Rain, winde, or wether, judge I by my eares, Malice assautes that righteousnesse should haue. Sure am I, Brian, this wound shall heale againe, But yet, alas! the skarre shall still remaine.
THROUGHOUT the world if it were sought,
Fair words ynough a man shall finde;
They be good chepe, they cost right nought,
Their substance is but only winde :
But well to say, and so to mene,
That swete accord is seldom sene.
OF THE MEAN AND SURE ESTATE.
(From Seneca's Chorus.)
STOND who so list upon the slipper wheele,
Of hie estate, and let me here reioyce,
And vse my life in quietnesse eche dele,
Unknowen in court that hath the wanton toyes,
In hydden place my time shall slowly passe,
And when my yeres be past withouten noyse,
Let me die olde after the common trace;
For gripes of death doth he too hardly pass;
That knowen is to all, but to myself, alas!
He dyeth unknowen, dased with dreadfull face.
IN court to serue decked with freshe aray,
Of sugred meates feling the swete repast,
The life in bankets and sundry kindes of playe,
Amid the prease of worldly lookes to waste.
Hath with it joynde oft times such bitter taste,
That who so ioyes such kinde of life to hold,
In prison ioyes fettred with cheines of gold.
OF DISAPPOINTED PURPOSE BY NEGLIGENCE.
Or Carthage he that worthy warriour,
Could ouercome, but could not use his chance;
And I likewise of all my long endeauour,
The sharpe conquest though fortune did advance,
Ne could I vse. The hold that is geven over,
I vnpossesse, so hangeth now in balance
Of warre, my peace, rewarde of all my payne,
At Mountzon thus I restless rest in Spaine.
OF HIS RETURNE FROM SPAINE.
TAGUS farewell, that westward with thy stremes,
Turnes vp the graines of gold already tried;
For I with spurre and saile go seke the Temmes,
Gainward the Sunne that sheweth her welthy pride;
And to the town that Brutus sought by dreames,
Like bended mone that leaues her lusty side,
My king, my countrey I seke, for whom I live,
O mighty loue the windes for this me giue.
DRIVEN by desire I did this dede,
To danger my selfe without cause why,
To trust thuntrue not like to spede,
To speake and promise faithfully:
But now the proofe doth verify,
That who so trusteth ere he know,
Doth hurt himself and please hys foe.
OF THE MOTHER THAT EATE HER CHILD AT THE SIEGE OF IERUSALEM.
In doutfull brest whiles motherly pity,
With furious famine standeth at debate,
The mother saith, O child vnhappy,
Return thy blood where thou hadst milke of late.
Yeld me those limmes that I made vnto thee,
And entre there where thou wer generate,
For of one body against all nature,
To another must I make sepulture.
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