Of the Courtiers life written to Ihon Poins.
MYne owne Ihon Poins: sins ye delite to know
The causes why that homeward I me draw,
And fle the prease of courtes, where so they go:
Rather then to liue thrall vnder the awe,
Of lordly lokes, wrapped within my cloke,
To will and lust learning to set a law:
It is not that because I scorne or mocke
The power of them: whom fortune here hath lent
Charge ouer vs, of ryght to strike the stroke.
But true it is that I haue alwayes ment
Lesse to esteme them, then the common sort
Of outward thinges: that iudge in their entent,
without regarde, what inward doth resort.
I graunt, sometime of glory that the fire
Doth touch my hart. Me list not to report
Blame by honour, and honour to desire.
But how may I this honour now attaine?
That can not dye the colour blacke a lier.
My Poyns, I can not frame my time to fayn:
To cloke the truth, for praise without desert,
Of them that list all vice for to retaine.
I can not honour them, that set their part
With Uenus, and Bacchus, all their life long:
Nor holde my peace of them, although I smart.
I can not crouch nor knele to such a wrong:
To worship them like God on earth alone:
That areas wolues these sely lambes among.
I can not with my wordes complaine and mone,
And suffer nought: nor smart without complaynt:
No•• turne the word that from my mouth is gone,
I can not speake and loke ••••ke as a saint:
Use wiles for wit, and make disceyt a pleasure:
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Call craft counsaile, for lucre still to paint.
I can not wrest the law to fill the coffer:
with innocent bloud to fede my selfe fatte:
And do most hurt: where that most helpe I offer.
I am not he, that can alow the state
Of hye Ceasar, and damne Cato to dye:
That with his death did scape out of the gate,
From Ceasars handes, if Liuye doth not lye:
And would not liue, where libertie was lost,
So did his hart the common wealth apply.
I am not he, such eloquence to bost:
To make the crow in singyng, as the swanne:
Nor call the lyon of coward beastes the most.
That can not take a mouse, as the cat can.
And he that dieth for honger of the golde,
Call him Alexander, and say that Pan
Passeth Appollo in musike manifold:
Praise syr Copas for a noble tale,
And scorne the story that the knight tolde:
Praise him for counsell, that is dronke of ale:
Grinne when he laughes, that ••eareth al the sway:
Frowne, when he frownes: and grone when he is pale:
On others lust to hang both night and day.
None of these poyntes would euer frame in me.
My wit is nought, I can not learne the way.
And much the lesse of thinges that greater be,
That asken helpe of colours to deuise
To ioyne the meane with ech extremitie:
With nearest vertue ay to cloke the vice.
And as to purpose likewise it shall fall:
To presse the vertue that it may not rise.
As dronkennesse good fellowship to call:
The frendly foe, with his faire double face,
Say he is gentle and curties therewithall.
Affirme that fauel hath a goodly grace,
In eloquence: And cruelty to name
Zeale of Iustice: And change in time and place.
And he that suffereth offence without blame:
Call him pitifull, and him true and plaine,
That rayleth rechlesse vnto ech mans shame.
Say he is rude, that can not lye and faine:
The letcher a louer, and tyranny
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To be the right of a Princes raygne.
I can not I, no, no, it will not be.
This is the cause that I could neuer yet
Hang on their sleues, that weygh (as thou mayst se)
A chippe of chance more then a pounde of wit.
This maketh me at home to hunt and hauke:
And in fowle wether at my booke to sit:
In frost and snow, then with my bowe to stalke.
No man doth marke where so I ride or go.
In lusty leas at libertie I walke:
And of these newes I fele nor weale nor wo:
Saue that a clogge doth hang yet at my heele.
No force for that, for it is ordred so:
That I may leape both hedge and dike full wele,
I am not now in Fraunce, to iudge the wine:
with sauery sauce those delicates to fele.
Nor yet in Spaine where one must him incline,
Rather then to be, outwardly to seme.
I meddle not with wyttes that be so fyne,
Nor Flaunders chere lettes not my syght to deme
Of blacke, and white, nor takes my wittes away
wyth beastlinesse: such do those beastes esteme.
Nor I am not, where truth is geuen in pray,
For money, poyson, and treason: of some
A common practise, vsed nyght and day.
But I am here in kent and christendome:
Among the Muses, where I reade and ryme,
Where if thou list myne owne Ihon Poyns to come:
Thou shalt be iudge, how I do spende my time.