Chapter VIII: Introduction (7)

Farre be it from my thought (diuinest Maid)
To haue relation to thy heauenly hew,
(In whose sweete voice the Muses are imbaid)
No pen can paint thy commendation due:
Saue only that pen, which no pen can be,
An Angels quill, to make a pen for thee.

But to returne to these vnhappie Louers,
(Sleeping securely in each others armes)
Whose sugred ioies nights sable mantle couers,
Little regarding their ensuing harmes:
Which afterward they iointlie both repented:
"Fate is fore-seene, but neuer is preuented."

Which saying to be true, this lucklesse Dame
Approued in the sequele of her story:
Now waxing pale, now blushing red (for shame),
She scales her lips with silence (womens glory)
Till _Agamemnon_ vrging her replies,
Thus of his death she truely prophecies.

The day shall come, (quoth she) O dismal daie!
When thou by false _Ægistus_ shalt be slaine:
Heere could she tell no more; but made a stay.
(From further speech as willing to refraine:)
Not knowing then, nor little did she thinke,
That she with him of that same cup must drinke.

But what? (fond man) he laughs her skil to scorne,
And iesteth at her diuination:
Ah to what vnbeliefe are Princes borne?
(The onely ouer-throw of many a Nation:)
And so it did befall this lucklesse Prince,
Whom all the world hath much lamented since.

Insteede of teares, he smileth at her tale:
Insteede of griefe, he makes great shew of gladnes:
But after blisse, there euer followes bale;
And after mirth, there alwaies commeth sadnes:
But gladnesse, blisse, and mirth had so possest him,
That sadnes, bale, and griefe could not molest him.

Oh cruell _Parcæ_ (quoth _Cassandra_ then)
Why are you _Parcæ_, yet not mou'd with praier?
Oh small security of mortall men,
That liue on earth, and breathe this vitall aire:
When we laugh most, then are we next to sorrow;
The Birds feede vs to-day, we them to-morrow.

But if the first did little moue his minde,
Her later speeches lesse with him preuailed;
Who beinge wholy to selfe-will inclinde,
Deemes her weake braine with lunacy assailed:
And still the more shee councels him to stay,
The more he striueth to make haste away.

How on the Seas he scap'd stormes, rocks and sholes,
(Seas that enuide the conquest he had wone,
Gaping like hell to swallow Greekish soules,)
I heere omit; onely suppose it done:
His storm-tyrde Barke safely brings him to shore,
His whole Fleete els, or suncke or lost before.

Lift vp thy head, thou ashie-cyndred _Troy_,
See the commaunder of thy traitor foes,
That made thy last nights woe, his first daies ioie,
Now gins his night of ioy and daie of woes:
His fall be thy delight, thine was his pride:
As he thee then, so now thou him deride.

He and _Cassandra_ now are set on shore,
Which he salutes with ioy, she greetes with teares,
Currors are sent that poast to Court before,
Whose tidings fill th'adultrous Queene with feares,
Who with _Ægistus_ in a lust-staind bed,
Her selfe, her King, her State dishonored.

She wakes the lecher with a loud-strain'd shrike,
Loue-toies they leaue, now doth lament begin:
He flie (quoth he) but she doth that mislike,
Guilt vnto guilt, and sinne she ads to sinne:
Shee meanes to kill (immodest loue to couer)
A kingly husband, for a caytiue louer.

The peoples ioies, conceiued at his returne,
Their thronging multitudes: their gladsome cries,
Their gleeful hymnes, whiles piles of incense burne:
Their publique shewes, kept at solemnities:
We passe: and tell how King and Queene did meet,
Where he with zeale, she him with guile did greet.

He (noble Lord) fearelesse of hidden treason,
Sweetely salutes this weeping Crocodile:
Excusing euery cause with instant reason
That kept him from her sight so long a while:
She, faintly pardons him; smiling by Art:
(For life was in her lookes, death in her hart.)

For pledge that I am pleas'd receiue (quoth shee)
This rich wrought robe, thy _Clytemnestras_ toile:
Her ten yeeres worke this day shall honour thee,
For ten yeeres war, and one daies glorious spoile:
Whil'st thou contendedst there, I heere did this:
Weare it my loue, my life, my ioy, my blisse.

Scarce had the Syren said what I haue write,
But he (kind Prince) by her milde words misled,
Receiu'd the robe, to trie if it were fit;
(The robe) that had no issue for his head;
Which, whilst he vainly hoped to haue found,
_Ægistus_ pierst him with a mortal wound.

Oh how the _Troyan_ Damzell was amazed
To see so fell and bloudy a Tragedie,
Performed in one Act; she naught but gazed,
Vpon the picture; whom shee dead did see,
Before her face: whose body she emballms,
With brennish teares, and sudden deadly qualms.

Faine would she haue fled backe on her swift horse
But _Clytemnestra_ bad her be content,
Her time was com'n: now bootelesse vsd she force,
Against so many; whom this Tygresse sent
To apprehend her: who (within one hower
Brought backe againe) was lockt within a Tower.

Now is she ioylesse, friendlesse, and (in fine)
Without all hope of further libertie:
Insteed of cates, cold water was her wine,
And _Agamemnons_ corps her meate must be,
Or els she must for hunger starue (poore sole)
What could she do but make great mone and dole.

So darke the dungeon was, wherein she was,
That neither Sunne (by day) nor Mone (by night)
Did shew themselues: and thus it came to passe.
The Sunne denide to lend his glorious light
To such a periur'd wight, or to be scene;
(What neede she light, that ouer-light had bin?)

Now silent night drew on; when all things sleepe,
Saue theeves, and cares; and now stil mid-night came:
When sad _Cassandra_ did naught els but weepe;
Oft calling on her _Agamemnons_ name.
But seeing that the dead did not replie,
Thus she begins to mourne, lament, and crie.

Oh cruell Fortune (mother of despaire,)
Well art thou christen'd with a cruell name:
Since thou regardest not the wise, or faire,
But do'st bestow thy riches (to thy shame)
On fooles and lowly swaines, that care not for thee:
And yet I weepe, and yet thou do'st abhorre me.

Fie on ambition, fie on filthy pride,
The roote of ill, the cause of all my woe:
On whose fraile yce my youth first slipt aside:
And falling downe, receiu'd a fatall blow.
Ah who hath liu'd to see such miserie
As I haue done, and yet I cannot die?

I liu'd (quoth she) to see _Troy_ set on fire:
I liu'd to see, renowned _Hector_ slaine:
I liu'd to see, the shame of my desire:
And yet I liue, to feel my grieuous paine:
Let all young maides example take by me,
To keepe their oathes, and spotlesse chastity.

