Classic Poem

In Orchard grounds, where store of fruit trees grew,
Me thought a Saint was walking all alone
Of euerie tree, she seemd to take hir view,
But in the end, she plucked but of one;
This fruit quoth she, doth like my fancie best:
Sweetings are fruit, but let that apple rest.

Such fruit (quoth I) shall fancie chiefly feede:
Indeede tis faire, God grant it prooue as good
But take good heede, least all to late it breede
Ill humors, such as may infect your blood:
Yet take, and taste but looke you know the tree:
Peace, foole quoth she, and so awaked mee.

What was this ground, wherein this dame did walke?
And what was she that romed to and fro?
And what ment I to vse such kinde of talke?
And what ment she, to checke and snib me so?
But what meane I? alas, I was asleepe:
Awake I sweare. I will more silence kcepe
Well thus I wakte and fell asleepe againe:
And then I fell into another vaine.

Great wars me thought grew late by strange mishap,
Desire had stolne out of Dianaes traine
Her darling deere, and laid on Venus lap,
Who, Cupid sware should neuer backe againe
Ere he would so loose all his harts delight,
He vow'd to die, wherewith began a fight.

Diana shot, and Cupid shot againe:
Fame sounded out hir trumpe with heauenly cheare:
Hope was ill hurt, despite was onely slaine:
Diana forst in fine for to retire.
Cupid caught fame, and brought hir to his frend.
The trumpet ceast, and so my dreame did end.

Thus scarce awake, I fell asleepe againe,
And then I was within a garden ground.
Beset with flowres, the allies euen and plaine:
And all the banks beset with roses round,
And sundrie flowres so super sweete of smell,
As there me thought it was a heauen to dwell.

Where walking long, anon I gan espie
Sweete pretie soules that pluckt ech one a flowre:
When from their sight I hid me by and by,
Behinde a banke within a brier bowre.
Where after walke I saw them where they sat:
Beheld their hues, and heard their pretie chat:

Sister quoth one, how shall we spend this day?
Deuise (quoth she) some pretie merie iest:
Content quoth one, beshrew them that say nay:
Some purposes or riddles I thinke best:
Riddles cried all, and so the sport begun:
Forfet a fillop, she that first hath done.

Loe thus awhile was curtsey to propound:
Yet in the end this order did they take,
By two and two, they should sit close and round;
And one begin, another answere make:
Where ridling sports in order as I can
I will recite; and thus the first began.

The First Riddle.

Within a gallant plot of ground.
There growes a flowre that hath no name
The like whereof was neuer found,
And none but one can plucke the same:
Now where this ground or flowre doth growe
Or who that one tis hard to knowe.

The Answere.

Sister (quoth she) if thou wouldst knowe,
This ground, this flowre, and happie man
Walke in this garden to and fro:
Here you shall see them now and than:
Which when you finde to your delight
Then thinke I hit your riddle right.

The Second Riddle.

Within a field there growes a flowre,
That decks the ground where as it growes
It springs and falls, both in an howre,
And but at certaine times it showes:
It neuer dies, and seldome seene
And tis a Nosegay for a Queene.

The Answere.

This field is fauor, Grace the ground,
Whence springs the flowre of curtesie,
Soone growne and gone, though somtime found
Not dead, but bid, from flattrers eie,
That pickthanks may not plucke the same:
Thus haue I red your riddle Dame

The Third Riddle.

Within a flowre a seede there growes,
Which somtime falls, but seldome springs,
And if it spring, it seldome blowes,
And if it blowe, no sweete it brings
And therefore counted but a weede:
Now gesse the flowre, and what the seede.

The Answere.

In fancies flowre is sorrowes seede,
Which somtimes fall but springs but seeld,
And if it spring, tis but a weede,
Which doth no sweete, nor sauor yeeld;
And yet the flowre, both faire and sweete.
And for a Princes garden meete.

The Fourth Riddle.

Within a seede doth poison lurke,
Which onely Spiders feede vpon.
And yet the Bee can wisely woorke
To sucke out honie poison gone:
Which honie, poison, Spider, Bee.
Are hard to gesse, yet eath to see.

The Answere.

In sorrowes seede is secret paine.
Which spite the Spider, onely sucks;
Which poison gone, then wittie braine
The wilie Bee, hir honie plucks
And beares it to hir hiue vnhurt,
When spider trod dies in the durt.

Gramercie, wench (quoth she) that first begoon,
Each one me seemes hath quit hir selfe right well,
And now since that our riddles all are doon,
Let vs go sing the flowre of sweetest smell:
Well may it fare, wherewith each tooke a part.
And thus they soong, all with a merie hart.

Blest be the ground that first brought forth the flowre
Whose name vntolde, but vertues not vnknowne:
Happie the hand, whom God shall giue the powre
To plucke this flowre, and take it for his owne:
Oh heauenly stalke, that staines all where it growes:
From whom more sweet, than sweetest hony flowes

Oh sweete of sweetes, the sweetest sweete that is;
Oh flowre of flowres, that yeelds so sweete a sent:
Oh sent so sweete, as when the head shall misse:
Oh heauens what hart but that will sore lament:
God let thee spring and flourish so each howre
As that our sweetes may neuer turne to sowre.

For we with sweetes doe feede our fancies so,
With sweetes of sight, and sweetnes of conceit
That we may wish that it may euer groe,
Amid delights where we desire to wait
Vpon the flowre that pleaseth cuerie eie,
And glads each hart; God let it neuer die.

Wherewith me thought alowd I cride, Amen:
And therewithall I started out of sleepe:
Now what became of these faire Ladies then
I cannot tell, in minde I onely keepe
These ridling toies which heere I do recite:
He tell ye more perhaps another night.