A FLOURISH upon Fancy.  
As gallant a Gloze upon so trifling a text, as ever was written. Compiled by N. B. Gent.  
To which are annexed, many pretty Pamphlets, for pleasant heads to pass away idle time withal. By the same author.  
¶ Imprinted at London, by Richard Ihones. 6. Maij. 1577.   

To all young Gentlemen, that delight in travail to foreign Countries.  
YOu gallant Youths, who are of mind, rather addicted to travail, through the world for experience in the diversities, as well of Countries, as customs: of men, as of manners: of languages, as of other laudable points, too tedious to discourse of: as well to the commodity of your country comfort of your parents, content, of your friends as chiefly to your own advancement: rather than to sit at home, as a chick under a brood hen, esteeming warmth, the chiefest wisdom: gold, their god: and a whole skin above an honourable name: As many, the more pity, by too much dandling of their Dads & making of their Mams do now a days. To you my young Mates Isay. I here unnamed (as young as one) having lately taken in hand to pass a long pilgrimage to Parnassus' hill, to Pallas and her Nymphs, to sue for a scholarship in the School of Virtue: I was not far out of mine own country, but suddenly in a place unknown, a league or two from any Town, unperfect to return the way I went: standing in a muse a while, not knowing what best to do, seeing many footepathes leading diverse ways: at last I thought good to take the most beaten way, as most likely, to lead me to some place of habitation, where for that night to take up my lodging, and the next morning to inquire further onward on my journey. But not bearing in mind that the broad ways are commonly beaten with beasts: And the foot paths I mean are ever very narrow I foolishly followed the Coxcombs Causey before me, which led me on a long straight to the forest of fools, and so to the fort of Fancy: of which Fort, cum pertinencijs, of my coming thither, abode there, and return from thence, I have more largely then learnedly discoursed. Yet as it is, I hope it will serve your turns (though not as a direction to the place I meant to go too, yet as a dissuasion (in your travail) from that way, that hath led me so much out of the way before you. Thus hoping to turn the thriftless fruit of my fond travail, to the commodity of a great many of ye: that I hope some of ye will one day thank me for: I wish you all, with myself, in travail, to tread the path that may bring us all to perfect paradise.  
From his Chamber, in Holborn, this twenty of February.   

The Preface.  

A Proverb old, and therewith true there is,  
That, haste makes waste, each thing must have his time:  
Who high aspiers, must ever look to this,  
To mark his steps, before he gin to climb:  
For who in climbing takes no care at all,  
Ere he get up, is like to catch a fall.   

Who doth desire, to Honour high to climb,  
By due desert, must worship first attain:  
Then for to seek, in farther tract of time,  
The mean, whereby to Honour to attain:  
For he that thinks, to be a Lord first day,  
Will miss a Lord, and prove a Lout straight way.   

Who doth assault, the huge high Fort of Fame,  
Must first begin, to scale the outward walls:  
Long is the Ladder that doth reach the same,  
And happy he that gets up without falls:  
Tedious the time, the labour nothing short,  
To take in hand to scale so high a Fort.   

This proverb old, myself observed well,  
Who not assault, the gallant Fort of Fame:  
But Fancies Fort, not minding there to devil,  
But for to see the secrets of the same:  
And many times, I thought to make retire,  
But in the end, obtained my desire.   

I scald the walls, and got into the Fort  
Wi●h ease enough, short time and little fight▪  
And there I saw, whereof I make report,  
Each thing, that was for to be seen worth sight:  
And when that I some time therein had past,  
How by good hap, I got away at last.   

Now far from this, I see The Fort of Fame  
A harder thing, to give assault unto:  
I dare not seek the mean, to scale the same,  
And if I dared, I know not what to do:  
In scaling Forts, my skill is too too small,  
Then if I climb, I needs must catch a fall.   

By lying still, I can but little gain,  
By climbing too the fear is but a fall:  
Not praise in deed, is got without pain,  
Small hurt by falls, if bruise grow not withal:  
No bruise nor fall, takes he that takes good heed,  
Not taking heed, great haste, and little speed.   

Then when I climb, myself am warned to learn  
The way to scale, ere aught I take in hand,  
To set my Ladder, wisely to discern  
To choose a place, where it may surely stand:  
Then for to make my Ladder of such stuff,  
As I may trust, to tread on sure ynouffe.   

But then the Rounds, must not be made of Ryme●▪  
My feet will slip, in treading on the same:  
And Reason says, that who so fond climes,  
Falls down into the ditch of foul Defame,  
God keep me thence, and help me so to climb,  
That Reason yet, may raise me up in tyme.   
FINIS.   

THE SCHOOL of Fancy.  
ME thinks I see you smile, before you give to reed,  
At this same title of my tale: but, for you shall not need  
To marvel at the same. First read it to the end,  
And mark ye still through all the tale, whereto each point doth tend,  
And you shall see I hope, that this same title serves  
Fit for the tale, else sure my mind from reason greatly swerves.  
Who is expert in any Art doth bear a masters name:  
Then he who chief is in an Art, doth well deserve the same.  
Of Art of luckless love, first Fancy is the ground,  
Although that Cupid, with his dart, do give the deadly wound.  
First, Fancy liking breeds, and liking breedeth love,  
And love then breeds, such passing pangs, as many lovers prove:  
And when the troubled mind, with torments is oppressed,  
Fancy doth find some secret mean, to breed the heart some rest:  
And Fancy she sometime to breed the lovers joy,  
A thousand sundry ways (at lest) doth still her pains employ:  
She thinks on this and that, she teacheth how to love,  
And tells the Lover, what to do, as best for his behove.  
But lest I go to far and run to much at large  
Out of the way and take no care what thing I have in charge,  
I will begin to show, what kind of School this is,  
What orders too she keeps therein. First lo, the School is this.  
The room both large and long, and very dark of sight,  
The most sight that her Scholars have, is chief by fire light:  
Which fire doth burn so bright, as gives them light to see  
To read such books, as there are taught: but what this fire may be  
Now thereby lies a case. Well mark what I do wright,  
And you shall know, for I myself, have seen it burning bright.  
First Fancy fetcheth coals, and calls for Deep desire:  
By him she setteth Vain delight and bids them blow the fire:  
And when the fire once burns, for to maintain the same,  
The collier Care, he brings in coals unto this dainty dame.  
He makes his Coals of wood, that grows on Hare brain hill,  
The ●roue is called, the Thriftless thick of wild and wanton will:  
The wood is of small growth, but sticks of Stubborn youth,  
Which serves as fittest for that fire, god wots, the greater ruth:  
Lo thus, this fire doth burn, and still doth give the light  
To Fancies scholars in her school, they have none other sight.  
Now Sir, in this hot school, first Fancy highest sits,  
And out of all her scholars still, she takes the wildest wits.  
And those she takes in hand, to teach the Art of love,  
which being taught in that vain Art, do soon fine scholars prove.  
She teatheth them to mourn, to flatter and to feign,  
To speak, to writ, and to indight, to labour and take pain:  
To go, to run and ride, to muse, and to devise,  
To juggle with a dearest friend, to blear the parents eyes.  
To spend both lands and goods, to venture Limb and life,  
To make foes friends, and twixt dear friends, to set debate & strife:  
To do and undo too, so that they may obtain  
Their mistress love: and never care, for taking any pain.  
To jet in brave attire, to please their mistress eye:  
Although perhaps they utterly, undo themselves thereby.  
To learn to sing and dance, to play on Instruments,  
To speak choice of strange languages, to try experiments  
Strange, seldom had in use: in fine, to tell you plain,  
To do almost they care not what, there ladies love to gain.  
And thus in tract of time, by such instructions,  
She makes them tread, the perfect path to their destructions:  
Some other scholars now, are taught within her school  
By Vsshers that teach under her, of which one is a fool  
By nature and by name, for Folly men him call:  
And he will teach his scholar soon, to prove a natural.  
The second Frenzy is, in teaching too as bad,  
For he will teach, his scholars most the way to make them mad:  
The Usher folly first, he teacheth to be bold,  
Without advice to give no ear, to counsel that is told  
To take delight in gauds, and foolish trifling toys,  
In things of value, little worth, to set his chiefest joys.  
To prate without regard, of reason in his talk,  
To think black white, & wrong for right, & know not cheese from chalk  
To love the things in deed, which most he aught to hate:  
For trifling toys, with dearest friends, to fall at dire debate.  
To love to play at dice, to swear his blood and heart,  
To face it with a ruffians look and set his hat athwart.  
To haunt the Taverns late, by night to trace the streets,  
And swap each slut, upon the lips, that in the dark he meets:  
To laugh at a horse nest, and whine too like a boy,  
If any thing do cross his mind, though it be but a toy:  
To slaver like a slave, to lie too like a dog,  
To wallow almost like a Bear, and snortle like a Hog.  
To feed too like a Horse, to drink too like an Ox,  
To show himself in each respect a very very cox.  
But such a scholar now, is choose of gross wit,  
Because that Beetle heads do serve for such instructions fit.  
The other Usher now, that Frenzy hath to name,  
His kind of teaching, he again another way doth frame:  
He teacheth how to rage's, to swear and ban and curse,  
To fret, to fume, to chide, to chafe, to do all this and worse.  
To tear his flesh for grief, to fill the air with cries,  
To harbour hatred in his heart, and mischief to devise:  
To hate all good advice, to follow witless will,  
And in the end for want of grace, to seek himself to kill.  
And such his scholars are, ripe wits, but wanting grace,  
And such ungracious graffs, do learn, such graceless gear a pace:  
These scholars all are young, except that now and than,  
To be a scholar with the rest, there step in some old man.  
Who when that he a while, hath been in Fancies school,  
Doth learn, in his old crooked age, to play the doting fool.  
And such there are sometime, (more pity) for to see,  
That in their crooked doting age, would feign fine lovers be.  
Which being in that school, do prove, for all their pain,  
By Frenzy mad, by Folly fools, or else by Fancy vain.  
Myself can tell too well, for I have seen the school,  
And learned so long there till I proved more half a very fool.  
First Fancy dandled me, and held me in her lap:  
And now and then, she would me feed, with worldly pleasures pap.  
She told me I was young, and I my youth must spend  
In youthful sport, I did not know, how soon my life would end:  
Be merry while I might, set cark and care aside,  
How mad were he that might in bliss, and would in bale abide?  
Such sugared speech of hers had soon entrapped me so,  
That I did think, that did me good, that wrought (in deed) my woe:  
Remaining thus a while, at last I had an eye,  
To see how Folly taught his Youths, and some rules by and by  
Myself began to learn: First this, for to be bold,  
And to refuse to lend my ear, where good advise was told.  
In foolish trifling toys to take a great delight:  
To take in hand to prate of that, wherein I had no sight.  
These rules I soon had learned, but when I came to that,  
Where Ruffians card & dice, and swear, and ware aside their hat  
I read no farther then, but up again I went,  
Unto my mistress Fancy fine: and strait down she me sent  
Unto the neither end of all her school below,  
Where Frenzy sat: and sweating hard, he 'gan to puff and blow.  
He little liked my mind, yet would I you or not,  
I learned some of his raging rules, ere I away did go:  
I learned to fret and fume, though not to ban and curse,  
And often for grief to sigh and sob and many times do worse,  
But yet I thank my god I never had the will:  
In greatest frantic fit I felt, to seek myself to kill.  
But to make short my tale, his lessons liked me not,  
But up again in haste I went, to Fancy fond, god wots.  
And lying in her lap, I fallen a sleep anon,  
Where sleeping so I dreamt sore that I was wo begon:  
¶ Methought that Wisdom came, and warned me in haste,  
To loath such lessons, as I learned, ere that my youth were passed.  
For short should be my sweet, and time would pass away:  
The man is in his grave tooday, that lived yesterday:  
Thy life (qd he) poor soul is like unto a flower,  
That groweth but in danger still of cropping every hour.  
And if it be not cropped, yet soon it will decay  
And like the flower in little time, it wither will away.  
Thy pleasures willbe pain, thy game will turn to grief,  
And thou will't seek in vain to late, when y● wouldest find relief:  
Arise thou sluggish slave, out of that loathsome lap  
And be no longer like a babe, so fed with pleasures pap.  
Loose no more labour so, in such a witless school  
where as the best that thou canst gain, is but to prove a fool.  
Study some better Art, for lo thy wits will serve  
To learn to do, that may in time, a good reward deserve:  
Better than best degree, that thou art like to take  
In Fancies school: I tell thee plain, therefore I say awake,  
Awake in haste awake, and hie thee hence I say,  
Take warning in good time poor soul, for time will soon away:  
But since that with such Youths, words seldom will prevail,  
With this same rod thou foolish boy I mean to breech thy tail.  
With which (me thought) he gave a jerk, that made me smart:  
Which sudden smart, although but small, yet made me give a start:  
And in my starting so, I waked suddenly,  
And so awaked, I called to mind my vision by and by.  
Thus thinking on my dream I heavy grew in mind,  
Which by and by when Fancy fond, 'gan by my countenance find  
How now my youth (quoth she) what ails thee seem so sad?  
What canst thou think to cheer thy mind but that it shallbe had?  
Not no (quoth I) I not believe these words of thy.  
thou saucy slave (quoth she) darest thou mistrust these words of mine?  
And therewith in a rage, she threw me from her lap,  
And with the fall beshrew her heart, I caught a cruel clap:  
Wherewith sumthing displeased, why fine mistress (quoth I)  
What can you bide no jest? alas, and therewith angrily:  
Without or taking leave, or any duty done,  
From Fancy in a rage I flung and out of doors I run.  
And being out of door, these words me thought I said,  
Fie on the Fancy flattering flirt, I hold me well apaid:  
That I am got away, out of thy skilless school,  
For now I see, thou wentest about, to make me a right fool.  
But now that I am out, by grace of god I swear,  
While I do live, if I can choose, never more to come there.  
But Fancy hearing this to make me still to stay,  
To fetch me in with pleasant sports invented many a way  
But when I did perceive how near me still she came,  
Then from her quite I flung in haste, and so I left this dame.  
Lo thus I tell you how, I came from Fancies school,  
Where learning but a little while, I proved more half a fool:  
Wherefore since my good hap, hath been to come from thence,  
Although with labour lost, in deed, and some, to much expense.  
I now have thought it good, to warn each one my friend,  
To keep themselves from Fancies school, and so I make an end.  
FINIS.   

