CHAPTER I

Transcriber's note:

In this text a superscript character is indicated with ^

The macron is indicated with [=a] [=e]

The many inconsistencies in this book are as in the original.

Greek is rendered phoentically.

* * * * *

_Demy 16mo, 3s. 6d. each.

Bound in paper boards, with parchment back._

THE POCKET LIBRARY

OF

ENGLISH LITERATURE

EDITED BY GEORGE SAINTSBURY

A collection, in separate volumes, partly of extracts from

long books, partly of short pieces, by the same writer, on the

same subject, or of the same class.

Vol. I.--TALES OF MYSTERY.

II.--POLITICAL VERSE.

III.--DEFOE'S MINOR NOVELS.

IV.--POLITICAL PAMPHLETS.

V.--SEVENTEENTH CENTURY LYRICS.

VI.--ELIZABETHAN AND JACOBEAN PAMPHLETS.

LONDON: PERCIVAL & CO.

ELIZABETHAN & JACOBEAN

PAMPHLETS

EDITED BY

GEORGE SAINTSBURY

LONDON

PERCIVAL AND CO.

1892

CONTENTS

PAGE

INTRODUCTION vii

I. THOMAS LODGE.

Reply to Gosson 1

II. JOHN LYLY (?)

Pap with a Hatchet 43

III. NICHOLAS BRETON.

A Pretty and Witty Discourse 84

IV. ROBERT GREENE.

Groat's Worth of Wit 115

V. GABRIEL HARVEY.

Precursor to Pierce's Supererogation 164

VI. THOMAS NASH.

Prognostication 185

VII. THOMAS DEKKER.

The Gull's Hornbook 209

NOTES 277

INTRODUCTION

I can conceive some readers, not necessarily frivolous,

anticipating little pleasure from a volume devoted

to examples of Elizabethan and Jacobean

pamphlets. It must be the business of the volume I

have planned to convince them that they are wrong.

But even before that volume is read, I think it not

impossible to show cause for its right to exist. The

originals of these pamphlets, except a few which have

become familiar in consequence of their bearing on

Shakespearian questions, were till recently almost

unknown, except to a few scholars and antiquaries,

and are still for the most part inaccessible except in

the original editions, which are bought at large prices

by collectors, or in limited and often privately issued

modern reprints. Yet their interest is very great. The

pamphlet of the late sixteenth and early seventeenth

century corresponded much more nearly to the modern

periodical than to anything else, unless, indeed, it be

the modern newspaper. It included fiction, sketches of

society, accounts of travel, literary criticism, personal

controversy, theology,--the whole farrago, in short, of

the non-political columns of our journals. It was in

many cases written by men of much greater talent than

the average journalist of the present day. In one

remarkable case--that of the so-called Martin Marprelate

controversy--it holds a position almost unique,

or only shared by the not wholly dissimilar groups of

literature which included and grew up round Pascal's

_Provinciales_ and the _Tracts for the Times_. Above

all, it has the advantage of a singular variety of subject,

and of presenting the opportunity of making a great

number of lively extracts, certainly faithful to the

manners of the time, and showing those manners in a

fashion not easy to surpass in freshness, contrast of

colour, and incisive outline.

The pamphlet was one of the most immediate and

necessary creations of the printing press. Before that

invention it was hardly possible, and a very considerable

time had to elapse afterwards before the

combination of education in the reader, command

of mechanical means in the diffuser, and changed

political conditions, enabled the newspaper to supplant

it. The pamphlet, so far as production is

concerned, when once private presses are accessible,

gives few hostages to fortune or to the strong hand of

authority. It may make but a single appearance, and

then the type is broken up, the machinery removed,

and the printed copies left to find their way and do

their work. A newspaper must have more or less of

a headquarters, definite managers, at the very least a

regular place and time of appearance at which it can be

waited for and snapped up. Of the advantages offered

by the pamphlet there is a good example in the fact

that under the active, intelligent, and almost despotic

government of Elizabeth, though the Martin Marprelate

tracts excited the intensest hatred not merely of

the lay authorities but of a powerful and omnipresent

ecclesiastical corporation, the presses were only once

(at Newton Lane in Lancashire) discovered and seized.

In less perilous matter the pamphlet, if it did not give

so much protection, 'obliged' even less. Its cost was

small; the author was in no way bound to follow it

up with anything else. It took him but a little time to

produce; its profit, if there was any, came in quickly;

it could be sold out before pirates could get hold of

it; it did not frighten the unlearned by bulk and

pretensions. On the other hand, of course, it had its

drawbacks. It was of its nature, and in more points

than one of that nature, ephemeral. The chances

were rather against than in favour of its being

preserved; for even in these days when most people

have a library or book-room of some kind, the very

student himself acknowledges with gnashings of teeth

the way things published in pamphlet form have of

'going under,' of simply disappearing, he cannot

tell how or whither. Hence the real and intrinsic

interest of the pamphlet has had added to it the

accidental and factitious interest of rarity. It is

hardly a paradox to say that one of the best chances

which such a thing had of surviving was the fact of

its being proscribed and burnt by the hangman.

There was then some reason for treasuring it instead

of letting it go to clean boots, light fires, and wrap

pounds of butter.

The pamphlets of the Elizabethan age were almost

as often in verse as in prose, the superior attraction

of verse for early and uncultivated audiences not

having died out. Indeed, far later than the period

covered by this volume, things continued to be

written in verse which were merely pamphlets, and

gave us both matter of eternity, such as _Absalom and

Achitophel_ or _Religio Laici_, and hard-bound doggerel

like Defoe's _True-Born Englishman_ and _Jure Divino_.

The Elizabethan verse pamphlet, which was largely

written by Thomas Churchyard, Nicholas Breton,

John Davies, Samuel Rowlands, and others, is a

curiosity, but as a rule very little more; and I do not

propose to give any examples of it here. Nor, the

space at my command being all too limited, have I

thought it necessary to draw in this present volume

on the miscellaneous pamphlets of the times. The examples

will be taken from what may be called the great

single pamphleteers or pamphlet collections--that is

to say, Lodge, Greene, Nash, Harvey, 'Martin Marprelate'

and the anti-Martinists, Breton, and Dekker.

Some particulars of each of the selected authors or

groups may appropriately be given in this introduction.

No minor Elizabethan author is better known than

Robert Greene, partly from the fact that he touches

Shakespeare, and partly from the other fact that his

short and ill-spent life was that of the typical Bohemian,

and so interests those who like gossip about men of

letters. He was born in 1560 at Norwich, was

educated at Clare Hall, Cambridge (being also subsequently

incorporated at Oxford), travelled on the

Continent, married, treated his wife very badly, may

have been both a clerk in orders and a student of

medicine, lived recklessly in London as a dramatist and

pamphleteer, and died at the age of thirty-two either

_propter_ or merely _post_ undue consumption of pickled

herrings and Rhenish wine. His plays, though full

of the ante-Shakespearian crudity and unskilled workmanship,

have many graceful touches; the songs

which he scattered about both his plays and his

poems are frequently charming; his pamphlets, which,

short as his life was, are very numerous, perhaps rank,

on the whole, above those of any other Elizabethan

writer for combined bulk, variety, and merit. They

were produced in the space of about ten years

(1583-92). Those certainly known to be his, or

probably attributed to him, are nearly thirty in

number, and almost defy classification. Some of

them approach that strange type of novel consisting

of a minimum of story, a maximum of moralising, and,

if I may say so, a _plusquam_-maximum of conceited style,

the example of which had been set in Lyly's _Euphues_.

Not a few are personal reminiscences--how far deliberately

imbued with an exaggerated profession of

repentance in order to hit readers with both barrels

it is very hard to say. A distinct and very

interesting set deals with the ways of the Elizabethan

'conny-catcher,' the 'Captain Rook' (though

usually of lower grade) of the time. Others are

pure book-making, as we should call it now,

about subjects which for political or other reasons

happened to be in the public eye at the moment.

Greene is certainly one of the most typical of his

fellowship.

With him and close to him may be ranked Thomas

Lodge, who was his contemporary, and for a time

his comrade; but who, unlike Greene, settled down

as a Roman Catholic physician, and outliving the

hapless 'Roberto' more than thirty years, did not die

till the last year of James. Lodge had perhaps higher

powers than Greene, except in drama. One of his

pamphlets, 'Rosalynde' or 'Euphues' Golden Legacy',

gave Shakespeare, as most people now know, the

subject of _As You Like It_, and has been more than

once reprinted for that reason. He had also a faculty

of which Greene shows no trace whatever--that of an

accomplished literary critic; and twice, in answer to

Gosson and Campion, took the right side against some

of the literary heresies which animated that active and

fruitful time. He was decidedly best in the euphuist

romance, but he also practised the social satire

pamphlet with no small success.

Nash and Harvey shared with Greene the luck,

good or other, of being earlier presented in their lives,

and in at least some of their works, to modern writers

than their fellows. Indeed, Greene's not wholly enviable

fame is as much due to the quarrels of these two

as to his own works. Gabriel Harvey, the elder but

very much the less able of the two, was a Fellow of

Pembroke College, Cambridge, a friend of Sidney

and of Spenser (whose _Faërie Queene_ he unmercifully

snubbed, preferring the curious fancy of classical

metres which was long patronised by the 'Areopagus'

or Sidneian clique), and a man of real scholarship. But

his exemplification of the worst faults of the university

prig, and the pitiless exposure of them in his controversy

with Thomas Nash (a younger Cambridge man,

and wielder of the sharpest and most unscrupulous

pen of his time), have brought down such hard language

on him from most literary historians that one or two

charitable or paradoxical souls have been tempted

to take up the cudgels on his side. To this length,

I cannot go. Why Harvey and Nash quarrelled no

one knows exactly; but the quarrel, the pamphlet

results of which make up the greater part of Harvey's

work, plays only a small part in that of Nash. The

very quarrel itself had, or seems to have had, something

to do with the strange Marprelate business to

be noticed presently, and Nash is at least with great

probability supposed author of some of the chief

numbers of that controversy on the anti-Martinist side.

But he wrote not a little other pamphlet-matter, never

quite attempting the euphuist romance in which his

friends Greene and Lodge delighted, but producing

discourses of apparitions in anticipation of Defoe,

pious tractates expressing, or professing to express,

his repentance for evil living, puffs (though this is

rather an unkind word), such as his _Lenten Stuff_,

eulogistic of the herrings which were the staple

commodity of his native coast, and a curious book

called _The Unfortunate Traveller_, dealing with the

grand tour, and containing among other things the

well-known romance (for romance it would seem to be)

of Surrey the poet and his Geraldine. Where Nash

stands eminent among the writers of the time is in

his faculty of boisterous and burlesque abuse, which,

in his famous lampoon upon Harvey, _Have with you

to Saffron Walden_ (Harvey's birthplace), displayed itself

in a manner not easy to parallel elsewhere in

English.

It is very hard to give in very brief space an

account of the Martin Marprelate matter, yet without

some such account extracts from it must be hardly

intelligible. It began about the year 1588, chiefly

owing to the action of a certain Reverend Nicholas

Udall, a puritan divine who struck into the controversy

between the Episcopal and Presbyterian parties in the

Church, and embittered it by the use of language

so violent that he himself was imprisoned and his

printer's press seized. This printer, Waldegrave, enraged

thereat, lent his art to members of the puritan

sect even more violent than Udall (their exact

identity is matter of controversy), and a fire of

pamphlets was opened by them, the earliest being

called _The Epistle_ and _The Epitome_. In the first

place, Dean Bridges of Salisbury and Bishop Cooper

of Winchester, then other dignitaries, were assailed with

real vigour and ability, but with the most unscrupulous

partisanship, and in a dialect which for extravagance

of abusive language had not been surpassed in the

heat of the earlier Reformation controversies, and has

scarcely been approached since. The partisans of

the Church were fully equal to the occasion; and a

counter fire of pamphlets, some of which are attributed

with great probability to Nash, and others with

hardly less to the Oxford dramatist and euphuist Lyly,

was returned. The heat of the controversy lasted

chiefly through three years--1588, 1589, and 1590;

but it may be said in the widest sense to have endured

for nearly seven--from 1586 to 1593, when Penry and

Barrow, the supposed chiefs of the Martinists, were

executed. Of the style of this singular controversy the

extract will, I trust, give a sufficient idea. As to its

matter, it is difficult to be more precise than this:

that the object of the Martinist pamphleteers was to

decry episcopacy by every possible description of personal

abuse, applied to the holders and the defenders of

the episcopal office, and that the object of their opponents

of the same class (for men like Cooper and Bridges,

still more like Whitgift and Hooker, stand in an

entirely different category) was not so much to defend

that office as to fling back in double measure the

abuse upon 'Martin,' as the generic name went,

and upon his known or supposed embodiments and

partisans.

There can be few greater contrasts than between

this furious ribaldry, as it too often is, and the mild

mediocrity of Nicholas Breton. His claim to a place

here (even if his merit be rated much lower than

some have rated it) is, that he is the chief writer

of the kind who is both in verse and prose a pamphleteer

pure and simple. You cannot (at least I

cannot) call Breton a poet, but he wrote immense

quantities of verse, and in prose he pamphleted with

such copiousness and persistence for nearly half a

century, that it is clear there must have been money

to be made by the practice.

The last of our chief single authors is Thomas

Dekker, a very much greater man than Breton, though

not so great in prose as in verse. He was somewhat

later even in his beginning than the other writers I

have noticed; and though his prose has not the formal

merit or charm of his exquisite songs and his wonderful

romantic character in drama, it is very interesting

in matter. He paraphrases (_The Bachelor's Banquet_,

_The Gull's Hornbook_) with remarkable freedom and

skill; he chronicles plague years; he takes a hint from

Greene, and extends and varies that author's satirical

exposition of London tricks in a long and extremely

vivid series of pamphlets, such as _The Bellman of London_,

_The Seven Deadly Sins of London_, _Lanthorn and

Candle Light_, _News from Hell_, and half a dozen others.

In these, though of course a certain allowance must

be made for the pressman's exaggeration in dealing

with such subjects, there is a most singular and

interesting picture of the lower and looser classes in

England, at least in the English capital, at the time.

In this little book, after one or two changes of plan,

I have finally decided on giving only entire pamphlets--a

specimen of literary criticism from Lodge, of autobiographic

romance from Greene, of politico-religious

controversy from the Martin Marprelate series, of

mingled self-panegyric and lampoon from Harvey, of

burlesque from Nash, of paraphrase of foreign matter

adapted to English conditions from Dekker, and of

what may be called hack-work for the press from

Breton. The annotation is deliberately limited to the

removal of some of the most obvious stumbling-blocks

to current reading. A full commentary on _The Gull's

Hornbook_ alone would fill another volume, and the

object in these books is to give text not comment.

I.--THOMAS LODGE

(_Stephen Gosson's_ Schoole of Abuse _has acquired

something like fame in virtue of one of the answers to it--Sidney's_

Defence of Poetry. _That interesting little

book has been frequently reprinted of late, and some

knowledge of it, and of Gosson's attack which caused it,

may be taken as common. Lodge's attempt, made as a

very young man, to do what Sidney did is far less

familiar even to students. It was reprinted in 1853,

and again in the rare and costly private issue by

the Hunterian Club of Lodge's whole works; but

the author of the introductory essay to that issue, my

friend Mr. Gosse, has been somewhat unkind (I cannot

say unjust) to it. It is, indeed, no great thing;

but as a very early example of literary criticism by

pamphlet, which has lacked the modern reprinting

accorded to Webbe, Puttenham, Daniel, and other critics

of the same time, I thought it might find appropriate

place here._)

A REPLY TO STEPHEN GOSSON'S SCHOOLE OF ABUSE

IN DEFENCE OF POETRY, MUSICK, AND STAGE

PLAYS.

_Protogenes_ can know _Apelles_ by his line though he

se[e] him not, and wise men can consider by the

Penn the aucthoritie of the writer, thoughe they know

him not. The Rubie is discerned by his pale rednes,

and who hath not h[e]ard that the Lyon is knowne by

hys clawes. Though _Æsopes_ craftie crowe be never so

deftlye decked, yet is his double dealing e[a]sely

desiphered: and though men never so perfectly pollish

there wrytings with others sentences, yet the simple

truth wil discover the shadow of ther follies: and

bestowing every fether in the bodye of the right M.

tourne out the naked dissembler into his owen cote,

as a spectacle of follye to all those which can rightlye

judge what imperfections be.

There came to my hands lately a litle (woulde

God a wittye) pamphelet, baring a fayre face as though

it were the sc[h]oole of abuse, but being by me

advisedly wayed I fynd it the oftscome of imperfections,

the writer fuller of wordes than judgement; the

matter certainely as ridiculus as seri[o]us. Asuredly

his mother witte wrought this wonder, the child to

disprayse his father, the dogg to byte his mayster for

his dainty morcell. But I se[e] (with _Seneca_) yt the

wrong is to be suffered, since he disprayseth, who by

costome hath left to speake well; bot I meane to be

short: and teach the Maister what he knoweth not,

partly that he may se his owne follie, and partly that

I may discharge my promise, both binde me. Therefore

I would with the good scholmayster to over looke

his abuses againe with me, so shall he see an ocean

of inormities which begin in his first prinsiple in the

disprayse of poetry.

And first let me familiarly consider with this find

faulte what the learned have alwayes esteemed of

poetrie. _Seneca_ thoughe a stoike would have a

poeticall sonne, and amongst the auncientest _Homer_

was no les accompted than _Humanus deus_. What

made Alexander I pray you esteme of him so much?

Why allotted he for his works so curious a closset?

Was ther no fitter under prop for his pillow the[n] a

simple pamphelet? In all _Darius_ cofers was there no

Jewell so costly? Forso[o]th my thinks these two

(the one the father of Philosophers, the other the

cheftaine of chivalrie) were both deceived if all were

as a _Gosson_ would wish them, yf poets paynt naughte

but palterie toyes in vearse, their studies tended to

folishnesse, and in all their inde[a]vors they did

naught els but _agendo nihil agere_. Lord how Virgil's

poore gnatt pricketh him, and how Ovid's fley byteth

him, he can beare no bourde, he hath raysed up a

new sect of seri[o]us stoikes, that can abide naught

but their owen shadowe, and alow nothing worthye,

but what they conceave. Did you never reade (my

over wittie frend) that under the persons of beastes

many abuses were dissiphered? Have you not reason

to waye? that whatsoever e[i]ther Virgil did write of

his gnatt, or Ovid of his fley, was all covertly to declare

abuse? But you are (_homo literatus_) a man of the

letter, little savoring of learning, your giddy brain

made you leave your thrift, and your abuses in London

some part of your honestie. You say that Poets

are subtil, if so, you have learned that poynt of them,

you can well glose on a trifleling text: but you have

dronke perhaps of _Lethe_, your gram[m]er learning is

out of your head, you forget your Accidence, you

reme[m]ber not that under the person of _Æneas_ in

Virgil, the practice of a dilligent captaine is discribed,

under ye shadow of byrds, beastes, and trees, the

follies of the world were disiphered, you know not

that the creation is signified in the Image of _Prometheus_,

the fall of pryde in the person of _Narcissus_,

these are toyes because they savour of wisedom which

you want. Marke what _Campanus_ sayth, _Mira fabularum

vanitas sed quæ si introspiciantur videri possunt

non vanæ_. The vanitie of tales is wonderful, yet if

we advisedly looke into them they wil seme and

prove wise. How wonderful are the pithie poems of

_Cato_! the curious comidies of _Plautus_! how bravely

discovereth _Terence_ our imperfectio[n] in his _Eunuch_!

how neatly dissiphereth he _Dauus_! how pleasauntly

paynteth he out _Gnatho_! whom if we should seeke in

our dayes, I suppose he would not be farr from your

parson. But I see you woulde seeme to be that

which you are not, and as the proverb sayth _Nodum

in Cirpo quærere_. Poets you say use coullors to

cover their incoviences, and wittie sentences to burnish

theyr bawdery, and you divinite to cover your knaverye.

But tell mee truth _Gosson_, speakest thou as thou

thinkest? What coelers findest thou in a Poete not

to be admitted? Are his speaches unperfect? Savor

they of inscience? I think if thou hast any shame

thou canst not but like and approve the[m]. Are

ther gods displesant unto thee? doth _Saturne_ in his

majesty move thee? doth _Juno_ with her riches displease

thee? doth _Minerva_ with her weapon discomfort

thee? doth _Apollo_ with his harping harme thee?

Thou mayst say nothing les then harme thee because

they are not, and I thinke so to[o] because thou

knowest them not. For wot thou that in the person

of _Saturne_ our decaying yearss are signified, in the

picture of angry _Juno_ our affections are dissiphered,

in ye person of _Minerva_ is our understa[n]ding signified,

both in respect of warre, as policie. When they

faine that _Pallas_ was begotten of the braine of _Jupiter_

their meaning is none other but that al wisdome (as

the learned say) is from above, and commeth from

the father of Lights: in the portrature of _Apollo_ all

knowledge is denocated. So that, what so they wrot

it was to this purpose, in the way of pleasure to draw

men to wisedome: for se[e]ing the world in those daies

was unperfect, yt was necessary that they like good

Phisi[ci]ons should so frame their potions, that they

might be appliable to the quesie stomaks of their

werish patients. But our studientes by your meanes

have made shipwrack of theyr labors, our schoole-maisters

have so offended that by your judgement

they shall _subire poenam capitis_ for teaching poetry,

the universitie is litle beholding to you, al their practices

in teaching are frivolus. Witt hath wrought that

in you, that yeares and studie never set[t]led in the

heads of our sagest doctors.

No mervel though you disprayse poetrye, when you

know not what it meanes. _Erasmus_ will make that the

pathwaye to knowledge which you disprayse, and no

meane fathers vouchsafe in their seriouse questions

of divinitie, to inserte poeticall sensures.

I think if we shal wel overloke ye Philosophers,

we shal find their judgeme[n]ts not halfe perfect.

Poetes you say fayle in their fables, Philosophers in

the verye secrets of Nature. Though _Plato_ could

wish the expulsion of Poetes from his well publiques,

which he might doe with reason, yet the wisest had not

all that same opinion, it had bene better for him to

have se[a]rcht more narowly what the soule was, for

his definition was verye frivolus, when he would make

it naught els but _Substantiam intelectu predictam_. If

you say that Poetes did labour about nothing, tell me (I

besech you) what wonders wroughte those your dunce

Doctors in ther reasons _de ente et non ente_, in theyr

definition of no force and les witt? How sweate

they power soules in makinge more things then

co[u]ld be! That I may use your owne phrase, did

not they spende one candle by seeking another?

_Democritus Epicurus_ with ther scholler _Metrodorus_

how labored they in finding out more worlds the[n]

one? Your _Plato_ in midst of his presisnes wrought

that absurdite that never may be redd in Poets, to

make a yearthly creature to beare the person of the

creator, and a corruptible substaunce an incomprehensible

God: for determining of the principall

causes of all thinges, a made them naughte els but

an _Idea_ which if it be conferred wyth the truth, his

sentence will savour of Inscience. But I speake for

Poetes, I answeare your abuse, therefore I will disprove

or disprayse naught, but wish you with the wise _Plato_,

to disprayse that thing you offend not in.

_Seneca_ sayth that the studdie of Poets is to make

childre[n] ready to the understanding of wisedom, and

yt our auncients did teache _artes Eleutherias. i. liberales_,

because the instructed childre[n] by the instrume[n]t of

knowledg in time became _homines liberi. i. Philosophye_.

It may be that in reding of poetry, it happened to

you as it is with the Oyster, for she in her swimming

receiveth no ayre, and you in your reeding lesse

instruction. It is reported that the shepe of Euboia

want ther gale, and one the contrarye side that the

beastes of _Naxus_ have _distentum fel_. Men hope that

scollers should have witt brought upp in the Universite,

but your sweet selfe with the cattell of Euboia, since

you left your College have lost your learning. You

disprayse _Maximinus Tirius_ pollicey, and that thinge

that he wrott to manifest learned Poets meaning, you

atribute to follye. O holy hedded man, why may

not _Juno_ resemble the ayre? why not _Alexander_

valour? why not _Ulisses_ pollice? Will you have all

for you[r] owne tothe? Must men write that you

maye know theyr meaning as though your wytt were

to wrest all things? Alas simple _Irus_, begg at knowledge

gate awhile, thou haste not wonne the mastery

of learning. Weane thyself to wisedome, and use thy

tallant in zeale not for envie, abuse not thy knowledge

in dispraysing that which is pereles: I shold blush

from a player, to become an enviouse preacher, if

thou hadst zeale to preach, if for _Sions_ sake thou

co[u]ldst not holde thy tongue, thy true dealing were

prayse worthy, thy revolting woulde counsell me to

reverence thee. Pittie weare it that poetrye should be

displaced, full little could we want _Buchanan's_ workes,

and _Boetius_ comfortes may not be banished. What

made _Erasmus_ labor in _Euripides_ tragedies? Did

he inde[a]vour by painting them out of Greeke into

Latine to manifest sinne unto us, or to confirm us in

goodnes? Labor (I pray thee) in Pamphelets more

prayse worthy; thou haste not saved a Senator, therefore

not worthye a Lawrell wre[a]th, thou hast not

(in disproving poetry) reproved an abuse, and therfore

not worthy commendation.

_Seneca_ sayth that _Magna vitæ pars elabitur

male agentibus, maxima nihill agentibus, tota aliud

agentibus_, the most of our life (sayd he) is spent

e[i]ther in doing evill, or nothing, or that wee should

not, and I would wish you weare exempted from this

sensure. Geve eare but a little more what may be

said for poetrie, for I must be briefe. You have

made so greate matter that I may not stay on one

thing to[o] long, lest I leave another untouched.

And first whereas you say, yt _Tullie_ in his yeres

of more judgement despised Poetes, harke (I pray

you) what he worketh for them in his oratio[n] _pro

Archia poeta_. But before you heare him, least you

fayle in the incounter, I would wysh you to follow

the advise of the dasterdlye Ichneumon of _Ægipt_,

who when shee beholdeth the Aspis her enemye to

drawe nighe, calleth her fellowes together, bisme[a]ring

herselfe with claye, against the byting and stroke

of the serpent, arme yourselfe, cal your witts together:

want not your wepons, lest your inperfect

judgement be rewardede with Midas eares. You had

neede play the night burd now, for yon day Owl hath

misconned his parte, and for to-who now a dayes he

cryes foole you: which hath brought such a sort of

wondering birds about your eares, as I feare me will

chatter you out of your Ivey bush. The worlde shames

to see you, or els you are afrayde to shew yourselfe.

You thought poetrye should want a patron (I

think) when you fyrste published this invective, but

yet you fynd al to[o] many eve[n] _preter expectation[=e]_,

yea though it can speake for it self, yet her patron

_Tullie_ now shall tell her tale, _Hæc studia_, (sayth he)

_adolescentiam alunt, senectutem oblectant, secundas res

ornant, adversis perfugium ac Solatium prebent, delectant

domi, non impediunt foris, pernoctant nobiscum, peregri[n]antur

rusticantur_. Then will you disprayse yt

which all men commend? You looke only upon ye

refuse of ye abuse, nether respecting the importance

of ye matter nor the weighe of ye wryter.

_Solon_ can fayne himself madde, to further the

Athenians. _Chaucer_ in pleasant vain can rebuke sin

uncontrold, and though he be lavish in the letter,

his sence is serious. Who in Rome lame[n]ted not

Roscius death? And ca[n]st thou suck no plesure

out of thy _M. Claudians_ writings? Hark what

_Cellarius_ a learned father attributed to it, _acuit memoriam_

(saith he) it profiteth the memory. Yea, and

_Tully_ attributeth it for prais to _Archias_ yt upon any

theame he co[u]ld versify exte[m]pory. Who liketh

not of the promptness of _Ovid_? Who not unworthely

co[u]ld boast of himself thus _Quicquid conabar dicere

versus erat_. Who then doothe not wonder at poetry?

Who thinketh not yt it procedeth fro[m] above?

What made ye Chians and Colophonians fal to such

controversy? Why seke ye Smirnians to recover

fro[m] ye Salaminians the prais of _Homer_? Al wold

have him to be of ther city, I hope not for harme,

but because of his knoledge. _Themistocles_ desireth

to be acquainted with those w^c could best discipher

his praises. Even _Marius_ himselfe, tho never so

cruel, acco[m]pted of _Plotinus_ poems. What made

_Aphricanus_ esteme _Ennius_? Why did Alexander

give prais to _Achilles_ but for ye prayses which he

found writte[n] of hym by _Homer_? Why estemed

_Pompie_ so muche of _Theophanes Mitiletus_, or _Brutus_

so greatlye the wrytinges of _Accius_? _Fuluius_ was so

great a favorer of poetry, that after the Aetolian

warres, he attributed to the Muses those spoiles that

belonged to Mars. In all the Romaine conquest,

h[e]ardest thou ever of a slayne Poete? nay rather

the Emperours honored them, beautified them with

benefites, and decked their sanctuaries which [with]

sacrifice. _Pindarus_ colledg is not fit for spoil of

_Alexander_ overcome, nether feareth poetry ye persecutors

sword. What made _Austin_ so much affectate

ye heavenly fury? not folly, for if I must needes

speake, _illud non ausim affirmare_, his zeale was in

setting up the house of God, not in affectate

eloquence, he wrot not, he accompted not. He

honnored not, so much that (famous poetry) whyche

we prayse, without cause, for if it be true that

_Horace_ reporteth in his booke _de arte poetica_, all the

answeares of the Oracles weare in verse. Among the

precise Jewes you shall find Poetes, and for more

majestie _Sibilla_ will prophesie in verse. _Hiroaldus_

can witnes with me, that _David_ was a poet, and

that his vayne was in imitating (as S. Jerom witnesseth)

_Horace_, _Flaccus_, and _Pindarus_, somtimes

his verse runneth in an _Iambus_ foote, anone he hath

recourse to a _Saphier_ vaine, and _aliquando, semipede

ingreditur_. Ask _Josephus_, and he will tel you that

Esay, Job and Salomon voutsafed poetical practises,

for (if _Origen_ and he fault not) theyre verse was

_Hexameter and pentameter_. Enquire of _Cassiodorus_,

he will say that all the beginning of Poetrye proceeded

from the Scripture. _Paulinus_ tho the byshop

of _Nolanum_ yet voutsafe the name of a Poet, and

_Ambrose_ tho he be a patriarke in _mediolan[=u]_ loveth

versising. _Beda_ shameth not ye science that shamelesse

_Gosson_ misliketh. Reade over _Lactantius_, his

proofe is by poetry, and _Paul_ voutsafeth to overlooke

_Epimenides_; let the Apostle preach at Athens he

disdaineth not of Aratus authorite. It is a pretye

sentence yet not so prety as pithy, _Poeta nascitur

orator fit_, as who should say, Poetrye commeth from

above from a heavenly seate of a glorious God unto

an excellent creature man, an orator is but made by

exercise. For if wee examine well what befell _Ennius_

amonge the Romans, and Hesiodus among his

co[u]ntrimen the Gretians, howe they came by theyr

knowledge whence they receved their heavenly furye,

the first will tell us that sleping upon the Mount of

Parnassus he dreamed that he received the soule of

_Homer_ into him, after the which he became a Poete,

the next will assure you that it commeth not by

labor, nether that night watchings bringeth it, but

yt we must have it thence whence he fetched it

w^c was (he saith) fro[m] a wel of ye Muses w^c

_Cabelimus_ calleth _Por[=u]_, a draught whereof drewe

him to his perfection, so of a shephard he becam an

eloque[n]t poet.

Wel the[n] you see yt it commeth not by exercise

of play making, nether insertio[n] of gawds, but from

nature and from above: and I hope yt _Aristotle_ hath

sufficiently taught you that _Natura nihil fecit frustra_.

_Perseus_ was made a poete _divino furore percitus_.

And whereas the poets were sayde to call for the

Muses helpe ther mening was no other as _Iodocus

Badius_ reporteth, but to call for heavenly inspiration

from above to direct theyr ende[a]vors. Nether were

it good for you to sette light by the name of a poet

since ye oftspring from whence he cometh is so

heavenly. _Sibilla_ in hir answers to _Æneas_ against

hir will as the poet telleth us was possessed with

thys fury, ye wey consideratly but of the writing of

poets, and you shal se[e] than whe[n] ther matter is

most heavenly, their stile is most loftye, a strange

token of the wonderfull efficacy of the same.

I would make a long discourse unto you of _Platos_

4. furies but I le[a]ve them. It pitieth me to bring

a rodd of your owne making to beate you wythal.

But mithinks while you heare thys I see you swallowe

down your owne spittle for revenge, where (God wot)

my wryting savoreth not of envye. In this case I

coulde wyshe you fare farre otherwyse from your foe.

If you please I wyll become your frende and see

what a potion or receypt I can frame fytt for your

diet. And herein I will prove myselfe a practiser,

before I purdge you, you shall take a preparative to

disburden your heavy hedde of those grose follis you

have conceved: but the receipt is bitter, therefore I

would wysh you first to casten your mouth with the

Suger of persevera[n]ce: for ther is a cold collop yt

must downe your throate yet suche a one as shall

change your complection quit[e]. I wyll have you

therfore to tast first of yt cold river _Phricus_ in

Thratia, which as _Aristotle_ reporteth changeth blacke

into white; or of Scamandar, which maketh gray

yalow, yt is of an envious ma[n] a wel minded

person, reprehending of zeale yt wherin he hath

sinned by folly, and so being prepard, thy purgation

wyll worke more easy, thy understandinge wyll be

more perfit, thou shalt blush at thy abuse, and

reclaime thy selfe by force of argument. So will

thou prove of clene recovered patient, and I a perfecte

practiser in framing so good a potion. This

broughte to passe, I with the[e] wil seeke out some

abuse in poetry, which I will seeke for to disprove

by reason first pronounced by no smal birde even

_Aristotle_ himself. _Poetae_ (sayth he) _multa mentiuntur_

and to further his opinion seuer _Cato_ putteth in his

cencure.

_Admiranda canunt sed non credenda poetæ._ These

were sore blemishes if objected rightly and heare you

may say the streme runnes a wronge, but if it be so

by you[r] leve I wyll bring him shortly in his right

chanel. My answere shall not be my owne, but a

learned father shall tell my tale, if you wil know his

right name men call him _Lactantius_: who in hys

book _de divinis institutionibus_ reesoneth thus. I

suppose (sayth he) Poets are full of credit, and yet

it is requesite for those that wil understand them to

be admonished, that among them not onely the name

but the matter beareth a show of that it is not: for

if sayth he we examine the Scriptures litterallye

nothing will seeme more falls, and if we way Poetes

wordes and not ther meaning, our learning in them

wilbe very mene. You see nowe your _Catoes_ judgement

as of no force and that all your objections you

make agaynst poetrye be of no valor, yet lest you

should be altogether discouraged I wyll helpe you

forwarde a little more, it pities me to consider the

weaknes of your cause, I wyll therfore make your

strongest reason more strong and after I have builded

it up destroy it agayn. Poets you confesse are

eloquent but you reprove them in their wantonnesse,

they write of no wisedom, you may say their tales are

frivolus, they prophane holy thinges, they seeke

nothing to the perfection of our soules. Theyr practise

is in other things of lesse force: to this objection

I answer no otherwise then _Horace_ doeth in his booke

_de arte poetica_ where he wryteth thus:

_Silvestres homines sacer interpresque deorum

Sedibus, et victu foedo deterruit orpheus.

Dictus ob hoc lenire Tigres rabidosque leones.

Dictus et Amphion Thebanæ condit[or] urbis

Saxa movere sono, testudinis et prece blanda

Ducere quo vellet. Fuit hoc sapientia quondam,

Publica privatis secernere sacra prophanis,

Concubitu prohibere vago, dare Iura maritis,

Oppida moliri, leges incidere ligno._

The holy spokesman of the Gods

With heave[n]ly Orpheus hight:

Did drive the savage men from wods,

And made them live aright.

