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       *       *       *       *       *

  _Demy 16mo, 3s. 6d. each.
  Bound in paper boards, with parchment back._

  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


                                                                  PAGE

  INTRODUCTION                                                       vii

  I. THOMAS LODGE.
  Reply to Gosson                                                      1

  II. JOHN LYLY (?)
  Pap with a Hatchet                                                  43

  III. NICHOLAS BRETON.
  A Pretty and Witty Discourse                                        84

  IV. ROBERT GREENE.
  Groat's Worth of Wit                                               115

  V. GABRIEL HARVEY.
  Precursor to Pierce's Supererogation                               164

  VI. THOMAS NASH.
  Prognostication                                                    185

  VII. THOMAS DEKKER.
  The Gull's Hornbook                                                209

  NOTES                                                              277




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 _Faerie 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 _AEsopes_ 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 e[i]ther 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 _AEneas_ 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 quae si introspiciantur videri possunt
non vanae_. 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 quaerere_. 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 poenam 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
co[u]ld 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
co[u]ldst 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 vitae pars elabitur
male agentibus, maxima nihill agentibus, tota aliud
agentibus_, the most of our life (sayd he) is spent
e[i]ther 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 _AEgipt_,
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 expectation[=e]_,
yea though it can speake for it self, yet her patron
_Tullie_ now shall tell her tale, _Haec 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 co[u]ld versify exte[m]pory. Who liketh
not of the promptness of _Ovid_? Who not unworthely
co[u]ld 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 _mediolan[=u]_ 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
co[u]ntrimen 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 _Por[=u]_, 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 _AEneas_ 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 poetae._ 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 foedo deterruit orpheus.
  Dictus ob hoc lenire Tigres rabidosque leones.
  Dictus et Amphion Thebanae 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 sho[u]ld 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 _AEneiados_ wher he lernedly
describeth ye journey of _AEneas_ 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 Phoebo 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 co[u]che 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[s], 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
y[i]eld 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 quae 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 Anapaestus 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 co[u]ld not be deflowred by
_AEgistus_, before he had wickedly slain the musitian.
So yt as the magnetes draweth Iorne, and the
Theamides (w^c groweth in _AEgipt_) 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 e[i]ther 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
vitae, 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 penae._

  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 lucerna 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
    Praecipue causis: ut linguas mancipiorum
  Cont[=e]nas. N[=a] 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 coecus_, 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 Caesar_) 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 aequare 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[s], 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 th[=e]
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
malec[=o]tents (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 fr[=o] 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
th[=e] 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 <DW7>. 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.

 [Sidenote: _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, quae 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.

 [Sidenote: _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-m[=o]gers 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
c[=o]ming 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 (o 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.

 [Sidenote: _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.

 [Sidenote: _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.

 [Sidenote: _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 m[=e], 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, th[=e] 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.

 [Sidenote: _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 wom[=a] 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 w[=e]t 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 ch[=a]ge, 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 g[=a]der 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 c[=o]fusion 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
gouernm[=e]t? 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 h[=u]dred, 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_, _Naeme_, 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  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 <DW7>s 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 th[=e] 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.

 [Sidenote: _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.

 [Sidenote: _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 Caesar_, therefore
they meane nothing against Caesar. There
may bee hidden vnder their long gownes
short daggers, and so in blearing Caesars eyes, conspire
Caesars 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 th[=a] 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 brok[=e] 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,
wh[=e] 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 v[=e]t 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 c[=o]ceit? 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 c[=o]science 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 ha, che non sa._ Vires sit Vulnere
Veritas. London: Printed by THOMAS CREEDE,
1599.


TO GENTLEMEN 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 recovered?

  _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 tossed, 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, _Gioventu
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 Wil playing: Wit at good
exercise, and Wil 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 Wil 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.

_Wil._ Then, Wit, thou shalt understand, I heard
these speeches past among penitent people: when
Wit is wayward, Wil is nobody: wofull Wit, blames
wanton Wil: wanton Wit, chides worthy Wil: unhappie
Wit, hasty Wil: 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, Wil
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, Wil, 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
<f>Hornbook</f> 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._

  _Faelicem 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

In an Iland bound with the Ocean, there was sometime
a Citie situated, made rich by Marchandize and
populous by long space: the name is not mentioned
in the Antiquary, or else worne out by times Antiquitie:
what it was it greatly skilles not: but therein
thus it happened. An old new made Gentleman
herein dwelt, of no small credit, exceeding wealth,
and large conscience: he had gathered from many to
bestowe vpon one, for though he had two sonnes, he
esteemed but one, that being as himselfe, brought
vp to be goldes bondman, was therefore held heire
apparent of his ill gathered goods.

The other was a Scholler, and maried to a proper
Gentlewoman, and therefore least regarded, for tis
an olde said saw: To learning and law, ther's no
greater foe, then they that nothing know: yet was
not the father altogether vnlettered, for he had good
experience in a _Nouerint_, and by the vniuersall
tearmes therein contained, had driuen many gentlewomen
to seeke vnknowen countries: wise he was,
for he boare office in his / parish, and sate as formally
in his fox-furd gowne, as if he had beene a very
vpright dealing Burges: he was religious too, neuer
without a booke at his belt, and a bolt in his mouth,
ready to shoote through his sinfull neighbor.

And Latin he had some where learned, which
though it were but little, yet was it profitable, for
he had this Philosophie written in a ring, _Tu tibi
cura_, which precept he curiously obserued, being in
selfeloue so religious, as he held it no point of charitie
to part with any thing, of which he liuing might make
vse.

But as all mortall things are momentarie, and no
certaintie can bee founde in this vncertaine world, so
_Gorinius_ (for that shall be this Usurers name) after
many a goutie pang that had pincht his exterior
parts, many a curse of the people that mounted into
heauens presence, was at last with his last summons,
by a deadly disease arrested, where-against when hee
had long contended, and was by Phisitions giuen
ouer, hee cald his two sonnes before him: and willing
to performe the olde prouerbe, _Qualis vita finis
Ita_, hee thus prepared himselfe, and admonished
them. My sonnes (for so your mother said ye were)
and so I assure my selfe one of you is, and of the
other I wil make no doubt.

You see the time is come, which I thought would
neuer haue approached, and we must now be seperated,
I feare neuer to meete againe. This sixteene
yeares daily haue I liued vexed with disease: and
might I liue sixteene more, how euer miserably, I
should thinke it happie. But death is relentlesse,
and will not be intreated: witlesse, and knowes not
what good my gold might do him: senseless, & hath
no pleasure in the delightfull places / I would offer
him. In breefe, I thinke he hath with this foole my
eldest sonne beene brought vp in the vniuersitie, and
therefore accounts that in riches is no vertue. But
you my sonne (laying then his hand on the yongers
head) haue thou another spirit: for without wealth
life is a death: what is gentry if wealth be wanting,
but base seruile beggerie? Some comfort yet it
is vnto me, to see how many gallants sprung of noble
parents haue croucht to _Gorinius_ to haue sight of
his gold: O gold, desired golde, admired golde! and
haue lost their patrimonies to _Gorinius_, because they
haue not returned by their day that adored creature!
How many schollers haue written rimes in _Gorinius_
praise, and receiued (after long capping and reuerence)
a sixpeny reward in signe of my superficiall
liberalitie. Breefely my yong _Lucanio_, how I haue
bin reuerenst thou seest, when honester men I confesse,
haue beene set farre off: for to be rich is to
be any thing, wise, honest, worshipfull, or what not?
I tell thee my sonne: when I came first to this
Cittie, my whole wardrop was onely a sute of white
sheepe skins, my wealth an olde Groate, my wooning,
the wide world. At this instant (O griefe to part
with it) I haue in readie coyne threescore thousand
pound, in plate and Jewels, xv. thousand, in bonds
and specialties as much, in land nine hundred pound
by the yeere: all which, _Lucanio_ I bequeath to thee,
onely I reserue for _Roberto_ thy well red brother, an
olde Groate (being the stocke I first began with)
wherewith I wish him to buy a groatsworth of wit:
for he in my life hath reprooued my maner of life,
and therefore at my death, shall not be contaminated
with corrupt gaine. Heere by the way Gentlemen
must I disgresse to shew the reason of _Gorinius_
present speech: _Roberto_ being / come from the
Academie, to visit his father, there was a great feast
prouided: where for table talke, _Roberto_ knowing his
father and most of the companie to be execrable
vsurers, inuayed mightily against that abhorred vice,
insomuch that he vrged teares from diuers of their
eyes, and compunction in some of their hearts.
Dinner being past, hee comes to his father, requesting
him to take no offence at his liberall speech,
seeing what he had vttered was truth. Angrie, sonne
(saide he) no by my honesty (& that is somwhat
I may say to you), but vse it still, and if thou canst
perswade any of my neighbours from lending vppon
vsurie, I should haue the more customers: to which
when _Roberto_ would haue replied, he shut himselfe
into his studie, and fell to telling ouer his money.

This was _Robertos_ offence: nowe returne we to
seeke _Gorinius_, who after he had thus vnequally
distributed his goods and possessions, began to aske
his sons how they liked his bequestes: either seemed
agreed, and _Roberto_ vrged him with nothing more,
then repentance of his sin: Loke to thine owne, said
he, fond boy, and come my _Lucanio_, let me giue
thee good counsel before my death: as for you sir,
your bookes are your counsellors, and therefore to
them I bequeath you. Ah _Lucanio_, my onely comfort,
because I hope thou wilt as thy father be a
gatherer, let me blesse thee before I die. Multiply
in wealth my sonne by anie meanes thou maist, onely
flie Alchymie, for therein are more deceites then her
beggerly Artistes haue wordes; and yet are the
wretches more talkatiue then women. But my
meaning is, thou shouldest not stand on conscience
in causes of profite, but heape treasure vpon treasure,
for the time of neede: yet seeme / to be deuout,
else shalt thou be held vile: frequent holy exercises,
graue companie, and aboue all, vse the conuersation
of yong Gentlemen, who are so wedded to prodigalitie,
that once in a quarter necessity knocks at
their chamber doores: profer them kindnesse to
relieue their wants, but be sure of good assurance:
giue faire words till dayes of payment come, and
then vse my course, spare none: what though they
tell of conscience (as a number will talke) looke but
into the dealings of the world, & thou shalt see it
is but idle words. Seest thou not many perish in
the streetes, and fall to theft for neede: whom small
succor would releeue. Then where is conscience, and
why art thou bound to vse it more then other men?
Seest thou not daily forgeries, periuries, oppressions,
rackings of the poore, raysing of rents, inhauncing of
duties, euen by them that shuld be all conscience,
if they meant as they speake: but _Lucanio_ if thou
reade well this booke, (and with that hee reacht him
Machiauels works at large) thou shalt see what it is
to be foole-holy, as to make scruple of conscience,
where profit presents it selfe.

Besides, thou hast an instance by thy threed-bare
brother heere, who willing to do no wrong, hath lost
his childs right: for who would wish any thing to
him, that knowes not how to vse it?

So much _Lucanio_ for conscience: and yet I
knowe not whats the reason, but somewhat stings mee
inwardly when I speake of it. I, father, said _Roberto_,
it is the worme of conscience, that vrges you at the
last houre to remember your life, that eternall life
may follow your repentance. Out foole (said this
miserable father) I feele it now, it was onely a stitch.
I will forward with my exhortation to _Lucanio_. As I
saide my / sonne, make spoyle of yong gallants by
insinuating thy selfe amongst them, and be not
mooued to think their Auncestors were famous, but
consider thine were obscure, and that thy father was
the first Gentleman of the name: _Lucanio_ thou art
yet a Bachelor, and so keepe thee, till thou meete
with one that is thy equall, I meane in wealth:
regard not beautie, it is but a baite to entice thine
neighbors eie: and the most faire are commonly
most fond: vse not too many familiars, for few
prooue friends, and as easie it is to weigh the wind,
as to diue into the thoughts of worldly glosers. I
tell thee _Lucanio_, I haue seene foure score winters
besides the odde seauen, yet saw I neuer him that I
esteemed as my friend but gold, that desired creature,
whom I haue deerely loued, and found so firme a
friend, as nothing, to me hauing it, hath beene wanting.
No man but may thinke deerely of a true
friend, and so doe I of it, laying it vnder sure locks,
and lodging my heart therwith.

But now (Ah my _Lucanio_) now must I leaue it,
and to thee I leaue it with this lesson, loue none but
thy selfe, if thou wilt liue esteemed. So turning
him to his study, where his chiefe treasure lay, he
loud cried out in the wise mans words, _O mors quam
amara_, O death how bitter is thy memorie to him
that hath al pleasures in this life, and so with two or
three lamentable groanes he left his life: and to
make short worke, was by _Lucanio_ his sonne enterd,
as the custome is with some solemnitie: But leauing
him that hath left the world to him y^t censureth of
euery worldly man, passe we to his sons: and see
how his long laied vp store is by _Lucanio_ looked
into. The youth was of c[=o]dition simple, shamefast,
and flexible to any counsaile, which _Roberto_ perceiuing,
and pondering how little was left to him,
grew into an inward contempt of his fathers vnequall
legacie, and determinate resolution to worke _Lucanio_
al possible iniurie: here vpon thus conuerting the
sweetnesse of his studie to the sharpe thirst of
reuenge, he (as Enuie is seldome idle) sought out
fit companions to effect his unbrotherly resolution.
Neither in such a case is ill companie farre to seeke,
for the Sea hath scarce so ioperdies, as populous
Citties haue deceiuing Syrens, whose eies are Adamants,
whose wares are witchcrafts, whose doores
leade downe to death. With one of these female
Serpents _Roberto_ consorts, and they conclude, what
euer they compassed, equally to share to their
contentes. This match made, _Lucanio_ was by his
brother brought to the bush, where he had scarce
pruned his wings but hee was fast limed, and _Roberto_
had what he expected. But that we may keepe
forme, you shall heare how it fortuned.

_Lucanio_ being on a time very pensiue, his brother
brake with him in these tearmes. I wonder _Lucanio_
why you are so disconsolate, that want not any thing
in the world that may worke your content. If
wealth may delight a man, you are with that sufficiently
furnisht: if credit may procure a man any
comfort, your word I knowe well, is as well accepted
as any mans obligation: in this Citie are faire buildings
and pleasant gardens, and cause of solace: of
them I am assured you haue your choyse. Consider
brother you are yong, then plod not altogether in
meditating on our fathers precepts: which howsoeuer
they sauoured of profit, were most vnsauerly to one
of your yeeres applied. You must not thinke but
certaine Marchants of this Citie expect your company,
sundry Gentlemen desire your / familiarity,
and by conuersing with such, you will be accounted
a Gentleman: otherwise a pesant, if ye liue thus
obscurely. Besides, which I had almost forgot, and
then had all the rest beene nothing, you are a man
by nature furnished with all exquisite proportion,
worthy the loue of any courtly Ladie, be she neuer
so amorous: you haue wealth to maintaine her, of
women not little longed for: wordes to court her you
shall not want, for my selfe will be your secretary.
Brieflie, why stande I to distinguish abilitie in perticularities,
when in one word it may be sayde, which
no man can gainsay, _Lucanio_ lacketh nothing to
delight a wife, nor any thing but a wife to delight
him? My young maister beeing thus clawde, and
puft vp with his owne prayse, made no longer delay,
but hauing on his holyday hose, he tricked himselfe
vp, and like a fellowe that meant good sooth, hee
clapped his Brother on the Shoulder, and sayde.
Faith Brother _Roberto_, and yee say the worde, lets
go seeke a wife while it is hote, both of vs togither.
Ile pay well, and I dare turne you loose to say as
well as anye of them all: well Ile doe my best, said
_Roberto_, and since ye are so forward, lets goe nowe
and trie our good fortune.

With this foorth they walke, and _Roberto_ went
directlie towarde the house where _Lamilia_ (for so
wee call the Curtezan) kept her Hospital, which was
in the Suburbes of the Cittie, pleasauntly seated,
and made more delectable by a pleasaunt Garden,
wherein it was scituate. No sooner come they
within ken, but Mistresse _Lamilia_ like a cunning
angler made readie her chaunge of baytes, that shee
might effect _Lucanios_ bane: and to begin, shee discouered
from her window her beauteous inticing
face, and taking a lute in her h[=a]d that / she might
the rather allure, she sung this Sonnet with a delicious
voice.

_Lamilias Song._

        Fie fie on blind fancie,
        It hinders youths ioy:
        Faire virgins learne by me,
        To count loue a toy.

When Loue learned first the A B C of delight,
And knew no figures, nor conceited phrase:
He simplie gaue to due desert her right,
He led not louers in darke winding wayes:
  He plainly wild to loue, or flatly answered no,
  But now who lists to proue, shall find it nothing so:
      Fie fie then on fancie,
      It hinders youths ioy,
      Faire virgins learne by me,
      To count loue a toy.
For since he learnd to vse the Poets pen,
He learnd likewise with smoothing words to faine,
Witching chast eares with trothlesse toungs of men,
And wrayed faith with falshood and disdaine.
  He giues a promise now, anon he sweareth no,
  Who lifteth for to proue, shall find his changings so:
      Fie fie then on fancie
      It hinders youth[s] ioy,
      Faire virgins learn by me,
      To count loue a toy.

While this painted sepulchre was shadowing her
corrupting guilt, Hiena-like alluring to destruction,
_Roberto_ and _Lucanio_ vnder the windowe, kept euen
pace with / euery stop of her instrument, but especially
my yong Ruffler (that before time like a bird
in a cage, had beene prentise for three liues or one
and twentie yeeres at least, to esteame Auarice his deceased
father). O twas a world to see how he sometime
simperd it, striuing to set a countenance on his
turnd face, that it might seeme of wainscot proofe,
to beholde her face without blushing: anone he
would stroake his bow-bent-leg, as though he went
to shoote loue arrows from his shins: then wipte his
chin (for his beard was not yet grown) with a gold
wrought handkercher, whence of purpose he let fall
a handfull of angels. This golden showre was no
sooner rained, but _Lamil[i]a_, ceast her song, and
_Roberto_ (assuring himselfe the foole was caught)
came to _Lucanio_ (that stoode now as one that had
starde _Medusa_ in the face) and awaked him from his
amazement with these words: What, in a traunce
brother? whence springs these dumps? are yee
amazed at this obiect? or long ye to become loues
subiect? Is there not difference betweene this
delectable life and the imprisonment you haue all
your life hitherto endured? If the sight and hearing
of this harmonious beautie work in you effects of
wonder, what will the possession of so diuine an
essence, wherein beautie and Art dwell in their
perfect excellencie. Brother said _Lucanio_, lets vse
few words, and she be no more then a woman, I
trust youle helpe mee to her? and if you doe, well,
I say no more, but I am yours till death vs depart,
and what is mine shal ye yours, world without end,
Amen.

_Roberto_ smiling at his simplenesse, helpt him to
gather vp his dropt golde, and without any more
circumstance led him to _Lamilias_ house: for of such
places it may be said as of hell. /

Noctes atque dies patet atri ianua ditis.

So their doores are euer open to entice youth
to destruction. They were no sooner entred, but
_Lamilia_ her selfe, like a second _Helen_, court-like
begins to salute _Roberto_, yet did her wandring eie
glance often at _Lucanio_: the effect of her entertainment
consisted in these tearmes, that to her simple
house Signor _Roberto_ was welcome, and his brother
the better welcome for your sake: albeit his good
report confirmed by his present demeaner, were of
it selfe enough to giue him deserued entertainement,
in any place how honourable soeuer: mutuall thanks
returned, they lead this prodigal childe into a Parlor,
garnished with goodly portratures of amiable personages:
neere which, an excellent consert of musicke
began at their entrance to play. _Lamilia_ seeing
_Lucanio_ shamefast, tooke him by the hand, and
tenderly wringing him, vsed these words: Beleeue
me Gentlemen, I am verie sorie that our rude enter[tain]ment
is such, as no way may worke your
content: for this I haue noted since your first entering,
that your countenance hath beene heauie, and
the face being the glasse of the heart, assures me the
same is not quiet: would ye wish any thing heere
that might content you, say but the word, and assure
ye of present deliuerance to effect your full delight.
_Lucanio_ being so farre in loue, as he perswaded
himselfe without her grant hee could not liue, had a
good meaning to vtter his minde, but wanting fit
wordes, hee stoode like a trewant that lackt a
prompter, or a plaier that being out of his part at
his first entrance is faine to haue the booke to
speake what he should performe. Which _Roberto_
perceiuing replied thus in his behalfe: Madame, the
Sunnes brightnesse daisleth the beholders eies, the
maiestie of Gods, / amazed humane men. _Tullie_
Prince of Orators, once fainted though his cause
were good, and he that tamed monsters, stoode
amated at beauties ornaments: Then blame not this
yoong man though hee replied not, for he is blinded
with the beautie of your sunne-darkening eies, made
mute with the celestiall organe of your voyce, and
feare of that rich ambush of amber  darts,
whose pointes are leuelde against his heart. Well
Signor _Roberto_ saide shee, how euer you interpret
their sharpe leuell, be sure they are not bent to doe
him hurt, and but that modestie blindes vs poore
Maidens from vttering the inwarde sorrowe of our
mindes, perchaunce the cause of greefe is ours, how
euer men do colour, for as I am a virgin I protest
(and therewithall shee tainted her cheekes with a
vermilion blush) I neuer sawe Gentleman in my life
in my eie so gratious as is _Lucanio_, onely that is my
greefe, that either I am despised for that he scornes
to speake, or else (which is my greater sorrow) I
feare he cannot speake. Not speake Gentlewoman
quoth _Lucanio?_ that were a ieast indeede: yes, I
thanke God I am sounde of winde and lim, onely
my heart is not as it was woont: but and you be as
good as your word, that will soone be well, and so
crauing ye of more acquaintance, in token of my
plaine meaning receiue this diamond, which my olde
father loued deerely: and with that deliuered her a
Ring, wherein was apointed a Diamond of wonderfull
worth. Which shee accepting with a lowe conge,
returned him a silke Riband for a fauour, tyed with
a truelouers knot, which he fastened vnder a faire
Jewell on his Beuer felt.

After this _Diomedis & Glauci permutatio_, my
young master / waxed cranke, and the musicke continuing,
was very forward in dauncing, to shew his
cunning: and so desiring them to play on a hornepipe,
laid on the pauement lustily with his leaden
heeles, coruetting like a steede of _Signor Roccoes_
teaching, and wanted nothing but bels, to bee a
hobbyhorse in a morrice. Yet was he soothed in
his folly, and what euer he did, _Lamilia_ counted
excellent: her praise made him proude, insomuch
that if he had not beene intreated, hee would rather
haue died in his daunce, then left off to shew his
mistresse delight. At last reasonably perswaded,
seeing the table furnished, he was contented to cease,
and settle himselfe to his victuals, on which (hauing
before labored) he fed lustily, especially of a Woodcocke
pie, wherewith _Lamilia_ his caruer, plentifully
plied him. Full dishes hauing furnisht emptie
stomaches, and _Lucanio_ thereby got leisure to talke,
falles to discourse of his wealth, his lands, his bonds,
his abilitie, and how himselfe with all he had, was at
Madame _Lamilias_ disposing: desiring her afore his
brother, to tell him simply what shee meant. _Lamilia_
replied: My sweet _Lucanio_, how I esteeme of thee
mine eies doe witnesse, that like handmaides, haue
attended thy beautious face, euer since I first beheld
thee: yet seeing loue that lasteth gathereth by
degrees his liking, let this for that suffice: if I finde
thee firme, _Lamilia_ will be faithful: if fleeting, she
must of necessitie be infortunate that hauing neuer
seene any whome before shee could affect, shee
shoulde bee of him iniuriously forsaken. Nay saide
_Lucanio_, I dare say my brother here will giue his
word. For that I accept your own said _Lamilia_, for
with me your credit is better then your brothers.
_Roberto_ brake off their amorous prattle with these
speeches. Sith / either of you are of other so fond
at the first sight, I doubt not but time will make
your loue more firme. Yet madame _Lamilia_ although
my brother and you be thus forward, some
crosse chaunce may come: for _Multa cadunt inter
calicem supremaq. labra_. And for a warning to teach
you both wit, Ile tell you an olde wiues tale.

Before ye go on with your tale (quoth mistresse
_Lamilia_) let me giue ye a caueat by the way, which
shall be figured in a Fable.


_Lamiliaes Tale._

The Foxe on a time came to visite the Gray,
partly for kindered, cheefely for craft: and finding
the hole emptie of all other companie, sauing onely
one Badger; enquiring the cause of his solitarinesse,
he described the sodaine death of his dam and sire,
with the rest of his consorts. The Foxe made a
Friday face, counterfeiting sorrow: but concluding
that deaths shake was vneuitable, perswaded him
to seeke some fit mate wherwith to match. The
Badger soone agreed: so forth they went, and in
their way met with a wanton ewe straggling from the
fold: the Foxe bad the Badger play the tall stripling,
and strout on his tiptoes: for (quoth he) this ewe is
lady of al these lands, and her brother cheefe bel-weather
of sundrie flocks. To be short, by the
Foxes permission there would be a perpetuall league
betweene her harmelesse kindred and al other deuouring
beasts, for that the Badger was to them all
allied: seduced, shee yeelded: and the Foxe conducted
them to the Badgers / habitation, where drawing
her aside vnder color of exhortation, [he] pulde
out her throate to satisfie his greedie thurst. Here
I should note, a yoong whelpe that viewed their
walke, infourmed the shepheard of what hapned.
They followed, and trained the Foxe and Badger to
the hole: the Foxe afore had craftily conuaied himself
away: the shepheard found the Badger rauing
for the ewes murther: his lamentation being helde
for counterfet, was by the shepheards dog wearied.
The Foxe escaped: the ewe was spoiled: and euer
since, betweene the Badgers and the dogges, hath
continued a mortall enmitie: And now be aduised
_Roberto_ (quoth she), goe forward with your tale, seeke
not by slie insinuation to turne our mirth to sorrow.
Go too _Lamilia_ (quoth hee), you feare what I meane
not, but how euer ye take it, Ile forward with my tale.


