Classic Poem

A MONG their falles, by wanton fate untwist,
Let my lewde hap remembred be I pray,
To salve whose harme too late coms had I wist;
Bloud cries for blud, he craves none other pay:
For conscience sake, behould then now I wray,
With trickling teares my deadly cheakes that warme,
The true report both of my hap and harme.

Good ladies, first, to you this tale I tell,
To you as chiefe this drirye plaint I preach:
Your hie estate, your vices cannot quell,
But as you live your same or shame doth streach,
With vauntage sure (such notes doth honour reach)
Your praise is raisde as farre is blasd your blame:
Thus are your lives y payst with parcial same.

Let mee be proofe and warning for you both,
Whose filthie life so foule report hath spread,
That loe! (constrainde) I showe the shame I loth.
My wanton toyes in thousand bookes are read;
My byrth, my blame, how lewde a life I lead,
My passing love, my peevish hate withall,
My murderous minde; in fine, my filthie fall.

First for my birth, I must confesse, was base,
But bagges I had this basenesse to supplie;
My forme was fine, I had a gallant face,
A sugred tongue, a passing pleasaunt eye;
Good gifts besides, to hoyse my happe on hie:
These lures in love the Vicount Hermes brought,
Who kept mee short to tame my wanton thought.

But (ah!) to soone my lord to heaven did wend,
Who, maugre will, Bianca kept in fame.
The coupe thus broke wherein I long was pend,
I set my selfe to saile with open shame;
Consago yet did like mee with my blame,
But loe! I stoopte unto the Celant Count:
Hee lovde mee well, I likt a loft to mount.

Consent of friendes accorded with our wills,
And wee forsooth in haste must married bee;
But raisde a loft, I quight forgot what quills,
What feathers, first to honour made mee flee:
As priestes forget the sillie clearkes degree,
So I from cart a countesse framde by fate,
Throughe scorne abusde my honour and estate.

No marveile why: for force the cur to drawe
The kestrill kyte, to cause the heron to quake,
The ravening wolse of lambes to stand in awe,
The myllers mare a mannage good to make,
Or apes to daunce, while mules lie at the stake,
A botelesse toile, in fine you sure shall finde:
For counterfettes will still returne to kinde.

And thinke you those that weare dame Fortunes crowne,
Whose homely friends did hould the ploughe of late,
Can rightly rule the scepter of renowne?
No, honour stoupes to nature, not to fate:
Yet Fortune heaves a thousand to estate,
As in good moode shee did of late by mee,
Who never knew the use of dignitie.

As by abuse one proose shal well appeare.
First for my pride my betters did me scorne,
The poore did fawne, godwot, for very feare.
My luring life did move my lord to mourne,
Whose jelous sighes foreshewed he feard the horne:
Yet wisely hee, his shrewde mistrust to show,
Usde secrete nippes my faultes to make mee know.

I saw, and smilde to see his true mistrust,
And yet in showe I sight throwe sollen will,
As who should say, to thinke thy spouse unjust
Thou doest her wronge; she never ment no ill:
She hath beene true, and so shee wilbe still.
For all his witte thus found I out a wile
To quench suspect, forsoth, a little while.

But ravening currs their chaps can hardly hould
When carren lies before their hungry jawes:
The stragling kite with chickes will sure be bould
If once a wynge shee spies a flight of dawes.
Soe ramping girles regarde no modest lawes,
As proofe appeares by this my filthie flight:
I left my lord, and stoale away by night.

Who hearing once of this my gadding moode,
My vitall thread untwiste, good care (quoth hee)
In fine, her hate wil sure sucke out my bloode;
She loves me not, there is no third degree.
Thus ledde with feare, at large hee let mee flee;
I pinchte with neede, to praying forthwith fell,
And for my selfe I shifted prettie well.

To plant my wares in place of bravest vewe
In Pavie towne a stately house I tooke:
I deckte my selfe with weedes of lightest hewe,
To lure guestes I sparde no wanton looke.
Valperga first was choakt with Cupids hooke:
Hee sight, hee sobd, hee curst his sorrie chaunce,
Hee suede, hee searvd, he did attendaunce daunce.

But squemish then Bianca Maria was;
His secrete sighes with scorne she quited still.
A parle yet at length was brought to pas,
Where safely hee might shew his hidden will.
With sugred wordes he wraid his sutes at fill;
His life, his death, all in my power lay,
I was so kinde to loth this lords decay.

They say, the mate is apt to mischiefe still,
Whose foule offence with countenaunce is held;
So wantons, forst with their agreeing will,
When lust assaultes will after learne to yeald,
No fame nor shame can make them keepe the field:
To true a proofe appeareth by mine end;
Then sinne not, dames, in hope for to amend.

