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
shall the greatest smile And meanest sort of force be pleasd the while Your Maiesties most humble seruant Thomas Churchyard WHat song should please a sacred princes eares Which likes no tunes but musick sweet sound Weake were my muse to offer sighes and teares Where ioyfull mirth and gladnes doth abound But troubled mind that rowles on restles ground In sorrow sings the secrets of the hart Because sad man can sing no sweeter part O charitie helpe Of charitie that makes a solemne noies A strange consort I hope well â—unde I bring Of heauenlie loue that passeth earthlie Ioies In formall wise a true set song I sing Would God the sound through al the world might ring That charitie which ech one ought to keepe Might waken now that long hath laine a sleepe O charitie helpe Shee hath bin brought in slumber sundrie waies With lullabie as nurse doth rocke hir childe The cradle gaie of pleasant nights and daies With too much ease hath charitie beguilde And now God wot the world is waxt so wilde That charitie must needs make ech thing tame That wilde discord hath brought cleane out of frame O charitie helpe Pity and ruth are fled or banisht quite And in their place comes rigor rudelie cled Godlie remorse is drownd in worlds delite Good consâ—ence feares that charitie is dead Loue looketh downe and hate holds vp the head Troth barelie liues and tretchrie thriues apace Deserts doth starue and meanewell hides his face O charitie helpâ— Franknes is blinde affection dims his sight Larges is lost hardnes supplies his place Wrong runs so swift it ouer-gallops right Goodnes limps downe and halts in many a case Do well doth droupe or walks with muâ—fled face Vertue and vice now wrastles for a fall And so the strong will thrust the weake to wall O charitie helpe Stoutnes with strength strikes flat the feeble force Downe is kept downe and neuer like to rise Malice and might rides both vpon one horse Sir Packolets nagge that gallops through the skies Iudgement growes grosse ore weening wanteth eies Will is a wagge waste hath the wager woon For all the date of our redresse is done O charitie helpe Loyaltie weeps and flattrie laughes and smiles Goodwill is scornd and puts vp many a taunt Pouertie is plagude or ouermatcht with wiles Plainnes complaines but pride bids him auaunt Crueltie the curre with crie of hounds will chaunt But bandog bites full sore before he barke And craft the carle still iuggles in the darke O charitie helpe Friendship lookes pale it hath an ague fit Fauour is faint and lame it cannot go Finenes is false and full of subtill wit Faith giues faire words and breaketh promis so Constancie reeles and staggers to and fro Charitie must needs reforme these follies strange That by abuse doth noble nature change O charitie helpe Dutie doth die to driue on diuelish drifts Stubbornes striues to wrangle for a strawe Cunning long liues by cusnage and by shifts Disorder thriues with neither rule nor laue People growes proud without true feare or awe If suffrance see these prancks and hold his peace Goodnes decaies and badnes shall encrease O charitie helpe If charitie be the foode or fruite of faith Where bloomes that tree where doth those branches bud True charitie sure as wisest people saith Is working still and euer dooing good Loue helpes our health as life maintaines the blood But where no helpe nor succour we may finde There charitie is almost out of minde O charitie helpe If through my faith great mountaines I may moue And can raise vp to life the dead from graue That withred faith brings foorth no fruite of loue It gaines no grace what euer hope I haue If charitie be the thing which good men craue God graunt that I and all that heares the same May sing that song like Sidrack in the flame O charitie helpe My humble hart hopes now but for dispatch Of life that wastes away like candle blase The clocke will stricke in haste I heare the watch That sounds the bell whereon the people gase My forces faile my wits are in a mase My corps consumes my skin and bones doth shew The soule is glad the bodie hence shall go O charitie helpe Truth waited long on your sweete sacred raigne To catch some crums that from your table fals I sowe in teares and reaps but bitter paine That makes sicke soule lie groning by the wals Where hands a crosse for helpe to heauen cals So sucks vp sighes and sorrow of the minde As boyling brest blowes fast for aire and winde O charitie helpe My muse doth muse how labour lost his time And seruice great doth get so small regarde I neuer thriude by prose nor pleasant â—ime Nor could in world be any way prefard An open signe my thankles hap is hard Yet numbers of my verie name and race By prince in court were cald to woorthie place O charitie helpe I am the Drone that bees beats from the hiue The vglie Oule that kites and crowes do hate The drawing oxe that clounes do daily driue The haples