The Works of Michael Drayton :: :: University of Virginia Library

Rarest of Ladies, all, of all I have,
Anchor of my poore Tempest-beaten state,
Which givest life, to that life Nature gave,
And to thy selfe, doest onely consecrate:
My hopes true Goddesse, guider of my fate,
Vouchsafe to grace what here to light is brought,
Begot by thy sweet hand, borne of my thought.

And though I sing of this tumultuous rage,
Still paynting passions in these Tragedies,
Thy milder lookes, this furie can aswage,
Such is the vertue of thy sacred eyes,
Which doe contayne a thousand purities;
And lyke them selves, can make their object such,
As doth Th'elixar all things it doth tuch.

Sweet fruite, sprong from that ever sacred tree,
That happie wombe from whom thou lyfe do'st take,
And with that lyfe, gives vertue unto thee,
Thus made of her, her lyke of thee to make,
Shee lov'd for thee, thou honour'd for her sake;
And eithers good, from other so derived,
Yet shee, nor thou, of any due deprived.

The Harringtons, whose house thy byrth hath blest,
Adding such honour to theyr familie,
And famous Bedfords greatnes still increast,
Raysing the height of theyr Nobilitie,
That Earledomes tytle more to dignifie;
That Vertue lyvely pictur'd forth in thee,
May truly be discernd, what shee should be.

And Lawrell-crowned Sidney, Natures pride,
Whom heaven to earth, but onely shew'd this good,
Betwixt the world, and thee did then devide,
His fame, and vertues, which both equall stood,

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The world his fame, to thee of her owne blood
Hee gave his vertues, that in his owne kind,
His never-matched worth might be enshrin'd.

That whilst they boast but of their sun-burnt brayns,
Which Tramontani long have termd us so,
With all their Po's, their Tyburs, and their Rheyn's,
Greeving to see how tidefull Thames shall flowe,
Our Groves which for the gracefull Muses growe:
Thy name shall be the glorie of the North,
The fayrest fruit that ever shee brought forth.

And in despight of tyranizing times,
This hope great Lady yet to thee is left,
Thy name shall lyve in steele-out-during rimes,
Still scorning ages sacraligious theft,
What fame doth keepe, can never be bereft:
Nor can thy past-priz'd honour ever die,
If lynes can gyve thee immortalitie.

Leaving unto succeeding times to see,
How much thy sacred gyfts I did adore,
What power thy vertues ever had in mee,
And what thou wert compar'd with those before,
Which shall in age, thy youth againe restore:
And still shall ad more vigor to thy fame,
Then earthly honors, or a Countesse name.

Proclayming unto ages yet to come,
Whilst Bedford lyv'd, what lyving Bedford was,
Enclosing thee in this immortall toombe,
More durable then letter-graven brasse,
To shewe what thy great power could bring to passe,
And other hopes I utterly refuse,
And thou my hope, my Lady, and my Muse.

Your Honors ever devoted servaunt Michaell Drayton.

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TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE LADY, Lucie Countesse of Bedford.

When God this wondrous Creature did create,
This ever-moving body, this huge weight,
Whose head, whose lofty head high situate,
Is crown'd with starrs & constellations bright.
Hee causd the same one certaine way to move,
Which mooving (some say) doth sweet tunes beget,
Another way the Sunne and Planets prove,
For they from thence move where the sun doth set;
Yet he the Pole-star, Cynosura cleere,
Causd steddily to stand, though heaven did gyre,
For an example to mens actions heere:
Madam, you are the starre of his desire;
Whilst hee his thoughts heaven moves, ô gracious bee,
And wonders in your Creature you shall see.

Your honors and eternities Humble, E. B.

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MORTIMERIADOS.

The lowring heaven had mask'd her in a clowde,
Dropping sad teares upon the sullen earth,
Bemoning in her melancholly shrowde,
The angry starres which raign'd at Edwards birth,
With whose beginning ended all our mirth.
Edward the second, but the first of shame,
Scourge of the crowne, eclipse of Englands fame.

Whilst in our blood, ambition hotely boyles,
The Land bewailes her, like a wofull Mother,
On every side besieg'd with civill broyles,
Her deerest chyldren murthering one another,
Yet shee in silence forc'd her griefe to smother:
Groning with paine, in travaile with her woes,
And in her torment, none to helpe her throwes.

What care would plot, discention strives to crosse,
Which like an earthquake rents the tottering state;
Abroade in warres we suffer publique losse,
At home, betrayd with grudge and private hate,
Faction attending blood-shed and debate;
Confusion thus our Countries peace confounds,
No helpe at hand, and mortall be her wounds.

Thou Church then swelling in thy mightines,
Thou which should'st be this poore sick bodyes soule,
O nurse not factions which should'st sinne suppresse,
And with thy members should'st all griefe condole,
Perswade thy hart and not thy head controle;
Humble thy selfe, dispence not with the word,
Take Peters keyes, but cast aside his sword.

310

The ragefull fire which burnt Carnarvans brest,
Blowne with revenge of Gavestons disgrace,
Awakes the Barrons from their nightly rest,
And maketh way to give the Spensers place,
Whose friendship Edward onely doth embrace;
By whose alurements he is fondly led,
To leave his Queene, and flie his lawful bed.

This Planet stirr'd up that tempestious blast
By which our fortunes Anchorage was torne,
The storme where-with our spring was first defac'd,
Whereby all hope unto the ground was borne:
Hence came the griefe, the teares, the cause to mourne.
This bred the blemish which her beauty staind,
Whose ugly scarr's, to after-times remaind.

In all this heat his greatnes first began,
The serious subject of my sadder vaine,
Great Mortimer, the wonder of a man,
Whose fortunes heere my Muse must entertaine,
And from the grave his griefes must yet complaine,
To shew our vice nor vertues never die,
Though under ground a thousand yeeres we lie.

Thys gust first threw him on that blessed Coast
Which never age discovered before:
This luckie chaunce drew all King Edward lost,
This shypwrack cast the prize upon his shore,
And thys all-drowning Deluge gave him more;
From hence the sunne of his good fortune shone,
The fatall step, to Edwards fatall throne.

Roger Mortimer the unckle, and Roger Mortimer the nephew.

That unckle now, whose name this Nephew bare,
The onely comfort of the wofull Queene,
And from his cradle held him as his care,
And still the hope of all his house had beene,
Whilst yet this deep hart-goring wound is greene,
On this well-seene advantage wisely wrought,
To place him highly in her princely thought.

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He saw his inclination from his birth,
A mighty spirit, a minde which did aspire;
Not of the drossy substance of the earth,
But of the purest element of fire,
Which sympathizing with his owne desire,
Name, nature, feature, all did so agree,
That still in him, himselfe he still might see.

The temper of his nobler mooving part,
Had that true tutch which purified his blood,
Infusing thoughts of honor in his hart,
Whose flaggie feathers were not soyld in mud,
The edge he bare declar'd the mettall good;
The towring pitch wherein he flew for fame,
Declar'd the ayrie whence the Eagle came.

Worthy the Grand-chyld of so great a sier,

Roger Mortimer his Grand-father, who kept the round table at Kenelworth.

Brave Mortimer who liv'd whilst Long-shanks raign'd,
Our second Arthur, whom all times admire,
At Kenelworth the Table round ordayn'd,
And there in Armes, a hundreth Knights maintaind;
A hundreth gallant Ladies in his Court,
Whose stately presence royaliz'd this sport.

And whilst this poore wife-widdowed Queene alone,
In thys dispayring passion pines away,
Beyond all hope, to all but heaven unknowne,
A little sparke which yet in secrete lay,
Breakes forth in flame, and turnes her night to day,
The wofull winter of her sorrowes cheering,
Even as the world at the faire Sunnes appearing.

Yet still perplexed in these hard extreames,
All meanes deprest which might her faith prefer,
Blacke foggs oppos'd in those cleere-shining beames,
Which else might lend their friendly light to her,
This in her lookes direfull revenge doth stir:
Which strange eclipse plac'd in this irefull signe,
Our Countries plague and ruine might divine.

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Her snowy curled brow makes anger smile,
Her laughing frowne gives beauty better grace,
Blushing disdaine, disdaine doth quite exile,
Sweet love and silence wrestling in her face,
Two capering Cupids in her eyes do chase;
Her veynes like tydes oft swelling with delight,
Making Vermilion faire, white more then white.

Her beauty florish'd whilst her favours fade,
Her hopes growne old, but her desires be yong,
Her power wants power her passion to perswade,
Her sexe is weake, her will is over-strong,
Patience pleades pitty, but revenge her wrong;
What reason urgeth, rage doth still denie,
With arguments of wrathfull jealousie.

Pale Jealousie, child of insatiate love,
Of hart-sick thoughts with melancholie bred,
A hell tormenting feare no faith can move,
By discontent with deadly poyson fed,
With heedlesse youth and error vainely led,
A mortall plague, a vertue-drowning flood,
A hellish fire, not quenched but with blood.

The hate-swolne Lords with furie set on fire,
Whom Edwards wrongs to vengeance doe provoke,
With Lancaster and Herford now conspire,
No more to beare the Spensers servile yoke,
The bonds of their alegiance they have broke:
Resolv'd with blood theyr libertie to buy,
To live with honor, or with fame to dye.

Amid thys faction Mortimer doth enter,
The gastly Prologue to thys tragick act:
His youth and courage boldly bids him venter,
And tells him still how strongly he was backt:
Synon perswades howe Illion might be sackt;
The people still applauding in his eares,
The fame and credite of the Mortimers.

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Thys vapor-kindled Commet drew her eyes,
Which now began his streamie flagge to reare;
This beauty-blushing orient of his rise,
Her clowdy frownes doth with his brightnes cleare,
The joyfull'st sight that ever did appeare;
The messenger of light, her happy starre,
Which told her now the dawning was not farre.

As after pale-fac'd Night, the Morning fayre
The burning Lampe of heaven doth once erect,
With her sweet Crimson sanguining the ayre,
On every side with streakie dappl's fleckt,
The circled roofe in white and Azure deckt,
Such colour to her cheekes these newes do bring,
Which in her face doth make a second spring.

Yet trembling at the Spensers Lordly power,
Their wrongs, oppression, and controling pride,
Th'unconstant Barrons, wavering every houre,
The fierce encounter of this raging tyde,
No stratagem yet strongly policied;
Shee from suspition seemingly retyers,
Carelesse in shew of what she most desires.

Grounded advice, in danger seldom trips,
The deadliest poyson, skill can safely drinke,
Fore-sight stands fast, where giddy rashnes slips,
Wisdome seemes blinde, when eyed as a Linxe,
Prevention speaketh all but what he thinks;
The deadliest hate, with smyles securely stands,
Revenge in teares doth ever wash his hands.

Loe for her safetie this shee must desemble,
A benefite which women have by kind,
The neerest colour finely to resemble,
Suppressing thus the greatnes of her mind,
Now is shee shrowded closely under wind,
And at her prayers (poore soule) shee plainly ment,
A silly Queene, a harmelesse innocent.

314

The least suspition cunningly to heale,
Still in her lookes humilitie shee beares,
With patience she with mightines must deale,
So policie religions habite weares,
He's mad which takes a Lyon by the eares.
This knew the Queene, and this well know the wise,
This must they learne, which toyle in Monarchies.

Adam Torlton Bishop of Herford, a mighty polititian.

Torlton the learnedst Prelate in the Land,
Upon a text of politicks to preach,
Car'd not on Paules preciser poynts to stand,
Poore Moralls to beleeving men to teach,
For he at Kingdomes had a further reach:
This learned Tutor, Isabell had taught,
In nicer poynts then ever Edward sought.

Now in meane time, the smothered flame brake forth,
The Mortimers march from the westerne playne,
The Lords in armes at Pomfret in the North,
The King from London, comes with might and mayne,
Their factious followers in the streetes are slayne.
No other thing is to be hop'd upon,
But horrour, death, and desolation.

Like as Sabrina from the Ocean flancks,
Comes sweeping in along the tawny sands,
And with her billowes tilting on the bancks,
Rowles in her flood upon the westerne strands,
Stretching her watrie armes along the lands,
With such great furie doe these legions ryse,
Filling the shores with lamentable cryes.

Thus of three hands, they all set up theyr rest,
And at the stake their lives they franckly lay,
Hee's like to winne who cuts his dealing best,
And for a Kingdome at the least they play,
The fayr'st in show must carrie all away;
And though the King himselfe in sequence came,
He sawe the Queene lay right to make his game.

315

But Fortune masking in this straunge disguise,
Whose prodigie, whose monster he was borne,
Now in his lyfe her power, t'anotomize,
Ordayning him her darling and her scorne,
His Tragedie her triumph to adorne.
Shee straight begins to bandy him about,
At thousand ods before the set goes out.

As when we see the spring-begetting Sunne,
In heavens black night-gowne covered from our sight,
And when he yet, but fewe degrees hath runne,
Some fennie fogge damps up his gladsome light,
That at his noon-sted he may shine more bright.
His cheerefull morning Fortune cloudeth thus,
To make his day more fayre, more glorious.

Edward whom daunger warnd to dread the worst,
Unto the hart with poysned ranckor stung,
Now for his crowne must scuffle if he durst,
Or else his scepter in the dust were flung,
To stop the head from which these mischiefes sprung.
First with the Marchers thinks it fit to cope,
On whom he knew lay all the Barrons hope.

Like to a whirle-wind comes this irefull King,
Whose presence soone the Welchmens power had staid,
The Cornish yet theyr forces fayld to bring,
And Lancaster too slacke forslow'd theyr ayd,
Faynt-harted friends, their succours long delayd.
Depriv'd of meanes, forlorne of farther good,
And wanting strength to stem so great a flood.

They who perceiv'd, their trust was thus betrayd,
Their long expected purpose thus to quayle,
How mischiefe still upon their fortune playd,
That they perforce their high-borne top must vayle,
This storme still blew so stifly on their sayle.
Of Edwards mercy now the depth must sound,
Where yet their Ankor might take hold on ground.

316

This tooke the King in presage of his good,
Who this event to his successe apply'd,
Which coold the furie of his boyling blood,
Before their force in armes he yet had try'd,
His sterne approch this easely molified
That on submission he dismist theyr power,
And sends them both as prisoners to the Tower.

Not cowardize but wisedome warnes to yield,
When Fortune aydes the proud insulting foe,
Before dishonour ever blot the field;
Where by advantage hopes agayne may growe,
When as too weake to beare so great a blowe:
That whilst his pittie pardons them to live,
To his owne wrongs he full revenge might give.

Loe now my Muse must sing of dreadfull Armes,
And taske her selfe to tell of civill warres,
Of Ambuscados, stratagems, alarmes,
Of murther, slaughter, monstrous Massacarres,
Of blood, of wounds, of never-healed scarres,
Of battailes fought by brother against brother,
The Sonne and Father one against the other.

O thou great Lady, Mistris of my Muse,
Renowned Lucie, vertues truest frend,
Which doest a spyrit into my spyrit infuse,
And from thy beames the light I have dost lend,
Into my verse thy lyving power extend.
O breathe new lyfe to write this Tragicke storie,
Assist me now brave Bedford for thy glorie.

Whilst in the Tower the Mortimers are mew'd,
The Barrons drew their forces to a head,
Whom Edward (spurd with vengeance) still pursu'd
By Lancaster and famous Herford led,
Toward eithers force, forth-with both Armies sped.

Burton upon Trent.

At Burton both in camping for the day,
Where they must trye who beares the spurres away.

317

Upon the East from bushie Needwoods side,
There riseth up an easie clyming hill,
At whose fayre foote the silver Trent doth slide,

Needwood.

And all the shores with ratling murmure fill,
Whose tumbling waves the flowrie Meadowes swill,
Upon whose streame a Bridge of wondrous strength,
Doth stretch her selfe, neere fortie Arches length.

Upon this mount the King his Tents hath fixt,
And in the Towne the Barrons lye in sight,
This famous Ryver risen so betwixt,
Whose furie yet prolong'd this deadly fight,
The passage stopp'd, not to be wonne by might.
Things which presage both good and ill there bee,
Which heaven fore-shewes, yet will not let us see.