I showe not this to shape mine owne excuse,
My life I lothe, to salve my soule amisse;
But for your heed I blase this vile abuse:
Beware, beware, of Venus beastly blisse,
It feedes the fleshe and sterves the soule, I wisse;
It honour staines, it is a shrine of shame,
A bitter sweete that breadeth nought but blame.

In mee too late these faultes I did forsee.
Valperga so my wanton humour fedde,
My fare was fine, I lackt no goulden glee,
The Art of Love for exercise I redde,
And thus my life in Venus court I ledde:
With wealth at will, I could but wish and have
The toy I lackt, I neede not twise to crave.

And think you, dames, these visards yeld such sights
As wanton girles may sighe to see their shame?
No; meekenes marres the maskes of fond delightes,
And fasting must their frolicke bodies tame:
To Scriptures read they must their leasure frame,
Then loath they will both lust and wanton love;
Be sure else such ryggs my case shall prove.

But at my call why did Valperga stoupe?
Why did not hee foresee the fruites of lust?
Why did he come at every wanton whoope?
Why, why did hee Bianca Maria trust,
Which to her lord had shewen her selfe unjust?
A man hee was whom weakenes cannot scuse,
How could hee, then, let love him so abuse.

How could hee? (ah!) perforce I shew my shame,
As one whose tongue a truth will neatly tell.
I reast his life, why slay I then his fame?
No reason why, save I can nothing well;
For through my lure hee (wonne) to folly fell,
If not so witcht: who list like case to prove,
Shal find fine heads are fraughted first with love.

Then, sith his joy all in Bianca lay,
What scuse hath shee with hate to pay his love?
Bee not abasht the truth in wordes to wray,
Which thou in act untimely late didst prove.
What sullen moode this peevish scorne did move?
And am I forst to shew the fault I shame?
Sith needes I must, good ladies, not the same.

They say, who so with dropsie is aprayde,
The more hee drinckes, the more hee doth desire.
The greedie churle is never well appayde,
Although he reape the gaine hee doth require:
So lust in rampes is such a raging fire,
That most it heates when most the same is drencht,
A hellish flame that never can be quencht.

This fire in mee was kindled first with pride,
But raysde to flame with ease and wanton thought:
It raged so, no reason could mee guide.
My husbands sport so small allayaunce wrought,
As him I left, for lustier laddes I sought;
Valperga then a while supprest this fire,
But hee decayde, for chaunge I did desire.

Giazzo next was favord in my sight,
Who forst mee not, his friend hee loved soe:
Hee knew I was Valpergas sole delight,
Hee scornde my winckes, my wanton love in showe,
My privie sighes, my wilie signes of woe;
But, spaniel like, by stripes to kindnes movde,
The more hee scornd, the more this lord I lovde.

And when I sawe hee shunde inticeing baites,
Immodest rigg, I Ovids counsell usde,
Where cleanly I did couler shame with sleightes,
Through love constrainde, which reason had abusde:
My penne did paint what bashfull tongue refusde,
Which fewe suffisde; hee knew love kept no lawe,
Hee was my joy, of him I stoode in awe.

This proferd grace did stowpe Giazzo straight;
Hee lovde his friend, but more his owne delight:
The hooke of love hee swallowed with the baite.
No marvaile why: Biancaes beautie bright,
Her brave arraye, and shee a countesse hight,
Would force a man himselfe and all forgoe;
And could hee chuse when love was offered foe?

No, neede to runne the creeple sure will teach,
A pleasaunt pray, a thiefe inticeth soone,
As foxes hate the grapes they cannot reach,
And wilie saintes with showes are seldome wonne,
When as, assuerde, their squemishnes is donne.
Even such a saint Giazzo proved in fine;
He lovde no grapes before hee reacht the vine.

Wel, thus at length, I won my wished joy:
He came, in whome my heart did wholy dwell:
To make him sport Bianca was not coy,
She knew her game, and streight to daliaunce fell;
Where as this lord behavde himselfe so well,
That loe! I loath Valpergas drowsy sport,
And so with scorne I stayde his oft resort.

Thus rest (good soule) of her hee heald so deare,
His woonted sutes a fresh he put in ure,
Hee sight, hee served, he lookt with sorrie cheare;
But when no sute nor service could procure
My stragling love to stoupe unto his lure,
By neede inforst, his dotage then hee rest,
And so with losse my wanton pleasures left.

