''■n'j'h^'^^'-ii.i^^^-'^^'-:
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 RIVERSIDE
 
 \LL ir-Pi^ 
 
 J. , ffO 
 
 \n
 
 WILLOBIE HIS AVISA
 
 Only five hundred copies of this 
 Book have been printed for sale, 
 of ivhich this copy is 
 
 No..
 
 W'l/ohJz his h o 
 
 m 
 
 WiLLOBIE His AVI5A 
 
 With 
 An ESSAY 
 
 towards its interpretation 
 
 by 
 
 CHARLES HUGHES 
 
 Editor of " SKakespeare's Europe — previously unpublished 
 chapters of Fynes Moryson's Itinerary." 
 
 Sherratt and Hughes 
 
 London 65 Long Acre 
 
 Manchester 27 St. Ann Street 
 
 1904
 
 Printed by tKe 
 
 Artistic Printing Co. . . 
 
 (Manchester) Ltd 
 
 Moss Lane, Altrincham.
 
 This Book 
 
 is Dedicated 
 
 To the great living writer of English 
 
 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 
 
 A true Englishman 
 
 who from his enthusiasm for 
 
 Elizabethan Literature 
 
 and from hi s 
 
 Poetic Genius 
 
 may be fitly termed 
 
 SHAKESPEARIANISSIMUS 
 October 1904 
 
 C. H.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Introduction . . . . . 
 
 Willobie His Avisa . - - - 
 
 The Apologie - . . . . 
 
 The Victorie of English Chastitie 
 
 Dedication and Introductory Verses to 
 Penelope s Complaint ... 
 
 1 — xxviu 
 
 1—139 
 141—149 
 151-157 
 
 159-164 
 
 Facsimile of Title Page 
 
 Page of Original - 
 „ Finis and Imprint 
 
 1 
 
 opposite oD 
 
 139
 
 REMARKS ON THE TEXT 
 
 The text of the poem, as printed in this volume, is not 
 a mere reprint of Dr. Grosart's. My friend. Dr. Joseph Hall, 
 has carefully collated Dr. Grosart's text with the British 
 Museum copy of the 1594 edition. From this collation I have 
 been able to make more than one hundred corrections, where 
 Dr. Grosart has deviated from the original. Most of these are 
 of small importance, being such slight differences of spelling 
 as the Elizabethans regarded with indifference. Curiously 
 enough. Dr. Grosart has frequently altered (as by the addition 
 of an "e ) a modern spelling to an Elizabethan variant. In 
 about a dozen cases, however, corrections have had to be made 
 where entire words have been altered, or two words printed in 
 wrong order. But though I have endeavoured to reproduce 
 faithfully the spelling of the original, I have modernized the 
 printing. The modem "s " is used throughout, and the long "f " 
 which was a source of confusion in English printing for two 
 hundred years after Shakespeare's time, has been suppressed. 
 Where "u is used for "v, " and "v" for "u, ' as in all 
 Elizabethan books, I have adopted the modern usuage, thus 
 departing from the practice I followed in printing Fynes 
 Moryson. In that case, however, I had the excuse that the MS. 
 had never before been printed. I have also adopted " j " in those 
 words where " i is used for it in the original, and have printed 
 the final "n in the few cases where it was represented by a 
 mark over the preceding vowel. Thus the reader will find 
 Elizabethan spelling in modem printing, and, as regards type, 
 the present text should make the same impression upon a 
 modem reader that the 1594 edition made upon Shakespeare's 
 contemporaries. " Willobie His Avisa" will, I hope, read more 
 like a living poem than it has ever done before, and less like an 
 antiquarian document.
 
 I Kave followed Dr. Grosart in correcting the " Faults 
 Escaped " that were detected by tKe original editor, and Kave 
 also followed him in small but inevitable emendations. In 
 cases of the slightest doubt, however, I have restored the 
 original text. For example, on page 84, and on page 115, 
 Dr. Grosart has printed " haughty " where the original has 
 " laughty." Now, though I have found no other case in which 
 " lofty " is printed as '' laughty," still " laught " occurs for 
 "loft." And as "lofty" suits the sense quite as well as 
 " haughty, and the word is used twice, it seemed reasonable to 
 reject Dr. Grosart's emendation. I have followed him, however, 
 in correcting the numbering of the stanzas from LIX. onwards, 
 when the original jumps from LVIII. to LXL, and all the later 
 stanzas follow the last number. In the few cases where letters 
 are inserted in backets — [ ] — they are due to Dr. Grosart. On 
 page 69, the original has T.B. instead of D.B., which is an 
 obvious misprint ; but since it may have a meaning, as will be 
 seen in the Introduction, I have allowed it to stand. 
 
 This book is paged at the bottom, following Dr. Grosart, 
 so that the paging of the original volume may be printed at the 
 top comer of the leaf. 
 
 I should like to mention, that ]ust before going to press, 
 I have received from Mr. F. G. Fleay the admirable suggestion 
 that " Caveleiro " stands for " Horsey," i.e., St. Ralph Horsey. 
 
 C. H.
 
 By arrangement with the Executors of the late Dr. Grosart, from his 
 edition of 62 copies, printed in 1880
 
 WILLOBIE HIS AVISA
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 WHILE recently engaged in editing the previously un- 
 published work of Fynes Moryson, under the title of 
 S/iakespearc's Europe, I naturally read much Eliza- 
 bethan literature, and became interested in the poem 
 Willobie Jiis Aiu'sa published m 1594, and in the problems or 
 conundrums which it suggests. The poem and its allusions are 
 mentioned in most modern Shakespeare books, and especially m 
 Mr. Sidney Lee's Life of Shakespeare. Mr. Lee has also given 
 a full statement of the WiUobie puzzle in his life of the 
 conjectural Henry Willoughby, in the Dictionary of National 
 Biography. I have no pretension to offer a complete solution 
 of the mystery, but have brought together a number of facts 
 that seem to me highly suggestive. As the collection of these 
 facts has interested me, it is possible that the recital of them 
 may interest others, and it may induce some Shakespearian 
 students who are also cyclists or walkers, to visit a very 
 pleasant and interesting part of England. 
 
 There are two reasons why Willobie his Avisa has an 
 importance for students and lovers of Shakespeare. In the first 
 place, the commendatory verses * contain the line 
 
 " Ana Shakespeare paints poor Lucrece rape, 
 
 which IS the first mention in English literature of its greatest 
 poet. In the second place, there appears in the poem a personage, 
 " W.S., a friend of Willobie, who is mentioned as " an old 
 
 (■'■■) These verses are signed " Contraria Contrarus : Vigilantius Dormitanus," 
 and oi this cryptic expression no explanation has hitherto, I believe, 
 been even suggested. Vigilantius was an enlightened person, living at the end of 
 the fourth century, who questioned the sanctity of relics and the superior merit of 
 celibacy. He was furiously attacked by St. Jerome, who termed him " Vigilantius 
 seu verius Dormantius." The signature is therefore equivalent to Jerome, 
 Hieronymus, or Jeronimo. Thomas Kyd's play. The Spanish Tragedy, or 
 Hicynnymo is mad again, was at this time extremely popular with the public, 
 though not with the critics. To make a rough modern comparison, its position in 
 public esteem would be between The Worst Woman in London, and The Sign 
 iif the Cross. "Go, by Jeronimo," was a popular phrase as we may see in the 
 first scene of The Taming of the Shreu>. Can it be that these introductory 
 verses were written by Thomas Kyd ? It is a far-fetched interpretation.
 
 X. Introduction. 
 
 player. " It has been reasonably conjectured that W.S. stands 
 for William Shakespeare, and our scanty knowledge of the poet s 
 life makes my justification for a careful mvestigation of all that 
 can be discovered m reference to this poem. 
 
 In 1880, the late Dr. Grosart, of Blackburn, printed at 
 Manchester an edition of 62 copies, containing the full text of 
 the 1594 edition of Willobic, with a most valuable critical intro- 
 duction. In an appendix he printed "The Apologie, shewing the 
 true meaning of Willobic his Ai'isa," and the poem 77/f Victory 
 of English Chastity, signed Thomas Willoby, which appeared 
 in the edition of 1596, of which no copy is known, and also in 
 later editions. To this he added a poem Penelope's Complaint, 
 by Peter Colse, from the unique copy in the library of Mr. A. 
 H. Huth. This poem, printed in 1596, contained a dedication 
 and introductory verses, which imply that certain persons had 
 taken Willobic liis Axusa as personally offensive. The only 
 other modern edition of our poems except Dr. Grosart s 62 
 copies, is that published at Manchester in 1896 by the Spenser 
 Society. It consists of about 200 copies, and is a reprint of the 
 edition of 1635, which differs in several unimportant respects 
 from the text of the edition of 1594. I shall always quote from 
 the latter. Dr. Grosart s introduction, in which he acknowledges 
 the previous work done by J. Payne Collier, Sir Walter C. 
 Trevelyan, Dr. Ingleby, and Miss L. Toulmin Smith, is the 
 basis on which I have worked, and I have acquired from his 
 executors the sole right of reprinting his 1880 volume. 
 
 The full title of the poem is as follows : — Willobic his Ai'isa, 
 or the true Picture of a Modest Maid, and of a chast and 
 constant wife. In Hexamiter verse, the like argument 
 whereof, was never heretofore published.' The introduction is 
 supposed to be written by one Hadrian Dorrell, " writing from 
 his chamber in Oxford, this first of October. " The fact is that 
 the poem was entered in the Registers of Stationer s Hall on 
 September 3rd, 1594, while Shakespeare's Rape of Lucrecc had 
 been entered on May 9th of the same year. Hadrian Dorrell 
 tells us that " his very good friend and chamber fellow, Mr. 
 Henry Willobie, a young man and a scholler of very 
 good hope, being desirous to see the fashions of other 
 countries for a time, departed voluntarily to her Majesties'
 
 Introduction. xi. 
 
 service. Who, at his departure, chose me amongst the rest of 
 his frendes unto whom he reposed so much trust that he 
 denvered me the key of his study, and the use of all his bookes 
 till his returne. " Among his papers Dorrell found this poem, 
 and published it without his friend's consent. He discusses 
 whether Avisa is an abstraction, and decides " that though the 
 matter be handled poetically, yet there is something under these 
 fained names and showes that yet hath bene done truely. " It 
 is clear that the preface, supposed to be written by Dorrell, is 
 more or less a mystification, from which it is difficult to 
 extract a kernel of truth. 
 
 There existed at this time a real young gentleman, and an 
 Oxford student of the name of Henry Willoughby or Willobie. 
 He was the second son of Henry Willoughby, Esquire, of 
 Knoyll Odyem, in the county of Wiltshire. The squire of 
 Knoyll Odyem was son to Christopher Willoughby, who was 
 an illegitimate son of Sir William Willoughby, brother to the 
 Lord Brooke of Henry VII. s time. Dr. Grosart ascertained 
 that young Henry Willobie was entered for matriculation at St. 
 John's College, Oxford, in 1591, and also that he had a younger 
 brother, Thomas. This fits in with the fact that the 1596 and 
 1635 editions of the poem, contain some verses in the same 
 metre signed "Thomas Willoby, Prater Henrici Willoby, nuper 
 defuncti. " This poetical Thomas, like his brother Henry, died 
 young and unmarried. 
 
 These coincidences impressed me with the conviction that a 
 study of the neighbourhood where these young Willoughbys 
 were bom and bred ought to throw some light on the local 
 allusions in the poem. Knoell Odyern, or Knoyle Odyem, is 
 a parish in Wiltshire, which is now called West Knoyle, and 
 lies in that corner of the county that is bounded by Somerset 
 on the west, and Dorset on the south. Sir R. C. Hoare, the 
 author of the monumental County History of Wiltshire, whose 
 mansion, Stourhead House, near Stourton, is close to the 
 Somersetshire border, and who was, therefore, particularly well 
 acquainted with the Hundred of Mere, to which West Knoyle 
 
 *TKe pedigrees of the two families descended from Christopher Willoughhy are 
 to be found in the Visitation of Wiltshire, 1623. London : G, Bell & Sons, 
 1882, pages 58 and 86.
 
 xii. Introduction. 
 
 belongs, was much puzzled by the peculiar name Odyern, which 
 he finally traced back to a lady Hodierna in the time of 
 Henry III. West Knoyle Church, close by the gate of which 
 stands the old stocks, is seven miles east of Stourton, and between 
 them lies the little town of Mere. The Lord Stourton, of 
 Queen Mary's time, cruelly murdered a neighbour — Hartgill, of 
 Kilmington — and was hanged with a silken halter at Salisbury, 
 though great pressure was brought to bear on Philip and Mary 
 to spare his life, as a good Catholic. I mention this fact 
 because one of the Hartgills of Kilmington married a sister of 
 our Henry Willoughby. South of West Knoyle, and about 
 seven miles away, is the town of Shaftesbury, which, until the 
 Reformation, was dominated by the great abbey round which it 
 had grown. About the same distance to the south-west of 
 West Knoyle is Wardour Castle, which in the time of Willobie 
 was occupied, as it is to-day, by the noble family of Arundel. 
 Sir Matthew Arundel, of Queen Elizabeth's reign, is the 
 ancestor of the present Lord Arundel of Wardour. Four miles 
 to the east of West Knoyle lies Hindon, formerly a rotten 
 borough, for which "Monk " Lewis was once a member, and 
 Disraeli once a candidate. Near this is FonthiU Park, the scene 
 of Beckford s extravagance and folly, ana in old times the 
 property of the Marvyn family. 
 
 West Knoyle Church, with its little village, lies high on the 
 slope of the chalk downs, which rise above it to the north, and 
 run roughly east and west. These downs, with their prehistoric 
 escarpments standing out clearly to the view, are great sheep 
 pastures, as they have been for many centuries. The 
 Willoughbys remained squires of West Knoyle till 1734, when 
 Richard Willoughby sold his ancestral estate to the Hoares. 
 No doubt, this Richard Willoughby is the man described by 
 Partridge, in Book VIH., chap. ii. of Tom Jones, when he tells 
 of a man arrested at Hindon fair for stealing a horse. "So they 
 apprehended him, and carried him before the justice. I remember 
 it was Justice Willoughby of Noyle, a very worthy, good 
 gentleman, and he committed him to prison. " 
 
 Unfortunately, the existing Parish Register of West Knoyle 
 only dates back to 1718, and is therefore useless for Shakespearian 
 times. The Mere Register, however, is available from 1560,
 
 Introduction. xiii. 
 
 and that of East Knoyle (the adjoining parish), goes back to the 
 very beginning or Parish Registers, in 1538, and has been 
 thoroughly indexed by Canon Milford, the present incumbent. 
 Sir Christopher Wren was born at East Knoyle in 1632, his 
 father being rector of this parish. From the rectory garden is a 
 very beautiful and extensive prospect ; it is one of those fair 
 spots that seem to be lifted above a beautiful world. So much 
 for the neighbourhood and surroundings of West Knoyle, where 
 Henry Willoughby was born in 1575. 
 
 Now, let us consider the clues given in the poem as to his 
 Avisa. She is represented as a maid gifted by the goddesses 
 with exceptional charms. Venus, Juno, Pallas, and Diana have 
 joined to produce a masterpiece of beauty and chastity. 
 
 "A face and eye that should entice, 
 A 3mile that should deceive the wise ; 
 A sohcr tongue that should allure 
 
 And draw great numbers to the field ; 
 A (lintie heart that should indure 
 All fierce assaults, and never yield. 
 
 And seeming oft as though she would. 
 Yet farthest off when that she should." 
 
 She was the daughter of an innkeeper, and men of all ranks 
 fell under her spell. 
 
 And there she dwells in public eye. 
 
 Shut up from none that list to see ; 
 She answeres all that list to try. 
 Both high and low of each degree ; 
 
 But few that come but feel her dart. 
 And try her well ere they depart. 
 
 Let us assume then that her father kept an inn somewhere 
 within reach of Henry Willoughby. Let us also assume that 
 the name Avisa has no fanciful meaning, such as Dorrell found 
 written in Willobie's writing on a piece of loose paper, 
 
 AVISA 
 
 Amans. uxor, mviolata. Semper, amanda. 
 
 nor has anything to do with the Latin word Avis, as the 
 preface suggests, but that Avisa is simply the old English name 
 Avice, familiar in Thomas Hardy's novels. The next step is 
 to see if the Parish Registers of Mere and East Knoyle contain 
 the christenings of any girls by the name Avice at about the 
 right date. In the spring of last year, I bicycled through this
 
 xiv. Introduction. 
 
 country, starting from Bath, and passing Frome, Maiden 
 Bradley, and Stourton, on my way to Mere. This little town 
 has some slight remains of a castle built in 1253, by Richard, 
 Earl of Cornwall, brother of Henry III., and a very fine church, 
 with a wonderful old brass of its founder, John Bettesthorne, 
 dated A.D. 1398, and bearing the following couplet. (I correct 
 the abbreviations). 
 
 Tu qui transieris, sta, perlege, plora 
 
 Es quod eram, et eris quod sum, pro me, precor, ora. 
 
 The Rector of Mere referred me to Mr. T. H. Baker, of 
 Salisbury, as an excellent antiquarian, who had spent most of 
 his life in the neighbourhood of Mere, and had taken an accurate 
 copy of the Parish Register. Mr. Baker has given me the 
 following records of christenings at Mere : 
 
 A.D. 1563. Avice Weste. 14th May. 
 
 1575. Avys Forward, 25th March. 
 
 1575, Avys Hewett, 23rd November. 
 
 1576, Avys Braddon, 15th March. 
 1579, Avys Lawrence, 17th March. 
 1588, Avyce Forward, 8th December. 
 1599, Avice Forward, 19th August. 
 
 In the same period, we have the marriages of three other 
 girls named Avys, and also the burials of four, including Avys 
 Forward, 26th December, 1587. Mr. Baker remarks on this : 
 "Whether this Avys Forward is the one who was baptised in 
 1575, there is no evidence to shew, but from the fact of there 
 being three of that name baptised in the space of twenty-four 
 years, from 1575 to 1599, it appears to have been a favourite 
 name in that family, so that the burial in 1587, might have 
 been an Avys Forward of a previous generation." 
 
 I have two reasons for selecting Avys Forward, born in 
 1575, as the original of the heroine of our poem. 
 
 Firstly, we read in Canto I. 
 
 Along this plain there lies a down, 
 
 Where shepherds feed their (risking flocks ; 
 Her sire, the Mayor of the town. 
 
 Strictly speaking, the little town of Mere did not boast of a 
 Mayor, but In Hoare's Wiltshire I find a list of the Reeves of 
 the Manor of Mere, from which I take the following : 
 
 1569, John Forward, Jun. 
 1572, John Forward.
 
 Introduction. xv. 
 
 Secondly, we read that In Canto XLV., H.W. says to 
 
 W.S. (! !) 
 
 Seest younder house, were hangs the badge 
 Of England's Saint, when captains' cry- 
 Victorious land to conquering rage, 
 Lo, there my hopeless help doth lie. 
 
 I venture to suggest that the hadge or sign of the Inn at Mere 
 was a picture of St. George and the Dragon, with the word 
 " Forward," or that it bore the legend " Forward, St. George." 
 Mr. Baker informs me that in 1616 there is mentioned a Thomas 
 Forward " tippler," that the present Talbot Inn was formerly 
 the George, and that there had been a George or St. George Inn 
 at Mere from time immemorial. 
 
 Let us then consider it proved — though it is not — that there 
 dwelt at Mere an exceptionally beautiful mnkeeper's daughter 
 Avice Forward, eighteen years of age, m 1593. 
 
 Canon Milford informs me that out of 56 girls christened at 
 East Knoyle during the years 1571-1581 not a single one was 
 named Avys or Avice. 
 
 Another extract from WiUobic his Axusa gives a local 
 allusion. 
 
 At East of this a castle stands. 
 By ancient shepherds built of old. 
 And lately was in shepherds hands. 
 Though now by brothers bought and sold. 
 
 In the last line the word "brothers ' is somewhat remarkable, 
 and when we find a family with the surname Brothers, at East 
 Knoyle, whose pedigree is given in the Visitation of 1623, this 
 fact suggests enquiry. Mr. Baker writes, " The ' Castle ' two 
 miles to the east from Willoughby's house, must have been the 
 Old Manorial House at Pertwood, formerly owned by the 
 Brothers family, but by whom built is not known." It passed 
 into the hands of the Marvyns. But why do I mention the 
 Marvyns of Pertwood ? And how are they connected with 
 Willobie and Dorrell ? From the Oxford Register, published 
 by the Oxford Historical Society, I find that on the 10th 
 December, 1591, three young men entered their names at the 
 University as follows : — 
 
 Henry Willobie, Wilts, arm. f. [avmigeri jililis] 16, St. John's. 
 Thomas Darell, Berks, cler. f. \devici filitis] Brasenose. 
 William Marvyn, Wilts, gen. f. [generOsi filins] Exeter.
 
 xvi. Introduction. 
 
 That Willobie and Marvyn, the sons of two Wiltshire 
 neighbours were friends and companions is likely enough, and 
 it is made more likely from the fact that Henry Willobie 
 changed his college to Exeter, and that both young men took 
 their B.A. degree on the same day, February 1594-95,* that is 
 to say, some months after WiUohic his ylx'/sahad been given to 
 the world. Of Thomas Dorell, however, I have not obtamed 
 such definite information as I had hoped to find. The only 
 Berkshire clergyman of that period named Dorrell whom I have 
 come across, is George Dorrell, rector of Welford, five miles to 
 the N.W. of Newbury, who died in 1597 and left all his goods 
 inventoried at £72 19s. Od. to his relict, Susanna. Welford 
 lies almost on the direct road from Salisbury to Oxford, oy 
 which Willoughby and Marvyn would probably travel from their 
 homes to the University and back, and the Dorrells (or Darells 
 or Dayrells) were a very good family thereabouts. Un- 
 fortunately the Parish Register of Welford contains no record 
 of the christening of Thomas, or any other son to this 
 Berkshire cleric. Sticking to hard facts, 1 find that Thomas 
 Dorrell took his B.A. degree on November 28th, 1595. The 
 Principal of Brasenose College informs me that on May 5th, 
 1598, a grace was passed for an M.A. degree to one Dorrell, 
 whom he supposes to be the same person. According to 
 Foster's unpublished Index Ecclesiasticus he became rector of 
 Preston, Northamptonshire, and on January 17th, 1606-7, one 
 Thomas Dorell received permission to read in the Bodleian 
 Library. Hard facts fail us. If Thomas Dorrell co-operated 
 with Henry Willoughby in writing WiUohic his Avisa, we 
 have no proof of it. Moreover, the signature of the Introduction 
 was Hadrian Dorrell. Why "Hadrian ' ? Imagination is 
 free, and conjecture is cheap. The nickname may have been 
 given to him from some fancied resemblance to Adriano de 
 Armado, poor, proud and fantastical in Love's Labour s Lost ! 
 One of Avisa's lovers is called D.B., which of course may not 
 stand for " Dorrell of Berkshire or " Dorrell of Brasenose ' 
 but, then, perhaps it may. I may also add that the numerous 
 
 ( ; It must be remembered tbat in ola times the new year in England commenced 
 on March 25th, so that all dates, from January 1st to March 24th Inclusive, must 
 be written as in the text.
 
 Introduction. xvii. 
 
 scriptural references in tne poem suggest tne assistance of a 
 theological student in tlie authorship. 
 
 Let me now confess that one of the clearest local allusions 
 does not point to Mere at all. but to a place about thirty miles 
 
 away. At wester side of Albion's isle. 
 
 Where Austine pitcht his monkish tent. 
 Where shepherds sing, where Muses smile — 
 
 is supposed to describe the place where the Goddesses met to 
 compound the virtues of the peerless Avisa. This place I 
 identify positively as Cerne Abbas in Dorset, on the road 
 from Sherborne to Dorchester. Camden says of the Abbey of 
 Cerne quod ccdificavit A ii gust in us illc A iif>Ioruin Apostolus, and 
 this is a very old tradition recorded by William of Malmesbury 
 and Capgrave. The passage of Camden reads in English as 
 follows : " Cerne Abbey, which was built by Austin, the 
 English Apostle, when he had dashed to pieces the idol of the 
 pagan Saxons named Heil, and had delivered them from their 
 superstitious ignorance." On a hillside, close to Cerne Abbas, 
 the gigantic figure of a man is marked out like the White Horse 
 in Berkshire, the right hand of the figure, which is 180 feet high, 
 holding a large club. In walking over this figure, when I 
 stopped at Cerne Abbas, while bicycling from Sherborne to 
 Dorchester, I could not help believing that I might be stepping 
 upon the work of early Phoenician visitors to Britain. Cerne 
 Abbas IS the Abbot's Cernel of Thomas Hardy's novels. 
 
 The distance from Mere to Cerne Abbas need present no 
 great difficulty in our interpretation of the poem. There was 
 constant communication by post-horses between places like 
 Mere and Dorchester. The innkeepers usually managed the 
 post-horses, as in Norway at the present day, or perhaps it 
 might be historically more correct to say that the keepers of 
 post-horses developed into innkeepers. The constant com- 
 munication brought about marriages between the families of 
 innkeepers, and it is quite likely that the same family, or their 
 connexions, kept inns from Mere to Cerne Abbas. Avisa 
 might have served in the inn at Cerne Abbas before her 
 marriage, and kept the inn at Mere after her marriage, or vice- 
 versa.* 
 
 ( ) A full description of the posting system in England, at this period, will be 
 found in Fynes Moryson's Itinerary, part 3, page 61-62. London, 1617.
 
 xviii. Introduction. 
 
 Six miles east of Cerne Abbas, is Melcomb Horsey, "' 
 where, at tbe time of our poem, there resided Sir Ralph Horsey, 
 one of the great country gentlemen of Dorsetshire. It is to 
 "the vertuous and chaste Ladie, the Ladie Edith, wife of the 
 Right Worshipful Sir Rafe Horsey, knight," that Peter Colse 
 dedicates his Penelope's Complaint, " seeing that an unknown 
 author hath of late published a pamplet called Avisa (over- 
 slipping so many praiseworthy matrons), hath registered the 
 meanest. ' Peter Colse also appends some fulsome acrostical 
 verses to Sir Ralph Horsey himself, some to his daughter, 
 Grace Horsey, and some Latin verses, signed S.D., in 
 deprecation of the excessive praises bestowed on Avisa. 
 
 The following is the faithful and spirited English translation 
 made of these verses by Dr. Grosart, who is very positive (for 
 reasons which I cannot surmise) that S.D. did not stand for 
 Samuel Daniel. 
 
 To his most dear friend, P.C. — S.D. 
 
 Why seeks she titles, boasts she riches, why — Avisa ? 
 
 Is she with thy Penelope to vie ? 
 
 The one renowned, revered, true to her own : Avisa, 
 
 An unknown woman from a place unknown. 
 
 The one spouse of a prince of glorious name : Avisa, 
 
 Child of an innkeeper, wife of the same. 
 
 The one is chaste, her husband being away : Avisa, 
 
 Chaste when he is at home, by night and day. 
 
 The one through twice ten years strong to endure : Avisa 
 
 Through scarce as many days could be kept pure. 
 
 The one to a hundred lords refused her hand : Avisa 
 
 The price and prayers of seven could scarce withstand, 
 
 The one would spin until her task was done : Avisa 
 
 Ne er tired the spinning wheel with what she spun ; 
 
 The one the Greeks and Romans praise : Avisa 
 
 Has but one man her name and fame to raise ; 
 
 Long live Penelope and flourish fair : Avisa 
 
 May never with Penelope compare. 
 
 It is probable that Sir Ralph Horsey had occasion to visit 
 Mere, for the wife of Canon Potter, who held the living of 
 Mere, was a lady of the Horsey family. 1 It is likely that Mr. 
 
 ('■^) I ought to mention that there arc no Parish Registers for Avisa's time at 
 either Cerne Abbas or Melcomb Horsey. 
 
 (1) Her sons Hannibal Potter and Francis Potter (born at Mere in 1594) were 
 friends of Aubrey. A full account of them will be found in the Dictionayy of 
 National Biography. Francis Potter became Vicar of Mere, and had a con- 
 troversy with the neighbouring parson of Pertwood on the .\'l(w6e;' oj the Beast.
 
 Introduction. xix. 
 
 Colse — of whom nothing is known except Penelope's Coiiiplaiiit — 
 had reason to believe that the Horsey family was deeply 
 offended by Willobie his Avisa. Are we to suppose that 
 worthy man, Sir Ralph Horsey, to have been one of Avisa s 
 unsuccessful lovers? 
 
 For the argument of the poem is that the maid of the Inn, 
 who IS compared to the wife of Ulysses and the chaste Susanna* 
 of the Apocrypha, is besieged by lover after lover. First 
 comes a Nobleman (? Sir Ralph Horsey) who offers wealth and 
 arguments, plenty of both, to induce her to become his " secret 
 friend, "t 
 
 After repulsing the Nobleman, Avisa marries in her own 
 degree, and as an innkeeper's wife she is courted by "ruffians, 
 roysters, young gentlemen, and lusty captains. First comes a 
 Cavaleiro, who has the philosophy to say at the end of a long 
 dialogue — 
 
 Well, give rae then a cup oi wine. 
 
 As thou art his, would thou wert mine. 
 
 Then we have D.B., a Frenchman, and then the curiously 
 named " Dydimus Harco Anglo Germanus. These lovers were 
 not natives of France or Germany, but Englishmen who made 
 love after the fashion of those countries. In the 1635 edition, 
 D.B. is expanded to Dan, Ben, and Harco (which suggests 
 Harcourt) to Harconius. These do not help us, and as they 
 were probably copied from the 1596 edition, were no doubt 
 intentionally deceptive. " Didymus Harco ' may have an 
 explanation if we could find it ; I may mention that a family 
 living near Mere bore the singular name of Dirdo, and that 
 Didymus suggests Thomas. 
 
 Last of all Avisa's lovers, and most passionate and 
 persevering of all, is Henry Willoughby himself, who is called 
 " Henrico Willobego Italo-Hispalensis. This is a fine study 
 
 (■") In September, 1592, the Registers of the Stationers' Company (Arber) have 
 the entry — " Two ballades following, viz. : The Story of Susanna being the 
 xiijth Chapter of Daniel, vj^- The lamentacon of a mayde that through her own 
 loUye did suffer herselfe to be stollen awaie with a young man. vj"- 
 
 (j) This courtship may profitably be compared with Gabriel Harvey's curious 
 account of his sister Mercy's Lovc-$uit with a Xoblcniait, 1574-75, printed in 
 Vol. III. of Grosart s Edition of Harvey's works in the privately printed Until 
 Library.
 
 XX. Introduction. 
 
 of a violent and burning youthful passion. It is pourtrayed 
 witK life and feeling, and, I believe, it is based upon tbe true 
 story of the relations between young Henry Willobie and the 
 beauteous Avisa. And here comes " W.S. upon the scene. 
 For Willobie, "not able any longer to indure the burning heate 
 of so fervent a humour, bewrayeth the secrecy of his disease 
 unto his familiar friend, W.S., who, not long before, had tried 
 the curtesy of the like passion. " W.S. gave practical advice as 
 to perseverance, gifts, and tact, and gives him hope. 
 
 She IS no saint, she is no Nonne, 
 I think in time she may be wonne. 
 
 Not only is the whole tone of the advice given in the stanzas 
 addressed by W.S. to H.W. absolutely similar to that of the 
 Passionate Pilgrim, printed in 1599, and attributed to 
 Shakespeare, but the metre — six-line stanza, Hexameton — is 
 identical. 
 
 Compare the following stanza from the Passionate Pilgrim : 
 
 And to Her will frame all thy ways. 
 
 Spare not to spend, and chiefly there 
 Where thy desert may merit praise. 
 By ringing in thy lady's ear. 
 
 The strongest castle, tower, and towne, 
 The golden bullet beats it downe. 
 
 with the advice of W.S., in Canto XLVIL, to H.W. : 
 
 Apply her still, with divers things, 
 
 (For gifts the wisest will deceive). 
 Sometimes with gold, sometimes with rings. 
 No time nor fit occasion leave. 
 
 Though coy at first she seem, and wield, 
 These toys in time will make her yield. 
 
 There is, so far as I can gather, no sufficient reason for deny- 
 ing that the Passionate Pilgrim was a juvenile composition of 
 Shakespeare's, and here, in ^ViUobie his Avisa, we find that 
 W.S., " in viewing afar off, the course of this loving comedy, 
 determined to see whether it would sort to a happier end for this 
 new actor, than it did for the old player. Comedy, player, 
 actor ! Here be words. But Shakespeare ! What was he 
 doing down in that part of the country ? How does he come 
 to be walking down with Henry Willoughby to the George Inn 
 at Mere ? Every intelligent reader must have asked before this 
 Que iliable allait-il /aire clans cette galere la.
 
 Introduction. xxi. 
 
 And all my rambles lead to this, and this is just what led to 
 all my ramblings. For except for the trace of Shakespeare s 
 footsteps I should not have gone trackmg Avisa from West 
 Knoyle to Cerne Abbas. My line of argument is based on 
 Shakespeare's relations with the young Earl of Southampton. 
 In 1593, Shakespeare had dedicated to that nobleman the first 
 heir of his invention, the poem Venus and Adonis. The 
 dedication is formal and respectful, as from a modest writer 
 to a wealthy patron of literature. There is no hint in it of 
 personal friendship. But a remarkable change is shewn in the 
 dedication of Lucrece, in the spring of 1594, which breathes an 
 ardent devotion and lover-like friendship to the still youthful 
 earl. They must have spent much time together in the interval, 
 and as the plague was prevalent in London, in the summer of 
 1593, it seems likely and reasonable that Southampton should 
 have taken Shakespeare with him into the country. 
 
