RICHARD THE SECOND TO QUEENE ISABEL.
What can my Queene but hope for from this Hand,
That it should write, which never could command?
A Kingdomes Greatnesse thinke how he should sway,
That wholesome Counsell never could obay:
Ill this rude Hand did guide a Scepter then,
Worse now (I feare me) it will rule a Pen.
How shall I call my selfe, or by what Name,
To make thee know from whence these Letters came?
Not from thy Husband, for my hatefull Life
Makes thee a Widdow, being yet a Wife:
Nor from a King; that Title I have lost,
Now of that Name, proud Bullenbrooke may boast:
What I have beene, doth but this comfort bring,
No words so wofull, as, I was a King.
This lawlesse Life, which first procur'd my Hate,
Richard the Second, at the Resignation of the Crowne
to the Duke of Harford, in the Tower of London, delivering
the same with his owne hand, there confessed his disabilitie
to governe, utterly denouncing all Kingly Authoritie.
This Tongue, which then renounc'd my Regall State,
This abject Soule of mine consenting to it,
This Hand, that was the Instrument to doe it;
All these be witnesse, that I now denie
All Princely Types, all Kingly Sov'raigntie.
Didst thou for my sake leave thy Fathers Court,
Thy famous Countrey, and thy Princely Port,
And undertook'st to travell dang'rous Wayes,
Driven by aukward Winds and boyst'rous Seas?
Before the Princesse Isabel was married to the King,
Lewes Duke of Burbon sued to have had her in Marriage;
which was thought he had obtained, if this Motion had not
fallen out in the meane time. This Duke of Burbon sued againe
to have received her, at her comming into France, after the
imprisonment of King Richard; but King Charles her Father
then crossed him, as before, and gave her to Charles, sonne to
the Duke of Orleans.
And left'st great Burbon, for thy love to mee,
Who su'd in Marriage to be link'd to thee,
Offring for Dower the Countries neighb'ring nie,
Of fruitfull Almaine, and rich Burgundie?
Didst thou all this, that England should receive thee,
To miserable Banishment to leave thee?
And in my Downe-fall, and my Fortunes wracke,
Thus to thy Countrey to convey thee backe?
When quiet Sleepe (the heavie Hearts Reliefe)
Hath rested Sorrow, somewhat less'ned Griefe,
My passed Greatnesse into mind I call,
And thinke this while I dreamed of my Fall:
With this Conceit my Sorrowes I beguile,
That my faire Queene is but withdrawne a while,
And my Attendants in some Chamber by,
As in the height of my Prosperitie.
Calling aloud, and asking who is there?
The Eccho answ'ring, tels me, Woe is there;
And when mine Armes would gladly thee enfold,
I clip the Pillow, and the place is cold:
Which when my waking Eyes precisely view,
'Tis a true token, that it is too true.
As many Minutes as in the Houres there be,
So many Houres each Minute seemes to me;
Each Houre a Day, Morne, Noone-tide, and a Set,
Each Day a Yeere, with Miseries complete;
A Winter, Spring-time, Summer, and a Fall,
All Seasons varying, but unseasoned all:
In endlesse Woe my thred of Life thus weares,
In Minutes, Houres, Dayes, by Months, to lingring Yeares.
They prayse the Summer, that enjoy the South;
Pomfret is closed in the Norths cold Mouth:
There pleasant Summer dwelleth all the Yeere,
Frost-starved-Winter doth inhabit here;
A place wherein Despaire may fitly dwell,
Sorrow best suting with a cloudie Cell.
When the Combate should have beene at Coventry, betwixt
Henry Duke of Harford, and Thomas Duke of Norfolke
(where Harford was adjudged to Banishment for ten
yeeres) the Commons exceedingly lamented; so greatly was he
ever favoured of the People.
When Harford had his Judgement of Exile,
Saw I the Peoples murmuring the while;
Th'uncertaine Commons touch'd with inward Care,
As though his Sorrowes mutually they bare:
Fond Women, and scarse-speaking Children mourne,
Bewayle his parting, wishing his returne.
When the Duke came to take his leave of the King, being
then at Eltham, the King, to please the Commons, rather then
for any love he bare to Harford, repealed foure yeeres of his
Banishment.
That I was forc'd t'abridge his banish'd Yeares,
When they bedew'd his Foot-steps with their Teares;
Yet by example could not learne to know,
To what his Greatnesse by their love might grow:
Henry, the eldest sonne of John, Duke of Lancaster, at
the first, Earle of Darby, then created Duke of Harford; after
the death of the Duke John, his father, was Duke of Lancaster
and Harford, Earle of Darby, Leicester, and Lincolne:
and after he had obtained the Crowne, was called by
the name of Bullenbrooke, which is a Towne in Lincolneshire;
as usually all the Kings of England bare the name of
the Place where they were borne.
