A Pleasant conceit penned in verse. Collourably set out, and humbly presented on Newyears day last, to the Queen's Majesty at Hampton Court.  
Anno. Domini. 1593.  
AT LONDON, ¶ Printed by Roger Warde, dwelling in Holborn at the sign of the Castle.   

To the Queen's most excellent Majesty.  
MAY it please your Majesty, so long as breath is in my breast, life in the heart, and spirit in the head, I cannot hold the hand from penning of some acceptable device to your Majesty, not to compare (in mine own over weening) with the rare Poets of our flourishing age, but rather counterfeiting to set forth the works of an extraordinary Painter, that hath drawn in a pleasant conceit, divers flowers, fruits, and famous Towns: which pleasant conceit I have presumed (this Newyears day) to present to your Majesty, in sign and token that your gracious goodness towards me oftentimes (and chiefly now for my pention) shall never go out of my remembrance, with all dutiful services, belonging to a loyal subject. So under your princely favour & protection, praying for your prosperous preservation and Royal estate, I proceed to my purposed matter.  
Your majesties humble Servant, Thomas Churchyard.   

A pleasant conceit.  

THE Painter thought, to please his own delight,  
With pictures fair, as poor Pygmalion did:  
But staring long, on kindly Red and White,  
He found therein, a secret nature hid.  
A frayed to fall, like Fly in flaming fire,  
He finely cast, cold water on desire,  
So shaping grapes, and grain another while,  
At his own works, the Painter 'gan to smile.   

Because with grapes, the birds were once begield,  
And men might dote, on goodly corn and grain:  
At more conceits, this merry man he smield,  
As though he had, possessed some Poets vain,  
As Petrarch had, who did his triumphs make,  
In sweetest sort, for Lady lawra's sake.  
This Painter took, in pencil such a joy,  
As he could make, much matter of a toy.   

A rush a reed, a feeble feather light,  
Was ground enough, for him to work upon:  
What ever came, to mind to view or sight,  
Stood for good cloth, to clap his colours on.  
But his most skill, was how to set forth flowers,  
And show at full, trim Towns and stately Towers.  
Not every Town, he meant not now to touch,  
For that their names, cannot avail him much.   

Northhampton first, the Painter took in hand,  
As chiefest work, his pencil lately drew:  
Because the plot, did come from foreign land,  
In that fair form, as doth appear to you.  
Not roughly heawed, as timber is in haste:  
But smoothed well, and with great honour graest.  
A worthy piece, of workmanship so rare:  
With golden Fleece, Northhampton may compare.   

Warwick he drew, in colours sad and grave,  
In elders days, a noble name it bore:  
It builded was, on virtues rare and brave,  
As ancient seats, and Cities were of yore.  
The walls were reared, on constant Rock full fast,  
That durst abide, the brunt of envies blast.  
The streets were paude, with plainness mixed with grace,  
Where good report, filled up each empty place.   

The houses hie, shone bright against the sun,  
And all the walks, and steps were smooth & clear:  
This famous Town, great love & laud hath won,  
As by the brute, of world doth well appear.  
It stands and stays, on honours pillars large,  
Sure props that can, bear up a greater charge,  
When Warwick thus, the Painter set in frame,  
He turned his hand, to Towns of stranger name.   

BEdford he made, in goodly sumptuous sort,  
With colours rich, bedecked and clear set out:  
Like Town of state, as strong as warlike Fort,  
With wise advice, well sensed round about,  
Not to be won, the watch and ward was such,  
Ne fraud nor force, durst not attempt it much.  
Bedford is blest, for from that house and soil,  
sprung many a branch, that never yet took foil.   

Old Lyncolne now, that stands on mighty Mount,  
Yet low in earth, the first foundation lies:  
He drew for that, it was of great account,  
And lifted up, in favour to the skies.  
The best we know, did love old Lyncolne well  
In former age, her beauty did excel.  
Of latter time, her credit was not small:  
For some do say, that Lyncolne passed them all.   

KYldare came now, to mind among the rest,  
A right fair seat, and so set forth it was:  
As Gods above, and nature had her blest,  
Which seemed to sight, as clear as Christall-glas.  
From Hawthorne bough, whose blossoms brings in May  
Kyldare did come, and joys therein this day.  
Kyldare commands, more men than thousands do,  
Yet duty bids, it be commanded to.   

HArtford he called, unto remembrance than,  
A Town where Term, is kept as cause doth crave:  
It favoured is, and liked of each good man,  
It doth in world, itself so well behave.  
Gallant and gay, and gladsome to the sight:  
Framed from the stock, that still grows bolt upright.  
Most meek of mind, and plain in every part:  
Where duty ought, show love and loyal heart.   

Now Huntingdon, was drawn in order due,  
As did become, the value of that seat:  
The honour old, the name is nothing new,  
The worth not small, the soil and place is great.  
The buildings fair, and stately too withal,  
Stands strong and sure, as doth a Brazen wall.  
Full glad to please, both God and man indeed,  
And priest to serve, the Prince in time of need.   

WOster that once, like Huntingdon did look,  
Stood still far off, as it would not be known:  
Yet soft and fair, in rank her place she took,  
She worthy was, of right to have her own.  
In fame and praise, and worldly honour both,  
In noble name in virtue grace and troth.  
If Painter had, not touched this Town no way,  
God knows thereof, what might good people say.   

southhampton came, in view and judgement now,  
A Haven town, of great esteem and praise:  
Of nature good, and well disposed throw,  
And nobly hath, bestowed both years and days.  
A princely port, where ship shall safely ride,  
Against all storms, how ever turns the tide.  
From Montague, whose truth no time might stain,  
Southampton took, her form and manner plain.   

