HENRY TO ROSAMOND.
When first the Post arrived at my Tent,
And brought the Letters Rosamond had sent,
Thinke from his Lips but what deare Comfort came,
When in mine Eare he softly breath'd thy Name:
Straight I injoyn'd him, of thy Health to tell,
Longing to heare my Rosamond did well;
With new Enquiries then I cut him short,
When of the same he gladly would report,
That with the earnest Haste, my Tongue oft trips,
Catching the words halfe spoke, out of his Lips:
This told, yet more I urge him to reveale,
To lose no time, whilst I unrip'd the Seale.
The more I reade, still doe I erre the more,
As though mistaking somewhat said before:
Missing the Point, the doubtfull Sense is broken,
Speaking againe what I before had spoken.
Still in a Swoond, my Heart revives and faints,
'Twixt Hopes, Despaires, 'twixt Smiles and deepe Complaints.
As these sad Accents sort in my Desires,
Smooth Calmes, rough Stormes, sharpe Frosts, and raging Fires,
Put on with Boldnesse, and put backe with Feares,
For oft thy Troubles doe extort my Teares.
O, how my Heart at that blacke Line did tremble!
That blotted Paper should Thy Selfe resemble;
O, were there Paper but neere halfe so white!
The Gods thereon their sacred Lawes would write
With Pens of Angels Wings; and for their Inke,
That Heavenly Nectar, their immortall Drinke.
Majestike Courage strives to have supprest
This fearefull Passion, stir'd up in my Brest;
But still in vaine the same I goe about,
My Heart must breake within, or Woes breake out.
Robert, Earle of Leicester, who tooke part with
young King Henry, entred into England with an Armie
of three thousand Flemings, and spoyled the Countries of
Norfolke and Suffolke, being succoured by many of the Kings
private Enemies.
Am I at home pursu'd with private Hate,
And Warre comes raging to my Palace Gate?
Is meager Envie stabbing at my Throne,
Treason attending when I walke alone?
King Henry the second, the first Plantaginet, accused for
the death of Thomas Becket, Arch-bishop of Canterburie,
slaine in that Cathedrall Church, was accursed by Pope Alexander,
although he urged sufficient proofe of his innocencie in
the same, and offered to take upon him any Penance, so he
might avoid the Curse and Interdiction of his Realme.
And am I branded with the Curse of Rome,
And stand condemned by a Councels Doome?
Henry the young King, whom King Henry had caused to
be crowned in his life (as hee hoped) both for his owne good,
and the good of his Subjects, which indeede turned to his owne
Sorrow, and the Trouble of the Realme; for he rebelled against
him, and raysing a Power, by the meanes of Lewes King of
France, and William King of Scots (who tooke part with
him) and invaded Normandie.
And by the pride of my rebellious Sonne,
Rich Normandie with Armies over-runne?
Fatall my Birth, unfortunate my Life,
Never King more unfortunate then King Henry, in the disobedience
of his Children: First, Henry, then Geffrey, then
Richard, then John, all at one time or other, first or last, unnaturally
rebelled against him; then, the Jealousie of Elinor his
Queene, who suspected his love to Rosamond: Which grievous
Troubles, the Devout of those Times attributed to happen
to him justly, for refusing to take on him the Government of
Jerusalem, offered to him by the Patriarke there; which
Countrey was mightily afflicted by the Souldan.
Unkind my Children, most unkind my Wife.
Griefe, Cares, old Age, Suspition to torment me,
Nothing on Earth to quiet or content me;
So many Woes, so many Plagues to find,
Sicknesse of Bodie, discontent of Mind;
Hopes left, Helps reft, Life wrong'd, Joy interdicted,
Banish'd, distress'd, forsaken, and afflicted.
Of all Reliefe hath Fortune quite bereft me?
Onely my Love yet to my Comfort left me:
And is one Beautie thought so great a thing,
To mitigate the Sorrowes of a King?
Bar'd of that Choice the Vulgar often prove;
Have we, then they, lesse priviledge in Love?
Is it a King the wofull Widdow heares?
Is it a King dryes up the Orphans Teares?
Is it a King regards the Clyents crie?
Gives Life to him, by Law condemn'd to die?
Is it his Care the Common-wealth that keepes,
As doth the Nurse her Babie, whilst it sleepes?
And that poore King of all those Hopes prevented,
Unheard, unhelp'd, unpitti'd, unlamented?
Yet let me be with Povertie opprest,
Of Earthly Blessings rob'd, and dis-possest,
Let me be scorn'd, rejected, and revil'd,
And from my Kingdome let me live exil'd,
Let the Worlds Curse upon me still remaine,
And let the last bring on the first againe;
All Miseries that wretched Man may wound,
Leave for my Comfort onely Rosamond.
For Thee, swift Time his speedie course doth stay,
At thy Command, the Destinies obay;
Pittie is dead, that comes not from thine Eyes,
And at thy Feet ev'n Mercie prostrate lyes.
If I were feeble, rheumatike, or cold,
These were true signes that I were waxed old:
But I can march all day in massie Steele,
Nor yet my Armes unwieldy weight doe feele;
Nor wak'd by Night with Bruise or bloudie Wound,
The Tent my Bed, no Pillow but the Ground:
For very Age had I layne Bedred long,
One Smile of Thine, againe could make me Yong.
Were there in Art a Power but so divine,
As is in that sweet Angell-Tongue of Thine,
That great Enchantresse, which once tooke such paines,
To put young Bloud into old Æsons Veines,
And in Groves, Mountaines, and the Moorish Fen,
Sought out more Hearbes then had been knowne to Men,
And in the pow'rfull Potion that she makes,
Put Bloud of Men, of Birds, of Beasts, and Snakes;
Never had needed to have gone so farre,
To seeke the Soyles where all those Simples are;
One Accent from thy Lips the Bloud more warmes,
Then all her Philters, Exorcismes, and Charmes.
