THE TRAGICAL AND TRUE History which happened between two English lovers. 1563. written by Ber. Gar. 1565.  
In aedibus Richardi Tottelli.  
Cum Privilegio.   

To the Reader.  
GOd the author of all goodness (gentle Reader) hath diversly bestowed his manifold gifts on sundry men: whereby, as in ending any great or effectual enterprise many are called, some for learning sake, some for knowledge, son for experience, and some for strength to support the brunt of the charged: which all tend to none other end, but to conclude the matter determined with good effect. Even so our saviour Christ to save man, (which is diversly bend to go astray) hath sent fourth his several instruments sundry wies to call him. Principally by that inestimable jewel his infallible word, and the wourthye learned preachers of the same, now flourishing? (God be praised therefore.) Otherwies by men of knowledge, seen in the liberal Sciences, and so covertly correcting vice by moralised sentences very expedient. Otherwies by some that hath through folly fallen into dangers, and by his infinite mercy (their madness perceived) returned▪ which do from their own experience tell to frail youth such dangerous success in their fond attempts: as some thereby: are persuaded, and leave their precogitate purpozes. And otherwies by those that will boldly begin, foolishly follow, and unadvisedly accomplish their intended enterprise: And thereby make themselves, through untimely Death or other mischief: terrible examples to the rest. And all alludeth none other thing, but by persuasion, terror or example, to knit the body of the Church of god to the worthy bed thereof, our saviour Christ. I am no divine: I would to God I were. To take upon me the name of learned: I dare not. Of experience: age will not let me speak. But the tragical history following, may work a terror to all youth: rashly and of themselves tattempt any thing. Note (loving friend) the matter succeeding is of two English lovers, both young, of lineage like substaunciall enough, married by the parents consent of equal troth in keeping the honourable bed of matrìmony undefiled, what should I say? both virtuous & loving: and yet their doings not prospering. I must think good Reader, but I leave the judgement to God, that he was offended, because they both at first sight, rashly, unadvisedly, unknown, and without friends consent, durst thrall themselves in the desire of unclean lust (but I must term it cleanly, Cupid's flama) and did not call upon God, for the metenes of the match, nor sought parent's consent, till (had the same been never so unmeet) they must have granted. Or else the love grown from folly, and thought from love, would have wrought the lovers ends. If thou be a parent, that reads this same, look vigelantlie to thy frail child, lest thereby thou wourke thine own sorrow as in the end of this history. If thou be a child, of what age soever thou be, thy Parents or Guerdians living, read over the same, and think thine intent can be none bonester, than theirs that minded chaste wedlock, thine entrance no better, then by friends consent, thy succession no better than to win honour in the defence of thy prince and country: but thy end may be better, then accused for treason, faults, to receive thy mortal wound, or die, as he or she did. well, think that the fault was committed at first because without the fear of god and friends corsentes craved in the beginning, they durst love, and in themselves contract marriage. And so consequently, as the fault at first was done: the punishment at last was wrought by him that leaveth nothing unpunished which is not repent. Beware the like. I have promised to set at large, a thing of more effect, and greater moment: which shall not long be behind. But this have I begun with, as with an instrument to whet my knife, to cut my pen clean to cause it to wright the more pleasauntlie, plainly, and profitably to the. Accept my good will, and stay thy judgement till thou know mine intent, and deem the best till then.  
Farewell. (?) Ber. Gar.   

TO THE READER.  

WIthin the raged rock, the vapours cold,  
to small effect, collects a water's course:  
so weak at first: as scarce it dare be bold,  
to spread abroad, the new obtained fource.  
Ere long grown to some strength: abroad doth go,  
and showeth itself to those that have delight:  
to see the same although it cannot so,  
keep on the course: for some that have despite.  
At last fed by the head, from whence at furst,  
it (weekly) came, finds fourth a channel deep:  
and then though rancour swell, or Envy burst,  
the puissant fource, the channel still doth keep.  
And good for most, doth work his own defence  
not harming any, of purpose or pretence.   
Even so my Muse   


FRom right dull head, and unapproved brain,  
with heart amazed, and colour pale of hew:  
hath hear set out, the doleful end of twain,  
that loved long, whose fates are yet to rue.  
If this attempt may scape the gnawing field,  
of hateful spite, (not able to resist)  
no doubt at all, there is: that she shall yield:  
when worthy work, her weakness shall assist.  
wherein she means, ere long to walk at large,  
and then within that comely channel deep:  
(This ended ones,) to take a greater charge,  
and thearin still such decent order keep:  
As then a whit, she will not doubt nor fear,  
the cruel wight, may let the passage hear   
Of this my Muse.   

The tragical history of two English lovers.  
WHen that the boustrous Borias,  
and Hiemps hoary frost:  
By just return of Lady Ver,  
their pinching power had lost:  
That lady staid the fine of March,  
in comely course and hew:  
And left her seat to Estas then,  
and bad the Prime adieu.  
Then Aprell entered in by kind,  
with sweet and sugared streams:  
And daily decked the earth again,  
through aid of Phoebus' beams.  
Then Tellus seemed to trime her tire,  
to welcome Estas' gay,  
Each fragrant flower freshly smells:  
and in leaps lusty may.  
Whearin each thing doth joy by right,  
that kind hath wrought by birth,  
And also those that cressive are:  
as Trees and roots in earth.  
What then hath power or strength at all?  
what is it that hath might?  
But joyouslie, will show itself:  
as Nature gives delight.  
In this sweet month a virgin fair,  
by birth of gentle blood:  
Her feauter formed passing well,  
her stature tall and good:  
In whom no shape at all did want,  
that heart or jee might seek:  
Ne cold Appelles for his life,  
depaint or draw the like.  
Whose youth sent fourth her lively heart,  
with such a princely pace:  
As none that saw her, but must judge:  
she came of worthy race,  
Her tire was trime, yet sober to,  
not common in these days:  
Of all the rest who saw her then,  
did judge her worthy praise.  
This piece, before Pygmalion  
her like cold grave or carve:  
Though he wear living now again,  
Ten thousand times would starve.  
Abouts the fields with equal Feeres,  
in decent order set:  
As if Diana had been there:  
a comely course did fet.  
Whearin (by chance) a worthy wight,  
did salve her in that place:  
Their joy and gesture both wear such:  
none had the better grace.  
A man he was, in age but young,  
of state both big and tall:  
A face he had effeminate,  
scant any beard at all.  
In whom there wanted not the thing,  
that kind cold shape or give:  
Fair Absalon cold never die,  
so long as he did live.  
And Nature gave to him a grace,  
so sober and so trim:  
As who so did delight a man,  
must needs delight in him.  
A world it is to see how far,  
some other some excel:  
Scant Tully's style not my rude pen:  
the difference can tell.  
But groase shallbe my Simile,  
since eloquence I lack:  
He passed more the common sort,  
Then white excelleth black.  
Yet as they met, they parted tho,  
their gestures said far well:  
Their faces showed their fancies pleased  
no word between them fell.  
The maid kept on her stealing steps,  
so did her mates each one  
The young man fet a soaking sigh,  
his heart was almost gone.  
Alas what hap have I (said he)?  
what means this suddeyn stroke?  
Oh Cupid now, thy dreadful Dart:  
my craised corpse hath broke.  
His ruddy cheeks were changed pale,  
he plucked his bonnet low:  
He mused moche, that he should love,  
the wight he did not know.  
Nor where she dwelled, nor whence she came  
nor any of her kind:  
Nor yet what way her course she bent,  
nor where her home to find.  
Oh cruel boy that thus shouldst strike,  
and bring him into thrall:  
That was not yet an hour ago,  
the freest man of all.  
He seemed now, to wring his hands,  
that erst did feel no grief:  
And homeward got with quaking steps  
devoided of relief.  
Then Phoebus 'gan shut up his beams  
then darkness made it night:  
Then pleasures none at all were seen,  
but by the candle light.  
And then this fair and famous dame,  
thought time to go to bed:  
Where flowing fancies followed her,  
renewing in her head.  
What wight he was that should salute  
her in this comely wise:  
She beat her brain, and of that man,  
she lay and did devise.  
And viewing in her waking head  
his gesture and his face:  
His comely shape did brews her breast  
and fancy found him grace.  
What wants in him (quoth she) that I  
this present day have seen:  
Are not his virtues wondrous  
his years fresh and green.  
Right happy wear the dame in dead  
that might obtain the grace:  
In wedded bed and folded arms,  
thy body to embrace.  
With that she sought to set a side,  
such fancies and to sleep,  
But Venus' sparks, which grow full great  
'gan towards her heart to creep:  
And Cupid caught his Bow in hand,  
and drew the string so far:  
As loosed ones, the shaft and head  
against her heart did jar.  
Then looking up, she saw that none,  
was in her chamber buy:  
She felt what stroke she had received,  
no sleep cold toche her Eye.  
Then came she unto Venus' thrall,  
and thus began to pray:  
Most mighty gods of them all,  
give ear what I shall say.  
I am become thy servant that,  
before did never love:  
Soch fervent force, thy son hath used  
on me his power to prove.  
What conquest shall he get by this,  
though I through sorrow die?  
No praise at all: thus on a wretch,  
his force and power to try.  
But if thou wilt cause this thy son,  
again his bow to bend  
And from the same with equal force,  
an other arrow send,  
Into his heart, within whose breast  
my heart doth rest and shall  
Then will I say thou art a judge,  
and justest judge of all.  
So, living shall I him attain:  
Or else we both shall die:  
Or at the least he shall not laugh,  
when care both cause me cry.  
Thus lay she waking all the night.  
He spends his time in tears.  
They both are strooken with one Dart.  
the one, the other fears.  
He doubts of her, She feareth him,  
See here of love the fource:  
Yet want of knowledge sunders them  
they can have no recourse.  
The weary night wears thus away  
Aurora shows her light  
He leaves his bed, he walks abroad  
of her to have a sight.  
No gate he sees, but he looks in  
no window wants his Eye  
No Lane, no Streat, no Place at all  
wherein he doth not prie.  
And walking thus from morn to night.  
and foodeles coming so:  
returns into his restless bed,  
replete with care and woe:  
The lady as her love doth mourn,  
so likewies mourneth she:  
Her stomach fades, her flesh doth fall,  
she is as sick as he.  
The mother marks the daughter's plight  
with sorrow of her mind:  
And of the sickness of the child,  
she seeks the cause to find.  
But secret covert love (alas)  
So pierceth flesh and fell:  
As death might break her heart, but she,  
those secrets, would not tell.  
Her mother who had once been young  
and felt of Cupid's sting:  
Did feed her child, wih tender words,  
and poising every thing:  
Mine own (quoth she) discloase thine heart,  
and root of this thy grief,  
To hidden sores, the sikmans' talk  
must bring the first relief.  
To work on the by medecins Art,  
before thy case be known:  
Thy death: my bain, thy father's fall:  
together should be sown.  
Thou art my child, and from my life,  
Thy life did first proceed:  
Oh seek not then, by silence thus,  
To shred my fatal thread.  
Fair child, (and then she kissed her mouth,  
Her tears did moist the ground  
Disclose thy grief, lest lack of talk,  
Thy mother's joys confound.  
Why weepest thou? oh why dost thou weep?  
redobling thus my woe:  
The maid looked up, but could not speak,  
a trance did take her so.  
The doleful dame calls fourth the Nurse,  
who first did wean the child.  
And striving both, the loathsome life,  
the sense again doth yield.  
And then with heavy heart and tears,  
she leaves her daughter so:  
And with right woeful wailing sobs  
unto her spouse doth go.  
Oh Sir (quoth she) so long as we.  
have lyud together hear:  
So just a cause did not compel,  
my grief and griping cheer.  
Our daughter man, our only joy,  
and jewel of our age.  
With sickness is full sore oppressed,  
each part of her doth rage.  
And mortally I fear and doubt,  
she strooken is with death.  
So pale, so wan her visage is,  
so short she draweth her breath.  
The Father who did tender her,  
a man both sage and wise,  
said to his wife, then for her health,  
some mean we must devise.  
And not this rage as you begin,  
it tokeneth little wit:  
And to our state and hoary hears,  
a thing right far unfit.  
Go to her yet with good advice,  
and give her time to pause.  
Mark when her pain, doth grieve her least,  
then learn thereof the cause.  
The Mother who already had  
endeavoured with her might,  
As you have heard, of this her grief  
to know the cause aright:  
To god again was half dismayed  
it grieved much her mind:  
But yet to pleas her husband with  
an errand she did find.  
And coming to the chamber where  
her daughter sick did lie  
A thousand covert means she sought  
The root thereof to spy.  
Her skilful tongue with smiling talk  
said to her daughter then:  
See here thy mother, how she cares  
To help the what she can.  
That thou art sick, to true it is  
the cause thereof discloase:  
Tell me thy grief my darling dear,  
some trust in me repose.  
Or if the root of this thy care  
from the doth hidden lie  
The manners of thy painful pangs  
to me with speed descry  
The daughter viewed the mother's face  
which close by her did stand:  
She threw her arm out of the bed  
and took her by the hand.  
Oh you, from whence this corpse of mine  
(said she) did take relief:  
No lengre will I hide from you  
the manner of my grief.  
Soch ardent heat doth bourn my heart,  
as it is parching dry.  
And floods of filthy frozen Ice  
enrowndes it by and buy.  
Thus hot, thus cold, thus dry, thus drowned  
I lie hear in mye bed:  
Loo hear you know my grief, and yet:  
I near the better sped.  
But how I came by this disease  
the lord (not I) doth know  
Content you then, your daughter's mouth  
no more to you can show.  
With that the virgin turned herself  
she sighed very sore:  
Her words did falter in her mouth  
her tongue cold talk no more.  
What heaps of grief the mother felt  
in hearing this discourse  
Deem you that Parents are by kind  
with pit and remourse.  
And if that she poor heart (alas)  
was drowned in sorrow than  
Note that it was a mother's part:  
who therefore blame her can?  
But she full warely did withhold  
her secret hidden grief  
Her inward care she covered still  
she sought her child's relief:  
And spoke thus to the aged nurse  
my true approved friend  
In whom I have affied most,  
and will until mine end  
My daughter and your darling dear  
of trust to you I leave:  
Of trust again with all my heart  
good nursh do her receive.  
nurse thou art old, and I am not young,  
what thinkest thou her● disease?  
What best is for her appetite?  
what will her fancy please?  
Madam (quoth she) if age and wit,  
wear equal in my brain.  
This your demand could I disclose,  
and ease your daughter's pain.  
But age to much, to little wit,  
in women old we find.  
But since it pleaseth you to ask,  
I will disclose my mind.  
I fear lest that the sparks of love,  
are kindled in her breast:  
And then (sweet heart) the lord doth know,  
how sore she is oppressed.  
Then must be learned someways with whom  
she so bewrapped is,  
And warily must you grant or not,  
Take good advice in this.  
For if she be in Cupid's thrall,  
as you and I wots near,  
(Than is she in her golden prime,  
Of age full sixteen year)  
And having choase herself, a mate,  
and doubting your good will.  
The doleful doubt within her breast.  
may soon your daughter spill.  
Therefore a mean there must be found,  
by some that she loves well:  
That may provoke by circumstance  
her, all her mind to tell.  
Which thing by her once uttered,  
and to your wisdom known.  
Then of the herbs to ever her,  
the seeds are surely sown.  
Good Lady blame not mine advise,  
love causeth me to speak,  
and only love and your request,  
makes me my mind to break.  
And one precept (if I may term  
my foolish sentence so,  
Take from my mouth, and mark it well,  
before you from me go.  
If you do like the choice that she  
unto herself hath made:  
To grant it then you need the less  
to doubt or be afraid.  
But if the match be so unmeet,  
as she may chance repent.  