PEmbroke a pearl, that orient is of kind,  
A Sidney right, shall not in silence sit:  
A gem more worth, than all the gold of Ind,  
For she enjoys, the wise Minerva's wit,  
And sets to school, our Poets every where:  
That doth presume, the Laurel crown to wear.  
The Muses nine, and all the Graces three:  
In Pembroke's books, and verses shall you see.   

Now Shrewsbrie shall, be honoured as it ought,  
The seat deserves, a right great honour here:  
That walled Town, is sure so finely wrought,  
It glads itself, and beautifies the shear.  
Her beauty stands, on bounty many ways,  
That never dies, but gains immortal praise.  
Her honour grows, on wished well won fame:  
That people sounds, of Shrewsbries' noble name.   

OXford came last, like sober Sibbill sage,  
Whose modest face, like fair Lucyna shone:  
Whose stayed looks, decors her youthful age,  
That glisters like, the Alabaster stone,  
Her blotlesse life, much laud and glory gate,  
And called her up, to be a great estate.  
The Diamond, doth lose his dainty light,  
And waxeth dim, when Oxford comes in sight.   

THese Towns and all, the people dwelling there,  
And all the rest, that loves their Country well:  
And all true hearts, and subjects every where,  
That feareth God, and do in England dwell,  
Salutes with joy, and gladness this New year,  
Our gracious Queen, and sovereign Lady dear.  
All wished haps, and welcome fortunes to,  
Still waits on her, as handmaids ought to do.  
With long good life, with peace and perfect rest,  
And all good gifts, that ever Prince possessed.   

The Painter stayed so, yet rising from the floor,  
To Court than did he go, to Presence Chamber door:  
And peeping throw the same, he saw in evening late,  
Full many a noble Dame, sit near the cloth of state.  
Where the stood 5. fair flowers, whose beauty bred disdain,  
Who came at certain hours, as Nymphs of Diane's train.  
Those goodly Nymphs most gay, like Goddesses divine,  
In darkest night or day, made all the Chamber shine.   

Dame kind with colours new, gave them such lively grace.  
As they had took their hue, from fair bright Phoebus' face,  
If such fair flowers qd he, in Presence men may find,  
In Privey-chamber sure, some fair sweet saints are shrined.  
The Painter as he might, with that did him content,  
And wondering at the sight amazed he homeward went.  
Where he is drawing still, some works of stranger kind,  
If this may gain good will, for plain true meaning mind.   

Their names are here, that honour much our state,  
Who dwells in Court, or Courtiers were of late:  
Who sends to Court, their Newyears gifts to show,  
Our gracious Prince, the homage that they owe.   
FINIS.   

To the general Readers.  

Read with goodwill, and judge it as ye ought,  
And spare such speech, as favour can bestow:  
So shall you find, the meaning of his thought,  
That did this work, in cloud and colours show.  
Wrist things aright, but do no further go.  
In balance thus, weigh words with equal weight,  
So wisdoms skill, shall scan the matter straight.   

The book I called, of late My dear adieu,  
Is now become, my welcome home most kind:  
For old mishaps, are healed with fortune new,  
That brings a balm, to cure a wounded mind.  
From God and Prince, I now such favour find,  
That full a float, in flood my ship it rides,  
At Anchorhold, against all checking tides.   

The hour is come, the Seas do swell again,  
And weltering waves, comes rolling in a pace:  
The storms are calmed, with one sweet shower of rain,  
That brought my Bark, unto the port of grace,  
Where clouds did frown, now Phoebus shows his face.  
And where warm sun, shines thoroughly clear and fair,  
There no foul mists, nor fogs infects the air.   

The Sailor stays, at anchor in good road,  
Till wind blows over, ill weather from the seas:  
The Pilot wise, will not put out a broad,  
Till wind serves well, and men may sail with ease.  
The Writer first will his own fancy please,  
Than to the rest, that will no word mistake,  
He sends those scrolls, that studious man did make.   

The learned sort, scans every labour well,  
But beetle-braines, cannot conceive things right:  
And if good works, comes where disdain doth dwell,  
Despite in haste, blows out clear candle's light.  
I hope this book, comes not in envies sight.  
Whose staring looks, may make my betters blush,  
Yet all his chat, nor babble worth a rush.   

If he mislike, a babe but newly borne,  
It is condemned, for no offence at all:  
Ne wit nor skill, can scape the scowling scorn,  
Of bold male boush, that like bandog doth ball.  
The sugar sweet, he turns to bitter gall.  
The Vargis sower, hath not so sharp a taste,  
As hath his words, that spite will spend in waist.   

No Writer now, dare say the Crow is black,  
For cruel Kites, will crave the cause and why:  
A fair white Goose, bears feathers on her back,  
That gaggles still, much like a chattering Pye.  
The Angel bright, that Gabrill is in sky,  
Shall know that Nashe, I love and will do still,  
When Gabrils words, scarce wins our world's good will.   

No force, my hope, lies not in hateful men,  
That cannot help, themselves in time of need:  
So I please those, that have the gift of pen,  
Or such as can, think well of that they reed,  
The bargain is, well made and won indeed.  
That dog scarce bites, that daily loud doth bark:  
Each wind beats not, true Archers from their mark.   

In roving sort, my feeble shafts so flies,  
Drawn to the head, yet from my head doth go:  
I wish but that, my shooting please the wise,  
That looks upon, or doth a mark man know,  
The rest God mend, let him be friend or foe.  
Thus now no more, but as I turn about,  
This work I end, till greater books comes out.   
FINIS.