died a maid.   

¶ Herewith her swelling sobs,  
Did tie her tongue from talk,  
While yet the Thracian tyrant (there)  
To hear these words did walk.   

And scornfully he cast  
At her a frowning glance,  
Which made the maid tostrive for speech,  
And stertling from her trance,   

¶ I will revenge (quoth she)  
For here I shake off shame,  
And will (my self) bewray this fact  
Thereby to foil thy fame.   

A mid the thickest throngs  
(If I have leave to go)  
I will pronounce this bloody deed,  
And blot thine honour so.   

If I in deserts dwell,  
The woods, my words shall hear,  
The holts, the hills, the craggy rocks,  
Shall witness with me bear.   

I will so fill the air  
With noise of this thine act,  
That gods and men in heaven and earth  
Shall note thy naughty fact.   

¶ These words amazed the king.  
Conscience with choler strove.  
But rage so rack his restless thought,  
That now he 'gan to rave.   

And from his sheath a knife  
Full despratly he draws,  
Wherewith he cut the guiltless tongue  
Out of her tender jaws.   

The tongue that rubd his gall,  
The tongue that told but truth,  
The tongue that moved him to be mad,  
And should have moved ruth.   

And from his hand with spite  
This trusty tongue he cast,  
Whose root, and it (to wreak this wrong  
Did wag yet wondrous fast.   

So stirs the serpent's tail  
When it is cut in twain,  
And so it seems that weakest wills,  
(By words) would ease their pain.   

I blush to tell this tale,  
But sure best books say this:  
That yet the butcher did not blush  
Her bloody mouth to kiss.   

And oft her bulk embraced,  
And ofter quenched the fire,  
Which kindled had the furnace first,  
Within his soul desire.   

Not herewithal content,  
To Progne home he came,  
Who asked him straight of Philomene:  
He (feigning grief for game,)   

Burst out in bitter tears,  
And said the dame was dead,  
And falsely told, what weary life  
Her father (for her) led.   

The Thracian Queen cast off  
Her gold, and gorgeous weed,  
And dressed in dole, bewailed her death  
Whom she thought dead in deed.   

A sepulchre she builds  
(But for a living corpse,)  
And prayed the gods on sister's soul  
To take a just remorse:   

And offered sacrifice,  
To all the powers above.  
Ah traitorous Thracian Tereus,  
This was true force of love.   

¶ The heavens had whirled about  
Twelve years in order due  
And twelve times every flower and plant,  
Their liveries did renew,   

Whiles Philomene full close  
In shepcote still was clapped,  
Enforced to bide by stony walls  
Which fast (in hold) her happed.   

And as those walls forbade  
Her feet by flight to scape,  
So was her tongue (by knife) restrained,  
For to reveal this rape   

No remedy remained,  
But only woman's wit,  
Which suddenly in queintest chance  
Can best itself acquit.   

And Misery (amongst)  
Ten thousand mischiefs more,  
Learns policy in practices,  
As proof makes men to know.   

With curious needle work,  
A garment 'gan she make,  
Wherein she wrote what bale she bode,  
And all for beauties sake.   

This garment 'gan she give  
To trusty Servants hand,  
Who straight cō●●id it to the queen  
Of Thracian tyrants land.   

When Progne read the writ,  
(A wondrous tale to tell)  
She kept it close: though malice made  
Her venging heart to swell.   

And did defer the deed,  
Till time and place might serve,  
But in her mind a sharp revenge,  
She fully did reserve.   

O silence seldom seen,  
That women counsel keep,  
The cause was this, she waked her wits  
And lullde her tongue on sleep.   

I speak against my sex,  
So have I done before,  
But truth is truth, and must be told  
Though danger keep the door.   

The third years rites renewed,  
Which Bacchus to belong,  
And in that night the queen prepares  
Revenge for all her wrong.   

She (girt in Bacchus gite)  
With sword herself doth arm,  
With wreaths of vines about her brows  
And many a needle's charm.   

And forth in fury flings,  
Her handmaids following fast,  
Until with hasty steps she found  
The sheepcote at the last,   

There howling out aloud,  
As Bacchus' priests do cry,  
She broke the doors, and found the place  
Where Philomene did lie.   

