The Encomion of Lady Pecunia:
OR
The praise of Money.

quærenda pecunia primum est,
Virtus post nummos. Horace.

By Richard Barnfeild, Graduate in Oxford.

 

LONDON,
Printed by G. S. for Iohn Iaggard, and are
to be sold at his shoppe neere Temple-barre,
at the Signe of the Hand and starre.
1 5 9 8.

To the Gentlemen Readers.

G Entlemen, being incouraged through your gentle acceptance of my Cynthia, I haue once more aduentured on your Curtesies: hoping to finde you (as I haue done heretofore) friendly. Being determined to write of somthing, and yet not resolued of any thing, I considered with my selfe, if one should write of Loue (they will say) why, euery one writes of Loue: if of Vertue, why, who regards Vertue? To be short, I could thinke of nothing, but either it was common, or not at all in request. At length I bethought my selfe of a Subiect, both new (as hauing neuer beene written vpon before) and pleasing (as I thought) because Mans Nature (commonly) loues to heare that praised, with whose pressence, hee is most pleased.

Erasmus (the glory of Netherland, and the refiner of the Latin Tongue) wrote a whole Booke, in the prayse of Folly. Then if so excellent a Scholler, writ in praise of Vanity, why may not I write in praise of that which is profitable? There are no two Countreys, where Gold is esteemed, lesse than in India, and more then in England: the reason is, because the Indians are barbarous, and our Nation ciuill.

I have giuen Pecunia the title of a Woman, Both for the termination of the Word, and because (as Women are) shee is lov'd of men. The brauest Voyages in the World, haue beene made for Gold: for it, men haue venterd (by Sea) to the furthest parts of the Earth: In the Pursute whereof, Englands Nestor and Neptune (Haukins and Drake) lost their liues. Vpon the Deathes of the which two, of the first I writ this:

The Waters were his Winding sheete, the Sea was made his Toome;
Yet for his fame the Ocean Sea, was not sufficient roome.

Of the latter this:

England his hart; his Corps the Waters haue;
And that which raysd his fame, became his grave.

The Prætorians (after the death of Pertinax) in the election of a new Emperour, more esteemed the money of Iulianus, then either the vertue of Seuerus, or the Valour of Pessennius. Then of what great estimation and account, this Lady Pecunia, both hath beene in the Worlde, and is at this present, I leaue to your Iudgement. But what speake I so much of her praise in my Epistle, that haue commended her so at large in my Booke? To the reading wherof, (Gentlemen) I referre you.

[THE AUTHORS FIRST EPISTLE-DEDICATORY (1605).

[Collated with the Bridgwater House copy.]

L
 
Ed by the swift report of winged Fame,
With siluer trumpet, sounding forth your name
To you I dedicate this merry Muse,
And for my Patron, I your fauour chuse:
She is a Lady, she must be respected:
She is a Queene, she may not be neglected.
This is the shadow, you the substance haue,
Which substance now this shadow seems to craue.
RICHARD BARNFIELD.]

The prayse of Lady Pecunia.

I
 
Sing not of Angellica the faire,
(For whom the Palladine of Fraunce fell mad)
Nor of sweet Rosamond, olde Cliffords heire,
(Whose death did make the second Henry sad)
But of the fairest Faire Pecunia,
The famous Queene of rich America.
 
