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

The Works of Michael Drayton

Edited by J. William Hebel

Drayton, Michael (1563-1631)

VOLUME I

II.

VOLUME II

III.

VOLUME III

THE BATTAILE OF AGINCOVRT.

THE MUSES ELIZIVM, Lately discouered, BY A NEW WAY OVER PARNASSVS.

IV.

VOLUME IV

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iii

III. VOLUME III

THE BATTAILE OF AGINCOVRT.

FOVGHT BY Henry THE fift of that name, King of England, against the whole power of the French: vnder the Raigne of their Charles the sixt, Anno Dom. 1415. The Miseries of Queene Margarite, the infortunate VVife, of that most infortunate King Henry the sixt. Nimphidia, the Court of Fayrie. The Quest of Cinthia. The Shepheards Sirena. The Moone-Calfe. Elegies vpon sundry occasions. By Michaell Drayton Esquire.

To you those Noblest of Gentlemen, of these Renowned Kingdomes of Great Britaine: who in these declining times, have yet in your brave bosomes the sparkes of that sprightly fire, of your couragious Ancestors; and to this houre retaine the seedes of their magnanimitie and Greatnesse, who out of the vertue of your mindes, love and cherish neglected Poesie, the delight of Blessed soules, & the language of Angels. To you are these my Poems dedicated,

By your truly affectioned Servant, Michaell Drayton.

THE VISION OF BEN. JONSON, ON THE MUSES OF HIS FRIEND M. DRAYTON.

It hath beene question'd, Michael, if I bee
A Friend at all; or, if at all, to thee:
Because, who make the question, have not seene
Those ambling visits, passe in verse, betweene
Thy Muse, and mine, as they expect. 'Tis true:
You have not writ to me, nor I to you;
And, though I now begin, 'tis not to rub
Hanch against Hanch, or raise a riming Club
About the towne: this reck'ning I will pay,
Without conferring symboles. This's my day.
It was no Dreame! I was awake, and saw!
Lend me thy voyce, O Fame, that I may draw
Wonder to truth! and have my Vision hoorld,
Hot from thy trumpet, round, about the world.
I saw a Beauty from the Sea to rise,
That all Earth look'd on; and that earth, all Eyes!
It cast a beame as when the chear-full Sun
Is fayre got up, and day some houres begun!
And fill'd an Orbe as circular, as heaven!
The Orbe was cut forth into Regions seaven.
And those so sweet, and well proportion'd parts,
As it had beene the circle of the Arts!
When, by thy bright Ideas standing by,
I found it pure, and perfect Poësy,
There read I, streight, thy learned Legends three,
Heard the soft ayres, between our Swaynes & thee,
Which made me thinke, the old Theocritus,
Or Rurall Virgil come, to pipe to us!
But then, thy'epistolar Heroick Songs,
Their loves, their quarrels, jealousies, and wrongs,

Did all so strike me, as I cry'd, who can
With us be call'd, the Naso, but this man?
And looking up, I saw Minervas fowle,
Pearch'd over head, the wise Athenian Owle:
I thought thee then our Orpheus, that wouldst try
Like him, to make the ayre, one volary:
And I had stil'd thee, Orpheus, but before
My lippes could forme the voyce, I heard that Rore,
And Rouze, the Marching of a mighty force,
Drums against Drums, the neighing of the Horse,
The Fights, the Cryes, and wondring at the Jarres
I saw, and read, it was thy Barons Warres!
O, how in those, dost thou instruct these times,
That Rebells actions, are but valiant crimes!
And caried, though with shoute, and noyse, confesse
A wild, and an authoriz'd wickednesse!
Sayst thou so, Lucan? But thou scornst to stay
Under one title. Thou hast made thy way
And flight about the Ile, well neare, by this,
In thy admired Periégesis,
Or universall circumduction
Of all that reade thy Poly-Olbyon.
That reade it? that are ravish'd! such was I
With every song, I sweare, and so would dye:
But that I heare, againe, thy Drum to beate
A better cause, and strike the bravest heate
That ever yet did fire the English blood!
Our right in France! if ritely understood.
There, thou art Homer! Pray thee, use the stile
Thou hast deserv'd: And let me reade the while
Thy Catalogue of Ships, exceeding his,
Thy list of aydes, and force, for so it is:
The Poets act! and for his Country's sake
Brave are the Musters, that the Muse will make.
And when he ships them where to use their Armes,
How do his trumpets breath! What loud alarmes!
Looke, how we read the Spartans were inflam'd
With bold Tyrtæus verse, when thou art nam'd,

So shall our English Youth urge on, and cry
An Agincourt, an Agincourt, or dye.
This booke! it is a Catechisme to fight,
And will be bought of every Lord, and Knight,
That can but reade; who cannot, may in prose
Get broken peeces, and fight well by those.
The miseries of Margaret the Queene
Of tender eyes will more be wept, then seene:
I feele it by mine owne, that over flow,
And stop my sight, in every line I goe.
But then refreshed, with thy Fayerie Court,
I looke on Cynthia, and Sirenas sport,
As, on two flowry Carpets, that did rise,
And with their grassie greene restor'd mine eyes.
Yet give mee leave, to wonder at the birth
Of thy strange Moon-Calfe, both thy straine of mirth,
And Gossip-got acquaintance, as, to us
Thou hadst brought Lapland, or old Cobalus,
Empusa, Lamia, or some Monster, more
Then Affricke knew, or the full Grecian store!
I gratulate it to thee, and thy Ends,
To all thy vertuous, and well chosen Friends,
Onely my losse is, that I am not there:
And, till I worthy am to wish I were,
I call the world, that envies mee, to see
If I can be a Friend, and Friend to thee.

UPON THE BATTAILE OF AGINCOURT, Written by His Deare Friend MICHAELL DRAYTON Esquire.

Had Henryes name beene onely met in Prose,
Recorded by the humble wit of those,
Who write of lesse then Kings; who victory,
As calmely mention, as a Pedigree,
The French, alike with us, might view his name
His actions too, and not confesse a shame:
Nay, grow at length, so boldly troublesome,
As, to dispute if they were overcome.
But thou hast wakte their feares: thy fiercer hand
Hath made their shame as lasting, as their land.
By thee againe they are compeld to knowe
How much of Fate is in an English foe.
They bleede afresh by thee, and thinke the harme
Such; they could rather wish, t'were Henryes arme:
Who thankes thy painfull quill; and holds it more
To be thy Subject now, then King before.
By thee he conquers yet; when ev'ry word
Yeelds him a fuller honour, then his sword.
Strengthens his action against time: by thee,
Hee victory, and France, doth hold in fee.
So well observ'd he is, that ev'ry thing
Speakes him not onely English, but a King.
And France, in this, may boast her fortunate
That shee was worthy of so brave a hate.
Her suffring is her gayne. How well we see
The Battaile labourd worthy him, and thee,
Where, wee may Death discover with delight,
And entertaine a pleasure from a fight.
Where wee may see how well it doth become
The brav'ry of a Prince to overcome.
What Power is a Poet: that can add
A life to Kings, more glorious, then they had.
For what of Henry, is unsung by thee,
Henry doth want of his Eternity.

J. Vaughan.

TO MY WORTHY FRIEND MR. MICHAELL DRAYTON upon these his Poems.

SONNET.

What lofty Trophyes of eternall Fame,
England may vaunt thou do'st erect to her,
Yet forced to confesse, (yea blush for shame,)
That she no Honour doth on thee confer.
How it would become her, would she learne to knowe
Once to requite thy Heaven-borne Art and Zeale,
Or at the least her selfe but thankfull showe
Her ancient Glories that do'st still reveale:
Sing thou of Love, thy straines (like powerfull Charmes)
Enrage the bosome with an amorous fire,
And when againe thou lik'st to sing of Armes
The Coward thou with Courage do'st inspire:
But when thou com'st to touch our Sinfull Times,
Then Heaven far more then Earth speakes in thy Rimes.

John Reynolds.

THE BATTAILE OF AGINCOURT.

Ceas'd was the Thunder, of those Drummes which wak'd,
Th'affrighted French their miseries to view,
At Edwards name, which to that houre still quak'd,
Their

The law Salique was, that women should not inherite; which law, Edward the third, by his right to the Crowne by his mother, cancelled with his sword: for so much as at that time made way to his clayme, though in France that law bee inviolable.

Salique Tables to the ground that threw,
Yet were the English courages not slak'd,
But the same Bowes, and the same Blades they drew,
With the same Armes, those weapons to advance,
Which lately lopt the Flower de liz of France.

Henry the fift, that man made out of fire,
Th'Imperiall Wreath plac'd on his Princely browe;
His Lyons courage stands not to enquire
Which way olde Henry came by it; or howe
At Pomfret Castell Richard should expire:
What's that to him? he hath the Garland now;
Let

Henry the 4. so named of a Town in Lincolne Shiere, where he was borne.

Bullingbrook beware how he it wan,
For

Henry the fift borne at Munmouth in Wales. Dowglas in that battaile slew three in the Kings coat Armour.

Munmouth meanes to keepe it, if he can.

That glorious day, which his great Father got,
Upon the Percyes; calling to their ayde
The valiant Dowglas, that Herculian Scot,
When for his Crowne at Shrewsbury they playde,
Had quite dishartned ev'ry other plot,
And all those Tempests quietly had layde,
That not a cloud did to this Prince appeare,
No former King had seene a skye so cleere.

Yet the rich Clergy felt a fearefull Rent,
In the full Bosome of their Church (whilst she
A Monarchesse, immeasurably spent,
Lesse then she was, and thought she might not be:)
By Wickclif and his followers; to prevent

Wickliffe a learned Divine, and the greatest Protestant of those times.

The growth of whose opinions, and to free
That foule Aspersion, which on her they layde,
She her strongst witts must stirre up to her ayde.

When presently a Parliament is calld
To sett things steddy, that stood not so right,
But that thereby the poore might be inthral'd,
Should they be urg'd by those that were of might,
That in his Empire, equitie enstauld,
It should continue in that perfect plight;

A Parliament at Leicester.

Wherefore to Lester, he th'Assembly drawes,
There to Inact those necessary Lawes.

In which one Bill (mongst many) there was red,
Against the generall, and superfluous waste
Of temporall Lands, (the Laity that had fed)
Upon the Houses of Religion caste,
Which for defence might stand the Realme in sted,
Where it most needed were it rightly plac't;
Which made those Church-men generally to feare,
For all this calme, some tempest might be neare.

And being right skilfull, quickly they forsawe,
No shallow braines this bus'nesse went about:
Therefore with cunning they must cure this flawe;
For of the King they greatly stood in doubt,
Lest him to them, their opposites should drawe,
Some thing must be thrust in, to thrust that out:
And to this end they wisely must provide,
One, this great Engine, Clearkly that could guide.

Henry Chichley succeeding Arundell (late deceased) in that See.

Chichley, that sate on Canterburies See,
A man well spoken, gravely stout, and wise,
The most select, (then thought of that could be,)
To act what all the Prelacie divise;
(For well they knew, that in this bus'nesse, he
Would to the utmost straine his faculties;)
Him lift they up, with their maine strength, to prove
By some cleane slight this

So they termed it as not worthy of a better tytle.

Lybell to remove.

His braine in labour, gladly foorth would bring
Somewhat, that at this needfull time might fit,
The sprightly humor of this youthfull King,
If his invention could but light of it;
His working soule projecteth many a thing,
Untill at length out of the strength of wit,
He found a warre with France, must be the way
To dash this Bill, else threatning their decay.

Whilst vacant mindes sate in their breasts at ease,
And the remembrance of their Conquests past,
Upon their fansies doth so strongly sease,
As in their teeth, their Cowardise it cast
Rehearsing to them those victorious daies,
The deeds of which, beyond their names should last,
That after ages, reading what was theirs,
Shall hardly thinke, those men had any Heires.

And to this point, premeditating well,
A speech, (which chanc'd, the very pinne to cleave)
Aym'd, whatsoever the successe befell
That it no roomth should for a second leave,
More of this Title then in hand to tell,
If so his skill him did not much deceave,
And gainst the King in publike should appeare;
Thus frames his speech to the Assembly there.

Pardon my boldnesse, my Liedge Soveraigne Lord,

The Archbishop of Canterburies Oration, to the King & Parliament at Lecester, in the Eleven following Stanzas.

Nor your Dread presence let my speech offend,
Your milde attention, favourably affoord,
Which, such cleere vigour to my spirit shall lend,
That it shall set an edge upon your Sword,
To my demand, and make you to attend,
Asking you, why, men train'd to Armes you keepe,
Your right in France yet suffering still to sleepe.

Can such a Prince be in an Iland pent,
And poorely thus shutt up within a Sea.
When as your right includes that large extent,
To th'either Alpes your Empire forth to lay,
Can he be English borne, and is not bent
To follow you, appoint you but the way,
Weele wade if we want ships, the waves or climme,
In one hand hold our swords, with th'other swim.

What time controules, your brave great Grandsires claim,

The Crowne of France descended upon Edward the third, from Isabell his Mother, Daughter and surviving heyre, to King Phillippe of France named the fayre.

To th'Realme of France, from Philip nam'd the faire,
Which to King Edward by his mother came,
Queene Isabel; that Philips onely heire,
Which this short intermission doth not maime,
But if it did, as he, so yours repaire;
That where his Right in bloud prevailed not,
In spight of hell, yet by his Sword he got.

What set that Conqueror, by their Salique Lawes,
Those poore decrees their Parliaments could make,
He entred on the justnesse of his Cause,
To make good, what he dar'd to undertake,
And once in Action, he stood not to pause,
But in upon them like a Tempest brake,
And downe their buildings with such fury bare,
That they from mists dissolved were to ayre.

As those brave Edwards, Father, and the Sonne,
At Conquer'd Cressy, with successefull lucke,
Where first all France (as at one game) they wonne,
Never two Warriours, such a Battaile strucke,
That when the bloudy dismall fight was done,
Here in one heape, there in another Rucke
Princes and Peasants lay together mixt,
The English Swords, no difference knew betwixt.

There Lewes King of Beame was overthrowne,
With valient Charles, of France the younger Brother,

James, Daulphine of Viennoies. The Dukes of Lorraine, and Burbon. The Earles of Aumerle, Savoye, Mount-billiard, Flaunders, Nevers & Harecourt.

A Daulphine, and two Dukes, in pieces hewen;
To them sixe Earles lay slaine by one another;
There the grand Prior of France, fetcht his last groane,
Two Archbishops the boystrous Croud doth smother,
There fifteene thousand of their Gentrie dy'de
With each two Souldiers, slaughtered by his side.

King John of France and Philip his Son taken by the Blacke Prince at the Battaile of Poyteers, brought Prisoners to England.

Nor the Blacke Prince, at Poyteers battaile fought;
Short of his Father, and himselfe before,
Her King and Prince, that prisoners hither brought
From forty thousand weltring in their gore,
That in the Worlds opinion it was thought,
France from that instant could subsist no more,
The

John of Clermount.

Marshall, and the

Peter of Burbon.

Constable, there slaine
Under the Standard, in that Battaile ta'ne.

Examples of such as have advanc'd themselves to the Crowne of France, against the strict letter of the lawe Salique, in the two following Stanzaes.

Nor is this clayme for women to succeede,
(Gainst which they would your right to France debarre)
A thing so new, that it so much should neede
Such opposition, as though fetcht from farre,
By Pepin this is prov'd, as by a deede,
Deposing Cheldrick, by a fatall warre,
By Blythild dar'd his title to advance,
Daughter to Clothar, first so nam'd of France.

Hugh Capet, who from Charles of Lorayne tooke
The Crowne of France, that he in peace might raigne,
As heire to Lingard to her title stooke,
Who was the daughter of King Charlemaine,
So holy Lewes poring on his booke,
Whom that Hugh Capet made his heire againe,
From Ermingard his Grandame, claim'd the Crowne,
Duke Charles his daughter, wrongfully put downe.

Nor thinke my Leege a fitter time then this,
You could have found your Title to advance,
At the full height when now the faction is,
T'wixt Burgoyne, and the house of Orleance,
Your purpose you not possibly can misse,
It for my Lord so luckily doth chance,
That whilst these two in opposition stand,
You may have time, your Army there to land.

And if my fancy doe not overpresse,
My visuall sence, me thinkes in every eye
I see such cheere, as of our good successe
In France hereafter seemes to Prophecie;
Thinke not my Soveraigne, my Alegeance lesse
Quoth he; my Lords nor doe you misaply
My words: thus long upon this subject spent,
Who humbly here submit to your assent.

This speech of his, that powerfull Engine prov'd,
Then e'r our Fathers got, which rais'd us hier,
The Clergies feare that quietly remov'd,
And into France transferd our Hostile fier,
It made the English through the world belov'd,
That durst to those so mighty things aspire,
And gave so cleere a luster to our fame,
That neighbouring Nations trembled at our name.

When through the house, this rumor scarsely ran,
That warre with France propounded was againe,
In all th'Assembly there was not a man,
But put the project on with might and maine,
So great applause it generally wan,
That else no bus'nesse they would entertaine,
As though their honour utterly were lost,
If this designe should any way be crost.

So much mens mindes, now upon France were set
That every one doth with himselfe forecast,
What might fall out this enterprize to let,
As what againe might give it wings of hast,
And for they knew, the French did still abet
The Scot against us, (which we usde to tast)
It question'd was if it were fit or no,
To Conquer them, ere we to France should goe.

Ralph Nevill then Warden of the Marches betwixt England and Scotland. An old adage, He that will France winne: must with Scotland first beginne.

Which Ralph then Earle of Westmorland propos'd,
Quoth he, with Scotland let us first begin,
By which we are upon the North inclos'd,
And lockt with us, one Continent within,
Then first let Scotland be by us dispos'd,
And with more ease, yee spatious France may winne,
Else of our selves, ere we our Ships can cleere,
To land in France; they will invade us here.

The Duke of Excester the Kings owne unckle.

Not so brave Nevill, Excester replies,
For that of one two labours were to make,
For Scotland wholly upon France relies;
First, Conquer France, and Scotland yee may take,
Tis the French pay, the Scot to them that tyes,
That stopt, asunder quickly yee shall shake
The French and Scots; to France then first say I,
First, first, to France, then all the Commons cry.

The first breach with France.

And instantly an Embassy is sent,
To Charles of France, to will him to restore
Those Territories, of whose large extent,
The English Kings were owners of before;
Which if he did not, and incontinent,
The King would set those English on his shore,
That in despight of him, and all his might,
Should leave their lives there, or redeeme his right.

First Normandy, in his demand he makes,
With Aquitane, a Dutchy no lesse great,

The Countries demanded by the King of England.

Anjou, and Mayne, with Gascoyne which he takes,
Cleerely his owne, as any English seat:
With these proud France, he first of all awakes,
For their delivery, giving power to treat;
For well he knew, if Charles should these restore,
No King of France was ever left so poore.

The King, and Daulphin, to his proud demand,
That he might see they no such matter ment,
As a thing fitter for his youthfull hand;
A Tunne of Paris Tennis Balls him sent,

The King and Daulphine of France, deriding the King of England.

Better himselfe to make him understand,
Deriding his ridiculous intent:
And that was all the answere he could get,
Which more, the King doth to this Conquest whet.

That answering the Ambassadour, quoth he,
Thanks for my Balls, to Charles your Soveraigne give,

Henry the fift answered for the Tennis Balls.

And thus assure him, and his sonne from me,
I'le send him Balls and Rackets if I live,
That they such Racket shall in Paris see,
When over lyne with Bandies I shall drive,

The language of Tennis.

As that before the Set be fully done,
France may (perhaps) into the Hazard runne.

So little doth luxurious France fore-see
By her disdaine, what shee upon her drew:
In her most bravery seeming then to be,
The punishment that shortly should ensue,
Which so incenst the English King, that he
For full revenge into that fury grew:
That those three horrors, Famine, Sword, and Fire,
Could not suffice to satisfie his ire.

In all mens mouthes now was no word but warre,
As though no thing had any other name;
And folke would aske of them ariv'd from farre,
What forces were preparing whence they came?
'Gainst any bus'nesse 'twas a lawfull barre
To say for France they were; and 'twas a shame
For any man to take in hand to doe
Ought, but some thing that did belong thereto.

Olde Armours are drest up, and new are made;
Jacks are in working, and strong shirts of Male,
He scowers an

Blades accounted of the best temper.

olde Fox, he a

Blades accounted of the best temper.

Bilbowe blade,
Now Shields and Targets onely are for sale;
Who works for warre, now thriveth by his Trade,
The browne Bill, and the Battell-Axe prevaile:
The curious Fletcher fits his well-strung Bowe,
And his barb'd Arrow which he sets to showe.

Tents and Pavillions in the fields are pitcht,
(E'r full wrought up their Roomthynesse to try)
Windowes, and Towers, with Ensignes are inricht,
With ruffling Banners, that doe brave the sky,
Wherewith the wearied Labourer bewitcht
To see them thus hang waving in his eye:
His toylsome burthen from his back doth throwe,
And bids them worke that will, to France hee'll goe.

Rich Saddles for the Light-horse and the Bard
For to be brav'st there's not a man but plyes,
Plumes, Bandroules, and Caparizons prepar'd;
Whether of two, and men at Armes divise
The

Armed at all points.

Greaves, or

Armings for the thigh and legge.

Guyses were the surer guard,
The

Armings for the arme and shoulder.

Vambrasse, or the Pouldron, they should prize;
And where a stand of Pykes plac't close, or large,
Which way to take advantage in the Charge.

One traynes his Horse, another trayles his Pyke,
He with his Pole-Axe, practiseth the fight,
The Bowe-man (which no Country hath the like)
With his sheafe Arrow, proveth by his might,
How many score off, he his Foe can strike,
Yet not to draw above his bosomes hight:
The Trumpets sound the Charge and the Retreat,
The bellowing Drumme, the Martch againe doth beat.

Cannons upon their Caridge mounted are,
Whose Battery France must feele upon her Walls,
The Engineer providing the Petar,
To breake the strong Percullice, and the Balls
Of Wild-fire devis'd to throw from farre,

Great Ordnance then but newly in use.

To burne to ground their Pallaces and Halls:
Some studying are, the scale which they had got,
Thereby to take the Levell of their Shot.

The man in yeares preacht to his youthfull sonne
Prest to this Warre, as they sate by the fire,
What deedes in France were by his Father done,
To this attempt to worke him to aspire,
And told him, there how he an Ensigne wonne,
Which many a yeare was hung up in the Quire:
And in the Battell, where he made his way,
How many French men he struck downe that day.

The good old man, with teares of joy would tell,
In Cressy field what prizes Edward play'd,
As what at Poycteers the Black Prince befell,
How like a Lyon, he about him layd:
In deedes of Armes how Awdley did excell,
For their olde sinnes, how they the French men payd:
How bravely Basset did behave him there:
How Oxford charg'd the Van, Warwick the Reare.

And Boy, quoth he, I have heard thy Grandsire say,
That once he did an English Archer see,
Who shooting at a French twelve score away,
Quite through the body, stuck him to a Tree;
Upon their strengths a King his Crowne might lay:
Such were the men of that brave age, quoth he,
When with his Axe he at his Foe let drive,
Murrian and scalpe downe to the teeth could rive:

The scarlet Judge might now set up his Mule,
With neighing Steeds the Streetes so pestred are;
For where he wont in Westminster to rule,
On his Tribunall sate the man of Warre,
The Lawyer to his Chamber doth recule,
For he hath now no bus'nesse at the Barre:
But to make Wills and Testaments for those
That were for France, their substance to dispose.

By this, the Counsell of this Warre had met,
And had at large of ev'ry thing discust;
And the grave Clergie had with them beene set:
To warrant what they undertooke was just,
And as for monies that to be no let,
They bad the King for that to them to trust:
The Church to pawne, would see her Challice layde,
E'r shee would leave one Pyoner unpayde.

From Milford Haven, to the mouth of Tweed,

Halfe the circuit of the Island, from the Spanish to the German Ocean.

Ships of all burthen to Southampton brought,
For there the King the Rendevous decreed
To beare aboard his most victorious fraught:
The place from whence he with the greatest speed
Might land in France, (of any that was thought)
And with successe upon that lucky shore,

Edward the third.

Where his great Grandsire landed had before.

But, for he found those vessels were to fewe,
That into France his Army should convay:
He sent to Belgia, whose great store he knewe,
Might now at neede supply him every way.
His bounty ample, as the windes that blewe,
Such Barkes for Portage out of ev'ry bay
In Holland, Zealand, and in Flanders, brings;
As spred the wide

The Sea betwixt France and England, so called.

sleeve with their canvase wings.

But first seaven Ships from Rochester are sent,
The narrow Seas, of all the French to sweepe:

A Catalogue of the Ships in 12 Stanzas.

All men of Warre with scripts of Mart that went,
And had command, the Coast of France to keepe:
The comming of a Navie to prevent,
And view what strength, was in the Bay of Deepe:
And if they found it like to come abroad,
To doe their best to fire it in the Road.

The names of the Kings 7. Ships of War.

The Bonaventure, George, and the Expence,
Three as tall Ships, as e'r did Cable tewe,
The Henry Royall, at her parting thence,

An Indian Bird so great, that she is able to carry an Elephant.

Like the huge Ruck from Gillingham that flewe:
The Antilop, the Elephant, Defence,
Bottoms as good as ever spred a clue:
All having charge, their voyage having bin,
Before Southampton to take Souldiers in.

Twelve Merchants Ships, of mighty burthen all,
New off the Stocks, that had beene rig'd for Stoad,
Riding in Thames by Lymehouse and Blackwall
That ready were their Merchandize to load,
Straitly commanded by the Admirall,
At the same Port to settle their aboad:
And each of these a Pinnis at command,
To put her fraught conveniently to land.

Eight goodly Ships, so Bristow ready made,
Which to the King they bountifully lent,
With Spanish Wines which they for Ballast lade,
In happy speed of his brave Voyage ment,
Hoping his Conquest should enlarge their Trade,
And there-withall a rich and spacious Tent:
And as this Fleet the Severne Seas doth stem,
Five more from Padstowe came along with them.

The Hare of Loo, a right good Ship well knowne,
The yeare before that twice the Strayts had past,
Two wealthy Spanish Merchants did her owne,
Who then but lately had repair'd her wast;
For from her Deck a Pyrate she had blowne,
After a long Fight, and him tooke at last:
And from Mounts Bay sixe more, that still in sight,
Wayted with her before the Ile of Wight.

From Plymmouth next came in the Blazing Starre,
And fiery Dragon to take in their fraught;
With other foure, especiall men of Warre,
That in the Bay of Portugall had fought;

The Bay of Portugall one of the highest working Seas that is known.

And though returning from a Voyage farre,
Stem'd that rough Sea, when at the high'st it wrought:
With these, of Dertmouth seav'n good Ships there were,
The golden Cressant in their tops that beare.

So Lyme, three Ships into the Navy sent,
Of which the Sampson scarse a mon'th before,
Had sprung a Planke, and her mayne Mast had spent,
With extreame perill that she got to shore;
With them five other out of Waymouth went,
Which by Southampton, were made up a score:
With those that rode (at pleasure) in the Bay,
And that at Anchor before Portsmouth lay.

Next these, Newcastle furnisheth the Fleet
With nine good Hoyes of necessary use;
The Danish Pyrats, valiantly that beet,
Offring to Sack them as they sayl'd for Sluce:
Six Hulks from Hull at Humbers mouth them meet,
Which had them oft accompanied to

A Country lying upon the east Sea, bordring upon Poland.

Pruce.
Five more from

Famous for Herring fishing.

Yarmouth falling them among,
That had for Fishing beene prepared long.

The Cowe of Harwich, never put to flight,
For Hides, and Furres, late to Muscovia bound,
Of the same Port, another nam'd the Spight,
That in her comming lately through the Sound,
After a two-dayes-still-continued fight,
Had made three Flemings runne themselves a ground;
With three neat Flee-boats which with them doe take,
Six Ships of Sandwich up the Fleet to make.

Nine Ships for the Nobility there went,
Of able men, the enterprize to ayde,

Aydes to the King by the Nobility.

Which to the King most liberally they lent,
At their owne charge, and bountifully payde,
Northumberland, and Westmerland in sent
Fourescore at Armes a peece, themselves and layde
At six score Archers each, as Suffolke showes,
Twenty tall men at Armes, with forty Bowes.

Warwick and Stafford leavied at no lesse
Then noble Suffolke, nor doe offer more
Of men at Armes, and Archers which they presse,
Of their owne Tenants, Arm'd with their owne store:
Their forwardnesse fore-showes their good successe
In such a Warre, as had not beene before:
And other Barrons under Earles that were,
Yet dar'd with them an equall charge to beare.

Darcy and Camois, zealous for the King,
Lovell, Fitzwater, Willoughby, and Rosse,
Berckley, Powis, Burrell, fast together cling;
Seymer, and Saint John for the bus'nesse closse,
Each twenty Horse, and forty foote doe bring
More, to nine hundred mounting in the grosse
In those nine Ships, and fitly them bestow'd,
Which with the other fall into the Road.

From Holland, Zeland, and from Flanders wonne
By weekely pay, threescore twelve Bottoms came,
From fifty upward, to five hundred Tunne;
For ev'ry use a Marriner could name,
Whose glittering Flags against the Radient Sunne,
Show'd as the Sea had all beene of a flame;
For Skiffes, Crayes, Scallops, and the like, why these
From ev'ry small Creeke, cov'red all the Seas.

The man whose way from London hap'd to lye,
By those he met might guesse the generall force,
Daily encountred as he passed by,
Now with a Troupe of Foote, and then of Horse,
To whom the people still themselves apply,
Bringing them victuals as in meere remorce:
And still the acclamation of the presse,
Saint George for England, to your good successe.

There might a man have seene in ev'ry Streete,
The Father bidding farewell to his Sonne:
Small Children kneeling at their Fathers feete:
The Wife with her deare Husband ne'r had done:
Brother, his Brother, with adieu to greete:
One Friend to take leave of another runne:
The Mayden with her best belov'd to part,
Gave him her hand, who tooke away her heart.

The nobler Youth the common ranke above,
On their corvetting Coursers mounted faire,
One ware his Mistris Garter, one her Glove;
And he a lock of his deare Ladies haire;
And he her Colours, whom he most did love;
There was not one but did some Favour weare:
And each one tooke it, on his happy speede,
To make it famous by some Knightly deede.

The cloudes of dust, that from the wayes arose,
Which in their martch, the trampling Troupes doe reare;
When as the Sunne their thicknesse doth oppose
In his descending, shining wondrous cleare,
To the beholder farre off standing, showes
Like some besieged Towne, that were on fire:
As though fore-telling e'r they should returne,
That many a Citie yet secure must burne.

The well-rig'd Navie falne into the Road,
For this short Cut with victuall fully stor'd,
The King impatient of their long aboad,
Commands his Army instantly aboard,
Casting to have each Company bestow'd,
As then the time convenience could afford;
The Ships appointed wherein they should goe,
And Boats prepar'd for waftage to and fro.

To be imbarqu'd when every Band comes downe,
Each in their order as they mustred were,
Or by the difference of their

A Blazon of the Ensignes of the severall Shires, in 14 Stanzas following.

Armings knowne,
Or by their Colours; for in Ensignes there,
Some wore the Armes of their most ancient Towne,
Others againe their owne Divises beare,
There was not any, but that more or lesse,
Something had got, that something should expresse.

First, in the

Expressing their freedom, as still retaining their ancient liberties, by surprizing the Conqueror like a moving Wood.

Kentish Stremer was a Wood,
Out of whose top an arme that held a Sword,
As their right Embleme; and to make it good,
They above other onely had a Word,
Which was; Unconquer'd; as that freest had stood.

An expression of King Harolds death, slaine with an Arrow in the head, at the Battaile of Hastings, fighting against the Conqueror.

Sussex the next that was to come Aboard
Bore a Blacke Lyon Rampant, sore that bled,
With a Field-Arrow darted through the head.

The men of

The first famous Earle of that Countrey.

Surrey, Checky Blew and gold,
Which for brave Warren their first Earle they wore,
In many a Field that honour'd was of olde:)
And Hamshere next in the same Colours bore,
Three Lions Passant, th'Armes of Bevis bould,
Who through the World so famous was of yore;
A silver

Expressing the pleasantnesse of the scituation of that County, lying upon the French Sea.

Tower, Dorsets Red Banner beares;
The Cornishmen two Wrestlers had for theirs.

The

As lying the fittest to expell or forwarne Invasion.

Devonshire Band, a Beacon set on fire,
Sommerset

Expressing the delicacy of the Bath, their chiefe Citty.

a Virgine bathing in a Spring,
Their Cities Armes, the men of Glostershire,
In Gold three

The Armes of the ancient Family of Clare Earle of Gloster borne by the City.

Bloudy Chevernells doe bring;
Wiltshire a Crowned

Stonidge being the first wonder of England, standing in Wilshire:

Piramed; As nigher
Then any other to martch to the King;
Barkshire a

An old Embleme of Beroch, or Berkshire.

Stag, under an Oake that stood,
Oxford a White Bull wading in a Flood.

The mustred men for

A Badge of the ancient Family of the Staffords Dukes of that place.

Buckingham, are gone
Under the Swan, the Armes of that olde Towne,
The Londoners, and Middlesex as one,
Are by the Red Crosse, and the Dagger knowne;
The Men of

Queene Helen Founder of the Crosse, wife to Constantaine, and Daughter to King Coell, builder of Colechester in Essex.

Essex overmatch'd by none,
Under Queene Hellens Image Martching downe;

Suffolke the most Easterly of the English shieres.

Suffolke a Sunne halfe risen from the brack,

For the brave prospect to the Germane Ocean.

Norffolke a Triton on a Dolphines backe.

The Souldiers sent from

Having relation to that famous Universitie their Shiere Towne.

Cambridgeshire, a Bay
Upon a Mountaine watred with a shower:
Hartford

The Armes of the Towne somewhat alluding to the name.

two Harts that in a River play;
Bedfords an Eagle pearcht upon a Tower,
And

The Armes of the towne of Huntingdon, first so named of a place where Hunters met.

Huntington a People proud as they,
Nor giving place to any for their power,
A youthfull Hunter, with a Chaplet Crown'd,
In a pyde Lyam leading forth his Hound.

Northampton

The Armes of the towne.

with a Castle seated high,
Supported by two Lyons thither came;
The men of

From the aboundance of wooll in that tract.

Rutland, to them marching nie,
In their rich Ensigne beare an Ermine Ram,
And

A sport more used in that Shiere from ancient time, then in any other.

Lestershire that on their strength relye,
A Bull and Mastive fighting for the game.
Lincolne

For the length that it hath upon the Germane Ocean.

a Ship most neatly that was lim'd
In all her Sailes with Flags and Pennons trim'd.

Stout

The Beare and ragged Staffe, the ancient Armes of that Earledome.

Warwickshire, her ancient badge the Beare,
Worster

For the aboundance of fruit more there then in any other tract.

a Peare-Tree laden with the Fruit,
A Golden Fleece and

The finenesse of the wooll of Lemster in that Shiere.

Hereford doth weare;
Stafford,

Many Hermites lived there in the woods in time past, it being all forrestie.

a Hermet in his homely sute,
Shropshire

Expressing the loftinesse of the mountaines in that Shiere, on which many Hawkes were wont to airy.

a Falcon towring in the Ayre,
And for the Shiere whose surface seemes most brute
Darby, an Eagle sitting on a Roote,
A swathed Infant holding in her foote.

Olde

That famous out-law lived much in that Country, and is yet by many places there celebrated.

Nottingham, an Archer clad in greene,
Under a Tree with his drawne Bowe that stood,
Which in a checkquer'd Flagge farre off was seene:
It was the Picture of olde Robin Hood,
And

Accounted ever the best Archers of England.

Lancashiere not as the least I weene,
Thorough three Crownes, three Arrowes smear'd with blood:
Cheshiere a Banner, very square and broad,
Wherein a man upon a Lyon rode.

A flaming Lance, the

For their agillity with the Speare, and swiftnesse of their Nagges.

Yorkshiere men for them,
As those for Durham neere againe at hand,
A Myter crowned with a Diadem:
An Armed man, the men of

Being ready still in Armes against the Scots.

Cumberland:
So

Expressing the scite thereof juting out into those dangerous Seas, betwixt England and Ireland.

Westmerland link'd with it in one Stem,
A Ship that wrackt lay fierd upon the sand:
Northumberland

Their terrible conflicts (many times) with the Scots, expressed in the fight betweene the golden and red Lyon.

with these com'n as a Brother,
Two Lyons fighting tearing one another.

Thus as themselves the English men had show'd
Under the Ensigne of each sev'rall Shiere,
The Native Welch who no lesse honour ow'd
To their owne King, nor yet lesse valiant were,
In one strong Reg'ment had themselves bestow'd,
And of the rest, resumed had the Reare:
To their owne Quarter marching as the rest,
As neatly Arm'd, and bravely as the best.

Milford Haven in Penbrookeshiere, one of the bravest harbours in the knowne world, therefore not unaptly so expressed.

Pembrooke, a Boat wherein a Lady stood,
Rowing her selfe within a quiet Bay;
Those men of South-Wales of the

Partly Dutch, partly English, partly Welch.

mixed blood,
Had of the Welch the leading of the way:
Caermardin

Merlin, by whose birth and knowledge that towne is made famous.

in her Colours beare a Rood,
Whereon an olde man lean'd himselfe to stay
At a Starre pointing; which of great renowne,
Was skilfull Merlin, namer of that Towne.

A Watch Tower or Pharus, having the scituation where Severne beginneth to widden, as when Pirats have come in to give warning to the other Maratyne Countries.

Clamorgan men, a Castell great and hie,
From which, out of the Battlement above,
A flame shot up it selfe into the skye:
The men of

For the glory it hath attained, to be the Kings birth-place, and to expresse his principalities.

Munmouth (for the ancient love
To that deare Country; neighbouring them so nie)
Next after them in Equipage that move,
Three Crownes Imperiall which supported were,
With three Arm'd Armes, in their proud Ensigne beare.

The men of

The Armes of Brecknock.

Brecknock brought a Warlick Tent,
Upon whose top there sate a watchfull Cock,
Radnor,

Lying towards the midst of Wales, and for aboundance of Sheepe, living on those high Mountaines.

a mountaine of a high assent,
Thereon a Shepheard keeping of his Flock,
As

Expressing the scituation of that Shiere, lying on the Maratine part upon the Irish Sea.

Cardigan the next to them that went,
Came with a Mermayde sitting on a Rock,
And

For the aboundance of Goates, being on those inaccessible Mountaines.

Merioneth beares (as these had done)
Three dancing Goates against the rising Sunne,

Those of

The Shiere breeding the best Horses of Wales.

Mountgomery, beare a prancing Steed,
Denbigh

As opening it selfe to the great North or Deucalidonian Sea.

a Neptune with his three-fork'd Mace:
Flintshiere

Expressing the aboundance of Corne and grasse, in that little Tract.

a Workmayd in her Summers weed,
With Sheafe and Sickle (with a warlick pace)
Those of Caernarvon not the least in speed,
Though marching last (in the mayne Armies face)
Three golden Eagles in their Ensigne brought,
Under which oft brave Owen Guyneth fought.

The Seas amazed at the fearefull sight,
Of Armes, and Ensignes, that aboard were brought,
Of Streamers, Banners, Pennons, Ensignes pight,
Upon each Pup and Prowe; and at the fraught,
So full of terror, that it hardly might
Into a naturall course againe be brought,
As the vaste Navie which at Anchor rides,
Proudly presumes to shoulder out the Tides.

The Fleet then full, and floating on the Maine,
The numerous Masts, with their brave Topsailes spred,
When as the Winde a little doth them straine,
Seeme like a Forrest bearing her proud head
Against some rough flawe, that forerunns a raine;

A Simile of the Navy.

So doe they looke from every loftie sted,
Which with the Surges tumbled too and fro,
Seeme (even) to bend, as trees are seene to doe.

From every Ship when as the Ordnance rore,
Of their depart, that all might understand,
When as the zealous people from the shore,
Againe with fires salute them from the Land,

The brave solemnity at the departing of the Fleet.

For so was order left with them before,
To watch the Beacons, with a carefull hand,
Which being once fierd, the people more or lesse,
Should all to Church, and pray for their successe.

They shape their Course into the Mouth of Seyne,

The Navy Landing in the mouth of Seyne.

That destin'd Flood those Navies to receive,
Before whose fraught, her France had prostrate laine,
As now she must this, that shall never leave,
Untill the Engines that it doth containe,
Into the ayre her heightned walls shall heave;
Whose stubborne Turrets had refus'd to bow,
To that brave Nation that shall shake them now.

Long Boates with Scouts are put to land before,
Upon light Naggs the Countrey to discry,
(Whilst the brave Army setting is on shore,)
To view what strength the enemy had nie,
Pressing the bosome of large France so sore,
That her pale Genius, in affright doth flye
To all her Townes and warnes them to awake,
And for her safety up their Armes to take.

At Paris, Roan, and Orleance, she calls,
And at their gates with gronings doth complaine:
Then cries she out, O get up to your walls:
The English Armies are return'd againe,
Which in two Battailes gave those fatall falls,
At Cressie, and at Poyteers, where lay slaine
Our conquered Fathers, which with very feare
Quake in their Graves to feele them landed here.

The King of France now having understood,
Of Henries entrance, (but too well improv'd,)
He cleerly saw that deere must be the blood,
That it must cost, e'r he could be remov'd;
He sends to make his other Sea Townes good,
Never before so much it him behov'd;
In ev'ry one a Garison to lay,
Fearing fresh powers from England ev'ry day.

To the high'st earth whilst awfull Henry gets,
From whence strong Harflew he might easl'est see,
With sprightly words, and thus their courage whets,

The brave encouragement of a couragious King.

In yonder walls be Mynes of gold (quoth he)
He's a poore Slave, that thinkes of any debts;
Harflew shall pay for all, it ours shall be:
This ayre of France doth like me wondrous well,
Lets burne our Ships, for here we meane to dwell.

But through his Hoast, he first of all proclaim'd

A charitable Proclamation made by the King.

In paine of death, no English man should take
From the Religious, aged, or the maym'd,
Or women that could no resistance make:
To gaine his owne for that he onely aym'd;
Nor would have such to suffer for his sake:
Which in the French (when they the same did heare)
Bred of this brave King, a religious feare.

His Army rang'd, in order fitting warre,

The Kings mayne Standard (for the ponderousnes thereof,) ever borne upon a Carriage.

Each with some greene thing doth his Murrian crowne,
With his mayne standard fixt upon the Carre;
Comes the great King before th'intrenched Towne,
Whilst from the walls the people gazing are,
In all their sights he sets his Army downe;
Nor for their shot he careth not a pin,
But seekes where he his Battery may begin.

And into three, his Army doth divide,

The King makes his approaches on three parts.

His strong aproaches on three parts to make;
Himselfe on th'one, Clarence on th'other side,
To Yorke and Suffolke he the third doth take,
The Mines the Duke of Glocester doth guide;
Then caus'd his Ships the River up to Stake,
That none with Victuall should the Towne relieve,
Should the Sword faile, with Famine them to grieve.

From his Pavillion where he sate in State,
Arm'd for the Siedge, and buckling on his Shield,
Brave Henry sends his Herault to the Gate,
By Trumpets sound, to summon them to yeeld,

The King summons Harflew.

And to accept his Mercy, ere to late,
Or else to say ere he forsooke the field,
Harflew should be but a meere heape of Stones,
Her buildings buried with her Owners bones.

France on this sudaine put into a fright,
With the sad newes of Harflew in distresse,
Whose inexpected, miserable plight,
She on the suddaine, knew not to redresse,
But urg'd to doe the utmost that shee might,
The peoples feares and clamours to suppresse,
Raiseth a power with all the speede she could,
Somewhat thereby, to loose King Henries hold.

The Marshall, and the Constable of France,

Charles de Alibert, and John Bowcequalt.

Leading those Forces levied for the turne,
By which they thought their Titles to advance,
And of their Countrey endlesse praise to earne,
But it with them farre otherwise doth chance,
For when they saw the Villages to burne,
And high-towr'd Harflew round ingirt with fire,
They with their powers to Cawdebeck retire.

Like as a Hinde when shee her Calfe doth see,

A Simile of the French powers.

Lighted by chance into a Lions pawes,
From which should shee adventure it to free,
Shee must her selfe fill his devouring Jawes,
And yet her young one, still his prey must be,
(Shee so instructed is by Natures Lawes:)
With them so fares it, which must needs goe downe
If they would fight; and yet must loose the Towne:

Now doe they mount their Ordnance for the day,

A discription of the siege of Harflewe, in the 19. following Stanzaes.

Their scaling Ladders rearing to the walls,
Their battering Rammes against the gates they lay,
Their brazen slings send in the wilde-fire balls,
Baskets of twigs now carie stones and clay,
And to th'assault who furiously not falls;
The Spade and Pickax working are belowe,
Which then unfelt, yet gave the greatest blowe.

Rampiers of earth the painefull Pyoners raise
With the walls equall, close upon the Dike,
To passe by which the Souldier that assayes,
On Planks thrust over, one him downe doth strike:
Him with a mall a second English payes,
A second French transpearc'd him with a Pyke:
That from the height of the embattel'd Towers,
Their mixed blood ranne downe the walls in showers.

A French man back into the Towne doth fall,
With a sheafe Arrow shot into the head;
An English man in scaling of the wall,
From the same place is by a stone struck dead,
Tumbling upon them logs of wood, and all,
That any way for their defence might sted:
The hills at hand re-ecchoing with the din
Of shouts without, and fearefull shriekes within.

When all at once the English men assaile,
The French within all valiantly defend,
And in a first assault, if any faile,
They by a second strive it to amend:
Out of the Towne come

Crosbowe Arrowes.

quarries thick as haile;
As thick againe their Shafts the English send:
The bellowing Canon from both sides doth rore,
With such a noyse as makes the Thunder pore.

Now upon one side you should heare a cry,
And all that Quarter clowded with a smother;
The like from that against it by and by;
As though the one were eccho to the other,
The King and Clarence so their turnes can ply:
And valiant Gloster showes himselfe their brother;
Whose Mynes to the besieg'd more mischiefe doe,
Then with th'assaults above, the other two.

An olde man sitting by the fier side,
Decrepit with extreamity of Age,
Stilling his little Grand-childe when it cride,
Almost distracted with the Batteries rage:
Sometimes doth speake it faire, sometimes doth chide,
As thus he seekes its mourning to asswage,
By chance a Bullet doth the chimney hit,
Which falling in, doth kill both him and it.

Whilst the sad weeping Mother sits her downe,
To give her little new-borne Babe the Pap:
A lucklesse quarry leveld at the Towne,
Kills the sweet Baby sleeping in her lap,
That with the fright shee falls into a swoone,
From which awak'd, and mad with the mishap;
As up a Rampire shreeking she doth clim,
Comes a great Shot, and strikes her lim from lim.

Whilst a sort runne confusedly to quench,
Some Pallace burning, or some fired Street,
Call'd from where they were fighting in the Trench:
They in their way with Balls of Wilde-fire meet,
So plagued are the miserable French,
Not above head, but also under feet:
For the fierce English vowe the Towne to take,
Or of it soone a heape of stones to make.

Hot is the Siege the English comming on,
As men so long to be kept out that scorne,
Carelesse of wounds as they were made of stone;
As with their teeth the walls they would have torne:
Into a Breach who quickly is not gone;
Is by the next behinde him over-borne:
So that they found a place that gave them way,
They never car'd what danger therein lay.

From ev'ry Quarter they their course must plye,
As't pleas'd the King them to th'assault to call:
Now on the Duke of Yorke the charge doth lye:
To Kent and Cornwall then the turne doth fall:
Then Huntingdon up to the walls they crye:
Then Suffolke, and then Excester; which all
In their meane Souldiers habits us'd to goe,
Taking such part as those that own'd them doe.

The men of Harflew rough excursions make,
Upon the English watchfull in their Tent,
Whose courages they to their cost awake,
With many a wound that often back them sent,
So proud a Sally that durst undertake,
And in the Chase pell mell amongst them went,
For on the way such ground of them thye win,
That some French are shut out, some English in.

Nor idely sit our men at Armes the while,
Foure thousand Horse that ev'ry day goe out;
And of the Field are Masters many a mile,
By putting the Rebellious French to rout;
No Peasants them with promises beguile:
Another bus'nesse they were come about;
For him they take, his Ransome must redeeme,
Onely French Crownes, the English men esteeme.

Whilst English Henry lastly meanes to trye:
By three vast Mynes, the walls to overthrowe:
The French men their approches that espye,
By Countermynes doe meete with them belowe,
And as opposed in the Workes they lye:
Up the Besieged the Besiegers blowe,
That stifled quite, with powder as with dust,
Longer to walls they found it vaine to trust.

Till Gaucourt then, and Tuttivile that were
The Townes Commanders, (with much perill) finde
The Resolution that the English beare;
As how their owne to yeelding were enclinde,
Summon to parly, off'ring frankly there;
If that ayde came not by a day assignde,
To give the Towne up, might their lyves stand free:
As for their goods, at Henries will to be.

And having wonne their conduct to the King,
Those hardy Chiefes on whom the charge had layne:
Thither those well-fed Burgesses doe bring,
What they had off'red strongly to maintaine
In such a case, although a dang'rous thing,
Yet they so long upon their knees remaine:
That five dayes respight from his Grant they have,
Which was the most, they (for their lives) durst crave.

The time perfixed comming to expire,
And their reliefe ingloriously delay'd:
Nothing within their sight but sword, and fire;
And bloody Ensignes ev'ry where display'd:
The English still within themselves entire,
When all these things they seriously had way'd,
To Henries mercy found that they must trust,
For they perceiv'd their owne to be injust.

The Ports are opened, weapons layd aside,
And from the walls th'Artillary displac'd:
The Armes of England are advanc'd in pride:
The watch Tower, with Saint Georges Banner grac'd:
Live Englands Henry, all the people cride:
Into the Streetes their women runne in hast,
Bearing their little Children, for whose sake
They hop'd the King would the more mercy take.

The gates thus widened with the breath of Warre;
Their ample entrance to the English gave:
There was no dore that then had any barre;
For of their owne not any thing they have:
When Henry comes on his Emperiall Carre:

The King of England entreth Harflew in triumph.

To whom they kneele their lives alone to save.
Strucken with wonder, when that face they sawe,
Wherein such mercy was, with so much awe.

And first themselves the English to secure,
Doubting what danger might be yet within;
The strongest Forts, and Citadell make sure,
To showe that they could keepe as well as win,
And though the spoyles them wondrously alure,
To fall to pillage e'r they will begin,
They shut each passage, by which any power
Might be brought on to hinder, but an hower.

That Conquering King which entring at the gate,
Borne by the presse as in the ayre he swamme:
Upon the suddaine layes aside his state,
And of a Lyon is become a Lambe:
He is not now what he was but of late:
But on his bare feete to the Church he came:
By his example, as did all the presse,
To give God thankes, for his first good successe.

And sends his Herauld to King Charles to say,
That though he thus was setled on his shore,
Yet he his Armes was ready downe to lay,
His ancient right if so he would restore:
But if the same he wilfully denay,

King Henry offereth to decide his right by single combat.

To stop th'effusion of their Subjects gore;
He frankly off'reth in a single fight,
With the young Daulphine to decide his right.

Eight dayes at Harflew he doth stay to heare,
What answere back, his Herauld him would bring:
But when he found that he was ne'r the neere;
And that the Daulphine meaneth no such thing
As to fight single; nor that any were
To deale for composition from the King:
He casts for Callice to make forth his way,
And take such Townes, as in his Journeyes lay.

But first his bus'nesse he doth so contrive,
To curbe the Townes-men, should they chance to stirre
Of Armes, and Office he doth them deprive,
And to their roomes the English doth preferre:
Out of the Ports all Vagrants he doth drive,
And therein sets his Unckle Excester:
This done, to martch he bids the thundring Drummes,
To scourge proud France when now her Conqueror comes.

The King and Daulphine having understood,
How on his way this haughty Henry was
Over the Soame, which is a dangerous flood;
Pluckt downe the Bridges that might give him passe;
And ev'ry thing, if fit for humane food,
Caus'd to be forrag'd; (to a wondrous masse)
And more then this, his Journeyes to fore-slowe,
He scarce one day unskirmish'd with, doth goe.

But on his march, in midst of all his foes;
He like a Lyon keepes them all at bay,
And when they seeme him strictly to enclose;
Yet through the thick'st he hewes him out a way:
Nor the proud Daulphine dare him to oppose;
Though off'ring oft his Army to fore-lay:
Nor all the power the envious French can make,
Force him one foote, his path (but) to forsake.

And each day as his Army doth remove,
Marching along upon Soames Marshy side,
His men at Armes on their tall Horses prove,
To finde some shallow, over where to ryde,
But all in vaine against the Streame they strove,

A foard found in the River of Soame

Till by the helpe of a laborious guide,
A Ford was found to set his Army ore
Which never had discovered beene before.

The newes divulg'd that he had waded Soame,
And safe to shore his Caridges had brought,
Into the Daulphins bosome strooke so home,
And one the weakenesse of King Charles so wrought;
That like the troubled Sea, when it doth Foame,
As in a rage, to beate the Rocks to nought;
So doe they storme, and curse on curse they heapt
Gainst those which should the passages have kept.

And at that time, both resident in Roan,
Thither for this assembling all the Peeres,
Whose Counsailes now must underprop their Throne

A Counsell held at Roan against the King of England.

Against the Foe; which, not a man but feares;
Yet in a moment confident are growne,
When with fresh hopes, each one his fellow cheeres,
That ere the English to their Callis got,
Some for this spoile should pay a bloudy shot.

Therfore they both in solemne Counsaile satt,
With Berry and with Britaine their Alies;
Now speake they of this course, and then of that,
As to insnare him how they might divise;
Something they faine would doe, but know not what,
At length the Duke Alanzon up doth rise,
And craving silence of the King and Lords,
Against the English, brake into this these words,

Had this unbridled youth an Army led,

A speech of the Duke Alanzon, against the English.

That any way were worthy of your feare,
Against our Nation, that durst turne the head,
Such as the former English forces were,
This care of yours, your Countrey then might sted,
To tell you then, who longer can forbeare,
That into question, you our valour bring,
To call a Counsaile for so poore a thing.

A Route of tatter'd Rascalls starved so,
As forced through extreamity of need,
To rake for scraps on Dunghils as they goe,
And on the Berries of the Shrubs to feed,
Besides with fluxes are enfeebled so,
And other foule diseases that they breed,
That they, there Armes disabled are to sway,
But in their march doe leave them on the way.

And to our people but a handfull are,
Scarse thirtie thousand, when to Land they came,
Of which to England dayly some repayre,
Many from Harflew carried sicke and lame,
Fitter for Spittles, and the Surgions care,
Then with their Swords on us to winne them fame,
Unshod, and without stockings are the best,
And those by Winter miserably opprest.

To let them dye upon their march abroad,
And Fowles upon their Carkases to feed,
The heapes of them upon the common road
A great infection likely were to breed,
For our owne safeties see them then bestow'd,
And doe for them this charitable deede:
Under our Swords together let them fall,
And one that day they dye, be buried all.

This bold invective forc'd against the Foe,
Although it most of the Assembly seas'd,
Yet those which better did the English know,
Were but a little with his speeches pleas'd,
And that the Duke of Berry meant to showe:
Which when the murmure somewhat was appeas'd,
After a while their listning silence breakes,
And thus in answere of Alanzon speakes.

The Duke of Berrys answere to Alanzon.

My liedge, quoth he, and you my Lords, and Peeres,
Whom this great businesse chiefely doth concerne,
By my experience, now so many yeeres
To know the English I am not to learne;
Nor I more feeling have of humane feares
Then fitteth Manhood, nor doe hope to earne
Suffrage from any; but by zeale am wonne,
To speake my minde here, as the Duke hath done.

Th'events of Warre are various (as I know)
And say, the losse upon the English light,
Yet may a dying man give such a blow,
As much may hinder his proud Conquerours might;
It is enough our puissant power to showe
To the weake English, now upon their flight,
When want, and winter, strongly spurre them on,
You else but stay them, that would faine be gon.

I like our Forces their first course should hold,
To skirmish with them, upon every stay,
But fight by no meanes with them, though they would,
Except they finde them forraging for pray,
So still you have them shut up in a Fould,
And still to Callis keepe them in their way;
So Fabius wearied Hanibal, so we
May English Henry, pleased if you be.

And of the English rid your Countrey cleane,
If on their backs, but Callice walles they win,
Whose Frontier Townes you easly may maintaine,
With a strong Army still to keepe them in;
Then let our Ships make good the mouth of Seyne,
And at your pleasure Harflew you may winne,
Ere with Supplys againe they can invade,
Spent in the Voyage lately hither made.

That day at Poyteers, in that bloudy Field,
The sudaine turne in that great Battell then,
Shall ever teach me, whilest I Armes can weeld,
Never to trust to multitudes of men;
Twas the first day that ere I wore a Sheeld,
Oh let me never see the like agen!
Where their Blacke Edward such a Battell wonne,
As to behold it might amaze the Sunne.

There did I see our conquered Fathers fall,
Before the English on that fatall ground,
When as to ours their number was but small,
And with brave Spirits France ne'r did more abound,
Yet oft that Battaile into minde I call,
Whereas of ours, one man seemd all one wound,
I instance this; yet humbly here submit
My selfe to fight, if you shall thinke it fit.

The Marshall and the Constable about
To second, what this sager Duke had said:
The youthfull Lords into a cry brake out,
Gainst their opinions, so that over-sway'd,

Young mens counsailes oft-times prove the utter subversion both of themselves and others.

Some seeming of their Loyalties to doubt;
Alanzon as an Oracle obay'd,
And not a French then present, but doth sweare
To kill an English if ynow there were.

A Herault posted presently away,
The King of England to the field to dare,

The French King sendeth to dare the King of England to Battaile.

To bid him cease his spoyle, nor to delay
Gainst the French power his forces but prepare:
For that King Charles determin'd to display
His bloody Ensignes, and through France declare,
The day, and place, that Henry should set downe,
In which their Battailes, should dispose the Crowne.

This newes to Henry by the Herault brought,
As one dispassion'd soberly (quoth he)
Had your King pleas'd, we sooner might have fought;

The King of Englands modest answer.

For now my Souldiers much enfeebled be:
Nor day, nor place, for Battaile shall be sought
By English Henry: but if he seeke me,
I to my utmost will my selfe defend,
And to th'Almighties pleasure leave the end.

The brute of this intended Battaile spred,
The coldnesse of each sleeping courage warmes,
And in the French that daring boldnesse bred:
Like casting Bees that they arise in swarmes,
Thinking the English downe so farre to tred,
As past that day ne'r more to rise in Armes,
T'extirpe the name, if possible it were,
At least not after to be heard of there.

A Simily of the rising of the French.

As when you see the envious Crowe espye,
Something that shee doth naturally detest:
With open throat how shee doth squall and crye;
And from the next Grove calleth in the rest,
And they for those beyond them bawling flye,
Till their foule noyse doe all the ayre infest:
Thus French, the French to this great Battaile call,
Upon their swords to see the English fall.

And to the King when seriously one tolde,
With what an Host he should encountred be,

David Gam, a great Captain in that Warr.

Gam noting well, the King did him behold,
In the reporting; Merrily (quoth he)
My Liege I'le tell you if I may be bold,
We will divide this Army into three:
One part we'll kill, the second prisoners stay;
And for the third, we'll leave to runne away.

But for the Foe came hourely in so fast,
Lest they his Army should disordred take:
The King who wisely doth the worst forecast,
His speedy martch doth presently forsake,
Into such forme and his Batallion cast;
That doe their worst they should not eas'ly shake;
For that his scouts which forrag'd had the Coast,
Bad him at hand expect a puissant Host.

On which ere long the English Vauward light,
Which York, of men the bravest, doth command,

The Duke of Yorke.

When either of them in the others sight,
He caus'd the Army instantly to stand,
As though preparing for a present Fight,
And rideth forth from his couragious Band,
To view the French, whose numbers over spread,
The troubled Country on whose earth they tread.

Now were both Armies got upon that ground,
As on a Stage, where they their strengthes must trye,
Whence from the wydth of many a gaping wound,
There's many a soule into the Ayre must flye:
Meane while the English that some ease had found;
By the advantage of a Village nie,
There set them downe the Battell to abide,
When they the place had strongly fortifide.

Made drunke with pride the haughty French disdaine,

The French scorning the English, being so fewe in respect of their mighty power.

Lesse then their owne, a multitude to view,
Nor aske of God the victory to gaine,
Upon the English wext so poore and fewe,
To stay their slaughter thinking it a paine,
And lastly to that insolence they grewe,
Quoyts, Lots, and Dice for Englishmen to cast,
And sweare to pay, the Battaile being past.

For knots of corde to ev'ry Towne they send,
The Captiv'd English that they caught to binde,
For to perpetuall slav'ry they intend:
Those that alive they on the Field should finde,
So much as that they fear'd lest they should spend
Too many English, wherefore they assignde
Some to keepe fast those, fayne that would be gon
After the Fight, to try their Armes upon.

One his bright sharpe-eg'd Semiter doth showe,
Off'ring to lay a thousand Crownes (in pride)
That he two naked English at one blowe,
Bound back to back will at the wasts divide,
Some bett his sword will do't, some others no,
After the Battaile, and they'll have it tride:
Another wafts his Blade about his head,
And shewes them how their hamstrings he will shread.

They part their prisoners, passing them for debt,
And in their Ransome ratibly accord
To a Prince of ours, a Page of theirs they set;
And a French Lacky to an English Lord;
As for our Gentry them to hyre they'll let,
And as good cheape as they can them afford,
Branded for Slaves, that if they hapt to stray,
Knowne by the marke, them any one might slay.

And cast to make a Chariot for the King,
Painted with Antickes, and ridiculous toyes,
In which they meane to Paris him to bring,
To make sport to their Madames and their Boyes,
And will have Rascalls, Rymes of him to sing,
Made in his mock'ry; and in all these joyes,
They bid the Bells to ring, and people crie,
Before the Battaile, France and Victorie.

And to the King and Daulphine sent away
(Who at that time residing were in Roane)
To be partakers of that glorious day:
Wherein the English should be overthrowne,
Lest that of them ensuing times should say,
That for their safety they forsooke their owne;
When France did that brave victory obtaine,
That shall her lasting'st monument remaine.

The poore distressed Englishmen the whiles,
Not dar'd by doubt, and lesse appaul'd with dread
Of their Arm'd Pykes, some sharpning are the pyles,
The Archer grinding his barb'd Arrow head:
Their Bills and Blades, some whetting are with Files:
And some their Armours strongly Riveted:
Some pointing Stakes to stick into the ground,
To guard the Bow-men, and their Horse to wound.

The night fore-running this most dreadfull day:
The French that all to jollity encline:
Some fall to dancing, some againe to play:

The Ryot in the French Campe the night before the Battell.

And some are drinking to this great Designe:
But all in pleasure spend the night away:
The Tents with lights, the Fields with Boone-fires shine:
The common Souldiers Free-mens Catches sing:
With showtes and laughter all the Campe doth ring.

The wearied English watchfull o'r their Foes,
(The depth of night then drawing on so fast)
That fayne a little would themselves repose,
With thanks to God, doe take that small repast
Which that poore Village willingly bestowes:
And having plac'd their Sentinels at last,
They fall to Prayer, and in their Cabins blest,
T'refresh their spirits, then tooke them to their rest.

In his Pavillion Princely Henry lay'd,
Whilst all his Army round about him slept:

Pondering in his thoughts, his Fathers comming to the Crowne by deposing the rigthfull King.

His restlesse head upon his Helmet stay'd,
For carefull thoughts his eyes long waking kept:
Great God (quoth he) withdraw not now thy ayde:
Nor let my Father Henries sinnes be heapt
On my transgressions, up the Summe to make,
For which thou may'st me utterly forsake.

Henry the fift caused the body of King Richard to be taken up, where it was meanely buried at Langley, and to be layde in Westminster by his first Wife Queene Anne.

King Richards wrongs, to minde, Lord doe not call,
Nor how for him my Father did offend,
From us alone derive not thou his fall,
Whose odious life caus'd his untimely end,
That by our Almes be expiated all:
Let not that sinne on me his Sonne desend,
When as his body I translated have,
And buried in an honourable Grave.

These things thus pondring, sorrow-ceasing sleepe,
From cares to rescue his much troubled minde,
Upon his Eye-lids stealingly doth creepe,
And in soft slumbers every sense doth binde,
(As undisturbed every one to keepe)
When as that Angell to whom God assign'd,
The guiding of the English, gliding downe
The silent Campe doth with fresh courage crowne.

His glittering wings he gloriously displaies,
Over the Hoste as every way it lyes,
With golden Dreames their travell, and repaies,
This Herault from the Rector of the skies,
In Vision warnes them not to use delayes,
But to the Battell cheerefully to rise,
And be victorious, for that day at hand,
He would amongst them for the English stand.

The dawne scarse drewe the curtaines of the East,
But the late wearied Englishmen awake,
And much refreshed with a little rest
Themselves soone ready for the Battaile make,
Not any one but feeleth in his breast,
That sprightly fire which Courage bids him take,
For ere the Sunne next rising went to bed,
The French by them in triumph should be led.

And from their Cabins, ere the French arose,
(Drown'd in the pleasure of the passed night,)
The English cast their Battailes to dispose,
Fit for the ground whereon they were to fight:
Foorth that brave King couragious Henry goes,

The great care of a wise and politike Captaine.

An hower before that it was fully light,
To see if there might any place be found,
To give his Hoste advantage by the ground.

Where twas his hap a Quicksett hedge to view,
Well growne in height; and for his purpose thin,
Yet by the Ditch upon whose banke it grew,
He found it to be difficult to winne,
Especially if those of his were true,
Amongst the shrubbs that he should set within,
By which he knew their strength of Horse must come,
If they would ever chardge his Vangaurd home.

And of three hundred Archers maketh choice,

This Stratagem the overthrow of the French.

Some to be taken out of every Band,
The strongest Bowmen, by the generall voyce,
Such as beside were valient of their hand,
And to be so imployed, as would rejoyce,
Appointing them behinde the hedge to stand,
To shrowde themselves from sight, and to be mute,
Untill a signall freely bad them shute.

The gamesome Larke now got upon her Wing,
As twere the English earely to awake,
And to wide heaven her cheerefull notes doth sing,
As shee for them would intercession make,
Nor all the noyse that from below doth spring,
Her ayrie walke can force her to forsake,
Of some much noted, and of others lesse,
But yet of all presaging good successe.

The lazie French their leisure seem to take,
And in their Cabins keepe themselves so long,
Till flocks of Ravens them with noyse awake,
Over the Army like a Cloud that hong,
Which greater haste inforceth them to make,
When with their croaking all the Countrey rong,
Which boaded slaughter as the most doe say,
But by the French it turned was this way.

That this divyning Foule well understood,

The French mis-interpret the flight of Ravens hovering over their owne Campe.

Upon that place much gore was to be spill'd,
And as those Birds doe much delight in blood,
With humane flesh would have their gorges fill'd,
So waited they upon their Swords for food,
To feast upon the English being kill'd,
Then little thinking that these came in deed
On their owne mangled Carkases to feed.

When soone the French preparing for the Field,
Their armed troops are setting in array,
Whose wondrous numbers they can hardly weeld,
The place too little whereupon they lay,
They therefore to necessitie must yeeld,
And into Order put them as they may,
Whose motion sounded like to Nilus fall,
That the vaste ayre was deafned therewithall.

The Constable, and Admirall of France,
With the grand Marshall, men of great command:

The Marshalling of the French Army, containing three stanzas.

The Dukes of Burbon, and of Orleance,
Some for their place, some for their birth-right stand,
The Daulphine of Averney (to advance
His worth and honour) of a puissant hand:
The Earle of Ewe in Warre that had beene bred,
These mighty men the mighty Vauward led.

The mayne brought forward by the Duke of Barre,
Nevers, and Beamont, men of speciall name:
Alanzon thought, not equall'd in this Warre,
With them Salines, Rous, and Grandpre came,
Their long experience, who had fetcht from farre,
Whom this expected Conquest doth enflame,
Consisting most of Crosbowes, and so great,
As France her selfe it well might seeme to threat.

The Duke of Brabant of high valour knowne,
The Earles of Marle, and Faconbridge the Reare,
To Arthur Earle of Richmount's selfe alone,
They leave the Right wing to be guided there:
Lewes of Burbon, second yet to none,
Led on the left; with him that mighty Peere
The Earle of Vandome, who of all her men
Large France entytled, her great Master then.

The Duke of Yorke the English Vauward guides,

The Marshalling of the English Army containing five stanzas.

Of our strong Archers, that consisted most;
Which with our Horse was wing'd on both the sides:
T'affront so great and terrible an Host;
There valiant Fanhope, and there Beamonut rides,
With Willoughby which scowred had the Coast,
That morning early, and had seene at large,
How the Foe came, that then they were to charge.

Henry himselfe, on the mayne Battell brings,
Nor can these Legions of the French affright
This Mars of men, this King of earthly Kings:
Who seem'd to be much pleased with the sight,
As one ordayn'd t'accomplish mighty things;
Who to the Field came in such brav'ry dight:
As to the English boades successfull luck
Before one stroke, on either side was struck.

The bravery of King Henryes owne Person.

In Warlike state the Royall Standard borne
Before him, as in splendrous Armes he road,
Whilst his corvetting Courser seem'd in scorne
To touch the earth whereon he proudly troad,
Lillyes, and Lyons quarterly adorne;
His Shield, and his Caparison doe load:
Upon his Helme a Crowne with Diamonds deckt,
Which through the Field their Radient fiers reflect.

The Duke of Gloster neere to him agen,
T'assist his Brother in that dreadfull day,
Oxford and Suffolke both true Marshiall men,
Ready to keepe the Battell in Array,
To Excester there was appointed then
The Reare; on which their second succours lay:
Which were the youth, most of the Noblest blood,
Under the Ensignes of their names that stood.

Then of the stakes he doth the care commend,
To certaine troupes that active were and strong,
Onely divis'd the Archers to defend,
Pointed with Iron and of five foote long;
To be remov'd still which way they should bend,
Where the French Horse should thick'st upon them throng,
Which when the Host to charge each other went,
Show'd his great wit that first did them invent.

Both Armies fit, and at the point to fight,
The French themselves assuring of the day;

The scornfull message of the French to the King of England. The Kings answer to the French.

Send to the King of England (as in spight)
To know what he would for his Ransome pay,
Who with this answere doth their scorne requite:
I pray thee Herault wish the French to stay,
And e'r the day be past, I hope to see,
That for their Ransomes they shall send to me.

The French which found how little Henry makes,
Of their vaine boasts, as set therewith on fire,
Whilst each one to his Ensigne him betakes;
The Constable to raise their spleene the hyer,

The Constables Oration to the French.

Thus speakes: Brave friends now for your Grandsires sakes,
Your Country, Honours, or what may inspire
Your soules with courage, straine up all your powers,
To make this day victoriously ours.

Forward stout French, your valours and advance,
By taking vengeance for our Fathers slaine,
And strongly fixe the Diadem of France,
Which to this day unsteady doth remaine:
Now with your swords their Traytours bosomes lance,
And with their bloods wash out that ancient staine,
And make our earth drunke with the English gore,
Which hath of ours oft surfited before.

Let not one live in England once to tell,
What of their King, or of the rest became:
Nor to the English, what in France befell:
But what is bruted by the generall fame:
But now the Drummes began so lowd to yell,
As cut off further what he would declame:
And Henry seeing them on so fast to make,
Thus to his Souldiers comfortably spake.

The King of Englands Oration to the English.

Thinke but upon the justnesse of our cause,
And he's no man their number that will wey;
Thus our great Grandsire purchas'd his applause,
The more they are, the greater is our prey,
We'll hand in hand wade into dangers jawes,
And let report to England this Convey
That it for me no Ransome e'r shall rayse,
Either I'le Conquer, or here end my dayes.

It were no glory for us to subdue
Them, then our number, were the French no more;
When in one Battaile twice our Fathers slue,
Three times so many as themselves before,
But to doe something that were strange and new:
Wherefore (I aske you) Came we to this shore;
Upon these French our Fathers wan renowne,
And with their swords we'll hewe yan Forrest downe.

The meanest Souldier if in Fight he take,
The greatest Prince in yonder Army knowne,
Without controule shall him his prisoner make,
And have his Ransome freely as his owne:
Now English lyes our Honour at the stake,
And now or never be our Valour showne:
God and our Cause, Saint George for England stands,
Now Charge them English, fortune guide your hands.

When hearing one wish all the valiant men
At home in England, with them present were;
The King makes answere instantly agen,

The high valour of the King of England.

I would not have one man more then is here:
If we subdue, lesse should our praise be then:
If overcome, lesse losse shall England beare:
And to our numbers we should give that deede,
Which must from Gods owne powerfull hand proceede.

The dreadfull Charge the Drummes & Trumpets sound,
With hearts exalted, though with humbled eyes,
When as the English kneeling on the ground,
Extend their hands up to the glorious skyes;
Then from the earth as though they did rebound,
Active as fire immediately they rise:
And such a shrill showt from their throats they sent,
As made the French to stagger as they went.

Wherewith they stopt, when Erpingham which led

Sir Thomas Erpingham gave the Signall to the English.

The Armie, sawe, the showt had made them stand,
Wafting his Warder thrice about his head,
He cast it up with his auspicious hand,
Which was the signall through the English spread,
That they should Charge: which as a dread command
Made them rush on, yet with a second rore,
Frighting the French worse then they did before.

But when they sawe the Enemie so slowe,
Which they expected faster to come on,
Some scattering Shot they sent out as to showe,
That their approach they onely stood upon;
Which with more fervour made their rage to glowe,
So much disgrace that they had under-gone.
Which to amend with Ensignes let at large,
Upon the English furiously they Charge.

At the full Moone looke how th'unweldy Tide,

A Simily of the French charging the English.

Shov'd by some Tempest that from Sea doth rise
At the full height, against the ragged side
Of some rough Cliffe (of a Gigantick sise)
Foming with rage impetuously doth ride;
The angry French (in no lesse furious wise)
Of men at Armes upon their ready Horse,
Assayle the English to dispierce their force.

When as those Archers there in Ambush layde,
Having their Broad side as they came along,
With their barb'd Arrowes the French Horses payde:
And in their flankes like cruell Hornets stong:

The three hundred Archers layd in ambush, disorder the French men at Armes at the first encounter.

They kick and crie, of late that proudly nayde:
And from their seats their Armed Riders flong:
They ranne together flying from the Dike,
And make their Riders one another strike.

And whilst the Front of the French Vanguard makes,
Upon the English thinking them to Route,
Their Horses runne upon the Armed stakes,
And being wounded, turne themselves about:
The Bit into his teeth the Courser takes,
And from his Rank flyes with his Master out,
Who either hurts or is hurt of his owne,
If in the throng not both together throwne.

Tumbling on heapes, some of their Horses cast
With their foure feete all up into the ayre:
Under whose backs their Masters breath their last:
Some breake their Raynes, and thence their Riders beare:
Some with their feete stick in the Stirups fast,
By their fierce Jades, and trayled here and there:
Entangled in their Bridles, one back drawes,
And pluckes the Bit out of another jawes.

With showers of Shafts yet still the English ply
The French so fast, upon the point of flight:
With the mayne Battell yet stood Henry by,
Nor all this while had medled in the Fight,
Upon the Horses as in Chase they flye,
Arrowes so thick, in such aboundance light,
That their broad buttocks men like Butts might see,
Whereat for pastime Bow-men shooting be.

When soone De Linnies and Sureres hast,

Two wings of French horse defeated.

To ayde their friends put to this shamefull foyle,
With two light wings of Horse which had beene plac't,
Still to supply where any should recoyle:
But yet their Forces they but vainely waste,
For being light, into the generall spoyle,
Great losse De Linnies shortly doth sustaine,
Yet scapes himselfe; but brave Sureres slaine.

The King who sees how well his Vangaurd sped,
Sends his command that instantly it stay,
Desiring Yorke so bravely that had led,
To hold his Souldiers in their first array,
For it the Conflict very much might sted,
Somewhat to fall aside, and give him way,
Till full up to him he might bring his power,
And make the Conquest compleate in an hower.

Which Yorke obayes, and up King Henry comes,
When for his guidance he had got him roome.
The dreadfull bellowing of whose strait-brac'd Drummes,

The English Vaward and maine Battaile charge the French both at once.

To the French sounded like the dreadfull doome,
And them with such stupidity benummes,
As though the earth had groaned from her wombe,
For the grand slaughter ne'r began till then,
Covering the earth with multitudes of men.

Upon the French what Englishman not falls,
(By the strong Bowmen beaten from their Steeds)
With Battle-axes, Halberts, Bills, and Maules,
Where, in the slaughter every one exceedes,
Where every man, his fellow forward calls,
And shows him where some great-borne Frenchman bleeds,
Whilst Scalps about like broken pot sherds fly,
And kill, kill, kill, the Conquering English cry.

Now wexed horror to the very height,
And scarse a man but wet-shod went in gore,
As two together are in deadly fight,
And to death wounded, as one tumbleth ore,
This Frenchman falling, with his very weight
Doth kill another strucken downe before,
As he againe so falling, likewise feeles
His last breath hastned by anothers heeles.

And whilst the English eagerly pursue
The fearefull French before them still that fly,
The points of Bills and Halbers they imbrue
In their sicke Bowels, beaten downe that lye,
No man respects how, or what blood he drew,
Nor can heare those that for their mercie cry.
Eares are damn'd up with howles and hellish sounds,
One fearefull noyse a fearefuller confounds.

When the couragious Constable of France,

Charles de la Breth Constable of France.

Th'unlucky Vanguard valiantly that led,
Sawe the day turn'd by this disastrous chance,
And how the French before the English fled;
O stay (quoth he) your Ensignes yet advance,
Once more upon the Enemy make head:
Never let France say, we were vanquisht so,
With our backs basely turn'd upon our Foe.

Whom the Chattillyon hapned to accost,
And seeing thus the Constable dismayde:

The Admirall.

Shift noble Lord (quoth he) the day is lost,
If the whole world upon the match were layde,
I cannot thinke but that Black Edwards Ghost
Assists the English, and our Horse hath frayde;
If not, some Divels they have with them then,
That fight against us in the shapes of men.

Not I my Lord, the Constable replies:
By my blest soule, the Field I will not quit:
Whilst two brave Battailes are to bring supplies:
Neither of which one stroke have strucken yet:
Nay (quoth Dampeir) I doe not this advise
More then your selfe, that I doe feare a whit:
Spurre up my Lord, then side to side with mee,
And that I feare not, you shall quickly see.

They struck their Rowells to the bleeding sides
Of their fierce Steeds into the ayre that sprong:
And as their fury at that instant guides:
They thrust themselves into the murth'ring throng,
Where such bad fortune those brave Lords betides:

The Admirall slaine.

