Monodia or Walthams Complaint Upon The death of that most Vertuous and Noble Ladie, late deceased, the Lady Honor Hay, Sole Daughter and Heire to the Right Honorable Edward, Lord Dennie, Baron of Waltham, and wife to the Right Honourable Iames Lord Hay. By R. N. [i.e. Richard Niccols] |
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 | Monodia or Walthams Complaint |  |
WALTHAMS COMPLAINT
In that sixt month, whose name at first begunne
From great Augustus, good Octauius sonne,
When in each fertile field the flowrie graine
Shot vp on high, did bow their heads againe,
As doing humble homage to the earth,
From whence they tooke their being and their birth,
And euery fruitfull tree did seeme to groane
As burthened with the fruit that hung thereon,
Inu'ting all that past by their abode,
To strip their boughes, and ease them of their lode;
Beside the bankes of Lees delightfull brooke,
Which Walthams ancient Towne doth ouerlooke.
I walk'd, expecting in the dayes prime birth
The ioy, with which the morning greets the earth:
But shee, as not dispos'd to mirth, did lay
Her azure robes with siluer fring'd away;
And in their stead, whose weare the world doth glad
Was in darke russet mantle meanly clad.
A vale of mist her siluer brow did hide,
The golden tramels of her haire were tide
In fillet of blacke cloudes, and with sad looke
She mourner-like to heauen her iournie tooke:
Earth, as it had a part in sorrow bore,
Vpon her backe a cloke of vapours wore,
And, as if wanting eyes her griefe to shew,
Her grasse in stead of teares dropt weeping dew
Into the riuer Lee, by which I stood.
Three other brookes, that to increase her flood
Did poore themselues, with her along did glide
As if no griefe their waters could diuide:
Which their mixt waues did mutually declare,
By breathing vaporie sighes into the aire:
Whose waters bubling o're the pible stone,
As if they would vnto the trees vpon
The bankes on either side expresse by voyce
An inward sorrow, made a murmuring noyse.
All thinges that came beneath my fight did show
As each with other would consort in woe;
Which through mine eyes did steale my hearts consent
To beare a part; for I to Waltham went,
Beside whose Abbie there a worke of prayse,
Which worthie hands in antique time did rayse,
That noble Barons Hospitable seate,
Where rich and pore find bountifull intreate,
Sad spectacle of sorrow I did see,
The sight of which did much impassion mee.
On the bare ground, sitting in open field,
A faire, but forlorne, Lady I beheld,
Without remorse, now rending from her head,
Her yellow haire, like threds of gold dispred
About her siluer necke, now beating sore
Her breast, the lodge of griefe, and euermore
Fixing her eye so stedfast on the ground,
As thence, from her owne teares, which did abound,
As from a Christall glasse, helpe she would borrow,
To see the face of her owne faces sorrow;
Whose wofull gesture did my heart so wound,
That I requested her to shew the ground
Of this her griefe, and she as loath to speake,
Yet in these wordes at last did silence breake.
In vaine, my voyce, in vaine thou dost impart
Weake words, for signes of my wo-wounded heart.
In vaine my heart doe thy sad sighes arise
From inward thoughts with teares to fill mine eyes:
In vaine mine eyes your moist teares ouerflow;
No griefe so great, that can expresse my woe.
Weak words, sad sighes, moist teares, in vaine ye bee,
Mine Honour dead I neuermore shall see.
From great Augustus, good Octauius sonne,
When in each fertile field the flowrie graine
Shot vp on high, did bow their heads againe,
As doing humble homage to the earth,
From whence they tooke their being and their birth,
And euery fruitfull tree did seeme to groane
As burthened with the fruit that hung thereon,
Inu'ting all that past by their abode,
To strip their boughes, and ease them of their lode;
Beside the bankes of Lees delightfull brooke,
Which Walthams ancient Towne doth ouerlooke.
I walk'd, expecting in the dayes prime birth
The ioy, with which the morning greets the earth:
But shee, as not dispos'd to mirth, did lay
Her azure robes with siluer fring'd away;
And in their stead, whose weare the world doth glad
Was in darke russet mantle meanly clad.
The golden tramels of her haire were tide
In fillet of blacke cloudes, and with sad looke
She mourner-like to heauen her iournie tooke:
Earth, as it had a part in sorrow bore,
Vpon her backe a cloke of vapours wore,
And, as if wanting eyes her griefe to shew,
Her grasse in stead of teares dropt weeping dew
Into the riuer Lee, by which I stood.
Three other brookes, that to increase her flood
Did poore themselues, with her along did glide
As if no griefe their waters could diuide:
Which their mixt waues did mutually declare,
By breathing vaporie sighes into the aire:
Whose waters bubling o're the pible stone,
As if they would vnto the trees vpon
The bankes on either side expresse by voyce
An inward sorrow, made a murmuring noyse.
