 | The Works of Michael Drayton |  |
153
MATILDA TO KING JOHN.
No sooner I receiv'd thy Letters here,
Before I knew from whom, or whence they were,
But sudden feare my bloudlesse veynes doth fill,
As though divining of some future ill:
And in a shivering extasie I stood,
A chilly coldnesse ran through all my Blood;
Opening the Packet, I shut up my rest,
And let strange Cares into my quiet Brest,
As though thy hard unpittying Hand had sent me,
Some new devised Torture to torment me.
Well had I hop'd, I had beene now forgot,
Cast out with those things thou remembrest not;
And that proud Beautie which enforst me hether,
Had with my Name bin perished together:
“But O (I see) our hoped Good deceives us,
“But what we would forgoe, that seldome leaves us:
Before I knew from whom, or whence they were,
But sudden feare my bloudlesse veynes doth fill,
As though divining of some future ill:
And in a shivering extasie I stood,
A chilly coldnesse ran through all my Blood;
Opening the Packet, I shut up my rest,
And let strange Cares into my quiet Brest,
As though thy hard unpittying Hand had sent me,
Some new devised Torture to torment me.
Well had I hop'd, I had beene now forgot,
Cast out with those things thou remembrest not;
And that proud Beautie which enforst me hether,
Had with my Name bin perished together:
“But O (I see) our hoped Good deceives us,
“But what we would forgoe, that seldome leaves us:
Thy blamefull Lines bespotted so with Sin,
Mine Eyes would clense, ere they to read begin:
But I to wash an Indian goe about,
For Ill so hard set on, is hard got out.
I once determin'd, still to have been mute,
Onely by Silence to refell thy Sute:
But this againe did alter mine intent,
For some will say, that Silence doth consent:
“Desire with small encouraging growes bold,
“And Hope of every little thing takes hold.
Mine Eyes would clense, ere they to read begin:
But I to wash an Indian goe about,
For Ill so hard set on, is hard got out.
I once determin'd, still to have been mute,
Onely by Silence to refell thy Sute:
But this againe did alter mine intent,
For some will say, that Silence doth consent:
“Desire with small encouraging growes bold,
“And Hope of every little thing takes hold.
I set me downe, at large to write my mind,
But now nor Pen, nor Paper can I find;
For still my passion is so powerfull o'r me,
That I discerne not things that stand before me:
Finding the Pen, the Paper, and the Waxe,
These at command, and now Invention lacks;
This sentence serves, and That my hand out-strikes;
That pleaseth well, and This as much mislikes,
I write, indite, I point, I raze, I quote,
I enterline, I blot, correct, I note,
I hope, despaire, take courage, faint, disdaine,
I make, alledge, I imitate, I faine:
Now thus it must be, and now thus, and thus,
Bold, shame-fac'd, fearelesse, doubtfull, timorous;
My faint Hand writing, when my full Eye reads,
From ev'ry word strange Passion still proceeds.
“O, when the Soule is fett'red once in Woe,
“'Tis strange what Humors it doth force us to!
A Teare doth drowne a Teare, Sigh, Sigh doth smother,
This hinders that, that interrupts the other:
Th'over-watched weakenesse of the sicke Conceit,
Is that which makes small Beautie seeme so great;
Like things which hid in troubled Waters lye,
Which crook'd, seeme straight, if straight, the contrarie:
And thus our vaine Imagination shewes it,
As it conceives it, not as Judgement knowes it:
(As in a Mirrour, if the same be true)
Such as your likenesse, justly such are you:
But as you change your selfe, it changeth there,
And shewes you as you are, not as you were;
And with your Motion doth your shadow move,
If Frowne or Smile, such the conceit of Love.
But now nor Pen, nor Paper can I find;
For still my passion is so powerfull o'r me,
That I discerne not things that stand before me:
Finding the Pen, the Paper, and the Waxe,
These at command, and now Invention lacks;
This sentence serves, and That my hand out-strikes;
That pleaseth well, and This as much mislikes,
154
I enterline, I blot, correct, I note,
I hope, despaire, take courage, faint, disdaine,
I make, alledge, I imitate, I faine:
Now thus it must be, and now thus, and thus,
Bold, shame-fac'd, fearelesse, doubtfull, timorous;
My faint Hand writing, when my full Eye reads,
From ev'ry word strange Passion still proceeds.
“O, when the Soule is fett'red once in Woe,
“'Tis strange what Humors it doth force us to!
