¶ The works of a young wit, trust up with a farthel of pretty fancies, profitable to young Poetes, prejudicial to no man, and pleasant to every man to pass away idle time withal.  
Whereunto is joined an odd kind of wooing, with a Banquet of Comsettes, to make an end withal. Done by N. B. Gentleman.   

¶ The Letter 〈◊〉, to the Reader.  
I Have both heard & read often times, that Books and Cheeses may very well be likened one to the other, in this point: for the diversity of men's judgements given of them. For they are wares both, to be looked on for love, and bought for money. The Cheese once out of the Press, shortly after comes to market to be sold: where (perhaps) it is tasted of many, before it be bought. And books once imprinted, are presently in shops, where many peruse them, ere they be sold. Now▪ some that have tasted the Cheese, will say (perchance) 'tis too dry: an other will say, 'tis too full of whey▪ the third will say, the meat is good, but it is ill handled: the fourth will (contrary) say, it looks better than it is. Come another, he will say, Berlady 'tis pretty good meat. Some will say, It is little worth: and some will say, It is stark nought, but that is an evil tongued fellow. Some will say, 'tis Cheese: that's a blunt whoreson. Some will say, 'twil serve: he is to be borne withal. Some will say, 'tis good meat when one is hungry: he is worthy to have a piece of it (if he can get it) when he hath nothing else to dinner. Some will like it very well, and give money for it: he is most worthy to have it, & much good may it do him. And thus of Books, and so of this my book among others. Some will say, It is too dry, it wants the sap of Sapience, neither hath it enough of the rennet of Reason. Some other will say, It is too ful of the whey of wantonness, which in wise men's taste, seems very sour. Some will say, The invention is pretty, but it is ill penned. Some other will more commend the penning, than the matter. Some will say, It is pretty Poetry. Some will say, It is mean stuff. And some (perhaps) will say, It is bald rhyme, not worth the reading: but that is a malicious Lob, for my life. Some will say, 'tis verse: he speaks his mind plainly. Some will say, 'twil pass for Poaetrie: let him pass for & cetera. Some will say, It is good enough to read, when a man hath nothing else to do: he may read it (if he can come by it) in such idle time. Some (perhaps) will praise it more than it deserves, and give coin for it, rather than go without it. Such are best worthy to have it: and well may it like them, when they have bought it. Well, such as like it not, I pray you bear a good tongue, and let it alone, and God be with you. I wish you well, and perhaps I will against the next Term, provide you some other new ware for your old gold. Till when, and ever, I wish you all, with myself, the grace of God, and well to far.  
From my lodging this xiiii of May. Anno Domini. 1577. Your poor Countryman, N. B. ✚   

The works of a young wit.  

Primordium.  

The Farmer, he, that new breaks up a ground:  
and doth not know, what fruit, the soil will yield.  
The cheapest seed, that (lightly) may be found,  
be (commonly) bestows upon that field.  
For trial, first, as (best for his behove,)  
by proof of that, how better grain will prove.   

And as I think the cheapest kind of grain,  
on new digged ground the Farmer can bestow,  
Whereof to reap some profit for his pain,  
are Oats, a grain which every man doth know:  
Which proving ill, his loss can be but small,  
if well, such gains, as he may live withal.   

What said I? oats? Why, Oats there are I see,  
of divers kinds, as some are counted wild:  
And they are light: and yet with them some be,  
in steed of better many times beguiled.  
And sure I think that wild light kind of grain,  
myself have sown, within my barren brain.   

But 'tis no matter, small hath been my cost:  
and this is first time that I stirred my brain,  
Besides, I have, but little labour lost,  
in idle time to take a little pain.  
And though, I lose, both pain, and grain in deed:  
my ground, I crow, will serve for better seed.   

For as the Farmer, though his crop be ill,  
the seed yet lost will fatten well the ground.  
And when he seeks for better grain to till,  
and sows good grain, then is the profit found.  
For, all the first, that good was, for no grain,  
will bear good fruit, but with a little pain.   

So my rude brain, that at the first (God wot)  
was good for nought, no kind of fruit would yield  
New broken up, will now yet bear an oat,  
and as I hope, will prove a pretty field:  
I like it tooth better, that I find,  
the Oats so sown, do not come up in kind.   

For surely, all the Oats I sowed, were wild,  
and light God wot: and cheap, they cost me naught▪  
And now if that I be not much beguiled,  
they prove good Oats, and will be quickly bought:  
Marry my crop I reap is very small,  
but what is lost, my ground is made withal.   

And when I till, and sow a better grain,  
mine Oats so lost, I shall not then repent:  
My profit then, will so requited my pain,  
as I shall think, my labour pretly spent:  
And eke in time, I hope with taking pain,  
to make it fit, to bear a right good grain.   

These Oats (alas) are fond and foolish toys,  
which, often times, do enter in the mind:  
The thoughts of which, give cause of grief or joys,  
which are so light, as turn with every wind.  
And, such wild Oats, I mean wild thoughts God knows,  
are all the grain that in my ground now grows.   

But yet I see that all the Oats I sowed,  
I mean the thoughts that enter in my mind,  
Are not come up: not half of them is showed:  
and some come up, are blown away with wind.  
The rest that stand, are such as here you see,  
which if you like, then take them as they be.   

These thoughts in deed, were causes of such crimes,  
as in my books here plain apparent be:  
Which, as I sat half idle many times,  
I wrote (God wot) at random, as you see:  
Which though they be but wild light Oats in deed,  
will make my ground yet fit for better seed.   

Now I have thought on thousand causes more  
than I have shown, as well of grief as joy:  
Some are forgot, and those I cannot show:  
and when I wrote upon too fond a toy,  
And that withal myself mislykte the same,  
straight to the fire, for fear of further blame.   

But such as these which by desert in deed,  
I here do term toys of an idle head●  
Are all the crop, that yet of all my seed  
I reap this year, the rest I think be dead:  
But they so lost, will better make my brain,  
to yield good fruit, wh●● so I till again.   

For I protest as thus advised, at least,  
next time I till, to sow some better grain:  
Until which time, I friendly you request,  
to take in worth these first fruits of my brain:  
Accounting thus my brain a new digged ground,  
my rhymes wild Oats, which every where abound.   

And for my labour more then half quite lost,  
Laugh not yet at me, for my folly such:  
Nor have regard at all unto my cost,  
my pains were most, although not very much:  
Which pains so spent, these trifling toys to writ:  
I have employed to purchase thy delight.  
Which though but toys, yet if they like thee well,  
yield friendly thanks: and so my friend farewell.   
Finis.   

¶ The Author standing in a study whether to writ or not, wrote as followeth.   


Shall I presume to press into the place,  
where Poetes stand, to try their cunning skill?  
Fie, not, (God wot) I must not show my face  
among such men, they come from Pernasse hill.  
Where each one finds a muse, to guide his pen:  
and what should I do then among such men.   

Not, not, (God wots) it is enough for me,  
to stand without, and harken at the door.  
And through the key hole somewhat for to see,  
of orders theirs, although I do no more:  
To see, I mean, how all the Poets write,  
and how their Muzes, help them to indite.   

Except I do, like Bayarde hold by chance,  
thrust in at door, and take no leave at all:  
In seeking so, myself for to advance,  
against my will, may hap to catch a fall:  
In venturing so, perhaps yet I may see,  
among them all, somewhat to profit me.   

Perhaps I may, and likelier of the two,  
for such my pains, get nothing but a flout:  
Lo, thus in doubt, I know not what to do,  
to press in place, or still to keep me out:  
To stand without, I can but little gain,  
to be too bold, but laughed at, for my pain.   

Laughed at quoth I, but tush, if that be all,  
I must not fear, to press in Poet's place:  
For laughing loud, can breed a hurt but small,  
it doth, but show some ass, or lobcockes' grace  
In him that laughs, for Poetes will no: use,  
the simplest wight that is, for to abuse.   

〈…〉  
for fear of flouts, of some odd mocking mate:  
The wisest men, this once, I do not doubt,  
in each respect, such ill demeanour hate:  
They rather will regard, mine earnest will,  
and let me in, than I should stand out still.   

And Pallas, she would sand from Pernasse hill,  
some learned muse, to help me to indite:  
In writing to, who so might guide my quill,  
that I might somewhat like a Poet write:  
The Poetes too would help, rather than I,  
should lose the love I have to Poetry.   

Then, if (perhaps) I write with simple skill,  
the wisest he ades, (I trust) will pardon me:  
They will regard my good and earnest will,  
and think in time, some better stuff to see:  
Which by God's help (ere long) in hope I stand,  
some finer matter, for to take in hand.    

¶ The Author minding to write somewhat, yet not resolved what: wrote in verse certain demands with himself what to writ, as followeth.   


A Proverb old there is, which wise men count for true,  
that often of sluggish idleness, great evils do ensue.  
Which Proverb old, and true, when I do call to mind:  
to set myself about straight way, I somewhat seek to found.  
For fear least sitting still, when I have naught to do,  
some thriflltes thought mine idle mind would set itself unts'.  
Sometime I sit and read, such books as likes me best,  
sometime a learned grave discourse, sometime a pleasant jest,  
Sometime I take my pen, and then I fall to write,  
to learn to frame a letter fair, sometime I do indite,  
Some pretty odd conceit, to please myself withal,  
sometime again I music use, although my skill be small.  
Lo thus I read, I writ, I do 〈◊〉, and sing,  
and all to eschew idleness, that is so vile a thing.  
And now not long ago, not having much to do,  
but thinking best what kind of work to set myself unto.  
I took my pen and Ink, and thought in deed to writ  
some kind of pretty pleasant toy, my mind for to delight.  
But scarce I had begun, but then I thought again,  
in countries profit for to writ, to take a little pain:  
And thinking so, alas, unto myself, quoth I,  
what can I writ, that any man may profit gain thereby?  
My years are very young, experience but small,  
my learning less, & (God he knows) my wisdom lest of al.  
And being then so young, and inexpert also,  
and wisdom want to judge in mind, which way the world will go,  
What almost can I writ, but I must gain thereby,  
but labour lost, and many a flout, for writing so fond?  
To writ of pleasant toys to purchase deep delight,  
why every Rhymer writes such stuff, then what shall I indite?  
Some Ditties of despite? Not, yet I like that w●rse:  
shall I then writ some ruffing rhyme to swear, and ban, and curse?  
Fie, that were worst of all: shall I then writ of kings:  
of princely Peers, and Princes courts, and of such gallant things?  
Not, not, no words of them, what ever so they be:  
Quod supra nos nihil ad nos, then let them be for me:  
Shall I go lower then, and writ of meaner sort?  
well, if I do, I must take heed what tales I do report.  
What, shall I tell their faults, and how they may amend?  
why, they will bid me mend myself, ere I do reprehend:  
What? shall I take in hand the truth in deed to teach?  
them some will say, beware your Geese, the Fox begins to preach.  
Shall I then writ of wars? o not, I am too young:  
I never service saw in rield, than I must hold my tongue:  
What? shall I writ of ships, and sailing in the seas?  
alas, my skill in sailors art is scarcely worth two peace.  
What? shall I writ of Quirks and Quiddities in law?  
no, not, for than I by and by, should show myself a Daw.  
What then? of fruits or plants, of flowers, herbs and trees,  
of drawing kno●s, & setting slips, and such like toys as these?  
Tush not, the Gardener says, my cunning is but small:  
and therefore I must hold my peace, and meddle not withal.  
To such as rulers be, their duties shall I tell?  
why, they will bid me rule myself, and then I shall do well.  
What? shall I somewhat writ of thrifty husbandry?  
then shall I shame myself (alas) for none so ill as I  
What? shall I set out rules for to be taught in school?  
I am so young a scholar, I should prove myself a fool.  
Shall I tell scholars then, what is their due to do?  
let's see good orders, say young boys, you set yourself unto.  
What shall I writ of sin? what shame doth grow thereby:  
why, some will bid me mend for shame, for no man worse than I  
Of virtue shall I speak, how it doth purchase Fame?  
then some that see may sinful life, will bid me peace for shame.  
Why then what may I writ? if neither this nor that,  
nor other Theme will serve my turn, good faith I know not what  
I may resolve upon, but what my Muse thinks best  
to writ upon, I ready am to writ at her request.  
For why, I plainly see, Dame Pallas sure hath sent  
some Muse to me, to help me now some matter to invent.  
And as me thinks in mind, she greatly me doth move,  
to writ some dolorous discourse, of lots of luckless love:  
Which since she so desires, I am content to show,  
what passion once a lover penned, oppressed with endless woe:  
And if my Muse again do chance to change her mind,  
then shall you see to her content, what matter I will find.  
Now look what so I writ, refer it to my Muse,  
and blame not me, but let her fault my folly quite excuse.  
And take in worth, I crave, as she my mind doath move,  
this dole●id and most strange discourse, that first I writ of love.    

¶ A pretty passion, penned in the behalf of a Gentleman, who traveling into Kent, fell there in love: and venturing both lands, limb, and life, to do his Mistress service, in long time reaped nothing but loss for his labour, which loss, by ill luck, in lamentable verse, he wrote to his beloved Lady, which, how she took in worth, that rests.   


