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A01522
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The steele glas A satyre co[m]piled by George Gascoigne Esquire. Togither with The complainte of Phylomene. An elegie deuised by the same author.
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Gascoigne, George, 1542?-1577.
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1576
(1576)
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STC 11645; ESTC S102876
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34,222
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124
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make I list not vaunte his workes for me shal say In praising him Timantes trade I take VVho when hee should the woful cheare displaie Duke Agamemnon had when he did waile His daughters death with teares of smal auaile Notskild to countershape his morneful grace That men might deeme what art coulde not supplie Deuisde with painted vaile to shrowde his face Like sorte my pen shal Gascoignes praise discrie VVhich wanting grace his graces to rehearse Doth shrowde and cloude them thus in silent verse Walter Rawely of the middle Temple in commendation of the Steele Glasse SVVetē were the sauce would please ech kind of tast The life likewise were pure that neuer swerued For spyteful tongs in cankred stomackes plaste Deeme worst of things which best percase deserued But what for that this medcine may suffyse To scorne the rest and seke to please the wise Though sundry mindes in sundry sorte do deeme Yet worthiest wights yelde prayse for euery payne But enuious braynes do nought or light esteme Such stately steppes as they cannot attaine For who so reapes renowne aboue the rest VVith heapes of hate shal surely be opprest VVherefore to write my censure of this booke This Glasse of Steele vnpartially doth shewe Abuses all to such as in it looke From prince to poore from high estate to lowe As for the verse who list like trade to trye I feare me much shal hardly reache so high Nicholas Bowyer in commēdation of this worke FRom layes of Loue to Satyres sadde and sage Our Poet turnes the trauaile of his time And as he pleasde the vaine of youthful age VVith pleasant penne employde in louing ryme So now he seekes the grauest to delight VVith workes of worth much better than they showe This Glasse of Steele if it be markt aright Discries the faults as wel of high as lowe And Philomelaes fourefolde iust complaynte In sugred sounde doth shrowde a solempne sence Gainst those whome lust or murder doth attaynte Lo this we see is Gascoignes good pretence To please al sorts with his praiseworthy skill Then yelde him thanks in signe of like good wil. The Author to the Reader TO vaunt were vaine and flattrie were a faulte But truth to tell there is a fort of fame The which I seeke by science to assault And so to leaue remembrance of my name The walles wherof are wondrous harde to clyme And much to high for ladders made of ryme Then since I see that rimes can seldome reache Vnto the toppe of such a stately Towre By reasons force I meane to make some breache VVhich yet may helpe my feeble fainting powre That so at last my Muse might enter in And reason rule that rime could neuer win Such battring tyre this pamphlet here bewraies In rymelesse verse which thundreth mighty threates And where it findes that vice the wall decayes Euen there amaine with sharpe rebukes it beates The worke thinke I deserues an honest name If not I fayle to win this forte of fame Tam Marti quà m Mercurio Gentle Reader I pray you before you reade to correct these faults ensuing Leafe Line Faulte Correction A. 2. First page 18. receiue reviued  Eadem 32. fainted fainting A. 2 Second page 25. euen now newe B. 2 First page 6. this deceite their deceipt  Eodem 2 page 18. seconde seemly seconde stemly  Eadem 21. woode woed B. 3. Second page 17 from fraude through fraude B. 4 Seconde Margin of them of the theame C. 4 First page 5. king knight F. 1 First page 9. greedinesse greedy guyles I. 1 Seconde page 2. byrded bryded K. 3 First page 19. astonyed astoynde  Eadem 20 aduance aduante P. 3 First page 6. phy false and Fye fierce and Q. 3 Seconde page 10 then vae vobis vae vobis then THE STEELE GLAS THe Nightingale whose happy noble hart No dole can daunt nor feareful force affright Whose chereful voice doth comfort saddest wights When she hir self hath little cause to sing Whom louers loue bicause she plaines their greues She wraies their woes and yet relieues their payne Whom worthy mindes alwayes esteemed much And grauest yeares haue not disdainde hir notes