The Works of Michael Drayton Edited by J. William Hebel |
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| MATILDA. The faire and chaste Daughter of the Lord Robert Fitzwater.
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 | The Works of Michael Drayton |  |
209
MATILDA. The faire and chaste Daughter of the Lord Robert Fitzwater.
THE TRVE GLORIE OF THE NOBLE HOVSE OF SVSSEX.
Phœbus erit nostri princeps, & carminis author.
210
TO THE NOBLE AND VERTUOUS Gentlewoman, worthy of all honor, Mistres Lucie
Harrington, Daughter to the Honorable Gentleman, Sir
JOHN HARRINGTON, Knight.
212
THE VISION OF MATILDA.
Me thought I saw upon Matildas Tombe,
Her wofull ghost, which Fame did now awake,
And crav'd her passage from Earths hollow wombe,
To view this Legend, written for her sake;
Her wofull ghost, which Fame did now awake,
And crav'd her passage from Earths hollow wombe,
To view this Legend, written for her sake;
No sooner shee her sacred Name had seene,
Whom her kind friend had chose to grace her story,
But wiping her chast teares from her sad eyen,
Shee seem'd to tryumph, in her double glory.
Whom her kind friend had chose to grace her story,
But wiping her chast teares from her sad eyen,
Shee seem'd to tryumph, in her double glory.
Glory shee might, that his admired Muse,
Had with such method fram'd her just complaint:
But proude shee was, that reason made him chuse,
To patronize the same to such a Saint:
In whom her rarest vertues might be showne,
Though Poets skill should fayle to make them knowne.
Had with such method fram'd her just complaint:
But proude shee was, that reason made him chuse,
To patronize the same to such a Saint:
In whom her rarest vertues might be showne,
Though Poets skill should fayle to make them knowne.
H. G. Esquire.
[Thy learned Poeme (Friend) I will not prayse]
Thy learned Poeme (Friend) I will not prayse,
Nor will commend Matildas chastitie,
Shee by thy Muse, her fame from grave doth rayse,
And hie conceit, thy lines doth dignifie.
Nor will commend Matildas chastitie,
Shee by thy Muse, her fame from grave doth rayse,
And hie conceit, thy lines doth dignifie.
But that in this, the honour thou doost give,
To that sweet Maide in whose unspotted minde,
Matildas rarest vertues yet doe live,
As two so like the world can hardly finde.
To that sweet Maide in whose unspotted minde,
Matildas rarest vertues yet doe live,
As two so like the world can hardly finde.
Fayre Lucie with Matilda but compare,
In all regards of perfect modestie,
And see how like in every good they are,
And then thy choyce with judgement ratifie.
And I who know the worth of thy fit choyce,
Approve it good, both with my pen and voyce.
In all regards of perfect modestie,
And see how like in every good they are,
And then thy choyce with judgement ratifie.
And I who know the worth of thy fit choyce,
Approve it good, both with my pen and voyce.
Anonimos.
213
[Teares in your eyes, and passions in your harts]
Teares in your eyes, and passions in your harts,
With mournfull grace vouchsafe Matildas story:
The subject sad, a King to act the parts
Of his owne shame, to others endlesse glory.
With mournfull grace vouchsafe Matildas story:
The subject sad, a King to act the parts
Of his owne shame, to others endlesse glory.
But such is sinne, where lawlesse lust is raigning,
Sweet to the taste, till all turnes to infection,
When count is cast, a reckoning is remaining,
Which must be payd, but not at our election.
Sweet to the taste, till all turnes to infection,
When count is cast, a reckoning is remaining,
Which must be payd, but not at our election.
Perrill and Greefe, the interest of Pleasure,
Spending the stock that Danger long was gayning,
Makes soule and body banckrupt of that treasure,
Which vainly spent, what helps our fond complayning?
O that my lines could so the Author grace,
As well his vertues merit prayse and place.
Spending the stock that Danger long was gayning,
Makes soule and body banckrupt of that treasure,
Which vainly spent, what helps our fond complayning?
O that my lines could so the Author grace,
As well his vertues merit prayse and place.
R. L. Esquire.
To. M. DRAYTON.
I like thy worke, and doe allow thy wit,
And prayse thy choyce in patronizing it:
Yet more, that thou the honor doost impart,
To Lucies prayse, a Mayd of such desart.
Who for her rarest vertues doth exceede,
Nor never age a better wit did breede.
A blessed Impe, sprong from a noble race,
Admir'd for gyfts, and beautified with grace;
A Phenix deck, yet not with plumes of gold,
But with true Jemmes of heavens eternall mould.
And prayse thy choyce in patronizing it:
Yet more, that thou the honor doost impart,
To Lucies prayse, a Mayd of such desart.
Who for her rarest vertues doth exceede,
Nor never age a better wit did breede.
A blessed Impe, sprong from a noble race,
Admir'd for gyfts, and beautified with grace;
A Phenix deck, yet not with plumes of gold,
But with true Jemmes of heavens eternall mould.
Then happy man in thy Matildas fame,
Happy Matilda in rare Lucies name,
Devise of wit, by Graces onely graced,
Adorned skill, in vertue highly placed,
Yet subject, wit, and skill be all to fewe,
In chast Matilda, for rare Lucies due.
Happy Matilda in rare Lucies name,
Devise of wit, by Graces onely graced,
Adorned skill, in vertue highly placed,
Yet subject, wit, and skill be all to fewe,
In chast Matilda, for rare Lucies due.
W. G. Esquire.
214
MATILDA.
If to this time some sacred Muse retaine,
Those choise regards by perfect vertue taught,
And in her chast and virgine-humble vaine,
Doth kindly cherrish one pure Mayden thought,
In whom my death hath but true pitty wrought,
By her I crave my life may be reveald,
Which blacke oblivion hath too long conceald.
Those choise regards by perfect vertue taught,
And in her chast and virgine-humble vaine,
Doth kindly cherrish one pure Mayden thought,
In whom my death hath but true pitty wrought,
By her I crave my life may be reveald,
Which blacke oblivion hath too long conceald.
Or on the earth if mercy may be found,
Or if remorce may touch the harts of men,
Or eyes may lend me teares to wash my wound,
Or passion be exprest by mortall pen,
Yet may I hope of some compassion then:
Three hundreth yeeres by all men over past,
Now finding one to pittie mee at last.
Or if remorce may touch the harts of men,
Or eyes may lend me teares to wash my wound,
Or passion be exprest by mortall pen,
Yet may I hope of some compassion then:
Three hundreth yeeres by all men over past,
Now finding one to pittie mee at last.
You blessed Impes of heavenly chastitie,
You sacred Vestalls, Angels onely glory,
Right presidents of imortalitie,
Onely to you I consecrate my storie.
It shall suffise for mee if you be sorie.
If you alone shall deigne to grace his verse,
Which serves for odours to perfume my hearse.
You sacred Vestalls, Angels onely glory,
Right presidents of imortalitie,
Onely to you I consecrate my storie.
It shall suffise for mee if you be sorie.
If you alone shall deigne to grace his verse,
Which serves for odours to perfume my hearse.
Let your delicious heaven-distilling teares,
Soften the earth to send mee from her wombe,
With Conquerors Lawrell crowne my golden haires,
With flowry garlands beautifie my tombe,
Be you the Heralds to proclaime me roome,
With sable Cypresse maske your lovely eyes,
Mourning my death with dolefull Elegies.
Soften the earth to send mee from her wombe,
With Conquerors Lawrell crowne my golden haires,
With flowry garlands beautifie my tombe,
Be you the Heralds to proclaime me roome,
With sable Cypresse maske your lovely eyes,
Mourning my death with dolefull Elegies.
Faire Rosamond, of all so highly graced,
Recorded in the lasting Booke of Fame,
And in our Sainted Legendarie placed,
By him who strives to stellifie her name,
Yet will some Matrons say she was to blame.
Though all the world bewitched with his ryme,
Yet all his skill cannot excuse her cryme.
Recorded in the lasting Booke of Fame,
And in our Sainted Legendarie placed,
By him who strives to stellifie her name,
Yet will some Matrons say she was to blame.
Though all the world bewitched with his ryme,
Yet all his skill cannot excuse her cryme.
215
Lucrece, of whom proude Rome hath boasted long,
Lately reviv'd to live another age,
And here ariv'd to tell of Tarquins wrong,
Her chast deniall, and the Tyrants rage,
Acting her passions on our stately stage,
She is remembred, all forgetting me,
Yet I as fayre and chast, as ere was she.
Lately reviv'd to live another age,
And here ariv'd to tell of Tarquins wrong,
Her chast deniall, and the Tyrants rage,
Acting her passions on our stately stage,
She is remembred, all forgetting me,
Yet I as fayre and chast, as ere was she.
Shores wife is in her wanton humor sooth'd,
And modern Poets, still applaud her praise,
Our famous Elstreds wrinckled browes are smooth'd,
Call'd from her grave to see these latter daies,
And happy's hee, their glory high'st can raise.
“Thus looser wantons, still are praisd of many,
“Vice oft findes friends, but vertue seldome any.
And modern Poets, still applaud her praise,
Our famous Elstreds wrinckled browes are smooth'd,
Call'd from her grave to see these latter daies,
And happy's hee, their glory high'st can raise.
“Thus looser wantons, still are praisd of many,
“Vice oft findes friends, but vertue seldome any.
O faire Charites, Joves most deere delight,
O lend me now one heaven-inchanting lay,
And you rare Nimphes which please Apollos sight,
Bring spreading Palme and never-dying Bay,
With Olive branches strew the pleasant way:
And with your Viols sound one pleasing straine,
To ayde his Muse, and raise his humble vaine.
O lend me now one heaven-inchanting lay,
And you rare Nimphes which please Apollos sight,
Bring spreading Palme and never-dying Bay,
With Olive branches strew the pleasant way:
And with your Viols sound one pleasing straine,
To ayde his Muse, and raise his humble vaine.
And thou ô Beta, Soveraigne of his thought,
Englands Diana, let him thinke on thee,
By thy perfections let his Muse be taught,
And in his breast so deepe imprinted be,
That he may write of sacred Chastitie:
Though not like Collin in thy Britomart,
Yet loves as much, although he wants his arte.
Englands Diana, let him thinke on thee,
By thy perfections let his Muse be taught,
And in his breast so deepe imprinted be,
That he may write of sacred Chastitie:
Though not like Collin in thy Britomart,
Yet loves as much, although he wants his arte.
O my dread Soveraigne, rare and princely Mayd,
From whose pure eyes the world derives her light,
In Angels robes with majestie arayd,
In whom true vertue is defin'd aright:
O let these lines be gracious in thy sight,
In whom alone, as in a perfect glas,
All may discerne how chast Matilda was.
From whose pure eyes the world derives her light,
In Angels robes with majestie arayd,
In whom true vertue is defin'd aright:
O let these lines be gracious in thy sight,
In whom alone, as in a perfect glas,
All may discerne how chast Matilda was.
216
To brag of birth, or noblesse, were but vaine,
Although I might compare me with the best:
“To challenge that our Auncesters did gaine,
“A royall minde such follie doth detest,
Which I omit and here set downe my rest:
“Of vertuous life I meane to boast alone,
“Our birth is theirs, our vertues are our owne.
Although I might compare me with the best:
“To challenge that our Auncesters did gaine,
“A royall minde such follie doth detest,
Which I omit and here set downe my rest:
“Of vertuous life I meane to boast alone,
“Our birth is theirs, our vertues are our owne.
“A shame to fetch our long discent from Kings,
“And from great Jove derive our pedigree,
“The brave atchivements of a hundred things,
“Breathing vaine boastes the worlde to terrifie,
“If wee our selves doe blot with infamie,
“And staine that blood and honor which is theirs:
“Men cannot leave their vertues to their heyres.
“And from great Jove derive our pedigree,
“The brave atchivements of a hundred things,
“Breathing vaine boastes the worlde to terrifie,
“If wee our selves doe blot with infamie,
“And staine that blood and honor which is theirs:
“Men cannot leave their vertues to their heyres.
