Classic Poem

My Muse to mount Parnassus hill
Which whilom tokst delight,
Faire Venus joyes to set to vew,
And wray blind Cupids spite,
Go shrowde thy selfe in Limbo lake,
This dririe tale to tell,
Of dice, to figure forth the frute,
A second showe of hell:
There crave the ayde of wrathfull sprites,
The authors of this art,
And joyne with them such hellish impes,
As waytes to woorke our smart.
For sure their plagues to paint aright,
Beseemeth well the toile
Of him that pend the paines of hell,
How Plutoes thralles do broile.
The lustie youth, with lyving left,
Whose woe is wealth and ease,
To line his purse with powling fines,
His tenaunts pence doth fease:
Then doth hee beare a lostie saile,
As one that dreads no want,
These sneaking curs now raunge abrode,
To finde this novis haunt.
One bitten dog above the rest,
Doth great acquaintaunce crave,
Whose kindred blasde, and friendship voucht,
Hee treates of counsell grave.
Trust me, good cus, trust mee, hee cries,
When first I left my guide,
This towne did weave my webbe of cares,
Before that craft I spyde.
Eche shifting slave did search the meane
A mate to make mee meete:
Then hee the names bewrayes of some
Himselfe to make him sweete.
The lustie brute which feares no fraude,
Doth count his cunning blist,
Who thinkes he hath a saint in hand,
Yet shakes syr Sathans fist.
Their friendship new, by greeting oft,
Now grafted in their brest,
His kindred coynde in cousners stampe,
Invites him as his guest;
Who kindly thankes him for his cost,
And craves amends to make,
Then trudge they to some tabling house,
Their hunger for to slake.
Where daintie fare great store they finde,
Their naperie faire and sweete,
And gallants gay with conges kinde
Their coming for to greete.
A bounsing gyrle they sildome misse,
To furnish forth their messe,
Whose chyrping tongue with pleasaunt speach
Doth cheare her chosen gesse.
There shall you heare described plaine
Eche forreine towne and towre,
Augmented newes of warlike frayes,
Where fortune late did lowre.
As cold as snow some couch their scoffes,
And some to rayling prest,
In plesaunt speach some play the k.
And makes thereon a jeast:
And some so plainly figures forth
The fruites of Venus court,
That honest eares doth scorne to heare
Their vaine and vile report.
Their dinner done, they leave this speach;
The gamsters call for dice.
Where posting Jacke to rub the bord
Doth come even with a trice.
To you, you furies, now I leave
This foule abuse to wray,
Their foysting shiftes my Muse doth mase.
Their othes my pen doth fray.
Tenne mine! alowde some cogger cryes,
Three mine! some youth doth say,
Gods bloud! eleven (well sworne, in faith)
The caster cryes to pay.
Sixe is the maine, what do you sett?
Well tenne to sixe I have.
Two fines (Gods hart!) then for the house,
The boxer streight doth crave.
And nine, come ye and nine this crowne:
Well, chaunce at it I say,
Aumes ase (Gods wounds!) t'is not my lucke
Two maynes to throwe this day.
Some hypocrites do murder othes,
Faire gamsters for to seeme,
But of both evils to choose the best,
The doubt were hard I deeme.
Perhaps some gallant fortune hauntes,
Good hap his hand doth guide,
His purse aflote, within his brest
Doth lurke disdainfull pride.
Then roists hee in his ratling silkes,
And fortes with Venus dames,
Whose luring lookes inforce his heart
To frie in Cupids flames.
To traine him in, hee shall injoy
Eche outward show of blisse:
In secrete sport they wilbe coy,
They feare to do amisse.
A sute of laune my lady lackes,
Or else some trifling cheane;
A cawle of gold, and other knackes,
My novis purse must gleane.
The haggard, then, that checkt of late,
Will stoupe to fancies lure,
And inward bend at every becke,
No storme shall chaunge procure.
Her chirstall eyes shall still be fixt,
To stare uppon his face;
Her daintie armes shall try their force
Her lover to imbrace;
Her rubie lippes by stelth shee will
Bee joyning unto his,
With courage vaunst her friend to force
To fall to Venus blisse,
Then will shee play Galatheas part,
To make his joy more sweete,
By striving yeeld, who never thought
From such devise to fleete.
