A HANDEFUL OF GLADSOME VERSES, given to the Queen's Majesty at Woodstock this Progress. 1592.  
By THOMAS CHURCHYARD.  
At Oxford printed by JOSEPH BARNES, Printer to the University. 1592.   

TO THE Queen's MOST EXCELLENT MAJESTY.  
MOST gracious and sacred Sovereign, if hope of your princely favour did not carry me beyond the compass of my ordinary judgement, I had long a go surceased the common course of writing in verse to your Majesty, But a sweet and comfortable conceit of your gracious goodness towards me, ever and at all times commanded my muse, my pen, and uttermost power, to go about no other earthly felicity than the serving and pleasing of the only Phoenix of this world, my betters far have been full of that fortunate humour, and thriven well thereby, & myself desires never to be discharged of that sweet servitude, pleasant to the mind, profitable to the body, and a safety for the soul. Now in this quenchless desire of mine that increaseth a continual thirst to do well, there riseth a restless cogitation, making me think, that verse, that book, or that piece of service (as oft I have put in practice) will be happily accepted, But beholding (most redoubted Queen) a multitude of people as well disposed as myself, that are running & pressing apace before me, some with rare inventions & some with deep devices to the honouring of your Majesty. I fear they have carried clean away so much knowledge fromme, that there is left no device, nor matter to study on, such is the bounty of our time, & forwardness of their wits which are learned, that all fine inventions are smoothly reaped from my reach, & cunningly raked away from my use or commodity. Then am I forced, to search what substance or slender stuff of poetry lies couching in mine own shallow head, and so happening on a few voluntary rhymes I have as it were by good fortune, peeced or compounded up a book, which I call a handful of gladsome verses, God grant they be pleasing, but the best is they are devised for a pastime, invented for a merry conceit, and presented of a harm les mind, to the sweet and sacred consideration of your Majesty. Thus hoping they shall have free passage to your princely presents I pray humbly for the preservation of your most Royal person.  
Your majesties dutiful and loyal servant, THOMAS CHURCHYARD.   

A few volu ntary verses to the general readers.  

IF aged days, had dried up my Muse  
As summer drought, hath parched both herb and grass  
Yet now compelled, my pen again to use  
That world shall see, my mind is as it was  
Look for no gold, when I can give but glass  
My morning dew, sun beams hath taken hence  
And troubled springs, yields puddle water sense.   

Take edge away, the knife can cut no more  
Hard stony ground, can bear but little corn  
Old appel soon, are rotten at the core  
Ne Figs nor Grapes, can come from pricking thorn  
The glass soon goes, from silk that long is worn  
Hope for no fruit, when leaves forsakes the tree  
So falleth out, between my verse and me.   

When youth was fresh, and flourished as a flower  
The wits were quick, and ready to conceive  
When age did frown, and brows began to lower  
My skill grew scant, the muses did me leave  
Then tract of time, in head did cobwebs weave  
So rusty grew, the reason of the brain  
And ever since, I lost my Poets vain.   

What though ripe wit, be now but bare and blunt  
And fine device, of head is far to seek  
And age can not, do that which youth was wont  
And pen scarce makes, a verse in half a week  
And all my works, not worth a little leek  
Yet what I do, but bad or worthy praise  
I never robbed, no writer in my days.   

It is mine own, I bring to Printers Press  
I have by hap, a Hatchet in my hand  
To hue the wood, (let it be more or less)  
In what strange form, I list to let it stand  
though some be chips, let all be justly scanned  
Ne chips ne choice, nor nothing else I knew  
But was well meant, and may abide the view.   

A Book in Press, that I my challenge name  
Shall tell you more, of works that I have done  
But blame me not, (since each man strives for fame)  
To hold on right, the course wherein I run  
I ought to wear, the cloth my fingers spun  
I will so jowd, for books and verses cry  
That sure no bird, shall with my feathers fly.   

