Part 16

What Thing is then, so well belou'd as money? It is a speciall Comfort to the minde; More faire then Women are; more sweet then honey: Easie to loose, but very harde to finde. In fine, to him, whose Purse beginns to faint, Golde is a God, and Siluer is a Saint.

The Tyme was once, when Honestie was counted A Demy god; and so esteem'd of all: But now _Pecunia_ on his Seate is mounted; Since Honestie in great Disgrace did fall. No state, no Calling now, doeth him esteeme; Nor of the other ill, doeth any deeme.

The reason is, because he is so poore: (And who respects the poore, and needie Creature?) Still begging of his almes, from Doore to Doore: All ragd, and torne; and eeke deformed in feature. In Countinance so changde, that none can know him; So weake, and euery vice doeth ouerthrow him.

But faire _Pecunia_, (most diuinely bred) For sundrie shapes, doth _Proteus_ selfe surpasse: In one Lande, she is suted all in Lead; And in another, she is clad in Brasse: But still within the Coast of _Albion_, She euer puts, her best Apparell on.

Siluer and Golde, and nothing else is currant, In _Englands_, in faire _Englands_ happy Land: All baser sorts of Mettalls, haue no Warrant; Yet secretly they _slip_, from hand to hand. If any such be tooke, the same is lost, And pressently is nayled on a Post.

Which with Quick-siluer, being flourisht ouer, Seemes to be perfect Siluer, to the showe: As Woemens paintings, their defects doe couer, Vnder this false attyre, so doe they goe. If on a woollen Cloth, thou rub the same, Then will it straight beginne to blush, for shame.

If chafed on thy haire, till it be hot, If it good Siluer bee, the scent is sweete: If counterfeit, thy chafing hath begot A ranke-smelt sauour; for a Queene vnmeete: _Pecunia_ is a Queene, for her Desarts, And in the Decke, may goe for _Queene of harts_.

_The Queene of harts_, because she rules all harts; And hath all harts, obedient to her Will: Whose Bounty, fame vnto the Worlde imparts; And with her glory, all the Worlde doeth fill: The _Queene of Diamonds_, she cannot bee; There is but one, ELIZA, thou art shee.

And thou art shee, O sacred Soueraigne; Whom God hath helpt with his Al-mighty hand: Blessing thy People, with thy peacefull raigne; And made this little Land, a happy Land: May all those liue, that wish long life to thee, And all the rest, perish eternally.

Thy tyme was once, when faire _Pecunia_, here Did basely goe attyred all in Leather: But since her raigne, she neuer did appeere But richly clad; in Golde, or Siluer either: Nor reason is it, that her Golden raigne With baser Coyne, eclypsed should remaine.

And as the Coyne, she hath repurifyde, From baser substance, to the purest Mettels: Religion so, hath shee refinde beside, From Papistrie, to Truth; which daily settles Within her Peoples harts; though some there bee, That cleaue vnto their wonted Papistrie.

No flocke of sheepe, but some are still infected: No peece of Lawne so pure, but hath some fret: All buildings are not strong, that are erected: All Plants proue not, that in good ground are set: Some tares are sowne, amongst the choicest seed: No garden can be cleansd of euery Weede.

But now to her, whose praise is her pretended, (Diuine _Pecunia_) fairer then the morne: Which cannot be sufficiently commended; Whose Sun-bright Beauty doeth the Worlde adorne, Adorns the World, but specially the Purse; Without whose pressence, nothing can be worse.

Not faire _Hæsione_ (King of _Priams_ sister) Did euer showe more Beauty, in her face, Then can this louely Lady, if it list her To showe her selfe; admir'd for comely grace: Which neither Age can weare, nor Tyme conclude; For why, her Beauty yeerely is renude.

New Coyne is coynd each yeare, within the Tower; So that her Beauty neuer can decay: Which to resist, no mortall man hath Power, When as she doeth her glorious Beames display. Nor doeth _Pecunia_, onely please the eie, But charms the eare, with heauenly Harmonie.