Thy Presence hath repaired in one day,
What many Yeeres with Sorrowes did decay,
And made fresh Beautie in her flower to spring,
Out of the wrinckles of Times ruining.
Ev'n as the hungry Winter-starved Earth,
When she by nature labours towards her Birth,
Still as the Day upon the darke World creepes,
One Blossome forth after another peepes,
Till the small Flower, whose Root (at last) unbound,
Gets from the frostie Prison of the Ground,
Spreading the Leaves unto the pow'rfull Noone,
Deck'd in fresh Colours, smiles upon the Sunne.
Never unquiet Care lodg'd in that Brest,
Where but one Thought of Rosamond did rest;
Nor Thirst, nor Travaile, which on Warre attend,
Ere brought the long Day to desired end;
Nor yet did pale Feare, or leane Famine live,
Where hope of Thee did any Comfort give:
Ah, what Injustice then is this of Thee,
That thus the Guiltlesse do'st condemne for me?
When onely she (by meanes of my Offence)
Redeemes thy Purenesse, and thy Innocence,
When to our Wills perforce obey they must,
That's just in them, what ere in us unjust,
Of what we doe, not them account we make;
The Fault craves pardon for th'Offendors sake:
“And what to worke, a Princes Will may merit,
“Hath deep'st impression in the gentlest Spirit.
If't be my Name, that doth Thee so offend,
No more my selfe shall be mine owne Names Friend;
If it be that, which Thou do'st onely hate,
That Name, in my Name, lastly hath his date;
Say 'tis accurst, and fatall, and disprayse it,
If written, blot it, if engraven, raze it;
Say, that of all Names 'tis a Name of Woe,
Once a Kings Name, but now it is not so:
And when all this is done, I know 'twill grieve thee;
And therefore (Sweet) why should I now beleeve thee?
Nor shouldst thou thinke, those Eyes with Envie lowre,
Which passing by thee, gaze up to thy Towre;
But rather prayse thine owne, which be so cleere,
Which from the Turret like two Starres appeare:
Above, the Sunne doth shine, beneath, thine Eye,
Mocking the Heav'n, to make another Skye.
The little Streame which by thy Tow'r doth glide,
Where oft thou spend'st the wearie Ev'ning Tide,
To view thee well, his Course would gladly stay,
As loth from thee to part so soone away,
And with Salutes thy selfe would gladly greet,
And offer up some small Drops at thy Feet;
But finding, that the envious Bankes restraine it,
T'excuse it selfe, doth in this sort complaine it,
And therefore this sad bubbling Murmure keepes,
And for thy want, within the Channell weepes.
And as thou do'st into the Water looke,
The Fish which see thy shaddow in the Brooke,
Forget to feede, and all amazed lye,
So daunted with the lustre of thine Eye.
And that sweet Name, which thou so much do'st wrong,
In time shall be some famous Poets Song;
And with the very sweetnesse of that Name,
Lyons and Tygers Men shall learne to tame.
The carefull Mother, at her pensive Brest,
With Rosamond shall bring her Babe to Rest;
The little Birds (by Mens continuall sound)
Shall learne to speake, and prattle Rosamond:
And when in Aprill they begin to sing,
With Rosamond shall welcome in the Spring;
And she in whom all Rarities are found,
Shall still be said to be a Rosamond.
The little Flowers dropping their honied Dew,
Which (as thou writ'st) doe weepe upon thy Shoo,
Not for thy Fault (sweet Rosamond) doe moane,
Onely lament, that thou so soone art gone;
For if thy Foot touch Hemlocke as it goes,
That Hemlock's made more sweeter then the Rose.
Of Jove, or Neptune, how they did betray,
Speake not; of Iö, or Amimone,
When she, for whom Jove once became a Bull,
Compar'd with Thee, had beene a Tawnie Trull;
He a white Bull, and she a whiter Cow,
Yet he nor she neere halfe so white as Thou.
Long since (thou know'st) my Care provided for
To lodge thee safe from jealous Ellinor;
The Labyrinths Conveyance guides thee so,
This Vaughan was a Knight, whom the King exceedingly
loved, who kept the Palace at Woodstock, and much of the
Kings Jewels and Treasure, to whom the King committed
many of his Secrets, and in whom he reposed such trust, that
he durst commit his Love unto his Charge.
(Which onely Vaughan, thou, and I doe know)
If she doe guard thee with an hundred Eyes,
I have an hundred subtill Mercuries,
To watch that Argus which my Love doth keepe,
Untill Eye, after Eye, fall all to sleepe.
And those Starres which looke in, but looke to see,
(Wond'ring) what Starre here on the Earth should be;
As oft the Moone, amidst the silent Night,
Hath come to joy us with her friendly Light,
And by the Curtaine help'd mine Eye to see
What envious Night and Darkenesse hid from me;
When I have wish'd, that she might ever stay,
And other Worlds might still enjoy the Day.
What should I say? Words, Teares, and Sighes be spent,
And want of Time doth further Helpe prevent:
My Campe resounds with fearefull shockes of Warre,
Yet in my Brest more dang'rous Conflicts are;
Yet is my Signall to the Battels sound,
The blessed Name of beautious Rosamond.
Accursed be that Heart, that Tongue, that Breath,
Should thinke, should speake, or whisper of thy Death;
For in one Smile, or Lowre from thy sweet Eye,
Consists my Life, my Hope, my Victorie.
Sweet Woodstock, where my Rosamond doth rest,
Be blest in Her, in whom thy King is blest:
For though in France a while my Body bee,
My Heart remaines (deare Paradise) in thee.
FINIS.
