If it be shewed at Paules, it will cost you foure pence: at the Theater two pence: at Sainct Thomas a Watrings nothing.
A stage plaier, though he bee but a cobler by occupation, yet his chance may bee to play the Kings part. Martin, of what calling so euer he be, can play nothing but the knaues part,qui tantum constans in knauitate sua est. Would it not bee a fine Tragedie, whenMardocheusshall play a Bishoppe in a Play, and MartinHamman, and that he that seekes to pull downe those that are set in authoritie aboue him, should be hoysted vpon a tree aboue all other.
Reade Martin Seniors Libell, and you shall perceiue that he is able to teach Gracchus to speake seditiouslie.
Though he play least in sight now, yet we hope to see him stride from Aldgate to Ludgate, and looke ouer all the Citie at London Bridge. Soft swift, he is no traytor. Yes, if it bee treason to encourage the Commons against the chiefe of the Clergie, to make a generall reuolt from the gouernment so wel established, so wisely maintained, and so long prospering.
Because they say,Aue Cæsar, therefore they meane nothing against Cæsar. There may bee hidden vnder their long gownes short daggers, and so in blearing Cæsars eyes, conspire Cæsars death. God saue the Queene; why it is the Que which they take from the mouthes of all traytors, who though they bee throughly conuinced, both by proofe and their owne confessions, yet at the last gaspe they crie, God saue the Queene. GODsaue the Queene (say I) out of their hands, in whose hearts (long may the Queene thus gouerne) is not engrauen.
Her sacred Maiestie hath this thirtie yeares, with a setled and princelie temper swayed the Scepter of this Realme, with no lesse content of her subiects, than wonder of the world. GOD hath blessed her gouernment, more by miracle thā by counsaile, and yet by counsaile as much as can come from policie. Of a State taking such deepe roote, as to be fastened by the prouidence of God, the vertue of the Prince, the wisedome of Counsellers, the obedience of subiects, and the length of time; who would goe about to shake the lowest bough, that feeles in his conscience but the least blessing. Heere is a fit roome to squese them with an Apothegme.
There was an aged man that liued in a well ordered Common-wealth by the space of threescore yeares, and finding at the length that by the heate of some mens braines, and the warmnes of other mens bloud, that newe alterations were in hammering, and that it grewe to such an height, that all the desperate and discontented persons were readie to runne their heads against their head; comming into the midst of these mutiners, cried as loude as his yeares would allow; Springalls and vnripened youthes, whose wisedomes are yet in the blade, when this snowe shall be melted (laying his hand on his siluer haires)then shal you find store of durt, and rather wish for the continuance of a long frost, than the comming of an vntimely thaw. Ile moralize this.
Ile warrant the good old man meant, that when the ancient gouernment of the state should be altered by faction, or newe lawes brought in that were deuised by nice heads, that there should followe a foule and slipperie managing; where if happelie most did not fall, yet all would bee tired. A settled raigne is not like glasse mettal, to be blowne in bignesse, lenght or fashion of euerie mans breath, and breaking to be melted againe, and so blowne afresh; but it is compared to the fastning of the Cedar, that knitteth it selfe with such wreaths into the earth that it cannot be remooued by any violent force of the aire.
Martin, I haue taken an inuentorie of al thy vnciuill and rakehell tearmes, and could sute them in no place but in Bedlam and Bridewell, so mad they are, and so bad they are, and yet all proceedes of the spirit. I thinke thou art possest with the spirites of Iacke Straw and the Black-smith, who, so they might rent in peeces the gouernment, they would drawe cuts for religion.
If all be conscience, let conscience bee the foundation of your building, not the glasse, shew effects of conscience, mildnesse in spirit, obedience to Magistrates, loue to thy brethren. Stitch charitie to thy faith, or rip faith from thy works.
If thou wilt deale soberlie without scoffes, thou shalt be answered grauely without iests, yea and of those, whom thou canst not controll for learning, nor accuse for ill life, nor shouldst contemne for authori[ti]e. But if like a restie Iade thou wilt take the bitt in thy mouth, and then runne ouer hedge and ditch, thou shalt be brokē as Prosper broke his horses, with a muzroule, portmouth, and a martingall, and so haue thy head runne against a stone wall.
If thou refuse learning, and sticke to libelling; if nothing come out of those lauish lips, but taunts not without bitternesse, yet without wit; rayling not without spite, yet without cause, then giue me thy hand, thou and I will trie it out at the cuckingstoole. Ile make thee to forget Bishops English, and weep Irish; next hanging, there is no better reuenge on Martin than to make him crie for anger; for there is no more sullen beast than a he drab. Ile make him pull his powting croscloath ouer his beetle browes for melancholie, and then my next booke shall be Martin in his mubble fubbles.
Here I was writingFinisandFunis, and determined to lay it by, till I might see more knauerie filde in: within a while appeared olde Martin with a wit worn into the socket, twinkling and pinking like the snuffe of a candle;quantum mutatus ab illo, how vnlike the knaue hee was before, not for malice but for sharpnesse.
The hogshead was euen come to the hauncing, and nothing could be drawne from him but dregs: yet the emptie caske sounds lowder than when it was ful; and protests more in his waining, than he could performe in his waxing. I drew neere the sillie soule, whom I found quiuering in two sheetes of protestation paper. O how meager and leane hee lookt, so creast falne, that his combe hung downe to his bill, and had I not been sure it was the picture of enuie, I shoulde haue sworne it had been the image of death, so like the verie Anatomie of mischiefe, that one might see through all the ribbes of his conscience, I began to crosse my selfe, and was readie to say thePater noster, but that I knewe he carde not for it, and so vsed no other wordes, butabi in malam crucem, because I knewe, that lookt for him. I came so neere, that I could feele a substantiall knaue from a sprites shadowe.
