His Prayer to Pecunia.

Reat Lady, sith I haue complyde thy Prayse,

(According to my skill and not thy merit:)

And sought thy Fame aboue the starrs to rayse;

(Had I sweete Ovids vaine, or Virgils spirit)

I craue no more but this, for my good will,

That in my Want, thou wilt supplye me still.

THE
Complaint of Poetrie,
for the Death of Liberalitie.

Viuit post funera virtus.

LONDON,
Printed by G. S. for Iohn Iaggard, and are
to be solde at his shoppe neere Temple-barre,
at the Signe of the Hand and starre.
1 5 9 8.

To his Worshipfull wel-willer, Maister
Edward Leigh, of Grayes Inne.

Mage of that, whose losse is here lamented;

(In whom, so many vertues are containd)

Daine to accept, what I haue now presented.

Though Bounties death, herein be not fained,

In your mind, she not reuiue (with speed)

Then will I sweare, that shee is dead indeed.

THE COMPLAINT OF
Poetrie, for the Death of Liberalitie.

Eepe Heauens now, for you haue lost your light;

Ye Sunne and Moone, beare witnes of my mone:

The cleere is turnd to clouds; the day to night;

And all my hope, and all my ioy is gone:

Bounty is dead, the cause of my annoy;

Bounty is dead, and with her dide my ioy.

O who can comfort my afflicted soule?

Or adde some ende to my increasing sorrowes?

Who can deliuer me from endlesse dole?

(Which from my hart eternall torment borrowes.)

When Bounty liu'd, I bore the Bell away;

When Bounty dide, my credit did decay.

I neuer then, did write one verse in vaine;

Nor euer went my Poems vnregarded:

Then did each Noble breast, me intertaine,

And for my Labours I was well rewarded:

But now Good wordes, are stept in Bounties place,

Thinking thereby, her glorie to disgrace.

But who can liue with words, in these hard tymes?

(Although they came from Iupiter himselfe?)

Or who can take such Paiment, for his Rymes?

(When nothing now, is so esteem'd as Pelfe?)

Tis not Good wordes, that can a man maintaine;

Wordes are but winde; and winde is all but vaine.

Where is Mecænas, Learnings noble Patron?

(That Maroes Muse, with Bountie so did cherish?)

Or faire Zenobia, that worthy Matron?

(Whose name, for Learnings Loue, shall neuer perish)

What tho their Bodies, lie full lowe in graue,

Their fame the worlde; their souls the Heauens haue.

Vile Auaricia, how hast thou inchaunted

The Noble mindes, of great and mightie Men?

Or what infernall furie late hath haunted

Their niggard purses? (to the learned pen)

Was it Augustus wealth, or noble minde,

That euerlasting fame, to him assinde?

If wealth? Why Crœsus was more rich then hee;

(Yet Crœsus glorie, with his life did end)

It was his Noble mind, that moued mee

To write his praise, and eeke his Acts commend.

Who ere had heard, of Alexanders fame,

If Quintus Curtius had not pend the same?

Then sith by mee, their deedes haue been declared,

(Which else had perisht with their liues decay)

Who to augment their glories, haue not spared

To crowne their browes, with neuer-fading Bay:

What Art deserues such Liberalitie,

As doeth the peerlesse Art of Poetrie?

But Liberalitie is dead and gone:

And Auarice vsurps true Bounties seat.

For her it is, I make this endlesse mone,

(Whose praises worth no men can well repeat.

Sweet Liberalitie adiew for euer,

For Poetrie againe, shall see thee neuer.

Neuer againe, shall I thy presence see:

Neuer againe, shal I thy bountie tast:

Neuer againe, shal I accepted bee:

Neuer againe, shall I be so embrac't:

Neuer againe, shall I the bad recall:

Neuer againe, shall I be lou'd of all:

Thou wast the Nurse, whose Bountie gaue me sucke:

Thou wast the Sunne, whose beames did lend me light:

Thou wast the Tree, whose fruit I still did plucke:

Thou wast the Patron, to maintaine my right:

Through thee I liu'd; on thee I did relie;

In thee I ioy'd; and now for thee I die.