To frame excuse for late offence,
The queane will cog apace,
She will alledge his fugred woordes,
His gallant giftes of grace
So wrought within her horish minde,
As naught availde defence
For to withstand his sharpe assaultes:
Shee lyes, it was his pence.
Naught craving for her kindnes showen,
Save constancie in him,
Then shee that rues her chastice spoild
In seas of joyes shall swim.
Which subtile speach doth force her friend
Within his minde to say,
In beuties showe my choice doth passe
Syr Paris pearelesse pray.
Adventrous boye, now bathe in blisse,
In scorne of fortunes rage,
Thy good successe in former sutes
Good happe doth still presage.
But all this while his purse is sicke,
It purgeth more and more:
Then runnes hee to his former vaine,
To cure his soudaine sore:
Where coemates, if hee chaunce to lacke,
The devill is in the rome;
The maister will supply the want,
Till more resort doth come:
Who chiefely in this hellish house
Doth God in peeces teare,
With quicke repentaunce then hee cries,
A beast hee is to sweare.
Which woordes more true is then his othe,
When most hee cogs and scowle,
For one may shape an oxes sconce
By patterne of his jowle.
My younge mans purse, that earst was sicke,
Here reapes but small reliefe;
His newe receite doth scowre to fast,
Cheape Side must cure his griefe.
Then to the goldsmithes straight hee runnes,
Where most his credite is;
Crackt angels there be currant coyne,
Eight shillinges worth a peece.
Foure pound in twentie for a moneth,
In faith is pretie gaine,
The lender may well live thereon,
The paiment is the paine.
Then, as a man with love once matcht
At length yet wonne the fort,
His lady, yeelding to his lust,
Doth thyrst for Venus sport:
So doth this youth to be at dice,
Thinke every houre three,
One bone was sure the frame of both,
In nature so they gree.
Now fortune frownes, that late did laughe,
To quite him for his scorne,
Ill lucke doth chaunge his chaunce of gaine,
Good lott is quite forlorne.
One by and maine at every throw,
His angell runnes astray;
He fretts and fumes, and stamps and stares,
Hee leaves a maine to pay.
His setters some they loosers bee,
They will not so be serv'd;
They wilbe paid, Gods wounds! his hart
Forthwith shall els be carv'd.
With monie lost, his couler stirde,
Hee bids them do their worst,
And if they dare appoint the place,
Gods bloud! hee wilbe first.
The box then at his bosom goes,
His dagger now hee drawes,
They parted are, they do agree,
Abrode to try them dawes.
Then Smithfield ruffians flocke apace,
And Fletestrete hacksters hew
The enimies meete, of ircksom hell
They do present the shew.
Draw! draw! the villaines kill! they cry,
Then some do shewe their strength;
Some thrust five yeards, ere foe do come,
To keepe him out at length.
The broken blades they busse about,
The more the cutlers gaine:
Some hops for neede, which faine would go,
Some lies in streate nie slaine.
Some slovins sleues will buttoned bee,
That downe theyr weapons fall;
The barber waites, the wounded wights
Lookes like the whited wall.
To rue his hap on every side
His fained friends do flocke;
His minion kinde to wray his wounds
Will now bestow her smocke.
Not all for griefe of his mischaunce
This kindnes they do showe,
But greedie gaping after gaine,
If death should ease his woe.
His daunger past by surgions art,
They do present their bill,
The which defraide (with other charge)
His feeble purse doth kill.
He keeping home, when debtes were due,
And payment none was made,
Doth breede mistrust in merchants minds;
His credite ginns to vade.
To fell his land full loth hee is,
A thred hee fairely spinnes,
To morgage it hee fully minds,
To thrive hee now beginnes.
Now blewberds bagges doth beare the sway,
Old snudges smell him out,
Good simple soules, they plainly meane,
Yet traverse every doubt.
An hundredth pound they venter will,
On land five hundreth worth;
In scriveners craft consist their lawe,
Poore subtile men, forsooth.