But Henry boasts of our Atchievements done,
Bearing the Trophies our great Fathers wonne;
And all the storie of our famous Warre,
Must grace the Annals of Great Lancaster.
Edward the third had seven sonnes; Edward, Prince of
Wales, after called the Blacke-Prince; William of Hatfield,
the second; Lionel, Duke of Clarence, the third; John
of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, the fourth; Edmund of Langley,
Duke of Yorke, the fifth; Thomas of Woodstocke,
Duke of Glocester, the sixt; William of Windsore, the
seventh.
Seven goodly Siens in their Spring did flourish,
Which one selfe-Root brought forth, one Stock did nourish;
Truely boasting himselfe to be the eldest sonne of Edward,
the Blacke-Prince.
Edward the top-Branch of that golden Tree,
Nature in him her utmost power did see;
Who from the Bud still blossomed so faire,
As all might judge what Fruit it meant to beare:
But I his Graft, of ev'ry Weed o'r-growne,
And from our kind, as Refuse forth am throwne.
As disabling Henry Bullenbrooke, being but the sonne of
the fourth brother; William and Lionel being both before
John of Gaunt.
We from our Grandsire stood in one Degree,
But after Edward, John the yong'st of three.
Might Princely Wales beget a Sonne so base,
(That to Gaunts Issue should give Soveraigne place?)
Edward the Blacke-Prince taking John, King of France,
Prisoner, at the Battell of Poicters, brought him into England;
where, at the Savoy, he died.
He that from France brought John his Prisoner home,
As those great Cæsars did their Spoyles to Rome,
Called the Blacke-Prince, not so much of his Complexion,
as of the famous Battels he fought; as is shewed before, in the
Glosse upon the Epistle of Edward to the Countesse of Salisburie.
Whose Name obtained by his fatall Hand,
Was ever fearefull to that conquer'd Land:
His Fame encreasing, purchas'd in those Warres,
Can scarcely now be bounded with the Starres;
With him is Valour from the base World fled,
(Or here in me is it extinguished)
Who for his Vertue, and his Conquests sake,
Posteritie a Demy-god shall make;
And judge, this vile and abject Spirit of mine,
Could not proceed from temper so divine.
What Earthly Humour, or what vulgar Eye
Can looke so low, as on our Miserie?
When Bullenbrooke is mounted to our Throne,
And makes that his, which we but call'd our owne:
Into our Councels he himselfe intrudes,
And who but Henry with the Multitudes?
His Power disgrades, his dreadfull Frowne disgraceth,
He throwes them downe, whom our Advancement placeth;
As my disable and unworthie Hand
Never had Power, belonging to Command.
He treads our sacred Tables in the dust,
In the next Parliament, after Richards Resignation of the
Crowne, Henry caused to be annihilated all the Lawes made
in the Parliament, called the Wicked Parliament, held in the
twentieth yeere of King Richards Reigne.
And proves our Acts of Parlament unjust;
As though he hated, that it should be said,
That such a Law by Richard once was made;
Whilst I deprest before his Greatnesse, lie
Under the weight of Hate and Infamie.
My Backe a Foot-stoole Bullenbrooke to rayse,
My Loosenesse mock'd, and hatefull by his prayse,
Out-live mine Honour, burie my Estate,
And leave my selfe nought, but my Peoples Hate.
(Sweet Queene) Ile take all Counsell thou canst give,
So that thou bidst me neyther hope nor live;
“Succour that comes, when Ill hath done his worst,
“But sharpens Griefe, to make us more accurst.
Comfort is now unpleasing to mine Eare,
Past cure, past care, my Bed become my Beere:
Since now Misfortune humbleth us so long,
Till Heaven be growne unmindfull of our Wrong;
Yet it forbid my Wrongs should ever die,
But still remembred to Posteritie:
And let the Crowne be fatall that he weares,
And ever wet with wofull Mothers Teares.
Thy Curse on Percie, angry Heavens prevent,
Who have not one Curse left, on him unspent,
To scourge the World, now borrowing of my store,
As rich of Woe, as I a King am poore.
Then cease (deare Queene) my Sorrowes to bewayle,
My Wound's too great for Pitie now to heale;
Age stealeth on, whilst thou complaynest thus,
My Griefes be mortall and infectious:
Yet better Fortunes thy faire Youth may trie,
That follow thee, which still from me doth flie.
FINIS.
