wool And finde the haire so course in euery place As makes a wood-cocke proue himselfe a Gull That hath no better braines within his scull Then to bestow his time in idle trifles With penning notes to fil the world with nifles For God sake let vs then our follies leaue And not lay open-one anothers ill But in our conscience learne for to conceiue How heedlesse wit may be abus'd by will And haue a care so well to vse our skill We may be loued for our learned lines Where gracious spirits Poets make Diuines And for my selfe I meane the Ice to breake Vnto the passage of that Paradice VVhere rauisht Grace may of that Glory speake VVhere mercy liues and comfort neuer dyes And the best praise of any Poet lies Or at the least if any went before Follow that line and loue the world no more What right bred wits will haue to doe with blind men Especially blind beggers and their boyes They that haue iudgement how indeed to find men VVil think such younkers but hobberdie-hoyes That ply their wits vnto such paltrie toyes Or els to shew that he hath learn'd in part To rob the blindeman of his beggers art If it be so and meane to keepe a Schoole To bring vp boyes vnto the beggers crafte To take a thresholde for his cushen-stoole To knaue a crust and drinke a sorry draft Let him goe sleepe when he hath soundly quaft And shrugge himselfe vnder some sorry tree And 'mong the beggers master begger be But then me thinkes he should set out his table All ye that seeke to haue your children taught To play the begger how he may be able VVhen that his eye-sight groweth old or naught Aske for the man that hath the Cony caught And dwelleth where the matter is not great And you shall haue them boorded without meate But t is no matter men that haue a name Neede make no table they are knowen so well And the blinde Begger hath so great a fame As of his trickes can euery high-way tell And since for begging he doth beare the bell Let him keepe Schoole and learne of him that will The stocks wil kindly fit him for his skill But for I doubt some men of good profession Will take exceptions at my table-writing To honest mindes I make my hearts confession My soule is free from vertuous spirits spighting Not one of them is in my thoughts endighting I rather wish God blesse them and their Arts And let the blindmen play the Beggers parts For all good Poets will cry out vpon him That falles to blindenes and to beggery And in his wits be so farre woe-begon him That in an humour of base trumpery The world may see in idle foolery A Ballad-maker would haue bene a Poet But hat he knew not in what point to shew it Thus will the world be descanting on writers When they shall read their ouer-rude descriptions And say that spirits which are growen such spighters Shuld better learned be in loues prescriptions Then goe about so with their circumscriptions That wits of worth that know their foolery Doe call it Pot-rie and not Poetrie And what haue we to doe with pilgrimage To walke bare witted to S. Dunces well A Grammer Scholer but of ten yeeres age That scarse hath learn'd his Latine lines to spell VVill soone by heart a better story tell And say such Poets as their wits so tosse Make all their walkes by little witttam crosse For let the world imagine what it list And idle wits deceiue themselues with toyes Those hammering heads that breed but Had I wist Are all to farre from those assured ioyes VVhere heauenly comfort kils al earths annoyes No no t is onely Vnitie and Peace That makes all blessings prosper and encrease Oh Poets turne the humour of your braines Vnto some heauenly Muse or meditation And let your spirits there imploy your paines VVhere neuer weary needs no recreation VVhile God doth blesse each gracious cogitation For proud comparisons are alwayes odious But humble Muses musicke is melodious Then learne to sing and leaue to learne to braule It is vnfitting to a fine conceit From vertues care to vaine effects to fall VVhere carelesse words doe carry little weight VVhile fancie angles but with follies baite VVhich hanging but a Gudgin on the hooke May sigh to see what idle paines he tooke No no let fancie weane her selfe from folly And heauenly prayers grace our Poetrie Let vs not loue the thought that is not holy Nor bend our mindes to blinde mens beggerie But let vs thinke it our soules misery That all our Muses doe not ioyne in one To make a Quire to sing to God alone Eor could our spirits all agree together In the true ground of vertues humble grace To sing of heauen and of the high-way thither And of the ioyes in that most ioyfull place Where Angels armes the blessed soules embrace Then God himselfe would blesse our soules enditing And al the world would loue a Poets writing FINIS
full of misery VVhat villany is it to vexe it more And if a wench doe treade her shooe awry VVhat honest heart will turne her out of dore Oh if our faultes were all vpon the skore VVhat man so holy but would be ashamed To heare himselfe vpon the Schedule named Let vs then leaue our biting kinde of verses They are too bitter for a gentle taste Sharpe pointed speach so neare the spirit pearces As growes to rankle ere the poison waste But let all be forgotten that is past And let vs all agree in one in this Let God alone to mend what is amisse But if we needes will try our wits to write And striue to mount our Muses to the height Oh let vs labour for that heauenly light That may direct vs in our passage streight VVhere humble wits may holy will awaite And there to finde that worke to write reede That may be worth the looking on indeede To shewe the life of vnitie in loue VVhere neuer discord doth the musique marre But in the blessing of the soules behoue To see the light of that faire shining starre VVhich shews the day that neuer night can marie But in the brightnesse of eternall glory How loue and life doe make a blessed story If we be toucht