The raging flood hath drownd up all her foards,
Sok'd in excesse of cloud-congealed teares,
And steepes the bancks within her watrie hoards,
Supping the whir-pooles from the quaggie mears,
Now doth shee washe her tressed rushie hayrs.
Swolne with the dropsie in her grieved woombe,
That this her channell must become a Toombe.

O warlike Nation hold thy conquering hand,
Even sencelesse things doe warne thee yet to pawse,
Thy Mother soyle on whom thy feete doe stand,
O then infrindge not Natures sacred lawes,
Still runne not headlong into mischiefes jawes:
Yet stay thy foote in murthers ugly gate,
Ill comes too soone, repentance oft too late.

And can the cloudes weepe over thy decay,
Yet not one drop fall from thy droughtie eyes?
Seest thou the snare yet wilt not shunne the way,
Nor yet be warn'd, by passed miseries?
Or ere too late, yet learne once to be wise.
A mischiefe seene, may easely be prevented,
But beeing hap'd, not help'd, yet still lamented.

318

Behold the Eagles, Lyons, Talbots, Bears,
The Badges of your famous ancestries,
And shall they now by their inglorious heyrs:
Be thus displayd against their families?
Reliques unworthie of theyr progenies.
Those Beastes you beare doe in their kinds agree
And then those Beasts more savage will you bee?

Cannot the Scot of your late slaughter boast?
And are you yet scarce healed of the sore?
Is't not inough you have already lost,
But your owne madnes now must make it more?
Your Wives and Children pittied you before.
But when your own blood, your own swords imbrue,
Who pitties them, which once have pittied you?

What, shall the Sister weepe her Brothers death,
Who sent her Husband to his timelesse grave?
The Nephewe moane his Unckles losse of breath,
Which did his Father of his lyfe deprave?
Who shall have mind your memories to save?
Or shall he buriall to his friend afford,
Who lately put his Sonne unto the sword?

But whilst the King, and Lords in counsell sit,
Yet in conclusion variably doe hover,
See how misfortune still her time can fit:
Such as were sent the Country to discover,
Have found a way to land their forces over.
Ill newes hath wings, and with the winde doth goe,
Comfort's a Cripple, and comes ever slow.

And Edward fearing Lancasters supplyes,
Great Surry, Richmond, and his Pembrooke sent,
On whose successe his chiefest hope relyes,
Under whose conduct halfe his Armie went,
And he himselfe, and Edmond Earle of Kent,
Upon the hill in sight of Burton lay,
Watching to take advantage of the day.

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Stay Surry stay, thou maist too soone begon;
Stay till this rage be some-what over-past,
Why runn'st thou thus to thy destruction?
Pembrooke and Richmond, whether doe you hast?
Never seeke sorrow, for it comes too fast.
Why strive you thus to passe this fatall flood,
To fetch new wounds, and shed your neerest blood?

Great Lancaster, sheath up thy conquering sword,
On Edwards Armes, whose edge thou should'st not whet,
Thy naturall Nephew, and thy soveraigne Lord,
Both one, one blood, and both Plantaginet.
Canst thou thy oth to Longshanks thus forget?
Yet call to minde, before all other things,
Our vowes must be perform'd to Gods and Kings.

Knowe, noble Lord, it better is to end,
Then to proceed in things rashly begun:
Which oft ill counseld worser doe offend,
Speech hath obtaind, where weapons have not won;
By good perswasion what cannot be done?
And when all other hopes and helps be past,
Then fall to Armes, but let that be the last.

The winds are husht, no little breth doth blow,
The calmed ayre as all amazed stood,
The earth with roring trembleth below,
The Sunne besmear'd his glorious face in blood,
The fearfull Heards bellowing as they were wood:
The Drums and Trumpets give a signall sound,
With such a noyse as they had torne the ground.

The Earles now charging with three hundred horse,
The Kings vantgard assay the Bridge to win,
Forcing the Barrons to devide their force,
T'avoyde the present danger they were in:
Never till now the horror doth begin;
That if th'elements our succour had not sought,
All had that day beene to confusion brought.

320

Now from the hill the Kings maine power comes downe,
Which had Aquarius to their valiant guide,

Aquary a notable souldier.

Brave Lancaster and Herford from the towne,
Doe issue forth upon the other side:
The one assailes, the other munified.
Englands Red crosse upon both sides doth flye,
Saint George the King, Saint George the Barrons cry.

Even as a bustling tempests rouzing blasts,
Upon a Forrest of old-branched Oakes,
Downe upon heapes their climing bodies casts,
And with his furie teyrs their mossy loaks,
The neighbour groves resounding with the stroaks,
With such a clamor and confused woe,
To get the Bridge these desperate Armies goe.

Now must our famous and victorious bowes,
With which our Nation Kingdoms did subdue,
First send their darting arrowes against those
Whose sinewed armes against their foes them drew;
These winged weapons, mourning as they flew,
Cleave to the strings, with very terror slack,
As to the Archers they would faine turne back.

The battered Caskes, with Battel-Axes strokes,
Besnow the soyle with drifts of scattered plumes,
The trampling presse stirre up such duskie smokes
Which choke the ayre with reekie smothering fumes,
Which rising up, into a clowde consumes;
As though the heaven had muffled her in black,
Lothing to see this lamentable sack.

Behold the remnant of Troyes famous stocke,
Laying on blowes as Smithes on Anviles strike,
Grappling together in this fearfull shock,
The like presse forth, t'incounter with the like,
And then reculing to the push of pyke:
Yet not a foote doth eyther give to eyther,
Now one the ods, then both alike, then neither.

321

Even as you see a field of standing Corne,
When in faire June some easie gale doth blow,
How up and downe the spyring eares are borne,
And with the blasts like Billowes come and goe,
As golden streamers waving to and fro,
Thus on the suddaine runne they on amaine,
Then straight by force are driven backe againe.

Heer lyes a heap, halfe slaine, halfe chok'd, halfe drownd,
Gasping for breth amongst the slymie seggs,
And there a sort falne in a deadly swound,
Scrawling in blood upon the muddy dreggs:
Heere in the streame, swim bowels, armes and leggs.
One kills his foe, his braine another cuts,
Ones feet intangled in anothers guts.

One his owne hands in his owne blood defiles,
Another from the Bridges height doth fall,
Some dash'd to death upon the stony pyles,
Some in theyr gore upon the pavement sprall,
The carkasses lye heaped like a wall:
Such hideous shreeks the bedlam Souldiers breath,
As though the Spirits had howled from beneath.

The mangled bodies diving in the streame,
Now up, now downe, like tumbling Porpose swim,
The water cover'd with a bloody creame,
To the beholder horrible and grim:
Heere lies a head, and there doth lye a lym;
Which in the sands the swelling waters souse,
That all the shores seeme like a slaughter-house.

It seem'd the very wounds for griefe did weepe,
To feele the temper of the slicing blade,
The sencelesse steele in blood it selfe did sleepe,
To see the wounds his sharpe-ground edge had made,
Whilst kinsman, kinsman, friend, doth friend invade,
Such is the horror of these civill broyles,
When with our blood, we fat our native soyles.

322

This faction still defying Edwards might,
Edmond of Woodstock, famous Earle of Kent,
Charging the foe againe renewes the fight,
Upon the Barrons forces almost spent,
Who now againe supplying succours sent.
And now a second conflict doth begin,
The English Lords like Tygars flying in.

Like as an exhalation hote and dry,
Amongst the ayre-bred moystie vapors throwne,
Spetteth his lightning forth outragiously,
Renting the thick clowdes with a thunder-stone,
As though the huge all-covering heaven did grone,
Such is the garboyle of this conflict then,
Brave Englishmen, encountring Englishmen.

Even as proude Pyrrhus entring Illion,
Couragious Talbot with his shield him bare,
Clifford and Moubray, seconding anon,
Audley and Gifford thrunging for their share,
Elmbridge and Balsmer in the thickest are:
Pell-mell together flyes this furious power,
Like to the falling of some mighty Tower.

Mountfort and Teis, your worths faine would I speake,
But that your valure can but ill deserve,
Brave Denvile, heere I from thy prayse must breake,
And from thy prayses Willington must swarve,
Great Damory, heere must thy glory starve;
Concealing many, most deserving blame,
Because their acts doe quench my sacred flame.

O that those Armes in conquests had been borne,
And that, that battered fame-engraven shield,
Should in those civill massacres be torne
Which bare the marks of many a bloody field:
O that our armes had power their Armes to weeld.
That since that time, the stones for very dreed,
Against foule stormes could teary moisture sheed.

323

O had you shap'd your valures first by them
Who summon'd Akon with an English drum,
Or marched on to faire Jerusalem,
T'inlarge the bounds of famous Christendome,
Or with Christs warriors slept about his toombe,
Then ages had immortaliz'd your fame,
Where now my song can be but of your shame.

Death following on, feare ever in their eyes,
Grieved with wounds, the conquered Barrons fled,
And now the King enrich'd with victories,
Hath in the field his glorious Ensignes spred,
This in his thoughts againe fresh courage bred,
And somwhat drawes th'unconstant peoples harts,
Who equall peyz'd, yet way'd to neither parts.

And wanting ground, they unresolved are,
King Edwards friends, agaynst the rebels cry,
The Barrons plead their Countries onely care,
Exclayming on the Princes tyrannie,
Hee urg'd obedience, they their libertie.
Both under colour, carefull of the state,
Hee right, and they their wrongs expostulate.

Some fewe them selves in Sanctuaries hide,
In mercie of the priviledged place,
Yet are their bodyes so unsanctifide,
As scarce their soules can ever hope for grace,
A poore dead lyfe, this draweth out a space.
Hate stands without, and horror sits within,
Prolonging shame, yet pard'ning not their sinne.

At fatall Pomfret gathering head at length,
When they of all extreamities had tasted,
Where yet before they could recover strength,
King Edward followeth whilst his fortune lasted,
Unto whose ayde the Earle of Carlell hasted.
With troupes of bow-men and ranck-riding bands,
Of Westmer, Cumber, and Northumberlands.

324

Mad and amaz'd, nor knowing what to doe,
Surpriz'd by this late mischievous event,
Seeing at hand their utter overthrowe,
And in despight how crossely all things went,
Fortune her selfe to their destruction bent;
In all disorder head-long on they runne,
To end with blood, what was with blood begunne.

Lyke as a heard of silly hartlesse Deare,
Whom hote-spurd Huntsmen fiercely doe pursue,
In brakes and bushes falling heere and there,
Yet when no way the hounds they can eschew,
Now flying back from whence of late they flew,
Hem'd on each side with hornes rechating blast,
Head-long them selves into the toyles doe cast.

To Borough bridge by fate appoynted thus,
Where lyke false Raynard, falser Herckley lay,
Bridges to Barrons ever ominous,
There to renewe this latest deadly fray,
O heere begins the blackest dismall day,
The birth of horror, hower of wrath that yet,
The very soyle seemes to remember it.

Heere is not Death contented with the dead,
Nor vengeance is with vengeance satisfied,
Blood-shed by blood-shed still is nourished,
And mischiefe meanes no more her store to hide,
Strange sorts of torments heaven doth now provide,
That dead men should in miserie remayne,
And in the lyving, death should dye with payne.

Thus rules the world, a world why saye I so,
Worst is the world, yet worser must I name it,
Nights ugli'st night, hells bitter'st hell of woe,
So ill as slaunder never can defame it,
That shame her selfe is sham'd, seeking to shame it,
Could envie speake, what envie can expresse,
In saying most, that most should make it lesse.

325

Heere noble Herford, Bohun breathes his last,
Crowne of true Knight-hood, flower of Chivalrie,
But Lancaster their torment lives to tast,

Bohun slaine at Borogh.

Who perrish now with endlesse obloquie,
O vanquisht conquest, loosing victorie,
That where the sword for pittie leaves to spill,
There extreame justice should begin to kill.

O subject for some tragick Muse to sing,
Of five great Earledomes at one time possest,
Sonne, Unckle, Brother, Grandchild to a King,
With favours, friends, and earthly honours blest,

Thomas the great Earle of Lancaster.

But see on earth, heere is no place of rest.
These Fortunes gyfts, and she to shew her power,
Takes lyfe, and these, and all within an hower.

The wretched Mother tearing of her hayre,
Bewayles the time this fatall warre begunne,
Lyke grave-borne gosts, amaz'd and mad with feare,
To view the quartered carkasse of her Sonne,
With hideous shreeks through streetes & wayes doth runne.
And seeing none to help, none heare her crye,
Some drownd, some stabd, some starvd, some strangled die.

Lyke gastly death the aged Father stands,
Weeping his Sonne, bemoning of his wife,
Shee murthered by her owne blood-guiltie hands,
Hee slaughtered by the executioners knife,
Sadly sits downe to ende his hatefull life;
Banning the earth, and cursing at the ayre,
Upon his poyniard falleth in dispayre.

The wofull widdowe for her Lord distrest,
Whose breathlesse body cold death doth benum,
Her little Infant leaning on her breast,
Rings in her eares, when will my Father come?
Doth wish that she were deafe, or it were dombe.
Clipping each other, weeping both togeather,
Shee for her Lord, the poore babe for his Father.

326

The ayre is poysned with the dampie stinck,
Which most contagious pestilence doth breed,
The glutted earth her fill of gore doth drinck,
Which from unburied bodies doth proceede,
Ravens and dogs on dead men onely feede;
In every Coast thus doe our eyes behold,
Our sinnes by judgement of the heavens controld.

Lyke as a Wolfe returning from the foyle,
Having full stuft his flesh-engorged panch,
Tumbles him downe to wallowe in the soyle,
With cooling breath his boyling mawe to stanch,
Scarce able now to moove his lustlesse hanch.
Thus after slaughter Edward breathlesse stood,
As though his sword had surfeted with blood.

Heere endeth life, yet heere death cannot end,
And heere begins, what Edwards woes begun,
Nor his pretence, falls as he doth pretend,
Nor hath he wone, what he by battell wone,
All is not done, though almost all undone,
Whilst power hath raign'd, still policie did lurke,
Seldome doth mallice want a meane to worke.

The King now by the conquering Lords consent,
Who by this happie victorie grew strong,
Summons at Yorke a present Parliament,
To plant his right, and helpe the Spensers wrong,
From whence agayne his minions greatnes sprung,
Whose counsell still, in all their actions crost,
Th'inraged Queene whom all misfortunes tost.

But miseries which seldome come alone,
Thicke in the necks one of another fell,
Meane while the Scots heere make invasion,
And Charles of France doth thence our powers expell,
The grieved Commons more and more rebell.
Mischiefe on mischiefe, curse doth followe curse,
Plague after plague, and worse ensueth worse.

327

For Mortimer this wind yet rightly blewe,
Darckning their eyes which else perhaps might see,
Whilst Isabell who all advantage knewe,
Is closely plotting his deliverie,
Now fitly drawne by Torltons policie:
Thus by a Queene, a Bishop, and a Knight,
To check a King, in spight of all dispight.

A drowsie potion shee by skill hath made,
Whose secret working had such wonderous power,
As could the sence with heavie sleepe invade,
And mortifie the patient in one hower,
As though pale death the body did devower;
Nor for two dayes might opened be his eyes,
By all meanes Arte or Phisicke could devise.

Thus sits this great Enchauntresse in her Cell,
Invironed with spyrit-commaunding charmes,
Her body censed with most sacred smell,
With holy fiers her liquors now shee warmes,
Then her with sorcering instruments she armes.
And from her hearbs the powerfull juyce she wrong,
To make the poyson forcible and strong.

Reason might judge, doubts better might advise,
And as a woman, feare her hand have stayd,
Waying the strangenesse of the interprize,
The daunger well might have her sex dismayd,
Fortune, distrust, suspect, to be betrayd;
But when they leave of vertue to esteeme,
They greatly erre which thinke them as they seeme.

Their plighted fayth, when as they list they leave,
Their love is cold, their lust, hote, hote their hate,
With smiles and teares these Serpents doe deceave,
In their desires they be insatiate,
Their will no bound, and their revenge no date.
All feare exempt, where they at ruine ayme,
Covering their sinne with their discovered shame.

