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Rubicon

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.
 Threatning the world with his hot-burning eie.

Now nimbly to his glist'ring Coach he skips,

And churlishlie ascends his loftie chaire,
Yerking his head strong Iades with yron whips,
Whose fearefull neighing ecchoes through the aire,
Snorting out fierie Sulphure from theire nosethrils:
Whose deadly damp the worlds poore people kils.

Him leaue me (for a while) amids the heauens,

VVreaking his anger on his sturdie steedes:
Whose speedful course the day and night now eeuens,
(The earth dis-robed of her summer weedes)
And nowe black-mantled night with her browne vaile,
Couers each thing that all the world might quaile.

When loe, Cassandra lying at her rest,

(Her rest were restlesse thoughts:) it so befell,
Her minde with multitude of cares opprest,
Requir'd some sleepe her passions to expell:
Which when sad Morpheus will did vnderstand,
He clos'd her eie-lids with his leaden hand.

Now sleepeth shee: and as shee sleepes, beholde;

Shee seemes to see the God whom late shee wronged
Standing before her; whose fierce looks vnfold,
His hidden wrath (to whom iust ire belonged)
Seeing, shee sighs, and sighing quak't for feare,
To see the shaddow of her shame appeare.

Betwixt amaze and dread as shee thus stands,

The fearefull vision drew more neere vnto her:
Aud pynioning her armes in captiue bands
So sure, that mortall wight may not vndoe her,
He with a bloudy knife (oh cruell part,)
With raging fury stabd her to the heart.

Heerewith awaking from her slumbring sleepe

Heerewith awaking from her slumbring sleepe,
(For feare, and care, are enemies to rest:)
At such time as Aurora gins to peepe
And shew her selfe; far orient in the East:
Shee heard a voice which said: O wicked woman,
Why dost thou stil the gods to vengeance summon?

Thou shalt (indeede) fore-tell of things to come;

And truely, too; (for why my vowes are past)
But heare the end of Ioues eternall doome:
Because thy promise did so little last,
Although thou tell the truth, (this gift I giue thee)
Yet for thy falsehood, no man shall beleeue thee.

And (for thy sake) this pennance I impose

Vpon the remnant of all woman kinde,
For that they be such truth professed foes;
A constant woman shall be hard to finde:
And that all flesh at my dread name may tremble,
When they weep most, then shall they most dissemble.

This said Apollo then: And since that time

His words haue proved true as Oracles:
Whose turning thoughtes ambitiously doe clime
To heauens height; and world with lightnes fils:
Whose sex are subject to inconstancie,
As other creatures are to destinie.

Yet famous Sabrine on thy banks doth rest

The fairest Maide that euer world admired:
Whose constant minde, with heauenly gifts possest
Makes her rare selfe of all the world desired.
In whose chaste thoughts no vanitie doth enter;
So pure a minde Endymions Love hath lent her.

Queene of my thoughts, but subiect of my verse,

(Divine Eliza) pardon my defect:
Wh tl d l d th h
Whose artlesse pen so rudely doth reherse
Thy beauties worth; (for want of due respect)
Oh pardon thou the follies of my youth;
Pardon my faith, my loue, my zeale, my truth.

But to Cassandra now: who hauing heard

The cruell sentence of the threatning voice;
At length (too late) begins to waxe affeard,
Lamenting much her vnrepentant choice:
And seeing her hard hap without reliefe,
She sheeds salt teares in token of her griefe.

Which when Aurora saw, and saw t'was shee,

Euen shee her selfe whose far-renowmed fame
Made all the world to wonder at her beauty,
It mou'd compassion in this ruthfull Dame:
And thinking on her Sonnes sad destinie,
With mournfull teares she beares her companie.

Great was the mone, which faire Cassandra made:

Greater the kindnesse, which Aurora shew'd:
Whose sorrow with the sunne began to fade,
And her moist teares on th'earths green grasse bestow'd:
Kissing the flowers with her siluer dew,
Whose fading beautie, seem'd her case to rew.

