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A18740
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A handeful of gladsome verses, giuen to the Queenes Maiesty at Woodstocke this prograce. 1592. By Thomas Churchyarde
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Churchyard, Thomas, 1520?-1604.
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1592
(1592)
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STC 5237; ESTC S112587
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7,494
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22
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A HANDEFVL OF GLADSOME VERSES giuen to the Queenes Maiesty at Woodstocke this Prograce 1592. By THOMAS CHVRCHYARDE At Oxforde printed by IOSEPH BARNES Printer to the Vniuersitie 1592. TO THE QVEENES MOST EXCELLENT MAIESTY MOST gratious and sacred Soueraigne if hope of your princely fauour did not carry me beyond the compasse of my ordinary iudgement I had long a goe surceased the common course of writing in verse to your Maiestie But a sweete and comfortable conceite of your gracious goodnes towards me euer and at all times commanded my muse my pen and vttermost power to goe about no other earthly felicity then the seruing and pleasing of the onely Phoenix of this world my betters farre haue beene ful of that fortunate humor and thriuen well thereby my selfe desires neuer to be discharged of that sweet seruitude pleasāt to the mind profitable to the body and a safety for the soule Now in this quenchles desire of mine that encreaseth a continuall thirst to doe well there riseth a restles cogitation making me think that verse that booke or that peece of seruice as oft I haue put in practice will be happely accepted But beholding most redoubted Queene a multitude of people as well desposed as my selfe that are rūning preasing apace before me some with rare inuentions some with deepe deuices to the honouring of your Maiestie I feare they haue carried cleane away so much knowledge frōme that ther is left no deuice nor matter to study on such is the bounty of our time forwardnes of their wittes which are learned that all fine inuentions are smoothly reaped from my reach cunningly raked away from my vse or commoditie Then am I forced to search what substāce or slēder stuffe of poetrie lyes cowching in mine owne shallow head and so hapning on a few voluntary rimes I haue as it were by good fortune peeced or cōpounded vp a booke which I cal a handful of gladsome verses God graunt they be pleasing but the best is they are deuised for a pastime inuēted for a merry conceyt and presented of a harm les mind to the sweete and sacred consideration of your Maiestie Thus hoping they shal haue free passage to your princely presentes I pray humbly for the preservation of your most Royall person Your Maiesties dutiful and loyall seruant THOMAS CHVRCHYARD A few volu ntary verses to the general readers IF aged daies had dryed vp my Muse As summer drouth hath partcht both hearb and grasse Yet now compeld my pen againe to vse That world shall see my minde is as it was Looke for no gold when I can giue but glasse My morning dew sun beames hath taken hence And troubled springs yeelds puddle water sence Take edge away the knife can cut no more Hard stony ground can beare but little corne Old appels sone are rotten at the kore Ne Figs nor Grapes can come from pricking thorne The glasse soone goes from silke that long is worne Hope for no fruit when leaues forsakes the tree So falleth out betweene my verse and me When youth was fresh and florisht as a flowre The wits were quicke and ready to conceiue When age did frowne and browes began to lowre My skill grue scant the muses did me leaue Then tract of time in head did cobwebs weaue So rusty grew the reason of the braine And euer since I lost my Poets vaine What though ripe wit be now but bare and blunt And fine deuice of head is farre to seeke And age can not doe that which youth was wont And pen scarce makes a verse in halfe a weeke And all my workes not worth a little leeke Yet what I doe but bad or worthy praise I neuer robd no writer in my daies It is mine owne I bring to Printers Presse I haue by happe a Hatchet in my hand To hew the wood let it be more or lesse In what strange forme I list to let it stand though some be chips let all bee iustly scand Ne chips ne choice nor nothing els I knew But was well ment and may abide the vew A Booke in Presse that I my challenge name Shall tell you more of workes that I haue done But blame me not since each man striues for fame To