_Robertoes Tale._

In the North parts there dwelt an old Squier, that
had a yong daughter his heire; who had (as I know
Madame _Lamilia_ you haue had) many youthfull
Gentlemen that long time sued to obtaine her loue.
But she knowing her owne perfection (as women are
by nature proude) woulde not to any of them
vouchsafe fauour: insomuch that they perceiuing
her relentlesse, shewed themselues not altogether
witlesse, but left her to her fortune, when they founde
her frowardnesse. At last it fortuned among other
strangers, a Farmers sonne visited her fathers house:
on whom at the first sight shee was enamored, he
likewise on hir. Tokens of loue past betweene
them, either acquainted others parents of their choise,
and they kindly gaue their consent. Short tale to
make, married they were, and great solemnitie was
at the wedding feast. A yong Gentleman, that had
beene long a suter to her, vexing that the sonne of
a farmer should be so preferred, cast in his minde by
what meanes (to marre their merriment) he might
steale away the Bride. Hereupon he confers with
an old beldam, called mother _Gunby_, dwelling thereby,
whose counsell hauing taken, he fell to his practise,
and proceeded thus. In the after noone, when
dauncers were very busie, he takes the Bride by the
hand, and after a turne or two, tels her in her eare,
he had a secret to impart vnto her, appointing her
in any wise, in the euening to find a time to confer
with him: she promised she would and so they
parted. Then goes he to the bridegroome, and with
protestations of entire affect, protests that the great
sorrow hee takes at that which he must vtter, whereon
depended his especial credit, if it were knowne the
matter by him should be discouered. After the
bridegroomes promise of secrecie, the gentleman tels
him, that a friend of his receiued that morning from
y^e bride a letter, wherein she willed him with some
sixteene horse to awaite her comming at a Parke
side, for that she detested him in her heart as a
base country hinde, with whom her father compelled
her to marrie. The bridegroome almost out of his
wits, began to bite his lippe. Nay, saith the Gentleman,
if you will by me be aduised, you shall saue
her credit, win her by kindnes, and yet preuent her
wanton complot. As how, said the Bridegroome?
Mary, thus, said the gentleman: In the euening (for
till the guests be gone she intends not to gad) get
you / on horsebacke, and seeme to be of the companie
that attends her comming: I am appointed to
bring her from the house to the Parke, and from
thence fetch a winding compasse of a mile about,
but to turne vnto olde mother _Gunbyes_ house, where
her louer my friend abides: when she alights, I wil
conduct her to a chamber far from his lodging, but
when the lights are out, and she expects her adulterous
copesmate, your selfe (as reason is) shall proue her
bedfellow, where priuately you may reprooue her,
and in the morning earely returne home without
trouble. As for the gentleman my frend, I will
excuse her absence to him, by saying, shee mockt
thee with her maide in stead of her selfe, whom when
I knew at her lighting, I disdained to bring her vnto
his presence. The Bridegroome gaue his hand it
should be so.

Now by the way we must vnderstand this mother
_Gunby_ had a daughter, who all that day sate heauily
at home with a willow garland, for that the bridegroome
(if he had dealt faithfully) should haue
wedded her before any other. But men (_Lamilia_)
are vnconstant, mony now a daies makes the match,
or else the match is marde.

But to the matter: the bride groome and the
Gentleman thus agreed: he tooke his time, conferred
with the bride, perswaded her that her husband
(notwithstanding his faire shew at the marriage) had
sworne to his old sweete heart, their neighbour
_Gunbyes_ daughter, to be that night her bedfellow:
and if she would bring her father, his father, and
other friends to the house at midnight, they should
finde it so.

At this the yong gentlewoman inwardly vext to
be by a peasant so abused, promised if she sawe
likelyhood of / his slipping away, that then she would
doe according as he directed.

All this thus sorting, the old womans daughter
was trickly attired, ready to furnish this pageant, for
her old mother promised all things necessarie.

Well, Supper past, dauncing ended, all the guests
would home, and the Bridgroome pretending to
bring some friend of his home, got his horse, and to
the Parke side he rode, and stayed with the horsemen
that attended the Gentleman.

Anone came _Marian_ like mistris Bride, and
mounted behind the gentleman, away they post,
fetch their compasse, & at last alight at an olde wiues
house, where sodenly she is conuaied to her chamber,
& the bridegroome sent to keepe her company:
where he had scarce deuised how to begin his exhortation,
but the father of his bride knockt at the
chamber doore. At which being somewhat amazed,
yet thinking to turne it to a ieast, sith his wife (as he
thought) was in bed with him, hee opened the doore,
saying: Father, you are heartily welcome, I wonder
how you found vs out heere; this deuise to remooue
our selues, was with my wiues consent, that we might
rest quietly without the Maids and Batchelers disturbing
vs. But where is your wife said y^e gentleman?
why heere in bed said he. I thought (quoth
the other) my daughter had beene your wife, for sure
I am to-day shee was giuen you in marriage. You
are merrily disposed said the Bridegroome, what,
thinke you I haue another wife? I thinke but as
you speake, quoth the gentleman, for my daughter is
below, & you say your wife is in the bed. Below
(said he) you are a merie man, and with that casting
on a night-gowne, he went downe, where when he
saw his wife, the gentleman his father, and a number
/ of his friends assembled, he was so confounded,
that how to behaue himselfe he knew not; onely hee
cried out that he was deceiued. At this the olde
woman arises, and making her selfe ignorant of al
the whole matter, enquires the cause of that sodaine
tumult. When she was tolde the new bridegroome was
found in bed with her daughter, she exclaimed against
so great an iniurie. _Marian_ was called in quorum:
she iustified it was by his allurement: he being condemned
by al their consents, was iudged vnworthy
to haue the gentlewoman vnto his wife, & compelled
(for escaping of punishment) to marrie _Marian_: and
the yong Gentleman (for his care in discouering the
farmers sonnes leudnes) was recompenst with the
Gentlewomans euer during loue.

Quoth _Lamilia_, and what of this? Nay nothing
saide _Roberto_, but that I haue told you the effects
of sodaine loue: yet the best is, my brother is a
maidenly batcheler, and for your selfe, you haue
beene troubled with many suters. The fewer the
better, said _Lucanio_. But brother, I con you little
thanke for this tale: hereafter I pray you vse other
table talke. Lets then end talk, quoth _Lamilia_, and
you (signor _Lucanio_) and I will goe to the Chesse.
To Chesse, said he, what meane you by that? It is
a game, said she, that the first danger is but a checke,
the worst, the giuing of a mate. Wel, said _Roberto_,
that game ye haue beene at alreadie then, for you
checkt him first with your beauty, & gaue your self
for mate to him by your bountie. That is wel taken
brother, said _Lucanio_, so haue we past our game at
Chesse. Wil ye play at tables then, said she? I
cannot, quoth he, for I can goe no furder with my
game, if I be once taken. Will ye play then at cards?
I, said he, if it be at one and thirtie. That fooles
game, said she? Weele all to hazard, said _Roberto_,
and / brother you shall make one for an houre or
two: contented quoth he. So to dice they went,
and fortune so fauoured _Lucanio_, that while they
continued square play, he was no looser. Anone
cosonage came about, and his Angels being double
winged flew cleane from before him. _Lamilia_ being
the winner, prepared a banquet; which finished,
_Roberto_ aduised his brother to depart home, and to
furnish himselfe with more crowns, least he were
outcrakt with new commers.

_Lucanio_ loath to be outcountenanst, followed his
aduise, desiring to attend his returne, which he before
had determined vnrequested: for as soone as his
brothers backe was turned, _Roberto_ begins to reckon
with _Lamilia_, to bee a sharer as well in the mony
deceitfully woone, as in the Diamond so wilfully
giuen. But she, _secundum mores meretricis_, iested
thus with the scholler. Why _Roberto_, are you so
well read, and yet shew your selfe so shallow witted,
to deeme women so weake of conceit, that they
see not into mens demerites? Suppose (to make
you my stale to catch the woodcocke, your brother)
that my tongue ouerrunning mine intent, I spake
of liberal rewarde; but what I promised, there is
the point; at least what I part with, I will be well
aduised. It may be you wil thus reason: Had not
_Roberto_ trained _Lucanio_ with _Lamilias_ lure, _Lucanio_
had not now beene _Lamilias_ prey: therfore sith by
_Roberto_ she possesseth her prize, _Roberto_ merites an
equall part. Monstrous absurd if so you reason; as
wel you may reason thus: _Lamilias_ dog hath kilde
her a deere, therefore his mistris must make him a
pastie. No poore pennilesse Poet, thou art beguilde
in me, and yet I wonder how thou couldest, thou
hast beene so often beguilde. But it fareth with
licentious men, as with the chased bore in the /
streame, who being greatly refreshed with swimming,
neuer feeleth any smart vntill he perish recurelesly
wounded with his owne weapons. Reasonlesse
_Roberto_, that hauing but a brokers place, asked a
lenders rewarde. Faithlesse _Roberto_, that hast attempted
to betray thy brother, irreligiously forsaken
thy wife, deseruedly beene in thy fathers eie an
abiect: thinkest thou _Lamilia_ so loose, to consort
with one so lewd? No hypocrite, the sweete Gentleman
thy brother, I will till death loue, and thee
while I liue loath. This share _Lamilia_ giues thee,
other gettest thou none.

As _Roberto_ would haue replied, _Lucanio_ approached:
to whom _Lamilia_ discourst the whole
deceit of his brother, & neuer rested intimating
malitious arguments, till _Lucanio_ vtterly refused
_Roberto_ for his brother, and for euer forbad him of
his house. And when he wold haue yeelded reasons,
and formed excuse, _Lucanios_ impatience (vrged by
her importunate malice) forbad all reasoning with
them that was reasonlesse, and so giuing him Jacke
Drums entertainment, shut him out of doores: whom
we will follow, and leaue _Lucanio_ to the mercie of
_Lamilia_. _Roberto_ in an extreame extasie rent his
haire, curst his destinie, blamed his trecherie, but
most of all exclaimed against _Lamilia_: and in her
against all enticing Curtizans in these tearmes.

    What meant the Poets to inuectiue verse,
    To sing Medeas shame, and Scillas pride,
    Calipsoes charmes, by which so many dide?
    Onely for this, their vices they rehearse,
    That curious wits which in this world conuerse,
    May shun the dangers and enticing shoes,
    Of such false Syrens, those home-breeding foes,
    That from their eies their venim do disperse. /
    So soone kils not the Basiliske with sight,
    The Vipers tooth is not so venomous,
    The Adders tung not halfe so dangerous,
    As they that beare the shadow of delight,
  Who chaine blinde youths in tramels of their haire,
  Till wast bring woe, and sorrow hast despaire.

With this he laide his head on his hand, and leant
his elbow on the ground sighing out sadly,

Heu patior telis vulnera facta meis.

On the other side of the hedge sate one that
heard his sorrow, who getting ouer, came towardes
him, and brake off his passion. When he approached,
he saluted _Roberto_ in this sort.

Gentleman, quoth hee (for so you seeme), I haue
by chaunce heard you discourse some part of your
greefe; which appeareth to be more then you will
discouer, or I can conceipt. But if you vouchsafe
such simple comfort as my abilitie will yeeld, assure
your selfe that I will endeuour to doe the best, that
either may procure your profit, or bring you pleasure:
the rather, for that I suppose you are a scholler, and
pittie it is men of learning should liue in lacke.

_Roberto_ wondring to heare such good words, for
that this iron age affoordes few that esteeme of
vertue, returned him thankfull gratulations, and
(vrged by necessitie) vttered his present griefe, beseeching
his aduise how he might be imployed. Why,
easily, quoth hee, and greatly to your benefit: for
men of my profession get by schollers their whole
liuing. What is your profession, sayd _Roberto_?
Truely, sir, said he, I am a player. A Player, quoth
_Roberto_, I tooke you rather for a gentleman of great
liuing, for if by outward habit men shuld be censured,
I tell you you would be taken for a substantiall
/ man. So am I, where I dwell (quoth the player),
reputed able at my proper cost to build a Windmill.
What though the worlde once went hard with mee,
when I was faine to carrie my playing Fardle a
footebacke; _Tempora mutantur_, I know you know
the meaning of it better then I, but I thus conster
it; it is otherwise now; for my very share in playing
apparrell will not be solde for two hundred pounds.
Truely (said _Roberto_) it is strange, that you should
so prosper in that vaine practise, for that it seemes to
me your voyce is nothing gracious. Nay then, said
the player, I mislike your iudgement: why, I am as
famous for Delphrigus, and the king of Fairies, as
euer was any of my time. The twelue labors of
_Hercules_ haue I terribly thundred on the stage, and
placed three scenes of the deuill on the highway to
heauen. Haue ye so (said _Roberto_)? then I pray
you pardon me. Nay, more (quoth the player), I can
serue to make a prettie speech, for I was a countrie
Author; passing at a morall, for it was I that pende
the Moral of mans wit, the Dialogue of Diues, and
for seauen yeeres space was absolute interpreter of the
puppets. But now my Almanacke is out of date.

  The people make no estimation,
  Of Morrals teaching education.

Was not this prettie for a plaine rime extempore?
if ye will ye shall haue more. Nay it is enough,
said _Roberto_, but how meane you to vse mee? Why
sir, in making playes, said the other, for which you
shall be well paied, if you will take the paines.

_Roberto_ perceiuing no remedie, thought best to
respect of his present necessity, to trie his wit, &
went with him willingly: who lodged him at the
townes end in a house of retaile, where what happened
our Poet you shall / heereafter heare. There,
by conuersing with bad company, he grew _A malo in
peius_, falling from one vice to another, and so hauing
found a vaine to finger crownes he grew cranker
then _Lucanio_, who by this time began to droope,
being thus dealt withall by _Lamilia_. She hauing bewitched
him with her enticing wiles, caused him to
consume, in lesse then two yeares, that infinite
treasure gathered by his father with so many a poore
mans curse. His lands sold, his iewels pawnd, his
money wasted, he was casseerd by _Lamilia_ that had
coosened him of all. Then walked he like one of
duke _Humfreys_ Squires, in a threedbare cloake, his
hose drawne out with his heeles, his shooes vnseamed,
lest his feete should sweate with heate: now (as
witlesse as he was) hee remembred his fathers words,
his kindnes to his brother, his carelesnesse of himselfe.
In this sorrow hee sate downe on pennilesse
bench; where, when _Opus_ and _Vsus_ told him by the
chimes in his stomacke it was time to fall vnto
meate, he was faine with the _Camelion_ to feed vpon
the aire, & make patience his best repast.

While he was at his feast, _Lamilia_ came flaunting
by, garnished with the iewels whereof she beguiled
him: which sight serued to close his stomacke after
his cold cheere. _Roberto_ hearing of his brothers
beggerie, albeit he had little remorse of his miserable
state, yet did he seeke him out, to vse him as a propertie,
whereby _Lucanio_ was somewhat prouided for.
But being of simple nature, hee serued but for a
blocke to whet _Robertoes_ wit on; which the poore
foole perceiuing, he forsooke all other hopes of life,
and fell to be a notorious Pandar: in which detested
course hee continued till death. But _Roberto_, now
famozed for an Arch-plaimaking-poet, his purse like
the sea somtime sweld, anon like the same sea /
fell to a low ebbe; yet seldom he wanted, his labors
were so well esteemed. Marry this rule he kept,
what euer he fingerd aforehand was the certaine
meanes to vnbinde a bargaine, and being asked why
he so sleightly dealt with them that did him good?
It becomes me, sa[i]th hee, to be contrarie to the
worlde, for commonly when vulgar men receiue
earnest, they doe performe, when I am paid any thing
aforehand I breake my promise. He had shift of
lodgings, where in euery place his Hostesse writ vp
the wofull remembrance of him, his laundresse, and
his boy; for they were euer his in houshold, beside
retainers in sundry other places. His companie were
lightly the lewdest persons in the land, apt for pilferie,
periurie, forgerie, or any villanie. Of these hee knew
the casts to cog at Cards, coosin at Dice: by these
he learned the legerdemaines of nips, foysters, conni-catchers,
crosbyters, lifts, high Lawyers, and all the
rabble of that vncleane generation of vipers: and pithily
could he paint out their whole courses of craft: So
cunning he was in all crafts, as nothing rested in him
almost but craftinesse. How often the Gentlewoman
his wife laboured vainely to recall him, is lamentable
to note: but as one giuen ouer to all lewdnes,
he communicated her sorrowful lines among his loose
truls, that iested at her bootelesse laments. If he could
any way get credite on scores, he would then brag
his creditors carried stones, comparing euerie round
circle to a groning O, procured by a painful burden.
The shamefull ende of sundry his consorts, deseruedly
punished for their amisse, wrought no compunction
in his heart: of which one, brother to a Brothell
he kept, was trust vnder a tree as round as a Ball.

To some of his swearing companions thus it happened /:
A crue of them sitting in a Tauerne carowsing,
it fortuned an honest Gentleman, and his friend,
to enter their roome: some of them being acquainted
with him, in their domineering drunken vaine, would
haue no nay, but downe he must needes sitte with
them; beeing placed, no remedie there was, but he
must needes keep euen compasse with their vnseemely
carrowsing. Which he refusing, they fell from high
wordes to sound strokes, so that with much adoe the
Gentleman saued his owne, and shifted from their
company. Being gone, one of these tiplers forsooth
lackt a gold Ring, the other sware they see the
Gentleman take it from his hande. Upon this
the Gentleman was indited before a Judge: these
honest men are deposed: whose wisedome weighing
the time of the braule, gaue light to the Iury what
power wine-washing poyson had: they, according
vnto conscience, found the Gentleman not guiltie,
and God released by that verdict the innocent.

With his accusers thus it fared: one of them for
murther was worthily executed: the other neuer since
prospered: the third, sitting not long after upon a
lustie horse, the beast suddenly died vnder him: God
amend the man.

_Roberto_ euery day acquainted with these examples,
was notwithstanding nothing bettered, but rather
hardened in wickednesse. At last was that place
iustified, God warneth men by dreams and visions in
the night, and by knowne examples in the day, but if
he returne not, hee comes vpon him with iudgement
that shall bee felt. For now when the number of
deceites caused _Roberto_ bee hatefull almost to all
men, his immeasurable drinking had made him the
perfect Image of the dropsie, and the loathsome
scourge of Lust, tyrannized in his loues: / liuing in
extreame pouerty, and hauing nothing to pay but
chalke, which now his Host accepted not for currant,
this miserable man lay comfortlessely languishing,
hauing but one groat left (the iust proporti[=o] of his
fathers Legacie) which looking on, he cried: O now
it is too late, too late to buy witte with thee: and
therefore will I see if I can sell to carelesse youth
what I negligently forgot to buy.

Heere (Gentlemen) breake I off _Robertos_ speech;
whose life in most parts agreeing with mine, found
one selfe punishment as I haue doone. Heereafter
suppose me the said _Roberto_, and I will goe on with
that hee promised: _Greene_ will send you now his
groatsworth of wit, that neuer shewed a mitesworth in
his life: and though no man now be by to doe me
good, yet, ere I die, I will by my repentance indeuor
to doe all men good.

  Deceiuing world, that with alluring toyes,
  Hast made my life the subiect of thy scorne:
  And scornest now to lend thy fading ioyes,
  To lengthen my life, whom friends haue left forlorne.
  How well are they that die ere they be borne,
    And neuer see thy sleights, which few men shun,
    Till vnawares they helplesse are vndon.

  Oft haue I sung of loue, and of his fire,
  But now I finde that Poet was aduizde;
  Which made full feasts increasers of desire,
  And prooues weake loue was with the poore despizde.
  For when the life with foode is not suffizde,
    What thoughts of loue, what motion of delight;
    What pleasance can proceede from such a wight?

  Witnesse my want the murderer of my wit,
  My rauisht sense of woonted furie reft;
  Wants such conceit, as should in Poims sit,
  Set downe the sorrow wherein I am left:
  But therefore haue high heauens their gifts bereft:
    Because so long they lent them me to vse,
    And I so long their bountie did abuse.

  O that a yeare were graunted me to liue,
  And for that yeare my former wits restorde:
  What rules of life, what counsell would I giue?
  How should my sinne with sorrow then deplore?
  But I must die of euery man abhorde.
    Time loosely spent will not againe be woonne,
    My time is loosely spent, and I vndone.

_O horrenda fames_, how terrible are thy assaultes?
but _Vermis conscientiae_, more wounding are thy stings.
Ah Gentlemen, that liue to reade my broken and
confused lines, looke not I should (as I was woont)
delight you with vain fantasies, but gather my follies
altogether, and as you would deale with so many
parricides, cast them into the fire: call them _Telegones_,
for now they kill their father, and euerie lewd
line in them written is a deep piercing wound to my
heart; euery idle houre spent by any in reading
them, brings a million of sorrowes to my soule. O
that the teares of a miserable man (for neuer any
man was yet more miserable) might wash their
memorie out with my death; and that those works
with me together might be interd. But sith they
cannot, let this my last worke witnes against them
with me, how I detest them. Blacke is the remembrance
of my blacke works, blacker then night, blacker
/ then death, blacker then hell.

Learne wit by my repentance (Gentlemen), and
let these fewe rules following be regarded in your
liues.

1. First in all your actions set God before your
eies; for the feare of the Lord is the beginning of
wisedome: Let his word be a lanterne to your feete,
and a light vnto your paths, then shall you stande as
firme rocks, and not be mocked.

2. Beware of looking backe: for God will not be
mocked; of him that hath receiued much, much shall
be demanded.

3. If thou be single, and canst abstaine, turne
thy eies from vanitie, for there is a kinde of women
bearing the faces of Angels, but the hearts of Deuils,
able to intrap the elect if it were possible.

If thou be m[a]rried, forsake not the wife of thy
youth, to follow strange flesh; for whoremongers
and adulterers the Lord will iudge. The doore of a
Harlot leadeth downe to death, and in her lips there
dwels destruction; her face is decked with odors,
but shee bringeth a man to a morsell of bread and
nakednesse: of which myselfe am instance.

5. If thou be left rich, remember those that want,
and so deale, that by thy wilfulnes thy self want not:
Let not Tauerners and Victuallers be thy Executors;
for they will bring thee to a dishonorable graue.

6. Oppresse no man, for the crie of the wronged
ascendeth to the eares of the Lord; neither delight
to encrease by Usurie, lest thou loose thy habitation
in the euerlasting Tabernacle.

7. Beware of building thy house to thy neighbours
hurt; for the stones will crie to the timber,
We were laide together in bloud: and those that so
erect houses, calling / them by their names, shall lie
in the graue like sheepe, and death shall gnaw vpon
their soules.

8. If thou be poore, be also patient, and striue
not to grow rich by indirect meanes; for goods so
gotten shall vanish away like smoke.

9. If thou be a father, maister, or teacher, ioyne
good examples with good counsaile; else little auaile
precepts, where life is different.

10. If thou be a sonne or seruant, despise not
reproofe; for though correction be bitter at the first,
it bringeth pleasure in the end.

Had I regarded the first of these rules, or beene
obedient at the last: I had not now, at my last ende,
beene left thus desolate. But now, though to my
selfe I giue _Consilium post facta_; yet to others they
may serue for timely precepts. And therefore (while
life giues leaue) will send warning to my olde consorts,
which haue liued as loosely as myselfe, albeit
weakenesse will scarce suffer me to write, yet to my
fellowe Schollers about this Cittie, will I direct these
few insuing lines.

_To those Gentlemen his Quondam acquaintance,
that spend their wits in making Plaies, R. G.
wisheth a better exercise, and wisdome
to preuent his extremities._

If wofull experience may mooue you (Gentlemen)
to beware, or vnheard of wretchednes intreate you
to take heed, I doubt not but you will looke
backe with sorrow on your time past, and endeuour
with repentance to spend that which is to come.
Wonder not (for with thee wil I first begin), thou
famous gracer of Tragedians, that _Greene_, who hath
said with thee like the foole / in his heart, There is
no God, should now giue glorie vnto his greatnesse:
for penitrating is his power, his hand lies heauie
vpon me, he hath spoken vnto me with a voice of
thunder, and I haue felt he is a God that can punish
enimies. Why should thy excellent wit, his gift, be
so blinded, that thou shouldst giue no glory to the
giuer? Is it pestilent Machiuilian pollicie that thou
hast studied? O punish follie! What are his rules
but meere confused mockeries, able to extirpate in
small time the generation of mankinde. For if _Sic
volo, sic iubeo_, hold in those that are able to command:
and if it be lawfull _Fas & nefas_ to doe any
thing that is beneficiall, onely Tyrants should possesse
the earth, and they striuing to exceede in tyranny,
should each to other bee a slaughter man; till the
mightiest outliuing all, one stroke were left for Death,
that in one age man's life should ende. The brother
of this Diabolicall Atheisme is dead, and in his life
had neuer the felicitie he aimed at: but as he began
in craft, liued in feare and ended in despaire.
_Quam inscrutabilia sunt Dei iudicia?_ This murderer
of many brethren had his conscience seared like
_Caine_: this betrayer of him that gaue his life for
him, inherited the portion of _Iudas_: this Apostata
perished as ill as _Iulian_: and wilt thou my friend
be his Disciple? Looke vnto me, by him perswaded
to that libertie, and thou shalt finde it an infernall
bondage. I knowe the least of my demerits merit
this miserable death, but wilfull striuing against
knowne truth, exceedeth al the terrors of my soule.
Defer not (with me) till this last point of extremitie;
for little knowest thou how in the end thou shalt be
visited.

With thee I ioyne young _Iuuenall_, that byting
Satyrist, that lastlie with mee together writ a
Comedie. Sweete / boy, might I aduise thee, be
aduised, and get not many enemies by bitter words:
inueigh against vaine men, for thou canst do it, no
man better, no man so wel: thou hast a libertie to
reprooue all, and none more; for one being spoken
to, all are offended, none being blamed no man is
iniured. Stop shallow water still running, it will
rage, tread on a worme and it will turne: then blame
not schollers vexed with sharpe lines, if they reproue
thy too much libertie of reproofe.

