THE PILGRIMAGE TO PARADISE, JOINED WITH THE Countess of Pembroke's love, compiled in verse by NICHOLAS BRETON Gentleman.  Coelum virtutis partia. 
At Oxford printed, by JOSEPH BARNES, and are to be sold in Paul's Churchyard, at the sign of the Tiger's head. 1592.   

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE, VIRTUOUS, AND WORTHY LADY, THE LADY MARY Countess of Pembroke, continual health with eternal happiness.  
RIGHT noble Lady, whose rare virtues, the wise no less honour, than the learned admire, and the honest serve: how shall I, the abject of fortune, unto the object of honour, presume to offer so simple a present, as the poetical discourse of a poor pilgrims travail? I know not how, but, with falling at the feet of your favour, to crave pardon for my imperfection: who hath red of the Duchess of Vrbina, may say, the Italians wrote well: but who knows the Countess of Pembroke, I think hath cause to write better: 〈◊〉 if she had many followers? have not you more servants▪ and if they were so mindful of their favours▪ shall we be forgetful of our duties? no, I am assured, that some are not ignorant of your worth, which will not be idle in your service: that will make a title, but a tittle, where a line shall put down a letter: and if she have received her right in remembrance, you must not have wrong in being forgotten: if she were the honour of wit, you are the comfort of discretion, if she were the favourer of learning, you are the maintainer of Art, and if she had the beauty of Nature, you beautify Nature, with the blessing of the spirit: and in sum, if she had any true perfection to be spoken of, you have many more truly to be written of: which among all, the least able to judge of, and of all, the very least worthy, in your favour to write of, your poor unworthy named poet, who by the indiscretion of his youth, the malice of envy, and the disgrace of ingratitude, had utterly perished (had not the had of your honour revived the heart of humility) will not so bury in the grave of oblivion, but that your deserved fame, shall so sound in the ears of honourable hearts, that, if I spoke, more than I may, the judgement of the wise, and the tongues of the learned, I know will no less clecre me of flattery, then wish, a mind of more perfection, to be employed in your service: to conclude, I beseech you so savour my labour, as to look on the work, think not of the ruins of Troy, but help to build up the walls of jerusalem▪ which figure▪ if it seem obscure, let the poor pilgrim, that seeketh Paradise, find heaven the better by your favour: to the comfort of which, committing under heaven, the hope of my hearts happiness, with humble prayer, for your eternal prosperity, I rest in no less bounden duty, then humble service.  
Your Lad●…shippes unworthy named poet NICHOLAS BRETON.   

To the Gentlemen students and Scholars of Oxford.  
GENTLEMEN, I am persuaded, ye will think it not a little f●…lly in me, to have entered into so great a presumption, as, before the ●…ies of so many discreet judgements, to adventure the press, with the simple fruits, of my imperfect labours. Yet when, I remember, that virtue is the honour of all arts, and that my Muse hath not altogether strayed, from the strain of that divine humour, I will rather hope of your undeserved favours, then look for my desert in the contrary: the occasion, that made me first enter into this action, was to acquaint, the honest minds of virtuous dispositions, with the heavenly Meditations, of an honourable Lady, the weak discourse whereof, far short of her worthiness, in true worth truly we●…de, I have here rather adventured to the correction of the learned, then else where would have passed to the commendation of the ignorant give me then leave, with this book to honour her: and for all other I will be ready to carry them after any of you, in witness whereof, I have hereto subscribed my name, this 12th of April. 1592.  
A poor well willer to your worthiness. NICHOLAS BRETON.   

GEntlemen there hath been of late printed in london by one Richard joanes, a printer, a book of english verses, entitled Bretons bower of delighes: I protest it was done altogether without my consent or knowledge, & many things of other men's mingled with few of mine, for except Amoris Lachrima: an epitaph upon Sir Philip Sidney, and one or two other toys, which I know not how he unhappily came by, I have no part with any of them: and so I beseech ye assuredly believe.   

TO MY HONEST TRVEFRIENDE Master Nicholas Breton.  
IT is a needless thing (friend Breton) in these our days to revive the old art of loving, seeing there are already so many courts of Venus, so many Palaces of pleasure, so many pamphlets or rather huge volumes of wanton love and dalliance. This were to put fire to flax, and to offer soft bleeding hearts as sacrifice to Cupid's bow and arrows. But I mistake your meaning, the only title of your book is Love, and the object Heaven. Love is the name, but God is the mark and matter at which it aimeth. This Love quelleth and killeth Love, and yet is Love, not the Love of Martha, but the Love of Mary who loved much, who loveth Christ. This Love made Marry magdalen's tears, and maketh the best Mary living to ascend to jerusalem and there to seek her lover in the Temple. But finding him not among the Doctors she taketh the wings of an Eagle, & in her sacred thoughts flieth above the Sun, never ceasing to seek, till she have found her Lover. Lo here is Love, and here is labour, but the labour is light, where the Love is great. ●…or the heart there only liveth, where it loveth. Marvel not therefore if this lovely Lady become a pilgrim upon earth, and pass the sea, and wilderness of this world, till she enjoyeth her love. But, to be short (friend Breton) because this book of yours touching the Love and pilgrimage of that peerless Lady is as a crystal of truths well known unto me, I am both in respect of yourself whom I love and favour, and also in duty towards her, whom I serve and honour, most willing to subscribe unto it. Your wit, pen, and art therein sound well together. The song is sweet, the ditty sweeter, but that rare Phoenix is the sweetest Phoenix, whom your wit pen and art can but well shadow with all your Muses: for as an image is but an image, and the tincture of any thing is not the substance thereof, so the colours of her honours are▪ in your book, but the life of her virtue is in herself.  
Your friend in true kindness, john Case, M. D.   

Gulielmi Gageri legum 〈◊〉 in Nicolai 〈◊〉  

DVM,  
Non vr●…t Livor, non 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
Quem non Segnities, non Fastus, & ardour 〈◊〉,  
Non capiat nitidis 〈◊〉 Lib●…do 〈◊〉  
Non aduers●… premant, non vit●… 〈◊〉 〈◊〉▪  
Recto quaerentem ●…e, 〈◊〉▪ 〈◊〉  
Mirandum plané cantas, sed 〈◊〉 〈◊〉▪  
Vt sit mirandus qui cavit, & 〈◊〉.   

In eiusdem 〈◊〉  
SIC Peregrina●…tem singis, sic pingis Amante●…,  
Vt Peregrinantis 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
Ore favete omn●…s, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
Nobilis, & vulg●… 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
Quae ●…ibi Musarum talem 〈◊〉 〈◊〉▪  
Bret●…ône, & tantam 〈◊〉 〈◊〉▪  
Quae Dea? non hominem vox 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉▪  
Non miror sacro quód sacra font fluant.   

MIraris (re●… 〈◊〉) 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 Bretonus  
〈◊〉 tam 〈◊〉, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
Inuitante canit, canit 〈◊〉 〈◊〉,  
Multa hinc tam facilè, & tam 〈◊〉 culta 〈◊〉.  
Qui canit inui●…â, canit 〈◊〉 〈◊〉,  
Aut nihil, aut nihili, 〈◊〉, vel 〈◊〉▪  
Esto minerva tuis Dea 〈◊〉 lati●… Athenis,  
Et tibi vel 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.   

Some scoff at all that writ, writ not at all,  
Some write, but to find fault with them that writer  
Some ballat-makers scorn, and scorn by right,  
Except they wince, because they feel the gall.  
At timers some (o poor word) cast their gall,  
Cast gall and all in such mind well they might:  
Some through melancholy, or rival spite,  
All Poets sdeigne, or some no Poets call.  
Avaunt such scoffing, sin default, scorning spirits,  
Or let our writers, ballat-makers, rhymers:  
In her own money pay Lycambes merits.  
Poets fly higher, than such petty climbers,  
Let this suffice, that Breton is a Poet,  
She said it, we subscribe it, his books shewit.   
Mira. 〈◊〉▪   

IN NICOLAI BRETONI EANdem peregrinantem & amantem 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 Henrici Pricei.  

QV Aemod●… 〈◊〉 iter, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, quid h●…c est?  
Hoc est. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 quo 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 ●…er  
Huic in dux Brettons via, comes illa, qui●… hoc est?  
Hoc est. In portu est 〈◊〉 co●… esq su●….   

Ad Lectorem.  
BElla Maro cecinit, lascivam Naso 〈◊〉  
Dissimili h●…c canitur miles, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
Non animalis homo est quem sic in praelia ●…rudit  
Non est lasciws virgini●… huius amor.  
Transi●…us est animae per mill pericula carnis,  
Divinique nou●…m tradit amoris opus.   

Idem ad Authorem.  
SIT pietas 〈◊〉, Deus est virtutis 〈◊〉  
Tali●… dum recolis, vive Bretone, vale.   
Sol gloria lucis.  
FINIS.   

THE PILGRIMAGE TO PARADISE.  

FROM all those courses of a vain conceit,  
Where virtue proves, her honour hath no place,  
Unto the Sun, of that bright shining height:  
Where all the graces have their highest grace,  
My Muse is weaned, by wisdoms sound advise,  
To make her pilgrimage, to paradise.   

Which pilgrimage, is not, as poets feign,  
Nor peevish people, blindly do conceive:  
A kind of walk, that worldly wealth may gain,  
Whereby the devil, doth the world deceive:  
But, 'tis a walk, of only virtues will,  
And to be found, but by the spirits skill.   

Now, they that must this travail take in hand,  
Are only five, each different in their nature,  
Which, with consent, do all contented stand,  
To yield their service, to one only creature:  
By whom they are unto their comfort led:  
And, as he fares, are found, alive or dead.   

Now, lies this walk, along a wilderness,  
A forest, full of wild, and cruel beasts:  
The earth untilde, the fruit, unhappiness,  
The trees all hollow, full of howletes nests,  
The air unwholesome, or so foul infected:  
as, ●…ardely rests, that may not be rejected.   

But, to go on with my intended tale,  
Five servants, led, by one chief lord there were:  
which, all were sworn in either bliss, or bale,  
Their master's fortune, faithfully to bear:  
And so resolu●…de, to see, their service done,  
On gods good speed their travail thus begun.   

The lord and Master, first the Muses called,  
And bade them stay, their straying kind of Musing:  
whose pure conceit, their spirits so apalled,  
As, made them have, their humours in refusing:  
And make their state, but on that only story,  
That was the grace, of their eternal glory.   

Then gave a charge to every one, apart,  
To keep the compass of a true conceit:  
what every one, should have for her desert,  
That, to her hope, could keep the high way straight:  
And then his servants, soundly did advise,  
How they should find the path to paradise.   

The first, his charge, was only, but to see,  
what best might please, & what might worst offend:  
what objects might but all as abjects be,  
what harm to scape, what honour to attend:  
A far, near hand, each side, before, behind,  
How best to guide a pure, and perfect mind.   

The second called, his charge was but to hear,  
In sweetest sounds, which was the soundest sweet:  
what graces might, in Musics ground appear,  
And where the honours of the humours mee●…e:  
what careful notes, do comfort best conclude,  
while Sitens songs, do but the soul delude.   

The third then called, was charged to take the sent,  
Of every flower and herb, within the field:  
which might but grow, whereas their graces went,  
what savour might, the sweetest profit yield:  
And what might hurt, lest that the brain displeased,  
The body might perhaps be all diseased.   

The fourth then called, did take his charge, to taste,  
Of every fruit, that should become their food:  
what beast might nourish, and might sweetest last,  
And, in their travail most might do them good:  
How sweet with sour, might best be tempered so,  
As, tone, the t'other might not well forego.   

Then came the fift who took his charge to feel,  
The gravelde causey from the hollow ground:  
How best the toe, might trust unto the heel,  
when settled faith had surest footing sound:  
And so by leisure find, where sweetly lies,  
The lovely path, that leads to paradise.   

When thus each one, had learned what to do,  
Instructed by the guide unto their grace:  
Weighing the worth, they were, to walk unto,  
Wishing, & longing, to behold the place.  
Onwards they pass, but with two poor attendants,  
And, (on the earth) but with two poor defendants.   