The Admirall from off his Horse was flong,
For the sterne English downe before them beere,
All that withstand, the Pesant and the Peere.

Which when the noble Constable with griefe,
Doth this great Lord upon the ground behold;
In his account so absolute a Chiefe,
Whose death through France he knew would be condol'd,
Like a brave Knight to yeeld his friend reliefe,
Doing as much as possibly he could,

The Constable slaine.

Both horse and man is borne into the mayne,
And from his friend not halfe a furlong slayne.

Now Willoughby upon his well-Arm'd Horse,
Into the midst of this Battalion brought,
And valiant Fanhope no whit lesse in force,
Himselfe hath thither through the squadrons raught,
Whereas the English without all remorce,
(Looking like men that deepely were distraught)
Smoking with sweat, besmear'd with dust and blood,
Cut into Cantels all that them withstood.

Yet whilst thus hotely they hold up the Chase
Upon the French, and had so high a hand,
The Duke of Burbon to make good his place,
Inforc'd his troupes (with much adoe) to stand,
To whom the Earle of Suffolke makes a pace,
Bringing a fresh, and yet-unfought-with Band:
Of valiant Bill-men, Oxford with successe,
Up with his Troupes doth with the other presse.

When in comes Orleance, quite thrust off before,
By those rude crowdes that from the English ran,
Encouraging stout Burbons Troupes the more,
T'affront the Foe that instantly began:
Faine would the Duke (if possible) restore,
(Doing as much as could be done by man)
Their Honour lost, by this their late Defeate,
And caused onely, by their base Retreate.

Their men at Armes their Lances closely lock
One in another, and come up so round,
That by the strength and horrour of the shock,
They forc'd the English to forsake their ground,
Shrinking no more then they had beene a Rock,
Though by the Shafts receiving many a wound,
As they would showe, that they were none of those,
That turn'd their backs so basely to their Foes.

Panting for breath his Murrian in his hand,

The courage of Woodhouse remarkable.

Woodhouse comes in as back the English beare,
My Lords (quoth he) what now inforc'd to stand,
When smiling Fortune off'reth us so faire,
The French lye yonder like to wreakes of sand,
And you by this our glory but impaire:
Or now, or never, your first Fight maintaine,
Chatillyon and the Constable are slaine.

Hand over head pell mell upon them ronne,
If you will prove the Masters of the day,
Ferrers and Greystock have so bravely done,
That I envie their glory, and dare say,
From all the English, they the Gole have woone;
Either let's share, or they'll beare all away.
This spoke, his Ax about his head he flings,
And hasts away, as though his heeles had wings.

The Incitation of this youthfull Knight,
Besides amends for their Retrayte to make,
Doth re-enforce their courage, with their might:
A second Charge with speed to undertake;
Never before were they so mad to fight,
When valiant Fanhope thus the Lords bespake,
Suffolke and Oxford as brave Earles you be,
Once more beare up with Willoughby and me.

Why now, me think'st I heare brave Fanhope speake,
Quoth noble Oxford; thou hast thy desire:
These words of thine shall yan Battalion breake:
And for my selfe I never will retire,
Untill our Teene upon the French we wreake:
Or in this our last enterprise expire:
This spoke, their Gauntlets each doth other give,
And to the Charge as fast as they could drive.

That slaughter seem'd to have but stay'd for breath,
To make the horrour to ensue the more:
With hands besmear'd with blood, when meager Death
Looketh more grisly then he did before:
So that each body seem'd but as a sheath
To put their swords in, to the Hilts in gore:
As though that instant were the end of all,
To fell the French, or by the French to fall.

A Simily of the apparance of the Battell.

Looke how you see a field of standing Corne,
When some strong winde in Summer haps to blowe,
At the full height, and ready to be shorne,
Rising in waves, how it doth come and goe
Forward and backward, so the crowds are borne,
Or as the Edie turneth in the flowe:
And above all the Bills and Axes play,
As doe the Attom's in the Sunny ray.

Now with mayne blowes their Armours are unbras'd,
And as the French before the English fled,
With their browne Bills their recreant backs they baste,
And from their shoulders their faint Armes doe shred,
One with a gleave neere cut off by the waste,
Another runnes to ground with halfe a head:
Another stumbling falleth in his flight,
Wanting a legge, and one his face doth light.

The Dukes who found their force thus overthrowne,
And those fewe left them ready still to route,
Having great skill, and no lesse courage showne;
Yet of their safeties much began to doubt,
For having fewe about them of their owne,
And by the English so impal'd about,
Saw that to some one they themselves must yeeld,
Or else abide the fury of the field.

They put themselves on those victorious Lords,
Who led the Vanguard with so good successe,

The Duke of Burbon and Orleance taken prisoners.

Bespeaking them with honourable words,
Themselves their prisoners freely and confesse,
Who by the strength of their commanding swords,
Could hardly save them from the slaught'ring presse,
By Suffolks ayde till they away were sent,
Who with a Guard convay'd them to his Tent.

When as their Souldiers to eschew the sack,
Gainst their owne Battell bearing in their flight,
By their owne French are strongly beaten back:
Lest they their Ranks, should have disord'red quight,
So that those men at Armes goe all to wrack
Twixt their owne friends, and those with whom they fight,
Wherein disorder and destruction seem'd
To strive, which should the powerfullest be deem'd.

And whilst the Daulphine of Averney cryes,

Called of some Guiscard the Daulphine of Aragon.

Stay men at Armes, let Fortune doe her worst,
And let that Villaine from the field that flyes
By Babes yet to be borne, be ever curst:
All under heaven that we can hope for, lyes
On this dayes battell, let me be the first
That turn'd yee back upon your desperate Foes,
To save our Honours, though our lyves we lose.

To whom comes in the Earle of Ewe, which long
Had in the Battaile ranged here and there,
A thousand Bills, a thousand Bowes among,
And had seene many spectakles of feare,
And finding yet the Daulphins spirit so strong,
By that which he had chanst from him to heare,
Upon the shoulder claps him, Prince quoth he,
Since I must fall, ô let me fall with thee.

Scarse had he spoke, but th'English them inclose,
And like to Mastives fircely on them flew,
Who with like Courage strongly them oppose,
When the Lord Beamont, who their Armings knewe,
Their present perill to brave Suffolke shewes,
Quoth hee, Lo where Daverney are and Ewe,
In this small time, who since the Field begun,
Have done as much, as can by men be done.

Now slaughter cease me, if I doe not greeve,
Two so brave Spirits should be untimely slaine,
Lies there no way (my Lord) them to releeve,
And for their Ransomes two such to retaine:
Quoth Suffolke, come weele hazard their repreeve,
And share our Fortunes, in they goe amaine,
And with such danger through the presse they wade,
As of their lives but small account they made.

Yet ere they through the clustred Crouds could get,
Oft downe on those, there trod to death that lay,

The Daulphin of Averney slaine.

The valient Daulphin had discharg'd his debt,
Then whom no man had bravelier serv'd that day.

The Earle of Ewe taken prisoner.

The Earle of Ewe, and wondrous hard beset:
Had left all hope of life to scape away:
Till noble Beamont and brave Suffolke came,
And as their prisoner seas'd him by his name.

Now the mayne Battaile of the French came on,
The Vauward vanquisht, quite the Field doth flye,
And other helpes besides this, have they none:
But that their hopes doe on their mayne relye,
And therefore now it standeth them upon,
To fight it bravely, or else yeeld, or dye:
For the fierce English Charge so home and sore,
As in their hands Joves Thunderbolts they bore.

The Duke of Yorke slaine.

The Duke of Yorke, who since the fight begun,
Still in the top of all his Troopes was seene,
And things well neere beyond beleefe had done,
Which of his Fortune, made him overweene,
Himselfe so farre into the maine doth runne,
So that the French which quickly got betweene
Him and his succours, that great Chiefetaine slue,
Who bravely fought whilest any breath he drew.

The newes soone brought to this Couragious King,
Orespred his face with a distempred Fire,
Though making little shew of any thing,

The King heareth of the Duke of Yorks death.

Yet to the full his eyes exprest his Ire,
More then before the Frenchmen menacing;
And hee was heard thus softly to respire:
Well, of thy blood revenged will I bee,

The Kings resolution.

Or ere one houre be past Ile follow thee.

When as the frolicke Cavalry of France,
That in the head of the maine Battaile came,
Perceiv'd the King of England to advance,
To Charge in person; It doth them inflame,
Each one well hoping it might be his chance
To sease upon him, which was all their ayme,
Then with the bravest of the English mett,
Themselves that there before the King had sett.

When the Earle of Cornewal with unusuall force,

The bloody scuffle betweene the French and English, at the Joyning of the two maine Battailes, in five Stanzas

Encounters Grandpre (next that came to hands)
In Strength his equall, blow for blow they scorce,
Weelding their Axes as they had beene wands,
Till the Earle tumbles Grandpre from his Horse,
Over whom straight the Count Salines stands,
And lendeth Cornwal such a blow withall,
Over the Crupper that he makes him fall.

Cornwal recovers, for his Armes were good,
And to Salines maketh up againe,
Who changde such boysterous buffets, that the blood,
Doth through the Joints of their strong Armour straine,
Till Count Salines sunck downe where he stood,
Blamount who sees the Count Salines slaine,
Straight copes with Cornwal beaten out of breath
Till Kent comes in, and rescues him from death.

Kent upon Blamount furiously doth flye,
Who at the Earle with no lesse courage struck,
And one the other with such knocks they plye,
That eithers Axe in th'others Helmet stuck;
Whilst they are wrastling, crossing thigh with thigh;
Their Axes pykes, which soonest out should pluck:
They fall to ground like in their Casks to smother,
With their clutcht Gauntlets cuffing one another.

Couragious Cluet grieved at the sight
Of his friend Blamounts unexpected fall,

Called Cluet of Brabant.

Makes in to lend him all the ayde he might;
Whose comming seem'd the stout Lord Scales to call,
Betwixt whom then began a mortall fight,
When instantly fell in Sir Phillip Hall,
Gainst him goes Roussy, in then Lovell ran,
Whom next Count Morvyle chuseth as his man.

Their Curates are unrivetted with blowes,
With horrid wounds their breasts and faces slasht;
There drops a cheeke, and there falls off a nose:
And in ones face his fellowes braines are dasht;
Yet still the Better with the English goes;
The earth of France with her owne blood is washt;
They fall so fast, she scarse affords them roome,
That one mans Trunke becomes anothers Toombe.

The Earle of Suffolke chargeth the Earle of Huntingdon With breach of promise.

When Suffolk chargeth Huntingdon with sloth,
Over himselfe too wary to have bin,
And had neglected his fast plighted troth
Upon the Field, the Battaile to begin,
That where the one was, there they would be both;
When the stout Earle of Huntingdon, to win
Trust with his friends; doth this himselfe enlarge
To this great Earle who dares him thus to charge.

My Lord (quoth he) it is not that I feare,
More then your selfe, that so I have not gone;
But that I have beene forced to be neare
The King, whose person I attend upon,
And that I doubt not but to make appeare
Now, if occasion shall but call me on;
Looke round about my Lord, if you can see,
Some brave adventure worthy you and me.

A desperate attempt by the Earle of Huntingdon.

See yan proud Banner, of the Duke of Barres,
Me thinkst it wafts us, and I heare it say,
Wher's that couragious Englishman that darres,
Adventure, but to carry me away,
This were a thing, now worthy of our warres;
I'st true, quoth Suffolke, by this blessed day,
On, and weele have it, sayst thou so indeed,
Quoth Huntingdon, then Fortune be our speed.

And through the Ranckes then rushing in their pride,
They make a Lane; about them so they lay,
Foote goes with foote, and side is joynde to side,
They strike downe all that stand within their way,
And to direct them have no other guide,
But as they see the multitude to sway;
And as they passe, the French as to defie,
Saint George for England and the King they cry.

By their examples, each brave English blood,
Upon the Frenchmen for their Ensignes runne,

One brave exploit begetteth another.

Thicke there as trees within a well-growne wood;
Where great Atchiements instantly were done,
Against them toughly whilst that Nation stood,
But ô what man his destinie can shunne,
That Noble Suffolke there is overthrowne,

The Earle of Suffolke slaine.

When he much valour sundry wayes had showne.

Which the proud English further doth provoke,
Who to destruction bodily were bent,
That the maine Battaile instantly they broke,
Upon the French so furiously they went,
And not an English but doth scorne a stroake,
If to the ground it not a Frenchman sent,
Who weake with wounds, their weapons from them threw,

The English kill the French with their owne Weapons.

With which the English fearefully them slue.

Alanzon backe upon the Reareward borne,
By those unarm'd that from the English fled,
All further hopes then utterly forlorne,
His Noble heart in his full Bosome bled;
What Fate, quoth he, our overthrowe hath sworne,
Must France a Prisoner be to England led,
Well, if she be so, yet Ile let her see,
She beares my Carkasse with her, and not me.

And puts his Horse upon his full Careere,
When with the courage of a valiant Knight
(As one that knew not, or forgot to feare)
He tow'rds King Henry maketh in the fight,
And all before him as he downe doth beare,
Upon the Duke of Glocester doth light:
Which on the youthfull Chivalry doth bring,
Scarse two Pykes length that came before the King.

Their Staves both strongly rivetted with steele,
At the first stroke each other they astound,
That as they staggering from each other reele;

The Duke of Glocester overthrowne by the Duke of Alanzon.

The Duke of Gloster falleth to the ground:
When as Alanzon round about doth wheele,
Thinking to lend him his last deadly wound:
In comes the King his Brothers life to save,
And to this brave Duke, a fresh on-set gave.

When as themselves like Thunderbolts they shot,
One at the other, and the Lightning brake
Out of their Helmets, and againe was not,
E'r of their strokes, the eare a sound could take
Betwixt them two, the Conflict grew so hot,
Which those about them so amaz'd doth make,
That they stood still as wondring at the sight,
And quite forgot that they themselves must fight.

Upon the King Alanzon prest so sore,

The King of England in danger to be slaine, by the Duke of Alanzon.

That with a stroke (as he was wondrous strong)
He cleft the Crowne that on his Helme he wore,
And tore his Plume that to his heeles it hong:
Then with a second brus'd his Helme before,
That it his forehead pittifully wroong:
As some that sawe it certainly had thought,
The King therewith had to the ground beene brought.

But Henry soone Alanzons Ire to quit,

Alanzon beaten downe by the King of England.

(As now his valour lay upon the Rack)
Upon the face the Duke so strongly hit,
As in his Saddle layde him on his back,
And once perceiving that he had him split,
Follow'd his blowes, redoubling thwack on thwack:
Till he had lost his Stirups, and his head
Hung where his Horse was like thereon to tread.

When soone two other seconding their Lord,

The King killeth two Gentlemen that adventure to rescue the Duke.

His kinde Companions in this glorious prize,
Hoping againe the Duke to have restor'd,
If to his feet his Armes would let him rise:
On the Kings Helme their height of fury scor'd;
Who like a Dragon fiercely on them flies,
And on his body slew them both, whilst he
Recovering was their ayde againe to be.

The King thus made the Master of the Fight:
The Duke calls to him as he there doth lye:
Henry I'le pay my Ransome, doe me right:
I am the Duke Alanzon; it is I.
The King to save him putting all his might,
Yet the rude Souldiers with their showt and crie,

The Duke Alanzon slaine.

Quite drown'd his voyce, his Helmet being shut,
And that brave Duke into small peeces cut.

Report once spred, through the distracted Host,
Of their prime hope, the Duke Alanzon slayne:
That flower of France, on whom they trusted most:
They found their valour was but then in vayne:
Like men their hearts that utterly had lost,
Who slowly fled before, now ranne amayne.
Nor could a man be found, but that dispaires
Seeing the Fate both of themselves and theirs.

The Duke Nevers, now in this sad retreat,

The Duke Nevers taken prisoner.

By David Gam and Morisby persude,
(Who throughly chaf'd, neere melted into sweat,
And with French blood their Poleaxes imbrud)
They sease upon him following the defeate,
Amongst the faint, and fearefull multitude;
When a contention fell betweene them twaine,

Morisby and Gam at contention for the Duke of Neveres.

To whom the Duke should rightfully pertaine.

I must confesse thou hadst him first in chase,
Quoth Morrisby; but lefts him in the throng,
Then put I on; quoth Gam, hast thou the face,
Insulting Knight, to offer me this wrong;
Quoth Morisby, who shall decide the case,
Let him confesse to whom he doth belong;
Let him (quoth Gam) but if't be not to me,
For any right you have, he may goe free.

With that couragious Morrisby grew hot,

Morisby a brave young Knight.

Were not said he his Ransome worth a pin,
Now by these Armes I weare thou gett'st him not:
Or if thou do'st, thou shalt him hardly win;
Gam whose Welch blood could hardly brooke this blot,

David Gam oft mentioned in this Poem.

To bend his Axe upon him doth begin:
He his at him, till the Lord Beamount came
Their rash attempt, and wisely thus doth blame.

Are not the French twice trebl'd to our power,
And fighting still, nay, doubtfull yet the day:
Thinke you not these us fast enough devowre:
But that your braves the Army must dismay:
If ought but good befall us in this howre:
This be you sure your lyves for it must pay:
Then first the end of this dayes Battaile see,
And then decide whose prisoner he shall be.

The Duke of Excester commeth in with the Reare.

Now Excester with his untaynted Reare
Came on, which long had labour'd to come in:
And with the Kings mayne Battell up doth beare;
Who still kept off, till the last houre had bin:
He cryes and clamours ev'ry way doth heare:
But yet he knew not which the day should win:
Nor askes of any what were fit to doe,
But where the French were thick'st, he falleth to.

The Earle of Vandom certainly that thought,
The English fury somewhat had beene stayde:
Weary with slaughter as men over-wrought,
Nor had beene spurr'd on by a second ayde:
For his owne safety, then more fiercely fought,
Hoping the tempest somewhat had beene layde:
And he thereby (though suff'ring the defeate,
Might keepe his Reareward whole in his Retreate.

On whom the Duke of Excester then fell,
Reare with the Reare now for their Valours vy,
Ours finde the French their lyves will dearely sell;
And th'English meane as dearely them to buy:
The English follow, should they runne through hell,
And through the same the French must, if they flye,
When too't they goe, deciding it with blowes,
With th'one side now, then with th'other't goes.

But the sterne English with such luck and might,
(As though the Fates had sworne to take their parts)
Upon the French prevailing in the Fight,
With doubled hands, and with re-doubled harts,
The more in perill still the more in plight,
Gainst them whom Fortune miserably thwarts:
Disabled quite before the Foe to stand,
But fall like grasse before the Mowers hand.

That this French Earle is beaten on the Field,
His fighting Souldiers round about him slaine;
And when himselfe a Prisoner he would yeeld,

The Earle of Vandome slaine.

And beg'd for life, it was but all in vaine;
Their Bills the English doe so easely weeld
To kill the French, as though it were no paine;
For this to them was their auspicious day,
The more the English fight, the more they may.

When now the Marshall Boucequalt, which long
Had through the Battaile waded ev'ry way,
Oft hazarded the murther'd Troupes among,
Encouraging them to abide the day:
Finding the Army that he thought so strong,
Before the English faintly to dismay,
Brings on the wings which of the rest remain'd,
With which the Battaile stoutly he maintain'd.

Till olde Sir Thomas Erpingham at last,

Sir Thomas Erpingham getteth in with his three hundred Archers.

With those three hundred Archers commeth in,
Which layd in ambush not three houres yet past;
Had the Defeat of the French Army bin,
With these that noble Souldier maketh hast,
Lest other from him should the honour win:
Who as before now stretch their well-wax'd strings,
At the French Horse then comming in the wings.

The soyle with slaughter ev'ry where they load,
Whilst the French stoutly to the English stood,
The drops from eithers emptied veynes that flow'd,
Where it was lately firme had made a flood:
But heav'n that day to the brave English ow'd;
The Sunne that rose in water, set in blood:
Nothing but horrour to be look'd for there,
And the stout Marshall vainely doth but feare.

His Horse sore wounded whilst he went aside,

The Marshall of France slaine.

To take another still that doth attend,
A shaft which some too-lucky hand doth guide,
Peircing his Gorget brought him to his end;
Which when the proud Lord Falkonbridge espide,
Thinking from thence to beare away his friend,
Strucke from his Horse, with many a mortall wound,
Is by the English nayled to the ground.

The Marshalls death so much doth them affright,
That downe their weapons instantly they lay,
And better yet to fit them for their flight,
Their weightier Armes, they wholly cast away,
Their hearts so heavy, makes their heeles so light,
That there was no intreating them to stay,
Ore hedge and ditch distractedly they take,
And happiest he, that greatest haste could make,

Count Vadamount.

When Vadamount now in the Conflict mett,
With valient Brabant, whose high valour showne
That day, did many a blunted Courage whett,
Else long before that from the Field had flowne,
Quoth Vadamount, see how we are besett,

The Duke of Brabant a most couragious Prince.

To death like to be troden by our owne,
My Lord of Brabant, what is to be done?
See how the French before the English runne.

A bitter exclamation of the Duke of Brabant against the French.

Why, let them runne and never turne the head,
Quoth the brave Duke, untill their hatefull breath
Forsake their Bodies, and so farre have fled,
That France be not disparadg'd by their death:
Who trusts to Cowards ne'r is better sped,
Be he accurst, with such that holdeth faith,
Slaughter consume the Recreants as they flye,
Branded with shame, so basely may they dye.

Ignoble French, your fainting Cowardize craves
The dreadful curse of your owne Mother earth,
Hardning her breast, not to allow you graves,
Be she so much ashamed of your birth;
May he be curst that one of you but saves,
And be in France hereafter such a dearth
Of Courage, that men from their wits it feare,
A Drumme, or Trumpet when they hap to heare.

From Burgundy brought I the force I had,

Anthony Duke of Brabant, sonne to the Duke of Burgundy.

To fight for them, that ten from one doe flye;
It splits my breast, O that I could be mad;
To vexe these Slaves who would not dare to dye:
In all this Army is there not a Lad,
Th'ignoble French for Cowards that dare crye:
If scarce one found, then let me be that one,
The English Army that oppos'd alone.

This said, he puts his Horse upon his speed,
And in, like lightning on the English flewe:
Where many a Mothers sonne he made to bleed,
Whilst him with much astonishment they viewe:
Where having acted many a Knight-like deed,
Him and his Horse they all to peeces hewe:
Yet he that day more lasting glory wan,

The valiant Duke of Brabant slaine.

Except Alanzon then did any man.

When as report to great King Henry came,
Of a vast Route which from the Battaile fled,
(Amongst the French most men of speciall name)
By the stout English fiercely followed;
Had for their safety, (much though to their shame)

Many of the French in their flight get into an old Fort.

Got in their flight into so strong a sted,
So fortifi'd by nature (as 'twas thought)
They might not thence, but with much blood be brought.

An aged Rampire, with huge Ruines heapt,
Which serv'd for Shot, gainst those that should assayle,
Whose narrow entrance they with Crosbowes kept,
Whose sharpned quarres came in show'rs like hayle:
Quoth the brave King, first let the field be swept,
And with the rest we well enough shall deale;

The Kings slight answer.

Which though some heard, and so shut up their eare,
Yet relish'd not with many Souldiers there.

Some that themselves by Ransomes would enrich,
(To make their pray of Pesants yet dispise)
Felt as they thought their bloody palmes to itch,
To be in action for their wealthy prize:
Others whom onely glory doth bewitch,
Rather then life would to this enterprize:
Most men seem'd willing, yet not any one
Would put himselfe this great exployt upon.

Which Woodhouse hearing meerily thus spake,
(One that right well knew, both his worth and wit)

Woodhouse jeereth at the attempt.

A dangerous thing it is to undertake
A Fort, where Souldiers be defending it,
Perhaps they sleepe, and if they should awake,
With stones, or with their shafts they may us hitt,
And in our Conquest whilst so well we fare,
It were meere folly, but I see none dare.

Which Gam o'r hearing (being neere at hand)
Not dare quoth he, and angerly doth frowne,

Braves passe between Gam and Woodhouse.

I tell thee Woodhouse, some in presence stand,
Dare propp the Sunne if it were falling downe,
Dare graspe the bolt from Thunder in his hand,
And through a Cannon leape into a Towne;
I tell thee, a resolved man may doe
Things, that thy thoughts, yet never mounted to.

I know that resolution may doe much,
Woodhouse replyes, but who could act my thought,
With his proud head the Pole might easely tuch,
And Gam quoth he, though bravely thou hast fought,
Yet not the fame thou hast attain'd too, such,
But that behind, as great is to be bought,
And yonder tis, then Gam come up with me,
Where soone the King our Courages shall see.

Agreed quoth Gam, and up their Troopes they call,
Hand over head, and on the French they ran,
And to the fight couragiously they fall,
When on both sides the slaughter soone began;
Fortune awhile indifferent is to all,
These what they may, and those doe what they can,
Woodhouse and Gam, upon each other vye,
By Armes their manhood desperatly to try.

To clime the Fort the Light-Arm'd English strive,
And some by Trees there growing to ascend;
The French with Flints let at the English drive,

Captaine Gam slaine.

Themselves with Shields the Englishmen defend,
And faine the Fort downe with their hands would rive:

For this service done by Woodhouse, there was an addition of honour given him: which was a hand holding a Club: with the word, Frappe Fort, which is born by the Family of the Woodhouse of Norfolke, to this day.

Thus either side their utmost power extend,
Till valiant Gam sore wounded, drawne aside
By his owne Souldiers, shortly after dy'de.

Then take they up the bodies of the slaine,
Which for their Targets ours before them beare,
And with a fresh assault come on againe;
Scarse in the Field yet, such a fight as there,
Crosse-bowes, and Long-bowes at it are amaine,
Until the French their massacre that feare,
Of the fierce English, a cessation crave,
Offring to yeeld, so they their lives would save.

Lewis of Burbon in the furious heat
Of this great Battaile, having made some stay,
Who with the left wing suffered a defeate,
In the beginning of this lucklesse day,
Finding the English forcing their retreat,
And that much hope upon his valour lay,
Fearing lest he might undergoe some shame,
That were unworthy of the Burbon name.

Hath gathered up some scattred Troopes of Horse,
That in the Field stood doubtfull what to doe;
Though with much toyle, which he doth reinforce
With some small power that he doth add thereto,
Proclaiming still the English had the worse,
And now at last, with him if they would goe,
He dares assure them Victory, if not
The greatest fame that ever Souldiers gott.

And being wise, so Burbon to beguile
The French, (preparing instantly to fly)
Procures a Souldier, by a secret wile

A devise of Burbons to give incouragement to the French.

To come in swiftly and to crave supply,
That if with Courage they would fight awhile,
It certaine was the English all should dye,
For that the King had offered them to yeeld,
Finding his troopes to leave him on the Field.

When Arthur Earle of Richmount comming in,
With the right wing that long staid out of sight,
Having too lately with the English bin,
But finding Burbon bent againe to fight,
His former credit hoping yet to winn,
(Which at that instant easily he might)
Comes close up with him, and puts on as fast,
Bravely resolv'd to fight it to the last.

And both encourag'd by the newes was braught
Of the ariving of the Daulphins power;
Whose speedy Van, their Reare had almost raught,
(From Agincourt discover'd from a Tower)
Which with the Norman Gallantry was fraught,
And on the suddaine comming like a shower;
Would bring a deluge on the English Host,
Whilst yet they stood their victory to boast.

And one they come, as doth a rowling tide,
Forc'd by a winde, that shoves it forth so fast,

A simily of the French.

Till it choke up some chanell side to side,
And the craz'd banks doth downe before it cast,
Hoping the English would them not abide,
Or would be so amated at their hast,
That should they faile to route them at their will,
Yet of their blood, the fields should drinke their fill.

When as the English whose o'r-wearied Armes,
Were with long slaughter lately waxed sore,
These inexpected, and so fierce Alarmes,
To their first strength doe instantly restore,
And like a Stove their stifned sinewes warmes,
To act as bravely as they did before;
And the proud French as stoutly to oppose,
Scorning to yeeld one foote despight of blowes.

The fight is fearefull, for stout Burbon brings
His fresher forces on with such a shocke,
That they were like to cut the Archers strings
E're they their Arrowes hansomly could nock,
The French like Engines that were made with springs:
Themselves so fast into the English lock,
That th'one was like the other downe to beare,
In wanting roomth to strike, they stood so neare.

Till staggering long they from each other reel'd,
Glad that themselves they so could disingage:
And falling back upon the spacious field
(For this last Sceane, that is the bloody Stage)
Where they their Weapons liberally could weeld,
They with such madnesse execute their rage;
As though the former fury of the day,
To this encounter had but beene a play.

Slaughter is now desected to the full,
Here from their backs their batter'd Armors fall,
Here a sleft shoulder, there a cloven scull,
There hang his eyes out beaten with a mall,
Untill the edges of their Bills growe dull,
Upon each other they so spend their gall,
Wilde showtes and clamors all the ayre doe fill,
The French cry tue, and the English kill.

The Duke of Barre in this vast spoyle by chance;
With the Lord Saint-John on the Field doth meete,
Tow'rds whom that brave Duke doth himselfe advance,
Who with the like encounter him doth greete:
This English Barron, and this Peere of France,
Grapling together, falling from their feete,
With the rude crowdes had both to death beene crusht,
In for their safety, had their friends not rusht.

Both againe rais'd, and both their Souldiers shift,
To save their lyves if any way they could:
But as the French the Duke away would lift,
Upon his Armes the English taking hould,
(Men of that sort, that thought upon their thrift)
Knowing his Ransome dearely would be sould:
Dragge him away in spight of their defence,
Which to their Quarter would have borne him thence.

Meane while brave Burbon from his stirring Horse,
Gall'd with an Arrow to the earth is throwne;
By a meane Souldier seased on by force,

Lewes of Burbon taken prisoner by a meane Souldier.

Hoping to have him certainly his owne,
Which this Lord holdeth better so then worse:
Since the French fortune to that ebbe is growne,
And he perceives the Souldier him doth deeme,
To be a person of no meane esteeme.

Berckley and Burnell, two brave English Lords,
Flesht with French blood, and in their Valours pride,
Above their Arm'd heads brandishing their swords,
As they tryumphing through the Army ride,
Finding what prizes Fortune here affords
To ev'ry Souldier, and more wistly eyde
This gallant prisoner, by his Arming see,
Of the great Burbon family to be.

And from the Souldier they his Prisoner take,
Of which the French Lord seemeth wondrous faine
Thereby his safety more secure to make:
Which when the Souldier findes his hopes in vaine,

Lewes of Burbon stabd by the Souldier that took him prisoner.

So rich a Booty forced to forsake,
To put himselfe, and prisoner out of paine:
He on the suddaine stabs him, and doth sweare,
Would th'ave his Ransome, they should take it there.

When Rosse and Morley making in amaine,
Bring the Lord Darcy up with them along,
Whose Horse had lately under him beene slaine;
And they on foote found fighting in the throng,
Those Lords his friends remounting him againe,
Being a man that valiant was and strong:
They altogether with a generall hand,
Charge on the French that they could finde to stand.

And yet but vainely as the French suppos'd,
For th'Earle of Richmount forth such earth had found,
That one two sides with quick-set was enclos'd,
And the way to it by a rising ground,
By which a while the English were oppos'd,
At every Charge which else came up so round,
As that except the passage put them by,
The French as well might leave their Armes and flye.

Upon both parts it furiously is fought,
And with such quicknesse riseth to that hight,
That horror neede no further to be sought:
If onely that might satisfie the sight,
Who would have fame full dearely here it bought,
For it was sold by measure and by waight,
And at one rate the price still certaine stood,
An ounce of honour cost a pound of blood.

The Lords Dampier and Savesses taken prisoners.

When so it hapt that Dampier in the Van,
Meetes with stout Darcy, but whilst him he prest,
Over and over commeth horse and man,
Of whom the other soone himselfe possest:
When as Savesses upon Darcy ran
To ayde Dampier, but as he him adrest;
A Halbert taking hold upon his Greaves,
Him from his Saddle violently heaves.

When soone five hundred Englishmen at Armes,
That to the French had given many a chase;
And when they covered all the Field with swarmes;
Yet oft that day had bravely bid them base:
Now at the last by raising fresh Alarmes;
And comming up with an unusuall pace,
Made them to know, that they must runne or yeeld,
Never till now the English had the Field.

Where Arthur Earle of Richmount beaten downe,
Is left (suppos'd of ev'ry one for dead)
But afterwards awaking from his swoone,

Arthur Earle of Richmount taken prisoner.

By some that found him, was recovered:
So Count Du Marle was likewise overthrowne:

The Count du Marle slaine.

As he was turning meaning to have fled,
Who fights, the colde blade in his bosome feeles,
Who flyes, still heares it whisking at his heeles.

Till all disrank'd, like seely Sheepe they runne,
By threats nor prayers, to be constrain'd to stay;
For that their hearts were so extreamely done,
That fainting oft they fall upon the way:
Or when they might a present perill shunne,
They rush upon it by their much dismay,
That from the English should they safely flye,
Of their owne very feare, yet they should dye.

Some they take prisoners, other some they kill,
As they affect those upon whom they fall:
For they as Victors may doe what they will:
For who this Conqueror to account dare call,
In gore the English seeme their soules to swill,
And the dejected French must suffer all;
Flight, cords, and slaughter, are the onely three,
To which themselves subjected they doe see.

A shoolesse Souldier there a man might meete,
Leading his Mounsier by the armes fast bound:
Another, his had shackled by the feete;

The misery of the French.

Who like a Cripple shuffled on the ground;
Another three or foure before him beete,
Like harmefull Chattell driven to a pound;
They must abide it, so the Victor will,
Who at his pleasure may, or save, or kill.

That brave French Gallant, when the fight began,
Whose lease of Lackies ambled by his side,
Himselfe a Lacky now most basely ran,
Whilst a rag'd Souldier on his Horse doth ride,
That Rascall is no lesse then at his man,
Who was but lately to his Luggadge tide;
And the French Lord now courtsies to that slave,
Who the last day his Almes was like to crave.

And those few English wounded in the fight,
They force the French to bring with them away,

The French forced to beare the wounded English on their backs.

Who when they were depressed with the weight,
Yet dar'd not once their burthen downe to lay,
Those in the morne, whose hopes were at their height,
Are fallne thus lowe ere the departing day;
With pickes of Halberts prickt in steed of goads,
Like tyred Horses labouring with their Loads.

But as the English from the Field returne,
Some of those French who when the Fight began,
Forsooke their friends, and hoping yet to earne,
Pardon, for that so cowardly they ran,
Assay the English Carridges to burne,
Which to defend them scarsely had a man;
For that their keepers to the field were got,
To picke such spoyles, as chance should them alott.

The Captaines of this Rascall cowardly Route,
Were Isambert of Agincourt at hand,

A crew of rascall French rifle the King of Englands Tents.

Riflant of Clunasse a Dorpe there about,
And for the Chiefe in this their base command,
Was Robinett of Burnivile; throughout
The Countrie knowne, all order to withstand,
These with five hundred Peasants they had rais'd
The English Tents, upon an instant seas'd.

For setting on those with the Luggadge left,
A few poore Sutlers with the Campe that went,
They basely fell to pillage and to theft,
And having rifled every Booth and Tent,
Some of the sillyest they of life bereft,
The feare of which, some of the other sent,
Into the Army, with their suddaine cries,
Which put the King in feare of fresh supplies.

For that his Souldiers tyred in the fight,

The French prisoners more in number then the English Souldiers.

Their Prisoners more in number then they were,
He thought it for a thing of too much weight,
T'oppose freshe forces, and to gaurd them there.
The Daulphins Powers, yet standing in their sight,
And Burbons Forces of the field not cleere,
These yearning cryes, that from the Caridge came,
His bloud yet hott, more highly doth inflame,

And in his rage he instantly commands,
That every English should his prisoner kill,
Except some fewe in some great Captaines hands
Whose Ransomes might his emptyed Cofers fill,
Alls one whose loose, or who is nowe in bonds,

The English kill their prisoners.

Both must one way, it is the Conquerers will.
Those who late thought, small Ransoms them might free
Saw onely death their Ransomes now must be.

Accursed French, and could it not suffize,

Expostulation.

That ye but now bath'd in your native gore;
But yee must thus infortunately rise,
To drawe more plagues upon yee then before,
And gainst your selfe more mischeife to divise,
Then th'English could have, and set wide the dore,
To utter ruine, and to make an end
Of that your selves, which others would not spend.

Their utmost rage the English now had breath'd,
And their proud heartes gan somewhat to relent,
Their bloody swords they quietly had sheath'd,
And their strong bowes already were unbent,
To easefull rest their bodies they bequeath'd,
Nor farther harme at all to you they ment,
And to that paynes must yee them needsly putt,

The French cause of their owne massechre

To draw their knives once more your throats to cutt.

That French who lately by the English stood,
And freely ask'd what ransome he should pay,
Whoe somwhat coold, and in a calmer moode,

A discriptyon of the Massachre in the foure following stanzas

Agreed with him both of the some and day,
Nowe findes his flesh must be the present foode,
For wolves and Ravens, for the same that stay,
And sees his blood on th'others sword to flowe,
E'r his quicke sense could aprehend the blowe.

Whilst one is asking what the bus'nesse is,
Hearing (in French) his Country-man to crye:
He who detaines him prisoner, answers this:
Mounsier, the King commands that you must dye;
This is plaine English, whilst he's killing his:
He sees another on a French man flye,
And with a Poleax pasheth out his braines,
Whilst he's demanding what the Garboyle meanes.

That tender heart whose chance it was to have,
Some one, that day who did much valour showe,
Who might perhaps have had him for his Slave:
But equall Lots had Fate pleas'd to bestowe:
He who his prisoner willingly would save,
Lastly constrain'd to give the deadly blowe
That sends him downe to everlasting sleepe:
Turning his face, full bitterly doth weepe.

Ten thousand French that inwardly were well,
Save some light hurts that any man might heale:
Even at an instant, in a minute fell,
And their owne friends their deathes to them to deale.
Yet of so many, very fewe could tell,
Nor could the English perfectly reveale,
The desperate cause of this disastrous hap,
But even as Thunder kill'd them with a clap.

How happy were those in the very hight,
Of this great Battaile, that had bravely dyde,
When as their boyling bosomes in the fight,
Felt not the sharpe steele thorough them to slide:
But these now in a miserable plight,
Must in cold blood this massacre abide,
Caus'd by those Villaines (curst alive and dead,)
That from the field the passed morning fled.

When as the King to Crowne this glorious day,
Now bids his Souldiers after all this toyle,
(No forces found that more might them dismay)
Of the dead French to take the gen'rall spoyle,
Whose heapes had well neere stopt up ev'ry way;
For ev'n as Clods they cov'red all the soyle,
Commanding none should any one controle,
Catch that catch might, but each man to his dole.

They fall to groping busily for gold,
Of which about them the slaine French had store,
They finde as much as well their hands can hold,
Who had but silver, him they counted poore,
Scarfes, Chaines, and Bracelets, were not to be told,
So rich as these no Souldiers were before;
Who got a Ring would scarsly put it on,
Except therein there were some Radiant stone.

Out of rich sutes the Noblest French they strip,
And leave their Bodies naked on the ground,
And each one fills his Knapsack or his Scrip;
With some rare thing that on the Field is found:
About his bus'nesse he doth nimbly skip,
That had upon him many a cruell wound:
And where they found a French not out-right slaine,
They him a prisoner constantly retaine.

Who scarse a Shirt had but the day before,
Nor a whole Stocking to keepe out the cold,
Hath a whole Wardrop (at command in store)
In the French fashion flaunting it in gold,
And in the Taverne, in his Cups doth rore,
Chocking his Crownes, and growes thereby so bold,
That proudly he a Captaines name assumes,
In his gilt Gorget with his tossing Plumes.

Waggons and Carts are laden till they crackt,
With Armes and Tents there taken in the Field;
For want of carridge on whose tops are packt,
Ensignes, Coat-Armours, Targets, Speares, and Shields:
Nor neede they convoy, fearing to be sackt;
For all the Country to King Henry yeelds,
And the poore Pesant helpes along to beare,
What late the goods of his proud Landlord were.

A Horse well furnisht for a present Warre:
For a French Crowne might any where be bought,
But if so be that he had any scarre,
Though ne'r so small, he valew'd was at naught;
With spoyles so sated the proud English are;
Amongst the slaine, that who for pillage sought,
Except some rich Caparizon he found,
For a steele Saddle would not stoupe to ground.

And many a hundred beaten downe that were,
Whose wounds were mortall, others wondrous deepe,
When as the English over-past they heare:
And no man left a Watch on them to keepe,
Into the Bushes, and the Ditches neare,
Upon their weake hands and their knees doe creepe:
But for their hurts tooke ayre, and were undrest,
They were found dead, and buried with the rest.

Thus when the King sawe that the Coast was clear'd,
And of the French who were not slaine were fled:
Nor in the Field not any then appear'd,
That had the power againe to make a head:
This Conquerour exceedingly is cheer'd,
Thanking his God that he so well had sped,
And so tow'rds Callice bravely marching on,
Leaveth sad France her losses to bemoane.

FINIS. The Battaile of Agincourt.

THE MISERIES OF QUEENE MARGARITE.

I sing a woman, and a powerfull Queene,
Henry the sixt, the King of Englands Wife,
The beauteous Margarite, whose misgovern'd spleene
So many sorrowes brought upon her life;
As upon womans never yet were seene,
In the beginning of that fatall strife

The family of Yorke sought under-hand to promove their title about that time.

(Th'unlucky season) when the Yorkists saught
To bring the Line of Lancaster to naught.

It was the time of those great stirres in France,
Their ancient Right that th'English had regain'd,

After the second conquest of France by Henry the fift.

But the proud French attributing to chance,
What by meere Manhood stoutly ours obtain'd,
Their late-falne Ensignes labour'd to advance,
The Streetes with blood of either Nation stain'd:
These strive to hold, those to cast off the yoke,
Whilst Forts, and Townes flewe up to heaven in smoke.

The neighbouring Princes greatly pittying then,
The Christian blood in that long quarrell shed,
Which had devour'd such multitudes of men,

The Christian Princes seeke to make a peace between England and France.

That the full earth could scarcely keepe her dead;
Yet for each English, of her Natives ten:
In zeale to peace these neighbouring Princes led:
At Tours in Tourayne set them downe a Diet,
(Could it be done) these clamorous fieuds to quiet.

From th'Emperour, there Ambassadors arive,
The Kings of Denmarke, Hungary, and Spaine,
And that each thing they aptly might contrive,
And both the Kings there largely might complaine.
The Duke of Orleance, for the French doth strive
To shew his greevance; William Poole againe,
The Earle of Suffolke doth for England stand,
Who steer'd the State then with a powerfull hand.

A peace concluded for 18. monthes.

For eighteene months they ratifie a peace,
Twixt these proud Realmes, which Suffolke doth pursue
With all his powers, with hope still to encrease,
The same expir'd, that it should soone renew,
For by his meanes, if so this warre might cease,

Poole in this time of peace laboureth to conclude a Mariage betwixt the Lady Margarite and the King his Master.

He had a Plot of which they never knew,
To his intent, which if all things went right,
Heele make the dull world to admire his might.

For having seene faire Margarite in France,
(That times bright'st beauty) being then but young,
Her peircing eyes with many a subtile glance,

Poole taken with the exceeding beauty of the Princesse.

His mighty heart so forcibly had stung,
As made him thinke if that he could advance,
This mortall wonder, onely that among
His rising Fortunes, should the greatest prove,
If to his Queene, he could advance his love.

Her eyes at all poynts Arm'd with those deceits,
That to her sex are naturall every way,
Which with more Art, shee as inticing baites,
For this great Lord doth with advantage lay,
As he againe that on her bosome waites,
Had found that there, which could he come to sway,
He would put faire as ever man did yet,
Upon the height of Fortunes wheele to sit.

Love and Ambition spurre him in such sort,
As that (alone) t'accomplish his desire
To fall with Phaæton he would thinke it sport,
Though he should set the Universe on fire,
Nor recks he what the world of him report,
He must scorne that, who will dare to aspier,
For through the Ayre his wings him way shall make,
Though in his fall the frame of heaven he shake.

Reyner descended from the Royall stem

He had onely the title of these Kingdomes without any livelihood.

Of France, the Duke of Anjou, stiled King
Of Naples, Cicill, and Jerusalem,
Although in them he had not any thing,
But the poore tytle of a Diadem;

Margarite Duke Ryners daughter.

Seeing by Suffolke greater hopes to spring;
Puts on his Daughter that great Lord to please
Of Englands Counsailes who kept all the keyes.

But strange encounters strongly him oppose,
In his first entrance to this great Designe,
Those men were mighty that against him rose,
And came upon him with a Countermine,
That he must now play cunningly, or lose:
Cunning they were against him that combine,
Plot above plot, doth straine aloft to tower.
The conflict great, twixt pollicy and power.

For Humfrey Duke of Gloster, stil'd the good,
Englands Protector sought a match to make,
With a faire Princesse, of as Royall blood,

A motion of a mariage before by an Ambassadour with the Earle of Arminacks onely daughter.

The Daughter of the Earle of Arminake,
And his Crown'd Nephew: but stout Suffolke stood
Still for his Mistrisse, nor will her forsake,
But make her Henries Queene in spight of all:
Or she shall rise, or Suffolke sweares to fall.

By the French faction when she up is cride,
Of all Angellique excellence the Prime,

The high praises of the Princesse Margarites beauty.

Who was so dull that her not Deifide,
To be the onely Master-peece of time:
The praise of her extended is so wide,
As that thereon a man to heaven might clime:
All tongues and eares inchanted with delite,
When they doe talke, or heare of Margarite.

And those whom Poole about his Prince had plac'd,
And for his purpose taught the tricks of Court,

Pooles followers placed about the king to worke his owne ends.

To this great King, and many a time had grac'd,
To make his eares more apt for their report,
Having the time most diligently trac'd,
And sawe these things succesfully to sort:
Strike in a hand, and up together beare,
To make faire Margarite Musick in his eare.

Anjou a Dutchy, Mayne a County great,
Of which the English long had beene possest,

The Provinces in France given to Duke Reyner for his daughter.

And Mauns a Citie of no small receite,
To which the Duke pretended interest:
For the conclusion, when they came to treate,
And things by Poole were to the utmost prest,
Are to Duke Reyner rendred up to hold,
To buy a Hellen, thus a Troy was sold.

When of an Earle, a Marquesse Poole is made,
Then of a Marquesse, is a Duke created,
For he at ease in Fortunes lap was layd,

Poole created first from an Earle, Marquesse, and after Duke of Suffolke.

To glorious actions wholly consecrated:
Hard was the thing that he could not perswade,
In the Kings favour he was so instated;
Without his Suffolke who could not subsist,
So that he ruled all things as he list.

This with a strong astonishment doth strike,
Th'amazed world which knew not what to say,

The people exceedingly repine for the giving away of the Provinces.

What living man but did the act mislike,
If him it did not utterly dismay,
That what with blood was bought, at push of Pike,
Got in an age, giv'n in an houre away:
Some largely speake, and some againe are dumbe,
Wond'ring what would of this strange world become.

As when some dreadfull Comet doth appeare,
Athwart the heaven that throwes his threatning light,
The peacefull people that at quiet were,

A simily.

Stand with wilde gazes wond'ring at the sight,
Some Warre, some Plagues, some Famine greatly feare,
Some falls of Kingdomes, or of men of might:
The greeved people thus their judgements spend,
Of these strange Actions what should be the end.

When Suffolke Procurator for the King,

Suffolke Procurator for the King.

Is ship'd for France, t'espouse the beauteous Bride,
And fitted to the full of every thing,
Followed with Englands Gallantry and pride,
(As fresh as is the bravery of the Spring)

The marriage solemnized in the City of Towers.

Comming to Towers, there sumptuously affide:
This one, whose like no age had seene before,
Whose eyes out-shone the Jewels that shee wore.

Her reverent Parents ready in the place,
As overjoy'd this happy day to see,
The King and Queene the Nuptialls there to grace;

The great concourse to honour the Solemnization.

On them three Dukes, as their attendants be,
Seven Earles, twelve Barons in their equipace,
And twenty Bishops, whilst that onely shee,
Like to the Rosy morning towards the rise,
Cheeres all the Church, as it doth cheere the skies.

Tryumphall Arches the glad Towne doth raise,
And Tilts and Turneys are perform'd at Court,
Conceited Masks, rich Banquets, witty playes,
Besides amongst them many a pretty sport,
Poets write Prothalamions in their praise,
Untill mens eares were cloyd with the report,
Of either sex, and who doth not delight
To weare the Daysie for Queene Margarite.

Margarite in French signifieth a Daysie.

The Tryumphes ended, he to England goes
With this rich Gem allotted him to keepe,
Still entertained with most sumptuous showes,
In passing thorough Normandy to Diepe,

The Queene bravely intertained in passing through Normandy.

Where like the Sea the concourse dayly flowes,
For her departure whilst sad France doth weepe;
And that the Ships their crooked Ancors waide,
By which to England she must be convaide.

And being fitted both for Winde and Tide,

The King stayeth for the Queenes landing at Portsmouth.

Out of the Harbour flyes this goodly Fleet,
And for fayre Portsmouth their straight Course they plyde,
Where the King staid his lovely Bride to meete;
Yonder she comes when as the people cride,
Busie with Rushes strewing every street,
The brainelesse Vulgar little understand,
The Horrid plagues that ready were to Land,

Which but to soone all seeing heaven foretold,
For she was scarsely safely put a Shore,

Great and fearefull Tempests at the comming in of the Queene.

But that the skies (ô wondrous to behold)
Orespread with lightning, hideously doe rore,
The furious winds with one another scold,
Never such Tempests had bene seene before,
With suddaine floods whole Villages were drownd,
Steeples with earthquakes tumbled to the ground.

When to their purpose things to passe were brought,
And these two brave ambitious spirits were mett,
The Queene and Duke now frame their working thought,
Into their hands the Soveraignety to get:
For soone they found the King could not be wrought,
Up to their ends, nature so low had set
His humble heart; that what they would obtaine,
Tis they must do't, by colour of his Raigne.

And for they found the grieved Commons grutch,
At this which Suffolke desperatly had done,
Who for the Queene had parted with so much,
Thereby yet nothing to the Realme had wonne.
And those that spurr'd the people on, were such,
As to oppose them openly begunne;
Therefore by them some great ones downe must goe,
Which if they mist of, they themselves must so.

The Duke of Yorke discharged of his Regency in France, and the Duke of Sommerset in his place.

Yorke then which had the Regency in France,
They force the King, ignobly to displace,
Thereto the Duke of Summerset t'advance,
Their friend, and one of the Lancastrian Race;
For they betwixt them turn'd the Wheele of Chance,
Tis they cry up, tis they that doe debase,
He's the first man they purpos'd to remove,
The onely Minion of the peoples love.

This opened wide the Publicke way, whereby
Ruine rusht in upon the troubled Land,
Under whose weight it hapned long to lye,
Quite overthrowne with their ill-guiding hand;
For their Ambition looking over-hie
Could in no measure aptly understand,
Upon their heads the danger that they drewe,
Whose force too soone, they, and their Faction knew.

For whilst this brave Prince was imploid abroad
Th'affaires of France his minde up wholly tooke,
But being thus disburthen'd of that load,
Which gave him leave into himselfe to looke,
The course he ranne in, evidently show'd,
His late Alleageance that he off had shooke,
And under hand his Title set on foote,
To plucke their Red-Rose quite up by the roote.

Thus having made a Regent of their owne,
By whom they meane great matters to effect,
For by degrees, they will ascend the throane,
And but their owne all ayd they else neglect,
As with a Tempest he to ground is blowne,
On whom their rage doth any way reflect:
Which good Duke Humphrey first of all must taste,
Whose timelesse death intemperatly they haste.

This Henryes Unckle, and his next of blood,
Was both Protector of the Realme, and King,
Whose meeknesse had instiled him the Good,
Of most especiall trust in every thing;

A Character of the Duke of Glocester.

One to his Country constantly that stood,
As Time should say, I forth a man will bring,
So plaine and honest, as on him Ile rest,
The age he liv'd in, as the onely best.

This grave Protector who both Realmes had sway'd,
Whilst the Kings nonage his sound Counsells crav'd,
In his great wisdome when he throughly way'd,
How this French Lady here her selfe behav'd,
To make her Game againe, how Suffolke play'd,
The Realmes from ruine, hoping to have sav'd,
Lost his deare life, within a little space,
Which overthrewe the whole Lancastrian race.

This Prince, who still dar'd stoutly to oppose,
Those whom he sawe, all but their owne to hate,
Then found the league of his inveterate foes,
To come upon him with the power of Fate,
And things to that extremitie still rose,
The certaine signe of the declining State,
As that their Faction every day grew strong,
Perceiv'd his Vertues like to suffer wrong.

Fierce Margarits malice propt with mighty men,
Her Darling Suffolke, who her forward drew,

The greatest persons of the Queenes Faction.

Proud Sommerset, of France the Regent then,
And Bukkingham his power too well that knew,
The Cardinall Beufort, and with him agen,
Yorks great Arch-Prelate to make up the crue,
By accusations doing all their best,
From the good Duke all Goverment to wrest,

Who then compell the peacefull King to call,
A Parliament; their grievances to heare,
Against the Duke that to inforce his fall,
They might have some thing that might Colour beare,

A Consultation had by the faction of the Queene, about the making away of the Duke.

But then they doubt his answere, and withall,
The murmuring people they farre more doe feare,
As their owne lives who lov'd him, therefore they,
Must cast to make him secretly away.

And therfore with the Parliament proceede,
Saint-Edmunds-bury the appointed place,
Whereas they ment to doe the fatall deed,

A Parliament at Saint Edmunds Bury.

Which with much quicknesse should decide the case,
The cruell maner soone they had decreed,
And to the Act they hasten them apace;
On this good Prince their purpose to effect,
Then, when the people nothing should suspect.

No sooner was this great assembly mett,

The Duke of Glocester arested by the high Marshal of England.

But the high Marshall doth the Duke arest,
And on his person such a guard they sett,
That they of him were certainely possest,
His servants were from their attendance lett,
And either sent to prison or supprest;

The Duke murthered.

So that their Lord left in this piteous plight,
Lay'd in his Bed was strangled in the night.

Then give they out that of mere greefe he dyde,
To cover what they cruelly had done,
But this blacke deede, when once the day discride;
The frantique people to his Lodging runne,
Some rayle, some curse, yea little children chide,

The people mutiny.

Which forc'd that faction the fayre streets to shunne;
Some wish proud Suffolke sunke into the ground,
Some bid a plague the cruell Queene confound.

Thus their Ambition would not let them see,
How by his death they hastened their decay,
Nor let them know that this was onely he,
Who kept the Yorkists evermore at bay,
But of this man they must the murtherers be,

The death of the Duke was the utter overthrow of the house of Lancaster.

Upon whose life their safty onely lay;
But his deare bloud, them nothing could suffice,
When now began Queene Margarits Miseries.

In either kingdome all thinges went to wracke,
Which they had thought they could have made to thrive,
His noble Counsells when they came to lacke,

The affairs of England fall to ruine upon the death of the Duke.

Which could them with facility contrive,
Nor could they stay them in their going backe,
One mischeefe still another doth revive;
As heaven had sent an host of horrors out,
Which all at once incompast them about.

Out flie the Irish, and with sword and fire,
Unmercied havocke of the English made;
They discontented, here at home conspire,
To stirre the Scott the Borders to invade:

The Irishe rebell.

The faithlesse French then having their desire,
To see us thus in Seas of troubles wade,
In every place outragiously rebell,

The French are up in Armes.

As out of France the English to expell.

The sturdy Normans with high pride inflamd,
Shake off the yoke of their subjection quite.
Nor will with patience heare the English nam'd,
Except of those that speake of them in spight,
But as their foes them publikely proclaim'd,
And their Alyes to open Armes excite;

The Normans revolt.

In every place thus Englands right goes downe,
Nor will they leave the English men a Towne.

New-castle, Constance, Maleon, and Saint-lo,
With Castel-Galliard, Argenton, and Roane,
Ponteu-de-mer with Forts and Cities moe,

Townes in Normandy yeelded to the enemy. There had ben a former contract between the King and the Earle of Arminacks onely daughter; but being by the Duke of Suffolke annulled caused the Earle ever after to be a vowed enemy to the English.

Then which that Contry stronger holds had none,
Set ope their gates and bad the English goe,
For that the French should then possesse their owne.
And to their Armies, up their Forts they yeeld,
And turne the English out into the Feeld.

And that great Earle of Arminack againe,
A puisant Peere and mighty in estate,
Upon just cause, who tooke in high disdayne,
To have his Daughter so repudiate,
(His Contries bordring upon Aquitaine,)
Pursues the English nation with such hate,
As that he entred with his Armed powers,
And from that Dutchy, drave all that was ours.

Th'inraged commons ready are to rise,
Upon the Regent, to his Charge and layd,

The Commons charge the Duke of Somerset with the losse of Normandy.

That from his slacknesse and base cowardize,
These townes were lost, by his neglect of ayde,
Then follow Suffolke with confused cryes,
With Maine, and Anjou, and do him upbrayde,
And vowe his life shall for their losses pay,
Or at the stake, their goods and lives to lay.

Articles of Treason put into the Parliament against the Dukes of Summerset and Suffolke.

In th'open Session and Articulate,
Seven Severall Treasons urg'd against them both,
As most pernitious members of the State,
Which was confirmed by the commons oath,
So that the King who saw the peoples hate,

The Duke of Suffolke banished for five yeeres.

(In his owne selfe though he were very loath)
To both the houses lastly doth assent,
To set on Suffolke five yeares banishment.

His Soveraigne Lady Suffolke thus must leave,
And shee her Servant, to her soule so deare,
Yet must they both conceale what they conceive,
Which they would not if any helpe there were,
Yet of all comfort they cannot bereave
Her, but this hope her pensive heart doth cheere,
That he in France shall have his most resort,
And live securely in her fathers Court.

His mighty minde nor can this doome molest,
But kicks the earth with a disdainfull scorne,
If any thing doe corosive his brest,
It was, that he was in base England borne,
He curst the King, and Kingdome, but he blest
The Queene, but if in any thing forlorne,
Tw'as that he should her happy presence misse,
The endlesse Summe of all his earthly blisse.

His Sentence, scarce in Parliament had past,

The extreame hate the people had to the Duke.

But that the Rascall multitude arize,
Plucke downe his houses, lay his Lordships wast,
And search how they his person may surprise,
That he from England instantly must hast,
Cover'd by night, or by some strange disguise,
And to some small Port secretly retyre,
And there some poore Boate for his passage hire.

This ship was (as our histories report) caled the Nicolas of the tower, a ship that belong'd to the Duke of Excester, of whome one Water was the Captaine.

From Harwitch Haven and embarqu'd for France,
As he for Callice his straight course doth steere,
(O heare behould a most disastrous chance,)
A man of warre the Seaes that scoured there,
One at his actions that still lookt ascance,
And to this Duke did deadly hatred beare;
After a long chase tooke this little Craye,
Which he suppos'd him safly should convaye.

And from the fisher taking him by force,
He under Hatches straightly him bestow'd,
And towards his country steering on his course,
He runnes his vessell into Dover roade,
Where rayling on him without all remorse,
Him from the shippe to all the people show'd,
And when no more they could the Duke deride,
They cutt his head off on the Cock boate-side.

Suffolke thus dead and Sommerset disgrac'd,
His title Yorke more freely might preferre,
The Commons love, when cunningly to taste,
(Lest overweening he perhaps might erre,)
He first subbornes a villaine that imbrac'd,
The Nobler name of March-borne Mortimer,

The subtile policie of the Duke of York

Which in the Title of the house of Yorke;
Might set the monstrous multitude a worke.

His name was Cade, his native contry Kent,
Who, though of birth, and in estate but poore,
Yet for his courage he was eminent;

The carracter of Jacke Cade.

(Which the wise Duke well understood before,)
He had a minde was of a large extent,
The signe whereof on his bould brow he bore,
Sterne of behavior, and of body strong,
Witty, well spoken, cautilous, though young.

But for the Duke his title must derive,

Deriving his title from Phillip the only daughter and hayre of Lyonel Duke of Clarence the 3. sonne of Ed. the 3. wedded to Edmund Mortimer Earle of March.

Out of the bloud which beare that honored name,
Therefore must cast and conningly contrive,
To see how people relished the same,
And if he found it fortuned to thrive,
Then at the marke he had a further ayme,
To show himselfe his title good to make,
And raise him friends and power, his part to take.

All opposition likewise to prevent,
The crafty Duke his meaning doth conceale,
And Cade doth rise t'reforme the government,
And base abuses of the Publique Weale,
To which he knew the Commons would consent,
Which otherwise his Treason might reveale;
Which rightly tooke, for by this colour he
Drew twenty thousand on his part to be.

From Sussex, Surry, and from Kent that rose,
Whom hope of spoile doth to this act perswade,
Which still increase his Army as it goes,
And on Blacke Heath his Rendavous he made,
Where in short time it to that vastnesse growes,
As it at once the Kingdome would invade,
And he himselfe the Conquest could assure;
Of any power king Henry could procure.

And did in fight that generall force defeate,
Sent by the King that Rebell to pursue,
When under couler of a fain'd retreat,
He made as though he from the Army flew,

The Staffords slaine by the Rebells.

The slaughter of the souldiers must be great,
When he those Staffords miserably slewe.
Captaines select, and chosen by the Queene;
To lead the powers that should have wreakt her teene.

When for a Siedge he to the City came,
Assaults the Bridge with his emboldned power,
And after oft repulsed takes the same,

Jhacke Cade takes London.

Makes himselfe master of the Towne and Tower,
Doing such things as might the Divell shame,
Destroyes Records, and Virgins doth deflower,
Robbs, ransackes, spoiles, and after all this stirre,
Lastly, beheaded the Lord Treasurer.

These things by Yorke being plotted underhand,
Wise as he was, as one that had not knowne,
Ought of these Treasons, hasts to Ireland,
To tame those

The vulgar.

Kerne, rebellious that were growne;
He knew it was not in the barren Sand,
That he this subtile poysnous seed had sowne,
Which came it on (as very well it might)
It would make way for his pretended right.

Whilst these Rebellions are in England broacht,
As though the Fates should enviously conspire
Our utter Ruine; which too fast approacht,
About our eares, was Aquitaine a fire:
Their Conquest so upon our Townes incroacht,
That Charles the French King then had his desire,
To see these Troubles tyre us here within,
That he the whilst, in France from us might winne.

To add to Margarits miseries againe,
Talbot in France so bravely that had done,
Who many a yeare had aw'd proud Aquitaine,
And many a Fort, and famous Battaile wonne,

The valient Talbot slaine.

At Shatiloon (O endlesse griefe) was slaine
With the Lord Lyle his overvalient Sonne,
When all the Townes that he had got before,
Yeelded, nor would for England be no more,

Yorke in the nike from Ireland comming in,
Finding the Kingdome combred in this wise,
Thinks with himselfe twere time he did begin,
But by no meanes he gainst the King must rise;
O such a thought in any man were sin,
But that he would proud Somerset surprise,
Yet wanting strength gainst the whole State to stand,
He beares his businesse with a moderate hand.

And first to mighty Salsbury doth sue,

Richard Nevill the Father, and Richard Nevill the Son.

And his Sonne Warwick, and doth them intreate
With equall eyes they would be pleasde to view,
His rightfull Title: these two Nevils great
In power, and with the people, whom he knew,
Deadly the Duke of Somerset to hate,
By his large offers he doth winne at last,
In his just quarrell to cleave to him fast.

Thus his Ambition having strongly backt,
With these two fatall fierbrands of Warre;
To his desires, there very little lackt,
He and the Earles, all three so popular,
To advance himselfe he no occasion slackt,
For nought he sees him from his ends to barre,
Tis no small tempest that he need to feare,
Whom two such Collumnes up betwixt them beare.

And by their strengthes encourag'd doth not sticke,
The others actions boldly to o're looke,
And for the season that the King was sicke,
Upon himselfe the Regencie he tooke,
For now his hopes upon him came so thicke,
His entrance, dores from off the hindges shooke.
He with a nodde the Realme seem'd to direct,
Whose he but bow'd, if this great Prince but beckt.

And in the Queenes great Chamber doth arest,
Great Summerset, and sendeth him to ward,
And all his followers suddenly supprest,

The duke of Summerset arested.

Such was the number of his powerfull guard,
With the proud Queene, this Prince as proude contests,
Not for her frowne one friend of hers he spar'd,
Lucks on his side, while such stand by to bett,
Hee'le throw at all that any one dare sett.

The Queene who saw, which way this Faction went,
And that these wrongs must still reflect on her,
The Duke of Yorke to her distruction bent;
Thought with her selfe it was full time to stirre,
And if his plotts she ever would prevent,
Must with the wisest of her friends conferre,
Their busie braynes, and must together beate,
To lessen him, like else to grow too great.

His pride awhile yet patiently endure,
The kinges recovery onely to attend,
Of which themselves they hardly could assure,

The King recovered of a dangerous sicknesse.

Who once they thought had hastned to his end,
But when they found his Phisicke to procure,
His former health, then doth the Queene extend,
Her utmost strength, to let the world to know,
Queene Margarite yet, must not be mastred so.

With smiles and kisses when shee wooes the King,
That of his place the Duke he would discharge,
Which being done, the next espetiall thing,

The Queene prevailing against the Duke of York.

She doth the Duke of Sommerset inlarge,
And him of Callice gives the governing,
Whither his friends she causd him to inbardge,
Doubting the love, and safeguard of the Towne,
Thus doth the Queene turne all thinges upsidedowne.

Which so incenst the angry Duke to ire,
With those two Earles upon his part that take,
Kindling in all that fierce revengefull fire,

The Duke of Yorke raiseth an Army in the Marches of Wales.

Which the deere blood of Summerset must slake,
That into Wales they instantly retire:
And in the Marches up an Army make:
And there by Oath were each to other tyde,
By dint of sword the quarrell to decide.

And whilst these Lords are busied in the West,
Of March-men mustring a rebellious Band,
Henry againe his Southerne people prest:
And settles there their forces to withstand:
Then Bowes and Bills were onely in request:
Such rage and madnesse doth possesse the Land:
Set upon spoyle, on either part they were,
Whilst the Weale-publike they in peeces teare.

On either part when for this Warre prepar'd,
Upon their March they at Saint Albans met,
Where Drummes and Ensignes one the other dar'd,

The first Battaile at Saint Albans.

Whilst they in order their Battalions set,
And with his fellow ev'ry Souldier shar'd,
Bravely resolv'd to death to pay his debt:
When if that ever horrour did appeare
On th'English earth, it certainly was there.

That day the Queenes lov'd Summerset was slaine,
There tooke the stout Northumberland his end:
There Staffords blood the pavement did distaine:

Humfrey Earle of Stafford, eldest sonne to the Duke of Buckingham.

There Clifford fell, King Henries constant friend:
The Earle of Warwick who brought on the Mayne:
All downe before him to pale Death doth send.
Antwesell, Babthorp, Zouch, and Curwen, all
King Henries friends, before the Yorkists fall.

Whilst this distressed miserable King,
Amazed much with fury of the fight,
And perill still his person menacing:
His living friends inforc'd to take their flight:
He as a needlesse and neglected thing,
In a poore Cottage hides him out of sight:

The King crept into a poore cottage.

Who found by Yorke was as a prisoner led,
Though with milde words the Duke him comforted.

And of his person being thus possest,
They in his name a Parliament procure,
For with his Regall power they will invest
Themselves, supposing to make all things sure,
That if their violent actions should be prest,
In after time they better might endure
The censuring, the worst, and so prevent
To showe them done by Act of Parliament.

And cause the King to take into his hands,
What to the Crowne did anciently pertaine,
Besides all Honours, Offices, and Lands,

The lawlesse usurpation of the Yorkists.

Granted since the beginning of his Raigne;
And not a Fee, though ne'r so little stands;
All are call'd in, and let who will complaine,
And all his friends from Counsaile are remov'd,
None must sit there, but those of them belov'd.

The silly King a sipher set aside,
What was in him that in great Yorke is not;
Amongst themselves all places they divide,

Salisbury made Chancelor.

And to be Chancelor Salsbury hath got,
He is the man must take the law to guide;

Warwick Captaine of Callice.

And Callice falls to warlike Warwicks lot,
And not a man at these must looke awry,
They make an Act, their Acts to justifie.

This done, the Duke had more to doe then this;
Something it seem'd, more secretly to lurke,
In which such power (though from appearance) is,
As yet once more would fret the Duke of Yorke,
And let him know he of his ends might misse;
For now the Queene doth set her wits to worke,
To play the Game that must renowne her skill,
And shew the law that rested in her will.

And from the roote of Summerset late slaine,
Another stem, to stand for her arose,

Henry Beufort Duke of Summerset, after the decease of his father Edmond.

Henry for Edmond, of his Fathers straine,
(One of whose life she knew she could dispose)
Of a strong judgement, and a working braine;
Great Buckingham and Excester are those
Shee meanes to worke by, and by these restore,
Her to that height from whence she fell before.

These were the men to whom she trusted most,
To whom that faction much dispight had done,
For at Saint Albans Summerset had lost
His loved Sire, and Buckingham his Sonne:

The Duke of Excester taken out of the Sanctuary at Westminster.

And Excester pursude from Coast to Coast;
From them enforc'd to Sanct'ary to runne:
Fetcht thence by them, and to colde Pomfret sent,
And in a dungeon miserably pent.

Equall in envie, as in pride and power:
With ev'ry ayde to their designment fraught:
Taking their turnes at ev'ry fitting houre;
They on the Kings much easinesse so wrought,
As that they seem'd him wholly to devoure,
Untill to passe their purposes they brought,
Lifting up still his spirit that was so poore,
Once more to doe as he had done before.

For which at Greenwich he a Counsell held
Where, with th'opinion of those friends supplide,

The Duke of Yorke, the Earles of Salisbury and Warwick put out of office.

Those three which late with glorious titles sweld,
Are from their sev'rall places put aside;
Yet more to seeke their safety are compeld,
At this prodigious turning of the tide:
For now the winde was strangely come about,
And brings them in who lately were shut out.

The cruell Queene and cunningly had cast,
At Coventry to cause them to appeare,
With shew to pardon all that had beene past,
If they (but then) would their Allegiance sweare;
Which had they done, that day had bene their last,
For shee had plotted to destroy them there:
Of which forewarnd, immediatly they fled,
Which then their safety onely promised.

Yet whilst one wrong, thus from another rose,
Twixt them at last a Meeting was ordain'd,

The Queene had plotted to have the Duke murthered at Coventry.

All former strife and quarrels to compose,
Which but too long betwixt them had remain'd,
Which to the World though handsomely it showes,
Yet in plaine truth, all was but meerely fain'd
To outward seeming, yet are perfect friends:
“But divellish folke, have still their divellish ends.

And in precession solemnely they goe,
In generall joy, one smiling on the other,

A solemn precession in Pauls by both the factions

A Yorkist and Lancastrian make up two,
Envie and malice, brother, like to brother,
In minde farre sundred, although coupled so,
Bloudy revenge and in their brests they smother;
Ill's the precession (and fore runs much losse,
“Wherein men say, the Devill beares the Crosse.)

These Rights of peace religiously perform'd
To all mens thinking, the enraged Queene,
At Warwicks greatnesse inwardly yet storm'd

The Queene inwardly gruching at Warwickes greatnesse.

(Which every day still more and more was seene,)
Against the king, who Callice so had Arm'd,
As it his owne inheritance had beene.
Which towne she saw that if he still should hould,
That shee by him must howrely be contrould.

For which his murther she pursu'd so fast,
As that shee soone and secretly had layd,
Such to assault him, as the Streets he past,

Warwicke in perill to have bin slaine passing the street.

As if his brave name had not brought him ayde,
He of her vengance had beene sure to tast,
The Tragique Sceane so furiously was playd,
That he from London was inforst to flye;
Like a rough sea her mallice wrought so hye.

And t'owards the Duke his speedy Journey takes,
Who then at Middleham made his most aboad,
Which Salsbury his habitation makes,
Whereas their tyme together they bestow'd,
Whose courages the Earle of Warwick wakes,
When he to them his suddaine danger show'd
With a pale visage, and doth there disclose,
Her brands sett on him both in wounds and blowes.

This wrong in counsell, when they had discust,
And way'd the danger wherein still they were,
Continuall Treasons shrouded in their trust,
Nor other hopes else likely to appeare,
They find that this might make a warre seeme just,
And give their cause up to the world more cleere,
To rise in Armes when they resolve at last,
To raise them force, and wisely thus forecast.

To muster up their Tenants and their friends,
Not as a Warre upon the Land to bring,
Nor to advance their owne sinister ends,
Nor wrong a Subject in the smallest thing,
Onely to guard them (as their case then stands)
Till they had show'd their greevance to the King,
And give their power to Salsbury to guide,
That with the King the bus'nesse should decide.

With this direction Salsbury is sent,
Warwick to Callice (with what hast he may)
By his much speed a mischiefe to prevent,
Fearing the Towne might else be given away,
The Duke of Yorke by generall consent,
At Midleham Castell they alot to stay;
To raise a second power (if neede should be)
To re-inforce them, or to set them free.

The Queene who heard (by such as were her owne)
With that false Earle how those of Cheshire sided,
As in short time how powerfull he was growne,
Thinks with her selfe the Shire might be divided,
If that her love to some of them were knowne,
Which eas'ly might be, were her pleasure guided
By some such person, of whose valour they,
Had an opinion, which shee thus doth lay,

Causing the King to give a large command,
To James Lord Awdley, powerfull in those parts,
To raise him force those Rebels to withstand;
Such to their Soveraigne as had loyall harts,
And to make Captaines over ev'ry Band,
Men of the best blood, as of best desarts,
Which he so laboured, till that he had brought
That t'halfe of one house, gainst the other fought.

So that two men arising from one bed,
Falling to talke, from one another flye:

The men of Cheshire divided in the quarell.

This weares a white Rose, and that weares a red;
And this a Yorke, that Lancaster doth crye:
He wisht to see that Awdley well had sped:
He prayes againe to prosper Salsbury:
And for their farewell, when their leaves they take,
They their sharpe swords at one another shake.

This fire in ev'ry family thus set,
Out goe the Browne Bills, with the well-strung Bowes,
Till at Blore-heath these boystrous souldiers met,

The Battaile at Blore-heath.

For there it chanc'd the Armies then to close,
This must not live, if that he strove to let;
Never such friends yet ere became such Foes,
With downe-right strokes they at each other lay,
No word for Cheshire was, but kill, and slay.

The Sonne (as some report) the Father slue,
In opposition as they stoutly stood,
The Nephew seene the Unckle to pursue,

A great slaughter of Cheshire men.

Bathing his sword in his owne naturall blood:
The Brother in his Brothers gore imbrue
His guilty hands, and at this deadly food:
Kinsman kills Kinsman, which together fall,
As hellish fury had possest them all.

The Lord Audley slaine.

Here noble Tutchet the Lord Audley dide,
(Whose Father wan him such renowne in France)
And many a Cheshire Gentleman beside,
Fell at this Field by Warres uncertaine chance:
These miseries Queene Margarite must abide,
Whilst the proud Yorkists doe themselves advance:
And poore King Henry on a Pallet lay,
And scarcely ask'd which side had got the day.

Thus valiant Audley at this Battaile slaine,
And all those friends to the Lancastrians lost:
Cheshire by her such domage to sustaine:
So much deere blood had this late Conflict cost:
Wherefore the greeved Queene with might and maine,
Labours for life to raise a second Host:
Nor time therein she meaneth to forslowe,
Either shee'll get all, or will all forgoe.

And whilst their friends them forces gathering were,
(The neighbouring Realmes of this great bus'nesse ring)
The Duke, and those, that to his part adhere
Proclaymed Traytors; pardon promising
To those at Blore that Armes did lately beare:
So they would yet cleave to their lawfull King,
Which drue in many to their part againe,
To make their full, they Yorkists in their wane.

Yorke who perceiv'd the puissant Host prepar'd,
With his deare Nevils, Counsels what to doe,
For it behov'd him, to make good his Guard
With both their strengthes and all to little too;
And in the Marches he no labour spar'd,
To winne his friends along with him to goe:
With expedition which he could not get,
On the Kings side the Commons so were set.

And being to meete so absolute a power,
Yet wanting much his party good to make;
And Henryes proclamations ev'ry howre:
His Souldiers winne their Generall to forsake,
Besides the storme which rais'd this suddaine shower:
Them all in sunder likely was to shake:
He sawe his safety to consist in flight:
Thus e'r he wist, o'rmastred in his might.

All on the Spurre for life away they post,
Their homes too hot, nor there they might abide:
The three brave Earles soone reach the Westerne Coast,

Edward Earle of March, eldest sonne to the Duke, the Earles of Salsbury & Warwicke.

From whence to Callice their straight course they plyde:
The Duke to Wales being there befriended most:
Yet for more safety he to Ireland hyde:
So others ship themselves from ev'ry bay,
And happiest he that soon'st could get away.

As when a Route of rave'nous Wolves are met,
T'assayle some Heard the Desart pasturing neare,

A Simily.

The watchfull Clownes which over them are set,
Oft taught before their Tiranny to feare,
With dogges, with staves, and showts together get,
Nor never leave till they their Chattell cleare:
So the Kings power the Yorkists still pursue,
Which like those Wolves before those Heardsmen flewe.

They gone, the King at Coventry begun,
A Parliament, by good advice, wherein,

A Parliament at Coventry.

The Duke of Yorke, with th'Earle of March his sonne,
With Salsbury and Warwick who had bin
Conspirators, much mischiefe and had done,
And by whose helpe he hapt so much to win:
He there attaynts of Treason, and bestowes
All that was theirs, upon his friends, their foes.

When now those Earles in Callice still that kept
The charge whereof proud Warwick on him tooke:
In their intended bus'nesse never slept:
Nor yet their former enterprise forsooke,
In t'Henryes Counsailes who had those that crept,
And did each day his actions over-looke:
From whom as their advertisements still are,
So they their strengthes accordingly prepare.

And in meane time the Kingdome to embroyle,
That with lesse noyse their friends might raise an Host,
They plague the Seas with Piracie and spoyle:
And rob the Havens all along the Coast:
They ne'r take pitty of their Native soyle:
For that they knew this would avayle them most,
That whilst the State was busied there about,
Armes might be rais'd within, by those without.

And slaughtering many that were set to warde
Th'especiall Ports; th'unweldy Anchors wayde
Of the Kings Ships, whose fraught as Prize they sharde,
And them to Callice carefully convay'd
With their stolne Fleet, and his great Navy darde,
As late by Land, so now by Sea they sway'd:
All in Combustion, and their bloody rage,
Nor Sea, nor Land can possibly asswage.