The Heaven became a Midwife at my birth,
A kind Lucina, gently helping Nature:
Some sacred power then present on the earth,
Fore-telling rare perfection in a creature,
As all men judg'd by so divine a feature:
Yet as my beautie seem'd to ravish all,
Vertue made beauty more angelicall.
A kind Lucina, gently helping Nature:
Some sacred power then present on the earth,
Fore-telling rare perfection in a creature,
As all men judg'd by so divine a feature:
Yet as my beautie seem'd to ravish all,
Vertue made beauty more angelicall.
Upon my brow, sate Honor in her pride,
Tables containing heavens divinest law,
Whose snowie margent quoted on each side,
With such delights as all mens harts coulde draw,
My thoughts (as Tutors) kept mine eyes in awe,
From their rare Sun-beames darting forth such raies,
As well the worke might shew the Arts-mans praise.
Tables containing heavens divinest law,
Whose snowie margent quoted on each side,
With such delights as all mens harts coulde draw,
My thoughts (as Tutors) kept mine eyes in awe,
From their rare Sun-beames darting forth such raies,
As well the worke might shew the Arts-mans praise.
These Cherubins, the Tree of life doe keepe,
These Dragons, watch the faire Hesperian fruite,
These fiery Serpents, guard the golden sheepe,
These fixed stars, their rayes like lightning shute,
At whose approch the wise were striken mute.
These eyes, which onely could true vertues measure,
Ordain'd by Nature to preserve her treasure.
These Dragons, watch the faire Hesperian fruite,
These fiery Serpents, guard the golden sheepe,
These fixed stars, their rayes like lightning shute,
At whose approch the wise were striken mute.
These eyes, which onely could true vertues measure,
Ordain'd by Nature to preserve her treasure.
217
My words were gracefull, pleasing to the wise,
My speech retayning modest decencie,
Not fondlie vaine, nor foolishlie precize,
But sweetlie tun'd, with such a simphony,
Mooving all hearers with the harmonie.
Gracing my tale with such an Emphasis,
As never Musicke could delight like this.
My speech retayning modest decencie,
Not fondlie vaine, nor foolishlie precize,
But sweetlie tun'd, with such a simphony,
Mooving all hearers with the harmonie.
Gracing my tale with such an Emphasis,
As never Musicke could delight like this.
My face the sunne, adorning beauties sky,
The Booke where heaven her wonders did enrole,
A stately Pharus to each wandring eye,
And like a Syren could enchaunt the soule,
Which had the power the proudest to controle.
To whom this gift my Maker had assigned,
That there, all eyes like southsayers divined.
The Booke where heaven her wonders did enrole,
A stately Pharus to each wandring eye,
And like a Syren could enchaunt the soule,
Which had the power the proudest to controle.
To whom this gift my Maker had assigned,
That there, all eyes like southsayers divined.
Natures fayre Ensigne, roiallie displai'd,
Map of Elisium, Eden without night,
Ermins wherein rich Phœbus is arai'd,
Right prospective, reflecting heavenly light,
Hart-wounding arrow, pearcing with the sight.
Bright mornings lustre, Joves high exaltation,
Load-starre of love, rare Carde of admiration.
Map of Elisium, Eden without night,
Ermins wherein rich Phœbus is arai'd,
Right prospective, reflecting heavenly light,
Hart-wounding arrow, pearcing with the sight.
Bright mornings lustre, Joves high exaltation,
Load-starre of love, rare Carde of admiration.
True type of honor, fine dilicious varry,
The richest coate that ever beautie bare,
Pure colours, which the heavens doe onlie carry,
O uncouth blazon, so exceeding rare,
O curious lymming, passing all compare,
First at my birth assigned unto mee,
By that great King of heavenly Heraldrie.
The richest coate that ever beautie bare,
Pure colours, which the heavens doe onlie carry,
O uncouth blazon, so exceeding rare,
O curious lymming, passing all compare,
First at my birth assigned unto mee,
By that great King of heavenly Heraldrie.
From hence my praise began to prove her wing,
Which to the heaven could carry up my fame,
Of all my glorie now began the spring,
Through every Coast this still enlarg'd my name,
From hence the cause of all my sorrowes came:
“Thus to this Hydra are we subject still,
“Who dares to speake, not caring good or ill.
Which to the heaven could carry up my fame,
Of all my glorie now began the spring,
Through every Coast this still enlarg'd my name,
From hence the cause of all my sorrowes came:
“Thus to this Hydra are we subject still,
“Who dares to speake, not caring good or ill.
218
This jealous Monster hath a thousand eyes,
Her ayrie body hath as many wings:
Now on the earth, then up to heaven she flies,
And heere and there with every wind she flings,
From every Coast her rumors foorth shee brings;
Nothing so secret but to her appeareth,
And apt to credit every thing shee heareth.
Her ayrie body hath as many wings:
Now on the earth, then up to heaven she flies,
And heere and there with every wind she flings,
From every Coast her rumors foorth shee brings;
Nothing so secret but to her appeareth,
And apt to credit every thing shee heareth.
Foule blabbing tel-tale, secrets soone bewrayer,
Thou ayre-bred Eccho, whisperer of lyes:
Shril-sounding trumpet, trueths unkind betrayer,
False larum-bel, awaking dead-mens eyes,
Uncertaine rumor, wandring in the skyes:
Fond pratling Parrat, telling all thou hearest,
Oft furthest of when as thou should'st be nearest.
Thou ayre-bred Eccho, whisperer of lyes:
Shril-sounding trumpet, trueths unkind betrayer,
False larum-bel, awaking dead-mens eyes,
Uncertaine rumor, wandring in the skyes:
Fond pratling Parrat, telling all thou hearest,
Oft furthest of when as thou should'st be nearest.
“The Princes eares are open to report,
“Ther's skill in blazing beauty to a King;
“To censure, is the subject of the Court,
“From thence Fame carries, thether Fame doth bring,
“There, to each word a thousand ecchos ring:
“A Lottery, where most loose, but few doe win,
“Few love Religion, many follow sin.
“Ther's skill in blazing beauty to a King;
“To censure, is the subject of the Court,
“From thence Fame carries, thether Fame doth bring,
“There, to each word a thousand ecchos ring:
“A Lottery, where most loose, but few doe win,
“Few love Religion, many follow sin.
Loe, heere at first my beauty plaid her prize,
Heere where my vertues seldome prized be,
Yet that which most seem'd wondred of the wise,
Confin'd by vertue, cleerelie made me see,
What dangers were attending still on me:
Which most desir'd, for why esteem'd most rare,
Guarded I kept with most especiall care.
Heere where my vertues seldome prized be,
Yet that which most seem'd wondred of the wise,
Confin'd by vertue, cleerelie made me see,
What dangers were attending still on me:
Which most desir'd, for why esteem'd most rare,
Guarded I kept with most especiall care.
This, whole possest the thoughts of princelie John,
This, on his hart-strings Angels musick made,
This, was the subject which he wrought upon,
That deepe impression which could never fade,
Reason which might sufficiently perswade:
Hence sprong that greefe, which never gave him rest,
This was the spirit wher-with hee was possest.
This, on his hart-strings Angels musick made,
This, was the subject which he wrought upon,
That deepe impression which could never fade,
Reason which might sufficiently perswade:
Hence sprong that greefe, which never gave him rest,
This was the spirit wher-with hee was possest.
219
This, had commission to commaund his Crowne,
In all his course, conducted by this starre,
This, with a smile could cleere each cloudie frowne,
This, conquered him, which conquered all in warre,
This, calm'd his thoughts in every bloody jarre,
This, taught his eyes their due attendance still,
This, held the raines which rul'd his princely will.
In all his course, conducted by this starre,
This, with a smile could cleere each cloudie frowne,
This, conquered him, which conquered all in warre,
This, calm'd his thoughts in every bloody jarre,
This, taught his eyes their due attendance still,
This, held the raines which rul'd his princely will.
Controuling Love, proud Fortunes busie Factor,
The gaule of wit, sad Melancholies schoole,
Hart-killing corsive, golden times detractor,
Life-fretting canker, mischiefes poysoned toole,
The Ideots idoll, but the wise mans foole:
A foe to friendship, enemie to trueth,
The wrong misleader of our pleasing youth.
The gaule of wit, sad Melancholies schoole,
Hart-killing corsive, golden times detractor,
Life-fretting canker, mischiefes poysoned toole,
The Ideots idoll, but the wise mans foole:
A foe to friendship, enemie to trueth,
The wrong misleader of our pleasing youth.
My vertuous father, famous then in Court,
Who liv'd in pompe, and Lorded with the best,
Whose minde was troubled with this strange report,
As one enshrining honor in his brest,
And as a man who ever lov'd me best:
Fore-saw the danger of such secret spyes,
Who still attended on the Princes eyes.
Who liv'd in pompe, and Lorded with the best,
Whose minde was troubled with this strange report,
As one enshrining honor in his brest,
And as a man who ever lov'd me best:
Fore-saw the danger of such secret spyes,
Who still attended on the Princes eyes.
And he, who in the Kings own bosome slept,
Experience taught his deepest thoughts to sound,
Yet in his brest, the same he secret kept,
Nor would disclose the thing which he had found,
Who being hurt must needs conceale his wound.
“For why he knew, it was a dangerous thing,
“In rule, or Love, but once to crosse a King.
Experience taught his deepest thoughts to sound,
Yet in his brest, the same he secret kept,
Nor would disclose the thing which he had found,
Who being hurt must needs conceale his wound.
“For why he knew, it was a dangerous thing,
“In rule, or Love, but once to crosse a King.
And finding lust had kindled all this fire,
And his affections in extreames consisted,
He greatly fear'd his youthfull vaine desire,
Might grow impatient, being once resisted:
Yet in his humor, sith he still persisted,
With me his childe, thought fittest to perswade,
Ere further he into the deepe durst wade.
And his affections in extreames consisted,
He greatly fear'd his youthfull vaine desire,
Might grow impatient, being once resisted:
Yet in his humor, sith he still persisted,
With me his childe, thought fittest to perswade,
Ere further he into the deepe durst wade.
220
Sweete gyrle (quoth he) the glory of my life,
The blessed and sole object of mine eyes,
For whom the Heavens with Nature fell at strife,
On whom the hope of all my fortune lies,
Whose youth, my age with comfort still supplies.
Whose very sight my drouping hart doth raise,
And doth prolong thy aged fathers dayes.
The blessed and sole object of mine eyes,
For whom the Heavens with Nature fell at strife,
On whom the hope of all my fortune lies,
Whose youth, my age with comfort still supplies.
Whose very sight my drouping hart doth raise,
And doth prolong thy aged fathers dayes.
Thou seest, a world upon thy youth awaite,
That Paradice, where all delightes do growe,
Thy peerlesse Beautie made so faire a baite,
The Bursse where Nature sets her ware to show,
Where blushing Roses, sleepe in beds of snowe.
The heavens have fring'd thy fore-head with their gold;
That glasse where heaven her-selfe may well behold.
That Paradice, where all delightes do growe,
Thy peerlesse Beautie made so faire a baite,
The Bursse where Nature sets her ware to show,
Where blushing Roses, sleepe in beds of snowe.
The heavens have fring'd thy fore-head with their gold;
That glasse where heaven her-selfe may well behold.
“All gaze at Comets, choysest things be best,
“The rarest pearles are ever dearest prized,
“Seldom wants guests, where Beautie bids the feast,
“Mens eyes with wonders never are suffised,
“At fairest signes, best welcome is surmised.
“The shrine of Love, doth seldom offrings want.
“Nor with such counsel, Clyents never scant.
“The rarest pearles are ever dearest prized,
“Seldom wants guests, where Beautie bids the feast,
“Mens eyes with wonders never are suffised,
“At fairest signes, best welcome is surmised.
“The shrine of Love, doth seldom offrings want.
“Nor with such counsel, Clyents never scant.
“Honor is grounded on the tickle Ice,
“The purest Lawne, most apt for every spot,
“The path to hell, doth seeme a paradice,
“Vices be noted, vertues oft forgot,
“Thy fame once foild, incurable the blot.
“Thy name defac'd, if toucht with any staine,
“And once supplanted, never growes againe.