And therefore is sayd the Tygers fierce,

And Lyons full of myght

To overcome: _Amphion_, he

Was sayd of Theabs the founder,

Who by his force of Lute dyd cause

The stones to part a sonder,

And by his speach did them derect

Where he would have them staye:

This wisedome this was it of olde

All strife for to allaye.

To give to every man his owne,

To make the Gods be knowne,

To drive each lecher from the bed

That never was his owne.

To teach the law of mariage,

The way to build a towne,

For to engrave these lawes in woods

This was these mens renowne.

I cannot leave _Tirtheus_ pollicy untouched, who

by force of his pen could incite men to the defence

of theyr countrye. If you require of ye Oracle of

_Apollo_ what successe you shal have: _respondet bellicoso

numine_. Lo now you see your objections my answers,

you behold or may perceive manifestlye that Poetes

was the first raysors of cities, prescribers of good

lawes, mayntayners of religion, disturbors of the wicked,

advancers of the wel disposed, inve[n]tors of laws,

and lastly the very fo[o]tpaths to knowledg and

understa[n]ding. Ye if we sho[u]ld beleve Herome

he will make _Platos_ exiles honest me[n] and his

pestiferous poets good preachers: for he accounteth

_Orpheus Museus and Linus, Christians_, therefore

_Virgil_ (in his 6 boke of _Æneiados_ wher he lernedly

describeth ye journey of _Æneas_ to _Elisum_) asserteneth

us, yt among them yt were ther for the zeale they

beare toward there country, ther wer found _Quinque

pii vates et Phoebo digna loquti_ but I must answer al

objectio[n]s, I must fil every nooke. I must arme

myself now, for here is the greatest bob I can gather

out of your booke forsoth _Ovids_ abuses, in descrybing

whereof you labour very vehementlye termi[n]g him

letcher, and in his person dispraise all poems, but

shall on[e] mans follye destroye a universal comodity?

What gift what perfit knowledg hath ther bin,

emong ye professors of w^c ther hath not bin a bad

on [?] the Angels have sinned in heave[n], _Ada[m] and

Eve_ in earthly paradise, emo[n]g ye holy apostles

ungratious Judas. I reson not yt al poets are holy

but I affirme yt poetry is a heave[n]ly gift, a perfit

gift then which I know not greater plesure. And

surely if I may speak my mind I thi[n]k we shall find

but few poets if it were exactly wayd what they oughte

to be: your _Muscovian_ straungers, your _Scithian_

monsters wonderful, by one _Eurus_ brought upon one

stage in ships made of Sheepeskins, wyll not prove you

a poet nether your life alow you to bee of that

learning: if you had wisely wayed ye abuse of poetry,

if you had reprehended ye foolish fantasies of our

poets _nomine non re_ which they bring forth on stage,

my self would have liked of you and allowed your

labor. But I perceive nowe yt all red colloured

stones are not Rubies, nether is every one _Alexandar_

yt hath a stare in his cheeke, al lame men are not

_Vulcans_, nor hooke nosed men _Ciceroes_, nether each

professer a poet, I abhore those poets that savor of

ribaldry, I will with the zealous admit the expullcion

of suche enormities. Poetry is dispraised not for the

folly that is in it, but for the abuse whiche manye ill

Wryters couller by it. Beleeve me the magestrats

may take advise (as I knowe wisely can) to roote out

those odd rymes which runnes in every rascales

mouth. Savoring of rybaldry, those foolishe ballets

that are admitted make poets good and godly practises

to be refused. I like not of a wicked _Nero_ that wyll

expell _Lucan_, yet admit I of a zealous governour that

wil seke to take away the abuse of poetry. I like not

of an angrye _Augustus_ which wyll banishe _Ovid_ for

envy. I love a wise Senator, which in wisedome wyll

correct him and with advise burne his follyes: unhappy

were we yf like poore _Scaurus_ we shoulde find

_Tiberius_ that wyll put us to death for a tragedy

making, but most blessed were we if we might find a

judge that severely would amende the abuses of

Tragedies. But I leave the reformation thereof to

more wyser than my selfe, and retourne to Gosson

whom I wyshe to be fully perswaded in this cause, and

therefore I will tell hym a prety story, which _Justin_

wryteth in the prayse of poetrye.

The _Lacedemonians_ when they had loste many

men in divers incountryes with theyr enemyes soughte

to the Oracles of Apollo requiring how they myght

recover theyr losses, it was answered that they mighte

overcome if so be they could get an _Athenian_ governor,

whereupon they sent Orators unto the _Athenians_

humbly requesting them that they woulde appoynt

them out one of theyr best captaynes: the _Athenians_

owinge them old malice, sent them in steede of a

_soldado vechio_ a scholar of the Muses: in steede of

a worthy warrior a poore poet; for a couragious

_Themistocles_ a silly _Tirthetus_, a man of great eloquence

and singuler wytte, yet was he but a lame lymde

captaine more fit for the co[u]che than the field.

The _Lacedemonians_ trusting the Oracle, received the

champion, and fearing the government of a stranger,

made him ther Citizen. Which once done and he

obteining the Dukdome, he assended the theater,

and ther very learnedly, wyshing them to forget theyr

folly, and to thinke on victory, they being acuate by

his eloque[n]ce waging battail won the fielde. Lo

now you see that the framing of common welthes,

and defence thereof proceedeth from poets, how dare

you therfore open your mouth against them? How

can you disprayse the preserver of a countrye? You

compare _Homer_ to _Methecus_, cookes to Poetes, you

shame your selfe in your unreverent similitud[e]s,

you may see your follyes _verbum sapienti sat_: whereas

_Homar_ was an ancient poet you disalow him, and

accompte of those of lesser judgement. _Strabo_ calleth

poetry _primam sapientiam_. Cicero in his firste of

his Tusculans attributeth ye invencion of philosophy

to poets. God keepe us from a Plato that should

expel such men. Pittie were it that the memory of

these valiant victours should be hidden, which have

dyed in the behalfe of ther countryes: miserable were

our state yf we wanted those worthy volumes of

poetry. Could the learned beare the losse of Homer?

or our younglings the wrytings of the _Mantuan_? or

you your volumes of historyes? beleve me yf you

had wanted your Mysteries of nature, and your stately

storyes, your booke would have scarce bene ledde

wyth matter. If therefore you will deale in things of

wisdome, correct the abuse, honor the science, renewe

your schoole, crye out over Hierusalem wyth the

prophet the woe that he pronounced, wish the teacher

to reforme hys lyfe, that his weake scholler may prove

the wyser, cry out against unsaciable desyre in rich

men, tel the house of Jacob theyr iniquities, lament

with the Apostle the want of laborers in the Lords

vineyards, cry out on those dume doggs that will not

barke, wyll the mightye that they overmayster not the

poore, and put downe the beggers prowde heart by

thy perswasions. Thunder oute with the Prophete

_Micha_ the mesage of the LORD, and with hym desyre

the Judges to heare thee, the Prynces of Jacob to

hearken to thee, and those of the house of Israell to

understande. Then tell them that they abhorre

judgement, and prevent equitie, that they judge for

rewardes, and that theyr priests teach for hyre, and

the prophets thereof prophesie for money, and yet

that they saye the Lorde is wyth them, and that no

evil can befall them, breath[e] out the sweete promises

to the good, the cursses to the badde, tell them that

a peeace muste needes have a warre, and that God

can raise up another Zenacherib, shew the[m] that

Salomons kingdome was but for a season and that

adversitie cometh ere we espye it. These be the

songes of Sion, these be those rebukes which you

oughte to add to abuses; recover the body for it is

sore, the appedices thereof will easily be reformed, if

that wear at a staye.

But other matters call me and I must not staye

upon this onely, there is an easier task in hand for

me, and that which, if I may speak my conscience,

fitteth my vain best, your second abuse Gosson, your

second abuse; your disprayses of Musik, which you

unadvisedly terme pyping: that is it will most byte you,

what so is a overstay of life, is displesant to your

person, musik may not stand in your presence, whereas

all the learned Philosophers have alwayes had it in

reverence. _Homar_ commendeth it highly, referring

to the prayses of the Gods whiche Gosson accompteth

folishnesse; looke uppon the harmonie of the

Heavens; hang they not by Musik? Doe not the

_Spheares_ move? The _primus_ motor governe[s], be not

they _inferiora corpora_ affected _quadam sumpathia_ and

agreement? Howe can we measure the debilitie of

the patient but by the disordered motion of the pulse?

Is not man worse accompted of when he is most out

of tune? Is there any thinge that more affecteth

the sense? Doth there any pleasure more acuat

our understanding? Can the wonders yt hath

wroughte and which you your selfe confesse no more

move you? It fitteth well nowe that the learned

have sayd, _musica requirit generosum animu[m]_ which

since it is far from you, no marvel though you favor

not that profession. It is reported of the _Camelion_

that shee can chaunge her selfe unto all coollors save

whyte, and you can accompte of all thinges save such

as have honesty. _Plutarch_ your good Mayster may

bare me witness that the ende whereto Musick was,

will proove it prayes worthy. O Lord howe maketh

it a man to remember heavenly things to wo[n]der at

the works of the creator. _Eloquence_ can stay the

souldiars sworde from slayinge an Orator, and shall

not musike be magnified which not onely saveth the

bodye but is a comfort to the soule? David rejoyseth

singeth and prayeth the Lorde by the Harpe, and the

Simbale is not removed from his sanctuary, the

Aungels syng _gloria in excelsis_. Surely the imagination

in this present instant calleth me to a deepe

consideration of my God. Looke for wonders where

musike worketh, and wher harmonie is ther followeth

increcible delectation. The bowels of the earth

y[i]eld where the instrument soundeth and _Pluto_

cannot keepe _Proserpina_ if _Orpheus_ recorde. The

Seas shall not swallowe _Arion_ whilst he singeth,

nether shall hee perish while he harpeth, a doleful

tuner yf a diing musition can move a Monster of ye

sea to mourne. A Dolphin respectet a heavenly recorde.

Call your selfe home therefore and reclayme thys

follye, it is to[o] foule to bee admitted, you may not

mayntaine it. I hadd well hoped you woulde in all

these thynges have wiselye admytted the thyng, and

disalowe naughte but the abus, but I see your mynde

in youre wrytinge was to penn somewhat you knowe

not what, and to confyrme it I wot not howe, so that

yourselfe hath hatched us an Egge yet so that it hath

blest us wyth a monsterus chickin, both wythoute

hedde, and also tayle, lyke the Father, full of imperfection

and lesse zeale. Well marke yet a lyttle

more, beare with me though I be bytter, my love is

never the lesse for that I have learned of _Tullye_, that

_Nulla remedia tam faciunt dolorem quam quæ sunt

salutaria_, the sharper medycine the better it cures, the

more you see your follye, the sooner may you amend

it. Are not the straines in Musike to tickle and

delyght the eare? are not our warlike instruments to

move men to valor? you confesse they moove us,

but yet they delight not our eares? I pray you whence

grew that poynt of Phylosophy? It is more then

ever my Mayster taught mee, that a thynge of sounde

shoulde not delyghte the eare. Belyke yee suppose

that men are monsters, withoute eares, or else I thynke

you wyll saye they heare with theire heeles, it may bee

so; for indeede when wee are delighted with Musike,

it maketh our heart to scypp for joye, and it maye

bee perhaps by assending from the heele to the hygher

partes, it may move us, good policie in sooth, this

was of your owne coyning, your mother never taught

it you, but I wyll not deale by reason of philosophye

wyth you for that confound your senses, but I can

asure you this one thinge, that this principle will

make the wiser to mislike your invention, it had bene

a fitter jest for your howlet in your playe, then an

orname[n]t in your booke. But since you wrote of

abuses, we may licence you to lye a little, so ye abuse

will be more manifest. Lord with how goodly a cote

have you clothed your conceiptes, you abound in

storyes but impertinent, they bewray your reeding

but not your wisedom, would God they had bin well

aplyed. But now I must play the musitian right

nolesse buggs now come in place but pavions and

mesures, dumps and fancies, and here growes a great

question what musick _Homer_ used in curing ye

diseased gretians, it was no dump you say, and so

think I, for yt is not apliable to sick men, for it

favoreth Malancholie. I am sure it was no mesure,

for in those days they were not such good da[n]sers,

for so[o]th the[n] what was it? If you require me, if

you name me the instrume[n]t, I wyl tel you what was

ye musik. Meanwhile a gods name let us both dout

yt is no part of our salvation to know what it was nor

how it went. When I speak with _Homer_ next you

shall knowe his answere.

But you can not be content to erre but you must

maintain it to[o]. _Pithagoras_ you say alowes not

that musik is decerned by eares, but hee wisheth us

to assend unto the sky and marke that harmony.

Surely this is but one doctors opinion (yet I dislike not

of it) but to speake my conscience my thinkes musike

best pleaseth me when I heare it, for otherwise the

catter walling of Cats, were it not for harmonie, should

more delight mine eies then the tunable voyces of

men. But these things are not the chiefest poynts

you shote at, thers somewhat els sticketh in your

stomak God graunt it hurt you not, from the daunce

you runn to the pype from 7. to 3. which if I shoulde

add I beleeve I could wrest out halfe a score

inco[n]veniences more out of your booke. Our

pleasant consortes do discomfort you much, and

because you lyke not thereof they arr discomendable,

I have heard it is good to take sure fotinge when we

travel unknowen countryes, for when we wade above

our shoe latchet _Appelles_ wyll reprehende us for

coblers, if you had bene a father in musick and coulde

have decerned of tunes I would perhaps have likt

your opinion sumwhat where now I abhor it, if you

wear a professor of that practise I would quickly

perswade you, that the adding of strings to our

instrument make the sound more hermonious, and

that the mixture of Musike maketh a better concent.

But to preach to unskillfull is to perswad ye brut

beastes, I wyl not stand long in thys point although

the dignitye thereof require a volume, but howe

learned men have esteemed this heavenly gift, if you

please to read you shall see. _Socrates_ in hys old age

will not disdain to learn ye science of Music amo[n]g

children, he can abide their correctio[n]s to[o], so

much accou[n]ted he that wt you contemn, so

profitable thought he yt, wt you mislik. _Solon_ wil

esteme so much of ye knowledg of singing, yt he wil

soner forget to dye the[n] to sing. _Pithagoras_ liks it

so wel yt he wil place it in _Greace_, and _Aristoxenus_

will saye yt the soule is musik. _Plato_ (in his booke

_de legibus_) will affirme that it can not be handled

without all sciences, the _Lacedemonians and Cretensis_

wer sturred to warre by Anapæstus foote, and

_Timotheus_ with the same incensed kinge _Alexander_

to batel, ye yf _Boetyus_ fitten not, on _Tauromitanus_

(by this _Phrigian_ sound) hastened to burn a house

wher a stru[m]pet was hidden.

So little abideth this heave[n]ly harmony our

humane filthines yt it worketh wonders as you may

perceve most manifestly by the history of _Agamemnon_

who going to ye Trojan war, left at home a musitian

yt playde the _Dorian_ tune, who wt the foote

_Spondeus_ preserved his wife _Clitemnestra_ in chastity

and honesty, wherfore she co[u]ld not be deflowred by

_Ægistus_, before he had wickedly slain the musitian.

So yt as the magnetes draweth Iorne, and the

Theamides (w^c groweth in _Ægipt_) driveth it away:

so musik calleth to it selfe al honest plesures, and dispelleth

fro[m] it all vaine misdemanors. Yt matter is

so ple[n]tiful that I cannot find wher to end, as for

beginnings they be infinite, but these shall suffice.

I like not to[o] long circu[m]stances wher les doe serve:

only I wish you to accompt wel of this heave[n]ly

concent, w^c is ful of perfettio[n], preceding fro[m]

above, drawing his original fro[m] the motion of ye

stars, fro[m] the agrement of the planets, fro[m] the

whisteling winds, and fro[m] al those celestial circles

where is e[i]ther perfit agreeme[n]t or any _Sumphonia_.

But as I like musik so admit I not of thos that

deprave the same: your pipers are as odius to mee

as yourselfe; nether alowe I your harpinge merye

beggers: although I knewe you my selfe a professed

play maker, and a paltry actor. Since which ye

windmil of your wit hath bin tornd so long wyth the

wynde of folly, that I fear me we shall see the dogg

returne to his vomit, and the clensed sow to her myre,

and the reformed scholemayster to hys old teaching

of follye. Beware it be not so, let not your booke be

a blemish to your own profession. Correct not musik

therfore whe[n] it is praiesworthy, least your worthlesse

misliking bewray your madnes. Way the abuse

and that is matter sufficient to serve a magistrates

animadversion. Heere may you advise well, and if

you have any stale rethorik florish upon thys text, the

abuse is, when that is applyed to wantonnesse, which

was created to shewe Gods worthinesse. When ye

shamefull resorts of shameles curtezanes in sinful

sonnets shall prophane vertue, these are no light

sinnes, these make many good men lament, this causeth

parents hate there right borne children, if this were

reformed by your policie I should esteme of you as

you wysh. I feare me it fareth far otherwyse, _latet

anguis in herba_, under your fare show of conscience

take heede you cloake not your abuse, it were pittie

the learned should be overseene in your simplenesse,

I feare me you will be politick wyth _Machavel_ not

zealous as a prophet. Well I will not stay long upon

the abuse, for that I see it is to[o] manifest, the

remembraunce thereof is discommendable among the

godly, and I my self am very loth to bring it in

memory. To the wise advised reader these mai

suffice, to flee the _Crocodel_ before he commeth, lest

we be bitten, and to avoyde the abuse of musik, since

we se[e] it, lest our misery be more when we fall into

folly. _Ictus piscator sapit_, you heare open confession,

these abuses are disclaimed by our Gosson, he is sory

that hee hath so leudlye lived, and spent the oyle of

his perfection in unsavery Lampes. He hath _Argus_

eyes to watch him now, I wold wish him beware of

his Islington, and such lyke resorts, if now he retourne

from his repented lyfe to his old folly, Lord how

foule will be his fall. Men know more then they

speak if they be wise, I feare me some will blush that

readeth this, if he be bitten, wold God Gosson at

that instant might have a watchman. But I see it

were needelesse, perhaps he hath _Os durum_, and then

what avayleth their presence.

Well, I leave this poynt til I know further of your

mynde, mean while I must talke a little wyth you

about ye thyrd abuse, for the cater cosens of pypers,

theyr names (as you terme them) be players, and

I think as you doe, for your experience is sufficient

to enforme me. But here I must loke about me,

_quacunque tetigeris ulcus est_, here is a task that

requireth a long treatis, and what my opinion is of

players ye now shall plainly perceve. I must now

serch my wits, I see this shall passe throughe many

severe sensors handling, I must advise me what I

write, and write that I would wysh. I way wel the

seriousnes of the cause, and regarde very much the

Judges of my endevor, whom if I could I would

perswade that I woulde not nourish abuse, nether

mayntaine that which should be an universall discomoditye.

I hope they wil not judge before they

read, nether condemne without occasion. The wisest

wil alwais carry to eares, in yt they are to diserne

two indifferent causes. I meane not to hold you in

suspe[n]c[e] (severe Judges) if you gredely expect my

verdit brefely this it is.

_Demostines_ thoughte not that _Phillip_ shoulde overcome

when he reproved hym, nether feared _Cicero

Anthonies_ force when in the Senatt hee rebuked hym.

To the ignorant e[a]ch thinge that is unknowne semes

unprofitable, but a wise man can foresee and prayse

by proofe. _Pythagoras_ could spy oute in womens

eyes two kind of teares, the one of grefe the other

of disceit: and those of judgement can from the

same flower suck honey with the bee, from whence

the Spyder (I mean the ignorant) take their poison.

Men yt have knowledge what comedies and tragedis

be, wil comend the[m], but it is sufferable in the

folish to reprove that they know not, becaus ther

mouthes wil hardly be stopped. Firste therfore, if

it be not tedious to Gosson to harken to the lerned,

the reder shall perceive the antiquity of playmaking,

the inventors of comedies, and therewithall the use

and comoditaye of the[m]. So that in ye end I hope

my labor shall be liked, and the learned wil soner

conceve his folly.

For tragedies and comedies _Donate_ the gramarian

sayth, they wer invented by lerned fathers of the old

time to no other purpose, but to yeelde prayse unto

God for a happy harvest, or plentifull yeere, and that

thys is trewe the name of Tragedye doeth importe,

for if you consider whence it came, you shall perceive

(as _Iodocus Badius_ reporteth) that it drewe his original

of _Tragos, Hircus_, and _Ode, Cantus_ (so called), for

that the actors thereof had in rewarde for theyr

labour, a Gotes skynne fylled wyth wyne. You see

then that the fyrste matter of tragedies was to give

thankes and prayses to GOD, and a gratefull prayer of

the countrymen for a happye harvest, and this I hope

was not discommendable. I knowe you will judge

[th]is farthest from abuse. But to wade farther, thys

fourme of invention being found out, as the dayes

wherein it was used did decay, and the world grew

to more perfection, so yt witt of the younger sorte

became more riper, for they leaving this fourme,

invented an other, in the which they altered the nature

but not ye name: for sounets in prayse of ye gods,

they did set forth the sower fortune of many exiles,

the miserable fal of haples princes, the reuinous decay

of many cou[n]tryes, yet not content with this, they

presented the lives of _Satyers_, so that they might

wiselye, under the abuse of that name, discover the

follies of many theyr folish fellow-citesens: and

those monsters were then, as our parasites are now

adayes: suche as with pleasure reprehended abuse.

As for commedies because they bear a more plesanter

vain, I wil leave the other to speake of them. _Tully_

defines them thus. _Comedia_ (sayth he) is _Imitatio

vitæ, speculum consuetudinis, et imago veritatis_, and it

is sayde to be termed of _Comai_ (emongste the Greekes)

whiche signifieth _Pagos_, and _Ode, Cantus_: for that

they were exercised in the fielde. They had they

beginning wyth tragedies, but their matter was more

plessaunt, for they were suche as did reprehend, yet

_quodam lepore_. These first very rudely were invented

by _Susarion Bullus_, and _Magnes_ t[w]o auncient poets,

yet so that they were mervelous profitable to the

reclamynge of abuse: whereupon _Eupolis_ with _Cratinus_,

and _Aristophanes_ began to write, and with ther

eloquenter vaine and perfection of stil[e], dyd more

severely speak agaynst the abuses the[n] they: which

_Horace_ himselfe witnesseth. For sayth he ther was no

abuse but these men reprehended it. A thefe was

loth to be seene on there spectacle. A coward was

never present at theyr assemblies. A backbiter

abhord that company, and I my self could not have

blamed your (Gosson) for exempting yourselfe from

this theater, of troth I should have lykt your pollicy.

These therefore, these wer they that kept men in awe,

these restrayned the unbridled cominaltie, whereupon

_Horace_ wisely sayeth,

_Oderunt peccare boni, virtutis amore,

Oderunt peccare mali, formidine penæ._

The good did hate al sinne for vertues love,

The bad for feare of shame did sin remove.

Yea would God our realme could light uppon a

_Lucillius_, then should the wicked bee poynted out

from the good, a harlot woulde seeke no harbor at

stage plais, lest she shold here her owne name growe

in question: and the discourse of her honesty cause

her to bee hated of the godly. As for you I am sure

of this one thing, he would paint you in your players

orname[n]ts, for they best becam you. But as these

sharpe corrections were disanulde in Rome when

they grewe to more licenciousnes: so I fear me if we

shold practise it in our dayes, the same intertainmente

would followe. But in illreformed Rome what

comedies now? A poets wit can correct, yet not

offend. _Philemon_ will mitigate the corrections of

sinne, by reproving them covertly in shadowes. _Menandar_

dare not offend ye Senate openly, yet wants he

not a parasite to touch them prively. _Terence_ wyl

not report the abuse of harlots under there proper

stile, but he can finely girde the[m] under the person

of _Thais_. Hee dare not openly tell the Rich of theyr

covetousnesse and severity towards their children, but

he can controle them under the person of _Durus

Demeas_. He must not shew the abuse of noble yong

gentilmen under theyr owne title, but he wyll warne

them in the person of _Pamphilus_. Wil you learne to

know a parasite? Looke upon his _Dauus_. Wyl

you seke the abuse of courtly flatterers? Behold

_Gnato_: and if we had some Satericall Poetes nowe a

dayes to penn our commedies, that might be admitted

of zeale to discypher the abuses of the worlde in the

person of notorious offenders. I know we should

wisely ryd our assemblyes of many of your brotherhod,

but because you may have a full scope to

reprehende, I will ryp up a rableme[n]t of playmakers,

whose wrightinges I would wishe you overlooke, and

seeke out theyr abuses. Can you mislike of _Cecillius_?

or dispise _Plinius_? or amend _Neuius_? or find fault

with _Licinius_? Wherein offended _Actilius_? I am

sure you can not but wonder at _Terrence_? Wil it

please you to like of _Turpelius_? or alow of _Trabea_?

You muste needs make much of _Ennius_ for overloke

al thes, and you shal find ther volums ful of wit if

you examine the[m]: so yt if you had no other

masters, you might deserve to be a doctor, wher now

you are but a folishe scholemaister. But I wyll deale

wyth you verye freendlye, I wil resolve everi doubt

that you find. Those instrumentes which you mislike

in playes grow of auncient custome, for when _Rossius_

was an Actor, be sure that as with his tears he moved

affections, so the Musitian in the Theater before the

entrance, did mornefully record it in melody (as

Servius reporteth). The actors in Rome had also

gay clothing and every ma[n]s aparel was apliable to

his part and person. The old men in white, ye rich

men in purple, the parasite disguisedly, the yong men

in gorgeous coulours, ther wanted no devise nor good

judgeme[n]t of ye comedy, whe[n]c[e] I suppose our

players both drew ther plaies and fourme of garments.

As for the appointed dayes wherin comedies wer

showen, I reede that the Romaynes appoynted them

on the festival dayes, in such reputation were they

had at that time. Also _Iodocus Badius_ will assertain

you that the actors for shewing pleasure receved

some profite. But let me apply those dayes to ours,

their actors to our players, their autors to ours.

Surely we want not a _Rossius_, nether ar ther great

scarsity of _Terrences_ professio[n], but yet our men dare

not nowe a dayes presume so much as the old Poets

might, and therfore they apply ther writing to the

peoples vain, wheras if in the beginning they had

ruled, we should now adaies have found smal spectacles

of folly. But (of truth) I must confes with

_Aristotle_, that men are greatly delighted with imitation,

and that it were good to bring those things on stage,

that were altogether tending to vertue: all this I

admit, and hartely wysh, but you say unlesse the

thinge be taken away the vice will continue, nay I

say if the style were changed the practise would profit.

And sure I thinke our theaters fit, that _Ennius_ seeing

our wa[n]ton _Glicerium_ may rebuke her, if our poetes

will nowe become severe, and for prophane things write

of vertue: you I hope shoulde see a reformed state

in those thinges, which I feare me yf they were not,

the idle hedded commones would worke more mischiefe.

I wish as zealously as the best that all abuse

of playinge were abolished, but for the thing, the

antiquitie causeth me to allow it, so it be used as it

should be. I cannot allow the prophaning of the

Sabaoth, I praise your reprehension in that, you did

well in discommending the abuse, and surely I wysh

that that folly wer disclaymed, it is not to be admitted,

it maks those sinne, which perhaps if it were not,

would have binne present at a good sermon. It is in

the Magistrate to take away that order, and appoynt

it otherwyse. But sure it were pittie to abolish yt

which hath so great vertue in it, because it is abused.

The Germanes when the use of preaching was forbidden

them, what helpe had they I pray you? Forsoth

the learned were fayne covertly in comodies to

declare abuses, and by playing to incite the people to

vertues, whe[n] they might heare no preaching. Those

were lamentable dayes you will say, and so thinke I,

but was not this I pray you a good help in reforming

the decaying Gospel? You see then how comedies

(my severe judges) are requesit both for ther antiquity,

and for ther commoditye: for the dignity of

the wrighters, and the pleasure of the hearers. But

after your discrediting of playmaking, you salve uppon

the sore somewhat, and among many wise workes

there be some that fitte your vaine: the practise of

parasites is one, which I mervel it likes you so well

since it bites you so sore. But sure in that I like

your judgement, and for the rest to[o], I approve

your wit, but for the pigg of your own sow (as you

terme it) assuredly I must discommend your verdit.

Tell me Gosson was all your owne you wrote there:

did you borow nothing of your neyghbours? but of

what booke patched you out _Ciceros_ oration? Whence

fet you _Catulins_ invective? Thys is one thing, _alienam

olet lucernâ non tuam_. So that your helper may wisely

reply upon you with _Virgil_,

_Hos ego versiculos feci tulit alter honores_,

I made these verses other bear the name. Beleve me

I should preferr Wilsons, shorte and sweete if I were

judge, a peece surely worthy prayse, the practise of a

good scholler, would the wiser would overlooke that,

they may perhaps cull some wisedome out of a players

toye. Well, as it is wisedome to commend where

the cause requireth, so it is a poynt of folly to praise

without deserte. You dislike players very much,

theyr dealings be not for your commodity, whom if I

myghte advise they should learne thys of _Juvenal_:

_Vivendum est recte

Cum propter plurima, tum his

Præcipue causis: ut linguas mancipiorum

Cont[=e]nas. N[=a] lingua mali pars pessima servi._

We ought to leade our lives aright,

For many causes move.

Especially for this same cause,

Wisedome doth us behove.

That we may set at nough[t] those blames,

Which servants to us lay,

For why, the tongue of evel slave,

Is worst as wise men ever say.

Methinks I heare some of them verifiing these

verses upon you, if it so be that I hear them, I wil

concele it, as for the statute of apparrell and the

abuses thereof, I see it manifestly broken, and if I

should seeke for example, you cannot but offend my

eyes. For if you examine the statuts exactly, a

simple cote should be fitted to your backe. We

should bereve you of your braverye, and examine

your au[n]cestry, and by profession in respect of ye

statute, we should find you catercosens with a (but

hush), you know my meaning, I must for pitie favor

your credit in that you weare once a scholler. You

runne farther to Carders, dicers, fencers, bowlers,

dauncers, and tomblers, whose abuses I wold

rebuke with you, had not your self moved other

matters. But to eche I say thus, for dicing I wyshe

those that know it not to leave to learn it, and let

the fall of others make them wiser. Yf they had an

_Alexander_ to govern they shold be punished, and I

could wish them not to abuse the lenitie of their

prince. _Cicero_ for a great blemish reputeth that

which our gentilmen use for bravery, but _sufficit ista

leniter attigisse_, a word against fencers, and so an

end. Whom I wish to beware with _Demonax_ lest

admitting theyr fencing delightes, they destroy (with

the _Athenians_) the alters of peace; by raysing quarrellous

causes, they worke uprores: but you and I

reprove the[m] in abuse, yet I (for my part) cannot

but allow the practise so it be well used. As for the

filling of our gracious princes cofers with peace, as

it pertaineth not to me, because I am none of her

receivors, so men think unlesse it hath bine lately

you have not bene of her majesties counsel. But

now here as you begin folishly, so surely you end

unlernedly. Prefer you warre before peace? the

sword before the Goune? the rule of a Tyrant before

ye happy days of our gracious Queen? You know

the philosophers are against you, yet dare you stand

in handy grips wyth _Cicero_: you know that force is

but an instrume[n]t when counsell fayleth, and if

wisedome win not, farwel warre. Aske _Alphonsus_

what counsellors he lyketh of? hee will say his

bookes: and hath not I pray you pollicy alwais over-mastered

force? Who subdued _Hannibal_ in his

great royalty? he yt durst knock at Rome gates to

have the[m] opened is nowe become a pray to a sylly

senator. _Appius Claudius et senex et coecus_, a father full

of wisedome can releve the state of decaying Rome.

And was it force that subdued _Marius_? or armes

that discovered _Catulins_ conspiracies? Was it rash

reuendg in punishing _Cethegus_? or want of witt in

the discoverye of treason? _Cato_ can correct himselfe

for traveling by Sea, when the land profereth

passage, or to be fole hardy in over mutch hazard.

_Aristotle_ accompteth counsell holye, and _Socrates_ can

terme it the key of certentye. What shall we count

of war but wrath, of battel but hastines, and if I did

rule (with _Augustus Cæsar_) I woulde refuse these

counselers. What made ye oracle I praye you

accompt of _Calchas_ so much? was it not for his

wisedome? who doth not like of the governer that

had rather meete with _Unum Nestorem_ than _decem

Aiaces_? You cannot tame a Lyon but in tyme,

neither a Tigres in few dayes. Counsell in _Regulus_

will preferring the liberty of his country before his

lyfe, not remit the delivery of _Carthaginian_ captives.

_Hannibal_ shall flesh himselfe on an olde mans carkas,

whose wisedom preserved his citye. _Adrian_ with

letters can governe hys legions, and rule peasablye

his provinces by policye. Aske _Silvius Italicus_ what

peace is and he will say:

_Pax optima rerum quas homini novisse

datum est, pax una triumphis

Innumeris potior, pax custodire salutem.

Et cives æquare potens._

No better thing to man did nature

Ever give then peace,

Then which to know no greater joy

Can come to our encrease.

To foster peace is stay of health,

And keepes the land in ease.

Take cou[n]sell of Ovid what sayth he?

_Candida pax homines, trux decet atra feras._

To men doth heavenly peace pertaine

And currish anger fitteth brutish vaine.

Well as I wish it to have continuance, so I praye

God wyth the Prophet it be not abused. And

because I think my selfe to have sufficiently answered

that I supposed, I conclude with this. God preserve

our peacable princes[s], and confound her enemies.

God enlarge her wisdome, that like _Saba_ she may

seeke after a _Salomon_: God confounde the imaginations

of her enemies, and perfit His graces in her,

that the daies of her rule may be continued in the

bonds of peace, that the house of the chosen

Isralites may be maynteyned in happinesse: lastly I

frendly bid Gosson farwell, wyshinge him to temper

his penn with more discretion.

II.--JOHN LYLY (?)

(_The author of_ Euphues _is the most probable claimant

for the authorship also of the following, which is

perhaps the ablest and not the least characteristic of all

the set, Martinist or anti-Martinist. The introduction

and the notes will supply all absolutely necessary information

for understanding it._)

_Pappe with an hatchet._

Alias,

_A figge for my God sonne._

Or

_Cracke me this nut._

Or

_A Countrie cuffe, that is, a sound boxe of the_

eare, for the idiot _Martin_ to hold his peace,

seeing the patch will take no

warning.

_Written by one that dares call a dog, a dog_,

and made to preuent _Martins_ dog daies.

Imprinted by _Iohn Anoke_, and _Iohn Astile_, for the

Bayliue of Withernam, _cum priuilegio perennitatis_,

and are to bee sold at the signe of the

crab tree cudgell in thwackcoate

lane.

_A sentence._

_Martin_ hangs fit for my mowing.

To the Father and the two Sonnes,

Huffe, Ruffe, and Snuffe,

the three tame ruffians of the Church, which take pepper

in the nose, because they can not

marre Prelates:

grating.

Roome for a royster; so thats well sayd, itch a little

further for a good fellowe. Now haue at you all my

gaffers of the rayling religion, tis I that must take you

a peg lower. I am sure you looke for more worke,

you shall haue wood enough to cleaue, make your

tongue the wedge, and your head the beetle, Ile make

such a splinter runne into your wits, as shal make th[=e]

ranckle till you become fooles. Nay, if you shoot

bookes like fooles bolts, Ile be so bold as to make

your iudgements quiuer with my thunderbolts. If

you meane to gather clowdes in the Commonwealth,

to threaten tempests, for your flakes of snowe weele

pay you with stones of hayle; if with an Easterlie

winde you bring Catterpillers into the Church, with

a Northerne wind weele driue barrennes into your

wits.