Yet may you not in rigrous sort.  
deny her your consent.  
For as the falling drops of rain,  
which from the gutters gone:  
In length of time, and falling oft,  
doth pierce the marble stone,  
That else by sudden seas or floods,  
ne mighty streams at furst:  
By rigour nor by force at all,  
would yield itself to burst:  
So wise men have long time of love.  
the like opinion held:  
That love in time may be repressed,  
but will not be expelled.  
Lo here, you hear my fond advice,  
my small approved skill:  
Accept it as a woman's tale,  
proceeding of good will.  
And as you leave with me your child,  
so I the same receive:  
And that nothing shall want in me,  
I trust you shall perceive.  
I give the thanks good gentle nurse,  
for this thy sound advise:  
Thereby I trust my daughter's health,  
my joy and all shall rise.  
And unto your discretion,  
to know my daughter's mind:  
I leave the order and the ways  
some perfect means to find.  
Hear with the mother goeth away  
the nursh sites by the child,  
The nursh is grown an oratrice.  
her tongue is smoothly field  
The maid looks up, the nursh it spies  
Oh swetehart saith she than:  
That God ones send you quiet health  
that helpeth every man.  
Command even what you may devise  
Your head or heart to please:  
What nursh (quoth she) do hold your tongue  
your talk doth me disease.  
Less words to her that is so sick  
and much more quiet, rest  
(methinks your age should teach you wit)  
that, for my state were best.  
The nursh thus nipped to the brain  
she had no word to say:  
A sobving sigh the maiden fet,  
and turned her head away.  
Now all the while the maiden thus  
with pangs alas sore distressed  
Her love (that second Troilus)  
was near the less oppressed.  
But all effebled was his strength  
his mirth was grown to move  
His flesh was fallen, his joints wear weak,  
he could scant rise alone.  
Yet every day in order dew  
by starry light he rose:  
And ceased not to seek his chance  
till night the day did close.  
Who first had seen so fair a face  
and now seen him again  
Had been his heart more hard than flint  
must yet bewail his pain.  
For they that love do know, (else none)  
the heat of Cupid's fire:  
And love can see, and none but love  
this doleful man's desire.  
Who, for to ease his heavy heart  
his lewte would oft assay  
Yet, ere his fingers, spast the freates  
the knew not what to play.  
Then would he prove, by wont voice  
some solemn song to sing:  
The notes wherein he wonted rejoice  
doth now but sorrow bring.  
Then from his quiver would he take  
and say to bend his Bow  
whereof the string he cold not stir  
his strength was brought so low.  
Then of each thing he had delight  
he called to his mind:  
But all his joys did turn to grief  
no comfort, cold he find  
For that which erst in other cares  
did move him some delight  
In this his greatest grief of all  
did work him most despite.  
Thus when he saw that every hap,  
wherein he wonted to joy:  
Was now converted to mishap  
and Fortune looked acoye:  
And that his life was nigh fordoon  
and had no health at all:  
He thought to prove by medesins art  
what might to him befall.  
And to his friend a man expert  
a Doctor in that art:  
He got him then in secret wies,  
and thus disclosed his heart.  
A man I was of late (quoth he)  
and past my time in sport:  
as fits my youthful years yet  
though cares do cut me short.  
A blissful life I led a while,  
I had that did me please:  
So have I now, but what alas?  
That may me most disease,  
In covert words thus could I couch  
my grief, and so to prove  
your skill: but what availeth that,  
my sickness came through love.  
But whom I love, or what she is,  
the gods not I can show:  
A heavenly thing, unmeet for me,  
I think she be to know.  
And where I saw her once in deed,  
(my wits do serve so well)  
Or dreamed of her, I stand in doubt,  
of truth I cannot tell.  
But this I know, alas and shall  
by dream or else by deed:  
I that of late was like a man,  
am now become a weade:  
In sleep, nay: slumber as I lie,  
I see her face to face:  
I go to her with loving cheer,  
To me she comes a pace:  
I crave her love: she grants it me,  
her heart I do desire,  
I give to her my heart and that  
is all she doth require.  
The match is made, we clap our hands  
she is my wedded wife:  
I wake with joy and find her not,  
I then repent my life.  
The seeming joys within my sleep,  
doth grow to perfect care,  
My brackish tears do wet my cheeks,  
and sorrow is my fare.  
Like joys as I within my sleep,  
could never lover tell:  
Like pains to mine, when I do wake,  
were never felt in hell.  
This is my grief, and I of it  
do feel the passing smart:  
Do help me now, and if thou canst,  
I have disclosed my heart.  
Or if without recovery,  
thou judgest this my woe:  
To rid my life prepare some thing,  
and give me ere I go.  
And all the substance that I have.  
I give the for thine hire:  
Save unto her my heart I yield.  
whose heart I do desire.  
And when that I am dead and gone,  
this only do I crave:  
This Epitaph that thou wouldst wright  
in steel upon my grave.  
Not Troilus lieth here (god knoweth)  
that Crossed looud so well:  
But here lieth one, that in true love,  
did Trollus far excel.  
My Testament thus have I made  
my friend, thy cunning try:  
and else do help my heavy hap,  
or grant that I may die.  
Whiles in this rage, this worthy wight  
stood wring of his fist:  
One knocked at the Doctors door,  
and every thing was whist.  
The latch was lose, a shade was seen,  
the door 'gan to unfold,  
A woman entered in thereat,  
the Doctor thought her bold.  
she brought an urine in her hand,  
wherein she prayed to know  
The Doctors skill and eke that he  
some way to health would show.  
Fair wife (quoth he) stay here a while,  
while I do with my friend,  
conclude our matter now begun,  
which almost is at end.  
And then wherein mine art and I,  
may satisfy your mind,  
That in me is to do you good,  
right ready shall you find.  
And then he said unto the man,  
full strange is your request,  
content you with your pain a while,  
and I will do my best.  
To morrow come to me again,  
Do follow mine advise,  
Thereby I trust your sore shall suage,  
your health again shall rise.  
Till than set fancies clean a side,  
let trouble not your head,  
Endeavour to the most you may,  
to rest in quiet bed.  
The lover thus left of his talk,  
he gate him thence alone,  
His weary legs did bow for faint.  
his heavy heart did groan.  
What heaps of grief, he felt this night,  
no lover but may guess:  
But I because they move my tears,  
the same do here repress.  
Then to the Doctor doth the nurse  
present the urine thoe,  
and to his closet, from the hall,  
the Nurshe and he doth go.  
And after certain words, he takes  
the urinal in hand,  
She prayeth by his learning that  
the urine might be scanned.  
With piercing eye and skilful brain,  
he doth the state peruse:  
He warms it by the fire again,  
no pains he doth refuse:  
And viewing every circle there,  
did note the substance to,  
and could not find that needed aught  
for Physic's art to do.  
But skilful learned men can oft  
by circumstance prevail:  
And cause the rude Propositor  
to ask, and tell the tale.  
Dame quoth the Doctor to the nurse.  
I think it be your will:  
And eke the cause why you did come,  
to know herein my skill.  
Note, of the corpse of every wight,  
both feminine and male:  
A thousand secret maladies,  
the inward part assail.  
Which at the first this famous art,  
that I do here profess,  
By certain rules infallibly,  
doth give a certain guess.  
As when the lights, the longs, or spleen,  
or else the noble heart:  
The kidneys, reigns, or to be short,  
what other inward part,  
For lack of moisture sicate wax,  
through moisture else do rot.  
(For raging grief in man is not  
but either cold or hot)  
Then by the sick-man's urine strait  
expert men have a rule:  
(As I) I speak not boastingly,  
by practice and by school,  
Whereby we know what inwardly  
within the corpse doth rain,  
Whereof proceeds the malady,  
what eke will ease the pain.  
The Ellymentes are four, whereof  
we mortal men are made,  
And contraries they be each one  
as justly may be said,  
As fire, water, earth, and air,  
whereof, if one abound,  
Above the rest: then in the corpse  
no perfect health is found.  
Thus twice two are the Ellymentes  
three principals again,  
There is in man: to wit, his heart,  
his livour, and his brain.  
Now every chief and princely part  
which principals we call:  
To purging places have of right,  
to purge themselves withal.  
The brain behind the sick-man's ear,  
doth purge his secret grief,  
The heart doth through the Armholes send,  
gross humours for relief.  
The lyvour somewhat lower stoops,  
and sendeth to the grinds,  
That noisome to the blood, or else,  
unto itself it finds.  
And hereupon is found the rule.  
that we Physicians use,  
The circumstance within this state,  
I perfectly peruse.  
But oft when nought but perfect health,  
is seen within the state,  
Death is become unto the sick.  
a fellow walking mate.  
And therefore we that learned be  
professing Physics art,  
Do judge when least is seen in state,  
that most doth gripe the heart.  
Of troth than said the nurse to him,  
of all that ere I heard,  
Your knowledge doth surmount the rest,  
your cunning is preferred.  
For as you sayeth silly wench,  
that did this water make,  
Would seem as she no sickness had  
and yet doth never slack  
Her pangs, her pains, her fretting fits,  
her deep and deadly smart,  
Which will ere long, in sunder shred  
her young and tender heart.  
And if it be not sparks of love,  
that doth the same possess,  
What it should be I promise you,  
I have no wit to guess.  
nurse quoth the doctor you have told  
that I did mean to tell.  
You show a skilful aged head,  
I like your words full well.  
Her urine showeth she is but young,  
and youth doth work by kind,  
That youth from youth unto itself,  
a youthly mate should find.  
Then mean you not quoth aged nurse,  
to give her some receipt,  
Of these her pangs, and burning plague  
to coal the fretting heat.  
No nurse, love never yet did burn  
with heat of such effect:  
But cold fourth with the Patient's heart  
as strangely did infect.  
Then, if to quench her burning heat,  
cold surops I should give,  
When course doth come by cold ye know,  
how should she longer live?  
What then is your advice? (quoth she)  
a remedy to find,  
Nought else but that you suffer her,  
in rage to have her mind:  
Nor do you alter what she saith,  
where it be wrong or right,  
But feed her fancy still that way,  
wherein she doth delight.  
Whereby I trust in time her health  
to her again shall grow:  
If not (good nurse) this is my house,  
let me the danger know.  
And I besides these fixed rules,  
perchance, some way can find:  
But nurse you know not all at first,  
some shall remain behind.  
nurse boweth now the crooked knee,  
nurse gives the Doctor thanks:  
nurse homewards packs with better cheer  
and to her Lady pranks.  
And I dare say that in seven year,  
which passed last before:  
The silly nurse applied her not  
to study any more:  
Then now she gins to do (poor soul)  
in these her latter days:  
To set the Doctors cunning out,  
and give him worthy praise.  
The gentlewoman old (god wots)  
that staid her coming home,  
took grief because the nurse did leave  
her child so long alone.  
And looking out did spy from far  
the fast unwonted pace,  
Of aged nurse she could not choose,  
but muse at it a space.  
Which when she saw she did reject  
her first conceived colour:  
And gave good ear to Beldame nurse  
now sworn the Doctors scollour.  
nurse gladly would have told the tale,  
which erst she did pretend,  
But that with haste, her breath made short  
her sentence would not end:  
Which oft begun not ended tale,  
did much the Lady flight:  
Who said, good nurse take time enough,  
begin thy tale aright.  
These passhons which I see in thee,  
that trip thy tongue so sore,  
To double still my sorrow, and  
do make my grief the more.  
Good Lady (yet with shaking voice)  
the nurse began to say:  
Mourn not at all, all shallbe well,  
this is a happy day.  
I have been with the skilfulst man,  
that ever learning taught:  
Who at the first (the water seen)  
your daughter's grief hath sought,  
And saith that other malady  
is in her body none,  
But Cupid's dart (I ween he said)  
It was that made her moan.  
I craved of him some remedy,  
of it to kill the ire,  
He said that quiet government,  
would soon quench that fire.  
If not, he charged in any wise,  
I should return again,  
And he by Physic, or some art,  
would quench her raging pain.  
This is the some, let me alone,  
your daughter yet to rule,  
For I am grown the conninger,  
by seeing Phisiks' school.  
The mother which to hear these news,  
with joy was fully freight,  
(Her craysed child left with the nurse)  
went to her husband strait.  
To whom she wisely opened  
the dolour of the maid,  
In all that ever she could see,  
or was by Physic said.  
To whom also the urine was  
by nurse committed to,  
What diet was prescribed, and  
what else he meant to do.  
Then to the doctor in the morn,  
to send was his request.  
This was the fathers own device,  
This pleased the mother best,  
Thus now the day is spent and gone,  
The doctor goth to bed.  
Where like a friend the sicmans' sore  
he calleth to his head.  
And altogether he doth not  
forget, the maidens state  
Because his friends, and her disease  
wear both of equal rate.  
And calling to his memory  
the yongemans' woeful race:  
Whearin he had most ruefully  
abode nighten weeks space.  
What torments, and what tossing fits  
his friend lay tumbling in  
His brackish floods fell from his eyes  
and so imbrued his chin.  
Whereby he showed his nature good,  
and how he would have borne  
His neighbours cross, for care whereof  
his beard he would have torn.  
But reason stepped before his will  
advising him to take:  
That way that best might help his friend  
and so his sorrow slake.  
And not to cast away the man  
that else could not recure:  
In doing to himself this wrong  
which he would now procure.  
To reason wisely he did yield  
and vowed he would not shrink  
But that he would to aid his friend  
do all that he might think.  
Then called he to his mind the tale  
that Reason did him tell:  
And eke the dolour of the maid  
he marked very well.  
Perchance it is the will of god  
(quoth he) that I should do:  
That which he chargeth no man else  
in copling of these two  
He loveth more than fervently  
but whom he doth not know:  
She takes of love as bitterly,  
towards whom she cannot show.  
A likelihood by this appears  
I can none other dame  
But that the one to others use  
is kept I must esteem.  
Thus tossing still his troubled brain  
to work his neighbour's health  
Dame Nature sent out subtle sleep,  
which caught his heart by stealth.  
And then within two hours space  
fair Lucifer the star  
Which plainly telleth to every thing  
Aurora is not far:  
'Gan gloriously to deck and show  
herself within the skies:  
Which he that long had watched for it,  
(the ardent lover) spies.  
And therewithal he starteth up.  
and clothed himself so fast:  
As to the Doctors house he runs  
his points untrust for haste.  
He gaspeth then, his breath was short  
he would have knocked at door  
But haste had made his members faynct  
he had thearto no power.  
But when his strength and memory  
returned back again  
He weigheth not the Doctors rest  
no yet regards his pain:  
But through a broken quarrel that  
He, in the window spied:  
Awake (alas) your friend is hear  
he to the Doctor cried.  
Who forthwith rose, and let him in  
and showed a friendly face:  
As friendly is to comfort friends  
in such distrestfull case.  
Oh loving friend the sick-man said  
each thing doth work me spite  
How much above all Nature's course  
hath been this yerksome night?  
I think the signs, and planets to  
and all and every star  
Which in the air, are fixed or move  
against my life do war.  
And yet unhappy hated life  
that from me will not fly,  
And cursed art thou cruel Death  
that wilt not let me die.  
And cursed to I claim the time  
wherein beginning was:  
Of spousal twixt my parents, and  
did after come to pass.  
But be you cursed evermore  
and hateful to the earth  
The day of my nativity  
the hour of my birth.  
In which if that the living lord  
should justice do aright  
No son, nor Moon, should show itself,  
no Star nor other light.  
How good had nature been to me  
If borne I had been dead?  
Or stopped had my wesen been  
when first I tasted bread.  
Or when my feeble fingers first  
did toche or handle knife  
How cursed was mine arm alas  
it did not rid my life?  
Why granted not my fortune foul  
a Cockatrice had been  
A present to my tender sight  
the first that it had seen.  
