The Peasant History of Albino and Bellama, Engraved title page – Imprimatur
Lè Horè di recreatione or The pleaſante Historye of ALBINO and BELLAMA to which is annexed il inſonio in: ſonodado or the vindication of, Poeſye by N: W: M: A:
London Printed for Charles Greene 1637
Le hore direcreatione: OR, THE PLEASANT HISTORIE OF Albino and Bellama.
Diſcovering the ſeverall changes of Fortune, in CUPIDS journey to HYMENS joyes.
To which is annexed, Il Inſonio Inſonadado, or a ſleeping-waking Dreame, vindicating the divine breath of Poeſie from the tonguelaſhes of ſome Cynical Poet-quippers, and Stoicall Philo-proſers.
By N. W. Maſter in Arts, of Queenes Colledge in Cambridge.
—Semel in anno ridet Apollo.
Ergo,
Nèmeametratibi Muſâ compoſta jocoſâ,
Delibatapriùs quám ſint contempta relinquas.
LONDON, Printed by J. D. for C. G. and are to be ſold at the Princes Armes in Pauls churchyard.
1637.
TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE, RIGHT Worthy, and truely ennobled Hero, IOHN, Lord Loveliſs, Baron of HURLEY, N. W. S. P. O.
THE Law-enactors, whilſt time fear'd the rod,
Faign'd in their lawes, the preſence of a god,
Whoſe awful nod, & wiſedome grave ſhold b…
As hand and ſignet unto their decree▪
And ſuch commanding aw that ſacred name
Struck in the vulgar breaſts, it teen'd a flame
Of Love and duty to their pious hefts.
Thus Rhadamanthus in his lawes inveſts
Him, whom prophaner times ſtil'd Heavens King▪
Minos and others ſtrike the ſelfe-ſame ſtring.
The Moral's mine: for in this quirking ſeaſon
When pride and envie ſteere the Helme of reaſon▪
Itis, has with Preſſe-taskers been in uſe
To preſſe the iſſue of their proſe and Muſe
VnderUnder the Enſignes of ſome worthy Peere,
Whoſe very name unſatyr can a jeere,
And lock detraction up in beds of clay
To ſleepe their ſuns as Reare-mice doe the day.
Then doe they bravely march with honour arm'd,
Which, as the gods, the people, charmeth, charm'd,
On this knowne priveledge feete I theſe lines,
In which, though dimmer then your native, ſhines
Your worth, en-fired by my kneed quill,
Which claimes the ſcale not of deſertes, but wil,
In your acceptance and the worlds ſurmiſe
Then Cynicks barke and Critekes beame your eyes.
My quill's no penſill to emblaſon forth
Your ſtainleſſe honour and your matchleſſe worth,
As duſt-borne flyes which 'bout the candle play
Glide throughits arch, en-circle, fan, ſurvay,
Winke at the preſence of dayes beamy blaze,
Pur on the glaſſe, or on hearb-pillowes laze,
Iuſt ſo my downy Muſe in Diſtiques dare
Feete the perfection of a ſilkleſſe faire
Pumex each parr ſo trimly that her foe
Sweares her cheekes roſes and her boſome ſnow,
Nay has ſtrewd flowres of deſertleſſe prayſe
T' adorne the Tombe of good Sr worthy Crayſe,
VnderUnder this (ah mee) ſtone is laid (alas!)
A man,—a knight—the beſt that ever was
His proweſſe war, his wiſedome ſtate did prove,
His kindneſſe kindred, and the world his love.
But when ſhee ſhould with her weake feathers ſoare
To court a ſtar, or with her feeble oare
Strike ſuch a ſea of worth, ride honours ring.
Shee dares not touch, or ſnaffle, ſaile or wing,
OnelyOnly as he which limb'd thoſe teares and ſighs,
Which Iphigenias death, from hearts and eyes
Of kindred drew, but ore her father's brow
(Telling the world hee mourud without an how,)
Hee drew a vaile ſpake ſorrow in exceſſe,
So with a—muſt my muſe expreſſe
Your ſacred worth, concluding it to bee
Too high for any Bard, if not, for mee,
Beſide, the world of late has nicknam'd praiſe
Calls it an elbow-claw and ſcraping bayes,
Then pardon (Sir) this dearth, and iudge the why
Is your worth ſoar'd above Parnaſſe's eye
Let not your ſlights or neſcio's (thogh moſt iuſt)
Condemne my muſe to bee en-ſeild with duſt,
Nor let preſumption h…yſte to your embrace
But rather let your honour bate its place
And ſtoope unto my meaſures, ſince the name
Of Patrone awes oft times the breath of fame
And by this honour ſhall you ere en-gage
The knee, hand▪ duty, ayre and thriving age
Of your honours ever humbly devoted, N. W.