And took her out by force,  
And dressed her Bacchus like,  
And hide her face with boughs and leaves  
(For being known by like.)   

And brought her to her house,  
But when the wretch it knew,  
That now again she was so near  
To Tereus' untrue.   

She trembled est for dread,  
And looked like ashes pale.  
But Progne (now in privy place)  
Set silence all to sale,   

And took the garments off,  
Discovering first her face,  
And sister like did lovingly  
Fair Phylomene embrace.   

There she (by shame abashed)  
Held down her weeping eyes,  
As who should say: Thy right (by me)  
Is refte in wrongful wise.   

And down on ground she falls,  
Which ground she kissed her fill,  
As witness that the filthy fact  
Was done against her wil   

And cast her hands to heaven,  
In steed of tongue to tell,  
What violence the lecher used,  
And how he did her quell.   

Wherewith the Queen broke off  
Her piteous piercing plaint,  
And swore with sword (not tears) to venge  
The craft of this constraint.   

Or if (quoth she) there be  
Some other mean more sure,  
Moore stern, more stout, than naked sword  
Some mischief to procure,   

I swear by all the Gods,  
I shall the same embrace,  
To wreak this wrong with bloody hand  
Upon the king of Thrace.   

Ne will I spare to spend  
My life in sister's cause,  
In sisters? ah what said I wretch?  
My wrong shall lend me laws.   

I will the palace burn,  
With all the prince's pelf,  
And in the midst of flaming fire,  
Will cast the king himself.   

I will scrat out those eyes,  
That taught him first to lust,  
Or tear his tongue from traitor's throat,  
O that revenge were just.   

Or let me carve with knife,  
The wicked Instrument,  
Wherewith he, thee, and me abused  
(I am to mischief bend.)   

Or sleeping let me seek  
To send the soul to hell,  
Whose barbarous bones for filthy force,  
Did seem to bear the bell.   

¶ These words and more in rage  
Pronounced by this dame,  
Her little son came leaping in  
Which Itis had to name.   

Whose presence, could not please  
For (viewing well his face,)  
Ah wretch (quoth she) how like he groweth  
Unto his father's grace.   

And therewithal resolved  
A rare revenge in deed  
Whereon to think (withouten words)  
My woeful heart doth bleed.   

But when the lad lokt up;  
And cheerfully did smile,  
And hung about his mother's neck  
With easy weight there while,   

And kissed (as children use)  
His angry mother's cheek,  
Her mind was moved to much remorse  
And mad become full meek.   

Ne could she tears refrain,  
But wept against her will,  
Such tender rewth of innocence,  
Her cruel mood did kill.   

At last (so fury wrought)  
Within her breast she felt,  
That too much pity made her mind  
Too womanlike to melt,   

And saw her sister sit,  
With heavy heart and cheer,  
And now on her, and then on him,  
Full lowringly did leer,   

Into these words she burst  
(Quoth she) why flatters he?  
And why again (with tongue cut out)  
So sadly sitteth she?   

He, mother, mother calls,  
She sister cannot say,  
That one in earnest doth lament,  
That other whines in play.   

pandion's line (quoth she)  
Remember still your race,  
And never mark the subtle shows  
Of any Soul in Thrace.   

You should degenerate,  
I fright revenge you slake,  
Moore right revenge can never be,  
Than this revenge to make.   

All ill that may be thought,  
All mischief under skies,  
Were piety compared to that  
Which Tereus did devise.   

¶ She holds no longer hand,  
But (Tygrelike) she took  
The little boy full boisterously  
Who now for terror quooke   

And (craving mother's help,)  
She (mother) took a blade,  
And in her sons small tender heart  
An open wound she made.   

The cruel deed dispatched,  
Between the sister's twain  
They tore in pieces quarterly  
The corpse which they had slain.   

Some part, they hung on hooks,  
The rest they laid to fire,  
And on the table caused it,  
Be set before the sire.   

And counterfeit a cause  
(As Grecians order then)  
That at such feasts (but only one)  
They might abide no men.   

He knowing not their craft,  
Sat down alone to eat,  
And hungerly his own warm blood  
Devoured there for meat.   