Then have they Forces rais'd for them in Kent,
Their next and most convenient place to land,
(Where should the Adverse power their hopes prevent,
In Dover Road yet were their Ships at hand)
And by their Posts still too and fro that went;
They certainly were let to understand,
That Kent was surely theirs, and onely stayde
To rise in Armes the Yorkists power to ayde.

When Falconbridge, who second brother was
To Salsbury, they send away before,
To see no Ships should out of Sandwich passe,
To hinder them in comming to the shore;
There of Munition tooke a wondrous Masse
Heapt in that Towne, that with th'aboundant store,
He Armed many at their comming in,
Which of their side would scarsely else have bin.

That they no sooner setled were on Land,

The men of Kent rise with the Yorkists.

But that in Armes th'rebellious Kentish rose,
And the Lord Cobham with a mighty band,
With their Calicians presently doth close;
That now they sway'd all with a powerfull hand,
And in small time so great their Armie growes
From Sussex, Surry, and those parts about,
That of her safety, London well might doubt.

But yet at last the Earles shee in doth let,
To whom the Clergy comming day by day,
From further sheers them greater forces get,
When towards Northampton making foorth their way,
Where the sad King his Army downe had set,
And for their comming onely made his stay,
With all the force his friends could him afford,
And for a fight with all things fitly stor'd.

Who in his march the Earle doth oft molest,
(By their Vauntcurrers hearing how he came)
In many a straight, and often him distrest,
By stakes and trenches that his Horse might lame,
But the stout Yorkists still upon them prest:

The name of Warwicke fearefull to his enemies.

And still so fearefull was great Warwicks name,
That being once cryde on, put them oft to flight,
On the Kings Army till at length they light.

When th'Earle of March then in the pride of blood,
His Virgine valour on that day bestowes,
And furious Warwick like a raging flood,
Beares downe before him all that dare oppose,
Olde Salsbury so to his tackling stood,
And Fauconbridge so layes amongst his foes,
That even like leaves, the poore Lancastrians fall,
And the proud Yorkists beare away the Ball.

There Humphrey Duke of Bukingham expir'd,

A great slaughter of the Nobility at Northampton.

King Henrys comfort and his causes friend,
There Shrewsbury (even of his foes admir'd
For his high courage) his last breath doth spend,
Brave Beamout there, and Egremount lay tyr'd
To death, there Lucy had his lucklesse end,
And many a noble Gentleman that day,
Weltring in gore, on the wilde Champion lay.

The wretched King, as Fortunes onely scorne,
His Souldiers slaine, and he of all forsaken,
Left in his Tent; of men the most forlorne,
(The second time) a Prisoner there is taken;
The wofull Queene out of the Battaile borne
In a deepe swound; and when she doth awaken,
Nothing about her heares, but howles, and cries,
Was ever Queenes like Margarites miseries?

Yorke comming in from Ireland in the end,
And to his hands thus findes the Battaile wonne,
By the high Prowesse of his faithfull friend,
Great Warwick, and that valiant March his sonne,
His present hopes the former so transcend,
That the proud Duke immediatly begun,
By his bold Actions to expresse his thought,
Through so much blood, what he so long had sought.

The Kings Command'ment daring to denie,
His Soveraigne Lord being call'd to wayte upon,

The Duke of Yorks insolence.

And on his Fortune beares himselfe so hie,
That he in State presumes t'ascend his Throane:
From the Kings Lodgings puts his Servants by,
And placeth in them such as were his owne:
So infinitely insolent he growes,
As he the Crowne at pleasure would dispose.

When he procures a Parliament with speed,
In which himselfe Protector he doth make,
And onely Heire apparent to succeed
The King; when Death him from the world should take:
And what had beene at Coventry decreed,
He there annulls, from him and his to shake
The servile yoke of all subjection quite,
Downe goes the red Rose, and up goes the white.

And he with Fortune that this while doth sport,
Seeing the Southerne to him still were sure;
Thinks to the North, if he should but resort,
He to his part the Northerne should procure,
Seeking all wayes his greatnesse to support:
Nor would an equall willingly endure:
Downe into Yorkshire doth to Sandall ride,
Whose lofty scyte well suted with his pride.

The Queene impatient of the Dukes Pride.

The vexed Queene whose very soule forgot,
That such a thing as patience it had knowne,
And but she found her friends forsooke her not,
As madde as ever Hecuba had growne,
Whilst both her wrongs, and her revenge were hot,
Her mighty minde, so downe could not be throwne,
But that once more the bloody Sett sheele play
With York, ere so he beare the Crowne away.

And downe to Sandall doth the Duke pursue,
With all the power her friends could her provide,
Led by those Lords that had beene ever true,
And had stood fast upon King Henrys side,
With that most valient and selected crue,
This brav'st of Queenes, so well her businesse plide,
That comming soone in Sandals lofty sight,
Into the Field she dares him forth to fight.

And for this Conflict there came on with her
Her hope Prince Henry, her deare onely Sonne,
Stout Somerset, and noble Excester,
Dukes, that for Margarite mighty things had done,
Devon and Wilt, Earles using to conferre
With this wise Queene, when Danger shee would Shunne;
Undaunted Clifford, Rosse in warre up brought,
Barrons as brave as ere in battaile fought.

When this stout Duke who in his Castle stood,
With Salisbury (who beat them all at Blore,)

The Dukes haste the cause of his ruine.

Both which were flesht aboundantly with bloud,
In those three Battailes they had wonne before,
Thought in their pride, it would be ever Flood,
Nor gainst Queene Margarite that they needed more,
For they led Fortune chain'd with them about,
That of their Conquest none but fooles could doubt.

And for the Field soone Marshalling their force,
All poore delayes they scornefully defie,
Nor will the Duke stay for those troopes of Horse,
With which his Sonne him promist to supply,
In spight of Fate they'll give their Foe the worse;
On their owne valour they so much relye,
And with five thousand marshald well they come,
Meaning to charge the Queenes maine Battell home.

But in her Host she having those that were
Expert in all the Stratagems of Warre,
To fight with him doe cause her to forbeare,
Till from his Castle she had got him farre,
Whilst in an ambush she had placed there:
Wiltshire, and Clifford with their strengthes to barre
Him from his home, in off'ring to retire,
Or wound his back even as they would desire.

When too't they fell upon an easie Plaine,
At the hill foote, where furiously they fought
Upon both sides where there were many slaine:
But for the Queene, foure to his one had brought:
The Duke of Yorke for all his pride was faine
Back to recoyle, where he was finely caught,
For Wilt and Clifford that in Ambush were,
The Van thus rowted, overthrew the Reare.

Where Yorke himselfe, who proudly but of late,
With no lesse hope then of a Kingdome fed,
Upon this Field before his Castle gate,
Mangled with wounds, on his owne earth lay dead,
Upon whose Body Clifford downe him sate,
Stabbing the corpes, and cutting off his head,
Crown'd it with paper, (and to wreake his teene)
Presents it so to the victorious Queene.

His Bastard Unckles both couragious Knights,
Sir John, and Sir Hugh Mortimer so sped,
Hall, Hastings, Nevill, who in sundry fights
Had show'd their valour, on the field found dead:
And Salsbury amongst these Tragick sights,

The Earle of Salsbury beheaded.

Who at Blore heath so much deare blood had shed,
Taken a live, to Pomfret sent with speed,
And for their bloods, himselfe there made to bleed.

Some clime up Rocks, through Hedges other runne,
There foes so roughly execute their rage,
Where th'Earle of Rutland the Dukes youngest sonne,
Then in his Childhood and of tender Age,
Comming in hope to see the Battaile wonne,
Clifford whose wrath no rigour could asswage,

The end of young Rutland.

Takes, and whilst there he doth for mercy kneele,
In his soft bosome sheathes his sharpned steele.

Edward of March, the Duke his Father slaine,
Succeeding him, whilst things thus badly sort,
Gathering an Army, but yet all in vaine,
To ayde his Father, for he came too short,
Hearing that Penbrooke with a Warlike trayne,
Was comming tow'rds him, touch'd with the report,
His valiant Marchers for the field prepares,
To meete the Earle, if to approach he dares.

Jasper by birth halfe Brother to the King,
On bright Queen Katherine got by Owen Tether,
Whom Henryes love did to this Earledome bring,
And as from Wales descended sent him thither,
And of South-Wales gave him the governing,
Where in short time he got an Host together,
Cleaving to Henry who did him prefer
As an Alye to th'house of Lancaster.

Upon their March when as they lastly met,
Neere to the Crosse that Mortimer is nam'd,

The Battell at Mortimers Crosse.

Where they in order their Battalions set:
The Duke and Earle with equall rage enflam'd,
With angry eyes they one the other threat,
Their deadly Arrowes at each other aym'd:
And there a fierce and deadly fight begin,
A bloodier Battell yet there had not bin.

The Earle of Ormond, an Associate then,
With this young Tudor, for the King that stood,
Came in the Vanguard with his Irish men,
With Darts, and Skaynes; those of the British blood,
With Shafts and Gleaves them seconding againe,
And as they fall, still make their places good,
That it amaz'd the Marchers to behold,
Men so ill Arm'd upon their Bowes so bold.

Now th'Welch and Irish so their weapons weeld,
As though themselves they Conquerours meant to call,
Then are the Marchers Masters of the Field:
With their browne Bills the Welchmen so they mall,
Now th'one, now th'other likely were to yeeld:
These like to flye, then those were like to fall,
Untill at length (as Fortune pleas'd to guide)
The Conquest turn'd upon the Yorkists side.

Three Sunnes were seene that instant to appeare,
Which soone againe shut up themselves in one,
Ready to buckle as the Armies were,

Three sunnes seene at one time.

Which this brave Duke tooke to himselfe alone,
His drooping hopes which some what seem'd to cheere,
By his mishaps, neere lately overthrowne,
So that thereby encouraging his men,
Once more he sets the White-Rose up agen.

100

Pembroke and Ormond save themselves by flight,
Foure thousand Souldiers of both Armies dead,
But the great losse on the Lancastrians light,
So ill the Freinds of poore King Henry sped;

Owen Tudors end.

Where Owen Tudor taken in the flight,
This yong Earles father, by Queene Katherins bed)
At Hereford not farre away from thence,
Where others with him dyde for their offence.

This while the Queene, the Gole at Sandall gain'd
Leades on tow'rds London her victorious Host,
Whose blades she showes, with blood of Yorkists stain'd
Nor of her Conquest can she leave to boast;
But to her side, whilst lucky Fortune lean'd,
Come, what can come, shee meanes to cleare the Coast,
Of those shee knew in Yorks revenge would rise,
Found she not meanes, their Forces to surprise.

And at Saint Albans finding on her way,
John Duke of Norfolke, and her divellish foe:
Fierce Warwick who there with an Army lay,
Which two, deceased Yorke when he should goe
To Sandall, left them as his onely kay,

King Henry left before to the keeping of the Duke of Norfolke, and the Earle of Warwick.

To keepe King Henry (which they not forslowe)
Lest by the Queene and hers he might be wrought,
T'annull their late past Parliament for nought.

For which to Counsell, calling up her Lords,
Well to consider what was to be done,
Who cheere her up with comfortable words,
And would in no wise she her way should shunne:
For they would make her entrance with their swords:
Here what was lost, might here againe be wonne,
Assuring her, their mindes them strongly gave,
That of this Field the glory shee should have.

And soone their Army ordering for the ground,
Whereof a view they ev'ry way doe take:
When for Assault they bid their Trumpets sound,
And so their entry on the Towne they make:
But comming to the Market-place, they found
A shower of Shafts, as from a Cloud it brake,
Which backe againe made them so fast to beare,
As that their Van, was like to route their Reare.

101

But thus repuls'd, another way they prove,
How in upon their Enemie to get,
Which makes their Foes, that they their Force remove,
To stop that passage wherein they were set,
That whilst, they Shafts into each other shove,
For a long while it was an even bet,
Death being thus dealt, and both so deeply in,
Whether proud Warwick, or the Queene should win.

But by the Queene constrayned to recoyle,
Their ground from them they absolutely wonne,
When they the Yorkists miserably spoyle,
And in with them on their mayne Battell runne:
Which being greatly straytned by the soyle,
They could not doe what else they might have done:
Through thick and thin, o'r hedge and ditch that take,

The Queene getteth the day at Saint Albans.

And happiest he that greatest hast could make.

Whilst Warwick cryes, yee Southerne Cowards stay,
And once more turne your faces to your Foes,
Tis feare, not danger doth yee thus dismay:
O prove the former fortune of your Bowes,
Thinke but upon the late-wonne glorious day
Got in this place; the fame whereof you lose
By your base flight; but he his breath might spare,
He might as well have call'd upon the Ayre.

Scatter'd like Sheepe by Wolves that had bin scar'd,
So runne the Yorkists; which, when Norfolke sawe,
He calls to Warwick scarsely then prepar'd,

The Yorkists Army discomfited at this second Battell at Saint Albans.

Himselfe out of this danger to withdrawe:
My Lord (quoth he) you see that all is mard:
Fortune hath sworne to keepe us in her awe:
Our lives are gone if longer here we stay,
Loose not your selfe, though we have lost the day.

And for they found the Foe came on so fast,
The King by them to this lost Battell brought,
And under guard in his Pavillion plac't,
Th'are forc'd to leave (which late they little thought)
For there were those which made them make such hast,
They could not stay to have their Soveraigne sought:

King Henry of no account.

But since the Battell, had such ill successe,
That lost, they thought their losse of him the lesse.

102

The Foe thus fled, they quickly found the King,
From whom a speedy Messinger is sent,
His Wife, and Sonne, away to him to bring,

The King meetes with the Queene and her sonne.

Who with their Lords ariving at his Tent,
Where after many a Fall and many a Spring,
Of teares of joy upon each other spent,
Which strict embraces they each other straine,
No one had neede a gladnesse there to faine.

Like as you see when Partridges are flowne,
(In Falconers termes which we the Covy call)
By the sharpe Hawke, and into Thickets throwne,

A Simily.

There drops downe one, there doth another fall:
Yet when they heare the questing Spaniels gone,
They in the evening get together all,
With pretty jugging and each other greete,
Glad as it were they once againe should meete.

But the fierce Queene, her full revenge to take,
Of those she thought the Yorkists well that ment,
The stout Lord Bonvile for King Henryes sake,

The cruelty of the Queen.

And Thomas Kerrill, a brave Knight of Kent,
Who the Kings Guard strove ever strong to make,
All threatning perill thereby to prevent;
And for their safeties had his Soveraigne word,
That cruell woman putteth to the sword.

This well might warne great Warwick not to trust
Too much to Fortune, which so soone reveales
Her whorish lightnesse; like an Averse gust,
And on the suddaine makes him strike his Sayles,
Which when he most beleev'd her to be just,
His forward hopes then most of all shee fayles:
All his accounts, and teach him thus to summe,
“None overcomes, but may be overcome.

Some thinke that Warwick had not lost the day,
But that the King into the Field he brought,
For with the worse, that side went still away,

King Henry ever most infortunate.

Which had King Henry with them when they fought,
Upon his birth so sad a curse they lay,
As that he never prospered in ought,
The Queene wanne two, amongst the losse of many,
Her Husband absent, present, never any.

103

But whilst her selfe with further hopes she fed,
The Queene still watchfull, wisely understands,
That Warwick late, who at Saint Albans fled,
(Whereas his heeles serv'd better then his hands,)
Had met the Duke of Yorke, and made a head
Of many fresh, and yet unfought-with bands,
At Chipping-norton for more forces stay'd,
From whence towards London they their march had laid.

And for shee saw the Southerne to adhere,

The Londoners deny the Queen victuaile for her Army.

Still to the Yorkists, who againe relyde
Much on their ayde, as London she doth feare,
A small reliefe which lately her denyde,
She can (at all) conceive no comfort there,
With any succours, nor to be supply'd,
But to the North her speedy course directs,
From whence fresh aydes she every day expects.

Not foure dayes march yett fully on her way,
But Yorke to London with his Army comes,

The Duke of Yorke entreth London with applause of the people.

And nere the Walls his Ensignes doth display
Deaffing the City with his clamorous Drummes,
His Title so the multitude doth sway,
That for his Souldiers they provide him Summes,
And those provisions, they Queene Margarit ow'd,
Taken from hers, they on the Duke bestowde.

The Gates set open to receive him in,
They with applause his gracious entrance greet,
His presence so the Peoples hearts doth winne,
That they come flocking in from every street,
Kneeling before him as he Crown'd had beene,
And as he rode along, they kisse his feet,
Whilst good King Henry towards the North is gone,
The poore Lancastrians damn'd by every one.

Whither (at once) doth presently repaire
The Spirituall Lords, and Temporall, who would have
Him take the Crowne, who farre more ready are
To give, then he their suffrages to crave:
The Commons take him so into their care,
Upon his name that dotingly they rave,
And being ask'd who should their Soveraigne be,
They cry King Edward, and no man but he.

104

Thus to his hight this puissant Prince they heave,
The seat Imperiall; where then sitting downe,
Their fealty they force him to receave,
Which on his head might firmely fixe his Crowne,
And in his hand the Regall Scepter leave:

Edward made King by the suffrage of the Commons.

Edward the fourth proclaym'd in ev'ry Towne,
With all the pompe that they could thinke upon,
They then adorne his Coronation.

This newes too quickly in Queene Margarites eare,
What by the Lords at London had beene done,
Even at the point to fall into dispaire,
Ready she was on her owne death to runne;
With her faire fingers rents her golden haire,
Cursing that houre when first she saw the Sunne,
With rage she faints; reviving, and doth call
Upon high heav'n for vengeance on them all.

To ayde her right yet still excites her friends,
By her faire speech inchanted (as by Charmes)
Scarce any man on any Lord depends
That followes her, that riseth not in Armes:
The spacious North such plentious succour sends,
That to her side the Souldiers come in swarmes:
Thus day by day she addeth more and more
To that full Army, which shee had before.

Not long it was but Edward understood,
Of this great power prepared in the North,
When he to make his Coronation good,

King Edward marches from London to meete his Enemies in the North.

Calls to his ayde his friends of greatest worth,
With whom, then rising like a raging flood:
This forward King breakes violently forth,
That with the helpe of Tributary flowes,
Extends his breadth still onward as he goes.

Nor Henries Army needed to be sought,
For every man could tell him where it lay:
In twelve dayes march which Edward eas'ly rought,
Without resistance keeping on his way,
Nere fifty thousand, in his Host he brought,
Whose brandish'd Ensignes seem'd to brave the day:
And under Pomfret his proud Tents he pight,
Providing hourely for a deadly fight.

105

Of Henryes Host when they who had command,
On whom the Queene imposed had the care:
Great Somerset, and stout Northumberland,
And Clifford whom no danger yet could dare:
The Walls of Yorke first having throughly man'd,
There plac'd the King; when quickly they prepare
To range their Battell, which consisted then
Of threescore thousand valiant Northerne men.

From Edwards Host the Lord Fitzwater went,
And valiant Nevill, Warwicks Bastard brother,

The Lord Fitz-water and Bastard Nevill slaine.

At Ferry-Bridge the Passage to prevent
From comming over Eyre, to keepe the other;
Gainst whom the Adverse, the Lord Clifford sent,
Who taking night his enterprise to smother:
The dawne yet dusky, passing through a Ford,
Puts them, and all their Souldiers to the Sword.

At the shrill noyse when Warwicke comming in,
And findes his Brother and Fitzwater dead,
Even as a man distracted that had bin:
Out of his face the lively coulour fled:
Doth cruell Clifford thus (quoth he) begin,

Warwicke vowes to revenge his brothers death.

For ev'ry drop of bloud that he hath shed,
This day, I'le make an Enemy to bleed,
Or never more in Battaile let me speed.

And to the King returning in this mood:
My Liege (quoth he) all mercy now defie,
Delay no longer to revenge their blood;
Whose mangled bodies breathlesse yonder lie:
And let the man that meanes King Edwards good
Stand fast to Warwick, who no more shall flie:
Resolv'd to winn, or bid the world adue,

Warwicks desperate resolution.

Which spoke, the Earle his sprightly Courser slue.

This resolution so extreamely wrought
Upon King Edward, that he gave command,
That on his side who willingly not fought,
Should have his leave, to quit him out of hand;
That ev'ry one should kill the man he cought,

No Quarter kept at Towton.

To keepe no Quarter, and who meant to stand
In his just cause, rewarded he would see,
This day he'll rise, or this day ruin'd be.

106

When neere to Towton on the spacious Playne
These puissant Armies, on Palme-Sunday met,
Where downe-right slaughter angry Heav'n doth rayne,

Towton field.

With clouds of Rage the Element is set:
The windes breath Fury, and the earth againe
With the hot gore of her owne Natives wet,
Sends up a smoke, which makes them all so mad,
Of neither part that mercy could be had.

One horrid sight another doth appall:
One fearefull crie another doth confound,
Murthers so thick upon each other fall,
That in one shreeke anothers shreeke is dround,
Whilst blood for blood incessantly doth call,
From the wide mouth of many a gaping wound;
Slaughter so soone growes big, that comm'n to birth,
The monstrous burthen over-loades the earth.

This bloody Tempest ten long houres doth last,
Whilst neither side could to it selfe assure
The Victory; but as their lot was cast,
With wounds and death they stoutly it endure,
Untill the valiant Yorkists at the last,
Although in number neere ten thousand fewer:
In their long Fight their forces mannage so,
That they before them lay their conquer'd foe.

Couragious Clifford first here fell to ground,
Into the throat with a blunt Arrow struck:
Here Westmerland receiv'd his deadly wound:

A miserable defect of the Queenes friends.

Here dy'd the stout Northumberland that stuck
Still to his Soveraigne; Wells and Dacres found
That they had lighted on King Henryes luck:
Trowlup and Horne two brave Commanders dead,
Whilst Summerset and Excester were fled:

The greatest slaughter in all that civill Warre.

Thirty two thousand in this Battaile slaine,
Many in strayts lye heap'd up like a wall:
The rest lye scatter'd round about the Playne,
And Cocke a River, though but very small,
Fill'd with those flying; doth so deeply stayne
The River Wharfe, in t'wich this Cocke doth fall,
As that the Fountaine which this flood doth feede,
Besides their blood, had seem'd for them to bleede.

107

King Henryes hopes thus utterly forlorne,
By the late losse of this unlucky day:
He feeles the Crowne (even) from his Temples torne
On his sword point, which Edward beares away:

The King and Queene forc'd to forsake the Land.

And since his fall the angry Fates had sworne,
He findes no comfort longer here to stay:
But leaving Yorke, he post to Barwick goes
With's Queene and Sonne, true partners in his woes.

The King for Scotland, and for France the Queene,
Divided hence, since them thus Fortune thwarts,
Before this time there seldome had beene seene,
Two to be sever'd with so heavy harts:
The Prince their sonne then standing them betweene,
Their song is sorrow, and they beare their parts:
He to the King of Scots, to get supplies,
Shee to the French King, and her Father flies.

Which well might showe a Princes slippery state,
For when she hether at the first came in,
England and France did her congratulate,
Then in two Battailes she had Conqueror bin,
Seeming to tread upon the Yorkists hate,
As from that day she had beene borne to win:
Now to sayle back with miseries farre more,
Then were her tryumphes landing here before.

This cruell blowe to the Lancastrians lent,
At fatall Towton that Palme-Sunday fight,
Where so much blood they prodigally spent,
To France and Scotland as inforc'd their flight,
Lifts up the Yorkists to their large extent,
And Edward now to see his Crowne sat right,
Proud in his spoyles, to London doth repaire,
And re-annoynted mounts th'Imperiall Chaire.

Where he a speedy Parliament doth passe,
T'annull those Lawes which had beene made before:
Gainst his succession, and dissolve the Masse
Of Treasons heapt on his, them to restore:
Whereby King Henry so much lesned was,
As after that he should subsist no more,
Little then thinking Lancaster againe
Now but an Exile over him should raine.

108

Where he attaints as Traitors to his Crowne,
John Earle of Oxford and his valient Sonne
Aubry De Vere, with whom likewise went downe,

The Earle of Oxford and his Sonne attainted.

Mountgomery, Teril, Tudenham who were done
To death; so Heaven on Henry seemes to frowne,
And Summerset King Edwards wrath to shunne,
Himselfe submitting is reciv'd to grace,
Such is Queene Margarits miserable case.

Henry in Scotland, the sad Queene the while,
Is left to France, to Lewis there to sue,
To lend her succour; scorning her exile,
In spight of Fate she will the warre renew,

Queene Margarit a woman of an undainted spirit.

She will tempt Fortune till againe she smile,
In such a pitch her mighty spirit still flew;
That should the world oppose her, yet that strength,
She hopes shall worke up her desires at length.

And with five thousand valient Volunteers,
Of native French, put under her Command,
With Armes well fitted she towards Scotland steeres,
With which before she possibly could land,

The Queene in every enterprise most unfortunate.

The wrath of Heaven upon this Queene appeares,
And with fierce Tempests strive her to withstand,
The windes make warre against her with her Foe,
Which Join'd together worke her overthrowe.

Her Forces thus infortunatly lost,
Which she in Scotland hop'd to have encreast,
And in this tempest she her selfe so tost,
As never Lady; yet she here not ceast,
But since she found her interprise thus crost,
She to the Scottish her faire course adrest,
Nor would desist till she had raisde agen,
Ten thousand valient well-appointed men.

And in upon Northumberland doth breake,
Rowzing the Sluggish villages from sleepe,
Bringing in Henry though a helpe but weake,
But leaves her Sonne in Barwicke safe to keepe;

Queene Margarit rayseth a new Army.

Her ratling Drummes so rough a language speake,
The ruffling Scots, and all the Countrey sweepe;
Which rumor ran so fast with, through the ayre,
That Edward thought it shooke his very Chaire.

109

And Somerset receiv'd to grace before,
With Sir Ralphe Percy from that fatall day
At Towton; found each minute more and more
How sad a fate on the Lancastrians lay,

Some that had submitted themselves to King Edward, revolt at king Henryes comming.

Yet hoping now King Henry to restore,
Who they suppos'd had new found out the way,
Revolt from Edward, and in Henrys name
Call in their frends, to ayde him as he came.

This noise of Warre arising from the North,
In Edwards eares re-ecchoing bidds him stirre,
And Rumour tells him if he made not forth,
Queene Margarit com'n he must resigne to her,
For they were Captaines of especiall worth,
On whom shee did this mighty charge conferre;
For that her Ensignes she at large displai'd,
And as shee came so still came in her ayde.

For which his much lov'd Montacute he sends
With Englands valient Infantry his Pheres;
To whose wise guidance, he this Warre commends,
His Souldiers expert pickt in sundry sheeres:
His utmost strength King Edward now extends,
Which he must doe, or drag'd downe by the eares
From his late-gotten, scarsely-setled Throne,
And one his shoulders shee remount thereon.

And Mountacute had scarsely march'd away,
But he himselfe sets forward with an Host,
And a strong Navy likewise doth purvay,
To scoure the Seas and keepe the Brittish Coast,

King Edward provideth to resist Queene Margarites comming in.

Fearing from France fresh succours every day,
To ayde Queene Margarit which perplex'd him most,
For he perceiv'd his Crowne sate not so sure,
But might be shak'd should she her Powers procure.

Now is the North fild with refulgent Armes,
Edwards are English, Scots Queen Margarit brings,
The Norths cold bosome, this great concourse warmes,
Their Quarrell is the right of two great Kings,
Which oft before have wrought each others harmes,
And from that Roote, new horror dayly springs,
And though much blood they both had spent before,
Yet not so much, but that there must be more.

110

At Hegly-Heath their skirmishes begin,
Where two bold Barons Hungerford and Rosse,
With Sir Ralph Percy, he who late had bin

The Conflict at Hegly More.

Leagu'd with King Edward, but then gotten lose,
(Strives by all meanes to expyate that sin)
To the Lancastrian faction cleaves so close,
That when those Barrons from that Conflict flie,
In Henry's right, he bravely dares to die.

Which leads along as tragicall an Act,
As since the Warres had ever yet beene playd;
For Mountacute b'ing fortunately backt
By brave King Edwards comming to his ayde:
As of their force King Henry little lackt,

The Battaile of Exham.

The Playne call'd Livells where the sceane was layde:
Not farre from Exham neere to Dowills flood,
That day discoloured with Lancastrians blood.

There struck they Battaile, Bowmen Bowmen plide,
Northerne to Southerne, slaughter ceaseth all;
Long the Fight lasted e'r that either side
Could tell to which the Victory would fall:
But to the Yorkists fortune is so tide,
That she must come when they shall please to call,
And in his Cradle Henry had the curse,
That where he was, that side had still the worse.

This lucklesse day by the Lancastrians lost,
Was Summerset surprized in his flight,
And in pursuing of this scatter'd Host,
On Mullins, Rosse, and Hungerford they light,

Queene Margarites party goes still to wrack.

Which this dayes worke e'r long full dearely cost;
And with these Lords were taken many a Knight,
Nor from their hands could Henry hardly shift,
Had not his guide beene, as his Horse was, swift.

Still must Queene Margarites miseries endure,
This Masse of sorrow markt out to sustaine:
For all the aydes this time she should procure,
Are either taken, put to flight, or slaine;
Of nothing else she can her selfe assure,
That she will leave her losses to complaine:
For since she sees that still her friends goe downe,
She will curse Fortune if she doe not frowne.

111

Henry to flye to Scotland back is faine,
To get to France, the wofull Queene is glad,
There with her Sonne inforced to remaine,
Till other aydes might thence againe be had;

King Henry and the Queen part.

So them their hard necessities constraine,
To set them downe that it doth make me sad,
Never so thicke came miseries I weene,
Upon a poore King, and a woofull Queene.

This done King Edward, his strong Army sends
To take those Castles which not long before,
Had beene deliverd to King Henrys friends,
Which he by siedges makes them to restore,
And on the Borders watchfully attends,
To Henries ayde that there should come no more,
But ô behold as one ordain'd to ill,
The Fate that followes haplesse Henry still.

For out of some deepe melancholly fitt,
Or otherwise, as falne into despaire,

King Henry comming disguised into England is discovered, and taken prisoner.

Or that he was not rightly in his witt,
Being safe in Scotland, and still succour'd there;
Upon the sudaine he abandons it,
And into England Idly entring, where
He is surprisde, and (in his enemies power)
Is by King Edward shut up in the Tower.

This hap had Henry, who when he was borne,

King Henry was borne the greatest of Christian Kings.

Of Christian Kings the greatest then alive,
Now he the Crowne full forty yeeres had worne,
Doth all his Regall Soveraignety survive;
Of all men living and the most forlorne,
So strange a thing can Destiny contrive:
So many sundry Miseries as he,
No King before, had ever liv'd to see.

To heare all this Queene Margarite must endure,
Yet sadly to her Fathers Court confinde,
And now King Edward held himselfe secure,
When things fell out so fittly to his minde,
But when of rest he did himselfe assure,
Upon a suddaine rose so rough a winde,
In his strong hand, which shooke his Scepter more,
Then all the stormes that ere had blowne before.

112

For then in minde to league himselfe with France,
Which he perceiv'd, would be the surest way,
His question'd Tytle highly to advance;

The pollicie of King Edward.

And at his need should serve him for a kay,
To open him their pollicies; whose chance
Was then in casting, and they next to play;
For Margarite still the French King Lewes prest
For second aydes, nor would she let him rest.

Wherefore he sends a marri'ge to entreat,
With beauteous Bona (with whose rich report

Warwick sent into France to intreat for a marriage betwixt King Edward and Bona, the French Queens sister.

Fame was opprest with, as a taske too great)
The French Queenes sister, and with her in Court,
Warwick the man chose forth to worke the feat,
Who is sent thither in most sumptuous sort,
And in short time so well his bus'nesse plies,
That she was like to prove an English prize.

The Dutchesse of Bedford after John her husbands decease, was wedded to Sir Rich. Woodvile Knight, whose daughter this Lady was.

In the meane while this youthfull King by chance,
Comming to Grafton, where the Dutchesse lay,
Then stil'd of Bedford; his eye haps to glance
On her bright daughter the faire Widdow Gray,
Whose beauties did his senses so intrance,
And stole his heart so suddainly away;
That must he loose his Crowne, come weale, come woe,
She must be his, though all the world say no.

Her lookes like Lethe make him to forget,
Upon what bus'nesse he had Warwick sent;
Upon this Lady he his love so set,
That should his Crowne from off his head be rent,
Or his rebellious people rise, to let
This choyse of his, they should it not prevent:
For those pure eyes his bosome that had pierc'd,
Had writ a Law there, not to be revers'd.

What lesse amends this Lady can I make,
For her deare Husband in my quarrell slaine;

Her husband slaine at Saint Albons on the Kings part.

Then lawfull marri'ge which for Justice sake,
I must performe (quoth he) lest she complaine,
For a just Prince, so me the world shall take:
Soothing himselfe up in this amorous vaine,
With his affections in this sort doth play,
Till he a Queene made the faire Lady Gray.

113

This act of Edwards com'n to Warwicks eare,
And that the sequell show'd it to be true,
In his sterne eyes it eas'ly might appeare,
His heart too great for his straight bosome grew,
He his Commission doth in piece-meale teare,
Breakes the broad Seale, and on the ground it threw,
And prayes blest heav'n may curse him, if that he
For this disgrace revenged would not be.

Have I (quoth he) so lifted thee aloft,

Warwick expressing the wrong done him by King Edward in the three following Stanzas.

That to thy Greatnesse I the scorne am growne:
Have I for thee adventur'd beene so oft,
In this long Warre, as to the world is knowne,
And now by thee thus basely am I scoft,
By this disgrace upon me thou hast throwne:
If these thy wrongs unpunish'd slightly passe,
Hold Warwick base, and falne from what he was.

Know tw'as the Nevils for thy Tytle stood,
Else long e'r this layd lower then the ground,
And in thy cause my Father shed his blood,
None of our house, for thee, but beares some wound,
And now at last to recompence this good,
Onely for me this Guerdon hast thou found;
From thy proud head, this hand shall pluck thy Crowne,
Or if thou stand, then needes must Warwick downe.

Yet he to England peaceably repaires,
And with a smooth browe smothers his intent,
And to the King relates the French affaires,
As what in Court had past there since he went:

Warwicke deeply dissembles his discontent.

His spleene he for a fitter season spares,
Till he the same more liberally might vent:
Calme was his countenance, and his language faire,
But in his breast a deepe revenge he bare.

Meane while Queene Margarite (a poore Exile) heares,
How things in England (in her absence) went,
Her halfe-burst heart, which but a little cheeres:
For from her head she felt the Crowne was rent,
Yet though farre off a little glimpse appeares,
A seeming hope, and though it faintly lent,
It might have said, had not the Fates said no,
These stormes at home, might her some profit blowe.

114

She heares how Warwick cunningly had wrought,
George Duke of

George, second brother to King Edward, and by him created Duke of Clarence.

Clarence from his brothers side,
And that brave Youth at Callice having caught
His eldest daughter had to him affide,
How to rebell the

Warwick by his Agents had stirred up this Rebellion in the North, he himselfe being at Callice, that it might seeme not to be done by him: they had to their Captaines Henry Fitzhoward, Henry Nevill, and Sir John Coniers.

Northerne men were brought,
And who by Warwick poynted was their guide,
As on the

The Earle of Penbroke and his brother Richard Herbert overthrowne at Banbury field.

Welch he had a mighty hand,
By Edward rais'd those Rebels to withstand.

Of new

These Rebels had to their Captaine, one whom they termed Robin of Redsdale.

Rebellions at Northampton rais'd,
And to dispight the King what they had done,
How they at Grafton the Earle

The Earle Rivers was Father to the Lady Gray, then Queene of England.

Rivers seas'd,
And Sir John Woodvile his most hopefull sonne,
Who with their heads could hardly be appeas'd,
And of the Fame by puissant Warwick wonne:
Who having taken

The Earle taketh the King prisoner at Woolvey in Warwickshire entring upon this Campe suddainly in the night.

Edward in his Tent,
His King his prisoner into Yorkshire sent.

Then heares againe how Edward had escapt,
And by his friends a greater power had got,
How he the men of

They had to their Captaine Robert Wells, sonne to the Lord Wells, this was called Loosecoate field.

Lincolneshire intrapt,
Who neere to Stamford pay'd a bloody shot:
And when the Earle his course for Callice shapt,
When England lastly grew for him too hot,

The Lord Vaucleere a Gascoigne borne.

Vaucleere who there his Deputy he put,
The Ports against his late grand Captaine shut.

Lastly, she heares that he at

A knowne Port Towne of Normandy.

Deepe arives,
And lately com'n to

A Towne where then the French King lay.

Amboyes to the Court,
Whereas King Lewes to his utmost strives,
To entertaine him in most Princely sort:
When the wise Queene her bus'nesse so contrives,
That she comes thither, small what though her port;
Yet brings along the sweet young Prince her sonne,
To prove what good with Warwick might be done.

When both in

Queen Margarite and the Earle of Warwick met in the Court of France.

Court, and presence of the King,
Their due respect to both of them that gave:
He will'd them in so pertinent a thing,
That they the like should of each other have:
The teares began from both their eyes to spring,
That each from other Pitty seem'd to crave,
In gracefull manner when the greeved Queene
Thus to that great Earle, gently breathes her spleene.

115

Warwick, saith shee, how mercilesse a Foe

The Queenes speech to the Earle in the foure following Stanzas.

Hast thou beene still to my poore Child and me.
That villaine Yorke which hast advanced so,
Which never could have risen but for thee;
That valour thou on Edward didst bestow,
O hadst thou show'd for him, thou here dost see,
Our Damaske Roses had adorn'd thy Crest,
And with their wreathes thy ragged Staves bene drest.

First, at Saint Albans, at Northampton then,
And fatall Towton that most fearefull fight,
How many, nay, what multitudes of men,
By thee fierce Warwick slaine and put to flight;
O if thy Sword that ever stood for ten,
Had but beene drawne for Henry, and his right,
He should have built thee Trophyes everywhere,
Wrought with our Crowne, supported by thy Beare.

What glory had it wonne the Nevils name,
To have upheld the right succeeding race,
Of that fift Henry, he that was of Fame

Baron Faulconbridge was brother to Richard Nevill Earle of Salisbury, and Richard Earle of Warwicke, and John Marquesse Mountacute were Sonnes to the said Earle.

The onely Mineon; whom thou now dost trace,
But Salisbury the first against us came,
Then Falconbridge, and Mountacute, ô base,
To advance a Traitor to his Soveraigne thus,
But to our Crowne your name is ominous.

How many a brave Peere, thy too neere Allies,
(Whose losse the Babe that's yet unborne shall rue)
Have made themselves, a willing Sacrifice
In our just quarrell, who it rightly knewe,
Whose blood gainst Yorke and his adherents cryes,
(Whom many a sad curse ever shall pursue:)
O Warwick, Warwick, expiat this gilt,
By shedding theirs for whom our blood was spilt.

When in like language, this great Earle againe
Regreets the Queene, and wooes her to forbeare,

Warwickes reply in the two following Stanzas.

Of former greefe one thought to entertaine;
Things are not now, quoth he, as once they were,
To talke of these past help, it is in vaine,
What though it ease your heart, and please your eare,
This is not it, no, it must be our Swords
Must right our wrongs (deare Lady) not our words.

116

Madam (quoth he) by this my vexed heart,
On Edwards head, which oft hath wish'd the Crowne,
Let but Queene Margarite cleave to Warwicks part,
This hand that heav'd him up shall hewe him downe,
And if from Henry, Richard Nevill start,
Upon my House let Heaven for ever frowne;
Or backe the Crowne to this young Prince Ile bring,
Or not be Warwick if he be not King.

Prince Edward affyed to Anne the Earle of Warwicks daughter.

When they accord, Prince Edward should affye,
Anne the Earles Daughter, to confirme it more,
By Sacrament themselves they strictly tye,
By Armes againe King Henry to restore,
Or in the Quarrell they would live and dye,
Comprising likewise in the oath they swore,
That the Earle and Clarence should Protectors be
When they King Henry and the Prince should free.

When soone great Warwick into England sends,

Warwicke makes preparation for a new Warre.

To warne his friends that they for Warre prepare,
King Henrys Title, and to them commends,
That they should take his cause into their care,
Now is the time that he must trie his freinds,
When he himselfe gainst Edward must declare;
And when much strife amongst the Commons rose,
Whom they should ayde, or whom they should oppose.

Furnish'd with all things well befitting Warre,
By great King Lewes to Queene Margarite lent,
Warwick (whose name Fame sounded had so farre,
That men with wonder view'd him as he went,

Warwicke so famous that he was seene with wonder.

Of all men living the most popular)
Thought ev'ry houre to be but idely spent,
On Englands troubled earth untill he were,
To view the troupes attending for him there.

And in his Army tooke with him along,
Oxford, and Penbrooke, who had beene destroy'd,
By Edward, sworne now to revenge their wrong,
By Burgoyne the French Admirall convoy'd,
At whose Arive the shores with people throng:
At sight of Warwick, and so overjoy'd,
That ev'ry one, a Warwick, Warwick cries,
Well may the Red-Rose by great Warwick rise.

117

Like some blacke cloud, which hovering lately hung
Thrust on at last by th'windes impetious power
The groves and fields, comes raging in among,
As though both foules and flockes it would devoure,

A Simele.

That those abroad make to the shelters strong
To save themselves from the outragious shower;
So fly the Yorkists before Warwicks Drumms
Like a sterne tempest roaring as he comes.

When Edward late who wore the costly Crowne,
Himselfe so high and one his Fortunes bore,
Then heard himselfe in every place cry'd downe,
And made much lesse, then he was great before,
Nor dares he trust himselfe in any Towne,
For in the In-lands as along the shore,
Their Proclamations him a Traytor make,
And each man chardg'd against him Armes to take.

For which the Washes he is forc'd to wade
And in much perill lastly gets to Lin,
(To save himselfe such shift King Edward made
For in more danger he had never bin)
Where finding three Dutch Hulks which lay for trade

Warwick driveth King Edward out of the Kingdom.

The greatest of them he hires to take him in,
Richard his brother, Hastings his true friend,
Scarse worth one sword their persons to defend.

When Warwick now the onely Prince of power,
Edward the fourth out of the Kingdome fled,
Commands himselfe free entrance to the Tower

Warwicke takes King Henry out of the Tower.

And sets th'Imperiall wreath on Henryes head,
Brings him through London to the Bishops bower,
By the applauding people followed,
Whose shrill re-eccowing shouts resound from farre
A Warwick, Warwick, long live Lancaster.

And presently, a Parliament they call,
In which they attaynt King Edward in his blood

King Edward and his adherents attainted by act of Parliament.

The lands and goods made forfeitures of all
That in this quarrell, with proud Yorke had stood,
Their friends in their old honours they install
Which they had lost, now by an act made good,
Intayle the Crowne, on Henry and his heyres,
The next on Clarence should they faile in theirs,

118

Whilst Warwick thus King Henry doth advance,
See but the Fate still following the sad Queene,
Such Stormes and Tempests in that season chance,
Before that time as seldome had bin seene,
That twice from Sea she was forc'd backe to France,
As angry heaven had put it selfe betweene
Her and her Joyes, and would a witnesse be
That naught but sorow, this sad Queene must see.

This might have lent her comfort yet at last,
So many troubles having undergone,

Queene Margarite never sees any thing that might give her comfort.

And having through so many perils past,
T'have seene her husband setled on his Throne,
Yet still the skies with clowds are overcast,
Well might she heare, but of this sees she none,
Which from farre off, as flying newes doth greet her,
Naught but mischance, when she comes in must meet her.

But all this while King Edward not dismay'd

The Duke of Burgondie Brother in Law to King Edward, so was he alied to King Henrie by his Grandmother being the daughter of John of Gaunt.

His Brother Charles of Burgondy so plyes,
That though the subtill Duke on both sides play'd
Edward and Henry both his neere Allies;
Upon the Duke King Edward yet so layd,
(Having his sisters furtherance, who was wise)
That underhand, his strength he so restores,
As that he dar'd t'attempt the English shores.

With foureteene Shipps from th'Easterlings being hir'd,
And foure Burgonians excellently man'd,
After some time with stormes and tempests tyr'd,
He neere the mouth of Humber haps to land,
Where though the Beacons at his sight were fir'd,
Yet few or none his entrance doe withstand,
For that his frends had given it out before,
He sought the Dukedome, and he would no more.

Upon his march when forward as he came,

Yorke yeelded up to King Edward.

Resolv'd to trie the very worst of warre,
He Summons Yorke (whereof he bare the name)
To him her Duke, her Gates that doth unbarre,
And comming next to Rocke-reard Nottingham,
Mountgomery, Borough, Harrington & Par

Succours comming in to Edward.

Bring him their power; at Lecester againe,
Three thousand came, to Hastings that retaine.

119

To Coventry and keeping on his way,
(Sets downe his Army in the Citties sight)
Whereas that time the Earle of Warwick lay,
To whom he sends to dare him out to fight,

King Edward setts downe his Armie before Coventry, daring Warwicke to the field.

Which still the Earle deferrs from day to day,
Perceiving well, that all things went not right,
For with his succours Clarence came not in,
Whom to suspect he greatly doth beginne.

And not in vaine, for that disloyall Lord,
Taking those Forces he had levied, leaves
The Earle, and with his Brother doth accord,

Clarence revoults from his father in Lawe the Earle of Warwicke.

Which of all hope brave Warwick so bereaves;
That now King Edward hopes to be restor'd,
Which then too late the credulous Earle perceives,
Edward towards London with his Army sped,
To take the Crowne once more from Henries head.

The Queene in France this wofull newes that heard,
How farre through England Edward thus had past;
As how by Clarence (whom she ever fear'd)
Warwick behind hand mightily was cast,
This most undaunted Queene her hopes yet cheer'd,
By those great perills shee had lately past,
And from King Lewes doth three thousand presse,
To ayde her freinds in England in distresse.

Whilst she is busie gathering up those Aydes,
(In so short time) as France could her afforde,
Corragious Warwick basely thus betray'd

Warwicke followes the King towards London.

By Clarence lewdly falsifying his word,
The most coragious Earle no whitt dismayde,
But trusting still to his successefull Sword,
Followes the King, towards London march'd before,
Each day his Power increasing more and more.

But Edward by the Londoners let in,
Who in their Gates his Army tooke to guard,
Warwick this while that trifling had not bin,
But with a Power sufficiently prepar'd
T'approch the Citty bravely doth begin

King Edward setts out of London to meete Warwicke.

To dare the King, who lately him had dar'd,
Who then from London his arm'd Forces leades,
Towards where his march ambitious Warwick treads.

120

From London this, that from Saint Albans sett,
These two grand Souldiers shouldring for the Crowne,
They in the mid-way are at Barnet met,

The Armies meet at Barnet.

Where then they set their puissant Armies downe,
Warwick as neere as ever he could get,
But Edward onely taketh up the Towne;
Betwixt whose Tents a Heath calld Gladmoore lyes,
Where they prepare to act this bloody prize.

With Drums and Trumpets they awake the day,
Muffled in mists her lowring selfe that showes,
To stop their madnesse doing all it may,
Knowing what blood her light was like to lose:
But hope of slaughter beares so great a sway
That with the Sunne their rage still higher growes,
Full were their hands of death, so freely dealt,
That the most mortall wounds, the least were felt.

The adverse Ensignes to each other wave,
(As t'were) to call them forward to the field,
The King the Earle, the Earle the King doth brave,
Nor cares he for the

The Armes of England.

Leopards in his Sheild;
And whilst one freind another strives to save,
Hee's slaine himselfe, if not, enforc'd to yeeld,
In either Army there is not one eye,
But is spectator of some Tragedy.

Those wrongs the King had from the Earle receiv'd,
Expulst the Kingdome onely by his power,
Even to the height his powerfull hand up-heav'd,
For full revenge in this unhappy howre,
And by the King, the Earle his hopes bereav'd,
Sheltred by him from many a bloody shower,
Spurres up Revenge, and with that violent rage,
That scarsely blood, their fury could asswage.

Warwick who sees his Souldiers had the worse,
And at a neere point to be put to flight,

Warwickes high valour.

Throwing himselfe from of his armed Horse,
Thrusts in on foote into the deadliest fight,
Edward againe with an unusuall force,
In his owne person in the Armies sight,
Puts for the Garland, which if now he lose,
Warwick his Crowne at pleasure would dispose.

121

To Edwards side, but Fortune doth encline,
Warwicks high valour then was but in vaine;
His noble soule there destin'd to resigne,
Brave Mountacute his valiant brother slaine:

The Earle of Warwicke and his brother Marquesse Mountacute slaine.

Here Somerset (with them that did combine)
Forced to flye, and Excester is faine
To save himselfe by Sanctuary; this day
Edward's victorious, and beares all away.

This fatall field unluckily thus lost,
That very day so Destinie contrives,

That very day that Warwicke was slaine, the Queene lands.

That the griev'd Queene at Sea turmoyl'd and tost
Neere twenty dayes, in Weymouth Road arives,
Where scarcely landed, but Post after Post
Brings her this ill newes, which so farre deprives
Her of all comfort, that shee curst and band
Those plaguy windes that suffered her to land.

Wert thou (quoth she) so fortunate in fight

The Queenes speech hearing of Warwicks defeat in the three following Stanzas.

O noble Warwick, when thou wert our foe,
And now thou stood'st in our indoubted right,
And should'st for Henry thy high valour showe
Thus to be slaine; what Power in our dispight
Watcheth from heav'n upon our overthrowe?
Th'unlucky Starres have certainly made lawes,
To marke for Death the favourers of our cause.

O what Infernall brought that Edward back,
So late expell'd by Warwicks powerfull hand,
Was there no way his rotten Ship to wrack?
Was there no Rock? was there no swallowing sand?
And too, the wretched Subjects were so slack,
To suffer him so trayterously to land;
Surely whole heav'n against us have conspir'd,
Or in our troubles they had else beene ty'rd.

Was I for this so long detayn'd in France,
From ragefull Tempests, and reserv'd till now,
That I should land, to meete with this mischance:
It must needes be, the Powers have made a vowe,
Up to that height my sorrowes to advance,
That before mine all miseries shall bowe:
That all the sorrow mortalls can surmise,
Shall fall farre short of Margarites miseries.

122

These words scarse spoke, her halfe-slaine heart to ease,
But the least breath of comfort to prevent
The next ill newes, in rushing after these,

Cause of new sorrow to the Queene.

Was that King Henry to the Tower was sent,
(As though it selfe (even) Destiny should please,
In wretched Margarites heavy discontent)
Thrunging so thicke as like themselves to smoother,
Or as one ranne, to overtake another.

Those scattred Troopes from Barnet that escap'd,
Hearing the Queene thus Landed with her power,
Though much dismay'd with what had lately hapt,

The remnant of the Army which escaped at Barnet resort to the Queene.

On Gore-drown'd Gladmore in that bloody shower,
And fearing by the Foe to be entrapt:
Through untrod grounds, in many a tedious hower,
Flocke to her dayly, till that by their ayde,
Equall with Edwards they her Army made.

When Somerset and Devonshire came in

The Queene encouraged by her friends.

To the sad Queene, and bad her not despaire,
Though they of late infortunate had bin,
Yet there was helpe that Ruine to repaire,
What they had lost they hop'd againe to winne,
And that the way lay open yet, and faire,
For that the West would wholly with her rise,
Besides from Walles assur'd her of Supplies.

And every day still adding to their Force;
As on their Host tow'rds Glocester they guide,
When Edward finding their intended course,
Againe for Battell strongly doth provide,
Both Armies they supply with Foote and Horse,
By both their friends, as they affect the side,

The Armies meet at Tewcksbury.

And in their march at Tewksbury they mett,
Where they in Order their Battalions set.

Ill was her choise of this uneven ground,
Lucklesse the place, unlucky was the howre,

A place ill chosen on the Queenes part.

The Heavens upon her so extreamely fround,
As one her head their plagues at once to powre;
As in a Deluge here her hopes were drown'd,
Here sees shee death her faithfull freinds devoure,
The earth is fill'd with grones, the ayre with cryes,
Horror on each side doth enclose her eyes.

123

Never did death so terrible appeare,
Since first their Armes the English learnt to weeld,
Who would see slaughter, might behold it heere
In the true shape upon this fatall field,
In vaine was valour, and in vaine was feare,

A bloody battell.

In vaine to fight, in vaine it was to yeeld,
In vaine to fly; for destiny discust,
By their owne hands, or others, dye they must.

Here her deare Devonshiere noble Courtney dyde,

The Queenes army overthrowne.

Her faithfull friend great Summerset here fell,
Delves, Leuknor, Hamden, Whittingham beside,
O Margarite, who thy miseries can tell!
Sharpe were those swords which made their wounds so wide,
Whose blood the soyle did with th'abundance swell,
Other her friends into the Towne that fled
Taken, no better then the former sped.

But the amazing misery of all
As heaven the greatst untill the last had kept,
As it would say, that after this none shall
By mortall eyes be worthy to be wept,
The Prince her sonne who sees his friends thus fall
And on each side their carcases lye heapt,

Prince Edward taken Prisoner.

Making away in this most piteous plight,
Is taken prisoner in his tardy flight.

And forth by Crofts before the Conquerour brought

Upon the Kings proclamation of a great reward to him that could bring him in; as also of the Princes safety, Sir Richard Crofts is wonne to discover his prisoner. Prince Edward stab'd to death.

His Proclamations cleering every doubt,
Of the youths safety: living were he caught,
As a reward to him should bring him out;
But when they once had found him whom they sought
Hearing his answeres, Princely, wise, and stout,
Those bloody brothers, Hastings, and the rest,
Sheath'd their sharpe Ponyards in his manly breast.

Queene Margarite thus of mortalls most forlorne
Her sonne now slaine, her army overthrowne
Left to the world as fortunes only scorne
And not one friend to whom to make her moane
(To so much woe was never woman borne)
This wretched Lady wandring all alone
Getts to a homely Cell not farre away

Queene Margaret gets into a poore Cell

If possibly to hide her from the day.

124

But wretched woman quickly there bewray'd,
She thence is taken and to Prison sent,
Meanely attended, miserably array'd,
The people wondring at her as she went,
Of whom the most malicious, her upbray'd
With good Duke Humphres death, her heart to rent,
Whilst her milde lookes, and Gracefull gesture drue
Many a sad eye, her miseries to rue.

Lewes King of France.

Till by Duke Rayner Ransomed at last,
Her tender Father, who a Prince but poore,
Borow'd great Summes of Lewes, with much wast,
Which for he was not able to restore,
Province and both the Cicils, to him past,

Duke Raynor undoeth himself to ransome his Daughter.

With fruitfull Naples, which was all his store;
To bring her backe, from earthly joyes exil'd,
The undone father, helpes the undone Child.

And though enlarg'd ere she could leave the land
Making a long yeere of each short-liv'd houre,

The Earle of Glocester, after Richard the third.

She heares that by Duke Richards murthering hand
The King her husband suffers in the Towre
As though high heaven had laid a strict command,
Upon each starre, some plague on her to powre:
And untill now that nothing could suffice
Nor give a period to her Miseryes.

FINIS.

125

NIMPHIDIA, THE COURT OF FAYRIE.

Olde Chaucer doth of Topas tell,
Mad Rablais of Pantagruell,
A latter third of Dowsabell,
With such poore trifles playing:
Others the like have laboured at
Some of this thing, and some of that,
And many of they know not what,
But that they must be saying.

Another sort there bee, that will
Be talking of the Fayries still,
Nor never can they have their fill,
As they were wedded to them;
No Tales of them their thirst can slake,
So much delight therein they take,
And some strange thing they faine would make,
Knew they the way to doe them.

Then since no Muse hath bin so bold,
Or of the Later, or the ould,
Those Elvish secrets to unfold,
Which lye from others reeding,
My active Muse to light shall bring,
The court of that proud Fayry King,
And tell there, of the Revelling,
Jove prosper my proceeding.

And thou Nimphidia gentle Fay,
Which meeting me upon the way,
These secrets didst to me bewray,
Which now I am in telling:
My pretty light fantastick mayde,
I here invoke thee to my ayde,
That I may speake what thou hast sayd,
In numbers smoothly swelling.

126

This Pallace standeth in the Ayre,
By Nigromancie placed there,
That it no Tempests needs to feare,
Which way so ere it blow it.
And somewhat Southward tow'rd the Noone,
Whence lyes a way up to the Moone,
And thence the Fayrie can as soone
Passe to the earth below it.

The Walls of Spiders legs are made,
Well mortized and finely layd,
He was the master of his Trade,
It curiously that builded:
The Windowes of the eyes of Cats,
And for the Roofe, instead of Slats,
Is cover'd with the skinns of Batts,
With Mooneshine that are guilded.

Hence Oberon him sport to make,
(Their rest when weary mortalls take)
And none but onely Fayries wake,
Desendeth for his pleasure.
And Mab his merry Queene by night
Bestrids young Folks that lye upright,
(In elder Times the Mare that hight)
Which plagues them out of measure.

Hence Shaddowes, seeming Idle shapes,
Of little frisking Elves and Apes,
To Earth doe make their wanton skapes,
As hope of pastime hasts them:
Which maydes think on the Hearth they see,
When Fyers well nere consumed be,
Their daunsing Hayes by two and three,
Just as their Fancy casts them.

127

These make our Girles their sluttery rue,
By pinching them both blacke and blew,
And put a penny in their shue,
The house for cleanely sweeping:
And in their courses make that Round,
In Meadowes, and in Marshes found,
Of them so call'd the Fayrie ground,
Of which they have the keeping.

These when a Childe haps to be gott,
Which after prooves an Ideott,
When Folke perceive it thriveth not,
The fault therein to smother:
Some silly doting brainelesse Calfe,
That understands things by the halfe,
Say that the Fayrie left this Aulfe,
And tooke away the other.

But listen and I shall you tell,
A chance in Fayrie that befell,
Which certainely may please some well;
In Love and Armes delighting:
Of Oberon that Jealous grewe,
Of one of his owne Fayrie crue,
Too well (he fear'd) his Queene that knew,
His love but ill requiting.

Pigwiggen was this Fayrie knight,
One wondrous gratious in the sight
Of faire Queene Mab, which day and night,
He amorously observed;
Which made king Oberon suspect,
His Service tooke too good effect,
His saucinesse, and often checkt,
And could have wisht him starved.

128

Pigwiggen gladly would commend,
Some token to queene Mab to send,
If Sea, or Land, him ought could lend,
Were worthy of her wearing:
At length this Lover doth devise,
A Bracelett made of Emmotts eyes,
A thing he thought that shee would prize,
No whitt her state impayring.

And to the Queene a Letter writes,
Which he most curiously endites,
Conjuring her by all the rites
Of love, she would be pleased,
To meete him her true Servant, where
They might without suspect or feare,
Themselves to one another cleare,
And have their poore hearts eased.

At mid-night the appointed hower,
And for the Queene a fitting Bower,
(Quoth he) is that faire Cowslip flower,
On Hipcut hill that groweth,
In all your Trayne there's not a Fay,
That ever went to gather May,
But she hath made it in her way,
The tallest there that groweth.

When by Tom Thum a Fayrie Page,
He sent it, and doth him engage,
By promise of a mighty wage,
It secretly to carrie:
Which done, the Queene her Maydes doth call,
And bids them to be ready all,
She would goe see her Summer Hall,
She could no longer tarrie.

129

Her Chariot ready straight is made,
Each thing therein is fitting layde,
That she by nothing might be stayde,
For naught must her be letting,
Foure nimble Gnats the Horses were,
Their Harnasses of Gossamere,
Flye Cranion her Chariottere,
Upon the Coach-box getting.

Her Chariot of a Snayles fine shell,
Which for the colours did excell:
The faire Queene Mab, becomming well,
So lively was the limming:
The seate the soft wooll of the Bee;
The cover (gallantly to see)
The wing of a pyde Butterflee,
I trowe t'was simple trimming.

The wheeles compos'd of Crickets bones,
And daintily made for the nonce,
For feare of ratling on the stones,
With Thistle-downe they shod it;
For all her Maydens much did feare,
If Oberon had chanc'd to heare,
That Mab his Queene should have bin there,
He would not have aboad it.

She mounts her Chariot with a trice,
Nor would she stay for no advice,
Untill her Maydes that were so nice,
To wayte on her were fitted,
But ranne her selfe away alone;
Which when they heard there was not one,
But hasted after to be gone,
As she had beene diswitted.

130

Hop, and Mop, and Drop so cleare,
Pip, and Trip, and Skip that were,
To Mab their Soveraigne ever deare:
Her speciall Maydes of Honour;
Fib, and Tib, and Pinck, and Pin,
Tick, and Quick, and Jill, and Jin,
Tit, and Nit, and Wap, and Win,
The Trayne that wayte upon her.

Upon a Grashopper they got,
And what with Amble, and with Trot,
For hedge nor ditch they spared not,
But after her they hie them.
A Cobweb over them they throw,
To shield the winde if it should blowe,
Themselves they wisely could bestowe,
Lest any should espie them.

But let us leave Queene Mab a while,
Through many a gate, o'r many a stile,
That now had gotten by this wile,
Her deare Pigwiggin kissing,
And tell how Oberon doth fare,
Who grewe as mad as any Hare,
When he had sought each place with care,
And found his Queene was missing.

By grisly Pluto he doth sweare,
He rent his cloths, and tore his haire,
And as he runneth, here and there,
An Acorne cup he greeteth;
Which soone he taketh by the stalke
About his head he lets it walke,
Nor doth he any creature balke,
But layes on all he meeteth.

131

The Thuskan Poet doth advance,
The franticke Paladine of France,
And those more ancient doe inhaunce,
Alcides in his fury.
And others Ajax Telamon,
But to this time there hath bin non,
So Bedlam as our Oberon,
Of which I dare assure you.

And first encountring with a waspe,
He in his armes the Fly doth claspe
As though his breath he forth would graspe,
Him for Pigwiggen taking:
Where is my wife thou Rogue, quoth he,
Pigwiggen, she is come to thee,
Restore her, or thou dy'st by me,
Whereat the poore waspe quaking,

Cryes, Oberon, great Fayrie King,
Content thee I am no such thing,
I am a Waspe behold my sting,
At which the Fayrie started:
When soone away the Waspe doth goe,
Poore wretch was never frighted so,
He thought his wings were much to slow,
O'rjoyd, they so were parted.

He next upon a Glow-worme light,
(You must suppose it now was night,
Which for her hinder part was bright,
He tooke to be a Devill.
And furiously doth her assaile,
For carrying fier in her taile,
He thrasht her rough coat with his flayle,
The mad King fea'rd no evill.

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O quoth the Gloworme, hold thy hand,
Thou puisant King of Fayrie land,
Thy mighty stroaks who may withstand,
Hould, or of life despaire I:
Together then her selfe doth roule,
And tumbling downe into a hole,
She seem'd as black as any Cole,
Which vext away the Fayrie.

From thence he ran into a Hive,
Amongst the Bees hee letteth drive
And downe their Coombes begins to rive,
All likely to have spoyled:
Which with their Waxe his face besmeard,
And with their Honey daub'd his Beard,
It would have made a man afeard,
To see how he was moyled.

A new Adventure him betides,
He mett an Ant, which he bestrides,
And post thereon away he rides,
Which with his haste doth stumble;
And came full over on her snowte,
Her heels so threw the durt about,
For she by no meanes could get out,
But over him doth tumble,

And being in this piteous case,
And all be-slurried head and face,
On runs he in this Wild-goose chase,
As here, and there, he rambles,
Halfe blinde, against a molehill hit,
And for a Mountaine taking it,
For all he was out of his wit,
Yet to the top he scrambles.

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And being gotten to the top,
Yet there himselfe he could not stop,
But downe on th'other side doth chop,
And to the foot came rumbling:
So that the Grubs therein that bred,
Hearing such turmoyle over head,
Thought surely they had all bin dead,
So fearefull was the Jumbling.

And falling downe into a Lake,
Which him up to the neck doth take,
His fury somewhat it doth slake,
He calleth for a Ferry;
Where you may some recovery note,
What was his Club he made his Boate,
And in his Oaken Cup doth float,
As safe as in a Wherry.

Men talke of the Adventures strange,
Of Don Quishott, and of their change,
Through which he Armed oft did range,
Of Sancha Panchas travell:
But should a man tell every thing,
Done by this franticke Fayrie King,
And them in lofty Numbers sing
It well his wits might gravell.

Scarse set on shore, but therewithall,
He meeteth Pucke, which most men call
Hobgoblin, and on him doth fall,
With words from frenzy spoken;
Hoh, hoh, quoth Hob, God save thy grace,
Who drest thee in this pitteous case,
He thus that spoild my soveraignes face,
I would his necke were broken.

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This Puck seemes but a dreaming dolt,
Still walking like a ragged Colt,
And oft out of a Bush doth bolt,
Of purpose to deceive us.
And leading us makes us to stray,
Long Winters nights out of the way,
And when we stick in mire and clay,
Hob doth with laughter leave us.

Deare Puck (quoth he) my wife is gone,
As ere thou lov'st King Oberon,
Let every thing but this alone,
With vengeance, and pursue her;
Bring her to me alive or dead,
Or that vilde thiefe, Pigwiggins head,
That villaine hath defil'd my bed,
He to this folly drew her.

Quoth Puck, My Liege Ile never lin,
But I will thorough thicke and thinne,
Untill at length I bring her in,
My dearest Lord nere doubt it:
Thorough Brake, thorough Brier,
Thorough Muck, thorough Mier,
Thorough Water, thorough Fier,
And thus goes Puck about it.

This thing Nimphidia over hard,
That on this mad King had a guard,
Not doubting of a great reward,
For first this businesse broching;
And through the ayre away doth goe
Swift as an Arrow from the Bowe,
To let her Soveraigne Mab to know,
What perill was approching.

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The Queene bound with Loves powerfulst charme
Sate with Pigwiggen arme in arme,
Her merry Maydes that thought no harme,
About the roome were skipping:
A Humble-Bee their Minstrell, playde
Upon his Hoboy; ev'ry Mayde
Fit for this Revells was arayde,
The Hornepype neatly tripping.

In comes Nimphidia, and doth crie,
My Soveraigne for your safety flie,
For there is danger but too nie,
I posted to forewarne you:
The King hath sent Hobgoblin out,
To seeke you all the Fields about,
And of your safety you may doubt,
If he but once discerne you.

When like an uprore in a Towne,
Before them every thing went downe,
Some tore a Ruffe, and some a Gowne,
Gainst one another justling:
They flewe about like Chaffe i'th winde,
For hast some left their Maskes behinde;
Some could not stay their Gloves to finde,
There never was such bustling.

Forth ranne they by a secret way,
Into a brake that neere them lay;
Yet much they doubted there to stay,
Lest Hob should hap to finde them:
He had a sharpe and piercing sight,
All one to him the day and night,
And therefore were resolv'd by flight,
To leave this place behinde them.

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At length one chanc'd to finde a Nut,
In th'end of which a hole was cut,
Which lay upon a Hazell roote,
There scattred by a Squirill:
Which out the kernell gotten had;
When quoth this Fay deare Queene be glad,
Let Oberon be ne'r so mad,
Ile set you safe from perill.

Come all into this Nut (quoth she)
Come closely in, be rul'd by me,
Each one may here a chuser be,
For roome yee neede not wrastle:
For neede yee be together heapt;
So one by one therein they crept,
And lying downe they soundly slept,
And safe as in a Castle.

Nimphidia that this while doth watch,
Perceiv'd if Puck the Queene should catch,
That he would be her over-match,
Of which she well bethought her;
Found it must be some powerfull Charme,
The Queene against him that must arme,
Or surely he would doe her harme,
For throughly he had sought her.

And listning if she ought could heare
That her might hinder, or might feare:
But finding still the coast was cleare,
Nor creature had discride her;
Each circumstance and having scand,
She came thereby to understand,
Puck would be with them out of hand,
When to her Charmes she hide her:

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And first her Ferne seede doth bestowe,
The kernell of the Missletowe:
And here and there as Puck should goe,
With terrour to affright him:
She Night-shade strawes to work him ill,
Therewith her Vervayne and her Dill,
That hindreth Witches of their will,
Of purpose to dispight him.

Then sprinkles she the juice of Rue,
That groweth underneath the Yeu:
With nine drops of the midnight dewe,
From Lunarie distilling:
The Molewarps braine mixt therewithall;
And with the same the Pismyres gall,
For she in nothing short would fall;
The Fayrie was so willing.

Then thrice under a Bryer doth creepe,
Which at both ends was rooted deepe,
And over it three times shee leepe;
Her Magicke much avayling:
Then on Prosperpyna doth call,
And so upon her Spell doth fall,
Which here to you repeate I shall,
Not in one tittle fayling.

By the croking of the Frogge;
By the howling of the Dogge;
By the crying of the Hogge,
Against the storme arising;
By the Evening Curphewe bell,
By the dolefull dying knell,
O let this my direfull Spell,
Hob, hinder thy surprising.

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By the Mandrakes dreadfull groanes;
By the Lubricans sad moanes;
By the noyse of dead mens bones,
In Charnell houses ratling:
By the hissing of the Snake,
The rustling of the fire-Drake,
I charge thee thou this place forsake,
Nor of Queene Mab be pratling.

By the Whirlewindes hollow sound,
By the Thunders dreadfull stound,
Yells of Spirits under ground,
I chardge thee not to feare us:
By the Shreech-owles dismall note,
By the Blacke Night-Ravens throate,
I charge thee Hob to teare thy Coate
With thornes if thou come neere us.

Her Spell thus spoke she stept aside,
And in a Chincke her selfe doth hide,
To see there of what would betyde,
For shee doth onely minde him:
When presently shee Puck espies,
And well she markt his gloating eyes,
How under every leafe he pries,
In seeking still to finde them.

But once the Circle got within,
The Charmes to worke doe straight begin,
And he was caught as in a Gin;
For as he thus was busie,
A paine he in his Head-peece feeles,
Against a stubbed Tree he reeles,
And up went poore Hobgoblins heeles,
Alas his braine was dizzie.

139

At length upon his feet he gets,
Hobgoblin fumes, Hobgoblin frets,
And as againe he forward sets,
And through the Bushes scrambles;
A Stump doth trip him in his pace,
Downe comes poore Hob upon his face,
And lamentably tore his case,
Amongst the Bryers and Brambles.

A plague upon Queene Mab, quoth hee,
And all her Maydes where ere they be,
I thinke the Devill guided me,
To seeke her so provoked:
Where stumbling at a piece of Wood,
He fell into a dich of mudd,
Where to the very Chin he stood,
In danger to be choked.

Now worse then e're he was before:
Poore Puck doth yell, poore Puck doth rore;
That wak'd Queene Mab who doubted sore
Some Treason had beene wrought her:
Untill Nimphidia told the Queene
What she had done, what she had seene,
Who then had well-neere crack'd her spleene
With very extreame laughter.

But leave we Hob to clamber out:
Queene Mab and all her Fayrie rout,
And come againe to have about
With Oberon yet madding:
And with Pigwiggen now distrought,
Who much was troubled in his thought,
That he so long the Queene had sought,
And through the Fields was gadding.

140

And as he runnes he still doth crie,
King Oberon I thee defie,
And dare thee here in Armes to trie,
For my deare Ladies honour:
For that she is a Queene right good,
In whose defence Ile shed my blood,
And that thou in this jealous mood
Hast lay'd this slander on her.

And quickly Armes him for the Field,
A little Cockle-shell his Shield,
Which he could very bravely wield:
Yet could it not be pierced:
His Speare a Bent both stiffe and strong,
And well-neere of two Inches long;
The Pyle was of a Horse-flyes tongue,
Whose sharpnesse naught reversed.

And puts him on a coate of Male,
Which was of a Fishes scale,
That when his Foe should him assaile,
No poynt should be prevayling:
His Rapier was a Hornets sting,
It was a very dangerous thing:
For if he chanc'd to hurt the King,
It would be long in healing.

His Helmet was a Bettles head,
Most horrible and full of dread,
That able was to strike one dead,
Yet did it well become him:
And for a plume, a horses hayre,
Which being tossed with the ayre,
Had force to strike his Foe with feare,
And turne his weapon from him.

141

Himselfe he on an Earewig set,
Yet scarce he on his back could get,
So oft and high he did corvet,
Ere he himselfe could settle:
He made him turne, and stop, and bound,
To gallop, and to trot the Round,
He scarce could stand on any ground,
He was so full of mettle.

When soone he met with Tomalin,
One that a valiant Knight had bin,
And to King Oberon of Kin;
Quoth he thou manly Fayrie:
Tell Oberon I come prepar'd,
Then bid him stand upon his Guard;
This hand his basenesse shall reward,
Let him be ne'r so wary.

Say to him thus, that I defie,
His slanders, and his infamie,
And as a mortall enemie,
Doe publickly proclaime him:
Withall, that if I had mine owne,
He should not weare the Fayrie Crowne,
But with a vengeance should come downe:
Nor we a King should name him

This Tomalin could not abide,
To heare his Soveraigne vilefide:
But to the Fayrie Court him hide;
Full furiously he posted,
With ev'ry thing Pigwiggen sayd:
How title to the Crowne he layd,
And in what Armes he was aray'd,
As how himselfe he boasted.

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Twixt head and foot, from point to point,
He told th'arming of each joynt,
In every piece, how neate, and quaint,
For Tomalin could doe it:
How fayre he sat, how sure he rid,
As of the courser he bestrid,
How Mannag'd, and how well he did;
The King which listened to it,

Quoth he, goe Tomalin with speede,
Provide me Armes, provide my Steed,
And every thing that I shall neede,
By thee I will be guided;
To strait account, call thou thy witt,
See there be wanting not a whitt,
In every thing see thou mee fitt,
Just as my foes provided.

Soone flew this newes through Fayrie land,
Which gave Queene Mab to understand,
The combate that was then in hand,
Betwixt those men so mighty:
Which greatly she began to rew,
Perceiving that all Fayrie knew,
The first occasion from her grew,
Of these affaires so weighty.

Wherefore attended with her maides,
Through fogs, and mists, and dampes she wades,
To Proserpine the Queene of shades
To treat, that it would please her,
The cause into her hands to take,
For ancient love and friendships sake,
And soone thereof an end to make,
Which of much care would ease her.

143

A while, there let we Mab alone,
And come we to King Oberon,
Who arm'd to meete his foe is gone,
For proud Pigwiggen crying:
Who sought the Fayrie King as fast,
And had so well his journeys cast,
That he arrived at the last,
His puisant foe espying:

Stout Tomalin, came with the King,
Tom Thum doth on Pigwiggen bring,
That perfect were in every thing,
To single fights belonging:
And therefore they themselves ingage,
To see them excercise their rage,
With faire and comly equipage,
Not one the other wronging.

So like in armes, these champions were,
As they had bin, a very paire,
So that a man would almost sweare,
That either, had bin either;
Their furious steedes began to naye
That they were heard a mighty way,
Their staves upon their rests they lay,
Yet e'r they flew together;

Their Seconds minister an oath,
Which was indifferent to them both,
That on their Knightly faith, and troth,
No magicke them supplyed;
And sought them that they had no charmes,
Wherewith to worke, each others harmes,
But came with simple open armes,
To have their causes tryed.

144

Together furiously they ran,
That to the ground came horse and man,
The blood out of their Helmets span,
So sharpe were their incounters;
And though they to the earth were throwne,
Yet quickly they regain'd their owne,
Such nimblenesse was never showne,
They were two Gallant Mounters.

When in a second Course againe,
They forward came with might and mayne,
Yet which had better of the twaine,
The Seconds could not judge yet;
Their shields were into pieces cleft,
Their helmets from their heads were reft,
And to defend them nothing left,
These Champions would not budge yet.

Away from them their Staves they threw,
Their cruell Swords they quickly drew,
And freshly they the fight renew;
They every stroke redoubled:
Which made Proserpina take heed,
And make to them the greater speed,
For feare lest they too much should bleed,
Which wondrously her troubled.

When to th'infernall Stix she goes,
She takes the Fogs from thence that rose,
And in a Bagge doth them enclose;
When well she had them blended:
She hyes her then to Lethe spring,
A Bottell and thereof doth bring,
Wherewith she meant to worke the thing,
Which onely she intended.

145

Now Proserpine with Mab is gone
Unto the place where Oberon
And proud Pigwiggen, one to one,
Both to be slaine were likely:
And there themselves they closely hide,
Because they would not be espide;
For Proserpine meant to decide
The matter very quickly.

And suddainly untyes the Poke,
Which out of it sent such a smoke,
As ready was them all to choke,
So greevous was the pother;
So that the Knights each other lost,
And stood as still as any post,
Tom Thum, nor Tomalin could boast
Themselves of any other.

But when the mist gan somewhat cease,
Proserpina commandeth peace:
And that a while they should release,
Each other of their perill:
Which here (quoth she) I doe proclaime
To all in dreadfull Plutos name,
That as yee will eschewe his blame,
You let me heare the quarrell,

But here your selves you must engage,
Somewhat to coole your spleenish rage:
Your greevous thirst and to asswage,
That first you drinke this liquor:
Which shall your understanding cleare,
As plainely shall to you appeare;
Those things from me that you shall heare,
Conceiving much the quicker.

146

This Lethe water you must knowe,
The memory destroyeth so,
That of our weale, or of our woe,
It all remembrance blotted;
Of it nor can you ever thinke:
For they no sooner tooke this drinke;
But nought into their braines could sinke,
Of what had them besotted.

King Oberon forgotten had,
That he for jealousie ranne mad:
But of his Queene was wondrous glad,
And ask'd how they came thither:
Pigwiggen likewise doth forget,
That he Queene Mab had ever met;
Or that they were so hard beset,
When they were found together.

Nor neither of them both had thought,
That e'r they had each other sought;
Much lesse that they a Combat fought,
But such a dreame were lothing:
Tom Thum had got a little sup,
And Tomalin scarce kist the Cup,
Yet had their braines so sure lockt up,
That they remembred nothing.

Queene Mab and her light Maydes the while,
Amongst themselves doe closely smile,
To see the King caught with this wile,
With one another jesting:
And to the Fayrie Court they went,
With mickle joy and merriment,
Which thing was done with good intent,
And thus I left them feasting.

FINIS.

147

THE QUEST OF CYNTHIA.

What time the groves were clad in greene,
The Fields drest all in flowers,
And that the sleeke-hayr'd Nimphs were seene,
To seeke them Summer Bowers.

Forth rov'd I by the sliding Rills,
To finde where Cynthia sat,
Whose name so often from the hills,
The Ecchos wondred at.

When me upon my Quest to bring,
That pleasure might excell,
The Birds strove which should sweetliest sing,
The Flowers which sweet'st should smell.

Long wandring in the Woods (said I)
Oh whether's Cynthia gone?
When soone the Eccho doth reply,
To my last word, goe on.

At length upon a lofty Firre,
It was my chance to finde,
Where that deare name most due to her,
Was carv'd upon the rynde.