And thou no lesse deseruing then the other two,
in some things rarer, in nothing inferiour; driuen
(as my selfe) to extreame shifts, a little haue I to say
to thee: and were it not an idolatrous oth, I would
sweare by sweet _S. George_, thou art vnworthie better
hap, sith thou dependest on so meane a stay. Base
minded men al three of you, if by my miserie ye be
not warned: for vnto none of you (like me) sought
those burres to cleaue: those Puppits (I meane)
that speake from our mouths, those Anticks garnisht
in our colours. Is it not strange that I, to whom
they al haue beene beholding: is it not like that
you, to whome they all haue beene beholding, shall
(were ye in that case that I am now) be both at
once of them forsaken? Yes, trust them not: for
there is an vpstart Crow, beautified with our feathers,
that with his _Tygers heart wrapt in a Players hide_,
supposes he is as well able to bumbast out a blanke
verse as the best of you: and being an absolute
_Iohannes fac totum_, is in his owne conceit the onely
Shake-scene in a countrie. O that I might intreate
your rare wits to be imployed in more profitable
courses: & let those Apes imitate your past excellence,
and neuer more acquaint them with your
admired inuentions. I know the best husband of
you all will neuer proue an Usurer, and the kindest
of them / all will neuer prooue a kinde nurse: yet
whilst you may, seeke you better Maisters; for it is
pittie men of such rare wits, should be subiect to the
pleasures of such rude groomes.

In this I might insert two more, that both haue
writ against these buckram Gentlemen: but let
their owne works serue to witnesse against their owne
wickednesse, if they perseuer to mainteine any more
such peasants. For other new commers, I leaue
them to the mercie of these painted monsters, who
(I doubt not) will driue the best minded to despise
them: for the rest, it skils not though they make a
ieast at them.

But now returne I againe to you [t]hree, knowing
my miserie is to you no news: and let me heartily
intreate you to bee warned by my harmes. Delight
not (as I haue done) in irreligious oaths; for from
the blasphemers house a curse shall not depart.
Despise drunkennes, which wasteth the wit, and
maketh men all equal vnto beasts. Flie lust, as the
deathsman of the soule, and defile not the Temple
of the holy ghost. Abhorre those Epicures, whose
loose life hath made religion lothsome to your eares:
and when they sooth you with tearmes of Mastership,
remember _Robert Greene_, whome they haue so often
flattered, perishes now for want of comfort. Remember
gentlemen, your liues are like so many
lighted Tapers, that are with care deliuered to all of
you to maintaine: these with wind-puft wrath may
be extinguisht, which drunkennes put out, which
negligence let fall: for mans time of itselfe is not so
short, but it is more shortened by sin. The fire of
my light is now at the last snuffe, and the want of
wherwith to sustaine it, there is no substance left
for life to feede on. Trust not then (I beseech yee)
to such weake staies: for they / are as changeable in
minde, as in many attires. Well, my hand is tired,
and I am forst to leaue where I would begin; for a
whole booke cannot containe these wrongs, which I
am forst to knit vp in some few lines of words.

  _Desirous that you should liue, though
  himselfe be dying,
  Robert Greene._

Now to all men I bid farewell in this sort, with
this conceited Fable of the olde Comedian _AEsope_.

An Ant and a Grashopper walking together on a
greene, the one carelessely skipping, the other carefully
prying what winters prouision was scattered in
the way: the Grashopper scorning (as wantons wil)
this needelesse thrift (as he tearmed it) reprooued him
thus:

  The greedie miser thirsteth still for gaine;
  His thrift is theft, his weale works others woe:
  That foole is fond which will in caues remaine,
  When mongst faire sweetes he may at pleasure goe.

To this the Ant perceiuing the Grashoppers
meaning, quickly replied:

  The thriftie husband spares what vnthrifts spends,
  His thrift no theft, for dangers to prouide:
  Trust to thy selfe, small hope in want yeeld friendes,
  A caue is better than the desarts wide.

In short time these two parted, the one to his
pleasure / the other to his labour. Anon Haruest
grewe on, and reft from the Grashopper his woonted
moysture. Then weakely skips he to the medows
brinks: where till fell winter he abode. But stormes
continually powring, hee went for succour to the Ant
his olde acquaintance, to whome he had scarce discouered
his estate, but the little worme made this
replie.

  Pack hence (quoth he) thou idle lazie worme,
  My house doth harbour no vnthriftie mates:
  Thou scornedst to toile, and now thou feelst the storme,
  And starust for foode while I am fed with cates.
   Vse no intreats, I will relentlesse rest,
   For toyling labour hates an idle guest.

The Grashopper, foodlesse, helpelesse, and
strengthlesse, got into the next brooke, and in the
yeelding sand digde himselfe a pit: by which likewise
he ingraued this Epitaph.

  When Springs greene prime arrayd me with delight,
  And euery power with youthfull vigor fild,
  Gaue strength to worke what euer fancie wild:
  I neuer feard the force of winters spight.

  When first I saw the sunne the day begin,
  And drie the mornings teares from hearbs and grasse;
  I little thought his chearefull light would passe,
  Till vgly night with darknes enterd in.
        And then day lost I mournd, spring past I waild,
        But neither teares for this or that auaild.

  Then too too late I praisd the Emmets paine, /
  That sought in spring a harbour gainst the heate:
  And in the haruest gathered winters meate,
  Perceiuing famine, frosts, and stormie raine.

  My wretched end may warne Greene springing youth,
  To vse delights as toyes that will deceiue,
  And scorne the world before the world them leaue:
  For all worlds trust, is ruine without ruth.
        Then blest are they that like the toyling Ant,
        Prouide in time gainst winters wofull want.

With this the grashopper yeelding to the weathers
extremit[ie], died comfortlesse without remedie. Like
him myselfe: like me, shall al that trust to friends or
times inconstancie. Now faint of my last infirmitie,
beseeching them that shal burie my bodie, to publish
this last farewell, written with my wretched hand.

Faelicem fuisse infaustum.

       *       *       *       *       *

_A letter written to his wife, found with this
booke after his death._

The remembrance of many wrongs offered thee,
and thy vnreprooued virtues, adde greater sorrow
to my miserable state then I can vtter or thou
conceiue. Neither is it lessened by consideration
of thy absence (though shame would let me hardly
beholde thy face) but exceedingly aggrauated, for
that I cannot (as I ought) to thy owne selfe reconcile
my selfe, that thou mightest witnesse my inward woe
at this instant, that haue made thee a wofull wife for
so long a time. But equal heauen hath denied that
comfort, giuing at my last neede / like succour as I
haue sought all my life: being in this extremitie as
voide of helpe as thou hast beene of hope. Reason
would, that after so long waste, I should not send
thee a childe to bring thee greater charge; but
consider he is the fruit of thy wombe, in whose face
regard not the fathers faults so much as thy owne
perfections. He is yet Greene, and may grow
straight, if he be carefully tended: otherwise apt
enough (I feare me) to follow his fathers folly. That
I haue offended thee highly I knowe; that thou canst
forget my iniuries I hardly beleeue: yet perswade I
my selfe if thou saw my wretched state thou couldest
not but lament it: nay, certainely I knowe thou
wouldest. Al my wrongs muster themselues about
me, euery euill at once plagues me. For my contempt
of God, I am contemned of men: for my
swearing and forswearing, no man will beleeue me:
for my gluttony, I suffer hunger: for my drunkennesse,
thirst: for my adulterie, vlcerous sores. Thus
God hath cast me downe, that I might be humbled:
and punished me for example of others sinne: and
although he suffers me in this world to perish without
succour, yet trust I in the world to come to finde
mercie, by the merits of my Sauiour, to whome I
commend this, and commit my soule.

_Thy repentant husband for his disloyaltie._

_Robert Greene._


_Faelicem fuisse infaustum._


FINIS




V., VI.--GABRIEL HARVEY AND THOMAS NASH


(_Characters of Gabriel Harvey and accounts of his
quarrel with the Marlowe group, and Nash in particular,
will be found in all histories of Elizabethan
literature, and also elsewhere. The war of pamphlets
between Harvey and Nash was a very furious word-battle,
and its two chief monuments_, Pierce's Supererogation
_and_ Have with you to Saffron Walden, _are as
choice examples of scurrility as can easily be found.
But both are very long, and as I have set my heart
on giving whole pamphlets, I have preferred Harvey's_
Precursor _and Nash's_ Prognostication. _The former is
a sort of pilot engine to_ Pierce's Supererogation, _published
first before and then with the longer piece, and
for all its brevity intensely characteristic of Harvey--the
incarnation of the donnishness of his time, and
also of a certain side of the Elizabethan man of letters
generally. The latter, though evidently composed in
direct imitation of Rabelais, of whom Nash was certainly
a reader, was indirectly an attack on the Harveys,
one of whom, Gabriel's brother Richard, was a great
astrologer._)




Pierces Supererogation

OR

A NEW PRAYSE OF THE

OLD ASSE.


_A Preparatiue to certaine larger Discourses, intituled_

NASHES S. FAME.

                                 Gabriell Haruey.


_Il vostro Malignare Non Giova Nvlla._


LONDON

Imprinted by Iohn Wolfe.

1593





_To my very gentle and liberall frendes, M. Barnabe
Barnes, M. Iohn Thorius, M. Antony Chewt, and
euery fauorable Reader._


Louing M. Barnabe, M. Iohn, and M. Antony (for
the rest of my partiall C[=o]menders must pardon me,
till the Print be better acquainted with their names),
I haue lately receiued your thrise-curteous Letters,
with the Ouerplus of your thrise-sweet Sonets annexed:
the liberallest giftes, I beleeue, that euer you bestowed
vpon so slight occasion, and the very prodigallest
fruites of your floorishing wittes. Whose onely default
is, not your, but my default, that the matter is nothing
correspondent to the manner; and miselfe must either
grosely forget miselfe, or franckly acknowledge mi
simple selfe an vnworthy subiect of so worthy commendations.
Which I cannot read without blushing,
repeate without shame, or remember without griefe,
that I come so exceeding-short in so excessiue great
accountes; the summes of your rich largesse, not of
my poore desert; and percase deuised to aduertise me
what I should be, or to signifie what you wish [me]
to be; not to declare what I am, or to insinuate what
I may be. Eloquence, and Curtesie were euer bountifull
in the amplifying veine: and it hath bene reputed
a frendly Pollicy, to encourage their louing acquaintance
to labour the attainement of those perfections,
which they blason in them, as already atcheiued.
Either some such intention you haue, by / way of
Stratageme, to awaken my negligence, or enkindle
my confidence; or you are disposed by way of Ciuility,
to make me vnreasonably beholding vnto you for your
extreme affection. Which I must either leaue vnrequited;
or recompense affection with affection, &
recommende me vnto you with your owne Stratageme,
fitter to animate fresher spirites, or to whet finer edges.
Little other vse can I, or the world reape of those
great-great commendations, wherewith you, and diuers
other Orient wittes haue newly surcharged me, by
tendring so many kinde Apologies in my behalfe, and
presenting so many sharpe inuectiues against my
aduersaries: vnlesse also you purposed to make me
notably ashamed of my c[=o]fessed insufficiency, guilty
of so manifold imperfecti[=o]s, in respect of the least
semblance of those imputed singularities. Whatsoeuer
your intendment in an ouerflowing affection was, I
am none of those, that greedily surfet of selfe-conceit,
or sottishly hugge their owne babyes. _Narcissus_ was
a fayre boy, but a boy: _Suffenus_ a noble braggard,
but a braggard: _Nestor_ a sweet-tongued old-man, but
an Old-man: and _Tully_ (whom I honour in his
vertues, and excuse in his ouersightes) an eloquent
Selfe-loouer, but a Selfe-loouer. He that thought to
make himselfe famous with his ouerweening and
brauing _Il'e, Il'e, Il'e_, might perhaps nourrish an
aspiring imagination to imitate his _Ego, Ego, Ego_, so
gloriously reiterated in his gallant Orations. Some
smirking minions are fine fellowes in their owne
heades, and some cranke Princockes iolly men in
their owne humours: as desperate in resolution, as
the dowtiest ranke of Errant knightes; and as coye
in phantasie, as the nicest sort of simpring damosels,
that in their owne glasses find no creature so bewtifull,
or amiable, as their delitious selues. I haue beheld,
/ & who hath not seene some lofty conceites, towring
very high, & coying themselues sweetly on their owne
amounting winges, young feathers of old Icarus?
The gay Peacocke is woondrously inamored vpon
the glittering fanne of his owne gorgious taile, and
weeneth himselfe worthy to be crowned the Prince of
byrdes, and to be enthronished in the chaire of
supreme excellency. Would Christ, the greene Popiniay,
with his newfangled iestes, as new as Newgate,
were not asmuch to say, as his owne Idol. Queint
wittes must haue a Priuiledge to prank-vp their dainty
limmes, & to fawne vpon their owne tricksie deuises.
But they that vnpartially know themselues, seuerely
examine their owne abilities; vprightly counterpoise
defectes with sufficiencies; frankly confesse the
greatest part of their knowledge to be the least part
of their ignorance; aduisedly weigh the difficulties of
the painfull and toylesome way, the hard maintenance
of credit easely gotten, the impossible satisfaction of
vnsatisfiable expectation, the vncertaine ficklenesse
of priuate Phantasie, & the certaine brittlenesse of
publique Fame; are not lightly bewitched with a
fonde doting vpon their owne plumes. And they
that deepely consider vpon the weakenesse of inward
frailty, the casualtie of outward fortune, the detraction
of Enuie, the virulency of Malice, the counter-pollicy
of Ambition, and a hundred-hundred empeachments
of growing reputation: that aswell diuinely, as philosophically
haue learned to looue the gentlenesse of
Humanity, to embrace the mildnesse of Modestie, to
kisse the meekenesse of Humilitie, to loath the odiousnesse
of Pride, to assuage the egreness of Spite, to
preuent the vengeance of Hatred, to reape the sweet
fruites of Temperance, to tread the smooth Path of
Securitie, to take the firme course of Assuraunce, / and
to enioy the felicitie of Contentment: that iudiciously
haue framed themselues to carry Mindes, like their
Bodies, and Fortunes, as apperteineth vnto them, that
would be loth to ouerreach in presumptuous conceit:
they I say, and all they that would rather vnderly the
reproche of obscuritie, then ouercharge their mediocritie
with an illusiue opinion of extraordinary furniture,
and I wott not what imaginarie complementes:
are readier, and a thousand times readier, to returne
the greatest Prayses, where they are debt, then to
accept the meanest, where they are almes. And I
could nominate some, that in effect make the same
reckoning of Letters, Sonets, Orations, or other
writinges commendatory, that they do of meate without
nourishment, of hearbes without vertue, of plants
without fruite; of a lampe without oyle, a linke without
light, or a fier without heate. Onely some of vs
are not so deuoide of good manner, but we conceiue
what belongeth to ciuill duty, and will euer be prest
to interteine Curtesie with curtesie, & to requite any
frendship with frendship: vnfainedly desirous, rather
to recompense in deedes, then to glose, or paint in
wordes. You may easely persuade me to publish,
that was long sithence finished in writing, and is now
almost dispatched in Print: (the amendes must be
addressed in some other more materiall Treatise, or
more formal Discourse: and haply _Nashes S. Fame_
may supply some defectes of Pierces Supererogation:)
but to suffer your thrise-affectionate Letters and Sonets,
or rather your thrise lauish beneuolences to be published,
which so farre surmount not onely the mediocrity
of my present endeuour, but euen the possibility of
any my future emproouement; I could not be persuaded
by any eloquence, or importunacy in the
world, were I not as monstrously / reuiled by some
other without reason, as I am excessively extolled by
you without cause. In which case he may seeme to
a discreet enemy excusable, to an indifferent frend
iustifiable, that is not transported with his owne
passion, but relyeth on the iudgement of the learnedest,
and referreth himselfe to the Practise of the wisest.
In the one, esteeming _Plutarch_ or _Homer_ as an hundred
Autors: in the other, valuing _Cato_, or _Scipio_, as
a thousand Examples. I neuer read, or heard of any
respectiue, or considerate person, vnder the degree of
those that might reuenge at pleasure, contemne with
autority, assecure themselues from common obloquy, or
commande publique reputation (mighty men may finde
it a Pollicy, to take a singular, or extraordinary course),
so carelesse of his owne credit, so recklesse of the
present time, so senselesse of the posterity, so negligent
in occurents of consequence, so dissolute in his proceedings,
so prodigall of his name, so deuoide of all
regarde, so bereft of common sense, so vilely base, or
so hugely hawtie of minde; that in case of infamous
imputation, or vnworthy reproch, notoriously scattered-abroad,
thought it not requisite, or rather necessary,
to stand vpon his owne defence according to Equity,
and euen to labour his owne commendation according
to the presented occasion. Discourses yeeld plenty
of Reasons: and Histories affourde store of Examples.
It is no vain-glory to permit with consideration, that
abused Modesty hath affected with discretion. It is
vanity to controwle, that true honour hath practised:
and folly to condemne, that right wisedome hath
allowed. If any dislike Immodesty indeede, despise
vanity indeede, reprooue Arrogancy indeede, or loath
Vainglory indeede; I am as forward with Tongue and
Hart as the foremost of the forwardest: and were / my
pen answerable, perhaps at occasion it should not greatly
lagge behinde. To accomplish, or aduaunce any vertuous
purpose (sith it is now enforced to be sturring), it
might easely be entreated, euen to the vttermost extent
of that little-little Possibility, wherewith it hath pleased
the Greatest to endowe it. Howbeit Curtesie is as
ready to ouerloade with prayse as Malice eger to ouerthrow
with reproch. Both ouershoote, as the manner
is; but malice is the Diuell. For my poore part, I
hope the One shall do me as little harme as fayre
weather in my iorney: I am suer, the other hath done
me more good, then was intended, and shall neuer
puddle or annoy the course of the cleere running
water. Albeit I haue studied much, and learned
little: yet I haue learned to gleane some handfulls of
corne out-of the rankest cockle: to make choice of
the most fragrant flowers of _Humanitie_, the most
vertuous hearbes of _Philosophie_, the most soueraine
fruites of _Gouernment_, and the most heauenly manna
of _Diuinitie_: to be acquainted with the fayrest, prouided
for the fowlest, delighted with the temperatest,
pleased with the meanest, and contented with all
_weather_. Greater men may professe, and can atchieue
greater matters: I thanke God I know the l[=e]gth, that
is, the shortnes of mine owne foote. If it be any mans
pleasure to extenuate my suffici[=e]cy in other knowledge,
or practise, to empeach my ability in wordes, or
deedes, to debase my fortune, to abridge my commendations,
or to annihilate my fame, he shall finde
a cold aduersary of him that hath layed hoat passions
awatering, and might easely be induced to be the
Inuectiue of his owne Non-proficiency. Onely he
craueth leaue to estimate his credit, and to value his
honesty, as behooueth euery man, that regardeth any
good: and if withall it be his / vnfained request, that
Order should repeale disorder; moderation restraine
licentiousnesse; discretion abandon vanity; mildnesse
assuage choller; meeknesse alay arrogancy; consideration
reclaime rashnesse; indifferency attemper passion;
Curtesie mitigate, Charity appease, & Vnity attone
debate: pardon him. Or, in case nothing will preuaile
with fury but fury, and nothing can winne desired
amity but pretended hostility, that must driue-out
one naile with another, & beat-away one wedge with
another, according to the Latin Prouerbe: Pardon
him also, that in the resolution of a good minde, will
commaund, what he cannot entreat; and extort, what
he cannot persuade. That little may be done with
no great adoo: and, seeing it may as surely, as easely
be done, I am humbly to beseech established Wisedome,
to winke at one experiment of aduenturous
Folly; neuer before embarked in any such acti[=o], and
euer to eschewe the like with a chary regard, where
any other mediation may purchase redresse. I will
not vrge what conniuence hath been noted in as disfauorable
cases: it is sufficient for me to pleade mine
own acquittall. Other prayse he affecteth not, that
in a deepe insight into his innermost partes findeth
not the highest pitch of his Hope equiualent to the
lowest pit of your commendation. And if by a gentle
construction, or a fauorous encouragement, he seemeth
any thing in others opinion, that is nothing in his
owne Censure, the lesser his merite, the greater their
mercy; and the barrainer his desert, the frutefuller
your liberality. Whose vnmeasurable prayses I am
to interpret, not as they may seeme in some bounteous
conceit, but as they are in mine owne knowledge;
good wordes, but vnfitly applied; frendly beneuolences,
but wastfully bestowed; gallant amplifications,
but slenderly deser/ued: what but termes of Ciuility,
or fauours of Curtesie, or hyperboles of Looue: whose
franke allowance I shall not be able to earne with the
study of twenty yeares more: in briefe, nothing but
partiall witnesses, preiudicate iudgements, idle preambles,
and in effect meere wordes. And euen so as
I found them, I leaue them. Yet let me not dismisse
so extensiue curtesie with an empty hand. Whatsoeuer
I am (that am the least little of my thoughtes,
and the greatest contempt of mine owne hart), _Parthenophill_
and _Parthenophe_ embellished, the _Spanish
Counsellour_ Inglished, and _Shores Wife_ eternised;
shall euerlastingly testifie what you are: go forward
in maturity, as ye haue begun in pregnancy, and
behold _Parthenopoeus_ the sonne of the braue Meleager,
_Homer_ himselfe, and of the swift Atalanta _Calliope_
herselfe: be thou, Barnabe, the gallant Poet, like
Spencer, or the valiant souldiour, like Baskeruile;
and euer remember thy _French seruice_ vnder the braue
Earl of Essex. Be thou, Iohn, the many-tongued
Linguist, like Andrewes, or the curious Intelligencer,
like Bodley; and neuer forget _thy Netherlandish traine_
vnder Him, that taught the Prince of Nauarre, now
the valorous king of Fraunce. Be thou Antony, the
flowing Oratour, like Dooue, or the skilfull Heralde,
like Clarentius; and euer remember _thy Portugall
voyage_ vnder Don Antonio. The beginning of vertuous
Proceedings is the one halfe of honorable actions.
Be yourselues in hope, and what yourselues desire in
effect: and I haue attained some portion of my
request. For you cannot wish so exceeding-well vnto
me, but I am as ready with tongue, and minde, to
wish a great-deale better vnto you, and to reacquite
you with a large vsury of most-affectionate prayers,
recommending you to the diuine giftes and gratious
blessings of Heauen.

May / it please the fauorable Reader, to voutsafe
me the Curtesie of his Patience, vntill he hath
thoroughly perused the whole Discourse at his howers
of leysure (for such scriblings are hardly worth the
vacantest howers): I am not to importune him any
farther; but would be glad he might finde the
Whole lesse tedious in the end, then some Parts in
the beginning, or midst; or, at-least, that one peece
might helpe to furnish-out amendes for an other.
And so taking my leaue with the kindest Farewell of
a most thankfull minde, I desist from wearying him
with a tedious Preface, whom I am likely to tire with
so many superfluous Discourses. Howbeit might it
happely please the sweetest Intercessour to ensweeten
the bitterest gall of Spite, and to encalme the roughest
tempest of Rage, I could cordially wish that _Nashes
S. Fame_ might be the Period of my Inuectiues: and
_the excellent Gentlewoman_, my patronesse, or rather
Championesse in this quarrel, is meeter by nature,
and fitter by nurture, to be an enchaunting Angell,
with her white quill, then a tormenting Fury with her
blacke inke. It remaineth at the election of one,
whom God indue with more discretion.

At London: this 16. of July, 1593. The inuiolable
frend of his entire frendes, Gabriell Haruey. /


  _Her owne Prologue, or Demurr._

  O Muses, may a wooman poore, and blinde,
  A Lyon-draggon, or a Bull-beare binde?
  Ist possible for puling wench to tame
  _The furibundall Champion of Fame?_
  He brandisheth the whurlewinde in his mouth,
  And thunderbolteth so-confounding shott:
  Where such a Bombard-goblin, North, or South,
  With drad Pen-powder, and the conquerous pott?
  Silly it is, that I can sing, or say:
  And shall I venture such a blustrous fray?
  Hazard not, panting quill, thy aspen selfe:
  Hel'e murther thy conceit, and braine thy braine.
  Spare me, o super domineering Elfe,
  And most, _railipotent_ for euer raine,
      _Si Tibi vis ipsi parcere, parce Mihi._


  _Her Counter-sonnet, or Correction of her owne Preamble._

  _Scorne_ frump the meacock Verse that dares not sing,
  Drouping, so like a flagging flowre in raine:
  Where doth the _Vrany_ or _Fury_ ring,
  That shall enfraight my stomacke with disdaine?
  Shall Frend put-vp such braggardous affrontes?
  Are milksop Muses such whiteliuer'd Trontes?
  Shall Boy the gibbet be of Writers all,
  And none hang-vp the gibbet on the wall?
  If / dreery hobbling Ryme hart-broken be,
  And quake for dread of Danters scarecrow Presse:
  Shrew Prose, thy pluckcrow implements addresse,
  And pay the hangman pen his double fee.
  Be Spite a Sprite, a Termagant, a Bugg:
  Truth feares no ruth, and can the Great Diu'll tugg.
      ----_Ultrix accincta flagello._


  _Her old Comedy, newly intituled._

  My Prose is resolute, as Beuis sworde:
  _March rampant beast in formidable hide:_
  _Supererogation Squire on cockhorse ride:_
  Zeale shapes an aunswer to the blouddiest worde.
  If nothing can _the booted Souldiour_ tame,
  Nor Ryme, nor Prose, nor Honesty, nor Shame,
  But _Swash_ will still his trompery aduaunce,
  Il'e leade the _gagtooth'd fopp_ a new-founde daunce.
  Deare howers were euer cheape to pidling me:
  I knew a glorious, and brauing Knight,
  That would be deem'd a truculentall wight:
  Of him I scrauld a dowty Comedy.
  _Sir Bombarduccio_ was his cruell name:
  But _Gnasharduccio_ the sole brute of _Fame_.


