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¶ The fruite of Fetters: with the complaint
of the greene Knight, and his Farewell
GReat be the greefes which bruze the boldest brests,
And al to seelde we see such burdens borne,
For cruell care (which reaveth quiet rests)
Hath oftentimes the woorthiest willes foreworne,
And layed such weight upon a noble harte,
That wit and will have both given place to smarte.
For proofe wherof I tel this woful tale,
(Give eare that list, I force no frolicke mindes)
But such as can abide to heare of bale,
And rather rue the rage which Fansie findes,
Than scorne the pangs which may procure their pine,
Let them give eare unto these rimes of mine.
I teare my time (ay me) in prison pent,
Wherin the floure of my consuming yeares,
With secret grief my reason doth torment,
And frets it self (perhaps) with needlesse feares:
For whyles I strive against the streame too fast,
My forces faile, and I must downe at last.
The hastie Vine for sample might me serve,
Which climbes too high about the loftie tree,
But when the twist his tender jointes doth carve,
Then fades he fast, that sought full fresh to bee:
He fades and faintes before his fellowes faire,
Which lay full lowe, and never hoyst up saile.
Ay me, the dayes which I in dole consume,
Ah las, the nightes which witnesse well my woe,
O wrongful world which makst my fansie fume,
Fie fickle Fortune, fie thou arte my foe,
Out and alas, so frowarde is my chaunce,
No dayes nor nightes, nor worldes can me advaunce.
In recklesse youth, the common plague of Love
Infected me (al day) with carelesse minde,
Entising dames my patience still did prove,
And blearde mine eyes, till I became so blinde,
That seing not what furie brought mee foorth,
I followed most (alwayes) that least was woorth.
In middle yeares, the reache of Reasons reine
No sooner gan to bridle in my will,
Nor naked neede no sooner gan constreine
My rash decay to breake my sleepes by skill,
But streight therewith hope set my heart on flame,
To winne againe both wealth and woorthy name.
And thence proceedes my most consuming griefe,
For whyles the hope of mine unyolden harte
In endlesse toyles did labor for reliefe,
Came crabbed Chance and marrde my merry marte:
Yea, not content with one fowle overthrowe,
So tied me fast for tempting any mo.
She tied me fast (alas) in golden chaines,
Wherein I dwell, not free, nor fully thrall,
Where guilefull love in double doubt remaines,
Nor honie sweet, nor bitter yet as gall:
For every day a patterne I beholde
Of scortching flame, which makes my heart full colde.
And every night, the rage of restlesse thought
Doth raise me up, my hope for to renewe,
My quiet bed which I for solace sought,
Doth yrke mine eares, when still the warlike crewe
With sounde of drummes, and trumpets braying shrill
Relieve their watch, yet I in thraldome still.
The common joy, the cheere of companie,
Twixt mirth and moane doth plundge me evermore:
For pleasant talke, or Musicks melodie,
Yeeld no such salve unto my secret sore,
But that therewith this corsive coms me too,
Why live not I at large as others doo?
Lo thus I live in spite of cruell death,
And die as fast in spite of lingring life,
Fedde still with hope which doth prolong my breath,
But choakte with feare, and strangled still with strife,
Starke staring blinde bicause I see too much,
Yet gasing still bicause I see none such.
Amid these pangs (O subtil Cordial)
Those farrefet sighes which most mens mindes eschewe,
Recomforte me, and make the furie fall,
Which fedde the roote from whence my fits renewe:
They comforte me (ah wretched doubtfull clause)
They helpe the harme, and yet they kill the cause.
Where might I then my carefull corpse convey
From companie, which worketh all my woe?
How might I winke or hide mine eyes alway,
Which gaze on that wherof my griefe doth growe?
How might I stoppe mine eares, which hearken still,
To every joy, which can but wounde my will?
How should I seeme my sighes for to suppresse,
Which helpe the heart that else would swelt in sunder?
Which hurt the helpe that makes my torment lesse?
