The Works of Michael Drayton Edited by J. William Hebel |
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| THE Tragicall Legend of Robert, Duke of Normandy, surnamed
Short-thigh, eldest sonne to William Conqueror.
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 | The Works of Michael Drayton |  |
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THE Tragicall Legend of Robert, Duke of Normandy, surnamed Short-thigh, eldest sonne to William Conqueror.
VVith the Legend of Matilda the chast, daughter to the Lord Robert Fitzwater, poysoned by King Iohn. And the Legend of Piers Gaueston, the great Earle of Cornwall: and mighty fauorite of king Edward the second. By Michaell Drayton. The latter two, by him newly corrected and augmented.
TO THE NOBLE AND EXCELLENT Lady, Lucie, Countesse of Bedford.
248
TO M. DRAYTON.
Michaell which dost great Roberts fame compile,
Thy subjects worth, thy wit, thy Ladies glory,
Cheere up thy Muse, add lyfe unto thy stile,
Whilst thou assaist to write his worthy story.
Thy subjects worth, thy wit, thy Ladies glory,
Cheere up thy Muse, add lyfe unto thy stile,
Whilst thou assaist to write his worthy story.
Whose boundlesse spirit, whose high chivalrie,
And vertuous deeds must needs have buried beene
By ages envie, and times tirannie,
And never had with mortall eyes been seene,
And vertuous deeds must needs have buried beene
By ages envie, and times tirannie,
And never had with mortall eyes been seene,
Had not thy Muse restor'd his former fame,
The twise dead Norman to his speaking sight,
Even when his eyes had lost their shyning flame,
Like unto Lamps that wanting oyle, want light.
By thee he sees, he lives, he speaks againe,
Then chere thee Michaell, Fame rewards thy paine.
The twise dead Norman to his speaking sight,
Even when his eyes had lost their shyning flame,
Like unto Lamps that wanting oyle, want light.
By thee he sees, he lives, he speaks againe,
Then chere thee Michaell, Fame rewards thy paine.
Mirocinius.
250
TO THE VERTUOUS LADY, THE LADY Anne Harrington: wife to the Honorable Gentleman, Sir John Harrington, Knight.
Madam: my words cannot expresse my mind,
My zealous dutie to make knowne to you,
When your deserts all severally I find,
In this attempt, of mee doe claime their due:
My zealous dutie to make knowne to you,
When your deserts all severally I find,
In this attempt, of mee doe claime their due:
Your gracious kindnes (Madam) claimes my hart,
Your bountie bids my hand to make it knowne,
Of me your vertues each doe claime a part,
And leave me thus the least part of mine owne,
Your bountie bids my hand to make it knowne,
Of me your vertues each doe claime a part,
And leave me thus the least part of mine owne,
What should commend your modestie, your wit,
Is by your wit and modestie commended,
And standeth dumbe in most admiring it,
And where it should begin, it there is ended.
And thus returne, to your praise onely due,
And to your selfe say, you, are onely you.
Is by your wit and modestie commended,
And standeth dumbe in most admiring it,
And where it should begin, it there is ended.
And thus returne, to your praise onely due,
And to your selfe say, you, are onely you.
Michaell Drayton.
253
THE TRAGICALL LEGEND of Robert Duke of Normandie.
THE ARGUMENT OF ROBERT DUKE of Normandie.
After the conquest of England, by William Duke of Normandy, his eldest son Robert, surnamed Short-thigh, much more then eyther of his bretheren, William Rufus, or Henry Beuclarke, beloved of the Commons, yet brought in disgrace with his Father, by meanes of Lanfranck Byshop of Canterburie, who greatlie affected the said William Rufus, as a man rightlie of his owne disposition. Robert beeing a man of a mightie spirit, finding himselfe disgrac'd, & grown hatefull to his Father, and the Crowne of England assured to his Brother: whilst his Father maketh warrs in Fraunce, hee with a troupe of resolute Germains, invadeth Normandie. In the height of all these troubles, William Conqueror dyeth, leaving the kingdome of England to Rufus. Whilst Robert prepareth to make warre upon his brother, by the pollicies of Lanfrancke and his accomplices, they are friends, Robert peaceably enjoyeth Normandie, and if he over-lived his brother William, to succeed him in the kingdom of England. Nowe, the brute of the holy warrs called Robert to Palestine, with Peter the Hermit, and Godfrey of Bulloyne, for which, to pay his souldiours, hee engageth Normandie to his youngest brother Henry for summes of money. In his absence William dyeth, Henrie usurpeth the Crowne, and Duke Robert returning from the warrs with great honor, yet in his warrs at home most unfortunate, hee is taken by Henry in a battell in Normandy, brought a captive into England, and imprisoned in Cardiffe Castell in Wales, where Henry as a Tyrant, still fearing his escape, put out his eyes.
1
What time Sleeps Nurse the silent night begunTo steale by minuts on the long-liv'd daies,
The furious Dog-star chasing of the Sun,
Whose scorching breath ads flame unto his raies,
At whose approch the angry Lyon braies,
The earth now warm'd in thys celestiall fire,
To coole her heate, puts off her rich attire.
2
The deawy-tressed Morning newly wake,With golden tinsell scarce had crown'd her browes,
Ryding in tryumph on the Ocean lake,
Embellishing the honny-fringed bowes,
Deepe mellancholly from my braine to rouze,
To Isis banck my Genius guides the way,
Amongst whose Reeds soft murmuring winds do play.
3
Zephyre, which courts faire Thames, his gentle love,On whose smooth brest the swelling billows flow,
Which on a long the wanton tyde doth shove,
And to keepe back he easilie doth blow,
Still meets her comming, followes if shee goe;
Shee, forcing waves to coole his hote embrace,
Hee, fanning breath upon her christall face.
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4
Still dallying in her often-turning source,She streaks a long the shores with her proud straine,
And here, and there, she wantons in her course,
And in her gate oft turneth back againe,
Smiling to looke upon her silver traine,
With pretty Anticks shee the faire soile greets,
Till Medoas streame from famous Kent shee meets.
5
Thus careles wandring with this gliding streame,Whose fleeting told me of tymes flying howers,
Delighted thus as in a pleasing dreame,
Cropping small branches of the sweetest flowers:
And looking back on Londons stately towers,
So Troy (thought I) her stately head did beare,
Whose crazed ribs the furrowing plough doth eyre.
6
Weary, at length a Willow tree I found,Which on the brim of this great current stood,
Whose roote was matted with the arrasd ground,
Deaw'd with the small drops of this surging flood,
Ordain'd it seem'd to sport her Nymphish brood
Whose curled top, envy'd the heavens great eye
Should view the stock shee was maintained by.
7
The towring Larke which carrols to the Sun,With trebling descant quavers in the ayre,
And on the rivers murmuring base doth run,
The Marble-skyes, with checker'd varnish faire,
My branch-embossed bed, of natures care;
The flowers my smell, the flood my thirst to steep,
Thus like a King, with pleasure rock'd a sleepe.
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8
When in a dreame it seemed unto meeA noyse of trumpets from the flood arose,
As when great Beta in her pompe wee see,
When shee by London on the water goes,
The dauncing Barge with silent musick rowes:
The people thronging on the wharfes & shores,
The ayre with shouts, the water fill'd with oares.
9
A troope of Nymphes came suddainly on land,When thus was ended this tryumphant sound,
Encompassing mee, lying on the strand,
Taking theyr places on the grassy ground,
Theyr ory tresses all with Laurell crown'd,
Casting theyr sober modest eyes a space,
Upon my swarty mellancholly face.
10
Betwixt two Ladies came a goodly Knight,As newly brought from some distresfull place,
It seem'd to mee he was some noble wight,
Though his attyre were miserable and base,
And care made furrowes in his manly face:
And though cold age had frosted his faire haires,
It rather seem'd for sorrow then for yeares.
11
The one a princely Lady did supportThis feeble Image which coulde scarcly stand:
The other, fleering in disdainfull sort,
With scornefull jesture drew him by the hand,
Who being blind, yet bound with many a band.
At length, I found this proude disdainefull Dame
Was Fortune, and the other, glorious Fame.