To the Reader.
COurteous Reader: For to ſuch I write,
With native candor view this checkred white,
Be truly eandid to a candidate,
Whom importunings force to ante-date
The travails of his quill, and like a grap…
Ere ripened, preſſe it, yet if I eſcape
The cenſure of theſe times, this Critick age,
My Muſe (like Parrats) in a wyer cage
Shall not doe penance; but I'le not promiſe it,
Cauſe 't doth too much oth' lips of greatneſſe ſ….
And tis a fault for me to ſympathize,
I bring no anticke maske in ſtrange diſguize,
No ſharpe invective, nor no Comick mirth,
Which may to laughter give an eaſie birth.
Though tis in uſe with them that ſeeke to pleaſe
Theſe humorous times (it being a diſeaſe
…alfe Epidemicall, to keepe a phraſe
Or phanſie at ſtaves end, nought merits prayſe,
Vnleſſe with quibbels every ſtaffe does end,
Conceited jeſts, which unto lightneſſe tend)
Though every page ſwels with ingenuous …lots,
Yet cry our carpes, the Authors are but ſots.
An Elbow-pillow or a motley coate,
With them are now the cheifeſt men of note,
But I, nor am, nor hope that name to gaine,
Of Panto mimick yet did nature daigne,
The Optick-glaſſe of Humours to deſcrye,
Each mans ranke humour onelyonly by the eye,
I would have tun'd my Muſe, that every page,
Might ſwell with humours ſuting to this age,
This leafe ſhould talke of love, and that of ſtat…,
This, of alarums, that of wonders prate,
This of Knights Errante, of Enchantement that,
This to the itching eares of nouels chat,
But—ſince my ſtarv'd Fortunes miſt that, I have drawne
A picture ſhadowd ore with double lawne,
Leſt ſome quick Lynciſt with a pearcing eye,
Should the young foot-ſteps of a truth eſpye,
Yet ſomething I confeſſe was borne of late,
(Which makes me age it with an ancient date,
But let no antick-hunter poſte to Stow,
To trace out truth upon his even ſnow,
Annalls are dumbe of ſuch and ſuch a Lord,
Nor of our amorous paire ſpeake halfe a word,
Monaſtick writs doe not Bellama lim
Nor Abbey-roules doe teeme a line of him,
This ſtory has no ſyres (as 'tis the vſe)
But weake invention, and a feeble Muſe,
Theſe are the parents, that abortive birth
Give to this Embrion of deſired mirth,
Which in the authors name, does humbly crave
A charitable cenſure or a grave,
The pureſt-boulted floure that is, has bran.
Venus her Naeue, Helen her ſtaine, nor can,
I thinke theſe lines are cenſure-frec, empalde,
By th' muſes, and 'gainſt envyes Iavelins mal'd,
Yet where the faultes but whiſper, vſe thy pen
With the quodnon vis of the Heathen men.
And if the crimes doe in lowd Ecchoes ſpeake
Thy ſpunge, but not with laſhing Satyrs break
That ſacred bond of friendſhip, for t' may bee
I may hereafter doe as much for thee,
Nor doe thou think to trample on my Muſe,
Nor in thy lofty third-ayre braves accuſe
My breaſt of faintneſſe or the ballad-whine,
For know my heart is full as big as thine,
And as pure fire heates my octavo bulke
As the grand-fclio, or the Reamiſh bulke
If but oppos'd with envye but vnleſſe
I truly am what theſe few wordes expreſſe,
Thy ready Friend, N. W.
TO THE RIGHT vertuous and equally beautiful, Sra Inconſtanza Bellarizza.
FAIREST,
WHEN by much gazing on thoſe glittering beames,
Which (if unmaskt) from dayes bright Henchman ſtreames,
The Raſcians eyes doe gaine the curſe of yeares,
The Load-ſtones ſwarfie hue their tapers cleares.