Goddesse of Golde, great Empresse of the Earth,
O thou that canst doe all Thinges under Heauen:
That doost conuert the saddest minde to Mirth;
(Of whom the elder Age was quite bereauen)
Of thee Ile sing, and in thy Prayse Ile write;
You golden Angels helpe me to indite.
You, you alone, can make my Muse to speake;
And tell a golden Tale, with siluer Tongue:
You onely can my pleasing silence breake;
And adde some Musique, to a merry Songue:
But amongst all the fiue, in Musicks Art,
I would not sing the Counter-tenor part.
The Meane is best, and that I meane to keepe;
So shall I keepe my selfe from That I meane:
Lest with some Others, I be forc'd to weepe,
And cry Peccaui, in a dolefull Scæne.
But to the matter which I haue in hand,
The Lady Regent, both by Sea and Land.
When Saturne liu'd, and wore the Kingly Crowne,
(And Ioue was yet vnborne, but not vnbred)
This Ladies fame was then of no renowne;
(For Golde was then, no more esteem'd then Lead)
Then Truth and Honesty were onely vs'd,
Siluer and Golde were vtterly refus'd.
But when the Worlde grew wiser in Conceit,
And saw how Men in manners did decline,
How Charitie began to loose her heate,
And One did at anothers good repine,
Then did the Aged, first of all respect her;
And vowd from thenceforth, neuer to reiect her.
Thus with the Worlde, her beauty did increase;
And manie Suters had she to obtaine her:
Some sought her in the Wars, and some in peace;
But few of youthfull age, could euer game her:
Or if they did, she soone was gone againe;
And would with them, but little while remaine.
For why against the Nature of her Sexe,
(That commonlie dispise the feeble Olde)
Shee, loues olde men; but young men she reiects;
Because to her, their Loue is quicklie colde:
Olde men (like Husbands iealous of their Wiues)
Lock her vp fast, and keepe her as their Liues.
The young man carelesse to maintaine his life,
Neglects her Loue (as though he did abhor her)
Like one that hardly doeth obtaine a wife,
And when he hath her once, he cares not for her:
Shee, seeing that the young man doeth despyse her,
Leaues the franke heart, and flies vnto the Myser.
Hee intertaines her, with a ioyfull hart;
And seemes to rue her vndeserued wrong:
And from his Pressence, she shall neuer part;
Or if shee doo, he thinkes her Absence long:
And oftentimes he sends for her againe,
Whose life without her, cannot long remaine.
And when he hath her, in his owne possession,
He locks her in an iron-barred Chest,
And doubting somewhat, of the like Transgression,
He holds that iron-walled Prison best.
And least some rusty sicknesse should infect her,
He often visits her, and doeth respect her.
As for the young man (subiect vnto sinne)
No maruell though the Diuell doe distresse him;
To tempt mans frailtie, which doth neuer linne,
Who many times, hath not a Crosse to blesse him:
But how can hee incurre the Heauens Curse,
That hath so many Crosses in his Purse?
Hee needes not feare those wicked sprights, that waulke
Vnder the Couerture of cole-blacke Night;
For why the Diuell still, a Crosse doeth baulke,
Because on it, was hangd the Lorde of Light:
But let not Mysers trust to siluer Crosses,
Least in the End, their gaines be turnd to losses.
But what care they, so they may hoorde vp golde?
Either for God, or Diuell, or Heauen, or Hell?
So they may faire Pecuniaes face behold;
And euery Day, their Mounts of Money tell.
What tho to count their Coyne, they neuer blin,
Count they their Coyne, and counts not God their sin?
But what talke I of sinne, to Vsurers?
Or looke for mendment, at a Mysers hand?
Pecunia, hath so many followers,
Bootlesse it is, her Power to with-stand.
King Couetise, and Warinesse his Wife,
The Parents were, that first did giue her Life.
But now vnto her Praise I will proceede,
Which is as ample, as the Worlde is wide:
What great Contentment doth her Pressence breede
In him, that can his wealth with Wysdome guide?
She is the Soueraigne Queene, of all Delights:
For her the Lawyer pleades; the Souldier fights.
For her, the Merchant venters on the Seas:
For her, the Scholler studdies at his Booke:
For her, the Vsurer (with greater ease)
For sillie fishes, layes a siluer hooke:
For her, the Townsman leaues the Countrey Village:
For her, the Plowman giues himselte to Tillage.
For her, the Gentlemen doeth raise his rents:
For her, the Seruingman attends his maister:
For her, the curious head new toyes inuents:
For her, to Sores, the Surgeon layes his plaister.
In fine for her, each man in his Vocation,
Applies himselfe, in euerie sev'rall Nation.
What can thy hart desire, but thou mayst haue it,
If thou hast readie money to disburse?
Then thanke thy Fortune, that so freely gaue it;
For of all friends, the surest is thy purse.
Friends may proue false, and leaue thee in thy need;
But still thy Purse will bee thy friend indeed.
Admit thou come, into a place vnknowne;
And no man knowes, of whence, or what thou art:
If once thy faire Pecunia, shee be showne,
Thou art esteem'd a man of great Desart:
And placed at the Tables vpper ende;
Not for thine owne sake, but thy faithfull frende.
But if you want your Ladies louely grace,
And haue not wherewithall to pay your shot,
Your Hostis pressently will step in Place,
You are a Stranger (Sir) I know you not:
By trusting Diuers, I am run in Det;
Therefore of mee, nor meate nor Bed you get.
O who can then, expresse the worthie praise,
Which faire Pecunia iustly doeth desarue?
That can the meanest man, to Honor raise;
And feed the soule, that ready is to starue.
Affection, which was wont to bee so pure,
Against a golden Siege, may not endure.
Witnesse the trade of Mercenary sinne;
(Or Occupation, if thou list to tearme it)
Where faire Pecunia must the suite beginne;
(As common-tride Experience doeth confirme it)
Not Mercury himselfe, with siluer Tongue,
Can so inchaunt, as can a golden Songue.
When nothing could subdue the Phrygian Troy,
(That Citty through the world so much renowned)
Pecunia did her vtterly destroy:
And left her fame, in darke Obliuion drowned.
And many Citties since, no lesse in fame,
For Loue of her, haue yeelded to their shame.
What Thing is then, so well belou'd as money?
It is a speciall Comfort to the minde;
More faire then Women are; more sweet then honey:
Easie to loose, but very harde to finde.
In fine, to him, whose Purse beginns to faint,
Golde is a God, and Siluer is a Saint.
The Tyme was once, when Honestie was counted
A Demy god; and so esteem'd of all:
But now Pecunia on his Seate is mounted;
Since Honestie in great Disgrace did fall.
No state, no Calling now, doeth him esteeme;
Nor of the other ill, doeth any deeme.
The reason is, because he is so poore:
(And who respects the poore, and needie Creature?)
Still begging of his almes, from Doore to Doore:
All ragd, and torne; and eeke deformed in feature.
In Countinance so changde, that none can know him;
So weake, and euery vice doeth ouerthrow him.
But faire Pecunia, (most diuinely bred)
For sundrie shapes, doth Proteus selfe surpasse:
In one Lande, she is suted all in Lead;
And in another, she is clad in Brasse:
But still within the Coast of Albion,
She euer puts, her best Apparell on.
Siluer and Golde, and nothing else is currant,
In Englands, in faire Englands happy Land:
All baser sorts of Mettalls, haue no Warrant;
Yet secretly they slip, from hand to hand.
If any such be tooke, the same is lost,
And pressently is nayled on a Post.
Which with Quick-siluer, being flourisht ouer,
Seemes to be perfect Siluer, to the showe:
As Woemens paintings, their defects doe couer,
Vnder this false attyre, so doe they goe.
If on a woollen Cloth, thou rub the same,
Then will it straight beginne to blush, for shame.
If chafed on thy haire, till it be hot,
If it good Siluer bee, the scent is sweete:
If counterfeit, thy chafing hath begot
A ranke-smelt sauour; for a Queene vnmeete:
Pecunia is a Queene, for her Desarts,
And in the Decke, may goe for Queene of harts.
The Queene of harts, because she rules all harts;
And hath all harts, obedient to her Will:
Whose Bounty, fame vnto the Worlde imparts;
And with her glory, all the Worlde doeth fill:
The Queene of Diamonds, she cannot bee;
There is but one, Eliza, thou art shee.
And thou art shee, O sacred Soueraigne;
Whom God hath helpt with his Al-mighty hand:
Blessing thy People, with thy peacefull raigne;
And made this little Land, a happy Land:
May all those liue, that wish long life to thee,
And all the rest, perish eternally.
Thy tyme was once, when faire Pecunia, here
