The Works of Michael Drayton Edited by J. William Hebel |
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 | The Works of Michael Drayton |  |
THE EPISTLE OF MISTRES SHORE, TO KING EDWARD THE FOURTH.
Is taught the Lutes delicious fingering,
At ev'ry strings soft touch, is mov'd with feare,
Noting his Masters curious list'ning Eare;
Whose trembling Hand, at ev'ry straine bewrayes,
In what doubt he his new-set Lesson playes:
As this poore Child, so sit I to indite,
At ev'ry word still quaking as I write.
Two or three Poems written by sundry men, have magnified this womans beautie; whom, that ornament of England and Londons more particular glorie, Sir Thomas Moore, verie highly hath praised for her beautie, she being alive in his time, though being poore and aged. Her stature was meane, her haire of a darke yellow, her face round and full, her eye gray, delicate harmony being betwixt each parts proportion, and each proportions colour, her bodie fat, white, and smooth, her countenance cheerefull, and like to her condition. That picture which I have seene of hers, was such as shee rose out of her bed in the morning, having nothing on but a rich Mantle, cast under one arme over her shoulder, and sitting in a chaire, on which her naked arme did lie. What her fathers name was, or where she was borne, is not certainly knowne: but Shore, a yong man of right goodly person, wealth, and behaviour, abandoned her bed, after the King had made her his Concubine. Richard the third causing her to doe open penance in Pauls Church-yard, commanded that no man should relieve her, which the tyrant did not so much for his hatred to sinne, but that by making his brothers life odious, he might cover his horrible treasons the more cunningly.
Nor knowne the Name of Shores admired Wife,
And liv'd with them, in Countrey fields that range,
Nor seene the golden Cheape, nor glitt'ring Change.
Here, like a Comet gaz'd at in the Skies,
Subject to all Tongues, object to all Eyes:
Oft have I heard my Beautie prays'd of many,
But never yet so much admir'd of any;
A Princes Eagle-Eye to find out that,
Which common Men doe seldome wonder at,
Makes me to thinke Affection flatters Sight,
Or in the Object some thing exquisite.
“Fame must attend on that, which lives in Court.
What Swan of bright Apollo's Brood doth sing,
To vulgar Love, in Courtly Soneting?
Or what immortall Poets sugred Pen
Attends the glory of a Citizen?
Oft have I wondred, what should blind your Eye,
Or what so farre seduced Majestie,
That having choise of Beauties so divine,
Amongst the most, to chuse this least of mine?
More glorious Sunnes adorne faire Londons pride,
Then all rich Englands Continent beside;
That who t'account their Multitudes, would wish,
Rumney is that famous Marsh in Kent, at whose side Rie, a Haven Towne, doth stand. Hereof the excellent English Antiquarie, Master Camden, and Master Lambert in his Perambulation, doe make mention. And Marishes are commonly called those low Grounds which abut upon the Sea, and from the Latine Word are so denominated. Isis is here used for Thamesis by a Synecdochicall kind of speech, or by a Poeticall libertie, in using one for another: for it is said, that Thamesis is compounded of Tame and Isis, making, when they are met, that renowmed Water, running by London; a Citie much more renowmed then that Water: Which being plentifull of Fish, is the cause also why all things else are plentifull therein. Moreover, I am perswaded, that there is no River in the World beholds more stately Buildings on eyther side, cleane thorow, then the Thames. Much is reported of the Graund Canale in Venice, for that the Fronts on eyther side are so gorgeous.
Noting the sundry Beauties that he meets,
Thinkes not, that Nature left the wide World poore,
And made this place the Chequer of her store;
As Heav'n and Earth had lately falne at Jarres,
And growne to vying Wonders, dropping Starres:
That if but some one Beautie should incite
Some sacred Muse, some ravish'd Spirit to write,
Here might he fetch the true Promethian fire,
That after-Ages should his Lines admire;
Gathering the Honey from the choisest Flow'rs,
Scorning the wither'd Weeds in Countrey Bow'rs.
Here in this Garden (onely) springs the Rose,
In ev'ry common Hedge the Bramble growes:
Nor are we so turn'd Neapolitan,
Mantuan, a Pastorall Poet, in one of his Eglogs bitterly inveyeth against Womankind; some of which, by the way of an Appendix, might be here inserted, seeing the fantasticke and insolent Humours of many of that Sexe, deserve much sharper Physicke, were it not, that they are growne wiser, then to amend for such an idle Poets speech as Mantuan, yea, or for Euripides himselfe, or Seneca's inflexible Hippolitus.
To all the World to lay out our defects,
And have just cause to rayle upon our Sex;
To pranke old Wrinckles up in new Attyre,
To alter Natures course, prove Time a lyer,
To abuse Fate, and Heav'ns just doome reverse,
On Beauties Grave to set a Crimson Hearse;
With a deceitfull Foile to lay a ground,
To make a Glasse to seeme a Diamond:
Nor cannot, without hazzard of our Name,
In Fashion follow the Venetian Dame;
Nor the fantasticke French to imitate,
Attyr'd halfe Spanish, halfe Italionate;
With Waste, nor Curle, Body nor Brow adorne,
That is in Florence or in Genoa borne.