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12
Fame on his right hand, in a robe of gold,Whose stately trayne, Time as her Page did beare,
On which, for rich embrawdery was enrold,
The deedes of all the Worthies ever were,
So strongly wrought, as wrong could not empeire,
Whose large memorialls shee did still rehearse,
In Poets man-immortalizing verse.
13
Two Tables on her goodly breast shee bore,The one of Christall, th'other Ebony,
Engrav'd with names of all that liv'd before
That; the faire booke of heavenly memory,
Th'other, the black scrowle of infamy:
One stuffd with Poets, Saints, & Conquerers,
Th'other with Atheists, Tyrants, Usurers.
14
And in her words appeared as a wonder,Her during force, and never-failing might,
Which softly spake, farre of were as a thunder,
And round about the world wold take their flight,
And bring the most obscurest things to light;
That still the farther of, the greater still
Did ever sound our good, or make our ill.
15
Fortune, as blinde as he whom she doth leade,Her feature chang'd each minute of the hower,
Her riggish feet fantastickly would tread,
Now would shee smile, & suddainly would lower,
And with one breth, her words were sweet & sower.
Upon her foes, she amorously would glaunce,
And on her followers, coylie looke a scaunce.
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16
About her necke, (it seem'd as for a chaine)Some Princes crownes & broken scepters hong,
Upon her arme a lazie youth did leane,
Which scornfully unto the ground shee flong;
And with a wanton grace passing along,
Great bags of gold from out her bosome drew,
And to base Pesants and fond Ideots threw.
17
A dusky vaile which hid her sightles eyes,Like clowds, which cover our uncertaine lives,
Painted about with bloody Tragedies,
Fooles wearing crownes, & wisemen clogd in gives,
Now, how she gives, againe, how she deprives;
In this black Map thus shee her might discovers,
In Campes, and Courts, on soldiers, kings, & lovers.
18
An easie rysing little banck there was,The seate fayre Flora somtime sat upon,
Curling her locks in lovely Isis glasse,
To revell in the Springs pavilion,
Here was her court, and this her princly throne;
Here set they downe this poore distressed man,
And in this sort proude Fortune first began.
19
Behold (quoth she) this Duke of Normandy,The heire of William, Conqueror of this Ile,
Which thou poore Fame hast vow'd to glorifie,
Whose history this Poet must compile;
My slave, my scorne, my prisoner, an exile,
Whose life I mark'd with my black dismall brand,
And thou would'st now eternize with thy hand.
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20
Thou art an Eccho, a by-word, a wind,Thine ayrie bodie is composd of breath,
A wandring blast, within no place confin'd,
Which oft of nothing, silly somthing saith,
Yet never canst speake well till after death;
And from imagination hast thy birth,
Unknowne in heaven, & unperceiv'd on earth.
21
First, in opinion had'st thou thy creation,Form'd with conceit, the needy Poets frend,
And like opinion, keep'st no certaine fashion,
Yet in a circle still thy course doth end:
And but a Post which all base rumors send,
An needles burden of an idle song,
The prophane accent of each witles tongue.
22
Slaunders vile spy, a runnagate, a thiefe,Which day and night in every chinck doth peepe,
A blab, a wanton, lightest of beliefe,
Nor in thy gate a meane doost ever keepe,
But now hie in the ayre, now in the deepe;
Reporting that which thou doost but suppose,
And telling that thou never should'st disclose.
23
With extreame toyle and labour thou art sought,Danger the way that leadeth to thy Cell,
Onely with death thy favours must be bought,
And who obtaines thee, fetcheth thee from hell,
Where thou ensconst with fiery swords dost dwell.
And when thou art with all this perrill found,
Thou art a suddaine voice, a tinckling sound.
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24
My out-cast abjects, such as I disgrace,And ever-more have held in hatefull scorne,
And in the world have set in servile place,
These be thy favorits, these thou doost subborne,
These wait on Fame, whose weeds be neerly worne:
Yet cannot these poore wretches come to thee,
Unlesse before they be preferr'd by mee.
25
That trump thou saist, wakes dead men from theyr traunceIs not of precious gold as some do deeme,
A brazen pipe, by which vaine fooles do daunce,
And but to sound so loude doth onely seeme,
Sith points of vertue no man doth esteeme,
And with this toy the idle braine abusest,
And so their folly and thy fault excusest.
26
Except in perrill, thou doost not appeare,And yet in perrill ebbing still and flowing,
Flying from him that seeth succour neere,
Diminished at hand, augmented going,
On fertile stocks decay'd, on barraine growing.
Lost life with rumors thou doost but repayre,
And what thou promisest, thou payest with ayre.
27
In balefull Hearses, sad and sable grounds,On gory letters thy memorialls lye,
Thy lines are deepe immedicable wounds,
And towards the dust thou point'st thy tearful eye,
Never discover'd but in Tragedy:
Thy stony hart is pittifull to none,
But Syren-like, to their destruction.
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28
This orbes great revolution knowes my power,And how I raigne with the eternall Fates,
With whom I sit in counsell every howre,
On change of times, subversion of states,
On their beginnings, on their severall dates,
In destining haps past, on things to come,
In judgement till the everlasting dome.
29
The starrs my Table-bookes wherein I write,My Register the spacious circling Sky,
On heavens great brow I carefully endite
Unhappy mans long birth-markt desteny,
And by my power, my lawes I ratefy,
And his fraile will imperiously controule,
With such quaint clauses as I there enroule.
30
To me the heavens have theyr Commission given,And in my Charter all their right compil'd,
That I alone should blesse as beautious heaven,
And honor those on whom I meane to smile,
To gaine them tytles of immortall stile,
That all should worthy be which I bestow,
Nor reason urg'd, but for I thinke it so.
31
In great predestination is my beeing,Whose depth yet wisdom never could discerne,
And in her secrets, more then secrets seeing,
Where learning stil may learne how still to learne,
Those points which do the deepest points conscerne,
Where sacred texts unlock the way to me,
To lighten those which will my glory see.
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32
What names old Poets to their gods did give,Were onely figures to expresse my might,
To shew the vertues that in mee doe live,
My onely power on this all-mooving wight,
And all their Alters unto mee were dight:
Whose wondrous working, stil to times did bring
Matter whereon they ever-more might sing.
33
Still most uncertaine varying in my course,Yet in these changes hold one certaine end,
Crossing mans fore-cast, weakning wisdoms force,
To none still foe, to none a perfect frend,
Amazing thought to thinke what I pretend.
Depressing vertue sometime, that thereby
Shee taking wing againe may sore on hie.
34
Forth of my lap I poure aboundant blisse,All good proceedes from my all-giving hand,
By me man happie, or unhappie is,
Blest if I blesse, repuls'd if I with-stand,
And I alone am friendships onely band;
Upon whose Lincks all greedely take hold,
Which being broke, our zealous faith growes cold.
35
Pawsing shee frownes, when sudainly againe,A roaring noyse ariseth from the flood,
As when a tempest with a shower of raine
Is heard far off within some mightie wood,
At which me thought all things amazed stood:
As though her words such power with them did beare
As Sea & Land did quake her voice to heare.
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36
When Fame yet smiling mildly thus replyes,Alasse (quoth shee) what labour thou hast lost,
What wondrous mists thou casts before our eyes,
Yet will the gaine not countervaile the cost,
What couldst thou say if thou hadst cause to boast:
Which thus canst paint such wonders of thy worth,
Yet art far lesse, then nothing can set forth.
37
A hap, a chaunce, a casuall event,The vulgars Idoll, and a childish terror,
A what men will, a silly accedent,
The maske of blindnesse, and disguise of error,
Natures vile nickname, follies foolish mirror;
A tearme, a by-word, by tradition learn'd,
A hearesay, nothing, not to be discern'd.
38
A wanton feare, a silly Infants dreame,A vaine illusion, a meere fantasie,
A seeming shade, a lunatick mans theame:
A fond Aenigma, a flat heresie,
Imaginations doting trumperie;
A folly in it selfe, it one selfe lothing,
A thing that would be, and yet can be nothing.