Lyke to an other _Orpheus_, can she play Vpon her _treble Harpe_, whose siluer sound Inchaunts the eare, and steales the hart away: Nor hardly can deceit, therein be found. Although such Musique, some a Shilling cost, Yet is it worth but _Nine-pence_, at the most.

Had I the sweet inchaunting Tongue of _Tully_, That charmd the hearers, lyke the Syrens Song; Yet could I not describe the Prayses fully, Which to _Pecunia_ iustly doe belong. Let it suffice, her Beauty doeth excell: Whose praise no Pen can paint, no Tongue can tell.

Then how shall I describe, with artlesse Pen, The praise of her, whose praise, all praise surmounteth? Breeding amazement, in the mindes of men: Of whom, this pressent Age to much accounteth. Varietie of Words, would sooner want, Then store of plentious matter, would be scant.

Whether yee list, to looke into the Citty: (Where money tempts the poore Beholders eye) Or to the Countrey Townes, deuoyde of Pitty: (Where to the poore, each place doeth almes denye) All Thinges for money now, are bought and solde, That either hart can thinke, or eie beholde.

Nay more for money (as report doeth tell) Thou mayst obteine a Pardon for thy sinnes: The Pope of _Rome_, for money will it sell; (Whereby thy soule, no small saluation winnes) But how can hee, (of Pride the chiefe Beginner) Forgiue thy sinnes, that is himselfe a sinner?

Then, sith the Pope is subiect vnto sinne, No maruell tho, diuine _Pecunia_ tempt him, With her faire Beauty; whose good-will to winne, Each one contends; and shall we then exempt him. Did neuer mortall man, yet looke vpon her, But straightwaies he became, enamourd on her.

Yet would I wish, the Wight that loues her so, And hath obtain'd, the like good-will againe, To vse her wisely, lest she proue his foe; And so, in stead of Pleasure, breed his paine. She may be kyst; but shee must not be _clypt:_ Lest such Delight in bitter gall be dypt.

The iuyce of grapes, which is a soueraigne Thing To cheere the hart, and to reuiue the spirits; Being vsde immoderatly (in surfetting) Rather Dispraise, then commendation merits: Euen so _Pecunia_, is, as shee is vsed; Good of her selfe, but bad if once abused.

With her, the Tenant payes his Landlords rent: On her, depends the stay of euery state: To her, rich Pressents euery day are sent: In her, it rests to end all dire Debate: Through her, to Wealth, is raisd the Countrey Boore: From her, proceedes much proffit to the poore.

Then how can I, sufficiently commend, Her Beauties worth, which makes the World to wonder? Or end her prayse, whose prayses haue no End? Whose absence brings the stoutest stomack vnder: Let it suffice, _Pecunia_ hath no peere; No Wight, no Beauty held; more faire, more deere.

_FINIS._

His Prayer to Pecunia.

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

THE

Complaint of Poetrie,

for the Death of Liberalitie.

_Viuit post funera virtus._

LONDON,

Printed by G. S. for Iohn Iaggard, and are to be solde at his shoppe neere Temple-barre, at the Signe of the Hand and starre. 1598.

To his Worshipfull wel-willer, Maister _Edward Leigh_, of Grayes Inne.

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

THE COMPLAINT OF

Poetrie, for the Death of Liberalitie.

Weepe Heauens now, for you haue lost your light; Ye Sunne and Moone, beare witnes of my mone: The cleere is turnd to clouds; the day to night; And all my hope, and all my ioy is gone: _Bounty_ is dead, the cause of my annoy; _Bounty_ is dead, and with her dide my ioy.

O who can comfort my afflicted soule? Or adde some ende to my increasing sorrowes? Who can deliuer me from endlesse dole? (Which from my hart eternall torment borrowes.) When _Bounty_ liu'd, I bore the Bell away; When _Bounty_ dide, my credit did decay.

I neuer then, did write one verse in vaine; Nor euer went my Poems vnregarded: Then did each Noble breast, me intertaine, And for my Labours I was well rewarded: But now _Good wordes_, are stept in _Bounties_ place, Thinking thereby, her glorie to disgrace.