Which whilst with wonder I beheld,
The Bees their hony brought,
And up the carved letters fild,
As they with gould were wrought.

And neere that trees more spacious roote,
Then looking on the ground,
The shape of her most dainty foot,
Imprinted there I found.

148

Which stuck there like a curious seale,
As though it should forbid
Us, wretched mortalls, to reveale,
What under it was hid.

Besides the flowers which it had pres'd,
Apeared to my vew,
More fresh and lovely then the rest,
That in the meadowes grew:

The cleere drops in the steps that stood,
Of that dilicious Girle,
The Nimphes amongst their dainty food,
Drunke for dissolved pearle.

The yeilding sand, where she had troad,
Untucht yet with the winde,
By the faire posture plainely show'd,
Where I might Cynthia finde.

When on upon my waylesse walke,
As my desires me draw,
I like a madman fell to talke,
With every thing I saw:

I ask'd some Lillyes why so white,
They from their fellowes were;
Who answered me, that Cynthia's sight,
Had made them looke so cleare:

I ask'd a nodding Violet why,
It sadly hung the head,
It told me Cynthia late past by,
Too soone from it that fled:

A bed of Roses saw I there,
Bewitching with their grace:
Besides so wondrous sweete they were,
That they perfum'd the place,

149

I of a Shrube of those enquir'd,
From others of that kind,
Who with such vertue them enspuir'd,
It answer'd (to my minde.)

As the base Hemblocke were we such,
The poysned'st weed that growes,
Till Cynthia by her god-like tuch,
Transform'd us to the Rose:

Since when those Frosts that winter brings
Which candy every greene,
Renew us like the Teeming Springs,
And we thus Fresh are seene.

At length I on a Fountaine light,
Whose brim with Pincks was platted;
The Banck with Daffadillies dight,
With grasse like Sleave was matted,

When I demanded of that Well,
What Power frequented there;
Desiring, it would please to tell
What name it usde to beare:

It told me it was Cynthias owne,
Within whose cheerefull brimmes,
That curious Nimph had oft beene knowne
To bath her snowy Limmes.

Since when that Water had the power,
Lost Mayden-heads to restore,
And make one Twenty in an howre,
Of Esons Age before.

And told me that the bottome cleere,
Now layd with many a fett
Of seed-pearle, ere shee bath'd her there:
Was knowne as blacke as Jet,

150

As when she from the water came,
Where first she touch'd the molde,
In balls the people made the same
For Pomander, and solde.

When chance me to an Arbour led,
Whereas I might behold:
Two blest Elizeums in one sted,
The lesse the great enfold.

The place which she had chosen out,
Her selfe in to repose;
Had they com'n downe, the gods no doubt
The very same had chose.

The wealthy Spring yet never bore
That sweet, nor dainty flower
That damask'd not, the chequer'd flore
Of Cynthias Summer Bower.

The Birch, the Mirtle, and the Bay,
Like friends did all embrace;
And their large branches did display,
To Canapy the place.

Where she like Venus doth appeare,
Upon a Rosie bed;
As Lillyes the soft pillowes weare,
Whereon she layd her head.

Heav'n on her shape such cost bestow'd,
And with such bounties blest:
No lim of hers but might have made
A Goddesse at the least.

The Flyes by chance mesht in her hayre,
By the bright Radience throwne
From her cleare eyes, rich Jewels weare,
They so like Diamonds shone.

151

The meanest weede the soyle there bare,
Her breath did so refine,
That it with Woodbynd durst compare,
And beard the Eglantine.

The dewe which on the tender grasse,
The Evening had distill'd,
To pure Rose-water turned was,
The shades with sweets that fill'd.

The windes were husht, no leafe so small
At all was seene to stirre:
Whilst tuning to the waters fall,
The small Birds sang to her.

Where she too quickly me espies,
When I might plainely see
A thousand Cupids from her eyes
Shoote all at once at me.

Into these secret shades (quoth she)
How dar'st thou be so bold
To enter, consecrate to me,
Or touch this hallowed mold.

Those words (quoth she) I can pronounce,
Which to that shape can bring
Thee, which the Hunter had who once
Sawe Dian in the Spring.

Bright Nimph againe I thus replie,
This cannot me affright:
I had rather in thy presence die,
Then live out of thy sight.

I first upon the Mountaines hie,
Built Altars to thy name;
And grav'd it on the Rocks thereby,
To propogate thy fame.

152

I taught the Shepheards on the Downes,
Of thee to frame their Layes:
T'was I that fill'd the neighbouring Townes,
With Ditties of thy praise.

Thy colours I devis'd with care,
Which were unknowne before:
Which since that, in their braded hayre
The Nimphes and Silvans wore.

Transforme me to what shape you can,
I passe not what it be:
Yea what most hatefull is to man,
So I may follow thee.

Which when she heard full pearly floods,
I in her eyes might view:
(Quoth she) most welcome to these Woods,
To meane for one so true.

Here from the hatefull world wee'll live,
A den of mere dispight:
To Ideots onely that doth give,
Which be her sole delight.

To people the infernall pit,
That more and more doth strive;
Where onely villany is wit,
And Divels onely thrive.

Whose vilenesse us shall never awe:
But here our sports shall be:
Such as the golden world first sawe,
Most innocent and free.

Of Simples in these Groves that growe,
Wee'll learne the perfect skill;
The nature of each Herbe to knowe
Which cures, and which can kill.

153

The waxen Pallace of the Bee,
We seeking will surprise
The curious workmanship to see,
Of her full laden thighes.

Wee'll suck the sweets out of the Combe,
And make the gods repine:
As they doe feast in Joves great roome,
To see with what we dine.

Yet when there haps a honey fall,
Wee'll lick the sirupt leaves:
And tell the Bees that their's is gall,
To this upon the Greaves.

The nimble Squirrell noting here,
Her mossy Dray that makes,
And laugh to see the lusty Deere
Come bounding ore the brakes.

The Spiders Webb to watch weele stand,
And when it takes the Bee,
Weele helpe out of the Tyrants hand,
The Innocent to free.

Sometime weele angle at the Brooke,
The freckled Trout to take,
With silken Wormes, and bayte the hooke,
Which him our prey shall make.

Of medling with such subtile tooles,
Such dangers that enclose,
The Morrall is that painted Fooles,
Are caught with silken showes.

And when the Moone doth once appeare,
Weele trace the lower grounds,
When Fayries in their Ringlets there
Doe daunce their nightly Rounds

154

And have a Flocke of Turtle Doves,
A guard on us to keepe,
As witnesse of our honest loves,
To watch us till we sleepe.

Which spoke I felt such holy fires
To overspred my breast,
As lent life to my Chast desires
And gave me endlesse rest.

By Cynthia thus doe I subsist,
On earth Heavens onely pride,
Let her be mine, and let who list,
Take all the world beside.

FINIS.

155

THE SHEPHEARDS SIRENA.

Dorilus in sorrowes deepe,
Autumne waxing olde and chill,
As he sate his Flocks to keepe,
Underneath an easie hill:
Chanc'd to cast his eye aside
Of those fields, where he had seene,
Bright Sirena Natures pride,
Sporting on the pleasant greene:
To whose walkes the Shepheards oft,
Came her god-like foote to finde,
And in places that were soft,
Kist the print there left behinde;
Where the path which she had troad,
Hath thereby more glory gayn'd,
Then in heav'n that milky rode,
Which with Nectar Hebe stayn'd:
But bleake Winters boystrous blasts,
Now their fading pleasures chid,
And so fill'd them with his wastes,
That from sight her steps were hid.
Silly Shepheard sad the while,
For his sweet Sirena gone,
All his pleasures in exile:
Layd on the colde earth alone.
Whilst his gamesome cut-tayld Curre,
With his mirthlesse Master playes,
Striving him with sport to stirre,
As in his more youthfull dayes,
Dorilus his Dogge doth chide,
Layes his well-tun'd Bagpype by,
And his Sheep-hooke casts aside,
There (quoth he) together lye.
When a Letter forth he tooke,
Which to him Sirena writ,

156

With a deadly downe-cast looke,
And thus fell to reading it.

Dorilus my deare (quoth she)
Kinde Companion of my woe,
Though we thus divided be,
Death cannot divorce us so;
Thou whose bosome hath beene still,
Th'onely Closet of my care,
And in all my good and ill,
Ever had thy equall share:
Might I winne thee from thy Fold,
Thou shouldst come to visite me,
But the Winter is so cold,
That I feare to hazard thee:
The wilde waters are waxt hie,
So they are both deafe and dumbe,
Lov'd they thee so well as I,
They would ebbe when thou shouldst come;
Then my coate with light should shine,
Purer then the Vestall fire:
Nothing here but should be thine,
That thy heart can well desire:
Where at large we will relate,
From what cause our friendship grewe,
And in that the varying Fate,
Since we first each other knewe:
Of my heavie passed plight,
As of many a future feare,
Which except the silent night,
None but onely thou shalt heare;
My sad heart it shall releeve,
When my thoughts I shall disclose,
For thou canst not chuse but greeve,
When I shall recount my woes;
There is nothing to that friend,
To whose close uncranied brest,
We our secret thoughts may send,
And there safely let it rest:

157

And thy faithfull counsell may,
My distressed case assist,
Sad affliction else may sway
Me a woman as it list:
Hither I would have thee haste,
Yet would gladly have thee stay,
When those dangers I forecast,
That may meet thee by the way,
Doe as thou shalt thinke it best,
Let thy knowledge be thy guide,
Live thou in my constant breast,
Whatsoever shall betide.

He her Letter having red,
Puts it in his Scrip againe,
Looking like a man halfe dead,
By her kindenesse strangely slaine;
And as one who inly knew,
Her distressed present state,
And to her had still been true,
Thus doth with himselfe delate.

I will not thy face admire,
Admirable though it bee,
Nor thine eyes whose subtile fire
So much wonder winne in me:
But my marvell shall be now,
(And of long it hath bene so)
Of all Woman kind that thou
Wert ordain'd to taste of woe;
To a Beauty so divine,
Paradise in little done,
O that Fortune should assigne,
Ought, but what thou well mightst shun,
But my counsailes such must bee,
(Though as yet I them conceale)
By their deadly wound in me,
They thy hurt must onely heale,
Could I give what thou do'st crave
To that passe thy state is growne,

158

I thereby thy life may save,
But am sure to loose mine owne,
To that joy thou do'st conceive,
Through my heart, the way doth lye,
Which in two for thee must clave
Least that thou shouldst goe awry.
Thus my death must be a toy,
Which my pensive breast must cover;
Thy beloved to enjoy,
Must be taught thee by thy Lover.
Hard the Choise I have to chuse,
To my selfe if friend I be,
I must my Sirena loose,
If not so, shee looseth me.

Thus whilst he doth cast about,
What therein were best to doe,
Nor could yet resolve the doubt,
Whether he should stay or goe:
In those Feilds not farre away,
There was many a frolike Swaine,
In fresh Russets day by day,
That kept Revells on the Plaine.
Nimble Tom, sirnam'd the Tup,
For his Pipe without a Peere,
And could tickle Trenchmore up,
As t'would joy your heart to heare.
Ralph as much renown'd for skill,
That the Taber touch'd so well;
For his Gittern, little Gill,
That all other did excell.
Rock and Rollo every way,
Who still led the Rusticke Ging,
And could troule a Roundelay,
That would make the Feilds to ring,
Collin on his Shalme so cleare,
Many a high-pitcht Note that had,
And could make the Ecchos nere
Shout as they were wexen mad.

159

Many a lusty Swaine beside,
That for nought but pleasure car'd,
Having Dorilus espy'd,
And with him knew how it far'd.
Thought from him they would remove,
This strong melancholy fitt,
Or so, should it not behove,
Quite to put him out of's witt;
Having learnt a Song, which he
Sometime to Sirena sent,
Full of Jollity and glee,
When the Nimph liv'd neere to Trent,
They behinde him softly gott,
Lying on the earth along,
And when he suspected not,
Thus the Joviall Shepheards song.

Neare to the Silver Trent,
Sirena dwelleth:
Shee to whom Nature lent
all that excelleth:
By which the Muses late,
and the neate Graces,
Have for their greater state
taken their places:
Twisting an Anadem,
wherewith to Crowne her,
As it belong'd to them
most to renowne her.

Cho:

On thy Bancke,
In a Rancke,
Let thy Swanes sing her,
And with their Musick,
along let them bring her.

160

Tagus and Pactolus
are to thee Debter,
Nor for their gould to us
are they the better:
Henceforth of all the rest,
be thou the River,
Which as the daintiest,
puts them downe ever,
For as my precious one,
o'r thee doth travell,
She to Pearle Parragon
turneth thy gravell.

Cho:

On thy Bancke,
In a Rancke,
Let thy Swanns sing her,
And with their Musicke,
along let them bring her.

Our mournefull Philomell,
that rarest Tuner,
Henceforth in Aperill
shall wake the sooner,
And to her shall complaine
from the thicke Cover,
Redoubling every straine
over and over:
For when my Love too long
her Chamber keepeth;
As though it suffered wrong,
the Morning weepeth.

Cho:

On thy Bancke,
In a Rancke,
Let thy Swaines sing her,
And with their Musick,
along let them bring her.

161

Oft have I seene the Sunne,
to doe her honour,
Fix himselfe at his noone,
to looke upon her,
And hath guilt every Grove,
every Hill neare her,
With his flames from above,
striving to cheere her,
And when shee from his sight
hath her selfe turned,
He as it had beene night,
in Cloudes hath mourned:

Cho:

On thy Bancke,
In a Rancke,
Let thy Swanns sing her,
And with their Musicke,
along let them bring her.

The Verdant Meades are seene,
when she doth view them,
In fresh and gallant Greene,
straight to renewe them,
And every little Grasse
broad it selfe spreadeth,
Proud that this bonny Lasse
upon it treadeth:
Nor flower is so sweete
in this large Cincture
But it upon her feete
leaveth some Tincture.

Cho:

On thy Bancke,
In a Rancke,
Let thy Swanes sing her,
And with their Musick,
along let them bring her.

162

The Fishes in the Flood,
when she doth Angle,
For the Hooke strive a good
them to intangle;
And leaping on the Land
from the cleare water,
Their Scales upon the sand
lavishly scatter;
Therewith to pave the mould
whereon she passes,
So her selfe to behold,
as in her glasses.

Cho:

On thy Bancke,
In a Rancke,
Let thy Swanns sing her,
And with their Musicke,
along let them bring her.

When shee lookes out by night,
the Starres stand gazing,
Like Commets to our sight
fearefully blazing,
As wondring at her eyes,
with their much brightnesse,
Which so amaze the skies,
dimming their lightnesse,
The raging Tempests are Calme,
when shee speaketh,
Such most delightsome balme,
from her lips breaketh.

Cho:

On thy Banke,
In a Rancke, &c.

163

In all our Brittany,
ther's not a fayrer,
Nor can you fitt any:
should you compare her.
Angels her eye-lids keepe
all harts surprizing,
Which looke whilst she doth sleepe
like the Sunnes rising:
She alone of her kinde
knoweth true measure,
And her unmatched mind
is Heavens treasure:

Chor:

On thy Bancke,
In a Rancke,
Let thy Swanes sing her,
And with their Musick,
along let them bring her.

Fayre Dove and Darwine cleere
boast yee your beauties,
To Trent your Mistres here
yet pay your duties,
My Love was higher borne
tow'rds the full Fountaines,
Yet she doth Moorland scorne,
and the Peake Mountaines;
Nor would she none should dreame,
where she abideth,
Humble as is the streame,
which by her slydeth,

Chor:

On thy Bancke,
In a Rancke,
Let thy Swanns sing her,
And with their Musicke,
along let them bring her.

164

Yet my poore Rusticke Muse,
nothing can move her,
Nor the meanes I can use,
though her true Lover:
Many a long Winters night
have I wak'd for her,
Yet this my piteous plight,
nothing can stirre her.
All thy Sands silver Trent
downe to the Humber,
The sighes that I have spent
never can number.

On thy Banke
In a Ranke,
Let thy Swans sing her
And with their Musicke
along let them bring her.

Taken with this suddaine Song,
Least for mirth when he doth looke,
His sad heart more deepely stong,
Then the former care he tooke,
At their laughter and amaz'd,
For a while he sat aghast,
But a little having gaz'd,
Thus he them bespake at last.

Is this time for mirth (quoth he)
To a man with griefe opprest,
Sinfull wretches as you be,
May the sorrowes in my breast,
Light upon you one by one,
And as now you mocke my woe,
When your mirth is turn'd to moane,
May your like then serve you so.

When one Swaine among the rest
Thus him merily bespake,

165

Get thee up thou arrant beast,
Fits this season love to make?
Take thy Sheephooke in thy hand,
Clap thy Curre and set him on,
For our fields ti's time to stand,
Or they quickely will be gon.
Rougish Swinheards that repine
At our Flocks, like beastly Clownes,
Sweare that they will bring their Swine,
And will wroote up all our Downes:
They their Holly whips have brac'd,
And tough Hazell goades have gott;
Soundly they your sides will baste,
If their courage faile them not.
Of their purpose if they speed,
Then your Bagpypes you may burne,
It is neither Droane nor Reed
Shepheard, that will serve your turne:
Angry Olcon sets them on,
And against us part doth take
Ever since he was out-gone,
Offring Rymes with us to make.
Yet if so our Sheepe-hookes hold,
Dearely shall our Downes be bought,
For it never shall be told,
We our Sheep-walkes sold for naught.
And we here have got us Dogges,
Best of all the Westerne breed,
Which though Whelps shall lug their Hogges,
Till they make their eares to bleed:
Therefore Shepheard come away,
When as Dorilus arose,
Whistles Cut-tayle from his play,
And along with them he goes.

FINIS.

166

THE MOONE-CALFE.

Stultorum plena sunt omnia.

Helpe Neighbours helpe, for Gods sake come with speede,
For of your helpe there never was such neede:
Midwives make hast, and dresse yee as yee runne;
Either come quickly, or w'are all undone;
The World's in labour, her throwes come so thick,
That with the Pangues she's waxt starke lunatick:
But whither, whither, one was heard to crie:
She that call'd thus, doth presently replie;
Doe yee not see in ev'ry Streete and place,
The generall world now in a piteous case.

Up got the Gossips, and for very hast,
Some came without Shooes, some came all unlac'd,
As she had first appointed them, and found
The World in labour, dropt into a swound:
Wallowing she lay, like to a boystrous hulke,
Dropsied with Ryots, and her big-swolne bulke
Stuff'd with infection, rottennesse, and stench;
Her blood so fierd, that nothing might it quench
But the Aspes poyson, which stood by her still,
That in her drought she often us'd to swill;
Clothed she was in a Fooles coate, and cap,
Of rich imbroydered Silks, and in her lap
A sort of paper Puppets, Gawdes, and Toyes,
Trifles scarce good enough for Girles and Boyes,
Which she had dandled, and with them had playd,
And of this trash her onely God had made.

Out and alasse (quoth one) the rest among,
I doubt me Neighbours, we have stay'd too long:
Pluck off your Rings, lay me your Bracelets by;
Fall to your bus'nesse, and that speedily,
Or else I doubt, her spirits consume so fast,
That e're the birth, her strength will quite be past:

167

But when more wistly they did her behold,
There was not one (that once) durst be so bold
As to come neere her, but stood all amaz'd,
Each upon other silently and gaz'd:
When as her belly they so bigge doe see,
As if a Tunne within the same should be,
And heard a noyse and rumbling in her wombe,
As at the instant of the generall doome:
Thunder and Earthquakes raging, and the Rocks
Tumbling downe from their scytes, like mighty blocks,
Rowl'd from huge mountaines, such a noyse they make,
As though in sunder heav'ns huge Axtree brake,
They either Poles their heads together pasht,
And all againe into the Chaos dasht.
Some of slight judgement that were standing by,
Sayd, it was nothing but a Timpany:
Others said, sure she humane helpe did want,
And had conceived by an Elephant;
Or some Sea-monster, of a horrid shape,
Committed with her by some violent rape:
Others more wise, and noting very well,
How her huge wombe did past all compasse swell,
Said certainly (if that they might confesse her)
It would be found some Divell did possesse her.

Thus while they stood, and knew not what to doe;
Women (quoth one) why doe you trifle so:
I pray you thinke, but wherefore yee came hether,
Shall wombe, and burthen, perish both together:
Bring forth the Birth-stoole, no, let it alone,
She is so farre beyond all compasse growne:
Some other new devise us needs must sted,
Or else she never can be brought to bed.
Let one that hath some execrable spell,

The Furies fetch'd from hell to bring the World to bed.

Make presently her entrance into hell:
Call Hecate, and the damn'd Furies hether,
And try if they will undertake together
To helpe the sicke World; one is out of hand
Dispatch'd for hell, who by the dread command

168

Of powerfull Charmes brought Hecate away,
Who knowing her bus'nesse, from her selfe doth lay
That sad aspect, she wont to put on there,
In that blacke Empire; and doth now appeare,
As shees Lucina giving strength and ayde
In birth to women; mild as any mayde,
Full of sweet hope her brow seemd, and her eyes
Darting fresh comfort, like the morning skies.

A description of the Furies.

Then came the Furies with their bosomes bare,
Save somewhat covered with their Snaky hayre,
In wreathes contorted, mumbling hellish Charmes,
Up to the elbowes naked were there Armes.
Megera, eld'st of this damn'd Femall Fiends,
Gnawing her wrists, biting her fingers ends,
Entred the first; Tysiphone the next,
As to revenge her Sister throughly vext:
In one hand bare a whip, and in the other
A long shape knife; the third, which seeme to smoother,
Her manner of revenge, cast such an eye,
As well neare turnd to stone all that stood by,
Her name Alecto, which no plague doth rue,
Nor never leaves them, whom she doth pursue.

The women pray the Goddesse now to stand
Auspicious to them, and to lend her hand
To the sick World, which willingly she granted;
But at the sight as altogether danted,
From her cleare face the sprightly vigour fled,
And but she sawe the Women hard bested,
Out she had gone, nor one glance back had shot,
Till heaven or hell she o'r her head had got,
Yet she her selfe retires, next to the dore.
The Gossips worse then e'r they were before
At their wits end, know not which way to take,
At length the World beginning to awake
Out of the Trance, in which she lay as dead,
And somewhat raising her unweeldy head,
To bright Lucina call'd for helpe, that shee,
Now in her travell would propitious be.

169

The Goddesse not from feeling of her woe,
Onely to see with what the World might goe,
As she is draded Hecate, having power
Of all that keepe Hels ugly balefull Bower,
Commands the Furies to step in and ayde her,
And be the Midwives, till they safe had layd her.
To do whose pleasure as they were about,
A sturdy Huswife pertly stepping out,
Cryes hold a while, and let the queane alone;
It is no matter, let her lye and groane:
Hold her still to't, wee'll doe the best we can
To get out of her, certainly the man
Which ownes the Bastard: for there's not a Nation
But hath with her committed fornication:
And by her base and common prostitution,
She came by this unnaturall polution;
There is a meane for women thus abus'd,
Which at this time may very well be us'd:
That in this case when people doe desire,
To know the truth, yet doubtfull of the Sire,
When as the woman most of life doth doubt her
In greevous throwes; to those that are about her;
He that is then at the last cast disclos'd,
The naturall Father is to be suppos'd:
And the just Law doth faithfully decide,
That for the nursing he is to provide:
Therefore let's see, what in her pangues she'll say,
Lest that this Bastard on the Land we lay:
They lik'd her counsell, and their helpe denide,
But bad her lye and languish till she dide;
Unlesse to them she truly would confesse,
Who fill'd her belly with this foule excesse.

Alas (quoth she) the Divell drest me thus,
Amidst my Ryot, whilst that Incubus

The Moone-Calfe begot by the divell.

Wrought on my weakenesse, and by him beguilde,
He onely is the Father of the childe.
His Instrument my Apish imitation,
Of ev'ry monstrous and prodigious fashion,

170

Abus'd my weaknesse: women it was she,
Who was the Bawd betwixt the Fiend and me:
That this is true, it on my death I take,
Then helpe me women even for pitties sake.

The prodigious signes that fore-ranne the birth of the Moone-Calfe.

When ominous signes to showe themselves began,
That now at hand this monstrous birth fore-ran:
About at noone flewe the affrighted Owle,
And dogs in corners set them downe to howle:
Bitches and Wolves these fatall signes among,
Brought forth most monstrous and prodigious young.
And from his hight the earth refreshing Sunne,
Before his houre his golden head doth runne,
Farre under us, in doubt his glorious eye,
Should be polluted with this Prodigye.
A Panique feare upon the people grew,
But yet the cause, there was not one that knewe,
When they had heard this; a short tale to tell,
The Furies straight upon their bus'nesse fell,
And long it was not ere there came to light,
The most abhorrid, the most fearefull sight
That ever eye beheld, a birth so strange,
That at the view, it made their lookes to change;
Women (quoth one) stand of, and come not neere it,
The Devill if he saw it, sure would feare it;
For by the shape, for ought that I can gather,
The Childe is able to affright the Father;
Out cries another, now for Gods sake hide it,

A description of the Moone-Calfe.

It is so ugly we may not abide it:
The birth is double, and growes side to side
That humane hand it never can divide;
And in this wondrous sort as they be Twins
Like Male and Female they be Androgines,
The Man is partly Woman, likewise shee
Is partly Man, and yet in face they be
Full as prodigious, as in parts; the Twinne
That is most man, yet in the face and skinne,
Is all meere Woman, that which most doth take
From weaker woman: Nature seemes to make

171

A man in show, thereby as to define,
A Fem'nine man, a woman Masculine;
Before bred, nor begott: a more strange thing,
Then ever Nile, yet into light could bring,
Made as Creation meerely to dispight,
Nor man, nor woman, scarse Hermophradite.
Affricke thats said, Mother of Monsters is,
Let her but shew me such a one as this
And then I will subscribe (to doe her due,)
And sweare, that what is said of her is true.
Quoth one, tis monstrous, and for nothing fitt,
And for a Monster, quicke lets bury it;
Nay quoth another, rather make provision,
If possibly, to part it by incision,
For were it parted, for ought I can see,
Both man, and woman it may seeme to be:
Nay, quoth a third that must be done with cost,
And were it done, our labour is but lost,
For when w'have wrought the utmost that we can,
Hee's too much woman, and shee's too much man;
Therefore, as 'tis a most prodigious birth,
Let it not live here to polute the earth:
Gossip (quoth th'last) your reason I denie,
Tis more by law, then we can justifie;
For Syer, and Dam, have certainly decreed,
That they will have more comfort of their seed:
For he begot it, and t'was borne of her,
And out of doubt they will their owne prefer:
Therefore good women better be advis'd,
“For precious things should not be lightly priz'd.
This Moone-Calfe borne under a lucky Fate,
May powerfull prove in many a wealthy State,
And taught the tongues about some fewe yeares hence,
As now w'are all tongue, and but little sence:
It may fall out for any thing you knowe,
This Moone-Calfe may on great imployments goe:
When learned men for noble action fit,
Idly at home (unthought of once) may sit;

172

A Bawd, or a Projector he may prove,
And by his purse so purchasing him love,
May be exalted to some thriving roome,
Where sildome good men suffred are to come:
What will you say, hereafter when you see;
The times so gracelesse and so mad to be;
That men their perfect humane shape shall flie,
To imitate this Beasts deformitie:
Nay, when you see this Monster, which you now
Will hardly breath upon the earth alowe;
In his Caroch with foure white Frizelands drawne,
And he as pyde and garish as the Pawne,
With a set face; in which as in a booke,
He thinks the World for grounds of State should looke,
When to some greater one, whose might doth awe him,
Hee's knowne a verier Jade, then those that drawe him.
Nay at the last, the very killing sight,
To see this Calfe (as vertue to dispight)
Above just honest men his head to reare,
Nor to his greatnesse may they once come neere.
Each ignorant Sott to Honour seekes to rise;
But as for vertue who did first devise
That title, a reward for hers to be,
As most contemned and dispised shee,
Goes unregarded, that they who should owne her,
Dare not take notice ever to have knowne her;
And but that vertue, when she seemeth throwne
Lower then Hell, hath power to raise her owne,
Above the World, and this her monstrous birth,
She long e're this had perish'd from the earth;
Her Fautors banish'd by her foes so hie,
Which looke so bigge as they would scale the skie:
But seeing no helpe, why should I thus complaine,
Then to my Moone-Calfe I returne againe,
By his deare Dam the World, so choysely bred,
To whom there is such greatnesse promised;
For it might well a perfect man amaze,
To see what meanes the Syer and Dam will raise,

173

T'exalt their Moone-Calfe, and him so to cherish,
That he shall thrive, when vertuous men shall perish.
The Drunkard, Glutton, or who doth apply,
Himselfe to beastly sensuality,
Shall get him many friends, for that there be,
Many in ev'ry place just such as he;
The evill, love them that delight in ill,
Like have cleav'd to their like, and ever will:
But the true vertuous man (God knowes) hath fewe,
They that his straite and harder steps pursue,
Are a small number, scarsely knowne of any;
“God hath fewe friends, the devill hath so many.

But to returne, that yee may plainly see,
That such a one he likely is to be,
And that my words for truth that yee may trie,
Of the Worlds Babe thus doe I prophecie:
Marke but the more man of these monstrous Twins,
From his first youth, how tow'rdly he begins,
When he should learne, being learn'd to leave the Schoole,
This arrant Moone-Calfe, this most beastly foole,
Just to our English Proverbe shall be seene,
“Scarcely so wise at fifty, as fifteene:
And when himselfe he of his home can free,
He to the Citie comes, where then if he,
And the familiar Butterflye his Page,
Can passe the Street, the Ord'nary, and Stage,
It is enough, and he himselfe thinkes then,
To be the onely absolut'st of men.
Then in his Cups you shall not see him shrinke,
To the grand Divell a Carouse to drinke.
Next to his Whore he doth himselfe apply,
And to maintaine his gotish luxurie,
Eates Capons Cookt at fifteene crownes a peece,
With their fat bellies, stuff'd with Amber greece;
And being to travell, he sticks not to lay,
His Post Caroches still upon his way:
And in some sixe dayes journey doth consume
Ten pounds in Suckets and the Indian Fume:

174

For his Attire, then Forraigne parts are sought,
He holds all vile in England that is wrought,
And into Flanders sendeth for the nonce,
Twelve dozen of Shirts providing him at once,
Layd in the seames with costly Lace that be,
Of the Smock fashion, whole belowe the knee,
Then bathes in milke, in which when he hath bin,
He lookes like one for the preposterous sin,
Put by the wicked and rebellious Jewes,
To be a Pathique in their Malekind Stewes.
With the ball of's foot the ground he may not feele,
But he must tread upon his toe and heele:
Dublet, and Cloke, with Plush and Velvet linde,
Onely his head peece, that is fill'd with winde;
Rags, running Horses, Dogs, Drabs, Drinke, and Dice,
The onely things that he doth hold in price:
Yet more then these, naught doth him so delight,
As doth his smooth-chind, plump-thigh'd, Catamite.
Sodome for her great sinne that burning sanke,
Which at one draught the pit infernall dranke,
Which that just God on earth could not abide,
Hath she so much the Divels terifide:
As from their seate, them well-neere to exile,
Hath Hell new spew'd her up after this while:
Is she new risen, and her sinne agen
Imbrac'd by beastly and outragious men.
Nay more he jests at Incest, as therein
There were no fault, counts sacriledge no sin:
His blasphemies he useth for his grace;
Wherewith, he truth doth often times out-face:
He termeth vertue madnesse, or meere folly,
He hates all high things, and prophanes all holy.
Where is thy thunder god, art thou a sleepe?
Or to what suff'ring hand giv'st thou to keepe
Thy wrath and vengeance; where is now the strength
Of thy Almighty arme, failes it at length?
Turne all the Starres to Comets, to out-stare
The Sunne at noone-tide, that he shall not dare

175

To looke but like a Gloworme, for that he
Can without melting these damnations see.

But this Ile leave, lest I my pen defile;
Yet to my Moone-Calfe keepe I close the while,
Who by some Knave, perswaded he hath wit,
When like a brave Foole, he to utter it,
Dare with a desperate boldnesse roughly passe
His censure on those Bookes, which the poore Asse
Can never reach to, things from darknesse sought,
That to the light with blood and sweat were brought:
And takes upon him those things to controle,
Which should the brainelesse Ideot sell his soule,
All his dull race, and he, can never buy
With their base pelfe, his glorious industry;
Knowledge with him is idle, if it straine
Above the compasse of his yestie braine:
Nor knowes mens worthes but by a second hand,
For he himselfe doth nothing understand;
He would have some thing, but what tis he showes not,
What he would speake, nay what to thinke he knowes not:
He nothing more then truth and knowledge loathes,
And nothing he admires of mans, but cloathes.
Now for that I thy dotage dare mislike,
And seeme so deepe, into thy soule to strike;
Because I am so plaine thou lik'st not me,
Why know, poore Slave, I no more thinke of thee,
Then of the Ordure that is cast abroad,
I hate thy vice more then I doe a Toade.
Poore is the spirit that fawnes on thy applause;
Or seekes for suffrage from thy barbarous jawes.
Misfortune light on him, that ought doth way,
Yee sonnes of Beliall, what yee thinke or say.
Who would have thought, whilst wit sought to advance,
It selfe so high, damn'd beastly ignorance;
Under the cloake of knowledge should creepe in,
And from desert should so much credite win;
But all this poysonous froth Hell hath let flie,
In these last dayes, at noble Poesie,

176

That which hath had both in all times and places,
For her much worth, so sundry soveraigne graces;
The language, which the Spheares and Angels speake,
In which their minde they to poore Mortalls breake
By Gods great power, into rich soules infus'd,
By every Moone-Calfe lately thus abus'd:
Should all hells blacke inhabitants conspire,
And more unheard of mischiefe, to them hyer;
Such as high Heav'n were able to affright,
And on the noone-sted bring a double night:
Then they have done, they could not more disgrace her,
As from the earth (even) utterly to race her:
What Princes lov'd, by Pesants now made hatefull,
In this our age so damnably ingratefull:
And to give open passage to her fall,
It is devis'd to blemish her withall;
That th'hideous braying of each barbarous Asse,
In Printed Letters freely now must passe.
In Accents so untuneable and vile,
With other Nations as might damne our Ile,
If so our tongue they truly understood,
And make them thinke our braines were meerely mud.
To make her vile, and ugly, to appeare,
Whose naturall beauty is Divinely cleare;
That on the Stationers Stall, who passing lookes,
To see the multiplicity of Bookes,
That pester it, may well beleeve the Presse,
Sicke of a surfet, spu'd with the excesse:
Which breedeth such a dulnesse through the Land,
Mongst those one tongue which onely understand,
Which did they reade those sinewie Poems writ,
That are materiall relishing of wit:
Wise pollicie, Morallity, or Story,
Well purtraying the Ancients and their glory,
These blinded Fooles, on their base Carion feeding,
Which are (in truth) made ignorant by reading,
In little time would growe to be asham'd,
And blush to heare those lowzie Pamphlets nam'd,

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Which now they studie, naught but folly learning,
Which is the cause that they have no discerning,
The good from bad, this ill, that well to know,
Because in ignorance they are nourish'd so;
Who for this hatefull trash should I condemne
They that doe utter, or Authorize them:
O that the Ancients should so carefull be,
Of what they did impresse, and onely we
Loosely at randome, should let all things flie,
Though gainst the Muses it be blasphemie:
But yet to happy spirits, and to the wise,
All is but foolish that they can devise,
For when contempt of Poesie is proudest,
Then have the Muses ever sung the loudest.

But to my Calfe, who to be counted prime,
According to the fashion of the time,
Him to associate some Buffoon doth get,
Whose braines he still, with much expence must whet,
And ever beare about him as his guest,
Who comming out with some ridiculous jest,
Of one (perhaps) a god that well might be,
If but compar'd with such an Asse as he,
His Patron rores with laughter, and doth crye,
Take him away, or presently I dye.
Whilst that Knave-foole which well himselfe doth knowe,
Smiles at the Coxcombe, which admires him so:
His time and wealth, thus lewdly that doth spend,
As it were lent him to no other end:
Untill this Moone-Calfe, this most drunken puffe,
Even like a Candle burnt into the snuffe:
Fierd with surfet, in his owne greace fries,
Sparkles a little, and then stinking dies.
The wealth his Father by extortion wonne,
Thus in the spending helps to damne the Sonne,
And so falls out indifferently to either,
Whereby in hell they justly meete together;
And yet the World much joyes in her behalfe,
And takes no little pleasure in her Calfe,

178

Had this declining time the Freedome now,
Which the brave Romane once did it alowe:
With Wyer and Whipcord yee should see her payde,
Till the luxurious Whore should be afrayde
Of prostitution, and such lashes given,
To make her blood spirt in the face of Heaven;
That men by looking upward as they goe,
Should see the plagues layd on her here belowe.

But now proceede we with the other Twin
Which is most woman who shall soone begin
To shew her selfe; no sooner got the Teenes,
But her owne naturall beauty she disdaines,
With Oyles and Broathes most venomous and base,
Shee plaisters over her well-favoured face;
And those sweet veynes by nature rightly plac'd,
Wherewith she seem'd that white skin to have lac'd,
Shee soone doth alter; and with fading blewe,
Blanching her bosome, she makes others newe;
Blotting the curious workmanship of nature;
That e're she be arriv'd at her full stature,
E're she be drest, she seemeth aged growne,
And to have nothing on her of her owne:
Her black, browne, aburne or her yellow hayre,
Naturally lovely, she doth scorne to weare;
It must be white to make it fresh to show,
And with compounded meale she makes it so:
With fumes and powdrings raising such a smoke,
That a whole Region able were to choke:
Whose stench might fright a Dragon from his den,
The Sunne yet ne're exhal'd from any Fen;
Such pestilencious vapours as arise,
From their French Powdrings, and their Mercuries.
Ireland, if thou wilt able be alone,
Of thine owne power to drive out thy Tyrone:
By heaping up a masse of Coyne together,
Sheere thy olde Wolves, and send their Fleeces hether.
Thy white Goates hayre, Wales, dearer will be solde
Then silke of Naples, or then Thred of golde.

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Our Water-dogs, and Islands here are shorne;
White haire so much of women here is worne.
Nay more then this, they'll any thing endure,
And with large summes they stick not to procure:
Hayre from the dead, yea and the most uncleane,
To helpe their pride they nothing will disdaine.
Then in attiring her, and in her sleepe,
The dayes three parts she exercis'd doth keepe,
And in ridiculous visits she doth spend
The other fourth part, to no other end;
But to take note how such a Lady lies,
And to gleane from her some deformities,
Which for a grace she holds, and till she get,
She thinkes her selfe to be but counterfet.
Our Merchants from all parts twixt either Inde,
Cannot get Silke to satisfie her minde:
Nor Natures perfect'st patternes can suffise,
The curious draughts for her imbroyderies:
She thinks her honour utterly is lost,
Except those things doe infinitely cost
Which she doth weare; nor thinke they can her dresse,
Except she have them in most strange excesse.
And in her fashion she is likewise thus,
In every thing she must be monstrous:
Her Picadell above her crowne up-beares;
Her Fardingale is set above her eares:
Which like a broad sayle with the winde doth swell,
To drive this faire Hulke headlong into Hell.
After againe, note, and you shall her see,
Shorne like a man, and for that she will be
Like him in all, her congies she will make,
With the mans curtsie, and her Hat off take,
Of the French fashion, and weare by her side
Her sharpe Stillato in a Ryband tide,
Then gird her selfe close to the paps she shall,
Shap'd, breast, and buttock, but no waste at all.

But of this she Calfe now, to cease all strife;

The roring female Moone-Calfe.

Ile by example lim her to the life.

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Not long agone it was my chance to meete
With such a Fury, such a female spright;
As never man sawe yet, except twere shee,
And such a one as I may never see
Againe I pray: but where I will not name,
For that the place might so pertake her shame:
But when I sawe her rampant to transcend
All womenhead, I thought her (sure) a friend,
And to my selfe my thoughts suggested thus,
That she was gotten by some Incubus,
And so remembring an olde womans tale,
As she sate dreaming o'r a pot of Ale,
That on a time she did the Devill meete,
And knew him onely by his cloven feete:
So did I looke at hers, where she did goe,
To see if her feete, were not cloven so.
Ten long-tongu'd Tapsters in a common In,
When as the Guests to flock apace begin,
When up-stayre one, down-stayre another hies,
With squeaking clamours, and confused cries;
Never did yet make such a noyse as she,
That I dare boldly justifie, that he,
Who but one houre her lowd clack can endure,
May undisturbed, safely, and secure
Sleepe under any Bells, and never heare
Though they were rung, the clappers at his eare,
And the long'st night with one sweet sleepe beguile,
As though he dreamt of Musick all the while.
The very sight of her when she doth rore,
Is able to strike dumbe the boldest Whore
That ever traded: shee'll not stick to tell,
All in her life that ever her befell;
How she hath layne, with all degrees, and ages,
Her Plow-Boyes, Scullians, Lackies, and some Pages,
And sweare when we have said all that we can,
That there is nothing worth a pin in man,
And that there's nothing doth so please her minde,
As to see Mares, and Horses, doe their kinde;

181

And when she's Tipsey, how so e're t'offend,
Then all her speech to Bawdry doth intend:
In Womens secrets, and shee'll name yee all
Red to the Midwives at the Surgeons Hall.
Were the poore Coxcomb, her dull Husband dead,
He that durst then this female Moone-Calfe wed,
Should quite put downe the Roman which once leepe,
Into the burning Gulfe, thereby to keepe
His Country from devouring with the flame:
Thus leave we her, of all her sex the shame.

Amongst the rest, at the Worlds labour there,
Foure good olde women, most especiall were,
Which had beene jolly Wenches in their dayes,
Through all the Parish, and had borne the praise,
For merry Tales: one Mother Red-Cap hight,
And mother Howlet, somewhat ill of sight,
For she had hurt her eyes with watching late;
Then mother Bumby a mad jocound Mate
As ever Gossipt, and with her there came
Olde Gammer Gurton, a right pleasant Dame,
As the best of them; being thus together,
The businesse done for which they had come thither:
Quoth jolly mother Red-Cap at the last,
I see the night is quickly like to waste;
And since the World so kindly now is layde,
And the childe safe, which made us all afraide:
Let's have a night on't wenches, hang up sorrow,
And what sleepe wants now, take it up to morrow.
Stirre up the fire, and let us have our Ale,
And o'r our Cups, let's each one tell her Tale:
My honest Gossips, and to put you in,
Ile breake the Ice, and thus doth mine begin.
There was a certaine Prophesie of olde,

Mother Red-Caps Tale.

Which to an Ile had anciently beene tolde,
That after many yeares were com'n and gone,
Which then came out, and the set time came on;
Nay, more it told, the very day and howre,
Wherein should fall so violent a showre;

182

That it new Rivers in the earth should weare,
And Dorps, and Bridges quite away should beare:
But where this Ile is, that I cannot showe,
Let them enquire that have desire to knowe:
The Story leaves out that, let it alone;
And Gossip with my Tale I will goe on:
Yet what was worse the Prophecie this spake,
(As to warne men defence for it to make)
That upon whom one drop should chance to light,
They should of reason be deprived quite.
This Prophecie had many an Age beene heard,
But not a man did it one pin reguard;
For all to folly did themselves dispose,
(On veryer Calves the Sunne yet never rose)
And of their laughter made it all the Theame,
By terming it, the drunken Wizards Dreame.
There was one honest man amongst the rest,
That bare more perfect knowledge in his breast;
And to himselfe his private houres had kept,
To talke with God, whilst others drunke or slept,
Who in his mercy to this man reveal'd,
That which in Justice he had long conceal'd
From the rude Heard, but let them still runne on
The ready way to their destruction.

This honest man the Prophecie that noted,
And things therein more curiously had quoted,
Found all those signes were truly come to passe,
That should fore-showe this raine, and that it was
Neerely at hand; and from his depth of skill,
Had many a time fore-warn'd them of their ill,
And Preach'd to them this Deluge (for their good)
As to th'olde World Noe did before the Flood;
But lost his labour, and since t'was in vaine,
To talke more to those Idiots of the raine;
He let them rest: and silent sought about,
Where he might finde some place of safety out,
To shroud himselfe in, for right well he knewe,
That from this shower, which then began to brewe,

183

No roofe of Tyle, or Thatch he could come in,
Could serve him from being wet to the bare skin.
At length this man bethought him of a Cave
In a huge Rock, which likely was to save
Him from the'shower, upon a hill so steepe,
As up the same a man could hardly creepe,
So that except Noahs Flood should come againe,
He never could be raught by any raine;
Thither at length, though with much toyle he clome,
Listning to heare what would thereof become.

It was not long e're he perceiv'd the skies
Setled to raine, and a black cloud arise,
Whose foggy grosnesse so oppos'd the light,
As it would turne the noone-sted into night.
When the winde came about with all his power,
Into the tayle of this approching shower,
And it to lighten presently began;
Quicker then thought, from East to West that ran:
The Thunder following did so fiercely rave,
And through the thick clouds with such fury drave,
As Hell had been set open for the nonce,
And all the Divels heard to rore at once:
And soone the Tempest so outragious grew,
That it whole hedgerowes by the roots up threw,
So wondrously prodigious was the weather,
As heaven and earth had meant to goe together:
And downe the shower impetuously doth fall,
Like that which men the Hurricano call:
As the grand Deluge had beene come againe,
And all the World should perish by the raine.
And long it lasted; all which time this man
Hid in the Cave doth in his judgement scan,
What of this inundation would ensue,
For he knew well the Prophecie was true:
And when the shower was somwhat over-past,
And that the skies began to cleare at last:
To the Caves mouth he softly put his eare,
To listen if he any thing could heare:

184

What harme this storme had done, and what became
Of those that had beene sowsed in the same.
No sooner he that nimble Organ lent
To the Caves mouth; but that incontinent
There was a noyse as if the Garden Beares,
And all the Dogs together by the eares,
And those of Bedlam had enlarged bin,
And to behold the Bayting had come in:
Which when he heard, he knew too well alasse,
That what had beene fore-told, was come to passe;
Within himselfe good man, he reasoned thus:
Tis for our sinnes, this plague is falne on us.
Of all the rest, though in my wits I be,
(I thanke my Maker) yet it greeveth me,
To see my Country in this piteous case;
Woe's me that ever they so wanted grace:
But when as man once casts off vertue quite,
And doth in sinne and beastlinesse delight,
We see how soone God turnes him to a Sot:
To showe my selfe yet a true Patriot,
Ile in amongst them, and if so, that they
Be not accurst of God, yet, yet I may,
By wholesome counsell (if they can but heare)
Make them as perfect as at first they were,
And thus resolv'd goes this good poore man downe;
When at the entrance of the Neighbouring Towne,
He meetes a woman, with her Buttocks bare,
Got up a stride upon a wall-eyde Mare,
To runne a Horse-race, and was like to ride
Over the good man: but he stept aside;
And after her, another that bestroad
A Horse of Service, with a Lance she rode
Arm'd, and behinde her on a Pillian satt
Her frantique Husband, in a broad-brim'd Hatt,
A Maske and Safeguard; and had in his hand
His mad Wifes Distaffe for a ryding Wand:
Scarse from these mad folke, had he gone so farre,
As a strong man, will eas'ly pitch a Barre:

185

But that he found a Youth in Tissue brave,
(A daintier man one would not wish to have)
Was courting of a loathsome mezzeld Sowe,
And in his judgement, swore he must alowe
Hers, the prime Beauty, that he ever sawe,
Thus was she sued to (by that prating Dawe)
Who, on a dunghill in the loathsome gore,
Had farrowed ten Pigs scarce an houre before.
At which this man in melancholly deepe,
Burst into laughter, like before to weepe.
Another foole, to fit him for the weather,
Had arm'd his heeles with Cork, his head with feather;
And in more strange and sundry colours clad,
Then in the Raine-bowe ever can be had:
Stalk'd through the Streets, preparing him to flie,
Up to the Moone upon an Embassie.
Another seeing his drunken Wife disgorge
Her pamperd stomack, got her to a Forge,
And in her throat the Feverous heat to quench
With the Smiths horne, was giving her a Drench:
One his next Neighbour haltred had by force,
So frantique, that he tooke him for a Horse,
And to a Pond was leading him to drinke;
It went beyond the wit of man to thinke,
The sundry frenzies that he there might see,
One man would to another married be:
And for a Curate taking the Towne Bull,
Would have him knit the knot: another Gull
Had found an Ape was chained to a Stall,
Which he to worship on his knees doth fall;
To doe the like and doth his Neighbours get,
Who in a Chaire this ill-fac'd Munky set,
And on their shoulders lifting him on hie,
They in Procession beare him with a crie;
And him a Lord will have at least, if not,
A greater man: another sort had got
About a Pedlar, who had lately heard,
How with the mad men of this Ile it far'd:

186

And having nothing in his Pack but toyes,
Which none except meere mad men, & fond boyes
Would ever touch; thought verily that he
Amongst these Bedlams, would a gayner be,
Or else loose all; scarce had he pitch'd his Pack,
E're he could scarcely say, what doe yee lack:
But that they throng'd about him with their mony,
As thick as Flyes about a Pot of hony;
Some of these Lunaticks, these frantique Asses,
Gave him Spurryalls for his farthing Glasses:
There should you see another of these Cattell,
Give him a pound of silver for a Rattle;
And there another that would needsly scorse,
A costly Jewell for a Hobby-Horse:
For Bells, and Babies, such as children small,
Are ever us'd to solace them withall:
Those they did buy at such a costly rate,
That it was able to subvert a State;
Which when this wise and sober man beheld,
For very griefe his eyes with teares were sweld.
Alas, that e're I sawe this day (quoth he)
That I my Native Country-men should see
In this estate; when out of very zeale
Both to his native earth, and common-weale,
He thrust amongst them, & thus frames his speech.

Deare Country-men, I humbly yee beseech
Heare me a little, and but marke me well.
Alas, it is not long, since first yee fell
Into this frenzie, these outragious fits,
Be not I pray yee so out of your wits:
But call to minde th'inevitable ill
Must fall on yee, if yee continue still
Thus mad and frantique; therefore be not worse
Then your brute beasts to bring thereby a Curse
Upon your Nephewes, so to taynt their blood,
That twenty Generations shall be woo'd;
And this brave Land for wit, that hath been fam'd,
The Ile of Ideots after shall be nam'd:

187

Your braines are not so craz'd, but leave this Ryot,
And tis no question, but with temperate Dyet,
And counsaile of wise men, when they shall see
The desperate estate wherein you be:
But with such med'cines as they will apply,
They'll quickly cure your greevous malady.
And as he would proceed with his Oration,
One of the chiefest of this Bedlam Nation;
Layes hold on him, and askes who he should be.
Thou fellow (quoth this Lord) where had we thee,
Com'st thou to Preach to us that be so wise,
What wilt thou take upon thee to advise
Us, of whom all now underneath the skie,
May well be seene to learne frugality:
Why surely honest fellow thou art mad.
Another standing by, swore that he had
Seene him in Bedlam, foureteene yeeres agoe:
O quoth a third this fellow doe I knowe.
This is an arrant Coxcomb, a meere Dizard,
If yee remember, this is the same Wizard,
Which tooke upon him wisely to fore-tell,
The shower so many yeares before it fell:
Whose strong effects being so strange and rare,
Hath made us such brave creatures as we are:
When of this Nation all the frantique Route,
Fell into laughter the poore man about.
Some made mouthes at him, others as in scorne
With their forkt fingers poynted him the horne:
They call'd him Asse, and Dolt, and bad him goe
Amongst such Fooles, as he himselfe was, who
Could not teach them: at which this honest man,
Finding that naught, but hate and scorne he wan
Amongst these Ideots, and their beastly kinde,
The poore small remnant of his life behinde,
Determineth to solitude to give,
And a true Hermite afterward to live.

The tale thus ended, Gossip by your leave;

The morallity of mother Red-Caps tale.

Quoth mother Bumby, I doe well perceive

188

The morrall of your Story, which is this;
(Correct me Dame, if I doe judge amisse)
But first Ile tell you by this honest Ale,
In my conceite this is a prety tale;
And if some hansome Players would it take,
It (sure) a pretty Interlude would make.
But to the Morrall, this same mighty shower
Is a plague sent by supernaturall power
Upon the wicked, for when God intends
To lay a curse on mens ungodly ends:
Of understanding he doth them deprive;
Which taken from them, up themselves they give
To beastlinesse, nor will he let them see
The miserable estate wherein they be.
The Rock to which this man for safety climes,
The contemplation is of the sad times
Of the declining World; his counsailes tolde
To the mad Route, to spoyle and basenesse solde,
Showes that from such no goodnesse can proceede,
Who counsailes fooles, shall never better speede.
Quoth mother Red-Cap, you have hit it right:
(Quoth she) I know it Gossip, and to quite
Your tale; another you of me shall have,
Therefore a while your patience let me crave.

Mother Bumbyes tale.

Out in the North tow'rds Groneland farre away,
There was a Witch (as ancient Stories say)
As in those parts there many Witches be:
Yet in her craft above all other, shee
Was the most expert, dwelling in an Ile,
Which was in compasse scarce an English mile;
Which by her cunning she could make to floate
Whether she list, as though it were a Boate:
And where againe she meant to have it stay,
There could she fixe it in the deepest Sea:
She could sell windes to any one that would,
Buy them for money, forcing them to hold
What time she listed, tye them in a thrid,
Which ever as the Sea-farer undid

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They rose or scantled, as his Sayles would drive,
To the same Port whereas he would arive:
She by her Spels could make the Moone to stay,
And from the East, she could keepe back the day,
Raise Mists and Fogs that could Ecclipse the light:
And with the noone-sted she could mixe the night.
Upon this Ile whereas she had aboad,
Nature (God knowes) but little cost bestow'd:
Yet in the same, some Bastard creature were
Seldome yet seene in any place but there;
Halfe men, halfe Goate, there was a certaine kinde,
Such as we Satyres purtray'd out doe finde.
Another sort of a most ugly shape;
A Beare in body, and in face an Ape:
Other like Beasts yet had the feete of Fowles,
That Demy-Urchins weare, and Demy-Owles:
Besides there were of sundry other sorts,
But wee'll not stand too long on these reports.

Of all the rest that most resembled man,
Was an o'r-worne ill-favoured Babian;
Which of all other, for that onely he,
Was full of tricks, as they are us'd to be:
Him in her Craft, so seriously she taught,
As that in little time she had him brought,
That nothing could before this Ape be set,
That presently he could not counterfet;
She learnt him med'cines instantly to make;
Him any thing whose shape he pleas'd to take:
And when this skill she had on him bestow'd,
She sent him for intelligence abroad.
Thus fully furnish'd, and by her sent out,
Hee went to practise all the World about.
He like a Jipsey oftentimes would goe,
All kinde of Gibb'rish he had learnt to knowe,
And with a stick, a short string, and a noose,
Would showe the people tricks at fast and loose:
Tell folkes their Fortunes, for he would finde out
By slye enquirie, as he went about:

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What chance this one he, or that she had prov'd
Whom they most hated, or whom most they lov'd,
And looking in their hands, as there he knew it,
Out of his skill would counterfet to shew it:
Sometimes he for a Mountebanke would passe,
And shew you in a Crusible, or Glasse:
Some rare extraction, presently and runne,
Through all the Cures that he therewith had done,
An Aspick still he caried in a poke,
Which he to bite him often would provoke,
And with an oyle when it began to swell,
The deadly poyson quickly could expell:
And many times a Jugler he would be,
(A craftier Knave there never was then he;)
And by a mist deceiving of the sight,
(As knavery ever falsifies the light)
He by his active nimblenesse of hand,
Into a Serpent would transforme a Wand
As those Egyptians, which by Magick thought,
Farre beyond Moyses wonders to have wrought,
There never was a subtility devis'd,
In which this villaine was not exercis'd.

Now from this Region where they dwelt, not far
There was a wise and learn'd Astronomer,
Who skilfull in the Planetary howres,
The working knew of the Celestiall powers.
And by their ill, or by their good aspect,
Men in their actions wisely could direct,
And in the black and gloomy Arts so skild,
That he (even) Hell in his subjection hild;
He could command the Spirits up from belowe,
And binde them strongly, till they let him knowe
All the drad secrets that belong'd them to,
And what those did, with whom they had to do.

This Wizard in his knowledge most profound,
Sitting one day the depth of things to sound;
For that the World was brought to such a passe,
That it well-neere in a confusion was;

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For things set right, ranne quickly out of frame,
And those a wry to rare perfection came:
And matters in such sort about were brought,
That States were pusled, almost beyond thought,
Which made him think (as he might very well)
There were more Divels then he knew in hell.
And thus resolves that he would cast about
In his best skill, to find the Engine out
That wrought all this, and put himselfe therein:
When in this bus'nesse long he had not bin,
But by the Spirits which he had sent abroad,
And in this worke, had every way bestow'd;
He came to know this foule Witch, and her Factor,
The one the Plotter, and the other th'Actor
Of all these stirres, which many a State had spoyl'd,
Whereby the World so long had beene turmoyl'd,
Wherefore he thought it much did him behove,
Out of the way this couple to remove;
Or (out of question) halfe the World e're long
Would be divided, hers, and his among.
When turning over his most mistique bookes,
Into the secrets of his Art he lookes;
And th'earth and th'ayre doth with such Magiques fill
That every place was troubled by his skill;
Whilst in his minde he many a thing revolves,
Till at the last, he with himselfe resolves;
One Spirit of his should take the Witches shape,
Another in the person of the Ape,
Should be joyn'd with him, so to prove by this,
Whether their power were lesse, or more then his;
Which he performes, and to their taske them sets,
When soon that Spirit, the Witch that counterfets,
Watch'd till he found her farre abroad to be,
Into the place, then of her home gets he:
And when the Babian came the newes to bring
What he had done abroad, and ev'ry thing
Which he had plotted, how their bus'nesse went,
And in the rest to know her drad intent,

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Where she was wont to call him her deare sonne,
Her little Play-feere, and her pretty Bun:
Hug him, and sweare he was her onely joy;
Her very Hermes, her most dainty Boy,
O most strange thing: she chang'd her wonted cheare,
And doth to him most terrible appeare:
And in most fearefull shapes she doth him threaten
With eager lookes, as him she would have eaten,
That from her presence he was forc'd to flye,
As from his death, or deadly enemie.
When now the second which the shape doth take
Of the Baboon, determining to make
The like sport with him, his best time doth watch,
When he alone the cursed Witch might catch;
And when her Factor farthest was remote,
Then he began to change his former note,
And where he wont to tell her pleasing stories
Full of their Conquests, Triumphes, and their glories,
He turnes his Tale, and to the Witch relates
The strange revolts of Tributary States,
Things gotten backe, which late they had for prize,
With new discoveries of their pollicies;
Disgusts and dangers that had crost their cunning,
With sad portents, their ruine still forrunning;
That thus the Witch and the Baboon deceiv'd
Of all their hopes, of all their joyes bereav'd,
As in dispaire doe bid the world adue.
When as the Ape which weake and sickely grew,
On the cold earth his scurvy caryon layes,
And worne to nothing, endes his wretched dayes:
The filthy Hagg abhorring of the light,
Into the North past Thule takes her flight,
And in those deepes, past which no Land is found,
Her wretched selfe she miserably drownd.

The tale thus ended, mother Owle doth take
Her turne, and thus to mother Bumby spake;
The tale our Gossip Red-cap told before
You so well ridled that there can no more

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Be said of it; and therefore as your due,
What you have done for her, Ile doe for you.

And thus it is, that same notorious Witch,

The morallity of mother Bumbyes tale.

Is the ambition men have to be rich,
And Great, for which all faith aside they lay,
And to the Devill give themselves away,
The floating Ile where she is said to wonne,
The various courses are through which they ronne,
To get their endes, and by the Ape is ment,
Those damned Villaines, made the Instrument
To their disignes, that wondrous man of skill,
Sound counsell is, or rather if you will,
The Divine Justice, which doth bring to light,
Their wicked plotts not raught by common sight
For though they never have so closely wrought,
Yet to confusion lastly they are brought.
Gossip, indeede, you have hit it to a haire,
And surely your Moralitie is rare,
Quoth Mother Bumby; Mother Owle replide,
Come, come, I know I was not very wide,
Wherefore to quit your Tales, and make them three,
My honest Gossips listen now to me.

There was a man, not long since dead, but hee
Rather a Devill might accounted be:
For Judgement at her best could hardly scan,
Whether he were more Devill, or more man;
And as he was, he did himselfe apply
T'all kind of Witchcraft, and blacke Sorcery:
And for his humor naturally stood,
To Theft, to Rapine, and to shedding blood.
By those damn'd Hags with whom he was in grace,
And usd to meet in many a secret place;
He learnt an hearb of such a wondrous power,
That were it gather'd at a certaine howre,
(For Nature for the same did so provide,
As though from knowledge gladly it to hide,
For at Sunset it selfe it did disclose,
And shutt it selfe up, as the Morning rose)

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That with thrice saying a strange Magique spell,
Which but to him, to no man they would tell,
When as so e'r that simple he would take,
It him a war-wolfe instantly would make,
Which put in practise he most certaine prov'd,
When to a Forrest he himselfe remov'd,
Through which there lay a plaine and common Roade,
Which he the place chose for his chiefe abode,
And there this Monster set him downe to theeve,
Nothing but stolne goods might this Fiend releeve;
No silly woman, by that way could passe,
But by this Woolfe she surely ravisht was,
And if he found her flesh were soft and good,
What serv'd for Lust, must also serve for foode.
Into a Village he sometime would gett,
And watching there (as for the purpose sett)
For little Children when they came to play,
The fattst he ever bore with him away;
And as the people oft were wont to rise,
Following with Hubbubs and confused cries:
Yet was he so well breathed, and so light,
That he would still outstrip them by his flight;
And making straight to the tall Forrest neare,
Of the sweet Flesh would have his Junkets there.
And let the Shepheards doe the best they could;
Yet would he venter oft upon the Fold:
And taking the fatt'st Sheepe he there could finde:
Beare him away, and leave the Dogs behinde:
Nor could men keepe, so much as Pig, or Lamb,
But it no sooner, could drop from the Dam,
By hooke or crooke, but he would surely catch,
Though with their weapons all the Towne should watch.
Amongst the rest there was a silly Asse,
That on the way by Fortune chanc'd to passe,
Yet (it was true) he in his time had bin
A very perfect man, in shape, and skin:
But by a Witch envying (his estate)
That had borne to him a most deadly hate,

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Into this shape he was transform'd, and so,
From place to place, he wandred to and fro;
And often times was taken for a stray,
And in the Pinfold many a time he lay;
Yet held he still the reason that he had
When he was man, although he thus was clad
In a poore Asses shape, wherein he goes,
And must endure what Fortune will impose.
Him on his way this cruell Woolfe doth take,
His present prey, determining to make.
He bray'd, and ror'd, to make the people heare:
But it fell out, no creature being neare,
The silly Asse when he had done his best,
Must walke the common way amongst the rest:
When tow'rds his den the cruell Woolfe him tugs,
And by the eares most terribly him lugs:
But as God would, he had no list to feed,
Wherefore to keepe him till he should have need,
The silly creature utterly forlorne,
He brings into a Brake of Bryers and Thorne,
And so entangles by the mane and tayle,
That he might pluck, and struggle there, and hale,
Till his breath left him, unlesse by great chance
Some one might come for his deliverance.

At length the people grievously annoy'd
By this vile Woolfe, so many that destroy'd,
Determined a Hunting they would make,
To see if they by any meanes could take
This ravenous War-Woolfe: and with them they bring
Mastiffes, and Mungrells, all that in a string
Could be gott out, or could but lugg a Hogg,
Ball, Eateall, Cuttaile, Blackfoot, Bitch, and Dogg,
Bills, Batts, and Clubs, the Angry men doe beare,
The women eager as their husbands were
With Spits, and Fireforkes, sware if they could catch him,
It should goe hard, but they would soone dispatch him.
This subtile Woolfe by Passengers that heard,
What Forces thus against him were prepar'd,

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And by the noyse, that they were neere at hand,
Thinking this Asse did nothing understand,
Goes downe into a Spring that was hard by,
(Which the Asse noted) and immediatly
He came out perfect man, his Wolves shape left,
In which so long he had committed theft.
The silly Asse, so wistly then did view him,
And in his fancie so exactly drew him,
That he was sure to owne this Theefe agen,
If he should see him mongst a thousand men.

This Woolfe turn'd man, him instantly doth shrowd,
In a neere thicket, till the boystrous crowd,
Had somewhat past him, then he in doth fall
Upon the Reare, not any of them all,
Makes greater stirre, nor seemes to them to be,
More diligent to finde the Woolfe then he:
They beate each brake, and tuft o'r all the ground,
But yet the War-Woolfe was not to be found:
But a poore Asse entangled in the Bryers,
In such strange sort, as every one desires
To see the manner, and each one doth gather
How he was fastned so, how he came thither.
The silly Asse yet being still in holde,
Makes all the meanes, that possibly he could,
To be let loose, he hummes, he kneeles, and cryes,
Shaketh his head, and turneth up his eyes,
To move their pitty: that some said, t'was sure
This Asse had sence of what he did endure:
And at the last amongst themselves decreed
To let him loose; the Asse no sooner freed,
But out he goes the company among,
And where he sawe the people thick'st to throng:
There he thrusts in, and looketh round about:
Here he runnes in, and there he rusheth out;
That he was likely to have throwne to ground
Those in the way, which when the people found,
Though the poore Asse they seemed to disdaine,
Follow'd him yet, to finde what he should meane,

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Untill by chance that he this Villaine mett;
When he upon him furiously doth sett,
Fastning his teeth upon him with such strength
That he could not be loosed, till at the length
Railing them in, the people make a ring,
Strooke with the wonder of so strange a thing;
Whilst they are cadg'd, contending whether can
Conquer, the Asse some cry, some cry the man;
Yet the Asse drag'd him, and still forward drue,
Towards the strange Spring, which yet they never knewe:
Yet to what part the strugling seem'd to sway,
The people made a lane, and gave them way.
At length the Asse, had tug'd him neere thereto,
The people wondring what he meant to doe;
He seem'd to show them with his foote the Well,
Then with an Asse-like noise he seem'd to tell
The Story, now by pointing to the men,
Then to the Theefe, then to the Spring agen;
At length wext angry, growing into passion,
Because they could not finde his demonstration,
T'expresse it more, he leapes into the Spring,
When on the suddaine, O most wondrous thing,
To change his shape he presently began,
And at an instant became perfect man,
Recovering speech; and comming forth, accus'd
The bloody murtherer, who had so abus'd
The honest people, and such harme had done;
Before them all, and presently begunne
To shew them, in what danger he had beene,
And of this Woolfe the cruelty and sinne;
How he came chang'd agen as he had prov'd:
Whereat the people being strangely moov'd,
Some on the head, some one the backe doe clape him,
And in their armes, with shoutes and kisses hap him:
Then all at once, upon the Warre-woolfe flue,
And up and downe him on the earth they drewe;
Then from his bones the flesh in Collops cut,
And on their weapons points in Triumph put;

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Returning backe with a victorious song,
Bearing the man aloft with them along.

Quoth Gammer Gurton, on my honest word,
You have told a Tale doth much conceit afford:
Good neighbour Howlet, and as ye have done,
Each one for other, since our tales begun,

The morallity of mother Howlets tale.

And since our Stand of Ale, so well endures,
As you have moral'd Bumbyes, I will yours.
The fable of the War-woolfe I apply,
To a man, given to blood, and cruelty,
And upon spoile doth only set his rest;
Which by a wolfes shape livelyest is exprest.
The spring by which he gets his former shape,
Is the evasion after every rape,
He hath to start by; and the silly Asse,
Which unregarded, every where doth passe,
Is some just soule, who though the world disdaine,
Yet he by God is strangely made the meane,
To bring his damned practises to light.

Quoth mother Howlet you have hit the white,

Gammer Gurtons tale.

I thought as much quoth Gammer Gurton, then,
My turne comes next, have with you once agen.
A mighty Waste there in a countrey was,
Yet not so great as it was poore of grasse;
T'was said of old, a Saint once curst the soyle,
So barren, and so hungry, that no toyle,
Could ever make it any thing to beare;
Nor would ought prosper, that was planted there.
Upon the earth, the spring was seldome seene,
T'was winter there, when each place else was green;
When Summer did, her most aboundance yeild,
That still lay browne, as any fallow field,
Upon the same, some few trees scattering stood,
But it was Autumne, ere they us'd to bud;
And they were crookt, and knotty, and the leaves,
The niggard sap, so utterly deceives,
That sprouting forth, they drouping hung the head
And were neere withered, ere yet fully spread,

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No mirthfull Birds, the boughes did ever grace,
Nor could be wonne to stay upon that place,
Onely the night-Crow sometimes, you might see,
Croking to sit upon some Ranpick-tree,
Which was but very seldome too, and then
It boded great mortality to men;
As were the trees, which on that common grew,
So were the Cattell starvelings, and a few,
Asses, and Mules, and they were us'd to gnaw,
The very earth to fill the hungry mawe;
When they far'd best, they fed on Fearne and brack,
Their leane shrunke bellyes cleav'd up to their backe,
Of all the rest, in that great Waste that went,
Of those quicke caryons, the most eminent,
Was a poore Mule, upon that common bred,
And from his foling further never fed,
The Summer well-neare every yeare was past,
Ere he his ragged winter coate could cast,
And then the Jade would get him to a tree,
That had a rough Barke, purposely, where he
Rubbing his Buttocks, and his either side
Would get the old hayre, from his starved hyde,
And though he were as naked as my naile,
Yet he would whinny then, and wag the tayle,
In this short pasture one day as he stood,
Ready to faint amongst the rest for food;
Yet the poore Beast according to his kinde,
Bearing his nostrill up into the winde,
A sweet fresh feeding thought that he did vent,
“(Nothing as hunger sharpeneth so the sent)
For that not far there was a goodly ground,
Which with sweet grasse, so greatly did abound,
That the fat soyle seem'd to be over fraught
Nor could bestow the Burthen that it brought,
Besides that bounteous nature did it stick,
With sundry sorts of fragrant flowers so thick,
That when the warme, and Baulmy southwinde blew
The lushyous smells ore all the region flew.

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Led by his sence at length this poore Jade found,
This pasture, (fenc'd though with a mighty Mound)
A pale and quickeset, Cercling it about,
That nothing could get in, nor nothing out)
And with himselfe thus wittily doth caste,
Well, I have found good pasture yet at last,
If by some meanes accomplisht it might be,
Round with the ditch imediatly walks he;
(And long though 'twas, good luck nere comes too late,)
It was his chance to light upon a gate
That led into it, (though his hap were good)
Yet was it made of so sufficient wood,
And every barre that did to it belong,
Was so well joynted, and so wondrous strong
Besides a great locke, with a double ward,
That he thereby of entrance was debar'd
And thereby hard beset, yet thought at length,
“T'was done by sleight, that was not done by strength;
Fast in the ground his two fore-feete doth get,
Then his hard Buttockes to the gate he set,
And thrust, and shooke, and laboured till at last,
The two great posts, that held the same so fast,
Began to loosen, when againe he takes,
Fresh foot-hould, and a fresh he shakes and shakes,
Till the great Hindges to fly off he feeles;
And heard the Gate, fall clattering at his heeles,
Then nayes, and brayes, with such an open throat,
That all the Waste resounded with his note;
The rest that did his language understand,
Knew well there was, some good to them in hand,
And tag, and rag, through thick and thin came running,
Nor dale, nor ditch, nor banke nor bushes shunning;
And so desirous to see their good hap,
That with their thrunging they stucke in the gap.

Now they bestir their teeth, and doe devoure,
More sweetnesse in the compasse of one hower,
Then twice so many could in twice the time,
For now the spring was in the very prime,

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Till prickt with plenty eas'd of all their lackes
Their Pampred bellies swolne above their backes
They tread and waddle all the goodly grasse,
That in the field there scarse a corner was,
Left free by them, and what they had not swallow'd
There they had dung'd, and layd them down and wallow'd;
One with another they would ly and play,
And in the deepe fog batten all the day,
Thus along while, this mery life they led
Till (even) like Lard their thickned sides were fed;
But on a time the weather being fayre,
And season fit to take the pleasant ayre,
To view his pasture the rich owner went,
And see what grasse the fruitfull yeare had sent,
Finding, the feeding for which he had toyld,
To have kept safe, by these vile cattell spoil'd,
He in a rage upon them sets his Cur,
But for his bawling, not a beast would stir;
Then whoots, and shouts, and claps his hands, but he
Might as well move the dull earth, or a tree,
As once but stir them, when all would not doe,
Last, with his goad amongst them he doth goe,
And some of them he girdeth in the Hanches;
Some in the flanks, that prickt their very panches;
But when they felt that they began to smart,
Up on a suddaine they together start,
And drive at him as fast as they could ding,
They flirt, they yerk, they backward fluce, and fling,
As though the Devill in their heeles had bin,
That to escape the danger he was in,
He back and back, into a quagmire by,
Though with much perill, forced was to flye:
But lightly treading there-upon doth shift,
Out of the bog his cumbred feete to lift,
When they the perill that doe not fore-cast,
In the stiffe mud, are quickly stabled fast:
When to the Towne he presently doth flie,
Raising the Neighbours with a suddaine crie:

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With Cords and Halters that came all at once,
For now the Jades were fitted for the nonce:
For by that time th'had sunke themselves so deepe,
That scarce their heads above ground they could keepe.
When presently they by the necks them bound,
And so they led them to the common pound.
Quoth mother Red-Cap, right well have you done
Good Gammer Gurton, and as we begun,
So you conclude: tis time we parted now;
But first of my morallity alowe.
The common that you speake of here, say I,

The morallity of Gammer Gurtons tale.

Is nothing else but want and beggerie;
In the World common, and the beasts that goe
Upon the same, which oft are famish'd so:
Are the poore bred in scarcitie; the Mule
The other Cattell that doth seeme to rule,
Some crafty fellow that hath slily found
A way to thrive by; and the fruitfull ground
Is wealth, which he by subtilty doth win,
In his possession which not long hath bin;
But he with Ryot and excesse doth waste,
“For goods ill gotten doe consume as fast;
And with the law they lastly doe contend,
Till at the last the Prison is the end.
Quoth Gammer Gurton, well your selfe you quite,
By this the dawne usurpt upon the night;
And at the windowe biddeth them good day
When they departed each their severall way.

FINIS.

203

ELEGIES UPON SUNDRY OCCASIONS.

OF HIS LADIES NOT COMMING TO LONDON.

That ten-yeares-travell'd Greeke return'd from Sea
Ne'r joyd so much to see his Ithaca,
As I should you, who are alone to me,
More then wide Greece could to that wanderer be,
The winter windes still Easterly doe keepe,
And with keene Frosts have chained up the deepe;
The Sunne's to us a niggard of his Rayes,
But revelleth with our Antipodes;
And seldome to us when he shewes his head,
Muffled in vapours, he straight hies to bed.
In those bleake mountaines can you live where snowe
Maketh the vales up to the hilles to growe;
Whereas mens breathes doe instantly congeale,
And attom'd mists turne instantly to hayle;
Belike you thinke, from this more temperate cost,
My sighes may have the power to thawe the frost,
Which I from hence should swiftly send you thither,
Yet not so swift, as you come slowly hither.
How many a time, hath Phebe from her wayne,
With Phæbus fires fill'd up her hornes againe;
Shee through her Orbe, still on her course doth range,
But you keepe yours still, nor for me will change.
The Sunne that mounted the sterne Lions back,
Shall with the Fishes shortly dive the Brack,
But still you keepe your station, which confines
You, nor regard him travelling the signes.
Those ships which when you went, put out to Sea,
Both to our Groenland, and Virginia,
Are now return'd, and Custom'd have their fraught,
Yet you arrive not, nor returne me ought.

The Thames was not so frozen yet this yeare,
As is my bosome, with the chilly feare

204

Of your not comming, which on me doth light,
As on those Climes, where halfe the world is night.

Of every tedious houre you have made two,
All this long Winter here, by missing you:
Minutes are monthes, and when the houre is past,
A yeare is ended since the Clocke strooke last,
When your remembrance puts me on the Racke,
And I should Swound to see an Almanacke,
To reade what silent weekes away are slid,
Since the dire Fates you from my sight have hid.

I hate him who the first Devisor was
Of this same foolish thing, the Hower-glasse,
And of the Watch, whose dribbling sands and Wheele,
With their slow stroakes, make mee too much to feele
Your slackenesse hither, O how I doe ban,
Him that these Dialls against walles began,
Whose Snayly motion of the mooving hand,
(Although it goe) yet seeme to me to stand;
As though at Adam it had first set out,
And had been stealing all this while about,
And when it backe to the first point should come,
It shall be then just at the generall Doome.

The Seas into themselves retract their flowes,
The changing Winde from every quarter blowes,
Declining Winter in the Spring doth call,
The Starrs rise to us, as from us they fall;
Those Birdes we see, that leave us in the Prime,
Againe in Autumne re-salute our Clime.
Sure, either Nature you from kinde hath made,
Or you delight else to be Retrograde.

But I perceive by your attractive powers,
Like an Inchantresse you have charm'd the howers
Into short minutes, and have drawne them back,
So that of us at London, you doe lack
Almost a yeare, the Spring is scarse begonne
There where you live, and Autumne almost done.
With us more Eastward, surely you devise,
By your strong Magicke, that the Sunne shall rise

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Where now it setts, and that in some few yeares
You'l alter quite the Motion of the Spheares.

Yes, and you meane, I shall complaine my love
To gravell'd Walkes, or to a stupid Grove,
Now your companions; and that you the while
(As you are cruell) will sit by and smile,
To make me write to these, while Passers by,
Sleightly looke in your lovely face, where I
See Beauties heaven, whilst silly blockheads, they
Like laden Asses, plod upon their way,
And wonder not, as you should point a Clowne
Up to the Guards, or Ariadnes Crowne;
Of Constellations, and his dulnesse tell,
Hee'd thinke your words were certainly a Spell;
Or him some peice from Creet, or Marcus show,
In all his life which till that time ne'r saw
Painting: except in Alehouse or old Hall
Done by some Druzzler, of the Prodigall.

Nay doe, stay still, whilst time away shall steale
Your youth, and beautie, and your selfe conceale
From me I pray you, you have now inur'd
Me to your absence, and I have endur'd
Your want this long, whilst I have starved bine
For your short Letters, as you helde it sinne
To write to me, that to appease my woe,
I reade ore those, you writ a yeare agoe,
Which are to me, as though they had bin made,
Long time before the first Olympiad.

For thankes and curt'sies sell your presence then
To tatling Women, and to things like men,
And be more foolish then the Indians are
For Bells, for Knives, for Glasses, and such ware,
That sell their Pearle and Gold, but here I stay,
So would I not have you but come away.