Only that king proud Tereus by his name With murdring knife did carue hir pleasant tong To couer so his owne foule filthy fault This worthy bird hath taught my weary Muze To sing a song in spight of their despight Which worke my woe withouten cause or crime And make my backe a ladder for their feete By slaundrous steppes and stayres of tickle talke To clyme the throne wherin my selfe should sitte O Phylomene then helpe me now to chaunt And if dead beastes or liuing byrdes haue ghosts Which can conceiue the cause of carefull mone When wrong triumphes and right is ouertrodde Then helpe me now O byrd of gentle bloud In barrayne verse to tell a frutefull tale A tale I meane which may content the mindes Of learned men and graue Philosophers And you my Lord whose happe hath heretofore Bene louingly to reade my reckles rimes And yet haue deignde with fauor to forget The faults of youth which past my hasty pen And therwithall haue graciously vouchsafte To yeld the rest much more than they deservde Vouchsafe lo now to reade and to peruse This rimles verse which flowes fro troubled mind Synce that the line of that false caytife king Which rauished fayre Phylomene for lust And then cut out hir trustie long for hate They liue they liue alas the worse my lucke Whose greedy lust vnbridled from their brest Hath raunged long about the world so wyde To finde a pray for their wide open mouthes And me they found O wofull tale to tell Whose harmelesse hart perceivde not this deceit But that my Lord may playnely vnderstand The mysteries of all that I do meane I am not he whom slaunderous tongues haue tolde False tongues in dede craftie subtile braines To be the man which ment a common spoyle Of louing dames whose eares wold heare my words Or trust the tales deuised by my pen. I n'am a man as some do thinke I am Laugh not good Lord I am in dede a dame Or at the least a right Hermaphrodite And who desires at large to knowe my name My birth my line and euery circumstance Lo reade it here Playne dealyng was my Syre And he begat me by Simplycitie My sistr and I into this world were sent My Systers name was pleasant Poesys And I my selfe had Satyra to name Whose happe was such that in the prime of youth A lusty ladde a stately man to see Brought vp in place where pleasures did abound I dare not say in court for both myne eares Beganne to woo my sister not for wealth But for hir face was louely to beholde And therewithall hir speeche was pleasant stil. This Nobles name was called vayne Delight And in his trayne he had a comely crewe Of guylefull wights False semblant was the first The second man was Flearing flattery Brethren
trustie Seruants hande VVho streight coÌ„â—â—id it to the queen Of Thracian Tirants lande VVhen Progne red the writ A wondrous tale to tell She kept it close though malice made Hir venging hart to swell And did deferre the deede Til time and place might serue But in hir minde a sharpe reuenge She fully did reserue O silence seldome seene That women counsell keepe The cause was this she wakt hir wits And lullde hir tong on sleepe I speake against my sex So haue I done before But truth is truth and muste be tolde Though daunger keepe the dore The thirde yeres rytes renewed VVhich Bacchus to belong And in that night the queene prepares Reuenge for al hir wrong She girt in Bacchus gite VVith sworde hir selfe doth arme VVith wreathes of vines about hir browes And many a needles charme And forth in furie flings Hir handmaides following fast Vntil with hastie steppes she founde The shepecote at the last There howling out aloude As Bacchus priests do crie She brake the dores and found the place VVhere Philomene did lye And toke hir out by force And drest hir Bacchus like And hid hir face with boughes and leaues For being knowen by like And brought hir to hir house But when the wretch it knewe That now againe she was so neere To Tereus vntrue She trembled est for dreade And lookt like ashes pale But Progne now in priuie place Set silence al to sale And tooke the garments off Discouering first hir face And sister like did louingly Faire Phylomene embrace There she by shame abasht Held downe hir weeping eyes As who should say Thy right by me Is refte in wrongful wise And down on ground she falles VVhich ground she kist hir fill As witnesse that the filthie facte VVas done against hir wil. And cast hir hands to heauen In steede of tong to tell VVhat violence the lecher vsde And howe hee did hir quell VVherewith the Queene brake off Hir piteous pearcing plainte And sware with sworde no teares to venge The crafte of this constrainte Or if quoth she there bee Some