The Works of Michael Drayton :: :: University of Virginia Library

If yet a Muse there happily remayne,
That is by truth so diligently taught,
As caring not on foolish things to faine,
Will speake, but what with Modestie shee ought;
If this be such, which I so long have sought,
By her I crave, my life may be reveal'd,
Which blacke Oblivion hath too long conceal'd.

Oh, if such favour I might hap to find;
Here on this earth, but once to speake agen,
And to disburthen my oppressed mind,
By the endevour of a powerfull Pen,
In these my sorrowes, happie were I then:
Foure hundred yeeres by all men over-past,
Finding one friend to pittie me at last.

O, you, of him, so happily elect,
Whom I intreat to prosecute my Storie,
Lady, most deare, most worthy of respect,

To the Authours vertuous Mistris, whom Matilda intreateth she may bee patternd by: in the two Stanza's

The Worlds rar'st Jewell, and your Sexes Glorie,
It shall suffice, if you for me be sorrie,
Reading my Legend, builded by his Verse,
Which must hereafter serve me for a Herse.

Be you the patterne, by whose perfect view,
Like your faire selfe he wisely may me make,
For sure alyve, none fitter is then you,
Whose forme unspotted Chastitie may take:
Be you propitious, for whose only sake,
For me I know, hee'll gladly doe his best,
So you and I may equally be blest.

412

The beauteous Paramour of Henry the Second.

Bright Rosamond, exceedingly is graced,
Inrolled in the Register of Fame,
Nay, in our Sainted Kalender is placed,
By him who strives to stellifie her name,
Yet will the modest say, She was too blame;
Though full of state, and pleasing be his Rime,
Yet all his skill cannot excuse her Crime.

The faire Concubine of Edward the Fourth. Elstred the Paramour of King Locryne, supposed the eldest Sonne of Brute, which Elstred with her Daughter Sabrina, were by Guendoline, Wife to the said Locrine, drowned in that River (now by us) cald Severne.

The Wife of Shore winnes generall applause,
Finding a Pen laborious in her Prayse.
Elstred reviv'd to plead her pittied cause,
After the envie of so many dayes:
And happie's he their Glorie high'st can rayse.
Thus the loose Wanton liked is of many:
“Vice still finds Friends, but Vertue seldome any.

To vaunt of my Nobilitie were vaine,
Which were, I know, not bett'red of the best,
Nor would beseeme an Honourable Straine,
And me a Mayden fits not of the rest:
All transitorie Titles I detest,
A vertuous Life, I meane, to boast alone:
“Our Birth's, our Sires, our Vertues be our owne.

“Thou that do'st fetch thy long Descent from Kings,
“If from the Gods derived thou could'st be,
“And shew'st th'atchiev'ments of those wondrous things;
“Which thou thy selfe then livedst not to see,
“These were their owne, and not belong to thee,
“If thou do'st staine that Honour which was theirs,
“Who could not leave their Vertues to their Heires.

Heaven powr'd downe more abundance on my Birth,
Then it before had usually bestow'd,
And was in me so bountifull to Earth,
As though her very utmost she had show'd,
Her Graces so immeasurably flow'd,
That such a shape, with such a spirit inspir'd,
Even of the wisest made me most admir'd.

413

Upon my Brow sat Beautie in her Pride,
To her beholders ministring her Law,
And to them all her Bounties so divide,
As did to her their due attention draw;
And yet mine Eye did keepe her so in awe,
As that which only could true Vertues measure,
Ordain'd by Nature to preserve her Treasure.

My carriage such, as did content the wise,
My tongue did that sweet decencie retaine,
As of the yonger, was not deem'd precise,
Nor of the aged was accounted vaine,
So well instructed to observe the meane,
As if in Nature, there were scarce that good,
Which wanted in the temper of my bloud.

