A MUSICAL CONSORT OF Heavenly harmony (compounded out of many parts of Music) called CHURCHYARDS CHARITY. Imprinted at London, by Ar. Hatfield, for William Holn. 5. 1595. TO THE RIGHT Honourable ROBERT DEVEREUX Earl of Essex and E●e, Viscount of Hereford, Lord Ferrer of Chartley, Bor●her and Lou●ine, Master of the Queen's majesties horse, Knight of the noble order of the garter, and one of her majesties honourable privy Counsel: Thomas Churchyard wisheth increase of all wished honour, happiness of life, world's good will, and everlasting fame. A Greater boldness cannot be committed (Right Honourable) than to present Pamphlets and Poetry to noble Counsellors that governs a public state, though in all ages reasonable writers, that kept an orderly compass, were suffered in verse or prose (so their inventions were not farced full of vanity) to show good will in the dedication of some honest labours, to such honourable personages, as was worthy of any good volumes, or in the worth of virtue, excelled the weight and value of numbers, that neither merits laudation, nor show no sufficiency to be saluted with a book. But what I see and the world reports of your Lordship, makes me somewhat hardy to offer a present, yet simpleness of spirit and want of profound learning, hath so muffled my muses, that they dare not speak, nor I presume to write, nevertheless thinking on your twenty fold honourable father (my great good Lord) matchless in our world, that carried in his breast the fear of God, and won with his life the love of men (so noble was his mind) I stood nothing discouraged, because a soldier like noble son of his is left alive, to follow the steps of so stately a father, and to shine above and beyond the course of thousands in this time, or is likely to come after this age. To treat of particulars in that behalf, I should presume too far, and unadvisedly come too short of matter fit for this cause. Wherefore I am to leave those deep considerations, and drop into the shallowness of mine own studies, that brings forth a book of the coldness of charity, because a great noble man, told me this last wet summer, The weather was too cold for Poets. On which favourable words, I bethought me that charity in court and all the world over, was become so cold, that neither hot summer, fervent fire, nor heat of sun could make warm again, in that comfortable sort as our forefathers have felt it: so my good L. following that only theme of cold weather (being apt to take any theme) to write on, in as sweet a phrase and terms as I may devise (putting in the praise of Poets withal) I smoothly pass over (without bitter speeches) the corruption of this world, and disguised manners of men, riding by the newfangledness of a multitude, and not dashing any one's infirmity, with blot of disgrace, or blemish of credit, hoping the best sort shall stand pleased with, howsoever the worst (happily may be touched) do of mere malice, wrist awry the honest meaning of a plain writer. For the dutiful regard, towards the purchasing of your L. favour hath so sifted every word and sentence, that no one verse or line shall be offensive to a sound judgement and good construction. And for that now (by reason of great age) my wits and inventions are almost wearied with writing of books (this being one of the last) I took this task in hand, at large to dilate somewhat of Charity, which would to God I had as great power to revive, as the world hath occasion to remember. Thus overbold to trouble your L. so long with the reading of so simple an Epistle, I proceed under your honourable supportation, to my purposed matter, wishing your L. everlasting fame, credit, and honour, most humbly at commandment, THOMAS CHURCHYARD. AN EVERLASTING MEMORY OF CHRISTIAN comfort to the Queen's most excellent Majesty. O Grashous dame, in whose grave judgement great The heavens high, lies open plain to sight The earth below, takes from thy regal seat (In darkest days) his hope and clearest light. For at thy feet, a world of worthies fall▪ ELIZABETH, a monarch to them all. An Empress here, three kingdoms shows us plain On which three realms, our Queen may rightly rain. O triple Queen, the sweet and highest part That we like best, and shrillest voice doth sound The only mean, to show deep musics art Where all the skill; of well set song is found. Grant silly man, a grace that means to sing Of heaunly love, and of none other thing. He sings of peace, a song should lull asleep The fellest fiends, and fearful bugs below Peace charms with words, the wolf that wearies sheep That neither lamb, nor kid astray shall go. For as the hen, her chickens keeps from kite So charity, doth save her children all From common plagues, and wicked world's despite And all the wrath, that from the clouds can fall. She spreads her wings, to keep her birds from cold And learns poor chicks, to pick up grains of gold. This charity, so checkles o'er her brood She scrapes the earth, to make her young ones feed And freely from, herself doth spare them food She takes in heart, such care for those that need. If charity, were not the only nurse To nourish up, each thing that life doth bear This backward world, would grow from ill to worse And brutish ●olke, would banish love and fear. Warm Christian love, as long as life doth last Doth bide the shock, and brunt of every blast. And kindled once, in any princely heart It burns and flames, as hot as Aethna hill Creeps throw the veins, and nerves in every par● Cannot be quenched, with water, wit nor skill. A heaunly grace, maintains a heaunly love Each thing divine, divinely is set forth Planted like rock, that nothing may remove Garnished like gold, or pearl of greatest worth. The charity, I mean is guarded so And for her saith, through fire and air may go. But what is that, to him that sings a song ●f twenty parts, when he one voice must sound Presumes to tell, a tale perchance too long To sacred ears, whose judgement is profound Sing high or low, how ere the tune he takes For one small jar, the song gins again No shift may serve, for concord music makes Most harmony, consists in pricksong plain. Division doth, but tear in pieces small The minnems long, and little crotchets all. Full softly blows, a quiet calm wind A still mild voice, doth please the hearers well No note nor ring, so much contents the mind As solemn sound, of clear sweet silver bell. O that my muse, might get so great a grace As credit win, throw any sound it shoes I die to see, one fearful frown of face Where these meek words, and humble verses goes. Now mirthless song, begin thy new found note As strange a strain, as any ear hath hard If world would learn, to sing the same by rote Good charity, should grow in more regard. Play well thy part, so shall the greatest smile And meanest sort, of force be pleased the while. Your majesties most humble servant, Thomas Churchyard. WHat song should please, a sacred princes ears Which likes no tunes, but music sweet & sound Weak were my muse, to offer sighs and tears Where joyful mirth, and gladness doth abound But troubled mind, that rowles on restless ground In sorrow sings, the secrets of the heart Because sad man, can sing no sweeter part. O charity help. Of charity, that makes a solemn noys A strange consort, I hope well ●unde I bring Of heavenly love, that passeth earthly joys In formal wise, a true set song I sing Would God the sound, through all the world might ring That charity, which each one ought to keep Might waken now, that long hath lain a sleep. O charity help. She hath been brought, in slumber sundry ways With lullaby, as nurse doth rock her child The cradle gay, of pleasant nights and days With too much ease, hath charity beguiled And now God wots, the world is waxed so wild That charity, must needs make each thing tame That wild discord, hath brought clean out of frame. O charity help. Pity and ruth, are fled or banished quite And in their place, comes rigour rudely clad Godly remorse, is drowned in world's delight Good cons●ence fears, that charity is dead Love looketh down, and hate holds up the head Troth barely lives, and tretchrie thrives apace Deserts doth starve, and meanewell hides his face. O charity help● Frankness is blind, affection dims his sight Largesse is lost, hardness supplies his place Wrong runs so swift, it over-gallops right Goodness limps down, and halts in many a case Do well doth droop, or walks with muffled face Virtue and vice, now wrestles for a fall And so the strong, will thrust the weak to wall. O charity help. Stoutness with strength, strikes flat the feeble force Down is kept down, and never like to rise Malice and might, rides both upon one horse (Sir Packolets' nag, that gallops through the skies) judgement grows gross, o'er weening wanteth eyes Will is a wag, waste hath the wager won For all the date, of our redress is done. O charity help. Loyalty weeps, and flattery laughs and smiles Goodwill is scorned, and puts up many a taunt poverty is plagued, or