Ulysses rage, not his good wife, Spilt gentle blood. Not Helenes face, But Paris eye, did raise the strife, That did the Trojan buylding race; Thus sith ne good, ne bad do yll:

Them all, O Lord maintaine my will,
To serue with all my force, and skill.

AGAINST A GENTIL WOMAN BY WHOM
HE WAS REFUSED.

To false report and flying fame,
Whilest my minde gaue credit light,
Beleuing that her bolstred name
Had stuffe to shew that praise did hight.
1 find well now I did mistake,
Upon report my ground to make.

I heard it said, such one was she,
As rare to finde as paragon,
Of lowly chere, of hart so free,
As her for bountie could passe none.

Such one were faire, though form and face
Were meane to passe in second place.

I sought it neare thinking to finde
Report and dede both to agree,
But chaunge had tried her suttle minde,
Of force I was enforced to see,
That she indede was nothing so:
Which made my will my hart forego:

For she is such, as geason none,
And what she most may boast to be;
I find her matches more then one,
What nede she so, to deale with me?
Ha flering face, with scornful hart,
So ill reward for good desert?

I will repent that I haue done,
To ende so well the losse is small;
I lost her loue, that lesse hath won,
To vaunt she had me as her thrall;
What though a gillot sent that note,
By cocke and pye, I meant it not.

Sith she hath so kept her good name,
Such praise of life and giftes of grace,
As Brute selfe blusheth for to blame,
Such fame as fame fears to deface,
You slander not; but make it plain,
That you blame Brute, of brutish train,

If you have found it, loking nere,
Not as you toke the brute to be,
Belyke you ment by lowly chere,
Bountie and hart, that you call free:
But leud lightnesse easy to frame,
To winne your will against her name.

Nay she may deme your deming so,
A mark of madnesse in his kinde,
Such causeth not, good name to go,
As your fond folly sought to finde:
For brute of kinde bent ill to blase,
Alway saith ill, but forced by cause.

The mo there be such as is she,
More should be Gods thanke for his grace,
The more is her ioy it to see;

Good should by geason earne no place,
Nor nomber make nought, that is good,
Your strange lusting hed wants a hood.

Her dealing greveth you (say ye)
Besides your labour lost in vaine,
Her dealing was not as we see ;
Selaunder the end of your great paine:
Ha lewd lying lips, and bateful hart,
What canst thou desire in such desart?

Ye wyll repent, and right, for done
Ye haue a dede deseruing shame,
From reasons race far have ye ronne,
Hold your railing, kepe your tong tame;
Her loue! ye lye, ye lost it not,
Ye neuer lost that ye neuer got.

She reft ye not your libertie
She vaunteth not she had you thrall,
If oft have done it, let it lye
On rage, that reft you wit and all,
What though a varlets tale you tell,
By cocke and pye, you do it well.

THE ANSWERE.

WHOM fansy forsed first to love,
Now frensy forceth for to hate,
Whose minde erst madness 'gan to moue,
Inconstance causeth to abate.

No minde of meane, but heat of braine,
Bred hate loue like heate hate agayne;

What hurdle your hart in so greate heat?
Fansy forced by fained fame,
Belike that she was light to get,
For if that vertue, and good name,
Moued your minde, why changed your will,
Sith vertue the cause abideth still?

Such fame reported her to be,
As rare it were to find her peere
For vertue or for honestie,

For her free hart, and lowly cheere;
This laud had lyed, if you had sped,
And fame bene false, that hath been spred.

Within the swete betraying bait that oft' deceiues the eye.

The fish auoids the hook, though hunger bids him bite, [delite. And houereth still about the worme, wheron is his If birdes and beastes can see, where their undoing lies, How should a mischief scape our heads that haue both wit and eyes?

What madnesse may be more, than plow the barren fielde? [unweilde?

Or any frutfull wordes to sow, to eares that are They heare, and then mislike, they lyke, and then they lothe;

They hate, they loue, they scorn, they praise, yea sure they can do both.

We see what falles they haue that clime on trees unknowne; [ouerthrowne; As they that trust to rotten bowes, must nedes be A smart in silence kept, doth ease the hart much more, [the sore. Then for to plaine where is no salue, for to recure Wherfore my griefe I hide within a hollow hart, Until the smoke thereof be spred, by flaming of the smart

AN ANSWERE.

To trust the favned face, to rue on forced tears, To credit finely forged tales, wherein there oft appeares,

[smart, And breathes as from the brest, a smoke of kyndled Where only lurkes a depe deceit, within the hollow hart; [minde Betrayes the simple soule, whom plaine deceitlesse Taught not to feare that in itselfe itselfe did neuer finde.

