Three Precious Teares of Blood Flowing from the wounded harts of three great French Ladies. In Memory of the Vertues, complaint of the losse, and execration of the murther, of that thrice-worthy Monarch, Henry the Great. Now shed aganne in English [by Richard Niccols] |
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| 2. | The second teare, A COMPLAINT OF THE RIGHT HONORABLE, THE LADY ANNE OF ROHAN, VPON THE DEATH of that great King, Henry
the fourth. |
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 | Three Precious Teares of Blood |  |
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The second teare, A COMPLAINT OF THE RIGHT HONORABLE, THE LADY ANNE OF ROHAN, VPON THE DEATH of that great King, Henry the fourth.
TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE, THE VICOVNTESSE OF CRANBORNE.
1
Mvst great redoubted Henry, ô must heThat aw'd & tam'd men, now be tam'd by death?
Must we that saw his glory his end see?
And spend in showers our teares, in sighs our breath?
O must so little earth hold him, whose merit
Suffis'd, that he the whole earth should inherit?
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Must all our ioyes euer extinct remaine?Must mirth and musick turne to sad lament?
In place of such a King, must sorrow raigne?
Must anguish pearce our soules, greefe our harts rent?
While endles sighs are towards heau'n exhaling,
Must hopeles teares still on the earth be falling?
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They must, they ought; what tribute can we payHis sacred ashes, but our teares? most fit
To sprinckle the sad marble, wherein they
Repose; No, no, such helples helps let's quit;
Yet since his blood he spared not, vs to pleasure,
Shall we spate to spend teares, so poore a treasure?
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4
Should our distilling eyes to fountaines tourne,Of all our greefs they would not drowne the lest;
With teares for each light cause we lightly mourne,
And common things are seldome in request:
Then dye we must, nought els is worth the proffring,
His tombe the Altar, we must be the offring.
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But who can dye? the spinning destiniesDisdaine to touch our moistened eyes, now they
Haue clos'd his, whose great hart did death despise;
Pale Atropos proud of so rich a pray
May beare for Cypres, Bayes; a change most glorious,
Since she proues victor of the most victorious.
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Since we must yet lament, and liue; since fateAttends them least that doe pursue it most;
O let vs liue lamenting our hard state,
Our ioy berest vs, and our comfort lost;
Let's greeue, weepe, sigh, this testimony giuing
Till death, that we bewaile our life in liuing.
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Let's mourne to loose that spirit so admirde,That perfect iudgement, that sweet Noblenes,
That Peerles, Fearles Hercules, inspirde
With more perfections then words can expresse;
Who would haue brought the world in his subiection,
But that his iustice bounded his affection.
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Let's mourne that that graue wisdome so should end,That best of goodnes, that great valiant minde,
That hart that knew not how to breake, though bend;
Deere parts, whose vse we had, whose losse we finde:
I rather can admire then sing their glory,
Such an Achilles fits an Homers story.
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But in the throng of vertues mustred here,Shall his rare Clemency in silence rest,
Which pardon only held for object deere,
Pardon so seldome lodg'd in Princes breast?
This ask's not his friends, but his foe's expression,
Let them that made proofe of it make confession.
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Who can the number of his acts recount?His famous victories who can set forth?
Their due discourse doth my poore power surmount,
No end of praise where is no end of worth;
Silence should still be kept, or wisely broken,
He speakes nought who speakes not, what should be spoken.
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That man for his perfections numberles,Like none aliue, is now but like the dead;
The strong hath found his strength then deaths strength les,
The Conqueror now conquer'd lies in lead:
Th'infernall steele that pierc'd without compassion
His royall flesh, hath pierc'd our soules with passion.
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His acts made vs our heads aloft to reare,His laurels shades did vs from tempests shroud,
The end of his fights ended all our feares,
We scorning others of our selues were proud;
Prouder to liue in such a Kings subjection,
Then to haue subject Kings in our protection.
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Our glory now we withring dying see,Now are our joyes for euer finished,
Our Flour-do-luces buryed, with them we;
Sad Daphne hanging her triumphant head
In humble pittifull respect vnto him,
Seemes she will crowne his tombe, or homage doe him.
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Deare France bewaile thy King, thy King of lateBlest in his peace, victorious in his warres,
Conseruer of thy freedome, goods and state,
Ceaselesse cry out, powre out vnfained teares;
As farre as earth hath earth for mans remaining,
As farre as his name rings, ring out thy playning.
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Modell of honour, honour of our France,Queene of the Flower-de-luces, in these woes
Your teares are without stop, your sufferance
Without redresse; your griefe that no end knowes
Makes you as often wish your life expired,
As your life for your vertues is desired.
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Oh! how your soule to griefe abandon'd lyes,When you but thinke on that thrice-blessed day
Which harmeles did precede our miseries,
How on that faire head, where you now display
Sad blacke, you should be seene so quickly turning
A rich crowne to a vaile, splendor to mourning.
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But, ô amidst your woes, your wounding cares,Those six deare reliques, pledges of your loue,
Saue for your selfe, for vs, to slacke our feares;
So cease to sigh, to weepe, and cares remoue,
And in those seas of griefe better to cleare vs
From stormes of teares, be you our guide to steere vs.
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Warlike Nobility, you that one day,Triumphant were; the next, by fate deprest;
Your King, your Father, your deare Countries stay,
Thus ost, weepe still and barre your eyes their rest;
While you remember that blacke dismall morrow,
The day and eue to the cause of your sorrow.
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Clap on your armour, whet your swords, and thenYet moist with teares, steepe them in blood of foes,
Pierce to the hearts of those damn'd monster-men
From whose inuention such destruction flowes;
With riuers of their blood th'Ocean filling,
Dye or reuenge our great Alcides killing.
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Queenes of the forked mount, admired nine,O with your sighs your learned fountaines dry,
Then fill againe with teares, that those diuine
Spirits that pay their vowes to memory,
Tasting those drops, may with teares sing the story
Of his death, of whose life they sung the glory.
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Teare downe your bayes, Minervaes sacred boughs,For whom (wise brood) are they preserued by you?
He's gone that wont with them beguirt his browes
Whom none could vanquish, death hath vanquisht now,
Cease not (deare troupe) to shew in saddest fashion,
Immortall though you be, that you haue passion.
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But shall we dare prescribe your teares their course?Doe you not make vse of those liquid armes
To combate sorrowes ouermastring force?
Extreame your greefes are for our extreame harmes;
Thinking on vs, you teares of pitty borrow,
When you thinke on your selues, teares spring of sorrow.
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O let your plaints the rocks to pitty moue,Let mountaines, vallyes, woods resound our cryes,
Let neighbours teares their desprat state approue,
Let them and vs lament; They, that their eyes
Saw not at all; We, lesse then we desired
The glory of the French, the worlds admired.
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But shall our fruitles teares nere cease? shall theyLike riuers from our moist eyes euer flow?
Shall no time their impetuous current stay?
Shall we still striue who lowdest cryes can throw?
And shall our throbbing harts be still remaining
Slaues to mishap, dull sadnes intertaining.
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O I, let's ceaseles waile, what Scithian hartCan endles plaints to endles woes denie?
For such a King let's act greefes liueliest part,
Let's liue his mourners or his folowers dye;
Liuing or dying let's not greefe diminish,
Till life and greefe shall at one instant finish.
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