Classic Poem

A Foole, Dame Fancies man, speaketh in Defence of his Mistresse, Fancie

What meanes that mad man tro
that railes on Fancie so?
That seekes to do her such dispight
& sweres himself her fo:
The man mistakes himselfe
it is not Fancie, sure,
That for to fal into such rage
doth him so much procure.
Why, Fancie, is a frende,
to euery curteous Knight:
Why, Fancie, is the chiefest thing
that doth the minde delight
Why, Fancie, was the cause,
that wunders first were founde:
Of many fine deuices strange,
first Fancie was the ground:
Why, Fancie is the thing,
that mooueth men to loue,
And telles the Louers what to doo
as best for their behooue:
Fancie, findes pretie toyes,
to please each Courtly Dame:
Fancie, to passe the time in sporte
inuented many a game.
To Courtiers many a one,
a good frende Fancie standes:
She makes them reap good lyking at
their louing Ladies' hands:
She made the Poets olde
deuices to endight,
Which they in wrightyng left behind
for other men's delight
She seeketh vnto none,
but many seeke to her:
And those who are her servaunts styll
she seeketh to preferre
To high degree in time:
and that in Court (perchaunce)
She helpeth them, and many wayes
doth seeke them to advaunce.
Now some (perhaps) againe
that are of grosest wit,
And, by their dispositions,
For Follye Schollers fit:
Those now (perhaps) in deede
she letteth all alone,
With Follie onely, to rewarde
and them regardeth none.
But those that are againe
of quicke capacitie,
Who can consider Vertue wise
from foolysh Vanytie:
Suche men she chieflie loues,
and suche, although they know her,
Shall haue smal cause, in tract of time
in deed, for to beshrow her
I may not speake too muche
for I am partiall,
But what I haue sald is true
for I have tried all.
And therefore, sure the man
that rayleth on her so,
Hath done her wrong, without iust cause
to stand so much her fo.
Faire wordes are euer best
backbiting is too bad.
And therfore, I doo thinke the man
is either dronke or mad,
That seekes her suche despight
so much without desarte:
And, by her countenance, it seemes
it greeues her to the hart
To be so muche abusde: but wot
you what, no remedie:
A wicked tongue doth say amisse
and will do tyll I die.English