hinde that hath the hatefull fate That weares aâ—l sutes and seasons out of date If destny so alots men such hard chance They passe the pikes that fortune will aduance O charitie helpe My passage is like one that rides in post Through water fire and all the hazards heere And so draws home a weary grisly ghost Whose losse of youth buâ—es loathsome age too deere Now coms accoâ—nt of daies of houres and yeere My debts are stald as oft bare bankrouts be The graue paies all and sets my bondage free O charitie helpe The wo of wars and pride and pompe of peace The toile of world and troubles here and there And churlish checks of fortune I release Their heauie crosse I can no longer beare In peeces small my scribbled scrowles I teare So flinging verse and bookes before your feet I craue some crownes to bie my shrouding sheet O charitie helpe All hope is gone of any earthly hap The axe is come to giue the falling blow Downe flies the bowes the tree hath lost his sap Vp to the clouds like smoke the breath shall go A sillie puffe of winde ends all this wo O grashous Queene then some compassion take Before my soule this combrous caue forsake O charitie helpe If nothing come of seruice sute and troth True man must trudge and leaue his natiue soile Abroad the world to see how fortune goth In any place where faith is free from foyle Heere with vaine hope my selfe and life I spoile First lost my youth so time and all is gone Age sindes no friends nor helpe of any one O charitie helpe Of charitie a great discourse is made Vnto an Earle I honor in this land It is not hid nor sits in silent shade Would God it were in your faire blessed hand There lies the notes as thicke as is the sand And there I sing three parts in one at lest
And in sweete sound true musicke is exprest O charitie helpe or else adue the pen For I must march againe with marshall men FINIS To the generall Readers IF ought amisse you finde good Reader heere His fault it is that sings ne sweete nor loud When he caught cold and voice could not be cleere Because ech note is cloked vnder cloud He craâ—d no helpe nor stole from no mans song One peece nor part of musicke any waie Ne sembreeffe breefe nor yet ne larke nor long For he hath skill in deskant some men saie And on the base can make three parts in one And set new songs when all the old are gone Though some beleeue but hardly that he makes These things or that which seemes far past his reach Tush though old head and hand with paulsie shakes Let no ill will plaine writers pen appeach If you do loue no wrong giue ech man right Rob not the iust of any praise well won Way not mens worth with waights in ballance light For truth is truth when all is saide and don You may as well say white and red is blacke And Sun and Moone are steele and marble stone As say or thinke behinde a writers backe He borrowed that which he claimes as his owne O giue men leaue to father their owne childe Let it be foule or faire as babies are A stubborne boye a cracke-rope tame or wilde Begot in haste and brought vp poore and bare How ere they be blinde lame or shapt awrie Vglie to sight bigge boulchoâ—s lowe or â—ie Those yoonglings all the Dadâ—an not denie Are his that sent those babes abroad to nurse Like orphants weake that knowes not what to do With blessings great and not with parents curse That shortens life and gets Gods anger to Children were woont to beare their fathers name Not one durst say in earnest iest or skorne To hinder childe of spotlesse birth and fame A lawfull sonne was but a bastard borne Both beast and bird their yoong ones do defend So shall my Muse maintaine that I haue pend Then bring Shores wife in question now no more I set hir foorth in colours as she goes Sir Rafe Bowser a worshipfull knight witnesseth where and when I penned that And as she went like gallant lasse before So other gyrls as gaie and fresh as rose With verse haue I set foorth in sundrie sorts As braue as she what ere disdaine reports That humor now declines for age drawes on The full tide is of fine inuention gon Ebbe followes floud when vitall vaines waxe dead Wit weares and wastes as torch consumes with winde When water turnes drie growes a flowing head In age ech thing decaies by course of kinde Yet whiles the oyle in lampe may make a blaze Or candell in the socket shewes a light On sparkling flame the cleerest eies will gaze And comfort finde thereby in darkest night I yeeld to time that like a sithe cuts cleane All that doth grâ—w in spring or fall of leafe And wish in world my treble were a meane That I might sinâ— to eares that are not deafe A note should sinke as deepe in iugging brest As euer yet â—n sea did ancker rest Songs are but likt as fancies giues them leaue Both well and 〈◊〉 as sounds of trumpets are Though Syrens voice the hearers doth deceaue Mine hath no charme but open plaine and bare As I was borne so speake I English still To lose my paines and win the