The Works of Michael Drayton :: :: University of Virginia Library

To you those Noblest of Gentlemen, of these Renowned Kingdomes of Great Britaine: who in these declining times, have yet in your brave bosomes the sparkes of that sprightly fire, of your couragious Ancestors; and to this houre retaine the seedes of their magnanimitie and Greatnesse, who out of the vertue of your mindes, love and cherish neglected Poesie, the delight of Blessed soules, & the language of Angels. To you are these my Poems dedicated,

By your truly affectioned Servant, Michaell Drayton.

THE VISION OF BEN. JONSON, ON THE MUSES OF HIS FRIEND M. DRAYTON.

It hath beene question'd, Michael, if I bee
A Friend at all; or, if at all, to thee:
Because, who make the question, have not seene
Those ambling visits, passe in verse, betweene
Thy Muse, and mine, as they expect. 'Tis true:
You have not writ to me, nor I to you;
And, though I now begin, 'tis not to rub
Hanch against Hanch, or raise a riming Club
About the towne: this reck'ning I will pay,
Without conferring symboles. This's my day.
It was no Dreame! I was awake, and saw!
Lend me thy voyce, O Fame, that I may draw
Wonder to truth! and have my Vision hoorld,
Hot from thy trumpet, round, about the world.
I saw a Beauty from the Sea to rise,
That all Earth look'd on; and that earth, all Eyes!
It cast a beame as when the chear-full Sun
Is fayre got up, and day some houres begun!
And fill'd an Orbe as circular, as heaven!
The Orbe was cut forth into Regions seaven.
And those so sweet, and well proportion'd parts,
As it had beene the circle of the Arts!
When, by thy bright Ideas standing by,
I found it pure, and perfect Poësy,
There read I, streight, thy learned Legends three,
Heard the soft ayres, between our Swaynes & thee,
Which made me thinke, the old Theocritus,
Or Rurall Virgil come, to pipe to us!
But then, thy'epistolar Heroick Songs,
Their loves, their quarrels, jealousies, and wrongs,

Did all so strike me, as I cry'd, who can
With us be call'd, the Naso, but this man?
And looking up, I saw Minervas fowle,
Pearch'd over head, the wise Athenian Owle:
I thought thee then our Orpheus, that wouldst try
Like him, to make the ayre, one volary:
And I had stil'd thee, Orpheus, but before
My lippes could forme the voyce, I heard that Rore,
And Rouze, the Marching of a mighty force,
Drums against Drums, the neighing of the Horse,
The Fights, the Cryes, and wondring at the Jarres
I saw, and read, it was thy Barons Warres!
O, how in those, dost thou instruct these times,
That Rebells actions, are but valiant crimes!
And caried, though with shoute, and noyse, confesse
A wild, and an authoriz'd wickednesse!
Sayst thou so, Lucan? But thou scornst to stay
Under one title. Thou hast made thy way
And flight about the Ile, well neare, by this,
In thy admired Periégesis,
Or universall circumduction
Of all that reade thy Poly-Olbyon.
That reade it? that are ravish'd! such was I
With every song, I sweare, and so would dye:
But that I heare, againe, thy Drum to beate
A better cause, and strike the bravest heate
That ever yet did fire the English blood!
Our right in France! if ritely understood.
There, thou art Homer! Pray thee, use the stile
Thou hast deserv'd: And let me reade the while
Thy Catalogue of Ships, exceeding his,
Thy list of aydes, and force, for so it is:
The Poets act! and for his Country's sake
Brave are the Musters, that the Muse will make.
And when he ships them where to use their Armes,
How do his trumpets breath! What loud alarmes!
Looke, how we read the Spartans were inflam'd
With bold Tyrtæus verse, when thou art nam'd,

So shall our English Youth urge on, and cry
An Agincourt, an Agincourt, or dye.
This booke! it is a Catechisme to fight,
And will be bought of every Lord, and Knight,
That can but reade; who cannot, may in prose
Get broken peeces, and fight well by those.
The miseries of Margaret the Queene
Of tender eyes will more be wept, then seene:
I feele it by mine owne, that over flow,
And stop my sight, in every line I goe.
But then refreshed, with thy Fayerie Court,
I looke on Cynthia, and Sirenas sport,
As, on two flowry Carpets, that did rise,
And with their grassie greene restor'd mine eyes.
Yet give mee leave, to wonder at the birth
Of thy strange Moon-Calfe, both thy straine of mirth,
And Gossip-got acquaintance, as, to us
Thou hadst brought Lapland, or old Cobalus,
Empusa, Lamia, or some Monster, more
Then Affricke knew, or the full Grecian store!
I gratulate it to thee, and thy Ends,
To all thy vertuous, and well chosen Friends,
Onely my losse is, that I am not there:
And, till I worthy am to wish I were,
I call the world, that envies mee, to see
If I can be a Friend, and Friend to thee.

UPON THE BATTAILE OF AGINCOURT, Written by His Deare Friend MICHAELL DRAYTON Esquire.

Had Henryes name beene onely met in Prose,
Recorded by the humble wit of those,
Who write of lesse then Kings; who victory,
As calmely mention, as a Pedigree,
The French, alike with us, might view his name
His actions too, and not confesse a shame:
Nay, grow at length, so boldly troublesome,
As, to dispute if they were overcome.
But thou hast wakte their feares: thy fiercer hand
Hath made their shame as lasting, as their land.
By thee againe they are compeld to knowe
How much of Fate is in an English foe.
They bleede afresh by thee, and thinke the harme
Such; they could rather wish, t'were Henryes arme:
Who thankes thy painfull quill; and holds it more
To be thy Subject now, then King before.
By thee he conquers yet; when ev'ry word
Yeelds him a fuller honour, then his sword.
Strengthens his action against time: by thee,
Hee victory, and France, doth hold in fee.
So well observ'd he is, that ev'ry thing
Speakes him not onely English, but a King.
And France, in this, may boast her fortunate
That shee was worthy of so brave a hate.
Her suffring is her gayne. How well we see
The Battaile labourd worthy him, and thee,
Where, wee may Death discover with delight,
And entertaine a pleasure from a fight.
Where wee may see how well it doth become
The brav'ry of a Prince to overcome.
What Power is a Poet: that can add
A life to Kings, more glorious, then they had.
For what of Henry, is unsung by thee,
Henry doth want of his Eternity.

J. Vaughan.

TO MY WORTHY FRIEND MR. MICHAELL DRAYTON upon these his Poems.

SONNET.

What lofty Trophyes of eternall Fame,
England may vaunt thou do'st erect to her,
Yet forced to confesse, (yea blush for shame,)
That she no Honour doth on thee confer.
How it would become her, would she learne to knowe
Once to requite thy Heaven-borne Art and Zeale,
Or at the least her selfe but thankfull showe
Her ancient Glories that do'st still reveale:
Sing thou of Love, thy straines (like powerfull Charmes)
Enrage the bosome with an amorous fire,
And when againe thou lik'st to sing of Armes
The Coward thou with Courage do'st inspire:
But when thou com'st to touch our Sinfull Times,
Then Heaven far more then Earth speakes in thy Rimes.

John Reynolds.

THE BATTAILE OF AGINCOURT.

Ceas'd was the Thunder, of those Drummes which wak'd,
Th'affrighted French their miseries to view,
At Edwards name, which to that houre still quak'd,
Their

The law Salique was, that women should not inherite; which law, Edward the third, by his right to the Crowne by his mother, cancelled with his sword: for so much as at that time made way to his clayme, though in France that law bee inviolable.

Salique Tables to the ground that threw,
Yet were the English courages not slak'd,
But the same Bowes, and the same Blades they drew,
With the same Armes, those weapons to advance,
Which lately lopt the Flower de liz of France.

Henry the fift, that man made out of fire,
Th'Imperiall Wreath plac'd on his Princely browe;
His Lyons courage stands not to enquire
Which way olde Henry came by it; or howe
At Pomfret Castell Richard should expire:
What's that to him? he hath the Garland now;
Let

Henry the 4. so named of a Town in Lincolne Shiere, where he was borne.

Bullingbrook beware how he it wan,
For

Henry the fift borne at Munmouth in Wales. Dowglas in that battaile slew three in the Kings coat Armour.

Munmouth meanes to keepe it, if he can.

That glorious day, which his great Father got,
Upon the Percyes; calling to their ayde
The valiant Dowglas, that Herculian Scot,
When for his Crowne at Shrewsbury they playde,
Had quite dishartned ev'ry other plot,
And all those Tempests quietly had layde,
That not a cloud did to this Prince appeare,
No former King had seene a skye so cleere.

Yet the rich Clergy felt a fearefull Rent,
In the full Bosome of their Church (whilst she
A Monarchesse, immeasurably spent,
Lesse then she was, and thought she might not be:)
By Wickclif and his followers; to prevent

Wickliffe a learned Divine, and the greatest Protestant of those times.

The growth of whose opinions, and to free
That foule Aspersion, which on her they layde,
She her strongst witts must stirre up to her ayde.

When presently a Parliament is calld
To sett things steddy, that stood not so right,
But that thereby the poore might be inthral'd,
Should they be urg'd by those that were of might,
That in his Empire, equitie enstauld,
It should continue in that perfect plight;

A Parliament at Leicester.

Wherefore to Lester, he th'Assembly drawes,
There to Inact those necessary Lawes.

In which one Bill (mongst many) there was red,
Against the generall, and superfluous waste
Of temporall Lands, (the Laity that had fed)
Upon the Houses of Religion caste,
Which for defence might stand the Realme in sted,
Where it most needed were it rightly plac't;
Which made those Church-men generally to feare,
For all this calme, some tempest might be neare.

And being right skilfull, quickly they forsawe,
No shallow braines this bus'nesse went about:
Therefore with cunning they must cure this flawe;
For of the King they greatly stood in doubt,
Lest him to them, their opposites should drawe,
Some thing must be thrust in, to thrust that out:
And to this end they wisely must provide,
One, this great Engine, Clearkly that could guide.

Henry Chichley succeeding Arundell (late deceased) in that See.

Chichley, that sate on Canterburies See,
A man well spoken, gravely stout, and wise,
The most select, (then thought of that could be,)
To act what all the Prelacie divise;
(For well they knew, that in this bus'nesse, he
Would to the utmost straine his faculties;)
Him lift they up, with their maine strength, to prove
By some cleane slight this

So they termed it as not worthy of a better tytle.

Lybell to remove.

His braine in labour, gladly foorth would bring
Somewhat, that at this needfull time might fit,
The sprightly humor of this youthfull King,
If his invention could but light of it;
His working soule projecteth many a thing,
Untill at length out of the strength of wit,
He found a warre with France, must be the way
To dash this Bill, else threatning their decay.

Whilst vacant mindes sate in their breasts at ease,
And the remembrance of their Conquests past,
Upon their fansies doth so strongly sease,
As in their teeth, their Cowardise it cast
Rehearsing to them those victorious daies,
The deeds of which, beyond their names should last,
That after ages, reading what was theirs,
Shall hardly thinke, those men had any Heires.

And to this point, premeditating well,
A speech, (which chanc'd, the very pinne to cleave)
Aym'd, whatsoever the successe befell
That it no roomth should for a second leave,
More of this Title then in hand to tell,
If so his skill him did not much deceave,
And gainst the King in publike should appeare;
Thus frames his speech to the Assembly there.

Pardon my boldnesse, my Liedge Soveraigne Lord,

The Archbishop of Canterburies Oration, to the King & Parliament at Lecester, in the Eleven following Stanzas.

Nor your Dread presence let my speech offend,
Your milde attention, favourably affoord,
Which, such cleere vigour to my spirit shall lend,
That it shall set an edge upon your Sword,
To my demand, and make you to attend,
Asking you, why, men train'd to Armes you keepe,
Your right in France yet suffering still to sleepe.

Can such a Prince be in an Iland pent,
And poorely thus shutt up within a Sea.
When as your right includes that large extent,
To th'either Alpes your Empire forth to lay,
Can he be English borne, and is not bent
To follow you, appoint you but the way,
Weele wade if we want ships, the waves or climme,
In one hand hold our swords, with th'other swim.

What time controules, your brave great Grandsires claim,

The Crowne of France descended upon Edward the third, from Isabell his Mother, Daughter and surviving heyre, to King Phillippe of France named the fayre.

To th'Realme of France, from Philip nam'd the faire,
Which to King Edward by his mother came,
Queene Isabel; that Philips onely heire,
Which this short intermission doth not maime,
But if it did, as he, so yours repaire;
That where his Right in bloud prevailed not,
In spight of hell, yet by his Sword he got.

What set that Conqueror, by their Salique Lawes,
Those poore decrees their Parliaments could make,
He entred on the justnesse of his Cause,
To make good, what he dar'd to undertake,
And once in Action, he stood not to pause,
But in upon them like a Tempest brake,
And downe their buildings with such fury bare,
That they from mists dissolved were to ayre.

As those brave Edwards, Father, and the Sonne,
At Conquer'd Cressy, with successefull lucke,
Where first all France (as at one game) they wonne,
Never two Warriours, such a Battaile strucke,
That when the bloudy dismall fight was done,
Here in one heape, there in another Rucke
Princes and Peasants lay together mixt,
The English Swords, no difference knew betwixt.

There Lewes King of Beame was overthrowne,
With valient Charles, of France the younger Brother,

James, Daulphine of Viennoies. The Dukes of Lorraine, and Burbon. The Earles of Aumerle, Savoye, Mount-billiard, Flaunders, Nevers & Harecourt.

A Daulphine, and two Dukes, in pieces hewen;
To them sixe Earles lay slaine by one another;
There the grand Prior of France, fetcht his last groane,
Two Archbishops the boystrous Croud doth smother,
There fifteene thousand of their Gentrie dy'de
With each two Souldiers, slaughtered by his side.

King John of France and Philip his Son taken by the Blacke Prince at the Battaile of Poyteers, brought Prisoners to England.

Nor the Blacke Prince, at Poyteers battaile fought;
Short of his Father, and himselfe before,
Her King and Prince, that prisoners hither brought
From forty thousand weltring in their gore,
That in the Worlds opinion it was thought,
France from that instant could subsist no more,
The

John of Clermount.

Marshall, and the

Peter of Burbon.

Constable, there slaine
Under the Standard, in that Battaile ta'ne.

Examples of such as have advanc'd themselves to the Crowne of France, against the strict letter of the lawe Salique, in the two following Stanzaes.

Nor is this clayme for women to succeede,
(Gainst which they would your right to France debarre)
A thing so new, that it so much should neede
Such opposition, as though fetcht from farre,
By Pepin this is prov'd, as by a deede,
Deposing Cheldrick, by a fatall warre,
By Blythild dar'd his title to advance,
Daughter to Clothar, first so nam'd of France.

Hugh Capet, who from Charles of Lorayne tooke
The Crowne of France, that he in peace might raigne,
As heire to Lingard to her title stooke,
Who was the daughter of King Charlemaine,
So holy Lewes poring on his booke,
Whom that Hugh Capet made his heire againe,
From Ermingard his Grandame, claim'd the Crowne,
Duke Charles his daughter, wrongfully put downe.

Nor thinke my Leege a fitter time then this,
You could have found your Title to advance,
At the full height when now the faction is,
T'wixt Burgoyne, and the house of Orleance,
Your purpose you not possibly can misse,
It for my Lord so luckily doth chance,
That whilst these two in opposition stand,
You may have time, your Army there to land.

And if my fancy doe not overpresse,
My visuall sence, me thinkes in every eye
I see such cheere, as of our good successe
In France hereafter seemes to Prophecie;
Thinke not my Soveraigne, my Alegeance lesse
Quoth he; my Lords nor doe you misaply
My words: thus long upon this subject spent,
Who humbly here submit to your assent.

This speech of his, that powerfull Engine prov'd,
Then e'r our Fathers got, which rais'd us hier,
The Clergies feare that quietly remov'd,
And into France transferd our Hostile fier,
It made the English through the world belov'd,
That durst to those so mighty things aspire,
And gave so cleere a luster to our fame,
That neighbouring Nations trembled at our name.

When through the house, this rumor scarsely ran,
That warre with France propounded was againe,
In all th'Assembly there was not a man,
But put the project on with might and maine,
So great applause it generally wan,
That else no bus'nesse they would entertaine,
As though their honour utterly were lost,
If this designe should any way be crost.

So much mens mindes, now upon France were set
That every one doth with himselfe forecast,
What might fall out this enterprize to let,
As what againe might give it wings of hast,
And for they knew, the French did still abet
The Scot against us, (which we usde to tast)
It question'd was if it were fit or no,
To Conquer them, ere we to France should goe.

Ralph Nevill then Warden of the Marches betwixt England and Scotland. An old adage, He that will France winne: must with Scotland first beginne.

Which Ralph then Earle of Westmorland propos'd,
Quoth he, with Scotland let us first begin,
By which we are upon the North inclos'd,
And lockt with us, one Continent within,
Then first let Scotland be by us dispos'd,
And with more ease, yee spatious France may winne,
Else of our selves, ere we our Ships can cleere,
To land in France; they will invade us here.

The Duke of Excester the Kings owne unckle.

Not so brave Nevill, Excester replies,
For that of one two labours were to make,
For Scotland wholly upon France relies;
First, Conquer France, and Scotland yee may take,
Tis the French pay, the Scot to them that tyes,
That stopt, asunder quickly yee shall shake
The French and Scots; to France then first say I,
First, first, to France, then all the Commons cry.

The first breach with France.

And instantly an Embassy is sent,
To Charles of France, to will him to restore
Those Territories, of whose large extent,
The English Kings were owners of before;
Which if he did not, and incontinent,
The King would set those English on his shore,
That in despight of him, and all his might,
Should leave their lives there, or redeeme his right.

First Normandy, in his demand he makes,
With Aquitane, a Dutchy no lesse great,

The Countries demanded by the King of England.

Anjou, and Mayne, with Gascoyne which he takes,
Cleerely his owne, as any English seat:
With these proud France, he first of all awakes,
For their delivery, giving power to treat;
For well he knew, if Charles should these restore,
No King of France was ever left so poore.

The King, and Daulphin, to his proud demand,
That he might see they no such matter ment,
As a thing fitter for his youthfull hand;
A Tunne of Paris Tennis Balls him sent,

The King and Daulphine of France, deriding the King of England.

Better himselfe to make him understand,
Deriding his ridiculous intent:
And that was all the answere he could get,
Which more, the King doth to this Conquest whet.

That answering the Ambassadour, quoth he,
Thanks for my Balls, to Charles your Soveraigne give,

Henry the fift answered for the Tennis Balls.

And thus assure him, and his sonne from me,
I'le send him Balls and Rackets if I live,
That they such Racket shall in Paris see,
When over lyne with Bandies I shall drive,

The language of Tennis.

As that before the Set be fully done,
France may (perhaps) into the Hazard runne.

So little doth luxurious France fore-see
By her disdaine, what shee upon her drew:
In her most bravery seeming then to be,
The punishment that shortly should ensue,
Which so incenst the English King, that he
For full revenge into that fury grew:
That those three horrors, Famine, Sword, and Fire,
Could not suffice to satisfie his ire.

In all mens mouthes now was no word but warre,
As though no thing had any other name;
And folke would aske of them ariv'd from farre,
What forces were preparing whence they came?
'Gainst any bus'nesse 'twas a lawfull barre
To say for France they were; and 'twas a shame
For any man to take in hand to doe
Ought, but some thing that did belong thereto.

Olde Armours are drest up, and new are made;
Jacks are in working, and strong shirts of Male,
He scowers an

Blades accounted of the best temper.

olde Fox, he a

Blades accounted of the best temper.

Bilbowe blade,
Now Shields and Targets onely are for sale;
Who works for warre, now thriveth by his Trade,
The browne Bill, and the Battell-Axe prevaile:
The curious Fletcher fits his well-strung Bowe,
And his barb'd Arrow which he sets to showe.

Tents and Pavillions in the fields are pitcht,
(E'r full wrought up their Roomthynesse to try)
Windowes, and Towers, with Ensignes are inricht,
With ruffling Banners, that doe brave the sky,
Wherewith the wearied Labourer bewitcht
To see them thus hang waving in his eye:
His toylsome burthen from his back doth throwe,
And bids them worke that will, to France hee'll goe.

Rich Saddles for the Light-horse and the Bard
For to be brav'st there's not a man but plyes,
Plumes, Bandroules, and Caparizons prepar'd;
Whether of two, and men at Armes divise
The

Armed at all points.

Greaves, or

Armings for the thigh and legge.

Guyses were the surer guard,
The

Armings for the arme and shoulder.

Vambrasse, or the Pouldron, they should prize;
And where a stand of Pykes plac't close, or large,
Which way to take advantage in the Charge.

One traynes his Horse, another trayles his Pyke,
He with his Pole-Axe, practiseth the fight,
The Bowe-man (which no Country hath the like)
With his sheafe Arrow, proveth by his might,
How many score off, he his Foe can strike,
Yet not to draw above his bosomes hight:
The Trumpets sound the Charge and the Retreat,
The bellowing Drumme, the Martch againe doth beat.

Cannons upon their Caridge mounted are,
Whose Battery France must feele upon her Walls,
The Engineer providing the Petar,
To breake the strong Percullice, and the Balls
Of Wild-fire devis'd to throw from farre,

Great Ordnance then but newly in use.

To burne to ground their Pallaces and Halls:
Some studying are, the scale which they had got,
Thereby to take the Levell of their Shot.

The man in yeares preacht to his youthfull sonne
Prest to this Warre, as they sate by the fire,
What deedes in France were by his Father done,
To this attempt to worke him to aspire,
And told him, there how he an Ensigne wonne,
Which many a yeare was hung up in the Quire:
And in the Battell, where he made his way,
How many French men he struck downe that day.

The good old man, with teares of joy would tell,
In Cressy field what prizes Edward play'd,
As what at Poycteers the Black Prince befell,
How like a Lyon, he about him layd:
In deedes of Armes how Awdley did excell,
For their olde sinnes, how they the French men payd:
How bravely Basset did behave him there:
How Oxford charg'd the Van, Warwick the Reare.

And Boy, quoth he, I have heard thy Grandsire say,
That once he did an English Archer see,
Who shooting at a French twelve score away,
Quite through the body, stuck him to a Tree;
Upon their strengths a King his Crowne might lay:
Such were the men of that brave age, quoth he,
When with his Axe he at his Foe let drive,
Murrian and scalpe downe to the teeth could rive:

The scarlet Judge might now set up his Mule,
With neighing Steeds the Streetes so pestred are;
For where he wont in Westminster to rule,
On his Tribunall sate the man of Warre,
The Lawyer to his Chamber doth recule,
For he hath now no bus'nesse at the Barre:
But to make Wills and Testaments for those
That were for France, their substance to dispose.

By this, the Counsell of this Warre had met,
And had at large of ev'ry thing discust;
And the grave Clergie had with them beene set:
To warrant what they undertooke was just,
And as for monies that to be no let,
They bad the King for that to them to trust:
The Church to pawne, would see her Challice layde,
E'r shee would leave one Pyoner unpayde.

From Milford Haven, to the mouth of Tweed,

Halfe the circuit of the Island, from the Spanish to the German Ocean.

Ships of all burthen to Southampton brought,
For there the King the Rendevous decreed
To beare aboard his most victorious fraught:
The place from whence he with the greatest speed
Might land in France, (of any that was thought)
And with successe upon that lucky shore,

Edward the third.

Where his great Grandsire landed had before.

But, for he found those vessels were to fewe,
That into France his Army should convay:
He sent to Belgia, whose great store he knewe,
Might now at neede supply him every way.
His bounty ample, as the windes that blewe,
Such Barkes for Portage out of ev'ry bay
In Holland, Zealand, and in Flanders, brings;
As spred the wide

The Sea betwixt France and England, so called.

sleeve with their canvase wings.

But first seaven Ships from Rochester are sent,
The narrow Seas, of all the French to sweepe:

A Catalogue of the Ships in 12 Stanzas.

All men of Warre with scripts of Mart that went,
And had command, the Coast of France to keepe:
The comming of a Navie to prevent,
And view what strength, was in the Bay of Deepe:
And if they found it like to come abroad,
To doe their best to fire it in the Road.

The names of the Kings 7. Ships of War.

The Bonaventure, George, and the Expence,
Three as tall Ships, as e'r did Cable tewe,
The Henry Royall, at her parting thence,

An Indian Bird so great, that she is able to carry an Elephant.

Like the huge Ruck from Gillingham that flewe:
The Antilop, the Elephant, Defence,
Bottoms as good as ever spred a clue:
All having charge, their voyage having bin,
Before Southampton to take Souldiers in.

Twelve Merchants Ships, of mighty burthen all,
New off the Stocks, that had beene rig'd for Stoad,
Riding in Thames by Lymehouse and Blackwall
That ready were their Merchandize to load,
Straitly commanded by the Admirall,
At the same Port to settle their aboad:
And each of these a Pinnis at command,
To put her fraught conveniently to land.

Eight goodly Ships, so Bristow ready made,
Which to the King they bountifully lent,
With Spanish Wines which they for Ballast lade,
In happy speed of his brave Voyage ment,
Hoping his Conquest should enlarge their Trade,
And there-withall a rich and spacious Tent:
And as this Fleet the Severne Seas doth stem,
Five more from Padstowe came along with them.

The Hare of Loo, a right good Ship well knowne,
The yeare before that twice the Strayts had past,
Two wealthy Spanish Merchants did her owne,
Who then but lately had repair'd her wast;
For from her Deck a Pyrate she had blowne,
After a long Fight, and him tooke at last:
And from Mounts Bay sixe more, that still in sight,
Wayted with her before the Ile of Wight.

From Plymmouth next came in the Blazing Starre,
And fiery Dragon to take in their fraught;
With other foure, especiall men of Warre,
That in the Bay of Portugall had fought;

The Bay of Portugall one of the highest working Seas that is known.

And though returning from a Voyage farre,
Stem'd that rough Sea, when at the high'st it wrought:
With these, of Dertmouth seav'n good Ships there were,
The golden Cressant in their tops that beare.

So Lyme, three Ships into the Navy sent,
Of which the Sampson scarse a mon'th before,
Had sprung a Planke, and her mayne Mast had spent,
With extreame perill that she got to shore;
With them five other out of Waymouth went,
Which by Southampton, were made up a score:
With those that rode (at pleasure) in the Bay,
And that at Anchor before Portsmouth lay.

Next these, Newcastle furnisheth the Fleet
With nine good Hoyes of necessary use;
The Danish Pyrats, valiantly that beet,
Offring to Sack them as they sayl'd for Sluce:
Six Hulks from Hull at Humbers mouth them meet,
Which had them oft accompanied to

A Country lying upon the east Sea, bordring upon Poland.

Pruce.
Five more from

Famous for Herring fishing.

Yarmouth falling them among,
That had for Fishing beene prepared long.

The Cowe of Harwich, never put to flight,
For Hides, and Furres, late to Muscovia bound,
Of the same Port, another nam'd the Spight,
That in her comming lately through the Sound,
After a two-dayes-still-continued fight,
Had made three Flemings runne themselves a ground;
With three neat Flee-boats which with them doe take,
Six Ships of Sandwich up the Fleet to make.

Nine Ships for the Nobility there went,
Of able men, the enterprize to ayde,

Aydes to the King by the Nobility.

Which to the King most liberally they lent,
At their owne charge, and bountifully payde,
Northumberland, and Westmerland in sent
Fourescore at Armes a peece, themselves and layde
At six score Archers each, as Suffolke showes,
Twenty tall men at Armes, with forty Bowes.

Warwick and Stafford leavied at no lesse
Then noble Suffolke, nor doe offer more
Of men at Armes, and Archers which they presse,
Of their owne Tenants, Arm'd with their owne store:
Their forwardnesse fore-showes their good successe
In such a Warre, as had not beene before:
And other Barrons under Earles that were,
Yet dar'd with them an equall charge to beare.

Darcy and Camois, zealous for the King,
Lovell, Fitzwater, Willoughby, and Rosse,
Berckley, Powis, Burrell, fast together cling;
Seymer, and Saint John for the bus'nesse closse,
Each twenty Horse, and forty foote doe bring
More, to nine hundred mounting in the grosse
In those nine Ships, and fitly them bestow'd,
Which with the other fall into the Road.

From Holland, Zeland, and from Flanders wonne
By weekely pay, threescore twelve Bottoms came,
From fifty upward, to five hundred Tunne;
For ev'ry use a Marriner could name,
Whose glittering Flags against the Radient Sunne,
Show'd as the Sea had all beene of a flame;
For Skiffes, Crayes, Scallops, and the like, why these
From ev'ry small Creeke, cov'red all the Seas.

The man whose way from London hap'd to lye,
By those he met might guesse the generall force,
Daily encountred as he passed by,
Now with a Troupe of Foote, and then of Horse,
To whom the people still themselves apply,
Bringing them victuals as in meere remorce:
And still the acclamation of the presse,
Saint George for England, to your good successe.

There might a man have seene in ev'ry Streete,
The Father bidding farewell to his Sonne:
Small Children kneeling at their Fathers feete:
The Wife with her deare Husband ne'r had done:
Brother, his Brother, with adieu to greete:
One Friend to take leave of another runne:
The Mayden with her best belov'd to part,
Gave him her hand, who tooke away her heart.

The nobler Youth the common ranke above,
On their corvetting Coursers mounted faire,
One ware his Mistris Garter, one her Glove;
And he a lock of his deare Ladies haire;
And he her Colours, whom he most did love;
There was not one but did some Favour weare:
And each one tooke it, on his happy speede,
To make it famous by some Knightly deede.

The cloudes of dust, that from the wayes arose,
Which in their martch, the trampling Troupes doe reare;
When as the Sunne their thicknesse doth oppose
In his descending, shining wondrous cleare,
To the beholder farre off standing, showes
Like some besieged Towne, that were on fire:
As though fore-telling e'r they should returne,
That many a Citie yet secure must burne.

The well-rig'd Navie falne into the Road,
For this short Cut with victuall fully stor'd,
The King impatient of their long aboad,
Commands his Army instantly aboard,
Casting to have each Company bestow'd,
As then the time convenience could afford;
The Ships appointed wherein they should goe,
And Boats prepar'd for waftage to and fro.

To be imbarqu'd when every Band comes downe,
Each in their order as they mustred were,
Or by the difference of their

A Blazon of the Ensignes of the severall Shires, in 14 Stanzas following.

Armings knowne,
Or by their Colours; for in Ensignes there,
Some wore the Armes of their most ancient Towne,
Others againe their owne Divises beare,
There was not any, but that more or lesse,
Something had got, that something should expresse.

First, in the

Expressing their freedom, as still retaining their ancient liberties, by surprizing the Conqueror like a moving Wood.

Kentish Stremer was a Wood,
Out of whose top an arme that held a Sword,
As their right Embleme; and to make it good,
They above other onely had a Word,
Which was; Unconquer'd; as that freest had stood.

An expression of King Harolds death, slaine with an Arrow in the head, at the Battaile of Hastings, fighting against the Conqueror.

Sussex the next that was to come Aboard
Bore a Blacke Lyon Rampant, sore that bled,
With a Field-Arrow darted through the head.

The men of

The first famous Earle of that Countrey.

Surrey, Checky Blew and gold,
Which for brave Warren their first Earle they wore,
In many a Field that honour'd was of olde:)
And Hamshere next in the same Colours bore,
Three Lions Passant, th'Armes of Bevis bould,
Who through the World so famous was of yore;
A silver

Expressing the pleasantnesse of the scituation of that County, lying upon the French Sea.

Tower, Dorsets Red Banner beares;
The Cornishmen two Wrestlers had for theirs.

The

As lying the fittest to expell or forwarne Invasion.

Devonshire Band, a Beacon set on fire,
Sommerset

Expressing the delicacy of the Bath, their chiefe Citty.

a Virgine bathing in a Spring,
Their Cities Armes, the men of Glostershire,
In Gold three

The Armes of the ancient Family of Clare Earle of Gloster borne by the City.

Bloudy Chevernells doe bring;
Wiltshire a Crowned

Stonidge being the first wonder of England, standing in Wilshire:

Piramed; As nigher
Then any other to martch to the King;
Barkshire a

An old Embleme of Beroch, or Berkshire.

Stag, under an Oake that stood,
Oxford a White Bull wading in a Flood.

The mustred men for

A Badge of the ancient Family of the Staffords Dukes of that place.

Buckingham, are gone
Under the Swan, the Armes of that olde Towne,
The Londoners, and Middlesex as one,
Are by the Red Crosse, and the Dagger knowne;
The Men of

Queene Helen Founder of the Crosse, wife to Constantaine, and Daughter to King Coell, builder of Colechester in Essex.

Essex overmatch'd by none,
Under Queene Hellens Image Martching downe;

Suffolke the most Easterly of the English shieres.

Suffolke a Sunne halfe risen from the brack,

For the brave prospect to the Germane Ocean.

Norffolke a Triton on a Dolphines backe.

The Souldiers sent from

Having relation to that famous Universitie their Shiere Towne.

Cambridgeshire, a Bay
Upon a Mountaine watred with a shower:
Hartford

The Armes of the Towne somewhat alluding to the name.

two Harts that in a River play;
Bedfords an Eagle pearcht upon a Tower,
And

The Armes of the towne of Huntingdon, first so named of a place where Hunters met.

Huntington a People proud as they,
Nor giving place to any for their power,
A youthfull Hunter, with a Chaplet Crown'd,
In a pyde Lyam leading forth his Hound.

Northampton

The Armes of the towne.

with a Castle seated high,
Supported by two Lyons thither came;
The men of

From the aboundance of wooll in that tract.

Rutland, to them marching nie,
In their rich Ensigne beare an Ermine Ram,
And

A sport more used in that Shiere from ancient time, then in any other.

Lestershire that on their strength relye,
A Bull and Mastive fighting for the game.
Lincolne

For the length that it hath upon the Germane Ocean.

a Ship most neatly that was lim'd
In all her Sailes with Flags and Pennons trim'd.

Stout

The Beare and ragged Staffe, the ancient Armes of that Earledome.

Warwickshire, her ancient badge the Beare,
Worster

For the aboundance of fruit more there then in any other tract.

a Peare-Tree laden with the Fruit,
A Golden Fleece and

The finenesse of the wooll of Lemster in that Shiere.

Hereford doth weare;
Stafford,

Many Hermites lived there in the woods in time past, it being all forrestie.

a Hermet in his homely sute,
Shropshire

Expressing the loftinesse of the mountaines in that Shiere, on which many Hawkes were wont to airy.

a Falcon towring in the Ayre,
And for the Shiere whose surface seemes most brute
Darby, an Eagle sitting on a Roote,
A swathed Infant holding in her foote.

Olde

That famous out-law lived much in that Country, and is yet by many places there celebrated.

Nottingham, an Archer clad in greene,
Under a Tree with his drawne Bowe that stood,
Which in a checkquer'd Flagge farre off was seene:
It was the Picture of olde Robin Hood,
And

Accounted ever the best Archers of England.

Lancashiere not as the least I weene,
Thorough three Crownes, three Arrowes smear'd with blood:
Cheshiere a Banner, very square and broad,
Wherein a man upon a Lyon rode.

A flaming Lance, the

For their agillity with the Speare, and swiftnesse of their Nagges.

Yorkshiere men for them,
As those for Durham neere againe at hand,
A Myter crowned with a Diadem:
An Armed man, the men of

Being ready still in Armes against the Scots.

Cumberland:
So

Expressing the scite thereof juting out into those dangerous Seas, betwixt England and Ireland.

Westmerland link'd with it in one Stem,
A Ship that wrackt lay fierd upon the sand:
Northumberland

Their terrible conflicts (many times) with the Scots, expressed in the fight betweene the golden and red Lyon.

with these com'n as a Brother,
Two Lyons fighting tearing one another.

Thus as themselves the English men had show'd
Under the Ensigne of each sev'rall Shiere,
The Native Welch who no lesse honour ow'd
To their owne King, nor yet lesse valiant were,
In one strong Reg'ment had themselves bestow'd,
And of the rest, resumed had the Reare:
To their owne Quarter marching as the rest,
As neatly Arm'd, and bravely as the best.

Milford Haven in Penbrookeshiere, one of the bravest harbours in the knowne world, therefore not unaptly so expressed.

Pembrooke, a Boat wherein a Lady stood,
Rowing her selfe within a quiet Bay;
Those men of South-Wales of the

Partly Dutch, partly English, partly Welch.

mixed blood,
Had of the Welch the leading of the way:
Caermardin

Merlin, by whose birth and knowledge that towne is made famous.

in her Colours beare a Rood,
Whereon an olde man lean'd himselfe to stay
At a Starre pointing; which of great renowne,
Was skilfull Merlin, namer of that Towne.

A Watch Tower or Pharus, having the scituation where Severne beginneth to widden, as when Pirats have come in to give warning to the other Maratyne Countries.

Clamorgan men, a Castell great and hie,
From which, out of the Battlement above,
A flame shot up it selfe into the skye:
The men of

For the glory it hath attained, to be the Kings birth-place, and to expresse his principalities.

Munmouth (for the ancient love
To that deare Country; neighbouring them so nie)
Next after them in Equipage that move,
Three Crownes Imperiall which supported were,
With three Arm'd Armes, in their proud Ensigne beare.

The men of

The Armes of Brecknock.

Brecknock brought a Warlick Tent,
Upon whose top there sate a watchfull Cock,
Radnor,

Lying towards the midst of Wales, and for aboundance of Sheepe, living on those high Mountaines.

a mountaine of a high assent,
Thereon a Shepheard keeping of his Flock,
As

Expressing the scituation of that Shiere, lying on the Maratine part upon the Irish Sea.

Cardigan the next to them that went,
Came with a Mermayde sitting on a Rock,
And

For the aboundance of Goates, being on those inaccessible Mountaines.

Merioneth beares (as these had done)
Three dancing Goates against the rising Sunne,

Those of

The Shiere breeding the best Horses of Wales.

Mountgomery, beare a prancing Steed,
Denbigh

As opening it selfe to the great North or Deucalidonian Sea.

a Neptune with his three-fork'd Mace:
Flintshiere

Expressing the aboundance of Corne and grasse, in that little Tract.

a Workmayd in her Summers weed,
With Sheafe and Sickle (with a warlick pace)
Those of Caernarvon not the least in speed,
Though marching last (in the mayne Armies face)
Three golden Eagles in their Ensigne brought,
Under which oft brave Owen Guyneth fought.

The Seas amazed at the fearefull sight,
Of Armes, and Ensignes, that aboard were brought,
Of Streamers, Banners, Pennons, Ensignes pight,
Upon each Pup and Prowe; and at the fraught,
So full of terror, that it hardly might
Into a naturall course againe be brought,
As the vaste Navie which at Anchor rides,
Proudly presumes to shoulder out the Tides.

The Fleet then full, and floating on the Maine,
The numerous Masts, with their brave Topsailes spred,
When as the Winde a little doth them straine,
Seeme like a Forrest bearing her proud head
Against some rough flawe, that forerunns a raine;

A Simile of the Navy.

So doe they looke from every loftie sted,
Which with the Surges tumbled too and fro,
Seeme (even) to bend, as trees are seene to doe.

From every Ship when as the Ordnance rore,
Of their depart, that all might understand,
When as the zealous people from the shore,
Againe with fires salute them from the Land,

The brave solemnity at the departing of the Fleet.

For so was order left with them before,
To watch the Beacons, with a carefull hand,
Which being once fierd, the people more or lesse,
Should all to Church, and pray for their successe.

They shape their Course into the Mouth of Seyne,

The Navy Landing in the mouth of Seyne.

That destin'd Flood those Navies to receive,
Before whose fraught, her France had prostrate laine,
As now she must this, that shall never leave,
Untill the Engines that it doth containe,
Into the ayre her heightned walls shall heave;
Whose stubborne Turrets had refus'd to bow,
To that brave Nation that shall shake them now.

Long Boates with Scouts are put to land before,
Upon light Naggs the Countrey to discry,
(Whilst the brave Army setting is on shore,)
To view what strength the enemy had nie,
Pressing the bosome of large France so sore,
That her pale Genius, in affright doth flye
To all her Townes and warnes them to awake,
And for her safety up their Armes to take.

At Paris, Roan, and Orleance, she calls,
And at their gates with gronings doth complaine:
Then cries she out, O get up to your walls:
The English Armies are return'd againe,
Which in two Battailes gave those fatall falls,
At Cressie, and at Poyteers, where lay slaine
Our conquered Fathers, which with very feare
Quake in their Graves to feele them landed here.

The King of France now having understood,
Of Henries entrance, (but too well improv'd,)
He cleerly saw that deere must be the blood,
That it must cost, e'r he could be remov'd;
He sends to make his other Sea Townes good,
Never before so much it him behov'd;
In ev'ry one a Garison to lay,
Fearing fresh powers from England ev'ry day.

To the high'st earth whilst awfull Henry gets,
From whence strong Harflew he might easl'est see,
With sprightly words, and thus their courage whets,

The brave encouragement of a couragious King.

In yonder walls be Mynes of gold (quoth he)
He's a poore Slave, that thinkes of any debts;
Harflew shall pay for all, it ours shall be:
This ayre of France doth like me wondrous well,
Lets burne our Ships, for here we meane to dwell.

But through his Hoast, he first of all proclaim'd

A charitable Proclamation made by the King.

In paine of death, no English man should take
From the Religious, aged, or the maym'd,
Or women that could no resistance make:
To gaine his owne for that he onely aym'd;
Nor would have such to suffer for his sake:
Which in the French (when they the same did heare)
Bred of this brave King, a religious feare.

His Army rang'd, in order fitting warre,

The Kings mayne Standard (for the ponderousnes thereof,) ever borne upon a Carriage.

Each with some greene thing doth his Murrian crowne,
With his mayne standard fixt upon the Carre;
Comes the great King before th'intrenched Towne,
Whilst from the walls the people gazing are,
In all their sights he sets his Army downe;
Nor for their shot he careth not a pin,
But seekes where he his Battery may begin.

And into three, his Army doth divide,

The King makes his approaches on three parts.

His strong aproaches on three parts to make;
Himselfe on th'one, Clarence on th'other side,
To Yorke and Suffolke he the third doth take,
The Mines the Duke of Glocester doth guide;
Then caus'd his Ships the River up to Stake,
That none with Victuall should the Towne relieve,
Should the Sword faile, with Famine them to grieve.

From his Pavillion where he sate in State,
Arm'd for the Siedge, and buckling on his Shield,
Brave Henry sends his Herault to the Gate,
By Trumpets sound, to summon them to yeeld,

The King summons Harflew.

And to accept his Mercy, ere to late,
Or else to say ere he forsooke the field,
Harflew should be but a meere heape of Stones,
Her buildings buried with her Owners bones.

France on this sudaine put into a fright,
With the sad newes of Harflew in distresse,
Whose inexpected, miserable plight,
She on the suddaine, knew not to redresse,
But urg'd to doe the utmost that shee might,
The peoples feares and clamours to suppresse,
Raiseth a power with all the speede she could,
Somewhat thereby, to loose King Henries hold.

The Marshall, and the Constable of France,

Charles de Alibert, and John Bowcequalt.

Leading those Forces levied for the turne,
By which they thought their Titles to advance,
And of their Countrey endlesse praise to earne,
But it with them farre otherwise doth chance,
For when they saw the Villages to burne,
And high-towr'd Harflew round ingirt with fire,
They with their powers to Cawdebeck retire.

Like as a Hinde when shee her Calfe doth see,

A Simile of the French powers.

Lighted by chance into a Lions pawes,
From which should shee adventure it to free,
Shee must her selfe fill his devouring Jawes,
And yet her young one, still his prey must be,
(Shee so instructed is by Natures Lawes:)
With them so fares it, which must needs goe downe
If they would fight; and yet must loose the Towne:

Now doe they mount their Ordnance for the day,

A discription of the siege of Harflewe, in the 19. following Stanzaes.

Their scaling Ladders rearing to the walls,
Their battering Rammes against the gates they lay,
Their brazen slings send in the wilde-fire balls,
Baskets of twigs now carie stones and clay,
And to th'assault who furiously not falls;
The Spade and Pickax working are belowe,
Which then unfelt, yet gave the greatest blowe.

Rampiers of earth the painefull Pyoners raise
With the walls equall, close upon the Dike,
To passe by which the Souldier that assayes,
On Planks thrust over, one him downe doth strike:
Him with a mall a second English payes,
A second French transpearc'd him with a Pyke:
That from the height of the embattel'd Towers,
Their mixed blood ranne downe the walls in showers.

A French man back into the Towne doth fall,
With a sheafe Arrow shot into the head;
An English man in scaling of the wall,
From the same place is by a stone struck dead,
Tumbling upon them logs of wood, and all,
That any way for their defence might sted:
The hills at hand re-ecchoing with the din
Of shouts without, and fearefull shriekes within.

When all at once the English men assaile,
The French within all valiantly defend,
And in a first assault, if any faile,
They by a second strive it to amend:
Out of the Towne come

Crosbowe Arrowes.

quarries thick as haile;
As thick againe their Shafts the English send:
The bellowing Canon from both sides doth rore,
With such a noyse as makes the Thunder pore.

Now upon one side you should heare a cry,
And all that Quarter clowded with a smother;
The like from that against it by and by;
As though the one were eccho to the other,
The King and Clarence so their turnes can ply:
And valiant Gloster showes himselfe their brother;
Whose Mynes to the besieg'd more mischiefe doe,
Then with th'assaults above, the other two.

An olde man sitting by the fier side,
Decrepit with extreamity of Age,
Stilling his little Grand-childe when it cride,
Almost distracted with the Batteries rage:
Sometimes doth speake it faire, sometimes doth chide,
As thus he seekes its mourning to asswage,
By chance a Bullet doth the chimney hit,
Which falling in, doth kill both him and it.