overmatched with wiles Plainness complains, but pride bids him avaunt Cruelty the cur, with cry of hounds will chant But bandog bites, full sore before he bark And craft the carl, still iuggles in the dark. O charity help. Friendship looks pale, it hath an ague fit Favour is faint, and lame it cannot go Fineness is false, and full of subtle wit Faith gives fair words, and breaketh promise so Constancy reels, and staggers to and fro Charity must needs, reform these follies strange That by abuse, doth noble nature change. O charity help. Duty doth die, to drive on devilish drifts Stubborns strives, to wrangle for a straw Cunning long lives, by cusnage and by shifts Disorder thrives, with neither rule nor lave People grows proud, without true fear or awe If sufferance see, these pranks and hold his peace Goodness decay, and badness shall increase. O charity help. If charity be, the food or fruit of faith Where blooms that tree, where doth those branches bud True charity sure, as wisest people saith Is working still, and ever doing good Love helps our health, as life maintains the blood But where no help, nor secure we may find There charity, is almost out of mind. O charity help. If through my faith, great mountains I may move And can raise up, to life the dead from grave That withered faith, brings forth no fruit of love It gains no grace, what ever hope I have If charity be, the thing which good men crave God grant that I, and all that hears the same May sing that song, like Sidrack in the flame. O charity help. My humble heart, hopes now but for dispatch Of life that wastes, away like candle blaze The clock will strick, in haste I hear the watch That sounds the bell, whereon the people gaze My forces fail, my wits are in a maze My corpse consumes, my skin and bones doth show The soul is glad, the body hence shall go. O charity help. Truth waited long, on your sweet sacred reign To catch some crumbs, that from your table falls I sow in tears, and reaps but bitter pain That makes sick soul, lie groaning by the walls Where hands a cross, for help to heaven calls So sucks up sighs, and sorrow of the mind As boiling breast, blows fast for air and wind. O charity help. My muse doth muse, how labour lost his time And service great, doth get so small regard I never thriude, by prose nor pleasant ●ime Nor could in world, be any way preferred An open sign, my thankless hap is hard Yet numbers of, my very name and race By prince in court, were called to worthy place. O charity help. I am the Drone, that bees beats from the hive The ugly Owl, that kites and crows do hate The drawing ox, that clounes do daily drive The hapless hind, that hath the hateful fate (That wears a●l suits, and seasons out of date) If destiny so, alots men such hard chance They pass the pikes, that fortune will advance. O charity help. My passage is, like one that rides in post Through water, fire, and all the hazards here And so draws home, a weary grisly ghost Whose loss of youth, bu●es loathsome age too dear Now comes acco●nt, of days, of hours and year My debts are stalled, as oft bare bankrupts be The grave pays all, and sets my bondage free. O charity help. The woe of wars, and pride and pomp of peace The toil of world, and troubles here and there And churlish checks, of fortune I release Their heavy cross, I can no longer bear In pieces small, my scribbled scrolls I tear So flinging verse, and books before your feet I crave some crowns, to buy my shrouding sheet. O charity help. All hope is gone, of any earthly hap The axe is come, to give the falling blow Down flies the bows, the tree hath lost his sap Up to the clouds, like smoke the breath shall go A silly puff, of wind ends all this woe O grashous Queen, than some compassion take Before my soul, this cumbrous cave forsake. O charity help. If nothing come, of service, suit and troth True man must trudge, and leave his native soil Abroad the world, to see how fortune goth In any place, where faith is free from foil Hear with vain hope, myself and life I spoil First lost my youth, so time and all is gone Age sindes no friends, nor help of any one. O charity help. Of charity, a great discourse is made Unto an Earl, I honour in this land It is not hid, nor sits in silent shade Would God it were, in your fair blessed hand There lies the notes, as thick as is the sand And there I sing, three parts in one at least And in sweet sound, true music is expressed. O charity help, or else adieu the pen For I must march, again with marshal men. FINIS. To the general Readers. IF aught amiss, you find good Reader here, His fault it is, that sings ne sweet nor loud: When he caught cold, and voice could not be clear, Because each note, is cloaked under cloud, He cra●d no help, nor stole from no man's song, One piece nor part, of music any way: Ne sembreeffe, brief, nor yet ne lark nor long, For he hath skill, in descant some men say, And on the base, can make three parts in one, And set new songs, when all the old are gone. Though some believe, but hardly that he makes, These things or that, which seems far past his reach, Tush though old head, and hand with palsy shakes, Let no ill will, plain writers pen appeach: If you do love, no wrong give each man right: Rob not the just, of any praise well won, Way not men's worth, with weights in balance light, For truth is truth, when all is said and done: You may as well, say white and red is black, And Sun and Moon, are steel and marble stone: As say or think, behind a writers back▪ He borrowed that, which he claims as his own: O give men leave, to father their own child: Let it be foul, or fair as babies are, A stubborn boy, a crackrope tame or wild, Begot in haste, and brought up poor and bare: How ere they be, blind, lame, or shaped awry, Ugly to sight, big, boulcho●s, low or ●ie, Those younglings all, the Dad●an not deny, Are his that scent, those babes abroad to nurse, (Like orphans weak, that knows not what to do) With blessings great, and not with parents curse, That shortens life, and gets God's anger to: Children were wont, to bear their father's name, Not one durst say, in earnest jest or scorn, (To hinder child, of spotless birth and fame) A lawful son, was but a bastard borne. Both beast and bird, their young ones do defend, So shall my Muse, maintain that I have penned, Then bring Shore's wife, in question now no more, I set her forth, in colours as she goes, Sir Ralph Bowser a worshipful knight witnesseth where and when I penned that. And as she went, like gallant lass before, So other gyrls, as gay and fresh as rose, With verse have I, set forth in sundry sorts, As brave as she, what ere disdain reports, That humour now, declines for age draws on, The full tide is, of fine invention gone: Ebb follows flood, when vital veins wax dead, Wit wears and wastes, as torch consumes with wind, When water turns, dry grows a flowing head: In age each thing, decay by course of kind: Yet whiles the oil, in lamp may make a blaze, Or candle in, the socket shows a light, On sparkling flame, the clearest eyes will gaze, And comfort find, thereby in darkest night: I yield to time, that like a scythe cuts clean, All that doth gr●w, in spring or fall of leaf, And wish in world, my treble were a mean, That I might sin●, to ears that are not deaf, A note should sink, as deep in iugging breast, As ever yet, ●n sea did anchor rest: Songs are but liked, as fancies gives them leave, Both well and 〈◊〉, as sounds of trumpets are, Though Siren's voice, the hearers doth deceive, Mine hath no charm, but open plain and bare, As I was borne, so speak I English still, To lose my pains, and win the world's good will, No loss so much, as credit cracked with pen, Nor gain so great, as love of honest men. Far you well. The Author to his book. GO now plain book, where thou mayst welcome find, Walk throw the world, till friends do thee embrace: Let foes alone, obey thy master's mind, For fear nor threat, hide not a faultless face. Winifrid courts goodwill, the country's love is gained, With wise men stay, from froward wits beware: At plough and cart, plain speech is not disdained: Sat down with those, that feeds on hungry fare, For they have time, to note what thou dost say, Let gallants go, they will but give a gibe: Or take thee up, and fling thee strait away, Touch not smooth hands, that use to take a bribe, They better like, full bags than busy books, Eat from the sight, of glorious peacocks proud: Their only pomp, stands all on stately looks, They glowm and skoull, as 'twear a rainy cloud. Give babbling tongues, good leave to taunt and talk, Their taste is gone, they oft take cheese for chalk. Bid scornful heads, let true-plain● lines alone, That harmless are, and came from lowly heart: Pass not in haste, to people strange unknown, Lest judgement swift, do take on thee the start. And run beyond, thy reach full many a score, Go slowly forth, with thanks come quickly 〈◊〉: Bring no rebuke, for that nips near and sore, 'tTwere better far, abroad