Chapter IV: Introduction (4)

_Will._ What then? _Wit._ Doo our best. _Will._ Content. _Wit._ But harke, Will: shall I tell thee a little more of the fort of Fame, what I sawe and heard before I came away? Over the gate at the entrie, I sawe written pretie posies, some in Latine, some in Italian, some French, and some English. In Latine I remember these: _Quid tam difficile quod non solertia vincit?_ By that was written, _Labore vertus_: and by that, _Vertute fama_: and over that, _Fama immortalis_: and that was written in many places about the house. In Italian was written, _Gioventù vecchezza_: by that, _Vecchezza Morte, et Morte Tempo, et Tempo Fama_: but over all, _Sopra tutti, triumpha Iddio_. In French, _Le fol Fortune, il prudent Fame. Fame est divine, diuinitie est pretieuse, Dieu est nostre guarde._ In English was written. Patience is a vertue. Vertue is famous. Fame is divine. Divinitie is gratious. Grace is the gift of God: and God is the onely giver of grace. Which by patience seekes the vertue that is famous, to the divine pleasure of the Giver of all good gifts: blessed be His name, this shall he find, that enters the fort of Fame.

_Will._ Oh, sweete speeches. _Wit._ Then wil I tell thee further: as I walked up and down with Favour, I heard Courtesie and Content (a couple of courtiers) discoursing of thee and mee. Of the vertues of Wit, and the vanities of Will.

Wit, they sayde, was desirous of knowledge, but Will could take no paine: Wit would have patience, but Will would be wood with anger: Wit would worke, when Will would stand ydle: Wit would be walking, when Will would bee slouthfull: Wit woulde call for Willes helpe, when Will cared not for Wits counsaile: Wit woulde bee wise, and Will would be wanton: Wit would be vertuous, and Will vaine: Wit would be famous, and Will foolish: Wit would be sober, and Will frantick: Wit would be carefull, and Will carelesse: Wit studying, and Wil playing: Wit at good exercise, and Wil idle, and worse occupied: Wit mourning for Will, Will making no mone for Wit: Wit in his dumps, and Will in delights: Wit would doo well, and have Will doo no worse, if he would follow him. But Will would loose Wit, and Wit must worke without Wil and against Wit: and yet this is straunge, they were sworne brethren, one could not be without the other. Yet Wit could make better shift alone: Wit could finde Will, when he had lost himselfe, and Will (yet) would please Wit well, when he would be a good boy: which he would never be till he were beaten, and that with the smart of his owne rod: then he would come home to Wit, follow Wit as his best freend, and never leave him to the last houre.

Now when I heard this discourse I remembred thee, and beeing able to tarie no longer the hearing of such matter against him whom I love, I entreated Favour to bring me forth into the court, towardes the counting house: whither walking, I stumbled by the way, and fell as I told you: wherewith I awoke. Now, good Will, since I have found thee, and now thou seest the miseries of the world, come, followe me, let me bring thee to a better course: let not mee mourne for thee, nor other thus talke of thee: I will make much of thee, if thou wilt love mee: I will make thee give them cause to say: See what a chaunge! Will is come home, Will is content to be ruled by Wit: hee workes with Wit, he walkes with Wit: he mournes and is merie with Wit: he is travailing to Vertue with Wit, he will finde Fame by Wit: why he, Will? He is as welcome as Wit, as worthie as Wit, now he hath learned of Wit how to direct his course: beleeve me, Will, I love thee.

_Will._ Gramercie, good Wit, and I thee. But tell me one thing, mee thinks all this was but a dreame, for in the ende you did awake with the fall. _Wit._ True, Will, I was in a dreame, and so wert thou. _Will._ Oh, then, you did heare men talke so much of me in your sleepe: awake, I warrant you, you shall never heare so much amisse of me. _Wit._ I hope so too: now I have met with thee, I will shewe thee a way, whereby thou shalt deserve no such discredit. _Will._ Gramercie. But shall I now tell thee a little that I had forgotten, that I sawe and hearde in the Lake of Miserie? _Wit._ Contented, good Will, and gramercie too.

_Wil._ Then, Wit, thou shalt understand, I heard these speeches past among penitent people: when Wit is wayward, Wil is nobody: wofull Wit, blames wanton Wil: wanton Wit, chides worthy Wil: unhappie Wit, hasty Wil: fantastical Wit, forward Will. Over that, Wit thinks scorne of Will, but yet he cannot bee without him: Wit hath lost Will, but yet he is glad to seeke him: Wit mournes for Will, but Wit sees it not: Will travailes for the stone, that Wit must whet himselfe uppon: Will is painefull, but Wit unthankful: Will is courteous, but Wit curst: Will soone content, Wit too curious: Will would be ruled, but Wit had no reason: Will would have beene famous, had Wit beene vertuous: Will had beene good, had not Wit beene bad: Will had not lost Wit, had Wit lookt unto him: Will would doo well, if Wit would doo better: Will would learne, if Wit would teach him: but Will must worke without Wit, and against Wit: and yet it was woonderful that sworne brethren should so disagree, yet one so necessarie for the other in all actions, as nothing could hit well, when they were asunder. Will could meete Wit in a maze, and comfort him with his company: Will could bring Wit into a good order, when he was quite out of course. Wit would be glad of Will: but when? When he found the want of his freend, which he would never doo, till he were wearie of working alone: and then he would embrace Will, make much of Will, and never leave Will for any worlds good. Now when I heard so much of my good Wit, I could not tarie any longer in the company, but from them I go, and by my selfe sate downe, where I slept, and awakt, as I told you.

