The happie howrs, whiche mo doe misse then mete,
Doe all consume as snowe against the sonne,
And death maks ende of all that life begonne.
Since Death shall dure till all the world be wast,
What meaneth man to dread death then so sore?
As man might make that life should alwaie last :
Without regard the Lord hath ledde before
The daunce of death, which all must runne on rowe,
The hower wherein onely hym self doeth knowe.
If man would mynde what burdeins life doeth bryng:
What greuous crimes to God he doeth commit:
What plagues, what panges, what perill thereby spryng,
With no sure hower in all his daies to sit :
He would sure thinke, and with greate cause I doo,
The daie of death is happier of the twoo.
Death is the doore whereby we drawe to ioye,
Life is a lake that drowneth all in paine:
Death is so dole it seaseth all awaie,
Life is so leude that all it yelds is vaine:
And as by life, in bondage man is brought,
Euen so by death is freedome likewise wrought.
Wherefore with Paule, let all men wishe and praie,
To be disolued of this foule fleshly masse:
Or at the least be armed against the daie,
That thei be founde good souldiers, prest to passe
From life to death, from death to life againe,
And suche a life as euer shall remaine.
44. Beyng asked the occasion of his white head, he aunswereth thus.
Where sethyng sighes, and sower sobbs,
Hath slaine the slipps that nature sett:
And skaldyng showers with stonie throbbs,
The kindly sappe from them hath fett:
What wonder then though you doe see
Upon my head white heeres to bee.
Where thought hath thrild and throne his speares,
To hurt the hart that harmth bym not,
And gronyng grief hath grounde forthe teares,
Myne eyne to stayne my face to spot:
What wonder then though you doe see,
Upon my head white heeres to bee.
Where pinchyng paine hym selfe hath plaste,
There peace with pleasures were possest,
And walles of wealth are fallen to waste,
And pouertie in them is prest.
What wonder then, though you doe see
Upon my head white heeres to bee.
Where wretched woe doeth weaue her webbe,
There care the clewe can catche and caste:
And floudds of ioye are fallen to ebbe
So loe, that life maie not long laste.
What wonder then, though you doe see,
Upon my head white heeres to be.
These heeres of age are messengers,
Whiche bidd me fast, repent and praie:
Thei be of death the harbingers,
That doeth prepare and dresse the waie.
Wherefore I ioye that you mai see,
Upon my head such heeres to bee.
Thei be the line that lead the length,
How farre my race was for to ronne:
Thei saie my yongth is fledde with strength,
And how old age is well begonne.
The whiche I feele, and you maie see,
Upon my head such lines to bee.
Thei be the stryngs of sober sounde,
Whose Musicke is hermonicall:
Their tunes declare, a tyme from grounde
I came, and how thereto I shall.
Wherefore I ioye that you maie see
Upon my heed suche stryngs to bee.
God graunt to those that white heeres have,
No worse them take, then I haue ment:
That after thei be laied in graue,
Their soules maie ioye their liues well spent,
God graunt likewise that you maie see
Upon my head suche heires to bee.
I would to God I were Acteon that Diana did disguise,
To walke the Forest vp and doune, whereas my ladie lies:
An Harte of heere and hewe, I wishe that I were so,
So that my Ladie knew me onely, and no mo.
The shalyng Nutts and Maste, that falleth from the tree,
Should well suffice for my repast, might I my ladie see:
It should not greue me there in frost, to lye vpon the grounde:
Delite should easly quite the coste, what euill so that I founde.
Sometyme that I might saie, when I saw her alone,
Beholde, see yonder slaue aldaie, that walketh the woodds alone.
Finis. M. B.
Why should I lenger long to liue,
In this desease of fantasie,
Sins fortune doeth not cease to giue,
Things to my mynde most contrarie.
And at my ioyes doeth lowre and froune,
Till she hath tourned them upsidoune.
A ffrende I had to me most dere,
And of long tyme faithfull and iuste:
There was no one my harte so nere,
Nor one in whom I had more truste.
Whom now of late without cause why,
Fortune hath made my enemie.
The grase me thinkes should growe in skie:
The starres, unto the yearth cleaue faste:
The water streame should passe awrie,
The winds should leve their stregt of blast.
The Sonne and Moone by one assent,
Should bothe forsake the firmament.
The fishe in ayer should flie with finne,
The foules in floud should bryng forth fry,
All thyngs me thinks should erst beginne
To take their course unnaturally:
Afore my frende should alter so,
Without a cause to bee my foe.
But suche is Fortunes hate I saie,
Suche is her will on me to wreake:
Suche spite she hath at me alwaie,
And ceasseth not my harte to breake.
With suche dispite of crueltie,
Wherefore then longer liue should I.
Finis. E. S.
47. Prudens. The historie of Damacles, & Dionise.
Whoso is set in princly trone, and craueth rule to beare,
Is still beset on euery side, with perill and with feare:
High trees by stormie winds are shakt & rent vp fro the groud
And flashy flaks of lightnings flames on turrets do robou d
When little shrubs in sauetie lurke in couert all alowe,
And freshly florise in their kynde, what ever winde doe blowe
The cruell king of Scisily, who fearing Barbars hands,
Was wont to singe his beard hym self, with cole and fire brands:
Hath taught us this, the proofe whereof, full plainly we maye see,
Was never thyng more liuely touched, to shewe it so to bee.
This kyng did seme to Damacles, to be the happiest wight,
Because he thought none like to hym in power or in might.
Who did alone so farre excell the rest in his degree,
As doeth the Sunne in brightnes cleare, the darkest starre we see.
Wilt thou (then said this cruell kyng) proue this my present state,
Possess thou shalt this seate of myne, and so be fortunate.
Full gladly then this Damacles this proferd honour tooke,
And shootyng at a princely life, his quiet rest forsooke.
In honours seate then was he plast, accordyng to his wyll,
Forthwith a banquet was preparde, that he might feast his fill.
Nothyng did want wherein twas thought, that he would take delite,
To feede his eye, to fill his mouthe, or please the appetite.
Such store of plate, I think in Grece, there scarsly was so much,
His servitours did Angels seme, their passyng shape was such:
No daintie dishe but there it was, and thereof was suche store,
That throughout Grece so princly chere was neuer seen before.
Thus while in pope and pleasures seate, this Damacles was plast,
And did beginne with gladsome harte, eche daintie dishe to taste,
At length by chaunce cast up his eyes, and gan the house to vewe,
And sawe a sight that hym enforst, his princly state to rewe:
A sword forsoth with dounward point, that had no stronger thred
Then one horse heere that peised it, direct upon his head:
Wherewith he was so sore amasde, and shooke in euery parte,
As though the sworde that hong aboue, had stroke hym to the hart
Then all their pleasures toke their leaue, & sorowe came in place,
His heauie harte the teares declared, that trickled doune his face.
And then forthwith with sobbing voice, besought ye king of grace,
That he would licens hym with speede, to depart out of that place.
And saied that he full enough, had tried now with feare,
What tis to be a happie man, and princly rule to beare.
This deede of thyne, oh Dionise, deserues immortal fame,
This deede shall alwaies liue with praise, though thou didst liue wt shame.
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