I sawe through his paper coffen, that it was but a cosening corse, and one that had learnde of the holie maid of Kent, to lie in a trance, before he had brought foorth his lie; drawing his mouth awrie, that could neuer speake right; goggling with his eyes that watred with strong wine; licking his lips, and gaping, as though he should loose his childes nose, if he had not his longing to swallowe Churches; and swelling in the paunch, as though he had been in labour of a little babie, no bigger than rebellion; buttruth was at the Bishoppes trauaile: so that Martin was deliuered by sedition, which pulls the monster with yron from the beastes bowells. When I perceiued that he masked in his rayling robes, I was so bolde as to pull off his shrowding sheete, that all the worlde might see the olde foole daunce naked.
Tis not a peniworth of protestation that can buy thy pardon, nor al worth a penie that thou proclaimest. Martin comes in with bloud, bloud, as though hee should bee a martir. Martins are mad martirs, some of them burnt seauen yeares agoe, and yet aliue. One of them lately at Yorke, pulling out his napkin to wipe his mouth after a lie, let drop a surgeans caliuer at his foote where he stood; these fellowes can abide no pompe, and yet you see they cannot be without a little squirting plate: rub no more, the curtall wrinches.
They call the Bishops butchers, I like the Metaphore wel, such calues must be knockt on the head, and who fitter than the Fathers of the Church to cut the throates of heresies in the Church. Nay, whē they haue no propertie of sheepe but bea, their fleece for flockes, not cloath, their rotten flesh for no dish, but ditches; I thinke them woorth neither the tarring nor the telling, but for their scabbednes to bee thrust from the pinfolde to the scaffold, and with anHabeas corpusto remooue them from the Shepheards tarre-boxe to the hangmans budget.
I but he hath sillogismes in pike sauce, and arguments that haue been these twentie yeres in pickle. I, picke hell, you shall not finde such reasons, they bee all incelarent, and dare not shewe their heads, for wee will answere them inferioand cut their combes. So say they, their bloud is sought. Their bloud? What should wee doo with it, when it will make a dogge haue the toothach to eat the puddings.
Martin tunes his pipe to the lamentable note ofOra whine meg. O tis his best daunce next shaking of the sheetes; but hee good man meant no harme by it. No more did one of his minions, that thinking to rap out an oath and sweare by his conscience, mistooke the word and swore by his concupiscence; not vnlike the theefe, that in stead of God speede, sayd stand, and so tooke a purse for God morowe.
Yet dooth Martin hope that all her Maiesties best subiects will become Martinists; a blister of that tongue as bigge as a drummes head; for if the Queenes Maiestie haue such abiects for her best subiects, let all true subiects be accompted abiects.
They that teare the boughs, will hew at the tree, and hauing once wet their feete in factions, will not care how deep they wade in treason.
After Martin had racked ouer his protestation with a Iades pace, hee runnes ouer his fooleries with a knaues gallop, ripping vp the souterlie seames of his Epistle, botching in such frize iestes vppon fustionearnest, that one seeing all sortes of his shreddes, would thinke he had robd a taylors shop boord; and then hee concludes all doggedlie, with DoctorBullensdoggeSpring, not remembring that there is not a better Spanniell in England to spring a couie of queanes than Martin.
Hee sliues one, has a fling at another, a long tale of his talboothe, of a vulnerall sermon, and of a fooles head in souce. This is the Epistle which he woonders at himselfe, and like an olde Ape, hugges the Vrchin so in his conceipt, as though it should shew vs some new tricks ouer the chaine, neuer wish it published Martin, we pittie it before it comes out. Trusse vp thy packet of flim flams and roage to some countrey Faire, or read it among boyes in the belfrie, neuer trouble the church with chattering; but if like dawes, you will be cawing about Churches, build your nests in the steeple, defile not the quier.
Martin writes merely, because (hee saies) people are carried away sooner with iest than earnest. I, but Martin neuer put Religion into a fooles coate; there is great oddes betweene a Gospeller and a Libeller.
If thy vaine bee so pleasaunt, and thy witt so nimble, that all consists in glicks and girds; pen some play for the Theater, write some ballads for blindDauidand his boy, deuise some iests, and become anotherScogen, so shalt thou haue vēt inoughfor all thy vanities, thy Printer shall purchase, and all other iesters beg.
For to giue thee thy due, thou art the best died foole in graine that euer was, and all other fooles lacke manie graines, to make them so heauie.
There is not such a mad foole in Bedlam, nor such a baudie foole in Bridewell, nor such a dronken foole in the stockes, nor such a scolding foole on the cucking-stoole, nor such a cosening foole on the pillerie, nor such a roaging foole in the houses of correction, nor such a simple foole kept of alms, nor such a lame foole lying in the spittle, nor in all the world, such a foole, all. Nay for fooles set down in the scriptures, none such as Martin.
What atheist more foole, that saies in his heart,There is no God? What foole more proud, that stands in his own cōceit? What foole more couetous than he that seekes to tedd abroad the Churches goods with a forke, and scratch it to himselfe with a rake.
Thou seest Martin with a little helpe, to the foure and twentie orders of knaues, thou maist solder the foure and twentie orders of fooles, and so because thou saist thou art vnmarried, thou maist commit matrimonie, from the heires of whose incest, wee will say that which you cannot abide,Good Lord deliuer vs.
If this veyne bleede but sixe ounces more I shallproue a pretie railer, and so in time may growe to bee a proper Martinist. Tush, I doo but licke ouer my pamphlet, like a Beares whelpe, to bring it in some forme; by that time he replies, it will haue clawes and teeth, and then let him looke to bee scratcht and bitten too.