39
Disease of time, Ambitions Concubine,A minde-entrauncing snare, a slippery Ice,
The baite of death, destructions heady wine,
Vaine-glories Patron, the fooles paradice,
Fond hope, wherewith confusion doth entice;
A vile seducing fiend, which haunts men still,
To loose them in the errors of their will.
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40
A reason, which no reason can discusse,And hast the ground of all thy strength from hence,
Walking in shadow of mans Genius,
In humane birth pretending residence;
A riddle, made of the starrs influence,
Which good and evill doost thy title frame,
Yet neither good nor evill, but in name.
41
Those ignorant which made a God of Nature,And Natures God divinely never knew,
Were those which first erected Fortunes stature,
From whence this vile idolatry first grew,
Which times defect into mens eares still blew:
Grounding their usurpations foolish lawes,
On the opinion of so poore a cause.
42
Sloth first did hatch thee in her sleepie Cell,And with base thoughts, in idlenes wast bred,
With cowardize thou ever-more doost dwell,
And with dishonourable ease art fed,
In superstitious humors brought to bed:
A gossips tale thy greatest proofe doth lend,
On old-sayd sawes thy tytle doth depend.
43
Thy habit loosenes, and thy measure wast,Deceitfull, vaine, inhumane, fickle, light,
Thou poysonest him to whom thou giv'st to tast,
Gainst vertue still thou bendest all thy might,
With honourable thoughts thou wagest fight;
The yeelding man, in fetters thou doost binde,
But weake and slavish to the constant minde.
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44
Who leanes to thee, whom thou hast not deceiv'd?Who flattrest thou, whom thou abusest not?
Who hopes of thee, and not of hope bereav'd?
Whose secrets known, what shame do'st thou not blot?
Who not devour'd, thou in thy pawes hast got?
Who's he, or where yet ever was he found,
That thou might'st hurt, & didst not deadly wound?
45
The slavish peasant is thy favorite,In chaunge and chaunces all thy glory is,
In vile and basest things thou tak'st delite,
In earthly mud consisteth all thy blisse,
What canst thou be which art bewitch'd with this?
For weart thou heavenly, thou in love wouldst be,
With that which neerest doth resemble thee.
46
I am the powerfull messenger of heaven,My wings the lightning spreading farre & wide,
To every coast I with a thought am driven,
And on the gorgeous sun-beames doe I ride,
To heaven I mount, downe to the earth I slide:
I regester the worlds eternall howers,
The Secretarie of the immortall powers.
47
Refuge of hope, the harbinger of truth,Handmaide of heaven, vertues skilfull guide,
The life of life, the ages springing youth,
Triumph of joy, eternities faire bride,
The Virgins glory, and the Martirs pride:
The courages immortall raysing fier,
The very height to which great thoughts aspire.
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The staire by which men to the Starres doe clime,The minds first moover, greatnes to expresse,
Fayths armour, and the vanquisher of time,
A pleasant sweete against deaths bitternes,
The high reward which doth all labours blesse;
The studie which doth heavenly things impart,
The joy amidst the tedious wayes of Art.
49
Learnings greene Lawrell, Justice glorious throne,The Muses chariot, Memories true foode,
The Poets life, the Gods companion,
The fire-reviving Phænix Sun-nurst broode,
The spirits eternall Image, honors good;
The Balsamum which cures the Souldiers scarre,
The world-discovering Sea-mans happy Starre.
50
My dwelling place betwixt the earth and skies,My Turret unto heaven her top upreares,
The windowes made of Lynceus piercing eyes,
And all the walls be made of daintiest eares,
Where every thing thats done in earth appeares;
No word is whispered in this vaulty round,
But in my Pallace straightwayes it doth sound.
51
The pavement is of ratling brasen drums,The Rafters trumpets which do rend the aire,
Sounding aloud each name that thither comes,
The chinks like tongues of all things talking there,
And all things past, in memorie doe beare:
The dores unlock with every word man saith,
And open wide with every little breath.
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52
It's hong about with Arms & conquering spoiles,The pillers which support the roofe of this,
Are tropheis, graven with Herculean toiles,
The roofe of garlands, crownes, and ensignes is,
In midst of which a christall Pyramis:
All over carv'd with men of most renowne,
Whose base is my faire chaire, the spire my crowne.
53
Here in the bodies likenes whilst it lives,Appeare the thoughts, proceeding from the mind,
To which the place a forme more glorious gives,
And there they be immortally devin'd,
By vertue there more heavenly refin'd;
And when the earthly body once doth perrish,
There doth this place the minds true Image cherish.
54
My beauty never fades, but as new borne,As yeares encrease, so ever waxing young,
My strength is not diminished nor worne,
What weakneth all things, ever makes me strong:
Nor from my hand, my Scepter can be wroong:
Times sacriligious rapine I defie,
A tributarie to eternitie.
55
The face of heaven my chronicles containe,Where I erect the Tropheis of my fame,
Which there in glorious characters remaine,
The gorgeous seeling of th'immortall frame,
The constellations letters of my name,
Where my memorialls evermore abide,
In those pure bodies highly glorified.
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56
Fame ending thus, Fortune againe beganFurther to urge what she before had said,
And loe (quoth she) Duke Robert is the man
Who by my might and pollicie's betraid,
Then let us see how thou canst lend him aide:
I tooke from him his libertie and crowne,
Raise thou him up, whom I have thus thrown downe.
57
Quoth Fame a fitter instance is there noneThen Robert is, then Fortune doe thy worst:
Here may thy weaknes, and my power be showne,
Here shall I blesse, whom thou before hast curst,
Begin thou then, since thus thy turne comes first,
And thou shalt see how great a power I have
Over the world, proud Fortune, and the grave.
58
(Quoth Fortune) then, my hand did point the Star,The seale wherwith heaven sign'd his utmost date,
Which markt his birth with brands of bloody war,
Rash mutinys, rude garboiles, harsh debate,
His forrain plagues, home wrongs, & private hate:
And on the height of his great Fathers glory,
First laid the ground work of his Sonnes sad story.
59
Nature, which did her best at Roberts birth,I most undid in his nativitie,
This friend I made his greatest foe on earth,
Her gifts I made his greatest enemie,
Framing such mildnes in Nobilitie:
Differing so far from haughtie Williams straine,
That thus hee judg'd his Sonne unfit to raigne.
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60
And yet that courage which he did inherit,And from the greatnes of his blood had taken,
Stird up with griefe, awakes his greater spirit,
Which more and more did Williams hate awaken,
Hee thus forsaken, as hee had forsaken:
Yet to his will so partiallie inclind,
As now his rage, his reason quite doth blind.
61
Now doe I leane to him whom all have left,Laughing on him, on whom dispaire doth lowre,
Lending him hope, of former hope bereft,
Giving his youth large wings wherwith to towre,
Ayding his power, to crosse great Williams power:
That so his might, in countermaunding might
By his owne wrong, might hinder his owne right.
62
That whilst his Fathers fierie tempered swordThrough Albions cleeves, the fatall entrance made,
With Germaine power, returnes this youthfull Lord,
With others Armes, his owne bounds to invade,
And Normandy lyes coucht under his blade,
Thinking to make a present meane of this,
To make his owne yet doubtfull to be his.
63
Towards Williams end, now Williams hate begun,Whom he begot, doth now beget his woe,
He scarce a Father, Robert scarse a Sonne,
His Sonne the Father of his overthrowe,
Youth old in will, age young in hate doth growe:
He nursing that which doth all mischiefe nurse,
He by his blessing, causing his owne curse.
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64
And yet least age might coole Duke Williams blood,With warrs in Fraunce I still the heate suppli'd,
That whilst young Robert yet disgraced stood
Justly condemn'd of insolence and pride,
In this confirm'd, the famous Conqueror di'd:
Setting proud Rufus on his regall throne,
Whilst Norman Robert strives but for his owne.
65
Much trust in him, a carelesnes first bred,His courage makes him over-confident,
Blinding revenge, besides his course him led,
When lost his wits, in errors darknes went,
Rashnes sees all, but nothing can prevent:
What his mind loth'd, disgrace did urge him to,
Making his will the cause of his owne woe.