THE FORT of Fancy.  
The Argument.  
AS Fancy hath a School, so hath she too a Fort.  
Of which, the chiefest points, myself, will somewhat make report:  
The ground whereon it stands, and the foundation then,  
How it is built, how it is kept, and by what kind of men.  
What kind of cheer she keeps, who are her chiefest guess.  
What drink she drinks, who are her cooks, that all her meat do dress.  
Whom most she loves, who is her foe, and who again her friend,  
And how the Fort, may soon be scaled: and there to make an end.  
The Fort of Fancy.  
THe ground whereon it stands, is haughty Hare brain hill,  
Hard by the thick, I told you of, Wild and wanton will:  
The fond foundation is, false fortunes fickle Wheel,  
Which never stands, but still each way is ready for to reel:  
Now here, now there again, with every blast of wind,  
Not as she list, but as it most doth please dame Fortune's mind,  
The house itself is called, The lodge of luckless love.  
Within the which, are divers rooms, beneath and eke above:  
The name whereof anon, I mean at large to show,  
But first, the outside ●f this house, I must declare, I trow:  
The coming to the same, the walls, the gates, and then  
The base courts, Courts, & gardens then, & then the guards of men.  
The Porters to the doors, the officers within,  
And therefore thus, in order, I will now my tale begin.  
¶ The coming to the same, is by a great high way,  
Fair beaten plain, with fools foot steps, and trodden every day  
The soil is pleasant sure, bedecked with gallant flowers,  
But being gathered once, will scarce bide sweet above two hours:  
And in this soil, there stands, a Forest large and wide,  
Which is well stored with thickes & woods the beasts therein to hide:  
Of which great piece of ground, for to declare the name,  
The Forest Sir of fools it is, lo now you know the same:  
And in this Forest now, this beaten way doth lie,  
Which leadeth unto Harebrain hill the right way readily.  
At foot of this same hill, and round about the same,  
There is a ditch which Deep deceit, is called by that name:  
Over this lies a Bridge, but trust me, very weak,  
For when you are on midst thereof, then suddenly 'twill break:  
And down into the ditch of Deep deceit you fall,  
Rise again as you can yourself, you get small help at all.  
The bridge is called The breach of perfect amity,  
'tis made of Hollow hearts, of such as wanted honesty▪  
Which being rotten still, will never bear the weight  
Of any man: but suddenly, down casts him in deceit.  
Now Sir although you fall, no bones shall yet be burst,  
Nor whatsoever hurt you take, you feel it not at furst.  
But being fallen, if you can make a shift to swim,  
Though it be but a stroke or two, yet you may get up trim  
Unto the banks thereof, and so by shrubs that grow  
Upon the banks, to make a shift, up to the gate to go:  
But if you cannot swim you may catch such a fall,  
That you may chance unto your cost, to catch a bruise withal.  
Not swimming as in seas, for fear in deep to drown  
But swimming sir in Worldly wealth for fear of falling down.  
But if that you can swim, than soon perhaps you may,  
By shrubs and bushes to the gates make sh●ft to find a way.  
Then being at the gates, there shall you standing find  
A pelting patch for Porter there, of nature very kind:  
His name is Dalliance, a foolish crafty knave  
Who needeth not to let you in, too much entreaty have.  
Welcome good Sir (says he) now trust me by my faith,  
I think that you have travailed a weary piece of way,  
Will't please you to go in, and take a little rest?  
Thus by the Porter Dalliance you go in as a guest.  
Now if up to the gate you cannot find the way,  
Then lustily to scale the walls you must somewhat assay.  
Which walls you soon may scale, if you will take the pain,  
Or else may quickly beaten them down, with beetle of your brain:  
Few are to make defence, and such as are, will stay  
There hands from doing harm to you, but rather make you way.  
And shall I show in kind, what gallants you shall see?  
That for to guard this Fort are set, and what their weapons be?  
It were a sport to tell, to set them out in kind:  
Well, I will show them all, as well as I can bear in mind.  
First lo, a Guard of Geese, and Ganders in one rank,  
With doughty Ducks and Drakes hard by, upon an other bank:  
A sight of Asses then, there stood in battle ray,  
With jacke an apeses on their backs: and they stood in the way  
That leads unto the Court: further you cannot pass,  
Except you let a jacke a napes, to ride you like an Ass.  
But if you will do so, then may you pass up strait  
Into th'inner court (forsooth) where long you shall not weight.  
But out unto the door, comes out an officer,  
And gently Sir into the Hall, this man will you prefer.  
But now Sir, will you know, what means these Armies so  
That stands to guard dame Fancies for't? well mark and you shall know●  
The guard of Geese, are first Ungracious graffs of youth  
That wallow every wanton way, and miss the tracked of truth:  
The Ducks (good Sir) are Dolts▪ as well both young as old,  
That in that careless court, are set to keep a foolish hold.  
The Asses, they are Lout●s▪ of wisdom none at all,  
Yet have a certain kind of wit, to play the fools with all.  
The Apes that rides them now, and rules them every way,  
And turn their heads which way they list, a thousand times a day  
Are Foolish apish toys▪ fond heads for to delight:  
Not void of reason utterly, though void of wisdom quite.  
Their Weapons are their Tongues, wherewith they make a cry,  
Away I say, away, stand back, soft Sir, you come not by:  
But if so be they see, one ridden like an Ass,  
Then will they make but small ado, but let him gently pass.  
Now Sir, thus like an Ass, he goes to the Hall door,  
And there becomes a Man again, and stands an Ass no more:  
Yet though his ears grow short, he is not altered so,  
But he shall bear an Ass' head, where ever so he go.  
And be he Man or Ass, jacke an apes he must bear  
As long as he is in that Fort, or else he bides not there.  
Now Sir, at the hall door, the porter Pleasure stands,  
He looks for, ere he farther go, some money at his hands:  
He lets in none for thanks, he must have money, he,  
He goes n●t in else, I am sure, for so he dealt with me.  
But if he him reward, he brings him to the Hall,  
And there the Usher by and by, good Sir, he meets withal:  
He entertains you then, in such a pleasant wise,  
As makes you think, you are arrived, in place of Paradise.  
Not long he bides with you, but to the Chamberlain  
He brings you up, where curiously he doth you entertain  
With Bezoles manos, embracings down to knee:  
With Cap of courtesy: and a grace, the bravest that may be.  
This is a gentle youth, but ere I farther go,  
The names of these same Officers, I plainly mean to show:  
The Usher of the hall, is called Vain delight:  
He entertaineth none, except he be some witless wight.  
The Chamberlain is called Curiosity,  
And fellow with this Vain delight, and of affinity:  
For at request of this, his fellow, Fond delight,  
He brings you where of Fancy fair, you soon may have a sight  
And if you like him well, he works so in the end,  
That he will in your suit forth with, cause Fancy stand your friend.  
To Fancy then good Sir, he brings you by and by,  
And there may you behold her, how she sitteth gallantly:  
Her chamber large and long, bed●●●e with thousand toys:  
Brave hanging clotheses of rare devise, pictures of naked boys,  
And ●irles too now and then, of sixteen years of age:  
That will within a year or two, grow fit for marriage.  
But they must have a Lawn, a Scarf, or some such toy,  
To shroud there shamefastness with all: but if it be a boy,  
He stands without a Lawn, as naked as my nail:  
For Fancy hath a sport sometime, to see a naked tail.  
Besides in pictures too, and toys of strange devise  
With stories of old Robin hood, and Walter little wis●▪  
Some shows of war long since, and Captains wounded sore,  
And soldiers slain, at one conflict, a thousand men and more.  
Of hunting of wild beasts, as Lions, Boars and Bears,  
To see how one an other often, in sunder strangely tears.  
Of gallant Cities, Towns, of Gardens, Flowers, and trees:  
Of choice of pleasant herbs, and fruits, and such like toys as these  
These hang about the walls, the floor now is strode  
With pleasant flowers, herbs & sweets, which in her garden grode.  
But now, the names of them I purpose to descry:  
In steed of fennel Sir, the first, is Flattery:  
The other herb is Sausines, in steed of Savoury:  
In steed of basel, now there lieth Bravery:  
And for sweet Sothernwood, again is secret Slavery:  
In steed of Isop, now there lies Invention:  
And in the steed of Cama●●ell, there lies Confusion:  
The flowers now are these, in steed of gilly-flowers,  
Fair jests: that last not sweet alas, above two or three hours:  
For Roses, Rages: which will not so soon decay,  
For Paunseis, Pretty practices, that altar many a way:  
For Marigolds, Mischief: for Walflowers, Wantonness:  
For Penckes, Presumption: for Buttons, Business:  
For Daisies, Doubtfulness: for Violets, Viciousness:  
For Primroses, Foolish pride: for Cowslips, Carelessness:  
With these flowers and herbs, with many more (god wots)  
Doth Fancy strew her Chamber flower, which I remember not.  
Now Sir, in this same room, thus bravely bedecked,  
Sits Fancy in her bravery: and Sir in each respect,  
So served in her kind, with her fine Chamberlain,  
That not for any thing she hath, that she needs too take pain.  
Fine Curiosity her Chamberlain doth all  
The service in her chamber, Sir: but the Usher in the Hall,  
He doth her servis too, although, not all so near  
Her person, as her Chamberlain: she holdeth him more dear.  
The order h●w she sits, is this sir, in a Chair,  
Fine caru●d out with carvers work, and covered very fair:  
With a strange kind of stuff, the colour is all green,  
Brave Fringe and hanged, with two fine Pearls, the like but seldom seen:  
Now Sir, her Chair (in deed) is but a Youthful brain,  
Whose head is very green, in deed: the Fringe, to tell you plain  
Are Hears upon the head: the Pearls, they are the Eyes:  
Fast set unto the head (good Sir:) and lo thus in this wise,  
I show you Fancies seat: But if the eyes did see  
What great dishonour 'tis to them, in Fancies chair too be:  
They rather would fall of, then hang in such a place,  
Where they are ruled, when they might rule, and so to gain disgrace.  
But be they as they be, I show you how they be:  
Believe me, when that you come there, than you yourself shall see.  
Well Sir, thus Fancy sits, before whom you must stand,  
Till she herself do bid you come, and take her by the hand:  
And that she soon will do, for she is courteous,  
And where she takes a liking too, she is as amorous.  
Now being come to you, these words first she will say,  
She will be ask how at first, you thither found the way?  
Whereto your answer made, than she will take the pain  
To show you all her rooms within, and she will entertain  
You in so brave a sort, that you shall think, a while,  
You are in heaven: with sugared speech she will you so beguile.  
Now first she leads you in, into her Garden gay  
She shows you flowers, but tells you not, how soon they will decay.  
She tells you this brave tree, a gallant fruit will bear,  
This is a gallant Princely Plum, and this as fine a Pear:  
This is a Pippin right, this is a Filberde fine:  
This is a Damson delicate, but few such fruits as mine:  
When God he knows, the tree, whose fruits she brags on so,  
Is but a plant of peevishness, and brings forth fruits of w●.  
Her Plum, is but a Pate that puffed is with pride,  
Which either quickly rotten grows or breaks out on some sid●.  
Her Pear is an old plant that bringeth Outward joy,  
To sight, at lest: but eaten once, will choke you with annoy.  
Her Pippin is a Crab, that grows on S. john's wood,  
Which makes a show of a fair fruit, but in taste is not 〈◊〉.  
This is a secret foe, that seems a Faithful friend,  
But will be sure, who trust in him, to fail them in the end.  
Her filberts have fair shells, but Carnels all are go:  
Her Damsons are deceitful fruits as hard as any stone:  
Hard: how? not hard in hand, nor very hard in taste:  
But being swallowed, very hard for to digest at last.  
These Trees with many more, which I not call to mind,  
In Fancies gallant Garden plot, you shallbe sure to find.  
Now in this Garden more, alas, I had forgot:  
About the midst thereof (I guess) there stands a pretty plot,  
Wherein is made a Maze, all bordered with Wild breere,  
Set all about the banks with Rue, that grew there many a year.  
Just in the midst whereof, a huge high Mount doth stand,  
Which grew by nature in the place, not made by Gardeners hand.  
The Hill on the one side, is made much like a Heart,  
And as like to a Head again upon the other part.  
And in this Mount, there dwells a number of mad men:  
Some mad in heart, and some in head, and every one his den.  
Upon the Heart side, stands The cave of cruelty,  
A currish knave, which with his teeth, still gnashing close doth lie.  
By him hath foul Despite a filthy Den likewise,  
Which in that loathsome lodge of his, still fretting daily lies.  
By him horrible Hate, hath eke a kind of Cave,  
Like a foul hole: but good enough for such a filthy slave:  
Upon the hedside now, lies Melancholy first,  
He beats his head with study so, as if his brains would burst.  
By him vile Envy next, foul ●●end with fiery eyes  
Bond about head with Serpent skins, in loathsome manner lies.  
Right over him doth keep, fierce Frenzy in his cave:  
He frets, he fumes, he stamps and stars, & never lins to rave  
Above them all, upon the top of this same hill,  
Dwells Madness, Master of them all: and with him, witless Will:  
His lodge is like a house, that had been built of stone,  
That had been overthrown, and naught left but the walls alone:  
It hath a kind of r●●fe, but all uncovered:  
So that the rain upon him falls, as he lies in his bed.  
And for the manner now how he lies, credit me,  
It is the strangest sight me thinks, that ever I did see.  
His Bedstead is of Wood, engraven with Ugly faces:  
And stands more half a sunder, burst in twenty sundry places:  
His Bed with feathers stuffed, but all the Down flown out:  
And those that bide, are stubborn quills, that prick him round about.  
Upon an old cracked Form, by his bedside there lies,  
Dulled instruments of musics sound, all broken in wondrous wise.  
A Lute, with but three strings, and all the pings near out:  
The belly cracked, the back quite burst, and riven round about:  
His Virginals, with never a jack, and half the keys.  
His Organs, with the bellows burst, and battered many ways.  
His Fife, three holes in one: his Harp, with near a string:  
Great pity trust me for to see, so broken every thing:  
A Pen and Ink he hath and Paper too hard by,  
But paper quite in pieces torn, pen burst and Inkhorn dry.  
He feeds of Fancies fruits, that in her Garden grow,  
He drinks of Drugs of foul Despite, a beastly broth I trow.  
He fears no heat nor cold, for if with heat he glow,  
The waves of woe will cool him straight, that there by Tides do flow  
For through this Forest runs, The Seas of sorrow sore:  
Whose Waves do beat against this Fort, that bordereth on the shore.  
And if with cold he quake, the heat of raging ire  
Will quickly warm him so, that he shall need none other fire:  
In raging Frantic fits, he passeth forth the day  
In strange perplexities, himself tormenting many a way.  
Among many mad toys, I see him play one part,  
With look full fierce I see him hold, a Dagger to his heart  
Ready to kill himself, and with his hear upright,  
He cried, he would rather die, then bide such deep despite:  
At which same cry of his, me thought, that every one  
Within their Caves, all suddenly did make a piteous moan:  
With which amazed half, not knowing what to say,  
By help of God, I know not how, but strait I got away.  
And then I was again, with ●ancie by and by,  
Out of the Maze in her Garden: who led me presently,  
As she will you likewise, if you will: back again  
Into her house: where you will think, in heaven for to r●●aine.  
The Entry first before you come unto the Hall,  
Is set out gallantly with toys, and that of cost not small.  
The Pavements are of stone, which Hard hearts have to name,  
They grow all in a mind of man, and thence she hath the same:  
About the Entry walls, do hang devices strange:  
And by the bravery of the same, much like the Low exchange.  
From Entry than you come, straight way unto the Hall:  
And that with many jewels rich, is hanged round● withal  
The room itself is long and therewith somewhat wide,  
And for the fashion in my mind, not much unlike Cheapside:  
There hung great store of gauds, of which the Usher strait  
Doth offer to Dame fancies eye, and therefore there doth weight.  
Chains, jewels, Cups & Pots: Pearls, precious stones & Kings  
Fine whistles, Corrals, Buttons, Beads, & such like costly things  
Fine Brooches for your Hat, fine Aglets for your Cap,  
Fine Tablets for a gallant dame, to hung before her lap.  
These things with many more in this same Cheapside Hall  
Hath Vain delight, to please Fancy his Mistress mind withal.  
Now though she see them all, her Chamberlain must choose  
What he best thinks will like her mind, & what she will refuse.  
That Chamberlain (you know) is Curiosity  
He ever chooseth all the ware, that Fancy fond doth buy.  
Now from the Hall, unto the Parlour strait you go  
Which as the Hall with jewels rich is bravely hanged so:  
The room is long, not large, I met it not with feet,  
But as I guess, in fashion 'tis, much like to Lombarde street:  
This room the Usher too, doth look too with the Hall:  
Well, there within a little while, you quickly will see all:  
Which being seen, you pass into the other room,  
Which called is her Counting house: wherein when you be come,  
There shall you see her books, that treats of many toys  
And most of them do show, the cause of lovers griefs or joys.  
Some volumes Sir, do treat of nought but Vanitat●  
But very ●ew that speaks a word of perfect Sanitate  
Some ancient authors writ, De art a mandi.  
Which who so studies thoroughly, runs mad or ere he die.  
And in the steed of Tully's works, written De officijs,  
There stands Tom ●atlers treatise Sir, De fine brandicijs:  
Among the rest are some, bell discorce d'amore,  
And some do writ discourses, De graundissimo dolore:  
Some books do make discourse of Pride and Fowl disdain,  
Some letters amatory are: some of Despite again.  
Some Pretty pamplets are, some Posies, Satyrs some:  
Some do discourse of Falconry, and some of Day of doom.  
And they are called Drums: and some tell pretty tales  
Of Lapwings, Swallows, pheasant cocks, & noble Nightingales  
Some Songs and Sonnets are, and some are Lovers lays,  
Some Poets paint The pangs of love, a thousand sundry ways.  
Now with such books as these, with other such like toys,  
Doth Fancy store her Counting house, for to instruct her boys  
And girls too now and than: at lest if they do reed,  
And in such vain Discourses, most herself delights indeed.  
Now Sir, when you have seen her fine Library there:  
She shows you then her other rooms, & leads you every where.  
But sure her Counting house, of all that ere I see,  
Is built as like to Paul's Church yard, as ever it may be.  
Now next she leads you too, her Wardrobe of fine clot,  
Of divers kinds of colours Sir: what laugh you Sir of troth?  
Believe me, when that you to Fancies for't do go:  
And if you come into her court, than you shall find it so.  
The colours of her clot, are fair and very gay:  
White, Read, Blue, Green, Carnation, Yellow, & Popingay.  
Of blacks but very few: but other colours store,  
Of mingled colours, or such as I told you of before.  
Now she that keeps that room, is a young pleasant dame  
And Wantonness, I trow it be, that Fancy calls her name  
Now Wantonness again, she keeps a pretty knave  
That every day, deviseth still, new fashions for to have:  
He hath a knaui●● head, fine knacks for to invent,  
Whereof good store of clot, in haste in fashions may be spent:  
In guards, in weltes, and jags, in laying clot upon clot:  
And this same youth a Tailor is, for men and women both.  
His name is Fond devise: he came of Apish race,  
A man, for such a mistress meet, and fit for such a place.  
But for dame fancy ●ine, no garments Sir he makes  
But first the view her Chamberlain Curiosity takes:  
And if he like it well, then will she stand content,  
If not, his labour all is lost, and cost in vain is spent.  
Now this same Wardrobe Sir, is likest in my mind,  
To Watling street, of any place, that ever I could find.  
Now Sir, from thence you come when you have seen all there:  
You go into her Gallery, a room that I dare swear  
The like is seldom seen, for gallant setting out:  
If one should travail every day, almost the world about  
For choice of gallant stuff, and fine devices strange  
No place so like that ere I see, as is The high Exchange:  
Such purses, gloves, and points, of cost and fashion rare  
Such cutworkes, partlets, suits of lawn, bongraces, & such ware:  
Such gorgets, sleeves, and ruffs, linings for gowns, and calls,  
Coiffes, crippins, cornets, billaments, musk boxes, & sweet balls  
Pincases, pickteeth, beard brushes, comes, needles, glasses, bells  
And many such like toys, as these: that Gain to fancy sells.  
But yet of all these toys, not one will Fancy buy,  
Except, they first be looked on by Curiosity:  
But Follie many times, stands at his elbow so,  
That makes him choose the worse sometime, and let the better go:  
Well, there not long you bide, but down you come again  
Into the hall beneath good Sir, where long you not remain:  
But to the Kitchen straight, she forthwith leadeth thee:  
Where, how she dresseth all her meat, the order thou shalt see  
And what kind cooks she hath, and how they make their fire,  
To rest, to seeth, to broil, to bake, and what you will desire:  
The room is narrow sir, in which a Hearth all bore  
On which the Cook, powers on his coals, & kindles them with care,  
Then lays he to the Spit, if any meat be roast,  
And if the fire be once a flame, than it begins to toast,  
The meat that most he roastes, for Fancies dantie tooth,  
Are Partridges, larks, plovers green, & such fine foul (for sooth)  
The Coals are made of sticks, of stubborn youth (god wots)  
which kindle quickly of themselves, and blowing needeth not:  
The kind of wood is Will, dry without Sapience sap:  
The lobcoke Lust, from thriftless thick, doth bring than in his lap:  
Which wood with lying still, is grown so very dry,  
That with a Spark of Sport, alas, they kindle by and by.  
The Cook is Careless called: the fowls he roastes are these:  
For Larks, are looks: for Plovers, thoughts: for Partridge, Practices:  
The Larks, are Looks: which when they live, do fly:  
But being strooken dead, they serve for Fancy by and by:  
The Partridge, Practices: which living, seem so good,  
That they are put unto the fire, to serve for Fancies ●oode:  
For, as the Partridge keeps herself close to the ground,  
Because by colour of her coat, she may not so be found:  
So Practices, that shift: to keep themselves unseen,  
Are Fowls most fit for Fancies tooth, and now for Plovers green  
Green thoughts, that fly about: now here, now there again:  
But if by chance, by Cupid's dart, they hap for to be slain.  
Then lying but a while, at this same flaming fire,  
They make in deed a meat that most, Fond Fancy doth desire,  
Now having seen all this, then shall you see hard by  
The Pastry, Meal house, and the room whereas the Coals do lie:  
The Coalehouse, is a Cau●e of care and misery.  
The Pastry is a Place of open patchery.  
The Mealehouse, is a Place with seat mischief fraught  
For sure, the Meal is made of Corn, that is much worse than nought.  
The Corn is called Rye: and diverse kinds there be.  
Of this same Rye: as you yourself, when you are there shall see:  
For there is one kind, Rye, is called knavery:  
An other Flat●rie, with Treachery, and Patchreie:  
An other Trumpery, an other Mockery,  
And Bawdry too: and yet the best is but a kind of Rye,  
Whereof the Meal is made, that maketh Fancies breed:  
And that is baked in the brain, of a hot foolish head:  
The Grain is sown by sundry slaves: of which one Beastliness,  
The other Secret sauciness: an other Traiterousnesse,  
another Pivishnes, and an other Wilfulness,  
With Loutishness, and many more, which I cannot express:  
And reaped by such slaves, too Fancy, slaves, in deed  
Which bring the Corn, into The Barn of beggary, with speed:  
They now that thrash the Corn, are two strong sturdy knaves,  
Who have great beetles in their hands, in stead of Threshing staves  
Of whom to tell the names, first, Lobcock little wit,  
And Wayward will: a good tough knave, he stands, his fellow sit,  
They with their Betels in their hands, or heads at lest,  
Do make it ready for the Mill: then he that grinds the gréest,  
Is, Many better Sir, an arrant crafty knave,  
Who with his toulinge, willbe sure, a good round gain to have.  
Now Sir, this Mill doth stand, upon an Hill on high,  
Whose sails are driven by blasts of wind, and so grind merely.  
Now Sir, the Corn thus ground, to Fancies Fort straight way  
The Miller comes and: in the house there down his Meal doth lay  
Now Sir, when you have been, in all these offices,  
And that at Fancies hands, you find such love and gentleness,  
To show you all her house: but soft, I had forgot,  
To speak of her Bed Chamber fine, which now Sir, I will not  
Let slip for any thing: the Room itself is round,  
And in the night doth stand her Bed, with Curtains bravely bond.  
The Walls hanged all with Hope, on th'one side very fair:  
Upon the other side again, dark hangings of despair.  
Strange pictures by her Bed: on th'one side, cites of grief,  
On tother side, to every pang, a present sweet relief.  
Upon the one side, sweet accord, on tother Dire debate,  
Upon the one side, Naked love: on tother, Covered hate.  
On ●hone side, Prodigies, with pleasant Dames in joy,  
On tother side, Chaving Peascods: in grief and great annoy.  
These divers contraries, with many thousands more,  
When Fancy gazeth on a while, she is amazed so,  
That musing so a while, she slumbereth at the last,  
And being in a slumber so, she sleepeth, but not fast:  
Her Bed is all of Down, whereon she lies so soft,  
As any Lady in this land: and at her Bed a fit,  
Are written in fair hand, and easy for to reed:  
(Although I seem a lovely dame, I loathsome am in deed)  
This solemn sentence, who ever so doth see,  
And doth consider the contents, will never like of me.  
Her bed is thus bedecked: the curtains are of Say,  
Not green, nor yellow, read, nor blue, nor white, nor popinjay  
No Silk nor (Cruel say, what then may be the same?  
This Say is called, say for thyself, lo now you know the name.  
Her Covering, curious cost: her Blankets, lovers bliss:  
Her Sheets, are shifts: to shroud herself. Her quiltes, are quiddities.  
Her Pillows, they are points: that lovers lea●e upon.  
Her Bolster, is a beggar's bag: when coin and goods are go.  
Her Bed she lies upon is a young mellow brain:  
where Fancy softly lies and sleeps, and never féelith pain.  
And of such beds, she hath such store of choice (by rood)  
That (if so be) she like not one, an other is as good.  
Of which, some are so soft, that she doth like them so,  
That with her lying in them long, they more half rotten grow:  
And if they be not turned, or ere they go to far,  
In time, both brain, and head, and all, she willbe sure to mar.  
Thus shall you see her bed, and chamber bravely decked:  
And every room within her house, set out in each respect,  
So gallantly: that as I said, I say again,  
You sure will think (at first) a while, in heaven for to remain.  
Thus, when that Fancy fine, hath led you round about.  
Her stately house, in every room: then shall you see a lout,  
Come with a napkin fine, about his body bound,  
Into the chamber, there where first dame fancy fine you found:  
He comes to lay a clot, upon Dame fancies board:  
And then to bring in all her cates: and trust me (at a word)  
It is so strange a sight, to see her served so,  
As I shall never see the like, where ever so I go.  
Her Table is a Form, that stands without a frame.  
And none but she and her compeers, can ●it upon the same:  
Her Stools, stand without feet, I cannot show you how,  
Though I have seen them (credit me) I have forgot them now.  
But you shall see them there, if thither you will go.  
Now Sir, when you are there, and see this order so,  
Then unto dinner straight, she goeth by and by:  
There shall you see her fine compeers, that bear her company.  
First, upper most she sits, in a great majesty:  
Then sits there down by her a dame, called Lady vanity.  
Then down sits her compeers, Follie and frenzy both:  
Such company, as for to keep, a wiseman would be loath.  
Her Waitors at her board, are Curiosity  
Her Chamberline: and next to him stands Carelessness hard by:  
The Cook that dressed the meat: then Nodcoke natural,  
Then jacke an apes, and busy be, worst mannered of them all:  
Thus furnishist is this board, with waitors in such sort:  
The meats whereof she feedeth most, I need not make report,  
I spoke of them before: but for her kind of drink,  
No beer, nor ale, nor wine it is: and what then do you think:  
It is a drink composed, of drugs of divers sorts.  
Discourtesy, Disdain, Despite: and mingled with Disports,  
sap of fair Semblance, with secret simulation.  
With joice of herbs of hollow hearts, and faithful protestation:  
These drugs with many more, puts Fancy in her drink,  
Which though they somewhat please the taste, yet make the bosom stink:  
And works so in their heads, that are not used thereto,  
That makes them more half mad: for grief, they know not what to do  
Now sir, this is her drink, her meat before you know,  
Her servants I have shown you too, that do attend her so.  
Now Sir, when you have fed, of Fancies far one day:  
I do believe that you will wish, yourself, next day away.  
I promise' you (of troth) I did when I was there,  
And I would not be there again, for twenty pound I swear.  
And more than wishing too, at board a loud I cried:  
I would I were away, this fare, I cannot I abide.  
Which when that Fancy saw, she took me from the board,  
And thrust me out of doors, in haste, not speaking any word.  
And flung me down the steers, wherewith I caught a fall.  
That grieved me sore: but yet (me thought) I stood content with al.  
The usher of the Hall, he took me by and by,  
And out of doors too in like sort, he thrust me presently.  
Then every jacke an apes that rid upon an Ass,  
Was ready for to ride me still, as I the Court did pass.  
The Geese and Ganders hist, the Ducks cried quack at me:  
Thus every one would have a flirt, ere I could get out free.  
The Porter dalliance, he drove me out in haste,  
And thrust me down so hard the Hill, my neck was almost braced.  
And up I rose again, though bruised very sore,  
And meant, if once I got away, for to come there no more.  
Well, limping as I could, I hit the beaten way,  
Of fools foot steps: through Forest back, that led me so astray.  
And back again I came, to learning's narrow lane,  
And there I hit The tracked of Truth, that I should first have ta'en,  
That leaves the Forest quite: which when I had hit on,  
I staid a while, and there my walk I 'gan to think upon:  
And thinking so, I see a scholar coming by,  
That came from learned virtues School: and sighing heavily,  
I called him unto me, and told him of my woe,  
Of my sore fall, from Fancies Fort, and how I caught it so.  
Which when that he had hard, he took me by the hand,  
And being very weak (in d●eacute; ede) scarce able for to stand.  
He led me to a house of Wisdom, an old man,  
His Father (as he said) he was: and there I rested than.  
This jentle youth, if I do not forget the same,  
Is Honest Reason: so I think, his Father called his name.  
Where, being but a while, my tale I 'gan to tell,  
To him, of this my gentle walk: whereat he laughed well.  
And laughing so, (quoth he) go youth, here take a book,  
And writ now for remembrance thy, that when thou chance to look  
Upon the same again, than thou mayest take heed still.  
Of leaving Wisdoms narrow Lane, and follow wanton Will.  
Lo thus at his command, I wrote it by and by,  
And this it was, believe me now, or else (at lest) I lie.  
FINIS.   