206

TO MASTER GEORGE SANDYS

Treasurer for the English Colony in VIRGINIA.

Friend, if you thinke my Papers may supplie
You, with some strange omitted Noveltie,
Which others Letters yet have left untould,
You take me off, before I can take hould
Of you at all; I put not thus to Sea,
For two monthes Voyage to Virginia,
With newes which now, a little something here,
But will be nothing ere it can come there.

I feare, as I doe Stabbing; this word, State,
I dare not speake of the Palatinate,
Although some men make it their hourely theame,
And talke what's done in Austria, and in Beame,
I may not so; what Spinola intends,
Nor with his Dutch, which way Prince Maurice bends;
To other men, although these things be free,
Yet (George) they must be misteries to mee.

I scarce dare praise a vertuous friend that's dead,
Lest for my lines he should be censured;
It was my hap before all other men
To suffer shipwrack by my forward pen:
When King James entred; at which joyfull time
I taught his title to this Ile in rime:
And to my part did all the Muses win,
With high-pitch Pæans to applaud him in:
When cowardise had tyed up every tongue,
And all stood silent, yet for him I sung;
And when before by danger I was dar'd,
I kick'd her from me, nor a jot I spar'd.
Yet had not my cleere spirit in Fortunes scorne,
Me above earth and her afflictions borne;
He next my God on whom I built my trust,
Had left me troden lower then the dust:
But let this passe; in the extreamest ill,

207

Apollo's brood must be couragious still,
Let Pies, and Dawes, sit dumb before their death,
Onely the Swan sings at the parting breath.

And (worthy George) by industry and use,
Let's see what lines Virginia will produce;
Goe on with Ovid, as you have begunne,
With the first five Bookes; let your numbers run
Glib as the former, so shall it live long,
And doe much honour to the English tongue:
Intice the Muses thither to repaire,
Intreat them gently, trayne them to that ayre,
For they from hence may thither hap to fly,
T'wards the sad time which but to fast doth hie,
For Poesie is followed with such spight,
By groveling drones that never raught her height,
That she must hence, she may no longer staye:
The driery fates prefixed have the day,
Of her departure, which is now come on,
And they command her straight wayes to be gon;
That bestiall heard so hotly her pursue,
And to her succour, there be very few,
Nay none at all, her wrongs that will redresse,
But she must wander in the wildernesse,
Like to the woman, which that holy John
Beheld in Pathmos in his vision.

As th'English now, so did the stiff-neckt Jewes,
Their noble Prophets utterly refuse,
And of those men such poore opinions had,
They counted Esay and Ezechiel mad;
When Jeremy his Lamentations writ,
They thought the Wizard quite out of his wit,
Such sots they were, as worthily to ly,
Lock't in the chaines of their captivity,
Knowledge hath still her Eddy in her Flow,
So it hath beene, and it will still be so.

That famous Greece where learning flowrisht most,
Hath of her muses long since left to boast,
Th'unletter'd Turke, and rude Barbarian trades,

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Where Homer sang his lofty Iliads;
And this vaste volume of the world hath taught,
Much may to passe in little time be brought.

As if to Symptoms we may credit give,
This very time, wherein we two now live,
Shall in the compasse, wound the Muses more,
Then all the old English ignorance before;
Base Balatry is so belov'd and sought,
And those brave numbers are put by for naught,
Which rarely read, were able to awake,
Bodyes from graves, and to the ground to shake
The wandring clouds, and to our men at armes,
'Gainst pikes and muskets were most powerfull charmes.
That, but I know, insuing ages shall,
Raise her againe, who now is in her fall;
And out of dust reduce our scattered rimes,
Th'rejected jewels of these slothfull times,
Who with the Muses would mispend an hower,
But let blind Gothish Barbarisme devoure
These feverous Dogdays, blest by no record,
But to be everlastingly abhord.

If you vouchsafe rescription, stuffe your quill
With naturall bountyes, and impart your skill,
In the description of the place, that I,
May become learned in the soyle thereby;
Of noble Wyats health, and let me heare,
The Governour; and how our people there,
Increase and labour, what supplyes are sent,
Which I confesse shall give me much content;
But you may save your labour if you please,
To write to me ought of your Savages.
As savage slaves be in great Britaine here,
As any one that you can shew me there.
And though for this, Ile say I doe not thirst,
Yet I should like it well to be the first,
Whose numbers hence into Virginia flew,
So (noble Sandis) for this time adue.

209

TO MY NOBLE FRIEND MASTER WILLIAM BROWNE,

of the evill time.

Deare friend, be silent and with patience see,
What this mad times Catastrophe will be;
The worlds first Wisemen certainely mistooke
Themselves, and spoke things quite beside the booke,
And that which they have said of God, untrue,
Or else expect strange judgement to insue.

This Isle is a meere Bedlam, and therein,
We all lye raving, mad in every sinne,
And him the wisest most men use to call,
Who doth (alone) the maddest thing of all;
He whom the master of all wisedome found,
For a marckt foole, and so did him propound,
The time we live in, to that passe is brought,
That only he a Censor now is thought;
And that base villaine, (not an age yet gone,)
Which a good man would not have look'd upon;
Now like a God, with divine worship follow'd,
And all his actions are accounted hollow'd.

This world of ours, thus runneth upon wheeles,
Set on the head, bolt upright with her heeles;
Which makes me thinke of what the Ethnicks told,
Th'opinion, the Pythagorists uphold,
That the immortall soule doth transmigrate;

Wander from body to body.

Then I suppose by the strong power of fate,
That those which at confused Babel were,
And since that time now many a lingering yeare,
Through fools, and beasts, and lunatiques have past,
Are heere imbodyed in this age at last,
And though so long we from that time be gone,
Yet taste we still of that confusion.

For certainely there's scarse one found that now,
Knowes what t'approove, or what to disallow,
All arsey varsey, nothing is it's owne,

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But to our proverbe, all turnd upside downe;
To doe in time, is to doe out of season,
And that speeds best, thats done the farth'st from reason,
Hee's high'st that's low'st, hee's surest in that's out,
He hits the next way that goes farth'st about,
He getteth up unlike to rise at all,
He slips to ground as much unlike to fall;
Which doth inforce me partly to prefer,
The opinion of that mad Philosopher,

Zeno.

Who taught, that those all-framing powers above,
(As tis suppos'd) made man not out of love
To him at all, but only as a thing,
To make them sport with, which they use to bring
As men doe munkeys, puppets, and such tooles
Of laughter: so men are but the Gods fooles.
Such are by titles lifted to the sky,
As wherefore no man knowes, God scarcely why;
The vertuous man depressed like a stone
For that dull Sot to raise himselfe upon;
He who ne're thing yet worthy man durst doe,
Never durst looke upon his countreys foe,
Nor durst attempt that action which might get
Him fame with men: or higher might him set
Then the base begger (rightly if compar'd;)
This Drone yet never brave attempt that dar'd,
Yet dares be knighted, and from thence dares grow
To any title Empire can bestow;
For this beleeve, that Impudence is now
A Cardinall vertue, and men it allow
Reverence, nay more, men study and invent
New wayes, nay, glory to be impudent.

Into the clouds the Devill lately got,
And by the moisture doubting much the rot,
A medicine tooke to make him purge and cast;
Which in short time began to worke so fast,
That he fell too't, and from his backeside flew,
A rout of rascall a rude ribauld crew
Of base Plebeians, which no sooner light,

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Upon the earth, but with a suddaine flight,
They spread this Ile, and as Deucalion once
Over his shoulder backe, by throwing stones
They became men, even so these beasts became,
Owners of titles from an obscure name.

He that by riot, of a mighty rent,
Hath his late goodly Patrimony spent,
And into base and wilfull beggery run
This man as he some glorious act had done,
With some great pension, or rich guift releev'd,
When he that hath by industry atchiev'd
Some noble thing, contemned and disgrac'd,
In the forlorne hope of the times is plac'd,
As though that God had carelessly left all
That being hath on this terrestiall ball,
To fortunes guiding, nor would have to doe
With man, nor ought that doth belong him to,
Or at the least God having given more
Power to the Devill, then he did of yore,
Over this world: the feind as he doth hate
The vertuous man; maligning his estate,
All noble things, and would have by his will,
To be damn'd with him, using all his skill,
By his blacke hellish ministers to vexe
All worthy men, and strangely to perplexe
Their constancie, there by them so to fright,
That they should yeeld them wholely to his might.
But of these things I vainely doe but tell,
Where hell is heaven, and heav'n is now turn'd hell;
Where that which lately blasphemy hath bin,
Now godlinesse, much lesse accounted sin;
And a long while I greatly mervail'd why
Buffoons and Bawdes should hourely multiply,
Till that of late I construed it, that they
To present thrift had got the perfect way,
When I concluded by their odious crimes,
It was for us no thriving in these times.

As men oft laugh at little Babes, when they

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Hap to behold some strange thing in their play,
To see them on the suddaine strucken sad,
As in their fancie some strange formes they had,
Which they by pointing with their fingers showe,
Angry at our capacities so slowe,
That by their countenance we no sooner learne
To see the wonder which they so discerne:
So the celestiall powers doe sit and smile
At innocent and vertuous men the while,
They stand amazed at the world ore-gone,
So farre beyond imagination,
With slavish basenesse, that they silent sit
Pointing like children in describing it.

Then noble friend the next way to controule
These worldly crosses, is to arme thy soule
With constant patience: and with thoughts as high
As these belowe, and poore, winged to flye
To that exalted stand, whether yet they
Are got with paine, that sit out of the way
Of this ignoble age, which raiseth none
But such as thinke their black damnation
To be a trifle; such, so ill, that when
They are advanc'd, those fewe poore honest men
That yet are living, into search doe runne
To finde what mischiefe they have lately done,
Which so preferres them; say thou he doth rise,
That maketh vertue his chiefe excercise.
And in this base world come what ever shall,
Hees worth lamenting, that for her doth fall.

213

UPON THE THREE SONNES OF THE LORD SHEFFIELD,

drowned in Humber.

Light Sonnets hence, and to loose Lovers flie,
And mournfull Maydens sing an Elegie
On those three Sheffields, over-whelm'd with waves,
Whose losse the teares of all the Muses craves;
A thing so full of pitty as this was,
Me thinkes for nothing should not slightly passe.
Treble this losse was, why should it not borrowe,
Through this Iles treble parts, a treble sorrowe:
But Fate did this, to let the world to knowe,
That sorrowes which from common causes growe,
Are not worth mourning for, the losse to beare,
But of one onely sonne, 's not worth one teare.
Some tender hearted man, as I, may spend
Some drops (perhaps) for a deceased friend.
Some men (perhaps) their Wifes late death may rue;
Or Wifes their Husbands, but such be but fewe.
Cares that have us'd the hearts of men to tuch
So oft, and deepely, will not now be such;
Who'll care for losse of maintenance, or place,
Fame, liberty, or of the Princes grace;
Or sutes in law, by base corruption crost,
When he shall finde, that this which he hath lost;
Alas, is nothing to his, which did lose,
Three sonnes at once so excellent as those:
Nay, it is feard that this in time may breed
Hard hearts in men to their owne naturall seed;
That in respect of this great losse of theirs,
Men will scarce mourne the death of their owne heires.

Through all this Ile their losse so publique is,
That every man doth take them to be his,
And as a plague which had beginning there,
So catching is, and raigning every where,
That those the farthest off as much doe rue them,

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As those the most familiarly that knew them;
Children with this disaster are wext sage,
And like to men that strucken are in age;
Talke what it is, three children at one time
Thus to have drown'd, and in their very prime;
Yea, and doe learne to act the same so well,
That then olde folke, they better can it tell.

Invention, oft that Passion us'd to faine,
In sorrowes of themselves but slight, and meane,
To make them seeme great, here it shall not need,
For that this Subject doth so farre exceed
All forc'd Expression, that what Poesie shall
Happily thinke to grace it selfe withall,
Falls so belowe it, that it rather borrowes
Grace from their griefe, then addeth to their sorrowes,
For sad mischance thus in the losse of three,
To shewe it selfe the utmost it could bee:
Exacting also by the selfe same lawe,
The utmost teares that sorrowe had to drawe,
All future times hath utterly prevented
Of a more losse, or more to be lamented.

Whilst in faire youth they lively flourish'd here,
To their kinde Parents they were onely deere:
But being dead, now every one doth take
Them for their owne, and doe like sorrowe make:
As for their owne begot, as they pretended
Hope in the issue, which should have discended
From them againe; nor here doth end our sorrow,
But those of us, that shall be borne to morrowe
Still shall lament them, and when time shall count,
To what vast number passed yeares shall mount,
They from their death shall duly reckon so,
As from the Deluge, former us'd to doe.

O cruell Humber guilty of their gore,
I now beleeve more then I did before,
The Brittish Story, whence thy name begun
Of Kingly Humber, an invading Hun,
By thee devoured, for't is likely thou

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With bloud wert Christned, bloud-thirsty till now.
The Ouse, the Done, and thou farre clearer Trent,
To drowne these Sheffields as you gave consent,
Shall curse the time, that ere you were infus'd,
Which have your waters basely thus abus'd.
The groveling Boore yee hinder not to goe,
And at his pleasure Ferry to and fro,
The very best part of whose soule, and bloud,
Compared with theirs, is viler then your mud.

But wherefore paper, doe I idely spend,
On those deafe waters to so little end,
And up to starry heaven doe I not looke,
In which, as in an everlasting booke,
Our ends are written, O let times rehearse
Their fatall losse, in their sad Aniverse.

216

TO THE NOBLE LADY, THE LADY I. S.

of worldly crosses.

Madame, to shew the smoothnesse of my vaine,
Neither that I would have you entertaine
The time in reading me, which you would spend
In faire discourse with some knowne honest friend,
I write not to you. Nay, and which is more,
My powerfull verses strive not to restore,
What time and sicknesse have in you impair'd,
To other ends my Elegie is squar'd.

Your beauty, sweetnesse, and your gracefull parts
That have drawne many eyes, wonne many hearts,
Of me get little, I am so much man,
That let them doe their utmost that they can,
I will resist their forces: and they be
Though great to others, yet not so to me.
The first time I beheld you, I then sawe
That (in it selfe) which had the power to drawe
My stay'd affection, and thought to allowe
You some deale of my heart; but you have now
Got farre into it, and you have the skill
(For ought I see) to winne upon me still.

When I doe thinke how bravely you have borne
Your many crosses, as in Fortunes scorne,
And how neglectfull you have seem'd to be,
Of that which hath seem'd terrible to me,
I thought you stupid, nor that you had felt
Those griefes which (often) I have seene to melt,
Another woman into sighes and teares,
A thing but seldome in your sexe and yeares,
But when in you I have perceiv'd agen,
(Noted by me, more then by other men)
How feeling and how sensible you are
Of your friends sorrowes, and with how much care
You seeke to cure them, then my selfe I blame,
That I your patience should so much misname,

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Which to my understanding maketh knowne
“Who feeles anothers griefe, can feele their owne.
When straight me thinkes, I heare your patience say,
Are you the man that studied Seneca:
Plinies most learned letters; and must I
Read you a Lecture in Philosophie,
T'avoid the afflictions that have us'd to reach you;
I'le learne you more, Sir, then your bookes can teach you.

Of all your sex, yet never did I knowe,
Any that yet so actually could showe
Such rules for patience, such an easie way,
That who so sees it shall be forc'd to say,
Loe what before seem'd hard to be discern'd,
Is of this Lady, in an instant learn'd.
It is heavens will that you should wronged be
By the malicious, that the world might see
Your Dove-like meekenesse; for had the base scumme,
The spawne of Fiends, beene in your slander dumbe,
Your vertue then had perish'd, never priz'd,
For that the same you had not exercis'd;
And you had lost the Crowne you have, and glory,
Nor had you beene the subject of my Story.
Whilst they feele Hell, being damned in their hate,
Their thoughts, like Devils them excruciate,
Which by your noble suffrings doe torment
Them with new paines, and gives you this content
To see your soule an Innocent, hath suffred,
And up to heaven before your eyes be offred:
Your like we in a burning Glasse may see,
When the Sunnes rayes therein contracted be
Bent on some object, which is purely white,
We finde that colour doth dispierce the light,
And stands untainted: but if it hath got
Some little sully; or the least small spot,
Then it soone fiers it; so you still remaine
Free, because in you they can finde no staine.

God doth not love them least, on whom he layes
The great'st afflictions; but that he will praise

218

Himselfe most in them, and will make them fit,
Near'st to himselfe who is the Lambe to sit:
For by that touch, like perfect gold he tries them,
Who are not his, untill the world denies them.
And your example may worke such effect,
That it may be the beginning of a Sect
Of patient women; and that many a day
All Husbands may for you their Founder pray.

Nor is to me your Innocence the lesse,
In that I see you strive not to suppresse
Their barbarous malice; but your noble heart
Prepar'd to act so difficult a part,
With unremoved constancie is still
The same it was, that of your proper ill,
The effect proceeds from your owne selfe the cause,
Like some just Prince, who to establish lawes,
Suffers the breach at his best lov'd to strike,
To learne the vulgar to endure the like.
You are a Martir thus, nor can you be
Lesse to the world so valued by me:
If as you have begun, you still persever,
Be ever good, that I may love you ever.

219

AN ELEGIE UPON THE DEATH OF THE LADY PENELOPE CLIFTON.

Must I needes write, who's he that can refuse,
He wants a minde, for her that hath no Muse,
The thought of her doth heav'nly rage inspire,
Next powerfull, to those cloven tongues of fire.

Since I knew ought time never did allowe
Me stuffe fit for an Elegie, till now;
When France and England's Henrie's dy'd, my quill,
Why, I know not, but it that time lay still.
'Tis more then greatnesse that my spirit must raise,
To observe custome I use not to praise;
Nor the least thought of mine yet ere depended,
On any one from whom she was descended;
That for their favour I this way should wooe,
As some poore wretched things (perhaps) may doe;
I gaine the end, whereat I onely ayme,
If by my freedome I may give her fame.

Walking then forth being newly up from bed,
O Sir (quoth one) the Lady Clifton's dead.
When, but that reason my sterne rage withstood,
My hand had sure beene guilty of his blood.
If shee be so, must thy rude tongue confesse it
(Quoth I) and com'st so coldly to expresse it.
Thou shouldst have given a shreeke, to make me feare thee;
That might have slaine what ever had beene neere thee.
Thou shouldst have com'n like Time with thy scalpe bare,
And in thy hands thou shouldst have brought thy haire,
Casting upon me such a dreadfull looke,
As seene a spirit, or th'adst beene thunder strooke,
And gazing on me so a little space,
Thou shouldst have shot thine eye balls in my face,
Then falling at my feet, thou shouldst have said,
O she is gone, and Nature with her dead.

With this ill newes amaz'd by chance I past,
By that neere Grove, whereas both first and last,

220

I saw her, not three moneths before shee di'd.
When (though full Summer gan to vaile her pride,
And that I sawe men leade home ripened Corne,
Besides advis'd me well,) I durst have sworne
The lingring yeare, the Autumne had adjourn'd,
And the fresh Spring had beene againe return'd,
Her delicacie, lovelinesse, and grace,
With such a Summer bravery deckt the place:
But now alas, it lookt forlorne and dead;
And where she stood, the fading leaves were shed,
Presenting onely sorrowe to my sight,
O God (thought I) this is her Embleme right.

And sure I thinke it cannot but be thought,
That I to her by providence was brought.
For that the Fates fore-dooming, shee should die,
Shewed me this wondrous Master peece, that I
Should sing her Funerall, that the world should know it,
That heaven did thinke her worthy of a Poet;
My hand is fatall, nor doth fortune doubt,
For what it writes, not fire shall ere race out.
A thousand silken Puppets should have died,
And in their fulsome Coffins putrified,
Ere in my lines, you of their names should heare
To tell the world that such there ever were,
Whose memory shall from the earth decay,
Before those Rags be worne they gave away.
Had I her god-like features never seene,
Poore sleight Report had tolde me she had beene
A hansome Lady, comely, very well,
And so might I have died an Infidell,
As many doe which never did her see,
Or cannot credit, what she was, by mee.

Nature, her selfe, that before Art prefers
To goe beyond all our Cosmographers,
By Charts and Maps exactly that have showne,
All of this earth that ever can be knowne,
For that she would beyond them all descrie
What Art could not, by any mortall eye;

221

A Map of heaven in her rare features drue,
And that she did so lively and so true,
That any soule but seeing it, might sweare
That all was perfect heavenly that was there.
If ever any Painter were so blest,
To drawe that face, which so much heav'n exprest,
If in his best of skill he did her right,
I wish it never may come in my sight,
I greatly doubt my faith (weake man) lest I
Should to that face commit Idolatry.

Death might have tyth'd her sex, but for this one,
Nay, have ta'n halfe to have let her alone;
Such as their wrinkled temples to supply,
Cyment them up with sluttish Mercury,
Such as undrest were able to affright,
A valiant man approching him by night;
Death might have taken such, her end deferd,
Untill the time she had beene climaterd;
When she would have bin at threescore yeares and three,
Such as our best at three and twenty be,
With envie then, he might have overthrowne her,
When age nor time had power to sease upon her.

But when the unpittying Fates her end decreed,
They to the same did instantly proceed,
For well they knew (if she had languish'd so)
As those which hence by naturall causes goe,
So many prayers, and teares for her had spoken,
As certainly their Iron lawes had broken,
And had wak'd heav'n, who clearely would have show'd
That change of Kingdomes to her death it ow'd;
And that the world still of her end might thinke,
It would have let some Neighbouring mountaine sinke,
Or the vast Sea it in on us to cast,
As Severne did about some five yeares past:
Or some sterne Comet his curld top to reare,
Whose length should measure halfe our Hemisphere.
Holding this height, to say some will not sticke,
That now I rave, and am growne lunatique:

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You of what sexe so ere you be, you lye,
'Tis thou thy selfe is lunatique, not I.

I charge you in her name that now is gone,
That may conjure you, if you be not stone,
That you no harsh, nor shallow rimes decline,
Upon that day wherein you shall read mine.
Such as indeed are falsely termed verse,
And will but sit like mothes upon her herse;
Nor that no child, nor chambermaide, nor page,
Disturbe the Rome, the whilst my sacred rage,
In reading is; but whilst you heare it read,
Suppose, before you, that you see her dead,
The walls about you hung with mournfull blacke,
And nothing of her funerall to lacke,
And when this period gives you leave to pause,
Cast up your eyes, and sigh for my applause.

223

UPON THE NOBLE LADY ASTONS DEPARTURE FOR SPAINE.

I many a time have greatly marveil'd, why
Men say, their friends depart when as they die,
How well that word, a dying, doth expresse,
I did not know (I truely must confesse,)
Till her departure, for whose missed sight,
I am enforc'd this Elegy to write:
But since resistlesse fate will have it so,
That she from hence must to Iberia goe,
And my weake wishes can her not detaine,
I will of heaven in policy complaine,
That it so long her travell should adjourne,
Hoping thereby to hasten her returne.

Can those of Norway for their wage procure,

The witches of the Northerly legions sell windes to passengers.

By their blacke spells a winde that shall endure
Till from aboard the wished land men see,
And fetch the harbour, where they long to be,
Can they by charmes doe this, and cannot I
Who am the Priest of Phæbus, and so hie,
Sit in his favour, winne the Poets god,
To send swift Hermes with his snaky rod,
To Æolus Cave, commanding him with care,
His prosperous winds, that he for her prepare,
And from that howre, wherein she takes the seas,
Nature bring on the quiet Halcion dayes,
And in that hower that bird begin her nest,
Nay at that very instant, that long rest
May seize on Neptune, who may still repose,
And let that bird nere till that hower disclose,
Wherein she landeth, and for all that space
Be not a wrinkle seene on Thetis face,
Onely so much breath with a gentle gale,
As by the easy swelling of her saile,
May at

The nearest Harbour of Spaine.

Sebastians safely set her downe
Where, with her goodnes she may blesse the towne.

224

If heaven in justice would have plagu'd by thee
Some Pirate, and grimme Neptune thou should'st be
His Executioner, or what is his worse,
The gripple Merchant, borne to be the curse
Of this brave Iland; let them for her sake,
Who to thy safeguard doth her selfe betake,
Escape undrown'd, unwrackt, nay rather let
Them be at ease in some safe harbour set,
Where with much profit they may vent their wealth
That they have got by villany and stealth,
Rather great Neptune, then when thou dost rave,
Thou once shouldst wet her saile but with a wave.

Or if some proling Rover shall but dare,
To seize the ship wherein she is to fare,
Let the fell fishes of the Maine appeare,
And tell those Sea-thiefes, that once such they were
As they are now, till they assaid to rape;
Grape-crowned Bacchus in a striplings shape,
That came aboard them, and would faine have saild,
To vine-spread

An Ile for the abundance of wine supposed to be the habitation of Bachus

Naxus, but that him they faild,
Which he perceiving, them so monstrous made,
And warne them how, they passengers invade.

Ye South and Westerne winds now cease to blow,
Autumne is come, there be no flowers to grow,
Yea from that place respire, to which she goes,
And to her sailes should show your selfe but foes,
But Boreas and yee Esterne windes arise,
To send her soon to Spaine, but be precise,
That in your aide you seeme not still so sterne,
As we a Summer should no more discerne,
For till that here againe, I may her see,
It will be winter all the yeare with me.

Castor and Polox begot by Jove on Leda in the forme of a Swanne. A constellation ominous to Mariners.

Yee swanne-begotten lovely brother stars,
So oft auspicious to poore Mariners,
Yee twin-bred lights of lovely Leda's brood,
Joves egge-borne issue smile upon the flood,
And in your mild'st aspect doe ye appeare
To be her warrant from all future feare.

225

And if thou ship that bear'st her, doe prove good,
May never time by wormes, consume thy wood
Nor rust thy iron, may thy tacklings last,
Till they for reliques be in temples plac't:
Maist thou be ranged with that mighty Arke,
Wherein just Noah did all the world imbarque,
With that which after Troyes so famous wracke,
From ten yeares travell brought Ulisses backe,
That Argo which to Colchos went from Greece,
And in her botome brought the goulden fleece
Under brave Jason; or that same of Drake,
Wherein he did his famous voyage make
About the world; or Candishes that went
As far as his, about the Continent.

And yee milde winds that now I doe implore,
Not once to raise the least sand on the shore,
Nor once on forfeit of your selves respire:
When once the time is come of her retire,
If then it please you, but to doe your due,
What for those windes I did, Ile doe for you;
Ile wooe you then, and if that not suffice,
My pen shall proove you to have dietyes,
Ile sing your loves in verses that shall flow,
And tell the storyes of your weale and woe,
Ile proove what profit to the earth you bring,
And how t'is you that welcome in the spring;
Ile raise up altars to you, as to show,
The time shall be kept holy, when you blow.
O blessed winds! your will that it may be,
To send health to her, and her home to me.

226

TO MY MOST DEARELY-LOVED FRIEND HENERY REYNOLDS ESQUIRE,

of Poets and Poesie.

My dearely loved friend how oft have we,
In winter evenings (meaning to be free,)
To some well chosen place us'd to retire;
And there with moderate meate, and wine, and fire,
Have past the howres contentedly with chat,
Now talk'd of this, and then discours'd of that,
Spoke our owne verses 'twixt our selves, if not
Other mens lines, which we by chance had got,
Or some Stage pieces famous long before,
Of which your happy memory had store;
And I remember you much pleased were,
Of those who lived long agoe to heare,
As well as of those, of these latter times,
Who have inricht our language with their rimes,
And in succession, how still up they grew,
Which is the subject, that I now pursue;
For from my cradle (you must know that) I,
Was still inclin'd to noble Poesie,
And when that once Pueriles I had read,
And newly had my Cato construed,
In my small selfe I greatly marveil'd then,
Amongst all other, what strange kinde of men
These Poets were; And pleased with the name,
To my milde Tutor merrily I came,
(For I was then a proper goodly page,
Much like a Pigmy, scarse ten yeares of age)
Clasping my slender armes about his thigh.
O my deare master! cannot you (quoth I)
Make me a Poet, doe it; if you can,
And you shall see, Ile quickly be a man,
Who me thus answered smiling, boy quoth he,
If you'le not play the wag, but I may see

227

You ply your learning, I will shortly read
Some Poets to you; Phæbus be my speed,
Too't hard went I, when shortly he began,
And first read to me honest Mantuan,
Then Virgils Eglogues, being entred thus,
Me thought I straight had mounted Pegasus,
And in his full Careere could make him stop,
And bound upon Parnassus by-clift top.
I scornd your ballet then though it were done
And had for Finis, William Elderton.
But soft, in sporting with this childish jest,
I from my subject have too long digrest,
Then to the matter that we tooke in hand,
Jove and Apollo for the Muses stand.

That noble Chaucer, in those former times,
The first inrich'd our English with his rimes,
And was the first of ours, that ever brake,
Into the Muses treasure, and first spake
In weighty numbers, delving in the Mine
Of perfect knowledge, which he could refine,
And coyne for currant, and asmuch as then
The English language could expresse to men,
He made it doe; and by his wondrous skill,
Gave us much light from his abundant quill.

And honest Gower, who in respect of him,
Had only sipt at Aganippas brimme,
And though in yeares this last was him before,
Yet fell he far short of the others store.

When after those, foure ages very neare,
They with the Muses which conversed, were
That Princely Surrey, early in the time
Of the Eight Henry, who was then the prime
Of Englands noble youth; with him there came
Wyat; with reverence whom we still doe name
Amongst our Poets, Brian had a share
With the two former, which accompted are
That times best makers, and the authors were
Of those small poems, which the title beare,

228

Of songs and sonnets, wherein oft they hit
On many dainty passages of wit.

Gascoine and Churchyard after them againe
In the beginning of Eliza's raine,
Accoumpted were great Meterers many a day,
But not inspired with brave fier, had they
Liv'd but a little longer, they had seene,
Their workes before them to have buried beene.

Grave morrall Spencer after these came on
Then whom I am perswaded there was none
Since the blind Bard his Iliads up did make,
Fitter a taske like that to undertake,
To set downe boldly, bravely to invent,
In all high knowledge, surely excellent.

The noble Sidney, with this last arose,
That Heroe for numbers, and for Prose.
That throughly pac'd our language as to show,
The plenteous English hand in hand might goe
With Greeke and Latine, and did first reduce
Our tongue from Lillies writing then in use;
Talking of Stones, Stars, Plants, of fishes, Flyes,
Playing with words, and idle Similies,
As th'English, Apes and very Zanies be
Of every thing, that they doe heare and see,
So imitating his ridiculous tricks,
They spake and writ, all like meere lunatiques.

Then Warner though his lines were not so trim'd,
Nor yet his Poem so exactly lim'd
And neatly joynted, but the Criticke may
Easily reproove him, yet thus let me say;
For my old friend, some passages there be
In him, which I protest have taken me,
With almost wonder, so fine, cleere, and new
As yet they have bin equalled by few.

Neat Marlow bathed in the Thespian springs
Had in him those brave translunary things,
That the first Poets had, his raptures were,
All ayre, and fire, which made his verses cleere,

229

For that fine madnes still he did retaine,
Which rightly should possesse a Poets braine.

And surely Nashe, though he a Proser were
A branch of Lawrell yet deserves to beare,
Sharply Satirick was he, and that way
He went, since that his being, to this day
Few have attempted, and I surely thinke
Those words shall hardly be set downe with inke;
Shall scorch and blast, so as his could, where he,
Would inflict vengeance, and be it said of thee,
Shakespeare thou hadst as smooth a Comicke vaine,
Fitting the socke, and in thy naturall braine,
As strong conception, and as Cleere a rage,
As any one that trafiqu'd with the stage.

Amongst these Samuel Daniel, whom if I
May spake of, but to sensure doe denie,
Onely have heard some wisemen him rehearse,
To be too much Historian in verse;
His rimes were smooth, his meeters well did close,
But yet his maner better fitted prose:
Next these, learn'd Johnson, in this List I bring,
Who had drunke deepe of the Pierian spring,
Whose knowledge did him worthily prefer,
And long was Lord here of the Theater,
Who in opinion made our learn'st to sticke,
Whether in Poems rightly dramatique,
Strong Seneca or Plautus, he or they,
Should beare the Buskin, or the Socke away.
Others againe here lived in my dayes,
That have of us deserved no lesse praise
For their translations, then the daintiest wit
That on Parnassus thinks, he highst doth sit,
And for a chaire may mongst the Muses call,
As the most curious maker of them all;
As reverent Chapman, who hath brought to us,
Musæus, Homer, and Hesiodus
Out of the Greeke; and by his skill hath reard
Them to that height, and to our tongue endear'd,

230

That were those Poets at this day alive,
To see their bookes thus with us to survive,
They would think, having neglected them so long,
They had bin written in the English tongue.

And Silvester who from the French more weake,
Made Bartas of his sixe dayes labour speake
In naturall English, who, had he there stayd,
He had done well, and never had bewraid,
His owne invention, to have bin so poore
Who still wrote lesse, in striving to write more.

Then dainty Sands that hath to English done,
Smooth sliding Ovid, and hath made him run
With so much sweetnesse and unusuall grace,
As though the neatnesse of the English pace,
Should tell the Jetting Lattine that it came
But slowly after, as though stiffe and lame.

So Scotland sent us hither, for our owne
That man, whose name I ever would have knowne,
To stand by mine, that most ingenious knight,
My Alexander, to whom in his right,
I want extreamely, yet in speaking thus
I doe but shew the love, that was twixt us,
And not his numbers which were brave and hie,
So like his mind, was his cleare Poesie,
And my deare Drummond to whom much I owe
For his much love, and proud I was to know,
His poesie, for which two worthy men,
I Menstry still shall love, and Hauthorne-den,
Then the two Beamounts and my Browne arose,
My deare companions whom I freely chose
My bosome friends; and in their severall wayes,
Rightly borne Poets, and in these last dayes,
Men of much note, and no lesse nobler parts,
Such as have freely tould to me their hearts,
As I have mine to them; but if you shall
Say in your knowledge, that these be not all
Have writ in numbers, be inform'd that I
Only my selfe, to these few men doe tye,

231

Whose workes oft printed, set on every post,
To publique censure subject have bin most;
For such whose poems, be they nere so rare,
In private chambers, that incloistered are,
And by transcription daintyly must goe;
As though the world unworthy were to know,
Their rich composures, let those men that keepe
These wonderous reliques in their judgement deepe,
And cry them up so, let such Peeces bee
Spoke of by those that shall come after me,
I passe not for them: nor doe meane to run,
In quest of these, that them applause have wonne,
Upon our Stages in these latter dayes,
That are so many, let them have ther bayes
That doe deserve it; let those wits that haunt
Those publique circuits, let them freely chaunt
Their fine Composures, and their praise pursue,
And so my deare friend, for this time adue.

232

UPON THE DEATH OF HIS INCOMPARABLE FRIEND, SIR HENRY RAYNSFORD

of Clifford.

Could there be words found to expresse my losse,
There were some hope, that this my heavy crosse
Might be sustained, and that wretched I
Might once finde comfort: but to have him die
Past all degrees that was so deare to me;
As but comparing him with others, hee
Was such a thing, as if some Power should say
I'le take Man on me, to shew men the way
What a friend should be. But words come so short
Of him, that when I thus would him report,
I am undone, and having nought to say,
Mad at my selfe, I throwe my penne away,
And beate my breast, that there should be a woe
So high, that words cannot attaine thereto.
T'is strange that I from my abundant breast,
Who others sorrowes have so well exprest:
Yet I by this in little time am growne
So poore, that I want to expresse my owne.

I thinke the Fates perceiving me to beare
My worldly crosses without wit or feare:
Nay, with what scorne I ever have derided,
Those plagues that for me they have oft provided,
Drew them to counsaile; nay, conspired rather,
And in this businesse laid their heads together
To finde some one plague, that might me subvert,
And at an instant breake my stubborne heart;
They did indeede, and onely to this end
They tooke from me this more then man, or friend.

Hard-hearted Fates, your worst thus have you done,
Then let us see what lastly you have wonne
By this your rigour, in a course so strict,
Why see, I beare all that you can inflict:

233

And hee from heaven your poore revenge to view;
Laments my losse of him, but laughes at you,
Whilst I against you execrations breath;
Thus are you scorn'd above, and curst beneath.

Me thinks that man (unhappy though he be)
Is now thrice happy in respect of me,
Who hath no friend; for that in having none
He is not stirr'd as I am, to bemone
My miserable losse, who but in vaine,
May ever looke to finde the like againe.
This more then mine owne selfe; that who had seene
His care of me where ever I have beene,
And had not knowne his active spirit before,
Upon some brave thing working evermore:
He would have sworne that to no other end
He had beene borne: but onely for my friend.

I had beene happy, if nice Nature had
(Since now my lucke falls out to be so bad)
Made me unperfect, either of so soft
And yeelding temper, that lamenting oft,
I into teares my mournefull selfe might melt;
Or else so dull, my losse not to have felt.
I have by my too deere experience bought,
That fooles and mad men, whom I ever thought
The most unhappy, are in deede not so:
And therefore I lesse pittie can bestowe
(Since that my sence, my sorrowe so can sound)
On those I see in Bedlam that are bound,
And scarce feele scourging; and when as I meete
A foole by Children followed in the Streete,
Thinke I (poore wretch) thou from my griefe art free,
Nor couldst thou feele it, should it light on thee;
But that I am a Christian, and am taught
By him who with his precious bloud me bought,
Meekly like him my crosses to endure,
Else would they please me well, that for their cure,
When as they feele their conscience doth them brand,
Upon themselves dare lay a violent hand;

234

Not suffering Fortune with her murdering knife,
Stand like a Surgeon working on the life,
Desecting this part, that joynt off to cut,
Shewing that Artire, ripping then that gut,
Whilst the dull beastly World with her squint eye,
Is to behold the strange Anatomie.

I am perswaded that those which we read
To be man-haters, were not so indeed,
The Athenian Timon, and beside him more
Of which the Latines, as the Greekes have store;
Nor not they did all humane manners hate,
Nor yet maligne mans dignity and state.
But finding our fraile life how every day,
It like a bubble vanisheth away:
For this condition did mankinde detest,
Farre more incertaine then that of the beast.

Sure heaven doth hate this world and deadly too,
Else as it hath done it would never doe,
For if it did not, it would ne're permit
A man of so much vertue, knowledge, wit,
Of naturall goodnesse, supernaturall grace,
Whose courses when considerately I trace
Into their ends, and diligently looke,
They serve me for Oeconomike booke,
By which this rough world I not onely stemme,
In goodnesse but growe learn'd by reading them.

O pardon me, it my much sorrow is,
Which makes me use this long Parenthesis;
Had heaven this world not hated as I say,
In height of life it had not, tane away
A spirit so brave, so active, and so free,
That such a one who would not wish to bee,
Rather then weare a Crowne, by Armes though got,
So fast a friend, so true a Patriot.
In things concerning both the worlds so wise,
Besides so liberall of his faculties,
That where he would his industrie bestowe,
He would have done, e're one could think to doe.

235

No more talke of the working of the Starres,
For plenty, scarcenesse, or for peace, or Warres.
They are impostures, therefore get you hence
With all your Planets, and their influence.
No more doe I care into them to looke,
Then in some idle Chiromantick booke,
Shewing the line of life, and Venus mount,
Nor yet no more would I of them account,
Then what that tells me, since that what so ere
Might promise man long life: of care and feare,
By nature freed, a conscience cleere, and quiet,
His health, his constitution, and his diet;
Counting a hundred, fourescore at the least,
Propt up by prayers, yet more to be encreast,
All these should faile, and in his fiftieth yeare
He should expire, henceforth let none be deare,
To me at all, lest for my haplesse sake,
Before their time heaven from the world them take,
And leave me wretched to lament their ends
As I doe his, who was a thousand friends.

236

UPON THE DEATH OF THE LADY OLIVE STANHOPE.

Canst thou depart and be forgotten so,
Stanhope thou canst not, no deare Stanhope, no:
But in despight of death the world shall see,
That Muse which so much graced was by thee;
Can black Oblivion utterly out-brave,
And set thee up above thy silent Grave.

I mervail'd much the Derbian Nimphes were dumbe,
Or of those Muses, what should be become,
That of all those, the mountaines there among,
Not one this while thy Epicedium sung;
But so it is, when they of thee were reft,
They all those hills, and all those Rivers left,
And sullen growne, their former seates remove,
Both from cleare Darwin, and from silver Dove,
And for thy losse, they greeved are so sore,
That they have vow'd they will come there no more;
But leave thy losse to me, that I should rue thee,
Unhappy man, and yet I never knew thee:
Me thou didst love unseene, so did I thee,
It was our spirits that lov'd then and not wee;
Therefore without profanenesse I may call
The love betwixt us, love spirituall:
But that which thou affectedst was so true,
As that thereby thee perfectly I knew;
And now that spirit, which thou so lov'dst, still mine,
Shall offer this a Sacrifice to thine,
And reare this Trophe, which for thee shall last,
When this most beastly Iron age is past;
I am perswaded, whilst we two have slept,
Our soules have met, and to each other wept;
That destenie so strongly should forbid,
Our bodies to converse as oft they did:
For certainly refined spirits doe know,
As doe the Angels, and doe here belowe

237

Take the fruition of that endlesse blisse,
As those above doe, and what each one is,
They see divinely, and as those there doe,
They know each others wills, so soules can too.

About that dismall time, thy spirit hence flew,
Mine much was troubled, but why, I not knew,
In dull and sleepy sounds, it often left me,
As of it selfe it ment to have bereft me,
I ask'd it what the cause was, of such woe,
Or what it might be, that might vexe it so,
But it was deafe, nor my demand would here,
But when that ill newes came, to touch mine eare,
I straightwayes found this watchfull sperit of mine,
Troubled had bin to take its leave of thine,
For when fate found, what nature late had done,
How much from heaven, she for the earth had won
By thy deare birth; said, that it could not be
In so yong yeares, what it perceiv'd in thee,
But nature sure, had fram'd thee long before;
And as Rich Misers of their mighty store,
Keepe the most precious longst, so from times past,
She onely had reservd thee till the last;
So did thy wisedome, not thy youth behold,
And tooke thee hence, in thinking thou wast old.
Thy shape and beauty often have to me
Bin highly praysed, which I thought might be,
Truely reported, for a spirit so brave,
Which heaven to thee so bountifully gave;
Nature could not in recompence againe,
In some rich lodging but to entertaine.
Let not the world report then, that the Peake,
Is but a rude place only vast and bleake,
And nothing hath to boast of but her Lead,
When she can say that happily she bred
Thee, and when she shall of her wonders tell
Wherein she doth all other Tracts excell,
Let her account thee greatst, and still to time
Of all the rest, record thee for the prime.

238

TO MASTER WILLIAM JEFFREYS,

Chaplaine to the Lord Ambassadour in Spaine.

My noble friend, you challenge me to write
To you in verse, and often you recite,
My promise to you, and to send you newes;
As 'tis a thing I very seldome use,
And I must write of State, if to Madrid,
A thing our Proclamations here forbid,
And that word State such Latitude doth beare,
As it may make me very well to feare
To write, nay speake at all, these let you know
Your power on me, yet not that I will showe
The love I beare you, in that lofty height,
So cleere expression, or such words of weight,
As into Spanish if they were translated,
Might make the Poets of that Realme amated;
Yet these my least were, but that you extort
These numbers from me, when I should report
In home-spunne prose, in good plaine honest words
The newes our wofull England us affords.

The Muses here sit sad, and mute the while
A sort of swine unseasonably defile
Those sacred springs, which from the by-clift hill
Dropt their pure Nectar into every quill;
In this with State, I hope I doe not deale,
This onely tends the Muses common-weale.

What canst thou hope, or looke for from his pen,
Who lives with beasts, though in the shapes of men,
And what a poore few are we honest still,
And dare to be so, when all the world is ill.

I finde this age of ours markt with this fate,
That honest men are still precipitate
Under base villaines, which till th'earth can vent
This her last brood, and wholly hath them spent,

239

Shall be so, then in revolution shall,
Vertue againe arise by vices fall;
But that shall I not see, neither will I
Maintaine this, as one doth a Prophesie,
That our King James to Rome shall surely goe,
And from his chaire the Pope shall overthrow.
But ô this world is so given up to hell,
That as the old Giants, which did once rebell,
Against the Gods, so this now-living race
Dare sin, yet stand, and Jeere heaven in the face.

But soft my Muse, and make a little stay,
Surely thou art not rightly in thy way,
To my good Jeffrayes was not I about
To write, and see, I suddainely am out,
This is pure Satire, that thou speak'st, and I
Was first in hand to write an Elegie.
To tell my countreys shame I not delight,
But doe bemoane't I am no Democrite:
O God, though Vertue mightily doe grieve
For all this world, yet will I not beleeve
But that shees faire and lovely, and that she
So to the period of the world shall be;
Else had she beene forsaken (sure) of all,
For that so many sundry mischiefes fall
Upon her dayly, and so many take
Armes up against her, as it well might make
Her to forsake her nature, and behind,
To leave no step for future time to find,
As she had never beene, for he that now
Can doe her most disgrace, him they alow
The times chiefe Champion, and he is the man,
The prize, and Palme that absolutely wanne,
For where Kings Clossets her free seat hath bin
She neere the Lodge, not suffered is to Inne,
For ignorance against her stands in state,
Like some great porter at a Pallace gate;
So dull and barbarous lately are we growne,
And there are some this slavery that have sowne,

240

That for mans knowledge it enough doth make,
If he can learne, to read an Almanacke;
By whom that trash of Amadis de Gaule,
Is held an author most authenticall,
And things we have, like Noblemen that be
In little time, which I have hope to see
Upon their foot-clothes, as the streets they ride
To have their hornebookes at their girdles ti'd,
But all their superfluity of spight
On vertues handmaid Poesy doth light,
And to extirpe her all their plots they lay,
But to her ruine they shall misse the way,
For tis alone the Monuments of wit,
Above the rage of Tyrants that doe sit,
And from their strength, not one himselfe can save,
But they shall tryumph o'r his hated grave.

In my conceipt, friend, thou didst never see
A righter Madman then thou hast of me,
For now as Elegiack I bewaile
These poore base times; then suddainely I raile
And am Satirick, not that I inforce
My selfe to be so, but even as remorse,
Or hate, in the proud fulnesse of their hight
Master my fancy, just so doe I write.

But gentle friend as soone shall I behold
That stone of which so many have us tould,
(Yet never any to this day could make)
The great Elixar, or to undertake
The Rose-crosse knowledge, which is much like that
A Tarrying-iron for fooles to labour at,
As ever after I may hope to see,
(A plague upon this beastly world for me,)
Wit so respected as it was of yore,
And if hereafter any it restore,
It must be those that yet for many a yeare,
Shall be unborne that must inhabit here,
And such in vertue as shall be asham'd
Almost to heare their ignorant Grandsires nam'd,

241

With whom so many noble spirits then liv'd,
That were by them of all reward depriv'd.

My noble friend, I would I might have quit
This age of these, and that I might have writ,
Before all other, how much the brave pen,
Had here bin honoured of the English men;
Goodnesse and knowledge, held by them in prise,
How hatefull to them Ignorance and vice,
But it falls out the contrary is true,
And so my Jeffreyes for this time adue.

242

UPON THE DEATH OF MISTRIS ELIANOR FALLOWFIELD.

Accursed Death, what neede was there at all
Of thee, or who to councell did thee call;
The subject whereupon these lines I spend
For thee was most unfit, her timelesse end
Too soone thou wroughtst, too neere her thou didst stand;
Thou shouldst have lent thy leane and meager hand
To those who oft the help thereof beseech,
And can be cured by no other Leech.

In this wide world how many thousands be,
That having past fourescore, doe call for thee.
The wretched debtor in the Jayle that lies,
Yet cannot this his Creditor suffice,
Doth woe thee oft with many a sigh and teare,
Yet thou art coy, and him thou wilt not heare.
The Captive slave that tuggeth at the Oares,
And underneath the Bulls tough sinewes rores,
Begs at thy hand, in lieu of all his paines,
That thou wouldst but release him of his chaines;
Yet thou a niggard listenest not thereto,
With one short gaspe which thou mightst easily do,
But thou couldst come to her ere there was neede,
And even at once destroy both flowre and seede.

But cruell Death if thou so barbarous be,
To those so goodly, and so young as shee;
That in their teeming thou wilt shew thy spight;
Either from marriage thou wilt Maides affright,
Or in their wedlock, Widowes lives to chuse,
Their Husbands bed, and utterly refuse,
Fearing conception; so shalt thou thereby
Extirpate mankinde by thy cruelty.

If after direfull Tragedy thou thirst,
Extinguish Himens Torches at the first;
Build Funerall pyles, and the sad pavement strewe,
With mournfull Cypresse, & the pale-leav'd Yewe.

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Away with Roses, Myrtle, and with Bayes;
Ensignes of mirth, and jollity, as these,
Never at Nuptials used be againe,
But from the Church the new Bride entertaine
With weeping Nenias, ever and among,
As at departings be sad Requiems song.

Lucina by th'olde Poets that wert sayd,
Women in Childe-birth evermore to ayde,
Because thine Altars, long have layne neglected:
Nor as they should, thy holy fiers reflected
Upon thy Temples, therefore thou doest flye,
And wilt not helpe them in necessitie.

Thinking upon thee, I doe often muse,
Whether for thy deare sake I should accuse
Nature or Fortune, Fortune then I blame,
And doe impute it as her greatest shame,
To hast thy timelesse end, and soone agen
I vexe at Nature, nay I curse her then,
That at the time of need she was no stronger,
That we by her might have enjoy'd thee longer.

But whilst of these I with my selfe debate,
I call to minde how flinty-hearted Fate
Seaseth the olde, the young, the faire, the foule,
No thing of earth can Destinie controule:
But yet that Fate which hath of life bereft thee,
Still to eternall memory hath left thee,
Which thou enjoy'st by the deserved breath,
That many a great one hath not after death.

FINIS.

245

THE MUSES ELIZIVM, Lately discouered, BY A NEW WAY OVER PARNASSVS.

The passages therein, being the subiect of ten sundry Nymphalls, Leading three Diuine Poemes, Noahs Floud. Moses, his Birth and Miracles. David and Golia. By Michael Drayton Esquire.

246

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE, EDWARD Earle of DORSET, Knight of the Noble Order of the Garter, of his Majesties Privie Counsaile, and Lord Chamberlayne to her Majesty.

248

THE DESCRIPTION OF ELIZIUM.

A paradice on earth is found,
Though farre from vulgar sight,
Which with those pleasures doth abound
That it Elizium hight.

Where, in Delights that never fade,
The Muses lulled be,
And sit at pleasure in the shade
Of many a stately tree,

Which no rough Tempest makes to reele
Nor their straight bodies bowes,
Their lofty tops doe never feele
The weight of winters snowes;

In Groves that evermore are greene,
No falling leafe is there,
But Philomel (of birds the Queene)
In Musicke spends the yeare.

The Merle upon her mertle Perch,
There to the Mavis sings,
Who from the top of some curld Berch
Those notes redoubled rings;

There Daysyes damaske every place
Nor once their beauties lose,
That when proud Phœbus hides his face
Themselves they scorne to close.

The Pansy and the Violet here,
As seeming to descend,
Both from one Root, a very payre,
For sweetnesse yet contend,

249

And pointing to a Pinke to tell
Which beares it, it is loath,
To judge it; but replyes, for smell
That it excels them both,

Wherewith displeasde they hang their heads
So angry soone they grow
And from their odoriferous beds
Their sweets at it they throw.

The winter here a Summer is,
No waste is made by time,
Nor doth the Autumne ever misse
The blossomes of the Prime.

The flower that July forth doth bring
In Aprill here is seene,
The Primrose that puts on the Spring
In July decks each Greene.

The sweets for soveraignty contend
And so abundant be,
That to the very Earth they lend
And Barke of every Tree:

Rills rising out of every Banck,
In wilde Meanders strayne,
And playing many a wanton pranck
Upon the speckled plaine,

In Gambols and lascivious Gyres
Their time they still bestow
Nor to their Fountaines none retyres,
Nor on their course will goe

Those Brooks with Lillies bravely deckt,
So proud and wanton made,
That they their courses quite neglect:
And seeme as though they stayde,

250

Faire Flora in her state to viewe
Which through those Lillies looks,
Or as those Lillies leand to shew
Their beauties to the brooks.

That Phœbus in his lofty race,
Oft layes aside his beames
And comes to coole his glowing face
In these delicious streames;

Oft spreading Vines clime up the Cleeves,
Whose ripned clusters there,
Their liquid purple drop, which drives
A Vintage through the yeere.

Those Cleeves whose craggy sides are clad
With Trees of sundry sutes,
Which make continuall summer glad,
Even bending with their fruits,

Some ripening, ready some to fall,
Some blossom'd, some to bloome,
Like gorgeous hangings on the wall
Of some rich princely Roome:

Pomegranates, Lymons, Cytrons, so
Their laded branches bow,
Their leaves in number that outgoe
Nor roomth will them alow.

There in perpetuall Summers shade,
Apolloes Prophets sit
Among the flowres that never fade,
But flowrish like their wit;

To whom the Nimphes upon their Lyres,
Tune many a curious lay,
And with their most melodious Quires
Make short the longest day.

251

The thrice three Virgins heavenly Cleere,
Their trembling Timbrels sound,
Whilst the three comely Graces there
Dance many a dainty Round,

Decay nor Age there nothing knowes,
There is continuall Youth,
As Time on plant or creatures growes,
So still their strength renewth.

The Poets Paradice this is,
To which but few can come;
The Muses onely bower of blisse
Their Deare Elizium.

Here happy soules, (their blessed bowers,
Free from the rude resort
Of beastly people) spend the houres,
In harmelesse mirth and sport,

Then on to the Elizian plaines
Apollo doth invite you
Where he provides with pastorall straines,
In Nimphals to delight you.

252

THE FIRST NIMPHALL.

Rodope and Dorida:

This Nimphall of delights doth treat,
Choice beauties, and proportions neat,
Of curious shapes, and dainty features
Describd in two most perfect creatures.

When Phœbus with a face of mirth,
Had flong abroad his beames,
To blanch the bosome of the earth,
And glaze the gliding streames.
Within a goodly Mertle grove,
Upon that hallowed day
The Nimphes to the bright Queene of love
Their vowes were usde to pay.
Faire Rodope and Dorida
Met in those sacred shades,
Then whom the Sunne in all his way,
Nere saw two daintier Maids.
And through the thickets thrild his fires,
Supposing to have seene
The soveraigne Goddesse of desires,
Or Joves Emperious Queene:
Both of so wondrous beauties were,
In shape both so excell,
That to be paraleld elsewhere,
No judging eye could tell.
And their affections so surpasse,
As well it might be deemd,
That th'one of them the other was,
And but themselves they seem'd.
And whilst the Nimphes that neare this place,
Disposed were to play

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At Barly-breake and Prison-base,
Doe passe the time away:
This peerlesse payre together set,
The other at their sport,
None neare their free discourse to let,
Each other thus they court,

Dorida.
My sweet, my soveraigne Rodope,
My deare delight, my love,
That Locke of hayre thou sentst to me,
I to this Bracelet wove;
Which brighter every day doth grow
The longer it is worne,
As its delicious fellowes doe,
Thy Temples that adorne.

Rodope.
Nay had I thine my Dorida,
I would them so bestow,
As that the winde upon my way,
Might backward make them flow,
So should it in its greatst excesse
Turne to becalmed ayre,
And quite forget all boistrousnesse
To play with every hayre.

Dorida.
To me like thine had nature given,
A Brow, so Archt, so cleere,
A Front, wherein so much of heaven
Doth to each eye appeare,
The world should see, I would strike dead
The Milky way that's now,
And say that Nectar Hebe shed
Fell all upon my Brow.

Rodope.
O had I eyes like Doridaes,
I would inchant the day,
And make the Sunne to stand at gaze,
Till he forgot his way:
And cause his Sister Queene of Streames,
When so I list by night;

254

By her much blushing at my Beames
T'eclipse her borrowed light.

Dorida.
Had I a Cheeke like Rodopes,
In midst of which doth stand,
A Grove of Roses, such as these,
In such a snowy land:
I would make the Lilly which we now
So much for whitenesse name,
As drooping downe the head to bow,
And die for very shame.

Rodope.
Had I a bosome like to thine,
When it I pleas'd to show,
T'what part o'th'Skie I would incline
I would make th'Etheriall bowe;
My swannish Breast brancht all with blew,
In bravery like the spring:
In Winter to the generall view
Full Summer forth should bring.

Dorida.
Had I a body like my deare,
Were I so straight so tall,
O, if so broad my shoulders were,
Had I a waste so small;
I would challenge the proud Queene of love
To yeeld to me for shape,
And I should feare that Mars or Jove
Would venter for my rape.

Rodope.
Had I a hand like thee my Gerle,
(This hand O let me kisse)
These Ivory Arrowes pyl'd with pearle,
Had I a hand like this;
I would not doubt at all to make,
Each finger of my hand
To taske swift Mercury to take
With his inchanting wand.

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Dorida.
Had I a Theigh like Rodopes;
Which twas my chance to veiwe,
When lying on yon banck at ease
The wind thy skirt up blew,
I would say it were a columne wrought
To some intent Divine,
And for our chaste Diana sought,
A pillar for her shryne.

Rodope.
Had I a Leg but like to thine
That were so neat, so cleane,
A swelling Calfe, a Small so fine,
An Ankle, round and leane,
I would tell nature she doth misse
Her old skill; and maintaine,
She shewd her master peece in this,
Not to be done againe.

Dorida.
Had I that Foot hid in those shoos,
(Proportion'd to my height)
Short Heele, thin Instep, even Toes,
A Sole so wondrous straight,
The Forresters and Nimphes at this
Amazed all should stand,
And kneeling downe, should meekely kisse
The Print left in the sand.

By this the Nimphes came from their sport,
All pleased wondrous well,
And to these Maydens make report
What lately them befell:
One said the dainty Lelipa
Did all the rest out-goe,
Another would a wager lay
Shee would outstrip a Roe;

256

Sayes one, how like yee Florimel
There is your dainty face:
A fourth replide, she lik't that well,
Yet better lik't her grace,
She's counted, I confesse, quoth she,
To be our onely Pearle,
Yet have I heard her oft to be
A melancholly Gerle.
Another said she quite mistoke,
That onely was her art,
When melancholly had her looke
Then mirth was in her heart;
And hath she then that pretty trick
Another doth reply,
I thought no Nimph could have bin sick
Of that disease but I;
I know you can dissemble well
Quoth one to give you due,
But here be some (who Ile not tell)
Can do't as well as you,
Who thus replies, I know that too,
We have it from our Mother,
Yet there be some this thing can doe
More cunningly then other:
If Maydens but dissemble can
Their sorrow and their joy,
Their pore dissimulation than,
Is but a very toy.

257

THE SECOND NIMPHALL.

Lalus Cleon and Lirope.

The Muse new Courtship doth devise,
By Natures strange Varieties,
Whose Rarieties she here relates,
And gives you Pastorall Delicates.

Lalus a Jolly youthfull Lad,
With Cleon, no lesse crown'd
With vertues; both their beings had
On the Elizian ground.
Both having parts so excellent,
That it a question was,
Which should be the most eminent,
Or did in ought surpasse.
This Cleon was a Mountaineer,
And of the wilder kinde,
And from his birth had many a yeere
Bin nurst up by a Hinde:
And as the sequell well did show,
It very well might be;
For never Hart, nor Hare, nor Roe,
Were halfe so swift as he.
But Lalus in the Vale was bred,
Amongst the Sheepe and Neate,
And by those Nimphes there choicly fed,
With Hony, Milke, and Wheate;
Of Stature goodly, faire of speech,
And of behaviour mylde,
Like those there in the Valley rich,
That bred him of a chyld.
Of Falconry they had the skill,
Their Halkes to feed and flye,
No better Hunters ere clome Hill,

258

Nor hollowed to a Cry:
In Dingles deepe, and Mountains hore,
Oft with the bearded Speare
They cumbated the tusky Boare,
And slew the angry Beare.
In Musicke they were wondrous quaint,
Fine Aers they could devise;
They very curiously could Paint,
And neatly Poetize;
That wagers many time were laid
On Questions that arose,
Which Song the witty Lalus made,
Which Cleon should compose.
The stately Steed they manag'd well,
Of Fence the art they knew,
For Dansing they did all excell
The Gerles that to them drew;
To throw the Sledge, to pitch the Barre,
To wrestle and to Run,
They all the Youth exceld so farre,
That still the Prize they wonne.
These sprightly Gallants lov'd a Lasse,
Cald Lirope the bright,
In the whole world there scarcely was
So delicate a Wight,
There was no Beauty so divine
That ever Nimph did grace,
But it beyond it selfe did shine
In her more hevenly face:
What forme she pleasd each thing would take
That ere she did behold,
Of Pebbles she could Diamonds make,
Grosse Iron turne to Gold:
Such power there with her presence came
Sterne Tempests she alayd,
The cruell Tigar she could tame,
She raging Torrents staid,
She chid, she cherisht, she gave life,

259

Againe she made to dye,
She raisd a warre, apeasd a Strife,
With turning of her eye.
Some said a God did her beget,
But much deceiv'd were they,
Her Father was a Rivelet,
Her Mother was a Fay.
Her Lineaments so fine that were,
She from the Fayrie tooke,
Her Beauties and Complection cleere,
By nature from the Brooke.
These Ryvalls wayting for the houre
(The weather calme and faire)
When as she us'd to leave her Bower
To take the pleasant ayre,
Acosting her; their complement
To her their Goddesse done;
By gifts they tempt her to consent,
When Lalus thus begun.

Lalus.
Sweet Lirope I have a Lambe
Newly wayned from the Damme,
Of the right kinde, it is

Without hornes.

notted,
Naturally with purple spotted,
Into laughter it will put you,
To see how prettily 'twill But you;
When on sporting it is set,
It will beate you a Corvet,
And at every nimble bound
Turne it selfe above the ground;
When tis hungry it will bleate,
From your hand to have its meate,
And when it hath fully fed,
It will fetch Jumpes above your head,
As innocently to expresse
Its silly sheepish thankfullnesse,
When you bid it, it will play,
Be it either night or day,

260

This Lirope I have for thee,
So thou alone wilt live with me.

Cleon.
From him O turne thine eare away,
Andheare me my lov'd Lirope,
I have a Kid as white as milke,
His skin as soft as Naples silke,
His hornes in length are wondrous even,
And curiously by nature writhen;
It is of th'Arcadian kinde,
Ther's not the like twixt either Inde;
If you walke, 'twill walke you by,
If you sit downe, it downe will lye,
It with gesture will you wooe,
And counterfeit those things you doe;
Ore each Hillock it will vault,
And nimbly doe the Summer-sault,
Upon the hinder Legs 'twill goe,
And follow you a furlong so,
And if by chance a Tune you roate,
'Twill foote it finely to your note,
Seeke the world and you may misse
To finde out such a thing as this;
This my love I have for thee
So thou'lt leave him and goe with me.

Lirope.
Beleeve me Youths your gifts are rare,
And you offer wondrous faire;
Lalus for Lambe, Cleon for Kyd,
'Tis hard to judge which most doth bid,
And have you two such things in store,
And I n'er knew of them before?
Well yet I dare a Wager lay
That Brag my litle Dog shall play,
As dainty tricks when I shall bid,
As Lalus Lambe, or Cleons Kid.
But t'may fall out that I may need them
Till when yee may doe well to feed them;

261

Your Goate and Mutton pretty be
But Youths these are noe bayts for me,
Alasse good men, in vaine ye wooe,
'Tis not your Lambe nor Kid will doe.

Lalus.
I have two Sparrowes white as Snow,
Whose pretty eyes like sparkes doe show;
In her Bosome Venus hatcht them
Where her little Cupid watcht them,
Till they too fledge their Nests forsooke
Themselves and to the Fields betooke,
Where by chance a Fowler caught them
Of whom I full dearely bought them;
They'll fetch you Conserve from the

The redde fruit of the smooth Bramble.

Hip,
And lay it softly on your Lip,
Through their nibling bills they'll Chirup
And flutering feed you with the Sirup,
And if thence you put them by
They to your white necke will flye,
And if you expulse them there
They'll hang upon your braded Hayre;
You so long shall see them prattle
Till at length they'll fall to battle,
And when they have fought their fill,
You will smile to see them bill.
These Birds my Lirope's shall be
So thou'llt leave him and goe with me.

Cleon.
His Sparrowes are not worth a rush
I'le finde as good in every bush,
Of Doves I have a dainty paire
Which when you please to take the Aier,
About your head shall gently hover
Your Cleere browe from the Sunne to cover,
And with their nimble wings shall fan you,
That neither Cold nor Heate shall tan you,
And like Umbrellas with their feathers
Sheeld you in all sorts of weathers:

262

They be most dainty Coloured things,
They have Damask backs and Chequerd wings,
Their neckes more Various Cullours showe
Then there be mixed in the Bowe;
Venus saw the lesser Dove
And therewith was farre in Love,
Offering for't her goulden Ball
For her Sonne to play withall;
These my Liropes shall be
So shee'll leave him and goe with me.

Lirope.
Then for Sparrowes, and for Doves
I am fitted twixt my Loves,
But Lalus, I take noe delight
In Sparowes, for they'll scratch and bite
And though joynd, they are ever wooing
Alwayes billing if not doeing,
Twixt Venus breasts if they have lyen
I much feare they'll infect myne;
Cleon your Doves are very dainty,
Tame Pidgeons else you knowe are plenty,
These may winne some of your Marrowes
I am not caught with Doves, nor Sparrowes,
I thanke ye kindly for your Coste,
Yet your labour is but loste.

Lalus.
With full-leav'd Lillies I will stick
Thy braded hayre all o'r so thick,
That from it a Light shall throw
Like the Sunnes upon the Snow.
Thy Mantle shall be Violet Leaves,
With the fin'st the Silkeworme weaves
As finly Woven; whose rich smell
The Ayre about thee so shall swell
That it shall have no power to moove.
A Ruffe of Pinkes thy Robe above
About thy necke so neatly set
That Art it cannot counterfet,

263

Which still shall looke so Fresh and new,
As if upon their Roots they grew:
And for thy head Ile have a Tyer
Of netting, made of Strawbery wyer,
And in each knot that doth compose
A Mesh, shall stick a halfe blowne Rose,
Red, damaske, white, in order set
About the sides, shall run a Fret
Of Primroses, the Tyer throughout
With Thrift and Daysyes frindgd about;
All this faire Nimph Ile doe for thee,
So thou'lt leave him and goe with me.

Cleon.
These be but weeds and Trash he brings,
Ile give thee solid, costly things,
His will whither and be gone
Before thou well canst put them on;
With Currall I will have thee Crown'd,
Whose Branches intricatly wound
Shall girt thy Temples every way;
And on the top of every Spray
Shall stick a Pearle orient and great,
Which so the wandring Birds shall cheat,
That some shall stoope to looke for Cheries,
As other for tralucent Berries.
And wondring, caught e'r they be ware
In the curld Tramels of thy hayre:
And for thy necke a Christall Chaine
Whose lincks shapt like to drops of Raine,
Upon thy panting Breast depending,
Shall seeme as they were still descending,
And as thy breath doth come and goe,
So seeming still to ebbe and flow:
With Amber Bracelets cut like Bees,
Whose strange transparancy who sees,
With Silke small as the Spiders Twist
Doubled so oft about thy Wrist,
Would surely thinke alive they were,

264

From Lillies gathering hony there.
Thy Buskins Ivory, carv'd like Shels
Of Scallope, which as little Bels
Made hollow, with the Ayre shall Chime,
And to thy steps shall keepe the time:
Leave Lalus, Lirope for me
And these shall thy rich dowry be.

Lirope.
Lalus for Flowers Cleon for Jemmes,
For Garlands and for Diadems,
I shall be sped, why this is brave,
What Nimph can choicer Presents have,
With dressing, brading, frowncing, flowring,
All your Jewels on me powring,
In this bravery being drest,
To the ground I shall be prest,
That I doubt the Nimphes will feare me,
Nor will venture to come neare me;
Never Lady of the May,
To this houre was halfe so gay;
All in flowers, all so sweet,
From the Crowne, beneath the Feet,
Amber, Currall, Ivory, Pearle,
If this cannot winne a Gerle,
Thers nothing can, and this ye wooe me,
Give me your hands and trust ye to me,
(Yet to tell ye I am loth)
That I'le have neither of you both.

Lalus.
When thou shalt please to stem the flood,
(As thou art of the watry brood)
I'le have twelve Swannes more white then Snow,
Yokd for the purpose two and two,
To drawe thy Barge wrought of fine Reed
So well that it nought else shall need,
The Traces by which they shall hayle
Thy Barge; shall be the winding trayle
Of woodbynd; whose brave Tasseld Flowers
(The Sweetnesse of the Woodnimphs Bowres)

265

Shall be the Trappings to adorne,
The Swannes, by which thy Barge is borne,
Of flowred Flags I'le rob the banke
Of water-Cans and King-cups ranck
To be the Covering of thy Boate,
And on the Streame as thou do'st Floate,
The Naiades that haunt the deepe,
Themselves about thy Barge shall keepe,
Recording most delightfull Layes,
By Sea Gods written in thy prayse.
And in what place thou hapst to land,
There the gentle Silvery sand,
Shall soften, curled with the Aier
As sensible of thy repayre:
This my deare love I'le doe for thee,
So Thou'lt leave him and goe with me:

Cleon.
Tush Nimphe his Swannes will prove but Geese,
His Barge drinke water like a Fleece;
A Boat is base, I'le thee provide,
A Chariot, wherein Jove may ride;
In which when bravely thou art borne,
Thou shalt looke like the gloryous morne
Ushering the Sunne, and such a one
As to this day was never none,
Of the Rarest Indian Gummes,
More pretious then your Balsamummes
Which I by Art have made so hard,
That they with Tooles may well be Carv'd
To make a Coach of: which shall be
Materyalls of this one for thee,
And of thy Chariot each small peece
Shall inlayd be with Amber Greece,
And guilded with the Yellow ore
Produc'd from Tagus wealthy shore;
In which along the pleasant Lawne,
With twelve white Stags thou shalt be drawne,
Whose brancht palmes of a stately height,

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With severall nosegayes shall be dight;
And as thou ryd'st, thy Coach about,
For thy strong guard shall runne a Rout,
Of Estriges; whose Curled plumes,
Sen'sd with thy Chariots rich perfumes,
The scent into the Aier shall throw;
Whose naked Thyes shall grace the show;
Whilst the Woodnimphs and those bred
Upon the mountayns, o'r thy head
Shall beare a Canopy of flowers,
Tinseld with drops of Aprill showers,
Which shall make more glorious showes
Then spangles, or your silver Oas;
This bright nimph I'le doe for thee
So thou'lt leave him and goe with me.

Lirope.
Vie and revie, like Chapmen profer'd,
Would't be receaved what you have offer'd;
Ye greater honour cannot doe me,
If not building Altars to me:
Both by Water and by Land,
Bardge and Chariot at command;
Swans upon the Streame to tawe me,
Stags upon the Land to draw me,
In all this Pompe should I be seene,
What a pore thing were a Queene:
All delights in such excesse,
As but yee, who can expresse:
Thus mounted should the Nimphes me see,
All the troope would follow me,
Thinking by this state that I
Would asume a Deitie.
There be some in love have bin,
And I may commit that sinne,
And if e'r I be in love,
With one of you I feare twill prove,
But with which I cannot tell,
So my gallant Youths farewell.

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THE THIRD NIMPHALL.

Doron Dorilus Naiis Cloe Cloris Mertilla Claia Florimel With Nimphes and Forresters.
Poetick Raptures, sacred fires,
With which, Apollo his inspires,
This Nimphall gives you; and withall
Observes the Muses Festivall.
Amongst th'Elizians many mirthfull Feasts,
At which the Muses are the certaine guests,
Th'observe one Day with most Emperiall state,
To wise Apollo which they dedicate,
The Poets God, and to his Alters bring
Th'enaml'd Bravery of the beauteous spring,
And strew their Bowers with every precious sweet,
Which still wax fresh, most trod on with their feet;
With most choice flowers each Nimph doth brade her hayre,
And not the mean'st but bauldrick wise doth weare
Some goodly Garland, and the most renown'd
With curious Roseat Anadems are crown'd.
These being come into the place where they
Yearely observe the Orgies to that day,
The Muses from their Heliconian spring
Their brimfull Mazers to the feasting bring:
When with deepe Draughts out of those plenteous Bowles,
The jocond Youth have swild their thirsty soules,
They fall enraged with a sacred heat,
And when their braines doe once begin to sweat
They into brave and Stately numbers breake,
And not a word that any one doth speake
But tis Prophetick, and so strangely farre
In their high fury they transported are,
As there's not one, on any thing can straine,
But by another answred is againe

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In the same Rapture, which all sit to heare;
When as two Youths that soundly liquord were,
Dorilus and Doron, two as noble swayns
As ever kept on the Elizian playns,
First by their signes attention having woonne,
Thus they the Revels frolikly begunne:
Doron.
Come Dorilus, let us be brave,
In lofty numbers let us rave,
With Rymes I will inrich thee.

Dorilus.
Content say I, then bid the base,
Our wits shall runne the Wildgoose chase,
Spurre up, or I will swich thee.

Doron.
The Sunne out of the East doth peepe,
And now the day begins to creepe,
Upon the world at leasure.

Dorilus.
The Ayre enamor'd of the Greaves,
The West winde stroaks the velvit leaves
And kisses them at pleasure.

Doron.
The Spinners webs twixt spray and spray,
The top of every bush make gay,
By filmy coards there dangling.

Dorilus.
For now the last dayes evening dew
Even to the full it selfe doth shew,
Each bough with Pearle bespangling.

Doron.
O Boy how thy abundant vaine
Even like a Flood breaks from thy braine,
Nor can thy Muse be gaged.

Dorilus.
Why nature forth did never bring
A man that like to me can sing,
If once I be enraged.

Doron.
Why Dorilus I in my skill
Can make the swiftest Streame stand still,
Nay beare back to his springing.

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Dorilus.
And I into a Trance most deepe
Can cast the Birds that they shall sleepe
When fain'st they would be singing.

Doron.
Why Dorilus thou mak'st me mad,
And now my wits begin to gad,
But sure I know not whither.

Dorilus.
O Doron let me hug thee then,
There never was two madder men,
Then let us on together.

Doron.
Hermes the winged Horse bestrid,
And thorow thick and thin he rid,
And floundred throw the Fountaine.

Dorilus.
He spurd the Tit untill he bled,
So that at last he ran his head
Against the forked Mountaine,

Doron.
How sayst thou, but pyde Iris got,
Into great Junos Chariot,
I spake with one that saw her.

Dorilus.
And there the pert and sawcy Elfe
Behav'd her as twere Juno's selfe,
And made the Peacoks draw her.

Doron.
Ile borrow Phœbus fiery Jades,
With which about the world he trades,
And put them in my Plow.

Dorilus.
O thou most perfect frantique man,
Yet let thy rage be what it can,
Ile be as mad as thou.

Doron.
Ile to great Jove, hap good, hap ill,
Though he with Thunder threat to kill,
And beg of him a boone.

Dorilus.
To swerve up one of Cynthias beames,
And there to bath thee in the streames,
Discoverd in the Moone.

270

Doron.
Come frolick Youth and follow me,
My frantique boy, and Ile show thee
The Countrey of the Fayries.

Dorilus.
The fleshy Mandrake where't doth grow
In noonshade of the Mistletow,
And where the Phœnix Aryes.

Doron.
Nay more, the Swallowes winter bed,
The Caverns where the Winds are bred,
Since thus thou talkst of showing.

Dorilus.
And to those Indraughts Ile thee bring,
That wondrous and eternall spring
Whence th'Ocean hath its flowing.

Doron.
We'll downe to the darke house of sleepe,
Where snoring Morpheus doth keepe,
And wake the drowsy Groome.

Dorilus.
Downe shall the Dores and Windowes goe,
The Stooles upon the Floare we'll throw,
And roare about the Roome.

The Muses here commanded them to stay,
Commending much the caridge of their Lay
As greatly pleasd at this their madding Bout,
To heare how bravely they had borne it out
From first to the last, of which they were right glad,
By this they found that Helicon still had
That vertue it did anciently retaine
When Orpheus, Lynus and th'Ascrean Swaine
Tooke lusty Rowses, which hath made their Rimes,
To last so long to all succeeding times.
And now amongst this beauteous Beavie here,
Two wanton Nimphes, though dainty ones they were,
Naiis and Cloe in their female fits
Longing to show the sharpnesse of their wits,
Of the nine Sisters speciall leave doe crave
That the next Bout they two might freely have,
Who having got the suffrages of all,
Thus to their Rimeing instantly they fall.

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Naiis.
Amongst you all let us see
Who ist opposes mee,
Come on the proudest she
To answere my dittye.

Cloe.
Why Naiis, that am I,
Who dares thy pride defie?
And that we soone shall try
Though thou be witty.

Naiis.
Cloe I scorne my Rime
Should observe feet or time,
Now I fall, then I clime,
What is't I dare not.

Cloe.
Give thy Invention wing,
And let her flert and fling,
Till downe the Rocks she ding,
For that I care not.

Naiis.
This presence delights me,
My freedome invites me,
The Season excytes me,
In Rime to be merry.

Cloe.
And I beyond measure,
Am ravisht with pleasure,
To answer each Ceasure,
Untill thou beist weary.

Naiis.
Behold the Rosye Dawne,
Rises in Tinfild Lawne,
And smiling seemes to fawne,
Upon the mountaines.

Cloe.
Awaked from her Dreames
Shooting foorth goulden Beames
Dansing upon the Streames
Courting the Fountaines.

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Naiis.
These more then sweet Showrets,
Intice up these Flowrets,
To trim up our Bowrets,
Perfuming our Coats.

Cloe.
Whilst the Birds billing
Each one with his Dilling
The thickets still filling
With Amorous Noets.

Naiis.
The Bees up in hony rould,
More then their thighes can hould,
Lapt in their liquid gould,
Their Treasure us bringing.

Cloe.
To these Rillets purling
Upon the stones Curling,
And oft about wherling,
Dance tow'ard their springing.

Naiis.
The Wood-Nimphes sit singing,
Each Grove with notes ringing
Whilst fresh Ver is flinging,
Her Bounties abroad.

Cloe.
So much as the Turtle,
Upon the low Mertle,
To the meads fertle,
Her Cares doth unload.

Naiis.
Nay 'tis a world to see,
In every bush and Tree,
The Birds with mirth and glee,
Woo'd as they woe.

Cloe.
The Robin and the Wren,
Every Cocke with his Hen,
Why should not we and men,
Doe as they doe.

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Naiis.
The Fairies are hopping,
The small Flowers cropping,
And with dew dropping,
Skip thorow the Greaves.

Cloe.
At Barly-breake they play
Merrily all the day,
At night themselves they lay
Upon the soft leaves.