What man, hath lately lost a faithfull frend?

Or Husband, is depriued of his Wife?

But doth his after-daies in dolour spend?

(Leading a loathsome, discontented life?)

Dearer then friend, or wife, haue I forgone;

Then maruell not, although I make such mone.

Faire Philomela, cease thy sad complaint;

And lend thine eares, vnto my dolefull Ditty:

(Whose soule with sorrowe, now begins to faint,

And yet I cannot moue mens hearts to pitty:)

Thy woes are light, compared vnto mine:

You waterie Nymphes, to mee your plaints resigne.

And thou Melpomene, (the Muse of Death)

That neuer sing'st, but in a dolefull straine;

Sith cruell Destinie hath stopt her breath,

(Who whilst she liu'd, was Vertues Soueraigne

Leaue Hellicon, (whose bankes so pleasant bee)

And beare a part of sorrowe now with mee.

The Trees (for sorrowe) shead their fading Leaues,

And weepe out gum, in stead of other teares;

Comfort nor ioy, no Creature now conceiues,

To chirpe and sing, each little bird forbeares.

The sillie Sheepe, hangs downe his drooping head,

And all because, that Bounty she is dead.

The greater that I feele my griefe to be,

The lesser able, am I to expresse it;

Such is the nature of extremitie,

The heart it som-thing eases, to confesse it.

Therefore Ile wake my muse, amidst her sleeping,

And what I want in wordes, supplie with weeping.

Weepe still mine eies, a Riuer full of Teares,

To drowne my Sorrowe in, that so molests me;

And rid my head of cares; my thoughts of feares:

Exiling sweet Content, that so detests me.

But ah (alas) my Teares are almost dun,

And yet my griefe, it is but new begun.

Euen as the Sunne, when as it leaues our sight,

Doth shine with those Antipodes, beneath vs;

Lending the other worlde her glorious light,

And dismall Darknesse, onely doeth bequeath vs:

Euen so sweet Bountie, seeming dead to mee,

Liues now to none, but smooth-Tongd Flatterie.

O Adulation, Canker-worme of Truth;

The flattring Glasse of Pride, and Self-conceit:

(Making olde wrinkled Age, appeare like youth)

Dissimulations Maske, and follies Beate:

Pittie it is, that thou art so rewarded,

Whilst Truth and Honestie, goe vnregarded.

O that Nobilitie, it selfe should staine,

In being bountifull, to such vile Creatures:

Who, when they flatter most, then most they faine;

Knowing what humor best, will fit their Natures.

What man so mad, that knowes himselfe but pore,

And will beleeue that he hath riches store.

Vpon a time, the craftie Foxe did flatter

The foolish Pye (whose mouth was full of meate)

The Pye beleeuing him, began to chatter,

And sing for ioy, (not hauing list to eate)

And whil'st the foolish Pye, her meate let fall,

The craftie Foxe, did runne awaie with all.

Terence describeth vnder Gnatoes name,

The right conditions of a Parasyte:

(And with such Eloquence, sets foorth the same,

As doeth the learned Reader much delyght)

Shewing, that such a Sycophant as Gnato,

In more esteem'd, then twentie such a Plato.

Bounty looke backe, vpon thy goods mispent;

And thinke how ill, thou hast bestow'd thy mony:

Consider not their wordes, but their intent;

Their hearts are gall, although their tongues be hony:

They speake not as they thinke, but all is fained,

And onely to th'intent to be maintained.

And herein happie, I areade the poore;

No flattring Spanyels, fawne on them for meate:

The reason is, because the Countrey Boore

Hath little enough, for himselfe to eate:

No man will flatter him, except himselfe;

And why? because hee hath no store of wealth.

But sure it is not Liberalitie

That doeth reward these fawning smel-feasts so:

It is the vice of Prodigalitie,

That doeth the Bankers of Bounty over-flo:

Bounty is dead: yea so it needes must bee;

Or if aliue, yet is shee dead to mee.