WHen I sometime, revolve within my mind,  
the sorrows strange, that some men seems to show:  
And therewithal consider eke in kind,  
the causes first, whereof their griefs do grow:  
And then compare, their pangs with mine again,  
I find them all, but pleasures to my pain.   

For why, each one can make a plain discourse,  
how every sorrow doth assail his mind:  
Then judge (alas) how far my woes are worse,  
when none alive, can set them out in kind.  
And if I could, my pangs at large express,  
yet am I sure, they are remediless.   

Why am I sick? yea sure, I am not well,  
where lies my grief? in body? or in mind?  
In both, God w●t, which more I cannot tell,  
and I am sure, Physician none to find,  
That can devise, to cure my strange disease,  
save God and you, who may when so you please.   

God knows my grief: you only wrought the same,  
I feel the pain, though how, I cannot show:  
God knows my help: and you, O noble Dame,  
the only mean, to minister do know.  
O help me then, whiles I am yet alive:  
lest that for life, I can no longer strive.   

How holds my grief? alas both hot, and cold:  
●ot with desire, and cold again with fear:  
Warm, when I do thy beauty's beams behold,  
and quake with cold, to be, and thou not there.  
Lo thus I live, tormented as you see:  
and will you not some pity take on me?   

But what is it, a kind of fever then,  
that holds me thus, in these extremities?  
Yea sure, it is a plain Quotidien,  
that keeps me still, in these perplexities:  
That day and night, doth so my mind molest,  
as never lets my body be at rest.   

Is then an ague such a strange disease?  
why, many so are sick, and easily cured:  
Yea, but the sickness of the mind, no ease  
by Physics art, can ever have procured.  
Such is my grief, which makes me thus protest,  
until I die, I never look for rest.   

The grief of mind? why there are divers kinds,  
of sundry sorrows, in the mind of man:  
To each of which, the sick man daily finds,  
a sundry kind of comfort now and than:  
Yet for myself, I still protest my grief  
is such almost, as cannot find relief.   

What grief is that? That no man feels the like?  
a secret sorrow that cannot be shown.  
For hidden hurts, who can for comfort seek?  
but he, to whom the cause of grief is known:  
Yet far I worse, who know my strange disease:  
yet cannot show it, nor yet seek for ease.   

What may it be? some secret pang of love?  
or contrary? some hurt that grows by hate?  
Alas of both, the daily pangs I prove,  
and that so sore, as may be wondered at:  
To bide them both, but how? that seemeth strange,  
How? Why alas, I have them by exchange.   

For why, my trade is still to live by loss,  
I cannoneer love, in hope to gain good will:  
My bruised Bark, strange tempests daily toss,  
and keep her in the seas of sadness still:  
And when at last, she comes from foreign soil,  
then see the fruits of all her tedious toil.   

First merchandise is Malice, without cause,  
and packed within a bag of bitter bale:  
Then next, is books of Lady Venus' laws,  
which yield small gain, their studies are so stolen.  
Then sugared speeches, mixed with sourness so,  
as all my wares, do yield me naught, but wo.   

And thus, my ship once set on sorrows shore,  
for all my wares, I custom pay to care:  
Which done, to save some charges, that grow more,  
I bear them home, to save the Porter's share:  
For which I think, I merit much gain,  
I bear, God wots, with such an extreme pain.   

And when I come, unto my home at last,  
my luckeles lodge, for so in deed it is,  
And that of all my wares account I cast,  
what loss by that, what gain again by this:  
At last, alone in sorrows shop I sit,  
and cell my wares, to my bewitched wit.   

Who, when he ways what they are worth in deed,  
and yet perhaps is oftentimes deceived:  
In taking Reisons, in good reasons steed,  
which in good taste, may easily be perceyud:  
He thinks at first, he cannot give too much,  
for such fine fruit, for why there are none such.   

But God he knows, when he a while hath fed  
on Reisons sweet, ere they be full digest:  
He soon shall found such working in his head,  
as that his heart shall have but little rest:  
And if among his Reisons sweet, by chance  
he eat a Fig, that brings him in a trance.   

For often in Figs, are secret fetches wrought,  
some Figs are fruits, that grow of foul disdain▪  
Some of despite, and all such Figs are naught,  
yet such be mine, which come not out of Spain:  
But grow hereby, but over Sea, in Rent,  
and thither 'twas, for all my wares, I went.   

From thence it was, that all my wares I had,  
and there I caught the cause of all my grief:  
There fell I sick, there was I almost mad,  
and there it is, that I must seek relief:  
But all in vain, for why I plainly see,  
the heavenly fates, do wholly frown on me.   

Yet restless quite, this rest I rest upon,  
either to die, and so my sorrows end:  
Or else, when all my woeful wares be gone,  
God will at last, some better shipping sand:  
And you dear dame, who only know my grief,  
will wail my woe, and lend me some relief.   

You made the Reisons that do make me lose,  
your liking first, at jest in outward show,  
And you again, the Figs did make me choose,  
and made me taste, to work my deadly woe:  
And you alone have Cinnamon, to bind  
your friendly liking, to my loving mind.   

You have in deed the Priumes of pity sweet,  
to cool the heat, of my so hot desire:  
My quaking heart, falls quivering at your feet,  
to crave the comfort, of your fancies fire:  
Your lowering looks, do make me sorrow so,  
and your sweet love, can only end my wo.   

Then weigh my case, and when you think upon  
the sorrows small, that some men seek to show:  
And see again, how I am woe begun,  
and that the cause of all my grief, you know:  
Vouchsafe dear dame, some sweet relief to give,  
yet ere I die, for long I cannot live.   

And thus adieu, God long prolong thy days,  
and plant some pity in thy princely mind:  
To lend him help, who lives a thousand ways,  
perplexed with pain, and can no comfort found:  
But by thy means, and therefore thus I end,  
Lady farewell, God make thee once my friend.   
Finis.   

¶ My Muse having heard this, told me that patience was the best Medicine for such a sickness. And thereupon willed me write upon Patience, as followeth.   


NO sickness such, as is the grief of mind,  
no cunning more, then for to cure the same:  
Rare is the help, yet this I plainly found,  
for every sore, some salve doth Physic frame:  
And so I think in deepest of distress,  
some mean there is, to lend the mind redress.   

But what that is, no writer shows the name,  
experience makes each man himself to know:  
But for my part, sure patience is the same,  
in greatest grief, whereby my ease doth grow:  
And so I judge, in greatest grief of mind,  
that other men the like relief do find.   

For proof whereof, the passing pangs of love  
who dare deny, the greatest grief that is,  
Which from the mind, no mean can well remove,  
but many ways, torments it sore I wis.  
In this I say so great a malady,  
patience perforce is only remedy.   

Where Patience comes, despair with foul anoie  
is driune away, and hope supplies the place:  
Hope comfort brings, and comfort causeth joy,  
and one Joy brings an other joy apace.  
O sweet relief, chief comfort of the mind:  
God grant me thee, in all my griefs to find.   
Finis.   

¶ My Muse liked so well of this Pamphlette, that she willed me to writ again upon it, at whose command I wrote as follows.   


IN greatest care, what is the comfort chief?  
the thing obteinde, that most the mind desires▪  
But wanting that, what most will lend relief?  
the remedy, that reason chief requires,  
Is patience, to please the mourning mind,  
whereby the heart some ease (though small) doth find.   

Who stands content, with such hap as doth fall,  
with hope of better, cheers his heavy heart:  
Who discontent with anger frets his gall,  
is like to live, in pangs of greater smart.  
Then as I said, so now I say again,  
patience doth ease the mind of much pain.   

Patience procures the comfort of the heart,  
drives out despair, and setteth hope in place,  
Eases the mind, oppressed with grievous smart  
assuageth much great pains in little space  
What more? the best and only mean I find,  
in greatest grief, for to relieve the mind.   

O precious pearl, and very rare, God wot  
and hard, to hard, in time of grief to find.  
Wretched the wight, (alas) that finds thee not,  
but happy he that keeps thee in his mind.  
Blessed the God, that first did thee ordain  
to ease the heart, oppressed with greatest pain.   
Finis.   

¶ By that time that I had finished this Pamphlet upon patience, with hanging down my head over my paper, mine eyes grew red, and ran on water, whereupon my muse took occasion, to think, upon the hurt of the eye sight, and presently willed me to writ upon the same, as followeth.   


THree things there are, that greatly hurt the sight,  
which by the eye, do breed the heart's disease,  
And being seen, as well by day as night,  
unto the mind do breed but little ease.  
Of which three, one, doth partly breed delight:  
the other two, breed nothing but despite.   

The first, and worst, is this (alas) to see  
a foe far well, and dearest friend decays.  
The second sight, than which, what worse may be?  
is sorrows smoke, that riseth night and day  
From fancy's fire, which from the heart to head,  
doth so ascend, as makes the eyes look red.   

Now to the third, what more can hurt the sight?  
then to behold a fair and gallant dame:  
Then fall in love, and labour day and night,  
to gain her love, yet not obtain the same:  
Then thus I end, what more can hurt the sight,  
than these three things which here I do recite?   
Finis.   

¶ Now my Muse 'gan suddenly enter into the cogitation of the state of man, and thereupon wild me to writ these few verses following.   


O wretched state of miserable man,  
who, let him have what so he can desire▪  
Yea let him crave, what so devise he can,  
and eke obtain the thing he doth require:  
Yet such (we see) is our ambitious mind,  
as yet in deed, doth never quiet found.   

For to begin with this perplexity,  
the Captive, he that lies in prison penned:  
O, what a heaven, says he, is liberty,  
let him get out, and all his riches spent,  
O then, says he, coin makes the merry man,  
let him have wealth, and then, what lacks he than?   

If he be rich, perhaps he hath the gout,  
what follows then? what heaven is health saith hee●  
Let him have health, than honour out of doubt,  
he seeketh next: and let him noble be,  
What seeks he then? to stand in Prince's grace:  
which had, what then? himself the regal, mace.   

If he be Prince, what then? a quiet seat:  
which if he get, what then? his subjects love:  
That once obtained, what then? some glory great?  
and glory got, what then? by arms to prove  
Tenlarge his Realm: which got, what then but this?  
to wish the rule of all the world were his?   

Which sure I think, that if some man might have,  
yet would his mind not sit at quiet rest:  
But he would wish and somewhat seek to crave,  
which might (perhaps) in deed avail him least:  
Therefore say I●oh wretched state of man,  
whom God can scarce content with what he can.   

But for myself, God grant me grace to crave,  
that he may think most meet for me to have:  
God save our Queen, and God her Realm defend,  
confounmd her foes, and thus I make an end:  
When that this vile and wretched world is past,  
God sand us all the joys of heaven at last. Amen.   
Finis.   

¶ These verses being read, my Muse be thought herself of a proper Gentleman, who having been sometime a brave fellow, and lived gallantly in Court by Fortune's frowns, froward dealing of friends, and flattery of friendly foes, suddenly sunk, and was forced for want of that he wished, for to leave the court, and end his life among the country: Crew, where dolefully he died: at whose departure from Court, and passage to the Country, I gave him in Verse too read in idle time this doleful Adio, which here I recite. The man is dead, his name not expressed. Wherefore I hope no man will find fault with the recital: if any do, the matter is not great, and therefore at all adventures thus it was.   


SInce secret spirit hath sworn my woe,  
and I am driune by destiny  
Against my will, (God knows) to go  
from place of gallant company:  
And in the steed of sweet delight,  
to reap the fruits of foul despite:   

As it hath been a custom long,  
to bid farewell when men depart,  
So will I sing this solemn song,  
farewell, to some, with all my heart:  
But those my friends: but to my foes,  
I wish a Nettle in their nose.   

I wish my friends, their heart's content,  
my foes again, the contrary:  
I wish myself, the time were spent,  
that I must spend in misery.  
I wish my deadly foe, no worse,  
then want of friends, and empty purse.   

But now my wishes thus are done,  
I must begin to bid farewell:  
With friends, and foes, I have begun,  
and therefore, now I can not tell  
What first to choose, or ere I part,  
to writ a farewell from my heart.   

first, place of worldly paradise,  
thou gallant court, to thee farewell:  
For froward fortune me denies,  
now longer near to thee to devil,  
I must go live I wots not where,  
nor how to live when I come there.   

And next, adieu you gallant Dames,  
the chief of noble youths delight,  
Untowarde fortune now so frames,  
that I am banishte from your sight:  
And in your steed, against my will,  
I must go live with country gill.   

Now next, my gallant youths farewell,  
my lads that oft have cheerde my heart:  
My grief of mind no to●●ng can tell,  
to think that I must from you part.  
I now must leave you all (alas)  
And live with some, odd lobcock Ass.   

And now farewell, thou gallant Luite,  
with instruments of Musics sounds,  
Recorder, Citrens, Harp and Fluyte,  
and heaunely deskants on sweet grounds:  
I now must leave you all in deed,  
and make some Music on a reed.   