When Vnicornes have gluts or ſurfets taine
By browſing Lycoras, they to regaine
Their ſtomackes, and a cure, craſh bitter graſſe:
I leave the application, 'tis a glaſſe
Wherein the dimmeſt eye may plainly ſee
What's due to me from you, to you from me.
But—I'le onelyonly tell the world, that for your ſake
My willing Muſe this taske did underrake
At howres of recreation, when a thought
Of your choyce worth, this, and this phanſie brought.
Some to the barre will call the truth hereof,
Some wonder why? ſome paſſe it by, ſome ſcoffe,
Becauſe in this full harveſt of your ſex,
…mongſt ſuch thouſands gleane your name t'annex
VntoUnto, and uſher in theſe wanton verſes,
Some will be apt to think my pen rehearſes
Love paſſions 'twixt your ſelfe and ſome choyce he,
(The world I know will not ſuſpect tis me)
And that I age it, leſt quick eyes ſhould ſee;
But in this thought I'me ſilent, thoughts are free.
Indeed your worth doth juſt proportion hold
With this high worth which of Bellama's told,
And well my knowledge can enforme my pen
To raiſe a ſpite in women, love in men.
And if the Fates befriend me, that my thread
Out-meaſures yours (your worth aſleepe, not dead,
For ſuch worth cannot dye) I then will ſay,
You equald her, and was—(but truth away)
If theſe, dull melancholy, griefe, or ſleepe,
From any prone thereto, at diſtance keepe,
Let unto you their tribute thankes be payd,
For my invention by your worth was rayd,
My phanſie rais'd, enliv'ned and enſpir'd,
That my quick Muſe my agill hand has tir'd,
Nay more, me thinkes I might unchidden call
You, ſubject, object of this Poem all,
And all in this acknowledgement may trim,
You pros'd this Poem, but 'twas vers'd by him
Who ſtiles himſelfe your ſervant, N. W.
THE AVTHOVRS APOLOGIE.
SOme rigid Stoick will (I doubt not) ſhoote
A quipping cenſure at this wanton fruit,
And ſay, I better might have us'd my tallants,
Than t'humour Ladies, and perfumed gallants.
Know ſuch, that pamphlets writ in meeter, meaſure
As much invention, judgement, wit, as pleaſure,
All learning's not lockt up in ſi's and tum's.
Roſes, Pinkes, Violets, as well as gums,
Some native fragour have to equall Civet,
Minerva does not all her treaſures rivet
Into the ſcrues of Obs and Sols: but we
Are ſea-borne birds, and as our pedigree
Came ſayling ore from Normandie and Troy,
So we muſt have our prettie Ermine joy.
One part Italian, and of French the other,
Stout Belgia be her Syre, and Spaine her mother.
So our apparell is ſo ſtrange and anticke,
That our great grand-ſyres ſure would call us franticke
And ſhould they ſee us on our knees for bleſſing,
They'd ſcue aſide, as frighted at our dreſſing.
We packe ſo many Nations up, that we
We are Spaine in waſte, and France below the knee.
Thus are our backes affected, and indeed
Our braines doe travaie with the ſelfe-ſame meed.
Wee're Chaldees, Hebrews, Latines, Greeks, and yet
But few pure Engliſhmen are laptin Iet.
We ſcorne our mother language, and had rather
Say Pater noſter twice, than once Our Father.
This makes our Pulpits Linſey-wolſey ſtut,
When buskind ſtages in ſtiffe ſatten ſtrut.
Nay clownes can ſay, this Parſon knowes enough,
But that his language does his knowledge blough:
Is it not time to poliſh then our Welch,
When Hindes and Peaſants ſuch invectives belch?
Then Engliſh bravely ſtudy, 'tis no ſhame
For grave Divines to win an Engliſh fame.
I've heard a worthy man approv'd for learning,
Say, that in Playes and Rithmes we may be earning
Both wit and knowledge, and that Sidney-proſe
Out-muſickes T…lly, if it ſcape the noſe
Then purg'd from gall (ingenuous friends) peruſe,
And though you chide the Author, ſpare the Muſe.
N. W.
The Authour to his Book.
