O Grinuile thou hast red Philosophy
Nature and Arte hath made thee excellent,
And what thou read'st, hath grafted this in thee,
That to attempt hie dangers euident
Without constraint or neede, is infamie,
And honor turnes to rashhes in th'euent:
And who so darrs, not caring how he darrs,
Sells vertues name, to purchase foolish starrs.
Deere Knight, thou art not forst to hazard fame,
Heauens haue lent thee meanes to scape thine ill,
If thou abide, as true as is thy name,
So truly shall thy fault, thy death fulfill:
And as to loue the life for vertues flame,
Is the iust act of a true noble will,
So to contemne it, and her helps exclude,
Is baseness, rashness, and no Fortitude.
He that compard mans bodie to an hoast,
Sayd that the hands were scouts, discouering harmes,
The feete were horsemen, thundring on the coast,
The brest, and stomacke, footmen, huge in swarmes.
But for the head, in soueraigntie did boast,
It Captayne was, director of alarms,
Whose rashness, if it hazarded an ill,
Not hee alone but all the hoast did spill.
Rash Isadas, the Lacedemon Lord,
That naked fought against the Theban power,
Although they crown'd his valure by accord,
Yet was hee find for rashness in that hower:
And those which most his carelesse praise affoard,
Did most condemne what follie did deuoure;
For in attempting, prowesse is not ment,
But wiselie doing what we doe attempt.
Then sith t'is valure to abandon fight,
And base to darre, where no hope is to winne,
(Renowned man, of all renowne the light)
Hoyst vp thy sailes, delay attrackts thy sinne,
Flie from ill-boding starres with all thy might,
Vnto thy hart let praise and pittie in.
This sayd, and more desirous much to crie,
Sir Richard stayd him, with this rich replie.
Captayne, I praise thy warlike eloquence,
And sober Axioms of Philosophie,
But now's no time for schoole points difference,
When Deaths blacke Ensigne threatens miserie;
Yet for thy words sound of such consequence.
Making flight praise, and fight pale obloquie,
Once ere I die, Ile clense my wits from rust,
And proue my flying base, my stay most iust.
Whence shall I flie? from refuge of my fame,
From whom? euen from my Countreis mortall foe,
Whither? but to the dungeon of my shame,
Why shall I flie? for feare of happie woe,
What end of flight? to saue vile life by blame,
Who ist that flies? Grinuile? Captayne no,
T'is England flies, faire Ile of happines,
And true diuine Elizas holynes.
Shall then my life regard taynt that choice faire?
First will I perrish in this liquid round,
Neuer shall Sunne-burnt Spanyards tongue endeare
Iberian eares with what shall me confound,
The life I haue, I for my Mistris beare,
Curst were that life, should it her scepter wound,
And trebble cursed be that damned thought,
Which in my minde hath any fayntnes wrought.
Now, for Philosophie defends thy theame,
Euen selfe Philosophie shall arme my stile,
Rich buskin'd Seneca, that did declaime,
And first in Rome our tragicke pompe compile,
Saith, Fortitude is that which in extreme
And certaine hazard all base feares exile:
It guides, saith he, the noble minde from farre,
Through frost, and fier, to conquer honors warre.
Honie-tongd Tullie, Mermaid of our eares,
Affirmes no force, can force true Fortitude,
It with our bodies, no communion beares,
The soule and spyrit, sole doth it include;
It is that part of honestie which reares
The hart to heauen, and euer doth obtrude
Faint feare, and doubt, still taking his delight
In perrills, which exceed all perrills might.