And now you stately stamping steeds  
and gallant geldings fair adieu:  
My heavy heart for sorrow bleeds,  
to think, that I must part with you:  
And on a straw paniel sit,  
and ride some country carting tit●e.   

And now farewell both spear and shield,  
Caliver, Pistol, Ha●gubus  
See, see, what sighs my heart doth yield,  
to think that I must leave you thus,  
And lay aside my Rapier blade,  
and take in hand a ditching spade.   

And now farewell all gallant games  
Primero and Imperial,  
Wherewith I used with courtely Dames  
to pass away the time with all:  
I now must learn some country plays  
for ale and cakes on holy days.   

And now farewell each dainty dish,  
with sundry sorts of sugared wine,  
Farewell I say fine flesh and fish,  
to please this dainty mouth of mine:  
I now (alas) must leave all these,  
and make good cheer with bread and cheese.   

And now all orders due farewell,  
my table laid when it was noon:  
My heavy heart, it irks to tell,  
my dainty dinners all are done:  
With leeks and onions, whigge and whey,  
I must content me as I may.   

And farewell all gay garments now,  
with jewels rich of rare devise:  
Like Robin hood, I wots not how,  
I must go range in woodmens' wise,  
Clad in a Coat of green or grey,  
and glad to get it if I may.   

What shall I say? but bid adne  
to every dramine of sweet delight,  
In place where pleasure never grew,  
in dungeon deep, of foul despite:  
I must (aye me) wretch, as I may,  
go sing the song of well away.   
Finis.   

¶ My Muse somewhat melancholy with the reading of this pitiful parting of this poor Gentleman, standing a while in a great dump, suddenly can call to mind a doleful discourse of a very sorrowful shrove Sundays Supper, which a luckless lover not long ago was at. Who fytting at board with his maliciyous Mistress, received of her such undeserved frowns, and uncourteous speeches, as being returned home to his lodging after supper, sitting in his chamber all alone, and calling to mind the perils he had passed for her sake, and the coin he had spent in her service, repenting himself, as well of his labour as cost, both lost, Wrote in rage a few Verses of his ill hap: which waylfull words my Muse gave me thus to writ.   


O wretched wight, what fates do frown on thee?  
have destinies decreed thee such distress?  
Shalt thou none end of this thy sorrows see?  
and caused thou tell no where to seek redress?  
Then sit, and sigh, and sob, and though long furst,  
at last, thy heart with bitter pain will burst.   

Look luckeles wretch, behold the pleasant sport,  
the lively looks that twixt sweet lovers pass:  
In joyful wise how friends to friends resort,  
to make good cheer, and thou poor wretch (alas)  
Mayst sit alone, and found no merry mate,  
to comfort thee, in this thy wretched state.   

Where other feed on fine and dainty fare,  
and fill their ears, with Musics heavenly sound,  
And have their hearts, almost devoid of care,  
and feel no woe, to work their secret wound:  
I silly wretch, a thousand torments find,  
each day by day, for to molest my mind.   

And for my cheer, first mess, is misery,  
served in the dish of foul and deep despite:  
Then, sorrows Salliet, so unsavoury:  
as, (God he knows) in taste yields small delight:  
Repentance root, then have I last of all,  
whose taste I find, as bitter is as gall.   

Then fruits of folly, served in at last,  
and for sweet com●its, sundry kinds of care,  
Which, God he knows, do yield such bitter taste,  
as wretched he, that feedeth on such fare:  
Yet, so feed I, which when that I have eat,  
comes churlish looks, for to digest my meat.   

My Music now, is beating on my breast,  
and sobbing sighs, which yield a heavy sound,  
My heart with pangs of pain is overpreste,  
which daily grow, by woe his deadly wound:  
For company, in steed of loving friend,  
I find a foe, a fury, and a fiend.   

And for delights, in dumps I pass my days,  
I weep for woe, when other sing for Joy,  
I stand perplexte, a thousand sundry ways,  
and know no mean, to rid me of annoy,  
But must (ay me) perforce still stand content,  
to devil in dole, until my days be spent.   
Finis.   

¶ This done, my Muse began to think upon the estate of lovers, and told me that he was much to blame, to rage's in such sort for a frown or a foul word, he must abide twenty worse Banquets (except fortune be his great friend) ere he attain to his desire. For quoth she: Dulcu● non n●uit, qui non gustavit amarum. and therewithal, upon the same words wild me writ as followeth.   


BU● by the sweet, how should we know the sour,  
but by a black, how should we know a white:  
How should a man enjoy one joyful hour,  
that hath not known some sorrow by despite?  
What shall I say? what pleasure can he know,  
that hath not pass some pang of deadly woe?   

The hungry fed, know best what is good cheer,  
and poor once rich, who better knoweth wealth?  
Who knows good cheap, but he that hath bought dear?  
and sick● once hole, can judge how good is health.  
Believe me now, none better knows content,  
than he, that hath some time in trouble spent.   

But what of him that never knew content?  
that tastes no sweet, but bitter, sharp, and sour:  
And all his days hath still in trouble spent,  
and can not hope, to find one happy hour?  
Whom none alive, (but one) that comfort can,  
God make that one, to help him wretched man.   
Finis.   

¶ This done, my Muse studying of the strange estate of luckeles lovers. bethought herself of a disdainful dame, whom God had blest with better beauty then by her behaviour many ways she seemed worthy of, and chiefly, for her discourteous dealing with a gentleman her faithful lover, who every way had deserved her favour, and was by equality worthy of her in every respect: who seeing her untoward dealing, wrote upon the same in his study alone certain verses, which as they were given me by my Muse to writ, were these following.   


WHat gift so good? but folly may abuse.  
what state so high? but fortune sets full low:  
What gem so rare? but fancy may refuse,  
what Joy so great? but Frenzy turns to woe,  
What faith so firm? but Fury doth mistrust.  
what wight so strong? but Love lays in the dust.   

What force so strong? but woe may make full weak,  
what fury great? but wit may moderate:  
What Frenzy such? but weariness may break,  
what fancy firm? but wealth will alienate:  
What fortunes power? but wisdom may with stand:  
what folly that? but will doth take in hand.   

What wretched woe? but time turns to delight,  
what wit so fine? but treason may entrap:  
What weary limb? but treasure maketh light,  
what wealth so great? but wastes by evil hap:  
What man so wise? but fancy sets to school,  
by laws of love to learn to play the fool.   

What gift so good? as beauty in a maid,  
what more abuse? then proudly use the same:  
What Ge●●me to love? which proudly is denied,  
what madness more? then is in such a Dame:  
My faith so firm, what fury doth mistrust,  
with foul disdaime, to sting me in the dust?   

But o that God should so his gifts bestow,  
where wit doth want, to govern them aright:  
And (aye me wretch) that ever I should know,  
their such abuse, to work my heart's despite▪  
And woe to them, that so good gifts abuse,  
that pride should 'cause good proffers to refuse.   
Finis.   

¶ This done my Muse 'gan call to mind a pretty short solemn fancy, that the same man wrote in the time of his love, touching his ill hap, which presently she willed me to pen, in this manner.   


FLy fancy fond, and trouble me no more,  
for where thou lik'st, thou findest unlucky lot:  
Die deep desire, and vex me not so sore,  
for do thy best, and it availeth not,  
Leave lowering love, to breed me still such grief,  
as by no means, can ever find relief.   

Fie fancy fie, why didst thou fix mine eye,  
on such a star as so hath dimmed my sight:  
Again, desire why didst thou climb so high?  
where thou canst never reach unto the height.  
And cruel love, why didst thou yield me so,  
a slave to her, that daily works my woe?   

But all in vain I cry, my fancy still  
doth like her best, who worst doth like of me,  
And my desire doth think, perforce he will  
assault the fort, that scaled can not be:  
And love doth force me honour her in heart,  
who laughs at me, to see me live in smart.   
Finis.   

¶ Now 'gan my Muse suddenly to leave me, and I somewhat weary with writing, walked abroad, to take the air: but being not gone far from my lodging, I met with a noble man, my right good Lord, who would (no nay) have me with him to his lodging, where I had not been long, but he commanded me to write him some Verses. I craved of his Lordship a Theme to write upon▪ none would he grant, but willed me to writ what I would. I not knowing what of a sudden might best fit his fancy, and yet desirous to pen that might like his lordship, standing a while in a study, at last at all adventures I wrote that which I did assure myself might no way much mislike him, which with the help of my Muse who met me there of a sudden, and unseen or heard, would whisper me in the ear with what invention she thought best: such as by good hap my Lord liked better of, than it was worthy, which was as followeth.   


MY Lord commands, that I in haste do writ,  
somewhat in Verse, a charge too great for me,  
Whose barren brain can no such Verse indite,  
as worthy were my lovely Lord should see:  
And therefore thus, in half despair I stand,  
to writ or not, or what to take in hand.   

Yet writ I must, I see no remedy,  
My Lord Commands, and I must needs obey:  
And therefore though I shame myself thereby,  
Yet writ I must, I see there is no nay:  
And therefore thus, not knowing what to writ,  
this ragged rhyme, at random I indite.   

In hope my Lord will well except my will  
at his command, that seeks to do my best:  
And not regard my too too simple skill,  
and were it not, on this my hope did rest:  
I should be so discomforted to writ,  
that I should sure no Verse at all indite.   

Therefore my Lord, I first must pardon crave,  
for rudeness such as in my rhyme you found:  
I know my Lord, your Lordship cannot have  
a Verse of me, that may content your mind:  
My years are young, experience but small,  
my learning less, and wisdom lest of all.   

And therefore thus I shrink, and shame to write,  
but yet, in hope your Lordships noble mind  
Will pardon that which fond I indite,  
and well accept such Verses as you found,  
I thus have wrote, (God wots) with little skill,  
at your command, this Aliquid Nihil.   
Finis.   

¶ This toy (though little worth) yet liked my Lord so well, as presently he willed me to discourse upon Aliquid, and let● Nihil alone, at whose command, with the help of my Muse, I wrote in this wise.   


SOmewhat doth bear some savour, some men say,  
and where naught is, the King doth lose his right:  
The poor that begs from door to door, all day,  
is safe, if he a penny get by night:  
The little child that learns the Christ's cross row,  
is better learned, than he that naught doth know.   

A crust is better than no bred at all,  
and water serves where is their drink:  
Some wit doth well, though wisdom be but small,  
'tis better swim a stroke or two, then sink:  
Better one eye, one leg, and but one hand,  
then be stark blind, and cannot stir, nor stand.   

Yet, to a Prince, a pound of pennies seems  
a thing of naught, no sum almost at all:  
Again, in schools, the learned Doctor deems  
a good grammarian, but a scholar small:  
Yet do the poor a penny somewhat find,  
and ABC. doooth trouble a child's mind.   

And though the Baker count a loaf no bred,  
and Vintner count good Beer, no drink at all:  
And in comparison of a deep head,  
a right good wit have understanding small,  
Yet poor chaw crusts, and sup worse Broth than Beer,  
and wit must serve, where wisdom is not near.   

And though the man that sees with both his eyes,  
doth think a man with one eye sees but ill:  
And he that hath his limbs all sound likewise,  
may think the lame on ground must needs lie still,  
Yet one eye sees, one leg may help to stand,  
and he may stir, that hath but o●e good hand.   

But this I grant, a penny (sure) to be  
but little coin, to make a merry heart:  
And so I think the children's. ABC.  
but little knowledge, to a learned art:  
And small in deed, the savour is I know,  
that by these two, is likely for to grow.   

And crusts (I think) do lend relief but hard,  
and cold the comfort that doth water yield:  
And wisdom too, from wit may not be spared,  
two strokes in swimming, saves a man but seld:  
One eye sees ill, one leg but lamely stands,  
he numly stirs, that lacks one of his hands.   

And thus I grant, and therefore now again,  
I think these sums, as good as naught at all:  
I crave and have my penny for my pain,  
and yet (God wots) it lends me comfort small:  
I can each letter in my Christ's cross row,  
and yet in deed, me thinks I nothing know.   

I chaw on crust, yet ready am to starve,  
I water drink, which makes me cold at heart:  
My wit I see, from wisdom quite doth serve,  
I strive to swim, but cannot learn that art:  
Dim is my sight, I stifely stir my hands,  
and on my limbs, my body numly stands.   

But as I first begun, I end again,  
somewhat doth well, although the sum be small:  
A little plaster, doth assuage much pain,  
he only blest, that needeth naught at all:  
Who counts all sums on earth, a sum but small  
to heavenly joys, which sum God sand us all.   
Finis.   

¶ This discourse ended, and perused, my Lord was somewhat earnest with me, ere I should departed from him, to writ in like manner some discourse upon Nihil, and let Aliquid alone: which though it seemed unto me heard (at the first) year minding to do my Lord any service I could, I took in hand, with the help of my Muse, to writ these verses following.   


WHat must I do? writ nothing? no, not so,  
of nothing, I must somewhat seek to write  
Of nothing? Why? What can I writ, I trow  
nothing yields nothing, whereon to indite:  
But there are choice of nothings now I see,  
of which I know not, which is given to me.   