thou shouldst not ro●●. Though thou be blind, yet those that well can see, If thou offend, will find great fault with me. Behave thyself, as mildly as thou mayst, L●ke messenger, that doth his arnd aright: Thy master must, affirm each thing thou sayst. The darkest word, at length must come to light, Like pilgrim go, and pass throw perils all, Take well in worth, what hap doth thee befall. Return no more, to me till news thou bring, Of praise or thanks, or of some better thing: If none of these, this wayward world will yield, Trudge from fine town, fli● to the open field, Where thou must pass, through thickets full of thorns, Where pricking briars, and crooked brambles gross: And never none, s●apt free from sc●●th or scorns, Or scratted hands, or tearing of his close. Where elvish ap●s, and marmsets mocks and mose, And thistles are, seen sooner than a rose. Yea thou shalt come, where nettles are good store, Whose angry sting, will blisters raise apace, Slip from those weeds, and come near them no more: For fear unwares, good words do get disgrace. The goodly flowers, of court thou needs not fear, For they are sweet, and meek of nature throw, There wisdom will, with writer's humour bear: If humbly still, thou canst behave thee now, Thy master's pen, hath purchased favour there, Among the Dames, of fair Diana's train, Where beauty shines, like silver drops of rain. In sunny day: O book thou happy art If with those Nymphs, thou mayst be entertained, If any one, of them take in good part, A verse or word, thou hast a garland gained, Of glory great, for fame herself must sound, Out of their voice, look what they do pronounce: Like tennis ball, aloft it doth rebound, And yields great weight, but not by dram nor ounce, But heavy as, a massy pound of lead, They weigh men's worth, with praises quick or dead. Yea what they say, of Poets fond or wise, Of prose or verse, that ripe inuensho● shoes: As tw●re a law, the fame thereof shall rise, And through the world, like coin it currant goes. From hand to hand, and so doth passage take, Press thou to them, for they may mend my hap: If that of thee, some good account they make, And that in sport, they lay thee in their lap, Until they list, to read thee every line, Then at welhead, some water draw I may: For fountain springs, may run clear claret win●, Whose pleasant sap, gives moisture every way. The nimble Nymphs, that with Diana dwell, Can quickly turn, the cock and flowing spout: That thousands shall, bring buckets to the well And watch their times, till comfort cometh out. Now book trudge hence, bestow thy labour right Set spurs to horse, that flies in aeir with wings Mount over the hills, and rest ne day nor night Till thou do come, before great Queens and Kings Then flat on face, fall prostrate at their feet That may from grave, call up thy master's spirit Keep thou these rules, this course and compass hold So may thy grace, convert my lead to gold. CHURCHYARDS CHARITY. WHen labouring mind, and weary body both Is cloyed with world, & heart would shake off toil Before the ghost, to highest heavens goeth And death of life, shall make a wretched spoil (And man must needs, A well disposed mind, calls many good things to memory. forsake this soathsome soil) He takes some care, to make his conscience clear Of all he thinks, or may imagine here. First looks he up, Good men have many sweet imaginations. where soul desires to be Of life to come, to know what hope we have And where we rest, in joy from bondage free So soon as cold, dead body lies in grave Than ere man leaves, this cruel cumbrous cave In charity, he ways this world aright As far as wades, wise judgement, skill and sight. But finding world, Blind world is fraught with fond desires. full fraught with fond desires (A mighty mass, of matter therein lies) That burns out time, and kindleth many fires Whereon foul flames, and smothering smoke doth rise, He looks thereon, with heavy rueful eyes, As though some zeal, might move a musing mind To pity plagues, that man must leave behind. The poor estate of people is to be pitied. Who doth not sigh, to see the poor oppressed By rich men's reach, that wrists awry the right Who will not wail, the woe of troubled breast Or sore lament, the state of wronged wight When broad day brings, dark dealings unto light Who will not rue, our wretched race on earth That keeps till death, no rule from day of birth. The wealth hardly won is easily left. The goods we win, are worse to keep than get The wealth we lose, robs some of rest and sleep Our daily gain, will answer scarce our det We covet more, than wit can warily keep We slip from hence, as rich as new shorn sheep And that we leave, in world that well was won Is soon consumed, and spent with riotous son. Who parts from world, would wish that were not so Graceless time runs on rolling wheels. His charity, commands him so to think But graceless time, on rolling wheels doth go At whose abuse, our flyring world can wink Vice cares no whit, if virtue swim or sink Ambishous' mind, and malice meets in one So that true love, and charity is gone. Christian love looks to every thing. Love bids men look, to all things under Sun Beast fish, and foul, and all we see with eye But charity, a greater course doth run Because it doth, in quiet conscience lie She looks each where, as she had wings to fly And hover over, our doings on this mould That bridle takes, and will not be controlled. O then to love, and charity I pass Whose zeal is great, Zeal is the glass that shows the spots of face. and charge is nothing small That clearly sees, (as in a crystal glass) The spots of face, and inward cankers all And can in haste, unto remembrance call Old farn years past, and present things of late, Whereof a world, of wits may well debate. Who can hold tongue, Abuse runs over the brim. to see bad worlds abuce Run o'er the brim, where virtue never flows As havoc had, hauled up the water sluice Where out at large, great skulls of fishes goes Poor pashence must, be pleased with painted shoes Alms deeds are dead, no pity now is last For all the world, is set on sleight and craft. If poverty, be pinched with plague or sore He starves for food, adieu the man is dead The sound we seek, the sick we do abore Full paunch eats all, Full paunch eats up all. the hungry is not fed For greedy guts, keeps needy mouth from bred True charity, and good devoshon old By frost and snow, are almost killed with cold. Would God good works, with faithful honest deeds Reformed this vice, that spreads too far I fear And fair sweet flowers, Fair word● make fools feign. were planted for those weeds That doth with fraud, infect sweet soils each where Fine words doth but, betray the simple ear As fowler's pipe; the harmless bird disseaves That lights on lime, amid green birchen leaves. If mere deceit, were banished from our view Deceit deceives militous of men. False dealing then, would blush to show his face If wisdom did, disdain vain follies new Old troth in world, would claim his wonted place But cunning wits, doth fineness so embrace That plainness walks, like pilgrim to and fro In wandering wise, and knows not where to go. Wealths thirst drinks rivers dry. Wealth hath desire, to drink great rivers dry His scalding thirst, cannot be quenched well Want pines away, and comfortless doth lie And water tastes, like Tantalus in hell The needy sort, in dolour daily dwell The haughty head, thinks scorn to turn his face And rue the state, of naked wretch's case. The fields and lanes, are full of sick and lame, Who beg and crave, as loud as voice can cry A saving world spares nothing to the poor. But saving world, is grown so far from frame No great remorse, remains in passers by Hardness holds back, both bag and bounties eye So that no ruth, regard nor pity comes From sparing hands, and graceless griping thombs. Our prisons all, are pestered with poor souls Whose yelling noise, a tyrant's heart may move At grates they stand, and look through peeping holes Prisoners perish for want of comfort. To purchase alms, and try good people's love But penury, doth so their pashence prove, With empty womb, and hungry meatles maw They lay them down, on boards or wads of straw. The silly folk, Many silly souls goes a hungry to bed. in town or cottage rude With belly full, do seldom go to bed And looks as lean, as hawks that ill are mud Which often be, with crows or carrion fed How should men give, when charity is dead For money, meat, and clothing now is bard From those that need, the world is waxed so hard. How can full purse, Full purse follows many pleasures. supply the poor man's went When trull at home, from sheep looks for a fleece And master must, be sometimes all a flaunt And pretty pus, my dear must have a piece Whose beauty stains, the fair Helen of Greece These things are large, and lo●g to look upon By which cold cause, warm charity is gone. More reasons rise, to make men hold and keep The crumbs they catch, from Fortune's table still For purchesars, The