Thus to draw on mine owne Indignitie?
And what though married when I was but yong,
Before I knew what did to Love belong;
Yet he which now's possessed of the roome,
Crop'd Beauties flower when it was in the bloome,
And goes away inriched with the store,
Whilst others gleane, where he hath reap'd before:
And shall I then deceive his honest trust?
Or what strange hope should make you to assaile,
Where the strong'st Batt'rie never could prevaile?
Belike you thinke, that I repuls'd the rest,
To leave a King the conquest of my Brest,
And have thus long preserv'd my selfe from all,
To have a Monarch glory in my fall;
Yet rather let me die the vildest death,
Then live to draw that sinne-polluted breath.
But our kind Hearts, Mens Teares cannot abide,
And we least angry oft, when most we chide.
Too well know Men what our Creation made us,
And Nature too well taught them to invade us:
They know but too well, how, what, when, and where,
To write, to speake, to sue, and to forbeare,
By signes, by sighes, by motions, and by teares,
When Vowes should serve, when Oathes, when Smiles, when Pray'rs:
What one Delight our Humors most doth move,
Onely in that you make us nourish Love.
If any naturall Blemish blot our Face,
You doe protest, it gives our Beautie grace;
And what Attyre we most are us'd to weare,
That, of all other, excellent'st, you sweare:
And if we walke, or sit, or stand, or lie,
It must resemble some one Deitie;
And what you know we take delight to heare,
That are you ever sounding in our eare;
And yet so shamelesse, when you tempt us thus,
To lay the fault on Beautie and on us.
Romes wanton Ovid did those Rules impart,
O, that your Nature should be help'd with Art!
Inforc'd by Love, so Poet-like should faine?
To say, that Beautie, Times sterne rage to shunne,
In my Cheekes (Lillies) hid her from the Sunne;
And when she meant to triumph in her May,
Made that her East, and here she broke her Day:
And but where I am, all the World is Night;
As though the fair'st ere since the World began,
To me, a Sunne-burnt base Egyptian.
(O would to God you knew it not too well!)
That Women oft their most admirers rayse,
Though publiquely not flatt'ring their owne prayse.
Our churlish Husbands, which our Youth injoy'd,
Who with our Dainties have their stomacks cloy'd,
Doe loath, our smooth Hands with their Lips to feele,
T'inrich our Favours, by our Beds to kneele,
At our Command to wait, to send, to goe,
As ev'ry Houre our amorous servants doe;
Which makes, a stolne Kisse often we bestow,
In earnest of a greater good we owe:
When he all day torments us with a Frowne,
Yet sports with Venus in a Bed of Downe;
Whose rude imbracement but too ill beseemes
Her span-broad Waste, her white and daintie Limmes;
And yet still preaching abstinence of Meat,
When he himselfe of ev'ry Dish will eat.
Our publique Walking, our loose Libertie?
If with exception still they us debarre
Ovid, a most fit Author for so dissolute a Sectarie, calls that place, Chastities Shipwracke: for though Shores Wife wantonly plead for Libertie, which is the true humour of a Curtizan; yet much more is the prayse of Modestie, then of such Libertie. Howbeit, the Vestall Nunnes had Seats assigned them in the Roman Theatre: Whereby it should appeare, it was counted no impeachment to Modestie; though they offending therein, were buried quicke: A sharpe Law for them; who may say as Shores Wife doth:
They very hardly keepe us safe at home.
To heare the Poet in a Comick straine,
Able t'infect with his lascivious Scene;
And the young wanton Wits, when they applaud
The slie perswasion of some subtill Bawd;
Or passionate Tragedian, in his rage
Acting a Love-sick Passion on the Stage:
When though abroad restraining us to rome,
They very hardly keepe us safe at home;
And oft are touch'd with feare and inward griefe,
Knowing rich Prizes soonest tempt a Thiefe?
Our Dogge, our Parrat, or our Marmuzet;
Small is the pleasure that these Toyes do yeeld,
But to this griefe a medicine you apply,
To cure restraint with that sweet Libertie;
And Soveraigntie (O that bewitching thing)
Yet made more great, by promise of a King;
And more, that Honour which doth most intice
The holi'st Nunne, and she that's ne're so nice.
Thus still we strive, yet overcome at length,
For men want mercie, and poore women strength:
Yet grant, that we could meaner men resist,
When Kings once come, they conquer as they list.
Thou art the cause, Shore pleaseth not my sight,
That his embraces give me no delight;
Thou art the cause I to my selfe am strange,
Thy comming is my Full, thy Set my Change.
Long Winter nights be minutes, if thou heere,
Short minutes, if thou absent, be a yeere.
And thus by strength thou art become my fate,
And mak'st me love even in the mid'st of hate.
| The Works of Michael Drayton | |