_Wit._ Gramarcie, good Will; why then I perceive we were both asleepe, we lost one another in travaile, and travailed in sleepe, to seeke one another; which walking we have found: happy be this day of our meeting, and twise happy houre of this our freendly greeting. Hee runs farre, that never turnes; hee turnes well, that stayes in time; and hee stayes well, that stands fast; he stands fast, that never falles; hee falles lowe, that never riseth; he riseth well, that stands alone when he is up. Good Will, well met, let us now bee merrie, shake hands, sweare company, and never part. _Will._ Content, heere is my hand, my heart is thine. But ere we goe any further, let us be a little merry. _Wit._ What shall we doo? _Will._ Let us sing. _Wit._ Content. But what? _Will._ What you will; begin, and I will answere you.

_A Song betweene Wit and Will_

_Wit._ What art thou, Will?

_Will._ A babe of natures brood.

_Wit._ Who was thy syre?

_Will._ Sweet lust, as lovers say.

_Wit._ Thy mother who?

_Will._ Wild lustie wanton blood.

_Wit._ When wert thou borne?

_Will._ In merrie moneth of May.

_Wit._ And where brought up?

_Will._ In schoole of little skill.

_Wit._ What learndst thou there?

_Will._ Love is my Lesson still.

* * * * *

_Wit._ Where readst thou that?

_Will._ In lines of sweete delight.

_Wit._ The author who?

_Will._ Desire did draw the booke.

_Wit._ Who teacheth? _Will._ Time.

_Wit._ What order? _Will._ Lovers right.

_Wit._ What's that? _Will._
To catch Content, by hooke or crooke.

_Wit._ Where keepes he schoole?

_Will._ In wildernesse of wo.

_Wit._ Why lives he there?

_Will._ The fates appoint it so.

_Wit._ Why did they so?

_Will._ It was their secret will.

_Wit._ What was their will?

_Will._ To worke fond lovers wo.

_Wit._ What was their woe?

_Will._ By spite their sport to spill.

_Wit._ What was their sport?

_Will._ Dame Nature best doth know.

_Wit._ How grows their spite?

_Will._ By want of wish.

_Wit._ What's that?

_Will._ Wit knowes right well,
Will may not tell thee what.

* * * * *

_Wit._ Then, Will, adue.

_Will._ Yet stand me in some steed.

_Wit._ Wherewith, sweete Will?

_Will._ Alas, by thine advise.

_Wit._ Whereto, good Will?

_Will._ To win my wish with speed.

_Wit._ I know not how.

_Will._ Oh Lord, that Will were wise.

_Wit._ Wouldst thou be wise?

_Will._ Ful fain, then come from schoole.

_Wit._ Take this of Wit:
Love learns to play the foole.

_Will._ Content, I wil come from Schoole, I wil give over _Artem Amandi_, and I will with thee to some more worthie study, which may be as well to my commoditie, comfort, as content. _Wit._ Well said, Will, now I like thee well; and, therefore, now I will do my best to worke thy delight. But for that now I have a peece of worke in hand, which none must be privie too, till it be finished; we will heere leave off talke, and fall to our worke togither, so I shall the sooner and the better dispatch it.

_Will._ Content, You shall have my helpe in it, or any other thing, wherein I may stand you in steed. And since you are so glad of my company, we will live and die togither. _Wit._ Gramercie, good Will; and meane time let us pray God to prosper our worke; let us have care how we worke; what, when, and where we worke, that we may find it commodious, not contrarie to Gods will, contentive to the best, offensive to fewe or none; let the matter be vertuous, so shall he prove famous. _Will._ Good Wit, I thanke thee for thy good counsaile; God give us His grace to doo so. I am glad to see thee so well bent; now I must needs love thee; thou wert never wont to be so well minded. _Wit._ Better late than never; it is good to be honest, though a man had forsworne it; there is no time too late to thrive. _Will._ True; and I promise thee now, I hope I shall doo well by the comfortable counsaile of so good a friend. God be thanked, the old vaine is gone. _Stet pro ratione voluntas, Sum Juvenis fruar hoc mundo, Senex colam pietatem. Omnia vincit amor._ Faint heart never woon faire lady. Let us be merrie while we are here; when we are gone, all the world goes with us; let them take care that come after. A man is a man, if he have but a hose on his head. _Oh che bella donna? favor della Signora, oh dolce amore, La Sennora et spada, senza estos nada, Perle Amor de dieu: Beau damoiselle; oh brave huom; Che gallante cheval? il faut avoire come?_ That makes no matter; then sweetes had no sower; but now Wit, oh Will, dost thou remember all this? I pray thee forget all, and think no more of such things. I am sorie that ever they were in my heart, but now thou shall see we will do well inough: we will take another way, to both our comforts. We will to Care, and intreate him to lend us his helpe, for without him, indeed we shall make an ilfavoured ende, of what we begin untowardly. I promise thee, I heard the pretiest song betwixt him and Miserie that I heard a good while: if thou wilt set it downe in writing, I will recite it unto thee. _Wit._ Contented, right willingly, and thank thee too. _Will._ Then loe thus it was.

_The Song betweene Miserie and Care._

_M._ What art thou, Care?

_C._ A secret skil unseene.

_M._ Who was thy syre?

_C._ Sound Wisdome. _M._ Mother who?

_C._ Devise. _M._ And who thy nurse?

_C._ Delight I weene.

_M._ When wert thou borne?

_C._ In harvest. _M._ What to do?

_C._ To worke? _M._ With whom?

_C._ With Wit and honest Will.

_M._ What worke? _C._ In graine,
To gleane the good from ill.

* * * * *

_M._ What good? _C._ The best.

_M._ And how? _C._ By warie eye.

_M._ Whose eye is that?

_C._ The eye of perfect sight.

_M._ Who beares that eye?