Their carriage was, but an unwieldy trunk,  
Wherein to near their trash, was laid their treasure,  
With weight whereof, their shoulders often thruncke,  
Before they came, unto their place of pleasure,  
But let that pass, until the time be come.  
To make the reckoning of a Royal sum.   

But, to go on as I did first intend,  
To tell the course, of these resolved creatures,  
To take a travail, that should never end,  
A note, above the reach of earthly natures,  
Lo, thus it was, at least, as he did write,  
That, seemed he winked not, when he hit the white.   

Along the walk, the walk, alas, to long,  
Amid the hapless hills, and doleful dales:  
where sighs & sobs, do sound but sorrows song,  
while sweetest truths are crossed by sorry tales:  
And darkest clouds, are clapped before the sun,  
This wary creatures, have their way begun.   

A path unpleasant where no pleasure was,  
That earthly people easily might perceive:  
A passage hard, and narrow for to pass,  
But for the life, that of his life took leave:  
To pass the lake where death, & sorrow lies,  
And kill them both, to come to paradise.   

Wherein, no sooner, were they all set forth,  
with resolution, never to return:  
There did appear a light of little worth,  
A mocking loie, whose end was but to morn:  
Upon the left hand, of this silly creature,  
Venus, fair painted, with her finest feature.   

Who, wanting nothing, that might well adorn,  
A cunning dame, to compass her desire:  
with look askance, as if she had in scorn,  
A meaner hope, them might a heaven aspire:  
with strange devices of a world of toys,  
would stop his passage to his further joys.   

And up she stands a tiptoe, in her state,  
As, if the earth, too base were for her feet:  
with such a glance, as if she had in hate,  
That less, than monarchs, should her presence meet:  
when, with such smiles, so near this walk she went,  
As made them wonder what the vision ment.   

When he, that first had taken charge to view,  
What might their travail hinder or avail:  
Finding, that in his sight a dimness grew,  
whereby the clearness of his sense might fail:  
Feeling the humour, grow unto an Itch,  
Began to fear the wonder was a witch.   

When of the sudden, holding up his hand,  
Betwixt his sight, and this same perilous thing:  
Having no leisure, on his thoughts to stand,  
what issue would, of this, ill humour spring:  
went on along and kept his walk aright,  
Until this vision vanished out of sight.   

When, on the right hand forthwith did appear,  
Diana, she, of whom the poets writ:  
A dame of state, yet with such smiling cheer,  
As showed, where kindness, did with honour sit:  
who, with her nymphs, apparelled all in white,  
Did seem to pure an object for his sight.   

When fearing, that the poets did not feign,  
That did set forth Diana for divine:  
when in her Beauty was so bright a vain,  
As, seemed, that Phoebus on her face did shine:  
Betwixt his sight, and this conceived sun,  
Held up his hand, ere any hurt was done.   

And thus betwixt first Venus, than Diane,  
Onwards he goes, his right intended way,  
And noting well what he had undertaken,  
And, that a stop might cause to long a stay,  
Keeping the path, looking on neither side,  
He follows on his best beloved guide.   

When, walking on, his hoped happy way,  
Upon the left hand rose a sudden sound,  
which might have been a most unhappy stay,  
But, that a sudden remedy was found,  
For he that knew her Music was a charm,  
His hearing stopped, for fear of further harm.   

And, this was he that had the charge to hear,  
And hearken sound to each secret sound.  
what noise might not by any means come near,  
And where the Muses, soon would be a ground,  
who having heard but how her harp was strong,  
would not vouchsafe the hearing of her song.   

But, when she saw how hardly she was used,  
Her Beauty first bard from the walk of bliss,  
And then her Music so in scorn refused,  
As idle noise, wherein no honour is,  
Away she went all angry as she was,  
And left the poor man, o●… his way to pass.   

When, one the right hand of the sudden rose,  
An other sound, but of a deeper sweet,  
Where sure Diana, with her Nymphs had chose,  
The ground of grace where all the Muses meet,  
To show the world the heavenly harmony,  
Where Nightingales, do make a company.   

When he that heard the sweetness of the sound,  
Fearing what hurt might quickly grow upon it,  
If once his Muse, unhapply might be drowned,  
In worlds delight, ere, wit had overgonne it.  
The hearing stopped, of his unworthy sense:  
Of such a sound, of such an excellence.   

But when Diana plainly 'gan to find,  
That, one of all the world had warning took?  
For coming near unto Actaeon's kind,  
And that her silver sound was so forsook,  
Away she went, but yet, with this sweet blessing,  
Virtue is placed where pride may not be pressing.   

When these were gone, that might have stopt●… his way,  
Had he not kept the course of better care,  
A new devise, again to breed his stay,  
Came Flora forth, with all his fairest ware,  
Laying abroad the ward●…ope of her wealth,  
Her fairest flowers, and ●…ittest herbs for health.   

But he that had the charge to take the scent,  
Of every savour, both the sour and sweet,  
Knowing what best might comfort, or content,  
How, weeds were all, to tread but under feet,  
The ho●…some savour to his service used,  
And fair flourd weeds, as poison foul refused.   

But when that Flora, saw her great disgrace:  
Withered with grief, she shrunk into the ground,  
And, (as it seemed) displeased with the place,  
For that, so little favour their she found,  
She lets him go, until anon he met,  
another Lady, with another let.   

And this was she, of whom the Poets writ,  
Ceres the Princes of the Pesaunts' treasure,  
Who, both fortast, and eke for hunger fit,  
Did only work, but for the bellies pleasure,  
Who, with a cornu copia, sweetly dight:  
would stay the spirit, with the flesh delight.   

But he that had the charge, to take a taste:  
Of every fruit, whereon, they were to feed,  
what soon would rot, and what would longest last,  
And what would prove, the sweetest food indeed.  
Upon his lip his little finger placed:  
As if her gift were utterly disgrased.   

Not, that the present seemed of no price,  
But, that their comforts were of other kind:  
And that, (God wots) it was a base devise,  
with belly pleasures to abuse the mind:  
which Ceres seeing, parted in a rage,  
And left the pilgrim, to his pilgrimage.   

Which, silly creature, softly going on,  
Encountered with more crosses, than before:  
A world of fools, and devils many a one.  
In shape of men, in shape, and somewhat more:  
which laboured sore, to make some stop, or stay,  
To hinder love, in hitting virtues way.   

But, he, whose charge, was charily to feel,  
what ground was best to ground his footing on:  
spurned with his toe, and kicked of with his heel,  
Their stumbling stones, till all the stops were gone:  
which, when they saw, his bliss they could not baulk,  
They tan away, and left him to his walk.   

By which good hour, when heavens had haply tried,  
How constant care, his passage, truly passed:  
And in the heart, no vile desire did bide,  
while patiented will, was with discretion placed:  
They rocked the rules, of nature's sense asleep,  
while Angels songs, the soul did waking keep.   

But, waking wit, that had no will to rest,  
Till joy might come, unto her journeys send:  
And that the spirit, was not fully blest,  
Till humble faith, might see her heavenly friend:  
Awaked this pilgrim, from his pensive vain,  
And set him sweetly on his way again.   

When, passing on, they fell into a wood,  
A thicket full, of brambles, thorns, and briars:  
A graceless grove, that never did man good,  
But wretched sendings of the worlds desires:  
where Snakes, and Adders, & such venu●…d things,  
Had slain a number, with their cruel stings.   

Some, Metamorphosed, like Actaeon, were,  
Diana smiling at their lewd desires:  
Some, Semitawres, and some, more half a Bear,  
Other half swine, deep wallowing in the miers:  
All beastly minds, that could not be reform,  
were to the shapes of their own shame transformed.   

There might he see, a Monkey with an Ape,  
Climbing a tree, and cracking of a Nut:  
One sparrow teach an other how to gape,  
But, not a tame one, taught to keep the cut:  
And many a lack daw, in, his foolish chat,  
while parets prated of they knew not what.   

But, when she saw, humilities affection,  
won from the world to seek for heavenly favour,  
And that the soul, by wisdom▪ ●…ound direction,  
In sacred flowers, should find the sweetest savour,  
She raised him up, and bad him there receive,  
The true delights, should not the soul deceive.   

When lifted up, by that fair hand of love,  
That brought the heart an unknown happiness,  
And every servant, sweetly did approve,  
A blessing in their Master's blessedness,  
with silent thoughts, they humbly did attend,  
The words, that did their comfort comprehend.   

Poor wretch quoth she, thy faithful patiented heart,  
the highest powers in pity do regard:  
where true repentance pleads for no desert,  
But, bounties grace, where mercy gives reward:  
The heavens have hard, thy humble happy prayer,  
To help thy hope, and keep thee from despair▪   

The labour, that thy love hath ta'en in hand,  
Thy travail, minding, never to retire:  
The happy stay, whereon thy hope doth stand,  
where humble prayer, but pity doth aspire:  
Have got thee grace in mercies glorious eyes,  
To find the path that leads to paradise.   

This is the 〈◊〉, that patience only treads,  
where life doth go on pilgrimage to love:  
whose humble heart, the holy spirit leads,  
unto the height of blessed hopes behove:  
whom grace's guard, till perils all be past,  
And faith resolved, do find her rest at last.   

Since thou hast scaped the vaunt of Venus' vain,  
And not presumed Diana to approach:  
Since Flora could no further favour gain,  
Nor Ceres could thy careful thought encroach:  
Since fools, and devils, all are driven away,  
Bide but a night, and thou shalt see the day.   

Since thou hast scaped the way of wretchedness,  
where shameless minds to shameful shapes are turned▪  
And found the way of fairest blessedness,  
where heart inflame, with virtues fire hath burned:  
Keep on the path, and turn on neither side,  
Grace to thy hope will be a happy guide.   

Think it not long, to come to heaven at last,  
Nor linger time to hinder happy speed:  
Fear not the sun, though skies be overcast,  
And let a candle stand the night in steed,  
So mark the light, that lives in virtues eyes,  
And love shall lead thee strait to paradise.   

Fear not the foes, nor forces thou shalt meet,  
For thou shalt meet with monsters, many a one:  
But faith resolved treads fortune under feet,  
where virtue comes, will vices all be gone:  
Hell cannot hurt, whom heavenly powers defend,  
where grace gins▪ hope makes a happy end.   

Lo near at hand, he that would hurt thee most:  
An ugly Monster, full of all corruption:  
By whose illusion, many souls have lost,  
Their lively hopes, by lowdenes interruption.  
A Liar, Thief, and master of all evil,  
The sire of sin, the fiend●… of hell, the devil.   

Seven are his heads, as many are his tails,  
Ec●… head a tongue and every tail a sting,  
And woe to them, with whom his tongues prevails,  
within the compass of his tails to bring.  
But scorn his words, or quite him with disgrace,  
and thou shalt kill, or make him fly the place.   

His body is the very sink of sin,  
Into which hole, all hellish filth doth run.  
A plague of pride, presumption did begin,  
An endless plague, that was in pride begun,  
where every head the body stands in steed,  
with poisoned souls, the filthy paunch to feed.   

His sword, are words, with which he is to fight,  
whose forces can but faithless hearts offend,  
For, if he look, but once at virtues light,  
He faints for fear, and feels his forces end,  
But hear him speak, and never fear his spite,  
when virtue laughs at vanities delight.   

His greatest head, and that doth gape most wide,  
Is proud Ambition, swallowing worldly wealth:  
which faithless souls, infects, with filthy pride,  
Killing the spirit, for the body's health:  
Upon which head, he bears a triple crown,  
That, (Virtue sees) is near his tumbling down.   

In which great head, his tongue is all untruth,  
Lies, to bewitch the world unto his will:  
The ease of Age, and high conceit of youth:  
are greatest grounds of his ungracious skill:  
To govern states, is such a stately thing:  
what slave is he, that would not be a king?   

And thus the villain, would the world persuade,  
To proud attempts that may presume to high,  
But earthly joys, will make him prove a ●…ade,  
when virtue speaks of loves divinity:  
where humble heart, doth to that heaven aspire,  
where is no place for any proud desire.   

The second head, is wicked avarice,  
Choking itself, with trash, in stead of treasure:  
whose tongue, is treason that can best devise,  
To hurt the spirit, with the body's pleasure:  
But talk of virtues joy in Misery,  
And he will pine to death in penury.   