GOe gall-leſſe infant of my teeming Quill,
Not yet bedewd in Syracuſa's rill,
And like a forward Plover gadſt abroad,
Ere ſhell-free, or before full age has ſtrowd
On thy ſmooth backe a coate of feathers,
To arme thee 'gainſt the force of weathers,
Doomd to the cenſure of all Ages,
Ere mal'd againſt the youngeſt rages,
Perchance ſome Nobles will thee view,
Smile atthee, on thee, like thee new,
But when white age has wrinkled thee,
Will ſlight thy meaſures, laugh at mee,
At firſt view called pritty,
And perchance ſtiled witty
By ſome Ladies, untill thou
Weareſt furrowes on thy brow.
Some plumed Gallants may
Vnclaſp thy leaves and ſay,
Th'artmirthful, but er… long
Give place unto a Song.
Some courteous Scholler
Purg'd from all choller,
May like, but at laſt,
Say thou ſpoylſt his taſt,
Firſt, Lawyers will
Commend thy skil,
Laſt, throw thy wit
With Trin…ts writ
Chamber ſhees
On their knees
wil thee praiſe,
and thy bayes,
At firſt,
till thirſt
of newe
death you,
then all
men ſhal
Flee
thee
Bee
me.
THis is thy doome, I by prophetick ſpirit,
Preſage will be the guerdon of my merit:
Yet be no Burre, no trencher-flye, nor hound,
To fawn on them whoſe tongs thy meaſures wound.
Nor beg thoſe niggards eyes, who grudge to ſee
A watch unwinded in peruſing thee.
And if ſtate-ſcratchers doe condemne thy jeſts,
For ruffling ſattens, and beſpangled veſts,
Tell them they're coſend, and in vain they puffe,
Thou neither aim'ſt at halfe-ell band or ruffe;
And if thy lines perchance ſome Ermins gaſh,
Tis not thy fault, twas no intended laſh.
Thy penſill limbs Don Fuco's portraicture,
And onelyonly doſt his native worth immure
Within theſe tilick rindes: nor is thy rage
Againſt the Cow liſts of this yongeſt age.
Thy rithmes cry Pax to all, nor doſt thou ſcatter
Abuſes on their ſhrines, their Saints, or water;
And if ſome civill Satyr laſh thee backe,
Becauſe he reads my title, ſees my black,
Anſwer ith' Poets phraſe, and tell them more,
My tale of yeares had ſcarce out-ſum'd a ſcore
When my young phanſie theſe light meaſures meant
The Preſſe: but Fate ſince canceld that intent,
Nor claim'd the Church as then a greater part
In me than others, bate my title Art—
But now the ſcean is chang'd? confeſt it is
Muſt we abjure all youth, borne, bury this?
Such cloſet death's deſertleſſe, in this glaſſe
Read not what now I am, but then I was:
In this reflection may the graveſt ſee
How true we ſuite, I, this, and this with mee.
Theſe thornes pickt out, whoſe venome might have bred
A gangrene in thy Reader, ſtruck thee dead.
Thou mayſt perhaps invited be to court,
And have a brace of ſmiles t'approve thy ſport.
Thoſe, whoſe grave wiſdomes, Wiſe do them entitle▪
(Whoſe learned nods low dignorance can ſtifle)
Some of times numbers on thy lines will ſcatter,
If not cald from thee bv ſome higher matter,
Laugh out a rubber, like, and ſay 'tis good
For pleaſure, youth and leaſure, wholeſome food.
Some jigging Silk-canary, newly bloom'd,
When he is criſped, bathed, oyld, perfum'd,
(Which till the ſecond chime, will ſcarce be done)
VponUpon thy feet will make his chryſtals run,
Commend the author, vow him ſervice ever,
But from ſuch things his Genius him deliver.
Some ſleeked Nymphs, of countrey, citie, court,
Will, next their Dogges and Monkies, like thy ſport,
Smile, and admire, and wearied will (perhaps)
Lay thee to ſleepe encurtaind in their laps,
Oh happy thou! who would not wiſh to be
(To gaine ſuch dainty lodging) ſuch, or thee?
Say, to pleaſe them, the Poet undertooke
To make thee from a ſheet thrive to a booke,
And if he has to beauty giv'n a gem,
He challengeth a deck of thankes from them:
And if ſome winning creature ſmile on thee,
She ſhall his L. and his Bellama bee.