328

Medea pittifull in tender yeares,
Untill with Jason she would take her flight,
Then mercilesse her Brothers lymmes she teares,
Betrayes her Father, flyes away by night,
Nor Nations, Seas, nor daungers could affright;
Who dyed with heate, nor could abide the wind,
Now like a Tigar falls unto her kind.

Now waits the Queene fitt'st time, as might behove,
Their ghostly Father for their speed must pray,
Their servants seale these secrets up with love,
Their friends must be the meane, the guide, the way,
And he resolve on whom the burthen lay;
This is the summe, the all, if this neglected,
Never againe were meane to be expected.

Thus, while hee liv'd a prysoner in the Towre,
The Keepers oft with feasts he entertaind,
Which as a stale, serves fitly at this howre,
The tempting bayte wher-with his hookes were traind,
A stately banquet now he had ordaind,
And after cates when they their thirst should quench,
He sawc'd their wine with thys approoved drench.

And thus become the keeper of the kayes,
In steele-bound locks he safely lodg'd the Guard:
Then lurking forth by the most secret wayes,
Not now to learne his compasse by the Card,
With corded ladders which hee had prepard,
Now up these proude aspyring walls doth goe,
Which seeme to scorne they should be mastred so.

They soundly sleepe, now must his wits awake,
A second Theseus through a hells extreames,
The sonne of Jove, new toyles must undertake,
Of walls, of gates, of watches, woods, and streames,
And let them tell King Edward of their dreames:
For ere they wak'd out of this brainsick traunce,
He hopes to tell thys noble jest in Fraunce.

329

The sullen night in mistie rugge is wrapp'd,
Powting the day had tarryed up so long,
The Evening in her darksome dungion clapp'd,
And in that place the swarty clowdes were hong,
Downe from the West the half-fac'd Cynthia flong,
As shee had posted forth to tell the Sonne,
What in his absence in her Court was done.

The glymmering starr's like Sentinels in warre,
Behind the Clowdes as thieves doe stand to pry,
And through false loope-holes looking out a farre,
To see him skirmish with his destenie,
As they had held a counsell in the Sky,
And had before consulted with the night,
Shee should be darke, and they would hide their light.

In deadly silence all the shores are hush'd,
Onely the Shreechowle sounds to the assault,
And Isis with a troubled murmure rush'd,
As shee had done her best to hide the fault,
A little whispering moov'd within the vault,
Made with his tuching softly as he went,
Which seem'd to say it furthered his intent.

This wondrous Queene, whom care from rest had kept,
Now for his speed to heaven holds up her hands,
A thousand thoughts within her bosome heap'd,
Now in her Closset listning still she stands,
And though devided as in sundry strands,
Yet absent, present in desires they bee,
For minds discerne, where eyes could never see.

Loe now he thinks he vaulteth in her sight,
Still taking courage, strengthned by her words,
Imagining shee sported with delight,
To see his strong armes stretch the tackling coards,
And oft a smyle unto his toyle affords:
And when shee doubted danger, might her heare,
Call him her soule, her life, her Mortimer.

330

Nowe doth shee wooe the walls, intreat and kisse,
And then protests to memorize the place,
And to adorne it with a Piramis,
Whose glory wrack of time should not deface.
Then to the cord shee turnes her selfe a space,
And promiseth, if that should set him free,
A sacred relique it should ever bee.

Shee saith, the small clowds issuing from his breath,
Seasond with sweet from whence they lately came,
Should cleere the ayre from pestilence and death,
And like Promethian life-begetting flame,
Pure bodies in the element should frame;
And to what part of heaven they hapt to stray,
There should they make another milkie way.

Attaind the top his tyred lymm's to breath,
Mounted in tryumph on his miseries,
The gentle earth salutes him from beneath:
And cover'd with the comfortable skyes,
Lightned with beames of Isabella's eyes,
Downe from the Turret desperatly doth slide;
Now for a kingdome, Fortune be his guide.

As hee descends, so doe her eyes ascend,
As feare had fixt them to behold his fall;
Then from the sight, away her sight doth bend,
When chilly coldnes doth her hart appall,
Then out for helpe shee suddainly doth call;
Silent againe, watching if ought should hap,
Her selfe might be the ground, his grave her lap.

Now doth she court the gentle calmie ayre,
And then againe shee doth conjure the winde;
Now doth she try to stop the night by prayer,
And then with spells the heavy sence to binde;
Then by the burning Tapers shee divinde;
Now shee intreats faire Thames that hee might passe
The Hellespont where her Leander was.

331

The brushing murmure stills her like a song,
Yet fearing least the streame should fall in love,
Envies the drops which on his tresses hong,
Imagining the waves to stay him strove;
And when the billowes with his brest he drove,
Grieved there-with, shee turnes away her face,
Jealous least hee the billowes should embrace.

Shee likneth him to the transformed Bull,
Which curll'd the fayre flood with his Ivory flanck,
When on his backe he bare the lovely trull,
Floting along unto the Cretan banck,
Comparing this to that lascivious pranck,
And swears then hee, no other Jove there were,
If shee Europa had been present there.

Thus seekes he life, encourag'd by his love,
Yet for his love his life he doth eschue,
Danger in him a deadly feare doth move,
And feare envits him danger to pursue,
Rage stirr's revenge, revenge doth rage renue:
Danger and feare, rage and revenge at strife,
Life warr's with love, and love contends with life.

Thys angry Lyon having slypp'd his chayne,
Now like a Quartain, makes King Edward quake,
Who knew too well, ere he was caught againe,
Some of his flock his bloody thirst must slake;
And unawares intangled in this brake,
Sawe further vengeance hanging in the wind,
Knowing too well, the greatnes of his mind.

Thus once againe the world begins to worke,
Theyr hopes (at length) unto thys issue brought,
Whilst yet the Serpent in his Den doth lurke,
Of whom God knowes, the King full little thought,
The instrument which these devises wrought.
For ther's no treason woundeth halfe so deepe,
As that which doth in Princes bosoms sleepe.

332

Now must the Cleargie serve them for a cloke,
The Queene her state unto the time must fit,
But tis the Church-man which must strike the stroke,
Now must thys Prelate shew a statesmans wit,
They cast the plot, and March must manage it;
They both at home together lay on load,
And he the Agent to effect abroad.

Who sweetly tunes his well-perswading tong,
In pleasing musick to the French-kings ears,
The sad discourse of Isabellas wrong,
With tragick action forcing silent tears,
Mooving to pitty every one that hears,
That by discovery of thys foule reproch,
Old mischiefes so, might new be set abroch.

Whilst they are tempring in these home-bred jarres,
How for the Scot fit passage might be made,
To lay the ground of these successfull warrs,
That hope might give him courage to invade,
And from the King the Commons to perswade;
That whilst at home his peace he would assure,
His further plague in Fraunce he might procure.

By these reports, all circumstances knowne,
Sounds Charles of Fraunce into the lists againe,
To ceaze on Guyen by Armes to clayme his owne,
Which Edward doth unlawfully detaine,
Homage for Pontieu, and for Aquitaine,
Revoking this dishonorable truce,
Urg'd by his wrongs, and Isabels abuse.

The spirits thus rayz'd which haunt him day and night,
And on his fortune heaven doth ever lower,
Danger at hand, and mischiefe still in sight,
Civill sedition weakning still his power,
No ease of paine one minute in the hower:
T'intreat of peace with Charles, he now must send,
Else all his hopes in Fraunce were at an end.

333

Heere is the poynt wherein all poynts must end,
Which must be handled with no meane regard,
The prop whereon this building must depend,
Which must by levell curiouslie be squard,
The cunningst descant that had yet beene hard.
Heere close conveyance must a meane provide,
Else might the ambush easely be discride.

Or this must helpe, or nothing serves the turne,
This way, or no way, all must come about,
To blowe the fier which now began to burne,
Or tind the strawe before the brand went out,
This is the lot which must resolve the doubt,
To walke the path where Edward bears the light,
And take their ayme by levell of his sight.

This must a counsell seriously debate,
In gravest judgements fit to be discust,
Beeing a thing so much consernes the state,
Edward in this, must to their wisedomes trust,
No whit suspecting but that all were just.
Especially the Church whose mouth should be,
The Oracle of truth and equitie.

Torlton whose tongue, mens eares in chaines could tye,
Whose words, even like a thunderbolt could pearce,
And were alowd of more aucthoritie,
Then was the Sibills olde divining verse,
Which were of force a judgement to reverse:
Now for the Queene, with all his power doth stand,
To lay this charge on her well-guiding hand.

What helpes her presence to the cause might bring,
First as a wife, a sister, and a mother,
A Queene to deale, betwixt a King, and King,
To right her sonne, her husband, and her brother,
And each to her indifferent as the other:
Which colour serves to worke in these extreames,
That which (God knowes) King Edward never dreames.

334

Torlton is this thy spirituall pretence?
Would God thy thoughts were more spirituall,
Or lesse perswasive were thy eloquence,
But ô thy actions are too temporall,
Thy reasons subtill and sophisticall:
Would all were true thy suposition sayth,
Thy arguments lesse force, or thou more fayth.

Thus is the matter managed with skill,
To his desires, their meanes thus to devise,
To thrust him on, to drawe them up the hill,
That by his strength, they might get power to rise,
This great Archmaster of all policies:
In the beginning wisely had forcast,
How ere things went, which way they must at last.

With sweetest hony, thus he baytes the snare,
And clawes the beast till he be in the yoke,
In golden cups he poyson doth prepare,
And tickles where he meanes to strike the stroke,
Giving the bone whereas he meant to choke:
And by all helpes of Arte doth smooth the way,
To send his foe, downe head-long to decay.

Shee which thus fitly had both winde and tide,
And sawe her passage serve the hower so right,
Whilst things thus fadge are quicke dispatch applide,
To take her time whilst yet the day is light,
Who hath beene tyerd in travell feares the night:
And finding all too much to change inclind,
And every toy soone altering Edwards mind.

Her followers such as frendlesse else had stood,
Supprest and troden with the Spensers pride,
Whose howses Edward branded had with blood,
And but with blood could not be satisfi'd,
Who for revenge did but the hower abide;
And knew all helpes, that mischiefe could invent,
To shake the state, and further her intent.

335

Thus on the wronged, she her wrongs doth rest,
And unto poyson, poyson doth applie,
Her selfe oprest, to harden the oprest,
And with a spye, to intercept a spye,
An Enemie, against an Enemie.
Hee that will gaine what policie doth heede,
By Mercurie must deale, or never speede.

Now Mortimer, whose mayne was fully set,
Seeing by fortune all his hopes were crost,
His strugling still how he againe might get,
That which before his disadvantage lost,
Not once dismayd though in these tempests tost:
Nor in affliction is he overthrowne,
To Mortimer all Countries are his owne.

Englands an Ile where all his youth he spent,
Environ'd valure in it selfe is drownd,
But now he lives within the continent,
Which being boundlesse, honour hath no bound,
Here through the world, doth endlesse glory sound:
To fames rich treasure Time unlocks the dore,
Which angry Fortune had shut up before.

What wayes he of his wealth, our Wigmore left,
Let builded heapes, let Rocks and Mountaines stand,

Wigmore the ancient house of the Mortimers.

Goods oft be held by wrong, first got by theft,
Birds have the ayre, Fish water, Men the land,
Alcides pitch'd his pillers in the sand.
Men looke up to the starres thereby to knowe,
As they doe progresse heaven, he earth should doe.

And to this end, did Nature part the ground,
Else had not man beene King upon the Sea,
Nor in depths her secrets had beene found,
If to all parts on firme had layne his way,
But she to shewe him where her wonders lay:
To passe the floods, this meane for him invents,
To trample on these baser elements.

336

Never sawe France, no never till this day,
A mind more great, more free, more resolute,
Let all our Edwards say, what Edwards may,
Our Henries, Talbot, or our Mountacute,
To whom our royall conquests we impute:
That Charles him selfe, oft to the Peers hath sworne,
This man alone, the Destinies did scorne.

Vertue can beare, what can on Vertue fall,
Who cheapeneth honour, must not stand on price,
Who beareth heaven (they say) can well beare all,
A yeelding mind doth argue cowardize,
Our haps doe turne as chaunces on the dice.
Nor never let him from his hope remove,
That under him hath mould, the starres above.

Let dull-braynd slaves contend for mud and earth,
Let blocks and stones, sweat but for blocks and stones,
Let peasants speake of plenty and of dearth,
Fame never lookes so lowe as on these drones,
Let courage manage Empiers, sit on thrones.
And he that Fortune at commaund will keepe,
He must be suer, he never let her sleepe.

Who wins her grace, must with atchivements wooe her,
As shee is blind, so never had shee eares,
Nor must with puling eloquence goe to her,
Shee understands not sighes, she heares not prayers,
Flatterd shee flyes, controld shee ever feares;
And though a while shee nicely doe forsake it,
Shee is a woman, and at length will take it.

Nor never let him dreame once of a Crowne,
For one bad cast, that will give up his game,
And though by ill hap he be overthrowne,
Yet let him manage her, till shee be tame,
The path is set with danger leads to fame:
When Minos did the Græcians flight denie,
He made him wings, and mounted through the skie.

337

The cheerefull morning cleeres her cloudie browes,
The vaporie mists are all disperst and spred,
Now sleepie Time his lazie lims doth rouze,
And once beginneth to hold up his head,
Hope bloometh faire, whose roote was wel nere dead,
The clue of sorrowe to the end is ronne,
The bowe appeares to tell the flood is donne.

Nature lookes backe to see her owne decay,
Commaunding age to slacke her speedy pace,
Occasion forth her golden loake doth lay,
Whilst sorrowe paynts her wrinckle-withered face,
Day lengthneth day, and joyes doe joyes imbrace.
Now is she comming yet till she be heere,
My pen runnes slowe, each comma seemes a yeere.

She's now imbarck'd, slide billowes for her sake,
Whose eyes can make your aged Neptune yong,
Sweet Syrens from the chaulkie cleevs awake,
Ravish her eares with some in chaunting song,
Daunce the Lavoltos all the sands along:
It is not Venus on your floods doth passe,
But one more fayre then ever Venus was.

You scalie Dolphins gaze upon her eyes,
And never after with your kind make warre,
O steale the Musicke from her lips that flyes,
Whose accents like the tunes of Angels are,
Compard with whom Arions did but jarre.
Hugge them sweet ayre, and when the Seas doe rage,
Use them as charmes thy tempests to aswage.

Sweet Sea-nymphs flock in sholes upon the shores,
Fraunce kisse those feete whose steps thou first didst guide,
Present thy Queene with all thy gorgious store,
Now mayst thou revell in thy greatest pride:
Shyp mount to heaven, and be thou stellified,
And next that starr-fix'd Argosie alone,
There take thou up thy constellation.

338

Th'exceeding joy conceved by the Queene,
Or his content, to them I leave to gesse
Who but the subject of their thoughts have seene,
Who I am sure, if they the truth confesse,
Will say that silence onely can expresse:
And when with honor shee fit time could take,
With sweet embraces thus shee him bespake.

O Mortimer, great Mortimer quoth shee,
What angry power such mischiefe could devise,
To separate thy deerest Queene and thee,
Whom loves eternall union strongly tyes?
But seeing thee, unto my longing eyes
(Though guiltlesse they,) this penance is assignd,
To gaze upon thee untill they be blind.

Sweet face, quoth shee, how art thou changed thus,
Since beauty on this lovely front thou bor'st,
Like the yong Hunter fresh Hipolitus,
When in these curles my favors first thou wor'st?
Now like great Jove thy Juno thou ador'st;
The Muses leave theyr double-topped throne,
And on thy temples make theyr Helicon.

Come tell mee now what griefe and danger is,
Of paine and pleasure in imprisonment,
At every breath the poynt shal be a kisse,
Which can restore consuming languishment,
A cordiall to comfort banishment;
And thou shalt find, that pleasures long restraind,
Be farre more pleasant when they once be gaind.

Now sweeten all thy sorrowes with delight,
Teach man-hood courtshyp, turne these broyles to love,
The day's nere ill that hast a pleasing night,
Ther's other warrs in hand, which thou must prove,
Warrs which no blood shall shed, nor sorrow move:
And that sweet foe of whom thou winn'st the day,
Shall crowne thy tresses with tryumphant Bay.

