passage take Preasse thou to them for they may mend my hap If that of thee some good account they make And that in sport they laie thee in their lap Vntill they list to read thee eurie line Then at welhead some water drawe I may For fountaine springs may run cleere claret winâ— Whose pleasant sap giues moisture eurie way The nimble Nimphs that with Diana dwell Can quicklie turne the cock and flowing spout That thousands shall bring buckets to the well And watch their times till comfort commeth out Now booke trudge hence bestow thy labour right Set spurs to horse that flies in aeir with wings Mount ore the hils and rest ne day nor night Till thou do come before great Queens and Kings Then flat on face fall prostrate at their feet That may from graue call vp thy masters spreet Keepe thou these rules this course and compasse hold So may thy grace conuert my lead to gold CHVRCHYARDES CHARITIE WHen labring minde and weary body both Is cloid with world hart wold shake off toile Before the ghost to highest heauens goeth And death of life shall make a wretched spoile And man must needs forsake this soathsome soile He takes some care to make his conshence cleere Of all he thinks or may imagine heere First lookes he vp where soule desires to be Of life to come to know what hope we haue And where we rest in ioie from bondage free So soone as cold dead bodie lies in graue Than ere man leaues this cruell cumbrous caue In charitie he waies this world aright As far as wades wise iudgement skill and sight But finding world full fraught with fond desires A mightie masse of matter therein lies That burns out time and kindleth many fires Whereon foule flames and smothring smoke doth rise He lookes thereon with heauie rufull eies As though some zeale might mooue a musing minde To pity plagues that man must leaue behinde Who doth not sigh to see the poore opprest By rich mens reach that wrests awry the right Who will not waile the woe of troubled brest Or sore lament the state of wronged wight When broad day brings darke dealings vnto light Who will not rue our wretched race on earth That keepes till death no rule from day of birth The goods we win are woorse to keepe than get The wealth we lose robs some of rest and sleepe Our daily gaine will answere scarce our det We couet more than wit can warely keepe We slip from hence as rich as new shorne sheepe And that we leaue in world that well was won Is soone consumde and spent with riotous son Who parts from world would wish that were not so His charitie commands him so to thinke But graceles time on rowling wheeles doth go At whose abuse our flyring world can winke Vice cares no whit if vertue swim or sinke Ambishous mind and malice meetes in one So that true loue and charitie is gone Loue bids men looke to all things vnder Sun Beast fish and foule and all we see with eie But charitie a greater course doth run Because it doth in quiet conscience lie She lookes ech where as she had wings to flie And houer ore our doings on this mould That bridle takes and will not be contrould O then to loue and charitie I pas Whose zeale is great and charge is nothing small That cleerely sees as in a christall glas The spots of face and inward cankers all And can in haste vnto remembrance call Old farn yeers past and present things of late Whereof a world of wits may well debate Who can hold toong to see bad worlds abuce Run ore the brim where vertue neuer floes As hauocke had hald vp the water sluce Where out at large great skuls of fishes goes Poore pashence must be pleasd with painted shoes Alms deeds are dead no pitty now is last For all the world is set on sleight and craft If pouertie be pincht with plague or sore He starues for food adue the man is dead The sound we seeke the sicke we do abore Full paunch eats all the hungrie is not fed For greedy guts keeps needy mouth from bred True charitie and good deuoshon old By frost and snow are almost kild with cold Would God good works with faithfull honest deeds Reformd this vice that spreds too far I feare And faire sweete flowrs were planted for those weeds That doth with fraud infect sweet soyles ech where Fine words doth but betraie the simple eare As fowlers pipe the harmles bird disseaues That lights on lyme amid greene birchen leaues If meere deceit were banisht from our viewe False dealing then would blush to shew his face If wisdome did disdaine vaine follies newe Old troth in world would claime his woonted place But cunning wits doth finenes so embrace That plainnes walkes like pilgrim to and fro In wandring wise and knowes not where to go Wealth hath desire to drinke great riuers drie His scalding thirst cannot be quenched well Want pines awaie and comfortles doth lie And water tasts like Tantalus in hell The needy sort in dolour daily dwell The hautie head thinks