“The purest Lawne, most apt for every spot,
“The path to hell, doth seeme a paradice,
“Vices be noted, vertues oft forgot,
“Thy fame once foild, incurable the blot.
“Thy name defac'd, if toucht with any staine,
“And once supplanted, never growes againe.
“The Lechors tongue is never voyd of guile,
“Nor Crocodile wants teares to win his pray,
“The subtil'st Temptor hath the sweetest stile,
“With rarest musick Syrens soon'st betray.
“Affection, will like fire himselfe bewray.
“Time offers still each hower to do amisse,
“And greatest dangers, promise greatest blisse.
“Nor Crocodile wants teares to win his pray,
“The subtil'st Temptor hath the sweetest stile,
“With rarest musick Syrens soon'st betray.
“Affection, will like fire himselfe bewray.
“Time offers still each hower to do amisse,
“And greatest dangers, promise greatest blisse.
221
“Deceit, still with a thousand sleights is fraught,
“Art, hath a world of secrets in her power,
“Who hopes a Conquest, leaves no meanes unsought,
“Soft golden drops once peirc'd the brazen tower,
“Care and Suspition is faire Beauties dower.
“Guile, (like a Traytor) ever goes disguis'd,
“Lust, oft is fild, but never is suffic'd.
“Art, hath a world of secrets in her power,
“Who hopes a Conquest, leaves no meanes unsought,
“Soft golden drops once peirc'd the brazen tower,
“Care and Suspition is faire Beauties dower.
“Guile, (like a Traytor) ever goes disguis'd,
“Lust, oft is fild, but never is suffic'd.
This wanton Prince, whose soule doth swim in vice,
Whose lawlesse youth time never hath restrained,
He leaves no meanes unprov'd, which may entice,
The rytes of wedlock wantonly profained;
His hands with blood of innocents distained.
This Lyon, would thy chastity devoure,
Which kept by Vertue, lyes not in his power.
Whose lawlesse youth time never hath restrained,
He leaves no meanes unprov'd, which may entice,
The rytes of wedlock wantonly profained;
His hands with blood of innocents distained.
This Lyon, would thy chastity devoure,
Which kept by Vertue, lyes not in his power.
“Lacivious will, the sences doth abuse,
“Birth is no shaddow unto tyranny,
“No scepter serves dishonor to excuse,
“Nor kinglie vaile can cover villanie,
“Fame is not subject to authoritie.
“No plaister heales a deadly poysoned sore,
“No secret hid, where slaunder keeps the dore.
“Birth is no shaddow unto tyranny,
“No scepter serves dishonor to excuse,
“Nor kinglie vaile can cover villanie,
“Fame is not subject to authoritie.
“No plaister heales a deadly poysoned sore,
“No secret hid, where slaunder keeps the dore.
“No subtile plea revokes dishonors error,
“No law can quite, where Fame is once endited,
“No armour proofe against the conscience terror,
“Gainst open shame, no Text can well be cyted,
“The blow once given, cannot be evited.
“If once the fire be to the powder got,
“Tis then too late to seeke to flie the shot.
“No law can quite, where Fame is once endited,
“No armour proofe against the conscience terror,
“Gainst open shame, no Text can well be cyted,
“The blow once given, cannot be evited.
“If once the fire be to the powder got,
“Tis then too late to seeke to flie the shot.
“His youthfull love, is like a sudden fire,
“Whose heate extreame, of force decay it must,
“The cause, proceeding from his lewd desire,
“Is quickly out, and sooner turn'd to dust,
“Yet frets the life, as iron frets with rust.
“Sinne in a chaine, leads on her sister Shame,
“And both in Gives, fast fettered to Defame.
“Whose heate extreame, of force decay it must,
“The cause, proceeding from his lewd desire,
“Is quickly out, and sooner turn'd to dust,
“Yet frets the life, as iron frets with rust.
“Sinne in a chaine, leads on her sister Shame,
“And both in Gives, fast fettered to Defame.
222
“The stately Eagle on his pitch doth stand,
“And from the maine the fearfull foule doth smite,
“Yet scornes to touch it lying on the land,
“When he hath felt the sweet of his delight,
“But leaves the same a pray to every Kite.
“With much we surfet, plenty makes us poore,
“The wretched Indian spurns the golden Ore.
“And from the maine the fearfull foule doth smite,
“Yet scornes to touch it lying on the land,
“When he hath felt the sweet of his delight,
“But leaves the same a pray to every Kite.
“With much we surfet, plenty makes us poore,
“The wretched Indian spurns the golden Ore.
“Kinges use their Loves, as garments they have worne,
“Weake stomackes loath, if once but fully fed,
“The Saint once stolne, who doth the shrine adorne?
“Or what is Nectar if it once be shed?
“What Princes wealth can prize thy Maiden-head?
“Which should be held as precious as thy breath,
“Which once dissolv'd of force ensueth death.
“Weake stomackes loath, if once but fully fed,
“The Saint once stolne, who doth the shrine adorne?
“Or what is Nectar if it once be shed?
“What Princes wealth can prize thy Maiden-head?
“Which should be held as precious as thy breath,
“Which once dissolv'd of force ensueth death.
Loe, heere he makes a period with his teares,
Which from his eyes now make a sudden breache,
By which the weight of all his speech appeares,
In words so grave as seemed still to preach,
This Idioma with such power doth teach.
Whose tuned cadence doth such rules impart,
As deepely fixt each sentence in my hart.
Which from his eyes now make a sudden breache,
By which the weight of all his speech appeares,
In words so grave as seemed still to preach,
This Idioma with such power doth teach.
Whose tuned cadence doth such rules impart,
As deepely fixt each sentence in my hart.
O sacred counsell, true hart-suppling balme,
Soule-curing plaister, time preserving blisse,
Water of life in every suddaine qualme,
The heavens rich store-house, where all treasure is,
True guide, by whom foule Errors den we misse.
Night-burning Beacon, watch against mishaps,
Fore-sight, avoyding many after claps.
Soule-curing plaister, time preserving blisse,
Water of life in every suddaine qualme,
The heavens rich store-house, where all treasure is,
True guide, by whom foule Errors den we misse.
Night-burning Beacon, watch against mishaps,
Fore-sight, avoyding many after claps.
The King deluded in his love the while,
His soule tormented in this quenchlesse fire,
With flattering hope his sences doth beguile,
Quickning the coales unto his fond desire;
Affection growne too head-strong to retire,
Controules his silence, hating to be mute,
And still doth urge him to commence his sute.
His soule tormented in this quenchlesse fire,
With flattering hope his sences doth beguile,
Quickning the coales unto his fond desire;
Affection growne too head-strong to retire,
Controules his silence, hating to be mute,
And still doth urge him to commence his sute.
223
Thus carried on by his unbridled thought,
He leaves no baite unprov'd that might allure,
“Deceit, a schoole of common sleights hath taught,
“Desire, hath philters which desires procure,
“Lust, puts the most unlawfull things in ure:
“Nor yet in limmets ever could be bounded,
“Till he himselfe, himselfe hath quite confounded.
He leaves no baite unprov'd that might allure,
“Deceit, a schoole of common sleights hath taught,
“Desire, hath philters which desires procure,
“Lust, puts the most unlawfull things in ure:
“Nor yet in limmets ever could be bounded,
“Till he himselfe, himselfe hath quite confounded.
But still perceiving all devices faile,
His traines in Court yet never tooke effect,
Now with his tongue determin'd to assaile,
And to this end doth all his thoughts direct,
Too much abused by his vaine suspect:
To further daies, no longer would be posted,
But finding time, me bravely thus accosted.
His traines in Court yet never tooke effect,
Now with his tongue determin'd to assaile,
And to this end doth all his thoughts direct,
Too much abused by his vaine suspect:
To further daies, no longer would be posted,
But finding time, me bravely thus accosted.
Goddesse (quoth he) when Nature thee engrayned,
With colours fetcht from heavens eternall spring,
Little thought shee, herselfe shee could have stayned,
Or grace the world with so divine a thing.
But as a gifte to gratifie a King,
Seal'd thee this Charter, dated at thy birth,
To be the fair'st that ever liv'd on earth.
With colours fetcht from heavens eternall spring,
Little thought shee, herselfe shee could have stayned,
Or grace the world with so divine a thing.
But as a gifte to gratifie a King,
Seal'd thee this Charter, dated at thy birth,
To be the fair'st that ever liv'd on earth.
Locke not thy treasure, heaven doth give the store,
A thousand Graces at thine eyes are fed,
Thy bosome, is the Angels secret dore,
Thy breast, the pillowes of faire Venus bed:
Regardes of honour on thy browes are red.
Thy cheeks, the banquet where sweet Love doth feast,
The royall Pawne of Beauties interest.
A thousand Graces at thine eyes are fed,
Thy bosome, is the Angels secret dore,
Thy breast, the pillowes of faire Venus bed:
Regardes of honour on thy browes are red.
Thy cheeks, the banquet where sweet Love doth feast,
The royall Pawne of Beauties interest.
Thy lyps, the Bath where sorrows wounds are healed,
Where Abstinence keepes Vertue in a diet,
And in thy wit, all wonders are revealed,
Wisedom growne welthy, liveth there at quiet:
Thy modest eye controules Loves wanton ryot.
Thine eye, that planet clearer then the seaven,
Whose radient splendour lights the world to heaven.
Where Abstinence keepes Vertue in a diet,
And in thy wit, all wonders are revealed,
Wisedom growne welthy, liveth there at quiet:
Thy modest eye controules Loves wanton ryot.
Thine eye, that planet clearer then the seaven,
Whose radient splendour lights the world to heaven.
224
From thy sweet lookes such streames of lightning glide,
As through the eyes do wound the very hart,
Killing, and curing, as they are applide,
Hurting, and healing, like Achilles Dart:
Which to the world do heavenly things impart.
And thou alone, the spirit of all delight,
Which like the sun, joy'st all things with thy sight.
As through the eyes do wound the very hart,
Killing, and curing, as they are applide,
Hurting, and healing, like Achilles Dart:
Which to the world do heavenly things impart.
And thou alone, the spirit of all delight,
Which like the sun, joy'st all things with thy sight.
Could heaven allowe wher-with to lim thee forth,
Or earth afford things of esteeme to praise thee,
Were words sufficient to expresse thy worth,
Or could invention to thy glory raise thee,
Could Art devise a weight whereby to paize thee:
But thy surpassing excellence is such,
As eyes may gaze, but nothing els may tuch.
Or earth afford things of esteeme to praise thee,
Were words sufficient to expresse thy worth,
Or could invention to thy glory raise thee,
Could Art devise a weight whereby to paize thee:
But thy surpassing excellence is such,
As eyes may gaze, but nothing els may tuch.
Hee is thy King, who is becom thy subject,
Thy soveraigne Lord, who onely seekes thy love,
Thy beauty is his eyes commaunding object,
Who for thy sake, a thousand deathes would prove:
Sweet Maid let prayers, some compassion move.
Let Wolves, and Beares, be cruell in their kinds,
But women meeke, and have relenting minds.
Thy soveraigne Lord, who onely seekes thy love,
Thy beauty is his eyes commaunding object,
Who for thy sake, a thousand deathes would prove:
Sweet Maid let prayers, some compassion move.
Let Wolves, and Beares, be cruell in their kinds,
But women meeke, and have relenting minds.
Love forc'd the Gods, to things for Gods unmeet,
Behold a Monarch kneeling to a maide,
Apollo, prostrate at his Daphnes feete,
Great Atlas bowes, on whom the heaven is staide;
Thy Jove his Scepter on thy lap hath laide,
Thou in his throne doest sit as Chancellor,
And hee become thy daylie Orator.
Behold a Monarch kneeling to a maide,
Apollo, prostrate at his Daphnes feete,
Great Atlas bowes, on whom the heaven is staide;
Thy Jove his Scepter on thy lap hath laide,
Thou in his throne doest sit as Chancellor,
And hee become thy daylie Orator.
Looke on these browes, the perfect Map of care,
The truest mirrour of my miserie,
In wrinckled lines where sorrowes written are,
Where Time still reades on Loves Anotomy,
My bloodlesse vaines with greefes Phlebotomy:
A stanchlesse hart, dead-wounded, ever bleeding,
On whom that nere-fild vulture Love sits feeding.
