The Tragedies
Lenvoy.
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AS men recordes,
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Indede my Lordes,
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I shrinke not for to shew:
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Suppose ye cracke,
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Ye lye abacke,
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And lybelles by the Law.
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Ye make not to,
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As men should do,
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I trow ye stand in som aw:
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Suppose ye hight,
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To see you fight,
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That day wil never daw.
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Is no remayd,
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Fro he be dead,
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No man to seke amendes:
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Or who is here,
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Dare breake a speare,
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Upon yone limmeris lends
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Ye dare not mum,
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Tyl Sadler come,
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To see what England sends:
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Thinking to say it,
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And ay delay it,
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And so the matter endes.
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With sighes and sobs,
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And belted robes,
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Ye counterfeite the dule:
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What doughty deedes,
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To weare such weedes?
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Except it were a fule.
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Make to the towne,
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And cow them downe,
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Now or your courage cule
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For Maddie sayes,
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Bide ye few dayes,
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Ye be not ther while Zule.
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Is this the thing,
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Who guides the King?
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Ye cannot al agree:
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Now fye for shame,
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Fetch Levenox hame,
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Ye have none nar nor hee.
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If he want grace,
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To guyde that place,
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Ther is other two or three:
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Then war I fayne,
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But all in vayne,
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To wysh and wyll not bee.
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And some there bene,
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Waites on the Queene,
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But gape awhil they get her
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And were shee here,
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I take no feare,
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The Fiend aby we set her,
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For we are now,
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As stark I trow,
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As farnzer when we met her
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When all is done,
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They start to sone,
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To boast, & not the better.
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I thinke it best,
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Ye take no rest,
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If ye durst under take it:
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And we be trew,
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We are iniew,
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Ye shal be boldly backe it.
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But sine I see,
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It wyll not bee,
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That metre wil not make it
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The Fiend make cair,
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I say na mair,
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I rew that ever I spake it.
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