Did basely goe attyred all in Leather:
But since her raigne, she neuer did appeere
But richly clad; in Golde, or Siluer either:
Nor reason is it, that her Golden raigne
With baser Coyne, eclypsed should remaine.
And as the Coyne, she hath repurifyde,
From baser substance, to the purest Mettels:
Religion so, hath shee refinde beside,
From Papistrie, to Truth; which daily settles
Within her Peoples harts; though some there bee,
That cleaue vnto their wonted Papistrie.
No flocke of sheepe, but some are still infected:
No peece of Lawne so pure, but hath some fret:
All buildings are not strong, that are erected:
All Plants proue not, that in good ground are set:
Some tares are sowne, amongst the choicest seed:
No garden can be cleansd of euery Weede.
But now to her, whose praise is her pretended,
(Diuine Pecunia) fairer then the morne:
Which cannot be sufficiently commended;
Whose Sun-bright Beauty doeth the Worlde adorne,
Adorns the World, but specially the Purse;
Without whose pressence, nothing can be worse.
Not faire Hæsione (King of Priams sister)
Did euer showe more Beauty, in her face,
Then can this louely Lady, if it list her
To showe her selfe; admir'd for comely grace:
Which neither Age can weare, nor Tyme conclude;
For why, her Beauty yeerely is renude.
New Coyne is coynd each yeare, within the Tower;
So that her Beauty neuer can decay:
Which to resist, no mortall man hath Power,
When as she doeth her glorious Beames display.
Nor doeth Pecunia, onely please the eie,
But charms the eare, with heauenly Harmonie.
Lyke to an other Orpheus, can she play
Vpon her treble Harpe, whose siluer sound
Inchaunts the eare, and steales the hart away:
Nor hardly can deceit, therein be found.
Although such Musique, some a Shilling cost,
Yet is it worth but Nine-pence, at the most.
Had I the sweet inchaunting Tongue of Tully,
That charmd the hearers, lyke the Syrens Song;
Yet could I not describe the Prayses fully,
Which to Pecunia iustly doe belong.
Let it suffice, her Beauty doeth excell:
Whose praise no Pen can paint, no Tongue can tell.
Then how shall I describe, with artlesse Pen,
The praise of her, whose praise, all praise surmounteth?
Breeding amazement, in the mindes of men:
Of whom, this pressent Age to much accounteth.
Varietie of Words, would sooner want,
Then store of plentious matter, would be scant.
Whether yee list, to looke into the Citty:
(Where money tempts the poore Beholders eye)
Or to the Countrey Townes, deuoyde of Pitty:
(Where to the poore, each place doeth almes denye)
All Thinges for money now, are bought and solde,
That either hart can thinke, or eie beholde.
Nay more for money (as report doeth tell)
Thou mayst obteine a Pardon for thy sinnes:
The Pope of Rome, for money will it sell;
(Whereby thy soule, no small saluation winnes)
But how can hee, (of Pride the chiefe Beginner)
Forgiue thy sinnes, that is himselfe a sinner?
Then, sith the Pope is subiect vnto sinne,
No maruell tho, diuine Pecunia tempt him,
With her faire Beauty; whose good-will to winne,
Each one contends; and shall we then exempt him.
Did neuer mortall man, yet looke vpon her,
But straightwaies he became, enamourd on her.
Yet would I wish, the Wight that loues her so,
And hath obtain'd, the like good-will againe,
To vse her wisely, lest she proue his foe;
And so, in stead of Pleasure, breed his paine.
She may be kyst; but shee must not be clypt:
Lest such Delight in bitter gall be dypt.
The iuyce of grapes, which is a soueraigne Thing
To cheere the hart, and to reuiue the spirits;
Being vsde immoderatly (in surfetting)
Rather Dispraise, then commendation merits:
Euen so Pecunia, is, as shee is vsed;
Good of her selfe, but bad if once abused.
With her, the Tenant payes his Landlords rent:
On her, depends the stay of euery state:
To her, rich Pressents euery day are sent:
In her, it rests to end all dire Debate:
Through her, to Wealth, is raisd the Countrey Boore:
From her, proceedes much proffit to the poore.
Then how can I, sufficiently commend,
Her Beauties worth, which makes the World to wonder?
Or end her prayse, whose prayses haue no End?
Whose absence brings the stoutest stomack vnder:
Let it suffice, Pecunia hath no peere;
No Wight, no Beauty held; more faire, more deere.