Happy are they, that neuer liu'd to know
What 'tis to liue in this world happily:
Happy are they which neuer yet felt woe:
Happy are they, that die in infancie:
Whose sins are cancell'd in their mothers wombe:
Whose cradle is their graue, whose lap their tomb.

Here ended shee; and then her teares began,
That (Chorus-like) at euery word downe rained.
Which like a paire of christall fountaines ran,
Along her lonely cheekes: with roses stained:
Which as they wither still (for want of raine)
Those siluer showers water them againe.

Now had the poore-mans clock (shrill chauntcleare)
Twice giuen notice of the Mornes approach,
(That then began in glorie to appeare,
Drawne in her stately colour'd saffron-Coach)
When shee (poore Lady) almost turn'd to teares,
Began to teare and rend her golden haires.

Lie there (quoth shee) the workers of my woes
You trifling toies, which my liues staine haue bin:
You, by whose meanes our coines chiefly growes,
Clothing the backe with pride, the soule with sin:
Lie there (quoth shee) the causers of my care;
This said, her robes she all in pieces tare.

Here-with, as weary of her wretched life,
(Which shee inioy'd with small felicitie)
She ends her fortune with a fatall knife;
(First day of ioy, last day of miserie:)
Then why is death accounted Nature's foe,
Since death (indeed) is but the end of woe?

For as by death, her bodie was released
From that strong prison made of lime and stone;
Euen so by death her purest soule was eased,
From bodies prison, and from endlesse mone:
Where now shee walkes in sweete _Elysium_
(The place for wrongful Death and Martirdum.)

FINIS.

The Encomion of Lady Pecunia:

_OR_

The praise of Money.

_quærenda pecunia primum est,
Virtus post nummos._ Horace.

By _Richard Barnfeild_, Graduate in _Oxford_.

LONDON,

Printed by G. S. for Iohn Iaggard, and are
to be sold at his shoppe neere Temple-barre,
at the Signe of the Hand and starre.

1598.

To the Gentlemen Readers.

Gentlemen, being incouraged through your gentle acceptance of my _Cynthia_, I haue once more aduentured on your Curtesies: hoping to finde you (as I haue done heretofore) friendly. Being determined to write of somthing, and yet not resolued of any thing, I considered with my selfe, if one should write of Loue (they will say) why, euery one writes of Loue: if of Vertue, why, who regards Vertue? To be short, I could thinke of nothing, but either it was common, or not at all in request. At length I bethought my selfe of a Subiect, both new (as hauing neuer beene written vpon before) and pleasing (as I thought) because Mans Nature (commonly) loues to heare that praised, with whose pressence, hee is most pleased.

_Erasmus_ (the glory of _Netherland_, and the refiner of the Latin Tongue) wrote a whole Booke, in _the prayse of Folly_. Then if so excellent a Scholler, writ in praise of Vanity, why may not I write in praise of that which is profitable? There are no two Countreys, where Gold is esteemed, lesse than in _India_, and more then in _England:_ the reason is, because the _Indians_ are barbarous, and our Nation ciuill.

I have giuen _Pecunia_ the title of a Woman, Both for the termination of the Word, and because (as Women are) shee is lov'd of men. The brauest Voyages in the World, haue beene made for Gold: for it, men haue venterd (by Sea) to the furthest parts of the Earth: In the Pursute whereof, _Englands Nestor_ and _Neptune_ (_Haukins_ and _Drake_) lost their liues. Vpon the Deathes of the which two, of the first I writ this:

_The Waters were his Winding sheete, the Sea was made his Toome;
Yet for his fame the Ocean Sea, was not sufficient roome._

Of the latter this:

England _his hart; his Corps the Waters haue;
And that which raysd his fame, became his grave._

The _Prætorians_ (after the death of _Pertinax_) in the election of a new Emperour, more esteemed the money of _Iulianus_, then either the vertue of _Seuerus_, or the Valour of _Pessennius_. Then of what great estimation and account, this Lady _Pecunia_, both hath beene in the Worlde, and is at this present, I leaue to your Iudgement. But what speake I so much of her praise in my Epistle, that haue commended her so at large in my Booke? To the reading wherof, (Gentlemen) I referre you.

[THE AUTHORS FIRST EPISTLE-DEDICATORY (1605).

[Collated with the Bridgwater House copy.]

Led by the swift report of winged Fame,
With siluer trumpet, sounding forth your name
To you I dedicate this merry Muse,
And for my Patron, I your fauour chuse:
She is a Lady, she must be respected:
She is a Queene, she may not be neglected.
This is the shadow, you the substance haue,
Which substance now this shadow seems to craue.

RICHARD BARNFIELD.]

The prayse of Lady Pecunia.

I Sing not of _Angellica_ the faire,
(For whom the Palladine of _Fraunce_ fell mad)
Nor of sweet _Rosamond_, olde _Cliffords_ heire,
(Whose death did make the second _Henry_ sad)
But of the fairest Faire _Pecunia_,
The famous Queene of rich _America_.

Goddesse of Golde, great Empresse of the Earth,
O thou that canst doe all Thinges under Heauen:
That doost conuert the saddest minde to Mirth;
(Of whom the elder Age was quite bereauen)
Of thee Ile sing, and in thy Prayse Ile write;
You _golden Angels_ helpe me to indite.

You, you alone, can make my Muse to speake;
And tell a golden Tale, with siluer Tongue:
You onely can my pleasing silence breake;
And adde some Musique, to a merry Songue:
But amongst all the fiue, in Musicks Art,
I would not sing the _Counter_-tenor part.

The Meane is best, and that I meane to keepe;
So shall I keepe my selfe from That I meane:
Lest with some Others, I be forc'd to weepe,
And cry _Peccaui_, in a dolefull Scæne.
But to the matter which I haue in hand,
The Lady Regent, both by Sea and Land.

When _Saturne_ liu'd, and wore the Kingly Crowne,
(And _Ioue_ was yet vnborne, but not vnbred)
This Ladies fame was then of no renowne;
(For Golde was then, no more esteem'd then Lead)
Then Truth and Honesty were onely vs'd,
Siluer and Golde were vtterly refus'd.

But when the Worlde grew wiser in Conceit,
And saw how Men in manners did decline,
How Charitie began to loose her heate,
And One did at anothers good repine,
Then did the Aged, first of all respect her;
And vowd from thenceforth, neuer to reiect her.

Thus with the Worlde, her beauty did increase;
And manie Suters had she to obtaine her:
Some sought her in the Wars, and some in peace;
But few of youthfull age, could euer game her:
Or if they did, she soone was gone againe;
And would with them, but little while remaine.