Which helpe and hurte (oh wofull wearie wonder)
One seely hart[e] thus toste twixt helpe and harme,
How should I seeme, such sighes in tyme to charme?
How? how but thus? in sollitarie wise
To steppe aside, and make high way to moane:
To make two fountaines of my dazled eies,
To sigh my fill till breath a[n]d all be gone:
So sighed the knight of whome Bartello writes,
All cladde in Greene, yet banisht from delights.
And since the storye is both new and trew,
A dreary tale much like these lottes of myne
I wil1 assaye my muze for to renewe,
By ryming out his frowarde fatall fine.
A dolefull speeche becomes a dumpish man,
So semde by him, for thus his tale begane.
G. A A
The complaint of the greene Knight.
WHy live I wretch (quoth he) alas and wellaway,
Or why beholde my heavy eies, this gladsome sunny day?
Since never sunne yet shone, that could my state advaunce,
Why live I wretche (alas quoth he) in hope of better chaunce?
Or wherefore telles my toung, this drearye dolefull tale,
That every eare might heare my grieefe and so bemone my bale?
Since eare was never yet, that harkened to my playnte,
Why live I wretch (alas quoth he) my pangs in vaine to paint?
Or wherfore dotes desire, that doth his wish disclose,
And shewes the sore that seeks recure, thereby to ease my woes?
Since yet he never found, the hart where pyttie dwelt,
Why live I wretch (alas quoth he) alone in woe to swelt.
Why strive I with the streame, or hoppe against the hill,
Or search that never can be founde, or loose my labor still?
Since destenies decreed, must alwayes be obeyde,
Why live I wretch alas (quoth he) with lucke thus overleyde.
Why feedes my heart on hope? why tyre I still on trust?
Why doth my minde still muse on mirth? why leanes my life on lust?
Since hope had never hap, & trust always found treason,
Why live I wretch alas (quoth he) where all good luck is geazon?
The fatal Sisters three, which spun my slender twine,
Knew wel how rotten was the yarne, fron whence they drew their line:
Yet have they woven the web, with care so manifolde,
(Alas I woful wretch the while) as any cloth can holde:
Yea though the threeds be cowrse, and such as others lothe,
Yet must I wrap alwayes therin, my bones and body both:
And weare it out at length, which lasteth but too long.
O weaver weaver work no more, thy warp hath done me wrong:
For therin have I lapt my light and lustie yeares,
And therin haplesse have I hapt, mine age and hoarie heares:
Yet never found I warmth, by jetting in thy jaggs,
Nor never can I weare them out, although they rende like raggs.
The May moone of mine age, I meane the gallant time
When coales of kinde first kindled love, & plesure was in prime,
All bitter was the frute, which still I reaped then,
And little was the gaine I got, comparde by other men.
Teare-thirstie were the Dames, to whome I sued for grace,
Some stonie stomackt, other some, of high disdainful race.
But all unconstant (ay) and (that to thinke) I die,
The guerdon which Cosmana gave, can witnesse if I lie.
Cosmana was the wight to whome I wished well,
To serve Cosmana did I seeme, in love to beare the bell:
Cosmana was my god, Cosmana was my joy,
Ay me, Cosmana turnde my mirth, to dole and dark anoy:
Revenge it Radamanth, if I be found to lie,
Or if I slaunder hir at all, condemne me then to die.
Thou knowst I honored hir, no more but all too much,
Alas thou knowst she cast me off, when I deservde no grutch.
She dead (I dying yet) ay me my teares were dried,
And teeth of time anew out the grief, which al to long I tried,
Yet from hir ashes sprung, or from such subtile molde,
Ferenda she, whome everie eye, did judge more bright than golde.
