Receive these Papers from thy wofull Lord,
Bandello, by whom this Historie was made famous,
being an Italian, as it is the Peoples custome in that
Clime, rather to faile sometime in the truth of Circumstance,
then to forgoe the grace of their Conceit: in like manner as the
Grecians; of whom the Satyrist,
Et quicquid Græcia mendax
Audet in Historia.
Thinking it to be a greater Triall, that a Countesse should
be sued unto by a King, then by the sonne of a King; and consequently,
that the honour of her Chastitie should be the more,
hath caused it to be generally taken so: but as by Polydore,
Fabian, and Froisard appeares, the contrarie is true. Yet
may Bandello be very well excused, as being a stranger, whose
errors in the truth of our Historie, are not so materiall, that
they should need an Invective, lest his Wit should be defrauded
of any part of his due, which were not lesse, were every part a
Fiction. Howbeit, lest a common error should prevaile against
a truth, these Epistles are conceived in those Persons, who were
indeed the Actors: To wit, Edward, sirnamed the Blacke
Prince, not so much of his Complexion, as of the dismall
Battels which he fought in France, (in like Sense as we may
say, A blacke Day, for some Tragicall event, though the Sunne
shine never so bright therein.) And Alice the Countesse of
Salisburie, who, as it is certaine, was beloved of Prince Edward,
so it is as certaine, that many Points now currant in the
received Storie, can never hold together with likelyhood of
such inforcement, had it not beene shaded under the Title of a
King.
With farre more Woes then they with Words are stor'd,
Which if thine Eye for rashnesse doe reprove,
They'le say they came from that imperious Love.
In ev'ry Line well may'st thou understand,
Which Love hath sign'd and sealed with his Hand;
And where to farther processe he referres,
In Blots set downe to thee for Characters.
This cannot blush, although you doe refuse it,
Nor will reply, how-ever you shall use it;
All's one to this, though you should bid Despaire,
This still entreats you, this still speakes you faire.
Hast thou a living Soule, a humane Sense,
To like, dislike, prove, order, and dispence?
The depth of Reason, soundly to advise,
To love things good, things hurtfull to despise?
The touch of Judgement, which should all things prove,
Hast thou all this, yet not allow'st my Love?
Sound moves a Sound, Voyce doth beget a Voyce,
One Eccho makes another to rejoyce;
One well-tun'd String set truely to the like,
Strucke neere at hand, doth make another strike.
How comes it then, that our Affections jarre?
What Opposition doth beget this Warre?
I know, that Nature frankely to thee gave
That measure of her Bountie that I have;
And as to me, she likewise to thee lent,
For ev'ry Sense a severall Instrument:
But ev'ry one, because it is thine owne,
Doth prize it selfe, unto it selfe alone.
Thy daintie Hand, when it it selfe doth touch,
That feeling tells it, that there is none such:
When in thy Glasse thine Eye it selfe doth see,
That thinkes there's none like to it selfe can bee;
And ev'ry one doth judge it selfe divine,
Because that thou do'st challenge it for thine:
And each it selfe Narcissus-like doth smother,
Loving it selfe, nor cares for any other.
Fie, be not burn'd thus in thine owne desire,
'Tis needlesse, Beautie should it selfe admire:
“The Sunne, by which all Creatures light'ned be,
“And seeth all, it selfe yet cannot see;
“And his owne brightnesse his owne foile is made,
“And is to us the cause of his own shade.
When first thy Beautie by mine Eye was prov'd,
It saw not then so much to be belov'd;
But when it came a perfect view to take,
Each Looke of one, doth many Beauties make:
In little Circlets first it doth arise,
Then somewhat larger seeming in mine Eyes;
And in this gyring Compasse as it goes,
So more and more the same in Greatnesse growes;
And as it yet at libertie is let,
The Motion still doth other Formes beget;
Untill at length, looke any way I could,
Nothing there was but Beautie to behold.
Art thou offended, that thou art belov'd?
Remove the cause, th'effect is soone remov'd;
Indent with Beautie how farre to extend,
Set downe Desire a Limit where to end;
Then charme thine Eyes, that they no more may wound,
And limit Love to keepe within a Bound.
If thou doe this, nay then thou shalt doe more,
And bring to passe what never was before;
Make Anguish sportive, craving all Delight,
Mirth solemne, sullen, and inclin'd to Night,
Ambition lowly, Envie speaking well,
Love, his Reliefe, for Niggardize to sell.
Our Warlike Fathers did these Forts devise,
As surest Holds against our Enemies,
Places wherein your Sex might safelyest rest.
“Feare soone is settled in a Womans Brest:
Thy Brest is of another temper farre,
And then thy Castle fitter for the Warre;
Thou do'st not safely in thy Castle rest,
Thy Castle should be safer in thy Brest:
That keepes out Foes, but doth thy Friends inclose,
But thy Brest keepes out both thy Friends and Foes:
That may be batter'd, or be undermin'd,
Or by straight siege, for want of succour pin'd;
But thy Heart is invicible to all,
And more obdurate then thy Castle Wall.
Of all the shapes that ever Jove did prove,
Wherewith he us'd to entertaine his Love,
That likes me best, when in a golden Showre,
He rain'd himselfe on Danae in her Towre;
Nor did I ever envie his Command,
In that he beares the Thunder in his Hand:
But in that showrie shape I cannot bee,
And as he came to her, I come to thee.