For why against the Nature of her Sexe,
(That commonlie dispise the feeble Olde)
Shee, loues olde men; but young men she reiects;
Because to her, their Loue is quicklie colde:
Olde men (like Husbands iealous of their Wiues)
Lock her vp fast, and keepe her as their Liues.

The young man carelesse to maintaine his life,
Neglects her Loue (as though he did abhor her)
Like one that hardly doeth obtaine a wife,
And when he hath her once, he cares not for her:
Shee, seeing that the young man doeth despyse her,
Leaues the franke heart, and flies vnto the Myser.

Hee intertaines her, with a ioyfull hart;
And seemes to rue her vndeserued wrong:
And from his Pressence, she shall neuer part;
Or if shee doo, he thinkes her Absence long:
And oftentimes he sends for her againe,
Whose life without her, cannot long remaine.

And when he hath her, in his owne possession,
He locks her in an iron-barred Chest,
And doubting somewhat, of the like Transgression,
He holds that iron-walled Prison best.
And least some _rusty_ sicknesse should infect her,
He often visits her, and doeth respect her.

As for the young man (subiect vnto sinne)
No maruell though the Diuell doe distresse him;
To tempt mans frailtie, which doth neuer linne,
Who many times, hath not a _Crosse_ to blesse him:
But how can hee incurre the Heauens Curse,
That hath so many _Crosses_ in his Purse?

Hee needes not feare those wicked sprights, that waulke
Vnder the Couerture of cole-blacke Night;
For why the Diuell still, a _Crosse_ doeth baulke,
Because on it, was hangd the Lorde of Light:
But let not Mysers trust to _siluer Crosses_,
Least in the End, their gaines be turnd to losses.

But what care they, so they may hoorde vp golde?
Either for God, or Diuell, or Heauen, or Hell?
So they may faire _Pecuniaes_ face behold;
And euery Day, their Mounts of Money tell.
What tho to count their Coyne, they neuer blin,
Count they their Coyne, and counts not God their sin?

But what talke I of sinne, to Vsurers?
Or looke for mendment, at a Mysers hand?
_Pecunia_, hath so many followers,
Bootlesse it is, her Power to with-stand.
King _Couetise_, and _Warinesse_ his Wife,
The Parents were, that first did giue her Life.

But now vnto her Praise I will proceede,
Which is as ample, as the Worlde is wide:
What great Contentment doth her Pressence breede
In him, that can his wealth with Wysdome guide?
She is the Soueraigne Queene, of all Delights:
For her the Lawyer pleades; the Souldier fights.

For her, the Merchant venters on the Seas:
For her, the Scholler studdies at his Booke:
For her, the Vsurer (with greater ease)
For sillie fishes, layes a siluer hooke:
For her, the Townsman leaues the Countrey Village:
For her, the Plowman giues himselte to Tillage.

For her, the Gentlemen doeth raise his rents:
For her, the Seruingman attends his maister:
For her, the curious head new toyes inuents:
For her, to Sores, the Surgeon layes his plaister.
In fine for her, each man in his Vocation,
Applies himselfe, in euerie sev'rall Nation.

What can thy hart desire, but thou mayst haue it,
If thou hast readie money to disburse?
Then thanke thy Fortune, that so freely gaue it;
For of all friends, the surest is thy purse.
Friends may proue false, and leaue thee in thy need;
But still thy Purse will bee thy friend indeed.

Admit thou come, into a place vnknowne;
And no man knowes, of whence, or what thou art:
If once thy faire _Pecunia_, shee be showne,
Thou art esteem'd a man of great Desart:
And placed at the Tables vpper ende;
Not for thine owne sake, but thy faithfull frende.

But if you want your Ladies louely grace,
And haue not wherewithall to pay your shot,
Your Hostis pressently will step in Place,
You are a Stranger (Sir) I know you not:
By trusting Diuers, I am run in Det;
Therefore of mee, nor meate nor Bed you get.

O who can then, expresse the worthie praise,
Which faire _Pecunia_ iustly doeth desarue?
That can the meanest man, to Honor raise;
And feed the soule, that ready is to starue.
Affection, which was wont to bee so pure,
Against a golden Siege, may not endure.

Witnesse the trade of Mercenary sinne;
(Or Occupation, if thou list to tearme it)
Where faire _Pecunia_ must the suite beginne;
(As common-tride Experience doeth confirme it)
Not _Mercury_ himselfe, with siluer Tongue,
Can so inchaunt, as can a golden Songue.

When nothing could subdue the _Phrygian Troy_,
(That Citty through the world so much renowned)
_Pecunia_ did her vtterly destroy:
And left her fame, in darke Obliuion drowned.
And many Citties since, no lesse in fame,
For Loue of her, haue yeelded to their shame.

What Thing is then, so well belou'd as money?
It is a speciall Comfort to the minde;
More faire then Women are; more sweet then honey:
Easie to loose, but very harde to finde.
In fine, to him, whose Purse beginns to faint,
Golde is a God, and Siluer is a Saint.

The Tyme was once, when Honestie was counted
A Demy god; and so esteem'd of all:
But now _Pecunia_ on his Seate is mounted;
Since Honestie in great Disgrace did fall.
No state, no Calling now, doeth him esteeme;
Nor of the other ill, doeth any deeme.

The reason is, because he is so poore:
(And who respects the poore, and needie Creature?)
Still begging of his almes, from Doore to Doore:
All ragd, and torne; and eeke deformed in feature.
In Countinance so changde, that none can know him;
So weake, and euery vice doeth ouerthrow him.

But faire _Pecunia_, (most diuinely bred)
For sundrie shapes, doth _Proteus_ selfe surpasse:
In one Lande, she is suted all in Lead;
And in another, she is clad in Brasse:
But still within the Coast of _Albion_,
She euer puts, her best Apparell on.

Siluer and Golde, and nothing else is currant,
In _Englands_, in faire _Englands_ happy Land:
All baser sorts of Mettalls, haue no Warrant;
Yet secretly they _slip_, from hand to hand.
If any such be tooke, the same is lost,
And pressently is nayled on a Post.

Which with Quick-siluer, being flourisht ouer,
Seemes to be perfect Siluer, to the showe:
As Woemens paintings, their defects doe couer,
Vnder this false attyre, so doe they goe.
If on a woollen Cloth, thou rub the same,
Then will it straight beginne to blush, for shame.

If chafed on thy haire, till it be hot,
If it good Siluer bee, the scent is sweete:
If counterfeit, thy chafing hath begot
A ranke-smelt sauour; for a Queene vnmeete:
_Pecunia_ is a Queene, for her Desarts,
And in the Decke, may goe for _Queene of harts_.

