To Parker.
MY Parker, paper, pen, and inke were made to write,And idle heads, that little do, have leisure to indite:
Wherefore, respecting these, and thine assured love,
If I would write no newes to thee, thou might'st my pen reprove.
And sithence fortune thus hath shov'd my shippe on shore:
And made me seeke another Realme unseene of me before:
The maners of the men I purpose to declare,
And other private points besides, which strange and geazon are.
The Russie men are round of bodies, fully fac'd,
The greatest part with bellies bigge that overhang the waste,
Flat headed for the most, with faces nothing faire,
But browne, by reason of the stove, and closenesse of the aire:
It is their common use to shave or els to sheare
Their heads, for none in all the land long lolling locks doth weare,
Unlesse perhaps he have his sovereigne prince displeas'd,
For then he never cuts his haire, untill he be appeas'd.
A certaine signe to know who in displeasure be,
For every man that viewes his head, will say, Loe this is he.
And during all the time he lets his locks to grow,
Dares no man for his life to him a face of friendship show.
Their garments be not gay, nor handsome to the eye,
A cap aloft their heads they have, that standeth very hie,
Which Colpack they do terme. They weare no ruffes at all:
The best have collers set with pearle, which they Rubasca call.
Their shirts in Russie long, they worke them downe before,
And on the sleeves with coloured Silks, two inches good and more.
Aloft their shirts they weare a garment jacket wise
Hight Onoriadka, and about his burlie waste he tyes
His portkies, which in stead of better breeches be:
Of linnen cloth that garment is, no codpiece is to see.
A paire of yarnen stocks to keepe the colde away,
Within his boots the Russie weares, the heeles they underlay
With clouting clamps of steele, sharpe pointed at the toes,
And over all a Shuba furd, and thus the Russie goes.
Well butned is the Shube, according to his state,
Some Silke, of Silver other some: but those of poorest rate
Do weare no Shubs at all, but grosser gownes to sight,
That reacheth downe beneath the calfe, and that Armacha hight:
These are the Russes robes. The richest use to ride
From place to place, his servant runnes, and followes by his side.
The Cassacke beares his felt, to force away the raine:
Their bridles are not very brave, their saddles are but plaine.
No bits but snaffles all, of birch their saddles be,
Much fashioned like the Scottish seates, broad flakes to keepe the knee
From sweating of the horse, the pannels larger farre
And broader be then ours, they use short stirrups for the warre :
For when the Russie is pursued by cruel foe,
He rides away, and suddenly betakes him to his boe,
And bends me but about in saddle as he sits,
And therewithall amids his race his following foe he hits.
Their bowes are very short, like Turkie bowes outright,
Of sinowes made with birchen barke, in cunning maner dight.
Small arrowes, cruel heads, that fell and forked bee,
Which being shot from out those bowes, a cruel way will flee.
They seldome use to shoo their horse, unlesse they ride
In post upon the frozen flouds, then cause they shall not slide,
He sets a slender calke, and so he rides his way.
The horses of the countrey go good fourescore versts a day,
And all without the spurre, once pricke them and they skippe,
But goe not forward on their way, the Russie hath his whippe
To rappe him on the ribbes, for though all booted bee,
Yet shall you not a paire of spurres in all the countrey see.
The common game is chesse, almost the simplest will
Both give a checke and eke a mate, by practise comes their skill.
Againe they dice as fast, the poorest rogues of all
Will sit them downe in open field, and there to gaming fall.
Their dice are very small, in fashion like to those
Which we doe use, he takes them up, and over thumbe he throwes
Not shaking them a whit, they cast suspiciously,
And yet I deeme them voyd of art that dicing most apply.
At play when Silver lacks, goes saddle, horse and all,
And eche thing els worth Silver walkes, although the price be small.
Because thou lovest to play friend Parker other while,
I wish thee there the weary day with dicing to beguile.
But thou weart better farre at home, I wist it well,
And wouldest be loath among such lowts so long a time to dwell.
Then judge of us thy friends, what kinde of life we had,
That neere the frozen pole to waste our weary dayes were glad.
In such a savage soile, where lawes do beare no sway,
But all is at the king his will, to save or els to slay.
And that sans cause, God wot, if so his minde be such.
But what meane I with Kings to deale? we ought no Saints to touch.
Conceive the rest your selfe, and deeme what lives they lead,
Where lust is Lawe, and Subjects live continually in dread.
And where the best estates have none assurance good
Of lands, of lives, nor nothing falles unto the next of blood.
But all of custome doeth unto the prince redowne,
And all the whole revenue comes unto the King his crowne.
Good faith I see thee muse at what I tell thee now,
But true it is, no choice, but all at princes pleasure bow.
So Tarquine ruled Rome as thou remembrest well,
And what his fortune was at last, I know thy selfe canst tell.
Where will in Common weale doth beare the onely sway,
And lust is Lawe, the prince and Realme must needs in time decay.
The strangenesse of the place is such for sundry things I see,
As if I woulde I cannot write ech private point to thee.
The colde is rare, the people rude, the prince so full of pride,
The Realme so stored with Monks and nunnes, and priests on every side:
The maners are so Turkie like, the men so full of guile,
The women wanton, Temples stuft with idols that defile
The Seats that sacred ought to be, the customes are so quaint,
As if I would describe the whole, I feare my pen would faint.
In summe, I say I never saw a prince that so did raigne,
Nor people so beset with Saints, yet all but vile and vaine.
Wilde Irish are as civill as the Russies in their kinde,
Hard choice which is the best of both, ech bloody, rude and blinde.
If thou bee wise, as wise thou art, and wilt be ruld by me,
Live still at home, and covet not those barbarous coasts to see.
No good befalles a man that seeks, and findes no better place,
No civill customes to be learnd, where God bestowes no grace.
And truely ill they do deserve to be belov'd of God,
That neither love nor stand in awe of his assured rod:
Which though be long, yet plagues at last the vile and beastly sort
Of sinfull wights, that all in vice do place their chiefest sport.
A dieu friend Parker, if thou list, to know the Russes well,
To Sigismundus booke repaire, who all the trueth can tell:
For he long earst in message went unto that savage King,
Sent by the Pole, and true report in ech respect did bring,
To him I recommend my selfe, to ease my penne of paine,
And now at last do wish thee well, and bid farewell againe.