_C._ The head that hath me nie.

_M._ Whose head is that?

_C._ Each one that loves delight.

_M._ But what delight?

_C._ That longest doth endure.

_M._ Oh, Care. _C._ I come,
Thy comfort to procure.

* * * * *

_M._ Whence dost thou come?

_C._ I come from loftie skie.

_M._ When camst thou thence?

_C._ Even now. _M._ Who sent thee so?

_C._ The gods. _M._ Whereto?

_C._ To comfort Miserie.

_M._ But how? _C._ By Wit.
To worke his ease of wo.

_M._ What wo? _C._ The worst.

_M._ Whats that? _C._ The griefe of mind.

_M._ Oh. _C._ Feare not, Care
Will quickly comfort find.

_Wit._ Beleeve me, I like it well: but is Care so comfortable: yea, indeed is it. Care is both a corsi[v]e and a comfort, all is in the use of it. Care is such a thing, as hath a great a doo in all things: why Care is a king in his kind. Did you never heare my discourse of Care in verse?

_Will._ No, that I remember: if it be not long, I pray you rehearse it. And for my better remembrance, henceforth, I will write it. _Wit._ Then give eare, thus it was.

THE SONG OF CARE

Come, all the world, submit your selves to Care, And him acknowledge for your chiefest king: With whom no King or Keisar may compare, Who beares so great a sway in every thing. At home, abroad, in peace, and eke in warre, Care chiefly stands to either make or marre.

The court he keepes is in a wise conceit, His house a head, where reason rules the wit: His seate the heart that hateth all deceit, His bed, the braine, that feels no frantick fit, His diet is the cates of sweet content: Thus is his life in heavenly pleasure spent.

His kingdome is the whole world round about, Sorrow his sword, to such as do rebell: His counsaile, wisedome, that decides each doubt, His skill, foresight: of things to come, to tell. His chiefe delight is studies of devise, To keepe his subjects out of miseries.

Oh courteous king, oh high and mightie Care, What shall I write in honour of thy name? But to the world, by due desert declare Thy royall state, and thy immortall fame. Then so I end, as I at first begun, Care is the king of kings, when all is done.

FINIS.

_Will._ Surely I never heard so much of Care before: but Reason hath shewed me, all is true that you have spoken of him. And therefore, let us humbly crave his helpe in this our worke which we are to take in hand, I dare warrant his favour. _Wit._ Sayest thou so, Wil away, we have talked long: mountains never meete, but friends often: good happe comes oft unlookt for, but never unwelcome. I thought not to have found thee heere, but we see Fortune doth much, but Fates more, to bring friends togither: and friendship doth much, where faith is fixed: and faith is a jewell, and jewells are precious, and precious is for princes.

Oh God, trust me, Wil, we must be warie to work, so with advise of Care, that as we are friends one to another, so we may prove in all actions to shew our cheefest jewell, our faithfull heart to God and her Majestie: to whom might we once be so happie as to presente a peece of worke worthy the receit: oh how glad shuld then our hearts be, which with faithful dutie would adventure death for her most excellent favour: which till by desert we find, and alwaies let us love and honour our singular good lord, that hath vouchsafed us his undeserved favour: and let us heartily pray for the preservation of her most excellent majestie, with long and prosperous raigne over us: as for the advancement of his honours estate, who by his vertues deserves, and by deserts hath found favour of her highness, love of her peeres, honour of us, and a number our betters. And so let us away into my closset of Conceit, where from company we will thinke upon such matters as here wee will not talke on. _Will._ Content. We will go togither, studie thou, and I will make my pen, readie at thine, or his honors commandement. And thus till we have dispatcht our worke in hand, let us take our leave humbly of our good lord, and courteously of all our friends: Wishing them to employ their studies to the pleasure of God, content of the best sort, profit of themselves, and good example to others: and so _Bacciando le mani del Signore_, let us bid them all adiu. From our heart, this 8. of June, 1599.

INGENIJ VOLUNTAS.

IV.--ROBERT GREENE

(_One passage (that of the 'Shake-scene') in Greene's Groat's Worth of Wit has been hacked almost to death by the citations and discussions of Shakespearian commentators. But the rest has been but little referred to in comparison; and though it has been reprinted, it is not, to my knowledge, anywhere accessible as a whole, and is very generally unknown. It has, however, high interest, both external and internal, with the additional claim to preference over Greene's earlier euphuist romances and 'conny-catching' pamphlets that it is much shorter than the best of the former, and that nothing stands in the same relation to it as Dekker's <f>Hornbook</f> does to the latter. It wants little more introduction save the reminder that its autobiographic quality is evidently considerable in fact, if not so great as in intention, and that it was not printed till after the author's death._)

GREENS,

Groats-worth of Wit,

bought with a Million of
_Repentaunce_.

Describing the follie of youth, the falshoode of makeshift
flatterers, the miserie of the negligent, and mischiefes
of deceiuing Courtezans.

_Written before his death, and published at his
dying request._

_Fælicem fuisse infaustum._

_Virescit vulnere veritas._

LONDON,
Printed by Thomas Creede, for Richard Oliue
dwelling in long Lane, and are there
to be solde. 1596.

THE PRINTER TO THE GENTLE READERS

I haue published heere Gentlemen for your mirth and benefit, _Greenes_ groatesworth of wit. With sundry of his pleasant discourses, ye haue beene before delighted: But now hath death giuen a period to his pen: onely this happened into my hands, which I haue published for your pleasures: Accept it fauorably because it was his last birth, and not least worth, in my poore opinion. But I will cease to praise that which is aboue my conceit, and leaue it selfe to speake for it selfe: and so abide your learned censuring.