purchesars plucks all from the poor. do walk when plough men sleep Their sacks of corn, is seldom from the mill They take no rest, till thrift bare budget fill Then lock they up, in chest their golden bags When beggars trudge, and jet about in rags. Cold parts men play, Crafty 〈◊〉 can play bopeep. much like old plain bopeep Or counterfeit, in dock out-nettle still And for their game, there is such hold and keep That nothing can, escape their reaching skill Much have ye won, when got is their good will 'tis lost again, for one small grain of gold Their charity, is grown so extreme cold. Cunning raiseth the price of every thing. They raise the price, of every thing is bought On tenter hooks, their ware is stretched out Seeks all the ways, for wealth that may be sought As for the wind, a ship is swayed about And at a trice, they turn the water spout So from our purse, both pence and pounds they draw By hook or crook, by wrest or reach of law. Victuals made dear seldom comes down again. The rate of things, racked up doth fall no more Cold conscience takes, all-fish that comes to net To make corn dear, they hoard much grain in store So they may win, some care not how they get For every bird, they do such lime-twigs set That no bird escapes, if it be slidge to fly Except foresight, the sudden danger spy. No rain nor curb, nor bridle holds them in No law nor rule, nor order will they keep Sets all abroach, to feed and nourish sin Wicked wolves devours the lambs. And plays the wolves, with lambs when younglings sleep Makes old folks whine, and babes in cradle weep And makes the rate, of every thing so scant That some cries out, that never thought of want. A devilish dearth destroys thousands. A devilish dearth, is come from dark hell gate To kill cold hearts, as hands can crush a crab That blow falls not, upon the proud man's pate But gives the meek, and mildest mind the stab Now tell I all, the secrets like a blab As good to show, a sore whiles wound is green As let men starve, before the grief be seen. The love of wealth, The love of wealth forgets all goodness. forgets both God and man And who grows rich, sets little by renown To catch and hold, the world doth what it can With endless care, in court, in field and town Craft keepeth up, plain honesty falls down Charity is dead, and goodness grows full sick Wisdom doth drowp, and folly is too quick. Wealth like a worm, eats up sweet kernels all As cankers rust, runs into iron and steel Hard closed hands, that will let nothing fall Wants ears to hear, Hard hands will part from nothing. yet fingers hath to feel Well all is right, when world runs like a wheel Round as a top, that scourging can abide Swims up and down, and follows time and tide. On present time and muck man's mind is bend Foolish world thinks but our present time. On world to come, no care nor eye they cast What comes with ease, is often rashly spent And what doth hap, in hands we hold full fast As though our pomp, and pride should always last Yea thinking all, is ours that we can scrape And still for more, do greedy gluttons gape. The many years, Many years and manners altars the kind of man. and winters past and gone Hath changed the kind, of grace and goodness quite Our bodies bears, in flesh a heart of stone That joined is, with fainty liver white Which never breeds, in breast one good delight Our noughty minds, may be the cause of this That hath transformed, all Adam's babes amiss. A golden age is turned to copper and brass. The golden age, of our forefathers wise, Is copper now, or worse than any brass, We quickly can, clap on a new found gife And wear a mask, seem shadow in a glass But bring no work, nor great good thing to pass Make show of much, as art sets tristes forth That proves a puff, in substance little worth. Words is the worst ware that ever was sold. Words are the ware, that each man sets to sale With phrases fine, bedecked to blind poor sight Fair promise first, steps forth and tells a tale Of bad device, that weighs in balance light For at your need, performance taketh flight And leaves in lake, the fool that words hath won Who pays great pains, for shadows in the sun. Wealth weighs down every thing. Wit did prefer, good people well of yore Wealth now with weights, doth weigh the balance down Words and fine talk, leads world the dance before But neither wealth, nor words wins true renown For when the trump, doth give uncertain sown Men will not then, prepare them for the fight But rather seek, to save themselves by flight. Words are waves tossed with wind. Words are the waves, that welters on the seas And works a froth, in colour white as snow Makes thousands sick, and breeds a cold disease To those that with, such swelling surges go Inconstant words, with tide will ebb and flow But fruitful deeds, stands firm and fast as rock That bides the brunt, of every blast and shock Fine Machevill, Marchevill is now made an English man. is now from Florence flown To England where, his welcome is too great, His busy books, Want of charity hath made me lose my patent. are here so red and known That charity, thereby hath lost her heat Poor prisoners do, in Ludgate die for meat Who doth for det, in danger long remain Must fall down flat, and seldom rise again. Wit takes his toll, The milner will be sure of his toll. as milner at the mill Powlseakes the bags, of meal as he doth please Thrusts thousands back, till tricksy tanker fill Like prentice fine, that feign would take some ease In deed there is, no fishing to the seas But what is caught, in conscience should be sold In market place, that men might credit hold. No charity, A fine fisher would catch all himself. is found when fisher feeds On all himself, and gives his fellows none Alas poor souls, we angle in the reeds And catch a frog, when all the fish is gone Bullhead and loch, lies under little stone But stones and sticks, will break our nets I doubt Before we bring, a dish of gudgeons out. The great good turns, Good turns are turned to fair holy water. in court that thousands felt Is turned to clear, fair holy water there The scraps are small, that hungry hands have dealt Spoil cannot spare, the paring of a pea●e For snatch crust robs, alms baskets every where The poor so starves, or knows not what to do And so I fear, shall silly suitors to. The father will scarce speak for his son. The father scarce, will speak for his own son World waxeth mute, when men should do some good The stream is stopped, where water ought to run We cast our nets, where fish creeps in the mud And climb those trees, where bows will never bud We take great pain, yet no good fruit enjoys For words are wind, and fills our ears with noys. The soldier consumes himself with grief. The soldier sits, and sighs to shake off grief Whose wounds in war, of right claims great reward Waits hard at heel, but findeth small relief Who least deserves, is always most preferred Who brags and boasts, blind world doth best regard But some that lost, their blood in countries right May kiss the post, and bid us all good night. What charity, is that judge you that can Who sees these things, so far past all redress A lip wise world cares little for a man. When lip-wise world, sets little by a man What may fall out, of that a fool may guess Each one shall have, his lot yea more or less But charity, and fortune differ far Between them two, we find a mortal war. The one helps all, and loves a number still Charity and fortune differ far. The other hurts, or else prefers a few And wise men find, no hold in her good will For she is called, a most inconstant shrew That with the sun, will waste away like dew A summer flower, that withers in the frost Comes softly on, and rides away in post. As blind of sight, as ever Cupid was For she looks not, on virtue any way Nor wisdoms worth, Fortune favours many an ass. but favours many an ass For his smooth face, and peacocks feathers gay But charity is, the only staff and stay To all estates, for where she stoutly stands She sets all free, and breaketh bondage bands. Forgives great faults, and suffers many a wrong She gives a badge, Charity forgives and forgets injuries. that every christian wears And in all worlds, her livery lasteth long It guarded is, all round about with tears And she herself, a branch of olive bears In sign of peace, and mercy mixed with grace That pity takes, of every rueful case. This charity gives, as much as men may crave And soon forgets, Charity hath no end of her bounty. the bounty she bestows Takes great delight, the life of man to save By virtue of, good turns that from her flows Whose is sent like, the white and sweet red rose For all her gifts, and graces bears such flowers That makes poor men, to laugh when fortune lowers. On charity, Charity gives few words but doth many good deeds. the hungry daily feeds As lambs and sheep, in fruitful pasture live She gives few words, where she bestoes good deeds The more we need, the sooner will she give As corn from chaff, is si●ted