If yet thine Eyes (Great Henry) may endure
These tainted Lines, drawne with a Hand impure,
(Which faine would blush, but Feare keeps Blushes backe,
And therefore suted in despairing Blacke)
Let me for Loves sake their acceptance crave,
But that sweet Name (vile) I prophaned have;
Punish my Fault, or pittie mine estate,
Reade them for Love, if not for Love, for Hate.
If with my Shame thine Eyes thou faine would'st feede,
Here let them surfet, of my Shame to reade:
This scribbled Paper which I send to thee,
If noted rightly, doth resemble mee:
As this pure Ground, whereon these Letters stand,
So pure was I, ere stayned by thy Hand;
Ere I was blotted with this foule Offence,
So cleere and spotlesse was mine Innocence:
Now, like these Markes which taint this hatefull Scroule,
Such the blacke sinnes which spot my leprous Soule.
What, by this Conquest, canst thou hope to winne,
Where thy best Spoyle, is but the Act of Sinne?
Why on my Name this slander do'st thou bring,
To make my Fault renowned by a King?
“Fame never stoopes to things, but meane and poore,
“The more our Greatnesse, our Fault is the more;
“Lights on the Ground, themselves doe lessen farre,
“But in the Ayre, each small Sparke seemes a Starre.
Why, on my Woman-frayltie should'st thou lay
So strong a Plot, mine Honour to betray?
Or thy unlawfull Pleasure should'st thou buy,
Both with thine owne shame, and my Infamie?
'Twas not my Minde consented to this Ill,
Then had I beene transported by my Will;
For, what my Bodie was inforc'd to doe,
(Heaven knowes) my Soule yet ne'r consented to:
For, through mine Eyes had she her liking seene,
Such as my Love, such had my Lover beene.
“True Love is simple, like his Mother Truth,
“Kindly Affection, Youth to love with Youth;
“No greater corsive to our blooming Yeeres,
“Then the cold Badge of Winter-blasted Hayres.
“Thy Kingly Power makes to withstand thy Foes,
“But cannot keepe backe Age, with Time it growes;
“Though Honour our ambitious Sex doth please,
“Yet in that Honour, Age a foule Disease:
“Nature hath her free Course in all, and then
“Age is alike, in Kings, and other Men.
Which all the World will to my shame impute,
That I, my selfe did basely prostitute;
And say, that Gold was Fuell to the Fire,
Gray Hayres in Youth not kindling greene Desire.
O no; that wicked Woman, wrought by thee,
My Tempter was to that forbidden Tree;
That subtill Serpent, that seducing Devill,
Which bad me taste the Fruit of Good and Evill;
That Circe, by whose Magicke I was charm'd,
And to this monstrous shape am thus transform'd;
That vip'rous Hag, the Foe to her owne Kind,
That divellish Spirit, to damne the weaker Mind;
Our Fraylties Plague, our Sexes onely Curse,
Hells deep'st Damnation, the worst Evils worse.
But Henry, how canst thou affect me thus,
T'whom thy remembrance now is odious?
My haplesse Name, with Henries Name I found,
Cut in the Glasse with Henries Diamond;
That Glasse from thence faine would I take away,
But then I feare the Ayre would me betray;
Then doe I strive to wash it out with Teares,
But then the same more evident appeares.
Then doe I cover it with my guiltie Hand,
Which that Names witnesse doth against me stand;
Once did I sinne, which Memorie doth cherish,
Once I offended, but I ever perish.
“What Griefe can be, but Time doth make it lesse?
“But Infamie, Time never can suppresse.
Sometimes, to passe the tedious irkesome Houres,
I climbe the top of Woodstocks mounting Towres,
Where, in a Turret, secretly I lye,
To view from farre such as doe travell by;
Whither (me thinkes) all cast their Eyes at mee,
As through the Stones my Shame did make them see,
And with such Hate the harmelesse Walls doe view,
As ev'n to Death their Eyes would me pursue.
The married Women curse my hatefull Life,
Wronging a faire Queene, and a vertuous Wife;
The Maidens wish, I buried quicke may die,
And from each place neere my abode, doe flie.
In the
Cretean Labyrinth a Monster was inclosed,
called a Minotaure, the Historie whereof is well knowne;
but the Labyrinth was framed by Dedalus, with so many intricate
Wayes, that being entred, one could either hardly or never
returne, being in manner of a Maze, save that it was larger,
the Wayes being walled in on every side, out of the which,
Theseus, by Ariadnes helpe, (lending him a Clue of Thred)
escaped. Some report, that it was a House, having one halfe
beneath the ground, another above; the Chamber doores therein
so deceitfully inwrapped, and made to open so many wayes,
that it was held a matter almost impossible to returne.
Some have held it to have beene an Allegorie of Mans Life:
true it is, that the Comparison will hold; for what liker to a
Labyrinth, then the Maze of Life? But it is affirmed by Antiquitie,
that there was indeed such a Building; though Dedalus
being a name applied to the Workmans excellencie, make
it suspected: for Dedalus is nothing else but, Ingenious, or
Artificiall. Hereupon it is used among the ancient Poets, for
any thing curiously wrought.
Rosamonds Labyrinth, whose Ruines, together with her
Well, being paved with square Stone in the bottome, and also
her Tower, from which the Labyrinth did runne (are yet remaining)
was altogether under ground, being Vaults arched
and walled with Bricke and Stone, almost inextricably wound
one within another; by which, if at any time her Lodging
were laid about by the Queene, shee might easily avoid Perill
eminent, and if neede be, by secret Issues take the Ayre abroad,
many Furlongs, round about Woodstocke in Oxfordshire,
wherein it was situated. Thus much for Rosamonds Labyrinth.
