Classic Poem

My worde, thy wish, my det, and thy desire,
I meane my booke (my Baynes ) lo here I send
To thee at last, as friendship doth require,
Though reason willes it rather left unpend,
For that the same the Authour should not shend:
But blush who lust, so thou do like the worke,
I am content it shall no longer lurke.

Peruse ech page as leysure giues thee leaue,
Reade ore each verse thus ragged as they lie,
Let nothing slip whereby I may receive
The hatefull checke of curious readers eie:
For well I know how haut thy muse doth flie:
VVherefore I yeeld this soule mishapen Beare,
Vnto thy choise, to tender or to teare.

VVherein if ought unworth the presse thou finde
Vnsauorie, or that seemes unto thy taste,
Impute it to the troubles of my minde,
Whose late mishap made this be hatcht in haste,
By clowdes of care best beauties be defaste:
Likewise be wittes and freshest heads to seeke,
VVhich way to write, when fortune list to streeke.

VVho knew my cares, who wist my wailefull woe,
(As thou my friend art priuie to the same)
Or understoode how griefe did ouergrow
The pleasaunt plot which I for myrth did frame,
VVould beare with this, and quite me clean of blame.
For in my life I neuer felt such fittes,
As whilst I wrote this worke did daunt my wittes.

For as the Pilot in the wrathfull waue.
Beset with stormes, still beaten too and fro
VVith boysteous bellowes, knowes not howe to saue
His sielie barke, but lets the rudder goe,
And yeeldes himselfe whither tempest list to blowe.
So I amidde my cares had slender skill,
To write in verse, but bowde to fortunes will.

The more thy paine, thy trouble and thy toile,
That must amend amisse eache faulte of mine,
Yet grudge not (Baynes) with share to turne the soile,
In sorte as though the same were wholie thine,
The charge whereof, loe here I do resine
For want of health, my friend at large to thee,
Since that my limmes with greef surcharged be.

Apollos lore I quite haue layde aside,
And am enforst his Phisicke to peruse:
I hate the Harpe, wherein was all my pride,
I hunte for hearbes, I lothe Mineruas muse,
My want of health, mahes me my booke refuse:
The bloming rage that erst inspirde my braine,
Saturnus chilling humour doth restraine

VVherefore sith I confesse my want of skill,
And am to seeke to better this my booke,
See (Baines) thou runne vnto Parnassus hill,
To Helicon, or else that learned brooke,
Which Pegase made, when he the soile forsooke:
For well thou knowst, where Clio and the rest,
Do tune their Lutes and pipe with pleasant brest.

I can no more, but for thy michle paine,
Yeeld thousand thankes vpon my naked knee,
And if thou neede the like supply againe,
Assure thy selfe then I will pleasure thee:
So friends unto each other bounden be
(My Baynes) Adew, this little booke of mine,
VVhen thou hast done, may best be termed thine.

Thy friend,

George Turberuile