Scarce was the lonely Easterne Queene departed,

From stately Ilion (whose proud-reared wals
Seem'd to controule the cloudes, till Vulcan darted
Against their Tower his burning fier-bals)
When sweet Cassandra (leauing her soft bed)
In seemely sort her selfe apparelled.

And hearing that her honourable Sire,

(Old princely Pryamus Troy's aged King)
Was gone into Ioues Temple, to conspire
Against the Greekes, (whom he to war did bring)
 Shee, (like a Furie), in a bedlam rage,
Runs gadding thither, his fell wrath t'assuage.

But not preuailing: truely she fore-tolde

The fall of Troy (with bold erected face:)
They count her hare-brain'd, mad, and ouer-bold,
To presse in presence in so graue a place:
But in meane season Paris he is gone,
To bring destruction on faire Ilion.

What, ten-yeeres siedge by force could not subuert,

That, two false traitors in one night destroi'd:
Who richly guerdon'd for their bad desert,
Was of Æneas but small time inioi'd:
Who, for concealement of Achilles loue,
Was banished; from Ilion to remoue.

King Pryam dead and all the Troians slaine;

(His sonnes, his friends and deere confederates)
And lots now cast for captiues that remaine,
(Whom Death hath spared for more cruell fates)
Cassandra then to Agamemnon fell,
With whom a Lemman she disdain'd to dwell.

She, weepes; he, wooes; he would, but she would not:

He, tell's his birth; shee, pleades virginitie:
He saith, selfe-pride doth rarest beauty blot:
(And with that word he kist her louingly:)
Shee, yeeldingly resists; he faines to die:
Shee, fall's for feare; he, on her feareleslie.

But this braue generall of all the Greekes,

Was quickly foyled at a womans hands,
For who so rashly such incounters seekes,
Of hard mis-hap in danger euer stands:
Onely chaste thoughts, vertuous abstinence,
Gainst such sweet poyson is the sur'st defence.
But who can shun the force of beauties blow?
Who is not rauisht with a lonely looke?
Grac'd with a wanton eie, (the hearts dumb show)
Such fish are taken with a siluer hooke:
And when true loue cannot these pearles obtaine
Vnguentum Album is the only meane.

Farre be it from my thought (diuinest Maid)

To haue relation to thy heauenly hew,
(In whose sweete voice the Muses are imbaid)
No pen can paint thy commendation due:
Saue only that pen, which no pen can be,
An Angels quill, to make a pen for thee.

But to returne to these vnhappie Louers,

(Sleeping securely in each others armes)
Whose sugred ioies nights sable mantle couers,
Little regarding their ensuing harmes:
Which afterward they iointlie both repented:
"Fate is fore-seene, but neuer is preuented."

Which saying to be true, this lucklesse Dame

Approued in the sequele of her story:
Now waxing pale, now blushing red (for shame),
She scales her lips with silence (womens glory)
Till Agamemnon vrging her replies,
Thus of his death she truely prophecies.

The day shall come, (quoth she) O dismal daie!

When thou by false Ægistus shalt be slaine:
Heere could she tell no more; but made a stay.
(From further speech as willing to refraine:)
Not knowing then, nor little did she thinke,
That she with him of that same cup must drinke.

But what? (fond man) he laughs her skil to scorne,

And iesteth at her diuination:
Ah to what vnbeliefe are Princes borne?
(The onely ouer-throw of many a Nation:)
And so it did befall this lucklesse Prince,
Whom all the world hath much lamented since.

Insteede of teares, he smileth at her tale:

Insteede of griefe, he makes great shew of gladnes:
But after blisse, there euer followes bale;
And after mirth, there alwaies commeth sadnes:
But gladnesse, blisse, and mirth had so possest him,
That sadnes, bale, and griefe could not molest him.