skorne to turne his face And rue the state of naked wretches case The fields and lanes are full of sicke and lame Who beg and craue as loud as voice can crie But sauing world is grown so far from frame No great remorse remains in passers by Hardnes holds backe both bag and bounties eie So that no ruth regard nor pittie comes From sparing hands and graceles griping thombs Our prisons all are pestred with poore soules Whose yelling noise a tyrants hart may mooue At grates they stand and looke through peeping holes To purchase alms and trie good peoples loue But penurie doth so their pashence prooue With emptie wombe and hungrie meatles mawe They lay them downe on boords or wads of strawe The silly folke in towne or cottage rude With belly full do seldome go to bed And lookes as leane as haukes that ill are mude Which often be with crowes or carraine fed How should men giue when charitie is dead For money meat and clothing now is bard From those that need the world is waxt so hard How can full purse supplie the poore mans went When trull at home from sheepe lookes for a fleece And master must be sometimes all a flant And prettie pus my deere must haue a peece Whose beautie staines the faire Helen of Greece These things are large and loâ—g to looke vpon By which cold cause warme charitie is gon More reasons rise to make men hold and keepe The crums they catch from Fortunes table still For purchesars do walke when plow men sleepe Their sacks of corne is seldome from the mill They take no rest till thrift bare budget fill Then locke they vp in chest their golden bags When beggers trudge and iet about in rags Cold
would woonders tell In pollicies wise Solon plaid The Poet sundrie waies Good things were better soong than said Which gaind immortall praise Plato tooke Solons works in hand And plaid the Poet right And set that Atlantike Iland Full plaine before our sight The Booke of Herodotus bore A famous title fine Yea such as none did giue before Of all the muses nine Dominician was a Poet rare And did therein excell So many princes now there are That loueth Poetrie well Three conquerours of mightie powre Gaue Poets such a grace That they would neuer frowne not lowre On them in any case As Plutarke saith a tyrant wept A tragedie to heare Who sawe his murthring minde thereby As in a glas full cleere Amid a great reuolt in Rome A woorthie Poet stood And told of bodie and the minde A tale that did much good Two Poets turnd a tyrants hart From rigour vnto ruth And wrought him with their wits and art To fauour right and truth Nathan did faine a tale indeed To Dauid when he fell Whereon the king tooke such great heed He saw his follie well In Dauids Psalms true miter floes And songs of Sallomon Where great delite and pleasure groes Are woorthie looking on A dialogue that Plato made Giues Poets great renowne Brings ech rare wit to sun from shade To weare the laurell crowne True stories old with new delite Shall fill your harts and â—ares For they of Poets praises write Their books good witnes beares If aunshent authors and great kings No credit gets herein Darke-sight sees not no stately things That doth great glory win Plucke vp cleere iudgement from the pit Of poore espreet and sence And wipe the slime from slubbred wit And looke on this defence That Sydney makes a matchles worke A matter fresh and new That did long while in silence lurke And seldome came to view He cals them Poets that embrace True vertue in hir kinde And do not run with rimes at bace With wanton blotted minde All idle verse he counts but vaine Like cracks of thorns in fire Or summer showrs of sleete or raine That turns drie dust to mire These rurall rymes are but the scum And froth that flies from seas Or doth from some sharpe humor come That breeds a new disease In braine that beats about the skull And so brings foorth a toye When musse or moone is at the full Of paines or pleasing ioye Like long wingd hauke doth Poet fore Ore mountaine or hie trees And loud as cannon can he rore At ech vice that he sees His scope as hie as reasons reach May clime in order due Not to giue counsell nor to teach But to write fancies new Of this or that as matter moones A well disposed minde That vice doth hate and vertue loues And he good cause doth finde So ruling pen as duties bounds Be kept in eury part For when the Poet trumpet sounds It must be done by art As though a sweete consort should plaie On instruments most fine And shew their musicke eury waie With daintie notes diuine Ech string in tune as concord were The guide of all the glee Whose harmonie must please the eare With musicke franke and free The Poets Lyra must be strung With wire of siluer sound That all his verses may be sung With maidens in a round So chaste and harmles should they be As words from preachers voice With spiced speech