The ruddockes redde do tempt his eyes,
The instruments be made:
In faith, to sowre his sweete receite
Before digestion had,
Some unadvised statute hee,
Without defesaunce wrought,
Doth enter in: their gold to gaine,
Their guiles he feareth nought.
They perchment reape, hee gold doth gleane:
Who toyles in straitest yoke,
For present state, I will not judge,
Hereafter strikes the stroke.
Now hee, for feare of sergeants sauce
That sicknes late did faine,
In every streate which sight presents
His presence you may gaine.
The mercers bookes for silkes bee crost,
His debtes bee now defraide;
The remnaunt doth the dice consume,
Of all which worst is paide.
Redeeming day drawes on a pace,
His monie cleane is gone,
His creditors, through late mistrust,
Forsooth will lend him none.
Then doth hee trudge to Holdfastes house,
His great distresse to wray,
Of him to get a longer time
His monie for to pay;
Who aunswers fayre, that God forbid
My conscience I should stretch,
To take advauntage of a day,
(Oh false dissembling wretch!).
The fained woordes hee simply trustes,
The merchant did accord,
As though bare wordes were good discharge,
For matters of recorde.
Now is he forst to try his friendes
His monie to provide,
Where he on flocks may see them fleete,
Which fawned in his pride.
Yet some there be for his distresse,
Whose harts with bale wil bleede,
And findes the meane to lend him coyne:
Well fare a friend in neede!
Advaunst with joy, to pay his pence
In haste now is he gone,
But cut throte gives a cooling carde,
For monie he will none:
His lande is his, by forfaite plaine,
Which is too sweete to lose;
For kindnesse yet he will be franke,
He playes now with his nose.
Holde! twentie poundes, besides to drinke:
How like ye of this match?
For five to have fiftene with him,
In faith, is but a snatch.
The youth againe will have his lande,
Or else (Gods wounds!) he sweares,
The pillorie for cousining him
Shall moth eate both his eares.
And in this chase he doth depart,
Sub penas for to fetch,
Which raunge abroade in every streate,
To catch the cousining wretch;
Who caught, his prankes of deepe deceite
The youthlings plaint bewrayes,
And shewes, ere time of forfeit came,
He gave him longer dayes.
To answere which, denying all,
The craftie carle now speedes.
With rough reply the plaintive soothes,
His plaint of truth proceedes.
The gnawing worme of conscience vile
Now bites at Blewbeards brech,
He feares sol fa, in cousners cliffe
His eares too hye shall stretch;
Which makes him trudge to finde his mates,
The frie of Sathans crue,
For to consult how to avoyde
The shame that might ensue.
The packe of knaverie then they ope,
Their craftie bondes they viewe.
One shifting knave a forfeit findes
To make their enimie rue.
The rest with open mouth doth crye
To catch poore cousenee,
By durance hard to make him yeald,
Which else would not agree.
Then lay they traines of comin seede
To toll this pigeon in,
Whose chiefest feathers soone be pulde,
Once snarled in their gin.
The Counter serves him for a cage,
Where breeding holes there be,
But lover lights, to scape away,
This dove cote lackes, we see.
For him that earst did raunge abroade,
This ayre is not fit:
The Bench, he thinks, more freedome hath,
For to refresh his wit.
More haste then needes, he findes a meane
His causes to remeeve,
And that the body come with him,
The writ doth charge the shreeve.
Well mand then comes he to the barre,
The judge commaundes away,
Then tipstaves snatch him up in haste,
They make ne long delay.
Safe lockt they leave him under charge,
Untill the court doth rise,
Then guarded to the mershals house
This lustie gallant hies;
Who passing through the porters lodge,
Then findes no jesting game,
For Burton with his booke of doome
Requesteth him his name.
Roger Woodcocke of unthriftes rowe:
What! gentleman or squire?
Ten grotes and two pence you must pay,
I do but right require.