Not every trickling teare doth argue inwarde paine, Not euery sigh doth surely shew the sigher not to faine;

Nor euery smoke doth proue a presence of the fire; Not euery glistring geues the gold that gredy folk desire;

Not euery wailing word is drawen out of the depe; Not griefe, for want of granted grace, enforceth all to wepe:

Oft malice makes the minde to shed the boyled brine, [eyen: And enuious humour oft unlades by conduites of the Oft craft can cause the man, to make a seming shew

Of hart with dolour all distreind, where griefe did neuer grow.

As cursed crocodile most cruelly can tole With truthlesse teares unto his death the silly pitieng soule.

Blame neuer those therfore, that wisely canbeware The guilefull man, that sutly saith himself to dread the snare: [song: Blame not the stopped eares, against the syrens Blame not the mind not moued with mone of fals

heds flowing tong.

If guile do guide your wit, by silence so to speak, By craft to craue and faine by fraude the cause that you wold break. [same, Great harme your suttle soule shall suffer for the And mighty loue will wreke the wrong so cloked with his name;

VOL. II.

by you,

[rotten bow; To know the tree before we clime; to trust no To view the limed bushe, to look afore we light; To shunne the perilous baited hooke, and use a further sight,

As do the mouse, the bird, the fish, by sample fitly shew, [simples wo. The wily wits and ginnes of men do worke the So simple sith we are, and you so suttle be, God help the mouse, the birde, the fish, and us your sleightes to flee.

THE LOUER COMPLAINETH HIS FAULTE, THAT WITH UNGENTLE WRITING HAD DISPLEASED HIS LADY.

AH! loue, how waiward is his wit? what panges do perce his breast [his rest, Whom thou to wait upon thy will hast reued of The light, the darke, the sunne, the mone, the day and eke the night:

His daily dyeng life, himselfe, he hateth in despight. [in thrall, Sith first he light to loke on her that hoideth him His mouing eyen, his moued wit, be curseth, hart and all.

From hungry hope to pining fear, each hap doth hurle his hart; [into smart. From panges of plaint, to fits of fume, from aking Eche moment so doth change his chere, not with recourse of case,

as the seas:

But with sere sortes of sorowes still he worketh [ruly wise, That turning windes, not calme returnde rule in unAs if their holds of hills uphurlde, they brasten out to rise;

And puffe away the power that is unto their king assignde,

To pay that, sith theyr prisonment, they deme to

be behinde.

So doth the passions long represt within the wofull

wight,

Breake down the bankes of all his wittes, and out they gushen quite [rule, and stay, To reare uprores; now they be free from reasons And hedlong hales the unruly race his quiet quite away. [rage,

No measure hath he of his ruth; no reason in his No bottom ground where stayes his griefe, thus wears away his age.

In wishing wants, in wailing woes. Death doth he dayly call

[at all. To bring release, when of reliefe he seeth no hope Thence comes that oft in depe despeire to rise to better state, [of all his fate: On heauen and heauenly lampes he layeth the faut On God and Gods decreed dome crieth out with cursing breath,

Eche thing that gaue and saues him lyfe he damneth of his death.

The wombe him bare, the brestes he suckt, each star that with their might Their secret succour brought to bring the wretch to worldly light.

Ye that to his soules perile is most haynous harme of all,

And craues the cruellest revenge that may to man befall;

FF

Her he blasphemes, in whom it lieth in present as she please, [heauens ease.

To dampne him down to depth of hell, or plant in Such rage constrainde my strayned hart to guyde thunhappy hand

That sent unfiting blots to her on whom my lyfe doth stand.

But graunt, O God, that he for them may beare the worthy blame, [the same: Whom I doe in my depe distresse finde guilty of Even that blind boy that blindly guides the fautlesse to their fall;

That laughes when they lament, that he hath throwen into thrall.

1

THE LOUER WOUNDED OF CUPIDE,
WISHED HE HAD RATHER BEN
STRICKEN BY DEATH.

THE blinded boy, that bendes the bow
To make, with dynt of double wounde
The stoutest state to stoupe, and know
The cruel craft that I have founde;

With death I would had chopt a change,
To borow, as by bargaine made,
Eche others shaft; when he did range
With restlesse rouing to invade

Thunthralled myndes of simple wightes;
Whose giltles ghostes deserued not
To fele such fall of their delightes;
Such pangs, as I have past, God wot.

Then both in new unwonted wise,
Should death deserue a better name,
Not (as tofore hath ben his guise)
Of crueltie to bear the blame.

But contrary be counted kinde,
In lending life and sparing space,
For sicke to ryse, and seke to finde,
Away to wish their wery race

To drawe to some desired end;
Their long and lothed life to ryd,
And so to fele how like a frend,
Before the bargain made he did.

And loue should eyther bring againe,
To wounded wightes theyr owne desire;
A welcome end of pining paine,
As doth their cause of ruth require:

Or when he meanes the quiet man
A harme, to hasten him to grefe :
A better dede he should do then,
With borrowd dart to geue reliefe.