  _L'Enuoy._

  See, how He brayes, and fumes at me poore lasse,
  That must immortalise the killcowe _Asse_. /


_To the Right Worshipfvll, his especiall deare frend,
M. Gabriell Haruey, Doctour of Lawe._

Sweet M. Doctour Haruey (for I cannot intitule
you with an Epithite of lesse value then that which
the Grecian and Roman Oratours ascribed to Theophrastus,
in respect of so many your excellent labours,
garnished with the garland of matchlesse Oratory):
if at any time either the most earnest persuasion of
a deare frend, and vnusually most deare, and constant,
adiured therevnto by the singular vertue of your most
prayse-worthy, and vnmatchable wit: or the woonderful
admiration of your peerlesse conceit, embraued with
so many gorgeous ornamentes of diuine Rhetorique:
or the doubtlesse successive benefit thereof, deuoted
to the glory of our English Eloquence, and our vulgar
Tuscanisme (if I may so terme it); may worke any
plausible or respectiue motions with you to bewtifie,
and enrich our age, with those most praise-moouing
workes, full of gallantest discourse, and reason, which
I vnderstand by some assured intelligence be now
glowing vpon the anvile, ready to receiue the right
artificiall forme of diuinest workem[=a]ship: th[=e] let I
beseech you, nay, by all our mutuall frendships I
coniure you (loue and admiration of them arming me
with the placarde of farther confidence) those, and
other your incomparable writings, speedily, or rather
pre/sently, shew th[=e]selues in the shining light of the
Sunne. That, by this Publication of so rare, & rich
Discourses, our English Rauens, the spitefull enemyes
to all birdes of more bewtifull wing, and more harmonious
note then themselues, may shroude themselues
in their nests of basest obscurity, & keepe
hospitality with battes, and owles, fit consorts for
such vile carions. Good Sir, arise, and confound
those Viperous Cryticall monsters, and those prophane
Atheistes of our Commonwealth; which endeuour with
their mutinous and Serpentine hissing, like geese, not
to arme the Senatours and Oratours of Rome, but to
daunt, astonish, and, if it were possible, to ouerthrow
them. And sithence the very thunder-lightning of
your admirable Eloquence is suffici[=e]tly auailable to
strike them with a lame Palsie of tongue (if they be
not already smitten with a sencelesse Apoplexy in
head, which may easely ensewe such contagious
Catharres and Reumes, as I am priuy some of them
haue been grieuously disseased withall), misse not,
but hitt them seurly home, as they deserue with
Supererogation. You haue bene reputed euermore,
since first I heard of you in Oxford and elsewhere,
to haue bene as much giuen to fauour, commende,
and frequent such as were approoued, or toward in
learning, witt, kinde behauiour, or any good quality,
as may be required in any man of your demerit: an
vndoubted signe, how much you loath Inuectiues or
any needeles cont[=e]tions. I would (as many your
affectionate fr[=e]ds would) it had bene your fortune to
haue encountred some other Paranymphes, then such
as you are now to discipline: most vnwillingly, I
perceiue, but most necessarily, & not without especiall
consideration, being so manifestly vrged, and grosely
prouoked to defend yourselfe. But you haue ere now
bene acquainted / with patience perforce: and I hope
the most desperate swasher of them will one day
learne to shew himself honester or wiser. And thus
recommending your sweete endeuours, with your
grauer studies, to the highest treasury of heauenly
Muses; I right hartely take my leaue with a Sonnet
of that Muse, that honoreth the Vrany of du Bartas,
and yourselfe: of du Bartas elsewhere; here of him,
whose excellent Pages of the French King, the Scottish
King, the braue Monsieur de la Noee, the aforesayd
Lord du Bartas, Sir Philip Sidney, and sundry
other worthy personages, deserue immortall commendation.
I thanke him very hartely that imparted vnto
me those fewe sheetes: and if all be like them, truly
all is passing notable, and right singular.


SONNET.

  Those learned _Oratours_, Roomes auncient sages,
    Persuasions Pith, directours of affection,
    The mindes chief counsail, rhetoriques perfection,
    The pleasaunt baulms of peace, warres fierce outrages:
  Sweet Grecian _Prophets_, whose smooth Muse assuages
    The Furies powerfull wrath, poisons infection:
    _Philosophers_ (by Causes due connexion,
    Match't with th' Effects of Nature) future ages
  Embrauing with rich documents of Art: /
    The wisest _States-men_ of calme Commonweales:
    The learned _Generall Councels_, which impart
    Diuinest laws, whose wholesome Physique Heales
      Both Church, and Layety: All in _one_ beholde
      Ennobled Arts, as Precious stones in golde.

From my lodging in Holborne: this of June.
1593. Your most affectionate,

_Barnabe Barnes._

Hauing perused my former Sonet, if it may please
you, Sir, to do asmuch for your deare frends _Parthenophill_,
and _Parthenophe_, they shall haue the desired
fruite of their short exercise, and will rest beholding
to your curteous acceptance: which they would be
glad to reacquite in the loouingest manner they may.
And so most affectionatly recommend themselues
vnto your good self: whose vnblemished fame they
will euermore maintaine with the best bloud of their
hartes, tongues, and Pennes. We will not say, how
much we long to see the whole Prayses of your two
notorious enemyes, the _Asse_ and the _Foxe_.


SONET.

Nash, _or the confuting Gentleman_.

  The Muses scorne; the Courtiers laughing-stock;
    The Countreys Coxecombe; Printers proper new;
    The Citties Leprosie; the Pandars stew;
    Vertues disdayne; honesties aduerse rock;
  Enuies vile champion; slaunders stumblingblock.
    Graund / Oratour of Cunny-catchers crew;
    Base broaching tapster of reports vntrue;
    Our moderne Viper, and our Countryes mock;
  True Valors Cancer-worme, sweet Learnings rust.
    Where shall I finde meete colours, and fit wordes,
    For such a counterfaict, and worthlesse matter?
  Him, whom thou raylest on at thine owne lust,
    Sith _Bodine_ and sweet _Sidney_ did not flatter,
    His Inuectiue thee too much grace affordes.

  _Parthenophil._


SONET.

  Haruey, _or the sweet Doctour_.

  _Sidney_, sweet Cignet, pride of Thamesis;
     Apollos laurell; Mars-his proud prowesse:
  _Bodine_, register of Realmes happinesse,
     Which Italyes, and Fraunces wonder is:
  _Hatcher_, with silence whom I may not misse:
     Nor _Lewen_, Rhetoriques richest noblesse:
  Nor _Wilson_, whose discretion did redresse
     Our English Barbarisme: adioyne to this
  Diuinest morall _Spencer_: let these speake
     By their sweet Letters, which do best vnfould
  _Harueys_ deserued praise: since my Muse weake
     Cannot relate somuch as hath bene tould
  By these _Fornam'd_: then, vaine as it were to bring
     New feather to his Fames swift-feathered wing.

  _Parthenophe._


_The Printers Aduertissement to the Gentleman Reader_.

CURTEOUS Gentlemen, it seemed good to M. Doctour
Haruey, for breuity-sake, and because he liked
not ouer-long Preambles, or Postambles, to short discourses,
to omit the commendatorie Letters, and
Sonnets of M. Thorius, M. Chewt, and diuers other
his affectionate frendes of London, and both the
Vniuersities. Which neuerthelesse, are reserued to
be prefixed, inserted, or annexed, either in his _defensiue
Letters_, enlarged with certaine new Epistles of more
speciall note; or in his _Discourses of Nashes S. Fame_,
already finished, & presently to be published, as these
shall like their interteinement: of whose fauorable &
plausible Welcome, diuers learned and fine wittes
haue presumed the best. Howbeit finally it was
thought not amisse, vpon conference with some his
aduised acquaintance, to make choice of some two or
three of the reasonablest, and temperatest Sonnets
(but for variety, & to auoyde tediousnesse in the
entrance, rather to be annexed in the end, then prefixed
in the beginning of the present Discourses):
one of the foresayd M. Thorius, an other of M.
Chewt, and the third of a learned French gentleman,
Monsieur Fregeuill Gautius, who hath published some
weighty Treatises, aswell Politique as Religious, both
in Latin and French; and hath acquainted M. Doctour
Haruey with certaine most profitable Mathematicall
deuises of his own inuention. The residue is not
added by me, but annexed by the Autor himselfe:
whom I humbly recommende to your curteous Censure,
and so rest from ouertroubling you with my
unpolished lines.



  A Wonderfull

  _strange and miraculous, Astro-_
  logicall Prognostication for
  this yeer of our Lord God.
  1591.

  Discouering such wonders to
  _happen this yeere, as neuer chaunced_
  since Noes floud.

  _Wherein if there be found one lye_,
  the Author will loose his credit
  for euer.

  By Adam Fouleweather, Student
  in Asse-tronomy.

  Imprinted at London by _Thomas_
  Scarlet.

  (1591.)


_To the Readers health._

SITTING Gentlemen vpon Douer cliffes, to quaint
my selfe with the art of Navigation, and knowe the
course of the Tides, as the Danske Crowes gather on
the Sandes against a storme: so there appeared on
the downs such a flock of knaues, that, by Astrological
coniectures, I began to gather that this yeere
would proue intemperate by an extreme heat in
S[=o]mer, insomuch that the stones in Cheap side
should be so hot, that diuers persons should feare to
goe from Poules to the Counter in the Poultrye:
whereupon I betook me to my Ephimerides, and
erecting a figure, haue found such strange accidents
to fall out this yeere, Mercury being Lord and predominate
in the house of Fortune, that many fooles
shall haue full cofers, and wise men walke vp and
downe with empty pursses: that if Iupiter were not
ioyned with him in a fauourable aspect, the Butchers /
of East-cheape should doo little or nothing all Lent
but make prickes: seeing therefore the wonders that
are like to fall out this present yeere, I haue for the
benefit of my Countrymen taken in hand to make
this Prognostication, discoursing breefelye of the
Eclipses both of Sunne and Moone, with their
dangerous effectes like to followe, which if God
preuent not, many poore men are like to fast on
Sondaies for want of food, and such as haue no
shooes to goe barefoot, if certaine deuout Coblers
proue not the more curteous: but yet Astrologie is
not so certaine but it may fayle: and therfore diuers
Hostesses shall chaulke more this yeere then their
Guests wil wipe out: So that I conclude, whatsoeuer
is saide by art. _Sapiens dominabitur astris._

Your freend and Student in Asse-trologie.

_Adam Fouleweather._ /


_Of the Eclipses that shall happen this present yeere, to
the great and fearfull terrifying of the beholders._

IF _we may credit_ the authenticall censures of
Albumazan and Ptolomey, about the motions of
celestiall bodies, whose influence dooth exitat and
procure continuall mutability in the lower region: we
shal finde y^t the Moon this yeere shall be eclipsed,
which shall happen in one of y^e 12 moneths, & some
of the foure / quarters of the yeere, whose pointes
as they shall be totallye darkened, so the effectes shall
be wondrous and strange. For Cancer being the
sole house of the Moone, dooth presage that this
yeere fruits shall be greatly eaten with Catterpillers:
as Brokers, Farmers, and Flatterers, which feeding
on the sweate of other mens browes, shall greatlye
hinder the beautye of the spring, and disparage the
growth of all hottest hearbes, vnlesse some northerly
winde of Gods veng[=a]ce cleere the trees of such
Catterpillers, with a hotte plague and the pestilence:
but Cancer being a watrie signe and cheefe gouernour
of flouds and streams, it foresheweth that Fishmongers
if they be not well lookt to, shall goe downe
as farre as Graues end in Wherries and forestall the
market, to the great preiudice of the poore, that all
Lent ground their fare on the benefit of Salte fishe
and red herring: besides it signifieth that Brewers
shal make hauocke of Theames water, and put more
liquour then they were accustomed amongst their
Maulte: to the ouerthrowe of certain crased Ale
knights, whose morning draughtes of strong Beere is
a great staye to their stomacks: a lamentable case if
it be not lookt into and preuented by some speedye
supplication to the woorshipfull order of ale cunners. /
But in this we haue great hope that because the
effects cannot surprise the cause, diuers Tapsters
shall trust out more then they can get in: and
although they fill their Pots but halfe full, yet for
want of true dealing die in the Brewers debt.

Thus much for the watry signe of Cancer, and
because this Eclipse is little visible in our horison, I
passe it ouer with this prouiso to all seafaring men,
to cary more shirts then one with them a ship boord,
lest to their great labor they spend many houres in
murthering their vermin on the hatches.


_The Eclipse of the Sunne._

THE Eclipse of the Sun according to Proclus
opinion is like to produce many hot and pestilent
infirmities, especiallie amongst Sumners and Petti-foggers,
whose faces being combust with many fiery
inflamatiues shall shew y^e dearth, that by their deuout
drinking is like to ensue of Barly, if violent death
take not away such c[=o]suming mault worms: diuers
are like to be troubled with such hotte rewmes in
their heads, that their haire shall fall off: and such
hot agues shall raigne this yeere, with strange feuers
and calamaties, that / if the Sunne were not placed in
a colde signe, Renish wine would rise to ten pence a
quarte before the latter end of August: but diuers
good Planets being retrog[r]ade, foretelleth that
Lemmans this yeere shalbe plenty, insomuch that
many shall vse them to bedward, for the quallifying
of their hot and inflamed stomackes. And Mars
being placed neere vnto the Sunne sheweth that there
shalbe a great death among people: olde women that
can liue no longer shall dye for age: and yong men
that haue Vsurers to their father, shal this yeer haue
great cause to laugh, for the Deuill hath made a
decree, that after they are once in hell, they shall
neuer rise againe to trouble their executors: Beside
that by all coniecturall argumentes the influence of
Mars shall be so violent, that diuers souldiers in
partes beyond the seas, shall fall out for want of their
paye, and heere in our meridionall clyme, great
quarrelles shall be raised between man and man,
especially in cases of Law: gentry shall goe check-mate
with Iustice, and coyne out countenance oft-times
equitie: the poore sitting on pennylesse benche,
shall sell their Coates to striue for a strawe, and
Lawyers laugh such fooles to scorne as cannot keep
their crownes in their pursses.

Further, there is like to be great falling out
amongst / Church men and certaine fond sects of
religion like to trouble the commons: selfe conceipters
and ouer holy counterfeites that delight in singularitie,
shall rise vp and despise authoritie, presuming euen
to abuse the higher powers, if Saturne with a frowning
influence, did not threaten them with Tibornes
consequence. But whereas the Sun is darkned but
by digits, and that vpon y^e south points, it presageth
great miseries to Spain and those Southerly
Countries: Friers and Monks shal heat them so this
yeer with confessing of Harlots, that their crownes
shall wax balde of the one accord, to the great
impouerishing of the Spanish Barbers: Surgeons in
Spain shall wax rich, and their Hospitals poore:
such a pestilent mortallitie is like to fall amongst
those hipocriticall massemongers. The Dukes,
Marquesses & Counties shall haue their dublets
closed with such Spanish buttons, that they shal
neuer proue good quiresters, for the hotte and inflamed
rewmes fallen down into their throats: It is
further to be feared, that because the Eclipse hapneth
in Iulye, there will through the extrem heat grow
such abund[=a]ce of Fleas, that women shall not goe
to bed before twelue a clocke at night, for the great
murthers and stratagems they are like to commit
vpon those little animalls.

And whereas this Eclipse falleth out at three of
the clocke in the afternoone, it foresheweth that
manye shall goe soberer into Tauernes then they
shall come out: and that he which drinkes hard
and lyes cold, shal neuer dye of the sweate, although
Gemini combust and retrog[r]ade, sheweth that some
shall haue so sore a sweating, that they may sell their
haire by the pound to stuffe Tennice balles: but if
the Beadelles of Bridewell be carefull this Summer,
it may be hoped that Peticote lane may be lesse
pestered with ill aires then it was woont: and the
houses there so cleere clensed, that honest women
may dwell there without any dread of the whip and
the carte: and I finde that the altitude of that place
and of Shordich are all one eleuated, and 2 degrees,
and vnder the zenith or verticall point of Venus,
which presageth that sundry sorts of men and women
shall be there resident: some shalbe so short heeld
& so quesie stomackt that they shal ly in their
beds while noon, by which means they shal grow so
ful of grosse humors, that they shalbe troubled with
strange timpanies & swellings in their bellies, vncurable
for fortye weekes vntill they be helped by the
aduice of some skilfull Midwife.

Besides, other of the same sex and faction, / shall
learn to cosin young nouices, and fetch in young
Gentlemen, to the great ouerthrow of youth, if some
sharpe and speedye redresse be not fetcht from the
woorshipfull Colledge of the Phisitians in the parrish
of S. Brides. But heere by the waye gentle Reader,
note that this Eclipse sheweth, that this yeer shall
be some strange birthes of Children produced in
some monstrous forme, to the greefe of the Parentes,
and fearefull spectackle of the beholders: but because
the Eclipse chaunseth Southerlye, it is little to be
feared that the effectes shall fail in England: yet
somewhat it is to bee doubted, that diuers Children
shall be borne, that when they come to age shall not
knowe their owne Fathers: others shall haue their
fingers of [t]he nature of Lyme twigges, to get most
parte of their liuing with fiue and a reache: some
shall be born with feet like vnto Hares, that they
shal run so swift, that they shall neuer tarry with
maister, but trudge from poste to piller, till they take
vp beggars bush for their lodging: Others shall haue
Noses like Swine, that there shall not be a feast
within a myle, but they shall smell it out: But
especiallye it is to be doubted, that diuers women
this yeere shall bee borne with two tungs, to the
terrible greefe of such as shall marry them, vttering /
in their furye such rough cast eloquence, that knaue
and slaue shalbe but holyday woords to their
husbands. And whereas this fearefull Eclipse dooth
continue but an houre and a halfe, it signifieth that
this yeere womens loue to their husbands shall be
very shorte, some so momentarye, that it shall scarce
continue from the Church doore to the wedding
house: and that Hennes, Capons, Geese, and other
pullin shall little haunt poore mens tables, but flye
awaye with spittes in their bellies to fatte Churlles
houses, that pamper themselues vp with delicates
and dainties: although very fewe other effectes are to
be prognosticated, yet let me giue this caueat to my
Countrymen, as a clause to this wonderfull Eclipse.
Let such as haue clothes enow, keep themselues
warme from taking of colde: and I would wishe rich
men all this winter to sit by a good fire, and hardlye
to goe to bed without a Cuppe of Sack, and that so
qualified with Suger, that they proue not rewmatick:
let them feede daintilye and take ease enough, and
no doubt according to the iudgement of Albumazar,
they are like to liue as long as they can, and not to
dye one hower before their time.

Thus much for this strange Eclipse of the Sunne.


_Of / the second Eclipse of the Moone, which is like to
fall out when it chaunseth either before the_ 31. _of
December or els not at all, this present yeere._ 1591.

The second Eclipse of the Moon shalbe but little
seene in England, wherevpon the effectes shall be
nothing preiuditiall to our clyme: yet as the bodye
of the Moone is neuer obscure in part or in whole,
but some dangerous euents doo followe: so I meane
to set downe breefely what is to be lookte for in these
westerne partes of the worlde.

First therefore it is to bee feared, that the Danes
shall this yeere bee greatly giuen to drincke, insomuch
that English Beere shall there be woorth fiue
pence a stoape, that their Hoffes and tappe houses
shall be more frequented then the Parishe Churches,
and many shall haue more Spruce Beere in their
bellies, then wit in their heads: wherevpon shall /
growe Apoplexies and colde palsies in their legges,
that they shall diuers times not bee able to stand on
their feete. Vpon this shall growe great commoditye
to the Potters and Glasse makers, for it is like there
shall be a great ouerthrowe of them, if there bee
not some act made for drinking in blacke Jackes.
But if the weather prooue seasonable, and the
Haruest great, and the Barnes full of Corne: Rye is
like to be cheap in Denmarke, and bread to be of
a reasonable size, for the releeuing of the poore.
Mar[r]y, Fraunce is like to haue a great dearth of honest
men, if the king preuaile not against these mutenous
Rebelles of the League, and <DW7>s in diuers places
to be plentye, if God or the King rout them not out
with a sharpe ouerthrow: But this hope we haue
against that rascall rabble of those shauelings, that
there was found in an olde booke this Prophecie
spoken about Jerusalem long since by a Jew: The
tree that God hath not planted shall be pulled vp by
the roots: some curious Astronomers of late dayes
that are more Propheticall than Juditiall, affirme that
Martin the kill-hog for his deuout drincking (by the
Pope canonized a Saint) shall rise againe in the
apparell of a Minister, and tickle some of the baser
sorte with such lusty humors in their braines, that /
diuers selfe conceited fooles shal become his disciples,
and grounding their witlesse opinion on an heriticall
foundation, shall seeke to ruinate authoritie, and peruert
all good orders established in the Church, to the
great preiudice of vnity and religion, tituling th[=e]selues
by the names of Martinistes, as the Donatists grew
from Donates: were it not that the Moone being in
Taurus, which gouernes the neck and throat, shewes
that the Squinancie shall raigne amongst them, and
diuers for want of breath dye of the strangling. Now
for that Capricornus is a signe wherein Luna is
often resident, it prognosticateth a great death
amongst hornde beasts. The Butchers shall commit
wilfull murther vpon Sheepe and Oxen, and diuers
Keepers kill store of Buckes, and reserue no other
fees to their selues but the hornes, insomuche that
if the Person of Horne-Church in Essex take not
heede, there maye hap to prooue this yeere some
Cuckoldes in his Parrish.

But there is like to bee concluded by an act set
downe in Grauesende Barge, that hee that wypes his
Nose and hath it not, shall forfeite his whole face,
and that all such as are iealous ouer their wiues
without cause, are worthie to bee punisht with / the
horne plague for their labour. And whereas this
Eclipse is farre from the signe Pisces, it shewes that
there shall bee much stinking fish this yere at Billings
gate, and that Quinborowe oyster boates shall ofte
times carrie knaues as wel as honest men: but let
the Fish-wiues take heed, for if most of them proue
not scoldes, yet because Pisces is a signe that
gouernes the feete, they shall weare out more shooes
in Lent then in anie two months beside through the
whole yeere, and get their liuing by walking and crying,
because they slaundered Ram alley with such a
tragical infamie. The rest I conceale as friuolous, and
little necessarie to be touched in this Prognostication.


_A declaration of the generall disposition of sundrie
conceited qualities incident vnto mens mindes &
natures throughout these foure quarters of the
yere, by the merrie influence of the Planets, with
some other tragicall euents and obseruations worthie
the noting, contayned vnder each seperated reuolution._

_And first of the inclination of the Winter quarter._

Winter / the first Astronomicall quarter of the yeare,
according to my vsuall account, whatsoever Ptolomie
says, beginneth sooner with poore men than with
rich, graunted so by the malignant influence of
Saturne, whose constellation is that suche as haue no
money nor credit, shall want coles & woode, and
be faine to stand and starue for colde, while olde
pennifathers sit and wast them selues by the fire.
The winter beginning at that instant when the Sunne
makes his entraunce into the first degree of Capricornus,
that Hiemall solstitiall signe shewes that by
naturall inclination this quarter is generally fleugmatike,
and that all shall be of suche great authoritie,
that the Bakers Basket shall giue the wall vnto the
Brewers Barrell, and a halfe pennye drie doe homage
vnto a halfe pennye wet. The weather and season
being so colde that diuerse for feare of the frost shall
sit all daye at Tables and Cardes, while their poore
wiues and families fast at home for their follies.
And in respect that I finde three of the seauen
Planetes to be in waterie signes as Juppiter, Mars,
and the Moone, it signifieth that diuerse persons,
both men and women, for want of wine or strong
drinke shall goe to bedde sober against their willes.
That Sea-faring men shall haue ill lucke if / either
their shippes hit agaynst rockes or sticke in the
sandes, that there shall bee such great hoarie frostes,
that men and women shall creepe to bedde together,
and some of them lie so long till they bee fetchte out
with a Bason. Heere Saturne retrograde in Gemini,
shewes that there shall this Winter fall such great
fogs and mists, that diuerse riche men shall loose
their purses by the high waie side, and poore men be
so weather beaten by the crafte of vsurers, that they
shall begge their bread by the extremitie of such
extortion: but Mercurie and Venus beeing congregated
in Sagitarie, prognosticateth that for want of
faire weather, such as haue but one shirt shall go
woolward till that be a washing, and that water-men
that want fares shall sit and blowe their fingers till
theyr fellowes row betwixte the Old Swanne and
Westminister. And by reason that Mars that malignant
Planet, hath nothing to doe in that Hiemall
reuolution, souldiers this Winter for the most parte,
shall lie still in garrisons, and shall not be troubled
with more monie than is necessarie. Beeing also
greatly to bee feared, that through the extreame colde
diuerse poore men shall die at riche mennes doores:
pittie shall bee exiled, good woorkes trust ouer the sea
with Jacke / a lent and Hospitalitie banisht as a signe
of popish religion: and were it not that some moist
shoures shal moderate the hardnes of the frost,
Charitie should for want of house roome lie and
freeze to death in the streets: diuerse great stormes
are this yere to be feared, especially in houses where
the wiues weare the breeches, with such lowde windes,
that the women shall scolde their husbandes quight
out of doores, wherevpon is like to fall great haile-stones
as bigge as ioynd stooles, that some shall haue
their heads broken: and all through the froward
disposition of Venus. But Mars comes in and playes
the man, who beeing placed in Gemini, that gouerns
armes and shoulders, presageth that sundrie tall
fellowes shall take heart at grasse, who armed with
good cudgels, shall so lambeake these stubborne
huswiues, that the wind shall turne into another
quarter, and so the weather waxe more calme and
quiet. Such greate floudes are like to insue,
through this Hiemall distemperature, that diuerse
men shall be drowned on drie hilles, and fishe if they
could not swimme, were vtterly like to perish.
Eeles are like to bee deere if there bee few or none
taken, and plentie of poutes to bee had in all places,
especiallie in those coastes and Countries where
weomen haue / not their owne willes. Nowe Gentle
Reader in respect of diuerse particular circumstances,
drawne from the daily motions, progressions, stations,
retrogradations, aspects, and other appointmentes of
fixed and wandring stars, I am induced to set downe
that such as haue no fire, shall feele most cold, and that
wierdrawers, if they plye not their worke, shall feele no
great heate, that they in Russia shall suffer more preiudice
by the sharpenesse of Winter than the Spaniards:
and yet one thing is to bee hoped for at the handes
of Mercurie, that this winter mony shall haue a fall, for
Philip and Mary shillings that heretofore went for 12d.
shall now passe from man to man for 6d. a peece.

