No joy comparable to a quiet minde.
In lothsome race pursued by slippery life,
Whose sugred guile doth glistering joy present:
The carefull ghost oppressed sore with strife,
Yeeldes ghostly grones from painefull passions sent.
The sinfull flesh, that beares him here in vewe,
In steede of life doth dreadfull death pursue.
The way
he seeth by touche of merites grace,
Wherein to runne alas he gladly would:
But filthy fleshe, his wretched dwelling place,
Doth so rebell at that which doe he should,
That silly soule, who feeles his heavie neede,
Can only will but naught performe in deede.
The will through grace doth oft desire the good,
But all in vaine for that the fleshly foe
Yeeldes forth such fruites as sinnes hath bred in bud,
And blindly suckes the sapp of deadly woo,
Esteeming showes of fickell fancies knowen
And scorning fruite by grace eternall sowen.
Though eye doth see that death doth swallow all,
Both life and lust and every sound delight:
Yet wretched fleshe through sinne is made so thrall,
That nought it markes apparent thinges in sight,
That might him traine to care of better grace,
Both doth his bale with greedy lust imbrace.
Then sins desert and all things weare away,
That nought remaine but fruite of grace or sinne:
God build in us such conscience as can say,
This fruit's not mine but sinne that dwelt me in.
For why to sinne I dayly do in sight,
That unto Christ I may revive my spright.
If Cressed in her gadding moode,
Had not gone to the Greekish host,
Where she by Diomede was woode,
And wonne from him that lovde her most,
She had not fallen to such mischeefe,
Nor turned Troylus to such greefe.
Nor Diomede had not upbrayed,
To worthy Troylus Cressed spoyle:
Nor these two worthies had not frayed,
So oft ech others fame to toyle:
If catterwaling Cressed coy
Had taried with her love in Troy.
No Troians foe, nor cruell Greike,
Had triumphte over her good name,
If she had not gone forth to seeke
The campe where women winne no fame:
She had been calde no common Gill,
If she in Troy had tarryed still.
She had not knowne the Lazars call,
With cuppe & clap her almes to winne:
Nor how infective scabbe and scall,
Do cloth the Lepre Ladies skinne:
She had no such distresse in Troy,
But honour, favour, wealth, and ioy.
Howbeit she could not tarry there,
But needes forsooth a gadding go,
To feele the tast of straungers chere:
Nise novelty lo prickt her so,
She could not hold where she was well,
But strayed and into ruin fell.
I pleasure not to blaze her blame
Nor chiding cannot mend her mis:
But all good women by her shame
May learn what catterwaling is.
For wandring women, most men say,
Cannot be good and goe astray.
It is not women's exercise,
To straye or gadde in field or towne,
Men count them neyther good nor wyse,
They blot and blemish their renowne.
They hurt their fame, they please their foe,
And greeves their friend to see them so.
Finis. Troylus.
No gadding moode, but forced strife,
Compelled me retire from Troy:
If Troylus would have vowde his wife,
We might have dwelt in former ioy.
No Diomede, nor Greekish wight,
Had sought my blame or his despight.
If ought the feeble force of mine
Could have withstood the kingly heast,
If flowing fluds of stilled rine,
Had pittie found in Troians brest,
I had not bene Antenor's prise,
Nor thus bene thralt to noted vise..
The blome of blame had not bine spread,
The seede of shame had not bine sowne,
If knightly prowes his mind had lead,
By rightfull force to keepe his owne.
I had not thralled bine to ill,
If he in Troy had kept me still.
My heavie hart & dolefull case,
Which craves your pitie not your spight,
Full well you know hath had no place,
If he had garded well his right.
I see your curtesie small, your store,
That blaze my plague to make it more.
You say in Troy I would not bee,
With gadding mind you charge me still:
When well you know that hie decree
Did send me forth against my will.
Sith thus you triumph at my fall,
Ye ought to tell the cause withall.
If nought you joy to blaze my blame,
You woulde not hunt for termes of spight,
Nor faine me cause of all the same,
Small honour wonne in such a fight.
For they that noble minded bee,
Will rue the case & pittie mee.
I well allowe your finall clause,
To gadde & runne doth blot the name,
But lay the fault unto the cause,
And graunt him gilthy of the same,
Who bred the bud that pleased my foe,
That greeved my friendes & hurt me soe.
That Love is requited by disdaine.
In searche of things that secret are, my mated muse began,
What it might be, molested most the head & minde of man.
The bending brow of Prince's face, to wrath that doth attend,
Or want of parentes, wyfe or chylde, or losse of faithfull friend.
The roring of the cannon shot, that makes the peece to shake,
Or terrour, such as mighty Jove from heaven above can make.
All these in fine may not compare, experience so doth prove,
Unto the tormentes sharpe & straunge, of such as be in love.
Love lookes alofte, and laughs to scorne all such as greefe anoy,
The more extreame their passions be, the greater is his joy.
Thus Love as Victor of the field, triumphes above the rest,
And joyes to see his subjectes lye with living death in brest.
But dire disdayne lets drive a shafte, and gaules this bragging foole,
He pluckes his plumes, unbendes his bowe, and sets him new to scoole :
Whereby this boy that bragged late, as conquerour over all,
Now yeeldes himselfe unto disdayne, his Vassall, & his thrall.
Finis. W. Hunnis.
In welth we see some welthy men, abound in welth most welthily,
In welth we see those men agayn, in welth do live most wretchedly.
And yet of wealth having more store,
Than earst of wealth they had before.
These wealthy men do seme to want, they seem to want the most they
The more posses, the more they crave, the more they crave the greater
That most they have, they think but skant,
Yet not content, wo be therefore.
The simple men that lesse welth have, with lesser welth we se content,
Content are they twixt welth & scath, a life to leade indifferent.
And thus of wealth these men have more,
Than those of which we spoke before.
Finis. W. Hunnis.
Bethincking himselfe of his end, writeth thus.
When I behold the baier, my last and posting horse,
That bare shall to the grave my vile and carren corse,
Then say I seely wretche, why doest thou put thy trust,
In things eiche made of clay, that soone will turn to dust?
Doest thou not see the yong, the hardy and the fayre,
That now are past & gone as though they never were,
Doest thou not see thyselfe draw howerly to thy last,
As shaftes which that is shotte at byrdes that flieth fast?
Doest thou not see how death through smyteth with his launce,
Some by warre, some by plague, and some by worldly chaunce?
What thing is there on earth, for pleasure that was made,
But goeth more swift away than doth the Sommer shade?
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