His oversight was such,  
That he for It is sent,  
Whose murdered members in his maw,  
He privily had penned.   

Not longer Progne then,  
Her joy of grief could hide,  
The thing thou seek'st (ò wretch  
Within thee doth abide. (quoth she)   

Wherewith (he waxing wrath)  
And searching for his son)  
Came forth at length, fair Philomene  
By whom the grief begun,   

And (clokt in Bacchus copes,  
Wherewith she then was clad,)  
In father's bosom cast the head  
Of It is silly lad:   

Nor ever in her life  
Had more desire to speak,  
Than now: whereby her madding mood  
Might all her malice wreak.   

¶ The Thracian prince start up,  
Whose heart did boil in breast,  
To feel the food and see the sauce,  
Which he could not digest.   

And armed (as he was)  
He followed both the greeks,  
On whom (by smart of sword, and  
A sharp revenge he seeks. flame)   

But when the heavenly bench,  
These bloody deeds did see,  
And found that blood still covits blood  
And so none end could be.   

They then by their foresight  
Thought meet to stint the strife,  
And so restrained the murdering king,  
From sister and from wife.   

So that by their decree,  
The youngest daughter fled  
Into the thicks, where covertly,  
A cloister life she led.   

And yet to ease her woe,  
She worthily can sing,  
And as thou hearst, can please the ears  
Of many men in spring.   

The eldest dame and wife  
A Swallow was assigned,  
And builds in smoky chimney tops  
And flies against the wind.   

The king himself condemned,  
A Lapwing for to be,  
Who for his young ones cries always,  
Yet never can them see.   

The lad a Pheasaunt cock  
For his degree hath gained,  
Whose bloody plumes declare the blood  
Wherewith his face was stained.   

¶ But there to turn my tale, 
An expotion of all such notes as the nightingale do● commonly. use to sing   
The which I came to tell,  
The youngest dame to forests fled,  
And there is dampnde to devil.   

And Nightingale now named  
Which (Philomela height)  
Delights for (fear of force again)  
To sing always by night.   

But when the sun to west,  
Doth bend his weary course,  
Then Phylomene records therewith,  
Which craveth just remorse.   

1 And for her foremost note,  
Tereu Tereu, doth sing,  
Complaining still upon the name  
Of that false Thracian king.   

Much like the child at school  
With birchen rods sore beaten,  
If when he go to bed at night  
His master chance to threaten,   

In every dream he starts,  
And (o good master) cries,  
Even so this bird upon that name,  
Her foremost note replies.   

Or as the read breast birds,  
Whom pretty Merlynes hold  
Full fast in foot, by winter's night  
To fiend themselves from cold:   

Though afterwards the hawk,  
For pity let them scape,  
Yet all that day, they feed in fear,  
And doubt a second rape.   

And in the nexter night,  
Full many times do cry,  
Remembering yet the ruthful plight  
Wherein they late did lie.   

Even so this silly bird,  
Though now transformed in kind,  
Yet evermore her pangs forepast,  
She beareth still in mind.   

And in her foremost note,  
She notes that cruel name,  
By whom she lost her pleasant speech  
And foiled was in fame.   

2 ¶ Her second note is fie,  
In Greek and latin fie,  
In english fie, and every tongue  
That ever yet read I   

Which word declares disdain,  
Or loathsome laying by  
Of any thing we taste, hear, touch,  
Smell, or behold with eye.   

In taste, fie showeth some sour,  
In hearing, some discord,  
In touch, some foul or filthy toy,  
In smell, some sent abhorred.   

In sight, some loathsome look,  
And every kind of way,  
This by word fie betokeneth bad,  
And things to cast away.   

So that it seems her well,  
fie, fie, fie, fie, to sing,  
Since fie befytteth him so well  
In every kind of thing.   

fie filthy lecher lewd,  
fie false unto thy wife,  
fie coward fie, (on womankind)  
To use thy cruel knife.   

Phy for thou wert unkind,  
fie false, and foul forsworn,  
fie monster made of murdering mould  
Whose like was never borne.   

fie agony of age,  
fie overthrow of youth,  
fie mirror of mischievousness,  
fie, type of all untruth.   

fie feigning forced tears,  
Phy forging fine excuse,  
fie perjury, fie blasphemy,  
fie bed of all abuse.   