 1 was at first under the impression that Southampton was a 
 landowner in Dorset, for his grandfather had received grants 
 from the properties of the religious houses of Shaftesbury, 
 Gillingham and Iwerne, but I found from Hutchin's County 
 History of Dorset that the Shaftesbury domain was almost 
 immediately transferred to the Herberts, and that the Gillingham 
 and Iwerne lands were all alienated in the lifetime of 
 Southampton s father. The young Earl's chief seats were 
 apparently at Titchfield Abbey and Beaulieu Abbey, each about 
 ten miles from Southampton, the former on the eastern and the 
 latter on the western side of Southampton water. It was 
 probably at Titchfield that Southampton's son and successor in 
 the Earldom, Lord Treasurer to Charles II., resided during the 
 Commonwealth. When the Lord Protector, Cromwell, wished 
 to pay him a visit there, he left his house, and refused to 
 receive the man whom he regarded as the murderer of his king, 
 and the lawless tyrant of his country. 
 
 Shakespeare s Southampton in 1593 was young and un- 
 married, and might reasonably be expected to pay visits to his 
 relatives. His mother was at this time preparing for a second 
 marriage, and in May, 1594, became the wife of Sir Thomas 
 Heneage. Southampton had no brothers, and his only 
 sister was the wife of Thomas Arundel, eldest son of
 
 xxii. Introduction. 
 
 Sir Matthew Arundel, of Wardour Castle, wKich, as I 
 previously mentioned Is only seven miles from West 
 Knoyle. The mother of Thomas Arundel was Margaret 
 Wllloughhy, daughter of Henry Wllloughby, of Wollaton, in 
 Nottinghamshire, and sister to the Francis Willoughby who 
 built the splendid Elizabethan mansion at Wollaton, now the 
 property of Lord Middleton.* 
 
 There was no near connection between Lady Arundel and the 
 Willoughbys of West Knoyle, but we may be sure that there 
 was a clan feelmg among all branches of the noble house of 
 Willoughby. Thomas Arundel was born in 1560 — ^four years 
 before Shakespeare — travelled on the contment by license from 
 Elizabeth in 1579, and married Southampton s sister in 1585. 
 They probably lived in Shaftesbury in a " fair, turretted 
 house " built out of the ruins of the Abbey, for in 1572 
 William, Earl of Pembroke, demised to Sir Matthew Arundel, 
 for three lives, " the great Court called the Abbey Court of the 
 late monastery of Shaftesbury, and all other Courtes and void 
 plattes of ground within the gate of the said monastery, and the 
 front of building there called the Chequers, and of the site of 
 the said monastery at the rate of £39 6s. 8d. per annum." 
 Probably this fine house took in " the front of the building 
 called the Chequers,' or what we should now call " the adminis- 
 trative block " of the old Abbey. The house is shown in a 
 plan of Shaftesbury, of 1615, reproduced in the Dorset County 
 History as the chief building of the town, and it was still in 
 possession of Southampton s brother-in-law, who had been 
 created Lord Arundel of Wardour by James L, in 1604. 
 
 As Sir Matthew Arundel was still living at Wardour in 
 1593 it is almost certain that Sir Thomas Arundel, with his 
 wife and young family, was occupying the Shaftesbury mansion 
 when Southampton came, as we may suppose, for a visit in the 
 autumn of that year, bringing Shakespeare with him in his train. 
 They had probably ridden from Titchfield, through Southampton, 
 or from Beaulieu across the New Forest by Lyndhurst, to 
 Salisbury, and may have called upon the Earl of Pembroke, at 
 
 ( ■ ) See two interesting articles by Lady Middleton in the New Review {or 
 October and December, 1889, where an account is given from family papers of the 
 interininabU quarrels between Lady Arundel and her brother's wife.
 
 Introduction. xxiii. 
 
 Wilton, where tKey would see young William Herbert, tnen a 
 boy of thirteen, and talked with his mother, Sidney s sister. 
 From Salisbury to Shaftesbury they would travel along the great 
 high road from London to Plymouth. Cecil s couriers from 
 Plymouth, with news of the Spanish fleets, passed regularly 
 by Sherborne, Shaston (the old name for Shaftesbury, still 
 used on milestones) and Salisbury, and they, marked the time 
 of their arrival at each of these places on their dispatches, as a 
 proof of their diligence. When Shakespeare, then as I assume 
 for the reasons given, was staying at Shaftesbury, young 
 Henry Willobie, poet and lover, would seek out the author of 
 Venus and Adonis, and the youth of nineteen would feel the 
 greatness of the master-poet of twenty-nine. He would tell him 
 of his passion for Avisa, and they would stroll round together 
 to the little town of Mere. Perhaps they would decipher 
 together the inscription on John Bettesthome's old brass, two 
 hundred years old even then, and moralize upon it. Lord 
 Southampton, who was only a year older than Henry Willobie, 
 had probably met him at Oxford, for in the previous year that 
 young nobleman had received an M.A. degree from the 
 University, shortly before Queen Elizabeth s visit. This 
 academical distinction was probably due to Southampton's vast 
 wealth rather than to his patronage of literature. 
 
 In making our fancy picture of this west-country visit, we 
 must not forget that the poet would read aloud to his two young 
 admirers passages from the Rape of Lucrece, on which he was 
 at work, and the dedication of which has immortalised 
 Southampton. 
 
 In the spring of 1595, Sir Thomas Arundel betook himself to 
 Hungary, to fight the Turks. Henry Willoughby had just 
 taken his degree, and had evidently suffered severely from his 
 hopeless passion for Avisa. What more natural than that he 
 should go as squire to this knight-errant? I think he may have 
 done so, but I cannot prove it. The present Lord Arundel, of 
 Wardour, tells me that the sack of his castle, by the Roundheads, 
 in the Civil Wars, has caused his family papers to be defective 
 for this period, and that he has no records as to those who 
 followed his ancestor to assist the Emperor Rudolph. He 
 informs me, however, that there is a tradition that a young Mr.
 
 xxiv. Introduction. 
 
 Bowles, of Shaftesbury, ancestor of Canon Bowles, tKe poet, 
 accompanied Sir Thomas to Hungary, and no doubt other young 
 gentlemen of the neighbourhood were of the expedition. Lord 
 Arundel has also given me a reference to a letter written by his 
 ancestor to Burleigh, in which he says : " Being arrived at the 
 very instant of the great and onlie battaile between us and the 
 Turk [i.e., the battle of Gran or Strigonium, August, 1595], 1 
 presented myself in the front of the armie, where, by reason oi 
 my plumes of feathers, of my armour, bases, and furniture, all 
 full of gold and silver, I was marked presently of all men s 
 eyes."* But Sir Thomas was not only a gorgeous personage, 
 but also a stem fighter, as may be seen from the English 
 translation of the Patent, dated at Prague, December 14th, 1595, 
 in which the Emperor Rudolph created him a count of the Holy 
 Roman Empire, a title which descends to the present Lord 
 Arundel of Wardour. "Whereas you have come from so great 
 a distance into Hungary, at your own expense, to bear arms 
 under us against the Turk, and have behaved yourself with 
 undaunted bravery, both in the open field, and in besieging 
 cities and camps, so as to be held in general admiration . . . 
 being observed that near Gran, you, with your own hand, took 
 the banner from the Tower, and during the engagement placed 
 yourself in front of the army." So Sir Thomas Arundel was 
 covered with glory, but I think that Henry Willobie v/as killed. 
 Hadrian Dorell s preface had described him as " departed 
 voluntarily to His Majesty s service " before he had taken his 
 degree at Oxford ; but we must remember that the expedition of 
 Sir Thomas had probably been arranged some time before-hand, 
 and may have suffered postponements. The misleading 
 "Apologie," printed in the year 1596 and subsequent editions, 
 speaks of Henry Willoughby as iiiiper ilcfunctits. Now, fight- 
 ing the Turk is not, strictly speaking, " Her Majesty s service, 
 and iiiipcr dcfunctus is a very tame expression if Willobie died 
 in action. He may, however, have died of disease, and the 
 "Apologie IS a mass of mystification, so much so, indeed, that I 
 omit all reference to its obvious and glaring falsifications of dates. I 
 
 (•■) See an article by Lord Arundel, of Wardour, in the Dublitl Revieili, 
 January, 1891. 
 
 { I ) " This poeticall fiction was penned by the Author at least lor thirty and 
 five yecres since." Sec Apologie.
 
 Introduction. xxv. 
 
 With all these allowances, it is not the most extravagant 
 of my suppositions that the hapless young lover of Avisa aied 
 on this Hungarian crusade. 
 
 In those days, as at present, the great landowners oi a 
 county were usually on friendly terms with one another, and in 
 the days of Elizabeth, as in the pre-County Council days of 
 Victoria, they managed or controlled the county business. Ihe 
 only record that I have found of the friendly and official 
 relations that probably existed between the Arundels and Sir 
 Ralph Horsey, is that Sir Matthew Arundell, shortly before his 
 death, which happened in 1598, nominated a new Board of 
 Trustees, or governing body for the Grammar School at Milton 
 Abbas — Sir Matthew being the only surviving trustee — and 
 that two of the new trustees were Sir Thomas Arundel and Sir 
 Ralph Horsey. It is needless to quote any of the facts 
 recorded in the county histories about these two noble families. 
 Suffice it to say, that the Horseys hastened swiftly to decay, 
 with the assistance, it is believed, of speculations in ironworks. 
 
 Though it is the trail of Shakespeare that I have been 
 following, in commenting on Willobic liis Avisa, I would not 
 have it thought that I consider the poem destitute of poetical 
 merit. Dr. Grosart says : — " As a whole, it is inartistic, and 
 poorly wrought ; yet now and again there is a pleasant 
 smoothness, with a brook-like ripple of music, and jets of 
 vivacity, and touches of real feeling. The pleading of those 
 who woo Avisa to falsify her marriage vow is often vivacious, 
 and in keeping with the character." With this judgment I 
 agree, and might even give warmer praise. Unfortunately the 
 long replies of the virtuous Avisa are not equally satisfactory 
 from the point of view of human nature. The classical and 
 scriptural illustrations, and the argumentative weighing of the 
 advantages of virtue, are quite inconsistent with the character 
 of an innkeeper's daughter. Avisa has to weave elaborate 
 variations upon the theme, " Go away, naughty man, and the 
 passages that ring true in her speeches are those in which she 
 expresses her content with the husband of her choice. The 
 position of an innkeeper's wife or daughter lends itself 
 admirably to the scheme of the poem. It is part of her trade 
 to be friendly and agreeable to customers, and if she has
 
 XX vi. Introduction. 
 
 exceptional beauty, it is a business advantage. Sbe is quite 
 accustomed and hardened to outspoken admiration. The 
 conversation of numerous admirers sharpens ber wits, and she 
 is usually well able to take care of berself. Even in these 
 days of tbe degeneration of country inns, bow often does the 
 conversation of a landlady or landlord s daughter, charged with 
 local gossip, brighten a walking tour, or cheer the fugitive 
 cyclist. Nevertheless, we need not be surprised at the cynical 
 advice of W.S. Ann Hathaway's husband had not been 
 living in strait-laced society in London, and the fascinating 
 actor had no doubt encountered landladies of a more coming-on 
 disposition than belonged to Avisa. Even in after years, 
 when Mr. John Davenant became a licensed victualler at 
 Oxford, Mr. William Shakespeare was welcomed by Mistress 
 Davenant with such suspicious heartiness, that she did not 
 scape calumny. Her son, Sir William Davenant, plumed 
 himself mightily on this gossip's tale, which accounted, he 
 thought, both for his Christian name and his gifts of stage-craft. 
 If we may read facts between the lines of our poem, it is clear 
 that Mistress Avice Forward — in case that was the lady's 
 name — was throughly content with her position in life, and her 
 sentiments are well expressed in the verses Tlie praise of a 
 contented mind, printed at the end of Willobie his Avisa. The 
 last lines are : — 
 
 0{ all the brave resounding words. 
 
 Which God to man hath lent. 
 This soundeth sweetest in mine ear 
 
 To say / am coitcni. 
 
 I wish I could say that I am quite content with the result of 
 my investigations of Willobie his Avisa. It has been a matter 
 of groping about in a fog of Elizabethan enigmas. I have not 
 succeeded in definitely proving that Thomas Dorell had a share 
 in the authorship. I have only brought possibilities to bear on 
 the name of the heroine. But I venture to think that as the 
 result of the foregoing pages the following conclusions may be 
 accepted. 
 
 (1 ) The local allusions in the poem point to Mere and 
 Cerne Abbas, and the hostelry pointed out by H.W. to W.S. 
 icas probably situated at Mere.
 
 Introduction. xxvii. 
 
 (2) There are very strong reasons icliy xve may believe 
 that Shakespeare was present in the neighbourhood of Mere 
 within about a year of the publication of " Willobie his 
 Avisa." 
 
 (3) The cumulative evidence makes it almost certain that 
 the W.S. of the poem stands for William Shakespeare. 
 
 CHAS. HUGHES. 
 
 Manchester, 
 
 April. 1904. 
 
 [Since I wrote this introduction, I have seen Dr. Creighton's 
 new book, Shakespeare's Story of liis Life, in which pages 182 
 to 204 are devoted to a minute study of Willobie his Axusa. 
 
 Dr. Creighton is convinced that the author was the Earl of 
 Southampton, and, indeed, says that this "is morally certain. 
 He also apparently thinks that the author-earl was painting 
 himself as the Nobleman, as the Cavaleiro, and as the love-sick 
 H.W., which he thinks stand for Henry Wriothesley. The 
 close association of Southampton and Shakespeare, in these 
 years, accounts for these conjectures being made ; but the 
 evidence for the theory that Southampton was a poet is slender 
 indeed. Dr. Creighton thinks that Florio's statement in the 
 dedication of the World of Words (1598) " is very explicit." 
 The passage specifies " your studies, your conceits, your 
 exercise. . . . Your studies, much in all, most in Italian 
 excellence ; your conceits, by understanding others, to icork 
 above them in your own ; your exercise, to read what the 
 world's best wits have written, and to speak as they write." 
 The italics are Dr. Creighton's, not Flono s, and this compliment 
 is addressed to three noble patrons : Roger, Earl of Rutland ; 
 Henry, Earl of Southampton ; and Lucie, Countess of Bedford, 
 and not to Southampton personally. A dedication like this 
 only conveys the truism that a writer thinks that the rich and 
 noble persons, who give him pay and patronage, are gifted with 
 remarkable intelligence. If 1 had not happened to possess a 
 copy of Florio's book, I should have accepted Dr. Creighton's 
 quotations as being addressed to Southampton alone.
 
 xxviii. Introduction. 
 
 Some of Dr. Creighton s conjectures are, However, very much 
 to the point. He recognises Avisa as being the old English 
 name Avice, or Avis, thinks the curious use of Avis points to 
 the surname Bird, and referrmg to the Ime: "Her sire, the 
 mayor of the town," has found that the most common name 
 among the mayors of Wmchester was Bird, Richard Bird having 
 been mayor three times, and Anthony Bird twice, between 1571 
 and 1599 ; but he has found no record of an Avis Bird. 
 Dr. Creighton suggests that Helicon, in the line: "Old Helicon 
 revives again," refers to Wilton, the residence of Philip Sydney's 
 sister, the Countess of Pembroke. This is plausible, but when 
 we read : " At east of this, a castle stands," we are referred 
 twenty miles east to Merdon Castle, in Hampshire, and are told 
 that the line: " By ancient shepherds built of old," refers to the 
 Bishops of Winchester, who once held Merdon Castle. This 
 then being assumed to be the birthplace of Avisa, Dr. Creighton 
 has discovered that some persons named Yate, who concealed 
 some Jesuits for Southampton's mother, lived at Pitt Farm, 
 near Merdon, and an Avis Yate is found, in 1636, keeping an 
 inn, at Basingstoke. The collection of these isolated facts shews 
 much research. Dr. Creighton finds proof of his theories from 
 the line : "At west side springs a crystal well, " for he says 
 that, on the western side of Merdon Castle is a famous well, 
 " said to be deeper than that of Carisbrooke." How this well 
 springs, or can be seen by any human eye to be "crystal" is 
 beyond me. The line suggests a natural spring, bubbling into a 
 cistern, like the crystal well among the ruins of Cerne Abbey. 
 Crystal springs are, however, common enough in the chalk 
 country. Dr. Creighton dismisses Henry Willoughby and 
 Hadrian Dorrell as myths, and makes no mention of the 
 Horseys. He starts out, indeed, with a firm conviction of 
 Southampton's authorship. He believes that D.B. stands for 
 Barnabe Barnes, and D.H. for Gabriel Harvey, but reserves his 
 evidence for this. Let me end upon a note of agreement. Dr. 
 Creighton has contrived, as I have done, to bring into the 
 discussion of D.B. the name of Adriano de Armado. C.H.]
 
 WI LLOBIE 
 
 H I S 
 
 "<?W^ 
 
 wi AVIS A. 
 
 OR 
 
 
 
 
 The true Pi dure of a mo- ™ ikSm 
 
 deji LMa/J^ and of a chafland 
 con ftant wife. 
 
 In Hexamiter verfe . The like argu. 
 
 mcntwhcrof,was neucr hereto 
 
 fore publifhed. 
 
 Read theprtfice to theRtiderbefofe 
 youentttfariher. 
 
 A vertuous woman isthecrowneof hcrhusbancl,but IJHi^ ^ iV f 
 fhe that rr.aketh him afhamed , is as corruption in / '//iJXM ^ j {,/: 
 hisbones. Prouerb. 1 1. 4. I^/'Lv' i^\ ''T/Zt 
 
 Pm Imprinted at London by 
 
 lohn Windet, 
 
 <i)A 
 
 
 %>! 
 
 m^ 
 
 
 
 [Facsimile from the British Museum copy of The First Edition.]
 
 To all the constant Ladies & Gen- 
 
 ilewomen of England that feare God. 
 
 ARDON me (sweete Ladies,) If at this 
 present, I deprive you of a just Apology 
 in defence of your constant Chastities, 
 deserved of many of you, and long 
 sitnence promised by my selfe, to some 
 of you : and pardon mee the sooner, for 
 that I have long expected that the same should 
 have heene perfourmed by some of your selves, 
 which I know are well able, if you were but 
 so wellwillmg to write in your owne praise, as many men 
 in these dayes (whose tounges are tipt with poyson) are 
 too ready and over willing, to speake and write to 
 your disgrace. This occasion had bene most fit, (publishing 
 now the praise of a constant wife) if I had bene but almost 
 ready. But the future time may agayne reveale as fit a 
 meanes heereafter for the perfourmance of the same : if so 
 it seeme good to him that moderateth all. Concerning 
 this booke which I have presumed to dedicate to the safe 
 protection of your accustomed courtesies ; if yee aske me 
 for the persons : I am altogether ignorant of them, and 
 have set them downe, onely as I finde them named 
 or disciphered in my author. For the trueth of 
 
 this
 
 The Epistle Dedicatory. 
 
 this action, ii you enquire, I will more rully deliver my 
 opinion hereafter. ToucKing tne substance or the matter 
 it selfe, I thinke venly that the nature, woordes, gestures, 
 promises, and very quintessence, as it were, is there lively 
 described, of such lewd chapmen as use to entise silly 
 maides and assayle the Chastity of honest women. And 
 no doubt but some of you, that have beene tried in the 
 like case, (if ever you were tryed,) shall in some one part 
 or other acknowledge it to bee true. If mine Author have 
 found a Brytaine Lucretia, or an English Susanna, envy 
 not at her prayse (good Ladies) but rather endevor to 
 deserve the like. There may be as much done for any of 
 you, as he hath done for his AVISA. Whatsoever is in 
 me, I have vowed it wholy, to the exalting of the glory 
 of your sweete sex, as time, occasion and ability shall 
 permit. In the meane time I rest yours in all dutyfull 
 affection, and commend you all to his protection, under 
 whose mercy we enjoy all. 
 
 Yours most affectionate, 
 
 Hadrian Dorrell.
 
 To the gentle & courteous Reader. 
 
 T is not long sithence {gentle Reader) 
 that my very good frend and chamber 
 felloiv M. Henry Willobie, a yong man, 
 and a schoUer of very good hope, being 
 desirous to see the fashions of other coun- 
 tries for a time, departed voluntarily to 
 her Majesties service. Who at his depar- 
 ture, chose me amongst the rest of his frends, unto whome he 
 reposed so much trust, that he delivered me the key of his stu- 
 dy, and the iise of all his bookes till his returne. Amongest 
 which {perusing them at leysure) I found many prety & wit- 
 ty conceites, as I suppose of his owne dooing. One among the 
 rest I fancied so much, that I have ventered so farre upon his 
 frendship, as to publish it without his consent. As I thinke it 
 not necessary, to be over curious in an other mans labour, so 
 yet something I must say for the better understanding of the 
 whole matter. And therefore, first for the thing it selfe, 
 whether it be altogether fayned, or in some part true, or alto- 
 gether true ; and yet in most part Poetically shadowed, you must 
 give me leave to speake by conjecture, and not by knowledge. 
 My conjecture is doubtfull, and therfore I make you the Jud- 
 ges. Concerning the name of AviSA, I think it to be a fai- 
 ned name, like unto Ovids Corinna ; and there are two 
 causes that make mee thus to thinke. First, for that I never 
 heard of any of that name that I remember ; and next for that 
 
 in a
 
 The Epistle 
 
 tJi a voide paper rolled up in this boke, I found this very name 
 AviSA. xvritten in great letters a prefy distance a sunder, 
 & under every letter a word beginning with the same letter, 
 in this forme. 
 
 A. V. I. S. A. 
 
 Atnans. vxor. inviolata. semper. amanda. 
 
 That is in effect. A loving wife, that never violated 
 Ker faith, is alwaies to be beloved. Which makes me con- 
 jecture that he minding for his recreation to set out the Idea of 
 a constant wife, [rather describing what good wives should doe 
 then registring what any hath done) devised a womans name, 
 that might fitly express this womans nature whom he woidd 
 aime at : desirous in this {as I conjecture) to imitate a far off, 
 ether Plato in his Common wealth, or More in his Utopia. 
 This my surmise of his meaning, is confirmed also by the sight 
 of other odd papers that I found, wherein he had, as I take it, 
 out of Cornelius Agrippa, drawen the severall dispositions 
 of the Italian, the Spanyard, the French man, the German, 
 and the English man, and how they are affected in love. The 
 Italian dissembling his love, assaileth the ivoman beloved, with 
 certain prepared wantonesse : hee praiseth her in written 
 verses, and extolleth her to the Heavens. 
 
 The Spanyard is impatient in burning love, very mad 
 with troubled lasciviousnesse, hee runneth furiously, and with 
 pittyfull complaintes, bewailing his fervent desire, doth call 
 upon his Lady, and worshippeth her, but having obtained his 
 purpose maketh her common to all men. 
 
 The Frenchman endevoreth to serve, he seeketh to pleasure 
 his woman with songes and disports &c. 
 
 The Germane & Englishman being nigher of nature, are 
 inflamed by little and little, but being enamored, they instant- 
 ly require with arte, and entice with gifies S-c. Which seve- 
 rall
 
 To the Reader. 
 
 rail qualities are generally expressed by this Author in the two 
 first trials or assaultes made by the noble 7nan, and the lustie 
 Cavalieros, Captaines, or Cutters &c. Signifying by this ge- 
 neralitie that our noble men, gentlemen, captaines. and lusty 
 youthes have of late learned the fashions of all these countries, 
 how to sollicit their cause, S- court their Ladies, and lovers, & 
 this continueth from the second Canto, to the ende of the two 
 and twentieth. 
 
 After this he comes to describe these natures againe in 
 particular examples more plainely, and beginneth first with 
 the French man under the shadow of these Letters, D. B, 
 from the three and twentieth Canto unto the end of the three 
 and thirtieth. Secondly the Englishman or Germane, under 
 these Letters, D. H. from the 34. Canto unto the ende of 
 the forty three. Lastly the Spanyard and Italian, who more 
 furiously invadeth his love, & more pathetically indureth then 
 all the rest, from the forty foure Canto to the ende of the booke. 
 It seemes that in this last example the author names himselfe, 
 and so describeth his owne love, I know not, and I will not bee 
 curious. 
 
 All these are so rightly described according to their na- 
 ture, that it may seeme the Author rather meant to showe what 
 suites might be made, and how they may be aunsweared, then 
 that there hath bene any such thing indeede. 
 
 These thinges of the one side leade me to thincke it altoge- 
 ther a fained matter, both for the names and the substance, 
 and a plaine morrall plot, secretly to insinuate, how honest 
 maides & women in such temptations should stand upon their 
 guard, considering the glory & praise that commendes a spot- 
 lesse life, and the blacke ignominy, and foule contempt that wai- 
 teth upon a wicked and dissolute behaviour. 
 
 Yet of the other side, when I do more deepely consider of it, 
 
 and
 
 Tne Epistle 
 
 & more narrowly weigh every particular part, I am driven to 
 thinke that there is some thing of trueth hidden under this 
 shadow. The reasons that move me are these, First in the same 
 paper where I found the name of AVISA written in greate 
 letters, as I said before, I found this also written with the Au- 
 thors owne hande, videlicet. Yet I would not Have Avisa 
 to be thought a politike fiction, nor a truethlesse inven- 
 tion, for it may be, that I have at least heard of one in 
 the west of England, in whome the substaunce of all this 
 hath bene verified, and in many thinges the very wordes 
 specified : which hath indured these and many more, and many 
 greater assaultes. yet, as I heare, she standes unspotted, and 
 unconquered. 
 
 Againe, if we marke the exact descriptions of her birth, 
 her countrie, the place of her abode ; and such other circum- 
 stances, but especially the matter and manner of their talkes 
 and conferences, me thinkes it a matter almost impossible that 
 any man could invent all this without some ground or foun- 
 dation to hiiild on. 
 
 This inforceth me to conjecture, that though the matter 
 be handled poetically, yet there is some thing under these fai- 
 ned names and showes that hath bene done truely. No%v judge 
 you, for I can give no sentence in that I know not. If there bee 
 any such constant wife, {as I doubt not but there may bee) I 
 wish that there were more would spring from her ashes, and 
 that all were such. Whether my Author knew, or heard of a- 
 ny such I cannot tell, but of mine owne knowledge, I dare to 
 sweare, that I know one, A.D. that either hath, or ivould, if 
 occasion were so offered, indure these, and many greater temp- 
 tations with a constant mind and setled heart. And therfore 
 here I must worthely reprehend the envious rage, both of Hea- 
 then poets, and of some Christian and English writers, which 
 
 so
 
 To the Reader. 
 
 so farre debase the credite and strength of the whole sexe, that 
 they feare not with lying toimgs wickedly to publish, that there 
 are none at all that can continue constant, if they bee tried. 
 Hereof sprang these false accusing speeches of the old Poets. 
 
 Ludunt lormosae, casta est, quam nemo rogauit. 
 
 Faire wenches love to play. 
 And they are onely chast, who me no man doth assay. 
 
 And againe 
 Rara avis in terris, nigroq ; simillima cygno, 
 Foemina casta volat. 
 
 A rare-seene bird that never flies, on earth ne yet in aire. 
 Like blackish Swan, a woman chast ; if she be yong and faire. 
 This false opinion bred those foide-mouthed speeches of 
 Frier Mantuan, that upbraides all women with fleeting nn- 
 constancy. This made Ariosto and others to invent, and pub- 
 lish so many lewd and untrue tales of womens unfaithf nines. 
 And this is the cause, that in this booke ye shall so often find it 
 objected against AviSA by all her sutors, that no ivoman 
 of ie>hat degree so ever can he constant if she be much requested^ 
 hut that the best will yeeld. But the best is, this common and 
 course conceit is received but onely among common, lewd, & 
 carelesse men, who being wicked themselves, give sentence of 
 all others, according to the loose and laidesse humours ivhere- 
 withall they feele their owne straying and wandring affections 
 to be infected. For they forsooth, because in divers and 
 sundrie places, {as they often ivickedly boast) they may for an 
 Angell and a great dcale lesse, have hired nagges to ride at their 
 pleasure, such as make a sinnefull gaine of a filthy carkasse ; be- 
 cause in other countries, xvhere stewes and hrothelhouses are 
 winckt at, they see oftentimes, the fairest and not the meanest 
 flocke to the felloxvship of such filthy freedome, Thinke present- 
 ly, that it is but a mony matter, or a little intreatie, to over- 
 throw
 
 The Epistle 
 
 throw the chastity of any woman whatsoever. But if all women 
 were in deede such as the ivoman figured under the name of 
 AVISA either is, or at least is supposed to bee, they should 
 quickly restore againc their auncient credite and glory which 
 a feiv wicked wantons have thus generally obscured. In the 
 twentie and seven Canto, I find how D.B. perswadeth with 
 A. that it is little sinne or no fault to love a frend besides her 
 husband. Whereupon, inquiring more of the matter I have 
 heard some of the occupation verifie it for a trueth : That a- 
 mong the best sort, they are accompted very honest women in 
 some cities now, that love, but one frend besides their husband, 
 and that it is thought amongst them a thing almost lawftdl. If 
 this be true, {as I hardly ihincke it to bee trtie, because wicked 
 men feare not to report any untrueths) but if it be true, I feare 
 least the ripenesse of our sin cry to the Lord for vengeance 
 against us, that tremble not at the remembrance of Gods 
 judgements, that have bound a heavy curse & woe upon the 
 backe and conscience of them, That speake good of evill, 
 and evill of good. That is, such as are growne to that pointe, 
 that they are no longer ashamed of their sinne, nor care for any 
 honesty, but are become wilfully desperate in the performance 
 of all kind of impiety. 
 
 But I leave this to the godly preachers to dilate more am- 
 ply. And to returnc to my purpose, although I must confesse 
 that of all sortes of people, there have been and will be still some 
 loosely and leivdly given, yet this can bee no excuse to lavishe 
 tongues, to condemne all generally. For. I dare to venter my 
 hand, and my head upon this point, that, let the foure moral 
 
 vertues be in order set downe. 
 
 Prudence 
 Fortitude 
 - Temperance 
 Justice 
 
 and let the 
 
 holy scriptures be searched from the beginning to the end, & 
 
 let 
 
 10
 
 To tne Reader. 
 
 let all the ancient histories both ecclesiasticall and prophane he 
 thorowly examined, and there will beg found women inoiigh, 
 that in the performance of all these verities, have matched, if 
 not overmatched men of every age, which I dare myselfe, to 
 verifie in their behalfes upon the venter and losing of my cre- 
 dite, if I had time atid leasure. Among infinite numbers to 
 give you a taste of one or two : for wisedome, and Justice, what 
 say you to Placilla wife to the Emperour Theodosius ■'' She 
 was wont every day in her owne person, to visile the sicke, the 
 poore, and the maymed : And if at any time shee saw the Em- 
 perour declining from Justice to any hard course, shee would 
 bid him Remember Kimselie, from whence he came, &' what 
 he was, in what state hee had bene, and in what 
 state he was now ; which if he would do, he should never 
 wax proud nor cruell, but rather humble, mercyfull and just. 
 
 For temperance, how say you to the wife of one Pelagius, 
 of Laodicea which being yong her selfe, and married to a 
 young and lusty man, xvas yet notwithstanding contented wil- 
 lingly to forhcare carnall pleasure, during her whole life. I 
 bring not this ivomans example, for any liking I have to her 
 fact, being lawfully married, but rather, against the curious 
 carpers at womens strength, to prove that some women have 
 done that which feiv men can doe. 
 
 For Fortitude and temperance both, I finde, that in An- 
 tioche, there was a noble woman with her two daughters, 
 rather then they would be defloured, cast themselves allwil- 
 lingly into a great river, and so droivned themselves. 
 
 And also, that in Rome there was a Senatours wife, who 
 when she heard, that there were messengers sent from Ma- 
 xentius the tirant, to bring her unto him, perforce, to be ra- 
 vished of him ; and seeing that her husband was not of ability 
 
 and 
 
 Theodoret 
 cedes, hist. lib. 
 5. cap. 17. 
 
 TKeodor. eccl. 
 hist. li. 4. c. 10. 
 
 Eusehius Iihr. 
 8. cap. 24. 
 
 Cap. 27. Lokc 
 for Blanama 
 in Eusebius, a 
 rare example 
 of constancy 
 and fortitude. 
 
 11
 
 The Epistle 
 
 and power to defend her, she used this pollicy. Shee requested 
 that they would give her leave to put on som better apparel & to 
 attire herselfe more decently : which being graunted, and she 
 gotten into a chamber by herselfe, she tooke a sword and per- 
 ced her selfe to the hart, rather then she would be counted the 
 Empcrours whore. 
 
 By this may be scene what might be sayd in this argument, 
 but leaving this to some other time, or to some other better 
 able ; I returne to my author. 
 
 For the persons & matter, you have heard my conjecture, 
 now for the manner of the composition, disposition, invention, 
 and order of the verse, I must leave every mans sence to him- 
 self e, for that which pieaseth me, may not fancy others. But to 
 speake my judgement, the invention, the argument, and the 
 disposition, is not common, nor {that I know) ever handled of 
 any man before in this order. For the composition and order 
 of the verse : Although hee flye not alofte with the winges of 
 Astrophell nor dare to compare ivith the Arcadian shep- 
 heard, or any way match with the dainetie Fayry Queene ; 
 yet shall you find his wordes and phrases, neither Tryviall nor 
 absurd, but all the whole worke, for the verse, pleasant, with- 
 out hardnesse, smooth without any roughnesse, sweet without 
 tcdiousnesse, easie to be understood, without harrish absurdi- 
 ty : yeelding a gr alio us harmony every where, to the delight 
 of the Reader. 
 