Yours, W. W./

TO THE GENTLEMEN READERS

GENTLEMEN. The Swan sings melodiously before death, that in all his life time vseth but a iarring sound. _Greene_ though able inough to write, yet deeplyer searched with sickenesse than euer heretofore, sends you his Swanne-like song, for that he feares he shal neuer againe carroll to you woonted loue layes, neuer againe discouer to you youths pleasures. How euer yet sickenesse, riot, incontinence, haue at once shown their extremitie, yet if I recouer, you shall all see more fresh springs, than euer sprang from me, directing you how to liue, yet not diswading you from loue. This is the last I haue writ, and I feare me the last I shall write. And how euer I haue beene censured for some of my former bookes, yet Gentlemen / I protest they were as I had speciall information. But passing them, I commend this to your fauorable censures, and like an Embrion without shape, I feare me will bee thrust into the world. If I liue to ende it, it shall be otherwise: if not, yet will I commend it to your courtesies, that you may as wel be acquainted with my repentant death, as you haue lamented my carelesse course of life. But as _Nemo ante obitum felix, so Acta Exitus probat_: Beseeching therefore to bee deemed hereof as I deserue, I leaue the worke to your likings, and leaue you to your delights./

A GROAT'S WORTH OF WIT

In an Iland bound with the Ocean, there was sometime a Citie situated, made rich by Marchandize and populous by long space: the name is not mentioned in the Antiquary, or else worne out by times Antiquitie: what it was it greatly skilles not: but therein thus it happened. An old new made Gentleman herein dwelt, of no small credit, exceeding wealth, and large conscience: he had gathered from many to bestowe vpon one, for though he had two sonnes, he esteemed but one, that being as himselfe, brought vp to be goldes bondman, was therefore held heire apparent of his ill gathered goods.

The other was a Scholler, and maried to a proper Gentlewoman, and therefore least regarded, for tis an olde said saw: To learning and law, ther's no greater foe, then they that nothing know: yet was not the father altogether vnlettered, for he had good experience in a _Nouerint_, and by the vniuersall tearmes therein contained, had driuen many gentlewomen to seeke vnknowen countries: wise he was, for he boare office in his / parish, and sate as formally in his fox-furd gowne, as if he had beene a very vpright dealing Burges: he was religious too, neuer without a booke at his belt, and a bolt in his mouth, ready to shoote through his sinfull neighbor.

And Latin he had some where learned, which though it were but little, yet was it profitable, for he had this Philosophie written in a ring, _Tu tibi cura_, which precept he curiously obserued, being in selfeloue so religious, as he held it no point of charitie to part with any thing, of which he liuing might make vse.

But as all mortall things are momentarie, and no certaintie can bee founde in this vncertaine world, so _Gorinius_ (for that shall be this Usurers name) after many a goutie pang that had pincht his exterior parts, many a curse of the people that mounted into heauens presence, was at last with his last summons, by a deadly disease arrested, where-against when hee had long contended, and was by Phisitions giuen ouer, hee cald his two sonnes before him: and willing to performe the olde prouerbe, _Qualis vita finis Ita_, hee thus prepared himselfe, and admonished them. My sonnes (for so your mother said ye were) and so I assure my selfe one of you is, and of the other I wil make no doubt.

You see the time is come, which I thought would neuer haue approached, and we must now be seperated, I feare neuer to meete againe. This sixteene yeares daily haue I liued vexed with disease: and might I liue sixteene more, how euer miserably, I should thinke it happie. But death is relentlesse, and will not be intreated: witlesse, and knowes not what good my gold might do him: senseless, & hath no pleasure in the delightfull places / I would offer him. In breefe, I thinke he hath with this foole my eldest sonne beene brought vp in the vniuersitie, and therefore accounts that in riches is no vertue. But you my sonne (laying then his hand on the yongers head) haue thou another spirit: for without wealth life is a death: what is gentry if wealth be wanting, but base seruile beggerie? Some comfort yet it is vnto me, to see how many gallants sprung of noble parents haue croucht to _Gorinius_ to haue sight of his gold: O gold, desired golde, admired golde! and haue lost their patrimonies to _Gorinius_, because they haue not returned by their day that adored creature! How many schollers haue written rimes in _Gorinius_ praise, and receiued (after long capping and reuerence) a sixpeny reward in signe of my superficiall liberalitie. Breefely my yong _Lucanio_, how I haue bin reuerenst thou seest, when honester men I confesse, haue beene set farre off: for to be rich is to be any thing, wise, honest, worshipfull, or what not? I tell thee my sonne: when I came first to this Cittie, my whole wardrop was onely a sute of white sheepe skins, my wealth an olde Groate, my wooning, the wide world. At this instant (O griefe to part with it) I haue in readie coyne threescore thousand pound, in plate and Jewels, xv. thousand, in bonds and specialties as much, in land nine hundred pound by the yeere: all which, _Lucanio_ I bequeath to thee, onely I reserue for _Roberto_ thy well red brother, an olde Groate (being the stocke I first began with) wherewith I wish him to buy a groatsworth of wit: for he in my life hath reprooued my maner of life, and therefore at my death, shall not be contaminated with corrupt gaine. Heere by the way Gentlemen must I disgresse to shew the reason of _Gorinius_ present speech: _Roberto_ being / come from the Academie, to visit his father, there was a great feast prouided: where for table talke, _Roberto_ knowing his father and most of the companie to be execrable vsurers, inuayed mightily against that abhorred vice, insomuch that he vrged teares from diuers of their eyes, and compunction in some of their hearts. Dinner being past, hee comes to his father, requesting him to take no offence at his liberall speech, seeing what he had vttered was truth. Angrie, sonne (saide he) no by my honesty (& that is somwhat I may say to you), but vse it still, and if thou canst perswade any of my neighbours from lending vppon vsurie, I should haue the more customers: to which when _Roberto_ would haue replied, he shut himselfe into his studie, and fell to telling ouer his money.