¶ IN DESPITE of Fancy.  
AH, feeble Fancy, now thy force is nothing worth,  
Thou hadst me in thy castle once, but now I am got forth  
Thou baarst a gallant flag of lusty bravery,  
But I have seen that all thy show, is but mere knavery.  
Thy Feathers flaunt a flaunt, are blown away with wind,  
And Falsehood is the trusty Troth, that one in thee shallfinde.  
Thy valour is but vaunts, thy weapons are but words,  
Thou usest Shales, in steed of Shot, and signs in steed of swords.  
Thy Fort is of no force, each fool may scale the same.  
And thou thyself art but a flirt, and not a noble Dame.  
As some do thee account, I know thee too too well,  
And none but Daws, and Dolts, within thy foolish Fort do devil.  
Thy castle is in deed, a Cave of misery,  
A place in short space for to bring a man to beggary.  
Thy Fort defended is, by Ducks and guards of Geese,  
By jacke an Apes, Asses too, and such gallants as these.  
Thy deep delight is all in foolish trifling toys,  
Thou makest a man in things of naught, to set his chiefest joys.  
Thy School may well be called, The School of little skill,  
Thy Scholars most are wayward wits that follow wanton will.  
Thy Lessons loathsome are, thyself a Mistress too  
Of nought but Mischief which thou most dost make thy Scholars do  
Thy Pleasure breeds Man's pain, thy Game doth turn to Grief,  
Thou woorkest many Deadly woe, but few dost lend relief.  
Thou makest a man to gain Dishonour and Defame,  
Thou makest him think a Stinking Slut too be a Gallant dame.  
Thou makest him Hung on hope, and drown in Deep despair:  
Thou makest him like a mome to build, High Castles in the air.  
Thou makest him think Black, White, & when that all is known  
Thou makest him Like an ass to see A fools head of his own.  
Thou art The cause of care, but comfort very small,  
And so what ever is amiss thou art the cause of all.  
Myself have seen all this that I report and more,  
Thou madest me think that did me good, that grieved me full sore  
But long I was so blind, thou so hadst dimmed my sight,  
That I could never see the craft of this thy deep despite.  
Till I out of thy Fort, was clearly got away,  
And came to Grave advises house, where now I hope to stay.  
Where when I was arrived by help of a dear friend:  
True reason, one with whom I mean, to keep till life do end.  
Now when that I came there, he did declare to me  
What meant that foolish Fort of thy, and all that I did se.  
Which when I well had marked, I did not all repent,  
My labour in my journey so, although my cost I spent.  
Because thy nature so, and deeds I did descry,  
Which deeds of thy, I do detest, and the● I do defy.  
And now unto the world, in deep despite of thee,  
I show what a vain flirt thou art, that every man may see.  
I have set out thy Fort, thy Force, and eke thy School  
Thy Ushers too that teach therein, a mad man and a fool.  
Thy loathsome lessons too, and how by great good hap  
I am got out, although long first, out of thy loathsome lap.  
What shall I farther say, I have set out in kind,  
Each peevish point I know in thee, for every man to find,  
Therefore let fall thy flag, and all thy bravery,  
I have at large I think, set out thy subtle slavery:  
And that in such a sort, as who so lust to reed,  
My whole discourse of thy deceit, will learns for to take heed.  
Of all thy gallant show, they know now what it is,  
Thou long hast lived unknown alas, but now descried I wis.  
And for my 〈◊〉, thy Fo●●e I know so well I swear,  
That I do mean to keep me thence and never to come there,  
But if I do look up, and follow thee again,  
Then keep me fast within the Fort, and plague me for my pain.  
But trust I mean it not, with Reason here my friend,  
I mean to live in thy despite, and so I make an end.  
And yet before I make a flat ends ere I go,  
I will discharged my stomach quite, and bid thee farewell so.  
FINIS.   

¶ A Fool, Dame Fancies man, speaks in defence of his Mistress.  
WHat means that mad man troe, that rails on fancy ●o:  
That seeks to do her such despite, & swears himself hirso  
The man mistakes himself, it is not Fancy sure,  
That for to fall into such rage, doth him so much procure.  
Why Fancy is a friend, to every courteous Knight,  
Why Fancy is the chiefest thing, that doth the mind delight.  
Why Fancy was the cause, wonders first were found,  
Of many fine devices strange, first Fancy was the ground.  
Why, Fancy is the thing, that moveth men to love,  
And tells the Lovers what to do, as best for their behove.  
Fancy, finds pretty toys, to please each Courtesy Dame,  
Fancy to pass the time in sport, inventeth many a game.  
To Courtiers many one, a good friend Fancy stands,  
She makes them reap good liking, at their loving Ladies hands  
She made the Poets old, devices to indite,  
Which they in writing left behind, for other men's delight.  
She seeketh unto none, but many seek to her:  
And those who are servants still, she seeketh to prefer  
To high degree in time: and that in Court (perchance)  
She helpeth them, and many ways, doth seek them to advance.  
Now some (perhaps) again, that are of grossest wit,  
And by their dispositions, for Folly Scholars fit.  
Those now (perhaps) in deed, she letteth all alone,  
with Folly only to reward, and them regardeth none.  
But those that are again of quick capacity,  
Who can consider Virtue wise, from Foolish Vanity.  
Such men she chiefly loves, and such although they know her  
Shall have small cause in tract of time, in deed for to beshrew her.  
I may not speak too much, for I am partial:  
But what I have said, it is true, for I have tried it all.  
And therefore sure the man, that raileth on her so,  
Hath done her wrong, without just cause, to stand so much her so.  
Fair words are ever best, backebitinge is too bad.  
And therefore I do think the man, is either drunk or mad,  
That seeks her such despite, so much without desert.  
And by her countenance it seems, it grieves her to the heart.  
To be so much abused, but what, no remedy,  
A wicked tongue doth say amiss, and will do till he die:  
FINIS.   

THE LAMENTATION of Fancy.  
ALas poor silly wretch, now mayest thou weep and wai●e,  
For now thy Fort is of no force, thou canst no more prevail.  
Fancy let ●all thy flag, thy bravery is descried,  
Thy shifts are seen, wherewith thou thoughtest, thyself from sight to hide  
The man is got away, whom late I entertained:  
And lo by him I am defamed, and all my state is stained.  
Why did I not him feed, with some more sweet repast?  
Why did I not devise to dress, some toy to please his taste?  
I put into his drink, too much Drugs of despite,  
Thou moughst allayed the bitterness, with drams of sweet delight  
Why didst thou in a rage, first fling him from thy lap?  
And leave to feed him any more, with worldly pleasures pap?  
Why did I in my rage, not speaking any word:  
Take him so roughly at the first, and set him from my board?  
And thrust him out of doors, in such a scornful wise:  
Thou hadst been better let him dined, and let himself to rise.  
Why didst thou throw him down the steers in such a sort?  
That he of thy discourtesy may justly make report.  
And being fallen down so, why didst thou Vain delight  
Thrust him out of doors by force, in such despite?  
You jacke an Apeses too, why caught you at him so?  
To ride him like an Ass, as he along the Court did go.  
Why did you hiss you Geese? and Ducks why cried you quack,  
To rail on him? why did you not more gently let him pack?  
Why didst thou dalliance, so thrust him out of door?  
That made him catch so great a fall, and bruise himself so sore.  
A 'las what blame I you? myself I aught to blame,  
For if I had forbidden it, you had not done the same?  
Could none of all my Flowers, so fair and sweet of smell,  
'Cause him to have desire again, within my Fort to devil?  
Could not my Bedchamber, with all my Pictures fair,  
Make him yet ere he die again, thither to make repair.  
Alas, I fear he saw the words at my Bed's head.  
And out of doubt I fear in deed, that sentence he hath red.  
And that hath caused him, to loath my Bed and me,  
But could not all the other sights, that in the Chamber he  
Did see to move delight, make him forget the same,  
O not, well Fancy yet seek none at all to blame,  
But even thy only self, who tookest so small regard  
Unto a Stranger in such sort, and handle him so hard.  
Well, since that he is go, and that I am descried,  
And that from him my shifts alas, I can no longer hide  
I must a warning take, the next that come again,  
Unto my Fort for service mine, better to entertain.  
And though he thus begun, I doubt not but there be,  
Some youths a broad yet in the world, that will come seek out me,  
But all that I can ever have, to ease my pain,  
Will never do me half that good, as to see him again.  
Which if I ever have, I now not sorrow so,  
But I shall then rejoice as much, and rid me of my woe,  
Until which time alas, I languish still in pain,  
And so shall do until I see, my gentle youth again.  
FINIS.   

A FAREWELL To Fancy.  
Fond Fancy now farewell, thy lodging likes me not,  
I served thee long full like a slave, yet little gains I got,  
Yet though I say myself, no slave that ever served,  
Of any mistress in this world have more reward deserved  
But he that binds himself apprentice to a Patch,  
At seven years end, will this be sure, to gain sum foolish catch.  
So Nodcoke I, that long have served thee like a slave,  
For my reward by due desert, Repentance gained have.  
Thou never badst me go, but I would run with speed,  
If thou didst bid me stay again, two biddings should not need.  
When I had better run, when thou didst bid me stay,  
And better staid then go on foot, to breed mine own decay.  
When thou didst bid me look, I ready was to mark,  
And would not lose the thing so soon, not not in greatest dark.  
When better I had been, for to have shut mine eye,  
Then for to cast mine eye on that, should work me woe there by.  
When thou didst bid me like, I loved by and by:  
When thou again badst me mislike, I hated contrary.  
What shall I further say, thou nothing badst me do  
But I was willing by and by, for to agreed thereto.  
But what for all my pains, have I now reaped in fine,  
A goodly gain Repentance sore, of such great folly mine:  
When thou didst bid me go, my running made me fall:  
When thou didst bid me stay again, 'twas for no good at all.  
Thou mad'st me study oft, but what fond trifling toys,  
The Art of love, and of the cause of lovers griefs and joys.  
Thou mad'st me think long while, that lovers grief was game,  
And that no joy could be compared, unto a gallant Dame.  
Thou mad'st me think long time, no pleasure like to that,  
With Courtesans in their kind, to do I say not what.  
Thou mad'st me half amazed, sum time with frantic fits,  
and now and then with thoughts of love, almost out of my wits.  
Thou maadst me take delight, in Lodge of Love to devil,  
And for to count that thing a heaven, which rather was a hell.  
Thou maadst me think that Love did purchase heavenly joy,  
Which now I see did purchase pain, & wrought nought but annoy.  
Thou maadst me take delight, to ●et in brave attire,  
Which now I find was more in deed, than reason did require,  
In Feathers flaunt a flaunt, and tossing in the wind,  
Thou maadst me take delight, which now a folly great I find.  
Thou maadst me take delight in singularity,  
In Tailor's work to have a trick, that none should have but I  
Thou maadst me count a praise, some fashion to devise,  
Wherewith I sought in wisemen's ●ight myself for to disguise.  
Thou maadst me spend my time, in vain and foolish toys,  
And ever didst withdraw my mind, from seeking perfect joys.  
Thou maadst me think it was a heaven, For to go gay,  
But never hadst me look in time, how long it would hold way.  
In fine, as long as I was Scholar at thy School,  
For all the learning that I got, I proved myself a fool.  
Thou didst withdraw my mind from Perfect piety,  
And maadst me chiefly to delight in worldly vanity.  
But now since that I see, that it hath pleased god,  
To plague me well for my deserts, with smart of mine own rod:  
And give me grace to find, what griefs by thee do grow,  
And that although unto my cost, thy nature nought I know.  
What gains by thee are got, what pinching penury,  
What grief of mind, what plague of purse, what wretched misery:  
I now forsake thee quite, and never mean to devil,  
Near thee by fifteen thousand mile, and so Fancy, farewell.  
FINIS.   

THE TOYS OF an Idle Head: Containing many pretty Pamphlets, for pleasant heads to pass away idle time withal.  
By the same Auctor. N. B.   

¶ The Preface.  
MY friend, who so thou be, that feign wouldst buy this book,  
so pass away the time thereon, in idle times to look:  
If so thou fyndste that like thee not, yet pardon grant to me,  
And wish me from thy heart no worse, than I wish unto thee.  
Against my will it shall be much, if many I offend,  
With these rude rhymes which I have made, unto none other end  
But as I said before, for want of other glee,  
For pleasant heads to look upon, when they at leisure be.  
But some there are I must confess, 'gainst whom in great despite,  
Some running rhymes which here you see, I chanced to indight.  
But such I count my deadly foes: and such one if thou be  
That buyest my book, then take the same in deep despite of thee.  
But if you be my friend, and take all in good part  
That there you find: and think it is for want of better Arte.  
Then here with right good will, I offer it to thee,  
And do but thank me for my pains, it is enough for me.  
Of troth I promise' ye, 'tis not for want of will,  
That rudely thus in rhymes I run, but want of better skill.  
For if that I had Ovid's pen, each word in print to place,  
Or Homer's exercise I had, to give my verse a grace.  
Or Tully's Eloquence to talk▪ as I in mind thought best,  
Or Aristotle's pregnant wit, that passeth all the rest.  
Some pretty piece of work▪ perhaps then moughtst thou find,  
Among so many merry toys, that might content thy mind.  
But tush, my beetle brain, can no such fruits bring forth,  
My v●●●es are but ragged rhymes, and therefore little worth.  
My head unhoodded yet, I ready am to fly,  
At every little paltry bird, that goeth whisking by,  
I never have respect to any kind of Game,  
Like to the hooded Hawk: that kept a long while tame  
When that her Ga●●e doth spring, she knows it by the whir,  
And then to make a wing thereat, she gi●●es offyst to st●rre.  
But till the Game be sprung, on fist she percheth still,  
But I (God wots) to choose my game, have no such kind of skill.  
I strike at what I may, and give God thanks for all,  
And stand contented with the same till better doth befall.  
And glad I am sometime, to pray upon a Bird,  
I have no wit to way the best, but every worthless word  
I ready am in rhyme to put, although my reason be  
But small (God wots,) and that too small, as you may plainly see.  
But since you see my simple head, unhooded (as it is,)  
Accept the simple fruit thereof, and be content with this.  
Until I have the skill, to fly at better Game,  
Which when I kill, you shall be sure to taste some of the same.  
But if you now disdain these Birds, whereon I pray,  
With better game hereafter I, perhaps will fly away.  
And like a very Churl, then will I part with none,  
But feed upon the best thereof, unto myself alone.  
Where few or none shall see, what food I feed upon,  
Not▪ nor yet where I hide the same, till all be spent and go.  
Wherefore my friend I say, if so thou dost desire,  
Moore of my works, and wouldst not have the rest thrown in the fire.  
Scorn not these ragged rhymes, but rather soon amend,  
What so thou fyndst that likes thee not, and so I make an end.  
Wishing thee well to far, if so thou be my friend,  
But if my foe, then ill and worse, and so again I end.  
Finis.   

¶ A pretty Ditty in despite of fantasy.  
¶ The Argument.  
¶ Since fantasy first moved me,  
To rhyme thus rudely as you see.  
A pretty Dittye of Despite  
'Gainst Fantasy, first will I wry●●.  

NOw by my troth, I cannot ch●●se but smile,  
To see the foolish ●yttes of fantasy:  
With what deceits she doth the mind beguile,  
As pleaseth best her great inconstancy.  
As well the wisest, as the 〈◊〉 man,  
She troubleth, I tell you, now and th●n.   

And no denial if she liketh once,  
It must be had what ever so it be:  
And each day new Devices for the 〈◊〉,  
Only to please Mistress fond Fantasy.  
For she can never like one thing two days,  
Though it deserve never so great a praise.   

This thing to day, to morrow that again,  
And yet the next day neither of them both:  
That now she likes, anon she will disdain,  
And whom she loved, seemeth now to loathe.  
Thus chopping still, and changing every day,  
With vain delights she leads the mind away.   

She makes the Lover think his Lady fair,  
Although she be as foul, as foul may be:  
She makes him eke, build Castles in the Air,  
And very far in Millstones for to see.  
And in the end, I think if all were known,  
She makes him see, a fools head of his own.   

She makes my Lady so much to esteem,  
Of her green prattling Parratte in the Cage:  
This makes her eke her little Page to deem,  
The finest Boy in England of his age.  
This makes her set more by h●re tame white dear,  
Then some would do by twenty pounds a year.   

And who can choose but laugh to think upon,  
Such froward fits of foolish fantasy?  
And how alas the mind is woe begun,  
If that it hath not each thing by and by,  
That she desires, what ever so it be,  
Cost life or death, it must be had, we see.   

She feeds the mind of man, with many a toy,  
She makes himself to seek his own decay:  
In things of naught, she makes him set his joy,  
And from all Virtue leads him quite away.  
And she it is that vainly caused me,  
Against herself to rhyme thus as you see.   
Finis.   

¶ A dolorous discourse, of one that was beewitched with Love.  
¶ The Argument.  
¶ Since that the passing pangs of love,  
Which many Lovers oft do prove.  
I find the cause from time to time,  
That made men show their minds in rhyme▪  
I do intent in verses few,  
A dolorous discourse to show,  
Of one that was bewitched in love,  
What passing pangs he oft did prove.  
In which God wots, the more his pain,  
Even till his death he did remain.  

IF I had skill to frame a cunning Uearse,  
Wherein I might my loathsome life lament,  
Or able were in rhymes for to rehearse,  
The griping griefs, that now my heart have hent●.  
Such privy pangs of love I could descry,  
As never any Lover felt, but I   

Some say they freeze, they flame, they fly aloft,  
And yet they fall, they hope, and yet they fear:  
The field once won, yet jealousy full oft,  
With vile suspect, their irksome hearts doth tear.  
They live and lack, they lack, and yet they have,  
And having yet, they lack the thing they crave.   

They bide in bliss amid their weary bale,  
With heavy hearts, they show a smile face:  
In figures thus, they tell a mournful tale,  
And set their sorrow out with such a grace.  
That who so reads the same and marks it well,  
Would think a lovers torments worse than Hell.   

Then think you what vile torments do I feel,  
When all these pangs are but Flea bites to mine:  
I never came to top of Fortune's wheel,  
But underneath in dolours still do pine.  
I never flew, whereby to have a fal●,  
Yet stoop I oft, although my gate be small.   

Am I not then in case much worse than they?  
That fly sometimes, although they fall as fast:  
O yes, my case let any Lover way,  
And they shall see, I never yet 〈◊〉 taste,  
One sugared joy, that they have swallowed oft,  
That fly and fall, although they fall not soft.   

For they that fly although they catch a fall,  
Yet while they fly, the time so joyful is▪  
The harm they take by falling is but small,  
For when unto themselves they think on this,  
What a fine flight, but even ere while they had,  
For joy thereof, they can not long be sad.   

But Fortune never yet so favoured me,  
To lend me wings to take one little flight,  
Whereby the harm by falling I might see,  
Or yet in flying find the deep delight.  
I cannot call to mind one joyful day,  
Which for a time, my sorrows may alloy.   

But lie along all wearied with this woe,  
And know not how to prove to make a flight:  
With chilling cold, my joints are frozen so,  
That when I strive but even to stand upright,  
I feel my feebled limbs to faint so fast,  
That staggering still, down flat I fall at last.   

My heart itself is bitten so with fro●t.  
That all my senses now are waxed nome:  
My tongue his taste of pleasant joys hath lost,  
My mind with ●●uell care is overcome▪  
My dazzled eyes are waxed dim with tears,  
Which show the state wherein my life it wears.   

Mine ears wax deaf, no pleasant tunes they hear,  
That may revive with dole my dulled brain:  
Where I was wont with Music for to cheer  
My heavy heart: now seems a deadly pain.  
For each sweet note, I hear men play or sing,  
Through mine ear like thunder claps doth ring.   

But thus to live, o what a life is t●is●  
To live (alas) my senses all distraught:  
Though strange it seem, yet trust me true it is,  
Such chilling cold my senses all hath caught.  
That I can neither hear, nor feel, nor see,  
Nor smell, nor taste, and yet alive must be.   

And shall I tell how 〈◊〉 I c●ught this cold?  
By looking long upon thy lovely face:  
For when I did thy heavenly hue behold,  
And marked there with thy brave and comely grace.  
Good Lord thought I, what worthy wight is this?  
Some heavenly Dame, than Venus sure it is.   

Venus quoth I? with that I 〈◊〉 for fear,  
And shut the windows of my seeing shop:  
For grief whereof my ha●●● did swelte I swear,  
Then 'gan I strive against the hill to hop.  
With gazing eyes to s●are on thee again,  
Whose only looks have wrought me all this pain.   

But when I herded a name to thee assigned,  
And see thou wert an earthly Creature:  
Then 'gan I thus imagine in my mind,  
Which way might I this ladies love procure.  
To me poor Page that thus sore wounded lie,  
At point of death, yet dying cannot dye.   

But when I see mine own unworthiness,  
And could not call to mind and due desert:  
Whereon I might presume in this dis●resse,  
To crave of thee some salve for this my smart.  
With grief thereof, I caught this chilling cold,  
Which quaking yet, my quivering corpse doth hold.   

Yet looked I lo, and stared still on thee,  
Thinking thereby to find some ease of pain:  
But strait me thought, I saw thee look awry,  
As who should say, thou di●st my looks disdain.  
Which lowering look, drove me into this fit,  
Which God he knows how it torments me yet.   

But yet I must confess at first dear dame,  
That hot desire my grief hath caused so.  
But by and by my fierce and fiery 〈◊〉,  
Was quickly quenched, 〈◊〉 waves of weary wo.  
In which wet waves, I too and 〈◊〉 ●m tossed,  
Seeking in vain, to find 〈◊〉 quiet cost.   

Now (noble Dame) since that thou 〈◊〉 plain,  
How first I caught this grief that gripes my heart:  
And makes me thus 〈…〉 of pain,  
Since that in thee it lies to ease my smar●●.  
And only thee, (dear dame) do not deny  
To help me now, for if thou dost, I die.   

But think upon my bitter passion,  
And eke the passing pangs wherein I pine:  
And how fast bond without redemption,  
I linger forth this loathsome life of mine:  
And how thou mayest with speed, if thee it please,  
Both set me free, and cure my strange disease.   