Whilst the sad weeping Mother sits her downe,
To give her little new-borne Babe the Pap:
A lucklesse quarry leveld at the Towne,
Kills the sweet Baby sleeping in her lap,
That with the fright shee falls into a swoone,
From which awak'd, and mad with the mishap;
As up a Rampire shreeking she doth clim,
Comes a great Shot, and strikes her lim from lim.

Whilst a sort runne confusedly to quench,
Some Pallace burning, or some fired Street,
Call'd from where they were fighting in the Trench:
They in their way with Balls of Wilde-fire meet,
So plagued are the miserable French,
Not above head, but also under feet:
For the fierce English vowe the Towne to take,
Or of it soone a heape of stones to make.

Hot is the Siege the English comming on,
As men so long to be kept out that scorne,
Carelesse of wounds as they were made of stone;
As with their teeth the walls they would have torne:
Into a Breach who quickly is not gone;
Is by the next behinde him over-borne:
So that they found a place that gave them way,
They never car'd what danger therein lay.

From ev'ry Quarter they their course must plye,
As't pleas'd the King them to th'assault to call:
Now on the Duke of Yorke the charge doth lye:
To Kent and Cornwall then the turne doth fall:
Then Huntingdon up to the walls they crye:
Then Suffolke, and then Excester; which all
In their meane Souldiers habits us'd to goe,
Taking such part as those that own'd them doe.

The men of Harflew rough excursions make,
Upon the English watchfull in their Tent,
Whose courages they to their cost awake,
With many a wound that often back them sent,
So proud a Sally that durst undertake,
And in the Chase pell mell amongst them went,
For on the way such ground of them thye win,
That some French are shut out, some English in.

Nor idely sit our men at Armes the while,
Foure thousand Horse that ev'ry day goe out;
And of the Field are Masters many a mile,
By putting the Rebellious French to rout;
No Peasants them with promises beguile:
Another bus'nesse they were come about;
For him they take, his Ransome must redeeme,
Onely French Crownes, the English men esteeme.

Whilst English Henry lastly meanes to trye:
By three vast Mynes, the walls to overthrowe:
The French men their approches that espye,
By Countermynes doe meete with them belowe,
And as opposed in the Workes they lye:
Up the Besieged the Besiegers blowe,
That stifled quite, with powder as with dust,
Longer to walls they found it vaine to trust.

Till Gaucourt then, and Tuttivile that were
The Townes Commanders, (with much perill) finde
The Resolution that the English beare;
As how their owne to yeelding were enclinde,
Summon to parly, off'ring frankly there;
If that ayde came not by a day assignde,
To give the Towne up, might their lyves stand free:
As for their goods, at Henries will to be.

And having wonne their conduct to the King,
Those hardy Chiefes on whom the charge had layne:
Thither those well-fed Burgesses doe bring,
What they had off'red strongly to maintaine
In such a case, although a dang'rous thing,
Yet they so long upon their knees remaine:
That five dayes respight from his Grant they have,
Which was the most, they (for their lives) durst crave.

The time perfixed comming to expire,
And their reliefe ingloriously delay'd:
Nothing within their sight but sword, and fire;
And bloody Ensignes ev'ry where display'd:
The English still within themselves entire,
When all these things they seriously had way'd,
To Henries mercy found that they must trust,
For they perceiv'd their owne to be injust.

The Ports are opened, weapons layd aside,
And from the walls th'Artillary displac'd:
The Armes of England are advanc'd in pride:
The watch Tower, with Saint Georges Banner grac'd:
Live Englands Henry, all the people cride:
Into the Streetes their women runne in hast,
Bearing their little Children, for whose sake
They hop'd the King would the more mercy take.

The gates thus widened with the breath of Warre;
Their ample entrance to the English gave:
There was no dore that then had any barre;
For of their owne not any thing they have:
When Henry comes on his Emperiall Carre:

The King of England entreth Harflew in triumph.

To whom they kneele their lives alone to save.
Strucken with wonder, when that face they sawe,
Wherein such mercy was, with so much awe.

And first themselves the English to secure,
Doubting what danger might be yet within;
The strongest Forts, and Citadell make sure,
To showe that they could keepe as well as win,
And though the spoyles them wondrously alure,
To fall to pillage e'r they will begin,
They shut each passage, by which any power
Might be brought on to hinder, but an hower.

That Conquering King which entring at the gate,
Borne by the presse as in the ayre he swamme:
Upon the suddaine layes aside his state,
And of a Lyon is become a Lambe:
He is not now what he was but of late:
But on his bare feete to the Church he came:
By his example, as did all the presse,
To give God thankes, for his first good successe.

And sends his Herauld to King Charles to say,
That though he thus was setled on his shore,
Yet he his Armes was ready downe to lay,
His ancient right if so he would restore:
But if the same he wilfully denay,

King Henry offereth to decide his right by single combat.

To stop th'effusion of their Subjects gore;
He frankly off'reth in a single fight,
With the young Daulphine to decide his right.

Eight dayes at Harflew he doth stay to heare,
What answere back, his Herauld him would bring:
But when he found that he was ne'r the neere;
And that the Daulphine meaneth no such thing
As to fight single; nor that any were
To deale for composition from the King:
He casts for Callice to make forth his way,
And take such Townes, as in his Journeyes lay.

But first his bus'nesse he doth so contrive,
To curbe the Townes-men, should they chance to stirre
Of Armes, and Office he doth them deprive,
And to their roomes the English doth preferre:
Out of the Ports all Vagrants he doth drive,
And therein sets his Unckle Excester:
This done, to martch he bids the thundring Drummes,
To scourge proud France when now her Conqueror comes.

The King and Daulphine having understood,
How on his way this haughty Henry was
Over the Soame, which is a dangerous flood;
Pluckt downe the Bridges that might give him passe;
And ev'ry thing, if fit for humane food,
Caus'd to be forrag'd; (to a wondrous masse)
And more then this, his Journeyes to fore-slowe,
He scarce one day unskirmish'd with, doth goe.

But on his march, in midst of all his foes;
He like a Lyon keepes them all at bay,
And when they seeme him strictly to enclose;
Yet through the thick'st he hewes him out a way:
Nor the proud Daulphine dare him to oppose;
Though off'ring oft his Army to fore-lay:
Nor all the power the envious French can make,
Force him one foote, his path (but) to forsake.

And each day as his Army doth remove,
Marching along upon Soames Marshy side,
His men at Armes on their tall Horses prove,
To finde some shallow, over where to ryde,
But all in vaine against the Streame they strove,

A foard found in the River of Soame

Till by the helpe of a laborious guide,
A Ford was found to set his Army ore
Which never had discovered beene before.

The newes divulg'd that he had waded Soame,
And safe to shore his Caridges had brought,
Into the Daulphins bosome strooke so home,
And one the weakenesse of King Charles so wrought;
That like the troubled Sea, when it doth Foame,
As in a rage, to beate the Rocks to nought;
So doe they storme, and curse on curse they heapt
Gainst those which should the passages have kept.

And at that time, both resident in Roan,
Thither for this assembling all the Peeres,
Whose Counsailes now must underprop their Throne

A Counsell held at Roan against the King of England.

Against the Foe; which, not a man but feares;
Yet in a moment confident are growne,
When with fresh hopes, each one his fellow cheeres,
That ere the English to their Callis got,
Some for this spoile should pay a bloudy shot.

Therfore they both in solemne Counsaile satt,
With Berry and with Britaine their Alies;
Now speake they of this course, and then of that,
As to insnare him how they might divise;
Something they faine would doe, but know not what,
At length the Duke Alanzon up doth rise,
And craving silence of the King and Lords,
Against the English, brake into this these words,

Had this unbridled youth an Army led,

A speech of the Duke Alanzon, against the English.

That any way were worthy of your feare,
Against our Nation, that durst turne the head,
Such as the former English forces were,
This care of yours, your Countrey then might sted,
To tell you then, who longer can forbeare,
That into question, you our valour bring,
To call a Counsaile for so poore a thing.

A Route of tatter'd Rascalls starved so,
As forced through extreamity of need,
To rake for scraps on Dunghils as they goe,
And on the Berries of the Shrubs to feed,
Besides with fluxes are enfeebled so,
And other foule diseases that they breed,
That they, there Armes disabled are to sway,
But in their march doe leave them on the way.

And to our people but a handfull are,
Scarse thirtie thousand, when to Land they came,
Of which to England dayly some repayre,
Many from Harflew carried sicke and lame,
Fitter for Spittles, and the Surgions care,
Then with their Swords on us to winne them fame,
Unshod, and without stockings are the best,
And those by Winter miserably opprest.

To let them dye upon their march abroad,
And Fowles upon their Carkases to feed,
The heapes of them upon the common road
A great infection likely were to breed,
For our owne safeties see them then bestow'd,
And doe for them this charitable deede:
Under our Swords together let them fall,
And one that day they dye, be buried all.

This bold invective forc'd against the Foe,
Although it most of the Assembly seas'd,
Yet those which better did the English know,
Were but a little with his speeches pleas'd,
And that the Duke of Berry meant to showe:
Which when the murmure somewhat was appeas'd,
After a while their listning silence breakes,
And thus in answere of Alanzon speakes.

The Duke of Berrys answere to Alanzon.

My liedge, quoth he, and you my Lords, and Peeres,
Whom this great businesse chiefely doth concerne,
By my experience, now so many yeeres
To know the English I am not to learne;
Nor I more feeling have of humane feares
Then fitteth Manhood, nor doe hope to earne
Suffrage from any; but by zeale am wonne,
To speake my minde here, as the Duke hath done.

Th'events of Warre are various (as I know)
And say, the losse upon the English light,
Yet may a dying man give such a blow,
As much may hinder his proud Conquerours might;
It is enough our puissant power to showe
To the weake English, now upon their flight,
When want, and winter, strongly spurre them on,
You else but stay them, that would faine be gon.

I like our Forces their first course should hold,
To skirmish with them, upon every stay,
But fight by no meanes with them, though they would,
Except they finde them forraging for pray,
So still you have them shut up in a Fould,
And still to Callis keepe them in their way;
So Fabius wearied Hanibal, so we
May English Henry, pleased if you be.

And of the English rid your Countrey cleane,
If on their backs, but Callice walles they win,
Whose Frontier Townes you easly may maintaine,
With a strong Army still to keepe them in;
Then let our Ships make good the mouth of Seyne,
And at your pleasure Harflew you may winne,
Ere with Supplys againe they can invade,
Spent in the Voyage lately hither made.

That day at Poyteers, in that bloudy Field,
The sudaine turne in that great Battell then,
Shall ever teach me, whilest I Armes can weeld,
Never to trust to multitudes of men;
Twas the first day that ere I wore a Sheeld,
Oh let me never see the like agen!
Where their Blacke Edward such a Battell wonne,
As to behold it might amaze the Sunne.

There did I see our conquered Fathers fall,
Before the English on that fatall ground,
When as to ours their number was but small,
And with brave Spirits France ne'r did more abound,
Yet oft that Battaile into minde I call,
Whereas of ours, one man seemd all one wound,
I instance this; yet humbly here submit
My selfe to fight, if you shall thinke it fit.

The Marshall and the Constable about
To second, what this sager Duke had said:
The youthfull Lords into a cry brake out,
Gainst their opinions, so that over-sway'd,

Young mens counsailes oft-times prove the utter subversion both of themselves and others.

Some seeming of their Loyalties to doubt;
Alanzon as an Oracle obay'd,
And not a French then present, but doth sweare
To kill an English if ynow there were.

A Herault posted presently away,
The King of England to the field to dare,

The French King sendeth to dare the King of England to Battaile.

To bid him cease his spoyle, nor to delay
Gainst the French power his forces but prepare:
For that King Charles determin'd to display
His bloody Ensignes, and through France declare,
The day, and place, that Henry should set downe,
In which their Battailes, should dispose the Crowne.

This newes to Henry by the Herault brought,
As one dispassion'd soberly (quoth he)
Had your King pleas'd, we sooner might have fought;

The King of Englands modest answer.

For now my Souldiers much enfeebled be:
Nor day, nor place, for Battaile shall be sought
By English Henry: but if he seeke me,
I to my utmost will my selfe defend,
And to th'Almighties pleasure leave the end.

The brute of this intended Battaile spred,
The coldnesse of each sleeping courage warmes,
And in the French that daring boldnesse bred:
Like casting Bees that they arise in swarmes,
Thinking the English downe so farre to tred,
As past that day ne'r more to rise in Armes,
T'extirpe the name, if possible it were,
At least not after to be heard of there.

A Simily of the rising of the French.

As when you see the envious Crowe espye,
Something that shee doth naturally detest:
With open throat how shee doth squall and crye;
And from the next Grove calleth in the rest,
And they for those beyond them bawling flye,
Till their foule noyse doe all the ayre infest:
Thus French, the French to this great Battaile call,
Upon their swords to see the English fall.

And to the King when seriously one tolde,
With what an Host he should encountred be,

David Gam, a great Captain in that Warr.

Gam noting well, the King did him behold,
In the reporting; Merrily (quoth he)
My Liege I'le tell you if I may be bold,
We will divide this Army into three:
One part we'll kill, the second prisoners stay;
And for the third, we'll leave to runne away.

But for the Foe came hourely in so fast,
Lest they his Army should disordred take:
The King who wisely doth the worst forecast,
His speedy martch doth presently forsake,
Into such forme and his Batallion cast;
That doe their worst they should not eas'ly shake;
For that his scouts which forrag'd had the Coast,
Bad him at hand expect a puissant Host.

On which ere long the English Vauward light,
Which York, of men the bravest, doth command,

The Duke of Yorke.

When either of them in the others sight,
He caus'd the Army instantly to stand,
As though preparing for a present Fight,
And rideth forth from his couragious Band,
To view the French, whose numbers over spread,
The troubled Country on whose earth they tread.

Now were both Armies got upon that ground,
As on a Stage, where they their strengthes must trye,
Whence from the wydth of many a gaping wound,
There's many a soule into the Ayre must flye:
Meane while the English that some ease had found;
By the advantage of a Village nie,
There set them downe the Battell to abide,
When they the place had strongly fortifide.

Made drunke with pride the haughty French disdaine,

The French scorning the English, being so fewe in respect of their mighty power.

Lesse then their owne, a multitude to view,
Nor aske of God the victory to gaine,
Upon the English wext so poore and fewe,
To stay their slaughter thinking it a paine,
And lastly to that insolence they grewe,
Quoyts, Lots, and Dice for Englishmen to cast,
And sweare to pay, the Battaile being past.

For knots of corde to ev'ry Towne they send,
The Captiv'd English that they caught to binde,
For to perpetuall slav'ry they intend:
Those that alive they on the Field should finde,
So much as that they fear'd lest they should spend
Too many English, wherefore they assignde
Some to keepe fast those, fayne that would be gon
After the Fight, to try their Armes upon.

One his bright sharpe-eg'd Semiter doth showe,
Off'ring to lay a thousand Crownes (in pride)
That he two naked English at one blowe,
Bound back to back will at the wasts divide,
Some bett his sword will do't, some others no,
After the Battaile, and they'll have it tride:
Another wafts his Blade about his head,
And shewes them how their hamstrings he will shread.

They part their prisoners, passing them for debt,
And in their Ransome ratibly accord
To a Prince of ours, a Page of theirs they set;
And a French Lacky to an English Lord;
As for our Gentry them to hyre they'll let,
And as good cheape as they can them afford,
Branded for Slaves, that if they hapt to stray,
Knowne by the marke, them any one might slay.

And cast to make a Chariot for the King,
Painted with Antickes, and ridiculous toyes,
In which they meane to Paris him to bring,
To make sport to their Madames and their Boyes,
And will have Rascalls, Rymes of him to sing,
Made in his mock'ry; and in all these joyes,
They bid the Bells to ring, and people crie,
Before the Battaile, France and Victorie.

And to the King and Daulphine sent away
(Who at that time residing were in Roane)
To be partakers of that glorious day:
Wherein the English should be overthrowne,
Lest that of them ensuing times should say,
That for their safety they forsooke their owne;
When France did that brave victory obtaine,
That shall her lasting'st monument remaine.

The poore distressed Englishmen the whiles,
Not dar'd by doubt, and lesse appaul'd with dread
Of their Arm'd Pykes, some sharpning are the pyles,
The Archer grinding his barb'd Arrow head:
Their Bills and Blades, some whetting are with Files:
And some their Armours strongly Riveted:
Some pointing Stakes to stick into the ground,
To guard the Bow-men, and their Horse to wound.

The night fore-running this most dreadfull day:
The French that all to jollity encline:
Some fall to dancing, some againe to play:

The Ryot in the French Campe the night before the Battell.

And some are drinking to this great Designe:
But all in pleasure spend the night away:
The Tents with lights, the Fields with Boone-fires shine:
The common Souldiers Free-mens Catches sing:
With showtes and laughter all the Campe doth ring.

The wearied English watchfull o'r their Foes,
(The depth of night then drawing on so fast)
That fayne a little would themselves repose,
With thanks to God, doe take that small repast
Which that poore Village willingly bestowes:
And having plac'd their Sentinels at last,
They fall to Prayer, and in their Cabins blest,
T'refresh their spirits, then tooke them to their rest.

In his Pavillion Princely Henry lay'd,
Whilst all his Army round about him slept:

Pondering in his thoughts, his Fathers comming to the Crowne by deposing the rigthfull King.

His restlesse head upon his Helmet stay'd,
For carefull thoughts his eyes long waking kept:
Great God (quoth he) withdraw not now thy ayde:
Nor let my Father Henries sinnes be heapt
On my transgressions, up the Summe to make,
For which thou may'st me utterly forsake.

Henry the fift caused the body of King Richard to be taken up, where it was meanely buried at Langley, and to be layde in Westminster by his first Wife Queene Anne.

King Richards wrongs, to minde, Lord doe not call,
Nor how for him my Father did offend,
From us alone derive not thou his fall,
Whose odious life caus'd his untimely end,
That by our Almes be expiated all:
Let not that sinne on me his Sonne desend,
When as his body I translated have,
And buried in an honourable Grave.

These things thus pondring, sorrow-ceasing sleepe,
From cares to rescue his much troubled minde,
Upon his Eye-lids stealingly doth creepe,
And in soft slumbers every sense doth binde,
(As undisturbed every one to keepe)
When as that Angell to whom God assign'd,
The guiding of the English, gliding downe
The silent Campe doth with fresh courage crowne.

His glittering wings he gloriously displaies,
Over the Hoste as every way it lyes,
With golden Dreames their travell, and repaies,
This Herault from the Rector of the skies,
In Vision warnes them not to use delayes,
But to the Battell cheerefully to rise,
And be victorious, for that day at hand,
He would amongst them for the English stand.

The dawne scarse drewe the curtaines of the East,
But the late wearied Englishmen awake,
And much refreshed with a little rest
Themselves soone ready for the Battaile make,
Not any one but feeleth in his breast,
That sprightly fire which Courage bids him take,
For ere the Sunne next rising went to bed,
The French by them in triumph should be led.

And from their Cabins, ere the French arose,
(Drown'd in the pleasure of the passed night,)
The English cast their Battailes to dispose,
Fit for the ground whereon they were to fight:
Foorth that brave King couragious Henry goes,

The great care of a wise and politike Captaine.

An hower before that it was fully light,
To see if there might any place be found,
To give his Hoste advantage by the ground.

Where twas his hap a Quicksett hedge to view,
Well growne in height; and for his purpose thin,
Yet by the Ditch upon whose banke it grew,
He found it to be difficult to winne,
Especially if those of his were true,
Amongst the shrubbs that he should set within,
By which he knew their strength of Horse must come,
If they would ever chardge his Vangaurd home.

And of three hundred Archers maketh choice,

This Stratagem the overthrow of the French.

Some to be taken out of every Band,
The strongest Bowmen, by the generall voyce,
Such as beside were valient of their hand,
And to be so imployed, as would rejoyce,
Appointing them behinde the hedge to stand,
To shrowde themselves from sight, and to be mute,
Untill a signall freely bad them shute.

The gamesome Larke now got upon her Wing,
As twere the English earely to awake,
And to wide heaven her cheerefull notes doth sing,
As shee for them would intercession make,
Nor all the noyse that from below doth spring,
Her ayrie walke can force her to forsake,
Of some much noted, and of others lesse,
But yet of all presaging good successe.

The lazie French their leisure seem to take,
And in their Cabins keepe themselves so long,
Till flocks of Ravens them with noyse awake,
Over the Army like a Cloud that hong,
Which greater haste inforceth them to make,
When with their croaking all the Countrey rong,
Which boaded slaughter as the most doe say,
But by the French it turned was this way.

That this divyning Foule well understood,

The French mis-interpret the flight of Ravens hovering over their owne Campe.

Upon that place much gore was to be spill'd,
And as those Birds doe much delight in blood,
With humane flesh would have their gorges fill'd,
So waited they upon their Swords for food,
To feast upon the English being kill'd,
Then little thinking that these came in deed
On their owne mangled Carkases to feed.

When soone the French preparing for the Field,
Their armed troops are setting in array,
Whose wondrous numbers they can hardly weeld,
The place too little whereupon they lay,
They therefore to necessitie must yeeld,
And into Order put them as they may,
Whose motion sounded like to Nilus fall,
That the vaste ayre was deafned therewithall.

The Constable, and Admirall of France,
With the grand Marshall, men of great command:

The Marshalling of the French Army, containing three stanzas.

The Dukes of Burbon, and of Orleance,
Some for their place, some for their birth-right stand,
The Daulphine of Averney (to advance
His worth and honour) of a puissant hand:
The Earle of Ewe in Warre that had beene bred,
These mighty men the mighty Vauward led.

The mayne brought forward by the Duke of Barre,
Nevers, and Beamont, men of speciall name:
Alanzon thought, not equall'd in this Warre,
With them Salines, Rous, and Grandpre came,
Their long experience, who had fetcht from farre,
Whom this expected Conquest doth enflame,
Consisting most of Crosbowes, and so great,
As France her selfe it well might seeme to threat.

The Duke of Brabant of high valour knowne,
The Earles of Marle, and Faconbridge the Reare,
To Arthur Earle of Richmount's selfe alone,
They leave the Right wing to be guided there:
Lewes of Burbon, second yet to none,
Led on the left; with him that mighty Peere
The Earle of Vandome, who of all her men
Large France entytled, her great Master then.

The Duke of Yorke the English Vauward guides,

The Marshalling of the English Army containing five stanzas.

Of our strong Archers, that consisted most;
Which with our Horse was wing'd on both the sides:
T'affront so great and terrible an Host;
There valiant Fanhope, and there Beamonut rides,
With Willoughby which scowred had the Coast,
That morning early, and had seene at large,
How the Foe came, that then they were to charge.

Henry himselfe, on the mayne Battell brings,
Nor can these Legions of the French affright
This Mars of men, this King of earthly Kings:
Who seem'd to be much pleased with the sight,
As one ordayn'd t'accomplish mighty things;
Who to the Field came in such brav'ry dight:
As to the English boades successfull luck
Before one stroke, on either side was struck.

The bravery of King Henryes owne Person.

In Warlike state the Royall Standard borne
Before him, as in splendrous Armes he road,
Whilst his corvetting Courser seem'd in scorne
To touch the earth whereon he proudly troad,
Lillyes, and Lyons quarterly adorne;
His Shield, and his Caparison doe load:
Upon his Helme a Crowne with Diamonds deckt,
Which through the Field their Radient fiers reflect.

The Duke of Gloster neere to him agen,
T'assist his Brother in that dreadfull day,
Oxford and Suffolke both true Marshiall men,
Ready to keepe the Battell in Array,
To Excester there was appointed then
The Reare; on which their second succours lay:
Which were the youth, most of the Noblest blood,
Under the Ensignes of their names that stood.

Then of the stakes he doth the care commend,
To certaine troupes that active were and strong,
Onely divis'd the Archers to defend,
Pointed with Iron and of five foote long;
To be remov'd still which way they should bend,
Where the French Horse should thick'st upon them throng,
Which when the Host to charge each other went,
Show'd his great wit that first did them invent.

Both Armies fit, and at the point to fight,
The French themselves assuring of the day;

The scornfull message of the French to the King of England. The Kings answer to the French.

Send to the King of England (as in spight)
To know what he would for his Ransome pay,
Who with this answere doth their scorne requite:
I pray thee Herault wish the French to stay,
And e'r the day be past, I hope to see,
That for their Ransomes they shall send to me.

The French which found how little Henry makes,
Of their vaine boasts, as set therewith on fire,
Whilst each one to his Ensigne him betakes;
The Constable to raise their spleene the hyer,

The Constables Oration to the French.

Thus speakes: Brave friends now for your Grandsires sakes,
Your Country, Honours, or what may inspire
Your soules with courage, straine up all your powers,
To make this day victoriously ours.

Forward stout French, your valours and advance,
By taking vengeance for our Fathers slaine,
And strongly fixe the Diadem of France,
Which to this day unsteady doth remaine:
Now with your swords their Traytours bosomes lance,
And with their bloods wash out that ancient staine,
And make our earth drunke with the English gore,
Which hath of ours oft surfited before.

Let not one live in England once to tell,
What of their King, or of the rest became:
Nor to the English, what in France befell:
But what is bruted by the generall fame:
But now the Drummes began so lowd to yell,
As cut off further what he would declame:
And Henry seeing them on so fast to make,
Thus to his Souldiers comfortably spake.

The King of Englands Oration to the English.

Thinke but upon the justnesse of our cause,
And he's no man their number that will wey;
Thus our great Grandsire purchas'd his applause,
The more they are, the greater is our prey,
We'll hand in hand wade into dangers jawes,
And let report to England this Convey
That it for me no Ransome e'r shall rayse,
Either I'le Conquer, or here end my dayes.

It were no glory for us to subdue
Them, then our number, were the French no more;
When in one Battaile twice our Fathers slue,
Three times so many as themselves before,
But to doe something that were strange and new:
Wherefore (I aske you) Came we to this shore;
Upon these French our Fathers wan renowne,
And with their swords we'll hewe yan Forrest downe.

The meanest Souldier if in Fight he take,
The greatest Prince in yonder Army knowne,
Without controule shall him his prisoner make,
And have his Ransome freely as his owne:
Now English lyes our Honour at the stake,
And now or never be our Valour showne:
God and our Cause, Saint George for England stands,
Now Charge them English, fortune guide your hands.

When hearing one wish all the valiant men
At home in England, with them present were;
The King makes answere instantly agen,

The high valour of the King of England.

I would not have one man more then is here:
If we subdue, lesse should our praise be then:
If overcome, lesse losse shall England beare:
And to our numbers we should give that deede,
Which must from Gods owne powerfull hand proceede.

The dreadfull Charge the Drummes & Trumpets sound,
With hearts exalted, though with humbled eyes,
When as the English kneeling on the ground,
Extend their hands up to the glorious skyes;
Then from the earth as though they did rebound,
Active as fire immediately they rise:
And such a shrill showt from their throats they sent,
As made the French to stagger as they went.

Wherewith they stopt, when Erpingham which led

Sir Thomas Erpingham gave the Signall to the English.

The Armie, sawe, the showt had made them stand,
Wafting his Warder thrice about his head,
He cast it up with his auspicious hand,
Which was the signall through the English spread,
That they should Charge: which as a dread command
Made them rush on, yet with a second rore,
Frighting the French worse then they did before.

But when they sawe the Enemie so slowe,
Which they expected faster to come on,
Some scattering Shot they sent out as to showe,
That their approach they onely stood upon;
Which with more fervour made their rage to glowe,
So much disgrace that they had under-gone.
Which to amend with Ensignes let at large,
Upon the English furiously they Charge.

At the full Moone looke how th'unweldy Tide,

A Simily of the French charging the English.

Shov'd by some Tempest that from Sea doth rise
At the full height, against the ragged side
Of some rough Cliffe (of a Gigantick sise)
Foming with rage impetuously doth ride;
The angry French (in no lesse furious wise)
Of men at Armes upon their ready Horse,
Assayle the English to dispierce their force.

When as those Archers there in Ambush layde,
Having their Broad side as they came along,
With their barb'd Arrowes the French Horses payde:
And in their flankes like cruell Hornets stong:

The three hundred Archers layd in ambush, disorder the French men at Armes at the first encounter.

They kick and crie, of late that proudly nayde:
And from their seats their Armed Riders flong:
They ranne together flying from the Dike,
And make their Riders one another strike.

And whilst the Front of the French Vanguard makes,
Upon the English thinking them to Route,
Their Horses runne upon the Armed stakes,
And being wounded, turne themselves about:
The Bit into his teeth the Courser takes,
And from his Rank flyes with his Master out,
Who either hurts or is hurt of his owne,
If in the throng not both together throwne.

Tumbling on heapes, some of their Horses cast
With their foure feete all up into the ayre:
Under whose backs their Masters breath their last:
Some breake their Raynes, and thence their Riders beare:
Some with their feete stick in the Stirups fast,
By their fierce Jades, and trayled here and there:
Entangled in their Bridles, one back drawes,
And pluckes the Bit out of another jawes.

With showers of Shafts yet still the English ply
The French so fast, upon the point of flight:
With the mayne Battell yet stood Henry by,
Nor all this while had medled in the Fight,
Upon the Horses as in Chase they flye,
Arrowes so thick, in such aboundance light,
That their broad buttocks men like Butts might see,
Whereat for pastime Bow-men shooting be.

When soone De Linnies and Sureres hast,

Two wings of French horse defeated.

To ayde their friends put to this shamefull foyle,
With two light wings of Horse which had beene plac't,
Still to supply where any should recoyle:
But yet their Forces they but vainely waste,
For being light, into the generall spoyle,
Great losse De Linnies shortly doth sustaine,
Yet scapes himselfe; but brave Sureres slaine.

The King who sees how well his Vangaurd sped,
Sends his command that instantly it stay,
Desiring Yorke so bravely that had led,
To hold his Souldiers in their first array,
For it the Conflict very much might sted,
Somewhat to fall aside, and give him way,
Till full up to him he might bring his power,
And make the Conquest compleate in an hower.

Which Yorke obayes, and up King Henry comes,
When for his guidance he had got him roome.
The dreadfull bellowing of whose strait-brac'd Drummes,

The English Vaward and maine Battaile charge the French both at once.

To the French sounded like the dreadfull doome,
And them with such stupidity benummes,
As though the earth had groaned from her wombe,
For the grand slaughter ne'r began till then,
Covering the earth with multitudes of men.

Upon the French what Englishman not falls,
(By the strong Bowmen beaten from their Steeds)
With Battle-axes, Halberts, Bills, and Maules,
Where, in the slaughter every one exceedes,
Where every man, his fellow forward calls,
And shows him where some great-borne Frenchman bleeds,
Whilst Scalps about like broken pot sherds fly,
And kill, kill, kill, the Conquering English cry.

Now wexed horror to the very height,
And scarse a man but wet-shod went in gore,
As two together are in deadly fight,
And to death wounded, as one tumbleth ore,
This Frenchman falling, with his very weight
Doth kill another strucken downe before,
As he againe so falling, likewise feeles
His last breath hastned by anothers heeles.

And whilst the English eagerly pursue
The fearefull French before them still that fly,
The points of Bills and Halbers they imbrue
In their sicke Bowels, beaten downe that lye,
No man respects how, or what blood he drew,
Nor can heare those that for their mercie cry.
Eares are damn'd up with howles and hellish sounds,
One fearefull noyse a fearefuller confounds.

When the couragious Constable of France,

Charles de la Breth Constable of France.

Th'unlucky Vanguard valiantly that led,
Sawe the day turn'd by this disastrous chance,
And how the French before the English fled;
O stay (quoth he) your Ensignes yet advance,
Once more upon the Enemy make head:
Never let France say, we were vanquisht so,
With our backs basely turn'd upon our Foe.

Whom the Chattillyon hapned to accost,
And seeing thus the Constable dismayde:

The Admirall.

Shift noble Lord (quoth he) the day is lost,
If the whole world upon the match were layde,
I cannot thinke but that Black Edwards Ghost
Assists the English, and our Horse hath frayde;
If not, some Divels they have with them then,
That fight against us in the shapes of men.

Not I my Lord, the Constable replies:
By my blest soule, the Field I will not quit:
Whilst two brave Battailes are to bring supplies:
Neither of which one stroke have strucken yet:
Nay (quoth Dampeir) I doe not this advise
More then your selfe, that I doe feare a whit:
Spurre up my Lord, then side to side with mee,
And that I feare not, you shall quickly see.

They struck their Rowells to the bleeding sides
Of their fierce Steeds into the ayre that sprong:
And as their fury at that instant guides:
They thrust themselves into the murth'ring throng,
Where such bad fortune those brave Lords betides:

The Admirall slaine.

The Admirall from off his Horse was flong,
For the sterne English downe before them beere,
All that withstand, the Pesant and the Peere.

Which when the noble Constable with griefe,
Doth this great Lord upon the ground behold;
In his account so absolute a Chiefe,
Whose death through France he knew would be condol'd,
Like a brave Knight to yeeld his friend reliefe,
Doing as much as possibly he could,

The Constable slaine.

Both horse and man is borne into the mayne,
And from his friend not halfe a furlong slayne.

Now Willoughby upon his well-Arm'd Horse,
Into the midst of this Battalion brought,
And valiant Fanhope no whit lesse in force,
Himselfe hath thither through the squadrons raught,
Whereas the English without all remorce,
(Looking like men that deepely were distraught)
Smoking with sweat, besmear'd with dust and blood,
Cut into Cantels all that them withstood.

Yet whilst thus hotely they hold up the Chase
Upon the French, and had so high a hand,
The Duke of Burbon to make good his place,
Inforc'd his troupes (with much adoe) to stand,
To whom the Earle of Suffolke makes a pace,
Bringing a fresh, and yet-unfought-with Band:
Of valiant Bill-men, Oxford with successe,
Up with his Troupes doth with the other presse.

When in comes Orleance, quite thrust off before,
By those rude crowdes that from the English ran,
Encouraging stout Burbons Troupes the more,
T'affront the Foe that instantly began:
Faine would the Duke (if possible) restore,
(Doing as much as could be done by man)
Their Honour lost, by this their late Defeate,
And caused onely, by their base Retreate.

Their men at Armes their Lances closely lock
One in another, and come up so round,
That by the strength and horrour of the shock,
They forc'd the English to forsake their ground,
Shrinking no more then they had beene a Rock,
Though by the Shafts receiving many a wound,
As they would showe, that they were none of those,
That turn'd their backs so basely to their Foes.

Panting for breath his Murrian in his hand,

The courage of Woodhouse remarkable.

Woodhouse comes in as back the English beare,
My Lords (quoth he) what now inforc'd to stand,
When smiling Fortune off'reth us so faire,
The French lye yonder like to wreakes of sand,
And you by this our glory but impaire:
Or now, or never, your first Fight maintaine,
Chatillyon and the Constable are slaine.

Hand over head pell mell upon them ronne,
If you will prove the Masters of the day,
Ferrers and Greystock have so bravely done,
That I envie their glory, and dare say,
From all the English, they the Gole have woone;
Either let's share, or they'll beare all away.
This spoke, his Ax about his head he flings,
And hasts away, as though his heeles had wings.

The Incitation of this youthfull Knight,
Besides amends for their Retrayte to make,
Doth re-enforce their courage, with their might:
A second Charge with speed to undertake;
Never before were they so mad to fight,
When valiant Fanhope thus the Lords bespake,
Suffolke and Oxford as brave Earles you be,
Once more beare up with Willoughby and me.

Why now, me think'st I heare brave Fanhope speake,
Quoth noble Oxford; thou hast thy desire:
These words of thine shall yan Battalion breake:
And for my selfe I never will retire,
Untill our Teene upon the French we wreake:
Or in this our last enterprise expire:
This spoke, their Gauntlets each doth other give,
And to the Charge as fast as they could drive.

That slaughter seem'd to have but stay'd for breath,
To make the horrour to ensue the more:
With hands besmear'd with blood, when meager Death
Looketh more grisly then he did before:
So that each body seem'd but as a sheath
To put their swords in, to the Hilts in gore:
As though that instant were the end of all,
To fell the French, or by the French to fall.

A Simily of the apparance of the Battell.

Looke how you see a field of standing Corne,
When some strong winde in Summer haps to blowe,
At the full height, and ready to be shorne,
Rising in waves, how it doth come and goe
Forward and backward, so the crowds are borne,
Or as the Edie turneth in the flowe:
And above all the Bills and Axes play,
As doe the Attom's in the Sunny ray.

Now with mayne blowes their Armours are unbras'd,
And as the French before the English fled,
With their browne Bills their recreant backs they baste,
And from their shoulders their faint Armes doe shred,
One with a gleave neere cut off by the waste,
Another runnes to ground with halfe a head:
Another stumbling falleth in his flight,
Wanting a legge, and one his face doth light.

The Dukes who found their force thus overthrowne,
And those fewe left them ready still to route,
Having great skill, and no lesse courage showne;
Yet of their safeties much began to doubt,
For having fewe about them of their owne,
And by the English so impal'd about,
Saw that to some one they themselves must yeeld,
Or else abide the fury of the field.

They put themselves on those victorious Lords,
Who led the Vanguard with so good successe,

The Duke of Burbon and Orleance taken prisoners.

Bespeaking them with honourable words,
Themselves their prisoners freely and confesse,
Who by the strength of their commanding swords,
Could hardly save them from the slaught'ring presse,
By Suffolks ayde till they away were sent,
Who with a Guard convay'd them to his Tent.

When as their Souldiers to eschew the sack,
Gainst their owne Battell bearing in their flight,
By their owne French are strongly beaten back:
Lest they their Ranks, should have disord'red quight,
So that those men at Armes goe all to wrack
Twixt their owne friends, and those with whom they fight,
Wherein disorder and destruction seem'd
To strive, which should the powerfullest be deem'd.

And whilst the Daulphine of Averney cryes,

Called of some Guiscard the Daulphine of Aragon.

Stay men at Armes, let Fortune doe her worst,
And let that Villaine from the field that flyes
By Babes yet to be borne, be ever curst:
All under heaven that we can hope for, lyes
On this dayes battell, let me be the first
That turn'd yee back upon your desperate Foes,
To save our Honours, though our lyves we lose.

To whom comes in the Earle of Ewe, which long
Had in the Battaile ranged here and there,
A thousand Bills, a thousand Bowes among,
And had seene many spectakles of feare,
And finding yet the Daulphins spirit so strong,
By that which he had chanst from him to heare,
Upon the shoulder claps him, Prince quoth he,
Since I must fall, ô let me fall with thee.

Scarse had he spoke, but th'English them inclose,
And like to Mastives fircely on them flew,
Who with like Courage strongly them oppose,
When the Lord Beamont, who their Armings knewe,
Their present perill to brave Suffolke shewes,
Quoth hee, Lo where Daverney are and Ewe,
In this small time, who since the Field begun,
Have done as much, as can by men be done.

Now slaughter cease me, if I doe not greeve,
Two so brave Spirits should be untimely slaine,
Lies there no way (my Lord) them to releeve,
And for their Ransomes two such to retaine:
Quoth Suffolke, come weele hazard their repreeve,
And share our Fortunes, in they goe amaine,
And with such danger through the presse they wade,
As of their lives but small account they made.

Yet ere they through the clustred Crouds could get,
Oft downe on those, there trod to death that lay,

The Daulphin of Averney slaine.

The valient Daulphin had discharg'd his debt,
Then whom no man had bravelier serv'd that day.

The Earle of Ewe taken prisoner.

The Earle of Ewe, and wondrous hard beset:
Had left all hope of life to scape away:
Till noble Beamont and brave Suffolke came,
And as their prisoner seas'd him by his name.

Now the mayne Battaile of the French came on,
The Vauward vanquisht, quite the Field doth flye,
And other helpes besides this, have they none:
But that their hopes doe on their mayne relye,
And therefore now it standeth them upon,
To fight it bravely, or else yeeld, or dye:
For the fierce English Charge so home and sore,
As in their hands Joves Thunderbolts they bore.

The Duke of Yorke slaine.

The Duke of Yorke, who since the fight begun,
Still in the top of all his Troopes was seene,
And things well neere beyond beleefe had done,
Which of his Fortune, made him overweene,
Himselfe so farre into the maine doth runne,
So that the French which quickly got betweene
Him and his succours, that great Chiefetaine slue,
Who bravely fought whilest any breath he drew.

The newes soone brought to this Couragious King,
Orespred his face with a distempred Fire,
Though making little shew of any thing,

The King heareth of the Duke of Yorks death.

Yet to the full his eyes exprest his Ire,
More then before the Frenchmen menacing;
And hee was heard thus softly to respire:
Well, of thy blood revenged will I bee,

The Kings resolution.

Or ere one houre be past Ile follow thee.

When as the frolicke Cavalry of France,
That in the head of the maine Battaile came,
Perceiv'd the King of England to advance,
To Charge in person; It doth them inflame,
Each one well hoping it might be his chance
To sease upon him, which was all their ayme,
Then with the bravest of the English mett,
Themselves that there before the King had sett.

When the Earle of Cornewal with unusuall force,

The bloody scuffle betweene the French and English, at the Joyning of the two maine Battailes, in five Stanzas

Encounters Grandpre (next that came to hands)
In Strength his equall, blow for blow they scorce,
Weelding their Axes as they had beene wands,
Till the Earle tumbles Grandpre from his Horse,
Over whom straight the Count Salines stands,
And lendeth Cornwal such a blow withall,
Over the Crupper that he makes him fall.

Cornwal recovers, for his Armes were good,
And to Salines maketh up againe,
Who changde such boysterous buffets, that the blood,
Doth through the Joints of their strong Armour straine,
Till Count Salines sunck downe where he stood,
Blamount who sees the Count Salines slaine,
Straight copes with Cornwal beaten out of breath
Till Kent comes in, and rescues him from death.

Kent upon Blamount furiously doth flye,
Who at the Earle with no lesse courage struck,
And one the other with such knocks they plye,
That eithers Axe in th'others Helmet stuck;
Whilst they are wrastling, crossing thigh with thigh;
Their Axes pykes, which soonest out should pluck:
They fall to ground like in their Casks to smother,
With their clutcht Gauntlets cuffing one another.

Couragious Cluet grieved at the sight
Of his friend Blamounts unexpected fall,

Called Cluet of Brabant.

Makes in to lend him all the ayde he might;
Whose comming seem'd the stout Lord Scales to call,
Betwixt whom then began a mortall fight,
When instantly fell in Sir Phillip Hall,
Gainst him goes Roussy, in then Lovell ran,
Whom next Count Morvyle chuseth as his man.

Their Curates are unrivetted with blowes,
With horrid wounds their breasts and faces slasht;
There drops a cheeke, and there falls off a nose:
And in ones face his fellowes braines are dasht;
Yet still the Better with the English goes;
The earth of France with her owne blood is washt;
They fall so fast, she scarse affords them roome,
That one mans Trunke becomes anothers Toombe.

The Earle of Suffolke chargeth the Earle of Huntingdon With breach of promise.

When Suffolk chargeth Huntingdon with sloth,
Over himselfe too wary to have bin,
And had neglected his fast plighted troth
Upon the Field, the Battaile to begin,
That where the one was, there they would be both;
When the stout Earle of Huntingdon, to win
Trust with his friends; doth this himselfe enlarge
To this great Earle who dares him thus to charge.

My Lord (quoth he) it is not that I feare,
More then your selfe, that so I have not gone;
But that I have beene forced to be neare
The King, whose person I attend upon,
And that I doubt not but to make appeare
Now, if occasion shall but call me on;
Looke round about my Lord, if you can see,
Some brave adventure worthy you and me.

A desperate attempt by the Earle of Huntingdon.

See yan proud Banner, of the Duke of Barres,
Me thinkst it wafts us, and I heare it say,
Wher's that couragious Englishman that darres,
Adventure, but to carry me away,
This were a thing, now worthy of our warres;
I'st true, quoth Suffolke, by this blessed day,
On, and weele have it, sayst thou so indeed,
Quoth Huntingdon, then Fortune be our speed.

And through the Ranckes then rushing in their pride,
They make a Lane; about them so they lay,
Foote goes with foote, and side is joynde to side,
They strike downe all that stand within their way,
And to direct them have no other guide,
But as they see the multitude to sway;
And as they passe, the French as to defie,
Saint George for England and the King they cry.

By their examples, each brave English blood,
Upon the Frenchmen for their Ensignes runne,

One brave exploit begetteth another.

Thicke there as trees within a well-growne wood;
Where great Atchiements instantly were done,
Against them toughly whilst that Nation stood,
But ô what man his destinie can shunne,
That Noble Suffolke there is overthrowne,

The Earle of Suffolke slaine.

When he much valour sundry wayes had showne.

Which the proud English further doth provoke,
Who to destruction bodily were bent,
That the maine Battaile instantly they broke,
Upon the French so furiously they went,
And not an English but doth scorne a stroake,
If to the ground it not a Frenchman sent,
Who weake with wounds, their weapons from them threw,

The English kill the French with their owne Weapons.

With which the English fearefully them slue.

Alanzon backe upon the Reareward borne,
By those unarm'd that from the English fled,
All further hopes then utterly forlorne,
His Noble heart in his full Bosome bled;
What Fate, quoth he, our overthrowe hath sworne,
Must France a Prisoner be to England led,
Well, if she be so, yet Ile let her see,
She beares my Carkasse with her, and not me.

And puts his Horse upon his full Careere,
When with the courage of a valiant Knight
(As one that knew not, or forgot to feare)
He tow'rds King Henry maketh in the fight,
And all before him as he downe doth beare,
Upon the Duke of Glocester doth light:
Which on the youthfull Chivalry doth bring,
Scarse two Pykes length that came before the King.