Therefore as one, whose friend is lately dead,

I will bewaile the death, of my deere frend;

Vppon whose Tombe, ten thousand Teares Ile shead,

Till drearie Death, of mee shall make an end:

Or if she want a Toombe, to her desart,

Oh then, Ile burie her within my hart.

But (Bounty) if thou loue a Tombe of stone,

Oh then seeke out, a hard and stonie hart:

For were mine so, yet would it melt with mone,

And all because, that I with thee must part.

Then, if a stonie hart must thee interr,

Goe finde a Step-dame, or a Vsurer.

And sith there dies no Wight, of great account,

But hath an Epitaph compos'd by mee,

Bounty, that did all other far surmount,

Vpon her Tombe, this Epitaph shall bee:

Here lies the Wight, that Learning did maintaine,

And at the last, by Avarice was slaine.

Vile Auarice, why hast thou kildd my Deare?

And robd the World, of such a worthy Treasure?

In whome no sparke of goodnesse doth appeare,

So greedie is thy mind, without all measure,

Thy death, from Death did merit to release her:

The Murtherers deseru'd to die, not Caesar.

The Merchants wife; the Tender-hearted Mother

That leaues her loue; whose Sonne is prest for warre;

(Resting, the one; as woefull as the other;)

Hopes met at length, when ended is the iarre,

To see her Husband; see her Sonne again;

"Were it not then for Hope, the hart were slaine."

But I, whose hope is turned to despaire

Nere looke to see my dearest Deare againe:

Then Pleasure sit thou downe, in Sorrowes Chaire,

And (for a while) thy wonted Mirth refraine.

Bounty is dead, that whylome was my Treasure,

Bounty is dead, my joy and onely pleasure.

If Pythias death, of Damon were bewailed;

Or Pillades did rue, Orestes ende:

If Hercules, for Hylas losse were quailed;

Or Theseus, for Pyrithous Teares did spende:

When doe I mourne for Bounty, being dead:

Who liuing, was my hand, my hart, my head.

My hand, to helpe mee, in my greatest need:

My hart, to comfort mee, in my distresse:

My head, whom onely I obeyd, indeed:

If she were such, how can my griefe be lesse?

Perhaps my wordes, may pierce the Parcæ's eares;

If not with wordes, Ile moue them with my teares.

But ah (alas) my Teares are spent in vaine,

(For she is dead, and I am left aliue)

Teares cannot call, sweet Bounty backe againe;

Then why doe I, gainst Fate and Fortune striue?

And for her death, thus weepe, lament, and crie;

Sith euery mortall wight, is borne to die.

But as the woefull mother doeth lament,

Her tender babe, with cruell Death opprest:

Whose life was spotlesse, pure, and innocent,

(And therefore sure, it soule is gone to rest)

So Bountie, which her selfe did vpright keepe,

Yet for her losse, loue cannot chuse but weepe.

The losse of her, is losse to many a one:

The losse of her, is losse vnto the poore:

And therefore not a losse, to mee alone,

But vnto such, as goe from Doore to Doore.

Her losse, is losse vnto the fatherlesse;

And vnto all, that are in great distresse.

The maimed Souldier, comming from the warre,

The woefull wight, whose house was lately burnd;

The sillie soule; the wofull Traueylar;

And all, whom Fortune at her feet hath spurnd;

Lament the losse of Liberalitie:

"Its ease, to haue in griefe some Companie."

The Wife of Hector (sad Andromache)

Did not bewaile, her husbands death alone:

But (sith he was the Troians onely stay)

The wiues of Troy (for him) made æquall mone.

Shee, shead the teares of Loue; and they of pittie:

Shee, for her deare dead Lord; they, for their Cittie.

Nor is the Death of Liberalitie,

(Although my griefe be greater than the rest)

Onely lamented, and bewaild of mee;

(And yet of mee, she was beloued best)

But, sith she was so bountifull to all,

She is lamented, both of great and small.