Ferenda then I sawe, Ferenda I behelde,
Ferenda servde I faithfully, in towne and eke in fielde:
Ferenda coulde not say, the greene Knight was untrew;
But out alas, the greene Knight sayde, Ferenda changde for new:
Ferenda did hir kinde: then was she to be borne,
She did but weare Cosmanes cloutes, which she in spite had tome
And yet betwene them both they waare the threeds so neere,
As were they not of steele or stone, they coulde not holde yfeere.
But now Ferenda mine, a little by thy leave:
What moved thee to madding moode? why didst thou me deceave?
Alas I was al thine, thy selfe can say no lesse,
And for thy fall, I bathed oft in many a deepe distresse:
And yet to do thee right, I neyther blame thy race,
Thy shining selfe, the golden gleames that glistred on thy face,
Nor yet thy fickle faith, shall never beare the blame,
But I, whome kinde hath framd to finde, a griefe in everie game:
The high decrees of heaven, have limited my life,
To linger stil wher Love doth lodge, yet there to sterve in strife.
For proofe, who list to know what makes me nowe complaine,
Give eare unto the greene Knights tale: for now begins his paine.
When rash unbridled youth had run his recklesse race,
And caried me with carelesse course, to many a great disgrace,
Then riper mellowed yeares, thought good to turne their trade,
And bad Repentance hol[d] the reines, to rule the brainsicke jade:
So that with much to doo, the brydle helde him backe,
And Reason made him byte on bit, which had a better smacke:
And for I felte my selfe, by feeblenesse fordoonne,
And panting still for lack of breath, as one much overroonne.
Therefore I toke advise, to walke him first awhile,
And so at length to set him up, his travayles to beguile:
Yea when he curried was, and dusted slicke and trimme,
I causde both hey and provender to be allowde for him:
Wherat (alas to thinke) he gathered flesh so fast,
That still he playd his coltish pranks, when as I thought them past:
He winched still alwayes, and whisked with his taile,
And leaping over hedge and ditch, I sawe it not prevaile
To pamper him so proude: Wherfore I thought it best,
To travaile him (not as I woont) yet nay to give him rest.
Thus well resolved then, I kept him still in harte,
And founde a pretie provender appointed for his parte,
Which once a day, no more, he might a little tast:
And by this diet, made I youth a gentle jade at last:
And foorth I might him ride, an easie journeying pace,
He never strave with middle age, but gently gave him place:
Then middle age steps in, and toke the helme in hande,
To guide my Barke by better skill, into some better lande.
And as eche noble heart is evermore most bent,
To high exploitee and woorthie deedes, where honor may be hent:
So mine unyolden minde, by Armes gan seeke renowne,
And sought to rayse, that recklesse youth had rashly tumbled downe.
With sworde and trustie targe, then sought I for to carve
For middle age and hoarie haires, and both their turnes to serve:
And in my Carvers roome, I gan to cut suche cuttes,
And made suche morsels for their mouthes as well might fill their guttes,
Beside some overplus, (which being kept in store)
Might serve to welcome al their friends, with foison evermore:
I meane no more but this: my hand gan finde such happe,
As made me thinke, that Fortune ment, to play me in hir lappe:
And hope therwith had heavde, my heart to be so hie,
That still I hoapt, by force of armes, to climbe above the Skie:
I bathed still in blisse, I ledde a lordelie life,
My Souldiers lovde and fearde me both, I never dreaded strife:
My boord was furnisht stil, with cates of dainty cost,
My back wel clad, my purse wel lynde, my woonted lack was lost,
My bags began to fil, my debtes for to discharge,
My state so stoode, as sure I seemde to swim in good lucks barge:
But out and well away, what pleasure breedes not paine?
What sun can shine without a cloud, what thunder brings not rain?
Such is the life of man, such was the luck of me,
To fall so fast from hiest hap, where sure I seemde to be.
Five hundred sundrie sunnes (and more) could scarcely serve,
By sweat of brows to win a roome, wherin my knife might carve:
One onely dismall day, suffised (with despite)
To take me from my carvers place, and from the table quite.