66
This buried trunck of William is the rooteFrom which these two world-shadowing branches spred,
This factious body standing on this foote,
These two crosse currents springing from one head,
And both with one selfe nutriment are fed,
Upon themselves their owne force so should spend,
Till in themselves, they both themselves shold end.
67
Thus the old conquest hath new conquests made,And Norman Ensignes shaddow English fields,
The brother now, the brother must invade,
The conquerors shield, against the conquerors shield,
Right wounding right, nor wrong to wrong will yield:
One arme beare off the others furious stroke,
Scepter with Scepter, sword with sword be broke.
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68
The hatefull soiles where death was sown in blood,Encreasing vengeance one against the other,
And now the seede of wrath began to bud,
Which in their bosoms they so long did smother,
These but as bastards, England their step mother;
Weakning her selfe, by mallice gives them strength
With murdring hands to spoile themselves at length.
69
This Williams death, gives Roberts troubls life,Whose life in death made lucklesse Robert live,
This end of strife, beginneth greater strife,
Giving to take, what it did take to give,
Living depriv'd, which dead doth him deprive;
Evill brought good, that good converts to ill,
Thus life and death breed Roberts mischiefe still.
70
When first King William entred on this Ile,Harrold had friends, but then the Norman none,
But Rufus lived here as an exile,
And Robert hop'd to raigne of many a one,
Onely my hand held up his slyding throne:
William but weake, beats Harrold down by wrong,
William supplanting Robert, Robert strong.
71
Odo the prop which Rufus power upheld,Revolting then, inrag'd with Lanfrancks spight,
And on this hope grounding his faith, rebell'd,
In bloody letters writing Roberts right,
Great Mortayns power, and strong Mountgomeres might:
Mangling this Ile with new deformed scars,
Ere peace had cur'd the wounds of former wars.
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72
The Normans glory in the conquest won,The English bruzed with their battred Armes,
The Normans followed what they had begun,
The English fearefull of their former harmes,
What cooles the English, Norman corage warms:
The Normans entred to new victorie,
The English for their fight already flie,
73
Whilst Rufus hopes thus freshly bleeding lay,And now with ruine all things went to wrack,
Destruction having found the perfect way,
Were not proud Robert by some meanes kept back,
By fond delayes, I forc'd him time to slack:
And stopt the mischiefe newly thus begun,
To undoe all what he before had done.
74
Thus first by counsell spurr'd I on the rage,Forcing the streame of their distempred blood,
Then by my counsaile, did againe aswage,
When this great Duke secure of conquest stood,
Pyning his force, giving advantage foode;
That first by taking Arms, he strength might loose,
And making peace, give strength unto his foes.
75
A peace concluded to destroy their peace,A suddaine truce to breed a lingring war,
That Arms might cease, while mischiefe might increase,
To bring death neere, by sending safety far,
In making that, which made, all quite might mar:
Treason crept in by this adulterate kay,
Into the closset where his counsailes lay.
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76
Thus made a friend, to rob him of his friend,The meanes a foe, might weaken so his foe,
To frame this strange beginning to his end,
The well-cast plot of utter overthrowe,
In this faire vizard, masking in this showe:
That since hate thus in wearing would not prove,
He brings him now in habite of his love.
77
Thus reconcil'd by me, one to the other,Joyn'd in this poore devided union,
These brothers now make war upon their brother,
As loth from them he should goe free alone,
To shape his mischiefe truly by their owne;
To drawe on griefe, and urge it to be more,
Because it came not fast enough before.
78
This by fore-sight still wisely providentTo spur them on beyond degrees of ill,
To make their furie far more violent,
And ground their ruine on their peevish will,
That mischiefe should be getting mischiefe still:
That injurie so far should pitty chase,
As reconcilement never should take place.
79
And here to shew my power on thee poore Fame,I made thee now my greatest instrument,
That in the furie of this raging flame,
Even in the height of Henryes discontent,
To Roberts eares the brute of war I sent:
Of Palæstine that leaving all with them,
He might away to great Jerusalem.
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80
With that sweet fume of honors shortest breath,Feeding the humor which possest his hart,
When now drew on the time of Williams death,
That in this fatall hower he should depart,
Herein to shew my very depth of Art:
That Henry now in England left alone,
Might seate himselfe in Roberts rightfull throne.
81
The warlick Musique of these clattring Armes,Doth stop his eares like a tempestious wind
That now he finds no presage of his harmes,
Beyond all course so lifted is his mind,
Declaring well the greatnes of his kind;
Mounted so high within the spacious ayre,
As out of sight of ground, he dreads no snare.
82
His Father dy'd when first his cares tooke breath,His Brother dyes, now when his woes should die,
His sorrowes thus are strangely borne in death,
All-ending death, brings forth his miserie,
Such is my power in humaine destenie:
That where an utter ruine I pretend,
Destruction doth begin, where hate should end.
83
Thus laid the complot in the course of all,I make his safetie unto him more deare,
Seated, from whence he never thought to fall,
Assur'd of good, if any good there were,
That now each thought a Scepter seems to beare:
Which such a hold in his great spirit doth winne,
As after, made his error proove his sinne.
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84
With grace young Henry to his throne I bringMaking great friends of mighty enemies,
Shewing my power in this new raigning King,
As by my hand invisibly to rise,
Decking his crowne with worldly dignities:
Forging his tongue with such a sacred fire,
As could perswade, what ere he would desire.
85
In Palæstine with Robert, Fame doth rest,In England with young Beauclark, Fortune bides,
These mightie Ladies, of these Lords possest,
Thus each of these, with each of these devides,
Thus weare we factious then on either sides:
Fame for brave Short-thigh, purchasing renowne,
Fortune for Beauclark, for the English crowne.
86
Thou wooest, I win, thou suest, and I obtaine,What I possesse, that onely thou dost crave,
Thou layest out to gaine, but what I gaine
Thou dost desire, I in possession have,
Thou hordst, I spend, I lavish, thou dost save:
Thou scarsely art, yet that thou art to mee,
Thou wouldst, I can, thou servile, I am free.
87
Robert growne weake, Henry recovered strength,What quencht the Normans glory, fir'd his will,
Robert is fallen, Henry got up at length,
Robert no guide, Henry is steerd with skill,
Grounding his good on lucklesse Roberts ill:
Their mutuall courage, and unmooved hate,
Tels Henryes rise, decline of Roberts state.
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88
From perrils safe, no place at home he sees,Abroad he wins, at home he still doth lose,
At home, wasted with civill enemies,
Whilst he abroad is conquering forraine foes,
Wasting at home, more then abroad he growes:
At home his daunger unto many knowne,
Yet he abroad is carelesse of his owne.
89
Now bring I Robert from these glorious wars,Triumphing in the conquered Pagans flight,
From forraine broiles to toile in home-nurst jars,
From getting others Lands, for's owne to fight,
Forced by wrong, by sword to claime his right:
And with that sword in Panyms blood imbrude,
To save himselfe, by his own friends pursude.
90
Thus he's inrich'd with that he cannot see,With few vaine titles swelling in his name,
And all his substance but meere shadowes be,
Whilst he strange castles in the aire doth frame,
Lo such a mighty Monarchesse is Fame:
That, what she gives, so easie is to beare,
As of those gifts, none robbing need to feare.
91
This whets his spleene, but doth his strength abate,Much care for coyne, makes care for kingdoms lesse,
His feeblenes must hold up Henries state,
These beare up him, which Roberts hopes suppresse,
Whose brothers comfort is in his distresse;
This is the meane he undertooke to try,
With Roberts blood his safety first to buy.
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92
With kind intreaty he doth first begin,Not fullie yet establisht as he would,
By this advantage to get further in,
Till he had got a sure and faster hold,
Baiting unseene, deceit with sums of gold:
By yearely tribute from his crowne to rise,
To stop the mouth of passed injuries.
93
This peace to which the mutenie must yield,And English tribute paid to Normandy,
What Robert thinks his safegard's Henries shield,
And Roberts selfe, doth Robert injurie,
This tribute wrongs his true Nobilitie;
And from this source from whence their peace shold spring,
Proceeds the cause of Roberts ruining.