O that my Teares could moue the powres diuine,

That Bountie might be called from the dead:

As Pitty pierc'd the hart of Proserpine;

Who (moued with the Teares Admetus shead)

Did sende him backe againe, his louing Wife;

Who lost her owne, to saue her husbands life.

Impartiall Parcæ, will no prayers moue you?

Can Creatures so diuine, haue stony harts?

Haplesse are they, whose hap it is to proue you,

For you respect no Creatures good Desarts.

O Atropos, (the cruelst of the three)

Why hast thou tane, my faithfull friend from mee?

But ah, she cannot (or shee will not) heare me,

Or if shee doo, yet may not she repent her:

Then come (sweet Death) O why doest thou forbeare me?

Aye mee! thy Dart is blunt, it will not enter.

Oh now I knowe the cause, and reason why;

I am immortall, and I cannot dye.

So Cytheræa would haue dide, but could not;

When faire Adonis by her side lay slaine:

So I desire the Sisters, what I should not;

For why (alas) I wish for Death in vaine;

Death is their seruant, and obeys their will;

And if they bid him spare, he cannot kill.

Oh would I were, as other Creatures are;

Then would I die, and so my griefe were ended:

But Death (against my will) my life doeth spare;

(So little with the fates I am befrended)

Sith, when I would, thou doost my sute denie,

Vile Tyrant, when thou wilt, I will not die.

And Bounty, though her body thou hast slaine,

Yet shall her memorie remaine for euer:

For euer, shall her memorie remaine;

Whereof no spitefull Fortune can bereaue her.

Then Sorrowe cease, and wipe thy weeping eye;

For Fame shall liue, when all the World shall dye.

FINIS.

THE
Combat, betweene
Conscience and Couetousnesse,
in the minde of Man.

quid non mortalia pectora cogis

Auri sacra fames? Virgil.

LONDON,
Printed by G. S. for Iohn Iaggard, and are
to be solde at his shoppe neere Temple-barre,
at the Signe of the Hand and starre.
1 5 9 8.

To his Worshipfull good friend,
Maister Iohn Steuenton, of Dothill, in the County
of Salop, Esquire.

Ith Conscience (long since) is exilde the Citty,

O let her in the Countrey, finde some Pitty.

But if she be exilde, the Countrey too,

O let her finde, some fauour yet of you.

The Combat betweene Conscience
and Couetousnesse in the
mind of Man.

Ow had the cole-blacke steedes, of pitchie Night,

(Breathing out Darknesse) banisht cheerfull Light,

And sleepe (the shaddowe of eternall rest)

My seuerall senses, wholy had possest.

When loe, there was presented to my view,

A vision strange, yet not so strange, as true.

Conscience (me thought) appeared vnto mee,

Cloth'd with good Deedes, with Trueth and Honestie,

Her countinance demure, and sober sad,

Nor any other Ornament shee had.

Then Couetousnesse did incounter her,

Clad in a Cassock, lyke a Vsurer,

The Cassock, it was made of poore-mens skinnes,

Lac'd here and there, with many seuerall sinnes:

Nor was it furd, with any common furre;

Or if it were, himselfe hee was the fur.

A Bag of money, in his hande he helde,

The which with hungry eie, he still behelde.

The place wherein this vision first began,

(A spacious plaine) was cald The Minde of Man.

The Carle no sooner, Conscience had espyde,

But swelling lyke a Toade, (puft vp with pryde)

He straight began against her to inuey:

These were the wordes, which Couetise did sey.

Conscience (quoth hee) how dar'st thou bee so bold,

To claime the place, that I by right doe hold?

Neither by right, nor might, thou canst obtaine it:

By might (thou knowst full well) thou canst not gaine it.

The greatest Princes are my followars,

The King in Peace, the Captaine in the Warres:

The Courtier, and the simple Countrey-man:

The Iudge, the Merchant, and the Gentleman:

The learned Lawyer, and the Politician:

The skilfull Surgeon, and the fine Physician:

In briefe, all sortes of men mee entertaine,

And hold mee, as their Soules sole Soueraigne,

And in my quarrell, they will fight and die,

Rather then I should suffer iniurie.