Oh cruell Parcæ (quoth Cassandra then)

Why are you Parcæ, yet not mou'd with praier?
Oh small security of mortall men,
That liue on earth, and breathe this vitall aire:
When we laugh most, then are we next to sorrow;
The Birds feede vs to-day, we them to-morrow.

But if the first did little moue his minde,

Her later speeches lesse with him preuailed;
Who beinge wholy to selfe-will inclinde,
Deemes her weake braine with lunacy assailed:
And still the more shee councels him to stay,
The more he striueth to make haste away.

How on the Seas he scap'd stormes, rocks and sholes,

(Seas that enuide the conquest he had wone,
Gaping like hell to swallow Greekish soules,)
I heere omit; onely suppose it done:
His storm-tyrde Barke safely brings him to shore,
His whole Fleete els, or suncke or lost before.

Lift vp thy head, thou ashie-cyndred Troy,

See the commaunder of thy traitor foes,
That made thy last nights woe, his first daies ioie,
 at ade t y ast g ts oe, s st da es o e,
Now gins his night of ioy and daie of woes:
His fall be thy delight, thine was his pride:
As he thee then, so now thou him deride.

He and Cassandra now are set on shore,

Which he salutes with ioy, she greetes with teares,
Currors are sent that poast to Court before,
Whose tidings fill th'adultrous Queene with feares,
Who with Ægistus in a lust-staind bed,
Her selfe, her King, her State dishonored.

She wakes the lecher with a loud-strain'd shrike,

Loue-toies they leaue, now doth lament begin:
He flie (quoth he) but she doth that mislike,
Guilt vnto guilt, and sinne she ads to sinne:
Shee meanes to kill (immodest loue to couer)
A kingly husband, for a caytiue louer.

The peoples ioies, conceiued at his returne,

Their thronging multitudes: their gladsome cries,
Their gleeful hymnes, whiles piles of incense burne:
Their publique shewes, kept at solemnities:
We passe: and tell how King and Queene did meet,
Where he with zeale, she him with guile did greet.

He (noble Lord) fearelesse of hidden treason,

Sweetely salutes this weeping Crocodile:
Excusing euery cause with instant reason
That kept him from her sight so long a while:
She, faintly pardons him; smiling by Art:
(For life was in her lookes, death in her hart.)

For pledge that I am pleas'd receiue (quoth shee)

This rich wrought robe, thy Clytemnestras toile:
Her ten yeeres worke this day shall honour thee,
For ten yeeres war, and one daies glorious spoile:
Whil'st thou contendedst there I heere did this:
 Whil st thou contendedst there, I heere did this:
Weare it my loue, my life, my ioy, my blisse.

Scarce had the Syren said what I haue write,

But he (kind Prince) by her milde words misled,
Receiu'd the robe, to trie if it were fit;
(The robe) that had no issue for his head;
Which, whilst he vainly hoped to haue found,
Ægistus pierst him with a mortal wound.

Oh how the Troyan Damzell was amazed

To see so fell and bloudy a Tragedie,
Performed in one Act; she naught but gazed,
Vpon the picture; whom shee dead did see,
Before her face: whose body she emballms,
With brennish teares, and sudden deadly qualms.

Faine would she haue fled backe on her swift horse

But Clytemnestra bad her be content,
Her time was com'n: now bootelesse vsd she force,
Against so many; whom this Tygresse sent
To apprehend her: who (within one hower
Brought backe againe) was lockt within a Tower.

Now is she ioylesse, friendlesse, and (in fine)

Without all hope of further libertie:
Insteed of cates, cold water was her wine,
And Agamemnons corps her meate must be,
Or els she must for hunger starue (poore sole)
What could she do but make great mone and dole.

So darke the dungeon was, wherein she was,

That neither Sunne (by day) nor Mone (by night)
Did shew themselues: and thus it came to passe.
The Sunne denide to lend his glorious light
To such a periur'd wight, or to be scene;
(What neede she light, that ouer-light had bin?)
Now silent night drew on; when all things sleepe,
Saue theeves, and cares; and now stil mid-night came:
When sad Cassandra did naught els but weepe;
Oft calling on her Agamemnons name.
But seeing that the dead did not replie,
Thus she begins to mourne, lament, and crie.