We care not for a Scottish mist, though it wet vs

to the skin, you shal be sure your cockscombs shall not

be mist, but pearst to the skuls. I professe rayling,

and think it as good a cudgell for a Martin, as a

stone for a dogge, or a whippe for an Ape, or poyson

for a rat.

Yet find fault with no broad termes, for I haue

mesured yours with mine, and I find yours broader

iust by the list. Say not my speaches are light, for

I haue weighed yours and mine, and I finde yours

lighter by twentie graines than the allowance. For

number you exceede, for you haue thirtie ribauld

words for my one, and yet you beare a good spirit.

I was loath so to write as I haue done, but that I

learnde, that he that drinkes with cutters, must not

be without his ale dagger; nor hee that buckles with

Martin, without his lauish termes.

Who would currie an Asse with an Iuorie combe?

giue the beast thistles for prouender. I doo but yet

angle with a silken flye, to see whether Martins will

nibble; and if I see that, why then I haue wormes

for the nonce, and will giue them line enough like a

trowte, till they swallow both hooke and line, and

then Martin beware your gilles, for Ile make you

daunce at the poles end.

I knowe Martin will with a trice bestride my

shoulders. Well, if he ride me, let the foole sit fast,

for my wit is verie kickish; which if he spurre with

his copper replie, when it bleedes, it will all to besmeare

their consciences.

If a Martin can play at chestes, as well as his

nephewe the ape, he shall knowe what it is for a

scaddle pawne to crosse a Bishop in his owne walke.

Such dydoppers must be taken vp, els theile not stick

to check the king. Rip vp my life, discipher my

name, fill thy answer as full of lies as of lines, swell

like a toade, hisse like an adder, bite like a dog, and

chatter like a monkey, my pen is prepared and my

minde; and if yee chaunce to finde any worse

words than you brought, let them be put in your dads

dictionarie. And so farewell, and be hangd, and I

pray God ye fare no worse.

Yours at an houres warning

Double V.

TO THE INDIFFERENT READER.

It is high time to search in what corner of the Church

the fire is kindled, being crept so far, as that with the

verie smoke the consciences of diuers are smothered.

It is found that certaine Martins, if no miscreants in

religion (which wee may suspect) yet without doubt

malec[=o]tents (which wee ought to feare) haue throwen

fire, not into the Church porch, but into the Chauncell,

and though not able by learning and iudgement to

displace a Sexton, yet seeke to remooue Bishops.

They haue scattered diuers libels, all so taunting and

slanderous, as it is hard to iudge, whether their lyes

exceed their bitternesse, or their bitternesse their

fables.

If they be answered by the grauitie of learned

Prelates, they presentlie reply with railings; which

argueth their intent to be as farre fr[=o] the truth of

deuotion, as their writings from mildnes of spirit.

It is said that camels neuer drinke, till they haue

troubled the water with their feete, and it seemes

these Martins cannot carouse the sapp of the Church,

till by faction they make tumults in religion. Seeing

th[=e] either they expect no graue replie, or that they

are settled with railing to replie; I thought it more

conuenient, to giue them a whisk with their owne

wand, than to haue them spurd with deeper learning.

The Scithian slaues, though they bee vp in armes,

must bee tamde with whippes, not swords, and these

mutiners in Church matters, must haue their mouthes

bungd with iests, not arguments.

I seldome vse to write, and yet neuer writ anie

thing, that in speech might seeme vndecent, or in

sense vnhonest; if here I haue vsed bad tearmes, it is

because they are not to bee answered with good

tearmes: for whatsoeuer shall seeme lauish in this

Pamphlet, let it be thought borrowed of Martins

language. These Martins were hatcht of addle

egges, els could they not haue such idle heads.

They measure conscience by their owne yard, and

like the theeues, that had an yron bed, in which all

that were too long they would cut euen, all that were

too short they would stretch out, and none escapte

vnrackt or vnsawed, that were not iust of their beds

length: so all that are not Martins, that is, of their

peeuish mind, must be measured by them. If he

come short of their religion, why he is but a colde

Protestant, hee must bee pluckt out to the length of a

Puritane. If any be more deuout than they are, as

to giue almes, fast, and pray, then they cut him off

close by the workes, and say he is a Papist. If one

be not cast in Martins mould, his religion must needes

mould. He saith he is a Courtier, I thinke no

Courtier so peruerse, that seeing the streight rule of the

Church, would goe about to bend it. It may be he

is some Iester about the Court, and of that I meruaile,

because I know all the fooles there, and yet cannot

gesse at him. What euer he be, if his conscience be

pind to his cognizance, I will account him more

politicke than religious, and more dangerous for

ciuill broyles, than the Spaniard for an open warre.

I am ignorant of Martin and his maintainer, but my

conscience is my warrant, to care for neither. For I

knowe there is none of honour so carelesse, nor any

in zeale so peeuish, nor of nature any so barbarous,

that wil succour those that be suckers of the Church,

a thing against God and policie; against God, in subuerting

religion; against policie, in altering gouernment,

making in the Church the feast of the Lapithees,

where all shall bee throwne on anothers head, because

euerie one would be the head. And these it is

high time to tread vnder foote: for who would not

make a threshold of those, that go about to make the

Church a barne to thresh in. _Itaque sic disputo._

FINIS.

PAPPE WITH AN HATCHET

Good morrow, goodman Martin, good morrow: will

ye anie musique this morning? What, fast a sleepe?

Nay faith, Ile cramp thee till I wake thee. _O whose

tat?_ Nay gesse olde knaue and odd knaue: for Ile

neuer leaue pulling, till I haue thee out of thy bed

into the streete; and then all shall see who thou art,

and thou know what I am.

Your Knaueship brake you fast on the Bishops,

by breaking your iests on them: but take heed you

breake not your owne necke. Bastard Iunior dinde

vpon them, and cramde his maw as full of mallice, as

his head was of malapertnesse. Bastard Senior was

with them at supper, and I thinke tooke a surfet of

colde and raw quipps. O what queasie girds were

they towards the fall of the leafe. Old Martin, neuer

entaile thy wit to the eldest, for hee'le spend all he

hath in a quire of paper.

[Sidenote: _Hee sweares by his mazer, that he will make their wits

wetshod, if the ale haue his swift current._]

Now sirs, knowing your bellies full of Bishops

bobbs, I am sure your bones would be at rest: but

wee'le set vp all our rests, to make you all restie. I

was once determined to write a proper newe Ballet,

entituled _Martin and his Maukin_, to no tune, because

Martin was out of all tune. Elderton swore

hee had rimes lying a steepe in ale, which

should marre all your reasons: there is an

olde hacker that shall take order for to print

them. O how hee'le cut it, when his ballets

come out of the lungs of the licour. They

shall be better than those of Bonner, or the ierkes

for a Iesuit. The first begins, Come tit me come

tat me, come throw a halter at me.

Then I thought to touch Martin with Logick, but

there was a little wag in Cambridge, that swore by

Saint Seaton, he would so swinge him with Sillogismes,

that all Martins answeres should ake. The

vile boy hath manie bobbes, and a whole fardle of

fallacies. He begins,

_Linquo coax ranis, cros coruis, vanaque vanis.

Ad Logicam pergo, quæ Mart'ins non timet ergo._

And saies, he will ergo Martin into an ague. I haue

read but one of his arguments.

_Tiburne stands in the cold,

But Martins are a warme furre;

Therefore Tiburne must be furd with Martins._

O (quoth I) boy thou wilt be shamed; tis neither

in moode nor figure: all the better, for I am in a

moode to cast a figure, that shall bring them to the

conclusion. I laught at the boye, and left him

drawing all the lines of Martin into sillogismes,

euerie conclusion beeing this, Ergo Martin is to bee

hangd.

Nay, if rime and reason bee both forestalde, Ile

raile, if Martin haue not barrelde vp all rakehell

words: if he haue, what care I to knock him on the

head with his owne hatchet. He hath taken vp all

the words for his obscenitie: obscentie? Nay, now

I am too nice; squirrilitie were a better word: well,

let me alone to squirrell them.

Martin, thinkst thou, thou hast so good a wit, as

none can outwrangle thee? Yes Martin, wee will

play three a vies wits: art thou so backt that none

dare blade it with thee? Yes Martin, wee will drop

vie stabbes. Martin sweares I am some gamester.

Why, is not gaming lawful? I know where there is

more play in the compasse of an Hospitall, than in

the circuite of Westchester. One hath been an old

stabber at passage: the One that I meane, thrust a

knife into ones thigh at Cambridge, the quarrel was

about cater-tray, and euer since he hath quarrelled

about cater-caps.

I thought that hee which thrust at the bodie in

game, would one daie cast a foyne at the soule in

earnest. But hee workes closelie and sees all, hee

learnd that of old Vydgin the cobler, who wrought ten

yeares with spectacles, and yet swore he could see

through a dicker of leather. He hath a wanton

spleene, but wee will haue it stroakt with a spurne,

because his eies are bleard, he thinkes to bleare

all ours; but let him take this for a warning, or else

looke for such a warming, as shall make all his

deuices as like wood, as his spittle is like woodsere.

Take away the Sacke, and giue him some Cinamom

water, his conscience hath a colde stomacke. Cold?

Thou art deceiued, twil digest a Cathedral Church as

easilie as an Estritch a two penie naile.

But softe Martins, did your Father die at the

Groyne? It was well groapt at, for I knewe him

sicke of a paine in the groyne. A pockes of that

religion (quoth Iulian Grimes to her Father) when al

his haires fell off on the sodaine. Well let the olde

knaue be dead. Whie are not the spawnes of such

a dog-fish hangd? Hang a spawne? drowne it; alls

one, damne it.

Ye like not a Bishops rochet, when all your fathers

hankerchers were made of his sweete harts smocke.

That made you bastards, and your dad a cuckold,

whose head is swolne so big, that he had neede sende

to the cooper to make him a biggin: and now you

talke of a cooper, Ile tell you a tale of a tubb.

[Sidenote: _They are not so many, thei are all Centimani, an hundred

hands a peece: so that in all they are but one thousand._]

At Sudburie, where the Martin-m[=o]gers swarmd to

a lecture, like beares to a honnie pot: a good honest

strippling, of the age of fiftie yeares or thereabout,

that could haue done a worse act if companie had

not been neere, askt his sweete sister, whether

lecherie in her conscience were a sinne? In faith

(quoth she) I thinke it the superficies of sinne, and

no harme if the tearmes be not abusde, for you must

say, vertuously done, not lustily done. Fie, this is

filthie ribaldry. O sir, ther is no mirth without

ribaldrie, nor ribaldrie without Martin, ask mine

hostesse of the iuie bush in Wye for the one, and

my old hostesse of the Swanne in Warwicke for the

other. She is dead: the diuell she is. You are too

broad with Martins brood: for hee hath a hundred

thousand that will set their handes to his Articles,

and shewe the Queene. Sweeter and

sweeter: for wee haue twentie hundred

thousand handes to withstand them. I

would it were come to the grasp, we would

show them an Irish tricke, that when they

thinke to winne the game with one man,

wee'le make holde out till wee haue but two

left to carrie them to the gallowes: well

followed in faith, for thou saidst thou wert a gamester.

All this is but bad English, when wilt thou come to a

stile? Martin hath manie good words. Manie? Now

you put me in minde of the matter, there is a booke

c[=o]ming out of a hundred merrie tales, and the petigree

of Martin, fetchte from the burning of Sodome, his

armes shal be set on his hearse, for we are prouiding

his funerall, and for the winter nights the tales shall

be told _secundum vsum Sarum_: the Deane of

Salisburie can tell twentie. If this will not make

Martin mad, malicious and melancholie (ô braue letter

followed with a full crie) then will we be desperate, and

hire one that shall so translate you out of French into

English, that you will blush and lie by it. And one

will we coniure vp, that writing a familiar Epistle about

the naturall causes of an Earthquake, fell into the

bowells of libelling, which made his eares quake for

feare of clipping, he shall tickle you with taunts; all

his works bound close, are at least sixe sheetes in

quarto, and he calls them the first tome of his familiar

Epistle: he is full of latin endes, and worth tenne of

those that crie in London, _haie ye anie gold ends to

sell_. If he giue you a bob, though he drawe no

bloud, yet are you sure of a rap with a bable. If he

ioyne with vs, _perijsti_ Martin, thy wit wil be massacred:

if the toy take him to close with thee, then

haue I my wish, for this tenne yeres haue I lookt to

lambacke him. Nay he is a mad lad, and such a

one as cares as little for writing without wit, as

Martin doth for writing without honestie; a notable

coach companion for Martin, to drawe Diuinitie from

the Colledges of Oxford and Cambridge, to Shoomakers

hall in Sainct Martins. But we neither feare

Martin, nor the foot-cloth, nor the beast that wears

it, be he horse or asse; nor whose sonne he is, be

he Martins sonne, Iohns sonne, or Richards sonne;

nor of what occupation he be, be a ship-wright, cart-wright,

or tiburn-wright. If they bring seuen hundred

men, they shall be boxt with fourteen hundred

boyes. Nay we are growing to a secret bargaine.

O, but I forgate a riddle; _the more it is spied, the lesse

it is seene_. Thats the Sunne: the lesse it is spied of

vs, the more it is seene of those vnder vs. The

Sunne? thou art an asse, it is the Father, for the old

knaue, thinking by his bastardie to couer his owne

heade, putteth it like a stagge ouer the pale. Pale?

nay I will make him blush as red as ones nose, that

was alwaies washt in well water.

What newes from the Heraldes? Tush, thats

time enough to know to morrow, for the sermon is

not yet cast. The sermon foole? why they neuer

studie, but cleaue to Christ his _dabitur in illa hora_.

They venter to catch soules, as they were soles;

Doctors are but dunces, none sowes true stitches in

a pulpet, but a shoomaker.

[Sidenote: _Martin Iunior saies, hee found his fathers papers vnder a

bush, the knaue was started from his Fourme._]

Faith, thou wilt bee caught by the stile.

What care I to be found by a stile, when

so many Martins haue been taken vnder

an hedge? If they cannot leuell, they will

roue at thee, and anatomize thy life from

the cradle to the graue, and thy bodie from

the corne on thy toe, to the crochet on thy

head. They bee as cunning in cutting vp an honest

mans credit, as Bull in quartering a knaues bodie.

Tush (what care I) is my posie; if hee meddle with

mee, Ile make his braines so hot that they shall

crumble, and rattle in his warpt scull, like pepper in

a dride bladder.

I haue a catalogue of al the sheepe, and it shall

go hard, but I will crosse the bel-weather. Why

shuld I feare him that walkes on his neats-feete.

Neither court, nor countrie that shal be free, I am

like death, Ile spare none. There shall not misse a

name of anie, that had a Godfather; if anie bee

vnchristened, Ile nicke him with a name.

But whist; beware an action of the case. Then

put this for the case, whether it bee not as lawfull to

set downe the facts of knaues, as for a knaue to

slander honest men. Alls as it is taken; marie the

diuell take al, if truth find not as many soft cushions

to leane on as trecherie.

Theres one with a lame wit, which will not weare

a foure cornerd cap, then let him put on Tiburne,

that hath but three corners; and yet the knaue himselfe

hath a pretie wench in euerie corner.

[Sidenote: _He calls none but the heavens to witnesse._]

I could tickle Martin with a true tale of one of

his sonnes, that hauing the companie of one

of his sisters in the open fieldes, saide, hee

would not smoother vp sinne, and deale in

hugger mugger against his Conscience. In the hundred

merrie tales, the places, the times, the witnesses and

all, shall be put downe to the proofe, where I warrant

you, the Martinists haue consciences of proofe. Doost

think Martin, thou canst not be discouered? What

foole would not thinke him discouered that is balde?

Put on your night cap, and your holie day English, and

the best wit you haue for high daies, all wil be little

enough to keep you from a knaues penance, though

as yet you bee in a fooles paradice. If you coyen

words, as _Cankerburie_, _Canterburines_, etc. whie, I

know a foole that shall so inkhornize you with

straunge phrases, that you shall blush at your owne

bodges. For Similes, theres another shal liken thee

to anie thing, besides he can raile too. If Martin

muzzle not his mouth, and manacle his hands, Ile

blabb all, and not sticke to tell, that pewes and stewes

are rime in their religion.

Scratch not thy head Martin, for be thou Martin

the bird, or Martin the beast; a bird with the longest

bill, or a beast with the longest eares, theres a net

spread for your necke. Martin, Ile tell thee a tale

woorth twelue pence, if thy witt bee woorth a pennie.

There came to a Duke in Italie, a large lubber

and a beggerlie, saying hee had the Philosophers

Stone, and that hee could make golde faster than

the Duke could spend it. The Duke askt him why

hee made none to mainteine himself? Because,

quoth he, I could neuer get a secret place to worke

in; for once I endeuoured, and the Popes holinesse

sent for me, whom if he had caught, I should haue

been a prentice to mainteine his pride. The Duke

minding to make triall of his cunning, and eager of

golde, set him to worke closely in a vault, where it

was not knowen to his neerest seruants. This

Alcumist, in short time consumed two thousande

pound of the Dukes gold, and brought him halfe a

ducket: whie (quoth the Duke) is this all? All,

quoth he, my Lord, that I could make by Art. Wel

said the Duke then shalt thou see my cunning: for

I will boile thee, straine thee, and then drie thee, so

that of a lubber, that weighed three hundred weight,

I will at last make a dram of knaues powder. The

Duke did it.

[Sidenote: _Martin and his mainteiner are both sawers of timber, but

Martin stands in the pit, all the dust must fall in his eies, but he

shal neuer walke on the boards._]

Martin, if thou to cousen haue crept into the

bosome of some great m[=e], saying thou hast the

churches discipline, and that thou canst by thy

faction and pollicie pull down Bishops and set vp

Elders, bring the lands of the Clergy into the cofers

of the Temporaltie, and repaire Religion, by impairing

their liuings, it may bee, thou shalt bee hearkened

too, stroakt on the head, greasd in the hand,

fed daintelie, kept secretlie, and countenaunst

mightelie. But when they perceiue that all thy

deuices bee but Chymeraes, monsters of thine owne

imaginations, so farre from pulling downe a Cathedrall

Church, that they cannot remooue a corner of a square

cap, th[=e] will they deale with thee as the

Duke did with the Alcumist, giue thee as

many bobs on the eare as thou hast eaten

morsels of their meate, and make thee an

example of sedition to be pointed at, that

art now so mewde vp that none can point

where thou art. All this tale, with the application,

was not of my penning, but found

among loose papers; marie he that did it,

dares stand to it. Now, because I haue nothing to

doo betweene this and supper, Ile tell you another

tale, and so begin Winter by time.

There was a libeller, who was also a coniurer, so

that whatsoeuer casting of figures there was, he deceiued

them; at the last, one as cunning as himself,

shewed, wher he sate writing in a fooles coate, and so

he was caught and whipt. Martin, there are figures

a flinging, and ten to one thou wilt be found sitting

in a Knaues skinne, and so be hangd.

Hollow there, giue me the beard I wore yesterday.

O beware of a gray beard, and a balde head: for if

such a one doo but nod, it is right dudgin and deepe

discretion. But soft, I must now make a graue

speach.

There is small difference between Swallowes and

Martins, either in shape or nature, saue onely, that the

Martins haue a more beetle head, they both breed

in Churches, and hauing fledgde their young ones,

leaue nothing behind them but durt. Vnworthie to

come into the Church porch, or to be nourished

vnder anie good mans eues, that gnawe the bowels,

in which they were bred, and defile the place, in

which they were ingendred.

They studie to pull downe Bishopps, and set vp

Superintendents, which is nothing else but to raze

out good Greeke, and enterline bad Latin. A fine

period; but I cannot continue this stile, let me fal

into my olde vaine. O doost remember, howe that

Bastard Iunior complaines of brothells, and talkes of

long Megg of Westminster. A craftie iacke, you

thoght because you twitted Mar-martin, that none

would suspect you; yes faith Martin, you shall bee

thresht with your owne flaile.

[Sidenote: _Hee thought Lais had still lien at Corinth as wel as

Paul._]

It was one of your neast, that writt this for a loue

letter, to as honest a wom[=a] as euer burnt malt.

'Grace, mercie, and peace to thee (O widow)

with feruent motions of the spirit, that it

may worke in thee both to will and to doo.

Thou knowest my loue to thee is, as Paules

was to the Corinthians; that is, the loue of copulation.'

How now holie Martin, is this good wooing? If

you prophane the Scriptures, it is a pretie wit; if we

but alledge Doctors to expound them, wee are wicked.

If Martin oppresse his neighbor, why, hee saith, it is

his conscience; if anie else doo right, it is extremitie.

Martin may better goe into a brothell house, then

anie other go by it; he slides into a bad place like

the Sunne, all others stick in it like pitch. If Martin

speake broad bawdrie, why all the crue saies, your

worship is passing merrie. Martin will not sweare,

but with indeede, in sooth, and in truth, hee'le cogge

the die of deceipt, and cutte at the bumme carde of

his conscience. O sweetelie brought in, at least

three figures in that line, besides the wit ant.

One there was, and such a one as Martin would

make the eldest of his Elders, that hauing fortie

angels sent him for a beneuolence, refusde to giue

the poore fellowe a quittance for the receipt, saying,

Christ had giuen his master a quittance, the same

howre he told it out: and this was at his table, where

he sate with no less than fortie good dishes of the

greatest dainties, in more pompe than a Pope, right

like a superintendent.

Now to the two bastards, what, were you twins?

It shuld seeme so, for ther w[=e]t but a paire of sheeres

betweene your knaueries. When the old henne hatcht

such eggs, the diuell was in the cocks comb. Your

father thrusts you forward, remember pettie Martins

Aesops crab, the mother going backward, exhorted

her sonnes to goe forward; doo you so first mother,

quoth they, and we will follow. Now the old cuckold

hath puld in his hornes, he would make you creepe

cleane out of the shell, and so both loose your

houses and shewe your nakednesse. You go about

impossibilities, wele no such ch[=a]ge, and if ye had it,

ye would be wearie of it.

There was a man like Martin that had a goose,

which euerie daie laid him a golden egge, he, not

content with the blessing, kild his goose, thinking to

haue a myne of golde in her bellie, and finding

nothing but dung, the g[=a]der wisht his goose aliue.

Martinists that liue well by the Church, and receiue

great benefites of it, thinke if all Churches were

downe they should be much better, but when they

shall see c[=o]fusion instead of discipline, and atheisme

to be found in place of doctrine, will they not with

sighs wish the Churches and Bishops in their wonted

gouernm[=e]t? Thou art well seen in tales, and

preachest Aesops fables. Tush, Ile bring in _Pueriles_,

and _Stans puer ad mensam_, for such vnmannerlie

knaues as Martin must bee set againe to their A.B.C.

and learn to spell Our Father in a Horne books.

Martin Iunior giues warning that none write against

reuerent Martin: yes, there are _a tribus ad centum_,

from three to an h[=u]dred, that haue vowed to write

him out of his right wittes, and we are all _Aptots_,

in all cases alike, till we haue brought Martin to the

ablatiue case, that is, to bee taken away with Bulls

voyder.

O here were a notable full point, to leaue Martin

in the hangmans apron. Nay, he would be glad to

scape with hanging, weele first haue him lashte

through the Realme with cordes, that when hee

comes to the gallowes he may be bleeding new.

The babie comes in with _Nunka_, _Næme_, and

_Dad_ (Pappe with an hatchet for such a puppie), giue

the infant a bibbe, he all to beslauers his mother

tongue, if he driuell so at the mouth and nose, weele

haue him wipte with a hempen wispe. _Hui?_ How

often hast thou talkt of haltring? Whie it runnes

still in my minde that they must be hangd. Hangde

is the Que, and it comes iust to my purpose.

There was one endited at a Iaile deliuerie of felonie,

for taking vp an halter by the high way. The Iurie

gaue verdit and said guiltie. The Iudge an honest

man, said it was hard to find one guiltie for taking

vp a penie halter, and bad them consider, what it

was to cast awaie a man. Quoth the foreman, we

haue enquired throughly, and found there was a

horse tied to the halter. I, marie (quoth the Iudge),

then let him be tied to the halter, and let the horse

goe home. Martin, a Monarch in his owne moyst

conceit, and drie counsell, saies he is enuied onelie

because he leuelleth at Bishops; and we say as the

Iudge saith, that if there were nothing else it were

hard to persecute them to death; but when we finde

that to the rule of the Church, the whole state of the

Realme is linckt, and that they filching away

Bishop by Bishop, seeke to fish for the Crown, and

glew to their newe Church their owne conclusions,

we must then say, let Bishops stand, and they hang;

that is, goe home. Looke howe manie tales are in

this booke, so manie must you abate of an hundred

in the next booke, reckon this for one.

There came by of late a good honest Minister,

with a cloake hauing sleeues: ah (quoth a Martinist,

sitting on a bulke in Cheapside) he is a knaue I

warrant you, a claspe would become one of his coate

to claspe his cloak vnder his chinne. Where tis to

be noted, that they come in with a sleeueless

conscience, and thinke it no good doctrine which is

not preached with the cloak cast ouer each shoulder

like a rippier.

Twas a mad knaue and a Martinist that diuided

his sermon into 34 parts for memorie sake, and

would handle but foure for memorie sake, and they

were, why Christ came, wherefore Christ came, for

what cause Christ came, and to what end Christ

came; this was all for memorie sake. If that Martin

could thatch vp his Church, this mans scabship should

bee an Elder, and Elders they may bee, which being

fullest of spungie pith, proue euer the driest kixes.

For in time you shall see that it is but a bladder of

worldlie winde which swells in their hearts, being

once prickt, the humour will quicklie be remoued,

O what a braue state of the Church it would be for

all Ecclesiasticall causes to come before Weauers and

Wierdawers, to see one in a motlie Ierkin and an

apron to reade the first lesson. The poore Church

should play at vnequal game, for it should loose al by

the _Elder_ hand. Nay Mas Martin, weele make you

deale, shuffle as well as you can, we meane to cut it.

If you had the foddring of the sheep you would

make the Church like Primero, foure religions in it,

and nere one like another. I cannot out of his gaming

humour. Why? Is it not as good as Martins

dogged humour, who without reuerence, regard, or

exception, vseth such vnfitting tearmes, as were hee

the greatest subiect in England hee could not iustifie

them.

Shut the doores (sirs) or giue me my skimmer,

Martins mouth had sod vnskimde these twelue

months, and now it runnes ouer; yet let him alone,

he makes but porredge for the diuell.

His Elderberines though it be naught worth, yet

is it like an elderberrie, which being at the ripenes of

a perfect black, yet brused staines ones hands like

bloud. They pretending grauitie in the rottennes of

their zeale, bee they once wrung, you shall finde them

lighter than feathers. Thats a simile for the slaues.

Nay, Ile touch them deeper, and make them crie, O

my heart, there is a false knaue among vs.

Take away this beard, and giue me a pickede

vaunt, Martin sweares by his ten bones: nay, I will

make him mumpe, mow, and chatter, like old Iohn

of Paris garden before I leaue him.

If Martin will fight Citie fight, wee challenge him

at all weapons, from the taylors bodkin to the watchmans

browne bil. If a field may be pitcht we are

readie: if they scratch, wee will bring cattes: if

scolde, we will bring women: if multiplie words, we

will bring fooles: if they floute, we will bring

quippes: if dispute the matter, we will bring

schollers: if they buffet, we will bring fists. _Deus

bone_, what a number of we will brings be here?

Nay, we will bring Bull to hang them. A good note

and signe of good lucke, three times motion of Bull.

Motion of Bull? Why, next olde Rosses motion of

Bridewell, Buls motion fits them best. _Tria sequuntur

tria_, in reckoning Bull thrise, methinkes it should

presage hanging. O bad application; Bad? I doo

not thinke there can be a better, than to applie a

knaues necke to an halter. Martin cannot start, I

am his shadowe, one parte of the day before him,

another behinde him; I can chalke a knaue on his

backe thrice a weeke, Ile let him bloud in the combe.

Take heed, he will pistle thee. Pistle me? Then

haue I a pestle so to stampe his pistles, that Ile beate

all his wit to powder. What will the powder of

Martins wit be good for? Marie, blowe vp a dram

of it into the nostrels of a good Protestant, it will

make him giddie; but if you minister it like Tobacco

to a Puritane, it will make him as mad as a Martin.

Goe to, a hatch before the doore, Martin smels

thee, and wil not feare thee; thou knowest how he

deales with the Archbishop and a Counseller, hee

will name thee and that broadlie. Name me?

Mary he and his shall bee namefied, that's it I

thirst after, that name to name, and knowing one

another, wee may in the streetes grapple; wee except

none: wee come with a verse in our mouthes,

courage in our hearts, and weapons in our hands, and

crie

_Discite iustitiam moniti, et non temnere diuos._

Martins conscience hath a periwig; therefore to

good men he is more sower than wig: a Lemman

will make his conscience curd like a Posset. Now

comes a biting speach, let mee stroake my beard thrice

like a Germain, before I speak a wise word.

Martin, wee are now following after thee with hue

and crie, and are hard at thy heeles; if thou turne

backe to blade it, wee doubt not but three honest

men shall bee able to beate six theeues. Weele

teach thee to commit sacriledge, and to robbe the

Church of xxiiij. Bishops at a blowe. Doost thinke

that wee are not men Martin, and haue great men to

defend vs which write? Yes, although with thy

seditious cloase, thou would'st perswade her Maiestie

that most of the Gentlemen of account and men

of honour, were by vs thought Puritanes. No, it is

your poore Iohns, that with your painted consciences

haue coloured the religion of diuers, spreading

through the veynes of the Commonwealth like

poyson, the doggednes of your deuotions; which

entring in like the smoothnes of oyle into the flesh,

fretteth in time like quicksiluer into the bones.

When children play with their meate, tis a signe

their bellies are full, and it must be taken from them;

but if they tread it vnder their feete, they ought to

be ierkt. The Gospell hath made vs wantons, wee

dallie with Ceremonies, dispute of circumstances,

not remembring that the Papists haue been making

roddes for vs this thirtie yeares; wee shall bee

swing'd by them, or worse by Martin, if Martins be

worse. Neuer if it, for they bee worse with a witnesse,

and let the dieull be witnesse. Wee are so

nice, that the Cap is a beame in our Church, the

booke of Common Praier a milstone, the _Pater

noster_ is not well pend by Christ. Well, either religion

is but policie, or policie scarce religious.

If a Gentleman riding by the way with twentie

men, a number of theeues should by deuise or force

binde all his seruants; the good Iustice of Peace

would thinke he should be robd. When Martinists,

rancke robbers of the Church, shall binde the legges

and armes of the Church, me thinkes the supreme

head of the Church should looke pale.

They that pull downe the bells of a steeple, and

say it is conscience, will blow vp the chauncell to

make it the quintessence of conscience. Bir Ladie,

this is a good settled speech, a Diuine might haue

seemed to haue said so much. O sir, I am nor al

tales, and riddles, and rimes, and iestes, thats but my

Liripoope, if Martin knock the bone he shall find

marrow, and if he looke for none, we'le knock the

bone on his pate, and bring him on his marie bones.

I haue yet but giuen them a fillip on the conceipt,

Ile fell it to the ground hereafter. Nay, if they make

their consciences stretch like chiuerell in the raine,

Ile make them crumple like parchment in the fire.

I haue an excellent balme to cure anie that is

bitten with _Martin mad-dog_.

I am worth twentie Pistle-penners; let them but

chafe my penne, and it shal sweat out a whole realme

of paper, or make th[=e] odious to the whole Realme.

O but be not partial, giue them their due though

they were diuels, so will I, and excuse them for taking

anie money at interest.

There is a good Ladie that lent one of these

Martinists fortie pounds, and when at the daie shee

required her money, Martin began to storme, and

said, he thought her not the child of God, for they

must lend, looking for nothing againe, and so to

acquite himselfe of the blot of vsurie he kepte the

principall.

These Martins make the Scriptures a Scriueners

shop to drawe conueyances, and the common pleas

of Westminster to take forfeitures. Theyle not sticke

to outlaw a mans soule, and serue it presently with an

execution of damnation, if one denie them to lie

with his neighbours wife. If they bee drunke, they

say, they haue Timothie his weake stomacke, which

Saint Paule willeth to warme with wine.

They haue sifted the holie Bible, and left vs

nothing as they say, but branne; they haue boulted

it ouer againe and againe, and got themselues the

fine meale; tis meale indeede, for with their wresting

and shuffling holie Writ, they find all themselues

good meales, and stand at liuerie, as it were, at other

mens tables.

_Sed heus tu, dic sodes_, will they not bee discouraged

for the common players? Would those Comedies

might be allowed to be plaid that are pend, and then

I am sure he would be decyphered, and so perhaps

discouraged.

He shall not bee brought in as whilom he was,

and yet verie well, with a cocks combe, an apes face,

a wolfs bellie, cats clawes, etc. but in a cap'de cloake,

and all the best apparell he ware the highest day in

the yeare, thats neither on Christmas daie, Good

fridaie, Easter daie, Ascension, nor Trinitie sundaie

(for that were popish), but on some rainie weeke-daie,

when the brothers and sisters had appointed a match

for particular praiers, a thing as bad at the least as

Auricular confession.

[Sidenote: _If it be shewed at Paules, it will cost you foure pence:

at the Theater two pence: at Sainct Thomas a Watrings nothing._]

A stage plaier, though he bee but a cobler by

occupation, yet his chance may bee to play the Kings

part. Martin, of what calling so euer he be, can

play nothing but the knaues part, _qui tantum constans

in knauitate sua est_. Would it not bee

a fine Tragedie, when _Mardocheus_ shall play

a Bishoppe in a Play, and Martin _Hamman_,

and that he that seekes to pull downe

those that are set in authoritie aboue him,

should be hoysted vpon a tree aboue all

other.

[Sidenote: _Reade Martin Seniors Libell, and you shall perceiue that

he is able to teach Gracchus to speake seditiouslie_.]

Though he play least in sight now, yet

we hope to see him stride from Aldgate to Ludgate,

and looke ouer all the Citie at London Bridge. Soft

swift, he is no traytor. Yes, if it bee treason

to encourage the Commons against the chiefe

of the Clergie, to make a generall reuolt

from the gouernment so wel established, so

wisely maintained, and so long prospering.

Because they say, _Aue Cæsar_, therefore

they meane nothing against Cæsar. There

may bee hidden vnder their long gownes

short daggers, and so in blearing Cæsars eyes, conspire

Cæsars death. God saue the Queene; why it

is the Que which they take from the mouthes of all

traytors, who though they bee throughly conuinced,

both by proofe and their owne confessions, yet at

the last gaspe they crie, God saue the Queene. GOD

saue the Queene (say I) out of their hands, in

whose hearts (long may the Queene thus gouerne) is

not engrauen.

Her sacred Maiestie hath this thirtie yeares, with

a setled and princelie temper swayed the Scepter of

this Realme, with no lesse content of her subiects,

than wonder of the world. GOD hath blessed her

gouernment, more by miracle th[=a] by counsaile, and

yet by counsaile as much as can come from policie.

Of a State taking such deepe roote, as to be fastened

by the prouidence of God, the vertue of the

Prince, the wisedome of Counsellers, the obedience of

subiects, and the length of time; who would goe

about to shake the lowest bough, that feeles in his

conscience but the least blessing. Heere is a fit

roome to squese them with an Apothegme.

There was an aged man that liued in a well

ordered Common-wealth by the space of threescore

yeares, and finding at the length that by the heate of

some mens braines, and the warmnes of other mens

bloud, that newe alterations were in hammering, and

that it grewe to such an height, that all the desperate

and discontented persons were readie to runne their

heads against their head; comming into the midst of

these mutiners, cried as loude as his yeares would

allow; Springalls and vnripened youthes, whose

wisedomes are yet in the blade, when this snowe

shall be melted (laying his hand on his siluer haires)

then shal you find store of durt, and rather wish for

the continuance of a long frost, than the comming of

an vntimely thaw. Ile moralize this.