Why not amongs the Cannibals  
were spent my years fresh  
Who in my sickness would have killed  
me and have eat my flesh?  
Or else amongs the tyrant Turks  
I had been captive caught:  
And then that dolour and that grief  
had now my quiet wrought.  
The poets feign in heavy hell  
sometime is quiet rest:  
But I in earth from time to time  
am more and more oppressed.  
Why Venus, art thou cruel blind?  
or seeing wilt not see?  
Or first thou still and laughest at  
the wrong thou dost to me.  
Or doth thy cruel son, and thou  
together both conclude:  
In hating young men's quiet state  
their senses to delude?  
What stay (quoth the Physician)  
what means your frantic brain?  
What booteth this undecent talk?  
What easeth it your pain?  
So long have I given ear, to you  
as doubtful was my mind  
Where you of human nature wear  
or else of brewtysh kind.  
Is there no god at all think you?  
how do you ban and curse?  
Or do you think in him is not  
tamende or make you worse?  
But if you cannot pacify  
your rigour and your thrall,  
Do seek some other friends advice,  
come not to me at all.  
I joy to see your healthful bliss  
I grieve to see your pain:  
And shortly hope recovery  
shall yet return again.  
If you can take this quietly  
till God do send you rest:  
He turneth always commonly  
the hardest to the best.  
And where you judge that in the world  
none hath so hard a hap,  
What? is there any always may  
sit in good Fortune's lap?  
No: happy is that man, and blessed  
at last that may aspire  
And after many troubled days  
obtain his hearts desire,  
Your tender years cannot guess  
how far it is unmeet,  
For witless youth before the sour  
to feel, or taste the sweat.  
What jewel doth a man esteem  
that he doth lightly get,  
so much as that by endless cost  
and travail he doth set?  
Or what is that, which easily  
comes to a man alone  
But that again, as suddenly  
doth pass away anon?  
Mark well, and way within your head  
that hard obtained grace  
Forever cleaveth to a man  
to death will give no place.  
How much then are you bound to God  
that wourketh for the nonce:  
That all your cares together come  
to end your griefs at one's?  
Content your careful heart awhile,  
within a month and less:  
On my reproof, I warrant you  
Your cares shall turn to bless.  
And he shall grant you your desire  
so that you serve him well:  
And all the griefs that gripe you now  
will utterly expel.  
The lovers plants were watered  
in joy of this device  
He yielded him both hand and heart  
unto his friends advice,  
Rejecting of his folly clean  
and womanly complaint  
And hoping after good success  
which long had had restraint.  
Thus talk, which makes the time seem short  
doth drive the time away:  
The Stars begynnes to hide themselves  
it waxeth perfect day.  
The Doctor shakes of sluggish sleep  
and gives himself to rise  
And wills the youngman lay him down  
and follow his advise.  
A quiet sleep perchance may catch  
your tomoch troubled head:  
Vnrestfull men sometime take rest  
in unacqueynted bed.  
To bed he goeth warm covered,  
and falleth strait a sleep:  
The Doctor leaves the sleeping soul  
unto the lord to keep.  
Perchance the hope of blosfull joys  
which he did trust should come  
Did cause so sweet and soddeyne sleep  
through all his powers to run.  
Perchance it was the soddeyne joy  
that warmed his heart and breast  
And other parts, that wear half dead  
and brought them so to rest.  
Perchance the new unwonted joy.  
that now was in his brain  
Did cause this sound and restful sleep  
through want of wont pain.  
But likest is that nature would  
to show her power give rest  
To him that not in three months space  
did sleep in quiet nest  
I leave the cause to learned men,  
that thearin have more skill  
And to the matter I began,  
I must return and will.  
The Doctor leaves the sick a sleep  
and glad he is therefore:  
He stealeth from his chamber, and  
he standeth at his door.  
Where scantly he had tarried  
the eight part of an hour,  
But aged nurse he spied from far  
come from her masters bower.  
Which thing he would not seem to see  
he looked an other way,  
Till nurse with courtesies two or three  
'gan to the Doctor say.  
Your good advice (good gentle sir)  
that you to me did tell:  
My master and my lady both  
through me perceive it well.  
And wish that they had long ago  
sought out your dwelling place:  
Your counsel and your learned help  
to ease the woeful race:  
That she these three months space hath run  
of whom you saw the state:  
But now good folk they dame with tears  
your cunning comes to late.  
And I have cause to sob and wale  
as much as any she  
Because her never parting pain  
my weeping eyes do see.  
This night (alas) this wicked night,  
I thought her heart would break  
For sounding sighs, and soaking sobs  
nold suffer her to speak:  
But lie and weep, whose tender tears  
have so embrend her cheeks:  
As Hellins husbands never was,  
the dolefulst of the Greeks.  
Now scarcely can she draw her wind  
and by and by she cries:  
As though she meant thearbie to pierce  
the high and hugy Skies.  
The racking of her spirits therewith  
doth seem to rend her heart:  
And I poor soul (ay me alas)  
look when she should depart.  
But this caused not my coming now  
my master doth require,  
And that you would come see the sick  
with heart he doth desire.  
Good nursh your master may command  
I yield me to his will,  
He shut his door, and with the nurse,  
he goeth to prove his skill.  
The Nurshe doth bring him to the house,  
she tells her master straight:  
and fourth he comes and welcomes him  
for whom he long did weight.  
With sober words, and comely cheer,  
tone greets the other then:  
Their meeting was not woman like,  
they met like sober men.  
The father's feigned cheer, not strait  
showed fourth his inward grief:  
Nor by and by bewailed his child,  
his words were not so reefe.  
But thus began his witty talk,  
now sixteen winters past:  
accounting from the tenth of March,  
which was amongst us last.  
My dame gave up, and took her leave  
of young wife's wished suit,  
And brought me out a daughter, as  
the end of all her fruit.  
In whom I joyed very much,  
I had no wench before:  
But for her grace, and virtues sake,  
I joyed much the more.  
Yet sons I had, that might have proeud  
good men, a four or five:  
Death took them all, I was content  
that she was left alive.  
In whom I joyed for virtues sake,  
and parents duty to:  
As natures will becomes a law,  
and forceth men to do.  
Now do you see, that god hath wild,  
such fate on me to fall,  
She is become, my son, mine heir,  
mine only child and all.  
And sick she is, and very sick,  
the lord himself doth know:  
Your counsel and your help I crave,  
your cunning eke to show.  
But what doth mean my witless words?  
why do we lingering stand?  
He wild the Doctor walk with him,  
and lead him by the hand,  
Into a chamber princely decte,  
yet wondrous close and tied:  
So as the watchers had their wills  
to have it dark or light.  
There lay the heavy pensive child,  
there sat the mother sad:  
There wanted nought, by money might  
or friendship else be had.  
And when the mother knew by nurse  
and by her tattling talk,  
That he the learned Doctor was,  
which with her spouse did walk,  
She rose, and left her weary stool  
and did salute him then,  
with such a welcome as was meet  
to welcome friendly men.  
Who could eftsoons, with equal grace,  
salute the dame again,  
And also search, to show the Sire,  
the daughter's grief and pain.  
Her beating poulsies, he 'gan feel,  
her temples and her feet,  
And other such demonstratives,  
as apt he thought or meet.  
And said unto the heavy maid,  
Good heart thou art oppressed:  
with painful pangs and fretting fits,  
which god torn to the best.  
Then to the parents both at once,  
the Doctor 'gan to say,  
Though I be bold yet bear with me,  
I pray you go your way:  
And let me talk a little while  
with this your child alone,  
Who will perchance, the franker speak,  
if that you both were gone.  
They went, and he returned back  
to the diseased child,  
And took her by the hand again  
with countenance very mild,  
And said to her swear heart I see  
your to much troubled brain  
will not permit your tongue to talk  
without excessive pain.  
Therefore apply your ear to me,  
which am your faithful friend,  
though yet unknown, the truth shall try  
my travail in the end,  
And if you list that I shall say,  
the secrets that I see  
some token that you are content,  
vouch safe to show to me.  
With that she licked her parched lips,  
and faintly did she say:  
Good sir speak on your mind to me,  
I know no cause of stay.  
Well then (quoth he) I ask no more,  
but that you hear me talk,  
And blame me when disorderly,  
my tongue or word shall walk.  
Hear doth the subtle Doctor now,  
tell fourth the sick-man's tale:  
And finding both their states alike,  
thinks thereby to prevail.  
Not yet (quoth he) two days ago,  
this jolly ancient mate,  
(Appointing to the aged nurse)  
did bring to me your state.  
Whereon my cunning earnestly,  
and learning I did prove,  
I must be plain, your state did show  
your grief did grow by love.  
Then towards the cares continuance,  
I did adiecte my mind,  
And that it was night three months old,  
my certain rule did find.  
And searching by that argument,  
the planet and the day,  
I forthwith found (good Lady mine)  
that in the midst of may:  
By walk or talk, or otherwise,  
you sought your most delight,  
And therein lost your liberty,  
by twink or sudden sight.  
Now, if my rule be certain still,  
as it was wont be sure:  
Confess to me: and doubt you not,  
I shall your pains recure.  
This heard did set the senses so  
within the virgin odd:  
As else she thought it was a dream,  
else thought she him a god.  
Whose perfect piercing eye and skill,  
so could detect her wound:  
And therewithal twixt joy and care,  
she fell into a sound.  
But he whose praised skill (god wots)  
exteamd it of no weight:  
Did almost use no force at all,  
yet did relieve her strait.  
And then with fixed eye and face,  
with colour pale and wan,  
With shaking flesh and quaking joints,  
her tale she thus began.  
Take from my castles mouth (saith she)  
which is thrice double furde.  
By means that not this sennightes' space,  
no talk my tongue hath stirred,  
This feeble foolish answer, that  
from such a place shall fail:  
Full rightly have you told the truth,  
my cause my care and all.  
And you that can by skill find out  
so secret hidden grief,  
My thinks again your praised skill  
may find out my relief.  
Well saith the doctor since you have  
to me disclosed your heart,  
Conceive in me no doubt at all,  
for I will do my part.  
And this much by my knowledge I  
dare to you hear avow,  
That every grief which you have felt,  
shall torn to pleasure now.  
For Fortune hath been much your friend,  
The constellations tell,  
And he on whom you set your love,  
loves you again aswell.  
A man he is of noble blood,  
and hath each lygnament,  
Of nature, and in favour stands,  
of every Ellyment.  
His Father dead, he is his heir,  
and Fortune's darling to,  
You blame your chance, and what can more  
good Fortune for you do?  
And if you will, I will discloase  
this to your parent's sight:  
and you shall see your darling to  
this instant present night.  
Would god (quoth she) right cheerfully  
that these your words were true:  
Then of my long and pinching pain  
at all I do not rue.  
The Doctor called then the nurse  
in sober wise and mild,  
And wills her pray the parents both,  
come now and see their child.  
She runneth strait: they come in haste,  
no let doth cause them slay,  
And forthwith in the child's be half,  
the Doctor gins to say.  
Good Sir in all extremities,  
the cause must first be known:  
And then with lesser care and toil,  
the grief is overthrown.  
When I came first you said to me,  
one only child you had:  
Whose languishing extremity,  
did make your hartfull sad.  
You willed me know, and if I could,  
the cause of her disease:  
you wild me use my skilfulness,  
her piercing pain to ease.  
Thus have I done, and this I ask  
of you, as of my friend,  
To hear my tale, and grant good will  
your daughter's pain to end.  
There is within this mile and less,  
an heir that you do know:  
Of noble blood, and worthy state.  
his name I need not show.  
Whose parents of continuance.  
have loved your parents long:  
And you must love the man again,  
or else you do him wrong.  
He loves your daughter passing well,  
and she loves him again,  
And both they are extremely sick,  
and love doth cause the pain.  
Your daughter you have well brought up,  
at home she learned to work,  
(As fits a maid,) but travail hath  
showed him both jew and Turk.  
His so dispended youthful days,  
did cause Oblivion black,  
By distance of the place and time,  
their memories to rack:  
And pull the face of tone of them  
so far from tother sight,  
As childish knowledge twixt them twain,  
was so devoided quite.  
yet was it equal chance to both,  
at once to meet in field,  
Where Cupid's stroke, unknown to them,  
caused tone to other yield:  
Which done they both do get them home,  
in this their overthrow:  
They love (alas) and yet their love  
doth neither of them know.  
This hath been grief to both their hearts,  
hereby they have been tried,  
Hereby their friendship's and good wills,  
both plain and true is spied,  
Hereon doth hang the healthful state,  
and dolour of the maid,  
hereon, as on a procke or crutch,  
the sick-man's life is stayed.  
Which hard and when the parents saw  
whereto they both were bend:  
They joyed at the happy match,  
and gave their close consent,  
Although they warily did hold back  
their words within their bound,  
Lest by their sudden joy, their child  
might sudden death have found.  
And thus said to the doctor then,  
We thank you for your talk,  
and painful travail, and do pray  
that he and you would walk,  
At pleasure when you list to come  
to this our simple home,  
And welcomer than you shallbe  
this day there liveth none.  
And cause I would not have you think,  
but I your pains regard.  
Have hear (quoth he) here is five pounds  
accept this small reward.  
Now was the parent's inward care,  
somewhat in better rest,  
The maiden late that cursed herself,  
doth think her fortune blessed,  
and other household talk was not,  
within that house that day,  
But that the wooer might himself  
come, every one doth pray.  
Now are the servants all and some,  
called fourth unto their charge,  
Now to the beauty of the house,  
each thing is set at large.  
Now doth the mother with the child,  
consult of every thing,  
And how they might best welcome him  
that should the Doctor bring.  
I leave to tell the virgin's joy  
the half I cannot think:  
Moche less than can I speak the same  
Or wright with pen or ink.  
Did not Aeneas stealing steps  
work to poor Dido wrong?  
Did not alas Penelope,  
think her Vlyxes long?  
Then think the lady lengre thought  
to see whom she loeud best  
Whose princely presence only might  
perform her quiet rest.  
The Doctor that thus wrought his feat  
with joy returned back:  
And doubted much the sick-man should  
or this some solace lack.  
But when he came unto his house  
and chamber where he slept  
And did perceive that all this while  
a quiet sleep him kept  
He took things oderyferous  
such as he did suppose  
Were comfortable to the sick  
and cocht them near his nose.  
And with such things as he thought meet  
he made a mess of meat  
Which he thought best was for the sick  
when he did wake to eat.  
And lest that in unwonted sleep  
some danger might be found:  
His cunning hands did take his Lute  
and thearon 'gan to sound.  
The harmony whereof, and eke  
the savour sweet did make  
The weight of sleep to wear away  
and caused the sick to wake.  
The noise did cause his eyes look up  
therewith he felt the smell  
and thought himself in Paradise  
they pleased his powers so well.  
How now? quod the Physician  
have I not done you wrong?  
Or feel you not some injury  
by sleeping over long?  
No, no, quoth the distressed soul  
I think that I was blessed,  
When first through you, and your advice  
I laid me down to rest.  
And so I pray the living lord  
From danger you to keep:  
As I the more am quieted  
by this my sugared sleep.  
Oh, that my mind were quieted  
as this my body is:  
Who then but I most happy man  
should feel most happy bliss?  
First must you learn to creep (quoth he)  
then after must you go  
Then after may you ride or run  
the course of things are so.  
First hath a quiet sleep refreshed  
your weak, and yele brain.  
Now feed on this which I have made  
let not your stomach fray  
And consequently shall appear  
what pain and heavy plight  
That I poor soul have ventured  
to bring you to delight.  
The man as in a rage for joy  
conceived such a trust,  
As first the broth and then the meat  
into his throat he thrust.  
And therewith looking up in haste  
and gasping yet for wind  
Said to the Doctor specelye:  
now let me know they mind.  