The distemperance of this quarter, is like to
breede many sicknesses and sundrie diseases as well
in young as in old, proceeding either of corrupt
and vicious bloud or of superabundance of crude
and raw fleugmatike humors. As Cephala[l]gies or
paines in the head, which shall make men dizzy
that some shal stagger & stumble vp & downe the
streetes till they haue stolne a nappe to quiet their
braines. Ach in the shoulders shal raine amongest
diuerse women that haue shrewes to their husbands,
and diuerse drunken men shall be pestured with
surfets. Maidens this winter shall haue strange
stitches & gripings / of the collicke, which diseases
proceed by too much lying vpright: and men shall
be troubled with such paine in the eies, that they
shall not know their owne wiues from other women,
with coughs, rumes, and itchings, which I omit.


_Of the Spring time._

Winter being finished with the last grade of the
watry signe Pisces, at the Suns ioyful progresse into
the first degree of Aries. The second quarter of our
vsuall yere commonly called the spring c[=o]meth next,
which beginneth when grasse begins to sproute, &
trees to bud. But to treat of this present season,
forasmuch as I find the planets to be contradictorily
disposed, in signs & mansi[=o]s of diuerse & repugnant
qualities, I gather that this spring will be
very il for schollers, for they shal studie much and
gain litle, they shal haue more wit in their heads
then money in their purses, dunces shal proue more
welthie then diuers doctors, insomuch that sundrie
vnlettered fooles should creep into the ministerie, if
the prouident care of good Bishops did not preuent
th[=e]. And by the opinion of Proclus, women are like
to grow wilful, & so variable, that they shall laugh
& weepe, and all with a winde: Butchers shal sell /
their meate as deare as they can, and if they be not
carefull, horne beastes shall bee hurtfull vnto them,
and some shall bee so wedded to swines flesh, that
they shall neuer be without a sowe in their house as
long as they liue. This spring, or vernall resolution
being naturally hot and moist, is like to be verie
forwarde for sprouting fieldes and blooming trees,
and because Saturne is in his proper mansion, olde
men are like to bee froward, and craftie knaues shall
neede no Brokers, vsurie shalbe called good husbandrie,
and men shalbe counted honest by their
wealth, not by their vertues. And because Aquarius
has somthing to do wt this quarter, it is to be
doubted that diuers springs of water will rise vp in
vintners sellers, to the great weakning of their Gascon
wine, & the vtter ruine of the ancient order of the
redde noses. March Beere shalbe more esteemed
than small Ale.

Out of the old stocke of heresie, this spring it is
to be feared, will bloome new scismaticall opinions
and strange sects, as Brownists, Barowists, & such
balductum deuises, to the great hinderance of the
vnitie of the Church, & confusion of the true faith,
if the learned doctor sir T. Tiburne be not taskte to
confute such vpstart companions, with his plain &
dunstable philosophie. Cancer is bu/sie in this
springtide, and therefore it is like that florishing
bloomes of yong gentlemens youth, shalbe greatly
anoide with caterpillers, who shall intangle them in
such statutes & recognances, that they shall crie
out against brokers, as Jeremy did against false
prophets. Besides, thogh this last winter nipt vp
diuers masterles men & cut purses, yet this spring
is like to afford one euery tearme this ten yere in
Westminster hall: Barbers if they haue no worke
are like to grow poore, and for that Mercury is
c[=o]bust and many quarelles like to growe amongst
men, lawiers shall proue rich & weare side gowns
and large consciences, hauing theyr mouths open
to call for fees, and theyr purses shut when they
shoulde bestowe almes. But take heed O you generation
of wicked Ostlers, that steale haie in the
night from gentlemens horses, and rub their teth
with tallow, that they may eate little when they stand
at liuery, this I prognosticate against you, that this
spring, which so euer of you dies, shall leaue a
knaues carcasse in the graue behind him, and that
they which liue shall hop a harlot in his clothes all
the yere after. But aboue all let me not hide this
secret from my countrymen, that Jupiter being in
aspect with Luna, discouereth that diuers men shal
drinke more th[=e] they bleed, & / Tailers shall steale
nothing but what is brought vnto them, that poulters
shall bee pestered with rotten egs, & Butchers dogs
make libels against Lent, that affoordes no foode but
herring cobs for their diet.

Diseases incident to this quarter, as by Astrologicall
& philosophicall coniectures I can gather,
are these following: Prentises that haue ben fore
beaten, shall be troubled with ach in their armes,
and it shall be ill for such as haue fore eies, to looke
against the Sun. The plague shall raigne mortally
amongst poore men, that diuerse of them shal not
be able to change a man a groate. Olde women
that haue taken great colde, may perhaps be trobled
with the cough, and such as haue paine in their teeth,
shall bee grieuouslie troubled with the tooth ach. Beside,
sicke folke shall haue worse stomackes then they
which be whole, and men that cannot sleepe, shall
take verie little rest: with other accidentall infirmities,
which I doe ouerpasse.


_A declaration of the disposition and inclination
of the Summer quarter_.

When the Sunne hath made his course through
the vernal signs, Aries, Taurus & Gemini at his
passage vnto the solsticiall estiuall signe Cancer.
The third parte of an English yeere called Summer,
taketh his beginning this yere: as Ptolomie sayth,
the twelfth of Iune, but as my skill doth coniecture,
it beginneth when the wether waxeth so hot that
beggers scorne barnes and lie in the field for heate,
and the wormes of Saint Pancredge Church build
their bowers vnder the shadow of Colman hedge.
The predominant qualities of this quarter is heate
and drynesse, whereby I doe gather, that through the
influence of Cancer, bottle Ale shall be in great
authoritie, and wheat shall doe knightes seruice vnto
malte. Tapsters this quarter shall be in greater
credite than Coblers, and many shall drinke more
then they can yearne. And yet because Mercurie is
a signe that is nowe predominant, women shall be
more troubled with fleas then men, and such as want
meate shall goe supperlesse to bedde. Besides,
this quarter great hurlie burlies are like to bee feared,
and greate stratagems like to bee performed, thorough
the opposition of Mars and Saturne: for Butchers
are like to make great hauocke amongest flies, and
beggers on Sunne shine dayes to commit great
murthers vpon their rebellious vermine, and the
knights of Coppersmiths hap to / doo great deedes of
armes vpon Cuppes, Cannes, pots, glasses, and black
iacks: not ceasing the skirmish til they are able to
stand on their legges.

Further it is to bee doubted, that because Venus
is in the house of Loue, that Millers, Weauers, and
Taylors shall be counted as theeuishe as they are
knauishe: and Maides this quarter shall make
sillyebubbes for their Louers, till some of them
Calue with the Cowe for companye. But Iupiter in
his exaltation presageth that diuers young Gentlemen
shall creepe further into the Mercers Booke in a
Moneth then they can get out in a yere: and that
sundry fellowes in their silkes shall be appointed to
keep Duke Humfrye company in Poules, because
they know not wher to get their dinner abroad: if
there be great plenty of Cherries this Summer, they
are like to come to a penny the pound, and Costard-mongers
this Summer shall be licenst by the Wardens
of their hall, to weare and carry baskets of Apples on
their heads to keepe them from the heat of the Sun.
But Libra adust and retrograde, foretelleth that there
is like to be a league between diuers bakers & the
pillorye, for making their bread so light, and the Sun
shall be so hotte, that it shall melt awaye the consciences
of diuers couetous men, and that / by the
meanes of Venus which is in the house of Scorpion,
women shall bee so loue sicke, that Sumners and
ciuil lawiers shall haue great fees thorough the aboundance
of such sinfull clients, and diuerse spirites in
white sheetes shall stand in Poules and other
Churches, to make their confessions. But this by
the waie learne of me, shomakers shall proue so
proud that they shall refuse the name of souters,
and the Tailer and the louse are like to fall at
martiall variance, were it not the worshipfull company
of the Botchers haue set downe this order, that
he that lies in his bed while his clothes be mending,
neede not haue a man to keepe his wardroppe. But
amongst all, the Smithes haue put vp a supplication
to the Alecunners, that he which goes dronke to bed,
and as soone as hee wakes dares not carouse a hartie
draught the next morning, shall drinke two daies
together small Ale for his penance.

This variable season is like to bring variable
accidents, for diuerse diseases which will much
molest the people, namely the plurisies which shall
grieue many, that they shall haue farre more knauerie
than they haue honestie, diuerse fluxes, and especiallie
in poore mens purses, for they shall bee so laxatiue,
that money shall runne out faster than / they can get
it. The small pockes among children and great
amongst men, infirmities in the tong, some shall doe
nothing but lie with others, which I let pas.


_A declaration of the inclination and disposition of
the Autumnall or haruest quarter._

Haruest and the last quarter of this yeere beginneth,
as I coniecture, when corne is ripe. But
for the nature of this autumnall reuolution, because
it beginneth in Libra, I gather there shall be more
holes open this quarter then in all the yeere beside,
and strange euents shall chance, for knaues shall
weare smockes, and women shall haue holes in their
heartes, that as fast as loue creepes in at one, it shall
runne out at another. Yet Leo being a firie signe,
foresheweth that diuerse men shall haue their teeth
longer then their beards, and some shal be so Sun
burnt with sitting in the Alehouse, that their noses
shall bee able to light a candle. Others shall for
want of money paune their clokes, and march
mannerly in theyr doublet and their hose. And
some shall this yere haue barnes and yet want corn
to put in them. Rie this yeere shall bee common
in / England, and knaues shall be licenst to sel it by
the pound, and he that wil not this quarter spend
a pennie with his friende, by the counsayle of
Albumazar, shall bee thrust quite out of all good
companie for his labour.

It may be doubted that some straunge sicknesse
and vnknowen diseases wil happen, as hollownesse of
the heart, that a man shall not know a knaue from
an honest man, and vncouth consumptions of the
lyuer, that diuerse men of good wealth shall by their
kinde hearts spend all and die banquerouts: some
shal be troubled with diseases in the throate, which
cannot bee helpte without Bull the hang man plaie
the skilfull Chyrurgion. Amongest the rest, many
that haue faire wiues shalbe troubled with greate
swelling in the browes, a disease as incurable as the
goute. Some shall bee troubled with the stone, and
seeke to cunning women to cure them of that disease,
an infirmitie easilie amended, and the doctors
of Bridewell did not punish such women Phisitians
by a Statute. But the greatest disease that is to bee
feared, is the Cataphalusie, that is to saie, good
fellowes this yeere for want of money shall oft times
be contented to part companie.

And / thus (gentle reader) thou hast my prognostication,
gathered by arte, and confirmed by experience,
and therefore take it in good worth, for _Quod gratis
grate_, and so farewell.




VII.--THOMAS DEKKER


(The Gull's Hornbook _is an almost famous work,
and has, I believe, been cheaply reprinted in separate
form of late years. It cannot, however, be too well
known, for it is excellent in itself, and though undoubtedly
paraphrased from the_ Grobianus _of Dedekind,
is so adjusted to English contemporary manners as to
be practically original_.)


  THE GVLS

  Horne-booke:

  _Stultorum plena sunt omnia._

  Al Sauio meza parola,
  Basta.


  By T. Deckar.


  _Labore et Constantia._


  Imprinted at London for R. S. 1609.


_To all Guls in generall, wealth and Liberty._


WHOM can I choose (my most worthie _Mecaen-asses_) to
be Patrons to this labour of mine fitter th[=e] yourselues?
Your hands are euer open, your purses neuer shut. So
that you stand not in the _Common_ Rancke of _Dry-fisted
Patrons_, (who giue nothing) for you giue all. Schollers,
therefore, are as much beholden to you, as Vintners,
Players, and Puncks are. Those three trades gaine by
you more then Vsurers do by thirty in the hundred:
You spend the wines of the one, you make suppers for
the other, and change your Gold into White money with
the third. Who is more liberall then you? who (but
only Cittizens) are more free? Blame me not therefore,
if I pick you out from the bunch of _Booke-takers_, to
consecrate these fruits of my braine (which shall neuer
die) onely to you. I know that most of you (O admirable
_Guls_!) can neither write nor reade. A _Horne-booke_
haue I inuented, because I would haue you well
schooled. _Powles_ is your _Walke_; but this your Guid:
if it lead you right, thanke me: if astray, men will
beare with your errors, because you are _Guls_. _Farewell._

T. D.


To the Reader.

_GENTLE Reader, I could willingly be content that thou
shouldest neither be at cost to buy this booke, nor at the
labour to reade it. It is not my ambition to bee a man
in Print, thus euery Tearm_; Ad praelum, tanquam ad
praelium; _Wee should come to the Presse as we come to
the Field (seldome). This Tree of_ Guls _was planted
long since, but not taking roote, could neuer beare till
now. It hath a relish of_ Grobianisme, _and tastes very
strongly of it in the beginning: the reason thereof is,
that, hauing translated many Bookes of that into English
Verse, and not greatly liking the Subiect, I altred the
Shape, and of a Dutchman fashioned a meere Englishman.
It is a Table wherein are drawne sundry Pictures:
the cullors are fresh; if they be well laid on, I think my
workmanship well bestowed: if ill, so much the better,
because I draw the pictures onely of_ Guls.

T. D. /




THE GULS HORN-BOOKE:

OR

_Fashions to please all sorts of Guls._


_Prooemium_.

I sing (like the cuckooe in June) to bee laught at:
if therefore I make a scuruy noise, and that my tunes
sound vnmusically (the Ditty being altogether lame
in respect of the bad feete, and vnhansome in
regard of the worme-eaten fashion) you that haue
authority vnder the broad seale of mouldy custom, to
be called the _gentle Audience_, set your goodly great
hands to my pardon: or else, because I scorne to be
vpbraided that I professe to instruct others in an Art,
whereof I my selfe am ignorant, Doe your worst: chuse
whether you will let my notes haue you by the eares,
or no: hisse or giue plaudities, I care not a nut-shell
which of either: you can neither shake our _Comick
Theater_ with your stinking breath of hisses, nor raise
it with the thunder-claps of your hands: vp it goes,
_in dispetto del fato_. Ye motley is bought, and a
coat with foure elbowes (for any one that will weare
it) is put to making, in defiance of the seuen wise
maisters: for I haue smelt out of the musty sheetes
of an olde Almanacke, that (at one time or other)
euen he that iets vpon the neatest and sprucest
leather, euen he that talkes all _Adage_ and _Apothegme_,
euen he that will not haue a wrinckle in his new
Sattein suit, though his mind be vglier then his face,
and his face so illfauouredly made, that he lookes at
all times as if a tooth-drawer were fumbling about
his gommes with a / thousand lame _Heteroclites_ more,
that cozen the world with a guilt spur and a ruffled
boote; will be all glad to fit themselues in _Will
Sommer_ his wardrob, and be driuen (like a Flemish
Hoy in foule weather) to slip into our Schoole, and
take out a lesson. Tush, _Coelum petimus stultitia_, all
that are chosen Constables for their wit go not to
heauen.

A fig therefore for the new-found Colledge of
_Criticks_. You Courtiers, that do nothing but sing
the _gamuth-a-re_ of complemental courtesie, and at the
rusticall behauiour of our Countrie Muse, will screw
forth worse faces then those which God and the
Painter has bestowed vpon you, I defie your perfumd
scorne: and vow to poyson your Muske cats,
if their ciuet excrement doe but once play with my
nose. You _ordinary Gulles_, that through a poore
and silly ambition to be thought you inherit the
reuenues of extraordinary wit, will spend your shallow
censure vpon the most elaborate Poeme so lauishly,
that all the painted table-men about you, take you
to be heires apparent to rich _Midasse_, that had
more skill in _alchimy_ then _Kelly_ with the Phylosophers
stone; (for all that he could lay his fingers
on, turned into beaten gold) dry Tobacco with my
leaues (you good dry brained _polipragmonists_) till
your pipe offices smoake with your pittifully stinking
girds shot out against me. I coniure you (as you
come of the right _goose-caps_) staine not your house;
but when at a new play you take vp the twelue-penny
roome next the stage; (because the Lords and you
may seeme to be haile fellow wel-met) there draw
forth this booke, read alowd, laugh alowd, and play
the _Antickes_, that all the garlike mouthd stinkards
may cry out, _Away with the fool_. As for thee, Zoylus,
goe hang thy selfe: and for thee _Momus_, chew
nothing but hemlock, and spit nothing but the sirrup
of _Aloes_ vpon my papers, till thy very rotten lungs
come forth for anger. I am Snake-proofe: and,
though, with _Hanniball_, you bring whole hogs-heads
of vinegar-railings, it is impossible for you to quench
or come ouer my _Alpine-resolution_: I will faile boldly
and desperately alongst the shore of ye Ile of _Guls_;
and in defiance of those terrible blockhouses, their
loggerheads, make a true discouery of their wild (yet
habitable) Country.

Sound an Allarum therefore (O thou my couragious
Muse) and, like a Dutch cryer, make proclamation
with thy Drum: the effect of thine O-_yes_ being,
That if any man, woman or child, be he Lord, be he
Lowne, be he Courtier, be he Carter of ye Innes of
Court, or Innes of Citty, that, hating from the
bottome of his heart, all good manners and generous
education, is really in loue, or rather doates on that
excellent country lady, _Innocent Simplicity_, being the
first, fairest, and chiefest Chamber-maide that our
great _grandame Eue_ entertained into seruice: Or if
any person aforesaid, longing to make a voyage in
the Ship of Fooles, would venture all the wit that his
mother left him, to liue in the country of _Guls_,
_cockneyes_, and _coxcombs_; to the intent that, ha[=u]ting
_theaters_, he may sit there, like a popiniay, onely to
learne play-speeches, which afterward may furnish
ye necessity of his bare knowledge, to maintaine
table talke, or else, beating _tauernes_, desires to take
the _Bacchanalian_ degrees, and to write himselfe _in
arte bibendi magister_; that at ordinaries would sit
like Biasse, and in the streets walk like a braggart,
that on foote longs to goe like a French Lacque, and
on horsebacke rides like an English Tailor, or that
from seuen yeares and vpward, till his dying day,
has a monethes mind to haue ye _Guls Hornebooke_
by hearte; by which in time he may be promoted to
serue any Lord in _Europe_, as his crafty foole, or his
bawdy Jester, yea and to be so deere to his Lordship,
as for the excellency of his fooling, to be admitted
both to ride in Coach with him, and to lie at his
very feete on a truckle-bed. Let all such (and I
hope the world has not left her olde fashions, but
there are ten thousand such) repaire hither. Neuer
knocke (you that striue to be Ninny-hammer), but
with your feete spurne open the doore, and enter
into our Schoole: you shall not neede to buy
bookes, no, scorne to distinguish a B from a battle
doore; onely looke that your eares be long enough
to reach our _Rudiments_, and you are made for euer.
It is by heart that I would haue you con my lessons,
and therefore be sure to haue most deuouring
stomaches. Nor be you terrified with an opinion,
that our _rules_ be hard and indigestible, or that you
shall neuer be good _Graduates_ in these rare sciences
of _Barbarisme_, and Idiotisme. Oh fie, vppon any
man that carries that vngodly minde! Tush, tush;
_Tarleton_, _Kemp_, nor _Singer_, nor all the litter of Fooles
that now come drawling behinde them, neuer played
the clownes more naturally then the arrantest Sot of
you all shall if hee will but boyle my Instructions in
his braine-pan.

And lest I my selfe, like some _pedantical Vicar_
stammering out a most false and crackt latine oration
to maister _Maior_ of the towne and his brethren,
should cough and hem in my deliueries; by which
meanes you (my Auditors) should be in danger to
depart more like woodcockes then when you came
to me: O thou venerable father of antient (and
therefore hoary) customes, _Syluanus_, I inuoke thy
assistance; thou that first taughtest Carters to weare
hob-nailes, and Lobs to play Christmas gambols, and
to shew the most beastly horse-trickes: O do thou,
or (if thou art not at leasure) let thy Mountibancke,
goat-footed _Fauni_, inspire me with the knowledge of
all those silly and ridiculous fashions, which the old
dunsticall world woare euen out at elbowes; draw
for me the pictures of the most simple fellowes then
liuing, that by their patterns I may paint the like.
Awake thou noblest drunkerd _Bacchus_, thou must
likewise stand to me (if at least thou canst for reeling),
teach me (you soueraigne skinker) how to take
the _Germanies vpsy freeze_, the Danish _Rowsa_, the
Switzers stoap of _Rhenish_, the _Italians Parmizant_,
the Englishmans healthes, his hoopes, cans, halfecans,
Gloues, Frolicks, and flapdragons, together with the
most notorious qualities of the truest tospots, as
when to cast, when to quarrell, when to fight, and
where to sleepe: hide not a drop of thy moist
mystery from me (thou plumpest swil-bowle), but
(like an honest red-nosed wine-bibber) lay open all
thy secrets, and ye mystical _Hieroglyphick_ of _Rashers_
a' th' coales, _Modicums_ and _shooing-hornes,_ and why
they were inuented, for what occupations, and when
to be vsed. Thirdly (because I will haue more then
two strings to my bow) _Comus_, thou Clarke of
_Gluttonies_ kitchen, doe thou also bid me proface,
and let me not rise from table, till I am perfect in
all the generall rules of _Epicures_ and _Cormorants_.
Fatten thou my braines, that I may feede others,
and teach them both how to squat downe to their
meat, and how to munch so like Loobies, that the
wisest _Solon_ in the world, shall not be able to take
them for any other. If there be any strength in
thee, thou beggerly Monarche of _Indians_, and setter-vp
of rotten-lungd chimneysweepers (_Tobacco_), I beg
it at thy smoaky hands: make me thine adopted
heire, that, inheriting the vertues of thy whiffes, I
may / distribute them amongst all nations, and make
the phantastick _Englishmen_ (aboue the rest) more
cunning in the distinction of thy _Rowle Trinidado_,
_Leafe_, and _Pudding_, then the whitest toothd Blackamoore
in all _Asia_. After thy pipe, shal ten thousands
be taught to daunce, if thou wilt but discouer to me
the sweetnesse of thy snuffes, with the manner of
spawling, slauering, spetting and driueling in all
places, and before all persons. Oh what songs will
I charme out, in praise of those valiantly-strong-stinking
breaths, which are easily purchased at thy
hands, if I can but get thee to trauell through my nose.
All the foh's in the fairest Ladies mouth, that euer
kist Lord, shall not fright me from thy browne presence:
for thou art humble, and from the Courts of
Princes hast vouchsafed to be acquainted with penny
galleries, and (like a good-fellow) to be drunke for
company, with Water-men, Carmen, and Colliers;
whereas before, and so still, Knights and wise Gentlemen
were, & are thy companions. Last of all,
thou Lady of Clownes and Carters, Schoolmistres of
fooles and wiseacres, thou homely (but harmelesse)
_Rusticity_, Oh breath thy dull and dunsticall spirit
into our ganders quill; crowne me thy Poet, not with
a garland of Bayes (Oh no! the number of those
that steale _lawret_ is too monstrous already) but
swaddle thou my browes with those unhansome
boughes, which, (like _Autums_ rotten haire), hang
dangling ouer thy dusty eye-lids. Helpe me (thou
midwife of vnmannerlinesse) to be deliuered of this
_Embryon_ that lies tumbling in my braine: direct me
in this hard and dangerous voyage, that being safely
arriued on the desired shore, I may build up Altars
to thy _Vnmatcheable Rudeness_; the excellency whereof
I know will be so great, that _Grout-nowles_ and
_Moames_ will in swarmes fly buzzing about thee. So
_Herculean_ a labour is this, that I vndertake, that I
am enforced to ball out for all your succours, to the
intent I may aptly furnish this feast of _Fooles_, vnto
which I solemnely inuite all the world; for at it shall
sit not only those whom _Fortune_ fauours, but euen
those whose wits are naturally their owne. Yet
because your artificiall fooles beare away the bell, all
our best workmanship (at this time) shall be spent to
fashion such a Creature.


CHAPTER I

The old world, & the new weighed together: the Tailors of
those times, and these compared: the apparell, and dyet of
our first fathers.