The truest mirrour of my miserie,
In wrinckled lines where sorrowes written are,
Where Time still reades on Loves Anotomy,
My bloodlesse vaines with greefes Phlebotomy:
A stanchlesse hart, dead-wounded, ever bleeding,
On whom that nere-fild vulture Love sits feeding.
225
Pitty this soule-evaporating smoke,
The purest incense of most perfect zeale,
These deep-fetcht sighes, confounding words halfe spoke,
Where swoln-ey'd passion doth herselfe reveale:
That ragefull fier, no reason can conceale.
Where torments last, and joyes are still diluded,
Where all infernall torture is included.
The purest incense of most perfect zeale,
These deep-fetcht sighes, confounding words halfe spoke,
Where swoln-ey'd passion doth herselfe reveale:
That ragefull fier, no reason can conceale.
Where torments last, and joyes are still diluded,
Where all infernall torture is included.
Behold, the brim-full Cesterns of these eyes,
With surging Tydes of brackist teares frequented,
Where foodlesse Hope, still hunger-starven lies,
In burning Pooles eternally tormented:
Which to betray, my hart at first consented.
Where as the spirit of woe, hath ever being,
Blinded in teares, yet in teares only seeing.
With surging Tydes of brackist teares frequented,
Where foodlesse Hope, still hunger-starven lies,
In burning Pooles eternally tormented:
Which to betray, my hart at first consented.
Where as the spirit of woe, hath ever being,
Blinded in teares, yet in teares only seeing.
Shyne thou, like Cynthia under mine estate,
Thy tresses deckt with Ariadnes Crowne,
In pompe redubbling costly Junos rate,
And cloud the world in sable with a frowne:
Advaunce thy friends, and throw the mighty downe.
Be thou admir'd through all this famous Ile,
Thy name enrol'd with never-dated stile.
Thy tresses deckt with Ariadnes Crowne,
In pompe redubbling costly Junos rate,
And cloud the world in sable with a frowne:
Advaunce thy friends, and throw the mighty downe.
Be thou admir'd through all this famous Ile,
Thy name enrol'd with never-dated stile.
Great troupes of Ladies shall attend my Gerle,
Thou on thy brave tryumphing Chariot borne,
Thy drink shall be dissolved orient Pearle,
Thy princely Cup of rarest Unicorne:
Then live at ease, and laugh the world to scorne.
And if our musick cannot like thine eares,
Thy Jove shall fetch thee musick from the Spheres.
Thou on thy brave tryumphing Chariot borne,
Thy drink shall be dissolved orient Pearle,
Thy princely Cup of rarest Unicorne:
Then live at ease, and laugh the world to scorne.
And if our musick cannot like thine eares,
Thy Jove shall fetch thee musick from the Spheres.
Thy name, as my Empreza will I beare,
My well tun'd rymes, shall glory in thy praise,
Upon my Crowne, thy favours will I weare,
Figuring thy love a thousand sundry wayes:
My power shall be thy shield at all assaies.
And thou my Saint, Kings offering to thy shrine,
Wondring thy beautie, as a thing divine.
My well tun'd rymes, shall glory in thy praise,
Upon my Crowne, thy favours will I weare,
Figuring thy love a thousand sundry wayes:
My power shall be thy shield at all assaies.
And thou my Saint, Kings offering to thy shrine,
Wondring thy beautie, as a thing divine.
226
What if my Queene, Detractor of our blisse,
Thee by her hundreth-eyed Heardsman keepe,
Ile bring to passe, shee shall her purpose misse,
My Mercurie shall lull him till he sleepe;
“Love ever laughs, when Jelousie dooth weepe.
“My providence, shall keepe her stomacke under,
“She may raise stormes, but Jove doth rule the thunder.
Thee by her hundreth-eyed Heardsman keepe,
Ile bring to passe, shee shall her purpose misse,
My Mercurie shall lull him till he sleepe;
“Love ever laughs, when Jelousie dooth weepe.
“My providence, shall keepe her stomacke under,
“She may raise stormes, but Jove doth rule the thunder.
Thus having broke the Ice from whence might spring,
Sweet streames of love in calme and fairer time,
And afterward, might joyfull tydings bring,
The staire begun by which he thought to clyme,
Hoping due howres, now he had set the chyme;
Leaves me, not knowing now which way to turne me,
Warm'd with the fire, which unawars might burne me.
Sweet streames of love in calme and fairer time,
And afterward, might joyfull tydings bring,
The staire begun by which he thought to clyme,
Hoping due howres, now he had set the chyme;
Leaves me, not knowing now which way to turne me,
Warm'd with the fire, which unawars might burne me.
Forth-with began strange factions in my thought,
And in my soule a sudden mutinie,
Feare and Desire, a doubtfull combat fought,
The tytle stands upon extremity:
My force was great, and strong mine enemie;
Till Resolution, seeing all begun,
Sent Succors in, by whom the field was won.
And in my soule a sudden mutinie,
Feare and Desire, a doubtfull combat fought,
The tytle stands upon extremity:
My force was great, and strong mine enemie;
Till Resolution, seeing all begun,
Sent Succors in, by whom the field was won.
As thus mine honour in the Ballance hung,
Betwixt the worlds preferment and my fame,
These in myne eares, like Syrens sweetly sung,
That wisely still fore-warned me of shame:
Till Grace divine from highest heaven came.
Now must I loose the prize, or win the Crowne,
Till Vertue (currant) lastly way'd mee downe.
Betwixt the worlds preferment and my fame,
These in myne eares, like Syrens sweetly sung,
That wisely still fore-warned me of shame:
Till Grace divine from highest heaven came.
Now must I loose the prize, or win the Crowne,
Till Vertue (currant) lastly way'd mee downe.
The time is come I must receive my tryall,
His protestations subtilly accuse mee,
My Chastitie sticks still to her deniall,
His promises false witnes do abuse me,
My Conscience cald, yet cleerly doth excuse me.
And those pure thoughts, enshrined in my brest,
By verdict quit mee, being on the Quest.
His protestations subtilly accuse mee,
My Chastitie sticks still to her deniall,
His promises false witnes do abuse me,
My Conscience cald, yet cleerly doth excuse me.
And those pure thoughts, enshrined in my brest,
By verdict quit mee, being on the Quest.
227
And Wisedom now fore-warned mee of treason,
That in the Court, I liv'd a Lyons pray,
My tender youth in this contagious season,
Still fear'd infection, following day by day:
My Barck unsafe on this tempestious Sea.
My Chastity in danger every hower,
No succour neer to shroud me from the shower.
That in the Court, I liv'd a Lyons pray,
My tender youth in this contagious season,
Still fear'd infection, following day by day:
My Barck unsafe on this tempestious Sea.
My Chastity in danger every hower,
No succour neer to shroud me from the shower.
With Resolution, hap what might be-tide,
I leave the Court, the Spring of all my woe,
That Court, which gloried in my Beauties pride,
That Beauty, which my Fortune made my foe,
To Baynards-Castell secretly I goe.
Where, with his trayne, my noble Father lay,
Whose gracious counsell was my onely stay.
I leave the Court, the Spring of all my woe,
That Court, which gloried in my Beauties pride,
That Beauty, which my Fortune made my foe,
To Baynards-Castell secretly I goe.
Where, with his trayne, my noble Father lay,
Whose gracious counsell was my onely stay.
There, might my thoughts keepe holy-day a while,
And sing a farewell to my sorrowes past,
With all delights I might the time beguile,
Attayn'd my wished liberty at last,
No fearfull vision made mee now agast.
But like a Birde escapt her Keepers charge,
Glydes through the ayre with wings display'd at large.
And sing a farewell to my sorrowes past,
With all delights I might the time beguile,
Attayn'd my wished liberty at last,
No fearfull vision made mee now agast.
But like a Birde escapt her Keepers charge,
Glydes through the ayre with wings display'd at large.
And hoping health thus cured of these qualmes,
My hart in this fayre harbour rides at ease,
The tempest past, expecting quiet calmes,
My Shyp thus floting on these blisfull Seas,
A sudden storme my Ankor-hold doth raise:
And from the shore doth hoyse me to the maine,
Where I (poore soule) my shipwrack must sustaine.
My hart in this fayre harbour rides at ease,
The tempest past, expecting quiet calmes,
My Shyp thus floting on these blisfull Seas,
A sudden storme my Ankor-hold doth raise:
And from the shore doth hoyse me to the maine,
Where I (poore soule) my shipwrack must sustaine.
And loe, the Autumne of my joyes approch,
Whilst yet my spring began so faire to flourish,
Black way-ward Winter, sets her stormes abroch,
And kils the sap which all my hopes did nourish.
Fortune once kind, growes crabbed now and currish.
In my straight path, she layes a mighty beame.
And in my course, she thwarts me with the streame.
Whilst yet my spring began so faire to flourish,
Black way-ward Winter, sets her stormes abroch,
And kils the sap which all my hopes did nourish.
Fortune once kind, growes crabbed now and currish.
In my straight path, she layes a mighty beame.
And in my course, she thwarts me with the streame.
228
The King who saw his love unkindly crost,
And by effect the cause had fully found,
Since he the harvest of his hope had lost,
Now on revenge his deepest thoughts doth ground:
Desperate to kill, receiving his deaths wound.
In reasons bounds strives but in vaine to hold,
Head-strong desire, too proud to be controld.
And by effect the cause had fully found,
Since he the harvest of his hope had lost,
Now on revenge his deepest thoughts doth ground:
Desperate to kill, receiving his deaths wound.
In reasons bounds strives but in vaine to hold,
Head-strong desire, too proud to be controld.
Like the brave Courser strugling with the raines,
His foming mouth controld with Canons check,
With lofty bounds his skilfull Ryder straines,
Scorning to yeeld his stately crested neck:
Nor of the bloody pearcing spurres doth reck.
The King now warmed in this glorious fire,
Thus roughly plungeth in his vaine desire.
His foming mouth controld with Canons check,
With lofty bounds his skilfull Ryder straines,
Scorning to yeeld his stately crested neck:
Nor of the bloody pearcing spurres doth reck.
The King now warmed in this glorious fire,
Thus roughly plungeth in his vaine desire.
Hence-forth devising to disperse the Cloude,
Which ever hung betwixt him and the light:
His love not currant, nor to be allow'd,
Whilst thus my Father held mee in his sight,
Some-thing amisse, his Watch went never right.
Of force hee must this Sentinell remove,
If hee in time would hope to win my love.
Which ever hung betwixt him and the light:
His love not currant, nor to be allow'd,
Whilst thus my Father held mee in his sight,
Some-thing amisse, his Watch went never right.
Of force hee must this Sentinell remove,
If hee in time would hope to win my love.
Ten thousand mischiefes now hee sets abroch,
Treasons, invasions, civill mutinie,
Black ignominie, slaunderous reproch,
Rebellion, out-rage, vile conspiracie,
Opening the intralls of all villanie.
Causing my Lord, thereof to be accused,
By Traytors, such as hee with gyfts abused.
Treasons, invasions, civill mutinie,
Black ignominie, slaunderous reproch,
Rebellion, out-rage, vile conspiracie,
Opening the intralls of all villanie.
Causing my Lord, thereof to be accused,
By Traytors, such as hee with gyfts abused.
Foule Envie thou, the partiall Judge of right,
Sonne of Deceit, borne of that harlot Hate,
Nursed in Hell, a vile and uglie spright,
Feeding on Slaunder, cherrish'd with Debate:
Never contented with thine owne estate.
Deeming alike the wicked and the good,
Whose words be gall, whose actions end in blood.
Sonne of Deceit, borne of that harlot Hate,
Nursed in Hell, a vile and uglie spright,
Feeding on Slaunder, cherrish'd with Debate:
Never contented with thine owne estate.
Deeming alike the wicked and the good,
Whose words be gall, whose actions end in blood.
229
His service done to this ungratefull King,
His worth, his valure, his gentilitie:
What good so-ever might from vertue spring,
Or could proceede from true Nobilitie,
All buried now in darke obscuritie.