A Teare doth drowne a Teare, Sigh, Sigh doth smother,
This hinders that, that interrupts the other:
Th'over-watched weakenesse of the sicke Conceit,
Is that which makes small Beautie seeme so great;
Like things which hid in troubled Waters lye,
Which crook'd, seeme straight, if straight, the contrarie:
And thus our vaine Imagination shewes it,
As it conceives it, not as Judgement knowes it:
(As in a Mirrour, if the same be true)
Such as your likenesse, justly such are you:
But as you change your selfe, it changeth there,
And shewes you as you are, not as you were;
And with your Motion doth your shadow move,
If Frowne or Smile, such the conceit of Love.
Why tell me, is it possible the Mind
A Forme in all Deformitie should find?
Within the compasse of Mans Face we see,
How many sorts of severall Favours bee;
And in the Chin, the Nose, the Brow, the Eye,
The smallest Diff'rence that you can descry,
Alters Proportion, altereth the Grace,
Nay, oft destroyes the Favour of the Face:
And in the World, scarce Two so like there are,
One with the other, which if you compare,
But being set before you both together,
A judging Sight doth soone distinguish eyther.
How Woman-like a Weakenesse is it then?
O, what strange madnesse so possesseth Men!
Bereft of Sense, such senselesse Wonders seeing,
Without Forme, Fashion, Certaintie, or Being?
For which so many die, to live in anguish,
Yet cannot live, if thus they should not languish:
That Comfort yeelds not, and yet Hope denyes not,
A Life that lives not, and a Death that dyes not;
That hates us most, when most it speakes us faire,
Doth promise all Things, alwayes payes with Ayre;
Yet sometime doth our greatest Griefe appease,
To double Sorrow after little Ease.
Like that which thy lascivious Will doth crave,
Which if once had, thou never more canst have;
Which if thou get, in getting thou do'st waste it,
Taken, is lost, and perish'd, if thou hast it:
Which if thou gain'st, thou ne'r the more hast wonne,
I losing nothing, yet am quite undone;
And yet of that, if that a King deprave me,
No King restores, though he a Kingdome gave me.
A Forme in all Deformitie should find?
Within the compasse of Mans Face we see,
How many sorts of severall Favours bee;
And in the Chin, the Nose, the Brow, the Eye,
The smallest Diff'rence that you can descry,
Alters Proportion, altereth the Grace,
Nay, oft destroyes the Favour of the Face:
And in the World, scarce Two so like there are,
One with the other, which if you compare,
But being set before you both together,
A judging Sight doth soone distinguish eyther.
How Woman-like a Weakenesse is it then?
O, what strange madnesse so possesseth Men!
155
Without Forme, Fashion, Certaintie, or Being?
For which so many die, to live in anguish,
Yet cannot live, if thus they should not languish:
That Comfort yeelds not, and yet Hope denyes not,
A Life that lives not, and a Death that dyes not;
That hates us most, when most it speakes us faire,
Doth promise all Things, alwayes payes with Ayre;
Yet sometime doth our greatest Griefe appease,
To double Sorrow after little Ease.
Like that which thy lascivious Will doth crave,
Which if once had, thou never more canst have;
Which if thou get, in getting thou do'st waste it,
Taken, is lost, and perish'd, if thou hast it:
Which if thou gain'st, thou ne'r the more hast wonne,
I losing nothing, yet am quite undone;
And yet of that, if that a King deprave me,
No King restores, though he a Kingdome gave me.
Do'st thou of Father and of Friends deprive me?
And tak'st thou from me all that Heav'n did give me?
What Nature claymes by Bloud, Allies, or Neerenesse,
Or Friendship challenge by regard or dearenesse?
Mak'st me an Orphan ere my Father die,
A wofull Widow in Virginitie?
Is thy unbridled Lust the cause of all?
And now thy flatt'ring Tongue bewayles my Fall.
The dead Mans Grave with fained Teares to fill,
So the devouring Crocodile doth kill;
To harbour Hate, in shew of wholesome Things,
So in the Rose, the poysoned Serpent stings;
To lurke farre off, yet lodge Destruction by,
The Basiliske so poysons with the Eye;
To call for Ayd, and then to lye in wait,
So the Hyena murthers by Deceit;
By sweet Inticement, sudden Death to bring,
So from the Rocks, th'alluring Mermaids sing:
In greatest Wants t'inflict the greatest Woe,
Is ev'n the utmost Tyrannie can doe.
But where (I see) the Tempest thus prevayles,
What use of Anchors, or what need we Sayles?
Above us, blust'ring Winds and dreadfull Thunder,
The Waters gape for our Destruction under;
Here, on this side, the furious Billowes flye,
There Rocks, there Sands, and dang'rous Whirle-pooles lye.