Naiis.
The gentle winds sally
Upon every Valley,
And many times dally
And wantonly sport.

Cloe.
About the fields tracing,
Each other in chasing,
And often imbracing,
In amorous sort.

Naiis.
And Eccho oft doth tell
Wondrous things from her Cell,
As her what chance befell,
Learning to prattle.

Cloe.
And now she sits and mocks
The Shepherds and their flocks,
And the Heards from the Rocks
Keeping their Cattle.

When to these Maids the Muses silence cry,
For twas th'opinion of the Company,
That were not these two taken of, that they
Would in their Conflict wholly spend the day.
When as the Turne to Florimel next came,
A Nimph for Beauty of especiall name,
Yet was she not so Jolly as the rest:
And though she were by her companions prest,

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Yet she by no intreaty would be wrought
To sing, as by th'Elizian Lawes she ought:
When two bright Nimphes that her companions were,
And of all other onely held her deare,
Mild Cloris and Mertilla, with faire speech
Their most beloved Florimel beseech,
T'observe the Muses, and the more to wooe her,
They take their turnes, and thus they sing unto her.
Cloris.
Sing Florimel, O sing, and wee
Our whole wealth will give to thee,
We'll rob the brim of every Fountaine,
Strip the sweets from every Mountaine,
We will sweepe the curled valleys,
Brush the bancks that mound our allyes,
We will muster natures dainties
When she wallowes in her plentyes,
The lushyous smell of every flower
New washt by an Aprill shower,
The Mistresse of her store we'll make thee
That she for her selfe shall take thee;
Can there be a dainty thing,
That's not thine if thou wilt sing.

Mertilla.
When the dew in May distilleth,
And the Earths rich bosome filleth,
And with Pearle embrouds each Meadow,
We will make them like a widow,
And in all their Beauties dresse thee,
And of all their spoiles possesse thee,
With all the bounties Zephyre brings,
Breathing on the yearely springs,
The gaudy bloomes of every Tree
In their most Beauty when they be,
What is here that may delight thee,
Or to pleasure may excite thee,
Can there be a dainty thing
That's not thine if thou wilt sing.

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But Florimel still sullenly replyes
I will not sing at all, let that suffice:
When as a Nimph one of the merry ging
Seeing she no way could be wonne to sing;
Come, come, quoth she, ye utterly undoe her
With your intreaties, and your reverence to her;
For praise nor prayers, she careth not a pin;
They that our froward Florimel would winne,
Must worke another way, let me come to her,
Either Ile make her sing, or Ile undoe her.
Claia.
Florimel I thus conjure thee,
Since their gifts cannot alure thee;
By stampt Garlick, that doth stink
Worse then common Sewer, or Sink,
By Henbane, Dogsbane, Woolfsbane, sweet
As any Clownes or Carriers feet,
By stinging Nettles, pricking Teasels
Raysing blisters like the measels,
By the rough Burbreeding docks,
Rancker then the oldest Fox,
By filthy Hemblock, poysning more
Then any ulcer or old sore,
By the Cockle in the corne
That smels farre worse then doth burnt horne,
By Hempe in water that hath layne,
By whose stench the Fish are slayne,
By Toadflax which your Nose may tast,
If you have a minde to cast,
May all filthy stinking Weeds
That e'r bore leafe, or e'r had seeds,
Florimel be given to thee,
If thou'lt not sing as well as wee.

At which the Nimphs to open laughter fell,
Amongst the rest the beauteous Florimel,
(Pleasd with the spell from Claia that came,
A mirthfull Gerle and given to sport and game)
As gamesome growes as any of them all,
And to this ditty instantly doth fall.

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Florimel.
How in my thoughts should I contrive
The Image I am framing,
Which is so farre superlative,
As tis beyond all naming;
I would Jove of my counsell make,
And have his judgement in it,
But that I doubt he would mistake
How rightly to begin it:
It must be builded in the Ayre,
And tis my thoughts must doe it,
And onely they must be the stayre
From earth to mount me to it,
For of my Sex I frame my Lay,
Each houre, our selves forsaking,
How should I then finde out the way
To this my undertaking,
When our weake Fancies working still,
Yet changing every minnit,
Will show that it requires some skill,
Such difficulty's in it.
We would things, yet we know not what,
And let our will be granted,
Yet instantly we finde in that
Something unthought of wanted:
Our joyes and hopes such shadowes are,
As with our motions varry,
Which when we oft have fetcht from farre,
With us they never tarry:
Some worldly crosse doth still attend,
What long we have bin spinning,
And e'r we fully get the end
We lose of our beginning.
Our pollicies so peevish are,
That with themselves they wrangle,
And many times become the snare
That soonest us intangle;
For that the Love we beare our Friends
Though nere so strongly grounded,

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Hath in it certaine oblique ends,
If to the bottome sounded:
Our owne well wishing making it,
A pardonable Treason;
For that it is derivd from witt,
And underpropt with reason.
For our Deare selves beloved sake
(Even in the depth of passion)
Our Center though our selves we make,
Yet is not that our station;
For whilst our Browes ambitious be
And youth at hand awayts us,
It is a pretty thing to see
How finely Beautie cheats us
And whylst with tyme we tryfling stand
To practise Antique graces
Age with a pale and witherd hand
Drawes Furowes in our faces.

When they which so desirous were before
To hear her sing; desirous are far more
To have her cease; and call to have her stayd
For she to much alredy had bewray'd.
And as the thrice three Sisters thus had grac'd
Their Celebration, and themselves had plac'd
Upon a Violet banck, in order all
Where they at will might view the Festifall
The Nimphs and all the lusty youth that were
At this brave Nimphall, by them honored there,
To Gratifie the heavenly Gerles againe
Lastly prepare in state to entertaine
Those sacred Sisters, fairely and confer,
On each of them, their prayse particular;
And thus the Nimphes to the nine Muses sung,
When as the Youth and Forresters among
That well prepared for this businesse were,
Become the Chorus, and thus sung they there.

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Nimphes.
Clio thou first of those Celestiall nine
That daily offer to the sacred shryne,
Of wise Apollo; Queene of Stories,
Thou that vindicat'st the glories
Of passed ages, and renewst
Their acts which every day thou viewst,
And from a lethargy dost keepe
Old nodding time, else prone to sleepe.

Chorus.
Clio O crave of Phœbus to inspire
Us, for his Altars with his holiest fire,
And let his glorious ever-shining Rayes
Give life and growth to our Elizian Bayes.

Nimphes.
Melpomine thou melancholly Maid
Next, to wise Phœbus we invoke thy ayd,
In Buskins that dost stride the Stage,
And in thy deepe distracted rage,
In blood-shed that dost take delight,
Thy object the most fearfull sight,
That lovest the sighes, the shreekes, and sounds
Of horrors, that arise from wounds.

Chorus.
Sad Muse, O crave of Phœbus to inspire
Us for his Altars, with his holiest fire,
And let his glorious ever-shining Rayes
Give life and growth to our Elizian Bayes.

Nimphes.
Comick Thalia then we come to thee,
Thou mirthfull Mayden, onely that in glee
And in loves deceits, thy pleasure tak'st,
Of which thy varying Scene thou mak'st
And in thy nimble Sock do'st stirre
Loude laughter through the Theater,
That with the Peasant mak'st thee sport,
As well as with the better sort.

Chorus.
Thalia crave of Phebus to inspire,
Us for his Alters with his holyest fier;
And let his glorious ever-shining Rayes
Give life, and growth to our Elizian Bayes.

279

Nimphes.
Euterpe next to thee we will proceed,
That first found'st out the Musick on the Reed,
With breath and fingers giving life,
To the shrill Cornet and the Fyfe,
Teaching every stop and kaye,
To those upon the Pipe that playe,
Those which Wind-Instruments we call
Or soft, or lowd, or greate, or small.

Chorus.
Euterpe aske of Phebus to inspire,
Us for his Alters with his holyest fire
And let his glorious ever-shining Rayes
Give life and growth to our Elizian Bayes.

Nimphes.
Terpsichore thou of the Lute and Lyre,
And Instruments that sound with Cords and Wyere,
That art the Mistres, to commaund
The touch of the most Curious hand,
When every Quaver doth Imbrace
His like, in a true Diapase,
And every string his sound doth fill
Toucht with the Finger or the Quill.

Chorus.
Terpsichore, crave Phebus to inspire
Us for his Alters with his holyest fier
And let his glorious ever-shining Rayes
Give life and growth to our Elizian Bayes.

Nimphes.
Then Erato wise muse on thee we call
In Lynes to us that do'st demonstrate all,
Which neatly, with thy Staffe and Bowe,
Do'st measure, and proportion showe;
Motion and Gesture that dost teach
That every height and depth canst reach,
And do'st demonstrate by thy Art
What nature else would not Impart.

Chorus.
Deare Erato crave Phebus to inspire
Us for his Alters with his holyest fire,
And let his glorious ever-shining Rayes,
Give life and growth to our Elizian Bayes.

280

Nimphes.
To thee then brave Caliope we come
Thou that maintain'st, the Trumpet, and the Drum;
The neighing Steed that lovest to heare,
Clashing of Armes doth please thine eare,
In lofty Lines that do'st rehearse
Things worthy of a thundring verse,
And at no tyme art heard to straine,
On ought, that suits a Common vayne.

Chorus.
Caliope, crave Phebus to inspire,
Us for his Alters, with his holyest fier,
And let his glorious ever-shining Rayes,
Give life and growth to our Elizian Bayes.

Nimphes.
Then Polyhymnia most delicious Mayd,
In Rhetoricks Flowers that art arayd,
In Tropes and Figures, richly drest,
The Fyled Phrase that lovest best,
That art all Elocution, and
The first that gav'st to understand
The force of wordes in order plac'd
And with a sweet delivery grac'd.

Chorus.
Sweet Muse perswade our Phœbus to inspire
Us for his Altars, with his holiest fire,
And let his glorious ever-shining Rayes
Give life and growth to our Elizian Bayes.

Nimphes.
Lofty Urania then we call to thee,
To whom the Heavens for ever opened be,
Thou th'Asterismes by name dost call,
And shewst when they doe rise and fall,
Each Planets force, and dost divine
His working, seated in his Signe,
And how the starry Frame still roules
Betwixt the fixed stedfast Poles.

Chorus.
Urania aske of Phœbus to inspire
Us for his Altars with his holiest fire,
And let his glorious ever-shining Rayes
Give life and growth to our Elizian Bayes.

281

THE FOURTH NIMPHALL.

Cloris and Mertilla.

Chaste Cloris doth disclose the shames
Of the Felician frantique Dames,
Mertilla strives t'apease her woe,
To golden wishes then they goe.

Mertilla.
Why how now Cloris, what, thy head
Bound with forsaken Willow?
Is the cold ground become thy bed?
The grasse become thy pillow?
O let not those life-lightning eyes
In this sad vayle be shrowded,
Which into mourning puts the Skyes,
To see them over clowded.

Cloris.
O my Mertilla doe not praise
These Lampes so dimly burning,
Such sad and sullen lights as these
Were onely made for mourning:
Their objects are the barren Rocks
With aged Mosse o'r shaded;
Now whilst the Spring layes forth her Locks
With blossomes bravely braded.

Mertilla.
O Cloris, Can there be a Spring,
O my deare Nimph, there may not,
Wanting thine eyes it forth to bring,
Without which Nature cannot:
Say what it is that troubleth thee
Encreast by thy concealing,
Speake; sorrowes many times we see
Are lesned by revealing.

282

Cloris.
Being of late too vainely bent
And but at too much leasure;
Not with our Groves and Downes content,
But surfetting in pleasure;
Felicia's Fields I would goe see,
Where fame to me reported,
The choyce Nimphes of the world to be
From meaner beauties sorted;
Hoping that I from them might draw
Some graces to delight me,
But there such monstrous shapes I saw,
That to this houre affright me.
Throw the thick Hayre, that thatch'd their Browes
Their eyes upon me stared,
Like to those raging frantique Froes
For Bacchus Feasts prepared:
Their Bodies, although straight by kinde,
Yet they so monstrous make them,
That for huge Bags blowne up with wind,
You very well may take them.
Their Bowels in their Elbowes are,
Whereon depend their Panches,
And their deformed Armes by farre
Made larger then their Hanches:
For their behaviour and their grace,
Which likewise should have priz'd them,
Their manners were as beastly base
As th'rags that so disguisd them;
All Anticks, all so impudent,
So fashon'd out of fashion,
As blacke Cocytus up had sent
Her Fry into this nation,
Whose monstrousnesse doth so perplex,
Of Reason and deprives me,
That for their sakes I loath my sex,
Which to this sadnesse drives me.

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Mertilla.
O my deare Cloris be not sad,
Nor with these Furies danted,
But let these female fooles be mad,
With Hellish pride inchanted;
Let not thy noble thoughts descend
So low as their affections;
Whom neither counsell can amend,
Nor yet the Gods corrections:
Such mad folks ne'r let us bemoane,
But rather scorne their folly,
And since we two are here alone,
To banish melancholly,
Leave we this lowly creeping vayne
Not worthy admiration,
And in a brave and lofty strayne,
Lets exercise our passion,
With wishes of each others good,
From our abundant treasures,
And in this jocond sprightly mood
Thus alter we our measures.

Mertilla.
O I could wish this place were strewd with Roses,
And that this Banck were thickly thrumd with Grasse
As soft as Sleave, or Sarcenet ever was,
Whereon my Cloris her sweet selfe reposes.

Cloris.
O that these Dewes Rosewater were for thee,
These Mists Perfumes that hang upon these thicks,
And that the Winds were All Aromaticks,
Which if my wish could make them, they should bee.

Mertilla.
O that my Bottle one whole Diamond were,
So fild with Nectar that a Flye might sup,
And at one draught that thou mightst drinke it up,
Yet a Carouse not good enough I feare.

Cloris.
That all the Pearle, the Seas, or Indias have
Were well dissolv'd, and thereof made a Lake,
Thou there in bathing, and I by to take
Pleasure to see thee cleerer then the Wave.

284

Mertilla.
O that the hornes of all the Heards we see
Were of fine gold, or else that every horne
Were like to that one of the Unicorne,
And of all these, not one but were thy Fee.

Cloris.
O that their Hooves were Ivory, or some thing,
Then the pur'st Ivory farre more Christalline,
Fild with the food wherewith the Gods doe dine,
To keepe thy Youth in a continuall Spring.

Mertilla.
O that the sweets of all the Flowers that grow,
The labouring ayre would gather into one,
In Gardens, Fields, nor Meadowes leaving none,
And all their Sweetnesse upon thee would throw.

Cloris.
Nay that those sweet harmonious straines we heare,
Amongst the lively Birds melodious Layes,
As they recording sit upon the Sprayes,
Were hovering still for Musick at thine eare.

Mertilla.
O that thy name were carv'd on every Tree,
That as these plants, still great, and greater grow,
Thy name deare Nimph might be enlarged so,
That every Grove and Coppis might speake thee.

Cloris.
Nay would thy name upon their Rynds were set,
And by the Nimphes so oft and lowdly spoken,
As that the Ecchoes to that language broken
Thy happy name might hourely counterfet.

Mertilla.
O let the Spring still put sterne winter by,
And in rich Damaske let her Revell still,
As it should doe if I might have my will,
That thou mightst still walke on her Tapistry;
And thus since Fate no longer time alowes
Under this broad and shady Sicamore,
Where now we sit, as we have oft before,
Those yet unborne shall offer up their Vowes.

285

THE FIFT NIMPHALL.

Claia Lelipa Clarinax a Hermit.

Of Garlands, Anadems, and Wreathes
This Nimphall nought but sweetnesse breathes,
Presents you with delicious Posies,
And with powerfull Simples closes.

Claia.
See where old Clarinax is set,
His sundry Simples sorting,
From whose experience we may get
What worthy is reporting.
Then Lelipa let us draw neere,
Whilst he his weeds is weathering,
I see some powerfull Simples there
That he hath late bin gathering.
Haile gentle Hermit, Jove thee speed,
And have thee in his keeping,
And ever helpe thee at thy need,
Be thou awake or sleeping.

Clarinax.
Ye payre of most Celestiall lights,
O Beauties three times burnisht,
Who could expect such heavenly wights
With Angels features furnisht;
What God doth guide you to this place,
To blesse my homely Bower?
It cannot be but this high grace
Proceeds from some high power;
The houres like hand maids still attend,
Disposed at your pleasure,
Ordayned to noe other end
But to awaite your leasure;
The Deawes drawne up into the Aer,

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And by your breathes perfumed,
In little Clouds doe hover there
As loath to be consumed:
The Aer moves not but as you please,
So much sweet Nimphes it owes you,
The winds doe cast them to their ease,
And amorously inclose you.

Lelipa.
Be not too lavish of thy praise,
Thou good Elizian Hermit,
Lest some to heare such words as these,
Perhaps may flattery tearme it;
But of your Simples something say,
Which may discourse affoord us,
We know your knowledge lyes that way,
With subjects you have stor'd us.

Claia.
We know for Physick yours you get,
Which thus you heere are sorting,
And upon Garlands we are set,
With Wreathes and Posyes sporting:
Each Garden great abundance yeelds,
Whose Flowers invite us thither;
But you abroad in Groves and Fields
Your Medc'nall Simples gather.

Lelipa.
The Chaplet and the Anadem,
The curled Tresses crowning,
We looser Nimphes delight in them,
Not in your Wreathes renowning.

Clarinax.
The Garland long agoe was worne,
As Time pleasd to bestow it,
The Lawrell onely to adorne
The Conquerer and the Poet.
The Palme his due, who uncontrould,
On danger looking gravely,
When Fate had done the worst it could,

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Who bore his Fortunes bravely.
Most worthy of the Oken Wreath
The Ancients him esteemed,
Who in a Battle had from death
Some man of worth redeemed.
About his Temples Grasse they tye,
Himselfe that so behaved
In some strong Seedge by th'Enemy,
A City that hath saved.
A Wreath of Vervaine Herhauts weare,
Amongst our Garlands named,
Being sent that dreadfull newes to beare,
Offensive warre proclaimed.
The Signe of Peace who first displayes,
The Olive Wreath possesses:
The Lover with the Myrtle Sprayes
Adornes his crisped Tresses.
In Love the sad forsaken wight
The Willow Garland weareth:
The Funerall man befitting night,
The balefull Cipresse beareth.
To Pan we dedicate the Pine,
Whose slips the Shepherd graceth:
Againe the Ivie and the Vine
On his, swolne Bacchus placeth.

Claia.
The Boughes and Sprayes, of which you tell,
By you are rightly named,
But we with those of pretious smell
And colours, are enflamed;
The noble Ancients to excite
Men to doe things worth crowning,
Not unperformed left a Rite,
To heighten their renowning:
But they that those rewards devis'd,
And those brave wights that wore them
By these base times, though poorely priz'd,
Yet Hermit we adore them.

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The store of every fruitfull Field
We Nimphes at will possessing,
From that variety they yeeld
Get Flowers for every dressing:
Of Which a Garland Ile compose,
Then busily attend me,
These Flowers I for that purpose chose,
But where I misse amend me.

Clarinax.
Well Claia on with your intent,
Lets see how you will weave it,
Which done, here for a monument
I hope with me, you'll leave it.

Claia.
Here Damaske Roses, white and red,
Out of my lap first take I,
Which still shall runne along the thred,
My chiefest Flower this make I:
Amongst these Roses in a row,
Next place I Pinks in plenty,
These double Daysyes then for show,
And will not this be dainty.
The pretty Pansy then Ile tye
Like Stones some chaine inchasing,
And next to them their neere Alye,
The purple Violet placing.
The curious choyce, Clove July-flower
Whose kinds height the Carnation
For sweetnesse of most soveraine power
Shall helpe my Wreath to fashion.
Whose sundry cullers of one kinde
First from one Root derived,
Them in their severall sutes Ile binde,
My Garland so contrived;
A course of Cowslips then Ile stick,
And here and there though sparely
The pleasant Primrose downe Ile prick
Like Pearles, which will show rarely:

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Then with these Marygolds Ile make
My Garland somewhat swelling,
These Honysuckles then Ile take,
Whose sweets shall helpe their smelling:
The Lilly and the Flower-delice,
For colour much contenting,
For that, I them doe onely prize,
They are but pore in senting:
The Daffadill most dainty is
To match with these in meetnesse;
The Columbyne compar'd to this,
All much alike for sweetnesse.
These in their natures onely are
Fit to embosse the border,
Therefore Ile take especiall care
To place them in their order:
Sweet-Williams, Campions, Sops-in-wine
One by another neatly:
Thus have I made this Wreath of mine,
And finished it featly.

Lelipa.
Your Garland thus you finisht have,
Then as we have attended
Your leasure, likewise let me crave
I may the like be friended.
Those gaudy garish Flowers you chuse,
In which our Nimphes are flaunting,
Which they at Feasts and Brydals use,
The sight and smell inchanting:
A Chaplet me of Hearbs Ile make,
Then which though yours be braver,
Yet this of myne I'le undertake
Shall not be short in savour.
With Basill then I will begin,
Whose scent is wondrous pleasing,
This Eglantine I'le next put in,
The sense with sweetnes seasing.
Then in my Lavender I'le lay,

290

Muscado put among it,
And here and there a leafe of Bay,
Which still shall runne along it.
Germander, Marjeram, and Tyme
Which used for strewing,
With Hisop as an hearbe most pryme
Here in my wreath bestowing.
Then Balme and Mynt helps to make up
My Chaplet, and for Tryall,
Costmary that so likes the Cup,
And next it Penieryall.
Then Burnet shall beare up with this
Whose leafe I greatly fansy,
Some Camomile doth not amisse
With Savory and some Tansy,
Then heere and there I'le put a sprig
Of Rosemary into it.
Thus not too little nor too big
Tis done if I can doe it.

Clarinax.
Claia your Garland is most gaye,
Compos'd of curious Flowers,
And so most lovely Lelipa,
This Chaplet is of yours,
In goodly Gardens yours you get
Where you your laps have laded;
My symples are by Nature set,
In Groves and Fields untraded.
Your Flowers most curiously you twyne,
Each one his place supplying,
But these rough harsher Hearbs of mine,
About me rudely lying,
Of which some dwarfish Weeds there be,
Some of a larger stature,
Some by experience as we see,
Whose names expresse their nature,
Heere is my Moly of much fame,
In Magicks often used,

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Mugwort and Night-shade for the same,
But not by me abused;
Here Henbane, Popy, Hemblock here,
Procuring Deadly sleeping,
Which I doe minister with Feare,
Not fit for each mans keeping.
Heere holy Vervayne, and heere Dill,
Against witchcraft much availing,
Here Horhound gainst the Mad dogs ill
By biting, never failing.
Here Mandrake that procureth love,
In poysning Philters mixed,
And makes the Barren fruitfull prove,
The Root about them fixed,
Inchaunting Lunary here lyes
In Sorceries excelling,
And this is Dictam, which we prize
Shot shafts and Darts expelling,
Here Saxifrage against the stone
That Powerfull is approved,
Here Dodder by whose help alone,
Ould Agues are removed;
Here Mercury, here Helibore,
Ould Ulcers mundifying,
And Shepheards-purse the Flux most sore,
That helpes by the applying;
Here wholsome Plantane, that the payne
Of Eyes and Eares appeases;
Here cooling Sorrell that againe
We use in hot diseases:
The medcinable Mallow here,
Asswaging sudaine Tumors,
The jagged Polypodium there,
To purge ould rotten humors,
Next these here Egremony is,
That helpes the Serpents byting,
The blessed Betony by this,
Whose cures deserven writing:

292

This All-heale, and so nam'd of right,
New wounds so quickly healing,
A thousand more I could recyte,
Most worthy of Revealing,
But that I hindred am by Fate,
And busnesse doth prevent me,
To cure a mad man, which of late
Is from Felicia sent me.

Claia.
Nay then thou hast inough to doe,
We pity thy enduring,
For they are there infected soe,
That they are past thy curing.

293

THE SIXT NIMPHALL.

Silvius Halcius. Melanthus.

A Woodman, Fisher, and a Swaine
This Nimphall through with mirth maintaine,
Whose pleadings so the Nimphes doe please,
That presently they give them Bayes.

Cleere had the day bin from the dawne,
All chequerd was the Skye,
Thin Clouds like Scarfs of Cobweb Lawne
Vayld Heaven's most glorious eye.
The Winde had no more strength then this,
That leasurely it blew,
To make one leafe the next to kisse,
That closly by it grew.
The Rils that on the Pebbles playd,
Might now be heard at will;
This world they onely Musick made,
Else every thing was still.
The Flowers like brave embraudred Gerles,
Lookt as they much desired,
To see whose head with orient Pearles,
Most curiously was tyred;
And to it selfe the subtle Ayre,
Such soverainty assumes,
That it receiv'd too large a share
From natures rich perfumes.
When the Elizian Youth were met,
That were of most account,
And to disport themselves were set
Upon an easy Mount:

294

Neare which, of stately Firre and Pine
There grew abundant store,
The Tree that weepeth Turpentine,
And shady Sicamore.
Amongst this merry youthfull trayne
A Forrester they had,
A Fisher, and a Shepheards swayne
A lively Countrey Lad:
Betwixt which three a question grew,
Who should the worthiest be,
Which violently they pursue,
Nor stickled would they be.
That it the Company doth please
This civill strife to stay,
Freely to heare what each of these
For his brave selfe could say:
When first this Forrester (of all)
That Silvius had to name,
To whom the Lot being cast doth fall,
Doth thus begin the Game,

Silvius.
For my profession then, and for the life I lead
All others to excell, thus for my selfe I plead;
I am the Prince of sports, the Forrest is my Fee,
He's not upon the Earth for pleasure lives like me;
The Morne no sooner puts her Rosye Mantle on,
But from my quyet Lodge I instantly am gone,
When the melodious Birds from every Bush and Bryer
Of the wilde spacious Wasts, make a continuall quire;
The motlied Meadowes then, new vernisht with the Sunne
Shute up their spicy sweets upon the winds that runne,
In easly ambling Gales, and softly seeme to pace,
That it the longer might their lushiousnesse imbrace:
I am clad in youthfull Greene, I other colours scorne,
My silken Bauldrick beares my Beugle, or my Horne,
Which setting to my Lips, I winde so lowd and shrill,
As makes the Ecchoes showte from every neighbouring Hill:

295

My Doghooke at my Belt, to which my Lyam's tyde,
My Sheafe of Arrowes by, my Woodknife at my Syde,
My Crosse-bow in my Hand, my Gaffle or my Rack
To bend it when I please, or it I list to slack,
My Hound then in my Lyam, I by the Woodmans art
Forecast, where I may lodge the goodly Hie-palm'd Hart,
To viewe the grazing Heards, so sundry times I use,
Where by the loftiest Head I know my Deare to chuse,
And to unheard him then, I gallop o'r the ground
Upon my wel-breath'd Nag, to cheere my earning Hound.
Sometime I pitch my Toyles the Deare alive to take,
Sometime I like the Cry, the deepe-mouth'd Kennell make,
Then underneath my Horse, I staulke my game to strike,
And with a single Dog to hunt him hurt, I like.
The Silvians are to me true subjects, I their King,
The stately Hart, his Hind doth to my presence bring,
The Buck his loved Doe, the Roe his tripping Mate,
Before me to my Bower, whereas I sit in State.
The Dryads, Hamadryads, the Satyres and the Fawnes
Oft play at Hyde and Seeke before me on the Lawnes,
The frisking Fayry oft when horned Cinthia shines
Before me as I walke dance wanton Matachynes,
The numerous feathered flocks that the wild Forrests haunt
Their Silvan songs to me, in cheerefull dittyes chaunte,
The shades like ample Sheelds, defend me from the Sunne,
Through which me to refresh the gentle Rivelets runne,
No little bubling Brook from any Spring that falls
But on the Pebbles playes me pretty Madrigals.
I'th'morne I clime the Hills, where wholsome winds do blow,
At Noone-tyde to the Vales, and shady Groves below,
T'wards Evening I againe the Chrystall Floods frequent,
In pleasure thus my life continually is spent.
As Princes and great Lords have Pallaces, so I
Have in the Forrests here, my Hall and Gallery
The tall and stately Woods; which underneath are Plaine,
The Groves my Gardens are, the Heath and Downes againe
My wide and spacious walkes, then say all what ye can,
The Forester is still your only gallant man.

296

He of his speech scarce made an end,
But him they load with prayse,
The Nimphes most highly him commend,
And vow to give him Bayes:
He's now cryde up of every one,
And who but onely he,
The Forrester's the man alone,
The worthyest of the three.
When some then th'other farre more stayd,
Wil'd them a while to pause,
For there was more yet to be sayd,
That might deserve applause,
When Halcius his turne next plyes,
And silence having wonne,
Roome for the fisher man he cryes,
And thus his Plea begunne.

Halcius.
No Forrester, it so must not be borne away,
But heare what for himselfe the Fisher first can say,
The Chrystall current Streames continually I keepe,
Where every Pearle-pav'd Foard, and every Blew-eyd deepe
With me familiar are; when in my Boate being set,
My Oare I take in hand, my Angle and my Net
About me; like a Prince my selfe in state I steer,
Now up, now downe the Streame, now am I here, now ther,
The Pilot and the Fraught my selfe; and at my ease
Can land me when I list, or in what place I please,
The Silver-scaled Sholes, about me in the Streames,
As thick as ye discerne the Atoms in the Beames,
Neare to the shady Banck where slender Sallowes grow,
And Willows their shag'd tops downe t'wards the waters bow,
I shove in with my Boat to sheeld me from the heat,
Where chusing from my Bag, some prov'd especiall bayt,
The goodly well growne Trout I with my Angle strike,
And with my bearded Wyer I take the ravenous Pike,

297

Of whom when I have hould, he seldome breakes away
Though at my Lynes full length, soe long I let him play
Till by my hand I finde he well-nere wearyed be,
When softly by degrees I drawe him up to me.
The lusty Samon to, I oft with Angling take,
Which me above the rest most Lordly sport doth make,
Who feeling he is caught, such Frisks and bounds doth fetch,
And by his very strength my Line soe farre doth stretch,
As drawes my floating Corcke downe to the very ground,
And wresting of my Rod, doth make my Boat turne round.
I never idle am, some tyme I bayt my Weeles,
With which by night I take the dainty silver Eeles,
And with my Draughtnet then, I sweepe the streaming Flood,
And to my Tramell next, and Cast-net from the Mud,
I beate the Scaly brood, noe hower I idely spend,
But wearied with my worke I bring the day to end:
The Naiides and Nymphes that in the Rivers keepe,
Which take into their care, the store of every deepe,
Amongst the Flowery flags, the Bullrushes and Reed,
That of the Spawne have charge (abundantly to breed)
Well mounted upon Swans, their naked bodys lend
To my discerning eye, and on my Boate attend,
And dance upon the Waves, before me (for my sake)
To th'Musick the soft wynd upon the Reeds doth make.
And for my pleasure more, the rougher Gods of Seas
From Neptunes Court send in the blew Neriades,
Which from his bracky Realme upon the Billowes ride
And beare the Rivers backe with every streaming Tyde,
Those Billowes gainst my Boate, borne with delightfull Gales
Oft seeming as I rowe to tell me pretty tales,
Whilst Ropes of liquid Pearle still load my laboring Oares,
As streacht upon the Streame they stryke me to the Shores:
The silent medowes seeme delighted with my Layes,
As sitting in my Boate I sing my Lasses praise,
Then let them that like, the Forrester up cry,
Your noble Fisher is your only man say I.

298

This Speech of Halcius turn'd the Tyde,
And brought it so about,
That all upon the Fisher cryde,
That he would beare it out;
Him for the speech he made, to clap
Who lent him not a hand,
And said t'would be the Waters hap,
Quite to put downe the Land.
This while Melanthus silent sits,
(For so the Shepheard hight)
And having heard these dainty wits,
Each pleading for his right;
To heare them honor'd in this wise,
His patience doth provoke,
When for a Shepheard roome he cryes,
And for himselfe thus spoke.

Melanthus.
Well Fisher you have done, & Forrester for you
Your Tale is neatly tould, s'are both, to give you due,
And now my turne comes next, then heare a Shepherd speak:
My watchfulnesse and care gives day scarce leave to break,
But to the Fields I haste, my folded flock to see,
Where when I finde, nor Woolfe, nor Fox, hath injur'd me,
I to my Bottle straight, and soundly baste my Throat,
Which done, some Country Song or Roundelay I roate
So merrily; that to the musick that I make,
I Force the Larke to sing ere she be well awake;
Then Baull my cut-tayld Curre and I begin to play,
He o'r my Shephooke leapes, now th'one, now th'other way,
Then on his hinder feet he doth himselfe advance,
I tune, and to my note, my lively Dog doth dance,
Then whistle in my Fist, my fellow Swaynes to call,
Downe goe our Hooks and Scrips, and we to Nine-holes fall,
At Dust-point, or at Quoyts, else are we at it hard,
All false and cheating Games, we Shepheards are debard;

299

Survaying of my sheepe if Ewe or Wether looke
As though it were amisse, or with my Curre, or Crooke
I take it, and when once I finde what it doth ayle,
It hardly hath that hurt, but that my skill can heale;
And when my carefull eye, I cast upon my sheepe
I sort them in my Pens, and sorted soe I keepe:
Those that are bigst of Boane, I still reserve for breed,
My Cullings I put off, or for the Chapman feed.
When the Evening doth approach I to my Bagpipe take,
And to my Grazing flocks such Musick then I make,
That they forbeare to feed; then me a King you see,
I playing goe before, my Subjects followe me,
My Bell-weather most brave, before the rest doth stalke,
The Father of the flocke, and after him doth walke
My writhen-headed Ram, with Posyes crownd in pride
Fast to his crooked hornes with Rybands neatly ty'd.
And at our Shepheards Board that's cut out of the ground,
My fellow Swaynes and I together at it round,
With Greencheese, clouted Cream, with Flawns, & Custards, stord,
Whig, Sider, and with Whey, I domineer a Lord,
When shering time is come I to the River drive,
My goodly well-fleec'd Flocks: (by pleasure thus I thrive)
Which being washt at will; upon the shering day,
My wooll I foorth in Loaks, fit for the wynder lay,
Which upon lusty heapes into my Coate I heave,
That in the Handling feeles as soft as any Sleave,
When every Ewe two Lambes, that yeaned hath that yeare,
About her new shorne neck a Chaplet then doth weare;
My Tarboxe, and my Scrip, my Bagpipe, at my back,
My sheephooke in my hand, what can I say I lacke;
He that a Scepter swayd, a sheephooke in his hand,
Hath not disdaind to have; for Shepheards then I stand;
Then Forester and you my Fisher cease your strife;
I say your Shepheard leads your onely merry life.

300

They had not cryd the Forester,
And Fisher up before,
So much: but now the Nimphes preferre,
The Shephard ten tymes more,
And all the Ging goes on his side,
Their Minion him they make,
To him themselves they all apply,
And all his partie take;
Till some in their discretion cast,
Since first the strife begunne
In all that from them there had past
None absolutly wonne;
That equall honour they should share;
And their deserts to showe,
For each a Garland they prepare,
Which they on them bestowe,
Of all the choisest flowers that weare,
Which purposly they gather,
With which they Crowne them, parting there,
As they came first together.

301

THE SEVENTH NIMPHALL.

Florimel Lelipa Naiis Codrus a Feriman.

The Nimphes, the Queene of love pursue,
Which oft doth hide her from their view:
But lastly from th'Elizian Nation,
She banisht is by Proclamation.

Florimel.
Deare Lelipa, where hast thou bin so long,
Was't not enough for thee to doe me wrong;
To rob me of thy selfe, but with more spight
To take my Naiis from me, my delight?
Yee lazie Girles, your heads where have ye layd,
Whil'st Venus here her anticke prankes hath playd?

Lelipa.
Nay Florimel, we should of you enquire,
The onely Mayden, whom we all admire
For Beauty, Wit, and Chastity, that you
Amongst the rest of all our Virgin crue,
In quest of her, that you so slacke should be,
And leave the charge to Naiis and to me.

Florimel.
Y'are much mistaken Lelipa, 'twas I,
Of all the Nimphes, that first did her descry,
At our great Hunting, when as in the Chase
Amongst the rest, me thought I saw one face
So exceeding faire, and curious, yet unknowne
That I that face not possibly could owne.
And in the course, so Goddesse like a gate,
Each step so full of majesty and state;
That with my selfe, I thus resolv'd that she
Lesse then a Goddesse (surely) could not be:
Thus as Idalia, stedfastly I ey'd,

302

A little Nimphe that kept close by her side
I noted, as unknowne as was the other,
Which Cupid was disguis'd so by his mother.
The little purblinde Rogue, if you had seene,
You would have thought he verily had beene
One of Diana's Votaries, so clad,
He every thing so like a Huntresse had:
And she had put false eyes into his head,
That very well he might us all have sped.
And still they kept together in the Reare,
But as the Boy should have shot at the Deare,
He shot amongst the Nimphes, which when I saw,
Closer up to them I began to draw;
And fell to hearken, when they naught suspecting,
Because I seem'd them utterly neglecting,
I heard her say, my little Cupid too't,
Now Boy or never, at the Bevie shoot.
Have at them Venus, quoth the Boy anon,
I'le pierce the proud'st, had she a heart of stone:
With that I cryde out, Treason, Treason, when
The Nimphes that were before, turning agen
To understand the meaning of this cry,
They out of sight were vanish't presently.
Thus but for me, the Mother and the Sonne,
Here in Elizium, had us all undone.

Naiis.
Beleeve me gentle Maide, 'twas very well,
But now heare me my beauteous Florimel.
Great Mars his Lemman being cryde out here,
She to Felicia goes, still to be neare
Th'Elizian Nimphes, for at us is her ayme,
The fond Felicians are her common game.
I upon pleasure idly wandring thither,
Something worth laughter from those fooles to gather,
Found her, who thus had lately beene surpriz'd;
Fearing the like, had her faire selfe disguis'd
Like an old Witch, and gave out to have skill
In telling Fortunes either good or ill;

303

And that more neatly she with them might close,
She cut the Cornes, of dainty Ladies Toes:
She gave them Phisicke, either to coole or moove them,
And powders too to make their sweet Hearts love them.
And her sonne Cupid, as her Zany went,
Carrying her boxes, whom she often sent
To know of her faire Patients how they slept.
By which meanes she, and the blinde Archer crept
Into their favours, who would often Toy,
And tooke delight in sporting with the Boy;
Which many times amongst his waggish tricks,
These wanton Wenches in the bosome pricks;
That they before which had some franticke fits,
Were by his Witchcraft quite out of their wits.
Watching this Wisard, my minde gave me still
She some Impostor was, and that this skill
Was counterfeit, and had some other end.
For which discovery, as I did attend,
Her wrinckled vizard being very thin,
My piercing eye perceiv'd her cleerer skin
Through the thicke Rivels perfectly to shine;
When I perceiv'd a beauty so divine,
As that so clouded, I began to pry
A little nearer, when I chanc't to spye
That pretty Mole upon her Cheeke, which when
I saw; survaying every part agen,
Upon her left hand, I perceiv'd the skarre
Which she received in the Trojan warre;
Which when I found, I could not chuse but smile,
She, who againe had noted me the while,
And by my carriage, found I had descry'd her,
Slipt out of sight, and presently doth hide her.

Lelipa.
Nay then my dainty Girles, I make no doubt
But I my selfe as strangely found her out
As either of you both; in Field and Towne,
When like a Pedlar she went up and downe:
For she had got a pretty handsome Packe,

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Which she had fardled neatly at her backe:
And opening it, she had the perfect cry,
Come my faire Girles, let's see, what will you buy?
Here be fine night Maskes, plastred well within,
To supple wrinckles, and to smooth the skin:
Heer's Christall, Corall, Bugle, Jet, in Beads,
Cornelian Bracelets, for my dainty Maids:
Then Periwigs and Searcloth-Gloves doth show,
To make their hands as white as Swan or Snow:
Then takes she forth a curious gilded boxe,
Which was not opened but by double locks;
Takes them aside, and doth a Paper spred,
In which was painting both for white and red:
And next a piece of Silke, wherein there lyes
For the decay'd, false Breasts, false Teeth, false Eyes:
And all the while shee's opening of her Packe,
Cupid with's wings bound close downe to his backe:
Playing the Tumbler on a Table gets,
And shewes the Ladies many pretty feats.
I seeing behinde him that he had such things,
For well I knew no boy but he had wings,
I view'd his Mothers beauty, which to me
Lesse then a Goddesse said, she could not be:
With that quoth I to her, this other day,
As you doe now, so one that came this way,
Shew'd me a neate piece, with the needle wrought,
How Mars and Venus were together caught
By polt-foot Vulcan in an Iron net;
It griev'd me after that I chanc't to let,
It to goe from me: whereat waxing red,
Into her Hamper she hung downe her head,
As she had stoup't some noveltie to seeke,
But 'twas indeed to hide her blushing Cheeke:
When she her Trinkets trusseth up anon,
E'r we were 'ware, and instantly was gone.

Florimel.
But hearke you Nimphes, amongst our idle prate,
Tis current newes through the Elizian State,

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That Venus and her Sonne were lately seene
Here in Elizium, whence they oft have beene
Banisht by our Edict, and yet still merry,
Were here in publique row'd o'r at the Ferry,
Where as 'tis said, the Ferryman and she
Had much discourse, she was so full of glee,
Codrus much wondring at the blind Boyes Bow.

Naiis.
And what it was, that easly you may know,
Codrus himselfe comes rowing here at hand.

Lelipa.
Codrus Come hither, let your Whirry stand,
I hope upon you, ye will take no state
Because two Gods have grac't your Boat of late;
Good Ferry-man I pray thee let us heare
What talke ye had, aboard thee whilst they were.

Codrus.
Why thus faire Nimphes.
As I a Fare had lately past,
And thought that side to ply,
I heard one as it were in haste;
A Boate, a Boate, to cry,
Which as I was about to bring,
And came to view my Fraught,
Thought I, what more then heavenly thing,
Hath fortune hither brought.
She seeing mine eyes still on her were,
Soone, smilingly, quoth she;
Sirra, looke to your Roother there,
Why lookst thou thus at me?
And nimbly stept into my Boat,
With her a little Lad
Naked and blind, yet did I note,
That Bow and Shafts he had,
And two Wings to his Shoulders fixt,
Which stood like little Sayles,
With farre more various colours mixt,
Then be your Peacocks Tayles;

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I seeing this little dapper Elfe,
Such Armes as these to beare,
Quoth I thus softly to my selfe,
What strange thing have we here,
I never saw the like thought I:
Tis more then strange to me,
To have a child have wings to fly,
And yet want eyes to see;
Sure this is some devised toy,
Or it transform'd hath bin,
For such a thing, halfe Bird, halfe Boy,
I thinke was never seene;
And in my Boat I turnd about,
And wistly viewd the Lad,
And cleerely saw his eyes were out,
Though Bow and Shafts he had.
As wistly she did me behold,
How likst thou him quoth she,
Why well, quoth I; and better should,
Had he but eyes to see.
How sayst thou honest friend, quoth she,
Wilt thou a Prentice take,
I thinke in time, though blind he be,
A Ferry-man hee'll make;
To guide my passage Boat quoth I,
His fine hands were not made,
He hath beene bred too wantonly
To undertake my trade;
Why helpe him to a Master then,
Quoth she, such Youths be scant,
It cannot be but there be men
That such a Boy do want.
Quoth I, when you your best have done,
No better way you'll finde,
Then to a Harper binde your Sonne,
Since most of them are blind.
The lovely Mother and the Boy,
Laught heartily thereat,

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As at some nimble jest or toy,
To heare my homely Chat.
Quoth I, I pray you let me know,
Came he thus first to light,
Or by some sicknesse, hurt, or blow,
Depryved of his sight;
Nay sure, quoth she, he thus was borne,
Tis strange borne blind, quoth I,
I feare you put this as a scorne
On my simplicity;
Quoth she, thus blind I did him beare,
Quoth I, if't be no lye,
Then he's the first blind man Ile sweare,
Ere practisd Archery;
A man, quoth she, nay there you misse,
He's still a Boy as now,
Nor to be elder then he is,
The Gods will him alow;
To be no elder then he is,
Then sure he is some sprite
I straight replide, againe at this,
The Goddesse laught out right;
It is a mystery to me,
An Archer and yet blinde;
Quoth I againe, how can it be,
That he his marke should finde;
The Gods, quoth she, whose will it was
That he should want his sight,
That he in something should surpasse,
To recompence their spight,
Gave him this gift, though at his Game
He still shot in the darke,
That he should have so certaine ayme,
As not to misse his marke.
By this time we were come a shore,
When me my Fare she payd,
But not a word she uttered more,
Nor had I her bewrayd,

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Of Venus nor of Cupid I
Before did never heare,
But that a Fisher comming by
Then, told me who they were.

Florimel.
Well: against them then proceed
As before we have decreed,
That the Goddesse and her Child,
Be for ever hence exild,
Which Lelipa you shall proclaime
In our wise Apollo's name.

Lelipa.
To all th'Elizian Nimphish Nation,
Thus we make our Proclamation,
Against Venus and her Sonne
For the mischeefe they have done,
After the next last of May,
The fixt and peremtory day,
If she or Cupid shall be found
Upon our Elizian ground,
Our Edict, meere Rogues shall make them,
And as such, who ere shall take them,
Them shall into prison put,
Cupids wings shall then be cut,
His Bow broken, and his Arrowes
Given to Boyes to shoot at Sparrowes,
And this Vagabund be sent,
Having had due punishment
To mount Cytheron, which first fed him:
Where his wanton Mother bred him,
And there out of her protection
Dayly to receive correction;
Then her Pasport shall be made,
And to Cyprus Isle convayd,
And at Paphos in her Shryne,
Where she hath beene held divine,
For her offences found contrite,
There to live an Anchorite.

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THE EIGHT NIMPHALL.

Mertilla Claia Cloris.

A Nimph is marryed to a Fay,
Great preparations for the Day,
All Rites of Nuptials they recite you
To the Brydall and invite you.

Mertilla.
But will our Tita wed this Fay?

Claia.
Yea, and to morrow is the day.

Mertilla.
But why should she bestow her selfe
Upon this dwarfish Fayry Elfe?

Claia.
Why by her smalnesse you may finde,
That she is of the Fayry kinde,
And therefore apt to chuse her make
Whence she did her begining take:
Besides he's deft and wondrous Ayrye,
And of the noblest of the Fayry,
Chiefe of the Crickets of much fame,
In Fayry a most ancient name.
But to be briefe, 'tis cleerely done,
The pretty wench is woo'd and wonne.

Cloris.
If this be so, let us provide
The Ornaments to fit our Bryde,
For they knowing she doth come
From us in Elizium,
Queene Mab will looke she should be drest
In those attyres we thinke our best,
Therefore some curious things lets give her,
E'r to her Spouse we her deliver.

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Mertilla.
Ile have a Jewell for her eare,
(Which for my sake Ile have her weare)
'T shall be a Dewdrop, and therein
Of Cupids I will have a twinne,
Which strugling, with their wings shall break
The Bubble, out of which shall leak
So sweet a liquor as shall move
Each thing that smels, to be in love.

Claia.
Beleeve me Gerle, this will be fine,
And to this Pendant, then take mine;
A Cup in fashion of a Fly,
Of the Linxes piercing eye,
Wherein there sticks a Sunny Ray
Shot in through the cleerest day,
Whose brightnesse Venus selfe did move,
Therein to put her drinke of Love,
Which for more strength she did distill,
The Limbeck was a Phœnix quill,
At this Cups delicious brinke,
A Fly approaching but to drinke,
Like Amber or some precious Gumme
It transparant doth become.

Cloris.
For Jewels for her eares she's sped,
But for a dressing for her head
I thinke for her I have a Tyer,
That all Fayryes shall admyre,
The yellowes in the full-blowne Rose,
Which in the Top it doth inclose
Like drops of gold Oare shall be hung,
Upon her Tresses, and among
Those scattered seeds (the eye to please)
The wings of the Cantharides:
With some o'th'Raine-bow that doth raile
Those Moons in, in the Peacocks taile:
Whose dainty colours being mixt
With th'other beauties, and so fixt,

311

Her lovely Tresses shall appeare,
As though upon a flame they were.
And to be sure she shall be gay,
Wee'll take those feathers from the Jay;
About her eyes in Circlets set,
To be our Tita's Coronet.

Mertilla.
Then dainty Girles I make no doubt,
But we shall neatly send her out:
But let's amongst our selves agree,
Of what her wedding Gowne shall be.

Claia.
Of Pansie, Pincke, and Primrose leaves,
Most curiously laid on in Threaves:
And all embroydery to supply,
Powthred with flowers of Rosemary:
A trayle about the skirt shall runne,
The Silke-wormes finest, newly spunne;
And every Seame the Nimphs shall sew
With th'smallest of the Spinners Clue:
And having done their worke, againe
These to the Church shall beare her Traine:
Which for our Tita we will make
Of the cast slough of a Snake,
Which quivering as the winde doth blow,
The Sunne shall it like Tinsell shew.

Cloris.
And being led to meet her mate,
To make sure that she want no state,
Moones from the Peacockes tayle wee'll shred,
With feathers from the Pheasants head:
Mixd with the plume of (so high price,)
The precious bird of Paradice.
Which to make up, our Nimphes shall ply
Into a curious Canopy,
Borne o're her head (by our enquiry)
By Elfes, the fittest of the Faery.

Mertilla.
But all this while we have forgot
Her Buskins, neighbours, have we not?

312

Claia.
We had, for those I'le fit her now,
They shall be of the Lady-Cow:
The dainty shell upon her backe
Of Crimson strew'd with spots of blacke;
Which as she holds a stately pace,
Her Leg will wonderfully grace.

Cloris.
But then for musicke of the best,
This must be thought on for the Feast.

Mertilla.
The Nightingale of birds most choyce,
To doe her best shall straine her voyce;
And to this bird to make a Set,
The Mavis, Merle, and Robinet;
The Larke, the Lennet, and the Thrush,
That make a Quier of every Bush.
But for still musicke, we will keepe
The Wren, and Titmouse, which to sleepe
Shall sing the Bride, when shee's alone
The rest into their chambers gone.
And like those upon Ropes that walke
On Gossimer, from staulke to staulke,
The tripping Fayry tricks shall play
The evening of the wedding day.

Claia.
But for the Bride-bed, what were fit,
That hath not beene talk'd of yet.

Cloris.
Of leaves of Roses white and red,
Shall be the Covering of her bed:
The Curtaines, Valence, Tester, all,
Shall be the flower Imperiall,
And for the Fringe, it all along
With azure Harebels shall be hung:
Of Lillies shall the Pillowes be,
With downe stuft of the Butterflee.

Mertilla.
Thus farre we handsomely have gone,
Now for our Prothalamion

313

Or Marriage song of all the rest,
A thing that much must grace our feast.
Let us practise then to sing it,
Ere we before th'assembly bring it:
We in Dialogues must doe it,
Then my dainty Girles set to it.

Claia.
This day must Tita marryed be,
Come Nimphs this nuptiall let us see.

Mertilla.
But is it certaine that ye say,
Will she wed the noble Faye?

Cloris.
Sprinckle the dainty flowers with dewes,
Such as the Gods at Banquets use:
Let Hearbs and Weeds turne all to Roses,
And make proud the posts with posies:
Shute your sweets into the ayre,
Charge the morning to be fayre.

Claia. Mertilla.
For our Tita is this day,
To be married to a Faye.

Claia.
By whom then shall our Bride be led
To the Temple to be wed.

Mertilla.
Onely by your selfe and I,
Who that roomth should else supply?

Cloris.
Come bright Girles, come altogether,
And bring all your offrings hither,
Ye most brave and Buxome Bevye,
All your goodly graces Levye,
Come in Majestie and state
Our Brydall here to celebrate.

Mertilla. Claia.
For our Tita is this day,
Married to a noble Faye.

314

Claia.
Whose lot wilt be the way to strow,
On which to Church our Bride must goe?

Mertilla.
That I thinke as fit'st of all,
To lively Lelipa will fall.

Cloris.
Summon all the sweets that are,
To this nuptiall to repayre;
Till with their throngs themselves they smother,
Strongly styfling one another;
And at last they all consume,
And vanish in one rich perfume.

Mertilla. Claia.
For our Tita is this day,
Married to a noble Faye.

Mertilla.
By whom must Tita married be,
'Tis fit we all to that should see?

Claia.
The Priest he purposely doth come,
Th'Arch Flamyne of Elizium.

Cloris.
With Tapers let the Temples shine,
Sing to Himen, Hymnes divine:
Load the Altars till there rise
Clouds from the burnt sacrifice;
With your Sensors sling aloofe
Their smels, till they ascend the Roofe.

Mertilla. Claia.
For our Tita is this day,
Married to a noble Fay.

Mertilla.
But comming backe when she is wed,
Who breakes the Cake above her head.

Claia.
That shall Mertilla, for shee's tallest,
And our Tita is the smallest.

315

Cloris
Violins, strike up aloud,
Ply the Gitterne, scowre the Crowd,
Let the nimble hand belabour
The whisteling Pipe, and drumbling Taber:
To the full the Bagpipe racke,
Till the swelling leather cracke.

Mertilla. Claia.
For our Tita is this day,
Married to a noble Fay.

Claia.
But when to dyne she takes her seate
What shall be our Tita's meate?

Mertilla.
The Gods this Feast, as to begin,
Have sent of their Ambrosia in.

Cloris.
Then serve we up the strawes rich berry,
The Respas, and Elizian Cherry:
The virgin honey from the flowers
In Hibla, wrought in Flora's Bowers:
Full Bowles of Nectar, and no Girle
Carouse but in dissolved Pearle.

Mertilla. Claia.
For our Tita is this day,
Married to a noble Fay.

Claia.
But when night comes, and she must goe
To Bed, deare Nimphes what must we doe?

Mertilla.
In the Posset must be brought,
And Poynts be from the Bridegroome caught.

Cloris.
In Maskes, in Dances, and delight,
And reare Banquets spend the night:
Then about the Roome we ramble,
Scatter Nuts, and for them scamble:
Over Stooles, and Tables tumble,
Never thinke of noyse nor rumble.

Mertilla. Claia.
For our Tita is this day,
Married to a noble Fay.

316

THE NINTH NIMPHALL.

Muses and Nimphs.

The Muses spend their lofty layes,
Upon Apollo and his prayse;
The Nimphs with Gems his Alter build,
This Nimphall is with Phœbus fild.

A Temple of exceeding state,
The Nimphes and Muses rearing,
Which they to Phœbus dedicate,
Elizium ever cheering:
These Muses, and those Nimphes contend
This Phane to Phœbus offring,
Which side the other should transcend,
These praise, those prizes proffering,
And at this long appointed day,
Each one their largesse bringing,
Those nine faire Sisters led the way
Thus to Apollo singing.

The Muses.
Thou youthfull God that guid'st the howres,
The Muses thus implore thee,
By all those Names, due to thy powers,
By which we still adore thee.
Sol, Tytan, Delius, Cynthius, styles,
Much reverence that have wonne thee,
Deriv'd from Mountaines as from Iles
Where worship first was done thee.
Rich Delos brought thee forth divine,
Thy Mother thither driven,
At Delphos thy most sacred shrine,
Thy Oracles were given.
In thy swift course from East to West,
They minutes misse to finde thee,

317

That bear'st the morning on thy breast,
And leav'st the night behinde thee.
Up to Olimpus top so steepe,
Thy startling Coursers currying;
Thence downe to Neptunes vasty deepe,
Thy flaming Charriot hurrying.

The horses drawing the Chariot of the Sunne.

Eos, Ethon, Phlegon, Pirois, proud,
Their lightning Maynes advancing:
Breathing forth fire on every cloud
Upon their Journey prancing.
Whose sparkling hoofes, with gold for speed
Are shod, to scape all dangers,
Where they upon Ambrosia feed,
In their celestiall Mangers.
Bright Colatina, that of hils
Is Goddesse, and hath keeping
Her Nimphes, the cleere Oreades wils
T'attend thee from thy sleeping.

The Mountaines first saluting the Sunne at his rising.

Great

Supposed the God of earth. One of the Judges of hell.

Demogorgon feeles thy might,
His Mynes about him heating:
Who through his bosome dart'st thy light,
Within the Center sweating.
If thou but touch thy golden Lyre,
Thou Minos mov'st to heare thee:
The Rockes feele in themselves afire,
And rise up to come neere thee.
'Tis thou that Physicke didst devise
Hearbs by their natures calling:
Of which some opening at thy Rise,
And closing at thy falling.
Fayre Hyacinth thy most lov'd Lad,
That with the sledge thou sluest;
Hath in a flower the life he had,
Whose root thou still renewest,
Thy Daphne thy beloved Tree,

A Nimph lov'd of Apollo, and by him changed into a flower.

That scornes thy Fathers Thunder,
And thy deare Clitia yet we see,
Not time from thee can sunder;

318

From thy bright Bow that Arrow flew
(Snatcht from thy golden Quiver)
Which that fell Serpent Python slew,

Playes or Games in honor of Apollo.

Renowning thee for ever.
The Actian and the Pythian Games
Devised were to praise thee,
With all th'Apolinary names
That th'Ancients thought could raise thee.
A Shryne upon this Mountaine hie,
To thee we'll have erected,
Which thou the God of Poesie
Must care to have protected:
With thy lov'd Cinthus that shall share,
With all his shady Bowers,
Nor Licia's Cragus shall compare
With this, for thee, of ours.

Thus having sung, the Nimphish Crue
Thrust in amongst them thronging,
Desiring they might have the due
That was to them belonging.
Quoth they, ye Muses, as divine,
Are in his glories graced,
But it is we must build the Shryne
Wherein they must be placed;
Which of those precious Gemmes we'll make
That Nature can affoord us,
Which from that plenty we will take,
Wherewith we here have stor'd us:
O glorious Phœbus most divine,
Thine Altars then we hallow:
And with those stones we build a Shryne
To thee our wise Apollo.

The Nimphes.
No Gem, from Rocks, Seas, running streames,
(Their numbers let us muster)
But hath from thy most powerfull beames
The Vertue and the Lustre;

319

The Diamond, the king of Gemmes,
The first is to be placed,
That glory is of Diadems,
Them gracing, by them graced:
In whom thy power the most is seene,
The raging fire refelling:
The Emerauld then, most deepely greene,
For beauty most excelling,
Resisting poyson often prov'd
By those about that beare it.
The cheerfull Ruby then, much lov'd,
That doth revive the spirit,
Whose kinde to large extensure growne
The colour so enflamed,
Is that admired mighty stone
The Carbunckle that's named,
Which from it such a flaming light
And radiency ejecteth,
That in the very dark'st of night
The eye to it directeth.
The yellow Jacynth, strengthning Sense,
Of which who hath the keeping,
No Thunder hurts nor Pestilence,
And much provoketh sleeping:
The Chrisolite, that doth resist
Thirst, proved, never failing,
The purple colored Amatist,
'Gainst strength of wine prevailing;
The verdant gay greene Smaragdus,
Most soveraine over passion:
The Sardonix, approv'd by us
To master Incantation.
Then that celestiall colored stone
The Saphyre, heavenly wholly,
Which worne, there wearinesse is none,
And cureth melancholly:
The Lazulus, whose pleasant blew
With golden vaines is graced;

320

The Jaspis, of so various hew,
Amongst our other placed;
The Onix, from the Ancients brought,
Of wondrous Estimation,
Shall in amongst the rest be wrought
Our sacred Shryne to fashion;
The Topas, we'll stick here and there,
And sea-greene colored Berill,
And Turkesse, which who haps to beare
Is often kept from perill.
The Selenite, of Cynthia's light,
So nam'd, with her still ranging,
Which as she wanes or waxeth bright
Its colours so are changing.
With Opalls, more then any one,
We'll deck thine Altar fuller,
For that of every precious stone,
It doth reteine some colour:
With bunches of Pearle Paragon
Thine Altar underpropping,
Whose base is the Cornelian,
Strong bleeding often stopping:
With th'Agot, very oft that is
Cut strangely in the Quarry,
As Nature ment to show in this,
How she her selfe can varry:
With worlds of Gems from Mines and Seas
Elizium well might store us,
But we content our selves with these
That readiest lye before us:
And thus O Phœbus most divine
Thine Altars still we hallow,
And to thy Godhead reare this Shryne,
Our onely wise Apollo.

321

THE TENTH NIMPHALL.

Naiis Claia Corbilus Satyre.
A Satyre on Elizium lights,
Whose ugly shape the Nimphes affrights,
Yet when they heare his just complaint,
They make him an Elizian Saint.
Corbilus.
What; breathles Nimphs? bright Virgins let me know
What suddaine cause constraines ye to this haste?
What have ye seene that should affright ye so?
What might it be from which ye flye so fast?
I see your faces full of pallid feare,
As though some perill followed on your flight;
Take breath a while, and quickly let me heare
Into what danger ye have lately light.

Naiis.

Never were poore distressed Gerles so glad,
As when kinde, loved Corbilus we saw,
When our much haste us so much weakned had,
That scarcely we our wearied breathes could draw.

In this next Grove under an aged Tree,
So fell a monster lying there we found,
As till this day, our eyes did never see,
Nor ever came on the Elizian ground.
Halfe man, halfe Goat, he seem'd to us in show,
His upper parts our humane shape doth beare,
But he's a very perfect Goat below,
His crooked Cambrils arm'd with hoofe and hayre.

Claia.
Through his leane Chops a chattering he doth make
Which stirres his staring beastly driveld Beard,
And his sharpe hornes he seem'd at us to shake,
Canst thou then blame us though we were afeard.

322

Corbilus.
Surely it seemes some Satyre this should be,
Come and goe back and guide me to the place,
Be not affraid, ye are safe enough with me,
Silly and harmelesse be their Silvan Race.

Claia.
How Corbilus; a Satyre doe you say?
How should he over high Parnassus hit?
Since to these Fields ther's none can finde the way,
But onely those the Muses will permit.

Corbilus.
Tis true; but oft, the sacred Sisters grace
The silly Satyre, by whose plainesse, they
Are taught the worlds enormities to trace,
By beastly mens abhominable way;
Besyde he may be banisht his owne home
By this base time, or be so much distrest,
That he the craggy by-clift Hill hath clome
To finde out these more pleasant Fields of rest.

Naiis.
Yonder he sits, and seemes himselfe to bow
At our approch, what doth our presence awe him?
Me thinks he seemes not halfe so ugly now,
As at the first, when I and Claia saw him.

Corbilus.
Tis an old Satyre, Nimph, I now discerne,
Sadly he sits, as he were sick or lame,
His lookes would say, that we may easly learne
How, and from whence, he to Elizium came.
Satyre, these Fields, how cam'st thou first to finde?
What Fate first show'd thee this most happy shore?
When never any of thy Silvan kinde
Set foot on the Elizian earth before?

Satyre.
O never aske, how I came to this place,
What cannot strong necessity finde out?
Rather bemoane my miserable case,
Constrain'd to wander the wide world about.
With wild Silvanus and his woody crue,
In Forrests I, at liberty and free,
Liv'd in such pleasure as the world ne'r knew,

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Nor any rightly can conceive but we.
This jocond life we many a day enjoy'd,
Till this last age, those beastly men forth brought,
That all those great and goodly Woods destroy'd,
Whose growth their Grandsyres, with such sufferance sought,
That faire Felicia which was but of late,
Earth's Paradice, that never had her Peere,
Stands now in that most lamentable state,
That not a Silvan will inhabit there;
Where in the soft and most delicious shade,
In heat of Summer we were wont to play,
When the long day too short for us we made,
The slyding houres so slyly stole away;
By Cynthia's light, and on the pleasant Lawne,
The wanton Fayry we were wont to chase,
Which to the nimble cloven-footed Fawne,
Upon the plaine durst boldly bid the base.
The sportive Nimphes, with shouts and laughter shooke
The Hils and Valleyes in their wanton play,
Waking the Ecchoes, their last words that tooke,
Till at the last, they lowder were then they.
The lofty hie Wood, and the lower spring,
Sheltring the Deare, in many a suddaine shower;
Where Quires of Birds, oft wonted were to sing,
The flaming Furnace wholly doth devoure;
Once faire Felicia, but now quite defac'd,
Those Braveries gone wherein she did abound,
With dainty Groves, when she was highly grac'd
With goodly Oake, Ashe, Elme, and Beeches croun'd:
But that from heaven their judgement blinded is,
In humane Reason it could never be,
But that they might have cleerly seene by this,
Those plagues their next posterity shall see.
The little Infant on the mothers Lap
For want of fire shall be so sore distrest,
That whilst it drawes the lanke and empty Pap,
The tender lips shall freese unto the breast;
The quaking Cattle which their Warmstall want,

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And with bleake winters Northerne winde opprest,
Their Browse and Stover waxing thin and scant,
The hungry Crowes shall with their Caryon feast.
Men wanting Timber wherewith they should build,
And not a Forrest in Felicia found,
Shall be enforc'd upon the open Field,
To dig them Caves for houses in the ground:
The Land thus rob'd, of all her rich Attyre,
Naked and bare her selfe to heaven doth show,
Begging from thence that Jove would dart his fire
Upon those wretches that disrob'd her so;
This beastly Brood by no meanes may abide
The name of their brave Ancestors to heare,
By whom their sordid slavery is descry'd,
So unlike them as though not theirs they were,
Nor yet they sense, nor understanding have,
Of those brave Muses that their Country song,
But with false Lips ignobly doe deprave
The right and honour that to them belong;
This cruell kinde thus Viper-like devoure
That fruitfull soyle which them too fully fed;
The earth doth curse the Age, and every houre
Againe, that it these viprous monsters bred.
I seeing the plagues that shortly are to come
Upon this people cleerely them forsooke:
And thus am light into Elizium,
To whose straite search I wholly me betooke.

Naiis.
Poore silly creature, come along with us,
Thou shalt be free of the Elizian fields:
Be not dismaid, nor inly grieved thus,
This place content in all abundance yeelds.
We to the cheerefull presence will thee bring,
Of Joves deare Daughters, where in shades they sit,
Where thou shalt heare those sacred Sisters sing,
Most heavenly Hymnes, the strength and life of wit.

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Claia.
Where to the Delphian God upon their Lyres
His Priests seeme ravisht in his height of praise:
Whilst he is crowning his harmonious Quiers,
With circling Garlands of immortall Bayes.

Corbilus.
Here live in blisse, till thou shalt see those slaves,
Who thus set vertue and desert at nought:
Some sacrific'd upon their Grandsires graves,
And some like beasts in markets sold and bought.
Of fooles and madmen leave thou then the care,
That have no understanding of their state:
For whom high heaven doth so just plagues prepare,
That they to pitty shall convert thy hate.
And to Elizium be thou welcome then,
Untill those base Felicians thou shalt heare,
By that vile nation captived againe,
That many a glorious age their captives were.

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NOAHS FLOUD.

To the Right Noble, Religious, and truely vertuous Lady, Mary, Countesse of Dorset; worthy of all Titles and Attributes, that were ever given to the most Renowned of her Sexe: and of me most deservedly to be honoured. To her Fame and Memory I consecrate these my divine Poems, with all the wishes of a gratefull heart; for the preservation of her, and her Children, the Succeeding Hopes of the Ancient and Noble Family of the Sackviles.

Her Servant, Michael Drayton.

Eternall and all-working God, which wast
Before the world, whose frame by thee was cast,
And beautifi'd with beamefull lampes above,
By thy great wisedome set how they should move
To guide the seasons, equally to all,
Which come and goe as they doe rise and fall.

My mighty Maker, O doe thou infuse
Such life and spirit into my labouring Muse,
That I may sing (what but from Noah thou hid'st)
The greatest thing that ever yet thou didst
Since the Creation; that the world may see
The Muse is heavenly, and deriv'd from thee.

A Jove Musa.

O let thy glorious Angell which since kept
That gorgeous Eden, where once Adam slept;
When tempting Eve was taken from his side,
Let him great God not onely be my guide,
But with his fiery Faucheon still be nie,
To keepe affliction farre from me, that I
With a free soule thy wondrous workes may show,
Then like that Deluge shall my numbers flow,
Telling the state wherein the earth then stood,
The Gyant race, the universall floud.

The fruitfull earth being lusty then and strong,
Like to a Woman, fit for love, and young,
Brought forth her creatures mighty, not a thing
Issu'd from her, but a continuall spring
Had to increase it, and to make it flourish,
For in her selfe she had that power to nourish
Her Procreation, that her children then
Were at the instant of their birth, halfe men.
Men then begot so soone, and got so long,
That scarcely one a thousand men among,
But he ten thousand in his time might see,
That from his loynes deriv'd their Pedegree.
The full-womb'd Women, very hardly went
Out their nine months, abundant nature lent

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Their fruit such thriving, as that once waxt quicke,
The large-limb'd mother, neither faint nor sicke,
Hasted her houre by her abundant health,
Nature so plaid the unthrift with her wealth,
So prodigally lavishing her store
Upon the teeming earth, then wasting more

The fruitfulnesse and bravery of the earth before the Floud.

Then it had need of: not the smallest weed
Knowne in that first age, but the naturall seed
Made it a Plant, to these now since the Floud,
So that each Garden look'd then like a Wood:
Beside, in Med'cen, simples had that power,
That none need then the Planetary houre
To helpe their working, they so juycefull were.
The Winter and the Spring time of the yeare
Seem'd all one season: that most stately tree
Of Libanus, which many times we see
Mention'd for talenesse in the holy Writ,
Whose tops the clouds oft in their wandring hit,
Were shrubs to those then on the earth that grew;
Nor the most sturdy storme that ever blew
Their big-growne bodies, to the earth ere shooke,
Their mighty Rootes, so certaine fastening tooke;
Cover'd with grasse, more soft then any silke,
The Trees dropt honey, & the Springs gusht milke:
The Flower-fleec't Meadow, & the gorgeous grove,
Which should smell sweetest in their bravery, strove;
No little shrub, but it some Gum let fall,
To make the cleere Ayre aromaticall:
Whilst to the little Birds melodious straines,
The trembling Rivers tript along the Plaines.
Shades serv'd for houses, neither Heate nor Cold
Troubl'd the yong, nor yet annoy'd the old:
The batning earth all plenty did afford,
And without tilling (of her owne accord)
That living idly without taking paine
(Like to the first) made every man a Caine.
Seaven hundred yeeres, a mans age scarcely then,
Of mighty size so were these long-liv'd men:

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The flesh of Lyons, and of Buls they tore,
Whose skins those Gyants for their garments wore.
Yet not tearm'd Gyants onely, for that they
Excel'd men since, in bignesse every way:
Nor that they were so puissant of their hand,
But that the Race wherewith the earth was man'd,
So wrathfull, proud, and tyranous were then,
Not dreading God, nor yet respecting men;

Josephus.

For they knew neither Magistrate, nor law,
Nor could conceive ought that their wils could awe;
For which waxt proud, & haughty in their thought,
They set th'eternall living God at naught:
Mankinde increasing greatly every day,
Their sinnes increase in numbers more then they;
Seaven Ages had past Adam, when men prone
To tyranny, and no man knew his owne:
His sensuall will then followed, and his lust,
His onely law, in those times to be just
Was to be wicked; God so quite forgot,
As what was damn'd, that in that age was not.
With one anothers flesh themselves they fil'd,
And drunke the bloud of those whom they had kil'd.
They dar'd to doe, what none should dare to name,
They never heard of such a thing as shame.

Berosus cited by Pirerius.

Man mixt with man, and Daughter, Sister, Mother,
Were to these wicked men as any other.
To rip their womens wombes, they would not stick,
When they perceiv'd once they were waxed quicke.
Feeding on that, from their own loynes that sprong,
Such wickednesse these Monsters was among:
That they us'd Beasts, digressing from all kinde:
That the Almighty pondring in his minde
Their beastlinesse, (from his intent) began
T'repent himselfe that he created man.
Their sinnes ascending the Almighties seate,
Th'eternall Throane with horror seeme to threat.
Still daring God, a warre with them to make,
And of his power, no knowledge seem'd to take.

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So that he vow'd, the world he would destroy,
Which he revealed onely to just Noy.
For but that man, none worthy was to know,
Nor he the manner to none else would show.
For since with starres, he first high heaven enchast,
And Adam first in Paradice had plac't,
Amongst all those inhabiting the ground,
He not a man so just as Noe had found.
For which he gave him charge an Arke to build,
And by those workemen which were deepliest skild
In Architecture, to begin the frame,
And thus th'Almighty taught just Noe the same.

The structure of the Arke.

Three hundred cubits the full length to be,
Fifty the bredth, the height (least of the three)
Full thirty cubits: onely with one light,
A cubit broad, and just so much in hight:
And in three Stories bad him to divide
The inner Roome, and in the Vessels side
To place a doore; commanding Noe to take
Great care thereof: and this his Arke to make
Of Gopher wood, which some will needsly have
To be the Pine-tree, and commandment gave
That the large plancks whereof it was compos'd,
When they by art should curiously be clos'd;
Should with Bitumen both within and out
Be deepely pitcht, the Vessell round about,
So strong a Glue as could not off be worne,
The rage of Winds, and Waters that doth scorne;
Like to a Chest or Coffer it was fram'd,
For which an Arke most fitly it was nam'd;
Not like a Ship, for that a Ship below,
Is ridg'd and narrow, upward but doth grow
Wider and wider: but this mighty Barque,
Built by just Noah, this universall Arke,
Held one true breadth i'th'bottome as above,
That when this Frame upon the Flood should move,
On the falne waters it should float secure,
As it did first the falling shower endure;

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And close above, so to beare out the weather
For forty dayes when it should raine togeather.

A hundred yeares the Arke in building was,
So long the time ere he could bring to passe
This worke intended; all which time just Noy
Cry'd, that th'Almighty would the world destroy,
And as this good man used many a day
To walke abroad, his building to survay,
These cruell Giants comming in to see,
(In their thoughts wondring what this worke should be)
He with erected hands to them doth cry,
Either repent ye, or ye all must dye,

Noah thretning Gods vengeance upon the world: with his sermon of repentance.

Your blasphemies, your beastlinesse, your wrongs,
Are heard to heaven, and with a thousand tongues
Showt in the eares of the Almighty Lord;
So that your sinnes no leasure him affoord
To thinke on mercy, they so thickly throng,
That when he would your punishment prolong,
Their horror hales him on, that from remorce
In his owne nature, you doe him inforce,
Nay, wrest plagues from him, upon humane kinde
Who else to mercy, wholly is inclinde.
From Seth which God to Eva gave in lew
Of her sonne Abel whom his brother slue,
That cursed Cain, how hath th'Almighty blest,
The seed of Adam though he so transgrest,
In Enos by whose godlinesse men came,
At first to call on the Almighties name,
And Enoch, whose integritie was such,
In whom the Lord delighted was so much,
As in his yeers he suffered no decay,
But God to Heaven tooke bodyly away;
With long life blessing all that goodly Stem,
From the first man downe to Mathusalem,
Now from the loynes of Lamech sendeth me,
(Unworthy his Ambassadour to be)
To tell ye yet, if ye at last repent,
He will lay by his wrathfull punishment,

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That God who was so mercifull before,
To our forfathers, likewise hath in store,
Mercy for us their Nephues, if we fall
With teares before him, and he will recall,
His wrath sent out already, therefore flye
To him for mercy, yet the threatning Skie
Pauses, ere it be the Deluge downe will poure,
For every teare you shed, he'll stop a shower;
Yet of th'Almighty mercy you may winne,
He'll leave to punish, if you leave to sinne;
That God eternall, which old Adam cast
Out of the earthly heaven, where he had plac't,
That first-made man, for his forbidden deed,
From thence for ever banishing his seed,
For us his sinfull children doth provide,
And with abundance hath us still supplyd,
And can his blessings who respects you thus,
Make you most wicked, most rebellious:
Still is your stubborne obstinacy such?
Have ye no mercy, and your God so much?
Your God, said I, O wherefore said I so?
Your words deny him, and your works say no;
O see the day, doth but too fast approch,
Wherein heavens maker meanes to set abroach
That world of water, which shall over-flow
Those mighty Mountaines whereon now you goe,
The Dropsied Clouds, see, your destruction threat,
The Sunne and Moone both in their course are set
To warre by water, and doe all they can
To bring destruction upon sinfull man,
And every thing shall suffer for your sake,
For the whole earth shall be but one whole Lake;
Oh cry for mercy, leave your wicked wayes,
And God from time shall separate those dayes
Of vengeance comming, and he shall disperse
These Clouds now threatning the whole universe,
And save the world, which else he will destroy.

But this good man, this terror-preaching Noy,

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The Beares, and Tigers, might have taught aswell,
They laught to heare this godly man to tell
That God would drowne the world, they thought him mad,
For their great maker they forgotten had,
They knew none such, th'Almighty God say they,
What might he be? and when shall be the day
Thou talk'st of to us? canst thou thinke that we
Can but suppose that such a thing can be?
What can he doe that we cannot defeate?
Whose Brawny Fists, to very dust can beate
The solid'st Rock, and with our breasts can beare
The strong'st Streame backward, dost thou thinke to feare
Us with these Dreames of Deluges? to make
Us our owne wayes and courses to forsake?
Let us but see that God that dares to stand
To what thou speak'st, that with his furious hand,
Dare say he'll drowne us, and we will defye
Him to his teeth: and if he keepe the Skye,
We'll dare him thence, and if he then come downe,
And challenge us that he the world will drowne,
We'll follow him untill his threats he stints,
Or we will batter his blew house with flynts.