Oh cruell Fortune (mother of despaire,)

Well art thou christen'd with a cruell name:
Since thou regardest not the wise, or faire,
But do'st bestow thy riches (to thy shame)
On fooles and lowly swaines, that care not for thee:
And yet I weepe, and yet thou do'st abhorre me.

Fie on ambition, fie on filthy pride,

The roote of ill, the cause of all my woe:
On whose fraile yce my youth first slipt aside:
And falling downe, receiu'd a fatall blow.
Ah who hath liu'd to see such miserie
As I haue done, and yet I cannot die?

I liu'd (quoth she) to see Troy set on fire:

I liu'd to see, renowned Hector slaine:
I liu'd to see, the shame of my desire:
And yet I liue, to feel my grieuous paine:
Let all young maides example take by me,
To keepe their oathes, and spotlesse chastity.

Happy are they, that neuer liu'd to know

What 'tis to liue in this world happily:
Happy are they which neuer yet felt woe:
Happy are they, that die in infancie:
Whose sins are cancell'd in their mothers wombe:
Whose cradle is their graue, whose lap their tomb.

Here ended shee; and then her teares began,

That (Chorus like) at euery word downe rained
That (Chorus-like) at euery word downe rained.
Which like a paire of christall fountaines ran,
Along her lonely cheekes: with roses stained:
Which as they wither still (for want of raine)
Those siluer showers water them againe.

Now had the poore-mans clock (shrill chauntcleare)

Twice giuen notice of the Mornes approach,
(That then began in glorie to appeare,
Drawne in her stately colour'd saffron-Coach)
When shee (poore Lady) almost turn'd to teares,
Began to teare and rend her golden haires.

Lie there (quoth shee) the workers of my woes

You trifling toies, which my liues staine haue bin:
You, by whose meanes our coines chiefly growes,
Clothing the backe with pride, the soule with sin:
Lie there (quoth shee) the causers of my care;
This said, her robes she all in pieces tare.

Here-with, as weary of her wretched life,

(Which shee inioy'd with small felicitie)
She ends her fortune with a fatall knife;
(First day of ioy, last day of miserie:)
Then why is death accounted Nature's foe,
Since death (indeed) is but the end of woe?

For as by death, her bodie was released

From that strong prison made of lime and stone;
Euen so by death her purest soule was eased,
From bodies prison, and from endlesse mone:
Where now shee walkes in sweete Elysium
(The place for wrongful Death and Martirdum.)

FINIS.
 The Encomion of Lady
Pecunia:
OR

The praise of Money.

quærenda pecunia primum est,
Virtus post nummos. Horace.

By Richard Barnfeild, Graduate in

Oxford.
 LONDON,
Printed by G. S. for Iohn Iaggard,
and are
to be sold at his shoppe neere Temple-barre,
at the Signe of the Hand and starre.
1 5 9 8.
 To the Gentlemen Readers.
Entlemen, being incouraged through your gentle
acceptance of my Cynthia, I haue once more aduentured
on your Curtesies: hoping to finde you (as I haue done
heretofore) friendly. Being determined to write of
somthing, and yet not resolued of any thing, I considered
with my selfe, if one should write of Loue (they will say) why, euery
one writes of Loue: if of Vertue, why, who regards Vertue? To be
short, I could thinke of nothing, but either it was common, or not at
all in request. At length I bethought my selfe of a Subiect, both new
(as hauing neuer beene written vpon before) and pleasing (as I
thought) because Mans Nature (commonly) loues to heare that
praised, with whose pressence, hee is most pleased.
Erasmus (the glory of Netherland, and the refiner of the Latin
Tongue) wrote a whole Booke, in the prayse of Folly. Then if so
excellent a Scholler, writ in praise of Vanity, why may not I write in
praise of that which is profitable? There are no two Countreys,
where Gold is esteemed, lesse than in India, and more then in
England: the reason is, because the Indians are barbarous, and our
Nation ciuill.
I have giuen Pecunia the title of a Woman, Both for the termination
of the Word, and because (as Women are) shee is lov'd of men. The
brauest Voyages in the World, haue beene made for Gold: for it,
men haue venterd (by Sea) to the furthest parts of the Earth: In the
Pursute whereof, Englands Nestor and Neptune (Haukins and Drake)
lost their liues. Vpon the Deathes of the which two, of the first I writ
this:

The Waters were his Winding sheete, the Sea was made his Toome;
Yet for his fame the Ocean Sea, was not sufficient roome.

Of the latter this:

England his hart; his Corps the Waters haue;

And that which raysd his fame, became his grave.

The Prætorians (after the death of Pertinax) in the election of a new

Emperour, more esteemed the money of Iulianus, then either the
vertue of Seuerus, or the Valour of Pessennius. Then of what great
estimation and account, this Lady Pecunia, both hath beene in the
Worlde, and is at this present, I leaue to your Iudgement. But what
speake I so much of her praise in my Epistle, that haue commended
her so at large in my Booke? To the reading wherof, (Gentlemen) I
referre you.

[THE AUTHORS FIRST EPISTLE-

DEDICATORY (1605).
[Collated with the Bridgwater House copy.]
 Ed by the swift report of winged Fame,
With siluer trumpet, sounding forth your name
To you I dedicate this merry Muse,
And for my Patron, I your fauour chuse:
She is a Lady, she must be respected:
She is a Queene, she may not be neglected.
This is the shadow, you the substance haue,
Which substance now this shadow seems to craue.

RICHARD BARNFIELD.]

The prayse of Lady Pecunia.

 Sing not of Angellica the faire,
(For whom the Palladine of Fraunce fell mad)
Nor of sweet Rosamond, olde Cliffords heire,
(Whose death did make the second Henry sad)
But of the fairest Faire Pecunia,
The famous Queene of rich America.

Goddesse of Golde, great Empresse of the Earth,

O thou that canst doe all Thinges under Heauen:
That doost conuert the saddest minde to Mirth;
(Of whom the elder Age was quite bereauen)
Of thee Ile sing, and in thy Prayse Ile write;
You golden Angels helpe me to indite.

You, you alone, can make my Muse to speake;

And tell a golden Tale, with siluer Tongue:
You onely can my pleasing silence breake;
And adde some Musique, to a merry Songue:
But amongst all the fiue, in Musicks Art,
I would not sing the Counter-tenor part.

The Meane is best, and that I meane to keepe;

So shall I keepe my selfe from That I meane:
Lest with some Others, I be forc'd to weepe,
And cry Peccaui, in a dolefull Scæne.
But to the matter which I haue in hand,
The Lady Regent, both by Sea and Land.

When Saturne liu'd, and wore the Kingly Crowne,

(And Ioue was yet vnborne, but not vnbred)
This Ladies fame was then of no renowne;
(For Golde was then, no more esteem'd then Lead)
Then Truth and Honesty were onely vs'd,
Siluer and Golde were vtterly refus'd.
 S ue a d Go de e e tte y e us d

But when the Worlde grew wiser in Conceit,

And saw how Men in manners did decline,
How Charitie began to loose her heate,
And One did at anothers good repine,
Then did the Aged, first of all respect her;
And vowd from thenceforth, neuer to reiect her.

Thus with the Worlde, her beauty did increase;

And manie Suters had she to obtaine her:
Some sought her in the Wars, and some in peace;
But few of youthfull age, could euer game her:
Or if they did, she soone was gone againe;
And would with them, but little while remaine.

For why against the Nature of her Sexe,

(That commonlie dispise the feeble Olde)
Shee, loues olde men; but young men she reiects;
Because to her, their Loue is quicklie colde:
Olde men (like Husbands iealous of their Wiues)
Lock her vp fast, and keepe her as their Liues.