Which payd, a while to viewe the house,
He lets him go at large,
But soone the vermine comes againe,
To give the second charge:
Your worship knowes the losse, sayth he,
My maister should sustaine,
If any prisoner should escape,
Their ease his little gaine;
And therefore each of you he may
By lawe in yrons lay,
Yet he for pitie trusteth you,
Your penance is to pay
For them three halfpence in the pound,
Your actions yeald thus much,
Which trifle for your ease to give,
Your worship neede not grutch:
Then may you in the garden walke,
When you have payd your fees.
Thus every way the poore is pincht,
To plucke him on his knees.
An answere faire the prisoner makes,
Which doth content the time,
Then he to seeke his fellow mates
The stayres straight doth clime.
Some subtile lawyer soone he findes,
Who great acquaintance craves,
To whome he shewes his lucklesse lot,
Enforst by shifting slaves;
And lastly, to his skill commends,
If yron fees be due?
Extortion plaine, the lawyer faith:
His wordes be very true;
The statute here at large I have,
Set downe for prisoners ease:
The gaylor can by lawe receive
A groate, no more, for fees,
And in your other causes I
The snudge will sharply yoke:
But looke your counsell lackes no coyne,
For monie strikes the stroke.
Which monie killes the heart of him,
Whome present neede doth pine,
Yet he at first do share him fees,
As though he had a mine,
And, all on hoyh, he rashly reakes
His prisonment a scorne,
And vainely vaunts, to plague his foe,
Till Saturday at morne.
Corrections then be sharply given
To them which monie lackes,
Now Burton comes for yron fees;
My youth now stoutly crakes,
If he extort where is no right,
The statute to prepare,
And sweares to make him pay the paine,
And damage for his share.
But here no lawe nor right do rule,
Ne vaileth threats nor crakes;
With boltes and shackles on his shins,
His loaden heeles he shakes.
Where late was golde, an yron chaine
Do well beseeme the necke,
His wrystes, in steade of braslets brave,
With manacles be deckt.
And nowe they will him coole his feete,
He cloyde with yrons great,
For all his lawe is glad to pay,
Yea, more then that, entreate.
Thus he that thought Caribdis rockes
By wisedome to escape,
By follie fell in Sillaes gulfe
His greater griefes to shape.
How speedes he now in all his his fuites,
When all his pence be spent?
Unfeed do lawyers ply his cause,
Till newe receit of rent?
Nay, Niclas nihil dicet sure,
To nip him to the hart,
In execution layes him up,
For feare that he should start.
He fast, his fained friends yet free,
To see him be not rash,
And Mynx, his minion, hath a mate,
And leaves him in the lash.
For, haggard like, she will not stoope,
But where she gets her pray;
His coyne consumd, his courage coolde,
In hope she will not stay.
What restes nowe to this lucklesse man?
What pen his woes can wray?
Of friends forlorne, of freedome rest,
And he at beggers bay.
Thus galde with griefe, his lawyer yet
This slender shift doth use,
And sayth that prisoners be opprest,
And all men do refuse
To ease their wants; and therefore sure
The best is to agree:
He may the better plague his foes,
Abroad when he is free.
Which freedome so doth feede his hart,
Whome present bondage nippes,
That he, through hope before his hap,
For joy now hops and skips;
And then in hast for Holdfast sends,
Agreement for to make,
But once or twise he must be praid,
Ere hee the paines will take:
And then with one or two he comes,
And up and downe he jets.
Nowe do I smile to shewe the speach
Betwixt these counterfets.
The youth, that roughly rayld of late,
A pitious plaint doth paint,
The divell him selfe in Christian shewe
Doth counterset a faint;
But after many wordes of griefe,
That either part can say,
The youth perforce the candle holdes,
And beares the blame away;
And gladly yealdes him selfe in fault,
Whose craving suite nowe is,
That cutthrote will release him of
The penance of his mis,
And take such order as they both
In friendly league may live.
The more that he in prison spendes,
The lesse he hath to give,
As though that conscience mov'd his mynd,
The merchant doth lament,
Through peevish pride and hautie hart,
His pence and time mispent,
And order takes his owne the gaine,
The losse he leaves to him,
Which thought, without dame wisdomes bark,
In seas of joyes to swimme.
From prison free, he nothing myndes,
The statute to prefare,
Nor for the cousning shiftes he usde
To cloy the churle with care,
But runnes unto his former vaine,
If ought he have to play.