His vertuous life, in doubtfull question brought,
Which ever-more for fame and honour sought.
His worth, his valure, his gentilitie:
What good so-ever might from vertue spring,
Or could proceede from true Nobilitie,
All buried now in darke obscuritie.
His vertuous life, in doubtfull question brought,
Which ever-more for fame and honour sought.
Thou hatefull Monster, base Ingratitude,
Soules mortall poyson, deadly-killing wound,
Deceitfull Serpent, seeking to dilude,
Black lothsome ditch, where all desert is drownd,
Vile Pestilence, which all things doost confound;
“At first created to none other end,
“But to greeve those whom nothing could offend.
Soules mortall poyson, deadly-killing wound,
Deceitfull Serpent, seeking to dilude,
Black lothsome ditch, where all desert is drownd,
Vile Pestilence, which all things doost confound;
“At first created to none other end,
“But to greeve those whom nothing could offend.
Such as too well perceiv'd the Kings intent,
In whom remayn'd yet any sparke of grace,
Pittying a poore distressed innocent,
Their safety still depending on my case,
These in my wrongs participate a place.
These, bound in friendship, and alied in blood,
Fast to my Father in the quarrell stood.
In whom remayn'd yet any sparke of grace,
Pittying a poore distressed innocent,
Their safety still depending on my case,
These in my wrongs participate a place.
These, bound in friendship, and alied in blood,
Fast to my Father in the quarrell stood.
But as a Lyon in the wildes of Thrace,
With darts and arrowes gauled at the bay,
Kills man and beast incountring in the Chase,
And downe on heapes, the fearfull Heards doth lay,
His armed pawes each where doth make his way:
Thus by his power, the King doth now surprise,
Such as in armes resist his tyrannies.
With darts and arrowes gauled at the bay,
Kills man and beast incountring in the Chase,
And downe on heapes, the fearfull Heards doth lay,
His armed pawes each where doth make his way:
Thus by his power, the King doth now surprise,
Such as in armes resist his tyrannies.
And given over to his vile desire,
The spectakle of lothsome sinne and shame,
Our strong-built Castels now hee sets on fire,
And (like proude Nero) warmes him by the flame,
Wasting themselves, augmenting his defame.
Which like bright Beacons, blaze in every eye,
Warning all other of his tyrannie.
The spectakle of lothsome sinne and shame,
Our strong-built Castels now hee sets on fire,
And (like proude Nero) warmes him by the flame,
Wasting themselves, augmenting his defame.
Which like bright Beacons, blaze in every eye,
Warning all other of his tyrannie.
230
Our friends and followers thus are beaten downe,
Whom every slave and pesant dare revile,
And all reputed Traytors to the Crowne,
Imprisoned some, some forc'd into exile;
Yet worst of all, (remedilesse the while,)
My Father sent a banish'd man to Fraunce,
And heere perforce must leave mee to my chaunce.
Whom every slave and pesant dare revile,
And all reputed Traytors to the Crowne,
Imprisoned some, some forc'd into exile;
Yet worst of all, (remedilesse the while,)
My Father sent a banish'd man to Fraunce,
And heere perforce must leave mee to my chaunce.
On shyp-bord now, with hands rear'd to the skyes,
(All sigh'd and wept, could sigh nor weepe no more,)
Hee turnes his sad eclipsed tearefull eyes,
As retrograde unto the blessed shore;
Rich Ile (quoth hee,) once Garner of my store,
Taken from mee by yonder Tyrants theft,
And I as poore as ere was Irus left.
(All sigh'd and wept, could sigh nor weepe no more,)
Hee turnes his sad eclipsed tearefull eyes,
As retrograde unto the blessed shore;
Rich Ile (quoth hee,) once Garner of my store,
Taken from mee by yonder Tyrants theft,
And I as poore as ere was Irus left.
Tis not my wealth, that, I esteeme as light,
Nor yet my Country, though so deere to mee,
But thou alone Matilda, my delight,
My lyfe, my soule, all my felicity,
Left as a pray, vile Monster unto thee.
Yet my laments are wasted all in vaine,
And to these windes and billowes must complaine.
Nor yet my Country, though so deere to mee,
But thou alone Matilda, my delight,
My lyfe, my soule, all my felicity,
Left as a pray, vile Monster unto thee.
Yet my laments are wasted all in vaine,
And to these windes and billowes must complaine.
But now the Wolfe is got into my fold,
God help the Lambe that's in the Lyons power;
Alas poore Maid, thus art thou bought and sold,
Prepared for the slaughter every howre,
This Minataure must all my hopes devoure.
Yet forc'd by Fortune to endure this woe,
And unreveng'd unto my grave shall goe.
God help the Lambe that's in the Lyons power;
Alas poore Maid, thus art thou bought and sold,
Prepared for the slaughter every howre,
This Minataure must all my hopes devoure.
Yet forc'd by Fortune to endure this woe,
And unreveng'd unto my grave shall goe.
Within the furrowes of my aged browes,
My joyes must their untimely buriall have,
This fatall Tombe proude Fortune them alowes,
Which thus with-holds mee from my wished grave.
The heavens are deafe although I justly crave.
My teares with greefe are frozen in mine eyes,
Yet God, nor man, regards my miseries.
My joyes must their untimely buriall have,
This fatall Tombe proude Fortune them alowes,
Which thus with-holds mee from my wished grave.
The heavens are deafe although I justly crave.
My teares with greefe are frozen in mine eyes,
Yet God, nor man, regards my miseries.
231
Thrice famous Romaine, (fortunate to mee,)
By whose owne hands thy deerest child was slaine,
Deliver'd so from slavish tyrannie,
But lyving, mine dishonor'd shall remaine,
Blotting my Name with an immortall staine;
Whose black reproch, for ever shall endure.
“Ah vile disease that never tyme can cure.
By whose owne hands thy deerest child was slaine,
Deliver'd so from slavish tyrannie,
But lyving, mine dishonor'd shall remaine,
Blotting my Name with an immortall staine;
Whose black reproch, for ever shall endure.
“Ah vile disease that never tyme can cure.
Even as the kinde sleep-breaking Nightingale,
(The cruell Merlin ceaz'd her little one,)
Unto the Thickets tells a wofull tale,
Wearying the woods with her continuall mone,
Thys poore Byrd chirpeth, hee poore Lord doth grone.
Shee weepes all night, by day complaineth hee,
Shee for her young one, hee laments for mee.
(The cruell Merlin ceaz'd her little one,)
Unto the Thickets tells a wofull tale,
Wearying the woods with her continuall mone,
Thys poore Byrd chirpeth, hee poore Lord doth grone.
Shee weepes all night, by day complaineth hee,
Shee for her young one, hee laments for mee.
Looke how the Sea, the Tyde once beeing past,
Whose surges strove the continent to climbe,
And bounding backe unto the Gulfe at last,
Upon the Sands doth leave a clammie slime,
Teares in his cheekes, such gutters worne in time.
Wash'd with the floods of his stil-troubled braine,
His eyes brim-full, as furrowes after raine.
Whose surges strove the continent to climbe,
And bounding backe unto the Gulfe at last,
Upon the Sands doth leave a clammie slime,
Teares in his cheekes, such gutters worne in time.
Wash'd with the floods of his stil-troubled braine,
His eyes brim-full, as furrowes after raine.
And thus my Father unawares betray'd,
A thousand sorrowes mee at once assaile;
What might I doe, a silly helplesse mayde,
Tost and turmoyl'd in this tempestious gale?
These boysterous flawes have broken down my saile.
My succors thus (like shadowes) now are gone,
Not one remaines to whom to make my mone.
A thousand sorrowes mee at once assaile;
What might I doe, a silly helplesse mayde,
Tost and turmoyl'd in this tempestious gale?
These boysterous flawes have broken down my saile.
My succors thus (like shadowes) now are gone,
Not one remaines to whom to make my mone.
Now, like a Roe, before the hounds imbost,
When over-toyl'd his swiftnes doth aslake,
Forsakes the Plaines, to which hee trusted most,
And to the covert doth himselfe betake,
Where dubbling still, creepes on from brake to brake;
Thus doe I flie before the Princes face,
Who day and night pursues mee still in chase.
When over-toyl'd his swiftnes doth aslake,
Forsakes the Plaines, to which hee trusted most,
And to the covert doth himselfe betake,
Where dubbling still, creepes on from brake to brake;
Thus doe I flie before the Princes face,
Who day and night pursues mee still in chase.
232
The Coast is cleere, suspitious eyes at rest,
And all things fadge which further his desire:
Now royall hope keepes revels in his brest,
The coales are quick, and Fancie blowes the fire:
His love expects his long deserved hire.
No clowde discern'd to hinder this his sunne,
The watch discharg'd, he hopes the towne is wonne.
And all things fadge which further his desire:
Now royall hope keepes revels in his brest,
The coales are quick, and Fancie blowes the fire:
His love expects his long deserved hire.
No clowde discern'd to hinder this his sunne,
The watch discharg'd, he hopes the towne is wonne.
“The Princes armes are strecht from shore to shore,
“Kings sleeping, see with eyes of other men,
“Craft findes a key to open every dore,
What might I doe, or what availes mee then?
The silly Lambe lives in the Lyons den.
Loves wakefull eyes (too soone alas) discry'd mee,
And found mee, where I surest thought to hide mee.
“Kings sleeping, see with eyes of other men,
“Craft findes a key to open every dore,
What might I doe, or what availes mee then?
The silly Lambe lives in the Lyons den.
Loves wakefull eyes (too soone alas) discry'd mee,
And found mee, where I surest thought to hide mee.
My Jove, like Jove now seekes mee to invade,
And roysting comes, in thunder-bolts and rayne,
A Beast, a Byrd, a Satyre in the shade,
A flood, a fire, a Serpent and a Swaine,
Camelion-like, as fitt'st my love to gaine.
Now like great Phœbus in his golden Carre,
And then like Mars, the fearefull God of warre.
And roysting comes, in thunder-bolts and rayne,
A Beast, a Byrd, a Satyre in the shade,
A flood, a fire, a Serpent and a Swaine,
Camelion-like, as fitt'st my love to gaine.
Now like great Phœbus in his golden Carre,
And then like Mars, the fearefull God of warre.
Hee makes the Ayre to wooe me whilst I talk,
The Wind to whistle many a pleasant Dittie,
The dainty Grasse make musick as I walk,
The prettie Flowers to move me still to pitty:
All sencelesse things with reason seeming wittie.
Before mine eyes hee ever dooth appeare,
And if I call, still aunswers, I am heere.
The Wind to whistle many a pleasant Dittie,
The dainty Grasse make musick as I walk,
The prettie Flowers to move me still to pitty:
All sencelesse things with reason seeming wittie.
Before mine eyes hee ever dooth appeare,
And if I call, still aunswers, I am heere.
My steppes are told, my pathes by Spyes are noted,
Mine eyes by Night-spells shut within the watch,
My words are way'd by jelous Love that doted,
And at my thoughts, Ill-meaning still doth catch:
Into my counselles Treason drawes the latch.
And at my gates, Suspition still doth ward,
Sorrow my hand-maid, Falsehood on my gard.
Mine eyes by Night-spells shut within the watch,
My words are way'd by jelous Love that doted,
And at my thoughts, Ill-meaning still doth catch:
Into my counselles Treason drawes the latch.
And at my gates, Suspition still doth ward,
Sorrow my hand-maid, Falsehood on my gard.
233
He weepes his words, but words could win no teares,
“The raine doth cease or ere the Floods do rise,
His wofull words his tongue awhile forbeares.
Then doth he, his harts arrant with his eyes:
His eyes ecclipz'd, he then with sighes supplies.
Sighes faile, with smiles he then bewrayes his paine,
Smiling, he weepes, yet weeping, laughes againe.
“The raine doth cease or ere the Floods do rise,
His wofull words his tongue awhile forbeares.
Then doth he, his harts arrant with his eyes:
His eyes ecclipz'd, he then with sighes supplies.
Sighes faile, with smiles he then bewrayes his paine,
Smiling, he weepes, yet weeping, laughes againe.