in ech degree Wherein good men reioice Not farsed full of sollies light That beares ne poies nor weight But flying cleere in aire like flight Whose force mounts vp an height And seems to pearce the cloudie skies Such poets Sidney likes Whose gentle wind makes dust arise As hie as morice pikes That lifts aloft the soldiers hart Who doth aduance the same And bends his bodie in ech part Thereby to purchase fame The sword and lance of marshall men Their Lions courage showes The poets with their wit and pen Tels where their furie flowes They both are knowne as soone as seene As things of great import The one may verie far ore weene The other in some sort Stands on his honor sundrie waies And offreth life therefore The poet seekes no more but praise As poets did of yore Whose words strooke dead the stoutest groomes That euer were in place And sweeped cleane like new made broomes The foulest cause or case As water washeth ech thing white And sope might scoure with all The canker of foule worlds delite More sharpe than bitter gall So poets with plaine terms makes cleane The soulest conshence liues And by good words from vice doth weane Through councell that it giues The childest wit and churlisht mind Lo then how poets may Both alter maners and bad kind To frame a better way Of heauens and the highest throne Where God himselfe doth sit Good poets still should treat alone To showe â—heir flowing wit As by their muse they caried were Beyond our sight or vew Into a fine and purer aire Or speshall climat new Where all things are as cleane as gold From furnace to the stamp So poets should this world behold And shine as cleer as lamp That light doth giue to eury eie Which doth in darknes dwell And glorie show of heauens hie To damned spreets of hell Which darknes in a dungeon keeps From sight of vertues lore Where ignorance in slumber sleeps Like dunse for euermore Sir Philip Sydney praiseth those Whose waking wits doth see The depth and ground of verse or prose And speakes with iudgement free Of all the matters vnder sun Both secrets hie and lowe And ouer them with pen can run As far as skill can goe Sift eurie word and sentence well And cast away the bran To show the kernell crack the shell In peeces now and than That eurie one shall taste the nut Or see where worme hath fed And shoot an arrowe at the but And drawe it to the head Like archer that can hit the white And win the wager straight With cunning knowledge and delite And suttle sence and slaight Which looks into the world so round And searcheth eury place To see what may be easlie found Or spoke of ech mans case To rime and roue in retchles sort He counted reuell rash As whip doth make a horse to snort When carter giues a lash So ballet makers doth with wind Stir vp a hiue of bees And of the abundance of vaine mind With words in aire he flees As though it were a thunder crack That neuer brings foorth raine But dailie threatens rune and wrack With ratling rumors vaine Vaine commedies that stirs vp vice He did condemne and hate He holds that babble of no price That doth infect a state Corrupts with words good maners still Offends both eie and eare Brings in loose
throte ere we be ware Cold poison â—onke a quicke dispatch it giues Cold craâ—â—s dries vp the sences where they are Cold lims waxe lame and breeds diseases rare Thus cold mars all then warmth God send vs now That eurie part of man feele comfort throw Cold food is faint vnto weake stomacks still Warme broths keeps health in perfect sound estate Warme daies we wish cold bitter aire is ill Cold blasts be nought sharpe blustring storms we hate Sweetly sun shines in world earlie or late Cold quicklie caught goes seldome soone away And long cold nights kils some before the day Cold drie hard froâ—â— makes thousands seeke for fire Warme meate giues spreet to either sicke or sound Cold hungrie baites makes many a horse to tire Warme clouts and clothes doth comfort eurie wound No fruit thriues well where cold doth much abound The warmth doth ioy both spring and fall of leafe Makes dead things quicke delights both dum deafe Yea blind and lame and all that life doth beare Are glad of heate then cold is out of grace Cold words God wot when meaning scarce is there Kils many a man in court or any place O wold to God warme deeds did show his face That charitie hir whole effect may show On those that needs which knows not where to goe A colder time in world was neuer seene The skies do lowre the sun and moone waxe dim Sommer scarce knowne but that the leaues are greene The winters waste driues water ore the brim Vpon the land great flotes of wood may swim Nature thinks scorne to do hir dutie right Because we haue displeasde the Lord of light Cold works cold words cold world and al things cold Showes death drawes neer and then a deep cold graue Such