94
These summs, the sinewes of Duke Roberts war,Like howerly tides, his flowing current fed,
And to his fier the lively fuell are,
His will the streame, and this the Fountaine head,
Having his humor fitlie cherished:
Deceiptfull Henry, reobtaines at length,
Unto his Arme adding Duke Roberts strength.
95
This want his haughtie courage soone doth find,Cutting the quils of his high flying wings,
That now he must commit him to the wind,
Driven which way the furious tempest flings;
Powerlesse of that, which giveth power to Kings;
Which desperate griefe, his mind enrageth so,
As makes him past all reason in his woe.
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96
Honor gave entertainment to beliefe,Under which collour treason in was brought,
Which slew his strength before he felt the griefe,
Pure innocence seldom suspecteth ought,
No base affection maister of his thought,
Nor majestie inward deceit had learn'd,
More then to shew, her outward eyes discern'd.
97
Miserie seem'd nothing, yet to him unknowne,Not knowing evill, evill could not flie,
Not savouring sorrow, having tasted none,
To find lurking deceit he look'd too hie,
To honest minds, Fraud doth the soonest pry:
Whose nature thus I chose to be the mould,
Therein to worke what forme of hap I would.
98
His owne compassion, cause of his owne care,Upon his thought, his constant promise stood,
Vertue in him, most naturally rare,
No vile base humor tainted his pure blood,
His bounty still gave good desert her food;
His mind so great, and honorably free,
Made him too prone to loose credulitie.
99
His counsels thus are combred by his care,In nothing certaine but uncertaintie,
His friends resolv'd on nothing but dispaire,
Yet shewes he greatnes in most misery,
Each place become a stage for Tragedy;
By error, wandring far beyond his scope,
Strong in desire, but weakest in his hope.
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100
In publique shame, oft counsell seemes disgrac'd,No priviledge can from the Fates protect:
In desperation, counsell hath no taste,
Untamed rage doth all advise reject,
Hiding the course which reason should direct;
Making himselfe the author of his harms,
Without experience, valor wants his arms.
101
Now I, whose power in Williams wars was seene,When first on Williams conquest he begun,
To shew my selfe the worlds imperious Queene,
Now turne my selfe against his warlike son,
To lose by me, by me his Father won:
On Englands part, gainst Normandy to stand,
Which Normandy had conquered by my hand.
102
The conquest William made upon this Ile,With Norman blood be-peopling Brittany,
Even now as Brittons made within a while
Turne with revenge to conquer Normandy,
Thus victory goes back to victory:
That his own blood, wins what before he won,
His conquering son, subdu'd his conquering son.
103
Thus Norman townes begirt with English arms,The furious brother dealing wrathfull blowes:
Both pressing in where deadly perrill swarms,
These English-Norman, Norman-English foes,
At last doe get, what they at first did lose:
As Normandy did Englands fall provoke,
Now Norman necks must beare the English yoke.
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104
The flood of mischiefe thus comes in againe,What Fortune works, not alwaies seems pretended,
The wind thus turn'd, blows back the fire amaine,
Where first mischance began, she will be ended,
And he defend him, from those he offended:
For this we find, the course of fatall things,
Is best discern'd in states of Realms & Kings.
105
On whom of late in Palæstine I smild,In civill warrs now dreadfully I frowne;
He call'd from exile, I from him exil'd,
To leave his crowne, who had refus'd a crowne,
Who beat all down, now heare is beaten down,
Here to lose all, who there had gotten all,
To make his fall, more grievous in his fall.
106
To England now a prisoner they him bring,Now is he hers, which claim'd her for his owne,
A Captive, where he should have been a King,
His dungeon made wher shold have been his throne,
Now buried there, wheras he shold have growne.
In one poore tower mew'd up, within one place,
Whose Empires bounds the Ocean shold embrace.
107
Could mortall sence containe immortall hate,Or reason sound the depth of things divine,
Judgement might stand amaz'd at Roberts state,
And thinke no might to be compar'd with mine,
That all power may unto my power resigne:
And that in Roberts fall, the world may see
Amongst the starrs what power remaines in mee.
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108
That sword which on his fortune hath such powerYet powerles is to end his wretched dayes:
Those daies which in their course all things devoure,
To his swift griefe, makes slow and lazie staies,
To Tyrannies long raigne he thus obaies,
That he in life a thousand deaths might die,
Onely in mercy rackt with crueltie.
109
He hath no joy but in his miseries,His greatest comfort is the blessed light,
For which, (as I were angry with his eyes)
I make the King deprive him of his sight,
To sute his daies so justly with the night,
That sencles stones to mone he should not see,
Yet sencles stones behold his misery.
110
And this he felt, that Fortune made him blinde,Least his eyes objects yet might lighten care:
That that light wanting, more might light his minde,
Whose eyes might see how great his sorrows are;
That every sence, that sences woe might share:
And so that sence depriv'd of joy alone,
Might more increase the griefe of every one.
111
These griefes and horrors, enemies of rest,Which murther life where they do harbor long,
Kill humors, which his body oft opprest,
Unnaturally, thus making nature strong,
As out of deaths dead stock new life still sprong,
As life with death had tempted him till now,
Yet death to life no ease would er'e allow.
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Death he fear'd not, is taught his end to feare,Life, once he lov'd, with him now fall'n in love,
That foe, a friend, to hurt him doth forbeare,
That friend a foe, he cannot now remove,
Twixt them, he all extremities doth prove:
Aged in youth, to pine his joy thereby,
Youthfull in age, to suffer misery.
113
Courage forbids that he himselfe should kill,His life too proud to be constrain'd to die,
His will permits not death now when he will,
What would dispaire, true valor doth deny;
Thus life lifes foe, death is deaths enemy:
Willing to die, by life him double killing,
Urging to die, twice dying, he unwilling.
114
So many yeeres as he hath worne a crowne,So many yeeres as he hath hop'd to rise,
So many yeeres he lives thus quite thrown downe,
So many yeeres he lives without his eyes:
So many yeeres in dying ere hee dyes;
So many yeeres lockt up in prison strong,
Though sorrow make the shortest time seeme long.
115
Thus sway I in the course of earthly things,That Time might worke him everlasting spite,
To shew, that power yet ever makes not kings,
Nor that conceit can compasse my deceit,
In fined things such mervails infinite:
Nor any wonder is to be supposed,
In that wherein all wonders are inclosed.
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At Fortuns speech they stand as all amaz'd,Whilst Fame herselfe doth wonder at his woe,
And all upon this deadly Image gaz'd,
Whose misery shee had discribed so;
But in revenge of this dispightfull foe,
Fame from a slumber (as it seem'd) awake,
On his behalfe, thus for herselfe be-spake.
117
What time I came from world-renowned Rome,To waken Europe from her drouzie traunce,
Summoning the Princes of great Christendome,
To Palæstine their Ensignes to advaunce,
Sounding my trump in England, Spaine, & Fraunce
To move the Christians to religious war,
From Pagans hands to free Christs sepulchar.
118
That holy Hermit Peter, then as oneWhich as a Saint bewaild so great a losse:
With Bulloigne Godfrey, Christs strong champion,
Under the Banner of the bloody Crosse,
Now on the Alps the conquering collours tosse,
Leading along the bravest Christian band,
To reare their Tropheys in the Holy Land.
119
Hether the flocks of gallant spirits do throng,The place whence immortalitie doth spring,
To whom the hope of conquest doth belong,
Nor any thought, lesse, then to be a King;
Hether doth Fame her deerest children bring:
And in this Camp shee makes her treasury,
The rarest Jems of Europs Chivalry.
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120
This conquering lord, the Conquerors eldest sonne,Whose hand did then the Norman scepter weld,
In Armes to win what once his Father won,
To Englands conquest is againe compeld,
Whose crown from him proud William Rufus held,
An exile thence, by's angry Father driven,
By Fortune robd, of all by Nature given.
121
With fame of this, once Roberts eares possest,With heavenly wonder doth his thoughts inspire,
Leaving no place for wrong in his faire brest,
Giving large wings unto his great desire,
Warming his courage with more glorious fire,
As thus to fight for his deere Saviours sake,
Of Englands crowne he no account doth make.