339

And sith that tyme our better ease assures,
Let solace sit and rock thee on her brest,
And let thy sences say like Epicures,
Lets eate and drinke, and lay us downe to rest,
Like belly-Gods, to surfet at the feast;
Our day is cleere, then never doubt a shower,
Prince Edward is my sonne, England my dower.

Possessing this inestimable Jem,
What is there wanting to maintaine thy port?
Thy royall Mistresse wears a Diadem,
Thy high-pitchd pyneons sore beyond report,
I am thy Wigmore, Fraunce shall be thy Court;
How canst thou want millions of Pearle and gold,
When thou the Indies in thyne armes dost hold?

Thou art King Edward, or opinion fayles,
Longshanks begot thee when in youth he rang'd,
Thou art Carnarvan, thou the Prince of Wales,
And in thy Cradle falsely thou wert chang'd,
Hee Mortimer, and thou hast beene estrang'd:
Pardon me deere, what Mortimer sayd I,
Then should I love him, but my tongue doth lie.

As Fortune hath created him a King,
Had Nature made him valiant as thou art,
My soule had not been tuch'd with torments sting,
Nor hadst thou now been plac'd so neere my hart;
But since by lot this falleth to thy part,
If such have wealth as lewdly will abuse it,
Let those enjoy it who can better use it.

Except to heaven, my hopes can clime no hier;
Now in mine armes had I my little boy,
Then had I all on earth I could desier,
The King's as he would be, God send him joy,
Now with his mynions let him sport and toy:
His lemman Spenser, and himselfe alone,
May sit and talke of Mistresse Gaveston.

340

When first I of that wanton King was woo'd,
Why camst thou not unto the Court of Fraunce?
Thou then alone should'st in my grace have stood,
O Mortimer, how good had been thy chaunce?
Then had I beene thine owne inheritance;
Now entrest thou by force, and holds by might,
And so intrud'st upon anothers right.

Honor that I doll weomen so adore,
How many plagues hast thou in store to grieve us,
When in our selves we finde there yet is more
Then that bare word of majestie can give us?
When of that comfort so thou canst deprive us,
Which with our selves oft sett'st us at debate,
And mak'st us beggers in our greatest state.

Even as a Trumpets lively-sounding voyce,
Tryps on the winds with many a dainty trick,
When as the speaking Ecchoes doe rejoyce,
So much delighted with the rethorick,
Seeming to make the heavie dull ayre quick;
With such rare musick in a thousand kayes,
Upon his hart-strings shee in consort playes.

On thys foundation whilst they firmely stand,
And as they wish, so fitly all things went,
No worse their warrant, then King Edwards hand,
Who his owne Bow to his destruction bent;
The course of things to fall in true consent,
Gives full assurance of the happy end,
On which their thoughts now carefully attend.

And sith in payment all for currant passe,
And theyr proceedings were allow'd for such,
Although this peace against her stomack was,
And yet imports the Princes strength so much,
To carry all things cleerly without tuch,
With seeming care doth seemingly effect,
What love commaunds, and greatnes should respect.

341

Charles waying well his lawfull Nephews right,
So mighty an Embassador as shee,
This meane to winne her grace in Edwards sight,
And so reclaime his vaine inconstancie,
With kindnes thus to conquer all these three,
What love the subjects to his Sister bore,
Heapes on desert, to make this much the more.

Her expedition, and thys great successe
Of after-good, still seeming to devine,
Carnarvan should by covenant release,
And to the Prince the Provinces resigne,
Who dooing homage, should reenter Guyne,
Safe-conduct sent the King, to come with speed,
To seale in person what the Queene decreed.

But whilst he stood yet doubtfull what to doe,
The Spensers who his counsels chiefely guide,
Nor with theyr Soveraigne into Fraunce durst goe,
Nor in his absence durst at home abide:
His listning eares with such perswasions plyde,
As hee by them, to stay at home is wonne,
And with Commission to dispatch his Sonne.

Now till thys howre all joyes in wombed lay,
And in this howre now came they first to light,
Ad dayes to Months, and howres unto the day,
And as Jove dyd, so make a treble night,
And whilst delight is ravish'd with delight,
Swound in these sweets, in pleasures pleasing paine,
And as they die, so brought to life againe.

Now Clowd-borne care, hence vanish for a time,
The Sunne ascending, hath the yeere renew'd,
And as the Halkes in hotest Sotherne clime,
Their halfe-sick hopes their crazed flags have mew'd,
A world of joyes their brests doe now include,
The thoughts whereof, thoughts quicknes doth benum,
In whose expression, pens and tongues be dumbe.

342

In fayre Lavinium, Troy is built againe,
And on thys shore her ruins are repard,
Nor Junos hate such vigor doth retaine,
The Fates appeas'd who with theyr fortune squard,
The remnant of the shypwrackt navie spard,
Though torne with tempests, yet ariv'd at last,
May sit and sing, and tell of sorrowes past.

If shee doe sit, he leanes on Cynthias throne,
If shee doe walke, he in the circle went,
If shee doe sport, he must be grac'd alone,
If shee discourse, he is the argument,
If shee devise, it is to his content:
From her proceeds the light he beares about him,
And yet she sets if once shee be without him.

Still with his eares his soveraigne Goddesse hears,
And with his eyes shee graciously doth see,
Still in her breast his secret thoughts she bears,
Nor can her tongue pronounce an I, but wee,
Thus two in one, and one in two they bee:
And as his soule possesseth head and hart,
Shee's all in all, and all in every part.

Like as a well-tund Lute thats tucht with skill,
In Musicks language sweetly speaking playne,
When every string it selfe with sound doth fill,
Taking their tones, and giving them againe,
A diapazon heard in every strayne:
So their affections set in kayes so like,
Still fall in consort, as their humors strike.

Shee must returne, King Edwards will is so,
But soft a while, shee meaneth no such thing,
He's not so swift, but shee is twice as slowe,
No hast, but good, this message backe to bring,
Another tune he must be taught to sing:
Which to his hart more deadly is by far,
Then cryes of ghosts, or Mandrakes shreekings are.

343

Stapleton who had beene of their counsell long,
Or woonne with gifts, or else of childish feare,
Or mov'd in conscience with King Edwards wrong,
Or pittying him, or hate to them did beare,
Or of th'event that now he did dispaire:
This Bishop backe from Fraunce to Edward flewe,
And knowing all discovered all he knewe.

The platforme of this enterprize disclosd,
And Torltons drift by circumstances found,
With what conveyance all things are disposd,
The cunning usd in laying of the ground,
And with what Art, this curious trayle is woond:
Awakes the King, to see his owne estate,
When to prevent, he comes a day too late.

Isabell the time doth still and still rejorne,
Charles as a Brother with perswasions deales,
Edward with threats, doth hasten her retorne,
Pope John, with Bulls and curses hard assailes,
Perswasions, curses, threats, no whit prevailes:
Charles, Edward, John, Pope, Princes, doe your worst,
The Queene fares best, when she the most is curst.

The Spensers, who the French-mens humors felt,
And with their Soveraigne, had devisd the draught,
With Prince, and Peers, now under hand had delt,
In golden nets, who were alreadie caught,
And nowe King Charles, they have so throughlie wrought:
That he with sums, too slightly overwaid,
Poore Isabells hopes, now in the dust are layd.

Thou base desier, thou grave of all good harts,
Corsive to kindnes, bawd to beastly will,
Monster of time, defrauder of desarts,
Thou plague, which doest both love and vertue kill,
Honours abuser, friendships greatest ill:
If curse in hell, there worse then other bee,
I pray that curse, may trebled light on thee.

344

Nor can all these amaze this mighty Queene,
Who with affliction, never was controld,
Never such courage in her sex was seene,
Nor was she cast in other womens mould,
But can endure warres, travell, want, and cold:
Strugling with Fortune, nere with greefe opprest,
Most cheerefull still, when she was most distrest,

Thus she resolv'd, to leave ungratefull France,
And in the world her fortune yet to trye,
Chaunging the ayre, hopes time will alter chance,
As one whose thoughts with honors wings doe flye,
Her mighty mind, still scorning miserie:
Yet ere she went, her greeved hart to heale,
Shee rings King Charles, this dolefull parting peale.

Is this the trust I have repos'd (quoth shee)
And to this end to thee my griefes have told?
Is this the kindnes that thou offerest mee?
And in thy Country am I bought and sold?
In all this heate art thou become so cold?
Came I to Fraunce in hope to find a frend?
And now in thee have all my hopes their end?

Phillip (quoth shee) thy Father never was,
But some base peasant, or some slavish hind,
Never did Kingly Lyon get an Asse,
Nor cam'st thou of that Princely Eagles kind:
But sith thy hatefull cowardise I find,
Sinke thou, thy power, thy Country, ayde and all,
Thou barbarous Moore, thou most unnaturall.

Thou wert not Sonne unto the Queene my mother,
Nor wert conceived in her sacred woombe,
Some misbegotten changeling, not my Brother,
O that thy Nurses armes had beene thy Toombe,
Or thy birth-day had beene the day of doombe:
Never was Fortune with such error led,
As when shee plac'd a Crowne upon thy head.

345

And for my farewell this I prophecie,
That from my loynes, that glorious fruite shall spring,
Which shall tread downe that base posteritie,
And lead in tryumph thy succeeding King,
To fatall Fraunce, I as Sibilla sing:
Her Citties sackd, the ruine of her men,
When of the English, one shall conquer ten.

Beumount who had in Fraunce this shufling seene,
Whose soule with kindnes Isabell had wonne,
To flye to Henault, now perswades the Queene,

John of Henault.

Assuring her what good might there be done,
Offering his Neece, unto the Prince her Sonne:
The onely meane, to bend his brothers might,
Against King Edward, and to back her right.

This worthy Lord, experienc'd long in armes,
Whom Isabell with many favours grac'd,
Whose Princely blood, the brute of conquest warmes,
In whose great thoughts, the Queene was highly plac'd,
Greeving to see her succours thus defac'd,
Hath cast this plot, which managed with heed,
Sith all doe fayle, should onely helpe at need.

Shee who but lately had her Ankors wayd,
And sawe the cloudes on every side to rise,
Nor now can stay, untill the streame be stayd,
Nor harbour till the cleering of the skies,
Who though she rov'd, the marke stil in her eyes,
Accepts his offer thankfully as one,
Succouring the poore in such affliction.

This courteous Earle, mov'd with her sad report,
Whose eares were drawne to her inchanting tong,
Traind up with her in Phillips royall Court,
And fully now confirmed in her wrong,
Her foes growe weake, her friends grow daily strong.
The Barrons oath, gag'd in her cause to stand,
The Commons word, the Cleargies helping hand.

346

All Covenants signd with wedlocks sacred seale,
In friendships bonds eternally to bind,
And all proceeding from so perfect zeale,
And suting right, with Henalts mighty mind,
What ease hereby, the Queene doth hope to find;
The sweet contentment of the lovely bride,
Young Edward pleasd, and joy on every side.

Now full seaven times, the Sunne his welked waine,
Had on the top of all the Tropick set,
And seaven times descending downe againe,
His fiery wheeles, had with the fishes wet,
Since malice first this mischiefe did beget:
In which so many courses hath beene runne,
As he that time celestiall signes hath done.

From Henalt now this great Bellona comes,
Glyding along fayre Belgias glassie maine,
Mazing the shores with noyse of thundring drums,
With her young Edward, Duke of Aquitayne,
The fatall scourges of King Edwards raigne:
Her Souldiour Beumount, and the Earle of Kent,
And Mortimer that mightie Malcontent.

Three thousand Souldiers mustred men in pay,
Of Almaynes, Swisers, trustie Henawers,
Of native English fled beyond the Sea,
Of fat-braind Fleamings, fishie Zelanders,
Edwards decreasing power, augmenting hers:
Her friends at home expect her comming in,
And new commotions every day begin.

The Coasts be daylie kept with watch and ward,
The Beacons burning, at thy foes discrie,
O had the love of Subjects beene thy guard,
T'ad beene t'effect, what thou didst fortifie,
But t'is thy houshold home-bred Enemie:
Nor Fort, nor Castell, can thy Countrey keepe,
When foes doe wake, and dreamed friends doe sleepe.

347

In vaine be armes, when heaven becomes a foe,
Kneele, weepe, intreat, and speake thy Deaths-man fayre,
The earth is armd unto thy overthrowe,
Goe pacifie the angrie powers by prayer,
Or if not pray, goe Edward and dispayre:
Thy fatall end, why doest thou this begin,
Locking Death out, thou keep'st destruction in.

A Southwest gale, for Harwich fitly blowes,
Blow not so fast, to kindle such a fier:
Whilst under saile, shee yet securely rowes,
Turne gentle wind, and force her to retyer,
But ô the winds, doe Edwards wrack conspyre,
For when the heavens are unto justice bent,
All things be turnd to our just punishment.

Shee is arriv'd in Orwells pleasant Roade,
Orwell thy name, or ill, or never was:
Why art thou not ore-burthend with thy loade?
Why sinck'st thou not under thys monstrous masse?
But what heaven will, that needs must come to passe.
That grievous plague thou carriest on thy deepe,
Shall give just cause for many, streames to weepe.

Englands Earle-marshall, Lord of all that Coast,
With bells and bonfires welcoms her to shore,
Great Leicester next joyneth hoast to hoast,
The Cleargies power, in readines before,
Which every day increaseth more and more:
Upon the Church a great taxation layd,
For Armes, munition, mony, men, and ayd.

Such as too long had looked for this hower,
And in their brests imprisoned discontent,
Their wills thus made too powerful by their power
Whose spirits were factious, great, and turbulent,
Their hopes succesfull by this ill event,
Like to a thiefe that for his purpose lyes,
Take knowledge now of Edwards injuries.

348

Young Prince of Wales, loe heere thy vertue lyes,
Soften thy Mothers flintie hart with teares,
Then wooe thy Father with those blessed eyes,
Wherein the image of himselfe appeares,
With thy soft hand softly uniting theirs:
With thy sweet kisses so them both beguile,
Untill they smyling weepe, and weeping smile.

Bid her behold that curled silken Downe,
Thy fayre smooth brow, in beauties fayrer pryme,
Not to be prest with a care-bringing Crowne,
Nor that with sorrowes wrinckled ere the time,
Thy feete too feeble to his seate to clime;
Who gave thee life, a crowne for thee did make,
Taking that Crowne, thou life from him doost take.

Looke on these Babes, the seales of plighted troth,
Whose little armes about your bodies cling,
These pretty imps, so deere unto you both,
Beg on their knees, their little hands do wring,
Queenes to a Queene, Kings kneele unto a King,
To see theyr comfort, and the crowne defac'd,
You fall to Armes, which have in armes embrac'd.

Subjects see these, and then looke backe on these,
Where hatefull rage with kindly nature strives,
And judge by Edward of your owne disease,
Chyldren by chyldren, by his wife your wives,
Your state by his, in his life your owne lives,
And yeeld your swords, to take your deaths as due,
Then draw your swords, to spoyle both him and you.

From Edmondsbury now comes thys Lyonesse,
Under the Banner of young Aquitaine,
And downe towards Oxford doth herselfe adresse,
A world of vengeance wayting on her traine,
Heere is the period of Carnarvans raigne;
Edward thou hast, but King thou canst not beare,
Ther's now no King, but great King Mortimer.

349

Now friendles Edward followed by his foes,
Needes must he runne, the devill hath in chase,
Poore in his hopes, but wealthy in his woes,
Plenty of plagues, but scarcitie of grace,
Who wearied all, now wearieth every place;
No home at home, no comfort seene abroad,
His minde small rest, his body small aboad.

One scarce to him his sad discourse hath done
Of Henalts power, and what the Queene intends,
But whilst he speakes, another hath begun,
Another straight beginning where he ends,
Some of new foes, some of revolting frends;
These ended once, againe new rumors spred
Of many which rebell, of many fled.