The young man carelesse to maintaine his life,

Neglects her Loue (as though he did abhor her)
Like one that hardly doeth obtaine a wife,
And when he hath her once, he cares not for her:
Shee, seeing that the young man doeth despyse her,
Leaues the franke heart, and flies vnto the Myser.

Hee intertaines her, with a ioyfull hart;

And seemes to rue her vndeserued wrong:
And from his Pressence, she shall neuer part;
Or if shee doo, he thinkes her Absence long:
And oftentimes he sends for her againe,
Whose life without her, cannot long remaine.

And when he hath her, in his owne possession,

 d e e at e , s o e possess o ,
He locks her in an iron-barred Chest,
And doubting somewhat, of the like Transgression,
He holds that iron-walled Prison best.
And least some rusty sicknesse should infect her,
He often visits her, and doeth respect her.

As for the young man (subiect vnto sinne)

No maruell though the Diuell doe distresse him;
To tempt mans frailtie, which doth neuer linne,
Who many times, hath not a Crosse to blesse him:
But how can hee incurre the Heauens Curse,
That hath so many Crosses in his Purse?

Hee needes not feare those wicked sprights, that waulke

Vnder the Couerture of cole-blacke Night;
For why the Diuell still, a Crosse doeth baulke,
Because on it, was hangd the Lorde of Light:
But let not Mysers trust to siluer Crosses,
Least in the End, their gaines be turnd to losses.

But what care they, so they may hoorde vp golde?

Either for God, or Diuell, or Heauen, or Hell?
So they may faire Pecuniaes face behold;
And euery Day, their Mounts of Money tell.
What tho to count their Coyne, they neuer blin,
Count they their Coyne, and counts not God their sin?

But what talke I of sinne, to Vsurers?

Or looke for mendment, at a Mysers hand?
Pecunia, hath so many followers,
Bootlesse it is, her Power to with-stand.
King Couetise, and Warinesse his Wife,
The Parents were, that first did giue her Life.

But now vnto her Praise I will proceede,

Which is as ample, as the Worlde is wide:
What great Contentment doth her Pressence breede
What great Contentment doth her Pressence breede
In him, that can his wealth with Wysdome guide?
She is the Soueraigne Queene, of all Delights:
For her the Lawyer pleades; the Souldier fights.

For her, the Merchant venters on the Seas:

For her, the Scholler studdies at his Booke:
For her, the Vsurer (with greater ease)
For sillie fishes, layes a siluer hooke:
For her, the Townsman leaues the Countrey Village:
For her, the Plowman giues himselte to Tillage.

For her, the Gentlemen doeth raise his rents:

For her, the Seruingman attends his maister:
For her, the curious head new toyes inuents:
For her, to Sores, the Surgeon layes his plaister.
In fine for her, each man in his Vocation,
Applies himselfe, in euerie sev'rall Nation.

What can thy hart desire, but thou mayst haue it,
If thou hast readie money to disburse?
Then thanke thy Fortune, that so freely gaue it;
For of all friends, the surest is thy purse.
Friends may proue false, and leaue thee in thy need;
But still thy Purse will bee thy friend indeed.

Admit thou come, into a place vnknowne;

And no man knowes, of whence, or what thou art:
If once thy faire Pecunia, shee be showne,
Thou art esteem'd a man of great Desart:
And placed at the Tables vpper ende;
Not for thine owne sake, but thy faithfull frende.

But if you want your Ladies louely grace,

And haue not wherewithall to pay your shot,
Your Hostis pressently will step in Place,
You are a Stranger (Sir) I know you not:
By trusting Diuers I am run in Det;
 By trusting Diuers, I am run in Det;
Therefore of mee, nor meate nor Bed you get.

O who can then, expresse the worthie praise,

Which faire Pecunia iustly doeth desarue?
That can the meanest man, to Honor raise;
And feed the soule, that ready is to starue.
Affection, which was wont to bee so pure,
Against a golden Siege, may not endure.