When mystes of lust were cleared from his eyes,
Disdaine forthwith transformed his love to hate:
Fye on my life, and lewdnes! lowde hee cries;
Hee heaves mee up to filthie Faustines state,
A Layis byrde, for Masseline a mate,
A filth, a flurt, a bitch of Megraes kinde,
A rigg, a rampe, and all that came to minde.

But when I heard my blame hee blased thus,
Impatient, I began to stampe and stare,
To waile, to weepe, to wring my handes I wous,
To freate, to sume, to teare my golden heare.
In fine, as madd as ever was March hare,
I vowde to reave Valperga of his life,
Which I performde (aye me!) through peevish strife.

While sport was quicke I did Giazzo move
To slay this lord, in grace which whilome stoode;
But dispossest to winne his owne sweete love,
Uncivil wretch, accoyde through sullen moode,
Hee blased mee forth as byrde of Layis broode.
Leave off (quoth hee), I loth thy heavie cheere,
Valpergas tongue shall buy this bable deare.

With which suffisde, I fell to kisses straight,
And shewde my selfe more gamesome then of yore:
To tyce him on I laide this wanton baite.
But hee, which long Valperga held in store,
Within his heart my hatred did abhorre;
Yet nay the lesse my love hee did so like,
As still, hee said, he stayde for time to strike.

But when I found what fine delayes hee usde,
All sweld with wrath, (quoth I) the proverbe saithe
Proferde service is ever more refusde,
And offered love is quited syld with faith:
Without the hooke the baite no poyson hath,
Yet haplie hee, for all his wiles, may prove
My peevish hate oore wayes my passing love.

And in disdaine the secrete gates I bard,
Where in and out Giazzo earst did goe;
I tould him plaine his market cleane was mard,
I ment my faultes unto my lord to showe,
If which suffisde, I would no more do so;
To faine with chaunge, I did Giazzo pray,
With kindnes showne contented for to stay.

Nigh tyred hee my greedie lust to glut,
Full wel appayde, for trueth my saynings tooke;
Hee tooke no heede how often times is shut
In sugred baite a fowle and filthie hooke,
How hate is hidde full oft with friendly looke,
Ne how the lewde, when grace is not their stay,
Refuse no meane to worke their foes decay.

Even such a silth I (forst) confess I was:
I usde this showe to chase my foes mistrust,
Thereby to worke his fatall ende (alas!)
When least he thought I would have been unjust,
Such cankered hate my murdrous heart did rust;
Unto which ende I for Valperga send,
With yll; for good, to quite his faithfull frend.

I knew the force of new revived love,
How peevish hate more perfect mad[e] the same;
I likewise knew newe friendship how to move
With pleasaunt lookes, y mixt with pretie blame:
I checkt him first for foyling of my fame;
Perdona moy , ore showes againe with viewe,
Dear dame (quoth hee) I yeld; your tale is true.

Even so (quoth I), and smiling usde these wordes:
Confessed crimes doth open penaunce chuse,
What plague you please (quoth hee) your thrall accordes,
That hee or you shall execution use?
Such power (quoth I) I meane not to refuse,
Yet hoping that those faultes you will amende,
I pardon all, and take you for my frende.
And when I sawe him eager of delight,
A sighe I fetch, and did Giazzo name.

Valperga said, Giazzo to his might
Was sure his friend: (quoth I) I thinke in name,
But (ah!) his deedes will never prove the same;
And though I loth to sowe seditious strife,
Yet needes I must, for safegard of thy life.

In sooth (sweete friend) thy daungerous state I rew.
This trayterous mate, to move thine overthrowe
By guile, God wot, with mee in frendship grew,
Betwixt us friends he first did hatred sowe;
Hee forged faultes to keepe mee still thy foe,
And yet my heart, for al that hee could say,
Did love thee well, although my tongue said nay.

Which when hee smeld, pust up with surie straight,
He vowde thy death for robbing of his joy;
Which bloudie wordes did force mee to unfraight
This bitter speach: Avaunt, thou peevish boy!
Thy filthy sight Bianca doth annoy.
Beleeve mee, lord, this tale is very true:
Beginne with him before hee do with you.

These forced wordes did rayse a soare mistrust,
Or haply else Giazzo might a smoakte;
But yet hee vowde to feede my filthie lust,
With bloudie blade his trayterous breath to choake,
And leave hee toke, hee said, to strike this stoake:
But loe! hee went forthwith to Mantua,
Unto his friend these secretes to bewray.

Which treason when Giazzo understoode,
Who can avoyde (quoth hee) a strompets hate?
And thundering out the stormes of furious moode,
With tearmes of scorne hee did Bianca rate.
Out filth! (quoth hee) twixt friends which sowes debate:
And in despight a libel hee invents,
Which (lorde) to you Bianca here presents.