The third foul head, is filthy Gluttony,  
Devouring more, than it can well digest:  
Leading the heart, to loathsome villainy,  
And of a man doth make an ugly beast:  
But, answer him with fasting, and with prayer,  
The very words, will kill him with their air.   

The fourth bad head, is beastly slothfulness,  
Sleeping, and snorting, like a filthy swine:  
Losing the time in loathsome Idleness,  
Dreaming, of that, which never was divine:  
But answer him, with virtues careful watching,  
He faints, and falls, to find his overmatching.   

The fift vile head, is filthy lechery,  
which leads the heart, to hateful wickedness:  
His tongue, a forge of fancy's treachery,  
To bring the soul, to all unhappiness:  
But, answer him, with virtues chaste desire,  
And, he will bite his very tail for ire.   

The sixth is envy full of malice fraught,  
Feeding on Snakes, that feign would virtue sting:  
which, where they find their forces come to nought,  
Into his mouth, they back their poison bring:  
But say how patience, leads to paradise,  
He frets, and fumes, and in impatience dies.   

The seventh is murder, most accursed head,  
whose tongue is blasphemy, all died in blood:  
which, with the hearts of harmless creatures feed,  
Laps in the broth of an Infernal food:  
But, say how virtue doth for vengeance cry,  
And dead he falls, or else away doth fly.   

Now, bear these heavenly lessons all by heart,  
And take these books to benefit thy mind:  
In each of which is hid a secret art,  
whose proper use, may profit in his kind:  
But chief do this holy book peruse,  
where special comforts, may thy spirit choose.   

When, having given into his humble hand,  
Seven sundry books, whereonto use his wit:  
And last, the stay, whereon the state did stand,  
Of happy life, where heavenly love doth sit:  
The holy book, of virtues blessed vain,  
Home she returns unto her heaven again.   

Which, when the pilgrim humbly did behold,  
Carrying in mind, the comforts of his heart:  
which, to his faith, her favour did unfold,  
To keep the soul, from an Infernal smart:  
Against the fury, of this fiend of hell,  
Onwards he goes, God speed his passage well.   

When, not to stand, on circumstance too long,  
He meets anon with this same monster thing:  
who, by illusion, of the Sirens song,  
would seek, a world, in bondage how to bring.  
Turning himself, into a thousand shapes,  
To fear fond children, and to cozen Apes.   

And first, he looks, like to a fiery light,  
which would consume, what so did cross his way:  
But, soon was done, the force of his despite,  
where virtue came, he had no power to stay,  
And then, he would become a speaking bird,  
But, God once named, he durst not speak a word.   

And by and by, he would become a Bear,  
To fear young children with a foolish noise:  
But, when a man, a beast, can never fear,  
He found it proved, old children were no boys:  
when, by and by, he would become an Ape,  
Oh beastly thing, too near a humane shape.   

But, when that virtue found the vile effect,  
Of Apish humours, with the Monckish minds,  
She wholly did, the vermins jests reject,  
And forced him seek, for shapes of other kinds:  
when all his sleights, could do him little boot,  
For, virtue knew, the devil by his foot.   

No, though into an Angel fair of light,  
He could transform himself, for to deceive:  
Yet could he not his foot keep out of sight,  
But, virtue could his filthy claw perceive:  
So by his foot, she plainly did descry him,  
Bidding avaunt, foul fiend, she did defy him.   

When, as the pilgrim lifting up his eyes,  
To heavenly powers from hell for to defend him:  
Sweet Christ once named, away the Serpent flies,  
And, for awhile unable to offend him:  
Till, once again, the heavens had given him leave,  
To do his worst, sweet virtue to deceive.   

When, in the shape whereof before I spoke,  
with his seven heads, the wicked Serpent stands:  
with such a sound, as made the earth to shake,  
As, half the world, were subject, to his hands:  
when first, his head, of pride began to speak,  
And, to this pilgrim, did this poison break.   

Thou little wretch, quoth he, of lesser worth,  
In humane shape I know not what to name:  
whom honours spirit, never could bring forth,  
To seek the fortune of imperial fame:  
How didst thou fall into this forlorn path,  
wherein the world so little pleasure hath.   

Where, see the ground of every secret grief,  
which mortifies the body with the mind:  
Subject to every cross, and for relief,  
Pity, the whole, that thou must hope to find:  
Patience a pain set down, life, but a death,  
where care, and sorrow draw a sickly breath.   

Where eyes must be embased to the ground,  
Their pleasing humours, barred to behold:  
And bended knees, to cap, and courtzy bound,  
while bared head, must bide the bitter cold:  
The mind must stoop, the hand must lose his strength,  
The heart must droop, and life must yield at length.   

Is this the reach, of Reason's noble wit?  
To see a world, and seek for nothing in it,  
In such a chair doth chary humour sit?  
To know a work of worth and not begin it:  
who could of power conceive, the kingly pleasure,  
would no conceit with such a comfort measure.   

Humility? a jolly creeping thought,  
Patience, a pretty purgatory:  
Sorrow, a fit, for the physician wrought  
And death, a gentle end of misery.  
Fasting and prayer, all the spirits pleasure,  
Notes for a King, to look upon at leisure.   

No, stoop no thought, seek only to subdue,  
Set no conceit, in honour with a crown:  
In beggar mind, true conquest never grew,  
The village, is a cottage to the town:  
The Monarchy, doth show, the noble mind,  
He hath no life, that cummes of lower kind.   

What slave will serve, that easily may command?  
what sense will stoop, that may be set aloft?  
who will desire, that needs not to demand?  
who loves the boards may have his bed made soft?  
Or who regards, the rascal beggars tears?  
That may have Music to content his ears.   

What poor conceit, will beg for crumbs of bread?  
May have his table furnished all with cates?  
Or break his heart with hammers of his head?  
May pass his humours, with his pleasing mates:  
Fair, wise, rich, learned, valiant, young, and old.  
Power is the hand, doth at commandment hold.   

And so he stopped, but swelling with such pride,  
As if his brain, would have with poison burst:  
To whom, the pilgrim, presently replied,  
Avaunt foul fiend, and Monster most accursed:  
Thou hate of heaven, and greatest hag of hell,  
what wicked tale hast thou presumed to tell.   

Wretched, blasphemous spirit of presumption,  
Ugly in shape, and horrible in sense,  
Thou cursed substance of the souls consumption,  
The heavens displeasure, and the world's offence,  
That know'st no worth, & art not worth the knowing,  
Rot in thy root, ere thou have further growing.   

Thou wicked witch, fond fortunes first deviser,  
To bring a desperate spirit to defame,  
And by illusion, first the soul's surprise,  
That hears thy words, and will believe the same,  
How dared thou once presume so near this path,  
where hateful humour, never passage hath.   

Thou ground of grief, here is the ground of grace,  
Thou foul infection, here is fairest health,  
Thou cross of crosses, here is comforts place,  
Thou pities want, and here is pities wealth,  
Thou dire impatience, dole▪ and deadly strife,  
Cursed be the death, that stops the way of life.   

Whose blinded eyes, are bard all blessed light,  
whose crooked knees, are cramped for crafty creeping:  
whose triple crown, in virtues humble sight,  
will break thy neck, and rest in better keeping,  
whose heart subdued, by hand of heavenly strength,  
Must live in pain of never ending length.   

Call'st thou the rage of will, the rules of wit?  
Is all the world, ought else but vanity?  
who in the chair of changing choice doth sit,  
Knows nothing of divine humanity,  
Nor in conceit, can comfort truly measure,  
That knows, not pride, the plague of high displeasure.   

Humility, high Angels happy thought,  
while patience, is the devils purgatory:  
Sorrow a fit, for faiths physicians wrought,  
while high heavens mercy, ends worlds misery,  
Fasting, and prayer, happiness procuring,  
while true repentance is but hope enduring.   

Then stoop foul pride, whom heavens did full subdue,  
Know that thy crown is coming tumbling down:  
Virtue doth see how by Illusion grew,  
The worlds disgrace, to grace thee with a crown:  
Monarch of mischief, such is all thy mind,  
Nor hath he life, that cummes of such a kind.   

His service, freedom, that made thee a slave,  
His seat aloft, that makes thee lie full low:  
His want a wealth, that sees thee nothing have,  
His board a bed, that makes thee watch for woe:  
His alms sweet, that saves the beggars tears,  
while thou hast nought, but cries to fill thine ears.   

A poor conceit, that starves for lack of crumbs,  
And yet will tell the world of delicates:  
who oft for hunger feedest upon thy thumbs,  
when death and sorrow, are thy hellish mates:  
Fair, wise, rich, learned, valiant, old, and young,  
Take heed of pride, and of his poisoned tongue.   

And with that word I know not how it fell,  
But, down the crown, came tumbling on the ground:  
when as the head, with anger seemed to swell,  
Like an Aposthume, of a poisoned wound:  
which breaking inward, of the sudden shroncke,  
Into the body, oh most beastly trunk.   

The head of pride thus suddenly consumed,  
Or, shroncke into this filthy sink of sin:  
The second head, foul Avarice presumed,  
with wicked words, the miser minds to win:  
Ah, beggar, worm, and needy wretch quoth he,  
what dost thou think, that will become of thee.   

Hath patience bred in thee this poor conceit,  
That cold and hunger be thy heart's content?  
Dost thou not see, how many thousands wait,  
In honours field, upon the golden tent?  
Or knowest thou not, power, wisdom, wit and pleasure,  
All, have their Essence, in the golden treasure.   

What face so fair, that is not graced in gold,  
what wit of worth, but hath in gold his wonder?  
what learning, but, with golden lines doth hold,  
what state so high, but gold will bring him under?  
what thought so sweet, but gold doth better season,  
And what rule best, but in the golden reason.   

Be lord of lands, and cram thy chest with coin,  
Fear nought but need, money will make a friend:  
Let conscience learn, the cunning to purloin,  
wit without wealth, hath but a woeful end,  
The golden sceptre, and the golden crown,  
Doth make the subject on his knees come down.   

The ground is fat, that yields the golden fruit,  
The study high, that hits the golden state:  
The labour sweet, that gets the golden suit,  
The reckoning right, that makes the golden rate:  
The hap is sure, that golden hope doth hold,  
And rich is gain, that serves the god of gold,   

And with that word the wicked thing did cease,  
when presently the pilgrim thus replied:  
Oh cursed canker, cross of conscience peace,  
whose hateful heart, doth all ill humours hide:  
Thou kindling coal of an Internal fire,  
Die in the ashes, of thy dead desire.   

Impatient spirit living all by spoil,  
Drunk like the dropsy, and yet ever dry:  
Consumed with care, and tired out with toil,  
seeming to live, and yet dost ever die,  
How du●…st thou so the name of god blaspheme,  
To give to dross so great a Diadem.   

Thou stone-colde heart, with hungri●…g after coin,  
My care in heaven, doth seek my hearts content,  
Thou scrapst for pelf, I seek not to purloin,  
In virtues field, I seek but mercy's tent,  
When wisdom, finds, in power of highest pleasure,  
The world, all trash, compared to heavenly treasure.   

Fowl is the fair that hath her gold in grace,  
worthiness the wit, that hath in wealth his wonder:  
unlearned lives, put gold in honours place,  
wicked the state, that will to coin come under:  
Base the conceit, that seasonde is with gold,  
And beggar, rules, that such a reason hold.   

Thou plodst for lands, I seek a living place,  
Thou fearste but need, I, money make no fri●…de:  
Thy conscience, cunning, and my care is grace,  
Thy wits wealth, woe, my heart's wish, heaven at end:  
Thy gold is dross, and virtue is my crown,  
where hearts submission, pulls ambition down.   

Earth gives thee gold, heavens give me higher grace,  
Men study wealth, but Angels wisdoms state:  
Labour seeks pence, love hath a higher place,  
Death makes thy reckoning, life is all my rate:  
Thy hap is hell, my hope of heaven doth hold,  
God give me grace, die devil with thy gold.   

And with that word, the head began to shrink,  
The face dead pale, and hollow grew the eyes:  
And so, at last, did all, and wholly sink,  
Into that hell, that head of Avarice:  
when up did start the head of Gluttony,  
Vomiting out these words of villainy.   