Some Peakocks then, will spread their tails no more  
Small boast is best, let touchstone try out gold  
I have as yet, some tragedies in store  
That like Shore's wife, in verses shallbe told  
Condemn no man, though he be waxed old  
A rough barked tree, whose bows but crooked grow  
When season serves, some mellowd fruit may show.   

A great old Oak, long time will acorns bear  
And small young graffs, are long in sprouting out  
Some say old wine, is liked every where  
And all men knows, new ale is full of grout  
Old horse goes well, young tits are much to doubt  
But sure old gold, is more esteemed then new  
No Hawk compares, with Haggard in the mew.   

Old men know much, though young men call them fools  
Old books are best, for there great learning is  
Old authors too, are daily read in Schools  
New sects are nought, old knowledge can not miss  
Old guys was good, and nothing like to this  
Where fraud and craft, and fineness all would have  
And plainest men, can neither pole nor shave.   

Old fathers built, fair Colleges good store,  
And gave great goods, and lands to bring up youth  
Young men think scorn, to make of little more  
And spends away, their thrift to tell the truth  
Old minds were full, of mercy grace and ruth  
And pity took, of those that seemed to lack  
Young gallants gay, from poor do turn their back.   

Old customs good, at length became good laws  
Old laws are liked, and honoured of the wise  
Good men obey, the evils old order draws  
New fond delights, old fathers did despise  
In old grave heads, great skill and wisdom lies  
Sound council comes, from age in time of need  
Old men's advice, is that which doth the deed.   

Old beaten ways, are ready still to hit  
These new bypaths, leads men on many styles  
An old proverb, hath no more words than wit  
Newe fangled heads, at each light fancy smiles  
Old wisdom far, surmounts young foundlings wiles  
Experience is, the doctor every day  
That carries close, all knowledge clean away.   

Young hounds are fleet, the old hunts slow and true  
Old dogs bite sore, if all his teeth be sound  
Old ancient friends, are better than the new  
In younglings love, there is small surety found  
For like a top, fine fancy turneth round  
Old colth or silk, made in our elder days  
Wears long and firm, when new things soon decay.   

No further now, of age but to my task  
I took in hand, to show my duty throw  
Yet licker sweet, comes none from empty kaske  
With vargis sour, is filled old barrel now  
But reason must, invent the mean and how  
I do discharge, my duty as I ought  
To make a book, shall answer writers thought.   

Now must my Muse, go borrow if I may,  
My betters works, to fill my matter full  
Tush world grows hard, each man will say me nay  
Some cannot spare, a little lock of wool  
So greedily, for pealfe they pluck and pull  
But namely some, so watch and pry for fame  
That they with words, will hinder men's good name.   

Spite is a spark, of fire that flies in th'air  
And makes a crack, like powder in a dag  
Spite hides foul thoughts, in looks and speeches fair  
Whose words rests not, as long as tongue may wag  
Spite of himself, will boldly boast and brag  
To hurt by hate, the heart that harmless is  
For spite like snake, in every hedge can his.   

Who flings a stone, at every dog that barks  
A weary arm, is surely like to have  
Though envy shoots, his bolts at many marks  
Pride wins not all, the glory he doth crave  
Some will not give, the dead good words in grave  
How should the quick, then get bad world's goodwill  
When hollow hearts, but harbours hatred still.   

March on plain book, although thou pass the pikes  
Some marshal man, will save a soldiers life  
Hold in thy head, from those that thee mislikes  
In scornful days, I know disdain is riefe  
Thy gladsome verse, stirs up more mirth than strife  
So Prince thou please, thine own desire thou hast  
Come clear from court, care not for envies blast.   

Thus Readers all, I bid you here farewell  
And to the Prince, a simple tale I tell.   
FINIS.   

A HANDEFVLL OF GLADSOME VERSES GIVEN TO THE QUEENS Majesty at Woodstock this progress.  

I Most presume of all  
(A boldness more than needs)  
To come where flowers sweet sent let's fall  
And I bring nought but weeds.   