But let me see, what these new nothings be,  
what matter too, they give to writ upon:  
One nothing is, as I remember me,  
a new nothing, which many a day again,  
Children were wont to hung upon their sleeves:  
now let me see what this new nothing gives.   

Ah, now I found it shows a pretty jest,  
when children cry, be it or Girl or boy:  
To still them straight, and make them be at rest,  
new nothing is a pleasant pretty toy:  
So, new nothing I see, when children cry,  
is a fit member in the nursery.   

Not more of new nothings, but now again,  
an old nothing there is, and what is that?  
That men do use, and some unto their pain,  
do learn to know the meaning of that what:  
Twixt creditors it is as some men say,  
a few fair words, where is no coin to pay.   

Besides these nothings now, a third there is,  
which some do nothing to the purpose call,  
That nothing to the purpose now is this,  
when wisemen fall in talk, among them all  
If some odd fool do seem to prate and clatter,  
and all his talk tend nothing to the matter.   

Now a fourth nothing I do call to mind,  
and that is, nothing in comparison:  
The meaning of which nothing, this I found,  
an entrance, nothing to that which is done:  
A penny to a pound, will seem so small,  
as in manner seemeth nought at all.   

Another nothing now, is nothing thought,  
as when a man that hath a thing to do,  
Doth think it easy, as a thing of naught,  
and yet, when that he sets himself thereto,  
He finds his nothing such a some, in deed,  
as more than he can well dispatch with speed.   

One nothing more, that nothing is in deed,  
where credit, coin, nor wit, nor wisdom is:  
New nothing, old nothing, nothing to stand in steed,  
nor nothing in comparisson, I wis.  
These nothings now, myself, I think possess,  
and I believe, few men that can have less.   

Now nothing thought, is this my fond discourse,  
of all these nothings clapped together so:  
Then which I think, there can be nothing worse,  
and may therefore for nothing justly go.  
Yet who the like doth set himself unto,  
shall find a foolish piece of work to do.   

And thus my Lord, I must confess in deed,  
I show my naught or no capacity:  
To give your Lordship such a toy to reed,  
as doth coutanei nothing but vanity.  
Yet since to writ of nothing I was wild,  
your lordships hest (I hope) I have fulfilled.   

If not so well, as doth in deed content,  
I pardon crave, my will did wish the best:  
If I had known, what had your lordship meant  
To have had done, I should have soon been priest  
To beat my brains, according to my skill,  
for to have writ, according to your william.   

But since my theme, was nothing else but this,  
a ba●e nothing for to indite upon:  
If I by chance have wrote somewhat amiss,  
And have beside the rules of reason gone,  
I stand in hope, your Lordships noble mind,  
will pardon all, which nothing worth you find.   
Finis.   

¶ This discourse finished, and delivered unto my Lord, after some talk had with his Lordship, I took my leave of him, and returned home to my lodging, but by the way, I chanced to pass by three or four gardens: & looking over a Pale into one of the said gardens, to take the sweet air of divers flowers and herbs that grew near unto the pale, jespyed sitting on a camel bank under two or three trees, to shade them from the parching heat of the sun, three gallant ladies: of which one so far in beauty excelled the rest, as my thought I could not content myself enough with the singular comfort of her sweet countenance, but let this suffice, that I stood there gazing, till the sweet soul, to my extreme sorrow, and hearts grief, departed the place, and then with a heavy heart as I could I returned to my lodging, where long I had not been, but my Muse came to me, and seeing me sit in that solemn sort, wild me writ somewhat of the cause of my dumps. I not knowing what to writ in that perplexity of mind, wrote as my Muse bade me, in praise of the garden for the ladies sake whom I had seen there, and yet for letting her go so soon, fell out a little with it, in verse, as followeth.   


IF one may praise a place for harbouring a guest,  
in whom the stay of his delight, and chiefest joy doth rest:  
And eke may curse the place that harbouring her so,  
unto his dolour deep, again to soon did leather go:  
Then let me praise the place where lodged my delight,  
And curse it to, that let her go, so soon out of my sight:  
Short was the time (God wot) I did her sight enjoy:  
by want of which, I fear long time to live in great annoy.  
Four or five hours were all that I, and that but field,  
this gallant Lady now and than by fits sometime beheeld,  
But from the 〈◊〉 first that I beheld her face,  
God knows within my wretched heart, how beauty hers took place:  
Mine eye grew bladshed straight, for Cupid hit the vain,  
that goes down straight unto my heart, and there begun my pain:  
Then 'gan my stomach work, my brain distempered to,  
thus grieved in eye, head, and heart, I knew not what to do.  
But to content myself, with comfort now and than,  
of her sweet looks, aright relief for such a woeful man:  
Which came alas but seld, yet ever when they came,  
God knows, I cannot show the joys I reaped by the same.  
But what: I go too far, I meant to praise a place,  
for harbouring a heavenly dame for beauty and good grace:  
And I am telling of the frantic fits of love,  
and of the hurt I caught thereby, and pangs that I do prove:  
But I will leave it now, and speak somewhat in praise,  
of such a place, as doth deserve due praise a thousand ways.  
What place is chose as chief to breed the minds delight,  
that was the place wherein I first did gain this Lady's sight:  
Some think for gallant show the Court can have no peer:  
but I more gallant count the place, where first I saw my dear.  
For gold and jewels rich, some speak much of Cheapside,  
but there a jewel, that may make them all their jewels hide:  
Some love in Paul's Churchyard, to spend each day by day,  
to see of learned virtues laws, what ancient writers say:  
The virtues of my book I cannot well declare,  
but I believe what so they be, it shows them all that are:  
It prudence plain descries, it loves no wrong at all,  
it Fortitude doth much commend, but temperate withal:  
I tell you of a book, but trust me 'tis a dame,  
who what I say, in each respect doth well approve the same,  
By virtuous noble mind, by comely courtly grace:  
blessed be the book, worthy the wight, and happy be the place.  
Some counts the Painter's shop, for pictures fair and bright,  
and fine proportions, a place the mind for to delight.  
Then come, and here behold no foolish painted piece,  
but lively dame, that soon may stain Appelles' work in Greece.  
Some think where Music is, that place for to be best,  
the doleful mind for to delight, and set the heart at rest:  
For music sweet (alas) no melody I deem  
so sweet, as my sweet mistress voice, that music I esteem.  
Some think that Gardens sweet, with flowers, herbs, & trees,  
with knots and borders, sets & slips, & such like toys as these,  
To be the chiefest place, for to delight the mind,  
and there do seek in saddest moods, some solace for to find.  
Their judgements like I well, for trust me, I think so,  
that such a place will soon rid the mourning mind of wo.  
And in such place, I mean, in Garden sweet I found  
by sight, the chief of my delight, yet causer of my wound,  
My mistress dear, I mean the comfort of my heart:  
and yet again, by absence now, the causer of my smart.  
By her again, I saw in Garden where she sat,  
fair flowers, sweet herbs, brave trees, fine knots, & borders too, but what,  
Upon my mistress still, was fixed my steadfast eye,  
no flower nor herb, knot, border, tree, could make me look awry:  
until at last, too soon (alas) she went away,  
and then for sorrow how I sighed, for shame I may not say.  
But should I shame myself? thus much I would protest,  
her then departure from my sight, yet breeds my heart's unrest.  
Ha' gallant Garden, yet which once with sweets didst hold  
so brave a dame, whose worthy praise can never well be told:  
It 〈◊〉 gramercy yield, that with the pleasant smell  
of thy sweet flowers couldst find the mean, to keep her there so well.  
But hadst thou kept her still, where now I give thee praise,  
I would in heart have honoured thee, till death should end my days.  
What, could no gallant ant tree, nor yet the pleasant air  
of s●me sweet flower, make her desire again to thee repair?  
Surely some stinking weed among thy herbs doth grow,  
that gives y●● sent, that caused her for to mystic thee so.  
Or from some fruitless tree some Caterpillar fell,  
upon her lap to her mislike, somewhat she liked not well.  
I know not what it was, but many things I doubt,  
but what it was, what so it was I would it had been out.  
If that it were a weed, God soon destroy the root,  
if noisome sight of fruitless tree, God lay it under foot.  
If Caterpillar fell, to work her heart's annoy,  
I crave of God, through all the world such vile worms to destroy:  
And chiefly in that place, that none may there remain,  
if ever she to my delight do chance to come agayve:  
If neither these was cause, I know not what to say,  
but curse thee in my heart, for that thou lettest her go away.  
But since that she is gone, to thee a flat farewell,  
and I myself from pleasant sweets in doleful de● will dwell:  
And thus till she return, quite void of all delight,  
adieu to thee, farewell to her, and foul fall fortunes spite.   
Finis.   

¶ Now by that time this discourse was full finished, it grew somewhat late in the night: whereupon I growing somewhat drowsy, had rather desire to rest then writ any more: whereupon my Muse left me, and I laid me down to sleep, and being a sleep, I suddenly fell into a most strange dream, which in the morning, awake, I called to mind, and as I could, I put it into verse, in order as followeth.   


A piece of a Preface before the dream.  
Strange are the sights that some in sleep shall see,  
and stranger much, then, have been seen by day.  
For proof whereof you here shall hear of me:  
as I of late half in a slumber lay,  
A most strange dream I suddenly fell in:  
which doleful dream, (mark well) did thus begin.   

The dream follows.  

IN luckless land (a woeful tale to tell)  
where never grief of any pleasure grew, 
The lukles●e land.   
Where dire disdain and foul despite do devil:  
and of such churls a currish kind of crew,  
It was my hap (me thought) not long ago, 
The wilderness of wo.   
to travail through the wilderness of woe.   

And walking long about this wilderness,  
at last unto a huge great Heth I came, 
In the wilderness of woe the Heth of h●uines.   
Which Heth was called the Heth of heaviness,  
and sure me thought might right well bear that name:  
For on the same I could see no such thing,  
as any way, might any comfort bring.   

The ground all bore, without or hedge or tree,  
save here and there a Breere or Nettle bush:  
No fruit nor flower, nor herb that I could see, 
The description of the He●●   
nor Grass almost, but here and there a rush:  
And Moss, and Bends, and full of ragged stone,  
and dwelling houses near it near a one.   

Well, 
The first vision.  walking long upon this Heth alone,  
at last I stayd, whereas I heard me thought,  
The voice of one that made a piteous moan,  
and this he said, too long I wretch have sought  
For some relief, but now too late I see,  
there is no hope of comfort left for me.   

And therefore home I backwards will return,  
and draw my days in dole out as I can:  
And stand content perforce to wail and mourn,  
in endless grief (ay me) poor wretched man,  
And with that word, he fetched a sigh so deep,  
as would have made the hardest heart to weep.   

Now hearing thus this waylfull ●oyce, at last  
I cast about his person to espy,  
And by and by, with look more half aghast,  
all skin and bones, as one at point to die,  
This woeful wight (me thought) in piteous plight,  
plodding alone, appeared to my sight.   

And towards me (me thought) he drew so near,  
as I might plain each part of him descry:  
And viewing well his sad and mournful cheer,  
with heavy look, lean face, and hollow eye:  
With Lathlike legs, and carcase worn to bones,  
I heard him fetch full many grievous groans.   

And down he sat upon a ragged stone,  
and sighed, and sobbed, in such a piteous sort:  
As (credit me) of but half his moan,  
it were a world, in kind to make report.  
But to be short, his bitter tears did show,  
his heavy heart abode a world of woe.   

Well, with this sight in mind I heavy grieve,  
yet heavy so, I thought to go and see,  
What he might ail, and yet to tell you true,  
his only sight had half appalled me:  
Yet ne'ertheless, with much ado, at last  
unto the place whereas he sat, I past.   

And coming to the place whereas he sat,  
I spoke to him, and took him by the hand:  
My friend, quoth I, I pray thee tell me what  
may 'cause thee thus in such sad plight to stand  
Alas, quoth he again, with heavy cheer,  
what do I ail? foud wretch what dost thou here   

My silly self am driune by destiny,  
in doleful dumps to spend my weighed days:  
In places, void of pleasant company,  
Oppressed with grief, a thousand sundry ways:  
But how camest thou unto this luckless land,  
And to this place where now I see thee stand.   

I wail thy case, but thou wilt wail it more,  
ere that thou dost get out hence again:  
Hear is no salve to heal the smallest fore,  
nor any help to ease the lightest pain:  
But whosoever here doth catch a grief,  
let him be sure to die without relief.   

Hear is no comfort for the heavy heart,  
nor spark of joy, to cheer the mourning mind:  
Causes enough, to breed an endless smart.  
but healing helps, but few or none to find.  
Hear nothing is, but sorrow, care, and grief,  
and comfort none, nor hope to find relief.   

Aye me (thought I) what kind of speech is this,  
how might I do, to get me hence again?  
With that quoth he, come wretched wight Iwis,  
thou little know●●e as yet (god wots) the pain  
That thou art like, and that ere long to know,  
For thou shalt come into a world of woe.   