All thinges that came beneath my fight did show
As each with other would consort in woe;
Which through mine eyes did steale my hearts consent
To beare a part; for I to Waltham went,
Which worthie hands in antique time did rayse,
That noble Barons Hospitable seate,
Where rich and pore find bountifull intreate,
Sad spectacle of sorrow I did see,
The sight of which did much impassion mee.
On the bare ground, sitting in open field,
A faire, but forlorne, Lady I beheld,
Without remorse, now rending from her head,
Her yellow haire, like threds of gold dispred
About her siluer necke, now beating sore
Her breast, the lodge of griefe, and euermore
Fixing her eye so stedfast on the ground,
As thence, from her owne teares, which did abound,
As from a Christall glasse, helpe she would borrow,
To see the face of her owne faces sorrow;
Whose wofull gesture did my heart so wound,
That I requested her to shew the ground
Of this her griefe, and she as loath to speake,
Yet in these wordes at last did silence breake.
In vaine, my voyce, in vaine thou dost impart
Weake words, for signes of my wo-wounded heart.
From inward thoughts with teares to fill mine eyes:
In vaine mine eyes your moist teares ouerflow;
No griefe so great, that can expresse my woe.
Weak words, sad sighes, moist teares, in vaine ye bee,
Mine Honour dead I neuermore shall see.
To heare her mourning and her sad complaint,
I silent was awhile with griefes constraint;
Till sorrowes selfe did vrge me aske her name,
To which thus shee this sad reply did frame.
I silent was awhile with griefes constraint;
Till sorrowes selfe did vrge me aske her name,
To which thus shee this sad reply did frame.
Waltham I was; and though some thinke I am
What I haue beene; yet beare I but the name
Of what I was; and yet in my distresse
Such is my chance, (hard chāce you wel may ghesse)
That wretched I of late through deaths despight,
Haue lost my Deare, my Darling, my Delight,
The Light of nature, Ornament of earth,
Modell of heauen, the Pearle of grace, whose birth
Did with that Honour grace my fruitfull wombe,
Which now, shee dead, lies buried in her tombe.
For know (alas that it should ere be knowne)
My Honour late is dead, is dead and gone.
Was't not enough that fortune, who takes pleasure
In humane woes, bereau'd me of that treasure,
Which daily Lees large streame (though now a pore
And pettie brooke) did bring vnto my shore;
Till Alfred, scourge of Danes, that Royall King
Her larger streame to lesser brookes did bring;
When Denmarks Nauie did on her broad breast
My sister Hartford with long siege molest:
Where he that time his foes proud hearts did tame
And burnt their Danish Fleet with English flame?
Was't not enough I say, I so should bee
Bereft of comfort in beloued Lee:
But that by death, eu'n shee, whom all did know
To be (ay me that now she is not so)
My garlands fairest flower, should be defaced,
The fairest flower, that ere my garland graced?
No hand will crop the stemme vp in despight,
That yearely yeeldeth flowers sor delight;
No churle will lay his axe vnto the root
Of such a plant, that yearely yeeldeth fruit;
Yet shee, true plant of Honour (O sterne death)
Eu'n bearing fruit was blasted by thy breath.
If euer beautie might preuaile with thee,
A rarer beautie eye did seldome see;
If euer honor; she, most noble Dame,
Was Honor selfe in nature and in name,
If euer Vertue; she was that faire shrine,
Whence Vertues beames vnto the World did shine.
How could'st thou looking on her louely face,
Lift vp thy hand to strike, when in that place
Youth, grac'd with all the graces heauen could giue,
Did with such beautie beg thy leaue to liue?
How could'st thou but let fal thy deadly dart,
When sadly she (at thought of which my hart
Now bleeds afresh) distilling from her eyes
Drops pure as pearle, did shew in wofull wise
Her childed wombe, that thou should'st pitie take,
If not for hers, yet for her infants sake?
How could'st, I say, but mildly looke vpon her,
When in her burthened wombe, that babe of Honor
Did for the mother mercie seeme to crie,
And she againe, for her deare babe would die?
O vnrelenting death thou could'st not then
Strike, though thy hand were lifted vp: but when
Lucina brought the sweet babe from the throes
Of the chast mother to this world of woes,
Then, then, thy hand did crop my Honors flowre,
My Beauties bud, my Bounties Paramoure.
But why did Nature, to augment her fame,
With cunning build vp such a glorious frame,
And heau'n with her more glorious spirit grace it,
Finding no fairer mansion where to place it:
Yet leaue it, like vaine bubble made of breath,
To be a triumph to victorious death?
Poore Nature wel I see, that all thy powre
But weaknesse is: Death daily doth deuoure
Thy noblest workes: of beggars and of Kings
The generation from corruption springs.