To posting then he somewhat puts,
His commons to defray:
Some cheater haply will him teach
Some coging trickes at dice,
Whereby he may mainteine him selfe,
If therein he be wise.
Then is he set a sale to toule
Some other yonkers in,
To make them bite at unthrifts bayte,
While he their pence doth win.
Some can not brooke this servile life,
But needes in ventures barge
Will seeke a price; but howe they speede
I leave to shewe at large.
The sweete report of souldiers gaine,
By them that lacke the sower,
Persuadeth straight some ventrous mynde
To scale dame Fortunes bower:
But Flushing frayes hath wrought such feare,
That they suspend their hope.
If one did gaine, then two were slaine,
The third did stretch a rope;
And beggers most returnd againe
Unto their native soyle,
For Holland yealded little thrift,
In lue of all their toyle.
And some with trifles seekes to thrive,
But fewe do speede so well,
And with a litle haply learnes
Repentance for to spell.
The serving man, that plyes this vaine,
A shorter cut doth make;
He hath no fines to fill his purse,
Nor racked rents to rake:
His way for to supply his want,
Is by the Scottish cog,
But finely he must strike his dye,
Least yrons do him clog.
And worse then that, to make him sure
In haste doth hangman speede,
Where he in cogging winnes the coate,
For that he strikes him dead.
The plowman, and the poorest sort,
Which toyles and sowes the soyle,
And sixe pence by the day doth gaine
In recompence of toyle,
If he at night consume at play
The price of all his hire,
His wife with hunger well may sterve,
His children freese for fire.
O horned hap of hatefull harme!
O venom vile to tell!
O greedie gulfe of endlesse griefe!
O horror next to hell!
O foule insection, fraught with care!
O sinke, of such a sent
Which never leav'st thy poysned thrals,
Till all their wealth be spent!
For not in vaine Agrippa writ,
The fiends of yre you made,
An art most fit for hellish ympes,
And not for Christians trade:
A spring from whence all vice did flowe,
Of peevish pride the nurse,
For note, the dicer roystes in silke,
When pence be pert in purse.
Then must he prease in pleasures court,
To be of Venus traine,
Which soone will purge his foggie purse
From all their pinching paine.
His body earst that able was
To serve at eache assay,
By sloth &c. is so weake,
That faintnesse bids him stay.
To shewe the valure of his mynde,
Till natures griefe be easde,
His fearelesse othes will feare the divell,
When losse hath him displeasde.
When malice moves him to revenge,
His quarels do excell;
His carelesse slashing at his foe
Doth wray the fourme of hell.
An epicure for his fare,
Such is his costly cates,
His mynde is bent to snatch and catch,
Yea more, to rob his mates.
When all is spent and credite crackt,
Despaire then strikes the stroke,
And makes him gape in hope of plumbes,
For pence will shun his poke.
And thus you heare in ragged ryme,
For so be seemes the worke,
What veines of vice, what lakes of losse,
In dogged dice doth lurke;
For loftie verse unfitly serves
To paint the plagues of hell,
Though not the same, yet next thereto,
This dogrell rime doth tell.
How youthes, from rod to freedome leapt,
Are thrall to sharper whips,
Whom cousner first, whom cutthrote next,
Whome lawyer lastly nips.
The braunches of the cousners tree
Are whordome, theft, and pride;
From cutthrotes rout doth bondage spring,
With losse on every side.
The lawyer lickes that they have left,
And lets him sinke or swim;
Pure neede then makes him leane on those
That earst did live by him.
Although at large I here do touch
Each vice in his degree,
A speciall meaning hath my wordes
To graunt that some there be,
By rules of lawe which rightly live,
And not which rules the lawe,
To wrest the sense to serve their turne,
Their clyents coyne to clawe.
Some merchaunts rise by honest meanes,
And not by craftie shiftes;
Some tabling halles, in fayth, I judge
Are free from cheters driftes,
The which I trust will not repine,
Or quite my toyle with blame,
Nor yet the guiltie well may grudge,
Which wisely wayes the same.