These phyes, and many more,  
Poor Philomene may mean,  
And in herself she finds percase,  
Some fie that was unclean.   

For though his fowl offence,  
May not defended be,  
Her sister yet, and she transgressed,  
Though not so deep as he.   

His doom came by desert,  
Their deeds grew by disdain,  
But men must leave revenge to Gods,  
What wrong soever reign.   

Then Progne fie for thee,  
Which killed'st thine only child,  
fie on the cruel crabbed heart  
Which was not moved with mild.   

fie fie, thou close conveydst  
A secret il unseen.  
Where (good to keep in councelclose)  
Had putrefied thy spleen.   

Phy on thy sister's fact,  
And fie herself doth sing,  
Whose lack of tongue near touched her so  
As when it could not sting.   

Phy on us both saith she,  
The father only faulted,  
And we (the father free therewhile)  
The silly son assaulted.   

3 ¶ The next note to her fie  
Is Iug, jug, jug, I guess,  
That might I leave to latinists  
By learning to express.   

Some commentaries make  
About it much ado:  
If it should only jugum mean  
Or Jugulator too.   

Some think that jugum is  
The jug, she iugleth so,  
But jugulator is the word  
That doubleth all her woe.   

For when she thinks there on,  
She bears them both in mind,  
Him, breaker of his bond in bed,  
her, killer of her kind.   

As fast as furies force  
Her thoughts on him to think,  
So fast her conscience choks her up,  
And woe to wrong doth link.   

At last (by grief constrained)  
It boldly breaketh out,  
And makes the hollow woods to ring  
With Echo round about.   

4 ¶ Her next most note (to note)  
I need no help at all,  
For I myself the party am  
On whom she then doth call.   

She calls on Némesis  
And Némesis am I,  
The Goddess of all just revenge,  
Who let no blame go by.   

This bridle boast with gold,  
I bear in my left hand,  
To hold men back in rashest rage,  
Until the cause be scanned.   

And such as like that bit  
And bear it willingly,  
May scape this scourge in my right hand  
Although they trod awry.   

But if they hold on head,  
And scorn to bear my yoke,  
Often times they buy the rostful dear,  
It smelleth of the smoke.   

This is the cause (sir Squire  
Quoth she) that Phylomene  
Doth call so much upon my name,  
She to my laws doth lean:   

She feels a just revenge.  
Of that which she hath done,  
Constrained to use the day for night,  
And makes the moon her sun.   

Ne can she now complain,  
(Although she lost her tongue)  
For since that time, ne yet before,  
No bird so sweetly song.   

That gift we Gods her gave,  
To countervail her woe,  
I sat on bench in heaven myself  
When it was granted so.   

And though her foe be fled,  
But whither knows not she,  
And like herself transformed eke  
A silly bird to be:   

On him this sharp revenge  
The Gods and I did take,  
He neither can behold his brats,  
Nor is beloved of make.   

As soon as coals of kind  
Have warmed him to do  
The silly shift of duties dole  
Which him belongeth to:   

His hen strait way him hates,  
And flieth far him fro,  
And close conveis her eggs from him,  
As from her mortal foe.   

As soon as she hath hatched,  
Her little young ones run,  
For fear their dame should serve them eft,  
As Progne had begun.   

And round about the fields  
The furious father flies,  
To seek his son, and fills the air  
With loud lamenting cries.   

This loathsome life he leads,  
By our almighty doom,  
And thus sings she, where company  
But very seldom come.   

Now jest my faithful tale  
For fable should be taken,  
And thereupon my courtesy,  
By thee might be forsaken:   

Remember all my words,  
And bear them well in mind,  
And make thereof a metaphor,  
So shalt thou quickly find,   

Both profit and pastime,  
In all that I thee tell:  
I know thy skill will serve thereto,  
And so (quoth she) farewell.   