Flesh is but dust, made vp in humane shape,
To which, weake Nature, like th'Eternals Ape,
T'induce vs to beleeue that she can giue
Eternitie to make it euer liue,
A liuely colour ouer it doth lay,
Which makes flesh thinke it neuer shal decay,
But flourish euer; when vnlookt-for Death
Doth in a moment blast it with his breath;
“Flesh is but flesh, the fairest things doe fall,
“The strongest stoop, Death is the end of all.
Loue-drawing load-stars, vnto whom is giuen
Shape, like the winged messengers of Heauen,
To whose sweet beauties all mens knees are bent,
Helpe me, O helpe me, kindly to lament
This honor'd Lady, Lady of all Honor,
And in your gentle hearts so thinke vpon her,
That in the glasse, when you with curious care
Trimming the tresses of your golden haire
Shall wonder at your selues, you then may say,
This beautie is but borrowed for a day,
An houre, a minute, or a moments space,
Death's heere, is there, at hand in euery place.
The Springs most hopefull bud in youthful May
Is sometime with the blossome blowne away:
The fruit sometimes doth perish in the bud,
At most it can attaine but so much good,
As to grow ripe, and drop into the shade:
Both blossome, bud, and fruit in time doe vade.
Nor doe I simply challenge Death alone
Of that late wrong, too soone alas yet done,
To the dead mirrour of all women kind:
Th'ineuitable end of things design'd,
And written by the great Creators hand
In the star-text of Heauen, shall euer stand,
And in it selfe is good, but euery end
Vpon a mediate cause doth still depend.
And though by meanes at euil ends we aime;
Yet diuine prouidence directs the same,
And makes, when wicked we all good neglect,
An euill cause produce a good effect:
So that sad instrument of wicked ill,
By which death doubtlesse found the way to spill
This glorious worke of nature, euil ment,
Spoile was the end and scope of his intent.
But heauen did frustrate what his purpose was;
Yet in his action suffer'd him to passe,
That so her soule, shut vp in house of clay,
Vnworthie such a guest might find a way,
Vpon deaths ladder from base earth to rise:
For death is Honors scale to climbe the skies.
But woe to thee the while, whose wicked hands
Were instruments of death t'vnknit the bands,
Which in that body held so faire a mind,
In which foule enuies selfe no fault could find;
O wretched world, whose crooked backe doth bow,
And grone beneath foure ages past, yet thou
As old in euill, as in age dost nurse
Thine owne disease, and which alasse is worse
Dost only yeeld thine aged pappes to those,
That are blacke mischiefes friends and vertues foes:
Thine iron age the worst of all the foure
In no part good, when good men did deplore
Astræas flight from hence to heauen aboue,
Was not so bad; but that it may improue
This thy last age, of clay, of dirt, of mud,
Of anything more vile or void of good
When euill spirits in shapes of men doe dwell,
And earth it selfe is made another hell:
Astræa then from earth to heauen did flie,
Because truth troden downe did helplesse lie
Beneath oppression, and to her was giuen,
That place, where now she holds the scale in heauen,
Yet Honour with vs stll did seeme to stay:
As if from earth, heauen would not take away
Vertues reward, till Vice did so abound,
That now true vertue no where can be found:
Or if it can, yet doth it want reward;
The sonnes of Honor now haue no regard,
To baser vice greatnesse of state inclines,
Whose vpstart groomes, ech where in purple shines;
Soule-sauing vertne shames to shew her face,
To be true vertuous now is to be base,
And honestie, whence Honor takes her name,
To those professe it, is accounted shame:
Then happy she, though haplesse we lament
The absence of her noble soule, which sent
From Heauen at first, as heauenly dew did fall
Vpon this sinfull earth, and finding all
Too grosse end muddie, where shee might remaine,
Was through the poores of her lifes fruit againe
Exhal'd from earth by those attractiue rayes,
Which heauens bright sun of mercy thence displaies
Where vnto her all glorie now is giu'n;
Astræas selfe and all those stars in heauen,
Which antique times did stellifie of yore,
Giue honor vnto Honor euermore:
No part of those rare parts, that did excell,
Whose worth no tongue, much lesse thy Muse could tell,
Though she oblig'd by dutie gaue th' assay,
While time doth last, on earth shal ere decay.
For heauen, whom liuing she did truly honor,
Now dead bestowes a liuing name vpon her;
A name to liue, while fame hath wings to flie,
For sure on earth, the fame shall neuer die
Of her true noble Syre, a patron knowne
Vnto weake want, and second vnto none
For great good deeds; which Enuie cannot blame,
Nor to this Lord denie; but yeeld, what fame
To him, and his deare daughter dead doth giue,
That she by him, and he by her may liue;
May liue in those two noble plants which shee,
True honor'd Lord, hath liuing lest to thee:
In whom, that so thine image and her owne
May vnto all posteritie be knowne,
Heauen giue them length of dayes, & blesse them so,
That from such plants fruit euermore may grow:
Who in all future times may claime the crowne
Of that illustrate deed, which doth renowne
Their Fathers name, of which if these bad dayes
Which slights best things would hearken to my layes,
My Muse (great Lord) should strike so high a string,
That boldest Bardes should cease to heare her sing.