And as for title, interest, and right,

Ile proue its mine by that, as well as might,

Though Couetousnesse, were vsed long before,

Yet Iudas Treason, made my Fame the more;

When Christ he caused, crucifyde to bee,

For thirtie pence, man solde his minde to mee:

And now adaies, what tenure is more free,

Than that which purchas'd is, with Gold and fee?

Conscience.

With patience, haue I heard thy large Complaint,

Wherein the Diuell, would be thought a Saint:

But wot ye what, the Saying is of olde?

One tale is good, vntill anothers tolde.

Truth is the right, that I must stand vpon,

(For other title, hath poore Conscience none)

First I will proue it, by Antiquitie,

That thou art but an vp-start, vnto mee;

Before that thou wast euer thought vpon,

The minde of Man, belongd to mee alone.

For after that the Lord, hath Man created,

And him in blisse-full Paradice had seated;

(Knowing his Nature was to vice inclynde)

God gaue me vnto man, to rule his mynde,

And as it were, his Gouernour to bee,

To guide his minde, in Trueth, and Honestie.

And where thou sayst, that man did sell his soule;

That Argument, I quicklie can controule:

It is a fayned fable, thou doost tell,

That, which is not his owne, he cannot sell;

No man can sell his soule, altho he thought it:

Mans soule is Christs, for hee hath dearely bought it.

Therefore vsurping Couetise, be gone.

For why, the minde belongs to mee alone.

Couetousnesse.

Alas poore Conscience, how thou art deceav'd?

As though of senses, thou wert quite bereaud.

What wilt thou say (that thinkst thou canst not erre)

If I can proue my selfe the ancienter?

Though into Adams minde, God did infuse thee,

Before his fall, yet man did neuer vse thee.

What was it else, but Aurice in Eue,

(Thinking thereby, in greater Blisse to liue)

That made her taste, of the forbidden fruite?

Of her Desier, was not I the roote?

Did she not couet? (tempted by the Deuill)

The Apple of the Tree, of good and euill?

Before man vsed Conscience, she did couet:

Therefore by her Transgression, here I proue it,

That Couetousnesse possest the minde of man,

Before that any Conscience began.

Conscience.

Euen as a counterfeited precious stone,

Seemes to bee far more rich, to looke vpon,

Then doeth the right: But when a man comes neere,

His baseness then, doeth euident appeere:

So Couetise, the Reasons thou doost tell,

Seeme to be strong, but being weighed well,

They are indeed, but onely meere Illusions,

And doe inforce but very weake Conclusions.

When as the Lord (fore-knowing his offence)

Had giuen man a Charge, of Abstinence,

And to refraine, the fruite of good and ill:

Man had a Conscience, to obey his will,

And neuer would be tempted thereunto,

Vntill the Woeman, shee, did worke man woe.

And make him breake, the Lords Commaundement,

Which all Mankinde, did afterward repent:

So that thou seest, thy Argument is vaine,

And I am prov'd, the elder of the twaine.

Couetousnesse.

Fond Wretch, it was not Conscience, but feare,

That made the first man (Adam) to forbeare

To tast the fruite, of the forbidden Tree,

Lest, if offending hee were found to bee,

(According as Iehouah saide on hye,

For his so great Transgression, hee should dye.)

Feare curbd his minde, it was not Conscience then,

(For Conscience freely, rules the harts of men)

And is a godly motion of the mynde,

To euerie vertuous action inclynde,

And not enforc'd, through feare of Punishment,

But is to vertue, voluntary bent:

Then (simple Trul) be packing presentlie,

For in this place, there is no roome for thee.

Conscience.

Aye mee (distressed Wight) what shall I doe?

Where shall I rest? Or whither shall I goe?