with sorrow of our sinnes Expresse our passions as the Psalmist did And shew how mercy hopes reliefe beginnes Where greatest harmes are in repentance hid When Grace in Mercy doth despaire forbid And sing of him and of his glory such Who hateth sinne yet will forgiue so much And let our hymnes be Angell harmonie Where Halleluiah makes the heauens to ring And make a consort of such companie As make the Quire but to their holy King This this I say would be a blessed thing When all the world might ioy to heare and see How Poets in such Poetry agree For who can make an Ape to leaue his mowes Although he call him twentie times an Ape And who can stop the cawing of the Crowes Although he tell them of their carrion gape And if the collicke chance to breed a scape But hold your nose the sent will quickly die Then cry not foh but let the fih goe by A Mastiffe dog will neuer make a Spaniell Then let the Curre alone to shew his kinde A horse-mans saddle is no market paniell To wash a Moore is worke against the winde Those blinking wits do show their wils too blind That finding faultes so roughly fall vpon them To think to mend them with their railing on them The deuill is a knaue who knowes it not And who but God can put downe all his power And how must God his gracious loue be got But all by prayer euery day and houre While teares of sorrow make a blessed showre And humble faith doth but to mercy flie In hearty prayer not in Poetry Yet say I not but Poets well may pray And praying Poets doe most sweetly sing For proofe of Dauid see what trueth may say A praying Poet and a blessed King Whose verses all did from such vertues spring As left the loue of learned trueth to try Howe prayer shewes the princely Poetry Let vs all Poets then agree together To run from hell and fained Helicon And looke at heauen and humbly hie vs thither Where Graces shall be let in euery one To sing a part in Glories vnion And there to settle all our soules desire To heare the musicke of that heauenly Quire Let Ouid with Narcissus idle tale Weare out his wits with figuratiue fables Old idle Histories grow to be so stale That clownes almost haue bard them from their tables And Phoebus with his horses and his stables Leaue them to babies make a better choise Of sweeter matter for the soules reioyce Who toucheth pitch and tarre cannot be cleane A wilfull wit doth worke it selfe much woe In euery course t is good to keepe a meane And being well to liue contented so The softest walkers doe most safely goe Hast maketh wast and wits that run astray Make had I wist to make fooles holy-day Be quiet then I say be quiet Wagges And haue no more with nothing worth to doe While other angle for the golden bagges We seeke out toies to set our wits vnto But let vs leaue the Cobbler to his shooe And let the foole himselfe with folly flatter And bend our studies vnto better matter No this is not a world for simple wits That can not looke a mile aboue the Moone Nor roste their sparrowes but on wodden spits Nor make a morning of an after-noone Nor watch a blessing when there fals a Boone No no it is no world for weake conceit The Deuil is too cunning in deceit A silly honest creature may do well To watch a cockeshoote or a limed bush For many a Scholler happly learnes to spell That can not put together worth a rush Yet let a Poet at such humors hush His will should be about some other worke Then where the Adder in the grasse doth lurke And since my selfe haue marched in that ranke VVhere Mercury commanded Pallas Traine And spent my spirits in my thoughts as franke As he that thought he had a better vaine I must confesse what idle humours gaine A frumpe a frowne a foyle or els a feare VVhen wil doth write that reason cannot beare No truely no this world is not for me I will no longer be fantasticall But winke at folly when the foole I see That in his gesture is so finicall As if his spirit were Poeticall And thinke it better weare my wits at Schoole Then spoyle my wits in painting of a foole Vpon the painted cloth the Nightingale Did bid me heare and see and say the best The sea Mew sayes it is a cruel gale That driues the Swallow cleane out of her nest Why simple noses now can bide no iest And Poets that are open in Inuectiues Doe often fall vpon too much defectiues Beleeue me brother t is as thou doest write Poets should wright by heauenly inspiration But he that is possessed with despight Shewes but a wicked kinde of instigation To thinke by scoffes to make a reformation No let vs all goe backe to vertues Schooles And let the world alone to bring vp fooles I haue bene vaine as any man aliue But would be vertuous now if I knew how And euery day and houre and minute striue My wicked heart to better grace to bow Then let me say as to my selfe to you Let vs leaue all our idle imperfections And study vertue for our liues directions Let vs serue God in word and deed and thought And by our silence make our quarrels cease And learne those lessons that true loue hath taught Where concord doth a blessed world encrease And speake of Peace or let vs hold our peace For words or deeds or thoughts of strife are euill And are but instigations of the Deuill It is a shame to shun the way of Grace And runour wits a gathering after