Poor 〈◊〉 beggar, whereon dost thou feed,  
well far the mouth, that feeds the belly full▪  
what starving humour, stands thy wit instead,  
The want of victual, makes the body dull▪  
I find it true no triumph to a feast,  
the belly full the bones will be at rest.   

Some feed their eyes withstaring on the stars,  
And starve the body to content the mind:  
Some with their wits will be so long at wars,  
They grate on crusts, when other men have dined,  
But let the frantic so their humour please,  
Give me the life, of meat, and drink and ease.   

When that the earth, doth give us pleasing food,  
what reason is it nature should refuse it:  
If reason find, what will do nature good,  
what boots to have it, if we do not use it:  
Then let me feed, while I have power to eat,  
The mouth was made to give the body meat.   

Oh, when the tongue is pleased with a taste,  
The stomach feeds, until the heart do laugh,  
And then a cup with a carousing cast,  
And then a health out of a frindely quaff:  
Then works the brain in such a blessed wise,  
As if the body were in paradise.   

When thinking more to speak, his mouth ran over,  
with beastly humours, loathsome to behold,  
And in such sort, as he could not recover,  
Till that he did, his filthy sense unfold,  
when stopping so, the pilgrim 'gan reply,  
Die ugly venum in thy villainy.   

Thou filthy, fat, and overfoggy flesh,  
Fowl bagpipe-cheekes, eyes starting from the head,  
whom heavenly humours never can refresh,  
That all in hell, hast made thy hateful bed,  
Heavens let me fast, from such a loathsome feast,  
where to much feeding makes a man a beast.   

Earth fill thine eyes, heavens feed my humble heart,  
Dross fill thy belly, Grace content my mind,  
Of worldly lunckets take thy pleasing part,  
Grace, give my soul, one crumb, & I have dined,  
So with thy frenzies, do thy fancy please,  
Heavens be my rest, whom earth can never ease.   

Earth feeds of earth, heavens give the spirit food,  
Nature corrupted lost the key of reason,  
The body knows not of the spirits good,  
Use is abuse, where truth is ●…aust with treason,  
Then role, and tumble in thy beastly ●…iot,  
The dish of mercy, be my spirits diet.   

Oh, when the tongue is touched with cruel fire,  
The stomach feeds, of an infernal flame,  
A cup of coals to quench a foul desire,  
A cureless hat, consuming in the same:  
Then works the spirit with such woeful cries,  
As, proves in hell, was never paradise.   

When, this same filthy head of gluttony,  
Beastly bedight with his abhorred diet:  
Choked with venum of such villainy,  
As, breeds the ground of natures most disquiet▪  
Sunk back into the belly of the beast,  
which, of such spirits, made his special feast.   

When started up the head of slothfulness,  
with ugly claws picking his gummy eyes:  
who with the nods of natures heaviness,  
Did in few words, this filthy speech devise,  
what humour, wretch, doth thee so waking keep,  
That thou canst feed upon so little sleep.   

Sleep is the pride of ease, the height of pleasure,  
The Nurse of nature, and the rule of rest:  
The thoughts atonement, and the senses treasure,  
The bed of love, that likes the body best:  
Against unrest the only remedy,  
And only medicine to each malady.   

And, therewithal unwilling more to speak,  
Such heavy qualms his heart had overcome:  
with stretching yawns, as if his jaws would break,  
He stopped his speech, as wholly strooken dumb:  
when, nodding of his head from side to side,  
To his deaf ears, the pilgrim thus replied.   

Thou cursed serpent, ground of all disgrace,  
By Idleness begetting Ignorance:  
which dost the sprigs of fairest roots deface,  
with loathsome course of life's discountenance:  
And mak'st a pleasure of the spirits pain,  
Die in thy dream, and never wake again.   

Sleep is the souls disease, the minds despite,  
The curse of Nature, and the cross of rest:  
The thoughts disquiet, and the darksome night,  
wherein the spirit, likes the body lest:  
A loss of time and reasons malady,  
where death is found but sorrows remedy.   

The watching virgins kindly were received,  
when such as slept did lose their happy hour:  
In dreams, the senses often are deceived,  
when waking wits find shadows have no power:  
Then sleep thy last, where life hath never place,  
God grant my soul, to watch, & pray for grace.   

When thus the head of hateful slothfulness,  
was sunk into the filthy sink of sin:  
The harmful head of all unhappiness,  
Did lechery, this loathsome tale begin:  
Alas poor pilgrim, child of chaste desire,  
Hast thou been burned thou canst not bide the fire?   

A gentle jest, a man to be a maid,  
what mincing humour doth the senses measure?  
That Nature can of beauty be afraid:  
And lose her prime, before she know her pleasure,  
Flesh hath no favour in divinity,  
Nor Nature, pleasure in virginity.   

The child, that knows not how to make his choice,  
Must be a babe, so babish let him be:  
But he that knows, how better to rejoice,  
will seek a world, where sweeter thoughts agree:  
No, think of love, to be that pleasing thought,  
That, for his will, sets all the world at nought.   

What figure finds not love out of a face?  
what humours notes he not, in every hear?  
In beauty's eyes, what stars doth he not place,  
what roses in her cheeks, doth she not bear?  
what honey in her lips, and sweeter worth?  
In her fair ground but he can gather forth.   

It whets the wit, and doth embolden will,  
And maketh Art to work beyond herself,  
It maketh nature, study reasons skill,  
And in her humours, play the pretty elf:  
It bringeth fancy to a dainty feast,  
And makes a man, that would be else a beast.   

What dainty glances pass from eyes to eyes?  
when sweet conceits, are secretly conceived,  
what comforts can the kissing hearts devise?  
where kind effects of favour are received:  
Age can report, and youth doth daily prove,  
There is no comfort to the course of love.   

And with that word, did end his wicked charm,  
Unto which sound, the pilgrim 'gan reply,  
Thou hateful head, and ground of every harm,  
Venum, compounded all of villainy:  
A foul infection of the fairest creature,  
Die in the filth, of thy corrupted nature.   

Thou sleepy sloth, that figurste out the swine,  
with groveling humours, tumbling on the ground,  
That canst not think, upon a thought divine,  
But liv'st in dreams, where all deceits are found:  
How dared thou speak in that foul thoughts defence,  
which breedeth nothing, but the soul's offence.   

Virtue and vice, were never friends in deed,  
Diana knows, that Venus is no maid,  
But faith, that doth on heavenly blessing feed,  
Of foolish beauty, may be well afraid:  
when Nature's pleasure in virginity,  
Shows, flesh hath favour in divinity.   

Equality is but a childish humour,  
He is alone, that keeps the lofty seat:  
what voice is hard? where all are in a rumour,  
Or who is served? where every one is great?  
why, patience is the pattern of a villain,  
That never came near to a King's pavilion.   

And with that word she fed upon her Snakes,  
As if her heart, did like none other food:  
where to the pilgrim soon this answer makes,  
Ungracious grifte, and void of heavenly good:  
Feed on thy Snakes, until the poison fill thee,  
And thine own canker with corruption kill thee.   

Equality is children's blessedness,  
where many brethren are but one in love:  
The voice hard sweet, whose sound is holiness,  
And God well served, where graces glory prove:  
And he that patience patterns for a villain,  
shall never know the King of heavens pavilion.   

Thou never readst the book of Christ his Cross,  
Nor canst endure so sweet an A B C:  
But, thou art bound to live with labours loss,  
where all the woes of all the world may be:  
God give my spirit, grace, to seek no more,  
Then go the way, his Saints have gone before.   

When, (as it seemed) the venum wrought so sore,  
within the heart, as poisoned so the head,  
As shrinking down, it sight, and spoke no more,  
But with the rest the filthy body fed:  
when started up the head of Murdering wrath,  
As newly come, from out, sum bloody bath.   

Who grating of his teeth with knitting brow,  
Shaking his fist, as if he mente to fight:  
Thou patch quod he, where art thou plodding now?  
hath patience thinkest thou, such a princely might:  
That she can thee against my force defend,  
And bring thee safely to thy journeys end?   

My life is most, to lay me down in blood,  
I can endure no daunting of mine eye:  
I only love to feed on bloody food,  
whom I once cease on, they are sure to die:  
How dared thou then approach so near my sight,  
whose fury stands withal the world to fight?   

Poor patiented hearts are tossed from post to post,  
when bloody sword do walk the world with wonder:  
Poor patience many a patrimony lost.  
while will resolved, put wit and reason under:  
Patience is oft from princely seat pulled down,  
while bloody minds, do bravely bear the crown.   

Pity is known sometime to mar a city,  
And Anger, oftentimes is cause of quiet:  
Sometime as good be wilful as be witty,  
when bloody dishes make a dainty diet:  
what arms of honour? to a bloody field?  
where Angers hand, makes patiented hearts to yield.   

When (as it seemed) half stuffed up with blood,  
Stopping his tale the pilgrim thus replied:  
Choke up thy throat, with that foul butcher's food,  
That never couldst the sound of mercy bide:  
But dost consume the heart of many a creature,  
Die in the fury, of thy filthy nature.   

Fret, fume, and chafe, I fear not of thy force,  
I plod with patience, where thou canst not come:  
My patience hath, such power in her remorse,  
As furies senses, quickly will benumb:  
And by her prowess, stoutly so defend me,  
That thou, nor thine, nor ought else offend me.   

Then lie, and bath, and tumble in thy blood,  
And stare, & stamp, till thou hast done thy worst:  
Thy foul adherents, I have all withstood,  
And thou, art but a spirit all accursed:  
who though thou mak'st a number know thy might,  
Where patience comes, thou hast no power to fight.   

Poor patiented hearts, are tossed from pain to peace,  
When bloody swords, do breed but hellish woes:  
And patience patrimony is no leace,  
But in a ground, where grace & wisdom grows:  
And patience sits with an Immortal crown,  
where tyrant heads to hell are beaten down.   

Pity must be the princess of a city,  
And Anger breedeth nothing but disquiet:  
wilful is good, so that the will be witty,  
where blood is bard, the dish of mercy's diet:  
what Arms of honour, to that heavenly field,  
where patience force, makes anger's fury yield.   

At which last word, the ●…retting furious head,  
Fel with the rest, into that sink of sin:  
And with the body fell down stroke as dead,  
when patience did this pilgrims joy begin:  
with praising heavens, & using humble prayer,  
To comfort hope, and keep of all despair.   

When leaving so the ugly Monster slain,  
Onwards she leads him on his happy way:  
where joyful pleasure after fear of pain,  
Had set his senses at so sweet a stay:  
That now, he thought, no Monster could offend him,  
He had such proof, that patience would defend him.   

But when the heavens that pity have of nature,  
And know that senses, would be glad of rest:  
Although the spirit, waking keep the creature,  
Unto such work, as like the wisdom best:  
Into their guard, did will the Angels take him,  
Until they wild the spirit should awake him.   

BUT when the spirit little time could spare,  
Unto the heart, to give the senses rest:  
And reason found, that virtues happy fare,  
was in the hand, where with the soul is blest:  
He wild the senses from their sleep arise,  
And follow patience to their paradise.   

When having past the path along the wood,  
They came unto a shore, near to a sea:  
where lofty▪ waves did threaten little good,  
when rocks with patience make a drowning plea:  
where storms, and tempests, flaws, and rocks, and sands,  
The perils show, wherein the sea man stands.   

With patience here this pilgrim must Embark,  
within a ship the buonaventure named:  
when in the Map he found out many a mark,  
whereby conceit his course most haply framed:  
And to be short with a resolved mind,  
They hoist up sails, God send a merry wind.   

When as they found the tide would tarry none,  
And little wit, it was to lose the wind,  
what ground was best to cast their anchor on,  
And how they might their surest passage find:  
To scape the rocks, and to avoid the sands,  
And keep their carriage, out of pirates' hands.   

And so, along the surging seas they slide,  
Till passing by capa di buon speranza,  
Not far from thence, they did intend to ride,  
Till, some sweet wind that virtue been avanza:  
would bid them hoice their sails and to be gone,  
Towards the heaven, they were to hope upon.   

