A worthy mirror, wherein you may marke,
an excellent discourse of a breeding Larke:
By reading whereof, perceive well you may,
what trust is in friends or in kinsfolke to stay.
To the tune of Rogero.
|
A Larke some time did breed,
|
within a field of corne:
|
And had increase when as the graine
|
was ready to be shorne,
|
She wary of the time,
|
and carefull of her nest:
|
Debated wisely with her selfe,
|
what thing to do were best.
|
For to abide the rage,
|
of cruell reapers hand:
|
S[he knew] it was to perillous,
|
with safety for to stand.
|
And to dislodge her brood,
|
unable yet to flye:
|
Not knowing whether to remoove,
|
great harme might hap thereby.
|
Therefore she meant to stay,
|
till force constraind her fleete:
|
And in the while for to provide,
|
some other place as meete.
|
The better to provide,
|
the purpose of her minde:
|
Shee would forthwith go seek abroad
|
and leave her yong behinde.
|
But first shee bad them all,
|
attend their Mothers will:
|
Which carefull was for to eschew,
|
each likely-hood of ill.
|
This Corne is ripe quoth she,
|
wherin we nestlyd are:
|
The which if heads prevent not harms
|
might cause our mortall care.
|
Therefore to fence with skill,
|
the sequell of mishaps:
|
We will provide some other place,
|
for feare of after claps.
|
Whilst I for this and food,
|
am flowen hence away:
|
With heedfull eares attentive be,
|
what commers by do say.
|
Thus said, shee vaunst her selfe,
|
upon her longest toe:
|
And mounted up into the sky,
|
still singing as shee flow.
|
Anon shee home returnd,
|
full fraught with choise of meate:
|
But loe a suddaine chance, hir birds
|
for feare could nothing eate.
|
Therewith agast she cride,
|
what hoe, what meaneth this:
|
I charge you on my blessing tell,
|
what thing hath chanst amisse.
|
Is this the welcome home,
|
or thankes for food I have:
|
You wonted were with chirping cheere
|
to gape before I gave.
|
But now such qualmes oppresse,
|
your former quiet kinde:
|
That quite transformd dum mute things
|
sencelesse soules I finde.
|
The prime and eldest bird,
|
thus chirpt began to say:
|
Alas deere dame, such news we herd
|
since you were flowne away
|
That were it not the trust,
|
that we repose in you:
|
Our lives were lost remedilesse,
|
we know it well enough.
|
The owner of the plot,
|
came hither with his sonne:
|
And said to him this Corne must down
|
tis more then time twere done.
|
Goe get thee to my friends,
|
and bid them come to morne:
|
And tell them that I crave their help
|
to reape a peece of corne.
|
The Larke that was the Dame,
|
stood in a dump a while,
|
And after said, his friends quoth she
|
and then began to smile.
|
Tush, friends are hard to finde,
|
true friendship sild appeares:
|
A man may misse to have a friend,
|
that lives old Nestors yeares,
|
True Damond and his friend,
|
long ere our time were dead:
|
It was in Greece a great way henc[e,]
|
where such true love was bred.
|
Our countrey is too cold,
|
to foster by a friend:
|
Till proofe be made each one will sa[y]
|
still yours unto the end.
|
But trie in time of need,
|
and all your friends are flowne
|
Such fruitlesse seeds, such fickle sta[y]
|
in faithlesse friends be sowen.
|
|
|
|
|
The second part of the breeding Larke. To the same tune.
|
THerefore be of good cheere,
|
revive your dulled spirits:
|
Expell the care that caus[l]es thus,
|
bereaves you of delights:
|
Let not surmised feare,
|
deprive your eyes of sleepe.
|
My selfe will be amo[n]gst you still,
|
that safely will you keepe.
|
And sweare even by the tufte,
|
that growes upon my Crowne:
|
If al his trust be in his frends,
|
this corne shall not goe downe.
|
The young assured by her,
|
that such an oth did sweare:
|
Did passe the night in wonted sleepe,
|
and banisht former feare.
|
And when the drousy night,
|
was fled from gladsome day:
|
She bad them wake and looke about
|
for she must goe her way.
|
And said I warrant you,
|
his friends will not come heare:
|
Yet not withstanding listen wel,
|
and tell me what you heare.
|
Anon the farmer came,
|
inraged wel ny mad:
|
And said who so dep[e]nds on friends,
|
his case is worse then bad.
|
I must go fetch my kin,
|
to help me with this geare:
|
In things of greater waight then this
|
their kindred shall appeare.
|
The Larkes their dame returnd:
|
informed her of all:
|
and how that he himselfe was gone:
|
his kindred for to call.
|
But when she heard of kin,
|
she laughing cryd amaine:
|
A pin for kin a figge for freends,
|
yet kin the worst of th twaine.
|
This man himselfe is poore,
|
though wealthy kin he have:
|
And kindred now a dayes doth faile,
|
when need compells to crave.
|
No no he shall returne,
|
with ill contented mind:
|
His pains shal yeeld but losse of time
|
no comfort shall he find.
|
They all are so adict,
|
Unto their privat gaine:
|
That if you lack power to requite,
|
your suites are all in vaine.
|
My selfe am overhargd,
|
with harvest as you see:
|
And nearer is my skin then shirt,
|
thus shall their answer be.
|
Therfore as erst of frends,
|
so say I now of kin:
|
We shall receive no hurt by this,
|
nor he no profit winne.
|
Yet listen once againe,
|
what now his refuge is:
|
For kindred shall be like to friends,
|
be wel assurd of this.
|
I must goe furnish up,
|
a nest I have begun:
|
I will returne and bring you meat,
|
as soone as I have done.
|
Then up she came the clay,
|
with such a lusty lay:
|
That it rejoycd her yonglings harts
|
as in their nest they lay.
|
And much they did commend,
|
their lusty mothers gate:
|
And thought it long till time had brought
|
themselves to such a state.
|
Thus as their twinckling eyes,
|
were roving to and fro:
|
They saw whereas the farmer came
|
who was their mortall foe.
|
Who after due complaints,
|
thus said he in the end:
|
I will from henceforth trust my selfe
|
and not to kin or frends.
|
Who gives me glossing words,
|
and failes me at my need:
|
May in my pater noster be,
|
but never in my creed.
|
My selfe will have it done,
|
sith it must needs be so:
|
For proofe hath taught me so much witt
|
to trust to any moe.
|
The birds that listning lay,
|
attentive to the same:
|
Informed their mother of the whole,
|
as soone as ere she came.
|
Yea Marry then quoth she,
|
the case now altred is:
|
We will no longer heere abide,
|
I alwaies feared this.
|
But out she got them all,
|
and trudgd away apace,
|
And through the Corne she brought them al
|
unto another place.
|
God send her luck to scape,
|
the hauke and foulers ginne:
|
And me the hap to have no need,
|
of neither friend nor kin,
|
|
|
|
|