In me so did she her perfections varie,
As that the least, allow'd not of compare,
And yet so well did teach me them to carrie;
Then they could be, as made them seeme more rare,
Or in my portion would have none to share,
Or in her grace would none should be but I;
Which she had made the Minion of the Skie.

Whence Fame began my Beautie first to blaze,
And soone became to lavish in the same,
For she so stuft her Trumpet with my prayse,
That every place was fild up with my name,
For which Report, thou too much wert to blame,
“But to thy doome, is Beautie subject still:
“Which hath beene cause of many Ladies ill.

This tattling Gossip hath a thousand eies,
Her ayrie bodie hath as many wings,
Now about earth, now up to Heaven she flies,
And here, and there, with everie breath she flings,
Hither, and thither, Lyes and Tales she brings,
Nothing so secret, but to her appeareth,
So doth she credit every thing she heareth.

414

“And Princes eares stand open to Report,
“All strive to blaze a Beautie to a King,
“Which is the only subject of a Court,
“Whither Fame carries, and whence she doth bring;
“And which of either, she doth loudly ring:
Thither aye me, unhappily she brought,
Where I my bane infortunately caught.

There stood my Beautie boldly for the Prize,
Where the most cleere and perfect Judgements be,
And of the same, the most Judiciall Eyes
Did give the Goale impartially to me:
So did I stand unparaleld and free,
And as a Comet in the Evening Skie,
Strooke with amazement every wondring Eye.

Which soone possest me of Imperiall John,
And of my Soveraigne, him my subject made,
By this, his Freedome was quite overthrowne,
Him, and his power, this wholly did invade,
From this, no Reason could the King disswade,
This taught his eies, their due attendance still,
This held the reines which over-rul'd his will.

The Lord Robert Fitzwater, a man of great Nobilitie, descended of the Baynards, and Standard bearer of London, by Descent.

When my grave Father, great that time in Court,
And by his Bloud thought equall to the best,
Having his Eare oft strooke with this Report,
Which, as ill newes, it hardly could digest,
And on my good since all his hopes did rest,
He soone pursude it, by those secret Spies,
Which still in Court attend the Princes eyes.

And to the World although he seem'd to sleepe,
Yet sought he then the Kings intent to sound,
And to himselfe, as secrets he did keepe,
What his fore-sight had providently found:
So well this wise Lord could conceale his wound,
Yet wislyer cast, how dangerous it might prove,
To crosse the course of this Impatient Love.

415

For as he found how violent a flame,
My Youth had kindled in this lustfull King,
So found he too, if he should stop the same,
Upon us both what mischiefe it might bring:
Which knowne to him, so dangerous a thing,
He thought to prove how He could Me perswade,
Ere for my safetie further meanes he made.

Deare Girle, quoth he, thou seest who doth awaite,

The Lord Fitzwaters wise counsell to his faire Daughter: in the nine following Stanza's

T'intrap thy Beautie, bred to be thy foe,
That is so faire, and delicate a Baite,
As every eye it selfe would here bestow:
Whose power the King too sensibly doth know,
Of his Desire that what the end may bee,
Thy Youth may feare, my Knowledge doth foresee.

Thinke, how thou liv'st here publikely in Court,
Whose priviledge doth every meane protect,
Where the ensample of the greater sort,
Doth more then Oportunitie effect,
None thriving here that stand upon respect,
Being a Lotterie whereat few doe winne,
And yet those seldome neither, but by sinne.

Here everie day thou hast to tempt thy sight,
All that thy youth to pleasure may provoke,
That still at hand, wherein thou tak'st delight,
Which with thy Sex doth strike too great a stroke,
Having withall Imperious Power thy Cloke,
With such strong Reasons on his part propounded,
As may leave Vertue seemingly confounded.

Many the waies, that lead thee to thy fall,
But to thy safetie, few, or none to guide thee,
And when thy danger is the great'st of all,
Even then thy succour is the most denyde thee:
Sundry the meanes from Vertue to divide thee,
Having withall Mortalitie about thee,
Frailtie within, Temptation neere without thee.