Thou seest Martin Moldwarpe, that hetherto I haue named none, but markt them readie for the next market: if thou proceed in naming, be as sure as thy shirt to thy knaues skinne, that Ile name such, as though thou canst not blush, because thou art past shame, yet they shall bee sorie, because they are not all without grace.
Pasquil is coming out with the liues of the Saints. Beware my Comment, tis odds the margent shall be as full as the text. I haue manie sequences of Saints, if naming be the aduantage, and ripping vp of liues make sport; haue with thee knuckle deepe, it shall neuer bee said that I dare not venter mine eares where Martin hazards his necke.
Now me thinkes Martin begins to stretch himselfe like an old fencer, with a great conscience for buckler and a long tongue for a sword. Lie close, you old cutter at the locke,Nam mihi sunt vires, et mea tela nocent. Tis ods but that I shal thrust thee through the buckler into the brain, that is through the conscience into the wit.
If thou sue me for a double maime, I care notthough the Iurie allow thee treble damages, it cannot amount to much, because thy cōscience is without wit, and thy wit without conscience, and therefore both not worth a penie.
Therefore take this for the first venew, of a yonger brother, that meanes to drie beate those of theElderhouse. Martin, this is my last straine for this fleech of mirth. I began with God morrowe, and bid you God night. I must tune my fiddle, and fetch some more rozen, that it maie squeake out Martins Matachine.
(Wit and Willhas been already more frequently reprinted than most things of Breton's, but these reprints have been in very small numbers, and not generally accessible. It is given here as being equally characteristic of the author and of the time, both in matter and in form, in the mixture of verse and prose, in the plays on words, in the allegory, in the morality, and in the style.)
THE WIL OF WIT, WIT'S WILL, or WIL'S WIT, chuse you whether. Containing five discourses, the effects whereof follow.Reade and Judge.Compiled byNicholas Breton, gentleman.Non hà, che non sà.Vires sit Vulnere Veritas. London: Printed byThomas Creede, 1599.
TO GENTLMEN SCHOLLERS AND STUDENTS WHATSOEUER
Gentlemen, or others, who imploy your time in the studies of such Arts as are the ornaments of Gentilitie, to your courtesies I commend the vnlearned discourse of my little wit, which as I wil not intreate you to commend, deseruing the contrarie: so I hope you will not disdain, though it deserue discommendation, but so by your pardons excuse my small discretion by great desire, that hereafter, with less hast, I may take as great care as pains to publish a peece of worke somewhat more worth the perusing. Till when, wishing you all the fauor of God, with good fortune of the world, I rest in honour of learning to you and all students.
A louing Friend, N.B., Gentleman.
THE EPISTLE TO THE GENTLE READER
A new booke says one; true, it came forth but tother day; good stuffe, says another. Read, then iudge. I confesse it may seeme to a number a bold attempt to set out a forme of wit, considering the witty discourses of such fine wits as haue deserued such comendation, as may driue this meane peece of woorke of mine into vtter disgrace, were it not that perfect courtesie doothbear with imperfect knowledge, regarding more the good minde in the writer then the matter written: and therefore the best will giue good words whatsoeuer they thinke, to encourage a forward wil to doo better, when indeed it were a fantasticall heade that could doo worse. Well when Wit is a wool-gathering, and Will wandring the world without guide, what a case that manne is in that is in such a taking; I referre you to mad folks of whom you may see examples suficient, and so I being in a certain melancholie moode past all Gods forbod, tooke my pen and Inke and Paper and somewhat I would go doo whatsoeuer it were to put out one conceit and bring in another. At last and at first of a suddaine warres and at adventures, by God's good helpe and good fortune the little wit that I had meeting with good Will, I knew not how, fell to worke (at first) I know not what, but hauing written a while, I made somewhat of it which, though little to any great purpose, yet if it please the Readers, I am contented, and if any man thinke it well done then Wit shall think Will a good boy, and Will shall think hee tooke Wit in a good vaine, and Will and Wit shall haue the more heart hereafter to fall to further woorke; but if I haue bin more wilful than wise to trouble your wittes with a witlesse peece of work pardon me for this once, ye shall see I will please you better hereafter; in the meane time desiring your courtesies to commend what you think worthie and not to disdain without desert, I rest wishing your content in what you wish well as I pray you wish me as I do you,
Your Friend Nicholas Breton, Gentleman.
AD LECTOREM, DE AUTHORE
What thing is Will, without good Wit?Or what is Wit, without good Will?The one the other doth so fit:As each one can be but ill.But when they once be well agreed,Their worke is likely well to speed.For proofe, behold goodBretonswill,By helpe of Wit, what it hath writ:A worke not of the meanest skill,Nor such as shewes a simple Wit.But such awitand such awill,As hath done well, and hateth ill.I need not to commend the man,Whom none can justly discommend:But do the best, the best that can,Yet some will spite, and so I end.What I have said, I say so still,I must commend this Wit and Will.
What thing is Will, without good Wit?Or what is Wit, without good Will?The one the other doth so fit:As each one can be but ill.But when they once be well agreed,Their worke is likely well to speed.
For proofe, behold goodBretonswill,By helpe of Wit, what it hath writ:A worke not of the meanest skill,Nor such as shewes a simple Wit.But such awitand such awill,As hath done well, and hateth ill.
I need not to commend the man,Whom none can justly discommend:But do the best, the best that can,Yet some will spite, and so I end.What I have said, I say so still,I must commend this Wit and Will.