through the siue So she tries out, from dust and dross the gold As wisdom doth, the worth of men unfold. Charity is the 〈◊〉 and 〈◊〉 shall be●●sled. This charity, is first that favour finds And shall be last, that wins our world's good will Begot by grace, and nursed in noble minds That stays and stands, upon their honour still 'tis seen far off, as torch is on an hill Felt near at hand, and found out by the light Which in dark days, doth glad each good man's sight. When fortunes wrath, hath wounded many a wight She brings a box, of balm to heal each sore That makes sad mind, and heavy heart so light It never thinks, on wretched chance no more Charity conquers every where like a victor. If charity, like victor goes before Come after her, proud world with all thy braves Like conqueror, she triumphs on her slaves. But well away, and woe God wo● the while True charity, is faintly felt or found She is of late, halfe-driven in exile Bad life would drive charity in exile. Because bad life, let's cruelty abound The world is full, of hollow hearts unsound And mercy meets, with ruth scarce once a year For rigours rage, doth show such churlish cheer. Men go transformed now a da●s. Men walk abroad, transformed in sundry shapes More monster like, than babes of Adam's brood Fearful to sight, like ugly owls and apes That hath of kind, no civil human mood Tigers in proof, nursed up with wolvish food For silly lambs, that doth no butcher fear They do devour, and in small pieces tear. Greedy as gulls, Some people are as greedy as gulls. and gapes for garbedge still, Ravening like wolves, that murders sheep in fold subtle as fox, that never hath his fill Headstrong and proud, and will not be controlled Currish as kite, ne gentle young nor old Such cruel tricks, doth alter so man's mind That long they live, by craft and dies unkind. Quarrels increase, Quarrels breeds mischief and bloodshed. and combats have no end Till blood be shed, and life and land be lost Some thinks the bow, were better break than bend On that consait, stands mighty manhood most But charity, rides then away in post And leaves in lash, behind her in some part A heap of harms, and many a heavy heart. Lust lives by spoil, Lust is a thief and robs us of life. like thief that robs true men Desires to eat, the hen and chickens all ravin and rage, prouls fast for profit then So gets some cheat, though it be near so small But lust is like, an image on a wall Strike out the coal, that is but black of hue Fair white and clean, appears blurred wall to you. o'er weening runs, beyond the course of wit Presumpshon then, doth set best foot before And boldness knows, not where to stand nor sit His lofty looks, Pride and presumption is bold as bl●nde bayard. provokes his pride so sore But when threadbare, his bad spun cloth is wore The world but laughs, to see bald bayard blind With painted robes, patch up a stately mind. In cloud unseen, newfangledness would walk Newfangledness is easily found out. But he is spied, by old deep searching sight Fine filled tongues, like parrots prate and talk And wonder makes, of trifling matters light This glorious crew, triumphs in moon shine night But when clear day, such idols doth disclose World will point out, where every shadow goes. Wilful heads hates good counsel. Wild wilful heads, that all sound counsel hates A careless course, of borrowed life doth lead Whose reckless race, still argues and debates They soon forget, good lessons that they read But when the foot, awry the shoe doth tread Down goes the heel, yea seam the sole and all And so unwares, a man in mire may fall. Ill custom Breeds abuse. And stumbling oft, makes some to snapper still Use mastery breeds, and custom pleads a law Let bridle go, the horse will have his will Much water scarce, will quench hot fire in straw A stubborn child, that still doth backward draw Must needs be whipped, to make him fear the rod So we are plagued, when we forget our God. Two plagues past threatens a third. Three sundry plagues, the wrath of God doth show The first is passed, the second you may see The third ye wots, the world too well doth know For that cuts down, corn, grass, and highest tree The angry clouds will never calmy be Till better life, seaise all our showers of rain And Gods great grace, brings summer home again Shame follows pride, Shame follows pride, and dearth nipped sore. and death comes after sin Than famine kills, up thousands where it flies They will take heed, that hath well scourged been And fall to mend, their lives if they be wise But in our world, such new found fashions rise All frames not well, look into each man's ways Small charity, is seen in these bad days. When charity, Proud painted posts are rotte● in the middle. proud painted posts plucks down To God and prince, great honour shall arise When plainness thrives, in court and civil town Old troth will bid, farewell our new-found gise Goodness will come, and so advance the wise Dunces and dolts, shall stand beneath the bar And pride shall blush, that doth presume too far. The least of most, makes most of his bad stuff So leers and looks, as frighted were his wits Is never well, Pride alubberly lout, looks like a monarch. till pride be in his ruff Than monarch like, on lofty seat he sits (Whose scornful heart, is full of froward fits) But speaks no word, for fear that bayard blind Should plunge before, and yearke at him behind. The worst with best, The worst with h●e heart, compares with the best. compares and strives for place As gold and glass, in worth wear all alike Bears out his brags, with scowling brazen face That cannot blush, no more than can black tike He frowns so sore, he looks as he would strike The crabbish ●arle, so cursed and cumbrous is Then when he speaks, in school the scholars hiss. A surly sire swells like a a toad. The surly sire, sits swelling like a toad That venom casts, on goodly herbs and flowers Not pleased well, in house nor yet abroad Nor seems to have, ne quiet days nor hours When cheerful folk, doth smile this churl he loures A swarm of such, checkmates a man may see If stagers come, where fresh fine fellows be. A stately stalk thinks none like himself. The stately stalks, that will ne stoup nor bend Will speak no word, till first ye them salute Holds head aloft, but down no look will lend Fair blossomed trees, that brings forth no good fruit Nay sickles sharp, that reaps up many a suit Their harvest hath, cut down the corn so clean They leave in field, the poor no grain to glean. A crafty crew are wilier than the fox. The crafty crew, more wily than old Fox Runs flocking on, as sheep to fold doth fly Takes what they may, and gives but scorns & mocks They want no wiles, within the wind to lie Drains rivers up, and drinks great fountains dry At first rebound, strikes back the tennis ball (From those that plays) as though they would have al. Cunning lads are ●s quick a● a ●ee. The cunning lads, that creeps through auger holes As quick as Be, seeks honey every where Feeds body fat, but cares not for their soles Their snatching shows, what greedy minds they bear Who lends the poor, ne loving look nor ear Brings empty paunch, to mouth up all alone Scorns and disdain, to fling a dog a bone. Preferments were, Preferments are not got with shooting toe short. the marks whereat we shot But past our aim; and reach those marks do stand For ere we draw, the bow the game is got Or else the string, doth break within our hand Our plain prick-shafts, were wont to cleave a wand But now so blunt, and flat the heads are worn When archer shoots, lewd world laughs him to scorn. They hit the white, They hit the white that have good hap. that never shot before No mark men sure, nay bunglars in their kind A sort of swads, that scarce can shoot twelve score Nor hath no skill, to know where blows the wind Lo thus you see, that fortune is but blind To give them hap, whose knowledge is so base They scarce deserve, a simple pedlars place. Each man prefers, Each man prefers his servants and friends. his friends and servants both The Queen's poor men, finds few to help their hap I pray you who, doth speak for plain Tom-troth Which plies them all, with curchie, knee and cap His old crab tree, is burnt with thunder clap Black are the bows, that once grew green and gai● The run of time, doth threaten his decay. How should men live, that have no chinks to spend Steel now lacks strength, to strike out fire from flint Hold fast the gnoff, will neither give nor lend Hope-well can get, Hope well can get no money from the mint. no money from the mint All things we have, are set now at a stint Nip-crust the carl, hath crept so near the crumbs That nothing escapes, from hungry hucksters thumbs. Serve long spends much and gets little. Serve long wait well, spend much and little get May be compared, to walking horse for nought Brings many men, in danger and in det For wit and time, thereby is dearly bought As when a drudge, all day hath truly wrought And goes to bed, unpleasd or