This was _Robertos_ offence: nowe returne we to seeke _Gorinius_, who after he had thus vnequally distributed his goods and possessions, began to aske his sons how they liked his bequestes: either seemed agreed, and _Roberto_ vrged him with nothing more, then repentance of his sin: Loke to thine owne, said he, fond boy, and come my _Lucanio_, let me giue thee good counsel before my death: as for you sir, your bookes are your counsellors, and therefore to them I bequeath you. Ah _Lucanio_, my onely comfort, because I hope thou wilt as thy father be a gatherer, let me blesse thee before I die. Multiply in wealth my sonne by anie meanes thou maist, onely flie Alchymie, for therein are more deceites then her beggerly Artistes haue wordes; and yet are the wretches more talkatiue then women. But my meaning is, thou shouldest not stand on conscience in causes of profite, but heape treasure vpon treasure, for the time of neede: yet seeme / to be deuout, else shalt thou be held vile: frequent holy exercises, graue companie, and aboue all, vse the conuersation of yong Gentlemen, who are so wedded to prodigalitie, that once in a quarter necessity knocks at their chamber doores: profer them kindnesse to relieue their wants, but be sure of good assurance: giue faire words till dayes of payment come, and then vse my course, spare none: what though they tell of conscience (as a number will talke) looke but into the dealings of the world, & thou shalt see it is but idle words. Seest thou not many perish in the streetes, and fall to theft for neede: whom small succor would releeue. Then where is conscience, and why art thou bound to vse it more then other men? Seest thou not daily forgeries, periuries, oppressions, rackings of the poore, raysing of rents, inhauncing of duties, euen by them that shuld be all conscience, if they meant as they speake: but _Lucanio_ if thou reade well this booke, (and with that hee reacht him Machiauels works at large) thou shalt see what it is to be foole-holy, as to make scruple of conscience, where profit presents it selfe.

Besides, thou hast an instance by thy threed-bare brother heere, who willing to do no wrong, hath lost his childs right: for who would wish any thing to him, that knowes not how to vse it?

So much _Lucanio_ for conscience: and yet I knowe not whats the reason, but somewhat stings mee inwardly when I speake of it. I, father, said _Roberto_, it is the worme of conscience, that vrges you at the last houre to remember your life, that eternall life may follow your repentance. Out foole (said this miserable father) I feele it now, it was onely a stitch. I will forward with my exhortation to _Lucanio_. As I saide my / sonne, make spoyle of yong gallants by insinuating thy selfe amongst them, and be not mooued to think their Auncestors were famous, but consider thine were obscure, and that thy father was the first Gentleman of the name: _Lucanio_ thou art yet a Bachelor, and so keepe thee, till thou meete with one that is thy equall, I meane in wealth: regard not beautie, it is but a baite to entice thine neighbors eie: and the most faire are commonly most fond: vse not too many familiars, for few prooue friends, and as easie it is to weigh the wind, as to diue into the thoughts of worldly glosers. I tell thee _Lucanio_, I haue seene foure score winters besides the odde seauen, yet saw I neuer him that I esteemed as my friend but gold, that desired creature, whom I haue deerely loued, and found so firme a friend, as nothing, to me hauing it, hath beene wanting. No man but may thinke deerely of a true friend, and so doe I of it, laying it vnder sure locks, and lodging my heart therwith.

But now (Ah my _Lucanio_) now must I leaue it, and to thee I leaue it with this lesson, loue none but thy selfe, if thou wilt liue esteemed. So turning him to his study, where his chiefe treasure lay, he loud cried out in the wise mans words, _O mors quam amara_, O death how bitter is thy memorie to him that hath al pleasures in this life, and so with two or three lamentable groanes he left his life: and to make short worke, was by _Lucanio_ his sonne enterd, as the custome is with some solemnitie: But leauing him that hath left the world to him y^t censureth of euery worldly man, passe we to his sons: and see how his long laied vp store is by _Lucanio_ looked into. The youth was of c[=o]dition simple, shamefast, and flexible to any counsaile, which _Roberto_ perceiuing, and pondering how little was left to him, grew into an inward contempt of his fathers vnequall legacie, and determinate resolution to worke _Lucanio_ al possible iniurie: here vpon thus conuerting the sweetnesse of his studie to the sharpe thirst of reuenge, he (as Enuie is seldome idle) sought out fit companions to effect his unbrotherly resolution. Neither in such a case is ill companie farre to seeke, for the Sea hath scarce so ioperdies, as populous Citties haue deceiuing Syrens, whose eies are Adamants, whose wares are witchcrafts, whose doores leade downe to death. With one of these female Serpents _Roberto_ consorts, and they conclude, what euer they compassed, equally to share to their contentes. This match made, _Lucanio_ was by his brother brought to the bush, where he had scarce pruned his wings but hee was fast limed, and _Roberto_ had what he expected. But that we may keepe forme, you shall heare how it fortuned.