416

“The Letchers Tongue is never void of guile,
“Nor wants he Teares, when he would winne his prey,
“The subtilst Tempter hath the smoothest stile,
“Syrens sing sweetlyest when they would betray:
“Lust of it selfe had never any stay,
“Nor to containe it, bounds could have devised,
“But most when fild, is least of all sufficed.

And to availe his pleasure is there ought,
That such a Prince hath not within his power?
And thus be sure hee'l leave no meanes unsought,
Soft golden drops did pierce the Brazen Towre,
Watching th'advantage of each fitting houre,
Where every minute serves to doe amisse,
Thy banefull Poyson spiced with thy blisse.

And when this lustfull and unbrideled rage,
Which in him now doth violently raigne,
Time shall by much sacietie asswage,
Then shall thy fault apparant be, and plaine,
To after-ages ever to remaine,
“Sinne in a Chaine leads on her Sister Shame,
“And both in Gives are fettred to Defame.

Kings use their Loves as Garments they have worne,
Or as the meate whereon they full have fed,
The Saint once gone, who doth the Shrine adorne?
Or what is Nectar, on the ground if shed?
What Princes wealth redeemes thy Mayden-head,
Which should be held as precious as thy breath,
Whose dissolution consummates thy death?

The stately Eagle from his highest stand,
Through the thin Ayre the fearefull Fowle 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 prey to every Kite.
“With much we surfet, Plentie makes us poore,
“The wretched Indian scornes the Golden Ore.

417

When every Period pointing with a Teare,
He in my Bosome made so wide a Breach,
As it each Precept firmely fixed there,
His Counsell as continually to preach,
My Father so effectually could teach,
So that his Words I ever after found,
As grav'd on an inviolable ground.

The King, whose Love deluded was the while,
Yet in his Bosome bare this quenchlesse fire,
Finding his Hopes like Flatt'rers to beguile,
And not one jot to further his Desire,
But gone thus farre he meant not to retire,
And thinkes, if fitly he could find but place,
His Words had power to purchase him my Grace.

For since all former Practices did faile,
Nor to his Mind ought kindly tooke effect,
He with himselfe resolv'd me to assaile,

Having before assayled her by Letters and Messengers.

And other meanes doth utterly neglect:
In spight what Feare could any way object,
His Courage doth all hindrances confute,
And me accosting thus commenc'd his Suite.

Know, Girle, quoth he, that Nature thee ordayned,

King Johns Courting of Matilda: in eight Stanza's following.

(As her brav'st Piece, when Shee to Light would bring,
Wherein Her former Workmanship Shee stayned)
Only a Gift to gratifie a King,
And from all other, as a seld-seene Thing,
Seal'd thee a Charter dated at thy Birth,
To be the fayr'st that e'r was made of Earth.

Hoord not thy Beautie, when thou hast such store:
Wer't not great pittie it should thus lye dead,
Which by thy lending might be made much more?
(For by the use should every thing be fed)
Yea, and to Him, so hard for thee bestead,
Yet no more lesned then the Sunne, whose sight,
Though it light all things, loseth not his light.

418

From those two Starres such Streames of Lightning glide,
As through Mens eyes doe pierce the Flintiest Heart,
Which thou by closing, striv'st in vaine to hide,
For through their Lids their subtill Rayes doe Dart,
Such Power wise Nature did to them impart,
Those two bright Planets, cleerer then the Seven,
That with their Splendor, light the World to Heaven.

Were Art so curious in her selfe to know,
Thy Rare perfections rightly in their kind,
In Beautie thy Divinitie to show,
O! it were able to transport the Mind,
Beyond the Bounds by Heaven to it assign'd:
But, O in thee, their excellence is such,
As Thought cannot ascend to, once to touch.