Thus of the remnant of his hopes bereft,
Shee hath the sum, and hee the silly rest,
Towards Wales he flyes, of England being left,
To rayse an Armie there himselfe adrest,
But of his power shee fully is possest;
Shee hath the East, her rising there-withall,
And he the West, I there goes downe his fall.

What plagues doth Edward for himselfe prepare?
Alas poore Edward, whether doost thou flie?
Men change the ayre, but seldome change their care,
Men flie from foes, but not from miserie,
Griefes be long-liv'd, and sorrowes seldome die;
And when thou feel'st thy conscience tuch'd with griefe,
Thy selfe pursues thy selfe, both rob'd and thiefe.

Towards Lundy, which in Sabryns mouth doth stand,
Carried with hope, still hoping to finde ease,
Imagining thys were his native Land,
Thys England: and Severne the narrow seas,
With this conceit (poore soule) himselfe doth please.
And sith his rule is over-rul'd by men,
On byrds and beasts he'll king it once agen.

350

Tis treble death a freezing death to feele,
For him, on whom the sunne hath ever shone,
Who hath been kneel'd unto, can hardly kneele,
Nor hardly beg which once hath been his owne,
A fearefull thing to tumble from a throne;
Fayne would he be king of a little Ile,
All were his Empyre bounded in a myle.

Aboard a Barke, now towards the Ile he sayles,
Thinking to find some mercy in the flood:
But see, the weather with such power prevailes,
Not suffring him to rule thys peece of wood;
Who can attaine, by heaven and earth with-stood?
Edward, thy hopes but vainly doe delude,
By Gods and men uncessantly pursu'd.

At length to land his carefull Barke he hales,
Beaten with stormes, ballast with misery,
Thys home-bred exile, on the Coast of Wales,
Unlike himselfe, with such as like him bee,
Spenser, Reding, Baldock, these haplesse three,
They to him subject, he subject to care,
And he and they, to murther subject are.

To ancient Neyth, a Castell strongly built,
Thether repayre thys forlorne banish'd crew,
Which holdeth them, but not contaynes theyr guilt,
There hid from eyes, but not from envies view,
Nor from theyr starrs themselves they yet with-drew,
Walls may awhile keepe out an enemie,
But never Castle kept out destenie.

Heere Fortune hath immur'd them in this hold,
Willing theyr poore imprisoned liberty,
Living a death, in hunger, want, and cold,
Whilst murtherous treason entreth secretly,
All lay on hands to punish cruelty;
And when even might is up unto the chin,
Weake frends become strong foes to thrust him in.

351

Melpomine, thou dolefull Muse be gone,
Thy sad complaints be matters farre too light,
Heere (now) come plagues beyond comparison.
You dreadfull Furies, visions of the night,
With gastly howling all approch my sight,
And let pale ghosts with sable Tapers stand,
To lend sad light to my more sadder hand.

Each line shall be a history of woe,
And every accent as a dead mans cry;
Now must my teares in such aboundance flow,
As doe the drops of fruitfull Castaly,
Each letter must containe a tragedy:
Loe, now I come to tell this wofull rest,
The drerest tale that ever pen exprest.

You sencelesse stones, as all prodigious,
Or things which of like solid substance be,
Sith thus in nature all grow monsterous,
And unto kinde contrary disagree,
Consume, or burne, or weepe, or sigh with mee,
Unlesse the earth hard-harted, nor can moane,
Makes steele and stones, more hard then steele and stone.

All-guiding heaven, which so doost still maintaine
What ere thou moov'st in perfect unitie,
And bynd'st all things in friendshyps sacred chayne,
In spotles and perpetuall amitie,
Which is the bounds of thy great Emperie;
Why sufferest thou the sacriligious rage,
Of thys rebellious, hatefull, yron age.

Now ruine raignes, God helpe the Land the while,
All prysons freed to make all mischiefes free,
Traytors and Rebels called from exile,
All things be lawfull, but what lawfull bee,
Nothing our owne, but our owne infamie:
Death, which ends care, yet carelesse of our death,
Who steales our joyes, but stealeth not our breath.

352

London which didst thys mischiefe first begin,
Loe, now I come thy tragedy to tell,

The Londeners set all the prisoners at liberty.

Thou art the first thats plagued for this sin,
Which first didst make the entrance to this hell,
Now death and horror in thy walls must dwell,
Which should'st have care thy selfe in health to keepe,
Thus turn'st the wolves amongst the harmelesse sheepe.

O had I eyes, another Thames to weepe,
Or words expressing more, then words expresse,
O could my teares, thy great foundation steepe,
To moane thy pride, thy wastfull vaine excesse,
Thy gluttonie, thy youthfull wantonnesse:
But t'is thy sinnes, that to the heavens are fled,
Dissolving clowdes of vengeance on thy head.

The place prophan'd, where God should be adord,
The stone remov'd, whereon our faith is grounded,
Aucthoritie is scornd, counsell abhord,
Religion so by foolish sects confounded,
Weake consciences by vaine questions wounded:
The honour due, to Magistrates neglected,
What else but vengeance can there be expected?

When fayth but faynd, a faith doth onely fayne,
And Church-mens lives, give Lay-men leave to fall,
The Ephod made a cloake to cover gayne,
Cunning avoyding what's canonicall,
Yet holines the Badge to beare out all:
When sacred things be made a merchandize,
None talke of texts, then ceaseth prophicies.

When as the lawes, doe once pervert the lawes,
And weake opinion guides the common weale,
Where doubts should cease, doubts rise in every clawse,
The sword which wounds, should be a salve to heale,
Oppression works oppression to conceale:
Yet beeing us'd, when needfull is the use,
Right clokes all wrongs, and covers all abuse.

353

Tempestious thunders, teare the fruitlesse earth,
The roring Ocean past her bounds to rise,
Death-telling apparisions, monstrous birth,
Th'affrighted heaven with comet-glaring eyes,
The ground, the ayre, all fild with prodigies:
Fearefull eclipses, fierie vision,
And angrie Planets in conjunction.

Thy chanells serve for inke, for paper stones,
And on the ground, write murthers, incests, rapes,
And for thy pens, a heape of dead-mens bones,
Thy letters, ugly formes, and monstrous shapes;
And when the earths great hollow concave gapes,
Then sinke them downe, least shee we live upon,
Doe leave our use, and flye subjection.

Virgine, but Virgine onely in thy name,
Now for thy sinne what murtherer shall be spent?
Blacke is my inke, but blacker is thy shame,
Who shall revenge? my Muse can but lament,
With hayre disheveld, words and tears halfe spent:
Poore ravish'd Lucrece stands to end her lyfe,
Whilst cruell Tarquin whets the angrie knyfe.

Thou wantst redresse, and tyrannie remorce,
And sad suspition dyes thy fault in graine,
Compeld by force, must be repeld by force,
Complaints no pardon, penance helpes not payne,
But blood must wash out a more bloody stayne:
To winne thine honour with thy losse of breath,
Thy guiltlesse lyfe with thy more guiltie death.

Thou art benumd, thou canst not feele at all,
Plagues be thy pleasures, feare hath made past feare,
The deadly sound of sinnes nile-thundering fall,
Hath tuned horror setled in thine eare,
Shreeks be the sweetest Musicke thou canst heare:
Armes thy attyer, and weapons all thy good,
And all the wealth thou hast, consists in blood.

354

See wofull Cittie, on thy ruin'd wall,
The verie Image of thy selfe heere see,
Read on thy gates in charrecters thy fall,
In famish'd bodies, thine Anatomie,
How like to them thou art, they like to thee:
And if thy teares have dim'd thy hatefull sight,
Thy buildings are one fier to give thee light.

For world that was, a wofull is, complayne,
When men might have been buried when they dyed,
When Children might have in their cradels layne,
When as a man might have enjoy'd his bride,
The Sonne kneeld by his Fathers death-bed side:
The lyving wrongd, the dead no right (now) have,
The Father sees his Sonne to want a grave.

The poore Samarian almost starv'd for food,
Yet sawced her sweet Infants flesh with tears,
But thou in child with murther, long'st for blood,
Which thy wombe wanting, casts the fruite it bears,
Thy viperous brood, their lothsome prison teyrs:
Thou drinkst thy gore out of a dead-mans scull,
Thy stomack hungry, though thy gorge be full.

Is all the world in sencelesse slaughter dround?
No pittying hart? no hand? no eye? no eare?
None holds his sword from ripping of the wound,
No sparke of pittie, nature, love, nor feare;
Be all so mad, that no man can forbeare?
Will you incur the cruell Neros blame,
Thus to discover your owne Mothers shame?

The man who of the plague yet raving lyes,
Heares yeelding gosts to give their latest grone,
And from his carefull window nought espyes,
But dead-mens bodies, others making moane,
No talke but Death, and execution.
Poore silly women from their houses fled,
Crying (ô helpe) my husbands murthered;

355

Thames turne thee backe to Belgias frothie mayne,
Fayre Tame and Isis, hold backe both your springs,
Nor on thy London spread thy silver trayne,
Nor let thy Ships lay forth their silken wings,
Thy shores with Swans late dying Dirgies rings,
Nor in thy armes let her imbraced bee,
Nor smile on her which sadly weepes on thee.

Time end thy selfe here, let it not be sayd,
That ever Death did first begin in thee,
Nor let this slaunder to thy fault be layd,
That ages charge thee with impietie,
Least feare what hath beene, argue what may be:
And fashioning so a habite of the mind,
Make men no men, and alter humaine kind.

But yet this outrage hath but taken breath,
For pittie past, she meanes to make amends,
And more enrag'd, she doth returne to death,
And next goes downe King Edward and his frends,
What she hath hoarded, now she franckly spends:
In such strange action as was never seene,
Clothing revenge in habite of a Queene.

Now Stapleton's thy turne, from France that fled,
The next the lot unto the Spensers fell,
Reding the Marshall, marshal'd with the dead,
Next is thy turne great Earle of Arundell,
Then Mochelden and wofull Daniell:
Who followed him in his lascivious wayes,
Must goe before him to his blackest dayes.

Carnarvan by his Countrie-men betrayd,
And sent a Prisoner from his native Land,
To Kenelworth poore King he is convayd,
To th'Earle of Leister with a mighty band;
And now a present Parliament in hand,
Fully concluding what they had begunne,
T'uncrowne King Edward, and invest his Sonne.

356

A scepter's lyke a pillar of great height,
Whereon a mighty building doth depend,
Which when the same is over-prest with weight,
And past his compasse, forc'd therby to bend,
His massie roofe down to the ground doth send:
Crushing the lesser props, and murthering all,
Which stand within the compasse of his fall.

Where vice is countenanc'd with nobilitie,
Arte cleane excluded, ignorance held in,
Blinding the world, with mere hipocrisie,
Yet must be sooth'd in all their slavish sinne,
Great malcontents to growe they then begin:
Nursing vile wits, to make them factious tooles,
Thus mighty men oft proove the mightiest fooles.

The Senate wronged by the Senator,
And justice made injustice by delayes,
Next innovation playes the Orator,
Counsels uncounseld, Death defers no dayes,
And plagues, but plagues, alow no other playes:
And when one lyfe, makes hatefull many lives,
Cæsar though Cæsar, dyes with swords and knives.

Now for the Cleargie, Peers, and Laietie,
Against the King must resignation make,
Th'elected Senate of the Emperie,
To Kenelworth are come, the Crowne to take,
Sorrowe hath yet but slept, and now awake:
In solemne sort each one doth take his place,
The partiall Judges of poore Edwards case.

From his imprisoning chamber, cloth'd in black,
Before the great assemblie he is brought,
A dolefull hearse upon a dead-mans back,
Whose heavie lookes, might tell his heavie thought,
Greefe neede no fayned action to be taught:
His Funerall solemniz'd in his cheere,
His eyes the Mourners, and his legs the Beere.

357

His fayre red cheeks clad in pale sheets of shame,
And for a dumbe shew in a swound began,
Where passion doth strange sort of passion frame,
And every sence a right Tragedian,
Exceeding farre the compasse of a man,
By use of sorrow learning nature arte,
Teaching Dispayre to act a lively part.

Ah Pitty, doost thou live, or art thou not?
Some say such sights, men unto flints have turned,
Or Nature, else thy selfe hast thou forgot?
Or is it but a tale, that men have mourned?
That water ever drown'd, or fire burned?
Or have teares left to dwell in humaine eyes,
Or ever man to pitty miseries?

Hee takes the Crowne, and closely hugs it to him,
And smiling in his greefe he leanes upon it;
Then doth hee frowne because it would forgoe him,
Then softly stealing, layes his vesture on it;
Then snatching at it, loth to have forgone it,
Hee put it from him, yet hee will not so,
And yet retaines what fayne he would forgoe.

Like as a Mother over-charg'd with woe,
Her onely chylde now laboring in death,
Doing to helpe it, nothing yet can doe,
Though with her breath, she faine would give it breath,
Still saying, yet forgetting what shee sayth:
Even so with poore King Edward doth it fare,
Leaving his Crowne, the first-borne of his care.

In thys confused conflict of the minde,
Tears drowning sighes, and sighes confounding tears,
Yet when as neyther any ease could finde,
And extreame griefe doth somwhat harden feares,
Sorrow growes sencelesse when too much she bears,
Whilst speech & silence, strives which place should take,
With words halfe spoke, he silently bespake.

358

I clayme no Crowne, quoth he, by vile oppression,
Nor by the law of Nations have you chose mee,
My Fathers title groundeth my succession,
Nor in your power is cullor to depose mee,
By heavens decree I stand, they must dispose mee;
A lawles act, in an unlawfull thing,
With-drawes allegiance, but uncrownes no King.

What God hath sayd to one, is onely due,
Can I usurpe by tyrannizing might?
Or take what by your birth-right falls to you?
Roote out your houses? blot your honors light?
By publique rule, to rob your publique right?
Then can you take, what he could not that gave it,
Because the heavens commaunded I should have it.

My Lords, quoth hee, commend me to the King,
Heere doth he pause, fearing his tongue offended,
Even as in child-birth forth the word doth bring,
Sighing a full poynt, as he there had ended,
Yet striving, as his speech he would have mended;
Things of small moment we can scarcely hold,
But griefes that tuch the hart, are hardly told.

Heere doth he weepe, as he had spoke in tears,
Calming this tempest with a shower of raine,
Whispering, as he would keepe it from his ears,
Doe my alegiance to my Soveraigne;
Yet at this word, heere doth he pause againe:
Yes say even so, quoth he, to him you beare it,
If it be Edward that you meane shall weare it.

Keepe hee the Crowne, with mee remaine the curse,
A haplesse Father, have a happy Sonne,
Take he the better, I endure the worse,
The plague to end in mee, in mee begun,
And better may he thrive then I have done;
Let him be second Edward, and poore I,
For ever blotted out of memorie.

359

Let him account his bondage from the day
That he is with the Diadem invested,
A glittering Crowne doth make the haire soone gray,
Within whose circle he is but arested,
In all his feasts, hee's but with sorrowe feasted;
And when his feete disdaine to tuch the mold,
His head a prysoner, in a Jayle of gold.

In numbring of his subjects, numbring care,
And when the people doe with shouts begin,
Then let him thinke theyr onely prayers are,
That he may scape the danger he is in,
The multitude, be multitudes of sin;
And hee which first doth say, God save the King,
Hee is the first doth newes of sorrow bring.

His Commons ills shall be his private ill,
His private good is onely publique care,
His will must onely be as others will:
Himselfe not as he is, as others are,
By Fortune dar'd to more then Fortune dare:
And he which may commaund an Empery,
Yet can he not intreat his liberty.

Appeasing tumults, hate cannot appease,
Sooth'd with deceits, and fed with flatteries,
Displeasing to himselfe, others to please,
Obey'd as much as he shall tyrannize,
Feare forcing friends, enforcing Enemies:
And when hee sitteth under his estate,
His foote-stoole danger, and his chayre is hate.

He King alone, no King that once was one,
A King that was, unto a King that is;
I am unthron'd, and hee enjoyes my throne,
Nor should I suffer that, nor he doe this,
He takes from mee what yet is none of his;
Young Edward clymes, old Edward falleth downe,
King'd and unking'd, he crown'd, farwell my crowne.

