Terpsichore

Whoso hath in the lap of soft delightBeene long time luld, and fed with pleasures sweet,Feareles through his own fault or Fortunes spightTo tumble into sorrow and regreet,Yf chaunce him fall into calamitie,Findes greater burthen of his miserie.

So wee, that earst in ioyance did abound,And in the bosome of all blis did sit,Like virgin queenes, with laurell garlands cround,For vertues meed and ornament of wit,Sith Ignorance our kingdome did confound,Bee now become most wretched wightes on ground.

And in our royall thrones, which lately stoodIn th’hearts of men to rule them carefully,He now hath placed his accursed brood,By him begotten of fowle Infamy;Blind Error, scornefull Follie, and base Spight,Who hold by wrong that wee should have by right.

They to the vulgar sort now pipe and sing,And make them merrie with their fooleries;They cherelie chaunt, and rymes at randon fling,The fruitfull spawne of their ranke fantasies;They feede the eares of fooles with flattery,And good men blame, and losels magnify.

All places they doo with their toyes possesse,And raigne in liking of the multitude;The schooles they till with fond newfanglenesse,And sway in court with pride and rashnes rude;Mongst simple shepheards they do boast their skill,And say their musicke matcheth Phoebus quill.

The noble hearts to pleasures they allure,And tell their Prince that learning is but vaine;Faire ladies loves they spot with thoughts impure,And gentle mindes with lewd delights distaine;Clerks they to loathly idlenes entice,And fill their bookes with discipline of vice.

So every where they rule and tyrannize,For their usurped kingdomes maintenaunce,The whiles we silly maides, whom they dispizeAnd with reprochfull scorne discountenaunce,From our owne native heritage exilde,Walk through the world of every one revilde.

Nor anie one doth care to call us in,Or once vouchsafeth us to entertaine,Unlesse some one perhaps of gentle kin,For pitties sake, compassion our paine,And yeeld us some reliefe in this distresse;Yet to be so reliev’d is wretchednesse.

So wander we all carefull comfortlesse,Yet none cloth care to comfort us at all;So seeke we helpe our sorrow to redresse,Yet none vouchsafes to answere to our call;Therefore we mourne and pittilesse complaine,Because none living pittieth our paine.

With that she wept and wofullie waymented,That naught on earth her griefe might pacifie;And all the rest her dolefull din augmentedWith shrikes, and groanes, and grievous agonie.So ended shee: and then the next in rewBegan her piteous plaint, as doth ensew.