FINIS
AD LECTOREM, DE AUTHORE
What shall I say of Gold, more then tis Gold:Or call the Diamond, more then precious:Or praise the man, with praises manifoldWhen of himselfe, himselfe is vertuous?Witis butWit, yet such hisWitandWill,As proues ill good, or makes good to be ill.Why? what hisWit? proceed and aske hisWill,Why? what hisWill? reade on, and learne ofWit:Both good I gesse, yet each a seuerall ill,This may seeme strange, to those that heare of it.Nay, nere a whit, for vertue many waies,Is made a vice, yet Vertue hath her praise.Wherefore, OBreton, worthie is thy worke,Of commendations worthie to the worth:Sith captious wittes, in euerie corner lurke,A bold attempt, it is to set them forthA forme of Wit, and that in such a sort,As none offends, for all is said in sport.And such a sport, as serues for other kinds,Both young and old, for learning, armes, and love:For Ladies humors, mirth with mone he findes,With some extreames, their patient mindes to proue.Well,Breton, write in hand, thou hast the thing,That when it comes, loue, wealth, and fame will bring.W. S.
What shall I say of Gold, more then tis Gold:Or call the Diamond, more then precious:Or praise the man, with praises manifoldWhen of himselfe, himselfe is vertuous?Witis butWit, yet such hisWitandWill,As proues ill good, or makes good to be ill.
Why? what hisWit? proceed and aske hisWill,Why? what hisWill? reade on, and learne ofWit:Both good I gesse, yet each a seuerall ill,This may seeme strange, to those that heare of it.Nay, nere a whit, for vertue many waies,Is made a vice, yet Vertue hath her praise.
Wherefore, OBreton, worthie is thy worke,Of commendations worthie to the worth:Sith captious wittes, in euerie corner lurke,A bold attempt, it is to set them forthA forme of Wit, and that in such a sort,As none offends, for all is said in sport.
And such a sport, as serues for other kinds,Both young and old, for learning, armes, and love:For Ladies humors, mirth with mone he findes,With some extreames, their patient mindes to proue.Well,Breton, write in hand, thou hast the thing,That when it comes, loue, wealth, and fame will bring.
W. S.
A PRETIE AND WITTIE DISCOURSE BETWIXT WIT AND WILL
Long have I travelled, much ground have I gone, many wayes have I trode, mickle mony have I spent, more labour have I lost, in seeking an olde friend of mine: whose companie so courteous, his counsaile commodious, his presence so pleasant, and his absence so greevous, that when I thinke of him, and misse him, I find such a misse of him, as all things are out of frame with me. And out of frame, can come to no good fashion. Oh, what shall I do? It is long since I lost him: long have I sought him. And too long (I fear) it wil be ere I find him. But wot you who it is? Oh, my Wit, I am from my Wit, and have bin long. Alas the day, I have bin almost mad with marching through the world without my good guide, my friend, and my companion, my brother, yea, my selfe. Alas, where is he? When shall I see him? How shall I seeke him, and whither shall I walke? I was too soone wearie of him, and am now wearie of my selfe without him. Well, I will go where I may, I may hap to find him: but hap isunhappie. Therefore hap good, or hap ill, I will walke on still: if I find him, happie man. If I do not, what then? Content my selfe even as I can, patience where is no remedie.
Wit.
Long have I lookt, far have I sought, oft have I wisht, and sore have I longed for my merrie mate, my quicke sprite, my dearling, and my dearest byrd: Whose courtesie so contentive, whose helpe so necessary, whose necessitie so great, whose presence so pleased me, and absence so angers mee, that when I would have him, and see I am without him, I am not in order, and being out of order, can take no good course. Alas, what shall betide me? I have lost my love, or my love hath lost me. Would God wee might meete againe, and be merry togither: which I cannot bee without him? Oh, what have I lost? my Will, whither is he gone? when will he returne? who hath led him away? or will bring him backe againe? what company is he falne into? or how doth he leade his life? Well, time yet may turne him. Till when I wish for him, hoping to meete him, but hope is uncertaine;
Yet hope well, and have well,Thus alone I cannot dwell;If I find him so it is:If not, then I wis,I must be content with this.Patience is a vertue.But whom doo I behold so neare?It is my Will, with heavie cheere:Well, I am sorie for this geare,Yet will I to him out of hand,And know, how so the case doth stand.What? Will?Will.Who? Wit?
Yet hope well, and have well,Thus alone I cannot dwell;If I find him so it is:If not, then I wis,I must be content with this.Patience is a vertue.But whom doo I behold so neare?It is my Will, with heavie cheere:Well, I am sorie for this geare,Yet will I to him out of hand,And know, how so the case doth stand.What? Will?Will.Who? Wit?
Wit.Whither away?Will.Where I may.Wit.Whereunto?Will.Oh, to do.Wit.What?Will.Teach thou me that.Wit.Why, sigh not, boy?Will.Oh, all my joy.Wit.Where is it, Will?Will.Among the ill.Wit.What, is it lost?Will.That greeves me most.Wit.And not to be recoverèd?Will.Oh, my heart is almost dead.Wit.What, Will, hold up head,I will be thy friend to death.Will. Then give me leave to fetch my breath,And welcome: twise and thrice well met:Where my hearts joy is set.Many a walk have I fet,But no comfort could I get,Till now by thee mine onely friend,With whom I meane my life to end.If thou wilt give me leave, good Wit.Wit.Yes, good sweete Will, and glad of it.Will.Then harke, good Wit, unto my tale:Not of amidde my blisse in bale,Nor any such like stuffe so stale.I studie not to talke in verse,But I will unto thee rehearseA plaine discourse, in homely prose,Wherein I will at large disclose:How I have lived, with whom, and where:How I was tossèd, here and there:How I did chaunce to travaile hither,And so we will be merrie togither.Wit.Contented. Verse is good sometime,But sometime prose, and sometime rime.But be it either prose or verse,What so thou wilt, good Will, rehearse:I meane to heare it to the end,And quit thee quickly as a friend.But since thou likest prose so well,Begin in prose thy tale to tell.