Where, after sounding, casting anchor out,  
And striking sail, and winding up the cable,  
Setting in order all things round about,  
As well as such young Mariners were able:  
with such good thoughts as might the time beguile,  
They fell to walk upon the boards awhile.   

And riding but a while anon they spied,  
A fisher man▪ all in his boat alone,  
with every billow tossed from side to side,  
As made them leer his last farewell anon:  
when moved, with the pity of good nature,  
They called aboo●…de this silly wretched creature.   

But, for I did but little time bestow,  
Amid the field to seek for honours fame:  
And fortune sought, my 〈◊〉 overthrow,  
Before my ha●… had entrance to the same:  
I left that life, and to the seas I got,  
where, how I liu▪ d I need not tell you that.   

I think yourselves can te●… as well as I,  
If not, alas, it is no ease to learn:  
So many labours in the life do lie,  
As are not in a day for to dis●…erne:  
A day, a month, nor many a year, God wots,  
As I could tell, if I have not forgot.   

First I did learn to set my compass right,  
And by my compass, how my course to run:  
To mark each point, as well by day, as night,  
By night, to mark the stars, by day the sun:  
Then take the Map, to look for rocks & sands,  
Of which full oft, the ship in danger stands.   

Then narrowly to look to every leak,  
And when the wind, did serve to hoist my sails:  
To sound the depth, where see as begin to break,  
And strike my sail, when once my sea room fails:  
To Arm my fights, and plant mine ordnance so,  
I might not stand, in fea●…e to meet my foe.   

Then did I learn, to stand and guide the stern,  
And now and then to help to hoist up anchor:  
And otherwhiles the cunning to discernce,  
To dress her sides to keep her from the canker,  
My terms of art, and patiented to be painful,  
And how to hope to make my voyage gainful.   

To lie full cold, and hard, and far full thin,  
To frame my carcase to unkindest natures,  
To bear of stomes, and in a calm begin,  
To learn to kill the little creeping creatures,  
To eat a fusty cake, and teinted fish,  
And one fresh morfell, make a dainty dish.   

To make no conscience, so there came in gain,  
when silver crosses, keep of many a curse,  
A piteous case to see the Merchant slain,  
For his own goods to fill the pirate's purse,  
To swear, and stare, until we come on shore,  
Then rifty tufty, each one to his score.   

The Master, he, sometime would fall asleep,  
The Master's mate to much ●…pon the can,  
The boson, he, his cabin took to keep,  
And in the cookerome, there the rye begare,  
when all and some, in halt a dronc●…en swoon,  
would leave the ship, to sink, themselves to drown▪   

But, when I saw the kind of life was such,  
The grief to great for any true good minds:  
The labour sore, the sorrow was to much,  
To seek for that which but repentance finds,  
I left the ship, with many a sorry note,  
And took me sweetly to my little boat.   

And here, my trade is poor, yet full of peace,  
And peace is riches, though my trade be poor,  
The sea is large, whose landlord makes no lease,  
I toil for fishes, and I seek no more,  
when storms arise, unto the heaven I high me,  
And in the sunshine, set me down and dry me.   

But, for I see the bark, wherein you ride,  
Of Buonaventure hath the blessed name,  
And patience is a pure a perfect guide,  
Unto the favour of eternal fame,  
I hope the course, is good that you intend,  
Heavens bring you haply, to your journeys end.   

This poor man's tale when thus the pilgrim hard,  
He did along his company entreat,  
Promising him, a pilgrims poor reward,  
Besides his hope, his comfort would be great,  
If heavens did favour virtues enterprise,  
Humbly to pass, the path to paradise.   

But, when the fisher hard that fairest word,  
Of paradise once sounding in his ear:  
He gave consent, and hoist his boat a board,  
And casting of, all sorrow, care, and fear:  
They hoist up sails, winds served what would you more,  
Onwards they go, God send them well a shore.   

When leaving Scylla to those silly guides,  
That careless are to keep their course aright:  
By cu●…st Charybdis, on he smoothly slides,  
Till by good hap they had a land in sight:  
To which they made, with might & main as fast:  
As winds would serve, and got to shore at last.   

Yet, let me tell you, ere they came a shore,  
As through the Ocean they did make their way:  
Tempests arose, and many a wind blew sore,  
That threatened, oft the course of their decay:  
Besides the pirates', that they put to flight,  
which chrost their course with many a cruel fight.   

One where they saw wrakes lie without relief,  
another, whales tumbling in the waves:  
An other while, unto their deadly grief,  
Storms threaten sore, the fishes maws their graves,  
Yet, when the worst, of all these ills were passed:  
Safely arrived they came to shore at last.   

Where, wethring of themselves against the sun,  
First praising God, by his almighty power,  
That guided them since first their course begun,  
And brought them safely to that happy hour:  
The heart laid down, the senses all to rest,  
while Angels watch, the waking spirit blest.   

BUT, when the spirit had but little time,  
To give the senses leave to take their rest,  
Nor was the labour little for to climb,  
The fiery ashes, of a Phoenix nest:  
He bade them sweetly from their sleep arise,  
And set them in their path to paradise.   

Where, walking on, they met on their right hand,  
A world of people, making piteous moan,  
Some lost their goods, some other lost their land,  
Their parents, some, and some, their friends were gone:  
Not one, of all, but some way were oppressed,  
when all, and some, in some, were all distrested.   

The Courtier, he, complained, of loves disgrace,  
The soldier, he cried out, of lack o●… pay,  
The lawyer, lack of hearing of his case,  
The client, how his coin went to decay:  
The merchant, of the loss of his adventure,  
The apprentice of the bands of his Indenture.   

The landlord, of his tenants beggary,  
The passenger of lack of amity:  
The tenant, of the landlords misery,  
The beggar, all, of lack of charity:  
The church men, of their small possessions,  
The lay men, of the church transgressions.   

Now, on the left hand, went an other crew,  
A hateful sort, of hellish company:  
which, to their wealth, and wortheles honour grew,  
By wicked works, of woeful villainy:  
which, by the trades of Machavile instructed,  
were by the devil, to his hell conducted.   

One, he blasphemed, and murdered many an oath,  
An other, made of honesty, a jest:  
An other made a tush, at faith, and troth,  
An other boasted of a bloody feast:  
And some, in power, how will did govern reason,  
And other, of their policy in treason.   

The Courtier, boasted of this brave attire,  
what lordships, he had laid upon his back:  
The soldier bragde what towns he set on fire,  
How many cities he had helped to sack:  
The lawyer, of his quiddities, and quirks,  
The client, of the knowledge of his jerks.   

The landlord, of his tenant's slavery,  
And, how he kept the pesauntes all in awe,  
The tenant of his cunning knavery,  
when, with his landlord, he could go to law:  
The Merchant, how his gains were brought about,  
The apprentice, how, he got his freedom out.   

The church men, they went boasting on their tenths;  
And twenties too, and yet they would have more,  
The Lay men, of their laying lines at lengths,  
And how a chalk, did make a pretty score:  
The passenger, offained amity,  
The beggar, of the bag of charity.   

After all these, upon the right hand went,  
A silly fool, for so I term him right,  
with wring hands, that seemed to lament,  
Some crossing humour, to a vain delight:  
For, love forsooth, & nought but love it was,  
That made a woman make a man an Ass.   

Of Venus' frailty and of Cupid's blindness,  
He cried out, oh, that ever they were borne,  
And of his mistress, more, then most unkindness,  
That did so much, his truest service scorn:  
Yet, still, he loved her, and he did so love her,  
It was his death, he never could recover.   

And then he sight, and sobbed, and hung the head,  
And wept, and wailed, and cast up both the eyes,  
And in a trance, as if a man were dead,  
Or did some dying kind of fit devise:  
Until he walked, and then he cried oh love,  
That ever lover should such sorrow prove.   

And then he red his verses and his ●…imes,  
wherein he praised her to to, out of reason,  
And then he sight to think how many times,  
he watched, the day, the night, the hour the season:  
To find some fruit, of her deserved favour,  
But all his flowers, were we●…des that had no savour.   

And then farewell, and then again farewell,  
And farewell love, and farewell lovely sweet:  
And farewell sweet, where love doth sweetly dwell;  
And farewell dwelling, for love sweetness meet:  
And farewell meeting, with loves stately store,  
And farewell love, for he could live no more.   

And thus the pilgrim, let the poor man go,  
To lose his will, and seek his better wits:  
which he had lost with following fancy so,  
Unto the fury of those frantic fits:  
That in his heart, had wrought that malady,  
that he must die, there was no remedy.   

Now on the left hand went another creature,  
Or rather spirit, in an ugly shape:  
Hollow dead eyes, and most ilfavourde feature,  
Mopping, and Mowing, like an old she Ape:  
which in the fury of youths frenzy,  
To cross loves joy, is called jealousy.   

Cursing that ever Venus was so fair,  
Or Cupid had the power to bend his bow:  
Or ever word, had passage through the Air,  
From fancies tongue, to beauty's ears to go:  
when tickling humours, in Affections breast,  
By fear of joys is jealousies unrest.   

Then winked, and pinked, and leerde and hung the lip,  
And seemed to start, at every sudden breath:  
And ground her teeth, as though some privy nip,  
within her head, did fret her heart to death:  
when, out she mumbled, most unhappy love,  
That mak'st the mind, these passions to approve.   

But when the pilgrim saw her Agony,  
And, in what taking, wretched thing, she was:  
Little contented, with such company,  
He gives her leave upon her way to pass:  
And keeps his course, until an one he came,  
Unto a city, needles is the name.   

Where entering in, on each side of the gate,  
He found it poorly all with beggars guarded:  
And by the forefront of that feeble state,  
He thought small wealth where poor were so rewarded:  
Till entered further, in the streets he found,  
A world of wealth in every street abound.   

I mean such wealth, as worldly people choose,  
To make the comfort of their chiefest kind:  
And such a bait as wicked spirits use,  
To blind the sight of a bewitched mind:  
In every shop, or silver gold or wares,  
To starve the poor, & fill the rich with cares.   

When noting well, by ettery door he went,  
He saw each house was with a plague infected:  
where, though they lived content with discontent,  
were in the rules of better cares rejected:  
For, though the poison did not kill at first,  
Yet did they swell, until at last they burst.   

One house was plagued with a wicked master,  
An other, with a most accursed dame:  
An other with a child that was a waster,  
An other, with a servant out of frame:  
The richmen, most, were plagued with disease,  
The poor-men, with small vermin, and fleas.   

The Counsel, grave, as best beseemed their place,  
The Courtiers, gallant, full of fine conceit:  
The Ladies, fair, and full of honour's grace,  
The servants, wise, that humbly did await,  
Nothing amiss, that nature could devise,  
To please the humour of Affections eyes.   

And, let me not, to slightly overpass,  
The pleasing ground of every private grace:  
where every sense, so sweetly pleased was,  
As brought the wits into a wondrous case:  
And such a case, as had not virtue been,  
To guard their sense, they had been overseen.   

To see the presence of a princely Queen,  
To mark the course, of grave discretion care:  
To note the sights, that are but seldom seen,  
where youths deserts, in beauty's favour are:  
To hear the music of most silver voices,  
And find the rests, wherein the song reioices.   

To see what pleasure, power hath in her hand,  
To hear how youth, can court his kind desire,  
To see, how wisdom doth in power command,  
And find, how beauty sets the heart on fire:  
while humble servants, show their diligence,  
Are not these notes, for sweet experience?   

To see how virtues are in honour placed,  
To see the aged all with reverence served,  
To see the humble, by their service graced,  
And beauty's fame by faithful love preserved:  
To see peace, plenty, wisdom, honour, love:  
Are these not pleasures, for the heart to prove?   

Now here the pilgrim did begin to fear,  
Some of his servants, would be stolen away,  
Either the Sent, the razed, the Eye, the Ear,  
Or else the Feeling would be forced to stay:  
Yet, for they swore, their service to his will,  
He feared the less, to lead them from their ill.   

And, when he saw, what peril was in greatness,  
while idle thoughts, in youthful humours sit,  
And, what a folly, was in to much featenes,  
where beauties wonders did but blind the wit:  
And what long suits, did gain but little grace,  
And last, what dangers do possess the place.   