And on thy Faulcons wings aloft should soare,
To tel of thy great Ancestors of yore,
And of their valour, whence deriued came
Those armes, that now nobilitate thy name.
When like a tempest that proud Pagan hoast
From the North seas ariu'd on Scotlands coast,
Where neere Loncart the noble riuer Tay
From that sad sight, as grieu'd, did glide away.
When she beheld her countries lot sinke downe
And fame in fight her foes with conquest crowne.
Till with his plough-beame glory-thirsting Hay
Aided by his two sonnes did crosse the way,
And forc't his flying countrie-men againe
With courage to turne head vpon the Dane,
Whose hoast destroy'd, with a plough-beame that day
He sau'd his King and countrie from decay,
Of which vpon that field, the Hayes own land,
The Faulcons stone a trophe still doth stand.
But backe my Muse, their glory may not bee
Thy subiect now; yet we by this may see,
That by him liuing, blest is she now dead,
Who made him blessed by a fruitful bed:
She dead, he liuing both blest euermore
In that fatre fruit, which her chast bosome bore;
Her chastest bosome, which was once the bowre,
Where vertues Queene did keepe her court, whose flowre,
Which from a plant in paradise did spring,
Set in her thoughts faire garden forth did bring,
The fruit of chast desire and spotlesse loue:
For which her happie soule now sits aboue
Those, that for other vertues praysed beene;
In women chastitie is vertues Queene,
Which through that grace, which vnto her was giu'n,
For her true zeale vnto the King of heau'n,
Without the which none can possesse the same,
While life did last, she kept from touch of blame:
(Ye nobler Dames) that all vaine thoughts despise,
Who would preserue from theft of hungrie eyes
Your flowre of beautie, and would quench the fires,
Which false term'd loue hath tin'd in base desires,
Ensue her steps in grace and pietie,
Which are the guardians of true chastitie;
O let not those shape-shifters, that doe steale
By false pretence of sanctimonious zeale,
Into the closet of your thoughts, intice
Your eares from truth, who by a new deuise
Teaching to be vnchast, to be no crime
Or venial at the least, abuse the time:
Nor let those Pallace parasites, those apes,
VVho putting on the gestures and the shapes
Of grauer men, with their profaner lips
To make their Ladies laugh, spit forth court quips
Against deuotion, mocking holy things,
Improue your sanctitie, whence all good springs:
Shame not to shew in publike, as she did
Your zeale to heau'n, true zeale will not be hid;
Ioyne outward action to your inward will,
Not to doe good, she knew, was to doe ill.
But from her faith the efficient cause of good,
And those diuiner vertues vnderstood
Of heauenly soules, in which she did excell,
Let me proceed her other gifts to tell.
Least courtly ease, of great ones counted state,
To wanton Vice might open Vertues gate,
Her studious soule was exercised still;
For where ease is, 'tis easie to doe ill.
When shee herselfe to solace did dispose
To passe the time, no vaine delights she chose:
If in her needle she did take delight,
What fairer patterne then her hands faire white?
If shee by art the Lillies white would show;
Then if not there, where did white Lillies grow?
If azure brookes winding the lands about
In their true figure she would portrait out,
Then those blew veines were such, which on her hand
Made little Ilands in a little land.
Would she worke roses with a perfect red,
Her lips, as often as she did behed
The silke growne short with pearle-like teeth, had powre
To giue a crimson colour to each flowre,
Which on her worke so like the life did show,
As if they by her eyes faire beames did grow,
And through her touch for sent did so excell,
As if her breath had giu'n them fragrant smell.
In which for skill with that rare Lydian Dame
She seem'd with Pallas to contend for fame.
Sometimes her daintie voyce with breath as sweet
As April Zephyr's gentle gales, that greet
Our sent with odor of the mornings rose,
Sweet ditties did in such sweet tunes compose,
That all that heard her so amazed were,
As if their soules were only in the eare:
While her soft hand would gently touch the Lute,
And sometimes bid the Violl not be mute,
VVho taught by her, as if they did reioyce
To beare a part to so diuine a voyce,
Such heauenly musicke to the eare would bring,
That Ioues nine daughters could no better sing:
VVith whom shee (honor'd Lady) nights and daies
VVould spend in hearing their melodious layes,
And vnto learning euer being a friend
To hopefull wits her helpe she would extend.
But here (perhaps) if thou doe hap to write
Her noble worth, which now I doe recite,
Vertues companion black-mouth'd Enuie sayes,
Thy pen doth drop a mercenarie prayse;
But to acquit thee heere the world may know,
She liu'd not (noble Ladie) to bestow
Her purpos'd fauours on thy forlorne Muse,
In whom, her worth yet, which I more abuse
Then truly blazon, cannot silent sleep;
Of her great worth what Muse can silence keep?