122
Of kingdoms tytles he casts off the toyleWhich by proude Rufus tyranny is kept:
Deere as his life to him that hallowed soile,
Wherein that God in lively manhood slept,
At whose deere death, the rocks for pitty wept;
A crown of gold this Christian knight doth scorne,
So much he lov'd those temples crown'd with thorne.
123
Those grievous wants whose burthen weyed him downe,The sums which he in Germany had spent,
In gathering power to gaine the English crowne,
Garded with princly troopes in his rich Tent,
Like William Conquerors sonne magnificent,
Now by his need, he greevously doth find,
Weakning his might, what never could his mind.
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124
This brave high spirited Duke, this famous Lord,Whose right of England Rufus held away,
To set an edge upon his conquering sword,
In gage to Henry, Normandy did lay,
Thus to maintaine his valiant souldiers pay:
Rather of Realms himselfe to dispossesse,
Then Christendome should be in such distresse.
125
Eternall sparks of honors purest fire,Vertue of vertues, Angels angeld mind,
Where admiration may it selfe admire,
Where mans divinest thoughts are more divin'd,
Saint sainted spirit, in heavens own shrine enshrind,
Endeared dearest thing, for ever living,
Receiving most of Fame, to Fame more giving.
126
Such fervent zeale doth from his soule proceed,As those curl'd tresses which his browes adorne,
Untill that time Jerusalem were freed,
Hee makes a vow they never should be shorne,
But for a witnes of that vow be worne;
True vow, strong faith, great lord, most happy howr,
Perform'd, increasd, blest by effecting power.
127
True vow, so true, as truth to it is vowed,Vowing all power to help so pure a vow,
Allowing perfect zeale to be allowed,
If zeale of perfect truth might ere allow,
Then much admir'd, but to be wondred now;
Faith in it selfe, then wonder more concealing,
Faith to the world, then wonder more revealing.
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128
Disheveld locks, what names might give you grace?Worne thus disheveld for his deere Lords sake,
Sweet-flowring twists, valors engirdling lace,
Browe-decking fringe, faire golden curled flake,
Honors rich garland, beauties messhing brake,
Arbors of joy, which nature once did give,
Where vertue should in endles Sommer live.
129
Faire Memory, awaken Death from sleepe,Call up Times spirit, of passed things to tell,
Unseale the secrets of th'unsearched deepe,
Let out the prisoners from Oblivions Cell,
Invoke the black inhabitants of hell:
Into the earths deepe dungeon let the light,
And with faire day cleere up his clowdy night.
130
Eternitie, bee prodigall a while,With thine immortall arms imbrace thy love,
Divinest Powers, upon your image smile,
And from your star-encircled thrones above,
Earths misty vapors from his sight remove,
And in the Annals of the glorious sun,
Enrole his worth, in Times large course to run.
131
Truth in his life, bright Poesie uphold,His life in truth adorning Poesie:
Which casting life in a more purer mold,
Preserves that life to immortalitie,
Both truly working, eyther glorifie;
Truth by her power, Arts power to justifie,
Truth in Arts roabs, adorn'd by Poesie.
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To his victorious Ensigne comes from far,The Redshanck'd Orcads, toucht with no remorse,
The light-foote Irish, which with darts make war,
Th'ranck-ryding Scot, on his swift running horse,
The English Archer, of a Lyons force:
The valiant Norman all his troupes among,
In bloody conquests tryed, in Arms train'd long.
133
Remote by nature in thys colder Clyme,Another nature he new birth doth bring,
And by the locks he haleth aged Tyme,
As newly he created every thing;
Shewing the place where heavens eternall King
Our deere blood-bought redemption first began,
Man covering God, earth heaven, & God in man.
134
Poore Ilanders, which in the Oceans chaine,Too long imprisoned from the cheerfull day,
Your warlike Guide now brings you to the maine,
Which to your glory makes the open way:
And his victorious hand becomes the kay
To let you in to famous victories;
The honor of your brave posterities.
135
Be favourable faire heaven unto thine owne,And with that Bethelem birth-foretelling star
Still goe before this Christian Champion;
In fiery pillers lead him out from far,
Let Angels martch with him unto this war,
With burning-bladed Cherubins still keepe,
Encompasse him with clowds when he doth sleep.
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136
When heaven puts on her glittering vaile of stars,And with sweet sleep the souldiers sences charms,
Then are his thoughts working these holy wars,
Plotting assaults, watchful at all alarms,
Rounding the Campe in rich appareld Arms;
His sleep their watch, his care their safeties kay,
Their day his night, his night he makes their day.
137
Valors true valor, honours living crowne,Inspired thoughts, desert above desert,
Greatnes beyond imaginations bound,
Nature more sweet then is exprest by Art,
A hart declaring a true princly hart:
Courage uniting courage unto glory,
A subject fit for all immortall story.
138
Why shold not heaven by night when forth he wentConvert the stars to Sunnes to give him light?
And at his prayers by day in his close Tent,
The Tapers unto starrs, to help his sight?
That in his presence darknes might be bright;
That every thing more purer in his kind,
Might tell the purenes of his purer mind.
139
Yet Letters but like little Ilands bee,And many words within this world of fame,
Whose Regions rise and fall in their degree,
Large volumes short descriptions of his name,
Like little Maps painting his Globes great fame:
Wit lost in wonder, seeking to expresse
His vertues sum, his praises universe.
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In greevous toyles consisteth all his rest,In having most, of most enjoyeth none,
Most wanting that whereof he is possest,
A King ordain'd, ne're to enjoy his throne,
That least his own, which richly is his own:
In this devision from himselfe devided,
Himselfe a guide for others safety, guided.
141
His one poore lyfe, devided is to many,Dead to his comfort, doth to others live,
Unto himselfe he is the least of any,
All from him taken, unto all doth give,
Depriv'd of joy, of care his to deprive:
Who al controuleth, now that all controules,
Body of bodyes, his soule of their soules.
142
Religious war, more holy pilgrimage,Both Saint & souldier, Captaine, Confessor,
A devout youth, a resolute old age,
A warlike States-man, peacefull Conqueror,
Grave Consull, true autentique Senator;
Feare-chasing resolution, valiant feare,
Hart bearing nought, yet patient all to beare.
143
Skill, valour guides, and valour armeth skill,Courage emboldneth wit, wit courage arms,
This is the thred which leadeth on his will,
This is the steere which guides him in these storms,
To see his good, and to foresee his harms:
Not flying life, in fortune so content,
Not fearing death, as truly valient.
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He feasts desire with sweetest temperance,Greatnes he decks in modesties attire,
Honor he doth by humblenes advance,
By sufferance he raiseth courage hier,
His holy thoughts by patience still aspire:
To fashion vertue strangely he doth seeke,
Making poore hope impatient, sorrow meeke.
145
Then in his joy, he nothing lesse injoyes,Still of him selfe the worser part he is,
What most shold please him, him the most annoyes,
Of his, there's nothing can be called his,
And what he hath, that doth he ever misse;
His thought of conquest, so doth rest invade,
Thus is he made, as unto others made.
146
All things to him be prosperous as he would,Not trusting Fortune, nor distrusting Fate,
Resolv'd to hope, hap what soever could,
Joying in woe, in joy disconsolate,
Joy lightneth woe, woe joy doth moderate;
Carelesse of both, indifferent twixt either,
Wooed of both, yet yeelding unto neither.
147
Endlesse his toyle, a figure of his fame,And his life ending gives his name no end,
Lasting that forme where vertue builds the frame,
Those sums unnumbred glory gives to spend,
Our bodies buried, then our deeds ascend:
Those deeds in life, to worth cannot be rated,
In death with life, our fame even then is dated.
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Willing to doe, he thinketh what to doe,That what he did, exactly might be done,
That due foresight before the act might goe,
Which wisely warning might all errors shun,
That care might finish what he had begun:
Justly directed in the course of things,
By that straight rule which sound experience brings.