With humble prayer unto the powers on high,  
To bless that prince and all those princely peers,  
which in the honour of discretion's eye,  
were called the wonders of these latter years:  
From care, and cost, fancy, and wisdoms folly,  
He took his walk unto a way more holly.   

WHere ere they came, they came yet by the way,  
Unto a Camp, on rather, kingly field:  
where, many a stop, did fear too long a stay,  
Such choice of honours, did such humours yield:  
where horse and foot, were so in order planted,  
As, no direction, in discretion wanted.   

The chief commander, in his stately tent,  
with noble minds of Martial men attended:  
For every doubt of every ill intent,  
with strongest guards, of watch and ward defended:  
whose grave discretion ruled by sound advise,  
Performed the plot of many a rare devise.   

To see the careful Colonels directed,  
Each to his quarter, and his regiment:  
And how each Captain, valiantly effected,  
The wonder grace of warlike government:  
To see the true discharge, of every office,  
And then the honour of adventures service.   

To note the great provision every way,  
For victual first, munition, armour, shot:  
For forrege for their horse for grass, and hay,  
And such provaunte, as cheapest may be got:  
For every ground, for every quarterfit,  
Are not the works, for every simple wit.   

To here the drums and 〈◊〉 the alarm strike,  
The horse's neie, and then, the trumpets sound,  
To see the horsemen charge upon the pike,  
And then the pikemen lay the horse on ground:  
To hear the Canons roar, the small shot rattle,  
And see their triumph, that do win the battle.   

To mark the ordering of a court de guard,  
To note the rules in walking of the round,  
The scintinels, and every watch, and ward,  
And of the mines, and working under ground:  
To mark the planting of their Ambuscadoes,  
And in the night, their sudden canuassadoes.   

To see a City send her bullets out,  
Against the force, of all her cruel foes,  
To see her walls, all fortified about,  
To bear the force of all their cruel blows:  
To make her foes, perforce their siege to raise,  
And through the world to win a wonder praise.   

Are here not sights of force to stay the eye?  
Or sounds, of power, for to in chant the ear,  
Nay, may not well the heart be drawn awry,  
From all conceits, to keep his compass there:  
Sure, so it had, had not the spirit still,  
Preseru'de the senses from a secret ill▪   

For, then again, to see a city sack,  
Her buildings ruined, and her people slain:  
Her walls, all razed, and her castles cracked,  
And all her wealth, but in a woeful vain:  
Her old men mourning, and her young men dying,  
The mothers, weeping, and their children crying.   

To see her streets, alrunne with streams of blood,  
Her houses, burning, all in flames offier:  
To see her state, that all in honour stood,  
Yield to the forces, of their foes desire:  
Her royal strength, become a rueful story,  
And death, & sorrow, end of all her glory.   

To see the field, with dead men over spread,  
To see the air infected all with smoke:  
To see, the valiant Cavalieroes dead,  
And many a soldier hurt with many a stroke,  
To see the steeds, lie tumbling on the earth,  
And through the camp a Sickness or a dearth.   

To see the soldier starve, with lake of food,  
And, in his march, to die with lack of drink:  
To see the rich men live on poor men's blood,  
And one close humour, at an other wink:  
To see each Captain, every way annoyed,  
And, by disorder, all the camp destroyed.   

Did make the pilgrim willing to departed,  
The place so full of danger and distress:  
where wits might work but woeful was the Art,  
where one man's health, bred many heaviness:  
And therefore making there but little stay,  
He follows patience on another way.   

AND on they walk, until anon they came,  
Unto a Church not built of lime or stone:  
But that true Church, of that Immortal fame,  
That is worlds wonder, and heavens love alone:  
whose head, is Christ, whose Martyrs are his pillars,  
And all whose members, are his words well-willers.   

The gate, is Grace, Contrition, is the key,  
The lock, is love, the porter, Penitence,  
where humble faith, must heavenly favour stay,  
Till pity talk, with virtues patience,  
while Angels sighs, the sinner's way devise,  
To have his entrance into paradise.   

Which is in deed, the plot of all perfection,  
Drawn by the compass of divine conceit,  
whose line, is life, laid by his loves direction,  
who makes all flesh upon the spirit wait,  
whose flowers are fruits, of faiths eternal favour,  
Sweet to the soul, in everliving savour,   

Here sorrows tears, do quench the heat of sine,  
And fire of love, doth kindle life again:  
Hear doth the ground of glory first begin,  
And, here is virtue, in her highest vain:  
Hear, is, in some, the state of honour's story,  
And of all goodness, the eternal glory.   

And here is, lo, that heavenly paradise,  
whereto the pilgrim, made his pilgrimage:  
where sa●…red hi●…rcy first did solemnize,  
The spirit to the flesh in marriage:  
And here the heart did find his spirit blest,  
To bring the senses to eternal rest.   
Gloria in excelsis Deo.  

IN this 〈◊〉 plot of reasons highest pleasure,  
The heaunly cour●…, of the high king of kings:  
where sacred spirits, have their special treasure,  
And sweetest comfort, of contentment springs:  
God bring your senses, by your heart's desire,  
To feel the comfort of his kingly fire.    

THE COUNTESS OF Penbrookes' love.  

FAIR in a plot of earthly paradise,  
Upon a hill, the Muses made a Maze:  
In midst whereof within a Phoenix eyes,  
There sits a grace, that hath the world at gaze:  
which Phoenix is but name unto a nature,  
That shows, the world, hath scarcely such a creature.   

This true loves saint, by worthy beauty crowned,  
Did seem to wish, but not express her will:  
when strange desires, were in devices drowned,  
To find, out wonders, farthest from her will:  
The world came in, with presents many a one,  
But, yet, alas, her love could like of none.   

Clear was the day, when Phoebus shun full bright,  
But, her hearts eye, did higher light aspire:  
April, brought in, both earth, and Airs delight,  
But earth, nor Air, could answer her desire:  
Fortune? she skornde, friends? who durst be a foe?  
Servants? a world, would serve her will or no.   

Wealth, was buttrash, and health was nature's joy,  
Honour, a Title, beauty, but a blast:  
Power, but a trouble, pleasure, but a toy,  
Youth, but a time, to quickly overpast:  
Learning, alas, it liveth in her school,  
wisdom, her will, knows worldly wit a fool.   

Yet still she wished, but said not what she would,  
when still the world, did work, but still in vain:  
Care with conceit, did all the best he could,  
Brought in his gifts, but bore them back again:  
when wealth, health, beauty, honour, power nor ease  
wit, youth, nor learning, could her humour please.   

Some brought in pearls, most orient to behold,  
She knew them pearls, and so she did regard them:  
Some brought in gems, of diamonds set in gold,  
She knew their worth, and so she did reward them:  
Some brought in works, of woman's rare devices,  
She knew their pains, and so did give the prices.   

Some brought in music of most silver sound,  
which all, would cease, if ●…hee but touched astring:  
Some brought in first the fairest flowers they found,  
She took them as the comforts of the spring:  
Some brought in this and some would bring in that,  
But yet her wish was still she knew not what.   

The soldiers came, and brought in all their arms,  
She smiled to see, how beauty made a peace:  
The peasants came, and offered up their farms,  
But, she said love did never make a lease:  
The merchants, came withal their money treasure,  
She put it off, it did her mind no pleasure.   

The lawyers came, and laid down all their books,  
She knew, that truth, was all in yea and no:  
The courtiers came with all their lofty looks,  
But when she looked she made them curtsy low:  
The scholars came and brought in all their arts,  
She knew their practice, ere they learned their parts.   

The sailors brought their Rubies from the roc●…es,  
But, of such toys, her treasure was to full:  
The shepherds brought the fairest of their flocks,  
But she could wear no cloth was made of will:  
Thus every one did bring in what they could,  
Yet still she wished, but knew not what she would.   

The poets came, and brought in their inventions,  
But well she knew their fancies were but feigned:  
The muses brouhht the truth of their intentions,  
which in their kinds were kindly entertained:  
But yet the best, with all her worthiness,  
Touched not the humour of her happiness.   

But when the world, could not come near her wish,  
And saw in vain it was, her will to seek▪  
The earth could yield no fruit, the sea no fish,  
That could be found, that might her fancy leek:  
Some with a sigh, other, with piteous moan,  
All went away, and left her all alone.   

They will, sweet love is but the sum of well,  
Thy well, is well, well, better, and the best:  
That, with thy love, thy living souls may dwell,  
Safe, in the hope of their eternal rest:  
Thy rest the joy, the soul cannot conceive,  
Thy souls, the Saints, thy Mercy doth receive.   

Thy comfort is the tuch stone of true kindness,  
Thy kindness is, the very life of love:  
Thy love is light, all other light but blindness,  
Thy light is life, that death can never prove:  
Thy death, was life, thy life is joy for ever,  
Unto the souls, that love and leave thee never.   

What was? or is? or, on the earth shall be,  
But that thou know'st, and know'st all what they are:  
And that they have, their being but in thee,  
Made by thy hand, and govern by thy care:  
which thou dost prosper, comfort, or defend,  
And when thou wilt, shall wholly make an end.   

Graced is the King, whom thou dost only crown,  
And wise the wit, that only knows thy will,  
Happy the state, where thou dost bless the town,  
And blest, the heart, that thou dost keep from ill,  
But yet the soul, doth in her faith approve,  
The life, the life, is only in thy love.   

Shall I describe thy sweet and glorious seat?  
But, as thou art unto thy servants seen,  
Or shall my spirit humbly el●…e entreat?  
Some Angels help, that in the heavens hath been?  
That to the world, such glory may unfold,  
Or, say it is, too glorious to behold.   

Thy throne is judgement, justice is thy sword,  
Mercy and truth are still before thy face:  
Love, is thy law, and wisdom is thy word:  
Virtue thy love, and Bounty is thy grace:  
Pity thy state, where patience is the story,  
Grace is thy gift, and Mercy is thy glory.   

Thus in the seat of sacred excellence,  
With Virgins, Saints, and Angels all attended,  
Dost thou possess that princely residence:  
Till judgement pass and joys be never ended:  
When all the host of heaven and heavens do th' sing,  
An Alleluia, to their heavenly king.   

Where trembling joys distill the tears of love.  
And loving fear doth bring forth blushing faces,  
And blushing faces, in their faith approve,  
Unworthy creatures, to behold their graces.  
which graces do this glorious music move,  
The life of life, is in thy heavenly love.   

Now for thy love; it cannot turn to hate,  
Thou hatest the life, that once doth alter love  
It is the stay of an eternal state,  
A mansion house, that never can remove:  
which, on the rock, of true Religion stands,  
And never fears the seas of errors sands.   

Now, thy Religion is the rule of life,  
whose chiefest blessing is the joy of peace:  
where love, cuts of the cause of every strife,  
And sweet accord, doth bring out loves increase:  
And loves increase is such a joy to see,  
As brings the soul, unto his life in thee.   

Alas, alas, all treasure is but trash,  
where love is banished by the state of strife:  
The sweetest wine, is but as swinish wash,  
Unto the water, of the well of life:  
No, no, the pleasures, that, the world can prove,  
Are all but sorrows, to thy heaunly love.   

But, let me see what fruit, thy favour yields,  
Or in thy love, what happy life is found.  
when sea, and land, hills, dales, and fairest fields,  
Do all, but in, thy blessed gifts abound:  
Besides the peace, wherewith the heart is blest,  
To bring the soul to thy eternal rest.   

Thou dost not joy to see a sinner's death,  
But, true repentance pleaseth thee far better:  
Yea, thou wilt help at latest gasp of breath,  
To make the soul confess itself thy debtor:  
And where the soul, such comforts doth approve,  
Can there be thought a comfort like thy love?   

No, no, this world is full of wanton toys,  
which oft keeps back, the comfort of thy care:  
And many ways, doth work the heart's annoys,  
when fortunes hope doth prove but heavy fare:  
Oh heavens, who knew but half thy blessedness,  
would hate the world with all his wretchedness.   

Where show of faith doth shape but falshods' cloak,  
when fancies tears, prove drops offonde desire:  
where free conceits, will yield to kindness yoke,  
when sorrow pays, repentance for their hire:  
while in thy love may living faith unfold,  
heart, may her hope, hope may her heaven behold.   