Looke how the Peacock ruffes his flaunting tayle,
And struts under his mooned Canapie,
And how hee quivers with his plumed sayle;
Yet when his Lead-pale legs hee haps to see,
With shame abates his painted jolitie.
The King, as proude as Peacock in my love,
Yet droupes again, when words nor teares could move.
And struts under his mooned Canapie,
And how hee quivers with his plumed sayle;
Yet when his Lead-pale legs hee haps to see,
With shame abates his painted jolitie.
The King, as proude as Peacock in my love,
Yet droupes again, when words nor teares could move.
My breast, of Flint, a rock impenitrable,
My hart, that stone which never toole could perce,
My thoughts, a center, and unsearchable,
My words, judgement, which Law could not reverse,
My frownes, such clowdes, as no joy could disperse,
“Tygars are tam'd with patience and with skill,
“All things made subject, but a womans will.
My hart, that stone which never toole could perce,
My thoughts, a center, and unsearchable,
My words, judgement, which Law could not reverse,
My frownes, such clowdes, as no joy could disperse,
“Tygars are tam'd with patience and with skill,
“All things made subject, but a womans will.
The King like one sick of a strange disease,
Whose cruell paine no phisick can asswage,
Nor plaster can his torments once appease,
Boyling his intrales, with such hellish rage,
With his owne knife his horror doth engage.
Thus desperate, he, fore-thinks to end this strife,
Or else by poyson take away my life.
Whose cruell paine no phisick can asswage,
Nor plaster can his torments once appease,
Boyling his intrales, with such hellish rage,
With his owne knife his horror doth engage.
Thus desperate, he, fore-thinks to end this strife,
Or else by poyson take away my life.
But first, with lines hee bravely sitteth on,
Words steep'd in syrop of Ambrosia,
Sweet method, savored with invention,
“What can be said that Lovers cannot say?
“Desire can make a Doctor in a day.
Each sentence seem'd a sweet inchaunting charme,
A Trumpet sounding gentle Loves alarme.
Words steep'd in syrop of Ambrosia,
Sweet method, savored with invention,
“What can be said that Lovers cannot say?
“Desire can make a Doctor in a day.
Each sentence seem'd a sweet inchaunting charme,
A Trumpet sounding gentle Loves alarme.
234
With rare hart-curing Phrigian harmonie,
He tunes his strings, as not a trebble jarres,
His straines so pleasant and melodious bee,
As might appease the heat of fearefull warres:
Distilling balme to cure the deepest scarres
His pen, dilates his hartes Apologie,
And shewes my sinnes, by loves Theologie.
He tunes his strings, as not a trebble jarres,
His straines so pleasant and melodious bee,
As might appease the heat of fearefull warres:
Distilling balme to cure the deepest scarres
His pen, dilates his hartes Apologie,
And shewes my sinnes, by loves Theologie.
What curious thing did Nature ere bring forth,
What glistering starre that yeelds his silver shine,
To which hee doth not now compare my worth?
Or what is there, that's mortall or divine?
What sublimation doth not refine?
Or what rare thing was ever yet devised,
That unto mee, hee hath not lightly prized?
What glistering starre that yeelds his silver shine,
To which hee doth not now compare my worth?
Or what is there, that's mortall or divine?
What sublimation doth not refine?
Or what rare thing was ever yet devised,
That unto mee, hee hath not lightly prized?
Now mounts hee up with loftie straines of love,
Then to sad vaines his pliant Muse doth bow,
His humors serving, as his passions move:
And as the Tydes, the numbers ebbe and flow;
His hopes now wither, then againe they grow.
Painting his greefe, in hope to quench desire,
“But inck to love, like oyle unto the fire.
Then to sad vaines his pliant Muse doth bow,
His humors serving, as his passions move:
And as the Tydes, the numbers ebbe and flow;
His hopes now wither, then againe they grow.
Painting his greefe, in hope to quench desire,
“But inck to love, like oyle unto the fire.
And now of one hee had himselfe advis'd,
Both red and practiz'd in thys wretched Arte,
Within whose braine all mischiefes were compris'd,
Whose words were venom, and his tongue a Darte:
And this is hee must acte this damned part.
To him the King, my poysoning doth commit,
Who had before made tryall of his wit.
Both red and practiz'd in thys wretched Arte,
Within whose braine all mischiefes were compris'd,
Whose words were venom, and his tongue a Darte:
And this is hee must acte this damned part.
To him the King, my poysoning doth commit,
Who had before made tryall of his wit.
Another Dagon, was this miscreant,
A divell, walking in a humaine shape,
Foule Dagon, borne true vertue to supplant,
For whom th'infernall pit of Hell doth gape:
Image of pride, of villany and rape,
Be thou abhord of all posteritie,
And let thy vile dishonor never dye.
A divell, walking in a humaine shape,
Foule Dagon, borne true vertue to supplant,
For whom th'infernall pit of Hell doth gape:
Image of pride, of villany and rape,
Be thou abhord of all posteritie,
And let thy vile dishonor never dye.
235
By him to Dunmow, hee these lines convayde,
A Monestarie Juga had begunne,
Juga, sometime a holie Vestall mayde,
At whose great charge this Monument was donne,
Where I had vow'd to live a holie Nunne.
And in my Cloyster, kept amongst the rest,
Which in this place virginitie profest.
A Monestarie Juga had begunne,
Juga, sometime a holie Vestall mayde,
At whose great charge this Monument was donne,
Where I had vow'd to live a holie Nunne.
And in my Cloyster, kept amongst the rest,
Which in this place virginitie profest.
Now he which had this bloody acte in charge,
Thether repaires, with letters from the King,
Whose black Commission was but all too large,
To execute so base and vile a thing:
This messenger which now my death doth bring,
To adde fit matter to my tragike storie,
Finds meanes to boord mee in my oratorie.
Thether repaires, with letters from the King,
Whose black Commission was but all too large,
To execute so base and vile a thing:
This messenger which now my death doth bring,
To adde fit matter to my tragike storie,
Finds meanes to boord mee in my oratorie.
With courtly congies gently greeting mee,
Gives mee the packet which the King had sent mee,
Receive fayre Maide, these Letters heere (quoth hee,)
The faithfull earnest of that good is meant thee:
But craving that which never shall repent thee.
His lines be love, the Letters writ in blood,
Then make no doubt the warrant passing good.
Gives mee the packet which the King had sent mee,
Receive fayre Maide, these Letters heere (quoth hee,)
The faithfull earnest of that good is meant thee:
But craving that which never shall repent thee.
His lines be love, the Letters writ in blood,
Then make no doubt the warrant passing good.
Kindly accept a Princes kingly offer,
Tis more than follie if thou doe refuse it:
Never hath Fortune made a fairer profer,
The gyft too great, if fondly thou abuse it,
Nor any reason serveth to excuse it.
Be not a foe unto thine owne good hap,
Refusing treasure throwne into thy lap.
Tis more than follie if thou doe refuse it:
Never hath Fortune made a fairer profer,
The gyft too great, if fondly thou abuse it,
Nor any reason serveth to excuse it.
Be not a foe unto thine owne good hap,
Refusing treasure throwne into thy lap.
“If thou be wise, hold this as ominus,
“The heavens not like disposed every hower:
“The starres be still predominant in us,
“Fortune not alwaies forth her bags doth poure,
“Nor every clowde doth raine a golden shower.
“Occasion's wing'd, and ever flyeth fast,
“Comming, shee smyles, & frownes once being past.
“The heavens not like disposed every hower:
“The starres be still predominant in us,
“Fortune not alwaies forth her bags doth poure,
“Nor every clowde doth raine a golden shower.
“Occasion's wing'd, and ever flyeth fast,
“Comming, shee smyles, & frownes once being past.
236
Wrong not thy selfe, nor yet the worlde deprive,
Of that rare good which Nature freely lent,
Think'st thou by such base nygardize to thrive,
In sparing that which never will be spent?
And that is worst, in age shall thee repent.
Playing the Churle, to hoord up Beauties pelfe,
And live, and dye, and all unto thy selfe.
Of that rare good which Nature freely lent,
Think'st thou by such base nygardize to thrive,
In sparing that which never will be spent?
And that is worst, in age shall thee repent.
Playing the Churle, to hoord up Beauties pelfe,
And live, and dye, and all unto thy selfe.
Yet, were this all (quoth hee,) as would it were,
But there is more, which needes I must reveale:
Behold the poyson he hath sent thee here,
Which on my life I dare not to conceale,
Thus is the King determined to deale.
I, onely waite upon thy resolution,
To win thy love, or see thy execution.
But there is more, which needes I must reveale:
Behold the poyson he hath sent thee here,
Which on my life I dare not to conceale,
Thus is the King determined to deale.
I, onely waite upon thy resolution,
To win thy love, or see thy execution.
Leave off these humors, be not singuler,
Make not an Idoll of thine owne perfection,
Prize not this word (Virginitie) so deere,
Seeme not so Saint-like, moov'd with no affection.
“Beautie brings perrill, wanting safe protection.
Forsweare this drousie melancholie Cell,
Was never Gerle could grace a Court so well.
Make not an Idoll of thine owne perfection,
Prize not this word (Virginitie) so deere,
Seeme not so Saint-like, moov'd with no affection.
“Beautie brings perrill, wanting safe protection.
Forsweare this drousie melancholie Cell,
Was never Gerle could grace a Court so well.
This feare first sprong from foolish superstition,
Which fond conceit into our eares hath blowne,
Which wee receive from old folkes by tradition,
And as a weede to choke our joyes is growne:
Reason rootes out what Error erst hath sowne.
A gentle jest to fright poore babes withall,
Like to a Bug-beare, painted on a wall.
Which fond conceit into our eares hath blowne,
Which wee receive from old folkes by tradition,
And as a weede to choke our joyes is growne:
Reason rootes out what Error erst hath sowne.
A gentle jest to fright poore babes withall,
Like to a Bug-beare, painted on a wall.
Tush, these be triviall toyes of reputation,
Whose Ceremonies have the world infected,
Held in regard but onely for a fashion,
Which frivolous, the wiser have neglected:
And but as Dreames of doting age respected.
Whose spleen-sick humors on their galls were fed,
Thinking all true which they imagined.
Whose Ceremonies have the world infected,
Held in regard but onely for a fashion,
Which frivolous, the wiser have neglected:
And but as Dreames of doting age respected.
Whose spleen-sick humors on their galls were fed,
Thinking all true which they imagined.
237
Dispatch, (quoth hee) loe, heere is pen and inck,
Heere make the Prince assurance of thy love,
Or els prepare thee to thy fatall drinke,
Which is of force thy Fever to remove:
Which (ah pore fondling) thou too soone maist prove.
And if thy will be so fast chayn'd to thee,
Let thine own hands the Executioners bee.
Heere make the Prince assurance of thy love,
Or els prepare thee to thy fatall drinke,
Which is of force thy Fever to remove:
Which (ah pore fondling) thou too soone maist prove.
And if thy will be so fast chayn'd to thee,
Let thine own hands the Executioners bee.
And is (quoth I) the Princes pleasure thus?
You are deceiv'd, hee doth but this to try mee,
I know my Lord is kinde and gracious,
Hee thinks my sexe & weaknes will discry mee;
I hope the King will deale more kindly by mee.
Those blessed hands, which never did but good,
Will not be stain'd with virgins guiltlesse blood.
You are deceiv'd, hee doth but this to try mee,
I know my Lord is kinde and gracious,
Hee thinks my sexe & weaknes will discry mee;
I hope the King will deale more kindly by mee.
Those blessed hands, which never did but good,
Will not be stain'd with virgins guiltlesse blood.
His thoughts be pure, as Christall, without spot,
Hee is wisdom, honour, valure, chastitie:
What excellence is there that hee is not?
Or what may be, by him which cannot be?
Hee's Vertues right superlative degree.
From his affections, never shall proceede,
One little thought of this so vile a deede.
Hee is wisdom, honour, valure, chastitie:
What excellence is there that hee is not?
Or what may be, by him which cannot be?
Hee's Vertues right superlative degree.
From his affections, never shall proceede,
One little thought of this so vile a deede.