You have (quoth the Physician)  
conceived your grief by love,  
By love again texpell the same  
It is in you to prove.  
Then would you not think all your time  
to be expended well?  
To learn where she which hath your heart  
doth at this instant dwell.  
And thearwithall to bring you so  
into your lady's grace  
As frankly you may talk your mind  
unto her face to face.  
And that with joy she joyously  
in your should take delight  
Would not think you this blissfulness  
avoid your sickness quite?  
Thrice happy wear I happy man  
to that then answered he  
If that my mortal eyes might once  
these happy tindings see.  
Then should I think my friendly fate  
texcell, all others far  
And farther to then brightest son  
doth pass the darkest star.  
Then would I say good Fortune had  
once turned her wheel about  
And placed him equal with the best  
that erst she had shut out.  
The happy life of Priamus  
before the siege of Troy  
For aye should then be shaded quite  
by means of this my joy.  
Then would I these so happy days  
above those days extol  
Whearin the happy Hercules  
enjoy the lady Eoll.  
Then Saturn put from prince's throne  
to prison and to pain:  
And after set by jupiter,  
in kingly state again:  
Was not so heigh advanced yet  
by fortune and her grace  
Nor half so heigh as I should be  
to see my lady's face.  
What happy man might ever say  
that he had his desire:  
So much as I, if I may to  
my ladies love aspire.  
If that I might assuredly  
so stand in Fortune's grace  
What wrong hath all my painfulness  
done me this quarter's space.  
None other, but that suddeyn bliss  
should not my heart annoy  
Good Fortune sent a prepratiue  
to mitigate my joy.  
Then in my dreadful dolour, and  
the midst of all my strife  
My Fortune fair hath sent to me  
my most desired life.  
Well then (quoth the Physician)  
go put on some attire:  
And come to me in comely sort  
you shall have your desire.  
And then in token of the troth  
that I to you professed:  
I will not fail to show you her  
I know that you love best.  
And that in such a decent sort  
as can pursue none ill  
I mean with both the parents and  
else, all the friends good will.  
Oh, happy heavenly Fortune that  
so suddenly can change:  
Oh that thou canst so friendly be  
and yet canst seem so strange:  
Now, he that erst did curse himself  
his fate and all did ban,  
Of all the rest that live and joy  
accounts him happiest man  
And he that as half buried,  
went stooping to the ground  
Now as a courtly gentleman  
in comely sort is found  
Not roisting as the roisters use  
not gallant in the sight  
Nor wear his doings prodigal  
ne yet in niggerdes' plight.  
Whiles in this comely clenlynes  
the lover thus was dressed  
The parent's house was trimmed up  
the Doctor and the rest.  
The silly sick relieved dame  
putes on the same attire  
Which she did wear, when Cupid first  
did set her heart on fire.  
The mother that would trimmer have  
the daughter gan to blame  
For leaving of her better weeds  
and doing on the same.  
Nay, mother, saith the smiling child.  
sins thus I have been tossed  
I will find out my liberty  
in weades that I it lost.  
I do reserve your pleasure yet  
and yield me to your will:  
Nay Daughter, at your liberty  
do change or wear them still.  
The frolic father he comes in  
he sees that all is well  
Hark saith the mother whose at gate?  
doth no man hear the bell?  
The aged nurse that stands in hope  
the wished gests were come  
Steps out before the rest a pace  
and to the gate doth run.  
Where when the sees the Doctor and  
with him so trim a wight:  
Right comely she salutes them both  
most joyful of that sight.  
The master was inquired for  
within he was, she said  
That they might speak with him forthwith  
the learned Doctor prayed.  
Gon is the nurse, and tells the sire,  
and dame, what gests were there:  
I came strait way the father saith:  
desire them come near.  
Now stands the young man amorous  
in hope of his relief  
Though doubtful passhones of the mind  
doth shiver yet his teeth.  
Down comes the courtly gentleman  
and friendly doth embrace:  
The Doctor and the wooer to  
and stayeth so a space.  
To whom the Doctor thus broke fourth:  
the friendship and good cheer  
Which of your worship I received  
the last time I was hear  
Doth cause that I and this my friend  
though to your cost and pain,  
Do find the means (I warrant you)  
to visit you again.  
Good cheer, alas why say you so  
you slander me iwis  
But welcome are you both to me  
to such cheer as it is.  
Oh that the muses which do dwell  
on Helicon the hill  
Or learned Pallas would step fourth  
to aid my froward will.  
Or that the learned sisters three  
which pass all other men:  
Would take upon them but a while  
to guide and rule my pen.  
Then should you hear how pleasantly  
in short and sugared verse  
The passing joys of these two folk  
my cunning cold rehearse,  
How to the mother aged nurse  
doth give the man a praise  
Above the rest which with her eyes  
she saw in all her days.  
How that the mother, ere she saw  
the man, or aught was done:  
In token of her inward joy  
did name him for her soon.  
How that the silly virgin could  
no lengre time abide,  
But with her knife did piers a hole  
where through her love the spied.  
And then how many sundry joys  
replenished her heart,  
And eke the yongemans' blissful state  
before I would departed.  
But sins that in so surging Seas  
I dare not hoist my sale,  
I must in base sort (god wots)  
tell fourth a rudes man's tale.  
Your welcome said the gentleman  
much better is to me,  
Then gold, or else without the same,  
the greatest cheer should be.  
Thus courteous words, were spent apace:  
amongs this friendly men:  
and from the hall, the father wild  
them to the parlour then.  
Where was the aged gentlewoman  
where sat her daughter to:  
Where one embraced the other as  
the manner is to do.  
Where as the father with the nurse  
of purposes 'gan to talk  
And towards the aged mother doth  
the Doctor give to walk.  
The gentleman said merely  
sins hear are women three  
And two already are in talk,  
the third is left for me.  
And towards her makes, a stately course  
her tender lips he kissed.  
Her fingers that wear fair and long  
encloasing in his fist,  
In secret sort he uttered then  
his long unquiet rest  
To her (who axt) cold not deny  
but that she loved him best.  
Oh happy man that hast found out  
the mean to quench thine Ire,  
And happy dame that Fortune hath  
enriched with thy desire.  
Who now may joy but you alone?  
who is so justly glad?  
as you that have your hearts desire:  
whose friends good will is had.  
The nurse about her business goes,  
the father walks aside,  
But still the younger couple do  
in talk together bide.  
Their talk and tales doth pleas them both,  
loath are they to departed:  
And changing colours therewithal,  
bewrays the joyful heart.  
It groweth fast towards supper time,  
the mother eke doth pray,  
The Doctor and the wooer to:  
that they would come away.  
Unhappy harmful voice thinks he,  
it is that doth departed  
Two bodies so ycopled that  
they both have but one heart:  
He thanks her yet, for manners sake,  
and yields him to her will:  
That would have sold his supper fain,  
in talk to tarry still.  
The father and the mother both,  
the wooer and the maid:  
The Doctor and a friend or two,  
at supper hear are staid.  
And first with some solemnity,  
the wooer he is fet,  
And other Jests in order due,  
the father he doth set.  
Here doth he play the husher's part,  
and can the office quite:  
His wife he placed at upper end,  
and set his daughter right  
against the man in whom good wench  
he knew she joyed much,  
And he asmuch in her again,  
their linked love was such.  
No question need demanded be  
of diet and of meat:  
There wanted nought that might be wished,  
but stomachs for to eat.  
The parent's stomachs, joy had filled,  
to see their daughter glad,  
And joy again as joinouslye  
the lovers filled had.  
The rest did feed right merely,  
and then began to talk,  
as common is at every feast,  
where Bacchus' wares do walk.  
The father to the Doctor drank,  
the mother to the jest  
that reason taught by perfect skill,  
did love her daughter best.  
With all her heart, I say she drank  
to him in cup of gold,  
Who pledged the dame, and to the child  
to drink he was as bold.  
Thus merry wear they every one,  
Right glad and well apaid,  
And she I think most glad of all  
that almost nothing said,  
Whose joyful, kind, and loving heart,  
her pashons could not hide:  
But that which might not from the mouth,  
from heart and eye did slide.  
Now looked she up full chierefully,  
and then within a while:  
Her colour changed from white to red,  
and then again did smile,  
on him to whom by happy chance,  
she thought her holy bound,  
By whom again her secret thoughts  
with speedy slight were found.  
Wherewith the father did break out,  
in decent sober sort.  
and that they all would hear his tale,  
he did his gests exhort.  
They all attentively gave ear,  
their tongues and talk were still  
Applying them with might and main,  
to here the fathers will.  
Who now his secrets doth detect,  
in plainest sort he can,  
and looking on his daughter, thus  
his sober talk began.  
This maiden which you know right well  
mine only daughter dear,  
Hath choase this gentle gentle man,  
unto her only fear.  
And he again (I know not how)  
doth in my daughter's sight  
conceive his chief felicity.  
his comfort and delight.  
Of tender years is the man,  
my chielde is young also,  
And youth by aunshent saw is said,  
to reason is a foo.  
Of worthy parentage he is,  
of noble blood by birth,  
His parents friends to mine always,  
approved to the death.  
His manners and behaviour,  
are comely as you see:  
His presence and his parsonage)  
delightful unto me:  
Endued with possessions,  
enriched with land and fee,  
Not wanting aught that comely is,  
in such an one to be.  
My childish daughter is not rich,  
well qualitied nor feire,  
Nor else wherein such one should joy,  
but that she is mine heir.  
And I an aged thriftless man,  
and like enough to spend  
my goods, and eke possessions,  
before my life doth end,  
Then to so rich a gentleman,  
to match so poor a wife:  
Is but a mean to kindle cause  
of endless care and strife.  
Except you may vouchsafe good Sir,  
a poor man's child to take,  
And of my daughter far unmeet,  
your wife and fellow make.  
Which if you do undoubtedly,  
the argument doth prove,  
Your coming is of perfect zeal,  
and but for puer love.  
Which if (your direct answer made)  
I find you that way bend:  
My wife hath so persuaded me,  
you shall have my consent:  
And when my ladies life and mine,  
by death are once bereft:  
you may account the same your own,  
if any thing he left.  
The Doctor would have answered,  
whose talk the lover broke,  
And did reject all bashfulness,  
and to the father spoke.  
Right worshipful, my duty is,  
to term you so by right,  
Because of long continuance,  
you are a worthy knight.  
To whom again of right I own  
a childly duty to:  
As friendship, and your daughter's love,  
enforceth me to do.  
You know your daughter loveth me,  
and I love her again:  
And yet in doubt you stand to make  
the match between us twain.  
Although you can on my behalf,  
ympute none other lack,  
But that not many aged years,  
depend upon my back.  
Age is a gift of nature that  
she gives to many one,  
Wit coming by the deity,  
is given by god alone.  
As Solomon was perfect wise,  
a child yet by his years,  
And Daniel in judgement seat,  
and infant as appears.  
Do you not read that joseph to,  
in youth discretion had,  
Refraining foul adultery,  
himself but yet a lad.  
A thousand more, but that I will  
not trouble you a whit:  
I could express in youthful years,  
had sage and sober wit.  
Again, an ancient proverb is,  
with men that are full sage,  
that wit sometime in youth appears,  
and always not in age.  
I speak not herein boastingly:  
or that I would have thought,  
that I my wisdom should commend,  
or that my wit wear aught:  
But that I would seem orderly  
to answer to your tale,  
and that to mine & her excuse  
mine answer might prevail.  
And to my parent's wourthines,  
and state of noble blood:  
mine never were so worthy yet,  
but yours were as good.  
And where you say my friends and yours  
in amity were knit:  
I seek to tie a surer knot,  
and not to break it yet.  
And that my person and myself,  
are pleasant in your sight,  
you cause me thereby to rejoice,  
and in myself delight.  
My rents and my possession,,  
and all my lands and fee,  
as equal are unto your child,  
as they are unto me.  
To whom me thinks you have done wrong  
in such sort to disgrace  
a wight with worthy qualities,  
and eke so fair a face.  
I did not seek your heir (god knoweth)  
I sought this worthy dame:  
whose just desert already craves,  
an everlasting fame.  
As for your riches and your wealth,  
I pray the lord increase:  
And Nestor's life I wish to you,  
tenjoyenjoy them all in peace.  
And me thinks that a meeter match,  
you saw not in your life  
Then to so wild a gentleman,  
to give so sad a wife.  
and how can I by any means,  
a greater jewel take:  
Then to receive and keep for aye,  
a wise and sober make.  
The which if you bestow on me,  
your deed itself doth prove:  
that you resolve your sorrows both,  
and knit the knot of love.  
And do this answer absolute,  
within your head conceive  
That either I must have my heart,  
or you my life receive.  
Wherewith he set a decent pause,  
and therewith 'gan to smile:  
and craved licence of the dame,  
towards her to talk a while:  
Who liked so the former tale,  
the wooer had begun:  
as so much more to glad him bad,  
say on my loving son.  
My father (quoth the gentleman)  
I speak as I would have:  
with your consent, I thank you both,  
to me your daughter gave.  
You sitting by, me thought your face  
your willing heart did show:  
And with his words your joinct consent  
on me you did bestow,  
The maid, whose good behaviour  
hath staid her words as yet:  
by clasping of her fingers fast,  
did seem the knot to knit.  
And I that seek your child alone,  
and crave none other good:  
Receive her so unto my wife,  
with all my heart and blood.  
And if that this construction,  
be perfect say you then:  
unto my hungry heart and mind,  
with free consent Amen.  
With that the parents first began,  
and then all at the board,  
and standers by, said all amen,  
there was none other word.  
Oh joyful sentence thus proclaimed  
oh this obtained grace,  
that hath with such, and so much care,  
been sought so long a space.  
Now doth the fair and friendly beams  
splendiferous and bright,  
Of smile Fortune show themselves  
in this desired night.  
Now sorrow doth absent herself,  
and joy possess her room,  
Within those hearts, which not long since  
did think them near their doom.  
Now every man doth well commend  
the fresh and filled wit,  
Of him whose cheerful comely talk,  
doth fill their ears as yet.  
Now lacketh nothing think they all,  
bit that the maiden fair:  
should frankly speak her inward thought,  
and so her mind declare.  
Wherewith her countenance 'gan to change,  
she lifted up her eyes,  
The ruddy colour in her cheeks  
eftsoons begun to rise.  
Quod she unto her father then  
and so unto the rest  
The day of my nativity  
the hour to was blessed  
Whearin my young, and youthful sight  
did pres and was so bold  
This firm and faithful lover true  
at first for to behold:  
Perchance some hear may think it is  
a rude and rashfull part:  
A maiden in such wies and sort  
thus to declare her heart.  
Well next unto this gentleman  
this bargain doth me touch:  
Whose love to me is not so great  
but mine to him as much  
To whom again I yield myself  
obedient at demand,  
And wedding once solemnized  
his only to command.  
He hath discloasd his honest mind  
again I for my part  
In recompense, for his reward  
do give to him my heart.  
And yield him frankly with the same  
my free and true consent  
my faith and all unfeignedly  
until my life be spent.  
Hear might I name the humble thanks  
that he his lady gave,  
Hear might I tell the sundry thoughts  
the gests amongs them have,  
Hear might I show the parent's mirth  
their firm and fixed joys.  
The households talk the neighbours words  
and else a thousand toys.  
But you have heard the long discourse  
held all this supper space:  
Then note the evening so is spent  
deep night draws on apace.  
The ●●●ers are ycopeled  
〈◊〉 ●uery thing is well  
Th●●●●her poyncteth in the morn  
〈◊〉 ●edding day to tell  
The banquetes are in order due  
by servants taken up:  
And every gest doth take his leave  
that then and there did sup.  
