A Man May Plainely See. Vpon Some Womens Cheekes The Painting How It Lies, In Plaister Sort, For That Too

Thicke her face the harlot dies. But such as skilfull are, and cunning Dames indeede, By dayly practise doe it

Well, yea sure they doe exceede. They lay their colours so, as he that is full wise, May easly be deceiu'd therein, if he doe trust his eyes. I not a little muse, what madnesse makes them paint Their faces, waying how they keepe the stooue by meere constraint. For seldome when, vnlesse on Church or marriage day A man shall see the Dames abroade, that are of best aray. The Russie meanes to reape the profit of her pride, And so he mewes her to be sure, she lye by no mans side. Thus much, friend Dancie, I did meane to write to thee, To let thee weete in Russia land, what men and women bee. Hereafter I perhaps of other things will write To thee and other of my friends, which I shall see with sight: And other stuffe besides, which true report shall tell, Meane while I end my louing lines, and bid thee now farewell.

[Footnote 1: Moudjick, a servant.] [Footnote 2: St. Nicholas.]

To Spencer.

If I should now forget, or not remember thee, Thou Spencer might'st a foule rebuke, and shame impute to mee, For I to open shew did loue thee passing well, And thou wert he at parture, whom I loathde to bid farewell. And as I went thy friend, so I continue still, No better proofe thou canst then this desire of true good will I doe remember well when needes I should away, And that the Poste would licence vs, no longer time to stay: Thou wrongst me by the fist, and holding fast my hand, Didst craue of me to send thee newes, and how I liked the land. It is a sandie soile, no very fruitful vaine, More waste and wooddie grounds there are, then closes fit for graine. Yet graine there growing is, which they vntimely take, And cut or eare the corne be ripe, they mowe it on a stacke: And laying sheafe by sheafe, their haruest so they dry, They make the greater haste, for feare the frost the corne destroy. For in the winter time, so glarie is the ground, As neither grasse, nor other graine, in pastures may be found. In coms the cattell then, the sheepe, the colt, the cowe,

Fast by his bed the Mowsike then[1] a lodging doth allowe, Whom he with fodder feeds, and holds as deere as life: And thus they weare the winter with the Mowsike and his wife. Seuen months the Winter dures, the glare it is so great, As it is May before he turne his ground to sow his wheate. The bodies eke that die vnburied lie they then, Laid vp in coffins made of firre, as well the poorest men, As those of greater state: the cause is lightly found, For that in Winter time, they cannot come to breake the ground. And wood so plenteous is, quite throughout all the land, As rich, and poore, at time of death assurd of coffins stand. Perhaps, thou musest much, how this may stand with reason, That bodies dead can vncorrupt abide so long a season. Take this for certaine trothe, as soone as heate is gone, The force of cold the body binds as hard as any stone, Without offence at all to any liuing thing: And so they lye in perfect state, till next returne of Spring. Their beasts be like to ours, as farre as I can see For shape, and shewe, but somewhat lesse of bulke, and bone they be. Of watrish taste, the flesh not firme, like English beefe, And yet it seru's them very well, and is a good releefe: Their sheep are very small, sharpe singled, handfull long; Great store of fowle on sea and land, the moorish reedes among. The greatnes of the store doeth make the prices lesse, Besides in all the land they know not how good meate to dresse. They vse neither broach nor spit, but when the stoue they heate, They put their victuals in a pan, and so they bake their meate. No pewter to be had, no dishes but of wood, No use of trenchers, cups cut out of birche are very good. They vse but wooden spoones, which hanging in a case Eache Mowsike at his girdle ties, and thinkes it no disgrace. With whitles two or three, the better man the moe, The chiefest Russies in the land, with spoone and kniues doe goe. Their houses are not huge of building, but they say, They plant them in the loftiest ground, to shift the snow away, Which in the Winter time, eache where full thicke doth lie: Which makes them haue the more desire, to set their houses hie. No stone work is in vse, their roofes of rafters bee, One linked in another fast, their wals are all of tree. Of masts both long, and large; with mosse put in betweene, To keepe the force of weather out, I neuer earst haue seene A grosse deuise so good, and on the roofe they lay The burthen barke, to rid the raine, and sudden showres away. In euery roome a stoue, to serue the Winter turne, Of wood they haue sufficient store, as much as they can burne. They haue no English glasse, of slices of a rocke. Hight Sluda they their windows make, that English glasse doth mocke. They cut it very thinne, and sow it with a thred In pretie order like to panes, to serue their present need. No other glasse, good faith doth giue a better light: And sure the rocke is nothing rich, the cost is very slight. The chiefest place is that, where hangs the god by it, The owner of the house himselfe doth neuer sit, Unlesse his better come, to whom he yealds the seat: The stranger bending to the god, the ground with brow most beat And in that very place which they most sacred deeme, The stranger lies:

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