worlds good will No losse so much as credit crackt with pen Nor gaine so great as loue of honest men Fare you well The Author to his booke GO now plaine booke where thou maist welcom find Walke throw the world till frinds do thee embrace Let foes alone obay thy masters mind For fear nor threat hide not a fautlesse face Win courts goodwill the countries loue is gaind With wise men stay from froward wits beware At plow and cart plaine speech is not disdaind Sit downe with those that feeds on hungrie fare For they haue time to note what thou dost saie Let gallants go they will but giue a gibe Or take thee vp and fling thee straight awaie Touch not smooth hands that vse to take a bribe They better like full bags than busie bookes Shun from the sight of glorious peacocks proud Their onlie pomp stands all on statelie lookes They glowm and skoull as t weare a raynie cloud Giue babling toongs good leaue to taunt and talke Their taste is gone they oft take chese for chalke Bid scornfull heads let true-plainâ— lines alone That harmles are and came from lowlie hart Passe not in haste to people strange vnknowne Least iudgment swift do take on thee the start And run beyond thy reach full many a skore Go slowlie foorth with thanks come quickly 〈◊〉 Bring no rebuke for that nips near and sore T were better far abroad thou shouldst not roâ—â— Though thou be blind yet those that well can see If thou offend will find great fault with mee Behaue thy selfe as mildly as thou maist Lâ—ke messenger that doth his arnd aright Thy master must affirme each thing thou saist The darkest word at length must come to light Like pilgrim go and passe throw perils all Take well in worth what hap doth thee befall Returne no more to me till newes thou bring Of praise or thankes or of some better thing If none of these this waiward world will yeeld Trudge from fine towne fliâ— to the open feild Where thou must passe through thickets full of thorns Where pricking briers and croked brambles grose And neuer none sâ—apt free from scâ—â—th or scornes Or scratted hands or tearing of his close Where eluish apâ—s and marmsets mockes and mose And thistles are seen sooner than a rose Yea thou shalt come where nettles are good store Whose angrie sting will blisters raise apace Slip from those weedes and come near them no more For fear vnwares good words do get disgrace The goodlie floures of court thou needs not feare For they are sweete and meeke of nature throw There wisedome will with writers humor beare If humbly stil thou canst behaue thee now Thy masters pen hath purchast fauour there Among the Dames of faire Dianas traine Where beautie shines like siluer drops of raine In sunnie day O booke thou happy art If with those Nimphes thou maist be entertaind If any one of them take in good part A verse or word thou hast a garland gaind Of glorie great for fame hir selfe must sound Out of their voice looke what they do pronounce Like tennis ball aloft it doth rebound And yeelds great weight but not by dram nor ounce But heauie as a massie pound of lead They wey mens worth with praises quicke or dead Yea what they say of Poets fond or wise Of prose or verse that ripe inuenshoâ— shoes As twâ—re a lawe the fame thereof shall rise And through the world like coin it currant goes From hand to hand and so doth
life by customs ill And takes away true feare Of God and man such Poets leud Were banisht and exilde Because with foule condishons shreud Their country they defilde Good Poets were in eury age Made of and nourishâ— well They were the floures of gardens gaie That gaue the goodly smell The true forewarners of great things That after did befall The ioy of godly vertuous kings And honest subiects all Our age and former fathers daies Leaue Goore and Chauser out Hath brought foorth heere but few to praise Search all our soyle about Yet of all those that newly wrate In prose or verse of late Let Sydney weare for stile of state The garland lawreate His bookes makes many bookes to blush They shew such sence and wit Our dribbers shoots not woorth a rush When he the marke doth hit His phrase is sifted like fine floure That maketh manchet bread Sweet eury where and nothing soure That flowes from Sydneyes head Sweete dewe dropt out of Sydneyes quill As raine great moysture shoes And from his muse there did distill A liquor sweete as rose Aquintesence a spirit of wine Naie Nectar better namde A breuage for the Gods deuine Of compounds made and framde That whosoeuer drinks thereon Immortall shall be made His books he left to looke vpon When we in worldly shade Sits mumping eury houre of daie And scarce knows where we are Our braines like bucke doth stande at baie Beset about with care Of this or that when Sydneyes books Cals vp a drowping ghost For whosoeuer thereon looks With worldly troubles tost He shall finde quietnes thereby And Christian comfort great Woorth all the treasure vnder skie It climes to Ioues