What shadows here, do overshroude the eye?  
while Masking thoughts do March before the wind:  
where loves conceit, doth but illusion try,  
when careless wit becometh the wilful blind,  
And Nature finds herself still misconceived,  
where form, for matter hath the soul deceived.   

Not that my wits can touch the smallest worth,  
Of that high wonder worthiness of thine,  
For, from a sinner, what can issue forth?  
And who more sinner than this soul of mine?  
which doth with tears of true repentance move,  
thy gracious help to glorify thy love.   

For, as unto the sea, a water drop,  
And to the sands a little pebble stone,  
And as a corn, unto a harvest crop,  
And unto infinite, the number one:  
So are my Muses in their Music short,  
thy Kingly praise of praises to report.   

But, as a scholar, that doth go to school,  
To make a letter, ere he learn to write,  
And as the wit, that knows itself a fool,  
Till higher wisdom teach it to indite:  
So let my soul in her submission prove,  
Hate of the world, and honour of thy love.   

For, what is here that can content the heart?  
That knows content, or what it doth contain:  
what thought ●…o sweet, but brings as sour a smart,  
Or pleasure such? but breeds a further pain:  
what thing so good? but proves in fine so evil,  
As, but for God, would bear men to the devil.   

What is the Earth? the labour of our life,  
what is the sea? a gulf of griezy lakes:  
what is the Air? a stuff of filthy strife,  
what is the fire? the spoil of what it takes:  
when these are all, whence every thing doth springe,  
what is the world? but even a woeful thing.   

What thing is man? a cloddde of miry clay,  
Slime of the Earth, a slave to filthy sin:  
Springs like a weed, and so doth wear away,  
Goes to the earth, where first he did begin:  
Oh heavens think I, when man is wholly such,  
what is in man? that man should love so much.   

What hath the world, to lead the mind to love?  
In true effect, a farthel full of toys:  
where, weigh the pith, what every one doth prove,  
The perfectest gems, are most unperfect joys:  
Consider all, what fancy bringeth forth,  
The best conceit will fall out nothing worth.   

What worldly things do follow fancy most?  
wealth Beauty, love, fine diet, honour, fame:  
what finds affect? both love, and labour lost,  
Disdain, disease, dishonour, death, and shame,  
where care, and sorrow, death, and deadly strife,  
Do rule the roast, in this accursed life.   

What thing is Beauty? colour quickly gone,  
And what is wealth? when riches fall to rust:  
what thing is love? a toy to think upon,  
Fine diet? dross, to feed a filthy lust.  
what worldly honour? oft unworthy praise,  
what ease? the cause, whereby the life decay.   

What is disdain? the scorn of proud conceit,  
And what disease? the death of discontent,  
Dishonour next? the fruit of foul deceit,  
And what is death? but end of ill intent,  
Now what is shame? a shameful thing to tell,  
And thus the world, but even the way to hell.   

For beasts & birds, for fishes, flowers & trees,  
And all such things created for our use:  
what thing is man? to take such things as these,  
By want of grace, to turn unto abuse:  
Oh wretched world, when man that should be best.  
In beastly things proves worse than all the rest.   

But when I see this wretched state of man,  
And all the world at such a woeful pass:  
That since the course of human care began,  
More full of woe, good nature never was.  
when this my soul, doth with her sorrow see,  
Lord says my Love, that I might live with thee.   

And leaving so the world with all his woes,  
And looking up to heaven & heavenly joys,  
And to the grace where virtues glory goes,  
Noting the life, that never love annoys:  
when in my soul, Idoe this sweetness prove,  
Lord says my soul, how sweet art thou my love.   

I see the sun, the beauty of the sky,  
The moon and stars, the candles of the night,  
They have their essence in thy heavenly eye,  
That blinds the proud, and gives the humble light,  
I see the rainbow, bended by thy hand,  
That doth both heaven, earth, sea & heaven command.   

Thou gavest the sun, the moon & stars a course,  
which they observe according to thy will:  
Thou makest the tides to take their due recourse,  
And setst the earth, where it doth settle stil.  
Thou framdst the substance of each Element,  
And settst thy foot upon the firmament.   

Thus dost thou sit in glory of thy throne,  
with all the host, of highest heaves attended:  
who, in thine ire, hast kingdoms overthrown  
And in thy love hast little things defended:  
whose glory more, then may by man be known,  
And glory most, is in thy mercy shown.   

Thus dost thou sit, in honour of thy power,  
Calling the poor unto thy rich relief,  
Sowing the sweet, that killeth every sour,  
Giving the salve, that healeth every grief:  
Making them live, that long were dead before,  
And living so, that they can die no more.   

Thou mad'st the world and what it doth contain,  
Only but man, thou mad'st unto thy love:  
And man's good will was thy desired gain,  
Till proud attempt did high displeasure move:  
Thou plagst his pride, yet when thou sawst his pain,  
Thou ga●…st the s●…lue, that healed the wound again.   

Ungrateful man, whom thou didst only make,  
In love, to love, and with thy love preservest,  
And for his love, enduredst for his sake,  
Such death of life, as dearest love deservest:  
what cursed heart would to displeasure move thee,  
That giving all, asks nothing but to love thee.   

Oh love, sweet love, oh high and heavenly love,  
The only lin●…, that leads to happy life,  
Oh love, that liu●…st, for loving hearts behove,  
And mak'st an end of every hateful strife:  
Happy, are they, that kindly can attain thee,  
And how accursed, that dare but to disdain thee.   

Thy love was cause, that first we were created,  
Love is the life, that thou wilt have us lead:  
Love is the cause, we never can be hated,  
Love is our life, when other life is dead:  
Love is thy grace, that highest good doth give,  
Love me then lord, and I shall ever live.   

And with that word proceeding from her heart,  
The trickling tears distilled down her eyes:  
As if her sense possessed in every part,  
A secret joy that did the soul surprise:  
when lifting up her hands, oh love quoth she,  
My soul is sick, she cannot be with thee.   

And from the mercy of thy majesty,  
Behold the sorrows, of my wounded soul:  
Let pities care of loves calamity,  
My ruthful tears, thy register enrol:  
And think upon the passions that I approve,  
For, truly, lord, my soul is sick of love.   

And sick it is, and so well may it be,  
A sweeter sickness, than a worldly health:  
A healthful sickness, to be sick for thee,  
where Nature's want doth, prove the spirits wealth:  
while heart hath set her highest happiness,  
But to behold thee in thy holiness.   

But, I am sick, and sick, in every vain,  
Sick to the death, but not to die to thee:  
For why thy love assures me life again,  
And there to live, where death can never be:  
Oh sweetest sickness, where the soul may see,  
The way through death, to come to live with thee.   

To live with thee, oh ever living love,  
Oh let me die, that I may live no more,  
Till in thy love, I may the life approve,  
That may confess I never lived before:  
Life is but death, where, thy love shineth never,  
Only thy love, is happy life for ever.   

My sins my sins with sorrow and with shame,  
Of faults and follies covered have my face,  
Death is my due, I have deserved the same,  
Woe to the heart, in such unhappy case:  
But if repentance mercy may obtain,  
Look on me love, and I am well again.   

Unhappy heart, that ever thee offended,  
Unworthy eyes, thy blessing to behold:  
Vncarefull ear, that ever tale attended,  
But to the truth, that hath thy mercy told:  
unfaithful soul, that ever thought did move,  
From everliving, with thine only love.   

But, now the hartis dead to worlds delight,  
And eyes in tears, pronounce repentance truth,  
The ear is deaf until the heart be right,  
To see the life, that of thy love ensueth:  
The faithful soul of pleasure is deprived,  
Dead, till her life, be, by thy love revived.   

Nor, let me te●…pt that 〈◊〉 love of thine,  
To hasten time, beyond thy holy will,  
But only look, upon this soul of mine,  
That in thy love may be her living still:  
Till she may hear this joyful ●…ounde of thee,  
Come away love, and ever live with me.   

But, yet my love, me 〈◊〉 I see thee look,  
As though my soul had thee displeased sore:  
But, hath my love▪ so high displeasure took?  
That he will look upon my love no more:  
Oh, yes, my love will not be angry ever,  
And where he loves, he will be angry never.   

Then, though thou chide, yet be not angry love,  
But in thy kindness gives thy sweet correction,  
That humble heart may in repentance prove,  
The dearest passage of thy loves direction:  
whose blessed end may in this only be,  
To live to die, to die to live to thee.   

Me thinks, I see, that glorious seat of thine,  
whereto thy Saints, and Angels all assemble,  
And in the presence of thy power divine,  
with joyful fear, how even the highest tremble:  
And when those spirits, do such passions prove,  
Shall I presume, to think upon thy love?   

Oh sweetest love, that carries such a force,  
As keeps the heart of humble hope in awe:  
And sweet again, that carries such remorse,  
As hath cut off, the curses of the law:  
And sweetest yet, that in the soul doth prove,  
There is no sweet, indeed but in thy love.   

Which feeds the hungry with a heavenvly bread,  
And cools the thirsty from the living Rock,  
which heals the sick, gives life unto the dead,  
And wakes the careful, with the morning Cock:  
which breeds the peace, that stinteth every strife,  
And gives the fountain of the well of life.   

It is the key that opes the door of grace,  
Unto the care that thou hast constant proved  
And shows the favour of thy shining face,  
Unto the blessed of thy dear beloved:  
It is in sum, the infinite sweet pleasure,  
Of tried faith, and true Repentance treasure.   

Oh joy ofioies, what heart can comprehend thee?  
Oh sweet of sweets, what sense that can conceive thee  
Blest be the hearts, that truly do attend thee,  
And ten times blest, that in their souls receive thee:  
And fairly blest, whom thou hast faithful proved,  
But chief blest, whom thou hast chief loved.   

Me thinks I see, how sweetly thou dost ride,  
Above the heavens, upon the Cherubs high,  
with all thine Angels set on every side,  
with all the sound, of sweetest harmony:  
wheral & some, their sweetest notes do frame  
To sing the praises, of thy holy name.   

Me thinks I see thy holy Martyrs crowned,  
On humble knees cast down their crowns before thee,  
And cry aloud, be thou alone renowned,  
Let heaven and earth, and all the world adore thee.  
when, my poor soul, with sin oppressed sore,  
Can say Amen yet, though it say no more.   

Oh that my soul could see that sacred light,  
That might but lead me to thy holy will,  
And learn the rule, that keeps the soul aright,  
In perfect faith, thy precepts to fulfil:  
And might so near, unto thy hand abide,  
As from thy love, might never step aside.   

But, what am I●… a worm, and wretched thing,  
Unworthy creature, made of earth and clay:  
Once to presume to speak unto my King,  
On whom the state, of highest heavens doth stay:  
Let not presumption thy displeasure move.  
But in thy pity look upon my love.   

For I am sick, oh saviour send me health,  
My heart is hurt, come heal my deadly wound:  
And I, am poor relieve me, with thy wealth,  
Yea, I am dead, oh raise me from the ground:  
My health, my wealth, my only resurrection,  
let my soul live, but in thy loves perfection.   

Behold the tear●…s, of my repentant truth,  
And weigh my sorrows, by my sighing sobs:  
And in the rule, but of thy heavenly ruth,  
Feel my poor heart, in horror how it throbs:  
And when thou seest my soul thus woe begun her,  
In thy sweet mercy, sweet love look upon her.   

And from the dew of thy dear blessed love,  
Let fall one drop, upon my dried heart:  
wherein my soul, such comfort may approve,  
As may assuage the rigour of my smart:  
And being so by thy sweet hand relieved,  
May so rejoice, as never more be grieved.   

Lord, who dare look, against thy living power?  
Or what doth live? but only in thy love:  
The sweet of sweets, where there was never sour,  
But joys of joys, that can no sorrow prove:  
Oh, purest proof, of love and life's perfection,  
Blessed be the soul, that lives by thy direction.   

But my heart pants, my soul doth quake for fear,  
And sorrows pain, possesseth every part:  
My heap of sins, to heavy for to bear,  
Press down desire, with terror of desert:  
And, in great dread, of deep despair doth cry,  
Grace give me life, for in my sins I die.   