He is thy King, who is become thy Subject,
Sometime thy Lord, now Servant to thy Love,
Thy Angell Beauties be his onely object,
Who for thy sake a thousand deaths dares prove.
“A Princes Prayer should much compassion move:
Let Wolves and Beares be cruell in their kinds,
But Women meeke, and have relenting Minds.

Vouchsafe to looke upon these brimfull Eyes,
With Tydes of Teares continually frequented,
Where Love without food, hunger-starven lyes,
Which to betray me, trayterously consented,
And for the fact being lawfully convented,
Is in these Waters judg'd to have his beeing,
For his presumption through these Eyes Thee seeing.

Sit thou commanding under mine Estate,
Having thy Temples, honoured with my Crowne,
A Beautie destin'd for no meaner Fate,
And make the Proud'st to tremble with a Frowne,
Raise whom thou wilt, cast whom it please thee downe,
Be thou alone the Rect'resse of this Ile,
With all the Titles I can thee instile.

419

What if my Queene, repyning at our Blisse,

As great Ladies have their Argoses, so great Lords have their Mercuries. A Fable most frequent.

Thee as did Juno, Joves deare Darling keepe?
Mine Ile preserve as that Great God did his,
Wise Mercury lul'd Argus Eyes to sleepe,
“Love ever Laughes, when Jealousie doth Weepe,
When most Shee stirs, my Power shall keepe her under,
Shee may raise Stormes, but I doe rule the Thunder.

Thus having made an entrance for his Love,
Which he beleev'd assuredly in Time,
Of better newes the Messenger might prove,
By which, he after to his Joyes might Clime,
Hoping a fayre Full to ensue this Prime,
Leaves me, not knowing well which way to turne Mee,
Warm'd with the Fire, that unawares might burne Mee.

Upon my Weakenesse which so strongly wrought,

Riches and Honour are great Temptations to Youth and Beautie.

That in my Brest a Mutinie arose,
Feare, and Desire, a doubtfull Combat fought,
Like two most eager and ambitious Foes,
Th'one fayne would winne, th'other would not lose,
By this oft cleered, and by that accused,
Whilst still, I fear'd, by both to be abused.

And in my Selfe, my Selfe suspected Treason,
Knowing who watch'd to winne Me for his Prey,
And in so fit and dangerous a Season,
When Youth and Beautie bare so great a sway,
And where He batterie still to me might lay,
Who girt so strongly every way about,
Well might I feare, I could not long hold out.

But setting all these sundrie Doubts aside,
From Court resolv'd I secretly to goe,
And to what Place my happy Starres should guide,
There, I my selfe determin'd to bestow,
Untill Time might this Passion over-blow,
Or, if at least it wrought not, the extrusion
Might strengthen me, yet, in my Resolution.

420

When my brave Sire, that never me forsooke,
But many a sweet Sleepe for my safetie brake,
Much being pleased with the course I tooke,
As one that truely suffred for my sake,

So called of one Baynard, a Noble man, who was Founder thereof, in the time of the Conquerour.

Did his aboad at Baynards Castell make,
Whom since I thus had left the Court, to leave me
To his Protection, gladly did receive me.

Whence all those sorrowes seem'd to me, exil'd,
Where in my Life I long before did waste,
The present Time, and happily beguild,
To thinke what perill I had lately past,
There in my Freedome fortunately plac't,
Even as a Bird escap'd the Fowlers snare,
Which former Danger warned to beware.

When the proud King, whose purposes were crost,
Which this my flight had hapned to prevent,
And that those Meanes to which he trusted most,
Were those, which most had hindred his intent,
Finding his Suite preposterously went,
Another Course bethinks himselfe to runne,
Else farther off, then when he first begunne:

And thenceforth plotteth to disperse the Masse,
Which lay so full betwixt Him and the Light,
That in his Suite the only hindrance was,
And (least expected) wrought Him most despight,
Finding the Cause why Matters went not right,
He must forecast my Father to remove,
Or he was like to walke without his Love.