Wherewith (me thought) she flung so fast away, 
The author continueth his discourse and concludeth   
That scarce I could, her seemly shadow see.  
At last: my staff (which was mine only stay)  
Did slip, and I, must needs awaked be,  
Against my will did I (God knows) awake,  
For willingly I could myself content,  
Seven days to sleep for Philomelâs' sake,  
So that my sleep in such sweet thoughts were spent.  
But you my Lord which read this ragged verse,  
Forgive the faults of my so sleepy muse,  
Let me the hest of Némesis rehearse,  
For sure I see, much sense thereof ensues.  
I seem to see (my Lord) that lechers lust,  
Procures the plague, and vengeance of the highest,  
I may not say, but God is good and just,  
Although he scourge the furthest for the nighest:  
The father's fault lights sometime on the son,  
Yea four descents it bears the burden still,  
Whereby it falls (when vain delight is done)  
That dole steps in and wields the world at wil  
O whoredom, whoredom, hope for no good hap,  
The best is bad that lights on lechery  
And (all well weighed) he sits in Fortune's lap,  
Which feels no sharper scourge than beggary.  
You princes peers you comely courting knights,  
Which use all art to mar the maiden's minds,  
Which win all dames with bait of fond delights,  
Which beauty force, to lose what bounty binds:  
Think on the scourge that Némesis doth bear,  
Remember this, that God (although he wink)  
Doth see all sins that ever secret were.  
(Vae vobis) than which still in sin do sink.  
God's mercy lends you bridles for desire,  
Hold back betime for fear you catch a foil,  
The flesh may spur to everlasting fire,  
But sure, that horse which tireth like a roil,  
And loathes the grief of his forgalded sides,  
Is better, much than is the harbrainde colt  
Which headlong runs and for no bridle bides,  
But hunteth for sin in every hill and holt.  
He which is single, let him spare to spill  
The flower of force, which makes a famous man:  
Jest when he comes to matrimonies will,  
His finest grain be burnt, and full of bran.  
He that is yokte and hath a wedded wife,  
Be well content with that which may suffice,  
And (were no God) yet fear of worldly strife  
Might make him loath the bed where Lays lies:  
For though Pandion's daughter Progne she,  
Were so transformed into a feathered foul,  
Yet seems she not withouten heirs to be,  
Who (wronged like her) full angrily can scowl,  
And bear in breast a right revenging mode,  
Till time and place, may serve to work their william.  
You a surely some, the best of all the brood  
(If they had might) with furious force would kill.  
But force them not, whose force is not to force.  
And way their words as blasts of blustering wind,  
Which comes full calm, when storms are passed by course:  
Yet God above that can both loose & bind,  
Will not so soon appeased be therefore,  
He makes the male, of female to be hated,  
He makes the sire go sighing wondrous sore,  
Because the son of such is seldom rated.  
I mean the sons of such rash sinning sires,  
Are seldom seen to run a ruly race.  
But plagued (be like) by father's foul desires  
Dogadde a broad, and lack the guide of grace.  
Then (Lapwinglike) the father flies about,  
And howls and cries to see his children stray,  
Where he himself (and no man better) might  
Have taught his brats to take a better way.  
Thus men (my Lord) be Metamorphosed,  
From seemly shape, to birds, and ugly beasts:  
Yea bravest dames, (if they amiss once tredde)  
Find bitter sauce, for all their pleasant feasts.  
They must in fine condemned be to devil  
In thicks unseen, in mews for minions made,  
Until at last, (if they can bride it well)  
They may chop chalk, & take some better trade.  
Bear with me (Lord) my lusting days are done,  
Fair Phylomene for bad me fair and flat  
To like such love, as is with lust begun.  
The lawful love is best, and I like that.  
Then if you see, that (Lapwinglike) I chance,  
To leap again, beyond my lawful reach,  
(I take hard task) or but to give a glance,  
At beauties blaze: for such a wilful breach,  
Of promise made, my Lord shall do no wrong,  
To say (George) think on Phylomelâes song.   
FINIS. Tam Marti, quàm Mercurio.  
ANd thus my very good L. may see how cobbler like I have clouted a new patch to an old sole, beginning this complaint of Philomene, in April, 1562. continuing it a little further in April. 1575. and now, thus finished this third day of April. 1576. A. which mine April showers are humbly sent unto your good Lordship, for that I hope very shortly to see the May flowers of your favour, which I desire, more than I can deserve. And yet rest Your Lordships bounden and assured.