At which his words more half amazed in mind,  
I drooping stood, as one at point to die:  
And therewith all (me thought) I 'gan to find,  
more inward grief, than now I can descry.  
In which sad plight as I a while did stand,  
he rose (me thought) and took me by the hand.   

And led me on, along this peevish plain,  
until at last we came unto a hill.  
And there forsooth, me thought we stayed again,  
wherewith quoth he, 
The 〈…〉.  awhile now stay here still,  
And view the heaps of harms that day by day  
do fall to men, to bring them to decay.   

And there (me thought) he showed me first a knight,  
a gallant youth, and sprung of noble race,  
That went to wars, 
〈…〉  and being foiled in fight,  
was captive ta'en, unto his great disgrace,  
And being had, down straight the hill was led,  
bound hand and foot, and hanging down his head.   

Whither he went, that shall you know anon,  
For I in order mean each thing to show,  
And therefore well, 
〈…〉 seen ●ere.  when this same knight was gone,  
there came a sight of rovers on a row,  
Late ta●e at sea, and there no remedy,  
were brought perforce upon three trees to die.   

They once dispatched, 
The third.  I saw a battle fought,  
a town was sack: and man and child was slain,  
The women there the soldiers besought  
to save their children's lives, but all in vain:  
They still were slain, and they that fled away,  
ran down the hill (me thought) an other way.   

Thus gazing long, I cast mine eyes about  
upon the hill, (me thought) an other way,  
And there (me thought) I saw a lusty rout  
of gallant youths, clad all in rich array,  
And suddenly (me thought) a fray began,  
and one against an other fiercely ran.   

Anon (me thought) one had his eyes thrust out,  
an other los●e a leg, and half a hand,  
The third was shrowdely wounded round about, 
The 〈◊〉 fights of 〈…〉.   
another lost both legs, and could not stand,  
Some slain outright, and they that could, away  
ran down the hill, and so 'gan end the fray.   

These youths thus gone, (me thought) I saw hard by, 
The first   
a table stand, and thereon cards, and dise:  
To which (me thought) came gallants presently,  
and drew their bags, and to ●t with a trice  
Anon (me thought) some chafed like men half mad,  
and lost almost each cross of coin they had.   

And they that thus had lost their coin at play,  
with heavy heart 'gan leave the company,  
And down the hill, (me thought) they took their way,  
and looking after them, so by and by  
He thought the rest were gone all every one,  
and Cards, or Dise, or Tables, there was none.   

These men thus gone (me thought) I saw alone,  
a proper man of parsonage, but poor,  
In bevy plight, 
The 〈◊〉 and last seen● 〈◊〉  go making piteous moan,  
half like a man that begged from door to door,  
And yet a man might find well by his face:  
that he was (sure) sprung of no rascal race.   

He likewise took his way down straight the hill,  
plodding alone, God wo● in heavy plight,  
But let him go, as I thus stayed still,  
me thought it grew somewhat dark towards night.  
And staying so, the wretch that stood by me,  
thus said to me: mark here what thou dost see.   

But there, I saw hard haps a thousand more,  
than here I can almost well call to mind,  
But with those sights in heart aggrieved sore:  
and yet in 〈◊〉 more such sad sights to find,  
Amazed I stood, as one more half aghast,  
to see the haps that on that hill had past.   

And standing so, alas my friend, quoth I,  
what dost thou call the name of this same hill?  
Hill of hard hap they call it commonly,  
where none do come, but sore against their will●  
Thus is it called, quoth he, but now (alas)  
thyself art like along this Hill to pass.   

And to be short, along on still we went,  
and to the hill we onwards took our way:  
And sure I know not what the matter ment,  
but the foot path (me thought) I went in, lay  
Directly so, as he that made such moan,  
crossed the path before me all alone.   

Well on we went upon this hapless hill, 
〈◊〉 vale 〈◊〉.   
until at last we came unto a vale,  
Where I may say, I was against my will:  
for I will tell you the most doleful tale,  
Of that I saw, that ever any man,  
doubtless did see, since first the world began.   

First there I saw dark prisons built of stone, 
he miser's seen ●re.   
with iron bars, and bolts, and fetters cold:  
And many a one that made a piteous moan:  
that lay in them (against their wills) in hold.  
Among the rest (alas) a piteous sight, 
〈◊〉   
me thought I saw the gallant youthful knight,   

That bound, was le● along the hill before,  
in dungeon deep close kept and settered fast:  
Where all in vain his hap lamenting sor●,  
in sobbing sighs his loathsome life he passed:  
A piteous sight, believe me, for to see,  
so brave a youth in such a state as he.   

In other prisons saw I many lie, 
Second sight of mis●ry●●   
some men for debt, and some for robbery:  
Some men sore sick, almost at point to die,  
some begged in holes, in extreme misery:  
And many more in such a rueful sort,  
as for my life I cannot make report.   

Now next me thought I saw lame Cripples poor,  
that limping went and begged for Christ his sake: 
Third.   
That had lived well, now begged from door to door:  
and few or none, of them would pity take,  
But still they went lamenting of their grief  
to many one, but could get no relief.   

Among the rest, me thought I did espy  
some of those youths that fought upon the hill, 
forth.   
With wooden legs, and some but with one eye,  
go begging food, their hungry guts to fill:  
Lamenting there, but God wot all to late,  
their froward hap, and their such wretched state.   

But let them be, than saw I more (alas)  
a piteous sight, believe me, for to see,  
With bitter tears and cries poor women pass,  
more half distraught, along the vale by me:  
And sure me thought the moan that they did make,  
with very grief did make my heart to ache.   

Which viewing well, me thought I plain did see,  
the women, that went running from the town  
That late was sack, go to and fro by me,  
with sighs and sobs, and heads all hanging down, 
〈◊〉   
Lamenting sore, but God wots all in vain,  
the loss of goods, and child, and husband slain.   

Then saw I more some men in wretched state,  
quite movilesse, and ill apparelled:  
That wealthy were, and lived at ease of late, 
〈◊〉   
now had no lodge wherein to hide their head,  
But raged and torn, without or coin or friend,  
in beggars state, were like their lives to end.   

Among the which, (me thought) I saw at last,  
the youths that lost their coin at dise of late,  
Now grown so poor, 
Eight.  as had no coin to waste,  
but begging went, in miserable state:  
A grievous sight to see such youths as they,  
so suddenly, to fall to such decay.   

But let them go, then further saw I next,  
a doleful sight, and that did grieve me sore:  
Wherewith (me thought) I was so sore perplexte,  
as naught I saw (me thought) did grieve me more: 
〈◊〉.   
Which sight was this, (me thought) I plain did see,  
a man alone, come plodding hard by me.   

Which man me thought, seemed doubtless to be he,  
that all alone, I saw go down the hill: 
Tenth. And last seen 〈◊〉.   
And this he said, ah wretched wretch, (ay me)  
the heavy heart, what will no sorrow kill,  
But shall I thus still pine, in endless woe?  
have destinies decreed it shallbe so?   

What didst thou mean to leave thy native soil,  
thy lands, and goods, and parents, kith and kin?  
And take in hand this tough and tedious 〈◊〉,  
and now abide the state that thou art in●  
Hath little love, fond wretch subdued thee so?  
to drive thee into such a world of w●e?   

Yea, luckeles love hath only bred my hale,  
the force of love, perforce hath conquered me:  
And driune me now, into this doleful dale,  
where I can yet no kind of comfort see:  
But here am like, bereft of all delight,  
to end my days, in dumps of deep despite.   

I travail here to tire my reffles mind,  
that being tired perforce might fall to rest:  
But here (alas) no place of rest I find,  
but still must walk, with endless woes oppressed:  
Well may I sigh, and sob, and wail, and weep,  
but waking woes will never let me sleep.   

Yet rest I must, there is no remedy,  
but where might I go seek a resting place?  
O Lord that I could find some lodging nigh,  
or cottage poor, yea were it near so base:  
But well I see, since none I here can have,  
I will go see, if I can found a cave.   

And therewithal, me thought, he went away,  
towards the foot of hard haps hill hard by,  
Whereas a while (me thought) I saw him stay,  
with sighing sobs lamenting ruefully:  
But mourning so, I wo● not how anon,  
I looked aside, and he (me thought) was gone.   

Which musing at, of him that was with me,  
me thought I asked whither he might be gone.  
To which he said, come on and thou shall see:  
for I will bring thee to the place anon.  
And by and by (ere I was w●re) me thought,  
unto the place he me directly brought.   

Where being come, me thought I 'gan espy,  
a foul dark hole, full loathsome to behold:  
Yet ne'ertheless we went in presently,  
but being in, me thought it was so cold,  
That all my limbs, with cold did almost quake,  
And even my heart with very cold did ache.   

The cave me thought was large, and somewhat round,  
made in proportion much like a man's head:  
Where walking long, 
The ca●e of care. Under hard hap● b●ll.  anon me thought I found,  
sitting alone, a man almost half dead,  
With wrinkled brows, and hollow watery eyes,  
reading a book in very doleful wise.   

And by and by, me thought, I plain did see,  
the man again whose sight I late had lost:  
With book in hand, as heavy as might be,  
at study close, with carcase like a ghost,  
Uttering these words, o courteous care I crave,  
now let me see what lesson I must have.   

Wherewith me thought the man with watery eyes,  
and scowling brows that seemed so like a ghost, 
〈◊〉   
'Gan take a book, and when in wailful wise,  
a thousand leaves he to and fro had tossed:  
He answered this, no lesson here I find,  
in this distress, that may relieve thy mind.   

With that me though the rose, and took his way,  
within the cave, but whither, let that pass:  
And of the rest that in the cave did stay,  
let me say somewhat, of their state alas:  
Some proper youths, and some fair gallant Dames,  
which well I knew, but now forget their names.   

To these poor souls this man half like a ghost, 
The book● of 〈◊〉   
who as I learned by name was called Care,  
'Gan lessons reed, of which I think the most  
were, of the brain the virtues to declare:  
Which whom they served out of the cave they ran,  
the rest 'gan follow all, the wo●ull man   

That went before along this wretched cave,  
tormented sore in great and deep distress:  
And sought in vain the thing he could not have  
unto his grief to find some sweet redress,  
But where think you, they found him at the last?  
where all good hope of comfort quite was paste.   

sitting (alas) upon a sorry seat  
by a poor soul close by a smoky fire 
Seat of sorrow in cave of care under ha●d haps 〈◊〉.   
And neither crumb of either bread or meat  
they had (alas) nor ought they did desire:  
But weeping sat with sighs and sobs so deep,  
as would have made a stony heart to weep.   

Upon which seat in letters fair to reed  
was written this in vale of misery:  
In cave of care, a doleful den in deed,  
is sorrows seat, and that vile wretch am I.  
And that was he, right over there whose head  
did stand this solemn sentence, to be red.   

Well on this seat they sat all down anon,  
and I (me thought) sat down among the rest. 
〈…〉   
But (credit me) desirous to be gone  
I felt my heart with grief so sore oppressed:  
But credit me, desirous to be gone,  
I felt my heart, with grief so sore oppressed.  
But what of that? I could not as I would,  
and therefore there must bide still, as I could.   

And sitting there, it were a world to tell,  
the sundry sorts of sorrows I did see: 
Sundry sorrows.   
But credit me, if that there be a hell,  
doubtless I think that it, if any be  
Such, and so many were the sorrows there,  
as sure the like are to be seen no where.   

There saw I some, to tear their flesh for grief,  
some sigh, and sob, some beating of their breast,  
Some crying out, for some spark of relief,  
some more half dead, and not one man at rest,  
For diverse causes, some for loss of love,  
and they were worst, that such sore pangs did prove.   

Some did in vain the loss of friends lament,  
some loss of Lands, some husband, and some wife,  
Some of the wealth that they in waist had spent,  
and every man quite weary of his life.  
But those that wailed their loss of love, alas,  
of all the pangs (me thought) yet they did pass.   

For one of them that lost their lady's love,  
in jewels ware their Mystris counterfeit  
The sight whereof such sudden grief did move,  
as though before, his grief was very great,  
And such in deed as did torment him sore,  
yet sight of that, did make it ten times more.   

Some other thought upon their luckeles love,  
and then with tears would sigh, in piteous sort,  
And diverse ways such sudden pangs did prove,  
as for my life I cannot make report:  
I want the skill to set out half in kind,  
the sundry sorrows, that I there did find.   

But this I say, I think there is no pain,  
no kind of grief of body nor of mind, 
The greatest sorrow grief of love.   
No secret pang, but there appeareth plain,  
and every man, that cometh there may find:  
And as I said, so now I say again,  
the pangs of love do breed the greatest pain.   

Well, sitting thus, aside I cast mine eye, 
Dungeon of Despair. Once in   
and there me thought, I saw a dungeon deep,  
And on the wall, was written but hard by,  
this is the dungeon, that despair doth keep:  
Who cometh here, till death shall pine in pain,  
and once come in, gets never out again.   