holde on right the course wherein I runne I ought to weare the cloth my fingers spunne I will so Iowd for bookes and verses crie That sure no bird shall with my feathers flie Some Peakocks then will spread their tailes no more Small boast is best let touchstone trie out golde I haue as yet some tragedies in store That like Shores wife in verses shalbe tolde Condemne no man though he be waxen olde A rough barkt tree whose bowes but crooked grow When season serues some mellowd fruit may show A great olde Oake long time will akornes beare And small young graffes are long in sprouting out Some saie old wine is liked euerie where And all men knowes new ale is full of grout Old horse goes well young tits are much to doubt But sure old golde is more esteemd then new No Hawke compares with Hagard in the mew Old men know much though young men cal them fooles Old bookes are best for there great learning is Old authours too are daily read in Schooles New sectes are nought olde knowledge can not misse Old guyes was good and nothing like to this Where fraude and craft and finenesse all would haue And playnest men can neither pole nor shaue Olde fathers built faire Colledges good store And gaue great goods and landes to bring vp youth Young men thinke skorne to make of little more And spends away their thrift to tell the truth Olde mindes were full of mercie grace and ruth And pitty tooke of those that seemd to lacke Young gallants gay from poore doe turne their backe Olde customes good at length becam good lawes Olde lawes are likte and honourd of the wise Good men obey the euils olde order drawes Newe fond delights olde fathers did despise In olde graue heads great skill and wisedome lies Sounde councell comes from age in time of neede Olde mens aduice is that which doth the deede Olde beaten waies are readie still to hit These new by-paths leades men on many stiles An olde prouerbe hath no more wordes then wit Newe fangled heades at each light fancie smiles Olde wisedome farre surmounts young fondlings wiles Experience is the doctor eury daie That carries close all knowledge cleane away Young houndes are fleete the olde hunts slowe and true Olde dogges bite sore if all his teeth be sound Olde auncient friends are better then the newe In younglings loue there is small suretie found For like a toppe fine fancie turneth round Olde colth or silke made in our elder daies Weares long and firme when new things soone decaies No further nowe of age but to my taske I tooke in hand to shewe my duety throw Yet licker sweete comes none from emptie kaske With vargis sowre is
fild olde barrell now But reason must inuent the meane and howe I doe discharge my duety as I ought To make a booke shall answere writers thought Nowe must my Muse goe borrowe if I may My betters workes to fill my matter full Tush world growes hard each man will say me nay Some cannot spare a little locke of wooll So greedely for pealfe they plucke and pull But namely some so watch and pry for fame That they with wordes will hinder mens good name Spite is a sparke of fire that flies in thaire And makes a cracke like pouder in a dagge Spite hides foule thoughts in lookes and speeches faire Whose wordes rests not as long as tongue may wagge Spite of himselfe will boldly boast and bragge To hurt by hate the hart that harmeles is For spite like snake in euery hedge can his Who flings a stone at euery dogge that barkes A wearie arme is surelie like to haue Though enuy shootes his bolts at many markes Pride wins not all the glory he doth craue Some will not giue the dead good words in graue Howe should the quicke then get bad worlds goodwill When hollowe harts but harbours hatred still March on plaine booke although thou passe the pikes Some marshall man will saue a souldiers life Holde in thy head from those that thee mislikes In skornefull daies I knowe disdaine is riefe Thy gladsome verse stirs vp more mirth then strife So Prince thou please thine owne desire thou hast Come cleare from court care not for enuies blast Thus Readers all I bid you heere farewell And to the Prince a simple tale I tell FINIS A HANDEFVLL OF GLADSOME UERSES GIVEN TO THE QUEENS Maiesty at Woodstocke this prograce I Most presume of all A boldnes more then needs To come where flowers sweet sent lets fall And I bring nought but weeds But though the fountaine springs From whence all learning flowes By study great great science brings And therewith duety showes The barraine ground of mine That seld sweet roses beares May yeeld some word or pleasant line Shall please your Princely eares But as