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82

Robert, Earl of Essex.

I. LOYAL APPEAL IN COURTESY.

Muses no more but Mazes be yor names
Where discord Sound shall marre yor concorde sweete:
vnkyndly now yor carefull fancye frames
when Fortune treades yor fauours vnder feete:
But foule befalle that cursed Cuckoes throt
That soe hath crost sweet Philomelaes note.
And all vnhappie hatchèd was that bird
That parret-like can neuer cease to prate:
But most vntymely spoken was that word
That brought the world in such a woefull state,
That Loue and Likeing quite are ouerthrowne
And in their place are hate and sorrowes growne.
Is this the honoure of a haughtie thought
Ffor Louer's hap to haue all spight of Loue?
Hath wreached skill thus blinded Reason taught?
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In this conceipt such discontent to mooue?
That Beautee so is of her selfe berefte
That no good hope of ought good hap, is lefte.
Oh let no Phœnix looke vpon a Crowe
Nor daintye hills bow downe to dirtye dales:
Let neuer Heauen an hellish humour knowe,
Nor firme affect giue eare to foolish tales:
Ffor this in fyne will fall to be the troth
That pudle matter makes vnholsome broth.
Woe to the world the sonne is in a cloude
And darksome mists doth ouerrunne the day
In hope, Conceipte is not content allow'd,
Fauour must dye & Fancye weare awaye:
Oh Heauens what Hell! The bands of Loue are broken
Nor must a thought of such a thing be spoken.
Mars must become a coward in his mynde
Whiles Vulcan standes to prate of Venus toyes:
Beautie must seeme to go against her kinde
In crossing Nature in her sweetest ioyes.
But ah no more, it is to much to thinke
So pure a mouth should puddle-watters drinke!
But since the world is at this woefull passe
Let Loue's submission Honour's wrath apease:
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Let not an Horse be matchèd with an Asse
Nor hatefull tongue an happie hart disease:
So shall the world commend a sweet conceipt,
And humble Fayth on heauenly honour waite.
85

II. THE BUZZEINGE BEE'S COMPLAYNT.

1

It was a time when sely bees coulde speake,
And in that time, I was a sely bee,
Who suckt on time, vntill my hart did breake,
Yet neuer found the time would fauoure me:
Of all the swarme I only could not thriue,
Yett brought I wax and honye to the hyue.

2

Then thus I buzzd when time no sapp would giue:
Why is this blessed tyme to me so drye?
Sith in this time the busy drone doth liue,
The waspe, the worme, the gnatt, the butter-flye:
Mated with Greife I kneelèd on my knees
And thus complaynèd to the kinge of bees.

3

God graunt my Leige Thye time maye neuer ende,
And yet vouchsafe to heare my playnte of Time,
Wch euery fruyctlesse fly hath found a frende,
And I caste downe, when Attomyes doe clyme:
The kinge replyed but this, ‘peace peevyshe bee,
Borne thou art to serue the time, the tyme not thee.
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4

‘The tyme not thee’: the worde clipt short my winge
And made me worme-like stoope that once did flye:
Awefull regard disputeth not with kinges,
Receues repulse, and neuer asketh whye:
Then from the tyme, a tyme I me with drewe,
To sucke on hen bane, hemlocke, netteles, rewe.

5

Whilst all the swarme in sunshine taste the rose;
On blacke fearnse roote I seeke and sucke my bayne;
Whilst on the eglantayn the reste repose
To light on wormewoode leaues they me constrayne;
Hauinge to much they still repyne for more
And cloyed with swetnesse surfeyte on their store.

6

Swolne fatt wth feasts full merryly they passe
In sweetenod clusters fallinge on a tree,
Where findinge me to nybble on the grasse
Some scorned, some mused, and some did pyty me.
And some me enuied, and whispered to the kinge
Some must be still, and some must haue no sting.
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7

Ar bees waxt waspes, and spyders, to afflycte? are
Doe hony bowells make the spiritts galle?
Is this the iuce of flowers to flie suspecte?
Is't not enough to treade on them that fall?
What stinge hath Patience but a single greife
That stings nought but it self wth out releefe.

8

Sad Patience, that attendeth at the dore,
And teacheth wise-men thus conclude in schooles:
Patience I am, and therfore must be poore:
Fortune bestowes her riches not on fooles.
Great kinge of bees that righteth euery wronge
Listen to Patience in her dyinge songe.

9

I cannot feede on fenell like some flyes
Nor flye to euery flower to gather gayne:
My appetyte wayts on my Prince's eyes
Contented with contempt, and pleasèd with all payne:
And yet expectinge for a happye hower
When shee may say the bee may sucke a flower.