But though the fountain springs  
From whence all learning flows  
By study great, great science brings  
And therewith duty shows.   

The barren ground of mine  
That seld sweet roses bears  
May yield some word or pleasant line  
Shall please your Princely ears.   

But as an Oaten pipe  
When shepherd plays a round  
Can move no matter of delight.  
By strangeness of the sound.   

So verse puffed up with quill  
And cunning sleight of brain  
(Where swift conceit conceives at will  
Some grace of Poets vain.)   

No piercing passage finds  
To enter as it would  
In great estates, whose noble minds  
Knows quickly glass from gold.   

A tale of plain plough man  
That roughly runneth on  
Finds frowns for favour now and than  
When gracious looks are gone.   

What means my Muses weak,  
In heat of humour new:  
So near grave heads to write or speak,  
Of things I seldom knew.   

As one start out of sleep,  
Tells dreams and visions rare,  
To those that talk of dreams no keep,  
Nor doth for fancies care.   

Our english Idle rhymes,  
To this is here compared:  
Whose roving reasons often times,  
Reaps nought but small regard.   

For learned sages wies,  
That much have seen and red:  
Who knows the course of stars in skies,  
And what may well be sed.   

And all the liberal arts,  
Have at their finger's ends:  
They for their gifts and special parts,  
Which God to scholars sends.   

Are worthy hearing still,  
They bring the sugared cup:  
They are the nurses of good skill,  
That fosters children up.   

They with the muses talk  
As all things were their own  
And like the Gods do closely walk  
In secret clouds unknown   

Vain verses have no power  
Great virtue to persuade  
They are but blossoms of a flower  
(Whose beauty soon doth fade)   

That pleaseth men a while,  
with words of no great weight:  
A speech that may some ears beguile  
A fine and pretty sleight.   

A ripe invention rare,  
That springs on deep device:  
But verse is worn so weak and bare,  
It bears but little price.   

Because so many brains,  
Runs verses out of breath:  
And posting wits with thankeles pains,  
Hath ridden rhyme to death.   

Though Poets in time past,  
As Virgil and the rest:  
Go●e crowns and many a famous blast,  
To make them hold up crest.   

Yet most of them poor men,  
Like birds but newly plucked:  
For Ovid that through gift of pen,  
Did seem that dry he sucked.   

The springs of learned lore,  
He had hard hap withal:  
Homer had no great gold in store,  
Nor worldly wealth at call.   

And since, few Poet's rose,  
To any worthy place:  
And some scarce got meat drink & clothes  
So poor was Poet's case.   

If Poet's luck be such,  
That daily they decline:  
And writers never can be rich,  
For all their flourish fine.   

Then seek a better trade,  
And fling away thy quill:  
And take a mattoke and a spade,  
And dig down Maulvorne hill.   

'Twere better labour so,  
By sweat of brows to live:  
Then like a threedbare Poet go:  
That hath no bread to give.   

Yet men may seek to thrive,  
By verse or stately prose:  
Against ill chance, or stream to strive,  
Both strength and time we lose.   

Verse well devised and framed,  
Wins friends and feareth foes  
So writer shape, unharmd or blamed,  
For treading on men's toes.   

Where angry corns doth grow,  
Yea verse breeds merry blood:  
When each sad word to world doth show  
A lively sentence good.   

Verse maketh many known,  
That else forgotten are:  
Who brings odd versis of their own,  
And prints no borrowed ware.   

Who watcheth not their hours,  
To steal and pick away:  
From others gardens goodly flowers,  
To make their posies gay.   

Thus some do borrow much,  
And then on braves do stand:  
A beggar so may soon be rich,  
Ne borne to rent nor land.   

Great princes have made verse,  
And faured poetry well:  
Verse hath a grace the clouds to pierce,  
And climb where Gods do dwell.   

In verse great virtue is,  
If work well pass the ●ile:  
And verse gets grace, with that or this,  
To make the Prince to smile.   