Their Staves both strongly rivetted with steele,
At the first stroke each other they astound,
That as they staggering from each other reele;

The Duke of Glocester overthrowne by the Duke of Alanzon.

The Duke of Gloster falleth to the ground:
When as Alanzon round about doth wheele,
Thinking to lend him his last deadly wound:
In comes the King his Brothers life to save,
And to this brave Duke, a fresh on-set gave.

When as themselves like Thunderbolts they shot,
One at the other, and the Lightning brake
Out of their Helmets, and againe was not,
E'r of their strokes, the eare a sound could take
Betwixt them two, the Conflict grew so hot,
Which those about them so amaz'd doth make,
That they stood still as wondring at the sight,
And quite forgot that they themselves must fight.

Upon the King Alanzon prest so sore,

The King of England in danger to be slaine, by the Duke of Alanzon.

That with a stroke (as he was wondrous strong)
He cleft the Crowne that on his Helme he wore,
And tore his Plume that to his heeles it hong:
Then with a second brus'd his Helme before,
That it his forehead pittifully wroong:
As some that sawe it certainly had thought,
The King therewith had to the ground beene brought.

But Henry soone Alanzons Ire to quit,

Alanzon beaten downe by the King of England.

(As now his valour lay upon the Rack)
Upon the face the Duke so strongly hit,
As in his Saddle layde him on his back,
And once perceiving that he had him split,
Follow'd his blowes, redoubling thwack on thwack:
Till he had lost his Stirups, and his head
Hung where his Horse was like thereon to tread.

When soone two other seconding their Lord,

The King killeth two Gentlemen that adventure to rescue the Duke.

His kinde Companions in this glorious prize,
Hoping againe the Duke to have restor'd,
If to his feet his Armes would let him rise:
On the Kings Helme their height of fury scor'd;
Who like a Dragon fiercely on them flies,
And on his body slew them both, whilst he
Recovering was their ayde againe to be.

The King thus made the Master of the Fight:
The Duke calls to him as he there doth lye:
Henry I'le pay my Ransome, doe me right:
I am the Duke Alanzon; it is I.
The King to save him putting all his might,
Yet the rude Souldiers with their showt and crie,

The Duke Alanzon slaine.

Quite drown'd his voyce, his Helmet being shut,
And that brave Duke into small peeces cut.

Report once spred, through the distracted Host,
Of their prime hope, the Duke Alanzon slayne:
That flower of France, on whom they trusted most:
They found their valour was but then in vayne:
Like men their hearts that utterly had lost,
Who slowly fled before, now ranne amayne.
Nor could a man be found, but that dispaires
Seeing the Fate both of themselves and theirs.

The Duke Nevers, now in this sad retreat,

The Duke Nevers taken prisoner.

By David Gam and Morisby persude,
(Who throughly chaf'd, neere melted into sweat,
And with French blood their Poleaxes imbrud)
They sease upon him following the defeate,
Amongst the faint, and fearefull multitude;
When a contention fell betweene them twaine,

Morisby and Gam at contention for the Duke of Neveres.

To whom the Duke should rightfully pertaine.

I must confesse thou hadst him first in chase,
Quoth Morrisby; but lefts him in the throng,
Then put I on; quoth Gam, hast thou the face,
Insulting Knight, to offer me this wrong;
Quoth Morisby, who shall decide the case,
Let him confesse to whom he doth belong;
Let him (quoth Gam) but if't be not to me,
For any right you have, he may goe free.

With that couragious Morrisby grew hot,

Morisby a brave young Knight.

Were not said he his Ransome worth a pin,
Now by these Armes I weare thou gett'st him not:
Or if thou do'st, thou shalt him hardly win;
Gam whose Welch blood could hardly brooke this blot,

David Gam oft mentioned in this Poem.

To bend his Axe upon him doth begin:
He his at him, till the Lord Beamount came
Their rash attempt, and wisely thus doth blame.

Are not the French twice trebl'd to our power,
And fighting still, nay, doubtfull yet the day:
Thinke you not these us fast enough devowre:
But that your braves the Army must dismay:
If ought but good befall us in this howre:
This be you sure your lyves for it must pay:
Then first the end of this dayes Battaile see,
And then decide whose prisoner he shall be.

The Duke of Excester commeth in with the Reare.

Now Excester with his untaynted Reare
Came on, which long had labour'd to come in:
And with the Kings mayne Battell up doth beare;
Who still kept off, till the last houre had bin:
He cryes and clamours ev'ry way doth heare:
But yet he knew not which the day should win:
Nor askes of any what were fit to doe,
But where the French were thick'st, he falleth to.

The Earle of Vandom certainly that thought,
The English fury somewhat had beene stayde:
Weary with slaughter as men over-wrought,
Nor had beene spurr'd on by a second ayde:
For his owne safety, then more fiercely fought,
Hoping the tempest somewhat had beene layde:
And he thereby (though suff'ring the defeate,
Might keepe his Reareward whole in his Retreate.

On whom the Duke of Excester then fell,
Reare with the Reare now for their Valours vy,
Ours finde the French their lyves will dearely sell;
And th'English meane as dearely them to buy:
The English follow, should they runne through hell,
And through the same the French must, if they flye,
When too't they goe, deciding it with blowes,
With th'one side now, then with th'other't goes.

But the sterne English with such luck and might,
(As though the Fates had sworne to take their parts)
Upon the French prevailing in the Fight,
With doubled hands, and with re-doubled harts,
The more in perill still the more in plight,
Gainst them whom Fortune miserably thwarts:
Disabled quite before the Foe to stand,
But fall like grasse before the Mowers hand.

That this French Earle is beaten on the Field,
His fighting Souldiers round about him slaine;
And when himselfe a Prisoner he would yeeld,

The Earle of Vandome slaine.

And beg'd for life, it was but all in vaine;
Their Bills the English doe so easely weeld
To kill the French, as though it were no paine;
For this to them was their auspicious day,
The more the English fight, the more they may.

When now the Marshall Boucequalt, which long
Had through the Battaile waded ev'ry way,
Oft hazarded the murther'd Troupes among,
Encouraging them to abide the day:
Finding the Army that he thought so strong,
Before the English faintly to dismay,
Brings on the wings which of the rest remain'd,
With which the Battaile stoutly he maintain'd.

Till olde Sir Thomas Erpingham at last,

Sir Thomas Erpingham getteth in with his three hundred Archers.

With those three hundred Archers commeth in,
Which layd in ambush not three houres yet past;
Had the Defeat of the French Army bin,
With these that noble Souldier maketh hast,
Lest other from him should the honour win:
Who as before now stretch their well-wax'd strings,
At the French Horse then comming in the wings.

The soyle with slaughter ev'ry where they load,
Whilst the French stoutly to the English stood,
The drops from eithers emptied veynes that flow'd,
Where it was lately firme had made a flood:
But heav'n that day to the brave English ow'd;
The Sunne that rose in water, set in blood:
Nothing but horrour to be look'd for there,
And the stout Marshall vainely doth but feare.

His Horse sore wounded whilst he went aside,

The Marshall of France slaine.

To take another still that doth attend,
A shaft which some too-lucky hand doth guide,
Peircing his Gorget brought him to his end;
Which when the proud Lord Falkonbridge espide,
Thinking from thence to beare away his friend,
Strucke from his Horse, with many a mortall wound,
Is by the English nayled to the ground.

The Marshalls death so much doth them affright,
That downe their weapons instantly they lay,
And better yet to fit them for their flight,
Their weightier Armes, they wholly cast away,
Their hearts so heavy, makes their heeles so light,
That there was no intreating them to stay,
Ore hedge and ditch distractedly they take,
And happiest he, that greatest haste could make,

Count Vadamount.

When Vadamount now in the Conflict mett,
With valient Brabant, whose high valour showne
That day, did many a blunted Courage whett,
Else long before that from the Field had flowne,
Quoth Vadamount, see how we are besett,

The Duke of Brabant a most couragious Prince.

To death like to be troden by our owne,
My Lord of Brabant, what is to be done?
See how the French before the English runne.

A bitter exclamation of the Duke of Brabant against the French.

Why, let them runne and never turne the head,
Quoth the brave Duke, untill their hatefull breath
Forsake their Bodies, and so farre have fled,
That France be not disparadg'd by their death:
Who trusts to Cowards ne'r is better sped,
Be he accurst, with such that holdeth faith,
Slaughter consume the Recreants as they flye,
Branded with shame, so basely may they dye.

Ignoble French, your fainting Cowardize craves
The dreadful curse of your owne Mother earth,
Hardning her breast, not to allow you graves,
Be she so much ashamed of your birth;
May he be curst that one of you but saves,
And be in France hereafter such a dearth
Of Courage, that men from their wits it feare,
A Drumme, or Trumpet when they hap to heare.

From Burgundy brought I the force I had,

Anthony Duke of Brabant, sonne to the Duke of Burgundy.

To fight for them, that ten from one doe flye;
It splits my breast, O that I could be mad;
To vexe these Slaves who would not dare to dye:
In all this Army is there not a Lad,
Th'ignoble French for Cowards that dare crye:
If scarce one found, then let me be that one,
The English Army that oppos'd alone.

This said, he puts his Horse upon his speed,
And in, like lightning on the English flewe:
Where many a Mothers sonne he made to bleed,
Whilst him with much astonishment they viewe:
Where having acted many a Knight-like deed,
Him and his Horse they all to peeces hewe:
Yet he that day more lasting glory wan,

The valiant Duke of Brabant slaine.

Except Alanzon then did any man.

When as report to great King Henry came,
Of a vast Route which from the Battaile fled,
(Amongst the French most men of speciall name)
By the stout English fiercely followed;
Had for their safety, (much though to their shame)

Many of the French in their flight get into an old Fort.

Got in their flight into so strong a sted,
So fortifi'd by nature (as 'twas thought)
They might not thence, but with much blood be brought.

An aged Rampire, with huge Ruines heapt,
Which serv'd for Shot, gainst those that should assayle,
Whose narrow entrance they with Crosbowes kept,
Whose sharpned quarres came in show'rs like hayle:
Quoth the brave King, first let the field be swept,
And with the rest we well enough shall deale;

The Kings slight answer.

Which though some heard, and so shut up their eare,
Yet relish'd not with many Souldiers there.

Some that themselves by Ransomes would enrich,
(To make their pray of Pesants yet dispise)
Felt as they thought their bloody palmes to itch,
To be in action for their wealthy prize:
Others whom onely glory doth bewitch,
Rather then life would to this enterprize:
Most men seem'd willing, yet not any one
Would put himselfe this great exployt upon.

Which Woodhouse hearing meerily thus spake,
(One that right well knew, both his worth and wit)

Woodhouse jeereth at the attempt.

A dangerous thing it is to undertake
A Fort, where Souldiers be defending it,
Perhaps they sleepe, and if they should awake,
With stones, or with their shafts they may us hitt,
And in our Conquest whilst so well we fare,
It were meere folly, but I see none dare.

Which Gam o'r hearing (being neere at hand)
Not dare quoth he, and angerly doth frowne,

Braves passe between Gam and Woodhouse.

I tell thee Woodhouse, some in presence stand,
Dare propp the Sunne if it were falling downe,
Dare graspe the bolt from Thunder in his hand,
And through a Cannon leape into a Towne;
I tell thee, a resolved man may doe
Things, that thy thoughts, yet never mounted to.

I know that resolution may doe much,
Woodhouse replyes, but who could act my thought,
With his proud head the Pole might easely tuch,
And Gam quoth he, though bravely thou hast fought,
Yet not the fame thou hast attain'd too, such,
But that behind, as great is to be bought,
And yonder tis, then Gam come up with me,
Where soone the King our Courages shall see.

Agreed quoth Gam, and up their Troopes they call,
Hand over head, and on the French they ran,
And to the fight couragiously they fall,
When on both sides the slaughter soone began;
Fortune awhile indifferent is to all,
These what they may, and those doe what they can,
Woodhouse and Gam, upon each other vye,
By Armes their manhood desperatly to try.

To clime the Fort the Light-Arm'd English strive,
And some by Trees there growing to ascend;
The French with Flints let at the English drive,

Captaine Gam slaine.

Themselves with Shields the Englishmen defend,
And faine the Fort downe with their hands would rive:

For this service done by Woodhouse, there was an addition of honour given him: which was a hand holding a Club: with the word, Frappe Fort, which is born by the Family of the Woodhouse of Norfolke, to this day.

Thus either side their utmost power extend,
Till valiant Gam sore wounded, drawne aside
By his owne Souldiers, shortly after dy'de.

Then take they up the bodies of the slaine,
Which for their Targets ours before them beare,
And with a fresh assault come on againe;
Scarse in the Field yet, such a fight as there,
Crosse-bowes, and Long-bowes at it are amaine,
Until the French their massacre that feare,
Of the fierce English, a cessation crave,
Offring to yeeld, so they their lives would save.

Lewis of Burbon in the furious heat
Of this great Battaile, having made some stay,
Who with the left wing suffered a defeate,
In the beginning of this lucklesse day,
Finding the English forcing their retreat,
And that much hope upon his valour lay,
Fearing lest he might undergoe some shame,
That were unworthy of the Burbon name.

Hath gathered up some scattred Troopes of Horse,
That in the Field stood doubtfull what to doe;
Though with much toyle, which he doth reinforce
With some small power that he doth add thereto,
Proclaiming still the English had the worse,
And now at last, with him if they would goe,
He dares assure them Victory, if not
The greatest fame that ever Souldiers gott.

And being wise, so Burbon to beguile
The French, (preparing instantly to fly)
Procures a Souldier, by a secret wile

A devise of Burbons to give incouragement to the French.

To come in swiftly and to crave supply,
That if with Courage they would fight awhile,
It certaine was the English all should dye,
For that the King had offered them to yeeld,
Finding his troopes to leave him on the Field.

When Arthur Earle of Richmount comming in,
With the right wing that long staid out of sight,
Having too lately with the English bin,
But finding Burbon bent againe to fight,
His former credit hoping yet to winn,
(Which at that instant easily he might)
Comes close up with him, and puts on as fast,
Bravely resolv'd to fight it to the last.

And both encourag'd by the newes was braught
Of the ariving of the Daulphins power;
Whose speedy Van, their Reare had almost raught,
(From Agincourt discover'd from a Tower)
Which with the Norman Gallantry was fraught,
And on the suddaine comming like a shower;
Would bring a deluge on the English Host,
Whilst yet they stood their victory to boast.

And one they come, as doth a rowling tide,
Forc'd by a winde, that shoves it forth so fast,

A simily of the French.

Till it choke up some chanell side to side,
And the craz'd banks doth downe before it cast,
Hoping the English would them not abide,
Or would be so amated at their hast,
That should they faile to route them at their will,
Yet of their blood, the fields should drinke their fill.

When as the English whose o'r-wearied Armes,
Were with long slaughter lately waxed sore,
These inexpected, and so fierce Alarmes,
To their first strength doe instantly restore,
And like a Stove their stifned sinewes warmes,
To act as bravely as they did before;
And the proud French as stoutly to oppose,
Scorning to yeeld one foote despight of blowes.

The fight is fearefull, for stout Burbon brings
His fresher forces on with such a shocke,
That they were like to cut the Archers strings
E're they their Arrowes hansomly could nock,
The French like Engines that were made with springs:
Themselves so fast into the English lock,
That th'one was like the other downe to beare,
In wanting roomth to strike, they stood so neare.

Till staggering long they from each other reel'd,
Glad that themselves they so could disingage:
And falling back upon the spacious field
(For this last Sceane, that is the bloody Stage)
Where they their Weapons liberally could weeld,
They with such madnesse execute their rage;
As though the former fury of the day,
To this encounter had but beene a play.

Slaughter is now desected to the full,
Here from their backs their batter'd Armors fall,
Here a sleft shoulder, there a cloven scull,
There hang his eyes out beaten with a mall,
Untill the edges of their Bills growe dull,
Upon each other they so spend their gall,
Wilde showtes and clamors all the ayre doe fill,
The French cry tue, and the English kill.

The Duke of Barre in this vast spoyle by chance;
With the Lord Saint-John on the Field doth meete,
Tow'rds whom that brave Duke doth himselfe advance,
Who with the like encounter him doth greete:
This English Barron, and this Peere of France,
Grapling together, falling from their feete,
With the rude crowdes had both to death beene crusht,
In for their safety, had their friends not rusht.

Both againe rais'd, and both their Souldiers shift,
To save their lyves if any way they could:
But as the French the Duke away would lift,
Upon his Armes the English taking hould,
(Men of that sort, that thought upon their thrift)
Knowing his Ransome dearely would be sould:
Dragge him away in spight of their defence,
Which to their Quarter would have borne him thence.

Meane while brave Burbon from his stirring Horse,
Gall'd with an Arrow to the earth is throwne;
By a meane Souldier seased on by force,

Lewes of Burbon taken prisoner by a meane Souldier.

Hoping to have him certainly his owne,
Which this Lord holdeth better so then worse:
Since the French fortune to that ebbe is growne,
And he perceives the Souldier him doth deeme,
To be a person of no meane esteeme.

Berckley and Burnell, two brave English Lords,
Flesht with French blood, and in their Valours pride,
Above their Arm'd heads brandishing their swords,
As they tryumphing through the Army ride,
Finding what prizes Fortune here affords
To ev'ry Souldier, and more wistly eyde
This gallant prisoner, by his Arming see,
Of the great Burbon family to be.

And from the Souldier they his Prisoner take,
Of which the French Lord seemeth wondrous faine
Thereby his safety more secure to make:
Which when the Souldier findes his hopes in vaine,

Lewes of Burbon stabd by the Souldier that took him prisoner.

So rich a Booty forced to forsake,
To put himselfe, and prisoner out of paine:
He on the suddaine stabs him, and doth sweare,
Would th'ave his Ransome, they should take it there.

When Rosse and Morley making in amaine,
Bring the Lord Darcy up with them along,
Whose Horse had lately under him beene slaine;
And they on foote found fighting in the throng,
Those Lords his friends remounting him againe,
Being a man that valiant was and strong:
They altogether with a generall hand,
Charge on the French that they could finde to stand.

And yet but vainely as the French suppos'd,
For th'Earle of Richmount forth such earth had found,
That one two sides with quick-set was enclos'd,
And the way to it by a rising ground,
By which a while the English were oppos'd,
At every Charge which else came up so round,
As that except the passage put them by,
The French as well might leave their Armes and flye.

Upon both parts it furiously is fought,
And with such quicknesse riseth to that hight,
That horror neede no further to be sought:
If onely that might satisfie the sight,
Who would have fame full dearely here it bought,
For it was sold by measure and by waight,
And at one rate the price still certaine stood,
An ounce of honour cost a pound of blood.

The Lords Dampier and Savesses taken prisoners.

When so it hapt that Dampier in the Van,
Meetes with stout Darcy, but whilst him he prest,
Over and over commeth horse and man,
Of whom the other soone himselfe possest:
When as Savesses upon Darcy ran
To ayde Dampier, but as he him adrest;
A Halbert taking hold upon his Greaves,
Him from his Saddle violently heaves.

When soone five hundred Englishmen at Armes,
That to the French had given many a chase;
And when they covered all the Field with swarmes;
Yet oft that day had bravely bid them base:
Now at the last by raising fresh Alarmes;
And comming up with an unusuall pace,
Made them to know, that they must runne or yeeld,
Never till now the English had the Field.

Where Arthur Earle of Richmount beaten downe,
Is left (suppos'd of ev'ry one for dead)
But afterwards awaking from his swoone,

Arthur Earle of Richmount taken prisoner.

By some that found him, was recovered:
So Count Du Marle was likewise overthrowne:

The Count du Marle slaine.

As he was turning meaning to have fled,
Who fights, the colde blade in his bosome feeles,
Who flyes, still heares it whisking at his heeles.

Till all disrank'd, like seely Sheepe they runne,
By threats nor prayers, to be constrain'd to stay;
For that their hearts were so extreamely done,
That fainting oft they fall upon the way:
Or when they might a present perill shunne,
They rush upon it by their much dismay,
That from the English should they safely flye,
Of their owne very feare, yet they should dye.

Some they take prisoners, other some they kill,
As they affect those upon whom they fall:
For they as Victors may doe what they will:
For who this Conqueror to account dare call,
In gore the English seeme their soules to swill,
And the dejected French must suffer all;
Flight, cords, and slaughter, are the onely three,
To which themselves subjected they doe see.

A shoolesse Souldier there a man might meete,
Leading his Mounsier by the armes fast bound:
Another, his had shackled by the feete;

The misery of the French.

Who like a Cripple shuffled on the ground;
Another three or foure before him beete,
Like harmefull Chattell driven to a pound;
They must abide it, so the Victor will,
Who at his pleasure may, or save, or kill.

That brave French Gallant, when the fight began,
Whose lease of Lackies ambled by his side,
Himselfe a Lacky now most basely ran,
Whilst a rag'd Souldier on his Horse doth ride,
That Rascall is no lesse then at his man,
Who was but lately to his Luggadge tide;
And the French Lord now courtsies to that slave,
Who the last day his Almes was like to crave.

And those few English wounded in the fight,
They force the French to bring with them away,

The French forced to beare the wounded English on their backs.

Who when they were depressed with the weight,
Yet dar'd not once their burthen downe to lay,
Those in the morne, whose hopes were at their height,
Are fallne thus lowe ere the departing day;
With pickes of Halberts prickt in steed of goads,
Like tyred Horses labouring with their Loads.

But as the English from the Field returne,
Some of those French who when the Fight began,
Forsooke their friends, and hoping yet to earne,
Pardon, for that so cowardly they ran,
Assay the English Carridges to burne,
Which to defend them scarsely had a man;
For that their keepers to the field were got,
To picke such spoyles, as chance should them alott.

The Captaines of this Rascall cowardly Route,
Were Isambert of Agincourt at hand,

A crew of rascall French rifle the King of Englands Tents.

Riflant of Clunasse a Dorpe there about,
And for the Chiefe in this their base command,
Was Robinett of Burnivile; throughout
The Countrie knowne, all order to withstand,
These with five hundred Peasants they had rais'd
The English Tents, upon an instant seas'd.

For setting on those with the Luggadge left,
A few poore Sutlers with the Campe that went,
They basely fell to pillage and to theft,
And having rifled every Booth and Tent,
Some of the sillyest they of life bereft,
The feare of which, some of the other sent,
Into the Army, with their suddaine cries,
Which put the King in feare of fresh supplies.

For that his Souldiers tyred in the fight,

The French prisoners more in number then the English Souldiers.

Their Prisoners more in number then they were,
He thought it for a thing of too much weight,
T'oppose freshe forces, and to gaurd them there.
The Daulphins Powers, yet standing in their sight,
And Burbons Forces of the field not cleere,
These yearning cryes, that from the Caridge came,
His bloud yet hott, more highly doth inflame,

And in his rage he instantly commands,
That every English should his prisoner kill,
Except some fewe in some great Captaines hands
Whose Ransomes might his emptyed Cofers fill,
Alls one whose loose, or who is nowe in bonds,

The English kill their prisoners.

Both must one way, it is the Conquerers will.
Those who late thought, small Ransoms them might free
Saw onely death their Ransomes now must be.

Accursed French, and could it not suffize,

Expostulation.

That ye but now bath'd in your native gore;
But yee must thus infortunately rise,
To drawe more plagues upon yee then before,
And gainst your selfe more mischeife to divise,
Then th'English could have, and set wide the dore,
To utter ruine, and to make an end
Of that your selves, which others would not spend.

Their utmost rage the English now had breath'd,
And their proud heartes gan somewhat to relent,
Their bloody swords they quietly had sheath'd,
And their strong bowes already were unbent,
To easefull rest their bodies they bequeath'd,
Nor farther harme at all to you they ment,
And to that paynes must yee them needsly putt,

The French cause of their owne massechre

To draw their knives once more your throats to cutt.

That French who lately by the English stood,
And freely ask'd what ransome he should pay,
Whoe somwhat coold, and in a calmer moode,

A discriptyon of the Massachre in the foure following stanzas

Agreed with him both of the some and day,
Nowe findes his flesh must be the present foode,
For wolves and Ravens, for the same that stay,
And sees his blood on th'others sword to flowe,
E'r his quicke sense could aprehend the blowe.

Whilst one is asking what the bus'nesse is,
Hearing (in French) his Country-man to crye:
He who detaines him prisoner, answers this:
Mounsier, the King commands that you must dye;
This is plaine English, whilst he's killing his:
He sees another on a French man flye,
And with a Poleax pasheth out his braines,
Whilst he's demanding what the Garboyle meanes.

That tender heart whose chance it was to have,
Some one, that day who did much valour showe,
Who might perhaps have had him for his Slave:
But equall Lots had Fate pleas'd to bestowe:
He who his prisoner willingly would save,
Lastly constrain'd to give the deadly blowe
That sends him downe to everlasting sleepe:
Turning his face, full bitterly doth weepe.

Ten thousand French that inwardly were well,
Save some light hurts that any man might heale:
Even at an instant, in a minute fell,
And their owne friends their deathes to them to deale.
Yet of so many, very fewe could tell,
Nor could the English perfectly reveale,
The desperate cause of this disastrous hap,
But even as Thunder kill'd them with a clap.

How happy were those in the very hight,
Of this great Battaile, that had bravely dyde,
When as their boyling bosomes in the fight,
Felt not the sharpe steele thorough them to slide:
But these now in a miserable plight,
Must in cold blood this massacre abide,
Caus'd by those Villaines (curst alive and dead,)
That from the field the passed morning fled.

When as the King to Crowne this glorious day,
Now bids his Souldiers after all this toyle,
(No forces found that more might them dismay)
Of the dead French to take the gen'rall spoyle,
Whose heapes had well neere stopt up ev'ry way;
For ev'n as Clods they cov'red all the soyle,
Commanding none should any one controle,
Catch that catch might, but each man to his dole.

They fall to groping busily for gold,
Of which about them the slaine French had store,
They finde as much as well their hands can hold,
Who had but silver, him they counted poore,
Scarfes, Chaines, and Bracelets, were not to be told,
So rich as these no Souldiers were before;
Who got a Ring would scarsly put it on,
Except therein there were some Radiant stone.

Out of rich sutes the Noblest French they strip,
And leave their Bodies naked on the ground,
And each one fills his Knapsack or his Scrip;
With some rare thing that on the Field is found:
About his bus'nesse he doth nimbly skip,
That had upon him many a cruell wound:
And where they found a French not out-right slaine,
They him a prisoner constantly retaine.

Who scarse a Shirt had but the day before,
Nor a whole Stocking to keepe out the cold,
Hath a whole Wardrop (at command in store)
In the French fashion flaunting it in gold,
And in the Taverne, in his Cups doth rore,
Chocking his Crownes, and growes thereby so bold,
That proudly he a Captaines name assumes,
In his gilt Gorget with his tossing Plumes.

Waggons and Carts are laden till they crackt,
With Armes and Tents there taken in the Field;
For want of carridge on whose tops are packt,
Ensignes, Coat-Armours, Targets, Speares, and Shields:
Nor neede they convoy, fearing to be sackt;
For all the Country to King Henry yeelds,
And the poore Pesant helpes along to beare,
What late the goods of his proud Landlord were.

A Horse well furnisht for a present Warre:
For a French Crowne might any where be bought,
But if so be that he had any scarre,
Though ne'r so small, he valew'd was at naught;
With spoyles so sated the proud English are;
Amongst the slaine, that who for pillage sought,
Except some rich Caparizon he found,
For a steele Saddle would not stoupe to ground.

And many a hundred beaten downe that were,
Whose wounds were mortall, others wondrous deepe,
When as the English over-past they heare:
And no man left a Watch on them to keepe,
Into the Bushes, and the Ditches neare,
Upon their weake hands and their knees doe creepe:
But for their hurts tooke ayre, and were undrest,
They were found dead, and buried with the rest.

Thus when the King sawe that the Coast was clear'd,
And of the French who were not slaine were fled:
Nor in the Field not any then appear'd,
That had the power againe to make a head:
This Conquerour exceedingly is cheer'd,
Thanking his God that he so well had sped,
And so tow'rds Callice bravely marching on,
Leaveth sad France her losses to bemoane.

FINIS. The Battaile of Agincourt.

THE MISERIES OF QUEENE MARGARITE.

I sing a woman, and a powerfull Queene,
Henry the sixt, the King of Englands Wife,
The beauteous Margarite, whose misgovern'd spleene
So many sorrowes brought upon her life;
As upon womans never yet were seene,
In the beginning of that fatall strife

The family of Yorke sought under-hand to promove their title about that time.

(Th'unlucky season) when the Yorkists saught
To bring the Line of Lancaster to naught.

It was the time of those great stirres in France,
Their ancient Right that th'English had regain'd,

After the second conquest of France by Henry the fift.

But the proud French attributing to chance,
What by meere Manhood stoutly ours obtain'd,
Their late-falne Ensignes labour'd to advance,
The Streetes with blood of either Nation stain'd:
These strive to hold, those to cast off the yoke,
Whilst Forts, and Townes flewe up to heaven in smoke.

The neighbouring Princes greatly pittying then,
The Christian blood in that long quarrell shed,
Which had devour'd such multitudes of men,

The Christian Princes seeke to make a peace between England and France.

That the full earth could scarcely keepe her dead;
Yet for each English, of her Natives ten:
In zeale to peace these neighbouring Princes led:
At Tours in Tourayne set them downe a Diet,
(Could it be done) these clamorous fieuds to quiet.

From th'Emperour, there Ambassadors arive,
The Kings of Denmarke, Hungary, and Spaine,
And that each thing they aptly might contrive,
And both the Kings there largely might complaine.
The Duke of Orleance, for the French doth strive
To shew his greevance; William Poole againe,
The Earle of Suffolke doth for England stand,
Who steer'd the State then with a powerfull hand.

A peace concluded for 18. monthes.

For eighteene months they ratifie a peace,
Twixt these proud Realmes, which Suffolke doth pursue
With all his powers, with hope still to encrease,
The same expir'd, that it should soone renew,
For by his meanes, if so this warre might cease,

Poole in this time of peace laboureth to conclude a Mariage betwixt the Lady Margarite and the King his Master.

He had a Plot of which they never knew,
To his intent, which if all things went right,
Heele make the dull world to admire his might.

For having seene faire Margarite in France,
(That times bright'st beauty) being then but young,
Her peircing eyes with many a subtile glance,

Poole taken with the exceeding beauty of the Princesse.

His mighty heart so forcibly had stung,
As made him thinke if that he could advance,
This mortall wonder, onely that among
His rising Fortunes, should the greatest prove,
If to his Queene, he could advance his love.

Her eyes at all poynts Arm'd with those deceits,
That to her sex are naturall every way,
Which with more Art, shee as inticing baites,
For this great Lord doth with advantage lay,
As he againe that on her bosome waites,
Had found that there, which could he come to sway,
He would put faire as ever man did yet,
Upon the height of Fortunes wheele to sit.

Love and Ambition spurre him in such sort,
As that (alone) t'accomplish his desire
To fall with Phaæton he would thinke it sport,
Though he should set the Universe on fire,
Nor recks he what the world of him report,
He must scorne that, who will dare to aspier,
For through the Ayre his wings him way shall make,
Though in his fall the frame of heaven he shake.

Reyner descended from the Royall stem

He had onely the title of these Kingdomes without any livelihood.

Of France, the Duke of Anjou, stiled King
Of Naples, Cicill, and Jerusalem,
Although in them he had not any thing,
But the poore tytle of a Diadem;

Margarite Duke Ryners daughter.

Seeing by Suffolke greater hopes to spring;
Puts on his Daughter that great Lord to please
Of Englands Counsailes who kept all the keyes.

But strange encounters strongly him oppose,
In his first entrance to this great Designe,
Those men were mighty that against him rose,
And came upon him with a Countermine,
That he must now play cunningly, or lose:
Cunning they were against him that combine,
Plot above plot, doth straine aloft to tower.
The conflict great, twixt pollicy and power.

For Humfrey Duke of Gloster, stil'd the good,
Englands Protector sought a match to make,
With a faire Princesse, of as Royall blood,

A motion of a mariage before by an Ambassadour with the Earle of Arminacks onely daughter.

The Daughter of the Earle of Arminake,
And his Crown'd Nephew: but stout Suffolke stood
Still for his Mistrisse, nor will her forsake,
But make her Henries Queene in spight of all:
Or she shall rise, or Suffolke sweares to fall.

By the French faction when she up is cride,
Of all Angellique excellence the Prime,

The high praises of the Princesse Margarites beauty.

Who was so dull that her not Deifide,
To be the onely Master-peece of time:
The praise of her extended is so wide,
As that thereon a man to heaven might clime:
All tongues and eares inchanted with delite,
When they doe talke, or heare of Margarite.

And those whom Poole about his Prince had plac'd,
And for his purpose taught the tricks of Court,

Pooles followers placed about the king to worke his owne ends.

To this great King, and many a time had grac'd,
To make his eares more apt for their report,
Having the time most diligently trac'd,
And sawe these things succesfully to sort:
Strike in a hand, and up together beare,
To make faire Margarite Musick in his eare.

Anjou a Dutchy, Mayne a County great,
Of which the English long had beene possest,

The Provinces in France given to Duke Reyner for his daughter.

And Mauns a Citie of no small receite,
To which the Duke pretended interest:
For the conclusion, when they came to treate,
And things by Poole were to the utmost prest,
Are to Duke Reyner rendred up to hold,
To buy a Hellen, thus a Troy was sold.

When of an Earle, a Marquesse Poole is made,
Then of a Marquesse, is a Duke created,
For he at ease in Fortunes lap was layd,

Poole created first from an Earle, Marquesse, and after Duke of Suffolke.

To glorious actions wholly consecrated:
Hard was the thing that he could not perswade,
In the Kings favour he was so instated;
Without his Suffolke who could not subsist,
So that he ruled all things as he list.

This with a strong astonishment doth strike,
Th'amazed world which knew not what to say,

The people exceedingly repine for the giving away of the Provinces.

What living man but did the act mislike,
If him it did not utterly dismay,
That what with blood was bought, at push of Pike,
Got in an age, giv'n in an houre away:
Some largely speake, and some againe are dumbe,
Wond'ring what would of this strange world become.

As when some dreadfull Comet doth appeare,
Athwart the heaven that throwes his threatning light,
The peacefull people that at quiet were,

A simily.

Stand with wilde gazes wond'ring at the sight,
Some Warre, some Plagues, some Famine greatly feare,
Some falls of Kingdomes, or of men of might:
The greeved people thus their judgements spend,
Of these strange Actions what should be the end.

When Suffolke Procurator for the King,

Suffolke Procurator for the King.

Is ship'd for France, t'espouse the beauteous Bride,
And fitted to the full of every thing,
Followed with Englands Gallantry and pride,
(As fresh as is the bravery of the Spring)

The marriage solemnized in the City of Towers.

Comming to Towers, there sumptuously affide:
This one, whose like no age had seene before,
Whose eyes out-shone the Jewels that shee wore.

Her reverent Parents ready in the place,
As overjoy'd this happy day to see,
The King and Queene the Nuptialls there to grace;

The great concourse to honour the Solemnization.

On them three Dukes, as their attendants be,
Seven Earles, twelve Barons in their equipace,
And twenty Bishops, whilst that onely shee,
Like to the Rosy morning towards the rise,
Cheeres all the Church, as it doth cheere the skies.

Tryumphall Arches the glad Towne doth raise,
And Tilts and Turneys are perform'd at Court,
Conceited Masks, rich Banquets, witty playes,
Besides amongst them many a pretty sport,
Poets write Prothalamions in their praise,
Untill mens eares were cloyd with the report,
Of either sex, and who doth not delight
To weare the Daysie for Queene Margarite.

Margarite in French signifieth a Daysie.

The Tryumphes ended, he to England goes
With this rich Gem allotted him to keepe,
Still entertained with most sumptuous showes,
In passing thorough Normandy to Diepe,

The Queene bravely intertained in passing through Normandy.

Where like the Sea the concourse dayly flowes,
For her departure whilst sad France doth weepe;
And that the Ships their crooked Ancors waide,
By which to England she must be convaide.

And being fitted both for Winde and Tide,

The King stayeth for the Queenes landing at Portsmouth.

Out of the Harbour flyes this goodly Fleet,
And for fayre Portsmouth their straight Course they plyde,
Where the King staid his lovely Bride to meete;
Yonder she comes when as the people cride,
Busie with Rushes strewing every street,
The brainelesse Vulgar little understand,
The Horrid plagues that ready were to Land,

Which but to soone all seeing heaven foretold,
For she was scarsely safely put a Shore,

Great and fearefull Tempests at the comming in of the Queene.

But that the skies (ô wondrous to behold)
Orespread with lightning, hideously doe rore,
The furious winds with one another scold,
Never such Tempests had bene seene before,
With suddaine floods whole Villages were drownd,
Steeples with earthquakes tumbled to the ground.

When to their purpose things to passe were brought,
And these two brave ambitious spirits were mett,
The Queene and Duke now frame their working thought,
Into their hands the Soveraignety to get:
For soone they found the King could not be wrought,
Up to their ends, nature so low had set
His humble heart; that what they would obtaine,
Tis they must do't, by colour of his Raigne.

And for they found the grieved Commons grutch,
At this which Suffolke desperatly had done,
Who for the Queene had parted with so much,
Thereby yet nothing to the Realme had wonne.
And those that spurr'd the people on, were such,
As to oppose them openly begunne;
Therefore by them some great ones downe must goe,
Which if they mist of, they themselves must so.

The Duke of Yorke discharged of his Regency in France, and the Duke of Sommerset in his place.

Yorke then which had the Regency in France,
They force the King, ignobly to displace,
Thereto the Duke of Summerset t'advance,
Their friend, and one of the Lancastrian Race;
For they betwixt them turn'd the Wheele of Chance,
Tis they cry up, tis they that doe debase,
He's the first man they purpos'd to remove,
The onely Minion of the peoples love.

This opened wide the Publicke way, whereby
Ruine rusht in upon the troubled Land,
Under whose weight it hapned long to lye,
Quite overthrowne with their ill-guiding hand;
For their Ambition looking over-hie
Could in no measure aptly understand,
Upon their heads the danger that they drewe,
Whose force too soone, they, and their Faction knew.

For whilst this brave Prince was imploid abroad
Th'affaires of France his minde up wholly tooke,
But being thus disburthen'd of that load,
Which gave him leave into himselfe to looke,
The course he ranne in, evidently show'd,
His late Alleageance that he off had shooke,
And under hand his Title set on foote,
To plucke their Red-Rose quite up by the roote.

Thus having made a Regent of their owne,
By whom they meane great matters to effect,
For by degrees, they will ascend the throane,
And but their owne all ayd they else neglect,
As with a Tempest he to ground is blowne,
On whom their rage doth any way reflect:
Which good Duke Humphrey first of all must taste,
Whose timelesse death intemperatly they haste.

This Henryes Unckle, and his next of blood,
Was both Protector of the Realme, and King,
Whose meeknesse had instiled him the Good,
Of most especiall trust in every thing;

A Character of the Duke of Glocester.

One to his Country constantly that stood,
As Time should say, I forth a man will bring,
So plaine and honest, as on him Ile rest,
The age he liv'd in, as the onely best.

This grave Protector who both Realmes had sway'd,
Whilst the Kings nonage his sound Counsells crav'd,
In his great wisdome when he throughly way'd,
How this French Lady here her selfe behav'd,
To make her Game againe, how Suffolke play'd,
The Realmes from ruine, hoping to have sav'd,
Lost his deare life, within a little space,
Which overthrewe the whole Lancastrian race.

This Prince, who still dar'd stoutly to oppose,
Those whom he sawe, all but their owne to hate,
Then found the league of his inveterate foes,
To come upon him with the power of Fate,
And things to that extremitie still rose,
The certaine signe of the declining State,
As that their Faction every day grew strong,
Perceiv'd his Vertues like to suffer wrong.

Fierce Margarits malice propt with mighty men,
Her Darling Suffolke, who her forward drew,

The greatest persons of the Queenes Faction.

Proud Sommerset, of France the Regent then,
And Bukkingham his power too well that knew,
The Cardinall Beufort, and with him agen,
Yorks great Arch-Prelate to make up the crue,
By accusations doing all their best,
From the good Duke all Goverment to wrest,

Who then compell the peacefull King to call,
A Parliament; their grievances to heare,
Against the Duke that to inforce his fall,
They might have some thing that might Colour beare,

A Consultation had by the faction of the Queene, about the making away of the Duke.

But then they doubt his answere, and withall,
The murmuring people they farre more doe feare,
As their owne lives who lov'd him, therefore they,
Must cast to make him secretly away.

And therfore with the Parliament proceede,
Saint-Edmunds-bury the appointed place,
Whereas they ment to doe the fatall deed,

A Parliament at Saint Edmunds Bury.

Which with much quicknesse should decide the case,
The cruell maner soone they had decreed,
And to the Act they hasten them apace;
On this good Prince their purpose to effect,
Then, when the people nothing should suspect.

No sooner was this great assembly mett,

The Duke of Glocester arested by the high Marshal of England.

But the high Marshall doth the Duke arest,
And on his person such a guard they sett,
That they of him were certainely possest,
His servants were from their attendance lett,
And either sent to prison or supprest;

The Duke murthered.

So that their Lord left in this piteous plight,
Lay'd in his Bed was strangled in the night.

Then give they out that of mere greefe he dyde,
To cover what they cruelly had done,
But this blacke deede, when once the day discride;
The frantique people to his Lodging runne,
Some rayle, some curse, yea little children chide,

The people mutiny.

Which forc'd that faction the fayre streets to shunne;
Some wish proud Suffolke sunke into the ground,
Some bid a plague the cruell Queene confound.

Thus their Ambition would not let them see,
How by his death they hastened their decay,
Nor let them know that this was onely he,
Who kept the Yorkists evermore at bay,
But of this man they must the murtherers be,

The death of the Duke was the utter overthrow of the house of Lancaster.

Upon whose life their safty onely lay;
But his deare bloud, them nothing could suffice,
When now began Queene Margarits Miseries.

In either kingdome all thinges went to wracke,
Which they had thought they could have made to thrive,
His noble Counsells when they came to lacke,

The affairs of England fall to ruine upon the death of the Duke.

Which could them with facility contrive,
Nor could they stay them in their going backe,
One mischeefe still another doth revive;
As heaven had sent an host of horrors out,
Which all at once incompast them about.

Out flie the Irish, and with sword and fire,
Unmercied havocke of the English made;
They discontented, here at home conspire,
To stirre the Scott the Borders to invade:

The Irishe rebell.

The faithlesse French then having their desire,
To see us thus in Seas of troubles wade,
In every place outragiously rebell,

The French are up in Armes.

As out of France the English to expell.

The sturdy Normans with high pride inflamd,
Shake off the yoke of their subjection quite.
Nor will with patience heare the English nam'd,
Except of those that speake of them in spight,
But as their foes them publikely proclaim'd,
And their Alyes to open Armes excite;

The Normans revolt.

In every place thus Englands right goes downe,
Nor will they leave the English men a Towne.

New-castle, Constance, Maleon, and Saint-lo,
With Castel-Galliard, Argenton, and Roane,
Ponteu-de-mer with Forts and Cities moe,

Townes in Normandy yeelded to the enemy. There had ben a former contract between the King and the Earle of Arminacks onely daughter; but being by the Duke of Suffolke annulled caused the Earle ever after to be a vowed enemy to the English.

Then which that Contry stronger holds had none,
Set ope their gates and bad the English goe,
For that the French should then possesse their owne.
And to their Armies, up their Forts they yeeld,
And turne the English out into the Feeld.

And that great Earle of Arminack againe,
A puisant Peere and mighty in estate,
Upon just cause, who tooke in high disdayne,
To have his Daughter so repudiate,
(His Contries bordring upon Aquitaine,)
Pursues the English nation with such hate,
As that he entred with his Armed powers,
And from that Dutchy, drave all that was ours.

Th'inraged commons ready are to rise,
Upon the Regent, to his Charge and layd,

The Commons charge the Duke of Somerset with the losse of Normandy.

That from his slacknesse and base cowardize,
These townes were lost, by his neglect of ayde,
Then follow Suffolke with confused cryes,
With Maine, and Anjou, and do him upbrayde,
And vowe his life shall for their losses pay,
Or at the stake, their goods and lives to lay.

Articles of Treason put into the Parliament against the Dukes of Summerset and Suffolke.

In th'open Session and Articulate,
Seven Severall Treasons urg'd against them both,
As most pernitious members of the State,
Which was confirmed by the commons oath,
So that the King who saw the peoples hate,

The Duke of Suffolke banished for five yeeres.

(In his owne selfe though he were very loath)
To both the houses lastly doth assent,
To set on Suffolke five yeares banishment.

His Soveraigne Lady Suffolke thus must leave,
And shee her Servant, to her soule so deare,
Yet must they both conceale what they conceive,
Which they would not if any helpe there were,
Yet of all comfort they cannot bereave
Her, but this hope her pensive heart doth cheere,
That he in France shall have his most resort,
And live securely in her fathers Court.

His mighty minde nor can this doome molest,
But kicks the earth with a disdainfull scorne,
If any thing doe corosive his brest,
It was, that he was in base England borne,
He curst the King, and Kingdome, but he blest
The Queene, but if in any thing forlorne,
Tw'as that he should her happy presence misse,
The endlesse Summe of all his earthly blisse.

His Sentence, scarce in Parliament had past,

The extreame hate the people had to the Duke.

But that the Rascall multitude arize,
Plucke downe his houses, lay his Lordships wast,
And search how they his person may surprise,
That he from England instantly must hast,
Cover'd by night, or by some strange disguise,
And to some small Port secretly retyre,
And there some poore Boate for his passage hire.