Willes Tale.
Oh, good Wit (if thou doost remember), I lost thee in travaile to the Well of Wisedome. Sincewhen, I have wandred through a wildernesse of woe, which in the Mappe of that Countrey (I find) is called the Desart of Desire. Wherein I saw so many wayes, as now in this, and then in that. At last I came to the hill of Hard Happe, which ledde mee downe into a Vale of Vanitie. There did I live in the Lake of Miseries, with the lost people, that having followed Fancie, found Penitence, the reward of running heads. But Lord what a life it is? I lothe to thinke on it. Beleeve mee, sweete Wit, there is such falling out with Fancie, who shifts all upon Folly. Such exclamation upon Folly, who brings them to Fortune: such cursing and banning of Fortune, for her froward dealing: in gentle helping them uppe uppon her wheele, and then suddaine dinging them downe (almost to their destruction), that if their bee a Hell in this world, there is the place. God keepe all good mindes from such a filthy corner.Wit.Amen. But tell me how camst thou thence?Will.I will tell you anon: but first I will tell you more. There is of all States. Princes crie out of cares: Lordes, of lacke of living: Ladyes, of false love: souldiers, of want of pay: Lawyers, of quiet: Poore men, of Lawe: Merchants, of shipwracke: Mariners, of fowle weather: Usurers, of sermons, and Divines, of usurie: Players, of Preachers, and Preachers, of Players: Dicers, of loosing, and losers, of dicing: Cryples, of fighting, and fighters, of hurts: the Rich, of sicknesse: thePoore, of want: the Sicke, of paine: the healthfull, of ill happe: the unhappie, of the time that ever they were borne. Oh, it is a pittious crie: I would not be there againe, to heare it as I have done, for the gaine of Europe.
Wit.Beleeve me, I cannot blame thee: but tell me, how camst thou thence?Will.Oh, brother, I will tell you how: you know, sometime travellers must needes have rest, which they must come by as they may: Now, I having walked (as I told you) through this unpleasant place, weary at last, I laide mee downe in the ditch of Distresse: where, finding many dead sculles, and other boanes, I there thought to begin a sleepe, or sleepe my last: now lying there in such sort as I tell you, mee thought in my sleepe I sighed, in which sorrow a good motion of minde set my heart to prayer; which tended to this effect, that it would please the mightie and mercifull Majestie of the Most Highest, to send me some meane, to lead me out of this miserie; beeing as it were from my Wit, and altogither comfortlesse. Now, suddenly there appeared unto me an olde aged man, who tooke me by the hand, with these words: Arise, thou sluggish wanton, walke no longer out of thy way, turne thee backe from this straie pathe, experience doth teach thee: What is Will without Wit? Prayer hath procured thee pardon, the high and onely God hath given thee Grace; by Grace goe seeke that isworth the finding; look where Wit is; too him, and make much of him. With joy of that word, I awaked, and with shame of my folly in leaving thee, I hung the head; with sorrow whereof I was almost of life deprived; but now by thy sweete welcome wholy revived; now awake (I should say), I saw none but thee; and now, while I live, I will follow thee.
Wit.Why, was it heere you slept, or have you come farre since you waked?Will.No, no, heere did I sleepe, heere is the place of paine so unpleasant: but now I see thee, I have received comfort, for that I know thou canst leade me to Wisdome, who will soone shew me the way to paradise.Wit.Why then, Will, well hast thou slept, better hast thou dreamed, but best hast thou waked, to hit on mee so happily, who intend to bring thee to that good beginning, that shall leade thee to endlesse blisse. But to quit thy tale, I will tell thee a little of my travaile, and so we will away togither.
Wits Tale.
Will, thou knowest when I left thee, in the lane of Learning, I went on straight to the schoole of Vertue, and with her Testimoniall, to the Well of Wisdome, which stands within the pallace of Patience; where I found the fountaine kept with foure ladies, whose names were Wisdome, Temperance, Fortitude, and Justice. Now, when I came thither, with sufficientwarning from Vertue, yet (for order sake) they thus used me; Wisedome, which stood with a snake in her hand (over whose head was written),I see the holes that subtill serpents make, thus used her warie speech unto me. Sirra (quoth she), how presume you into this place? from whence came you, and how and whither will you? Lady (quoth I), from Fancies forte I came, and am now travailing to the forte of Fame. I came now directly from the schoole of Vertue; brought thither by Learning had by Reason, servant to Instruction; and heere behold Patience, who hath lead me, who is further to plead for me. Welcome (quoth shee), but art thou not wearie? No (quoth I), nor would be, if the walke had beene longer, to have my will.Will.Why didst thou thinke me there abouts? Oh, lord, I was far wide.Wit.Peace, Will, a while: when I denide wearinesse; Yea (quoth Fortitude), an other of the Dames (over whose head was written,I yield to good, but overthrow the ill), I will see if you be wearie or not, I must trie a fall with you. At first I made no account of her, but when I begun, I found her of great force. Yet in the ende, shee was content to give me over, and let me come neare the Well. Now, upon the well brinkes stoode Justice, over whose head was written,my hand hits right, death is my stroke, my ballance will not lye. Then was my words written down by Memorie, and weyed with Truth; which being even in judgment,shee bad me welcome, and so was content to let me lay my lips to the sweet lycquor of Sapience. Oh it is a delicate water!