_The Queene of harts_, because she rules all harts;
And hath all harts, obedient to her Will:
Whose Bounty, fame vnto the Worlde imparts;
And with her glory, all the Worlde doeth fill:
The _Queene of Diamonds_, she cannot bee;
There is but one, ELIZA, thou art shee.

And thou art shee, O sacred Soueraigne;
Whom God hath helpt with his Al-mighty hand:
Blessing thy People, with thy peacefull raigne;
And made this little Land, a happy Land:
May all those liue, that wish long life to thee,
And all the rest, perish eternally.

Thy tyme was once, when faire _Pecunia_, here
Did basely goe attyred all in Leather:
But since her raigne, she neuer did appeere
But richly clad; in Golde, or Siluer either:
Nor reason is it, that her Golden raigne
With baser Coyne, eclypsed should remaine.

And as the Coyne, she hath repurifyde,
From baser substance, to the purest Mettels:
Religion so, hath shee refinde beside,
From Papistrie, to Truth; which daily settles
Within her Peoples harts; though some there bee,
That cleaue vnto their wonted Papistrie.

No flocke of sheepe, but some are still infected:
No peece of Lawne so pure, but hath some fret:
All buildings are not strong, that are erected:
All Plants proue not, that in good ground are set:
Some tares are sowne, amongst the choicest seed:
No garden can be cleansd of euery Weede.

But now to her, whose praise is her pretended,
(Diuine _Pecunia_) fairer then the morne:
Which cannot be sufficiently commended;
Whose Sun-bright Beauty doeth the Worlde adorne,
Adorns the World, but specially the Purse;
Without whose pressence, nothing can be worse.

Not faire _Hæsione_ (King of _Priams_ sister)
Did euer showe more Beauty, in her face,
Then can this louely Lady, if it list her
To showe her selfe; admir'd for comely grace:
Which neither Age can weare, nor Tyme conclude;
For why, her Beauty yeerely is renude.

New Coyne is coynd each yeare, within the Tower;
So that her Beauty neuer can decay:
Which to resist, no mortall man hath Power,
When as she doeth her glorious Beames display.
Nor doeth _Pecunia_, onely please the eie,
But charms the eare, with heauenly Harmonie.

Lyke to an other _Orpheus_, can she play
Vpon her _treble Harpe_, whose siluer sound
Inchaunts the eare, and steales the hart away:
Nor hardly can deceit, therein be found.
Although such Musique, some a Shilling cost,
Yet is it worth but _Nine-pence_, at the most.

Had I the sweet inchaunting Tongue of _Tully_,
That charmd the hearers, lyke the Syrens Song;
Yet could I not describe the Prayses fully,
Which to _Pecunia_ iustly doe belong.
Let it suffice, her Beauty doeth excell:
Whose praise no Pen can paint, no Tongue can tell.

Then how shall I describe, with artlesse Pen,
The praise of her, whose praise, all praise surmounteth?
Breeding amazement, in the mindes of men:
Of whom, this pressent Age to much accounteth.
Varietie of Words, would sooner want,
Then store of plentious matter, would be scant.

Whether yee list, to looke into the Citty:
(Where money tempts the poore Beholders eye)
Or to the Countrey Townes, deuoyde of Pitty:
(Where to the poore, each place doeth almes denye)
All Thinges for money now, are bought and solde,
That either hart can thinke, or eie beholde.

Nay more for money (as report doeth tell)
Thou mayst obteine a Pardon for thy sinnes:
The Pope of _Rome_, for money will it sell;
(Whereby thy soule, no small saluation winnes)
But how can hee, (of Pride the chiefe Beginner)
Forgiue thy sinnes, that is himselfe a sinner?

Then, sith the Pope is subiect vnto sinne,
No maruell tho, diuine _Pecunia_ tempt him,
With her faire Beauty; whose good-will to winne,
Each one contends; and shall we then exempt him.
Did neuer mortall man, yet looke vpon her,
But straightwaies he became, enamourd on her.

Yet would I wish, the Wight that loues her so,
And hath obtain'd, the like good-will againe,
To vse her wisely, lest she proue his foe;
And so, in stead of Pleasure, breed his paine.
She may be kyst; but shee must not be _clypt:_
Lest such Delight in bitter gall be dypt.

The iuyce of grapes, which is a soueraigne Thing
To cheere the hart, and to reuiue the spirits;
Being vsde immoderatly (in surfetting)
Rather Dispraise, then commendation merits:
Euen so _Pecunia_, is, as shee is vsed;
Good of her selfe, but bad if once abused.

With her, the Tenant payes his Landlords rent:
On her, depends the stay of euery state:
To her, rich Pressents euery day are sent:
In her, it rests to end all dire Debate:
Through her, to Wealth, is raisd the Countrey Boore:
From her, proceedes much proffit to the poore.

Then how can I, sufficiently commend,
Her Beauties worth, which makes the World to wonder?
Or end her prayse, whose prayses haue no End?
Whose absence brings the stoutest stomack vnder:
Let it suffice, _Pecunia_ hath no peere;
No Wight, no Beauty held; more faire, more deere.

_FINIS._

His Prayer to Pecunia.

Great Lady, sith I haue complyde thy Prayse,
(According to my skill and not thy merit:)
And sought thy Fame aboue the starrs to rayse;
(Had I sweete _Ovids_ vaine, or _Virgils_ spirit)
I craue no more but this, for my good will,
That in my Want, thou wilt supplye me still.

THE

Complaint of Poetrie,

for the Death of Liberalitie.

_Viuit post funera virtus._

LONDON,

Printed by G. S. for Iohn Iaggard, and are
to be solde at his shoppe neere Temple-barre,
at the Signe of the Hand and starre.
1598.

To his Worshipfull wel-willer, Maister _Edward Leigh_, of Grayes Inne.

Image of that, whose losse is here lamented;
(In whom, so many vertues are containd)
Daine to accept, what I haue now presented.
Though Bounties death, herein be not fained,
In your mind, she not reuiue (with speed)
Then will I sweare, that shee is dead indeed.

THE COMPLAINT OF

Poetrie, for the Death of Liberalitie.

Weepe Heauens now, for you haue lost your light;
Ye Sunne and Moone, beare witnes of my mone:
The cleere is turnd to clouds; the day to night;
And all my hope, and all my ioy is gone:
_Bounty_ is dead, the cause of my annoy;
_Bounty_ is dead, and with her dide my ioy.

O who can comfort my afflicted soule?
Or adde some ende to my increasing sorrowes?
Who can deliuer me from endlesse dole?
(Which from my hart eternall torment borrowes.)
When _Bounty_ liu'd, I bore the Bell away;
When _Bounty_ dide, my credit did decay.