Betwixt eleven and one, ſome pro and con
Will ſnatch a phanſie from thee, and put on
A glove or ring of thine to court his laſſe,
Twixt Tearme and Tearme, when they are turnd to graſſe.
Some Titius will lay by his wax and bookes,
And nim a phraſe to bait his amorous hookes.
But ſtay, I ſhall be chid, me thinkes I heare
A cenſure ſpreadits wings to reach my eare,
Tell me I am conceited: then no more,
Go take thy chance, I turne thee out oth' dore.
Mart. ad lib. ſuum. Epig 4.
Aetherias laſcive cupis volitare per aur as,
I, fuge, ſed poter as tutior eſſe domi.
Mart. lib. 4.
Sivis auribus Aulicis probari
Exhortor, moneoque te libelle,
Vt docto place as Apollinari,
Nam ſi pectore te tenebit ore,
Nec ronchos metues maligniorum
Nec ſcombris tunic as dabis moleſt as
Et cum carmina floridis Camoenis,
Liteſque, gloriam can as poetum
Non eſt pollicem capitis ver áris.
To his loving friend the Author.
TO laud thy Muſe, or thee, to crowne with prayſe▪
Is but to light my Tapers to the rayes
Of gold-lockt Phoebus, ſince the Scheame
Of fabled truth, thy waking, ſeeming dreame;
Thyever-living-loving fame in Arts,
Of Arts, to us in whole and part imparts.
In Arts, thy judgement, phraſe, invention,
Of Arts, thy Poets Vindication.
In mourning Elegies I admi'd thy skill,
In mirthfull Layes we now admire thy quill.
Let Albine, Bellame, by thee live in fame,
Riv'lezzo, Beldame Pazza live in ſhame.
Laſh on and ſlaſh the vice of ſhaved crownes,
In thy Bardino, Nuns, and Sylvane clownes.
Give vertue beautie, beautie deſert and prayſe,
And that thy Monument of Braſſe ſhall rayſe.
To the Reader.
REader take heed, complaine not of the ſting,
Leſt others of thy galled ſores doe ſing.
No faulty perſon, partie here is meant,
OnelyOnly the vice oth'age and place is ſhent.
He that expounds it of himſelfe, doth ſhow
Some guiltie fault, or vice from him doth flow,
If toucht to th'quick, conceale and them amend,
So 'gainſt thee ſhall all ſcourging Satyrs end.
William Purifey Rector Eccleſiae de Markefield.
To his loving Kinſman the Authour.
WHen firſt I viewd the travailes of thy quill,
I lik'd, approv'd, admir'd thy nimble skill,
In ſudden raptures, phanſies, judgement, phraſe,
Invention, quickneſſe, life, detraction, praiſe,
So that I favourd their conceit which faignd
The ſoule to be an harmony, and raignd,
Amongſt the ſences with accounts and meaſures▪
All which thy loftie Poefie en-treaſures,
That quainteſt warblers cannot with delight
Out-worth the Poet in his Lyrick height,
As thoſe which with quick eyes where judgment ſits,
Thy Vindication of Poetick wits
Doe reade, may ſee, whoſe ſwelling meeters teach
All Aliens ſuch high Engliſh, that to reach
Is harder than to like, or belch forth ſcandals,
Witneſſe thy journey, Somnus, Morpheus,, Sandals,
The Orbs, Gods, Muſes, Critickes, accuſation,
The Poets names, employments, vindication,
Theſe ſilenced my pen, it dar'd no more
Till voyc't by thy Bellame againe, her ſtore
Of ſuters, one approv'd by Friends, not her
Rivelezzo's wrath (wherein moſt Parents erre)
Her griefe, encloyſtring, entertainment high,
Albino's heart and hers met in their eye,
Their whiſpring, dalliance, Piazzella's care,
Bardino's falſhood, their affections rare,
Her diſ-encloyſtring: and his Nunning plot,
The Nuns thick bellies, his repentant grot,
His freedome, flight, encountring with his Saint,
His conjuration, prodegies, and plaint,
The Sheepheard lout, Bellama's ſecond queſt,
His Ghoſting, comming from th' Elizian reſt.