This ship was (as our histories report) caled the Nicolas of the tower, a ship that belong'd to the Duke of Excester, of whome one Water was the Captaine.

From Harwitch Haven and embarqu'd for France,
As he for Callice his straight course doth steere,
(O heare behould a most disastrous chance,)
A man of warre the Seaes that scoured there,
One at his actions that still lookt ascance,
And to this Duke did deadly hatred beare;
After a long chase tooke this little Craye,
Which he suppos'd him safly should convaye.

And from the fisher taking him by force,
He under Hatches straightly him bestow'd,
And towards his country steering on his course,
He runnes his vessell into Dover roade,
Where rayling on him without all remorse,
Him from the shippe to all the people show'd,
And when no more they could the Duke deride,
They cutt his head off on the Cock boate-side.

Suffolke thus dead and Sommerset disgrac'd,
His title Yorke more freely might preferre,
The Commons love, when cunningly to taste,
(Lest overweening he perhaps might erre,)
He first subbornes a villaine that imbrac'd,
The Nobler name of March-borne Mortimer,

The subtile policie of the Duke of York

Which in the Title of the house of Yorke;
Might set the monstrous multitude a worke.

His name was Cade, his native contry Kent,
Who, though of birth, and in estate but poore,
Yet for his courage he was eminent;

The carracter of Jacke Cade.

(Which the wise Duke well understood before,)
He had a minde was of a large extent,
The signe whereof on his bould brow he bore,
Sterne of behavior, and of body strong,
Witty, well spoken, cautilous, though young.

But for the Duke his title must derive,

Deriving his title from Phillip the only daughter and hayre of Lyonel Duke of Clarence the 3. sonne of Ed. the 3. wedded to Edmund Mortimer Earle of March.

Out of the bloud which beare that honored name,
Therefore must cast and conningly contrive,
To see how people relished the same,
And if he found it fortuned to thrive,
Then at the marke he had a further ayme,
To show himselfe his title good to make,
And raise him friends and power, his part to take.

All opposition likewise to prevent,
The crafty Duke his meaning doth conceale,
And Cade doth rise t'reforme the government,
And base abuses of the Publique Weale,
To which he knew the Commons would consent,
Which otherwise his Treason might reveale;
Which rightly tooke, for by this colour he
Drew twenty thousand on his part to be.

From Sussex, Surry, and from Kent that rose,
Whom hope of spoile doth to this act perswade,
Which still increase his Army as it goes,
And on Blacke Heath his Rendavous he made,
Where in short time it to that vastnesse growes,
As it at once the Kingdome would invade,
And he himselfe the Conquest could assure;
Of any power king Henry could procure.

And did in fight that generall force defeate,
Sent by the King that Rebell to pursue,
When under couler of a fain'd retreat,
He made as though he from the Army flew,

The Staffords slaine by the Rebells.

The slaughter of the souldiers must be great,
When he those Staffords miserably slewe.
Captaines select, and chosen by the Queene;
To lead the powers that should have wreakt her teene.

When for a Siedge he to the City came,
Assaults the Bridge with his emboldned power,
And after oft repulsed takes the same,

Jhacke Cade takes London.

Makes himselfe master of the Towne and Tower,
Doing such things as might the Divell shame,
Destroyes Records, and Virgins doth deflower,
Robbs, ransackes, spoiles, and after all this stirre,
Lastly, beheaded the Lord Treasurer.

These things by Yorke being plotted underhand,
Wise as he was, as one that had not knowne,
Ought of these Treasons, hasts to Ireland,
To tame those

The vulgar.

Kerne, rebellious that were growne;
He knew it was not in the barren Sand,
That he this subtile poysnous seed had sowne,
Which came it on (as very well it might)
It would make way for his pretended right.

Whilst these Rebellions are in England broacht,
As though the Fates should enviously conspire
Our utter Ruine; which too fast approacht,
About our eares, was Aquitaine a fire:
Their Conquest so upon our Townes incroacht,
That Charles the French King then had his desire,
To see these Troubles tyre us here within,
That he the whilst, in France from us might winne.

To add to Margarits miseries againe,
Talbot in France so bravely that had done,
Who many a yeare had aw'd proud Aquitaine,
And many a Fort, and famous Battaile wonne,

The valient Talbot slaine.

At Shatiloon (O endlesse griefe) was slaine
With the Lord Lyle his overvalient Sonne,
When all the Townes that he had got before,
Yeelded, nor would for England be no more,

Yorke in the nike from Ireland comming in,
Finding the Kingdome combred in this wise,
Thinks with himselfe twere time he did begin,
But by no meanes he gainst the King must rise;
O such a thought in any man were sin,
But that he would proud Somerset surprise,
Yet wanting strength gainst the whole State to stand,
He beares his businesse with a moderate hand.

And first to mighty Salsbury doth sue,

Richard Nevill the Father, and Richard Nevill the Son.

And his Sonne Warwick, and doth them intreate
With equall eyes they would be pleasde to view,
His rightfull Title: these two Nevils great
In power, and with the people, whom he knew,
Deadly the Duke of Somerset to hate,
By his large offers he doth winne at last,
In his just quarrell to cleave to him fast.

Thus his Ambition having strongly backt,
With these two fatall fierbrands of Warre;
To his desires, there very little lackt,
He and the Earles, all three so popular,
To advance himselfe he no occasion slackt,
For nought he sees him from his ends to barre,
Tis no small tempest that he need to feare,
Whom two such Collumnes up betwixt them beare.

And by their strengthes encourag'd doth not sticke,
The others actions boldly to o're looke,
And for the season that the King was sicke,
Upon himselfe the Regencie he tooke,
For now his hopes upon him came so thicke,
His entrance, dores from off the hindges shooke.
He with a nodde the Realme seem'd to direct,
Whose he but bow'd, if this great Prince but beckt.

And in the Queenes great Chamber doth arest,
Great Summerset, and sendeth him to ward,
And all his followers suddenly supprest,

The duke of Summerset arested.

Such was the number of his powerfull guard,
With the proud Queene, this Prince as proude contests,
Not for her frowne one friend of hers he spar'd,
Lucks on his side, while such stand by to bett,
Hee'le throw at all that any one dare sett.

The Queene who saw, which way this Faction went,
And that these wrongs must still reflect on her,
The Duke of Yorke to her distruction bent;
Thought with her selfe it was full time to stirre,
And if his plotts she ever would prevent,
Must with the wisest of her friends conferre,
Their busie braynes, and must together beate,
To lessen him, like else to grow too great.

His pride awhile yet patiently endure,
The kinges recovery onely to attend,
Of which themselves they hardly could assure,

The King recovered of a dangerous sicknesse.

Who once they thought had hastned to his end,
But when they found his Phisicke to procure,
His former health, then doth the Queene extend,
Her utmost strength, to let the world to know,
Queene Margarite yet, must not be mastred so.

With smiles and kisses when shee wooes the King,
That of his place the Duke he would discharge,
Which being done, the next espetiall thing,

The Queene prevailing against the Duke of York.

She doth the Duke of Sommerset inlarge,
And him of Callice gives the governing,
Whither his friends she causd him to inbardge,
Doubting the love, and safeguard of the Towne,
Thus doth the Queene turne all thinges upsidedowne.

Which so incenst the angry Duke to ire,
With those two Earles upon his part that take,
Kindling in all that fierce revengefull fire,

The Duke of Yorke raiseth an Army in the Marches of Wales.

Which the deere blood of Summerset must slake,
That into Wales they instantly retire:
And in the Marches up an Army make:
And there by Oath were each to other tyde,
By dint of sword the quarrell to decide.

And whilst these Lords are busied in the West,
Of March-men mustring a rebellious Band,
Henry againe his Southerne people prest:
And settles there their forces to withstand:
Then Bowes and Bills were onely in request:
Such rage and madnesse doth possesse the Land:
Set upon spoyle, on either part they were,
Whilst the Weale-publike they in peeces teare.

On either part when for this Warre prepar'd,
Upon their March they at Saint Albans met,
Where Drummes and Ensignes one the other dar'd,

The first Battaile at Saint Albans.

Whilst they in order their Battalions set,
And with his fellow ev'ry Souldier shar'd,
Bravely resolv'd to death to pay his debt:
When if that ever horrour did appeare
On th'English earth, it certainly was there.

That day the Queenes lov'd Summerset was slaine,
There tooke the stout Northumberland his end:
There Staffords blood the pavement did distaine:

Humfrey Earle of Stafford, eldest sonne to the Duke of Buckingham.

There Clifford fell, King Henries constant friend:
The Earle of Warwick who brought on the Mayne:
All downe before him to pale Death doth send.
Antwesell, Babthorp, Zouch, and Curwen, all
King Henries friends, before the Yorkists fall.

Whilst this distressed miserable King,
Amazed much with fury of the fight,
And perill still his person menacing:
His living friends inforc'd to take their flight:
He as a needlesse and neglected thing,
In a poore Cottage hides him out of sight:

The King crept into a poore cottage.

Who found by Yorke was as a prisoner led,
Though with milde words the Duke him comforted.

And of his person being thus possest,
They in his name a Parliament procure,
For with his Regall power they will invest
Themselves, supposing to make all things sure,
That if their violent actions should be prest,
In after time they better might endure
The censuring, the worst, and so prevent
To showe them done by Act of Parliament.

And cause the King to take into his hands,
What to the Crowne did anciently pertaine,
Besides all Honours, Offices, and Lands,

The lawlesse usurpation of the Yorkists.

Granted since the beginning of his Raigne;
And not a Fee, though ne'r so little stands;
All are call'd in, and let who will complaine,
And all his friends from Counsaile are remov'd,
None must sit there, but those of them belov'd.

The silly King a sipher set aside,
What was in him that in great Yorke is not;
Amongst themselves all places they divide,

Salisbury made Chancelor.

And to be Chancelor Salsbury hath got,
He is the man must take the law to guide;

Warwick Captaine of Callice.

And Callice falls to warlike Warwicks lot,
And not a man at these must looke awry,
They make an Act, their Acts to justifie.

This done, the Duke had more to doe then this;
Something it seem'd, more secretly to lurke,
In which such power (though from appearance) is,
As yet once more would fret the Duke of Yorke,
And let him know he of his ends might misse;
For now the Queene doth set her wits to worke,
To play the Game that must renowne her skill,
And shew the law that rested in her will.

And from the roote of Summerset late slaine,
Another stem, to stand for her arose,

Henry Beufort Duke of Summerset, after the decease of his father Edmond.

Henry for Edmond, of his Fathers straine,
(One of whose life she knew she could dispose)
Of a strong judgement, and a working braine;
Great Buckingham and Excester are those
Shee meanes to worke by, and by these restore,
Her to that height from whence she fell before.

These were the men to whom she trusted most,
To whom that faction much dispight had done,
For at Saint Albans Summerset had lost
His loved Sire, and Buckingham his Sonne:

The Duke of Excester taken out of the Sanctuary at Westminster.

And Excester pursude from Coast to Coast;
From them enforc'd to Sanct'ary to runne:
Fetcht thence by them, and to colde Pomfret sent,
And in a dungeon miserably pent.

Equall in envie, as in pride and power:
With ev'ry ayde to their designment fraught:
Taking their turnes at ev'ry fitting houre;
They on the Kings much easinesse so wrought,
As that they seem'd him wholly to devoure,
Untill to passe their purposes they brought,
Lifting up still his spirit that was so poore,
Once more to doe as he had done before.

For which at Greenwich he a Counsell held
Where, with th'opinion of those friends supplide,

The Duke of Yorke, the Earles of Salisbury and Warwick put out of office.

Those three which late with glorious titles sweld,
Are from their sev'rall places put aside;
Yet more to seeke their safety are compeld,
At this prodigious turning of the tide:
For now the winde was strangely come about,
And brings them in who lately were shut out.

The cruell Queene and cunningly had cast,
At Coventry to cause them to appeare,
With shew to pardon all that had beene past,
If they (but then) would their Allegiance sweare;
Which had they done, that day had bene their last,
For shee had plotted to destroy them there:
Of which forewarnd, immediatly they fled,
Which then their safety onely promised.

Yet whilst one wrong, thus from another rose,
Twixt them at last a Meeting was ordain'd,

The Queene had plotted to have the Duke murthered at Coventry.

All former strife and quarrels to compose,
Which but too long betwixt them had remain'd,
Which to the World though handsomely it showes,
Yet in plaine truth, all was but meerely fain'd
To outward seeming, yet are perfect friends:
“But divellish folke, have still their divellish ends.

And in precession solemnely they goe,
In generall joy, one smiling on the other,

A solemn precession in Pauls by both the factions

A Yorkist and Lancastrian make up two,
Envie and malice, brother, like to brother,
In minde farre sundred, although coupled so,
Bloudy revenge and in their brests they smother;
Ill's the precession (and fore runs much losse,
“Wherein men say, the Devill beares the Crosse.)

These Rights of peace religiously perform'd
To all mens thinking, the enraged Queene,
At Warwicks greatnesse inwardly yet storm'd

The Queene inwardly gruching at Warwickes greatnesse.

(Which every day still more and more was seene,)
Against the king, who Callice so had Arm'd,
As it his owne inheritance had beene.
Which towne she saw that if he still should hould,
That shee by him must howrely be contrould.

For which his murther she pursu'd so fast,
As that shee soone and secretly had layd,
Such to assault him, as the Streets he past,

Warwicke in perill to have bin slaine passing the street.

As if his brave name had not brought him ayde,
He of her vengance had beene sure to tast,
The Tragique Sceane so furiously was playd,
That he from London was inforst to flye;
Like a rough sea her mallice wrought so hye.

And t'owards the Duke his speedy Journey takes,
Who then at Middleham made his most aboad,
Which Salsbury his habitation makes,
Whereas their tyme together they bestow'd,
Whose courages the Earle of Warwick wakes,
When he to them his suddaine danger show'd
With a pale visage, and doth there disclose,
Her brands sett on him both in wounds and blowes.

This wrong in counsell, when they had discust,
And way'd the danger wherein still they were,
Continuall Treasons shrouded in their trust,
Nor other hopes else likely to appeare,
They find that this might make a warre seeme just,
And give their cause up to the world more cleere,
To rise in Armes when they resolve at last,
To raise them force, and wisely thus forecast.

To muster up their Tenants and their friends,
Not as a Warre upon the Land to bring,
Nor to advance their owne sinister ends,
Nor wrong a Subject in the smallest thing,
Onely to guard them (as their case then stands)
Till they had show'd their greevance to the King,
And give their power to Salsbury to guide,
That with the King the bus'nesse should decide.

With this direction Salsbury is sent,
Warwick to Callice (with what hast he may)
By his much speed a mischiefe to prevent,
Fearing the Towne might else be given away,
The Duke of Yorke by generall consent,
At Midleham Castell they alot to stay;
To raise a second power (if neede should be)
To re-inforce them, or to set them free.

The Queene who heard (by such as were her owne)
With that false Earle how those of Cheshire sided,
As in short time how powerfull he was growne,
Thinks with her selfe the Shire might be divided,
If that her love to some of them were knowne,
Which eas'ly might be, were her pleasure guided
By some such person, of whose valour they,
Had an opinion, which shee thus doth lay,

Causing the King to give a large command,
To James Lord Awdley, powerfull in those parts,
To raise him force those Rebels to withstand;
Such to their Soveraigne as had loyall harts,
And to make Captaines over ev'ry Band,
Men of the best blood, as of best desarts,
Which he so laboured, till that he had brought
That t'halfe of one house, gainst the other fought.

So that two men arising from one bed,
Falling to talke, from one another flye:

The men of Cheshire divided in the quarell.

This weares a white Rose, and that weares a red;
And this a Yorke, that Lancaster doth crye:
He wisht to see that Awdley well had sped:
He prayes againe to prosper Salsbury:
And for their farewell, when their leaves they take,
They their sharpe swords at one another shake.

This fire in ev'ry family thus set,
Out goe the Browne Bills, with the well-strung Bowes,
Till at Blore-heath these boystrous souldiers met,

The Battaile at Blore-heath.

For there it chanc'd the Armies then to close,
This must not live, if that he strove to let;
Never such friends yet ere became such Foes,
With downe-right strokes they at each other lay,
No word for Cheshire was, but kill, and slay.

The Sonne (as some report) the Father slue,
In opposition as they stoutly stood,
The Nephew seene the Unckle to pursue,

A great slaughter of Cheshire men.

Bathing his sword in his owne naturall blood:
The Brother in his Brothers gore imbrue
His guilty hands, and at this deadly food:
Kinsman kills Kinsman, which together fall,
As hellish fury had possest them all.

The Lord Audley slaine.

Here noble Tutchet the Lord Audley dide,
(Whose Father wan him such renowne in France)
And many a Cheshire Gentleman beside,
Fell at this Field by Warres uncertaine chance:
These miseries Queene Margarite must abide,
Whilst the proud Yorkists doe themselves advance:
And poore King Henry on a Pallet lay,
And scarcely ask'd which side had got the day.

Thus valiant Audley at this Battaile slaine,
And all those friends to the Lancastrians lost:
Cheshire by her such domage to sustaine:
So much deere blood had this late Conflict cost:
Wherefore the greeved Queene with might and maine,
Labours for life to raise a second Host:
Nor time therein she meaneth to forslowe,
Either shee'll get all, or will all forgoe.

And whilst their friends them forces gathering were,
(The neighbouring Realmes of this great bus'nesse ring)
The Duke, and those, that to his part adhere
Proclaymed Traytors; pardon promising
To those at Blore that Armes did lately beare:
So they would yet cleave to their lawfull King,
Which drue in many to their part againe,
To make their full, they Yorkists in their wane.

Yorke who perceiv'd the puissant Host prepar'd,
With his deare Nevils, Counsels what to doe,
For it behov'd him, to make good his Guard
With both their strengthes and all to little too;
And in the Marches he no labour spar'd,
To winne his friends along with him to goe:
With expedition which he could not get,
On the Kings side the Commons so were set.

And being to meete so absolute a power,
Yet wanting much his party good to make;
And Henryes proclamations ev'ry howre:
His Souldiers winne their Generall to forsake,
Besides the storme which rais'd this suddaine shower:
Them all in sunder likely was to shake:
He sawe his safety to consist in flight:
Thus e'r he wist, o'rmastred in his might.

All on the Spurre for life away they post,
Their homes too hot, nor there they might abide:
The three brave Earles soone reach the Westerne Coast,

Edward Earle of March, eldest sonne to the Duke, the Earles of Salsbury & Warwicke.

From whence to Callice their straight course they plyde:
The Duke to Wales being there befriended most:
Yet for more safety he to Ireland hyde:
So others ship themselves from ev'ry bay,
And happiest he that soon'st could get away.

As when a Route of rave'nous Wolves are met,
T'assayle some Heard the Desart pasturing neare,

A Simily.

The watchfull Clownes which over them are set,
Oft taught before their Tiranny to feare,
With dogges, with staves, and showts together get,
Nor never leave till they their Chattell cleare:
So the Kings power the Yorkists still pursue,
Which like those Wolves before those Heardsmen flewe.

They gone, the King at Coventry begun,
A Parliament, by good advice, wherein,

A Parliament at Coventry.

The Duke of Yorke, with th'Earle of March his sonne,
With Salsbury and Warwick who had bin
Conspirators, much mischiefe and had done,
And by whose helpe he hapt so much to win:
He there attaynts of Treason, and bestowes
All that was theirs, upon his friends, their foes.

When now those Earles in Callice still that kept
The charge whereof proud Warwick on him tooke:
In their intended bus'nesse never slept:
Nor yet their former enterprise forsooke,
In t'Henryes Counsailes who had those that crept,
And did each day his actions over-looke:
From whom as their advertisements still are,
So they their strengthes accordingly prepare.

And in meane time the Kingdome to embroyle,
That with lesse noyse their friends might raise an Host,
They plague the Seas with Piracie and spoyle:
And rob the Havens all along the Coast:
They ne'r take pitty of their Native soyle:
For that they knew this would avayle them most,
That whilst the State was busied there about,
Armes might be rais'd within, by those without.

And slaughtering many that were set to warde
Th'especiall Ports; th'unweldy Anchors wayde
Of the Kings Ships, whose fraught as Prize they sharde,
And them to Callice carefully convay'd
With their stolne Fleet, and his great Navy darde,
As late by Land, so now by Sea they sway'd:
All in Combustion, and their bloody rage,
Nor Sea, nor Land can possibly asswage.

Then have they Forces rais'd for them in Kent,
Their next and most convenient place to land,
(Where should the Adverse power their hopes prevent,
In Dover Road yet were their Ships at hand)
And by their Posts still too and fro that went;
They certainly were let to understand,
That Kent was surely theirs, and onely stayde
To rise in Armes the Yorkists power to ayde.

When Falconbridge, who second brother was
To Salsbury, they send away before,
To see no Ships should out of Sandwich passe,
To hinder them in comming to the shore;
There of Munition tooke a wondrous Masse
Heapt in that Towne, that with th'aboundant store,
He Armed many at their comming in,
Which of their side would scarsely else have bin.

That they no sooner setled were on Land,

The men of Kent rise with the Yorkists.

But that in Armes th'rebellious Kentish rose,
And the Lord Cobham with a mighty band,
With their Calicians presently doth close;
That now they sway'd all with a powerfull hand,
And in small time so great their Armie growes
From Sussex, Surry, and those parts about,
That of her safety, London well might doubt.

But yet at last the Earles shee in doth let,
To whom the Clergy comming day by day,
From further sheers them greater forces get,
When towards Northampton making foorth their way,
Where the sad King his Army downe had set,
And for their comming onely made his stay,
With all the force his friends could him afford,
And for a fight with all things fitly stor'd.

Who in his march the Earle doth oft molest,
(By their Vauntcurrers hearing how he came)
In many a straight, and often him distrest,
By stakes and trenches that his Horse might lame,
But the stout Yorkists still upon them prest:

The name of Warwicke fearefull to his enemies.

And still so fearefull was great Warwicks name,
That being once cryde on, put them oft to flight,
On the Kings Army till at length they light.

When th'Earle of March then in the pride of blood,
His Virgine valour on that day bestowes,
And furious Warwick like a raging flood,
Beares downe before him all that dare oppose,
Olde Salsbury so to his tackling stood,
And Fauconbridge so layes amongst his foes,
That even like leaves, the poore Lancastrians fall,
And the proud Yorkists beare away the Ball.

There Humphrey Duke of Bukingham expir'd,

A great slaughter of the Nobility at Northampton.

King Henrys comfort and his causes friend,
There Shrewsbury (even of his foes admir'd
For his high courage) his last breath doth spend,
Brave Beamout there, and Egremount lay tyr'd
To death, there Lucy had his lucklesse end,
And many a noble Gentleman that day,
Weltring in gore, on the wilde Champion lay.

The wretched King, as Fortunes onely scorne,
His Souldiers slaine, and he of all forsaken,
Left in his Tent; of men the most forlorne,
(The second time) a Prisoner there is taken;
The wofull Queene out of the Battaile borne
In a deepe swound; and when she doth awaken,
Nothing about her heares, but howles, and cries,
Was ever Queenes like Margarites miseries?

Yorke comming in from Ireland in the end,
And to his hands thus findes the Battaile wonne,
By the high Prowesse of his faithfull friend,
Great Warwick, and that valiant March his sonne,
His present hopes the former so transcend,
That the proud Duke immediatly begun,
By his bold Actions to expresse his thought,
Through so much blood, what he so long had sought.

The Kings Command'ment daring to denie,
His Soveraigne Lord being call'd to wayte upon,

The Duke of Yorks insolence.

And on his Fortune beares himselfe so hie,
That he in State presumes t'ascend his Throane:
From the Kings Lodgings puts his Servants by,
And placeth in them such as were his owne:
So infinitely insolent he growes,
As he the Crowne at pleasure would dispose.

When he procures a Parliament with speed,
In which himselfe Protector he doth make,
And onely Heire apparent to succeed
The King; when Death him from the world should take:
And what had beene at Coventry decreed,
He there annulls, from him and his to shake
The servile yoke of all subjection quite,
Downe goes the red Rose, and up goes the white.

And he with Fortune that this while doth sport,
Seeing the Southerne to him still were sure;
Thinks to the North, if he should but resort,
He to his part the Northerne should procure,
Seeking all wayes his greatnesse to support:
Nor would an equall willingly endure:
Downe into Yorkshire doth to Sandall ride,
Whose lofty scyte well suted with his pride.

The Queene impatient of the Dukes Pride.

The vexed Queene whose very soule forgot,
That such a thing as patience it had knowne,
And but she found her friends forsooke her not,
As madde as ever Hecuba had growne,
Whilst both her wrongs, and her revenge were hot,
Her mighty minde, so downe could not be throwne,
But that once more the bloody Sett sheele play
With York, ere so he beare the Crowne away.

And downe to Sandall doth the Duke pursue,
With all the power her friends could her provide,
Led by those Lords that had beene ever true,
And had stood fast upon King Henrys side,
With that most valient and selected crue,
This brav'st of Queenes, so well her businesse plide,
That comming soone in Sandals lofty sight,
Into the Field she dares him forth to fight.

And for this Conflict there came on with her
Her hope Prince Henry, her deare onely Sonne,
Stout Somerset, and noble Excester,
Dukes, that for Margarite mighty things had done,
Devon and Wilt, Earles using to conferre
With this wise Queene, when Danger shee would Shunne;
Undaunted Clifford, Rosse in warre up brought,
Barrons as brave as ere in battaile fought.

When this stout Duke who in his Castle stood,
With Salisbury (who beat them all at Blore,)

The Dukes haste the cause of his ruine.

Both which were flesht aboundantly with bloud,
In those three Battailes they had wonne before,
Thought in their pride, it would be ever Flood,
Nor gainst Queene Margarite that they needed more,
For they led Fortune chain'd with them about,
That of their Conquest none but fooles could doubt.

And for the Field soone Marshalling their force,
All poore delayes they scornefully defie,
Nor will the Duke stay for those troopes of Horse,
With which his Sonne him promist to supply,
In spight of Fate they'll give their Foe the worse;
On their owne valour they so much relye,
And with five thousand marshald well they come,
Meaning to charge the Queenes maine Battell home.

But in her Host she having those that were
Expert in all the Stratagems of Warre,
To fight with him doe cause her to forbeare,
Till from his Castle she had got him farre,
Whilst in an ambush she had placed there:
Wiltshire, and Clifford with their strengthes to barre
Him from his home, in off'ring to retire,
Or wound his back even as they would desire.

When too't they fell upon an easie Plaine,
At the hill foote, where furiously they fought
Upon both sides where there were many slaine:
But for the Queene, foure to his one had brought:
The Duke of Yorke for all his pride was faine
Back to recoyle, where he was finely caught,
For Wilt and Clifford that in Ambush were,
The Van thus rowted, overthrew the Reare.

Where Yorke himselfe, who proudly but of late,
With no lesse hope then of a Kingdome fed,
Upon this Field before his Castle gate,
Mangled with wounds, on his owne earth lay dead,
Upon whose Body Clifford downe him sate,
Stabbing the corpes, and cutting off his head,
Crown'd it with paper, (and to wreake his teene)
Presents it so to the victorious Queene.

His Bastard Unckles both couragious Knights,
Sir John, and Sir Hugh Mortimer so sped,
Hall, Hastings, Nevill, who in sundry fights
Had show'd their valour, on the field found dead:
And Salsbury amongst these Tragick sights,

The Earle of Salsbury beheaded.

Who at Blore heath so much deare blood had shed,
Taken a live, to Pomfret sent with speed,
And for their bloods, himselfe there made to bleed.

Some clime up Rocks, through Hedges other runne,
There foes so roughly execute their rage,
Where th'Earle of Rutland the Dukes youngest sonne,
Then in his Childhood and of tender Age,
Comming in hope to see the Battaile wonne,
Clifford whose wrath no rigour could asswage,

The end of young Rutland.

Takes, and whilst there he doth for mercy kneele,
In his soft bosome sheathes his sharpned steele.

Edward of March, the Duke his Father slaine,
Succeeding him, whilst things thus badly sort,
Gathering an Army, but yet all in vaine,
To ayde his Father, for he came too short,
Hearing that Penbrooke with a Warlike trayne,
Was comming tow'rds him, touch'd with the report,
His valiant Marchers for the field prepares,
To meete the Earle, if to approach he dares.

Jasper by birth halfe Brother to the King,
On bright Queen Katherine got by Owen Tether,
Whom Henryes love did to this Earledome bring,
And as from Wales descended sent him thither,
And of South-Wales gave him the governing,
Where in short time he got an Host together,
Cleaving to Henry who did him prefer
As an Alye to th'house of Lancaster.

Upon their March when as they lastly met,
Neere to the Crosse that Mortimer is nam'd,

The Battell at Mortimers Crosse.

Where they in order their Battalions set:
The Duke and Earle with equall rage enflam'd,
With angry eyes they one the other threat,
Their deadly Arrowes at each other aym'd:
And there a fierce and deadly fight begin,
A bloodier Battell yet there had not bin.

The Earle of Ormond, an Associate then,
With this young Tudor, for the King that stood,
Came in the Vanguard with his Irish men,
With Darts, and Skaynes; those of the British blood,
With Shafts and Gleaves them seconding againe,
And as they fall, still make their places good,
That it amaz'd the Marchers to behold,
Men so ill Arm'd upon their Bowes so bold.

Now th'Welch and Irish so their weapons weeld,
As though themselves they Conquerours meant to call,
Then are the Marchers Masters of the Field:
With their browne Bills the Welchmen so they mall,
Now th'one, now th'other likely were to yeeld:
These like to flye, then those were like to fall,
Untill at length (as Fortune pleas'd to guide)
The Conquest turn'd upon the Yorkists side.

Three Sunnes were seene that instant to appeare,
Which soone againe shut up themselves in one,
Ready to buckle as the Armies were,

Three sunnes seene at one time.

Which this brave Duke tooke to himselfe alone,
His drooping hopes which some what seem'd to cheere,
By his mishaps, neere lately overthrowne,
So that thereby encouraging his men,
Once more he sets the White-Rose up agen.

100

Pembroke and Ormond save themselves by flight,
Foure thousand Souldiers of both Armies dead,
But the great losse on the Lancastrians light,
So ill the Freinds of poore King Henry sped;

Owen Tudors end.

Where Owen Tudor taken in the flight,
This yong Earles father, by Queene Katherins bed)
At Hereford not farre away from thence,
Where others with him dyde for their offence.

This while the Queene, the Gole at Sandall gain'd
Leades on tow'rds London her victorious Host,
Whose blades she showes, with blood of Yorkists stain'd
Nor of her Conquest can she leave to boast;
But to her side, whilst lucky Fortune lean'd,
Come, what can come, shee meanes to cleare the Coast,
Of those shee knew in Yorks revenge would rise,
Found she not meanes, their Forces to surprise.

And at Saint Albans finding on her way,
John Duke of Norfolke, and her divellish foe:
Fierce Warwick who there with an Army lay,
Which two, deceased Yorke when he should goe
To Sandall, left them as his onely kay,

King Henry left before to the keeping of the Duke of Norfolke, and the Earle of Warwick.

To keepe King Henry (which they not forslowe)
Lest by the Queene and hers he might be wrought,
T'annull their late past Parliament for nought.

For which to Counsell, calling up her Lords,
Well to consider what was to be done,
Who cheere her up with comfortable words,
And would in no wise she her way should shunne:
For they would make her entrance with their swords:
Here what was lost, might here againe be wonne,
Assuring her, their mindes them strongly gave,
That of this Field the glory shee should have.

And soone their Army ordering for the ground,
Whereof a view they ev'ry way doe take:
When for Assault they bid their Trumpets sound,
And so their entry on the Towne they make:
But comming to the Market-place, they found
A shower of Shafts, as from a Cloud it brake,
Which backe againe made them so fast to beare,
As that their Van, was like to route their Reare.

101

But thus repuls'd, another way they prove,
How in upon their Enemie to get,
Which makes their Foes, that they their Force remove,
To stop that passage wherein they were set,
That whilst, they Shafts into each other shove,
For a long while it was an even bet,
Death being thus dealt, and both so deeply in,
Whether proud Warwick, or the Queene should win.

But by the Queene constrayned to recoyle,
Their ground from them they absolutely wonne,
When they the Yorkists miserably spoyle,
And in with them on their mayne Battell runne:
Which being greatly straytned by the soyle,
They could not doe what else they might have done:
Through thick and thin, o'r hedge and ditch that take,

The Queene getteth the day at Saint Albans.

And happiest he that greatest hast could make.

Whilst Warwick cryes, yee Southerne Cowards stay,
And once more turne your faces to your Foes,
Tis feare, not danger doth yee thus dismay:
O prove the former fortune of your Bowes,
Thinke but upon the late-wonne glorious day
Got in this place; the fame whereof you lose
By your base flight; but he his breath might spare,
He might as well have call'd upon the Ayre.

Scatter'd like Sheepe by Wolves that had bin scar'd,
So runne the Yorkists; which, when Norfolke sawe,
He calls to Warwick scarsely then prepar'd,

The Yorkists Army discomfited at this second Battell at Saint Albans.

Himselfe out of this danger to withdrawe:
My Lord (quoth he) you see that all is mard:
Fortune hath sworne to keepe us in her awe:
Our lives are gone if longer here we stay,
Loose not your selfe, though we have lost the day.

And for they found the Foe came on so fast,
The King by them to this lost Battell brought,
And under guard in his Pavillion plac't,
Th'are forc'd to leave (which late they little thought)
For there were those which made them make such hast,
They could not stay to have their Soveraigne sought:

King Henry of no account.

But since the Battell, had such ill successe,
That lost, they thought their losse of him the lesse.

102

The Foe thus fled, they quickly found the King,
From whom a speedy Messinger is sent,
His Wife, and Sonne, away to him to bring,

The King meetes with the Queene and her sonne.

Who with their Lords ariving at his Tent,
Where after many a Fall and many a Spring,
Of teares of joy upon each other spent,
Which strict embraces they each other straine,
No one had neede a gladnesse there to faine.

Like as you see when Partridges are flowne,
(In Falconers termes which we the Covy call)
By the sharpe Hawke, and into Thickets throwne,

A Simily.

There drops downe one, there doth another fall:
Yet when they heare the questing Spaniels gone,
They in the evening get together all,
With pretty jugging and each other greete,
Glad as it were they once againe should meete.

But the fierce Queene, her full revenge to take,
Of those she thought the Yorkists well that ment,
The stout Lord Bonvile for King Henryes sake,

The cruelty of the Queen.

And Thomas Kerrill, a brave Knight of Kent,
Who the Kings Guard strove ever strong to make,
All threatning perill thereby to prevent;
And for their safeties had his Soveraigne word,
That cruell woman putteth to the sword.

This well might warne great Warwick not to trust
Too much to Fortune, which so soone reveales
Her whorish lightnesse; like an Averse gust,
And on the suddaine makes him strike his Sayles,
Which when he most beleev'd her to be just,
His forward hopes then most of all shee fayles:
All his accounts, and teach him thus to summe,
“None overcomes, but may be overcome.

Some thinke that Warwick had not lost the day,
But that the King into the Field he brought,
For with the worse, that side went still away,

King Henry ever most infortunate.

Which had King Henry with them when they fought,
Upon his birth so sad a curse they lay,
As that he never prospered in ought,
The Queene wanne two, amongst the losse of many,
Her Husband absent, present, never any.

103

But whilst her selfe with further hopes she fed,
The Queene still watchfull, wisely understands,
That Warwick late, who at Saint Albans fled,
(Whereas his heeles serv'd better then his hands,)
Had met the Duke of Yorke, and made a head
Of many fresh, and yet unfought-with bands,
At Chipping-norton for more forces stay'd,
From whence towards London they their march had laid.

And for shee saw the Southerne to adhere,

The Londoners deny the Queen victuaile for her Army.

Still to the Yorkists, who againe relyde
Much on their ayde, as London she doth feare,
A small reliefe which lately her denyde,
She can (at all) conceive no comfort there,
With any succours, nor to be supply'd,
But to the North her speedy course directs,
From whence fresh aydes she every day expects.

Not foure dayes march yett fully on her way,
But Yorke to London with his Army comes,

The Duke of Yorke entreth London with applause of the people.

And nere the Walls his Ensignes doth display
Deaffing the City with his clamorous Drummes,
His Title so the multitude doth sway,
That for his Souldiers they provide him Summes,
And those provisions, they Queene Margarit ow'd,
Taken from hers, they on the Duke bestowde.

The Gates set open to receive him in,
They with applause his gracious entrance greet,
His presence so the Peoples hearts doth winne,
That they come flocking in from every street,
Kneeling before him as he Crown'd had beene,
And as he rode along, they kisse his feet,
Whilst good King Henry towards the North is gone,
The poore Lancastrians damn'd by every one.

Whither (at once) doth presently repaire
The Spirituall Lords, and Temporall, who would have
Him take the Crowne, who farre more ready are
To give, then he their suffrages to crave:
The Commons take him so into their care,
Upon his name that dotingly they rave,
And being ask'd who should their Soveraigne be,
They cry King Edward, and no man but he.

104

Thus to his hight this puissant Prince they heave,
The seat Imperiall; where then sitting downe,
Their fealty they force him to receave,
Which on his head might firmely fixe his Crowne,
And in his hand the Regall Scepter leave:

Edward made King by the suffrage of the Commons.

Edward the fourth proclaym'd in ev'ry Towne,
With all the pompe that they could thinke upon,
They then adorne his Coronation.

This newes too quickly in Queene Margarites eare,
What by the Lords at London had beene done,
Even at the point to fall into dispaire,
Ready she was on her owne death to runne;
With her faire fingers rents her golden haire,
Cursing that houre when first she saw the Sunne,
With rage she faints; reviving, and doth call
Upon high heav'n for vengeance on them all.

To ayde her right yet still excites her friends,
By her faire speech inchanted (as by Charmes)
Scarce any man on any Lord depends
That followes her, that riseth not in Armes:
The spacious North such plentious succour sends,
That to her side the Souldiers come in swarmes:
Thus day by day she addeth more and more
To that full Army, which shee had before.

Not long it was but Edward understood,
Of this great power prepared in the North,
When he to make his Coronation good,

King Edward marches from London to meete his Enemies in the North.

Calls to his ayde his friends of greatest worth,
With whom, then rising like a raging flood:
This forward King breakes violently forth,
That with the helpe of Tributary flowes,
Extends his breadth still onward as he goes.

Nor Henries Army needed to be sought,
For every man could tell him where it lay:
In twelve dayes march which Edward eas'ly rought,
Without resistance keeping on his way,
Nere fifty thousand, in his Host he brought,
Whose brandish'd Ensignes seem'd to brave the day:
And under Pomfret his proud Tents he pight,
Providing hourely for a deadly fight.

105

Of Henryes Host when they who had command,
On whom the Queene imposed had the care:
Great Somerset, and stout Northumberland,
And Clifford whom no danger yet could dare:
The Walls of Yorke first having throughly man'd,
There plac'd the King; when quickly they prepare
To range their Battell, which consisted then
Of threescore thousand valiant Northerne men.

From Edwards Host the Lord Fitzwater went,
And valiant Nevill, Warwicks Bastard brother,

The Lord Fitz-water and Bastard Nevill slaine.

At Ferry-Bridge the Passage to prevent
From comming over Eyre, to keepe the other;
Gainst whom the Adverse, the Lord Clifford sent,
Who taking night his enterprise to smother:
The dawne yet dusky, passing through a Ford,
Puts them, and all their Souldiers to the Sword.

At the shrill noyse when Warwicke comming in,
And findes his Brother and Fitzwater dead,
Even as a man distracted that had bin:
Out of his face the lively coulour fled:
Doth cruell Clifford thus (quoth he) begin,

Warwicke vowes to revenge his brothers death.

For ev'ry drop of bloud that he hath shed,
This day, I'le make an Enemy to bleed,
Or never more in Battaile let me speed.

And to the King returning in this mood:
My Liege (quoth he) all mercy now defie,
Delay no longer to revenge their blood;
Whose mangled bodies breathlesse yonder lie:
And let the man that meanes King Edwards good
Stand fast to Warwick, who no more shall flie:
Resolv'd to winn, or bid the world adue,

Warwicks desperate resolution.

Which spoke, the Earle his sprightly Courser slue.

This resolution so extreamely wrought
Upon King Edward, that he gave command,
That on his side who willingly not fought,
Should have his leave, to quit him out of hand;
That ev'ry one should kill the man he cought,

No Quarter kept at Towton.

To keepe no Quarter, and who meant to stand
In his just cause, rewarded he would see,
This day he'll rise, or this day ruin'd be.

106

When neere to Towton on the spacious Playne
These puissant Armies, on Palme-Sunday met,
Where downe-right slaughter angry Heav'n doth rayne,

Towton field.

With clouds of Rage the Element is set:
The windes breath Fury, and the earth againe
With the hot gore of her owne Natives wet,
Sends up a smoke, which makes them all so mad,
Of neither part that mercy could be had.

One horrid sight another doth appall:
One fearefull crie another doth confound,
Murthers so thick upon each other fall,
That in one shreeke anothers shreeke is dround,
Whilst blood for blood incessantly doth call,
From the wide mouth of many a gaping wound;
Slaughter so soone growes big, that comm'n to birth,
The monstrous burthen over-loades the earth.

This bloody Tempest ten long houres doth last,
Whilst neither side could to it selfe assure
The Victory; but as their lot was cast,
With wounds and death they stoutly it endure,
Untill the valiant Yorkists at the last,
Although in number neere ten thousand fewer:
In their long Fight their forces mannage so,
That they before them lay their conquer'd foe.

Couragious Clifford first here fell to ground,
Into the throat with a blunt Arrow struck:
Here Westmerland receiv'd his deadly wound:

A miserable defect of the Queenes friends.

Here dy'd the stout Northumberland that stuck
Still to his Soveraigne; Wells and Dacres found
That they had lighted on King Henryes luck:
Trowlup and Horne two brave Commanders dead,
Whilst Summerset and Excester were fled:

The greatest slaughter in all that civill Warre.

Thirty two thousand in this Battaile slaine,
Many in strayts lye heap'd up like a wall:
The rest lye scatter'd round about the Playne,
And Cocke a River, though but very small,
Fill'd with those flying; doth so deeply stayne
The River Wharfe, in t'wich this Cocke doth fall,
As that the Fountaine which this flood doth feede,
Besides their blood, had seem'd for them to bleede.

107

King Henryes hopes thus utterly forlorne,
By the late losse of this unlucky day:
He feeles the Crowne (even) from his Temples torne
On his sword point, which Edward beares away:

The King and Queene forc'd to forsake the Land.

And since his fall the angry Fates had sworne,
He findes no comfort longer here to stay:
But leaving Yorke, he post to Barwick goes
With's Queene and Sonne, true partners in his woes.

The King for Scotland, and for France the Queene,
Divided hence, since them thus Fortune thwarts,
Before this time there seldome had beene seene,
Two to be sever'd with so heavy harts:
The Prince their sonne then standing them betweene,
Their song is sorrow, and they beare their parts:
He to the King of Scots, to get supplies,
Shee to the French King, and her Father flies.

Which well might showe a Princes slippery state,
For when she hether at the first came in,
England and France did her congratulate,
Then in two Battailes she had Conqueror bin,
Seeming to tread upon the Yorkists hate,
As from that day she had beene borne to win:
Now to sayle back with miseries farre more,
Then were her tryumphes landing here before.

This cruell blowe to the Lancastrians lent,
At fatall Towton that Palme-Sunday fight,
Where so much blood they prodigally spent,
To France and Scotland as inforc'd their flight,
Lifts up the Yorkists to their large extent,
And Edward now to see his Crowne sat right,
Proud in his spoyles, to London doth repaire,
And re-annoynted mounts th'Imperiall Chaire.

Where he a speedy Parliament doth passe,
T'annull those Lawes which had beene made before:
Gainst his succession, and dissolve the Masse
Of Treasons heapt on his, them to restore:
Whereby King Henry so much lesned was,
As after that he should subsist no more,
Little then thinking Lancaster againe
Now but an Exile over him should raine.

108

Where he attaints as Traitors to his Crowne,
John Earle of Oxford and his valient Sonne
Aubry De Vere, with whom likewise went downe,

The Earle of Oxford and his Sonne attainted.

Mountgomery, Teril, Tudenham who were done
To death; so Heaven on Henry seemes to frowne,
And Summerset King Edwards wrath to shunne,
Himselfe submitting is reciv'd to grace,
Such is Queene Margarits miserable case.

Henry in Scotland, the sad Queene the while,
Is left to France, to Lewis there to sue,
To lend her succour; scorning her exile,
In spight of Fate she will the warre renew,

Queene Margarit a woman of an undainted spirit.

She will tempt Fortune till againe she smile,
In such a pitch her mighty spirit still flew;
That should the world oppose her, yet that strength,
She hopes shall worke up her desires at length.

And with five thousand valient Volunteers,
Of native French, put under her Command,
With Armes well fitted she towards Scotland steeres,
With which before she possibly could land,

The Queene in every enterprise most unfortunate.

The wrath of Heaven upon this Queene appeares,
And with fierce Tempests strive her to withstand,
The windes make warre against her with her Foe,
Which Join'd together worke her overthrowe.

Her Forces thus infortunatly lost,
Which she in Scotland hop'd to have encreast,
And in this tempest she her selfe so tost,
As never Lady; yet she here not ceast,
But since she found her interprise thus crost,
She to the Scottish her faire course adrest,
Nor would desist till she had raisde agen,
Ten thousand valient well-appointed men.