The new betrothed son in law  
his reverence done doth part  
And takes with him his wife's good will  
and leaves with her his heart.  
If that the parents joyed now  
who therefore can them blame?  
Or what should let the lovers but  
that they should do the same?  
And why should not the happy man  
lead now a pleasant night  
Whose happy hap had clean bereft  
him of his sorrow quite.  
I will not show the conference  
that now in secret is  
Betwixt the Doctor and the man  
nor think upon their bliss.  
And with the maidens merry state  
I have no mind to mell  
Because my head cannot conceive  
nor pen express it well.  
But yet the blissful night doth bate  
the cheerful day draws on  
The lover thinks in Fortune's grace  
so moch as he is none.  
For sooner had not wished day  
expelled the mantel black  
And eke the pitchy clouds of night  
the air had on her back  
But strait way he would get him up  
and gave himself to rise  
That he might of the wedding day  
with his new Sire devise  
Now would he go, it was to soon:  
then would he stay a while.  
And fancies still that did renew  
did former thoughts exile.  
When reason would not suffer him  
from thence so soon depart  
He fixed his head and beat his brain  
on her that had his heart  
And got him to the window which  
did open towards the home  
of her, in whom he did delight  
that had his heart alone.  
And by the winds which hitherwards  
their flying force did bend  
unto his lady, all his thoughts  
in covert he did send.  
Now would he wish he wear a cloud  
and by and by a star:  
Or other thing he weighed not what  
that fource had from so far:  
Of her to have a sight in whom  
he long had pleasured so  
Or else that time (alas) were come  
that he himself might go.  
He wished that merry Marcurie  
might send unto him wings  
And else that longed to Poets art  
he named a thousand things  
Or that he had the dulcet voice  
of Nightingale or Lark:  
Or that in musics harmony  
he passed each other clerk  
Or that he at this present time  
more dry than Tantalus  
Had both the cunning and the harp  
of famous Orpheus.  
First would he use his wished wings  
and thither take his flight  
Where of his lady he were sure  
in bed to have a sight.  
And then his princely Poet's art  
should in right cunning verse  
Unto his lady and his love  
ten thousand things rehearse:  
That yet for lack of lucky time  
himself cold not discloase  
Nor his so secret matter durst  
to any man repose.  
Whearin, if Poets filed verse  
should seem to her to long,  
The rest in cunning harmony  
should finish with a song.  
Then to her whom he wronged thus  
so long awake to keep  
(As Orpheus did the dampened souls)  
his harp should bring a sleep.  
As he poor soul, whose joyful heart  
nold suffer to take rest  
Did always beat his brains on her  
that now he loved best:  
So did the famous worthy dame  
with firm and fixed mind  
Seek out this long and wakeful night  
a thousand ways to find,  
whereby she most might pleas the man  
or him most high advance  
That Fortune thus had made her mate  
by good, and happy chance.  
The lovers brains thus occupied  
he casteth up his eyes  
Unto the craysed clouds of heaven  
from whence he plainly spies  
The horse of Phoebus' chariot  
gins their course to ronn  
and showeth universally  
their globe or golden son.  
Which sight this ardent gentleman  
doth hear his warrant make  
And thearuppon his journey doth  
unto the father take.  
And eke doth pray the Doctor to  
even as he hath begun  
To go with him and be his aid  
till his attempts were won.  
Fast towards the father's mansion  
these friends together go  
Their errand is, and they seek out  
the wedding day to know.  
Where when they came the father was  
the mother and the maid  
Which on the coming of those guests  
had all this morning stayed  
If that the Doctor welcome was  
unto the parents, know  
That then the lover welcome was  
unto his wife: I trow.  
What need I tell the breakfast which  
they had provided hear?  
What booteth of the cost to speak  
or of the royal cheer?  
Or of the sugared sententes  
the mother did express  
Thereby to work her son in law  
the greater cause to bless.  
What vaileth of the gold to talk,  
the plate, or of the rent,  
Which there was seen, or by the Sire  
might yearly be spent?  
What need I to express the heap  
of gold and massy muke  
The father did appoint the child  
in token of good luck.  
What need I name the loving toys  
betwixt the lovers fell?  
But wish the long continuance  
of those that loved so well.  
What vaileth that I should at all  
hear play so fond a part  
as might detect how each of them  
enjoyed the others heart  
Should I declare how in the one  
the other had delight?  
No, no, I will not wrong them so  
but thereof claim them quit.  
Nor from the father's answer will  
defer you any lengre:  
Who naemd the wished wedding day  
the twentieth of Septembre.  
And show you, how they and their friends  
be glad and do rejoice:  
To see so good succession.  
had in so meet a choice.  
Did Venus think you joy at all  
when she the apple had?  
Did not her promise Paris joy  
and made his heart as glad?  
Doth every lover with his love  
content himself right well?  
Then let them joy, a little while  
whose joys I cannot tell.  
And talk we nothing of the toil  
the turmoil and the race  
The friends had hear to compass things  
With in so short a space.  
Nor of the letters wear sent out  
the kindreds to invite  
Think not at all, for of the same  
my pen no word shall write.  
But pass we over fourteen days  
which speedily were spent  
The fyvetenth was the wedding day  
set by the fathers stint.  
In which of mere necessity  
I must make some discourse  
Though that the Muses in my need  
of me have no remourse,  
The happy long desired day  
gins scarce to show her light  
Ne yet the air had scant unlewst  
the mantel of the night  
Ne had Aurora stretched her arms  
her slombres of to throw  
Ne had the skies alhydden yet  
the stars which erst did show.  
So soon as had the gentleman  
put sluggishness to flight  
And left his restless bed wherein  
he rolled all this night.  
Up calls he then his saruingmen  
and wills their help to ray  
Their happy master happily  
in this most happy day.  
Each thought that came unto his head  
but mirth and joy did bring  
He dreameth on mount Helicon  
he hears the Muses sing.  
Now is he set in Fortune's lap  
each thing doth come aright,  
And all his troubles and his cares  
are now devoided quite.  
And so moch more to glad him with  
came to his window then  
A set of viols conninglye  
played on by cunning men  
Whose perfect play was uttered  
with such a skilful grace  
As he did think himself in heaven  
or in a better place.  
He thrust his hand into his purse  
and what he thearin found:  
Out of the window, for their pains  
he threw it to the ground.  
And willed them that they should forthwith  
the rather for his sake  
convey them to his father's house  
and so his wife to wake.  
Whose best they hastily did obey  
whose mind they did fulfil  
Whose praise of liberality?  
they do commend and will.  
Where when they come, they suddenly  
such music did resound  
As if Apollo from the heavens,  
has sent it to the ground.  
Wh●arwith they looked out for joy  
that slept, not long before:  
The Shepherd showed his teeth, and said  
that Pan was at the door.  
The virgin whom the mother would  
not yet have left her bed,  
No longer could abide in couch,  
but needs must show her head.  
The father and the mother rose,  
the melody was such,  
As who had heard the cunningest,  
might there have hard asmuch.  
Of noble nature was the Sire,  
and music did regard,  
And gave the Minstrels for their pain  
a royal in reward.  
The minstrels that so soon could not  
forget their gotten gain,  
Do think in all their lives they not  
bestowed a better pain.  
And so drew on right cheerfully  
the fresh and pleasant day:  
which seen did the musicans  
fast pack themselves away.  
No sooner were they gone from thence,  
but then the lover came,  
In whom I dare avow to you,  
was nothing out of frame.  
In sober garment cleanly clad,  
without respect of cost,  
His lent like chikes had got again,  
the flesh that erst they lost.  
Whose comely salutation did  
his Lady so ymbrace,  
As they that saw it could but muse,  
and wonder at his grace.  
The parents did receive their son,  
in such a worthy wise,  
as who that would have wished a thing,  
could better not devise.  
The mother took him by the hand,  
and lead him round about:  
To see the order of each thing,  
within and eke without.  
And how she meant that all should be  
in order did him tell,  
The wourst whereof he could not mend,  
nor scarce could wish so well.  
Thus whiles she viewed every thing,  
the day gan fast to grow  
and Titan 'gan his golden beams,  
from the southeast to throw:  
Whereby he saw that slippery time  
away began to slide:  
And that the matrons of the town  
came in to dress the bride:  
And that the townish maidens did  
about the gates give flock:  
His heedy head could not less deem,  
than it was eight a clock.  
From thence he then retired back  
unto his mansion strait:  
Where did right worthy gentlemen  
a number for him weight:  
Who greeted him, and prayed the lord  
to keep him from annoy  
And of the bargain he should make  
to send him endless joy.  
He thanks them all, and stoopeth oft,  
he vaileth cap and knee,  
and who that used him courtlyest,  
no courtlier was than he.  
One of his servants he hide send  
to church from him away▪  
To see the order of each thing:  
and how did wear the day.  
And whiles that servant so was sent  
the rest a roo right fine  
presented all the gentlemen,  
with wafer cakes and wine.  
Himself brought forth a standing piece  
of gay and glistering gold:  
Ympleat with right good ypocrace,  
and drank to young and old.  
Then did return his man again,  
whose reverence made and done  
said to his master, time was now  
for service was begun.  
Wherewith the master with some speed  
and yet in order to:  
Returned back unto his wife,  
as manner is to do.  
With such a sort of gentlemen  
pursuing at his train:  
So well ymatched with their likes  
in order twain and twain:  
As erst not in an hundredth years  
the like could be espied,  
to weight upon a gentleman  
in honour of a bride.  
So soon as they were come in sight  
night to the father's door,  
a sort of seemly Servitures,  
of purpose set therefore  
eftsoons do go by course arrow,  
from first unto the last  
presenting them with fancies made  
of purpose for repast.  
And eke that gentle gem, the bride,  
trymd up in her attire:  
As to her birth but decont was  
and this day did require,  
In humble sort did show herself,  
and in right hearty wise,  
Did yield them all as hearty thanks,  
as could her heart devise.  
To church doth then the bridegroom go,  
and all the rest array,  
And for the coming of the bride,  
not one but all do stay.  
Who forthwith cometh out in deed,  
in such a fined frame:  
As if of purpose it were done,  
to win eternal fame.  
First was her countenance comely set,  
her eyes were fixed full sure,  
Her face was fair, her cherry cheeks,  
her beauty passing pure.  
Her breast out in a decent sort,  
not proud at all she bore:  
Her hear was lose, and on the same  
a Cronet paest she ware.  
The colour of her hears did seem  
to those that did behold,  
as if that nature had them drawn,  
of bright and burnished gold.  
The length thereof again is such,  
as some did make to muse:  
How well so young a woman might  
so rare a jewel use.  
Next that abouts her neck at least,  
more than five double fold:  
With diamonds and with Saphiers set,  
she ware a chain of gold.  
Whereto a pendent tablet was  
of such excessive price,  
As how I should esteem the same,  
surmounteth my devise.  
Above the which a partlet was,  
of carved work so rare,  
As through the workmanship thereof  
each jewel showed far.  
Her kirtle was of satin white,  
embroidered very rich  
with silver, and her gown was black  
plain velvet with a stitch.  
About her waist, a chain of gold  
the girding place possessed,  
And at the same did jewels hang,  
as rich as was the rest.  
Upon her arms the sleeves did with  
the partlet so agree,  
as all together did delight,  
the lookers on to see.  
What should I say? nothing but well  
could then be seen in place:  
But of the rest the trimmest was  
her gesture and her grace.  
And proper two young gentlemen,  
in satin seemly clad,  
To church did lead her, and her hands  
within their fingers had.  
If that this merry morning thus  
did every man delight,  
I think it pleased the husband well,  
the Lady and the knight.  
Well, as she was, to church she goes,  
pursued with a train  
of ladies and of gentiles such,  
as not the world can stain.  
Where with the fearful minister,  
did see so fair a face:  
half doubtful in himself he thought  
Diana was in place.  
And looking on the man again,  
in trembling and in fear:  
What god (thought he) shall I now match  
unto this gods hear.  
But all his fond amazed spirits,  
at last returned back:  
The people's sight did aid his powers,  
which sudden fear did rack.  
and then with manly voice he saith  
as comely as he can:  
Who gives this bride (quoth he) unto  
this jolly gentleman.  
One stepped forth right worshipful  
appointed for that part,  
And said I give her to his use,  
to thee with all my heart.  
Now spoken are the wedding words  
Now take they hand in hand,  
Now is the wedding ring put on,  
a firm and sure band.  
Now all the folk within the church  
which scarce can stand for throng:  
Cry unto god in perfect joy,  
they may continue long.  
whose decent doings in this day,  
the church did so adorn:  
and none that saw the same had seen  
the like since they were borne.  
Now flies there wafers in the church,  
now junkets go about:  
and some with wine are washed so  
they hardly can get out.  
The husband with the former train  
doth get him home before:  
And staith the coming of his wife  
within her father's door,  
And then two aunshent worthy knights,  
the bridegroom's kinsmen to  
In honour of the bride stepped forth,  
and thus much service do.  
By either arm they take her there,  
and homewards lead her than,  
And at her father's door do yield  
her to her wedded man.  
He thanks them all with hand and heart,  
and takes her by the fist:  
Whose tender lips before them all  
is by the husband kissed.  
And first he doth invite his gests  
that are of worship's state,  
And then of his familiars  
spied by him at the gate.  
Besides a worthy company  
of states and Ladies gay,  
that long before invited were  
against the wedding day.  
What should I wright? the bride brought home,  
the gests are comely set:  
Where plenty was, and mighty store,  
of things were hard to get.  
Where nothing wanted, that the mind.  
the head, or heart might wish,  
No venison wild, no dillicate,  
no flesh, nor yet no fish:  
No pleasant talk, no change of wine,  
nor dainty dish at all,  
The want whereof might hurt the feast,  
or might the worship gall  
The trumpets sounded pleasantly  
the Cornets to were herd:  
but always were the utolles and  
the luting men preferred.  
The warbling voice of choristers,  
with aid of singing men,  
The cunning songs, the subtle note,  
which were right common then.  
The multitude confessed, their likes  
they never heard before,  
For had Amphion been alive,  
he could have done no more.  
Hear bid the Bridegroom serve the bride  
The Bride unto him drank,  
He did her pledge and with his heart  
right humbly did her thank.  
What should I say the pleasure that  
each pleasant heart had found,  
Not only filled the empty skies  
but did again resound,  
and flew from friend to friend so fast,  
as every man was glad,  
And in so great a multitude,  
no frowning look was had.  
Well thus the dinner ended is,  
Thus some do fall to talk,  
and some to ease their filled gorge,  
about the field do walk.  
Some than do cast the bar & some  
do give their self to leap,  
And every man where he doth like  
doth help to mend the heap.  
Some dance, some sing and some again  
each mastery doth prove,  
And some do talk of martial feats,  
and other some of love.  
And so the after none is spent  
so supper time comes on  
And every gest at supper is  
in order set anon.  
The Bridegroom hath his office left  
he will no longer weight  
The knight the lady and his wife  
ones set, he sitteth strait.  
And as their fare at dinner was  
so far they now again  
But that the supper junketes were  
the better of the twain  
It, seemed that Ceres' cater was  
and Bacchus brought them wine  
And Eosops' self had supped with them  
so moch there was and fine.  
But yet the married couple were  
more joyful to each gest  
than meat, or drink, or harmony  
of Music, or the rest.  
Scant had they supped and their meat  
in order ta'en away  
But drum struck up, and in came light  
more brighter than the day,  
So rich in tire, so crooked fact  
with such disguised gear  
I think no man had seen, as do  
the gay torchbearers wear.  
As for the rest the company  
cold not remember when  
In all their lives that they had seen  
so trime disguised men  
They lokt about the parlour then  
and did themselves advance,  
And matched themselves with ladies fair  
and gave themselves to dance  
And he that was most cunningest  
in dancing tricks so tried  
Set fourth himself and by the hand  
did take the famous bride  
They marched on, they strived all  
who might excel the rest  
And every one thought in himself  
his connig was the best.  