Ile warrant the good old man meant, that when

the ancient gouernment of the state should be altered

by faction, or newe lawes brought in that were deuised

by nice heads, that there should followe a foule and

slipperie managing; where if happelie most did not

fall, yet all would bee tired. A settled raigne is not

like glasse mettal, to be blowne in bignesse, lenght

or fashion of euerie mans breath, and breaking to be

melted againe, and so blowne afresh; but it is compared

to the fastning of the Cedar, that knitteth it

selfe with such wreaths into the earth that it cannot

be remooued by any violent force of the aire.

Martin, I haue taken an inuentorie of al thy

vnciuill and rakehell tearmes, and could sute them in

no place but in Bedlam and Bridewell, so mad they

are, and so bad they are, and yet all proceedes of the

spirit. I thinke thou art possest with the spirites of

Iacke Straw and the Black-smith, who, so they might

rent in peeces the gouernment, they would drawe

cuts for religion.

If all be conscience, let conscience bee the foundation

of your building, not the glasse, shew effects of

conscience, mildnesse in spirit, obedience to Magistrates,

loue to thy brethren. Stitch charitie to thy

faith, or rip faith from thy works.

If thou wilt deale soberlie without scoffes, thou

shalt be answered grauely without iests, yea and of

those, whom thou canst not controll for learning,

nor accuse for ill life, nor shouldst contemne for

authori[ti]e. But if like a restie Iade thou wilt take

the bitt in thy mouth, and then runne ouer hedge

and ditch, thou shalt be brok[=e] as Prosper broke his

horses, with a muzroule, portmouth, and a martingall,

and so haue thy head runne against a stone wall.

If thou refuse learning, and sticke to libelling; if

nothing come out of those lauish lips, but taunts not

without bitternesse, yet without wit; rayling not without

spite, yet without cause, then giue me thy hand,

thou and I will trie it out at the cuckingstoole. Ile

make thee to forget Bishops English, and weep Irish;

next hanging, there is no better reuenge on Martin

than to make him crie for anger; for there is no

more sullen beast than a he drab. Ile make him

pull his powting croscloath ouer his beetle browes for

melancholie, and then my next booke shall be Martin

in his mubble fubbles.

* * * * *

Here I was writing _Finis_ and _Funis_, and determined

to lay it by, till I might see more knauerie filde

in: within a while appeared olde Martin with a wit worn

into the socket, twinkling and pinking like the snuffe

of a candle; _quantum mutatus ab illo_, how vnlike the

knaue hee was before, not for malice but for sharpnesse.

The hogshead was euen come to the hauncing,

and nothing could be drawne from him but dregs:

yet the emptie caske sounds lowder than when it was

ful; and protests more in his waining, than he could

performe in his waxing. I drew neere the sillie soule,

whom I found quiuering in two sheetes of protestation

paper. O how meager and leane hee lookt, so creast

falne, that his combe hung downe to his bill, and

had I not been sure it was the picture of enuie, I

shoulde haue sworne it had been the image of death,

so like the verie Anatomie of mischiefe, that one

might see through all the ribbes of his conscience, I

began to crosse my selfe, and was readie to say the

_Pater noster_, but that I knewe he carde not for it,

and so vsed no other wordes, but _abi in malam

crucem_, because I knewe, that lookt for him. I came

so neere, that I could feele a substantiall knaue from

a sprites shadowe.

I sawe through his paper coffen, that it was but a

cosening corse, and one that had learnde of the holie

maid of Kent, to lie in a trance, before he had

brought foorth his lie; drawing his mouth awrie,

that could neuer speake right; goggling with his eyes

that watred with strong wine; licking his lips, and

gaping, as though he should loose his childes nose,

if he had not his longing to swallowe Churches; and

swelling in the paunch, as though he had been in

labour of a little babie, no bigger than rebellion; but

truth was at the Bishoppes trauaile: so that Martin

was deliuered by sedition, which pulls the monster

with yron from the beastes bowells. When I perceiued

that he masked in his rayling robes, I was so

bolde as to pull off his shrowding sheete, that all the

worlde might see the olde foole daunce naked.

Tis not a peniworth of protestation that can buy

thy pardon, nor al worth a penie that thou proclaimest.

Martin comes in with bloud, bloud, as though hee

should bee a martir. Martins are mad martirs, some

of them burnt seauen yeares agoe, and yet aliue.

One of them lately at Yorke, pulling out his napkin

to wipe his mouth after a lie, let drop a surgeans

caliuer at his foote where he stood; these fellowes

can abide no pompe, and yet you see they cannot be

without a little squirting plate: rub no more, the

curtall wrinches.

They call the Bishops butchers, I like the

Metaphore wel, such calues must be knockt on the

head, and who fitter than the Fathers of the Church

to cut the throates of heresies in the Church. Nay,

wh[=e] they haue no propertie of sheepe but bea, their

fleece for flockes, not cloath, their rotten flesh for

no dish, but ditches; I thinke them woorth neither

the tarring nor the telling, but for their scabbednes

to bee thrust from the pinfolde to the scaffold, and

with an _Habeas corpus_ to remooue them from the

Shepheards tarre-boxe to the hangmans budget.

I but he hath sillogismes in pike sauce, and arguments

that haue been these twentie yeres in pickle.

I, picke hell, you shall not finde such reasons, they

bee all in _celarent_, and dare not shewe their heads,

for wee will answere them in _ferio_ and cut their

combes. So say they, their bloud is sought. Their

bloud? What should wee doo with it, when it will

make a dogge haue the toothach to eat the puddings.

Martin tunes his pipe to the lamentable note of

_Ora whine meg_. O tis his best daunce next shaking

of the sheetes; but hee good man meant no harme

by it. No more did one of his minions, that thinking

to rap out an oath and sweare by his conscience,

mistooke the word and swore by his concupiscence;

not vnlike the theefe, that in stead of God speede,

sayd stand, and so tooke a purse for God morowe.

Yet dooth Martin hope that all her Maiesties

best subiects will become Martinists; a blister of

that tongue as bigge as a drummes head; for if the

Queenes Maiestie haue such abiects for her best

subiects, let all true subiects be accompted abiects.

They that teare the boughs, will hew at the tree,

and hauing once wet their feete in factions, will not

care how deep they wade in treason.

After Martin had racked ouer his protestation with

a Iades pace, hee runnes ouer his fooleries with a

knaues gallop, ripping vp the souterlie seames of his

Epistle, botching in such frize iestes vppon fustion

earnest, that one seeing all sortes of his shreddes,

would thinke he had robd a taylors shop boord; and

then hee concludes all doggedlie, with Doctor _Bullens_

dogge _Spring_, not remembring that there is not a

better Spanniell in England to spring a couie of

queanes than Martin.

Hee sliues one, has a fling at another, a long tale

of his talboothe, of a vulnerall sermon, and of a fooles

head in souce. This is the Epistle which he woonders

at himselfe, and like an olde Ape, hugges the Vrchin

so in his conceipt, as though it should shew vs some

new tricks ouer the chaine, neuer wish it published

Martin, we pittie it before it comes out. Trusse vp

thy packet of flim flams and roage to some countrey

Faire, or read it among boyes in the belfrie, neuer

trouble the church with chattering; but if like dawes,

you will be cawing about Churches, build your nests

in the steeple, defile not the quier.

Martin writes merely, because (hee saies) people

are carried away sooner with iest than earnest. I,

but Martin neuer put Religion into a fooles coate;

there is great oddes betweene a Gospeller and a

Libeller.

If thy vaine bee so pleasaunt, and thy witt so

nimble, that all consists in glicks and girds; pen

some play for the Theater, write some ballads for

blind _Dauid_ and his boy, deuise some iests, and

become another _Scogen_, so shalt thou haue v[=e]t inough

for all thy vanities, thy Printer shall purchase, and all

other iesters beg.

For to giue thee thy due, thou art the best died

foole in graine that euer was, and all other fooles

lacke manie graines, to make them so heauie.

There is not such a mad foole in Bedlam, nor

such a baudie foole in Bridewell, nor such a dronken

foole in the stockes, nor such a scolding foole on the

cucking-stoole, nor such a cosening foole on the

pillerie, nor such a roaging foole in the houses of

correction, nor such a simple foole kept of alms, nor

such a lame foole lying in the spittle, nor in all the

world, such a foole, all. Nay for fooles set down in

the scriptures, none such as Martin.

What atheist more foole, that saies in his heart,

_There is no God_? What foole more proud, that

stands in his own c[=o]ceit? What foole more couetous

than he that seekes to tedd abroad the Churches

goods with a forke, and scratch it to himselfe with a

rake.

Thou seest Martin with a little helpe, to the foure

and twentie orders of knaues, thou maist solder the

foure and twentie orders of fooles, and so because

thou saist thou art vnmarried, thou maist commit

matrimonie, from the heires of whose incest, wee will

say that which you cannot abide, _Good Lord deliuer

vs_.

If this veyne bleede but sixe ounces more I shall

proue a pretie railer, and so in time may growe to

bee a proper Martinist. Tush, I doo but licke ouer

my pamphlet, like a Beares whelpe, to bring it in

some forme; by that time he replies, it will haue

clawes and teeth, and then let him looke to bee

scratcht and bitten too.

Thou seest Martin Moldwarpe, that hetherto I

haue named none, but markt them readie for the

next market: if thou proceed in naming, be as sure

as thy shirt to thy knaues skinne, that Ile name such,

as though thou canst not blush, because thou art past

shame, yet they shall bee sorie, because they are not

all without grace.

Pasquil is coming out with the liues of the Saints.

Beware my Comment, tis odds the margent shall be as

full as the text. I haue manie sequences of Saints,

if naming be the aduantage, and ripping vp of liues

make sport; haue with thee knuckle deepe, it shall

neuer bee said that I dare not venter mine eares

where Martin hazards his necke.

Now me thinkes Martin begins to stretch himselfe

like an old fencer, with a great conscience for buckler

and a long tongue for a sword. Lie close, you old

cutter at the locke, _Nam mihi sunt vires, et mea tela

nocent_. Tis ods but that I shal thrust thee through

the buckler into the brain, that is through the conscience

into the wit.

If thou sue me for a double maime, I care not

though the Iurie allow thee treble damages, it cannot

amount to much, because thy c[=o]science is without

wit, and thy wit without conscience, and therefore

both not worth a penie.

Therefore take this for the first venew, of a yonger

brother, that meanes to drie beate those of the _Elder_

house. Martin, this is my last straine for this fleech

of mirth. I began with God morrowe, and bid you

God night. I must tune my fiddle, and fetch some

more rozen, that it maie squeake out Martins

Matachine.

III.--NICHOLAS BRETON

(Wit and Will _has been already more frequently reprinted

than most things of Breton's, but these reprints

have been in very small numbers, and not generally

accessible. It is given here as being equally characteristic

of the author and of the time, both in matter and

in form, in the mixture of verse and prose, in the plays

on words, in the allegory, in the morality, and in the

style._)

THE WIL OF WIT, WIT'S WILL, OR WIL'S

WIT, chuse you whether. Containing five discourses,

the effects whereof follow. READE AND

JUDGE. Compiled by NICHOLAS BRETON, gentleman.

_Non hà, che non sà._ Vires sit Vulnere

Veritas. London: Printed by THOMAS CREEDE,

1599.

TO GENTLEMEN SCHOLLERS AND

STUDENTS WHATSOEUER

Gentlemen, or others, who imploy your time in the

studies of such Arts as are the ornaments of Gentilitie,

to your courtesies I commend the vnlearned discourse

of my little wit, which as I wil not intreate you to commend,

deseruing the contrarie: so I hope you will not

disdain, though it deserue discommendation, but so by

your pardons excuse my small discretion by great desire,

that hereafter, with less hast, I may take as great care

as pains to publish a peece of worke somewhat more

worth the perusing. Till when, wishing you all the

fauor of God, with good fortune of the world, I rest in

honour of learning to you and all students.

A LOUING FRIEND, N.B., GENTLEMAN.

THE EPISTLE TO THE GENTLE READER

A new booke says one; true, it came forth but tother

day; good stuffe, says another. Read, then iudge. I

confesse it may seeme to a number a bold attempt to

set out a forme of wit, considering the witty discourses

of such fine wits as haue deserued such comendation, as

may driue this meane peece of woorke of mine into

vtter disgrace, were it not that perfect courtesie dooth

bear with imperfect knowledge, regarding more the good

minde in the writer then the matter written: and therefore

the best will giue good words whatsoeuer they

thinke, to encourage a forward wil to doo better, when

indeed it were a fantasticall heade that could doo worse.

Well when Wit is a wool-gathering, and Will wandring

the world without guide, what a case that manne is in

that is in such a taking; I referre you to mad folks of

whom you may see examples suficient, and so I being

in a certain melancholie moode past all Gods forbod,

tooke my pen and Inke and Paper and somewhat I

would go doo whatsoeuer it were to put out one conceit

and bring in another. At last and at first of a suddaine

warres and at adventures, by God's good helpe and

good fortune the little wit that I had meeting with good

Will, I knew not how, fell to worke (at first) I know not

what, but hauing written a while, I made somewhat of

it which, though little to any great purpose, yet if it

please the Readers, I am contented, and if any man

thinke it well done then Wit shall think Will a good boy,

and Will shall think hee tooke Wit in a good vaine, and

Will and Wit shall haue the more heart hereafter to fall

to further woorke; but if I haue bin more wilful than

wise to trouble your wittes with a witlesse peece of work

pardon me for this once, ye shall see I will please you

better hereafter; in the meane time desiring your

courtesies to commend what you think worthie and not

to disdain without desert, I rest wishing your content in

what you wish well as I pray you wish me as I do you,

YOUR FRIEND NICHOLAS BRETON, GENTLEMAN.

AD LECTOREM, DE AUTHORE

What thing is Will, without good Wit?

Or what is Wit, without good Will?

The one the other doth so fit:

As each one can be but ill.

But when they once be well agreed,

Their worke is likely well to speed.

For proofe, behold good _Bretons_ will,

By helpe of Wit, what it hath writ:

A worke not of the meanest skill,

Nor such as shewes a simple Wit.

But such a _wit_ and such a _will_,

As hath done well, and hateth ill.

I need not to commend the man,

Whom none can justly discommend:

But do the best, the best that can,

Yet some will spite, and so I end.

What I have said, I say so still,

I must commend this Wit and Will.

FINIS

AD LECTOREM, DE AUTHORE

What shall I say of Gold, more then tis Gold:

Or call the Diamond, more then precious:

Or praise the man, with praises manifold

When of himselfe, himselfe is vertuous?

_Wit_ is but _Wit_, yet such his _Wit_ and _Will_,

As proues ill good, or makes good to be ill.

Why? what his _Wit_? proceed and aske his _Will_,

Why? what his _Will_? reade on, and learne of _Wit_:

Both good I gesse, yet each a seuerall ill,

This may seeme strange, to those that heare of it.

Nay, nere a whit, for vertue many waies,

Is made a vice, yet Vertue hath her praise.

Wherefore, O _Breton_, worthie is thy worke,

Of commendations worthie to the worth:

Sith captious wittes, in euerie corner lurke,

A bold attempt, it is to set them forth

A forme of Wit, and that in such a sort,

As none offends, for all is said in sport.

And such a sport, as serues for other kinds,

Both young and old, for learning, armes, and love:

For Ladies humors, mirth with mone he findes,

With some extreames, their patient mindes to proue.

Well, _Breton_, write in hand, thou hast the thing,

That when it comes, loue, wealth, and fame will bring.

W. S.

A PRETIE AND WITTIE DISCOURSE

BETWIXT WIT AND WILL

Long have I travelled, much ground have I gone,

many wayes have I trode, mickle mony have I spent,

more labour have I lost, in seeking an olde friend of

mine: whose companie so courteous, his counsaile

commodious, his presence so pleasant, and his absence

so greevous, that when I thinke of him, and misse

him, I find such a misse of him, as all things are out

of frame with me. And out of frame, can come to

no good fashion. Oh, what shall I do? It is long

since I lost him: long have I sought him. And too

long (I fear) it wil be ere I find him. But wot you

who it is? Oh, my Wit, I am from my Wit, and

have bin long. Alas the day, I have bin almost mad

with marching through the world without my good

guide, my friend, and my companion, my brother,

yea, my selfe. Alas, where is he? When shall I see

him? How shall I seeke him, and whither shall I

walke? I was too soone wearie of him, and am now

wearie of my selfe without him. Well, I will go

where I may, I may hap to find him: but hap is

unhappie. Therefore hap good, or hap ill, I will

walke on still: if I find him, happie man. If I do

not, what then? Content my selfe even as I can,

patience where is no remedie.

_Wit._

Long have I lookt, far have I sought, oft have I

wisht, and sore have I longed for my merrie mate,

my quicke sprite, my dearling, and my dearest byrd:

Whose courtesie so contentive, whose helpe so necessary,

whose necessitie so great, whose presence so

pleased me, and absence so angers mee, that when I

would have him, and see I am without him, I am not

in order, and being out of order, can take no good

course. Alas, what shall betide me? I have lost

my love, or my love hath lost me. Would God wee

might meete againe, and be merry togither: which I

cannot bee without him? Oh, what have I lost?

my Will, whither is he gone? when will he returne?

who hath led him away? or will bring him backe

againe? what company is he falne into? or how doth

he leade his life? Well, time yet may turne him.

Till when I wish for him, hoping to meete him, but

hope is uncertaine;

Yet hope well, and have well,

Thus alone I cannot dwell;

If I find him so it is:

If not, then I wis,

I must be content with this.

Patience is a vertue.

But whom doo I behold so neare?

It is my Will, with heavie cheere:

Well, I am sorie for this geare,

Yet will I to him out of hand,

And know, how so the case doth stand.

What? Will? _Will._ Who? Wit?

_Wit._ Whither away?

_Will._ Where I may.

_Wit._ Whereunto?

_Will._ Oh, to do.

_Wit._ What?

_Will._ Teach thou me that.

_Wit._ Why, sigh not, boy?

_Will._ Oh, all my joy.

_Wit._ Where is it, Will?

_Will._ Among the ill.

_Wit._ What, is it lost?

_Will._ That greeves me most.

_Wit._ And not to be recoverèd?

_Will._ Oh, my heart is almost dead.

_Wit._ What, Will, hold up head,

I will be thy friend to death.

_Will_. Then give me leave to fetch my breath,

And welcome: twise and thrice well met:

Where my hearts joy is set.

Many a walk have I fet,

But no comfort could I get,

Till now by thee mine onely friend,

With whom I meane my life to end.

If thou wilt give me leave, good Wit.

_Wit._ Yes, good sweete Will, and glad of it.

_Will._ Then harke, good Wit, unto my tale:

Not of amidde my blisse in bale,

Nor any such like stuffe so stale.

I studie not to talke in verse,

But I will unto thee rehearse

A plaine discourse, in homely prose,

Wherein I will at large disclose:

How I have lived, with whom, and where:

How I was tossèd, here and there:

How I did chaunce to travaile hither,

And so we will be merrie togither.

_Wit._ Contented. Verse is good sometime,

But sometime prose, and sometime rime.

But be it either prose or verse,

What so thou wilt, good Will, rehearse:

I meane to heare it to the end,

And quit thee quickly as a friend.

But since thou likest prose so well,

Begin in prose thy tale to tell.

_Willes Tale._

Oh, good Wit (if thou doost remember), I lost

thee in travaile to the Well of Wisedome. Since

when, I have wandred through a wildernesse of woe,

which in the Mappe of that Countrey (I find) is called

the Desart of Desire. Wherein I saw so many wayes,

as now in this, and then in that. At last I came to

the hill of Hard Happe, which ledde mee downe into

a Vale of Vanitie. There did I live in the Lake of

Miseries, with the lost people, that having followed

Fancie, found Penitence, the reward of running heads.

But Lord what a life it is? I lothe to thinke on it.

Beleeve mee, sweete Wit, there is such falling out

with Fancie, who shifts all upon Folly. Such exclamation

upon Folly, who brings them to Fortune: such

cursing and banning of Fortune, for her froward

dealing: in gentle helping them uppe uppon her

wheele, and then suddaine dinging them downe

(almost to their destruction), that if their bee a Hell

in this world, there is the place. God keepe all good

mindes from such a filthy corner. _Wit._ Amen. But

tell me how camst thou thence? _Will._ I will tell

you anon: but first I will tell you more. There is

of all States. Princes crie out of cares: Lordes, of

lacke of living: Ladyes, of false love: souldiers, of

want of pay: Lawyers, of quiet: Poore men, of Lawe:

Merchants, of shipwracke: Mariners, of fowle weather:

Usurers, of sermons, and Divines, of usurie: Players,

of Preachers, and Preachers, of Players: Dicers, of

loosing, and losers, of dicing: Cryples, of fighting,

and fighters, of hurts: the Rich, of sicknesse: the

Poore, of want: the Sicke, of paine: the healthfull, of

ill happe: the unhappie, of the time that ever they

were borne. Oh, it is a pittious crie: I would not

be there againe, to heare it as I have done, for the

gaine of Europe.

_Wit._ Beleeve me, I cannot blame thee: but tell

me, how camst thou thence? _Will._ Oh, brother, I

will tell you how: you know, sometime travellers must

needes have rest, which they must come by as they

may: Now, I having walked (as I told you) through

this unpleasant place, weary at last, I laide mee

downe in the ditch of Distresse: where, finding many

dead sculles, and other boanes, I there thought to

begin a sleepe, or sleepe my last: now lying there in

such sort as I tell you, mee thought in my sleepe I

sighed, in which sorrow a good motion of minde set

my heart to prayer; which tended to this effect, that

it would please the mightie and mercifull Majestie of

the Most Highest, to send me some meane, to lead

me out of this miserie; beeing as it were from my

Wit, and altogither comfortlesse. Now, suddenly

there appeared unto me an olde aged man, who tooke

me by the hand, with these words: Arise, thou

sluggish wanton, walke no longer out of thy way,

turne thee backe from this straie pathe, experience

doth teach thee: What is Will without Wit? Prayer

hath procured thee pardon, the high and onely God

hath given thee Grace; by Grace goe seeke that is

worth the finding; look where Wit is; too him, and

make much of him. With joy of that word, I awaked,

and with shame of my folly in leaving thee, I hung

the head; with sorrow whereof I was almost of life

deprived; but now by thy sweete welcome wholy

revived; now awake (I should say), I saw none but

thee; and now, while I live, I will follow thee.

_Wit._ Why, was it heere you slept, or have you

come farre since you waked? _Will._ No, no, heere

did I sleepe, heere is the place of paine so unpleasant:

but now I see thee, I have received comfort, for that

I know thou canst leade me to Wisdome, who will

soone shew me the way to paradise. _Wit._ Why then,

Will, well hast thou slept, better hast thou dreamed,

but best hast thou waked, to hit on mee so happily,

who intend to bring thee to that good beginning, that

shall leade thee to endlesse blisse. But to quit thy

tale, I will tell thee a little of my travaile, and so we

will away togither.

_Wits Tale._

Will, thou knowest when I left thee, in the lane of

Learning, I went on straight to the schoole of Vertue,

and with her Testimoniall, to the Well of Wisdome,

which stands within the pallace of Patience; where I

found the fountaine kept with foure ladies, whose

names were Wisdome, Temperance, Fortitude, and

Justice. Now, when I came thither, with sufficient

warning from Vertue, yet (for order sake) they thus

used me; Wisedome, which stood with a snake in

her hand (over whose head was written), _I see the

holes that subtill serpents make_, thus used her warie

speech unto me. Sirra (quoth she), how presume

you into this place? from whence came you, and how

and whither will you? Lady (quoth I), from Fancies

forte I came, and am now travailing to the forte of

Fame. I came now directly from the schoole of

Vertue; brought thither by Learning had by Reason,

servant to Instruction; and heere behold Patience,

who hath lead me, who is further to plead for me.

Welcome (quoth shee), but art thou not wearie?

No (quoth I), nor would be, if the walke had beene

longer, to have my will. _Will._ Why didst thou thinke

me there abouts? Oh, lord, I was far wide. _Wit._

Peace, Will, a while: when I denide wearinesse; Yea

(quoth Fortitude), an other of the Dames (over whose

head was written, _I yield to good, but overthrow the ill_),

I will see if you be wearie or not, I must trie a fall

with you. At first I made no account of her, but

when I begun, I found her of great force. Yet in

the ende, shee was content to give me over, and let

me come neare the Well. Now, upon the well brinkes

stoode Justice, over whose head was written, _my hand

hits right, death is my stroke, my ballance will not lye_.

Then was my words written down by Memorie, and

weyed with Truth; which being even in judgment,

shee bad me welcome, and so was content to let me

lay my lips to the sweet lycquor of Sapience. Oh it

is a delicate water!

Now, as I stoode, I heard a trumpet sound; which

done, I heard a voyce which said: What trumpe can

sound the true report of Fame? Now desirous to

see the place, whence I heard this sound, I craved

the ladies pasport to the said place, who gave me no

other pasport than the commandement of Patience,

warning me in any wise to take hold of Time, when

I met him, and turne him to my use: with these two,

I should come to the forte afore me. I, right glad

of my good hap, tooke leave, and forth I went; anon

I met Master Time, with his sithe in his hand, singing,

_Save vertue, al things I cut downe, that stand within

my way_. But as he came working, I watcht him

neare, and as he strooke aside, I suddenly stept to

him, tooke him by the noddle, and turned him to my

work. What wouldest thou (quoth he)? I must not

stand idle. No (quoth I), thou shalt walke, and

leade me to the fort of Fame. Come, then (quoth

he). Goe away softly (quoth Patience). Content

(quoth I). And so togither we go to this stately

Court; where, being first entertained by Courtly, we

were brought to Favour, and so led up to Fame.

Now, being on knee before her highnesse, she first

gave me her hand to kisse, and willed the lords to

bid me welcome. See here (quoth she) the perfection

of affection, what a travaile he hath undertaken onely

for our favour, which he shall be sure of. The Nobles

used me honourably, the Gentlemen courteously, the

Servants reverently, and Favour freendly. Now, as

I stood, I heard such sweete musick, such heavenly

songs, it made my heart leape to heare them. The

prince did sing in praise of peace, the lords of plentie,

the ladies of true love, the lawiers of quiet, the servaunts

of lawe, the merchaunts of sayling, and saylers

of faire weather, the rich of health, the poore of

charitie, the healthfull of good happe, and the happie

of Gods blessing: there was no usurers, dicers, players,

nor fighters heard of. Oh, there was a place of

pleasure; if in the world there be a paradice, that

was it. Oh that thou haddest beene with mee!

_Will._ So would I, but tell me, how came you

againe? _Wit._ I will tell thee. When I had beene

within, and without, and heard such sweete harmony,

of such singular musicke; at last, I came downe into

the base court, led by Favour, to a lodging which was

called the counting house; there sate Memorie, to

take the names of such as had bin entertained, and

meant to seeke favour, at the hands of happie Fame.

But as I was going through the court, I met one of

the maides of honour attendaunt upon the princesse,

whose name (Favour told me) was Belezza, accompanied

with Gentilezza, another of the maides. Now,

as I was walking, I stared so earnestly on them, that

(not looking to my feete) I stumbled against a stone,

and with the fall I awaked: now awake, I thought of

my good Will; and see how soone it was my happe

to meete with thee; but no sooner then I wished for

thee, nor then I am heartily glad of thee. _Will._

Gramercy, Wit. But yet I beshrow thee. _Wit._ Why

so? _Will._ For loosing mee. _Wit._ Thou mightest

have followed. _Will._ You might have held me. _Wit._

When? _Will._ When I was neere you. _Wit._ Where

was that?

_Will._ Where you lost me. But tell me one thing,

where was it you slept, and awaked so sodainely?

What? was it heere abouts? _Wit._ Yea, heere Will,

heere, heere is the Forte of Fame, as thou shalt finde,

when thou hast beene with me a while; there is no

house, but hath a sinke; no field so fayre, but hath

foule ditch; no place so pleasant, but hath a corner

of anoyance; he that runnes retchlesly, falles headlong;

and hee that is in a hole, he knowes not how,

must come out he knowes not when. Care is to be

had in all things, at all times, and in all places; well,

thou hast knowne some sorrowe; learne to leave selfe

judgement; follow friend, go with me. _Will._ Why?

I would never have lost thee, but-- _Wit._ But that

thou wert wearie of me. _Will._ Why? I was not

wearie, but-- _Wit._ No, but that you were a wanton.

_Will._ Why? I was not a wanton, but-- _Wit._ No, but

that you were wilfull. _Will._ Why? I was not wilfull,

but-- _Wit._ No, but that you thought better of your

selfe than any else. _Will._ Why? but I did not

thinke so, but-- _Wit._ Nay, you may say you would

not have thought so, but--

_Will._ But what? or why? _Wit._ But because

you did not see your selfe. _Will._ Yes, indeede, but

I did; I did see my selfe and you too. _Wit._ Indeede,

but you did not; for if you had seene me,

you would not so have lost mee. _Will._ Yes, but I

did see you, but when I had looked on you a while,

I looked on my selfe so long, till you were out of

sight, and then I looked after you and could not see

you. _Wit._ Well, but then you sawe mee not, and

so you lost mee; but since you now have found me,

follow me neere, stay but a buts length behinde mee,

least I suddainly steppe a flights shotte before you,

and then a furlong further, you never overtake me.

_Will._ But soft, runnes Wit so fast, Will is weerie.

_Wit._ Goe too, throw off your clogge of care, trust to

me, so you do as I bid you, all shall be well. _Will._

Yes, but-- _Wit._ But what? _Will._ But a little of

your helpe. _Wit._ Yes, but-- _Will._ But? What? _Wit._

But that you must of your selfe labour. _Will._ So I

will, but-- _Wit._ But not too much: well, contented,

I will worke. Wilt thou help? _Will._ Yea, willingly.

_Wit._ How long? _Will._ Till death. _Wit._

Why, wilt thou dye? _Will._ Not with working: yet

will I worke sore. _Wit._ Whereto? _Will._ To winne

my wish.

_Wit._ What is that? _Will._ You can tell. _Wit._

But tell me. _Will._ What? _Wit._ Is it favour?

_Will._ That is one parte of it. _Wit._ Wealth? _Will._

An other parte. _Wit._ Honour? _Will._ The greatest

next. _Wit._ Content. _Will._ All in all. _Wit._ Where?

_Will._ In heart. _Wit._ How? _Will._ By happe. _Wit._

How is that? _Will._ By hope. _Wit._ Oh, hope is

vaine. _Will._ Oh, do not discomfort mee. _Wit._

Doubt the worst. _Will._ Wherefore? _Wit._ Because

I bid thee. _Will._ Why doo you bid mee? _Wit._ For

this reason: the best will helpe it selfe. _Will._ What

is the worst? _Wit._ Envie. _Will._ What will hee

doo? _Wit._ Mischiefe. _Will._ To whome? _Wit._

To good mindes. _Will._ How shall I doo, then?

_Wit._ Let patience use prayer, God will preserve His

servants.

_Will._ That I shall: then it is not impossible.

_Wit._ What? _Will._ To get content? _Wit._ It is hard.

_Will._ What then? _Wit._ Doo our best. _Will._

Content. _Wit._ But harke, Will: shall I tell thee a

little more of the fort of Fame, what I sawe and

heard before I came away? Over the gate at the

entrie, I sawe written pretie posies, some in Latine,

some in Italian, some French, and some English. In

Latine I remember these: _Quid tam difficile quod non

solertia vincit?_ By that was written, _Labore vertus_:

and by that, _Vertute fama_: and over that, _Fama

immortalis_: and that was written in many places

about the house. In Italian was written, _Gioventù

vecchezza_: by that, _Vecchezza Morte, et Morte Tempo,

et Tempo Fama_: but over all, _Sopra tutti, triumpha

Iddio_. In French, _Le fol Fortune, il prudent Fame.

Fame est divine, diuinitie est pretieuse, Dieu est nostre

guarde._ In English was written. Patience is a

vertue. Vertue is famous. Fame is divine. Divinitie

is gratious. Grace is the gift of God: and God is

the onely giver of grace. Which by patience seekes

the vertue that is famous, to the divine pleasure of

the Giver of all good gifts: blessed be His name, this

shall he find, that enters the fort of Fame.

_Will._ Oh, sweete speeches. _Wit._ Then wil I tell

thee further: as I walked up and down with Favour,

I heard Courtesie and Content (a couple of courtiers)

discoursing of thee and mee. Of the vertues of Wit,

and the vanities of Will.

Wit, they sayde, was desirous of knowledge, but

Will could take no paine: Wit would have patience,

but Will would be wood with anger: Wit would worke,

when Will would stand ydle: Wit would be walking,

when Will would bee slouthfull: Wit woulde call for

Willes helpe, when Will cared not for Wits counsaile:

Wit woulde bee wise, and Will would be wanton:

Wit would be vertuous, and Will vaine: Wit would

be famous, and Will foolish: Wit would be sober, and

Will frantick: Wit would be carefull, and Will carelesse:

Wit studying, and Wil playing: Wit at good

exercise, and Wil idle, and worse occupied: Wit

mourning for Will, Will making no mone for Wit:

Wit in his dumps, and Will in delights: Wit would

doo well, and have Will doo no worse, if he would

follow him. But Will would loose Wit, and Wit

must worke without Wil and against Wit: and yet

this is straunge, they were sworne brethren, one could

not be without the other. Yet Wit could make better

shift alone: Wit could finde Will, when he had lost

himselfe, and Will (yet) would please Wit well, when

he would be a good boy: which he would never be

till he were beaten, and that with the smart of his owne

rod: then he would come home to Wit, follow Wit as

his best freend, and never leave him to the last houre.

Now when I heard this discourse I remembred

thee, and beeing able to tarie no longer the hearing

of such matter against him whom I love, I entreated

Favour to bring me forth into the court, towardes the

counting house: whither walking, I stumbled by the

way, and fell as I told you: wherewith I awoke.

Now, good Will, since I have found thee, and now

thou seest the miseries of the world, come, followe

me, let me bring thee to a better course: let not mee

mourne for thee, nor other thus talke of thee: I will

make much of thee, if thou wilt love mee: I will

make thee give them cause to say: See what a

chaunge! Will is come home, Will is content to be

ruled by Wit: hee workes with Wit, he walkes with

Wit: he mournes and is merie with Wit: he is

travailing to Vertue with Wit, he will finde Fame by

Wit: why he, Will? He is as welcome as Wit, as

worthie as Wit, now he hath learned of Wit how to

direct his course: beleeve me, Will, I love thee.

_Will._ Gramercie, good Wit, and I thee. But tell

me one thing, mee thinks all this was but a dreame,

for in the ende you did awake with the fall. _Wit._

True, Will, I was in a dreame, and so wert thou.

_Will._ Oh, then, you did heare men talke so much of

me in your sleepe: awake, I warrant you, you shall

never heare so much amisse of me. _Wit._ I hope so

too: now I have met with thee, I will shewe thee a

way, whereby thou shalt deserve no such discredit.

_Will._ Gramercie. But shall I now tell thee a little

that I had forgotten, that I sawe and hearde in the

Lake of Miserie? _Wit._ Contented, good Will, and

gramercie too.

_Wil._ Then, Wit, thou shalt understand, I heard

these speeches past among penitent people: when

Wit is wayward, Wil is nobody: wofull Wit, blames

wanton Wil: wanton Wit, chides worthy Wil: unhappie

Wit, hasty Wil: fantastical Wit, forward Will.

Over that, Wit thinks scorne of Will, but yet he cannot

bee without him: Wit hath lost Will, but yet he

is glad to seeke him: Wit mournes for Will, but Wit

sees it not: Will travailes for the stone, that Wit

must whet himselfe uppon: Will is painefull, but

Wit unthankful: Will is courteous, but Wit curst:

Will soone content, Wit too curious: Will would be

ruled, but Wit had no reason: Will would have beene

famous, had Wit beene vertuous: Will had beene

good, had not Wit beene bad: Will had not lost Wit,

had Wit lookt unto him: Will would doo well, if Wit

would doo better: Will would learne, if Wit would teach

him: but Will must worke without Wit, and against

Wit: and yet it was woonderful that sworne brethren

should so disagree, yet one so necessarie for the other

in all actions, as nothing could hit well, when they

were asunder. Will could meete Wit in a maze, and

comfort him with his company: Will could bring Wit

into a good order, when he was quite out of course.