Thus scarsly cur'd of this late sickly Qualme,
And that my Heart sat happily at ease,
But as a Ship, that in a quiet Calme
Flotes up and downe on the unsurging Seas,
By some rough Gust which some ill Starre doth rayse,
Is driven backe into the troubled Mayne,
Even so was I, that safely else had layne.

421

For this great King, whom thus I did reject,
First seeks in Court my Father to disgrace,
Thereby to give the People to suspect,
To fault in some thing sitting neere his Place,
Them by all meanes it urging to imbrace,
To which, if cleerely he could find the Way,
He made no doubt, but once to have a Day.

And for his purpose to promoove his Hate,
Into the Plot, he his Court Devils drew,
Cunning in all the Stratagems of State,
Which he suborn'd my Father to pursue,
By whose devices he soone overthrew
That Noble Lord, which succour should have given
To me, that then was from all refuge driven.

And not their cleere and far-discerning sight,

The Friends of the Lord Fitz-Water, stucke so close to him against the King, about Matilda, that they raysed a Civill Warre in the Kingdom.

Into the Quarrell that did throughly looke,
Nor our Allies that to their utmost might,
'Gainst his proceedings on our part that stooke,
And at our need us never once forsooke,
Of the Kings malice could th'effect prevent,
But to Exile my Father must be sent.

Not all his service to his Soveraigne done,
In Warre couragious, and in Counsaile sound,
Which from King John compassion might have wonne,
To him, who faithfull evermore was found,
“Ingratitude, how deeply do'st thou wound!
“Sure, first devised to no other end,
“But to grieve those whom nothing could offend.

Forlorne, and hopelesse, left before my Foe,
By my ill Fortune, basely thus betrayd,
Never poore Mayden was besieged so,
And all depressed that should lend me ayd,
Such waight the Heaven upon my Birth had layd,
“But yet her selfe true Vertue never loseth,
“'Gainst her faire course, though Hell it selfe opposeth.

422

Imbarqu'd for France, his sad dejected Eyes
Swolne up with Teares in most abundant store,
His ill lucke threatned by the lowring Skyes,
Feare him behind, and sorrow him before,
He under Saile, from sight of either Shore,
Wasteth withall, his sad laments in vaine,
To the rude Waters only to complaine.

A Simile of the extreme shifts that Matilda was drawne to.

When, like a Deere, before the Hounds imbost,
When him his strength beginneth to forsake,
Leaves the smooth Launds to which he trusted most,
And to the Covert doth himselfe betake
Doubling, and creepes from Brake againe to Brake,
Thus still I shift me from the Princes Face,
Who had me then continually in Chace.

The Coast thus cleer'd, Suspicion layd to rest,
And each thing fit to further his intent,
It with much pleasure quieted his Brest,
That every thing so prosperously went,
And if the rest successefully consent:
Of former ayde I being quite forsaken,
He hopes, the Fort might in short time be taken.

“A Princes Armes are stretch'd from Shore to Shore,
“Kings sleeping, see with Eyes of other Men,
“Craft finds a Key to open any Dore,
Little it boots my selfe in Walls to pen,
The Lambe was closed in the Lyons Den,
Whose watchfull Eyes too easily descry'd me,
And found me soon'st, where sur'st I thought to hide me.

My Paths by Spyes he diligently noted,
O'r me he held so vigilant a Watch,
And on my Beautie he so fondly doted,
That at each Looke he enviously did catch,
And readie still attending at my Latch
He had those, that continually did Ward,
Treason my Hand-mayd, Falshood was my Guard.

423

And since with me it fell so crosly out,
That to my shifts so hardly he me drave,
For some new course, I thought to cast about,
Where safer Harbour happily to have:
For this was not sufficient me to save,
His Power so spacious every way did lye,
That still I stood in his ambitious Eye.