Ye thrice three sisters of that sacred spring,
About whose bankes ye sit and sadly sing
Your heau'nly skils contempt and learnings scorne,
Double your griefe; for greater cause to mourne
How can ye haue? your art must now needs perish,
Since all are dead with her, that arts did cherish.
Looke not in Court or Citie anie more
To find that grace, was giuen you of yore,
Now gentle blouds train'd vp in fancies schoole,
Doe giue the due of learning to the soole;
Your art is base, your skill is counted shame,
You must be poore with those professe the same;
Aud thou vnhappie Swaine whose Muse did rayse
An image of her Honor, poore essayes
In hast compil'd in hope her grace to gaine,
Neglect of which forc'd absence did constraine,
This Ladies losse may most of all lament,
Too hastie death did all thy hast preuent;
What boots it here to bid thy Muse be sad,
Who now more grieues, that she may say shee had
Hope in good hap, till that vnhappy day,
That death with her tooke hope and hap away;
Then iustly hast thou part in my complaint,
To waile the losse of that now heau'nly Saint;
For who like her (ah none like her is left)
Will deigne to heare thee sing, thou art berest
Of future hopes, who spake thee faire, forlorne,
Now mock thy hopes and laugh thy cares to scorne;
Breake then thy pipe, that was thy wonted blisse,
Whose tunes once pleasd, if some thinke not amisse,
Ne let thy Clioes trump, whose sound did bring
The dead to life, when Enuies eares did ring,
To heare the prayses of Elizas name,
Be euer heard to sound the deeds of fame,
May none aliue, that doe the Muses wrong
Once dead, be nam'd in any Muses song.
Ne let the painted Theater be grac'd
With tragick scæne from thee; Wit so misplac'd.
Hath weau'd the webs of folly, neither let
Thy Muse henceforth more serious things forget,
To please the world: who best deserues, shall finde
Best friends wax cold, and all the world vnkinde.
Then henceforth silent sit in thy sad cell,
And euermore bid such delights farewell,
Or in thy thoughts, if to thy selfe thou raise
A shrine to vertue, where to offer praise,
To whom so chast, yet faire as eye could finde,
To whom so faire, and yet so meeke in minde;
To whom so meeke, yet borne in Honors Throne,
Canst offer it but vnto her alone?
In them that liue, what now is worthy found,
Who only vaunt to heare false flatterie sound
Their painted beauties, chiefly they prouide
Them Parasites to praise their foolish pride,
Slie Apes, that can but congie with a leg,
Doe gaine their grace, while learned wits may beg.
Goe then, ah goe thou to yon sacred Fane,
In which her chast dead body doth remaine;
For left to me poore Waltham nothing is
Of my deare Honor now, excepting this,
That buriall to her body dead I giue,
Who gaue it birth at first, when it did liue:
There as thou didst before her liuing shed
Thy sisters Teares for Royall Henrie dead,
Vnto her Tomb, let teares thy dutie tell,
And from sad Waltham bid a sad farewell.
This said, shee sigh'd, and as that sigh did rise,
Shee rose and vanisht from before mine eies,
Which not so maz'de to see, as grieu'd to know
Her cause of griefe, I to that place did goe,
To seeke the graue and blesse that happie stone,
Which keeps the shrine wher Honor kept her throne
Where when I came, the doores did say me nay,
From whence debar'd with griefe I went my way,
Else on her Tomb, whose soule now liues in blisse,
I had imposd this Honors Pyramis.
What I haue beene; yet beare I but the name
Of what I was; and yet in my distresse
Such is my chance, (hard chāce you wel may ghesse)
That wretched I of late through deaths despight,
Haue lost my Deare, my Darling, my Delight,
The Light of nature, Ornament of earth,
Modell of heauen, the Pearle of grace, whose birth
Did with that Honour grace my fruitfull wombe,
Which now, shee dead, lies buried in her tombe.
For know (alas that it should ere be knowne)
My Honour late is dead, is dead and gone.
In humane woes, bereau'd me of that treasure,
Which daily Lees large streame (though now a pore
And pettie brooke) did bring vnto my shore;
Till Alfred, scourge of Danes, that Royall King
Her larger streame to lesser brookes did bring;
When Denmarks Nauie did on her broad breast
My sister Hartford with long siege molest:
Where he that time his foes proud hearts did tame
And burnt their Danish Fleet with English flame?
Was't not enough I say, I so should bee
Bereft of comfort in beloued Lee:
But that by death, eu'n shee, whom all did know
To be (ay me that now she is not so)
My garlands fairest flower, should be defaced,
The fairest flower, that ere my garland graced?