paid aright He thinks days toil, brings beggary home at night. Who makes haste to amend any miss. I pray you who, makes haste to mend this miss The man in the moon, as soon as any one By which cold sign, true love and charities Grown now more cold, than ice or marble stone As dogs do strive, and snarre about a bone So for good turns, the people throng and thrust So thick God wots, we know not who to trust. New natures altars good old conditions. These nature's new, doth argue plagues most strange To come if now, No famine here were had For as we do, our old good manners change So world I fear, henceforth will be too bad When sober men, grows savage wild and mad Look for small rule, and order here below Our judgement day, thereby draws near I trow. Not one doth right, search and you shall see. Not one doth right, with weights when we are weighed All are as light, in balance as a fly For out of frame. are all when all is said Both they below, and those that would sit high But chiefly such, as use to sell and buy All sciences, yea all of every art Are stepped on stage, and comes to play their part. Search every art, Artificers and all are light in the balance. artificers and all In charity, behold them as they are And you shall see, their conscience is so small That near a one, for charity doth care Do neither church, queer, court, nor country spare And tell me plain, what charity is there God grant these days, true love be any where. Can plagues cease then, Plague's will not cease till bad life be reform when every living wight His neighbour plagues, as far as power may stretch In balance just, not one man ways aright All use desait, and lie on guard and watch He lives not now, that can not scrat and snatch Men are no saints, world is a world to th'end So folly doth, his wilful faults defend. The man of Ind, can never change his skin Nor yet the cat, of mountain change her hue So those wild buds, Wild buds brings forth no good fruit. that ever bad have been Can never bear, good fruit nor blossom nue A bitter taste, will never go from rue A wicked life, can show no virtuous deed No more than may, a flower spring from a weed. What keeps good course, Neither world not weather keeps good course. the weather altars oft The heavens seem, to show some sudden change The winds wax shrill, and loud they blow aloft Familiar friends, for trifles grow full strange Wit waxeth wild, whose wont was not to range So out of tune, each thing is wrested now Because abuse, corrupts good nature throw. If summer once, in twenty years grows hot (Whose warmth revives, both fruit & flowers each where) Cold winters blast, bites near the bones ye wots Cold pleaseth few, for cold each one doth fear Why world grows cold, and cold is hard to bear Neither world nor weather keeps good course. Cold weather makes, warm conscience cold I trow So charity, and goodness cold doth grow. Cold weather or world pleaseth none. Cold is the air, the open field and town Then court must needs, wax colder than it was It seems wise world, cares not for vain renown As world doth come, a God's name let it pass Though charity, grow thrice as cold as glass A warmer time, in better tune may bring This hard cold age, when comes a summer spring. Cold air kills sometime sound and sick. Cold snow is not, so good as lukewarm milk Hot sun doth melt, cold frost and cakes of ice Thick frise surmounts, a thin cloak lined with silk Fw-es gown exceeds, cold cloth of preshous price Warm love lasts long, cold favour grows full nice With warm good will, we win great wordly good The fire burns best, where most ye clap on wood. Cold love quickly takes leave. Both flame and fire, goes out in weather cold Where neither coals, nor wood mantaines the heat And heat is that, contents both young and old For in the same, our sweet delight is great Most men feeds best, with good warm drink or meat Cold breeds worst blood, and hardly doth digest Because cold things, lies belching long in breast. Cold fortune kills, Cold fortune kills any man living. the strongest man that lives Cold countenance cuts, the throat ere we be ware Cold poison ●onke, a quick dispatch it gives Cold cra●●s dries up, the senses where they are Cold limbs wax lame, and breeds diseases rare Thus cold mars all, than warmth God send us now That every part, of man feel comfort throw. Cold food is faint, Cold food is comfortless and hard to digest. unto weak stomachs still Warm broths keeps health, in perfect sound estate Warm days we wish, cold bitter air is ill Cold blasts be nought, sharp blustering storms we hate Sweetly sun shines, in world early or late Cold quickly caught, goes seldom soon away And long cold nights, kills some before the day. Cold dry hard fro●●, makes thousands seek for fire Warm meat gives spreet, to either sick or sound Cold hungry baits, Cold hungry baits may kill a horse. makes many a horse to tyre Warm clouts and clothes, doth comfort every wound No fruit thrives well, where cold doth much abound The warmth doth joy, both spring and fall of leaf Makes dead things quick, delights both dumb & deaf Yea blind and lame, and all that life doth bear Are glad of heat, then cold is out of grace Cold words God wots, Cold words makes a man desperate. when meaning scarce is there Kills many a man, in court or any place O would to God, warm deeds did show his face That charity, her whole effect may show On those that needs, which knows not where to go A colder season in all sorts was never seen. A colder time, in world was never seen The skies do lower, the sun and moon wax dim Summer scarce known, but that the leaves are green The winter's waste, drives water o'er the brim Upon the land, great floats of wood may swim Nature thinks scorn, to do her duty right Because we have, displeased the Lord of light. Cold words and works makes many a heavy heart. Cold works, cold words, cold world and all things cold Shows death draws near, and then a deep cold grave Such hard cold hap, may make a young man old Or old grey beard, become a galley slave Well let them loose, that can ne● in nor save The state of man, on strange hap hazard lies As one falls down, so doth another rise. If charity, would once bespread hirrays As Phoebus shows, abroad his shining beams Cold winter may bring some summer days. Or winter cold, would bring some summer days And rid us soon, from all these great extremes Than she dies not, but haply sleeps and dreams Now waken her, that have most power to speak I have ta'en cold, and so my voice grows weak. You whose clear speech, doth loud as trumpet sound And may command, the world, the skies and stars And rules at beck, the massy earth so round Sets orders down, and can make peace and wars And hath the force, to break big iron bars Warm love 〈◊〉 awaken charity again. Call charity, for love once home again That she may hear, her people poor complain. My breath but bores, The author's breath is to cold 〈◊〉 do any good. a hole within the air My date near done, calls for a shrouding sheet My dark dim days, looks for no weather fair Mine eyes can scarce, look to my stumbling feet My wonted muse, forsakes my drooping spirit My books and scrolls, and all that I have wrote Hides now their heads, as I were clean forgot. When aged years, Aged years shows death 〈◊〉 ●t hand. shows death amid my face My words are of, small credit in this plight My hap and hope, is in a better place Wherefore of world, I plainly speak and write And ere I go, discharge my conscience quite To win the wise, and lose the fonder sort That unto quick, nor dead yields good report. The wise well won, Labour is well ●● stowed when wise men are 〈◊〉. ways each thing as it ought Mistakes no term, nor sentence wrists awry The fond will read, awhile but cares for nought Yet casts on each, man's works a frowning eye This neither treats, of matters low not high But finds a mean, that each good meaning might In all true means, take charity aright. FINIS. A PRAISE OF POETRY. Imprinted at London, by Ar. Hatfield, for William Holme. 