FINIS.

His Prayer to Pecunia.

G
 
Reat Lady, sith I haue complyde thy Prayse,
(According to my skill and not thy merit:)
And sought thy Fame aboue the starrs to rayse;
(Had I sweete Ovids vaine, or Virgils spirit)
I craue no more but this, for my good will,
That in my Want, thou wilt supplye me still.

THE
Complaint of Poetrie,
for the Death of Liberalitie.

Viuit post funera virtus.

LONDON,
Printed by G. S. for Iohn Iaggard, and are
to be solde at his shoppe neere Temple-barre,
at the Signe of the Hand and starre.
1 5 9 8.

To his Worshipfull wel-willer, Maister
Edward Leigh, of Grayes Inne.

I
 
Mage of that, whose losse is here lamented;
(In whom, so many vertues are containd)
Daine to accept, what I haue now presented.
Though Bounties death, herein be not fained,
In your mind, she not reuiue (with speed)
Then will I sweare, that shee is dead indeed.

THE COMPLAINT OF
Poetrie, for the Death of Liberalitie.

W
 
Eepe Heauens now, for you haue lost your light;
Ye Sunne and Moone, beare witnes of my mone:
The cleere is turnd to clouds; the day to night;
And all my hope, and all my ioy is gone:
Bounty is dead, the cause of my annoy;
Bounty is dead, and with her dide my ioy.
 