Witnesse the trade of Mercenary sinne;

(Or Occupation, if thou list to tearme it)
Where faire Pecunia must the suite beginne;
(As common-tride Experience doeth confirme it)
Not Mercury himselfe, with siluer Tongue,
Can so inchaunt, as can a golden Songue.

When nothing could subdue the Phrygian Troy,

(That Citty through the world so much renowned)
Pecunia did her vtterly destroy:
And left her fame, in darke Obliuion drowned.
And many Citties since, no lesse in fame,
For Loue of her, haue yeelded to their shame.

What Thing is then, so well belou'd as money?

It is a speciall Comfort to the minde;
More faire then Women are; more sweet then honey:
Easie to loose, but very harde to finde.
In fine, to him, whose Purse beginns to faint,
Golde is a God, and Siluer is a Saint.

The Tyme was once, when Honestie was counted

A Demy god; and so esteem'd of all:
But now Pecunia on his Seate is mounted;
Since Honestie in great Disgrace did fall.
No state, no Calling now, doeth him esteeme;
Nor of the other ill, doeth any deeme.
The reason is, because he is so poore:
(And who respects the poore, and needie Creature?)
Still begging of his almes, from Doore to Doore:
All ragd, and torne; and eeke deformed in feature.
In Countinance so changde, that none can know him;
So weake, and euery vice doeth ouerthrow him.

But faire Pecunia, (most diuinely bred)

For sundrie shapes, doth Proteus selfe surpasse:
In one Lande, she is suted all in Lead;
And in another, she is clad in Brasse:
But still within the Coast of Albion,
She euer puts, her best Apparell on.

Siluer and Golde, and nothing else is currant,

In Englands, in faire Englands happy Land:
All baser sorts of Mettalls, haue no Warrant;
Yet secretly they slip, from hand to hand.
If any such be tooke, the same is lost,
And pressently is nayled on a Post.

Which with Quick-siluer, being flourisht ouer,

Seemes to be perfect Siluer, to the showe:
As Woemens paintings, their defects doe couer,
Vnder this false attyre, so doe they goe.
If on a woollen Cloth, thou rub the same,
Then will it straight beginne to blush, for shame.

If chafed on thy haire, till it be hot,

If it good Siluer bee, the scent is sweete:
If counterfeit, thy chafing hath begot
A ranke-smelt sauour; for a Queene vnmeete:
Pecunia is a Queene, for her Desarts,
And in the Decke, may goe for Queene of harts.

The Queene of harts, because she rules all harts;

A d h th ll h t b di t t h Will
And hath all harts, obedient to her Will:
Whose Bounty, fame vnto the Worlde imparts;
And with her glory, all the Worlde doeth fill:
The Queene of Diamonds, she cannot bee;
There is but one, Eliza, thou art shee.

And thou art shee, O sacred Soueraigne;

Whom God hath helpt with his Al-mighty hand:
Blessing thy People, with thy peacefull raigne;
And made this little Land, a happy Land:
May all those liue, that wish long life to thee,
And all the rest, perish eternally.

Thy tyme was once, when faire Pecunia, here

Did basely goe attyred all in Leather:
But since her raigne, she neuer did appeere
But richly clad; in Golde, or Siluer either:
Nor reason is it, that her Golden raigne
With baser Coyne, eclypsed should remaine.

And as the Coyne, she hath repurifyde,

From baser substance, to the purest Mettels:
Religion so, hath shee refinde beside,
From Papistrie, to Truth; which daily settles
Within her Peoples harts; though some there bee,
That cleaue vnto their wonted Papistrie.

No flocke of sheepe, but some are still infected:

No peece of Lawne so pure, but hath some fret:
All buildings are not strong, that are erected:
All Plants proue not, that in good ground are set:
Some tares are sowne, amongst the choicest seed:
No garden can be cleansd of euery Weede.