149
From famous Godfrey and the Christian hoast,Unto the mighty Grecian Emperor,
Now is he sent, through many perrils tost,
This Norman Duke, the brave Ambassador,
His royall spirit so much ne're seene before;
As with his princely traine when he doth come,
Before the towne of faire Bizantium.
150
From forth the holy Region is he sent,Bending his course through Macedon and Thrace,
Yet never would he sleepe but in his Tent,
Till he return'd unto that hallowed place,
Till he beheld that famous Godfreis face;
Nor never rest his body in a bed,
Till Palæstine were free delivered.
151
Triumphall prowesse, true disposed care,Cleare-shining courage, honourable intent,
Vertuous-apparreld manhood, thoughts more rare,
Mind free as heaven, imperiall government,
Numbers of vertues in one sweet consent:
Gyfts which the soule so highly beautifie,
Humble valour, valiant humilitie.
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Sweet ayre with Angels breath be thou refin'd,And for his sake be made more pure then ayre,
And thether let some gentle breathing wind,
From Paradice bring sweets which be most rare,
Let Sommer sit in his imperiall chayre;
And clothe sad Winter in the cheerefull prime,
Keeping continuall Sommer in the clime.
153
Delight be present in thy best attire,And court his eyes with thy delightfull change,
Oh warme his spirit with thy soule-feasting fire,
To base delight-abusers, be thou strange,
Such as in vainest pleasures boundlesse range:
For pleasure he all pleasures quite forsooke,
And arm'd with zeale these toiles first undertooke.
154
O let Danubius in her watry roome,Where she the name of Ister first did take,
With threescore rivers swelling in her wombe,
With seaven large throats her greedy thirst to slake,
Doth swallow in the great worlds vastie lake:
Unto all regions which doe know her name,
In Roberts glory tell our countries fame.
155
And broad-brim'd Strymon as she vaulteth on,Slyding along the fertill Thracian shore,
Kissing the stronds of famous Macedon,
Which once the name of old Aemathia wore,
Whose fame decay'd, her drops do now deplore:
May raise another Orpheus with her mones,
To sing his praise unto her trees and stones.
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156
Time on his life, thy gathered store disburse,Which may enrich thee with eternall gaine,
Which art a beldame, now become a nurse,
And in his end begin his glorious raigne,
That yet truth may of truth be forc'd to faine:
That of his praise thy selfe a part maist be,
Which praise remaines the better part of thee.
157
O thou immortall Tasso, Aestes glory,Which in thy golden booke his name hast left,
Enrold in thy great Godfreis living story,
Whose lines shall scape untoucht of ruins theft,
Yet us of him thou hast not quite bereft:
Though thy large Poems onely boast his name,
Ours was his birth, and we will have his fame.
158
The curious state of greatnes he doth scorne,Carelesse of pomp to be magnificent,
Deeming the noblest minded, noblest borne,
Him worthiest honor, which the furthest went,
His blood most pure, whose blood in wars most spent:
Esteeming all fond titles, toyes of naught,
Most honoring those which were with peril bought.
159
His richest roabes are his approoved Armes,His sports were deeds of peerelesse chivalrie,
He flies all pleasures as the Syrens charmes,
To his great mind, no pleasing harmonie,
Not touch't with childish imbecillitie:
As sacriledge to his religious mind,
To mix base thoughts with those of heavenly kind.
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A mind which of it selfe could rightly deeme,Keeping a straight way in one certaine course,
As a true witnes of his owne esteeme,
Feeding it selfe from his owne springing source,
And by himselfe increasing his owne force;
Desirous still him daylie to enure,
To endure that, men thought none could endure.
161
Devinest touch, instinct of highest heaven,Most gracefull grace, purest of puritie,
To mortall man, immortall vertue given,
Manhood adorn'd with powerfull dietie,
Discreetfull pitty, hallowed pietie:
In secret working, by it selfe confest,
In silent admiration best exprest.
162
Not spur'd with honor, dearely loving peace,Constant in any course to which he fell,
A spirit which no affliction could oppresse,
Never remov'd where once his thought did dwell,
Opynionate, that what he did was well;
Which working now upon so good a cause,
Approveth his conceit the surest lawes.
163
No braggarts boast nor ostentacious wordOut of his mouth is ever heard proceed,
But on his foe-mans curats with his sword,
In characters, records his valiant deed,
That there unpartiall eyes might plainly reed;
In modest silence by true vertue hid,
That though he dumb, his deeds told what he did.
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He cheres his Souldiers with sweet honied words,His princely hand embalmes the maimeds wound,
Unto the needie gold he still affords,
To brave attempts encouraging the sound,
Never dismaid in perrill is he found;
His Tent a seate of justice to the greev'd,
A kingly court when need should be releev'd,
165
His life each hower to danger he doth give,Yet still by valour he with perrill strives,
In all attempts as he did scorne to live,
Yet lyving, as his life were many lives,
Oft times from death it seemes that he revives:
Each hower in great attempts he seemes to die,
Yet still he lives in spight of jeopardie.
166
Even by that town o're which his Lord did weepe,Whose precious tears were shed for her own sinne,
Even by that towne this zealous Lord did weepe,
To see her now defil'd with others sinne,
He wept, he weepes for sinne, and he for sinne,
He first shed teares, he lastly sheddeth teares,
Those sacred drops, the others drops endeares.
167
What prince was found within the Christian hoastThat carried marke of honor in his shield,
That with brave Roberts Lyons once durst boast,
Raging with furie in the bloody field,
Whose mighty pawes a piller seem'd to weild:
Which from their nosthrils breath'd a seeming flame,
When he in pride amongst the Pagans came.
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His life with blood how dearely did he prize,And never did he brandish his bright sword,
But many Pagan soules did sacrifize,
And all the ground with livelesse truncks he stor'd,
Such was his love unto his dearest Lord;
That were true love more purer then is love,
Here in this love his purenes he might prove,
169
Who from his furie latelie fled away,When in the field far off they him espied,
Pursu'd in his faire presence make a stay,
As of his hand they willing would have died,
His beautie, so his feircenes mollified;
As taking death by valiant Roberts name,
Should to their lives give everlasting fame.
170
The cruell Panyms thirsting after blood,With his sweet beauty doe their hates aslake,
Yet when by him in danger they have stood,
And that his valour did their rage awake,
And with their swords revenge wold deeply take,
The edges turne as seeming to relent,
To pitty him, to whom the blowes were sent.
171
At feirce assaults where thousand deaths might fall,His cheerfull smiles made death he could not kill,
Imperiously his sword commaunds the wall,
As stones should be obedient to his will,
The yeelding blood, his blood did never spill:
His fury quencht with teares as with a flood,
And yet like fire consuming all that stood.
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172
When in the morne his Courser he bestrid,The trumpets sound unto his thoughts gave fire,
But from the field he ever dropping rid
As he were vanquisht onely in retire,
The neerer rest, farther from his desire:
In bootie still, his Souldiers share the crowns,
They rich in gold, he onely rich in wounds.
173
At his returne now in this sad retreate,From heathens slaughter, from the Christians fled,
This is not he which in that raging heate,
On mighty heapes laid Pagan bodies dead,
Whose plumed helme empaled in his head;
Mild as some Nimphlike virgin now he seem'd,
Which some in fight a fearefull spirit deem'd.
174
No tryumphs doe his victories adorne,But in his death who on the Crosse had died,
No lawrell nor victorious wreath is worne,
But that red Crosse to tell him crucified,
This death, his life, this povertie, his pride:
His feast is fast, his pleasure pennaunce is,
His wishes prayers, his hope is all his blisse.
175
Great Calvary whose hollow vaulted womb,In his deere Saviours death asunder riven,
That rock-rent Cave, that man-god burying tomb
Which was unto his blessed body given,
Whose yeelding Ghost did shake the power of heaven:
Here as a Hermit could he ever live,
Such wondrous thoughts unto his soule they give.
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Thus a poore Pilgrim he returnes againe,His sumptuous roabes be turn'd to Palmers gray
Leaving his Lords to lead his warlick traine,
Whilst he alone comes sadly on the way,
Dealing abroad his deare bloods purchas'd pray:
A hermits staffe his carefull hand doth hold,
Whose charged Launce the heathen foe controld.