Good cloathes are the embrodred trappings of pride,
and good cheere the very _eringo-roote_ of gluttony: so
that fine backes, and fat bellyes are Coach-horses to
two of the seuen deadly sins: In the bootes of which
Coach, _Lechery_ and _Sloth_ sit like the waiting-maide.
In a most desperate state therefore doe Taylors, and
Cookes stand, by meanes of their offices: for both
those trades are Apple-squires to that couple of
sinnes. The one inuents more phantasticke fashions,
then Fraunce hath worne since her first stone was
laid; the other more lickerish _epycurean_ dishes, then
were euer serud vp to _Gallonius_ table. Did man
(thinke you) come wrangling into the world, about no
better matters, then all his lifetime to make priuy
searches in Burchin lane for Whalebone doublets, or
for pies of _Nightingale_ tongues in _Heliogabalus_ his
kitchin? No, no, the first suit of apparell, that euer
mortall man put on, came neither from the Mercers
shop nor the Merchants warehouse: _Adams_ bill
would haue beene taken then, sooner then a Knights
bond now; yet was hee great in no bodies bookes
for satten and veluets: the silkwormes had something
else to do in those dayes, then to set vp loomes,
and be free of the weauers: his breeches were not so
much worth as K. _Stephens_, that cost but a poore
noble: for _Adams_ holyday hose and doublet were of
no better stuffe then plaine fig-leaues, and _Eues_ best
gowne of the same peece: there went but a paire of
sheeres betweene them. An _Antiquary_ in this towne,
has yet some of the powder of those leaues dryed to
shew. Taylors then were none of the twelue Companies:
their Hall, that now is larger then some
Dorpes among the _Netherlands_, was then no bigger
then a Dutch Butchers shop: they durst not strike
downe their customers with large billes: _Adam_ cared
not an apple-paring for all their lousy hems. There
was then neither the _Spanish_ slop, nor the Skippers
galligaskin: the _Switzers_ blistred Cod-piece, nor the
_Danish_ sleeue sagging / down like a Welch wallet, the
_Italians_ close strosser, nor the French standing
coller: your trebble-quadruple _Daedalian_ ruffes, nor
your stiffenecked _rebatoes_ (that haue more arches for
pride to row vnder, then can stand vnder fiue London
Bridges) durst not then set themselues out in print:
for the patent for starch could by no meanes be
signd. Fashions then was counted a disease, and
horses dyed of it: But now (thankes to folly) it is
held the onely rare phisicke, and the purest golden
Asses liue vpon it.

As for the dyet of that _Saturnian_ age, it was like
their attire, homely: A sallad, and a messe of leeke
porridge, was a dinner for a farre greater man then
euer the _Turke_ was: Potato-pies, and Custards,
stood like the sinfull suburbs of Cookery, and had
not a wall (so much as a handfull hie) built rownd
about them. There were no daggers then, nor no
Chayres. _Crookes_ his ordinary, in those parsimonious
dayes, had not a Capons-leg to throw at a dog.
Oh golden world, the suspicious _Venecian_ carued not
his meate with a siluer pitch-forke, neither did the
sweet-toothd Englishman shift a dozen of trenchers
at one meale. Peirs ploughman layd the cloth, and
Simplicity brought in the voyder. How wonderfully
is the world altered? and no maruell, for it has lyein
sicke almost fiue thousand yeares: So that it is no
more like the old _Theater du munde_, than old _Paris_
garden is like the Kings garden at _Paris_.

What an excellent workeman therefore were he
that could cast the Globe of it into a new mould:
And not to make it look like _Mullineux_ his Globe,
with a round face sleekt and washt ouer with whites
of egges; but to haue it _in Plano_, as it was at first,
with all the ancient circles, lines, paralels, and figures,
representing indeede, all the wrinckles, crackes,
creuises and flawes that (like the Mole on _Hattens_
cheek, being _os amoris_,) stuck vpon it at the first
creation, and made it looke most louely; but now
those furrowes are filled vp with Ceruse, and Vermilion;
yet all will not doe, it appeares more vgly.
Come, come, it would be but a bald world, but that
it weares a periwig. The body of it is fowle (like a
birding-peece) by being too much heated: the breath
of it stinks like the mouthes of Chambermaides by
feeding on so many sweat meats. And, though to
purge it wil be a sorer labour then the clensing / of
_Augeaes_ stable, or the scowring of Mooreditch: yet,
_Ille ego, qui quondam_; I am the _Pasquille madcap_,
that will doot.

Draw neere therefore, all you that loue to walke
vpon single and simple soules, and that wish to keepe
company with none but Innocents, and the sonnes of
ciuill Citizens, out with your tables, and naile your
eares (as it were to the pillary) to the _musique_ of our
instructions: nor let ye title _Gullery_, fright you fr[=o]
schoole: for marke what an excellent ladder you are
to clime by. How many worthy, and men of famous
memory (for their learning of all offices, from the
scauenger and so vpward) haue flourished in London
of ye ancient familie of ye _Wiseacres_, being now
no better esteemd then fooles and yonger brothers?
This geare must be lookt into, lest in time (O lamentable
time, when that houre-glasse is turned vp) a rich
mans sonne shall no sooner peepe out of the shell of
his minority but he shall straightwaies be begd for a
concealement, or set vpon (as it were, by free-booters)
and tane in his owne purse-nets by fencers and cony-catchers.
To driue which pestilent infection from
the heart, heeres a medicine more potent, and more
precious, than was euer that mingle-mangle of drugs
which _Mithrydates_ boyld together. Feare not to tast
it: a cawdle will not goe downe halfe so smoothly as
this will: you neede not call the honest name of it in
question, for Antiquity puts off his cap, and makes a
bare oration in praise of the vertues of it: the _Receipt_
hath beene subscribed vnto, by all those that haue
had to doe with _Simples_, with this moth-eaten _Motto,
Probatum est_: your _Diacatholicon aureum_, that with
gun-powder brings threaten[ing]s to blow vp all diseases
that come in his way, and smels worse then
_Assafaetida_ in respect of this. You therefore whose
bodyes, either ouerflowing with the corrupt humours
of this ages phantasticknesse, or else being burnt
vp with the infl[=a]mation of vpstart fashions, would
faine be purgd: and to shew that you truly loath this
polluted and mangy-fisted world, turne Timonists,
not caring either for men or their maners. Doe
you pledge me, spare not to take a deepe draught of
our homely councel. The cup is full, and so large,
that I boldly drinke a health vnto all commers. /


CHAPTER II

How a young Gallant shall not onely keepe his clothes (which
many of them can hardly doe for Brokers) but also saue the
charges of taking physicke; with other rules for the morning,
the praise of Sleepe, and of going naked.

You haue heard all this while nothing but the _Prologue_,
and seene no more but a dumbe shew: Our
_vetus Comaedia_ steps out now. The fittest stage vpon
which you (that study to be an Actor there) are first
to present your selfe is (in my approued judgement)
the softest and largest Downe-bed: from whence (if
you will but take sound councell of your pillow) you
shall neuer rise, till you heare it ring noone at least.
Sleep, in the name of _Morpheus_, your bellyfull, or
(rather) sleepe till you heare your belly grombles and
waxeth empty. Care not for those coorse painted
cloath rimes, made by ye Uniuersity of _Salerne_, that
come ouer you, with

_Sit breuis, aut nullus, tibi somnus meridianus._

Short let thy sleepe at noone be,
Or rather let it none be.

Sweete candied councell, but theres rats-bane
vnder it: trust neuer a Bachiler of Art of them all,
for he speakes your health faire, but to steale away
the maidenhead of it: _Salerne_ stands in the luxurious
country of _Naples_, and who knowes not that the
_Neapolitan_, will (like _Derick_ the hangman) embrace
you with one arme, and rip your guts with the other?
theres not a haire in his mustachoo, but if he kisse
you, will stabbe you through the cheekes like a
ponyard: the slaue, to be auenged on his enemy,
will drink off a pint of poison himselfe so that he
may be sure to haue the other pledge him but halfe
so much. And it may be, that vpon some secret
grudge to worke the generall destruction of all mankinde,
those verses were composed. _Phisisians_, I
know (and none else) tooke vp the bucklers in their
defence, railing bitterly vpon that venerable and
princely custom of _long-lying-abed_: Yet, now I remember
me, I cannot blame them; for / they which
want sleepe (which is mans naturall rest) become
either mere _Naturals_, or else fall into the Doctors
hands, and so consequently into the Lords: whereas
he that snorts profoundly scornes to let _Hippocrates_
himselfe stand tooting on his Urinall, and thereby
saues that charges of a groates worth of Physicke: And
happy is that man that saues it; for phisick is _Non
minus venefica, quam benefica_, it hath an ounce of gall
in it, for euery dram of hony. Ten _Tyburnes_ cannot
turne men ouer ye perch so fast as one of these
brewers of purgations: the very nerues of their practise
being nothing but _Ars Homicidiorum_, an Art to
make poore soules kicke vp their heeles. In so much,
that euen their sicke grunting patients stand in more
danger of M. Doctor and his drugs, then of all the
Cannon shots which the desperate disease it selfe
can discharge against them. Send them packing
therefore, to walke like _Italian Mountebankes_, beate
not your braines to vnderstand their parcell-greeke,
parcell-latine gibrish: let not all their sophisticall
buzzing into your eares, nor their _Satyricall_ canuassing
of feather-beds and tossing men out of their
warme blanckets, awake you till the houre that heere
is prescribed.

For doe but consider what an excellent thing
sleepe is: It is so inestimable a Jewel, that, if a
Tyrant would giue his crowne for an houres slumber,
it cannot be bought: of so beautifull a shape is it, that
though a man lye with an Empresse, his heart cannot
be at quiet, till he leaues her embracements to be at
rest with the other: yea, so greatly indebted are we
to this kinseman of death, that we owe the better
tributary, halfe of our life to him: and thers good
cause why we should do so: for sleepe is that golden
chaine that ties health and our bodies together.
Who complains of want? of woundes? of cares? of
great mens oppressions, of captiuity? whilest he
sleepeth? Beggers in their beds take as much pleasure
as Kings: can we therefore surfet on this delicate
_Ambrosia_? can we drink too much of that whereof
to tast too little tumbles vs into a church-yard, and to
vse it but indifferently, throwes vs into Bedlam? No,
no, looke vppon _Endymion_, the Moones Minion, who
slept threescore and fifteene yeares, and was not a
haire the worse for it. Can lying abedde till noone
then (being not the threescore and fifteenth thousand
part of his nap) be hurtfull?

Besides, by the opinion of all Phylosophers and
Physitians, it is not good to trust the aire with our
bodies / till the Sun with his flame- wings,
hath fand away the mistie smoake of the morning,
and refind that thicke tobacco-breath which the
rheumaticke night throwes abroad of purpose to put
out the eye of the Element: which worke questionlesse
cannot be perfectly finished, till the sunnes
Car-horses stand prancing on the very top of highest
noon: so that then (and not till then) is the most
healthfull houre to be stirring. Do you require
examples to perswade you? At what time do Lords
and Ladies vse to rise, but then? your simpring
Merchants wiues are the fairest lyers in the world:
and is not eleuen a clocke their common houre?
they finde (no doubt) vnspeakable sweetnesse in such
lying, else they would not day by day put it so in
practise. In a word, midday slumbers are golden;
they make the body fat, the skin faire, the flesh
plump, delicate and tender; they set a russet colour
on the cheekes of young women, and make lusty
courage to rise vp in men; they make vs thrifty, both
in sparing victuals (for breakefasts thereby are savd
from the hell-mouth of the belly) and in preseruing
apparell; for while wee warm us in our beds, our
clothes are not worne.

The casements of thine eyes being then at this
commendable time of the day, newly set open, choose
rather to haue thy wind-pipe cut in peeces then to
salute any man. Bid not good-morrow so much as
to thy father, tho he be an Emperour. An idle
ceremony it is, and can doe him little good; to
thy selfe it may bring much harme: for if he be a
wise man that knowes how to hold his peace, of
necessity must he be counted a foole that cannot
keep his tongue.

Amongst all the wild men that runne vp and
downe in this wide forest of fooles (the world) none
are more superstitious then those notable _Ebritians_,
the Jewes: yet a Jewe neuer weares his cap threed-bare
with putting it off: neuer bends i' th' hammes
with casting away a leg: neuer cries _God saue you_,
tho he sees the Diuell at your elbow. Play the Jewes
therefore in this, and saue thy lips that labour, onely
remember, that so soone as thy eyelids be vnglewd,
thy first exercise must be (either sitting vpright on
thy pillow, or rarely loling at thy bodies whole length)
to yawne, to stretch,--and to gape wider then any oyster-wife:
for thereby thou doest not onely send out the
liuely spirits (like vaunt-currers) to fortifie and make
good the vttermost borders of the body; but also (as
a cunning painter) thy goodly lineaments are drawne
out in their fairest proportion.

This lesson being playd, turne ouer a new leafe,
and (vnlesse that Freezeland Curre, cold winter, offer
to bite thee) walke awhile vp and downe thy chamber,
either in thy thin shirt onely, or else (which, at a bare
word, is both more decent and more delectable) strip
thy selfe stark naked. Are we not borne so? and
shall a foolish custome make vs to breake the lawes
of our Creation? our first parents, so long as they
went naked, were suffered to dwell in paradice, but,
after they got coates to their backes, they were turnd
out of doores. Put on therefore either no apparel
at all, or put it on carelessly: for looke how much
more delicate libertie is then bondage, so much is
the loosenesse in wearing of our attire aboue the
imprisonment of being neatly and Tailor-like drest vp
in it. To be ready in our clothes, is to be ready
for nothing else. A man lookes as if hee be hung
in chaines; or like a scarcrow: and as those excellent
birds (whom _Pliny_ could neuer haue the wit to
catch in all his sprindges) commonly called woodcocks
(whereof there is great store in England) hauing
all their feathers pluckt from their backes, and being
turnd out as naked as _Platoes_ cocke was before all
_Diogenes_ his Schollers: or as the Cuckooe in Christmas,
are more fit to come to any Knights board, and
are indeede more seruiceable then when they are
lapt in their warme liueries: euen so stands the case
with man. Truth (because the bald-pate her father
_Time_ has no haire to couer his head) goes (when she
goes best) starke naked; But falshood has euer a
cloake for the raine. You see likewise, that the Lyon,
being the king of beasts, the horse, being the lustiest
creature, the Vnicorne, whose horne is worth halfe a
City; all these go with no more clothes on their
backes, then what nature hath bestowed vpon them:
But your babiownes, and you[r] Jackanapes (being
the scum and rascality of all the hedge-creepers) they
go in ierkins and mandilions: marry how? They are
put into their rags onely in mockery.

Oh beware therefore both what you weare, and
how you weare / it, and let this heauenly reason moue
you neuer to be hansome, for, when the sunne is
arising out of his bed, does not the element seeme
more glorious, then (being onely in gray) then at
noone, when hees in all his brauery? it were madnesse
to deny it. What man would not gladly see a
beautifull woman naked, or at least with nothing but
a lawne, or some loose thing ouer her; and euen
highly lift her vp for being so? Shall wee then abhorre
that in our selues which we admire and hold to be
so excellent in others?   _Absit._


CHAPTER III

How a yong Gallant should warme himself by the fire; how
attire himself: The description of a mans head: the praise
of long haire.

But if (as it often happens vnlesse the yeare catch
the sweating sicknesse) the morning, like charity waxing
cold, thrust his frosty fingers into thy bosome,
pinching thee black and blew (with her nailes made
of yce) like an inuisible goblin, so that thy teeth (as
if thou wert singing prick-song) stand coldly quauering
in thy head, and leap vp and downe like the
nimble Iackes of a paire of Virginals: be then as
swift as a whirle-winde, and as boystrous in tossing
all thy cloathes in a rude heape together: With which
bundle filling thine armes, steppe brauely forth,
crying: _Room, what a coyle keepe you about the fire?_
The more are set round about it, the more is thy
commendation, if thou either bluntly ridest ouer their
shoulders, or tumblest aside their stooles to creepe
into the chimney-corner: there toast thy body, till
thy scorched skinne be speckled all ouer, being staind
with more motley colours then are to be scene on the
right side of the rainebow.

Neither shall it be fit for the state of thy health,
to put on thy Apparell, till by sitting in that hothouse
of the chimney, thou feelest the fat dew of thy
body (like basting) run trickling down thy sides: for
by that meanes thou maist lawfully boast that thou
liuest by the sweat of thy browes.

As / for thy stockings and shoos, so weare them,
that all men may point at thee, and make thee
famous by that glorious name of a _Male-content_. Or,
if thy quicksiluer can runne so farre on thy errant, as
to fetch thee bootes out of S. Martens, let it be thy
prudence to haue the tops of them wide as ye mouth
of a wallet, and those with fringed boote-hose ouer
them to hang downe to thy ankles. Doues are
accounted innocent, and louing creatures: thou, in
obseruing this fashion, shalt seeme to be a rough-footed
doue, and be held as innocent. Besides, the
strawling, which of necessity so much lether between
thy legs must put thee into, will be thought not to grow
from thy disease, but from that gentleman-like habit.

Hauing thus apparelled thee from top to toe,
according to that simple fashion, which the best
_Goose-caps_ in _Europe_ striue to imitate, it is now high
time for me to haue a blow at thy head, which I will
not cut off with sharp documents, but rather set it on
faster, bestowing vpon it such excellent caruing, that,
if all the wise men of _Gottam_ should lay their heades
together, their Jobbernowles should not bee able to
compare with thine.

To maintaine therefore that sconce of thine,
strongly guarded, and in good reparation, neuer
suffer combe to fasten his teeth there: let thy haire
grow thick and bushy like a forrest, or some wildernesse;
lest those sixe-footed creatures that breede in
it, and are Tenants to that crowne-land of thine, bee
hunted to death by euery base barbarous _Barber_;
and so that delicate, and tickling pleasure of scratching,
be vtterly taken from thee: For the _Head_ is a
house built for _Reason_ to dwell in; and thus is the
tenement framed. The two Eyes are the glasse
windowes, at which light disperses itself into euery
roome, hauing goodly penthouses of haire to ouershadow
them: As for the nose, tho some (most
iniuriously and improperly) make it serue for an
_Indian_ chimney, yet surely it is rightly a bridge with
two arches, vnder which are neat passages to conuey
as well perfumes to aire and sweeten euery chamber,
as to carry away all noisome filth that is swept out of
vncleane corners: the cherry lippes open, like the
new-painted gates of a Lord Mayor's house, to take
in prouision. The tongue is a bell, hanging iust
vnder the middle of the roofe; and / lest it should be
rung out too deepe (as sometimes it is when women
haue a peale) whereas it was cast by the first founder,
but onely to tole softly, there are two euen rowes of
Iuory pegs (like pales) set to keep it in. The eares
are two Musique roomes, into which as well good
sounds as bad, descend downe two narrow paire of
staires, that for all the world haue crooked windings
like those that lead to the top of Powles steeple;
and, because when the tunes are once gotten in, they
should not too quickly slip out, all the walles of both
places are plaistered with yellow wax round about
them. Now, as the fairest lodging, tho it be furnisht
with walles, chimnies, chambers, and all other parts
of Architecture, yet, if the seeleing be wanting, it
stands subiect to raine, and so consequently to ruine.
So would this goodly palace, which wee haue moddeld
out vnto you, be but a cold and bald habitation,
were not the top of it rarely couered. Nature therfore
has plaid the Tyler, and giuen it a most curious
couering, or (to speake more properly) she has thatcht
it all ouer, and that _Thatching_ is haire. If then thou
desirest to reserue that Fee-simple of wit (thy head)
for thee and the lawfull heires of thy body, play
neither the scuruy part of the Frenchman, that pluckes
vp all by ye rootes, nor that of the spending Englishman,
who, to maintaine a paltry warren of vnprofitable
Conies, disimparkes the stately swift-footed wild
Deere: But let thine receiue his full growth, that
thou maiest safely and wisely brag 'tis thine owne
_Bush-Naturall_.

And with all consider that, as those trees of
cobweblawne (wouen by Spinners the fresh May-mornings)
doe dresse the curled heads of the mountaines,
and adorne the swelling bosomes of the
valleyes: Or, as those snowy fleeces, which the naked
bryer steales from the innocent nibbling sheep, to
make himselfe a warm winter liuery, are to either of
them both an excellent ornament: So make thou
account, that to haue fethers sticking heere and there
on thy head, will embellish, and set thy crowne out
rarely. None dare vpbraid thee, that like a begger
thou hast lyen on straw, or like a trauelling Pedler
vpon musty flockes: for those feathers will rise vp as
witnesses to choake him that sayes so, and to proue
that thy bed was of the softest downe.

When / your noblest Gallants consecrate their houres
to their Mistresses and to Reuelling, they weare
fethers then chiefly in their hattes, being one of the
fairest ensignes of their brauery: But thou, a Reueller
and a Mistris-seruer all the yeare, by wearing fethers
in thy haire, whose length before the rigorous edge of
any puritanicall paire of scizzers should shorten the
breadth of a finger, let the three huswifely spinsters
of Destiny rather curtall the thread of thy life. O no,
long hair is the onely nette that women spread
abroad to entrappe men in; and why should not men
be as far aboue women in that commodity, as they
go beyond men in others? The merry _Greekes_ were
called [Greek: Karechomoontes] long-haired: loose not thou
(being an honest _Troian_) that honour, sithence it will
more fairely become thee. Grasse is the haire of the
earth, which, so long as it is suffred to grow, it
becomes the wearer, and carries a most pleasing
colour, but when the Sunne-burnt clowne makes his
mowes at it, and (like a Barber) shaues it off to the
stumps, then it withers and is good for nothing but
to be trust vp and thrown amongst Jades. How
vgly is a bald pate? it lookes like a face wanting a
nose; or, like ground eaten bare with the arrowes of
Archers, whereas a head al hid in haire giues euen
to a most wicked face a sweet proportion, and lookes
like a meddow newly marryed to the _Spring_: which
beauty in men the Turkes enuying, they no sooner
lay hold on a Christian, but the first marke they set
vpon him, to make him know hees a slaue, is to shaue
off all his haire close to the scull. A _Mahumetan_
cruelty therefore is it, to stuffe breeches and tennis-balles
with that, which, when tis once lost, all the
hare-hunters in the world may sweat their hearts out,
and yet hardly catch it againe.

You then, to whom chastity has giuen an heire
apparant, take order that it may be apparant, and to
that purpose, let it play openly with the lascivious
wind, eu[=e] on the top of your shoulders. Experience
cries out in euery Citty, that those self-same Criticall
_Saturnists_, whose haire is shorter than their eye-brows,
take a pride to haue their hoary beards hang
slauering like a dozen of Foxetailes downe so low as
their middle. But (alas) why should the chinnes and
lippes of old men lick vp that excrement, which they
vyolently clip away from the heads of yong men? Is
it / because those long beesomes (their beards) with
sweeping the soft bosomes of their beautiful yong
wiues, may tickle their tender breasts, and make some
amends for their maisters' vnrecoverable dulnesse?
No, no, there hangs more at the ends of those long
gray haires then all the world can come to the knowledge
of. Certaine I am, that when none but the
golden age went currant vpon earth, it was higher
treason to clip haire, then to clip money: the combe
and scizers were condemned to the currying of
hackneyes: he was disfranchised for euer, that did
but put on a Barbers apron. Man, woman, and child
woare then haire longer then a law-suit; euery head,
when it stood bare or uncouered, lookt like a butter-boxes
nowle, hauing his thrumbd cap on. It was free
for all Nations to haue shaggy pates, as it is now
onely for the Irishman. But since this polling and
shauing world crept vp, locks were lockt up, and
haire fell to decay. Reuiue thou therefore the old,
buryed fashion, and (in scorne of periwigs and sheep-shearing)
keep thou that quilted head-peece on continually.
Long haire will make thee looke dreadfully
to thine enemies, and manly to thy friends. It is, in
peace, an ornament; in warre, a strong helmet. It
blunts the edge of a sword, and deads the leaden
thump of a bullet. In winter, it is a warme night-cap,
in sommer, a cooling fanne of fethers.


CHAPTER IIII

How a Gallant should behaue himselfe in Powles walkes.

BEING weary with sayling vp and downe alongst these
shores of _Barbaria_, heere let vs cast our anchors, and
nimbly leape to land in our coasts, whose fresh aire
shall be so much the more pleasing to vs, if the _Ninny
hammer_ (whose perfection we labour to set forth)
haue so much foolish wit left him as to choose the
place where to sucke in: for that true humorous
Gallant that desires to powre himselfe into all fashions
(if his ambition be such to excell euen Complement
itselfe) must as well practise to diminish his walkes,
as to bee various in his sallets, curious in his Tobacco,
or ingenious in the trussing vp of a new Scotch-hose:
/ All which vertues are excellent and able to maintaine
him, especially if the old worme-eaten Farmer (his
father) bee dead, and left him fiue hundred a yeare,
onely to keepe an Irish hobby, an Irish horse-boy, and
himselfe (like a gentleman). Hee therefore that
would striue to fashion his leggs to his silke stockins,
and his proud gate to his broad garters, let him whiffe
downe these obseruations; for, if he once get to
walke by the booke (and I see no reason but he may,
as well as fight by the booke) Powles may be proud
of him, _Will Clarke_ shall ring forth _Encomiums_ in
his honour, Iohn in Powles _Church-yard_, shall fit his
head for an excellent blocke, whilest all the Innes of
Court reioyce to behold his most hansome calfe.

Your Mediterranean Ile, is then the onely gallery,
wherein the pictures of all your true fashionate and
complementall _Guls_ are, and ought to be hung vp:
into that gallery carry your neat body, but take heede
you pick out such an hour when the maine Shoale
of Ilanders are swimming vp and downe. And first
obserue your doores of entrance, and your _Exit_, not
much vnlike the plaiers at the Theaters, keeping your
_Decorums_, euen in phantasticality. As for example:
if you proue to be a _Northerne_ Gentleman, I would
wish you to passe through the North doore, more
often (especially) then any of the other: and so,
according to your countries, take note of your
entrances.