But who can liue with words, in these hard tymes? (Although they came from _Iupiter_ himselfe?) Or who can take such Paiment, for his Rymes? (When nothing now, is so esteem'd as Pelfe?) Tis not _Good wordes_, that can a man maintaine; Wordes are but winde; and winde is all but vaine.

Where is _Mecænas_, Learnings noble Patron? (That _Maroes_ Muse, with Bountie so did cherish?) Or faire _Zenobia_, that worthy Matron? (Whose name, for Learnings Loue, shall neuer perish) What tho their Bodies, lie full lowe in graue, Their fame the worlde; their souls the Heauens haue.

Vile _Auaricia_, how hast thou inchaunted The Noble mindes, of great and mightie Men? Or what infernall furie late hath haunted Their niggard purses? (to the learned pen) Was it _Augustus_ wealth, or noble minde, That euerlasting fame, to him assinde?

If wealth? Why _Crœsus_ was more rich then hee; (Yet _Crœsus_ glorie, with his life did end) It was his Noble mind, that moued mee To write his praise, and eeke his Acts commend. Who ere had heard, of _Alexanders_ fame, If _Quintus Curtius_ had not pend the same?

Then sith by mee, their deedes haue been declared, (Which else had perisht with their liues decay) Who to augment their glories, haue not spared To crowne their browes, with neuer-fading Bay: What Art deserues such Liberalitie, As doeth the peerlesse Art of Poetrie?

But _Liberalitie_ is dead and gone: And _Auarice_ vsurps true _Bounties_ seat. For her it is, I make this endlesse mone, (Whose praises worth no men can well repeat. Sweet _Liberalitie_ adiew for euer, For _Poetrie_ againe, shall see thee neuer.

Neuer againe, shall I thy presence see: Neuer againe, shal I thy bountie tast: Neuer againe, shal I accepted bee: Neuer againe, shall I be so embrac't: Neuer againe, shall I the bad recall: Neuer againe, shall I be lou'd of all:

Thou wast the Nurse, whose Bountie gaue me sucke: Thou wast the Sunne, whose beames did lend me light: Thou wast the Tree, whose fruit I still did plucke: Thou wast the Patron, to maintaine my right: Through thee I liu'd; on thee I did relie; In thee I ioy'd; and now for thee I die.

What man, hath lately lost a faithfull frend? Or Husband, is depriued of his Wife? But doth his after-daies in dolour spend? (Leading a loathsome, discontented life?) Dearer then friend, or wife, haue I forgone; Then maruell not, although I make such mone.

Faire _Philomela_, cease thy sad complaint; And lend thine eares, vnto my dolefull Ditty: (Whose soule with sorrowe, now begins to faint, And yet I cannot moue mens hearts to pitty:) Thy woes are light, compared vnto mine: You waterie Nymphes, to mee your plaints resigne.

And thou _Melpomene_, (the Muse of Death) That neuer sing'st, but in a dolefull straine; Sith cruell Destinie hath stopt her breath, (Who whilst she liu'd, was Vertues Soueraigne Leaue _Hellicon_, (whose bankes so pleasant bee) And beare a part of sorrowe now with mee.

The Trees (for sorrowe) shead their fading Leaues, And weepe out gum, in stead of other teares; Comfort nor ioy, no Creature now conceiues, To chirpe and sing, each little bird forbeares. The sillie Sheepe, hangs downe his drooping head, And all because, that _Bounty_ she is dead.

The greater that I feele my griefe to be, The lesser able, am I to expresse it; Such is the nature of extremitie, The heart it som-thing eases, to confesse it. Therefore Ile wake my muse, amidst her sleeping, And what I want in wordes, supplie with weeping.

Weepe still mine eies, a Riuer full of Teares, To drowne my Sorrowe in, that so molests me; And rid my head of cares; my thoughts of feares: Exiling sweet Content, that so detests me. But ah (alas) my Teares are almost dun, And yet my griefe, it is but new begun.

Euen as the Sunne, when as it leaues our sight, Doth shine with those Antipodes, beneath vs; Lending the other worlde her glorious light, And dismall Darknesse, onely doeth bequeath vs: Euen so sweet _Bountie_, seeming dead to mee, Liues now to none, but smooth-Tongd Flatterie.