Wit would be glad of Will: but when? When he

found the want of his freend, which he would never

doo, till he were wearie of working alone: and then

he would embrace Will, make much of Will, and

never leave Will for any worlds good. Now when I

heard so much of my good Wit, I could not tarie

any longer in the company, but from them I go, and

by my selfe sate downe, where I slept, and awakt, as

I told you.

_Wit._ Gramarcie, good Will; why then I perceive

we were both asleepe, we lost one another in travaile,

and travailed in sleepe, to seeke one another; which

walking we have found: happy be this day of our

meeting, and twise happy houre of this our freendly

greeting. Hee runs farre, that never turnes; hee

turnes well, that stayes in time; and hee stayes well,

that stands fast; he stands fast, that never falles;

hee falles lowe, that never riseth; he riseth well,

that stands alone when he is up. Good Will, well

met, let us now bee merrie, shake hands, sweare company,

and never part. _Will._ Content, heere is my

hand, my heart is thine. But ere we goe any further,

let us be a little merry. _Wit._ What shall we doo?

_Will._ Let us sing. _Wit._ Content. But what?

_Will._ What you will; begin, and I will answere you.

_A Song betweene Wit and Will_

_Wit._ What art thou, Will?

_Will._ A babe of natures brood.

_Wit._ Who was thy syre?

_Will._ Sweet lust, as lovers say.

_Wit._ Thy mother who?

_Will._ Wild lustie wanton blood.

_Wit._ When wert thou borne?

_Will._ In merrie moneth of May.

_Wit._ And where brought up?

_Will._ In schoole of little skill.

_Wit._ What learndst thou there?

_Will._ Love is my Lesson still.

* * * * *

_Wit._ Where readst thou that?

_Will._ In lines of sweete delight.

_Wit._ The author who?

_Will._ Desire did draw the booke.

_Wit._ Who teacheth? _Will._ Time.

_Wit._ What order? _Will._ Lovers right.

_Wit._ What's that? _Will._

To catch Content, by hooke or crooke.

_Wit._ Where keepes he schoole?

_Will._ In wildernesse of wo.

_Wit._ Why lives he there?

_Will._ The fates appoint it so.

_Wit._ Why did they so?

_Will._ It was their secret will.

_Wit._ What was their will?

_Will._ To worke fond lovers wo.

_Wit._ What was their woe?

_Will._ By spite their sport to spill.

_Wit._ What was their sport?

_Will._ Dame Nature best doth know.

_Wit._ How grows their spite?

_Will._ By want of wish.

_Wit._ What's that?

_Will._ Wit knowes right well,

Will may not tell thee what.

* * * * *

_Wit._ Then, Will, adue.

_Will._ Yet stand me in some steed.

_Wit._ Wherewith, sweete Will?

_Will._ Alas, by thine advise.

_Wit._ Whereto, good Will?

_Will._ To win my wish with speed.

_Wit._ I know not how.

_Will._ Oh Lord, that Will were wise.

_Wit._ Wouldst thou be wise?

_Will._ Ful fain, then come from schoole.

_Wit._ Take this of Wit:

Love learns to play the foole.

_Will._ Content, I wil come from Schoole, I wil

give over _Artem Amandi_, and I will with thee to some

more worthie study, which may be as well to my

commoditie, comfort, as content. _Wit._ Well said,

Will, now I like thee well; and, therefore, now I will

do my best to worke thy delight. But for that now

I have a peece of worke in hand, which none must

be privie too, till it be finished; we will heere leave

off talke, and fall to our worke togither, so I shall the

sooner and the better dispatch it.

_Will._ Content, You shall have my helpe in it, or

any other thing, wherein I may stand you in steed.

And since you are so glad of my company, we will

live and die togither. _Wit._ Gramercie, good Will;

and meane time let us pray God to prosper our worke;

let us have care how we worke; what, when, and

where we worke, that we may find it commodious,

not contrarie to Gods will, contentive to the best,

offensive to fewe or none; let the matter be vertuous,

so shall he prove famous. _Will._ Good Wit, I thanke

thee for thy good counsaile; God give us His grace

to doo so. I am glad to see thee so well bent; now

I must needs love thee; thou wert never wont to be

so well minded. _Wit._ Better late than never; it is

good to be honest, though a man had forsworne it;

there is no time too late to thrive. _Will._ True; and

I promise thee now, I hope I shall doo well by the

comfortable counsaile of so good a friend. God be

thanked, the old vaine is gone. _Stet pro ratione

voluntas, Sum Juvenis fruar hoc mundo, Senex colam

pietatem. Omnia vincit amor._ Faint heart never

woon faire lady. Let us be merrie while we are here;

when we are gone, all the world goes with us; let

them take care that come after. A man is a man, if

he have but a hose on his head. _Oh che bella donna?

favor della Signora, oh dolce amore, La Sennora et

spada, senza estos nada, Perle Amor de dieu: Beau

damoiselle; oh brave huom; Che gallante cheval? il

faut avoire come?_ That makes no matter; then

sweetes had no sower; but now Wit, oh Will, dost

thou remember all this? I pray thee forget all, and

think no more of such things. I am sorie that ever

they were in my heart, but now thou shall see we will

do well inough: we will take another way, to both

our comforts. We will to Care, and intreate him to

lend us his helpe, for without him, indeed we shall

make an ilfavoured ende, of what we begin untowardly.

I promise thee, I heard the pretiest song betwixt him

and Miserie that I heard a good while: if thou wilt

set it downe in writing, I will recite it unto thee.

_Wit._ Contented, right willingly, and thank thee too.

_Will._ Then loe thus it was.

_The Song betweene Miserie and Care._

_M._ What art thou, Care?

_C._ A secret skil unseene.

_M._ Who was thy syre?

_C._ Sound Wisdome. _M._ Mother who?

_C._ Devise. _M._ And who thy nurse?

_C._ Delight I weene.

_M._ When wert thou borne?

_C._ In harvest. _M._ What to do?

_C._ To worke? _M._ With whom?

_C._ With Wit and honest Will.

_M._ What worke? _C._ In graine,

To gleane the good from ill.

* * * * *

_M._ What good? _C._ The best.

_M._ And how? _C._ By warie eye.

_M._ Whose eye is that?

_C._ The eye of perfect sight.

_M._ Who beares that eye?

_C._ The head that hath me nie.

_M._ Whose head is that?

_C._ Each one that loves delight.

_M._ But what delight?

_C._ That longest doth endure.

_M._ Oh, Care. _C._ I come,

Thy comfort to procure.

* * * * *

_M._ Whence dost thou come?

_C._ I come from loftie skie.

_M._ When camst thou thence?

_C._ Even now. _M._ Who sent thee so?

_C._ The gods. _M._ Whereto?

_C._ To comfort Miserie.

_M._ But how? _C._ By Wit.

To worke his ease of wo.

_M._ What wo? _C._ The worst.

_M._ Whats that? _C._ The griefe of mind.

_M._ Oh. _C._ Feare not, Care

Will quickly comfort find.

_Wit._ Beleeve me, I like it well: but is Care so comfortable:

yea, indeed is it. Care is both a corsi[v]e

and a comfort, all is in the use of it. Care is such a

thing, as hath a great a doo in all things: why Care

is a king in his kind. Did you never heare my discourse

of Care in verse?

_Will._ No, that I remember: if it be not long, I

pray you rehearse it. And for my better remembrance,

henceforth, I will write it. _Wit._ Then give eare,

thus it was.

THE SONG OF CARE

Come, all the world, submit your selves to Care,

And him acknowledge for your chiefest king:

With whom no King or Keisar may compare,

Who beares so great a sway in every thing.

At home, abroad, in peace, and eke in warre,

Care chiefly stands to either make or marre.

The court he keepes is in a wise conceit,

His house a head, where reason rules the wit:

His seate the heart that hateth all deceit,

His bed, the braine, that feels no frantick fit,

His diet is the cates of sweet content:

Thus is his life in heavenly pleasure spent.

His kingdome is the whole world round about,

Sorrow his sword, to such as do rebell:

His counsaile, wisedome, that decides each doubt,

His skill, foresight: of things to come, to tell.

His chiefe delight is studies of devise,

To keepe his subjects out of miseries.

Oh courteous king, oh high and mightie Care,

What shall I write in honour of thy name?

But to the world, by due desert declare

Thy royall state, and thy immortall fame.

Then so I end, as I at first begun,

Care is the king of kings, when all is done.

FINIS.

_Will._ Surely I never heard so much of Care

before: but Reason hath shewed me, all is true that

you have spoken of him. And therefore, let us

humbly crave his helpe in this our worke which we

are to take in hand, I dare warrant his favour. _Wit._

Sayest thou so, Wil

away, we have talked long: mountains never meete,

but friends often: good happe comes oft unlookt for,

but never unwelcome. I thought not to have found

thee heere, but we see Fortune doth much, but Fates

more, to bring friends togither: and friendship doth

much, where faith is fixed: and faith is a jewell, and

jewells are precious, and precious is for princes.

Oh God, trust me, Wil, we must be warie to work,

so with advise of Care, that as we are friends one to

another, so we may prove in all actions to shew our

cheefest jewell, our faithfull heart to God and her

Majestie: to whom might we once be so happie as

to presente a peece of worke worthy the receit: oh

how glad shuld then our hearts be, which with faithful

dutie would adventure death for her most excellent

favour: which till by desert we find, and alwaies

let us love and honour our singular good lord, that

hath vouchsafed us his undeserved favour: and let

us heartily pray for the preservation of her most

excellent majestie, with long and prosperous raigne

over us: as for the advancement of his honours

estate, who by his vertues deserves, and by deserts

hath found favour of her highness, love of her peeres,

honour of us, and a number our betters. And so let

us away into my closset of Conceit, where from company

we will thinke upon such matters as here wee

will not talke on. _Will._ Content. We will go

togither, studie thou, and I will make my pen, readie

at thine, or his honors commandement. And thus

till we have dispatcht our worke in hand, let us take

our leave humbly of our good lord, and courteously

of all our friends: Wishing them to employ their

studies to the pleasure of God, content of the best

sort, profit of themselves, and good example to others:

and so _Bacciando le mani del Signore_, let us bid them

all adiu. From our heart, this 8. of June, 1599.

INGENIJ VOLUNTAS.

IV.--ROBERT GREENE

(_One passage (that of the 'Shake-scene') in Greene's

Groat's Worth of Wit has been hacked almost to death

by the citations and discussions of Shakespearian commentators.

But the rest has been but little referred

to in comparison; and though it has been reprinted, it

is not, to my knowledge, anywhere accessible as a whole,

and is very generally unknown. It has, however, high

interest, both external and internal, with the additional

claim to preference over Greene's earlier euphuist

romances and 'conny-catching' pamphlets that it is

much shorter than the best of the former, and that

nothing stands in the same relation to it as Dekker's

<f>Hornbook</f> does to the latter. It wants little more

introduction save the reminder that its autobiographic

quality is evidently considerable in fact, if not so

great as in intention, and that it was not printed till

after the author's death._)

GREENS,

Groats-worth of Wit,

bought with a Million of

_Repentaunce_.

Describing the follie of youth, the falshoode of makeshift

flatterers, the miserie of the negligent, and mischiefes

of deceiuing Courtezans.

_Written before his death, and published at his

dying request._

_Fælicem fuisse infaustum._

_Virescit vulnere veritas._

LONDON,

Printed by Thomas Creede, for Richard Oliue

dwelling in long Lane, and are there

to be solde. 1596.

THE PRINTER TO THE GENTLE READERS

I haue published heere Gentlemen for your mirth and

benefit, _Greenes_ groatesworth of wit. With sundry of

his pleasant discourses, ye haue beene before delighted:

But now hath death giuen a period to his pen: onely

this happened into my hands, which I haue published

for your pleasures: Accept it fauorably because it was

his last birth, and not least worth, in my poore opinion.

But I will cease to praise that which is aboue my conceit,

and leaue it selfe to speake for it selfe: and so abide

your learned censuring.

Yours, W. W./

TO THE GENTLEMEN READERS

GENTLEMEN. The Swan sings melodiously before death,

that in all his life time vseth but a iarring sound. _Greene_

though able inough to write, yet deeplyer searched with

sickenesse than euer heretofore, sends you his Swanne-like

song, for that he feares he shal neuer againe carroll

to you woonted loue layes, neuer againe discouer to you

youths pleasures. How euer yet sickenesse, riot, incontinence,

haue at once shown their extremitie, yet if I

recouer, you shall all see more fresh springs, than euer

sprang from me, directing you how to liue, yet not diswading

you from loue. This is the last I haue writ,

and I feare me the last I shall write. And how euer I

haue beene censured for some of my former bookes, yet

Gentlemen / I protest they were as I had speciall information.

But passing them, I commend this to your

fauorable censures, and like an Embrion without shape,

I feare me will bee thrust into the world. If I liue to

ende it, it shall be otherwise: if not, yet will I commend

it to your courtesies, that you may as wel be acquainted

with my repentant death, as you haue lamented my

carelesse course of life. But as _Nemo ante obitum felix,

so Acta Exitus probat_: Beseeching therefore to bee

deemed hereof as I deserue, I leaue the worke to your

likings, and leaue you to your delights./

A GROAT'S WORTH OF WIT

In an Iland bound with the Ocean, there was sometime

a Citie situated, made rich by Marchandize and

populous by long space: the name is not mentioned

in the Antiquary, or else worne out by times Antiquitie:

what it was it greatly skilles not: but therein

thus it happened. An old new made Gentleman

herein dwelt, of no small credit, exceeding wealth,

and large conscience: he had gathered from many to

bestowe vpon one, for though he had two sonnes, he

esteemed but one, that being as himselfe, brought

vp to be goldes bondman, was therefore held heire

apparent of his ill gathered goods.

The other was a Scholler, and maried to a proper

Gentlewoman, and therefore least regarded, for tis

an olde said saw: To learning and law, ther's no

greater foe, then they that nothing know: yet was

not the father altogether vnlettered, for he had good

experience in a _Nouerint_, and by the vniuersall

tearmes therein contained, had driuen many gentlewomen

to seeke vnknowen countries: wise he was,

for he boare office in his / parish, and sate as formally

in his fox-furd gowne, as if he had beene a very

vpright dealing Burges: he was religious too, neuer

without a booke at his belt, and a bolt in his mouth,

ready to shoote through his sinfull neighbor.

And Latin he had some where learned, which

though it were but little, yet was it profitable, for

he had this Philosophie written in a ring, _Tu tibi

cura_, which precept he curiously obserued, being in

selfeloue so religious, as he held it no point of charitie

to part with any thing, of which he liuing might make

vse.

But as all mortall things are momentarie, and no

certaintie can bee founde in this vncertaine world, so

_Gorinius_ (for that shall be this Usurers name) after

many a goutie pang that had pincht his exterior

parts, many a curse of the people that mounted into

heauens presence, was at last with his last summons,

by a deadly disease arrested, where-against when hee

had long contended, and was by Phisitions giuen

ouer, hee cald his two sonnes before him: and willing

to performe the olde prouerbe, _Qualis vita finis

Ita_, hee thus prepared himselfe, and admonished

them. My sonnes (for so your mother said ye were)

and so I assure my selfe one of you is, and of the

other I wil make no doubt.

You see the time is come, which I thought would

neuer haue approached, and we must now be seperated,

I feare neuer to meete againe. This sixteene

yeares daily haue I liued vexed with disease: and

might I liue sixteene more, how euer miserably, I

should thinke it happie. But death is relentlesse,

and will not be intreated: witlesse, and knowes not

what good my gold might do him: senseless, & hath

no pleasure in the delightfull places / I would offer

him. In breefe, I thinke he hath with this foole my

eldest sonne beene brought vp in the vniuersitie, and

therefore accounts that in riches is no vertue. But

you my sonne (laying then his hand on the yongers

head) haue thou another spirit: for without wealth

life is a death: what is gentry if wealth be wanting,

but base seruile beggerie? Some comfort yet it

is vnto me, to see how many gallants sprung of noble

parents haue croucht to _Gorinius_ to haue sight of

his gold: O gold, desired golde, admired golde! and

haue lost their patrimonies to _Gorinius_, because they

haue not returned by their day that adored creature!

How many schollers haue written rimes in _Gorinius_

praise, and receiued (after long capping and reuerence)

a sixpeny reward in signe of my superficiall

liberalitie. Breefely my yong _Lucanio_, how I haue

bin reuerenst thou seest, when honester men I confesse,

haue beene set farre off: for to be rich is to

be any thing, wise, honest, worshipfull, or what not?

I tell thee my sonne: when I came first to this

Cittie, my whole wardrop was onely a sute of white

sheepe skins, my wealth an olde Groate, my wooning,

the wide world. At this instant (O griefe to part

with it) I haue in readie coyne threescore thousand

pound, in plate and Jewels, xv. thousand, in bonds

and specialties as much, in land nine hundred pound

by the yeere: all which, _Lucanio_ I bequeath to thee,

onely I reserue for _Roberto_ thy well red brother, an

olde Groate (being the stocke I first began with)

wherewith I wish him to buy a groatsworth of wit:

for he in my life hath reprooued my maner of life,

and therefore at my death, shall not be contaminated

with corrupt gaine. Heere by the way Gentlemen

must I disgresse to shew the reason of _Gorinius_

present speech: _Roberto_ being / come from the

Academie, to visit his father, there was a great feast

prouided: where for table talke, _Roberto_ knowing his

father and most of the companie to be execrable

vsurers, inuayed mightily against that abhorred vice,

insomuch that he vrged teares from diuers of their

eyes, and compunction in some of their hearts.

Dinner being past, hee comes to his father, requesting

him to take no offence at his liberall speech,

seeing what he had vttered was truth. Angrie, sonne

(saide he) no by my honesty (& that is somwhat

I may say to you), but vse it still, and if thou canst

perswade any of my neighbours from lending vppon

vsurie, I should haue the more customers: to which

when _Roberto_ would haue replied, he shut himselfe

into his studie, and fell to telling ouer his money.

This was _Robertos_ offence: nowe returne we to

seeke _Gorinius_, who after he had thus vnequally

distributed his goods and possessions, began to aske

his sons how they liked his bequestes: either seemed

agreed, and _Roberto_ vrged him with nothing more,

then repentance of his sin: Loke to thine owne, said

he, fond boy, and come my _Lucanio_, let me giue

thee good counsel before my death: as for you sir,

your bookes are your counsellors, and therefore to

them I bequeath you. Ah _Lucanio_, my onely comfort,

because I hope thou wilt as thy father be a

gatherer, let me blesse thee before I die. Multiply

in wealth my sonne by anie meanes thou maist, onely

flie Alchymie, for therein are more deceites then her

beggerly Artistes haue wordes; and yet are the

wretches more talkatiue then women. But my

meaning is, thou shouldest not stand on conscience

in causes of profite, but heape treasure vpon treasure,

for the time of neede: yet seeme / to be deuout,

else shalt thou be held vile: frequent holy exercises,

graue companie, and aboue all, vse the conuersation

of yong Gentlemen, who are so wedded to prodigalitie,

that once in a quarter necessity knocks at

their chamber doores: profer them kindnesse to

relieue their wants, but be sure of good assurance:

giue faire words till dayes of payment come, and

then vse my course, spare none: what though they

tell of conscience (as a number will talke) looke but

into the dealings of the world, & thou shalt see it

is but idle words. Seest thou not many perish in

the streetes, and fall to theft for neede: whom small

succor would releeue. Then where is conscience, and

why art thou bound to vse it more then other men?

Seest thou not daily forgeries, periuries, oppressions,

rackings of the poore, raysing of rents, inhauncing of

duties, euen by them that shuld be all conscience,

if they meant as they speake: but _Lucanio_ if thou

reade well this booke, (and with that hee reacht him

Machiauels works at large) thou shalt see what it is

to be foole-holy, as to make scruple of conscience,

where profit presents it selfe.

Besides, thou hast an instance by thy threed-bare

brother heere, who willing to do no wrong, hath lost

his childs right: for who would wish any thing to

him, that knowes not how to vse it?

So much _Lucanio_ for conscience: and yet I

knowe not whats the reason, but somewhat stings mee

inwardly when I speake of it. I, father, said _Roberto_,

it is the worme of conscience, that vrges you at the

last houre to remember your life, that eternall life

may follow your repentance. Out foole (said this

miserable father) I feele it now, it was onely a stitch.

I will forward with my exhortation to _Lucanio_. As I

saide my / sonne, make spoyle of yong gallants by

insinuating thy selfe amongst them, and be not

mooued to think their Auncestors were famous, but

consider thine were obscure, and that thy father was

the first Gentleman of the name: _Lucanio_ thou art

yet a Bachelor, and so keepe thee, till thou meete

with one that is thy equall, I meane in wealth:

regard not beautie, it is but a baite to entice thine

neighbors eie: and the most faire are commonly

most fond: vse not too many familiars, for few

prooue friends, and as easie it is to weigh the wind,

as to diue into the thoughts of worldly glosers. I

tell thee _Lucanio_, I haue seene foure score winters

besides the odde seauen, yet saw I neuer him that I

esteemed as my friend but gold, that desired creature,

whom I haue deerely loued, and found so firme a

friend, as nothing, to me hauing it, hath beene wanting.

No man but may thinke deerely of a true

friend, and so doe I of it, laying it vnder sure locks,

and lodging my heart therwith.

But now (Ah my _Lucanio_) now must I leaue it,

and to thee I leaue it with this lesson, loue none but

thy selfe, if thou wilt liue esteemed. So turning

him to his study, where his chiefe treasure lay, he

loud cried out in the wise mans words, _O mors quam

amara_, O death how bitter is thy memorie to him

that hath al pleasures in this life, and so with two or

three lamentable groanes he left his life: and to

make short worke, was by _Lucanio_ his sonne enterd,

as the custome is with some solemnitie: But leauing

him that hath left the world to him y^t censureth of

euery worldly man, passe we to his sons: and see

how his long laied vp store is by _Lucanio_ looked

into. The youth was of c[=o]dition simple, shamefast,

and flexible to any counsaile, which _Roberto_ perceiuing,

and pondering how little was left to him,

grew into an inward contempt of his fathers vnequall

legacie, and determinate resolution to worke _Lucanio_

al possible iniurie: here vpon thus conuerting the

sweetnesse of his studie to the sharpe thirst of

reuenge, he (as Enuie is seldome idle) sought out

fit companions to effect his unbrotherly resolution.

Neither in such a case is ill companie farre to seeke,

for the Sea hath scarce so ioperdies, as populous

Citties haue deceiuing Syrens, whose eies are Adamants,

whose wares are witchcrafts, whose doores

leade downe to death. With one of these female

Serpents _Roberto_ consorts, and they conclude, what

euer they compassed, equally to share to their

contentes. This match made, _Lucanio_ was by his

brother brought to the bush, where he had scarce

pruned his wings but hee was fast limed, and _Roberto_

had what he expected. But that we may keepe

forme, you shall heare how it fortuned.

_Lucanio_ being on a time very pensiue, his brother

brake with him in these tearmes. I wonder _Lucanio_

why you are so disconsolate, that want not any thing

in the world that may worke your content. If

wealth may delight a man, you are with that sufficiently

furnisht: if credit may procure a man any

comfort, your word I knowe well, is as well accepted

as any mans obligation: in this Citie are faire buildings

and pleasant gardens, and cause of solace: of

them I am assured you haue your choyse. Consider

brother you are yong, then plod not altogether in

meditating on our fathers precepts: which howsoeuer

they sauoured of profit, were most vnsauerly to one

of your yeeres applied. You must not thinke but

certaine Marchants of this Citie expect your company,

sundry Gentlemen desire your / familiarity,

and by conuersing with such, you will be accounted

a Gentleman: otherwise a pesant, if ye liue thus

obscurely. Besides, which I had almost forgot, and

then had all the rest beene nothing, you are a man

by nature furnished with all exquisite proportion,

worthy the loue of any courtly Ladie, be she neuer

so amorous: you haue wealth to maintaine her, of

women not little longed for: wordes to court her you

shall not want, for my selfe will be your secretary.

Brieflie, why stande I to distinguish abilitie in perticularities,

when in one word it may be sayde, which

no man can gainsay, _Lucanio_ lacketh nothing to

delight a wife, nor any thing but a wife to delight

him? My young maister beeing thus clawde, and

puft vp with his owne prayse, made no longer delay,

but hauing on his holyday hose, he tricked himselfe

vp, and like a fellowe that meant good sooth, hee

clapped his Brother on the Shoulder, and sayde.

Faith Brother _Roberto_, and yee say the worde, lets

go seeke a wife while it is hote, both of vs togither.

Ile pay well, and I dare turne you loose to say as

well as anye of them all: well Ile doe my best, said

_Roberto_, and since ye are so forward, lets goe nowe

and trie our good fortune.

With this foorth they walke, and _Roberto_ went

directlie towarde the house where _Lamilia_ (for so

wee call the Curtezan) kept her Hospital, which was

in the Suburbes of the Cittie, pleasauntly seated,

and made more delectable by a pleasaunt Garden,

wherein it was scituate. No sooner come they

within ken, but Mistresse _Lamilia_ like a cunning

angler made readie her chaunge of baytes, that shee

might effect _Lucanios_ bane: and to begin, shee discouered

from her window her beauteous inticing

face, and taking a lute in her h[=a]d that / she might

the rather allure, she sung this Sonnet with a delicious

voice.

_Lamilias Song._

Fie fie on blind fancie,

It hinders youths ioy:

Faire virgins learne by me,

To count loue a toy.

When Loue learned first the A B C of delight,

And knew no figures, nor conceited phrase:

He simplie gaue to due desert her right,

He led not louers in darke winding wayes:

He plainly wild to loue, or flatly answered no,

But now who lists to proue, shall find it nothing so:

Fie fie then on fancie,

It hinders youths ioy,

Faire virgins learne by me,

To count loue a toy.

For since he learnd to vse the Poets pen,

He learnd likewise with smoothing words to faine,

Witching chast eares with trothlesse toungs of men,

And wrayed faith with falshood and disdaine.

He giues a promise now, anon he sweareth no,

Who lifteth for to proue, shall find his changings so:

Fie fie then on fancie

It hinders youth[s] ioy,

Faire virgins learn by me,

To count loue a toy.

While this painted sepulchre was shadowing her

corrupting guilt, Hiena-like alluring to destruction,

_Roberto_ and _Lucanio_ vnder the windowe, kept euen

pace with / euery stop of her instrument, but especially

my yong Ruffler (that before time like a bird

in a cage, had beene prentise for three liues or one

and twentie yeeres at least, to esteame Auarice his deceased

father). O twas a world to see how he sometime

simperd it, striuing to set a countenance on his

turnd face, that it might seeme of wainscot proofe,

to beholde her face without blushing: anone he

would stroake his bow-bent-leg, as though he went

to shoote loue arrows from his shins: then wipte his

chin (for his beard was not yet grown) with a gold

wrought handkercher, whence of purpose he let fall

a handfull of angels. This golden showre was no

sooner rained, but _Lamil[i]a_, ceast her song, and

_Roberto_ (assuring himselfe the foole was caught)

came to _Lucanio_ (that stoode now as one that had

starde _Medusa_ in the face) and awaked him from his

amazement with these words: What, in a traunce

brother? whence springs these dumps? are yee

amazed at this obiect? or long ye to become loues

subiect? Is there not difference betweene this

delectable life and the imprisonment you haue all

your life hitherto endured? If the sight and hearing

of this harmonious beautie work in you effects of

wonder, what will the possession of so diuine an

essence, wherein beautie and Art dwell in their

perfect excellencie. Brother said _Lucanio_, lets vse

few words, and she be no more then a woman, I

trust youle helpe mee to her? and if you doe, well,

I say no more, but I am yours till death vs depart,

and what is mine shal ye yours, world without end,

Amen.

_Roberto_ smiling at his simplenesse, helpt him to

gather vp his dropt golde, and without any more

circumstance led him to _Lamilias_ house: for of such

places it may be said as of hell. /

Noctes atque dies patet atri ianua ditis.

So their doores are euer open to entice youth

to destruction. They were no sooner entred, but

_Lamilia_ her selfe, like a second _Helen_, court-like

begins to salute _Roberto_, yet did her wandring eie

glance often at _Lucanio_: the effect of her entertainment

consisted in these tearmes, that to her simple

house Signor _Roberto_ was welcome, and his brother

the better welcome for your sake: albeit his good

report confirmed by his present demeaner, were of

it selfe enough to giue him deserued entertainement,

in any place how honourable soeuer: mutuall thanks

returned, they lead this prodigal childe into a Parlor,

garnished with goodly portratures of amiable personages:

neere which, an excellent consert of musicke

began at their entrance to play. _Lamilia_ seeing

_Lucanio_ shamefast, tooke him by the hand, and

tenderly wringing him, vsed these words: Beleeue

me Gentlemen, I am verie sorie that our rude enter[tain]ment

is such, as no way may worke your

content: for this I haue noted since your first entering,

that your countenance hath beene heauie, and

the face being the glasse of the heart, assures me the

same is not quiet: would ye wish any thing heere

that might content you, say but the word, and assure

ye of present deliuerance to effect your full delight.

_Lucanio_ being so farre in loue, as he perswaded

himselfe without her grant hee could not liue, had a

good meaning to vtter his minde, but wanting fit

wordes, hee stoode like a trewant that lackt a

prompter, or a plaier that being out of his part at

his first entrance is faine to haue the booke to

speake what he should performe. Which _Roberto_

perceiuing replied thus in his behalfe: Madame, the

Sunnes brightnesse daisleth the beholders eies, the

maiestie of Gods, / amazed humane men. _Tullie_

Prince of Orators, once fainted though his cause

were good, and he that tamed monsters, stoode

amated at beauties ornaments: Then blame not this

yoong man though hee replied not, for he is blinded

with the beautie of your sunne-darkening eies, made

mute with the celestiall organe of your voyce, and

feare of that rich ambush of amber colored darts,

whose pointes are leuelde against his heart. Well

Signor _Roberto_ saide shee, how euer you interpret

their sharpe leuell, be sure they are not bent to doe

him hurt, and but that modestie blindes vs poore

Maidens from vttering the inwarde sorrowe of our

mindes, perchaunce the cause of greefe is ours, how

euer men do colour, for as I am a virgin I protest

(and therewithall shee tainted her cheekes with a

vermilion blush) I neuer sawe Gentleman in my life

in my eie so gratious as is _Lucanio_, onely that is my

greefe, that either I am despised for that he scornes

to speake, or else (which is my greater sorrow) I

feare he cannot speake. Not speake Gentlewoman

quoth _Lucanio?_ that were a ieast indeede: yes, I

thanke God I am sounde of winde and lim, onely

my heart is not as it was woont: but and you be as

good as your word, that will soone be well, and so

crauing ye of more acquaintance, in token of my

plaine meaning receiue this diamond, which my olde

father loued deerely: and with that deliuered her a

Ring, wherein was apointed a Diamond of wonderfull

worth. Which shee accepting with a lowe conge,

returned him a silke Riband for a fauour, tyed with

a truelouers knot, which he fastened vnder a faire

Jewell on his Beuer felt.

After this _Diomedis & Glauci permutatio_, my

young master / waxed cranke, and the musicke continuing,

was very forward in dauncing, to shew his

cunning: and so desiring them to play on a hornepipe,

laid on the pauement lustily with his leaden

heeles, coruetting like a steede of _Signor Roccoes_

teaching, and wanted nothing but bels, to bee a

hobbyhorse in a morrice. Yet was he soothed in

his folly, and what euer he did, _Lamilia_ counted

excellent: her praise made him proude, insomuch

that if he had not beene intreated, hee would rather

haue died in his daunce, then left off to shew his

mistresse delight. At last reasonably perswaded,

seeing the table furnished, he was contented to cease,

and settle himselfe to his victuals, on which (hauing

before labored) he fed lustily, especially of a Woodcocke

pie, wherewith _Lamilia_ his caruer, plentifully

plied him. Full dishes hauing furnisht emptie

stomaches, and _Lucanio_ thereby got leisure to talke,

falles to discourse of his wealth, his lands, his bonds,

his abilitie, and how himselfe with all he had, was at

Madame _Lamilias_ disposing: desiring her afore his

brother, to tell him simply what shee meant. _Lamilia_

replied: My sweet _Lucanio_, how I esteeme of thee

mine eies doe witnesse, that like handmaides, haue

attended thy beautious face, euer since I first beheld

thee: yet seeing loue that lasteth gathereth by

degrees his liking, let this for that suffice: if I finde

thee firme, _Lamilia_ will be faithful: if fleeting, she

must of necessitie be infortunate that hauing neuer

seene any whome before shee could affect, shee

shoulde bee of him iniuriously forsaken. Nay saide

_Lucanio_, I dare say my brother here will giue his

word. For that I accept your own said _Lamilia_, for

with me your credit is better then your brothers.

_Roberto_ brake off their amorous prattle with these

speeches. Sith / either of you are of other so fond

at the first sight, I doubt not but time will make

your loue more firme. Yet madame _Lamilia_ although

my brother and you be thus forward, some

crosse chaunce may come: for _Multa cadunt inter

calicem supremaq. labra_. And for a warning to teach

you both wit, Ile tell you an olde wiues tale.

Before ye go on with your tale (quoth mistresse

_Lamilia_) let me giue ye a caueat by the way, which

shall be figured in a Fable.

_Lamiliaes Tale._

The Foxe on a time came to visite the Gray,

partly for kindered, cheefely for craft: and finding

the hole emptie of all other companie, sauing onely

one Badger; enquiring the cause of his solitarinesse,

he described the sodaine death of his dam and sire,

with the rest of his consorts. The Foxe made a

Friday face, counterfeiting sorrow: but concluding

that deaths shake was vneuitable, perswaded him

to seeke some fit mate wherwith to match. The

Badger soone agreed: so forth they went, and in

their way met with a wanton ewe straggling from the

fold: the Foxe bad the Badger play the tall stripling,

and strout on his tiptoes: for (quoth he) this ewe is

lady of al these lands, and her brother cheefe bel-weather

of sundrie flocks. To be short, by the

Foxes permission there would be a perpetuall league

betweene her harmelesse kindred and al other deuouring

beasts, for that the Badger was to them all

allied: seduced, shee yeelded: and the Foxe conducted

them to the Badgers / habitation, where drawing

her aside vnder color of exhortation, [he] pulde

out her throate to satisfie his greedie thurst. Here

I should note, a yoong whelpe that viewed their

walke, infourmed the shepheard of what hapned.

They followed, and trained the Foxe and Badger to

the hole: the Foxe afore had craftily conuaied himself

away: the shepheard found the Badger rauing

for the ewes murther: his lamentation being helde

for counterfet, was by the shepheards dog wearied.

The Foxe escaped: the ewe was spoiled: and euer

since, betweene the Badgers and the dogges, hath

continued a mortall enmitie: And now be aduised

_Roberto_ (quoth she), goe forward with your tale, seeke

not by slie insinuation to turne our mirth to sorrow.

Go too _Lamilia_ (quoth hee), you feare what I meane

not, but how euer ye take it, Ile forward with my tale.

_Robertoes Tale._

In the North parts there dwelt an old Squier, that

had a yong daughter his heire; who had (as I know

Madame _Lamilia_ you haue had) many youthfull

Gentlemen that long time sued to obtaine her loue.