And tak'st thou from me all that Heav'n did give me?
What Nature claymes by Bloud, Allies, or Neerenesse,
Or Friendship challenge by regard or dearenesse?
Mak'st me an Orphan ere my Father die,
A wofull Widow in Virginitie?
Is thy unbridled Lust the cause of all?
And now thy flatt'ring Tongue bewayles my Fall.
The dead Mans Grave with fained Teares to fill,
So the devouring Crocodile doth kill;
To harbour Hate, in shew of wholesome Things,
So in the Rose, the poysoned Serpent stings;
To lurke farre off, yet lodge Destruction by,
The Basiliske so poysons with the Eye;
To call for Ayd, and then to lye in wait,
So the Hyena murthers by Deceit;
By sweet Inticement, sudden Death to bring,
So from the Rocks, th'alluring Mermaids sing:
In greatest Wants t'inflict the greatest Woe,
Is ev'n the utmost Tyrannie can doe.
156
What use of Anchors, or what need we Sayles?
Above us, blust'ring Winds and dreadfull Thunder,
The Waters gape for our Destruction under;
Here, on this side, the furious Billowes flye,
There Rocks, there Sands, and dang'rous Whirle-pooles lye.
Is this the meane that Mightinesse approves?
And in this sort doe Princes woo their Loves?
Mildnesse would better sute with Majestie,
Then rash Revenge and rough Severitie.
O, in what Safetie Temperance doth rest,
Obtayning Harbour in a soveraigne Brest!
Which, if so praysefull in the meanest Men,
In pow'rfull Kings how glorious is it then?
Fled I first hither, hoping to have ayd,
Here thus to have mine Innocence betrayd?
Is Court and Countrey both her Enemie,
And no place found to shrowd in Chastitie?
Each House for Lustra Harbour, and an Inne,
And ev'ry Citie a Receit for Sinne?
And all doe pittie Beautie in distresse;
If Beautie chaste, then onely pittilesse:
Thus is she made the instrument to Ill,
And unreliev'd, may wander where she will.
And in this sort doe Princes woo their Loves?
Mildnesse would better sute with Majestie,
Then rash Revenge and rough Severitie.
O, in what Safetie Temperance doth rest,
Obtayning Harbour in a soveraigne Brest!
Which, if so praysefull in the meanest Men,
In pow'rfull Kings how glorious is it then?
Fled I first hither, hoping to have ayd,
Here thus to have mine Innocence betrayd?
Is Court and Countrey both her Enemie,
And no place found to shrowd in Chastitie?
Each House for Lustra Harbour, and an Inne,
And ev'ry Citie a Receit for Sinne?
And all doe pittie Beautie in distresse;
If Beautie chaste, then onely pittilesse:
Thus is she made the instrument to Ill,
And unreliev'd, may wander where she will.
Lascivious Poets, which abuse the Truth,
Which oft teach Age to sinne, infecting Youth,
For the unchaste, make Trees and Stones to mourne,
Or as they please, to other shapes doe turne:
Cinyra's Daughter, whose incestuous Mind,
Made her wrong Nature, and dishonour Kind,
Long since by them is turn'd into a Myrrhe,
Whose dropping Liquor ever weepes for her;
And in a Fountaine, Biblis doth deplore
Her Fault so vile and monsterous before:
Silla, which once her Father did betray,
Is now a Bird (if all be true they say.)
She that with Phœbus did the foule Offence,
Now metamorphos'd into Frankincense:
Other, to Flowers, to Odors, and to Gumme;
At least, Joves Leman is a Starre become:
And more, they faine a thousand fond Excuses,
To cloud their Scapes, and cover their Abuses;
The Virgin onely they obscure and hide,
Whilst the unchaste by them are deify'd,
And if by them a Virgin be exprest,
She must be rank'd ignobly with the rest.
Which oft teach Age to sinne, infecting Youth,
For the unchaste, make Trees and Stones to mourne,
Or as they please, to other shapes doe turne:
Cinyra's Daughter, whose incestuous Mind,
Made her wrong Nature, and dishonour Kind,
Long since by them is turn'd into a Myrrhe,
Whose dropping Liquor ever weepes for her;
And in a Fountaine, Biblis doth deplore
Her Fault so vile and monsterous before:
Silla, which once her Father did betray,
Is now a Bird (if all be true they say.)