Thy Tower with Foes is not begirt about,
If thou within, they are besieg'd without;
One Haire of thine, more vigour doth retaine,
To bind thy Foe, then any yron Chayne:
Who might be gyv'd in such a golden String,
Would not be captive, though he were a King.
Hadst thou all India heap'd up in thy Fort,
And thou thy selfe besieged in that sort,
Get thou but out, where they can thee espie,
They'le follow thee, and let the Treasure lie.
I cannot thinke what force thy Tower should win,
If thou thy selfe do'st guard the same within;
Thine Eye retaines Artillerie at will,
To kill who-ever thou desir'st to kill;
For that alone more deepely wounds Mens Hearts,
Then they can thee, though with a thousand Darts;
For there intrenched, little Cupid lyes,
And from those Turrets all the World defies:
Not that the Lid is transparent; for no part of the Skin is
transparent: but for that the Gemme which that Closure is said
to containe, is transparent: for otherwise, how could the Mind
understand by the Eye? Should not the Images slide thorow
the same, and replenish the Stage of the Phantasie? But this
belongs to Opticks. The Latines call the Eye-lid Cilium (I
will not say of Celando) as the Eye-brow Supercilium, and
the Haire on the Eye-lids Palpebra, perhaps quôd Palpitet,
all which have their distinct and necessarie uses.
And when thou let'st downe that transparent Lid,
Of Entrance, there an Armie doth forbid.
And as for Famine, thou need'st never feare;
Who thinks of Want, when thou art present there?
Thy onely sight puts Spirit into the Blood,
And comforts Life, without the taste of Food.
And as thy Souldiers keepe their Watch and Ward,
Thy Chastitie thy inward Brest doth guard:
Thy modest Pulse serves as a Larum Bell,
Which watched by some wakefull Sentinell,
Is stirring still with every little Feare,
Warning, if any Enemie be neare.
Thy vertuous Thoughts, when all the others rest,
Like carefull Skowts passe up and downe thy Brest,
And still they Round about that place doe keepe,
Whilst all the blessed Garrison doe sleepe.
But yet I feare, if that the truth were told,
That thou hast rob'd, and fly'st into this Hold:
I thought as much, and didst this Fort devise,
That thou in safetie here might'st tyrannize.
Yes, thou hast rob'd the Heaven and Earth of all,
And they against thy lawlesse Theft doe call.
Thine Eyes, with mine that wage continuall Warres,
Borrow their brightnesse of the twinckling Starres:
Thy Lips, from mine that in thy Maske be pent,
Have filch'd the Blushing from the Orient:
Thy Cheeke, for which mine all this Penance proves,
Steales the pure whitenesse both from Swans and Doves:
Thy Breath, for which, mine still in Sighes consumes,
Hath rob'd all Flowers, all Odours, and Perfumes.
O mightie Love! bring hither all thy Power,
And fetch this heavenly Theefe out of her Tower;
For if she may be suff'red in this sort,
Heavens store will soone be hoarded in this Fort.
When I arriv'd before that State of Love,
And saw thee on that Battlement above,
I thought there was no other Heaven but there,
And thou an Angell, didst from thence appeare:
But when my Reason did reprove mine Eye,
That thou wert subject to Mortalitie,
I then excus'd what erst the Scot had done;
No marvell though he would the Fort have wonne,
Perceiving well, those envious Walls did hide
More wealth then was in all the World beside:
Against thy Foe, I came to lend thee ayd,
And thus to thee, my selfe I have betray'd.
He is besieg'd, the Siege that came to rayse,
There's no Assault that not my Brest assayes.
“Love growne extreme, doth find unlawfull Shifts,
“The Gods take shapes, and doe allure with Gifts:
“Commanding Jove, that by great Styx doth sweare,
“Forsworne in love, with Lovers Oathes doth beare;
“Love causelesse still, doth aggravate his cause,
“It is his Law, to violate all Lawes;
“His Reason is, in onely wanting Reason,
“And were untrue, not deepely touch'd with Treason;
“Unlawfull Meanes, doth make his lawfull Gaine,
“He speakes most true, when he the most doth faine.
Pardon the Faults that have escap'd by Mee,
Against faire Vertue, Chastitie, and Thee:
“If Gods can their owne Excellence excell,
“It is in pardoning Mortals, that rebell.
When all thy Trials are enroll'd by Fame,
And all thy Sex made glorious by thy Name,
Then I a Captive shall be brought hereby,
T'adorne the Triumph of thy Chastitie.
I sue not now thy Paramour to bee,
But as a Husband to be link'd to thee:
I am Englands Heire, I thinke thou wilt confesse,
Wert thou a Prince, I hope I am no lesse;
But that thy Birth doth make thy Stocke divine,
Else durst I boast my Bloud as good as thine:
Disdaine me not, nor take my Love in scorne,
Whose Brow a Crowne hereafter may adorne.
But what I am, I call mine owne no more,
Take what thou wilt, and what thou wilt, restore;
Onely I crave, what e'r I did intend,
In faithfull Love all happily may end.
Farewell, sweet Lady, so well may'st thou fare,
To equall Joy with measure of my Care:
Thy Vertues more then mortall Tongue can tell;
A thousand-thousand times farewell, farewell.