So spent they there an hours space  
in dancing and delight  
Right joyful to themselves it was  
right pleasant to the sight.  
Then hugy heaps of gold they threw  
out of their box, on board  
And thearwithall a bale of dice  
with mum and not a word,  
Of gentlemen there was a rout  
that kept themselves in store  
To play with them, it was their wills  
the stays but therefore.  
The masker's luck was very good  
Mum, mum, they all do cry  
The brom strikes up, abouts the house  
the money gins to fly.  
They leave their play, the gin to dance  
about the house arrow  
They take their banquet or repast  
and thence again do go.  
Thus now the wedding day is passed  
the wished time comes on  
That toil is left, and weariness  
and every man is gone.  
The bride with matrons sad and wise  
within her bed is laid  
Who tastes of every junket, and  
therewith do leave the maid.  
And so the wedded husband is  
brought to his wedded wife  
Which long he had desired, now  
the end of all his strife.  
They both have that which they can ask  
nought else they can require  
He hath his wife, and she her spouse  
the end of her desire.  
The cheer doth yet continue still  
a nine or ten days space  
In which no empty room at all  
is in the father's place.  
In end whereof the courteous man  
right free of heart and purse  
Doth recompense the servants all  
and eke his friend the nurse,  
In so large and so ample wies  
as they themself did muse  
That so base folk, so rich a man  
with largesse so should use.  
And to his friend the Doctor doth  
for all his friendship give  
An annual fee, right worth his pain  
so long as he doth live  
Which donn from parent's house they draw  
to Manor of his own  
And lead their lives most pleasantly  
in his well stored home.  
Whearin the wedded folks have joy  
a quarter of a year  
Soch as few wedded men or none  
cold ever yet come near  
Oh cruel cankered fortune that  
canst heave a heart so high  
And to the same, will yield a cause  
of slipping by and buy  
Oh that thou canst so flatter men  
with granting their desire  
And wilt not suffer them to cleave  
to that they do aspire  
To whom in all thy life almost  
thy friendship dost thou show?  
But when he thinks him saefst of all  
hath then his over throw.  
What is he ever lived yet  
and did the throughlie try?  
But rather than to give the thanks  
may vengeance on the cry.  
How didst thou Priamus betray  
through Paris flattering dream?  
How dist thou all his children slay  
and spoiled him of his Realm?  
How Titan didst thou first advance  
by birth the king of Crete?  
How after dist thou him suppress  
under king Satur's feet?  
How Saturn didst thou eke beguile  
and Titan cause again  
To put him from the Realm of Crete  
to prison and to pain.  
How then also poor Titan was  
by jupiter undone:  
His Realm by Saturn repossessed  
his kingdom overroon.  
How then did Saturn seek to slay  
King jupiter his friend?  
Which jupiter did Saturn kill  
his father in the end.  
Oh Fortune didst thou ever yet  
advance a man on earth  
Which if he did affy in the  
had not untimely death?  
Even so thou hast extolled hear  
these silly two therefore  
As feeling now the bitter sweet  
might work their woe the more.  
Now hath my pen expressed hear  
in vain, a sort of tooyes  
Of lovers sites, of youthful hearts  
and of their wished joys  
Which after tornes from ill to worse  
as time in order wears  
You shall hear all, and if I can  
express them, for my tears.  
As Venus hath been all this while  
the cause of mirth and woe  
Betwixt these two which vows their faith  
from other shall not go.  
So now the Marshal planets do  
begin to fall at far,  
And noble Mars inclines the hearts  
of Princes unto war  
Now winter's force begynes to fade  
the springtyme groweth on  
The regions cold, the hugy frosts  
within a while are gone.  
Now, Ver, the nursh to every thing  
doth in her pleasant mead  
give sap and moister, and to men  
yields new and pleasant blood  
Now those whose courage winter's force  
late had appalled quite  
receipt of fresh and recent blood  
encourageth to fight.  
The youth which winter made right gl●d  
to lead a quiet life  
Do now rejoice to talk and hear  
of war and cruel strife  
Nothing is talked of in the town  
But means to understand  
Which way tanoye the enemy  
by water and by land  
The princes preparation  
his care and all his toil  
Is how to save his honour and  
to give his foe the foil  
Whearfore are valiant Champions  
sought out both near and far  
To strength the frontiers of the Realm,  
To furnish eke the war  
Old stagers are from Garrisons  
called forth and set at large  
And of the unapproved men  
have regiment and charge  
Young gentlemen of lyvelyhode  
and eke of courage to  
Are called out to try themselves  
their devour then to do  
And he advanced, was preferred  
always before the rest:  
that else by strength, or else by slight  
cold show his courage best  
Whearwith this strong tale gentleman  
did every thing assay  
And from the most, or rather all  
did bear the praise away  
And so the bruit, did strait resound  
into each Capteyns' ear  
As none like him in towardelines  
nor manhood did appear  
His living strait, his forwardness,  
so soon also was known  
As was his strength and manliness  
by flying voices blown.  
Hear whispering talk of captains is  
from one to other heard  
They pry on him, they mark him well  
his doing is preferred.  
At last two of the worthiest, of  
the Captains that were there  
Did leave the rest and towards the man  
gan fast to draw them near  
And so moch more tyncorage those  
that else wear there in place  
Right courteously, they did salute  
and eke did him embrace  
Comending him in worthy wise  
that there had done so well  
And of their grand comyssion  
gins thus their tale to tell.  
There is attempted now (quoth they)  
against our noble prince  
Such wars as in our father's time  
were not, nor never sins  
So covertly compacted, and  
that in so close a wise  
As may the secret enemy  
with head or heart devise  
And would not have it known at all  
until they had begun  
What their intent or meaning is  
ne what they will have done  
Our valiant prince thereof his mind  
his purpose to hath bend  
Their malice and their minded force  
to tame and to prevent  
Of purpose now his navy, with  
all other ships, are made  
Right ready when he shall command  
their untrue to invade.  
And so they fully occupied  
in buesie war at home  
shall quail their courage, and their lust  
that else abroad would roam.  
Whearfore we have comyssion  
that captains long have been  
To choose out other captains  
and soldiers to bring in.  
In fine, we see your manliness  
we know your living large  
We wish the prince, ten thousand had  
so apt to take a charged.  
So meet such matters to attempt  
with Soldgers care to mell,  
So like to take the same in hand  
and like to end it well  
We therefore, in the name of God  
and in the princes to  
Comyt two hundredth men in charged  
to serve him under you.  
And captain over them you are  
they are your servants all  
Prepare you then in readiness  
to serve when time shall call,  
therewith the gentleman doth speak  
in sober wies and sade  
Your charged is over great for me  
in years yet a lad.  
The Roman Capiteins very grave  
were grown in years sore  
And children had no charged at all  
who are unmeet therefore.  
Mars will have lusty men in deed  
their prince's quarrels fight  
But Capiteins old more grave than rash  
should give to such their light.  
I not deny, but fortune doth  
sometime on bold men smile  
But if their wits, not rule their strength,  
how frowns she in a while:  
I have to serve my prince, my will,  
my heart, my head, my hand:  
my body and my moving goods  
my chattels and my land.  
But what should in my princes right,  
these things a whit prevail:  
If want of skill in all attempts  
my forward will should quail.  
Well since the higher powers to you  
did this commission make,  
And that your countenance doth declare  
my excuse no place will take:  
I yield me to the will of god,  
and to good Fortune's grace:  
And now cast of my wedding tire,  
to run a solgers' race,  
The captains which upon his talk,  
their staying did depend,  
His answer made, did take their leave,  
and did his wit commend.  
Lo hear the wavering wheel of fate,  
see where she fawneth best  
She sendeth troubles of the mind,  
she hateth now his rest,  
Who lately thought, his cares were passed  
his joys were permanent,  
His troubles now beginning are,  
his happy days are spent.  
Now leaves he of his pleasant tales,  
he changeth here his talk:  
His songs are turned into cares,  
a captains course to walk.  
Now horse, now armour, he provides,  
and all munitions to:  
That to a captain doth pertain,  
and is in him to do.  
Now gins he break his doleful chance  
unto his loving wife,  
who rather than to spare her spouse  
would choose to lose her life.  
Which heard, from bright and bloody red  
her cheeks wax pale and wan,  
With secret sobs, and tears enough  
her wailing rail began.  
Sweet heart, what fault in me is found▪  
what trespass have I done,  
what doth alas constrain your heart,  
your wedded wife to shoes.  
Have I unwares committed aught,  
my loyalty to break,  
which in so sharp a sort you seek,  
on me poor wretch to wreak.  
Have I unseemly done the thing  
in decent for a wife?  
If ye correct your own, sweet heart  
with loss of limb or life.  
And part not from your promise thus  
let me not languish so:  
Do change your mind, revert your heart  
bend not yourself to go.  
Yet am I she you wedded late,  
yet doth my beauty last,  
yet have I perfect confidence  
your fancy is not past.  
Let not then such ungentleness,  
in noble heart appear,  
To leave a woman desolate,  
in less space than a year  
What, think with what extremity  
our fixed love begonn,  
and god forbidden, with such swift foot  
the race thereof were run.  
Alas, good wife, (than quoth the man)  
my tears nill let me speak,  
and yet your wondrous weighty words  
constrains my heart to break.  
Think not mine own, alas think not,  
that I do from you go  
For any fault I find in you  
accuse yourself not so.  
And from the heavens I pray the lord  
to let his vengeance fall  
on me, if I conceive in you,  
mistrust or fault at all.  
and eke the hungry earth unfold  
her uncontented jaw  
and swallow me, even yet a live  
into her mighty maw,  
And all the plagues that ever were  
on earth, or ever shall  
let light on me, I ask not one  
but I demand them all:  
If I do not account of you  
as much as ere I did,  
and that your love within my heart,  
in wont wise is hid.  
again you never did the thing,  
but pleased my desire,  
and eke the sparks of love in me,  
are grown to perfect fire  
This do a spark, thus fervently,  
because you should have trust,  
That I am yours not to change,  
until I turn to dust.  
Nor then: if it be possible  
the dead to have his will  
I mean to false my faith at all,  
but to be yours still  
But now, the prince hath need of men,  
and so it doth befall,  
That Fortune sore against my will,  
a captain doth me call.  
You know good wife as well as I,  
the consequents of ill,  
That daily doth beride on those,  
which either dare or will,  
Their prince's hests to leave undone,  
to satisfy their mind,  
All men may see they reap the sour  
that seek such sweet to find.  
Then since to sue it booteth not,  
nor will come to avail,  
and to resist doth hinder much,  
and nothing doth prevail.  
Consent that I my duty show,  
in best wise that I can,  
Since that my prince's pleasure is,  
to place my like a man.  
My carcase may the prince command,  
my heart is yours still,  
Your heart again the empty place,  
within my breast doth fill.  
Then since it is but for a space  
that we shall thus departed,  
And that we have with fixed faith,  
ychaunged heart for heart:  
Content you hear to stay awhile,  
with manly heart possessed,  
and I with yours in the field  
will shift and do my best.  
Think how good Fortune hath of late,  
showed us her favour bright,  
Perchance she means to honour us  
by guiding me a right.  
Oft have we seen as great a show  
of battle as is this,  
where friendship hath prevented Mars,  
and wrought the prince's bliss.  
Ne doth Bellona always strike,  
whereas she list to lower,  
But often gives them the sweet,  
to whom she shows the sour,  
And oft the wight that she doth warn,  
to warlike weary pain,  
she doth ere long give golden rest,  
and eke abundant gain.  
Also in field hath many one,  
as far unlike as I  
God honour in a month or two,  
and kept it till he die.  
And therefore whether war pursue  
or peace towards us be priest,  
grant your goodwill that I may be  
as forward as the rest.  
You have (than quoth the gentle wife,  
discoursed your matter well,  
yet ner the less my grief is such  
as not my tongue can tell.  
But since there is no remedy,  
as reason you do show,  
To him, I cannot keep at home,  
I must give leave to go.  
And I the woefull'st wretch alive  
must with Penelope  
keep in my restless bed alack  
whiles you do pass the sea.  
And since you say you leave with me  
your heart, and mine again  
do take with you: it must then be  
one stroke between us twain.  
Therefore as love between us is  
and so continue shall  
Let neither happy luck nor chance,  
nor ill to you befall.  
Nor other fortune what it be,  
that happens to your hand,  
but by your letters I your wife,  
the same may understand.  
By promise he doth grant to her  
her sorrowful request  
and of his mind in sober talk  
declares to her the rest.  
And afterwards he doth provide  
to make his ensign, silk,  
The half whereof as red as blood  
the rest as white as milk.  
Which ended once with such devise,  
as all men might it know:  
There under 'gan he muster then,  
his solgers on a row.  
His old lewetenaunt expert was  
his sargaunt and the rest:  
And who did well, he for his time  
was equal with the best.  
His muster book was furnished,  
his clerk doth what he can,  
He knoweth not the captains guile  
he wanteth not a man.  
His number full, his furniture  
prepared for the nonce,  
They all embarked, do take the sea  
the war growth on a tones.  
His wife, amongs a hugy sort  
which this gay sight did glad  
beheld the same even with the heart  
that wailing Dido had,  
when false Aeneas did her leave  
at Carthage in her bed,  
whiles he the falsest man a live,  
the town and city fled.  
And so they take their loathsome leave  
as woeful Troilus did,  
with wailing words and tears enough  
when Crossed from her rid.  
And whiles they cannot speak for woe,  
and sorrow of the heart,  
The anchor weighed, the ship afloat,  
they kiss and so departed.  
The sailors do hoist up the sails,  
a right forwynd doth blow,  
The main, the top, the myssen, and  
the spirit sail all arrow.  
The soulgers do the netting deck,  
the Pilot takes in hand,  
the rother, and an other sounds  
to scape both rock & sand.  
The Bark is in her princely pride,  
her ordnance do discharge,  
Their force wherein descried is,  
their puissance set at large.  
All men are merry in the ship,  
each man himself doth prove:  
But he alone who cannot choose,  
but think upon his love.  
And she again good soul doth stand  
upon a mountain high,  
Still viewing the unhappy Bark,  
so long as she might spy,  
The hull, the mast, the top, the sail,  
or any part at all,  
and then doth this upon her knees  
behold the skies and call.  
O Thou the everliving god,  
do speed the course a right,  
of yonder bark, and do the men  
from drowning danger quite.  
And as thou art a god I know  
most constant true and just,  
Do help my love as I alone  
in the do put my trust.  
Let Neptune stay the sourging Seas,  
Let Aeolus not blow,  
Nor grant that they conjoinctly do  
their force or rigour show.  
Nor yet that any enemy  
with them do fight or strive,  
Before they in their wished port,  
do luckily arrive.  
With pensive thoughts she riseth thus  
and leaves her prayer so  
and she the woefull'st wight alive  
unto her home doth go.  
Where when she comes and misseth him  
whom she doth most desire,  
Then weeping doth she wail her chance,  
then puts she of her tire  
and with the worst she may find out  
her comely corpse is clad,  
And never did she mourn so sore,  
but now she is as sad.  
She spendeth thus the doleful day,  
the night comes on a pace,  
She goth to bed, and of her spouse  
finds there the empty place.  
Her stomach strait appaleth so  
such sobs from her do start,  
As with her tears, to blear her eyes  
and seem to rend her heart  
she calleth to her memory  
her happy time of late  
The thought whereof doth so much more  
augment her heavy fate.  
Not Father can nor Mother may  
appease the daughter's grief  
Nor friend can comfort her distress  
her sorrow was so reefe.  
