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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 | Three Precious Teares of Blood |  |
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The first teare, IN MEMORY AND PRAISE OF THAT FAMOVS MONARCH, HENRY the Great.
TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE, THE COVNTESSE OF DERBIE.
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Like thundring Ioue, or like all-conquering Mars,I made great Hectors quake with my alarms,
I brau'd the fates, and in my hardest warres
Made horror selfe yeeld honor to my armes.
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I sau'd my Lillies from a crimson floodOf bloody hearts rebellious to my Crowne:
They thoght to drown me quite in streams of blood,
In streames of courage I their thoughts did drowne.
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The pride of Nations against me was bent,But like the sea which Neptun's force assayles:
For those lowd stormes were but Alcions, sent
To fixe the anchor of my peacefull sayles.
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Vnder the weight of my victorious bayesI crush'd that Hydra which my Fraunce opprest,
And gaue my subiects leaue to passe their dayes
Vnder the oliue-shades of peace and rest.
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Attlas, Olimpus; I this world vpheld,Which I made shrincke vnder my trophees loade:
Snow not so thicke lyes vpon mountaynes swel'd
As Palms, Bayes, Lillies, on my high abode.
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The Poles did ttemble at my conquest's sound,Th'Antipodes did feare my victories,
Of all that could be conquer'd on the ground,
I made my feete aboue their heade to rise.
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Thus, did I but prescribe the lawes to things,My name their obiect was that greatest are,
My fortune made me Monarch ouer Kings,
My martiall heart, the Genius of the warre.
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For my last triumph heau'n I should haue had,But such a pray's not gotten by the blade,
And yet the blade of an audacious mad
Thither my soule hath with a stroke conuaide.
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Behold, how still the steele doth guide my fate,And here cut out my victories below,
Now since by steele the Cesars end their state,
By steele why should not my last triumphs grow?
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A heau'n of little Gods my pompe enioy'd,The Lillies of my Iunoes bed which grac't;
Only of heau'ns sweet Nectar I was void,
Earth hauing nothing worthy of my tast.
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When to this heau'nly rest my sprit did rise,With palme I was by God's great Dolphin crown'd,
My little Dolphin had a crowne likewise,
His on his head, mine on my soule was found.
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Thus both at once are Kings, not for one cause,The one to pay his vowes is thron'd in glory,
The other to establish armes and lawes,
Yet both to raigne in times eternall story.
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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.
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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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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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The third teare, IN EXECRATION OF THE MVRTHER of that great King, Henry the fourth.
TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE, THE LADY
Clifford.
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Damn'd murtherer, ô hels abortiue curst,Parricide of vs all, by furies nurst,
Horror of Nature, hence;
Instrument of Sathan, forthwith returne
To thy first depth, where euer howling mourne
For thy hainous offence.
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As many plagues as here thy false hand powersOn vs, as many teares of bloud in showers
As still thou mak'st vs spend,
Fall to thy torments there; in such a wise
As from thy cursed ashes neuer rise
Another such a fend.
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Thou rob'st the world of such a King, whose peareFor Justice and for power did nere appeare
Vnder the sunnes faire eye;
Such an Artist as well in peace and warre,
Beyond the bruit of those old Cesars, farre
Of famous memory.
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A King whose worth no little doth surpasAll their crown'd heads, whose raigne before his was;
Whose wonderfull meeknes,
Went still combin'd with Royall Maiesty,
Like his braue selfe alone, in purity,
Truth, faith, valor, goodnes.
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Yet this foule part thou actest not alone,The sins by each to often done,
And that most impious ground
Of you, that subiects harts from Kings seduce,
Whetting your kniues to breake that loyall truce,
His royall breast did wound.
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More to augment our harts extreamely bleeding,Our neuer dying sorrowes, greefes exceeding,
This added is to ours;
That he, to kinde, must your attempts forgiue,
By much to kind, his hart to you must giue,
Yet neuer could haue yours.
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That this great King (vnder whose pow'r did quakeThe greatest pow'r the greatest Kings could make)
His life so highly prised;
That life which hath so many happy made,
Should on your bloody altars now be laide,
Thus to be sacrificed.
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Deare Queene, from whom heau'n pluck't this branch of GoldOur Prince, in whose eyes yet we faire behold
Those worthy liuing parts
Of that great King your husband, O protect
Your sides and his, from that so cruell sect,
To expect at these darts.
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Those Hidraes must not come where you reside,So shall your teeth and harts at rest abide,
Their poison will infest
Without your care, there's no such Antitode
As is to keepe your selues alwaies remote
From them as from the pest.
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Our Kingdome and Kings Guardian, you that serueAs mother to them both, then both preserue
From mischiefe without staying;
Least by a third stroake we, our state and all,
Vnhappily at length to ruine fall
By your to kind delaying.
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O God, which with thy hand vpon her headHast set her Crowne, aud thine oyle on her shed,
Granting her so great grace;
Make her name liue, as she shall be the cause
Our Kings may raigne in peace by her wise lawes,
When thou bring'st them in place.
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And as thou hast by adamants vnknowneDrawne Elements from Enemies to one,
As we see them agree;
So Lord, vnite each Frenchmans hart and minde,
That fast their loue to their kings they may binde,
In whose face thine we see.
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That to this end all our endeauours tending,Our wils may neuer in this realme be bending
To any factious passion;
But Spartan-like our Country vndeuided
All our harts knit may as one hart be guided,
In a brotherly fashion.
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And that the rest of all our gen'rous blood,Within this Realme may now become one flood
Not stopping, till we find
Meanes to reuenge our good Kings deare blood shed,
And keepe his hart more safe (restor'd though dead)
In this sonne left behind.
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In whom such vertue doth already grow,As it shall make proude fortune stoope and know
Subiection to his worth;
And thus in time his planting hand shall fill
The world with those victorious bayes, which still
His fathers tombe brings forth.
FINIS.
| Three Precious Teares of Blood | |