10

Of all my greefes that most my patience grate
Ther's one that fretteth in the hyest degree;
To see some catterpillers brede of late
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Croppinge the flowers that should sustayne the bee.
Yet smilèd I, for that the wisest knowes
Moaths eate the cloth, cankers consume ye rose.

11

Once did I see by flyinge in the feilde
Foule beasts to browse upon the lyllys fayer;
Vertue nor Beautye could no succoure yelde.
All's prouender to the asse but the ayere:
The partyall worlde takes very carelesse heede
To giue them flowers that would on thistles feede.

12

Thus only I must drayne Egiption flowers,
Findinge no sauore; bitter sapp they haue.
And seeke out rotten tombes, the dead mens bowers
And byte on Lotus growinge by the graue.
If this I cannot haue, as heppelesse Bee
Wishèd, Tabacco I will flee to thee!

13

What thoughe thou dye my loungs in deepest blacke?
A morninge habite sutes a sable harte:
What thoughe thy fumes, sound memorys dos cracke?
Forgetfulnes is fittest for my smarte.
89

O vertuous fume, let it be graued on oke
That words, hope, witts, and all the world, is smoke.

14

Ffiue years twice tould, wth promases perfum'd,
My hope-stuffte heede was caste into a slumber;
Sweete dreams of golde; on dreames I then presum'd
And 'mongst the bees thought I was in the number.
Late wakinge, hyues, hopes, had made me vayne,
Was but Tabacco stupyfied my brayne,
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III. THE FALSE, FORGOTTEN.

Change thy mynde synce she doth change,
Lett not fancy styll abuse the;
Thy vntruth can nott seeme strange
When her fallshood doth excuse y.
Loue is dead and thou art free,
She doth lyue but dead to thee.
When she lou'd the best a whylle,
See how styll she did delay thee:
Vsying showes for to beguylle,
Those vayne hopes wch haue betrayd ye.
Now thou seest butt all to late
Loue loues truth, wch women hate.
Loue farwell, more deer to me
Then my lyfe wch thou preseruedste.
Lyfe, thy ioy is gone from the
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Others haue what thou deseruedste:
They enioy what's not theyr owne
Happyer lyfe to lyue alone.
Yet thus much to ease my mynd
Lett her know what she hath gotten:
She who tyme hath proud vnkynde,
Hauynge changd is quyte forgotten.
For time now hath done her worst,
Would she had done so at fyrst.
Loue no more synce she is gone,
She is gone, and loves an other;
Being once deceiu'd by one
Leaue to loue and loue no other.
She was false, bid her adew
She was best but yet vntrewe.
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IV. THERE IS NONE, O, NONE BUT YOU.

There is none, oh none but you
Who from me estrange the sight,
Whom mine eyes affect to view,
And 'chainèd eares heare with delight.
Others' beauties others move;
In you I all the graces find;
Such are the effects of love,
To make them happy that are kind.
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Woemen in fraile beautie trust;
Only seeme you kind to me!
Still be truly kind and iust,
For that can't dissembled bee.
Deare afford me then your sight!
That, surveiying all your lookes,
Endlesse volumnes I may write,
And fill the world with envyed books,
Which, when after ages view,
All shall wonder and despayre;
Woemen, to find a man so true,
And men, a woeman, halfe so faire!

V. A PASSION OF MY LO. OF ESSEX.

Happy were he coulde finish forth his fate
In some vnhaunted desert, moste obscure
From all society, from loue and hate
Of worldly folkes; there might he sleepe secure
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There wake againe, and giue God euer praise,
Content wth hippes and hawes, and brambleberrie,
In contemplacion passing still his dayes,
And change of holy thoughts to make him merrie;
That when he dyes his tombe might be a bush
Where harmles Robin dwels wth gentle thursh.
[_]

Poem VI is in Latin, and is therefore omitted.

96

VII. THE RIGHT HONOURABLE ROBERT EARLE OF ESSEX: EARLE MARSHALL OF ENGLAND.

VI. CANTVS.

To plead my faith, where faith hath no reward,
To moue remorse where fauour is not borne:
To heape complaints wher she doth not regard,
Were fruitlesse, bootelesse, vaine and yeeld but scorne.
I loued her whom all the world admir'de,
I was refus'de of her that can loue none:
And my vaine hopes which far too high aspir'de
Is dead and buri'd and for euer gone.
Forget my name since you haue scornde my Loue,
And womanlike doe not too late lament:
Since for your sake I doe all mischiefe proue,
I none accuse nor nothing doe repent.
I was as fonde as euer she was faire,
Yet lou'd I not more then I now dispaire.
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VIII. VERSES MADE BY (THE) EARL OF ESSEX IN HIS TROUBLE.