Now, as I stoode, I heard a trumpet sound; which done, I heard a voyce which said: What trumpe can sound the true report of Fame? Now desirous to see the place, whence I heard this sound, I craved the ladies pasport to the said place, who gave me no other pasport than the commandement of Patience, warning me in any wise to take hold of Time, when I met him, and turne him to my use: with these two, I should come to the forte afore me. I, right glad of my good hap, tooke leave, and forth I went; anon I met Master Time, with his sithe in his hand, singing,Save vertue, al things I cut downe, that stand within my way. But as he came working, I watcht him neare, and as he strooke aside, I suddenly stept to him, tooke him by the noddle, and turned him to my work. What wouldest thou (quoth he)? I must not stand idle. No (quoth I), thou shalt walke, and leade me to the fort of Fame. Come, then (quoth he). Goe away softly (quoth Patience). Content (quoth I). And so togither we go to this stately Court; where, being first entertained by Courtly, we were brought to Favour, and so led up to Fame. Now, being on knee before her highnesse, she first gave me her hand to kisse, and willed the lords to bid me welcome. See here (quoth she) the perfectionof affection, what a travaile he hath undertaken onely for our favour, which he shall be sure of. The Nobles used me honourably, the Gentlemen courteously, the Servants reverently, and Favour freendly. Now, as I stood, I heard such sweete musick, such heavenly songs, it made my heart leape to heare them. The prince did sing in praise of peace, the lords of plentie, the ladies of true love, the lawiers of quiet, the servaunts of lawe, the merchaunts of sayling, and saylers of faire weather, the rich of health, the poore of charitie, the healthfull of good happe, and the happie of Gods blessing: there was no usurers, dicers, players, nor fighters heard of. Oh, there was a place of pleasure; if in the world there be a paradice, that was it. Oh that thou haddest beene with mee!
Will.So would I, but tell me, how came you againe?Wit.I will tell thee. When I had beene within, and without, and heard such sweete harmony, of such singular musicke; at last, I came downe into the base court, led by Favour, to a lodging which was called the counting house; there sate Memorie, to take the names of such as had bin entertained, and meant to seeke favour, at the hands of happie Fame. But as I was going through the court, I met one of the maides of honour attendaunt upon the princesse, whose name (Favour told me) was Belezza, accompanied with Gentilezza, another of the maides. Now, as I was walking, I stared so earnestly on them, that(not looking to my feete) I stumbled against a stone, and with the fall I awaked: now awake, I thought of my good Will; and see how soone it was my happe to meete with thee; but no sooner then I wished for thee, nor then I am heartily glad of thee.Will.Gramercy, Wit. But yet I beshrow thee.Wit.Why so?Will.For loosing mee.Wit.Thou mightest have followed.Will.You might have held me.Wit.When?Will.When I was neere you.Wit.Where was that?
Will.Where you lost me. But tell me one thing, where was it you slept, and awaked so sodainely? What? was it heere abouts?Wit.Yea, heere Will, heere, heere is the Forte of Fame, as thou shalt finde, when thou hast beene with me a while; there is no house, but hath a sinke; no field so fayre, but hath foule ditch; no place so pleasant, but hath a corner of anoyance; he that runnes retchlesly, falles headlong; and hee that is in a hole, he knowes not how, must come out he knowes not when. Care is to be had in all things, at all times, and in all places; well, thou hast knowne some sorrowe; learne to leave selfe judgement; follow friend, go with me.Will.Why? I would never have lost thee, but—Wit.But that thou wert wearie of me.Will.Why? I was not wearie, but—Wit.No, but that you were a wanton.Will.Why? I was not a wanton, but—Wit.No, but that you were wilfull.Will.Why? I was not wilfull,but—Wit.No, but that you thought better of your selfe than any else.Will.Why? but I did not thinke so, but—Wit.Nay, you may say you would not have thought so, but—
Will.But what? or why?Wit.But because you did not see your selfe.Will.Yes, indeede, but I did; I did see my selfe and you too.Wit.Indeede, but you did not; for if you had seene me, you would not so have lost mee.Will.Yes, but I did see you, but when I had looked on you a while, I looked on my selfe so long, till you were out of sight, and then I looked after you and could not see you.Wit.Well, but then you sawe mee not, and so you lost mee; but since you now have found me, follow me neere, stay but a buts length behinde mee, least I suddainly steppe a flights shotte before you, and then a furlong further, you never overtake me.Will.But soft, runnes Wit so fast, Will is weerie.Wit.Goe too, throw off your clogge of care, trust to me, so you do as I bid you, all shall be well.Will.Yes, but—Wit.But what?Will.But a little of your helpe.Wit.Yes, but—Will.But? What?Wit.But that you must of your selfe labour.Will.So I will, but—Wit.But not too much: well, contented, I will worke. Wilt thou help?Will.Yea, willingly.Wit.How long?Will.Till death.Wit.Why, wilt thou dye?Will.Not with working: yet will I worke sore.Wit.Whereto?Will.To winne my wish.
Wit.What is that?Will.You can tell.Wit.But tell me.Will.What?Wit.Is it favour?Will.That is one parte of it.Wit.Wealth?Will.An other parte.Wit.Honour?Will.The greatest next.Wit.Content.Will.All in all.Wit.Where?Will.In heart.Wit.How?Will.By happe.Wit.How is that?Will.By hope.Wit.Oh, hope is vaine.Will.Oh, do not discomfort mee.Wit.Doubt the worst.Will.Wherefore?Wit.Because I bid thee.Will.Why doo you bid mee?Wit.For this reason: the best will helpe it selfe.Will.What is the worst?Wit.Envie.Will.What will hee doo?Wit.Mischiefe.Will.To whome?Wit.To good mindes.Will.How shall I doo, then?Wit.Let patience use prayer, God will preserve His servants.
Will.That I shall: then it is not impossible.Wit.What?Will.To get content?Wit.It is hard.