Which if thou wilt, I know for certainty,  
Thou canst not choose, but lend me some relief:  
Thou will't, beholding my calamity,  
Lend some one grain of comfort to my grief.  
Which when thou dost: for a physicians fee,  
A noble name thy greatest gain shall ●ée.   

And so dear Dame, when thou dost think upon  
The loathsome lives that Lovers often rehearse:  
Among the rest, let this of mine be one,  
Which here to thee doth show itself in verse.  
Then shalt thou see how far my passion,  
In pangs of love hath paced them every one.   
Finis.   

¶ A Gentleman being on a Christmas Eve in a very solitary place, among very solemn company: where was but small cheer, less mirth, and lest music: being very earnestly entreated to sing a Christmas carol, with much ado, sung as followeth.  

NOw Christmas draweth near,  
And most men make good cheer,  
With heigh, how, care away:  
I like a seelye mo●●e,  
In drowsy dumps at home,  
Will nought but fast and pray.   

Some sing and dance for life,  
Some Card and Dice as rife,  
Some use old Christmas Games:  
But I o wretched wight,  
In dole both day and night  
Must devil, the world so frames.   

In Court what pretty toys,  
What fine and pleasant joys,  
To pass the time away?  
In country nought but care,  
Sour Cheese curds, chiefest fare,  
For Wine, a Bole of Whey.   

For every dainty dish  
Of Flesh or else of Fish  
And for your Drink in Court:  
A dish of young fried Frogs,  
Sod houghs of mezled Hogs,  
A cup of small Tap wort.   

And for each courtly sight,  
Each show that may delight  
The eye, or else the mind:  
In Country thorns and brakes,  
And many miry lakes,  
Is all the good you find.   

And for fine Enteryes,  
halls, chamgers, galleries,  
And Lodgings many m●e:  
Here desert Woods or plainer,  
Where no delight remains,  
To walk in too and fro●.   

In Court for to be short,  
For every pretty sport,  
That made the heart delight:  
In country many a grief,  
And small or no relief,  
To aid the wounded wight.   

And in this Desert place,  
I Wretch in woeful case,  
This merry Christmas time:  
Content myself perforce,  
To rest my careful corpse:  
And so I end my rhyme▪    

¶ In the latter end of Christmas, the same Gentleman was likewise desired to sing: and although against his will, was content to sing as followeth.  

THe Christmas now is past,  
And I have kept my fast,  
With prayer every day:  
And like a country Clown,  
With nodding up and down,  
Have past the time away.   

As for old Christmas Games,  
Or dancing with fine Dames,  
Or shows, or pretty plays:  
A solemn oath I swear,  
I came not where they were,  
Not all these holy days.   

I did not sing one note,  
Except it were by rote,  
Still buzzing like a be:  
To ease my heavy heart,  
Of some, though little smart●,  
For want of other glee.   

And as for pleasant wine,  
There was no drink so fine,  
For to be tasted here:  
Full simple was my fare,  
If that I should compare,  
The same to Christmas cheer.   

I see no kind of sight,  
That might my mind delight,  
Believe me noble Dame:  
But every thing I see,  
Did fret a-two my maw,  
To think upon the same.   

Upon some bushy baulk,  
Full fain I was to walk,  
In Woods from tree to tree:  
For want of better room,  
But since my fatal doom,  
Hath so appointed me.   

I stood therewith content,  
Till Christmas full was spent,  
In hope that God will send:  
A better yet next year,  
My heavy heart to cheer,  
And so I make an end.    

¶ The same man being in very great dumps the same time, being likewise entreated to write some doleful Ditty of his own invention, written as followeth.  

WHat gripping griefs, what pinching pangs of pain?  
What deadly dint of deep and dark annoy?  
What plague? what woe, doth in this world remain?  
What Hellish hap? what want of worldly joy?  
But that (o Caitiff) I do daily bide,  
Yea, and that more than all the world beside.   

If ever man had cause to wish for death,  
To cut a-two this luckless line of life:  
Why strive not I with speed to stop my breath?  
Since cruel care, not like a carving knife,  
But like a Saw, still hackling to and fro,  
Thus gnaws my heart with gripes of weary woe.   

What do you think I jest, or that I fain?  
Or Lover like, my life I do lament?  
Or that my fits are fancies of the brain,  
Which waver still, and never stand content?  
Or that my sighs are naught but signs of sloth?  
O think not so, believe me on my troth.   

This I protest before my God on high,  
If that I could my dolors well declare:  
I think I should such privy pangs descry,  
Of sorrows smart, as surely seldom are  
Seen now adays: I think especially,  
Yea seen or felt, of such a Youth as I   

But some perhaps will ask●, what is my woe?  
What is the thing that makes me so to mourn?  
And why I walk so solemn too and fro?  
I answer thus: such fiery flames doth burn,  
Both day and night, within my boiling breast:  
That God he knows, I take but little rest.   

But shall I tell, how first this flame arose?  
And how these Coals were kindled at the furst?  
I may not so my dolloures deep disclose:  
For credit me, I would fayne if I dared.  
But since, alas, I may not as I would,  
Let this suffice, I would fayne if I could.   

What if I could? nay durst: what did I say?  
For if I dared, I know full well I could:  
What could I do? no whit more than I may,  
I know that too: but yet if that I would.  
I could do much more than I mean to do,  
As thus advised: but whether do I go?   

What need so many words? so much a do?  
To blaze the broils that I do daily bide:  
Or else to tell of torments too too too,  
Wherewith I am beset on every side.  
These few words nought have served the turn I trow,  
Then thousand plagues, but pleasures none I know.   
Finis.   

¶ A pretty gird given by a Gentlewoman, to her servant, whereupon the verses were made as followeth.  
¶ Farewell Youth, to your untruth.  

WHen as thou badst, farewell to mine untruth,  
I hope thou spakest it but in jest dear Dame:  
Or else for that you thought that every youth,  
Most commonly, is touched with the same:  
Such youths there are, I must confess in deed,  
As with untruth their ladies fancies feed.   

But what of that: tush, I am none of those,  
Though youthly years I cannot well deny:  
For rather life than truth, I choose to loose,  
By truth I mean my true fydelitye:  
Which who so breaks, to him, as to a youth,  
Thou mayest well say: farewell to thy untruth.   

But yet good Lady, say not so to me,  
Till thou dost see, my truth by falsehood stained,  
Which when thou seest, then justly spit at me,  
As at a slave, whose truth is all but feigned:  
But till that time, say not to mine untruth,  
Farewell again, but only to my youth.   

For all untruths I utterly deny,  
And to my trusty truth, I stoutly stand:  
And who so list against the same reply,  
'Gainst him with speed; I go with sword in hand:  
Into the Field, the same for to defend,  
For lo in this, my credit doth depend.   

And though (perhaps) most commonly each youth,  
Is given in deed, to follow every gay:  
And some of these are touched with untruth,  
Yet some there be, that take a better way:  
And stand upon their truth and honesty,  
Moore than upon their foolish bravery.   

Which two, I count to be the chiefest points,  
That each man aught to build his life upon:  
And these hold I my chief and strongest joints,  
For what were I, when these two points are go?  
Wherefore dear Dame, as I begun I end:  
My Youth I grant, and truth I still defend.    

¶ It chanced not long after that this Gentleman happened to be in the company of his very friend, which at Dice lost much money: and after his loss, entreated him to writ some despiteful Ditty to dissuade him from Cards and Dice: which with much entreaty he granted, and written as followeth.  

MY Friend I say if thou be wise,  
Use not to much the Cards and Dice:  
Lest, setting all at sink and syce,  
Do make thee know the cost:  
'twill make thee wear a thin light purse,  
'twill make thee swear, and ban, and curse:  
'twill make thee do all this and worse,  
When once thy Coin is lost.   

Therefore take heed in time, I say:  
For time at Dyce runs fast away,  
No time worse spent, then at Dice play,  
I put thee out of doubt:  
And say not, but it was thee told,  
The nearer that thy purse is polled,  
The more still friendship waxeth cold,  
Yea all the world throughout.   

And then when once thy coin is g●n●,  
And friends to help thee thou haste none,  
Nor house nor Land to live upon,  
O then, what will't thou say?  
Well, once I might have taken heed,  
I had a trusty friend in deed,  
That told me true how I ●●ould speed,  
If I did hold this way.   

For who continues in this vain,  
Of setting still, both ●ye and main,  
But in the end he shall be fain,  
To leave it will or nill:  
And do the thing that doth despite  
Most men, though some it doth delight,  
To them that play to hold the light,  
Full ill against their will.   

Leave therefore (friend) while thou art w●ll.  
And mark the words 〈…〉,  
If once thy land thou fall to s●ll,  
Thy credit will 〈◊〉:  
And care not thou, though Gamesters say,  
These Gamesters, Roisters call I may:  
What Dastard darest thou not play?  
How, reach this man a Chair.   

Well, if he bring it, sit thee down,  
Or else go out into the town:  
If not, then walk thee up and down,  
And bear a time his scoff:  
And thou shalt see within a while,  
How thou mayest finely at him smile:  
When he would gladly wish a file,  
To file his irons off.   

For commonly such Knaves as these,  
Do end their lives upon three trees:  
Or lie in prison for their fees,  
For all their bragging out:  
And though one year they go full gay,  
And every day play lusty play:  
Yet with a Rope they make a fray,  
Credit seven year go about.   

And therefore say they what they list,  
Take thou still heed of had I witted:  
And use not too too much thy fist,  
To shaking of the Dice:  
For first thy gain 〈◊〉 but sm●ll,  
The credit less, thou 〈◊〉 with all:  
Thy estimation lest of all,  
Though dear thou buy th● price.   

Good Lord was not that man half mad,  
That once a pretty living had:  
And would not rest, but out must gad,  
To Cards and Dice in haste:  
And used them so lustily,  
Setting, and throwing carelessly:  
Till in short space full foolishly,  
He spent even all at last.   

Even so will't thou I promise' thee,  
If thou do not give ear to me:  
And leave thy trolling of a die,  
And that with speed my friend:  
For they that use so lustily,  
The Cards and Dice most commonly:  
Are either brought to beggary,  
Or hung else in the end.   

And now farewell, since that I may,  
As now, no longer with thee stay:  
My counsel therefore bear away,  
And leave that vain delight:  
That now thou hast in Cards and Dice,  
And learn betimes for to be wise:  
Once well warned, is as good as twice,  
And so my friend good night.   
Finis.   

another Ditty after that, made by the same man (after a sort) in defence of Cards and Dice, as followeth.  

TO play at Dice, is but good sport,  
So it be used in good sort:  
But who delights in Cards and dice,  
In deed, I cannot count him wise:  
For he that plays till all be go,  
With Robin Hood and little john,  
May trace the Woods: for wise men say,  
Keep somewhat till a rainy day.   

But will you therefore generally,  
Dispraise the Dice so spitefully▪  
What thing so good that now is used,  
But by a fool may be abused?  
I speak not this unto that end,  
That you should think I would defend  
Dyce playing universally,  
But only used moderately.   

For who so long doth use the Dice,  
Till he thereof hath known the price,  
I mean till almost all ●e go,  
Then mark this strait way such a one,  
Begins to learn to cog apace,  
Whereby he doth so much disgrace,  
The Cards and Dice, that men do fear●  
To play, for Coggers every where.   

But if that coggers all were bard,  
And cleanly cutters of a Card,  
And every Gamester would play square,  
Then some men would hope well to far,  
And then would few so much despy●e,  
As now they do, both Cards and dice,  
For neither Cards nor Dice be nought,  
If men would use them as they aught.   

For how can Cards or Dice hurt those,  
That care not whether they win or loose?  
But who do so? such men these are,  
As play no more than they may spare:  
And when they c●me to any Game,  
They make a pastime of the same:  
But hab or nab, speed well who may,  
And merrily so will spend the day.   

And what is lost too, ●are well it,  
Never chase nor fret a whit,  
And they that use play in this sort,  
With Cards and Dice make preaty sport.  
Then therefore since both Cards and Dice,  
Be good for some men, as I say:  
Who doth abuse them is not wise.  
Nor worthy in my mind to play.  
Therefore as I begone, I end,  
Moderate play I do defend.   
Finis.   

¶ An other time not long after, he chanced to be in his friends and betters house: being in his bed about midnight, by chance awake, herded in the next chamber a Page of the Ladies of the house, lamenting as he lay in his bed, very sore his unhappy estate: which as he could well bea●e away in the morning, put it in verse only for his own reading, to laugh at, but being by his friend entreated, put it as you see among his Toys (as one not the lest) which was as followeth.  

THat I would not persuaded be,  
In my young reckless youth:  
By plain experience I see,  
That now it proveth truth.  
It is Tom's song, my ladies Page,  
That service is no heritage.   

I heard him sing this other night,  
As he ●ay all alone:  
Was never Boy in such a plight,  
Where should he make his mo●e.  
O Lord quoth he, to be a page,  
This service is none heritage.   

Mine Uncle told me other day,  
that I must take great pain:  
And I must cast all sloth away,  
If I seek aught to gain.  
For sure quoth he, a painful Page,  
Will make service an heritage.   

Yea sure, a great commodity,  
If once Madam he do displease:  
A cuff on the ear, two or three,  
He shall have, finally for his ease.  
I would for me he were a Page,  
For to possess this heritage.   

I rub and brush almost all day,  
I make clean many a coat●:  
I seek all honest means I may,  
How to come by a groat.  
I think I am a painful Page,  
Yet can I make no heritage.   

Why? I to get have much a do,  
A Kirtle now and than:  
For making clean of many a 〈◊〉,  
For Alice, or Mistress Anne.  
My Lady's Maids will 〈…〉 Page,  
Always of such an heri●●●●.   

The wenches they get Coifs and cawls,  
Frenchhoodes and Partlets ●●ke:  
And I get naught but checks and braw●●s,  
A thousand in a week.  
These are rewards meet for a Page,  
Surely a goodly heritage.   

My Lady's maids to must I please,  
But chiefly Mistress Anne:  
For else by the Mass she will disease,  
Me vyly now and than.  
Faith she will say, you 〈◊〉 Page,  
I'll purchase you an heritage.   

And if she say so by the ●●de,  
'tis Cock I warrant i●:  
But God he knows, I were as good,  
To be without it:  
For all the gains I get ●oor● Page,  
Is but a slender Heritage.   

I have so many folks to please,  
And creep and kneel unto:  
That I shall never live at ease,  
What ever so I do:  
I'll therefore be no more a Pag●,  
But seek some other heritage.   

But was there ever such a pa●●●,  
To speak so loud as I:  
Knowing what hold the mayde● will c●tch,  
At every fault they spy:  
And all for 〈…〉 ●ore ●age,  
To purchase me an heritage.   

And if that they may h●●re 〈…〉,  
I were as good be ●angde:  
My Lady shall kno● 〈◊〉 by 〈◊〉,  
And I shall sure be bangde:  
I shall be used 〈◊〉 a Page,  
I shall not lose mine heritage.   

Well yet I hope the time to s●e,  
When I may run as fast:  
For wands for them, as they for me,  
Ear many days be passed:  
For when I am no longer Page,  
I'll give them up m●●e heritage.   

Well, I a while must stand content,  
Till better hap do fall:  
With such poor state as God hath sent,  
And give him thanks for all.  
Who will I hope, send me poor Page  
Then this, some better heritage.   

With this, with hands and eyes,  
Lift up to heaven on high:  
He sighed twice or thrice,  
And wept to piteously.  
Which when I see, I wished the Page,  
In faith some better heritage.   

And weeping thus good God quoth he,  
Have mercy on my soul:  
That ready I may be for thee,  
When that the bell doth knoule.  
To make me free of this bondage,  
And partner of thy heritage.   

Lord grant me grace so thee to serve,  
That at the latter day:  
Although I can no good deserve,  
Yet thou to me mayest say.  
Be thou now free, that wert a Page.  
And hear in heaven have heritage.   
Finis.   

¶ The same man being desired the next day following, to sing some pretty song to the Virginals, by a Gentlewoman that he made no small account of: was feign Extempore to indite, and sing as followeth.  

AMid my joys such grief I find,  
That what to do, I know not I:  
My pleasures are but blasts of wind,  
Full well even now, and by and by,  
Some sudden pangs torment me so,  
That I could even cry out for wo.   

And yet perforce no remedy,  
Needs must I laugh, when I could mourn:  
Yea, oft I sing when presently,  
To tears my singing could I turn:  
Such luck have Gamesters some men say,  
Win, and lose, and all in a day.   

But some there are whom fortune still,  
Gives leave to win, and seldom loose:  
O would to God I had my will,  
That I might soon be one of those.  
That are in fortunes ●auour so,  
Then need I not thus plain of wo.   

For if that I were sure at lest,  
For to obtain that I would crave:  
Yea though it were but one request,  
I would desire no more to have.  
I ask but even one happy day,  
Let me do after as I may▪   

And sure I see no remedy,  
But even to hope on hap alone:  
And that is it that comforts me,  
For when hope sails, all joys are go.  
Therefore what with hope and despair,  
My joys lie hovering in the air.   

Which would to God would either fall,  
Or else be driven quite away:  
That I might have no hope at all,  
or else that I might happily say.  
Now have I found the thing I sought,  
Now will I take but little thought.   

Well, yet I hope or e●e I dye,  
To light on such a happy day:  
That I may sing full merrily,  
Not, heigh ho weal, but care away.  
The Ship full many tempests past,  
Hath reached the quiet Haven at last.   
Finis.   

¶ The next day after that he had written this passion of Love, divers Gentlewomen being then in the house: he was entreated by two or three of them at once, to make some verses: and one among the rest, being very desirous to have her request fulfilled, brought him a pen, and ink, and Paper: with earnest entreaty, to make some verses upon what matter he though best himself: he very unwilling to writ, not knowing of a sudden, how to please them all in verse, and yet desirous to grant all their requests, with much ado, was in the end entreated to write, as followeth.  
WHat? shall I writ some pretty toy, will that like Lady's best?  
Or shall I pen the praise of one fair dame, above the rest?  
Or shall I write at random else, what first comes in my brain?  
Not, not: for words once flown abroad, can not be called again.  
Why then since none of these will serve, what other kind of style  
shall I pick out to write upon? now sure I ●éedes must smile,  
To think upon my beetle brain, that can no fruit bring forth,  
But such baldictum rhymes as these, as are not reading worth.  
Faith Ladies but for shame, I would not writ one word at all,  
In rhyme (at lest) because you see, my reason is so small.  
But since it is such as it is, in deed small and to small,  
I must desire you for this once, to stand consent withal.  
And take the same in as good part, as if a wiser man  
Had better done: because you see, I do the best I can.  
And more than can, you cannot crave: for if you do of me,  
Before you ask be sure to go without, I promise' ye.  
But any thing that well I 〈◊〉, command you all of me,  
And I will do the best I can, to please each one of you.  
And thus as humbly as I can, I crave of you to lend,  
Your patience to my rudeness this, and so I make an end.  
Full sorry that I cannot write, so finely as I would,  
To like your fancies all alike, for if I could, I would.  
And so again fair Ladies all, in courteous sort I crave,  
As I deserve your favours so, and friendships let me have.   

¶ Not many days after, he see a Gentlewoman in the house, whom he accounted his dear Mistress begin to show her evil countenance without cause, and to make very much of another, whom he thought very unworthy of such good hap: and being not a little aggrieved to see himself causeless to grow daily so much out of countenance, and his adversary so unworthily esteemed: written one day among other, half a sheet ofPaper in verse: wherein he privily showed his adversaries unworthiness, his Mistress' inconstancy, and his own evil hap: and finding a fit time, delivered the writing to his said Mistress: which, how she took in worth, that rests: the verses were these.  

WHen Flattery falls to play the ●lée●ing Knave,  
And tried trust is put out of conceit:  
And cogging craft, by subtle shifts can have,  
The gains, for which doth faithful service w●ight.  
Then deep deceit, must needs possess the part,  
That doth in deed belong to due desert.   

When fond suspect, shall 'cause a faithful friend,  
To deem amiss of friend, without desert,  
And coy conceit, shall 'cause a final end,  
Of friendship there, where friends were linkte in heart.  
Then double dealing must of force prevail,  
To win reward, and faithful friendship fail.   

When men are scorned, and shadows are esteemed,  
And shells are saved, and Kernels cast away:  
And deeds be done, and words for deeds be deemed,  
And outward bravery bears the bell away.  
Then honest meaning must go change his mind,  
Or else is sure a cold reward to find.   

But when in deed, vile Flattery false is found,  
And tried trust doth reap his due reward:  
And deep deceit, is digged under ground,  
And cogging craft, can get no tale be hard.  
Then right may have, that reason doth require,  
And due desert, may have his deep desire.   

Lo, thus dear Dame, this for myself I write,  
My troth I trow, yourself have tried well:  
For which (alas) I reap naught but despite,  
The just cause why, God knows, I cannot tell.  
Except by stealth, some fleering flattering Knave,  
Hath got the gains, which I deserve to have.   

Or else perhaps, some false suspect hath bread  
Misliking some, of me without desert:  
Or coy conceit hath entered in your head,  
To hate the man, who honours you in heart,  
Or double dealing, seeks some secret mean,  
Betwixt true friends, true love to banish clean.   

Or else I doubt some shadow of a man,  
In my despite some gallant words hath used:  
On whom I vow to do the best I can,  
To seek revenge, where I am so abused.  
Wherefore good Lady, if such any be.  
I humbly crave, hide not his name from me.   

That I with speed may give him his desert,  
Or else receive my just and due reward:  
For then when you shall see my honest heart,  
I do not doubt your heart will be so hard.  
But you at last, although first somewhat long,  
Will make amendss to me for every wrong.   

And thus in hope, no false and fond suspect,  
Of liking yours, shall 'cause such sudden change:  
And that you will such coy conceits reject,  
As to your friend, do make you seem so strange.  
I rest the time that reason doth require,  
When my desert may have his deep desire.    

¶ Not long after seeing his Adversary still creeping in countenance, and himself almost excluded: sitting on a day alone in his Chamber, thinking of the despite of Fortune, & the want of discretion, in his discourteous Dame: written in haste these verses following.  

O what a spite it is, unto a noble heart,  
To see a scab without all due desert.  
With no account of credit, nor of fame,  
To win the love, of any gallant Dame.  
Which valiant hearts, with travail great and pain,  
Hauè much ado, long time for to obtain.   