 I have christened it by the name of Willoby Kis Avisa : 
 because I suppose it ivas his doing, being written with his owne 
 hand. How he will like my bouldness, both in the publishing, 
 aiui naming of it, I know not. For the incouraging and help- 
 ing of maides and wives to holde an honest and constant course 
 against all unhonest and lewd temptations, I have doone 
 that I have doone. I have not added nor detracted any thing 
 
 from 
 
 12
 
 To the Reader. 
 
 from the worke if selfe, but have let it passe without altering a- 
 ny thing : Onely in the end I have added to fill up some voyd 
 paper certaine fragmentes and ditties, as a resolution of a chast 
 and constant wife, to the tune of Fortune, and the praise of a 
 contented mind, which I found wrapped altogether with this, 
 and therefore knew not whether it did any way belong imto 
 this or not. 
 
 Thus leaving to trouble your patience with farder delaies, I 
 commit you to the good government of Gods spirit. From 
 my chamber in Oxford this first of October. 
 
 Hadrian Dorrell. 
 
 13
 
 Abell Emet in commendation of 
 Willobies Avisa. 
 
 TO Willohy, you worthy Dames yeeld loorthy prayse, 
 Whose silver pype so sweetly sounds your strange delay es. 
 Whose loftly style, with golden winges remonntes your fame, 
 The glory of your Princely sex, the spotles name : 
 happy wench, who so she be if any be, 
 That thus deservd thus to be praisd by Willobie. 
 Shall I beleeve, I must beleeve, such one there is, 
 Well hast thou said, long maist thou say, such onle] there is ; 
 If one there be, I can beleeve there are no more, 
 This wicked age, this sin full tyme breeds no such store : 
 Such silver myntes, such golden mines ivho could refuse ? 
 Such offers made and not recev'd, I greatly muse. 
 Such deepe deceit in frendly shewes, such tempting fittes, 
 To still withstand, doth passe the reach of womens wittes : 
 You Country maides, Pean nimphes re Joyce and sing, 
 To see from you a chast, a new Diana spring : 
 At whose report you must not frett, you may not frowne. 
 But rather strive by due desert for like renoivne. 
 Her constant faith in hot assaye hath wonne the game, 
 Whose praise shall live, ivhen she is dead with lasting fame. 
 If my conceit from strangers mouth may credit get, 
 A braver Theame, more sweetly pend, was never yet. 
 
 Abell Emet. 
 
 14
 
 In praise of Willobie Jiis Avisa, Hex- 
 ameton to the Author. 
 
 I N Lavine Land though Livie host, 
 
 * There haih hcenc scene a Constant dame : 
 Though Rome lament that she have lost 
 
 The Gareland of her rarest fame, 
 
 Yet now we see, that here is found 
 As great a Faitli in English ground. 
 
 Though Collatine have deerely bought, 
 
 To high renowne, a lasting life, 
 
 And found, that most in vaine have sought, 
 
 To have a Faire and Constant wife, 
 
 Yet Tarquyne fluckt his glistering grape, 
 And Shake-speare, paints poore Lucrece rape. 
 
 Though Susan shine in faithfull praise, 
 As twinckling starres in Christall skie, 
 Penelop's fame though Greekes do raise. 
 Of faithfidl wives to make up three. 
 
 To thinke the Truth and say no lesse, 
 
 Our Avisa shall make a messe. 
 
 This number knits so sure a knot, 
 
 Time doubts, that she shall adde no more. 
 
 Unconstant Nature hath begot, 
 
 Of Fleeting Feemes such fickle store, 
 
 Two thousand yeares have scarcely scene. 
 Such as the worst of these have beene. 
 
 Then 
 
 13
 
 Then Avl-Susan joyne in one, 
 
 Let Lucres-Avis he ihy name 
 
 This English Eagle sores alone, 
 
 And farre surmounts all others fame. 
 
 Where high or low, where great or small. 
 This Brytan Bird out- flies them all. 
 
 Were these three happie, that have found 
 Brave Poets to depaint their praise ? 
 Of Rurall Pipe, with sweetest sound, 
 That have beene heard these many daies, 
 Sweete wylloby his AVIS blest. 
 That makes her mount above the rest. 
 
 Contraria Contra rljs 
 
 Vigilantius : Dormitanus. 
 
 Faults escaped. 
 
 Folio 8 b staf 2 ver 1 reade bane vcr 3 wane Fol 18 a staf 1 ver 2 Soyle stal 4 ye 6 
 {oxly b staf 4 ver 2 and Fol 26 a staf 3 ver 4 foolc Fol 27 a staf 3 ver 1 Greece 
 b staf 1 ver 4 strey staf 2 ver 6 fond Fol 28 b staf 1 ver 1 die staf 3 ver 6 from. 
 
 16
 
 
 6-. 
 
 Villobie His Avisa: 
 
 or 
 
 The true picture of a modest Maide, 
 
 and of a chast and constant 
 wife. 
 
 CANT. I. 
 
 ET martiall men, 
 
 of Mars his praise, 
 Sound warlike trumpe : 
 
 let lust-led youth. 
 Of wicked love, 
 
 write wanton layes ; 
 Let sheepeheards sing, 
 
 their sheepe coates ruth : 
 The wiser sort, 
 
 confesse it plaine. 
 That these have spent good time in vaine. 
 
 My sleepie Muse that wakes but now, 
 Nor now had wak t if one had slept. 
 To vertues praise hath past her vow. 
 To paint the Rose which grace hath kept, 
 
 Of sweetest Rose, that still doth spring. 
 Of vertues birde ray Muse must sing. 
 
 The 
 
 17
 
 Willobie 
 
 The birae tnat doth resemble right, 
 
 The Turtles faith in constant love, 
 
 The faith that first her promise plight ; 
 
 No change, nor chance could once remove: 
 This have I tri'd ; This dare I trust, 
 And sing the truth, I will, I must. 
 
 Afflicted SlfSaJlS spotlesse thought, 
 Intis d by lust to sinfull crime. 
 To lasting fame her name hath brought. 
 Whose praise incounters endlesse time : 
 I sing of one whose beauties warre, 
 For trials passe Susanna's farre. 
 
 The wandring Greekes renowmed mate. 
 That still withstoode such bote assayes, 
 Of raging lust whose doubtfull state. 
 Sought strong refuge, from strange delayes. 
 For fierce assaults and tryals rare. 
 With this my Nimph may not compare. 
 
 Hote tryals try where Golde be pure. 
 The Diamond daunts the sharpest edge. 
 Light chaffe, fierce flames may not indure, 
 All quickly leape the lowly hedge, 
 
 The object of my Muse hath past 
 
 Both force and flame, yet stands she fast. 
 
 Though Egle-eyde this bird appeare. 
 Not blusht at beames of Phoebus raies : 
 Though Faulkcon winged to pearce the aire, 
 Whose high-pla st hart no feare dismaies : 
 Yet sprang she not from Egles nest. 
 But Turtle-bred, loves Turtle best. 
 
 At 
 
 18
 
 his A visa. ^ 
 
 At wester side of Albions He, 
 Wnere Austine pitcnt nis Monkisn tent, 
 Where Sheepheards sing, where Muses smile, 
 The graces met with one consent, 
 
 To frame each one in sundry parte. 
 Some cunning worke to shew their arte. 
 
 First Venus fram d a luring eye, 
 A sweete aspect and comly grace; 
 There did the Rose and Lilhe he. 
 That bravely deckt a smiling face, 
 
 Here Cupid s mother bent her wil, 
 
 In this to shew her utmost skill. 
 
 Then Pallas gave a reaching head, 
 
 With deepe conceites, and passing wit, 
 
 A setled mind, not fancie-led, 
 
 Abhorring Cupids frantique fit. 
 
 With modest lookes, and blushing cheekes, 
 A filed tongue which none mislikes. 
 
 Diana deckt the remnant partes. 
 
 With fewture brave, that nothing lacke, 
 
 A quiver full of pearcing Darts, 
 
 She gave her hanging at her backe ; 
 
 And in her hand a Golden shaft. 
 To conquer Cupids creeping craft. 
 
 This done they come to take the view, 
 Of novell worke, of peerlesse frame ; 
 Amongst them three, contention grew. 
 But yet Diana gave the name, 
 
 Avisa shall she called be. 
 
 The chiefe attendant still on me. 
 
 When 
 
 19
 
 Beautie with- 
 out riches, is 
 as a (aire pict- 
 ure without 
 life. 
 
 Jealosie 
 breedes envy : 
 Both together 
 breede (renzie, 
 yet neither of 
 them both 
 can prevaile 
 against wan- 
 dring fancie. 
 
 A straunge 
 bayte. 
 
 Willobie 
 
 When Juno view d her luring grace, 
 0\^e Jinio blusHt to see a new, 
 She fear'd least Jove would like this face, 
 And so perhaps might play untrew, 
 
 They all admir d so sweete a sight, 
 They all envide so rare a wight. 
 
 When J lino came to give her wealth, 
 (Which wanting beauty, wants her hie) 
 She cryde, this face needes not my pelffe, 
 Great riches sow the seedes of strife : 
 
 I doubt not some Olympian power 
 Will fill her lap, with Golden shower, 
 
 This jealous J lino faintly said. 
 As halfe misdeeming wanton Jove, 
 But chast Diana tooke the maide. 
 Such new-bred qualmes quite to remove : 
 jealous envie, filthie beast. 
 For envie J lUlO gave her least. 
 
 In lew of Jlino S Golden parte 
 
 Diana gave her double grace; 
 
 A chast desire, a constant heart, 
 
 Disdaine of love in fawning face, 
 
 A face, and eye, that should intice, 
 A smile, that should deceive the wise. 
 
 A sober tongue that should allure. 
 And draw great numbers to the fielde ; 
 A flintie hart, that should indure 
 All fierce assaults, and never yeelde, 
 
 And seeming oft as though she would ; 
 
 Yet fardest off when that she should. 
 
 ..an 
 
 20
 
 his A visa. 
 
 Can iiltny sinke yeelae Kolsome aire. 
 
 Or vertue from a vice proceede ? 
 
 Can envious hart, or jealous feare 
 
 Repell the things that are decreed ? 
 
 By envie though she lost her thrift, 
 She got hy grace a better gift, 
 
 Not farre from thence there lyes a vale, 
 
 A rosie vale in pleasant plaine ; 
 
 The Nimphes frequent this happie dale, 
 
 Olde Helicon revives againe ; 
 
 Here Muses sing, here Satyres play, 
 Here mirth resounds both night and day. 
 
 At East of this, a Castle stands. 
 By auncient sheepheards built of olde, 
 And lately was in sheepheards hands, 
 Though now by brothers bought and solde, 
 
 At west side springs a Chnstall well ; 
 
 There doth this chast Avisa dwell. 
 
 And there she dwels in publique eye, 
 
 Shut up from none that list to see ; 
 
 She answeres all that list to try, 
 
 Both high and low of each degree: 
 
 But few that come, but feele her dart, 
 And try her well ere they depart. 
 
 They try d her hard in hope to game. 
 Her milde behaviour breeds their hope, 
 Their hope assures them to obtaine, 
 Till having runne their witlesse scope ; 
 
 They find their vice by vertue crost, 
 Their foolish words, and labour lost. 
 
 Thi. 
 
 21
 
 Wniobie 
 
 This strange effect, tKat all should crave, 
 Yet none ohtaine their wrong desire, 
 A secret gift, that nature gave, 
 To feele the frost, amidst the fire : 
 
 Blame not this Dians Nimphe too much, 
 Sith God by nature made her such. 
 
 Let all the graces now be glad. 
 
 That fram d a grace that past them all, 
 
 Let Juno be no longer sad ; 
 
 Her wanton Jove hath had a fall ; 
 
 Ten yeares have tryde this constant dame, 
 And yet she holds a spotles fame. 
 
 Along this plaine there lyes a downe, 
 Where sheepheards feed their frisking flocke ; 
 Her Sire the Mayor of the towne, 
 A lovely shout of auncient stocke. 
 
 Full twentie yeares she lived a maide. 
 And never was by man betrayde. 
 
 At length by Jliuo's great request, 
 Diana loth, yet gave her leave. 
 Of flowring yeares, to spend the rest, 
 A good gift. Jn wed-locke band ; but yet receive. 
 
 Quod she, this gift ; Thou virgin pure, 
 Chast wife in wed-lockc s/ialt indure. 
 
 happie man that shall enjoy 
 
 A blessing of so rare a price; 
 
 That frees the hart from such annoy; 
 
 As often doth torment the wise, 
 
 A loving wife unto her death, 
 With full assurance of her faith. 
 
 When 
 
 22
 
 his Avisa. * 
 
 When flying fame began to tell, 
 How beauties wonder was returnd, 
 From countne bils, in towne to dwell, 
 Witb special gifts and grace adornd. 
 
 Of sutors store tbere might you see ; 
 
 And some were men of high degree. 
 
 But wisdom wild her choose her mate. 
 
 If that she lov d a happy lite, 
 
 That might be equall to her state. 
 
 To crop the sprigges of future strife ; 
 
 Where rich in grace, wher sound in health. 
 Most men do wed, but for the wealth. 
 
 Though jealous Juno had denyde 
 This happy wench, great store of pelffe ; 
 Yet is she now in wed-locke tyde. 
 To one that loves her as himselfe, 
 
 So thus they live, and thus they love; 
 
 And God doth blesse them from above. 
 
 This rare scene bird, this Phoenix sage 
 
 Yeeldes matter to my drowsie pen. 
 
 The mirror of this sinneful age. 
 
 That gives us beasts in shapes of men. 
 Such beasts as still continue sinne. 
 Where age doth leave, there youths begin. 
 
 Our English soile, to Sodoms sinke 
 
 Excessive sinne transformd of late. 
 
 Of foule deceite the lothsome linke. 
 
 Hath worne all faith cleane out of date. 
 
 The greatest sinnes mongst greatest sort. 
 Are counted now but for a sport. 
 
 Old 
 
 23
 
 2. Chro. 15. 16. 
 
 Willobie 
 
 Old Asues grandame Is restor d; 
 
 Her grovle Caves are new rerinde : 
 
 The monster Idoll is ador d 
 
 By lustle dames of Maclia s kinde : 
 
 They may not let this worship fall, 
 Although they leese their honours all. 
 
 Our Moah Cozhies cast no reare, 
 Numer. 25. 6. Jo let in view of every eye 
 
 Their gainelesse games they holde so deere, 
 They follow must, although they dye. 
 
 For why ? the sword that Phineas wore. 
 Is broken now, and cuts no more. 
 
 My tender Muse, that never try d 
 Her joynted wings till present time, 
 At first the perelesse bird espyed, 
 That mounts aloft, devoide of crime ; 
 
 Though high she sore, yet will I trie. 
 Where I her passage can discry. 
 
 Her high conceites, her constant minde; 
 
 Her sober talk, her stout denies ; 
 
 Her chast advise, here shall you find ; 
 
 Her fierce assaults, her milde replies. 
 
 Her dayly fight with great and small, 
 Yet constant vertue conquers all. 
 
 The first that saies to plucke the Rose, 
 That scarce appear d without the bud. 
 With Gorgeous shewes of Golden glose. 
 To sow the seeds that were not good ; 
 Suppose it were some noble man 
 That tride her thus, and thus began. 
 
 Th 
 
 e 
 
 24
 
 his Avisa. 
 
 The first trlall of AVISA. before she 
 was married, by a Noble man : under which is 
 represented a warning to all young maids 
 of every degree, tbat tbey beware of the allu- 
 ring intisements of great 
 men. 
 
 CANT. II. 
 
 NOB. 
 
 OW is the time, 
 
 if thou be wise. 
 Thou happie maide, 
 if thou canst see. 
 Thy happiest time, 
 take good advise, 
 Good fortune laughs, 
 be rulde by me : 
 Be rulde by me, 
 
 and her s my faith, 
 No Golde shall want thee till thy death. 
 
 Thou knowest my power, thou seest my might. 
 Thou knowest I can maintaine thee well. 
 And help thy friends unto their right ; 
 Thou shalt with me for ever dwell, 
 
 My secret friend thou shalt remaine, 
 And all shall turne to thy great game. 
 
 Thou seest thy parents meane estate, 
 That barres the hope of greater chance ; 
 And if thou prove not wise too late, 
 Thou maist thy self, and thine advance ; 
 Repulse not fondly this good hap. 
 That now lies offred in thy lap. 
 
 Abound- 
 
 25
 
 AVISA. 
 
 Willobie 
 
 Abandon feare that bars consent, 
 Repel tbe shame that feares a blot, 
 Let wisdome way what laith is ment, 
 That all may praise thy happie lot ; 
 
 Thinke not I seeke thy lives disgrace ; 
 
 For thou shalt have a Ladies place. 
 
 Thou art the first my fancie chose, 
 
 I know my friends will like it well ; 
 
 This friendly fault to none disclose. 
 
 And what thou thinkst, blush not to tell, 
 
 Thou seest my love, thou know st my mind, 
 Now let me feele, what grace I find. 
 
 CANT. in. 
 
 ^^OUR Honours place, your riper yeares, 
 ^ Might better frame some graver talkes: 
 Midst sunny rayes, this cloud appears ; 
 Sweet Roses grow on prickly stalkes : 
 If I conceive, what you request, 
 You aime at that I most detest. 
 
 My tender age that wants advice. 
 
 And craves the aide of sager guides, 
 
 Should rather learne for to be wise. 
 
 To stay my steps from slipperie slides ; 
 
 Then thus to sucke, then thus to tast 
 The poys ned sap, that kils at last. 
 
 I wonder what your wisdome ment. 
 
 Thus to assault a silly maide : 
 
 Some simple wench might chance consent. 
 
 By false resembling shewes betraide: 
 1 have by grace a native shield, 
 To lewd assaults that cannot yeeld. 
 
 26
 
 his A visa. 
 
 I am too base to be your wife. 
 
 You choose me for your secret frend; 
 
 Tbat is to lead a filthy life, 
 
 Whereon attends a fearefull end; 
 
 Though I be poore, I tell you plaine, 
 To be your whore, I flat disdaine. 
 
 Your high estate, your silver shrines, 
 Repleate with wind and filthy stinke ; 
 Your glittering gifts, your golden mynes. 
 May force some fooles perhaps to shrinke: 
 But I have learnd that sweetest bayt. 
 Oft shrowds the hooke of most desayt. 
 
 What great good hap, what happie time. 
 Your proffer brings, let yeelding maids 
 Of former age, which thought to clime 
 To highest tops of earthly aids. 
 
 Come backe a while, and let them tell, 
 Where wicked lives have ended well. 
 
 Shores wife, a Princes secret frend, 
 Falre Rosomond, a Kings delight : 
 Yet both have found a gastly end. 
 And fortunes friends, felt fortunes spight : 
 What greater joyes, could fancie frame. 
 Yet now we see, their lasting shame. 
 
 If princely pallace have no power. 
 To shade the shame of secret sinne. 
 If blacke reproch such names devoure, 
 What game, or glory can they winne. 
 
 That tracing tracts of shamelesse trade, 
 A hate of God, and man are made ? 
 
 Thi 
 
 s 
 
 27
 
 NOB. 
 
 Willobie 
 
 This only vertue must advaunce 
 My meane estate to joyrull blisse: 
 For she that swaies dame vertues launce, 
 Of happie state can never misse, 
 
 But they that hope to game hy vice, 
 Shall surely prove too late unwise. 
 
 The roote oi woe is lonu desire, 
 That never feeles her selte content : 
 But wanton wing d will needes aspire. 
 To flnde the thing, she may lament, 
 A courtly state, a Ladies place, 
 My former life will quite deface. 
 
 Such strange conceites may hap prevaile. 
 With such as love such strong desayts, 
 But I am taught such qualmes to quaile. 
 And flee such sweete alluring hayts, 
 
 The witlesse Flie playes with the flame, 
 Till see he scorched with the same. 
 
 You long to know what grace you find. 
 In me, perchance, more then you would, 
 Except you quickly change your mind, 
 I find in you, lesse then I should. 
 
 Move this no more, use no reply, 
 I le keepe mine honour till I die. 
 
 CANT. nil. 
 
 A LAS, good soule, and will yee so ? 
 
 *^ You will he chast Diana's mate; 
 
 Till time have wove the web of woe. 
 
 Then to repent wil be too late, 
 
 You shew yourself so foole-precise. 
 That I can hardly thinke you wise. 
 
 ou 
 
 28
 
 his Avisa. 
 
 You sprang belike from Noble stocke, 
 
 Tnat stand so mucn upon your fame, 
 
 You hope to stay upon tbe rocke, 
 
 That will preserve a faultlesse name, 
 
 But wbile you hunt for needelesse praise. 
 You loose the prime of sweetest daies. 
 
 A merry time, wben countne maides 
 Sball stand (forsooth) upon their garde ; 
 And dare controll the Courtiers deedes. 
 At honours gate that watch and warde ; 
 
 When Milkemaids shal their pleasures flie. 
 
 And on their credits must relie. 
 
 Ah silly wench, take not a pride. 
 
 Though thou my raging fancie move. 
 
 Thy betters far, if they were try d, 
 
 Would fame accept my proffered love ; 
 
 Twas for thy good, if thou hadst wist. 
 For I may have whome ere I list. 
 
 But here thy folly may appeare, 
 Art thou preciser then a Queene : 
 Queene Jocilie of Naples did not feare. 
 To quite mens love, with love againe : 
 And Messalina^ t'ls no newes. 
 Was dayly scene to haunt the stewes. 
 
 And Cleopatra, prince of Nile, 
 
 With more than one was wont to play : 
 
 And yet she keepes her glorious stile, 
 
 And fame that never shall decaie. 
 
 What need st thou then to feare of shame. 
 When Queenes and Nobles use the same ? 
 
 Needes 
 
 Cornelius A- 
 grippa. 
 
 29
 
 Willobie 
 CANT. V. 
 
 AVISA. I^EEDS must the sKeepc strake all awric, 
 
 * ^ Whose sheephearJs wander from their way 
 Needes must the sickly patients die, 
 Whose Doctor seekes his lives decay : 
 
 Needs must the people well he taught, 
 Whose chlelest leaders all are naught. 
 
 Such lawlesse guides Gods people found. 
 When Moah maides allur'd their fall ; 
 They sought no salve to cure this wound, 
 Till God commaunds, to hange them all ; 
 For wicked life, a shamefull end 
 To wretched men, the Lord doth send. 
 
 Was earth consumde with wreakful waves ? 
 Did Sodom burne and after sinke : 
 What sinne is that, which vengaunce craves, 
 If wicked lust no sinne we thinke ? 
 
 blind conceites I filthy breath ! 
 That drawes us headlong to our death. 
 
 If death be due to every sinne, 
 How can I then be too precise ? 
 Where pleasures end, if paine beginne, 
 What neede have we, then to be wise ? 
 They weave indeed the web of woe, 
 That from the Lord doe yeeld to goe. 
 
 I will remember whence I came, 
 I hunt not for this worldly praise, 
 I long to keepe a blamelesse fame. 
 And constant hart gainst hard assaies : 
 If this be folly, want of skill, 
 
 1 will remaine thus foolish still. 
 
 The 
 
 30
 
 his Avisa. * 
 
 The blindfold rage of Heathen Queenes, 
 Or rather queanes that know not God, 
 Gods heavie judgements tried since, 
 And felt the waight of angry rod ; 
 
 God save me from that Sodomes crie, 
 
 Whose deadly sting shall never die. 
 
 CANT. VI. 
 
 pORGIVE me wench, I did mistake, NOB. 
 
 ■ I little thought that you could preach, 
 All worldly joyes, you must forsake : 
 For so your great Divines doe teach, 
 
 But yet beware, he not too bold, 
 
 A yongling Saint, a Devill old. 
 
 Well wanton well, thou are but yong. 
 This IS the error of thy youth. 
 Thou wilt repent this faith ere long. 
 And see too late (perhaps) the truth ; 
 
 And they that seem so pure at first. 
 
 Are often found in proofe the worst. 
 
 Thy youth and beautie will not last. 
 For sickness one, the other age 
 May captive take, when both are past, 
 You may have leasure to be sage, 
 
 The time will come, if these retire. 
 
 The worst will scorne that I desire. 
 
 Of chast renowme, you seeke the praise. 
 
 You build your hope above the ayre. 
 
 When wonders last not twentie daies. 
 
 What need you rusticke rumors feare ? 
 
 Esteeme not words above thy wealth, 
 Which must procure thy credits health. 
 
 And 
 
 81
 
 Willobie 
 
 And yet In truth I can not see, 
 From whence such great discredit growes, 
 To hve in spignt oi every eye, 
 And swim in silkes and bravest shewes. 
 To take the choise of daintiest meate, 
 And see thy betters stand and waite. 
 
 These grave respects breede pleasures bane. 
 Thy youthly yeares for joyes crave, 
 And fading credit hath his wane. 
 That none to thee doth shine so brave : 
 That smokie fame which likes thee best. 
 The wisest have esteemed least. 
 
 CANT. VII. 
 
 AVISA. 1 »7ELL now I see, why Christ commends, 
 
 '^ To loving mates the Serpents wit, 
 That stops his eares, and so defends 
 His hart, from luring sounds unfit, 
 
 If you your madnes still bewraye, 
 I le stop my eares, or goe my way. 
 
 Ulisses wise, yet dar'd not stay 
 The tising sound of Syrens song : 
 What fancy then doth me betray, 
 That thinke my selfe, so wise and strong ; 
 
 That dare to heare, what you dare speake. 
 And hope for strength, when you be weake ? 
 
 My wisdome is the living Lord, 
 That gives me grace which nature wants. 
 That holds my seate from waies abhord, 
 And in my hart good motions plants : 
 With him I dare to bide the field, 
 Strive while you list, I can not yeeld. 
 
 Fond 
 
 32
 
 his Avisa. 
 
 Fond favour failes, the time will passe, 
 All earthly pleasures have their end, 
 We see not that, which sometime was, 
 Nor that which future times will send : 
 You say the truth, remember this, 
 And then confesse, you stray amisse. 
 
 The shorter time, the greater care, 
 Are pleasures vaine ? the lesse delight. 
 Are daungers nye ? why then beware. 
 From base affections take your flight, 
 
 Thinke God a reckning will require, 
 And strive to quaile this bad desire. 
 
 To swim in silkes, and brave aray. 
 Is that you thinke which women love. 
 That leads poore maides so oft astray. 
 That are not garded from above ? 
 
 But this I know, that know not all. 
 
 Such wicked pride, will have a fall. 
 
 CANT. VIII. 
 
 ^^ NOR '-m'^}^ 
 
 A LAS the feare, alas the fall, 
 
 *^ And what s the fall, that you so feare ? 
 
 To tosse good fortunes golden ball. 
 
 And gaine the goale I prize so deare, 
 
 I doubt least these your needlesse leares. 
 Will bar good hap, trom witlesse yeares. 
 
 Thy 
 
 33 
 
 /
 
 Willohie 
 
 Thy age experience wants 1 see, 
 
 And lacking tryall art afraid, 
 
 Least ventring larre to credit me. 
 
 Our secret dealings might be wrayd ; 
 
 What then doth not my mightie name, 
 Suffice to sheeld thy fact from shame ? 
 
 Who dares to stirre, who dares to speake. 
 Who dares our dealings to reprove r 
 Though some suspect, yet none will creake, 
 Or once controll thy worthy love ; 
 
 My might will stand for thy defence. 
 And quite thee clear from great offence. 
 
 Who sees our face, knowes not our facts. 
 Though we our sport in secret use. 
 Thy cheekes will not hewray thy acts. 
 But rather blushing- make excuse : 
 
 If thou wilt yeeld, here is my faith, 
 lie keepe it secret till thy death. 
 
 To seeme as chast, let that suffice. 
 
 Although indeed thou be not so, 
 
 Thus deale our women that are wise, 
 
 And let thy godly Doctors go. 
 
 Still faine as though thou godly art. 
 It is inough, who knowes thy hart ? 
 
 Let not the idle vulgar voice. 
 
 Of fained credit witch thee so. 
 
 To force thee leave this happie choise, 
 
 And flying pleasure live in woe ; 
 
 If thou refuse, assure thy mind. 
 The like of this shaft never find. 
 
 Let 
 
 34
 
 his A visa. 
 CANT. IX. 
 
 10 
 
 I ET that word stand, let that be true, 
 ■— * I doe refuse and so doe still. 
 God shield nie from your cursed crew, 
 TKat thus are led by beastly will. 
 
 It grieves my hart, that I doe find 
 In Noble bloud so base a mind. 
 
 On worldly feare, you thinke I stand. 
 Or fame that may my shame resound. 
 No Sir, I feare his mightie hand. 
 That will both you and me confound. 
 His feare it is that makes me stay 
 My wandring steps from wicked way. 
 
 Who dares, say you, our facts unfold ? 
 Ev n he that can mightie Kings tame. 
 And he that Princes hath controld, 
 He dares provide a mightie shame. 
 
 What fence have you for to withstand 
 His firie plagues, and hevie hand ? 
 
 Though Samson queld the Lyons rage 
 Though Solomon, a mightie King, 
 Yet when to sinne their harts they gage, 
 On both doth God confusion bring. 
 
 How can you then his wrath avoid. 
 That you and yours be not destroid ? 
 
 He 
 
 as
 
 Willohie 
 
 He sees our facts, ne viewes our deeds, 
 Although we sinne in secret place, 
 A guiltie conscience alwaies bleeds : 
 My faults will shew upon my face, 
 
 My cheekes will blush, when I doe sin ; 
 
 Let all men know, when I begin. 
 
 To seeme as chast, and not to be. 
 To beare a shew, and yet to fame, 
 Is this the love, you beare to me, 
 To damne my soule in lasting paine ? 
 If this the best you have to say. 
 Pray give me leave, to goe my way. 
 
 CANT. X. 
 
 mmmmMmmmm 
 
 NOB ^ 
 
 \a/ELL then I see, you have decreed, 
 ^' And this decree must light on mee : 
 Unhappie Lillie loves a weed, 
 That gives no sent, that yeelds no glee, 
 Thou art the first I ever tride. 
 Shall I at first be thus denide ? 
 
 My haplesse hap, fell much awne. 
 To fix my fancies prime delight. 
 In haggard Hauke that mounts so hie. 
 That cheekes the lure, and Fawkners sight ; 
 But sore you hie, or flie you low, 
 Stoupe needs you must, before you goe. 
 
 our 
 
 36
 
 his Avisa 
 
 Your modest speech is not amisse. 
 
 Your maidens blush becomes you well ; 
 
 Now will I see how sweete you kisse, 
 
 And so my purpose tarder tell ; 
 
 Your coye lookes and tnckes are vaine 
 I will no nay, and that is plaine. 
 
 Thou must perforce be well content. 
 
 To kt me win thee with thy will ; 
 
 Thy chierest iriends have giv n consent, 
 
 And therefore thinke, it is not ill, 
 Abandon all thy fond delay. 
 And marke this well, that I shall say. 
 
 My house, my hart, my land my life 
 
 My credit to thy care I give : 
 
 And if thou list to be a wife. 
 
 In shew of honest fame to live ; 
 
 I le fit thee one, shall beare the cloke. 
 And be a chimnie for the smoke. 
 
 But say the word it shall be don. 
 
 And what thou list, or what thou crave. 
 
 What so be lost, what ever won. 
 
 Shall nothing want, that thou wilt have. 
 
 Thou shalt have all, what wilt thou more. 
 Which never woman had before. 
 
 Here s fortie Angels to begin ; 
 
 A little pledge of great goodwill, 
 
 To buy thee lace, to buy a pin ; 
 
 I will be carefuU of thee still : 
 
 If youth be quaild, it I be old, 
 I can supply that with my gold. 
 
 II 
 
 Silkes 
 
 37 
 
 g
 
 Willobie 
 
 Silke gownes and velvet snalt thou nave, 
 WitK hoods and cauls, fit (or thy head ; 
 Of goldsmithes worke a horder brave, 
 A chaine of golde ten double spread 
 
 And all the rest shall answere this, 
 My purse shall see that nothing misse. 
 
 Two wayting maides, attendant still, 
 Two serving men, foure geldings prest. 
 Go where you list, ride where you will, 
 No jealous thought shal me molest ; 
 
 Two hundreth pounds I doe intend. 
 To give thee yearely for to spend. 
 
 Of this I will assurance make, 
 To some good friend, whom thou wilt chuse 
 That this in trust from me shall take. 
 While thou dost live, unto thy use ; 
 
 A thousand markes, to thee give I 
 And all my Jewels when I die. 
 
 This will I doe, what ever chance, 
 lie shortly send, and fetch thee hence ; 
 Thy chiefest friends I will advance, 
 And leave them cause of no offence. 
 For all this fame, I onely crave 
 But thy good will, that let me have. 
 
 A modest maide is loth to say. 
 In open words, she doth consent. 
 Till gentle force doe breake the stay. 
 Come on, mine owne, and be content, 
 Possesse me of my loves desire, 
 And let me tast that I require. 
 
 Hand 
 
 38
 
 his Avisa *^ 
 
 CANT. XI. 
 
 m^ AVISA. ^^^, 
 
 l-IAND off my Lord, this will not serve, 
 ■ ■ Your wisdom wanders mucn awne, 
 From reasons rule tlius farre to swarve, 
 lie never yeeld, I le rather die, 
 
 Except you leave and so depart. 
 
 This knife shall sticke within your hart. 
 
 Is this the love, your franticke fit 
 
 Did so pretend in glosing shew c 
 
 Are these your waies, is this your wit, 
 
 To tice and force poore maidens so : 
 
 You strive in vaine, by raging lust 
 To gaine consent, or make me trust. 
 
 For who can trust your flattering stile, 
 Your painted words, your brave pretence. 
 When you will strive, by trayned will 
 To force consent to lewd offence. 
 