Their parles, his diſ-enghoſting, her denyals,
His rage, her kindnſſe, both their loves and trials,
Conrades immuring, Piazzlla's fury,
His freedome, Foppo, and his Monkiſh Iury,
The Lovers Ale-houſe cheare, bed, courſe apparell,
The Monks ſtrict queſt, their finding, mirth & quarrel,
Their ſcape, feare, Raddle, kinſman, and at length
Their nuptiall Tede, when malice loſt its ſtrength.
How thou haſt ſhown (deare cooz) thy Art in Arts,
Let them expreſſe who bragge of abler parts
Than I, which have a bigger partin thee,
Thy love, and blood, till Being ceaſe to be.
IOHN WHITING▪ Maſter of Artes▪ Clare-Hall, Camb.
Amicoſuo chariſſimo N. W. hujus Poematis authori Collegii Regnalis Canta. in artibus magiſtro.
PAN petat Arcadiam Druides effundite cantus,
Et juvenes flores ſpargite, Bardus adeſt.
Tu qui ſtruxiſti memoranda Trophaea Poeſ…,
Dicere multatibi neſcio, nolo nihil
Vota, preces, calamus, cor, carmen, ſingula, laudes,
Vltro perdignas, concelebrare ſtudent.
An decus irgenium, tua laus, tua facta peribunt.
Dignum laude virum muſa perire vetat
Corpore defuncto te ca…dida muſa ſequetur,
Admiratur opus, primitiaſque tuas
Fata precor, faustae plectant tua ſlamina vitae,
Vt ſcribas oper â plurima digna tuâ.
IACOBUS BERNARD ſacroſanctae & individuae Trinitatis Collegii in artibus magiſter.
In Authorem, amiciſſimum ſuum, Encomiaſticon.
THE priviledge that pen and paper finde
'Mongſt men, falls ſhort, reflecting to the minde.
Vertue herſelfe, no other worth diſplayes,
Than eankred cenſure, leaves behinde, as rayes.
But mentall Cabonets, are they, that yeeld
No forfiture to battring Critickes ſhield.
If thoughts might character deſerts, I dare
Challenge my penſill for the largeſt ſhare:
But when the Vultures of our age muſt gnaw,
Ile ceaſe for modeſtie, and ſay, tis law.
It's ſafer farre, to faile of debt, than t'be
Soaringin tearmes that badge of flattery.
I hate the name, and therefore freely give
My verdict thus, as may have power to live
'Gainſt calumnie. If wit and learning may
Paſſe with applauſe, the authour hath the day.
Crownd be thoſe browes with everlaſting Bayes,
Whoſe worth a paterne is to future dayes.
Tis not a Poem dropt from ſtrength of grape,
That's debter to the wines inſpiring ſap,
Hee to himſelfe alone. Ceaſe urging, earth,
The father well deſerve, ſo faire a birth.
And if a witneſſe may be lawfull, then
Ile undertak't ſhall feare no vote of men.
But where-in Artis bold it ſelfe to glory
Is that which crownes the verge of Whitings ſtory.
Io. Roſſe.
To his friend, a Panagericke upon his lovers Albino and Bellama.
THough I have vowd a ſilence, and as yet
Reſolved not to travell out in jet,
Chiefly in Print, yet your intending preſſe
Makes me, my thoghts with courage, language, dreſſe
With ſmooth-ſtraind meeter, that the world may know
My ſtrict engagements, & how much I owe
To you, your worth, which may command a line,
From him which ſwears gainſt all, but what's divine,
The higneſſe of your ſtile, the quickneſſe, life,
Will in judicious readers raiſe a ſtrife,
(More than the Ball amongſt th'engoddeſt three)
Which gaines, the beſt, but all are beſt by mee,
Matchleſſe in my conceit: adde then to theſe
The neatneſſe of your plots, and ſweare a pleaſe
To the grim Stoick, and the Satyr'd brow
Forceth delight, through ſtrictneſſe, neatneſſe, vow,
Grow abler ſtill in phanſie, impe thy quill,
Write any thing, if ſomething, feare not ill,
If poeſie be thus revenged by thy dreame,
How will it flouriſh when'ts thy morning theame?
Sleeping or waking, let us have thy quill,
And ſleepe and Vigils ſhall admire thy skill.
I. Pickerin.
Imprimatur.
Sa. Baker. Iune 22. 1637.