Give place, give place I say,
your beautie, gleame and glee,
Is all the vertue for the which,
accepted so you bee.
Magnes, the Loadstone I,
your painted sheath defie,
Without my help in Indian seas,
the best of you might lie.
I guide the Pilot's course,
his helping hand I am,
The Mariner delights in me,
so doth the Marchant man.
My vertue lies unknowne,
my secrets hidden are,
By me, the Court and Commonweale,
are pleasured very farre.
No ship could sail on Seas,
her course to run aright,
Nor Compass shew the ready way
were Magnes not of might.
Blush then, and blemish all,
bequeath to mee thats due,
Your seats in golde, your price in plate,
which Jewellers do renue.
Its I, its I alone,
whom you usurp upon,
Magnes my name, the Loadstone cal'd,
the prince of stones alone.
If this you can deny,
then seem to make reply,
And let the painfull sea-man judge,
the which of us doth lie.
The Mariner's Judgement.
The Loadstone is the stone,
the onely stone alone,
Deserving praise above the rest
whose vertues are unknown.