 Then thus to yeeld by chaunted charmes, 
 lie rather die within your armes. 
 
 Your golden Angels I repell. 
 
 Your lawlesse lust I here defie 
 
 These Angels are the posts of hell, 
 
 That often lead poore souls awne. 
 
 Shame on them all, your eyes shall see. 
 These Angels have no power of me. 
 
 Your
 
 Willobie 
 
 Your gownes of silke, your golden cliaines, 
 Your men, your maides, your hundreth pounds, 
 Are nothing else but divelish traines. 
 That fill fond eares with tickling sounds, 
 A bladder full of traiterous wind, 
 And fardest off from filthy mind. 
 
 Well, sith your meaning now is plaine, 
 And lust would give no longer leave, 
 To faithlesse hart, to lie and faine, 
 Which might perchance in time deceive, 
 By Jesus Christ I doe protest, 
 I le never graunt that you request. 
 
 CANT. XII. 
 
 , S3MSM;® 
 
 ^^ NOB. Furens. 11 
 
 'T'HOU beggers brat, thou dunghill mate. 
 
 Thou clownish spawne, thou country gil 
 My love is turnd to wreakefull hate, 
 Go hang, and keepe thy credit still, 
 
 Gad where thou list, aright or wrong, 
 I hope to see thee begge, erre long. 
 
 Was this great offer well refus'd, 
 
 Or was this proffer all too base ? 
 
 Am I fit man to be abus d, 
 
 With such disgrace, by flattering gase ? 
 
 On thee or thine, as I am man, 
 
 I will revenge this if I can. 
 
 Th 
 
 ou 
 
 40
 
 ^ 
 
 his Avisa. " 
 
 Tnou think st tny selfe a peerelesse peice, 
 And peevish pride that doth possesse 
 Thy hart ; perswades that thou art wise, 
 When God doth know ther s nothing lesse, 
 T was not thy beautie that did move 
 This fond affect, hut hhnded love. 
 
 1 hope to see some countne clowne, 
 
 Possessor of that fleering face. 
 
 When need shall force thy pride come downe, 
 
 I le laugh to see thy foolish case, 
 
 For thou that think st thy selfe so hrave, 
 Wilt take at last some paltrie knave. 
 
 Thou selfewill gig that doth detest 
 
 My faithfull love, looke to thy fame. 
 
 If thou offend, I doe protest, 
 
 I le bring thee out to open shame. 
 
 For sith thou fayn st thy selfe so pure, 
 Looke to thy leapes that they he sure. 
 
 I was thy friend, but now thy foe, 
 
 Thou hadst my hart, but now my hate, 
 
 Refusing wealth, God send thee woe. 
 
 Repentance now will come too late, 
 
 That tongue that did protest my faith, 
 Shall wane thy pride, and wish thy death. 
 
 Yea 
 
 41
 
 Willobie 
 CANT. XIII. 
 
 
 ferw A V I S A >^.c^ 
 
 \^EA so I tliouglit, tills IS the end 
 •■ Oi wandnrif^ lust, resemnlinj^ love, 
 Wa st love or lust, that aid intend 
 Sucn inendlesse force, as you did move ? 
 
 Tnougn you may vaunt oi happier fate, 
 
 I am content with my estate. 
 
 I rather chuse a quiet mind, 
 A conscience cleare from hloudy sinnes, 
 Then short delights, and therein find 
 That gnawing worm that never linnes, 
 
 Your hitter speeches please me more. 
 Then all your wealth, and all your store. 
 
 I love to live devoid or crime, 
 
 Although I hegge, although I pine. 
 
 These lading joyes for little time, 
 
 Imhrace who list, I here resine. 
 
 How poore I goe, how meane I fare, 
 If God he pleas d, I doe not care. 
 
 I rather heare your raging ire, 
 Although you sweare reveftgment deepe. 
 Then yeeld for game to lewd desire. 
 That you might laugh, when I should weepe. 
 Your lust would like hut for a space, 
 But who could salve my foule disgrace ? 
 
 Mine 
 
 42
 
 his A-- " 
 
 vvisa. 
 
 Mine eares have heard your taunting words, 
 
 Or yeelding looles by you betraid, 
 
 Amongst your mates at open Dords, 
 
 Know st sucn a wire ? know st such a maid : 
 
 Then must you laugh, then must you winke, 
 And leave the rest for them to thinke. 
 
 Nay yet welfare the happie life. 
 That need not blush at every view : 
 Although I be a poore mans wife. 
 Yet then I le laugh as well as you. 
 
 Then laugh as long, as you thinke best. 
 
 My fact shall frame you no such jest. 
 
 If I do hap to leape aside, 
 
 I must not come to you for aide, 
 
 Alas now that you be denide, 
 
 You thinke to make me sore afraide ; 
 
 Nay watch your worst, I doe not care, 
 
 If I offend, pray doe not spare. 
 
 You were my friend, you were but dust, 
 The Lord is he, whome I doe love, 
 He hath my hart, in him I trust. 
 And he doth gard me from above, 
 
 I waie not death, I feare not hell. 
 
 This IS enough, and so farewell. 
 
 THE 
 
 43
 
 Willobie 
 
 THE SECOND TEMP 
 tation of AviSA after her marri 
 
 age by Ruffians, Roysfers, young 
 
 Gentlemen, and lustie Cap- 
 
 taines, wKicK all snee 
 
 quickly cuts oil. 
 
 CANT. XIIII. 
 
 :.^'^^' 
 ®S^ 
 
 ^ _^ CAVEILEIRO. ^g 
 
 OME lustie wench, 
 
 1 like thy lookes. 
 And such a pleasant 
 
 looke I love, 
 Thine eyes are like 
 
 to hayted hookes. 
 That force the hungrie 
 [ish to move. 
 Where nature granteth 
 such a lace, 
 I need not doubt to purchase grace. 
 
 I doubt not but thy inward thought. 
 Doth yeeld as fast as doth thine eye ; 
 A love in me hath fancie wrought. 
 Which worke you can not well denye ; 
 From love you can not me reiraine, 
 I seeke but this, love me againe. 
 
 And 
 
 4t
 
 his A visa. 
 
 15 
 
 And so tliou dost, I know it well, 
 
 I knew it by tny side-cast glance, 
 
 Can liart from outward looke rebell ? 
 
 Which yeaster night I spide by chance ; 
 
 Thy love (sweete hart) shall not be lost, 
 How deare a price so ever it cost. 
 
 Aske what thou wilt, thou know st my mind. 
 Appoint the place, and I will come. 
 Appoint the time, and thou shalt find, 
 Thou canst not tare so well at home, 
 
 Few words suffice, where harts consent, 
 I hope thou know st, and art content. 
 
 Though I a stranger seeme as yet. 
 And seldome scene, before this day. 
 Assure thy selfe that thou mayst get. 
 More knackes by me, then I will say. 
 
 Such store of wealth as I will bring. 
 Shall make thee leape, shal make thee sing. 
 
 I must be gone, use no delay. 
 At SIX or seven the chance may rise, 
 Old gamesters know their vantage play. 
 And when t is best to cast the dice. 
 
 Leave ope your poynt, take up your man. 
 "6 And mine shall quickly enter than. 
 
 CANT. XV. 
 
 AVISA. -^^ 
 
 
 What 
 
 45
 
 WiUobie 
 
 ^» /HAT now : what newes? new warres in hand? 
 ' ^ More trumpets blowne oi fond conceltes ? 
 More banners spread of follies band ? 
 New Captaines coyning new deceites ? 
 
 Ah woe is me, new campes are pla st. 
 Whereas I thought all daungers past. 
 
 wretched soule, what face have 1, 
 That can not looke, but some misdeame ? 
 What sprite doth lurke within mine eye. 
 That kendles thoughts so much uncleanc ? 
 
 lucklesse fewture never blest. 
 That sow st the seedes of such unrest. 
 
 What wandring fits are these that move 
 
 Your hart, inragde with every glance ; 
 
 That judge a woman straight in love. 
 
 That welds her eye aside by chance, 
 
 If this your hope, by fancie wrought, 
 You hope on that I never thought. 
 
 If nature give me such a looke. 
 
 Which seemes at first unchast or ill. 
 
 Yet shall it prove no bayted hooke. 
 
 To draw your lust to wanton will, 
 
 My face and will doe not agree, 
 Which you in time (perhaps) may see. 
 
 If smiling cheare and friendly words. 
 If pleasant talke such thoughts procure, 
 Yet know my hart, no will afords. 
 To scratching kites, to cast the lure. 
 It milde behavior thus offend, 
 
 1 will assaie this fault to mend. 
 
 ou 
 
 46
 
 his A 
 
 visa. 
 
 16 
 
 You plant your hope upon the sand, 
 That huild on womens words, or smiles ; 
 For when you thinke your selie to stand 
 In greatest grace, they prove hut wyles, 
 
 when nxt you thinke on surest ground. 
 
 Then fardest oii they will be found. 
 
 CANT. XVI. 
 
 
 \^0\] speake of love, you talke of cost, 
 
 ' Is t filthy love your worship meanes ? 
 
 Assure your selfe your labor s lost ; 
 
 Bestow your cost among your queanes, 
 
 You left not here, nor here shall find. 
 Such mates as match your beastly mind. 
 
 You must again to Coleman hedge. 
 For there be some that looke for game. 
 They will bestow the French mans badge. 
 In lew of all your cost and paine. 
 
 But Sir, it IS against my use, 
 ^ For game to make my house a stewes. 
 
 What have you seene, what have I doon 
 That you should judge my mind so light. 
 That I so quickly might be woon. 
 Of one that came but yeaster night ? 
 
 Of one I wist not whence he came. 
 
 Nor what he is, nor what s his name ? 
 
 Though 
 
 47
 
 ciro 
 
 Willobie 
 
 Thou^H face doe friendly smile on all 
 
 Yet judge me not to be so kind, 
 
 To come at every Faulkners call. 
 
 Or wave aloit with every wind, 
 
 And you tnat venter thus to try. 
 Shall find how far you shoote awry. 
 
 And if your face might he your judge. 
 Your wannie cheekes, your shaggie lockes. 
 Would rather move my mind to grudge, 
 To feare the piles, or else the pockes : 
 
 Yf you be mov d, to make amends. 
 Pray keepe your knackes for other frends. 
 
 You may be walking when you list, 
 Looke ther s the doore, and ther s the way, 
 I hope you have your market mist. 
 Your game is lost, for lacke of play, 
 
 The point is close, no chance can fall. 
 That enters there, or ever shall. 
 
 CANT. XVII. 
 
 mmmmmmmmmm 
 
 gg CAVELEIRO. g^ 
 
 /^ODS wo : I thinke you doe but jest. 
 
 ^^ You can not thus delude my hope 
 A rifjht Cave- But yet perhaps you thinke it best. 
 
 At first to give but little scope : 
 
 At first assault you must retire, 
 And then be forst to yeeld desire. 
 
 ou 
 
 48
 
 his A visa. 
 
 You thinke, that I would judge you bad. 
 If you should yeeld at first assaie, 
 And you may tninke me worse tnen mad. 
 If on[e] repulse send me awaie, 
 
 You thinke you doe your credit wron^, 
 Except you keepe your sutors long. 
 
 But I that know the wonted guise. 
 Of such as live in such a place, 
 Old dame experience makes me wise. 
 To know your meaning by your face, 
 
 For most of them, that seeme so chast, 
 Denie at first, and take at last. 
 
 This painted sheth, may please some foole, 
 That can not see the rustic knife : 
 But I have bin too long at schooles. 
 To think you of so pure a life, 
 
 The time and place will not permit, 
 That you can long, here spot-lesse sit. 
 
 And therefore wench, be not so strange, 
 To grant me that, which others have, 
 I know that women love to change, 
 T IS but deceite, to seeme so grave, 
 I never have that women tri d, 
 Of whome as yet I was deni d. 
 
 Your godly zeale doth breed my trust, 
 Your anger makes me hope the more ; 
 For they are often found the worst, 
 That of their conscience make such store. 
 In vaine to blush, or looke aside, 
 A flat repulse, I can not bide. 
 
 17 
 
 Thou 
 
 49
 
 WiUohie 
 CANT. XVIII. 
 
 nrHOU wicked wretch, what Jost not thinke 
 
 * There is a God that doth behold 
 This sinnefull waies, this Sodom s sinke ? 
 wretched earth that art so bold, 
 
 To jest at God, and at his word, 
 Looke for his just revenging sword. 
 
 I. Cor. 5. 
 
 ela, 12. 
 
 A young 
 man was :;tri- 
 ken lilind {or 
 looking disK- 
 onestiy upon 
 a godly wo- 
 man. 
 
 The Locren- 
 ses used to put 
 out both the 
 eyes of the a- 
 aulterers. 
 
 The law Julia 
 in Rome put 
 adulterers to 
 the sworJ. 
 
 The Arabians 
 
 doe the like. 
 
 Saint Paul commands us not to eate. 
 
 With him that leads a wicked life ; 
 
 Or shall be found to lie in waite. 
 
 To seek to spoyle his neighbours wife. 
 
 Such wicked soules God doth forsake, 
 And dings them downe to fierie lake. 
 
 A brain-sicke youth was striken blind, 
 
 That sent his greedie eye to view, 
 
 A godly wench, with godlesse mind. 
 
 That paine might spring, whence pleasures grew, 
 Remember friend, forget not this. 
 And see you looke no more amisse. 
 
 JiilicJ flower of thy time. 
 Where is thy law, where is thy word, 
 That did condemne the wedlocke crime. 
 To present death, with bloudy sword? 
 The shining of this percing edge, 
 Would daunt the force of filthy rage. 
 
 Though 
 
 ,so
 
 his Avisa. '" 
 
 Though shamelesse Callets may be found ; 
 
 That Soyle them selves in common field ; 
 
 And can can re the whoores rebound, 
 
 To straine at first, and after yeeld : 
 
 Yet here are none of Creseds kind, 
 In whome you shall such fleeting find. 
 
 The time and place may not condemne, 
 
 The mtnd to vice that doth not sway, 
 
 But they that vertue doe condemne, 
 
 By time and place, are led astray. 
 
 This place doth hold on at this time. 
 That will not yeeld to bloudy crime. 
 
 You thinke that others have possest 
 The place that you so lewdly crave. 
 Wherein you plainely have confest. 
 Your selfe to be a jealous knave, 
 
 The rose unblusht hath yet no staine. 
 
 Nor ever shall, while I remaine. 
 
 CANT. XIX. 
 
 CAVELEIRO 
 
 jVI E thinkes I heare a sober Fox, 
 ^ ■ Stand preaching to the gagling Geese ; 
 And shewes them out a painted box, 
 And bids them all beware of cheese, 
 
 Your painted box, and goodly preach, 
 
 I see doth hold a foxly reach. 
 
 Perchance 
 
 51
 
 Willobie 
 
 Percnance you be no common card, 
 But love tne daintie aiamonds place, 
 The ten, the knave, may be your gard. 
 Yet onely you, are still the ace. 
 
 Contented close in packe to lie. 
 
 But open dealing you defie. 
 
 Well I confesse, I did offend. 
 To rush so headlong to the marke ; 
 Yet give me leave this fault to mend, 
 And crave your pardon in the darke. 
 Your credits fame I will not spill. 
 But come as secret as you will. 
 
 Nay her s my hand, my faith I give, 
 My tongue my fact shall not reveale. 
 To earthly creature while I live ; 
 Because you love a secret deale. 
 
 And where I come, I still will say, 
 She would not yeeld, but said me nay. 
 
 So shall your credit greater grow. 
 
 By my report and passing praise 
 
 And they that scant your name doe know. 
 
 Your fame on hie, and hie shall raise. 
 
 So shall you game that you desire, 
 By granting that, which 1 require. 
 
 To plant a siege, and yet depart. 
 Before the towne be yeelded quite. 
 It kils a martiall manly hart. 
 That can not brooke such high despite. 
 Then say you yea, or say you no, 
 I le scale your wals, before I go. 
 
 52
 
 his Avisa. 
 
 19 
 
 CANT. XX. 
 
 A FINE device, and well contriv d, 
 ^~* Brave Golde upon a bitter pill ; 
 No niarvaile well tnougn you nave thriv d, 
 That so can decke, tliat so can dill ; 
 
 Your quaintish quirkes can want no mate ; 
 But here I wis, you come too late. 
 
 It s ill to hault before the lame, 
 Or watch the bird that can not sleepe, 
 Your new found trickes are out of frame. 
 The fox will laugh, when Asses weepe ; 
 
 Sweare what you list, say what you will. 
 Before you spake, I knew your skill. 
 
 Your secret dealing will not hold, 
 To force me trie, or make me trust 
 Your blind devises are too old. 
 Your broken blade hath got the rust. 
 
 You need not lie, but truely say, 
 ^ She would not yeeld to wanton play. 
 
 Your tongue shall spare to spread my fame, 
 
 I list not buy too deare a sound. 
 
 Your greatest praise would breed but shame. 
 
 Report of me as you have found, 
 
 Though you be loth to blow retreat. 
 This mount s too strong for you to get. 
 
 The 
 
 63
 
 Willobie 
 
 The wisest Captaine now and then, 
 When that he feeles his foe too strong ; 
 Retires hetime to save his men, 
 That grow hut weake, ii seege he long ; 
 From this assault you may retire. 
 You shall not reach, that you require. 
 
 I hate to feede you with delaies, 
 As others doe, that meane to yeeld, 
 You spend in vaine your strong assaies. 
 To win the town, or game the leeld ; 
 No Captaine did, nor ever shall. 
 Set ladder here, to skale the wall. 
 
 CANT. XXI. 
 m CAVELEIRO. g 
 
 :<-^V:y^VSi!te-:V :: :: :: :: t: m^^:>:a< 
 
 I— IAD I knowne this when I hegan, 
 ■ ■ You would have usde me as you say, 
 I would have take you napping than. 
 And give you leave to say me nay, 
 I little thought to find you so : 
 I never dreamt, you would say no. 
 
 Such selfe like wench I never met. 
 Great cause have I thus hard to crave it. 
 If ever man have had it yet. 
 
 54
 
 his A visa. 
 
 I sworen have, that I will have it. 
 
 If thou didst never give consent, 
 I must perforce, be then content. 
 
 If thou wilt sweare, that thou hast knowne, 
 In carnall act, no other man : 
 But onely one, and he thine owne, 
 Since man and wife you first began, 
 
 lie leave my sute, and sweare it trew. 
 Thy like in deed, I never knew. 
 
 20 
 
 CANT. XXII. 
 
 I TOLD you first what you should find, 
 Although you thought I did but jest. 
 And selfe affection made you blind. 
 To seeke the thing, I most detest ; 
 
 Besides his host, who takes the paine, 
 To recken first, must count againe. 
 
 Your rash swore oth you must repent, 
 You must beware of headlong vowes ; 
 Excepting him, whome free consent, 
 By wedlocke words, hath made my spouse, 
 From others yet I am as free. 
 As they this night, that boren bee. 
 
 Well 
 
 55
 
 WiUohie 
 
 CAVELEIRO. 
 
 |ps©®®(sgppa(a^ 
 
 \i/ELL give me then a cup of wine, 
 *' As thou art his, would thou wert mine. 
 
 H 
 
 ® AVISA. ^ 
 
 AVE t ye good-lucke, tell them that gave 
 You this advice, what speede you have. 
 
 Farewell. 
 
 Th^ 
 
 56
 
 his Avisa. 
 
 21 
 
 The third trial ; wherein are expressed the 
 
 long passionate, and constant affections of the close and 
 
 wary sutor, wnicn by signes, by sigbes, by letters, by pn- 
 
 vic messengers, by Jewels, Rings, Golde, divers gifts, and by 
 
 a long continued course of courtesie, at length pre- 
 
 vailetb with many both maides and wives ii tney 
 
 be not garded wounderfully with a better spirite 
 
 then their owne, which all are here 
 
 finely daunted, and mildly o- 
 
 ver tHrownc, by the constant 
 
 aunsweres, ana cnast 
 
 replies of Avisa. 
 
 CANT. XXIII. 
 
 {^■'yj> I ' > * "^» t V ' V * V y J ' V ' V ' J * 'J ' ■ 3 ' 
 
 }h'.,'^h 
 
 ;a a 
 
 
 lh,^r(ZS ^- ^- -^ French man. 3^jj 
 
 S ilaming flakes 
 
 too closely pent, 
 With smothering smoke, 
 
 in narrow vault, 
 Each hole doth trie, 
 
 to get a vent, 
 And force by forces, 
 
 fierce assault, 
 With ratling rage, 
 
 doth rumbling rave, 
 Till flame and smoke free passage have. 
 
 So 
 
 67
 
 Willohie 
 
 So I (my deare) have smothered long, 
 
 Within my hart a sparkhng flame, 
 
 Whose rebell rage is grown so. strong. 
 
 That hope is past to quell the same, 
 
 Except the stone, that strake the fire, 
 With water quench this hote desire. 
 
 The glauncing speare, that made the wound, 
 Which ranckling thus, hath bred my paine, 
 Must pearcing slide with fresh rebound, 
 And wound, with wound, recure againe, 
 
 That flooting eye that pearst my hart, 
 Must yeeld to salve my curelesse smart. 
 
 I striv d, but striv'd against the streame, 
 
 To daunt the qualmes of fond desire, 
 
 The more their course I did restraine. 
 
 More strong and strong they did retire. 
 
 Bare need doth force me now to runne. 
 To seeke my helpe, where hurt begunne. 
 
 Thy present state wants present aid, 
 
 A quick redresse my grief e requires. 
 
 Let not the meanes be long delaid. 
 
 That yeelds us both our harts desires, 
 If you will ease my pensive hart, 
 rie find a salve to heale your smart. 
 
 I am no common gameling mate. 
 
 That lift to bowle in every plaine, 
 
 But (wench) consider both our state, 
 
 The time is now, for both to game. 
 
 From daungerous bands I set you free, 
 If you wil yeeld to comfort mee. 
 
 Your 
 
 58
 
 his Avisa. 
 
 22 
 
 CANT. XXIIII. 
 
 \V^OUR iierie flame, your secret smart, 
 
 ' TKat inward irets with pining grieie. 
 
 Your hollow sighes, your Hevie hart, 
 
 Methinks might quickly find reliefe, 
 
 If once the certaine cause were knowne, 
 From whence these hard effects have growne. 
 
 It little boots to shew your sore, 
 To her that wants all Phisicke skill, 
 But tell it them, that have in store, 
 Such oyles as creeping cankers kill, 
 
 I would be glad, to doe my best, 
 
 If I had skill, to give you rest. 
 
 Take heede, let not your griefe remaine. 
 
 Till helpes doe faile. and hope be past, 
 
 For such as first refus d some paine, 
 
 A double pame have felt at last, 
 
 A little sparke, not quencht be time, 
 To hideous flames will quickly clime. 
 
 If godly sorrow for your sin. 
 
 Be chiefest cause, why you lament, 
 
 If giltie conscience doe begin. 
 
 To draw you truely to repent, 
 
 A joyfull end must needs redound, 
 To happie griefe so seldome found.
 
 Willohie 
 
 To strive all wicked lusts to quell, 
 Which often sort to dolefull end, 
 I joye to heare you meane so well, 
 And what you want, the Lord will send : 
 But if you yeeld to wanton will, 
 God will depart, and leave you still. 
 
 Your pleasant aide with sweete supply. 
 My present state, that might amend, 
 If honest love be ment thereby, 
 I shall he glad of such a frend. 
 
 But if you love, as I suspect. 
 Your love and you, I both reject. 
 
 CANT. XXV. 
 
 mi 
 
 WHAT you suspect, I can not tell. 
 What I doe meane, you may perceive. 
 My workes shall shew, I wish you well. 
 If well ment love you list receive, 
 
 I have heene long in secret mind. 
 And would he still your secret fnnd. 
 
 My love should breed you no disgrace, 
 None should perceive our secret plaie, 
 We would observe both time and place. 
 That none our dealings should bewraie, 
 Be it my fortune, or my fault, 
 Love makes me venter this assault. 
 
 ou 
 
 60
 
 his Avisa. 
 
 23 
 
 You mistresse ot my doubtfull chance, 
 
 You Prince oi this my soules desire, 
 
 That lulls my fancie nn a trance, 
 
 The marke whereto my hopes aspire, 
 
 You see the sore, whence springs my gneie, 
 You weld the sterne of my reliefe. 
 
 The gravest men of former time, 
 That liv d with fame, and happle life. 
 Have thought it none, or pettie crime, 
 To love a friend besides their wife. 
 
 Then sith my wife you can not be. 
 As dearest friend accompt of me, 
 
 You talke of sinne, and who doth live, 
 
 Whose dayly steps slide not awrie ? 
 
 But too precise, doth deadly grieve. 
 
 The hart that yeelds not yet to die, 
 
 When age drawes on, and youth is past. 
 Then let us thinke of this at last. 
 
 The Lord did love King David well. 
 
 Although he had more wives then one ; 
 
 King Solomon that did excel), 
 
 For wealth and wit, yet he alone, 
 
 A thousand wives and friends possest. 
 Yet did he thrive, vet was he blest. 
 
 CANT. XXVI. 
 
 
 
 61
 
 Willohie 
 
 OMIGHTIE Lord, tKat guides the SpKeare ; 
 Defend me by thy mlghtie will, 
 From just reproch, from shame and feare, 
 Of such as seeke my soule to spill, 
 
 Let not their counsell (Lord) prevaile, 
 To force ray hart to yeeld or quaile. 
 
 How frames it with your sober lookes. 
 To shroud such bent of lewd conceites. 
 What hope hath pla st me in your bookes, 
 That files me fit, for such deceites ? 
 
 I hope that time hath made you see. 
 
 No cause that breeds these thoughts in mee. 
 
 Your fervent love is filthy lust, 
 
 And therefore leave to talk of love, 
 
 Your truth is treason under trust, 
 
 A Kite in shape of hurtlesse Dove, 
 
 You offer more then friendship wold, 
 To give us brasse in steed of gold. 
 
 Such secret friends to open foes. 
 
 Do often change with every wind. 
 
 Such wandring fits, where folhe groes, 
 
 Are certaine signes of wavering mind, 
 
 A fawning face, and faithlesse hart, 
 In secret love, breeds open smart. 
 
 No sinne to breake the wedlocke faith ? 
 
 No sinne to swim in Sodomes sinke ? 
 
 sinne the seed and sting of death ! 
 
 sinnefull wretch that so doth thinke ! 
 
 Your gravest men with all their schooles. 
 That taught you thus, were heathen fooles. 
 
 Your 
 
 62
 
 his Avisa. 
 
 24 
 
 Your lewd examples will not serve, 
 To frame a vertue from a vice, 
 When David and his Sonne did swerve, 
 From lawfull rule, tnougn botn were wise, 
 Yet both were plagu d, as you may see, 
 With migntie plagues of each degree. 
 
 CANT. XXVII. 
 
 |— "ROM whence proceeds this sodaine change c 
 * From whence this quainte and coye speech : 
 
 Where did you learne to looke so strange C 
 What Doctor taught you thus to preach ? 
 Into my harte it cannot sinke, 
 That you doe speake, as you doe thinke. 
 
 Your smiling face, and glauncing eye, 
 (That promise grace, and not despite) 
 With these your words doe not agree. 
 That seeme to shun your chiefe delight, 
 
 But give me leave, I thinke it still. 
 
 Your words doe wander from your will. 
 
 Of women now the greatest part. 
 
 Whose place and age doe so require. 
 
 Do chuse a friend, whose faithfull hart. 
 
 May quench the flame of secret fire, 
 Now if your liking he not pla st, 
 I know you will chuse one at last. 
 
 Th 
 
 en 
 
 63
 
 Willobie 
 
 Then cKusing one, let me be he, 
 
 If so our hidden fancies frame, 
 
 Because you are the onely she, 
 
 That first inrag d my fancies flame, 
 
 If first you graunt me this good will. 
 My hart is yours, and shall he still. 
 
 I have a Farme that fell of late, 
 Woorth fortie pounds, at yearely rent, 
 That will I give to mend your state. 
 And prove my love is truely ment. 
 Let not my sute be flat denide. 
 And what you want, shall be supplide. 
 
 Our long acquaintance makes me bold ; 
 To shew my greife, to ease my mind. 
 For new found friends, change not the old. 
 The like perhaps you shall not find, 
 
 Be not too rash, take good advice ; 
 
 Your hap is good, if you be wise. 
 
 CANT. XXVIIl. 
 
 ♦-ir\>^ ■fy'4 •▼v^^wi Tv^.. •v^ -^v* -fv* -tv^;, ^v^* f^-r* -* ^r^ 
 
 AViSA. ^ 
 
 |V^Y hap Is hard, and over bad, 
 ^ * To be misdeemd of every man ; 
 That thinke me quickly to be had, 
 That see me pleasant now and than : 
 
 Yet would I not be much a griev d, 
 If you alone were thus deceiv d. 
 
 
 But 
 
 64
 
 25 
 
 his Avisa. 
 
 But you alone are not deceiv d, 
 WitK tising baytes of pleasant view, 
 But many others nave believ a, 
 And tride the same, as well as you. 
 
 But they repent their folly past. 
 
 And so will you, I hope at last. 
 
 You seeme, as though you lately came 
 From London, from some bawdie sell, 
 Where you have met some wanton dame, 
 That knowes the trickes of whoores so well. 
 
 Know you some wives, use more then one .'' 
 Go backe to them, for here are none. 
 
 For here are none, that list to chuse, 
 
 A novell chance, where old remaine, 
 
 My choice is past, and I refuse. 
 
 While this doth last, to chuse againe, 
 
 While one doth live, I will no more, 
 Although I begge from dore to dore. 
 
 Bestow your larmes among your frinds, 
 Your fortie pounds can not provoke, 
 The setled hart, whom vertue binds, 
 To trust the traines of hidden hooke. 
 
 The labor s lost that you indure. 
 
 To gorged Hauke, to cast the lure. 
 
 If lust had led me to the spoyle, 
 
 And wicked will, to wanton change. 
 
 Your betters that have had the foyle. 
 
 Had caus d me long ere this to range. 
 
 But they have left, for they did see. 
 How far they were mistake of mee. 
 
 Mistake 
 
 65
 
 Willobte 
 CANT. XXIX. 
 
 ||d.B. a French .an. II 
 
 jVjISTAKE indeed, if this be true, 
 
 ■ If youth can yeeld to favours foe ; 
 If wisdome spring, where fancie grew ; 
 But sure I thinke it is not so : 
 
 Let faithful! meaning purchase trust, 
 That hkes for love, and not for lust. 
 
 Although you sweare, you will not yeeld. 
 Although my death you should intend, 
 Yet will I not forsake the field. 
 But still remaine your constant frend. 
 
 Say what you list, flie where you will, 
 I am your thrall, to save or spill. 
 
 You may command me out of sight. 
 As one that shall no favour find. 
 But though my body take his flight, 
 Yet shall my hart remaine behind. 
 
 That shall your guilty conscience tell. 
 You have not us d his master well. 
 
 His masters love he shall repeate, 
 
 And watcn his turne to purchase grace. 
 
 His secret eye shall he in waite ; 
 
 Where any other game the place : 
 
 When we ech others can not see. 
 
 My hart shall make you thinke of me. 
 
 To
 
 his Avisa. ^ 
 
 To force a lancie, where is none, 
 
 T'is but in vaine, it will not nold, 
 
 But where it growes it selie alone, 
 
 A little favour makes it bold. 
 
 Till fancie frame your free consent, 
 I must perforce, be needs content. 
 
 Though I depart with heavie cheare, 
 As having lost, or left my hart. 
 With one whose love, I held too deare. 
 That now can smile, when others smart, 
 Yet let your prisoner mercy see, 
 Least you in time a prisoner bee. 
 
 CANT. XXX. 
 
 IT makes me smile to see the bent, 
 * Of wandnng minds with folly fed. 
 How fine they fame, how faire they paint. 
 To bring a loving foole to bed ; 
 
 They will be dead, except they have, 
 Whatso (forsooth) their fancie crave. 
 
 If you did seeke, as you pretend, 
 Not friendlesse lust, but friendly love, 
 Your tongue and speeches would not lend, 
 Such lawlesse actions, so to move. 
 
 But you can wake, although you winke, 
 And sweare the thing, you never thinke. 
 
 To 
 
 67
 
 Willobie 
 
 Calulltia.Tum 
 
 iain ntilla vivo 
 iuranli fcemi- 
 na crcdat. 
 Nulla viri 
 speret, sermo- 
 iiesessefideles. 
 Qui dum ali- 
 qtiid ciipicfis 
 animus prccge- 
 stitapisci,Nil 
 7netuunt iura- 
 re, nihil, pro- 
 mittere par- 
 cunt. 
 
 Sed siniid ac 
 cupidui mentis 
 satiaia libido 
 est,Dicta nihil 
 metuere, nihil 
 perjuria cii- 
 rant. 
 
 Combat be- 
 tweene reason 
 and appetite. 
 No constant 
 love where 
 uncoustant 
 affections 
 rule. 
 
 That love on- 
 ly constant 
 that is groun- 
 dea on vertue. 
 
 To wavering men that speake so faire, 
 
 Let women never credit give, 
 
 Although they weepe, although they sware, 
 
 Such famed shewes, let none believe ; 
 
 For they that thinke their words he true, 
 Shall soone their hastie credit rue. 
 
 When ventnng lust doth make them dare, 
 The simple wenches to betray. 
 For present time they take no care, 
 What they doe sweare, nor what they say, 
 But having once obtaind the lot. 
 Their words and othes are all forgot. 
 
 Let roving Prince from Troyes sacke, 
 Whose fauning fram d Queene Didos fall, 
 Teach women wit, that wisdome lacke. 
 Mistrust the most, beware of all, 
 
 When selfewill rules, where reason sate, 
 Fond women oft repent too late. 
 