Then many knacks we prove,  
Our credit well to keep:  
And tell how Lords for Ladies love,  
Will lie all day a sleep.   

And feign when they awake,  
In verse or letters long:  
That they do die for mistress sake,  
And suffer too much wrong.   

A large discourse thereof,  
'Twere good to tell in deed:  
But some would say I jest and scoff,  
And speak more words than need.   

Nay better talk of bogs,  
That walks in dead men's shapes:  
Or tell of little pretty pogges,  
As monkeys Owls and Apes.   

A tale of two ours long,  
Blind people's ears to please  
Nay that were like a Syreins song,  
That shipmen hears on seas.   

Strange Farlees fathers told,  
Of fiends and hags of hell:  
And how that Syrses when she would,  
Can skill of sorcery well.   

And how old thin fast wives  
That roasted crabs by night  
Did tell of monsters in their lives  
That now prove shadows light.   

And told what Marlin spoke  
Of world and times to come  
But all that fire doth make no smoke  
For in mine ear doth home.   

Another kind of Bee  
That sounds a tune most strange  
A trembling noise, of words to me  
That makes my countenance change.   

Of old Hobgobling guise  
That walked like ghost in sh●etes  
With maids that would not early rise  
For fear of Bugs and sprites   

Some say the fairs fair  
Did dance on bednall green,  
And fine familiars of the air  
Did talk with men unseen.   

And oft in moon shine nights  
When each thing draws to rest  
Was seen dumb shoes and ugly sights  
That feared every guest.   

Which lodged in the house  
And where good cheer was great  
Hodgepoke would come & drink carows  
And munch up all the meat.   

But where foul sluts did dwell  
Who used to sit up late  
And would not scour their pewter well  
There came a merry mate.   

To kitchen or to haule,  
Or place where sprites resort:  
Then down went dish & platters all,  
To make the greater sport.   

A further sport fell out,  
When they to spoil did fall:  
Rude Robin good fellow the lout,  
Would skime the milk bowls all.   

And search the cream pots too,  
For which poor milk maid weeps,  
God wots what such mad gests will do:  
When people sound sleeps.   

Then world full merry was,  
And gossips made good glee:  
And men for wealth did little pass,  
Good minds were frank and free.   

And some found heaps of gold,  
Long hid in hollow ground:  
And tripped with timbrels where they would  
Full many a frisking round.   

These are but fabuls feigned,  
Because true stories old:  
In doubtful days are more disdained.  
Then any tale is told.   

These toys cuts of the cares,  
That worldly causes brings:  
And draws the heavy mind unwares,  
To think on better things.   

As when a may game comes,  
Before a sort of states:  
With morris dancers flutes and drums  
That common weals debates.   

The motion of the mirth  
Though simple be the show  
May move the saddest man on earth  
To gladsome thoughts I trow.   

But how far of am I  
Now brought from wit and sense  
To tell a tale smells like a lie  
Before so great a Prince,   

O pardon my rash wit  
Sweet Queen and sovereign dear  
For he that doth in heaven sit  
Knows mine intent is clear.   

From all offence in mind  
For when I took this task  
Each toy and fancy head could find  
(as man disguised in mask.)   

To make you laugh or smile  
I took in hand to write  
But now with troth another while  
(And banish fables quite.)   

My pen shall armed be  
In this sweet cause and soil  
To shield my muse, my verse and me  
From blemish blot or foil.   

Now as by heaunly grace  
You passed through many a shear  
So Royal Prince this ancient place  
Path hap to have you here.   

Old Woodstock house is glad  
It shall have stone and lime  
That long with ivy hath been clad  
To show the ruin of time.   

This seat nay sure this shrine,  
That thousands now doth praise:  
That did preserve, by power divine,  
The Phoenix of our days.   

And in a cruel age,  
When might did right great wrong:  
This house was made the Phoenix cage,  
And held her here so long.   