Five hundred broken sleepes, had busied all my braynes,
To find (at last) some worthy trade, that might increse my gaynes:
One blacke unluckie houre, my trade hath overthrowen,
And marrde my marte, & broke my bank, & al my blisse oreblowen.
To wrappe up all in woe, I am in prison pent,
My gaines possessed by my foes, my friends against me bent:
And all the heavy haps, that ever age yet bare,
Assembled are within my breast, to choake me up with care.
My modest middle age, which lacks of youth the lust,
Can beare no such gret burdens now, but throwes them in the dust:
Yet in this piteous plight, beholde me Lovers all,
And rewe my grieves, least you your selves do light on such a fal.
I am that wearie wretch, whom love always hath tyred,
And fed me with such strange conceytes, as never man desired.
For now (even now) ay me: I love and cannot chuse,
So strangely yet, as wel may move the wisest mindes to muse.
No blasing beauty bright, hath set my heart on fire,
No ticing talke, no gorgeous gyte, tormenteth my desire,
No bodie finely framde, no haggarde Falcons eie,
No ruddie lip, no golden locks, hath drawne my minde angrie:
No teeth of shining pearle, no gallant rosie hiew,
No dimpled chinne, no pit in cheeke, presented to my view:
In fine, no such delights, as lovers oft allure,
Are cause why thus I do lament, or put my plaintes in ure:
But such a strange affect, as both I shame to tell,
And all the worlde may woonder much, how first therin I fell.
Yet since I have begonne (quoth he) to tell my griefe,
I wil nought hide, although I hope to finde no great reliefe.
And thus, (quoth he) it is: Amongst the sundrie joyes
Which I conceivde in feates of warre, and all my Martial toyes,
My chaunce was late to have a peerlesse firelock peece,
That to my wittes was nay the like, in Turkie nor in Greece:
A peece so cleanly framde, so streight, so light, so fine,
So tempred and so polished, as seemeth worke divine:
A peece whose locke yet past, for why [it] never failde,
And though I bent it night and day, the quicknesse never quailde:
A peece as well renforst, as ever yet was wrought,
The bravest peece for breech and bore, that ever yet was bought:
The mounture so well made, and for my pitch so fit,
As though I see faire peeces moe, yet fewe so fine as it:
A peece which shot so well, so gently and so streight,
It neyther bruzed with recule, nor wroong with overweight.
In fine and to conclude, I know no fault thereby,
That eyther might be thought in minde, or wel discernde with ey.
This peece then late I had, and therin tooke delight,
As much as ever proper peece did please a warlike wight.
Nowe though it be not lost, nor rendred with the rest,
Yet being shut from sight therof, how can I thinke me blest?
Or which way should I hope, that such a jewell rare,
Can passe unseen in any campe where cunning shooters are?
And therewith am I sure, that being once espied,
It never can escape their hands, but that it will be tried:
And being once but prooved, then farewel frost for me,
My peece, my locke, and all is lost, and I shall never see
The like againe on earth. Nowe Lovers speake your minde,
Was ever man so strangely stroke, or caught in such a kinde?
Was ever man so fonde? was ever man so mad?
Was ever man so woe begone? or in such cares yclad?
For restlesse thus I rest, the wretchedst man on live,
And when I thinke upon this peece, then still my woes revive.
Nor ever can I finde good plaister for my paine,
Unlesse my lucke might be so good, to finde that peece againe.
To make my mourning more, where I in prison pine,
I daily see a pretie peece, much like that peece of mine,
Which helps my hurt, much like unto a broken shinne,
That when it heales, begins to ytch, and then rubs off the skinne.
Thus live I still in love, alas and ever shall,
As well content to loose my peece, as gladde to finde my fall:
A wonder to the worlde, a griefe to friendlie mindes,
A mocking stocke to Momus race, and al such scornefull hindes,
A love (that thinke I sure) whose like was never seene,
Nor never warlike wight shal be in love as I have beene:
So that in sooth (quoth he) I cannot blame the Dames,
Whome I in youth did moste esteeme, I list not foile their fames,
But there to lay the fault, from whence it first did flowe:
I say my Fortune is the root, whence all these griefes did grow.