 The wandrmg passions of the mind ; 
 Where constant vertue bares no sway. 
 Such franticke fickle chaunges find. 
 That reason knows not where to stay. 
 
 How boast you then of constant love, 
 Where lust all vertue doth remove ? 
 
 D.B.
 
 his Avisa. 
 
 T. B. Being somewhat grieved 
 with this aunsiueve, after long 
 
 absence and silence, at length 
 writeth, as lollowetn. 
 
 CANT. XXXI. 
 
 ^gj D. B. To AVISA more 
 
 pittie. f7y 
 
 27 
 
 •i^>l^»^S^@,: 
 
 T 
 
 ®@giS}^l25^5^#:gMS 
 
 HERE is a cole that hiinies the more, Canoi cole 
 
 The more ve cast colde water iieare, ^*'"°f '" '"^■ 
 
 T -1 1 .'J I ny places ot 
 
 Like humor feecies my secret sore, England. 
 
 Not quencht, hut fed by cotd dispaire, ^^npausiocu. 
 
 The more 1 feele, tliat yon disdainc, riaHistor.foi. 
 
 The faster doth my love remaine. '^^• 
 
 In Greece they find a burning soile. By the Ionian 
 
 That fumes in nature like the same, ^^a there is a 
 
 Colde water makes the hotter broyle, [urnel conti- 
 
 The greater frost, the greater flame, ""^'ly- ^"'^ 
 
 So frames it witJi my love or lost, ter iT crstTnio 
 
 That hercelv fries amidst the frost. jj- ^^^ "<"■= ■» 
 
 lames. 
 
 My hart inflanid with quenchlesse heate. 
 Doth fretting fume in secret fire, 
 These hellish torments are the meate, 
 That dayly feede this vaine desire : 
 
 Thus shall I grone in gastly griefe, 
 Till you by mercy send relief e. 
 
 You 
 
 69
 
 Willobie 
 
 You first inflam'd my brimstone thought, 
 Your fainiug favour witcht mine eye, 
 O lucklesse eye, that thus hast brought, 
 Thy masters hart to strey awrye. 
 
 Now blame your selfe, if I offend. 
 The hurt you made, you must amend. 
 
 With these my lines I sent a Ring, 
 
 Least you might thinke you were forgot, 
 
 The posie meanes a pretie tiling. 
 
 That bids you, Do but dally not, 
 
 Do so sweete hart, and doe not stay. 
 For daungers grow from fond delay. 
 
 Five xcinters Frosts have say'd to quell 
 These flaming fits of firme desire. 
 Five Sommers sunnes cannot expell 
 The cold dispaire, that feeds the fire. 
 
 This tijue I hope, my truth doth trie 
 Now yeeld in time, or else I die. 
 
 DuJum beatus, 
 
 D.B. 
 CANT. XXXII. 
 
 The 
 
 70
 
 his Avisa. 
 
 28 
 
 Tr//£' Indian men have found a plant, 
 * WJiose vertuey mad conceits doth quell, 
 
 This roote (me thinks) yon greatly want, 
 
 This raging madnes to repell. 
 
 If rebell fancie worhe this spite, 
 Request of God a better sprite. 
 
 If you by folly did offend. 
 By giving raines unto your lust. 
 Let ivisdome now these fancies end, 
 Sith thus untwin'd is all your trust. 
 If wit to will, will needs resigne, 
 Why should your fault be counted mine ? 
 
 Your Ring and letter that you sent, 
 I botJi returne from whence they came, 
 As one that knowes not what is ment. 
 To send or write to me the same, 
 
 You had your aunswere long before. 
 So that you need to send no more. 
 
 Your chosen posie seemes to show. 
 That all my deeds but dallings bee, 
 I never dally ed that I know, 
 And that I thinke, you partly see, 
 
 I shewde you first my meaning plaine. 
 
 The same is yet, and shall reniaine. 
 
 Some say that Tyme dotJi purge the blood, 
 And franticke humors brings to frame, 
 I marvaile time hath done no good, 
 Your long hid grief es and qualmes to tame? 
 What secret hope doth yet remaine, 
 That makes these sutes revive againe ? 
 
 But 
 
 The roote Ba- 
 aras is good 
 to deliver 
 them that are 
 possessed with 
 evill sprites. 
 Josephiis. 
 
 Time pur- 
 geth chole- 
 ricke humors 
 and the hloud. 
 
 71
 
 Willobie 
 
 But die you will, and that in hast, 
 Except you find some quiche relief e, 
 rie warrant yon, your life at last. 
 While foolish love is all your griefe, 
 
 As first I said, so say I still, 
 
 I cannot yeeld, nor ever will. 
 
 Alwaies tlie same, 
 Avisa. 
 
 Difficile est 
 diligere, & 
 Sapere. Vtdte- 
 ius. 
 
 Nonsijcemini- 
 urn crebo ca- 
 put igne refitn 
 das, Ingenii 
 mutes prima 
 vietalla sui. 
 
 CANT. XXXIII. 
 
 &M The 2. letter of D.B. to hard&rfg 
 ^m Harted AVISA farewell. (^0 
 
 ^': x: .t a: r. -i: x: :; x: •;' t v-U 
 
 (»,,(•■,(» , t » ) 
 
 I FIND it true, that some have said, 
 It's hard to love, and to be wise. 
 For zcit is oft by love betraid, 
 And brought a sleepe, by fond devise, 
 Sith faith no favour can procure, 
 My patience must my paine indure. 
 
 When ivomens wits have drawne the plot, 
 And of their fancie laid the frame, 
 Then that they holde, where good or not. 
 No force can move them from the same : 
 So you, because you first denide, 
 Do thinke it shame, from that to slide. 
 
 72
 
 his Avisa. ^ 
 
 As faithfidl friendship mov'd my tofigite, 
 
 Your secret love, and favour crave ; 
 
 And as I never did you wrong, 
 
 This last request so let me Jiave ; 
 
 Let no man know what I did move, 
 Let no man know, that I did love. 
 
 That I will say, this is the worst. 
 
 When this is said, then all is past, 
 
 Thou proud Avisa, were the first, 
 
 Thou hard Avisa, art the last, 
 
 Though thou in sorrow make me dwell 
 Yet love will make me wish thee well. 
 
 Write not againe, except you write 
 This onely gentle word, I will, 
 TJiis onely word will bring d elite. 
 The rest will breede but sorrow still, 
 
 God graunt you gaine that you desire, 
 By keeping that, which I require. 
 
 Yet will I listen now and then. 
 To see the end, my mind will crave. 
 Where yon will yeeld to other men. 
 The thing that I could never have. 
 
 Bui what to me ? where false or true, 
 Where live or die, for aye Adue. 
 
 Fortuna lerenda. 
 
 D. B. 
 
 I 
 
 73
 
 Willohie 
 
 DYDIMUS HARCO, 
 ANGLO-GER- 
 
 MANUS. 
 CANT. XXXIIII. 
 
 'vl /(•'^-Vi" V' V(" Vi" I'" V* *' "r' -^ "(^ ':^Z- . 
 ^^'i-f-l. I,. U t. I. I. i. I. i» li- '. >3 
 
 I HAVE to say, yet cannot speake, 
 The thing that I would gladly say, 
 My hart is strong, though tong be weake, 
 Yet will I speake it, as I may. 
 
 And if I speake not as I ought. 
 Blame but the error of my thought. 
 
 And if I thinke not as I should. 
 Blame love that bad me so to thinke ; 
 And if I say not what I would, 
 T'is modest shame, that makes me shrinke, 
 For sure their love is very small, 
 That can at first expresse it all. 
 
 Forgive my blush, if I do blush. 
 You are the first I ever tride. 
 And last whose conscience I will crush, 
 If now at first I be denide, 
 
 I must be plaine, then give me leave, 
 
 I cannot flatter nor deceive. 
 
 Y 
 
 ou 
 
 74
 
 his Avisa. 
 
 30 
 
 You know that MarcKaunts ride for game, 
 As chiefe foundations of their state, 
 You see that we refuse no paine, 
 To rise betime, and travell late, 
 
 But farre from home, this is the spite, 
 We want sometimes our chiefe dehte. 
 
 I am no Saint, I must confesse. 
 
 But naturde hke to other men, 
 
 My meaning you may quickly guesse, 
 
 I love a woman now and then. 
 
 And yet it is my common use, 
 To take advise, before I chuse. 
 
 I oft have seene the Western part. 
 And therein many a pretie elfe. 
 But found not any in my hart, 
 I like so well as of your selfe ; 
 
 And if you like no worse of mee. 
 We may perhaps in time agree. 
 
 CANT. XXXV. 
 
 ^ a/hen first you did request to talke 
 ^' With me alone a little space, 
 When first I did consent to walke 
 With you alone within this place, 
 
 From this your sage, and sober cheare, 
 I thought some grave advise to heare. 
 
 75 
 
 )ome
 
 Willobie 
 
 Some say that womens faces fame 
 
 A modest shew, from wanton Hart ; 
 
 But give me leave, I see it plaine, 
 
 That men can play a duble part, 
 
 I could not dreamc, that I should find 
 In lustlesse shew, such lustiull mind. 
 
 You make as though you would not speake, 
 
 As unacquainted yet with love, 
 
 As though your mind you could not breake. 
 
 Nor how these secret matters move. 
 
 You blush to speake, Alas the blush. 
 Yet this IS all not worth a rush. 
 
 Such she conceites are out or joynt, 
 So foule within, so laire without. 
 Not worth in proof e a threden poynt : 
 But now to put you out of doubt. 
 
 Your thought is far deceiv d of mee, 
 As you in time shall plainely see. 
 
 If you had known my former life. 
 With spotlesse fame that I have held, 
 How first a maide and then a wife, 
 These youthly sutes I have repeld, 
 
 You would (I hope) correct your rate, 
 That judge me thus a common mate. 
 
 Whome you have seene, I doe not care, 
 Nor reck not what you did request, 
 I am content this flout to beare. 
 In that you say, you like me best, 
 
 And if you wish that you agree. 
 Correct your wrong conceite of mee. 
 
 The 
 
 76
 
 his Avisa. 
 
 34 
 
 CANT. XXXVI. 
 
 g?<© D H ^M 
 
 ' I HE lymed bird, by foulers traine, 
 
 " Intrapt by view of pleasant baite, 
 Would fame unwind bimselfe againe ; 
 But feeles too late tbe bid desaite : 
 
 So I bave found tbe clasping lyme, 
 Tbat will sticke fast for longer time. 
 
 Tbere is a floud, wbose rivers runne, 
 Like streames of Milke, and seemes at first, 
 Extreamely colde, all beate to sbunne, 
 But stay awbile, and quencb your tbirst, 
 Sucb vebement beate tbere will arise, 
 As greater beate none may devise. 
 
 Tbese strange effects I find inrold, 
 Witbin tbis place, since my returne. 
 My first affections were but cold. 
 But now I feele tbem fiercely burne, 
 
 Tbe more you make sucb strange retire, 
 Tbe more you draw my new desire. 
 
 You tbinke percbance I doe but jest. 
 
 Or I your secrets will bewray. 
 
 Or baving got tbat I request, 
 
 Witb false Aeneas steale away, 
 
 If you suspect tbat I will range. 
 Let God forsake me, wben I cbange. 
 
 In Italy 
 is a certaine 
 water that 
 falleth into 
 the River A- 
 nion, of co- 
 lour white, 
 and at first 
 seemes to bee 
 wonderful! 
 colde, but be- 
 ing a while m 
 It, it heatetli 
 the body 
 more ex- 
 treamely. 
 Leonicus de va 
 via Histor. 
 
 77
 
 Willobie 
 
 I will not DOst me or my wealth, 
 You shall no Gold nor Jewels want, 
 You see I am in perfect nealtn, 
 And if you list to give your grant, 
 
 A hundretH pounds shall be your hire, 
 
 But onely doe that I require. 
 
 And here's a Bracelet to begin. 
 
 Worth twentie Angels to be sold. 
 
 Besides the rest, this snail you win, 
 
 And other things not to be told. 
 
 And I will come but now and then. 
 To void suspect, none shall know when. 
 
 CANT. XXXVII. 
 
 In Plato his 
 common 
 wealth all 
 women were 
 common, con- 
 trary to the 
 commande- 
 ment o{ GoJ. 
 
 Exod. 20. 14 
 Levit. 18. 20. 
 29. 
 
 \^/HY then your conscience doth declare 
 ^ ' A guilty mind that shunnes the lignt, 
 A spotlesse conscience need not leare. 
 The tongues of men, nor yet the sigbt, 
 
 Your secret slides doe passe my skill, 
 And plainely shewe your workes are ill. 
 
 Your words commend the lawlesse rite, 
 Of Platoes lawes that freedom gave, 
 That men and women for delight. 
 Might both in common freely have. 
 
 Yet God doth threaten cruell death. 
 
 To them that breake their wedlocke faith. 
 
 The 
 
 78
 
 his A visa. 
 
 35 
 
 The Bee beares nonie in her mouth, 
 
 Yet poysoned sting in hinder part, 
 
 The spring is sweete where pleasure growth, 
 
 The fall of leafe brings storming smart, 
 
 Vaine pleasure seemes most sweete at first. 
 And yet their end is still accurst. 
 
 What hosome heares hote burning coles. 
 And yet consumes not with the same r 
 What feete tread fire with bared soles, 
 And are not synged with the flame ? 
 
 They stay my friend, made no such hast, 
 To buy Repcntaunce at the last. 
 
 I am not of the Cyprian sort, 
 Nor yet have learnd the common use 
 Of Bable dames, in filthy sport. 
 For gaine no commers to refuse. 
 
 What stormes or troubles ever grow, 
 
 I list not seeke my living so. 
 
 Your gorgious gifts, your golden hookes. 
 Doe move but fooles to looke aside, 
 The wise will shunne such craftie crookes. 
 That have such false resemblance tride : 
 
 But men are sure, that they will lift. 
 
 That are content to take a gift. 
 
 tiivavarac. Itnitantur liamos Dona. Fccmtua prostiLutl sesequeMunera 
 
 sc veiidit qua data dona capil. \'ultcius. 
 
 Nay 
 
 Strange plea- 
 sure seemes 
 sweete at the 
 beginning, 
 but their end 
 is as bitter 
 wormewood. 
 Prover. 5. 3. 4. 
 Prover. 6. 27. 
 Noil tanti 
 emam paenite- 
 re. 
 
 Filthy hea- 
 then lawes. 
 In Cyprus, 
 their may- 
 dens before 
 the time ol 
 their mariage 
 were set open 
 to every man 
 to gaine their 
 dowrie. Justi- 
 ne. 
 
 The Babilo- 
 nians had a 
 custome, that 
 if any were 
 poore, they 
 should pro- 
 cure their 
 daughters 
 and wives to 
 get money 
 with their bo- 
 dies. Herodot. 
 Formoscp, prc- 
 tio capiun. 
 donat. Fcinina 
 
 79
 
 Willobie 
 CANT. XXXVIII. 
 
 
 ^^ D. H. 
 
 I^AY tlien farewell, If this be so, 
 
 * ^ If you be of tbe purer stampe, 
 
 Gainst wind and tide I can not roe, 
 
 I have no oyle to feede that lampe, 
 Be not too rash, denie not flat, 
 For you refuse, you know not what. 
 
 But ratber take a farther day, 
 
 For farther triall of my faith. 
 
 And rather make some wise delay. 
 
 To see and take some farther breath : 
 He may too rashly be denide. 
 Whose faithfull hart was never tride. 
 
 And though I be by Jury cast. 
 
 Yet let me live a while in hope. 
 
 And though I be condemnde at last, 
 
 Yet let my fancie have some scope. 
 And though the body flie away. 
 Yet let me with the shadow play. 
 
 Will you receive, if I doe send 
 
 A token of my secret love ? 
 
 And stay until! you see the end 
 
 Of these effects, that fancie move ? 
 
 Grant this, and this shall salve my sore, 
 Although you never grant me more. 
 
 And 
 
 80
 
 his Avisa. 
 
 36 
 
 And thus at first let this suifise, 
 Inquire or me, and take the vewe 
 Or rayne estate, with good advise. 
 And I will do the like by you ; 
 
 And as you like, so frame your love, 
 But passe no promise till you prove. 
 
 This have I said to shew my hent, 
 
 But no way spoken to offend. 
 
 And though my love cannot relent, 
 
 Yet passed errors will I mend, 
 
 Keepe close the Tenor of our talke. 
 And say, we did for pleasure walke. 
 
 CANT. XXXIX. 
 
 MMmmm' 
 
 THEN jugling mates do most deceave. 
 And most delude the dazeled sight. 
 When up they turne their folded sleeve, 
 With hared armes to woorke their slight. 
 
 When sharpe-set Foxe begins to preach, 
 Let goslings keepe without his reach. 
 
 And will you have me set a day, 
 
 del 
 
 ayes 
 
 To feede your hope with vaine 
 
 WelL I will doo as you do say. 
 
 And posse you up with fainting stayes. 
 
 That day shall hreake my plighted faith. 
 That drawes my last and gasping breath. 
 
 If 
 
 81
 
 Willobte 
 
 If you will Hope, tKen hope in this, 
 He never grant that you require : 
 If this you hope, you shall not misse, 
 But shall obtaine your hopes desire, 
 If other hope you do retaine. 
 Your labor's lost, your hope is vaine. 
 
 The child that playes with sharpned tooles, 
 Doth hurt himselfe for want of wit. 
 And they may well be counted fooles. 
 That wrastle neere a dangerous pit : 
 
 Your loose desire doth hope for that. 
 Which I must needes deny you flat. 
 
 Send mee no tokens of your lust, 
 Such gifts I list not to receive. 
 Such guiles shall never make me trust, 
 The woman Such broad-laydc baytes cannot deceive, 
 
 that reccivcth p^^ ^|^gy ^^ yccld do thcu prepare, 
 
 ^'*'"°^ ""\ That grant to take such prof f red ware. 
 
 sutor3, selletn " 
 
 her selfe & her 
 
 liberty. If this be it you have to say, 
 
 You know my mynd which cannot change, 
 
 I must be gon, I cannot stay, 
 
 No fond delight can make me range, 
 
 And for a farewell, this I sweare. 
 You get not that I hold so deare. 
 
 Aft 
 
 er 
 
 82
 
 his Avisa. 
 
 37 
 
 After long absence, DH. happening 
 
 to come in on a fynie sodenly to her house, and 
 
 finding her all alone amongst her maiaes that were 
 
 spiiiiiiiig, sayd not/iiiig, but going home 
 
 wrate these verses following, which 
 
 he called his Dum habui. and 
 
 sent them unto her. 
 
 CANT. XL. 
 
 ^^ D. H. to AVISA. too ^^m 
 
 K5j)i<?,) constant. 'f" *.l ■ 
 
 WHYVST erst I had my libertie, 
 To range the woodes where fancy list, 
 The cause of all my miserie, 
 By heedlesse hast my way I mist, 
 Untill I found within a plaine, 
 A Christ all Well, where Nimphes remaine. 
 
 As weary of this wild-goose race, 
 That led askance, I know not where, 
 I chose at length a shadow place. 
 To take the cold and pleasant ayre, 
 
 But from the brinke of that same well, 
 I saw my heaven, or els my hell. 
 
 I saw a hyrde from joyning grove, 
 
 That soaring came with comely grace, 
 
 The Lit lie and Vermillion strove, 
 
 In mayden-like and lovely face. 
 
 With seemely amies in steed of winges, 
 No clawes, but fingers set with ringes. 
 
 And 
 
 83
 
 Willobie 
 
 And in her hand she held a dart, 
 As being of Diana's trayne, 
 
 thafs the cause of all my smart. 
 And breeder of this endlesse paine, 
 
 The thing I sought not, there I find. 
 And lost the freedorne of my mind. 
 
 While on her eies, my eies did hang, 
 From rolling eie there sprang a glance 
 And therewith heard a sodayne clang. 
 That strake me in a deadly trance, 
 
 But waWt I sawe blind Cupids craft, 
 And in my hart the golden shaft. 
 
 1 sewd for grace, but she denyUl, 
 Her laughty lookes she cast awry, 
 And when my folly she espyUl, 
 She laught to see my miseiy : 
 
 Away she soares, and from iny sight. 
 She smiling takes her parting flight. 
 
 You are the byrde that bred the bane. 
 That swelleth thus in restlesse thought. 
 You are the snare that thus have tane. 
 And sences all to thraldome brought. 
 You are the Jaylor that do keepe 
 Your f rend inbandes, and dungeon deepe 
 
 Renowmed chaste Penelope, 
 
 With all her wordes could not redryve 
 
 Her sutors, till she set a day. 
 
 In which she would them answere give. 
 
 When threedy spindle full zvas grow'n. 
 Then would she chuse one for her ow'n. 
 
 They. 
 
 84
 
 his A visa. ^ 
 
 They dayly came io see the end, 
 
 And every man doth hope to bee 
 
 The chosen man^ to he her frendy 
 
 But womens wyles here men may see, 
 Her Spill was never fully spone, 
 For night undid that day had done. 
 
 I hope the like yon have decreed, 
 That found you spinning but of late, 
 Woidd God your Spill were full of threed, 
 That might releeve my wretched state, 
 I will forget the wronges are past. 
 So you will chuse me at the last. 
 
 Chuse one at length, I know you will, 
 Let tryed faith for ten yeares space. 
 How ever that your spindle fill. 
 With joy posscsse that emptie place. 
 And if you will, I do protest, 
 My love shall far surmount t/ie rest. 
 
 These lines that hope for better speed. 
 
 As loving spyes are sent to see, 
 
 Where you have sponne up all your threed. 
 
 And what good hap is left for mee : 
 
 Let there returne, yet make him glad, 
 Whonie loves dispayre hath made so sad. 
 
 D.H. 
 
 CANT. 
 
 85 
 
 m
 
 Willohie 
 
 CANT. XLI. 
 
 ^^ Aviaa her answere to D.H 
 VG^P<^ a finall resolution. 
 
 
 If / he of Diana's trayne, 
 As treice it is 1 must coufesse, 
 J mervailc that you strive in vayne, 
 Where fruteJesse hope yeelds no redresse : 
 For they must needes continue sad 
 That seehe for that, xcitl not be had. 
 
 What servite fottie doth possesse 
 Your lyase conceite, that can abyde 
 Such piteous ptainfes, and sutes addresse, 
 To them that do your sutes deryde ? 
 
 For I can Jiardly thinke them wyse, 
 That try a^aine, repulsed thryse. 
 
 No Hellens rape, nor Trojan u^arre, 
 My loving mate hath fors't away 
 No J u noes xcratJi, to icander farre, 
 From loving bed can make him stray, 
 Nor stay at all in forraine land. 
 But here I have him still at hand. 
 
 My
 
 his A visa. ^ 
 
 My sweet Ulisses never stayes 
 From his desyred home so long, 
 That I should need such rare delayes 
 To Shield me from intended wrong, 
 
 My chiefe delightes are alwayes nye, 
 And in my bosome sweet ely lye. 
 
 The Spindle that you see me drive, 
 Hath fyld the spill so often trend. 
 My hart is fixt, since I did give 
 My wedlocke faith to chosen frend, 
 
 Then leave to sewe, since that you see 
 Your hap debarres your hope from mee. 
 
 I use not oft to make reply 
 
 To lines that yeelde such wanton store, 
 
 Let this suffice, that I deny. 
 
 And after this, looke for no more, 
 
 My choise is bound, by lawfull band. 
 My oath is past, and that shall stand. 
 
 Aiway tne same 
 Avisa 
 
 This 
 
 «7
 
 Willohie. 
 CANT. XLII. 
 
 violata, va- 
 le, vale 6 vio- 
 lata, placebos, 
 Iiiviolaia no- 
 ces nunc vio- 
 lata mihi, 
 Vulteius. 
 
 Sic virgo dum 
 intacia manet, 
 tu chara suis 
 sed cum ami- 
 sit pollutO COY- 
 
 pore florem. 
 Ncc pueris ju- 
 cunda manet, 
 nee chara pii- 
 ellis. 
 Catullus. 
 
 D.Yi.to c\iastAvisaperpe- "^'"^^ 
 tuall constancy. 
 
 T 
 
 HIS is inougli : now I have done 
 I thinke indeed yon do not faine^ 
 As others have, that have heene wonne 
 In shorter space, with lesser paine, 
 And sith you will not yeeld in deed 
 To these my wordes, yet take good heed. 
 
 My former love was onely lust, 
 
 As yon in deed did truly say, 
 
 And they, such love that rashly trust, 
 
 Do plant the plot of swift decay : 
 
 But they ichom Grace doth make so wise. 
 To high renowne, will surely ryse. 
 
 If you had had a waxye hart 
 That would have melt at hot desyre, 
 Or chaffy e t hough tes that could have start. 
 And yeeld to burne at every fyre, 
 What ere I did, or sayd before, 
 I should have t/iought you but a whore. 
 
 Though saylers love the conuuon Port, 
 
 As safest harbour where to rest, 
 
 Yet wise men seeke the strongest fort. 
 
 And paper castells most detest : 
 
 Men cannot love such as they know. 
 Will yeeld at sight of every blow. 
 
 But 
 
 88
 
 40 
 
 V 
 
 his Avisa. 
 
 But now my love by vertue hounds 
 No stormie blastes can make it cjuaile, 
 Your constant mind a f rend Jiath found 
 Whose honest love shall never faile, 
 A faithfull frend in honest love, 
 Whom lewd affections shall not move. 
 
 If you this wanton faidt forgive, 
 No time in me shall ever find 
 Such lewd atteniptes, while I do live, 
 Now that I know your constant niynd, 
 
 My pen doth write, my hart hath swore 
 My lounge such speech shall use no more. 
 
 A thousand tynics I love yon more, 
 
 Then if I had my purpose wonnc, 
 
 Of common love I make no store. 
 
 But leave it there wliere I beg u line, 
 
 What oddes there is, now you may prove, 
 Twixt wicked lust and honest love. 
 
 Now grant I pray this last request. 
 
 That fraudlesse hart doth frend ly send. 
 
 That if my fayth deserve it best. 
 
 Accept me for your honest frend : 
 
 And if I seeke your spoile, or shame. 
 Then raze me out, and blot my name. 
 
 And if I shall this favour find, 
 Then weare this ring, though you be loth. 
 As token of my simple mynd. 
 And perfect band of faithfull oath : 
 TJie posye is, No frend to faith 
 That will remaine, till both our death. 
 
 Esteeme
 
 Willobie 
 
 Esteetne not this a painted bait, 
 Or golden ball cast to deceave : 
 If I do meane such lewd desalt, 
 Let God my soule in tormentes leave : 
 I say no more, but thus I end 
 In honest love your faithful frend. 
 
 D.H. 
 
 rV • ^, ^>, -^„ •'r- '^ .-,- ^^ '^ '-^ ^r- '^ • 'J--1 
 
 CANT. XLIII. 
 
 \FOU know that I have laid my rest, 
 ' Front u'h ich my m ind shall never swerve, 
 If all be true that you protest. 
 Then shall you find, as you deserve : 
 
 All hidden truth tymc will bewraie, 
 This is as much as I can saie. 
 
 Alway the same 
 A visa 
 
 CANT. XLIIII. 
 
 Henrico Willobego. Italo-Hispalensis. 
 
 H. W. being sodenly affected witK the contagion 
 of a fantasticall fit, at the first sight of A, pyneth a 
 while in secret griefe, at length not able any longer to 
 indure the burning heate of so fervent a humour, be- 
 wrayeth the secresy of his disease unto his familiar 
 frend W. S. who not long before had tryed the cur- 
 tesy 
 
 90
 
 his Avisa. "*' 
 
 tesy or tne like passion, and was now newly recovered of 
 the like infection ; yet finding his frend let hloud in the 
 same vaine, he took pleasure for a tyme to see him bleed, 
 Of in steed of stopping the issue, he inlargeth the wound, 
 with the sharpe rasor of a willing conceit, perswading him 
 that he thought it a matter very easy to be compassed, & 
 no doubt with payue, diligence & some cost in tyme to be 
 obtayned. Thus this miserable comforter comforting his 
 frend with an impossibihtie, eyther for that he now 
 would secretly laugh at his frends folly, that had given 
 occasion not long before unto others to laugh at his 
 owne, or because he would see whether an other could 
 play his part better then himselfe, & in vewing a far off 
 the course of this loving Comedy, he determined 
 to see whether it would sort to a happier end for this 
 new actor, then it did for the old player. But at 
 length this Comedy was like to have growen to a 
 Tragedy, by the weake and feeble estate that H.W. was 
 brought unto, by a desperate vewe of an impossibility of 
 obtaining his purpose, til Time Of Necessity, being his 
 best Phisitions brought him a plaster, if not to heale, 
 yet in part to ease his maladye. In all which dis- 
 course IS lively represented the unrewly rage of 
 unbrydeled fancy, having the raines to rove at liberty, 
 with the dyvers Of sundry changes of affections & 
 temptations, which Will, set loose from Reason, can 
 devise, Qfc. 
 
 H.W. 
 
 91
 
 Willohic 
 
 ©^ H. W. 
 
 WHAT sodaine cKance or cliange is this, 
 That doth bereave my quyet rest ? 
 What surly cloud eclipst my blisse, 
 What sprite doth rage within my brest ? 
 Such fainty qualmes I never found, 
 Till first I saw this westerne ground. 
 
 Can change of ayre complexions change, 
 
 And strike the sences out of frame ? 
 
 Though this be true, yet this is strange, 
 
 Sith I so lately hither came : 
 
 And yet in body cannot find 
 
 So great a change as in my mynd. 
 
 My lustlesse limmes do pyne away, 
 
 Because my heart is dead within. 
 
 All lively heat I feele decay, 
 
 And deadly cold his roome doth win, 
 My humors all are out of frame, 
 I frize amid st the burning flame. 
 
 I have the feaver Ethicke right, 
 
 I burne within, consume without, 
 
 And having melted all my might, 
 
 Then followes death, without all doubt : 
 
 fearefull foole, that know my greefe. 
 Yet sew and seeke for no releefe. 
 
 I know 
 
 92
 
 his Avisa. 
 
 I know tne tyme, I know tne place, 
 Both when and where my eye did vew 
 That novell shape, that frendly race, 
 That so doth make my hart to rew, 
 
 happy tyme ii she inclyne, 
 
 Ii not, wourth theese hicklesse eyne. 
 
 I love the seat where she did sit, 
 
 I kisse the grasse, where she did tread. 
 
 Me thinkes I see that face as yet. 
 
 And eye, that all these turmoyles hreed, 
 
 1 envie that this seat, this ground. 
 Such frendly grace and favour found. 
 
 I dream t of late, God grant that dreame 
 Protend my good, that she did meete 
 Me in this greene by yonder streame. 
 And smyling did me frendly greete : 
 
 Where wandnng dreames be just or 
 I mind to try ere it be long, (wrong, 
 
 But yonder comes my faythfuU frend, 
 That like assaultes hath often tryde, 
 On his advise I will depend. 
 Where I shall winne, or be denyde, 
 
 And looke what counsell he shall give, 
 That will I do, where dye or live. 
 
 42 
 
 CANT. 
 
 93
 
 Willobie 
 CANT. XLV. 
 
 WELL met, frend Harry, what's the cause 
 You looke so pale with Lented 
 Your wanny face and sharpened nose (cheeks ? 
 Skew plaine, your mind some thing mishkes. 
 If you will tell me what it is, 
 lie helpe to mend what is amisse. 
 
 What is she, man, that workes thy woe, 
 And thus thy tickling fancy move ? 
 Thy drousie eyes, & sighes do shoe 
 This new disease proceedes of love, 
 
 Tell what she is that witch't thee so, 
 
 I sweare it shall no farder go. 
 
 A heavy burden wearieth one. 
 
 Which being parted then in twaine, 
 
 Seemes very light, or rather none, 
 
 And boren well with little paine : 
 
 The smothered flame, too closely pent, 
 Burnes more extreame for want of vent. 
 
 So sorrowes shrynde in secret brest, 
 Attainte the hart with hotter rage. 
 Then griefes that are to frendes exprest. 
 Whose comfort may some part asswage : 
 
 If I a frend, whose faith is tryde. 
 
 Let this request not be denyde. 
 
 Excessive. 
 
 94
 
 s
 
 his Au'ifa. 
 
 Excefl*iue griefes good counfells want, 
 
 And cloud the fence from fharpe conceits • 
 
 No rca'bn rules, where forrowes plant. 
 
 And folly fecdeSj where fury fietes. 
 Tell what (lie is, and you (hall fee. 
 What hope and help fhall come from mec, 
 
 CANT. XLVL 
 
 H. W. 
 
 SEeft yonder howfe, where hanges the badge 
 Of tnglands Saint, whcncaptaines cry 
 Vidorious land, to conquering rage, 
 Loe, there ray hopeleffc helpe doth ly : 
 And there that frendly foe doth dwell, 
 That makes my hart thus rage and fweU, 
 
 CANT, XLVIL- 
 
 ^i% w. s. 
 
 'W'Xr Ell, fay no more: I know thy griefe, 
 ^ '^ And face from whence thefe flames 
 
 Itisnothardtofyndreliefe, (aryfe, ^ 
 
 If thou wilt follow good aduyfe : 
 She is no Saynt, She is no Nonne, 
 I tliinke intymc fhe may be wonne. 
 
 AtHrft 
 
 I P/i/-c)iiii7i> liMiiT ihp T',vil!<h \f iKPinn C^nbv nf tlip. /"n's/ F.ili I in;i.l
 
 his Avisa. 
 