hie seat And sits among the Angels sweet Where psalmes and himnes are sung And all base humors vnder feeâ— Are out of fauor flung The poets that can clime the cloudes Like ship boy to the top When sharpest stormes do shake the shroudes Sets ware to sale in shop Of heauenly things that earthly men Can scarcely vnderstand Did not our Chausers golden pen That beautifide this land Reach to the sunne and highest star And toucht the heauens all A poets knowledge goes so far That it to mind can call Each wonder since this world began And what was seene in skies A poet is no common man He lookes with Argoes eies Like Linx throw steele or stonie wals No secret scapes his sight Of future time and what befals In world by day or night He sees and somtimes writes thereof When scornfull people scowle And makes of earnest words a scoffe Or cals â—aire speeches fowle Our countrie breeds vp Poets still As grasse springs from good ground For there doth flourish learned skill Where knowledge doth abound Looke what our elders wits did sowe Or left behinde in heapes Our age and haruest people mowe Or with sharpe sickle reapes The seede of sence faire fruit brings foorth In feeld a thousand fold And is in value price and woorth More preshous than the gold What can be counted foule or cleane But Poets thereon talke Yet thousands knowes not what they meane When they in cloud will walke As from the fountaine water floes Conuaid by gushing pipe So from the pen of Poet goes Fine words and sentence ripe That ech good minde may well digest As sweete as honie sure His termes are taken with the best If verse be neate and pure As riders whisking wand doth feare The horse whereon he sits So wrangling people eurie where At verses vex their wits If any writer touch the gall In pastime be it sed Then downe coms tressels house and all Vpon the poore mans head Yet wise men will good words embrace And take each thing in worth And giue each word and line a grace That poets do set forth Diuine du Bartas merits 〈◊〉 Most excellent verse he wrate So sundrie writers in our daies Haue done full well of late In Spensers morall fairie Queene And Daniels rosie mound If they be throwly waid and seen Much matter may be found One Barnes that Petrarks scholler is May march with them in ranke A learned Templers name I mis Whose pen deserues great thanke A number more writs well indeed They spring vp newly now As gazing world their works shall reed So shall world praise them throw But sure my noble Sidneies skill I neuer can forget To him my seruice and good will Shall euer dwell in deâ— Of learned lore the onely light Which blazde like lampe most cleere And as a star in moone shine night Could vnder cloud appeer Seemd dim and darke to dazled eies But faire and bright to those That vnderstood the stately gise Of learned verse or prose Could crack the nut of â—aâ—â—hell And shew the kernell plaine For by his works who notes them well In world he liues againe The booke that doth of poets treat In golden robes so shines It triumphes still with honor great Among the best diuines Which booke deckt vp in trim attire Of authors wise and graue In matters of mine owne desire Great light to poetrie gaue And made me write of poets praise Thus so to starrie skie My Sidneies honor heere I raise As far as fame can flie FINIS My next Booke comes out shortlie dedicated to my Honorable woorthy friende Master HENRIE BROOKE sonne and heire to the noble Lord COBHAM A well disposed minde cals many good things to memorie Good men haue many sweet imaginations Blinde world is fraught with fond desires The poore estate of people is to be pitied The wealth hardly won is easilie left Graceles time runs on rowling wheeles Christian loue lookes to euerie thing Zeale is the glas that shewes the spots of face Abuse runs ouer the brim Full paunch eats vp all Faire wordâ— make fooles faine Deceit deceaues militous of men Wealths thirst drinks riuers dry A sauing world spares nothing to the poore Prisoners perish for want of comfort Many silly soules goes a hungrie to bed Full purse follows many pleasures The purchesars plucks all from the poore Craftie 〈◊〉 can play bopeep Cunning raiseth the price of euery thing Vittles made deere seldome comes downe againe Wicked wolues deuoures the lambs A diuelish dearth destroies thousands The loue of wealth forgets all goodnes Hard hands will part from nothing Foolish world thinks but our present time Many yeers and maners alters the kinde of man A golden age is turnd to copper and brasse Words is the worst ware that euer was sold. Wealth weighs downe euery thing Words are waues tossed with wind Marcheuill is now made an English man Want of charitie hath made me loose my pattent The milner will be sure of his toule A fine fisher would catch all himselfe Good turnes are turnd to faire holy water The father will scarse speake for his sonne The soldier consumes himselfe with griefe A lip wise