The Arke is finisht, and the Lord is wrath,
To ayd just Noah, and he provided hath
His blessed Angells, bidding them to bring,
The Male and Female, of each living thing
Into the Arke, by whom he had decreed
T'renue the world, and by their fruitfull seed
To fill it as before, and is precise
For food for men, and for his sacrifice,
That seaven just payres, of Birds, and Beasts that were
Made cleane by him, should happily repayre
To the great Arke, the other made uncleane,
Of male and female onely should come twaine:
Which by the Angels every where were sought,
And thither by their ministry were brought.
When Noah sets ope the Arke and doth begin
To take his Fraught, his mighty Lading in

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And now the Beasts are walking from the wood,
Aswell of Ravine, as that chew the Cud,
The King of Beasts his fury doth suppresse,
And to the Arke leads downe the Lionesse,
The Bull for his beloved mate doth low,
And to the Arke brings on the faire ey'd Cow;
The stately Courser for his Mare doth nay,
And t'wards the new Arke guideth her the way;
The wreath'd-horn'd Ram his safety doth pursue,
And to the Arke ushers his gentle Ewe;
The brisly Boare, who with his snowte up plow'd
The spacious Plaines, and with his grunting lowd,
Rais'd ratling Ecchoes all the Woods about,
Leaves his dark Den, and having sented out
Noah's new-built Arke, in with his Sow doth come,
And stye themselves up in a little roome:
The Hart with his deare Hind, the Buck and Doe,
Leaving their wildnesse, bring the tripping Roe
Along with them: and from the Mountaine steepe,
The clambring Goat, and Cony, us'd to keepe
Amongst the Cleeves, together get, and they
To this great Arke finde out the ready way;
Th'unweildy Elke, whose skin is of much proofe,
Throngs with the rest t'attaine this wooden roofe;
The Unicorne leaves off his pride, and closse
There sets him downe by the Rhinoceros:
The Elephant there comming to imbarque,
And as he softly getteth up the Ark,
Feeling by his great waight, his body sunck,
Holds by his huge Tooth, and his nervy Trunck;
The croock-backt Camel climing to the deck,
Drawes up himselfe with his long sinewy neck;
The spotted Panther whose delicious scent,
Oft causeth beasts his harbor to frequent,
But having got them once into his power,
Sucketh their blood, and doth their flesh devoure,
His cruelty hath quickly cast aside,
And waxing courteous, doth become their guide,

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And brings into this universall Shop
The Ounce, the Tigar, and the Antilop,
By the grim Woolfe, the poore Sheepe safely lay,
And was his care, which lately was his pray;
The Asse upon the Lyon leant his head,
And to the Cat the Mouse for succour fled;
The silly Hare doth cast aside her feare,
And formes her selfe fast by the ugly Beare,
At whom the watchfull Dog did never barke,
When he espyde him clambring up the Arke:
The Fox got in, his subtilties hath left,
And as ashamed of his former theft,
Sadly sits there, as though he did repent,
And in the Arke became an innocent:
The fine-furd Ermin, Martern, and the Cat
That voydeth Civet, there together sat
By the shrewd Muncky, Babian, and the Ape,
With the Hienna, much their like in shape,
Which by their kinde, are ever doing ill,
Yet in the Arke, sit civilly and still;
The skipping Squerrill of the Forrest free,
That leapt so nimbly betwixt tree and tree,
It selfe into the Arke then nimbly cast,
As 'twere a Ship-boy come to clime the Mast.
The Porcupine into the Arke doth make,
Nor his sharpe quils though angry once doth shake;
The sharpe-fang'd Beaver, whose wyde gaping Jaw
Cutteth downe Plants at it were with a Saw,
Whose body poysed, wayeth such a masse,
As though his Bowels were of Lead or Brasse,
His cruell Chaps though breathlesse he doth close,
As with the rest into the Arke he goes.
Th'uneven-leg'd Badger (whose eye-pleasing skin,
The Case to many a curious thing hath bin,
Since that great flood) his fortresses forsakes
Wrought in the earth, and though but halting, makes
Up to the Arke; the Otter then that keepes
In the wild Rivers, in their Bancks and Sleeps,

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And feeds on Fish, which under water still,
He with his keld feet, and keene teeth doth kill;
The other two into the Arke doth follow,
Though his ill shape doth cause him but to wallow;
The Tortoyse and the Hedghog both so slow,
As in their motion scarse discern'd to goe,
Good footmen growne, contrary to their kinde,
Lest from the rest they should be left behinde;
The rooting Mole as to foretell the flood,
Comes out of th'earth, and clambers up the wood;
The little Dormouse leaves her leaden sleepe,
And with the Mole up to the Arke doth creepe,
With many other, which were common then,
Their kinde decayd, but now unknowne to men,
For there was none, that Adam ere did name,
But to the Arke from every quarter came;
By two and two the male and female beast,
From th'swiftst to th'slowest, from greatest to the least,
And as within the strong pale of a Parke,
So were they altogether in the Arke.

And as our God the Beasts had given in charge
To take the Arke, themselves so to imbardge,
He bids the Fowle, the Eagle in his flight,
Cleaving the thin Ayre, on the deck doth light;
Nor are his eyes so piercing to controule
His lowly subjects the farre lesser Fowle,
But the Almighty who all Creatures fram'd,
And them by Adam in the Garden nam'd,
Had given courage, fast by him to sit,
Nor at his sharpe sight are amaz'd one whit;
The Swanne by his great maker taught this good,
T'avoyd the fury of the falling flood,
His Boat-like breast, his wings rais'd for his sayle,
And Ore-like feet, him nothing to avayle
Against the Raine which likely was to fall,
Each drop so great, that like a ponderous Mall,
Might sinke him under water, and might drowne
Him in the Deluge, with the Crane comes downe,

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Whose voyce the Trumpet is, that throw the Ayre
Doth summon all the other to repayre
To the new Arke: when with his mooned traine,
The strutting Peacock yawling 'gainst the raine,
Flutters into the Arke, by his shrill cry,
Telling the rest the Tempest to be ny;
The Iron-eating Estridge, whose bare Thyes
Resembling mans, fearing the lowring Skyes,
Walkes to the great Boat; when the crowned Cock,
That to the Village lately was the Clock,
Comes to rooste by him, with his Hen, foreshewing
The shower should quickly fall, that then was brewing;
The swift-wing'd Swallow feeding as it flyes,
With the fleet Martlet thrilling throw the Skyes,
As at their pastime sportivly they were,
Feeling th'unusuall moisture of the Aer,
Their feathers flag, into the Arke they come,
As to some Rock or building, their owne home;
The ayry Larke his Haleluiah sung,
Finding a slacknesse seaze upon his tong,
By the much moisture, and the Welkin darke,
Drops with his female downe into the Arke;
The soaring Kyte there scantled his large wings,
And to the Arke the hovering Castrill brings;
The Raven comes, and croking, in doth call
The caryon Crow, and she againe doth brall,
Foretelling raine; by these there likewise sat

The Storke used to build upon houses, leaveth ever one behinde him for the owner.

The carefull Storke, since Adam wondred at
For thankfulnesse, to those where he doth breed,
That his ag'd Parents naturally doth feed,
In filiall duty as instructing man:
By them there sate the loving Pellican,
Whose yong ones poysned by the Serpents sting,
With her owne blood to life againe doth bring:
The constant Turtle up her lodging tooke
By these good Birds; and in a little nooke
The Nightingale with her melodious tongue
Sadly there sits, as she had never sung;

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The Merle and Mavis on the highest spray,
Who with their musick, wak't the early day,
From the proud Cedars, to the Arke come downe,
As though forewarn'd, that God the world would drowne;
The prating Parret comes to them aboard,
And is not heard to counterfeit a word;
The Falcon and the Dove sit there together,
And th'one of them doth prune the others feather;
The Goshalke and the Feasant there doe twin,
And in the Arke are pearcht upon one pin,
The Partridge on the Sparhalk there doth tend,
Who entertaines her as a loving friend;
The ravenous Vulture feeles the small Birds sit
Upon his back, and is not mov'd a whit;
Amongst the thickest of these severall fowle
With open eyes still sate the broad-fac'd Owle;
And not a small bird as they wonted were,
Either pursude or wondred at her there.
No waylesse desart, Heath, nor Fen, nor More,
But in by couples, sent some of their store;
The Ospray, and the Cormorant forbeare
To fish, and thither with the rest repayre:
The Hearon leaves watching at the Rivers brim,
And brings the Snyte and Plover in with him.
There came the Halcyon, whom the Sea obeyes,
When she her nest upon the water layes:
The Goose which doth for watchfulnesse excell,
Came for the rest, to be the Sentinell.
The charitable Robinet in came,
Whose nature taught the others to be tame:
All feathered things yet ever knowne to men,

The mighty Indian Bird.

From the huge Rucke, unto the little Wren;
From Forrests, Fields, from Rivers, and from Pons,
All that have webs, or cloven-footed ones;
To the Grand Arke, together friendly came,
Whose severall species were too long to name

The Beasts and Birds thus by the Angels brought,
Noe found his Arke not fully yet was fraught,

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To shut it up for as he did begin,
He still saw Serpents, and their like come in;

Creeping things in the sixt of Gen: the 20. vers.

The Salamander to the Arke retyers,
To flye the Floud, it doth forsake the fiers:
The strange Camelion, comes t'augment the crue,
Yet in the Arke doth never change her hue:
To these poore silly few of harmelesse things,
So were there Serpents, with their teeth and stings
Hurtfull to man, yet will th'Almighty have,
That Noe their seed upon the earth should save:
The watchfull Dragon comes the Arke to keepe,
But lul'd with murmure, gently fals to sleepe:
The cruell Scorpion comes to clime the pyle,
And meeting with the greedy Crocodyle,
Into the Arke together meekely goe,
And like kinde mates themselves they there bestow:
The Dart and Dipsas, to the Arke com'n in,
Infold each other as they were a twinne.
The Cockatrice there kils not with his sight,

The Aspick hath a kell of skin which covereth his teeth untill it be angry.

But in his object joyes, and in the Light;
The deadly killing Aspicke when he seeth,
This world of creatures, sheaths his poysoned teeth,
And with the Adder, and the speckled Snake,
Them to a corner harmlesly betake.
The Lisard shuts up his sharpe-sighted eyes,
Amongst these Serpents, and there sadly lyes.
The small-ey'd slowe-worme held of many blinde,
Yet this great Arke it quickly out could finde,
And as the Arke it was about to clime,
Out of its teeth shutes the invenom'd slime.
These viler Creatures on the earth that creepe,
And with their bellies the cold dewes doe sweepe,
All these base groveling, and ground-licking sute,
From the large

A Serpent of an incredible bignesse.

Boas, to the little Neute;
As well as Birds, or the foure-footed beasts,
Came to the Arke their Hostry as Noes guests.

Thus fully furnisht, Noe need not to carke
For stowidge, for provision for the Arke:

340

For that wise God, who first direction gave,
How he the structure of the Arke would have:
And for his servant could provide this fraught,
Which thither he miraculously brought:
And did the food for every thing purvaye,
Taught him on lofts it orderly to laye:
On flesh some feed, as others fish doe eate,
Various the kinde, so various was the meate:
Some on fine grasse, as some on grosser weeds,
As some on fruits, so other some on seeds,
To serve for food for one whole yeare for all,
Untill the Floud, which presently should fall
On the whole world, his hand againe should drayne,
Which under water should that while remaine.
Th'Almighty measur'd the proportion such,
As should not be too little, nor too much:
For he that breath to every thing did give,
Could not that God them likewise make to live,
But with a little; and therewith to thrive,
Who at his pleasure all things can contrive.

Now some there be, too curious at this day,
That from their reason dare not sticke to say,
The Floud a thing fictitious is, and vaine,
Nor that the Arke could possibly containe
Those sundry creatures, from whose being came
All living things man possibly could name.
I say it was not, and I thus oppose
Them by my reason, strong enough for those,
My instance is a mighty Argosie,
That in it beares, beside th'Artillery,
Of fourescore pieces of a mighty Boare,
A thousand souldiers (many times and more)
Besides the sayles, and armes for every one,
Cordage, and Anchors, and provision:
The large-spred Sayles, the Masts both big and tall,
Of all which Noahs Arke had no need at all:
Within the same eight persons onely were,
If such a ship, can such a burthen beare:

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What might the Arke doe, which doth so excell
That Ship, as that ship doth a Cockle shell;
Being so capacious for this mighty load,
So long, so high, and every where so broad;
Beside three lofts just of one perfect strength,
And bearing out proportionably in length:
So fitly built, that being thus imploy'd,
There was not one ynch in the Arke was voyd,
Beside I'le charge their reason to allow
The Cubits doubled to what they are now,
We are but Pigmeyes, (even our tallest men)
To the huge Gyants that were living then:
For but th'Almighty, which (to this intent,)
Ordain'd the Arke, knew it sufficient,
He in his wisedome (had he thought it meet)
Could have bid Noah to have built a Fleet,
And many Creatures on the earth since growne
Before the floud that were to Noah unknowne:
For though the Mule begotten on the Mare,
By the dull Asse (is said) doth never payre;
Yet sundry others, naturally have mixt,

The opinions of the best naturalists that have written.

And those that have beene gotten them betwixt
Others begot, on others from their kinde.
In sundry Clymats, sundry beasts we finde,
That what they were, are nothing now the same,
From one selfe straine, though at the first they came;
But by the soyle they often altred be,
In shape and colour as we daily see.

Now Noahs three sonnes all busie that had bin
To place these creatures as they still came in:
Sem, Ham, and Japheth, with their

The names of the women were Tita, Pandora, Noella and Noegla: as some of the most ancient write, but Epiphanius will have Noes Wifes name to be Barthenon.

Wifes assign'd,
To be the Parents of all humane kinde:
Seeing the Arke thus plentifully stor'd:
The wondrous worke of the Almighty Lord,
Behold their father looking every houre,
For this all-drowning earth-destroying showre,
When Noe their faith thus lastly to awake,
To his lov'd Wife, and their sixe children spake.

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The mighty hand of God doe you not see,
In these his creatures, that so well agree:
Which were they not, thus mastred by his power,
Us silly eight would greedily devoure:
And with their hoofes and pawes, to splinters rend
This onely Arke, in which God doth intend
We from the Floud that remnant shall remaine,
T'restore the world, in aged Adams straine:
Yee seaven, with sad astonishment then see
The wondrous things the Lord hath wrought for me.
What have I done, so gracious in his sight,
Fraile wretched man, but that I justly might
Have with the earths abhominable brood,
Bin over-whelm'd, and buried in the Floud:
But in his judgement, that he hath decreed,
That from my loynes by your successefull seed,
The earth shall be replenished agen,
And the Almighty be at peace with men.
A hundred yeares are past (as well you know)
Since the Almighty God, his power to show
Taught me the Modell of this mighty frame,
And it the Arke commanded me to name.
Be strong in faith, for now the time is nye,
That from the conducts of the lofty skie,
The Floud shall fall, that in short time shall beare
This Arke we are in up into the ayre,
Where it shall floate, and further in the end,
Shall fifteene cubits the high'st hils transcend.
Then bid the goodly fruitfull earth adue,
For the next time it shall be seene of you,
It with an ill complexion shall appeare,
The weight of waters shall have chang'd her cheere.
Be not affrighted, when ye heare the rore
Of the wide Waters when they charge the shore,
Nor be dismaid at all, when you shall feele
Th'unweeldy Arke from wave to wave to reele:
Nor at the shreekes of those that swimming by
On Trees and Rafters, shall for succour cry,

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O ye most lov'd of God, O take us in,
For we are guilty, and confesse our sinne.

Thus whilst he spake, the skyes grew thicke and darke,
And a blacke cloud hung hovering o're the Arke.
Venus and Mars, God puts this worke upon:

God makes the Starres his instruments to punish the wicked.

Jupiter and Saturne in conjunction
I'th tayle of Cancer, inundations thret.
Luna disposed generally to wet,
The Hiades and Pliades put too
Their helpes; Orion doth what he can doe.
No starre so small, but some one drop let downe,
And all conspire the wicked world to drowne:
On the wide heaven there was not any signe,
To watry Pisces but it doth incline.

Now some will aske, when th'Almighty God, (but Noy
And his) by waters did the world destroy;
Whether those seaven then in Arke were good,
And just as he, (reserved from the Floud)
Or that th'Almighty for his onely sake,
Did on the other such compassion take:
'Tis doubtlesse Noe, being one so cleerely just,
That God did with his secret judgements trust
From the whole world; one that so long had knowne
That living Lord, would likewise teach his owne
To know him too, who by this meane might be,
As well within the Covenant as he.

By this the Sunne had suckt up the vaste deepe,
And in grosse clouds like Cesternes did it keepe:
The Starres and signes by Gods great wisedome set,

A description of the Tempest, at the falling of the Deluge.

By their conjunctions waters to beget,
Had wrought their utmost, and even now began
Th'Almighties justice upon sinfull man:
From every severall quarter of the skye,
The Thunder rores, and the fierce Lightnings flye
One at another, and together dash,
Volue on volue, flash comes after flash:
Heavens lights looke sad, as they would melt away,
The night is com'n i'th morning of the day:

344

The Card'nall Windes he makes at once to blow,
Whose blasts to buffets with such fury goe,
That they themselves into the Center shot
Into the bowels of the earth and got,
Being condens'd and strongly stifned there,

Water is but ayre condens'd.

In such strange manner multiply'd the ayre,
Which turn'd to water, and increast the springs
To that abundance, that the earth forth brings
Water to drowne her selfe, should heaven deny,
With one small drop the Deluge to supply,
That through her pores, the soft and spungy earth,
As in a dropsie, or unkindely birth,
A Woman, swolne, sends from her fluxive wombe
Her woosie springs, that there was scarcely roome
For the waste waters which came in so fast,
As though the earth her entrailes up would cast.
But these seem'd yet, but easily let goe,
And from some Sluce came softly in, and slow,
Till Gods great hand so squees'd the boysterous clouds,
That from the spouts of heavens embatteld shrouds,
Even like a Floud-gate pluckt up by the height,
Came the wilde raine, with such a pondrous weight,
As that the fiercenesse of the hurrying floud,
Remov'd huge Rockes, and ram'd them into mud:
Pressing the ground, with that impetuous power,
As that the first shocke of this drowning shower,
Furrow'd the earths late plumpe and cheerefull face
Like an old Woman, that in little space
With ryveld cheekes, and with bleard blubberd eyes,
She wistly look'd upon the troubled skyes.
Up to some Mountaine as the people make,
Driving their Cattell till the shower should slake;
The Floud oretakes them, and away doth sweepe
Great heards of Neate, and mighty flockes of Sheepe.
Downe through a valley as one streame doth come,
Whose roaring strikes the neighbouring Eccho dumbe:
Another meetes it, and whilst there they strive,
Which of them two the other backe should drive;

345

Their dreadfull currents they together dash,
So that their waves like furious Tydes doe wash
The head of some neere hill, which falleth downe
For very feare, as it, it selfe would drowne.
Some backe their Beasts, so hoping to swimme out,
But by the Floud, incompassed about
Are overwhelm'd, some clamber up to Towers,
But these and them, the deluge soone devoures:
Some to the top of Pynes and Cedars get,
Thinking themselves they safely there should set:
But the rude Floud that over all doth sway,
Quickly comes up, and carrieth them away.
The Roes much swiftnesse, doth no more availe,

The Roe Deere the swiftest Beast knowne.

Nor helpe him now, then if he were a Snayle:
The swift-wing'd Swallow, and the slow-wing'd Owle,
The fleetest Bird, and the most flagging Fowle,
Are at one passe, the Floud so high hath gone,
There was no ground to set a foot upon:
Those Fowle that followed moystnesse, now it flye,
And leave the wet Land, to finde out the dry:
But by the mighty tempest beaten downe,
On the blancke water they doe lye and drowne:
The strong-built Tower is quickly overborne,
The o're-growne Oake out of the earth is torne:
The subtile shower the earth hath softned so,
And with the waves, the trees tost to and fro;
That the rootes loosen, and the tops downe sway,
So that whole Forrests quickly swimme away.
Th'offended heaven had shut up all her lights,
The Sunne nor Moone make neither daies nor nights:
The waters so exceedingly abound
That in short time the Sea it selfe is drownd.
That by the freshnesse of the falling raine,
Neptune no more his saltnesse doth retaine:
So that those scaly creatures us'd to keepe,
The mighty wasts of the immeasured deepe:
Finding the generall and their naturall bracke,
The taste and colour every were to lacke;

346

Forsake those Seas wherein they swamme before,
Strangely oppressed with their watry store.
The crooked Dolphin on those Mountaines playes,
Whereas before that time, not many daies
The Goate was grazing; and the mighty Whale,
Upon a Rocke out of his way doth fall:
From whence before one eas'ly might have seene,
The wandring clouds farre under to have beene.
The Grampus, and the Whirlpoole, as they rove,
Lighting by chance upon a lofty Grove
Under this world of waters, are so much
Pleas'd with their wombes each tender branch to touch,
That they leave slyme upon the curled Sprayes,
On which the Birds sung their harmonious Layes.
As huge as Hills still waves are wallowing in,
Which from the world so wondrously doe winne,
That the tall Mountaines which on tipto stood,
As though they scorn'd the force of any flood,
No eye of heaven of their proud tops could see
One foot, from this great inundation free.

A simily of the grosnesse of the Deluge

As in the Chaos ere the frame was fix'd
The Ayre and water were so strongly mix'd,
And such a Bulke of Grosenesse doe compose,
As in those thick Clouds which the Globe inclose,
Th'all-working Spirit were yet againe to wade,
And heaven and earth againe were to be made.
Meane while this great and universall Arke,
Like one by night were groping in the darke,
Now by one Billow, then another rockt,
Within whose boards all living things were lockt;
Yet Noah his safety not at all doth feare,
For still the Angels his blest Barge doe steere:
But now the Shower continued had so long,
The inundation waxt so wondrous strong,
That fifteene Cubits caus'd the Arke to move
The highest part of any Hill above:
And the grosse earth so violently binds,
That in their Coasts it had inclos'd the winds;

347

So that the whole wide surface of the flood,
As in the full height of the tyde it stood,
Was then as sleeke and even as the Seas
In the most still and calmest Halcyon dayes:
The Birds, the Beasts and Serpents safe on board,
With admiration looke upon thir Lord,
The righteous Noah: and with submissive feare,
Tremble his grave and awfull voyce to heare,
When to his Houshould (during their aboad)
He preacht the power of the Almighty God.

Deare wife and children, quoth this godly Noy,

Noah preaching faith to his family.

Since the Almighty vow'd he would destroy
The wicked world, a hundred yeares are past,
And see, he hath performed it at last;
In us poore few, the world consists alone,
And besides us, there not remaineth one,
But from our seed, the emptied earth agen,
Must be repeopled with the race of men;
Then since thus farre his covenant is true
Build ye your faith, on that which shall ensue:
Such is our God, who thus did us imbarque
(As his select) to save us by the Arke,
And only he whose Angels guard our Boat,
Knowes over what strange Region now we float,
Or we from hence that very place can sound,
From which the Arke was lifted first from ground:
He that can span the world, and with a grip,
Out of the bowels of the clouds could rip
This masse of waters, whose abundant birth,
Almost to heaven thus drowneth up the earth;
He can remove this Round if he shall please,
And with these waters can sup up the Seas,
Can cause the Starres out of their Sphears to fall,
And on the winds can tosse this earthy Ball,
He can wrest drops from the Sunnes radient beames,
And can force fire from the most liquid streames,
He curles the waves with whirlwinds, and doth make
The solid Center fearfully to shake,

348

He can stirre up the Elements to warres,
And at his pleasure can compose their Jarres,
The Sands serve not his wondrous workes to count,
Yet doth his mercy all his workes surmount,
His Rule and Power eternally endures,
He was your Fathers God, he's mine, he's yours,
In him deare wife and children put your trust,
He onely is Almighty, onely just.

But on the earth the waters were so strong,
And now the flood continued had so long,
That the let yeare foreslow'd about to bring
The Summer, Autumne, Winter, and the Spring,

The revolution of the yeare by a short Periphrasis.

The Gyring Planets with their starry traine,
Downe to the South had sunck, and rose againe
Up towards the North, whilst the terrestriall Globe
Had bin involved in this watry Robe,
During which season every twinckling light
In their still motion, at this monstrous sight,
By their complection a distraction show'd,
Looking like Embers that through ashes glow'd.
When righteous Noah remembreth at the last,
The time prefix'd to be approaching fast,
After a hundred fifty dayes were gone,
Which to their period then were drawing on,
The flood should somewhat slack, God promist so,
On which relying, the just godly Noe,
To try if then but one poore foot of ground,
Free from the flood might any where be found,
Lets forth a Raven, which straight cuts the Skye,
And wondrous proud his restyed wings to try,
In a large circle girdeth in the Ayre,
First to the East, then to the South, doth beare,
Followes the Sunne, then towards his going forth,
And then runnes up into the rysing North,
Thence climes the clouds to prove if his sharpe eye
From that proud pitch could possibly descry
Of some tall Rock-crown'd Mountaine, a small stone
A minuts space to set his foot upon,

349

But finding his long labour but in vaine,
Returneth wearied to the Arke againe,
By which Noah knew he longer yet must stay,
For the whole earth still under water lay.

Seaven dayes he rests, but yet he would not cease,
(For that he knew the flood must needs decrease)
But as the Raven late, he next sends out
The damaske coloured Dove, his nimble Scout,
Which thrils the thin Ayre, and his pyneons plyes,
That like to lightning, glyding through the Skyes,
His sundry coloured feathers by the Sunne,
As his swift shadow on the Lake doth runne,
Causeth a twinckling both at hand and farre,
Like that we call the shooting of a Starre;
But finding yet that labour lost had bin,
Comes back to Noah, who gently takes him in.

Noah rests awhile, but meaning still to prove
A second search, againe sends out the Dove,
After other seaven, some better newes to bring,
Which by the strength of his unwearied wing
Findes out at last, a place for his aboad,
When the glad Bird stayes all the day abroad,
And wondrous proud that he a place had found,
Who of a long time had not toucht the ground,
Drawes in his head, and thrusteth out his breast,
Spreadeth his tayle, and swelleth up his crest,
And turning round and round with Cuttry cooe,
As when the female Pigeon and he wooe;
Bathing himselfe, which long he had not done,
And dryes his feathers in the welcome Sunne,
Pruning his plumage, clensing every quill,
And going back, he beareth in his bill
An Olive leafe, by which Noah understood
The great decrease and waning of the flood:
For that on Mountaines Olives seldome grow,
But in flat Valleys, and in places low;
Never such comfort came to mortall man,
Never such joy was since the world began,

350

As in the Arke, when Noah and his behold
The Olive leafe, which certainly them told,
The flood decreas'd, and they such comfort take,
That with their mirth, the Birds and Beasts they make
Sportive, which send forth such a hollow noyse
As said they were partakers of their joyes.
The Lion roares, but quickly doth forbeare,
Lest he thereby the lesser Beasts should feare,
The Bull doth bellow, and the Horse doth nay,
The Stag, the Buck, and shaghayrd Goat doe bray,
The Boare doth grunt, the Woolfe doth howle, the Ram
Doth bleate, which yet so faintly from him came,
As though for very joy he seem'd to weepe,
The Ape and Muncky such a chattering keepe
With their thin lips, which they so well exprest,
As they would say, we hope to be releast;
The silly Asse set open such a throat,
That all the Arke resounded with the note;
The watchfull Dog doth play, and skip, and barke,
And leaps upon his Masters in the Arke,
The Raven crokes, the caryon Crow doth squall,
The Pye doth chatter, and the Partridge call,
The jocund Cock crowes as he claps his wings,
The Merle doth whistle, and the Mavis sings,
The Nightingale straines her melodious throat,
Which of the small Birds being heard to roat,
They soone set to her, each a part doth take,
As by their musick up a Quire to make,
The Parrat lately sad, then talks and jeeres,
And counterfeiteth every sound he heares,
The purblind Owle which heareth all this doo,
T'expresse her gladnesse, cryes Too whit too whoo.
No Beast nor Bird was in the Arke with Noy,
But in their kinde exprest some signe of joy;
When that just man who did himselfe apply
Still, to his deare and godly family,
Thus to them spake (and with erected hands
The like obedience from the rest demands)

351

The worlds foundation is not halfe so sure
As is Gods promise, nor is heaven so pure
As is his word, to me most sinfull man;
To take the Arke who when I first began
Sayd on the hundred and the fiftieth day,
I should perceive the Deluge to decay,
And 'tis most certaine, as you well may know
Which this poore Pidgeon by this leafe doth show.
He that so long could make the waters stand
Above the earth, see how his powerfull hand
Thrusts them before it, and so fast doth drive
The Big swolne Billowes, that they seeme to strive
Which shall fly fastest on that secret path,
Whence first they came, to execute his wrath,
The Sunne which melted every Cloud to Raine,
He makes it now to sup it up againe:
The wind by which he brought it on before
In their declining drives it o'r and o'r,
The tongs of Angells serve not to expresse,
Neither his mercy, nor his mightinesse,
Be joyfull then in our greate God (sayth he)
For we the Parents of Mankind shall be:
From us poore few, (his pleasure that attend)
Shall all the Nations of the earth descend;

When righteous Noy desirous still to heare,
In what estate th'unweeldy waters were,
Sends foorth the Dove as he had done before,
But it found drie land and came backe no more,
Whereby this man precisely understood,
The greate decrease of this world-drowning floud:
Thus as the Arke is floating on the mayne,
As when the floud rose, in the fall againe,
With Currents still encountred every where
Forward and backeward which it still doe beare,
As the streame straytneth, by the rising Cleeves

Mountains of a wondrous height, either within, or bordering upon Armenia.

Of the tall Mountaines, 'twixt which oft it drives,
Untill at length by Gods Almighty hand,
It on the hills of Ararat doth land.

352

When those within it felt the Arke to strike,
On the firme ground, was ever comfort like
To theirs, which felt it fixed there to stay,
And found the waters went so fast away;
That Noah set up the covering of the Arke,
That those which long had sitten in the darke,
Might be saluted with the cheerfull light,
(O since the world, was ever such a sight!)
That creeping things aswell as Bird or Beast,
Their severall comforts sundry wayes exprest?
His wife and children then ascend to see
What place it was so happy that should be
For th'Arke to rest on, where they saw a Plaine,
A Mountaines top which seemed to containe,
On which they might discerne within their ken,
The carkasses of Birds, of Beasts, and men,
Choak'd by the Deluge, when Noah spake them thus,

Behold th'Almighties mercy shew'd to us,
That thorow the waves our way not onely wrought,
But to these Mountaines safely hath us brought,
Whose daynty tops all earthly pleasures crowne
And one the Greene-sward sets us safely downe.
Had our most gratious God not beene our guide
The Arke had fallne upon some Mountaine-side,
And with a Rush removing of our fraight
Might well have turnd it backward with the waight
Or by these Billows lastly over borne
Or on some Rocke her ribbs might have bin torne.
But see except these heere, each living thing
That crept, or went, or kept the Aire with wing,
Lye heere before us to manure the Land,
Such is the power of Gods all workeing hand.

In the sixhundred yeere of that just man

In May according to the Expositors.

The second month, the seventeenth day began,
That horrid Deluge when Heavens windows were
At once all opened, then did first appeare
Th'Allmightys wrath, when for full forty days
There raynd from Heaven not showers but mighty seas,

353

A hundred fifty dayes that so prevayld,
Above the Mountaines till the great Arke sayld,
In the seaventh moneth, upon the seaventeenth day,

Part of September and part of October.

Like a Ship falne into a quyet Bay,
It on the Hils of Ararat doth light:
But Noah deny'd yet to discharge the Fraight,
For that the Mountaines cleerely were not seene,
Till the first day of the tenth mon'th, when Greene
Smyld on the blew Skyes, when the earth began
To looke up cheerly, yet the waters ran
Still throw the Valleyes, till the mon'th againe

In the same moneth the flood began, it ceast: which made up the yeare.

In which before it first began to rayne;
Of which, the seaven and twentieth day expyr'd,
Quite from the earth the waters were retyr'd:
When the almighty God bad Noah to set
Open the Arke, at liberty to let
The Beasts, the Birds, and creeping things, which came
Like as when first they went into the same,
Each male comes downe, his female by his side,
As 'twere the Bridgroome bringing out his Bride,
Till th'Arke was emptied, and that mighty load,
For a whole yeare that there had bin bestow'd,
(Since first that forty-dayes still-falling raine
That drown'd the world, was then dry'd up againe)
Which with much gladnesse doe salute the ground,
The lighter sort some caper, and some bound,
The heavier creatures tumble them, as glad
That they such ease by their enlargement had,
The creeping things together fall to play,
Joy'd beyond measure, for this happy day,
The Birds let from this Cage, doe mount the Skye,
To shew, they yet had not forgot to flye,
And sporting them upon the ayry plaine,
Yet to their master Noah they stoope againe,
To leave his presence, and doe still forbeare,
Till they from him of their release might heare,
The Beasts each other wooe, the Birds they bill,
As they would say to Noe, they ment to fill

354

The roomthy earth, then altogether voyd;
And make, what late the deluge had destroyd.
When Righteous Noye, who ever had regard
To serve his God, immediately prepar'd
To sacrifice, and of the cleanest Beasts
That in the Arke this while had bin his guests,
He seaseth, (yet obedient to his will)
And of them, he for sacrifice doth kill:
Which he and his religiously attend,
And with the smoake their vowes and thankes ascend,
Which pleas'd th'Almighty, that he promis'd then,
Never by floud to drowne the world agen.
And that mankinde his covenant might know,
He in the clouds left the celestiall Bow.

When to these living things quoth righteous Noe,
Now take you all free liberty to goe,
And every way doe you your selves disperse,
Till you have fild this globy universe
With your increase, let every soyle be yours,
He that hath sav'd yee, faithfully assures
Your propagation: and deare wife quoth he,
And you my children, let your trust still be
In your preserver, and on him relye,
Whose promise is that we shall multiply,
Till in our dayes, of nations we shall heare
From us poore few in th'Arke that lately were.
To make a new world, thus works every one,
The Deluge ceaseth, and the old is gone.

355

TO THIS POEM

[Moses His Birth and Miracles].

See how ingrate forgetfulnesse
Circles us round with dangers,
That all the Saints whom God doth highly blesse,
To us are strangers:
Now Heav'n into our soules inspires
No true cœlestiall motions:
Lusts ardent flame hath dimm'd the holy fires
Of our devotions.
While 'gainst blasphemers gen'rall spight
Our painefull Author striveth,
And happy spirits which live in heavenly light
On earth reviveth.
Thou Patriarke great, who with milde lookes
His lab'ring Muse beholdest:
Reach him those leaves where thou in sacred bookes
All truth unfoldest:
And guide (like Israel) Poets hands
From Aegypt, from vaine Stories,
Onely to sing of the faire promis'd lands,
And all their glories.

John Beaumont.

356

TO M. MICHAEL DRAYTON.

Thy noble Muse already hath beene spred
Through Europe and the Sun-scorch'd Southerne climes,
That Ile where Saturnes royall Sonne was bred,
Hath beene enricht with thy immortall rimes:
Even to the burnt line have thy poems flowne,
And gain'd high fame in the declining West,
And o're that cold Sea shall thy name be blowne,
That Icie mountaines rowleth on her brest:
Her soaring hence so farre made me admire,
Whether at length thy worthy Muse would flie,
Borne through the tender ayre with wings of fire,
Able to lift her to the starrie skie:
This work resolv'd my doubts, when th'earths repleate
With her faire fruit, in Heav'n shee'le take her seate.

Thomas Andrewe.

Ex arduis æternitas.

357

MOSES HIS BIRTH AND MIRACLES.

THE FIRST BOOKE.

The Argument.

This Canto our attracted Muse
The Prophets glorious birth pursues,
The various changes of his fate,
From humblenesse to high estate,
His beautie, more than mortall shape,
From Egypt how he doth escape,
By his faire bearing in his flight,
Obtaines the lovely Midianite,
Where God unto the Hebrew spake,
Appearing from the burning brake,
And backe doth him to Egypt send,
That mighty things doth there intend.

Girt in bright flames, rapt from celestiall fire,
That our unwearied faculties refine,
By zeale transported boldly we aspire
To sing a subject gloriously divine:
Him that of mortals onely had the grace,
(On whom the Spirit did in such power descend)
To talke with God face opposite to face,
Even as a man with his familiar friend.

Muse I invoke the utmost of thy might,
That with an armed and auspitious wing,
Thou be obsequious in his doubtlesse right
'Gainst the vile Atheists vituperious sting:
Where thou that gate industriously mai'st flie,
Which Nature strives but fainedly to goe,
Borne by a power so eminent and hie,
As in his course leaves reason farre below,
To shew how Poesie (simplie hath her praise)
That from full Jove takes her celestiall birth,
And quicke as fire, her glorious selfe can raise
Above this base abhominable earth.

358

O if that Time have happily reservd,
(Besides that sacred and canonicke writ,
What once in Slates and Barkes of trees was kerv'd)
Things that our Muses gravitie may fit,
Unclaspe the worlds great Register to mee,
That smoakie rust hath very neere defac'd,
That I in those dim Characters may see,
From common eyes that hath aside beene cast,
And thou Translator of that faithfull Muse
This Alls creation that divinely song,
From Courtly French (no travaile do'st refuse)
To make him Master of thy Genuin tong,
Salust to thee and Silvester thy friend,
Comes my high Poem peaceably and chaste,
Your hallow'd labours humbly to attend
That wrackfull Time shall not have power to waste.

A gallant Hebrew (in the height of life)
Amram a Levit honourably bred,
Of the same off-spring wan a beauteous wife,
And no lesse vertuous, goodly Jacobed:
So fitly pair'd that (without all ostent)
Even of the wise it hardly could be sayd
Which of the two was most preheminent,
Or he more honour'd, or she more obayd,
In both was found that liveliehood and meetnes,
By which affection any way was mov'd:
In him that shape, in her there was that sweetnes,
Might make him lik'd or her to be belov'd:
As this commixtion, so their maried mind
Their good corrected, or their ill releev'd,
As truly loving as discreetly kinde,
Mutuallie joy'd, as mutuallie greev'd:
Their nuptiall bed by abstinence maintain'd,
Yet still gave fewell to Loves sacred fire,
And when fruition plentifulli'st gain'd,
Yet were they chaste in fulnes of desire.

Now grieved Israel many a wofull day,
That at their vile servilitie repin'd,

359

Press'd with the burdens of rude boist'rous clay,
By sterne Egyptian tyrannie assign'd:
Yet still the more the Hebrewes are opprest
Like to Frim seed they fructifie the more
That by th'eternall providence fore-blest,
Goshen gives roomth but scantly to their store.
And the wise Midwives in their naturall neede,
That the faire males immediatlie should kill,
Hating s'abhord, and Hethenish a deede,
Check his harsh brutenes and rebellious will.
That small effect perceiving by the same,
Bids the men-children (greatelie that abound)
After that day into the world that came,
Upon their birth should instantly be drownd:
And now the time came had bin long foretold,
He should be borne unto the Hebrewes joy,
Whose puissant hand such fatall power should hold,
As in short time all Egipt should destroy.
The execution which more strongly forc'd,
And every where so generally done,
As in small time unnaturally divorc'd,
Many a deare Mother, and as deare a Sonne.
Though her chast bosome that faire Altar were,
Where Loves pure vowes he dutifully pay'd,
His Armes to her a Sanctuary deare,
Yet they so much his tyranny obay'd,
By free consent to separate their bed,
Better at all no Children yet to have,
Then their deare love should procreate the dead,
Untimely issue for a timelesse grave.
When in a vision whilst he slept by night,
God bids him so not Jacobed to leave,
The man that Egypt did so much affright,
Her pregnant wombe should happily conceave.

Joseph.

Soone after finding that she was with child,
The same conceales by all the meanes she can,
Lest by th'apparance she might be beguild,
If in the birth it prov'd to be a man.

360

The time she goes till her accompt was nie,
Her swelling belly no conception showes,
Nor at the time of her delivery,
As other women panged in her throwes.
When lo the faire fruit of that prospering wombe
Wounds the kinde parents in their prime of joy,
Whose birth pronounceth his too timelesse doombe
Accus'd by Nature, forming it a boy:
Yet tis so sweet, so amiably faire,
That their pleas'd eies with rapture it behold,
The glad-sad parents full of joy and care
Faine would reserve their Infant if they could,
And still they tempt the sundrie varying howers,
Hopes and despaires together strangely mixt,
Distasting sweets with many cordiall sowers,
Opposed interchangeably betwixt.
If ought it ayl'd or hapleslie it cride,
Unheard of any that she might it keepe,
With one short breath she did intreat and chide,
And in a moment she did sing and weepe.
Three lab'ring months them flatterer-like beguilde,
And danger still redoubling as it lasts,
Suspecting most the safety of the Childe,
Thus the kinde Mother carefully forecasts:
(For at three moneths a scrutinie was held,
And searchers then sent every where about,
That in that time if any were conceal'd,
They should make proofe and straitly bring them out:)
To Pharoes will she awfully must bow,
And therefore hastens to abridge these feares,
And to the flood determines it shall goe,
Yet ere it went shee'll drowne it with her teares.
This afternoone Love bids a little stay,
And yet these pauses doe but lengthen sorrow,
But for one night although she make delay,
She vowes to goe unto his death to morrow.
The morning comes, it is too early yet,
The day so fast not hast'ning on his date,

361

The gloomy Evening murther best doth fit,
The Evening come, and then it is too late.
Her pretty Infant lying on her lap
With his sweet eyes her threatning rage beguiles,
For yet he playes, and dallyes with his pap,
To mock her sorrowes with his am'rous smiles,
And laugh'd, and chuck'd: and spred the pretty hands,
When her full heart was at the point to breake,
(This little Creature yet not understands
The wofull language mothers teares did speake.)
Wherewith surpriz'd, and with a parents love,
From his faire eyes she doth fresh courage take,
And Natures lawes allowing, doth reprove
The fraile Edicts that mortall Princes make.
It shall not die, she'll keepe her child unknowne,
And come the worst in spight of Pharoes rage,
As it is hers, she will dispose her owne,
And if't must die, it'st die at riper age.
And thus revolving of her frailties care,
A thousand strange thoughts throng her troubled minde,
Sounding the dangers deepely what they are,
Betwixt the lawes of cruelty and kinde.
But it must die, and better yet to part,
Since preordain'd to this disast'rous fate,
His want will sit the neerer to the heart
In riper and more flourishing estate.
The perfect husband whose impressive soule,
Tooke true proportion of each pensive throw,
Yet had such power his passion to controule,
As not the same immediately to show.
With carriage full of comelinesse and grace,
As griefe not felt nor sorrow seem'd to lacke,
Courage and feare so temp'red in his face,
Thus his beloved Jacobed bespake.
Deare heart be patient, stay these timelesse teares,
Death of thy Son shall never quite bereave thee,
My soule with thine, that equall burthen beares,
As what he takes, my Love againe shall give thee:

362

For Israels sinne if Israels seed must suffer,
And we of meere necessity must leave him,
Please yet to grace me with this gentle offer,
Give him to me by whom thou didst conceyve him.
So though thou with so deare a jewell part,
This yet remayneth lastly to releeve thee,
Thou hast impos'd this hindrance on my heart,
Anothers losse shall need the lesse to grieve thee,
Nor are we Hebrewes abject by our name,
Though thus in Egypt hatefully despised,
That we that blessing fruitlesly should clayme
Once in that holy Covenant comprised,
It is not fit Mortality should know
What his eternall providence decreed,
That unto Abraham ratifi'd the vowe
In happy Sara and her hallowed seed.
Nor shall the wrong to godly Joseph done
In his remembrance ever be enrould,
By Jacobs sighes for his lost little sonne
A Captiv'd slave to the Egyptians sould:
Reason sets limmets to the longest griefe,
Sorrow scarse past when comfort is returning,
He sends affliction that can lend releefe,
Best that is pleas'd with measure in our mourning.

Lost in her selfe, her spirits are so distracted,
All hopes dissolv'd might fortifie her further,
Her minde seemes now of misery compacted,
That must consent unto so deere a murther.
Of slime and twigs she makes a simple shread
(The poore last duty to her child she owes
This pretty martyr, this yet living dead)
Wherein she doth his little corps enclose:
And meanes to beare it presently away,
And in some water secretly bestow it,
But yet a while bethinkes her selfe to stay,
Some little kindnesse she doeth further owe it:
Nor will she in this cruelty persever,
That by her meanes his timelesse blood be spilt,

363

If of her owne she doth her selfe deliver,
Let others hands be nocent of the guilt:
Yet if she keepe it from the ruthlesse flood
That is by Pharo's tyranny assign'd it,
What bootes that wretched miserable good,
If so dispos'd where none doe come to finde it,
For better yet the Homicide should kill it,
Or by some beast in peeces to be rent,
Than lingring famine cruelly should spill it,
That it endure a double languishment:
And neighbouring neere to the Egyptian Court,
She knowes a place that neere the river side
Was oft frequented by the worthier sort,
For now the spring was newly in her pride.
Thither she hastes but with a paynefull speed
The neerest way she possibly could get,
And by the cleere brimme mongst the flags and reede,
Her little Coffin carefully she set:
Her little Girle (the Mother following neere)
As of her Brother that her leave would take,
Which the sad woman unexpecting there,
Yet it to helpe her kindely thus bespake:
(Quoth she) sweet Miriam secretly attend,
And for his death see who approacheth hether,
That once for all assured of his end,
His dayes and mine be consummate together,
It is some comfort to a wretch to die
(If there be comfort in the way of death)
To have some friend or kinde alliance by,
To be officious at the parting breath:
Thus she departs, oft stayes, oft turneth backe,
Looking about lest any one espi'd her,
Faine would she leave, that leaving she doth lacke,
That in this sort so strangely doth divide her.
Unto what Dame (participating kinde)
My verse her sad perplexitie shall showe,
That in a softned and relenting minde
Findes not a true touch of that Mothers woe.

364

Yet all this while full quietly it slept,
(Poore little Brat incapable of care)
Which by that powerfull providence is kept,
Who doth this childe for better daies prepare.
See here an abject utterly forlorne,
Left to destruction as a violent prey,
Whom man might judge accursed to be borne,
To darke oblivion moulded up in clay,
That man of might in after times should bee
(The bounds of fraile mortality that brake)
Which that Almighty gloriously should see,
When he in thunder on mount Sinai spake.

Now Pharaoh's Daughter Termuth young & faire,
With such choyce Maydens as she favour'd most,
Needes would abroad to take the gentle ayre,
Whilst the rich yeere his braveries seem'd to boast:
Softly she walkes downe to the secret flood,
Through the calme shades most peaceable & quiet,
In the coole streames to check the pampred blood,
Stir'd with strong youth and their delicious diet;
Such as the Princesse, such the day addressed,
As though provided equally to paire her,
Either in other fortunately blessed
She by the day, the day by her made fairer,
Both in the height and fulnesse of their pleasure,
As to them both some future good divining,
Holding a steadie and accomplish'd measure,
This in her perfect clearenesse, that in shining.
The very ayre to emulate her meekenesse,
Strove to be bright and peaceable as she,
That it grew jealous of that sodaine sleekenesse,
Fearing it after otherwise might be:
And if the fleet winde by some rigorous gale
Seem'd to be mov'd, and patiently to chide her,
It was as angry with her lawnie vaile,
That from his sight it enviously should hide her:
And now approching to the flow'rie meade
Where the rich Summer curiously had dight her,

365

Which seem'd in all her jollitie arayde,
With Natures cost and pleasures to delight her:
See this most blessed, this unusuall hap,
She the small basket sooner should espie,
That the Childe wak'd, and missing of his pap,
As for her succour instantly did cry;
Forth of the flagges she caus'd it to be taken,
Calling her Maids this Orphanet to see,
Much did she joy an Innocent forsaken
By her from perill priviledg'd might be:
This most sweet Princesse pittifull and milde,
Soone on her knee unswathes it as her owne,
Found for a man, so beautifull a Childe,
Might for an Hebrew easily be knowne:
Noting the care in dressing it bestow'd,
Each thing that fitted gentlenesse to weare,
Judg'd the sad parents this lost Infant ow'd,
Were as invulgar as their fruit was faire,
(Saith she) my minde not any way suggests
An unchaste wombe these lineaments hath bred,
For thy faire brow apparently contests
The currant stampe of a cleane nuptiall bed:
She nam'd it Moyses, which in time might tell
(For names doe many mysteries expound)
When it was young the chance that it befell,
How by the water strangely it was found,
Calling Melch-women that Egyptians were,
Once to the teat his lips he would not lay,
As though offended with their sullied leare,
Seeming as still to turne his head away.

The little Girle that neere at hand did lurke,
(Thinking this while she tarried but too long)
Finding these things so happily to worke,
Kindely being crafty, wise as she was yong,
Madame (saith she) wilt please you I provide
A Nurse to breed the Infant you did finde,
There is an Hebrew dwelling here beside,
I know can doe it fitly to your minde:

366

For a right Hebrew if the Infant be,
(As well produce you instances I can,
And by this Childe as partly you may see,)
It will not sucke of an Egyptian.
The courteous Princesse offered now so faire,
That which before she earnestly desir'd,
That of her foundling had a speciall care,
The Girle to fetch her instantly requir'd:
Away the Girle goes, doth her Mother tell
What favor God had to her brother showne,
And what else in this accident befell,
That she might now be Nurse unto her owne.
Little it bootes to bid the Wench to ply her,
Nor the kinde Mother hearken to her sonne,
Nor to provoke her to the place to hie her,
Which seem'd not now on earthly feete to runne:
Slow to her selfe yet hasting as she flew,
(So fast affection forward did her beare)
As though forewafted with the breath she drew,
Borne by the force of nature and of feare,
Little the time, and little is the way,
And for her businesse eithers speede doth crave,
Yet in her haste bethinkes her what to say,
And how her selfe in presence to behave,
Slack shee'l not seeme lest to anothers trust
Her hopefull charge were happily directed,
Nor yet too forward shew her selfe she must,
Lest her sweet fraud thereby might be suspected;
Com'n she doth bow her humbly to the ground,
And every joynt incessantly doth tremble,
Gladnesse and feare each other so confound,
So hard a thing for Mothers to dissemble.
Saith this sweet Termuth, well I like thy beautie,
Nurse me this Childe (if it thy state behoove)
Although a Prince ile not enforce thy dutie,
But pay thy labour, and reward thy love:
Though even as Gods is Pharaohs high command,
And as strong Nature so precise and strict,

367

There rests that power yet in a Princesse hand,
To free one Hebrew from this strong edict:
That shall in rich abilliments be dight,
Deck'd in the Jems that admirabl'st shine,
Wearing our owne roabe gracious in our sight,
Free in our Court, and nourished for mine:
Love him deare Hebrew as he were thine owne,
Good Nurse be carefull of my little Boy,
In this to us thy kindenesse may be showne,
Some Mothers griefe, is now a Maydens joy.

This while all mute, the poore astonish'd Mother,
With admiration as transpearced stood,
One bursting joy doth so confound another,
Passion so powerfull in her ravish'd blood.
Whisp'ring some soft words which delivered were,
As rather seem'd her silence to impart,
And being inforc'd from bashfulnesse and feare,
Came as true tokens of a gracefull heart.
Thus she departs her husband to content,
With this deare present backe to him she brought,
Making the time short, telling each event,
In all shapes joy presented to her thought.
Yet still his manly modesty was such
(That his affections strongly so controlde,)
As if joy seem'd his manly heart to touch,
It was her joy and gladnesse to behold:
When all rejoyc'd unmov'd thereat the whiles,
In his grave face such constancie appeares,
As now scarse shewing comfort in his smiles,
Nor then revealing sorrow in his teares:
Yet oft beheld it with that stedfast eye,
Which though it sdain'd the pleasdnesse to confesse,
More in his lookes in fulnesse there did lie,
Than all their words could any way expresse.

In time the Princesse playing with the Childe,
In whom she seem'd her chiefe delight to take,

Josephus. Pet. Comestor.

With whom she oft the wearie time beguil'd,
That as her owne did of this Hebrew make:

368

It so fell out as Pharaoh was in place,
Seeing his daughter in the Childe to joy,
To please the Princesse, and to doe it grace,
Himselfe vouchsafes to entertaine the Boy:
Whose shape and beautie when he did behold
With much content his Princely eye that fed,
Giving to please it, any thing it would,
Set his rich Crowne upon the Infants head,
Which this weake Childe regarding not at all
(As such a Babie carelesly is meete)
Unto the ground the Diadem let fall
Spurning it from him with neglectfull feete.
Which as the Priests beheld this ominous thing
(That else had past unnoted as a toy)
As from their skill report unto the King,
This was the man that Egypt should destroy.
Tolde by the Magi that were learn'd and wise,
Which might full well the jealous King enflame,
Said by th'Egyptian ancient prophecies
That might give credite easlier to the same.
She as discreete as she was chaste and faire,
With Princely gesture and with count'nance milde
By things that hurtfull and most dangerous were
Showes to the King the weakenesse of the Childe:
Hot burning coales doth to his mouth present,
Which he to handle simply doth not sticke,
This little foole, this retchlesse Innocent
The burning gleed with his soft tongue doth licke:
Which though in Pharaoh her desire it wrought,
His babish imbecilitie to see,
To the Childes speech impediment it brought,
From which he after never could be free.

The Childe grew up, when in his manly face
Beautie was seene in an unusuall cheere,
Such mixtures sweet of comelinesse and grace
Likely apparell'd in complexion cleere.
The part of earth contends with that of heaven,
Both in their proper puritie excelling,

369

To whether more preheminence was given,
Which should excell the dweller or the dwelling.
Mens usuall stature he did farre exceede,
And every part proportioned so well,
The more the eye upon his shape did feede,
The more it long'd upon the same to dwell:
Each joynt such perfect Harmonie did beare,
That curious judgement taking any lim
Searching might misse to match it any where,
Nature so fail'd in parallelling him:
His haire bright yellow, on an arched brow
Sate all the beauties kinde could ever frame,
And did them there so orderly bestow,
As such a seate of majestie became.
As time made perfect each exteriour part,
So still his honour with his yeeres encreas'd,
That he sate Lord in many a tender heart,
With such high favours his faire youth was bless'd.

So fell it out that Æthiop warre began,
Invading Egypt with their armed powers,
And taking spoiles, the Country over-ran
To where as Memphis vaunts her climing Towers.
Wherefore they with their Oracles conferre
About th'event, which doe this answere make,
That if they would transport this civill warre,
They to their Captaine must an Hebrew take.
And for faire Moyses happily was growne
Of so great towardnesse and especiall hope,
Him they doe choose as absolutest knowne
To leade their power against the Æthiope.
Which they of Termuth hardly can obtaine,
Though on their Altars by their Gods they vowe
Him to deliver safe to her againe,
(Once the warre ended) safe as he was now.
Who for the way the Armie was to passe,
That by th'Egyptians onely was intended,
Most part by water, more prolixious was
Than present perill any whit commended:

370

To intercept the Æthiopians wrought
A way farre nearer who their Legions led,
Which till that time impassible was thought,
Such store of Serpents in that place was bred:
Devis'd by Birds this danger to eschew,
Whereof in Egypt he exceeding store,
The Storke, and Ibis, which he wisely knew,
All kindes of Serpents naturally abhore.
Which he in Baskets of Ægyptian reede,
Borne with his caridge easely doth convay,
And where incampeth sets them forth to feede,
Which drive the Serpents presently away.
Thus them preventing by this subtill course,
That all their succour sodainly bereft,
When Æthiop flies before th'Egyptian force,
Shut up in Saba their last refuge left.
Which whilst with strait siedge they beleagred long,
The Kings faire Daughter haps him to behold,
And became fettered with affection strong,

Comester.

Which in short time could hardly be controlde.
Tarbis that kindled this rebellious rage,
That they to Egypt tributorie were,
When the olde King decrepit now with age,
She in his stead the soveraigntie did beare.
Up to his Tower where she the Camp might see,
To looke her new Love every day she went,
And when he hap'ned from the field to be,
She thought her blest beholding but his Tent,
And oftentimes doth modestly invay
'Gainst him the Citie walled first about,
That the strong site should churlishly denay
Him to come in, or her for passing out,
Had the gates beene but softned as her breast
(That to behold her loved enemie stands)
He had ere this of Saba beene possest,
And therein planted the Egyptian bands:
Oft from a place as secretly she might
(That from her Pallace look'd unto his Tent)

371

When he came forth appearing in his sight,
Shewing by signes the love to him she ment.
For in what armes it pleas'd him to be dight,
After the Hebrew or th'Egyptian guise:
He was the bravest, the most goodly wight
That ever graced Æthiop with his eyes.
And finding meanes to parley from a place,
By night, her passion doth to him discover,
To yeeld the Citie if he would embrace
Her a true Princesse, as a faithfull Lover.
The feature of so delicate a Dame,
Motives sufficient to his youth had beene,
But to be Lord of Kingdomes by the same,
And of so great and absolute a Queene,
Soone gently stole him from himselfe away,
That doth to him such rarities partake,
Off'ring so rich, so excellent a prey,
Loving the treason for the Traytors sake.

But whilst he lived in this glorious vaine,
Israel his conscience oftentimes doth move,
That all this while in Egypt did remaine
Vertue and grace o'recomming youth and love.
And though God knowes unwilling to depart,
From so high Empire wherein now he stood,
And her that sate so neere unto his heart,
Such power hath Israel in his happie blood,
By skill to quit him forcibly he wrought,
As he was learn'd and traded in the starres,
Both by the Hebrewes, and th'Egyptians taught,
That were the first, the best Astronomers,
Two sundry figures makes, whereof the one
Cause them that weare it all things past forget,
As th'other of all accidents foregone

Comester ex Vet. Script.

The memory as eagerly doth whet.
Which he insculped in two likely stones,
For rarenesse of invaluable price,
And cunningly contriv'd them for the nones
In likely rings of excellent devise:

372

That of oblivion giving to his Queene,
Which soone made show the violent effect
Forgot him straight as he had never beene,
And did her former kindenesses neglect.
The other (that doth memorie assist)
Him with the love of Israel doth enflame,
Departing thence not how the Princesse wist,
In peace he leaves her as in warre he came.
But all the pleasures of th'Egyptian Court,
Had not such power upon his springing yeeres,
As had the sad and tragicall report
Of the rude burdens captiv'd Israel beares,
Nor what regards he to be grac'd of Kings?
Or flatred greatnes idely to awaite?
Or what respects he the negotiating
Matters comporting Emperie and State?
The bondage and servilitie that lay
On buried Israel (sunke in ordurous slime)
His greeved spirit downe heavily doth way,
That to leane care oft leant the prosperous time.
A wreched Hebrew hap'ned to behold
Brus'd with sad burdens without all remorse
By an Egyptian barb'rously controlde,
Spurning his pin'd and miserable corse
Which he beholding vexed as he stood,
His faire veines swelling with impatient fire,
Pittie and rage so wrestled in his blood
To get free passage to conceaved ire,
Rescuing the man th'Egyptian doth resist:
(Which from his vile hands forcibly he tooke)
And by a strong blowe with his valiant fist,
His hatefull breath out of his nostrils strooke,
Which though his courage boldly dare averre,
In the proud power of his Emperious hand,
Yet from high honour deigneth to interre,
The wretched carkasse in the smouldring sand.
Which then supposd in secret to be wrought,
Yet still hath Envie such a jealous eye,

373

As foorth the same incontinent it sought,
And to the King delivered by and by,
Which soone gave vent to Pharo's covered wrath,
Which till this instant reason did confine,
Opening a strait way, and apparant path
Unto that greate and terrible designe:
Most for his safety forcing his retreate
When now affliction every day did breed,
And when revengfull tyrannie did threate
The greatest horrour to the Hebrew seed.
To Midian now his Pilgrimage he tooke,
Midian earthes onely Paradice for pleasures,
Where many a soft Rill, many a sliding Brooke,
Through the sweet vallies trip in wanton measures,
Whereas the curl'd Groves and the flowrie fields,
To his free soule so peaceable and quiet
More true delight and choise contentment yeelds,
Than Egipts braveries and luxurious diet:
And wandring long he hap'ned on a Well,
Which he by pathes frequented might espie,
Bordred with trees where pleasure seem'd to dwell,
Where to repose him, eas'ly downe doth lie:
Where the soft windes did mutually embrace,
In the coole Arbours Nature there had made,
Fanning their sweet breath gently in his face
Through the calme cincture of the am'rous shade.
Till now it nigh'd the noone-stead of the day,
When scorching heat the gadding Heards do grieve,
When Shepheards now and Heardsmen every way,
Their thirsting Cattell to the Fountaine drive:
Amongst the rest seven Shepheardesses went
Along the way for watring of their Sheepe,
Whose eyes him seemed such reflection sent,
As made the Flocks even white that they did keepe:
Girles that so goodly and delightfull were,
The fields were fresh and fragrant in their viewe,
Winter was as the Spring time of the yeere,
The grasse so proud that in their footsteps grewe:

374

Daughters they were unto a holy man,
(And worthy too of such a Sire to be)
Jethro the Priest of fertile Midian,
Few found so just, so righteous men as he.
But see the rude Swaine, the untutour'd slave,
Without respect or rev'rence to their kinde,
Away their faire flocks from the water drave,
Such is the nature of the barb'rous Hinde.
The Maides (perceaving where a stranger sat)
Of whom those Clownes so basely did esteeme,
Were in his presence discontent thereat,
Whom hee perhaps improvident might deeme.
Which he perceaving kindely doth entreate,
Reproves the Rusticks for that off'red wrong,
Averring it an injurie too great,
To such (of right) all kindenesse did belong.
But finding well his Oratorie faile,
His fists about him frankly he bestowes,
That where perswasion could not late prevaile,
He yet compelleth quickly by his blowes.
Entreates the Dam'sels their aboade to make,
(With Courtly semblance and a manly grace,)
At their faire pleasures quietly to take,
What might be had by freedome of the place.
Whose beautie, shape, and courage they admire,
Exceeding these, the honour of his minde,
For what in mortall could their hearts desire,
That in this man they did not richly finde?
Returning sooner then their usuall hower,
All that had hapned to their Father tould,
That such a man reliev'd them by his power,
As one all civill curtesie that could:
Who full of bountie hospitably meeke
Of his behaviour greatly pleas'd to heare,
Forthwith commands his servants him to seeke,
To honour him by whom his honour'd were:
Gently receives him to his goodly seat,
Feasts him his friends and families among,

375

And him with all those offices entreat,
That to his place and vertues might belong:
Whilst in the beauty of those goodly Dames,
Wherein wise Nature her owne skill admires,
He feeds those secret and impiercing flames,
Nurs'd in fresh youth, and gotten in desires:
Wonne with this man this princely Priest to dwell,
For greater hire then bounty could devise,
For her whose prayse makes prayse it selfe excell,
Fairer then fairenesse, and as wisedome wise.
In her, her Sisters severally were seene,
Of every one she was the rarest part,
Who in her presence any time had beene,
Her Angell eye transpierced not his heart?
For Zipora a Shepheards life he leads,
And in her sight deceives the subtill howres,
And for her sake oft robs the flowrie meades,
With those sweet spoiles t'enrich her rurall bowres.
Up to mount Horeb with his flocke he tooke,
The flocke wise Jethro willed him to keepe,
Which well he garded with his Shepheards crooke,
Goodly the Shepheard, goodly were the Sheepe:
To feede and folde full warily he knew,
From Fox and Wolfe his wandring flockes to free,
The goodli'st flowers that in the meadowes grew
Were not more fresh and beautifull than hee.
Gently his fayre flockes lessow'd he along,
Through the Frim pastures freely at his leasure,
Now on the hills, the vallies then among,
Which seeme themselves to offer to his pleasure.
Whilst featherd Silvans from each blooming spray,
With murm'ring waters wistly as they creepe,
Make him such musicke (to abridge the way,)
As fits a Shepheard company to keepe.
When loe that great and fearefull God of might
To that faire Hebrew strangely doth appeare,
In a bush burning visible and bright
Yet unconsuming as no fire there were:

376

With hayre erected and upturned eyes,
Whilst he with great astonishment admires,
Loe that eternall Rector of the skies,
Thus breathes to Moyses from those quickning fires,
Shake off thy Sandals (saith the thund'ring God)
With humbled feet my wondrous power to see.
For that the soyle where thou hast boldly trod,
Is most select and hallowed unto me:
The righteous Abraham for his God me knew,
Isaac and Jacob trusted in mine Name,
And did beleeve my Covenant was true,
Which to their seed shall propagate the same:
My folke that long in Egypt had beene bard,
Whose cries have entred heavens eternall gate,
Our zealous mercy openly hath heard,
Kneeling in teares at our eternall State.
And am come downe, them in the Land to see,
Where streames of milke through batfull Valleys flow,
And lushious hony dropping from the tree,
Load the full flow'rs that in the shadowes grow:
By thee my power am purposed to trie,
That from rough bondage shalt the Hebrewes bring,
Bearing that great and fearfull Embassie
To that Monarchall and Emperious King.
And on this Mountaine (standing in thy sight,)
When thou returnest from that conquered Land,
Thou hallow'd Altars unto me shalt light,
This for a token certainly shall stand.

O who am I? this wondring man replies,
A wretched mortall that I should be sent,
And stand so cleere in thine eternall eyes,
To doe a worke of such astonishment:
And trembling now with a transfixed heart,
Humbling himselfe before the Lord (quoth hee)
Who shall I tell the Hebrewes that thou art,
That giv'st this large commission unto me?
Say (quoth the Spirit from that impetuous flame)
Unto the Hebrewes asking thee of this,

377

That 'twas, I Am: which onely is my Name,
God of their Fathers, so my Title is:
Divert thy course to Goshen then againe,
And to divulge it constantly be bold,
And their glad eares attractively retaine,
With what at Sinay Abrahams God hath told:
And tell great Pharo, that the Hebrewes God
Commands from Egypt that he set you free,
Three journies thence in Desarts farre abroad,
To offer hallow'd sacrifice to mee.
But he refusing to dismisse you so,
On that proud King Ile execute such force
As never yet came from the Sling, the Bow,
The keen-edg'd Curt'lax, or the puisant Horse;
But if th'afflicted miserable sort
To idle incredulity inclin'd,
Shall not (quoth Moyses) credit my report,
That thou to me hast so great power assign'd.
Cast downe (saith God) thy Wand unto the ground,
Which hee obaying fearefully, beholde
The same a Serpent sodainly was found,
It selfe contorting into many a folde.
With such amazement Moyses doth surprise
With colde convulsions shrinking every vaine,
That his affrighted and uplifted eyes
Even shot with horrour, sinke into his braine.
But being encourag'd by the Lord to take
The ugly taile into his trembling hand,
As from a dreame he sudainely doth wake,
When at the instant it became a wand.
By the same hand into his bosome shut,
Whose eyes his withered leprosie abhor'd,
When forth he drewe it secondly be'ng put,
Unto the former puritie restor'd.
These signes he gives this sad admiring man,
Which he the weake incredulous should showe,
When this fraile mortall freshly now began
To forge new causes, why unfit to goe?

378

Egypt accusing to have done him wrong,
Scantling that bountie Nature had bestow'd,
Which had welnere depriv'd him of his tong,
Which to this office chiefely had beene ow'd:
When he whose wisdome Nature must obey,
In whose resistance reason weakely failes,
To whom all humane instances give way,
Gainst whom not subtill Argument prevailes
Thus doth reprove this idle vaine excuse,
Who made the mouth? who th'eie? or who the eare?
Or who deprives those organs of their use?
That thou thy imbecillitie should'st feare?
Thy brother Aaron commeth unto thee,
Which as thy Speaker purposely I bring,
To whom thy selfe even as a God shalt bee,
And he interpret to th'Egyptian King.
That when he at thy miracles shall wonder,
And wan with feare shall tremble at thy rod,
To feele his power that swayes the dreadfull thunder,
That is a jealous and a fearefull God.
Then shall mine owne selfe purchase me renowne,
And win me honour by my glorious deede
On all the Pharo's on th'Egyptian throne,
That this proud mortall ever shall succeede.

379

THE SECOND BOOKE.

The Argument.

Moyses doth his message bring,
Acts miracles before the King,
With him the Magi doe contend,
Which he doth conquer in the end,
When by the extensure of the wand,
He brings ten plagues upon the Land,
And in despight of Pharo's pride,
From Goshen doth the Hebrewes guide.

When now from Midian Moses forward set,
With whom his wife & faire retinew went,
Where on his way him happily hath met
His brother Aron to the Lords intent,
And to the Hebrewes in th'impatient hand,
Of mighty Egypt all his power implies,
And as the Lord expresly did command,
Acteth his wonders in their pleased eyes.
Those myracles mortality beholds
With an astonish'd and distracted looke,
The minde that so amazedly enfolds,
That every sense the faculty forsooke.
The little Infant with abundant joy,
To mans estate immediatly is sprung,
And though the old man could not back turne boy,
Casts halfe his yeeres so much becomming yong,
Whilst mirth in fulnesse measureth every eye,
Each breast is heap'd up with excesse of pleasure,
Rearing their spred hands to the glorious Skie,
Gladly imbracing the Almighties leasure.
These Hebrewes entring the Egyptian Court,
Their great Commission publiquely proclaime,
Which there repulsed as a slight report,
Doth soone denounce defiance to the same.
Where now these men their miracles commend,
By which their power precisely might be tride,

380

And Pharo for his Sorcerers doth send,
By them the Hebrewes only to deride.
Where Heaven must now apparantly transcend
Th'infernall powers Emperiously to thwart,
And the bright perfect Deitie contend
With abstruse Magicke and fallacious Art.
Never was so miraculous a strife
Where admiration ever so abounded,
Where wonders were so prodigally rife,
That to behold it Nature stood confounded.
Casting his rod a Serpent that became,
Which he suppos'd with marvaile them might strike,
When every Priest assaying in the same,
By his black skill did instantly the like:
Which Pharo's breast with arrogance doth fill,
Above the high Gods to exalt his power,
When by his might (t'amate their weaker skill)
The Hebrewes rod doth all the rods devoure:
Which deed of wonder slightly he rejects,
His froward Spirit insatiatly elate,
Which after caus'd those violent effects
That sate on Egypt with the power of Fate.
When he whose wisdome ere the world did fare,
From whom not counsell can her secrets hide,
Forewarneth Moses early to prepare
T'accost the proud King by the rivers side.

What heavenly rapture doth enrich my braine,
And through my blood extravagantly flowes,
That doth transport me to that endlesse maine,
Whereas th'Almighty his high glories showes?
That holy heat into my Spirit infuse,
Wherewith thou wont'st thy Prophets to inspire,
And lend that power to our delightfull Muse,
As dwelt in sounds of that sweet Hebruack Lyre.
A taske unusuall I must now assay,
Striving through perill to support this masse,
No former foot did ever tract a way,
Where I propose unto my selfe to passe.

381

When Moses meeting the Egyptian King,
Urgeth a fresh the Israelites depart,
And him by Aaron stoutly menacing,
To try the temper of his stubborne heart.
When loe the Torrent the fleet hurrying flood

The 1. Plague.

So cleere and perfect Christalline at hand,
As a black lake or setled marish stood
At th'extensure of the Hebrewes wand.
Where Segs, ranck Bulrush, and the sharpned Reed
That with the fluxure of the wave is fed,
Might be discern'd unnaturally to bleed,
Dying their fresh greene to a sullied red:
Like issuing ulcers every little Spring,
That being ripened voyd the filthy core,
Their lothsome slime and matter vomiting
Into the Rivers they enrich'd before:
What in her banks hath batning Nilus bred,
Serpent, or Fish, or strange deformed thing
That on her bosome she not beareth dead,
Where they were borne them lastly burying?
That Bird and Beast incontinently fly
From the detested and contagious stinke,
And rather choose by cruell thirst to dye,
Then once to taste of this contaminate drinke,
And usefull Cisternes delicatly fild,
With which rich Egypt wondrously abounds,
Looking as Bowles receiving what was spild
From mortall and immedicable wounds.
That the faint earth even poys'ned now remaines,
In her owne selfe so grievously dejected,
Horrid pollution travailing her vaines,
Desp'rate of cure so dangerously infected
The spungy soyle, that digging deepe and long
To soke cleere liquor from her plenteous pores,
This bloody issue breaketh out among,
As sickly menstrues or inveterate sores:
Seven dayes continuing in this flux of blood,
Sadly sits Egypt a full weeke of woe,

382

Shame taints the brow of every stew and flood,
Blushing, the world her filthinesse to show.
Yet sdaines proud Pharo Israel thus to free,
Nor this dire plague his hardned heart can tame,
Which he suppos'd but fallaces to bee,
When his Magitians likewise did the same.

When he againe that glorious Rod extends
'Gainst him that Heaven denieth thus to dare,
On Egypt soone a second plague that sends,
Which he till now seem'd partially to spare.
The soyle, that late the owner did enrich
Him his faire Heards and goodly flocks to feed,
Lies now a leystall or a common ditch,
Where in their Todder loathly Paddocks breed.
Where as the up-land montanous and hie
To them that sadly doe behold it showes,
As though in labour with this filthy frie,
Stirring with paine in the parturious throwes:
People from windowes looking to the ground,
At this stupendious spectacle amazed,
See but their sorrow every where abound,
That most abhorring whereon most they gazed.
Their Troughes and Ovens Toadstooles now become,
That Huswifes wont so carefully to keepe,
These loathsome creatures taking up the roome,
And croking, there continually doe creepe.
And as great Pharo on his Throne is set,
From thence affrighted with this odious thing,
Which crawling up into the same doth get,
And him deposing sitteth as a King.
The wearied man his spirits that to refresh
Gets to his bed to free him from his feare,
Scarce laid but feeles them at his naked flesh,
So small the succour that remaineth there.
No Court so close to which the speckled Toad
By some small cranny creepes not by and by,
No Tower so strong nor naturall aboad,
To which for safety any one might fly:

383

Egypt now hates the world her so should call,
Of her owne selfe so grievously asham'd,
And so contemned in the eyes of all,
As but in scorne she scarcely once is nam'd.
When this prophane King with a wounded heart
(His Magi though these miracles could doe)
Sees in his soule one greater then their Art,
Above all power, that put a hand thereto:
But as these plagues and sad afflictions ceas'd
At the just prayer of this milde godlike man,
So Pharoes pride and stubbornesse encreas'd,
And his lewd course this head-strong Mortall ran.
Which might have surelier setled in his minde,
(At his request which Moses quickly slew,
Leaving a stench so pestilent behinde)
As might preserve old sorrowes freshly new.
But stay my Muse in height of all this speed,
Somewhat plucks back to quench this sacred heat,
And many perils doth to us areed
In that whereof we seriously entreat.
Lest too concise injuriously we wrong
Things that such state and fearfulnesse impart,
Or led by zeale irregularly long,
Infringe the curious liberties of Art,
We that calumnious Critick may eschew,
That blasteth all things with his poys'ned breath,
Detracting what laboriously we doe,
Onely with that which he but idely saith.
O be our guide whose glories now we preach,
That above Bookes must steere us in our Fate,
For never Ethnick to this day did teach,
(In this) whose method we might imitate.
When now these men of miracle proceed,
And by extending of that wondrous wand,
As that resistlesse providence decreed,
Thereby brings Lyce on the distemp'red Land:
All struck with Lyce so numberlesse they lie,

The 3 Plague.

The dust growne quick in every place doth creepe,

384

The sands their want doe secondly supply,
As they at length would suffocate the Deepe:
That th'atomi that in the beames appeare,
As they the Sunne through cranies shining see,
The forme of those detested things doe beare,
So miserable the Egyptians bee:
Who rak'd the brands the passed Evening burn'd,
(As is the use the Mornings fire to keepe)
To these foule vermine findes the ashes turn'd,
Covering the Harth, so thick thereon they creepe:
Now Prince and pesant equally are drest,
The costliest silkes and coursest rags alike,
The worst goes now companion with the best,
The hand of God so generally doth strike.
The Kings Pavillion and the Captives pad
Are now in choice indifferent unto either,
Great, small, faire, foule, rich, poore, the good and bad
Doe suffer in this pestilence together,
In vaine to cleanse, in vaine to purge, and pick,
When every Moath that with the breath doth rise,
Forthwith appeareth venemously quick,
Although so small scarce taken by the eyes.
By which his wisdome strongly doth prevaile,
When this selfe-wise, this overweening man,
Even in the least, the slightest thing doth faile,
The very beggar absolutely can,
When now these Wizards with transfixed hearts
To make his glory by the same the more,
Confesse a Godhead shining through their Arts,
Which by their Magicks they deni'd before.
Yet this proud Pharo as oppugning fate,
Still doth resist that Majestie so hie,
And to himselfe doth yet appropriate
A supreame power his Godhead to deny.
When from his wilfull stubbornesse doth grow
That great amazement to all eares and eyes,
When now the Lord by Aarons Rod will show
His mighty power even in the wretched'st Flies,

385

Varying his vengeance in as many kindes,
As Pharo doth his obstinacies vary,
Suting his plagues so fitly with their mindes,
As though their sinne his punishments did cary.
In Summer time as in an Evening faire,
The Gnats are heard in a tumultuous sound
On tops of hils, so troubled is the ayre
To the disturbance of the wondring ground.
The skies are darkned as they yet doe hover
In so grosse clouds congested in their flight,
That the whole Land with multitudes they cover,
Stopping the streames as generally the light.
O cruell Land, might these not yet thee move?
Art thou alone so destitute of feare?
Or dost thou meane thy utmost to approve
How many plagues thou able art to beare?
Three have forethreatned thy destruction sure,
And now the fourth is following on as fast,
Dost thou suppose thy pride can still endure?
Or that his vengeance longer cannot last?
These are as weake and worthlesse as the rest,
Thou much infeebled, and his strength is more,
Fitly prepar'd thee sadly to infest
Thy sinnes so many, by their equall store.
This wretched creature man might well suppose
To be the least that he had need to feare,
Amongst the rest is terrifi'd with those
With which before none ever troubled were.
As we behold a swarming cast of Bees
In a swolne cluster to some branch to cleave:
Thus doe they hang in bunches on the trees,
Pressing each plant, and loading ev'ry greave.
The houses covered with these must'ring Flies,
And the faire windowes that for light were made,
Eclips'd with horror, seeming to their eyes
Like the dimme twilight, or some ominous shade.
For humane food what Egypt had in store,
The creatures feed on, till they bursting die,

386

And what in this unhappy Land was more,
Their loathsome bodies lastly putrifie.

O goodly Goshen where the Hebrewes rest,
How deare thy children in th'Almighties sight,
That for their sakes thou onely should'st be blest,
When all these plagues on the Egyptians light?
What promis'd people rested thee within,
To whom no perill ever might aspire,
For whose deare sake some watchfull Cherubin
Stood to defend thee arm'd in glorious fire?
Thou art that holy Sanctuary made,
Where all th'afflicted cast aside their feare,
Whose priviledges ever to invade,
The Heavens command their horrors to forbeare.
But since mans pride and insolence is such,
Nor by these plagues his will to passe could bring,
Now with a sharpe and wounding hand will touch
The dearer body of each living thing:
To other ends his courses to direct,
By all great meanes his glory to advance,
Altreth the cause by altring the effect,
To worke by wonder their deliverance.

As Aaron grasping ashes in his hand,
Which scarcely cast into the open aire,
But brings a murraine over all the Land,

The 5. Plague.

With scabs and botches such as never were.
What chewes the cud, or hoofe or horne alotted,
Wild in the fields, or tamed by the yoke,
With this contagious pestilence is rotted,
So universall's the Almighties stroke.
The goodly Horse of hot and fiery straine
In his high courage hardly brook'd his food,
That Ditch or Mound not lately could containe,
On the firme ground so scornfully that stood,
Crest-falne hangs downe his hardly manag'd head,
Lies where but late disdainfully he trod,
His quick eye fixed heavily and dead,
Stirres not when prick'd with the impulsive goad.