360

Princes be Fortunes chyldren, and with them,
Shee deales, as Mothers use theyr babes to still,
Unto her darling gives a Diadem,
A pretty toy, his humor to fulfill;
And when a little they have had theyr will,
Looke what shee gave, shee taketh at her pleasure,
Using the rod when they are out of measure.

But policie, who still in hate did lurke,
And yet suspecteth Edward is not sure,
Waying what blood with Leicester might worke,
Or else what friends his name might yet procure;
A guilty conscience never is secure;
From Leisters keeping cause him to be taken;
Alas poore Edward, now of all forsaken.

To Gurney and Matravers he is given;
O let theyr act be odious to all ears,
And beeing spoke, stirre clowdes to cover heaven,
And be the badge the wretched murtherer bears,
The wicked oth whereby the damned swears:
But Edward, in thy hell thou must content thee,
These be the devils which must still torment thee.

Hee on a leane ilfavored beast is set,
Death upon Famine moralizing right;
His cheeks with tears, his head with raigne bewet,
Nights very picture, wandring still by night;
When he would sleep, like dreams they him affright;
His foode torment, his drinke a poysoned bayne,
No other comfort but in deadly paine.

And yet because they feare to have him knowne,
They shave away his princely tressed hayre,
And now become not worth a hayre ofs owne,
Body and fortune now be equall bare;
Thus voyde of wealth, ô were he voyde of care.
But ô, our joyes are shadowes, and deceave us,
But cares, even to our deaths doe never leave us.

361

A silly Mole-hill is his kingly chayre,
With puddle water must he now be drest,
And his perfume, the lothsome fenny ayre,
An yron skull, a Bason fitting best,
A bloody workman, suting with the rest;
His lothed eyes, within thys filthy glas,
Truly behold how much deform'd hee was.

The drops which from his eyes abundance fall,
A poole of tears still rising by this rayne,
Even fighting with the water, and withall,
A circled compasse makes it to retaine,
Billow'd with sighes, like to a little maine;
Water with tears, contending whether should
Make water warme, or make the warme tears cold.

Vile Traytors, hold of your unhalowed hands,
The cruelst beast the Lyons presence fears:
And can you keepe your Soveraigne then in bands?
How can your eyes behold th'anoynteds tears?
Are not your harts even pearced through your ears?
The minde is free, what ere afflict the man,
A King's a King, doe Fortune what shee can.

Who's he can take what God himselfe hath given?
Or spill that life his holy spirit infused?
All powers be subject to the powers of heaven,
Nor wrongs passe unreveng'd, although excused,
Weepe Majestie to see thy selfe abused;
O whether shall authoritie be take,
When shee herselfe, herselfe doth so forsake?

A wreath of hay they on his temples bind,
Which when he felt, (tears would not let him see,)
Nature (quoth he) now art thou onely kind,
Thou giv'st, but Fortune taketh all from mee,
I now perceave, that were it not for thee:
I should want water, clothing for my brayne,
But earth gives hay, and mine eyes give me rayne.

362

My selfe deform'd, lyke my deformed state,
My person made like to mine infamie,
Altring my favour, could you alter fate,
And blotting beautie, blot my memorie,
You might flye slaunder, I indignitie:
My golden Crowne, tooke golden rule away,
A Crowne of hay, well sutes a King of hay.

Yet greev'd agayne, on nature doth complayne,
Nature (sayth he) ô thou art just in all,
Why should'st thou then, thus strengthen me agayne,
To suffer things so much unnaturall?
Except thou be pertaker in my fall:
And when at once so many mischiefes meete,
Mak'st poyson nuterment, and bitter sweete.

And now he thinks he wrongeth Fortune much,
Who giveth him this great preheminence,
For since by fate his myseries be such,
Her worser name hath taught him pacience,
For no offence, he taketh as offence:
Crost on his back, and crosses in the brest,
Thus is he crost, who never yet was blest.

To Berckley thus they lead this wretched King,
The place of horror which they had fore-thought,
O heavens why suffer you so vile a thing,
And can behold, this murther to be wrought,
But that your wayes are all with judgement frought:
Now entrest thou, poore Edward to thy hell,
Thus take thy leave, and bid the world farewell.

O Berckley, thou which hast beene famous long,
Still let thy walls shreeke out a deadly sound,
And still complayne thee of thy greevous wrong,
Preserve the figure of King Edwards wound,
And keepe their wretched footsteps on the ground:
That yet some power againe may give them breath,
And thou againe mayst curse them both to death.

363

The croking Ravens hideous voyce he hears,
Which through the Castell sounds with deadly yells,
Imprinting strange imaginarie fears,
The heavie Ecchoes lyke to passing bells,
Chyming far off his dolefull burying knells:
The jargging Casements which the fierce wind dryves,
Puts him in mind of fetters, chaynes, and gyves.

By silent night, the ugly shreeking Owles,
Lyke dreadfull Spirits with terror doe torment him,
The envious dogge, angry with darcknes howles,
Lyke messengers from damned ghosts were sent him,
Or with hells noysome terror to present him:
Under his roofe the buzzing night-Crow sings,
Clapping his windowe with her fatall wings.

Death still prefigur'd in his fearefull dreames,
Of raging Feinds, and Goblins that he meets,
Of falling downe from steepe-rocks into streames,
Of Toombs, of Graves, of Pits, of winding sheets,
Of strange temptations and seducing sprits:
And with his cry awak'd, calling for ayde,
His hollowe voyce doth make him selfe afrayd.

Oft in his sleepe he sees the Queene to flye him,
Sterne Mortimer pursue him with his sword,
His Sonne in sight, yet dares he not come nigh him,
To whom he calls, who aunswereth not a word,
And lyke a monster wondred and abhord:
Widowes and Orphans following him with cryes,
Stabbing his hart, and scratching out his eyes.

Next comes the vision of his bloody raigne,
Masking along with Lancasters sterne ghost,
Of eight and twentie Barrons hang'd and slayne,
Attended with the rufull mangled host,
At Burton and at Borough battell lost:
Threatning with frownes, and trembling every lim,
With thousand thousand curses cursing him.

364

And if it chaunce that from the troubled skyes,
Some little brightnes through the chinks give light,
Straight waies on heaps the thrunging clouds doe rise,
As though the heaven were angry with the night.
Deformed shadowes glimpsing in his sight:
As though darcknes, for she more darcke would bee,
Through these poore Crannells forc'd her selfe to see.

Within a deepe vault under where he lay,
Under buried filthie carcasses they keepe,
Because the thicke walls hearing kept away,
His feeling feeble, seeing ceas'd in sleepe;
This lothsome stinck comes from this dungeon deepe,
As though before they fully did decree,
No one sence should from punishment be free.

Hee haps our English Chronicle to find,
On which to passe the howers he falls to reed,
For minuts yet to recreate his mind,
If any thought one uncar'd thought might feed,
But in his breast new conflicts this doth breed:
For when sorrowe, is seated in the eyes,
What ere we see, increaseth miseries.

Opening the Booke, he chaunced first of all
On conquering Williams glorious comming in,
The Normans rising, and the Bryttains fall,
Noting the plague ordayn'd for Harolds sinne,
How much, in how short time this Duke did winne;
Great Lord (quoth hee) thy conquests plac'd thy throne,
I to mine owne, have basely lost mine owne.

Then comes to Rufus a lascivious King,
Whose lawlesse rule on that which he enjoy'd,
A sodaine end unto his dayes doth bring,
Himselfe destroy'd in that which he destroy'd,
None moane his death, whose lyfe had all anoy'd:
Rufus (quoth he) thy fault far lesse then mine,
Needs must my plague be far exceeding thine.

365

To famous Bewclarke studiouslie he turnes,
Who from Duke Robert doth the scepter wrest,
Whose eyes put out, in flintie Cardiffe mornes,

Robert Shortthigh Duke of Normandy.

In Palestine who bare his conquering crest,
Who though of Realmes, of fame not dispossest:
In all afflictions this may comfort thee,
Onely my shame in death remaines (quoth hee.)

Then comes he next to Stephens troublous state,
Plagu'd with the Empresse, in continuall warre,
Yet with what patience he could beare his hate,
And lyke a wise-man rule his angry starre,
Stopping the wheele of Fortunes giddie carre:
O thus (quoth he) had gracelesse Edward done,
He had not now beene Subject to his Sonne.

Then to Henry Plantaginet he goes,
Two Kings at once, two Crown'd at once doth find,
The roote from whence so many mischiefes rose,
The Fathers kindnes makes the Sonne unkind,
Th'ambitious Brothers to debate inclind:
Thou crown'st thy Sonne, yet living still do'st raigne,
Mine uncrownes me (quoth he) yet am I slaine.

Then of couragious Lyon-hart he reeds,
The Souldans terror, and the Pagans wrack,
The Easterne world fild with his glorious deeds,
Of Joppas siege, of Cipres wofull sack,
Richard (quoth hee) turning his dull eyes back:
Thou did'st in height of thy felicitie,
I in the depth of all my miserie.

Then by degrees to sacriligious John,
Murthering young Arthur, hath usurp'd his right,
The Cleargies curse, the poors oppression,
The greevous crosses that on him did light,
To Rooms proud yoke yeelding his awfull might:
Even by thy end (he sayth) now John I see,
Gods judgements thus doe justly fall on mee.

366

Then, to long-raigning Winchester his Sonne,
With whom his people bloody warre did wage,
And of the troubles in his time begunne,
The head-strong Barrons wrath, the Commons rage,
And yet how he these tumults could aswage:
Thou livest long, (quoth he) longer thy name,
And I dye soone, yet over-live my fame.

Then to great Longshanks mighty victories,
Who in the Orcads fix'd his Countries mears,
And dar'd in fight our fayths proud Enemies,
Which to his name eternall Trophies rears,
Whose gracefull favors yet faire England wears:
Bee't deadly sinne (quoth he) once to defile,
This Fathers name with me a Sonne so vile.

Following the leafe, he findeth unawars,
What day young Edward Prince of Wales was borne,
Which Letters seeme lyke Magick Charrecters,
Or to dispight him they were made in scorne,
O let that name (quoth he) from Books be torne:
Least that in time, the very greeved earth,
Doe curse my Mothers woombe, and ban my birth.

Say that King Edward never had such child,
Or was devour'd as hee in cradle lay,
Be all men from my place of birth exil'd,
Let it be sunck, or swallowed with some sea,
Let course of yeeres devoure that dismall day,
Let all be doone that power can bring to passe,
Onely be it forgot that ere I was.

The globy tears impearled in his eyes,
Through which as glasses hee is forc'd to looke,
Make letters seeme as circles which arise,
Forc'd by a stone within a standing Brooke,
And at one time, so divers formes they tooke,
Which like to uglie Monsters doe affright,
And with their shapes doe terrifie his sight.

367

Thus on his carefull Cabin falling downe,
Enter the Actors of his tragedy,
Opening the doores, which made a hollow soune,
As they had howl'd against theyr crueltie,
Or of his paine as they would prophecie;
To whom as one which died before his death,
He yet complaynes, whilst paine might lend him breath.

O be not Authors of so vile an act,
To bring my blood on your posteritie,
That Babes even yet unborne doe curse the fact,
I am a King, though King of miserie,
I am your King, though wanting Majestie:
But he who is the cause of all this teene,
Is cruell March the Champion of the Queene.

He hath my Crowne, he hath my Sonne, my wyfe,
And in my throne tryumpheth in my fall,
Is't not inough but he will have my lyfe?
But more, I feare that yet this is not all,
I thinke my soule to judgement he will call:
And in my death his rage yet shall not dye,
But persecute me so, immortallie.

And for you deadly hate me, let me live,
For that advantage angrie heaven hath left,
Fortune hath taken all that she did give;
Yet that revenge should not be quite bereft,
Shee leaves behind this remnant of her theft:
That miserie should find that onely I,
Am far more wretched then is miserie.

Betwixt two beds these devils straight enclos'd him,
Thus done, uncovering of his secrete part,
When for his death they fitly had disposd him,
With burning yron thrust him to the hart.
O payne beyond all paine, how much thou art!
Which words, as words, may verbally confesse,
But never pen precisely could expresse.

368

O let his tears even freezing as they light,
By the impression of his monstrous payne,
Still keepe this odious spectacle in sight,
And shew the manner how the King was slaine,
That it with ages may be new againe;
That all may thether come that have beene told it,
And in that mirror of his griefes behold it.

Still let the building sigh his bitter grones,
And with a hollow cry his woes repeate,
That sencelesse things even moving sencelesse stones,
With agonizing horror still may sweat;
And as consuming in their furious heate,
Like boyling Cauldrons be the drops that fall,
Even as that blood for vengeance still did call.

O let the wofull Genius of the place,
Still haunt the pryson where his life was lost:
And with torne hayre, and swolne ilfavored face,
Become the guide to his revengefull ghost,
And night and day still let them walke the Coast:
And with incessant howling terrifie,
Or moove with pitty all that travell by.

True vertuous Lady, now of mirth I sing,
To sharpen thy sweet spirit with some delight,
And somwhat slack this mellancholie string,
Whilst I of love and tryumphs must indite,
Too soone againe of passion must I write.
Of Englands wonder, now I come to tell,
How Mortimer first rose, when Edward fell.

Downe lesser lights, the glorious Sunne doth clime,
His joyfull rising is the worlds proude morne;
Now is he got betwixt the wings of Tyme,
And with the tyde of Fortune forwards borne,
Good starrs assist his greatnes to subborne;
Who have decreed his raigning for a while,
All laugh on him, on whom the heavens doe smile.

369

The pompous sinode of these earthly Gods,
At Salsbury, appointed by their King,
To set all even which had been at ods,
And into fashion, their dissignes to bring,
That peace might now from their proceedings spring,
And to establish what they had begun,
Under whose cullour mighty things were done.

Heere Mortimer is Earle of March created,
Thys honor added to his Barronie,
And unto fame heere is he consecrated,
That titles might his greatnes dignifie,
As for the rest, he easely could supply.
Who knew a kingdom to her lap was throwne,
Which having all, would never starve her owne.

A pleasing calme hath smooth'd the troubled sea,
The prime brought on with gentle falling showers,
The misty breake yet proves a goodly day;
And on their heads since heaven her largesse powers,
Thats onely ours, which we doe use as ours:
Pleasures be poore, and our delights be dead,
When as a man doth not enjoy the head.

Tyme wanting bounds, still wanteth certainty,
Of dangers past, in peace wee love to heare,
Short is the date of all extreamity,
Long wished things a sweet delight doth beare,
Better forgoe our joyes then still to feare:
Fortune her gifts in vaine to such doth gyve,
As when they live, seeme as they did not live.

Now stand they like the two starre-fixed Poles,
Betwixt the which the circling Spheres doe move,
About whose Axeltree thys fayre Globe roules,
Which that great Moover by his strength doth shove,
Yet every poynt still ending in theyr love;
For might is ever absolute alone,
When of two powers there's true conjunction.

370

The King must take, what by theyr power they give,
And they protect what serves for theyr protection,
They teach to rule, whilst he doth learne to live,
T'whom all be subject, lives in theyr subjection,
Though borne to rule, yet crown'd by their election,
Th'alegiance which to Edward doth belong,
Doth make theyr faction absolutely strong.

Twelve guide the King, his power theyr powers consist,
Peers guide the King, they guide both King and Peers,
Ill can the Brooke his owne selfe-streame resist,
Theyr aged counsell, to his younger yeeres,
Young Edward vowes, and all the while he steers;
Wel might we think the man were more then blind,
Which wanted Sea roomth, and could rule the wind.

In lending strength, theyr strength they still retaine,
Building his force, theyr owne they so repare,
Under his raigne, in safety they doe raigne,
They give a kingdome, and doe keepe the care,
They who adventure, must the booty share,
A Princes wealth in spending still doth spred,
Like to a Poole with many fountaines fed.

They sit at ease, though he sit in the throne,
He shaddowes them who his supporters be,
And in division they be two for one,
An Empyre now must thus be rul'd by three,
What they make free, they challenge to be free;
The King enjoyeth, but what they lately gave,
They priviledg'd to spend, leave him to save.

Nine-score brave Knights belonging to his Court

Mortimer nine-score Knights in his retinue.