_Lucanio_ being on a time very pensiue, his brother brake with him in these tearmes. I wonder _Lucanio_ why you are so disconsolate, that want not any thing in the world that may worke your content. If wealth may delight a man, you are with that sufficiently furnisht: if credit may procure a man any comfort, your word I knowe well, is as well accepted as any mans obligation: in this Citie are faire buildings and pleasant gardens, and cause of solace: of them I am assured you haue your choyse. Consider brother you are yong, then plod not altogether in meditating on our fathers precepts: which howsoeuer they sauoured of profit, were most vnsauerly to one of your yeeres applied. You must not thinke but certaine Marchants of this Citie expect your company, sundry Gentlemen desire your / familiarity, and by conuersing with such, you will be accounted a Gentleman: otherwise a pesant, if ye liue thus obscurely. Besides, which I had almost forgot, and then had all the rest beene nothing, you are a man by nature furnished with all exquisite proportion, worthy the loue of any courtly Ladie, be she neuer so amorous: you haue wealth to maintaine her, of women not little longed for: wordes to court her you shall not want, for my selfe will be your secretary. Brieflie, why stande I to distinguish abilitie in perticularities, when in one word it may be sayde, which no man can gainsay, _Lucanio_ lacketh nothing to delight a wife, nor any thing but a wife to delight him? My young maister beeing thus clawde, and puft vp with his owne prayse, made no longer delay, but hauing on his holyday hose, he tricked himselfe vp, and like a fellowe that meant good sooth, hee clapped his Brother on the Shoulder, and sayde. Faith Brother _Roberto_, and yee say the worde, lets go seeke a wife while it is hote, both of vs togither. Ile pay well, and I dare turne you loose to say as well as anye of them all: well Ile doe my best, said _Roberto_, and since ye are so forward, lets goe nowe and trie our good fortune.

With this foorth they walke, and _Roberto_ went directlie towarde the house where _Lamilia_ (for so wee call the Curtezan) kept her Hospital, which was in the Suburbes of the Cittie, pleasauntly seated, and made more delectable by a pleasaunt Garden, wherein it was scituate. No sooner come they within ken, but Mistresse _Lamilia_ like a cunning angler made readie her chaunge of baytes, that shee might effect _Lucanios_ bane: and to begin, shee discouered from her window her beauteous inticing face, and taking a lute in her h[=a]d that / she might the rather allure, she sung this Sonnet with a delicious voice.

_Lamilias Song._

Fie fie on blind fancie,
It hinders youths ioy:
Faire virgins learne by me,
To count loue a toy.

When Loue learned first the A B C of delight,
And knew no figures, nor conceited phrase:
He simplie gaue to due desert her right,
He led not louers in darke winding wayes:
He plainly wild to loue, or flatly answered no,
But now who lists to proue, shall find it nothing so:
Fie fie then on fancie,
It hinders youths ioy,
Faire virgins learne by me,
To count loue a toy.
For since he learnd to vse the Poets pen,
He learnd likewise with smoothing words to faine,
Witching chast eares with trothlesse toungs of men,
And wrayed faith with falshood and disdaine.
He giues a promise now, anon he sweareth no,
Who lifteth for to proue, shall find his changings so:
Fie fie then on fancie
It hinders youth[s] ioy,
Faire virgins learn by me,
To count loue a toy.

While this painted sepulchre was shadowing her corrupting guilt, Hiena-like alluring to destruction, _Roberto_ and _Lucanio_ vnder the windowe, kept euen pace with / euery stop of her instrument, but especially my yong Ruffler (that before time like a bird in a cage, had beene prentise for three liues or one and twentie yeeres at least, to esteame Auarice his deceased father). O twas a world to see how he sometime simperd it, striuing to set a countenance on his turnd face, that it might seeme of wainscot proofe, to beholde her face without blushing: anone he would stroake his bow-bent-leg, as though he went to shoote loue arrows from his shins: then wipte his chin (for his beard was not yet grown) with a gold wrought handkercher, whence of purpose he let fall a handfull of angels. This golden showre was no sooner rained, but _Lamil[i]a_, ceast her song, and _Roberto_ (assuring himselfe the foole was caught) came to _Lucanio_ (that stoode now as one that had starde _Medusa_ in the face) and awaked him from his amazement with these words: What, in a traunce brother? whence springs these dumps? are yee amazed at this obiect? or long ye to become loues subiect? Is there not difference betweene this delectable life and the imprisonment you haue all your life hitherto endured? If the sight and hearing of this harmonious beautie work in you effects of wonder, what will the possession of so diuine an essence, wherein beautie and Art dwell in their perfect excellencie. Brother said _Lucanio_, lets vse few words, and she be no more then a woman, I trust youle helpe mee to her? and if you doe, well, I say no more, but I am yours till death vs depart, and what is mine shal ye yours, world without end, Amen.

_Roberto_ smiling at his simplenesse, helpt him to gather vp his dropt golde, and without any more circumstance led him to _Lamilias_ house: for of such places it may be said as of hell. /

Noctes atque dies patet atri ianua ditis.