O who can comfort my afflicted soule?
Or adde some ende to my increasing sorrowes?
Who can deliuer me from endlesse dole?
(Which from my hart eternall torment borrowes.)
When Bounty liu'd, I bore the Bell away;
When Bounty dide, my credit did decay.
I neuer then, did write one verse in vaine;
Nor euer went my Poems vnregarded:
Then did each Noble breast, me intertaine,
And for my Labours I was well rewarded:
But now Good wordes, are stept in Bounties place,
Thinking thereby, her glorie to disgrace.
But who can liue with words, in these hard tymes?
(Although they came from Iupiter himselfe?)
Or who can take such Paiment, for his Rymes?
(When nothing now, is so esteem'd as Pelfe?)
Tis not Good wordes, that can a man maintaine;
Wordes are but winde; and winde is all but vaine.
Where is Mecænas, Learnings noble Patron?
(That Maroes Muse, with Bountie so did cherish?)
Or faire Zenobia, that worthy Matron?
(Whose name, for Learnings Loue, shall neuer perish)
What tho their Bodies, lie full lowe in graue,
Their fame the worlde; their souls the Heauens haue.
Vile Auaricia, how hast thou inchaunted
The Noble mindes, of great and mightie Men?
Or what infernall furie late hath haunted
Their niggard purses? (to the learned pen)
Was it Augustus wealth, or noble minde,
That euerlasting fame, to him assinde?
If wealth? Why Crœsus was more rich then hee;
(Yet Crœsus glorie, with his life did end)
It was his Noble mind, that moued mee
To write his praise, and eeke his Acts commend.
Who ere had heard, of Alexanders fame,
If Quintus Curtius had not pend the same?
Then sith by mee, their deedes haue been declared,
(Which else had perisht with their liues decay)
Who to augment their glories, haue not spared
To crowne their browes, with neuer-fading Bay:
What Art deserues such Liberalitie,
As doeth the peerlesse Art of Poetrie?
But Liberalitie is dead and gone:
And Auarice vsurps true Bounties seat.
For her it is, I make this endlesse mone,
(Whose praises worth no men can well repeat.
Sweet Liberalitie adiew for euer,
For Poetrie againe, shall see thee neuer.
Neuer againe, shall I thy presence see:
Neuer againe, shal I thy bountie tast:
Neuer againe, shal I accepted bee:
Neuer againe, shall I be so embrac't:
Neuer againe, shall I the bad recall:
Neuer againe, shall I be lou'd of all:
Thou wast the Nurse, whose Bountie gaue me sucke:
Thou wast the Sunne, whose beames did lend me light:
Thou wast the Tree, whose fruit I still did plucke:
Thou wast the Patron, to maintaine my right:
Through thee I liu'd; on thee I did relie;
In thee I ioy'd; and now for thee I die.
What man, hath lately lost a faithfull frend?
Or Husband, is depriued of his Wife?
But doth his after-daies in dolour spend?
(Leading a loathsome, discontented life?)
Dearer then friend, or wife, haue I forgone;
Then maruell not, although I make such mone.
Faire Philomela, cease thy sad complaint;
And lend thine eares, vnto my dolefull Ditty:
(Whose soule with sorrowe, now begins to faint,
And yet I cannot moue mens hearts to pitty:)
Thy woes are light, compared vnto mine:
You waterie Nymphes, to mee your plaints resigne.
And thou Melpomene, (the Muse of Death)
That neuer sing'st, but in a dolefull straine;
Sith cruell Destinie hath stopt her breath,
(Who whilst she liu'd, was Vertues Soueraigne
Leaue Hellicon, (whose bankes so pleasant bee)
And beare a part of sorrowe now with mee.
The Trees (for sorrowe) shead their fading Leaues,
And weepe out gum, in stead of other teares;
Comfort nor ioy, no Creature now conceiues,
To chirpe and sing, each little bird forbeares.
The sillie Sheepe, hangs downe his drooping head,
And all because, that Bounty she is dead.
The greater that I feele my griefe to be,
The lesser able, am I to expresse it;
Such is the nature of extremitie,
The heart it som-thing eases, to confesse it.
Therefore Ile wake my muse, amidst her sleeping,
And what I want in wordes, supplie with weeping.
Weepe still mine eies, a Riuer full of Teares,
To drowne my Sorrowe in, that so molests me;
And rid my head of cares; my thoughts of feares:
Exiling sweet Content, that so detests me.
But ah (alas) my Teares are almost dun,
And yet my griefe, it is but new begun.
Euen as the Sunne, when as it leaues our sight,
Doth shine with those Antipodes, beneath vs;
Lending the other worlde her glorious light,
And dismall Darknesse, onely doeth bequeath vs:
Euen so sweet Bountie, seeming dead to mee,
Liues now to none, but smooth-Tongd Flatterie.
O Adulation, Canker-worme of Truth;
The flattring Glasse of Pride, and Self-conceit:
(Making olde wrinkled Age, appeare like youth)
Dissimulations Maske, and follies Beate:
Pittie it is, that thou art so rewarded,
Whilst Truth and Honestie, goe vnregarded.
O that Nobilitie, it selfe should staine,
In being bountifull, to such vile Creatures:
Who, when they flatter most, then most they faine;
Knowing what humor best, will fit their Natures.
What man so mad, that knowes himselfe but pore,
And will beleeue that he hath riches store.
Vpon a time, the craftie Foxe did flatter
The foolish Pye (whose mouth was full of meate)
The Pye beleeuing him, began to chatter,
And sing for ioy, (not hauing list to eate)
And whil'st the foolish Pye, her meate let fall,
The craftie Foxe, did runne awaie with all.
Terence describeth vnder Gnatoes name,
The right conditions of a Parasyte:
(And with such Eloquence, sets foorth the same,
As doeth the learned Reader much delyght)
Shewing, that such a Sycophant as Gnato,
In more esteem'd, then twentie such a Plato.
Bounty looke backe, vpon thy goods mispent;
And thinke how ill, thou hast bestow'd thy mony:
Consider not their wordes, but their intent;
Their hearts are gall, although their tongues be hony:
They speake not as they thinke, but all is fained,
And onely to th'intent to be maintained.