And therewithal, a door was opened,  
and one or two went in there presently,  
But having scarcely well put in their head,  
they wrong their hands, and made a p●●eous cry,  
And suddenly, did such a shrieking make,  
as made me start, and therewithal awake.   

And then awake I 'gan to call to mind,  
this vision strange, 
Sudden waking.  that thus appeared to me:  
Theffect of which, who so could justly find,  
I do not doubt some matter rare should see:  
And thus I end, when worldly woes are past,  
God sand us all the joys of heaven at last.   
Finis.    

¶ This doleful discourse, of this drowsy dream being finished, my Muse that left me over night, came to me again, and ●●●ught to my mind the delicate Lady whom I took view of in a Garden of which Garden (for her sake,) I wrote my mind at my coming to my lodging, as before my dream doth here appear▪ the remembrance of whose heavenly hue, with perfect proportion of e●he part from top to toe, with most ●are inward virtues (greatly guessed and almost plainly perceived by outward countenance) set me of the sudden in such a pe●ple vitie, as more half in a maze my Muse willed me presently to writ thus madly of my passion as you see, which was as followeth.   


WHat hap so hard, as luckless lots of love?  
what irksome time, to lovers doleful days?  
What griping griefs, to pangs that lovers prove?  
what travail tough, to lovers weary ways?  
What doleful doom, to lovers froward fate?  
what loathsome life, to wretched lovers state?   

Lo, such a life lead I, though 'gainst my will,  
I live quoth I, no not, I die, I die:  
I die quoth I, no not, I live still, still.  
I dying live, that wretched life lead I,  
I loath the days that thus in dole I spend:  
and yet again not wish them at an end.   

Yet ●●uld I wish my sorrow some redress,  
and would be glad that all my dole were done:  
But would not wish my life one half hour less:  
though all my griefs were yet anew begun.  
For only love hath bred me this unrest,  
and I of force must yield unto his hest.   

My liking first did breed my luckless love,  
and love again hath bred my malady,  
My malady doth breed the pangs I prove,  
the pangs I prove do find no remedy.  
Yet must I live, and may not wish to die,  
to end my griefs, O what a life lead I?   
Finis.   

¶ A dialogue between a lover, an his beloved.  

The lover to his Lady.  
IF due deserts may reap desires,  
good madam, grant me my reward:  
If reason yield, that right requires,  
then let my suit at last be hard:  
If neither these will serve, why than,  
for pities sake hear a poor man.   

Her answer.  
Deserts (be sure) will reap desire,  
if you of me deserve reward,  
What reasonably you will require,  
I am content, you shallbe hard:  
And last of all, for pities sake,  
let's see, I pray, what moan you make.   

The lover to his Lady.  
The thing good Lady I desire,  
is favour yours, which I deserve,  
The thing by reason I require,  
is due reward to those that serve:  
The thing for pities sake I crave,  
is comfort to my grief to have.   

Her answer.  
My favour that you so desire,  
I cannot see how you deserve:  
●●e doth my reason yet require,  
that all should have reward that serve:  
Ne yet thy sickness such I see,  
as should me move to pity thee.   

His reply.  
Let pity then regard procure,  
where is at all no due desert,  
And lend some comfort, for to cure  
the sick, that pines in secret smart:  
And then will reason justly say,  
that you are noble every way.   

Her answer.  
No sir, reason doth give, you say,  
of right, reward to due desert,  
Then if that you can show some way,  
for to deserve some ease of smart,  
Doubt not, but pity will procure  
some kind of salve, your sore to cure.   

His reply.  
I think good Lady I deserve,  
in that in deed I do desire:  
And if the poor man that doth serve,  
by reason may reward require,  
Then both by reason, and desert,  
I may crave pity for my part.   

Her answer.  
In that you do in deed desire,  
your truth is for to be regarded:  
And reason likewise doth require,  
that service true, should be rewarded,  
And pity saith, the poorest man  
must be relieved, now and than.   

His reply.  
In humble wise, than I desire,  
regard my truth, reward the same,  
Let humble reason eke require  
your favour so deserved, fair Da●e,  
And pity me poor man God wots,  
that lives (alas) but ioieth not.   

Her Answer, and so an end.  
Then thus I grant thee thy desire,  
my favour friendly, what I may,  
But if that further you require,  
by reason I must say you nay,  
Till pity move me to regard,  
to give a poor man his reward.   
Finis.   

¶ Now this Gentleman one day standing in a great muse of his Mystris, and in a strange perplexity for the love of her, suddenly start out of his study, and being alone in his Chamber, took Pen and Ink and Paper, and in half a mad mood, wrote upon the state of lovers: which I (having some acquaintance with him) one day coming in to his Chamber found ling in his window, which having read over, I bore in mind as I could, yet having almost forgotten it, my Muse brought it again to my remembrance, and made me write as followeth: which though it were imperfect, and not full finished, yet for that it somewhat liked me, I have here placed it with other imperfections.   


O bitter bale that wretched lovers bide,  
now well, now ill, now up, now down again:  
Now clime, now fall, now stand, now backward slide,  
now joy with hope, now faint with fear again:  
Now simile, now sigh, now sing, now seem to cry,  
now well in health, now sick, now live, now die.   

And as their joys by divers means arise,  
even so their griefs, of sundry causes grow:  
Some joy to gaze upon their Lady's eyes,  
and think in deed, they make a heaunely show,  
Some more do mark the feature of their face,  
some most will view her comely gallant grace.   

Some greatly note the colour of her hear,  
some view her body, some her heart, some arm:  
Some leg, some foot, and some look every where,  
but how now? soft, why faith I mean no harm:  
I do but speak of lovers day delight,  
for in the dark, you know there is no sight.   

Now as their joys, so see what sorrows spring,  
even of those things that wrought the hearts delight,  
First from the eyes, which as to some they bring  
a heaunely joy, so breed they others spite,  
For all one face, can as well laugh as lower,  
by which such looks, it yields both sweet and sour.   

For proof (alas) my silly self I vow,  
a smiling look doth much my heart revive:  
And let me see my Lady knit her brow,  
that frown my heart into despair doth drive.  
Thus to be brief, my mistress only eye,  
may make the mean to make me live or die.   
Finis.   

¶ Not long after he had written these verses, his Mystris upon a coy conceit, began to frown on him, and give him very evil countenance, which he perceiving, made many means to move her to pity, but when nothing would serve his turn, he in great grief one day sitting alone in his Chamber, wrote in lamenting verse these lines following, which being my chance to read, my Muse brought me now in remembrance of, and willed me to writ as followeth.   


IF wailful words might any pity move,  
or sighs, or sobs, or daily bitter tears:  
Then might my bale bewray to my behoof,  
the wretched state, wherein my life it wears:  
But what will me prevail to show my grief?  
when I am sure to die without relief.   

For peevish pride possesseth pities place,  
and rigour rules where sweet remorse did reign:  
Disdain is grown so great with beaulties grace,  
that humble suit can now no favour gain:  
A froward change (more pity) God he knows,  
that gentle dames should grow such stately shrew's.   

But since the world is grown to such a pass,  
that courtesy is changed to cruelty,  
And malice lurks where open meekness was,  
●nd frowns do stand for friendly amity:  
I must (ay me) perforce content remain,  
until the world do change one we again.   

Or else, be sure to keep myself aloof,  
where Bullet shot of big looks flee I see:  
Or armour make of patience of proof,  
to break their force that may hap light on me  
And when I see that all the shot are past,  
then live in hope, that she will yield at last.   
Finis.   

¶ Not many days after, this youth languishing daily, for lack of his Mistress love, willing to let his Mistress understand of the woe he abode, and daily lived in for her sake: One day in Verse he wrote his mind unto her, And found means to deliver it unto her. Which how she received or requited, I must not reveal, let it suffice that I only came by the Verses, and that fryendlye I lend them you to read, which are these that follow.   

BEhold I crave o noble dame no feigned painted tale,  
but read in deed a true discourse of the most bitter bale,  
That ever any man abode, since first the world began,  
which wretched state, (alas) is ●●ine, and I that woeful man.  
I can not show in kind the sum of all my smart,  
no pen can paint, nor tongue can tell the torments of my heart,  
No heart almost can think, nor mind conceive but mine,  
how there should grow such passing pangs as those wherein I pine,  
But my poor heart doth feel, & mind conceives to well,  
although my tongue doth want the skill in order how to tell,  
Yet thus much I can say, no bale but I abide,  
no pleasure that in all the world, but is to me denied,  
And if above all griefs, a secret grief there be,  
that rests in one odd man alone, that sure doth rest in me:  
And for to show good proof that it must needs be so,  
my wretched state may witness well, in me a world of woe:  
The ●aies I pass in dumps, in doleful dreams the nights,  
each minute of an hour, in moan, quite void of all delights,  
My heavy heart is furst with sorrow so oppressed,  
as never rests, but beats, and throbs within my woeful breast.  
And when in mind I toss the torments of my heart,  
I ●●gh, I sob, I wail, and weep, and so augment my smart:  
And mourning daily thus, my brain distempers so,  
as makes me hung even like a log my head, whereas I go.  
Mine eyes with shedding tears grow hollow in my head:  
my flesh is fallen, skin grown to bones, & like a man half dead,  
I still consume with care, and thus quite worn with woe,  
I linger forth a loathsome life, the Lord of heaven doth know▪  
What shall I say? my heart is so oppressed with grief,  
as all the pleasures in this world can lend me no relief,  
Save only one (alas) which one, I fear will see,  
me die for sorrow for her sake, ere she will pity me:  
Alas what have I said, and is it then a she?  
yea sure it is, now judge yourself what she this she may be.  
But what hard heart had she that saw my sorrow such,  
and could relieve me in this case, & her good will would grudge?  
Believe me now I vow, thou art that only she,  
who wrought my woe, and in my woe can only comfort me:  
Yea thou dear dame art she, for whom such thought I take,  
and for the want of thy sweet love it is such moan I make.  
Be not then hard of heart, but some sweet comfort lend,  
unto this heavy heart of mine, whose life is near at end:  
That I may justly say in heart yet before I die,  
I found a friend of noble mind, in mine extremity.  
And if it be my hap to live, o noble dame,  
them I may say, thou saudste my life, for sure thou dost the same.  
Consider of my case, and when you see me next,  
some sign of comfort show to him, that is thus sore perplexed.  
Until which time dear dame, and till last gasp of breath:  
farewell from him who looks from thee, for cause of life or death.  
In haste God sand good speed, from me thy servant true,  
receive these lamentable lines, and so sweet soul adieu.  
By him who rests, at thy relief,  
to live in joy, or pine in grief.  
Finis.   

NOw I am sure you think the man was in a marvelous taking when he wrote, and doubtless so he was, and so let him be, till God sand him better hap by desert to get favour of his Mystris, or present death, too rid him out of his perplexities: for I am sure, that he would rather wish for, then long to remain in the wretched state that now he every way stands in. But since my wishes can neither do him good, nor he himself can find no means too get ease of grief, I refer him to the help of God, who can help every man that trusteth in him, and prayeth for his help: and so, letting him rest in his perplexity, till God only cende him deliverance, I leave to writ now any further of him or his passions.  
Finis.   

¶ A pretty tale with the Moral upon the same.  

A preface.  

IN feigned tales a man sometime may find,  
in secret sort some pretty matter ment:  
Which meanings often when they are found in kind,  
they breed too some, yea many minds content,  
For proof whereof, myself a tale will tell,  
I read of late, that liked me very well.    

¶ The Tale.  

A Stout strong Oak, grew by a river side:  
by which hard by, there grew a weak small reed:  
The stately Oak, full puffed up which pride,  
disdained to stand so near so weak a weed.  
And in old time, when trees, and stones could speak,  
thus to the reed he 'gan his stomach break.   

Thou peevish thing, and apish wretch (quoth he)  
What dost thee here? such neighbours I disdain,  
Which too and fro, thus tossed still I see,  
as every wave would seem too rend in twain.  
I see right well, thou art to base of mind,  
to stoop so low, at every puff of wind.   

The simple reed still wagging to and fro,  
'gan answer thus, ah gallant sir quoth he:  
None of us both our ends (as yet) do know,  
you may in time, come lie along by me:  
Content yourself, I pray you let me stand  
with in your ditch, I trouble not your land.   

Contending thus, a sudden tempest came,  
and to be short, down fell this lusty tree:  
The little reed beholding of the same,  
alas Good sir: what do you here quoth he?  
Of all your strength, what may now becumme?  
to which the Oak could answer naught, but numb.   

His heart was burst, and there stark dead he lay,  
the reed he lived, and grew there gallant still,  
The Oak so burst, the Landlord bore away,  
and then the reed had all the world at will,  
Until with age he grew so very dry,  
that sap did want, a●d then he needs must die.   

And farewell he, and so the tale did end,  
which though in deed, a feigned toy it was,  
Yet he that marks, whereto the same doth tend,  
may find Iwis, that simple souls alas,  
Do hold up head, when gallant sir doth fall,  
and breaks perhaps, both head, and heart, and all.    
Finis.   