“Kings be the Gods Vizegerents heere on earth,
“The Gods have power, Kings from that power have might,
“Kings should excell in vertue as in birth,
“Gods punish wrongs, & Kings shold maintaine right,
“They be the Sunnes from which we borrow light.
“And they as Kings, should still in justice strive,
“With Gods, from whom their beings they derive.
“The Gods have power, Kings from that power have might,
“Kings should excell in vertue as in birth,
“Gods punish wrongs, & Kings shold maintaine right,
“They be the Sunnes from which we borrow light.
“And they as Kings, should still in justice strive,
“With Gods, from whom their beings they derive.
Inrag'd with this, (in greefes extremitie,)
Minion, (quoth hee,) tis now no time to prate,
Dispatch, or els Ile drench you presently,
Of this, nor that, I stand not to debate.
Expects thou love where thou reward'st with hate?
I passe not I, how ere thou like the motion,
Have done at once, and quickly take the Potion.
Minion, (quoth hee,) tis now no time to prate,
Dispatch, or els Ile drench you presently,
Of this, nor that, I stand not to debate.
Expects thou love where thou reward'st with hate?
I passe not I, how ere thou like the motion,
Have done at once, and quickly take the Potion.
238
This sudden terror makes mee pause for breath,
Till sighing out at length this sad reply:
If it be so, welcom to mee my death,
This is the utmost of extremitie,
And yet when all is done, I can but die.
His will be done, sith hee will have it so,
And welcome Death, the end of all my woe.
Till sighing out at length this sad reply:
If it be so, welcom to mee my death,
This is the utmost of extremitie,
And yet when all is done, I can but die.
His will be done, sith hee will have it so,
And welcome Death, the end of all my woe.
And thou my Deaths-man, slave unto his lust,
Th'executioner of his lawlesse will,
In whom the Tyrant doth repose such trust,
Detract no time, his murthering minde fulfill;
Doe what thou dar'st, the worst thou canst but kill.
And tell the Tyrant this when I am dead,
I loath'd his beastly and adulterous bed.
Th'executioner of his lawlesse will,
In whom the Tyrant doth repose such trust,
Detract no time, his murthering minde fulfill;
Doe what thou dar'st, the worst thou canst but kill.
And tell the Tyrant this when I am dead,
I loath'd his beastly and adulterous bed.
Nor let the King thy Maister ever thinke,
A vertuous Maid so cowardly and base,
As to be frighted with a poysoned drinke,
And live an abject in the worlds disgrace:
All eyes with shame to gaze mee in the face.
That ages which heer-after shall succeede,
Shall hold mee hatefull for so vile a deede.
A vertuous Maid so cowardly and base,
As to be frighted with a poysoned drinke,
And live an abject in the worlds disgrace:
All eyes with shame to gaze mee in the face.
That ages which heer-after shall succeede,
Shall hold mee hatefull for so vile a deede.
Is this the greatest gyft he could bestowe?
Is this the Jewell, wher-with hee doth present mee?
I am his friend, what gives hee to his foe,
If this in token of his love be sent mee?
Remedilesse I am, it must content mee.
Yet afterward, a proverbe this shall prove,
The gift King John bestow'd upon his Love.
Is this the Jewell, wher-with hee doth present mee?
I am his friend, what gives hee to his foe,
If this in token of his love be sent mee?
Remedilesse I am, it must content mee.
Yet afterward, a proverbe this shall prove,
The gift King John bestow'd upon his Love.
Then of this conquest let thy Soveraigne boast,
And make report with shame what hee hath done:
A thing more easie then subdue an Hoast,
Or conquer Kingdoms, as his Father wonne;
O haplesse Sire, of this unhappy Sonne.
And hee more shame shall carrie to his grave,
Then Fortune honors to his Father gave.
And make report with shame what hee hath done:
A thing more easie then subdue an Hoast,
Or conquer Kingdoms, as his Father wonne;
O haplesse Sire, of this unhappy Sonne.
And hee more shame shall carrie to his grave,
Then Fortune honors to his Father gave.
239
Thus spoke my minde, (as women use to doe,)
Hoping thereby som-what to ease my hart,
But words I found, did but increase my woe,
Augment his rage, not mittigate my smart;
And now comes in the reckoning ere wee part.
And now my valure must be try'd, or never,
Or famous now, or infamous for ever.
Hoping thereby som-what to ease my hart,
But words I found, did but increase my woe,
Augment his rage, not mittigate my smart;
And now comes in the reckoning ere wee part.
And now my valure must be try'd, or never,
Or famous now, or infamous for ever.
Taking the poyson from his deadly hand,
Unto the King caroust my latest draught;
Goe wretch (quoth I) now let him understand,
Hee hath obtayn'd what hee so long hath sought;
Though with my blood, my fame I deerlie bought.
And though my youth hee basely have betrayd,
Yet witnes Heaven, I liv'd and dyed a Mayd.
Unto the King caroust my latest draught;
Goe wretch (quoth I) now let him understand,
Hee hath obtayn'd what hee so long hath sought;
Though with my blood, my fame I deerlie bought.
And though my youth hee basely have betrayd,
Yet witnes Heaven, I liv'd and dyed a Mayd.
Then why repine I, sith hee thinks it meete,
Hee is my Soveraigne, and my life is his,
Death is not bitter, spyc'd with such a sweet,
Which leades the way to everlasting blis;
Hee's all my joy, hee all my glory is.
Hee is the tuch by whom my gold is tryed,
Onely by him my death is sanctified.
Hee is my Soveraigne, and my life is his,
Death is not bitter, spyc'd with such a sweet,
Which leades the way to everlasting blis;
Hee's all my joy, hee all my glory is.
Hee is the tuch by whom my gold is tryed,
Onely by him my death is sanctified.
For could my life have given life to mee,
My youthes fayre flower, yet blooming, had not dyed,
Then how should this but meritorious bee,
When by my death, my life is sanctified?
Could ever thing more fitly bee applied?
In this is love, in this his care I finde,
My Lord is just, my Lord is onelie kinde.
My youthes fayre flower, yet blooming, had not dyed,
Then how should this but meritorious bee,
When by my death, my life is sanctified?
Could ever thing more fitly bee applied?
In this is love, in this his care I finde,
My Lord is just, my Lord is onelie kinde.
Then let these teares, th'Elixars of my love,
Bee to his soule a pure preservative,
And let my prayers, be of such force to move,
That by my death, my Soveraigne may survive:
And from his raigne, let Fame herselfe derive
His glorie, like the Sunnes translucent rayes,
And as the heaven, eternall be his dayes.
Bee to his soule a pure preservative,
And let my prayers, be of such force to move,
That by my death, my Soveraigne may survive:
And from his raigne, let Fame herselfe derive
His glorie, like the Sunnes translucent rayes,
And as the heaven, eternall be his dayes.
240
This mortall poyson, now beginnes to rage,
And spreads his vigor thorough all my vaines,
There is no phisick can my greefe aswage,
Such is the torment which my hart destraines,
Boyling my intrales in most hellish paines.
And Nature, weakned of her wonted force,
Must yeeld to death, which now hath no remorce.
And spreads his vigor thorough all my vaines,
There is no phisick can my greefe aswage,
Such is the torment which my hart destraines,
Boyling my intrales in most hellish paines.
And Nature, weakned of her wonted force,
Must yeeld to death, which now hath no remorce.
And those pure thoughts, which once I choisly fed,
Now when pale death my sences doth surprize,
I offer heere upon my dying bed,
This precious, sweet, perfumed sacrifice:
Hallowed in my almighty Makers eyes.
Which from this Alter, lends me heavenly light,
Guiding my soule amid this darkesome night.
Now when pale death my sences doth surprize,
I offer heere upon my dying bed,
This precious, sweet, perfumed sacrifice:
Hallowed in my almighty Makers eyes.
Which from this Alter, lends me heavenly light,
Guiding my soule amid this darkesome night.
My glorious life, my spotlesse Chastity,
Now at this hower bee all the joyes I have,
These be the wings by which my fame shall flye,
In memorie, these shall my Name engrave;
These, from oblivion shall mine honour save.
With Laurell, these my browes shall coronize,
And make mee live to all posterities.
Now at this hower bee all the joyes I have,
These be the wings by which my fame shall flye,
In memorie, these shall my Name engrave;
These, from oblivion shall mine honour save.
With Laurell, these my browes shall coronize,
And make mee live to all posterities.
“Our fond preferments, are but childrens toyes,
“And as a shaddow, all our pleasures passe,
“As yeeres increase, so wayning are our joyes,
“And beautie crazed, like a broken glasse:
“A prettie tale of that which never was.
“All things decay, yet Vertue shall not dye,
“This onely gives us immortalitie.
“And as a shaddow, all our pleasures passe,
“As yeeres increase, so wayning are our joyes,
“And beautie crazed, like a broken glasse:
“A prettie tale of that which never was.
“All things decay, yet Vertue shall not dye,
“This onely gives us immortalitie.
My soule, thus from her pryson set at large,
And gentlie freed from this poluted roome,
This prize unloden from this lothsome Barge,
(Such is the Heavens inevitable doome:)
My body layd at Dunmow in my Toombe.
Thus Baynards-Castle boastes my blessed birth,
And Dunmow kindly wraps mee in her earth.
And gentlie freed from this poluted roome,
This prize unloden from this lothsome Barge,
(Such is the Heavens inevitable doome:)
My body layd at Dunmow in my Toombe.
Thus Baynards-Castle boastes my blessed birth,
And Dunmow kindly wraps mee in her earth.
241
Now scarcely was my breathlesse body cold,
But every where my tragedy was spred:
And Fame, abroad in every Coast had told,
My resolution, beeing lately dead:
The glorious wonder of all woman-head.
And to my Father flyes with this report,
Who liv'd an Exile in the French-Kings Court.
But every where my tragedy was spred:
And Fame, abroad in every Coast had told,
My resolution, beeing lately dead:
The glorious wonder of all woman-head.
And to my Father flyes with this report,
Who liv'd an Exile in the French-Kings Court.
His griefe, too great to be bewail'd with teares,
Words, insufficient to expresse his woe,
His soule, assaulted with a thousand feares,
As many, sundry passions come and goe;
His thoughts, uncertaine, wandring to and froe.
At length, this fearfull extasie ore-past,
Grones from his soule this passion at the last.
Words, insufficient to expresse his woe,
His soule, assaulted with a thousand feares,
As many, sundry passions come and goe;
His thoughts, uncertaine, wandring to and froe.
At length, this fearfull extasie ore-past,
Grones from his soule this passion at the last.
O Heavens (quoth hee) why was I borne accurst?
This onely comfort to mine age was left:
But to despite mee, you have done your worst,
And mee of all my worldly joyes bereft:
I quite undone by your deceitfull theft.
This was the Jewell I esteemed most,
And loosing this, now all my treasurs lost.
This onely comfort to mine age was left:
But to despite mee, you have done your worst,
And mee of all my worldly joyes bereft:
I quite undone by your deceitfull theft.
This was the Jewell I esteemed most,
And loosing this, now all my treasurs lost.
Yee powers Divine, if you be cleane and chast,
In whom alone consists eternitie,
Why suffer you, your owne to be disgra'st,
Subject to death and black impuritie?
If in your shield be no securitie?
If so for Vertue these rewards be due?
Who shall adore, or who shall honour you?
In whom alone consists eternitie,
Why suffer you, your owne to be disgra'st,
Subject to death and black impuritie?
If in your shield be no securitie?
If so for Vertue these rewards be due?
Who shall adore, or who shall honour you?
What ment you, first to give her vitall breath,
Or make the world proude by her blessed birth,
Predestinating this untimely death,
And of her presence to deprive the earth?
O fruitlesse age, now starv'd with Vertues dearth.
Or if you long'd to have her company,
O why by poyson would you let her die?
Or make the world proude by her blessed birth,
Predestinating this untimely death,
And of her presence to deprive the earth?
O fruitlesse age, now starv'd with Vertues dearth.
Or if you long'd to have her company,
O why by poyson would you let her die?
