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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]

[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 ether 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 pœnam 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 cold 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 coldst 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 ether 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 expectationē, 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 cold versify exte[m]pory. Who liketh not of the promptness of Ovid? Who not unworthely cold 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 mediolanū 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 contrimen 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 Porū, 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 fœdo 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 shold 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 Phœbo 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 coche 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, 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 yeld 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 cold 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 ether 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
Contēnas. Nā 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 cæcus, 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, 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 thē 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 malecōtents (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 frō 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 thē 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.

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.

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-mōgers 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 cōming 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.

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.

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.

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 mē, 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, thē 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.

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 womā 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 wēt 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 chāge, 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 gāder 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 cōfusion 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 gouernmēt? 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 hūdred, 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 thē 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.

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.

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 thā 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 brokē 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, whē 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 vēt 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 cōceit? 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 cōscience 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 GENTLMEN 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 Will playing: Wit at good exercise, and Will 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 Will 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.

Will. Then, Wit, thou shalt understand, I heard these speeches past among penitent people: when Wit is wayward, Will is nobody: wofull Wit, blames wanton Will: wanton Wit, chides worthy Will: unhappie Wit, hasty Will: 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, Will 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, Will, 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 Hornbook 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