But she knowing her owne perfection (as women are

by nature proude) woulde not to any of them

vouchsafe fauour: insomuch that they perceiuing

her relentlesse, shewed themselues not altogether

witlesse, but left her to her fortune, when they founde

her frowardnesse. At last it fortuned among other

strangers, a Farmers sonne visited her fathers house:

on whom at the first sight shee was enamored, he

likewise on hir. Tokens of loue past betweene

them, either acquainted others parents of their choise,

and they kindly gaue their consent. Short tale to

make, married they were, and great solemnitie was

at the wedding feast. A yong Gentleman, that had

beene long a suter to her, vexing that the sonne of

a farmer should be so preferred, cast in his minde by

what meanes (to marre their merriment) he might

steale away the Bride. Hereupon he confers with

an old beldam, called mother _Gunby_, dwelling thereby,

whose counsell hauing taken, he fell to his practise,

and proceeded thus. In the after noone, when

dauncers were very busie, he takes the Bride by the

hand, and after a turne or two, tels her in her eare,

he had a secret to impart vnto her, appointing her

in any wise, in the euening to find a time to confer

with him: she promised she would and so they

parted. Then goes he to the bridegroome, and with

protestations of entire affect, protests that the great

sorrow hee takes at that which he must vtter, whereon

depended his especial credit, if it were knowne the

matter by him should be discouered. After the

bridegroomes promise of secrecie, the gentleman tels

him, that a friend of his receiued that morning from

y^e bride a letter, wherein she willed him with some

sixteene horse to awaite her comming at a Parke

side, for that she detested him in her heart as a

base country hinde, with whom her father compelled

her to marrie. The bridegroome almost out of his

wits, began to bite his lippe. Nay, saith the Gentleman,

if you will by me be aduised, you shall saue

her credit, win her by kindnes, and yet preuent her

wanton complot. As how, said the Bridegroome?

Mary, thus, said the gentleman: In the euening (for

till the guests be gone she intends not to gad) get

you / on horsebacke, and seeme to be of the companie

that attends her comming: I am appointed to

bring her from the house to the Parke, and from

thence fetch a winding compasse of a mile about,

but to turne vnto olde mother _Gunbyes_ house, where

her louer my friend abides: when she alights, I wil

conduct her to a chamber far from his lodging, but

when the lights are out, and she expects her adulterous

copesmate, your selfe (as reason is) shall proue her

bedfellow, where priuately you may reprooue her,

and in the morning earely returne home without

trouble. As for the gentleman my frend, I will

excuse her absence to him, by saying, shee mockt

thee with her maide in stead of her selfe, whom when

I knew at her lighting, I disdained to bring her vnto

his presence. The Bridegroome gaue his hand it

should be so.

Now by the way we must vnderstand this mother

_Gunby_ had a daughter, who all that day sate heauily

at home with a willow garland, for that the bridegroome

(if he had dealt faithfully) should haue

wedded her before any other. But men (_Lamilia_)

are vnconstant, mony now a daies makes the match,

or else the match is marde.

But to the matter: the bride groome and the

Gentleman thus agreed: he tooke his time, conferred

with the bride, perswaded her that her husband

(notwithstanding his faire shew at the marriage) had

sworne to his old sweete heart, their neighbour

_Gunbyes_ daughter, to be that night her bedfellow:

and if she would bring her father, his father, and

other friends to the house at midnight, they should

finde it so.

At this the yong gentlewoman inwardly vext to

be by a peasant so abused, promised if she sawe

likelyhood of / his slipping away, that then she would

doe according as he directed.

All this thus sorting, the old womans daughter

was trickly attired, ready to furnish this pageant, for

her old mother promised all things necessarie.

Well, Supper past, dauncing ended, all the guests

would home, and the Bridgroome pretending to

bring some friend of his home, got his horse, and to

the Parke side he rode, and stayed with the horsemen

that attended the Gentleman.

Anone came _Marian_ like mistris Bride, and

mounted behind the gentleman, away they post,

fetch their compasse, & at last alight at an olde wiues

house, where sodenly she is conuaied to her chamber,

& the bridegroome sent to keepe her company:

where he had scarce deuised how to begin his exhortation,

but the father of his bride knockt at the

chamber doore. At which being somewhat amazed,

yet thinking to turne it to a ieast, sith his wife (as he

thought) was in bed with him, hee opened the doore,

saying: Father, you are heartily welcome, I wonder

how you found vs out heere; this deuise to remooue

our selues, was with my wiues consent, that we might

rest quietly without the Maids and Batchelers disturbing

vs. But where is your wife said y^e gentleman?

why heere in bed said he. I thought (quoth

the other) my daughter had beene your wife, for sure

I am to-day shee was giuen you in marriage. You

are merrily disposed said the Bridegroome, what,

thinke you I haue another wife? I thinke but as

you speake, quoth the gentleman, for my daughter is

below, & you say your wife is in the bed. Below

(said he) you are a merie man, and with that casting

on a night-gowne, he went downe, where when he

saw his wife, the gentleman his father, and a number

/ of his friends assembled, he was so confounded,

that how to behaue himselfe he knew not; onely hee

cried out that he was deceiued. At this the olde

woman arises, and making her selfe ignorant of al

the whole matter, enquires the cause of that sodaine

tumult. When she was tolde the new bridegroome was

found in bed with her daughter, she exclaimed against

so great an iniurie. _Marian_ was called in quorum:

she iustified it was by his allurement: he being condemned

by al their consents, was iudged vnworthy

to haue the gentlewoman vnto his wife, & compelled

(for escaping of punishment) to marrie _Marian_: and

the yong Gentleman (for his care in discouering the

farmers sonnes leudnes) was recompenst with the

Gentlewomans euer during loue.

Quoth _Lamilia_, and what of this? Nay nothing

saide _Roberto_, but that I haue told you the effects

of sodaine loue: yet the best is, my brother is a

maidenly batcheler, and for your selfe, you haue

beene troubled with many suters. The fewer the

better, said _Lucanio_. But brother, I con you little

thanke for this tale: hereafter I pray you vse other

table talke. Lets then end talk, quoth _Lamilia_, and

you (signor _Lucanio_) and I will goe to the Chesse.

To Chesse, said he, what meane you by that? It is

a game, said she, that the first danger is but a checke,

the worst, the giuing of a mate. Wel, said _Roberto_,

that game ye haue beene at alreadie then, for you

checkt him first with your beauty, & gaue your self

for mate to him by your bountie. That is wel taken

brother, said _Lucanio_, so haue we past our game at

Chesse. Wil ye play at tables then, said she? I

cannot, quoth he, for I can goe no furder with my

game, if I be once taken. Will ye play then at cards?

I, said he, if it be at one and thirtie. That fooles

game, said she? Weele all to hazard, said _Roberto_,

and / brother you shall make one for an houre or

two: contented quoth he. So to dice they went,

and fortune so fauoured _Lucanio_, that while they

continued square play, he was no looser. Anone

cosonage came about, and his Angels being double

winged flew cleane from before him. _Lamilia_ being

the winner, prepared a banquet; which finished,

_Roberto_ aduised his brother to depart home, and to

furnish himselfe with more crowns, least he were

outcrakt with new commers.

_Lucanio_ loath to be outcountenanst, followed his

aduise, desiring to attend his returne, which he before

had determined vnrequested: for as soone as his

brothers backe was turned, _Roberto_ begins to reckon

with _Lamilia_, to bee a sharer as well in the mony

deceitfully woone, as in the Diamond so wilfully

giuen. But she, _secundum mores meretricis_, iested

thus with the scholler. Why _Roberto_, are you so

well read, and yet shew your selfe so shallow witted,

to deeme women so weake of conceit, that they

see not into mens demerites? Suppose (to make

you my stale to catch the woodcocke, your brother)

that my tongue ouerrunning mine intent, I spake

of liberal rewarde; but what I promised, there is

the point; at least what I part with, I will be well

aduised. It may be you wil thus reason: Had not

_Roberto_ trained _Lucanio_ with _Lamilias_ lure, _Lucanio_

had not now beene _Lamilias_ prey: therfore sith by

_Roberto_ she possesseth her prize, _Roberto_ merites an

equall part. Monstrous absurd if so you reason; as

wel you may reason thus: _Lamilias_ dog hath kilde

her a deere, therefore his mistris must make him a

pastie. No poore pennilesse Poet, thou art beguilde

in me, and yet I wonder how thou couldest, thou

hast beene so often beguilde. But it fareth with

licentious men, as with the chased bore in the /

streame, who being greatly refreshed with swimming,

neuer feeleth any smart vntill he perish recurelesly

wounded with his owne weapons. Reasonlesse

_Roberto_, that hauing but a brokers place, asked a

lenders rewarde. Faithlesse _Roberto_, that hast attempted

to betray thy brother, irreligiously forsaken

thy wife, deseruedly beene in thy fathers eie an

abiect: thinkest thou _Lamilia_ so loose, to consort

with one so lewd? No hypocrite, the sweete Gentleman

thy brother, I will till death loue, and thee

while I liue loath. This share _Lamilia_ giues thee,

other gettest thou none.

As _Roberto_ would haue replied, _Lucanio_ approached:

to whom _Lamilia_ discourst the whole

deceit of his brother, & neuer rested intimating

malitious arguments, till _Lucanio_ vtterly refused

_Roberto_ for his brother, and for euer forbad him of

his house. And when he wold haue yeelded reasons,

and formed excuse, _Lucanios_ impatience (vrged by

her importunate malice) forbad all reasoning with

them that was reasonlesse, and so giuing him Jacke

Drums entertainment, shut him out of doores: whom

we will follow, and leaue _Lucanio_ to the mercie of

_Lamilia_. _Roberto_ in an extreame extasie rent his

haire, curst his destinie, blamed his trecherie, but

most of all exclaimed against _Lamilia_: and in her

against all enticing Curtizans in these tearmes.

What meant the Poets to inuectiue verse,

To sing Medeas shame, and Scillas pride,

Calipsoes charmes, by which so many dide?

Onely for this, their vices they rehearse,

That curious wits which in this world conuerse,

May shun the dangers and enticing shoes,

Of such false Syrens, those home-breeding foes,

That from their eies their venim do disperse. /

So soone kils not the Basiliske with sight,

The Vipers tooth is not so venomous,

The Adders tung not halfe so dangerous,

As they that beare the shadow of delight,

Who chaine blinde youths in tramels of their haire,

Till wast bring woe, and sorrow hast despaire.

With this he laide his head on his hand, and leant

his elbow on the ground sighing out sadly,

Heu patior telis vulnera facta meis.

On the other side of the hedge sate one that

heard his sorrow, who getting ouer, came towardes

him, and brake off his passion. When he approached,

he saluted _Roberto_ in this sort.

Gentleman, quoth hee (for so you seeme), I haue

by chaunce heard you discourse some part of your

greefe; which appeareth to be more then you will

discouer, or I can conceipt. But if you vouchsafe

such simple comfort as my abilitie will yeeld, assure

your selfe that I will endeuour to doe the best, that

either may procure your profit, or bring you pleasure:

the rather, for that I suppose you are a scholler, and

pittie it is men of learning should liue in lacke.

_Roberto_ wondring to heare such good words, for

that this iron age affoordes few that esteeme of

vertue, returned him thankfull gratulations, and

(vrged by necessitie) vttered his present griefe, beseeching

his aduise how he might be imployed. Why,

easily, quoth hee, and greatly to your benefit: for

men of my profession get by schollers their whole

liuing. What is your profession, sayd _Roberto_?

Truely, sir, said he, I am a player. A Player, quoth

_Roberto_, I tooke you rather for a gentleman of great

liuing, for if by outward habit men shuld be censured,

I tell you you would be taken for a substantiall

/ man. So am I, where I dwell (quoth the player),

reputed able at my proper cost to build a Windmill.

What though the worlde once went hard with mee,

when I was faine to carrie my playing Fardle a

footebacke; _Tempora mutantur_, I know you know

the meaning of it better then I, but I thus conster

it; it is otherwise now; for my very share in playing

apparrell will not be solde for two hundred pounds.

Truely (said _Roberto_) it is strange, that you should

so prosper in that vaine practise, for that it seemes to

me your voyce is nothing gracious. Nay then, said

the player, I mislike your iudgement: why, I am as

famous for Delphrigus, and the king of Fairies, as

euer was any of my time. The twelue labors of

_Hercules_ haue I terribly thundred on the stage, and

placed three scenes of the deuill on the highway to

heauen. Haue ye so (said _Roberto_)? then I pray

you pardon me. Nay, more (quoth the player), I can

serue to make a prettie speech, for I was a countrie

Author; passing at a morall, for it was I that pende

the Moral of mans wit, the Dialogue of Diues, and

for seauen yeeres space was absolute interpreter of the

puppets. But now my Almanacke is out of date.

The people make no estimation,

Of Morrals teaching education.

Was not this prettie for a plaine rime extempore?

if ye will ye shall haue more. Nay it is enough,

said _Roberto_, but how meane you to vse mee? Why

sir, in making playes, said the other, for which you

shall be well paied, if you will take the paines.

_Roberto_ perceiuing no remedie, thought best to

respect of his present necessity, to trie his wit, &

went with him willingly: who lodged him at the

townes end in a house of retaile, where what happened

our Poet you shall / heereafter heare. There,

by conuersing with bad company, he grew _A malo in

peius_, falling from one vice to another, and so hauing

found a vaine to finger crownes he grew cranker

then _Lucanio_, who by this time began to droope,

being thus dealt withall by _Lamilia_. She hauing bewitched

him with her enticing wiles, caused him to

consume, in lesse then two yeares, that infinite

treasure gathered by his father with so many a poore

mans curse. His lands sold, his iewels pawnd, his

money wasted, he was casseerd by _Lamilia_ that had

coosened him of all. Then walked he like one of

duke _Humfreys_ Squires, in a threedbare cloake, his

hose drawne out with his heeles, his shooes vnseamed,

lest his feete should sweate with heate: now (as

witlesse as he was) hee remembred his fathers words,

his kindnes to his brother, his carelesnesse of himselfe.

In this sorrow hee sate downe on pennilesse

bench; where, when _Opus_ and _Vsus_ told him by the

chimes in his stomacke it was time to fall vnto

meate, he was faine with the _Camelion_ to feed vpon

the aire, & make patience his best repast.

While he was at his feast, _Lamilia_ came flaunting

by, garnished with the iewels whereof she beguiled

him: which sight serued to close his stomacke after

his cold cheere. _Roberto_ hearing of his brothers

beggerie, albeit he had little remorse of his miserable

state, yet did he seeke him out, to vse him as a propertie,

whereby _Lucanio_ was somewhat prouided for.

But being of simple nature, hee serued but for a

blocke to whet _Robertoes_ wit on; which the poore

foole perceiuing, he forsooke all other hopes of life,

and fell to be a notorious Pandar: in which detested

course hee continued till death. But _Roberto_, now

famozed for an Arch-plaimaking-poet, his purse like

the sea somtime sweld, anon like the same sea /

fell to a low ebbe; yet seldom he wanted, his labors

were so well esteemed. Marry this rule he kept,

what euer he fingerd aforehand was the certaine

meanes to vnbinde a bargaine, and being asked why

he so sleightly dealt with them that did him good?

It becomes me, sa[i]th hee, to be contrarie to the

worlde, for commonly when vulgar men receiue

earnest, they doe performe, when I am paid any thing

aforehand I breake my promise. He had shift of

lodgings, where in euery place his Hostesse writ vp

the wofull remembrance of him, his laundresse, and

his boy; for they were euer his in houshold, beside

retainers in sundry other places. His companie were

lightly the lewdest persons in the land, apt for pilferie,

periurie, forgerie, or any villanie. Of these hee knew

the casts to cog at Cards, coosin at Dice: by these

he learned the legerdemaines of nips, foysters, conni-catchers,

crosbyters, lifts, high Lawyers, and all the

rabble of that vncleane generation of vipers: and pithily

could he paint out their whole courses of craft: So

cunning he was in all crafts, as nothing rested in him

almost but craftinesse. How often the Gentlewoman

his wife laboured vainely to recall him, is lamentable

to note: but as one giuen ouer to all lewdnes,

he communicated her sorrowful lines among his loose

truls, that iested at her bootelesse laments. If he could

any way get credite on scores, he would then brag

his creditors carried stones, comparing euerie round

circle to a groning O, procured by a painful burden.

The shamefull ende of sundry his consorts, deseruedly

punished for their amisse, wrought no compunction

in his heart: of which one, brother to a Brothell

he kept, was trust vnder a tree as round as a Ball.

To some of his swearing companions thus it happened /:

A crue of them sitting in a Tauerne carowsing,

it fortuned an honest Gentleman, and his friend,

to enter their roome: some of them being acquainted

with him, in their domineering drunken vaine, would

haue no nay, but downe he must needes sitte with

them; beeing placed, no remedie there was, but he

must needes keep euen compasse with their vnseemely

carrowsing. Which he refusing, they fell from high

wordes to sound strokes, so that with much adoe the

Gentleman saued his owne, and shifted from their

company. Being gone, one of these tiplers forsooth

lackt a gold Ring, the other sware they see the

Gentleman take it from his hande. Upon this

the Gentleman was indited before a Judge: these

honest men are deposed: whose wisedome weighing

the time of the braule, gaue light to the Iury what

power wine-washing poyson had: they, according

vnto conscience, found the Gentleman not guiltie,

and God released by that verdict the innocent.

With his accusers thus it fared: one of them for

murther was worthily executed: the other neuer since

prospered: the third, sitting not long after upon a

lustie horse, the beast suddenly died vnder him: God

amend the man.

_Roberto_ euery day acquainted with these examples,

was notwithstanding nothing bettered, but rather

hardened in wickednesse. At last was that place

iustified, God warneth men by dreams and visions in

the night, and by knowne examples in the day, but if

he returne not, hee comes vpon him with iudgement

that shall bee felt. For now when the number of

deceites caused _Roberto_ bee hatefull almost to all

men, his immeasurable drinking had made him the

perfect Image of the dropsie, and the loathsome

scourge of Lust, tyrannized in his loues: / liuing in

extreame pouerty, and hauing nothing to pay but

chalke, which now his Host accepted not for currant,

this miserable man lay comfortlessely languishing,

hauing but one groat left (the iust proporti[=o] of his

fathers Legacie) which looking on, he cried: O now

it is too late, too late to buy witte with thee: and

therefore will I see if I can sell to carelesse youth

what I negligently forgot to buy.

Heere (Gentlemen) breake I off _Robertos_ speech;

whose life in most parts agreeing with mine, found

one selfe punishment as I haue doone. Heereafter

suppose me the said _Roberto_, and I will goe on with

that hee promised: _Greene_ will send you now his

groatsworth of wit, that neuer shewed a mitesworth in

his life: and though no man now be by to doe me

good, yet, ere I die, I will by my repentance indeuor

to doe all men good.

Deceiuing world, that with alluring toyes,

Hast made my life the subiect of thy scorne:

And scornest now to lend thy fading ioyes,

To lengthen my life, whom friends haue left forlorne.

How well are they that die ere they be borne,

And neuer see thy sleights, which few men shun,

Till vnawares they helplesse are vndon.

Oft haue I sung of loue, and of his fire,

But now I finde that Poet was aduizde;

Which made full feasts increasers of desire,

And prooues weake loue was with the poore despizde.

For when the life with foode is not suffizde,

What thoughts of loue, what motion of delight;

What pleasance can proceede from such a wight?

Witnesse my want the murderer of my wit,

My rauisht sense of woonted furie reft;

Wants such conceit, as should in Poims sit,

Set downe the sorrow wherein I am left:

But therefore haue high heauens their gifts bereft:

Because so long they lent them me to vse,

And I so long their bountie did abuse.

O that a yeare were graunted me to liue,

And for that yeare my former wits restorde:

What rules of life, what counsell would I giue?

How should my sinne with sorrow then deplore?

But I must die of euery man abhorde.

Time loosely spent will not againe be woonne,

My time is loosely spent, and I vndone.

_O horrenda fames_, how terrible are thy assaultes?

but _Vermis conscientiæ_, more wounding are thy stings.

Ah Gentlemen, that liue to reade my broken and

confused lines, looke not I should (as I was woont)

delight you with vain fantasies, but gather my follies

altogether, and as you would deale with so many

parricides, cast them into the fire: call them _Telegones_,

for now they kill their father, and euerie lewd

line in them written is a deep piercing wound to my

heart; euery idle houre spent by any in reading

them, brings a million of sorrowes to my soule. O

that the teares of a miserable man (for neuer any

man was yet more miserable) might wash their

memorie out with my death; and that those works

with me together might be interd. But sith they

cannot, let this my last worke witnes against them

with me, how I detest them. Blacke is the remembrance

of my blacke works, blacker then night, blacker

/ then death, blacker then hell.

Learne wit by my repentance (Gentlemen), and

let these fewe rules following be regarded in your

liues.

1. First in all your actions set God before your

eies; for the feare of the Lord is the beginning of

wisedome: Let his word be a lanterne to your feete,

and a light vnto your paths, then shall you stande as

firme rocks, and not be mocked.

2. Beware of looking backe: for God will not be

mocked; of him that hath receiued much, much shall

be demanded.

3. If thou be single, and canst abstaine, turne

thy eies from vanitie, for there is a kinde of women

bearing the faces of Angels, but the hearts of Deuils,

able to intrap the elect if it were possible.

If thou be m[a]rried, forsake not the wife of thy

youth, to follow strange flesh; for whoremongers

and adulterers the Lord will iudge. The doore of a

Harlot leadeth downe to death, and in her lips there

dwels destruction; her face is decked with odors,

but shee bringeth a man to a morsell of bread and

nakednesse: of which myselfe am instance.

5. If thou be left rich, remember those that want,

and so deale, that by thy wilfulnes thy self want not:

Let not Tauerners and Victuallers be thy Executors;

for they will bring thee to a dishonorable graue.

6. Oppresse no man, for the crie of the wronged

ascendeth to the eares of the Lord; neither delight

to encrease by Usurie, lest thou loose thy habitation

in the euerlasting Tabernacle.

7. Beware of building thy house to thy neighbours

hurt; for the stones will crie to the timber,

We were laide together in bloud: and those that so

erect houses, calling / them by their names, shall lie

in the graue like sheepe, and death shall gnaw vpon

their soules.

8. If thou be poore, be also patient, and striue

not to grow rich by indirect meanes; for goods so

gotten shall vanish away like smoke.

9. If thou be a father, maister, or teacher, ioyne

good examples with good counsaile; else little auaile

precepts, where life is different.

10. If thou be a sonne or seruant, despise not

reproofe; for though correction be bitter at the first,

it bringeth pleasure in the end.

Had I regarded the first of these rules, or beene

obedient at the last: I had not now, at my last ende,

beene left thus desolate. But now, though to my

selfe I giue _Consilium post facta_; yet to others they

may serue for timely precepts. And therefore (while

life giues leaue) will send warning to my olde consorts,

which haue liued as loosely as myselfe, albeit

weakenesse will scarce suffer me to write, yet to my

fellowe Schollers about this Cittie, will I direct these

few insuing lines.

_To those Gentlemen his Quondam acquaintance,

that spend their wits in making Plaies, R. G.

wisheth a better exercise, and wisdome

to preuent his extremities._

If wofull experience may mooue you (Gentlemen)

to beware, or vnheard of wretchednes intreate you

to take heed, I doubt not but you will looke

backe with sorrow on your time past, and endeuour

with repentance to spend that which is to come.

Wonder not (for with thee wil I first begin), thou

famous gracer of Tragedians, that _Greene_, who hath

said with thee like the foole / in his heart, There is

no God, should now giue glorie vnto his greatnesse:

for penitrating is his power, his hand lies heauie

vpon me, he hath spoken vnto me with a voice of

thunder, and I haue felt he is a God that can punish

enimies. Why should thy excellent wit, his gift, be

so blinded, that thou shouldst giue no glory to the

giuer? Is it pestilent Machiuilian pollicie that thou

hast studied? O punish follie! What are his rules

but meere confused mockeries, able to extirpate in

small time the generation of mankinde. For if _Sic

volo, sic iubeo_, hold in those that are able to command:

and if it be lawfull _Fas & nefas_ to doe any

thing that is beneficiall, onely Tyrants should possesse

the earth, and they striuing to exceede in tyranny,

should each to other bee a slaughter man; till the

mightiest outliuing all, one stroke were left for Death,

that in one age man's life should ende. The brother

of this Diabolicall Atheisme is dead, and in his life

had neuer the felicitie he aimed at: but as he began

in craft, liued in feare and ended in despaire.

_Quam inscrutabilia sunt Dei iudicia?_ This murderer

of many brethren had his conscience seared like

_Caine_: this betrayer of him that gaue his life for

him, inherited the portion of _Iudas_: this Apostata

perished as ill as _Iulian_: and wilt thou my friend

be his Disciple? Looke vnto me, by him perswaded

to that libertie, and thou shalt finde it an infernall

bondage. I knowe the least of my demerits merit

this miserable death, but wilfull striuing against

knowne truth, exceedeth al the terrors of my soule.

Defer not (with me) till this last point of extremitie;

for little knowest thou how in the end thou shalt be

visited.

With thee I ioyne young _Iuuenall_, that byting

Satyrist, that lastlie with mee together writ a

Comedie. Sweete / boy, might I aduise thee, be

aduised, and get not many enemies by bitter words:

inueigh against vaine men, for thou canst do it, no

man better, no man so wel: thou hast a libertie to

reprooue all, and none more; for one being spoken

to, all are offended, none being blamed no man is

iniured. Stop shallow water still running, it will

rage, tread on a worme and it will turne: then blame

not schollers vexed with sharpe lines, if they reproue

thy too much libertie of reproofe.

And thou no lesse deseruing then the other two,

in some things rarer, in nothing inferiour; driuen

(as my selfe) to extreame shifts, a little haue I to say

to thee: and were it not an idolatrous oth, I would

sweare by sweet _S. George_, thou art vnworthie better

hap, sith thou dependest on so meane a stay. Base

minded men al three of you, if by my miserie ye be

not warned: for vnto none of you (like me) sought

those burres to cleaue: those Puppits (I meane)

that speake from our mouths, those Anticks garnisht

in our colours. Is it not strange that I, to whom

they al haue beene beholding: is it not like that

you, to whome they all haue beene beholding, shall

(were ye in that case that I am now) be both at

once of them forsaken? Yes, trust them not: for

there is an vpstart Crow, beautified with our feathers,

that with his _Tygers heart wrapt in a Players hide_,

supposes he is as well able to bumbast out a blanke

verse as the best of you: and being an absolute

_Iohannes fac totum_, is in his owne conceit the onely

Shake-scene in a countrie. O that I might intreate

your rare wits to be imployed in more profitable

courses: & let those Apes imitate your past excellence,

and neuer more acquaint them with your

admired inuentions. I know the best husband of

you all will neuer proue an Usurer, and the kindest

of them / all will neuer prooue a kinde nurse: yet

whilst you may, seeke you better Maisters; for it is

pittie men of such rare wits, should be subiect to the

pleasures of such rude groomes.

In this I might insert two more, that both haue

writ against these buckram Gentlemen: but let

their owne works serue to witnesse against their owne

wickednesse, if they perseuer to mainteine any more

such peasants. For other new commers, I leaue

them to the mercie of these painted monsters, who

(I doubt not) will driue the best minded to despise

them: for the rest, it skils not though they make a

ieast at them.

But now returne I againe to you [t]hree, knowing

my miserie is to you no news: and let me heartily

intreate you to bee warned by my harmes. Delight

not (as I haue done) in irreligious oaths; for from

the blasphemers house a curse shall not depart.

Despise drunkennes, which wasteth the wit, and

maketh men all equal vnto beasts. Flie lust, as the

deathsman of the soule, and defile not the Temple

of the holy ghost. Abhorre those Epicures, whose

loose life hath made religion lothsome to your eares:

and when they sooth you with tearmes of Mastership,

remember _Robert Greene_, whome they haue so often

flattered, perishes now for want of comfort. Remember

gentlemen, your liues are like so many

lighted Tapers, that are with care deliuered to all of

you to maintaine: these with wind-puft wrath may

be extinguisht, which drunkennes put out, which

negligence let fall: for mans time of itselfe is not so

short, but it is more shortened by sin. The fire of

my light is now at the last snuffe, and the want of

wherwith to sustaine it, there is no substance left

for life to feede on. Trust not then (I beseech yee)

to such weake staies: for they / are as changeable in

minde, as in many attires. Well, my hand is tired,

and I am forst to leaue where I would begin; for a

whole booke cannot containe these wrongs, which I

am forst to knit vp in some few lines of words.

_Desirous that you should liue, though

himselfe be dying,

Robert Greene._

Now to all men I bid farewell in this sort, with

this conceited Fable of the olde Comedian _Æsope_.

An Ant and a Grashopper walking together on a

greene, the one carelessely skipping, the other carefully

prying what winters prouision was scattered in

the way: the Grashopper scorning (as wantons wil)

this needelesse thrift (as he tearmed it) reprooued him

thus:

The greedie miser thirsteth still for gaine;

His thrift is theft, his weale works others woe:

That foole is fond which will in caues remaine,

When mongst faire sweetes he may at pleasure goe.

To this the Ant perceiuing the Grashoppers

meaning, quickly replied:

The thriftie husband spares what vnthrifts spends,

His thrift no theft, for dangers to prouide:

Trust to thy selfe, small hope in want yeeld friendes,

A caue is better than the desarts wide.

In short time these two parted, the one to his

pleasure / the other to his labour. Anon Haruest

grewe on, and reft from the Grashopper his woonted

moysture. Then weakely skips he to the medows

brinks: where till fell winter he abode. But stormes

continually powring, hee went for succour to the Ant

his olde acquaintance, to whome he had scarce discouered

his estate, but the little worme made this

replie.

Pack hence (quoth he) thou idle lazie worme,

My house doth harbour no vnthriftie mates:

Thou scornedst to toile, and now thou feelst the storme,

And starust for foode while I am fed with cates.

Vse no intreats, I will relentlesse rest,

For toyling labour hates an idle guest.

The Grashopper, foodlesse, helpelesse, and

strengthlesse, got into the next brooke, and in the

yeelding sand digde himselfe a pit: by which likewise

he ingraued this Epitaph.

When Springs greene prime arrayd me with delight,

And euery power with youthfull vigor fild,

Gaue strength to worke what euer fancie wild:

I neuer feard the force of winters spight.

When first I saw the sunne the day begin,

And drie the mornings teares from hearbs and grasse;

I little thought his chearefull light would passe,

Till vgly night with darknes enterd in.

And then day lost I mournd, spring past I waild,

But neither teares for this or that auaild.

Then too too late I praisd the Emmets paine, /

That sought in spring a harbour gainst the heate:

And in the haruest gathered winters meate,

Perceiuing famine, frosts, and stormie raine.

My wretched end may warne Greene springing youth,

To vse delights as toyes that will deceiue,

And scorne the world before the world them leaue:

For all worlds trust, is ruine without ruth.

Then blest are they that like the toyling Ant,

Prouide in time gainst winters wofull want.

With this the grashopper yeelding to the weathers

extremit[ie], died comfortlesse without remedie. Like

him myselfe: like me, shall al that trust to friends or

times inconstancie. Now faint of my last infirmitie,

beseeching them that shal burie my bodie, to publish

this last farewell, written with my wretched hand.

Fælicem fuisse infaustum.

* * * * *

_A letter written to his wife, found with this

booke after his death._

The remembrance of many wrongs offered thee,

and thy vnreprooued virtues, adde greater sorrow

to my miserable state then I can vtter or thou

conceiue. Neither is it lessened by consideration

of thy absence (though shame would let me hardly

beholde thy face) but exceedingly aggrauated, for

that I cannot (as I ought) to thy owne selfe reconcile

my selfe, that thou mightest witnesse my inward woe

at this instant, that haue made thee a wofull wife for

so long a time. But equal heauen hath denied that

comfort, giuing at my last neede / like succour as I

haue sought all my life: being in this extremitie as

voide of helpe as thou hast beene of hope. Reason

would, that after so long waste, I should not send

thee a childe to bring thee greater charge; but

consider he is the fruit of thy wombe, in whose face

regard not the fathers faults so much as thy owne

perfections. He is yet Greene, and may grow

straight, if he be carefully tended: otherwise apt

enough (I feare me) to follow his fathers folly. That

I haue offended thee highly I knowe; that thou canst

forget my iniuries I hardly beleeue: yet perswade I

my selfe if thou saw my wretched state thou couldest

not but lament it: nay, certainely I knowe thou

wouldest. Al my wrongs muster themselues about

me, euery euill at once plagues me. For my contempt

of God, I am contemned of men: for my

swearing and forswearing, no man will beleeue me:

for my gluttony, I suffer hunger: for my drunkennesse,

thirst: for my adulterie, vlcerous sores. Thus

God hath cast me downe, that I might be humbled:

and punished me for example of others sinne: and

although he suffers me in this world to perish without

succour, yet trust I in the world to come to finde

mercie, by the merits of my Sauiour, to whome I

commend this, and commit my soule.

_Thy repentant husband for his disloyaltie._

_Robert Greene._

_Fælicem fuisse infaustum._

FINIS

V., VI.--GABRIEL HARVEY AND THOMAS NASH

(_Characters of Gabriel Harvey and accounts of his

quarrel with the Marlowe group, and Nash in particular,

will be found in all histories of Elizabethan

literature, and also elsewhere. The war of pamphlets

between Harvey and Nash was a very furious word-battle,

and its two chief monuments_, Pierce's Supererogation

_and_ Have with you to Saffron Walden, _are as

choice examples of scurrility as can easily be found.

But both are very long, and as I have set my heart

on giving whole pamphlets, I have preferred Harvey's_

Precursor _and Nash's_ Prognostication. _The former is

a sort of pilot engine to_ Pierce's Supererogation, _published

first before and then with the longer piece, and

for all its brevity intensely characteristic of Harvey--the

incarnation of the donnishness of his time, and

also of a certain side of the Elizabethan man of letters

generally. The latter, though evidently composed in

direct imitation of Rabelais, of whom Nash was certainly

a reader, was indirectly an attack on the Harveys,

one of whom, Gabriel's brother Richard, was a great

astrologer._)

Pierces Supererogation

OR

A NEW PRAYSE OF THE

OLD ASSE.

_A Preparatiue to certaine larger Discourses, intituled_

NASHES S. FAME.

Gabriell Haruey.

_Il vostro Malignare Non Giova Nvlla._

LONDON

Imprinted by Iohn Wolfe.

1593

_To my very gentle and liberall frendes, M. Barnabe

Barnes, M. Iohn Thorius, M. Antony Chewt, and

euery fauorable Reader._

Louing M. Barnabe, M. Iohn, and M. Antony (for

the rest of my partiall C[=o]menders must pardon me,

till the Print be better acquainted with their names),

I haue lately receiued your thrise-curteous Letters,

with the Ouerplus of your thrise-sweet Sonets annexed:

the liberallest giftes, I beleeue, that euer you bestowed

vpon so slight occasion, and the very prodigallest

fruites of your floorishing wittes. Whose onely default

is, not your, but my default, that the matter is nothing

correspondent to the manner; and miselfe must either

grosely forget miselfe, or franckly acknowledge mi

simple selfe an vnworthy subiect of so worthy commendations.

Which I cannot read without blushing,

repeate without shame, or remember without griefe,

that I come so exceeding-short in so excessiue great

accountes; the summes of your rich largesse, not of

my poore desert; and percase deuised to aduertise me

what I should be, or to signifie what you wish [me]

to be; not to declare what I am, or to insinuate what

I may be. Eloquence, and Curtesie were euer bountifull

in the amplifying veine: and it hath bene reputed

a frendly Pollicy, to encourage their louing acquaintance

to labour the attainement of those perfections,

which they blason in them, as already atcheiued.

Either some such intention you haue, by / way of

Stratageme, to awaken my negligence, or enkindle

my confidence; or you are disposed by way of Ciuility,

to make me vnreasonably beholding vnto you for your

extreme affection. Which I must either leaue vnrequited;

or recompense affection with affection, &

recommende me vnto you with your owne Stratageme,

fitter to animate fresher spirites, or to whet finer edges.