O _Adulation_, Canker-worme of Truth; The flattring Glasse of Pride, and Self-conceit: (Making olde wrinkled Age, appeare like youth) Dissimulations Maske, and follies Beate: Pittie it is, that thou art so rewarded, Whilst Truth and Honestie, goe vnregarded.

O that Nobilitie, it selfe should staine, In being bountifull, to such vile Creatures: Who, when they flatter most, then most they faine; Knowing what humor best, will fit their Natures. What man so mad, that knowes himselfe but pore, And will beleeue that he hath riches store.

Vpon a time, the craftie Foxe did flatter The foolish Pye (whose mouth was full of meate) The Pye beleeuing him, began to chatter, And sing for ioy, (not hauing list to eate) And whil'st the foolish Pye, her meate let fall, The craftie Foxe, did runne awaie with all.

_Terence_ describeth vnder _Gnatoes_ name, The right conditions of a Parasyte: (And with such Eloquence, sets foorth the same, As doeth the learned Reader much delyght) Shewing, that such a Sycophant as _Gnato_, In more esteem'd, then twentie such a _Plato_.

_Bounty_ looke backe, vpon thy goods mispent; And thinke how ill, thou hast bestow'd thy mony: Consider not their wordes, but their intent; Their hearts are gall, although their tongues be hony: They speake not as they thinke, but all is fained, And onely to th'intent to be maintained.

And herein happie, I areade the poore; No flattring Spanyels, fawne on them for meate: The reason is, because the Countrey Boore Hath little enough, for himselfe to eate: No man will flatter him, except himselfe; And why? because hee hath no store of wealth.

But sure it is not _Liberalitie_ That doeth reward these fawning smel-feasts so: It is the vice of Prodigalitie, That doeth the Bankers of _Bounty_ over-flo: _Bounty_ is dead: yea so it needes must bee; Or if aliue, yet is shee dead to mee.

Therefore as one, whose friend is lately dead, I will bewaile the death, of my deere frend; Vppon whose Tombe, ten thousand Teares Ile shead, Till drearie Death, of mee shall make an end: Or if she want a Toombe, to her desart, Oh then, Ile burie her within my hart.

But (_Bounty_) if thou loue a Tombe of stone, Oh then seeke out, a hard and stonie hart: For were mine so, yet would it melt with mone, And all because, that I with thee must part. Then, if a stonie hart must thee interr, Goe finde a Step-dame, or a Vsurer.

And sith there dies no Wight, of great account, But hath an Epitaph compos'd by mee, _Bounty_, that did all other far surmount, Vpon her Tombe, this Epitaph shall bee: _Here lies the Wight, that Learning did maintaine, And at the last, by_ AVARICE _was slaine_.

Vile _Auarice_, why hast thou kildd my Deare? And robd the World, of such a worthy Treasure? In whome no sparke of goodnesse doth appeare, So greedie is thy mind, without all measure, Thy death, from Death did merit to release her: The Murtherers deseru'd to die, not _Caesar_.

The Merchants wife; the Tender-hearted Mother That leaues her loue; whose Sonne is prest for warre; (Resting, the one; as woefull as the other;) Hopes met at length, when ended is the iarre, To see her Husband; see her Sonne again; "Were it not then for Hope, the hart were slaine."

But I, whose hope is turned to despaire Nere looke to see my dearest Deare againe: Then _Pleasure_ sit thou downe, in _Sorrowes_ Chaire, And (for a while) thy wonted Mirth refraine. _Bounty_ is dead, that whylome was my Treasure, _Bounty_ is dead, my joy and onely pleasure.

If _Pythias_ death, of _Damon_ were bewailed; Or _Pillades_ did rue, _Orestes_ ende: If _Hercules_, for _Hylas_ losse were quailed; Or _Theseus_, for _Pyrithous_ Teares did spende: When doe I mourne for _Bounty_, being dead: Who liuing, was my hand, my hart, my head.

My hand, to helpe mee, in my greatest need: My hart, to comfort mee, in my distresse: My head, whom onely I obeyd, indeed: If she were such, how can my griefe be lesse? Perhaps my wordes, may pierce the _Parcæ's_ eares; If not with wordes, Ile moue them with my teares.

