Classic Poem

My woorthy Lord, I pray you wonder not,
To see your woodman shoote so ofte awrie,
Nor that he stands amased like a sot,
And lets the harmlesse deare (unhurt) go by.
Or if he strike a Doe which is but carren,
Laugh not good Lord, but favoure such a fault,
Take will in worth, he would faine hit the barren,
But though his harte be good, his happe is naught:
And therefore now I crave your Lordships leave,
To tell you plaine what is the cause of this:
First if it please your honour to perceyve,
What makes your woodman shoote so ofte amisse,
Beleeve me L. the case is nothing strange,
He shootes awrie almost at every marke,
His eyes have bene so used for to raunge,
That now God knowes they be both dimme and darke.
For proofe, he beares the note of follie now,
Who shotte sometimes to hit Philosophie,
And aske you why? forsooth I make avow,
Bicause his wanton wittes went all awrie.
Next that, he shot to be a man of lawe,
And spent sometime with learned Litleton,
Yet in the end, he proved but a dawe,
For lawe was darke and he had quickly done.
Then could he with Fitzharbert such a braine,
As Tully had, to write the lawe by arte,
So that with pleasure or with litle paine,
He might perhaps have caught a trewants parte.
But all to late, he most mislikte the thing,
Which most might helpe to guide his arrow streight:
He winked wrong, and so let slippe the string,
Which cast him wide, for all his queint conceit.
From thence he shotte to catch a courtly grace,
And thought even there to wield the world at will,
But out alas he much mistooke the place,
And shot awrie at every rover still.
The blasing baits which drawe the gazing eye,
Unfethered there his first affection,
No wonder then although he shot awrie,
Wanting the feathers of discretion.
Yet more than them, the marks of dignitie,
He much mistooke and shot the wronger way,
Thinking the purse of prodigalitie,
Had bene best meane to purchase such a pray.
He thought the flattring face which fleareth still,
Had bene full fraught with all fidelitie,
And that such wordes as courtiers use at will,
Could not have varied from the veritie.
But when his bonet buttened with gold,
His comelie cape begarded all with gay,
His bumbast hose, with linings manifold,
His knit silke stocks and all his queint aray,
Had pickt his purse of all the Peter pence,
Which might have paide for his promotion,
Then (all to late) he found that light expence,
Had quite quencht out the courts devotion.
So that since then the tast of miserie,
Hath bene alwayes full bitter in his bit,
And why? forsooth bicause he shot awrie,
Mistaking still the markes which others hit.
But now behold what marke the man doth find,
He shootes to be a souldier in his age,
Mistrusting all the vertues of the minde,
He trusts the power of his personage.
As though long limmes led by a lusty hart,
Might yet suffice to make him rich againe;
But Flushyng fraies have taught him such a parte,
That now he thinks the warres yeeld no such gaine.
And sure I feare, unlesse your lordship deigne,
To traine him yet into some better trade,
It will be long before he hit the veine,
Whereby he may a richer man be made.
He cannot climbe as other catchers can,
To leade a charge before himselfe be led;
He cannot spoile the simple sakeles man,
Which is content to feede him with his bread.
He cannot pinch the painefull souldiers pay,
And sheare him out his share in ragged sheetes,
He cannot stoupe to take a greedy pray
Upon his fellowes groveling in the streetes.
He cannot pull the spoyle from such as pill,
And seeme full angrie at such foule offence,
Although the gayne content his greedie will,
Under the cloake of contrarie pretence:
And now adayes, the man that shootes not so,
May shoote amisse, even as your Woodman dothe:
But then you marvell why I lette them go,
And never shoote, but saye farewell forsooth:
Alas my Lord, while I doe muze hereon,
And call to minde my youthfull yeares myspente,
They give mee suche a boane to gnawe upon,
That all my senses are in silence pente.
My minde is rapte in contemplation,
Wherein my dazeled eyes onely beholde,
The blacke houre of my constellation,
Which framed mee so lucklesse on the molde:
Yet therewithall I can not but confesse,
That vayne presumption makes my heart to swell,
For thus I thinke, not all the worlde (I guesse)
Shootes bet than I, nay some shootes not so well.
In Aristotle somewhat did I learne,
To guyde my manners all by comelynesse,
And Tullie taught me somewhat to discerne
Betweene sweete speeche and barbarous rudenesse.

For why thou knowest, and I my selfe can tell,
By many vowes, how thou to me wert bound:
And how for joye, thy hart did seeme to swell,
And in delight how thy desires were drownd.
When of thy will the walles I did assayle,
Wherin fond fancie fought for mine avayle.

And though my mind have small delight to vaunt,
Yet must I vowe my hart to thee was true:
My hand was alwayes able for to daunt,
Thy slaundrous fooes and kepe theyr tongues in mew.
My head (though dull) was yet of such devise,
As might have kept thy name alwayes in price.

And for the rest of my body was not brave,
But able yet, of substaunce to allaye,
The raging lust, wherein thy limbes did rave,
And quench the coales which kindled thee to playe.
Such one I was, and such alwayes wyl be,
For worthy Dames, but then I meane not thee.

For thou hast caught a proper paragon,
A theefe, a cowarde, and a Peacocke foole:
An Ase, a milkesop, and a minion,
Which hath no oyle, thy furyous flames to coole;
Such on he is, a pheare for thee most fit,
A wandring gest, to please thy wavering wit.

A theefe I counte him for he robbes us both,
Thee of thy name, and me of my delight:
A coward is he noted where he goeth,
Since every child is match to him in might.
And for his pride no more, but marke his plumes,
The which to princke he dayes and nights consumes.

The rest thy selfe in secret sorte can judge,
He rides not me, thou knowest his sadell best:
And though these tricks of thine mought make me grudg,
And kindle wrath in my revenging brest,
Yet of my selfe, and not to please thy mind,
I stand content my rage in rule to binde.

And farre from thee now must I take my flight,
Where tongues maye tell, (and I not see) thy fall:
Where I maye drinke these druggs of thy dispite,
To purge my Melancholike mind with all.
In secrete so, my stomacke will I sterve,
Wishing thee better than thou doest deserve.
Spraeta tamen vivunt