Now for your venturing into the Walke, be circumspect
and wary what piller you come in at, and take
heede in any case (as you loue the reputation of your
honour) that you auoide the _Seruing-mans_ logg, and
approch not within fiue fadom of that Piller; but
bend your course directly in the middle line, that the
whole body of the Church may appeare to be yours;
where, in view of all, you may publish your suit in
what manner you affect most, either with the slide of
your cloake from the one shoulder, and then you
must (as twere in anger) suddenly snatch at the
middle of the inside (if it be taffata at the least) and
so by that meanes your costly lining is betrayd, or
else by the pretty aduantage of Complement. But
one note by the way do I especially wooe you to, the
neglect of which makes many of our Gallants cheape
and ordinary, that by no meanes you be seene aboue
foure turnes; but in the fift make your selfe away,
either in some of the / Sempsters' shops, the new
Tobacco-office, or amongst the Booke-sellers, where,
if you cannot reade, exercise your smoake, and inquire
who has writ against this diuine weede, &c.
For this withdrawing your selfe a little, will much
benefite your suit, which else, by too long walking,
would be stale to the whole spectators: but howsoeuer
if Powles Jacks bee once vp with their
elbowes, and quarrelling to strike eleuen, as soone as
euer the clock has parted them, and ended the fray
with his hammer, let not the Dukes gallery conteyne
you any longer, but passe away apace in open view.
In which departure, if by chance you either encounter,
or aloofe off throw your inquisitiue eye vpon any
knight or Squire, being your familiar, salute him not
by his name of Sir such a one, or so, but call him
_Ned_, or _Jack_, &c. This will set off your estimation
with great men: and if (tho there be a dozen companies
betweene you, tis the better) hee call aloud to
you (for thats most gentile), to know where he shall
find you at two a clock, tell him at such an Ordinary,
or such, and bee sure to name those that are deerest:
and whither none but your Gallants resort. After
dinner you may appeare againe, hauing translated
yourselfe out of your English cloth cloak, into a light
Turky-grogram (if you haue that happinesse of shifting)
and then be seene (for a turne or two) to correct
your teeth with some quill or siluer instrument, and
to cleanse your gummes with a wrought handkercher:
It skilles not whether you dinde or no (thats best
knowne to your stomach) or in what place you dinde,
though it were with cheese (of your owne mother's
making) in your chamber or study.

Now if you chance to be a Gallant not much crost
among Citizens, that is, a Gallant in the Mercers
bookes, exalted for Sattens and veluets, if you be not
so much blest to bee crost as I hold it the greatest
blessing in the world, to bee great in no mans
bookes) your Powles walke is your onely refuge: the
Dukes Tomb is a Sanctuary, and will keepe you aliue
from wormes and land-rattes, that long to be feeding
on your carkas: there you may spend your legs in
winter a whole after-noone: conuerse, plot, laugh,
and talke any thing, iest at your Creditor, euen to
his face, and in the euening, euen by lamp-light,
steale out, and so cozen a whole couy of abhominable
catch-pols. Neuer / be seene to mount the steppes
into the quire, but vpon a high Festiuall day, to
preferre the fashion of your doublet, and especially
if the singing-boyes seeme to take note of you: for
they are able to buzze your praises aboue their
_Anthems_, if their voyces haue not lost their maiden-heads:
but be sure your siluer spurres dog your
heeles, and then the Boyes will swarme about you
like so many white butter-flyes, when you in the open
Quire shall drawe forth a perfumed embrodred purse
(the glorious sight of which will entice many Countrymen
from their deuotion to wondering) and quoyt
siluer into the Boyes handes, that it may be heard
aboue the first lesson, although it be reade in a voyce
as big as one of the great Organs.

This noble and notable Act being performed, you
are to vanish presently out of the Quire, and to
appeare againe in the walk: But in any wise be not
obserued to tread there long alone: for feare you be
suspected to be a Gallant casheerd from the society
of _Captens_ and _Fighters_.

Sucke this humour vp especially. Put off to
none, vnlesse his hatband be of a newer fashion then
yours, and three degrees quainter: but for him that
weares a trebled cipers about his hatte (though he
were an Aldermans sonne) neuer moue to him: for
hees suspected to be worse then a _Gull_, and not
worth the putting off to, that cannot obserue the
time of his hatband, nor know what fashioned block
is most kin to his head: for, in my opinion, ye
braine that cannot choose his Felt well (being the
head ornament) must needes powre folly into all the
rest of the members, and be an absolute confirmed
Foole in _Summa Totali_.

All the diseased horses in a tedious siege cannot
shew so many fashions, as are to be seene for nothing,
euery day, in Duke _Humfryes walke_. If therefore
you determine to enter into a new suit, warne your
Tailor to attend you in Powles, who, with his hat in
his hand, shall like a spy discouer the stuffe, colour,
and fashion of any doublet, or hose that dare be seene
there, and stepping behind a piller to fill his table-bookes
with those notes, will presently send you into
the world an accomplisht man: by which meanes you
shall weare your clothes in print with the first edition.
But / if Fortune fauour you so much as to make you
no more then a meere country gentleman, or but
some three degrees remoud from him (for which I
should be very sorie, because your London-experience
wil cost you deere before you shall haue ye wit to
know what you are) then take this lesson along with
you: The first time that you venture into Powles,
passe through the body of the Church like a Porter,
yet presume not to fetch so much as one whole turne
in the middle Ile, no nor to cast an eye to _Si quis_
doore (pasted and plaistered vp with Seruing-mens
_supplications_) before you haue paid tribute to the top
of Powles _steeple_ with a single penny: And when you
are mounted there, take heede how you looke downe
into the yard; for the railes are as rotten as your
great-Grandfather; and thereupon it will not be
amisse if you enquire how _Kit Woodroffe_ durst vault
ouer, and what reason he had for it, to put his necke
in hazard of reparations. From hence you may
descend, to talke about the horse that went vp, and
striue, if you can, to know his keeper: take the day
of the Moneth, and the number of the steppes, and
suffer yourselfe to belieue verily that it was not a
horse, but something else in the likenesse of one:
which wonders you may publish, when you returne
into the country, to the great amazement of all
Farmers Daughters, that will almost swound at the
report, and neuer recouer till their banes bee asked
twice in the Church.

But I haue not left you yet. Before you come
downe againe, I would desire you to draw your knife,
and graue your name (or, for want of a name, the
marke, which you clap on your sheep) in great
Characters vpon the leades, by a number of your
brethren (both Citizens and country Gentlemen), and
so you shall be sure to haue your name lye in a
coffin of lead, when yourselfe shall be wrapt in a
winding-sheete: and indeed the top of Powles conteins
more names then _Stowes_ Chronicle. These
lofty tricks being plaid, and you (thanks to your
feete) being safely ariued at the staires foote againe,
your next worthy worke is, to repaire to my lord
_Chancellors Tomb_ (and, if you can but reasonably
bestow some time vpon ye reading of Sir
_Phillip Sydneyes_ briefe Epitaph; in the compasse of
an houre you may make shift to stumble it out. The
great dyal is, your last monument: there bestow /
some halfe of the threescore minutes, to obserue the
sawciness of the Jaikes that are aboue the man in
the moone there; the strangenesse of the motion will
quit your labour. Besides, you may heere haue fit
occasion to discouer your watch, by taking it forth,
and setting the wheeles to the time of Powles, which,
I assure you, goes truer by fiue notes then S. _Sepulchers_
Chimes. The benefit that wil arise from hence is
this, that you publish your charge in maintaining a
gilded clocke; and withall the world shall know that
you are a time-pleaser. By this I imagine you haue
walkt your belly ful, and thereupon being weary, or
(which rather I beleeue) being most Gentlemanlike
hungry, it is fit that I brought you into the Duke; so
(because he followes the fashion of great men, in
keeping no house, and that therefore you must go
seeke your dinner) suffer me to take you by the hand,
and lead you into an Ordinary.


CHAPTER V

How a yong Gallant should behaue himselfe in an Ordinary.

FIRST, hauing diligently enquired out an Ordinary of
the largest reckoning, whither most of your Courtly
Gallants do resort, let it be your vse to repaire thither
some halfe houre after eleuen; for then you shall
find most of your fashionmongers planted in the
roome waiting for meate. Ride thither vpon your
galloway-nag, or your Spanish Jennet, a swift ambling
pace, in your hose, and doublet (gilt rapier and
poniard bestowd in their places), and your French
Lackey carrying your cloake, and running before
you; or rather in a coach, for that will both hide
you from the basiliske-eyes of your creditors, and
outrun a whole kennell of bitter-mouthed Sergeants.

Being arriued in the roome, salute not any but
those of your acquaintance: walke up and downe by
the rest as scornfully and as carelesly as a Gentleman-Usher:
Select some friend (hauing first throwne off
your cloake) to walke vp and downe the room with
you, let him be suited if you can, worse by farre then
your selfe, he will be a foyle to you: and this will be
a meanes to publish your clothes better than Powles,
a Tennis-court, or a Playhouse: discourse as lowd as
you can, no matter to what purpose if you but make
a noise, and laugh in fashion, and haue a good sower
face to promise quarrelling, you shall bee much
obserued.

If you be a souldier, talke how often you haue
beene in action: as the _Portingale_ voyage, Cales
voiage, the _Iland_ voiage, besides some eight or nine
imploiments in Ireland, and the low Countries: then
you may discourse how honourably your _Graue_ vsed
you; obserue that you cal your _Graue Maurice_, your
_Graue_: How often you haue drunk with Count such
a one, and such a Count, on your knees to your
_Graues_ health: and let it bee your vertue to giue
place neither to _S. Kynock_, nor to any _Dutchman_
whatsoeuer in the seuenteene _prouinces_, for that
Souldiers complement of drinking. And if you perceiue
that the vntrauelld company about you take
this downe well, ply them with more such stuffe, as
how you haue interpreted betweene the French King
and a great Lord of Barbary, when they haue been
drinking healthes together, and that will be an excellent
occasion to publish your languages, if you haue
them: if not, get some fragments of French, or smal
parcels of Italian, to fling about the table: but beware
how you speake any Latine there: your Ordinary
most commonly hath no more to do with Latine then
a desperate towne of Garison hath.

If you be a Courtier, discourse of the obtaining
of Suits: of your mistresses fauours, etc. Make
inquiry, if any gentleman at boord haue any suit, to
get which he would vse ye good means of a great
mans Interest with the King: and withall (if you
haue not so much grace left in you as to blush) that
you are (thankes to your starres) in mightie credit,
though in your owne conscience you know, and are
guilty to your selfe, that you dare not (but onely
vpon the priuiledges of hansome clothes) presume to
peepe into the presence. Demand if there be any
Gentleman (whom any there is acquainted with) that
is troubled with two offices; or any Vicar with two
Church-liuings; which will politickly insinuate, that
your inquiry after them is because you haue good
means to obtaine them; yea and rather then your
tongue should not be heard in the roome, but that
you should sit (like / an Asse) with your finger in your
mouth, and speake nothing: discourse how often this
Lady hath sent her Coach for you; and how often
you have sweat in the Tennis-court with that great
Lord: for indeede the sweting together in _Fraunce_
(I mean the society of Tennis) is a great argument
of most deere affection, euen between noblemen and
Pesants.

If you be a Poet, and come into the Ordinary
(though it can be no great glory to be an ordinary
Poet) order yourselfe thus. Obserue no man, doff
not cap to that Gentleman to day at dinner, to
whom, not two nights since, you were beholden for
a supper; but, after a turne or two in the roome,
take occasion (pulling out your gloues) to haue some
_Epigram_, or _Satyre_, or _Sonnet_ fastned in one of them,
that may (as it were vomittingly to you) offer it selfe
to the Gentlemen: they will presently desire it: but,
without much coniuration from them, and a pretty
kind of counterfet loathnes in yourselfe, do not read
it; and though it be none of your owne, sweare you
made it. Mary, if you chaunce to get into your
hands any witty thing of another mans, that is somewhat
better, I would councell you then, if demand
bee made who composed it, you may say: faith, a
learned Gentleman, a very worthy friend. And this
seeming to lay it on another man will be counted
either modestie in you, or a signe that you are not
ambitious of praise, or else that you dare not take it
vpon you, for feare of the sharpnesse it carries with
it. Besides, it will adde much to your fame to let
your tongue walke faster then your teeth, though you
be neuer so hungry, and, rather then you should sit
like a dumb Coxcomb, to repeat by heart either some
verses of your owne, or of any other mans, stretching
euen very good lines vpon the rack of the censure:
though it be against all law, honestie, or conscience,
it may chaunce saue you the price of your Ordinary,
and beget you other _Suppliments_. Mary, I would
further intreat our Poet to be in league with the
Mistresse of the Ordinary, because from her (vpon
condition that he will but ryme knights and yong
gentlemen to her house, and maintaine the table in
good fooling) he may easily make vp his mouth at
her cost, _Gratis_.

Thus much for particular men. But in generall
let all that are in _Ordinary_-pay, march after the
sound of these directions. Before / the meate come
smoaking to the board, our Gallant must draw out
his Tobacco-box, the ladell for the cold snuffe into
the nosthrill, the tongs and prining-Iron: All which
artillery may be of gold or siluer (if he can reach to
the price of it), it will bee a reasonable vseful pawne
at all times, when the current of his money falles out
to run low. And heere you must obserue to know
in what state Tobacco is in towne, better then the
Merchants, and to discourse of the Apottecaries
where it is to be sold and to be able to speake of
their wines, as readily as the Apottecary himselfe
reading the barbarous hand of a Doctor: then let
him shew his seuerall tricks in taking it, As the _Whiffe_,
the _Ring_, etc. For these are complements that gaine
Gentlemen no mean respect and for which indeede
they are more worthily noted, I ensure you, then for
any skill that they haue in learning.

When you are set downe to dinner, you must eate
as impudently as can be (for thats most Gentlemanlike)
when your Knight is vpon his stewed mutton,
be presently, though you be but a capten, in the
bosome of your goose: and when your Justice of
peace is knuckle-deep in goose, you may, without
disparagement to your bloud, though you haue a
Lady to your mother, fall very manfully to your
woodcocks.

You may rise in dinner-time to aske for a close-stoole,
protesting to all the gentlemen that it costs you
a hundred pounds a yeare in physicke, besides the
Annual pension which your wife allowes her Doctor:
and (if you please) you may (as your great French
Lord doth) inuite some speciall friend of yours, from
the table, to hold discourse with you as you sit in
that withdrawing-chamber: from whence being returned
againe to the board, you shall sharpen the
wits of all the eating Gallants about you, and doe them
great pleasure, to aske what Pamphlets or poems a
man might think fittest to wipe his taile with (mary,
this talke will be somewhat fowle if you carry not a
strong perfume about you) and, in propounding this
question, you may abuse the workes of any man;
depraue his writings that you cannot equall, and purchase
to your selfe in time the terrible name of a
seuere _Criticke_; nay, and be one of the Colledge, if
youle be liberall inough: and (when your turne comes)
pay for their suppers.

After / dinner, euery man as his busines leades him:
some to dice, some to drabs, some to playes, some to
take vp friends in the Court, some to take vp money
in the Citty, some to lende testers in Powles, others
to borrow crownes vpon the Exchange: and thus, as
the people is sayd to bee a beast of many heads (yet
all those heads like _Hydraes_) euer growing, as various
in their hornes as wondrous in their budding and
branching, so, in an Ordinary, you shall find the
variety of a whole kingdome in a few Apes of the
kingdome.

You must not sweare in your dicing: for that
Argues a violent impatience to depart from your
money, and in time will betray a mans neede. Take
heede of it. No! whether you be at _Primero_, or
_Hazard_, you shall sit as patiently (though you lose a
whole halfe-yeares exhibition) as a disarmd Gentleman
does when hees in the vnmerciful fingers of
Serieants. Mary, I will allow you to sweat priuatly,
and teare six or seuen score paire of cards, be the
damnation of some dozen or twenty baile of dice,
and forsweare play a thousand times in an houre, but
not sweare. Dice your selfe into your shirt: and, if
you haue a beard that your friend wil lend but an
angell vpon, shaue it off, and pawne that, rather then
to goe home blinde to your lodging. Further, it is
to be remembred, He that is a great Gamester may
be trusted for a quarters board at all times, and
apparell prouided, if neede be.

At your tweluepenny Ordinary, you may giue any
Iustice of peace, or yong Knight (if he sit but one
degree towards the Equinoctiall of the Saltseller)
leaue to pay for the wine: and hee shall not refuse
it, though it be a weeke before the receiuing of his
quarters rent, which is a time albeit of good hope,
yet of present necessity.

There is another Ordinary, to which your London
Vsurer, your stale Batchilor, and your thrifty Atturney
do resort: the price three pence: the roomes as full
of company as a Iaile, and indeed diuided into
seuerall wards, like the beds of an Hospital. The
complement betweene these is not much, their words
few: for the belly hath no eares: euery mans eie
heere is vpon the other mans trencher, to note
whether his fellow lurch him, or no: if they chaunce
to discourse, it is of nothing but of _Statutes_, _Bonds_,
/ _Recognizances_, _Fines_, _Recoueries_, _Audits_, _Rents_, _Subsidies_,
_Surties_, _Inclosures_, Liueries, _Inditements_, _Outlaries_,
_Feoffments_, _Iudgments_, _Commissions_, _Bankerouts_,
_Amercements_, and of such horrible matter, that when
a Lifetenant dines with his punck in the next roome,
he thinkes verily the men are coniuring. I can find
nothing at this Ordinary worthy the sitting downe
for: therefore the cloth shall be taken away, and
those that are thought good enough to be guests
heere, shall be too base to bee waiters at your Grand
Ordinary; at which your Gallant tastes these commodities.
He shall fare wel, enioy good company,
receiue all the newes ere the post can deliuer his
packet, be perfect where the best bawdy-houses stand,
proclaime his good clothes, know this man to drinke
well, that to feed grosly, the other to swaggar roughly:
he shall, if hee be minded to trauell, put out money
vpon his returne, and haue hands enough to receiue
it vpon any termes of repaiment: And no question,
if he be poore, he shall now and then light vpon
some _Gull_ or other, whom he may skelder (after the
gentile fashion) of mony: By this time the parings of
Fruit and Cheese are in the voyder, Cards and dice
lie stinking in the fire, the guests are all vp, the guilt
rapiers ready to be hangd, the French Lackquey,
and Irish Footeboy, shrugging at the doores, with
their masters hobby-horses, to ride to the new play:
thats the _Randeuous_; thither they are gallopt in post.
Let vs take a paire of Oares, and now lustily after
them.


CHAPTER VI

How a Gallant should behaue himself in a Play-house.

THE theater is your Poets Royal Exchange, vpon
which their Muses (that are now turnd to Merchants)
meeting, barter away that light commodity of words
for a lighter ware then words, _Plaudites_, and the
_breath_ of the great _Beast_; which (like the threatnings
of two Cowards) vanish all into air. _Plaiers_ and
their _Factors_, who put away the stuffe, and make the
best of it they possibly can (as indeed tis their parts
so to doe), your / Gallant, your Courtier, and your
Capten, had wont to be the soundest paymaisters;
and I thinke are still the surest chapmen: and these,
by meanes that their heades are well stockt, deale
vp[=o] this comical freight by the grosse: when your
_Groundling_, and _gallery-Commoner_ buyes his sport
by the penny, and, like a _Hagler_, is glad to vtter it
againe by retailing.

Sithence then the place is so free in entertainment,
allowing a stoole as well to the Farmers sonne as to
your Templer: that your Stinkard has the selfe-same
libertie to be there in his Tobacco-Fumes, which
your sweet Courtier hath: and that your Car-man
and Tinker claime as strong a voice in their suffrage,
and sit to giue iudgement on the plaies life and
death, as well as the prowdest _Momus_ among the
tribe[s] of _Critick_: It is fit that hee, whom the most
tailors bils do make roome for, when he comes,
should not be basely (like a vyoll) casd vp in a
corner.

Whether therefore the gatherers of the publique
or priuate Play-house stand to receiue the afternoones
rent, let our Gallant (hauing paid it) presently
aduance himselfe vp to the Throne of the Stage.
I meane not into the Lords roome (which is now
but the Stages Suburbs): No, those boxes, by the
iniquity of custome, conspiracy of waiting-women and
Gentlemen-Ushers, that there sweat together, and the
couetousnes of Sharers, are contemptibly thrust into
the reare, and much new Satten is there dambd, by
being smothred to death in darknesse. But on the
very Rushes where the Commedy is to daunce, yea,
and vnder the state of _Cambises_ himselfe must our
fethered _Estridge_, like a piece of Ordnance, be
planted, valiantly (because impudently) beating downe
the mewes and hisses of the opposed rascality.

For do but cast vp a reckoning, what large
cummings-in are pursd vp by sitting on the Stage.
First a conspicuous _Eminence_ is gotten; by which
meanes, the best and most essenciall parts of a
Gallant (good cloathes, a proportionable legge, white
hand, the Persian lock, and a tollerable beard) are
perfectly reuealed.

By sitting on the stage, you haue a signd patent
to engrosse the whole commodity of Censure; may
lawfully presume to be a Girder; and stand at the
helme to steere the passage of _scoenes_; yet / no man
shall once offer to hinder you from obtaining the
title of an insolent, ouer-weening Coxcombe.

By sitting on the stage, you may (without trauelling
for it) at the very next doore aske whose play it
is: and, by that _Quest_ of _Inquiry_, the law warrants
you to auoid much mistaking: if you know not ye
author, you may raile against him: and peraduenture
so behaue your selfe, that you may enforce the Author
to know you.

By sitting on the stage, if you be a Knight, you
may happily get you a Mistresse: if a mere _Fleet-street_
Gentleman, a wife: but assure yourselfe, by
continuall residence, you are the first and principall
man in election to begin the number of _We three_.

By spreading your body on the stage, and by
being a Iustice in examining of plaies, you shall put
your selfe into such true _scoenical_ authority, that some
Poet shall not dare to present his Muse rudely vpon
your eyes, without hauing first vnmaskt her, rifled
her, and discouered all her bare and most mysticall
parts before you at a tauerne, when you most knightly
shal, for his paines, pay for both their suppers.

By sitting on the stage, you may (with small cost)
purchase the deere acquaintance of the boyes: haue
a good stoole for sixpence: at any time know what
particular part any of the infants present: get your
match lighted, examine the play-suits lace, and perhaps
win wagers vpon laying tis copper, &c. And
to conclude, whether you be a foole or a Justice of
peace, a Cuckold, or a Capten, a Lord-Maiors sonne,
or a dawcocke, a knaue, or an vnder Sheriffe; of
what stamp soeuer you be, currant, or counterfet, the
Stage, like time, will bring you to most perfect light
and lay you open: neither are you to be hunted
from thence, though the Scarcrows in the yard hoot
at you, hisse at you, spit at you, yea, throw durt euen
in your teeth: tis most Gentlemanlike patience to
endure all this, and to laugh at the silly Animals:
but if the _Rabble_, with a full throat, crie, away with
the foole, you were worse then a madman to tarry by
it: for the Gentleman and the foole should neuer sit
on the Stage together.

Mary, let this obseruation go hand in hand with
the rest: or rather, like a country-seruing-man, some
fiue yards before them. Present / not your selfe on
the Stage (especially at a new play) vntill the quaking
prologue hath (by rubbing) got culor into his cheekes,
and is ready to giue the trumpets their Cue, that hees
vpon point to enter: for then it is time, as though
you were one of the _properties_, or that you dropt out
of ye _Hangings_, to creepe from behind the Arras,
with your _Tripos_ or three-footed stoole in one hand,
and a teston mounted betweene a forefinger and a
thumbe in the other: for if you should bestow your
person vpon the vulgar, when the belly of the house
is but halfe full, your apparell is quite eaten vp, the
fashion lost, and the proportion of your body in more
danger to be deuoured then if it were serued vp in
the Counter amongst the Powltry: auoid that as you
would the Bastome. It shall crowne you with rich commendation
to laugh alowd in the middest of the most
serious and saddest scene of the terriblest Tragedy:
and to let that clapper (your tongue) be tost so high,
that all the house may ring of it: your Lords vse it;
your Knights are Apes to the Lords, and do so too:
your Inne-a-court-man is Zany to the Knights, and
(mary very scuruily) comes likewise limping after it:
bee thou a beagle to them all, and neuer lin snuffing,
till you haue scented them: for by talking and laughing
(like a Plough-man in a Morris) you heap _Pelion_
vpon _Ossa_, glory vpon glory: As first, all the eyes in
the galleries will leaue walking after the Players, and
onely follow you: the simplest dolt in the house
snatches vp your name, and when he meetes you in
the streetes, or that you fall into his hands in the
middle of a Watch, his word shall be taken for you:
heele cry _Hees such a gallant_, and you passe.
Secondly, you publish your temperance to the world,
in that you seeme not to resort thither to taste vaine
pleasures with a hungrie appetite: but onely as a
Gentleman to spend a foolish houre or two, because
yoe can doe nothing else: Thirdly, you mightily
disrelish the Audience, and disgrace the Author:
marry, you take vp (though it be at the worst hand)
a strong opinion of your owne iudgement, and inforce
the Poet to take pity of your weakenesse, and, by
some dedicated sonnet, to bring you into a better
paradice, onely to stop your mouth.

If you can (either for loue or money) prouide
your selfe a lodging by the water-side: for, aboue
the conuenience it brings to / shun Shoulder-clapping,
and to ship away your Cockatrice betimes in the
morning, it addes a kind of state vnto you, to be
carried from thence to the staires of your Playhouse:
hate a Sculler (remember that) worse then to be
acquainted with one o' th' Scullery. No, your Oares
are your onely Sea-crabs, boord them, and take heed
you neuer go twice together with one paire: often
shifting is a great credit to Gentlemen; and that
diuiding of your fare wil make the poore watersnaks
be ready to pul you in peeces to enioy your custome:
No matter whether vpon landing, you haue money or
no: you may swim in twentie of their boates ouer
the riuer upon _Ticket_: mary, when siluer comes in,
remember to pay trebble their fare, and it will make
your Flounder-catchers to send more thankes after
you, when you doe not draw, then when you doe;
for they know, It will be their owne another daie.

Before the Play begins, fall to cardes: you may
win or loose (as _Fencers_ doe in a prize) and beate
one another by confederacie, yet share the money
when you meete at supper: notwithstanding, to gul
the _Ragga-muffins_ that stand aloofe gaping at you,
throw the cards (hauing first torne foure or fiue of
them) round about the Stage, iust vpon the third
sound, as though you had lost: it skils not if the
foure knaues ly on their backs, and outface the
Audience; theres none such fooles as dare take
exceptions at them, because, ere the play go off,
better knaues than they will fall into the company.