But ah (alas) my Teares are spent in vaine, (For she is dead, and I am left aliue) Teares cannot call, sweet _Bounty_ backe againe; Then why doe I, gainst Fate and Fortune striue? And for her death, thus weepe, lament, and crie; Sith euery mortall wight, is borne to die.

But as the woefull mother doeth lament, Her tender babe, with cruell Death opprest: Whose life was spotlesse, pure, and innocent, (And therefore sure, it[s] soule is gone to rest) So _Bountie_, which her selfe did vpright keepe, Yet for her losse, loue cannot chuse but weepe.

The losse of her, is losse to many a one: The losse of her, is losse vnto the poore: And therefore not a losse, to mee alone, But vnto such, as goe from Doore to Doore. Her losse, is losse vnto the fatherlesse; And vnto all, that are in great distresse.

The maimed Souldier, comming from the warre, The woefull wight, whose house was lately burnd; The sillie soule; the wofull Traueylar; And all, whom Fortune at her feet hath spurnd; Lament the losse of _Liberalitie:_ "Its ease, to haue in griefe some Companie."

The Wife of _Hector_ (sad _Andromache_) Did not bewaile, her husbands death alone: But (sith he was the _Troians_ onely stay) The wiues of _Troy_ (for him) made æquall mone. Shee, shead the teares of Loue; and they of pittie: Shee, for her deare dead Lord; they, for their Cittie.

Nor is the Death of _Liberalitie_, (Although my griefe be greater than the rest) Onely lamented, and bewaild of mee; (And yet of mee, she was beloued best) But, sith she was so bountifull to all, She is lamented, both of great and small.

O that my Teares could moue the powres diuine, That _Bountie_ might be called from the dead: As Pitty pierc'd the hart of _Proserpine;_ Who (moued with the Teares _Admetus_ shead) Did sende him backe againe, his louing Wife; Who lost her owne, to saue her husbands life.

Impartiall _Parcæ_, will no prayers moue you? Can Creatures so diuine, haue stony harts? Haplesse are they, whose hap it is to proue you, For you respect no Creatures good Desarts. O _Atropos_, (the cruelst of the three) Why hast thou tane, my faithfull friend from mee?

But ah, she cannot (or shee will not) heare me, Or if shee doo, yet may not she repent her: Then come (sweet Death) O why doest thou forbeare me? Aye mee! thy Dart is blunt, it will not enter. Oh now I knowe the cause, and reason why; I am immortall, and I cannot dye.

So _Cytheræa_ would haue dide, but could not; When faire _Adonis_ by her side lay slaine: So I desire the Sisters, what I should not; For why (alas) I wish for Death in vaine; Death is their seruant, and obeys their will; And if they bid him spare, he cannot kill.

Oh would I were, as other Creatures are; Then would I die, and so my griefe were ended: But Death (against my will) my life doeth spare; (So little with the fates I am befrended) Sith, when I would, thou doost my sute denie, Vile Tyrant, when thou wilt, I will not die.

And _Bounty_, though her body thou hast slaine, Yet shall her memorie remaine for euer: For euer, shall her memorie remaine; Whereof no spitefull Fortune can bereaue her. Then Sorrowe cease, and wipe thy weeping eye; For Fame shall liue, when all the World shall dye.

FINIS.

THE

Combat, betweene

Conscience and Couetousnesse,

in the minde of Man.

_quid non mortalia pectora cogis Auri sacra fames?_ Virgil.

LONDON,

Printed by G. S. for Iohn Iaggard, and are to be solde at his shoppe neere Temple-barre, at the Signe of the Hand and starre. 1598.

To his Worshipfull good friend,

Maister _Iohn Steuenton_, of _Dothill_, in the County of _Salop_, Esquire.

Sith Conscience (long since) is exilde the Citty, O let her in the Countrey, finde some Pitty. But if she be exilde, the Countrey too, O let her finde, some fauour yet of you.

The Combat betweene Conscience and Couetousnesse in the mind of Man.