Hear gins she now to curse the man  
that she doth love so well  
Untrue (she saith) thou art alas,  
why dost thou thus rebel,  
Against the laws of God? by which  
tho didst avow to me,  
Forever: not so short a space  
my constant spouse to be.  
And wilt thou leave thy lady thus  
and will thou from me go  
And wilt thou now absent thy self  
and wilt thou leave me so  
And canst thou now lie from the bed  
that thou didst so desire  
And canst thou work my woe this wise  
and prove thy self a liar  
And darest thou false thy fixed faith  
and thine affied trust  
And darest thou now, thou hast obteynd  
thus prove thy self unjust.  
In faith I thought the Sea should first  
by waters want be dry  
And that the soon should eke forswear  
the high and hugy sky:  
Or that an other Phaeton  
should serve in Phoebus torn  
And that the fiery footed horse  
both sea and shore should bourn:  
Before thou wouldst without a cause  
with me thy wife be wroth,  
Or cruelly have left me so  
and so have broke thy troth.  
In faith sins that it is in dead  
and I to true it try  
I will no more believe thy words  
before the day I die.  
Nor shall thy fawning letters help  
thy treason to excuse  
whereof thy present absence doth  
thy loyalty accuse.  
Well well thou showest now thy kind  
thy doings do declare  
that only men in wooing time  
do flatter and speak fair  
Thus in her great extremity  
each joynct in her did shake  
And faynctnes made her stay a while  
and then again she spoke.  
What am I warth and cruel wretch  
or brutish beast by kind?  
Thus with my true and constant love,  
such raging, faults to find.  
Who for himself or his defence  
in absens cannot speak,  
Why dost thou then, oh wilful wench  
thy raged and anger break  
On him that is thy husband and  
thy love and only fire  
Allotted by the living lord  
even to thy hearts desire  
Was he not priest by prince's power  
full loath he was to go  
Oh cruel carl how canst thou then  
in absence blame him so  
Did not his sobs his sights, his tears,  
that trickled down his eye  
His wailing voice, his griping grief  
his doleful noise and cry  
Which did (against his will) break forth  
when he did hence departed  
Express unto thee (oh thou beast)  
his true and constant heart?  
Coldst thou at any time at all  
conceive with in thy mind  
But all such griefs as gripped thy heart  
like place in his did find?  
Unjust thou art, (oh foolish girl)  
unfaithful and untrue,  
Vnwourthie art thou of the man:  
Now give thy heart to rue.  
That thus didst slander thy true love  
so sore without a cause,  
How canst thou crave the aid of love  
a rebel to her laws.  
Ah cruel wretch that showst thy self  
unwourthie breath or life  
Wold God thou hadst the murderer  
or else the cruel knife.  
That well might hear revenge by right  
thy lover and his truth  
And for thy skills slander sake  
might bring thy self to ruth  
Thus whiles the lady languished  
his former talk and sin  
against her lord, her mother doth  
to see her child come in  
Whom she doth find so ruthfully  
with tears beweped so:  
As, where she might return again  
or to her daughter go,  
she stands in doubt: her heart doth fail  
the tears, break from her eyes  
she keeps in covert all her cares  
and to her daughter cries  
What daughter? what doth mean this grief?  
what is it work thy pain?  
Is all thy pleasure so soon past?  
is care krept back again?  
Alas, shall never this mine age,  
nor these my hoary hears.  
Nor these my misty eyes, behold  
the but bewept with tears?  
Good daughter guide thy self awhile  
do not torment the so:  
Thy love doth love the passing well  
let foolish fancies go.  
Who in the world hath God enriched  
with fortune or with fate  
Somoch as thou? to whom is linked  
a man of such estate  
As neither storm nor worldly woe  
no flame nor yet no thondre  
No sea, no flood, nor other let  
from the can keep a sondre.  
A lengre time, than princes cause  
alone doth keep him back  
Yet nay the less his heart is thine  
though thou his body lack  
Then homeward come with me, mine own  
reject thy careful mind  
And as I pleasure in the moche  
some comfort in me find.  
My soon, thy spouse, that faithful man  
the fates will guide by right  
Ere long, he will send us good news  
his hand gins to wright  
What cause hast thou to morn at all  
sins that thy lord is well  
His voyage past, his chance is good  
such will his letters tell.  
Oh, blame me not, good mother, said  
to her, her daughter dear  
If I the loss of such a spouse  
so greatly dread and fear  
For neither hath the Grecian dames  
nor Trojan ladies found  
Nor yet the hungry earth herself  
nor yet the cloddy ground  
Received, so just and true a man  
as I have for my part  
Whose truth (alas) so tried is  
as now doth rend my heart.  
I sit alone, my thinks the seas  
are grown in such a rage  
By Aeolus his whorling blasts  
whose rigour will not suage  
As he with sourgies heaved to heaven  
the ship doth straightway fall  
The wallows then do hide the bark  
the water drowns them all.  
Then strait I see him in his arm  
how strongly he doth fight  
Hear hath he slain a gentleman  
there hath he killed a knight.  
This crown by him ycracked is  
that body doth he part,  
Then comes a traitor at his back  
and thrusts him to the heart.  
Should not these things increase my care?  
Should not mine eyes that spy,  
My husband slain before my face,  
provoke my heart to die?  
Alas poor wench the mother said  
alas poor lover to:  
Thy fancy wills, but reason not  
comaundes, the thus to do.  
If every thing thou canst conceive  
in head, doth work thee grief  
Then thrice so many heads again  
can bring thee no relief.  
Come come, come come, come home with me  
come to thy father's house  
Come glad thy mother's heavy heart  
Till tidings of thy spouse,  
Shall joy again thy joyless spirits,  
and give the quiet life  
That coldst not yet this twelve months space  
avoid invented strife,  
Now reason work and nature to  
the daughter doth command,  
In this a thing so requisite  
tobey the dames demand  
They homeward bend to father's house  
the time they would beguile  
Which princes cause, and mortal war,  
do keep him on exile.  
nought wanteth hear that mirth may make  
the daughter hath her will,  
But always doth the husbands want  
the daughters playnct fulfil.  
So as no joy nor joyful thing  
but doth augment her care  
And so moch more because she will  
her corsie not declare.  
Whiles in this great perplexity  
this young and tender wight  
bewails her husbands absence thus  
as she may do aright:  
The noble man the lover true,  
is tossed upon the seas,  
Now at the will of Aeolus,  
and then as Neptune please.  
At last with weary course and pain,  
this weather beaten Bark,  
doth of the haven desired so,  
espy a certain mark,  
Now mates the master cries a pace,  
good news to every man,  
Haw jack thou scurvy lousy boy  
go tap and fill the can.  
Be merry masters drink a pace,  
now make we all good sport,  
our voyage almost ended is,  
I see the wished port.  
Wherein by force we mean to land,  
as we have done the like,  
by help of god, and by the force  
of bended bow and pike.  
Then joy each man within the ship,  
their sport is for a king,  
and hay, how, jolly rombelowe,  
the sailors all do sing.  
Here might you see what solgers seek  
and how they toss and toil,  
on sea, a shore, and every where,  
to come to saque and spoil.  
But he alas alone good man  
whose mind doth bring to sighed  
his mild and true companion,  
his comfort and delight:  
In secret place doth stay a while,  
and wipes his flowing eye,  
Till often wiping of the same  
doth all the moister dry  
Then secretly he sendeth fourth  
a groan unto the skies  
Which from his faithful heart forthwith  
unto his lady's flies.  
And then he showeth himself abroad  
right pewsaunt on the deck  
And saith unto his solgers all  
obedient at a beck  
My mates my friends, my brethren dear  
my fellows all in field  
Next God my prince, and wife you are  
to whom my heart I yield  
Then is the place you see it well  
Where we must prove by strife  
How most toppresse our enemy  
how least to harm our life.  
I am your own assuredly  
both head both heart, and hand  
I crave of you but willing hearts  
by me at need to stand  
Which if I find I swear to you  
that none of you shall lake  
Whiles I have land or livelihood  
or clothing to my back.  
These words once passed, they swear to him  
if he had cause to try:  
He should perceive, not one, but all,  
with him would live and die.  
Glad was the captain of such men  
glad was the solgers eke  
The haven to enter in best wies  
they all a means do seek  
The enemy doth show his face  
like to the forest boar  
the cannon and the culver shot  
about their ears do roar.  
The skirmish enters very hot,  
yet doth the bark prevail  
and in they go not losing ought,  
but tearing of their sail:  
Wherewith they are in quietness,  
the entering brunt is past  
and they into their wished port  
are now arrived at last,  
The mariners that babred sore  
with strained voices cries,  
Saint George, Saint George to borough and  
they so do pierce the skies.  
The enemies perceive therewith,  
their purpose they had lost,  
They find that scantly will their gain  
bear half their toil and cost.  
and then they leave their rigour since  
they can no more prevail,  
and do forthink the time they spent  
which came to none avail.  
Well, night grows on a pace, and they  
that can find out their nest,  
Forgetting toil, with merry minds  
do give themselves to rest.  
The worthy captain yet thinks on  
his fair, and famous wife:  
Which is his gods and to him,  
much sweeter than his life.  
Now takes he paper in his hand,  
to wright that he doth think:  
Which ready is and pen also,  
but hath no whit of ink.  
Then with a quill he maketh him  
a lancet very fine:  
and with a philip pricks his thumb  
the point is made so kine,  
whereout doth spring the bloody drops  
so fast as he can wright,  
and serves his fyled pen to print,  
that could his head indight.  
Theffect whereof ensueth hear:  
my wits I will assay,  
His princely proase, in this rude verse  
to tell you as I may.  
Mine own, to you your own doth hear,  
his hasty letters send,  
Lest silence should accuse his troth  
and so he might offend.  
Of paper had I store enough,  
my pens did eke abound,  
But to express my state to you,  
no drop of ink was found.  
But that could not my faith a whit  
nor promise from you stay,  
For I to show my duty, did  
find out another way.  
And cause I knew my letters would  
provoke you some delight,  
See here my shift which only was  
with blood the same to wright.  
I left your sonnye sight with tears,  
and Neptune's realm possessed,  
where till we came to happy haven,  
we felt but little rest.  
And when we saw the port or place.  
wherein discharge we must,  
In despite of the enemy  
therein our bark we thrust,  
And though by force of fight foes,  
and turmoil we were tossed:  
The lord be praised, we got the haven,  
and yet no man we lost.  
And other news have I not now,  
but that I would hear tell,  
That you my love be still in health,  
then must I needs do well.  
wherein I pray you satisfy  
my hungry mind and heart,  
and letters still, for letters shall  
my writing hand revart.  
Farewell my heart, far well my life,  
far well mine only make,  
Though rude my letters be, yet do  
accept them for my sake.  
Commend me to your parents both,  
commend me to your friends,  
Commend me to yourself again,  
and thus my letter ends.  
This letter to a messenger  
he did deliver straight,  
That did convey the same to her,  
he made it of such weight,  
Which when she saw, the bobbling blood  
wrapped warm within her breast,  
Her teeth did cut the string in twain,  
she could not be in rest,  
Until she saw th'effect and did  
the letters over read,  
Then was her mind well quieted,  
then was she glad in dead,  
Then to her mother stepped she up,  
with wild and staring look,  
For joy she could not speak a word,  
but took to her the book.  
At last, lo hear quoth she madame,  
see what my love doth wright,  
to me, to you, and to my Sire,  
that grave and aunshent knight.  
It gladdeth me I promise you  
more than my tongue can tell,  
Now mother be we merry all,  
my husband is so well.  
For now my joys are permanent  
my cares are voided quit,  
Oh happy hand, and honest heart,  
that canst such letters writ.  
Alas, alas, yet said she then,  
these letters do not show,  
where he be slain, since he them writ,  
how might I do to know.  
Then spoke the witty mother thus  
and answered her again,  
I think no comfort comes to thee,  
but doth renew thy pain.  
What dotest thou oh foolish girl,  
or art thou worse than mad?  
Doth every thing discomfort thee,  
that aught to make the glad?  
Thy husband is in perfect health  
his letters so doth show,  
These fancies then before to late,  
seek from your mind to throw.  
and wright to him right cheerfully,  
let him not see you sad,  
This shall in trouble comfort him,  
and this shall make you glad.  
What take to you, your pen and ink,  
and satisfy his mind,  
He writ to you his letters first,  
let him your answer find.  
The daughter therewith did relent  
her former foolish part:  
And writ to him to this effect  
even from her piersed heart.  
Thou art mine own thou sayest mine own,  
and I am thine again:  
Oh cruel sea, how canst thou cut  
a body thus in twain.  
Great hast I had to hear of thee,  
thy letters did me good,  
Yet hast thou done some wrong to me,  
to write them with thy blood.  
No duty dost thou owe to me,  
I am thy servant priest,  
should not my heart serve the because  
I find thou lovest me best?  
I sorrow that my sight did cause  
the to departed with tears,  
and Neptune for his churlishness,  
a cankered carl appears.  
And if I had the power that hath  
the mighty jove above.  
He should repent th'offence he hath  
done unto the my love.  
For I do love the passing well,  
and will do during life,  
which promise may compare with hers  
that was Vlixes wife.  
And if I break the same Oh lord,  
then let thy vengeans fall  
on me, and every plague that is,  
bestow them on me all.  
But yet how couldst thou, when thou sawst  
the port in warlike case,  
possessed with a woman's heart,  
give charge to such a place.  
Thou didst me wrong to venture so,  
yet may I not the blame:  
For better is to venture life  
then end with Cowherd shame.  
and I am bound to thank the that  
no sooner camest to rest,  
but unto me thine own thou didst  
discloase thy secret breast.  
I am in health and have no cause  
now thou art well to morn,  
Save that I think thine absence long:  
and crave thy quick return.  
Till then, I pray the lord defend,  
thy most desired life,  
and send thy happy presence once  
unto thy loving wife.  
Thus hath your own more than her own  
at large her mind expressed,  
and sends you thanks from parents and  
from kindred and the rest.  
Farewell my heart, my strength my power,  
my comfort and my trust,  
whose lover whiles I live I am,  
and after death I must.  
The messenger that brought the bill,  
bears answer now again,  
and frankly is contented for  
his travail and his pain.  
No sooner comes he to the place,  
or piece where battle lies,  
But straight this worthy gentleman  
the messenger espies,  
upon the rampires of the wall,  
with pike in hand most stout,  
and who that presseth to come in,  
he and his men keep out.  
Now here he slaith a scaling man,  
now there he gives a stroke,  
Now this man's neck, now that man's leg,  
is by his puissance broke  
And as in this extremity  
he dealeth blow by blow  
whereby the stoutest enemy  
his force and puesaunce know.  
So since he wrote the letter last,  
so stout he was in fight,  
as just desert for virtues sake,  
hath dubbed him a knight.  
His ensign that of late was gay  
the colours fresh and new,  
now part is torn, and part is burnt,  
it looks of other hew.  
And he that trick and trimly went,  
they wots that know the trade,  
his armour burst, his coats are torn,  
and he a warrior made.  
Well, nothing yet remains so long,  
but endeth at the last,  
So night comes on, they cannot see,  
the battery, ends in haste,  
The trumpets sound, on either side,  
they looked for retreat,  
Some wipe their faces sprent with blood,  
and other some with sweet  
Here one dismembered of his leg,  
for Surgens help doth cry,  
Here one would have his paunch sowed up  
here dead some other lie.  
Now drums strike up and give to call  
each solgers to his band,  
Now both to know their loss and gain,  
each captain takes in hand.  
Now though this champion's service was  
right equal with the best.  
His gain is great, yet was his loss  
as little as the least.  
Whiles thus he stood, in Fortune's grace  
much more than other did  
He thought upon his secret friend  
which in his heart lay hid.  
