Englands Parnassus: or the choysest flowers of our moderne poets, with their poeticall comparisons Descriptions of bewties, personages, castles, pallaces, mountaines, groues, seas, springs, riuers, &c. Whereunto are annexed other various discourses, both pleasaunt and profitable.

About this Item

Title
Englands Parnassus: or the choysest flowers of our moderne poets, with their poeticall comparisons Descriptions of bewties, personages, castles, pallaces, mountaines, groues, seas, springs, riuers, &c. Whereunto are annexed other various discourses, both pleasaunt and profitable.
Author
Albott, Robert, fl. 1600.
Publication
Imprinted at London :: For N. L[ing,] C. B[urby] and T. H[ayes],
1600.
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Subject terms
English poetry -- Early modern, 1500-1700.
Link to this Item
http://name.umdl.umich.edu/A16884.0001.001
Cite this Item
"Englands Parnassus: or the choysest flowers of our moderne poets, with their poeticall comparisons Descriptions of bewties, personages, castles, pallaces, mountaines, groues, seas, springs, riuers, &c. Whereunto are annexed other various discourses, both pleasaunt and profitable." In the digital collection Early English Books Online. https://name.umdl.umich.edu/A16884.0001.001. University of Michigan Library Digital Collections. Accessed June 8, 2024.

Pages

Haste.

Oft times the greatest haste the worser speeds. S. I. Harr. Transl.
As busie braines must beat on tickle toyes, As rash inuention breeds a raw deuice: So suddein falles do hinder hastie ioyes, And as swift baits do fleetest fish intice, So haste makes waste, and therefore now I say, No haste but good, where wisedome beares the sway. G. Gascoigne.
The swiftest bitch brings forth the blindest whelpes, The hottest feuers coldest crampes ensue. The nakedst need, hath ouer-latest helpes. Idem.
Hastie respect, repents when tis too late. I. Markeham.
Rashnesse sees all, but nothing can preuent. M. Drayton.
Fore-iudging, puts out one of wisedomes eies. —If by rashnesse valour haue got honour, We blame the rashnesse, but reward the valour. Ch. Fitz Ieffrey.
O rash false heat wrapt in repentance cold, Thy haste springs still blood, and nere growes old. W. Sh.
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