That both the sicke well demene may,
He brought me rightly my request,
And eke the other sort may saye,
He wrought me truely for the best.
So had not fansye forced me
To bear a brunt of greater wo
Then leauing suche a life may be;
The grounde where only griefes do grow.

Unlucky liking linkt my hart
In forged hope and forced feare,
That oft I wisht the other dart
Had rather perced me as neare.

A fained trust, constrained care,
Most loth to lack, most hard to finde;
In sunder so my judgment tare,
That quite was quiet out of minde.

Absent in absence of mine ease,
Present in presence of my paine,
The woes of want did much displease
The sighes 1 sought did greue againe.

Oft grief that boyled in my brest,
Hath fraught my face with saltish teares,
Pronouncing proucs of mine unrest,
Whereby my passed paine appeares.

My sighes full often have supplied, That fayne with wordes I would have said; My voice was stopt, my tong was tyed, My wittes with wo wer over waid.

With trembling soule and humble chere,
Oft grated 1 for graunt of grace,
On hope, that bountie might be there,
Where beautie had so pight her place.

At length I founde that I did feere,
How I had labourde all to losse;
My selfe had been the carpenter;
That framed me the cruell crosse.

Of this to come, if dout alone,
Though blent with trust of better spede,
So oft hath moued my minde to mone,
So oft hath made my hart to blede.

What shall I say of it indede,
Now hope is gone, mine old releife,
And I enforced all to fede
Upon the frutes of bitter griefe?

OF WOMENS CHANGEABLE WYLL.

I WOLD I found not, as I fele,
Such changing chere of womens will,
By fickle flight of fortunes whele,
By kinde or custom never still.

So should I finde no fault to lay
On fortune for their mouyng minde;
So should I know no cause to lay
This change to chaunce by course of kinde;

SOME men would think of right to haue,

For their true meaning, some reward:

But while that I do cry and craue,
I see that others be preferd.

I gape for that I am debard:

I fare as doth the hound at hatch,

The worse I spede, the lenger I watch.

My wastefull wille is tried by trust;
My fond fansie is mine abuse;
For that I would refraine my lust,
For mine auaile I cannot chuse
A will, and yet no power to use:
A will no will, by reason just,
Sins my will is at others lust.

They eate the bony, I hold the hiue;
I sow the sede, they repe the corne;
I waste, they winne; I draw, they driue;
Theirs is the thank, mine is the scorne;

I seke, they spede: in wast my winde is worne;
I gape, they get, and gredely I snatche,
Still worse I spede, the lenger I watche.

I fast, they fede; they drink, I thurst;
They laugh, I waile; they joy, I mourne;
They gaine, I lose, I have the wurst;
They whole, I sicke; they cold; I burne;
They leape, I lye; they slepe, I tosse and turne;
I would, they may; I craue, they have at will;
That helpeth them; lo cruelty doth me kill.

to agree,

[sworne bee: As though in witnes with the rest it would hers But if she then mistrust, it woulde turne blacke to white:

For that the woorier lokes most smoth, when he would fainest bite,

Then wit, as councellor, a helpe for this to finde, Straight makes the hand, as secretair, forthwith to write his minde:

And so the letters straight embassadours are made, To treate in haste for to procure her to a better trade;

Wherin if she do think al this is but a shewe, Or but a subtile masking cloke to hide a crafty shrewe. [the field: Then come they to the larme, then shewe they in Then muster they in colours strange, the waies to make her yield: [in: Then shoote they batry off, then compasse they her At tilt and turney oft they striue this selly soul to win; [forth their song, Then sound they on their lutes, then strain they Then rumble they with instruments to lay her [and watch; Then borde they her with giftes, then do they woo Then night and day they labour hard this simple hold to catch,

quite along:

As pathes within a wood, or turnes within a mase, So then they shewe of wiles and craftes they can a thousand waies.

OF THE VANITY OF MANS LIFE.
VAYNE is the fleting welth
Wheron the world stayes,
Sith stalking time by priuy stelth
Encrocheth on our dayes.

And elde which creepeth fast,
To taint us with her wounde,
Will turne eche blisse unto a blast,
Which lasteth but a staunde.

Of youth the lusty floure,
Which whilome stode in price,
Shall vanish quite within an houre,
As fire consumes the ice.

Where is become that wight, For whose sake Troy towne Withstode the Grekes till ten yeres fight Had rasde their walls adowne?

Did not the wormes consume
Her carion to the dust?

Did dreadfull death forbeate his fume
For beauty, pride, or lust?

THE LOUER NOT REGARDED IN EARN-
EST SUTE, BEING BECOME WISER, RE-
FUSETH HER PROFRED LOUE:
Do way your physike, I faint no more;
The salue you sent, it comes too late:
You wist well al my grief before,
And what I suffred for your sake:
Hole is my hart, I plaine no more,
A new the cure did undertake,
Wherefore do way, you come too late.