Little other vse can I, or the world reape of those

great-great commendations, wherewith you, and diuers

other Orient wittes haue newly surcharged me, by

tendring so many kinde Apologies in my behalfe, and

presenting so many sharpe inuectiues against my

aduersaries: vnlesse also you purposed to make me

notably ashamed of my c[=o]fessed insufficiency, guilty

of so manifold imperfecti[=o]s, in respect of the least

semblance of those imputed singularities. Whatsoeuer

your intendment in an ouerflowing affection was, I

am none of those, that greedily surfet of selfe-conceit,

or sottishly hugge their owne babyes. _Narcissus_ was

a fayre boy, but a boy: _Suffenus_ a noble braggard,

but a braggard: _Nestor_ a sweet-tongued old-man, but

an Old-man: and _Tully_ (whom I honour in his

vertues, and excuse in his ouersightes) an eloquent

Selfe-loouer, but a Selfe-loouer. He that thought to

make himselfe famous with his ouerweening and

brauing _Il'e, Il'e, Il'e_, might perhaps nourrish an

aspiring imagination to imitate his _Ego, Ego, Ego_, so

gloriously reiterated in his gallant Orations. Some

smirking minions are fine fellowes in their owne

heades, and some cranke Princockes iolly men in

their owne humours: as desperate in resolution, as

the dowtiest ranke of Errant knightes; and as coye

in phantasie, as the nicest sort of simpring damosels,

that in their owne glasses find no creature so bewtifull,

or amiable, as their delitious selues. I haue beheld,

/ & who hath not seene some lofty conceites, towring

very high, & coying themselues sweetly on their owne

amounting winges, young feathers of old Icarus?

The gay Peacocke is woondrously inamored vpon

the glittering fanne of his owne gorgious taile, and

weeneth himselfe worthy to be crowned the Prince of

byrdes, and to be enthronished in the chaire of

supreme excellency. Would Christ, the greene Popiniay,

with his newfangled iestes, as new as Newgate,

were not asmuch to say, as his owne Idol. Queint

wittes must haue a Priuiledge to prank-vp their dainty

limmes, & to fawne vpon their owne tricksie deuises.

But they that vnpartially know themselues, seuerely

examine their owne abilities; vprightly counterpoise

defectes with sufficiencies; frankly confesse the

greatest part of their knowledge to be the least part

of their ignorance; aduisedly weigh the difficulties of

the painfull and toylesome way, the hard maintenance

of credit easely gotten, the impossible satisfaction of

vnsatisfiable expectation, the vncertaine ficklenesse

of priuate Phantasie, & the certaine brittlenesse of

publique Fame; are not lightly bewitched with a

fonde doting vpon their owne plumes. And they

that deepely consider vpon the weakenesse of inward

frailty, the casualtie of outward fortune, the detraction

of Enuie, the virulency of Malice, the counter-pollicy

of Ambition, and a hundred-hundred empeachments

of growing reputation: that aswell diuinely, as philosophically

haue learned to looue the gentlenesse of

Humanity, to embrace the mildnesse of Modestie, to

kisse the meekenesse of Humilitie, to loath the odiousnesse

of Pride, to assuage the egreness of Spite, to

preuent the vengeance of Hatred, to reape the sweet

fruites of Temperance, to tread the smooth Path of

Securitie, to take the firme course of Assuraunce, / and

to enioy the felicitie of Contentment: that iudiciously

haue framed themselues to carry Mindes, like their

Bodies, and Fortunes, as apperteineth vnto them, that

would be loth to ouerreach in presumptuous conceit:

they I say, and all they that would rather vnderly the

reproche of obscuritie, then ouercharge their mediocritie

with an illusiue opinion of extraordinary furniture,

and I wott not what imaginarie complementes:

are readier, and a thousand times readier, to returne

the greatest Prayses, where they are debt, then to

accept the meanest, where they are almes. And I

could nominate some, that in effect make the same

reckoning of Letters, Sonets, Orations, or other

writinges commendatory, that they do of meate without

nourishment, of hearbes without vertue, of plants

without fruite; of a lampe without oyle, a linke without

light, or a fier without heate. Onely some of vs

are not so deuoide of good manner, but we conceiue

what belongeth to ciuill duty, and will euer be prest

to interteine Curtesie with curtesie, & to requite any

frendship with frendship: vnfainedly desirous, rather

to recompense in deedes, then to glose, or paint in

wordes. You may easely persuade me to publish,

that was long sithence finished in writing, and is now

almost dispatched in Print: (the amendes must be

addressed in some other more materiall Treatise, or

more formal Discourse: and haply _Nashes S. Fame_

may supply some defectes of Pierces Supererogation:)

but to suffer your thrise-affectionate Letters and Sonets,

or rather your thrise lauish beneuolences to be published,

which so farre surmount not onely the mediocrity

of my present endeuour, but euen the possibility of

any my future emproouement; I could not be persuaded

by any eloquence, or importunacy in the

world, were I not as monstrously / reuiled by some

other without reason, as I am excessively extolled by

you without cause. In which case he may seeme to

a discreet enemy excusable, to an indifferent frend

iustifiable, that is not transported with his owne

passion, but relyeth on the iudgement of the learnedest,

and referreth himselfe to the Practise of the wisest.

In the one, esteeming _Plutarch_ or _Homer_ as an hundred

Autors: in the other, valuing _Cato_, or _Scipio_, as

a thousand Examples. I neuer read, or heard of any

respectiue, or considerate person, vnder the degree of

those that might reuenge at pleasure, contemne with

autority, assecure themselues from common obloquy, or

commande publique reputation (mighty men may finde

it a Pollicy, to take a singular, or extraordinary course),

so carelesse of his owne credit, so recklesse of the

present time, so senselesse of the posterity, so negligent

in occurents of consequence, so dissolute in his proceedings,

so prodigall of his name, so deuoide of all

regarde, so bereft of common sense, so vilely base, or

so hugely hawtie of minde; that in case of infamous

imputation, or vnworthy reproch, notoriously scattered-abroad,

thought it not requisite, or rather necessary,

to stand vpon his owne defence according to Equity,

and euen to labour his owne commendation according

to the presented occasion. Discourses yeeld plenty

of Reasons: and Histories affourde store of Examples.

It is no vain-glory to permit with consideration, that

abused Modesty hath affected with discretion. It is

vanity to controwle, that true honour hath practised:

and folly to condemne, that right wisedome hath

allowed. If any dislike Immodesty indeede, despise

vanity indeede, reprooue Arrogancy indeede, or loath

Vainglory indeede; I am as forward with Tongue and

Hart as the foremost of the forwardest: and were / my

pen answerable, perhaps at occasion it should not greatly

lagge behinde. To accomplish, or aduaunce any vertuous

purpose (sith it is now enforced to be sturring), it

might easely be entreated, euen to the vttermost extent

of that little-little Possibility, wherewith it hath pleased

the Greatest to endowe it. Howbeit Curtesie is as

ready to ouerloade with prayse as Malice eger to ouerthrow

with reproch. Both ouershoote, as the manner

is; but malice is the Diuell. For my poore part, I

hope the One shall do me as little harme as fayre

weather in my iorney: I am suer, the other hath done

me more good, then was intended, and shall neuer

puddle or annoy the course of the cleere running

water. Albeit I haue studied much, and learned

little: yet I haue learned to gleane some handfulls of

corne out-of the rankest cockle: to make choice of

the most fragrant flowers of _Humanitie_, the most

vertuous hearbes of _Philosophie_, the most soueraine

fruites of _Gouernment_, and the most heauenly manna

of _Diuinitie_: to be acquainted with the fayrest, prouided

for the fowlest, delighted with the temperatest,

pleased with the meanest, and contented with all

_weather_. Greater men may professe, and can atchieue

greater matters: I thanke God I know the l[=e]gth, that

is, the shortnes of mine owne foote. If it be any mans

pleasure to extenuate my suffici[=e]cy in other knowledge,

or practise, to empeach my ability in wordes, or

deedes, to debase my fortune, to abridge my commendations,

or to annihilate my fame, he shall finde

a cold aduersary of him that hath layed hoat passions

awatering, and might easely be induced to be the

Inuectiue of his owne Non-proficiency. Onely he

craueth leaue to estimate his credit, and to value his

honesty, as behooueth euery man, that regardeth any

good: and if withall it be his / vnfained request, that

Order should repeale disorder; moderation restraine

licentiousnesse; discretion abandon vanity; mildnesse

assuage choller; meeknesse alay arrogancy; consideration

reclaime rashnesse; indifferency attemper passion;

Curtesie mitigate, Charity appease, & Vnity attone

debate: pardon him. Or, in case nothing will preuaile

with fury but fury, and nothing can winne desired

amity but pretended hostility, that must driue-out

one naile with another, & beat-away one wedge with

another, according to the Latin Prouerbe: Pardon

him also, that in the resolution of a good minde, will

commaund, what he cannot entreat; and extort, what

he cannot persuade. That little may be done with

no great adoo: and, seeing it may as surely, as easely

be done, I am humbly to beseech established Wisedome,

to winke at one experiment of aduenturous

Folly; neuer before embarked in any such acti[=o], and

euer to eschewe the like with a chary regard, where

any other mediation may purchase redresse. I will

not vrge what conniuence hath been noted in as disfauorable

cases: it is sufficient for me to pleade mine

own acquittall. Other prayse he affecteth not, that

in a deepe insight into his innermost partes findeth

not the highest pitch of his Hope equiualent to the

lowest pit of your commendation. And if by a gentle

construction, or a fauorous encouragement, he seemeth

any thing in others opinion, that is nothing in his

owne Censure, the lesser his merite, the greater their

mercy; and the barrainer his desert, the frutefuller

your liberality. Whose vnmeasurable prayses I am

to interpret, not as they may seeme in some bounteous

conceit, but as they are in mine owne knowledge;

good wordes, but vnfitly applied; frendly beneuolences,

but wastfully bestowed; gallant amplifications,

but slenderly deser/ued: what but termes of Ciuility,

or fauours of Curtesie, or hyperboles of Looue: whose

franke allowance I shall not be able to earne with the

study of twenty yeares more: in briefe, nothing but

partiall witnesses, preiudicate iudgements, idle preambles,

and in effect meere wordes. And euen so as

I found them, I leaue them. Yet let me not dismisse

so extensiue curtesie with an empty hand. Whatsoeuer

I am (that am the least little of my thoughtes,

and the greatest contempt of mine owne hart), _Parthenophill_

and _Parthenophe_ embellished, the _Spanish

Counsellour_ Inglished, and _Shores Wife_ eternised;

shall euerlastingly testifie what you are: go forward

in maturity, as ye haue begun in pregnancy, and

behold _Parthenopoeus_ the sonne of the braue Meleager,

_Homer_ himselfe, and of the swift Atalanta _Calliope_

herselfe: be thou, Barnabe, the gallant Poet, like

Spencer, or the valiant souldiour, like Baskeruile;

and euer remember thy _French seruice_ vnder the braue

Earl of Essex. Be thou, Iohn, the many-tongued

Linguist, like Andrewes, or the curious Intelligencer,

like Bodley; and neuer forget _thy Netherlandish traine_

vnder Him, that taught the Prince of Nauarre, now

the valorous king of Fraunce. Be thou Antony, the

flowing Oratour, like Dooue, or the skilfull Heralde,

like Clarentius; and euer remember _thy Portugall

voyage_ vnder Don Antonio. The beginning of vertuous

Proceedings is the one halfe of honorable actions.

Be yourselues in hope, and what yourselues desire in

effect: and I haue attained some portion of my

request. For you cannot wish so exceeding-well vnto

me, but I am as ready with tongue, and minde, to

wish a great-deale better vnto you, and to reacquite

you with a large vsury of most-affectionate prayers,

recommending you to the diuine giftes and gratious

blessings of Heauen.

May / it please the fauorable Reader, to voutsafe

me the Curtesie of his Patience, vntill he hath

thoroughly perused the whole Discourse at his howers

of leysure (for such scriblings are hardly worth the

vacantest howers): I am not to importune him any

farther; but would be glad he might finde the

Whole lesse tedious in the end, then some Parts in

the beginning, or midst; or, at-least, that one peece

might helpe to furnish-out amendes for an other.

And so taking my leaue with the kindest Farewell of

a most thankfull minde, I desist from wearying him

with a tedious Preface, whom I am likely to tire with

so many superfluous Discourses. Howbeit might it

happely please the sweetest Intercessour to ensweeten

the bitterest gall of Spite, and to encalme the roughest

tempest of Rage, I could cordially wish that _Nashes

S. Fame_ might be the Period of my Inuectiues: and

_the excellent Gentlewoman_, my patronesse, or rather

Championesse in this quarrel, is meeter by nature,

and fitter by nurture, to be an enchaunting Angell,

with her white quill, then a tormenting Fury with her

blacke inke. It remaineth at the election of one,

whom God indue with more discretion.

At London: this 16. of July, 1593. The inuiolable

frend of his entire frendes, Gabriell Haruey. /

_Her owne Prologue, or Demurr._

O Muses, may a wooman poore, and blinde,

A Lyon-draggon, or a Bull-beare binde?

Ist possible for puling wench to tame

_The furibundall Champion of Fame?_

He brandisheth the whurlewinde in his mouth,

And thunderbolteth so-confounding shott:

Where such a Bombard-goblin, North, or South,

With drad Pen-powder, and the conquerous pott?

Silly it is, that I can sing, or say:

And shall I venture such a blustrous fray?

Hazard not, panting quill, thy aspen selfe:

Hel'e murther thy conceit, and braine thy braine.

Spare me, ô super domineering Elfe,

And most, _railipotent_ for euer raine,

_Si Tibi vis ipsi parcere, parce Mihi._

_Her Counter-sonnet, or Correction of her owne Preamble._

_Scorne_ frump the meacock Verse that dares not sing,

Drouping, so like a flagging flowre in raine:

Where doth the _Vrany_ or _Fury_ ring,

That shall enfraight my stomacke with disdaine?

Shall Frend put-vp such braggardous affrontes?

Are milksop Muses such whiteliuer'd Trontes?

Shall Boy the gibbet be of Writers all,

And none hang-vp the gibbet on the wall?

If / dreery hobbling Ryme hart-broken be,

And quake for dread of Danters scarecrow Presse:

Shrew Prose, thy pluckcrow implements addresse,

And pay the hangman pen his double fee.

Be Spite a Sprite, a Termagant, a Bugg:

Truth feares no ruth, and can the Great Diu'll tugg.

----_Ultrix accincta flagello._

_Her old Comedy, newly intituled._

My Prose is resolute, as Beuis sworde:

_March rampant beast in formidable hide:_

_Supererogation Squire on cockhorse ride:_

Zeale shapes an aunswer to the blouddiest worde.

If nothing can _the booted Souldiour_ tame,

Nor Ryme, nor Prose, nor Honesty, nor Shame,

But _Swash_ will still his trompery aduaunce,

Il'e leade the _gagtooth'd fopp_ a new-founde daunce.

Deare howers were euer cheape to pidling me:

I knew a glorious, and brauing Knight,

That would be deem'd a truculentall wight:

Of him I scrauld a dowty Comedy.

_Sir Bombarduccio_ was his cruell name:

But _Gnasharduccio_ the sole brute of _Fame_.

_L'Enuoy._

See, how He brayes, and fumes at me poore lasse,

That must immortalise the killcowe _Asse_. /

_To the Right Worshipfvll, his especiall deare frend,

M. Gabriell Haruey, Doctour of Lawe._

Sweet M. Doctour Haruey (for I cannot intitule

you with an Epithite of lesse value then that which

the Grecian and Roman Oratours ascribed to Theophrastus,

in respect of so many your excellent labours,

garnished with the garland of matchlesse Oratory):

if at any time either the most earnest persuasion of

a deare frend, and vnusually most deare, and constant,

adiured therevnto by the singular vertue of your most

prayse-worthy, and vnmatchable wit: or the woonderful

admiration of your peerlesse conceit, embraued with

so many gorgeous ornamentes of diuine Rhetorique:

or the doubtlesse successive benefit thereof, deuoted

to the glory of our English Eloquence, and our vulgar

Tuscanisme (if I may so terme it); may worke any

plausible or respectiue motions with you to bewtifie,

and enrich our age, with those most praise-moouing

workes, full of gallantest discourse, and reason, which

I vnderstand by some assured intelligence be now

glowing vpon the anvile, ready to receiue the right

artificiall forme of diuinest workem[=a]ship: th[=e] let I

beseech you, nay, by all our mutuall frendships I

coniure you (loue and admiration of them arming me

with the placarde of farther confidence) those, and

other your incomparable writings, speedily, or rather

pre/sently, shew th[=e]selues in the shining light of the

Sunne. That, by this Publication of so rare, & rich

Discourses, our English Rauens, the spitefull enemyes

to all birdes of more bewtifull wing, and more harmonious

note then themselues, may shroude themselues

in their nests of basest obscurity, & keepe

hospitality with battes, and owles, fit consorts for

such vile carions. Good Sir, arise, and confound

those Viperous Cryticall monsters, and those prophane

Atheistes of our Commonwealth; which endeuour with

their mutinous and Serpentine hissing, like geese, not

to arme the Senatours and Oratours of Rome, but to

daunt, astonish, and, if it were possible, to ouerthrow

them. And sithence the very thunder-lightning of

your admirable Eloquence is suffici[=e]tly auailable to

strike them with a lame Palsie of tongue (if they be

not already smitten with a sencelesse Apoplexy in

head, which may easely ensewe such contagious

Catharres and Reumes, as I am priuy some of them

haue been grieuously disseased withall), misse not,

but hitt them seurly home, as they deserue with

Supererogation. You haue bene reputed euermore,

since first I heard of you in Oxford and elsewhere,

to haue bene as much giuen to fauour, commende,

and frequent such as were approoued, or toward in

learning, witt, kinde behauiour, or any good quality,

as may be required in any man of your demerit: an

vndoubted signe, how much you loath Inuectiues or

any needeles cont[=e]tions. I would (as many your

affectionate fr[=e]ds would) it had bene your fortune to

haue encountred some other Paranymphes, then such

as you are now to discipline: most vnwillingly, I

perceiue, but most necessarily, & not without especiall

consideration, being so manifestly vrged, and grosely

prouoked to defend yourselfe. But you haue ere now

bene acquainted / with patience perforce: and I hope

the most desperate swasher of them will one day

learne to shew himself honester or wiser. And thus

recommending your sweete endeuours, with your

grauer studies, to the highest treasury of heauenly

Muses; I right hartely take my leaue with a Sonnet

of that Muse, that honoreth the Vrany of du Bartas,

and yourselfe: of du Bartas elsewhere; here of him,

whose excellent Pages of the French King, the Scottish

King, the braue Monsieur de la Nöe, the aforesayd

Lord du Bartas, Sir Philip Sidney, and sundry

other worthy personages, deserue immortall commendation.

I thanke him very hartely that imparted vnto

me those fewe sheetes: and if all be like them, truly

all is passing notable, and right singular.

SONNET.

Those learned _Oratours_, Roomes auncient sages,

Persuasions Pith, directours of affection,

The mindes chief counsail, rhetoriques perfection,

The pleasaunt baulms of peace, warres fierce outrages:

Sweet Grecian _Prophets_, whose smooth Muse assuages

The Furies powerfull wrath, poisons infection:

_Philosophers_ (by Causes due connexion,

Match't with th' Effects of Nature) future ages

Embrauing with rich documents of Art: /

The wisest _States-men_ of calme Commonweales:

The learned _Generall Councels_, which impart

Diuinest laws, whose wholesome Physique Heales

Both Church, and Layety: All in _one_ beholde

Ennobled Arts, as Precious stones in golde.

From my lodging in Holborne: this of June.

1593. Your most affectionate,

_Barnabé Barnes._

Hauing perused my former Sonet, if it may please

you, Sir, to do asmuch for your deare frends _Parthenophill_,

and _Parthenophe_, they shall haue the desired

fruite of their short exercise, and will rest beholding

to your curteous acceptance: which they would be

glad to reacquite in the loouingest manner they may.

And so most affectionatly recommend themselues

vnto your good self: whose vnblemished fame they

will euermore maintaine with the best bloud of their

hartes, tongues, and Pennes. We will not say, how

much we long to see the whole Prayses of your two

notorious enemyes, the _Asse_ and the _Foxe_.

SONET.

Nash, _or the confuting Gentleman_.

The Muses scorne; the Courtiers laughing-stock;

The Countreys Coxecombe; Printers proper new;

The Citties Leprosie; the Pandars stew;

Vertues disdayne; honesties aduerse rock;

Enuies vile champion; slaunders stumblingblock.

Graund / Oratour of Cunny-catchers crew;

Base broaching tapster of reports vntrue;

Our moderne Viper, and our Countryes mock;

True Valors Cancer-worme, sweet Learnings rust.

Where shall I finde meete colours, and fit wordes,

For such a counterfaict, and worthlesse matter?

Him, whom thou raylest on at thine owne lust,

Sith _Bodine_ and sweet _Sidney_ did not flatter,

His Inuectiue thee too much grace affordes.

_Parthenophil._

SONET.

Haruey, _or the sweet Doctour_.

_Sidney_, sweet Cignet, pride of Thamesis;

Apollos laurell; Mars-his proud prowesse:

_Bodine_, register of Realmes happinesse,

Which Italyes, and Fraunces wonder is:

_Hatcher_, with silence whom I may not misse:

Nor _Lewen_, Rhetoriques richest noblesse:

Nor _Wilson_, whose discretion did redresse

Our English Barbarisme: adioyne to this

Diuinest morall _Spencer_: let these speake

By their sweet Letters, which do best vnfould

_Harueys_ deserued praise: since my Muse weake

Cannot relate somuch as hath bene tould

By these _Fornam'd_: then, vaine as it were to bring

New feather to his Fames swift-feathered wing.

_Parthenophe._

_The Printers Aduertissement to the Gentleman Reader_.

CURTEOUS Gentlemen, it seemed good to M. Doctour

Haruey, for breuity-sake, and because he liked

not ouer-long Preambles, or Postambles, to short discourses,

to omit the commendatorie Letters, and

Sonnets of M. Thorius, M. Chewt, and diuers other

his affectionate frendes of London, and both the

Vniuersities. Which neuerthelesse, are reserued to

be prefixed, inserted, or annexed, either in his _defensiue

Letters_, enlarged with certaine new Epistles of more

speciall note; or in his _Discourses of Nashes S. Fame_,

already finished, & presently to be published, as these

shall like their interteinement: of whose fauorable &

plausible Welcome, diuers learned and fine wittes

haue presumed the best. Howbeit finally it was

thought not amisse, vpon conference with some his

aduised acquaintance, to make choice of some two or

three of the reasonablest, and temperatest Sonnets

(but for variety, & to auoyde tediousnesse in the

entrance, rather to be annexed in the end, then prefixed

in the beginning of the present Discourses):

one of the foresayd M. Thorius, an other of M.

Chewt, and the third of a learned French gentleman,

Monsieur Fregeuill Gautius, who hath published some

weighty Treatises, aswell Politique as Religious, both

in Latin and French; and hath acquainted M. Doctour

Haruey with certaine most profitable Mathematicall

deuises of his own inuention. The residue is not

added by me, but annexed by the Autor himselfe:

whom I humbly recommende to your curteous Censure,

and so rest from ouertroubling you with my

unpolished lines.

A Wonderfull

_strange and miraculous, Astro-_

logicall Prognostication for

this yeer of our Lord God.

1591.

Discouering such wonders to

_happen this yeere, as neuer chaunced_

since Noes floud.

_Wherein if there be found one lye_,

the Author will loose his credit

for euer.

By Adam Fouleweather, Student

in Asse-tronomy.

Imprinted at London by _Thomas_

Scarlet.

(1591.)

_To the Readers health._

SITTING Gentlemen vpon Douer cliffes, to quaint

my selfe with the art of Navigation, and knowe the

course of the Tides, as the Danske Crowes gather on

the Sandes against a storme: so there appeared on

the downs such a flock of knaues, that, by Astrological

coniectures, I began to gather that this yeere

would proue intemperate by an extreme heat in

S[=o]mer, insomuch that the stones in Cheap side

should be so hot, that diuers persons should feare to

goe from Poules to the Counter in the Poultrye:

whereupon I betook me to my Ephimerides, and

erecting a figure, haue found such strange accidents

to fall out this yeere, Mercury being Lord and predominate

in the house of Fortune, that many fooles

shall haue full cofers, and wise men walke vp and

downe with empty pursses: that if Iupiter were not

ioyned with him in a fauourable aspect, the Butchers /

of East-cheape should doo little or nothing all Lent

but make prickes: seeing therefore the wonders that

are like to fall out this present yeere, I haue for the

benefit of my Countrymen taken in hand to make

this Prognostication, discoursing breefelye of the

Eclipses both of Sunne and Moone, with their

dangerous effectes like to followe, which if God

preuent not, many poore men are like to fast on

Sondaies for want of food, and such as haue no

shooes to goe barefoot, if certaine deuout Coblers

proue not the more curteous: but yet Astrologie is

not so certaine but it may fayle: and therfore diuers

Hostesses shall chaulke more this yeere then their

Guests wil wipe out: So that I conclude, whatsoeuer

is saide by art. _Sapiens dominabitur astris._

Your freend and Student in Asse-trologie.

_Adam Fouleweather._ /

_Of the Eclipses that shall happen this present yeere, to

the great and fearfull terrifying of the beholders._

IF _we may credit_ the authenticall censures of

Albumazan and Ptolomey, about the motions of

celestiall bodies, whose influence dooth exitat and

procure continuall mutability in the lower region: we

shal finde y^t the Moon this yeere shall be eclipsed,

which shall happen in one of y^e 12 moneths, & some

of the foure / quarters of the yeere, whose pointes

as they shall be totallye darkened, so the effectes shall

be wondrous and strange. For Cancer being the

sole house of the Moone, dooth presage that this

yeere fruits shall be greatly eaten with Catterpillers:

as Brokers, Farmers, and Flatterers, which feeding

on the sweate of other mens browes, shall greatlye

hinder the beautye of the spring, and disparage the

growth of all hottest hearbes, vnlesse some northerly

winde of Gods veng[=a]ce cleere the trees of such

Catterpillers, with a hotte plague and the pestilence:

but Cancer being a watrie signe and cheefe gouernour

of flouds and streams, it foresheweth that Fishmongers

if they be not well lookt to, shall goe downe

as farre as Graues end in Wherries and forestall the

market, to the great preiudice of the poore, that all

Lent ground their fare on the benefit of Salte fishe

and red herring: besides it signifieth that Brewers

shal make hauocke of Theames water, and put more

liquour then they were accustomed amongst their

Maulte: to the ouerthrowe of certain crased Ale

knights, whose morning draughtes of strong Beere is

a great staye to their stomacks: a lamentable case if

it be not lookt into and preuented by some speedye

supplication to the woorshipfull order of ale cunners. /

But in this we haue great hope that because the

effects cannot surprise the cause, diuers Tapsters

shall trust out more then they can get in: and

although they fill their Pots but halfe full, yet for

want of true dealing die in the Brewers debt.

Thus much for the watry signe of Cancer, and

because this Eclipse is little visible in our horison, I

passe it ouer with this prouiso to all seafaring men,

to cary more shirts then one with them a ship boord,

lest to their great labor they spend many houres in

murthering their vermin on the hatches.

_The Eclipse of the Sunne._

THE Eclipse of the Sun according to Proclus

opinion is like to produce many hot and pestilent

infirmities, especiallie amongst Sumners and Petti-foggers,

whose faces being combust with many fiery

inflamatiues shall shew y^e dearth, that by their deuout

drinking is like to ensue of Barly, if violent death

take not away such c[=o]suming mault worms: diuers

are like to be troubled with such hotte rewmes in

their heads, that their haire shall fall off: and such

hot agues shall raigne this yeere, with strange feuers

and calamaties, that / if the Sunne were not placed in

a colde signe, Renish wine would rise to ten pence a

quarte before the latter end of August: but diuers

good Planets being retrog[r]ade, foretelleth that

Lemmans this yeere shalbe plenty, insomuch that

many shall vse them to bedward, for the quallifying

of their hot and inflamed stomackes. And Mars

being placed neere vnto the Sunne sheweth that there

shalbe a great death among people: olde women that

can liue no longer shall dye for age: and yong men

that haue Vsurers to their father, shal this yeer haue

great cause to laugh, for the Deuill hath made a

decree, that after they are once in hell, they shall

neuer rise againe to trouble their executors: Beside

that by all coniecturall argumentes the influence of

Mars shall be so violent, that diuers souldiers in

partes beyond the seas, shall fall out for want of their

paye, and heere in our meridionall clyme, great

quarrelles shall be raised between man and man,

especially in cases of Law: gentry shall goe check-mate

with Iustice, and coyne out countenance oft-times

equitie: the poore sitting on pennylesse benche,

shall sell their Coates to striue for a strawe, and

Lawyers laugh such fooles to scorne as cannot keep

their crownes in their pursses.

Further, there is like to be great falling out

amongst / Church men and certaine fond sects of

religion like to trouble the commons: selfe conceipters

and ouer holy counterfeites that delight in singularitie,

shall rise vp and despise authoritie, presuming euen

to abuse the higher powers, if Saturne with a frowning

influence, did not threaten them with Tibornes

consequence. But whereas the Sun is darkned but

by digits, and that vpon y^e south points, it presageth

great miseries to Spain and those Southerly

Countries: Friers and Monks shal heat them so this

yeer with confessing of Harlots, that their crownes

shall wax balde of the one accord, to the great

impouerishing of the Spanish Barbers: Surgeons in

Spain shall wax rich, and their Hospitals poore:

such a pestilent mortallitie is like to fall amongst

those hipocriticall massemongers. The Dukes,

Marquesses & Counties shall haue their dublets

closed with such Spanish buttons, that they shal

neuer proue good quiresters, for the hotte and inflamed

rewmes fallen down into their throats: It is

further to be feared, that because the Eclipse hapneth

in Iulye, there will through the extrem heat grow

such abund[=a]ce of Fleas, that women shall not goe

to bed before twelue a clocke at night, for the great

murthers and stratagems they are like to commit

vpon those little animalls.

And whereas this Eclipse falleth out at three of

the clocke in the afternoone, it foresheweth that

manye shall goe soberer into Tauernes then they

shall come out: and that he which drinkes hard

and lyes cold, shal neuer dye of the sweate, although

Gemini combust and retrog[r]ade, sheweth that some

shall haue so sore a sweating, that they may sell their

haire by the pound to stuffe Tennice balles: but if

the Beadelles of Bridewell be carefull this Summer,

it may be hoped that Peticote lane may be lesse

pestered with ill aires then it was woont: and the

houses there so cleere clensed, that honest women

may dwell there without any dread of the whip and

the carte: and I finde that the altitude of that place

and of Shordich are all one eleuated, and 2 degrees,

and vnder the zenith or verticall point of Venus,

which presageth that sundry sorts of men and women

shall be there resident: some shalbe so short heeld

& so quesie stomackt that they shal ly in their

beds while noon, by which means they shal grow so

ful of grosse humors, that they shalbe troubled with

strange timpanies & swellings in their bellies, vncurable

for fortye weekes vntill they be helped by the

aduice of some skilfull Midwife.

Besides, other of the same sex and faction, / shall

learn to cosin young nouices, and fetch in young

Gentlemen, to the great ouerthrow of youth, if some

sharpe and speedye redresse be not fetcht from the

woorshipfull Colledge of the Phisitians in the parrish

of S. Brides. But heere by the waye gentle Reader,

note that this Eclipse sheweth, that this yeer shall

be some strange birthes of Children produced in

some monstrous forme, to the greefe of the Parentes,

and fearefull spectackle of the beholders: but because

the Eclipse chaunseth Southerlye, it is little to be

feared that the effectes shall fail in England: yet

somewhat it is to bee doubted, that diuers Children

shall be borne, that when they come to age shall not

knowe their owne Fathers: others shall haue their

fingers of [t]he nature of Lyme twigges, to get most

parte of their liuing with fiue and a reache: some

shall be born with feet like vnto Hares, that they

shal run so swift, that they shall neuer tarry with

maister, but trudge from poste to piller, till they take

vp beggars bush for their lodging: Others shall haue

Noses like Swine, that there shall not be a feast

within a myle, but they shall smell it out: But

especiallye it is to be doubted, that diuers women

this yeere shall bee borne with two tungs, to the

terrible greefe of such as shall marry them, vttering /

in their furye such rough cast eloquence, that knaue

and slaue shalbe but holyday woords to their

husbands. And whereas this fearefull Eclipse dooth

continue but an houre and a halfe, it signifieth that

this yeere womens loue to their husbands shall be

very shorte, some so momentarye, that it shall scarce

continue from the Church doore to the wedding

house: and that Hennes, Capons, Geese, and other

pullin shall little haunt poore mens tables, but flye

awaye with spittes in their bellies to fatte Churlles

houses, that pamper themselues vp with delicates

and dainties: although very fewe other effectes are to

be prognosticated, yet let me giue this caueat to my

Countrymen, as a clause to this wonderfull Eclipse.

Let such as haue clothes enow, keep themselues

warme from taking of colde: and I would wishe rich

men all this winter to sit by a good fire, and hardlye

to goe to bed without a Cuppe of Sack, and that so

qualified with Suger, that they proue not rewmatick:

let them feede daintilye and take ease enough, and

no doubt according to the iudgement of Albumazar,

they are like to liue as long as they can, and not to

dye one hower before their time.

Thus much for this strange Eclipse of the Sunne.

_Of / the second Eclipse of the Moone, which is like to

fall out when it chaunseth either before the_ 31. _of

December or els not at all, this present yeere._ 1591.

The second Eclipse of the Moon shalbe but little

seene in England, wherevpon the effectes shall be

nothing preiuditiall to our clyme: yet as the bodye

of the Moone is neuer obscure in part or in whole,

but some dangerous euents doo followe: so I meane

to set downe breefely what is to be lookte for in these

westerne partes of the worlde.

First therefore it is to bee feared, that the Danes

shall this yeere bee greatly giuen to drincke, insomuch

that English Beere shall there be woorth fiue

pence a stoape, that their Hoffes and tappe houses

shall be more frequented then the Parishe Churches,

and many shall haue more Spruce Beere in their

bellies, then wit in their heads: wherevpon shall /

growe Apoplexies and colde palsies in their legges,

that they shall diuers times not bee able to stand on

their feete. Vpon this shall growe great commoditye

to the Potters and Glasse makers, for it is like there

shall be a great ouerthrowe of them, if there bee

not some act made for drinking in blacke Jackes.

But if the weather prooue seasonable, and the

Haruest great, and the Barnes full of Corne: Rye is

like to be cheap in Denmarke, and bread to be of

a reasonable size, for the releeuing of the poore.

Mar[r]y, Fraunce is like to haue a great dearth of honest

men, if the king preuaile not against these mutenous

Rebelles of the League, and Papists in diuers places

to be plentye, if God or the King rout them not out

with a sharpe ouerthrow: But this hope we haue

against that rascall rabble of those shauelings, that

there was found in an olde booke this Prophecie

spoken about Jerusalem long since by a Jew: The

tree that God hath not planted shall be pulled vp by

the roots: some curious Astronomers of late dayes

that are more Propheticall than Juditiall, affirme that

Martin the kill-hog for his deuout drincking (by the

Pope canonized a Saint) shall rise againe in the

apparell of a Minister, and tickle some of the baser

sorte with such lusty humors in their braines, that /

diuers selfe conceited fooles shal become his disciples,

and grounding their witlesse opinion on an heriticall

foundation, shall seeke to ruinate authoritie, and peruert

all good orders established in the Church, to the

great preiudice of vnity and religion, tituling th[=e]selues

by the names of Martinistes, as the Donatists grew

from Donates: were it not that the Moone being in

Taurus, which gouernes the neck and throat, shewes

that the Squinancie shall raigne amongst them, and

diuers for want of breath dye of the strangling. Now

for that Capricornus is a signe wherein Luna is

often resident, it prognosticateth a great death

amongst hornde beasts. The Butchers shall commit

wilfull murther vpon Sheepe and Oxen, and diuers

Keepers kill store of Buckes, and reserue no other

fees to their selues but the hornes, insomuche that

if the Person of Horne-Church in Essex take not

heede, there maye hap to prooue this yeere some

Cuckoldes in his Parrish.