 43 
 
 Excessive gneies good counsells want, 
 
 And cloud the sence from snarpe conceits ; 
 
 No reason rules, where sorrowes plant, 
 
 And folly f cedes, where fury fretes. 
 
 Tell what she is, and you shall see, 
 What hope and help shall come from mee. 
 
 CANT. XLVI. 
 
 Bmmim^'&i^^mM 
 
 5EEST yonder howse, where hanges the hadge 
 Of Englands Saint, when captaines cry 
 Victorious land, to conquering rage, 
 Loe, there my hopelesse helpe doth ly : 
 
 And there that frendly foe doth dwell. 
 That makes my hart thus rage and swell. 
 
 CANT. XLVII. 
 
 w. s. 
 
 WELL, say no more : I know thy grief e, 
 And face from whence these flames 
 It is not hard to fynd reliefe (aryse, 
 
 If thou wilt follow good advyse : 
 
 She is no Saynt, She is no Nonne, 
 I thinke in tyme she may he wonne. 
 
 At first 
 as
 
 Willobie 
 
 Ars vetevato- ^^ {jj-g^. repulse you must not faint, ' 
 
 Nor flye the field though she deny 
 You twise or thrise, yet manly bent, 
 Agame, you must, and still, reply : 
 
 When tyme permits you not to talke, 
 Then let your pen and fingers walke. 
 
 Munera {eve- Apply her still with dyvers thinges, 
 
 clc mihi) pla- /t^ . r i , -11 1 \ 
 
 cant Iwmi- {foT giltes the wysest will deceave; 
 
 iicsq; Dcosq: Sometymes with gold, sometymes with 
 
 No tyme nor fit occasion leave, (ringes. 
 
 Though coy at first she seeme and wielde, 
 These toyes in tyme will make her yielde, 
 
 Looke what she likes ; that you must love, 
 And what she hates, you must detest, 
 Where good or bad, you must approve, 
 The wordes and workes that please her best : 
 If she be godly, you must sweare, 
 That to offend you stand in feare. 
 
 Wicked wiles You must commend her loving face, 
 
 to Qeceave ^ . . i . . 
 
 ities wo- ror women joy in beauties praise. 
 
 '"^"- You must admire her sober grace. 
 
 Her wisdome and her vertuous wayes, 
 Say, t was her wit &' modest shoe. 
 That made you like and love her so. 
 
 You must be secret, constant, free, 
 Your silent sighes & trickling teares, 
 Let her in secret often see. 
 Then wring her hand, as one that feares 
 
 To speake, then wish she were your wife, 
 And last desire her save your life. 
 
 When 
 
 96
 
 his Avisa, 
 
 44 
 
 When she doth laugh, you must be glad, 
 And watch occasions, tyme and place, 
 When she doth frowne, you must he sad, 
 Let sighes and sobhes request her grace : 
 Sweare that your love is trulyment. 
 So she in tyme must needes relent. 
 
 CANT. XLVIII. 
 
 f%>,r?^ n. W. ^,i^ 
 
 kg.-V t It \ \ x'. t. t t t^x: t '., 
 
 I HE whole to sicke good counsel give, 
 * Which they themselves cannot perrorme. 
 Your wordes do promise sweet relieie. 
 To save my ship from drowning storme : 
 But hope IS past, and health is spent, 
 For why my mynd is Mal-COntCJlt. 
 
 The flowering hearhes, the pleasant spring, 
 That deckes the fieldes with vernant hew, 
 The harmelesse hirdes, that sweetly sing, 
 My hidden griefes, do still renew ; 
 
 The joyes that others long to see. 
 Is it that most tormenteth mee. 
 
 I greatly douht, though March be past. 
 Where I shall see that wished May, 
 That can recure that baleful blast. 
 Whose cold despaire wrought my decay ; 
 
 My hopelesse cloudes, that never cleere, 
 Presage great sorrowes very neere. 
 
 To Qispaire 
 of good 
 successc in 
 the Kcflin- 
 ninf! of a- 
 ny action, 
 is alwayes 
 a secret & 
 most cer- 
 tainc fore- 
 warning of 
 ill succcssc, 
 that indeea 
 doth often 
 follow. 
 
 »7
 
 Will obi e 
 
 I mirtK dta once, ana musicke love, 
 Which hoth as now, I greatly hate : 
 What uncouth sprite my hart doth move, 
 To loath the thing, I lov d so late ? 
 
 My greatest ease in deepest mone, 
 Is when I walke my selie alone. 
 
 Where thinking on my hopelesse hap. 
 My trickling teares, like rivers flow. 
 Yet fancy lulles me in her lap, 
 And telles me, lyfe from death shall grow : 
 
 Thus flattering hope makes me believe ; 
 
 My griefe in tyme shall feele relieve. 
 
 Aud(icc» for- Good fortune helpes the ventering wight, 
 
 tmin jural, rpi 11 1 11 
 
 timici'is^q; re- 1 hat hard attempts dare undertake : 
 
 ^''''- But they that shun the doubtful fight, 
 
 As coward drudges, doth forsake : 
 
 Come what there will, I meane to try, 
 Wher winne, or lose, I can but dye. 
 
 v^kK 
 
 CANT. XLIX. 
 
 fe'^SS H. W. the first assault. ^ 
 
 ©eg ^2^ 
 
 r)ARDON (sweet wench) my fancies fault, 
 ■ If I offend to show my smart, 
 
 Your face hath made such fierce assault, 
 And battred so my fencelesse hart : 
 
 That of my foe, my lyfe to save. 
 
 For grace I am constrained to crave. 
 
 The 
 
 as
 
 his Avisa. 
 
 The raging Lyon never rendes 
 
 The yeelding pray, that prostrate lyes, 
 
 No vahant captayne ever benaes 
 
 His force against surrendering cryes : 
 
 Here I surrender roome and right. 
 And yeeld the fort at captaines sight. 
 
 You are the chieftaine, that have layd 
 
 This heavie siege to strengthlesse tort, 
 
 And fancy, that my will betrayd. 
 
 Hath lent dispaire his strongest port : 
 
 You glauncing eyes as Cannon shot. 
 Have pearst my hart, and freedome got. 
 
 When first I saw that frendly face, 
 
 Though never seen before that day, 
 
 That wit, that talke, that sober grace, 
 
 In secret hart thus did I say : 
 
 God prosper this, for this is she. 
 That joy or woe must bring to me. 
 
 A thousand fewtures I have scene. 
 For Travelers change, & choice shall see 
 In Fraunce, in Flaunders, Of in Spaine, 
 Yet none, nor none could conquere mee ; 
 Till now I saw this face of thyne. 
 That makes my wittes are none of myne. 
 
 I often said, yet there is one, 
 
 But where, or what I could not tell. 
 
 Whose sight my sence would over come, 
 
 I feard it still, I knew it well, 
 
 And now I know you are the She, 
 That was ordaind to vanquish me. 
 
 CANT. 
 
 99
 
 Willohie 
 
 CANT. L. 
 
 Idlenesse 
 the mother 
 o{ all foo- 
 lish wan- 
 nesse. 
 DaviJ be- 
 ing idle (ell 
 to strange 
 lust. 
 
 OuceritiiY 
 Egistus, 
 quare sit 
 fact us A- 
 dulter. 
 
 '^::4' A V I s A . y ^ ■ 
 
 WHAT song is tills that you do sing, 
 What tale is this that you do tell, 
 What newes is this that you do hring. 
 Or what you meane, I know not well r 
 
 n you will speake, pray speake it playne, 
 Lest els perhaps you lose your payne. 
 
 My mynd surpris d with household cares 
 
 Tendes not darke riddles to untwyne. 
 
 My state surcharg'd with great alfares. 
 
 To Idle taike can lend no tyme ; 
 
 For if your speeches tend to love, 
 
 Your tonge in vaine such sutes will move. 
 
 In greenest grasse the winding snake. 
 With poysoned sting is soonest lound, 
 A cowardes tongue makes greatest cracke. 
 The emptiest caske yeelds greatest sound, 
 To hidden hurt, the hird to bring. 
 The fouler doth most sweetly sing, 
 
 If wandering rages have possest 
 Your roving mynd at randame bent ; 
 If idle qualmes from too much rest. 
 Fond fancyes to your lust have sent : 
 
 Cut off the cause that breedes your smart. 
 
 Then will your sicknesse soone depart. 
 
 Th. 
 
 10(1
 
 his Avisa. 
 
 46 
 
 The restles mynd that reason wantes, 
 Is like the ship that lackes a sterne, 
 The hart beset with follyes plantes, 
 At wisdomes lore repynes to learne : 
 
 Some seeke ana lynd what fancy list, 
 But after wish that they had mist. 
 
 Who loves to tread unknowen pathes, 
 Doth often wander from his way, 
 Who longes to lave in bravest bathes, 
 Doth wash by night, and wast by day : 
 
 Take heed betyme, beware the pryse 
 Of wicked lust, if you be wyse. 
 
 In pyomptu 
 causa est : 
 Desidiosiis 
 ct-at. 
 
 Noblemen 
 gentlemen, 
 and Cap- 
 tayncs by 
 idlenessc 
 fall to all 
 kynd of vi- 
 ces. 
 
 I IN WONTED lyking breedes my love, 
 ^^ And love the welspring of my griefe, 
 This fancy fixt none can remove, 
 None send redresse, none give reliefe. 
 
 But onely you, whose onely sight 
 Hath fors t me to this pyning plight. 
 
 Love oft doth spring from due desart, 
 
 As loving cause of true effect. 
 
 But myne proceeds from wounded hart. 
 
 As scholler to a novell sect : 
 
 I bare that lyking, few have bore, 
 I love, that never lov d before. 
 
 II 
 
 ovc 
 
 101
 
 Willobie 
 
 I love, llioufili (loubtfull of successc, 
 
 As blindmen grope to try the way ; 
 
 Yet still I love because I gesse, 
 
 You love, for love cannot aenay, 
 
 Except you spring oi savaage kynu, 
 WHome no desartes, nor love can bynd. 
 
 Of all tbe graces tbat excell. 
 
 And vertues tbat are cbeefly best, 
 
 A constant love dotb beare tbe bell. 
 
 And makes bis owner ever blest : 
 
 How blame you tben tbe faitbfull love 
 Tbat batb bis praise from God above. 
 
 Can you withstand wbat fates ordayne ? 
 
 Can you reprove dame Natures frame ? 
 
 Wbere natures joyne, sball will disclaimc ? 
 
 Acquite my love, beare tbey tbe blame, 
 
 Tbat snuffe at faitb, & looke so coy. 
 And count true love but for a toy. 
 
 H fortune say it sbal be so, 
 
 Tben tbougb you lyke, yet sball you yeeld. 
 
 Say wbat you list, you cannot go 
 
 Unconquered tbus from Cupids field, 
 
 That love tbat none could ever bave, 
 I dive to you, and yours I crave. 
 
 CANT. 
 
 102
 
 his Avisa. . ■*' 
 
 CANT. LII. 
 
 ]M AVISA. ii 
 
 ^pV; V: t: V; t; V; Vc i; t t t-^ 
 
 ^Ia/ELL, you are bent I see, to try 
 '^ ' The utmost list of follies race, 
 
 Your fancy hath no power to fly 
 
 The luring haite of flattering grace, 
 
 The fish that leapes & never lookes, 
 FynJes death unwares in secret hookes. 
 
 You say you love, yet shew no cause, 
 
 Of this your love, or rather lust. 
 
 Or whence this new affection groes 
 
 Which though untryde, yet we must trust, 
 Dry reeds that quickly yeeld to hurne, 
 Soone out to flamelesse cinders turne. 
 
 Such raging love in rangling mates. 
 
 Is quickly found, and sooner lost ; 
 
 Such deepe deceate in all estates. 
 
 That spares no care, no paync nor cost ; 
 
 With flattering tongues, & golden giftes. 
 To dryve poore women to their shiltes. 
 
 Examine well, & you shall see 
 Your truthlesse treason, tearmed love. 
 What cause have you to fancy mee, 
 That never yet had tyme to prove, 
 • What I have beene, nor what I am. 
 
 Where worthie love, or rather shame ? 
 
 This 
 
 loy
 
 Willobie 
 
 This love tliat you to straungers bare, 
 Is like to headstrong horse and mule, 
 That ful-fed nyes on every mare. 
 Whose lust outleapes the lawfull rule, 
 
 For here is seene your constant love, 
 Whome strange aspects so quickly move. 
 
 Besides you know I am a wife, 
 
 Not free, hut hound hy plighted oath. 
 
 Can love remaine, where filthy lire 
 
 Hath staind the soile, where vertue gro th ? 
 
 Can love indure, where iaith is iled ? 
 
 Can Roses spring, whose roote is dead r 
 
 True love is constant in her choise, 
 
 But if I yeeld to chuse againe. 
 
 Then may you say with open voice, 
 
 This IS her use, this is her vaine, 
 
 She yeelds to all : how can you than 
 Love her that yeeldes to every man r 
 
 CANT. LIII. 
 
 F fear and sorrow sharpe the wit. 
 
 And tip the tongue with sweeter grace. 
 Then will & style, must finely fit. 
 To paint my griefe, and waile my case, 
 Sith my true love is counted lust : 
 And hope is rackt in spitefull dust. 
 
 I 
 
 The 
 
 104
 
 his A visa. 
 
 The cause that made me love so soone, 
 Ana leeaes my mind witn inward smart, 
 Springes not from Starres, nor yet the Moone, 
 But closly hes in secret hart : 
 
 And II you aske, 1 can not tell, 
 Nor why, nor how, this hap beiell. 
 
 If hirth or heautie could have wrought. 
 
 In lustlesse hart this loves effect. 
 
 Some fairer farre my love have sought. 
 
 Whose loving lookes I did reject. 
 
 If now I yeeld without assault, 
 Count this my fortune or my fault. 
 
 You are a wife, and you have swore, 
 
 You will he true. Yet what of this ? 
 
 Did never wife play false before, 
 
 Nor for her pleasure strike amis ? 
 
 Will you alone be constant still, 
 When none are chast, nor ever will ? 
 
 A man or women first may chuse 
 The love that they may after loth ; 
 W[ h]o can denie but such may use 
 A second choice, to pleasure both ? 
 
 No fault to change the old for new ; 
 
 So to the second they be trevv. 
 
 Your husband is a worthlesse thing. 
 That no way can content your mind, 
 That no way can that pleasure bring. 
 Your flowring yeares desire to find : 
 
 This I will count my chiefest blisse. 
 If I obtaine, that others misse. 
 
 Th 
 
 48 
 
 ers 
 
 105
 
 Willobie. 
 
 Tner s notning gotten to be coye. 
 The purer stampe you must detest, 
 Now IS your time of greatest joye, 
 Then K)ve the inena that loves you best, 
 
 This I will count my chiefest blisse 
 
 11 I obtaine that others misse. 
 
 CANT. LIIII. 
 'jM AVISA. ^i 
 
 ' I *HAT others misse, you would obtaine, 
 ■ And want of this doth make you sad, 
 
 I sorrow that you take such paine, 
 
 To seeke for that, will not be had. 
 
 Your filed skill the power doth want. 
 Within this plot such trees to plant. 
 
 Though some there be, that have done ill. 
 And for their fancie broke their faith : 
 Yet doe not thinke that others will. 
 That feare of shame more then of death : 
 A spotlesse name is more to me, 
 Then wealth, then friends, then life can be. 
 
 Are all unconstant, all unsound ? 
 
 Will none performe their sworen vow ? 
 
 Yet shall you say, that you have found, 
 
 A chast, and constant wife I trow : 
 
 And you shall see, when all is doone. 
 Where all will yeeld, and all he woone. 
 
 Though 
 
 106
 
 his Avisa. *^ 
 
 Though you have bin at common schoole, 
 
 And enterd plaints in common place ; 
 
 Yet you wil prove your selfe a loole, 
 
 To judge all women void of grace : 
 
 I doubt not but you will be brought, 
 Soone to repent this wicked thought. 
 
 ^our second change let them alow, 
 
 1 hat list mislike their primer choice, 
 
 1 lov d him iirst, I love him now, 
 
 To whom I gave my yeelding voice, 
 
 My laith and love, I will not give 
 To niortall man, while he doth live. 
 
 What love is this, that bids me hate, 
 The man whom nature bids me love ? 
 What love is this, that sets debate, 
 Twixt man and wire ? but here I prove : 
 
 Though sm [o] othed words sceme very kind, 
 Yet all proceed from devilish mind. 
 
 CANT. LV. 
 
 M H. w. ii 
 
 p-*ROM devilish mind? well wanton well, 
 * You thinke your strength is very sure, 
 
 You thinke all women to excell, 
 And all temptations to indure. 
 
 These glorious braggs shew but your pride : 
 For all will yecld, if they be tride. 
 o You 
 
 107
 
 Willobie 
 
 You are (I Kope) as others bee, 
 
 A woman made of flesn and blood. 
 
 Amongst tbem all, will you goe tree, 
 
 When all are ill, will you be good ? 
 
 Assure your selfe, I do not iainc. 
 Requite my love with love againe. 
 
 Let me be hangd ii you be such. 
 
 As you pretend in outward shoe ; 
 
 Yet I commend your wisdome much. 
 
 Which mov d me first to love you so : 
 
 Where men no outward shewes detect, 
 Suspicious minds can nil suspect. 
 
 But to the matter ; tell me true. 
 
 Where you your fancie can incline. 
 
 To yeeld your love, for which I sue. 
 
 As fortune hath intangled mine : 
 
 For well I know, it s nothing good. 
 To strive against the raging flood. 
 
 What you mislike, I will amend, 
 If yeares I want, why I will stay, 
 My goods and life here I will spend. 
 And helpe you still in what I may : 
 
 For though I seeme a headlong youth, 
 
 Let time be triall of my truth. 
 
 Your name by me shall not be crackt. 
 
 But let this tongue from out my jawes. 
 
 Be rent, and bones to peeces rackt, 
 
 If I your secrets doe disclose. 
 
 Take good advisement what you say. 
 This is my good, or dismall day. 
 
 CANT. 
 
 1U8
 
 his Avisa. 
 CANT. LVI. 
 
 '/•/!« I t , t «. , t « • t. . I t » «, , ( t. , I « It I « V * , 
 
 AVISA. ^?S^ 
 
 50 
 
 '-,^' '^ 
 
 iir ' -xt-xt -t: t: 4: r: xt a: x: a: x -»; 
 
 ^^ES, so I will, you may be bold, 
 '■ Nor will I use sucb strange delaies ; 
 But that you sball be quickly told, 
 How you snail irame your wandring waies : 
 If you will follow mine advise. 
 Doubt not but you sball soone be wise. 
 
 To love, excepting bonest love, 
 
 I can not yeeld, assure you mind ; 
 
 Tben leave tbis frutelesse sute to move. 
 
 Least like to SysyphilS you find, 
 
 Witb endlesse labour, gainelesse paine. 
 To role tbe stone tbat turnes againe. 
 
 You want no yeares, but ratber wit. 
 And dew forecast in tbat you seeke, 
 To make your cboice tbat best may fit, 
 And tbis is most tbat I mislieke ; 
 
 If you be free, live wbere you list, 
 
 But still beware of, Had I wist. 
 
 Serve God, and call to bim for grace, 
 Tbat be may stay your slipperie slides. 
 From treading out tbat sinfull trace, 
 Tbat leades wbere endlesse sorrowe bides, 
 
 Tbus sball you wisely guide your feete ; 
 
 Tbougb youtb and wisedome seldome meete 
 
 And 
 loe
 
 Willobie 
 
 And if you rind, you nave no gut, 
 To live a cliast and matelesse liie. 
 Yet leare to use unlawfull sniit, 
 But marry with some nonest wiie. 
 
 With whom you may contented live, 
 And wandring mind from folly drive. 
 
 Fiiggicjuel pi- Fly present pleasure that doth hring 
 
 acer presenU Insuing sorrow, paine and griefe ; 
 
 cheti da dolor r\( \ \ \ 1 ' 1 
 
 jntuYo. Ui death beware the poys ned sting, 
 
 That hatcheth horror sance reliefe, 
 
 Take this of me, and in the end 
 
 I shall be thought your chiefest frend. 
 
 CANT. LVII. 
 
 I F then the welspring of my joy, 
 ■ A floud of woe, in fine become. 
 If love engender loves annoy, 
 Then farewell life, my glasse is runne ; 
 
 If you thus constant still remaine ; 
 
 Then must I die, or live in paine. 
 
 Thrice happie they, whose joyned harts, 
 United wils have linckt in one. 
 Whose eies discerne the due desarts. 
 The griping griefe, and grievous grone. 
 
 That faith doth breed in setled mind. 
 As fancies are by fates inclined. 
 
 And 
 
 no
 
 his Avisa. ^* 
 
 And shall I role tlie restlesse stone ? 
 
 And must I prove tne endlesse paine ? 
 
 In curelesse care snail I alone, 
 
 Consume witn grieie, tnat yeelds me game ? 
 Ii so I curse these eies oi mine, 
 That first beheld that face of thine. 
 
 Your will must with my woe dispence. 
 Your face the founder of my smart. 
 That pleasant looke fram d this offence. 
 These thrilling gripes that gall my hart, 
 
 Sith you this wound, and hurt did give, 
 You must consent to yeeld relieve. 
 
 How can I cease, while fancie guides 
 The restlesse raines of my desire ? 
 Can reason rule, where folly hides ? 
 Can wit inthrald to will retire ? 
 
 I little thought I should have mist, 
 
 I never feard of, Had I wist. 
 
 Let old men pray, let setled heads 
 Inthrall their necks to wedlocke hand, 
 Shrend golden gyves, who ever weds 
 With pleasant paine. shall take in hand : 
 But I will he your faithful frend. 
 If health by hope you yeeld to send. 
 
 CANT. 
 
 Ill
 
 Willobie 
 CANT. LVIII. 
 
 WHAT filthy folly, raging lust, 
 What beastly blindnes fancy breedes ? 
 As tbougb the Lord bad not accurst, 
 Witb vengeance due, tbe sinfull deeds ? 
 
 Tbougb vaine-led youtb witb pleasure swell, 
 Yet marke these words that I shall tell. 
 
 Gen. 38. 24. 
 Whoremoun- 
 gers burnt. 
 
 r. 5 3 
 
 Who so with filthy pleasure burnes ; 
 
 His sinfull flesh with fierie flakes 
 
 Must be consum'd ; whose soule returnes 
 
 To endlesse paine in burning lakes. 
 
 You seeme by this, to wish me well, 
 To teach me tread the path to hell. 
 
 Call you this (Love) that bringeth sin. 
 
 And sowes the seedes of heavie cheere ? 
 
 If this be love, I pray begin, 
 
 To hate the thing I love so deere ; 
 I love no love of such a rate. 
 Nor fancie that, which God doth hate. 
 
 But what saith he that long had tryde 
 
 Of harlots all the wanton flights ; 
 
 Beware least that your hart be tyde. 
 
 To fond affects by wanton sights : 
 
 Their wandering eies, and wanton lookes, 
 Catch fooles as fish, with painted hookes. 
 
 Their 
 
 112
 
 his Avisa. 
 
 Their lippes with oyle and Home flow, 
 
 Their tongs are fraught with flattering guile ; 
 
 Amidst these joyes great sorrowes grow ; 
 
 For pleasures flourish but a while, 
 
 Their feete to death, their steps to hell, 
 Do swiftly slide, that thus do mell. 
 
 Then flie this dead and dreadfull love, 
 
 This signe of Gods revenging ire ; 
 
 Let love of God such lust remove. 
 
 And quench the flames of foule desire. 
 
 If you will count me for your frend, 
 You must both workes and words amend. 
 
 CANT LIX. 
 
 With this bitter reply of Avisa, H. W. being some- 
 what daunted, yet not altogether whithout hope, went 
 home to his house, and there secretly in a melancolike 
 passion wrote these verses following. 
 
 
 mmmwwmmwmm 
 
 ^® H. W. To A VISA my l<r^ 
 "1^3^ friendly foe. ^^9^ 
 
 WMMM^ '^r: '^: '^:^ '':/ *V "i^A 
 
 THE basic Gnat about the candle, hovering still doth /lie, S'-^«'«^. 
 7^ he slimie Fish about the bayt, still wavering doth lie, 
 The fearefidl Mouse about the trap doth often try his strength, 
 Untill both Gnat, and Fish and Mouse, be taken at the lengtJi, 
 Even so itnliappie /, do like my greatest baine, 
 Unlesse you do ivith speede, release in\ mortal I paine. 
 
 The 
 
 113
 
 Ouatrain 
 
 Deuxainc. 
 
 Willohle 
 
 The light foot e hart desires the waters brooke, 
 
 The dog most sicke the greenest grasse doth crave, 
 
 The wounded wiglit for surgeon still doth looke, 
 
 Untill both hart, and dogge, and wight their medicine have : 
 
 But I with griefe th'iinhappiest of them all, 
 
 Do still delight to be my enemies thrall. 
 
 Mine eneniie I say, though yet my sweetest f rend. 
 
 If of my sorrowes I may see some speedie holsome end. 
 
 FINIS. CHi la dura, la Vincc. 
 
 CANTO LX. 
 
 (:g3 
 
 AVISA.Ker reply to H.W. 
 
 THE busie Gnat for want of wit, 
 Doth sindgc Jiis wings in burning flame. 
 The Fish with baite will headlong flit, 
 Till she be choked with the same ; 
 
 So you with Gnat and Fish will play. 
 Till flame and food e worke your decay. 
 
 The Jieedlesse Mouse, that tries the trap. 
 In hast to reach her harts desire, 
 Doth quickly find such quainte mishap. 
 That barres her strength from free retire, 
 So you will never ceasse to crave. 
 Till you have lost that now you have. 
 
 114
 
 his Avisa. ^ 
 
 The hart, the dog^e, the icoiindcd wight, 
 For water, grasse, and Surgeon call, 
 T/ieir griefes and cures, are all but light, 
 But your conceite surpast them all ; 
 
 Except yoit change your wanton mind, 
 You shall no ease, nor comfort find. 
 
 Alway the same 
 Avisa. 
 
 CANT. LXI. 
 
 H. W. prosecutetK his sute 
 
 mmmm 
 
 
 WILL not your laughty stomacke stoupe ? 
 Will not this seHe conceite come downe ? 
 As haggard loving mirthlesse coupe, 
 At frendly lure doth checke and frowne ? 
 Blame not in this the Faulkners skill, 
 But blame the Hawkes unbridled will. 
 
 Your sharp replies, your frowning cheare, 
 
 To absent lines, and present vew, 
 
 Doth aie redouble trembling feare, 
 
 And griping griefes do still renew. 
 
 Your face to me my sole reliefe, 
 My sight to you your onely griefe. 
 
 
 
 115 
 
 &
 
 Willobie 
 
 lucklesse wretch, what Hap had I, 
 To plant my love in such a soile ? 
 What furie makes me thus relie 
 On her that seekes my utter spoile ? 
 
 Gods of love, what signe is this. 
 That in the first, I first should mis ? 
 
 And can you thus increase my woe. 
 And will you thus prolong my paine ? 
 Canst kill the hart that loves thee so. 
 Canst quit my love with foule disdaine ? 
 
 And if thou canst, woe worth the place. 
 Where first I saw that flattering face. 
 
 And shall my folly prove it trew, 
 That hastie pleasure douhleth paine. 
 Shall grief e rebound, where ]oye[s] grew ? 
 Of faithfull hart is this the gaine ? 
 
 Me thinks for all your grave advise, 
 (Forgive my thought) you are not wise. 
 
 Would God I could restraine my love, 
 
 Sith you to love me can not yeeld. 
 
 But I alas cannot remove 
 
 My fancie, though I die in feeld : 
 
 My life doth on your love depend, 
 My love and life at once must end. 
 
 CANT LXII 
 
 AvisA. |y 
 
 What 
 
 116
 
 his Avisa. 
 
 ^ A /HAT witlesse errors do possesse 
 ^^ The wretched minds of loving looles, 
 That breathlesse runne to sucn distresse, 
 That lively heate lond sorrowe cooles ; 
 
 They reke not where they stand or fall, 
 Deny them love, take life and all. 
 
 It seemes a death to change their mind. 
 
 Or alter once their foolish will. 
 
 Such od conceites they seeke to find. 
 
 As may their childish fancies fill. 
 
 It makes me smile thus, now and then, 
 To see the guise of foolish men. 
 
 I can not stoupe to wandring lure ; 
 
 My mind is one, and still the same ; 
 
 While breath, while life, while daies indure, 
 
 I will not yeeld to worke my shame, 
 
 Then if you strive and stirre in vaine. 
 Blame but the fruites of idle braine. 
 
 If I do sometimes looke awrie. 
 As loth to see your blobered face. 
 And loth to heare a yong man cne, 
 Correct for shame this childish race. 
 
 And though you weepe and wane to mee 
 Yet let not all these follies see. 
 
 Good Harry leave these raging toyes. 
 That thus from restlesse fancie flow. 
 Unfit for men, not meete for boyes. 
 And let's a while talke wisely now ; 
 If that you love me as you say. 
 Then cease such madnes to bewray. 
 
 54 
 
 If 
 
 117
 
 Willobie 
 
 If honest love could breed content, 
 And frame a liking to your will, 
 I would not sticke to give consent, 
 To like you so, and love you still, 
 
 But while lust leades your love awrie, 
 Assure your selfe, I will denie. 
 
 CANT. LXIII. 
 
 A ND is it lust that welds my love ? 
 
 ^~* Or is it but your fond surmise ? 
 
 Will you condemne, before you prove ? 
 
 How can I thinke you to be wise ? 
 
 faithfull hart, yet thrice accurst, 
 That art misdeemd thus at the first. 
 
 If lust did rule my restlesse hart, 
 If onely lust did beare the sway, 
 I quickly could asswage my smart. 
 With choise, and change, for every day, 
 
 You should not laugh to see me weepe. 
 If lust were it that strake so deepe. 
 
 And yet at first, before I knew. 
 What vaine it was that bled so sore, 
 Wher lust or love, to prove it trew, 
 I tooke a salve that still before 
 
 Was wont to helpe, I chose me one, 
 With whom I quencht my lust alone. 
 
 Yet 
 
 118
 
 his Avisa. 
 
 55 
 
 rO^^'i- ^i*- '■■^••- '-^* ^^t» .H*-^'.^* ^t« -t* t» 't* ♦. >» 
 
 T^O more ; no more, too mucn of this, 
 * * And is mine yncH become an ell ? 
 If thus you writn my words amis, 
 I must of force, bid you farwell, 
 
 You sbew in this your loving bent, 
 To catcK at tbat I never ment. 
 
 119 
 
 ove. 
 
 Yet this (sweete bart) could not suffise, ment to prove 
 
 Nor any way content my mind, ^ooil 
 
 I felt new qualmes, and new arise. 
 And stronger still, and strong I find, 
 
 By tbls, I tbus doe plainely prove. 
 
 It Is not lust, but faitbfull love. 
 
 And yet to prove my love more sure. 
 And since you will not false your faith. 
 This pining pligbt I will indure, 
 Till deatb do stop your Husbands breath ; 
 
 To have me then if you will say, 
 
 I will not marrie, till that day. 
 
 If you will give your full consent, 
 When God shall take your husbands life. 
 That then you will be well content, 
 To be my spouse and loving wife, 
 
 I will be joyfull as before, 
 
 And till that time will crave no more. 
 
 CANT. LXIV.
 
 Willobie 
 
 I thought at first, (but this my thought 
 
 I must correct ;) that simple love, 
 
 In guiUes hart these fits had wrought. 
 
 But I ; too simple I, now prove. 
 
 That under shew of great good will. 
 My harts delight you seeke to spill. 
 
 He loves me well, that tils a trap, 
 
 Of deepe deceite, and deadly baine. 
 
 In dreadfull daungers thus to wrap 
 
 His friend by baites of flering traine : 
 
 Though flattering tongues can paint it brave 
 Your words do shew, what love you have. 
 
 I must consent, and you will stay 
 My husbands death. Obtaining this, 
 You thinke I could not say you Nay : 
 Nor of your other purpose mis. 
 
 You are deceiv d, and you shall trie, 
 That I such faith, and friends defie. 
 
 Such famed, former, faithlesse plot 
 
 I most detest, and tell you plaine, 
 
 If now I were to cast my lot, 
 
 With free consent to chuse againe. 
 Of all the men I ever knew, 
 I would not make my choice of you. 
 
 Let this suffice, and do not stay 
 
 On hope of that which will not be, 
 
 Then cease your sute, go where you may, 
 
 Vaine is your trust to hope on me. 
 
 My choice is past, my hart is bent, 
 While that remaines, to be content. 
 
 N 
 
 ow 
 
 120
 
 his Avisa. ^ 
 
 Now Having tract the winding trace, 
 Of false resemblance, give me leave, 
 From tKis to snew a stranger grace. 
 Then heretofore, you dm perceave, 
 
 Gainst fnendlesse love if I repyne. 
 
 The fault is yours, & none of myne. 
 
 CANT. LXV. 
 
 M H. W. ^^-.,-. 
 
 Jj^iS)M^^:iSS^^'i^'^-fi^-^ 
 
 
 I 
 
 WILL not wish, I cannot vow, 
 Thy hurt, thy griefe, though thou disdaine. 
 Though thou refuse, I know not how, 
 To quite my love with love againe : 
 
 Since 1 have swore to he thy frena, 
 As I began, so will I end. 
 
 Sweare thou my death, worke thou my woe, 
 
 Conspire with greefe to stop my breath, 
 
 Yet still thy frend, &" not thy foe 
 
 I will remayne untill my death : 
 
 Choose whome thou wilt, I will resigne, 
 If love, or faith, be like to mine. 
 
 But while I wretch too long have lent 
 
 My wandring eyes to gase on thee. 
 