And herein happie, I areade the poore;
No flattring Spanyels, fawne on them for meate:
The reason is, because the Countrey Boore
Hath little enough, for himselfe to eate:
No man will flatter him, except himselfe;
And why? because hee hath no store of wealth.
But sure it is not Liberalitie
That doeth reward these fawning smel-feasts so:
It is the vice of Prodigalitie,
That doeth the Bankers of Bounty over-flo:
Bounty is dead: yea so it needes must bee;
Or if aliue, yet is shee dead to mee.
Therefore as one, whose friend is lately dead,
I will bewaile the death, of my deere frend;
Vppon whose Tombe, ten thousand Teares Ile shead,
Till drearie Death, of mee shall make an end:
Or if she want a Toombe, to her desart,
Oh then, Ile burie her within my hart.
But (Bounty) if thou loue a Tombe of stone,
Oh then seeke out, a hard and stonie hart:
For were mine so, yet would it melt with mone,
And all because, that I with thee must part.
Then, if a stonie hart must thee interr,
Goe finde a Step-dame, or a Vsurer.
And sith there dies no Wight, of great account,
But hath an Epitaph compos'd by mee,
Bounty, that did all other far surmount,
Vpon her Tombe, this Epitaph shall bee:
Here lies the Wight, that Learning did maintaine,
And at the last, by Avarice was slaine.
Vile Auarice, why hast thou kildd my Deare?
And robd the World, of such a worthy Treasure?
In whome no sparke of goodnesse doth appeare,
So greedie is thy mind, without all measure,
Thy death, from Death did merit to release her:
The Murtherers deseru'd to die, not Caesar.
The Merchants wife; the Tender-hearted Mother
That leaues her loue; whose Sonne is prest for warre;
(Resting, the one; as woefull as the other;)
Hopes met at length, when ended is the iarre,
To see her Husband; see her Sonne again;
"Were it not then for Hope, the hart were slaine."
But I, whose hope is turned to despaire
Nere looke to see my dearest Deare againe:
Then Pleasure sit thou downe, in Sorrowes Chaire,
And (for a while) thy wonted Mirth refraine.
Bounty is dead, that whylome was my Treasure,
Bounty is dead, my joy and onely pleasure.
If Pythias death, of Damon were bewailed;
Or Pillades did rue, Orestes ende:
If Hercules, for Hylas losse were quailed;
Or Theseus, for Pyrithous Teares did spende:
When doe I mourne for Bounty, being dead:
Who liuing, was my hand, my hart, my head.
My hand, to helpe mee, in my greatest need:
My hart, to comfort mee, in my distresse:
My head, whom onely I obeyd, indeed:
If she were such, how can my griefe be lesse?
Perhaps my wordes, may pierce the Parcæ's eares;
If not with wordes, Ile moue them with my teares.
But ah (alas) my Teares are spent in vaine,
(For she is dead, and I am left aliue)
Teares cannot call, sweet Bounty backe againe;
Then why doe I, gainst Fate and Fortune striue?
And for her death, thus weepe, lament, and crie;
Sith euery mortall wight, is borne to die.
But as the woefull mother doeth lament,
Her tender babe, with cruell Death opprest:
Whose life was spotlesse, pure, and innocent,
(And therefore sure, it[s] soule is gone to rest)
So Bountie, which her selfe did vpright keepe,
Yet for her losse, loue cannot chuse but weepe.
The losse of her, is losse to many a one:
The losse of her, is losse vnto the poore:
And therefore not a losse, to mee alone,
But vnto such, as goe from Doore to Doore.
Her losse, is losse vnto the fatherlesse;
And vnto all, that are in great distresse.
The maimed Souldier, comming from the warre,
The woefull wight, whose house was lately burnd;
The sillie soule; the wofull Traueylar;
And all, whom Fortune at her feet hath spurnd;
Lament the losse of Liberalitie:
"Its ease, to haue in griefe some Companie."
The Wife of Hector (sad Andromache)
Did not bewaile, her husbands death alone:
But (sith he was the Troians onely stay)
The wiues of Troy (for him) made æquall mone.
Shee, shead the teares of Loue; and they of pittie:
Shee, for her deare dead Lord; they, for their Cittie.
Nor is the Death of Liberalitie,
(Although my griefe be greater than the rest)
Onely lamented, and bewaild of mee;
(And yet of mee, she was beloued best)
But, sith she was so bountifull to all,
She is lamented, both of great and small.
O that my Teares could moue the powres diuine,
That Bountie might be called from the dead:
As Pitty pierc'd the hart of Proserpine;
Who (moued with the Teares Admetus shead)
Did sende him backe againe, his louing Wife;
Who lost her owne, to saue her husbands life.
Impartiall Parcæ, will no prayers moue you?
Can Creatures so diuine, haue stony harts?
Haplesse are they, whose hap it is to proue you,
For you respect no Creatures good Desarts.
O Atropos, (the cruelst of the three)
Why hast thou tane, my faithfull friend from mee?
But ah, she cannot (or shee will not) heare me,
Or if shee doo, yet may not she repent her:
Then come (sweet Death) O why doest thou forbeare me?
Aye mee! thy Dart is blunt, it will not enter.
Oh now I knowe the cause, and reason why;
I am immortall, and I cannot dye.
So Cytheræa would haue dide, but could not;
When faire Adonis by her side lay slaine:
So I desire the Sisters, what I should not;
For why (alas) I wish for Death in vaine;
Death is their seruant, and obeys their will;
And if they bid him spare, he cannot kill.
Oh would I were, as other Creatures are;
Then would I die, and so my griefe were ended:
But Death (against my will) my life doeth spare;
(So little with the fates I am befrended)
Sith, when I would, thou doost my sute denie,
Vile Tyrant, when thou wilt, I will not die.
And Bounty, though her body thou hast slaine,
Yet shall her memorie remaine for euer:
For euer, shall her memorie remaine;
Whereof no spitefull Fortune can bereaue her.
Then Sorrowe cease, and wipe thy weeping eye;
For Fame shall liue, when all the World shall dye.

FINIS.