1595. A praise of Poetry, some notes thereof drawn out of the Apology, the noble minded Knight, sir Philip Sidney wrote. WHen world was at the very worst And vice did much abound And for offence the earth was cursed Yet charity was found. Among the wise and worthy sort Who ever had good chance with triple fame, by their report True virtue did advance. The Poets and Philosophers Stepped first on stately stage And played their parts with hazards great In every world and age. In every age while wits of men Can judge the good from bad Who got the gift of tongue or pen Of world great honour had. Good Poets were in high esteem, When learning grew in price Their virtue and their verse did seem A great rebuke to vice. With blunt base people of small sense They fall now in disdain But sydney's book in their defence Doth raise them up again. And sets them next Divines in rank As members meet and fit To strike the world's blind boldness blank And whet the bluntest wit. Hear follows Histories good store That much thereof shall tell If pains may purchase thanks therefore My hope is answered well. Amphyon and Orpheus Poets and excellent musicians. Amphion's gift and grace was great In Thebes old stories say And beasts and birds would leave their meat● To hear Orpheus' play. Livius, Andronicus, and Ennius. In Rome were three of peerless fame That flourished in their days Which three did bear the only name Of knowledge, skill and praise. Dant, Bocace, and Petrarke. In Italy of yore did dwell Three men of spechall spirit Whose gallant styles did sure excel Their verses were so sweet. Mar●ot, Ronsa●t, and d● Ba●tas. In France three more of fame we find Whose books do well declare They beautified their starely mind With inward virtues rare. Go●re, Chaufer, 〈◊〉 the noble earl of S●●●●e. In England lived three great men Did Poetry advance And all they with the gift of pen Gave glorius world a glance. In Scotland find we other twain Davy Lindzey and Buckananus. Were writers of good worth Whose studies through their Poets vain Brought many verses forth. In Ireland to this present time They honour and make much of their ●imers. Where learning is not mich With Poetry in verse or rhyme Their language they enrich. In Wales the very remnant yet In Wales they call their rhymers Bards. Of Britain blood and race They honour men of speshall wit And gives a Poet grace. Albinus long that reigned here Albinus loved poetry much. Made verses in his youth And in his age as doth appear With verse avancst the truth. Among the savage Indians still The rude Indians make much of their rhymers. (Who knows no civil thing) They honour writers of some skill Their parents lives to sing. Among the anshent noble Danes The Danes and Saxons had many poets among them. And Saxsons long ago We read of many Poet's names Whose worthy wits did flow. The grave wise learned men of Greece In Greece their best philosophers at the first became poets. Durst never show their art Till those Philosophers presumed To play the Poet's part. Some sang in verse, their natural Thales, Empedocles, and Parmenides. Philosophy we find And in sweet songs heroical Expressed their secret mind. Pythagoras and Phosillides. So moral counsels uttered were In that same self sweet sort Thus Poets flourished every where As stories makes report. Torteus. And marshal matters in those days Were song and set aloft So some the art of war did raise Unto the skies full oft. Sibylla's prophecies in verse Were always uttered well The oracels of Delphos to In verse would wonders tell. Solon that wrote the fable of the Atlantic Island. In policies wise Solon played The Poet sundry ways Good things were better song than said Which gained immortal praise. Plato a divine philosopher did stoup to poetry. Plato took Solon's works in hand And played the Poet right And set that Atlantike Island Full plain before our sight. Herodotus. The Book of Herodotus bore A famous title fine (Yea such as none did give before) Of all the muses nine. Dominician was a Poet rare Dominician Vaspasians son, as Pliny saith was an excellent poet. And did therein excel So many princes now there are That loveth Poetry well. Three conquerors of mighty power Alexander, Caesar and Scipio. Gave Poets such a grace That they would never frown not lower On them in any case. As Plutarch saith, Alexander Phoreus wept at a tragedy. a tyrant wept A tragedy to hear Who saw his murdering mind thereby As in a glass full clear. Amid a great revolt in Rome Menenus Agrippa a philosopher made peace among the people in an uproar. A worthy Poet stood And told of body and the mind A tale that did much good. Two Poets turned a tyrant's heart Simonides and Pyndarius made Hiero a just king. From rigour unto ruth And wrought him with their wits and art To favour right and truth. Nathan did feign a tale indeed Nathan spoke of a lamb ungraciously taken from his bosom. To David when he fell Whereon the king took such great heed He saw his folly well. In David's Psalms true mitre flows David and Solomon divine poets. (And songs of Sallomon) Where great delight and pleasure grows Are worthy looking on. Plato's dialog called jon. A dialogue that Plato made Gives Poets great renown Brings each rare wit to sun from shade To wear the laurel crown. Lelius a Roman & Socrates both were poets. True stories old with new delight Shall fill your hearts and ●ares For they of Poet's praises writ Their books good witness bears. james the first that was king of Scotland, and K. james the sixth now reigning, great poets. If aunshent authors and great kings No credit gets herein Darke-sight sees not no stately things That doth great glory win. The Greek Socrates put Aesop's fables into verse, and Aristotle wrote the art of poetry. Pluck up clear judgement from the pit Of poor espreet and sense And wipe the slime from slubbered wit And look on this defence. Emperors, kings, captains, and Senators were poets, and favoured the art. That Sidney makes, a matchless work A matter fresh and new That did long while in silence lurk And seldom came to view. Adrian and Sophocles great poets. He calls them Poets that embrace True virtue in her kind And do not run with rhymes at base With wanton blotted mind. ●f our 〈◊〉 me, the pa●●● poetry, Robert ●ng of Cic●ll and 〈◊〉 great Frances ●ng of France. All idle verse he counts but vain Like cracks of thorns in fire Or summer showers of sleet or rain That turns dry dust to mire. These rural rhymes are but the scum And froth that flies from seas Cardinal Berabus and Bibiena. Or doth from some sharp humour come That breeds a new disease. In brain that beats about the skull Famous teachers and preachers, Beza and Melancton. And so brings forth a toy (When musse or moon is at the full) Of pains or pleasing joy. Like long winged hawk, Learned philosophers Fracastorius and Scaliger. doth Poet fore Ore mountain or high trees And loud as cannon can he roar At each vice that he sees. His scope as high as reason's reach Great and good orators Pontanus and Muretus. May climb in order due Not to give counsel nor to teach But to write fancies new. Of this or that as matter moons And beyond all these, the hospital of France being builded on virtue, gave poets a singular commendation. A well disposed mind That vice doth hate and virtue loves And he good cause doth find. So ruling pen as duties bounds Be kept in every part For when the Poet trumpet sounds It must be done by art. As though a sweet consort should play Alexander kept the books of Homer in 〈◊〉 his jewel casket. On instruments most fine And show their music every way With dainty notes divine. Menander the comic poet being sent for by ambassadors of Macedonia and Egypt preferred the conscience of learning before kingly fortunes. Each string in tune as concord were The guide of all the glee Whose harmony must please the ear With music frank and free. The Poet's Lyra must be strung With wire of silver sound That all his verses may be sung With maidens in a round. Augustus Caesar wrote familiar epistles unto Horace, which Horace in his life was advanced to the tribuneship of soldiers, and when he died he left Augustus Caesar his heir. So chaste and harmless should they be As words from preachers voice With spiced speech in each degree Wherein good men rejoice. Not farced full of sollies' light That bears ne poys nor weight But flying clear in air like flight Whose force mounts up an height. And seems to pierce the cloudy skies Such poets Sidney likes Whose gentle wind makes dust arise As high as morris pikes. Virgil entering the college of poets in Rome, the rest of the poets there did more reverence to him than to the emperor, and when he came into the senate the senators likewise did so. That lifts aloft the soldiers heart Who doth advance the same And bends his body in each part Thereby to purchase fame. The sword and lance of marshal men Their Lion's courage shows The poets with their wit and pen Tells where their fury flows. They both are known as soon as seen As things of great import The one may very far over ween The other in some sort. Stands on his honour sundry ways And offereth life therefore The poet seeks no more but praise As poets did of yore. Whose words struck dead the stoutest grooms David sung the Liricke verses to his harp and those Hebrew songs consisted of diverse feet and unequal numbers, sometime in jambikes running other while. That ever were in place And sweeped clean like new made brooms. The foulest cause or case. As water washeth each thing white And soap might scour with all The canker of foul world's delight (More sharp than bitter gall.) So poets with plain terms makes clean The soulest conscience lives And by good words from vice doth wean (Through council that it gives.) The childest wit and churlisht mind Insaphicks swelling again in half a foot amiably halting. Lo then how poets may Both alter manners and bad kind To frame a better way. Of heavens and the highest throne Solomon in the gardens