Classic Poem

Goe post you pensiue lynes,
and papers full of woe,
Make haste wnto my mothers handes,
hir sonnes farewell to showe.
Doe marke her lookes at first,
ere you your message tell,
For feare your sodayne newes, hir minde
doe fancie nothing well.
But sithen needes you must
my trauailes trouth vnfolde,
To offer vp her sonnes farewell,
and last adewe, be bolde
I know she will accept
your comming in good parte,
Till time she vnderstand by you
that I must needes departe.
But when you make reporte
that I am shipte from shore,
In minde to cut the foming Seas,
where winter wyndes do rore:
Then woe be vnto you,
that mournefull message beare,
For doubtlesse she with trembling handes
will you in sunder teare:
But (mother) let your sonne
perswade you in this case,
For no man sure is borne to leade
his life in one selfe place.
I must no longer stay,
aduantage is but vile,
The cruel lady Fortune on
your sonne will neuer smile
My countrey coast where I
my Nurses milke did sucke,
Would neuer yet in all my life
allowe me one good lucke
With cost encrease my cares,
expences nip me neere,
Loue waxeth cold, no frendship doth
in natures brest appeere
Where flender is the gaine,
and charges grow too hie,
Where liuing lackes and money melts
that should the want supply:
From thence tis time to trudge
and hire the hackney post,
To shift the ship, to leaue the land
and seeke a better coast.
Sith I haue all my yeres
in studies fond applide,
And euery way that might procure
a better chaunce haue tride:
Yet better not my state,
but like a sotted dolt
Consume my time that goes about
to mend a broken bolt
Sith I haue livde so long,
and neuer am the neere,
To bid my natiue soile farewel,
I purpose for a yeere
And more perhaps if neede
and present cause require:
They say the countrey is too colde,
the whotter is the fire
Moscouia is the place,
where all good surres be sold,
Then pray thee (mother) tel me how
thy sonne shall dye with colde
Put case the snow be thicke,
and winter frostes be great:
I doe not doubt but I shal finde
a stoue to make me sweat
If I with credite goe,
and may returne with gaine,
I hope I shalbe able wel
to bide this trauayles paine.
The slouthfull Groome that sits
at home and tels the clocke,
And feares the floud because therein
lies hidden many a rocke,
As hee abydes no woe,
no welth he doth deserue:
Let him that will not cut the loafe
for lacke and famine sterue
The Catte deserues no fish
that feares her foote to weate,
Tis time for me in profite now
mine idle braynes to beate
I trust I shall returne
farre better than I goe,
Increase of credite will procure
my simple wealth to growe:
Meane while I wishe thee well
(good mother mine) to fare,
And better than my selfe, who yet
was neuer voyde of care.
Sith neede obeyes no lawe,
and needes I must to barcke,
Farewell, and thinke vpon thy sonne,
but haue of him no carcke.
The Gods I hope will heare
the sute that you shall make,
And I amid the Sea shall fare
the better for your sake
If euer fortune serue,
and bring me safe to lande,
The harde mishappes of trauayle you
by me shall vnderstand,
And whatsoeuer straunge
or monstrous sight I see,
Assure thy selfe at my returne
I will declare it thee
Thus euery thing hath ende,
and so my letters shall,
Euen from the bottom of my brest,
I doe salute you all
What so becomes of me,
the mightie Gods I craue,
That you my frendes a blessed life
and happie deathes may haue.