And in upon Northumberland doth breake,
Rowzing the Sluggish villages from sleepe,
Bringing in Henry though a helpe but weake,
But leaves her Sonne in Barwicke safe to keepe;

Queene Margarit rayseth a new Army.

Her ratling Drummes so rough a language speake,
The ruffling Scots, and all the Countrey sweepe;
Which rumor ran so fast with, through the ayre,
That Edward thought it shooke his very Chaire.

109

And Somerset receiv'd to grace before,
With Sir Ralphe Percy from that fatall day
At Towton; found each minute more and more
How sad a fate on the Lancastrians lay,

Some that had submitted themselves to King Edward, revolt at king Henryes comming.

Yet hoping now King Henry to restore,
Who they suppos'd had new found out the way,
Revolt from Edward, and in Henrys name
Call in their frends, to ayde him as he came.

This noise of Warre arising from the North,
In Edwards eares re-ecchoing bidds him stirre,
And Rumour tells him if he made not forth,
Queene Margarit com'n he must resigne to her,
For they were Captaines of especiall worth,
On whom shee did this mighty charge conferre;
For that her Ensignes she at large displai'd,
And as shee came so still came in her ayde.

For which his much lov'd Montacute he sends
With Englands valient Infantry his Pheres;
To whose wise guidance, he this Warre commends,
His Souldiers expert pickt in sundry sheeres:
His utmost strength King Edward now extends,
Which he must doe, or drag'd downe by the eares
From his late-gotten, scarsely-setled Throne,
And one his shoulders shee remount thereon.

And Mountacute had scarsely march'd away,
But he himselfe sets forward with an Host,
And a strong Navy likewise doth purvay,
To scoure the Seas and keepe the Brittish Coast,

King Edward provideth to resist Queene Margarites comming in.

Fearing from France fresh succours every day,
To ayde Queene Margarit which perplex'd him most,
For he perceiv'd his Crowne sate not so sure,
But might be shak'd should she her Powers procure.

Now is the North fild with refulgent Armes,
Edwards are English, Scots Queen Margarit brings,
The Norths cold bosome, this great concourse warmes,
Their Quarrell is the right of two great Kings,
Which oft before have wrought each others harmes,
And from that Roote, new horror dayly springs,
And though much blood they both had spent before,
Yet not so much, but that there must be more.

110

At Hegly-Heath their skirmishes begin,
Where two bold Barons Hungerford and Rosse,
With Sir Ralph Percy, he who late had bin

The Conflict at Hegly More.

Leagu'd with King Edward, but then gotten lose,
(Strives by all meanes to expyate that sin)
To the Lancastrian faction cleaves so close,
That when those Barrons from that Conflict flie,
In Henry's right, he bravely dares to die.

Which leads along as tragicall an Act,
As since the Warres had ever yet beene playd;
For Mountacute b'ing fortunately backt
By brave King Edwards comming to his ayde:
As of their force King Henry little lackt,

The Battaile of Exham.

The Playne call'd Livells where the sceane was layde:
Not farre from Exham neere to Dowills flood,
That day discoloured with Lancastrians blood.

There struck they Battaile, Bowmen Bowmen plide,
Northerne to Southerne, slaughter ceaseth all;
Long the Fight lasted e'r that either side
Could tell to which the Victory would fall:
But to the Yorkists fortune is so tide,
That she must come when they shall please to call,
And in his Cradle Henry had the curse,
That where he was, that side had still the worse.

This lucklesse day by the Lancastrians lost,
Was Summerset surprized in his flight,
And in pursuing of this scatter'd Host,
On Mullins, Rosse, and Hungerford they light,

Queene Margarites party goes still to wrack.

Which this dayes worke e'r long full dearely cost;
And with these Lords were taken many a Knight,
Nor from their hands could Henry hardly shift,
Had not his guide beene, as his Horse was, swift.

Still must Queene Margarites miseries endure,
This Masse of sorrow markt out to sustaine:
For all the aydes this time she should procure,
Are either taken, put to flight, or slaine;
Of nothing else she can her selfe assure,
That she will leave her losses to complaine:
For since she sees that still her friends goe downe,
She will curse Fortune if she doe not frowne.

111

Henry to flye to Scotland back is faine,
To get to France, the wofull Queene is glad,
There with her Sonne inforced to remaine,
Till other aydes might thence againe be had;

King Henry and the Queen part.

So them their hard necessities constraine,
To set them downe that it doth make me sad,
Never so thicke came miseries I weene,
Upon a poore King, and a woofull Queene.

This done King Edward, his strong Army sends
To take those Castles which not long before,
Had beene deliverd to King Henrys friends,
Which he by siedges makes them to restore,
And on the Borders watchfully attends,
To Henries ayde that there should come no more,
But ô behold as one ordain'd to ill,
The Fate that followes haplesse Henry still.

For out of some deepe melancholly fitt,
Or otherwise, as falne into despaire,

King Henry comming disguised into England is discovered, and taken prisoner.

Or that he was not rightly in his witt,
Being safe in Scotland, and still succour'd there;
Upon the sudaine he abandons it,
And into England Idly entring, where
He is surprisde, and (in his enemies power)
Is by King Edward shut up in the Tower.

This hap had Henry, who when he was borne,

King Henry was borne the greatest of Christian Kings.

Of Christian Kings the greatest then alive,
Now he the Crowne full forty yeeres had worne,
Doth all his Regall Soveraignety survive;
Of all men living and the most forlorne,
So strange a thing can Destiny contrive:
So many sundry Miseries as he,
No King before, had ever liv'd to see.

To heare all this Queene Margarite must endure,
Yet sadly to her Fathers Court confinde,
And now King Edward held himselfe secure,
When things fell out so fittly to his minde,
But when of rest he did himselfe assure,
Upon a suddaine rose so rough a winde,
In his strong hand, which shooke his Scepter more,
Then all the stormes that ere had blowne before.

112

For then in minde to league himselfe with France,
Which he perceiv'd, would be the surest way,
His question'd Tytle highly to advance;

The pollicie of King Edward.

And at his need should serve him for a kay,
To open him their pollicies; whose chance
Was then in casting, and they next to play;
For Margarite still the French King Lewes prest
For second aydes, nor would she let him rest.

Wherefore he sends a marri'ge to entreat,
With beauteous Bona (with whose rich report

Warwick sent into France to intreat for a marriage betwixt King Edward and Bona, the French Queens sister.

Fame was opprest with, as a taske too great)
The French Queenes sister, and with her in Court,
Warwick the man chose forth to worke the feat,
Who is sent thither in most sumptuous sort,
And in short time so well his bus'nesse plies,
That she was like to prove an English prize.

The Dutchesse of Bedford after John her husbands decease, was wedded to Sir Rich. Woodvile Knight, whose daughter this Lady was.

In the meane while this youthfull King by chance,
Comming to Grafton, where the Dutchesse lay,
Then stil'd of Bedford; his eye haps to glance
On her bright daughter the faire Widdow Gray,
Whose beauties did his senses so intrance,
And stole his heart so suddainly away;
That must he loose his Crowne, come weale, come woe,
She must be his, though all the world say no.

Her lookes like Lethe make him to forget,
Upon what bus'nesse he had Warwick sent;
Upon this Lady he his love so set,
That should his Crowne from off his head be rent,
Or his rebellious people rise, to let
This choyse of his, they should it not prevent:
For those pure eyes his bosome that had pierc'd,
Had writ a Law there, not to be revers'd.

What lesse amends this Lady can I make,
For her deare Husband in my quarrell slaine;

Her husband slaine at Saint Albons on the Kings part.

Then lawfull marri'ge which for Justice sake,
I must performe (quoth he) lest she complaine,
For a just Prince, so me the world shall take:
Soothing himselfe up in this amorous vaine,
With his affections in this sort doth play,
Till he a Queene made the faire Lady Gray.

113

This act of Edwards com'n to Warwicks eare,
And that the sequell show'd it to be true,
In his sterne eyes it eas'ly might appeare,
His heart too great for his straight bosome grew,
He his Commission doth in piece-meale teare,
Breakes the broad Seale, and on the ground it threw,
And prayes blest heav'n may curse him, if that he
For this disgrace revenged would not be.

Have I (quoth he) so lifted thee aloft,

Warwick expressing the wrong done him by King Edward in the three following Stanzas.

That to thy Greatnesse I the scorne am growne:
Have I for thee adventur'd beene so oft,
In this long Warre, as to the world is knowne,
And now by thee thus basely am I scoft,
By this disgrace upon me thou hast throwne:
If these thy wrongs unpunish'd slightly passe,
Hold Warwick base, and falne from what he was.

Know tw'as the Nevils for thy Tytle stood,
Else long e'r this layd lower then the ground,
And in thy cause my Father shed his blood,
None of our house, for thee, but beares some wound,
And now at last to recompence this good,
Onely for me this Guerdon hast thou found;
From thy proud head, this hand shall pluck thy Crowne,
Or if thou stand, then needes must Warwick downe.

Yet he to England peaceably repaires,
And with a smooth browe smothers his intent,
And to the King relates the French affaires,
As what in Court had past there since he went:

Warwicke deeply dissembles his discontent.

His spleene he for a fitter season spares,
Till he the same more liberally might vent:
Calme was his countenance, and his language faire,
But in his breast a deepe revenge he bare.

Meane while Queene Margarite (a poore Exile) heares,
How things in England (in her absence) went,
Her halfe-burst heart, which but a little cheeres:
For from her head she felt the Crowne was rent,
Yet though farre off a little glimpse appeares,
A seeming hope, and though it faintly lent,
It might have said, had not the Fates said no,
These stormes at home, might her some profit blowe.

114

She heares how Warwick cunningly had wrought,
George Duke of

George, second brother to King Edward, and by him created Duke of Clarence.

Clarence from his brothers side,
And that brave Youth at Callice having caught
His eldest daughter had to him affide,
How to rebell the

Warwick by his Agents had stirred up this Rebellion in the North, he himselfe being at Callice, that it might seeme not to be done by him: they had to their Captaines Henry Fitzhoward, Henry Nevill, and Sir John Coniers.

Northerne men were brought,
And who by Warwick poynted was their guide,
As on the

The Earle of Penbroke and his brother Richard Herbert overthrowne at Banbury field.

Welch he had a mighty hand,
By Edward rais'd those Rebels to withstand.

Of new

These Rebels had to their Captaine, one whom they termed Robin of Redsdale.

Rebellions at Northampton rais'd,
And to dispight the King what they had done,
How they at Grafton the Earle

The Earle Rivers was Father to the Lady Gray, then Queene of England.

Rivers seas'd,
And Sir John Woodvile his most hopefull sonne,
Who with their heads could hardly be appeas'd,
And of the Fame by puissant Warwick wonne:
Who having taken

The Earle taketh the King prisoner at Woolvey in Warwickshire entring upon this Campe suddainly in the night.

Edward in his Tent,
His King his prisoner into Yorkshire sent.

Then heares againe how Edward had escapt,
And by his friends a greater power had got,
How he the men of

They had to their Captaine Robert Wells, sonne to the Lord Wells, this was called Loosecoate field.

Lincolneshire intrapt,
Who neere to Stamford pay'd a bloody shot:
And when the Earle his course for Callice shapt,
When England lastly grew for him too hot,

The Lord Vaucleere a Gascoigne borne.

Vaucleere who there his Deputy he put,
The Ports against his late grand Captaine shut.

Lastly, she heares that he at

A knowne Port Towne of Normandy.

Deepe arives,
And lately com'n to

A Towne where then the French King lay.

Amboyes to the Court,
Whereas King Lewes to his utmost strives,
To entertaine him in most Princely sort:
When the wise Queene her bus'nesse so contrives,
That she comes thither, small what though her port;
Yet brings along the sweet young Prince her sonne,
To prove what good with Warwick might be done.

When both in

Queen Margarite and the Earle of Warwick met in the Court of France.

Court, and presence of the King,
Their due respect to both of them that gave:
He will'd them in so pertinent a thing,
That they the like should of each other have:
The teares began from both their eyes to spring,
That each from other Pitty seem'd to crave,
In gracefull manner when the greeved Queene
Thus to that great Earle, gently breathes her spleene.

115

Warwick, saith shee, how mercilesse a Foe

The Queenes speech to the Earle in the foure following Stanzas.

Hast thou beene still to my poore Child and me.
That villaine Yorke which hast advanced so,
Which never could have risen but for thee;
That valour thou on Edward didst bestow,
O hadst thou show'd for him, thou here dost see,
Our Damaske Roses had adorn'd thy Crest,
And with their wreathes thy ragged Staves bene drest.

First, at Saint Albans, at Northampton then,
And fatall Towton that most fearefull fight,
How many, nay, what multitudes of men,
By thee fierce Warwick slaine and put to flight;
O if thy Sword that ever stood for ten,
Had but beene drawne for Henry, and his right,
He should have built thee Trophyes everywhere,
Wrought with our Crowne, supported by thy Beare.

What glory had it wonne the Nevils name,
To have upheld the right succeeding race,
Of that fift Henry, he that was of Fame

Baron Faulconbridge was brother to Richard Nevill Earle of Salisbury, and Richard Earle of Warwicke, and John Marquesse Mountacute were Sonnes to the said Earle.

The onely Mineon; whom thou now dost trace,
But Salisbury the first against us came,
Then Falconbridge, and Mountacute, ô base,
To advance a Traitor to his Soveraigne thus,
But to our Crowne your name is ominous.

How many a brave Peere, thy too neere Allies,
(Whose losse the Babe that's yet unborne shall rue)
Have made themselves, a willing Sacrifice
In our just quarrell, who it rightly knewe,
Whose blood gainst Yorke and his adherents cryes,
(Whom many a sad curse ever shall pursue:)
O Warwick, Warwick, expiat this gilt,
By shedding theirs for whom our blood was spilt.

When in like language, this great Earle againe
Regreets the Queene, and wooes her to forbeare,

Warwickes reply in the two following Stanzas.

Of former greefe one thought to entertaine;
Things are not now, quoth he, as once they were,
To talke of these past help, it is in vaine,
What though it ease your heart, and please your eare,
This is not it, no, it must be our Swords
Must right our wrongs (deare Lady) not our words.

116

Madam (quoth he) by this my vexed heart,
On Edwards head, which oft hath wish'd the Crowne,
Let but Queene Margarite cleave to Warwicks part,
This hand that heav'd him up shall hewe him downe,
And if from Henry, Richard Nevill start,
Upon my House let Heaven for ever frowne;
Or backe the Crowne to this young Prince Ile bring,
Or not be Warwick if he be not King.

Prince Edward affyed to Anne the Earle of Warwicks daughter.

When they accord, Prince Edward should affye,
Anne the Earles Daughter, to confirme it more,
By Sacrament themselves they strictly tye,
By Armes againe King Henry to restore,
Or in the Quarrell they would live and dye,
Comprising likewise in the oath they swore,
That the Earle and Clarence should Protectors be
When they King Henry and the Prince should free.

When soone great Warwick into England sends,

Warwicke makes preparation for a new Warre.

To warne his friends that they for Warre prepare,
King Henrys Title, and to them commends,
That they should take his cause into their care,
Now is the time that he must trie his freinds,
When he himselfe gainst Edward must declare;
And when much strife amongst the Commons rose,
Whom they should ayde, or whom they should oppose.

Furnish'd with all things well befitting Warre,
By great King Lewes to Queene Margarite lent,
Warwick (whose name Fame sounded had so farre,
That men with wonder view'd him as he went,

Warwicke so famous that he was seene with wonder.

Of all men living the most popular)
Thought ev'ry houre to be but idely spent,
On Englands troubled earth untill he were,
To view the troupes attending for him there.

And in his Army tooke with him along,
Oxford, and Penbrooke, who had beene destroy'd,
By Edward, sworne now to revenge their wrong,
By Burgoyne the French Admirall convoy'd,
At whose Arive the shores with people throng:
At sight of Warwick, and so overjoy'd,
That ev'ry one, a Warwick, Warwick cries,
Well may the Red-Rose by great Warwick rise.

117

Like some blacke cloud, which hovering lately hung
Thrust on at last by th'windes impetious power
The groves and fields, comes raging in among,
As though both foules and flockes it would devoure,

A Simele.

That those abroad make to the shelters strong
To save themselves from the outragious shower;
So fly the Yorkists before Warwicks Drumms
Like a sterne tempest roaring as he comes.

When Edward late who wore the costly Crowne,
Himselfe so high and one his Fortunes bore,
Then heard himselfe in every place cry'd downe,
And made much lesse, then he was great before,
Nor dares he trust himselfe in any Towne,
For in the In-lands as along the shore,
Their Proclamations him a Traytor make,
And each man chardg'd against him Armes to take.

For which the Washes he is forc'd to wade
And in much perill lastly gets to Lin,
(To save himselfe such shift King Edward made
For in more danger he had never bin)
Where finding three Dutch Hulks which lay for trade

Warwick driveth King Edward out of the Kingdom.

The greatest of them he hires to take him in,
Richard his brother, Hastings his true friend,
Scarse worth one sword their persons to defend.

When Warwick now the onely Prince of power,
Edward the fourth out of the Kingdome fled,
Commands himselfe free entrance to the Tower

Warwicke takes King Henry out of the Tower.

And sets th'Imperiall wreath on Henryes head,
Brings him through London to the Bishops bower,
By the applauding people followed,
Whose shrill re-eccowing shouts resound from farre
A Warwick, Warwick, long live Lancaster.

And presently, a Parliament they call,
In which they attaynt King Edward in his blood

King Edward and his adherents attainted by act of Parliament.

The lands and goods made forfeitures of all
That in this quarrell, with proud Yorke had stood,
Their friends in their old honours they install
Which they had lost, now by an act made good,
Intayle the Crowne, on Henry and his heyres,
The next on Clarence should they faile in theirs,

118

Whilst Warwick thus King Henry doth advance,
See but the Fate still following the sad Queene,
Such Stormes and Tempests in that season chance,
Before that time as seldome had bin seene,
That twice from Sea she was forc'd backe to France,
As angry heaven had put it selfe betweene
Her and her Joyes, and would a witnesse be
That naught but sorow, this sad Queene must see.

This might have lent her comfort yet at last,
So many troubles having undergone,

Queene Margarite never sees any thing that might give her comfort.

And having through so many perils past,
T'have seene her husband setled on his Throne,
Yet still the skies with clowds are overcast,
Well might she heare, but of this sees she none,
Which from farre off, as flying newes doth greet her,
Naught but mischance, when she comes in must meet her.

But all this while King Edward not dismay'd

The Duke of Burgondie Brother in Law to King Edward, so was he alied to King Henrie by his Grandmother being the daughter of John of Gaunt.

His Brother Charles of Burgondy so plyes,
That though the subtill Duke on both sides play'd
Edward and Henry both his neere Allies;
Upon the Duke King Edward yet so layd,
(Having his sisters furtherance, who was wise)
That underhand, his strength he so restores,
As that he dar'd t'attempt the English shores.

With foureteene Shipps from th'Easterlings being hir'd,
And foure Burgonians excellently man'd,
After some time with stormes and tempests tyr'd,
He neere the mouth of Humber haps to land,
Where though the Beacons at his sight were fir'd,
Yet few or none his entrance doe withstand,
For that his frends had given it out before,
He sought the Dukedome, and he would no more.

Upon his march when forward as he came,

Yorke yeelded up to King Edward.

Resolv'd to trie the very worst of warre,
He Summons Yorke (whereof he bare the name)
To him her Duke, her Gates that doth unbarre,
And comming next to Rocke-reard Nottingham,
Mountgomery, Borough, Harrington & Par

Succours comming in to Edward.

Bring him their power; at Lecester againe,
Three thousand came, to Hastings that retaine.

119

To Coventry and keeping on his way,
(Sets downe his Army in the Citties sight)
Whereas that time the Earle of Warwick lay,
To whom he sends to dare him out to fight,

King Edward setts downe his Armie before Coventry, daring Warwicke to the field.

Which still the Earle deferrs from day to day,
Perceiving well, that all things went not right,
For with his succours Clarence came not in,
Whom to suspect he greatly doth beginne.

And not in vaine, for that disloyall Lord,
Taking those Forces he had levied, leaves
The Earle, and with his Brother doth accord,

Clarence revoults from his father in Lawe the Earle of Warwicke.

Which of all hope brave Warwick so bereaves;
That now King Edward hopes to be restor'd,
Which then too late the credulous Earle perceives,
Edward towards London with his Army sped,
To take the Crowne once more from Henries head.

The Queene in France this wofull newes that heard,
How farre through England Edward thus had past;
As how by Clarence (whom she ever fear'd)
Warwick behind hand mightily was cast,
This most undaunted Queene her hopes yet cheer'd,
By those great perills shee had lately past,
And from King Lewes doth three thousand presse,
To ayde her freinds in England in distresse.

Whilst she is busie gathering up those Aydes,
(In so short time) as France could her afforde,
Corragious Warwick basely thus betray'd

Warwicke followes the King towards London.

By Clarence lewdly falsifying his word,
The most coragious Earle no whitt dismayde,
But trusting still to his successefull Sword,
Followes the King, towards London march'd before,
Each day his Power increasing more and more.

But Edward by the Londoners let in,
Who in their Gates his Army tooke to guard,
Warwick this while that trifling had not bin,
But with a Power sufficiently prepar'd
T'approch the Citty bravely doth begin

King Edward setts out of London to meete Warwicke.

To dare the King, who lately him had dar'd,
Who then from London his arm'd Forces leades,
Towards where his march ambitious Warwick treads.

120

From London this, that from Saint Albans sett,
These two grand Souldiers shouldring for the Crowne,
They in the mid-way are at Barnet met,

The Armies meet at Barnet.

Where then they set their puissant Armies downe,
Warwick as neere as ever he could get,
But Edward onely taketh up the Towne;
Betwixt whose Tents a Heath calld Gladmoore lyes,
Where they prepare to act this bloody prize.

With Drums and Trumpets they awake the day,
Muffled in mists her lowring selfe that showes,
To stop their madnesse doing all it may,
Knowing what blood her light was like to lose:
But hope of slaughter beares so great a sway
That with the Sunne their rage still higher growes,
Full were their hands of death, so freely dealt,
That the most mortall wounds, the least were felt.

The adverse Ensignes to each other wave,
(As t'were) to call them forward to the field,
The King the Earle, the Earle the King doth brave,
Nor cares he for the

The Armes of England.

Leopards in his Sheild;
And whilst one freind another strives to save,
Hee's slaine himselfe, if not, enforc'd to yeeld,
In either Army there is not one eye,
But is spectator of some Tragedy.

Those wrongs the King had from the Earle receiv'd,
Expulst the Kingdome onely by his power,
Even to the height his powerfull hand up-heav'd,
For full revenge in this unhappy howre,
And by the King, the Earle his hopes bereav'd,
Sheltred by him from many a bloody shower,
Spurres up Revenge, and with that violent rage,
That scarsely blood, their fury could asswage.

Warwick who sees his Souldiers had the worse,
And at a neere point to be put to flight,

Warwickes high valour.

Throwing himselfe from of his armed Horse,
Thrusts in on foote into the deadliest fight,
Edward againe with an unusuall force,
In his owne person in the Armies sight,
Puts for the Garland, which if now he lose,
Warwick his Crowne at pleasure would dispose.

121

To Edwards side, but Fortune doth encline,
Warwicks high valour then was but in vaine;
His noble soule there destin'd to resigne,
Brave Mountacute his valiant brother slaine:

The Earle of Warwicke and his brother Marquesse Mountacute slaine.

Here Somerset (with them that did combine)
Forced to flye, and Excester is faine
To save himselfe by Sanctuary; this day
Edward's victorious, and beares all away.

This fatall field unluckily thus lost,
That very day so Destinie contrives,

That very day that Warwicke was slaine, the Queene lands.

That the griev'd Queene at Sea turmoyl'd and tost
Neere twenty dayes, in Weymouth Road arives,
Where scarcely landed, but Post after Post
Brings her this ill newes, which so farre deprives
Her of all comfort, that shee curst and band
Those plaguy windes that suffered her to land.

Wert thou (quoth she) so fortunate in fight

The Queenes speech hearing of Warwicks defeat in the three following Stanzas.

O noble Warwick, when thou wert our foe,
And now thou stood'st in our indoubted right,
And should'st for Henry thy high valour showe
Thus to be slaine; what Power in our dispight
Watcheth from heav'n upon our overthrowe?
Th'unlucky Starres have certainly made lawes,
To marke for Death the favourers of our cause.

O what Infernall brought that Edward back,
So late expell'd by Warwicks powerfull hand,
Was there no way his rotten Ship to wrack?
Was there no Rock? was there no swallowing sand?
And too, the wretched Subjects were so slack,
To suffer him so trayterously to land;
Surely whole heav'n against us have conspir'd,
Or in our troubles they had else beene ty'rd.

Was I for this so long detayn'd in France,
From ragefull Tempests, and reserv'd till now,
That I should land, to meete with this mischance:
It must needes be, the Powers have made a vowe,
Up to that height my sorrowes to advance,
That before mine all miseries shall bowe:
That all the sorrow mortalls can surmise,
Shall fall farre short of Margarites miseries.

122

These words scarse spoke, her halfe-slaine heart to ease,
But the least breath of comfort to prevent
The next ill newes, in rushing after these,

Cause of new sorrow to the Queene.

Was that King Henry to the Tower was sent,
(As though it selfe (even) Destiny should please,
In wretched Margarites heavy discontent)
Thrunging so thicke as like themselves to smoother,
Or as one ranne, to overtake another.

Those scattred Troopes from Barnet that escap'd,
Hearing the Queene thus Landed with her power,
Though much dismay'd with what had lately hapt,

The remnant of the Army which escaped at Barnet resort to the Queene.

On Gore-drown'd Gladmore in that bloody shower,
And fearing by the Foe to be entrapt:
Through untrod grounds, in many a tedious hower,
Flocke to her dayly, till that by their ayde,
Equall with Edwards they her Army made.

When Somerset and Devonshire came in

The Queene encouraged by her friends.

To the sad Queene, and bad her not despaire,
Though they of late infortunate had bin,
Yet there was helpe that Ruine to repaire,
What they had lost they hop'd againe to winne,
And that the way lay open yet, and faire,
For that the West would wholly with her rise,
Besides from Walles assur'd her of Supplies.

And every day still adding to their Force;
As on their Host tow'rds Glocester they guide,
When Edward finding their intended course,
Againe for Battell strongly doth provide,
Both Armies they supply with Foote and Horse,
By both their friends, as they affect the side,

The Armies meet at Tewcksbury.

And in their march at Tewksbury they mett,
Where they in Order their Battalions set.

Ill was her choise of this uneven ground,
Lucklesse the place, unlucky was the howre,

A place ill chosen on the Queenes part.

The Heavens upon her so extreamely fround,
As one her head their plagues at once to powre;
As in a Deluge here her hopes were drown'd,
Here sees shee death her faithfull freinds devoure,
The earth is fill'd with grones, the ayre with cryes,
Horror on each side doth enclose her eyes.

123

Never did death so terrible appeare,
Since first their Armes the English learnt to weeld,
Who would see slaughter, might behold it heere
In the true shape upon this fatall field,
In vaine was valour, and in vaine was feare,

A bloody battell.

In vaine to fight, in vaine it was to yeeld,
In vaine to fly; for destiny discust,
By their owne hands, or others, dye they must.

Here her deare Devonshiere noble Courtney dyde,

The Queenes army overthrowne.

Her faithfull friend great Summerset here fell,
Delves, Leuknor, Hamden, Whittingham beside,
O Margarite, who thy miseries can tell!
Sharpe were those swords which made their wounds so wide,
Whose blood the soyle did with th'abundance swell,
Other her friends into the Towne that fled
Taken, no better then the former sped.

But the amazing misery of all
As heaven the greatst untill the last had kept,
As it would say, that after this none shall
By mortall eyes be worthy to be wept,
The Prince her sonne who sees his friends thus fall
And on each side their carcases lye heapt,

Prince Edward taken Prisoner.

Making away in this most piteous plight,
Is taken prisoner in his tardy flight.

And forth by Crofts before the Conquerour brought

Upon the Kings proclamation of a great reward to him that could bring him in; as also of the Princes safety, Sir Richard Crofts is wonne to discover his prisoner. Prince Edward stab'd to death.

His Proclamations cleering every doubt,
Of the youths safety: living were he caught,
As a reward to him should bring him out;
But when they once had found him whom they sought
Hearing his answeres, Princely, wise, and stout,
Those bloody brothers, Hastings, and the rest,
Sheath'd their sharpe Ponyards in his manly breast.

Queene Margarite thus of mortalls most forlorne
Her sonne now slaine, her army overthrowne
Left to the world as fortunes only scorne
And not one friend to whom to make her moane
(To so much woe was never woman borne)
This wretched Lady wandring all alone
Getts to a homely Cell not farre away

Queene Margaret gets into a poore Cell

If possibly to hide her from the day.

124

But wretched woman quickly there bewray'd,
She thence is taken and to Prison sent,
Meanely attended, miserably array'd,
The people wondring at her as she went,
Of whom the most malicious, her upbray'd
With good Duke Humphres death, her heart to rent,
Whilst her milde lookes, and Gracefull gesture drue
Many a sad eye, her miseries to rue.

Lewes King of France.

Till by Duke Rayner Ransomed at last,
Her tender Father, who a Prince but poore,
Borow'd great Summes of Lewes, with much wast,
Which for he was not able to restore,
Province and both the Cicils, to him past,

Duke Raynor undoeth himself to ransome his Daughter.

With fruitfull Naples, which was all his store;
To bring her backe, from earthly joyes exil'd,
The undone father, helpes the undone Child.

And though enlarg'd ere she could leave the land
Making a long yeere of each short-liv'd houre,

The Earle of Glocester, after Richard the third.

She heares that by Duke Richards murthering hand
The King her husband suffers in the Towre
As though high heaven had laid a strict command,
Upon each starre, some plague on her to powre:
And untill now that nothing could suffice
Nor give a period to her Miseryes.

FINIS.

125

NIMPHIDIA, THE COURT OF FAYRIE.

Olde Chaucer doth of Topas tell,
Mad Rablais of Pantagruell,
A latter third of Dowsabell,
With such poore trifles playing:
Others the like have laboured at
Some of this thing, and some of that,
And many of they know not what,
But that they must be saying.

Another sort there bee, that will
Be talking of the Fayries still,
Nor never can they have their fill,
As they were wedded to them;
No Tales of them their thirst can slake,
So much delight therein they take,
And some strange thing they faine would make,
Knew they the way to doe them.

Then since no Muse hath bin so bold,
Or of the Later, or the ould,
Those Elvish secrets to unfold,
Which lye from others reeding,
My active Muse to light shall bring,
The court of that proud Fayry King,
And tell there, of the Revelling,
Jove prosper my proceeding.

And thou Nimphidia gentle Fay,
Which meeting me upon the way,
These secrets didst to me bewray,
Which now I am in telling:
My pretty light fantastick mayde,
I here invoke thee to my ayde,
That I may speake what thou hast sayd,
In numbers smoothly swelling.

126

This Pallace standeth in the Ayre,
By Nigromancie placed there,
That it no Tempests needs to feare,
Which way so ere it blow it.
And somewhat Southward tow'rd the Noone,
Whence lyes a way up to the Moone,
And thence the Fayrie can as soone
Passe to the earth below it.

The Walls of Spiders legs are made,
Well mortized and finely layd,
He was the master of his Trade,
It curiously that builded:
The Windowes of the eyes of Cats,
And for the Roofe, instead of Slats,
Is cover'd with the skinns of Batts,
With Mooneshine that are guilded.

Hence Oberon him sport to make,
(Their rest when weary mortalls take)
And none but onely Fayries wake,
Desendeth for his pleasure.
And Mab his merry Queene by night
Bestrids young Folks that lye upright,
(In elder Times the Mare that hight)
Which plagues them out of measure.

Hence Shaddowes, seeming Idle shapes,
Of little frisking Elves and Apes,
To Earth doe make their wanton skapes,
As hope of pastime hasts them:
Which maydes think on the Hearth they see,
When Fyers well nere consumed be,
Their daunsing Hayes by two and three,
Just as their Fancy casts them.

127

These make our Girles their sluttery rue,
By pinching them both blacke and blew,
And put a penny in their shue,
The house for cleanely sweeping:
And in their courses make that Round,
In Meadowes, and in Marshes found,
Of them so call'd the Fayrie ground,
Of which they have the keeping.

These when a Childe haps to be gott,
Which after prooves an Ideott,
When Folke perceive it thriveth not,
The fault therein to smother:
Some silly doting brainelesse Calfe,
That understands things by the halfe,
Say that the Fayrie left this Aulfe,
And tooke away the other.

But listen and I shall you tell,
A chance in Fayrie that befell,
Which certainely may please some well;
In Love and Armes delighting:
Of Oberon that Jealous grewe,
Of one of his owne Fayrie crue,
Too well (he fear'd) his Queene that knew,
His love but ill requiting.

Pigwiggen was this Fayrie knight,
One wondrous gratious in the sight
Of faire Queene Mab, which day and night,
He amorously observed;
Which made king Oberon suspect,
His Service tooke too good effect,
His saucinesse, and often checkt,
And could have wisht him starved.

128

Pigwiggen gladly would commend,
Some token to queene Mab to send,
If Sea, or Land, him ought could lend,
Were worthy of her wearing:
At length this Lover doth devise,
A Bracelett made of Emmotts eyes,
A thing he thought that shee would prize,
No whitt her state impayring.

And to the Queene a Letter writes,
Which he most curiously endites,
Conjuring her by all the rites
Of love, she would be pleased,
To meete him her true Servant, where
They might without suspect or feare,
Themselves to one another cleare,
And have their poore hearts eased.

At mid-night the appointed hower,
And for the Queene a fitting Bower,
(Quoth he) is that faire Cowslip flower,
On Hipcut hill that groweth,
In all your Trayne there's not a Fay,
That ever went to gather May,
But she hath made it in her way,
The tallest there that groweth.

When by Tom Thum a Fayrie Page,
He sent it, and doth him engage,
By promise of a mighty wage,
It secretly to carrie:
Which done, the Queene her Maydes doth call,
And bids them to be ready all,
She would goe see her Summer Hall,
She could no longer tarrie.

129

Her Chariot ready straight is made,
Each thing therein is fitting layde,
That she by nothing might be stayde,
For naught must her be letting,
Foure nimble Gnats the Horses were,
Their Harnasses of Gossamere,
Flye Cranion her Chariottere,
Upon the Coach-box getting.

Her Chariot of a Snayles fine shell,
Which for the colours did excell:
The faire Queene Mab, becomming well,
So lively was the limming:
The seate the soft wooll of the Bee;
The cover (gallantly to see)
The wing of a pyde Butterflee,
I trowe t'was simple trimming.

The wheeles compos'd of Crickets bones,
And daintily made for the nonce,
For feare of ratling on the stones,
With Thistle-downe they shod it;
For all her Maydens much did feare,
If Oberon had chanc'd to heare,
That Mab his Queene should have bin there,
He would not have aboad it.

She mounts her Chariot with a trice,
Nor would she stay for no advice,
Untill her Maydes that were so nice,
To wayte on her were fitted,
But ranne her selfe away alone;
Which when they heard there was not one,
But hasted after to be gone,
As she had beene diswitted.

130

Hop, and Mop, and Drop so cleare,
Pip, and Trip, and Skip that were,
To Mab their Soveraigne ever deare:
Her speciall Maydes of Honour;
Fib, and Tib, and Pinck, and Pin,
Tick, and Quick, and Jill, and Jin,
Tit, and Nit, and Wap, and Win,
The Trayne that wayte upon her.

Upon a Grashopper they got,
And what with Amble, and with Trot,
For hedge nor ditch they spared not,
But after her they hie them.
A Cobweb over them they throw,
To shield the winde if it should blowe,
Themselves they wisely could bestowe,
Lest any should espie them.

But let us leave Queene Mab a while,
Through many a gate, o'r many a stile,
That now had gotten by this wile,
Her deare Pigwiggin kissing,
And tell how Oberon doth fare,
Who grewe as mad as any Hare,
When he had sought each place with care,
And found his Queene was missing.

By grisly Pluto he doth sweare,
He rent his cloths, and tore his haire,
And as he runneth, here and there,
An Acorne cup he greeteth;
Which soone he taketh by the stalke
About his head he lets it walke,
Nor doth he any creature balke,
But layes on all he meeteth.

131

The Thuskan Poet doth advance,
The franticke Paladine of France,
And those more ancient doe inhaunce,
Alcides in his fury.
And others Ajax Telamon,
But to this time there hath bin non,
So Bedlam as our Oberon,
Of which I dare assure you.

And first encountring with a waspe,
He in his armes the Fly doth claspe
As though his breath he forth would graspe,
Him for Pigwiggen taking:
Where is my wife thou Rogue, quoth he,
Pigwiggen, she is come to thee,
Restore her, or thou dy'st by me,
Whereat the poore waspe quaking,

Cryes, Oberon, great Fayrie King,
Content thee I am no such thing,
I am a Waspe behold my sting,
At which the Fayrie started:
When soone away the Waspe doth goe,
Poore wretch was never frighted so,
He thought his wings were much to slow,
O'rjoyd, they so were parted.

He next upon a Glow-worme light,
(You must suppose it now was night,
Which for her hinder part was bright,
He tooke to be a Devill.
And furiously doth her assaile,
For carrying fier in her taile,
He thrasht her rough coat with his flayle,
The mad King fea'rd no evill.

132

O quoth the Gloworme, hold thy hand,
Thou puisant King of Fayrie land,
Thy mighty stroaks who may withstand,
Hould, or of life despaire I:
Together then her selfe doth roule,
And tumbling downe into a hole,
She seem'd as black as any Cole,
Which vext away the Fayrie.

From thence he ran into a Hive,
Amongst the Bees hee letteth drive
And downe their Coombes begins to rive,
All likely to have spoyled:
Which with their Waxe his face besmeard,
And with their Honey daub'd his Beard,
It would have made a man afeard,
To see how he was moyled.

A new Adventure him betides,
He mett an Ant, which he bestrides,
And post thereon away he rides,
Which with his haste doth stumble;
And came full over on her snowte,
Her heels so threw the durt about,
For she by no meanes could get out,
But over him doth tumble,

And being in this piteous case,
And all be-slurried head and face,
On runs he in this Wild-goose chase,
As here, and there, he rambles,
Halfe blinde, against a molehill hit,
And for a Mountaine taking it,
For all he was out of his wit,
Yet to the top he scrambles.

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And being gotten to the top,
Yet there himselfe he could not stop,
But downe on th'other side doth chop,
And to the foot came rumbling:
So that the Grubs therein that bred,
Hearing such turmoyle over head,
Thought surely they had all bin dead,
So fearefull was the Jumbling.

And falling downe into a Lake,
Which him up to the neck doth take,
His fury somewhat it doth slake,
He calleth for a Ferry;
Where you may some recovery note,
What was his Club he made his Boate,
And in his Oaken Cup doth float,
As safe as in a Wherry.

Men talke of the Adventures strange,
Of Don Quishott, and of their change,
Through which he Armed oft did range,
Of Sancha Panchas travell:
But should a man tell every thing,
Done by this franticke Fayrie King,
And them in lofty Numbers sing
It well his wits might gravell.

Scarse set on shore, but therewithall,
He meeteth Pucke, which most men call
Hobgoblin, and on him doth fall,
With words from frenzy spoken;
Hoh, hoh, quoth Hob, God save thy grace,
Who drest thee in this pitteous case,
He thus that spoild my soveraignes face,
I would his necke were broken.

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This Puck seemes but a dreaming dolt,
Still walking like a ragged Colt,
And oft out of a Bush doth bolt,
Of purpose to deceive us.
And leading us makes us to stray,
Long Winters nights out of the way,
And when we stick in mire and clay,
Hob doth with laughter leave us.

Deare Puck (quoth he) my wife is gone,
As ere thou lov'st King Oberon,
Let every thing but this alone,
With vengeance, and pursue her;
Bring her to me alive or dead,
Or that vilde thiefe, Pigwiggins head,
That villaine hath defil'd my bed,
He to this folly drew her.

Quoth Puck, My Liege Ile never lin,
But I will thorough thicke and thinne,
Untill at length I bring her in,
My dearest Lord nere doubt it:
Thorough Brake, thorough Brier,
Thorough Muck, thorough Mier,
Thorough Water, thorough Fier,
And thus goes Puck about it.

This thing Nimphidia over hard,
That on this mad King had a guard,
Not doubting of a great reward,
For first this businesse broching;
And through the ayre away doth goe
Swift as an Arrow from the Bowe,
To let her Soveraigne Mab to know,
What perill was approching.

135

The Queene bound with Loves powerfulst charme
Sate with Pigwiggen arme in arme,
Her merry Maydes that thought no harme,
About the roome were skipping:
A Humble-Bee their Minstrell, playde
Upon his Hoboy; ev'ry Mayde
Fit for this Revells was arayde,
The Hornepype neatly tripping.

In comes Nimphidia, and doth crie,
My Soveraigne for your safety flie,
For there is danger but too nie,
I posted to forewarne you:
The King hath sent Hobgoblin out,
To seeke you all the Fields about,
And of your safety you may doubt,
If he but once discerne you.

When like an uprore in a Towne,
Before them every thing went downe,
Some tore a Ruffe, and some a Gowne,
Gainst one another justling:
They flewe about like Chaffe i'th winde,
For hast some left their Maskes behinde;
Some could not stay their Gloves to finde,
There never was such bustling.

Forth ranne they by a secret way,
Into a brake that neere them lay;
Yet much they doubted there to stay,
Lest Hob should hap to finde them:
He had a sharpe and piercing sight,
All one to him the day and night,
And therefore were resolv'd by flight,
To leave this place behinde them.

136

At length one chanc'd to finde a Nut,
In th'end of which a hole was cut,
Which lay upon a Hazell roote,
There scattred by a Squirill:
Which out the kernell gotten had;
When quoth this Fay deare Queene be glad,
Let Oberon be ne'r so mad,
Ile set you safe from perill.

Come all into this Nut (quoth she)
Come closely in, be rul'd by me,
Each one may here a chuser be,
For roome yee neede not wrastle:
For neede yee be together heapt;
So one by one therein they crept,
And lying downe they soundly slept,
And safe as in a Castle.

Nimphidia that this while doth watch,
Perceiv'd if Puck the Queene should catch,
That he would be her over-match,
Of which she well bethought her;
Found it must be some powerfull Charme,
The Queene against him that must arme,
Or surely he would doe her harme,
For throughly he had sought her.

And listning if she ought could heare
That her might hinder, or might feare:
But finding still the coast was cleare,
Nor creature had discride her;
Each circumstance and having scand,
She came thereby to understand,
Puck would be with them out of hand,
When to her Charmes she hide her:

137

And first her Ferne seede doth bestowe,
The kernell of the Missletowe:
And here and there as Puck should goe,
With terrour to affright him:
She Night-shade strawes to work him ill,
Therewith her Vervayne and her Dill,
That hindreth Witches of their will,
Of purpose to dispight him.

Then sprinkles she the juice of Rue,
That groweth underneath the Yeu:
With nine drops of the midnight dewe,
From Lunarie distilling:
The Molewarps braine mixt therewithall;
And with the same the Pismyres gall,
For she in nothing short would fall;
The Fayrie was so willing.

Then thrice under a Bryer doth creepe,
Which at both ends was rooted deepe,
And over it three times shee leepe;
Her Magicke much avayling:
Then on Prosperpyna doth call,
And so upon her Spell doth fall,
Which here to you repeate I shall,
Not in one tittle fayling.

By the croking of the Frogge;
By the howling of the Dogge;
By the crying of the Hogge,
Against the storme arising;
By the Evening Curphewe bell,
By the dolefull dying knell,
O let this my direfull Spell,
Hob, hinder thy surprising.

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By the Mandrakes dreadfull groanes;
By the Lubricans sad moanes;
By the noyse of dead mens bones,
In Charnell houses ratling:
By the hissing of the Snake,
The rustling of the fire-Drake,
I charge thee thou this place forsake,
Nor of Queene Mab be pratling.

By the Whirlewindes hollow sound,
By the Thunders dreadfull stound,
Yells of Spirits under ground,
I chardge thee not to feare us:
By the Shreech-owles dismall note,
By the Blacke Night-Ravens throate,
I charge thee Hob to teare thy Coate
With thornes if thou come neere us.

Her Spell thus spoke she stept aside,
And in a Chincke her selfe doth hide,
To see there of what would betyde,
For shee doth onely minde him:
When presently shee Puck espies,
And well she markt his gloating eyes,
How under every leafe he pries,
In seeking still to finde them.

But once the Circle got within,
The Charmes to worke doe straight begin,
And he was caught as in a Gin;
For as he thus was busie,
A paine he in his Head-peece feeles,
Against a stubbed Tree he reeles,
And up went poore Hobgoblins heeles,
Alas his braine was dizzie.

139

At length upon his feet he gets,
Hobgoblin fumes, Hobgoblin frets,
And as againe he forward sets,
And through the Bushes scrambles;
A Stump doth trip him in his pace,
Downe comes poore Hob upon his face,
And lamentably tore his case,
Amongst the Bryers and Brambles.

A plague upon Queene Mab, quoth hee,
And all her Maydes where ere they be,
I thinke the Devill guided me,
To seeke her so provoked:
Where stumbling at a piece of Wood,
He fell into a dich of mudd,
Where to the very Chin he stood,
In danger to be choked.

Now worse then e're he was before:
Poore Puck doth yell, poore Puck doth rore;
That wak'd Queene Mab who doubted sore
Some Treason had beene wrought her:
Untill Nimphidia told the Queene
What she had done, what she had seene,
Who then had well-neere crack'd her spleene
With very extreame laughter.