Since Fortune then (quoth he) hath turnde to me hir backe,
Shall I go yeeld to mourning moane, and cloath my self in blacke?
No no, for noble mindes can beare no thraldome so,
But rather shew a merrie cheere, when most they wade in wo.
And so will I in greene, my careful corpse aray,
To set a bragge amongst the best, as though my heart were gay:
Not greene bicause I hope, nor greene bicause I joy,
Nor greene, bicause I can delight in any youthfull toy:
But greene, bicause my greeves are alway fresh and greene,
Whose roote is such it cannot rot, as by the frute is seene.
Thus sayde, he gave a groane, as though his heart had broke,
And from the furnace of his breast, sent scalding sighes like smoke:
And sighing so, he sate in solitarie wise,
Conveying flouds of brynish teares, by conduct of his eyes.
What ende he had God knoweth, Battello writes it not,
Or if he do, my wittes are short, for I have it forgot.
The continuance of the Author, upon the
fruite of Fetters.
THus have you heard the green Knight make his mone,
Which wel might move the hardest heart to melt:
But what he ment, that knewe himselfe alone,
For such a cause, in weerie woes to swelt:
And yet by like, some peerlesse peece it was,
That brought him so in raging stormes to passe.
I have heard tell, and read it therewithall,
That neare the Alpes a kinde of people bee,
Which serve with shot, wherof the very ball
Is bigge of bulke, the peece but short to see:
But yet it shootes as farre, and eke as fast,
As those which are yframde of longer last.
The cause (say some) consisteth in the locke,
Some other judge, bicause they be so strong,
Renforced well, and breeched like a brocke,
Stiffe, straight, and stout, which though they be not long,
Yet spit they foorth their pellets such a pace,
And with such force, as seemes a woondrous case.
Some other thinke, the mettal maketh all,
Which tempred is both rounde and smooth to see:
And sure me thinkes, the bignesse of the ball,
Ne yet the locke, should make it shoote so free,
But even the breech of mettall good and sounde,
Which makes the ball with greater force to bounde.
For this we see, the stiffe and strongest arme,
Which gives a jerke, and hath a cunning loose,
Shootes furdest still, and doth alway most harme,
For be his flights yfeathred from the goose,
Or Peacockes quilles, or Raven, or Swanne, or Crowe,
His shafts go swifte, when others flie but slowe.
How so it be, the men that use to shoote
In these short gunnes: are praysed for the best:
And Princes seeke such shotte for to promoote
As perfectest and better than the rest:
So that (by like) their peeces beare the sway,
Else other men could shoote as farre as they.
Their peeces then are called Petronels,
And they themselves by sundrie names are calld:
As Bandolliers, for who in mountaynes dwels,
In trowpes and bandes, ofte times is stoutly stalld:
Or of the Stone wherwith the locke doth strike,
Petronelliers, they called are by like.
And so percase this peerelesse peece of his
For which he mournde and made such ruefull mone,
Was one of those: and therfore all his blisse,
Was turnd to bale when as that peece was gone:
Since Martial men do set their chief delight,
In armes which are both free and fayre in sight.
My selfe have seene some peece of such a pryce,
As woorthy were to be esteemed well:
For this you know in any straunge devise,
Such things as seeme for goodnesse to excell,
Are holden deare, and for great Jewels deemd,
Bycause they be both rare and much esteemd.
But now to turne my tale from whence I came,
I saie his lottes and mine were not unlike:
He spent his youth (as I did) out of frame,
He came at last (like me) to trayle the pike.
He pynde in pryson pinchte with privie payne,
And I likewise in pryson still remayne.
Yet some good fruite in fetters can I finde,
As vertue rules in every kinde of vice:
First pryson brings repentaunce to the minde,
Which wandred earst in lust and lewde device.