And feare which taught me every meane to prove,
And with my selfe of many to debate,
Me at the last it pleas'd the Powers to move,
To take upon me a Religious state,
The Holy Cloyster none might violate,
Where after all these Stormes I did indure,
There, I at last might hope to live secure.

Wherefore, to Dunmow I my selfe convayd

This Lady was of the Baynards Family, who were Lords of Dunmow.

Into an Abbey, happily begunne,
By Juga, of our Ancestry, a Mayd,
At whose sole charge that Monast'rie was done,
Wherein Shee after did become a Nunne,
And kept her Order strictly with the rest,
Which in that Place Virginitie profest,

Where I my selfe did secretly bestow
From the vaine World, which I too long had try'd,
Me, my affliction taught my selfe to know,
My Youth and Beautie gently that did chide,
And by Instruction, as a skilfull Guide,
Printed withall such coldnesse in my Blood,
That it might so perpetuate my good.

The King, who heard, Me safely thus to bee
Set in my Cloyster, strongly discontent,
That Me from thence he had not power to free,
Which his sad brest, seem'd strongly to torment:
But since, that I so wilfully was bent,
And He, past hope then, ever to enjoy me,
Resolv'd, by some meanes, lastly to destroy me.

424

Great Men, when they will doe mischiefe, want not their instruments.

And finding one most fit for such a Fact,
To whom he durst his secret Thoughts impart,
One, for his King, that any thing would Act,
And for the purpose wanted not his Art,
That had a strong Hand and relentlesse Hart,
On him, the King (with me poore Mayd enrag'd)
Impos'd my Death, and him thereto engag'd.

Who making haste the fatall Deed to doe,
Thither repayres, but not as from the King,
For well he knew what did belong thereto,
Nor therein needed any Tutoring,
But as one sent upon some needfull thing,
With a smooth Count'nance and a settled Brow,
Obtayn'd to get in where I payd my Vow.

Where I alone, and to his Tale expos'd,
(As one, to him a willing Eare that lent)
Himselfe to me, he but too soone disclos'd,
And who it was that thither had him sent,
From Point to Point relating his intent,
Who, whilst I stood strooke dumbe with this invasion,
He thus pursues me strongly with perswasion.

The Murtherers speech to Matilda, before he poysoned her: in sixe Stanza's following.

Heare but (saith he) how blindly thou do'st erre,
Fondly to dote upon thine owne Perfection,
When as the King thee highly will preferre,
Nay, and his Power attendeth thy Protection,
So indiscreetly sort not thy Election,
To shut that in a melancholy Cell,
Which in a Court ordayned was to dwell.

Yet further thinke, how dang'rous is his offer,
If thy neglect doe carelessly abuse it;
Art thou not mad, that thus do'st see a Coffer,
Fild up with Gold, and profferd, to refuse it?
So farre, that thou want'st Reason to excuse it,
Thy selfe condemning in thine owne good hap,
Spilling the Treasure cast into thy Lap.

425

Wrong not thy faire Youth, nor the World deprive
Of these rare Parts which Nature hath thee lent,
'Twere pitie thou by Niggardise should'st thrive,
Whose wealth by waxing craveth to be spent,
For which, thou of the wisest shalt be shent,
Like to some rich Churle hoording up his pelfe,
Both to wrong others, and to starve himselfe.

What is this vaine and idle Reputation,
Which to the shew you seemingly respect?
Only the weakenesse of Imagination,
Which, in Conclusion, worketh no effect,
And lesser can the Worshippers protect,
That only standeth upon fading Breath,
And hath at once the Being and the Death.

A feare that grew from doting Superstition,
To which your weake Credulitie is prone,
And only since maintayned by Tradition,
Into our Eares impertinently blowne,
By Folly gathered, as by Errour sowne,
Which us still threatning, hindreth our desires,
Yet all it shewes us, be but painted Fires.