¶ An other pretty Tale of a pigeon, and an Ant, with the Moral upon the same.  

A Dove sometime did sit upon a tree,  
which grew, by chance, hard by a water spring,  
Where pretty fool, as Pigeons natures (be)  
she pruning sat, and pecking of her wing,  
And being fair, when all her work was done,  
she cooing sat, with breast against the son.   

But ere she slept, about she 'gan to pry,  
for fear some foe would bid her to a feast,  
And prying so, down right she cast her eye,  
and there she saw a pretty little beast,  
By froward hap, but how I can not tell,  
a little Ante into the water fell:   

And there was like in danger deep to drown,  
which when the dove, a little while beheld,  
A little twig, by chaume she broke her down,  
to climb the bank, some help thereby to yield:  
And by good hap, but with a little pain,  
it served so well, as helpde her out again.   

Then slept the dove, the aunt she crept about,  
and dried herself, against the glozing son,  
But suddenly, see what a chance fell out,  
a fouler lo, to set his nets begun,  
To catch the dove, that sat upon the tree:  
which when the Ant, the pretty wretch did see,   

she slily crept into the fowlers shoe  
and there, so hard she bitten him by the heel,  
As he in rage not knowing what too do,  
the smart was such, that he thereby did feel,  
●s he there with his engines 'gan let fall,  
and so both lost his labour, cost, and all.   

For with the noise the pigeon 'gan awake,  
and so awake, the fouler did descry,  
And so descried, her flight away did take,  
and so by hap, did save herself thereby:  
The Ant again she s●●ly crept away,  
into the grass, where hid from hurt she lay.   
Finis.   

The Moral.  

NOw see, what matter this old toy contains,  
betwixt beasts and birds, behold what thankful mind,  
And yet betwixt men, ungrateful some remains,  
yea moste perhaps, where they most good do find:  
Which proves, (me thinks) a pity not the least,  
to see a man worse natured then a beast.    

¶ An odd greeting, and as mad a wooing between a clown of the country, and his sweet heart. Whose names were Simon and Susan. Simon overtaking his foresaid sweet Susan, having some former acquaintance with her, and yet not all so frolyke, as to clap her on the lippse in a cold morning after the country fashion, went cunningly as he durst to work with her: saluting her with some friendly speech, which she as handsomely answered. The words between them were these that follow: I laughed at them heartily when I heard them, and I persuade myself, that some that read this record of them, will smile a little at it, be they never so solemn. I pend them for mine own pleasure. I hope they will displease none, who likes not the reading of it, turn over the leaf, and you shall find somewhat else to your contentment. Well, to the matter, though women are commonly full of tongue, and ready of speech, yet when they are wooed, they must be first spoken to, or else they will condemn their wooer for a fool: and therefore Simson having on his considering cap, although not a man of the greatest capacity, yet as his audacity served him, he boldly broke forth into this salutation.   
Simon. 
Fair maid well overta'en, what? whither now so fast?  Sus. 
To market Sim. 'tis nine a clock, had not I need make haste:  Sim. 
But sof●e fire makes sweet malt, ●ush you take to much pain.  Sus. 
The world is hard, they must take pain that look for any gain.  Sim. 
Well said, but what? me thinks you gin to thrive to soon.  Sus. 
Who lies in bed till Dinner time, gains little after noo●e.  Sim. 
Why then betimes is best each matter to begin.  Sus. 
Who letteth s●ppe convenient time, is little like to win:  Sim. 
O but how should one find that same convenient time?  Sus. 
Why 'tis no more, but taking May, While it is in the prime.  Sim. 
May grows on every bush, and Time is common too.  Sus. 
But that May is not worth a rush: that Time will little do.  Sim. 
Why what, are there more Mayes? and more times to them one?  Sus. 
So I have heard, but for myself, sure I can tell of none.  Sim. 
I pray thee, tell me  Sus. 
What times and May's they be?  Sus. 
I told thee once: I know them not, then ask no more of me.  Sim. 
Yet one thing would I crave, if that with leave I may:  Sus. 
I am content too answer you, so that no harm you say.  Sim. 
If that my words offend, think them against my william.  Sus. 
Then be advised before you speak, else keep your words in stil.  Sim. 
I may think to speak well, yet may be ta'en amiss,  Sus. 
Speak plain, and I will take you right, in dark speech doubt there is.  Sim. 
Yet plainness now a days is counted patchery.  Sus. 
Yet plainness with plain folks is best, as such as you, & I  Sim. 
Then plainly let me know: what means that May in prime.  Sus. 
I told you once, it is no more, but taking time in tyme.  Sim. 
In deed time wisely ta'en, brings many things to pass.  Sus. 
Then who doth lose convenient time, may well be thought an ass.  Sim. 
How happy is that man whom time doth serve a right?  Sus. 
And he whom no time fitly serves, unhappy is that wight.  Sim. 
Fortune is friend to fools, and wise men have ill hap.  Sus. 
But wise men warily will watch, to sit in fortune's lap.  Sim. 
Some men may watch and wait, yet near a whit the near.  Sus. 
Who lies and sleeps in sowing time, shall reap small gain that year.  Sim. 
And yet who sows too soon, at reaping will repent.  Sus. 
Better too soon yet then too late, when all the year is spent.  Sim. 
The grain that first is sown, I trow be called Rye.  Sus. 
But knavish weeds so choke that corn, it proves but trumpery.  Sim. 
What say you then of Oats? they must be latest sown.  Sus. 
But some will sow them first of all, and mow them scarce half grown.  Sim. 
Well, but Oats sown in time, will prove a pretty grain.  Sus. 
But who doth seek to sow wild Oats, shall reap but little gain.  Sim. 
In deed I think wild Oats, are scarcely worth the mowing.  Sus. 
And yet I see young husbandmen, do think them worth the sowing.  Sim. 
Among good Oats perhaps they sow some now and then.  Sus. 
But who doth sow the good with bad, is no good husbandman.  Sim. 
Perhaps too unawares, they sow some here and there.  Sus. 
How they are sown I know not, but they come up every where.  Sim. 
When they are sown with Rye, they rankest grow in deed.  Sus. 
Well it is pity for to sow such trash, among good seed.  Sim. 
Why? then is Rye good corn?  Sus. 
Yea, if it be right grain.  Sim. 
If otherwise what then?  Sus. 
Why then, I eat my word again.  Sus. 
But go to Sim. in faith me thinks I smell a Rat.  Sim. 
A Rat my wench, I pray thee say, what dost thou mean by that.  Sus. 
Nay softly Sim. a while, I leave you that to guess.  Sim. 
I guess thee an unhappy Girl, and thou wilt prove no less.  Sus. 
Why I thank God, I had no great ill hap of late.  Sim. 
Go to I say, I see iwis, thou hast a shrewishe pate.  Sus. 
You guess me by yourself, I am content to bear it.  Sim. 
Bear it good Sus, yea and more to then this, I no whit fear it.  Sus. 
How mean you bearing Sim. although I bear with you,  
yet will I bear no more than needs, with none I tell you true.  Sim. 
No reason, marry wench, you are my friend I see.  
that having been so bold with you, that you will bear with me.  Sus. 
Think not I am your foe, and though I be a shrew,  
a shrew is better than a sheep, you will confess I trow.  Sim. 
Such gentle shrew's as you, are to be borne withal.  Sus. 
You never tried my shrowishnes,  Sim. 
but yet I guess it small.  Sus. 
I heard my father once say, sitting at his Table,  
a shrew profitable, might serve a man reasonable.  Sim. 
Well said  Sus. 
for yourself, but leaving of your jest,  
will you a matter answer, that I would of you request?  Sus. 
Yea  Sim. 
that I william.  Sim. 
then.  Susan 
let me know  Si. 
What thou dost mean, I pray thee now to say, that such a shrew  
as profit brings, might any man of reason well content,  
what ere your father's words did mean, would I knew what you ment.  Sus. 
I mean plain as I said, such shrew's as profit bring,  
may men of reason well content, I meant none other thing.  Sim. 
Yes  Sus. 
if I were sure, I might no whit offend,  
I could perhaps give a shroud guess whereto your words do tend.  Sus. 
Why Simon say thy mind, I freely give thee leave.  Sim. 
Why then my wench, I tell thee plain, I thus much do conceive▪  
I am, as well thou know'st, my father's only son,  
thou know'st again, how madly I my youthful race have run,  
and now I think thou seest, how I begin to thrive,  
and thriving now you may suspect, that I would seek to wife:  
and seeking now to wife, I better were to choose,  
a shrowishe wench, then sheepish shut, which reason would refuse.  Sus. 
In deed you miss not much, for he that well doth know  
the difference twixt shrew's & sheep, will choose the woman shrew.  Sim. 
Yet I have heard some say, that both in charge do keep,  
they found more ease, and profit to, by keeping of their sheep.  Sus. 
But take my meaning right, and I can easily show,  
how that a sheep can not compare in goodness with a shrew.  Sim. 
I pray thee say thy mind, that reason would I see:  
betwixt shrew's & sheep, to make plain proof, that shrews should better be.  Sus. 
Then Simon mark my words, a shrew may have a face,  
as fair as sheep, and fairer too, and bear as good a grace.  Sin. 
Yet some will say that shrew's, are long chinned, & sharp nos●e,  
and froward frowning mars their face, when they are il disposed.  Sus. 
But frowns are quickly gone: when sullen skouling sheep  
will pout and swell, and in their minds will malice longer keep.  Sim. 
Not: sheep are kind of heart, who rather seem to die,  
to have unkindness offered them, than skoule so sulleinly.  Sus. 
Yea, some I think in deed, put finger in the eye,  
to counterfeit good nature so, sometime without cause why.  Sim. 
Yea say you so, in deed, have women such odd shifts?  Sus. 
Yea men and women both, sometime do use deceitful drifts.  
But as I said of shrew's, although they frown a while,  
yet by and by their anger past, they will as kindly smile.  Sim. 
In deed  Sus. 
sullen sheep are worse than any shrew's,  
but of the two if one must choose, the choice is hard God knows,  
Yet wench I pray thee, on some other reason show,  
to show the badness of a sheep, and goodness of a shrew.  Sus. 
Why? Shrew's will save a sheep, and gain perhaps a Hog,  
when sheep can scarcely save themselves, without the shepherd's Dog  Sim. 
Sheep do naught but give suck unto the little Lamme,  
and if she be a lamb herself, than she must after dam.  
and if she be well kept, perhaps she will seem fair,  
but if she fall a little sick, her beauty soon will pair.  
Besides, they subject are to many sicknesses,  
the cough, the rot, and many more too tedious to express,  
and if they fall once sick, what cost with physic then?  
such cost, as if they lie long sick, vndooeth many men.  
And yet when all is done, the peevish hilding die,  
and then must mourn, for losing of a foolish harlotry.  Sus. 
When shrew's can tend the sheep, and look unto the lamb,  
and now and then as duty wills, they will unto the dam,  
and when they find themselves or sick or ill at ease,  
a pint of Malmsey physic is, that cureth their disease.  
a cup of ale and grains, a posset of good sack,  
will make them merry at the heart, and strengthen well the back.  
and more half dead to day, tomorrow up again,  
about the house, as merry as if they had forgot the pain:  
not puling like a 〈◊〉, that if her finger ache,  
Must have her dinner in her bed with a white buttarde Cake,  
And for a se●●ightes space, keep her bed every day,  
And so do spend her husbands thriht, and take no care which way.  
And when she comes abroad, go puling up and down,  
Husband in faith I am not well, when make you up my Gown?  
Shall I go like proud every day, and Sundays in the same?  
Good  Sim. 
if you serve me so you are too much too blame.  
And thus gay gear is all, they set their minds upon:  
But think not how the world will go, when coin is spent & gone.  
Now many other things, I could as easily show,  
To prove a sheep may not compare in goodness with a shrew.  Sim. 
Berlady  Sus. 
well said, thy reasons well approve  
Commodious shrew's, far more than sheep do justly merit love:  
And wert thou such a shrew, as so wouldst save a sheep,  
I soon would wish myself the charge, so good a shrew to keep.  Sus. 
If, and, or, but, and such, are words for Lawyers fit:  
Who will not venture at a mark, is never like to hit.  
Of women sheep from shrew's are hard to be espied:  
What thing can perfectly be known, till it be thoroughly tried.  Sim. 
Naught venture nothing have, in deed so some will say,  
But some in venturing often to far, do work their own decay:  
And he that takes in hand to venture on a wife,  
Is like to gain, by venturing so, a woe or joyful life:  
Now then ere a man choose, he had need well to know  
The disposition of his wife, if she be sheep or shrew.  
But to the purpose  Su. 
that first I meant to say,  
And that which was the only cause, that made me come this way:  
For to be plain, is this, be thou or sheep or shrew,  
A sheep thou art not out of doubt, nor greatly shrew I trow.  
This is my mind my wench, now I would seek to thrive,  
And that I think no man can do, unless he seek to wive,  
And having now desire to wed, and take to wise a wi●e,  
With whom to live upon mine own, and lead an honest life,  
And yet not having set my love on any one,  
Mine own good Susan, now that we be both here all alone,  
I pray thee tell me now, could such a shrew as thou,  
Content thyself with such a sheep as I, how sayst thou now?  Sus. 
A sheep, nay by the Rood, I rather would have guessed  
you, more a Hog like, than a sheep: But touching your request,  
I thus do answer you: it lies not in my hand:  
What pleaseth God, I must of force with that contented stand.  
And if you can content yourself to match with me,  
I do not think a matter small should make us disagree.  Sim. 
Give me thy hand of that.  Sus. 
Nay soft, bar hands I pray,  Sim. 
No hand? why then, I see we shall no bargain make to day.  Sus. 
Bargain? why no.  Sim. 
soft, what bargain should we make?  
I have no ware for you, I must at market money take.  Sim. 
Yet would I cope with you for some ware that you have,  
that you will not at market sell. But pray thee let me crave,  
thus much yet at thy hands, thou wilt not angry be,  
what ere I say, for in good sooth, I do but jest with thee.  Sus. 
Then if you do but jest, it may be as you say,  
we are not like as I do think, to bargain sure to day.  Sim. 
Tush Susan you take me wrong, I swear unsaignedly,  
give me thy hand, and we will make a bargain by and by.  Sus. 
O Sim. I say bar hands, let's hear the matter f●rst,  
For some I know with wring hands, their giving hands have cursed.  
But say your mind, and then I will contented stand,  
if that I like the bargain well, to let thee have my hand.  Sim. 
Then bargain we or not, the matter wench is this:  
I fain would have the for my wife: what, shall I hit or miss?  
If well thou canst content thyself to match with me,  
give me thy hand and here is mine, and we will soon agreed.  Sus. 
Sayest thou so Sim? Content. Here hold and have my hand.  Sim. 
A bargain then.  Sus. 
Right willingly I do contented stand.  Sus. 
Let us to market then, there shall I meet my Neame,  
about eleven a clock lets meett●, ●nd eat a ●●sse of Cream.  
At the old Sarsins head be there and slay for me,  
by then my market will be done, and I will come to thee.  Sim. 
Contented wench, and bring thy brother to,  
we will be merry, and w●ll have a quart of wine or two.  
A mess of Serwaberies, and Cherries, and good cheer,  
and so farewell, 'tis forward days, the clock strikes 〈◊〉 I hear.  
Thus parxed  Sim. 
and  Su. 
to market goes the maid,  
to Tavern goes my gentle  Sim. 
who holds him well apaid,  
that he hath got  Sus. 
hand, the bargain now is made,  
A coltish jacke shall wedded be, unto askittish jade.  
in field the hands were 〈◊〉, in Tavern now shall be  
the match made up, now who were there, some pretty sport should see.  
So farewell to them both, the bargain is begun,  
God sand such shrew's such sheep as he, and so my tale is done. see.  
Fivis.   