I neuer then, did write one verse in vaine;
Nor euer went my Poems vnregarded:
Then did each Noble breast, me intertaine,
And for my Labours I was well rewarded:
But now _Good wordes_, are stept in _Bounties_ place,
Thinking thereby, her glorie to disgrace.

But who can liue with words, in these hard tymes?
(Although they came from _Iupiter_ himselfe?)
Or who can take such Paiment, for his Rymes?
(When nothing now, is so esteem'd as Pelfe?)
Tis not _Good wordes_, that can a man maintaine;
Wordes are but winde; and winde is all but vaine.

Where is _Mecænas_, Learnings noble Patron?
(That _Maroes_ Muse, with Bountie so did cherish?)
Or faire _Zenobia_, that worthy Matron?
(Whose name, for Learnings Loue, shall neuer perish)
What tho their Bodies, lie full lowe in graue,
Their fame the worlde; their souls the Heauens haue.

Vile _Auaricia_, how hast thou inchaunted
The Noble mindes, of great and mightie Men?
Or what infernall furie late hath haunted
Their niggard purses? (to the learned pen)
Was it _Augustus_ wealth, or noble minde,
That euerlasting fame, to him assinde?

If wealth? Why _Crœsus_ was more rich then hee;
(Yet _Crœsus_ glorie, with his life did end)
It was his Noble mind, that moued mee
To write his praise, and eeke his Acts commend.
Who ere had heard, of _Alexanders_ fame,
If _Quintus Curtius_ had not pend the same?

Then sith by mee, their deedes haue been declared,
(Which else had perisht with their liues decay)
Who to augment their glories, haue not spared
To crowne their browes, with neuer-fading Bay:
What Art deserues such Liberalitie,
As doeth the peerlesse Art of Poetrie?

But _Liberalitie_ is dead and gone:
And _Auarice_ vsurps true _Bounties_ seat.
For her it is, I make this endlesse mone,
(Whose praises worth no men can well repeat.
Sweet _Liberalitie_ adiew for euer,
For _Poetrie_ againe, shall see thee neuer.

Neuer againe, shall I thy presence see:
Neuer againe, shal I thy bountie tast:
Neuer againe, shal I accepted bee:
Neuer againe, shall I be so embrac't:
Neuer againe, shall I the bad recall:
Neuer againe, shall I be lou'd of all:

Thou wast the Nurse, whose Bountie gaue me sucke:
Thou wast the Sunne, whose beames did lend me light:
Thou wast the Tree, whose fruit I still did plucke:
Thou wast the Patron, to maintaine my right:
Through thee I liu'd; on thee I did relie;
In thee I ioy'd; and now for thee I die.

What man, hath lately lost a faithfull frend?
Or Husband, is depriued of his Wife?
But doth his after-daies in dolour spend?
(Leading a loathsome, discontented life?)
Dearer then friend, or wife, haue I forgone;
Then maruell not, although I make such mone.

Faire _Philomela_, cease thy sad complaint;
And lend thine eares, vnto my dolefull Ditty:
(Whose soule with sorrowe, now begins to faint,
And yet I cannot moue mens hearts to pitty:)
Thy woes are light, compared vnto mine:
You waterie Nymphes, to mee your plaints resigne.

And thou _Melpomene_, (the Muse of Death)
That neuer sing'st, but in a dolefull straine;
Sith cruell Destinie hath stopt her breath,
(Who whilst she liu'd, was Vertues Soueraigne
Leaue _Hellicon_, (whose bankes so pleasant bee)
And beare a part of sorrowe now with mee.

The Trees (for sorrowe) shead their fading Leaues,
And weepe out gum, in stead of other teares;
Comfort nor ioy, no Creature now conceiues,
To chirpe and sing, each little bird forbeares.
The sillie Sheepe, hangs downe his drooping head,
And all because, that _Bounty_ she is dead.

The greater that I feele my griefe to be,
The lesser able, am I to expresse it;
Such is the nature of extremitie,
The heart it som-thing eases, to confesse it.
Therefore Ile wake my muse, amidst her sleeping,
And what I want in wordes, supplie with weeping.

Weepe still mine eies, a Riuer full of Teares,
To drowne my Sorrowe in, that so molests me;
And rid my head of cares; my thoughts of feares:
Exiling sweet Content, that so detests me.
But ah (alas) my Teares are almost dun,
And yet my griefe, it is but new begun.

Euen as the Sunne, when as it leaues our sight,
Doth shine with those Antipodes, beneath vs;
Lending the other worlde her glorious light,
And dismall Darknesse, onely doeth bequeath vs:
Euen so sweet _Bountie_, seeming dead to mee,
Liues now to none, but smooth-Tongd Flatterie.

O _Adulation_, Canker-worme of Truth;
The flattring Glasse of Pride, and Self-conceit:
(Making olde wrinkled Age, appeare like youth)
Dissimulations Maske, and follies Beate:
Pittie it is, that thou art so rewarded,
Whilst Truth and Honestie, goe vnregarded.

O that Nobilitie, it selfe should staine,
In being bountifull, to such vile Creatures:
Who, when they flatter most, then most they faine;
Knowing what humor best, will fit their Natures.
What man so mad, that knowes himselfe but pore,
And will beleeue that he hath riches store.

Vpon a time, the craftie Foxe did flatter
The foolish Pye (whose mouth was full of meate)
The Pye beleeuing him, began to chatter,
And sing for ioy, (not hauing list to eate)
And whil'st the foolish Pye, her meate let fall,
The craftie Foxe, did runne awaie with all.

_Terence_ describeth vnder _Gnatoes_ name,
The right conditions of a Parasyte:
(And with such Eloquence, sets foorth the same,
As doeth the learned Reader much delyght)
Shewing, that such a Sycophant as _Gnato_,
In more esteem'd, then twentie such a _Plato_.

_Bounty_ looke backe, vpon thy goods mispent;
And thinke how ill, thou hast bestow'd thy mony:
Consider not their wordes, but their intent;
Their hearts are gall, although their tongues be hony:
They speake not as they thinke, but all is fained,
And onely to th'intent to be maintained.

And herein happie, I areade the poore;
No flattring Spanyels, fawne on them for meate:
The reason is, because the Countrey Boore
Hath little enough, for himselfe to eate:
No man will flatter him, except himselfe;
And why? because hee hath no store of wealth.

But sure it is not _Liberalitie_
That doeth reward these fawning smel-feasts so:
It is the vice of Prodigalitie,
That doeth the Bankers of _Bounty_ over-flo:
_Bounty_ is dead: yea so it needes must bee;
Or if aliue, yet is shee dead to mee.