other meane more sure More stearne more stoute than naked sword Some mischiefe to procure I sweare by al the Gods I shall the same embrace To wreake this wrong with bloudie hande Vppon the king of Thrace Ne will I spare to spende My life in sisters cause In sisters ah what saide I wretch My wrong shall lende me lawes I wil the pallace burne VVith al the princes pelfe And in the midst of flaming fire VVil caste the king him selfe I wil scrat out those eyes That taught him first to lust Or teare his tong from traitors throte Oh that reuenge were iust Or let me carue with knife The wicked Instrument VVherewith he thee and me abusde I am to mischiefe bent Or sleeping let me seeke To sende the soule to hel VVhose barbarous bones for filthy force Did seeme to beare the bel ¶ These words and more in rage Pronounced by this dame Hir little sonne came leaping in VVhich Itis had to name VVhose presence could not please For vewing well his face Ah wretch quoth she how like he groweth Vnto his fathers grace And therwithal resolvde A rare reuenge in deede VVheron to thinke withouteÌ„ words My woful hart doth bleede But when the lad lokt vp And cheerefully did smile And hung about his mothers necke VVith easie weight there while And kist as children vse His angrie mothers cheeke Hir minde was movde to much remorce And mad became ful meeke Ne could she teares refrayne But wept against hir will Such tender rewth of innocence Hir cruell moode did kill At last so furie wrought VVithin hir brest she felt That too much pitie made hir minde Too womanlike to melt And saw hir sister sit VVith heauy harte and cheere And now on hir and then on him Full lowringly did leare Into these words she brust Quoth she why flatters he And why againe with tong cut out So sadly sitteth shee He mother mother calles She sister cannot say That one in earnest doth lament That other whines in plaie Pandions line quoth she Remember stil your race And neuer marke the subtil shewes Of any Soule in Thrace You should degenerate I fright reuenge you slake More right reuenge can neuer bee Than this reuenge to make Al ill that may be thought Al mischiefe vnder skies VVere pietie compard to that VVhich Tereus did deuise ¶ She holds no longer hande But Tygrelike she toke The little boy ful boistrously VVho now for terror quooke Aud crauing mothers helpe She mother toke a blade And in hir sonnes smal tender hart An open wound she made The cruel dede dispatcht Betwene the sisters twaine They tore in peces quarterly The corps which they had slaine Some part they hoong on hooks The rest they laide to fire And on the table caused it Be set before the sire And counterfaite a cause As Grecians order then That at such feasts but onely one They might abide no men He knowing not their crafte Sat downe alone to eate And hungerly his owne warme bloud Deuoured there for meate His ouersight was such That he for It is sent VVhose murdered members in his mawe He priuily had pent No longer Progne then Hir ioy of griefe could hide The thing thou seekst ò wretch VVithin thee doth abide quoth she VVherwith he waxing wroth And searching for his sonne Came forth at length faire Philomene By whom the griefe begonne And clokt in Bacchus copes VVherwith she then was cladde In fathers bosom cast the head Of It is selly ladde Nor euer in hir life Had more desire to speake ThaÌ„ now wherby hir madding mood Might al hir malice wreake ¶ The Thracian prince stert vp VVhose hart did boyle in brest To feele the foode and see the sawce VVhich he could not disgest And armed as he was He followed both the Greekes On whom by smarte of sword and A sharpe reuenge he sekes flame But when the heauenly benche These bloudie deedes did see And found that bloud stil couits bloud And so none ende could be They then by their forsight Thought meete to stinte the strife And so restraind the murdring king From sister and from wife So that by their decree The yongest daughter fledde Into the thicks where couertly A cloister life she ledde And yet to ease hir woe She worthily can sing And as thou hearst caÌ„ please the eares Of many men in spring The eldest dame and wife A Swallowe was assignde And builds in smoky chimney toppes And flies against the winde The king him selfe condemnde A Lapwing for to be VVho for his yong ones cries alwais Yet neuer can them see The lad a Pheasaunt cocke For his degree hath gaind VVhose blouddie plumes declare the bloud VVherwith his face was staind ¶ But there to turne my tale The which I came to tell The yongest dame to forrests fled And there is dampnde to dwell And Nightingale now namde VVhich Philomela hight