CERTAINE LETTERS IN VERSE,
WRITTEN BY MASTER GEORGE TURBERUILE,
OUT OF MOSCOUIA,
Which went as Secretaire thither with Master Tho. Randolph, her
Maisties Embassadour to the Emperour, 1568, to certaine
friends of his in London, describing the manners
of the countrey and people.
(Referred to at p. cxxvii of the Introduction.)
TO HIS ESPECIALL FRIEND, MASTER EDWARD DANCIE.
My Dancie deere, when I recount within my brest,
My London friends, and wonted mates, and thee above the rest:
I feele a thousand fittes of deepe and deadly woe,
To thinke that I from land to sea, from bliss to bale did goe.
I left my native soyle, full like a retchlesse man,
And unacquainted of the coast, among the Russies ran:
A people passing rude, to vices vile inclinde.
Folke fitting to be of Bacchus’ trayne, so quaffing is their kinde,
Drinke is their whole desire, the pot is all their pride,
The sobrest head doeth once a day stand needfull of a guide.
If he to banquet bid his friends, he will not shrinke
On them at dinner to bestowe a douzen kindes of drinke:
Such licour as they have, and as the countrey gives,
But chiefly two, one called Kuas, whereby the Mousike lives,
Small ware and waterlike, but somewhat tarte in taste,
The rest is Meade of honie made, wherewith their lippes they haste.
And if he goe unto his neighbour as a guest,
He cares for litle meate, if so his drinke be of the best;
No wonder though they use such vile and beastly trade,
Sith with the hatchet and the hand their chiefest gods be made;
Their idoles haue their heartes—on God they never call,
Unlesse it be (Nichola Bough[1]) that hangs against the wall.
My London friends, and wonted mates, and thee above the rest:
I feele a thousand fittes of deepe and deadly woe,
To thinke that I from land to sea, from bliss to bale did goe.
I left my native soyle, full like a retchlesse man,
And unacquainted of the coast, among the Russies ran:
A people passing rude, to vices vile inclinde.
Folke fitting to be of Bacchus’ trayne, so quaffing is their kinde,
Drinke is their whole desire, the pot is all their pride,
The sobrest head doeth once a day stand needfull of a guide.
If he to banquet bid his friends, he will not shrinke
On them at dinner to bestowe a douzen kindes of drinke:
Such licour as they have, and as the countrey gives,
But chiefly two, one called Kuas, whereby the Mousike lives,
Small ware and waterlike, but somewhat tarte in taste,
The rest is Meade of honie made, wherewith their lippes they haste.
And if he goe unto his neighbour as a guest,
He cares for litle meate, if so his drinke be of the best;
No wonder though they use such vile and beastly trade,
Sith with the hatchet and the hand their chiefest gods be made;
Their idoles haue their heartes—on God they never call,
Unlesse it be (Nichola Bough[1]) that hangs against the wall.
- ↑ Nicholas of Bari.