Vnto the rich? (woes mee) they, doe abhor me:

Vnto the poore? (alas) they, care not for me:

Vnto the Olde-man? hee; hath mee forgot:

Vnto the Young-man? yet hee, knowes me not:

Vnto the Prince? hee; can dispence with me:

Vnto the Magistrate? that, may not bee:

Vnto the Court? for it, I am too base:

Vnto the Countrey? there, I haue no place:

Vnto the Citty? thence; I am exilde:

Vnto the Village? there; I am reuilde:

Vnto the Barre? the Lawyer there, is bribed?

Vnto the Warre? there, Conscience is derided:

Vnto the Temple? there, I am disguised:

Vnto the Market? there, I am dispised:

Thus both the young and olde, the rich and poore,

Against mee (silly Creature) shut their doore.

Then, sith each one seekes my rebuke and shame,

Ile goe againe to Heauen (from whence I came.)

This saide (me thought) making exceeding mone,

She went her way, and left the Carle alone,

Who vaunting of his late-got victorie,

Aduanc'd himselfe in pompe and Maiestie:

Much like a Cocke, who hauing kild his foe,

Brisks vp himselfe, and then begins to crow.

So Couetise, when Conscience was departed,

Gan to be proud in minde, and hauty harted:

And in a stately Chayre of state he set him,

(For Conscience banisht) there are none to let him.

And being but one entrie, to this Plaine,

(Whereof as king and Lord, he did remaine)

Repentance cald, he causd that to be kept,

Lest Conscience should returne, whilst as he slept:

Wherefore he causd it, to be watcht and warded

Both night and Day, and to be strongly guarded:

To keepe it safe, these three he did intreat,

Hardnesse of hart, with Falshood and Deceat:

And if at any time, she chaunc'd to venter,

Hardnesse of hart, denide her still to enter.

When Conscience was exilde the minde of Man,

Then Couetise, his gouernment began.

This once being seene, what I had seene before,

(Being onely seene in sleepe) was seene no more;

For with the sorrowe, which my Soule did take

At sight hereof, foorthwith I did awake.

FINIS.

Poems:
In diuers humors.

Trahit sua quemque voluptas. Virgil.

LONDON,
Printed by G. S. for Iohn Iaggard, and are
to be solde at his shoppe neere Temple-barre,
at the Signe of the Hand and starre.
1 5 9 8.

To the learned, and accomplisht Gentleman,
Maister Nicholas Blackleech,
of Grayes Inne.

O you, that know the tuch of true Conceat;

(Whose many gifts I neede not to repeat)

I vvrite these Lines; fruits of vnriper yeares;

Wherein my Muse no harder censure feares:

Hoping in gentle Worth, you will them take;

Not for the gift, but for the giuers sake.

SONNET. I.

To his friend Maister R. L. In praise of
Musique and Poetrie.

F Musique and sweet Poetrie agree,

As they must needes (the Sister and the Brother)

Then must the Loue be great, twixt thee and mee,

Because thou lou'st the one, and I the other.

Dowland to thee is deare; whose heauenly tuch

Vpon the Lute, doeth rauish humaine sense:

Spenser to mee; whose deepe Conceit is such,

As passing all Conceit, needs no defence.

Thou lou'st to heare the sweete melodious sound,

That Phœbus Lute (the Queene of Musique) makes:

And I in deepe Delight am chiefly drownd,

When as himselfe to singing he betakes.

One God is God of Both (as Poets faigne)

One Knight loues Both, and Both in thee remaine.

SONNET. II.
Against the Dispraysers of Poetrie.

Haucer is dead; and Gower lyes in grave;

The Earle of Surrey, long agoe is gone;

Sir Philip Sidneis soule, the Heauens haue;

George Gascoigne him beforne, was tomb'd in stone,

Yet, tho their Bodies lye full low in ground,

(As euery thing must dye, that earst was borne)

Their liuing fame, no Fortune can confound;

Nor euer shall their Labours be forlorne.

And you, that discommend sweete Poetrie,

(So that the Subiect of the same be good)

Here may you see, your fond simplicitie;

Sith Kings haue fauord it, of royall Blood.

The King of Scots (now liuing) is a Poet,

As his Lepanto, and his Furies shoe it.