She that with Phœbus did the foule Offence,
Now metamorphos'd into Frankincense:
157
At least, Joves Leman is a Starre become:
And more, they faine a thousand fond Excuses,
To cloud their Scapes, and cover their Abuses;
The Virgin onely they obscure and hide,
Whilst the unchaste by them are deify'd,
And if by them a Virgin be exprest,
She must be rank'd ignobly with the rest.
I am not now, as when thou saw'st me last,
Time hath those Features utterly defac'd,
And all those Beauties which sat on my Brow,
Thou wouldst not thinke such ever had beene now;
And glad I am that time with me is done,
Vowing my selfe religiously a Nunne:
My Vestall Habite me contenting more,
Then all the Robes adorning me before.
Time hath those Features utterly defac'd,
And all those Beauties which sat on my Brow,
Thou wouldst not thinke such ever had beene now;
And glad I am that time with me is done,
Vowing my selfe religiously a Nunne:
My Vestall Habite me contenting more,
Then all the Robes adorning me before.
Had Rosamond (a Recluse of our sort)
Taken our Cloyster, left the wanton Court,
Shadowing that Beautie with a holy Vale,
Which she (alas) too loosely set to sale,
She need not, like an ugly Minotaur,
Have beene lock'd up from jealous Elenor,
But beene as famous by thy Mothers Wrongs,
As by thy Father subject to all Tongues.
“To shaddow Sinne, Might can the most pretend,
“Kings, but the Conscience, all things can defend.
A stronger Hand restraynes our wilfull pow'rs,
A Will must rule above this Will of ours,
Not following what our vaine Desires doe woo
For Vertues sake, but what we (onely) doe.
Taken our Cloyster, left the wanton Court,
Shadowing that Beautie with a holy Vale,
Which she (alas) too loosely set to sale,
She need not, like an ugly Minotaur,
Have beene lock'd up from jealous Elenor,
But beene as famous by thy Mothers Wrongs,
As by thy Father subject to all Tongues.
“To shaddow Sinne, Might can the most pretend,
“Kings, but the Conscience, all things can defend.
A stronger Hand restraynes our wilfull pow'rs,
A Will must rule above this Will of ours,
Not following what our vaine Desires doe woo
For Vertues sake, but what we (onely) doe.
And hath my Father chose to live exil'd,
Before his Eyes should see my Youth defil'd;
And to withstand a Tyrants lewd desire,
Beheld his Townes spent in revengefull Fire:
Yet never touch'd with Griefe; so onely I,
Exempt from shame, might honourably die?
And shall this Jewell, which so dearely cost,
Be after all, by my Dishonour lost?
No, no, each reverend Word, each holy Teare
Of his, in me too deepe Impression beare,
His latest Farwell, at his last depart,
More deepely is ingraved in my Heart;
Nor shall that Blot, by me, his Name shall have,
Bring his gray haires with sorrow to the Grave,
Better his Teares to fall upon my Tombe,
Than for my Birth to curse my Mothers Wombe.
Though Dunmow give no refuge here at all,
Dunmow can give my Bodie Buriall.
If all remorselesse, no Teare-shedding Eye,
My Selfe will moane my Selfe, so live, so die.
Before his Eyes should see my Youth defil'd;
And to withstand a Tyrants lewd desire,
Beheld his Townes spent in revengefull Fire:
Yet never touch'd with Griefe; so onely I,
Exempt from shame, might honourably die?
And shall this Jewell, which so dearely cost,
Be after all, by my Dishonour lost?
158
Of his, in me too deepe Impression beare,
His latest Farwell, at his last depart,
More deepely is ingraved in my Heart;
Nor shall that Blot, by me, his Name shall have,
Bring his gray haires with sorrow to the Grave,
Better his Teares to fall upon my Tombe,
Than for my Birth to curse my Mothers Wombe.
Though Dunmow give no refuge here at all,
Dunmow can give my Bodie Buriall.
If all remorselesse, no Teare-shedding Eye,
My Selfe will moane my Selfe, so live, so die.
[_]
This Epistle containeth no particular Points of Historie, more then the generalitie of the Argument layeth open: for after the Banishment of the Lord Robert Fitz-water, and that Matilda was become a Recluse at Dunmow (from whence this Reply is imagined to be written) the King still earnestly persisting in his Sute, Matilda with this chaste and constant Denyall, hopes yet at length to finde some comfortable Remedie, and to rid her selfe of Doubts, by taking upon her this Monasticke Habite: and to shew, that shee still beareth in minde his former Crueltie, bred by the impatience of his Lust, shee remembreth him of her Fathers Banishment, and the lawlesse Exile of her Allies and Friends.
FINIS.
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