For hardest hartes by troubles yet are taught,
That God is good when all the worlde is naught.
If thou have ledde a carelesse lyfe at large,
Without regard what libertie was worth:
And then come downe to cruell Gaylours charge,
Which keepes thee close and never lettes thee forth:
Learne then this fruite in Fetters by thy selfe,
That libertie is worth all worldly pelfe.
Whose happe is such to yeelde himself in warre,
Remembre then that peace in pleasure dwelles:
Whose hartes are high and know not what they are
Let such but marke the gingling of their belles:
When fetters frette their anckles as they goe,
Since none so high but that may come as lowe.
To tell a truth and therein to be shorte,
Prysons are plagues that fal for mans offence,
Which maketh some in good and godly sorte,
With contrite harte to grope their conscience.
Repentance than steppes in and pardon craves,
These fruites (with mo) are found in darksome caves.
If thou have friends, there shalt thou know them right,
Since fastest friends in troubles shew their fayth:
If thou have foes, there shalt thou see their spight
For all to true it is that Proverbe sayth:
Where hedge is lowe, there every man treads downe,
And friendship failes when Fortune list to frowne.
Patience is founde in prison (though perforce)
And Temprance taught where none excesse doth dwell,
Exercise calles, least slouth should kill thy corse:
Diligence drives thy busie braines to swell,
For some devise which may redeeme thy state,
These fruites I found in fetters all too late.
And with these fruites another fruite I found,
A strange conceyt, and yet a trustie truth:
I found by proufe, there is no kinde of ground,
That yeeldes a better croppe to retchlesse youth,
Than that same molde where fetters serve for mucke,
And wit stil woorkes to digge up better lucke.
For if the seede of grace will ever growe,
Then sure such soile will serve to beare it best,
And if Gods mercie therewithall do flowe,
Then springs it high, and ruffles with the rest:
Oft hath bene seene such seede in prison cast,
Which long kept close, and prospred yet at last.
But therewithall there springs a kinde of Tares,
Which are vile weedes, and must be rooted out,
They choake up grace, and lap it fast in snares,
Which oftentimes do drawe it deepe in dout,
And hinders plantes which else would growe full hie,
Yet is this weede an easie thing to spie.
Men call it Fansie, sure a woorthlesse weede,
And of the same full many sortes are found,
Some fansies are, which thinke a lawfull deede
To scape away, though faith full fast be bound:
Some thinke by love, (nay lust in cloke of love)
From fetters fast their selves for to remove.
Some be, that meane by murder to prevaile,
And some by fraude, as fansie rules the thought:
Sometimes such frightes mens fansies do assaile,
(That when they see their freedome must be bought)
They vowe to take a stande on Shooters hill,
Till rents come in to please their wicked will.
Some fansies hopes by lies to come on floate,
As for to tell their frends and kinne great tales,
What wealth they lost in coyne, and many a coate,
What powder packt in coffers and in males,
What they must pay, and what their charge will be,
Wherin they meane to save themselves a fee.
Some fansies eke forecast what life to weelde,
When libertie shall graunted be at last,
And in the aire such castles gan they builde,
That many times they fall againe as fast:
For Fansie hinders Grace from glories crowne,
As Tares and Byndes can plucke good graine adowne.
Who list therfore by Fetters frute to have,
Take Fansie first out of his privy thought,
And when thou hast him, cast him in the wave
Of Lethes lake: for sure his seede is nought.
The greene Knight he, of whome I late did tell,
(Mine Author sayth) badde Fansie thus farewell.
The greene Knights farewell to Fansie.
FAnsie (quoth he) farewell, whose badge I long did beare,
And in my hat full harebrayndly, thy flowers did I weare:
To late I finde (at last), thy frutes are nothing worth,
Thy blossomes fall & fade full fast, though braverie bring the forth.
By thee I hoapt alwayes, in deepe delights to dwel,
But since I finde thy ficklenesse, Fansie (quoth he) farewell.