But now to her, whose praise is her pretended,

(Diuine Pecunia) fairer then the morne:
Which cannot be sufficiently commended;
Whose Sun-bright Beauty doeth the Worlde adorne,
Adorns the World, but specially the Purse;
Without whose pressence, nothing can be worse.

Not faire Hæsione (King of Priams sister)

Did euer showe more Beauty, in her face,
Then can this louely Lady, if it list her
To showe her selfe; admir'd for comely grace:
Which neither Age can weare, nor Tyme conclude;
For why, her Beauty yeerely is renude.

New Coyne is coynd each yeare, within the Tower;

So that her Beauty neuer can decay:
Which to resist, no mortall man hath Power,
When as she doeth her glorious Beames display.
Nor doeth Pecunia, onely please the eie,
But charms the eare, with heauenly Harmonie.

Lyke to an other Orpheus, can she play

Vpon her treble Harpe, whose siluer sound
Inchaunts the eare, and steales the hart away:
Nor hardly can deceit, therein be found.
Although such Musique, some a Shilling cost,
Yet is it worth but Nine-pence, at the most.

Had I the sweet inchaunting Tongue of Tully,

That charmd the hearers, lyke the Syrens Song;
Yet could I not describe the Prayses fully,
Which to Pecunia iustly doe belong.
Let it suffice, her Beauty doeth excell:
Whose praise no Pen can paint, no Tongue can tell.

Then how shall I describe, with artlesse Pen,

The praise of her, whose praise, all praise surmounteth?
Breeding amazement, in the mindes of men:
Of whom, this pressent Age to much accounteth.
Varietie of Words, would sooner want,
 Then store of plentious matter, would be scant.

Whether yee list, to looke into the Citty:

(Where money tempts the poore Beholders eye)
Or to the Countrey Townes, deuoyde of Pitty:
(Where to the poore, each place doeth almes denye)
All Thinges for money now, are bought and solde,
That either hart can thinke, or eie beholde.

Nay more for money (as report doeth tell)

Thou mayst obteine a Pardon for thy sinnes:
The Pope of Rome, for money will it sell;
(Whereby thy soule, no small saluation winnes)
But how can hee, (of Pride the chiefe Beginner)
Forgiue thy sinnes, that is himselfe a sinner?

Then, sith the Pope is subiect vnto sinne,

No maruell tho, diuine Pecunia tempt him,
With her faire Beauty; whose good-will to winne,
Each one contends; and shall we then exempt him.
Did neuer mortall man, yet looke vpon her,
But straightwaies he became, enamourd on her.

Yet would I wish, the Wight that loues her so,

And hath obtain'd, the like good-will againe,
To vse her wisely, lest she proue his foe;
And so, in stead of Pleasure, breed his paine.
She may be kyst; but shee must not be clypt:
Lest such Delight in bitter gall be dypt.

The iuyce of grapes, which is a soueraigne Thing

To cheere the hart, and to reuiue the spirits;
Being vsde immoderatly (in surfetting)
Rather Dispraise, then commendation merits:
Euen so Pecunia, is, as shee is vsed;
Good of her selfe, but bad if once abused.
With her, the Tenant payes his Landlords rent:
On her, depends the stay of euery state:
To her, rich Pressents euery day are sent:
In her, it rests to end all dire Debate:
Through her, to Wealth, is raisd the Countrey Boore:
From her, proceedes much proffit to the poore.

Then how can I, sufficiently commend,

Her Beauties worth, which makes the World to wonder?
Or end her prayse, whose prayses haue no End?
Whose absence brings the stoutest stomack vnder:
Let it suffice, Pecunia hath no peere;
No Wight, no Beauty held; more faire, more deere.

FINIS.

His Prayer to Pecunia.

Reat Lady, sith I haue complyde thy Prayse,

(According to my skill and not thy merit:)
And sought thy Fame aboue the starrs to rayse;
(Had I sweete Ovids vaine, or Virgils spirit)
I craue no more but this, for my good will,
That in my Want, thou wilt supplye me still.