Myself I count of valiancy but small,  
Yet such as may my credit well defend:  
And such as in my Mistress honour shall  
Be well content, with speed my life to spend.  
Which, let me spend, and spend, and spend again,  
Yet shall another suck my sugared gain.   

With much ado, I once did favour win,  
Of one in deed, a fair and gallant Dame:  
Which my good hap no sooner did begin,  
But by and by, to overthrow the same,  
A privy Patch, a whoreson scurvy Knave,  
Enjoyed the fruits, that was my right to have.   

His fleering face, her peevish fancy pleased,  
My tried troth was put of conceit:  
He glad, I sad, he well, and I diseased,  
He caught the Fish, for which I laid the bait.  
He idle sat, and nothing did all day,  
And yet at night did bear the Bell away.   

But since I see, that cases so fall out,  
That valiant hearts so little are regarded:  
And gallant Dames will seem to love a Lout,  
And let a noble youth go unrewarded.  
I will no more henceforth such travail spend  
In cases such, and so I make an end.    

Not many days after, seeing his Mistress discourteous dealing, began to put her away, and choose himself an other Mistress: and being then in the Christmas time, presented his new Mistress, with a new years Gift, in this sort.  
THis little Toy to thee, for want of better shift,  
I here presume for to present, as a small newyear's gift.  
The value small whereof, weigh not I humbly crave,  
But take in worth his great good will, whose friendly heart you have.  
To use brave vaunting words, will win nought but disdain.  
But valiant deeds with words but few, be they that credit gain.  
Therefore for to be brief, thus much I do protest,  
That if to work your heart's content, within my power it rest:  
Command what so thou will't, if I deny the same,  
God let me never have good look, of any noble Dame.  
But you perhaps will think, these words are all but wind:  
But do not so: first try, then trust, and fancy as you find.  
And let not false suspect, once 'cause you for to deem,  
That there is any one alive, whom I do more esteem.  
But as I do protest, so count me your dear friend,  
Who likes, who loves, who honour's you: & so I make an end.   

¶ A verse or two written Extempore, upon a sigh of a Gentlewoman.  

I Sigh to see thee sigh, the just occasion why,  
God knows, and I perhaps can guess unhappily.  
But whatsoever I think, I mean to let it pass,  
And thus in secret sort, to think unto myself (alas)  
Poor little silly soul, God quickly comfort thee,  
Who could his sighs refrain, a Dame in such sad sort to see:  
The cause whereof I guess, but not the remedy:  
I would I could a medicine frame, to cure thy malady.   

For if it were in me, or if it 〈◊〉 be,  
To do the thing o noble Dame, in deed to comfort thee,  
My heart, my hand, my sword, my purse, which (though) but small  
At your command I offer here, all ready at your call.  
Of which if any shrink, when you vouchsafe to try,  
As I deserve, disdain me then, and God then let me dye.  
And thus from honest heart, as one your faithful friend,  
In few unfeigned friendly words, farewell: and so an end.   
Finis.   

¶ Verses written upon this occasion: a young Gentleman, falling in love with a fair young Damsel, not knowing how to make manifest unto her, the great good will he bore her, using certain talk unto her, in the end of her talk demanded of her, whether she could or no: she answered yea, upon her which yea, he written these verses following, and found time to present them unto her presently, as he written them.  

IF thou canst read, then mark what here I write?  
And what thou readst, believe it to be true:  
And do not think, I do but toys endite,  
For it thou mark in time what doth ensue,  
Then thou ere long, perhaps shalt easily find,  
The effect of that, that may content thy mind.   

And to be plain, I like and love thee well,  
And that so well, as better cannot be:  
What should I say? I wish that I did devil,  
In place where I thyself might daily see.  
That yet at lest, I might enjoy her sight,  
In whom doth rest the sta● of my delight.   
Finis.   

¶ A Gentleman talking on a time with a young Gentlewoman, being appareled very plainly, she told him 〈◊〉 was too plain for him, he must go seek some gallanter 〈◊〉 more meet for his tooth: to which, answering his mind afterward, written upon the same as followeth: and gave them unto her to read.  
WHen first I see thee clad, in colours black and white,  
To gaze upon thy seemly self, I took no small delight.  
Thy black betokens modesty, thy white a virgins mind,  
And happy he may think himself, that such a one can find.  
That which is painted out, with colours fresh and gay,  
Is of itself but little worth, the colours set away.  
But that deserveth praise, which of itself alone,  
Can show itself in plainest sort, and craveth help of none.  
What should I further say? let each man choose his choice,  
Though some in painted toys delight, in plainness I rejoice.  
And why? because myself am plain, as you do see,  
And therefore to be plain with you, your plainness liketh me.  
The plainness of your mind, and eke your plain attire,  
For gay and gallant Cotes is not, the thing that I desire.  
But noble gallant mind, and yet too there with plain,  
For now and then in gallant 〈◊〉, doth deep deceit remain.  
But for in you fair Dame, both noble gallant mind,  
And therewith meaning plain in deed, I now do plainly find.  
Choose others what they list, this plainly I protest,  
Your gallant mind in plain attire, it is that likes me best.   

❧ A comparison between a slippery stone, and a trustless friend.  
AS he that treads on slippery stones, is like to catch a fall,  
So he that trusts to trothless friends, shall i'll be dealt withal.  
But he that looks before he leaps, is likest sure to stand,  
So he that tries or ere he trust, shall be on surer hand.  
But once found out a good sure ground, keep there thy footing fast  
so charyly keep a faithful friend, whose friendship tried thou hast  
for as some grounds that seem full sure, in time will much decay  
so some false friends that seem full true, at need will shrink away.  
And as within some rotten grounds, some hidden holes we see,  
So in the hearts of faithful friends, so many mischiefs be.  
Therefore I briefly bid my friends, for to beware in time,  
For fear of further after claps, and so I end my rhyme.   

❧ A Dolorous discourse.  

IF he who lingers forth a loathsome life,  
In weary wise, expressed with endless woe:  
To whom care still stands 〈◊〉 hackeling knife,  
To tear the heart that is tormented so:  
Who never felt one hour, nor spark of joy,  
But deep lies drowned in Gulf of foul annoy.   

Whom Fortune ever frowned on in his life,  
And never lent one lucky look at all:  
With whom the Moon and Stars are all at strife,  
Who all in vain doth daily cry and call:  
For comfort some, but yet receiveth none,  
But to himself his grief must still bemoan.   

Whose grief first grew, in time of tender years,  
And yet doth still continued to this day:  
Who all bexent doth change, among the Breares,  
And still hung fast, and cannot get away:  
Who every way which he doth seek to go,  
Doth find some block, that doth him overthrow.   

Who never was, is not, nor looks to be,  
In way of weal, to rid him of his woe:  
Who day by day, by proof too plain doth see,  
That Destiny hath sworn it shall be so:  
That he must live with torments so oppressed,  
And till he die, must never look for rest.   

If such a one may well be thought to be,  
The only man that knoweth misery:  
I may well say, that I (poor man) am he,  
Who daily so do pine in penury:  
Whose heavy heart is so oppressed with grief,  
As until death doth look for no relief.   

To swim and sink, to burn and be a cold,  
To hope and fear, to sigh and yet to sing:  
And all at once, are lovers fits of old,  
To many known, to som●● common thing:  
But still to sink, fry, fear, and always sigh,  
Are patterns plain, that death approacheth nigh.   

And dost thou then sweet Death approach so near,  
Welcome my friend, and ease of all my woe:  
A friend in deed, to me a friend most dear,  
To ease my heart that is tormented so:  
Happy is he who lights on such a friend,  
To breed his joys, and 'cause his griefs to end.    

¶ A letter sent by a Gentlewoman in verse, to her Husband being over sea.  

WHat greater grief, then lose a chiefest joy?  
Then why live I, that lack my chief delight?  
My friend I mean, for whom thus in annoy,  
In weary wise, I pass both day and night.  
For lo, a friend in deepest of distress,  
To friend doth yield, of every grief redress.   

His company doth often drive away;  
Such doleful thoughts as might torment the mind:  
With friend, a friend, to pass each doleful day,  
Of comfort great, may many causes find.  
A friend sometime, but with is only sight,  
His doleful friend doth many time's delight.   

Not greater ease is to some heavy heart,  
Yea, when it is with greatest griefs oppressed:  
Then trusty friends, to whom for to impart,  
Such cause of grief, as breeds it such unrest.  
For oft by telling of a doleful tale,  
The tongue doth ease, the breast of much bale.   

If heart be glad, what mirth can then be more?  
Then when true friends do meet with merry cheer,  
The grief forgot, of absence there's before,  
By presence had, do sudden joys appear.  
What shall I say? as I begone I end,  
No joy to love, no grief to loss of friend.   

Then my sweet friend in this my deep distress,  
Let me enjoy thy company again:  
For thou alone must purchase my redress,  
And ease my heart, that thus doth pine in pain.  
Thou art the friend, that even but with thy sight,  
Mayest me poor soul, thy doleful friend delight.   

What now can ease my pining pensive heart,  
Thus day and night with torments sore oppressed:  
Then unto thee, my friend for to impart,  
Such cause of grief, as breeds me such unrest.  
For oft by telling of this doleful tale,  
My tongue will ease, my breast of much bale.   

If thou wert here, my heart that now is sad,  
To think on thee whose absence breeds my woe:  
With thoughts on thee, would soon become so glad,  
As should forget those griefs that gripe me so.  
And as before, so now again I end,  
I fear to dye, for want of thee my friend.   

Thou art my friend, chief fr●end, and only Fear,  
My gem of joy, my jewel of delight:  
God only knows, for thy sweet sake my dear,  
How I in dole do pass each day and night.  
Come therefore, come, with speed come home again,  
To comfort her, that thus doth pine in pain.   
¶ Thy loving Wife and faithful friend, And so will bide, till life do end.   

¶ One sitting in doleful dumps by himself alone, thinking to have written some dolorous discourse, was let by occasion: and so for want of time, written but only two lines and left them unfinished: the verses were these. (I like them, and therefore thought good to place them among other imperfections.)  
MY hand here hovering stands, to writ some pretty toy,  
My mourning mind for to delight, the wants all worldly joy.  
And Fancy offereth eke, fine toys for to indite upon,  
To comfort thus my heavy heart, that is thus woe begon.  
But all in vain, for why? my mind is so oppressed with grief,  
As all the pleasures in this world, can lend me no relief.  
Finis imperfecta.   

❧ A dolorous verse written by him, that in deed was in no small dumps, when he written them.  

IF any man do live of joys bereft,  
By heavens I swear, I think that man am I:  
Who at this hour no spark of joy have left,  
But lead a life in endless misery.  
I sigh, I sob, I cannot well express,  
The griefs I bide, without hope of redress.   

So many are the causes of my grief,  
That day by day torments my mourning mind,  
As that almost there can be no relief,  
To ease my heart, till ease by death I find.  
What shall I say? what pangs but I abide?  
What pleasure that, but is to me denied?   

What sap of sorrow but I daily taste?  
What mite of mirth, that I can once attain?  
What foul despite doth follow me as fast,  
To plague my heart with pangs of deadly pain?  
Ten thousand Poets cannot paint the smart,  
That I abide within my harmless heart.   

And why do I by pen then seek to show,  
The passing pangs that I do daily bide?  
The pangs I paint by pen (God wots) are few,  
Compared to those, which I on every side,  
Am fain to feel: and that is worst of all,  
Without all hope of any help at all.   

Then you alas, that read this mourning verse,  
Way with yourselves what loathsome life I lead:  
And let your hearts some spark of pity pierce,  
To see me thus (as one amazed) half dead.  
Striving for life, desiring still to dye,  
And yet perforce must pine in penury.   

And thus an end of writing here I make,  
But not an end of mourning, God he knows:  
For when I seek one ●orrow to forsake,  
Another grief a new as freshly grows.  
So that of force myself I must content,  
To devil in dole, until my days be spent.   
Finis.   

❧ A Gentleman having made promise unto his Mistress, to come unto her upon a certain appointed day, to do her service, broke promise with her, but the next day following, thinking her haste of necessity so great, but then he might come soon enough to accomplish such matters as he was wont to do, came: and confessing his fault of breach of promise, professing it against his will, showing his earnest desire of more haste, craved pardon and recovery of credit lost, in verse as followeth.  
THough yesterday I broke my word, & thereby purchased blame  
Yet now too day, as you may see, I come to keep the same.  
And though this be not half enough, my fault to countervail,  
Yet do not you my word mistrust, though once my promise fails  
For if you known the urgent cause, that kept me so away,  
And therewith see mine earnest haste, to come again this day  
For to recover credit lost: I do myself assure,  
With little suit I should iwis, your pardon soon procure.  
Well, to be short, I hope no heart is of such cruelty,  
But that in an offender, will regard humility.  
And since that noble Ladies all, are pitiful by kind.  
Let some remorse good Lady mine, take root within your mind  
And do not me your servant poor, for one small fault disdain,  
But let me by my due desert, your favour get again.  
And though that once I broke my word, in matters of small weight  
Yet think not therefore otherwise, in me to rest deceit.  
For in a case of credit lo, wherein my word I give,  
If that I shrink or eat my word, than God let me not live.  
And if in me to do you good, by word or deed it rest,  
Unto my power, I solemn vow do make, to d●e my best.  
Finis.   

¶ A Gentleman being on a time desired of divers of his friends sitting together in company, to make some verses, which he granted, and yet not knowing how to please them all, and yet willing to perform his promise, written as followeth.  

SOme pleasant heads delight in pretty toys,  
And some count toys, most meet for foolish boys.  
Some greatly love to hear a merry rhyme,  
Some stately styles, which do to honour climb.  
Some love no rhymes, what ever so they be,  
And some men's minds, with verses best agreed.   

Thus every one hath by himself a vain,  
Which all to please, it were to great a pain.  
Which since I see 'tis far too much for me,  
To write what may with all minds best agree.  
I think it best since I have nothing done,  
To make an end of that is scarce begun.   

So shall I well my promise p●st fulfil,  
In writing thus according to my skill.  
Which promise' made of mine, I trow was this,  
To write a rhyme, and hear a rhyme there is.  
Wherein although but little reason be,  
Yet rhyme ●●●re is, and sense enough for me.   
Finis.   

¶ A pretty Epigram, upon Wealth and Will.  
WHere Wealth doth want, there Will can bear no sway,  
And where Will wants, there Wealth can make no way.  
In many things Wealth greatly rules the roast,  
In some things too, self will, will bear a sway.  
To win the wager, Wealth will spare no cost,  
Which to subvert, Will worketh many a way:  
And in the end let wealth 〈◊〉 what he can:  
Yet commonly Will stands the stowter man.   

¶ A Gentleman marking his Mistress angry countenance without cause, told her of it in verse as followeth.  

BY countenance of face a 〈◊〉 may find,  
(I say fair Dame, by outward view of face)  
Such sundry thoughts as occupy the mind:  
Sometime by one, and este another grace.  
Look with that thoughts the mind is ay possessed,  
Strait by the l●●kes, the same is plain expressed.   

The frowning face, declares a froward heart,  
And skouling brows a sullen stomach shows:  
The glancing looks of privy grudge a part,  
Which hidden lies within the heart, God knows.  
The staring look declares an earnest mind,  
The trolling eye, unconstant as the wind.   

The smy●king look declares a merry mind,  
When smile looks are for●●● from heavy heart:  
For some can smile, that in their hearts could find,  
To weep (God wots) of grief to ease their smart.  
But who so smirking smiles with merry cheer,  
That countenance shows, that some good news is near.   

Some finely use a winking kind of wile,  
Some look aloft, and some do still look down:  
And so●●e can fayne a frowning kind of smile,  
And some can smile that in their hearts do frown,  
And so do I, and so do many more,  
That laugh sometime, when we could weep for woe.   

But every look, a meaning doth declare,  
Some good, some had, some merry, and some sad:  
The countenance shows how every one do●h fare,  
Some grief, some joy, some sullen, and some mad.  
And though that many be by looks deceived,  
Yet by the looks, are meanings plain perceived.   
Finis.   

❧ Some other Gentlewomen in the company, angry with this toy: pleased with these pretty verses following,  
AH be not angry so, my words were but in jest,  
And more than that, I meant them not, by you I do protest.  
I see no looks to light, nor frowning overmuch,  
Nor any such like sullen looks, as might show inward grudge.  
Nor smile wanton, but with such modesly,  
As might declare a merry mind, but with sobriety.  
But such as seem to plute, without just cause in deed,  
Or else upon their friends will fain, a frowning more than need.  
Or giglot like will laugh, or else with anger swell,  
And deal in looks disdainfully, with them that wish them well  
'Gainst such it is I wright, but none of you are named,  
Then do not you accuse yourselves, and you may go unblamde.  
And this what I have said, take well in worth therefore,  
If I did ill against my will, I will do so no more.   

¶ A pretty toy written upon Time.  
AS I of late this other day, lay musing in my bed,  
And thinking upon sundry toys, that then came in my head.  
Among the rest I thought upon, the setting out of Time,  
And thinking so upon the same, I written this ragged rhyme.  
Time is set out with head all bald, save one odde●lock before,  
Which lock if once you do let slip, then look for Time no more.  
But if you hold him fast by that, and stoutly do him stay,  
Then shall you know how he doth pass, before he go his way.  
And if you keep him tied by that, good service will he do,  
In every work what so it be, that you will put him to.  
So that you look unto his work, that he not idle stand:  
For if he do, some Knavish work, himself will take in hand.  
And then 'twere better want the knave, than have him serve you so  
When you do think he doth you good, that he should work your wo.  
I read besides he painted is, with wings forsooth to fly,  
And Mower like with Sith in hand, and working earnestly.  
And in his work still singing thus: This da●e I boldly say,  
Save Virtue, all things I cut down, that stand within my way.  
But Virtue never will decay, she goes before me still,  
But since I cannot, let her stand, I'll cut else where my fill.  
But 'tis no matter, hold him fast, by that same lock I say,  
And neither words, nor yet his wings, shall help him get away.  
By chance myself have caught him fast, but even this other day,  
And by that lock I hold him fast, for slipping yet away.  
And by that lock as thus advised, I mean to hold him so,  
But I will know or ere he pass, which way he means to go.  
And since I caught him so, I think he hath not idle stood,  
But somewhat he is doing still, although but little good.  
And as this morning I by chance, did see him idle stand,  
I thought it good to make him take, a Pen and Ink in hand.  
And having little else to do, to spend a little time,  
In true description of himself, to pen this trifling rhyme.  
Which time nor well, nor yet ill spent, stands till an other time,  
Some better service for to do, and so I end my rhyme.   

❧ A pretty Discourse of a hunted Heart, Written by a Gentleman, unto his Mistress.  
TO read a doleful tale, that tells of naught but grief,  
And of a man that pines in pain, and looks for no relief.  
Whose hope of death seems sweet, & dread of life seems sour,  
Who never bid one merry month, one week, one day, or hour.  
In such a tale I say, if any do delight,  
Let him come read this verse of mine, that here for troth I wright.  
And though the speech seem dark, the matter shall be plain,  
And he poor wretch of whom it treats, to well doth feel the pain.   

❧ A pretty Discourse of a hunted Hart.  
THere is a pretty Chase, wherein doth rest a heart,  
Wherein for his abode (poor wretch) he keeps one only part.  
Adjoining to this chase, there is a pretty place,  
where stands a Lodge, wherein doth dwell, the Lady of the chase.  
This Lady now and then for sport, sometime for spite,  
To hunt this s●lly harmless Harte, doth take a great delight.  
And how? with hounds (alas) and when she hunteth for sport's,  
With little Whelps that cannot bite, she hunts him in this sort.  
Two little whelps I say she casts of at once,  
To course and eke to fear him with, as meetest for the nonce.  
And with these little whelps, she brings him to the bay  
And then at bay she takes them up, and let him go his way.  
And if for spite she hunt, she takes another way:  
She casts of no little whelps, to bring him to the bay.  
But cruel biting Curs: at once she casts of all,  
And with those cruel cankered Curs, she follows him to fall:  
And being (fallen poor wretch) pining in extreme pain,  
She casts of her cruel curs, and lets him rise again  
Until she hunts again, to make herself like sport,  
And then even as she is disposed, she hunteth him in like sort.  
Thus lives this harmless Heart, oppressed with endless woe,  
In danger still of death by Dogs, and yet cannot dye so.  
And neither day nor night, he feedeth but in fear,  
That these same Dogs should lie in wait, to coarse him every where.  
Thus restless rests this Heart, and knows not how to rest,  
Whose hope of death in midst of course, is it that likes him best.  
God send him better rest, or speedy death at lest,  
To rid him of his great unrest, and breed him quiet rest.   

❧ The meaning of the Tale.  
BUt whereto tends this Tale? what first may mean this Chase?  
And then the Heart, which in the same doth keep one only place?  
The Plot where stands the Lodge, the Lodge, and then the Dame,  
which hunts the Heart: & last the Dogs which do pursue the game?  
A meaning all they have: which meaning I must show?  
And that so plain as in each point, the meaning you may know.  
My Carcase is the Chase, my Heart the sellye Heart:  
Which for his rest, my woeful breast, doth keep that only part.  
The Platte where stands the Lodge, my Head I count that place:  
My Mind the Lodge, my Love the Dame, & Lady of the Chase.  
Her Dogs of diverse kinds, that do my Heart pursue,  
Sometime to bay, sometime to fall, are these that do ensue.  
And first the Dogs, with which she hunteth sometime for sport  
To bring my Heart unto the bay, and leave him in that sort.  
Are these believe me now: discountenance is the first.  
The second is Discourtesy, and of the two, the worst.  
discountenance he comes first, and fears me in this wise:  
He hangs his lip, holds down his head, & looks under his eyes.  
And with that angry look, he fears me in such sort,  
That I may not abide the same, and then begins the sport.  
For than she casts of Discourtesse that Cur:  
And then do what I can, alas, my Heart begins to stir.  
And weary half at last, I stand with them at bay:  
and so at bay for my defence: I somewhat gin to say.  
Which said, she than takes of those hylding Curs again.  
And leave me till she hunt again, thus pining all in pain:  
And now the Cruel Curs, with which she takes delight,  
To hunt my Hart even till he fall, are these: not first, Despite,  
But fowl Disdain: then he, which Curs do course him so,  
That to the fall they bring me oft, and yet then let me go:  
So that my Heart doth live, but how? alas, in dread  
Of these same devilish Dogs: & so still shall, till I be dead.  
Who would not blame this Dame, that thus without desert.  
With these her cruel cankered Curs, doth hunt this seely Hart,  
And curse those cruel Curs, that thus do make her sport:  
Both day and night without cause why, do hunt him in such sort.  
And wish this seely heart with endless griefs oppressed,  
To scape the danger of the Dogs, and find some quiet rest,  
But wish who li●t to wish, except that you, dear Dame,  
Among the rest do wish that wish, no wish will help the same.  
But if that you in deed, so wish among the rest,  
And heartily do wish that wish, your wish will help him best.  
FINIS.   

