Thalia

Where be the sweete delights of learnings treasure,That wont with comick sock to beautefieThe painted theaters, and fill with pleasureThe listners eyes, and eares with melodie,In which I late was wont to raine as queene,And maske in mirth with graces well beseene?

O, all is gone! and all that goodly glee,Which wont to be the glorie of gay wits,Is layd abed, and no where now to see;And in her roome unseemly Sorrow sits,With hollow browes and greisly countenaunceMarring my ioyous gentle dalliaunce.

And him beside sits ugly Barbarisme,And brutish Ignorance, ycrept of lateOut of dredd darknes of the deep abysme,Where being bredd, he light and heaven does hate:They in the mindes of men now tyrannize,And the faire scene with rudenes foule disguize.

All places they with follie have possest,And with vaine toyes the vulgare entertaine;But me have banished, with all the restThat whilome wont to wait upon my traine,Fine Counterfesaunce, and unhurtfull Sport,Delight, and Laughter, deckt in seemly sort.

All these, and all that els the comick stageWith seasoned wit and goodly pleasance graced,By which mans life in his likest imágeWas limned forth, are wholly now defaced;And those sweete wits which wont the like to frameAre now despizd, and made a laughing game.

And he, the man whom Nature selfe had madeTo mock her selfe, and truth to imitate,With kindly counter under mimick shade,Our pleasant Willy, ah! is dead of late:With whom all ioy and iolly merimentIs also deaded, and in dolour drent**.

In stead thereof scoffing Scurrilitie,And scornfull Follie with Contempt is crept,Rolling in rymes of shameles ribaudrieWithout regard, or due decorum kept;Each idle wit at will presumes to make,And doth the learneds taske upon him take.

But that same gentle spirit, from whose penLarge streames of honnie and sweete nectar flowe,Scorning the boldnes of such base-borne men,Which dare their follies forth so rashlie throwe,Doth rather choose to sit in idle cell,Than so himselfe to mockerie to sell.

So am I made the servant of the manie,And laughing stocke of all that list to scorne,Not honored nor cared for of anie,But loath’d of losels as a thing forlorne:Therefore I mourne and sorrow with the rest,Untill my cause of sorrow be redrest.

Therewith she lowdly did lament and shrike,Pouring forth streames of teares abundantly;And all her sisters, with compassion like,The breaches of her singulfs did supply.So rested shee: and then the next in rewBegan her grievous plaint, as doth ensew.