Thou madste me live in love, which wisedome biddes me hate,
Thou bleardst mine eies & madste me thinke, yt faith was mine by fate:
By thee those bitter sweetes, did please my taste alway,
By thee I thought that love was light, and payne was but a play:
I thought that Bewties blase, was meete to beare the bell,
And since I finde my selfe deceyved, Fansie (quoth he) farewell.
The glosse of gorgeous courtes, by thee did please mine eye,
A stately sight me thought it was, to see the brave go by:
To see there feathers flaunte, to marke their straunge devise,
To lie along in Ladies lappes, to lispe and make it nice:
To fawne and flatter both, I liked sometimes well,
But since I see how vayne it is, Fansie (quoth he) farewell.
When court had cast me of, I toyled at the plowe
My fansie stoode in straunge conceipts, to thrive I wote not how:
By mils, by making malte, by sheepe and eke by swyne,
By ducke and drake, by pigge and goose, by calves & keeping kine:
By feeding bullockes fat, when pryce at markets fell,
But since my swaines eat up my gaines, Fansie (quoth he) farewell.
In hunting of the deare, my fansie tooke delight,
All forests knew, my folly still, the mooneshine was my light:
In frosts I felt no cold, a sunneburnt hew was best,
I sweate and was in temper still, my watching seemed rest:
What daungers deepe I past, it follie were to tell,
And since I sigh to thinke thereon, Fansie (quoth he) farewell.
A fansie fedde me ones, to wryte in verse and rime,
To wray my griefe, to crave reward, to cover still my crime:
To frame a long discourse, on slurring of a strawe,
To rumble rime in raffe and ruffe, yet all not worth an hawe:
To heare it sayde there goeth, the Man that writes so well,
But since I see, what Poetes bee, Fansie (quoth he) farewell.
At Musickes sacred sounde, my fansies eft begonne,
In concordes, discordes, notes and cliffes, in tunes of unisonne:
In Hyerarchies and straynes, in restes, in rule and space,
In monacordes and moving moodes, in Burdens under base:
In descants and in chants, I streyned many a yel,
But since Musicians be so madde, Fansie (quoth he) farewell.
To plant straunge countrie fruites, to sow such seedes likewise,
To digge & delve for new foud rootes, where old might wel suffise:
To proyne the water bowes, to picke the mossie trees,
(Oh how it pleasd my fancie ones) to kneele upon my knees,
To griffe a pippine stocke, when sappe begins to swell:
But since the gaynes scarce quite the cost, Fansie (quoth he) farewell.
Fansie (quoth he) farewell, which made me follow drommes,
Where powdred bullets serves for sauce, to every dish that commes:
Where treason lurkes in trust, where Hope all hartes beguiles,
Where mischief lieth still in wayte, when fortune friendly smiles:
Where one dayes prison proves, that all such heavens are hell,
And such I feele the frutes thereof, Fansie (quoth he) farewell.
If reason rule my thoughts, and God vouchsafe me grace
Then comfort of Philosophie, shall make me chaunge my race:
And fonde I shall it finde, that Fansie settee to showe,
For weakely stands that building still, which lacketh grace by low:
But since I must accept, my fortunes as they fell,
I say God send me better speede, and Fansie now farewell.
SEe sweete deceipt, that can it self beguile,
Behold selfe love, which walketh in a net:
And seemes unseene, yet shewes it selfe therewhile,
Before such eyes, as are in science set.
The Greene knight here, leaves out his firelocke peece
That Fancie hath not yet his last farewell.
When Foxes preach, good folke beware your geese,
But holla here, my muse to farre doth mell:
Who list to marke, what learned preacher sayeth,
Must learne withall, for to beleeve his lore:
But what he doth, that toucheth nomans fayth,
Though words with workes, (agreed) persuade the more,
The mounting kite, oft lights on homely pray
And wisest wittes, may sometimes go astray.
Tam Marti, quàm Mercurio.