 I have both tyme, & travell spent 
 
 In vaine, in vaine : and now I see. 
 
 They do but frutelesse paine procure. 
 To haggard kytes that cast the lure. 
 
 When 
 
 121
 
 Willobie 
 
 Wnen I am dead, yet tliou mayst boast, 
 Thou nadst a frend, a faithfull frend. 
 That hving hv d to love thee most, 
 And lov d thee still unto his end ; 
 
 Though thou unworthy, with disdaine 
 Did st force him live and dye in paine. 
 
 Now may I sing, now sigh, and say, 
 Farewell my lyie, larewell my ]oy, 
 Now mourne by night, now weepe by day. 
 Love, too much love breedes myne annoy : 
 What can I wish, what should I crave, 
 Sith that IS gon, that I should have. 
 
 Though hope be turned to dispaire, 
 Yet give my tongue leave to lament, 
 Beleeve me now, my hart doth sweare. 
 My lucklesse love was truly ment : 
 
 Thou art too proud, I say no more, 
 Too stout, and wo is me therefore. 
 
 Felice chi piio. 
 
 CANT. LXVI. 
 
 AviSCl having heard this patheticall fancy of H.W. and 
 seeing the teares trill downe his cheekes, as halfe angry 
 to see such passionate follie, in a man that should have 
 goverment, with a frowning countenance turned from 
 him, without farder answere, making silence her best 
 reply, and following the counsell of the wise, not to an- 
 swere a foole in his folly lest he grow too foolish, retur- 
 ted quite from him, and left him alone. But he depar- 
 ting home, and not able by reason to rule the raginge 
 fume of this phantasticall fury, cast himselfe uppon his 
 
 bed 
 
 122
 
 his Avisa. " 
 
 bed, Of refusing ootn loode and comfort for many daies 
 together, fell at length into such extremity of passionate 
 affections, that as many as saw him, had great doubt of 
 his health, but more of his wittes, yet, after a longe space 
 absence, having procured some respite from his sorrowes, he takes 
 his pen and wrate, as followeth. 
 
 H. w. ^r 
 
 I YKE wounded Deare whose tender sydes are bafh'ed in blood, 
 '-^ Front deadly wound, by fatall hand & forked shaft : 
 So bleedes my pea reed hart, for so you thinke it ^ood, 
 With cruelty to hill, that w/iich you ^ot by craft : 
 
 You still did loth my lyfe, my death shall be your gaine. 
 To dye to do you good, I shall not thinke it paine. 
 
 My person could not please, my talkc was out of frame, 
 Though Jiart and eye could never brooke my loathed sig/it. 
 Yet love doth make me say, to keepe you out of blame, 
 The fault ivas only mine, and that you did but right, 
 
 When I am gon, I Jiope my gJiost shall shew you plaine. 
 That I did truly love, and that I did not faine. 
 
 Now must I fynd the ivay to waile while lyfe doth last, 
 Yet hope I soone to see, tlie end of dolefull dayes ; 
 When floudcs of flowing feares, and creeping cares are past, 
 Then shall I leave to sing, and xcrite these pleasant layes : 
 For now I loth the foode, and bloud that lends me breath, 
 I count all pleasures paine that keepe me from my deatJt. 
 
 To 
 
 123 
 
 'fe
 
 Willobie 
 
 To darke and heavy shades, I now will take my flight, 
 Where nether tongue nor eye shall tell or see my fall, 
 That there I may disject these dregges of thy dispight, 
 And purge tJie clotted blood, that noic my hart doth gall : 
 In secret silence so, Perforce shall he my song. 
 Till truth make you confesse that you have done me wrong. 
 
 Gia speme spenta. 
 
 H. W. 
 
 Avisa refusing both to come or send him any aun- 
 swere, after a long & melancnolike deliberation, ne 
 wrate againe so as followetb- 
 
 CANT. LXVII. 
 
 "^HOUGH you refuse to come or send, 
 * Yet this I send, though I do stay. 
 Unto these lynes some credit lend. 
 And marke it well what they shall say. 
 
 They cannot hurt, then reade them all, 
 They do but shew their maisters fall. 
 
 Though you disdaine to shew remorce. 
 You xvere the first and onely wight. 
 Whose faw?tifig features did inforce 
 My will to runne beyond my might : 
 In f email face such force we see. 
 To captive them, that erst were free. 
 
 Your 
 
 124
 
 his Avisa. ^ 
 
 Yonr onely icord zvas then a laze 
 Unto viy viyiid, if I did siiinc, 
 Forgive this sinnc, but then I saw 
 My bane or blisse did first bcgiiuie, 
 
 See what my fancy coulde have donne, 
 Your love at firsts if I had xconne. 
 
 All fortune flat I had defyde, 
 To choice and change defyance sent, 
 No frowning fates could have denyde, 
 My loves persute, S willing bent, 
 
 This was my mynd, if I had found 
 Your love as myne, but half so sound. 
 
 Then had I bad the hellish rout, 
 To frounce aloft their wrincklcd front, 
 And cursed haggs that are so stout, 
 I boldly would have bid avaunt, 
 
 Let earth and ay re have f round their fill 
 So I had wrought my xvislied will. 
 
 No raging storme, nor whirling blast, 
 My setled heart could have annoyd. 
 No shy with tliundering cloudes orecast 
 Had hurt, if you I had enjoyed, 
 
 Now hope is past, he you may see. 
 How every toy tormcntetJi mee. 
 
 Chi circa trova. 
 
 CANT. 
 
 125 
 
 &
 
 Willobie 
 
 CANT. LXVIII. 
 
 ^ ^ -. -- .- ^^_ 
 
 H. W. 
 
 ^yyyyyyyy^i^ 
 
 WITH okcn planches to plane the waves, 
 WJiat Nept lines rage could I have fear' d 
 To quell the g^ulfe that rudely raves, 
 What perill could have once appeared ? 
 But now t/iat I am left alone ; 
 Bare thoughts enforce my hart to grone. 
 
 With thee to passe the chamfered groiindes, 
 What force or feare could me restraine ? 
 Willi thee to chase the Scillan houndes, 
 Methinkes it icere a pleasant paine, 
 
 This was my thought, this is my love. 
 Which none but death, can yet remove- 
 It then behoves my fainting sprite, 
 To lofty skyes ret u me againe, 
 SitJi onely death bringes me delite, 
 Which loving live in curelesse paine. 
 What hap to strangers is assind. 
 If knownefrendes doo such favour find. 
 
 How often have my frendly mates 
 My loving errours taught to scorne, 
 How oft for thee found I debates, 
 Which note I ivish had beene forborne : 
 But this c^ more would I have donne. 
 If I thy favour could have wonne. 
 
 I saw 
 
 12G
 
 his Avisa. 
 
 59 
 
 / saw your gardens passing fyfie^ 
 With pleasant /towers lately dect, 
 With Coiislops and with Eiylcntine, 
 When wofull Woodhyne lyes reject : 
 
 Yet these in weedes and briars meet, 
 Although they seeme to smell so sweet. 
 
 The dainty Daysy bravely springes, 
 And cheefest lionour seemes to get, 
 I envy not such frendly t hinges, 
 But blesse the hand that these have set : 
 Yet let the Hysope have his place, 
 That doth deserve a special I grace. 
 
 Vivi, Chi vince. 
 
 CANT. LXIX. 
 
 S3fi3S 
 H. w. §|d 
 
 •>'d' .-"Vs; •^-"iV ^V^**». '■i'^#\, "•'"^s. V^\, V>< */^S, S^ •N 'V'^ '\'^S, . * *"^ 
 
 MMht 
 
 '"^'^^MMi^M&§^^ 
 
 ¥\UT now farewell, your selfe shall see, 
 '-^ An odd excJiange of f rends in tyme. 
 You may perhappes then wish for mee, 
 And waile too late this cruell cry me : 
 
 Yea wish your selfe perhaps beshrewd. 
 That you to me such rigor shewd. 
 
 J cannot force you for to like, 
 
 Where cruell fancy doth rebel I, 
 
 I must some oilier fortune scehe. 
 
 But where or how I cannot tell : 
 
 And yet I doubt ichere you shall find 
 In all your life so sure a friend. 
 
 127 
 
 Of 
 
 fe
 
 Willohie 
 
 Of pleasant daycs ihe date is donne, 
 My carcase pyneih in conceat, 
 The lyne of lyfc his race liatJi rnnne, 
 Expecting sound of deathes retreat : 
 Yet would I live to love thee still, 
 And do thee good against thy will. 
 
 How can I love, how can I live, 
 WhiVst that my hart hath lost his hope, 
 Dispaire abandons sweet reliefe, 
 ItyZT My love, and life have lost their scope : 
 
 sure, to shew Y ct wouUl I Uvc t hv fcatiire to behold, 
 
 ttltet!"; Yet would I love, if I might be so bold. 
 
 compasse, and 
 his exceeding 
 love. 
 
 My griefe is greene, and never springes, 
 
 My sorrowe full of deadly sap. 
 
 Sweet death remove these bitter thinges, ■ 
 
 Give end to hard and cruell hap : 
 Yet xvoidd I live if I might see, 
 My life, or limmes might pleasure thee. 
 
 Farewell that sweet and pleasant walke, 
 The witnesse of my faith and wo. 
 That oft hath heard our frendly talke, 
 And giv'n me leave my griefe to show, 
 O pleasant path, where I could see 
 No crosse at all but onely shee. 
 
 II fine, fa il tutto. 
 
 128
 
 liis Avisa. 
 
 60 
 
 CANT. LXX. 
 
 mmrnm 
 
 H. W. @^^ 
 
 LIKE silly Bat, ihat loves Ihe darhc, 
 A lid schlomc brookes the xcis/wd lifj^hf, 
 Obscurely so 1 seeke the inarke, 
 That aye doth vanish from my si<^ht, 
 Yet shall sJie say, I died her /rend, 
 Though by disdaine she sought mine end. 
 
 Faine would I cease, and hold my long, 
 But love and sorroic set me on, 
 N cedes must I plaine of spitefull icrong, 
 Sith hope and Iiealth will both be gon, 
 
 When brancJi from inward rind is fled, 
 The barke doth wish the body dead. 
 
 If ever man were borne to woe, 
 
 I am the man, you know it well, 
 
 My cliief est friend, my greatest foe. 
 
 And heaven become my lieavie hell. 
 This do I feel e, this do I find : 
 But who can loose, that God will bind ? 
 
 For since tJie day, O dismall day 
 
 I first beheld that smiling face, 
 
 My fancie made her choice straightway, 
 
 And bad all other loves give place. 
 Yea, since I saic thy lovely sig/it, 
 I frize and frie, twixt joye and spight. 
 
 Where. 
 
 I'iH
 
 Willobie 
 
 Where fond susfyecf doth kecpe tJic ^ate 
 There trust is chased from the dore, 
 Theji faith and truth icill come too late, 
 Where falshod icill admit no more ; 
 
 ThcJi naked faith and love must yeeld, 
 For lacke offence, and fiie the field. 
 
 Then easier were it for to chuse, 
 
 To crate against the cragf^ie Jiill, 
 
 Thcji sutes, then sighs, then xcords to use, 
 
 To change a froxvard womans will. 
 
 Then othes and voices are all in vaitie, 
 And truth a foye, where fancies raigne. 
 
 Ama, Chi ti ama. 
 
 CANT. LXXl. 
 
 jVI y tongue, my hand, my ready hart, 
 ^ ' That spake, that felt, that freely thought, 
 M\ love, my limhes, my inward smart, 
 Have all performed what they ought. 
 
 These all do love you yet, and shall, 
 And when 1 change, let vengeance fall. 
 
 S/iall I repent, I ever saw 
 
 That face, that so can frowne on mee ? 
 
 How can I wish, when fancies draw 
 
 Mine eies to wish, and look e for thee ? 
 Then though you do denie my right, 
 Yet bar me not from wished sight. 
 
 And 
 
 130
 
 61 
 
 his Avisa. 
 
 And yd I crave, I know not icliaf, 
 
 Perchance my presence breeds your palne, 
 
 And if I were persicaded that, 
 
 I would in absence still remaine, 
 
 You shall not feele the sjuallest ^riefe 
 AltJiougli it were to save my life. 
 
 Ah woe is me, the case so stands, 
 That sencelesse papers plead my wo, 
 T/iey can not weepe, nor icrin^j; their Iiands, 
 But say perhaps, that I did so, 
 
 And though these lines for mercie crave, 
 WJio can on papers pittie have ? 
 
 O that my <^riefes, my sig/is, my feares, 
 Might plainely muster in your vew, 
 Then paiue, not pen, then faith, not feares. 
 Should vouch my voices, and writings trew, 
 T/iis wis/iing s/iewes a wofull want, 
 Of tJiat wJiicliyou by rigJit sJiould grant. 
 
 Now fare thou well, whose wel-fare brings 
 Such lothsome feare, and ill to me, 
 Yet Jieere tJiy friend this farwell sings, 
 Though heavie zcord a farwell be. 
 Against all hope, if I hope still, 
 Blame but abundance of good will. 
 
 Grand Amore, grand Dolore, 
 lnc»pem me copia lecit. 
 
 H.W. 
 
 CANT. 
 
 131
 
 Willobie 
 CANT. LXXII. 
 
 ^^mmmmmm^ 
 
 M AVISA, h.r la». reply ^^^ 
 
 r7\ 
 
 \I()U1\ lou<f Epistle I liavc read, 
 ' Great store of words, and little wit, 
 (For leant of icif, these fancies bred) 
 To aunswere all I tJiinke not fit , 
 
 But in a word, yon s/iall perceave, 
 Hoic kindly I will take my leave. 
 
 Wlien you shall see swccte Lillies grow, 
 And flourish in tJie frozen ysc. 
 When ehhino; tides shall leave to flow, 
 And niountaines to the skies shall ryse, 
 W'/ien rorin^f Seas do cease to rave, 
 Tlien shall you gaine thething you crave. 
 
 W/ien Fish as haggard Hawkes shall flie, 
 WhenSeasshall Ha nie, and Sun ne shall freese. 
 WJien mortal I men shall never die, 
 And earth sJiall yeeld, nor herbe nor trees. 
 Then shall your icords my mind remove, 
 And I accept your proffered love. 
 
 When Thames shall leave his channell drie, 
 
 W/ien Sheepe shall f cede amidst the Sea. 
 
 When stones aloft, as Jh'rds shall flie, 
 
 And night he changed into day. 
 
 Then s/iall you see that I will yeeld, 
 And to your force resigne the feeld. 
 
 Till 
 
 132
 
 his Avisa. ^ 
 
 Till all tJicse iJicsc iJiin^fs doe come to passe, 
 Assure your selfe, you know my mind, 
 My hart is now, as first it was, 
 I came not of dame Chrysiedes kind. 
 
 Then leave to hope, learne to refraine, 
 Your mind from that, you seeke in vaine. 
 
 I wish you well, and well to fare. 
 
 And there icifh all a f(odly mind, 
 
 Devoid of lust, and foolish care. 
 
 This if you seeke, this shall you find. 
 But I must say, as erst before, 
 Then cease to waile, and write no more. 
 
 Alway the same 
 Avisa. 
 
 H. W. Was now againc striken so deaa, that hee 
 hath not yet any iaraer assaid, nor I thinke ever will, 
 and where he be alive or dead I know not, and therfore 
 I leave him. 
 
 The 
 
 133
 
 Willobie 
 
 The Aiilhors conclusion. 
 
 ^^0 thus slic stands unconquered yet, 
 ^^ As Lanibe amidst the Lions pause, 
 Whom ^ifts, nor wils, nor force or wit. 
 Could vanquish once with all their shewes, 
 
 To speake the truth, and say no more, 
 
 I never knew her like beiore. 
 
 Then hlamc me not, if I protest. 
 
 My sillie Muse shall still commend 
 
 This constant A. above the rest, 
 
 While others learne their life to mend ; 
 
 My tongue on high and high shall raise, 
 And alway sing her worthie praise. 
 
 While hand can write, while wit devise, 
 While tongue is free to make report, 
 Her vertue shall he had in prise 
 Among the best and honest sort. 
 
 And they that wil mislike of this, 
 
 I shall suspect, they strike amis. 
 
 Eternall then let be the fame 
 
 Of such as hold a constant mind, 
 
 Eternall be the lasting shame 
 
 Of such as wave with every wind : 
 
 Though some there be that will repine ; 
 
 Yet some will praise this wish of mine. 
 
 But here I cease for feare of blame 
 Although there be a great deale more, 
 That might be spoken of this dame. 
 That yet lies hid in secret store, 
 
 If this be Ilk t, then can I say 
 Ye may see more another day. 
 
 A git ante calescimus illo 
 Farewell. 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 134
 
 Ills Avisa. ^ 
 
 The resolution of a chast and a con- 
 stant wife, tliat uiijuls to coitniiie 
 
 laitniall unto her nusnana. To the 
 tune or Fortune. 
 
 ' I 'HOUGH winged Birds, do often skorne the lure, 
 
 ■ And Hying (arre, do thinke themselves most sure, 
 Yet lancie so, his luring ingines frame. 
 That wildest harts, in time hecome most tame. 
 
 Where secret nature, frames a sweete consent. 
 Where privie fates their hidden force have bent, 
 To joyne in hart, the bodies that are twaine, 
 File where you list, you shall returne againe. 
 
 From fancies love, I stnved still to flie. 
 Long time I did my fortune flat denie. 
 Till at the length, my wrastling bred my woe, 
 Knowing that none, their fortune can forgoe. 
 
 For while I liv d, in prime of vernant youth, 
 Falshod that shew d, the face of famed truth, 
 Falsly gan weave a web of wylie kind ; 
 So to intrap my plaine and simple mind. 
 
 Great were the sutes, great were the frendly signes, 
 Sweete were the words, to poyson tender minds, 
 Large were the gifts, great were the proffers made. 
 To force my mind, to trie a trustlesse trade. 
 
 Great were the wights, that dayly did conspire, 
 To pluck the rose, their fancies did desire, 
 Traile did the teares, in hope to purchase trust. 
 Yet this was all, no love, but luring lust. 
 
 N 
 
 o 
 
 1:35
 
 Wniohie 
 
 No fancie could tKen force me to replie, 
 Nor move my minJ such douDttull deeds to trie : 
 For well I knew, although I knew not all, 
 Such trickle trades procure a suddaine lall. 
 
 Thus did I mount, thus did I ihe at will, 
 1 hus did I scape the foulers painted skill, 
 Thus did I save my feathers from their lime. 
 Thus did I live a long and happie time. 
 
 Cupid that great, and mightie kings could move, 
 Could never frame, my hart to like of love. 
 His limher shafts, and eke his golden dart. 
 Were still too hlunt, to pearce my steelie hart. 
 
 Till at the length, as nature had assind, 
 Unto the earth, I hent a willing mind : 
 He was the first, to whom I gave my hand, 
 With free consent, to live in holy hand. 
 
 Eva that gave her faithfull promise so, 
 
 With Adam to live in wealth and in wo. 
 
 Of faithfull hart, could never have more store, 
 
 Then I have felt, thrice three yeares space Of more. 
 
 When I had giev n my hart and free consent, 
 No earthly thing could make me once repent, 
 No Seas of griefe, ne cares that I could find. 
 Could so prevaile, to make me change my mind. 
 
 Did fortune fawne, or did our fortune frowne, 
 Did he exalt, or did he cast him downe. 
 My faithfull hart did ever make me sing. 
 Welcome to me. what ever fortune hring. 
 
 Now when I thought, all dangers had hene past 
 Of lawlesse sutes, and sutors at the last. 
 The trade, the time, the place wherein I live, 
 Unto this Lampe, new oyle doe dayly give. 
 
 But 
 
 131?
 
 Jiis A visa. ^ 
 
 But like of this all you that love to range, 
 My fixed hart likes not the skittish change, 
 Now have I made the choice that shall remaine, 
 Vengeance beiall, when I do change againe. 
 
 Now have I found a friend of high desart, 
 I have his love, and he has stoole my hart, 
 Now fortune packe, with all thy pelting store, 
 l his IS my choice, I like to chuse no more. 
 
 Cease then your sutes, yee lustie gallants all, 
 Thinke not I stoupe at every Faulkners call, 
 Trusse up your lures, your luring is in vaine, 
 Chosen is the Pearch, whereon I will remaine. 
 
 Spend not your breath in needlesse famed talkes, 
 Seeke other mates, that love such roving walkes. 
 None shall ever vaunt, that they have my consent. 
 Then let me rest, for now I am content. 
 
 Great be your birth, and greater be your wealth, 
 I recken more my credit and my health. 
 Though I be weake, my power very scant, 
 God so provides that I shall never want. 
 
 Be mine owne at home, or be he absent long. 
 Absent or present, this still shall be my song, 
 Fortune my friend, A friend to me hath lent. 
 This is my choise, and therewith am content. 
 
 Range they that list, and change who ever will, 
 One hath mine oth, and his I will be still, 
 Now let us fall, or let us rise on hie. 
 Still will 1 sing, now well content am I. 
 
 Th 
 
 e 
 
 1?7
 
 Willobic 
 
 The praise of a confenied mind. 
 
 I HE GoJ that framdi; the {ixcJ pole, and Lamps of gleaming light, 
 * The azure skies, and twinkling Starres, to yeeld this pleasant sight, 
 In wisdome pight this perelesse plot, a rare surpassing frame. 
 And so with brave and sweete delights, have fraught and dect the same. 
 That every creature keepes his course, his eompasse and his place, 
 And with delightfull joye runnes, his pointed time and race. 
 In one consent they friendly joyne, from which they can not fall. 
 As if the Lord had first ordainde, one soule to guide them all. 
 In every part there doth rcmaine, such love and free consent, 
 1 hat every frame doth kisse his lot, and cries I am content. 
 The Artickc pole that never moves, hy which the shipmen saile. 
 Craves not to change his frizen Axe, nor from his place to steale, 
 The fixed Starres. that sildome range, delight their circles so. 
 That from their choise hy wanton change, they never yeeld to go. 
 The Sunne and Moone that never hide, their brave resplendent raies. 
 Did never wish in wavering will, to change their wonted waies. 
 The roaring Sea. with ebbs and tides, that leapes against the land, 
 Is yet content for all his rage, to staj- within his band. 
 The flooting Fish, the singing Bird, all beasts with one consent. 
 To live according to their kind, do shew them selves content. 
 So that by practise and by proofe, this sentence true I find. 
 That nothing in this earth is like, a sweete contented mind. 
 The beasts, the Birds, and ayrie powers, do kcepe their compasse wjll. 
 And onely man above the rest, doth love for to rcbell. 
 This onely man, the Lord above, with reason did indue 
 Yet onely man, ungratefull man, doth shew himsclte untrue. 
 No sooner was brave Adam made, but Sathan wrought his thrall, 
 For not content, aspiring pride, procurde his suddaine fall. 
 The princely Primerose of the East, proud Eva gave consent. 
 To change her blisse to bale, for that, her mind was not content. 
 Thus may the darkest eie perceive, how follie strikes us blind. 
 Thus may we see the often change, of mans unconstant mind. 
 The Moone, the Sea, by natures course, do not so often change. 
 As do the wits and wanton wils, of such as love to range. 
 The rangling rage that held from home Ulisses all too long. 
 Made chast Penelope complaine of him that did her wrong. 
 The lothsome daies, and lingering nights, her time in spinning spent : 
 She would not yeeld to change her choice, because she was content. 
 Such calme content doth plainely shew, that love did much abound, 
 Where free consent breeds not content, such faith is seldome found. 
 For carelesse Crysed that had gin, her hand, her faith and hart. 
 To Troilus her trustie friend, yet falsely did depart : 
 And giglotlike from 1 roye towne, to Grecian j campe would goe, 
 
 138
 
 /lis A visa. 
 
 65 
 
 To DiomeJe, wliom m tlic end. she found a (aithless foe. 
 
 For niving siiu a the jjcntle slip, liia love was turnd to liate. 
 
 And she a Icapcr did lament, but then it was too late. 
 
 Now foolish fancie was the cause, this Crysed did lament. 
 
 For when she had a faithfull friend, she could not he content. 
 
 Ten thousand fell at Troyes su'(Jc, whose bloud had not hecn ?pcnt. 
 
 If fickle hcadded Hellen could, at first have bene content. ? 
 
 You can not in the Serpents head, such deadly poyson find. 
 
 As is the fained love that lives, with discontented mind. 
 
 Of all the wisdome of the wise, that I could ever tell. 
 
 This wisdome hearcs the chiefest sway, to stay when we he well. 
 
 As sweetest Musicke rudely jarres, except there he consent : 
 
 So hottest love doth quickly coole, except it he content. 
 
 Of all the brave resounding words, which God to man hath lent. 
 
 This soundeth sweetest in mine eare, to say. / UIH content. 
 
 Ever or Never. 
 
 F I n IS. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 Impnntcd hy lohnJVinc/et, dwelling 
 
 at Tauls -^h a)- feat the fignc of the crojfe 
 Keycs and arc there to be fbldc. 
 
 139 
 
 [The latter half of this page is a Facsimile from the British Museum copy of 
 the first edition.]
 
 APPENDIX 
 
 From 1 596 edition of ' Avisa ' as reprinted in 
 1635 edition (pp. 128-131). 
 
 THE 
 
 APOLOGIE, 
 
 shewing the true meaning of 
 
 WiLLOBIE his 
 
 Avisa. 
 
 To a new Edition give me leave to adde a new 
 Instruction, ior sucn as I understand, nave made 
 oi tne otner, a raise and captious construction. Ii 
 Sapiens come (J Sapore (as some will have it, and that 
 as the Taste judgeth of meates, so wise men judge ot 
 natures and intents^ I marvaile that some men so greatly 
 aiiecting the name oi wisedome, have by rash judgement, 
 (the badge of folly) shewed themselves .so much unwuse, 
 and without sap. But I see that as it happeneth in the 
 distemperature of the body, so it often fareth in the 
 disorders of the minde : for the body being oppressed with 
 the venemous malice of some predominate humor, the seate 
 of jildgement which is the taste, is corrupted : and 
 meates, which of their owne nature are whole- 
 some and sweete, seeme unto the rnouth (ill affected) 
 
 both 
 
 141
 
 The Apologie. 
 
 botli bitter, unsavorie, and unwnolesume : So tne 
 heart being possessed with a veine oi vanitie, or a spirit 
 of prejudicate opinion, directetb judgement by the line of 
 fancie, not of reason : and the bitternesse of his owne 
 infected folly, marres the sweete taste of other mens 
 simple and honest meaning. Therefore because some have 
 applyed this Poeme, as they ought not ; I am inforced to 
 speake that which I thought not. 
 
 Many branches of errors, have sprouted forth from the 
 roote of one fond and misconstrued conceite. The growing 
 of such grafts, I hoped that I had sufficiently prevented in 
 the Preface first printed with this booke. But this is the 
 generall fault of all rash Readers, when they see a booke, 
 they turne either to the middest, or the latter end or at all 
 adventures reading that which at first opening they happen 
 on : if that presently doe not fit their fancie, they will 
 sodainly pronounce a definitive sentence of condemnation, 
 both against the matter and the maker ; as if by the 
 inspiration of some Pythian Oracle, they were presently 
 brought in possession of the whole sence, meaning and 
 intent of the Author, having reade neither the preface, nor 
 perchance six lines of the whole booke. 
 
 But most I marvaile that one P. C. (who seemeth to bee 
 a Scholler) hath beene carried away with this streame of 
 misconceived folly : For I dare pawnc my life, that there 
 IS no particular woman in the world, that was either partie 
 or privie to any one sentence or word in that booke. 
 This poeticall fiction was penned by the Author at least 
 
 for 
 
 142
 
 Tlic Apologie. 
 
 for thirtie and five yceres since, (as tt will be proved) 
 and lay in wast papers in nis study, as many other prettie 
 things did, of his devising ; and so might have continued 
 still (as his Susanna yet doth) had not I, contrarie to his 
 knowledge, with paine collected it ; and (in consideration 
 of the good end, to which it was directed) published it. 
 Seeing therefore that I gave the offence, I must satisfie for 
 it, in defending innocents from slanderous tongues. ihis 
 plaine Morall device was plotted only for the repression 
 and opening of Vice ; and to the exaltation and triumph 
 of Vertne, as hee himselfe saith. 
 
 My sleepy Muse that icakes but nozc, 
 To vertues praysc hath past her voic\ 
 
 Vertlie therefore being GenilS, and Chastitie Species, if 
 hee should have described it, either in Gcnere or Specie, 
 as some have done, he might have beene as obscure as 
 some others have beene. Hee famed therefore an 
 Individiiunu as it were a particular of this speciall, the 
 more familiarly to cxpresse it, as it were in common talke, 
 as if one did answere another, to delight the reader the more, 
 with variety of folly quenched presently, with the like 
 varietie of Vertue. To this fained Individliuni, he 
 gave this fained name Avisa. Which poeticall fiction 
 P. C. calleth a pamphlet. It is folly for a man to despise 
 that which he cannot mend. The Author was unknowne, 
 not because hee could not ; but because hee would not 
 know him : his true name being open in every 
 Page. He saith : the Author hath registred the mea- 
 nest. 
 
 143
 
 7^he Apologie. 
 
 nest. I tliou^lit tliat CHastitie had not beene tlic meanest, 
 but rather one of the greatest gifts, that God giveth to 
 men or women. If by the meanest, he meane any other 
 object or subject of Willohic his Muse, then Chastity 
 itselfe (under the fained name of Avisa) it is a meaning 
 of his owne making ; and a subject of his owne suggestion, 
 far from the mind of the first maker. None can eternize 
 their folly in things which they never thought of : but I 
 pray God some other have not eternized their follies, more 
 wayes then one. If this fained name of Avisa mislike 
 any man, for any hidden or private cause to the Author 
 or me unknowne, let him call it what he will : So that he 
 understand that it is Chastity it selfe, not any woman in 
 the world, that is fained to give these foyles to this foule 
 
 vice 
 
 Therefore, whereas some in their gravity despise it for 
 the lightnesse, and thinkc it but a fantasticall toy, without 
 any reach or secret sence, I will not strive to turne the 
 course of that streame. Yet if my fancie might be 
 admitted a judge in this matter, it would produce a 
 sentence of a farre contrary nature. For it seemeth rather 
 to me that the Author intending some rare exploit, 
 cndcvourcd to describe the doubtful combat, that is daily 
 fought bctweene Vice and Vertue, two princes of great 
 power. And to that end he chose out two of the most 
 approved Captaines of both the Cam pes to trie the 
 quarrell. Out of the one hee tooke Luxiiriani , Lecherie, 
 which as we see, swayeth the minds of the greatest 
 men, and commandeth largely. Out of the other. 
 
 h 
 
 e 
 
 144
 
 The Apologie. 
 
 he opposeth Castifafeni, Chastitie, a souldier rarely 
 seene (In these dayes) to resist tne enemies Push, ana 
 therefore in one of his verses, is called A Phoenix, or 
 rare-seene bird. 
 
 The souldiers which hee drawes forth to fight 
 under the banner of this Captaine Lecherie, are all 
 estates and degrees, and all Countries and Common- 
 wealthes : meaning, that no men, from the highest 
 estate to the lowest ; no Countries, from the most 
 civill to the most barbarous, are free from the servile 
 subjection of this raging principality : So that in this 
 part, hee descnbeth the combats, the assaults, the 
 intlsements, and allurements, which Noblemen, Gentle- 
 men, and all other loose and unbridled mindes, can by 
 money, wealth, pleasure, force, fancy, or any other 
 patheticall passion, procure, or devise, to raze the walls 
 of besieged Chastity. Under whose banner he sendeth 
 forth onely one poore woman, of a fayned name 
 (minding to shew what the propertie of good women 
 should bee) to resist so many, so mighty, so strong, 
 and subtill enemies, fighting with such forcible weapons 
 of honour, authority, glone, ease and pleasure. Surely, 
 he imagined, that in some women there was yet left 
 so much Chastitie, as was able to resist the lewd and 
 divelish temptations of all men whatsoever. And 
 therefore, through the whole booke, he attributeth the 
 victory to vertue, and the foyle to folly. 
 
 And farther, where as in other bookes, there is found 
 a bare description onely, or naming of Vice or 
 vertue, me thinkes in reading of this, my con- 
 
 ceite 
 
 145
 
 The Apologte. 
 
 ceite tels mee that in the person of this woman all the 
 mortall vertues, with one voyce are heard pleading, and 
 discoursing at large against vice, in a lively action : In 
 whose words, (if they bee considered from the beginning 
 to the end) we may see, how the spirit of God stnveth 
 against the Spirit of Sathan, by reasons, by Scriptures, 
 and by prophane Histories, to lay open the greatnesse, 
 the foulenesse, the danger, and deceit of this deadly sin, 
 that rageth so hotly, in the unmortified menbers of 
 mortall men. 
 
 On the other side me thinks I see how the Devill 
 calling together all his companie, in hope of a conquest 
 tries all wayes and assayes all meanes to effect his 
 desire. But his labor is imagined heere to be lost, and 
 that there is some modesty, wisedome, honestie and 
 feare of God remaining yet in some women, sufficient 
 at all times to overcome him. Therfore whosoever 
 accounteth this Poeme, but a vaine fiction, cutteth the 
 throate of all feminine faith, and robbeth all chast 
 Ladies of their chiefest honour. 
 
 Some others, being much addicted to that sweete 
 bitter sinne of Leacherie, thinke their secret practices 
 of bauderie, to be too plainely described, and therefore 
 labour to have it registred for a meere toy. I will 
 not, as a Physition assay with Hellebonis, to purge 
 their heads of those humors, least perhaps they bee of 
 the men of Abydus, who (as Aristotle reporteth) 
 being mad, tooke such delight in their madnesse that 
 they were angry with them that brought them to 
 their wits. 
 
 s 
 
 ome 
 
 146
 
 The Apologie. 
 