But leave we Hob to clamber out:
Queene Mab and all her Fayrie rout,
And come againe to have about
With Oberon yet madding:
And with Pigwiggen now distrought,
Who much was troubled in his thought,
That he so long the Queene had sought,
And through the Fields was gadding.

140

And as he runnes he still doth crie,
King Oberon I thee defie,
And dare thee here in Armes to trie,
For my deare Ladies honour:
For that she is a Queene right good,
In whose defence Ile shed my blood,
And that thou in this jealous mood
Hast lay'd this slander on her.

And quickly Armes him for the Field,
A little Cockle-shell his Shield,
Which he could very bravely wield:
Yet could it not be pierced:
His Speare a Bent both stiffe and strong,
And well-neere of two Inches long;
The Pyle was of a Horse-flyes tongue,
Whose sharpnesse naught reversed.

And puts him on a coate of Male,
Which was of a Fishes scale,
That when his Foe should him assaile,
No poynt should be prevayling:
His Rapier was a Hornets sting,
It was a very dangerous thing:
For if he chanc'd to hurt the King,
It would be long in healing.

His Helmet was a Bettles head,
Most horrible and full of dread,
That able was to strike one dead,
Yet did it well become him:
And for a plume, a horses hayre,
Which being tossed with the ayre,
Had force to strike his Foe with feare,
And turne his weapon from him.

141

Himselfe he on an Earewig set,
Yet scarce he on his back could get,
So oft and high he did corvet,
Ere he himselfe could settle:
He made him turne, and stop, and bound,
To gallop, and to trot the Round,
He scarce could stand on any ground,
He was so full of mettle.

When soone he met with Tomalin,
One that a valiant Knight had bin,
And to King Oberon of Kin;
Quoth he thou manly Fayrie:
Tell Oberon I come prepar'd,
Then bid him stand upon his Guard;
This hand his basenesse shall reward,
Let him be ne'r so wary.

Say to him thus, that I defie,
His slanders, and his infamie,
And as a mortall enemie,
Doe publickly proclaime him:
Withall, that if I had mine owne,
He should not weare the Fayrie Crowne,
But with a vengeance should come downe:
Nor we a King should name him

This Tomalin could not abide,
To heare his Soveraigne vilefide:
But to the Fayrie Court him hide;
Full furiously he posted,
With ev'ry thing Pigwiggen sayd:
How title to the Crowne he layd,
And in what Armes he was aray'd,
As how himselfe he boasted.

142

Twixt head and foot, from point to point,
He told th'arming of each joynt,
In every piece, how neate, and quaint,
For Tomalin could doe it:
How fayre he sat, how sure he rid,
As of the courser he bestrid,
How Mannag'd, and how well he did;
The King which listened to it,

Quoth he, goe Tomalin with speede,
Provide me Armes, provide my Steed,
And every thing that I shall neede,
By thee I will be guided;
To strait account, call thou thy witt,
See there be wanting not a whitt,
In every thing see thou mee fitt,
Just as my foes provided.

Soone flew this newes through Fayrie land,
Which gave Queene Mab to understand,
The combate that was then in hand,
Betwixt those men so mighty:
Which greatly she began to rew,
Perceiving that all Fayrie knew,
The first occasion from her grew,
Of these affaires so weighty.

Wherefore attended with her maides,
Through fogs, and mists, and dampes she wades,
To Proserpine the Queene of shades
To treat, that it would please her,
The cause into her hands to take,
For ancient love and friendships sake,
And soone thereof an end to make,
Which of much care would ease her.

143

A while, there let we Mab alone,
And come we to King Oberon,
Who arm'd to meete his foe is gone,
For proud Pigwiggen crying:
Who sought the Fayrie King as fast,
And had so well his journeys cast,
That he arrived at the last,
His puisant foe espying:

Stout Tomalin, came with the King,
Tom Thum doth on Pigwiggen bring,
That perfect were in every thing,
To single fights belonging:
And therefore they themselves ingage,
To see them excercise their rage,
With faire and comly equipage,
Not one the other wronging.

So like in armes, these champions were,
As they had bin, a very paire,
So that a man would almost sweare,
That either, had bin either;
Their furious steedes began to naye
That they were heard a mighty way,
Their staves upon their rests they lay,
Yet e'r they flew together;

Their Seconds minister an oath,
Which was indifferent to them both,
That on their Knightly faith, and troth,
No magicke them supplyed;
And sought them that they had no charmes,
Wherewith to worke, each others harmes,
But came with simple open armes,
To have their causes tryed.

144

Together furiously they ran,
That to the ground came horse and man,
The blood out of their Helmets span,
So sharpe were their incounters;
And though they to the earth were throwne,
Yet quickly they regain'd their owne,
Such nimblenesse was never showne,
They were two Gallant Mounters.

When in a second Course againe,
They forward came with might and mayne,
Yet which had better of the twaine,
The Seconds could not judge yet;
Their shields were into pieces cleft,
Their helmets from their heads were reft,
And to defend them nothing left,
These Champions would not budge yet.

Away from them their Staves they threw,
Their cruell Swords they quickly drew,
And freshly they the fight renew;
They every stroke redoubled:
Which made Proserpina take heed,
And make to them the greater speed,
For feare lest they too much should bleed,
Which wondrously her troubled.

When to th'infernall Stix she goes,
She takes the Fogs from thence that rose,
And in a Bagge doth them enclose;
When well she had them blended:
She hyes her then to Lethe spring,
A Bottell and thereof doth bring,
Wherewith she meant to worke the thing,
Which onely she intended.

145

Now Proserpine with Mab is gone
Unto the place where Oberon
And proud Pigwiggen, one to one,
Both to be slaine were likely:
And there themselves they closely hide,
Because they would not be espide;
For Proserpine meant to decide
The matter very quickly.

And suddainly untyes the Poke,
Which out of it sent such a smoke,
As ready was them all to choke,
So greevous was the pother;
So that the Knights each other lost,
And stood as still as any post,
Tom Thum, nor Tomalin could boast
Themselves of any other.

But when the mist gan somewhat cease,
Proserpina commandeth peace:
And that a while they should release,
Each other of their perill:
Which here (quoth she) I doe proclaime
To all in dreadfull Plutos name,
That as yee will eschewe his blame,
You let me heare the quarrell,

But here your selves you must engage,
Somewhat to coole your spleenish rage:
Your greevous thirst and to asswage,
That first you drinke this liquor:
Which shall your understanding cleare,
As plainely shall to you appeare;
Those things from me that you shall heare,
Conceiving much the quicker.

146

This Lethe water you must knowe,
The memory destroyeth so,
That of our weale, or of our woe,
It all remembrance blotted;
Of it nor can you ever thinke:
For they no sooner tooke this drinke;
But nought into their braines could sinke,
Of what had them besotted.

King Oberon forgotten had,
That he for jealousie ranne mad:
But of his Queene was wondrous glad,
And ask'd how they came thither:
Pigwiggen likewise doth forget,
That he Queene Mab had ever met;
Or that they were so hard beset,
When they were found together.

Nor neither of them both had thought,
That e'r they had each other sought;
Much lesse that they a Combat fought,
But such a dreame were lothing:
Tom Thum had got a little sup,
And Tomalin scarce kist the Cup,
Yet had their braines so sure lockt up,
That they remembred nothing.

Queene Mab and her light Maydes the while,
Amongst themselves doe closely smile,
To see the King caught with this wile,
With one another jesting:
And to the Fayrie Court they went,
With mickle joy and merriment,
Which thing was done with good intent,
And thus I left them feasting.

FINIS.

147

THE QUEST OF CYNTHIA.

What time the groves were clad in greene,
The Fields drest all in flowers,
And that the sleeke-hayr'd Nimphs were seene,
To seeke them Summer Bowers.

Forth rov'd I by the sliding Rills,
To finde where Cynthia sat,
Whose name so often from the hills,
The Ecchos wondred at.

When me upon my Quest to bring,
That pleasure might excell,
The Birds strove which should sweetliest sing,
The Flowers which sweet'st should smell.

Long wandring in the Woods (said I)
Oh whether's Cynthia gone?
When soone the Eccho doth reply,
To my last word, goe on.

At length upon a lofty Firre,
It was my chance to finde,
Where that deare name most due to her,
Was carv'd upon the rynde.

Which whilst with wonder I beheld,
The Bees their hony brought,
And up the carved letters fild,
As they with gould were wrought.

And neere that trees more spacious roote,
Then looking on the ground,
The shape of her most dainty foot,
Imprinted there I found.

148

Which stuck there like a curious seale,
As though it should forbid
Us, wretched mortalls, to reveale,
What under it was hid.

Besides the flowers which it had pres'd,
Apeared to my vew,
More fresh and lovely then the rest,
That in the meadowes grew:

The cleere drops in the steps that stood,
Of that dilicious Girle,
The Nimphes amongst their dainty food,
Drunke for dissolved pearle.

The yeilding sand, where she had troad,
Untucht yet with the winde,
By the faire posture plainely show'd,
Where I might Cynthia finde.

When on upon my waylesse walke,
As my desires me draw,
I like a madman fell to talke,
With every thing I saw:

I ask'd some Lillyes why so white,
They from their fellowes were;
Who answered me, that Cynthia's sight,
Had made them looke so cleare:

I ask'd a nodding Violet why,
It sadly hung the head,
It told me Cynthia late past by,
Too soone from it that fled:

A bed of Roses saw I there,
Bewitching with their grace:
Besides so wondrous sweete they were,
That they perfum'd the place,

149

I of a Shrube of those enquir'd,
From others of that kind,
Who with such vertue them enspuir'd,
It answer'd (to my minde.)

As the base Hemblocke were we such,
The poysned'st weed that growes,
Till Cynthia by her god-like tuch,
Transform'd us to the Rose:

Since when those Frosts that winter brings
Which candy every greene,
Renew us like the Teeming Springs,
And we thus Fresh are seene.

At length I on a Fountaine light,
Whose brim with Pincks was platted;
The Banck with Daffadillies dight,
With grasse like Sleave was matted,

When I demanded of that Well,
What Power frequented there;
Desiring, it would please to tell
What name it usde to beare:

It told me it was Cynthias owne,
Within whose cheerefull brimmes,
That curious Nimph had oft beene knowne
To bath her snowy Limmes.

Since when that Water had the power,
Lost Mayden-heads to restore,
And make one Twenty in an howre,
Of Esons Age before.

And told me that the bottome cleere,
Now layd with many a fett
Of seed-pearle, ere shee bath'd her there:
Was knowne as blacke as Jet,

150

As when she from the water came,
Where first she touch'd the molde,
In balls the people made the same
For Pomander, and solde.

When chance me to an Arbour led,
Whereas I might behold:
Two blest Elizeums in one sted,
The lesse the great enfold.

The place which she had chosen out,
Her selfe in to repose;
Had they com'n downe, the gods no doubt
The very same had chose.

The wealthy Spring yet never bore
That sweet, nor dainty flower
That damask'd not, the chequer'd flore
Of Cynthias Summer Bower.

The Birch, the Mirtle, and the Bay,
Like friends did all embrace;
And their large branches did display,
To Canapy the place.

Where she like Venus doth appeare,
Upon a Rosie bed;
As Lillyes the soft pillowes weare,
Whereon she layd her head.

Heav'n on her shape such cost bestow'd,
And with such bounties blest:
No lim of hers but might have made
A Goddesse at the least.

The Flyes by chance mesht in her hayre,
By the bright Radience throwne
From her cleare eyes, rich Jewels weare,
They so like Diamonds shone.

151

The meanest weede the soyle there bare,
Her breath did so refine,
That it with Woodbynd durst compare,
And beard the Eglantine.

The dewe which on the tender grasse,
The Evening had distill'd,
To pure Rose-water turned was,
The shades with sweets that fill'd.

The windes were husht, no leafe so small
At all was seene to stirre:
Whilst tuning to the waters fall,
The small Birds sang to her.

Where she too quickly me espies,
When I might plainely see
A thousand Cupids from her eyes
Shoote all at once at me.

Into these secret shades (quoth she)
How dar'st thou be so bold
To enter, consecrate to me,
Or touch this hallowed mold.

Those words (quoth she) I can pronounce,
Which to that shape can bring
Thee, which the Hunter had who once
Sawe Dian in the Spring.

Bright Nimph againe I thus replie,
This cannot me affright:
I had rather in thy presence die,
Then live out of thy sight.

I first upon the Mountaines hie,
Built Altars to thy name;
And grav'd it on the Rocks thereby,
To propogate thy fame.

152

I taught the Shepheards on the Downes,
Of thee to frame their Layes:
T'was I that fill'd the neighbouring Townes,
With Ditties of thy praise.

Thy colours I devis'd with care,
Which were unknowne before:
Which since that, in their braded hayre
The Nimphes and Silvans wore.

Transforme me to what shape you can,
I passe not what it be:
Yea what most hatefull is to man,
So I may follow thee.

Which when she heard full pearly floods,
I in her eyes might view:
(Quoth she) most welcome to these Woods,
To meane for one so true.

Here from the hatefull world wee'll live,
A den of mere dispight:
To Ideots onely that doth give,
Which be her sole delight.

To people the infernall pit,
That more and more doth strive;
Where onely villany is wit,
And Divels onely thrive.

Whose vilenesse us shall never awe:
But here our sports shall be:
Such as the golden world first sawe,
Most innocent and free.

Of Simples in these Groves that growe,
Wee'll learne the perfect skill;
The nature of each Herbe to knowe
Which cures, and which can kill.

153

The waxen Pallace of the Bee,
We seeking will surprise
The curious workmanship to see,
Of her full laden thighes.

Wee'll suck the sweets out of the Combe,
And make the gods repine:
As they doe feast in Joves great roome,
To see with what we dine.

Yet when there haps a honey fall,
Wee'll lick the sirupt leaves:
And tell the Bees that their's is gall,
To this upon the Greaves.

The nimble Squirrell noting here,
Her mossy Dray that makes,
And laugh to see the lusty Deere
Come bounding ore the brakes.

The Spiders Webb to watch weele stand,
And when it takes the Bee,
Weele helpe out of the Tyrants hand,
The Innocent to free.

Sometime weele angle at the Brooke,
The freckled Trout to take,
With silken Wormes, and bayte the hooke,
Which him our prey shall make.

Of medling with such subtile tooles,
Such dangers that enclose,
The Morrall is that painted Fooles,
Are caught with silken showes.

And when the Moone doth once appeare,
Weele trace the lower grounds,
When Fayries in their Ringlets there
Doe daunce their nightly Rounds

154

And have a Flocke of Turtle Doves,
A guard on us to keepe,
As witnesse of our honest loves,
To watch us till we sleepe.

Which spoke I felt such holy fires
To overspred my breast,
As lent life to my Chast desires
And gave me endlesse rest.

By Cynthia thus doe I subsist,
On earth Heavens onely pride,
Let her be mine, and let who list,
Take all the world beside.

FINIS.

155

THE SHEPHEARDS SIRENA.

Dorilus in sorrowes deepe,
Autumne waxing olde and chill,
As he sate his Flocks to keepe,
Underneath an easie hill:
Chanc'd to cast his eye aside
Of those fields, where he had seene,
Bright Sirena Natures pride,
Sporting on the pleasant greene:
To whose walkes the Shepheards oft,
Came her god-like foote to finde,
And in places that were soft,
Kist the print there left behinde;
Where the path which she had troad,
Hath thereby more glory gayn'd,
Then in heav'n that milky rode,
Which with Nectar Hebe stayn'd:
But bleake Winters boystrous blasts,
Now their fading pleasures chid,
And so fill'd them with his wastes,
That from sight her steps were hid.
Silly Shepheard sad the while,
For his sweet Sirena gone,
All his pleasures in exile:
Layd on the colde earth alone.
Whilst his gamesome cut-tayld Curre,
With his mirthlesse Master playes,
Striving him with sport to stirre,
As in his more youthfull dayes,
Dorilus his Dogge doth chide,
Layes his well-tun'd Bagpype by,
And his Sheep-hooke casts aside,
There (quoth he) together lye.
When a Letter forth he tooke,
Which to him Sirena writ,

156

With a deadly downe-cast looke,
And thus fell to reading it.

Dorilus my deare (quoth she)
Kinde Companion of my woe,
Though we thus divided be,
Death cannot divorce us so;
Thou whose bosome hath beene still,
Th'onely Closet of my care,
And in all my good and ill,
Ever had thy equall share:
Might I winne thee from thy Fold,
Thou shouldst come to visite me,
But the Winter is so cold,
That I feare to hazard thee:
The wilde waters are waxt hie,
So they are both deafe and dumbe,
Lov'd they thee so well as I,
They would ebbe when thou shouldst come;
Then my coate with light should shine,
Purer then the Vestall fire:
Nothing here but should be thine,
That thy heart can well desire:
Where at large we will relate,
From what cause our friendship grewe,
And in that the varying Fate,
Since we first each other knewe:
Of my heavie passed plight,
As of many a future feare,
Which except the silent night,
None but onely thou shalt heare;
My sad heart it shall releeve,
When my thoughts I shall disclose,
For thou canst not chuse but greeve,
When I shall recount my woes;
There is nothing to that friend,
To whose close uncranied brest,
We our secret thoughts may send,
And there safely let it rest:

157

And thy faithfull counsell may,
My distressed case assist,
Sad affliction else may sway
Me a woman as it list:
Hither I would have thee haste,
Yet would gladly have thee stay,
When those dangers I forecast,
That may meet thee by the way,
Doe as thou shalt thinke it best,
Let thy knowledge be thy guide,
Live thou in my constant breast,
Whatsoever shall betide.

He her Letter having red,
Puts it in his Scrip againe,
Looking like a man halfe dead,
By her kindenesse strangely slaine;
And as one who inly knew,
Her distressed present state,
And to her had still been true,
Thus doth with himselfe delate.

I will not thy face admire,
Admirable though it bee,
Nor thine eyes whose subtile fire
So much wonder winne in me:
But my marvell shall be now,
(And of long it hath bene so)
Of all Woman kind that thou
Wert ordain'd to taste of woe;
To a Beauty so divine,
Paradise in little done,
O that Fortune should assigne,
Ought, but what thou well mightst shun,
But my counsailes such must bee,
(Though as yet I them conceale)
By their deadly wound in me,
They thy hurt must onely heale,
Could I give what thou do'st crave
To that passe thy state is growne,

158

I thereby thy life may save,
But am sure to loose mine owne,
To that joy thou do'st conceive,
Through my heart, the way doth lye,
Which in two for thee must clave
Least that thou shouldst goe awry.
Thus my death must be a toy,
Which my pensive breast must cover;
Thy beloved to enjoy,
Must be taught thee by thy Lover.
Hard the Choise I have to chuse,
To my selfe if friend I be,
I must my Sirena loose,
If not so, shee looseth me.

Thus whilst he doth cast about,
What therein were best to doe,
Nor could yet resolve the doubt,
Whether he should stay or goe:
In those Feilds not farre away,
There was many a frolike Swaine,
In fresh Russets day by day,
That kept Revells on the Plaine.
Nimble Tom, sirnam'd the Tup,
For his Pipe without a Peere,
And could tickle Trenchmore up,
As t'would joy your heart to heare.
Ralph as much renown'd for skill,
That the Taber touch'd so well;
For his Gittern, little Gill,
That all other did excell.
Rock and Rollo every way,
Who still led the Rusticke Ging,
And could troule a Roundelay,
That would make the Feilds to ring,
Collin on his Shalme so cleare,
Many a high-pitcht Note that had,
And could make the Ecchos nere
Shout as they were wexen mad.

159

Many a lusty Swaine beside,
That for nought but pleasure car'd,
Having Dorilus espy'd,
And with him knew how it far'd.
Thought from him they would remove,
This strong melancholy fitt,
Or so, should it not behove,
Quite to put him out of's witt;
Having learnt a Song, which he
Sometime to Sirena sent,
Full of Jollity and glee,
When the Nimph liv'd neere to Trent,
They behinde him softly gott,
Lying on the earth along,
And when he suspected not,
Thus the Joviall Shepheards song.

Neare to the Silver Trent,
Sirena dwelleth:
Shee to whom Nature lent
all that excelleth:
By which the Muses late,
and the neate Graces,
Have for their greater state
taken their places:
Twisting an Anadem,
wherewith to Crowne her,
As it belong'd to them
most to renowne her.

Cho:

On thy Bancke,
In a Rancke,
Let thy Swanes sing her,
And with their Musick,
along let them bring her.

160

Tagus and Pactolus
are to thee Debter,
Nor for their gould to us
are they the better:
Henceforth of all the rest,
be thou the River,
Which as the daintiest,
puts them downe ever,
For as my precious one,
o'r thee doth travell,
She to Pearle Parragon
turneth thy gravell.

Cho:

On thy Bancke,
In a Rancke,
Let thy Swanns sing her,
And with their Musicke,
along let them bring her.

Our mournefull Philomell,
that rarest Tuner,
Henceforth in Aperill
shall wake the sooner,
And to her shall complaine
from the thicke Cover,
Redoubling every straine
over and over:
For when my Love too long
her Chamber keepeth;
As though it suffered wrong,
the Morning weepeth.

Cho:

On thy Bancke,
In a Rancke,
Let thy Swaines sing her,
And with their Musick,
along let them bring her.

161

Oft have I seene the Sunne,
to doe her honour,
Fix himselfe at his noone,
to looke upon her,
And hath guilt every Grove,
every Hill neare her,
With his flames from above,
striving to cheere her,
And when shee from his sight
hath her selfe turned,
He as it had beene night,
in Cloudes hath mourned:

Cho:

On thy Bancke,
In a Rancke,
Let thy Swanns sing her,
And with their Musicke,
along let them bring her.

The Verdant Meades are seene,
when she doth view them,
In fresh and gallant Greene,
straight to renewe them,
And every little Grasse
broad it selfe spreadeth,
Proud that this bonny Lasse
upon it treadeth:
Nor flower is so sweete
in this large Cincture
But it upon her feete
leaveth some Tincture.

Cho:

On thy Bancke,
In a Rancke,
Let thy Swanes sing her,
And with their Musick,
along let them bring her.

162

The Fishes in the Flood,
when she doth Angle,
For the Hooke strive a good
them to intangle;
And leaping on the Land
from the cleare water,
Their Scales upon the sand
lavishly scatter;
Therewith to pave the mould
whereon she passes,
So her selfe to behold,
as in her glasses.

Cho:

On thy Bancke,
In a Rancke,
Let thy Swanns sing her,
And with their Musicke,
along let them bring her.

When shee lookes out by night,
the Starres stand gazing,
Like Commets to our sight
fearefully blazing,
As wondring at her eyes,
with their much brightnesse,
Which so amaze the skies,
dimming their lightnesse,
The raging Tempests are Calme,
when shee speaketh,
Such most delightsome balme,
from her lips breaketh.

Cho:

On thy Banke,
In a Rancke, &c.

163

In all our Brittany,
ther's not a fayrer,
Nor can you fitt any:
should you compare her.
Angels her eye-lids keepe
all harts surprizing,
Which looke whilst she doth sleepe
like the Sunnes rising:
She alone of her kinde
knoweth true measure,
And her unmatched mind
is Heavens treasure:

Chor:

On thy Bancke,
In a Rancke,
Let thy Swanes sing her,
And with their Musick,
along let them bring her.

Fayre Dove and Darwine cleere
boast yee your beauties,
To Trent your Mistres here
yet pay your duties,
My Love was higher borne
tow'rds the full Fountaines,
Yet she doth Moorland scorne,
and the Peake Mountaines;
Nor would she none should dreame,
where she abideth,
Humble as is the streame,
which by her slydeth,

Chor:

On thy Bancke,
In a Rancke,
Let thy Swanns sing her,
And with their Musicke,
along let them bring her.

164

Yet my poore Rusticke Muse,
nothing can move her,
Nor the meanes I can use,
though her true Lover:
Many a long Winters night
have I wak'd for her,
Yet this my piteous plight,
nothing can stirre her.
All thy Sands silver Trent
downe to the Humber,
The sighes that I have spent
never can number.

On thy Banke
In a Ranke,
Let thy Swans sing her
And with their Musicke
along let them bring her.

Taken with this suddaine Song,
Least for mirth when he doth looke,
His sad heart more deepely stong,
Then the former care he tooke,
At their laughter and amaz'd,
For a while he sat aghast,
But a little having gaz'd,
Thus he them bespake at last.

Is this time for mirth (quoth he)
To a man with griefe opprest,
Sinfull wretches as you be,
May the sorrowes in my breast,
Light upon you one by one,
And as now you mocke my woe,
When your mirth is turn'd to moane,
May your like then serve you so.

When one Swaine among the rest
Thus him merily bespake,

165

Get thee up thou arrant beast,
Fits this season love to make?
Take thy Sheephooke in thy hand,
Clap thy Curre and set him on,
For our fields ti's time to stand,
Or they quickely will be gon.
Rougish Swinheards that repine
At our Flocks, like beastly Clownes,
Sweare that they will bring their Swine,
And will wroote up all our Downes:
They their Holly whips have brac'd,
And tough Hazell goades have gott;
Soundly they your sides will baste,
If their courage faile them not.
Of their purpose if they speed,
Then your Bagpypes you may burne,
It is neither Droane nor Reed
Shepheard, that will serve your turne:
Angry Olcon sets them on,
And against us part doth take
Ever since he was out-gone,
Offring Rymes with us to make.
Yet if so our Sheepe-hookes hold,
Dearely shall our Downes be bought,
For it never shall be told,
We our Sheep-walkes sold for naught.
And we here have got us Dogges,
Best of all the Westerne breed,
Which though Whelps shall lug their Hogges,
Till they make their eares to bleed:
Therefore Shepheard come away,
When as Dorilus arose,
Whistles Cut-tayle from his play,
And along with them he goes.

FINIS.

166

THE MOONE-CALFE.

Stultorum plena sunt omnia.

Helpe Neighbours helpe, for Gods sake come with speede,
For of your helpe there never was such neede:
Midwives make hast, and dresse yee as yee runne;
Either come quickly, or w'are all undone;
The World's in labour, her throwes come so thick,
That with the Pangues she's waxt starke lunatick:
But whither, whither, one was heard to crie:
She that call'd thus, doth presently replie;
Doe yee not see in ev'ry Streete and place,
The generall world now in a piteous case.

Up got the Gossips, and for very hast,
Some came without Shooes, some came all unlac'd,
As she had first appointed them, and found
The World in labour, dropt into a swound:
Wallowing she lay, like to a boystrous hulke,
Dropsied with Ryots, and her big-swolne bulke
Stuff'd with infection, rottennesse, and stench;
Her blood so fierd, that nothing might it quench
But the Aspes poyson, which stood by her still,
That in her drought she often us'd to swill;
Clothed she was in a Fooles coate, and cap,
Of rich imbroydered Silks, and in her lap
A sort of paper Puppets, Gawdes, and Toyes,
Trifles scarce good enough for Girles and Boyes,
Which she had dandled, and with them had playd,
And of this trash her onely God had made.

Out and alasse (quoth one) the rest among,
I doubt me Neighbours, we have stay'd too long:
Pluck off your Rings, lay me your Bracelets by;
Fall to your bus'nesse, and that speedily,
Or else I doubt, her spirits consume so fast,
That e're the birth, her strength will quite be past:

167

But when more wistly they did her behold,
There was not one (that once) durst be so bold
As to come neere her, but stood all amaz'd,
Each upon other silently and gaz'd:
When as her belly they so bigge doe see,
As if a Tunne within the same should be,
And heard a noyse and rumbling in her wombe,
As at the instant of the generall doome:
Thunder and Earthquakes raging, and the Rocks
Tumbling downe from their scytes, like mighty blocks,
Rowl'd from huge mountaines, such a noyse they make,
As though in sunder heav'ns huge Axtree brake,
They either Poles their heads together pasht,
And all againe into the Chaos dasht.
Some of slight judgement that were standing by,
Sayd, it was nothing but a Timpany:
Others said, sure she humane helpe did want,
And had conceived by an Elephant;
Or some Sea-monster, of a horrid shape,
Committed with her by some violent rape:
Others more wise, and noting very well,
How her huge wombe did past all compasse swell,
Said certainly (if that they might confesse her)
It would be found some Divell did possesse her.

Thus while they stood, and knew not what to doe;
Women (quoth one) why doe you trifle so:
I pray you thinke, but wherefore yee came hether,
Shall wombe, and burthen, perish both together:
Bring forth the Birth-stoole, no, let it alone,
She is so farre beyond all compasse growne:
Some other new devise us needs must sted,
Or else she never can be brought to bed.
Let one that hath some execrable spell,

The Furies fetch'd from hell to bring the World to bed.

Make presently her entrance into hell:
Call Hecate, and the damn'd Furies hether,
And try if they will undertake together
To helpe the sicke World; one is out of hand
Dispatch'd for hell, who by the dread command

168

Of powerfull Charmes brought Hecate away,
Who knowing her bus'nesse, from her selfe doth lay
That sad aspect, she wont to put on there,
In that blacke Empire; and doth now appeare,
As shees Lucina giving strength and ayde
In birth to women; mild as any mayde,
Full of sweet hope her brow seemd, and her eyes
Darting fresh comfort, like the morning skies.

A description of the Furies.

Then came the Furies with their bosomes bare,
Save somewhat covered with their Snaky hayre,
In wreathes contorted, mumbling hellish Charmes,
Up to the elbowes naked were there Armes.
Megera, eld'st of this damn'd Femall Fiends,
Gnawing her wrists, biting her fingers ends,
Entred the first; Tysiphone the next,
As to revenge her Sister throughly vext:
In one hand bare a whip, and in the other
A long shape knife; the third, which seeme to smoother,
Her manner of revenge, cast such an eye,
As well neare turnd to stone all that stood by,
Her name Alecto, which no plague doth rue,
Nor never leaves them, whom she doth pursue.

The women pray the Goddesse now to stand
Auspicious to them, and to lend her hand
To the sick World, which willingly she granted;
But at the sight as altogether danted,
From her cleare face the sprightly vigour fled,
And but she sawe the Women hard bested,
Out she had gone, nor one glance back had shot,
Till heaven or hell she o'r her head had got,
Yet she her selfe retires, next to the dore.
The Gossips worse then e'r they were before
At their wits end, know not which way to take,
At length the World beginning to awake
Out of the Trance, in which she lay as dead,
And somewhat raising her unweeldy head,
To bright Lucina call'd for helpe, that shee,
Now in her travell would propitious be.

169

The Goddesse not from feeling of her woe,
Onely to see with what the World might goe,
As she is draded Hecate, having power
Of all that keepe Hels ugly balefull Bower,
Commands the Furies to step in and ayde her,
And be the Midwives, till they safe had layd her.
To do whose pleasure as they were about,
A sturdy Huswife pertly stepping out,
Cryes hold a while, and let the queane alone;
It is no matter, let her lye and groane:
Hold her still to't, wee'll doe the best we can
To get out of her, certainly the man
Which ownes the Bastard: for there's not a Nation
But hath with her committed fornication:
And by her base and common prostitution,
She came by this unnaturall polution;
There is a meane for women thus abus'd,
Which at this time may very well be us'd:
That in this case when people doe desire,
To know the truth, yet doubtfull of the Sire,
When as the woman most of life doth doubt her
In greevous throwes; to those that are about her;
He that is then at the last cast disclos'd,
The naturall Father is to be suppos'd:
And the just Law doth faithfully decide,
That for the nursing he is to provide:
Therefore let's see, what in her pangues she'll say,
Lest that this Bastard on the Land we lay:
They lik'd her counsell, and their helpe denide,
But bad her lye and languish till she dide;
Unlesse to them she truly would confesse,
Who fill'd her belly with this foule excesse.

Alas (quoth she) the Divell drest me thus,
Amidst my Ryot, whilst that Incubus

The Moone-Calfe begot by the divell.

Wrought on my weakenesse, and by him beguilde,
He onely is the Father of the childe.
His Instrument my Apish imitation,
Of ev'ry monstrous and prodigious fashion,

170

Abus'd my weaknesse: women it was she,
Who was the Bawd betwixt the Fiend and me:
That this is true, it on my death I take,
Then helpe me women even for pitties sake.

The prodigious signes that fore-ranne the birth of the Moone-Calfe.

When ominous signes to showe themselves began,
That now at hand this monstrous birth fore-ran:
About at noone flewe the affrighted Owle,
And dogs in corners set them downe to howle:
Bitches and Wolves these fatall signes among,
Brought forth most monstrous and prodigious young.
And from his hight the earth refreshing Sunne,
Before his houre his golden head doth runne,
Farre under us, in doubt his glorious eye,
Should be polluted with this Prodigye.
A Panique feare upon the people grew,
But yet the cause, there was not one that knewe,
When they had heard this; a short tale to tell,
The Furies straight upon their bus'nesse fell,
And long it was not ere there came to light,
The most abhorrid, the most fearefull sight
That ever eye beheld, a birth so strange,
That at the view, it made their lookes to change;
Women (quoth one) stand of, and come not neere it,
The Devill if he saw it, sure would feare it;
For by the shape, for ought that I can gather,
The Childe is able to affright the Father;
Out cries another, now for Gods sake hide it,

A description of the Moone-Calfe.

It is so ugly we may not abide it:
The birth is double, and growes side to side
That humane hand it never can divide;
And in this wondrous sort as they be Twins
Like Male and Female they be Androgines,
The Man is partly Woman, likewise shee
Is partly Man, and yet in face they be
Full as prodigious, as in parts; the Twinne
That is most man, yet in the face and skinne,
Is all meere Woman, that which most doth take
From weaker woman: Nature seemes to make

171

A man in show, thereby as to define,
A Fem'nine man, a woman Masculine;
Before bred, nor begott: a more strange thing,
Then ever Nile, yet into light could bring,
Made as Creation meerely to dispight,
Nor man, nor woman, scarse Hermophradite.
Affricke thats said, Mother of Monsters is,
Let her but shew me such a one as this
And then I will subscribe (to doe her due,)
And sweare, that what is said of her is true.
Quoth one, tis monstrous, and for nothing fitt,
And for a Monster, quicke lets bury it;
Nay quoth another, rather make provision,
If possibly, to part it by incision,
For were it parted, for ought I can see,
Both man, and woman it may seeme to be:
Nay, quoth a third that must be done with cost,
And were it done, our labour is but lost,
For when w'have wrought the utmost that we can,
Hee's too much woman, and shee's too much man;
Therefore, as 'tis a most prodigious birth,
Let it not live here to polute the earth:
Gossip (quoth th'last) your reason I denie,
Tis more by law, then we can justifie;
For Syer, and Dam, have certainly decreed,
That they will have more comfort of their seed:
For he begot it, and t'was borne of her,
And out of doubt they will their owne prefer:
Therefore good women better be advis'd,
“For precious things should not be lightly priz'd.
This Moone-Calfe borne under a lucky Fate,
May powerfull prove in many a wealthy State,
And taught the tongues about some fewe yeares hence,
As now w'are all tongue, and but little sence:
It may fall out for any thing you knowe,
This Moone-Calfe may on great imployments goe:
When learned men for noble action fit,
Idly at home (unthought of once) may sit;

172

A Bawd, or a Projector he may prove,
And by his purse so purchasing him love,
May be exalted to some thriving roome,
Where sildome good men suffred are to come:
What will you say, hereafter when you see;
The times so gracelesse and so mad to be;
That men their perfect humane shape shall flie,
To imitate this Beasts deformitie:
Nay, when you see this Monster, which you now
Will hardly breath upon the earth alowe;
In his Caroch with foure white Frizelands drawne,
And he as pyde and garish as the Pawne,
With a set face; in which as in a booke,
He thinks the World for grounds of State should looke,
When to some greater one, whose might doth awe him,
Hee's knowne a verier Jade, then those that drawe him.
Nay at the last, the very killing sight,
To see this Calfe (as vertue to dispight)
Above just honest men his head to reare,
Nor to his greatnesse may they once come neere.
Each ignorant Sott to Honour seekes to rise;
But as for vertue who did first devise
That title, a reward for hers to be,
As most contemned and dispised shee,
Goes unregarded, that they who should owne her,
Dare not take notice ever to have knowne her;
And but that vertue, when she seemeth throwne
Lower then Hell, hath power to raise her owne,
Above the World, and this her monstrous birth,
She long e're this had perish'd from the earth;
Her Fautors banish'd by her foes so hie,
Which looke so bigge as they would scale the skie:
But seeing no helpe, why should I thus complaine,
Then to my Moone-Calfe I returne againe,
By his deare Dam the World, so choysely bred,
To whom there is such greatnesse promised;
For it might well a perfect man amaze,
To see what meanes the Syer and Dam will raise,

173

T'exalt their Moone-Calfe, and him so to cherish,
That he shall thrive, when vertuous men shall perish.
The Drunkard, Glutton, or who doth apply,
Himselfe to beastly sensuality,
Shall get him many friends, for that there be,
Many in ev'ry place just such as he;
The evill, love them that delight in ill,
Like have cleav'd to their like, and ever will:
But the true vertuous man (God knowes) hath fewe,
They that his straite and harder steps pursue,
Are a small number, scarsely knowne of any;
“God hath fewe friends, the devill hath so many.

But to returne, that yee may plainly see,
That such a one he likely is to be,
And that my words for truth that yee may trie,
Of the Worlds Babe thus doe I prophecie:
Marke but the more man of these monstrous Twins,
From his first youth, how tow'rdly he begins,
When he should learne, being learn'd to leave the Schoole,
This arrant Moone-Calfe, this most beastly foole,
Just to our English Proverbe shall be seene,
“Scarcely so wise at fifty, as fifteene:
And when himselfe he of his home can free,
He to the Citie comes, where then if he,
And the familiar Butterflye his Page,
Can passe the Street, the Ord'nary, and Stage,
It is enough, and he himselfe thinkes then,
To be the onely absolut'st of men.
Then in his Cups you shall not see him shrinke,
To the grand Divell a Carouse to drinke.
Next to his Whore he doth himselfe apply,
And to maintaine his gotish luxurie,
Eates Capons Cookt at fifteene crownes a peece,
With their fat bellies, stuff'd with Amber greece;
And being to travell, he sticks not to lay,
His Post Caroches still upon his way:
And in some sixe dayes journey doth consume
Ten pounds in Suckets and the Indian Fume:

174

For his Attire, then Forraigne parts are sought,
He holds all vile in England that is wrought,
And into Flanders sendeth for the nonce,
Twelve dozen of Shirts providing him at once,
Layd in the seames with costly Lace that be,
Of the Smock fashion, whole belowe the knee,
Then bathes in milke, in which when he hath bin,
He lookes like one for the preposterous sin,
Put by the wicked and rebellious Jewes,
To be a Pathique in their Malekind Stewes.
With the ball of's foot the ground he may not feele,
But he must tread upon his toe and heele:
Dublet, and Cloke, with Plush and Velvet linde,
Onely his head peece, that is fill'd with winde;
Rags, running Horses, Dogs, Drabs, Drinke, and Dice,
The onely things that he doth hold in price:
Yet more then these, naught doth him so delight,
As doth his smooth-chind, plump-thigh'd, Catamite.
Sodome for her great sinne that burning sanke,
Which at one draught the pit infernall dranke,
Which that just God on earth could not abide,
Hath she so much the Divels terifide:
As from their seate, them well-neere to exile,
Hath Hell new spew'd her up after this while:
Is she new risen, and her sinne agen
Imbrac'd by beastly and outragious men.
Nay more he jests at Incest, as therein
There were no fault, counts sacriledge no sin:
His blasphemies he useth for his grace;
Wherewith, he truth doth often times out-face:
He termeth vertue madnesse, or meere folly,
He hates all high things, and prophanes all holy.
Where is thy thunder god, art thou a sleepe?
Or to what suff'ring hand giv'st thou to keepe
Thy wrath and vengeance; where is now the strength
Of thy Almighty arme, failes it at length?
Turne all the Starres to Comets, to out-stare
The Sunne at noone-tide, that he shall not dare

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To looke but like a Gloworme, for that he
Can without melting these damnations see.

But this Ile leave, lest I my pen defile;
Yet to my Moone-Calfe keepe I close the while,
Who by some Knave, perswaded he hath wit,
When like a brave Foole, he to utter it,
Dare with a desperate boldnesse roughly passe
His censure on those Bookes, which the poore Asse
Can never reach to, things from darknesse sought,
That to the light with blood and sweat were brought:
And takes upon him those things to controle,
Which should the brainelesse Ideot sell his soule,
All his dull race, and he, can never buy
With their base pelfe, his glorious industry;
Knowledge with him is idle, if it straine
Above the compasse of his yestie braine:
Nor knowes mens worthes but by a second hand,
For he himselfe doth nothing understand;
He would have some thing, but what tis he showes not,
What he would speake, nay what to thinke he knowes not:
He nothing more then truth and knowledge loathes,
And nothing he admires of mans, but cloathes.
Now for that I thy dotage dare mislike,
And seeme so deepe, into thy soule to strike;
Because I am so plaine thou lik'st not me,
Why know, poore Slave, I no more thinke of thee,
Then of the Ordure that is cast abroad,
I hate thy vice more then I doe a Toade.
Poore is the spirit that fawnes on thy applause;
Or seekes for suffrage from thy barbarous jawes.
Misfortune light on him, that ought doth way,
Yee sonnes of Beliall, what yee thinke or say.
Who would have thought, whilst wit sought to advance,
It selfe so high, damn'd beastly ignorance;
Under the cloake of knowledge should creepe in,
And from desert should so much credite win;
But all this poysonous froth Hell hath let flie,
In these last dayes, at noble Poesie,

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That which hath had both in all times and places,
For her much worth, so sundry soveraigne graces;
The language, which the Spheares and Angels speake,
In which their minde they to poore Mortalls breake
By Gods great power, into rich soules infus'd,
By every Moone-Calfe lately thus abus'd:
Should all hells blacke inhabitants conspire,
And more unheard of mischiefe, to them hyer;
Such as high Heav'n were able to affright,
And on the noone-sted bring a double night:
Then they have done, they could not more disgrace her,
As from the earth (even) utterly to race her:
What Princes lov'd, by Pesants now made hatefull,
In this our age so damnably ingratefull:
And to give open passage to her fall,
It is devis'd to blemish her withall;
That th'hideous braying of each barbarous Asse,
In Printed Letters freely now must passe.
In Accents so untuneable and vile,
With other Nations as might damne our Ile,
If so our tongue they truly understood,
And make them thinke our braines were meerely mud.
To make her vile, and ugly, to appeare,
Whose naturall beauty is Divinely cleare;
That on the Stationers Stall, who passing lookes,
To see the multiplicity of Bookes,
That pester it, may well beleeve the Presse,
Sicke of a surfet, spu'd with the excesse:
Which breedeth such a dulnesse through the Land,
Mongst those one tongue which onely understand,
Which did they reade those sinewie Poems writ,
That are materiall relishing of wit:
Wise pollicie, Morallity, or Story,
Well purtraying the Ancients and their glory,
These blinded Fooles, on their base Carion feeding,
Which are (in truth) made ignorant by reading,
In little time would growe to be asham'd,
And blush to heare those lowzie Pamphlets nam'd,

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Which now they studie, naught but folly learning,
Which is the cause that they have no discerning,
The good from bad, this ill, that well to know,
Because in ignorance they are nourish'd so;
Who for this hatefull trash should I condemne
They that doe utter, or Authorize them:
O that the Ancients should so carefull be,
Of what they did impresse, and onely we
Loosely at randome, should let all things flie,
Though gainst the Muses it be blasphemie:
But yet to happy spirits, and to the wise,
All is but foolish that they can devise,
For when contempt of Poesie is proudest,
Then have the Muses ever sung the loudest.

But to my Calfe, who to be counted prime,
According to the fashion of the time,
Him to associate some Buffoon doth get,
Whose braines he still, with much expence must whet,
And ever beare about him as his guest,
Who comming out with some ridiculous jest,
Of one (perhaps) a god that well might be,
If but compar'd with such an Asse as he,
His Patron rores with laughter, and doth crye,
Take him away, or presently I dye.
Whilst that Knave-foole which well himselfe doth knowe,
Smiles at the Coxcombe, which admires him so:
His time and wealth, thus lewdly that doth spend,
As it were lent him to no other end:
Untill this Moone-Calfe, this most drunken puffe,
Even like a Candle burnt into the snuffe:
Fierd with surfet, in his owne greace fries,
Sparkles a little, and then stinking dies.
The wealth his Father by extortion wonne,
Thus in the spending helps to damne the Sonne,
And so falls out indifferently to either,
Whereby in hell they justly meete together;
And yet the World much joyes in her behalfe,
And takes no little pleasure in her Calfe,

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Had this declining time the Freedome now,
Which the brave Romane once did it alowe:
With Wyer and Whipcord yee should see her payde,
Till the luxurious Whore should be afrayde
Of prostitution, and such lashes given,
To make her blood spirt in the face of Heaven;
That men by looking upward as they goe,
Should see the plagues layd on her here belowe.

But now proceede we with the other Twin
Which is most woman who shall soone begin
To shew her selfe; no sooner got the Teenes,
But her owne naturall beauty she disdaines,
With Oyles and Broathes most venomous and base,
Shee plaisters over her well-favoured face;
And those sweet veynes by nature rightly plac'd,
Wherewith she seem'd that white skin to have lac'd,
Shee soone doth alter; and with fading blewe,
Blanching her bosome, she makes others newe;
Blotting the curious workmanship of nature;
That e're she be arriv'd at her full stature,
E're she be drest, she seemeth aged growne,
And to have nothing on her of her owne:
Her black, browne, aburne or her yellow hayre,
Naturally lovely, she doth scorne to weare;
It must be white to make it fresh to show,
And with compounded meale she makes it so:
With fumes and powdrings raising such a smoke,
That a whole Region able were to choke:
Whose stench might fright a Dragon from his den,
The Sunne yet ne're exhal'd from any Fen;
Such pestilencious vapours as arise,
From their French Powdrings, and their Mercuries.
Ireland, if thou wilt able be alone,
Of thine owne power to drive out thy Tyrone:
By heaping up a masse of Coyne together,
Sheere thy olde Wolves, and send their Fleeces hether.
Thy white Goates hayre, Wales, dearer will be solde
Then silke of Naples, or then Thred of golde.