Will.What then?Wit.Doo our best.Will.Content.Wit.But harke, Will: shall I tell thee a little more of the fort of Fame, what I sawe and heard before I came away? Over the gate at the entrie, I sawe written pretie posies, some in Latine, some in Italian, some French, and some English. In Latine I remember these:Quid tam difficile quod non solertia vincit?By that was written,Labore vertus: and by that,Vertute fama: and over that,Fama immortalis: and that was written in many placesabout the house. In Italian was written,Gioventù vecchezza: by that,Vecchezza Morte, et Morte Tempo, et Tempo Fama: but over all,Sopra tutti, triumpha Iddio. In French,Le fol Fortune, il prudent Fame. Fame est divine, diuinitie est pretieuse, Dieu est nostre guarde.In English was written. Patience is a vertue. Vertue is famous. Fame is divine. Divinitie is gratious. Grace is the gift of God: and God is the onely giver of grace. Which by patience seekes the vertue that is famous, to the divine pleasure of the Giver of all good gifts: blessed be His name, this shall he find, that enters the fort of Fame.
Will.Oh, sweete speeches.Wit.Then wil I tell thee further: as I walked up and down with Favour, I heard Courtesie and Content (a couple of courtiers) discoursing of thee and mee. Of the vertues of Wit, and the vanities of Will.
Wit, they sayde, was desirous of knowledge, but Will could take no paine: Wit would have patience, but Will would be wood with anger: Wit would worke, when Will would stand ydle: Wit would be walking, when Will would bee slouthfull: Wit woulde call for Willes helpe, when Will cared not for Wits counsaile: Wit woulde bee wise, and Will would be wanton: Wit would be vertuous, and Will vaine: Wit would be famous, and Will foolish: Wit would be sober, and Will frantick: Wit would be carefull, and Will carelesse: Wit studying, and Will playing: Wit at goodexercise, and Will idle, and worse occupied: Wit mourning for Will, Will making no mone for Wit: Wit in his dumps, and Will in delights: Wit would doo well, and have Will doo no worse, if he would follow him. But Will would loose Wit, and Wit must worke without Will and against Wit: and yet this is straunge, they were sworne brethren, one could not be without the other. Yet Wit could make better shift alone: Wit could finde Will, when he had lost himselfe, and Will (yet) would please Wit well, when he would be a good boy: which he would never be till he were beaten, and that with the smart of his owne rod: then he would come home to Wit, follow Wit as his best freend, and never leave him to the last houre.
Now when I heard this discourse I remembred thee, and beeing able to tarie no longer the hearing of such matter against him whom I love, I entreated Favour to bring me forth into the court, towardes the counting house: whither walking, I stumbled by the way, and fell as I told you: wherewith I awoke. Now, good Will, since I have found thee, and now thou seest the miseries of the world, come, followe me, let me bring thee to a better course: let not mee mourne for thee, nor other thus talke of thee: I will make much of thee, if thou wilt love mee: I will make thee give them cause to say: See what a chaunge! Will is come home, Will is content to be ruled by Wit: hee workes with Wit, he walkes withWit: he mournes and is merie with Wit: he is travailing to Vertue with Wit, he will finde Fame by Wit: why he, Will? He is as welcome as Wit, as worthie as Wit, now he hath learned of Wit how to direct his course: beleeve me, Will, I love thee.
Will.Gramercie, good Wit, and I thee. But tell me one thing, mee thinks all this was but a dreame, for in the ende you did awake with the fall.Wit.True, Will, I was in a dreame, and so wert thou.Will.Oh, then, you did heare men talke so much of me in your sleepe: awake, I warrant you, you shall never heare so much amisse of me.Wit.I hope so too: now I have met with thee, I will shewe thee a way, whereby thou shalt deserve no such discredit.Will.Gramercie. But shall I now tell thee a little that I had forgotten, that I sawe and hearde in the Lake of Miserie?Wit.Contented, good Will, and gramercie too.
Will.Then, Wit, thou shalt understand, I heard these speeches past among penitent people: when Wit is wayward, Will is nobody: wofull Wit, blames wanton Will: wanton Wit, chides worthy Will: unhappie Wit, hasty Will: fantastical Wit, forward Will. Over that, Wit thinks scorne of Will, but yet he cannot bee without him: Wit hath lost Will, but yet he is glad to seeke him: Wit mournes for Will, but Wit sees it not: Will travailes for the stone, that Wit must whet himselfe uppon: Will is painefull, butWit unthankful: Will is courteous, but Wit curst: Will soone content, Wit too curious: Will would be ruled, but Wit had no reason: Will would have beene famous, had Wit beene vertuous: Will had beene good, had not Wit beene bad: Will had not lost Wit, had Wit lookt unto him: Will would doo well, if Wit would doo better: Will would learne, if Wit would teach him: but Will must worke without Wit, and against Wit: and yet it was woonderful that sworne brethren should so disagree, yet one so necessarie for the other in all actions, as nothing could hit well, when they were asunder. Will could meete Wit in a maze, and comfort him with his company: Will could bring Wit into a good order, when he was quite out of course. Wit would be glad of Will: but when? When he found the want of his freend, which he would never doo, till he were wearie of working alone: and then he would embrace Will, make much of Will, and never leave Will for any worlds good. Now when I heard so much of my good Wit, I could not tarie any longer in the company, but from them I go, and by my selfe sate downe, where I slept, and awakt, as I told you.
Wit.Gramarcie, good Will; why then I perceive we were both asleepe, we lost one another in travaile, and travailed in sleepe, to seeke one another; which walking we have found: happy be this day of our meeting, and twise happy houre of this our freendlygreeting. Hee runs farre, that never turnes; hee turnes well, that stayes in time; and hee stayes well, that stands fast; he stands fast, that never falles; hee falles lowe, that never riseth; he riseth well, that stands alone when he is up. Good Will, well met, let us now bee merrie, shake hands, sweare company, and never part.Will.Content, heere is my hand, my heart is thine. But ere we goe any further, let us be a little merry.Wit.What shall we doo?Will.Let us sing.Wit.Content. But what?Will.What you will; begin, and I will answere you.