an Oaten pipe When shepheard plaies a round Can moue no matter of delite By strangnes of the sound So verse puft vp with quill And cunning sleight of braine Where swift conceite conceiues at will Some grace of Poets vaine No pearsing passage findes To enter as it would In great estates whose noble mindes Knowes quickly glasse from gould A tale of plaine plowe man That roughly runneth on Finds frowns for fauor now and than When gracious lokes are gone What meanes my Muses weake In heate of humor newe So neere graue heads to write or speake Of things I seldome knewe As one start out of sleepe Tels dreames and visions rare To those that talke of dreames no keepe Nor doth for fancies care Our english Idle rimes To this is here compard Whose rouing reasons often times Reapes nought but small regard For learned sages wies That much haue seene and red Who knowes the course of stars in skies And what may well be sed And all the liberall artes Haue at their fingers ends They for their giftes and speciall partes Which God to scholers sendes Are worthie hearing still They bring the sugred cuppe They are the nurses of good skill That fosters children vppe They with the muses talke As all things were their owne And like the Gods doe closely walke In secret clouds vnknown Uaine verses haue no power Great vertue to perswade They are but blossomes of a flowre Whose beauty soone doth fade That pleaseth men a while with wordes of no great weight A speech that may some eares beguie A fine and pretty sleight A ripe inuention rare That springs on deepe deuice But verse is worne so weake and bare It beares but little price Because so many braines Runnes verses out of breath And posting wits with thankeles paines Hath ridden rime to death Though Poets in time past As Virgill and the rest Goâ—e crownes and many a famous blast To make them hold vp crest Yet most of them poore men Like byrdes but newely pluckt For Ovid that through gift of pen Did seeme that drye he suckt The springes of learned lore He had hard hap withall Homer had no great golde in store Nor worldly wealth at call And since fewe Poets rose To any worthy place And some scarce got meate drink clothes So poore was Poets case If Poets lucke be such That daily they decline And writers neuer can be rich For all their flourish fine Then seeke a better trade And fling away thy quill And take a mattoke and a spade And digge downe Maulvorne hill Twere better labour so By sweat of browes to liue Then like a threedbare Poet goe That hath no bread to giue Yet men may seeke to thriue By verse or stately prose Against ill chaunce or streame to striue Both strength and time we lose Uerse well deuisde and framde Wins friends and feareth foes So writer shape vnharmd or blamd For treading on mens toes Where angry cornes doth growe Yea verse breedes merry bloud When each sad word to world doth showe A liuely sentence good Uerse maketh many knowen That els forgotten are Who brings odde versis of their owne And prints no borrowd ware Who watcheth not their hours To steale and picke away From others gardens goodly flowres To make their posies gay Thus some doe borrowe much And then on braues doe stand A begger so may soone be rich Ne borne to rent nor land Great princes haue made verse And favred poetrie well Uerse hath a grace the clouds to pearce And clime where Gods doe dwell In verse great vertue is If worke well passe the â—ile And verse gets grace with that or this To make the Prince to smile Then many knacks we proue Our credite well to keepe And tell how Lords for Ladies loue Will lie all day a sleepe And faine when they awake In verse or letters long That they doe die for mistresse sake And suffer too much wrong A large discourse thereof Twere good to tell in deede But some would say I iest and scoffe And speake more wordes then neede Nay better talke of bogges That walkes in dead mens shapes Or tell of little pretty pogges As Monkies Owles and Apes A tale of two ours long Blinde peoples eares to please Nay that were like a Syreins song That shipmen heares on seas Strange Farlees fathers tolde Of feendes and hagges of hell And how that Syrses when she would Could skill of sorcerie well And how old thin faste wiues That rosted crabs by night Did tell of monsters in their liues That now proue shadowes light And told what Marlin spoke Of world and times to come But all that fire doth make no smoke For in mine eare doth home Another kinde of Bee That sounds a tune most strange A trembling noise of words to me That makes my countenance change Of old Hobgoblings guise That walkt like