Perswade thy selfe this Monast'rie to leave,
Which Youth and Beautie justly may forsake,
Doe not thy Prince of those high Joyes bereave,
Which happy Him, more happy Thee may make,
Who sends me else, thy Life away to take,
For dead to him if needsly thou wilt prove,
Dye to thy selfe, be buryed with his Love.

Rage, which resum'd the likenesse of his Face,

Matilda in miserable perplexitie.

Whose Eye seem'd as the Basiliske to kill,
The horror of the solitarie Place,
Being so fit wherein to worke his Will,
And at the instant he my Life to spill,
All seem'd at once my o'rethrow to further,
By feare disswaded, menaced by murther.

426

In this so great and peremptorie Tryall,
With strong Temptations sundrie wayes afflicted,
With many a yeelding, many a denyall,
Oft-times acquitted, often-times convicted,
Terror before me lively stood depicted,
When as it was, that but a little Breath
Gave me my Life, or sent me to my Death.

But soone my Soule had gath'red up her Powers,
Which in this need might friendlike give her ayd,
The resolution of so many howers,
Whereon her selfe shee confidently stayd
In her distresse, whose helps together layd,
Making the State which shee maintayned good,
Expell'd the feare usurping on my Blood.

The brave resolution of a chaste Ladie.

And my lock'd tongue, did liberally inlarge,
From those strict limits wherein long confin'd
Care had it kept, my Bosome to discharge,
And my lost spirits their wonted strength assign'd
Into mine eyes which comming as refin'd,
Most bravely there mine Honour to maintayne,
Checkt his Presumption with a coy Disdayne.

Who finding Me inviolably bent,
And for my Answere only did abide;
Having a Poyson murd'ring by the scent,
If to the Organ of that sense apply'd,
Which for the same, when fittest time He spy'd,
Into my nostrils forcibly did strayne,
Which in an instant wrought my deadly bane.

With his rude tuch, my Vaile disordred then,
My Face discovering, my delicious Cheeke
Tinkted with Crimson, faded soone agen,
With such a sweetnesse, as made Death seeme meeke,
And was to him beholding it most like,
A little sparke extinguish'd to the Eye,
That glowes againe e'r suddenly it dye.

427

And whilst thereat amazed he doth stand,
Wherein he then such excellencie saw,
Ruing the spoile done by his fatall hand,
What naught before, Him this at last could awe,
From his sterne Eyes, as though it Teares would draw,
Which wanting them, wax'd suddenly as dead,
Grieving for me, that they had none to shead.

When Life growne faint, hies lastly to my heart,
The only Fort to which She had to take,
Feeling cold Death, to seize on every part,
A strong Invasion instantly to make.
Yet e'r She should Me utterly forsake,
To Him who sadly stood Me to behold,
Thus in mild words, my griefe I did unfold:

Is this the Gift, the King on Me bestowes,

Matilda's last words to him that had given her the Poyson: in three Stanza's.

Which in this sort he sends thee to present Me?
I am His Friend, what gives He to His Foes,
If this in Token, of His Love be sent Me?
But 'tis his Will, and must not discontent Me:
Yet after (sure) a Proverbe this will prove,
The Gift King John bestow'd upon His Love.

When all that Race in memorie are set,
And by their Statues, their Atchievements done,
Which wonne abroad, and which at home did get,
From Sonne to Sire, from Sire againe to Sonne,
Grac'd with the spoyles, that gloriously they wonne:
O, that of Him, it only should be said,
This was King John, the Murth'rer of a Maid!

O, keepe it safely from the mouth of Fame,
That none doe heare of this unhallowed Deed,
Be secret to Him, and conceale his Shame,
Lest after-Ages hap the same to reade,
And that the Letters shewing it doe bleed!
O, let the Grave mine Innocencie hold,
Before of Him, this Tyrannie be told!