NO VVhippinge nor trippinge but a kinde friendly Snippinge Imprinted at London for Iohn Browne Iohn Deane 1601. ¶ TO ALL GRATIOVS Vertuous Courteous Honest Learned and gentle spirits that are truely poeticall not too fantasticall that will patiently read indifferently censure and honestly speake of the labours of those wits that meane nothing but well the writer hereof wisheth all contentment that a good conditiō may desire MY good friendes if such yee be if not God blesse me from yee for the world is so full of wickednesse that a man can meete with little goodnesse Maye it please you to vnderstand that it was my happe of late passing through Paules Church yarde to looke vpon certaine pieces of Poetrye where I found that it greeues me to speake of one writer so straungely inueigh against another that many shallow wits stoode and laught at their follies Now findinge their labours so toucht with ill tearms as befitted not the learned to lay open I thought good hauing little to doe to write vnto all such writers as take pleasure to see their wits plaie with the world that they will henceforth before they fall to worke haue in minde this good prouerbe Play with mee but hurt me not and iest with me but disgrace me not Least that the world this iest do kindly smother Why should one foole be angry with an other Now for my selfe I proteste that humor of Charitie that I wish to finde at all their handes that see and will reprooue my folly for I am none of the seauen wise men and for the eight I knowe not where to seeke him Beare with me then if out of the principles of a painted cloth I haue pickt out matter to mooue impatience And if there be any thing out of that poore library that may take place in any of your good likings I will honour your good spirits for your kinde acceptations But in any wise what ere you think giue me no word of cōmendation least too glad of such a mischaunce I trust the better to my euill fortune Well in earnest I will entreat all good schollers to beare with my lacke of learning and wise men with my lacke of witte and my creditors with my lacke of mony Which though it haue nothing to doe in this Treatise yet entreaty sometime doeth well with honest mindes which I wish and hope of in them yea and all the world that I shall haue to doe withall Leauing therefore the patient to their Paradice and the displeased to their better patience in my loue to all schollers but chiefly to those that in the ioy of their studies make vertue their heauen I Rest Your friend as I finde cause No whippe T IS strange to see the humors of these daies How first the Satyre bites at imperfectiōs The Epigrammist in his quips displaies A wicked course in shadowes of corrections The Humorist hee strictly makes collections Of loth'd behauiours both in youthe and age And makes them plaie their parts vpon a stage An other Madcappe in a merry fit For lacke of witte did cast his cappe at sinne And for his labour was well tould of it For too much playing on that merry pinne For that all fishes are not of one finne And they that are of cholerick complections Loue not too plain to reade their imperfection Now comes another with a new founde vaine And onely falls to reprehensions Who in a kind of scoffing chiding straine Bringes out I knowe not what in his inuentions But I will ghesse the best of his intencions Hee would that all were well and so would I. Fooles shuld not too much shew their foolery And would to God it had ben so in deed The Satyres teeth had neuer bitten so The Epigrammist had not had a seede Of wicked weedes among his herbes to sowe Nor one mans humor did not others showe Nor Madcap had not showen his madness such And that the whipper had not ierkt so much For they whose eyes into the world doe looke And canuasse euery crotchet of conceite Whose wary wittes can hardly be mistooke Who neuer feede their fancies with deceite Finde this the fruict of euery idle sleight To shew how enuy doeth her venom spit Or lacke of wealth doeth sell a little wit And while they tumble in their tubbes of coine Laugh at their wittes that tunne so far awry In learning how to giue the foole the foine Mistake the warde wound them selues thereby While only wealth doth laugh at beggery For rowling stones will neuer gather mosse And raunging wittes doe often liue by losse The Preachers charge is but to chide for sinne While Poets steppes are short of such a state And who an others office enters in May hope of loue but shal be sure of hate 'T is not a time offences to relate Contentions sooner will begin then end And one may sooner lose then keepe a friend And he that writes vnwary of his wordes May haue an ill construction of the sense For fortune euer not the right affordes Where will doeth gouerne ouer patience Who doeth not finde it by experience That points and letters often times misread Endaunger oft the harmelesse writers head Good writers then if any such yee be In verse or prose take well that I doe write I wish yee all what ere yee heare or see Haste not your wits to bring it vnto light Lest ere you weet you doe repent your spight Your friendes ill courses neuer doe disclose And make your pens no swords to hurt your foes Spend not your thoughts in spilling of your wits Nor spoile your eies in spying of offences For howsoeuer you excuse your fittes They carry shreud suspect of ill pretences And when you seeke to make your best defences How euer priuate friends will poorly purse ye If one doe blesse yee fiue to one will curse ye Some one will say you are too busie pated An other saies the foole is idle headed An other saies such rakehells would be rated An other see how will to wit is wedded An other sure the man is poorely stedded Hee writ for coine he knew nor car'd not what But yet take heede we must not like of that Meane while perhaps he sits within his Cell And sighes to heare how many descant on him And for a litle must his labour sell While such as haue the pence do preie vpon him And he poore soule in want thus wo begon him Curseth the time that euer he was borne To vse his will to make his wit a scorne For let him bragge and braue it as he list The Poets is a poore profession And oftentimes doeth fall on had I wist When conscience makes of inwarde crimes confession And sorrow makes the spirites intercession For mercies pardon to that time misspent Which was the soule for better seruice lent Yet will I say that some oh all too fewe Doe bend their humors to diuine desires Those I confesse doe in their verses shew What