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Our Water-dogs, and Islands here are shorne;
White haire so much of women here is worne.
Nay more then this, they'll any thing endure,
And with large summes they stick not to procure:
Hayre from the dead, yea and the most uncleane,
To helpe their pride they nothing will disdaine.
Then in attiring her, and in her sleepe,
The dayes three parts she exercis'd doth keepe,
And in ridiculous visits she doth spend
The other fourth part, to no other end;
But to take note how such a Lady lies,
And to gleane from her some deformities,
Which for a grace she holds, and till she get,
She thinkes her selfe to be but counterfet.
Our Merchants from all parts twixt either Inde,
Cannot get Silke to satisfie her minde:
Nor Natures perfect'st patternes can suffise,
The curious draughts for her imbroyderies:
She thinks her honour utterly is lost,
Except those things doe infinitely cost
Which she doth weare; nor thinke they can her dresse,
Except she have them in most strange excesse.
And in her fashion she is likewise thus,
In every thing she must be monstrous:
Her Picadell above her crowne up-beares;
Her Fardingale is set above her eares:
Which like a broad sayle with the winde doth swell,
To drive this faire Hulke headlong into Hell.
After againe, note, and you shall her see,
Shorne like a man, and for that she will be
Like him in all, her congies she will make,
With the mans curtsie, and her Hat off take,
Of the French fashion, and weare by her side
Her sharpe Stillato in a Ryband tide,
Then gird her selfe close to the paps she shall,
Shap'd, breast, and buttock, but no waste at all.

But of this she Calfe now, to cease all strife;

The roring female Moone-Calfe.

Ile by example lim her to the life.

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Not long agone it was my chance to meete
With such a Fury, such a female spright;
As never man sawe yet, except twere shee,
And such a one as I may never see
Againe I pray: but where I will not name,
For that the place might so pertake her shame:
But when I sawe her rampant to transcend
All womenhead, I thought her (sure) a friend,
And to my selfe my thoughts suggested thus,
That she was gotten by some Incubus,
And so remembring an olde womans tale,
As she sate dreaming o'r a pot of Ale,
That on a time she did the Devill meete,
And knew him onely by his cloven feete:
So did I looke at hers, where she did goe,
To see if her feete, were not cloven so.
Ten long-tongu'd Tapsters in a common In,
When as the Guests to flock apace begin,
When up-stayre one, down-stayre another hies,
With squeaking clamours, and confused cries;
Never did yet make such a noyse as she,
That I dare boldly justifie, that he,
Who but one houre her lowd clack can endure,
May undisturbed, safely, and secure
Sleepe under any Bells, and never heare
Though they were rung, the clappers at his eare,
And the long'st night with one sweet sleepe beguile,
As though he dreamt of Musick all the while.
The very sight of her when she doth rore,
Is able to strike dumbe the boldest Whore
That ever traded: shee'll not stick to tell,
All in her life that ever her befell;
How she hath layne, with all degrees, and ages,
Her Plow-Boyes, Scullians, Lackies, and some Pages,
And sweare when we have said all that we can,
That there is nothing worth a pin in man,
And that there's nothing doth so please her minde,
As to see Mares, and Horses, doe their kinde;

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And when she's Tipsey, how so e're t'offend,
Then all her speech to Bawdry doth intend:
In Womens secrets, and shee'll name yee all
Red to the Midwives at the Surgeons Hall.
Were the poore Coxcomb, her dull Husband dead,
He that durst then this female Moone-Calfe wed,
Should quite put downe the Roman which once leepe,
Into the burning Gulfe, thereby to keepe
His Country from devouring with the flame:
Thus leave we her, of all her sex the shame.

Amongst the rest, at the Worlds labour there,
Foure good olde women, most especiall were,
Which had beene jolly Wenches in their dayes,
Through all the Parish, and had borne the praise,
For merry Tales: one Mother Red-Cap hight,
And mother Howlet, somewhat ill of sight,
For she had hurt her eyes with watching late;
Then mother Bumby a mad jocound Mate
As ever Gossipt, and with her there came
Olde Gammer Gurton, a right pleasant Dame,
As the best of them; being thus together,
The businesse done for which they had come thither:
Quoth jolly mother Red-Cap at the last,
I see the night is quickly like to waste;
And since the World so kindly now is layde,
And the childe safe, which made us all afraide:
Let's have a night on't wenches, hang up sorrow,
And what sleepe wants now, take it up to morrow.
Stirre up the fire, and let us have our Ale,
And o'r our Cups, let's each one tell her Tale:
My honest Gossips, and to put you in,
Ile breake the Ice, and thus doth mine begin.
There was a certaine Prophesie of olde,

Mother Red-Caps Tale.

Which to an Ile had anciently beene tolde,
That after many yeares were com'n and gone,
Which then came out, and the set time came on;
Nay, more it told, the very day and howre,
Wherein should fall so violent a showre;

182

That it new Rivers in the earth should weare,
And Dorps, and Bridges quite away should beare:
But where this Ile is, that I cannot showe,
Let them enquire that have desire to knowe:
The Story leaves out that, let it alone;
And Gossip with my Tale I will goe on:
Yet what was worse the Prophecie this spake,
(As to warne men defence for it to make)
That upon whom one drop should chance to light,
They should of reason be deprived quite.
This Prophecie had many an Age beene heard,
But not a man did it one pin reguard;
For all to folly did themselves dispose,
(On veryer Calves the Sunne yet never rose)
And of their laughter made it all the Theame,
By terming it, the drunken Wizards Dreame.
There was one honest man amongst the rest,
That bare more perfect knowledge in his breast;
And to himselfe his private houres had kept,
To talke with God, whilst others drunke or slept,
Who in his mercy to this man reveal'd,
That which in Justice he had long conceal'd
From the rude Heard, but let them still runne on
The ready way to their destruction.

This honest man the Prophecie that noted,
And things therein more curiously had quoted,
Found all those signes were truly come to passe,
That should fore-showe this raine, and that it was
Neerely at hand; and from his depth of skill,
Had many a time fore-warn'd them of their ill,
And Preach'd to them this Deluge (for their good)
As to th'olde World Noe did before the Flood;
But lost his labour, and since t'was in vaine,
To talke more to those Idiots of the raine;
He let them rest: and silent sought about,
Where he might finde some place of safety out,
To shroud himselfe in, for right well he knewe,
That from this shower, which then began to brewe,

183

No roofe of Tyle, or Thatch he could come in,
Could serve him from being wet to the bare skin.
At length this man bethought him of a Cave
In a huge Rock, which likely was to save
Him from the'shower, upon a hill so steepe,
As up the same a man could hardly creepe,
So that except Noahs Flood should come againe,
He never could be raught by any raine;
Thither at length, though with much toyle he clome,
Listning to heare what would thereof become.

It was not long e're he perceiv'd the skies
Setled to raine, and a black cloud arise,
Whose foggy grosnesse so oppos'd the light,
As it would turne the noone-sted into night.
When the winde came about with all his power,
Into the tayle of this approching shower,
And it to lighten presently began;
Quicker then thought, from East to West that ran:
The Thunder following did so fiercely rave,
And through the thick clouds with such fury drave,
As Hell had been set open for the nonce,
And all the Divels heard to rore at once:
And soone the Tempest so outragious grew,
That it whole hedgerowes by the roots up threw,
So wondrously prodigious was the weather,
As heaven and earth had meant to goe together:
And downe the shower impetuously doth fall,
Like that which men the Hurricano call:
As the grand Deluge had beene come againe,
And all the World should perish by the raine.
And long it lasted; all which time this man
Hid in the Cave doth in his judgement scan,
What of this inundation would ensue,
For he knew well the Prophecie was true:
And when the shower was somwhat over-past,
And that the skies began to cleare at last:
To the Caves mouth he softly put his eare,
To listen if he any thing could heare:

184

What harme this storme had done, and what became
Of those that had beene sowsed in the same.
No sooner he that nimble Organ lent
To the Caves mouth; but that incontinent
There was a noyse as if the Garden Beares,
And all the Dogs together by the eares,
And those of Bedlam had enlarged bin,
And to behold the Bayting had come in:
Which when he heard, he knew too well alasse,
That what had beene fore-told, was come to passe;
Within himselfe good man, he reasoned thus:
Tis for our sinnes, this plague is falne on us.
Of all the rest, though in my wits I be,
(I thanke my Maker) yet it greeveth me,
To see my Country in this piteous case;
Woe's me that ever they so wanted grace:
But when as man once casts off vertue quite,
And doth in sinne and beastlinesse delight,
We see how soone God turnes him to a Sot:
To showe my selfe yet a true Patriot,
Ile in amongst them, and if so, that they
Be not accurst of God, yet, yet I may,
By wholesome counsell (if they can but heare)
Make them as perfect as at first they were,
And thus resolv'd goes this good poore man downe;
When at the entrance of the Neighbouring Towne,
He meetes a woman, with her Buttocks bare,
Got up a stride upon a wall-eyde Mare,
To runne a Horse-race, and was like to ride
Over the good man: but he stept aside;
And after her, another that bestroad
A Horse of Service, with a Lance she rode
Arm'd, and behinde her on a Pillian satt
Her frantique Husband, in a broad-brim'd Hatt,
A Maske and Safeguard; and had in his hand
His mad Wifes Distaffe for a ryding Wand:
Scarse from these mad folke, had he gone so farre,
As a strong man, will eas'ly pitch a Barre:

185

But that he found a Youth in Tissue brave,
(A daintier man one would not wish to have)
Was courting of a loathsome mezzeld Sowe,
And in his judgement, swore he must alowe
Hers, the prime Beauty, that he ever sawe,
Thus was she sued to (by that prating Dawe)
Who, on a dunghill in the loathsome gore,
Had farrowed ten Pigs scarce an houre before.
At which this man in melancholly deepe,
Burst into laughter, like before to weepe.
Another foole, to fit him for the weather,
Had arm'd his heeles with Cork, his head with feather;
And in more strange and sundry colours clad,
Then in the Raine-bowe ever can be had:
Stalk'd through the Streets, preparing him to flie,
Up to the Moone upon an Embassie.
Another seeing his drunken Wife disgorge
Her pamperd stomack, got her to a Forge,
And in her throat the Feverous heat to quench
With the Smiths horne, was giving her a Drench:
One his next Neighbour haltred had by force,
So frantique, that he tooke him for a Horse,
And to a Pond was leading him to drinke;
It went beyond the wit of man to thinke,
The sundry frenzies that he there might see,
One man would to another married be:
And for a Curate taking the Towne Bull,
Would have him knit the knot: another Gull
Had found an Ape was chained to a Stall,
Which he to worship on his knees doth fall;
To doe the like and doth his Neighbours get,
Who in a Chaire this ill-fac'd Munky set,
And on their shoulders lifting him on hie,
They in Procession beare him with a crie;
And him a Lord will have at least, if not,
A greater man: another sort had got
About a Pedlar, who had lately heard,
How with the mad men of this Ile it far'd:

186

And having nothing in his Pack but toyes,
Which none except meere mad men, & fond boyes
Would ever touch; thought verily that he
Amongst these Bedlams, would a gayner be,
Or else loose all; scarce had he pitch'd his Pack,
E're he could scarcely say, what doe yee lack:
But that they throng'd about him with their mony,
As thick as Flyes about a Pot of hony;
Some of these Lunaticks, these frantique Asses,
Gave him Spurryalls for his farthing Glasses:
There should you see another of these Cattell,
Give him a pound of silver for a Rattle;
And there another that would needsly scorse,
A costly Jewell for a Hobby-Horse:
For Bells, and Babies, such as children small,
Are ever us'd to solace them withall:
Those they did buy at such a costly rate,
That it was able to subvert a State;
Which when this wise and sober man beheld,
For very griefe his eyes with teares were sweld.
Alas, that e're I sawe this day (quoth he)
That I my Native Country-men should see
In this estate; when out of very zeale
Both to his native earth, and common-weale,
He thrust amongst them, & thus frames his speech.

Deare Country-men, I humbly yee beseech
Heare me a little, and but marke me well.
Alas, it is not long, since first yee fell
Into this frenzie, these outragious fits,
Be not I pray yee so out of your wits:
But call to minde th'inevitable ill
Must fall on yee, if yee continue still
Thus mad and frantique; therefore be not worse
Then your brute beasts to bring thereby a Curse
Upon your Nephewes, so to taynt their blood,
That twenty Generations shall be woo'd;
And this brave Land for wit, that hath been fam'd,
The Ile of Ideots after shall be nam'd:

187

Your braines are not so craz'd, but leave this Ryot,
And tis no question, but with temperate Dyet,
And counsaile of wise men, when they shall see
The desperate estate wherein you be:
But with such med'cines as they will apply,
They'll quickly cure your greevous malady.
And as he would proceed with his Oration,
One of the chiefest of this Bedlam Nation;
Layes hold on him, and askes who he should be.
Thou fellow (quoth this Lord) where had we thee,
Com'st thou to Preach to us that be so wise,
What wilt thou take upon thee to advise
Us, of whom all now underneath the skie,
May well be seene to learne frugality:
Why surely honest fellow thou art mad.
Another standing by, swore that he had
Seene him in Bedlam, foureteene yeeres agoe:
O quoth a third this fellow doe I knowe.
This is an arrant Coxcomb, a meere Dizard,
If yee remember, this is the same Wizard,
Which tooke upon him wisely to fore-tell,
The shower so many yeares before it fell:
Whose strong effects being so strange and rare,
Hath made us such brave creatures as we are:
When of this Nation all the frantique Route,
Fell into laughter the poore man about.
Some made mouthes at him, others as in scorne
With their forkt fingers poynted him the horne:
They call'd him Asse, and Dolt, and bad him goe
Amongst such Fooles, as he himselfe was, who
Could not teach them: at which this honest man,
Finding that naught, but hate and scorne he wan
Amongst these Ideots, and their beastly kinde,
The poore small remnant of his life behinde,
Determineth to solitude to give,
And a true Hermite afterward to live.

The tale thus ended, Gossip by your leave;

The morallity of mother Red-Caps tale.

Quoth mother Bumby, I doe well perceive

188

The morrall of your Story, which is this;
(Correct me Dame, if I doe judge amisse)
But first Ile tell you by this honest Ale,
In my conceite this is a prety tale;
And if some hansome Players would it take,
It (sure) a pretty Interlude would make.
But to the Morrall, this same mighty shower
Is a plague sent by supernaturall power
Upon the wicked, for when God intends
To lay a curse on mens ungodly ends:
Of understanding he doth them deprive;
Which taken from them, up themselves they give
To beastlinesse, nor will he let them see
The miserable estate wherein they be.
The Rock to which this man for safety climes,
The contemplation is of the sad times
Of the declining World; his counsailes tolde
To the mad Route, to spoyle and basenesse solde,
Showes that from such no goodnesse can proceede,
Who counsailes fooles, shall never better speede.
Quoth mother Red-Cap, you have hit it right:
(Quoth she) I know it Gossip, and to quite
Your tale; another you of me shall have,
Therefore a while your patience let me crave.

Mother Bumbyes tale.

Out in the North tow'rds Groneland farre away,
There was a Witch (as ancient Stories say)
As in those parts there many Witches be:
Yet in her craft above all other, shee
Was the most expert, dwelling in an Ile,
Which was in compasse scarce an English mile;
Which by her cunning she could make to floate
Whether she list, as though it were a Boate:
And where againe she meant to have it stay,
There could she fixe it in the deepest Sea:
She could sell windes to any one that would,
Buy them for money, forcing them to hold
What time she listed, tye them in a thrid,
Which ever as the Sea-farer undid

189

They rose or scantled, as his Sayles would drive,
To the same Port whereas he would arive:
She by her Spels could make the Moone to stay,
And from the East, she could keepe back the day,
Raise Mists and Fogs that could Ecclipse the light:
And with the noone-sted she could mixe the night.
Upon this Ile whereas she had aboad,
Nature (God knowes) but little cost bestow'd:
Yet in the same, some Bastard creature were
Seldome yet seene in any place but there;
Halfe men, halfe Goate, there was a certaine kinde,
Such as we Satyres purtray'd out doe finde.
Another sort of a most ugly shape;
A Beare in body, and in face an Ape:
Other like Beasts yet had the feete of Fowles,
That Demy-Urchins weare, and Demy-Owles:
Besides there were of sundry other sorts,
But wee'll not stand too long on these reports.

Of all the rest that most resembled man,
Was an o'r-worne ill-favoured Babian;
Which of all other, for that onely he,
Was full of tricks, as they are us'd to be:
Him in her Craft, so seriously she taught,
As that in little time she had him brought,
That nothing could before this Ape be set,
That presently he could not counterfet;
She learnt him med'cines instantly to make;
Him any thing whose shape he pleas'd to take:
And when this skill she had on him bestow'd,
She sent him for intelligence abroad.
Thus fully furnish'd, and by her sent out,
Hee went to practise all the World about.
He like a Jipsey oftentimes would goe,
All kinde of Gibb'rish he had learnt to knowe,
And with a stick, a short string, and a noose,
Would showe the people tricks at fast and loose:
Tell folkes their Fortunes, for he would finde out
By slye enquirie, as he went about:

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What chance this one he, or that she had prov'd
Whom they most hated, or whom most they lov'd,
And looking in their hands, as there he knew it,
Out of his skill would counterfet to shew it:
Sometimes he for a Mountebanke would passe,
And shew you in a Crusible, or Glasse:
Some rare extraction, presently and runne,
Through all the Cures that he therewith had done,
An Aspick still he caried in a poke,
Which he to bite him often would provoke,
And with an oyle when it began to swell,
The deadly poyson quickly could expell:
And many times a Jugler he would be,
(A craftier Knave there never was then he;)
And by a mist deceiving of the sight,
(As knavery ever falsifies the light)
He by his active nimblenesse of hand,
Into a Serpent would transforme a Wand
As those Egyptians, which by Magick thought,
Farre beyond Moyses wonders to have wrought,
There never was a subtility devis'd,
In which this villaine was not exercis'd.

Now from this Region where they dwelt, not far
There was a wise and learn'd Astronomer,
Who skilfull in the Planetary howres,
The working knew of the Celestiall powers.
And by their ill, or by their good aspect,
Men in their actions wisely could direct,
And in the black and gloomy Arts so skild,
That he (even) Hell in his subjection hild;
He could command the Spirits up from belowe,
And binde them strongly, till they let him knowe
All the drad secrets that belong'd them to,
And what those did, with whom they had to do.

This Wizard in his knowledge most profound,
Sitting one day the depth of things to sound;
For that the World was brought to such a passe,
That it well-neere in a confusion was;

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For things set right, ranne quickly out of frame,
And those a wry to rare perfection came:
And matters in such sort about were brought,
That States were pusled, almost beyond thought,
Which made him think (as he might very well)
There were more Divels then he knew in hell.
And thus resolves that he would cast about
In his best skill, to find the Engine out
That wrought all this, and put himselfe therein:
When in this bus'nesse long he had not bin,
But by the Spirits which he had sent abroad,
And in this worke, had every way bestow'd;
He came to know this foule Witch, and her Factor,
The one the Plotter, and the other th'Actor
Of all these stirres, which many a State had spoyl'd,
Whereby the World so long had beene turmoyl'd,
Wherefore he thought it much did him behove,
Out of the way this couple to remove;
Or (out of question) halfe the World e're long
Would be divided, hers, and his among.
When turning over his most mistique bookes,
Into the secrets of his Art he lookes;
And th'earth and th'ayre doth with such Magiques fill
That every place was troubled by his skill;
Whilst in his minde he many a thing revolves,
Till at the last, he with himselfe resolves;
One Spirit of his should take the Witches shape,
Another in the person of the Ape,
Should be joyn'd with him, so to prove by this,
Whether their power were lesse, or more then his;
Which he performes, and to their taske them sets,
When soon that Spirit, the Witch that counterfets,
Watch'd till he found her farre abroad to be,
Into the place, then of her home gets he:
And when the Babian came the newes to bring
What he had done abroad, and ev'ry thing
Which he had plotted, how their bus'nesse went,
And in the rest to know her drad intent,

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Where she was wont to call him her deare sonne,
Her little Play-feere, and her pretty Bun:
Hug him, and sweare he was her onely joy;
Her very Hermes, her most dainty Boy,
O most strange thing: she chang'd her wonted cheare,
And doth to him most terrible appeare:
And in most fearefull shapes she doth him threaten
With eager lookes, as him she would have eaten,
That from her presence he was forc'd to flye,
As from his death, or deadly enemie.
When now the second which the shape doth take
Of the Baboon, determining to make
The like sport with him, his best time doth watch,
When he alone the cursed Witch might catch;
And when her Factor farthest was remote,
Then he began to change his former note,
And where he wont to tell her pleasing stories
Full of their Conquests, Triumphes, and their glories,
He turnes his Tale, and to the Witch relates
The strange revolts of Tributary States,
Things gotten backe, which late they had for prize,
With new discoveries of their pollicies;
Disgusts and dangers that had crost their cunning,
With sad portents, their ruine still forrunning;
That thus the Witch and the Baboon deceiv'd
Of all their hopes, of all their joyes bereav'd,
As in dispaire doe bid the world adue.
When as the Ape which weake and sickely grew,
On the cold earth his scurvy caryon layes,
And worne to nothing, endes his wretched dayes:
The filthy Hagg abhorring of the light,
Into the North past Thule takes her flight,
And in those deepes, past which no Land is found,
Her wretched selfe she miserably drownd.

The tale thus ended, mother Owle doth take
Her turne, and thus to mother Bumby spake;
The tale our Gossip Red-cap told before
You so well ridled that there can no more

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Be said of it; and therefore as your due,
What you have done for her, Ile doe for you.

And thus it is, that same notorious Witch,

The morallity of mother Bumbyes tale.

Is the ambition men have to be rich,
And Great, for which all faith aside they lay,
And to the Devill give themselves away,
The floating Ile where she is said to wonne,
The various courses are through which they ronne,
To get their endes, and by the Ape is ment,
Those damned Villaines, made the Instrument
To their disignes, that wondrous man of skill,
Sound counsell is, or rather if you will,
The Divine Justice, which doth bring to light,
Their wicked plotts not raught by common sight
For though they never have so closely wrought,
Yet to confusion lastly they are brought.
Gossip, indeede, you have hit it to a haire,
And surely your Moralitie is rare,
Quoth Mother Bumby; Mother Owle replide,
Come, come, I know I was not very wide,
Wherefore to quit your Tales, and make them three,
My honest Gossips listen now to me.

There was a man, not long since dead, but hee
Rather a Devill might accounted be:
For Judgement at her best could hardly scan,
Whether he were more Devill, or more man;
And as he was, he did himselfe apply
T'all kind of Witchcraft, and blacke Sorcery:
And for his humor naturally stood,
To Theft, to Rapine, and to shedding blood.
By those damn'd Hags with whom he was in grace,
And usd to meet in many a secret place;
He learnt an hearb of such a wondrous power,
That were it gather'd at a certaine howre,
(For Nature for the same did so provide,
As though from knowledge gladly it to hide,
For at Sunset it selfe it did disclose,
And shutt it selfe up, as the Morning rose)

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That with thrice saying a strange Magique spell,
Which but to him, to no man they would tell,
When as so e'r that simple he would take,
It him a war-wolfe instantly would make,
Which put in practise he most certaine prov'd,
When to a Forrest he himselfe remov'd,
Through which there lay a plaine and common Roade,
Which he the place chose for his chiefe abode,
And there this Monster set him downe to theeve,
Nothing but stolne goods might this Fiend releeve;
No silly woman, by that way could passe,
But by this Woolfe she surely ravisht was,
And if he found her flesh were soft and good,
What serv'd for Lust, must also serve for foode.
Into a Village he sometime would gett,
And watching there (as for the purpose sett)
For little Children when they came to play,
The fattst he ever bore with him away;
And as the people oft were wont to rise,
Following with Hubbubs and confused cries:
Yet was he so well breathed, and so light,
That he would still outstrip them by his flight;
And making straight to the tall Forrest neare,
Of the sweet Flesh would have his Junkets there.
And let the Shepheards doe the best they could;
Yet would he venter oft upon the Fold:
And taking the fatt'st Sheepe he there could finde:
Beare him away, and leave the Dogs behinde:
Nor could men keepe, so much as Pig, or Lamb,
But it no sooner, could drop from the Dam,
By hooke or crooke, but he would surely catch,
Though with their weapons all the Towne should watch.
Amongst the rest there was a silly Asse,
That on the way by Fortune chanc'd to passe,
Yet (it was true) he in his time had bin
A very perfect man, in shape, and skin:
But by a Witch envying (his estate)
That had borne to him a most deadly hate,

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Into this shape he was transform'd, and so,
From place to place, he wandred to and fro;
And often times was taken for a stray,
And in the Pinfold many a time he lay;
Yet held he still the reason that he had
When he was man, although he thus was clad
In a poore Asses shape, wherein he goes,
And must endure what Fortune will impose.
Him on his way this cruell Woolfe doth take,
His present prey, determining to make.
He bray'd, and ror'd, to make the people heare:
But it fell out, no creature being neare,
The silly Asse when he had done his best,
Must walke the common way amongst the rest:
When tow'rds his den the cruell Woolfe him tugs,
And by the eares most terribly him lugs:
But as God would, he had no list to feed,
Wherefore to keepe him till he should have need,
The silly creature utterly forlorne,
He brings into a Brake of Bryers and Thorne,
And so entangles by the mane and tayle,
That he might pluck, and struggle there, and hale,
Till his breath left him, unlesse by great chance
Some one might come for his deliverance.

At length the people grievously annoy'd
By this vile Woolfe, so many that destroy'd,
Determined a Hunting they would make,
To see if they by any meanes could take
This ravenous War-Woolfe: and with them they bring
Mastiffes, and Mungrells, all that in a string
Could be gott out, or could but lugg a Hogg,
Ball, Eateall, Cuttaile, Blackfoot, Bitch, and Dogg,
Bills, Batts, and Clubs, the Angry men doe beare,
The women eager as their husbands were
With Spits, and Fireforkes, sware if they could catch him,
It should goe hard, but they would soone dispatch him.
This subtile Woolfe by Passengers that heard,
What Forces thus against him were prepar'd,

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And by the noyse, that they were neere at hand,
Thinking this Asse did nothing understand,
Goes downe into a Spring that was hard by,
(Which the Asse noted) and immediatly
He came out perfect man, his Wolves shape left,
In which so long he had committed theft.
The silly Asse, so wistly then did view him,
And in his fancie so exactly drew him,
That he was sure to owne this Theefe agen,
If he should see him mongst a thousand men.

This Woolfe turn'd man, him instantly doth shrowd,
In a neere thicket, till the boystrous crowd,
Had somewhat past him, then he in doth fall
Upon the Reare, not any of them all,
Makes greater stirre, nor seemes to them to be,
More diligent to finde the Woolfe then he:
They beate each brake, and tuft o'r all the ground,
But yet the War-Woolfe was not to be found:
But a poore Asse entangled in the Bryers,
In such strange sort, as every one desires
To see the manner, and each one doth gather
How he was fastned so, how he came thither.
The silly Asse yet being still in holde,
Makes all the meanes, that possibly he could,
To be let loose, he hummes, he kneeles, and cryes,
Shaketh his head, and turneth up his eyes,
To move their pitty: that some said, t'was sure
This Asse had sence of what he did endure:
And at the last amongst themselves decreed
To let him loose; the Asse no sooner freed,
But out he goes the company among,
And where he sawe the people thick'st to throng:
There he thrusts in, and looketh round about:
Here he runnes in, and there he rusheth out;
That he was likely to have throwne to ground
Those in the way, which when the people found,
Though the poore Asse they seemed to disdaine,
Follow'd him yet, to finde what he should meane,

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Untill by chance that he this Villaine mett;
When he upon him furiously doth sett,
Fastning his teeth upon him with such strength
That he could not be loosed, till at the length
Railing them in, the people make a ring,
Strooke with the wonder of so strange a thing;
Whilst they are cadg'd, contending whether can
Conquer, the Asse some cry, some cry the man;
Yet the Asse drag'd him, and still forward drue,
Towards the strange Spring, which yet they never knewe:
Yet to what part the strugling seem'd to sway,
The people made a lane, and gave them way.
At length the Asse, had tug'd him neere thereto,
The people wondring what he meant to doe;
He seem'd to show them with his foote the Well,
Then with an Asse-like noise he seem'd to tell
The Story, now by pointing to the men,
Then to the Theefe, then to the Spring agen;
At length wext angry, growing into passion,
Because they could not finde his demonstration,
T'expresse it more, he leapes into the Spring,
When on the suddaine, O most wondrous thing,
To change his shape he presently began,
And at an instant became perfect man,
Recovering speech; and comming forth, accus'd
The bloody murtherer, who had so abus'd
The honest people, and such harme had done;
Before them all, and presently begunne
To shew them, in what danger he had beene,
And of this Woolfe the cruelty and sinne;
How he came chang'd agen as he had prov'd:
Whereat the people being strangely moov'd,
Some on the head, some one the backe doe clape him,
And in their armes, with shoutes and kisses hap him:
Then all at once, upon the Warre-woolfe flue,
And up and downe him on the earth they drewe;
Then from his bones the flesh in Collops cut,
And on their weapons points in Triumph put;

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Returning backe with a victorious song,
Bearing the man aloft with them along.

Quoth Gammer Gurton, on my honest word,
You have told a Tale doth much conceit afford:
Good neighbour Howlet, and as ye have done,
Each one for other, since our tales begun,

The morallity of mother Howlets tale.

And since our Stand of Ale, so well endures,
As you have moral'd Bumbyes, I will yours.
The fable of the War-woolfe I apply,
To a man, given to blood, and cruelty,
And upon spoile doth only set his rest;
Which by a wolfes shape livelyest is exprest.
The spring by which he gets his former shape,
Is the evasion after every rape,
He hath to start by; and the silly Asse,
Which unregarded, every where doth passe,
Is some just soule, who though the world disdaine,
Yet he by God is strangely made the meane,
To bring his damned practises to light.

Quoth mother Howlet you have hit the white,

Gammer Gurtons tale.

I thought as much quoth Gammer Gurton, then,
My turne comes next, have with you once agen.
A mighty Waste there in a countrey was,
Yet not so great as it was poore of grasse;
T'was said of old, a Saint once curst the soyle,
So barren, and so hungry, that no toyle,
Could ever make it any thing to beare;
Nor would ought prosper, that was planted there.
Upon the earth, the spring was seldome seene,
T'was winter there, when each place else was green;
When Summer did, her most aboundance yeild,
That still lay browne, as any fallow field,
Upon the same, some few trees scattering stood,
But it was Autumne, ere they us'd to bud;
And they were crookt, and knotty, and the leaves,
The niggard sap, so utterly deceives,
That sprouting forth, they drouping hung the head
And were neere withered, ere yet fully spread,

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No mirthfull Birds, the boughes did ever grace,
Nor could be wonne to stay upon that place,
Onely the night-Crow sometimes, you might see,
Croking to sit upon some Ranpick-tree,
Which was but very seldome too, and then
It boded great mortality to men;
As were the trees, which on that common grew,
So were the Cattell starvelings, and a few,
Asses, and Mules, and they were us'd to gnaw,
The very earth to fill the hungry mawe;
When they far'd best, they fed on Fearne and brack,
Their leane shrunke bellyes cleav'd up to their backe,
Of all the rest, in that great Waste that went,
Of those quicke caryons, the most eminent,
Was a poore Mule, upon that common bred,
And from his foling further never fed,
The Summer well-neare every yeare was past,
Ere he his ragged winter coate could cast,
And then the Jade would get him to a tree,
That had a rough Barke, purposely, where he
Rubbing his Buttocks, and his either side
Would get the old hayre, from his starved hyde,
And though he were as naked as my naile,
Yet he would whinny then, and wag the tayle,
In this short pasture one day as he stood,
Ready to faint amongst the rest for food;
Yet the poore Beast according to his kinde,
Bearing his nostrill up into the winde,
A sweet fresh feeding thought that he did vent,
“(Nothing as hunger sharpeneth so the sent)
For that not far there was a goodly ground,
Which with sweet grasse, so greatly did abound,
That the fat soyle seem'd to be over fraught
Nor could bestow the Burthen that it brought,
Besides that bounteous nature did it stick,
With sundry sorts of fragrant flowers so thick,
That when the warme, and Baulmy southwinde blew
The lushyous smells ore all the region flew.

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Led by his sence at length this poore Jade found,
This pasture, (fenc'd though with a mighty Mound)
A pale and quickeset, Cercling it about,
That nothing could get in, nor nothing out)
And with himselfe thus wittily doth caste,
Well, I have found good pasture yet at last,
If by some meanes accomplisht it might be,
Round with the ditch imediatly walks he;
(And long though 'twas, good luck nere comes too late,)
It was his chance to light upon a gate
That led into it, (though his hap were good)
Yet was it made of so sufficient wood,
And every barre that did to it belong,
Was so well joynted, and so wondrous strong
Besides a great locke, with a double ward,
That he thereby of entrance was debar'd
And thereby hard beset, yet thought at length,
“T'was done by sleight, that was not done by strength;
Fast in the ground his two fore-feete doth get,
Then his hard Buttockes to the gate he set,
And thrust, and shooke, and laboured till at last,
The two great posts, that held the same so fast,
Began to loosen, when againe he takes,
Fresh foot-hould, and a fresh he shakes and shakes,
Till the great Hindges to fly off he feeles;
And heard the Gate, fall clattering at his heeles,
Then nayes, and brayes, with such an open throat,
That all the Waste resounded with his note;
The rest that did his language understand,
Knew well there was, some good to them in hand,
And tag, and rag, through thick and thin came running,
Nor dale, nor ditch, nor banke nor bushes shunning;
And so desirous to see their good hap,
That with their thrunging they stucke in the gap.

Now they bestir their teeth, and doe devoure,
More sweetnesse in the compasse of one hower,
Then twice so many could in twice the time,
For now the spring was in the very prime,

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Till prickt with plenty eas'd of all their lackes
Their Pampred bellies swolne above their backes
They tread and waddle all the goodly grasse,
That in the field there scarse a corner was,
Left free by them, and what they had not swallow'd
There they had dung'd, and layd them down and wallow'd;
One with another they would ly and play,
And in the deepe fog batten all the day,
Thus along while, this mery life they led
Till (even) like Lard their thickned sides were fed;
But on a time the weather being fayre,
And season fit to take the pleasant ayre,
To view his pasture the rich owner went,
And see what grasse the fruitfull yeare had sent,
Finding, the feeding for which he had toyld,
To have kept safe, by these vile cattell spoil'd,
He in a rage upon them sets his Cur,
But for his bawling, not a beast would stir;
Then whoots, and shouts, and claps his hands, but he
Might as well move the dull earth, or a tree,
As once but stir them, when all would not doe,
Last, with his goad amongst them he doth goe,
And some of them he girdeth in the Hanches;
Some in the flanks, that prickt their very panches;
But when they felt that they began to smart,
Up on a suddaine they together start,
And drive at him as fast as they could ding,
They flirt, they yerk, they backward fluce, and fling,
As though the Devill in their heeles had bin,
That to escape the danger he was in,
He back and back, into a quagmire by,
Though with much perill, forced was to flye:
But lightly treading there-upon doth shift,
Out of the bog his cumbred feete to lift,
When they the perill that doe not fore-cast,
In the stiffe mud, are quickly stabled fast:
When to the Towne he presently doth flie,
Raising the Neighbours with a suddaine crie:

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With Cords and Halters that came all at once,
For now the Jades were fitted for the nonce:
For by that time th'had sunke themselves so deepe,
That scarce their heads above ground they could keepe.
When presently they by the necks them bound,
And so they led them to the common pound.
Quoth mother Red-Cap, right well have you done
Good Gammer Gurton, and as we begun,
So you conclude: tis time we parted now;
But first of my morallity alowe.
The common that you speake of here, say I,

The morallity of Gammer Gurtons tale.

Is nothing else but want and beggerie;
In the World common, and the beasts that goe
Upon the same, which oft are famish'd so:
Are the poore bred in scarcitie; the Mule
The other Cattell that doth seeme to rule,
Some crafty fellow that hath slily found
A way to thrive by; and the fruitfull ground
Is wealth, which he by subtilty doth win,
In his possession which not long hath bin;
But he with Ryot and excesse doth waste,
“For goods ill gotten doe consume as fast;
And with the law they lastly doe contend,
Till at the last the Prison is the end.
Quoth Gammer Gurton, well your selfe you quite,
By this the dawne usurpt upon the night;
And at the windowe biddeth them good day
When they departed each their severall way.

FINIS.

203

ELEGIES UPON SUNDRY OCCASIONS.

OF HIS LADIES NOT COMMING TO LONDON.

That ten-yeares-travell'd Greeke return'd from Sea
Ne'r joyd so much to see his Ithaca,
As I should you, who are alone to me,
More then wide Greece could to that wanderer be,
The winter windes still Easterly doe keepe,
And with keene Frosts have chained up the deepe;
The Sunne's to us a niggard of his Rayes,
But revelleth with our Antipodes;
And seldome to us when he shewes his head,
Muffled in vapours, he straight hies to bed.
In those bleake mountaines can you live where snowe
Maketh the vales up to the hilles to growe;
Whereas mens breathes doe instantly congeale,
And attom'd mists turne instantly to hayle;
Belike you thinke, from this more temperate cost,
My sighes may have the power to thawe the frost,
Which I from hence should swiftly send you thither,
Yet not so swift, as you come slowly hither.
How many a time, hath Phebe from her wayne,
With Phæbus fires fill'd up her hornes againe;
Shee through her Orbe, still on her course doth range,
But you keepe yours still, nor for me will change.
The Sunne that mounted the sterne Lions back,
Shall with the Fishes shortly dive the Brack,
But still you keepe your station, which confines
You, nor regard him travelling the signes.
Those ships which when you went, put out to Sea,
Both to our Groenland, and Virginia,
Are now return'd, and Custom'd have their fraught,
Yet you arrive not, nor returne me ought.

The Thames was not so frozen yet this yeare,
As is my bosome, with the chilly feare

204

Of your not comming, which on me doth light,
As on those Climes, where halfe the world is night.

Of every tedious houre you have made two,
All this long Winter here, by missing you:
Minutes are monthes, and when the houre is past,
A yeare is ended since the Clocke strooke last,
When your remembrance puts me on the Racke,
And I should Swound to see an Almanacke,
To reade what silent weekes away are slid,
Since the dire Fates you from my sight have hid.

I hate him who the first Devisor was
Of this same foolish thing, the Hower-glasse,
And of the Watch, whose dribbling sands and Wheele,
With their slow stroakes, make mee too much to feele
Your slackenesse hither, O how I doe ban,
Him that these Dialls against walles began,
Whose Snayly motion of the mooving hand,
(Although it goe) yet seeme to me to stand;
As though at Adam it had first set out,
And had been stealing all this while about,
And when it backe to the first point should come,
It shall be then just at the generall Doome.

The Seas into themselves retract their flowes,
The changing Winde from every quarter blowes,
Declining Winter in the Spring doth call,
The Starrs rise to us, as from us they fall;
Those Birdes we see, that leave us in the Prime,
Againe in Autumne re-salute our Clime.
Sure, either Nature you from kinde hath made,
Or you delight else to be Retrograde.

But I perceive by your attractive powers,
Like an Inchantresse you have charm'd the howers
Into short minutes, and have drawne them back,
So that of us at London, you doe lack
Almost a yeare, the Spring is scarse begonne
There where you live, and Autumne almost done.
With us more Eastward, surely you devise,
By your strong Magicke, that the Sunne shall rise

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Where now it setts, and that in some few yeares
You'l alter quite the Motion of the Spheares.

Yes, and you meane, I shall complaine my love
To gravell'd Walkes, or to a stupid Grove,
Now your companions; and that you the while
(As you are cruell) will sit by and smile,
To make me write to these, while Passers by,
Sleightly looke in your lovely face, where I
See Beauties heaven, whilst silly blockheads, they
Like laden Asses, plod upon their way,
And wonder not, as you should point a Clowne
Up to the Guards, or Ariadnes Crowne;
Of Constellations, and his dulnesse tell,
Hee'd thinke your words were certainly a Spell;
Or him some peice from Creet, or Marcus show,
In all his life which till that time ne'r saw
Painting: except in Alehouse or old Hall
Done by some Druzzler, of the Prodigall.

Nay doe, stay still, whilst time away shall steale
Your youth, and beautie, and your selfe conceale
From me I pray you, you have now inur'd
Me to your absence, and I have endur'd
Your want this long, whilst I have starved bine
For your short Letters, as you helde it sinne
To write to me, that to appease my woe,
I reade ore those, you writ a yeare agoe,
Which are to me, as though they had bin made,
Long time before the first Olympiad.

For thankes and curt'sies sell your presence then
To tatling Women, and to things like men,
And be more foolish then the Indians are
For Bells, for Knives, for Glasses, and such ware,
That sell their Pearle and Gold, but here I stay,
So would I not have you but come away.

206

TO MASTER GEORGE SANDYS

Treasurer for the English Colony in VIRGINIA.

Friend, if you thinke my Papers may supplie
You, with some strange omitted Noveltie,
Which others Letters yet have left untould,
You take me off, before I can take hould
Of you at all; I put not thus to Sea,
For two monthes Voyage to Virginia,
With newes which now, a little something here,
But will be nothing ere it can come there.

I feare, as I doe Stabbing; this word, State,
I dare not speake of the Palatinate,
Although some men make it their hourely theame,
And talke what's done in Austria, and in Beame,
I may not so; what Spinola intends,
Nor with his Dutch, which way Prince Maurice bends;
To other men, although these things be free,
Yet (George) they must be misteries to mee.

I scarce dare praise a vertuous friend that's dead,
Lest for my lines he should be censured;
It was my hap before all other men
To suffer shipwrack by my forward pen:
When King James entred; at which joyfull time
I taught his title to this Ile in rime:
And to my part did all the Muses win,
With high-pitch Pæans to applaud him in:
When cowardise had tyed up every tongue,
And all stood silent, yet for him I sung;
And when before by danger I was dar'd,
I kick'd her from me, nor a jot I spar'd.
Yet had not my cleere spirit in Fortunes scorne,
Me above earth and her afflictions borne;
He next my God on whom I built my trust,
Had left me troden lower then the dust:
But let this passe; in the extreamest ill,

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Apollo's brood must be couragious still,
Let Pies, and Dawes, sit dumb before their death,
Onely the Swan sings at the parting breath.

And (worthy George) by industry and use,
Let's see what lines Virginia will produce;
Goe on with Ovid, as you have begunne,
With the first five Bookes; let your numbers run
Glib as the former, so shall it live long,
And doe much honour to the English tongue:
Intice the Muses thither to repaire,
Intreat them gently, trayne them to that ayre,
For they from hence may thither hap to fly,
T'wards the sad time which but to fast doth hie,
For Poesie is followed with such spight,
By groveling drones that never raught her height,
That she must hence, she may no longer staye:
The driery fates prefixed have the day,
Of her departure, which is now come on,
And they command her straight wayes to be gon;
That bestiall heard so hotly her pursue,
And to her succour, there be very few,
Nay none at all, her wrongs that will redresse,
But she must wander in the wildernesse,
Like to the woman, which that holy John
Beheld in Pathmos in his vision.

As th'English now, so did the stiff-neckt Jewes,
Their noble Prophets utterly refuse,
And of those men such poore opinions had,
They counted Esay and Ezechiel mad;
When Jeremy his Lamentations writ,
They thought the Wizard quite out of his wit,
Such sots they were, as worthily to ly,
Lock't in the chaines of their captivity,
Knowledge hath still her Eddy in her Flow,
So it hath beene, and it will still be so.

That famous Greece where learning flowrisht most,
Hath of her muses long since left to boast,
Th'unletter'd Turke, and rude Barbarian trades,

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Where Homer sang his lofty Iliads;
And this vaste volume of the world hath taught,
Much may to passe in little time be brought.

As if to Symptoms we may credit give,
This very time, wherein we two now live,
Shall in the compasse, wound the Muses more,
Then all the old English ignorance before;
Base Balatry is so belov'd and sought,
And those brave numbers are put by for naught,
Which rarely read, were able to awake,
Bodyes from graves, and to the ground to shake
The wandring clouds, and to our men at armes,
'Gainst pikes and muskets were most powerfull charmes.
That, but I know, insuing ages shall,
Raise her againe, who now is in her fall;
And out of dust reduce our scattered rimes,
Th'rejected jewels of these slothfull times,
Who with the Muses would mispend an hower,
But let blind Gothish Barbarisme devoure
These feverous Dogdays, blest by no record,
But to be everlastingly abhord.

If you vouchsafe rescription, stuffe your quill
With naturall bountyes, and impart your skill,
In the description of the place, that I,
May become learned in the soyle thereby;
Of noble Wyats health, and let me heare,
The Governour; and how our people there,
Increase and labour, what supplyes are sent,
Which I confesse shall give me much content;
But you may save your labour if you please,
To write to me ought of your Savages.
As savage slaves be in great Britaine here,
As any one that you can shew me there.
And though for this, Ile say I doe not thirst,
Yet I should like it well to be the first,
Whose numbers hence into Virginia flew,
So (noble Sandis) for this time adue.