Therefore as one, whose friend is lately dead,
I will bewaile the death, of my deere frend;
Vppon whose Tombe, ten thousand Teares Ile shead,
Till drearie Death, of mee shall make an end:
Or if she want a Toombe, to her desart,
Oh then, Ile burie her within my hart.

But (_Bounty_) if thou loue a Tombe of stone,
Oh then seeke out, a hard and stonie hart:
For were mine so, yet would it melt with mone,
And all because, that I with thee must part.
Then, if a stonie hart must thee interr,
Goe finde a Step-dame, or a Vsurer.

And sith there dies no Wight, of great account,
But hath an Epitaph compos'd by mee,
_Bounty_, that did all other far surmount,
Vpon her Tombe, this Epitaph shall bee:
_Here lies the Wight, that Learning did maintaine,
And at the last, by_ AVARICE _was slaine_.

Vile _Auarice_, why hast thou kildd my Deare?
And robd the World, of such a worthy Treasure?
In whome no sparke of goodnesse doth appeare,
So greedie is thy mind, without all measure,
Thy death, from Death did merit to release her:
The Murtherers deseru'd to die, not _Caesar_.

The Merchants wife; the Tender-hearted Mother
That leaues her loue; whose Sonne is prest for warre;
(Resting, the one; as woefull as the other;)
Hopes met at length, when ended is the iarre,
To see her Husband; see her Sonne again;
"Were it not then for Hope, the hart were slaine."

But I, whose hope is turned to despaire
Nere looke to see my dearest Deare againe:
Then _Pleasure_ sit thou downe, in _Sorrowes_ Chaire,
And (for a while) thy wonted Mirth refraine.
_Bounty_ is dead, that whylome was my Treasure,
_Bounty_ is dead, my joy and onely pleasure.

If _Pythias_ death, of _Damon_ were bewailed;
Or _Pillades_ did rue, _Orestes_ ende:
If _Hercules_, for _Hylas_ losse were quailed;
Or _Theseus_, for _Pyrithous_ Teares did spende:
When doe I mourne for _Bounty_, being dead:
Who liuing, was my hand, my hart, my head.

My hand, to helpe mee, in my greatest need:
My hart, to comfort mee, in my distresse:
My head, whom onely I obeyd, indeed:
If she were such, how can my griefe be lesse?
Perhaps my wordes, may pierce the _Parcæ's_ eares;
If not with wordes, Ile moue them with my teares.

But ah (alas) my Teares are spent in vaine,
(For she is dead, and I am left aliue)
Teares cannot call, sweet _Bounty_ backe againe;
Then why doe I, gainst Fate and Fortune striue?
And for her death, thus weepe, lament, and crie;
Sith euery mortall wight, is borne to die.

But as the woefull mother doeth lament,
Her tender babe, with cruell Death opprest:
Whose life was spotlesse, pure, and innocent,
(And therefore sure, it[s] soule is gone to rest)
So _Bountie_, which her selfe did vpright keepe,
Yet for her losse, loue cannot chuse but weepe.

The losse of her, is losse to many a one:
The losse of her, is losse vnto the poore:
And therefore not a losse, to mee alone,
But vnto such, as goe from Doore to Doore.
Her losse, is losse vnto the fatherlesse;
And vnto all, that are in great distresse.

The maimed Souldier, comming from the warre,
The woefull wight, whose house was lately burnd;
The sillie soule; the wofull Traueylar;
And all, whom Fortune at her feet hath spurnd;
Lament the losse of _Liberalitie:_
"Its ease, to haue in griefe some Companie."

The Wife of _Hector_ (sad _Andromache_)
Did not bewaile, her husbands death alone:
But (sith he was the _Troians_ onely stay)
The wiues of _Troy_ (for him) made æquall mone.
Shee, shead the teares of Loue; and they of pittie:
Shee, for her deare dead Lord; they, for their Cittie.

Nor is the Death of _Liberalitie_,
(Although my griefe be greater than the rest)
Onely lamented, and bewaild of mee;
(And yet of mee, she was beloued best)
But, sith she was so bountifull to all,
She is lamented, both of great and small.

O that my Teares could moue the powres diuine,
That _Bountie_ might be called from the dead:
As Pitty pierc'd the hart of _Proserpine;_
Who (moued with the Teares _Admetus_ shead)
Did sende him backe againe, his louing Wife;
Who lost her owne, to saue her husbands life.

Impartiall _Parcæ_, will no prayers moue you?
Can Creatures so diuine, haue stony harts?
Haplesse are they, whose hap it is to proue you,
For you respect no Creatures good Desarts.
O _Atropos_, (the cruelst of the three)
Why hast thou tane, my faithfull friend from mee?

But ah, she cannot (or shee will not) heare me,
Or if shee doo, yet may not she repent her:
Then come (sweet Death) O why doest thou forbeare me?
Aye mee! thy Dart is blunt, it will not enter.
Oh now I knowe the cause, and reason why;
I am immortall, and I cannot dye.

So _Cytheræa_ would haue dide, but could not;
When faire _Adonis_ by her side lay slaine:
So I desire the Sisters, what I should not;
For why (alas) I wish for Death in vaine;
Death is their seruant, and obeys their will;
And if they bid him spare, he cannot kill.

Oh would I were, as other Creatures are;
Then would I die, and so my griefe were ended:
But Death (against my will) my life doeth spare;
(So little with the fates I am befrended)
Sith, when I would, thou doost my sute denie,
Vile Tyrant, when thou wilt, I will not die.

And _Bounty_, though her body thou hast slaine,
Yet shall her memorie remaine for euer:
For euer, shall her memorie remaine;
Whereof no spitefull Fortune can bereaue her.
Then Sorrowe cease, and wipe thy weeping eye;
For Fame shall liue, when all the World shall dye.

FINIS.

THE

Combat, betweene

Conscience and Couetousnesse,

in the minde of Man.

_quid non mortalia pectora cogis
Auri sacra fames?_ Virgil.

LONDON,

Printed by G. S. for Iohn Iaggard, and are to be solde at his
shoppe neere Temple-barre, at the Signe of the Hand and starre.
1598.

To his Worshipfull good friend,

Maister _Iohn Steuenton_, of _Dothill_, in the County of _Salop_, Esquire.

Sith Conscience (long since) is exilde the Citty,
O let her in the Countrey, finde some Pitty.
But if she be exilde, the Countrey too,
O let her finde, some fauour yet of you.

The Combat betweene Conscience and Couetousnesse in the mind of Man.