So their doores are euer open to entice youth to destruction. They were no sooner entred, but _Lamilia_ her selfe, like a second _Helen_, court-like begins to salute _Roberto_, yet did her wandring eie glance often at _Lucanio_: the effect of her entertainment consisted in these tearmes, that to her simple house Signor _Roberto_ was welcome, and his brother the better welcome for your sake: albeit his good report confirmed by his present demeaner, were of it selfe enough to giue him deserued entertainement, in any place how honourable soeuer: mutuall thanks returned, they lead this prodigal childe into a Parlor, garnished with goodly portratures of amiable personages: neere which, an excellent consert of musicke began at their entrance to play. _Lamilia_ seeing _Lucanio_ shamefast, tooke him by the hand, and tenderly wringing him, vsed these words: Beleeue me Gentlemen, I am verie sorie that our rude enter[tain]ment is such, as no way may worke your content: for this I haue noted since your first entering, that your countenance hath beene heauie, and the face being the glasse of the heart, assures me the same is not quiet: would ye wish any thing heere that might content you, say but the word, and assure ye of present deliuerance to effect your full delight. _Lucanio_ being so farre in loue, as he perswaded himselfe without her grant hee could not liue, had a good meaning to vtter his minde, but wanting fit wordes, hee stoode like a trewant that lackt a prompter, or a plaier that being out of his part at his first entrance is faine to haue the booke to speake what he should performe. Which _Roberto_ perceiuing replied thus in his behalfe: Madame, the Sunnes brightnesse daisleth the beholders eies, the maiestie of Gods, / amazed humane men. _Tullie_ Prince of Orators, once fainted though his cause were good, and he that tamed monsters, stoode amated at beauties ornaments: Then blame not this yoong man though hee replied not, for he is blinded with the beautie of your sunne-darkening eies, made mute with the celestiall organe of your voyce, and feare of that rich ambush of amber colored darts, whose pointes are leuelde against his heart. Well Signor _Roberto_ saide shee, how euer you interpret their sharpe leuell, be sure they are not bent to doe him hurt, and but that modestie blindes vs poore Maidens from vttering the inwarde sorrowe of our mindes, perchaunce the cause of greefe is ours, how euer men do colour, for as I am a virgin I protest (and therewithall shee tainted her cheekes with a vermilion blush) I neuer sawe Gentleman in my life in my eie so gratious as is _Lucanio_, onely that is my greefe, that either I am despised for that he scornes to speake, or else (which is my greater sorrow) I feare he cannot speake. Not speake Gentlewoman quoth _Lucanio?_ that were a ieast indeede: yes, I thanke God I am sounde of winde and lim, onely my heart is not as it was woont: but and you be as good as your word, that will soone be well, and so crauing ye of more acquaintance, in token of my plaine meaning receiue this diamond, which my olde father loued deerely: and with that deliuered her a Ring, wherein was apointed a Diamond of wonderfull worth. Which shee accepting with a lowe conge, returned him a silke Riband for a fauour, tyed with a truelouers knot, which he fastened vnder a faire Jewell on his Beuer felt.

After this _Diomedis & Glauci permutatio_, my young master / waxed cranke, and the musicke continuing, was very forward in dauncing, to shew his cunning: and so desiring them to play on a hornepipe, laid on the pauement lustily with his leaden heeles, coruetting like a steede of _Signor Roccoes_ teaching, and wanted nothing but bels, to bee a hobbyhorse in a morrice. Yet was he soothed in his folly, and what euer he did, _Lamilia_ counted excellent: her praise made him proude, insomuch that if he had not beene intreated, hee would rather haue died in his daunce, then left off to shew his mistresse delight. At last reasonably perswaded, seeing the table furnished, he was contented to cease, and settle himselfe to his victuals, on which (hauing before labored) he fed lustily, especially of a Woodcocke pie, wherewith _Lamilia_ his caruer, plentifully plied him. Full dishes hauing furnisht emptie stomaches, and _Lucanio_ thereby got leisure to talke, falles to discourse of his wealth, his lands, his bonds, his abilitie, and how himselfe with all he had, was at Madame _Lamilias_ disposing: desiring her afore his brother, to tell him simply what shee meant. _Lamilia_ replied: My sweet _Lucanio_, how I esteeme of thee mine eies doe witnesse, that like handmaides, haue attended thy beautious face, euer since I first beheld thee: yet seeing loue that lasteth gathereth by degrees his liking, let this for that suffice: if I finde thee firme, _Lamilia_ will be faithful: if fleeting, she must of necessitie be infortunate that hauing neuer seene any whome before shee could affect, shee shoulde bee of him iniuriously forsaken. Nay saide _Lucanio_, I dare say my brother here will giue his word. For that I accept your own said _Lamilia_, for with me your credit is better then your brothers. _Roberto_ brake off their amorous prattle with these speeches. Sith / either of you are of other so fond at the first sight, I doubt not but time will make your loue more firme. Yet madame _Lamilia_ although my brother and you be thus forward, some crosse chaunce may come: for _Multa cadunt inter calicem supremaq. labra_. And for a warning to teach you both wit, Ile tell you an olde wiues tale.

Before ye go on with your tale (quoth mistresse _Lamilia_) let me giue ye a caueat by the way, which shall be figured in a Fable.

_Lamiliaes Tale._

The Foxe on a time came to visite the Gray, partly for kindered, cheefely for craft: and finding the hole emptie of all other companie, sauing onely one Badger; enquiring the cause of his solitarinesse, he described the sodaine death of his dam and sire, with the rest of his consorts. The Foxe made a Friday face, counterfeiting sorrow: but concluding that deaths shake was vneuitable, perswaded him to seeke some fit mate wherwith to match. The Badger soone agreed: so forth they went, and in their way met with a wanton ewe straggling from the fold: the Foxe bad the Badger play the tall stripling, and strout on his tiptoes: for (quoth he) this ewe is lady of al these lands, and her brother cheefe bel-weather of sundrie flocks. To be short, by the Foxes permission there would be a perpetuall league betweene her harmelesse kindred and al other deuouring beasts, for that the Badger was to them all allied: seduced, shee yeelded: and the Foxe conducted them to the Badgers / habitation, where drawing her aside vnder color of exhortation, [he] pulde out her throate to satisfie his greedie thurst. Here I should note, a yoong whelpe that viewed their walke, infourmed the shepheard of what hapned. They followed, and trained the Foxe and Badger to the hole: the Foxe afore had craftily conuaied himself away: the shepheard found the Badger rauing for the ewes murther: his lamentation being helde for counterfet, was by the shepheards dog wearied. The Foxe escaped: the ewe was spoiled: and euer since, betweene the Badgers and the dogges, hath continued a mortall enmitie: And now be aduised _Roberto_ (quoth she), goe forward with your tale, seeke not by slie insinuation to turne our mirth to sorrow. Go too _Lamilia_ (quoth hee), you feare what I meane not, but how euer ye take it, Ile forward with my tale.