177
Most loving zeale, borne of more zealous love,Cares holy care, faiths might, joyes food, hopes kay,
The ground work worlds bewitching cannot move,
Of true desires the never failing stay,
The cheerfull light of heavens ne're-ending day:
Vertue which in thy selfe most vertuous art.
The fairest gyft of the most fairest part.
178
But now to end this long continued strife,Henceforth thy malice takes no further place,
Thy hate began and ended with his life,
His spirit by thee can suffer no disgrace,
Now in mine armes his vertues I imbrace:
His body thine, his crosses witnes be,
His mind is mine, and from thy power is free.
179
Thou gav'st up rule, when he gave up his breath,And at his end, then did I first begin,
Thy hate was buried in his timelesse death,
Thou going out, first did I enter in,
Thou loosing him, thy losse then did I win:
And when the Fates did up their right resigne,
Thy right, his wrong, thy hate, his hap was mine.
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To the unworthie world then get thee back,Stuft with deceits and fawning flatteries,
There by thy power bring all things unto wrack,
And fill the times with fearefull Tragedies:
And since thy joy consists in miseries,
Heare his complaint, who wanting eyes to see,
May give thee sight, which art as blind as hee.
181
At her great words whilst they in silence stand,Poore haplesse Robert now remembring him,
Holding one bloody eye in his pale hand,
With countenance all dead, and gastly grim,
As in a feaver shaking every lim;
Even with a pitteous lamentable grone,
Vailing his head, thus breakes into his mone.
182
Poore teare, dim'd taper which hast lost thy brotherAnd thus art left to twinkle here alone,
Ah might'st thou not have perrisht with the other,
And both together to your set have gone,
You both were one, one wanting, thou not one,
Poore twins which like true friends one watch did keepe,
Why sever'd thus that so you shold not sleepe.
183
And thou pore eye, oh why sholdst thou have light,The others black eclipse thus soone to see,
And yet thy fellow be depriv'd of sight,
For thy sad teares the while to pitty thee,
Equall your griefes, your haps unequall be:
Take thou his darknes, and thy sorrow hide,
Or he thy light, his griefe so well espied.
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Let that small drop out of thy juicie ball,Canded like gum upon the moist'ned thrid,
There still be fixed that it never fall,
But as a signe hang on thine eyes staind lid,
A witnes there what inward griefe is hid:
Like burning glasses fired by the Sunne,
Light all mens eyes to see what there is done.
185
Now like to conduits draw my body drie,By which is made the entrance to my blood,
Streame-gushing sluces plac'd in eyther eye,
Which shalbe fed by this continuall flood,
Whirlpooles of tears where pleasures citty stood,
Devouring gulfes within a vastie land,
Or like the dead Sea, ever hatefull stand.
186
Where stood the watch-towers of my cheerful face,Like Vestall Lamps lighted with holy flame,
Is now a dungeon and a lothed place,
The darksome prison of my hatefull shame,
That they themselves doe most abhor the same:
Through whose foule grates, griefe full of miserie,
Still begging vengeance, ceaseth not to crie.
187
With dire-full seales, death hath shut up the dores,Where he hath taken up his dreadfull Inne,
In bloody letters shewing those fell sores,
That now doe raigne, wher joy & mirth have beene,
This mortal plague the just scourge of their sinne:
From whose contagion comfort quite is fled,
And they themselves, in their selves buried.
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Poore tears, sith eyes your small drops cannot see,And since the Fountains cease of my full eyes,
Teares get you eyes and help to pitty mee,
And water them which timelesse sorrow dryes,
Teares give me teares, lend eyes unto my eyes:
So may the blind yet make the blind to see,
Else no help is to them, nor hope to mee,
189
Body and eyes usurping others right,Both altring use contrarie unto kind,
That eyes to eyes those dark which shold give light,
The blind both guide, & guided by the blind,
Yet both must be directed by the mind:
Yet that which both their trustie guide should be,
Blinded with care, like them can nothing see.
190
The day abhors thee, and from thee doth flie,Night followes after, yet behind doth stay,
This never comes, though it be ever nie,
This ere it comes is vanished away,
Nor night, nor day, though ever night and day:
Yet all is one, still day or ever night.
No rest in darknes, nor no joy in light.
191
Whilst light did give me comfort to my mone,Teares found a meane to sound my sorrows deepe,
But now alasse that comfort being gone,
Tears do want eies which shold give tears to weepe,
Whence I lost joy there care I ever keepe:
What gave me woe from me doth comfort take,
Delight a sleepe, now sorrow still must wake.
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I saw my ill, when ill could scarclie see,I saw my good, when I my good scarce knew,
Now see not ill, when as my ill sees mee,
Hasting to that which still doth mee pursue,
With my lost eyes, sorrow my state doth view,
In blindnes loosing hope of all delight,
And with my blindnes, give my cares full sight.
193
As man himselfe, so the most hatefull beast,The Worme enjoyes the ayre as well as wee,
The little Gnat, or thing that lives the least,
Of this by nature kindly is made free:
What thing hath mouth to brethe, but eyes to see?
Though honor lost, yet might I humbly crave,
To have what beasts, or flies, or pore worms have.
194
Mine eyes hurt not the Sun, nor steale the day,Except a candle, they see never light,
These monstrous walls do take that doubt away,
What? feare you then that they shold harme the night?
Needles is that, sith tears have blotted sight.
I know not then from whence this hate should rise,
Except it onely be, that they be eyes.
195
The man-betraying Basilisk hath eyes,Although by sight those eyes be made to kill,
Though her owne works be made her enemies,
Though naturally ordained unto ill,
Yet in her selfe so just is nature still:
How monstrous then am I alone in nature,
Denide of that she gives the vilest creature?
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Oh tyrannie more cruell far then death,Though death be but the end of tyranie,
Death lends us sight whilst she doth give us breath,
Of all the sences that the last doth dye,
In lyving death, how miserable am I,
In life, of this sence me thus to deprive,
To make the others dye, my selfe alive.
197
Eyes which with joy like Sunnes have risen oft,To view that holy Citties glorious Towers,
And seene the Christian Ensignes raisd aloft,
Crowning the walls like garlands of rare flowers,
Now lie you perrisht in your Ivory bowers,
Nor shal you henceforth boast what you have been
But leave the minde to thinke what you have seen.
198
You, which have seene faire Palestine restor'd,And gorgeous Syon from the Paynims freed,
The Sepulcher of your most glorious Lord,
And that faire Mount wher his sweet wounds did bleed
And with these sights my hungry soule did feed,
Within your brincks be drownd in your own blood
Which oft have view'd great Jordans sacred flood.
199
Rake up the sparks which nourished your fire,Within the ashes of consumed eyes,
Those little brands which kindled youths desire,
The haples starrs of passed miseries,
Wander no more within your circling skies;
Under the Globes great compasse ever roule,
And in my minds great world, now light my soule.
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Good night sweet Sunns, your lights are cleane put out,Your hollow pits be graves of all your joy,
With dreadfull darknes compassed about,
Wherein is cast what murther can destroy,
That buried there, which did the world annoy,
Those holy Fanes where vertue hallowed stood,
Become a place of slaughter and of blood.
201
Poure downe your last refreshing evening dew,And bathe your selves in fountains of your tears,
The day no more shall ever breake to you,
The joyfull dawne no more at all appears,
No cheerfull sight your sorrow ever cheers:
Shut up your windows ere constraint compell,
Be-take your selves to nights eternall Cell.
202
His passion ending, Fortune discontent,Turning her back as shee away would flie,
Playing with fooles and babes incontinent,
As never toucht with humane misery,
Even after death shewing inconstancy,
As straight forgetting what she had to tell,
To other speech and girlish laughter fell.
203
When graceful Fame, convaying thence her charge,With all these troupes attended royallie,
Gave me this booke, wherein was writ at large,
Great Norman Roberts famous history,
T'amaze the world with his sad Tragedy:
But Fortune angry with her foe therefore,
Gave me this gift, That I should still be poore.
FINIS.
| The Works of Michael Drayton | |