Now had the cole-blacke steedes, of pitchie Night,
(Breathing out Darknesse) banisht cheerfull Light,
And sleepe (the shaddowe of eternall rest)
My seuerall senses, wholy had possest.
When loe, there was presented to my view,
A vision strange, yet not so strange, as true.
_Conscience_ (me thought) appeared vnto mee,
Cloth'd with good Deedes, with Trueth and Honestie,
Her countinance demure, and sober sad,
Nor any other Ornament shee had.
Then _Couetousnesse_ did incounter her,
Clad in a Cassock, lyke a Vsurer,
The Cassock, it was made of poore-mens skinnes,
Lac'd here and there, with many seuerall sinnes:
Nor was it furd, with any common furre;
Or if it were, himselfe hee was the _fur_.
A Bag of money, in his hande he helde,
The which with hungry eie, he still behelde.
The place wherein this vision first began,
(A spacious plaine) was cald _The Minde of Man_.
The Carle no sooner, _Conscience_ had espyde,
But swelling lyke a Toade, (puft vp with pryde)
He straight began against her to inuey:
These were the wordes, which _Couetise_ did sey.
_Conscience_ (quoth hee) how dar'st thou bee so bold,
To claime the place, that I by right doe hold?
Neither by right, nor might, thou canst obtaine it:
By might (thou knowst full well) thou canst not gaine it.
The greatest Princes are my followars,
The King in Peace, the Captaine in the Warres:
The Courtier, and the simple Countrey-man:
The Iudge, the Merchant, and the Gentleman:
The learned Lawyer, and the Politician:
The skilfull Surgeon, and the fine Physician:
In briefe, all sortes of men mee entertaine,
And hold mee, as their Soules sole Soueraigne,
And in my quarrell, they will fight and die,
Rather then I should suffer iniurie.
And as for title, interest, and right,
Ile proue its mine by that, as well as might,
Though _Couetousnesse_, were vsed long before,
Yet _Iudas_ Treason, made my Fame the more;
When _Christ_ he caused, crucifyde to bee,
For thirtie pence, man solde his minde to mee:
And now adaies, what tenure is more free,
Than that which purchas'd is, with Gold and fee?

_Conscience._

With patience, haue I heard thy large Complaint,
Wherein the Diuell, would be thought a Saint:
But wot ye what, the Saying is of olde?
One tale is good, vntill anothers tolde.
Truth is the right, that I must stand vpon,
(For other title, hath poore _Conscience_ none)
First I will proue it, by Antiquitie,
That thou art but an vp-start, vnto mee;
Before that thou wast euer thought vpon,
The minde of Man, belongd to mee alone.
For after that the Lord, hath Man created,
And him in blisse-full Paradice had seated;
(Knowing his Nature was to vice inclynde)
God gaue me vnto man, to rule his mynde,
And as it were, his Gouernour to bee,
To guide his minde, in Trueth, and Honestie.
And where thou sayst, that man did sell his soule;
That Argument, I quicklie can controule:
It is a fayned fable, thou doost tell,
That, which is not his owne, he cannot sell;
No man can sell his soule, altho he thought it:
Mans soule is _Christs_, for hee hath dearely bought it.
Therefore vsurping _Couetise_, be gone.
For why, the minde belongs to mee alone.

_Couetousnesse._

Alas poore _Conscience_, how thou art deceav'd?
As though of senses, thou wert quite bereaud.
What wilt thou say (that thinkst thou canst not erre)
If I can proue my selfe the ancienter?
Though into _Adams_ minde, God did infuse thee,
Before his fall, yet man did neuer vse thee.
What was it else, but _Aurice_ in _Eue_,
(Thinking thereby, in greater Blisse to liue)
That made her taste, of the forbidden fruite?
Of her Desier, was not I the roote?
Did she not couet? (tempted by the Deuill)
The Apple of the Tree, of good and euill?
Before man vsed _Conscience_, she did couet:
Therefore by her Transgression, here I proue it,
That _Couetousnesse_ possest the minde of man,
Before that any _Conscience_ began.

_Conscience._

Euen as a counterfeited precious stone,
Seemes to bee far more rich, to looke vpon,
Then doeth the right: But when a man comes neere,
His baseness then, doeth euident appeere:
So _Couetise_, the Reasons thou doost tell,
Seeme to be strong, but being weighed well,
They are indeed, but onely meere Illusions,
And doe inforce but very weake Conclusions.
When as the Lord (fore-knowing his offence)
Had giuen man a Charge, of Abstinence,
And to refraine, the fruite of good and ill:
Man had a _Conscience_, to obey his will,
And neuer would be tempted thereunto,
Vntill the Woeman, shee, did worke _man woe_.
And make him breake, the Lords Commaundement,
Which all Mankinde, did afterward repent:
So that thou seest, thy Argument is vaine,
And I am prov'd, the elder of the twaine.

_Couetousnesse._

Fond Wretch, it was not _Conscience_, but feare,
That made the first man (Adam) to forbeare
To tast the fruite, of the forbidden Tree,
Lest, if offending hee were found to bee,
(According as _Iehouah_ saide on hye,
For his so great Transgression, hee should dye.)
Feare curbd his minde, it was not _Conscience_ then,
(For _Conscience_ freely, rules the harts of men)
And is a godly motion of the mynde,
To euerie vertuous action inclynde,
And not enforc'd, through feare of Punishment,
But is to vertue, voluntary bent:
Then (simple Trul) be packing presentlie,
For in this place, there is no roome for thee.

_Conscience._

Aye mee (distressed Wight) what shall I doe?
Where shall I rest? Or whither shall I goe?
Vnto the rich? (woes mee) they, doe abhor me:
Vnto the poore? (alas) they, care not for me:
Vnto the Olde-man? hee; hath mee forgot:
Vnto the Young-man? yet hee, knowes me not:
Vnto the Prince? hee; can dispence with me:
Vnto the Magistrate? that, may not bee:
Vnto the Court? for it, I am too base:
Vnto the Countrey? there, I haue no place:
Vnto the Citty? thence; I am exilde:
Vnto the Village? there; I am reuilde:
Vnto the Barre? the Lawyer there, is bribed?
Vnto the Warre? there, _Conscience_ is derided:
Vnto the Temple? there, I am disguised:
Vnto the Market? there, I am dispised:
Thus both the young and olde, the rich and poore,
Against mee (silly Creature) shut their doore.
Then, sith each one seekes my rebuke and shame,
Ile goe againe to Heauen (from whence I came.)
This saide (me thought) making exceeding mone,
She went her way, and left the Carle alone,
Who vaunting of his late-got victorie,
Aduanc'd himselfe in pompe and Maiestie:
Much like a Cocke, who hauing kild his foe,
Brisks vp himselfe, and then begins to crow.
So _Couetise_, when _Conscience_ was departed,
Gan to be proud in minde, and hauty harted:
And in a stately Chayre of state he set him,
(For _Conscience_ banisht) there are none to let him.
And being but one entrie, to this Plaine,
(Whereof as king and Lord, he did remaine)
_Repentance_ cald, he causd that to be kept,
Lest _Conscience_ should returne, whilst as he slept:
Wherefore he causd it, to be watcht and warded
Both night and Day, and to be strongly guarded:
To keepe it safe, these three he did intreat,
_Hardnesse of hart_, with _Falshood_ and _Deceat:_
And if at any time, she chaunc'd to venter,
_Hardnesse of hart_, denide her still to enter.
When _Conscience_ was exilde the minde of Man,
Then _Couetise_, his gouernment began.
This once being seene, what I had seene before,
(Being onely seene in sleepe) was seene no more;
For with the sorrowe, which my Soule did take
At sight hereof, foorthwith I did awake.