No hand will crop the stemme vp in despight,
That yearely yeeldeth flowers sor delight;
No churle will lay his axe vnto the root
Of such a plant, that yearely yeeldeth fruit;
Yet shee, true plant of Honour (O sterne death)
Eu'n bearing fruit was blasted by thy breath.
A rarer beautie eye did seldome see;
If euer honor; she, most noble Dame,
Was Honor selfe in nature and in name,
If euer Vertue; she was that faire shrine,
Whence Vertues beames vnto the World did shine.
How could'st thou looking on her louely face,
Lift vp thy hand to strike, when in that place
Youth, grac'd with all the graces heauen could giue,
Did with such beautie beg thy leaue to liue?
How could'st thou but let fal thy deadly dart,
When sadly she (at thought of which my hart
Now bleeds afresh) distilling from her eyes
Drops pure as pearle, did shew in wofull wise
Her childed wombe, that thou should'st pitie take,
If not for hers, yet for her infants sake?
How could'st, I say, but mildly looke vpon her,
When in her burthened wombe, that babe of Honor
Did for the mother mercie seeme to crie,
And she againe, for her deare babe would die?
O vnrelenting death thou could'st not then
Strike, though thy hand were lifted vp: but when
Of the chast mother to this world of woes,
Then, then, thy hand did crop my Honors flowre,
My Beauties bud, my Bounties Paramoure.
But why did Nature, to augment her fame,
With cunning build vp such a glorious frame,
And heau'n with her more glorious spirit grace it,
Finding no fairer mansion where to place it:
Yet leaue it, like vaine bubble made of breath,
To be a triumph to victorious death?
Poore Nature wel I see, that all thy powre
But weaknesse is: Death daily doth deuoure
Thy noblest workes: of beggars and of Kings
The generation from corruption springs.
Flesh is but dust, made vp in humane shape,
To which, weake Nature, like th'Eternals Ape,
T'induce vs to beleeue that she can giue
Eternitie to make it euer liue,
A liuely colour ouer it doth lay,
Which makes flesh thinke it neuer shal decay,
But flourish euer; when vnlookt-for Death
Doth in a moment blast it with his breath;
“The strongest stoop, Death is the end of all.
Loue-drawing load-stars, vnto whom is giuen
Shape, like the winged messengers of Heauen,
To whose sweet beauties all mens knees are bent,
Helpe me, O helpe me, kindly to lament
This honor'd Lady, Lady of all Honor,
And in your gentle hearts so thinke vpon her,
That in the glasse, when you with curious care
Trimming the tresses of your golden haire
Shall wonder at your selues, you then may say,
This beautie is but borrowed for a day,
An houre, a minute, or a moments space,
Death's heere, is there, at hand in euery place.
The Springs most hopefull bud in youthful May
Is sometime with the blossome blowne away:
The fruit sometimes doth perish in the bud,
At most it can attaine but so much good,
As to grow ripe, and drop into the shade:
Both blossome, bud, and fruit in time doe vade.
Nor doe I simply challenge Death alone
Of that late wrong, too soone alas yet done,
Th'ineuitable end of things design'd,
And written by the great Creators hand
In the star-text of Heauen, shall euer stand,
And in it selfe is good, but euery end
Vpon a mediate cause doth still depend.
And though by meanes at euil ends we aime;
Yet diuine prouidence directs the same,
And makes, when wicked we all good neglect,
An euill cause produce a good effect:
So that sad instrument of wicked ill,
By which death doubtlesse found the way to spill
This glorious worke of nature, euil ment,
Spoile was the end and scope of his intent.
But heauen did frustrate what his purpose was;
Yet in his action suffer'd him to passe,
That so her soule, shut vp in house of clay,
Vnworthie such a guest might find a way,
Vpon deaths ladder from base earth to rise:
For death is Honors scale to climbe the skies.
But woe to thee the while, whose wicked hands
Were instruments of death t'vnknit the bands,
In which foule enuies selfe no fault could find;
O wretched world, whose crooked backe doth bow,
And grone beneath foure ages past, yet thou
As old in euill, as in age dost nurse
Thine owne disease, and which alasse is worse
Dost only yeeld thine aged pappes to those,
That are blacke mischiefes friends and vertues foes:
Thine iron age the worst of all the foure
In no part good, when good men did deplore
Astræas flight from hence to heauen aboue,
Was not so bad; but that it may improue
This thy last age, of clay, of dirt, of mud,
Of anything more vile or void of good
When euill spirits in shapes of men doe dwell,
And earth it selfe is made another hell:
Astræa then from earth to heauen did flie,
Because truth troden downe did helplesse lie
Beneath oppression, and to her was giuen,
That place, where now she holds the scale in heauen,
Yet Honour with vs stll did seeme to stay:
As if from earth, heauen would not take away
That now true vertue no where can be found:
Or if it can, yet doth it want reward;
The sonnes of Honor now haue no regard,
To baser vice greatnesse of state inclines,
Whose vpstart groomes, ech where in purple shines;
Soule-sauing vertne shames to shew her face,
To be true vertuous now is to be base,
And honestie, whence Honor takes her name,
To those professe it, is accounted shame:
Then happy she, though haplesse we lament
The absence of her noble soule, which sent
From Heauen at first, as heauenly dew did fall
Vpon this sinfull earth, and finding all
Too grosse end muddie, where shee might remaine,
Was through the poores of her lifes fruit againe
Exhal'd from earth by those attractiue rayes,
Which heauens bright sun of mercy thence displaies
Where vnto her all glorie now is giu'n;
Astræas selfe and all those stars in heauen,
Which antique times did stellifie of yore,
Giue honor vnto Honor euermore:
Whose worth no tongue, much lesse thy Muse could tell,
Though she oblig'd by dutie gaue th' assay,
While time doth last, on earth shal ere decay.