❧ A strange Dream.  

¶ Who so he be on earth, that wisely can divine  
Upon a Dream: come show his skill, upon a Dream of mine,  
Which if that well he mark, sure he shall find therein,  
Great mysteries I gauge my life, which Dream did thus begin.   

ME t●ought I walked too and fro, upon a hilly land,  
So long, tell even with weariness, I could well scarcely stand  
And weary so (me thought) I went to lean against an Oak,  
Where leaning but awhile, me thought, the tree in pieces broken.  
From which, me thought, to save my life I lightly skipped away,  
And at the first, the sight thereof my senses did dismay:  
But when I stayed so a while, and looked round about,  
And saw no other dreadful sight, I knew not what to doubt,  
But to some house (me thought) alas, I wished myself full fain:  
But when I look, and could not see one house upon the plain:  
Good Lord (thought I) where am I now▪ what desert place is this  
How came I here? what shall I do▪ my heart full fearful is.  
And therewithal (me thought) I ●●ll flat down upon my knee:  
And humble prayers made to God, on high to comfort me.  
And praying so, upon my knees, me thought, there did appear  
A gallant Lady, all in white, with merry joyful ch●●re,  
Holding a Cittern in her hand, wherewith to me she came:  
And gave it me desiring me, to play upon the same.  
Moore half afeard, to see this sight, O Lady fair quoth I  
My skill too simple is, God wots, to sound such harmony.  
Yet play quoth she, the best thou canst, it shall suffice I say,  
Do thy good will, I crave no more, and therefore (pray thee) play.  
With that, me thought, I took the same, and sounded by and by,  
Not knowing what I did myself, a Heavenly harmony,  
Unto which tune the Lady then, so sweet a song did sing:  
As if I could remember it, it were a Heavenly thing.  
Of all which song one only step I still d●e bea●● in mind,  
And that was this: There is no joy, unto 〈◊〉 of mind,  
No plague, to pride: no woe, to want: no grief, to luckless love:  
Not foe to fortune: friend to God: no truth, till ●●yall prove.  
No Serpent, to slanderous tongue: no corsie unto care.  
No loss, to want of liberty: no griefs, to Cupid's snare.  
No fool, to fickle fantasy, that turns with every wind.  
No torment, unto jealousy, that still disturbs the mind.  
Lo, this was all I bore in mind, the rest I have forgot:  
Unto my grief, O God he knows: but since I have it not,  
Well, let it pass: this Lady fair when she had sung her song,  
She laid me down a Napkin fair upon the ground along:  
As white as snow: which when I saw, I mazed what she meant:  
But, than (me thought) from thence, again a little space she went,  
And called me thus? ho maids I say? when will you come away.  
'tis time that dinner ready were: 'tis very near midday:  
Wherewith, me thought, from out no house, but from a bushy bank.  
came out eight Damsels, all in white: two and two in a rank:  
In order right: and every one, a fine Dish in her hand,  
Of sundry meats, some this, some that, and down upon the land:  
They laid me down their delicates, whereas this Napkin lay▪  
Which done, four of them stayed still, the rest went strait away,  
Unto the place from whence they came, the Bushy Bank (I mean)  
And suddenly, I wots not how, they all were vanished clean.  
But, to go onwards with my Dream, in order brief I will,  
To make discourse of these four Dames, behind that stayed still,  
First, one of them fallen down on knee, and solemnly said Grace:  
Another, she with Pleasant Herbs, bestrowed all the place.  
The third▪ she with a Basin fair▪ of water sweet did stand,  
The fourth, demurely stood, and bore a Towel in her hand,  
I standing still, as one amazed, to see so strange a sight:  
Yet seeing nothing, but might serve my mind for to delight,  
The Lady (Mistress) of them all, that kept her Royal seat  
Rose up, and coming towards me, did greatly me entreat,  
To come unto her stately b●●rde: seeing me still yet to stand  
Amazed so, s●e 〈◊〉 he● self, and took me by the hand.  
Come on, and 〈◊〉 down, quoth she, be not afraid I say,  
And ●ate quoth 〈◊〉, for well I know, thou hast not dined to day.  
Fair Dame, quoth I▪ I cannot eat, my stomach serves me not,  
Therefore I pardon crave: quoth she, thou art afraid I wots:  
To see this service here so strange: indeed, 'tis strange to thee,  
For men, but 〈◊〉, or none, d●e come our service here to see.  
And h●●py ●hou m●ist think thyself, that thou cam'st here this day,  
Fo●●ery few 〈…〉 bill, can hap to it the way.  
We live within these desert woods, like Ladies all alone,  
With M●sicke, passing forth the day, and ●ellows we have none,  
We are not like the wretches of the world, in many a place,  
That many si●es, for fear or shame, dare scarcely show their face.  
We spend the day in fine disport, sometime, with Music sweet,  
Sometime with Hunting of the Hart, sometime, as we think meet,  
With other Pastimes, many one: sometime with pleas●nt talk.  
We pass the time, sometime for sport, about the Fyelds we walk,  
With Bow and Arrows (Archar like,) to kill the stately Dear,  
Which being slain, we roast & bake, & make ourselves good cheer  
Our meat, we roast again the Sun, we have none other fire,  
Sweet water Springs, do yield us drink, as good as we desire.  
For herbs and roots, we have great store, here growing in the wood,  
wherewith we many dainties make, as we ourselves think good▪  
In Summer time, our Houses here: are Arbers made of Trees,  
About the which in summer time, do swarm such Hives of be▪  
As leaves us then, of honey sweet, such store as well doth serve,  
In steed of Sugar, all the year, our fruits for to preserve.  
Besides, they yield us store of wax which from the Hives we take:  
And for our lights, in winter nights, we many Torches make.  
For than our houses all are Caves, as well thyself shalt see,  
When thou hast dined, for I myself, will go and show them thee,  
Therefore, be bold and fear no more, for thou ●halt go with me,  
From perils all, within this place, I will safeconduct thee:  
And taste of one of these same herbs, which thou thyself lik'st best,  
The fairest flower, trust me often times▪ is not the hulsomme●●.  
But as for these same herbs, or flowers, 〈…〉▪  
There is not one, but is right good, 〈…〉  
Take where thou list I give thee leave▪ 〈…〉  
pull of thy gl●ue, & wash thy hands. 〈…〉 maid brought m●  
A basin fair, of water clear, which ga●● 〈…〉 so sweet:  
That credit me, me thinks almost, that I do smell it yet.  
Wherein I softly dipped my hands, and strait to wipe the same,  
Upon her arm, a towel brought, an other gallant dame.  
Of whom. I could none other do, but take in court●ous sort,  
With humble thanks, for service such, and so for to be short.  
With reverence done, unto the Dame, who kept her 〈◊〉 seat▪  
I sat me down: and hongerly (me thought) I fallen to eat.  
First of a Splet, that me thought, hard by my trencher stood:  
UUhereof at first, me thought the taste, was reasonable good.  
But being down, if left (alas) a bitter tang behind:  
Then that I left, and thought to taste, some herbs of other kind,  
And there withal, I 'gan of her, in humble sort to crave,  
The root, that I had tasted so, what name the same might have▪  
It is Repentance root, quoth she, whose taste, though bitter be:  
Yet in the Spring time, wholesome ●is▪ and very rare to see:  
But, in the end of all the year, when it is nothing worth▪  
In every foolish field it grows, to show the branches forth.  
But, if the taste thou likest not, then set away the same,  
And taste of somewhat else, quoth she, & strait (at hand) a Dame.  
Stood réedy by, at her command, to take the Dish away:  
Which done, then of an other herb, I 'gan to take a say,  
Which better far did please my taste, whereof I fed o● well.  
Good Lady, quoth I, of this herb vouchsafe to me to tell  
The proper name? This wholesome herb: is called Hope (quoth she)  
And happy ●e who of this herb, can get a piece of me,  
This herb preserves the life of man, even at point of death.  
when they are spéechles, often times, this herb doth l●nd them breath.  
This drives Despair, from brainsick heads, this salueth many a sore:  
This is relief, to every grief, what virtue can be more?  
Feed well thereon, quoth she, and thou shalt ●●nde such ease of mind,  
As by no means, but only that, is possible to find.  
O Lady fair quoth I, I humble thanks do yield,  
For this thy friendly favour great, but now, if to the field,  
Whereas this herb so rare doth grow, if you will deign (fair dam●)  
〈◊〉 to conduct: and show me eke, the true root of the same,  
Twice happy shall I think myself, that thus by chance I found,  
So courteous a noble Dame, and such a fertile ground.  
The root (quoth she) yes, thou shalt see, when thou hast dined anon,  
Both root and herb & ●ake the ground, which it doth grow upon.  
Dine Lady, quoth I, I have dined: this herb hath filled me so,  
That when you will, I ready am unto that ground to go.  
Which gr●unde, and roo●e for to behold, I have so great desire,  
That till I see the sam●, me thinks, my heart is still on fire.  
Well, then quoth she, since after it I see thou longest so,  
I will my dinner shorter make, and with thee I will go,  
And bring thee to the place, where thou both root and herb shalt see:  
And gather eke a piece thereof, and bear away with thee.  
And therewith from the board she rose, and took me by the hand,  
And led me overthwart, me thought, a piece of new digged land,  
And so from thence into a wood, in midst whereof, me thought:  
She brought me to a great wild Maze, which sure was never wrought  
By Gardeners hands, but of itself, I rather guess it grew,  
The order of it was so strange, of troth, I tell you true.  
Well, in, into this Maze we went: in midst whereof we found,  
In comely order, well cut out, a pre●y piece of ground,  
The portraiture whereof, was like the body of a man,  
which viewing well, forthwith me thought this Lady 'gan▪  
To kneel her down upon the ground, hard by the body lo,  
and there she showed me the herb, that I desired so:  
And ●ake the order how it grew▪ which viewing well at last,  
She broke a piece, and gave it me to take thereof a taste,  
Fresh from the ground: which d●n strait way, well now the root quoth she,  
Thou lookest for: but stay a while, and th●● it straight shalt see,  
The root is like an other root●, but only that in ne'er:  
In difference from all other roots: and to declare the same,  
When thou hast seen it▪ thou shalt know: ● therewithal quoth she▪  
Come here, behold the root which thou desirest so to see:  
And therewith digging up a 〈◊〉, she 〈◊〉 very pl●●ne,  
The fashion of it how it grew, and 〈◊〉 she 〈◊〉 again  
The Turf in place, whereas it was: O Lady fair quoth I  
If one should seem to cut the root, 〈◊〉 ●ould the herb then dye?  
Not no quoth she, until the root be plucked quite a●ay:  
the root itself, ●● sure of this▪ will never quite 〈◊〉.  
Then would I cr●●● a piece thereof (quoth ●) O 〈◊〉 D●●e.  
That I may know it, if again, I cha●●●e to ta●●e the same.  
The taste quoth she unpleasant is, I tell thee that before:  
But where the root. doth rancour breed▪ the herb● will 〈◊〉 the sor●.  
But yet to make thee for to know, the taste thereof, quoth she,  
She raised the Turf, and of the root she broke a piece for me:  
And down she laid the same again, in order as she found.  
That scarcely well it could be seen, that she had raised the ground.  
Well, I had my desire therein, but tasting of the same,  
It was so bitter in my mouth, that to allay the same,  
I was full glad to take the herb: which as t●e Dame did say,  
The bitter taste of that vile root, did quickly drive away.  
And then in humble sort, quoth I, O fair and courteous Dame,  
Since that this root, (as you do say) doth differ much in nam●  
From other roots, O let me know what his true name may be▪  
His name quoth she, Necessity is, truly credit me▪  
And of these Roots, some less than some: but bigger that they be,  
The more doth Hope spread forth his leaves: & some do go with me.  
Now I have shown thee thy desire, this herb, this ro●te, & ground,  
I back again will bring thee to the place, where first thyself I found.  
So to be short, we b●cke returned unto the place again,  
From whence we went, where sitting still, attendant did remain  
These four fair Dames, whom there we left: But all the dishes they,  
And what else on the Board was left, they all had born away.  
Well, being come unto the place, up rose they all at once:  
And to this Lady reverence did, and likely for the nonce.  
They known their Mistress mind right well, her use belike it was,  
Of water clear upon the ground, they full had set a Glass.  
Hard by the Glass, a Towel fair, and by the Towel, Flower●:  
Lo, Youth quoth she, how lik'st thou now this service here of ours?  
Couldst thou thus like, to live in woods, & make thy chief repast?  
On herbs▪ and roots, as we do here? or else the life thou haste?  
Troubled, tormented, every hour, and that with endless grief?  
In ●ope of help▪ and now again, despairing in relief?  
Still to reserve? We here thou seest, do live in quietness:  
We pass the time without all care, in mirth and joyfulness.  
We fear no foe, we feel no woe, we dread no dangers great,  
we quake not here, with too much cold, nor burn with extréem heat.  
We wish not for great heaps of gold, such trash we do despise,  
We pray for health, & not for wealth: and thus in pleasant wise  
We spend the day full joyfully, we crave no rich attire:  
This thin white weed, is even as much, as we do here desire.  
UUée have our Music sweet besides, to solace now and than  
Our weary minds, with other sports: and now, how sayst thou man!  
If thou mayst have thy choice, which wouldst thou rather do?  
Lead here thy life, like one of us, or else return unto  
The loathsome life, that now thou lead'st? pause on this that I say▪  
If th'one thou choose, here tarry still: if th'other, hence away.  
Thou must return from whence thou comest, I put it to thy choice:  
If th'one thou choose: of thy good hap, thou ever mayst rejoice:  
But if thou choose amiss: poor wretch, then thank thyself therefore,  
Consider well, upon my words: as yet I say no more.  
With that more half amazed hereat still standing in a muse,  
Not knowing what were best, to do, to take or to refuse  
The proffer made me by this Dame, I humbly fallen on knee:  
Beseeching God, to grant me of his grace, to govern me,  
To make me choose that choice, the best might please his holy will:  
And sitting so in humble wise, on knee thus praying still,  
The Dame expecting earnestly, some answer at my hand.  
So long, quoth she, upon this choice: why do you studying stand?  
Some answer briefly let me have, what ever so it be:  
What? will't thou back return again? or will't thou bide with me?  
One way fair Dame, quoth I, I gladly here would stay,  
And lead my life here still with you: but now, another way,  
Reason persuades me, to return: thus in a doubt twixt both,  
I one way lou●, the life I led: another way I loath.  
So that remaining thus in doubt, a certain answer for to give,  
Whether back again for to return, or in these woods to live  
I most desire, I cannot sure: therefore I pardon crave,  
And for an answer flat, I may some longer respite have?  
O not quoth she, I cannot grant thee longer time, not now  
To pause upon these words of mine: and therefore since that thou  
Wilt back return, lo, here behold, this narrow foot path here,  
Go follow this, until thou comest unto a Temple near:  
Then leave this path, and presently, cross over to the same:  
And there for further help from thence, your prayers humbly frame  
Unto Dame Pity, and her tell, that straight from me you came,  
And she will help you for my sake, Dame Patience is my name,  
And for a token true, that you were sent to her by me:  
Say, Patience, will Pity move, and she will credit thee:  
And so farewell, when thou hast been, a year or more away,  
If thou will't hither make return, and be content to stay,  
Though thou be'st wounded many a way, & plagued with many a sor●  
thou shalt have ease of every grief: & then what wouldst have more?  
And so my Youth quoth she, adieu, I may no longer stay,  
Have good regard to this foot path, for fear thou go astray:  
And for a farewell, ere thou goest, to me thy courteous friend,  
In song come bear a part with me, which being at an end,  
Then far thou well: and therewithal an Instrument she took,  
And bade one of her Maids with speed▪ go fetch her forth a book,  
Which termed was, T●e tracked of time, which by ● by me thought,  
Ere one could well say, thus it was: in humble wise she brought,  
With such an humble reverence, down to this noble Dame:  
That sure it would have do●● one good, for to have seen the same.  
Well, opening the Book of Songs, and looking well therein:  
At last she stayed, and on she played, which Song did thus begin.  
Who seeketh far in Time shall found, great choice of sundry change,  
In Time a man shall pass the Pikes, of perils wondrous strange:  
But he that travaileth long Time, to seek content of mind,  
And in the end in tracked of Time▪ his own desire shall find,  
And being well, is not content, to keep him where he is.  
His Time is lost, unworthy he to find the place of bliss:  
One Time, a fault may be forgiven, but if thou once obtain  
the place of res●: mark well the way, unto the same again.  
For if thou once do miss the way, or hast the same forgot,  
thou wander master, a tedious Time, & near the near, God wots:  
Therefore in Time I warn thee well to have a great regard:  
the way thou goest, for to return, for trust me it is hard.  
And so for want oflonger Time, I needs must make an end,  
take ●ime enough, mark well thy way, and so farewell my friend.  
Till ●ime, I see thee here again, which ●ime let me not see,  
till Time thou canst content thyself, to spend thy Time with me:  
And so take ●ime while ●ime will serve, else ●ime will slip away,  
So once again adieu quoth she, I can no longer stay.  
With that me thought this heavenly Dame, with all her maids was gone:  
And I poor soul▪ upon the hill, was left so all alone:  
Where taking heed, unto the path, which she had showed me so,  
Cross overthwart the hill (me thought) I 'gan to go:  
At foot whereof, hard by the path, me thought a River ran,  
and down the stream in a small boat, me thought there came a man  
And by and by he called to me, to ask me if I would,  
Come take a boat to cross the stream? and if I would, I should:  
Now cross the river straight (me thought) I saw a beaten way,  
Likely to lead unto some Town, whereat I 'gan to stay:  
But naught I said: and therewithal (me thought) I plain did see,  
The Dame who late had left me quite, approaching near to me.  
And being near come to me, me thought she stoutly said,  
why do you loose your labour so? what cause hath here you stayed?  
Keep on your way, and loose no Time, and happy sure art thou,  
Thou tookst not boat or ere I came? but quite past danger now:  
Myself will bring thee thither, where the Temple thou shalt see,  
whereto I gave thee charge to go, and so (me thought) quoth she,  
Come follow me, and by and by no great way we had gone.  
But straight she brought me to the hill, this Temple stood upon.  
And there (me thought) these words she said. Go knock at yonder door  
And say thou art a silly wight, cast up on sorrowers shore:  
Brought in the Bark of weary b●l●, cast up by waves of woe,  
The Bark is burst, thou saved alive, dost wander too and fro.  
To seek some place of quiet rest, and wandering so about  
The hill of Hope, where Patience, dwells, by chance thou foundest out,  
From whom thou presently dost c●me a message to declare.  
Bear this in mind, thou shalt get in, well warrant thee I dare.  
And when thou comest into the Church, mark well on the right hand▪  
within the Quyre all clad in why●e, doth Lady Pity stand.  
To whom with humble reverence. say this for thy behove▪  
I do believe that Patience, in time will Pity move.  
And thus this lesson I thèe leave, which if thou hear in mind,  
Assure thyself▪ strait at her hands, some favour for to find.  
And thus, quoth she, again farewell, though me no more thou see,  
Till back thou dost return again, yet I will be with thee,  
And guide thee so, where so thou goest, that thou thyself shalt see,  
In many Melancholic moods, thou shalt be help●● by me.  
And therewithal, I know not how, she vanished away,  
And I unto the Temple strait, began to take my way.  
And to the door, as I ●ad charge me thought I came.  
And took the ring▪ in my hand▪ and knocked at the same:  
Who knocketh at the door, quoth one? A silly wight, quoth I,  
Cast up of late▪ on sorrows shore, by tempests suddenly:  
Brought in the bark of weary bale, cast up by waves of w●e,  
Since when, to seek some place of rest, I wandered too and fro,  
And wandering so, I knew not how, unto a mount I came,  
Whereas I found in comely sort, a noble courteous Dame:  
The Mount is called, the Hill of Hope, where doth Dame Patience dwell:  
From whom I come: Welcome quoth he, I know the Lady well.  
With that the door, was opened, and in (me thought) I went,  
Wherewith me thought, I hard a voice, a sobbing sigh that sent,  
Wherewith somewhat amazed, at first though greatly not afraid,  
Still staring round about (awhile) this stately Church, I stayed:  
And as before Dame Patience, to me at parting told,  
Within the Quire, on the right hand (me thought) I did behold  
A gallant Dame, all clad in white, to whom for my behove,  
These words I said: Dame Patience, I Hope will Pity move:  
With that (me thought) this Lady said, I know thy deep distress,  
and for my friend Dame Patience sake, thou shalt have some redress.  
And therewithal, me thought she said, unto an aged sire,  
Which in the Temple, hard by sat: Father I thee desire  
To show this Youth, the perfect path unto the place of rest,  
Who long hath wandered up & down, with torments sore oppressed,  
Dame Patience, hath stood his friend, and sent him unto me,  
To lend him help unto this place, where he desires to be:  
Lady quoth he, I cannot go myself abroad to day,  
But I will sand, my servant here, to show him the right way:  
Whose company, if he will keep, believe me he shall find  
In little time, a place that may right well content his mind.  
Which if he do not, yet let him, with him return to me,  
And then myself, will go with him: it shall suffice quoth she▪  
Go sirrah, quoth she, follow well, his man where so he goes,  
And take good heed, that in no wise, his company you lose:  
For if you loose▪ his company, you loose your labour quite.  
But follow him, your gain perhaps, your travel shall requited.  
His name quoth she, True Reason is, my Father Wisdoms man,  
Whom if you follow to the place of rest, conduct you can.  
So sirrah, quoth she, go your ways, be ruled by him I say:  
And though ●e lead you now & then, through some unpleasant way  
Yet follow him, where so he goes, do as I bid you do:  
And he in time, the perfect place of rest, can bring thee too.  
And so, farewell Lady, quoth I, I humble thanks do give,  
To you and eke this good old man: and sure while I do live,  
You two I vow, and eke besides the noble courteous Dame,  
That sent me hither unto you, Dame Patience by name:  
In heart I ever honour will: And honest Reason lo.  
For taking pains unto the place of rest, with me to go,  
To recompense his pains, I vow, to stand his faithful friend,  
To follow him, and to be ruled by him unto mine end.  
And if I seek to slip from him, I willing ay will be,  
That as he list, he shall do due correction upon me.  
So Lady, I my leave do take: And therewithal, me thought,  
The good old m●n, fast by the hand unto the door me brought▪  
And at the door (me thought) did part, this good old man and I,  
And Reason▪ he came stepping forth, to bear me company:  
Or else to lead me to the place, whereas we then should go:  
But as in every merry mood, doth hap some sudden woe.  
So in this Dream, as we (me thought) were going on our way▪  
I know not well, at what (alas) we soddainly 'gan stay.  
And staying so, a Pheasant Cock, hard by me I 'gan see,  
Which flying by me, crew so loud, as that he waked me.  
And thus my Dream was at an end: which when that I awoke,  
I took my pen, and as you see, I put it in my book.  
Which for the strangeness of the same, surely persuadeth me:  
It doth some strange effect pretend, what ever so it be.   