387

The Swine which Nature secretly doth teach,
Onely by fasting sicknesses to cure,
Now but in vaine is to it selfe a Leech,
Whose suddaine end infallibly is sure.
Where frugall Shepheards reckoning wooll and lambe,
Or who by Heards hop'd happily to winne,
Now sees the young-one perish with the damme,
Nor dare his hard hand touch the poys'ned skinne.
Those fertile pastures quickly over-spread
With their dead Cattell, where the birds of prey
Gorg'd on the garbidge (wofully bestead)
Pois'ned fall downe as they would fly away.
And hungry dogs the tainted flesh refrain'd,
Whereon their Master gormondiz'd of late,
What Nature for mans appetite ordain'd,
The creature that's most ravenous doth hate.
Thus all that breathes and kindly hath encrease,
Suffer for him that proudly did offend,
Yet in this manner here it shall not cease,

The 6 Plague.

In Beasts begun, in wretched man to end.
To whom it further violently can,
Not by th'Almighty limited to slake,
As Beast is plagued for rebellious man,
Man in some measure must his paine partake.
Those dainty breasts that open'd lately were,
Which with rich vaines so curiously did flow,
With Biles and Blaines most loathsome doe appeare,
Which now the Dam'zell not desires to show.
Features disfigur'd onely now the faire,
(All are deformed) most ill-favour'd be,
Where beautie was most exquisite and rare,
There the least blemish easili'st you might see.
For costly garments fashion'd with device
To forme each choise part curious eyes to please,
The sicke mans Gowne is onely now in price
To give their bloch'd and blistred bodies ease,
It is in vaine the Surgeons hand to prove,
Or helpe of Physicke to asswage the smart,

388

For why the power that ruleth from above
Crosseth all meanes of industrie and Art.
Egypt is now an Hospitall forlorne,
Where onely Cripples and diseased are,
How many Children to the world are borne,
So many Lazers thither still repaire.
When those proud Magi as oppos'd to Fate,
That durst high Heav'n in ev'ry thing to dare,
Now in most vile and miserable state
As the mean'st Caitive equally doe fare.
Thus stands that man so eminent alone,
Arm'd with his power that governeth the skie,
Now when the Wizards lastly overthrowne,
Groveling in sores before his feete doe lie.
Not one is found unpunished escapes
So much to doe his hungry wrath to feede,
Which still appeareth in as many shapes
As Pharaoh doth in tyrannies proceede.
Even as some grave wise Magistrate to finde
Out some vile treason, or some odious crime

A similie of Gods justice.

That beareth every circumstance in minde,
Of place, of manner, instance, and of time:
That the suspected strongly doth arest,
And by all meanes invention can devise
By hopes or torture out of him to wrest
The ground, the purpose, and confederacies,
Now slacks his paine, now doth the same augment,
Yet in his strait hand doth containe him still,
Proportioning his allotted punishment
As hee's remoov'd or pliant to his will.
But yet hath Egypt somewhat left to vaunt,
What's now remaining, may her pride repaire,
But lest she should perhaps be arrogant,
Till she be humbled he will never spare.
These plagues seeme yet but nourished beneath,
And even with man terrestrially to move,
Now Heaven his furie violently shall breath,
Rebellious Egypt scourging from above.

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Winter let loose in his robustious kinde

The 7. Plague.

Wildly runnes raving through the airie plaines,
As though his time of liberty assign'd
Roughly now shakes off his impris'ning chaines.
The windes spet fire in one anothers face,
And mingled flames fight furiously together,
Through the mild Heaven that one the other chace,
Now flying thence and then returning thether.
No light but lightning ceaselesly to burne
Swifter than thought from place to place to passe,
And being gone doth sodainly returne
Ere you could say precisely that it was.
In one selfe moment darkenesse and the light
Instantly borne, as instantly they die,
And every minute is a day and night
That breakes and sets in twinkling of an eye.
Mountaine and valley suffer one selfe ire,
The stately Tower and lowlie coate alike,
The shrub and Cedar this impartiall fire
In one like order generally doth strike,
On flesh and plant this subtill lightning praies,
As through the pores it passage fitly findes,
In the full wombe the tender burthen slaies,
Piercing the stiffe trunke through the spungie rindes.
Throughout this great and universall Ball
The wrath of Heaven outragiously is throwne,
As the lights quickning and Celestiall,
Had put themselves together into one.
This yet continuing the big-bellied clouds,
With heate and moisture in their fulnesse brake,
And the sterne Thunder from the ayrie shrouds
To the sad world in feare and horrour spake.
The blacke storme bellowes and the yerning vault,
Full charg'd with furie as some signall given,
Preparing their artillirie t'assault,
Shoot their sterne vollies in the face of Heaven.
The bolts new wing'd with fork'd Æthereall fire,
Through the vast Region every where doe rove,

390

Goring the earth in their impetuous ire,
Pierce the proud'st building, rend the thickest Grove.
When the breeme Haile as rising in degrees
Like ruffled arrowes through the aire doth sing,
Beating the leaves and branches from the trees,
Forcing an Autumne earlier than the Spring.
The Birds late shrouded in their safe repaire,
Where they were wont from Winters wrath to rest,
Left by the tempest to the open aire
Shot with cold bullets through the trembling brest:
Whilst cattell grasing on the batfull ground,
Finding no shelter from the showre to hide
In ponds and ditches willingly are drownd,
That this sharpe storme no longer can abide:
Windowes are shivered to forgotten dust,
The slates fall shatt'red from the roofe above,
Where any thing findes harbour from this gust,
Now even as death it feareth to remove.
The rude and most impenitrable rocke
Since the foundation of the world was laid,
Never before stir'd with tempestuous shocke,
Melts with this storme as sensibly afraid.
Never yet with so violent a hand,
A brow contracted and so full of feare,
God scourg'd the pride of a rebellious Land,
Since into Kingdomes Nations gathered were.
But he what Mortall was there ever knowne,
So many strange afflictions did abide
On whom so many miseries were throwne,
Whom Heaven so oft and angerly did chide?
Who but relenting Moyses doth relieve?
Taking off that which oft on him doth light,
Whom God so oft doth punish and forgive,
Thereby to prove his mercy and his might.
So that eternall providence could frame
The meane whereby his glory should be tride,
That as he please, miraculously can tame
Mans sensuall wayes, his transitorie pride.

391

But Pharaoh bent to his rebellious will,
His hate to Israel instantly renues,
Continuing Author of his proper ill,
When now the plague of Grashoppers ensues.

Long ere they fell, on 'th face of Heaven they hong,
In so vast clouds as covered all the skies,

The 8. Plague.

Colouring the Sun-beames piercing through their throng,
With strange distraction to beholding eyes.
This idle creature that is said to sing
In wanton Sommer, and in Winter poore,
Praising the Emmets painefull labouring,
Now eates the labourer and the heaped store.
No blade of grasse remaineth to be seene,
Weed, hearb, nor flower, to which the Spring gives birth,
Yet ev'ry path even barren hills are greene,
With those that eate the greenenesse from the earth.
What is most sweet, what most extreamely sowre,
The loathsome Hemlock as the verdurous Rose,
These filthy Locusts equally devoure,
So doe the Heavens of every thing dispose.
The trees all barcklesse nakedly are left
Like people stript of things that they did weare,
By the enforcement of disastrous theft,
Standing as frighted with erected haire.
Thus doth the Lord her nakednesse discover,
Thereby to prove her stoutnesse to reclaime,
That when nor feare, nor punishment could move her,
She might at length be tempred with her shame.
Disrob'd of all her ornament she stands,
Wherein rich Nature whilome did her dight,
That the sad verges of the neighbouring lands
Seeme with much sorrow wondring at the sight.
But Egypt is so impudent and vile,
No blush is seene that pittie might compell,
That from all eyes to cover her awhile,
The Lord in darkenesse leaveth her to dwell.

Over the great and universall face

The 9. Plague.

Are drawne the Curtaines of the horrid night,

392

As it would be continually in place,
That from the world had banished the light.
As to the sight, so likewise to the tuch
Th'appropriate object equally is dealt,
Darkenesse is now so palpable and much,
That as 'tis seene, as easily is felt.
Who now it hap'd to travell by the way,
Or in the field did chance abroad to rome,
Loosing himselfe then wandred as a stray,
Nor findes his hostrie, nor returneth home.
The Cocke the Country horologe that rings,
The cheerefull warning to the Sunnes awake,
Missing the dawning scantles in his wings,
And to his Roost doth sadly him betake.
One to his neighbour in the darke doth call,
When the thicke vapour so the aire doth smother,
Making the voyce so hideous there withall,
That one's afeard to goe unto the other.
The little Infant for the Mother shreekes,
Then lyes it downe astonished with feare,
Who for her Childe whilst in the darke she seekes,
Treads on the Babe that she doth holde so deare.
Darkenesse so long upon the Land doth dwell,
Whilst men amaz'd, the houres are stolne away,
Erring in time that now there's none can tell,
Which should be night, and which should be the day.
Three doubled nights the proud Egyptian lyes
With hunger, thirst, and wearinesse opprest,
Onely relieved by his miseries,
By feare enforced to forget the rest.
Those lights and fires they laboured to defend
With the foule dampe that over all doth flowe
Such an eclipsed sullidnesse doth send,
That darkenesse farre more terrible doth show:
When this perplexed and astonish'd King
'Twixt rage and feare distracted in his minde,
Israel to passe now freely limiting,
Onely their cattell to be staid behinde.

393

Commanding Moyses to depart his sight,
And from that time to see his face no more,
Which this milde man doth willingly aquite
That he well knew would come to passe before.
That for the Droves the Israelites should leave,
Forbid by Pharaoh to be borne away:
Israel shall Egypt of her store bereave,
To beare it with her as a violent prey:
So wrought her God in the Egyptians thought,
As he is onely provident and wise,
That he to passe for his choise people brought,
More than mans wisedome ever might devise.
Touching their soft breasts with a wounding love
Of those who yet they enviously admir'd,
Which doth the happy Jacobites behove,
To compasse what they instantly requir'd,
That every Hebrew borrowed of a friend,
Some speciall Jewell fainedly to use,
Every Egyptian willing is to lend,
Nor being ask'd can possibly refuse.
Now Closets, Chests, and Cabinets are sought
For the rich Jem, the raritie, or thing,
And they the happiest of the rest are thought,
That the high'st priz'd officiously could bring.
Rings, chaines, and bracelets, jewels for the eare,
The perfect glorious, and most lustrous stone,
The Carcanet so much requested there,
The Pearle most orient, and a Paragon.
What thing so choice that curious Art could frame,
Luxurious Egypt had not for her pride?
And what so rare an Israelite could name,
That he but asking was thereof denide?

When God doth now the Passeover command,
Whose name that sacred mysterie doth tell,
That he pass'd o'r them with a sparefull hand,
When all the first-borne of th'Egyptians fell,
Which should to their posteritie be taught,
That might for ever memorize this deede,

394

The fearefull wonders he in Egypt wrought,
For Abrahams off-spring Sarahs promis'd seede.
A Lambe unblemish'd, or a spotlesse Kid,
That from the dam had wained out a yeere,
Which he without deformitie did bid,
Held to himselfe a sacrifice so deere.
Rosted and eaten with unleav'ned bread,
And with sowre hearbs such viands as became,
Meate for the Ev'ning, that prohibited
The Morne ensuing partner of the same.
Girding their loynes, shooes fastned to their feete,
Staves in their hands, and passing it to take,
In manner as to travailers is meete,
A voyage forth immediately to make.
Whose bloud being put upon the utmost posts,
Whereby his chosen Israelites he knew,
That night so dreadfull, when the Lord of Hosts
All the first borne of the Egyptians slew.

The 10. Plague.

Darkenesse invades the world, when now forth went
The spoiling Angell as the Lord did will,
And where the dore with bloud was not besprent,
There the first borne he cruelly did kill.
Night never saw so tragicall a deed,
Thing so repleate with heavinesse and sorrow,
Nor shall the day hereafter ever reade,
Such a blacke time as the insuing morrow.
The dawne now breaking, and with open sight
When every lab'ring and affrighted eye
Beholds the slaughter of the passed night,
The parting plague protracted miserie.
One to his neighbour hasts his heedlesse feete,
To bring him home his heavie chance to see,
And him he goes to by the way doth meete,
As grieved and as miserable as he.
Who out of dore now hastily doth come,
Thinking to howle and bellow forth his woe,
Is for his purpose destitute of roome,
Each place with sorrow doth so overflow.

395

People awaked with this sodaine fright,
Runne forth their dores as naked as they be,
Forget the day, and bearing candle light
To helpe the Sunne their miseries to see.
Who lost his first borne ere this plague begun,
Is now most happy in this time of woe,
Who mourn'd his eld'st a daughter or a sonne,
Is now exempt from what the rest must doe.
To one that faines poore comfort to his friend,
His Childe was young and neede the lesse be car'd,
Replies if his had liv'd the others end,
Withall his heart he could him well have spar'd.
No eye can lend a mourning friend one teare,
So busie is the gen'rall heart of moane,
So strange confusion sits in every eare,
As wanteth power to entertaine his owne.
Imparted woe (the heavie hearts reliefe)
When it hath done the utmost that it may,
Outright is murth'red with a second griefe,
To see one mute tell more than it can say:
The greatest blessing that the heart could give,
The joy of Children in the married state,
To see his curse the parent now doth live,
And none be happy but th'infortunate.
Whilst some for buriall of their Children stay,
Others passe by with theirs upon the Beere,
Which from the Church meet Mourners by the way,
Others they finde that yet are burying there.
Afflicted London, in sixe hundred three,
When God thy sinne so grievously did strike,
And from th'infection that did spring from thee,
The spacious Ile was patient of the like.
That sickly season, when I undertooke
This composition faintly to supply,
When thy affliction serv'd me for a booke,
Whereby to modell Egypts miserie,
When pallid horrour did possesse thy streete,
Nor knew thy Children refuge where to have,

396

Death them so soone in every place did meete,
Unpeopling houses to possesse the grave.

When wofull Egypt with a wounded heart
So many plagues that suffered for their stay,
Now on their knees entreate them to depart,
And even impatient of their long delay.
Sixe hundred thousand Israelites depart,
Besides the Nations that they thence releas'd,
And Hebrew Babes the joy of many a heart,
That Sarahs happie promises had bless'd.
After foure hundred thirtie yeeres expir'd,
(Measuring by minutes many a wofull houre)
That day they came they thence againe depart,
By his eternall providence and power.
With all the jewels Egypt could afford
With them away that wisely they did beare,
Th'Egyptians aske not to have backe restor'd,
All then so busie at their burials were:

Comester in Exod.

And Josephs bones precisely thence convay,
Whose Tombe by Nyl's oft Inundations drown'd,
(Yet the deceased straitlie to obay)
By Moyses was miraculously found.

Tetragrammaton.

Who did in gold that powerfull word ingrave,
By which th'Almighty fully is exprest,
Which bare the mettall floting on the wave,
Till o'r his Coffin lastly it did rest.
As by a sheepe that shew'd them to the same,
To make them mindfull of the reverent dead,
Which Beast thence-forth they called by Josephs name,
And when they went from Egypt with them led.
But that he thus did finde his burying place,
As we tradition wisely may suspect,
We onely this as Historie embrace,
But else in faith as fabulous neglect.

397

THE THIRD BOOKE.

The Argument.

God drownes th'Egyptians in his ire,
Doth march before his host in fire,
From the hard rocks strikes gushing springs,
Raines Quailes and Manna, conquers Kings,
And fearefull plagues on them doth trie,
For murm'ring and idolatrie:
Unto the promis'd Land them brought,
When it they fortie yeeres had sought;
Balaam to blesse them he doth send,
Their good successe, milde Moyses end.

Those which at home scorn'd Pharaoh and his force,
And whose departure he did humbly pray,
He now pursues with his Egyptian horse
And warlike foote to spoile them on the way.
Where his choice people strongly to protect,
The onely God of Emperie and might,
Before his host his standard doth erect,
A glorious pillar in a field of light,
Which he by day in sable doth unfolde,
To dare the Sonne his Ardour to forbeare,
By night converts it into flaming golde,
Away the coldnesse of the same to feare.
Not by Philistia he his force will leade,
Though the farre nearer and the happier way,
His men of warre a glorious march shall tread
On the vast bowels of the bloudie Sea,
And sends the windes as Currers forth before
To make them way from Pharaohs power to flie,
And to convay them to a safer shore,
Such is his might that can make Oceans drie.
Which by the stroke of that commanding wand,
Shouldred the rough seas forcibly together,
Raised as Rampiers by that glorious hand,
(Twixt which they march) that did conduct them thither.

398

The surly waves their Rulers will obay'd
By him made up in this confused masse,
Like as an Ambush secretly were laid,
To set on Pharaoh as his power should passe,
Which soone with wombes insatiably wide,
Loos'd from their late bounds by th'Almighties power,
Come raging in, enclosing every side,
And the Egyptians instantly devoure.
The Sling, the stiffe Bow, and the sharpned Launce,
Floting confus'dly on the waters rude,
They which these weapons lately did advance,
Perish in sight of them that they pursude.
Clashing of Armours, and the rumorous sound
Of the sterne billowes in contention stood,
Which to the shores doe every way rebound,
As doth affright the Monsters of the flood.
Death is discern'd triumphantly in Armes
On the rough Seas his slaughtery to keepe,
And his colde selfe in breath of mortals warmes,
Upon the dimpled bosome of the deepe.
There might you see a Checkquer'd Ensigne swim
About the bodie of the envi'd dead,
Serve for a hearse or coverture to him,
Ere while did waft it proudly 'bout his head:
The warlike Chariot turn'd upon the backe
With the dead horses in their traces tide,
Drags their fat carkasse through the fomie bracke
That drew it late undauntedly in pride.
There floats the bard Steed with his Rider drownd,
Whose foot in his caparison is cast,
Who late with sharpe spurs did his Courser wound,
Himselfe now ridden with his strangled beast.
The waters conquer (without helpe of hand)
For them to take for which they never toile,
And like a Quarrie cast them on the land,
As those they slew they left to them to spoile.
In eightie eight at Dover that had beene,
To view that Navie (like a mighty wood)

399

Whose sailes swept Heaven, might eas'lie there have seene,
How puissant Pharaoh perish'd in the floud.
What for a conquest strictly they did keepe,
Into the channell presently was pour'd,
Castilian riches scattered on the deepe,
That Spaines long hopes had sodainly devour'd.
Th'afflicted English rang'd along the Strand
To waite what would this threatning power betide,
Now when the Lord with a victorious hand
In his high justice scourg'd th'Iberian pride.
Hence three dayes march to Mara leades them on,
Where Surs wilde Desarts as the Armie past
Seemed as from their presence to have flowne,
The mountaines stood so miserably agast.
Where for with drought they hardly are bested,
And the foule waters bitter as the gall,
That they should through this wildernesse be led
To thanklesse murm'ring presently they fall.
God pointeth Moyses to a precious tree,
Whose medc'nall branches cast into the lake,
Of that rare vertue he approv'd to be,
The waters sweet and delicate to make.
Not that his hand stands any way in neede
Of mediate meanes his purposes to bring,
But that in state his wisedome will proceede
To shew his power in every little thing.
Nor Metaphysickes fully him confine,
All measuring so immeasurably great,
That doth in Nature every cause combine,
This All in him so amply hath receate.
Which might have learn'd them in this helpelesse case,
With tribulations willingly to meete,
When men with patience troubles doe embrace,
How oftentimes it makes affliction sweete.
And his free bountie fully now they found,
As they from Mara for mount Sina made,
Pitching in Elim in that plenteous ground
Of pleasant fountaines and delicious shade.

400

But as at Sur, so they againe at Sin,
Before of thirst, of hunger now complaine,
Wishing they might in Egypt still have bin,
Where never famine all their time did raigne.

When clouds of Quailes from the Arabian shore
Upon the Campe immediately are sent,
Which came so long and in such marv'lous store,
That with their flight they smother'd every Tent:
This glads the Ev'ning, each unto his rest,
With soules even sated with these dainty Cates,
And the great goodnesse of the Lord confest,
That in like measure each participates.
The morne strewes Manna all about the host
(The meate of Angels) mortals to refresh,
Candying the fresh grasse, as the Winters frost,
Never such bread unto so dainty flesh.
O Israel pampred with this heavenly food,
Which else to Nations earthly he denies,
To raise thy spirits, to rectifie thy blood
With these so rare celestiall purities.
Then the fat flesh-pots they so much desire,
Whereon in Egypt gluttoning they fed,
When they came hungry home from carrying mire,
Which onely dulnesse, and grosse humours bred.
Yet in the sweetnesse and th'abundant store,
His power not so conclusively exprest,
But who tooke most not capable of more
Then in his Gomer he that gathered least.
By night corrupting, each day gath'ring new,
But for the Sabbath what they did provide,
That day descended not that heavenly dewe,
That as that day was onely sanctifide.
Thence through those Desarts desolate and drie,
They reach to Reph'dem where as they should passe,
There was not found a fountaine farre nor nie,
Such want of water every where there was.
Thither the Lord by Moyses did them bring,
His force the faithlesse Israelites might know,

401

For even in the impossiblest thing,
He most delights his wondrous might to show.
Farre worse than Mara is this fruitlesse soile,
For there were waters (bitter though they were)
But here are none, though sought with ne're such toile,
That they from murm'ring longer not forbeare.
Commanding Moyses he should take the Rod,
Wherewith in Egypt he such wonders wrought,
For that most wise, that secret-seeing God
Saw there were some thus reasoned in their thought.
The misterie of that miraculous wand
He did to plagues and fearefull things imply,
That Aaron yet ne're tooke it in his hand,
When worke of mercy was atchiev'd thereby.
Therefore bids Moyses to this high intent,
The same to use, they visibly might see,
That this which erst had beene the instrument
Of justice, so of clemencie to be.
Which with a blow, the Cleeves in sunder crackt,
As with an earthquake violently rent,
Whence came so strong and rough a Cataract,
That in the stones wore gutters as it went.
The Springs spout forth such plenty, that withall
Downe the slope sides it violently swept,
So divers wayes, so various in the fall,
Through every cranny the cleare water crept.
In Pailes, Kits, Dishes, Basons, Pinboukes, Bowles,
Their scorched bosomes merrily they baste,
Untill this very howre their thirstie soules
Never touch'd water of so sweet a taste.
Scarcelie suffic'd but in the very neck
Of this, 'tis bruted by the watchfull post,
That the neere-bordring envious Amaleck,
Was marching towards them with a mighty host,
When he forth Josua from the rest doth draw,
A man selected, of couragious spirit,
Which Moyses with propheticke eye foresaw,
Should be the man, his roome that should inherit.

402

Commanding him to muster out of hand,
And draw his forces presently to head,
Against that proud Amalakite to stand,
Which in the field a puissant Armie led.
Whilst on rocke Horeb, with erected hand,
Bearing the Rod up to the glorious skie,
'Twixt Hur and Aaron, Amrams sonne doth stand,
Whilst both the hosts for victorie doe trie.
When blades are brandish'd and the fight begun,
Warres thundring horror trumpets doe proclaime,
With the reflection of the radiant Sunne,
Seemes to beholders as a generall flame.
Much courage and dexteritie that day
On either part sufficiently is showne,
And on the earth full many a Souldier lay,
Thrusting through danger to make good his owne.
Here men might see how many a strenuous guide
Striveth to make his enemie to bleede,
Now the fierce vaward, then the rereward plide,
As he perceiveth the Battalians neede.
They fight the full day, he the Rod upheld,
But when his strength by long continuing failes,
Where as before the Israelites had queld,
The adverse proud Amalakite prevailes.
Whilst the two Hebrewes provident of harmes,
Setting grave Moses downe upon a stone,
And by their force support his wearied armes,
Untill the foe was lastly overthrowne.

Jethro the just to whom report had told,
Th'atchievement wrought by his renowned sonne,
That all the world did tributary hold,
By deeds in Egypt God by him had done:
This good old man to consummate their joyes
In happy houre his sonne is come to see,
Bringing his wife and his two little Boyes,
Moses sent back in Midian safe to bee:
Which by this time two proper Youthes are growne,
Bred by their Grandsire with exceeding care,

403

In all the host there hardly could be showne,
That with those Boyes for beauty could compare.
Such mirth and feasting as for them was seene,
For this grave Father and this goodly Dame,
Unto this day in Israel had not beene,
Since to kinde Joseph righteous Jacob came.
The day mild Moses scarcely can suffice,
To tell this man the troubles they had past,
The wonders God had acted in their eyes,
Since they in Midian kindly parted last.
Jethro that mark'd the paines that Moses tooke
In rising early, and in resting late,
That did himselfe into all causes looke,
And in his person censure each debate:
This Princely Priest a man exceeding wise,
And long experienc'd in this great affaire,
(For at that time few States or Monarchies
Whose government he could not well declare)
Reproves good Moses in this zealous deed:
(Quoth he) me thinks thou dost not well in this,
The course wherein I see thou dost proceed
Trouble to thee and to the people is.
Appoint out Judges, and inferiour Courts,
Twixt the Plebeians and thy selfe to bee,
From them receive those matters by report,
Speake thou to God, and let them speake to thee,
In things important be thou still in place,
In lesser causes leaving them to deale,
So may you both your quietnes embrace
By an exact and perfect Common-weale.

Now when to Sina they approched neare,
God calls up Moyses to the mount above,
And all the rest commaundeth to forbeare,
Nor from the bounds assign'd them to remove.
For who those limits loosely did exceede,
(Which were by Moses mark'd them out beneath)
The Lord had irrevocably decreed
With darts or stones should surely die the death:

404

Where as the people in a wondrous fright
(With hearts transfixed even with frosen blood)
Beheld their Leader openly in sight
Passe to the Lord, where he in glory stood.
Thunder and Lightning led him downe the ayre,
Trumpets celestiall sounding as he came,
Which struck the people with astounding feare,
Himselfe invested in a splendorous flame.
Sina before him fearfully doth shake,
Covered all over in a smouldring smoake,
As ready the foundation to forsake,
On the dread presence of the Lord to looke.
Erect your spirits and lend attentive eare
To marke at Sina what to you is said,
Weake Moses now you shall not simply heare,
The sonne of Amram and of Jacobed.
But he that Adam did imparadise,
And lent him comfort in his proper blood,
And saved Noah, that did the Arke devise,
When the old world else perish'd in the flood,
To righteous Abraham, Canaan franckly lent,
And brought forth Isaak so extreamly late,
Jacob so faire and many children sent,
And rais'd chast Joseph to so high estate.
He whose just hand plagu'd Egypt for your sake,
That Pharaohs power so scornefully did mock,
Way for his people through the Sea did make,
Gave food from Heaven, and water from the Rock.
Whilst Moses now in this cloud-covered hill,
Full forty dayes his pure aboade did make,
Whilst that great God in his almighty will,
With him of all his Ordinances brake.
The Decalogue from which Religion tooke
The being: sinne and righteousnesse began
The different knowledge: and the certaine booke
Of testimony betwixt God and man.
The Ceremoniall as Judicious lawes,
From his high wisdome that receiv'd their ground,

405

Not to be altred in the smallest clause,
But as their Maker wondrously profound.
The composition of that sacred Phane,
Which as a Symbol curiously did shew,
What all his six dayes workmanship containe,
Whose perfect modell his owne finger drew.
Whose absence thence gave leasure to their lust,
Oppugning Aaron, Idols them to frame,
And by their power still strengthen this disgust,
In him denouncing the Almighties name.
A gold-made God how durst you ever name,
For him so long had led you from the Skie,
In sight of Sina crowned with a flame,
His glory thence residing in your eye?
Such things might melt mortality to see,
That even the very Elements did fright,
He that in Egypt had perform'd for thee,
What made the world amazed at his might.
Thy soule transpierced ne'r before thou felt'st,
But like a Quarry 't even clave thy breast,
Comming from Sina when as thou beheld'st
Th'elected Israel kneeling to a Beast.
Him sence forsooke, his sinewes strengthlesse are,
He came so much amazed there-withall,
The stony Tables slip'd him unaware,
That with their owne weight brake them in the fall.
Downe this proud lump ambitiously he flung
Into base dust dissolving it with fire,
That since they for variety did long,
They should thereby even surfet their desire.
And sent the minerall through their hatefull throats,
Whence late those horrid blasphemies did flie
On bestiall figures when they fell to doate
In prostitution to idolatrie.
Now when this potion that they lately tooke,
This Chymick medicine (their deserved fare)
Upon their beards, and on their bosome stooke,
He doth their slaughter presently prepare.

406

What's he himselfe to Levie could allie
Before this Calfe not sinfully did fall,
Girds not his broad blade to his sinewie thie,
When he heares Moyses unto Armes to call?
Killing not him appointed he should slay,
Though they had slep'd in eythers armes before,
Though in one wombe they at one burthen lay,
Yea when this dead, though that could be no more?
You whom not Egypts tyranie could wound,
Nor Seas, nor Rockes could any thing denie,
That till this day no terrour might astound
On the sharpe points of your owne swords to die?

When Moyses now those Tables to renew
Of that essentiall Deitie doth merit,
(Which from his hands he dissolutely threw
In the deepe anguish of his greeved spirit.
When forty dayes without all nat'rall food)
He on mount Sina fixed his abode,
Retayning strength and fervour in his blood,
Rap'd with the presence of that glorious God.
Who in his high estate whilst he passed by
In the cleft rocke that holy man did hide,
Lest he should perish by his radiant eye,
When Moyses seeing but his glorious side
Celestiall brightnesse ceazed on his face,
That did the wondring Israelites amaze,
When he returned from that sovereigne place,
His browes encircled with splendidious rayes.
That their weake sight beholding of the same,
He after cover'd from the common eyes,
Lest when for answer unto him they came,
The lusting people should idolatrize.

Might we those mustred Israelites admire
From plaines of Sina mighty Moyses led,
Or else to view that opulence desire,
To that rich Arke so freely offered.
The mervailous modell of that rarest peece
Th'ingravings, carvings, and embroderies tell,

407

The cunning worke and excellent device
Of neat Aholiab, and Bezaliell.
But we our Moyses seriously pursue,
And our strong nerves to his high praise applie,
That through this maze shall guide us as a Clue,
And may his vertues absolutely trie.
Whose charge being weary of their mighty Armes,
And much offended they had march'd so long,
As oft disturbed with their sterne Alarmes,
Suppose by Moyses to have suffered wrong.
When with the luggage such as lagd behinde,
And that were set the Cariages to keepe,
Gainst God and Moyses greevously repinde,
Wanting a little sustinance and sleepe.
Who with their murm'ring moved in his ire,
That they so soone his providence mistrust,
Downe from his full hand flung that forcefull fire,
Which in a moment brus'd their bones to dust.
Other the mutt'ring Israelites among
When now to Pharan having come so farre
For flesh, fish, sallads, and for fruites doe long,
Manna (they say) is not for men of warre.
Their glut'nous stomackes loath that heav'nly bread,
Who with full Chargers hunger heere releeves,
As by the belly when they strongly fed
On harty Garlicke and the flesh of Beeves?
Milde man, what fearefull agony thee vex'd,
When thou thy God unkindly didst upbrayd?
How greevously thy suffring soule perplex'd,
When thou repin'st the charge on thee was layd?
With God to reason why he should dispose
On thee that burthen heavy to sustaine,
As though he did his purposes enclose
Within the limits of mans shallow brayne.
To judge so many marching every day,
That all the flesh of Forrest and of flood,
(When the wilde Desarts scarcely yeeld them way)
Should them suffice for competence of food.

408

That thou shouldst wish that hand so full of dread,
Thy lingring breath should sodainly expire,
Then that the clamorous multitude should spread,
Those wicked slanders to incite his ire.
That God to punish whom he still did love,
And in compassion of thy frailties feare,
The spirit he gave thee lastly should remove
To those thy burthen that should after beare.
O wondrous man! who parallel'd thee ever?
How large a portion diddest thou inherit?
That unto seventie he should it dissever,
Yet all be Prophets only with thy Spirit?
When loe a Cloud comes sailing with the winde
Unto these Rebels terrible to see,
That when they now some fearefull thing divin'd,
A flight of Quailes perceived it to be.
A full dayes journey round about the host,
Two Cubits thicknes over all they flowe,
That when by Israel he was tempted most,
His glory then most notably to show.
The greedy people with the very sight
Are fill'd before they come thereof to taste,
That with such surfet gluts their appetite
Their queasie stomacks ready are to cast.
Those that for Beefe in Gluttonie did call
Those the high'st God his powerfulnes to trie,
Cloyes with the fowle that from the Heavens doe fall,
Untill they stuffe their stomackes by the eye.
But whilst the flesh betwixt their teeth they chew,
And sucke the fat so delicately sweet,
(With too much plenty that even fulsome grew
That lies so common troden with their feet.)
That God impartiall and so rightly just,
When he had given them more then they desire,
Dulie to punish their insatiate lust,
Powres downe his plagues consuming as his fire.
And with a strong hand violently strake
Their blood, distempred with luxurious diet,

409

That soone the sores in groynes and arme-pits brake,
Thus could the Lord scourge their rebellious riot.
Aron and Miriam, all too much it were
For griefe when Moyses ready is to die;
But you whom one wombe happily did beare
Gainst your milde Brother needs must mutinie.
O unkinde Aaron when thou fondly fram'dst
That Beast-like Idoll bowing Israels knee,
He then thee beg'd, that thou so basely blam'dst,
And did divert the judgement due to thee.
Immodest Miriam when the hand of might
Left thee with lothsome leprosie defil'd,
Contemn'd and abject in the vilest sight,
From the great host perpetually exil'd:
When thou hadst spet the utmost of thy spight,
And for thy sinne this plague on thee was throwne,
He not forsooke thee but in heavie plight
Kneeling to God obtain'd thee for his owne.
His wondrous patience ever was applide
To those on him that causelesly complaine,
Who did with comely carelesnesse deride
What happy men should evermore disdaine.

When now the Spials for the promis'd soyle,
For the twelve Tribes that twelve in number went,
Having discovered forty dayes with toyle,
Safely return'd as happily they went:
Bringing the Figs, Pomgranates, and the Grapes,
Whose verdurous clusters that with moisture swell,
Seeme by the taste and strangenesse of the shapes,
The place that bare them faithfully to tell.
That well express'd the nature of the earth,
So full of liquor and so wondrous great,
That from such wished fruitfulnesse in birth,
Suck'd the sweet marrow of a plenteous teat.
But whilst they stand attentively to heare
The sundry soyles wherein they late had beene,
Telling what Giants did inhabit there,
What Townes of warre that walled they had seene.

410

Of Anacks of-spring when they come to tell,
And their huge stature when they let them see,
And of their shapes so terrible and fell,
Which were suppos'd the Titanois to bee.
Their hearts sunck downe, and though the fruits they saw
By their rare beauty might allure their eyes,
Yet this report their coward soules did awe,
And so much daunt the forward enterprise,
That they their God doe utterly refuse,
Against just Moses openly exclame,
And were in hand a Captaine them to chuse
To guide them back to Goshen whence they came.
Not all the dread of the Egyptian dayes,
What by milde Moses he to passe had brought,
Nor seene by him done at the purple Seas,
On their vile minds a higher temper wrought.
Whom when of God he beg'd with bloody eyes,
And against Heaven did obstinatly strive,
Obtain'd so hardly their immunities,
Whose sinne seem'd greater then he could forgive.
Caleb and Josua you couragious men,
When bats and stones against your breasts were laid,
Oppose your selves against the other ten,
That expedition basely that disswade.

Quoth they to conquer as he did before
No more than men, what praise his puisance yeelds,
But he whose force the very Rocks did gore,
Can with the same hand cleave their brazen sheelds.
He that foresawe that this should be our seate,
And onely knew the goodnes of the same,
Possess'd the place with those that were so greate
For us to keepe it safely till we came.
For which the Lord did vowe that not a man
At Sina mustred where such numbers were,
Should live to come to fruitfull Canaan,
Onely those two so well themselves that beare.
And for the basenes of those recreant Spies
Whose melting minds this impious slaunder bred,

411

And the vile peoples incredulities,
In that their God so strongly promised.
For fortie dayes discovrie of the Land,
They fortie yeeres in wildernes shall wast,
Consum'd with plagues from his impetuous hand,
Untill that age be absolutely past.
Which scarsly spoke, but quickly tooke effect,
For those so colde, and cowardly before,
Hearing the censure of their base neglect,
To make his vengeance and their sinne the more.
Entring the Land which Moyses them denies,
Their desp'rate will no better can afford,
Offering those lives they did so lightly prize
Unto the vengance of the Heath'nish sword.
And in the host new factions daylie grewe,
When Chores, Dathan, and Abiram rise,
Two hundred men of speciall note that drew,
Whose strength gave power to their confed'racies.
But the vast earth incontinently clave,
And on the sodaine hurried them to hell
With the shrill screame the shrieking people gave,
The fainting Hoast into a feaver fell:
The rest of the Conspirators were left
(From the first's fall enforcing their retire,
Of all the succours of the host bereft)
Consum'd to ashes with Heavens violent fire:
And those th'abettors of this vile attempt
That did milde Moyses cruelly pursue,
From th'others sinne that could not be exempt,
Them with the dreadfull pestilence he slew.
That had not Aaron when all hope was fled
With holy Incense their atonement wrought,
Thrusting himselfe twixt th'living and the dead,
All had to ruine utterly beene brought.
Where fourteene thousand and seven hundred sanke
Under the burden of their odious sinne,
Which now was wax'd s'insufferably ranke,
It was high time his vengeance should begin.

412

When after this so terrible a thing,
Now that triumphant and miraculous wand,
Brings forth ripe Almonds, strongly witnessing
In Levies Tribe the Priesthood still to stand.
With leaves and blossomes bravely it doth flourish,
Some budding, some as instantly but blowne,
As when the same the naturall rynd did nourish,
For Moyses sake such Miracles were showne.
Forward to Cadesh they their journey cast,
Where the good Miriam makes her latest houre,
Miriam the faire, the excellent, the chast,
Miriam that was of womanhood the flowre,
Here bids her Brothers lovingly adue,
Who at her parting kisse her closing eyes,
Whose wondrous losse sufficiently to rue,
More is the griefe that teares cannot suffice.
Moyst are their eyes, their lips are shrunk with heat,
Their griefe within, as outward it appeares,
Their want of water in that place as great,
As it to them is plentifull of teares.
They at one instant mutinie and mourne,
Sorrowes creepe forth confusedly together,
The teares for her incontinent they turne
To words gainst Moyses that did guide them thither:
Who from the rocke strooke water with the wand,
That man and beast might plenteously maintaine,
But he from rocks that fountaines can command,
Cannot yet stay the fountaines of his braine.
Much woe for Miriam these good men did make,
Whilst there were two, that might bewaile this one,
But two departing for their mutuall sake,
Moyses remaines to mourne himselfe alone.
Aaron the ancient'st of the Hebrew line,
Repleate with naturall comelinesse and grace,
(God-like so farre as man might be divine)
Endeth his dayes in this predest'ned place.
Which being forewarned to awaite his end,
And here the fate foretelling him to die,

413

That the good houre doth onely now attend,
Will'd to ascend the mountaine (being nie.)
With Eleazer his deare Childe he goes,
Led by milde Moyses as the Lord decreed,
To his lov'd Sonne his garments to dispose,
Him in the Priesthood pointed to succeed.
When turning backe to bid them all adue,
Who look'd as fast to bid this Lord farewell,
Fountaines of late so fast from rockes ne'r flewe,
As the salt drops downe their sad bosomes fell.
Not the obdurat'st, not the stoniest hearts,
That in deepe sorrow melting here forbeares,
Those to whom Nature not those drops imparts,
Spent what in sighes, the other did in teares.
Sated with sobs, but hungry with his sight,
Their watry eyes him earnestly pursue,
When to discerne him they no longer might
Where their sight ends, their sorrowes doe renue.
Com'n to the top, to the appointed place,
His Sonne in all his ornaments invested,
Which the good Aaron meekely doth embrace,
And unto him his offices bequested.
When they the time no longer could adjourne,
After embraces and a floud of woes,
(Which when one ceas'd the other tooke his turne)
From eithers eyes that on the other flowes.
Now at the last point, at the gaspe of death,
He whom the whole world hath but such another,
Gives up his latest, his most blessed breath,
In the deare armes of his beloved Brother.
So wisely worketh that eternall Being
By the still changes of their varying state,
(As to the end through the beginning seeing)
To build the frame of unavoyded Fate.
When those given up to their lascivious wils,
Themselves in Midian wantonnesse that waste,
Whose fleshly knowledge sip'd those sugred ills,
Twenty foure thousand slaughtered at the last.

414

Of all those that in Sina numbred are,
I'th plaines of Moab mustered then againe,
Wasted by time, fire, pestilence, and warre,
Those promis'd two and Moyses did remaine.

The time expir'd that they for Aaron mourn'd,
New conquest now, new comfort them doth bring,
Their former hope successively return'd,
That seem'd before so sadly languishing.
When they the glorious victorie obtaine
The Plaines of Horma scattered all with shields,
Where Arad and his Cananites are slaine,
Not the least fight of many glorious fields.
With Sebon's slaughter seconded againe,
And Ogs great fall of a Giganticke strength,
Whose bed of iron fash'on'd to containe
In breadth foure Cubits, doubling it in length:
The living remnant of the mighty race,
Of big-bon'd Anack terrible and dred,
Which long time batning in that fertile place,
Grew like the fat soile wherein they were bred.
Not Poets fictions of the Phlægrian fields,
Whereas the Giants up to Heaven would clime,
Heaping on mountaines not such wonder yeelds,
As did the men that lived in that time.
And five proud Kings fell in their recreant flight,
Before arm'd Israel on the Midian plaine,
Zur, Hur, and Evi, men of wondrous might,
Reba and Rekem valiantly slaine.
And as his strength crush'd mighty Kings to dust,
And cleft the helmes that thunder proofe were thought,
That hand that help'd them, scourg'd their impious lust,
When his high judgement to pervert they sought.
And sent those Serpents (with their fiery stings,)
With inflammations that their flesh did swell,
Sharpely to scourge their trustlesse murmurings,
That still in infidelity did dwell.
Rare in this creature was his wondrous might,
That should effect the nature of the fire,

415

Yet to recure the sorance by the sight,
Sicknesse might seeme the remedie t'admire.
Onely by mettall miracles to worke,
That Serpents shape, the Serpents hurt should heale,
To shew in him the mysteries that lurke,
And being so strange, as strangely doth reveale.
That the forg'd figure of so vile a thing
Should the disease so presently remove,
Onely by th'eye a remedy to bring,
Deepe searching Magicke leaveth to approve,
As Balaams beast did Balacks hast delay,
And the full purpose of the Prophet brake,
When he beheld the Angell by the way,
Burst out from beast, and to his Master spake:
Whose execration able to astound
The sunne, when he his Sommers height did boast,
And with a word could instantly confound
The world, were it a congregated host.
He whose wise lips could Oracles compile,
And judgements irrevocable did passe,
Should be confounded by the thing most vile,
By that base creature, the dull worthlesse Asse,
Ruling his mouth as with a Riders bit,
Bidden by Balaack to denounce their fall:
Doth all his dreadfull Minaces acquit,
Sounding their blessing and their enemies fall.

When this milde man that onely did remaine,
Of those from Egipt that the Lord did bring,
Which he in Justice sundry wayes had slaine,
For their false worship and their murmuring.
Since he remisse at Meriba was prov'd,
And there his zeale not ardently exprest,
The Lord did sweare (though him he dearely lov'd)
He should not come to Canaan as the rest.
And now approaching Abaris (the place)
From whence he might that promis'd Country see,
(So much the Lord good Moyses pleas'd to grace)
But there his dayes must consummated be.

416

When this great Prophet zealously had bless'd,
Each sev'rall Tribe with a particular good,
Whose parting, them with sorrow so oppress'd,
That shedding teares, their eyes shed drops of blood.
To Nebo seated admirably hie,
(The Spirit prepares him safely to retire)
Which thrusts his head into the cloudie skie,
Pisga so proudly thither dare aspire.
Pisga the height of Abaris, and this
The height of Pisga over all doth stand,
That as the eye of mighty Abaris
Survayeth the imparallelled Land.
Where goodly Gilead unto him he showes
As farre as ever he could looke to Dan,
The length and breadth how every way it goes,
Till her brow kisse the calme Mediteran.
Where the sweet South layes forth her swelling brest,
With a pleas'd eye he silently survay'd,
To that faire Citie whose high Towers doe rest
Under the Palme trees most delicious shade.
When this meeke man approaching to his death,
In death ev'n pleas'd faire Canaan to behold,
Whilst he had use of his expiring breath,
Thus his last farewell mildly doth enfolde.
Israel (quoth he) deare Israel, now adue,
Moyses no more is, that your Leader was,
Josua and Caleb none but onely you,
Of the last age must over Jordan passe.
Th'Egyptian horrours yet 'twas I did see,
And through those strange calamities did wade,
And Israels charge imposed was on mee,
When they (but then) had scarcely learn'd to dade.
Forty two journeyes have I straitly past
Since first this glorious Pilgrimage begun,
In wrath or mercy where as first or last,
Some wondrous thing hath happily beene done.
M'immortall Maker that so oft have seene
(That God of wonder:) these complaints not boot,

417

In yonder fields so delicate and greene,
That may not set my miserable foot.
Thus leaning backe against the rising Clieve,
Raising his faint hands to the hopefull skies,
Meeke as the morning never seene to strive,
Great'st of the Prophets the good Moyses dies.
An hundred twenty hardly passed yeares,
His naturall vigour no whit did asswage,
His eye as bright, his body then appeares,
As in the height and Summer of his age.
Who being dissolv'd the Angels did interre
Neere to Bethpeor in the vallied ground,
But yet so secret kept his Sepulcher
That it by mortall never should be found.
Lest that his people (if the place were knowne)
(Seeing by him the miracles were done,
That ever to Idolatrie were prone,)
Unto his bones a worshipping should runne.
One that God grac'd so many sundry wayes,
No former age hath mentioned to bee,
Arived at the period of his dayes
The future time in Israel shall not see.

418

DAVID AND GOLIAH.

Our sacred Muse, of Israels Singer sings,
That heavenly Harper, whose harmonious Strings
Expeld that evill Spirit which Saul possest,
And of his torments often him releast;
That Princely Prophet David, whose high Layes,
Immortall God, are Trumpets of thy praise,
Thou Lord of hosts be helping then to me,
To sing of him who hath so sung of thee.

What time great Saul after so bloody fights,
Return'd a victor of th'Amalakites,
(Two hundred and ten thousand men at armes
Under his conduct) had reveng'd the harmes
Done to Gods chosen people, when as they
Came back from Egypt, troubled on their way:
Saul with their blood had now manur'd the Plaines,
Leading King Agag (as a slave) in chaines:
But for that Saul this Agags blood had spar'd,
And 'gainst the will of the Almighty dar'd
To save that man he should have put to sword,
For disobeying the Almighties word,
Their larded Fatlings keeping for a prey,
Which he commanded to be made away:
For which the living God displeased, swore
To holy Samuel, Saul should raigne no more;
Samuel Gods Prophet, by whose holy hand
The Oyle was pour'd (by his divine command)
Upon the head of comely Saul when he
Was chosen over Israel to be:
But for that place another God had pointed,
Which should by Samuel likewise be anointed:
And this was David his most deare delight,
The sonne of Ishay the just Bethlemite.
Meane while this Youth like a poore Shepheard clad,
(Of whom such care the God of Israel had)
His fathers flock was following day by day
Upon a Desart neare at hand that lay;

419

Whose wealthy fleeces and fat bodies he
From ravenous vermine hourely us'd to free,
His onely armes, his Sling and Sheephooke were,
Other then those he had not us'd to beare,
With these a Woolfe oft comming from the wood,
Or subtill Fox, that forrag'd for his food,
He quickly slew; or if a Beare opprest
With cruell hunger, hapned to molest
His feeding flocks, he with such bangs him plyde,
That with the prey even in his teeth he dyde;
Or if a Lion as his faire flock graz'd,
Hapt to assayle it, he no whit amaz'd
At his sterne roaring, when his clutches caught
At this brave Sheepheard, but such blowes him raught
Till by the beard that kingly beast he shooke,
And from his jawes the trembling Wether tooke;
And if it chanc't that sometime from the ayre
An Eagle stoop'd a Lambe away to beare,
He with a stone that from his Sling he threw,
Downe from the clouds would fetch her as she flew.

His curled Tresses on his shoulders hung,
To which the dewes at Morne and Eve so clung,
To the beholders that they did appeare
As nature threded Pearle with every hayre:
The Bees, and Waspes, in wildernesses wilde
Have with his beauties often bin beguild,
Roses and Lillies thinking they had seene,
But finding there they have deceived beene,
Play with his eyes, which them that comfort bring,
That those two Sunnes would shortly get a spring;
His Lippes in their pure Corrall liveries mock
A row of Pales cut from a Christall Rock,
Which stood within them, all of equall height.
From top to toe each limbe so cleane and straight,
By every joynt of his that one might try,
Or give true lawes to perfect Symmetry;
The vermine (oft) his Sheepe that would surprize
Became so charm'd with th'splendor of his eyes,

420

That they forgot their ravine, and have layne
Downe by his flocks, as they would glad and faine
Keepe them from others, that on them would prey,
Or tend upon them, that they should not stray.
Whether in Cotes he had his flock in hould,
Or for the Fallowes kept them in the fould,
He was not idle, though not taking paines,
Celestiall Lyricks singing to the Swaines,
And often sitting in the silent shade,
When his faire flock to rest themselves were layde,
On his Lyre tuned such harmonious Layes,
That the Birds pearcht upon the tender sprayes,
Mad at his musick, straine themselves so much
To imitate th'unimitable tuch,
Breaking their hearts, that they have dropt to ground,
And dy'd for griefe in malicing the sound.
Sometimes a Stag he with his Sling would slay,
Or with his Sheephooke kill a Boare at bay,
Or runne a Roe so long (he was so fleet)
Till it lay trembling, breathlesse, at his feet,
Sometimes againe, he practised a fight,
That from the Desart, should a Dragon light
Upon his Sheepe, the Serpent to assayle,
How by cleere skill through courage to prevaile.
Then with a small stone throwne out of his Sling
To hit a swallow on her height of wing,
And home at night when they their Sheepe should drive,
The sluggish Sheepheards lastly to revive,
He tooke his Harpe so excellently strung,
In a broad Bauldrick at his back that hung,
And on the same stroke such mellodious straines,
That from the Coverts as the neighboring Plaines,
The Ecchoes wakt with sweetnesse of his notes,
Which each to other diligently rotes;
And thus his time the Lords beloved past;
Till God to Samuel calling at the last;

Samuel saith he, to Bethlem take thy way,
To Ishays house, and to that old man say,

421

Out of his loynes that I will chuse a King,
And when his Sonnes before thee he shall bring,
Chuse out that man that I shall thee appoint,
With sacred Oyle and see thou him anoint,
For of them all, he's knowne to me right well
The first to guide my people Israel.

Samuel replyes, my God, if Saul shall know
Upon what businesse I to Bethlem goe,
Except my blood him nothing will suffice.
Take thou a Heyfer, God againe replies,
And give it out thou purposely dost goe
To sacrifice; as God doth counsell, so
The holy Prophet acts, and comming thither,
The noblest of people get together,
Doubting the Lord had angry with them bin,
And had sent Samuel to reprove their sinne;
But peace to all the holy Prophet cries,
And then preparing to the sacrifice.
The Rites perform'd, he bids old Ishay bring
His Sonnes before him whilst the offering
Smoak'd on the Altars (and the Elders there
Stood round about with reverence and feare)
For in his houshold he a King must chuse.
Ishay who might not Gods command refuse,
Cals Eliab out for Samuel to see,
Who at the first thought surely this was he,
Till God to Samuel said, doe not deceive
Thy selfe (weake man) but thy election leave,
Thou canst not see the soule of man, as I
Who search the heart, and every thought can try.
His second sonne Abniadab then came,
But this not he that Samuel must name;
Then cals he Shamna his third sonne, but yet
This was not he th'Almighties turne must fit,
He cals for more till he had counted seaven,
To none of these yet must the Oyle be given:
Before the Prophet brother stood by brother,
A twelvemonths growth one just before another;

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Like seaven brave blossom'd Plants, that in the spring
Nature prepar'd forth goodly fruit to bring:
So comely all, that none in them could read
Which one of them should any one exceed,
If he exceld for lovelinesse of face,
Another for his person and his grace
Match'd him at full, as nature meant to show
Her equall bounties how she could bestow.
There he beholds one brother tall and straight,
Another that was wanting of his height,
For his complection and his curious shape,
Well neare out went him, nature let not scape
Ought she could doe, in them each limbe to fit
To grace the other that was next to it.
When Samuel askes if these were all he had,
Ishay replyes, onely his yongest Lad
That in the Desart on his flocks doth tend,
Samuel commands away for him to send,
For till he came he vow'd he would not sit,
Out of the place nor would he stirre a whit.

Before grave Samuel David soone is brought,
Upon the Prophet which most strongly wrought
When he beheld him beautifull and tall,
Of goodly presence, and well shap'd withall,
His cheeke a mixture of such red and white,
As well with wonder might attract the sight,
A sprightfull aspect, and so cleere an eye,
As shot a lightning at the standers by,
His every gesture seene it in to bring
The majesty that might befit a King;
All those rare parts that in his brothers were
Epitomiz'd, at large in him appeare;
And (in his eare) God doth the Prophet tell,
This David shall be King of Israel.
Whom with the sacred Oyle (instead of Saul)
Samuel anointed there before them all:
Which having done, to Rama takes his way,
Lest Saul for him the country should forelay:

423

When Kingly David of his owne accord,
Though he were then th'anointed of the Lord,
And though his Sheephooke might his Scepter be,
This holy Youth so humble is, that he
Will back to th'fields his fathers flock to keepe,
And make his subjects, (for a while) his Sheepe.

The powerfull spirit of God, redoubled grew
Dayly in David, and his fame now flew
O'r all the Region, how he was belov'd
Of Gods high Prophet, and by him approv'd;
Field, Towne, and City, with his name doe ring,
The tender Virgins to their Timbrels sing
Dittys of him, and in their rurall playes,
The homely Sheepheards in their Roundelayes
Record his acts, and build him shady Bowers,
The Maydens make him Anadems of flowers,
And to what sport himselfe he doth apply,
Let's follow David, all the people cry.

An evill spirit then sent by God possest
Enraged Saul, so greevously opprest,
With melancholly, that it craz'd his wits,
And falling then into outragious fits,
With cramps, with stitches and convulsions rackt,
That in his pangs he oft was like to act
His rage upon himselfe, so raving mad,
And soone againe disconsolate and sad;
Then with the throbs of his impatient heart,
His eyes were like out of his head to start,
Fomes at the mouth, and often in his paine
O'r all his Court is heard to roare againe;
As the strong spirit doth punish or doth spare,
Even so his fits or great, or lesser are,
That Israel now doth generally lament
Upon their King Gods greevous punishment.
When some which saw this spirit possessing Saul,
Amongst themselves a counsell quickly call,
To search if there might remedy be found
For this possession, each man doth propound

424

His thought of curing, as by Physick some,
Each man speakes what into his minde doth come,
But some whose soules were ravished more hie,
Whose composition was all harmony,
Of th'Angels nature and did more partake,
By which as Seers prophetickly they spake;
(With holy Magick for some spirits inspir'd,
Which by a cleere Divinity are fier'd,
And sharpned so, each depth and hight to try,
That from their reach and visibility
Nature no secrets shuts, and heaven reveales
Those things which else from reason it conceales)
Those men conclude the spirit that thus had harm'd
Their soveraigne Saul, with Musick must be charm'd.

And having heard of Israels deare delight,
Beloved David the brave Bethlemite,
What wondrous things by Musick he had done,
How he fierce Tigars to his hand had wonne,
Had layd the Lion, and the Beare to sleepe,
And put such spirit into his silly sheepe
By his high straines, as that they durst oppose
The Woolfe and Fox, their most inveterate foes:
Of this Musitian they informe the King,
And all assure him, there was no such thing
For him as Musick, and this man was he
That his Physitian in this kinde must be.

When Saul dispatcht his messengers away
To aged Ishay, that without delay,
His yong'st sonne David should to Court be sent:
The speedy Post relating the intent
To the old man: which in his heart was glad,
For at the first he great suspition had,
That angry Saul might else have bin acquainted,
By Samuels hand his sonne had bin anointed,
And therefore caused David to be sought,
As of his death he direly had forethought.

The good old man o'r joy'd with this good newes,
Cals home his darling from his teeming Ewes,

425

And to the care of Israels God commends
His loved boy, and kindly by him sends
Of Bread and Wine a present to the King.
They him no sooner to Sauls presence bring,
But Davids beauty so extreamly tooke
The doting King, that in each glance or looke,
He thought he saw high valour mixt with truth,
And neare his person takes the lovely Youth,
And who but David then with mighty Saul
His only favorite is, his all in all?

Not long it is e'r Saul the spirit doth feele
To stirre within him, and begins to reele,
And suddainly into a Trance he fals,
And with his hands lyes grasping at the wals,
When David takes his well-tun'd Harpe in hand,
By which the spirit he meaneth to command;
His quavering fingers he doth now advance
Above the trembling strings, which gin to dance
At his most cleere tuch, and the winged sound
About the spacious Roome began to bound,
The Aers flew high, and every dainty straine
Betters the former, which doth so detaine,
The eares of those stood by, that they heare not
Sauls sad complaints, and suddainly forgot
To lift or stirre him, and the standers by,
Were so intransed with the melody,
That to a holy madnesse some it brought,
Others againe to Prophecy it wrought.
The Wyery cords now shake so wondrous cleere,
As one might thinke an Angels voyce to heare
From every quaver, or some spirit had pent
It selfe of purpose in the Instrument;
The harmony of the untuned'st string
Torments the spirit which so torments the King,
Who as he faintly, or he strongly groanes,
This brave Musitian altreth so his tones,
With sounds so soft, as like themselves to smother,
Then like lowd Ecchoes answering one the other:

426

Then makes the spirit to shift from place to place,
Still following him with a full Diapase:
Thus day by day as th'evill spirit opprest
Diseased Saul, David himselfe addrest,
T'awayte the houres, before the King to play,
Untill he made th'unruly fiend obay
The force of Musick, more then that to feare
But the least sound of Davids Harpe to heare.

When now the King by Davids cunning cur'd,
Old Ishais Sonne who thought he had indur'd
Restraint too long, gets leave of Saul to goe
To Bethlem back (Gods holy will was so)
He rather chose to view his well-shorne Sheepe,
His yeaning Ewes, and late-falne Lambes to keepe,
Then on a Bed of silke himselfe repose,
And the delights of the fresh fields to lose.

When now Philistia horribly enragd,
With Gods owne people had it selfe engag'd,
With a revengefull deadly hand to smite
The still-preserv'd oft-troubled Israelite,
Who had in Battaile many times before
Upon the earth spilt her unhallowed gore.
Grim-visag'd warre, more sternely doth awake,
Then it was wont, and furiously doth shake
Her lightning sword, intruding with the force
Of men of warre both skilfull foot and horse.
Two mighty nations are now up in armes,
And to both sides the Souldiers come in swarmes:
The fields with Ensignes, as t'were flowers are deckt
Which their refulgence every way reflect
Upon the Mountaines and the vallies nie
And with their splendor seeme to court the skie.
Two mighty Armyes on the playne appeare,
These Isralites, and those Philistians were;
Their great Commanders, proved men of warre:
Their long experience, who had fetcht from farre,
To order fights as they occasion found
T'offend the foe, by fitting with the ground,

427

Which chosen Israels infantry doth call,
In this defensive warre to follow Saul.
And aged Isha faithfully to show
The love to Saul, and Israel he doth owe,
His eldest three into the Army sent,
That to the field, as well appointed went,
As on their bravery they that bare them most,
Nor was there, in the Israelitish hoste
Three goodlier men, especially when they
Were in their Armes, the most unclouded day
That ever shone, tooke not with such delight
The glad beholders, as the wondring sight
Of these brave Youths, still as they marched by.

Now in the fields the mighty Armies lye
On the wide champaine, each in others sight;
But as the Trumpets showte them out to fight,
From the Philistians hoste a Gyant came,
Whose splendrous Armes shone like a mighty flame
Against the sunne; Goliah nam'd of Gath;
The onely Champion that Philistia hath:
This huge Colossus, then sixe Cubits height
More by a handfull: and his ponderous weight,
Wheresoe're he made but any little stay,
Shew'd that his bredth, it answered every way:
Never such might in mortall man there was,
From head to foot at all poynts arm'd with brasse,
Five thousand sheckles his prov'd Curats way'd,
Upon whose temper, wondrous cost was layd:
His Shield and Harnesse well might load a Teame,
His Lance as big as any Weavers beame;
Whose very Pyle upon the poyse contain'd
A hundred sheckles, he a lesse disdain'd:
His Browes like two steepe Penthouses hung downe
Over his eye-lids, and his angry frowne
Was like a cloud, when it like Pitch appeares,
And some sterne tempest in its bosome beares:
His voyce was hoarse, and hollow, yet so strong,
As when you heare the murmuring of a throng

428

In some vaste arched Hall, or like as when
A Lordly Lyon angred in his den,
Grumbles within the earth, such his resembled,
That when he spake, th'affrighted hearers trembled:
His Squire before him marching to the field,
Who for this Champion bare a second shield.

Upon two easie hils the Armies laye
A valley 'twixt them in the middle way:
Into the midst of which, Goliah came,
And thus doth to the Israelites proclaime,
If there be found in all your host quoth he
A man so valiant, that dare fight with me,
If I shall fall under his mighty sword,
Israel shall then be the Philistians Lord:
But if I by my puissance shall prevaile
Over your Champion (that shall me assaile)
Then as our slaves, of you we will dispose;
And use at pleasure, as our conquered foes,
For he that's God of the Philistians, boasts
Himselfe more powerfull then your Lord of hosts.
Which challenge thus, not onely troubled Saul,
But bred amazement through the host in all.
For forty dayes thus us'd he forth to goe,
Offring by combate to decide it so.

Old Ishay now desiring much to heare,
Of his three Sonnes (in what estate they were)
Doubting lest they some needfull things might want,
As in the Army, victuals might grow scant;
Wherefore he cals yong David from his sheepe,
And to another gives his charge to keepe.
My Boy quoth he, haste to the Campe and see
In what estate my Sonnes your Brothers be:
Beare them parcht corne, and cakes, though homely food,
Yet simple cates may doe poore Souldiers good:
And to the Generall, ten fine Cheeses beare,
Such in the Campe are not found every where.
And if for need t'have pawn'd ought of esteeme,
Take money with you, and their Pledge redeeme.

429

David, make haste, for I desire to know
'Twixt the two puissant hosts, how businesse goe.

No marvaile David in his heart were glad,
That he such cause to view the Armies had:
From his brave thoughts, and to himselfe he told,
The wondrous things that he should there behold.
The rare Devices by great Captaines worne,
The five-fald Plumes their Helmets that adorne.
Armours with stones, and curious studs enricht,
And in what state they their Pavilions pitcht,
There should he see their marshalling a warre,
The iron-bound Chariot, and the armed Carre:
As where consisted either armies force,
Which had advantage by their foot or horse:
The severall weapons either nation beare,
The long Sword, Bow, the Polax and the Speare:
There the Philistian gallantry, and then
His Israels bravery answering them agen:
And heare them tell th'adventures had bin done,
As what brave man had greatest honour wonne.

David bestirres him presently, and packes
Up his provision, puts it into sackes,
And by his Servant on his Mule doth laye,
Then towards Sauls Army takes the ready way.
And his no tedious journey so contrives,
That in short time he at the Campe arives:
And at his comming, instantly bestowes
His needfull provant, to the charge of those
That tend the Carriage, and of them doth learne
(As neere as he could make them to discerne
By his description) Ishas Sonnes, who led,
And in the Army where they quartered:
By whose direction he his Brothers sought,
And told them what provision he had brought:
And to all three, their Fathers pleasure show'd,
And how the Cheeses he would have bestow'd.
As they were talking, suddainly a noyse
Ran through the Army, and the generall voyce,

430

Was the Philistian, the Philistian see,
Goliah comes, ordain'd our scourge to be.
Who as his used manner was, defies
The host of Israel, and thus loudly cryes,
Bring downe your Champion, that with me dares fight,
And this our warre shall be decided streight:
But Israels God, for feare drawes backe his hand,
Nor is there one against me that dare stand.

Which David hearing, his yong bloud doth rise,
And fire was seene to sparkle from his eyes:
His spirits begin to startle, and his rage
Admits no reason that may it asswage:
No nerve of his, but to it selfe doth take
A double strength, as though his arme could shake
The Iron Lance that great Goliah beares:
And beate his brazen Shield about his eares.
His strugling thoughts now being set a worke,
Awake that flame, which lately seem'd to lurke
In his meeke breast, which into passion breakes,
And to himselfe thus Princely David speakes.

Despised nation, Israel quoth he,
Where be those valiant men that liv'd in thee,
What are our soules in lesser moulds now cast,
Then at the first, with time or doe they waste?
What slaved people, but we can stand by,
And heare this base Philistian Dogge defie
God and his people, must he stand to boast
His strength and valour, and in all the hoast
No man dare undertake him; might I prove
My Manhood on him, I should soone remove
The worlds opinion, and both hosts should know
Hee's but a Dogge, on us that raileth so:
And to one standing neere him, thus he spake,
Of this huge Beast, what wonder doe ye make:
What shall be done to that one man that shall
Fight with this Gyant, and before ye all,
His pride and horrid blasphemies shall quell,
And take this shame away from Israel?

431

When one that heard him, quickly thus replyes,
He by whose hand this huge Goliah dyes,
For Wife to him, Sauls Daughter shall be given,
One of the goodliest Creatures under heaven;
And yet this further, his reward shall be
His Fathers house in Israel shall goe free.

With this yet David closeth not his eare,
But of some other likewise doth enquire
For his reward, the Gyant that should slay,
The formers words, which like a lesson say,
None of them thinking, this yet scarcely man,
Should strike to death the proud Philistian.

His Brother Eliab, now which over-heard,
Young Davids questions, and was much afeard
His over-daring spirit might draw him on,
To worke their shame, and his confusion:
Thinkes with himselfe, it greatly him behooves,
To checke his boldnesse, and him thus reprooves.
Fond Boy, quoth he, why stand'st thou to enquire
After these things, thy businesse lyes not here:
I would not (sure) but you the Campe should view,
A Sheepe-Coate Sir, would better sute with you:
Who have you left, after your Flocke to looke,
Your Scrip (no question) or your shepheards Crooke.
Sirra, my Father sent you not to us,
About the Army to lye loytering thus:
I thinke 'tis time to get you on your way,
Our Father thinkes that we inforce your stay.

At Eliabs speeches, David somewhat mov'd
To heare himselfe thus scornefully reprov'd:
Brother quoth he, few words might have suffic'd,
Had you but knowne how lightly they are priz'd
Of me, these speeches you would have forborne,
Upon some other and have spent your scorne.
I come to view the Campe, you say, 'tis so,
And I will view it better ere I goe.
Why may not I, as well as other men,
I'le goe when I shall please, and not till then?

432

When time may me more liberty alow,
I may beare Armes perhaps as you doe now:
Looke to your warfare, and what is your owne,
Good Brother Eliab, and let me alone:
For of my selfe I know how to dispose,
And thus away resolved David goes.
And as he went, still as he heares the cry
After Goliah, still more hie and hie,
His spirit is mounted, and his oft demand,
What his reward should be, whose valiant hand
Should kill Goliah, through the Army went,
And was the common talke in every Tent,
(But in the most bred sundry doubts and feares,
When as they way'd his tendernesse of yeares)
Untill his Fame, by going, getting strength
In Sauls Pavilion is cry'd up at length:
Who with much speed, sent out to have him sought,
And to his presence caus'd him to be brought.
Who with a constant and delightfull cheere,
Comes to the King, and doth to him appeare
With such a sprightfull, and majesticke grace,
As victory were written in his face:
And being by Saul, demanded if 'twere he,
That Israels Champion undertooke to be;
He with a meeke smile, boldly doth reply,
I am the man my Soveraigne, 'tis even I:
My Leege quoth he, be not at all dismaid,
Nor let Gods chosen Israel be afraid.
This mighty Monster in the peoples sight,
So terrible, whose shape doth so affright
The multitude, I doe no more esteeme,
Then if a Dwarfe, nor he to me doth seeme
But such a thing, my onely envy's this,
That he is not much greater then he is:
The more his strength, the more his fall will be,
And Israels God more glorifi'd in me.

Quoth Saul againe, thou art of tender age,
And in respect of him a very Page;

433

Beside, the other Armes that he doth beare,
Thou art not able to lift halfe his Speare:
If he strike at thee, and thy body misse,
Yet on his side, there this advantage is,
The winde of his huge weapon hath the force
To drive the breath out of thy slender Coarse:
And this vaste man, beside his wondrous might,
No man as he, so skilfull is in fight;
Expert in all, to Duels that belong,
Train'd up in Armes whilst yet he was but yong.

The better, answered David, if his skill
Equall his strength, for what is it to kill
A common man? a common thing it were,
Which hapneth every day, and every where;
But for a Giant such a one as he,
Upon the Field to be subdu'd by me,
This to all Nations shall be thought a thing
Worthy of Israels God, and Israels King.
I have slaine a Lion and Beare, quoth he,
And what is this uncircumcis'd to me
More then a Beast. That onely God of might
By whose great power I conquered these in fight,
In spight of humane strength and greatnesse, can
Give to my hands this proud Philistian.

When Saul thus sees that there was in his soule
That courage which no danger could controule,
A valour so invincible and hie,
As naturally enabled him to flye
Above all thought of perill, and to beare
Him quite away beyond the bounds of feare;
He caus'd an Armour for him to be brought,
But first of all a garment richly wrought
He puts upon the brave youth and then bad
That in those goodly Armes he should be clad.
Which put upon him as to stirre he strives,
He thinkes him selfe in Manakles, and Gives,
Their ponderousnesse him to the earth doth presse:
These Armes doe make his Activenesse fare lesse,

434

For he before had not bin us'd to these,
Nor him at all their boistrousnesse can please,
His Gorget gauld his Neck, his Chinne beneath,
And most extreamly hindred him to breath,
His Curats sit too close upon his side,
He in no hand his Helmet can abide,
It is so heavy, and his Temples wrings,
His Pouldrons pinch him, and be cumbrous things,
His Gaunlets clumsie, and doe wring his Wrists,
And be so stiffe he cannot clutch his Fists;
His Guyses they so strong and stubborne be,
That for his life he cannot bend his knee;
He knew not how to beare his brazen Shield,
Such weapons Sheepheards were not us'd to weeld,
Their weight and their unwildinesse was such,
And they restraind his nimblenesse so much,
That he prayd Saul of these he might be freed,
It is not Armour that must doe the deed,
Let me alone, saith he, and Ile provide
My selfe of Armes, this quarrell to decide.

When forth he goes, shot for his Sling to looke,
And neare the Campe he finds a perling Brooke,
Whose shallow sides with Pebbles did abound,
Where seeking such as massy were and round,
He picks out five, away with him to bring,
Such as he knew would fit his trusty Sling,
And in his Scrip them closely doth bestow,
By which he vowes Goliahs overthrow.

When swift report throughout the Army runnes,
That youthfull David one of Ishaes sonnes,
A very stripling, and the yong'st of eight,
With the Philistian was that day to fight;
That great Goliah which so oft had brav'd
Dejected Israel, and the combat crav'd
With any one she to the field could bring,
Now for it was so pertinent a thing,
As that their freedome or subjection lay
On the successe of this unequall Fray,

435

Th'event thereof struck every one with feare,
But his sad brethren most perplexed were,
And to themselves thus say they: O that we
So long should draw our lothed breath, to see
That by the pride of this accursed Boy,
Despised Israel should no more enjoy
Her ancient glories, but be made a slave
To proud Philistia; and our fathers grave
Slandred by him; his Family and Name
Branded by David with perpetuall shame.
Curst be the time that he was hither sent,
Curst be the time he came into our Tent.
And now and then they purposed to fly,
Nor would they stay to see their brother dye,
But at the very point to take their way,
Bethinke themselves, it better were to stay,
To seeke his scattered limbes to peeces hew'd,
And see them in some obscure earth bestow'd.

In this sad manner whilst they murm'ring were,
David is busied listning still to heare
Of great Goliah: scarce can he refraine
From calling for him; now in every vaine
His blood is dancing, and a sprightly fire
Takes up his bosome, which doth him inspire
With more then humane courage, nor he can
Conceive a terror to proceed from man,
His nerves and sinewes to that vigor grow,
As that his strength assures him he can throw
Through thicker Armes, then mortall yet could weeld.
Upon the suddaine, when through all the field
The word was heard, Goliah now appeares,
Which Davids heart in such strange manner cheeres,
As that he feeles it caper in his breast.
When soone that huge uncircumcised beast,
As he was wont, betweene the hosts doth come,
And with his harsh voyce, like an unbrac'd Drum,
Cals to the host of Israel, where's your man
You cowardly Nation, where's your Champian

436

To undertake me, bring him to the field,
Or to Philistia your subjection yeeld.
It was full Summer, and the day so cleere,
As not a little cloud did once appeare;
In view of either Army, the free Sunne
That t'wards the noonsted halfe his course had runne,
On the Philistian darting his cleere rayes,
His bright refulgent Armes so sundry wayes
Reflects the beames, as that he seemes to all
Like that in painting we a Glory call,
And from his Helmet sharpning like a Spyre,
He lookt like to a Piramid on fire.

And now before yong David should come in,
The host of Israel somewhat doth begin
To rouze it selfe; some climbe the nearest Tree,
And some the tops of Tents, whence they might see
How this unarmed Youth himselfe would beare
Against th'all-armed Giant (which they feare)
Some get up to the fronts of easie hills;
That by their motion a vast murmure fills
The neighbouring Valleys, that th'enemy thought
Something would by the Israelites be wrought
They had not heard of, and they long'd to see
What strange or warlike stratagem 't should be.

When soone they saw a goodly Youth descend
Himselfe alone, none after to attend,
That at his need with armes might him supply,
As meerely carelesse of his enemy.
His head uncovered, and his locks of hayre
As he came on being play'd with by the ayre
Tost to and fro, did with such pleasure move,
As they had beene provocatives for love:
His sleeves stript up above his elbowes were,
And in his hand a stiffe short staffe did beare,
Which by the leather to it, and the string,
They easily might discerne to be a Sling;
Suting to these he wore a Sheepheards Scrip,
Which from his side hung downe upon his Hip.

437

Those for a Champion that did him disdaine,
Cast with themselves what such a thing should meane,
Some seeing him so wonderously faire,
(As in their eyes he stood beyond compare)
Their verdict gave that they had sent him sure
As a choice bayte their Champion to alure;
Others againe, of judgement more precise,
Said they had sent him for a sacrifice.
And though he seem'd thus to be very yong,
Yet was he well proportioned and strong,
And with a comely and undaunted grace,
Holding a steady and most even pace,
This way, nor that way, never stood to gaze,
But like a man that death could not amaze,
Came close up to Goliah, and so neare
As he might easily reach him with his Speare.

Which when Goliah saw, why Boy quoth he,
Thou desperate Youth, thou tak'st me sure to be
Some Dog (I thinke) and under thy command,
That thus art come to beat me with a wand:
The Kites and Ravens are not farre away,
Nor Beasts of ravin that shall make a prey
Of a poore corpse, which they from me shall have,
And their foule bowels shall be all thy grave.

Uncircumcised slave quoth David then,
That for thy shape, the monster art of men:
Thou thus in brasse com'st arm'd into the field,
And thy huge Speare of brasse, of brasse thy Shield:
I in the name of Israels God alone,
That more then mighty, that eternall one,
Am come to meet thee, who bids not to feare,
Nor once respect the Armes that thou dost beare.
Slave, marke the earth whereon thou now dost stand,
I'le make thy length to measure so much land,
As thou lyest groveling, and within this houre
The Birds and Beasts thy carkasse shall devoure.

In meane time David looking in his face,
Betweene his temples, saw how large a space

438

He was to hit, steps backe a yard or two,
The Gyant wondring what the Youth would doe,
Whose nimble hand, out of his Scrip doth bring
A pebble stone, and puts it in his Sling,
At which the Gyant openly doth jeere,
And as in scorne, stands leaning on his Speare,
Which gives yong David much content to see,
And to himselfe thus secretly saith he,
Stand but one minute still, stand but so fast,
And have at all Philistia at a cast.
When with such slight the shot away he sent,
That from his Sling as 't had beene Lightning went;
And him so full upon the forehead smit,
Which gave a cracke, when his thicke scalpe it hit,
As t'had bin throwne against some Rocke or Post,
That the shrill clap was heard through either host.
Staggering a while upon his Speare he leant,
Till on a sodaine, he began to faint;
When downe he came, like an old o'regrowne Oake,
His huge Roote hewne up by the Labourers stroke,
That with his very weight, he shooke the ground,
His brazen armour gave a jarring sound
Like a crackt Bell, or vessell chanc't to fall
From some high place, which did like death apall
The proud Philistians, (hopelesse that remaine)
To see their Champion great Goliah slaine:
When such a shout the host of Israel gave,
As cleft the clouds, and like to men that rave,
(O'rcome with comfort) crye, the Boy, the Boy,
O the brave David, Israels onely joy:
Gods chosen Champion, O most wondrous thing,
The great Goliah slaine with a poore Sling:
Themselves in compasse nor can they containe,
Now are they silent, then they shoute againe.
Of which no notice, David seemes to take,
But towards the Body of the dead doth make;
With a faire comely gate, nor doth he runne,
As though he gloried in what he had done.

439

But treading on th'uncircumcised dead,
With his foot, strikes the Helmet from his head;
Which with the sword, ta'n from the Gyants side,
He from the body quickly doth divide.

Now the Philistians at this fearefull sight,
Leaving their Armes, betake themselves to flight;
Quitting their Tents, nor dare a minute stay,
Time wants to carry any thing away,
Being strongly rowted with a generall feare;
Yet in pursute, Sauls Army strikes their Reare,
To Ekron walles, and slew them as they fled,
That Sharams plaines lay covered with the dead:
And having put the Philistines to foyle,
Backe to the Tents retire, and take the spoyle
Of what they left, and ransacking they cry,
A David, David, and the victory.

When straight waies Saul, his Generall Abner sent
For valiant David, that incontinent
He should repaire to Court, at whose command
He comes along, and beareth in his hand
The Gyants head, by th'long hayre of his crowne,
Which by his active knee, hung dangling downe.
And through the Army as he comes along,
To gaze upon him, the glad Souldiers throng:
Some doe instile him Israels onely light,
And other some the valiant Bethlemite.
With Conjayes all salute him as he past,
And upon him their gracious glances cast.
He was thought base of him that did not boast,
Nothing but David, David, through the host.
The Virgins to their Timbrels frame their layes,
Of him: till Saul grew jealous of his praise:
But for his meed doth to his Wife receive
Sauls lovely Daughter, where 'tis time I leave.

FINIS.