A Song betweene Wit and Will
Wit.What art thou, Will?Will.A babe of natures brood.Wit.Who was thy syre?Will.Sweet lust, as lovers say.Wit.Thy mother who?Will.Wild lustie wanton blood.Wit.When wert thou borne?Will.In merrie moneth of May.Wit.And where brought up?Will.In schoole of little skill.Wit.What learndst thou there?Will.Love is my Lesson still.
Wit.Where readst thou that?Will.In lines of sweete delight.Wit.The author who?Will.Desire did draw the booke.Wit.Who teacheth?Will.Time.Wit.What order?Will.Lovers right.Wit.What's that?Will.To catch Content, by hooke or crooke.Wit.Where keepes he schoole?Will.In wildernesse of wo.Wit.Why lives he there?Will.The fates appoint it so.Wit.Why did they so?Will.It was their secret will.Wit.What was their will?Will.To worke fond lovers wo.Wit.What was their woe?Will.By spite their sport to spill.Wit.What was their sport?Will.Dame Nature best doth know.Wit.How grows their spite?Will.By want of wish.Wit.What's that?Will.Wit knowes right well,Will may not tell thee what.
Wit.Then, Will, adue.Will.Yet stand me in some steed.Wit.Wherewith, sweete Will?Will.Alas, by thine advise.Wit.Whereto, good Will?Will.To win my wish with speed.Wit.I know not how.Will.Oh Lord, that Will were wise.Wit.Wouldst thou be wise?Will.Ful fain, then come from schoole.Wit.Take this of Wit:Love learns to play the foole.
Will.Content, I wil come from Schoole, I wil give overArtem Amandi, and I will with thee to some more worthie study, which may be as well to my commoditie, comfort, as content.Wit.Well said, Will, now I like thee well; and, therefore, now I will do my best to worke thy delight. But for that now I have a peece of worke in hand, which none must be privie too, till it be finished; we will heere leave off talke, and fall to our worke togither, so I shall the sooner and the better dispatch it.
Will.Content, You shall have my helpe in it, or any other thing, wherein I may stand you in steed. And since you are so glad of my company, we will live and die togither.Wit.Gramercie, good Will; and meane time let us pray God to prosper our worke; let us have care how we worke; what, when, and where we worke, that we may find it commodious, not contrarie to Gods will, contentive to the best, offensive to fewe or none; let the matter be vertuous,so shall he prove famous.Will.Good Wit, I thanke thee for thy good counsaile; God give us His grace to doo so. I am glad to see thee so well bent; now I must needs love thee; thou wert never wont to be so well minded.Wit.Better late than never; it is good to be honest, though a man had forsworne it; there is no time too late to thrive.Will.True; and I promise thee now, I hope I shall doo well by the comfortable counsaile of so good a friend. God be thanked, the old vaine is gone.Stet pro ratione voluntas, Sum Juvenis fruar hoc mundo, Senex colam pietatem. Omnia vincit amor.Faint heart never woon faire lady. Let us be merrie while we are here; when we are gone, all the world goes with us; let them take care that come after. A man is a man, if he have but a hose on his head.Oh che bella donna? favor della Signora, oh dolce amore, La Sennora et spada, senza estos nada, Perle Amor de dieu: Beau damoiselle; oh brave huom; Che gallante cheval? il faut avoire come?That makes no matter; then sweetes had no sower; but now Wit, oh Will, dost thou remember all this? I pray thee forget all, and think no more of such things. I am sorie that ever they were in my heart, but now thou shall see we will do well inough: we will take another way, to both our comforts. We will to Care, and intreate him to lend us his helpe, for without him, indeed we shall make an ilfavoured ende, of what we begin untowardly.I promise thee, I heard the pretiest song betwixt him and Miserie that I heard a good while: if thou wilt set it downe in writing, I will recite it unto thee.Wit.Contented, right willingly, and thank thee too.Will.Then loe thus it was.
The Song betweene Miserie and Care.
M.What art thou, Care?C.A secret skil unseene.M.Who was thy syre?C.Sound Wisdome.M.Mother who?C.Devise.M.And who thy nurse?C.Delight I weene.M.When wert thou borne?C.In harvest.M.What to do?C.To worke?M.With whom?C.With Wit and honest Will.M.What worke?C.In graine,To gleane the good from ill.
M.What good?C.The best.M.And how?C.By warie eye.M.Whose eye is that?C.The eye of perfect sight.M.Who beares that eye?C.The head that hath me nie.M.Whose head is that?C.Each one that loves delight.M.But what delight?C.That longest doth endure.M.Oh, Care.C.I come,Thy comfort to procure.
M.Whence dost thou come?C.I come from loftie skie.M.When camst thou thence?C.Even now.M.Who sent thee so?C.The gods.M.Whereto?C.To comfort Miserie.M.But how?C.By Wit.To worke his ease of wo.M.What wo?C.The worst.M.Whats that?C.The griefe of mind.M.Oh.C.Feare not, CareWill quickly comfort find.
Wit.Beleeve me, I like it well: but is Care so comfortable: yea, indeed is it. Care is both a corsi[v]e and a comfort, all is in the use of it. Care is such a thing, as hath a great a doo in all things: why Care is a king in his kind. Did you never heare my discourse of Care in verse?
Will.No, that I remember: if it be not long, I pray you rehearse it. And for my better remembrance, henceforth, I will write it.Wit.Then give eare, thus it was.
THE SONG OF CARE