For heauen, whom liuing she did truly honor,
Now dead bestowes a liuing name vpon her;
A name to liue, while fame hath wings to flie,
For sure on earth, the fame shall neuer die
Of her true noble Syre, a patron knowne
Vnto weake want, and second vnto none
For great good deeds; which Enuie cannot blame,
Nor to this Lord denie; but yeeld, what fame
To him, and his deare daughter dead doth giue,
That she by him, and he by her may liue;
May liue in those two noble plants which shee,
True honor'd Lord, hath liuing lest to thee:
In whom, that so thine image and her owne
May vnto all posteritie be knowne,
Heauen giue them length of dayes, & blesse them so,
That from such plants fruit euermore may grow:
Who in all future times may claime the crowne
Of that illustrate deed, which doth renowne
Which slights best things would hearken to my layes,
My Muse (great Lord) should strike so high a string,
That boldest Bardes should cease to heare her sing.
And on thy Faulcons wings aloft should soare,
To tel of thy great Ancestors of yore,
And of their valour, whence deriued came
Those armes, that now nobilitate thy name.
When like a tempest that proud Pagan hoast
From the North seas ariu'd on Scotlands coast,
Where neere Loncart the noble riuer Tay
From that sad sight, as grieu'd, did glide away.
When she beheld her countries lot sinke downe
And fame in fight her foes with conquest crowne.
Till with his plough-beame glory-thirsting Hay
Aided by his two sonnes did crosse the way,
And forc't his flying countrie-men againe
With courage to turne head vpon the Dane,
Whose hoast destroy'd, with a plough-beame that day
He sau'd his King and countrie from decay,
Of which vpon that field, the Hayes own land,
The Faulcons stone a trophe still doth stand.
Thy subiect now; yet we by this may see,
That by him liuing, blest is she now dead,
Who made him blessed by a fruitful bed:
She dead, he liuing both blest euermore
In that fatre fruit, which her chast bosome bore;
Her chastest bosome, which was once the bowre,
Where vertues Queene did keepe her court, whose flowre,
Which from a plant in paradise did spring,
Set in her thoughts faire garden forth did bring,
The fruit of chast desire and spotlesse loue:
For which her happie soule now sits aboue
Those, that for other vertues praysed beene;
In women chastitie is vertues Queene,
Which through that grace, which vnto her was giu'n,
For her true zeale vnto the King of heau'n,
Without the which none can possesse the same,
While life did last, she kept from touch of blame:
(Ye nobler Dames) that all vaine thoughts despise,
Who would preserue from theft of hungrie eyes
Your flowre of beautie, and would quench the fires,
Which false term'd loue hath tin'd in base desires,
Which are the guardians of true chastitie;
O let not those shape-shifters, that doe steale
By false pretence of sanctimonious zeale,
Into the closet of your thoughts, intice
Your eares from truth, who by a new deuise
Teaching to be vnchast, to be no crime
Or venial at the least, abuse the time:
Nor let those Pallace parasites, those apes,
VVho putting on the gestures and the shapes
Of grauer men, with their profaner lips
To make their Ladies laugh, spit forth court quips
Against deuotion, mocking holy things,
Improue your sanctitie, whence all good springs:
Shame not to shew in publike, as she did
Your zeale to heau'n, true zeale will not be hid;
Ioyne outward action to your inward will,
Not to doe good, she knew, was to doe ill.
But from her faith the efficient cause of good,
And those diuiner vertues vnderstood
Of heauenly soules, in which she did excell,
Let me proceed her other gifts to tell.
To wanton Vice might open Vertues gate,
Her studious soule was exercised still;
For where ease is, 'tis easie to doe ill.
When shee herselfe to solace did dispose
To passe the time, no vaine delights she chose:
If in her needle she did take delight,
What fairer patterne then her hands faire white?
If shee by art the Lillies white would show;
Then if not there, where did white Lillies grow?
If azure brookes winding the lands about
In their true figure she would portrait out,
Then those blew veines were such, which on her hand
Made little Ilands in a little land.