Now sir, if the writer be a fellow that hath either
epigrammd you, or hath had a flirt at your mistris, or
hath brought either your feather, or your red beard,
or your little legs, &c. on the stage, you shall disgrace
him worse then by tossing him in a blancket, or
giuing him the bastinado in a Tauerne, if, in the
middle of his play (bee it Pastoral or Comedy,
Morall or Tragedie), you rise with a screwd and discontented
face from your stoole to be gone: no
matter whether the Scenes be good or no; the better
they are the worse do you distast them: and, beeing
on your feet, sneake not away like a coward, but
salute all your gentle acquaintance, that are spred
either on the rushes, or on stooles about you, and
draw what troope you can from the stage after you:
the _Mimicks_ are beholden to you, for allowing them /
elbow roome: their Poet cries, perhaps, a pox go with
you, but care not for that, theres no musick without
frets.

Mary, if either the company, or indisposition of
the weather binde you to sit it out, my counsell is
then that you turne plain Ape, take vp a rush, and
tickle the earnest eares of your fellow gallants, to
make other fooles fall a laughing: mewe at passionate
speeches, blare at merrie, finde fault with the
musicke, whew at the childrens Action, whistle at the
songs: and aboue all, curse the sharers, that whereas
the same day you had bestowed forty shillings on an
embrodered Felt and Feather (scotch-fashion) for
your mistres in the Court, or your punck in the city,
within two houres after, you encounter with the very
same block on the stage, when the haberdasher
swore to you the impression was extant but that
morning.

To conclude, hoard vp the finest play-scraps you
can get, vpon which your leane wit may most sauourly
feede, for want of other stuffe, when the _Arcadian_
and _Euphuizd_ gentlewomen haue their tongues
sharpened to set vpon you: that qualitie (next to
your shittlecocke) is the onely furniture to a Courtier
thats but a new beginner, and is but in his A B C of
complement. The next places that are fild, after
the Playhouses bee emptied, are (or ought to be)
Tauernes: into a Tauerne then let vs next march,
where the braines of one Hogshead must be beaten
out to make vp another.


CHAPTER VII

How a Gallant should behaue himself in a Tauerne.

WHOSOEUER desires to bee a man of good reckoning
in the Cittie, and (like your French Lord) to haue
as many tables furnisht as Lackies (who, when they
keepe least, keepe none), whether he be a yong _Quat_
of the first yeeres reuennew, or some austere and
sullen-facd steward, who (in despight of a great beard,
a satten suite, and a chaine of gold wrapt in cipers)
proclaimes himselfe to any (but to those to whom
his Lord owes money) for a ranck coxcombe, or
whether he be a country gentleman, that brings his /
wife vp to learne the fashion, see the Tombs at Westminster,
the Lyons in the Tower, or to take physicke;
or else is some yong Farmer, who many times makes
his wife (in the country) beleeue he hath suits in law,
because he will come vp to his letchery: be he of
what stamp he will that hath money in his purse, and
a good conscience to spend it, my councell is that
hee take his continuall diet at a Tauerne, which (out
of question) is the onely _Rende-vous_ of boone company;
and the Drawers the most nimble, the most
bold, and most sudden proclaimers of your largest
bounty.

Hauing therefore thrust your selfe into a case
most in fashion (how coarse soeuer the stuffe be, tis
no matter so it hold fashion), your office is (if you
meane to do your iudgment right) to enquire out
those Tauernes which are best customd, whose
maisters are oftenest drunk (for that confirmes their
taste, and that they choose wholesome wines), and
such as stand furthest from ye counters; where,
landing yourself and your followers, your first complement
shall be to grow most inwardly acquainted
with the drawers, to learne their names, as _Iack_, and
_Will_, and _Tom_, to diue into their inclinations, as
whether this fellow vseth to the Fencing Schoole, this
to the Dauncing Schoole; whether that yong coniurer
(in Hogsheads) at midnight keepes a Gelding
now and then to visit his Cockatrice, or whether he
loue dogs, or be addicted to any other eminent and
Citizen-like quality: and protest your selfe to be
extreamely in loue, and that you spend much money
in a yeare, vpon any one of those exercises which
you perceiue is followed by them. The vse which
you shall make of this familiarity is this: If you want
money fiue or six daies together, you may still pay
the reckoning with this most Gentlemanlike language,
_Boy, fetch me money from the barre_, and keepe yourself
most prouidently from a hungry melancholy in
your chamber. Besides, you shal be sure (if there be
but one fawcet that can betray neate wine to the
barre) to haue that arraignd before you, sooner then
a better and worthier person.

The first question you are to make (after the discharging
of your pocket of Tobacco and pipes, and
the houshold stuffe thereto belonging) shall be for an
inuentorie of the Kitchen: for it were / more then
most Tailor-like, and to be suspected you were in
league with some Kitchen-wench, to descend your
selfe, to offend your stomach with the sight of the
Larder, and happily to grease your Accoustrements.
Hauing therefore receiued this bill, you shall (like a
capten putting vp deere paies) haue many Sallads
stand on your table, as it were for blankes to the
other more seruiceable dishes: and according to the
time of the yeare, vary your fare, as Capon is a stirring
meate sometime, Oysters are a swelling meate
sometimes, Trowt a tickling meate sometimes, greene
Goose, and Woodcock, a delicate meate sometimes,
especially in a Tauerne, where you shall sit in as
great state as a Church-warden amongst his poore
Parishioners, at _Pentecost_ or _Christmas_.

For your drinke, let not your Physitian confine
you to any one particular liquor: for as it is requisite
that a Gentleman should not alwaies be plodding in
one Art, but rather bee a generall Scholler (that is, to
haue a licke at all sorts of learning, and away) so tis
not fitting a man should trouble his head with sucking
at one Grape, but that he may be able (now there is
a generall peace) to drink any stranger drunke in
his owne element of drinke, or more properly in his
owne mist language.

Your discourse at the table must be such as that
which you vtter at your Ordinary: your behauiour
the same, but somewhat more carelesse: for where
your expence is great, let your modesty be lesse:
and, though you should be mad in a Tauerne, the
largenesse of the _Items_ will beare with your inciuility:
you may, without prick to your conscience, set the
want of your wit against the superfluity and saucines
of their reckonings.

If you desire not to be haunted with _Fidlers_ (who
by the statute haue as much libertie as _Roagues_ to
trauell into any place, hauing the pasport of the
house about them) bring then no women along with
you: but if you loue the company of all the drawers,
neuer sup without your Cockatrice: for, hauing her
there, you shall be sure of most officious attendance.
Enquire what Gallants sup in the next roome, and if
they be any of your acquaintance, do not you (after
the City fashion) send them in a pottle of wine, and
your name, sweetned in two pittiful papers of Suger,
with some filthy Apology cramd into the mouth of / a
drawer; but rather keepe a boy in fee, who vnderhand
shall proclaime you in euery roome, what a
gallant fellow you are, how much you spend yearely
in Tauernes, what a great gamester, what custome
you bring to the house, in what witty discourse you
maintaine a table, what Gentlewomen or Cittizens
wiues you can with a wet finger haue at any time to
sup with you, and such like. By which _Encomiasticks_
of his, they that know you shall admire you,
and thinke themselues to bee brought into a paradice
but to be meanely in your acquaintance; and
if any of your endeered friends be in the house, and
beate the same Iuybush that your selfe does, you
may ioyne companies, and bee drunke together most
publikly.

But in such a deluge of drinke, take heede that
no man counterfeit him selfe drunck, to free his
purse from the danger of the shot: tis a usuall thing
now amongst gentlemen; it had wont bee the quality
of Cocknies: I would aduise you to leaue so much
braines in your head as to preuent this. When the
terrible Reckoning (like an inditement) bids you hold
vp your hand, and that you must answere it at the
barre, you must not abate one penny in any particular,
no, though they reckon cheese to you, when
you haue neither eaten any, nor could euer abide it,
raw or toasted: but cast your eie onely vpon the
_Totalis_, and no further; for to trauerse the bill would
betray you to be acquainted with the rates of the
market, nay more, it would make the Vintners beleeue
you were _Pater familias_, and kept a house; which, I
assure you, is not now in fashion.

If you fall to dice after Supper, let the drawers
be as familiar with you as your Barber, and venture
their siluer amongst you; no matter where they had
it: you are to cherish the vnthriftinesse of such yong
tame pigions, if you be a right gentleman: for when
two are yoakt together by the purse strings, and draw
the _Chariot_ of Madam _Prodigalitie_, when one faints
in the way and slips his hornes, let the other reioice
and laugh at him.

At your departure forth the house, to kiss mine
Hostis ouer the barre, or to accept of the courtesie
of the Celler when tis offered you by the drawers,
and you must know that kindnes neuer creepes vpon
them, but when they see you almost cleft to the
shoulders, or to bid any of the Vintners good night,
is as commendable, as for a Barber after trimming to
laue your face with sweete water.

To conclude, count it an honour, either to inuite
or be inuited to any Rifling: for commonly, though
you finde much satten there, yet you shall likewise
finde many cittizens sonnes, and heirs, and yonger
brothers there, who smell out such feasts more
greedily then taylors h[=u]t upon sundaies after weddings.
And let any hooke draw you either to a
Fencers supper, or to a Players that acts such a
part for a wager; for by this meanes you shall get
experience, by beeing guilty to their abhominable
shauing.


CHAPTER VIII

How a Gallant is to behaue himselfe passing through the
Cittie, at all houres of the night, and how to passe by any
watch.

AFTER the sound of pottle-pots is out of your eares,
and that the spirit of Wine and Tobacco walkes in
your braine, the Tauerne door being shut vppon
your backe, cast about to passe through the widest
and goodliest streetes in the Cittie. And if your
meanes cannot reach to the keeping of a boy, hire
one of the drawers, to be as a lanthorne vnto your
feete, and to light you home: and, still as you
approch neere any night-walker that is vp as late as
yourselfe curse and swear (like one that speaks hie
dutch) in a lofty voice, because your men haue vsd
you so like a rascoll in not waiting vpon you, and
vow the next morning to pull their blew cases ouer
their eares, though, if your chamber were well searcht,
you giue onely six pence a weeke to some old woman
to make your bed, and that she is all the seruing-creatures
you giue wages to. If you smell a watch
(and that you may easily doe, for commonly they
eate onions to keep them in sleeping, which they
account a medicine against cold) or, if you come
within danger of their browne bils, let him that is
your candlestick, and holds vp your torch from dropping
(for to march after a linck is shoomaker-like),
let _Ignis Fatuus_, I say, being within the reach of the
Constables staffe, aske aloud, _Sir Giles_, or _Sir
Abram_, will you turne this way, or downe that
streete? It skils not, though there be none dubd
in your Bunch; the watch will winke at you, onely
for the loue they beare to armes and knighthood:
mary, if the Centinell and his court of Guard stand
strictly vpon his martiall Law and cry stand, c[=o]manding
you to giue the word, and to shew reason why
your Ghost walkes so late, doe it in some Jest (for
that will shew you haue a desperate wit, and perhaps
make him and his halberdiers afraid to lay fowle
hands vpon you) or, if you read a mittimus in the
Constables booke, counterfeit to be a Frenchman, a
Dutchman, or any other nation whose country is in
peace with your owne; and you may passe the pikes:
for beeing not able to vnderstand you, they cannot
by the customes of the Citie take your examination,
and so by consequence they haue nothing to say to
you.

If the night be old, and that your lodging be
some place into which no Artillery of words can
make a breach, retire, and rather assault the dores of
your punck, or (not to speak broken English) your
sweete mistris, vpon whose white bosome you may
languishingly consume the rest of darknesse that is
left, in rauishing (though not restoratiue) pleasures,
without expenses, onely by vertue of foure or fiue
oathes (when the siege breakes vp, and at your
marching away with bag and baggage) that the last
night you were at dice, and lost so much in gold, so
much in siluer; and seeme to vex most that two
such _Elizabeth_ twenty-shilling peeces, or foure such
spur-ryals (sent you with a cheese and a bakt meate
from your mother) rid away amongst the rest. By
which tragicall yet pollitick speech, you may not only
haue your nighte worke done _Gratis_, but also you
may take dyet there the next day, and depart with
credit, onely upon the bare word of a Gentleman to
make her restitution.

All the way as you passe (especially being approcht
neere some of the Gates) talk of none but Lords, and
such Ladies with whom you haue plaid at _Primero_,
or daunced in the Presence the very same day. It
is a chaunce to lock vp the lippes of an inquisitiue
Bel-man: and being arriued at your lodging doore,
which I would councell you to choose in some rich
Cittizens house, salute at parting no man but by the
name of Sir (as though you had supt with Knights)
albeit you had none in your company but your
_Perinado_, or your _Inghle_.

Happily it will be blowne abroad, that you and
your Shoale of Gallants swum through such an Ocean
of wine, that you danced so much money out at
heeles, and that in wild-foule there flew away thus
much: and I assure you, to haue the bill of your
reckoning lost of purpose, so that it may be publisht,
will make you to be held in deere estimation: onely
the danger is, if you owe money, and that your reuealing
gets your Creditors by the eares; for then looke to
haue a peal of ordinance thundring at your chamber
doore the next morning. But if either your Tailor,
Mercer, Haberdasher, Silkeman, Cutter, Linen Draper,
or Sempster, stand like a guard of _Switzers_ about
your lodging, watching your vprising, or, if they misse
of that, your down lying in one of the Counters, you
haue no meanes to auoid the galling of their small-shot,
then by sending out a light-horseman to call
your Apotecary to your aide, who, encountring this
desperate band of your Creditors, onely with two or
three glasses in his hand, as though that day you
purgd, is able to driue them all to their holes like
so many Foxes: for the name of taking physicke is
a sufficient _Quietus est_ to any endangered Gentleman,
and giues an acquittance (for the time) to them all,
though the twelue Companies stand with their hoods
to attend your comming forth and their Officers with
them.

I could now fetch you about noone (the houre
which I prescribed you before to rise at) out of your
chamber, and carry you with mee into _Paules Church-yard_;
where planting your selfe in a Stationers shop,
many instructions are to bee giuen you, what bookes
to call for, how to censure of new bookes, how to
mew at the old, how to looke in your tables and
inquire for such and such _Greeke_, _French_, _Italian_, or
_Spanish_ Authors, whose names you haue there, but
whom your mother for pitty would not giue you so
much wit as to vnderstand. From thence you should
blow your selfe into the Tobacco-Ordinary, where
you are likewise to spend your iudgment (like a
_Quack-saluer_) vpon that mysticall wonder, to bee able
to discourse whether your _Cane_ or your Pudding be
sweetest, and which pipe has the best boare, and
which burnes black, which breakes in the burning,
&c. Or, if you itch to step into the Barbers, a
whole _Dictionary_ cannot afford more words to set
downe notes what _Dialogues_ you are to maintaine
whilest you are Doctor of the Chaire there. After
your shauing, I could breath you in a _Fence-schoole_,
and out of that cudgell you into a _Dauncing schoole_,
in both which I could weary you, by shewing you
more tricks then are in fiue galleries, or fifteen prizes.
And, to close vp the stomach of this feast, I could
make Cockneies, whose fathers haue left them well,
acknowledge themselues infinitely beholden to me,
for teaching them by familiar demonstration how to
spend their patrimony and to get themselues names,
when their fathers are dead and rotten. But lest
too many dishes should cast into a surfet, I will now
take away; yet so that, if I perceiue you relish this
well, the rest shall be (in time) prepared for you.
_Fare-well._




NOTES


P. 2.

_The Rubie._--This is the famous and characteristic note of
Euphuism--the accumulation of similes from natural history,
or what was taken for natural history. It can hardly be necessary
to take note of each of these; still less of the abundant
classical allusions which any one acquainted with the classics
will understand at once, and which could only be explained to
others by loading these notes with lumps of Lempriere. Nor
will any one find much difficulty in the language if he remembers
that 'then' and 'than,' 'there' and 'their,' 'wayed' and
'weighed,' were written, or at least printed, in those days
according to the liberal standard of the taste and fancy of the
speller. In case of any difficulty, reading the word aloud
will generally solve it. In a few instances, however, it may be
well to gloss a little more specially.

_M._--I am not sure what this abbreviates. 'Master,' for
which it is the commonest sign, would do.

_Oftscome_ = 'off-scum,' 'off-scouring.'


P. 3.

_Find faulte_ is rather a loss: it is better than 'fault-finder.'

_Closset._--This refers to the famous copy of Homer called
[Greek: e ek tou narthekos], which Alexander carried about with him in a
sumptuous _narthex_--a portable medicine-case.

_Bourde_ = 'jest.'


P. 5.

_Parson_ and 'person,' interchangeably.

_Cirpo_, rather _scirpo_.


P. 6.

_Denocated._--A mistake for either 'denotated' or 'devocated,'
both possible and easily intelligible words.

_Werish_ = 'wersh,' 'weak,' 'sickly.'


P. 7.

_Predictam_ of course should be _praeditam_.

_Presisnes_, for 'preciseness,' is a good example of the quaint
tricks played by phonetics.


P. 8.

_Gale_ = gall = (in next line) _fel_.

_Player._--Before his 'conversion' Gosson had himself had
much to do with the theatre.


P. 11.

_Plotinus._--Either Lodge or his printer has made nonsense
of this. For 'Plotinus' read 'Plautus.'


P. 12.

_Saphier._--Evident misprint for 'Sapphic.'


P. 16.

The quotation has been set right in some obvious matters,
though not materially altered. In the second line of the English
version 'with' should no doubt be 'which,' 'wh.' being
the abbreviation for both.


P. 17.

Tyrtaeus may perhaps be hid to some under his disguise of
_Tirtheus_, which on p. 20 becomes _Tirthetus_.


P. 18.

_Quinque_ for _quique_ is very funny.


P. 19.

_Stare_ = 'star,' 'mole.'


P. 20.

_Acuate_ = 'sharpened,' 'spurred on.'


P. 22.

It is noteworthy that Lodge is much more eloquent and
much more urgent in defence of music than of poetry, and
indeed the _melomania_ of the Elizabethans is well known.


P. 25.

_Buggs_ = 'bugbears.'

_Pavions_ = 'pavone' or 'pavine,' the well-known stately
'peacock-dance' of the time.

_Dump._--Not merely as now used, 'a fit of melancholy,' but
'a melancholy tune,' and even a dance.


P. 33.

_Your (Gosson) for exempting._--'Your' may be mere carelessness
for 'you,' or Lodge may have at one time meant to
write, 'your exempting yourself.'


P. 38.

Last line of quotation of course _contemnas_ and _nam_.


P. 41.

Probably the printer gave _Silius Italicus_ his _v_.


P. 44.

_Pappe with an hatchet_ has been much discussed. The sense,
which is not unlike 'giving him his gruel,' is clear enough, and
any number of explanations of the form occur.

_Patch._ Cf. Shylock's 'The _patch_ is kindly.'


P. 45.

_Huffe, Ruffe, and Snuffe._--Characters in Preston's _Cambyses_.
It cannot be necessary to annotate each of the plays on words
of which "grating" for "greeting" is the first, and which
occur throughout.


P. 46.

_Ale dagger_, may refer to the custom of drinking with swords
on the table.


P. 47.

_Scaddle_ is unannotated by Mr. Maskell, and does not appear
in other dictionaries, even in that of Professor Skeat. But that
excellent scholar, with his usual kindness, has given me a note
on it. It is the A.S. _scadol_ from 'scathe,' and means 'mischievous,'
with a secondary sense of 'thievish,' and a tertiary
one of 'timid' or 'skulking.' It is here probably used in a
combination of all these.

_Dydoppers_ = 'didappers,' 'dabchicks.'


P. 51.

_Bastard_ senior and junior are polite references to _Martin_
senior and _Martin_ junior, two of the pseudonyms set to the
Marprelate pamphlets.


P. 52.

_Elderton._--A theatrical manager.


P. 53.

_Three a vies._--A 'vie' is a single stake or game at cards,
or anything else. 'Three a vies' therefore equals our 'best of
three.' 'Passage,' a game with dice. 'Stabbing' was a form
of cogging. 'Cater-tray,' four and three. 'Cater-caps,'
trencher-caps.


P. 54.

_Dicker of leather._--A bundle of ten skins.

_Woodsere._--Probably, as Mr. Maskell suggests, the sap that
sputters from green <DW19>s.


P. 56.

_Lambacke_ = 'thrash.'


P. 58.

_Bull._--Perhaps the hangman.


P. 64.

_Aptots_ = 'Indeclinables.'


P. 65.

_Naeme_, also 'eme' or 'eame' = 'uncle.'


P. 66.

_Kixes_ or kexes.--Dry stalks of hemlock.


P. 68.

_Pistle._--The common shortened form for 'epistle' much
used by the Martinists.


P. 71.

_Liripoope._--The _liripipium_, or long academic hood.

_Chiuerell_ = 'doe-leather.'


P. 72.

_Comedies._--Anti-Martinist plays are known to have existed,
but are quite lost.


P. 76.

_Muzroule_ or musroule.--A nose-band.

_Port mouth._--I presume a kind of twitch.

_Mubble fubbles_ = 'dumps,' 'blues.'


P. 77.

_Hauncing_ = 'tipping.'


P. 79.

_Celarent_ and _ferio_.--This play on the _memoria technica_ of
logical mood and figure is ingenious.

_Ora whine meg._--Sometimes given as 'Over a whinny meg.'
Name of a tune.


P. 80.

_Bullen._--A vigorous pamphleteer of the preceding age.


P. 84.

Title. _Wit and Will_ is the first of the 'five discourses.'
Below, in the second motto, 'Vir_e_s' should of course be 'vir_u_s,'
being no doubt a mere misprint.


P. 86.

_Gods forbod._--Dr. Grosart 'forbobod,' which appears a
_vox nihili_. 'Past all gods forbod' seems to be pretty much = our
'past all praying for.'


P. 88.

_Then_ (as constantly and not to be noticed hereafter) = 'than.'


P. 90.

_Byrd._ Apparently not in the sense in which 'byrd' or 'burd'
is used by the ballad poets, for that is always of a girl, and
Will is 'he.'


P. 100.


_Buts length._--The ordinary distance between targets.

_Flights shotte._--As far as the bow will carry.


P. 102.

_Wood_ = 'mad.'


P. 109.

Will's Latin here and elsewhere is a good deal better than
his modern languages.


P. 111.

_Corsi[v]e_ = 'corrosive,' something that frets and worries.


P. 116.

_Vir esset_, for _virescit_ apparently.


P. 134.

_Labra_, copies _labe_; either a mere misprint or a blunder for
_labea_ = _labia_, regardless of the verse. Latin is often very carelessly
printed in these tracts.


P. 135.

_Gray_ = 'badger,' from its colour.


P. 136.

_Wearied._--'Weary' and 'worry' have no real connection,
but the former is close in spelling and sound to 'wirian,' the
O.E. form of the latter.


P. 141.

_Tables_ = 'backgammon.'


P. 148.

_Nips_, etc., cant names for different classes of sharpers and
thieves.


P. 149.

_Ball._--Said to be a play on the proper name of Greene's
mistress and her brother.


P. 150.

_Place_ = '_locus_,' text or citation.


P. 155.

The allotment and discussion of the parts in this tirade as
belonging to Marlowe and others of the earlier contemporaries
of Shakespeare have employed much ink, and need no more.


P. 156.

_Young Iuuenall_ is apparently Lodge: 'thou no lesse deseruing'
Peele.


P. 166.

_Barnabe Barnes_, the author of _Parthenophil and Parthenophe_,
was no despicable minor poet; the others were less known to
fame, and a future page (175) tells most that is known about
them.


P. 175.

_Clarentius_ = 'Clarencieux.'?


P. 187.

_Exitat_ = 'excitate,' incite.


P. 188.

_Ale cunners._--'Conners or kenners,' the official inspectors of
Beer.


P. 192.

A _reache_ is an advantage. By 'fiue and a reache,' either
card and dice sharping or pocket-picking must be meant.


P. 193.

_Pullin_ = 'poultry.'


P. 194.

_Hoffes_ = '_hof_,' house.


P. 195.

Here Nash takes his customary side in the Marprelate
business.


P. 196.

_Ram Alley_, the great locality for cook-shops.


P. 198.

The _Old Swanne_, still known on the river as a pier and
starting-place.


P. 199.

_Heart at grasse_ = 'heart of grace.'

_Lambeake._ The simple verb 'lam,' surviving in 'lam into
him,' had divers compounds--'lambaste,' 'lambeak,' (_v. ante_)
and the like.


P. 202.

A return to the Martinists _dunstable_--as in 'Downright Dunstable.'


P. 205.

_Duke Humfrye_ habitually entertained his guests in St. Paul's.


P. 208.

_Cataphalusie_ is, I suppose, a coined word with no special
meaning.


P. 212.

Full information about _Grobianisme_ may be found in Chapter
VII. of Mr. Herford's excellent _Literary Relations of England
and Germany in the 16th Century_. Cambridge: 1886.


P. 215.

_Kelly_ succeeded Dee as an alchemist.


P. 216.

For the _Ship of Fooles_, as Alexander Barclay Englished
Sebastian Brant's _Narrenschiff_, see Mr. Herford _op. cit._

_Like Biasse_ = 'crookedly'?


P. 217.

_Tarleton_, etc.,--actors.


P. 221.

_Bootes._--For the proper and original meaning of 'boot' see
the opening chapter of _Old Mortality_.


P. 223.

_Voyder._--The tray for sweeping off crumbs, fragments, etc.,
from the table.


P. 230.

_Vaunt-currers_ = 'avant-couriers.'


P. 231.

_Platoes cocke._--It was rather Diogenes's--his unfeeling jest
on the 'unfeathered, two-legged animal' definition of Man.


P. 232.

_Babiownes_ = 'baboon.'

_Mandilions._--A kind of monkey.


P. 234.

_Strawling_ = 'straddling.'


P. 242.

The _Duke_, of course Humfrye.


P. 244.

_Cipers_ = 'cyprus,' crape.


P. 246.

_Horse._--Banks's Morocco, frequent in Elizabethan mouths.


P. 273.

_Perinado_, guessed to = "parasite" "dinner-hunter." _Inghle_
= "crony."


END








End of Project Gutenberg's Elizabethan and Jacobean Pamphlets, by Various

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