The ways on earth haue paths and turnings known;
The ways on sea are gone by needle's light;
The birds of the air the nearest way have flown,
And under earth the moles do cast aright;
A way more hard than these I needs must take,
Where none can teach, nor no man can direct;
Where no man's good for me example makes,
But all men's faults do teach her to suspect.
Her thoughts and mine such disproportion haue;
All strength of love is infinite in me;
She useth the advantage time and fortune gave
Of worth and power to get the liberty.
Earth, sea, heaven, hell, are subject unto laws,
But I, poor I, must suffer and know no cause.
R. E. E.
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IX. ORACLE FROM A DEVICE MADE BY THE EARL OF ESSEX FOR THE ENTERTAINMENT OF THE QUEEN.

Seated between the Old World and the New,
A land there is no other land may touch,
Where reigns a Queen in peace and honour true;
Stories or fables do describe no such.
Never did Atlas such a burthen bear,
As she, in holding up the world opprest;
Supplying with her virtue, every where,
Weakness of friends, errors of servants best.
No nation breeds a warmer blood for war,
And yet she calms them with her majesty;
No age hath ever wit refined so far,
And yet she calms them by her policy;
To her thy son must make his sacrifice,
If he will have the morning of her eyes.
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X. ESSEX LASTE VOYAGE TO THE HAUEN OF HAPPINESS.

Welcome sweet Death the kindest freind I haue,
This fleshly prison of my sowle vnlocke;
With all the speed Thou can'st, prouide my graue,
Gett an axe ready and prepare the blocke;
Vnto the Queene I haue a debt to paye
This Febrewarye's fiue and twenty day.
Come, Patience, come, and take me by the hande,
And trew Repentaunce teach myne eyes to weepe;
Humyllity in neede of Thee I stande,
My sowle desires Thy company to keepe;
Base worldly thoughts, vanish out of my mynde,
Leaue not a spott of you nor yours behinde.
Vnto Thy glory Lorde I do confesse,
Vaine worldly pleasures haue my youth misled;
I haue inclynd to luste and wantonesse,
My synns are more then haires vpon my hed;
Without, within, and round on euery side,
Folly, vncleanes, vanity and pride.
Forgett, forgiue, lett not Thy wrath insence!
Sweete Sauiour Christ my mediatour bee;
O pitty Lorde, O pardon myne offence!
From throne of grace lett Mercy looke on me!
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View not the euills in Iustice, I haue don,
Lay all my faultes on Thy synne-salueinge Son!
And Lorde lett my corruptions neuer rise,
As witnesses of horrour, wrath and feare;
Though synne hath suted me in Hell's disguise
Graunt me the wedinge garment saynts do weare,
Sweete Iesus make Thy bloud the only meane,
To washe my stainèd sowle vnspotted cleane.
Poure on my harte the sweetest streames of grace,
And feede my hungry hopes with heau'nly loue;
From my complaynts turne not away Thy face,
Reach me Thy hande to lifte my thoughts aboue,
That I before Thy presence may appeere,
Although this fylthy lumpe of flesh stay heere.
Before I had a beeinge, life or breath,
By Thy great goodnes I obtayn'd creation;
When I was captiue in the jayle of death,
Thy mercy did redeeme me to saluation;
Thou wounded wast, to heale the woundes Syn gaue-me,
And Thou didst dye, only of love to saue-me.
O Lorde, assist this my most needfull hower,
Strengthen my weaknes with Thy wondrous myght,
At our ende, Sathan's busiest with his power,
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Ayde me in this laste combatt I shall fight;
Helpe Heauen's Kinge, for if Thy hand be by,
I know Hell's coward, will with terrour flye.
And Lorde forgiue me this laste bloudy syn,
That lyes so heauy on my tyrèd sowle;
By which so many of my frends haue bin,
Brought in Death's daunger by the Lawe's controwle;
Offendinge God, our prince, the Realme of state,
Vnto the ruine of our honour's date.
But Iesus, I do come with fayth to Thee,
My Death's my life, Thy mercy is my merritt;
From slauish syn I now enlarg'd shall bee,
Eternall joyes perpetuall to Inherrit;
Thou art the worke, Thou art the corner stone,
On Thee I rest, on Thee I build alone.
Now am I ready in the Tower to dye,
And there my death and buriall lett me haue;
Where greate ambitious lords do hedles lye,
As Norfolk's duke, and Gilforde Dudlie's graue;
Northumberland, Buckingame, and lord Gray,
Who loste their heads as I must do this day.
Tyme's come, Death calls, now sowle on Christ laye hould,
Sue with an humble pitty-pleadinge voyce;
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Poore strayinge sheepe, hye thee vnto the foulde,
Thy comeinge home makes angells to reioyce;
Come blessed spirritts, come in Iesus' name,
Receiue my sowle, to Him conuaye the same.
End of Poems of Robert, Earl of Essex.
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