And wished of all the gods of love,  
that he could think or name,  
that they would by their deities  
some Engine for him frame:  
Whereby he might when son went down  
with his sweet heart devise,  
and be again upon his charge  
ere Phoebus list to rise.  
Thus wavering thoughts possessed his brain  
his passhons were at strife,  
whiles that the long desired man,  
brought letters from his wife.  
The sight whereof made him forthwith,  
more joyful and more glad  
Than if he half the Regiment  
of fair Europa had.  
He read his lovers passions  
her constancy he spies  
The joy whereof did cause his tears  
to trickle from his eyes  
What should I say in blissfulness,  
he doth account him than  
much more, and far beyond the state  
of any wedded man.  
Now doth he please the messenger  
and then he doth resort  
unto the merriest company  
he findeth in the fort.  
Now mourning weeds are cast away  
he joys in musics song:  
which erst in heavy state of mind,  
had languished full long.  
Of pleasant matters he doth give  
his cunning hand to wright,  
Such as to her his learned head,  
most gladly doth indite.  
He leaveth of his painted proase,  
he wrighteth now in verse,  
Such as my skills pen pretends  
verbatim to rehearse.  
Take from thy husbands happy hand,  
my true and loving wife,  
The joyful tidings which report  
the end of absent strife.  
And hearken to thy lot whereby  
the marshal gods prefer,  
the worship and the worthy fame  
which I have won by war.  
For never came there chance at all  
that brought me to unrest,  
but grew from good to better still,  
and ended with the best.  
Oh heavenly happy fate and time,  
wherein I first was made  
a man of war, a solgers guide  
the princes foo to fade.  
For never did I yet in arms  
encounter wight at all,  
But either yielded to my grace,  
or took his fatal fall.  
Wherefore my darling dear, and gem,  
some men do judge by right,  
That thou art made a Lady, and  
that I am made a knight.  
●nd I myself will come to the  
and that ere many days  
A parley hath concluded peace  
to god give all the praise.  
And I shall once again, myself  
my loving wife possess:  
and thou thy spouse, my lamp of life  
with equal joy and bless.  
And we that found ourselves aggrieved  
with parting pains of late,  
with lucky lot ere long time pas  
shall meet with merry fate.  
My heart till then take thou and hand,  
my senses all and some,  
and couch them where thou thinks it meet  
until myself do come  
whereof there shallbe no delay  
(if death my life not trip)  
a longer time or further space,  
then with the foremost ship.  
Till than content thy careful mind  
till then think on me to:  
as I of thee my lot alone  
have done and still will do.  
Far well mine own, far well oh sweet  
my comfort and my joy,  
Mine aid, my helper, and my hope  
my succour in annoy.  
Take pains no more, do hold thy hand  
enforce not the to wright,  
for ere thy letters can revert  
myself willbe in sight.  
And let my letters to thy friends  
my hearty thanks allude,  
But I to the do give as much,  
and so I do conclude.  
With flying foot these tidings came  
unto this ladies sight,  
who never erst did feel like joy  
like comfort nor delight.  
For not the thing upon the earth  
that kind hath wrought with mould,  
Or moyned is beneath the ground  
no not the finest gold  
No pearl, no gem, nor evils rich  
so much could glad this wife,  
as did the letters which resound  
the husbands health and life.  
For with the sudden sight thereof,  
the crystal streams did flow  
even from her ivory eyes, and heart  
and thence in order show  
The secrets which she sought to hide  
amidst her modest mind,  
The like whereof, would christ each man  
might from his wedlock find.  
But since it is a thing as rare  
as Phoenix is, to see,  
such women in this world to live,  
let her alone for me.  
And speak we of the parents joy  
that do joy in the man  
as much as any father may,  
or any mother can.  
And how that they preparaunce make  
against the knights return,  
and how they incense and perfumes  
in every corner bourn.  
And how the wedding bed is made,  
and else to make it short  
There wanteth nought but him alone  
whom they would have resort.  
Alas how often would the wife  
go view and see the skies,  
and make the craysed clouds of heaven  
with every wind that flies.  
Alas how often looks she up,  
to steeples and to feigns,  
how often doth she mark the drifts  
of moisty mists and rains.  
And all to view the winds that would  
send home to her again  
the man that she desired most  
whose want was all her pain.  
Alas how long in vain she looked  
for that that would not be,  
For that again, the gods had vowed  
her eyes should never see.  
Oh dismal day, oh dampened doom  
so fast that followst on,  
So soon as were the letters sent,  
and was the bearer gone:  
Who may discloase the dreadful dart  
without abundant tears?  
Or who not drowned in brackish floods  
may tend to it his ears  
My heart doth fail, my senses shake,  
my hear upright do stand,  
and eke to wright the same, my pen  
doth quever in my hand.  
Oh that when first I did pretend  
this dreadful doom to wright,  
My brain had been, so dull as not  
a word it could indite  
Or else that all the fairy gods,  
which Poets feign have skill,  
had leapt at large, and set their hands  
to aid my forward will.  
and then no doubt but tears enough  
and wailing words would be  
To mourn the mortal chance alas,  
which shall not stay for me.  
No sooner were, the letters gone,  
which you have hard he sent  
unto his love, nor sooner was  
the bearer that way bend:  
Then was an accusation  
against the knight maked  
by envy and by traitors guilt  
his worship to invade.  
and that in such a shameful sort  
as would amaze each ear,  
The fond and false affirmed tale  
with heavy heart to hear.  
Which heard the knight could crave no less  
but that in his behoof,  
his foe that had accused him there  
might thereof bring some proof.  
And did allege by lawful rule  
before the Peers that sat,  
and also by dame nature's law,  
which did affirm it flat,  
That heinous was th'offence of him  
that should his life assail,  
with lesinges false which god forbidden  
should therein ought prevail.  
And thereof claimed again some proof  
before his face to hear,  
that could (as he knew well none could)  
him thereof witness bear.  
The judges deemed this just demand  
good reason in their sight,  
But when the prince a party is,  
how hard is then to quite  
The Lamb, that doth the wolf pursue  
that seeketh only blood,  
as is the knight sought here (god wots)  
by him that near did good.  
Who said for answer what is he  
that treason doth pretend?  
Or else against his prince's laws  
himself by force doth bend?  
That will make privy any wight  
unto his wicked way?  
Except to such from whom he hopes  
of succour and of stay.  
But this I say and eke will swear  
and will by combat try,  
that he to prince a traitor is  
and aught for treason die.  
And on this proof I offer hear  
my gauntlet in the field,  
and have no doubt before you all,  
to force the traitor yield.  
And this I think be proof enough  
for Mars demands no more  
wherefore I do accuse him still  
a traitor as before.  
Then said the knight unto his foo  
untrue, thou art unjust.  
and toomuch on thy manhood dust  
put thine affied trust.  
And first unto my Peers I speak,  
no lie my tongue shall tell:  
For if I do, I p●●y the lord  
my soul may burn in hell.  
So clear I am from traitors guilt  
or damage of my prince:  
as is the child this night brought fourth,  
and scarce hath sucked since.  
If dead, if word, if thought at all  
to such effect I put,  
From joys in earth, and bliss in heaven  
good lord my body cut.  
But false thou falsely dost accuse  
my troth, and I will try,  
thy combat (Charle) hear is my glove  
and I do the defy.  
And in the living lord my god  
I have affied trust,  
the and thy malice to subdue  
in this my quarrel just.  
The plaint and answer both is hard,  
alleged by these twain,  
and eke the dreadful bloody oath  
before the judge is ta'en,  
In which they both do stoutly swear  
by god that is of might,  
His oath is true (but yet olorde)  
thou knowest which is right.  
No thing remains but to appoint  
the bloody battles day,  
and eke the place wherein to fight  
whereon the judges stay,  
At last the judgement is given up,  
and only four days ta'en,  
wherein the dreadful dart of death,  
is tried between these twain.  
In which time they do seek which way  
with courage them to arm.  
and eke do practice fence, thereby  
to work their foe more harm.  
And in such fight the manner is,  
they know that see the same,  
Two have a man of either side,  
which frenchmen father's name,  
And are for manhood chosen out  
and equal friends they be,  
whose office is, between the foes  
an equal match to see,  
That not the one in armour clad  
the other naked sail  
Nor yet in odds of edge, or length  
their weapons do prevail.  
But all their cark and travail is,  
and subtlety to seek,  
That equal be the match and that  
they both be armed alike.  
Such two there are appointed hear  
and men in deed they be  
as apt to take such thing in hand  
as ever man did see  
So neat to prune the place wherein  
this battle must be tried,  
So skilful eke the plot to choose,  
the wethers to divide.  
That who so saw, their perfectness  
would therein take delight  
as much as solgers wont to do,  
to see such combat fight.  
The day draws on, the one in red  
as fierce as forest bore,  
comes in, to challenge blameless blood  
as he hath done before  
and at his back his father stands  
as I before descried,  
and jointly both, the knights repair,  
and stay they do abide.  
Who with his battle father comes,  
his foe there to despite,  
and eke to show his guiltless heart,  
is clothed all in white.  
The boustrous battle here begins  
their strokes are passing sore,  
The odds of men, the lookers on  
do very much deplore,  
For why? the one a ruffian old  
in whom no drop of blood  
there ever was: that did enforce  
or move him unto good:  
The other was a famous man,  
though young a worthy knight,  
Such one as did the bloody man  
for virtue sake despite.  
Oh lord with cruel strokes how oft  
do they encounter hear?  
how roundly doth the one lay on  
that doth the other bear?  
How many do with weeping eyes  
as they may do full well,  
Lament the churlish chance alas,  
that there that day befell:  
And eke bewail the harmful hap  
of those that here did try,  
their manhood and their mighty force,  
whereof the one must die.  
How were the hearts of some appalled,  
how do some other quake,  
to see the bloody blows were given  
which only death must slake.  
And those that loeud their prince and realm  
had hear no power to choose  
But to bewail the deaths of those  
the Realm was like to lose.  
Alas when blood on either side,  
had blinded so the face  
of those did fight, as by their piers  
they parted were a space,  
And pruned were as is the guise,  
buf to renew their breath,  
how sharply doth the one again  
pursue the others death?  
Oh cruel fight thus held, and sharp  
whose stripes are dealt so sore,  
as still the wished victory  
hangs doubtful more and more.  
Unhappy thrusts that then were thrown  
and sore did hurt the knight,  
But yet the traitors harm was such  
as he no more could fight.  
Then prostrate lying in the ground,  
thus to the knight he spoke,  
Not of desert but of despite  
at first this quarrel broke.  
Wherefore before this company  
I do the mercy cry,  
and claim the cler, and grant myself  
most worthy for to die.  
Oh lord the thundering noys that flew,  
with skriches shrill and high,  
From mouths of men, to him in heaven  
that guides the starry sky.  
And gave him thanks, that he had caused  
the truth thus to be known,  
and that the guilty man was by  
the guyltles, overthrown  
Wherewith the knight forgave the fault,  
yet paid to him his dew,  
and with his sword he thrust him in  
and so the traitor slew.  
Amazed I am here to express  
the second cry and shoot  
that joy did make to pass the mouths  
of all the famous rout,  
That looked on and praised god  
that he was rid from blame,  
whose lust desert did claim by right  
to be the child of fame.  
Whose golden trump did sound full far,  
how did the knight him try,  
and how he caused the traitor so,  
by puissant arm to die.  
It cometh to the ladies ear,  
what act her knight had done,  
how that in fight he slew his foe,  
and kept his honour won.  
Which wrought in her and all her friends  
such perfect joy and bless,  
as now they thought themselves cut of  
from care and heaviness.  
For fame not yet had spread abroad  
the knights most cruel wound,  
nor how in chair he was brought home,  
nor how he gan to swoon,  
Nor how that present night alas  
that famous man did die,  
Nor how his solgers and his friends  
like children roar and cry:  
Nor how he is brought to the church  
with mourning of the drums,  
Nor how the knight is brought to grave  
with mighty shot of gonnes.  
Nor how his ensign trailed is  
with sorrow on the ground,  
Nor how nothing but sobs and tears  
in all the town is found.  
This resteth dead, they joy a pace,  
they shoot at other mark,  
until the coming home (alas)  
of the unhappy bark.  
Then is this tidings told at large,  
to soon the lady hears,  
Her heavy heart noulde let her speak  
nor could she shed her tears:  
But straight she casted up her sight  
unto the cloudy sky,  
She set a groan which rent her heart,  
and therewithal did cry,  
unto that god from whom doth glide,  
the golden glistering son,  
From sight of whom no wight at all  
hath power himself to shun.  
And said, oh mighty king of gods  
oh thou that lieust for ay,  
Impute it not to me for sin,  
that love doth force me say,  
Didst thou not give to me a man  
that nature did adorn  
with gifts of grace, that did excel  
the rest that ere were borne?  
The secret substance of the soul  
in him did eke abound  
And nothing but thy fear and grace,  
within that man was found,  
And that I should the virtues touch  
which to the body long,  
Didst thou not send him health olorde  
and maedst his body strong.  
And deckest him with each honour that  
this world might to him yield,  
and sent'st him worship, which he won  
by stretched arm in field.  
How couldst thou then in fragrant youth  
amidst his honour got,  
By traitors hand let him be slain,  
whom could no Treason spot?  
Ah, that I wretched wight have cause  
with the thus to dispute,  
whom all the world, no saint nor devil  
is able to confute.  
What? should I curse my fate oh lord?  
or rather crave to die,  
Or should I piers the mighty heavens  
with high and hugy cry,  
Since that my cursed chance is such  
as neither can I have  
my love alive, nor yet myself  
be buried in his grave  
Well, well, oh lord remit my sins  
even through thy mercy most  
wherewith she stretched fourth her arms  
and yielded up the ghost.  
Much strogling was but none avail  
her senses all were gone  
Her limbs were stiff, her body strait  
as cold as marble stone.  
Thamased mother saw this chance,  
and ruthfully she spoke  
To this effect did I poor soul  
all this preparance make.  
Then let the world and those that live  
if aught be left, take all,  
and for thy mercies sake good lord,  
send me my fatal fall.  
Let me not live, and lead my life  
a barren wife in age,  
Nor yet to ronn the rueful race  
of rigours that do rage  
But since thou hast in soddeine sort  
bereft me of my son,  
And of my daughter to, whose lives  
had yet long race to run,  
And that I can, nor may not ask  
their lives again to have  
Grant at the least that I may be  
a fellow in her grave.  
And so our boddyes may again  
in coffin jointly lie,  
That like as she by me did live,  
so I by her may die.  
Herewith her face did wax full pale,  
her body 'gan to faint,  
and easy was, god knoweth to spy  
how death could her attaint.  
She shrieked out, and said oh death,  
I feel thy force gins  
Oh god, for Christ's sake do grant  
forgeunes of my sins.  
Wherewith she did give up the ghost,  
as did her child before,  
her fatal thread was shride in twain  
and she could live no more.  
For neither could their force nor might  
no bowing down nor pain  
revoke her trance, nor bring to her  
her loathed life again.  
The father saw, that he had lost  
his daughter son and wife,  
Would feign have died, but yet doth last  
his heavy hated life.  
The servants and the neighbours all  
and many men unknown,  
do taste the doleful heaviness,  
that these their deaths have sown.  
In aunshent household tomb the dame  
and child Sepulture have,  
and many cunning Epitaphs  
is set upon their grave.  
And those that knew them every one  
and sees the siers' unrest,  
Do judge of both, the women's hap  
in sorrow was the jest.  
God grant him quiet life to live  
his cares away to pluck,  
God send each love so true a heart,  
yet lord some better luck.  
Finis.  
B. G.   

¶ Imprinted at London in Fleetstreet within Temple bar, at the sign of the hand and star, by Richard Tottyll.  
Anno. 1565.