 Some others tnere be, who wnen tney nave read 
 this booke, have blushed to themselves, finding, as they 
 thought, their very words and writings which they 
 had used in the like attempts. In which is to be 
 noted, the force of a guilty conscience, which feares 
 where no feare is, and flyeth when no man folK)weth. 
 These fancies (forsooth) have framed names to letters, 
 of their owne devices ; and they have imagined places 
 of their owne placing, so fitly for everie description, 
 that they will needs inforce the Author to speake of 
 them, whom he never knew ; to ayme at their fancies, 
 whose faces he never saw; and to Cypher their names, 
 whose natures to him were ignorant and strange. 
 
 Lastly ; concerning the famed name of AVISA 1 
 have shewed the Authors device, and his reason for 
 the fiction, in the first preface, which I thought would 
 have quailed all other fictions whatsoever. 
 
 But yet if farder yee will have my conceit, the 
 order, words, and frame of the whole discourse, torce 
 me to think that which I am unwilling to say. 1 hat 
 this name insinuateth, that there was never such a 
 woman seene, as heere is described. For the word 
 A'VISA is compounded, (after the Greeke manner) 
 of the privative particle A, which signiiieth A Oil : 
 and of the participle Visiis, Visa, Visum, which 
 signifieth, Seene : So that A'visa should signifie (by 
 this) as much as Noil visa, that is : Such a woman 
 as was never seene. Which if it bee true, then Avisa 
 is yet unborne, that must rejoyce in this prayse. The 
 Author in this booke compareth this vertue of 
 Chastity unto a Bird, as is seene in his intro- 
 duction 
 
 147
 
 The Apologie. 
 
 duction, saying : Of Vert lies Bird., my muse must 
 
 sing. 
 
 For as the Birae by nis wings mountetn in the 
 aire upwards to heaven : So Chastitie, where ever it 
 IS, makes the minde to mount from the base and 
 filthy society of earthly conceits, and fits it to flie 
 up to God, in heavenly meditations ; whereas lust and 
 wicked pleasures, chaine the minde in thraldome of 
 fleshly concupiscence (as ProiiietJlCltS was tyed to the 
 hill Caucasus) which will not suffer the thoughts to 
 ascend by any meanes. The same Hieroglyphicall 
 allusion they meant, that pictured S. John with a Birde 
 sitting by him, to signifie, that of all the foure Evangelistes, 
 bee in his Gospell flew highest, and spake most of 
 the Dietie of Christ. Now therefore the latine word 
 of a Birde being Avis^ and the Author (perchance) 
 alluding unto that, did the rather call his victorious 
 mounting victory of Vertue, by the name of Avisa^ 
 as alluding to his owne allusion. If any man there- 
 fore by this, should take occasion to surmise, that the 
 Author meant to note any woman, whose name sounds 
 something like that name, it is too childish and too 
 absurd, and not beseeming any deepe judgement, 
 considering there are many things, which cannot be 
 applyed to any woman. 
 
 But to conclude, thus much, I dare precisely a- 
 vouch, that the Author intended in this discourse, 
 neither the description or prayse of any particular 
 woman ; nor the naming or cyphering of any 
 particular man. But in generall under a famed name 
 insinuateth what godly and constant women should 
 
 doe 
 
 148
 
 The Apologie. 
 
 doe, and say in such lewae temptations. And also, 
 under famed letters, generally expresseth, what course 
 most of these lawlesse sutors take, in pursuit of 
 their fancied fooleries, and therefore this P. C. hath 
 offred manifest injurie to some, what ever they bee, 
 whom his private fancie hath secretly framed in 
 conceit. 
 
 This IS the least that I could say, and the last that 
 ever I wil say touching this matter in defence of my 
 friend. If any notwithstanding will continue the 
 errour of their unsatisfied minds they must for ever 
 rest in the rightlesse erring, till the Authour 
 (now of late gone to God) returne from 
 Heaven to satisfie them farder tou- 
 ching his meaning. And so 
 farwel. Oxford this 30. 
 
 of June. 1596. 
 
 * 
 
 Thine to use, 
 
 Hadrian Dorr ell 
 The 
 
 149
 
 B. 
 
 From 1596 edition of ' Avisa ' in 1635 edition 
 
 (pp. 133-39). 
 
 Tlie victorie oj English CJmstitie, 
 
 Under the fained name of 
 
 Avisa. 
 
 pOR beauties Ball, In Ida-Wd\e, 
 * Three Nimphes at once, did once contend, 
 The Princely Shepheard of the Dale, 
 By judgement did the quarrell end : 
 
 That Paris might faire Hellen have. 
 The Golden Price to Venus gave. 
 
 In Sea-bred soyle, on Tenipe downes, 
 Whose silver spring, from Neptlines Well, 
 With mirth salutes the neighbour townes, 
 A hot Contention lately fell : 
 
 Twice two sweet Graces, urge the strife. 
 Of two which was the Constant' st wife. 
 
 Faire Veniis vaunts Penelops fame 
 From Greece, from listes of Lavin Land 
 Proud Juno stoutly doth the same. 
 Whose prayse in princely wealth doth stand : 
 They both condemne Diana's choyce, 
 That to Avisa gave her voyce. 
 
 Then 
 
 151
 
 The Victory of 
 
 Contention 
 
 A noble man 
 of Greece, 
 not farre 
 from He- 
 
 tKe Oration 
 of Jii'JO a- 
 gainst English 
 Chastity un- 
 der the name, 
 of Aviso, 
 
 Then came the pale Aiheuian Muse, 
 
 Whose learned wisaome past tnem all, 
 
 She with Diana did refuse 
 
 The Grecians prayse: though y//;/o call, 
 
 Chaste Wit to Wealth here will not yeeld : 
 Nor yet to strangers leave the field ; 
 
 Whil'st Eris flasht these fretting flames, 
 
 A Noble prince in Rosic home, 
 
 Rogero hight, to Angry dames, 
 
 His flying steed, and pace did turne, 
 
 Which done they all did straight agree. 
 That this Rogero, Judge should he. 
 
 On flowrie hancks, this Councell pla st, 
 
 From jealous J lino S envious eyes, 
 
 Long smothered hate flames forth at last, 
 
 In furious smoakes of angry cries : 
 
 As though she had the Garland wan, 
 With scoffing termes, she thus hegan. 
 
 " Stoop Grecian trumpes, cease Romans prayse, 
 "Shut up with shame, your famous dames; 
 "Sith we our selves Base Britans rayse 
 To over-Top their chiefest fames: 
 
 "With Noble faith what madnesse dare. 
 " Such Novell guestes and faith compare? 
 
 'Penelope must now contend 
 "For chaste renowne: whose constant heart, 
 " Both Greeks and Latines all commend, 
 "With poore A visa new upstart; 
 
 I scorne to speake much in this case, 
 "Her prayses Rivall is so base. 
 
 Pe- 
 
 1S2
 
 English Chastity. 
 
 Penelope sprang from Noble house, 
 By Noble matcb, twice Noble made ; 
 Avisd, botb by Syre and spouse, 
 Was linckt to men of meanest trade : 
 Wbat furle forc't Diana's wit, 
 To matcb these two so farre unfit ? 
 
 The Grecian dame of princely peeres 
 
 Twice fifty flatly did denie ; 
 
 Twice ten yeeres long in doubtfull feares, 
 
 Could new A Visa so reply ? 
 
 And she that is so stout and strong. 
 Could she have staid but halfe so long ? 
 
 Fie, leave for shame, thus to commend. 
 So base a Brifaine, shall I speake ? 
 I think these Muses did intend. 
 To blow a glasse that should not breake : 
 Here VenilS smilde, andJllUO staid. 
 Judge now (quoth she) for I have said. 
 
 When Pallas heard this rufling rage, 
 These toying jestes, this false surmise : 
 Shee paws d which way she might asswage, 
 The flame that thus began to rise ; 
 
 With setled grace and modest eye, 
 Thus did shee frame her milde reply. 
 
 Thou princely Judge here maist thou see, 
 What force in El't'Ot' doth remaine. 
 In envious Pride what fruites there be. 
 To writhe the paths, that he so plaine : 
 
 A double darknes drownes the mind, 
 Whom selfe will make so wilfull blind. 
 
 The reply of 
 Pallas a- 
 gainst J itito 
 in defence 
 
 of Avisa. 
 
 ..an 
 
 153
 
 The Victory of 
 
 W'illi-iby des- 
 cribea no 
 particular 
 woman, but 
 only Chasti- 
 ty ana laith 
 her selfe under 
 the name o{ 
 
 Chastity is 
 named A- 
 visa, quasi 
 
 ab Ai'C. . . 
 ti volanti. 
 
 " Can Britaine breede no Pliocuix bird, 
 
 " No constant feme in English iield ? 
 
 " To Greece to Rome, is there no third, 
 
 " Hath Albion none that will not yeeld ? 
 " If this affirme you will not dare, 
 ' Then let me Faith with Faith compare. 
 
 " Let choyce respect of Persons slide, 
 " Let Faith and Faith a while contend, 
 " Urge not the Names till cause be tride, 
 " 'Tis onely Faith, that we commend, 
 " We strive not for Avisa's fame, 
 " We recke not of Avisa's name. 
 
 " To prove him vaine, that vainely strives, 
 
 " That Chastity is no where found, 
 
 " In English earth, in British wives, 
 
 " That all are fickle, all unsound, 
 
 " We framde a wench, we fain'd a name, 
 " That should confound them all with shame 
 
 " To this at first you did consent, 
 
 " And lent with joy a helping hand, 
 
 " You both at first were well content, 
 
 " This fained frame should firmely stand, 
 " We to Diana gave the maide, 
 " That she might no way be betraied. 
 
 "The mounting Phoenix, chast desire, 
 "This Vert lie fram'd, to conquer Vice, 
 "This Not -scene Nimph, this heatlesse fire, 
 "This Chast-found Bird of noble price, 
 "Was nam'de Avisa by decree, 
 "That Name and nature might agree. 
 
 If 
 
 154
 
 English Chastity. 
 
 \i tliis Avisa represent, „ 
 
 Chast Vertue in a fained name. 
 
 If Chastity it seUe be ment, 
 
 To be extold with lasting fame : ,, 
 
 Her Greekish gemme can JlUlO dare, 
 With this Avisa to compare ? ,, 
 
 Let wise Ulysses constant mate, ,, 
 
 Vaunt noble birtb ber richest boast, ,, 
 
 Yet will her challenge come too late, 
 When Pride and wealth have done their most ,, 
 
 For this Avisa from above 
 
 Came downe, whose Syre, is mighty yot'^. ,, 
 
 How can you terme her then Obscure, „ 
 
 That shines so bright in every eye ? ,, 
 
 How is she base that can endure, „ 
 
 So long, so much, and mounts so hie ? „ 
 If she you meane, have no such power, 
 
 Tisyour Avisa, none of our. ,, 
 
 This not scene bird, though rarely found 
 In proud attire, in gorgeous gownes. 
 Though she love most the countrie ground. 
 And shunnes the great and wealthy townes ; 
 
 Yet if you know a bird so base, ,, 
 
 In this Device she hath no place. ,, 
 
 Was Greekish dame twice ten yeares chast, 
 
 Did she twice fiftie flat deny ? 
 
 Avisa hath Ten Thousand past. 
 
 To thousands daily doth reply, 
 If your Avisa have a blot 
 Your owne it is, we know her not. 
 
 Chastity is 
 the gift o{ 
 
 God. 
 
 True Chasti- 
 ty is soone 
 and oftener 
 found in the 
 poorest then 
 in the richest. 
 
 Chastity 
 daily assaul- 
 ted a thou- 
 sand wayes 
 yet It still 
 getteth the 
 victorie. 
 
 )ome 
 
 155
 
 Thee 
 stitite 
 
 The Victory of 
 
 " Some greatly doubt your Grecian dame 
 " Where all be true tbat Poets faine : 
 " But Chastity who can for sbame, 
 " Denie she batb, and will remaine, 
 
 " Though women daily doe relent, 
 " Yet this Avisa cannot faint. 
 
 {fects " She quels by Reason filthy lust, 
 
 o{ true Cha- " 5J^gg chokes by Wisdome leude Desires, 
 
 " Shee shunnes the baite that Fondlings trust, 
 " From Satan's sleights she quite retires ; 
 '' Then let Avisa's prayse bee spread, 
 " When rich and poore, when all are dead. 
 
 " Let idle, vaine, Flewent Rigges, 
 " Be CantonUIe with eternal shame, 
 " Let blowing buddes of blessed twigges, 
 " Let Chaste- Avisa live with fame : 
 
 " This said. Sweet Pallas takes her rest, 
 
 " Judge Pr/«ce (quoth she) what you thinkebest. 
 
 The sen- But wisc Rogero pawsing staid, 
 
 tence of Ro- Whose silencc seem'd to shew some doubt, 
 
 gero against w i • 11 1 -J 
 
 Juno. let this at last he gravely said : 
 
 Ye N implies that are so faire, so stout, 
 
 Sith I your Judge to Judge must be, 
 Accept in worth, this short decree. 
 
 " The question is, where Grecian Ghost, 
 " Can staine the stemme of Troyan rase : 
 " Where Ithac N implies may onely boast, 
 " And Brittish Faith account as base, 
 
 " Where old PenelopS doubtfull fame, 
 " Selfe Chastity may put to shame V 
 
 ISfi
 
 English Chastity. 
 
 I count Ulysses Happy Then, 
 
 I deeme our selves as happy Now / , 
 
 His wife denide all other men, 
 
 I know them yet that will not how ; , 
 
 For Chastity I durst compare. 
 
 With Greece, with Rome, with who that dare. , 
 
 Our English earth such Angels hreeds. 
 As can disdaine all fonaine prayse. 
 For Learning, Wit, for sober Deeds, 
 All Europe Dames may learne their wayes : 
 Sith I of both may take my choycc, 
 Our Not-seene Bird shall have my voyce 
 
 Siceete Chastity shall have my hand. 
 
 In England found, though rarely seene, 
 
 Rare Chastitie, To this I stand, 
 
 Is still as firme, as erst hath heene : 
 While this Avisa is the shee. 
 This Chaste desire shall Victor be 
 
 The Rose appeares in Vetins face, 
 
 Vermillion dies pale J uno's cheekes. 
 
 They both doe blush at this disgrace. 
 
 But J lino chiefe, something mislikes. 
 
 As though she felt some inward touch, 
 That for her Greeke had spoke so much. 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 England for 
 Chastitie 
 may yet 
 compare 
 with any 
 country in 
 the world. 
 
 Conclusion 
 
 O:, 
 
 TJiomas Willoby Frater 
 Henrici Willoby 
 
 per defuncti. 
 
 nu- 
 
 i57
 
 Dedication and Introductory Verses to a poem by Peter Colse 
 
 printed from the unique copy in tnc possession oi 
 
 A. H. Huth, Esq. The following is a 
 
 reprint of the title page 
 
 PENELOPKS COMPLAINT 
 
 Or 
 
 A Mirroiir for wanton 
 
 Mimons 
 
 Taken out of Homer's Odissea 
 
 and written in Englisn 
 
 Verse 
 
 By Pete?' Colse 
 
 Annat spina rosas, niclla tcgiiiit apes 
 
 LONDON 
 
 Printed by //. Jackson dwelling in 
 
 Fleetstreet, and are to be sold at his 
 
 shop under Temple-barre 
 
 gate. 1596.
 
 To the vertuous and chaste Ladie, 
 
 The Ladie Edith, wife of the right worship- 
 full Sir Rafe Horsey, kniglit, Increase of all 
 nonourable vertues. 
 
 ERUSING (vert nous Ladie) a Greeke 
 Author, entitnled Odyssea (written by 
 Homer prince of Greeke poets) noting 
 tJicrciii, the cJiast life of the Ladie 
 Penelope (in tJie twentie yeers absence 
 of hir loving lord Ulysses ^ / counter- 
 feited a discourse, in English verses, 
 terming it her Complaint : which treatise 
 comming to the view, of certaine of niy special-friends, I 
 was by them oftentimes encited to publish it. At length 
 weying xcith my selfe, the shipwracke that noble x'ertne 
 chastitic is subject unto: and seeing an unknoxcne 
 Author, hath of late published a pamphlet called Avlsa 
 (over-slipping so matiy praiseworthy matrons) hath regi- 
 stred the meanest : I have presumed under your Ladiships 
 patronage to commit this my Penelopes complaint (though 
 imperfectly portraied) to the presse : not doubting but the 
 Etimologie of so rare a subject, enchased with the Physiog- 
 nomic of your excellent chastitie : so xvorthie a conclusion 
 cannot but be a sufficient argument both to abolish Wenxxs 
 Idolaters, & also to countervaile the checkes of Artizans /// 
 willers, xvhich carpe at al, but correct nothing at al : measur- 
 ing other t)iens labours, by their oxcne idle It u mors. Thus 
 offering unto your Ladiship the firstlings of my scholers 
 crop, for a satisfaction of my presumption, and lioping 
 you wil pardon my boldnes, and accept of this my proffered 
 service, I connnit you to the grace and tuition of the 
 Almightie. 
 
 Your Lauisnips to commaund 
 
 PETER COLSE. 
 
 161
 
 hi commendation of the right Worship/nil sir 
 Raiife Horsey knight. 
 
 ^L WEETE Muse strike up tliy silver string. 
 
 s 
 
 I ^^ In shril! consort thy shakebut straine, 
 
 R Reflecting peales let Cosmos ring, 
 
 R Resound Apollot'S piercing vaine: 
 
 A Arise and rowse thy seHe with speede 
 
 V Use no delay hut do the deede. 
 
 F Feare not, {or A font us nor his mates 
 
 E Encounter dare with rare renowne, 
 
 H Honour with Armes defends the states, 
 
 Of those whom due desert doth crowne : 
 R Recount at large what trump of fame, 
 
 S Sounds in the praise of Hoysds name. 
 
 E Engravde in golden letters write, 
 
 Y Your censure sage with due advice : 
 K Knowne trueth ne snaky envies spite, 
 N Nor wrath can touch in any wise, 
 
 1 Into thy Poem though there prie, 
 G Grose Zoillis with squinted eie. 
 
 H Harsh and too rude I must confesse 
 
 T The Poem is to move delight : 
 
 Yet force of duety would no lesse. 
 But it present in open sight: 
 For what my wit cannot discharge. 
 My will surely supplies at large, 
 
 His valour daunts the valiant heart. 
 His wissdome worthy worship winnes. 
 His perfect zeale by due desart 
 To highest point of honour climes : 
 His hand the sword most justly guides. 
 And therewith causes due decides. 
 
 His wit doth Orphanes wrong redresse. 
 His hand relieves the needy heart. 
 His word the widowes wo doth ease. 
 He double doth reward desart 
 He naught attempts in any case 
 Whereby he may incurre disgrace. 
 
 His chiefest care his countries love. 
 His chiefest love his countries care. 
 Whose care considered, well doth prove 
 His love, the countrey cannot spare: 
 Whom countriemcn do so adore. 
 That worship never man had more. 
 
 To Prince he true lieutenant is. 
 To commou weale a faithfull knight. 
 Her Grace his service cannot misse. 
 Nor common weale so worthy a wight. 
 Whom Jove to Prince and subjects joy, 
 Perserve and keepe from all annoy. 
 
 Finis. P. C. 
 
 An Encomion upon the right ivorsliipfuU sir Rafe 
 
 Horsey knight, and the Lady Edith 
 
 in Saphic x'crse. 
 
 IF tncriies may true honour attaine unto, 
 Or fame advance ivorthy renowmed of spring 
 Let Muses sound forth triple tuned harpe strings, 
 
 unto their honour- 
 
 Whose lovely bloud xvith favourable aspect 
 Nurture and good fortune enhancelh highly 
 Unto bright heavens generously springing, 
 
 theirs be the glory. 
 
 From farre apart those lovely doves did ascend, 
 TW one fro th' east ivith Phoebus arose for our good, 
 Th' other of ti'est ivhere Coronaeus hardy 
 
 camped in old time. 
 
 Gentle their gcntilitie knightly adorned, 
 \]'orthy their ivorships stately well adopted, 
 Humble their humanitie highly graced 
 
 u'ith lovely nature. 
 
 162
 
 Whose divine deedes and tried hearts true meaning 
 Duely commented manifest sequences, 
 Happy doubtlcsse, woi'thy no doubt the titles 
 
 of their aliance. 
 
 Whose honours ttnburied I will entombc, 
 
 For everlasting ages to looke upon, 
 
 Cleare of obscurenesse, free of envies outrage 
 
 ivill I defend them. 
 
 Floppy my Afiises, but unhappy master, 
 That can advance encomions renowmed 
 Of others, obscurely lying in hopes grave 
 
 buried himself e. 
 
 Yet dying, and dead ivil I sing due trophees, 
 Then triumphs shall stalely records eternize, 
 My Muse shall ever erect monuments to their praise 
 
 itnto the xvorldes end. 
 FINIS. P.C. 
 
 In comendation of the vertuoiis, prudent and chaste^ 
 
 virgin, mistris Grace Horsey daughter to the 
 
 right ■worsJiipfuU, sir Raph Horsey 
 
 knight, and the Ladic 
 
 Edith. 
 
 G 
 R 
 
 A 
 C 
 E 
 
 H 
 
 R 
 S 
 E 
 Y 
 
 GLORIOUS NimpH, Dianaes darling deere, 
 Rose-garland dresse of damaske red and 
 white, 
 Adorne thou V estacs shrine, her posies weare, 
 Conservde with sweetc of honors high delight. 
 Enter the Lyons cave, he is thy friend. 
 Though Dragon swell, saint George shal thee 
 defend. 
 
 Hunt as Diana did, with Daphne flie, 
 Outrunne Apollo, trust not to his rage. 
 Repose no trust in Cupids deitie, 
 Say Frustra to his force, make him thy page. 
 Enchase thou vertue with pearls of grace, 
 Yongsters may wonder at the enterlace. 
 
 What faire ? wise ? rich ? with grace combind ? 
 
 A joy to al that such a grace behold : 
 
 So rare a sympathic is hard to find, 
 
 A gift with fame worthie to enrold. 
 
 Beauty and chastitie two deadly foes, 
 
 Live reconciled in her lovely browes. 
 
 Faire : looke on her there dwelleth beauties grace : 
 Wise : her wit the wisest doth abash : 
 Sweete : where is sweete but in her sweetest face ; 
 Rich : to her store al treasure is but trash. 
 A Grace she is with such rare graces dight. 
 Tongue, pen, nor art her grace can shew aright. 
 Finis. P. C. 
 
 Candido Lectori hexasticon. 
 
 EiV tibi Penelope prudcns, & 3ta yvvixiKiov 
 cuius tot vates nomen ubiqiie canunt. 
 Si cupis illius niveos cognoscere moves, 
 
 hunc parvum placido pevlege f route librum. 
 
 Nam de Penelope qucc docius dixit Homcrus : 
 hie piano & plena carmine {Lector) habes 
 
 Joannes Mayo 
 
 A 
 
 mico suo charissimo 
 
 h. 
 
 P. C. S. D. 
 
 QUID qucvrit titulos, quid dotes iactat Avisa. 
 Anne ea Penelope est aquipaya)ida lucv ? 
 Penelope clara est, veneranda fidelis : Avisa 
 obscura, obscuro famina nata loco. 
 
 Penelope satraps est conjux illustris : Avisa 
 
 conjux cauponis, fUia pandochei. 
 Penelope casta est cum sponsus abesset : Avisa 
 
 casta suo sponso node dieque domi. 
 
 163
 
 Penclopcia aiinos bis doios inausit : Avisa hissauil ntinquam pcndula tela maiius. 
 
 tot (vix credo) dies inlemeratii foret. Penelope Gvaijs, Latijs celebvatiir : Avisa 
 Penelopeia procos centum neglexit : Avisa unus homo laudes, nomen, & acta canit. 
 
 ]'ix scptem pvetium siistinuitque pvcccm, Ergo Penelope vigcat, cantetur : Avisa 
 Penelope ncvit, pcnsum confccit : Avisa nulla Penelope est aequivaleiida vtodo. 
 
 To tne Reader. 
 
 HAVING taken upon me (Gentlemen; to pipe witK 
 Hiparc/lion, though my musicke be not melo- 
 dious inough to content the proud ThessaliiZJis, 
 yet I doubt not but poore shepheards will stirre their 
 stumps alter my minstrelsie, If the stranes be too harsh, 
 to delight your stately eares (^pardon me and accept my 
 mind, and not my musicke^ I stretch my strings as I can, 
 desiring rather to teach the simple their uniiorme cinque 
 pace, then eiiect Courtiers in their lofty galliards, which 
 alter every day with new devises. The cause I have 
 contrived so pithie a matter in so plaine a stile, and 
 short verse, is : for that a vaine-glorious Avisci (seeking by 
 slaunder of her superiors, to eternize her folly^) is in the 
 like verse, (^by an unknowen Authour^ described : I 
 follow (I say) the same stile, & verse, as neither mislik- 
 ing the methode, nor the matter, had it beene applyed to 
 some worthier subject. Thus hoping you wil courteously 
 accept my PcnelopCS CoilipJaiut, I wil shortly make 
 you amends with her Will, and Testament, in Pentameters, 
 wherein I wil stretch my wits to Ela, to shew my duetie, 
 and satisfie your desires : and so farewell. 
 
 Peter Colse. 
 
 164
 
 Crown 4to. 600 pp. Price 15/- net 
 
 SHAKESPEARE'S EUROPE 
 
 UNPUBLISHED CHAPTERS OF 
 
 Fynes rioryson's Itinerary 
 
 Being a Survey oi the Conaition of Europe at the 
 end of the 16tK Century 
 
 With an Introduction and an Account of 
 Fynes Moryson's Career 
 
 by 
 
 CHARLES HUGHES 
 
 B.A. (London) 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM REVIEWS. 
 
 English Historical Review, October, 1903, (Signed by Dr. C. H. Firth) 
 
 Mr. Hughes is to be congratulated on the pubHcation of such 
 an interesting and vahiable manuscript as this is. It is curious that 
 it should have lain so long unedited in the library of an Oxford College. 
 He has preiixed to it an account of Fynes Moryson's life, which contains 
 many new details, gives a copy of his will, and fixes for the first time 
 the exact date of his death . . . Moryson was a very acute and 
 exact observer, noticing the small things in which the manners of 
 one nation resembled those of another, or differed from them, and 
 capable at the same time of distinguishing the permanent character- 
 i.stics of various nations and local modifications of national character 
 Anyone editing an Elizabethan play, or writing upon the 
 social and economic hi.story of Elizabethan Europe, will find this book 
 a source of first-rate value. 
 
 Edinburgh Review, April, 1903, pp. t,-/^ — 394. 
 
 The portions of the book which have hitherto slumbered in 
 dignified repose in the library of an Oxford College — the inheritor 
 by some unexplained good fortune of these valuable literary remains 
 of a former Cambridge Fellow — contains the very quintessence of 
 his political and social researches, and of the mature reflexions sug- 
 gested to him by a singularly diversified experience. . . . \\'e 
 propose to make free use of Mr. Hughes' valuable biographical and 
 critical introductions.
 
 Saturday Review. 
 
 Mr. Hughes has performed his duties excelleutly. He has written 
 a clear and succinct preface in which with no Uttle learning he has gleaned 
 all the available information as to the author, Fynes Moryson, par- 
 ticularly those facts which will help the reader to understand the 
 book. . . . Mr. Hughes has shown so much good sense and care 
 in what he has given us that he would indeed be a peevish and a 
 gluttonous reader who was not prepared to accept as final the editor's 
 mature verdict, that the omitted sections have little literary value, 
 and are tedious to boot. 
 
 The AthencBiim. 
 
 In the edition of the " Itinerary " which we are glad to learn 
 Mr. Hughes has in preparation, a very vigorous pruning will be of 
 great advantage. The editing of the present volume shows that we 
 can place reliance on his discretion ; he has avoided alike the danger 
 of too much compression and of prolixity, while the Text shows every 
 sign of careful accuracy. The preface is a model of painstaking. 
 Every fact of Moryson's life is brought out and verified, and Mr. 
 Hughes has been fortunate in obtaining many new ones. 
 
 The Academy and Literature (signed by Dr. Sidney Lee). 
 
 Mr. Hughes has placed students under no small obligations to him by 
 printing for the first time this interesting narrative of travel by an 
 adventurous contemporary of Shakespeare. . . . Moryson's notes 
 on English life and society were, he tells us, intended to form part 
 of an exhaustive " treatise of England," with which he went no further. 
 The fragments which survive in the newly-printed " Itinerary " are 
 of great value to the Elizabethan scholar. 
 
 TJie Daily Chronicle. 
 
 To students of the Elizabethan age the whole book is of great 
 value, for it represents the world of Shakespeare's time, though seen 
 through eyes how different from Shakespeare's. Mr. Hughes has 
 accomplished a serviceable piece of work in rescuing the manuscript 
 from an Oxford library. 
 
 The Daily Telegraph. 
 
 Altogether this i.? a most entertaining book, v.itli a store hard 
 to match of quaint observations of Europe, at a most interesting 
 period of awakening and development. 
 
 Manchester Guardian. 
 
 Mr. Hughes has, then, performed a very definite service to 
 historical learning in rendering this neglected MS. readily accessible 
 he has spared neither time nor trouble in investigating the 
 obscurer by-ways of Mory.son's life. His introduction is a document 
 which no future biographer of his hero can overlook, and it sujiple- 
 ments in certain particulars the account in the Dictionary of National 
 Biography. 
 
 Manchester Courier. 
 
 Mr. Hughes's introduction is excellent. For those who have not 
 already travelled abroad in the liberal company of Moryson, it supplies 
 just sufficient information to put one at one's ease in his presence 
 and, if inducement be needed, such hints of the traveller's methods 
 and experiences as tempt to companionship. ... It only remains 
 to add how admirably the book is got up. Paper and print are excellent.
 
 Yorkshire Post. 
 
 Students of European manners and customs in the sixteenth 
 and seventeenth centuries are under a deep obligation to Mr. Charles 
 Hughes, of Manchester, for his enterprise in preparing for publication 
 for the first time the fourth part of that curious and frank document 
 known as Fynes Moryson s Itinerary. . . . There is no other 
 published survey at all approaching it in completeness and vividness 
 of the Europe of Shakespeare's day. 
 
 Shakespeare Jahrbuch, 1904 (signed by Dr. Aloys Brandl). 
 
 Was er selbst dariiber 161 7 veroffentlichte, wird als typiches 
 Europa-Bild eines Laiidsmannes und Zeit-genossen von Shakespeare - 
 mehrfach zitiert. Dazu kommeu jetzt umfangreiche Kapitel aus 
 
 seinen bisher ungedruckten Aufzeichnungen weil er die 
 
 Dinge mit kindlicher Unmittelebarkeit ansieht und seinen mitgebracht- 
 en englischen Meinungen fleissig das Wort iiberlasst, ist er uns intere- 
 ssant, als gesprachiger Zeuge fiir die Weltanschaunug von Shakespeare's 
 
 Ungebung Das bucli ist — nebenbei bemerkt — eine 
 
 Fundgrube fiir den deutschen Kultur-historiker, handelt iiber die 
 grosse Verehrugn Luthers und Melanchtons, stadtische und student- 
 ische Sitten, Kaiser Rudolf und die Juden in Prag usw. 
 
 In addition to this review of the book, Dr. Brandl, in one of the 
 Kleinere Mitteilungen, quotes the comments upon a passage from 
 " Shakespeare's Europe," in which Moryson describes a company of 
 English actors whom he saw playing at Frankfort fair in 1592. 
 
 National Zeituti^. 
 
 Two long articles, entitled " Die Deutschen im Urtheil eines 
 Englanders vor drei hundert Jahren," by Herr Karl Witte, chiefly 
 translations from Moryson's Chapter on Germany, pp. 291-357 of 
 " Shakespeare's Europe." " Fiir uns hat natiirlich ganz besonders 
 das Interesse, was der englische Reisende iiber den Charakter unseres 
 Landsleute, ihre Sitten und Gebraiiche vor mehr als dreihundert 
 Jahren schreibt. An Ausfiihrlich keit liisst er es in dieser Hinsicht 
 nicht fehlen, wofiir wir ihm nachtriiglich dankbar sein wollen. Er 
 beginut das dem deutschen Charakter und den deut.schen Lebens- 
 gewohnheiten gewidmete Kapitel mit dem Bemerken, das dem Deutsc- 
 hen Bescheidenheit, Standhaftigkeit, Ehrlichkeit und freundlichcs 
 
 Wesen nachgeriihmt wiirden Curiously enough Herr 
 
 Witte omits to translate Moryson's qualifying phrase to this la.st 
 sentence that the Germans are " somewhat iuclyning to the vice of 
 Dullnes." 
 
 H.I.M. The German Emperor accepted a copy of " Shakespeare's 
 Europe," and conveyed his thanks to Mr. Hughes, through Count 
 Matternich, the German Ambassador. 
 
 The late Right Hon. W. E. H. Lecky, wrote to Mr. Hughes of 
 what he termed " your valuable and most interesting book." " It 
 is sure to furnish much material to future historians, and seems to 
 me (as far as I have yet been able to examine it) excellently edited. 
 I have already read a good deal in it with keen interest." 
 
 Mr. George Bernard Shaw, though a socialist and a dramatic 
 author, actually purchased a copy of " Shakespeare's Europe," and 
 wrote of it : "It proves, like all genuine contemporary documents 
 (as distinguished from the department of fiction called history), that 
 nothing has changed since Shakespeare's time except our spelling 
 wliich has changed for the worse."
 
 
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