Well knew'st thou what a Monster I would be,
When thou didst build this Labyrinth for me,
Meander is a River in Lycia, a Province of Natolia, or
Asia minor, famous for the sinuositie and often turning thereof,
rising from certaine Hills in Meonia: Hereupon are intricate
Turnings, by a Transumptive and Metonymicall kind
of speech, called Meanders; for this River did so strangely
path it selfe, that the Foot seemed to touch the Head.
Whose strange Meanders turning ev'ry way,
Be like the course wherein my Youth did stray;
Onely a Clue doth guide me out and in,
But yet still walke I circular in sinne.
As in the Gallerie this other day,
I and my Woman past the time away,
'Mongst many Pictures, which were hanging by,
The silly Girle at length hapt to espie
Chaste Lucrece Image, and desires to know,
What shee should be, her selfe that murd'red so?
Why Girle (quoth I) this is that Roman Dame;
Not able then to tell the rest for shame,
My Tongue doth mine owne Guiltinesse betray;
With that I sent the prattling Wench away,
Lest when my lisping guiltie Tongue should hault,
My Lookes might prove the Index to my Fault.
As that Life-bloud which from the Heart is sent,
In Beauties Field pitching his Crimson Tent,
In lovely Sanguine sutes the Lillie Cheeke,
Whilst it but for a resting Place doth seeke;
And changing oftentimes with sweet Delight,
Converts the White to Red, the Red to White;
The Blush with Palenesse for the place doth strive,
The Palenesse thence the Blush would gladly drive;
Thus in my Brest a thousand Thoughts I carrie,
Which in my Passion diversly doe varie.
When as the Sunne hales tow'rds the Westerne slade,
And the Trees shadowes hath much taller made,
Forth goe I to a little Current neere,
Which like a wanton Trayle creepes here and there,
Where, with mine Angle casting in my Bait,
The little Fishes (dreading the deceit)
With fearefull nibbling flye th'inticing Gin,
By Nature taught what danger lies therein.
Things Reasonlesse, thus warn'd by Nature be,
Yet I devour'd the Bait was layd for me:
Thinking thereon, and breaking into Grones,
The bubbling Spring, which trips upon the Stones,
Chides me away, lest sitting but too nie,
I should pollute that Native puritie.
It might be reported, how at Godstow, where this Rose of
the World was sumptuously interred, a certaine Bishop, in
the Visitation of his Diocesse, caused the Monument which
had beene erected to her Honour, utterly to bee demolished:
but let that severe chastisement of Rosamond, then dead, at
this time also be over-passed, lest she should seeme to be the
Shame of the World.
Rose of the World, so doth import my Name,
Shame of the World, my Life hath made the same.
And to th'unchaste this Name shall given be,
Of Rosamond, deriv'd from Sinne and Me.
The Cliffords take from me that Name of theirs,
Which hath beene famous for so many yeeres:
They blot my Birth with hatefull Bastardie,
That I sprang not from their Nobilitie;
They my alliance utterly refuse,
Nor will a Strumpet shall their Name abuse.
Here, in the Garden, wrought by curious hands,
Naked Diana in the Fountaine stands,
With all her Nymphes got round about to hide her,
As when Acteon had by chance espy'd her:
This sacred Image I no sooner view'd,
But as that metamorphos'd Man, pursu'd
By his owne Hounds; so, by my Thoughts am I,
Which chase me still, which way soe'r I flye.
Touching the Grasse, the Honey-dropping Dew,
Which falls in Teares before my limber shoo,
Upon my Foot consumes in weeping still,
As it would say, Why went'st thou to this Ill?
Thus, to no Place in safetie can I goe,
But every thing doth give me cause of Woe.
In that faire Casket, of such wond'rous Cost,
Thou sent'st the Night before mine Honour lost,
Amimone was wrought, a harmelesse Maid,
By Neptune, that adult'rous God, betray'd;
She prostrate at his Feet, begging with Prayers,
Wringing her Hands, her Eyes swolne up with Teares:
This was not an intrapping Bait from thee,
But by thy Vertue gently warning mee,
And to declare for what intent it came,
Lest I therein should ever keepe my shame.
And in this Casket (ill I see it now)
That Joves Love I ö, turn'd into a Cow;
Yet was she kept with Argus hundred Eyes:
So wakefull still be Juno's Jealousies:
By this I well might have fore-warned beene,
T'have cleer'd my selfe to thy suspecting Queene,
Who with more hundred Eyes attendeth mee,
Then had poore Argus single Eyes to see.
In this thou rightly imitatest Jove,
Into a Beast thou hast transform'd thy Love;
Nay, worser farre (beyond their beastly kind)
A Monster both in Bodie and in Mind.
The Waxen Taper which I burne by Night,
With the dull vap'rie dimnesse mockes my Sight,
As though the Dampe which hinders the cleere Flame,
Came from my Breath, in that Night of my Shame;
When as it look'd with a darke lowring Eye,
To see the losse of my Virginitie.
And if a Starre but by the Glasse appeare,
I straight intreat it, not to looke in here;
I am alreadie hatefull to the Light,
And will it too, betray me to the Night?
Then sith my Shame so much belongs to thee,
Rid me of that, by onely murd'ring mee;
And let it justly to my charge be layd,
That I thy Person meant to have betray'd:
Thou shalt not need by circumstance t'accuse me,
If I denie it, let the Heavens refuse me.
My Life's a Blemish, which doth cloud thy Name,
Take it away, and cleare shall shine thy Fame:
Yeeld to my Sute, if ever Pittie mov'd thee,
In this shew Mercie, as I ever lov'd thee.