_FINIS._

Poems:

In diuers humors.

_Trahit sua quemque voluptas._ Virgil.

LONDON,

Printed by G. S. for Iohn Iaggard, and are to be solde at his
shoppe neere Temple-barre, at the Signe of the Hand and starre.
1598.

To the learned, and accomplisht Gentleman,

Maister _Nicholas Blackleech_, of Grayes Inne.

To you, that know the tuch of true Conceat;
(Whose many gifts I neede not to repeat)
I vvrite these Lines; fruits of vnriper yeares;
Wherein my Muse no harder censure feares:
Hoping in gentle Worth, you will them take;
Not for the gift, but for the giuers sake.

_SONNET._ I.

To his friend Maister R. L. In praise of Musique and Poetrie.

If Musique and sweet Poetrie agree,
As they must needes (the Sister and the Brother)
Then must the Loue be great, twixt thee and mee,
Because thou lou'st the one, and I the other.
_Dowland_ to thee is deare; whose heauenly tuch
Vpon the Lute, doeth rauish humaine sense:
_Spenser_ to mee; whose deepe Conceit is such,
As passing all Conceit, needs no defence.
Thou lou'st to heare the sweete melodious sound,
That _Phœbus_ Lute (the Queene of Musique) makes:
And I in deepe Delight am chiefly drownd,
When as himselfe to singing he betakes.
One God is God of Both (as Poets faigne)
One Knight loues Both, and Both in thee remaine.

_SONNET._ II.

_Against the Dispraysers of Poetrie._

_Chaucer_ is dead; and _Gower_ lyes in grave;
The Earle of _Surrey_, long agoe is gone;
Sir _Philip Sidneis_ soule, the Heauens haue;
_George Gascoigne_ him beforne, was tomb'd in stone,
Yet, tho their Bodies lye full low in ground,
(As euery thing must dye, that earst was borne)
Their liuing fame, no Fortune can confound;
Nor euer shall their Labours be forlorne.
And you, that discommend sweete Poetrie,
(So that the Subiect of the same be good)
Here may you see, your fond simplicitie;
Sith Kings haue fauord it, of royall Blood.
The King of _Scots_ (now liuing) is a Poet,
As his _Lepanto_, and his _Furies_ shoe it.

A Remembrance of some English Poets.

Liue _Spenser_ euer, in thy _Fairy Queene:_
Whose like (for deepe Conceit) was neuer seene.
Crownd mayst thou bee, vnto thy more renowne,
(As King of Poets) with a Lawrell Crowne.

And _Daniell_, praised for thy sweet-chast Verse:
Whose Fame is grav'd on _Rosamonds_ blacke Herse.
Still mayst thou liue: and still be honored,
For that rare Worke, _The White Rose and the Red_.

And _Drayton_, whose wel-written Tragedies,
And sweete Epistles, soare thy fame to skies.
Thy learned Name, is æquall with the rest;
Whose stately Numbers are so well addrest.

And _Shakespeare_ thou, whose hony-flowing Vaine,
(Pleasing the World) thy Praises doth obtaine.
Whose _Venus_, and whose _Lucrece_ (sweete, and chaste)
Thy Name in fames immortall Booke haue plac't.
Liue euer you, at least in Fame liue euer:
Well may the Bodye dye, but Fame dies neuer.

An Ode.

As it fell vpon a Day,
In the merrie Month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade,
Which a groue of Myrtles made,
Beastes did leape, and Birds did sing,
Trees did grow, and Plants did spring:
Euery thing did banish mone,
Saue the Nightingale alone.
Shee (poore Bird) as all forlorne,
Leand her Breast vp-till a Thorne,
And there sung the dolefulst Ditty,
That to heare it was great Pitty.
_Fie_, _fie_, _fie_, now would she cry
_Teru Teru_, by and by:
That to heare her so complaine,
Scarce I could from Teares refraine:
For her griefes so liuely showne,
Made me thinke vpon mine owne.
Ah (thought I) thou mournst in vaine;
None takes Pitty on thy paine:
Senslesse Trees, they cannot heere thee;
Ruthlesse Beares, they wil not cheer thee.
King _Pandion_, hee is dead:
All thy friends are lapt in Lead.
All thy fellow Birds doe singe,
Carelesse of thy sorrowing.
Whilst as fickle Fortune smilde,
Thou and I, were both beguilde.
Euerie one that flatters thee,
Is no friend in miserie:
Words are easie, like the winde;
Faithfull friends are hard to finde:
Euerie man will bee thy friend,
Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend:
But if store of Crownes be scant,
No man will supply thy want.
If that one be prodigall,
Bountifull, they will him call.
And with such-like flattering,
Pitty but hee were a King.
If hee bee adict to vice,
Quickly him, they will intice.
If to Woemen hee be bent,
They haue at Commaundement.
But if Fortune once doe frowne,
Then farewell his great renowne:
They that fawnd on him before,
Vse his company no more.
Hee that is thy friend indeed,
Hee will helpe thee in thy neede:
If thou sorrowe, hee will weepe;
If thou wake, hee cannot sleepe:
Thus of euerie griefe, in hart,
Hee, with thee, doeth beare a Part.
These are certaine Signes, to knowe
Faithfull friend, from flatt'ring foe.

Written, at the Request of a Gentleman,

vnder a Gentlewoman's Picture.

Euen as _Apelles_ could not paint _Campaspes_ face aright:
Because _Campaspes_ Sun-bright eyes did dimme _Apelles_ sight:
Euen so, amazed at her sight, her sight, all sights excelling,
Like _Nyobe_ the Painter stoode, her sight his sight expelling,
Thus Art and Nature did contend, who should the Victor bee,
Till Art by Nature was supprest, as all the worlde may see.

An Epitaph vpon the Death, of Sir Philip

Sidney, Knight; Lord-gouernour of Vlissing.