Would she worke roses with a perfect red,
Her lips, as often as she did behed
The silke growne short with pearle-like teeth, had powre
To giue a crimson colour to each flowre,
Which on her worke so like the life did show,
As if they by her eyes faire beames did grow,
And through her touch for sent did so excell,
As if her breath had giu'n them fragrant smell.
She seem'd with Pallas to contend for fame.
Sometimes her daintie voyce with breath as sweet
As April Zephyr's gentle gales, that greet
Our sent with odor of the mornings rose,
Sweet ditties did in such sweet tunes compose,
That all that heard her so amazed were,
As if their soules were only in the eare:
While her soft hand would gently touch the Lute,
And sometimes bid the Violl not be mute,
VVho taught by her, as if they did reioyce
To beare a part to so diuine a voyce,
Such heauenly musicke to the eare would bring,
That Ioues nine daughters could no better sing:
VVith whom shee (honor'd Lady) nights and daies
VVould spend in hearing their melodious layes,
And vnto learning euer being a friend
To hopefull wits her helpe she would extend.
But here (perhaps) if thou doe hap to write
Her noble worth, which now I doe recite,
Vertues companion black-mouth'd Enuie sayes,
Thy pen doth drop a mercenarie prayse;
She liu'd not (noble Ladie) to bestow
Her purpos'd fauours on thy forlorne Muse,
In whom, her worth yet, which I more abuse
Then truly blazon, cannot silent sleep;
Of her great worth what Muse can silence keep?
Ye thrice three sisters of that sacred spring,
About whose bankes ye sit and sadly sing
Your heau'nly skils contempt and learnings scorne,
Double your griefe; for greater cause to mourne
How can ye haue? your art must now needs perish,
Since all are dead with her, that arts did cherish.
Looke not in Court or Citie anie more
To find that grace, was giuen you of yore,
Now gentle blouds train'd vp in fancies schoole,
Doe giue the due of learning to the soole;
Your art is base, your skill is counted shame,
You must be poore with those professe the same;
Aud thou vnhappie Swaine whose Muse did rayse
An image of her Honor, poore essayes
In hast compil'd in hope her grace to gaine,
Neglect of which forc'd absence did constraine,
Too hastie death did all thy hast preuent;
What boots it here to bid thy Muse be sad,
Who now more grieues, that she may say shee had
Hope in good hap, till that vnhappy day,
That death with her tooke hope and hap away;
Then iustly hast thou part in my complaint,
To waile the losse of that now heau'nly Saint;
For who like her (ah none like her is left)
Will deigne to heare thee sing, thou art berest
Of future hopes, who spake thee faire, forlorne,
Now mock thy hopes and laugh thy cares to scorne;
Breake then thy pipe, that was thy wonted blisse,
Whose tunes once pleasd, if some thinke not amisse,
Ne let thy Clioes trump, whose sound did bring
The dead to life, when Enuies eares did ring,
To heare the prayses of Elizas name,
Be euer heard to sound the deeds of fame,
May none aliue, that doe the Muses wrong
Once dead, be nam'd in any Muses song.
Ne let the painted Theater be grac'd
With tragick scæne from thee; Wit so misplac'd.
Thy Muse henceforth more serious things forget,
To please the world: who best deserues, shall finde
Best friends wax cold, and all the world vnkinde.
Then henceforth silent sit in thy sad cell,
And euermore bid such delights farewell,
Or in thy thoughts, if to thy selfe thou raise
A shrine to vertue, where to offer praise,
To whom so chast, yet faire as eye could finde,
To whom so faire, and yet so meeke in minde;
To whom so meeke, yet borne in Honors Throne,
Canst offer it but vnto her alone?
In them that liue, what now is worthy found,
Who only vaunt to heare false flatterie sound
Their painted beauties, chiefly they prouide
Them Parasites to praise their foolish pride,
Slie Apes, that can but congie with a leg,
Doe gaine their grace, while learned wits may beg.
Goe then, ah goe thou to yon sacred Fane,
In which her chast dead body doth remaine;
For left to me poore Waltham nothing is
Of my deare Honor now, excepting this,
Who gaue it birth at first, when it did liue:
There as thou didst before her liuing shed
Thy sisters Teares for Royall Henrie dead,
Vnto her Tomb, let teares thy dutie tell,
And from sad Waltham bid a sad farewell.
This said, shee sigh'd, and as that sigh did rise,
Shee rose and vanisht from before mine eies,
Which not so maz'de to see, as grieu'd to know
Her cause of griefe, I to that place did goe,
To seeke the graue and blesse that happie stone,
Which keeps the shrine wher Honor kept her throne
Where when I came, the doores did say me nay,
From whence debar'd with griefe I went my way,
Else on her Tomb, whose soule now liues in blisse,
I had imposd this Honors Pyramis.
FINIS.
| Monodia or Walthams Complaint | |