209

TO MY NOBLE FRIEND MASTER WILLIAM BROWNE,

of the evill time.

Deare friend, be silent and with patience see,
What this mad times Catastrophe will be;
The worlds first Wisemen certainely mistooke
Themselves, and spoke things quite beside the booke,
And that which they have said of God, untrue,
Or else expect strange judgement to insue.

This Isle is a meere Bedlam, and therein,
We all lye raving, mad in every sinne,
And him the wisest most men use to call,
Who doth (alone) the maddest thing of all;
He whom the master of all wisedome found,
For a marckt foole, and so did him propound,
The time we live in, to that passe is brought,
That only he a Censor now is thought;
And that base villaine, (not an age yet gone,)
Which a good man would not have look'd upon;
Now like a God, with divine worship follow'd,
And all his actions are accounted hollow'd.

This world of ours, thus runneth upon wheeles,
Set on the head, bolt upright with her heeles;
Which makes me thinke of what the Ethnicks told,
Th'opinion, the Pythagorists uphold,
That the immortall soule doth transmigrate;

Wander from body to body.

Then I suppose by the strong power of fate,
That those which at confused Babel were,
And since that time now many a lingering yeare,
Through fools, and beasts, and lunatiques have past,
Are heere imbodyed in this age at last,
And though so long we from that time be gone,
Yet taste we still of that confusion.

For certainely there's scarse one found that now,
Knowes what t'approove, or what to disallow,
All arsey varsey, nothing is it's owne,

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But to our proverbe, all turnd upside downe;
To doe in time, is to doe out of season,
And that speeds best, thats done the farth'st from reason,
Hee's high'st that's low'st, hee's surest in that's out,
He hits the next way that goes farth'st about,
He getteth up unlike to rise at all,
He slips to ground as much unlike to fall;
Which doth inforce me partly to prefer,
The opinion of that mad Philosopher,

Zeno.

Who taught, that those all-framing powers above,
(As tis suppos'd) made man not out of love
To him at all, but only as a thing,
To make them sport with, which they use to bring
As men doe munkeys, puppets, and such tooles
Of laughter: so men are but the Gods fooles.
Such are by titles lifted to the sky,
As wherefore no man knowes, God scarcely why;
The vertuous man depressed like a stone
For that dull Sot to raise himselfe upon;
He who ne're thing yet worthy man durst doe,
Never durst looke upon his countreys foe,
Nor durst attempt that action which might get
Him fame with men: or higher might him set
Then the base begger (rightly if compar'd;)
This Drone yet never brave attempt that dar'd,
Yet dares be knighted, and from thence dares grow
To any title Empire can bestow;
For this beleeve, that Impudence is now
A Cardinall vertue, and men it allow
Reverence, nay more, men study and invent
New wayes, nay, glory to be impudent.

Into the clouds the Devill lately got,
And by the moisture doubting much the rot,
A medicine tooke to make him purge and cast;
Which in short time began to worke so fast,
That he fell too't, and from his backeside flew,
A rout of rascall a rude ribauld crew
Of base Plebeians, which no sooner light,

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Upon the earth, but with a suddaine flight,
They spread this Ile, and as Deucalion once
Over his shoulder backe, by throwing stones
They became men, even so these beasts became,
Owners of titles from an obscure name.

He that by riot, of a mighty rent,
Hath his late goodly Patrimony spent,
And into base and wilfull beggery run
This man as he some glorious act had done,
With some great pension, or rich guift releev'd,
When he that hath by industry atchiev'd
Some noble thing, contemned and disgrac'd,
In the forlorne hope of the times is plac'd,
As though that God had carelessly left all
That being hath on this terrestiall ball,
To fortunes guiding, nor would have to doe
With man, nor ought that doth belong him to,
Or at the least God having given more
Power to the Devill, then he did of yore,
Over this world: the feind as he doth hate
The vertuous man; maligning his estate,
All noble things, and would have by his will,
To be damn'd with him, using all his skill,
By his blacke hellish ministers to vexe
All worthy men, and strangely to perplexe
Their constancie, there by them so to fright,
That they should yeeld them wholely to his might.
But of these things I vainely doe but tell,
Where hell is heaven, and heav'n is now turn'd hell;
Where that which lately blasphemy hath bin,
Now godlinesse, much lesse accounted sin;
And a long while I greatly mervail'd why
Buffoons and Bawdes should hourely multiply,
Till that of late I construed it, that they
To present thrift had got the perfect way,
When I concluded by their odious crimes,
It was for us no thriving in these times.

As men oft laugh at little Babes, when they

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Hap to behold some strange thing in their play,
To see them on the suddaine strucken sad,
As in their fancie some strange formes they had,
Which they by pointing with their fingers showe,
Angry at our capacities so slowe,
That by their countenance we no sooner learne
To see the wonder which they so discerne:
So the celestiall powers doe sit and smile
At innocent and vertuous men the while,
They stand amazed at the world ore-gone,
So farre beyond imagination,
With slavish basenesse, that they silent sit
Pointing like children in describing it.

Then noble friend the next way to controule
These worldly crosses, is to arme thy soule
With constant patience: and with thoughts as high
As these belowe, and poore, winged to flye
To that exalted stand, whether yet they
Are got with paine, that sit out of the way
Of this ignoble age, which raiseth none
But such as thinke their black damnation
To be a trifle; such, so ill, that when
They are advanc'd, those fewe poore honest men
That yet are living, into search doe runne
To finde what mischiefe they have lately done,
Which so preferres them; say thou he doth rise,
That maketh vertue his chiefe excercise.
And in this base world come what ever shall,
Hees worth lamenting, that for her doth fall.

213

UPON THE THREE SONNES OF THE LORD SHEFFIELD,

drowned in Humber.

Light Sonnets hence, and to loose Lovers flie,
And mournfull Maydens sing an Elegie
On those three Sheffields, over-whelm'd with waves,
Whose losse the teares of all the Muses craves;
A thing so full of pitty as this was,
Me thinkes for nothing should not slightly passe.
Treble this losse was, why should it not borrowe,
Through this Iles treble parts, a treble sorrowe:
But Fate did this, to let the world to knowe,
That sorrowes which from common causes growe,
Are not worth mourning for, the losse to beare,
But of one onely sonne, 's not worth one teare.
Some tender hearted man, as I, may spend
Some drops (perhaps) for a deceased friend.
Some men (perhaps) their Wifes late death may rue;
Or Wifes their Husbands, but such be but fewe.
Cares that have us'd the hearts of men to tuch
So oft, and deepely, will not now be such;
Who'll care for losse of maintenance, or place,
Fame, liberty, or of the Princes grace;
Or sutes in law, by base corruption crost,
When he shall finde, that this which he hath lost;
Alas, is nothing to his, which did lose,
Three sonnes at once so excellent as those:
Nay, it is feard that this in time may breed
Hard hearts in men to their owne naturall seed;
That in respect of this great losse of theirs,
Men will scarce mourne the death of their owne heires.

Through all this Ile their losse so publique is,
That every man doth take them to be his,
And as a plague which had beginning there,
So catching is, and raigning every where,
That those the farthest off as much doe rue them,

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As those the most familiarly that knew them;
Children with this disaster are wext sage,
And like to men that strucken are in age;
Talke what it is, three children at one time
Thus to have drown'd, and in their very prime;
Yea, and doe learne to act the same so well,
That then olde folke, they better can it tell.

Invention, oft that Passion us'd to faine,
In sorrowes of themselves but slight, and meane,
To make them seeme great, here it shall not need,
For that this Subject doth so farre exceed
All forc'd Expression, that what Poesie shall
Happily thinke to grace it selfe withall,
Falls so belowe it, that it rather borrowes
Grace from their griefe, then addeth to their sorrowes,
For sad mischance thus in the losse of three,
To shewe it selfe the utmost it could bee:
Exacting also by the selfe same lawe,
The utmost teares that sorrowe had to drawe,
All future times hath utterly prevented
Of a more losse, or more to be lamented.

Whilst in faire youth they lively flourish'd here,
To their kinde Parents they were onely deere:
But being dead, now every one doth take
Them for their owne, and doe like sorrowe make:
As for their owne begot, as they pretended
Hope in the issue, which should have discended
From them againe; nor here doth end our sorrow,
But those of us, that shall be borne to morrowe
Still shall lament them, and when time shall count,
To what vast number passed yeares shall mount,
They from their death shall duly reckon so,
As from the Deluge, former us'd to doe.

O cruell Humber guilty of their gore,
I now beleeve more then I did before,
The Brittish Story, whence thy name begun
Of Kingly Humber, an invading Hun,
By thee devoured, for't is likely thou

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With bloud wert Christned, bloud-thirsty till now.
The Ouse, the Done, and thou farre clearer Trent,
To drowne these Sheffields as you gave consent,
Shall curse the time, that ere you were infus'd,
Which have your waters basely thus abus'd.
The groveling Boore yee hinder not to goe,
And at his pleasure Ferry to and fro,
The very best part of whose soule, and bloud,
Compared with theirs, is viler then your mud.

But wherefore paper, doe I idely spend,
On those deafe waters to so little end,
And up to starry heaven doe I not looke,
In which, as in an everlasting booke,
Our ends are written, O let times rehearse
Their fatall losse, in their sad Aniverse.

216

TO THE NOBLE LADY, THE LADY I. S.

of worldly crosses.

Madame, to shew the smoothnesse of my vaine,
Neither that I would have you entertaine
The time in reading me, which you would spend
In faire discourse with some knowne honest friend,
I write not to you. Nay, and which is more,
My powerfull verses strive not to restore,
What time and sicknesse have in you impair'd,
To other ends my Elegie is squar'd.

Your beauty, sweetnesse, and your gracefull parts
That have drawne many eyes, wonne many hearts,
Of me get little, I am so much man,
That let them doe their utmost that they can,
I will resist their forces: and they be
Though great to others, yet not so to me.
The first time I beheld you, I then sawe
That (in it selfe) which had the power to drawe
My stay'd affection, and thought to allowe
You some deale of my heart; but you have now
Got farre into it, and you have the skill
(For ought I see) to winne upon me still.

When I doe thinke how bravely you have borne
Your many crosses, as in Fortunes scorne,
And how neglectfull you have seem'd to be,
Of that which hath seem'd terrible to me,
I thought you stupid, nor that you had felt
Those griefes which (often) I have seene to melt,
Another woman into sighes and teares,
A thing but seldome in your sexe and yeares,
But when in you I have perceiv'd agen,
(Noted by me, more then by other men)
How feeling and how sensible you are
Of your friends sorrowes, and with how much care
You seeke to cure them, then my selfe I blame,
That I your patience should so much misname,

217

Which to my understanding maketh knowne
“Who feeles anothers griefe, can feele their owne.
When straight me thinkes, I heare your patience say,
Are you the man that studied Seneca:
Plinies most learned letters; and must I
Read you a Lecture in Philosophie,
T'avoid the afflictions that have us'd to reach you;
I'le learne you more, Sir, then your bookes can teach you.

Of all your sex, yet never did I knowe,
Any that yet so actually could showe
Such rules for patience, such an easie way,
That who so sees it shall be forc'd to say,
Loe what before seem'd hard to be discern'd,
Is of this Lady, in an instant learn'd.
It is heavens will that you should wronged be
By the malicious, that the world might see
Your Dove-like meekenesse; for had the base scumme,
The spawne of Fiends, beene in your slander dumbe,
Your vertue then had perish'd, never priz'd,
For that the same you had not exercis'd;
And you had lost the Crowne you have, and glory,
Nor had you beene the subject of my Story.
Whilst they feele Hell, being damned in their hate,
Their thoughts, like Devils them excruciate,
Which by your noble suffrings doe torment
Them with new paines, and gives you this content
To see your soule an Innocent, hath suffred,
And up to heaven before your eyes be offred:
Your like we in a burning Glasse may see,
When the Sunnes rayes therein contracted be
Bent on some object, which is purely white,
We finde that colour doth dispierce the light,
And stands untainted: but if it hath got
Some little sully; or the least small spot,
Then it soone fiers it; so you still remaine
Free, because in you they can finde no staine.

God doth not love them least, on whom he layes
The great'st afflictions; but that he will praise

218

Himselfe most in them, and will make them fit,
Near'st to himselfe who is the Lambe to sit:
For by that touch, like perfect gold he tries them,
Who are not his, untill the world denies them.
And your example may worke such effect,
That it may be the beginning of a Sect
Of patient women; and that many a day
All Husbands may for you their Founder pray.

Nor is to me your Innocence the lesse,
In that I see you strive not to suppresse
Their barbarous malice; but your noble heart
Prepar'd to act so difficult a part,
With unremoved constancie is still
The same it was, that of your proper ill,
The effect proceeds from your owne selfe the cause,
Like some just Prince, who to establish lawes,
Suffers the breach at his best lov'd to strike,
To learne the vulgar to endure the like.
You are a Martir thus, nor can you be
Lesse to the world so valued by me:
If as you have begun, you still persever,
Be ever good, that I may love you ever.

219

AN ELEGIE UPON THE DEATH OF THE LADY PENELOPE CLIFTON.

Must I needes write, who's he that can refuse,
He wants a minde, for her that hath no Muse,
The thought of her doth heav'nly rage inspire,
Next powerfull, to those cloven tongues of fire.

Since I knew ought time never did allowe
Me stuffe fit for an Elegie, till now;
When France and England's Henrie's dy'd, my quill,
Why, I know not, but it that time lay still.
'Tis more then greatnesse that my spirit must raise,
To observe custome I use not to praise;
Nor the least thought of mine yet ere depended,
On any one from whom she was descended;
That for their favour I this way should wooe,
As some poore wretched things (perhaps) may doe;
I gaine the end, whereat I onely ayme,
If by my freedome I may give her fame.

Walking then forth being newly up from bed,
O Sir (quoth one) the Lady Clifton's dead.
When, but that reason my sterne rage withstood,
My hand had sure beene guilty of his blood.
If shee be so, must thy rude tongue confesse it
(Quoth I) and com'st so coldly to expresse it.
Thou shouldst have given a shreeke, to make me feare thee;
That might have slaine what ever had beene neere thee.
Thou shouldst have com'n like Time with thy scalpe bare,
And in thy hands thou shouldst have brought thy haire,
Casting upon me such a dreadfull looke,
As seene a spirit, or th'adst beene thunder strooke,
And gazing on me so a little space,
Thou shouldst have shot thine eye balls in my face,
Then falling at my feet, thou shouldst have said,
O she is gone, and Nature with her dead.

With this ill newes amaz'd by chance I past,
By that neere Grove, whereas both first and last,

220

I saw her, not three moneths before shee di'd.
When (though full Summer gan to vaile her pride,
And that I sawe men leade home ripened Corne,
Besides advis'd me well,) I durst have sworne
The lingring yeare, the Autumne had adjourn'd,
And the fresh Spring had beene againe return'd,
Her delicacie, lovelinesse, and grace,
With such a Summer bravery deckt the place:
But now alas, it lookt forlorne and dead;
And where she stood, the fading leaves were shed,
Presenting onely sorrowe to my sight,
O God (thought I) this is her Embleme right.

And sure I thinke it cannot but be thought,
That I to her by providence was brought.
For that the Fates fore-dooming, shee should die,
Shewed me this wondrous Master peece, that I
Should sing her Funerall, that the world should know it,
That heaven did thinke her worthy of a Poet;
My hand is fatall, nor doth fortune doubt,
For what it writes, not fire shall ere race out.
A thousand silken Puppets should have died,
And in their fulsome Coffins putrified,
Ere in my lines, you of their names should heare
To tell the world that such there ever were,
Whose memory shall from the earth decay,
Before those Rags be worne they gave away.
Had I her god-like features never seene,
Poore sleight Report had tolde me she had beene
A hansome Lady, comely, very well,
And so might I have died an Infidell,
As many doe which never did her see,
Or cannot credit, what she was, by mee.

Nature, her selfe, that before Art prefers
To goe beyond all our Cosmographers,
By Charts and Maps exactly that have showne,
All of this earth that ever can be knowne,
For that she would beyond them all descrie
What Art could not, by any mortall eye;

221

A Map of heaven in her rare features drue,
And that she did so lively and so true,
That any soule but seeing it, might sweare
That all was perfect heavenly that was there.
If ever any Painter were so blest,
To drawe that face, which so much heav'n exprest,
If in his best of skill he did her right,
I wish it never may come in my sight,
I greatly doubt my faith (weake man) lest I
Should to that face commit Idolatry.

Death might have tyth'd her sex, but for this one,
Nay, have ta'n halfe to have let her alone;
Such as their wrinkled temples to supply,
Cyment them up with sluttish Mercury,
Such as undrest were able to affright,
A valiant man approching him by night;
Death might have taken such, her end deferd,
Untill the time she had beene climaterd;
When she would have bin at threescore yeares and three,
Such as our best at three and twenty be,
With envie then, he might have overthrowne her,
When age nor time had power to sease upon her.

But when the unpittying Fates her end decreed,
They to the same did instantly proceed,
For well they knew (if she had languish'd so)
As those which hence by naturall causes goe,
So many prayers, and teares for her had spoken,
As certainly their Iron lawes had broken,
And had wak'd heav'n, who clearely would have show'd
That change of Kingdomes to her death it ow'd;
And that the world still of her end might thinke,
It would have let some Neighbouring mountaine sinke,
Or the vast Sea it in on us to cast,
As Severne did about some five yeares past:
Or some sterne Comet his curld top to reare,
Whose length should measure halfe our Hemisphere.
Holding this height, to say some will not sticke,
That now I rave, and am growne lunatique:

222

You of what sexe so ere you be, you lye,
'Tis thou thy selfe is lunatique, not I.

I charge you in her name that now is gone,
That may conjure you, if you be not stone,
That you no harsh, nor shallow rimes decline,
Upon that day wherein you shall read mine.
Such as indeed are falsely termed verse,
And will but sit like mothes upon her herse;
Nor that no child, nor chambermaide, nor page,
Disturbe the Rome, the whilst my sacred rage,
In reading is; but whilst you heare it read,
Suppose, before you, that you see her dead,
The walls about you hung with mournfull blacke,
And nothing of her funerall to lacke,
And when this period gives you leave to pause,
Cast up your eyes, and sigh for my applause.

223

UPON THE NOBLE LADY ASTONS DEPARTURE FOR SPAINE.

I many a time have greatly marveil'd, why
Men say, their friends depart when as they die,
How well that word, a dying, doth expresse,
I did not know (I truely must confesse,)
Till her departure, for whose missed sight,
I am enforc'd this Elegy to write:
But since resistlesse fate will have it so,
That she from hence must to Iberia goe,
And my weake wishes can her not detaine,
I will of heaven in policy complaine,
That it so long her travell should adjourne,
Hoping thereby to hasten her returne.

Can those of Norway for their wage procure,

The witches of the Northerly legions sell windes to passengers.

By their blacke spells a winde that shall endure
Till from aboard the wished land men see,
And fetch the harbour, where they long to be,
Can they by charmes doe this, and cannot I
Who am the Priest of Phæbus, and so hie,
Sit in his favour, winne the Poets god,
To send swift Hermes with his snaky rod,
To Æolus Cave, commanding him with care,
His prosperous winds, that he for her prepare,
And from that howre, wherein she takes the seas,
Nature bring on the quiet Halcion dayes,
And in that hower that bird begin her nest,
Nay at that very instant, that long rest
May seize on Neptune, who may still repose,
And let that bird nere till that hower disclose,
Wherein she landeth, and for all that space
Be not a wrinkle seene on Thetis face,
Onely so much breath with a gentle gale,
As by the easy swelling of her saile,
May at

The nearest Harbour of Spaine.

Sebastians safely set her downe
Where, with her goodnes she may blesse the towne.

224

If heaven in justice would have plagu'd by thee
Some Pirate, and grimme Neptune thou should'st be
His Executioner, or what is his worse,
The gripple Merchant, borne to be the curse
Of this brave Iland; let them for her sake,
Who to thy safeguard doth her selfe betake,
Escape undrown'd, unwrackt, nay rather let
Them be at ease in some safe harbour set,
Where with much profit they may vent their wealth
That they have got by villany and stealth,
Rather great Neptune, then when thou dost rave,
Thou once shouldst wet her saile but with a wave.

Or if some proling Rover shall but dare,
To seize the ship wherein she is to fare,
Let the fell fishes of the Maine appeare,
And tell those Sea-thiefes, that once such they were
As they are now, till they assaid to rape;
Grape-crowned Bacchus in a striplings shape,
That came aboard them, and would faine have saild,
To vine-spread

An Ile for the abundance of wine supposed to be the habitation of Bachus

Naxus, but that him they faild,
Which he perceiving, them so monstrous made,
And warne them how, they passengers invade.

Ye South and Westerne winds now cease to blow,
Autumne is come, there be no flowers to grow,
Yea from that place respire, to which she goes,
And to her sailes should show your selfe but foes,
But Boreas and yee Esterne windes arise,
To send her soon to Spaine, but be precise,
That in your aide you seeme not still so sterne,
As we a Summer should no more discerne,
For till that here againe, I may her see,
It will be winter all the yeare with me.

Castor and Polox begot by Jove on Leda in the forme of a Swanne. A constellation ominous to Mariners.

Yee swanne-begotten lovely brother stars,
So oft auspicious to poore Mariners,
Yee twin-bred lights of lovely Leda's brood,
Joves egge-borne issue smile upon the flood,
And in your mild'st aspect doe ye appeare
To be her warrant from all future feare.

225

And if thou ship that bear'st her, doe prove good,
May never time by wormes, consume thy wood
Nor rust thy iron, may thy tacklings last,
Till they for reliques be in temples plac't:
Maist thou be ranged with that mighty Arke,
Wherein just Noah did all the world imbarque,
With that which after Troyes so famous wracke,
From ten yeares travell brought Ulisses backe,
That Argo which to Colchos went from Greece,
And in her botome brought the goulden fleece
Under brave Jason; or that same of Drake,
Wherein he did his famous voyage make
About the world; or Candishes that went
As far as his, about the Continent.

And yee milde winds that now I doe implore,
Not once to raise the least sand on the shore,
Nor once on forfeit of your selves respire:
When once the time is come of her retire,
If then it please you, but to doe your due,
What for those windes I did, Ile doe for you;
Ile wooe you then, and if that not suffice,
My pen shall proove you to have dietyes,
Ile sing your loves in verses that shall flow,
And tell the storyes of your weale and woe,
Ile proove what profit to the earth you bring,
And how t'is you that welcome in the spring;
Ile raise up altars to you, as to show,
The time shall be kept holy, when you blow.
O blessed winds! your will that it may be,
To send health to her, and her home to me.

226

TO MY MOST DEARELY-LOVED FRIEND HENERY REYNOLDS ESQUIRE,

of Poets and Poesie.

My dearely loved friend how oft have we,
In winter evenings (meaning to be free,)
To some well chosen place us'd to retire;
And there with moderate meate, and wine, and fire,
Have past the howres contentedly with chat,
Now talk'd of this, and then discours'd of that,
Spoke our owne verses 'twixt our selves, if not
Other mens lines, which we by chance had got,
Or some Stage pieces famous long before,
Of which your happy memory had store;
And I remember you much pleased were,
Of those who lived long agoe to heare,
As well as of those, of these latter times,
Who have inricht our language with their rimes,
And in succession, how still up they grew,
Which is the subject, that I now pursue;
For from my cradle (you must know that) I,
Was still inclin'd to noble Poesie,
And when that once Pueriles I had read,
And newly had my Cato construed,
In my small selfe I greatly marveil'd then,
Amongst all other, what strange kinde of men
These Poets were; And pleased with the name,
To my milde Tutor merrily I came,
(For I was then a proper goodly page,
Much like a Pigmy, scarse ten yeares of age)
Clasping my slender armes about his thigh.
O my deare master! cannot you (quoth I)
Make me a Poet, doe it; if you can,
And you shall see, Ile quickly be a man,
Who me thus answered smiling, boy quoth he,
If you'le not play the wag, but I may see

227

You ply your learning, I will shortly read
Some Poets to you; Phæbus be my speed,
Too't hard went I, when shortly he began,
And first read to me honest Mantuan,
Then Virgils Eglogues, being entred thus,
Me thought I straight had mounted Pegasus,
And in his full Careere could make him stop,
And bound upon Parnassus by-clift top.
I scornd your ballet then though it were done
And had for Finis, William Elderton.
But soft, in sporting with this childish jest,
I from my subject have too long digrest,
Then to the matter that we tooke in hand,
Jove and Apollo for the Muses stand.

That noble Chaucer, in those former times,
The first inrich'd our English with his rimes,
And was the first of ours, that ever brake,
Into the Muses treasure, and first spake
In weighty numbers, delving in the Mine
Of perfect knowledge, which he could refine,
And coyne for currant, and asmuch as then
The English language could expresse to men,
He made it doe; and by his wondrous skill,
Gave us much light from his abundant quill.

And honest Gower, who in respect of him,
Had only sipt at Aganippas brimme,
And though in yeares this last was him before,
Yet fell he far short of the others store.

When after those, foure ages very neare,
They with the Muses which conversed, were
That Princely Surrey, early in the time
Of the Eight Henry, who was then the prime
Of Englands noble youth; with him there came
Wyat; with reverence whom we still doe name
Amongst our Poets, Brian had a share
With the two former, which accompted are
That times best makers, and the authors were
Of those small poems, which the title beare,

228

Of songs and sonnets, wherein oft they hit
On many dainty passages of wit.

Gascoine and Churchyard after them againe
In the beginning of Eliza's raine,
Accoumpted were great Meterers many a day,
But not inspired with brave fier, had they
Liv'd but a little longer, they had seene,
Their workes before them to have buried beene.

Grave morrall Spencer after these came on
Then whom I am perswaded there was none
Since the blind Bard his Iliads up did make,
Fitter a taske like that to undertake,
To set downe boldly, bravely to invent,
In all high knowledge, surely excellent.

The noble Sidney, with this last arose,
That Heroe for numbers, and for Prose.
That throughly pac'd our language as to show,
The plenteous English hand in hand might goe
With Greeke and Latine, and did first reduce
Our tongue from Lillies writing then in use;
Talking of Stones, Stars, Plants, of fishes, Flyes,
Playing with words, and idle Similies,
As th'English, Apes and very Zanies be
Of every thing, that they doe heare and see,
So imitating his ridiculous tricks,
They spake and writ, all like meere lunatiques.

Then Warner though his lines were not so trim'd,
Nor yet his Poem so exactly lim'd
And neatly joynted, but the Criticke may
Easily reproove him, yet thus let me say;
For my old friend, some passages there be
In him, which I protest have taken me,
With almost wonder, so fine, cleere, and new
As yet they have bin equalled by few.

Neat Marlow bathed in the Thespian springs
Had in him those brave translunary things,
That the first Poets had, his raptures were,
All ayre, and fire, which made his verses cleere,

229

For that fine madnes still he did retaine,
Which rightly should possesse a Poets braine.

And surely Nashe, though he a Proser were
A branch of Lawrell yet deserves to beare,
Sharply Satirick was he, and that way
He went, since that his being, to this day
Few have attempted, and I surely thinke
Those words shall hardly be set downe with inke;
Shall scorch and blast, so as his could, where he,
Would inflict vengeance, and be it said of thee,
Shakespeare thou hadst as smooth a Comicke vaine,
Fitting the socke, and in thy naturall braine,
As strong conception, and as Cleere a rage,
As any one that trafiqu'd with the stage.

Amongst these Samuel Daniel, whom if I
May spake of, but to sensure doe denie,
Onely have heard some wisemen him rehearse,
To be too much Historian in verse;
His rimes were smooth, his meeters well did close,
But yet his maner better fitted prose:
Next these, learn'd Johnson, in this List I bring,
Who had drunke deepe of the Pierian spring,
Whose knowledge did him worthily prefer,
And long was Lord here of the Theater,
Who in opinion made our learn'st to sticke,
Whether in Poems rightly dramatique,
Strong Seneca or Plautus, he or they,
Should beare the Buskin, or the Socke away.
Others againe here lived in my dayes,
That have of us deserved no lesse praise
For their translations, then the daintiest wit
That on Parnassus thinks, he highst doth sit,
And for a chaire may mongst the Muses call,
As the most curious maker of them all;
As reverent Chapman, who hath brought to us,
Musæus, Homer, and Hesiodus
Out of the Greeke; and by his skill hath reard
Them to that height, and to our tongue endear'd,

230

That were those Poets at this day alive,
To see their bookes thus with us to survive,
They would think, having neglected them so long,
They had bin written in the English tongue.

And Silvester who from the French more weake,
Made Bartas of his sixe dayes labour speake
In naturall English, who, had he there stayd,
He had done well, and never had bewraid,
His owne invention, to have bin so poore
Who still wrote lesse, in striving to write more.

Then dainty Sands that hath to English done,
Smooth sliding Ovid, and hath made him run
With so much sweetnesse and unusuall grace,
As though the neatnesse of the English pace,
Should tell the Jetting Lattine that it came
But slowly after, as though stiffe and lame.

So Scotland sent us hither, for our owne
That man, whose name I ever would have knowne,
To stand by mine, that most ingenious knight,
My Alexander, to whom in his right,
I want extreamely, yet in speaking thus
I doe but shew the love, that was twixt us,
And not his numbers which were brave and hie,
So like his mind, was his cleare Poesie,
And my deare Drummond to whom much I owe
For his much love, and proud I was to know,
His poesie, for which two worthy men,
I Menstry still shall love, and Hauthorne-den,
Then the two Beamounts and my Browne arose,
My deare companions whom I freely chose
My bosome friends; and in their severall wayes,
Rightly borne Poets, and in these last dayes,
Men of much note, and no lesse nobler parts,
Such as have freely tould to me their hearts,
As I have mine to them; but if you shall
Say in your knowledge, that these be not all
Have writ in numbers, be inform'd that I
Only my selfe, to these few men doe tye,

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Whose workes oft printed, set on every post,
To publique censure subject have bin most;
For such whose poems, be they nere so rare,
In private chambers, that incloistered are,
And by transcription daintyly must goe;
As though the world unworthy were to know,
Their rich composures, let those men that keepe
These wonderous reliques in their judgement deepe,
And cry them up so, let such Peeces bee
Spoke of by those that shall come after me,
I passe not for them: nor doe meane to run,
In quest of these, that them applause have wonne,
Upon our Stages in these latter dayes,
That are so many, let them have ther bayes
That doe deserve it; let those wits that haunt
Those publique circuits, let them freely chaunt
Their fine Composures, and their praise pursue,
And so my deare friend, for this time adue.

232

UPON THE DEATH OF HIS INCOMPARABLE FRIEND, SIR HENRY RAYNSFORD

of Clifford.

Could there be words found to expresse my losse,
There were some hope, that this my heavy crosse
Might be sustained, and that wretched I
Might once finde comfort: but to have him die
Past all degrees that was so deare to me;
As but comparing him with others, hee
Was such a thing, as if some Power should say
I'le take Man on me, to shew men the way
What a friend should be. But words come so short
Of him, that when I thus would him report,
I am undone, and having nought to say,
Mad at my selfe, I throwe my penne away,
And beate my breast, that there should be a woe
So high, that words cannot attaine thereto.
T'is strange that I from my abundant breast,
Who others sorrowes have so well exprest:
Yet I by this in little time am growne
So poore, that I want to expresse my owne.

I thinke the Fates perceiving me to beare
My worldly crosses without wit or feare:
Nay, with what scorne I ever have derided,
Those plagues that for me they have oft provided,
Drew them to counsaile; nay, conspired rather,
And in this businesse laid their heads together
To finde some one plague, that might me subvert,
And at an instant breake my stubborne heart;
They did indeede, and onely to this end
They tooke from me this more then man, or friend.

Hard-hearted Fates, your worst thus have you done,
Then let us see what lastly you have wonne
By this your rigour, in a course so strict,
Why see, I beare all that you can inflict:

233

And hee from heaven your poore revenge to view;
Laments my losse of him, but laughes at you,
Whilst I against you execrations breath;
Thus are you scorn'd above, and curst beneath.

Me thinks that man (unhappy though he be)
Is now thrice happy in respect of me,
Who hath no friend; for that in having none
He is not stirr'd as I am, to bemone
My miserable losse, who but in vaine,
May ever looke to finde the like againe.
This more then mine owne selfe; that who had seene
His care of me where ever I have beene,
And had not knowne his active spirit before,
Upon some brave thing working evermore:
He would have sworne that to no other end
He had beene borne: but onely for my friend.

I had beene happy, if nice Nature had
(Since now my lucke falls out to be so bad)
Made me unperfect, either of so soft
And yeelding temper, that lamenting oft,
I into teares my mournefull selfe might melt;
Or else so dull, my losse not to have felt.
I have by my too deere experience bought,
That fooles and mad men, whom I ever thought
The most unhappy, are in deede not so:
And therefore I lesse pittie can bestowe
(Since that my sence, my sorrowe so can sound)
On those I see in Bedlam that are bound,
And scarce feele scourging; and when as I meete
A foole by Children followed in the Streete,
Thinke I (poore wretch) thou from my griefe art free,
Nor couldst thou feele it, should it light on thee;
But that I am a Christian, and am taught
By him who with his precious bloud me bought,
Meekly like him my crosses to endure,
Else would they please me well, that for their cure,
When as they feele their conscience doth them brand,
Upon themselves dare lay a violent hand;

234

Not suffering Fortune with her murdering knife,
Stand like a Surgeon working on the life,
Desecting this part, that joynt off to cut,
Shewing that Artire, ripping then that gut,
Whilst the dull beastly World with her squint eye,
Is to behold the strange Anatomie.

I am perswaded that those which we read
To be man-haters, were not so indeed,
The Athenian Timon, and beside him more
Of which the Latines, as the Greekes have store;
Nor not they did all humane manners hate,
Nor yet maligne mans dignity and state.
But finding our fraile life how every day,
It like a bubble vanisheth away:
For this condition did mankinde detest,
Farre more incertaine then that of the beast.

Sure heaven doth hate this world and deadly too,
Else as it hath done it would never doe,
For if it did not, it would ne're permit
A man of so much vertue, knowledge, wit,
Of naturall goodnesse, supernaturall grace,
Whose courses when considerately I trace
Into their ends, and diligently looke,
They serve me for Oeconomike booke,
By which this rough world I not onely stemme,
In goodnesse but growe learn'd by reading them.

O pardon me, it my much sorrow is,
Which makes me use this long Parenthesis;
Had heaven this world not hated as I say,
In height of life it had not, tane away
A spirit so brave, so active, and so free,
That such a one who would not wish to bee,
Rather then weare a Crowne, by Armes though got,
So fast a friend, so true a Patriot.
In things concerning both the worlds so wise,
Besides so liberall of his faculties,
That where he would his industrie bestowe,
He would have done, e're one could think to doe.

235

No more talke of the working of the Starres,
For plenty, scarcenesse, or for peace, or Warres.
They are impostures, therefore get you hence
With all your Planets, and their influence.
No more doe I care into them to looke,
Then in some idle Chiromantick booke,
Shewing the line of life, and Venus mount,
Nor yet no more would I of them account,
Then what that tells me, since that what so ere
Might promise man long life: of care and feare,
By nature freed, a conscience cleere, and quiet,
His health, his constitution, and his diet;
Counting a hundred, fourescore at the least,
Propt up by prayers, yet more to be encreast,
All these should faile, and in his fiftieth yeare
He should expire, henceforth let none be deare,
To me at all, lest for my haplesse sake,
Before their time heaven from the world them take,
And leave me wretched to lament their ends
As I doe his, who was a thousand friends.

236

UPON THE DEATH OF THE LADY OLIVE STANHOPE.

Canst thou depart and be forgotten so,
Stanhope thou canst not, no deare Stanhope, no:
But in despight of death the world shall see,
That Muse which so much graced was by thee;
Can black Oblivion utterly out-brave,
And set thee up above thy silent Grave.

I mervail'd much the Derbian Nimphes were dumbe,
Or of those Muses, what should be become,
That of all those, the mountaines there among,
Not one this while thy Epicedium sung;
But so it is, when they of thee were reft,
They all those hills, and all those Rivers left,
And sullen growne, their former seates remove,
Both from cleare Darwin, and from silver Dove,
And for thy losse, they greeved are so sore,
That they have vow'd they will come there no more;
But leave thy losse to me, that I should rue thee,
Unhappy man, and yet I never knew thee:
Me thou didst love unseene, so did I thee,
It was our spirits that lov'd then and not wee;
Therefore without profanenesse I may call
The love betwixt us, love spirituall:
But that which thou affectedst was so true,
As that thereby thee perfectly I knew;
And now that spirit, which thou so lov'dst, still mine,
Shall offer this a Sacrifice to thine,
And reare this Trophe, which for thee shall last,
When this most beastly Iron age is past;
I am perswaded, whilst we two have slept,
Our soules have met, and to each other wept;
That destenie so strongly should forbid,
Our bodies to converse as oft they did:
For certainly refined spirits doe know,
As doe the Angels, and doe here belowe

237

Take the fruition of that endlesse blisse,
As those above doe, and what each one is,
They see divinely, and as those there doe,
They know each others wills, so soules can too.

About that dismall time, thy spirit hence flew,
Mine much was troubled, but why, I not knew,
In dull and sleepy sounds, it often left me,
As of it selfe it ment to have bereft me,
I ask'd it what the cause was, of such woe,
Or what it might be, that might vexe it so,
But it was deafe, nor my demand would here,
But when that ill newes came, to touch mine eare,
I straightwayes found this watchfull sperit of mine,
Troubled had bin to take its leave of thine,
For when fate found, what nature late had done,
How much from heaven, she for the earth had won
By thy deare birth; said, that it could not be
In so yong yeares, what it perceiv'd in thee,
But nature sure, had fram'd thee long before;
And as Rich Misers of their mighty store,
Keepe the most precious longst, so from times past,
She onely had reservd thee till the last;
So did thy wisedome, not thy youth behold,
And tooke thee hence, in thinking thou wast old.
Thy shape and beauty often have to me
Bin highly praysed, which I thought might be,
Truely reported, for a spirit so brave,
Which heaven to thee so bountifully gave;
Nature could not in recompence againe,
In some rich lodging but to entertaine.
Let not the world report then, that the Peake,
Is but a rude place only vast and bleake,
And nothing hath to boast of but her Lead,
When she can say that happily she bred
Thee, and when she shall of her wonders tell
Wherein she doth all other Tracts excell,
Let her account thee greatst, and still to time
Of all the rest, record thee for the prime.

238

TO MASTER WILLIAM JEFFREYS,

Chaplaine to the Lord Ambassadour in Spaine.

My noble friend, you challenge me to write
To you in verse, and often you recite,
My promise to you, and to send you newes;
As 'tis a thing I very seldome use,
And I must write of State, if to Madrid,
A thing our Proclamations here forbid,
And that word State such Latitude doth beare,
As it may make me very well to feare
To write, nay speake at all, these let you know
Your power on me, yet not that I will showe
The love I beare you, in that lofty height,
So cleere expression, or such words of weight,
As into Spanish if they were translated,
Might make the Poets of that Realme amated;
Yet these my least were, but that you extort
These numbers from me, when I should report
In home-spunne prose, in good plaine honest words
The newes our wofull England us affords.

The Muses here sit sad, and mute the while
A sort of swine unseasonably defile
Those sacred springs, which from the by-clift hill
Dropt their pure Nectar into every quill;
In this with State, I hope I doe not deale,
This onely tends the Muses common-weale.

What canst thou hope, or looke for from his pen,
Who lives with beasts, though in the shapes of men,
And what a poore few are we honest still,
And dare to be so, when all the world is ill.

I finde this age of ours markt with this fate,
That honest men are still precipitate
Under base villaines, which till th'earth can vent
This her last brood, and wholly hath them spent,

239

Shall be so, then in revolution shall,
Vertue againe arise by vices fall;
But that shall I not see, neither will I
Maintaine this, as one doth a Prophesie,
That our King James to Rome shall surely goe,
And from his chaire the Pope shall overthrow.
But ô this world is so given up to hell,
That as the old Giants, which did once rebell,
Against the Gods, so this now-living race
Dare sin, yet stand, and Jeere heaven in the face.

But soft my Muse, and make a little stay,
Surely thou art not rightly in thy way,
To my good Jeffrayes was not I about
To write, and see, I suddainely am out,
This is pure Satire, that thou speak'st, and I
Was first in hand to write an Elegie.
To tell my countreys shame I not delight,
But doe bemoane't I am no Democrite:
O God, though Vertue mightily doe grieve
For all this world, yet will I not beleeve
But that shees faire and lovely, and that she
So to the period of the world shall be;
Else had she beene forsaken (sure) of all,
For that so many sundry mischiefes fall
Upon her dayly, and so many take
Armes up against her, as it well might make
Her to forsake her nature, and behind,
To leave no step for future time to find,
As she had never beene, for he that now
Can doe her most disgrace, him they alow
The times chiefe Champion, and he is the man,
The prize, and Palme that absolutely wanne,
For where Kings Clossets her free seat hath bin
She neere the Lodge, not suffered is to Inne,
For ignorance against her stands in state,
Like some great porter at a Pallace gate;
So dull and barbarous lately are we growne,
And there are some this slavery that have sowne,

240

That for mans knowledge it enough doth make,
If he can learne, to read an Almanacke;
By whom that trash of Amadis de Gaule,
Is held an author most authenticall,
And things we have, like Noblemen that be
In little time, which I have hope to see
Upon their foot-clothes, as the streets they ride
To have their hornebookes at their girdles ti'd,
But all their superfluity of spight
On vertues handmaid Poesy doth light,
And to extirpe her all their plots they lay,
But to her ruine they shall misse the way,
For tis alone the Monuments of wit,
Above the rage of Tyrants that doe sit,
And from their strength, not one himselfe can save,
But they shall tryumph o'r his hated grave.

In my conceipt, friend, thou didst never see
A righter Madman then thou hast of me,
For now as Elegiack I bewaile
These poore base times; then suddainely I raile
And am Satirick, not that I inforce
My selfe to be so, but even as remorse,
Or hate, in the proud fulnesse of their hight
Master my fancy, just so doe I write.

But gentle friend as soone shall I behold
That stone of which so many have us tould,
(Yet never any to this day could make)
The great Elixar, or to undertake
The Rose-crosse knowledge, which is much like that
A Tarrying-iron for fooles to labour at,
As ever after I may hope to see,
(A plague upon this beastly world for me,)
Wit so respected as it was of yore,
And if hereafter any it restore,
It must be those that yet for many a yeare,
Shall be unborne that must inhabit here,
And such in vertue as shall be asham'd
Almost to heare their ignorant Grandsires nam'd,

241

With whom so many noble spirits then liv'd,
That were by them of all reward depriv'd.

My noble friend, I would I might have quit
This age of these, and that I might have writ,
Before all other, how much the brave pen,
Had here bin honoured of the English men;
Goodnesse and knowledge, held by them in prise,
How hatefull to them Ignorance and vice,
But it falls out the contrary is true,
And so my Jeffreyes for this time adue.

242

UPON THE DEATH OF MISTRIS ELIANOR FALLOWFIELD.

Accursed Death, what neede was there at all
Of thee, or who to councell did thee call;
The subject whereupon these lines I spend
For thee was most unfit, her timelesse end
Too soone thou wroughtst, too neere her thou didst stand;
Thou shouldst have lent thy leane and meager hand
To those who oft the help thereof beseech,
And can be cured by no other Leech.

In this wide world how many thousands be,
That having past fourescore, doe call for thee.
The wretched debtor in the Jayle that lies,
Yet cannot this his Creditor suffice,
Doth woe thee oft with many a sigh and teare,
Yet thou art coy, and him thou wilt not heare.
The Captive slave that tuggeth at the Oares,
And underneath the Bulls tough sinewes rores,
Begs at thy hand, in lieu of all his paines,
That thou wouldst but release him of his chaines;
Yet thou a niggard listenest not thereto,
With one short gaspe which thou mightst easily do,
But thou couldst come to her ere there was neede,
And even at once destroy both flowre and seede.

But cruell Death if thou so barbarous be,
To those so goodly, and so young as shee;
That in their teeming thou wilt shew thy spight;
Either from marriage thou wilt Maides affright,
Or in their wedlock, Widowes lives to chuse,
Their Husbands bed, and utterly refuse,
Fearing conception; so shalt thou thereby
Extirpate mankinde by thy cruelty.

If after direfull Tragedy thou thirst,
Extinguish Himens Torches at the first;
Build Funerall pyles, and the sad pavement strewe,
With mournfull Cypresse, & the pale-leav'd Yewe.

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Away with Roses, Myrtle, and with Bayes;
Ensignes of mirth, and jollity, as these,
Never at Nuptials used be againe,
But from the Church the new Bride entertaine
With weeping Nenias, ever and among,
As at departings be sad Requiems song.

Lucina by th'olde Poets that wert sayd,
Women in Childe-birth evermore to ayde,
Because thine Altars, long have layne neglected:
Nor as they should, thy holy fiers reflected
Upon thy Temples, therefore thou doest flye,
And wilt not helpe them in necessitie.

Thinking upon thee, I doe often muse,
Whether for thy deare sake I should accuse
Nature or Fortune, Fortune then I blame,
And doe impute it as her greatest shame,
To hast thy timelesse end, and soone agen
I vexe at Nature, nay I curse her then,
That at the time of need she was no stronger,
That we by her might have enjoy'd thee longer.

But whilst of these I with my selfe debate,
I call to minde how flinty-hearted Fate
Seaseth the olde, the young, the faire, the foule,
No thing of earth can Destinie controule:
But yet that Fate which hath of life bereft thee,
Still to eternall memory hath left thee,
Which thou enjoy'st by the deserved breath,
That many a great one hath not after death.

FINIS.