428

Thus having spoke, my sorrowes to asswage,
The heavie burthen of my pensive brest,
The Poyson then that in my braine did rage,
His deadly Vigour forcibly exprest,
Not suffring me to stand upon the rest,
Longer for Him, it was no time to stay,
And Death call'd on, to hasten Me away.

Thus in my Closet being left alone,
Upon the floore uncomfortably lying,
The Fact committed, and the Murth'rer gone,
Arrived at the utmost point of dying,
Some of the Sisters, Me by chance espying,
Call'd all the rest, that in most wofull plight,
Came to behold that miserable sight.

A Simile of Matilda, at her dying, with her Sister-hood about Her.

Thus like a Rose by some unkindly blast,
'Mongst many Buds, that round about it grow,
The with'ring Leaves improsp'rously doth cast,
Whilst all the rest, their soveraine Beauties show:
Amidst this goodly Sister-hood even so,
Nipt with cold Death, untimely did I fade,
Whilst they about me, pittious wailing made.

A good Conscience, the greatest and last Comfort in Death.

And my sad Soule upon Her sudden flight,
So soone forsaken of each severall sense,
With all the horrour Death could her affright,
Strongly disturbed at her parting hence,
All Comfort fled her; for her last defence,
Doth to Her spotlesse Innocence betake her,
Which left Her not, when all the rest forsake Her.

“To shew, our Pleasures are but Childrens Toyes,
“And as meere shaddowes, or like bubbles passe,
“As Yeeres increase, so waning are our Joyes,
“Forgotten as our Favours in a Glasse,
“A very Tale of that which never was:
“Even so, Death us, and our Delights can sever,
“Vertue alone abandoneth us never.

429

My Spirit thus from Imprisonment enlarg'd,
Glad to have got out of her earthly Roome,
My Debt to Nature faithfully discharg'd,
And at the houre appointed on my Toombe:
Such was the Heavens inevitable Doome,
Me Baynards Castle to the World did bring,

The two places made famous by Matilda.

Dunmow, againe my place of burying.

And scarsly was my breathlesse Body cold,
But ev'ry-where my Tragedie was spred,
For tattling Fame in ev'ry place had told,
My Resolution being lately dead,
Ruing my Bloud so prodigally shed,
And to my Father, flyes with this mischance,
That time remayning in the Court of France.

His losse too great to be bewaild with Teares,
It was not Words that could expresse his Woe,
Griefe had her selfe, so settled in his Eares,
No more might enter, nothing out might goe.
Scarce since Man was, was Man perplexed so,
Enough of Sorrow is alreadie showne,
And telling His, were to renew mine owne.

Let it suffice Me, that I here relate,
And beare My selfe the burthen of My ill,
If to the Life I have express'd My Fate,
It's all I aske, and I obtayne my Will.
“For that true Sorrow needs not others Skill;
“Enough's that present bitternesse we taste,
“Without remembring of that which is past.

Some say, the King repentant for this Deed,
When his Remorce to thinke thereof Him drave,
Poorly disguised in a Pilgrims Weed,
Offered His Teares on my untimely Grave,
For which, no doubt, but Heaven his Sinne forgave,
And my Bloud, calling for Revenge, appeas'd,
He from the Sinne, I from my Labours eas'd.

430

To his Mistris, as She began, so She endeth her Legend.

Thus told my Storie, I my Love devise
To you deare Madame, fitt'st with you to rest,
Which all my Vertues daily exercise
That be inprinted in your patient brest,
By whom alone I rightlyest am exprest,
For whom my Prayse, it grieves Me, is too scant,
Whose happie Name an Epethite shall want.

Then, most sweet Lady, for a Maidens sake,
To shead one teare if gently you but daigne,
For all my Wrongs it full amends shall make,
And be my passe to the Elizian Plaine,
In your chaste Eyes such power there doth remaine,
As can th'afflicted prosp'rously deliver,
Happie be they, who looke upon them ever.

FINIS.