But there is like to bee concluded by an act set

downe in Grauesende Barge, that hee that wypes his

Nose and hath it not, shall forfeite his whole face,

and that all such as are iealous ouer their wiues

without cause, are worthie to bee punisht with / the

horne plague for their labour. And whereas this

Eclipse is farre from the signe Pisces, it shewes that

there shall bee much stinking fish this yere at Billings

gate, and that Quinborowe oyster boates shall ofte

times carrie knaues as wel as honest men: but let

the Fish-wiues take heed, for if most of them proue

not scoldes, yet because Pisces is a signe that

gouernes the feete, they shall weare out more shooes

in Lent then in anie two months beside through the

whole yeere, and get their liuing by walking and crying,

because they slaundered Ram alley with such a

tragical infamie. The rest I conceale as friuolous, and

little necessarie to be touched in this Prognostication.

_A declaration of the generall disposition of sundrie

conceited qualities incident vnto mens mindes &

natures throughout these foure quarters of the

yere, by the merrie influence of the Planets, with

some other tragicall euents and obseruations worthie

the noting, contayned vnder each seperated reuolution._

_And first of the inclination of the Winter quarter._

Winter / the first Astronomicall quarter of the yeare,

according to my vsuall account, whatsoever Ptolomie

says, beginneth sooner with poore men than with

rich, graunted so by the malignant influence of

Saturne, whose constellation is that suche as haue no

money nor credit, shall want coles & woode, and

be faine to stand and starue for colde, while olde

pennifathers sit and wast them selues by the fire.

The winter beginning at that instant when the Sunne

makes his entraunce into the first degree of Capricornus,

that Hiemall solstitiall signe shewes that by

naturall inclination this quarter is generally fleugmatike,

and that all shall be of suche great authoritie,

that the Bakers Basket shall giue the wall vnto the

Brewers Barrell, and a halfe pennye drie doe homage

vnto a halfe pennye wet. The weather and season

being so colde that diuerse for feare of the frost shall

sit all daye at Tables and Cardes, while their poore

wiues and families fast at home for their follies.

And in respect that I finde three of the seauen

Planetes to be in waterie signes as Juppiter, Mars,

and the Moone, it signifieth that diuerse persons,

both men and women, for want of wine or strong

drinke shall goe to bedde sober against their willes.

That Sea-faring men shall haue ill lucke if / either

their shippes hit agaynst rockes or sticke in the

sandes, that there shall bee such great hoarie frostes,

that men and women shall creepe to bedde together,

and some of them lie so long till they bee fetchte out

with a Bason. Heere Saturne retrograde in Gemini,

shewes that there shall this Winter fall such great

fogs and mists, that diuerse riche men shall loose

their purses by the high waie side, and poore men be

so weather beaten by the crafte of vsurers, that they

shall begge their bread by the extremitie of such

extortion: but Mercurie and Venus beeing congregated

in Sagitarie, prognosticateth that for want of

faire weather, such as haue but one shirt shall go

woolward till that be a washing, and that water-men

that want fares shall sit and blowe their fingers till

theyr fellowes row betwixte the Old Swanne and

Westminister. And by reason that Mars that malignant

Planet, hath nothing to doe in that Hiemall

reuolution, souldiers this Winter for the most parte,

shall lie still in garrisons, and shall not be troubled

with more monie than is necessarie. Beeing also

greatly to bee feared, that through the extreame colde

diuerse poore men shall die at riche mennes doores:

pittie shall bee exiled, good woorkes trust ouer the sea

with Jacke / a lent and Hospitalitie banisht as a signe

of popish religion: and were it not that some moist

shoures shal moderate the hardnes of the frost,

Charitie should for want of house roome lie and

freeze to death in the streets: diuerse great stormes

are this yere to be feared, especially in houses where

the wiues weare the breeches, with such lowde windes,

that the women shall scolde their husbandes quight

out of doores, wherevpon is like to fall great haile-stones

as bigge as ioynd stooles, that some shall haue

their heads broken: and all through the froward

disposition of Venus. But Mars comes in and playes

the man, who beeing placed in Gemini, that gouerns

armes and shoulders, presageth that sundrie tall

fellowes shall take heart at grasse, who armed with

good cudgels, shall so lambeake these stubborne

huswiues, that the wind shall turne into another

quarter, and so the weather waxe more calme and

quiet. Such greate floudes are like to insue,

through this Hiemall distemperature, that diuerse

men shall be drowned on drie hilles, and fishe if they

could not swimme, were vtterly like to perish.

Eeles are like to bee deere if there bee few or none

taken, and plentie of poutes to bee had in all places,

especiallie in those coastes and Countries where

weomen haue / not their owne willes. Nowe Gentle

Reader in respect of diuerse particular circumstances,

drawne from the daily motions, progressions, stations,

retrogradations, aspects, and other appointmentes of

fixed and wandring stars, I am induced to set downe

that such as haue no fire, shall feele most cold, and that

wierdrawers, if they plye not their worke, shall feele no

great heate, that they in Russia shall suffer more preiudice

by the sharpenesse of Winter than the Spaniards:

and yet one thing is to bee hoped for at the handes

of Mercurie, that this winter mony shall haue a fall, for

Philip and Mary shillings that heretofore went for 12d.

shall now passe from man to man for 6d. a peece.

The distemperance of this quarter, is like to

breede many sicknesses and sundrie diseases as well

in young as in old, proceeding either of corrupt

and vicious bloud or of superabundance of crude

and raw fleugmatike humors. As Cephala[l]gies or

paines in the head, which shall make men dizzy

that some shal stagger & stumble vp & downe the

streetes till they haue stolne a nappe to quiet their

braines. Ach in the shoulders shal raine amongest

diuerse women that haue shrewes to their husbands,

and diuerse drunken men shall be pestured with

surfets. Maidens this winter shall haue strange

stitches & gripings / of the collicke, which diseases

proceed by too much lying vpright: and men shall

be troubled with such paine in the eies, that they

shall not know their owne wiues from other women,

with coughs, rumes, and itchings, which I omit.

_Of the Spring time._

Winter being finished with the last grade of the

watry signe Pisces, at the Suns ioyful progresse into

the first degree of Aries. The second quarter of our

vsuall yere commonly called the spring c[=o]meth next,

which beginneth when grasse begins to sproute, &

trees to bud. But to treat of this present season,

forasmuch as I find the planets to be contradictorily

disposed, in signs & mansi[=o]s of diuerse & repugnant

qualities, I gather that this spring will be

very il for schollers, for they shal studie much and

gain litle, they shal haue more wit in their heads

then money in their purses, dunces shal proue more

welthie then diuers doctors, insomuch that sundrie

vnlettered fooles should creep into the ministerie, if

the prouident care of good Bishops did not preuent

th[=e]. And by the opinion of Proclus, women are like

to grow wilful, & so variable, that they shall laugh

& weepe, and all with a winde: Butchers shal sell /

their meate as deare as they can, and if they be not

carefull, horne beastes shall bee hurtfull vnto them,

and some shall bee so wedded to swines flesh, that

they shall neuer be without a sowe in their house as

long as they liue. This spring, or vernall resolution

being naturally hot and moist, is like to be verie

forwarde for sprouting fieldes and blooming trees,

and because Saturne is in his proper mansion, olde

men are like to bee froward, and craftie knaues shall

neede no Brokers, vsurie shalbe called good husbandrie,

and men shalbe counted honest by their

wealth, not by their vertues. And because Aquarius

has somthing to do wt this quarter, it is to be

doubted that diuers springs of water will rise vp in

vintners sellers, to the great weakning of their Gascon

wine, & the vtter ruine of the ancient order of the

redde noses. March Beere shalbe more esteemed

than small Ale.

Out of the old stocke of heresie, this spring it is

to be feared, will bloome new scismaticall opinions

and strange sects, as Brownists, Barowists, & such

balductum deuises, to the great hinderance of the

vnitie of the Church, & confusion of the true faith,

if the learned doctor sir T. Tiburne be not taskte to

confute such vpstart companions, with his plain &

dunstable philosophie. Cancer is bu/sie in this

springtide, and therefore it is like that florishing

bloomes of yong gentlemens youth, shalbe greatly

anoide with caterpillers, who shall intangle them in

such statutes & recognances, that they shall crie

out against brokers, as Jeremy did against false

prophets. Besides, thogh this last winter nipt vp

diuers masterles men & cut purses, yet this spring

is like to afford one euery tearme this ten yere in

Westminster hall: Barbers if they haue no worke

are like to grow poore, and for that Mercury is

c[=o]bust and many quarelles like to growe amongst

men, lawiers shall proue rich & weare side gowns

and large consciences, hauing theyr mouths open

to call for fees, and theyr purses shut when they

shoulde bestowe almes. But take heed O you generation

of wicked Ostlers, that steale haie in the

night from gentlemens horses, and rub their teth

with tallow, that they may eate little when they stand

at liuery, this I prognosticate against you, that this

spring, which so euer of you dies, shall leaue a

knaues carcasse in the graue behind him, and that

they which liue shall hop a harlot in his clothes all

the yere after. But aboue all let me not hide this

secret from my countrymen, that Jupiter being in

aspect with Luna, discouereth that diuers men shal

drinke more th[=e] they bleed, & / Tailers shall steale

nothing but what is brought vnto them, that poulters

shall bee pestered with rotten egs, & Butchers dogs

make libels against Lent, that affoordes no foode but

herring cobs for their diet.

Diseases incident to this quarter, as by Astrologicall

& philosophicall coniectures I can gather,

are these following: Prentises that haue ben fore

beaten, shall be troubled with ach in their armes,

and it shall be ill for such as haue fore eies, to looke

against the Sun. The plague shall raigne mortally

amongst poore men, that diuerse of them shal not

be able to change a man a groate. Olde women

that haue taken great colde, may perhaps be trobled

with the cough, and such as haue paine in their teeth,

shall bee grieuouslie troubled with the tooth ach. Beside,

sicke folke shall haue worse stomackes then they

which be whole, and men that cannot sleepe, shall

take verie little rest: with other accidentall infirmities,

which I doe ouerpasse.

_A declaration of the disposition and inclination

of the Summer quarter_.

When the Sunne hath made his course through

the vernal signs, Aries, Taurus & Gemini at his

passage vnto the solsticiall estiuall signe Cancer.

The third parte of an English yeere called Summer,

taketh his beginning this yere: as Ptolomie sayth,

the twelfth of Iune, but as my skill doth coniecture,

it beginneth when the wether waxeth so hot that

beggers scorne barnes and lie in the field for heate,

and the wormes of Saint Pancredge Church build

their bowers vnder the shadow of Colman hedge.

The predominant qualities of this quarter is heate

and drynesse, whereby I doe gather, that through the

influence of Cancer, bottle Ale shall be in great

authoritie, and wheat shall doe knightes seruice vnto

malte. Tapsters this quarter shall be in greater

credite than Coblers, and many shall drinke more

then they can yearne. And yet because Mercurie is

a signe that is nowe predominant, women shall be

more troubled with fleas then men, and such as want

meate shall goe supperlesse to bedde. Besides,

this quarter great hurlie burlies are like to bee feared,

and greate stratagems like to bee performed, thorough

the opposition of Mars and Saturne: for Butchers

are like to make great hauocke amongest flies, and

beggers on Sunne shine dayes to commit great

murthers vpon their rebellious vermine, and the

knights of Coppersmiths hap to / doo great deedes of

armes vpon Cuppes, Cannes, pots, glasses, and black

iacks: not ceasing the skirmish til they are able to

stand on their legges.

Further it is to bee doubted, that because Venus

is in the house of Loue, that Millers, Weauers, and

Taylors shall be counted as theeuishe as they are

knauishe: and Maides this quarter shall make

sillyebubbes for their Louers, till some of them

Calue with the Cowe for companye. But Iupiter in

his exaltation presageth that diuers young Gentlemen

shall creepe further into the Mercers Booke in a

Moneth then they can get out in a yere: and that

sundry fellowes in their silkes shall be appointed to

keep Duke Humfrye company in Poules, because

they know not wher to get their dinner abroad: if

there be great plenty of Cherries this Summer, they

are like to come to a penny the pound, and Costard-mongers

this Summer shall be licenst by the Wardens

of their hall, to weare and carry baskets of Apples on

their heads to keepe them from the heat of the Sun.

But Libra adust and retrograde, foretelleth that there

is like to be a league between diuers bakers & the

pillorye, for making their bread so light, and the Sun

shall be so hotte, that it shall melt awaye the consciences

of diuers couetous men, and that / by the

meanes of Venus which is in the house of Scorpion,

women shall bee so loue sicke, that Sumners and

ciuil lawiers shall haue great fees thorough the aboundance

of such sinfull clients, and diuerse spirites in

white sheetes shall stand in Poules and other

Churches, to make their confessions. But this by

the waie learne of me, shomakers shall proue so

proud that they shall refuse the name of souters,

and the Tailer and the louse are like to fall at

martiall variance, were it not the worshipfull company

of the Botchers haue set downe this order, that

he that lies in his bed while his clothes be mending,

neede not haue a man to keepe his wardroppe. But

amongst all, the Smithes haue put vp a supplication

to the Alecunners, that he which goes dronke to bed,

and as soone as hee wakes dares not carouse a hartie

draught the next morning, shall drinke two daies

together small Ale for his penance.

This variable season is like to bring variable

accidents, for diuerse diseases which will much

molest the people, namely the plurisies which shall

grieue many, that they shall haue farre more knauerie

than they haue honestie, diuerse fluxes, and especiallie

in poore mens purses, for they shall bee so laxatiue,

that money shall runne out faster than / they can get

it. The small pockes among children and great

amongst men, infirmities in the tong, some shall doe

nothing but lie with others, which I let pas.

_A declaration of the inclination and disposition of

the Autumnall or haruest quarter._

Haruest and the last quarter of this yeere beginneth,

as I coniecture, when corne is ripe. But

for the nature of this autumnall reuolution, because

it beginneth in Libra, I gather there shall be more

holes open this quarter then in all the yeere beside,

and strange euents shall chance, for knaues shall

weare smockes, and women shall haue holes in their

heartes, that as fast as loue creepes in at one, it shall

runne out at another. Yet Leo being a firie signe,

foresheweth that diuerse men shall haue their teeth

longer then their beards, and some shal be so Sun

burnt with sitting in the Alehouse, that their noses

shall bee able to light a candle. Others shall for

want of money paune their clokes, and march

mannerly in theyr doublet and their hose. And

some shall this yere haue barnes and yet want corn

to put in them. Rie this yeere shall bee common

in / England, and knaues shall be licenst to sel it by

the pound, and he that wil not this quarter spend

a pennie with his friende, by the counsayle of

Albumazar, shall bee thrust quite out of all good

companie for his labour.

It may be doubted that some straunge sicknesse

and vnknowen diseases wil happen, as hollownesse of

the heart, that a man shall not know a knaue from

an honest man, and vncouth consumptions of the

lyuer, that diuerse men of good wealth shall by their

kinde hearts spend all and die banquerouts: some

shal be troubled with diseases in the throate, which

cannot bee helpte without Bull the hang man plaie

the skilfull Chyrurgion. Amongest the rest, many

that haue faire wiues shalbe troubled with greate

swelling in the browes, a disease as incurable as the

goute. Some shall bee troubled with the stone, and

seeke to cunning women to cure them of that disease,

an infirmitie easilie amended, and the doctors

of Bridewell did not punish such women Phisitians

by a Statute. But the greatest disease that is to bee

feared, is the Cataphalusie, that is to saie, good

fellowes this yeere for want of money shall oft times

be contented to part companie.

And / thus (gentle reader) thou hast my prognostication,

gathered by arte, and confirmed by experience,

and therefore take it in good worth, for _Quod gratis

grate_, and so farewell.

VII.--THOMAS DEKKER

(The Gull's Hornbook _is an almost famous work,

and has, I believe, been cheaply reprinted in separate

form of late years. It cannot, however, be too well

known, for it is excellent in itself, and though undoubtedly

paraphrased from the_ Grobianus _of Dedekind,

is so adjusted to English contemporary manners as to

be practically original_.)

THE GVLS

Horne-booke:

_Stultorum plena sunt omnia._

Al Sauio meza parola,

Basta.

By T. Deckar.

_Labore et Constantia._

Imprinted at London for R. S. 1609.

_To all Guls in generall, wealth and Liberty._

WHOM can I choose (my most worthie _Mecæn-asses_) to

be Patrons to this labour of mine fitter th[=e] yourselues?

Your hands are euer open, your purses neuer shut. So

that you stand not in the _Common_ Rancke of _Dry-fisted

Patrons_, (who giue nothing) for you giue all. Schollers,

therefore, are as much beholden to you, as Vintners,

Players, and Puncks are. Those three trades gaine by

you more then Vsurers do by thirty in the hundred:

You spend the wines of the one, you make suppers for

the other, and change your Gold into White money with

the third. Who is more liberall then you? who (but

only Cittizens) are more free? Blame me not therefore,

if I pick you out from the bunch of _Booke-takers_, to

consecrate these fruits of my braine (which shall neuer

die) onely to you. I know that most of you (O admirable

_Guls_!) can neither write nor reade. A _Horne-booke_

haue I inuented, because I would haue you well

schooled. _Powles_ is your _Walke_; but this your Guid:

if it lead you right, thanke me: if astray, men will

beare with your errors, because you are _Guls_. _Farewell._

T. D.

To the Reader.

_GENTLE Reader, I could willingly be content that thou

shouldest neither be at cost to buy this booke, nor at the

labour to reade it. It is not my ambition to bee a man

in Print, thus euery Tearm_; Ad prælum, tanquàm ad

prælium; _Wee should come to the Presse as we come to

the Field (seldome). This Tree of_ Guls _was planted

long since, but not taking roote, could neuer beare till

now. It hath a relish of_ Grobianisme, _and tastes very

strongly of it in the beginning: the reason thereof is,

that, hauing translated many Bookes of that into English

Verse, and not greatly liking the Subiect, I altred the

Shape, and of a Dutchman fashioned a meere Englishman.

It is a Table wherein are drawne sundry Pictures:

the cullors are fresh; if they be well laid on, I think my

workmanship well bestowed: if ill, so much the better,

because I draw the pictures onely of_ Guls.

T. D. /

THE GULS HORN-BOOKE:

OR

_Fashions to please all sorts of Guls._

_Prooemium_.

I sing (like the cuckooe in June) to bee laught at:

if therefore I make a scuruy noise, and that my tunes

sound vnmusically (the Ditty being altogether lame

in respect of the bad feete, and vnhansome in

regard of the worme-eaten fashion) you that haue

authority vnder the broad seale of mouldy custom, to

be called the _gentle Audience_, set your goodly great

hands to my pardon: or else, because I scorne to be

vpbraided that I professe to instruct others in an Art,

whereof I my selfe am ignorant, Doe your worst: chuse

whether you will let my notes haue you by the eares,

or no: hisse or giue plaudities, I care not a nut-shell

which of either: you can neither shake our _Comick

Theater_ with your stinking breath of hisses, nor raise

it with the thunder-claps of your hands: vp it goes,

_in dispetto del fato_. Ye motley is bought, and a

coat with foure elbowes (for any one that will weare

it) is put to making, in defiance of the seuen wise

maisters: for I haue smelt out of the musty sheetes

of an olde Almanacke, that (at one time or other)

euen he that iets vpon the neatest and sprucest

leather, euen he that talkes all _Adage_ and _Apothegme_,

euen he that will not haue a wrinckle in his new

Sattein suit, though his mind be vglier then his face,

and his face so illfauouredly made, that he lookes at

all times as if a tooth-drawer were fumbling about

his gommes with a / thousand lame _Heteroclites_ more,

that cozen the world with a guilt spur and a ruffled

boote; will be all glad to fit themselues in _Will

Sommer_ his wardrob, and be driuen (like a Flemish

Hoy in foule weather) to slip into our Schoole, and

take out a lesson. Tush, _Coelum petimus stultitiâ_, all

that are chosen Constables for their wit go not to

heauen.

A fig therefore for the new-found Colledge of

_Criticks_. You Courtiers, that do nothing but sing

the _gamuth-a-re_ of complemental courtesie, and at the

rusticall behauiour of our Countrie Muse, will screw

forth worse faces then those which God and the

Painter has bestowed vpon you, I defie your perfumd

scorne: and vow to poyson your Muske cats,

if their ciuet excrement doe but once play with my

nose. You _ordinary Gulles_, that through a poore

and silly ambition to be thought you inherit the

reuenues of extraordinary wit, will spend your shallow

censure vpon the most elaborate Poeme so lauishly,

that all the painted table-men about you, take you

to be heires apparent to rich _Midasse_, that had

more skill in _alchimy_ then _Kelly_ with the Phylosophers

stone; (for all that he could lay his fingers

on, turned into beaten gold) dry Tobacco with my

leaues (you good dry brained _polipragmonists_) till

your pipe offices smoake with your pittifully stinking

girds shot out against me. I coniure you (as you

come of the right _goose-caps_) staine not your house;

but when at a new play you take vp the twelue-penny

roome next the stage; (because the Lords and you

may seeme to be haile fellow wel-met) there draw

forth this booke, read alowd, laugh alowd, and play

the _Antickes_, that all the garlike mouthd stinkards

may cry out, _Away with the fool_. As for thee, Zoylus,

goe hang thy selfe: and for thee _Momus_, chew

nothing but hemlock, and spit nothing but the sirrup

of _Aloes_ vpon my papers, till thy very rotten lungs

come forth for anger. I am Snake-proofe: and,

though, with _Hanniball_, you bring whole hogs-heads

of vinegar-railings, it is impossible for you to quench

or come ouer my _Alpine-resolution_: I will faile boldly

and desperately alongst the shore of ye Ile of _Guls_;

and in defiance of those terrible blockhouses, their

loggerheads, make a true discouery of their wild (yet

habitable) Country.

Sound an Allarum therefore (O thou my couragious

Muse) and, like a Dutch cryer, make proclamation

with thy Drum: the effect of thine O-_yes_ being,

That if any man, woman or child, be he Lord, be he

Lowne, be he Courtier, be he Carter of ye Innes of

Court, or Innes of Citty, that, hating from the

bottome of his heart, all good manners and generous

education, is really in loue, or rather doates on that

excellent country lady, _Innocent Simplicity_, being the

first, fairest, and chiefest Chamber-maide that our

great _grandame Eue_ entertained into seruice: Or if

any person aforesaid, longing to make a voyage in

the Ship of Fooles, would venture all the wit that his

mother left him, to liue in the country of _Guls_,

_cockneyes_, and _coxcombs_; to the intent that, ha[=u]ting

_theaters_, he may sit there, like a popiniay, onely to

learne play-speeches, which afterward may furnish

ye necessity of his bare knowledge, to maintaine

table talke, or else, beating _tauernes_, desires to take

the _Bacchanalian_ degrees, and to write himselfe _in

arte bibendi magister_; that at ordinaries would sit

like Biasse, and in the streets walk like a braggart,

that on foote longs to goe like a French Lacque, and

on horsebacke rides like an English Tailor, or that

from seuen yeares and vpward, till his dying day,

has a monethes mind to haue ye _Guls Hornebooke_

by hearte; by which in time he may be promoted to

serue any Lord in _Europe_, as his crafty foole, or his

bawdy Jester, yea and to be so deere to his Lordship,

as for the excellency of his fooling, to be admitted

both to ride in Coach with him, and to lie at his

very feete on a truckle-bed. Let all such (and I

hope the world has not left her olde fashions, but

there are ten thousand such) repaire hither. Neuer

knocke (you that striue to be Ninny-hammer), but

with your feete spurne open the doore, and enter

into our Schoole: you shall not neede to buy

bookes, no, scorne to distinguish a B from a battle

doore; onely looke that your eares be long enough

to reach our _Rudiments_, and you are made for euer.

It is by heart that I would haue you con my lessons,

and therefore be sure to haue most deuouring

stomaches. Nor be you terrified with an opinion,

that our _rules_ be hard and indigestible, or that you

shall neuer be good _Graduates_ in these rare sciences

of _Barbarisme_, and Idiotisme. Oh fie, vppon any

man that carries that vngodly minde! Tush, tush;

_Tarleton_, _Kemp_, nor _Singer_, nor all the litter of Fooles

that now come drawling behinde them, neuer played

the clownes more naturally then the arrantest Sot of

you all shall if hee will but boyle my Instructions in

his braine-pan.

And lest I my selfe, like some _pedantical Vicar_

stammering out a most false and crackt latine oration

to maister _Maior_ of the towne and his brethren,

should cough and hem in my deliueries; by which

meanes you (my Auditors) should be in danger to

depart more like woodcockes then when you came

to me: O thou venerable father of antient (and

therefore hoary) customes, _Syluanus_, I inuoke thy

assistance; thou that first taughtest Carters to weare

hob-nailes, and Lobs to play Christmas gambols, and

to shew the most beastly horse-trickes: O do thou,

or (if thou art not at leasure) let thy Mountibancke,

goat-footed _Fauni_, inspire me with the knowledge of

all those silly and ridiculous fashions, which the old

dunsticall world woare euen out at elbowes; draw

for me the pictures of the most simple fellowes then

liuing, that by their patterns I may paint the like.

Awake thou noblest drunkerd _Bacchus_, thou must

likewise stand to me (if at least thou canst for reeling),

teach me (you soueraigne skinker) how to take

the _Germanies vpsy freeze_, the Danish _Rowsa_, the

Switzers stoap of _Rhenish_, the _Italians Parmizant_,

the Englishmans healthes, his hoopes, cans, halfecans,

Gloues, Frolicks, and flapdragons, together with the

most notorious qualities of the truest tospots, as

when to cast, when to quarrell, when to fight, and

where to sleepe: hide not a drop of thy moist

mystery from me (thou plumpest swil-bowle), but

(like an honest red-nosed wine-bibber) lay open all

thy secrets, and ye mystical _Hieroglyphick_ of _Rashers_

a' th' coales, _Modicums_ and _shooing-hornes,_ and why

they were inuented, for what occupations, and when

to be vsed. Thirdly (because I will haue more then

two strings to my bow) _Comus_, thou Clarke of

_Gluttonies_ kitchen, doe thou also bid me proface,

and let me not rise from table, till I am perfect in

all the generall rules of _Epicures_ and _Cormorants_.

Fatten thou my braines, that I may feede others,

and teach them both how to squat downe to their

meat, and how to munch so like Loobies, that the

wisest _Solon_ in the world, shall not be able to take

them for any other. If there be any strength in

thee, thou beggerly Monarche of _Indians_, and setter-vp

of rotten-lungd chimneysweepers (_Tobacco_), I beg

it at thy smoaky hands: make me thine adopted

heire, that, inheriting the vertues of thy whiffes, I

may / distribute them amongst all nations, and make

the phantastick _Englishmen_ (aboue the rest) more

cunning in the distinction of thy _Rowle Trinidado_,

_Leafe_, and _Pudding_, then the whitest toothd Blackamoore

in all _Asia_. After thy pipe, shal ten thousands

be taught to daunce, if thou wilt but discouer to me

the sweetnesse of thy snuffes, with the manner of

spawling, slauering, spetting and driueling in all

places, and before all persons. Oh what songs will

I charme out, in praise of those valiantly-strong-stinking

breaths, which are easily purchased at thy

hands, if I can but get thee to trauell through my nose.

All the foh's in the fairest Ladies mouth, that euer

kist Lord, shall not fright me from thy browne presence:

for thou art humble, and from the Courts of

Princes hast vouchsafed to be acquainted with penny

galleries, and (like a good-fellow) to be drunke for

company, with Water-men, Carmen, and Colliers;

whereas before, and so still, Knights and wise Gentlemen

were, & are thy companions. Last of all,

thou Lady of Clownes and Carters, Schoolmistres of

fooles and wiseacres, thou homely (but harmelesse)

_Rusticity_, Oh breath thy dull and dunsticall spirit

into our ganders quill; crowne me thy Poet, not with

a garland of Bayes (Oh no! the number of those

that steale _lawret_ is too monstrous already) but

swaddle thou my browes with those unhansome

boughes, which, (like _Autums_ rotten haire), hang

dangling ouer thy dusty eye-lids. Helpe me (thou

midwife of vnmannerlinesse) to be deliuered of this

_Embryon_ that lies tumbling in my braine: direct me

in this hard and dangerous voyage, that being safely

arriued on the desired shore, I may build up Altars

to thy _Vnmatcheable Rudeness_; the excellency whereof

I know will be so great, that _Grout-nowles_ and

_Moames_ will in swarmes fly buzzing about thee. So

_Herculean_ a labour is this, that I vndertake, that I

am enforced to ball out for all your succours, to the

intent I may aptly furnish this feast of _Fooles_, vnto

which I solemnely inuite all the world; for at it shall

sit not only those whom _Fortune_ fauours, but euen

those whose wits are naturally their owne. Yet

because your artificiall fooles beare away the bell, all

our best workmanship (at this time) shall be spent to

fashion such a Creature.

CHAPTER I

The old world, & the new weighed together: the Tailors of

those times, and these compared: the apparell, and dyet of

our first fathers.

Good cloathes are the embrodred trappings of pride,

and good cheere the very _eringo-roote_ of gluttony: so

that fine backes, and fat bellyes are Coach-horses to

two of the seuen deadly sins: In the bootes of which

Coach, _Lechery_ and _Sloth_ sit like the waiting-maide.

In a most desperate state therefore doe Taylors, and

Cookes stand, by meanes of their offices: for both

those trades are Apple-squires to that couple of

sinnes. The one inuents more phantasticke fashions,

then Fraunce hath worne since her first stone was

laid; the other more lickerish _epycurean_ dishes, then

were euer serud vp to _Gallonius_ table. Did man

(thinke you) come wrangling into the world, about no

better matters, then all his lifetime to make priuy

searches in Burchin lane for Whalebone doublets, or

for pies of _Nightingale_ tongues in _Heliogabalus_ his

kitchin? No, no, the first suit of apparell, that euer

mortall man put on, came neither from the Mercers

shop nor the Merchants warehouse: _Adams_ bill

would haue beene taken then, sooner then a Knights

bond now; yet was hee great in no bodies bookes

for satten and veluets: the silkwormes had something

else to do in those dayes, then to set vp loomes,

and be free of the weauers: his breeches were not so

much worth as K. _Stephens_, that cost but a poore

noble: for _Adams_ holyday hose and doublet were of

no better stuffe then plaine fig-leaues, and _Eues_ best

gowne of the same peece: there went but a paire of

sheeres betweene them. An _Antiquary_ in this towne,

has yet some of the powder of those leaues dryed to

shew. Taylors then were none of the twelue Companies:

their Hall, that now is larger then some

Dorpes among the _Netherlands_, was then no bigger

then a Dutch Butchers shop: they durst not strike

downe their customers with large billes: _Adam_ cared

not an apple-paring for all their lousy hems. There

was then neither the _Spanish_ slop, nor the Skippers

galligaskin: the _Switzers_ blistred Cod-piece, nor the

_Danish_ sleeue sagging / down like a Welch wallet, the

_Italians_ close strosser, nor the French standing

coller: your trebble-quadruple _Dædalian_ ruffes, nor

your stiffenecked _rebatoes_ (that haue more arches for

pride to row vnder, then can stand vnder fiue London

Bridges) durst not then set themselues out in print:

for the patent for starch could by no meanes be

signd. Fashions then was counted a disease, and

horses dyed of it: But now (thankes to folly) it is

held the onely rare phisicke, and the purest golden

Asses liue vpon it.

As for the dyet of that _Saturnian_ age, it was like

their attire, homely: A sallad, and a messe of leeke

porridge, was a dinner for a farre greater man then

euer the _Turke_ was: Potato-pies, and Custards,

stood like the sinfull suburbs of Cookery, and had

not a wall (so much as a handfull hie) built rownd

about them. There were no daggers then, nor no

Chayres. _Crookes_ his ordinary, in those parsimonious

dayes, had not a Capons-leg to throw at a dog.

Oh golden world, the suspicious _Venecian_ carued not

his meate with a siluer pitch-forke, neither did the

sweet-toothd Englishman shift a dozen of trenchers

at one meale. Peirs ploughman layd the cloth, and

Simplicity brought in the voyder. How wonderfully

is the world altered? and no maruell, for it has lyein

sicke almost fiue thousand yeares: So that it is no

more like the old _Theater du munde_, than old _Paris_

garden is like the Kings garden at _Paris_.

What an excellent workeman therefore were he

that could cast the Globe of it into a new mould:

And not to make it look like _Mullineux_ his Globe,

with a round face sleekt and washt ouer with whites

of egges; but to haue it _in Plano_, as it was at first,

with all the ancient circles, lines, paralels, and figures,

representing indeede, all the wrinckles, crackes,

creuises and flawes that (like the Mole on _Hattens_

cheek, being _os amoris_,) stuck vpon it at the first

creation, and made it looke most louely; but now

those furrowes are filled vp with Ceruse, and Vermilion;

yet all will not doe, it appeares more vgly.

Come, come, it would be but a bald world, but that

it weares a periwig. The body of it is fowle (like a

birding-peece) by being too much heated: the breath

of it stinks like the mouthes of Chambermaides by

feeding on so many sweat meats. And, though to

purge it wil be a sorer labour then the clensing / of

_Augeaes_ stable, or the scowring of Mooreditch: yet,

_Ille ego, qui quondam_; I am the _Pasquille madcap_,

that will doot.

Draw neere therefore, all you that loue to walke

vpon single and simple soules, and that wish to keepe

company with none but Innocents, and the sonnes of

ciuill Citizens, out with your tables, and naile your

eares (as it were to the pillary) to the _musique_ of our

instructions: nor let ye title _Gullery_, fright you fr[=o]

schoole: for marke what an excellent ladder you are

to clime by. How many worthy, and men of famous

memory (for their learning of all offices, from the

scauenger and so vpward) haue flourished in London

of ye ancient familie of ye _Wiseacres_, being now

no better esteemd then fooles and yonger brothers?

This geare must be lookt into, lest in time (O lamentable

time, when that houre-glasse is turned vp) a rich

mans sonne shall no sooner peepe out of the shell of

his minority but he shall straightwaies be begd for a

concealement, or set vpon (as it were, by free-booters)

and tane in his owne purse-nets by fencers and cony-catchers.

To driue which pestilent infection from

the heart, heeres a medicine more potent, and more

precious, than was euer that mingle-mangle of drugs

which _Mithrydates_ boyld together. Feare not to tast

it: a cawdle will not goe downe halfe so smoothly as

this will: you neede not call the honest name of it in

question, for Antiquity puts off his cap, and makes a

bare oration in praise of the vertues of it: the _Receipt_

hath beene subscribed vnto, by all those that haue

had to doe with _Simples_, with this moth-eaten _Motto,

Probatum est_: your _Diacatholicon aureum_, that with

gun-powder brings threaten[ing]s to blow vp all diseases

that come in his way, and smels worse then

_Assafætida_ in respect of this. You therefore whose

bodyes, either ouerflowing with the corrupt humours

of this ages phantasticknesse, or else being burnt

vp with the infl[=a]mation of vpstart fashions, would

faine be purgd: and to shew that you truly loath this

polluted and mangy-fisted world, turne Timonists,

not caring either for men or their maners. Doe

you pledge me, spare not to take a deepe draught of

our homely councel. The cup is full, and so large,

that I boldly drinke a health vnto all commers. /