That no proud tyrant's power,  
Had force to touch her then:  
True hearted people every hour,  
And prayers of good men.   

Kept Phoenix safe and sound,  
And brought her to the crown:  
Who doth in virtues so abound,  
She reigns with great renown.   

And further flies her fame,  
And spreads for gifts most rare:  
Then all the princes we can name,  
Let foes speak what they dare.   

Now humble subjects true,  
Whereof you have great store:  
A triple crown, presents to you,  
Of fame for ever more.   

And such as never saw,  
Your Majesty till now:  
Full near the coach do daily draw,  
We see wherefore and how.   

The people swarms like Bees  
When Prince abroad doth ride:  
And some climes up to tops of trees,  
As soon as she is spied.   

Yea such as saw her first  
Do after trudge a main  
Who have in heart, so great a thirst  
To see her once again.   

That they stand gazing still  
A fresh on Phoenix face  
As though they never had there fill  
Of looking on her grace.   

Comes this of custom old  
That subjects owes a king  
No sure it rather doth unfold  
An inward secret thing.   

Of kindly zeal they bear  
By nature not by art  
joined fast with duty love and fear  
That flows from faithful heart.   

A special warm goodwill  
For never King was seen  
More truly served, more followed still  
More honoured than our Queen.   

Some noble cause there is  
That works such wonder now  
Than who hath sense to view of this  
And can search causes throw.   

Discus this cause a right  
But if world credit me  
In lively sort, and open sight  
I do such graces see.   

In your most gracious reign  
That daily shines so clear  
As never none shall reach or stain  
Nor ever could come near.   

This grace which God doth give  
Whereon great graces grow  
Makes Prince love peace and long to live  
And long a prograsse go.   

This grace great jove hath sent  
To guard your grace from harm  
That Practise foul, nor false intent  
Nor words nor deeds nor charm.   

Nor foreign force nor wars  
Nor proud attempts shall fear  
For God that guides sun moon and stars  
Shall save you every where.   

O sacred Sovereign sweet,  
Our fair red rose and white  
We fall on knees at Caesar's feet  
To see our world's delight.   

And on her life depend  
That now the sword doth sway  
The Lord of hosts doth her defend  
In such a kind of way.   

That nothing may impeach  
Her heaunly graces great  
For sure it passeth human reach  
To touch her sacred seat.   

So reign good Queen in rest  
Full free from all annoy,  
As one the Lord above hath blest,  
To be all England's joy.   
FINIS.   

●erse of variety to all those that honours the only Phoenix of the world, which verses are but xx. lines and hath in them ten ways, find out the same who pleaseth.  

●Y PHOENIX feathers fair, as Phoebus' beams bespreades the sky  
Shades face from parching air, in hot extremes and wether dry  
●t by the air she lives, dame kind herself will have it so  
●nd life and breath she gives, as far as Phoenix force may go  
〈◊〉 them she lists advance, the faurets of our happy time  
〈◊〉 whom her eye doth glance, unto the clouds she makes them climb  
●●t where doth Phoenix frown, as fortune's wheel were turned quite  
●e flings proud Peacocks down, some fauls in lash and world's despite  
〈◊〉 Eagle mounting skies, in royal sort like stately King  
●oth daunt each bird that flies, if he but clap his feathered wing  
●nd where he lists to pray, on any foul that life doth bear  
●o Hawk makes flight that day, nor dare come well in presence there)  
〈◊〉 Phoenix in her gyves, with princely pomp as you may see,  
●oth dazzle clearest eyes, and daily conquers each degree:  
●nd strikes base people blind, that makes their God of worldly dross:  
●ho bears no noble mind, and digs and delves for muck and moss:  
●herefore you courtiers now, the prime and buds of youthful bliss:  
●onfesse your duty throw, if you can judge what virtue is.  
●ut one in these our days, and she a Queen now note it well:  
●eserues immortal praise, that doth in worthy Britain dwell.