¶ A gentleman being of late at an odd banquet, where were divers women of divers dispositions, and being served in at the table divers comfits of sundry sorts, being come home from the supper to his own lodging, sitting alone in his chamber, he compared the women with the comfits, in verse as followeth.   


NOt long ago as I at supper sat,  
whereas in deed I had exceeding cheer,  
In order served, with choice of this and that:  
with Flagons filled with wine, and ale, & beer,  
I did behold, that well set out the rest,  
a troop of dames, in brave attire addressed.   

Great was our cheer, yet supper being done,  
to furnish forth the table new again,  
Of sundry sorts a banquet new begun:  
of Apples, Pears, Marmlade, and Marchpayne,  
Sucket, sugarde Almonds, and candied Plums:  
with many other pretty 〈◊〉.   

And marking well each pretty dainty dish,  
of comfittes sweet I 'gan great store behold:  
For which I saw how many 'gan to fish,  
and at the last, I was myself so bold,  
Of every sort to take up two or three,  
which from the board I bore away with me.   

Now let the comfits in my pocket rest,  
and let me view the company a while:  
Of women kind, whose view did like me best,  
how some could frown, and other sweetly smile:  
Some could look coy, in half a scornful wise,  
and some would stare, and same look under eyes.   

Some by sharp nose would seem to be a shrew,  
and some more half a sheep by countenance,  
Some sullen seemed, by looking down to low,  
some gentle seemed, by casting friendly glance,  
Some seemed proud, by looking too too high,  
and some, would cast on all a friendly eye.   

Now 'gan I guess by outward countenance,  
the disposition of each dainty dame,  
And though perhaps I miss some by chance,  
I hit some right, I do not doubt the same:  
But shall I tell of each one what I guessed,  
no●ie, for why, fond tattling breeds unrest.   

But let them be such as they were, by chance,  
our banquet done, we had our music by:  
And then you know the youth must needs go dance,  
first Galiardes, then Lar●us, and H●idegy,  
●id lusty gallant, all flowers of the broom,  
and then a hall, for dancers must have room.   

And to it then, with set and turn about,  
change sides, and cross, and mince it like a hau●e:  
Backward and forward, take hands the●, in and out,  
and now and then, a little wholesome talk:  
That none could hear, close rounded in the ear:  
well I say naught, but much good sport was there.   

Then might my Minion hear her mate at will,  
but God forgive all such as judge amiss:  
Some men I know, would soon imagine ill,  
by secret spying of some knavish kiss:  
But let them leave such jealousy for shame,  
dancers must kiss, the law allows the same.   

And when friends meet, some merry sign must pass,  
of welcoming unto each other's sight:  
And for a kiss, that's not so much (alas)  
Dancers besides may claim a kiss of right,  
After the dance is ended, and before:  
but some will kiss upon kiss: that goes sore.   

Why it may be they dance the kissing dance,  
and then they must kiss oftentimes in deed,  
And then although they overshoot by chance,  
and kiss perhaps more often than they need,  
'tis oversight, their skill perhaps is small,  
young Dancers kisses, must needs be borne withal.   

Then let them kiss, and coll, and let me leave  
to tattle so of kissing, as I do:  
For some alas half angry I perceive,  
have lost I think some friendly kiss or two.  
And all by my fond prattling on the same:  
for bashfaste folks will seldom kiss for shame.   

But 'tis a sport to see some dancers kiss,  
some bluntly lay their Ladies on the lips:  
Some kissing smack, and think it not amiss:  
some lay their hands upon their Lady's hips:  
To make their arm an easy resting place,  
while they may smooch their lady on the face.   

Some dainty dames will proudly turn their cheek,  
in scornful wise to any man to kiss,  
And then God wots, young dancer is to seek,  
and knows no way, but turn her head to his:  
Which kiss, to them that kissing know in kind,  
doth make them smile, and laugh to, in their mind.   

Now Courtiers some, in dancing use to kiss,  
but in what sort, let them that list go mark,  
And I say naught, but only this I wish,  
each gallant youth, or in the light or dark,  
With his sweet soul, convenient place to kiss.  
no more, what? why? who is displeased with this?   

Fair Ladies? no: young gallants? such, much less:  
old Sirs? yea: why? their kissing sweet is done,  
What though, I know they can not but confess.  
and old shaune Friar will kiss an unshorn Numne:  
Then for God's sake, let young folks, coll and kiss,  
when oldest folks, will think it not amiss.   

But what? I had almost myself forgot,  
to tell you on of this same gentle crew,  
Some were alas, with dancing grown so hot,  
as some must sit, while other danced anew:  
And thus forsooth, our dancing held us on,  
till midnight full, high time for to be gone.   

But too behold the graces of each Dame,  
how some would dance, as though they did but walk,  
And some would trip, as though one leg were lame.  
and some would miss it, like a sparrow haulke,  
And some would dance upright as any bolt,  
and some would ●eape and skip lyk a young colt.   

〈◊〉 some would fige, as though she had the Itch,  
and some would bow half crooked in the joints,  
And some would have a trick, and some a twitch,  
some shook their arms, as they had hung by points.  
With thousands more that were to long to tell,  
b●t made me laugh my heart sore, I wots well.   

●ut let them pass, and now sir must we part,  
I thank you sir for my exceeding cheer:  
Welcome (quoth the good man) with all my heart,  
i● faith the market serves but ill to year:  
When one could not devise more meat to dress:  
jesus though I, what means this foolishness.   

But let that pass, then parting at the door,  
believe me now, it is a sport to see  
What stir there was, who should go out before:  
such curtsies lo, with pray you pardon me,  
You shall not choose, in faith you are to blame,  
good sooth though I a man would think the same.   

Now being forth, with much ado at last,  
then part they all, each on unto their house,  
And who had marked the pretty looks that past,  
from privy friend unto his pretty mouse,  
Would say with me, at twelve a clock at night,  
it was a parting (trust me) worth the sight.   

But let them part, and pass in God his name,  
God speed them well I pray, and me no worse,  
Some are gone, with dancing almost lame,  
and some go light, by means of empty purse:  
And to be short, home hieth every one,  
and home go I, unto my lodge alone.   

Where being come, desirous to take rest,  
to bed I go, where scarce asleep, me thought,  
I was new bidden to an other feast,  
where to the board great delicates were brought:  
Among which cates, such store of Comfits came,  
as that my thought, I wondered at the same.   

At last I wakde, and being well awake,  
I saw sun shine, and up my thought I sat:  
Wherewith, I heard some what a rattling make,  
but for my life could not imagine what:  
But at the last, I shook the clotheses again,  
and then straight way I did discern it plain.   

The night before, at supper where I was,  
of sundry sor●es of 〈◊〉, two or three,  
Into my pocket privily alas,  
I had conveyed, and no man seeing me:  
Which Comfits made the foolish rattling so,  
as I did stir the clotheses to and fro.   

Then took I out my Comfits by and by,  
minding in deed to lay them in a chest:  
But as odd fancies fall out suddenly,  
so will I tell you of a pretty jest,  
That as I lay thus musing in my bed,  
marking my Comfits, came into my head.   

I choose me out each Comfite severally,  
and took a taste by one and one, of all:  
Some one me thought, did taste too lushiously,  
so●e bitter sweet, and had a t●ng withal:  
Some smelled of Musk, and those were pretty gear,  
some care aways, and they are rare this year.   

Now as I took of every one a taste,  
my evening dames, came to my morning mind:  
By one and one, from first unto the last,  
and thinking so, my thought I could in kind:  
Compare the comfits with the women right,  
whereof forthwith I thus began to writ.   

First, I 'gan take long comfits for to taste,  
and having scarcely swallowde down the same:  
They brought (me thought) unto my mind at last,  
a very fair, tall, brave, and gallant dame:  
Now in the comfit was a bitter pill,  
so in the dame, might be some bitter william.   

Now did I guess the pill an Orange pill,  
which though at first in ●ast it 〈◊〉 seemed:  
Yet must I not say therefore, it was ill,  
but worthy was for to be well esteemed:  
So women's wills that bitter seem at furst,  
in time perhaps, are not yet found the worst.   

The Comfits than I tasted next, were round,  
wherein I found small Coriander seeds,  
Whose taste, although at first I fulsome found,  
Yet must I not dispraise them more than needs:  
For as I found, and as Physicians say,  
that they in deed, are wholesome many a way.   

These Comfits than did bring unto my mind,  
a round, plump wench, which fulsome seemed at furst:  
Whom if perhaps I had well known 〈◊〉 kind,  
of all the troop, might not be thought the worst:  
What do you laugh? well, I have seen ere now,  
a pretty pig of an ill favoured Sow.   

Then next to these, I Ginger Comfits took,  
whose taste did set my mouth all in a heat,  
These Comfits, like the long Comfits did look,  
and as I found, were wholesome for to eat:  
And though my mouth, with heat began to smart,  
I found they did great comfort to my heart.   

These Comfits made me think upon a dame,  
of statu●e tall, and yet not very high:  
Whose looks, might set his mouth and heart on flame,  
who would desire to taste her thoroughly:  
And yet perhaps, when all her heat were passed,  
she might his heart well comfort at the last.   

The next I took, were biscuits Sir, to taste,  
which made me think upon a pretty wench:  
When suddenly I heard in posting haste,  
some cried fire, fire, and othersome cried quench,  
Hard underneath my window where I lay:  
with which amazed, I laid my pen away.   

Out of my bed, on went my clotheses apace,  
and forth go I to help to quench the fire:  
But all was well, for why by God's good grace,  
it ceased soon, and as I drew me nigher,  
So many hands were helping at the same,  
I saw it near quite quenched ere I came.   

Which when I saw, I home returned again,  
and having left my chamber door unshutte,  
When I came up, I found the footsteps plain,  
upon the floor, of some odd lickorous s●utte:  
That had dispatched my Comfits every one,  
for credit me, good sooth they left me none.   

Which had they not been so conveyed away,  
I would have wrote my descant of the rest:  
●ut since they are so gone, faith farewell they,  
the next, I will lock safer in my chest:  
Till when, take these that I have wrote upon,  
for credit me, now all the rest are gone.   
Finis.    

 

   

Imprinted at London, nigh unto the three Cranes in the vintry, by Thomas Dawson, and Thomas Gardyner.