Classic Poem

My Parker, paper, pen
and inke were made to write,
And idle heads that litle doe,
haue leysure to indite:
Wherfore, respecting these,
and thine assured loue,
If I would write no newes to thee
thou mightst my pen reprooue
And sithens fortune thus
hath shoued my ship from shore,
And made me seeke another Realme,
vnseene of me before:
The manners of the men
I purpose to declare,
And other priuate points beside,
which strange and geason are
The Russie men are round
of bodies, fully fast
The greatest part with bellies big,
that ouerhang the wast.
Flat headed for the most,
with faces nothing faire,
But browne by reason of the stoue,
and closenes of the ayre.
It is their common vse,
to shaue or els to sheare
Their heads: for none in all the land
long lolling lockes do weare,
Vnlesse perhaps he haue
his soueraigne Prince displeasde:
For then he neuer cuts his heare,
vntil he be appeasde.
A certain signe to know
who in displeasure be:
For euery man that vewes his head
wil say, loe this is he.
And during all the time,
he lets his locks to grow,
Dares no man for his life
to him a face of frendship show.
Their garments be not gay,
nor handsome to the eye:
A cap aloft their heads they haue,
that standeth very hie,
Which (Colpack) they doe tearme:
they weare no ruffes at al,
The best haue collars set with pearle,
Rubasca they doe call.
Their shirts in Russie long,
they worke them downe before
And on the sleeues with coloured silkes,
two ynches good or more.
Aloft their shirts they weare
a garment iocket wise,
Hight Onoriadka, and about
his bourly wast he ties
His Portkies, which in stead
of better breeches be
Of linnen cloth that garment is,
no codpeece is to see:
A paire of yornen stockes
to keepe the cold away,
Within his bootes the Russie weares,
the heeles they vnderlay
With clouting clamps of steele,
sharpe pointed at the toes:
And ouer all a Suba furde,
and thus the Russie goes
Wel butned is the Sube,
according to his state,
Some silke, of siluer other some,
but those of poorest rate
Doe weare no Subes at all,
but grosser gownes to sight:
That reacheth downe beneath the calfe,
and that Armacha hight.
These are the Russies robes,
the richest vse to ride
From place to place, his seruant runnes
and followes by his side
The Cassocke beares his fealt,
to force away the raine:
Their bridles are not very braue,
their saddles are but plaine
No bittes, but snaffels all,
of byrche their saddles be:
Much fashioned like the Scottish seates,
broad flaxs to keepe the knee
From sweating of the horse:
the pannels larger farre
And broader be than ours:
they vse short stirrops for the warre,
For when the Russie is
pursude by cruell foe
He rides away, and sodenly
betakes him to his bowe.
And bendes me but about
in saddle as he fits,
And therewithall amid his race,
his following foe he hittes
Their bowes are very short,
like Turky bowes outright:
Of sinewes made with byrchen barke,
in cunning maner dight.
Small arrowes, cruel heads,
that fel and forked be:
Which being shot from out those bowes
a cruel wayes wil flee.
They seldome shooe their horse,
vnlesse they vse to ride
In poast vpon the frozen floods,
then cause they shal not slide
He sets a slender calke,
and so he rides his way.
The horses of the countrey goe
good fourescore veorsts a day,
And all without the spurre:
once prick them and they skip,
But goe not forward on their way
The Russie hath his whip
To rap him on the ribs,
for though all booted be,
Yet shal you not a paire of spurs
in all the countrey see
The common game is chesse,
almost the simplest wil
Both geue a checke and eke a mate:
by practise comes their skil
Againe the dice as fast,
the poorest roges of all
Wil sit them downe in open field
and there to gaming fall
Their dice are very small,
in fashion like to those
Which we doe vse, he takes them vp,
and ouer thumbe he throwes,
Not shaking them awhit,
they cast suspiciously:
And yet I deeme them voyd of arte,
that dicing most apply
At playe when siluer lackes,
goes saddle, horse and all:
And each thing els worth siluer walkes,
although the price be small
Because thou louest to play,
frend Parker, otherwhile
I wish thee there, the weary day,
with dicing to beguile
But thou were better farre
at home, I wist it wel,
And wouldst been loath among such loutes
so long a time to dwel
Then iudge of vs thy frends,
what kind of life we had,
That neere the frozen pole to wast
our weary dayes were glad.
In such a sauage soyle,
where lawes doe beare no sway,
But all is at the King his wil,
to saue or els to slay
And that saunce cause God wot,
if so his minde be such,
But what meane I with kings to deale,
we ought no Saints to touch.
Conceaue the rest your selfe,
and deeme what liues they leade:
Where lust is law, and subiectes liue
continually in dread
And where the best estates
haue none assurance good
Of lands, of liues, nor nothing falles
vnto the next of bloud
But all of custome doeth
vnto the Prince redowne,
And all the whole reuenue comes
vnto the King his crowne.
Good faith, I see thee muse
at what I tel thee now,
But true it is, no choyce,
but all at Princes pleasure bowe.
So Tarquine ruled Rome,
as thou remembrest well:
And what his fortune was at last,
I know thy selfe canst tell
Where will in common weale
doth beare the onely sway,
And lust is law, the prince and realme
must needs in time decay.
The strangenesse of the place is such,
for sundry things I see:
As if I would, I cannot write
each priuate point to thee
The cold is rare, the people rude,
the prince so full of pride:
The realm so stord with monks and hunnes,
and pries on euery side
The maners are so Turkylike,
the men so full of guile,
The women wanton, temples stuft
with idols that defile
The seats that sacred ought to be:
the customs are so quaint,
As if I would describe the whole,
I feare my pen would faint.
In summe I say, I neuer saw
a prince that so did raigne:
Nor people so beset with Saints,
yet all but vile and vainé
Wild Irish are as ciuil as
the Russies in their kind:
Hard choice which is the best of both,
each bloodie, rude, and blind
If thou be wise, as wise thou art,
and wilt be rulde by mee,
Liue still at home, and couet not
those barbarous coasts to see.
No good befals a man that seekes,
and finds no better place:
No ciuil customs to be learnd,
where God bestowes no grace
And truly ill they do deserue
to be beloued of God,
That neither loue, nor stand in awe
of his assured rod.
Which (thogh be long) yet plagues at last
the vile and beastly sort
Of sinfull wights, that all in vice
do place their chiefest sport
Adieu, friend Parker, if thou list
to know the Russies well,
To Sigismundus booke repaire,
who all the truth can tell
For he long earst in message went
vnto that sauage king,
Sent by the Pole, and true report
in each respect did bring.
To him I recommend my selfe,
to ease my pen of paine:
And now at last do wish thee well,
and bid farewell againe.