_Robertoes Tale._

In the North parts there dwelt an old Squier, that had a yong daughter his heire; who had (as I know Madame _Lamilia_ you haue had) many youthfull Gentlemen that long time sued to obtaine her loue. But she knowing her owne perfection (as women are by nature proude) woulde not to any of them vouchsafe fauour: insomuch that they perceiuing her relentlesse, shewed themselues not altogether witlesse, but left her to her fortune, when they founde her frowardnesse. At last it fortuned among other strangers, a Farmers sonne visited her fathers house: on whom at the first sight shee was enamored, he likewise on hir. Tokens of loue past betweene them, either acquainted others parents of their choise, and they kindly gaue their consent. Short tale to make, married they were, and great solemnitie was at the wedding feast. A yong Gentleman, that had beene long a suter to her, vexing that the sonne of a farmer should be so preferred, cast in his minde by what meanes (to marre their merriment) he might steale away the Bride. Hereupon he confers with an old beldam, called mother _Gunby_, dwelling thereby, whose counsell hauing taken, he fell to his practise, and proceeded thus. In the after noone, when dauncers were very busie, he takes the Bride by the hand, and after a turne or two, tels her in her eare, he had a secret to impart vnto her, appointing her in any wise, in the euening to find a time to confer with him: she promised she would and so they parted. Then goes he to the bridegroome, and with protestations of entire affect, protests that the great sorrow hee takes at that which he must vtter, whereon depended his especial credit, if it were knowne the matter by him should be discouered. After the bridegroomes promise of secrecie, the gentleman tels him, that a friend of his receiued that morning from y^e bride a letter, wherein she willed him with some sixteene horse to awaite her comming at a Parke side, for that she detested him in her heart as a base country hinde, with whom her father compelled her to marrie. The bridegroome almost out of his wits, began to bite his lippe. Nay, saith the Gentleman, if you will by me be aduised, you shall saue her credit, win her by kindnes, and yet preuent her wanton complot. As how, said the Bridegroome? Mary, thus, said the gentleman: In the euening (for till the guests be gone she intends not to gad) get you / on horsebacke, and seeme to be of the companie that attends her comming: I am appointed to bring her from the house to the Parke, and from thence fetch a winding compasse of a mile about, but to turne vnto olde mother _Gunbyes_ house, where her louer my friend abides: when she alights, I wil conduct her to a chamber far from his lodging, but when the lights are out, and she expects her adulterous copesmate, your selfe (as reason is) shall proue her bedfellow, where priuately you may reprooue her, and in the morning earely returne home without trouble. As for the gentleman my frend, I will excuse her absence to him, by saying, shee mockt thee with her maide in stead of her selfe, whom when I knew at her lighting, I disdained to bring her vnto his presence. The Bridegroome gaue his hand it should be so.

Now by the way we must vnderstand this mother _Gunby_ had a daughter, who all that day sate heauily at home with a willow garland, for that the bridegroome (if he had dealt faithfully) should haue wedded her before any other. But men (_Lamilia_) are vnconstant, mony now a daies makes the match, or else the match is marde.

But to the matter: the bride groome and the Gentleman thus agreed: he tooke his time, conferred with the bride, perswaded her that her husband (notwithstanding his faire shew at the marriage) had sworne to his old sweete heart, their neighbour _Gunbyes_ daughter, to be that night her bedfellow: and if she would bring her father, his father, and other friends to the house at midnight, they should finde it so.

At this the yong gentlewoman inwardly vext to be by a peasant so abused, promised if she sawe likelyhood of / his slipping away, that then she would doe according as he directed.

All this thus sorting, the old womans daughter was trickly attired, ready to furnish this pageant, for her old mother promised all things necessarie.

Well, Supper past, dauncing ended, all the guests would home, and the Bridgroome pretending to bring some friend of his home, got his horse, and to the Parke side he rode, and stayed with the horsemen that attended the Gentleman.

Anone came _Marian_ like mistris Bride, and mounted behind the gentleman, away they post, fetch their compasse, & at last alight at an olde wiues house, where sodenly she is conuaied to her chamber, & the bridegroome sent to keepe her company: where he had scarce deuised how to begin his exhortation, but the father of his bride knockt at the chamber doore. At which being somewhat amazed, yet thinking to turne it to a ieast, sith his wife (as he thought) was in bed with him, hee opened the doore, saying: Father, you are heartily welcome, I wonder how you found vs out heere; this deuise to remooue our selues, was with my wiues consent, that we might rest quietly without the Maids and Batchelers disturbing vs. But where is your wife said y^e gentleman? why heere in bed said he. I thought (quoth the other) my daughter had beene your wife, for sure I am to-day shee was giuen you in marriage. You are merrily disposed said the Bridegroome, what, thinke you I haue another wife? I thinke but as you speake, quoth the gentleman, for my daughter is below, & you say your wife is in the bed. Below (said he) you are a merie man, and with that casting on a night-gowne, he went downe, where when he saw his wife, the gentleman his father, and a number / of his friends assembled, he was so confounded, that how to behaue himselfe he knew not; onely hee cried out that he was deceiued. At this the olde woman arises, and making her selfe ignorant of al the whole matter, enquires the cause of that sodaine tumult. When she was tolde the new bridegroome was found in bed with her daughter, she exclaimed against so great an iniurie. _Marian_ was called in quorum: she iustified it was by his allurement: he being condemned by al their consents, was iudged vnworthy to haue the gentlewoman vnto his wife, & compelled (for escaping of punishment) to marrie _Marian_: and the yong Gentleman (for his care in discouering the farmers sonnes leudnes) was recompenst with the Gentlewomans euer during loue.