THe huge high Mountain first of all? and then the broken Tree?  
And then the Lady soddainly, that did appear to me?  
The Napkin lying on the ground? and then the Dames that 〈◊〉,  
In order so, with Dishes all, unto this noble Dame?  
And wherefore only four of them, went back again away:  
And other four attendant still, upon this Dame did stay?  
And what should mean the giving of the Cithern, unto me  
to play upon? and that myself should sound such Harmony,  
Which never played on like before? and then the Song that she,  
Unto the tune that I so played, did sweetly sing to me.  
Then what should mean the order that, the Maidens did observe▪  
As they upon this stately Dame, attendant still did serve?  
The Basin, Towel, & the Flowers, wherewith she strew the place?  
And one alone among the rest, so humbly saying Grace?  
What meant her stately keeping, of her royal Princely sca●e?  
And what she meant by bidding me, to wash before I eat?  
And when as one amazed so: she did behold me stand:  
What she should mean to rise herself, & take me by the hand?  
Then what should mean the bitter root, that first I fed upon:  
And tasting of the herb of Hope, the bitter taste was gone?  
Then what should mean my great desire, to see that herb to grow:  
And how the Lady led me strait: whereas she me did show  
The herb, the root, the ground & all? and why I then did crave,  
Of that same root or ere I went, a little taste to have?  
Then what should mean the cutting up the Turf, to let me see  
the root? and then then the breaking of a piece thereof for me?  
Then what should mean the laying down, the Turf even as she found,  
So closely as could scarce be seen, that she had stirred the ground?  
And then what meant, the great wild Maze, the Image of a man,  
Whereas it grew? and after that our back returning than?  
What meant the glass of water, that at our return we found:  
The towel and the flowers best●es, down lying on the ground?  
Then what Dame Patience should mean, for to demand of me.  
How I did like her service there, and whether I could be  
Content to live with her or not, or back return to choose:  
And that she put it to my choice, to take or to refuse?  
And back returned to my old life, than what she meant to say:  
If well I chose, I might rejoice, for to have seen that day?  
If contrary why then I might, but thank myself therefore?  
And bade me pause upon her words, and then would say no more?  
Then what should mean my kneeling so, and praying then of mine  
To God for grace, to take and choose, to please his will divine?  
Then what the Lady meant in haste, as I was kneeling so,  
To ask to that she did demand, an answer yea or not?  
Then what my doubtful answer meant, and pardon I did crave,  
That for an answer flat, I might some longer respite have?  
And why she would no respite give? then what the path way meant?  
And what she meant, in that she me, unto the Temple sent?  
The lesson that she gave me then? and then Dame Pity too?  
And what besides at the Church door, she further bade me do?  
Then at our parting, the sweet song, which ran of Time so much?  
what y● should mean, & what should mean, our choice of music such?  
Her song once done, what then should mean the vanishing away,  
Wherewith myself at first awhile, amazed so did stay?  
But going onwards, on my way, what meant the river then,  
That ran so near the path? and then the Boat? and then the man?  
And then what should be meant in that, he called so to me,  
To take a boat, to cross the stream? the way that I did see:  
Likely to lead unto some Town? what too was meant by that,  
Whereto I made no answer, but, I stayed looking at?  
And then again, what meant the Dame, who vanished away,  
To come unto me there again, and what she meant to say.  
I happy was, I had not ta'en a Boat, or ere she came:  
And how from thence, with me unto the Temple near she came?  
Then what should mean the lesson, that she gave me for to say,  
At the Church door? and then again, he● vanishing away?  
Then what should mean the stately Church? and as I said before,  
The lesson, that I did rehearse, when I came to the door?  
Then what should mean the sight I herded? then what the Lady meant,  
appareled in white, to whom Dame Patience had me sent.  
Then what my kneeling meant to her? and than my words I said?  
And that at my first entering in, I was so much afraid?  
And what should mean the answer then, the Lady gave to me:  
And how that from Dame Patience, I came she did well see?  
Then what should mean her saying, that she known right well my grief?  
And for Dame Patience sake, I should be sure to found relief?  
Then what should mean the aged man, of whom she did request,  
To take the pains, to bring me to the place of quiet rest?  
Then what the old man ●●ant to say, he could not go that day,  
But he would sand his servant then, to bring me on the way?  
Then what the Lady meant to say, that should as then suffice:  
And charging me his company, to keep in any wise?  
And then what meant the Lady then, to bid me farewell so?  
And then what meant this old man's man, that forth with me did go?  
And then my thanks unto the Dame, and to the good old man?  
And to Dame Patience, my friend? and eke our parting than  
at the Church door, with the old sire? And then what should be meant  
By him that for to bring me to the place of Rest was sent?  
And then what should be meant by this, in going of our way?  
I know not how, but soddainly, we both at once 'gan stay.  
And last of that accursed Cock: what should the meaning be,  
That in his flying crew so loud: as that he waked me.  
Which Cock, I am persuaded sure, if that he had not been:  
Some wondrous sight in travailing, I doubtless should have seen.  
And that which grieves me most of all, the place of quiet rest:  
That man would sure have brought me too, where now with grief oppressed,  
I must perforce live as I do: and only have this ease,  
To pray unto Dame Patience, my sorrrowes to appease.  
Who promised me at parting last: that though I her not see,  
Long time again, in open sight, yet she would be with me.  
And guide me so from place to place, where ever so I go:  
That I by her shall find great ease, of many a deadly woe.  
In hope whereof, thus as you see, my weary life I spend,  
till I the place of rest attain and so I make an end.   

This Dream is strange, and sure I think it doth prognosticate,  
Some strange effect, what so it is: but since I know not what  
It doth pretend: I still will will pray, to God me to defend,  
In dangers all both day and night, unto my lives end.  
And when this loathe some life I end, with torments so oppressed▪  
In heaven I may at latter day, enjoy a place of rest.   
FINIS.   

¶ A pretty toy written upon this Theme: A man a sleep, is not at rest.  
ALthough the heart a sleep, the bones be all at rest,  
Yet man asleep, his mind his oft with many thoughts oppressed.  
He dreams of this and that, sometime with trifling toys,  
His only mind is troubled sore: sometime of pleasant joys  
His mind doth run in sleep: sometime he dreams of Kings,  
Of Prince's Courts, & princely feats, & of such gallant things.  
And by and by, is out, in midst of all his dream,  
And from the court, to country Clowns, & of a mess of cream:  
Of Cattles in the field, of woods and pasture grounds,  
Of Hawking, fishing, Fowling too, & hunting hare with hounds.  
And suddenly unwares, he leaves his country sport,  
And from the country by and by, to city doth resort.  
And there a thousand things at once, runs in his mind,  
The gallant shops of sundry sorts, and wares of sundry kind.  
The precious pearls & stones, on Goldsmith's shops that shine:  
And then the Horsehead, but hard by, and then a cup of wine.  
Besides all gallant shows, yet one above the rest,  
The merchants wives, with other dames, in fine attire addressed,  
That at their doors, sometime on Sundays use to sit,  
This when some do behold by day, by night they dream of it.  
And then they fall in love, although their suit be small,  
For in the morning once awaked, they have forgotten all.  
Some dream of cruel wars, of men slain here and there,  
And all the fields with bodies dead, nigh covered every where.  
And by and by the wars, not scarcely half begun,  
But who doth get the victory, and then the wars are done.  
And suddenly again, he cannot tell which way,  
He is at sea, and there he sees great fishes give to play.  
And straight a tempest comes, that makes the waves to roar,  
And then he seethe how the Ships, do sail in danger sore.  
Anon he sees his ship, with billows beaten so,  
That comes at last a sudden wave, that doth her overthrow.  
And there both she, and all her Mariners are drowned:  
Yet he himself, he knows not how, is safely set on ground.  
He only is at shore, when all the rest are lost,  
And there he sees how other ships, with tempests like are tossed.  
And there he stands not long, but strait a sudden change,  
He carried is, he knows not how, into a country strange.  
And there he speaks a speech, he never spoke before,  
And once awake, again perhaps, he never shall speak more.  
A thousand things too more, a man doth think to see  
In sleep sometimes, that never were, nor yet are like to be.  
For I myself, have dreamed in sleep, of sights so strange,  
And in the midst of all my dream, of sudden sundry change.  
That in the morn awake, I could but marvel much,  
What cause by day, by night should drive, me into dreaming such.  
But sitting so a while, sometime I call to mind,  
A proverb old, which some count true, but I mere false do find.  
That is. That man a sleep doth lie at quiet rest,  
For many sleep, that have their minds, with many griefs oppressed  
Some dream of Parents death, or death of some dear friend,  
Some dream of sorrows to ensue, and pleasures at an end.  
And dreaming so I think, that man is not at rest,  
Although he sleep, his heart is yet, sore troubled in the breast.  
The Boy that goes to School, doth dream of Rods by night,  
His breech too ready for the rod, and in a sudden fright  
He starteth in his sleep, and waketh therewithal,  
And then say I, although he sleep, his rest can be but small.  
Some think in sleep they are, in field with foe at fight,  
And with their fysts, they buffet them, that lie with them by night  
And are they then at rest? although they sleep say you,  
In deed they have a kind of rest, but rest I wots not how.  
And many causes more, of great unquiet rest,  
I could declare that are in sleep, but these that are expressed  
May well suffice I hope, to prove my judgement good in this,  
That mind of man is troubled much, when most a sleep he is.   

¶ Another Toy written in the praise of a Gillyflower, at the request of Gentlewomen, and one above the rest, who loved that Flower.  

IF I should choose a pretty Flower,  
For seemly show, and sweetest scent:  
In my mind sure, the Gillyflower,  
I should commend, where so I went.  
And if need be, good reason too,  
I can allege why so I do.   

The Crimson colour first of all,  
Doth make it seemly to the eye:  
The pleasant savour therewithal,  
Comforts the brain too, by and by,  
For colour then, and sweetest smell,  
The Gillyflower must bear the bell.   

This is in pots preserved we see,  
And trimly tended every day:  
And so it doth deserve to be,  
For sure if I might plainly say.  
If it would prospero in my bed,  
I would have one at my bed's head.   

What laugh you at? you think I ●est,  
I mean plain troth I promise' ye:  
The Gillyflower doth like me best,  
Of all the flowers that ere I see.  
And who that doth mislike the same,  
In my mind shall be much too blame.    

❧ A pretty toy written in the praise of a strange Spring, in Suffolk.  
I Never travailed countries far, whereby strange things to see  
as woods, and waters, beasts, & birds, wherein such virtues be  
As are not common to be had, but seldom to be found,  
And herbs & stones of nature such, as none are on the ground.  
But I have read of many one, and surely in my mind,  
As well at home as far abroad, I many strange things found.  
but many men whose running heads, delights abroad to range,  
whose fancies fond are daily fed, with toys & choice of change.  
what ever their own soil doth yield, they do no whit esteem  
But far fet, & dear bought, that they most worthy praise do deem.  
But 'tis no matter, let that pass, each one where he thinks best,  
choose what, & when, and where he likes, & leave his friends the rest  
And let me speak in praise of that, which worthy in my mind,  
And therewith rare like to be ●éene, in England here I find.  
No beast, nor bird, no stick no● stone, no herb nor flower it is,  
No foul, nor fish, no metal strange, naught but a Spring iwis.  
But such a Spring so clear, so fair, so sweet and delicate,  
That happy he may think himself, that may come sip thereat.  
To speak in praise thereof at large, it were to much for me,  
As it deserves, but if I were a Poet: as some be,  
Sure I would spend a little time, to let the world to know,  
That out of our small Island yet, so fine a Spring doth flow.  
In Ovid's Metamorphosis, I read there of a Spring,  
Whereby Narcissus caught his bane, only with looking  
Long while upon the same: for lo, the water shone so clear,  
That thorough the same, the shadow of his face did so appear.  
That he forgetting quite himself, fallen so enamoured,  
Of his own face, that there he lay, as one amazed, half dead.  
So long till at the last, for want of very ●oode,  
He fallen stark mad, and lost his life in place whereas he stood  
And after his ghost yielded up, at lest as Poets feign,  
His Corpse was turned to a flower, which there did still remain:  
Which flower if I do not mistake, is termed the Lily white  
If this be false, blame Ovid then, that such a tale would write.  
But if it had been true, when he so sore was grieved,  
Had he but come unto this Spring, he had been soon relieved.  
For in this Spring he should have seen, no shadows of a face,  
But such a face as should in deed, his own so much disgrace,  
That he should have forgot his own, if this he once did see,  
now he that doth desire to know, where this same spring should be  
In Suffolk soil, who so best list, let him I say go seek,  
And he may hap to see a Spring, he never see the leek.   

A Gentleman on a time, having three sons: and being very desirous to have them brought up at an University: being very well acquainted with a young Gentleman, who he known had spent some years at Oxford, desired him to choose a Tutor there, for those his three Children, which as he thought were fittest to bring them up, as well in learning, as good behaviour: which he was contented to do, and having choose a Tutor for them, not long after having a great desire to see them do well, written their Tutor a letter, and with the Letter, a pretty Tale in verse, to move him to have a great care of them: the Letter I let alone, but the tale I have thought good to show forth among these pretty Toys, as one not the worst, which Tale was as followeth.  

¶ A little Preface before the Tale.  
A Pretty Tale, of late I herded, a learned wise man tell,  
Whereto I gave attentive ●are, and marked it very well.  
Touching the bringing up of youth, and who were fittest men,  
In learning and good quallityes, to bring up children.  
Which Tale when I had herded told out, of troth it liked me so,  
That to the like I were content, again ten miles to go.  
Well as it was I did full oft, revolve the same in mind,  
And many pretty points therein, I many times did find.  
And as one day unto myself, by chance I did rehearse  
Each point therein, I took my pen, and put it into verse.  
Which Tale so penned, according to my simple skill, I sand  
to you: for divers causes Sir, first for that it doth tend  
Unto a little matter that, there is twixt you and me:  
It hath (I trow) somewhat respect, unto the Children three,  
The three young Gentlemen which to you, as my friend,  
I gave in charge to rule and teach: and so I make an end.   

❧ The Tale followeth in this manner.  
A Gentleman that had two sons, desirous was to see  
Them both in learning traded up, for which great counsel he  
Of divers often did require, what Tutors he might choose,  
To put these pretty Puples too, that rightly might them use.  
And under whom they might in time, in learning profit most,  
And under whom they likely were, their labours to have lost.  
Well, to be brief, so many men, so many minds there were,  
Some would say this, some other that, & some were here, some there.  
Some said they thought that liberty, was ill for Children,  
Some other said that lawful 'twas, and needful now & then.  
Some said the rod should be the sword, to keep children in awe,  
And other some such cruelty, counted not worth a straw.  
Some said that children should, surpressed be by fear:  
Some thought to rule by gentleness, a better way it were.  
Some said that children were by nature bend to play,  
Which from their learning in short space, will draw them soon away.  
From which by fear to keep them still, the rod should be the mean  
Lest little smack of liberty, would quickly mar them clean  
And use would make great masteries, for so by keeping in,  
And hard applying of their books, they profit would therein.  
Some other then that thoroughly this matter did discuss,  
To that opinion contrary, alleged reason thus.  
Children by nature are not bend, to any kind of play,  
Their minds are even half made by them, that govern them always  
And y● to keep their minds from play, the rod should be no mean,  
And that by fear for to subdue, that were not worth a bean.  
As for examples sake (quoth one) at first take me a child,  
Who hath a pretty ready wit, although of nature wild:  
And let him learn to dance, to shoot, and play at ball,  
And any other sport, but put him to his book withal:  
And when he is abroad, if fair he do not shoot,  
Or when he gins to dance, if false he chance to foot.  
Then pay him, breech him thoroughly, favour him not at all,  
And now and then correct him well, though for a fault but small  
If that he trip or miss his time, up with him by and by,  
Let him not ●lip with such a fault, but pay him presently.  
And you shall see that often for fear, his legs will quiver so,  
That he shall never learn to dance, nor scarcely well to go.  
And when in field he draws not clean, his arrow in his bow,  
Knock him upon the fingers hard, and you shall see I trow,  
That in a while his fingers ends, for fear will quiver so,  
That he will never learn aright, to let his arrow go.  
Now if he be hard at his book, although he learn not well,  
Either forget, or construe false: at first do gently tell  
Him of his fault, and if that he do ply it hard,  
Give him an Apple, or a Pear, or some such chyldes' reward.  
And trust me you shall see, the school shall be his chief delight,  
And from his book, he seld will be, or never if he might.  
Wherefore by reason thus I prove, that children be not bend,  
But that their natures much are made, by Tutor's government.  
But this I grant as requisite, with reason to correct,  
Jest children often for lack thereof▪ their faults to much neglect.  
But as a sword, to set it up, in school to open sight,  
I like not that, for 'tis to some, at first to great a fright.  
Their eyes are so upon the rod, they little mind their book,  
For childish fear will 'cause them still, upon the rod to look.  
And so their eyes quite from their books, not only draws away  
But eke their minds, as much and more, than any kind of play  
Wherefore a rod I would in schools, should be kept out of sight,  
To make the Children to their books, to have a more delight.  
¶ Another grave grey headed sire, that hard them reason so,  
Thus said, so many shrewd cursed toys, & wanton wags I know  
And eke so many Schoolmasters, that lack good government,  
That many pretty Boys will mar, that are of minds well bend.  
That sure I know not what to say, but trust me in my mind,  
A good Tutor, whereto a child is bend, can quickly find.  
And as he findeth the nature of the child, even so he may,  
By gentle means, even as he list, soon lead him every way.  
So that to keep him in good awe, correction now and than,  
He justly use with gentleness, as a good Tutor can.  
Well, at the last this Gentleman, when he had herded at large,  
Their true opinions every one, at last he gave in charge.  
His two sons, to two sundry men, whereof the one was mild  
And ever sought by gentle means, for to bring up a child.  
The other was of nature fierce, and therefore rather sought,  
With store of stripes for to bring up, such children as he taught.  
The Children both of nature like, in time did differ much,  
The difference of government, of Tutors there's were such.  
The one did prove a proper Youth, and learned for his time,  
And by his learning afterward, to honour high did climb.  
This was by him brought up, that was of nature mild,  
And ever sought by gentle means, for to bring up a Child.  
The other proved but a block, a Dunsicus, an ass,  
Because with too much cruelty, he often dulled was.  
This was brought up by him, that was so fierce of mind,  
That thought the rod should be the sword, to rule a child by kind.  
The Father sorry afterward, to see his Child so lost,  
And seeing that his other son, did ever profit most.  
took him away from that fierce fool, and put him presently,  
To him that was the milder man, praying him earnestly.  
To see if that he could in time, quicken his dulled wit,  
desiring him thereto to use, such means as he thought fit.  
Well, at the last with much ado, he took a little pain,  
And took in hand to sharpen then, his dulled brain again.  
And many ma●●●ries he did prove, but rigour none he used,  
For that before, he had so much, by tother been abused.  
But ever sought, by gentle means, to make him voided of fear,  
And so in time, did altar much, his nature as it were.  
He made him boulder to his book, therefore more willing to  
His study still, but yet alas, what ever he could do  
He could not make him like unto, his brother any way,  
Although he striude, and took great pains, as much as in him lay.  
Yet every way he mended had, his nature very much,  
The gentle means, he ever ●●●e, in teaching him were such.  
Well to be short, when that this Gentleman did see,  
The difference, twixt his two sons, there shall n● more quoth he,  
Of children mine, ●e put to School, to such as still do● use,  
To rule the children by the rod: I rather ai● will choose,  
To put ●y children unto those, that are of nature mil●e,  
And know by l●●● and gentleness, 〈…〉 a ●●il●●.  
And thus, the tale was at an end. 〈…〉,  
the Gentleman that had two so●nes, desirous was to see  
Them both in learning traded up ●e●en so no l●●se 〈◊〉 I,  
Desirous for to s● these Youths, both learnedly,  
And virtuously brought up, asmuch ●s if they were  
The nearest hinsmen that I have, or brethren d●ere, I swear.  
Wherefore good Sir, as I in you, my faithful trust repose,  
Vouchsafe, to take such pains with them, that they no time 〈◊〉 loose.  
And for correction, now and than, to him that doth not well,  
I mean not to instruct you ●ir, yourself can better tell  
Th●n I what long● thereto: therefore, as you shall find,  
Use your discretion Sir therein, according to your mind.  
Thus you have herded, the milder man, the better Scholar made,  
And yet, a bridle must be had, for a wild brainsick jade.  
But for your pretty Colts, I ho●e no ●ridle you shall need:  
I hope you easily shall them bend, with a small twined thread.  
My meaning is, I hope they will, themselves each order so:  
That you shall need, to take small care, almost which way they go.  
Yet now and then, though without need, somewhat look out I pray  
Lest that they hap, by Company, for to be led astray.  
For though, their ●atures well be bend: yet you kno● now & then,  
Ill company often times, god wots, doth mar an honest m●n:  
And they you know, are al●●ut young, and Youth delights in toys  
And toys, from learning quit & clean, wit 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 wanton boys:  
Yet in ●ood faith. I hope good ●●r, your pretty Papless three,  
Will both in learning, a●● all things, by you so r●led be.  
And eke unto their b●●kes, 〈…〉 have so great desire:  
That earnest more, or diligent, you cannot well require.  
Well, I have put them all to you, you ●●ly mu●● be he,  
Th●t as ●ell to their learning, as behaviour ●ust se●.  
I sought not out▪ three ●ondry men, to put these children too  
To see, which ●f them ●●lde 〈◊〉 best, and which again would do  
Worst of the three, but all unto your charge I ●oe commit,  
To teach and go●erne, by such means, as you alone think fit.  
And as I ●●●e, the●●i●e● i● charge, to you, even so I cra●e  
Th●● 〈…〉 e●ch way behave  
And 〈…〉 so, that when from you they part,  
I to have found a Tutor such, 〈◊〉 ●ill be gl●d in heart.  
And you your 〈…〉 glad to see:  
Their virtuous 〈…〉 b●o●ght up by me.  
Their Father 〈…〉, is for to 〈◊〉 them all  
In learning d●ily to 〈◊〉, and further therewithal  
In good behaviour eke, may well in heart rejoice:  
That I in thi● behalf, have made so good and happy choy●e  
As to find out, so ●it a man, to put his children too.  
As under whom, they all in time, so well are like to ●●●.  
And I myself, the more for that, may ●●ande your ●oun●en fri●nd:  
And he reward you for your pains, and so I make an end.  
FINIS.    