At Notingham, which all the Coast commaunds,
All parts pay trybute, honor to his port,
Much may he doe which hath so many hands,
This rocke-built Castell, over-looks the Lands:
Thus lyke a Gyant, still towards heaven doth ryse,
And fayne would cast the Rocks against the skyes.

371

Where ere he goes there pompe in tryumph goes,
Over his head Fame soring still doth flye,
Th'earth in his presence decks her selfe in showes,
And glory sits in greatest Majestie,
Aboundance there doth still in Child-bed lye:
For where Fortune her bountie will bestowe,
There heaven and earth must pay what she doth owe.

In Notingham, the Norths great glorious eye,
Crowne of the beautious branch-embellish'd soyle,
The throne emperiall of his Emperie,
His resting place, releever of his toyle,
Here he enjoyes his never-prized spoyle:
There lyving in a world of all delight,
Beheld of all, and having all in sight.

Here all along the flower-enameld vales,
Cleere Trent upon the pearly sand doth slide,
And to the Meadowes telling wanton tales,
Her christall lims lasciviously in pride,
With thousand turnes shee casts from side to side:
As loth shee were the sweet soyle to forsake,
And throw her selfe into the German lake.

Whence great hart-harboring Sherwood wildly roves,
Whose leavie Forrests garlanding her Towers,
Shadowing the small Brooks with her Ecchoing groves,
Whose thick-plashd sides repulse the Northerne showers,
Where Nature sporting in her secret Bowers:
This strong built Castell hurketh in her shade,
As to this end she onely had beene made.

There must the glorious Parliament be held,
Earth must come in, when awfull heaven doth send,
For whether Jove his powerfull selfe doth weld,
Thether all powers them selves must wholly bend,
Whose hand holds thunder, who dare him offend?
And where proud conquest keepeth all in awe,
Kings oft are forc'd in servile yokes to drawe

372

Heere sit they both under the rich estate,
Yet neither strive the upper hand to get,
In pompe and power both equall at a rate,
And as they came, so are they friendly set,
He entreth first, which first in entring met;
A King at least the Earle of March must be,
Or else the maker of a King is hee.

Perhaps, he with a smyle the King will grace,
His knees growe stiffe, they have forgot to bow,
And if he once have taken up his place,
Edward must come, if he his will would know,
A foote out of his seate he cannot goe;
Thys small word subject, pricks him like a sting,
My Empyres Colleage, or my fellow King.

O had felicity feeling of woe,
Or could on meane but moderatly feede,
Or would looke downe the way that he must goe,
Or could abstaine from what diseases breede,
To stop the wound before to death he bleede,
Warre should not fill Kings Pallaces with moane,
Nor perrill come when tis least thought upon.

Ambition with the Eagle loves to build,
Nor on the Mountayne dreads the winters blast,
But with selfe-soothing doth the humor guild,
With arguments correcting what is past,
Fore-casting Kingdomes, daungers unforecast:
Leaving this poore word of content to such,
Whose earthly spirits have not his fierie tuch.

But pleasures never dine but on excesse,
Whose dyet made to drawe on all delight,
And overcome in that sweet drunkennes,
His appetite maintayned by his sight,
Strengthneth desier, but ever weakneth might:
Untill this ulcer ripening to a head,
Vomits the poyson which it nourished.

373

Even as a flood swelling beyond his bounds,
Doth over-presse the channell where he flowd,
And breaking forth, the neighbour Meadows drowns,
That of him selfe, him selfe doth quite unload,
Dispearcing his owne greatnes all abroad:
Spending the store he was maintayned by,
Empties his Brooke, and leaves his Channell dry.

Upon this Subject, envie might devise,
Here might she proove her mischeefe-working wings,
An object for her ever-waking eyes,
Wherein to stick a thousand deadly stings,
A ground whereon to build as many things:
For where our actions measure no regard,
Our lawlesse will is made his owne reward.

Here vengeance calls destruction up from hell,
Conjuring mischeefe to devise a curse,
Increasing that, which more and more did swell,
Adding to ill, to make this evill worse,
Whilst hatefull pride becomes ambitions nurse:
T'is incedent to those whom many feare,
Many to them more greevous hate doe beare.

And now those fewe which many tears had spent,
And long had wept on olde King Edwards grave,
Find some begin to pittie their lament,
Wishing the poore yet some redresse might have,
Revenge cannot denie what death doth crave:
Opening their eares what so abhord their eyes,
Ill will too soone regardeth envies cryes.

Time calls account of what before is past,
All thrust on mallice pressing to be hard,
Unto misfortune all men goe too fast,
Seldome, advantage is in wrongs debard,
Nor in revenge a meane is never spard:
For when once pryde but poynteth towards his fall,
He bears a sword to wound him selfe with all.

374

Edward whose shoulders now were taught to peyze,
Briarius burthen, which opprest him so,
His current stop'd with these outragious Seas,
Whose gulfe receav'd the tyde should make him flowe,
This Rocke cast in the way where he must goe:
That honor brooks, no fellowship hath tryde,
Nor never Crowne Corrivall could abyde.

Some urge that March, meaning by blood to rise,
First cut off Kent, fearing he might succeed,
Trayning the King to what he did devise,
Lymming in cullors this unlawfull deed,
And to his owne, the royall blood to weed:
Thus every strawe prooves fewell to the fier,
When counsell doth concurre with our desier.

All fence the tree which serveth for a shade,
Whose great growne body doth repulse the wind,
Untill his wastfull branches doe invade,
The straighter plants, and them in pryson bind,
Then lyke a foule devower of his kind:
Unto his roote all put their hands to hewe,
Whose roomth but hinder other which would grow.

Greatnes, lyke to the Sunnes reflecting powers,
The fen-bred vapours naturally exhales,
And is the cause that oft the evening lowers,
When foggie mists enlarge their duskie sailes,
That his owne beams, he in the clouds impales:
And eyther must extinguish his owne light,
Or by his vertue cause his propper night.

Of winter thus whilst they prognosticate,
He hath the Sommer, and a fruitfull yeare,
And still is soothed by his flattering fate,
For still the starre which guides him doth appeare;
Hee looks far off, yet sees not daunger neare:
For oft we see before a sodaine shower,
The sunne shines hott'st, and hath the greatest power.

375

Now sphears with Musick make a new worlds birth,
Bring on againe olde Saturns golden raigne,
Renewe this wearie barren-wombed earth,
And rayse aloft the sunnes declyning wayne,
And by your power make all things young agayne:
Orpheus, once more to Thebes olde Forrests bring,
Drinke Nectar, whilst the Gods are banquetting.

Within this Castell had the Queene devisd,
A stately Chamber with the pensill wrought,
Within whose compasse was imparadizd,
What ever Arte or rare invention taught,
As well might seeme far to exceed all thought:
That were the thing on earth to move delight,
He should not want it to content his sight.

Heere Phœbus clipping Hiacynthus stood,
Whose lyves last drops, his snowie breast imbrewe,
Mixing his christall tears with purple blood,
As were it blood or tears, none scarcely knewe,
Yet blood and tears, one from the other drewe:
The little wood-nimphs chafing him with balme,
To rayse this sweet Boy from this deadly qualme.

Here lyes his Lute, his Quiver, and his bowe,
His golden mantle on the greene-spred ground,
That from the things themselves none could them know,
The sledge so shadowed, still seem'd to rebound,
Th'wound beeing made, yet still to make a wound:
The purple flower with letters on the leaves,
Springing that Nature, oft her selfe deceaves.

The milke-white Heifor, Io, Joves faire rape,
Viewing her new-ta'en figure in a Brooke,
The water seeming to retayne the shape,
Which lookes on her, as shee on it doth looke,
That gazing eyes oft-times them selves mistooke:
By prospective devis'd that looking nowe,
Shee seem'd a Mayden, then againe a Cowe.

376

Then Mercurie amidst his sweetest joyes,
Sporting with Hebe by a Fountayne brim,
Clipping each other with lascivious toyes,
And each to other lapped lim to lim,
On tufts of flowers which loosely seeme to swim:
Which flowers in sprinckled drops doe still appeare,
As all their bodies so embraudered were.

Heere clyffy Cynthus, with a thousand byrds,
Whose checkerd plumes adorne his tufted crowne,
Under whose shadow graze the stragling heards,
Out of whose top, the fresh springs trembling downe,
Duly keepe time with theyr harmonious sowne.
The Rock so lively done in every part,
As arte had so taught nature, nature arte.

The naked Nymphes, some up, some downe discending,
Small scattering flowers one at another flung,
With pretty turns their lymber bodies bending,
Cropping the blooming branches lately sprong,
Which on the Rocks grewe heere and there among.
Some combe theyr hayre, some making garlands by,
As living, they had done it actually.

And for a trayle, Caisters silver Lake,
Whose heards of Swanns sit pruning on a row,
By their much whitenes, such reflection make,
As though in Sommer had been falne a snow,
Whose streame an easie breath doth seeme to blowe;
Which on the sparkling gravell runns in purles,
As though the waves had been of silver curles.

Here falls proude Phaeton, tumbling through the clowds,
The sunny Palfreys have their traces broke,
And setting fire upon the welked shrowds,
Now through the heaven flye gadding from the yoke,
The Sphears all reeking with a mistie smoke,
Drawne with such life, as some did much desire
To warme themselves, some frighted with the fire.

377

And Drencht in Po, the River seemes to burne,
His wofull sisters, mourning there he sees,
Trees unto women seeme themselves to turne,
Or rather women turned into trees,
Drops from their boughs, or tears fall from their eyes,
That fire seem'd to be water, water flame,
Eyther or neyther, and yet both the same.

A stately Bed under a golden tree,
Whose broad-leav'd branches covering over all,
Spread their large Armes like to a Canapy,
Dubbling themselves in their lascivious fall,
Upon whose top the flying Cupids spraule,
And some, at sundry cullored byrds doe shute,
Some swarving up to get the golden fruite.

A counterpoynt of Tyssue, rarely wrought,
Like to Arachnes web, of the Gods rape,
Which with his lifes strange history is wrought,
The very manner of his hard escape,
From poynt to poynt, each thing in perfect shape,
As made the gazers thinke it there was done,
And yet time stayd in which it was begun.

During thys calme, is gather'd that black showre,
Whose uglie clowde the clyme had over-spred,
And now drawes on that long death-dating howre,
His fatall starre now hangeth o're his head,
His fortunes sunne downe towards the evening fled,
For when we thinke we most in safety stand,
Great'st dangers then are ever near'st at hand.

And Edward sees no meanes can ever boote,
Unlesse thys head-strong course he may restraine,
And must pluck up these mischiefs by the roote,
Els spred so farre, might easely grow againe,
And end theyr raigne, if he doe meane to raigne;
The Common-weale to cure, brought to that passe,
Which like a many-headed Monster was.

378

But sith he finds the danger to be such,
To bring this Beare once bayted to the stake,
And that he feeles the forwardest to gruch,
To take in hand this sleeping dog to wake,
He must fore-think of some such course to take,
By which he might his purpose thus effect,
And hurt him most, where he might least suspect.

A trenched vault deepe in the earth is found,
Whose hollownes, like to the Sleep-gods Cell,
With strange Meanders turneth under ground,
Where pitchy darknes ever-more doth dwell,
As well might be an entrance into hell.
Which Archyteckts, to serve the Castell made,
When as the Dane with warrs did all invade.

Heere silent night, as in a pryson shrowded,
Wandreth about within thys mazed roome,
With filthy fogs, and earthly vapors clowded,
As shee were buried in this cliffy toombe,
Or yet unborne within the earths great woombe.
A dampy breath comes from the moysted vaines,
As shee had sigh'd through trouble in her paines.

Now on a long this cranckling path doth keepe,
Then by a rock turnes up another way,
Then rising up, shee poynteth towards the deepe,
As the ground levell, or unlevell lay,
Nor in his course keepes any certaine stay,
Till in the Castell in a secret place,
He suddainly unmaske his duskie face.

The King now with a strong selected crue,
Of such as he with his intent acquainted,
And well affected to thys action knew,
Nor in revenge of Edward never fainted,
Whose loyall fayth had never yet beene tainted,
This Labyrinth determins to assay,
To rouze the beast which kept him thus at bay.

379

The blushing Sunne, plucks in his smyling beames,
Making his steeds to mend theyr wonted pace,
Till plunging downe into the Ocean streames,
There in the frothy waves he hides his face,
Then reynes them in, more then his usuall space,
And leaves foule darknes to possesse the skyes,
A time most fit for fouler tragedies.

With Torches now they enter on his Cave,
As night were day, and day were turnd to night,
Damp'd with the foyle one to the other gave,
Light hating darknes, darknes hating light,
As enemies, each with the other fight;
And each confounding other, both appeare,
As darknes light, and light but darknes were.

The craggy cleeves, which crosse them as they goe,
Seeme as their passage they would have denied,
And threatning them, their journey to for-slowe,
As angry with the path that was their guide,
Cursing the hand which did them first devide,
Theyr combrous falls and risings seem'd to say,
Thys wicked action could not brooke the day.

These gloomy Lamps, by which they on were led,
Making theyr shaddowes follow at theyr back,
Which like to Mourners, waite upon the dead,
And as the deed, so are they ugly black,
Like to the dreadfull Images of wrack;
These poore dym-burning lights, as all amazed,
As those deformed shades whereon they gazed.

Theyr clattering Armes, their Masters seeme to chyde,
As they would reason wherefore they should wound,
And striking with the poynts from side to side,
As they were angry with the hollow ground,
Whose stony roofe lock'd in their dolefull sound:
And hanging in the creeks, draw backe againe,
As willing them from murther to refraine.

380

Now, after masks and gallant revelings,
The Queene unto the Chamber is with-drawne,
To whom a cleer-voyc'd Eunuch playes and sings;
And underneath a Canapy of Lawne,
Sparkling with pearle, like to the cheerfull dawne,
Leaning upon the breast of Mortimer,
Whose voice more then the musick pleasd her eare.

A smock wrought with the purest Affrick silke,
A worke so fine, as might all worke refine,
Her breast like strains of violets in milk,
O be thou hence-forth Beauties living shrine,
And teach things mortall to be most divine.
Enclose Love in thys Labyrinth about,
Where let him wander still, yet ne're get out.

Her golden hayre, ah gold, thou art too base,
Were it not sinne but once to name it hayre,
Falling as it would kisse her fairer face,
But no word fayre enough for thing so fayre,
Invention is too bare, to paynt her bare;
But where the pen fayles, Pensill cannot show it,
Nor can be knowne, unlesse the minde doe knowe it.

Shee layes those fingers on his manly cheeke,
The Gods pure scepters, and the darts of love,
Which with one tuch might make a Tyger meeke,
Or might an Atlas easely remove:
That lilly hand, rich Natures wedding glove,
Which might beget life where was never none,
And put a spirit into the hardest stone.

The fire of precious wood, the lights perfume,
Whose perfect cleernes, on the painting shone,
As every thing with sweetnes would consume,
And every thing had sweetnes of his owne,
The smell where-with they liv'd, & alwaies growne,
That light gave cullour on each thing it fell,
And to that cullour, the perfume gave smell.

381

Upon the sundry pictures they devise,
And from one thing they to an other runne,
Now they commend that body, then those eyes,
How well that byrd, how well that flower was done,
The lively counterfetting of that sunne:
The cullors, the conceits, the shadowings,
And in that Arte a thousand sundrie things.

Looking upon proud Phaeton wrapd in fier,
The gentle Queene doth much bewaile his fall,
But Mortimer more praysing his desier,
To loose his lyfe or else to governe all:
And though (quoth he) he now be Fortunes thrall,
This must be sayd of him when all is done,
Hee perrish'd in the Chariot of the Sunne.

Glaunsing upon Ixion, shee doth smile,
Who for his Juno tooke the cloud amisse;
Madam (quoth hee) thus women can beguile,
And oft we find in love, this error is,
Why friend (quoth shee) thy hap is lyke to his:
That booteth not (quoth he) were he as I,
Jove would have beene in monstrous jealousie.