of Engadda framed songs to his harp which then was a heavenly music. Where God himself doth sit Good poets still should treat alone To show ●heir flowing wit. jeremy wrote his funeral lamentations in saphycks long before Simonides the Greek poet. As by their muse they carried were Beyond our sight or view Into a fine and purer air Or speshall climate new. Where all things are as clean as gold From furnace to the stamp So poets should this world behold And shine as clear as lamp. Isaias wrote sacred Odes & holy verses, and for remembering the mysteries of god therein, a tyrant king caused him to be sawed a sunder. That light doth give to every eye Which doth in darkness dwell And glory show of heavens hie To damned sprites of hell. Which darkness in a dungeon keeps From sight of virtues lore Where ignorance in slumber sleeps Like dunce for evermore. The song of Sydrack and his fellows in the hot flame was in verse. Sir Philip Sidney praiseth those Whose waking wits doth see The depth and ground of verse or prose And speaks with judgement free. Moses by some men is thought the first deviser of verse, and his sister Marie devised the exameter, and by it to have glorified jehova. Of all the matters under sun Both secrets high and low And over them with pen can run As far as skill can go. Sift every word and sentence well And cast away the bran To show the kernel, crack the shell In pieces now and than. That every one shall taste the nut Or see where worm hath fed And shoot an arrow at the but And draw it to the head. Like archer that can hit the white Ausonius' a french man and poet, schoolmaster to Gracianus the Emperor was a● orator and consul of Rome therefore. And win the wager strait With cunning knowledge and delight And subtle sense and slaight. Which looks into the world so round And searcheth every place To see what may be easily found Or spoke of each man's case. To rhyme and rove in reckless sort He counted revel rash As whip doth make a horse to snort When carter gives a lash. So ballet makers doth with wind Homer writes that Achilles' son of Peleus was a singular liricke poet, singing and playing the noble deeds of chieftains. Stir up a hive of bees And of the abundance of vain mind With words in air he flees. As though it were a thunder crack That never brings forth rain But daily threatens run and wrack With rattling rumours vain. Vain comedies that stirs up vice He did condemn and hate He holds that babble of no price That doth infect a state. Linus of Thebes a most ancient poet, he was the son of Mercury and wrote the course of the sun, moon, and spheres in excellent verse. Corrupts with words good manners still Offends both eye and ear Brings in lose life by customs ill And takes away true fear Of God and man, such Poets lewd Were banished and exiled Because with foul condishons shrewd Their country they defiled. Tiberius Nero the Emperor a poet, and Lucan his treasurer a poet on a public theatre they showed ●he tragedy Orpheus. Good Poets were in every age Made of and nourish● well They were the flowers of gardens gay That gave the goodly smell. The true forewarners of great things That after did befall The joy of godly virtuous kings And honest subjects all. Our age and former father's days (Leave Goore and Chauser out) Hath brought forth here but few to praise Search all our soil about. Adrianus, Augustus' Emperor a poet and preferrer of poetry. Yet of all those that newly wrote In prose or verse of late Let Sidney wear (for style of state) The garland lawreate. julianus Empeperor and Caius julius Caesar. His books makes many books to blush They show such sense and wit Our dribbers shoots not worth a rush When he the mark doth hit. His phrase is sifted like fine flower Oppianus of great nobility. That maketh manchet bread Sweet every where and nothing sour That flows from sydney's head. Sweet dew dropped out of sydney's quill Sextus Aurelius Propertius one of the Dedicie. As rain great moisture shoes And from his muse there did distill A liquor sweet as rose. Aquintesence, Scenica a spani● knight Nero's schoolmaster. a spirit of wine Nay Nectar better named A brevage for the Gods divine Of compounds made and framed. That whosoever drinks thereon Sophocles and Pericles. Immortal shall be made His books he left to look upon When we in worldly shade Sits mumping every hour of day ●milius 〈◊〉, a man of noble parentage. And scarce knows where we are Our brains like buck doth stand at bay Beset about with care. Of this or that when sydney's books Anacreon of Theios with Pollucrates king of the Samiana. Calls up a drooping ghost For whosoever thereon looks (With worldly troubles tossed) He shall find quietness thereby And Christian comfort great Worth all the treasure under sky It climbs to Ioues high seat. A●atus all his life time lived with An●ig●nus. And sits among the Angels sweet Where psalms and hymns are sung And all base humours under fee● Are out of favour fling. Lucius Cecilli●●, C●sar, play ●●lo●e. The poets that can climb the clouds Like ship boy to the top When sharpest storms do shake the shrouds Sets ware to sale in shop. Cirus the poet treasurer of the Emperor Theodocius, and Apatrician. Of heavenly things that earthly men Can scarcely understand Did not our Chausers golden pen (That beautified this land.) Publius and ●aberius companions with julius Caesar. Reach to the sun and highest star And touched the heavens all A poet's knowledge goes so far That it to mind can call. Arian the poet of Periander king of Corinth. Each wonder since this world began And what was seen in skies A poet is no common man He looks with Argoes eyes. Ra●ullides with julianus the Emperor. Like Linx throw steel or stony walls No secret escapes his sight Of future time and what befalls In world by day or night. Claudian●s his tomb●●●●ored b●●●nor●●s and A●cadius Emperors. He sees and sometimes writes thereof When scornful people scowl And makes of earnest words a scoff Or calls ●aire speeches fowl. Our country breeds up Poets still As grass springs from good ground For there doth flourish learned skill Where knowledge doth abound. Look what our elders wits did sow Or left behind in heaps Our age and harvest people mow Or with sharp sickle reaps. The seed of sense, fair fruit brings forth In field a thousand fold And is in value price and worth More preshous than the gold. What can be counted foul or clean But Poets thereon talk Yet thousands knows not what they mean When they in cloud will walk. As from the fountain water flows (Conveyed by gushing pipe) So from the pen of Poet goes Fine words and sentence ripe. That each good mind may well digest As sweet as honey sure His terms are taken with the best If verse be neat and pure. As rider's whisking wand doth fear Aeschiron in hi● whole military expedition, ●amiliar with Alexander. The horse whereon he sits So wrangling people every where At verses vex their wits. Masonides honoured of Adrian the Emperor. If any writer touch the gall In pastime be it said Then down comes trestles house and all Upon the poor man's head. Yet wise men will good words embrace And take each thing in worth And give each word and line a grace That poets do set forth. Ariosto liked of all good wits. Divine du Bartas merits 〈◊〉 Most excellent verse he wrote So sundry writers in our days Have done full well of late. In Spensers' moral fairy Queen And daniel's rosy mound If they be thoroughly weighed and seen Much matter may be found. Torquator Tasso an Italian knight and poet laureal who departed from oblivion to immortality this last April 1595. whose memory shall never vanish. One Barns that Petrarks scholar is May march with them in rank A learned Templars name I miss Whose pen deserves great thank. A number more writs well indeed They spring up newly now As gazing world their works shall read So shall world praise them throw. But sure my noble Sidneys skill I never can forget To him my service and good will Shall ever dwell in de●. Of learned lore the only light Mounsiour D●uereux a young Bishop at this day living in France, accounted now the singular man in Europe for verse and poetical devices. Which blazed like lamp most clear And as a star in moon shine night Can under cloud appear. Seemed dim and dark to dazzled eyes But fair and bright to those That understood the stately gise Of learned verse or prose. Can crack the nut of ●a●●hell And show the kernel plain For by his works who notes them well In world he lives again. The book that doth of poets treat Sir Philip Sidney to appology. In golden robes so shines It triumphs still with honour great Among the best divines. Which book decked up in trim attire Of authors wise and grave In matters of mine own desire Great light to poetry gave. And made me write of poets praise Thus so to starry sky My Sidneys honour here I raise As far as fame can fly. FINIS. My next Book comes out shortly: dedicated to my Honourable worthy friend, Master HENRY BROOKE, son and heir to the noble Lord COBHAM.