242
O Soile, with drops of mercy once bedew'd,
When just men were instauled in thy throne,
But now with blood of Innocents imbrew'd,
Stayning the glory of fayre Albion,
O lustfull Monster, ô accursed John.
O heavens, to whom should men for justice cry,
When Kings themselves thus raigne by tyrannie?
When just men were instauled in thy throne,
But now with blood of Innocents imbrew'd,
Stayning the glory of fayre Albion,
O lustfull Monster, ô accursed John.
O heavens, to whom should men for justice cry,
When Kings themselves thus raigne by tyrannie?
O gyve mee wings Revenge, I will ascend
And fetch her soule againe out of their power;
From them proceeded this untimely end,
Who tooke her hence before her dying hower,
And rays'd that clowd which rayn'd this bloody shower.
And from the grave Ile dig her body up,
Which had her bane by that vile poysoned cup.
And fetch her soule againe out of their power;
From them proceeded this untimely end,
Who tooke her hence before her dying hower,
And rays'd that clowd which rayn'd this bloody shower.
And from the grave Ile dig her body up,
Which had her bane by that vile poysoned cup.
O pardon Heavens these sacriligious words,
This irreligious open blasphemie:
My wretched soule no better now affords,
Such is the passion of mine agonie,
My desperate case in this extremitie.
You harbour those which ever like you best,
With blessed Angels let her spirit rest.
This irreligious open blasphemie:
My wretched soule no better now affords,
Such is the passion of mine agonie,
My desperate case in this extremitie.
You harbour those which ever like you best,
With blessed Angels let her spirit rest.
No, no, Ile practise by some secret art,
How to infect his pure life-breathing ayre,
Or else Ile sheath my poyniard in his hart,
Or with strong poyson Ile annoynt his Chayre:
Or by inchauntment, will his dayes impayre.
O no, revenge to God alone belongs,
And it is hee which must revenge my wrongs.
How to infect his pure life-breathing ayre,
Or else Ile sheath my poyniard in his hart,
Or with strong poyson Ile annoynt his Chayre:
Or by inchauntment, will his dayes impayre.
O no, revenge to God alone belongs,
And it is hee which must revenge my wrongs.
O heavens, perforce we must attend your time,
Our succours must awaite upon you still,
In your just waights you ballance everie crime,
For us you know what's good, and what is ill;
Who understands your deepe and secret skill?
In you alone our destinies consist,
Then who is hee which can your power resist?
Our succours must awaite upon you still,
In your just waights you ballance everie crime,
For us you know what's good, and what is ill;
Who understands your deepe and secret skill?
In you alone our destinies consist,
Then who is hee which can your power resist?
243
O, could my sighes againe but give thee breath,
Or were my teares such balme as could restore thee,
Or could my life redeeme thee from this death,
Or were my prayers, but invocations worthy:
Sighes, teares, life, prayers, were all to little for thee.
But since the heaven, thus of my child disposeth,
Ah me, thy Tombe now all my joyes incloseth.
Or were my teares such balme as could restore thee,
Or could my life redeeme thee from this death,
Or were my prayers, but invocations worthy:
Sighes, teares, life, prayers, were all to little for thee.
But since the heaven, thus of my child disposeth,
Ah me, thy Tombe now all my joyes incloseth.
O what a wonder shall thy valure bring?
What admiration to posteritie?
What rare examples from thy vertues spring?
O what a glorie to thy Progenie,
To bee engrav'd in lasting memorie,
When as applauding Fame in every Coast,
Shall thus in honor of Fitzwaters boast?
What admiration to posteritie?
What rare examples from thy vertues spring?
O what a glorie to thy Progenie,
To bee engrav'd in lasting memorie,
When as applauding Fame in every Coast,
Shall thus in honor of Fitzwaters boast?
England, when peace upon thy shores shall flourish,
And that pure Maiden sit upon thy Throne,
Which in her bosome shall the Muses nourish,
Whose glorious fame shal through the world be blown,
(O, blessed Ile, thrice happy Albion;)
Then let thy Poets in their stately rymes,
Sing forth her praises to succeeding tymes.
And that pure Maiden sit upon thy Throne,
Which in her bosome shall the Muses nourish,
Whose glorious fame shal through the world be blown,
(O, blessed Ile, thrice happy Albion;)
Then let thy Poets in their stately rymes,
Sing forth her praises to succeeding tymes.
By this, the Kings vile bloody rage is past,
And gentle time his choller doth digest,
“The fire consumes his substance at the last,
The greefe asswag'd which did his spirit molest:
That fiend cast out wherewith he was possest.
And now he feeles this horror in his soule,
When loathsome shame his actions doth controule.
And gentle time his choller doth digest,
“The fire consumes his substance at the last,
The greefe asswag'd which did his spirit molest:
That fiend cast out wherewith he was possest.
And now he feeles this horror in his soule,
When loathsome shame his actions doth controule.
“Black hell-bred-humor of revenging sin,
“By whose inticements, murder we commit,
“The end unthought of, rashlie we begin,
“Letting our passion over-rule our wit:
“Missing the marke, which most we ayme to hit.
“Clogging our soules with such a masse of care,
“As casts us downe oft times into Dispayre.
“By whose inticements, murder we commit,
“The end unthought of, rashlie we begin,
“Letting our passion over-rule our wit:
“Missing the marke, which most we ayme to hit.
“Clogging our soules with such a masse of care,
“As casts us downe oft times into Dispayre.
244
Traytor to Vertue, Reprobate (quoth hee,)
As for a King, no more usurpe the name:
Staine to all honor, and gentilitie,
Mark'd in the face with th'yron of Defame:
The Picture of all infamie and shame.
Dispis'd of men, abhor'd in every place,
Hate to thy selfe, the very worlds disgrace.
As for a King, no more usurpe the name:
Staine to all honor, and gentilitie,
Mark'd in the face with th'yron of Defame:
The Picture of all infamie and shame.
Dispis'd of men, abhor'd in every place,
Hate to thy selfe, the very worlds disgrace.
When all thy race shal bee in tryumph set,
Their royall conquests and atchivements done,
Henrie thy Father, brave Plantagenet,
Thy conquering Brother, Lion-hart, his Sonne:
The Crownes, & spoyles, these famous Champions won;
This still shall bee in thy dishonor said,
Loe, this was John, the murderer of a Maide.
Their royall conquests and atchivements done,
Henrie thy Father, brave Plantagenet,
Thy conquering Brother, Lion-hart, his Sonne:
The Crownes, & spoyles, these famous Champions won;
This still shall bee in thy dishonor said,
Loe, this was John, the murderer of a Maide.
This act enrold in Booke of black Defame,
Where, men of death and tragick murders reed,
Recorded in the Register of shame,
In lines whose letters freshlie ever bleed,
Where all the world shall wonder my misdeed.
And quote the place, (thus ever) passing by,
Note heere King Johns vile damned tyranny.
Where, men of death and tragick murders reed,
Recorded in the Register of shame,
In lines whose letters freshlie ever bleed,
Where all the world shall wonder my misdeed.
And quote the place, (thus ever) passing by,
Note heere King Johns vile damned tyranny.
Her blood exhal'd from earth unto the skye,
A fearefull Meteor still hangs ore my head,
Stayning the heavens with her Vermilion dye,
Changing the Sunnes bright raies to gorie red,
Prognosticating death and fearefull dread;
Her soule, with houling, and revengefull steven,
Shreeking before the gates of highest Heaven.
A fearefull Meteor still hangs ore my head,
Stayning the heavens with her Vermilion dye,
Changing the Sunnes bright raies to gorie red,
Prognosticating death and fearefull dread;
Her soule, with houling, and revengefull steven,
Shreeking before the gates of highest Heaven.
Whose sacred Counsell, now in judgement set,
And Shee, before them stands to plead her case,
Her drearie words in bloody teares are wet,
The evidence appeares before my face,
And I condemn'd a catife wanting grace;
Justice cryes out upon this sinfull deede,
And to my death the fatall starres proceed.
And Shee, before them stands to plead her case,
Her drearie words in bloody teares are wet,
The evidence appeares before my face,
And I condemn'd a catife wanting grace;
Justice cryes out upon this sinfull deede,
And to my death the fatall starres proceed.
245
Earth, swallow me, and hide me in thy wombe,
O let my shame in thy deepe Center dwell,
Wrap up this murder in thy wretched Tombe,
Let tender Mercy stop the gates of hell:
And with sweet drops this furious heate expell.
O let Repentance, just revenge appease,
And let my soule, in torment finde some ease.
O let my shame in thy deepe Center dwell,
Wrap up this murder in thy wretched Tombe,
Let tender Mercy stop the gates of hell:
And with sweet drops this furious heate expell.
O let Repentance, just revenge appease,
And let my soule, in torment finde some ease.
O, no, her teares are now become a flood,
And as they rise, increasing mine offence;
And now the shedding of her guiltlesse blood,
Even like a Cankar, gnawes my Conscience,
O, ther's my greefe, my paine proceedes from thence.
Yet never time weares out this filthy staine,
And I dishonor'd ever shall remaine.
And as they rise, increasing mine offence;
And now the shedding of her guiltlesse blood,
Even like a Cankar, gnawes my Conscience,
O, ther's my greefe, my paine proceedes from thence.
Yet never time weares out this filthy staine,
And I dishonor'd ever shall remaine.
Then doe I vow a solemne Pilgrimage,
Before my wretched miserable end;
This done, betake mee to some Hermitage,
Where I the remnant of my dayes will spend:
Where Almes and Prayer I ever will attend.
And on the Tombe at last, where thou doost lye,
When all is done, Ile lay me downe and dye.
Before my wretched miserable end;
This done, betake mee to some Hermitage,
Where I the remnant of my dayes will spend:
Where Almes and Prayer I ever will attend.
And on the Tombe at last, where thou doost lye,
When all is done, Ile lay me downe and dye.
And for his Penance, lastly hee devis'd,
Monthly to Dunmow would he take his way,
And in a simple Palmers weede disguis'd,
With deepe devotion kneele him downe to pray:
Kissing the place, whereas my body lay.
Washing my Tombe, with his repentant teares,
And being wet, yet dryed it with his hayres.
Monthly to Dunmow would he take his way,
And in a simple Palmers weede disguis'd,
With deepe devotion kneele him downe to pray:
Kissing the place, whereas my body lay.
Washing my Tombe, with his repentant teares,
And being wet, yet dryed it with his hayres.
And now, before my spirit depart from hence,
O let me see the Muses owne delight:
Idea, mirrour of all patience,
Whose sacred Temples are with Garlands dight;
O let my soule bee blessed in her sight.
Which so adorns this poore world with her birth,
As where she is, still makes a Heaven on earth.
O let me see the Muses owne delight:
Idea, mirrour of all patience,
Whose sacred Temples are with Garlands dight;
O let my soule bee blessed in her sight.
Which so adorns this poore world with her birth,
As where she is, still makes a Heaven on earth.
246
O let mee once behold her blessed eyes,
Those two sweet Sunnes which make eternall spring,
Which banish drouping Night out of the skies,
In whose sweet bosome quiers of Angels sing:
To whom the Muses all their treasures bring.
Her brest, Minervas ever hallowed shrine,
Whose sainted thoughts are sacred and divine.
Those two sweet Sunnes which make eternall spring,
Which banish drouping Night out of the skies,
In whose sweet bosome quiers of Angels sing:
To whom the Muses all their treasures bring.
Her brest, Minervas ever hallowed shrine,
Whose sainted thoughts are sacred and divine.
Slyde still sweet Ankor on thy silver Sands,
Play dainty Musick when she walkes by thee,
With liquid Pearle wash those pure Lillie hands,
And all thy Bancks with Laurell shaddowed be,
And let sweet Ardens Nightingales with glee,
Record to her in many a pleasing straine,
Whilst all the Nimphes attend uppon her traine.
Play dainty Musick when she walkes by thee,
With liquid Pearle wash those pure Lillie hands,
And all thy Bancks with Laurell shaddowed be,
And let sweet Ardens Nightingales with glee,
Record to her in many a pleasing straine,
Whilst all the Nimphes attend uppon her traine.
FINIS.
| The Works of Michael Drayton | |