hard cold hap may make a yoong man old Or old gray beard become a gallâ—e slaue Well let them loose that can neâ— in nor saue The state of man on strange hap hazard lies As one fals downe so doth another rise If charitie would once bespread hirraies As Phoebus showes abroad his shining beames Or winter cold would bring some sommer daies And rid vs soone from all these great extreames Then shee dies not but haplie sleeps and dreames Now waken hir that haue most powre to speake I haue tane cold and so my voice growes weake You whose cleer speech doth loud as trumpet sound And may command the world the skies and stars And rules at beck the massie earth so round Sets orders downe and can make peace and wars And hath the force to breake big iron bars Call charitie fot loue once home againe That shee may heare hir people poore complaine My breath but bores a hole within the aire My date neer don cals for a shrouding sheet My darke dim daies lookes for no weather faire Mine eies can scarce look to my stumbling feet My wounted muse forsakes my drowping spreet My books and scroules and all that I haue wrot Hides now their heads as I were cleane forgot When aged yeers showes death amid my face My words are of small credit in this plite My hap and hope is in a better place Wherefore of world I plainly speake and write And ere I goe discharge my conshence quite To win the wise and loose the fonder sort That vnto quicke nor dead yeelds good report The wise well won waies ech thing as it ought Mistakes no terme nor sentence wrests awrie The fond will read awhile but cares for nought Yet casts on ech mans works a frowning eie This neither treats of matters lowe not hie But finds a meane that ech good meaning might In all true meanes take charitie aright FINIS A PRAISE OF POETRIE Imprinted at London by Ar. Hatfield for William Holme 1595. A praise of Poetrie some notes therof drawen out of the Apologie the noble minded Knight sir Phillip Sidney wrate WHen world was at the very woorst And vice did much abound And for offence the earth was curst Yet charitie was found Among the wise and woorthie sort Who euer had good chance with treble fame by their report True vertue did aduance The Poets and Philosophers Stept first on stately stage And plaid their parts with hazards great In euery world and age In eury age while wits of men Could iudge the good from bad Who gat the gift of toong or pen Of world great honor had Good Poets were in hie esteeme When leaâ—ning grew in price Their vertue and their verse did seeme A great rebuke to vice With blunt base people of small sence They fall now in disdaine But Sydneyes booke in their defence Doth raise them vp againe And sets them next Diuines in ranke As members meete and fit To strike the worlds blinde boldnes blanke And whet the bluntest wit Heere followes Histories good store That much thereof shall tell If paines may purchase thanks therefore My hope is answerd well AMphyons gift and grace was great In Thebes old stories saie And beasts and birds would leaue their meatâ— To heare Orpheus plaie In Rome were three of peereles fame That florisht in their daies Which three did beare the onely name Of knowledge skill and praise In Italy of yore did dwell Three men of spechall spreete Whose gallant stiles did sure excell Their verses were so sweete In France three more of fame we finde Whose bookes do well declare They beautifide their starely minde With inward vertues rare In England liued three great men Did Poetrie aduance And all they with the gift of pen Gaue glorius world a glance In Scotland finde we other twaine Were writers of good woorth Whose studies through their Poets vaine Brought many verses foorth In Ireland to this present time Where learning is not mich With Poetrie in verse or rime Their language they inrich In Wales the very remnant yet Of Brittaine bloud and race They honor men of speshall wit And giues a Poet grace Albinus long that rained heere Made verses in his youth And in his age as doth appeere With verse auancst the truth Among the sauage Indians still Who knowes no ciuill thing They honor writers of some skill Their parents liues to sing Among the anshent noble Danes And Saxsons long ago We read of many Poets names Whose woorthy wits did flo The graue wise learned men of Greece Durst neuer shew their art Till those Philosophers presumd To plaie the Poets part Some sang in verse their naturall Philosophie we finde And in sweete songs heroicall Exprest their secret minde So morall counsels vttred were In that same selfe sweete sort Thus Poets flourisht eury where As stories makes report And marshall matters in those daies Were song and set aloft So some the art of warre did raise Vnto the skies full oft Sibillas prophesies in verse Were alwaies vttred well The oracels of Delphos to In verse