(Shee sayth) Phœbus is too much forc'd by Art,
Nor can shee find how his imbraces bee:
But Mortimer now takes the Paynters part,
Tis even thus great Empresse, so (quoth hee)
Thus twyne their armes, and thus their lips you see:
You Phœbus are, poore Hiacinthus I,
Kisse mee till I revive, and now I die.

By this into the uttermost stately hall,
Is rudely entred this disordred rout,
And they within suspecting least of all,
Provide no guard to watch on them without,
Thus danger falls oft-times, when least we doubt:
In perrill thus we thinke our selves most sure,
And oft in death fond men are most secure.

382

His trustie Nevill, and young Turrington,
Courting the Ladies, frolick voyd of feare,
Staying delights whilst time away doth runne,
What rare Emprezas hee and he did beare,
Thus in the Lobby whilst they sporting weare:
Assayld on sudaine by this hellish trayne,
Both in the entrance miserably slayne.

Even as from snow-topd Skidos frostie cleeves,
Some Norway Haggard, to her pitch doth tower,
And downe amongst the moore-bred Mallard drives,
And through the aire, right down the wind doth scower,
Commaunding all that lye within her power:
Even such a skreame is hard within the vault,
Made by the Ladies at the first assault.

March hath no armes, but the Queene in his armes,
To fayre a sheeld to beare their fouler blowes,
Enchayning his strong armes, in her sweet armes,
Inclosing them which oft did her inclose,
O had he had but weapons lyke his woes:
Her presence had redoubled then his might,
To lyve and dye both in his soveraigns sight.

Villains (quoth hee) I doe protect the King,
Why Centaure-lyke doe you disturbe me this,
And interrupt the Gods at banquetting,
Where sacred Himen ever present is,
And pleasures are imparadizd in blis:
Where all they powers, their earthly heaven would take,
If heere on earth they their abode should make.

Her presence pardons the offenders ill,
And makes the basest earthly thing divine,
Ther's no decree can countermaund her will,
Shee like the Sunne, doth blesse where she doth shine,
Her Chamber is the most unspotted shrine:
How sacriligiously dare you despise,
And thus prophane these halowed liberties.

383

But Edward, if this enterprize be thine,
And thou an Actor heere do'st play thy part,
I tell thee then base King thy Crowne was mine,
And thou a King but of my making art.
And now poore worme since thou hast taken hart,
Thou would'st hew downe that pillar unto wrack,
Which hath sustaynd Olimpus on his back.

What can he doe, that is so hard beset?
The heaven-threatning Gyants, heaven could tame,
Proud Mars is bound within an yron net,
Alcides burnt in Nessus poysned flame,
Great Jove can shake the universall frame:
He that was wont to call his sword to ayde,
Tis hard with him, when he must stand to plead.

O hadst thou in thy glory thus beene slayne,
All thy delights had beene of easie rate,
But now thy fame yet never tuch'd with stayne,
Must thus be branded with thy haplesse fate,
No man is happie till his lyfes last date:
His pleasures must be of a dearer price,
Poore Adam driven out of Paradice.

Halfe drownd in tears, she followes him: ô tears,
Elixar like, turne all to pearle you weet,
To weepe with her, the building scarce forbears,
Stones Metamorphizd tuch'd but with her feete,
And make the ayre for everlasting sweet:
Wringing her hands with pittious shreeking cries,
Thus utters shee her hard extreamities.

Edward (quoth shee) let not his blood be shed,
Each drop of it is more worth then thy Crowne,
What Region is in Europe limitted,
Where doth not shine, the Sunne of his renowne?
His sword hath set Kings up, & thrown them downe:
Thou knowst that Empires never have confind,
The large-spred bounds of his unconquer'd mind.

384

And if thou feed'st upon thy Fathers wrongs,
Make not revenge, to bring revenge on thee,
What torture thou inflict'st, to me belongs,
And what is due to death, is due to mee,
Imagine that his wounds fresh bleeding bee:
Forget thy birth, thy crowne, thy love, thy Mother,
And in this breast thy sword in vengeance smother.

O let my hands held up appease this stryfe,
O let these knees at which thou oft hast stood,
Now kneele to thee, to beg my lyves true lyfe,
This wombe that bare thee, breast that gave thee food,
Or let my blood yet purchase his deere blood:
O let my tears which never thing could force,
Constraynd by this, yet move thee to remorce.

But all in vaine, still Edwards ghost appears,
And cryes revenge, revenge, unto his Sonne,
And now the voyce of wofull Kent hee hears,
And bids him followe what he had begun,
Nor will they rest till execution done:
The very sight of him he deadly hated,
Sharpens the edge, his Mothers tears rebated.

To London now a wofull prisoner led,
London where he had tryumph'd with the Queene,
He followeth now, whom many followed,
And scarce a man, who many men had beene,
Seeing with greefe who had in pompe been seene:
Those eyes which oft have at his greatnes gazed,
Now at his fall must stand as all amazed.

Oh misery, where once thou art possest,
How soone thy faynt infection alters kind,
And lyke a Cyrce turnest man to beast,
And with the body do'st transforme the mind,
That can in fetters our affections bind:
That he whose back once bare the Lyons skin,
Whipt to his taske, with Iole must spin.

385

Edward and March unite your angry spirits,
Become new friends of auncient Enemies,
Hee was thy death, and he thy death inherits,
How well you consort in your miseries,
And in true time tune your adversities:
Fortune gave him, what shee to Edward gave,
Not so much as thy end but he will have.

At Westminster a Parliament decreed,
Under pretence of safetie to the Crowne,
Where to his fatall end they now proceed,
All working hard to dig this Mountayne downe,
With his owne greatnes that is over-growne:
The King, the Earle of Kent, the Spensers fall,
Upon his head with vengeance thundring all.

The death of Edward never is forgot,

The five Articles whereupon Mortimer is condemned.

The signe at Stanhope to the Enemies,
Jone of the Towers marriage to the Scot,
The Spensers coyne seaz'd to his treasuries,
Th'assuming of the wards and Lyveries:
These Articles they urge which might him greeve,
Which for his creed, he never did beleeve.

Oh dire revenge, when thou in time art rak'd
From out the ashes which preserve thee long,
And lightly from thy cinders art awak'd,
Fuell to feed on, and reviv'd with wrong,
How soone from sparks the greatest flames are sprong:
Which doth by Nature to his top aspire,
Whose massie greatnes once kept downe his fier.

Debar'd from speech to aunswere in his case,
His judgment publique, and his sentence past,
The day of death set downe, the time, and place,
And thus the lot of all his fortune cast,
His hope so slowe, his end draw on so fast:
With pen and ynke, his drooping spirit to wake,
Now of the Queene his leave he thus doth take.

386

Most mighty Empresse, daine thou to peruse
These Swan-like Dirges of a dying man:
Not like those Sonnets of my youthfull Muse,
In that sweet season when our love began,
When at the Tylt thy princely glove I wan:
Whereas my thundring Courser forward set,
Made fire to flie from Herfords Burgonet.

Thys King which thus makes hast unto my death,
Madam, you know, I lov'd him as mine owne,
And when I might have grasped out his breath,
I set him easely in his Fathers throne,
And forc'd the rough stormes backe when they have blowne;
But these forgot, & all the rest forgiven,
Our thoughts must be continually on heaven.

And for the Crowne whereon so much he stands,
Came bastard William but himselfe on shore?
Or had he not our Fathers conquering hands,
Which in the field our houses Ensigne bore,
Which his proude Lyons for theyr safety wore,
Which rag'd at Hastings like that furious Lake,
From whose sterne waves our glorious name we take?

Oh had he charg'd me mounted on that horse
Whereon I march'd before the walls of Gaunt,
And with my Launce there shewd an English force,
Or vanquisht me, a valiant combattant,
Then of his conquest had he cause to vaunt;
But he whose eyes durst not behold my shield,
Perceiv'd my Chamber fitter then the field.

I have not served Fortune like a slave,
My minde hath suted with her mightines,
I have not hid her tallent in a grave,
Nor burying of her bounty made it lesse:
My fault to God and heaven I must confesse;
He twise offends, who sinne in flattery beares,
Yet every howre he dyes, which ever feares.

387

I cannot quake at that which others feare,
Fortune and I have tugg'd together so;
What Fate imposeth, we perforce must beare,
And I am growne familiar with my woe,
Used so oft against the streame to row;
Yet my offence my conscience still doth grieve,
Which God (I trust) in mercy will forgive.

I am shut up in silence, nor must speake,
Nor Kingdoms lease my life, but I must die,
I cannot weepe and if my hart should breake,
Nor am I sencelesse of my misery,
My hart so full, hath made mine eyes so dry;
I neede not cherrish griefes, too fast they grow,
Woe be to him that dies of his owne woe.

I pay my life, and then the debt is payd,
With the reward, th'offence is purg'd and gone,
The stormes will calme when once the spirit is layd;
Envy doth cease, wanting to feede upon,
We have one life, and so our death is one,
Nor in the dust mine honor I inter,
Thus Cæsar dyed, and thus dies Mortimer.

Live sacred Empresse, and see happie dayes,
Be ever lov'd, with me die all our hate,
Let never ages sing but of thy praise,
My blood shall pacifie the angry Fate,
And cancell thus our sorrowes long-liv'd date:
And treble ten times longer last thy fame,
Then that strong Tower thou calledst by my name.

To Nottingham this Letter brought unto her,
Which is endorsed with her glorious stile,
Shee thinks the title yet againe doth wooe her,
And with that thought her sorrowes doth beguile.
Smyling on that, thinks that on her doth smyle;
Shee kissing it, (to countervaile her paine,)
Tuching her lip, it gives the kisse againe.

388

Faire workmanship, quoth she, of that faire hand,
All-mooving organ, sweet spheare-tuning kay,
The Messenger of Joves sleep-charming wand,
Pully which draw'st the curtaine of the Day,
Pure Trophies, reard to guide on valurs way,
What paper-blessing Charrecters are you,
Whose lovely forme, that lovelier engine drew?

Turning the Letter, seal'd shee doth it find,
With those rich Armes borne by his glorious name,
Where-with this dreadfull evidence is sign'd:
O badge of honour, greatest marke of fame,
Brave shield, quoth she, which once from heaven came,
Fayre robe of tryumph, Joves celestiall state,
To all immortall prayses consecrate.

Going about to rip the sacred seale,
Which cleaves, least clowdes too soone should dim her eyes,
As loth it were her sorrowes to reveale,
Quoth shee, thy Maister taught thee secrecies:
The soft waxe, with her fingers tuch doth rise,
Shee asketh it, who taught thee thus to kisse?
I know, quoth she, thy Maister taught thee thys?

Opening the Letter, Empresse shee doth reed,
At which a blush from her faire cheekes arose,
And with Ambrozia still, her thoughts doth feed,
And with a seeming joy doth paint her woes,
Then to subscribed Mortimer shee goes;
March following it, ô March, great March she cryes,
Which speaking word, even seemingly replyes.

Thus hath shee ended, yet shee must begin,
Even as a fish playing with a bayted hooke,
Now shee begins to swallow sorrow in,
And Death doth shewe himselfe at every looke,
Now reads shee in her lives accounting Booke:
And findes the blood of her lost friend had payd,
The deepe expenses which shee forth had layd.

389

Now with an host of wofull words assayl'd,
As every letter wounded lyke a dart,
As every one would boast, which most prevayl'd,
And every one would pierce her to the hart,
Rethoricall in woe, and using Art:
Reasons of greefe, each sentence doth infer,
And evere lyne, a true remembrancer.

Greefe makes her read, yet greefe still bids her leave,
Ore-charg'd with greefe, she neither sees nor heares,
Her sorrowes doe her sences quite deceave,
The words doe blind her eyes, the sound her eares,
And now for vescues doth she use her teares:
And when a lyne shee loosely over-past,
The drops doe tell her where shee left the last.

O now she sees, was ever such a sight?
And seeing, curs'd her sorrow-seeing eye,
And sayth, shee is deluded by the light,
Or is abus'd by the Orthography:
Or poynted false, her schollershyp to try.
Thus when we fondly sooth our owne desires,
Our best conceits doe proove the greatest lyers.

Her trembling hand, as in a Fever shakes,
Wherwith the paper doth a little stirre,
Which shee imagins, at her sorrow quakes,
And pitties it who shee thinks pitties her:
And moning it, bids it that greefe refer;
Quoth shee, Ile raine downe showers of tears on thee,
When I am dead, weepe them againe on mee.

Quoth shee, with odors were thy body burned,
As is Th'arabian byrd against the sunne,
Againe from cynders yet thou should'st be turned,
And so thy life another age should runne,
Nature envying it so soone was done:
Amongst all byrds, one onely of that straine,
Amongst all men, one Mortimer againe.

390

I will preserve thy ashes in some Urne,
Which as a relique, I will onely save,
Which mixed with my tears as I doe mourne,
Within my stomack shall theyr buriall have,
Although deserving a farre better grave;
Yet in that Temple shall they be preserved,
Where, as a Saint thou ever hast been served.

Be thou trans-form'd unto some sacred tree,
Whose precious gum may cure the fainting hart,
Or to some hearbe yet turned mayst thou be,
Whose juyce apply'd may ease the strongest smart,
Or flower, whose leaves thy vertues may impart,
Or stellified on Pegase loftie crest,
Or shyning on the Nemian Lyons brest.

I thinke the Gods could take them mortall shapes,
As all the world may by thy greatnes gather,
And Jove in some of his light wanton scapes,
Committed pretty cusnage with thy father,
Or else thou wholy art celestiall rather:
Els never could it be, so great a minde,
Could seated be, in one of earthly kind.

And if, as some affirme, in every starre,
There be a world, then must some world be thine,
Else shall thy ghost invade their bounds with warre,
If such can mannage armes as be devine,
That here thou hadst no world, the fault was mine:
And gracelesse Edward kinling all this fier,
Trod in the dust of his unhappy sier.

It was not Charles that made Charles what he was,
Whereby he quickly to that greatnes grew,
Nor strooke such terror which way he did passe,
Nor our olde Grand-siers glory did renew,
But it thy valure was, which Charles well knew:
Which hath repulst his Enemies with feare,
When they but heard the name of Mortimer.

391

In Books and Armes consisted thy delight,
And thy discourse of Campes, and grounds of state,
No Apish fan-bearing Hermophradite,
Coch-carried midwyfe, weake, effeminate,
Quilted and ruft, which manhood ever hate:
A Cato when in counsell thou didst sit,
A Hercules in executing it.

Now shee begins to curse the King her Sonne,
The Earle of March then comes unto her mind,
Then shee with blessing ends what shee begun,
And leaves the last part of the curse behind,
Then with a vowe shee her revenge doth bind:
Unto that vowe shee ads a little oth,
Thus blessing cursing, cursing blessing both.

For pen and inke shee calls her mayds without,
And Edwards dealing will in greefe discover,
But straight forgetting what shee went about,
Shee now begins to write unto her lover,
Yet interlyning Edwards threatnings over:
Then turning back to read what shee had writ,
Shee teyrs the paper, and condemnes her wit.

Thus with the pangs out of this traunce areysed,
As water some-time wakeneth from a swound,
Comes to her selfe the agonie apeysed,
As when the blood is cold, we feele the wound,
And more, and more, sith she the cause had found,
Thus unto Edward with revenge shee goes,
And hee must beare the burthen of her woes.

I would my lap had beene some cruell Racke,
His Cradell Phalaris burning-bellyed Bull,
And Nessus shyrt beene put upon his backe,
His Blanket of some Nilus Serpents wooll,
His Dug with juice of Acconite beene full:
The song which luld him, when to sleepe he fell,
Some Incantation or some Magique spell.

392

And thus King Edward since thou art my Child,
Some thing of force to thee I must bequeath,
March of my harts true love hath thee beguild,
My curse unto thy bosome doe I breath,
And heere invoke the wretched spirits beneath:
To see all things perform'd to my intent,
Make them ore-seers of my Testament.

And thus within these mighty walls inclos'd,
Even as the Owles so hatefull of the light,
Unto repentance ever more dispos'd,
Heere spend my dayes untill my last dayes night;
And hence-forth odious unto all mens sight,
Flye every small remembrance of delight,
A penitentiall mournfull convertite.

FINIS.