For still the flesh is subject to offend,  
while yet the spirit, groaneth for thy grace:  
But, thou hast power the weakest to defend,  
That unto thee, reveal, their heavy case:  
Then from that hand, and mighty arm of thine,  
Strengthen, this weak, & wounded soul of mine.   

Thou that hast said proud Esaw was thy hate,  
And humble jacob, was thy chosen love:  
That dost the power of worldly pride abate,  
And workest the heaven of humble hearts behove:  
Make Esawes life with lacobs love agree,  
Or kill the flesh, the soul may live with thee.   

And from despair, that poisoned sting of death,  
Deliver lord, the sorrows of desire:  
And at the latest hour, and gasp of breath,  
Let humble heart, the hope of heaven aspire:  
where faithful souls may in thy favour see,  
That only love, doth only live in thee.   

What booteth me the world for to possess,  
And want the jewel of my heavenly joy:  
what earths delight? but is to me distress,  
when nature's health, doth prove the soul's annoy:  
No, my sweet love, let this poor soul of mine,  
Never have life, but in that love of thine.   

One precious drop, of thy pure oil of grace,  
Power down, sweet love into my wounded heart:  
And to my faith, so turn thy loving face,  
That from thy favour I may never part:  
Look on thy Mary with her bitter tears,  
That washed thy feet and wiptethe with her hears.   

The greater depts forgiven the greater love,  
Thy word hath said, and it says ever true,  
when patience life, in pities love doth prove,  
In greatest mercy, greatest glory grew:  
where one man's▪ sin, procured all men's pain,  
And one man's grace, gave all men life again.   

Oh high creator of all creatures living,  
who nothing want'st that all things dost possess:  
what hath the world that may be worth the giving,  
Unto the honour of thy holiness:  
But, only thanks, that thy true spirit moveth,  
In that true heart, that, thy true mercy loveth.   

But, still I see my love is sore displeased,  
And tells me of my great ungratefulness,  
when so my soul, with sorrow is diseased,  
As in my heart, finds nought, but hatefulness:  
And with the tears of true repentance crieth,  
Lord save the life, that in thy mercy lieth.   

For, thou art love, the everliving God,  
And only God, and only of the living,  
who, though thou smitst thy children with thy rod,  
Sweet is the care of thy corrections giving:  
In which thy sweet, and kindest care correct me,  
But in thy mercy, never do reject me.   

Let never death against thy life prevail,  
Nor ever hate, once look against thy love,  
Nor faithful, hope thy heaunly favour fail,  
But heart's contrition happy comfort prove:  
And let the soul, even at the door of death,  
Live by the ai●…r but of thy heavenly breath.   

Mine e●…es are dim, my flesh, bare skin, and bone,  
My sinews shroncke, and all my limbs are numb,  
Mine ears are deaf, but to the sound of moan,  
My speech, is but, to sorrow strooken dum:  
My blood dried up, my heart with sorrow soaken,  
Oh help the soul, before the heart be broken.   

Behold the sorrows, that my soul doth make,  
And see what torments tear my heart a sunder,  
where every tear, doth other overtake,  
where fearful care, puts faithful comforts under:  
Oh my sweet life though I be deadly wounded,  
Let not my faith be utterly confounded.   

And Since oh king, that thou art only able,  
To help the helpless, only but in thee,  
And by one crumb, from thy true mercy's table,  
The woeful soul, may well relieved be:  
Of that sweet food, oh let my faith so taste,  
That by thy love, my life may ever last.   

What life is this, that wretches here we lead?  
Caring and carking for our fleshly lives,  
Never well filled, when we are too much fed,  
where strange conceits for true contentment strives  
Tearing our hearts, and tiring out our minds,  
For that, in fine, which but repentance finds.   

Where kindness proves a kind of lewd conceit,  
Leading the heart to loathsomeness of love,  
while wisest wits on wanton humours wait,  
And wilful fancies, do but follies prove:  
where power & pride, so plague the world with woes,  
That peace and virtue, all to ruin goes.   

Where gold is held a God, silver, a Saint,  
And dirt and dross, are dearest in regard:  
where friendship fails, and faith begins to faint,  
And curses rule, while blessed thoughts are bard:  
And all and some, do in conclusion prove,  
woe to the world, that lives not by thy love.   

Where valour proves but foolish hardiness,  
And greatest wit, is wicked wiliness,  
And honour gotten by unworthiness,  
Fills all the world with all unhappiness,  
while virtue sighs, at sinner's wickedness,  
And Angels mourn, for our ungodliness.   

Where parents grieve at children's stubbornness,  
And children smile, at parent's childishness,  
where masters sigh, at servants idleness,  
And servants laugh at master's wantonness,  
while faithful souls in sorrows wretchedness.  
Look, but in heaven, to have their blessedness.   

Where subtle heads, are simple hearts illusion,  
while Tyrant thoughts unjustly make intrusion,  
And outward shows, are inward thoughts allusion,  
while strange delights, are strong desires delusion:  
And heedless care, doth make up this conclusion,  
That lack of grace, is all the world's confusion.   

Where brightest truth, by treason often blamed is,  
While faithless heart, with falsehood all inflamed is,  
And careful age with sorrow all ashamed is,  
That careless youth so long at large untamed is,  
That, where good nature, all (alas) misnamed is,  
The faith of honour, utterly defamediss.   

Where sore de●…aies the care of true Gentility,  
And strong disquiet standeth for tranquillity,  
And virtue is of too much imbecility,  
where faith is found but full of all fragility,  
when honours love, that lives by hopes humility,  
Must walk among the beggars for ability.   

Oh wicked fruit, of woeful heart's affection,  
when once the soul, is touched with sins infection,  
And will not learn, by care of thy correction,  
To lead a life but by thy loves direction,  
where in the fire, of thy bright suns reflection,  
They may behold the height of their perfection.   

But, what is Earth? and what but earth are we?  
A goodly brag begun, and ends in dust,  
where old & young, & all the world may see,  
From whence we came, and whitherto we must:  
Short time we live, no sooner dead, then rotten,  
And scarce welburied, but we are forgotten.   

Oh Lord thou knowest, this world is all but woe,  
where sin doth seek to get the upper hand,  
The flesh would feign, the spirit overthrow,  
But that, her stay doth in thy mercy stand:  
But, since the soul may conquer sin by thee,  
Lord, let thy mercy only sight for me.   

Let me but look, upon thy holy love,  
And suck my honey from that heavenly hive:  
wherein my soul, such sweetness may approve,  
That with that food she may for ever live:  
And feeding, so upon thy sacred will,  
when she is fed, yet may she hunger still.   

Oh, bring me home, that long have been abroad,  
And lead me straight, that long have gone astray:  
And raise me up, that have been overtroade,  
And on thy mercy, let me only stay:  
That my poor soul, may in thy comfort prove,  
Lo, what it is, to live but in thy love.   

Some wish for gold, and some for golden graces,  
Some wish for wit, and some for worldly pleasure,  
Some wish for power, and some for stately places,  
And some, alone, do wish for worldly treasure:  
But, let my will, those wishes all displace,  
And wish, alone, thy favour, and thy grace.   

Some in their chariots, some in horses trust,  
But, be thou still a strong defence to me:  
Some here desire, but to possess their lust,  
Let my soul's love, be, but to live to thee:  
Some wish, but here, to purchase worldly fame,  
Let me but joy, to glorify thy name.   

And not▪ alone, in sweetest words to move,  
The worldly ears to wonder at the same:  
But in my works thy praises I may prove,  
I do but seek the honour of thy name:  
That all true souls may justly say with me,  
All that is good, directly comes of thee.   

Let me but touch the garment of thy grace,  
I shall be healed of my sickest sore:  
Let me but look upon thy loving face,  
Such health will come, I shall be sick no more:  
Yea, if thy▪ mercy mi●…igate my pain,  
If I were dead, I should revive again.   

Forget, oh lord the follies of my youth,  
And give me not the death of my desert▪  
But of the treasures of thy heavenly Truth,  
Bestow an alms on my needy heart:  
That in the secrets, of thy sacred love,  
My careful soul, her comfort may approve.   

Let not mine ear one listen to the sound,  
Of vain conceits, that but deceive the mind,  
Nor, let the world so give my heart a wound,  
That, in my soul, mine eye be strooken blind:  
But, let my spirit only make her choice,  
But, in thy love, and mercy to rejoice.   

Oh, that my ways, were all, and whole directed,  
Unto the service of thy sacred will,  
And, that my faith, had in my soul effected,  
The happy comfort, of that heavenly skill:  
That, in true love, might ever so attend thee,  
As, in default, might, never more offend thee.   

That I might leave this loathsome world of ours,  
And choose the honour of thy children's awe,  
And in thy heaven, and with thy heavenly powers,  
Learn, but obedience, to thy blessed law:  
And with thy saints and holy Martyrs sing,  
All laud, and glory to my heavenly king.   

Then, should my heart find out my heaunly rest,  
And sorrow than should touch my soul no more,  
But heart and soul, both in thy mercy blest,  
Should day and night, thy holy name door:  
And make the world, by some effects to see,  
It is thy love hath wrought this life in me.   

And with that word, she sweetly fetch, a sigh,  
And then a sob, and then a bitter tear,  
As who should say, that either death was nigh,  
Or else her heart, was strooken with a fear.  
Or else the spirit might be overcome,  
That for the time, her tongue was strooken dumb.   

But, let it be, all blessed is the trance,  
when, so the soul is overcome with love,  
That virtues choice, doth find it is no chance,  
when humble faith doth heaunly favour prove:  
And when the senses from their sleep arise,  
The spirit finds the life, that never dies.   

So, when it seemed she waked from her sleep,  
Or sudden trance, for so I term it right,  
when such high care did so her senses keep,  
That she awaked, with glory of the light:  
Oh sacred love, and sweetest life, quoth she,  
what happy figure hath appeared to me?   

Did I behold, that fairest shining light?  
That made me shake, for fear to see thy face,  
And weep for joy, that in thy blessed sight,  
My sinful soul, might come, and sue for grace:  
And did I see, thy love so sweetly use me?  
That, in thy mercy thou wouldst not refuse me.   

And did thy mercy so thy love entreat?  
That justice gave her sword to mercy's hand,  
And did thy mercy sit in justice seat?  
And did the judgement in thy mercy stand?  
Oh blessed love, where mercy doth approve,  
The fruit of love, is mercy, mercy's love.   

I must confess my conscience did cond●…mne me,  
Of such offence, as I could not deny:  
And of such crime, as thou migh●…st well contemn me,  
when by my due, I had deserved to die:  
But when thy mercy did my sorrow see,  
How in thy pity she did plead for me.   

Behold, quoth she, the true repentant heart,  
which bleeds in tears with sorrow of her sin:  
what passions have perplexed every part,  
where penitence doth pities suit begin:  
where true confession, doth submission prove,  
And true contrition, cries to me for love.   

Behold the faith that hath her fairest hold,  
Upon the gift of thy especial grace,  
Thy word of truth, that to the world hath told  
The faithful soul, in heaven shall have a place:  
And true repentance, shall by me obtain,  
The freed joys from everlasting pain.   

When that vile serpent, every soul's accuser,  
That sought to bring my comforts to decay,  
That ugly devil all the worlds abuser,  
In fury's rage, me thought did fly away:  
And to the life, but of thy mercy leave me,  
who to thy service, sweetly did receive me.   

When all thy Saints, and martyrs came unto me,  
And in their arms thine Angels did embrace me,  
And all were glad what comfort they could do me,  
And in a seat, of paradise so place me:  
That all with joy surprised, these joys to see,  
I wake and pray, the vision true may be.   

For, this is it, sweet Lord, that I would have,  
The world is short, in sounding my desire,  
It is thy mercy that I only crave,  
Thy virtues love, that set my heart on fire,  
And in thy love, that only living bliss,  
That world may wish, but know not what it is.   
FINIS.   

Errata.  
Pag. 8 lin. ●…. on for one. p. 11. l. 2. end for sed. l. 10. end for sendings. p. 28. l. 19 in gold her grace, for her gold in grace. lin. 20. for worthiness, read worthless. l. 21. lines, for li●…es. p. 40. lin. 18. can offend me, for offend me.