Two or three pretty toys given to a Gentleman, to set about his Counting house.  

What man can bear a lofty sa●le,  
Where fortune fro●nes, and friends do fail?   

And who so low, but he may rise,  
By fortune's aid, and friends advise?   

What woe to hate? what joy to love?  
What stranger state, then both to prove?   

What treasure, to a friend in deed?  
What greater spite, then fail at need?   

What wisdom more, then for to learn,  
The truth from falsehood to discern?   

From which false dea;omg, god defend,  
Those that mean well, and so I end.   
FINIS.   

A Gentleman being requested by a gentlewoman, to pen her a Prayer in verse, wrote at h●r request as followeth.  
Pity o Lord thy servants heavy heart,  
her sins forgive, that thus for mercy cries:  
judge no man (Lord) according to desert,  
Let fall on her with speed thy healthful eyes.  
In heart who prays to thee continually,  
Putting her only tru●● o God in thee.  
Lord, Lord, to thee for mercy still I call,  
O, set me free that thus am bond and thrall.   

Not many days after he chanced to walk with the same gentlewoman in a garden: and was again then entreated by her, to make her an other prayer, which presently he penned, speaking with the terms of a Gardener, as followeth.  
PLant Lord in me the tree of godly life,  
Hedge me about with thy strong fence of faith:  
If thee it please use eke thy pruning knife,  
Lest that, o Lord▪ as a good Gardiner says:  
If suckers draw the sap from bows on high  
Perhaps in time the top of tree may die.  
Let Lord this tree be set within thy Garden brickwall  
Of Paradise, where grows no one ill sprig at all.  
FINIS.   

A pretty toy written upon a Lady's propounding a Riddle to her friend.  

A Lady once in pleasant sort,  
A question did demand of me,  
For want as then of other sport,  
Without offence, good Sir (quoth she):  
May I crave thus much at your 〈◊〉,  
To have a Riddle rightly scanned?   

Whereto I soon gave this Reply,  
Madam you know full hard it is,  
To read a Riddle perfectly,  
The wisest men may judge amiss:  
But show the|effecteffect of your request,  
And you shall see me do my best.   

The Riddle.  
Why then a thing there is quoth she,  
That breedeth many deadly smart:  
Which none can feel, nor here, nor see,  
And yet with grief, consumes the heart.  
For which is found none other ease,  
But even the cause of the disease:  
Now this is my desire quoth she,  
To be resolved what this may be?   

The Answer.  
These doubts (Madam) quoth I to skan,  
Requires some time, and that not small,  
They trouble would a wiser man,  
Then I by rood to deal withal:  
But yet fair Dame the doubt of this,  
I hope to find, and not to miss,  
I can but guess upon a doubt,  
I will not swear to find it 〈◊〉.   

But as I judge Madam quoth I,  
It seems Apollo's sickness sure  
On whom he cried piteously,  
That never any herb could cure:  
Nor any Physic find relief,  
To help or ease him of his grée●e.  
Which plainly Madam for to name,  
Is luckless love Dame Venus' game.   

Which spiteful sport for to 〈◊〉,  
Some so do dull their senses all:  
That in the end with to much pain,  
They do become sore sick with all:  
And so remain until they have,  
Some players such as they do crave.   

For every Player cannot please,  
Each patiented to play with all:  
For then to cure his strange disease,  
He some should have soon at his call:  
But he must have whom each would crau●  
Else he poor soul small rest shall have▪   

This Madam for aught I can see  
The meaning of your doubt must be,  
Which if you like not good Madam:  
Let it even pass from whence it came.   

My Lady ●awght: is love quoth she  
A spite, and sport, to both at one's  
Now thou hast given me, credit me:  
A resolution for the nonce.  
'tis love in deed thou hast found out,  
The mystery of all my doubt:  
And for thy pains as to a friend,  
I yield thee thanks and there an 〈◊〉.   
FINIS.   

A Letter sent unto a gentlewoman in verse, wherein he gave great thanks for both good cheer, and other courteous entertainment he had received at her hands, being in the Country at her house. The Gentilwomans' name was mistress Lette●.  
FIrst, to thy seemly self, myself I do commend,  
And for thy friendly cheer & cost, ten thousand thanks I send  
Which able to requited, I know I shall not be:  
But to my power I will deserve, as much as lies in me:  
But yet of all thy cates, one dish above the rest,  
I ever since do bear in mind, which fare doth like me best:  
Which dainty dish (my dear), if I might plainly name,  
lettuce it is, a houlsome herb, thyself dost know the same.  
An herb that we have here, but yet I plainly find,  
That lettuce from our lettuce here, doth much digress in kind:  
For in that lettuce such virtues soon I found,  
As few or none the like I find, doth grow upon our ground:  
This lettuce sweet art thou, in which I so delight:  
And God he knows what griefs I bide, for wanting of thy sight.  
Not cates that I can taste, but seem all gall to me,  
When that in mind I feed up on the fresh record of thee:  
And so my lettuce sweet, unto thyself farewell,  
And think no cates like lettuce fine, can like me half so well.  
FINIS.   


A Riddle propounded by a Gentleman to a gentlewoman whom he loved, but was a suitor, but secretly.  
THe thing on earth you most desire.  
And yet of all you jest would choose:  
That often times you do require,  
And yet I know you will refuse:  
And that here present you may see,  
All this is one, what may it be?   

Her answer as pretty.  
GOOD Sir, the self same thing that you  
Above all things do most esteem,  
●nd that in deed is present now,  
And to yourself you dearest deem.  
That do you take it out of doubt,  
That I would choose, yet be without.  
FINIS.    

¶ A Ditty in despite of a very old man, who was suitor to a very young gentlewoman, written by a young Gentleman, who was then (in deed) suitor to the same Lady.  
PErhaps you think, that all for spite I written this running verse,  
Wherein I do such deep dispraise of doting fools rehearse:  
Not no (good faith) I hate no man, but yet to such a snudge,  
Of force I must, I cannot choose, but bear a certain grudge.  
For as one way I honour age, so such old doting dolts,  
That at the age of three score years would feign seem but young colts.  
Those crusty chaps I can not love, the Devil do them shame,  
God let them never have good look, of any noble Dame,  
Much less the love: alas, my heart it rends for very grief,  
To think upon the crabbed crust, that vile old doting thief  
That seeks to rob thee of all joys, and me of my delight,  
woe worth that so shall seek to win a worthy wight.  
And seem to match a miching Carl, with such a peerless piece.  
As never yet Appelles ●yne, could paint the like in Greece.  
Well, well, this is the world, (we see) 'tis money makes the man,  
Yet shall not Money make him young again, do what he can.  
Not nor yet honest sure I judge, nay more for troth I know,  
The older still, the more in craft●, his brains he doth bestow.  
And craft and Knavery commonly with crooked crabbed age,  
With Avarice and jealousy, doth make a marriage.  
These are the fruits of froward age, which thou shalt reap God wots,  
When thou will't say, o had I witted, in faith then would I not.  
Well say not yet but thou art warned, by him the likes thee well,  
Thou cumber not thy comely corpse, with such a Coystrel.  
Whose crusty chaps, whose Aly nose, whose loathsome stinking breath  
whose tothles gums, whose bristled beard, whose visage all like death  
Would kill an honest wench to view, and so it will do thee,  
If so thou hap to match thyself, with such a snudge as he.  
My counsel therefore follow wench, cast of the crabbed knave,  
And henceforth not one merry word, ne look yet let him have.  
But frown upon the froward fool, and when thou seest him glad  
Knit thou thy brows, hung down thy head, & then seem the most sad  
As who should say, the crabbed looks of his old doting age,  
Of force you know must needs offend, a youthful parsonage.  
Let therefore crumbs as fittest is, with crusts then linked be,  
For trust to this, that like to like, will ever best agreed.   

¶ A pretty toy in rhyme.  ¶ Misero infortunato solo, lamenting his evil hap, in despair of help. 
WHen purse grows pyld, and credit cracks,  
And friends begin to fail:  
To comfort then a heavy heart,  
Alas what may prevail?  Audita vox confortans. 
Yet do not thou despair at all,  
But comfort thou thy mind:  
Though credit, purse, and friends be go,  
Somewhat is left behind.  Misero. 
Somewhat alas, o tell me now,  
What somewhat that may be?  
That so in this my deep distress,  
is left to comfort me.  Vox. 
Why dost thou crave to know the thing,  
Whereof thou canst not doubt?  
Necessity ere long I●●is,  
Will make thee find it out.  Misero. 
Necessity alas I see,  
To ready is at hand:  
Yet can I not, do what I can,  
Thy meaning understand.  Vox. 
Why? dost thou not thyself 〈◊〉▪  
There is no malady:  
But Physic hath in store for it,  
Some kind of remedy.  Misero. 
Not credit me, I fear there is  
No mean to cure my grief:  
If there be any, let me crave▪  
How I may find relief.  Vox. 
Will't thou do as I bid thee d●e▪  
And thou shalt soon find eas●▪  
Although thou be not at the first▪  
quite rid of thy disease.  Misero. 
If that thy counsel well I like,  
I will agree thereto:  
To ease my heart of this despair,  
I care not what to do.  Vox. 
Have patience then, rage not to much,  
Let reason rule thy mind:  
And be thou sure in little time,  
Some comfort for to find.  Misero. 
But patience doth come 〈◊〉,  
And what is forced (God wots:)  
Doth more and more torment the mind,  
Then patience easeth not.  Vox. 
Yet patience procureth hope,  
And hope drives out despair:  
And where Despair is driven away,  
There comfort doth repair.  Misero. 
O, but hope oftentimes is vain,  
And doth deceive the mind▪  
Therefore in hope I think 〈◊〉,  
But comfort small to find.  Vox. 
Let hope then grow by due defart,  
Then follows good success:  
For reason shows, who seeks for ease,  
Shall some way find redress.  Misero. 
O but alas, those days be past,  
For to reward desert:  
And that the more, doth cause despair,  
For to torment my heart.  Vox. 
What though such days are passed in deed,  
Yet days will come again:  
Wherein deserts shall reap desire,  
And pleasure win for pain.  Misero. 
But while the grass doth grow oft times,  
The séelly steed he 〈◊〉:  
And he 〈◊〉 wots shall reap small gain,  
In only hope, that ser●●●.  Vox. 
Yet serve in hope, and hope in God,  
And seek well to deserve:  
And let the Horse do what he lift,  
Be sure thou shalt not ster●e.  Misero. 
Now like I well this lesson thine,  
God well in heart to serve:  
For he in deed, who hope in him,  
Will never let them ster●e.   

¶ A Gentleman being in his friend's house, in the country, was by him earnestly entreated after Dinner, before his departure, to make him some verses. But would give him no Theme to writ upon▪ he not knowing what to write that best might like his fancy, yet willing to grant his request, written as followeth.  
NEeds must I writ, & know not what: why then even as it is  
Accept the same and blame me not, if aught you found amiss.  
On bushy banks what 〈…〉  
What look you for but rain, when stormy 〈◊〉 gi● blow?  
What look you for of me? some 〈◊〉 ●ind of verse,  
You are deceived: I cannot I, 〈…〉  
But what? me thinks you say, I make too much ado,  
Considering how little yet, I have 〈◊〉 ●●●atherto.  
And since I granted have, so little ●yme to write,  
Some pithy shorter 〈…〉  
In deed Sir true it is, my fault I 〈…〉  
And since I have no 〈…〉  
Remain in doubt what I would 〈…〉  
And so with thanks for my good cheer, I rudely end my rhyme.  
But if so be you have some pretty kind of style,  
Whereon you do desire some verse, if you will stay a while,  
A day or two, or so, or till I come again,  
Then you shall see that I in time, will temper ●o my ●rayne.  
And whet my wits anew, that I will promise' you▪  
Some pretty piece of verse thereon, more than I can do ●ow.  
And thus I leave you here, until I come again,  
This rude and ragged rhyme to r●●de, and so in rest remain.  
Finis.   

¶ Verses made upon this Theme: Little meddling, breeds much rest.  
MY youthful years are spent, old age comes stealing on,  
And bids me now fond Fancies fits, no more to think upon  
Of worthy Wisdom I; some lessons now have learned,  
Whereby the difference twixt wit and will, I have discerned.  
Among all which: this one, where ever so I be,  
To keep still secret to myself, what so I here or see.  
Which since of lessons all, I d●e not count the worst,  
I do intend his grave advise, in this to follow furst.  
first in thyself quoth he, all faults thou must amend,  
Before in other men thou seek, one fault to reprehend.  
Of Cato eke I learned, it is no little shame,  
To find that fault in other men, wherein I am to blame,  
To hold my peace therefore, I count it always best,  
And keep in mind the old said see, thereof comes much rest.  
¶ I see a flattering knave, is set by now and then,  
Of greatest heads as much and more, than twenty honest men.  
But let me rue the same, ●ince I cannot amend it,  
I might a wit●esse f●●le be thought▪ to seek to reprehend it.  
¶ Some Lawyer ●ée● at first, which way the case will go,  
Although he list not at the first, to tell his Client so:  
But what means he by that? alas do you not see,  
Your pennies may make you pick it out, and so they shall for me.  
What boot were it for me, their meaning to betray,  
And so no pro●●●e to myself, to take their gains away?  
¶ The Merchant man he sees too sir, by your high lusty looks,  
That shortly he shall find your hand, deep in his reckoning books.  
Bids he you then beware betimes, of had I witted,  
No not, but lets you lash it out, as long sir as you list?  
Or as you can at ●east, and if you ask me why:  
He will no better counsel give, and what he means thereby?  
Y●●r lo●●● of L●nds ere long, shall learn you how to know,  
As well as I can teach you Sir, and better too, I tro●▪  
And so shall I offend the Merchants near a whit,  
By showing of their silken snares, that in their shops do sit,  
¶ Your Tenant too he sees, that by your trim gay Coats,  
Some Lease is shortly to be let, then gets he up his Groats,  
And purseth up his pennies, and come with coin in hand,  
To crave of your good mastership, to hire a piece of Land.  
And wots you wherefore▪ Sir, your Farmer finds this feat?  
To come with Coin ready in hand, your friendship to entreat  
When that your goods are go, and you the loss do see,  
Of brainsick bargains made in haste, to maintain bravery:  
The smart thereof at last, shall show you then their shifts,  
Then shall you easily discern, their double dealing drifts,  
Which I dare not descry, I am so charged you see,  
To make no words of any thing, what ever so it be.  
¶ Your servant last he sees, your feathers give to fall,  
And sees your Farmer buy you out, of house and Land and all.  
Not longer than he likes your service Sir, adieu,  
And if you mean to keep a man, you must go seek a new.  
And ask you me by this, what may his meaning be?  
Sure if you see it not yourself, you shall not know for me.  
¶ As for the higher powers, they are too high for me,  
What faults are to be found in them, I list not seek to see:  
Let find their faults themselves, so shall they best be pleased,  
And for my silence I am sure, I shall not be diseased.  
¶ But to the rest again, that are of meaner sort,  
Of their fine fetches secretly, I somewhat will report.  
For openly God wots, I nothing dare descry,  
Who hurts not me, nor yet my friends, I will not hurt them I  
But they who do me harm, I do not mean to spare,  
To bid my friends in each respect, of such for to beware.  
¶ From Citizen's to Clowns, what secret shift they have,  
It is a sport to see a Clown, how he can play the Knave.  
The Badger first one Knave, that haunts the market place,  
When Corn is cheap, to buy good store, now thereby lies a case.  
What should he mean by that? o sir, when corn● grows dear,  
I need not tell you what he means, yourself shall know next year  
¶ The toleing miller then, when he hath tollde the sack,  
He finds a trade to fill it up, if any meal do lack.  
Now what means he by this? this feat how doth he frame?  
The millstone greet among the meal, will make you found the same.  
¶ The Baker then that seas, that meal doth grow so dear,  
He finds a shift to gain somewhat, how ever go the year.  
But what is that his shift? the Baker's man can tell,  
And I say naught, but little loaves, will show it prettily well.  
¶ Some other kind of clowns, or crafty knaves by kind,  
That buy whole groves of woods at once, what shall I speak my mind,  
What they do mean thereby, D● no sir by the rood,  
The Collier & the poor man knows, when they do buy their wood.  
¶ The Colyar yet▪ to gain will play the crafty clown:  
He works a knack yet in his sacks, when coals do come to Town  
But how he worke● that shift, I pray you ask not me,  
But when you see him shoot his coals, then mark what dust you see.  
¶ Another sort of Clowns there are, that live by buing Corn:  
That secreetely use knavish shifts, that are not to be born.  
And these are Malt men called: but what their shifts should be,  
I need not tell: by speered malt, the Brewer soon will see.  
¶ The Brewer than ●e finds a shift, to make a gain,  
But what is that? small drink alas, doth show it too too plain.  
¶ Another sort of Clowns there be, that Drovers are by name:  
That herds of cattle buy at once? what mean they by the same?  
O sir, although I know, I must not say my mind,  
But when the poor man buys a Cow, than he the cause shall find,  
¶ Another sort there are, which some do Graziers call,  
And for their secret kind of gain, they are not lest of all.  
But how they make their gain, I list not to descry:  
The Butcher when he buys his beeves, he better knows than I.  
¶ The Butcher too again, he is no fool I trow.  
He finds devise to make a gain, how ever cattle go:  
But shall I tell you how, O sir I must not I,  
But mark your weight of bones & pricks, in meat when you do buy.  
¶ The Chandler then, that of the Butcher tallow buys,  
If he buy dear, then will he work a feat in secret wise  
To make a secret gain: but what feat may that be?  
I dare say naught, but some the same by watery lights will see.  
¶ Some wealthy fellows are, that travel here and there,  
And buy up almost all the wool, they can get every where:  
And do you seek to know what they may mean by that?  
The Draper when you buy your clot can quickly tell you what.  
Tush, many such things more, I see oft times, God wots,  
Which I would help too if I could▪ but (alas) I can not.  
Therefore since I can not, I think it always best,  
To take good h●ede & hold my peace, for silence breeds much rest.  
If silence then breed rest, why have I prattled so?  
Yet have I nothing said I hope, whereof just grudge may grow,  
But if against my will I any do offend:  
I pardon crave, I spoke in sport, and so I make an end.  
The just will live upright, and make an honest gain,  
And if I think to mend a Knave, my labour is in vain:  
But honest men, or else what ever so they be:  
Let Country, Prince, and Friends alone, and let them be for me.  
But he that wisheth ill to Country, Prince, and friend,  
I will not keep his counsel sure, but rather seek his end.  
But else as I am warned. so do I think it best,  
To meddle little any way, and so to live at rest.  
FINIS.   

❧ A solemn and Repentant Prayer, for former time misspent.  
O heavenly Lord, who plain dost see the thoughts of each man's heart,  
who sendest some continual plagues, & some release of smart:  
Pity O Lord, the woeful state, wherein I daily stand,  
Only for thy mercy's sake, now help me out of hand.  
And as it was thy pleasure, first to plague me thus with grief.  
So canst thou Lord if thee it please, with speed sand me relief.  
I must of force confess O Lord, I can●t not deny.  
That I deserve these plagues and worse, and that continually,  
Yet do not thou therefore on me thy judgement just extend,  
But pardon lend, and grant me grace my life for to amend.  
And banish (Lord) from me, delights of worldly vanity,  
And lend me help to place the paths of perfect piety.  
And truly so to tread the paths, and in such godly wise,  
That they may bring me to the place of perfect Paradise.  
And not to wander up and down in ways of weary woe,  
Where wicked wily wanton toys, do lead me too and fro.  
The smack of Sapience, lykde me not, that pleased not my taste,  
But fond delight that wicked weed, was all my chief repast.  
Wherein as hook within the bait, so do I plainly find,  
Some hidden poison lurking lies, for to infect my mind.  
But wherefore do I find it now? because I now do see,  
That wanting smart I wanted grace, for to acknowledge thee.  
But now O Lord, that I so sore do feel thy punishment:  
I do lament my folly great, and all my sins repent.  
And to thy heavenly throne, O Lord, for mercy I appeal,  
To sand me (Lord) some heavenly salve, my grievous sores to heal.  
Behold (O Lord) my sorrows such, as no man doth endure,  
And eke my grievous sickness, such as none but thou canst cure.  
And as thou art a gracious God to men in misery,  
So pity me that thus, O Lord, do pine in penury.  
And as thou art a help to all that put their trust in thee.  
So lulde in this my deep distress, some comfort lend to me.  
And hold O Lord thy heavy hand, and lay thy scourge aside,  
For Lord, the grievous smart thereof I can no longer bide,  
forgive my sins, forget the same, behold my humble heart:  
Who only Lord doth trust in thee, for to relieve my smart.  
And after this my wretched life: Lord grant me of thy grace▪  
That I in heaven at latter day, may have a joyful place.  
FINIS: