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

THE HARMONIE of the Church.

IDEA THE SHEPHEARDS GARLAND, Fashioned in nine Eglogs.

IDEAS MIRROVR.

ENDIMION and Phœbe. IDEAS LATMVS.

Peirs Gaueston EARLE OF CORNWALL.

MATILDA. The faire and chaste Daughter of the Lord Robert Fitzwater.

THE Tragicall Legend of Robert, Duke of Normandy, surnamed Short-thigh, eldest sonne to William Conqueror.

Mortimeriados. THE LAMENTABLE ciuell warres of Edward the second and the Barrons.

TO THE MAIESTIE OF KING JAMES.

A PÆAN TRIVMPHALL.

[SONNETS NOT PRINTED IN IDEAS MIRROUR, 1594, OR IN IDEA, 1619]

To the high and mighty Prince, James, King of Scots. Sonnet. 62.

[ODES NOT REPRINTED IN 1619 From Poemes Lyrick and pastorall (1606).]

II.

III.

IV.

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

iii

I. VOLUME I

THE HARMONIE of the Church.

Containing, The Spirituall Songes and holy Hymnes, of godly men, Patriarkes and Prophetes: all, sweetly sounding, to the praise and glory of the highest. Now (newlie) reduced into sundrie kinds of English Meeter: meete to be read or sung, for the solace and comfort of the godly.

TO THE GODLY AND VERTUOUS Lady, the Lady Jane Devoreux of Merivale.

THE MOST NOTABLE SONG OF MOSES,

containing Gods benefites to his people, which he taught the Children of Israell, a litle before his death: and commanded them to learne it, and teach it unto their children, as a witnesse betweene God and them. Deutronom. Chap. xxxii.

Yee Heavens above, unto my speach attend,
And Earth below, give eare unto my will:
My doctrine shall like pleasant drops discend,
My words like heavenly dew shal down distil,
Like as sweet showers refresh the hearbs again
Or as the grasse is nourish'd by the raine.

I will describe Jehovahs name aright,
And to that God give everlasting praise:
Perfect is he, a God of woondrous might,
With judgment he directeth all his waies.
He onely true, and without sinne to trust,
Righteous is he, and he is onely just.

With loathsome sinne now are you all defilde,
Not of his seed, but Bastards, basely borne:
And from his mercie therefore quite exilde,
Mischievous men, through follie all forlorne.
Is it not he which hath you dearly bought:
Proportion'd you, and made you just of nought?

Consider well the times and ages past.
Aske thy forefathers, and they shall thee tell,
That when Jehovah did devide at last,
Th'inheritance that to the Nations fel:
And seperating Adams heires, he gave
The portion, his Israell should have.

His people be the portion of the Lord,
Jacob the lot of his inheritance:
In wildernesse he hath thee not abhorr'd,
But in wild Deserts did thee still advance.
He taught thee still and had a care of thee,
And kept thee as the apple of his eie.

Like as the Eagle tricketh by her neast,
Therein to lay her litle birdes full soft,
And on her backe doth suffer them to rest,
And with her wings doth carie them aloft.
Even so the Lord with care hath nourisht thee,
And thou hast had no other God but he.

And great Jehovah giveth unto thee,
The fertilst soyle the earth did ever yeeld:
That thou all pleasure mightst beholde and see,
And tast the fruit of the most pleasant field:
Honey for thee out of the flint he brought,
And oile out of the craggie rocke he wrought.

With finest butter still he hath thee fed,
With milke of Sheep he hath thee cherished:
With fat of Lambes, and Rammes in Bazan bred,
With flesh of Goates he hath thee nourished.
With finest wheat he hath refresht thee still,
And gave thee wine, thereof to drink thy fill.

But hee that should be thankfull then for this,
Once waxing fat, began to spurne and kicke:
Thou art so crancke, and such thy grosenesse is,
That now to lust thy provender doth pricke.
That he that made thee, thou remembrest not,
And he that sav'd thee thou hast clean forgot.

With Idols they offend his gracious eies,
And by their sinne provoke him unto yre:
To devils they doo offer sacrifice,
Forsake their God, and other goddes desire.
Gods whose beginnings were but strange & new,
Whom yet their fathers never fear'd nor knew.

He which begat thee is cleane out of mind,
The God which form'd thee thou doost not regard:
The Lord to angre was therewith inclinde,
His sonnes and daughters should him so reward.
And there he vow'd his chearfull face to hide,
To see their end, and what would them betide.

For faithlesse they and froward are become,
And with no God move me to jelousie:
To angre they provoke me all and some,
And still offend me with their vanitie:
And with no people I will moove them then,
And angre them with vaine and foolish men.

For why? my wrath is kindled like the fire,
And shall descend to the infernall lake:
The earth shall be consumed in mine ire,
My flames shal make the mighty mountains quake.
With many plagues I wil them stil annoy,
And with mine arrowes I will them destroy.

With hunger, heat and with destruction,
I wil them burne, consume and overthrow:
They shal be meat for beasts to feed uppon,
The ground invenom'd whereupon they goe.
In field, in chamber stil my sword shall slay
Man, maid & child, with him whose head is gray.

And I will scatter them both far and neare,
And hence foorth make their memorie to cease,
Save that the furious enemie I feare,
And that his pride should thereby more increase.
And they should say, and foorth this rumor ring,
That they and not the Lord have done this thing.

They are a nation void of counsell quite,
To understand, there doth not one intend:
But were they wise, in it they woule delite,
And would consider of their latter end.
Can one or two put thousands to the flight,
Except the Lord do help them with his might?

For with our God their Gods may not compare,
Our foes themselves will still the same confesse:
Their Vines of Sodome and Gomorra are,
Their grapes of gaule, clusters of bitternesse.
Their wine is like to Dragons poison sure,
Or gaule of Aspes, that no man may endure.

And have not I laid up in store this thing,
Amongst my treasures doo I not it hide?
The recompence with vengeance wil I bring,
And all in time their foot awry shall slide.
For their destruction (loe) is nowe at hand,
And mischief here even at their heels doth stand.

For why? the Lord doth judge the earth alone,
And to his servants shew himselfe most kinde:
When he shall see their power is past and gone,
And none kept up in hold nor left behind.
When men shal say, let us your goddes behold,
Where be they now, whom ye so much extold?

Which oft did eat the fatted sacrifice,
And dranke the wine of the drinke offering:
Unto your helpe now let us see them rise:
Loe, I am God, and there is no such thing:
I kil, give life, I wound, make whole againe,
Out of my handes no man can ought retaine.

I lift my hands on high to heaven above,
Immortall I, and onely live for ever:
My glittering sword I sharpe for my behoove,
In righteous judgment still I doo persever.
I wil send vengeance on mine enemies,
And many plagues on them which me dispise.

Mine arrowes then of blood shal have their fill,
My sword shal eate the verie flesh of men:
For such my Saintes as they doo slay and kill,
And for the Captives they imprison then.
And when I once begin revenge to take,
From plague & vengeance then I will not slake.

Ye nations all, honour his people then,
He will revenge his servantes guiltlesse blood,
And surely plague the vile and wicked men,
Which stoutlie have against him ever stood.
He will shew mercie stil unto his land,
And on his people, brought foorth by his hand.

A SONG OF MOSES AND THE ISRAELITES, FOR THEIR DELIVERANCE OUT OF EGYPT.

The xv. Chap. of Exodus.

I will sing praise unto the Lord for aie,
Who hath triumphed gloriously alone,
The horse and rider he hath overthrowen,
And swallowed up even in the raging sea.

He is my strength, he is my song of praise,
He is the God of my salvation.
A Temple will I build to him alone,
I will exalt my fathers God alwaies.

The Lord Jehovah is a man of warre,
Pharao, his chariots, and his mightie hoste
Were by his hand in the wilde waters lost,
His Captaines drowned in red Sea so farre,

Into the bottom there they sanke like stones,
The mightie depthes our enemies devour,
Thy owne right hand is gloorious in thy power,
Thy owne right hand hath bruised al their bones.

And in thy glorie thou subverted hast
The rebels rising to resist thy power,
Thou sentst thy wrath which shall them all devour,
Even as the fire doth the stubble wast.

And with a blast out of thy nostrilles
The flowing flood stood still as any stone,
The waters were congealed all in one,
And firme and sure as any rockes or hilles.

The furious foe so vainly vaunteth stil,
And voweth to pursue with endlesse toile,
And not returne til he have got the spoile,
With fire and sword they wil destroy and kill.

Thou sentst the wind which overwhelm'd them all,
The surging seas came sousing in againe,
As in the water, so with might and maine,
Like lead, unto the bottome downe they fall.

Oh mightie Lord, who may with thee compare?
Amongst the Gods I find none like to thee:
Whose glorie's in holines, whose feares in praises be,
Whose chiefe delights in working woonders are.

Thou stretchest out thy right and holy arme,
And presently the earth did them devour:
And thou wilt bring us by thy mightie power,
As thou hast promist without further harme.

And for thy people (Lord) thou shalt provide,
A place and seat of quietnesse and rest:
The nations all with feare shall be opprest,
And Palestina quake for all her pride.

The Dukes of Edom shal hang downe the head,
The Moabites shall tremble then for feare,
The Cananites in presence shall appeare,
Like unto men whose fainting heartes were dead,

And feare and dread shall fall on them alas,
Because thou helpest with thy mighty hand:
So stil as stones amazed they shal stand,
Oh mightie Lord, while thine elect doo passe.

And thou shalt bring thy chosen and elect,
Unto the mount of thine inheritance:
A place prepared thy people to advance,
A Sanctuary there thou shalt erect,

Which thou (oh Lord) establish'd hast therefore,
And there thy name shal raigne for evermore.

THE MOST EXCELLENT SONG WHICH WAS SALOMONS,

wherein is declared the true and unfained love betweene Christ and his Church, containing, viii. Chapters.

Chap. 1.

Let him imbrace his Deare, with many a friendly kisse,
For why? thy love than any wine to me more pleasant is:
In smel thou art most like, sweet odors unto me,
Thy name like precious ointment is, so sweet as sweet may be:
Therefore the Virgins al, of thee enamored are,
Entice me on to follow thee, loe, we our selves prepare:
The King hath brought me in, to chamber richly dight,
He is my joy, his love is sweet, the good in him delight.
Ye daughters of Jerusalem, although that browne I bee,
Than Arras rich or Cedars fruits, I seemlier am to see,
Disdaine me not although I be not passing faire,
For why? the glowing sunny raies discolloured have my laire:
My mothers darlings deare, with envie swelling so,
Have me constrain'd to keep their Vine, thus I mine own forgoe.
Tell me my sweet and deare, where thou thy flocke doost feed,
Or where thy litle Lamblings rest, about midday indeed?
Els shall I walke about, all wandring like a stray,
And seeke thee after other flocks, through many an unknowne way:
If that my pathes (oh Paragon) be so unknowen to thee,
Go feed thy flock amongst the tents, wher none but shepherds be.
My true and loyal Love, I may thee well compare
To famous Pharaos horses great, which in his chariots are,
Thy cheeks bedect with precious stone, most lovely to behold,
About thy neck likewise do hang great massy chaines of gold.
Fine costlie borders for my Love, of gold we wil prepare,
With silver studs accordinglie of worke surpassing rare.
Whiles he at table sat, perfumes then did I make
Of Spicknard sweet and delicate, al for my true Loves sake:
My love more sweet than Myrrhe, between my breasts doth ly,
Or Camphere, that doth spring and grow in vine of Engady.
How faire art thou my Love, my Dove, my Darling deare,
Thine eies most like unto the Doves, in sight to me appeare.

Oh how exceeding faire, and seemly to be seene,
The bed where we together lie, is hung with pleasant greene:
The beames our house uphold, they all of Cedar be,
The reaching Rafters of the same, of Fyrre, that stately tree.

The second Chapter.

I am the fragrant Flower, of brave vermilion hue,
And Lilie in the valey low, ysprong up fresh and new:
As Lillie flower excels the thorne, or litle chyer of grasse,
So far my Love the Virgins all in beautie doth surpasse.
Or as the barren crooked stocke unto the straightest tree,
No more the sonnes unto my Love may ought compared be:
To rest by his sweet side, to mee a heavenly blisse,
The fruit that springeth from my Love, exceeding pleasant is.
To Celler he me brings, of wine aboundant store,
His love displaied over me, how can I wish for more?
Fil foorth your Flagons then, whereof the fume may flie,
Bring forth your cates to comfort me, ah me, for love I die.
His left hand clipping close, about my necke doth hold,
His right doth sweetly me imbrace, and eke my corps enfold.
I charge you by the Roes and Hinds, ye Jewish daughters all,
Not once to stir nor wake my Love, until she please to call.
But stay, me thinks this is, mine owne Loves voice I heare,
Loe, how he skips from hill to hill, loe, yon he doth appeare.
My Love is like a Roe, that frisketh in the wood,
Or like the strong and stately Hart, in prime and lusty blood.
He closely shroudes himselfe behind our wall I see,
And through the gate he dooth disclose and shew himselfe to me.
And calling then, he saith, come to thine owne my Deare,
For lo, the clouds are past and gone, the skies are christal cleare:
The flowers in the field, so faire and freshly spring,
The birds do chant with merie glee, the Turtle now doth sing:
The fig-trees bear such store, that boughs with waight are bent,
The Vines with blossoms do abound, which yeeld a sweet accent.
Come to thine owne my deare, my Darling and my Dove,
Leave thou the place of thine abode, come to thine own true love:
Let me behold thy face, most pleasant to the sight,
And heare my best beloveds voice, that most doth me delight.
Destroy the subtil Fox, that doth the grapes devoure,
For loe, behold, the time is come, the vines do bud and floure.

My Love to me is true, and I likewise his owne,
Which in the Lilles takes repast, himselfe even all alone:
Until the day doth spring, or shadowes fade away,
Be as a Roe or like the Harts, which on the mountaines play.

The third Chapter.

By night within my bed, I romed here and there,
But al in vain, I could not find my Love and friendly Fere.
Then straight waies up I rose, and searching every street
Throughout the city far and neer, but him I could not meete.
The watchmen found me tho, to whom I then can say,
Have ye not seen mine owne true Love, of late come this a way:
Then passing them, I found my Love I long had sought,
And to my mothers chamber then, my darling have I brought.
I charge you by the Roes and Hinds, this vow to me you make,
Ye Jewish daughters, not to call my Love till she doe wake.
Who's that which doth from wildernes, in mighty smoke appeare,
Like the perfumes of odors sweet, which Merchants hold so dear.
About the bed of Salomon, behold, there is a band
Of threescore valiant Israelites, which al in armour stand,
All expert men of war, with sword stil ready prest,
Least foes in night time should approch, when men suspect them least:
King Salomon hath made of Liban tree so sure,
A Pallace brave, whose pillers strong are al of silver pure:
The pavement beaten gold, the hangings purple graine,
The daughters of Jerusalem with joy to entertaine.
Ye Sion daughters, see, where Salomon is set
In Royall throan, and on his head, the princely Coronet,
Wherewith his mother first, adorn'd him (as they say)
When he in mariage linked was, even on his wedding day.

The fourth Chapter.

Behold, thou art al faire my Love, my hearts delight,
Thine eies so lovely like the Doves, appear to me in sight,
Thy haire surpassing faire and seemely to the eie,
Like to a goodly heard of Goates, on Gilead mountaine hie.
Thy teeth like new washt sheep, returning from the flood,
Whereas not one is barren found, but beareth twinnes so good.
Thy lips like scarlet thred, thy talke dooth breed delight,
Thy temples like pomgranet faire doth shew to me in sight.

Thy necke like Davids Tower, which for defence doth stand,
Wherein the shieldes and targets be, of men of mightie hand.
Thy brests like twinned Roes, in prime and youthfull age,
Which feed among the Lillies sweet, their hunger to asswage.
Until the day doe spring, and night be banisht hence:
I will ascend into the mount of Myrrhe and Frankensence.
Thou art all faire my Love, most seemly eke to see,
From head to foot, from top to toe, there is no spot in thee.
Come downe from Libanon, from Libanon above,
And from Amanahs mountain hie, come to thine own true love.
From Shevers stately top, from Hermon hil so hie,
From Lions dens & from the cliffes, where lurking Leopards lie.
My Spouse and sister deare, thy love hath wounded me,
Thy lovely eie and seemly neck, hath made me yeeld to thee.
Thy love far better is, than any wine to me,
Thy odors sweet doth far surpasse, the smell where spices be.
Thy lips like hony combe, under thy tongue doth lie
The honey sweet: thy garments smel, like Libanon on hie.
My Spouse a garden is, fast under locke and kay,
Or like a Fountaine closely kept, where sealed is the way.
Like to a pleasant plot I may thee well compare,
Where Camphere, Spicknard, dainty fruits, with sweet Pomgranets are.
Even Spicknard, Saffron, Calamus & Synamon do growe,
With Incense, Myrrhe and Alloes, with many spices moe.
Oh Fountaine passing pure, oh Well of life most deare.
Oh Spring of loftie Libanon, of water christal cleare.
Ye North and Southern winds upon my garden blow,
That the sweet spice that is therein, on every side may flow.
Unto his garden place, my Love for his repast
Shall walke, and of the fruites therein, shal take a pleasant tast.

The fift Chapter.

Within my garden plot, loe, I am present now,
I gathered have the Myrrhe & spice, that in aboundance growe:
With honey, milke and wine, I have refresht me here.
Eat, drink my friends, be mery there, with harty friendly cheare.
Although in slumbering sleepe, it seemes to you I lay,
Yet heare I my beloved knock, me thinks I heare him say,
Open to me the gate my Love, my hearts delight,
For loe, my locks are all bedewed with drizling drops of night.

My garments are put off, then may I not doo so,
Shal I defile my feet I washt, so white as any snow.
Then fast even by the dore to me he shew'd his hand,
My heart was then enamoured, when as I saw him stand.
Then straight waies up I rose, to ope the dore with speed,
My handes and fingers dropped Myrrhe, upon the bar indeed.
Then opened I the dore, unto my Love at last,
But all in vaine, for why? before, my Love was gone and past.
There sought I for my love, then could I crie and call,
But him I could not find, nor he, nould answer me at all.
The watchmen found me then, as thus I walk'd astray,
They wounded me, and from my head, my vaile they took away.
Ye daughters of Jerusalem, if ye my Love doo see,
Tell him that I am sicke for love, yea, tel him this from me.
Thou peerelesse Gem of price, I pray thee to us tell,
What is thy Love, what may he be, that doth so far excell?
In my beloveds face, the Rose and Lilly strive,
Among ten thousand men not one, is found so faire alive.
His head like finest gold, with secret sweet perfume,
His curled locks hang all as black, as any Ravens plume.
His eies be like to Doves, on Rivers banks below,
Ywasht with milk, whose collours are, most gallant to the show.
His cheeks like to a plot, where spice and flowers growe,
His lips like to the Lilly white, from whence pure Myrrh doth flow,
His hands like rings of gold, with costly Chrisalet,
His belly like the Yvory white, with seemly Saphyrs set.
His legs like Pillers strong, of Marble set in gold,
His countenance like Libanon, or Cedars to behold.
His mouth it is as sweet, yea, sweet as sweet may be,
This is my Love, ye Virgins loe, even such a one is he.
Thou fairest of us al, whether is thy Lover gone,
Tel us, and we will goe with thee, thou shalt not goe alone.

The sixt Chapter.

Downe to his garden place, mine own true Love is gone,
Among the Spice and Lillies sweet, to walke himselfe alone.
True am I to my Love, and he my loving make,
Which in the Lillies makes abode, and doth his pleasure take,
With Tirzah or Jerusalem, thy beautie may be waide,
In shew like to an Armie great, whose Ensignes are displaid.

Oh turne away thine eies, for they have wounded me,
Thy haires are like a heard of Goats, on Gilead mount that be,
Thy teeth like new washt sheep, returning from the flood,
Whereas not one is barren found, but beareth twins a good,
The temples of thy head, within thy locks to showe,
Are like to the Pomgranet fruit, that in the Orchards grow.
Of Concubines four score there are, of Queens twice treble ten,
Of Virgins for the multitude, not to be numbred then.
But yet my Dove alone, and undefiled Fere,
Her mothers only daughter is, to her exceeding deare.
The Virgins saw my Love, and they have lik'd her well,
The Queens and eke the Concubines, they say she doth excell.
Who's she I doo behold, so like the morning cleare,
Or like the Moon, when towards the ful, in pride she doth appear,
Bright as the radiant raies, that from the Sun descend,
Or like an Army terrible, when Ensignes they extend.
Unto the nuts downe will I goe, and fruitfull valeyes lowe,
To see if that the Vine doo bud, and the Pomgranets growe.
My selfe I know not I, ne nothing knew I then,
Let me be like a chariot, even of thy noble men.
Return againe, oh make returne, thou Shulamite so deare,
Let us enjoy thy company, I pray thee sojorne here.
What see you in the Shulamite, in her what may you see,
But like a troupe of warlike men that in the armies be.

The seventh Chapter.

How stately are thy steps with brave and lofty pace,
Thou daintie princesse, darling deare, with comely gallant grace.
The joints of thy fair thighs, the which so straight do stand,
Are like to curious jewels wrought, by cunning workmans hand.
Thy navell like a goblet is, which stil with wine doth flowe,
Thy belly like an heape of wheat, about which, Lillies growe.
Thy breasts I may compare like to two litle Roes,
Which follow on their mothers steps, when forth to feed she goes.
Thy necke like to a Tower, of costly Ivory fram'd,
Thine eies like Heshbon waters clear, by that Bathrabbin nam'd.
Thy nose like Libanon Tower, most seemly to the eie,
Which towards Damascus citie faire, that stately town doth ly.
Thy head like Scarlet red, thy haire of purple hue,
The King in thee doth take delight, as in his Lady true.

How faire art thou my Love, and seemly to the sight,
The pleasures that abound in thee, they are my chiefe delight:
Thy stature like the Palme, the tall and straightest tree,
Thy brests, the which do thee adorne, most like to clusters be.
Upon the pleasant palme, I said I wil take holde,
And rest upon her pleasant boughes, I said I wil be bolde.
Thy breasts are like a bunch of grapes, on the most fruitful vine,
Thy nose in smel like to the fruit, of al most pure and fine.
The roofe of thy sweet mouth, like purest wine doth tast,
Which makes the very aged lagh, forgetting sorrowes past.
I am unto my Love, a faithfull friendly Fere,
And he is likewise unto me, most tender and most deare.
Goe we into the field, to sport us in the plaine,
And in the pleasant villages (my Love) let us remaine.
Then early will we rise and see, if that the vine do flourish,
And if the earth accordingly do the Pomgranets nourish.
I feele the Mandrakes smell, within our gates that be:
The sweetest things both new & olde (my Love) I kept for thee.

The eight Chapter.

Oh that thou weart my brother borne, that suckt my mothers breast:
Then sweetly would I kisse thy lippes, and by thee take my rest.
Unto my mothers closet sure, mine own Love will I bring,
And be obedient unto him in every kind of thing.
There wil I give to thee (my Love) the daintie spiced wine,
And pleasant liquor that distils from the Pomgranet fine.
With his left hand he shal support, and eke my head upreare,
And with the right most lovingly he shal imbrace his deare.
Ye daughters of Jerusalem, doo not my Love disease,
But suffer her to take her rest, so long as she shall please.
Who's that which from the wildernes, yon commeth from above,
And in this sort familiarly dooth leane upon her Love:
Under a pleasant aple tree, from whence like fruit doth spring,
Thy mother first conceived thee, even forth which did thee bring.
Let it be like a privie seale, within thy secret heart,
Or like a Signet on thy hand, thy secrets to impart:
For jealousie is like the grave, and love more strong than death,
From whose hot brands ther doth proceed a flaming fiery breath:
The flouds cannot alay his heat, nor water quench his flame,
Neither the greatest treasure, can countervaile the same.

Our litle sister hath no breasts, what shal we doo or say,
When we shal give her to her Spouse, upon her wedding day?
If that she be a wall, on that foundation sure,
A princely pallace wil we build, of silver passing pure.
And if she be a doore, she shall inclosed be
With brave and goodly squared boords, of the fine Cedar tree.
I am a mightie wall, my breasts like Towers hie,
Then am I passing beautifull in my beloveds eie.
King Salomon a vinyard had, in faire Baalhamon field,
Each one in silver yeerely dooth, a thousand peeces yeeld,
But yet my vineyard (Salomon) thy vine doth far excell,
For fruit and goodnes of the same, thou know'st it very wel.
A thousand silver peeces are, even yearely due to me,
Two thousand likewise unto them, the which her keepers be.
Oh thou that in the garden dwell'st, learne me thy voice to know,
That I may listen to the same, as thy companions doo.
Flie my beloved hence away, and be thou like the Roe,
Or as the Hart on mountaine tops, wheron sweet spices growe.

THE SONG OF ANNAH, for the bringing foorth of Samuel her sonne.

The second Chap. of the first booke of Samuel.

My heart doth in the Lord rejoice, that living Lord of might,
Which doth his servants horn exalt, in al his peoples sight.
I wil rejoice in their despight, which erst have me abhord,
Because that my salvation dependeth on the Lord.
None is so holie as the Lord, besides thee none htere are:
With our God there is no God, that may himselfe compare.
See that no more presumptuously, ye neither boast nor vaunt,
Nor yet unseemly speak such things, so proud and arrogant.
For why? the counsell of the Lord, in depth cannot be sought,
Our enterprises and our actes, by him to passe are brought.
The bowe is broke, the mightie ones subverted are at length,
And they which weake and feeble were, increased are in strength:
They that were ful & had great store, with labor buy their bread,
And they which hungrie were & poore, with plenty now are fed.
So that the womb which barren was, hath many children born,
And she which store of children had, is left now all for orne.
The Lord doth kill and make alive, his judgments all are just,

He throweth downe into the grave, and raiseth from the dust.
The Lord doth make both rich & poore, he al our thoughts doth trie.
He bringeth low & eke againe, exalteth up on hie.
He raiseth up the simple soule, whom men pursude with hate,
To sit amongst the mightie ones, in chaire of princely state.
For why? the pillers of the earth, he placed with his hand,
Whose mighty strength doth stil support, the waight of al the land.
He wil preserve his Saints likewise, the wicked men at length
He wil confound: let no man seem, to glory in his strength.
The enemies of God the Lord, shal be destroied all,
From heaven he shal thunder send, that on their heads shal fall.
The mightie Lord shall judge the world, & give his power alone
Unto the King, and shal exalt his owne annointed one.

THE SONG OF JONAH IN THE WHALES BELLIE.

In the second Chap. of Jonah.

In griefe and anguish of my heart, my voice I did extend,
Unto the Lord, and he therto, a willing eare did lend:
Even from the deep and darkest pit, & the infernall lake,
To me he hath bow'd down his eare, for his great mercies sake.
For thou into the middest, of surging seas so deepe
Hast cast me foorth: whose bottom is, so low & woondrous steep.
Whose mighty wallowing waves, which from the floods do flow,
Have with their power up swallowed me, & overwhelm'd me tho.
Then said I, loe, I am exilde, from presence of thy face,
Yet wil I once againe behold, thy house and dwelling place.
The waters have encompast me, the floods inclosde me round,
The weeds have sore encombred me, which in the seas abound.
Unto the valeyes down I went, beneath the hils which stand,
The earth hath there environ'd me, with force of al the land.
Yet hast thou stil preserved me, from al these dangers here,
And brought my life out of the pit, oh Lord my God so deare.
My soule consuming thus with care, I praied unto the Lord,
And he from out his holie place, heard me with one accord.
Who to vain lieng vanities doth whollie him betake,
Doth erre also, Gods mercie he, doth utterly forsake.
But I wil offer unto him the sacrifice of praise,
And pay my vowes, ascribing thanks unto the Lord alwaies.

THE PRAIER OF JEREMIAH, bewailing the captivitie of the people.

In the fift Chap. of his Lamentations.

Cal unto mind oh mightie Lord, the wrongs we daily take,
Consider and behold the same, for thy great mercies sake.
Our lands & our inheritance, meere strangers do possesse,
The alients in our houses dwel, and we without redresse.
We now (alas) are fatherlesse, & stil pursude with hate,
Our mourning mothers nowe remaine in wofull widdowes state.
We buy the water which we drink, such is our grievous want,
Likewise the wood even for our use, that we our selves did plant.
Our neckes are subject to the yoke, of persecutions thrall,
We wearied out with cruell toile, and find no rest at all:
Afore time we in Egypt land, and in Assyria served,
For food our hunger to sustaine, least that we should have sterved:
Our fathers which are dead & gone, have sinned wondrous sore,
And we now scourg'd for their offence, ah, woe are we therefore.
Those servile slaves which bondmen be, of them in fear we stand,
Yet no man doth deliver us, from cruel Caitives hand.
Our livings we are forc'd to get, in perils of our lives,
The drie and barren wildernesse therto by danger drives.
Our skins be scortcht as though they had, bin in an oven dride,
With famine, and the penury, which here we doo abide.
Our wives and maides defloured are, by violence and force,
On Sion, and in Juda land, sans pity or remorce.
Our kings by cruel enimies, with cordes are hanged up,
Our gravest, sage and ancient men, have tasted of that cup.
Our yoong men they have put to sword, not one at al they spare,
Our litle boyes upon the tree, sans pitie hanged are.
Our elders sitting in the gates, can now no more be found,
Our youth leave off to take delight, in musicks sacred sound.
The joy and comfort of our heart, away is fled and gone,
Our solace is with sorrow mixt, our mirth is turn'd to mone.
Our glory now is laid full low, and buried in the ground,
Our sins ful sore do burthen us, whose greatnes doth abound.
Oh holy blessed Sion hill, my heart is woe for thee,
Mine eies poure foorth a flood of teares, this dismal day to see,
Which art destroied and now lieth wast, from sacred use & trade,

Thy holie place is now a den, of filthy Foxes made.
But thou the everliving Lord, which doost remaine for aye,
Whose seat above the firmament, full sure and still doth stay.
Wherefore dost thou forsake thine owne? shal we forgotten be?
Turne us good Lord, and so we shall be turned unto thee.
Lord cal us home from our exile, to place of our abode,
Thou long inough hast punisht us, oh Lord, now spare thy rod.

THE SONG OF DEBORAH AND BARACKE.

The fift Chap. of Judges.

Praise ye the Lord, the which revenge on Israels wrongs doth take:
Likewise for those which offered up themselves for Israels sake.
Heare this, ye kings, ye princes al, give eare with one accord,
I wil give thanks, yea sing the praise, of Israels living Lord.
When thou departedst (Lord) from Seir, and out of Edom field,
The earth gan quake, the heavens rain, the cloudes their water yeeld.
The mountains hie before the Lord, have melted every del,
As Synay did in presence of, the Lord of Israell.
In time of Sangar, Anaths sonne, and in old Jaels daies,
The paths were al unoccupied, men sought forth unknown waies.
The townes & cities there lay wast, and to decay they fel,
Til Deborah, a matrone grave, became in Israell.
They chose them gods, then garboils did, within their gates abound,
A spear or shield in Israel, there was not to be found.
In those which govern Israel, my heart doth take delight,
And in the valiant people there, oh, praise the Lord of might.
Speak ye that on white Asses ride, & that by Midden dwell,
And ye that daily trade the waies, see forth your minds you tell.
The clattering noise of archers shot, when as the arrowes flew,
Appeased was amongst the sort, which water daily drew.
The righteousnesse of God the Lord, shal be declared there,
And likewise Israels righteousnes, which worship him in feare.
The people with rejoicing hearts, then all with one consent:
I mean the Lords inheritance, unto the gates they went:
Deborah up, arise and sing, a sweet and worthy song,
Baracke, lead them as Captives forth, which unto thee belong.
For they which at this day remaine, do rule like Lords alone,
The Lord over the mightie ones, gives me dominion.
The roots of Ephraim arose, gainst Amalecke to fight,

And so likewise did Benjamin, with all their power and might.
From Macher came a company, which chiefest sway did beare,
From Zebulon, which cunning clarks, & famous writers were.
The kings which came of Isacher were with Deborah tho,
Yea Isacher and Barack both attend on her also.
He was dismounted in the vale, for the devisions sake,
Of Ruben the people there, great lamentation make.
Gilead by Jorden made abode, and Dan on ship boord lay,
And Asher in the Desart he, upon the shore doth stay.
They of Zebulon and Nepthaly, like worthy valiant wightes,
Before their foes even in the field, advanc'd themselves in fight.
The kings themselves in person fought: the kings of Canaan,
In Tanach plaine, wheras the streame, of swift Megido ran.
No pay, no hyer, ne coine at all, not one did seem to take,
They served not for greedy gain, nor filthy lucre sake.
The heavens hy & heavenly powers, these things to passe have brought,
The stars against proud Sisera, even in their course have fought.
The stream of Kishons ancient brook, hath overwhelm'd them there,
My soule, sith thou hast done thy part, be now of harty cheare.
The hardened hooves of barbed horse, were al in peeces broke,
By force of mightie men which met, with many a sturdy stroke.
The Angel hath pronounc'd a curse, which shal on Meroz fall,
And those that doo inhabite there, a curse light on them all.
Because they put not forth their hands to help the living Lord,
Against the proud and mighty ones, which have his truth abhord.
Jaell the Kenit Hebers wife, most happy shal be blest,
Above al other women there, which in the tents do rest.
He asked water for to drink, she gave sweet milk to him,
Yea butter in a lordly dish, which was full tricke and trim.
Her left hand to the naile she put, her right the hammer wrought,
Wherewith presumptuous Sisera unto his death she brought.
And from his corps his head she cut, with mortal deadly wound,
When through the temples of his head, she naild him to the ground.
He bowed then unto the earth, and at her feet can fall,
And where he fell there still he lay, bereav'd of sences all.
The mother then of Sisera, in window where she lay,
Doth marveil much that this her sonne doth make so long a stay.
Her Ladies then, they hearing that, make answer by and by.
Yea, to her speaches past before, her selfe doth this replie:
Hath he not gotten mightie spoiles, and now division makes,

Each one a Damosell hath or twaine, which he as captive takes.
Sisera of costly coloured robes, ful rich, with needle wrought,
Hath got a pray, which unto him, as chiefest spoiles are brought.
So let thine enemies (O Lord) sustaine and suffer blame,
And let thy chosen blessed ones, that love and feare thy name,
Be like the Son, when in the morne, his glorie doth increase:
Or like the land, which many a yeare, hath bin in rest and peace.

AN OTHER SONG OF THE FAITHFULL, FOR THE MERCIES OF GOD.

In the xii. Chap. of the prophesie of Isaiah.

Oh living Lord, I still will laude thy name,
for though thou wert offended once with me:
Thy heavy wrath is turn'd from me againe,
and graciously thou now doost comfort mee.

Behold, the Lord is my salvation,
I trust in him, and feare not any power:
He is my song, the strength I leane upon,
the Lord God is my loving Saviour.

Therefore with joy out of the well of life,
draw foorth sweet water, which it dooth affoord:
And in the day of trouble and of strife,
cal on the name of God the living Lord.

Extol his works and woonders to the sunne,
unto al people let his praise be showne:
Record in song the mervails he hath done,
and let his glorie through the world be blowne.

Crie out aloud and shout on Sion hill,
I give thee charge that this proclaimed be:
The great and mightie king of Israell,
now onely dwelleth in the midst of thee.

A SONG OF THE FAITHFULL.

In the third Chap. of the prophesie of Habacucke.

Lord, at thy voice, my heart for feare hath trembled,
Unto the world (Lord) let thy workes be showen:
In these our daies now let thy power be knowen,
And yet in wrath let mercie be remembred.

From Teman loe, our God you may behold,
The holie one from Paran mount so hie:
His glorie hath cleane covered the Skie,
And in the earth his praises be inrolde.

His shining was more clearer than the light,
And from his hands a fulnesse did proceed,
Which did contain his wrath and power indeed.
Consuming plagues and fire were in his sight.

He stood aloft and compassed the land,
And of the Nations doth defusion make,
The mountains rent, the hilles for feare did quake,
His unknown pathes no man may understand.

The Morians tentes even for their wickednes,
I might behold the land of Midian:
Amaz'd and trembling like unto a man,
Forsaken quite, and left in great distresse:

What, did the rivers move the Lord to ire?
Or did the floods his Majesty displease:
Or was the Lord offended with the seas,
That thou camest forth in chariot hot as fire.

Thy force and power thou freely didst relate,
Unto the tribes thy oath doth surely stand,
And by thy strength thou didst devide the land,
And from the earth the rivers seperate.

The mountaines saw, and trembled for feare,
The sturdy streame, with speed foorth passed by,
The mighty depthes shout out a hideous crie,
And then aloft their waves they did upreare.

The Sun and Moon amid their course stood still,
Thy speares and arrowes forth with shining went,
Thou spoilest the land, being to anger bent,
And in displeasure thou didst slay and kill.

Thou wentest foorth for thine owne chosens sake,
For the savegard of thine annointed one:
The house of wicked men is overthrowne,
And their foundations now goe all to wracke.

Their townes thou strikest by thy mightie power,
With their own weapons, made for their defence:
Who like a whyrl-wind came with the pretence,
The poore and simple man quite to devoure.

Thou madest thy horse on seas to gallop fast.
Upon the waves thou ridest here and there:
My intrals trembled then for verie feare,
And at thy voice, my lips shooke at the last.

Griefe pierc'd my bones, and feare did me annoy,
In time of trouble, where I might find rest:
For to revenge, when once the Lord is prest,
With plagues he wil the people quite destroy.

The fig-tree now no more shall sprout nor flourish,
The pleasant vine no more with grapes abound:
No pleasure in the citie shall be found:
The field no more her fruit shal feed nor nourish.

The sheep shall now be taken from the fold,
In stall of Bullocks there shall be no choice.
Yet in the Lord my Saviour I rejoice,
My hope in God yet wil I surely hold.

God is my strength, the Lord my only stay,
My feet for swiftnesse, it is he will make
Like to the Hinds, who none in course can take:
Upon high places he will make me way.

A SONG OF THANKES TO GOD, in that hee sheweth himselfe Judge of the world, in punishing the wicked, and maintaining the godlie.

In the xxv. Chap. of the prophesie of Isaiah.

Oh Lord my God, with praise I wil persever,
Thy blessed name in song I wil record:
For the great wonders thou hast done O lord,
Thy trueth and counsels have bene certain ever.

A mightie citie thou makest ruinat.
The strongest townes thou bringest to decay:
A place where strangers usually do stay,
And shall not be reduc'd to former state.

The proudest people therefore stoupe to thee,
The strongest cities have thee still in feare:
Thou strengthnest the poore man in dispaire:
And helpest the needie in necessitie.

Thou art a sure refuge against a shower,
A shadow which doth from the heat defend:
The raging blasts the mighty forth doth send,
Is like a storme which shakes the stateliest tower.

Thou shalt abate the forraine strangers pride,
Like as the heat doth drie the moistest place,
The glorie of the proud thou shalt deface,
Like as the cloudes the sunny beames doo hide.

The Lord of hostes shal in this mount provide,
And to his people here shal make a feast,
Of fatted things and dainties of the best,
Of Marrow and wines finely purified.

And in this Mountaine by his mightie hand,
That same dark cloud the Lord wil cleane destroy,
Even with the vaile which doth his folke annoy.
And death no more before his face shall stand.

The Lord will wipe out of his chosens eies,
The teares which doo their faces so distaine:
And their rebuke shal now no more remaine,
Thus saith the Lord, these be his promises.

And men shal say (then) loe, this same is he,
This is our God, on whom we did attend,
This is the Lord that will us stil defend,
We will be glad and joyfull (Lord) in thee.

Thy hand (oh Lord) here in this mount shall rest,
And cursed Moab shall by thee be beaten,
As in thy judgment thou of long doost threaten,
As in Mamena straw of men is thresht.

And over them the Lord his hand shal holde,
As he that swimmeth, stretcheth him at length,
And by his power and by his mighty strength,
The proud and stout by him shal be controlde.

Thy highest walles and towers of all thy trust,
He shall bring downe and lay them all full lowe,
Unto the ground his hand shall make them bow,
And lay thy pride and glorie in the dust.

AN OTHER SONG OF THE FAITHFULL, wherein is declared in what consisteth the salvation of the Church.

In the xxvi. Chap. of the prophesie of Isaiah.

And in that day, this same shal be our song,
In Juda land this shall be sung and said,
We have a citie which is woondrous strong,
And for the walles, the Lord himself our aid.

Open the gates, yea set them open wide,
And let the godly and the righteous passe:
Yea let them enter, and therein abide,
Which keepe his lawes, and do his trueth imbrace:

And in thy judgment thou wilt sure preserve,
In perfect peace those which doo trust in thee:
Trust in the Lord, which dooth all trust deserve,
He is thy strength, and none but onelie he.

He will bring downe the proud that looke so hie,
The stateliest buildings he wil soone abase:
And make them even with the ground to lie,
And unto dust he will their pride deface.

It shall be troden to the verie ground,
The poore and needy downe the same shal tread:
The just mans way in righteousnes is found,
Into a path most plaine thou wilt him lead.

But we have waited long for thee, oh Lord
And in thy way of judgment we do rest:
Our soules doth joy thy name still to record,
And thy remembrance doth content us best.

My soule hath long'd for thee (oh Lord) by night,
And in the morn my spirit for thee hath sought:
Thy judgments to the earth give such a light,
As al the world by them thy trueth is taught.

But shew thy mercie to the wicked man,
He wil not learne thy righteousnes, to know,
His chiefe delight is still to curse and ban,
And unto thee, himselfe he will not bow.

They doo not once at all regard thy power,
Thy peoples zeale shall let them see their shame,
But with a fire thou shalt thy foes devoure,
And cleane consume them with a burning flame.

With peace thou wilt preserve us (Lord) alone,
For thou hast wrought great woonders for our sake
And other Gods beside thee have we none:
Only in thee we all our comfort take.

The dead and such as sleep within the grave,
Shal give no glorie, nor yeeld praise to thee:
Which here on earth no place nor being have,
And thou hast rooted out of memorie.

Oh Lord thou doost this nation multiply,
Thou Lord hast blest this nation with increase:
Thou art most glorious in thy majesty,
Thou hast inlarg'd the earth with perfect peace.

We cride to thee, and oft our hands did wring,
When we have seen thee bent to punishment.
Like to a woman in childbyrth traveiling,
Even so in paine we mourne and doo lament.

We have conceiv'd and laboured with paine,
But only wind at last we forth have brought:
Upon the earth no hope there doth remaine,
The wicked world likewise availes us nought.

The dead shal live, and such as sleep in grave
With their own bodies once shal rise againe:
Sing ye, that in the dust your dwelling have,
The earth no more her bodies shall retaine.

Come, come my people to my chamber here,
And shut the doores up surely after thee:
Hide thou thy selfe, and doo not once appeare,
Nor let thine eies mine indignation see.

For from above the Lord is now dispos'd
To scourge the sinnes that in the world remaine:
His servants blood in earth shal be disclosde,
And she shal now yeeld up her people slaine.

Finis.

HEREAFTER FOLLOWE CERTAIN OTHER SONGS AND PRAIERS of godly men and women, out of the Bookes of Apocripha.

THE PRAIER OF JUDITH, FOR THE DELIVERANCE OF THE PEOPLE.

In the ix. Chap. of the book of Judith.

Oh Lord, the God of Simeon, my soveraigne Father deare:
To whom thou gavest strength and might, the sword in hand to beare,
To take revenge on those which first, the maidens wombe did tame,
And spoiled her virginitie, with great reproch and shame.
For which offence, thou gavest up, their princes to be slaine,
So that their wounds with gory blood, their beds did all distain.
Their servants with their lords ech one, have felt thy wrath alike,
Who sitting in their roial seat, thou sparest not to strike.
Their wives, their daughters, & their goods, thou gav'st for thy behove
As prais, as captives, & as spoiles, to those whom thou didst love.
Who moov'd with zeale, could not abide, their blood defil'd to see,
Then heare me Lord, a widow poore, which here do cal to thee.
Things past, & things not yet discern'd, thy providence hath wrought,
Things present & the things to come, by thee to passe are brought.
Each thing is present at thy call, thy wisdome doth devise,
Thy secret judgments long before, thy knowledge doth comprise.
Th'Assirians now in multitude, a mighty number are,
Whose horsmen on their barbed horse, themselves to war prepare.
Their hope in footmen doth consist, in sling, in speare and shield,
They know not thee to be the Lord, whose force doth win the field.
Let all their force, their strength & power, be by thy might abated,
Who vow thy Temple to defile, which thou hast consecrated.
Yea, to pollute thy Tabernacle, thy house and holy place,
And with their instruments of war, thine Altars to deface.
Behold their pride, and poure on them, thy wrath and heavy yre,
And strength my hand to execute, the thing I now desire.
Smite thou the servant and the Lord, as they together stand,
Abate their glory and their pride, even by a womans hand.
For in the greatest multitude, thou takest not delight,
Nor in the strong and valiant men consisteth not thy might.
But to the humble, lowly, meeke, the succourlesse and poore,
Thou art a help, defence, refuge, and loving saviour,
My father in thy name did trust, O Israels Lord most deare,
Of heaven, of earth, of sea and land, doo thou my praier heare.

Grant thou me wit, sleight, power, strength, to wound them which advance
Themselves over thy Sion hil, & thine inheritance.
Declare to nations far and neare, and let them know ful well,
Thou art the Lord, whose power & strength, defendeth Israell.

THE SONG OF JUDITH, HAVING SLAINE HOLOPHERNES.

In the xvi. Chap. of the book of Judith.

Tune up the Timbrels then with laud unto the Lord,
Sound foorth his praise on Simbals loud, with songs of one accord,
Declare & shew his praise, also his name rehearse,
In song of thankes exactly pend, of sweet and noble verse.
The Lord he ceaseth warres, even he the verie same,
Tis he that doth appease all strife, Jehovah is his name.
The which hath pitcht his tent, our surest strength and aide,
Amongst us here, least that our foes, shuld make us once dismaid.
From northern mountain tops, proud Assur came a downe,
With warlike men a multitude, of famous high renowme.
Whose footmen stopt the streams, where rivers woont to flowe,
And horsmen covered all the vales, that lay the hilles belowe.
His purpose was for to destroy my land, with sword and fire,
To put my yongmen to the sword, did thirst with hot desire.
My children to captivitie, he would have borne away,
My virgins so by rape and force, as spoiles and chiefest pray,
But yet the high and mighty Lord, his people doth defend,
And by a silly womans hand, hath brought him to his end.
For why? their mightie men, with Armes were not subdude,
Nor with their blood our yoong mens hands, were not at al imbrude.
No, none of Titans line, this proud Assirian slue,
Nor any Gyants aid we crav'd, this souldier to subdue.
But Judith she alone, Meraris daughter deere,
Whose heavenly hue hath bred his baine, and brought him to his beere.
She left her mourning weed, and deckt her selfe with gold,
In royall robes of seemly showe, all Israell to behold.
With odors she perfum'd her selfe, after the queintest guise,
Her haire with fillet finely bound, as Art could wel devise.
Her slippers neat and trim, his eies and fancie fed,

Her beautie hath bewitcht his mind, her sword cut off his head.
The Perseans were amaz'd, her modestie was such,
The Medes at her bold enterprise, they marveiled as much.
Amongst th'Assyrians then, great clamors can arise,
When as the fact so lately done, apear'd before their eies.
The sons which erst my daughters have, even on their bodies born
Have slaine them as they fled in chace, as men so quite forlorne.
Even at the presence of the Lord, the stoutest turn'd his backe,
His power did so astonish them, that al things went to wracke.
A song now let us sing, of thankes unto the Lord,
Yea, in a song of pleasant tune, let us his praise record.
Oh God, thou mightie Lord, who is there like to thee,
In strength and power, to thee oh Lord, none may compared be.
Thy creatures all obey, and serve thee in their trade,
For thou no sooner spakst the word, but every thing was made.
Thou sentest foorth the spirit, which did thy worke fulfill,
And nothing can withstand thy voice, but listen to thy will.
The mountains shal remove, wher their foundation lay,
Likewise the floods, the craggy rocks, like wax shal melt away.
But they that feare the Lord, and in him put their trust,
Those will he love and stil impute, amongst the good and just:
But woe be those that seeke, his chosen flocks decay,
The Lord God wil revenge their wrongs, at the last judgement day,
For he such quenchlesse fire, and gnawing wormes shal send,
Into their flesh, as shal consume, them world without an end.

A PRAIER OF THE AUTHOUR.

In the xxiii. Chap. of Ecclesiasticus.

Lord of my life, my guide and governour,
Father, of thee this one thing I require,
Thou wilt not leave me to the wicked power,
Which seeke my fall, and stil my death desire.

Oh, who is he that shall instruct my thought,
And so with wisdom shall inspire my heart:
In ignorance that nothing may be wrought
By me with them whose sinne shall not depart.

Least that mine errors growe and multiplie,
And to destruction through my sinnes I fall:
My foes rejoice at my adversitie,
Who in thy mercie have no hope at all.

My Lord and God, from whom my life I tooke,
Unto the wicked leave me not a pray:
A haughty mind, a proud disdainfull looke,
From me thy Servant take thou cleane away.

Vaine hope likewise, with vile concupiscence,
Lord of thy mercie take thou cleane from me:
Retaine thou him in true obedience,
Who with desire daily serveth thee.

Let not desire to please the greedy mawe,
Or appetite of any fleshly lust:
Thy servant from his loving Lord withdraw,
But give thou me a mind both good and just.

THE PRAIER OF SALOMON.

In the ix. Chap. of the book of Wisdome.

Oh God of our forefathers all, of mercie thou the Lord:
Which heaven and earth, and al thinges els, createdst with thy word.
And by thy wisdome madest man, like to thy selfe alone,
And gavest him over thy workes, the chiefe dominion.
That he shoud rule upon the earth, with equity and right,
And that his judgments should be pure, and upright in thy sight.
Give me that wisdome, which about, thy sacred throne doth stay,
And from amongst thine own elect (Lord) put me not away.
For I thy servant am, and of thy handmaid borne,
A sillie soule, whose life alas, is short and all forlorne.
And do not understand at all, what ought to be my guide,
I mean thy statutes and thy lawes, least that I slip aside.
For though a man in worldly things, for wisdome be esteem'd,
Yet if thy wisdom want in him, his, is but folly deem'd.
Thou chosest me to be a King, to sit on royall throne,
To judge the folk which thou of right, dost chalenge for thy own.
Thou hast commanded me to build, a Temple on thy hill,
And Altar in the self same place, where thou thy selfe doost dwel.
Even like unto thy Tabernacle, in each kind of respect,
A thing most holy, which at first, thy selfe thou didst erect.
Thy wisdome being stil with thee, which understands thy trade,
When as thou framedst first the world, and her foundation laid.
Which knew the thing that most of all, was pleasant in thy sight,
Thy wil and thy commandements, wherein thou takst delight.
Send her down from that heavenly seat, wheras she doth abide,
That she may shew to me thy will, and be my onely guide.
For she dooth know and understand, yea, al things doth foresee,
And by her works and mighty power, I shall preserved bee.
Then shal my works accepted be, and liked in thy sight,
When I upon my fathers throne, shall judge thy folke aright.
Who knoweth the counsell of the Lord, his deep and secret skil,
Or who may search into his works, or know his holy will?
For why? the thoughts of mortal men, are nothing els but care,
Their forecasts and devises all, things most uncertaine are.
The bodie is unto the soule, a waight and burthen great,

The earthly house depresseth down, the mind with cares repleat. Salomons
The things which here on earth remain, we hardly can discern, Praier
To find their secret use and trade, with labor great we learne.
For who doth search or seek to know, with traveill & with care,
The secrets of the mightie Lord, which hie in heaven are.
Who can thy counsels understand, except thou doo impart
Thy wisdome, and thy holy spirit doost send into his heart?
For so the waies of mortal men, reformed are and taught,
The things that most delighteth thee, which wisdom forth have brought.

A SONG OF JHESUS THE SONNE OF SIRACH.

In the last Chap. of Ecclesiasticus.

I will confesse thy name O Lord,
And give thee praise with one accord:
My God, my King, and Saviour,
Unto thy name be thankes and power.

I have bene succoured by thee,
And thou hast still preserved me:
And from destruction kept me long,
And from report of slaunderous tongue.

From lips stil exercisde with lies,
And from my cruell enemies,
Thou me in mercie doost deliver,
Thy blessed name be praisde for ever.

From monsters, that would me devoure,
From cruell tyrants, and their power:
In all affliction paine and griefe,
Thou succourest me with some reliefe.

From the cruell burning flame,
Poore I inclosde within the same:
From the deepe infernall pit,
From venom'd tongues that poison spit.

From speeches that of malice spring,
From accusation to the king,
From all reproch and infamy,
From slander, and like villanie.

My soule, to death praise thou the Lord,
And laud his name with one accord:
For death was readie thee to take,
And thou neare the infernall lake.

They compassed me round about,
But there was none to helpe me out:
I look'd when succour would appeare,
But there was none that would come neare.

Upon thy mercies then I thought,
And on the wonders thou hast wrought:
How from destruction thou doost save,
Such as in thee affiance have.

In praier then I did persever,
That thou from death wouldst me deliver:
Unto the Lord I crie and call,
That he would rid me out of thrall:

Therefore I still will praise thy name,
And ever thanke thee for the same:
My praiers shall of thee be heard,
And never from thy eares debard.

Thou sav'st me from destruction,
And other mischiefs more than one:
Therefore wil I praise thee O Lord,
And in my songs thy name record.

THE PRAIER OF HESTER, for the deliverance of her and her people.

In the xiiii. Chap. of Hester.

O mighty Lord, thou art our God, to thee for aid I crie,
To help a woman desolate, sith danger now is nie:
Even from my youth I oft have hard my predecessors tel,
That from amongst the nations all thou chosest Israell.
And chosest those our fathers were, from theirs that went before
To be thine owne and hast perform'd, thy promise evermore.
Now Lord we have committed sin, most grievous in thine eies,
Wherfore thou hast delivered us, unto our enemies.
Because that to their heathen gods, with worship we have gone,
Knowing that thou art God the Lord, the righteous Lord alone.
Yet not content, nor satisfied, with these our captives bands,
But with their Idols they themselves, have join'd & shaken hands
Quite to abolish and subvert, what thou appointed hast,
And this thine owne inheritance even utterly to waste.
To shut and stop the mouthes of those, that yeeld thee thanks and praise,
Thy glorious temples to defile, thine Altars up to raise:
And to induce the heathen folke, to laud their Idols might,
To magnifie a fleshly King, a man, a mortall wight.
Then let not such the Scepter sway, whose glorie is of nought,
Least they deride us when that we, to miserie are brought.
And those devises they have wrought, t'intangle us withall,
May turne unto their owne decay, and on their heads may fall.
Remember Lord, and shew thy selfe, to us in time of need,
And strengthen me thou King of kings, & Lord of power indeed.
Instruct my tongue with eloquence, my speaches to impart.
Before the Lions face, and by, thy wisdome turne his heart,
To hate our deadly enemie, so wholly bent to ill,
Destroy him, and al such as doo consent unto his will.
But let thy hand deliver us, and help and succour me,
Sith I am now left comfortlesse, and have no help but thee.
Thou know'st right well all things O Lord, & this thou knowest then,
I hate the glory and the pompe, of wicked sinful men,
And utterly detest the bed, of any heathen wight,
Uncircumcised, most unpure, and odious in thy sight:

Thou knowest my necessitie, and that with hate I beare
This token of preheminence, which on my head I weare.
And as a filthy menstruous cloath, I take thereof such shame,
As being by my selfe alone, I never weare the same.
And that at Hamans table yet, thy handmaid hath not fed,
Nor tooke delight in princes feast, nor drank wine offered,
And never joi'd in any thing, since first I hether came,
Until this day but in the Lord thou God of Abraham.
Oh thou the high and mightie God, heare thou the voice & crie
Of them, whose hope, whose trust and stay, only on thee doth lie.
And now in need deliver us, out of their cruell hand,
And from the dread and feare O Lord, wherin we dayly stand.

THE PRAIER OF MARDOCHEUS.

In the xiii. Chap. of Hester.

Oh Lord, my Lord, that art the King of might,
Within whose power all thinges their being have:
Who may withstand that liveth in thy sight,
If thou thy chosen Israell wilt save.
For thou hast made the earth and heaven above,
And al things els that in the same do moove.

Thou madest all things, and they are all thine own,
And there is none that may resist thy will:
Thou know'st all things, and this of thee is knowne,
I did not erst for malice nor for ill,
Presumption nor vaine glorie els at all,
Come nor bow downe unto proud Hamans call.

I could have bin content for Israels sake,
To kisse the soles even of his verie feet:
But that I would not mans vaine honor take,
Before Gods glorie, being so unmeet.
And would not worship none (O Lord) but thee:
And not of pride, as thou thy selfe doost see.

Therefore (oh Lord) my God, and heavenly king
Have mercie on the people thou hast bought:
For they imagine and devise the thing,
How to destroy and bring us unto nought.
Thine heritance, which thou so long hast fed,
And out so far from Egypt land hast led.

Oh heare my praier, and mercie doe extend,
Upon thy portion of inheritance,
For sorrowe now some joy and solace send,
That we may live thy glorie to advance.
And suffer not their mouthes shut up oh Lord,
Which stil thy name with praises doo record.

A PRAIER IN THE PERSON OF THE FAITHFULL.

The xxxvi. Chap. of Ecclesiasticus.

Have mercie on us blessed Lord,
Which madest all thinges with thy word:
Behold us Saviour from above,
Illuminate us with thy love.

And let the wicked dread thy name,
Which never sought unto the same:
And knowe that thou art God alone,
And like (in woonders) to be none.

Oh Lord lift up thy mightie hand,
The world thy power shall understand:
As by us thou art sanctified,
By them so be thou magnified.

That they may learne thy power to knowe,
As we that be thy servantes doo,
Thou art the living Lord alone,
And other Goddes besides thee none.

Renew the signes (Lord) thou hast showne,
And let thy woonderous woorks be knowne:
Declare the strength of thy right hand,
Let them thy power understand.

Arise to judgment in thine yre,
Poure out thy wrath as hot as fire:
Destroy the cruell adversarie,
To spoile our foes (Lord) doo not tarie.

Shorten thou these wicked daies,
Thinke on thine oath at all assaies:
Let thy woonders (Lord) appeare.
And be thou praised farre and neare.

In burning fire (Lord) let them die,
Which doe escape, and seek to flie:
And let them perish with annoy,
Which seeke thy people to destroy.

Cleave thou the heads of mighty kings,
Our enemies in godly things:
And let the world behold and see,
That we are chosen unto thee.

Lord, gather Jacob unto thee,
That they thy might & power may see:
That they thy wondrous works may show
And to be thine themselves may know.

Unto thy folke impute no blame,
Which ever cald upon thy name:
To Israel Lord be thou milde,
Thy only heir thy first borne child.

Unto Jerusalem shew pitie,
Thy sanctuarie and thy citie:
Blesse Sion where thy prophets live,
Thy glorie to thy people give.

And be thou witnesse unto those,
Which have bene thine still to dispose:
And raise them up oh Lord, on hie,
Which in thy name doo prophesie.

Reward them (Lord) that waite for thee,
That they thy Prophets trueth may see:
Heare thou thy servants praier oh Lord,
As thou to Aaron gavest thy word.

Guide us in way of righteousnesse,
The earth thy glorie shall expresse:
And to the world it shall be knowne:
Thou are eternall and alone.

A PRAIER OF TOBIAS, EXHORTING ALL MEN TO PRAISE THE LORD.

Tobias. Chap. xiii.

Bless'd be that king which evermore shal raign,
So ever may his kingdome blessed be:
Which punisheth and pittieth againe,
Which sends to hell, and likewise setteth free.
Before whose presence may no creature stand,
Nor any thing avoid his heavie hand.

Ye children of his chosen Israell,
Before the Gentles stil confesse his name:
With whom he hath appointed you to dwell,
Even there (I say) extol and laude his fame:
He is a Lord and God most gracious,
And still hath bene a father unto us.

He wil scourge us for our iniquitie,
Yet mercie will he take on us againe,
And from those nations gathered shall we be,
With whom as strangers now we do remaine.
Yf in your harts he shal repentance find,
And turne to him with zeale and willing mind.

When as your dealings shall be found upright,
Then wil he turn his face from you no more:
Nor thenceforth hide his presence from your sight,
But lend his mercie, then laid up in store,
Therefore confesse his name, & praises sing,
To that most great and highest heavenly King.

I will confesse him in captivitie,
And to a wicked people shewe his might,
Oh turne to him, vile sinners that you be,
And doo the thing is upright in his sight.
Who's there can tell if he will mercie showe,
Or take compassion on you, yea or noe?

I will extoll and laude thy name alwaies,
My soule, the praise of heavens King expresse:
All tongues on earth shall spread abroad his praise,
All nations shew foorth his righteousnesse.
Jerusalem thou shalt be scourged then,
But he wil spare the sonnes of righteous men.

Faile not to give the Lord his praises due,
And still extoll that everlasting King:
And help to build his Tabernacle newe,
In which his Saints shall ever sit and sing.
In which the captives shall have end of griefe,
In which the poore shall ever find reliefe.

Many shall come from countries far and neare,
And shall great giftes unto his presence bring,
Many before his presence shall appeare,
And shal rejoice in this great heavenly King,
Cursed be those which hate thy blessed name,
But bless'd be those which love & like the same.

Triumph with joy, ye that be good and just,
Though scattered now, yet shall you gathered be:
Then in the Lord fix all your hope and trust,
And rest in peace till you these blessings see.
Blessed be those which have bin touch'd with griefe
When they have seen thee scourg'd, & want reliefe.

Those only shall rejoice with thee againe,
And those shall be partakers of thy glorie:
And shall in blisse for ay with thee remaine,
Now passed once these troubles transitorie.
Then (oh my soule) see thou rejoice and sing,
And laud the great and highest hevenly King.

And he will build Jerusalem full faire,
With Emeralds and Saphyrs of great price,
With precious stones he will her walles repaire,
Her towers of golde with worke of rare device.
And all her streetes with Berall will he pave,
With Carbunckles and Ophirs passing brave.

And all her people there, shall sit and say,
Praised be God with Aleluiah.

FINIS.

IDEA THE SHEPHEARDS GARLAND, Fashioned in nine Eglogs.

ROWLANDS SACRIFICE to the nine Muses.

Effugiunt auidos Carmina sola rogos.

TO THE NOBLE, AND VALEROUS GENTLEMAN, MASTER ROBERT DUDLEY: ENRICHED WITH ALL VERTUES OF THE MINDE, AND WORTHY OF ALL HONORABLE DESERT.

Your most affectionate, and devoted, Michael Drayton.

THE FIRST EGLOG. When as the joyfull spring

When as the joyfull spring brings in
the Summers sweete reliefe:
Poore Rowland malcontent bewayles
the winter of his griefe.

Now Phœbus from the equinoctiall Zone,
Had task'd his teame unto the higher spheare,
And from the brightnes of his glorious throne,
Sends forth his Beames to light the lower ayre,
The cheerfull welkin, comen this long look'd hower,
Distils adowne full many a silver shower.

Fayre Philomel night-musicke of the spring,
Sweetly recordes her tunefull harmony,
And with deepe sobbes, and dolefull sorrowing,
Before fayre Cinthya actes her Tragedy:
The Throstlecock, by breaking of the day,
Chants to his sweete, full many a lovely lay.

The crawling snake, against the morning sunne,
Now streaks him in his rayn-bow coloured cote:
The darkesome shades, as loathsome he doth shunne,
Inchanted with the Birds sweete silvan note:
The Buck forsakes the launds where he hath fed,
And scornes the hunt should view his velvet head.

Through all the partes, dispersed is the blood,
The lustie spring, in flower of all her pride,
Man, bird, and beast, and fish, in pleasant flood,
Rejoycing all in this most joyfull tide:
Save Rowland leaning on a Ranpick tree,
O'r growne with age, forlorne with woe was he.

Oh blessed Pan, thou shepheards god sayth he,
O thou Creator of the starrie light,
Whose wonderous workes shew thy divinitie,
Thou wise inventor of the day and night,
Refreshing nature with the lovely spring,
Quite blemisht erst, with stormy winters sting.

O thou strong builder of the firmament,
Who placedst Phœbus in his fierie Carre,
And by thy mighty Godhead didst invent,
The planets mansions that they should not jarre,
Ordeyning Phebe, mistresse of the night,
From Tytans flame to steale her forked light.

Even from the cleerest christall shining throne,
Under whose feete the heavens are low abased,
Commaunding in thy majestie alone,
Whereas the fiery Cherubines are placed:
Receive my vowes as incense unto thee,
My tribute due to thy eternitie.

O shepheards soveraigne, yea receive in gree,
The gushing teares, from never-resting eyes,
And let those prayers which I shall make to thee,
Be in thy sight perfumed sacrifice:
Let smokie sighes be pledges of contrition,
For follies past to make my soules submission.

Submission makes amends for all my misse,
Contrition a refined life begins,
Then sacred sighes, what thing more precious is?
And prayers be oblations for my sinnes,
Repentant teares, from heaven-beholding eyes,
Ascend the ayre, and penetrate the skies.

My sorowes waxe, my joyes are in the wayning,
My hope decayes, and my despayre is springing,
My love hath losse, and my disgrace hath gayning,
Wrong rules, desert with teares her hands sits wringing:
Sorrow, despayre, disgrace, and wrong, doe thwart
My Joy, my love, my hope, and my desert.

Devouring time shall swallow up my sorrowes,
And strong beliefe shall torture black despaire,
Death shall orewhelme disgrace, in deepest furrowes,
And Justice laie my wrongs upon the Beere:
Thus Justice, death, beleefe, and time, ere long,
Shall end my woes, despayre, disgrace, and wrong.

Yet time shall be expir'd and lose his date,
And full assurance cancell strongest trust,
Eternitie shall trample on deathes pate,
And Justice shall surcease when all be just:
Thus time, beleefe, death, Justice, shall surcease,
By date, assurance, eternity, and peace.

Thus breathing from the Center of his soule,
The tragick accents of his extasie,
His sun-set eyes gan here and there to roule,
Like one surprisde with sodaine lunacie:
And being rouzde out of melancholly,
Flye whirle-winde thoughts unto the heavens quoth he.

Now in the Ocean Tytan quencht his flame,
And summond Cinthya to set up her light,
The heavens with their glorious starry frame,
Preparde to crowne the sable-vayled night:
When Rowland from this time-consumed stock,
With stone-colde hart now stalketh towards his flock.

Quid queror? & toto facio convicia cœlo:
Di quoque habent oculos, di quoque pectus habent.

THE SECOND EGLOG. Wynken of mans frayle wayning age

Wynken of mans frayle wayning age
declares the simple truth,
And doth by Rowlands harmes reproove
Mottos unbrideled youth.

Motto.

Might my youths mirth delight thy aged yeeres,
My gentle shepheard father of us all,
Wherewith I whylome Joy'd my lovely feeres,
Chanting sweete straines of heavenly pastorall.

Now would I tune my miskins on this Greene,
And frame my muse those vertues to unfold,
Of that sole Phenix Bird, my lives sole Queene:
Whose locks done staine, the three times burnisht gold.

But melancholie grafted in thy Braine,
My Rimes seeme harsh, to thy unrelisht taste,
Thy droughthy wits, not long refresht with raigne,
Parched with heat, done wither now and waste.

Wynken.

Indeed my Boy, my wits been all forlorne,
My flowers decayd, with winter-withered frost,
My clowdy set eclips'd my cherefull morne,
That Jewell gone wherein I joyed most.

My dreadful thoughts been drawen upon my face,
In blotted lines with ages iron pen,
The lothlie morpheu saffroned the place,
Where beuties damaske daz'd the eies of men.

A cumber-world, yet in the world am left,
A fruitles plot, with brambles overgrowne,
Mislived man of my worlds joy bereft,
Hart-breaking cares the ofspring of my mone.

Those daintie straines of my well tuned reed,
Which manie a time have pleasd my wanton eares,
Nor sweet, nor pleasing thoughts in me done breed,
But tell the follies of my wandring yeares.

Those poysned pils been biding at my hart,
Those loathsome drugs of my youths vanitie,
Sweete seem'd they once, ful bitter now and tart,
Ay me consuming corosives they be.

Motto.

Even so I weene, for thy olde ages fever,
Deemes sweetest potions bitter as the gall,
And thy colde Pallat having lost her savour,
Receives no comfort in a cordiall.

Wynken.

As thou art now, was I a gamesome boy,
Though starv'd with wintred eld as thou do'st see,
And well I know thy swallow-winged joy,
Shalbe forgotten as it is in me.

When on the Arche of thine eclipsed eies,
Time hath ingrav'd deepe characters of death,
And sun-burnt age thy kindlie moisture dries,
Thy wearied lungs be niggards of thy breath,

Thy brawne-falne armes, thy camock-bended backe,
The time-plow'd furrowes in thy fairest field,
The Southsaiers of natures wofull wrack,
When blooming age must stoupe to starved eld,

When Lillie white is of a tawnie die,
Thy fragrant crimson turn'd ash-coloured pale,
Thy skin orecast with rough embroderie,
And cares rude pencell, quite disgrac'd thy sale,

When downe-beds heat must thawe thy frozen cold,
And luke-warme brothes recure Phlebotomie,
And when the bell is readie to be tol'd,
To call the wormes to thine Anatomie:
Remember then my boy, what once I said to thee.

Now I am like the knurrie-bulked Oke,
Whome wasting eld hath made a toombe of dust,
Whose wind-fallen branches feld by tempest stroke,
His barcke consumes with canker-wormed rust.

And though thou seemst like to the bragging bryer,
As gay as is the mornings Marygolde,
Yet shortly shall thy sap be drie and seere,
Thy gaudy Blossomes blemished with colde.

Even such a wanton, an unruly swayne,
Was little Rowland, when of yore as he,
Upon the Beechen tree on yonder playne,
Carved this rime of loves Idolatrie.

The Gods delight, the heavens hie spectacle,
Earths greatest glory, worlds rarest miracle.

Fortunes fayr'st mistresse, vertues surest guide,
Loves Governesse, and natures chiefest pride.

Delights owne darling, honours cheefe defence,
Chastities choyce, and wisdomes quintessence.

Conceipts sole Riches, thoughts only treasure,
Desires true hope, Joyes sweetest pleasure.

Mercies due merite, valeurs just reward,
Times fayrest fruite, fames strongest guarde.

Yea she alone, next that eternall he,
The expresse Image of eternitie.

Motto.

Oh divine love, which so aloft canst raise,
And lift the minde out of this earthly mire,
And do'st inspire the pen with so hie prayse,
As with the heavens doth equal mans desire.

Thou lightning flame of sacred Poesie,
Whose furie doth incense the swelling braines,
As drawes to thee by heaven-bred Sympathie,
The sweete delights of highest soaring vaines:

Who doth not helpe to deck thy holy Shrine,
With Mirtle, and triumphant Lawrell tree?
Who will not say that thou art most divine?
Or who doth not confesse thy deitie?

Wynken.

A, foolish boy, full ill is he repayed,
For now the wanton pines in endles paine,
And sore repents what he before missaide,
So may they be which can so lewdly faine.

Now hath this yonker torne his tressed lockes,
And broke his pipe which sounded erst so sweete,
Forsaking his companions and their flocks,
And casts his gayest garland at his feete.

And being shrowded in a homely cote,
And full of sorrow as a man might be,
He tun'd his Rebeck with a mournfull note,
And thereto sang this dolefull elegie.

Tell me fayre flocke (if so you can conceave)
The sodaine cause of my night-sunnes eclipse,
If this be wrought me my light to bereave,
By Magick spels, from some inchanting lips
Or ugly Saturne from his combust sent,
This fatall presage of deaths dreryment.

Oh cleerest day-starre, honored of mine eyes,
Yet sdaynst mine eyes should gaze upon thy light,
Bright morning sunne, who with thy sweet arise,
Expell'st the clouds of my harts lowring might,
Goddes rejecting sweetest sacrifice,
Of mine eyes teares ay offered to thine eyes.

May purest heavens scorne my soules pure desires?
Or holy shrines hate Pilgrims orizons?
May sacred temples gaynsay sacred prayers?
Or Saints refuse the poores devotions?
Then Orphane thoughts with sorrow be you waind,
When loves Religion shalbe thus prophayn'd.

Yet needes the earth must droupe with visage sad,
When silver dewes been turn'd to bitter stormes,
The Cheerefull Welkin once in sables clad,
Her frownes foretell poore humaine creatures harmes.
And yet for all to make amends for this,
The clouds sheed teares and weepen at my misse.

Motto.

Woe's me for him that pineth so in payne,
Alas poore Rowland, how it pities me,
So faire a baite should breed so foule a bayne,
Or humble shewes should cover crueltie.

Winken.

Beware by him thou foolish wanton swayne,
By others harmes thus maist thou learne to heede,
Beautie and wealth been fraught with hie disdaine,
Beleeve it as a Maxim of thy Creede.

Motto.

If that there be such woes and paines in love,
Woe be to him that list the same to prove.

Wynken.

Yes thou shalt find, if thou desir'st to prove,
There is no hell, unto the paines in love.

THE THIRD EGLOG. Rowland and Perkin both I feere

Rowland and Perkin both I feere,
in field upon a day,
With little Robin redbrests Round,
doe passe the time away.

Perkin.

Rowland for shame awake thy drowsie muse,
Time plaies the hunts-up to thy sleepie head,
Why li'st thou here as thou hadst long been dead,
foule idle swayne?

Who ever heard thy pipe and pleasing vaine,
And doth but heare this scurrill minstralcy,
These noninos of filthie ribauldry,
that doth not muse.

Then slumber not with foule Endymion,
But tune thy reede to dapper virelayes,
And sing a while of blessed Betas prayse,
faire Beta she:

In thy sweete song so blessed may'st thou bee,
For learned Collin laies his pipes to gage,
And is to fayrie gone a Pilgrimage:
the more our mone.

Rowland.

What Beta? shepheard, she is Pans belov'd,
Faire Betas praise beyond our straine doth stretch,
Her notes too hie for my poore pipe to reach,
poore oten reede:

So farre unfit to speake of worthies deede,
But set my stops unto a lower kay,
Whereas a horne-pipe I may safelie play,
yet unreproov'd.

With flatterie my muse could never fage,
Nor could affect such vaine scurrility,
To please lewd Lorrels, in their foolery,
too base and vile:

Nor but a note yet will I raise my stile,
My selfe above Will Piper to advance,
Which so bestirs him at the morris dance,
for pennie wage.

Perkin.

Rowland, so toyes oft times esteemed are,
And fashions ever changing with the time,
Then frolick it a while in lustie rime,
with mirth and glee:

And let me heare that Roundelay of thee,
Which once thou sangst to me in Janeveer,
When Robin-redbrest sitting on a breere,
the burthen bare.

Rowland.

Well needes I must yet with a heavie hart:
But were not Beta sure I would not sing,
Whose praise the ecchoes never cease to ring,
unto the skies.

Pirken.

Be blith good Rowland then, and cleere thine eyes:
And now sith Robin to his roost is gone,
Good Rowland then supplie the place alone,
and shew thy arte.

Rowland.

O thou fayre silver Thames: ô cleerest chrystall flood,
Beta alone the Phenix is, of all thy watery brood,
The Queene of Virgins onely she:
And thou the Queene of floods shalt be:
Let all thy Nymphes be joyfull then to see this happy day,
Thy Beta now alone shalbe the subject of my laye.

With daintie and delightsome straines of sweetest virelayes:
Come lovely shepheards sit we down & chant our Betas prayse:
And let us sing so rare a verse,
Our Betas prayses to rehearse,
That little Birds shall silent be, to heare poore shepheards sing,
And rivers backward bend their course, & flow unto the spring.

Range all thy swannes faire Thames together on a rancke,
And place them duely one by one, upon thy stately banck,
Then set together all agood,
Recording to the silver flood,
And crave the tunefull Nightingale to helpe you with her lay,
The Osel & the Throstlecocke, chiefe musick of our maye.

O see what troups of Nimphs been sporting on the strands,
And they been blessed Nimphs of peace, with Olives in their hands.
How meryly the Muses sing,
That all the flowry Medowes ring,
And Beta sits upon the banck, in purple and in pall,
And she the Queene of Muses is, and weares the Corinall.

Trim up her Golden tresses with Apollos sacred tree,
ô happy sight unto all those that love and honor thee,
The Blessed Angels have prepar'd,
A glorious Crowne for thy reward,
Not such a golden Crowne as haughtie Cæsar weares,
But such a glittering starry Crowne as Ariadne beares.

Make her a goodly Chapilet of azur'd Colombine,
And wreath about her Coronet with sweetest Eglentine:
Bedeck our Beta all with Lillies,
And the dayntie Daffadillies,
With Roses damask, white, and red, and fairest flower delice,
With Cowslips of Jerusalem, and cloves of Paradice.

O thou fayre torch of heaven, the dayes most deerest light,
And thou bright-shyning Cinthya, the glory of the night:
You starres the eyes of heaven,
And thou the glyding leven,
And thou ô gorgeous Iris with all strange Colours dyed,
When she streams foorth her rayes, then dasht is all your pride.

See how the day stands still, admiring of her face,
And time loe stretcheth foorth her armes, thy Beta to imbrace,
The Syrens sing sweete layes,
The Trytons sound her prayse,
Goe passe on Thames and hie thee fast unto the Ocean sea,
And let thy billowes there proclaime thy Betas holy-day.

And water thou the blessed roote of that greene Olive tree,
With whose sweete shadow, al thy bancks with peace preserved be,
Lawrell for Poets and Conquerours,
And mirtle for Loves Paramours:
That fame may be thy fruit, the boughes preserv'd by peace,
And let the mournful Cipres die, now stormes & tempests cease.

Wee'l straw the shore with pearle where Beta walks alone,
And we wil pave her princely Bower with richest Indian stone,
Perfume the ayre and make it sweete,
For such a Goddesse it is meete,
For if her eyes for purity contend with Tytans light,
No marvaile then although they so doe dazell humaine sight.

Sound out your trumpets then, from Londons stately towres,
To beat the stormie windes aback & calme the raging showres,
Set too the Cornet and the flute,
The Orpharyon and the Lute,
And tune the Taber and the pipe, to the sweet violons,
And move the thunder in the ayre, with lowdest Clarions.

Beta long may thine Altars smoke, with yeerely sacrifice,
And long thy sacred Temples may their Saboths solemnize,
Thy shepheards watch by day and night,
Thy Mayds attend the holy light,
And thy large empyre stretch her armes from east unto the west,
And thou under thy feet mayst tread, that foule seven-headed beast.

Perken.

Thanks gentle Rowland for my Roundelay,
And bless'd be Beta burthen of thy song,
The shepheards Goddesse may she florish long,
ô happie she.

Her yeares and dayes thrice doubled may they bee:
Triumphing Albion clap thy hands for joy,
And pray the heavens may shield her from anoy,
so will I pray.

Rowland.

So doe, and when my milk-white eawes have yeande,
Beta shall have the firstling of the foulde,
I'le burnish all his hornes with finest gould,
and paynt his fleece with purple grayne.

Perkin.

Beleeve me as I am true shepheards swayne,
Then for thy love all other I forsake,
And unto thee my selfe I will betake,
with fayth unfayn'd.

Ipse ego thura dabo, fumosis candidus aris:
Ipse feram ante tuos munera vota pedes.

THE FOURTH EGLOG. Wynken bewayleth Elphins losse

Wynken bewayleth Elphins losse,
the God of Poesie,
With Rowlands rime ecleepd the tears
of the greene Hawthorne tree.

Gorbo.

Well met good Wynken, whither doest thou wend?
How hast thou far'd sweet shepherd many a yeer?
May Wynken thus his daies in darkenes spend?
Who I have knowne for piping had no peere?

Where been those fayre flocks thou wert wont to guide?
What? been they dead? or hap'd on some mischance,
Or mischiefe hath their master else betide,
Or Lordly Love hath cast thee in a trance.

What man? lets still be merie whilst we may,
And take a truce with sorrow for a time,
And let us passe this wearie winters day,
In reading Riddles, or in making rime.

Wynken.

Ah woe's me Gorbo, mirth is farre away,
Mirth may not sojourne with black malcontent,
The lowring aspect of this dismall day,
The winter of my sorrow doth augment.

My song is now a swanne-like dying song,
And my conceipts, the deepe conceipts of death,
My heart becom'n a very hell of wrong,
My breast the irksome prison of my breath.

I loth my life, I loth the dearest light,
Com'n is my night, when once appeeres the day,
The blessed sunne seemes odious in my sight,
No song may like me but the shreech-owles lay.

Gorbo.

What mayst thou be, that old Wynkin de word,
Whose thred-bare wits o'rworne with melancholly,
Once so delightsome at the shepheards boord,
But now forlorne with thy selves self-wild folly.

I think thou dot'st in thy gray-bearded age,
Or brusd with sinne, for thy youths sin art sory,
And vow'st for thy? a solemne pilgrimage,
To holy Hayles or Patricks Purgatory.

Come sit we downe under this Hawthorne tree.
The morrowes light shall lend us daie enough,
And tell a tale of Gawen or Sir Guy,
Of Robin Hood, or of good Clem a Clough.

Or else some Romant unto us areed,
Which good olde Godfrey taught thee in thy youth,
Of noble Lords and Ladies gentle deede,
Or of thy love, or of thy lasses truth.

Winken.

Gorbo, my Comfort is accloyd with care,
A new mishap my wonted joyes hath crost:
Then mervaile not although my musicke jarre,
When she the Author of her mirth hath lost,

Elphin is dead, and in his grave is laid,
Our lives delight whilst lovely Elphin lived,
What cruell fate hath so the time betraid,
The widow world of all her joyes deprived.

O cursed death, Lives fearfull enemie,
Times poysned sickle: Tyrants revenging pride:
Thou blood-sucker, Thou childe of infamie:
Devouring Tiger: slaughtering homicide:
Ill hast thou done, and ill may thee betide.

Naught hast thou got, the earth hath wonne the most,
Nature is payd the interest of her due,
Pan hath receav'd, what him so dearly cost,
O heavens his vertues doe belong to you.

A heavenly clowded in a humaine shape,
Rare substance, in so rough a barcke Iclad,
Of Pastorall, the lively springing sappe,
Though mortall thou, thy fame immortall made.

Spel-charming Prophet, sooth-divining seer,
ô heavenly musicke of the highest spheare,
Sweet sounding trump, soule-ravishing desire,
Thou stealer of mans heart, inchanter of the eare.

God of Invention, Joves deere Mercury,
Joy of our Lawrell, pride of all our joy:
The essence of all Poets divinitie,
Spirit of Orpheus: Pallas lovely boy.

But all my words shalbe dissolv'd to teares,
And my tears fountaines shall to rivers grow:
These Rivers to the floods of my dispaires,
And these shall make an Ocean of my woe.

His rare desarts, shall kindle my desire,
With burning zeale, the brands of mine unrest,
My sighes in adding sulphure to this fire,
Shall frame another Ætna in my breast.

Planets reserve your playnts till dismall day,
The ruthles rockes but newly have begonne,
And when in drops they be dissolv'd away,
Let heavens begin to weepe when earth hath done.

Then tune thy pipe and I will sing a laye,
Upon his death by Rowland of the rocke,
Sitting with me this other stormy day,
In yon fayre field attending on our flock.

Gorbo.

This shall content me Wynken wondrous well,
And in this mistie wether keepe us waking,
To heare of him, who whylome did excell,
In such a song of learned Rowlands making.

Winken.

Melpomine put on thy mourning Gaberdine,
And set thy song unto the dolefull Base,
And with thy sable vayle shadow thy face,
with weeping verse,
attend his hearse,
Whose blessed soule the heavens doe now enshrine.

Come Nymphs and with your Rebecks ring his knell,
Warble forth your wamenting harmony,
And at his drery fatall obsequie,
with Cypres bowes,
maske your fayre Browes,
And beat your breasts to chyme his burying peale.

Thy birth-day was to all our joye, the even,
And on thy death this dolefull song we sing,
Sweet Child of Pan, and the Castalian spring,
unto our endles mone,
from us why art thou gone,
To fill up that sweete Angels quier in heaven.

O whylome thou thy lasses dearest love,
When with greene Lawrell she hath crowned thee,
Immortall mirror of all Poesie:
the Muses treasure,
the Graces pleasure,
Reigning with Angels now in heaven above.

Our mirth is now depriv'd of all her glory,
Our Taburins in dolefull dumps are drownd.
Our viols want their sweet and pleasing sound,
our melodie is mar'd
and we of joyes debard,
Oh wicked world so mutable and transitory.

O dismall day, bereaver of delight,
O stormy winter sourse of all our sorrow,
ô most untimely and eclipsed morrow,
to rob us quite
of all delight,
Darkening that starre which ever shone so bright:

Oh Elphin, Elphin, Though thou hence be gone,
In spight of death yet shalt thou live for aye,
Thy Poesie is garlanded with Baye:
and still shall blaze
thy lasting prayse:
Whose losse poore shepherds ever shall bemone.

Come Girles, and with Carnations decke his grave,
With damaske Roses and the hyacynt:
Come with sweete Williams, Marjoram and Mynt,
with precious Balmes,
with hymnes and psalmes,
His funerall deserves no lesse at all to have.

But see where Elphin sits in fayre Elizia,
Feeding his flocke on yonder heavenly playne,
Come and behold, yon lovely shepheards swayne,
piping his fill,
on yonder hill,
Tasting sweete Nectar, and Ambrosia.

Gorbo.

Oh how thy plaints (sweete friend) renew my payne,
In listning thus to thy lamenting cries:
That from the tempest of my troubled brayne,
See how the floods been risen in mine eyes.

And being now a full tide of our teares,
It is full time to stop the streame of griefe,
Lest drowning in the floods of our despaires,
We want our lives, wanting our soules reliefe.

But now the sunne beginneth to decline,
And whilest our woes been in repeating here,
Yon little elvish moping Lamb of mine,
Is all betangled in yon crawling Brier.

Optima prima ferè manibus rapiuntur avaris:
Implentur numeris deteriora suis.

THE FIFTH EGLOG. This lustie swayne his lowly quill

This lustie swayne his lowly quill,
to higher notes doth rayse,
And in Ideas person paynts,
his lovely lasses prayse.

Motto.

Come frolick it a while my lustie swayne,
Let's see if time have yet revi'd in thee,
Or if there be remayning but a grayne,
Of the olde stocke of famous poesie,
Or but one slip yet left of this same sacred tree.

Or if reserv'd from elds devouring rage,
Recordes of vertue, Aye memoriall,
Left to the world as learnings lasting gage,
Or if the prayse of worthy pastorall,
May tempt thee now, or moove thee once at all.

To Fortunes Orphanes Nature hath bequeath'd,
That mighty Monarchs seldome have possest,
From highest Heaven, this influence is breath'd,
A most divine impression in the breast,
And those whom Fortune pines doth Nature often feast.

Ti's not the troupes of paynted Imagerie,
Nor these worlds Idols, our worlds Idiots gazes,
Our forgers of suppos'd Gentillitie,
When he his great, great Grand-sires glory blases,
And paints out fictions in base coyned Phrases.

For honour naught regards, nor followeth fame,
These silken pictures shewed in every streete:
Of Idlenes comes evill, of pride ensueth shame,
And blacke oblivion is their winding sheete,
And all their glory troden under feete.

Though Envie shute her seven-times poysned dartes,
Yet purest golde is seven times try'd in fier,
True valeur lodgeth in the lowlest harts,
Vertue is in the minde, not in th'attyre,
Nor stares at starres; nor stoups at filthy myre.

Rowland.

I may not sing of such as fall, nor clyme,
Nor chaunt of armes, nor of heroique deedes,
It fitteth not poore shepheards rurall rime,
Nor is agreeing with my oaten reedes,
Nor from my quill, grosse flatterie proceedes.

Unsitting tearmes, nor false dissembling smiles,
Shall in my lines, nor in my stile appeare,
Worlds fawning fraud, nor like deceitfull guiles,
No, no, my muse, none such shall sojourne here,
Nor any bragges of hope nor signes of base despaire,

No fatall dreades nor fruitles vaine desires,
Nor caps, nor curtsies to a paynted wall,
Nor heaping rotten sticks on needles fires,
Ambitious thoughts to clime nor feares to fall,
A minde voyd of mistrust, and free from servile thral.

Foule slander thou suspitions Bastard Child,
Selfe-eating Impe from vipers poysned wombe,
Foule swelling toade with lothly spots defil'd,
Vile Aspis bred within the ruinde tombe,
Eternall death for ever be thy doombe.

Still be thou shrouded in blacke pitchie night,
Luld with the horror of night-ravens song,
Let foggie mistes, clowd and eclipse thy light,
Thy woolvish teeth chew out thy venomd tongue,
With Snakes and adders be thy body stong.

Motto.

Nor these, nor these, may like thy lowlie quill,
As of too hie, or of too base a straine,
Unfitting thee, and sdeyned of thy skill,
Nor yet according with a shepheards vayne,
Nor no such subject may beseeme a swayne.

Then tune thy reede unto Ideas prayse:
And teach the woods to wonder at her name:
Thy lowlie notes here mayst thou learne to rayse,
And make the ecchoes blazen out her name,
The lasting trumpe of Phebes lasting fame.

Thy Temples then shall with greene bayes be dight,
Thy Egle-soring muse upon her wing,
With her fayre silver wings shall take her flight,
To that hie welked tower where Angels sing,
From thence to fetch the tutch of her sweete string.

Rowland.

Oh hie inthronized Jove, in thy Olympicke raigne,
Oh battel-waging Marte, oh sage-saw'd Mercury,
Oh Golden shrined Sol, Venus loves soveraigne,
Oh dreadfull Saturne, flaming aye with furie,
Moyst-humord Cinthya, Author of Lunacie,
Conjoyne helpe to erect our faire Ideas trophie.

Oh Tresses of faire Phœbus stremed die,
Oh blessed load-starre lending purest light,
Oh Paradice of heavenly tapistrie,
Angels sweete musick, ô my soules delight,
O fayrest Phebe passing every other light.

Whose presence joyes the earths decayed state,
Whose counsels are registred in the sphere,
Whose sweete reflecting clearenes doth amate,
The starrie lights, and makes the Sunne more fayre,
Whose breathing sweete perfumeth all the ayre.

Thy snowish necke, fayre Natures tresurie,
Thy swannish breast, the haven of lasting blisse,
Thy cheekes the bancks of Beauties usurie,
Thy heart the myne, where goodnes gotten is,
Thy lips those lips which Cupid joyes to kisse.

And those fayre hands within whose lovely palmes,
Fortune divineth happie Augurie,
Those straightest fingers dealing heavenly almes,
Pointed with pur'st of Natures Alcumie,
Where love sits looking in loves palmistrie.

And those fayre Ivorie columnes which upreare,
That Temple built by heavens Geometrie,
And holiest Flamynes sacrifizen theare,
Unto that heavenly Queene of Chastitie,
Where vertues burning lamps can never quenched be.

Thence see the fairest light that ever shone,
That cleare which doth worlds cleerenes quite surpasse,
Brave Phœbus chayred in his golden throane,
Beholding him, in this pure Christall glasse,
See here the fayrest fayre that ever was.

Delicious fountaine, liquid christalline,
Mornings vermilion, verdant spring-times pride,
Purest of purest, most refined fine,
With crimson tincture curiously Idy'd,
Mother of Muses, great Apollos bride.

Earths heaven, worlds wonder, hiest house of fame,
Reviver of the dead, eye-killer of the live,
Belov'd of Angels, Vertues greatest name,
Favors rar'st feature, beauties prospective,
Oh that my verse thy vertues could contrive.

That stately Theater on whose fayre stage,
Each morall vertue actes a princely part,
Where every scene pronounced by a Sage,
Eternizeth divinest Poets Arte,
Joyes the beholders eyes, and glads the hearers hart.

The worlds memorials, that sententious booke,
Where every Comma, points a curious phrase,
Upon whose method, Angels joye to looke:
At every Colon, Wisdomes selfe doth pause,
And every Period hath his hie applause.

Read in her eyes a Romant of delights,
Read in her words the proverbs of the wise,
Read in her life the holy vestall rites,
Which love and vertue sweetly moralize:
And she the Academ of vertues exercise.

But on thy volumes who is there may comment,
When as thy selfe hath Arts selfe undermined:
Or undertake to coate thy learned margent,
When learnings lines are ever enterlined,
And purest words, are in thy mouth refined.

Knewest thou thy vertues, oh thou fayr'st of fayrest,
Thou earths sole Phenix, of the world admired,
Vertue in thee repurify'd and rarest,
Whose endles fame by time is not expired,
Then of thy selfe would thy selfe be admired.

But arte wants arte to frame so pure a Myrror,
Where humaine eyes may view thy vertues beautie,
When fame is so surprised with the terror,
Wanting to pay the tribute of her duetie,
With colours who can paint out vertues beautie.

But since unperfect are the perfects colours,
And skill is so unskilfull how to blaze thee:
Now will I make a myrror of my dolours,
And in my teares then looke thy selfe and prayse thee,
Oh happy I, if such a glasse might please thee.

Goe gentle windes and whisper in her eare,
And tell Idea how much I adore her,
And thou my flock, reporte unto my fayre,
How she excelleth all that went before her,
Tell her the very foules in ayre adore her.

And thou cleare Brooke by whose fayre silver streame,
Grow those tall Okes where I have carv'd her name,
Convay her praise to Neptunes watery Realme,
Refresh the rootes of her still growing fame,
And teach the Dolphins to resound her name.

Motto.

Cease shepheard cease, reserve thy Muses store,
Till after time shall teach thy Oaten reede,
Aloft in ayre with Egles wings to sore,
And sing in honor of some worthies deede,
To serve Idea in some better steede.

She sees not shepheard, no she will not see,
Her rarest vertues blazond by thy quill,
Nor knowes the effect the same hath wrought in thee,
The very tuch and anvile of thy skill,
And this is that which bodeth all thy ill.

Yet if her vertues glorie shall decay,
Or if her beauties flower shall hap to fall,
Or any cloud eclipse her sun-shine day,
Then looke (Idea) in thy pastorall,
And thou thy vertues unto minde shalt call.

Rowland.

Shepheard farewell, the skies begin to lowre,
Yon pitchie clowd which hangeth in the West,
I feare me doth presage some sodaine showre,
Come let us home, for so I think it best,
For all our flocks been laid them downe to rest.

Motto.

And if thou list to come unto my Coate,
Although (God knowes) my cheere be to too small,
And wealth with me was never yet afloate,
Yet take in gree what ever doe befall,
And wee will sit, and sing a mery madrigall.

Rowland.
Per superos iuro testes, pompamque Deorum,
Te Dominam nobis tempus in omne fore.

Motto.
Nos quoque per totum pariter cantabimur orbem,
Iunctàque semper erunt nomina nostra tuis.

THE SIXT EGLOG. Good Gorbo cals to mind the fame

Good Gorbo cals to mind the fame,
of our old Ancestrie:
And Perkin sings Pandoras prayse,
The Muse of Britanye.

Perkin.

All haile good Gorbo, yet return'd at last,
What tell me man? how goes the world with thee?
What is it worse then it was wont to be?
Or been thy youthfull dayes already past?
Have patience man, for wealth will come and goe,
And to the end the world shall ebbe and flowe.

The valiant man, whose thoughts on hie been placed,
And sees sometime how fortune list to rage,
With wisdome still his actions so doth gage,
As with her frownes he no whit is disgraced,
And when she fawnes, and turnes her squinting eye,
Bethinks him then, of her inconstancie.

When as the Cullian, and the viler Clowne,
Who with the swine, on draffe sets his desire,
And thinks no life to wallowing in the myre,
In stormie tempest, dying layes him downe,
Yet tasting weale, the asse begins to bray,
And feeling woe, the beast consumes away.

Gorbo.

So said the Sage in his Philosophie,
The Lordly hart inspir'd with noblesse,
With courage doth his crosses still suppresse,
His patience doth his passions mortifie,
When other folke this paine cannot endure,
Because they want this med'cine for their cure.

Perkin.

And yet oft times the world I doe admire,
When as the wise and vertuous men I see,
Be hard beset with neede and povertie,
And lewdest fooles to highest things aspire,
What should I say? that fortune is to blame?
Or unto whome should I impute this shame.

Gorbo.

Vertue and Fortune never could agree,
Foule Fortune ever was faire vertues foe,
Blinde Fortune blindly doth her gifts bestowe,
But vertue wise, and wisely doth foresee,
They fall which trust to fortunes fickle wheele,
But staied by vertue, men shall never reele.

Perkin.

If so, why should she not be more regarded,
Why should men cherish vice and villanie,
And maintaine sinne and basest rogerie,
And vertue thus so slightly be rewarded,
This shewes that we full deepe dissemblers be,
And all we doe, but meere hypocrisie.

Gorbo.

Where been those Nobles, Perkin, where been they?
Where been those worthies, Perkin, which of yore,
This gentle Ladie did so much adore?
And for her Impes did with such care purvey,
They been yswadled in their winding sheete,
And she (I thinke) is buried at their feete.

Oh worthy world, wherein those worthies lived,
Unworthy world, of such men so unworthy,
Unworthy age, of all the most unworthy,
Which art of these so worthy men deprived,
And inwardly in us is nothing lesse,
Than outwardly that, which we most professe.

Perkin.

Nay stay good Gorbo, Vertue is not dead,
Nor all her friends be gone which wonned here,
She lives with one who ever held her deere,
And to her lappe for succour she is fled,
In her sweete bosome, she hath built her nest,
And from the world, even there she lives at rest.

Unto this sacred Ladie she was left,
(To be an heire-loome) by her ancestrie,
And so bequeathed by their legacie,
When on their death-bed, life was them bereft:
And as on earth together they remayne,
Together so in heaven they both shall raigne.

Oh thou Pandora, through the world renoun'd,
The glorious light, and load-starre of our West,
With all the vertues of the heavens possest,
With mighty groves of holy Lawrell cround,
Erecting learnings long decayed fame,
Heryed and hallowed be thy sacred name.

The flood of Helicon, forspent and drie,
Her sourse decayd with foule oblivion,
The fountaine flowes againe in thee alone,
Where Muses now their thirst may satisfie,
And old Apollo, from Pernassus hill,
May in this spring refresh his droughty quill.

The Graces twisting garlands for thy head,
Thy Ivorie temples deckt with rarest flowers,
Their rootes refreshed with divinest showers,
Thy browes with mirtle all inveloped,
Shepheards erecting trophies to thy praise,
Lauding thy name in songs and heavenly laies.

Sapphos sweete vaine in thy rare quill is seene,
Minerva was a figure of thy worth,
Mnemosine, who brought the Muses forth,
Wonder of Britaine, learnings famous Queene,
Apollo was thy Syer, Pallas her selfe thy mother,
Pandora thou, our Phœbus was thy brother.

Delicious Larke, sweete musick of the morrow,
Cleere bell of Rhetoricke, ringing peales of love,
Joy of the Angels, sent us from above,
Enchanting Syren, charmer of all sorrow,
The loftie subject of a heavenly tale,
Thames fairest Swanne, our summers Nightingale.

Arabian Phenix, wonder of thy sexe,
Lovely, chaste, holy, Myracle admired,
With spirit from the highest heaven inspired,
Oh thou alone, whome fame alone respects,
Natures chiefe glory, learnings richest prize,
Hie Joves Empresa, vertues Paradize.

Oh glorie of thy nation, beauty of thy name,
Joy of thy countrey, blesser of thy birth,
Thou blazing Comet, Angel of the earth,
Oh Poets Goddesse, sun-beame of their fame:
Whome time through many worlds hath sought to find,
Thou peerles Paragon of woman kinde.

Thy glorious Image, gilded with the sunne,
Thy lockes adorn'd with an immortall crowne,
Mounted aloft, upon a Chrystal throne,
When by thy death, thy life shalbe begun:
The blessed Angels tuning to the spheares,
With Gods sweete musick, charme thy sacred eares.

From Fayrie Ile, devided from the mayne,
To utmost Thuly fame transports thy name,
To Garamant shall thence convey the same,
Where taking wing, and mounting up againe,
From parched banckes on sun-burnt Affricks shore,
Shall flie as farre as erst she came of yore.

And gentle Zephire from his pleasant bower,
Whistling sweete musick to the shepheards rime,
The Ocean billowes duely keeping time,
Playing upon Neptunus brazen tower:
Lovers of learning shouting out their cries,
Shaking the Center with th'applaudities.

Whilst that great engine, on her axeltree,
Doth role about the vaultie circled Globe,
Whilst morning mantleth, in her purple Robe,
Or Tytan poste his sea Queenes bower to see,
Whilst Phœbus crowne, adornes the starrie skie,
Pandoras fame so long shall never die.

When all our silver swans shall cease to sing,
And when our groves shall want their Nightingales,
When hils shall heare no more our shepheards tales,
Nor ecchoes with our Roundelayes shall ring,
The little birdes long listning to thy fame,
Shall teach their ofspring to record thy name.

Ages shall tell such wonders of thy name,
And thou in death thy due desert shalt have,
That thou shalt be immortall in thy grave,
Thy vertues adding force unto thy fame,
So that vertue with thy fames wings shall flie,
And by thy fame shall vertue never die.

Upon thy toombe shall spring a Lawrell tree,
Whose sacred shade shall serve thee for an hearse,
Upon whose leaves (in golde) ingrav'd this verse,
Dying she lives, whose like shall never be,
A spring of Nectar flowing from this tree,
The fountayne of eternall memorie.

To adorne the triumph of eternitie,
Drawne with the steedes which dragge the golden sunne,
Thy wagon through the milken way shall runne,
Millions of Angels still attending thee,
Millions of Saints shall thy lives prayses sing,
Pend with the quill of an Archangels wing.

Gorbo.

Long may Pandora weare the Lawrell crowne,
The ancient glory of her noble Peers,
And as the Egle: Lord renew her yeeres,
Long to upholde the proppe of our renowne,
Long may she be as she hath ever beene,
The lowly handmaide of the Fayrie Queene.

Non mihi mille placent: non sum desertor Amoris:
Tu mihi (si qua fides) cura perennis eris.

THE SEVENTH EGLOG. Borrill an aged shepheard swaine

Borrill an aged shepheard swaine,
with reasons doth reproove,
Batte a foolish wanton boy,
but lately falne in love.

Batte.

Borrill, why sit'st thou musing in thy coate?
like dreaming Merlyn in his drowsie Cell,
What may it be with learning thou doest doate,
or art inchanted with some Magick spell?
Or wilt thou now an Hermites life professe?
And bid thy beades heare like an Ancoresse?

See how faire Flora decks our fields with flowers,
and clothes our groves in gaudie summers greene,
And wanton Ver distils rose-water showers,
to welcome Ceres, harvests hallowed Queene,
Who layes abroad her lovely sun-shine haires,
Crown'd with great garlands of her golden eares.

Now shepheards layne their blankets all awaie,
and in their Jackets minsen on the plaines,
And at the rivers fishen daie by daie,
now none so frolicke as the shepheards swaines,
Why liest thou here then in thy loathsome cave,
As though a man were buried quicke in grave.

Borrill.

Batte, my coate from tempest standeth free,
when stately towers been often shakt with wind,
And wilt thou Batte, come and sit with me?
contented life here shalt thou onely finde,
Here mai'st thou caroll Hymnes, and sacred Psalmes,
And hery Pan, with orizons and almes.

And scorne the crowde of such as cogge for pence,
and waste their wealth in sinfull braverie,
Whose gaine is losse, whose thrift is lewd expence,
and liven still in golden slavery:
Wondring at toyes, as foolish worldlings doone,
Like to the dogge which barked at the moone.

Here maist thou range the goodly pleasant field,
and search out simples to procure thy heale,
What sundry vertues hearbs and flowres doe yeeld,
gainst griefe which may thy sheepe or thee assaile:
Here mayst thou hunt the little harmeles Hare,
Or else entrap false Raynard in a snare.

Or if thou wilt in antique Romants reede,
of gentle Lords and ladies that of yore,
In forraine lands atchiev'd their noble deede,
and been renownd from East to Westerne shore:
Or learne the shepheards nice astrolobie,
To know the Planets mooving in the skie.

Batte.

Shepheard these things been all too coy for mee,
whose lustie dayes should still be spent in mirth,
These mister artes been better fitting thee,
whose drouping dayes are drawing towards the earth:
What thinkest thou? my jolly peacocks trayne,
Shall be acoyd and brooke so foule a stayne?

These been for such as make them votarie,
and take them to the mantle and the ring,
And spenden day and night in dotarie,
hammering their heads, musing on heavenly thing,
And whisper still of sorrow in their bed,
And done despise all love and lustie head:

Like to the curre, with anger well neere woode,
who makes his kennel in the Oxes stall,
And snarleth when he seeth him take his foode,
and yet his chaps can chew no hay at all.
Borrill, even so it fareth now with thee,
And with these wisards of thy mysterie.

Borrill.

Sharpe is the thorne, full soone I see by thee,
bitter the blossome, when the fruite is sower,
And early crook'd, that will a Camock bee,
rough is the winde before a sodayne shower:
Pittie thy wit should be so wrong mislead,
And thus be guyded by a giddie head.

Ah foolish elfe, I inly pittie thee,
misgoverned by thy lewd brainsick will:
The hidden baytes, ah fond thou do'st not see,
nor find'st the cause which breedeth all thy ill:
Thou think'st all golde, that hath a golden shew,
And art deceiv'd, for it is nothing soe.

Such one art thou as is the little flie,
who is so crowse and gamesome with the flame,
Till with her busines and her nicetie,
her nimble wings are scorched with the same,
Then fals she downe with pitteous buzzing note,
And in the fier doth sindge her mourning cote.

Batte.

Alas good man I see thou ginst to rave,
thy wits done erre, and misse the cushen quite,
Because thy head is gray and wordes been grave,
thou think'st thereby to draw me from delight:
What I am young, a goodly Batcheler,
And must live like the lustie limmeter.

Thy legges been crook'd, thy knees done bend for age,
and I am swift and nimble as the Roe,
Thou art ycouped like a bird in cage,
and in the field I wander too and froe,
Thou must doe penance for thy olde misdeedes,
And make amends, with Avies and with creedes.

For al that thou canst say, I will not let,
for why my fancie strayneth me so sore,
That day and night, my minde is wholy set
on jollie Love, and jollie Paramore:
Only on love I set my whole delight,
The summers day, and all the winters night.

That pretie Cupid, little god of love,
whose imped wings with speckled plumes been dight,
Who striketh men below, and Gods above,
roving at randon with his feathered flight,
When lovely Venus sits and gives the ayme,
And smiles to see her little Bantlings game.

Upon my staffe his statue will I carve,
his bowe and quiver on his winged backe,
His forked heads, for such as them deserve,
and not of his, an implement shall lacke,
And Venus in her Litter all of love,
Drawne with a Swanne, a Sparrow, and a Dove.

And under him Thesby of Babylon,
and Cleopatra somtime of renowne:
Phillis that died for love of Demophôon,
then lovely Dido Queen of Carthage towne,
Which ever held god Cupids lawes so deare,
And been canoniz'd in Loves Calendere.

Borrill.

Ah wilfull boy, thy follie now I finde,
and hard it is a fooles talke to endure,

Thou art as deafe even as thy god is blinde,
sike as the Saint, sike is the serviture:
But wilt thou heare a good olde Minstrels song,
A medicine for such as been with love ystong.

Batte.

Borrill, sing on I pray thee let us heare,
that I may laugh to see thee shake thy beard,
But take heede Borrill that thy voyce be cleare,
or by my hood thou'lt make us all afeard,
Or els I doubt that thou wilt fright our flockes,
When they shall heare thee barke so like a foxe.

Borrill.
Oh spightfull wayward wretched love,
Woe to Venus which did nurse thee,
Heavens and earth thy plagues do prove,
Gods and men have cause to curse thee.
Thoughts griefe, hearts woe,
Hopes paine, bodies languish,
Envies rage, sleepes foe,
Fancies fraud, soules anguish,
Desires dread, mindes madnes,
Secrets bewrayer, natures error,
Sights deceit, sullens sadnes,
Speeches expence, Cupids terror,
Malcontents melancholly,
Lives slaughter, deaths nurse,
Cares slave, dotards folly,
Fortunes bayte, worlds curse,
Lookes theft, eyes blindnes,
Selfes will, tongues treason,
Paynes pleasure, wrongs kindnes,
Furies frensie, follies reason:
With cursing thee as I began,
Cursing thee I make an end,
Neither God, neither man,
Neither Fayrie, neither Feend.

Batte.

Ah worthy Borrill, here's a goodly song,
now by my belt I never heard a worse:
Olde doting foole, for shame hold thou thy tongue,
I would thy clap were shut up in my purse.
It is thy life, if thou mayst scolde and braule:
Yet in thy words there is no wit at all.

And for that wrong which thou to love hast done,
I will aveng me at this present time,
And in such sorte as now thou hast begonne,
I will repeat a carowlet in rime,
Where, Borrill, I unto thy teeth will prove,
That all my good consisteth in my love.

Borrill.
Come on good Batte, I pray thee let us heare?
Much will be sayd, and never a whit the near.

Batte.

Love is the heavens fayre aspect,
love is the glorie of the earth,
Love only doth our lives direct,
love is our guyder from our birth,

Love taught my thoughts at first to flie,
love taught mine eyes the way to love,
Love raysed my conceit so hie,
love framd my hand his arte to prove.

Love taught my Muse her perfect skill,
love gave me first to Poesie:
Love is the Soveraigne of my will,
love bound me first to loyalty.

Love was the first that fram'd my speech,
love was the first that gave me grace:
Love is my life and fortunes leech,
love made the vertuous give me place.

Love is the end of my desire,
love is the loadstarre of my love,
Love makes my selfe, my selfe admire,
love seated my delights above.

Love placed honor in my brest,
love made me learnings favoret,
Love made me liked of the best,
love first my minde on vertue set.

Love is my life, life is my love,
love is my whole felicity,
Love is my sweete, sweete is my love,
I am in love, and love in me.

Borrill.

Is love in thee? alas poore sillie lad,
thou never couldst have lodg'd a worser guest,
For where he rules no reason can be had,
so is he still sworne enemie to rest:
It pitties me to thinke thy springing yeares,
Should still be spent with woes, with sighes, with teares.

Batte.

Gramercy Borrill for thy company,
for all thy jestes and all thy merrie Bourds,
I still shall long untill I be with thee,
because I find some wisdome in thy words,
But I will watch the next time thou doost ward,
And sing thee such a lay of love as never shepheard heard.

THE EIGHTH EGLOG. Good Gorbo of the golden world

Good Gorbo of the golden world,
and Saturns raigne doth tell,
And afterward doth make reporte,
of bonnie Dowsabell.

Motto.

Shepheard why creepe we in this lowly vaine,
as though our muse no store at all affordes,
Whilst others vaunt it with the frolicke swayne,
and strut the stage with reperfumed wordes.

See how these yonkers rave it out in rime,
who make a traffique of their rarest wits,
And in Bellonas buskin tread it fine,
like Bacchus priests raging in franticke fits.

Those mirtle Groves decay'd, done growe againe,
their rootes refresht with Heliconas spring,
Whose pleasant shade invites the homely swayne,
to sit him downe and heare the Muses sing.

Then if thy Muse hath spent her wonted zeale,
with Ivie twist thy temples shall be crownd,
Or if she dares hoyse up top-gallant sayle,
amongst the rest, then may she be renownd.

Gorbo.

My boy, these yonkers reachen after fame,
and so done presse into the learned troupe,
With filed quill to glorifie their name,
which otherwise were pend in shamefull coupe.

But this hie object hath abjected me,
and I must pipe amongst the lowly sorte,
Those little heard-groomes who admir'd to see,
when I by Moone-shine made the fayries sporte.

Who dares describe the toyles of Hercules,
and puts his hand to fames eternall penne,
Must invocate the soule of Hercules,
attended with the troupes of conquered men.

Who writes of thrice renowmed Theseus,
a monster-tamers rare description,
Trophies the jawes of uglie Cerberus,
and paynts out Styx, and fiery Acheron.

My Muse may not affect night-charming spels,
whose force effects th'Olympicke vault to quake,
Nor call those grysly Goblins from their Cels,
the ever-damned frye of Limbo lake.

And who erects the brave Pyramides,
of Monarches or renowned warriours,
Neede bath his quill for such attempts as these,
in flowing streames of learned Maros showres.

For when the great worlds conquerer began,
to prove his helmet and his habergeon,
The sweat that from the Poets-God Orpheus ran,
foretold his Prophets had to play upon.

When Pens and Launces sawe the Olympiad prize,
those chariot triumphes with the Lawrell crowne,
Then gan the worthies glorie first to rise,
and plumes were vayled to the purple gowne.

The gravest Censor, sagest Senator,
with wings of Justice and Religion,
Mounted the top of Nimrods statelie Tower,
soring unto that hie celestiall throne:

Where blessed Angels in their heavenly queares,
chaunt Anthemes with shrill Syren harmonie,
Tun'd to the sound of those aye-crouding sphears,
which herien their makers eternitie.

Those who foretell the times of unborne men,
and future things in foretime augured,
Have slumbred in that spell-gods darkest den,
which first inspir'd his prophesiyng head.

Sooth-saying Sibels sleepen long agone,
we have their reede, but few have cond their Arte,
Welch-wisard Merlyn, cleveth to a stone,
no Oracle more wonders may impart.

The Infant age could deftly caroll love,
till greedy thirst of that ambitious honor,
Drew Poets pen, from his sweete lasses glove,
to chaunt of slaughtering broiles & bloody horror.

Then Joves love-theft was privily discri'd,
how he playd false play in Amphitrios bed,
And how Apollo in the mount of Ide,
gave Oenon phisick for her maydenhead.

The tender grasse was then the softest bed,
the pleasant'st shades were deem'd the statelyest hals,
No belly-god with Bacchus banqueted,
nor paynted ragges then covered rotten wals.

Then simple love with simple vertue way'd,
flowers the favours which true fayth revayled,
Kindnes with kindnes was againe repay'd,
with sweetest kisses covenants were sealed.

Then beauties selfe with her selfe beautified,
scornd payntings pergit, and the borrowed hayre,
Nor monstrous formes deformities did hide,
nor foule was vernisht with compounded fayre.

The purest fleece then covered purest skin,
for pride as then with Lucifer remaynd:
Deformed fashions now were to begin,
nor clothes were yet with poysned liquor staynd.

But when the bowels of the earth were sought,
and men her golden intrayles did espie,
This mischiefe then into the world was brought,
this fram'd the mint which coynd our miserie.

Then lofty Pines were by ambition hewne,
and men sea-monsters swamme the brackish flood,
In waynscot tubs, to seeke out worlds unknowne,
for certain ill to leave assured good.

The starteling steede is manag'd from the field,
and serves a subject to the riders lawes,
He whom the churlish bit did never weeld,
now feels the courb controll his angrie jawes.

The hammering Vulcane spent his wasting fire,
till he the use of tempred mettals found,
His anvile wrought the steeled cotes attire,
and forged tooles to carve the foe-mans wound.

The Citie builder then intrencht his towres,
and wald his wealth within the fenced towne,
Which afterward in bloudy stormy stours,
kindled that flame which burnt his Bulwarks downe.

And thus began th'Exordium of our woes,
the fatall dumbe shewe of our miserie:
Here sprang the tree on which our mischiefe growes,
the drery subject of worlds tragedie.

Motto.

Well, shepheard well, the golden age is gone,
wishes may not revoke that which is past:
It were no wit to make two griefes of one,
our proverb sayth, Nothing can alwayes last.

Listen to me my lovely shepheards joye,
and thou shalt heare with mirth and mickle glee,
A pretie Tale, which when I was a boy,
my toothles Grandame oft hath tolde to me.

Gorbo.
Shepheard say on, so may we passe the time,
There is no doubt it is some worthy ryme.

Motto.

Farre in the countrey of Arden,
There wond a knight hight Cassemen,
as bolde as Isenbras:

Fell was he and eger bent,
In battell and in Tournament,
as was the good sir Topas.

He had as antique stories tell,
A daughter cleaped Dowsabell,
a mayden fayre and free:

And for she was her fathers heire,
Full well she was ycond the leyre,
of mickle curtesie.

The silke wel couth she twist and twine,
And make the fine Marchpine,
and with the needle werke,

And she couth helpe the priest to say
His Mattens on a holyday,
and sing a Psalme in Kirke.

She ware a frock of frolicke greene,
Might well beseeme a mayden Queene,
which seemly was to see.

A hood to that so neat and fine,
In colour like the colombine,
ywrought full featuously.

Her feature all as fresh above,
As is the grasse that growes by Dove,
as lyth as lasse of Kent:

Her skin as soft as Lemster wooll,
As white as snow on peakish hull,
or Swanne that swims in Trent.

This mayden in a morne betime,
Went forth when May was in her prime,
to get sweete Cetywall,

The hony-suckle, the Harlocke,
The Lilly and the Lady-smocke,
to deck her summer hall.

Thus as she wandred here and there,
Ypicking of the bloomed Breere,
she chanced to espie

A shepheard sitting on a bancke,
Like Chanteclere he crowed crancke,
and pip'd with merrie glee:

He leard his sheepe as he him list,
When he would whistle in his fist,
to feede about him round:

Whilst he full many a caroll sung,
Untill the fields and medowes rung,
and that the woods did sound:

In favour this same shepheards swayne,
Was like the bedlam Tamburlayne,
which helde prowd Kings in awe:

But meeke he was as Lamb mought be,
Ylike that gentle Abel he,
whom his lewd brother slaw.

This shepheard ware a sheepe gray cloke,
Which was of the finest loke,
that could be cut with sheere,

His mittens were of Bauzens skinne,
His cockers were of Cordiwin,
his hood of Meniveere.

His aule and lingell in a thong,
His tar-boxe on his broad belt hong,
his breech of Coyntrie blew:

Full crispe and curled were his lockes,
His browes as white as Albion rocks,
so like a lover true.

And pyping still he spent the day,
So mery as the Popingay:
which liked Dowsabell,

That would she ought or would she nought,
This lad would never from her thought:
she in love-longing fell.

At length she tucked up her frocke,
White as the Lilly was her smocke,
she drew the shepheard nie,

But then the shepheard pyp'd a good,
That all his sheepe forsooke their foode,
to heare his melodie.

Thy sheepe quoth she cannot be leane,
That have a jolly shepheards swayne,
the which can pipe so well.

Yea but (sayth he) their shepheard may,
If pyping thus he pine away,
in love of Dowsabell.

Of love fond boy take thou no keepe,
Quoth she, looke well unto thy sheepe,
lest they should hap to stray.

Quoth he, so had I done full well,
Had I not seene fayre Dowsabell,
come forth to gather Maye.

With that she gan to vaile her head,
Her cheekes were like the Roses red,
but not a word she sayd.

With that the shepheard gan to frowne,
He threw his pretie pypes adowne,
and on the ground him layd.

Sayth she, I may not stay till night,
And leave my summer hall undight,
and all for long of thee.

My Coate sayth he, nor yet my foulde,
Shall neither sheepe nor shepheard hould,
except thou favour me.

Sayth she yet lever I were dead,
Then I should lose my maydenhead,
and all for love of men:

Sayth he yet are you too unkind,
If in your heart you cannot finde,
to love us now and then:

And I to thee will be as kinde,
As Colin was to Rosalinde,
of curtesie the flower:

Then will I be as true quoth she,
As ever mayden yet might be,
unto her Paramour:

With that she bent her snow-white knee,
Downe by the shepheard kneeled shee,
and him she sweetely kist.

With that the shepheard whoop'd for joy,
Quoth he, ther's never shepheards boy,
that ever was so blist.

Gorbo.

Now by my sheep-hooke here's a tale alone,
Learne me the same and I will give thee hier,
This were as good as curds for our Jone,
When at a night we sitten by the fire.

Motto.

Why gentle hodge I will not sticke for that,
When we two meeten here another day,
But see whilst we have set us downe to chat,
Yon tikes of mine begin to steale away.

And if thou wilt but come unto our greene,
On Lammas day when as we have our feast,
Thou shalt sit next unto our summer Queene,
And thou shalt be the onely welcome guest.

THE NINTH EGLOG. When cole-blacke night with sable vaile

When cole-blacke night with sable vaile
eclipsd the gladsome light,
Rowland in darkesome shade alone,
bemoanes his wofull plight.

What time the wetherbeaten flockes,
forsooke the fields to shrowd them in the folde,
The groves dispoyl'd of their fayre summer lockes,
the leaveles branches nipt with frostie colde,
The drouping trees their gaynesse all agone,
In mossie mantles doe expresse their moane.

When Phœbus from his Lemmans lovely bower,
throughout the sphere had jerckt his angry Jades,
His Carre now pass'd the heavens hie welked Tower,
gan dragge adowne the occidentall slades,
In silent shade of desart all alone,
Thus to the night, Rowland bewrayes his moane.

Oh blessed starres which lend the darknes light,
the glorious paynting of that circled throane,
You eyes of heaven, you lanthornes of the night,
to you bright starres, to you I make my moane,
Or end my dayes, or ease me of my griefe,
The earth is frayle, and yeelds me no reliefe.

And thou fayre Phebe, cleerer to my sight,
then Tytan is when brightest he hath shone,
Why shouldst thou now shut up thy blessed light,
and sdayne to looke on thy Endymion?
Perhaps the heavens me thus despight have done,
Because I durst compare thee with their sunne.

If drery sighes the tempests of my brest,
or streames of teares from floods of weeping eyes,
If downe-cast lookes with darksome cloudes opprest,
or words which with sad accents fall and rise,
If these, nor her, nor you, to pittie move,
There's neither helpe in you, nor hope in love.

Oh fayr'st that lives, yet most unkindest mayd,
ô whilome thou the joy of all my flocke,
Why have thine eyes these eyes of mine betrayd,
unto thy hart more hard then flintie rocke,
And lastly thus depriv'd me of their sight,
From whome my love derives both life and light.

Those dapper ditties pend unto her prayse,
and those sweete straynes of tunefull pastorall,
She scorneth as the Lourdayns clownish layes,
and recketh as the rustick madrigall,
Her lippes prophane Ideas sacred name,
And sdayne to read the annals of her fame.

Those gorgeous garlands and those goodly flowers,
wherewith I crown'd her tresses in the prime,
She most abhors, and shuns those pleasant bowers,
made to disport her in the summer time:
She hates the sports and pastimes I invent,
And as the toade, flies all my meriment.

With holy verses heryed I her glove,
and dew'd her cheekes with fountaines of my teares,
And carold her full many a lay of love,
twisting sweete Roses in her golden hayres.
Her wandring sheepe full safely have I kept,
And watch'd her flocke full oft when she hath slept.

Oenon never upon Ida hill,
so oft hath cald on Alexanders name,
As hath poore Rowland with an Angels quill,
erected trophies of Ideas fame:
Yet that false shepheard Oenon fled from thee,
I follow her that ever flies from me.

Ther's not a grove that wonders not my woe,
there's not a river weepes not at my tale:
I heare the ecchoes (wandring too and froe)
resound my griefe in every hill and dale,
The beasts in field, with many a wofull groane,
The birds in ayre help to expresse my moane.

Where been those lines? the heraulds of my heart,
my plaints, my tears, my vowes, my sighes, my prayers?
O what avayleth fayth, or what my Artes?
ô love, ô hope, quite turn'd into despayres:
She stops her eares as Adder to the charmes,
And lets me lye and languish in my harmes.

All is agone, such is my endles griefe,
and my mishaps amended naught with moane,
I see the heavens will yeeld me no reliefe:
what helpeth care, when cure is past and gone,
And teares I see, doe me avayle no good,
But as great showres increase the rising flood.

With folded armes, thus hanging downe his head,
he gave a groane as though his heart had broke,
Then looking pale and wan as he were dead,
he fetch'd a sigh, but never a word he spoke:
For now his heart wax'd cold as any stone,
Was never man alive so woe begone.

With that fayre Cinthya stoups her glittering vayle,
and dives adowne into the Ocean flood,
The easterne brow which erst was wan and pale,
now in the dawning blusheth red as blood:
The whistling Larke ymounted on her wings,
To the gray morrow, her good morrow sings.

When this poore shepheard Rowland of the Rocke,
whose faynting legges his body scarse upheld,
Each shepheard now returning to his flocke,
alone poore Rowland fled the pleasant field,
And in his Coate got to a vechie bed:
Was never man alive so hard bested.

IDEAS MIRROVR.

AMOVRS IN QVATORZAINS.

Che serue é tace assai domanda.

TO THE DEERE CHYLD OF THE MUSES, AND HIS EVER KIND MECÆNAS, MA. ANTHONY COOKE, ESQUIRE.

Vouchsafe to grace these rude unpolish'd rymes,
Which long (deer friend) have slept in sable night,
And come abroad now in these glorious tymes,
Can hardly brooke the purenes of the light.

But sith you see their desteny is such,
That in the world theyr fortune they must try,
Perhaps they better shall abide the tuch,
Wearing your name theyr gracious livery.

Yet these mine owne, I wrong not other men,
Nor trafique further then thys happy Clyme,
Nor filch from Portes nor from Petrarchs pen,
A fault too common in thys latter tyme.
Divine Syr Phillip, I avouch thy writ,
I am no Pickpurse of anothers wit.

Yours devoted, M. Drayton.

[Ankor tryumph, upon whose blessed shore]

Ankor tryumph, upon whose blessed shore,
The sacred Muses solemnize thy name:
Where the Arcadian Swaines with rytes adore
Pandoras poesy, and her living fame.

Where first this jolly Sheepheard gan rehearse,
That heavenly worth, upon his Oaten reede,
Of earths great Queene: in Nectar-dewed verse,
Which none so wise that rightly can areede.

Nowe in conceite of his ambitious love,
He mounts his thoughts unto the highest gate,
Straynd with some sacred spirit from above,
Bewraies his love, his fayth, his life, his fate:

In this his myrror of Ideas praise,
On whom his thoughts, and fortunes all attend,
Tunes all his Ditties, and his Roundelaies,
How love begun, how love shal never end.
No wonder though his Muse then soare so hie,
Whose subject is the Queene of Poesie.

Gorbo il fidele.

AMOUR. 1.

Reade heere (sweet Mayd) the story of my wo,
The drery abstracts of my endles cares:
With my lives sorow enterlyned so,
Smok'd with my sighes, and blotted with my teares.

The sad memorials of my miseries,
Pend in the griefe of myne afflicted ghost:
My lives complaint in doleful Elegies,
With so pure love as tyme could never boast.

Receave the incense which I offer heere,
By my strong fayth ascending to thy fame,
My zeale, my hope, my vowes, my praise, my prayer,
My soules oblations to thy sacred name.
Which name my Muse to highest heaven shal raise,
By chast desire, true love, and vertues praise.

AMOUR. 2.

My fayre, if thou wilt register my love,
More then worlds volumes shall thereof arise,
Preserve my teares, and thou thy selfe shalt prove
A second flood downe rayning from mine eyes.

Note but my sighes, and thine eyes shal behold,
The Sun-beames smothered with immortall smoke:
And if by thee my prayers may be enrold,
They heaven and earth to pitty shall provoke.

Looke thou into my breast, and thou shalt see
Chaste holy vowes for my soules sacrifice:
That soule (sweet Maide) which so hath honored thee,
Erecting Trophies to thy sacred eyes.
Those eyes to my hart shining ever bright,
When darknes hath obscur'd each other light.

AMOUR. 3.

My thoughts bred up with Eagle-birds of love,
And for their vertues I desierd to know,
Upon the nest I set them, forth to prove,
If they were of the Eagles kinde or no.

But they no sooner saw my Sunne appeare,
But on her rayes with gazing eyes they stood,
Which proov'd my birds delighted in the ayre,
And that they came of this rare kinglie brood.

But now their plumes full sumd with sweet desire,
To shew their kinde, began to clime the skies:
Doe what I could my Eaglets would aspire,
Straight mounting up to thy celestiall eyes.
And thus (my faire) my thoughts away be flowne,
And from my breast into thine eyes be gone.

AMOUR. 4.

My faire, had I not erst adornd my Lute,
With those sweet strings stolne from thy golden hayre,
Unto the world had all my joyes been mute,
Nor had I learn'd to descant on my faire.

Had not mine eye seene thy Celestiall eye,
Nor my hart knowne the power of thy name,
My soule had ne'r felt thy Divinitie,
Nor my Muse been the trumpet of thy fame.

But thy divine perfections by their skill,
This miracle on my poore Muse have tried:
And by inspiring, glorifide my quill,
And in my verse thy selfe art deified.
Thus from thy selfe the cause is thus derived,
That by thy fame all fame shall be survived.

100

AMOUR. 5.

Since holy Vestall lawes have been neglected,
The Gods pure fire hath been extinguisht quite:
No Virgine once attending on that light,
Nor yet those heavenly secrets once respected.

Till thou alone to pay the heavens their dutie,
Within the Temple of thy sacred name,
With thine eyes kindling that Celestial flame,
By those reflecting Sun-beames of thy beautie.

Here Chastity that Vestall most divine,
Attends that Lampe with eye which never sleepeth,
The volumes of Religions lawes shee keepeth,
Making thy breast that sacred reliques shryne,
Where blessed Angels singing day and night,
Praise him which made that fire, which lends that light.

AMOUR. 6.

In one whole world is but one Phœnix found,
A Phœnix thou, this Phœnix then alone,
By thy rare plume thy kind is easly knowne,
With heavenly colours dide, with natures wonder cround,

Heape thine own vertues seasoned by their sunne,
On heavenlie top of thy divine desire:
Then with thy beautie set the same on fire,
So by thy death, thy life shall be begunne.

Thy selfe thus burned in this sacred flame,
With thine owne sweetnes al the heavens perfuming,
And stil increasing as thou art consuming,
Shalt spring againe from th'ashes of thy fame;
And mounting up, shalt to the heavens ascend,
So maist thou live, past world, past fame, past end.

101

AMOUR. 7.

Stay, stay, sweet Time, behold or ere thou passe
From world to world, thou long hast sought to see,
That wonder now wherein all wonders be,
Where heaven beholds her in a mortall glasse.

Nay, looke thee Time in this Celestiall glasse,
And thy youth past, in this faire mirror see:
Behold worlds Beautie in her infancie,
What shee was then, and thou or ere shee was.

Now passe on Time, to after-worlds tell this,
Tell truelie Time what in thy time hath beene,
That they may tel more worlds what Time hath seene,
And heaven may joy to think on past worlds blisse.
Heere make a Period Time, and saie for mee,
She was, the like that never was, nor never more shalbe.

AMOUR. 8.

Unto the World, to Learning, and to Heaven,
Three nines there are, to everie one a nine,
One number of the earth, the other both divine,
One wonder woman now makes three od numbers even.

Nine orders first of Angels be in heaven,
Nine Muses doe with learning still frequent:
These with the Gods are ever resident:
Nine worthy men unto the world were given.

My Worthie, one to these nine Worthies, addeth,
And my faire Muse, one Muse unto the nine:
And my good Angell in my soule divine,
With one more order, these nine orders gladdeth.
My Muse, my Worthy, and my Angell then,
Makes every one of these three nines a ten.

102

AMOUR. 9.

Beauty sometime in all her glory crowned,
Passing by that cleere fountaine of thine eye:
Her sun-shine face there chaunsing to espy,
Forgot herselfe, and thought she had been drowned.

And thus whilst Beautie on her beauty gazed,
Who then yet living, deemd she had been dying,
And yet in death, some hope of life espying,
At her own rare perfections so amazed;

Twixt joy and griefe, yet with a smyling frowning,
The glorious sun-beames of her eyes bright shining,
And shee on her owne destiny divining,
Threw in herselfe, to save herselfe by drowning.
The Well of Nectar, pav'd with pearle and gold,
Where shee remaines for all eyes to behold.

AMOUR. 10.

Oft taking pen in hand, with words to cast my woes,
Beginning to account the sum of all my cares,
I well perceive my griefe innumerable growes,
And styll in reckonings rise more millions of dispayres.

And thus deviding of my fatall howres,
The payments of my love I read, and reading crosse,
And in substracting, set my sweets unto my sowres,
Th'arerage of my joyes, directs me to my losse.

And thus mine eyes, a debtor to thine eye,
Who by extortion gaineth all theyr lookes,
My hart hath payd such grievous usury,
That all her wealth lyes in thy Beauties bookes.
And all is thine which hath been due to mee,
And I a Banckrupt quite undone by thee.

103

AMOUR. 11.

Thine eyes taught mee the Alphabet of love,
To con my Cros-rowe ere I learn'd to spell:
For I was apt a scholler like to prove,
Gave mee sweet lookes when as I learned well.

Vowes were my vowels when I then begun
At my first Lesson in thy sacred name,
My consonants the next when I had done,
Words consonant, and sounding to thy fame.

My liquids then were liquid christall teares,
My cares my mutes so mute to crave reliefe,
My dolefull Dypthongs were my lives dispaires,
Redoubling sighes the accents of my griefe:
My loves Schoole-mistris now hath taught me so,
That I can reade a story of my woe.

AMOUR. 12.

Some Athiest or vile Infidell in love,
When I doe speake of thy divinitie,
May blaspheme thus, and say, I flatter thee:
And onely write, my skill in verse to prove.

See myracles, yee unbeleeving see,
A dumbe-borne Muse made to expresse the mind,
A cripple hand to write, yet lame by kind,
One by thy name, the other touching thee.

Blind were mine eyes, till they were seene of thine,
And mine eares deafe, by thy fame healed be,
My vices cur'd, by vertues sprung from thee,
My hopes reviv'd which long in grave had lyne.
All uncleane thoughts, foule spirits cast out in mee,
By thy great power, and by strong fayth in thee.

104

AMOUR. 13.

Cleere Ankor, on whose silver-sanded shore,
My soule-shrinde Saint, my faire Idea lyes:
O blessed Brooke, whose milk-white Swans adore
That christall streame refined by her eyes.

Where sweet Myrh-breathing Zephyre in the spring,
Gently distils his Nectar-dropping showers:
Where Nightingals in Arden sit and sing,
Amongst those dainty dew-empearled flowers.

Say thus fayre Brooke when thou shalt see thy Queene,
Loe, heere thy Shepheard spent his wandring yeeres:
And in these shades (deer Nimphe) he oft hath been,
And heere to thee he sacrifiz'd his teares.
Fayre Arden, thou my Tempe art alone,
And thou sweet Ankor art my Helicon.

AMOUR. 14.

Looking into the glasse of my youths miseries,
I see the ugly face of my deformed cares,
With withered browes, all wrinckled with dispaires,
That for my mis-spent youth the tears fel from my eyes.

Then in these teares, the mirrors of these eyes,
Thy fayrest youth and Beautie doe I see,
Imprinted in my teares by looking still on thee:
Thus midst a thousand woes, ten thousand joyes arise.

Yet in these joyes, the shadowes of my good,
In this fayre limmed ground as white as snow,
Paynted the blackest Image of my woe,
With murthering hands imbrud in mine own blood.
And in thys Image his darke clowdy eyes,
My life, my youth, my love, I heere Anotamize.

105

AMOUR. 15.

Now Love, if thou wilt prove a Conqueror,
Subdue thys Tyrant ever martyring mee,
And but appoint me for her Tormentor,
Then for a Monarch will I honour thee.

My hart shall be the prison for my fayre,
Ile fetter her in chaines of purest love,
My sighes shall stop the passage of the ayre:
This punishment the pittilesse may move.

With teares out of the Channels of mine eyes,
She'st quench her thirst as duly as they fall:
Kinde words unkindest meate I can devise,
My sweet, my faire, my good, my best of all.

Ile binde her then with my torne-tressed haire,
And racke her with a thousand holy wishes,
Then on a place prepared for her there,
Ile execute her with a thousand kisses.
Thus will I crucifie my cruell shee,
Thus Ile plague her which so hath plagued mee.

106

AMOUR. 16.

Vertues Idea in virginitie,
By inspiration, came conceav'd with thought:
The time is come delivered she must be,
Where first my Love into the world was brought.

Unhappy Borne, of all unhappy day,
So luckles was my Babes nativity:
Saturne chiefe Lord of the Ascendant lay,
The wandring Moone in earths triplicitie.

Now, or by chaunce, or heavens hie providence,
His Mother died, and by her Legacie,
(Fearing the stars presaged influence,)
Bequeath'd his wardship to my soveraignes eye;

Where hunger-starven, wanting lookes to live,
Still empty gorg'd, with cares consumption pynde,
Salt luke-warme teares shee for his drinke did give,
And ever-more with sighes he supt and dynde.
And thus (poore Orphan) lying in distresse,
Cryes in his pangs, God helpe the motherlesse.

107

AMOUR. 17.

If ever wonder could report a wonder,
Or tongue of wonder worth could tell a wonder thought,
Or ever joy expresse, what perfect joy hath taught,
Then wonder, tongue, then joy, might wel report a wonder.

Could all conceite conclude, which past conceite admireth,
Or could mine eye but ayme, her objects past perfection,
My words might imitate my deerest thoughts direction:
And my soule then obtaine which so my soule desireth.

Were not Invention stauld, treading Inventions maze,
Or my swift-winged Muse tyred by too hie flying,
Did not perfection still on her perfection gaze,
Whilst Love (my Phœnix bird) in her own flame is dying,
Invention and my Muse, perfection and her love,
Should teach the world to know the wonder that I prove.

AMOUR. 18.

Some when in ryme they of their Loves doe tell,
With flames and lightning their exordiums paynt,
Some invocate the Gods, some spirits of Hell,
And heaven, and earth, doe with their woes acquaint.

Elizia is too hie a seate for mee,
I wyll not come in Stixe nor Phlegiton,
The Muses nice, the Furies cruell be,
I lyke not Limbo, nor blacke Acheron,

Spightfull Errinis frights mee with her lookes,
My manhood dares not with foule Ate mell,
I quake to looke on Hecats charming bookes,
I styll feare bugbeares in Apollos Cell.
I passe not for Minerva nor Astræa,
But ever call upon divine Idea.

108

AMOUR. 19.

If those ten Regions registred by Fame,
By theyr ten Sibils have the world controld,
Who prophecied of Christ or ere he came,
And of hys blessed birth before fore-told.

That man-god now of whom they dyd divine,
This earth of those sweet Prophets hath bereft,
And since the world to judgement doth declyne,
In steed of ten, one Sibil to us left.

Thys, pure Idea, vertues right Idea,
Shee of whom Merlin long tyme did fore-tell,
Excelling her of Delphos or Cumæa,
Whose lyfe doth save a thousand soules from hell:
That life (I meane) which doth Religion teach,
And by example, true repentance preach.

AMOUR. 20.

Reading sometyme, my sorrowes to beguile,
I find old Poets hylls and floods admire.
One, he doth wonder monster-breeding Nyle,
Another, mervailes Sulphure Aetnas fire.

Now broad-brymd Indus, then of Pindus height,
Pelion and Ossa, frosty Caucase old,
The Delian Cynthus, then Olympus weight,
Slow Arrer, frantick Gallus, Cydnus cold.

Some Ganges, Ister, and of Tagus tell,
Some whir-poole Po, and slyding Hypasis,
Some old Pernassus, where the Muses dwell,
Some Helycon, and some faire Simois,
A fooles thinke I, had you Idea seene,
Poore Brookes and Banks had no such wonders beene.

109

AMOUR. 21.

Letters and lynes we see are soone defaced,
Mettles doe waste, and fret with cankers rust,
The Diamond shall once consume to dust,
And freshest colours with foule staines disgraced.

Paper and yncke, can paynt but naked words,
To write with blood, of force offends the sight,
And if with teares, I find them all too light:
And sighes and signes a silly hope affoords.

O sweetest shadow, how thou serv'st my turne,
Which still shalt be as long as there is Sunne,
Nor whilst the world is, never shall be done,
Whilst Moone shall shyne by night, or any fire shall burne.
That every thing whence shadow doth proceede,
May in his shadow my Loves story reade.

AMOUR. 22.

My hart imprisoned in a hopeles Ile,
Peopled with Armies of pale jealous eyes,
The shores beset with thousand secret spyes,
Must passe by ayre, or else dye in exile.

He framd him wings with feathers of his thought,
Which by theyr nature learn'd to mount the skye,
And with the same he practised to flye,
Till he himselfe thys Eagles art had taught.

Thus soring still, not looking once below,
So neere thyne eyes celestiall sunne aspyred,
That with the rayes his wafting pyneons fired.
Thus was the wanton cause of hys owne woe.
Downe fell he in thy Beauties Ocean drenched,
Yet there he burnes, in fire thats never quenched.

110

AMOUR. 23.

Wonder of Heaven, glasse of divinitie,
Rare beauty, Natures joy, perfections Mother,
The worke of that united Trinitie,
Wherein each fayrest part excelleth other.

Loves Methridate, the purest of perfection,
Celestiall Image, Load-stone of desire,
The soules delight, the sences true direction,
Sunne of the world, thou hart revyving fire.

Why should'st thou place thy Trophies in those eyes,
Which scorne the honor that is done to thee,
Or make my pen her name imortalize,
Who in her pride sdaynes once to looke on mee.
It is thy heaven within her face to dwell,
And in thy heaven, there onely is my hell.

AMOUR. 24.

Our floods-Queene Thames, for shyps & Swans is crowned,
And stately Severne, for her shores is praised,
The christall Trent, for Foords & fishe renowned,
And Avons fame, to Albyons Clives is raysed.

Carlegion Chester, vaunts her holy Dee,
Yorke, many wonders of her Ouse can tell,
The Peake her Dove, whose bancks so fertill bee,
And Kent will say, her Medway doth excell.

Cotswoold commends her Isis and her Tame,
Our Northern borders boast of Tweeds faire flood,
Our Westerne parts extoll theyr Wilys fame,
And old Legea brags of Danish blood:
Ardens sweet Ankor let thy glory be,
That fayre Idea shee doth live by thee.

111

AMOUR. 25.

The glorious sunne went blushing to his bed,
When my soules sunne from her fayre Cabynet,
Her golden beames had now discovered,
Lightning the world, eclipsed by his set.

Some muz'd to see the earth envy the ayre,
Which from her lyps exhald refined sweet,
A world to see, yet how he joyd to heare
The dainty grasse make musicke with her feete.

But my most mervaile was when from the skyes,
So Comet-like each starre advaunc'd her lyght,
As though the heaven had now awak'd her eyes,
And summond Angels to thys blessed sight.
No clowde was seene, but christaline the ayre,
Laughing for joy upon my lovely fayre.

AMOUR. 26.

Cupid, dumbe Idoll, peevish Saint of love,
No more shalt thou nor Saint nor Idoll be,
No God art thou, a Goddesse shee doth prove,
Of all thine honour shee hath robbed thee.

Thy Bowe halfe broke, is peec'd with olde desire,
Her Bowe is beauty, with ten thousand strings,
Of purest gold, tempred with vertues fire:
The least able to kyll an hoste of Kings.

Thy shafts be spent, and shee (to warre appointed)
Hydes in those christall quivers of her eyes,
More Arrowes with hart-piercing mettel poynted,
Then there be starres at midnight in the skyes.
With these, she steales mens harts for her reliefe,
Yet happy he thats robd of such a thiefe.

112

AMOUR. 27.

My love makes hote the fire whose heat is spent,
The water, moysture from my teares deriveth:
And my strong sighes, the ayres weake force reviveth.
This love, tears, sighes, maintaine each one his element.

The fire, unto my love, compare a painted fire,
The water, to my teares, as drops to Oceans be,
The ayre, unto my sighes, as Eagle to the flie,
The passions of dispaire, but joyes to my desire.

Onely my love is in the fire ingraved,
Onely my teares by Oceans may be gessed,
Onely my sighes are by the ayre expressed,
Yet fire, water, ayre, of nature not deprived.
Whilst fire, water, ayre, twixt heaven & earth shall be,
My love, my teares, my sighes, extinguisht cannot be.

AMOUR. 28.

Some wits there be, which lyke my method well,
And say my verse runnes in a lofty vayne,
Some say I have a passing pleasing straine,
Some say that in my humor I excell.

Some, who reach not the height of my conceite,
They say, (as Poets doe) I use to fayne,
And in bare words paynt out my passions payne.
Thus sundry men, their sundry minds repeate.

I passe not I how men affected be,
Nor who commend or discommend my verse,
It pleaseth me if I my plaints rehearse,
And in my lynes if shee my love may see.
I prove my verse autentique still in thys,
Who writes my Mistres praise, can never write amisse.

113

AMOUR. 29.

O eyes, behold your happy Hesperus,
That luckie Load-starre of eternall light,
Left as that sunne alone to comfort us,
When our worlds sunne is vanisht out of sight.

O starre of starres, fayre Planet mildly mooving,
O Lampe of vertue, sun-bright, ever shyning,
O mine eyes Comet, so admyr'd by loving,
O cleerest day-starre, never more declyning.

O our worlds wonder, crowne of heaven above,
Thrice happy be those eyes which may behold thee,
Lov'd more then life, yet onely art his love,
Whose glorious hand immortall hath enrold thee.
O blessed fayre, now vaile those heavenly eyes,
That I may blesse mee at thy sweet arise.

AMOUR. 30.

Three sorts of Serpents doe resemble thee,
That daungerous eye-killing Cockatrice,
Th'inchaunting Syren, which doth so entice,
The weeping Crocodile: these vile pernicious three.

The Basiliske his nature takes from thee,
Who for my life in secrete waite do'st lye,
And to my hart send'st poyson from thine eye,
Thus do I feele the paine, the cause, yet cannot see.

Faire-mayd no more, but Mayr-maid be thy name,
Who with thy sweet aluring harmony
Hast playd the thiefe, and stolne my hart from me,
And like a Tyrant mak'st my griefe thy game.
Thou Crocodile, who when thou hast me slaine,
Lament'st my death, with teares of thy disdaine.

114

AMOUR. 31.

Sitting alone, love bids me goe and write,
Reason plucks backe, commaunding me to stay,
Boasting that shee doth still direct the way,
Els senceles love could never once endite.

Love growing angry, vexed at the spleene,
And scorning Reasons maymed Argument,
Straight taxeth Reason, wanting to invent,
Where shee with Love conversing hath not beene.

Reason reproched with this coy disdaine,
Dispighteth Love, and laugheth at her folly,
And Love contemning Reasons reason wholy,
Thought her in weight too light by many a graine.
Reason put back, doth out of sight remove,
And Love alone finds reason in my love.

AMOUR. 32.

Those teares which quench my hope, still kindle my desire,
Those sighes which coole my hart, are coles unto my love,
Disdayne Ice to my life, is to my soule a fire,
With teares, sighes, & disdaine, thys contrary I prove.

Quenchles desire, makes hope burne, dryes my teares,
Love heats my hart, my hart-heat my sighes warmeth,
With my soules fire, my life disdaine out-weares,
Desire, my love, my soule, my hope, hart, & life charmeth.

My hope becomes a friend to my desire,
My hart imbraceth Love, Love doth imbrace my hart,
My life a Phœnix is in my soules fire,
From thence (they vow) they never will depart.
Desire, my love, my soule, my hope, my hart, my life,
With teares, sighes, and disdaine, shall have immortal strife.

115

AMOUR. 33.

Whilst thus mine eyes doe surfet with delight,
My wofull hart imprisond in my breast,
Wishing to be trans-formd into my sight,
To looke on her by whom mine eyes are blest.

But whilst mine eyes thus greedily doe gaze,
Behold, their objects over-soone depart,
And treading in thys never-ending maze,
Wish now to be trans-formd into my hart.

My hart surcharg'd with thoughts, sighes in abundance raise,
My eyes made dim with lookes, poure down a flood of tears,
And whilst my hart and eye, envy each others praise,
My dying lookes and thoughts are peiz'd in equall feares.
And thus whilst sighes and teares together doe contende,
Each one of these, doth ayde unto the other lende.

AMOUR. 34.

My fayre, looke from those turrets of thine eyes,
Into the Ocean of a troubled minde,
Where my poore soule, the Barke of sorrow lyes,
Left to the mercy of the waves and winde.

See where shee flotes, laden with purest love,
Which those fayre Ilands of thy lookes affoord,
Desiring yet a thousand deaths to prove,
Then so to cast her Ballast over boord.

See how her sayles be rent, her tacklings worne,
Her Cable broke, her surest Anchor lost,
Her Marryners doe leave her all forlorne,
Yet how shee bends towards that blessed Coast.
Loe where she drownes, in stormes of thy displeasure,
Whose worthy prize should have enritcht thy treasure.

116

AMOUR. 35.

See chaste Diana, where my harmles hart,
Rouz'd from my breast, his sure and safest layre,
Nor chaste by hound, nor forc'd by Hunters arte,
Yet see how right he comes unto my fayre.

See how my Deere comes to thy Beauties stand,
And there stands gazing on those darting eyes,
Whilst from theyr rayes by Cupids skilfull hand,
Into his hart the piercing Arrow flyes.

See how hee lookes upon his bleeding wound,
Whilst thus he panteth for his latest breath,
And looking on thee, falls upon the ground,
Smyling, as though he gloried in his death.
And wallowing in his blood, some lyfe yet laft,
His stone-cold lips doth kisse the blessed shaft.

AMOUR. 36.

Sweete sleepe so arm'd with Beauties arrowes darting,
Sleepe in thy Beauty, Beauty in sleepe appeareth,
Sleepe lightning Beauty, Beauty sleepes darknes cleereth,
Sleepes wonder Beauty, wonders to worlds imparting.

Sleep watching Beauty, Beauty waking, sleepe guarding,
Beauty in sleepe, sleepe in Beauty charmed,
Sleepes aged coldnes, with Beauties fire warmed,
Sleepe with delight, Beauty with love rewarding.

Sleepe and Beauty, with equall forces stryving,
Beauty her strength unto sleepes weaknes lending,
Sleepe with Beauty, Beauty with sleepe contending,
Yet others force, the others force reviving:
And others foe, the others foe imbrace,
Myne eyes beheld thys conflict in thy face.

117

AMOUR. 37.

I ever love, where never hope appeares,
Yet hope drawes on my never-hoping care,
And my lives hope would die but for dyspaire,
My never certaine joy, breeds ever-certaine feares.

Uncertaine-dread, gyves wings unto my hope,
Yet my hopes wings are loden so with feare,
As they cannot ascend to my hopes spheare,
Yet feare gyves them more then a heavenly scope:

Yet thys large roome is bounded with dyspaire,
So my love is styll fettered with vaine hope,
And lyberty deprives hym of hys scope,
And thus am I imprisond in the ayre;
Then sweet Dispaire, awhile hold up thy head,
Or all my hope for sorrow will be dead.

AMOUR. 38.

If chaste and pure devotion of my youth,
Or glorie of my Aprill-springing yeeres,
Unfained love, in naked simple truth,
A thousand vowes, a thousand sighes and teares:

Or if a world of faithfull service done,
Words, thoughts, and deeds, devoted to her honor,
Or eyes that have beheld her as theyr sunne,
With admiration, ever looking on her.

A lyfe, that never joyd but in her love,
A soule, that ever hath ador'd her name,
A fayth, that time nor fortune could not move,
A Muse, that unto heaven hath raisd her fame.
Though these, nor these, deserve to be imbraced,
Yet faire unkinde, too good to be disgraced.

118

AMOUR. 39.

Die, die, my soule, and never taste of joy,
If sighes, nor teares, nor vowes, nor prayers can move,
If fayth and zeale be but esteemd a toy,
And kindnes, be unkindnes in my love.

Then with unkindnes, Love revenge thy wrong,
O sweet'st revenge that ere the heavens gave,
And with the Swan record thy dying song,
And praise her still to thy untimely grave.

So in loves death shall loves perfection prove,
That love divine which I have borne to you,
By doome concealed to the heavens above,
That yet the world unworthy never knewe,
Whose pure Idea never tongue exprest,
I feele, you know, the heavens can tell the rest.

AMOUR. 40.

O thou unkindest fayre, most fayrest shee,
In thine eyes tryumph murthering my poore hart,
Now doe I sweare by heavens, before we part,
My halfe-slaine hart shall take revenge on thee.

Thy Mother dyd her lyfe to Death resigne,
And thou an Angell art, and from above,
Thy father was a man, that will I prove,
Yet thou a Goddesse art, and so divine.

And thus if thou be not of humaine kinde,
A Bastard on both sides needes must thou be,
Our Lawes alow no Land to basterdy:
By natures Lawes we thee a Bastard finde.
Then hence to heaven unkind, for thy childs part,
Goe Bastard goe, for sure of thence thou art.

119

AMOUR. 41.

Rare of-spring of my thoughts, my deerest Love,
Begot by fancy, on sweet hope exhortive,
In whom all purenes with perfection strove,
Hurt in the Embryon, makes my joyes abhortive.

And you my sighes, Symtomas of my woe,
The dolefull Anthems of my endlesse care,
Lyke idle Ecchoes ever aunswering: so,
The mournfull accents of my loves dispayre.

And thou Conceite, the shadow of my blisse,
Declyning with the setting of my sunne,
Springing with that, and fading straight with this,
Now hast thou end, and now thou wast begun.
Now was thy pryme, and loe, now is thy waine,
Now wast thou borne, now in thy cradle slayne.

AMOUR. 42.

Plac'd in the forlorne hope of all dispayre,
Against the Forte where Beauties Army lies,
Assayld with death, yet arm'd with gastly feare,
Loe thus my love, my lyfe, my fortune tryes.

Wounded with Arrowes from thy lightning eyes,
My tongue in payne, my harts counsels bewraying,
My rebell thought for me in Ambushe lyes,
To my lyves foe her Chieftaine still betraying.

Record my love in Ocean waves (unkind,)
Cast my desarts into the open ayre,
Commit my words unto the fleeting wind,
Cancell my name, and blot it with dispayre,
So shall I be, as I had never beene,
Nor my disgraces to the world be seene.

120

AMOUR. 43.

Why doe I speake of joy, or write of love,
When my hart is the very Den of horror,
And in my soule the paynes of hell I prove,
With all his torments and infernall terror.

Myne eyes want teares thus to bewayle my woe,
My brayne is dry with weeping all too long,
My sighes be spent with griefe and sighing so,
And I want words for to expresse my wrong.

But still distracted in loves Lunacy,
And Bedlam like thus raving in my griefe,
Now rayle upon her hayre, now on her eye,
Now call her Goddesse, then I call her thiefe,
Now I deny her, then I doe confesse her,
Now doe I curse her, then againe I blesse her.

AMOUR. 44.

My hart the Anvile where my thoughts doe beate,
My words the hammers, fashioning my desires,
My breast the forge, including all the heate,
Love is the fuell which maintaines the fire.

My sighes, the bellowes which the flame increaseth,
Filling myne eares with noyse and nightly groning,
Toyling with paine, my labour never ceaseth,
In greevous passions my woes styll bemoning.

Myne eyes with teares against the fire stryving,
With scorching gleed my hart to cynders turneth:
But with those drops the coles againe revyving,
Still more and more unto my torment burneth.
With Sisiphus thus doe I role the stone,
And turne the wheele with damned Ixion.

121

AMOUR. 45.

Blacke pytchy Night, companyon of my woe,
The Inne of care, the Nurse of drery sorrow,
Why lengthnest thou thy darkest howres so,
Still to prolong my long tyme lookt-for morrow?

Thou Sable shadow, Image of dispayre,
Portraite of hell, the ayres black mourning weed,
Recorder of revenge, remembrancer of care,
The shadow and the vaile of every sinfull deed.

Death like to thee, so lyve thou still in death,
The grave of joy, pryson of dayes delight,
Let heavens withdraw their sweet Ambrozian breath,
Nor Moone nor stars lend thee their shining light.
For thou alone renew'st that olde desire,
Which still torments me in dayes burning fire.

AMOUR. 46.

Sweet secrecie, what tongue can tell thy worth?
What mortall pen suffyciently can prayse thee?
What curious Pensill serves to lim thee forth?
What Muse hath power, above thy height to raise thee?

Strong locke of kindnesse, Closet of loves store,
Harts Methridate, the soules preservative,
O vertue, which all vertues doe adore,
Cheefe good, from whom all good things we derive.

O rare effect, true bond of friendships measure,
Conceite of Angels, which all wisdom teachest,
O richest Casket of all heavenly treasure,
In secret silence, which such wonders preachest,
O purest merror, wherein men may see
The lively Image of Divinitie.

122

AMOUR. 47.

The golden Sunne upon his fiery wheeles,
The horned Ram doth in his course awake:
And of just length our night and day doth make,
Flinging the Fishes backward with his heeles.

Then to the Tropicke takes his full Careere,
Trotting his sun-steeds till the Palfrays sweat,
Bayting the Lyon in his furious heat,
Till Virgins smyles doe sound his sweet reteere.

But my faire Planet, who directs me still,
Unkindly, such distemprature doth bring,
Makes Summer Winter, Autumne in the Spring,
Crossing sweet nature by unruly will.
Such is the sunne, who guides my youthfull season,
Whose thwarting course, deprives the world of reason.

AMOUR. 48.

Who list to praise the dayes delicious lyght,
Let him compare it to her heavenly eye:
The sun-beames to that lustre of her sight,
So may the learned like the similie.

The mornings Crimson, to her lyps alike,
The sweet of Eden, to her breathes perfume,
The fayre Elizia, to her fayrer cheeke,
Unto her veynes, the onely Phœnix plume.

The Angels tresses, to her tressed hayre,
The Galixia, to her more then white:
Praysing the fayrest, compare it to my faire,
Still naming her, in naming all delight.
So may he grace all these in her alone,
Superlative in all comparison.

123

AMOUR. 49.

Define my love, and tell the joyes of heaven,
Expresse my woes, and shew the paynes of hell,
Declare what fate unlucky starres have given,
And aske a world upon my life to dwell.

Make knowne that fayth, unkindnes could not move,
Compare my worth with others base desert,
Let vertue be the tuch-stone of my love,
So may the heavens reade wonders in my hart.

Behold the Clowdes which have eclips'd my sunne,
And view the crosses which my course doth let,
Tell mee, if ever since the world begunne,
So faire a Morning had so foule a set?
And by all meanes, let black unkindnes prove,
The patience of so rare divine a love.

AMOUR. 50.

When first I ended, then I first began,
The more I travell, further from my rest,
Where most I lost, there most of all I wan,
Pyned with hunger, rysing from a feast.

Mee thinks I flee, yet want I legs to goe,
Wise in conceite, in acte a very sot,
Ravisht with joy, amidst a hell of woe,
What most I seeme, that surest am I not.

I build my hopes, a world above the skye,
Yet with the Mole, I creepe into the earth,
In plenty, am I starv'd with penury,
And yet I surfet in the greatest dearth.
I have, I want, dispayre, and yet desire,
Burn'd in a Sea of Ice, & drown'd amidst a fire.

124

AMOUR. 51.

Goe you my lynes, Embassadors of love,
With my harts trybute to her conquering eyes,
From whence, if you one teare of pitty move
For all my woes, that onely shall suffise.

When you Minerva in the sunne behold,
At her perfection stand you then and gaze,
Where, in the compasse of a Marygold,
Meridianis sits within a maze.

And let Invention of her beauty vaunt,
When Dorus sings his sweet Pamelas love,
And tell the Gods, Mars is predominant,
Seated with Sol, and weares Minervas glove.
And tell the world, that in the world there is
A heaven on earth, on earth no heaven but this.

FINIS.

125

ENDIMION and Phœbe. IDEAS LATMVS.

Phœbus erit nostri princeps, et carminis Author.

126

TO THE EXCELLENT and most accomplish't Ladie: Lucie Countesse of Bedford.

Great Ladie, essence of my cheefest good,
Of the most pure and finest tempred spirit,
Adorn'd with gifts, enobled by thy blood,
Which by discent true vertue do'st inherit:
That vertue which no fortune can deprive,
Which thou by birth tak'st from thy gracious mother,
Whose royall mindes with equall motion strive,
Which most in honor shall excell the other;
Unto thy fame my Muse her selfe shall taske,
Which rain'st upon mee thy sweet golden showers,
And but thy selfe, no subject will I aske,
Upon whose prayse my soule shall spend her powers.
Sweet Ladie then, grace this poore Muse of mine,
Whose faith, whose zeale, whose life, whose all is thine.

Your Honors humbly divoted, Michaell Drayton.

127

[Rouland, when first I red thy stately rymes]

Rouland, when first I red thy stately rymes,
In Sheepheards weedes, when yet thou liv'dst unknowne,
Not seene in publique in those former tymes,
But unto Ankor tund'st thy Pype alone,
I then beheld thy chaste Ideas fame,
Put on the wings of thine immortall stile,
Whose rarest vertues and deserved name,
Thy Muse renown's throughout this glorious Ile,
Thy lines, like to the Lawrells pleasant shade,
In after ages shall adorne her Herse,
Nor never can her beauties glory fade,
Deckt in the collours of thy happy verse,
Thy fiery spirit mounts up unto the skye,
And what thou writ'st, lives to Eternitye.

E. P.

128

To Idea.

Amidst those shades wherein the Muses sit,
Thus to Idea, my Idea sings,
Support of wisedome, better force of Wit:
Which by desert, desert to honour brings,
Borne to create good thoughts by thy rare woorth,
Whom Nature with her bounteous store doth blesse,
More excellent then Art can set thee forth;
Happy in more, then praises can expresse:
Which by thy selfe shalt make thy selfe continue,
When all worlds glory shall be cleane forgot,
Thus I the least of skilfull Arts retinue:
Write in thy prayse which time shall never blot;
Heaven made thee what thou art, till worlds be done,
Thy fame shall florish like the rising Sunne.

S. G.

129

ENDIMION & PHŒBE.

Ideas Latmus.

In I-ONIA whence sprang old Poets fame,
From whom that Sea did first derive her name,
The blessed bed whereon the Muses lay,
Beauty of Greece, the pride of Asia,
Whence Archelaus whom times historifie,
First unto Athens brought Phylosophie.
In this faire Region on a goodly Plaine,
Stretching her bounds unto the bordring Maine,
The Mountaine Latmus over-lookes the Sea,
Smiling to see the Ocean billowes play:
Latmus, where young Endimion usd to keepe
His fairest flock of silver-fleeced sheepe.
To whom Silvanus often would resort,
At barly-breake to see the Satyres sport;
And when rude Pan his Tabret list to sound,
To see the faire Nymphes foote it in a round,
Under the trees which on this Mountaine grew,
As yet the like Arabia never knew:
For all the pleasures Nature could devise,
Within this plot she did imparadize;
And great Diana of her speciall grace,
With Vestall rytes had hallowed all the place:
Upon this Mount there stood a stately Grove,
Whose reaching armes, to clip the Welkin strove,
Of tufted Cedars, and the branching Pine,
Whose bushy tops themselves doe so intwine,
As seem'd when Nature first this work begun,
Shee then conspir'd against the piercing Sun;
Under whose covert (thus divinely made)
Phœbus greene Laurell florisht in the shade:
Faire Venus Mirtile, Mars his warlike Fyrre,
Minervas Olive, and the weeping Myrhe,
The patient Palme, which thrives in spite of hate,
The Popler, to Alcides consecrate;

130

Which Nature in such order had disposed,
And there-withall these goodly walkes inclosed,
As serv'd for hangings and rich Tapestry,
To beautifie this stately Gallery:
Imbraudring these in curious trailes along,
The clustred Grapes, the golden Citrons hung,
More glorious then the precious fruite were these,
Kept by the Dragon in Hesperides;
Or gorgious Arras in rich colours wrought,
With silk from Affrick, or from Indie brought:
Out of thys soyle sweet bubling Fountains crept,
As though for joy the sencelesse stones had wept;
With straying channels dauncing sundry wayes,
With often turnes, like to a curious Maze:
Which breaking forth, the tender grasse bedewed,
Whose silver sand with orient Pearle was strewed,
Shadowed with Roses and sweet Eglantine,
Dipping theyr sprayes into this christalline:
From which the byrds the purple berries pruned,
And to theyr loves their small recorders tuned.
The Nightingale, woods Herauld of the Spring,
The whistling Woosell, Mavis carroling,
Tuning theyr trebbles to the waters fall,
Which made the musicque more angelicall:
Whilst gentle Zephyre murmuring among,
Kept tyme, and bare the burthen to the song.
About whose brims, refresht with dainty showers,
Grew Amaranthus, and sweet Gilliflowers,
The Marigold, Phœbus beloved frend,
The Moly, which from sorcery doth defend:
Violet, Carnation, Balme and Cassia,
Ideas Primrose, coronet of May.
Above this Grove a gentle faire ascent,
Which by degrees of Milk-white Marble went:
Upon the top, a Paradise was found,
With which, Nature this miracle had crownd;
Empald with Rocks of rarest precious stone,
Which like the flames of Aetna brightly shone;

131

And serv'd as Lanthornes furnished with light,
To guide the wandring passengers by night:
For which fayre Phœbe sliding from her Sphere,
Used oft times to come and sport her there.
And from the Azure starry-painted Sky,
Embalmd the bancks with precious lunary:
That now her Menalus shee quite forsooke,
And unto Latmus wholy her betooke,
And in this place her pleasure us'd to take,
And all was for her sweet Endimions sake:
Endimion, the lovely Shepheards boy,
Endimion, great Phœbes onely joy,
Endimion, in whose pure-shining eyes,
The naked Faries daunst the heydegies.
The shag-haird Satyrs Mountain-climing race,
Have been made tame by gazing in his face.
For this boyes love, the water-Nymphs have wept
Stealing oft times to kisse him whilst he slept:
And tasting once the Nectar of his breath,
Surfet with sweet, and languish unto death;
And Jove oft-times bent to lascivious sport,
And comming where Endimion did resort,
Hath courted him, inflamed with desire,
Thinking some Nymph was cloth'd in boyes attire.
And often-times the simple rural Swaines,
Beholding him in crossing or'e the Plaines,
Imagined, Apollo from above
Put on this shape, to win some Maidens love.
This Shepheard, Phœbe ever did behold,
Whose love already had her thoughts controld;
From Latmus top (her stately throne) shee rose,
And to Endimion downe beneath shee goes.
Her Brothers beames now had shee layd aside,
Her horned cressent, and her full-fac'd pride:
For had shee come adorned with her light,
No mortall eye could have endur'd the sight;
But like a Nymph, crown'd with a flowrie twine,
And not like Phœbe, as herselfe divine.

132

An Azur'd Mantle purfled with a vaile,
Which in the Ayre puft like a swelling saile,
Embosted Rayne-bowes did appeare in silk,
With wavie streames as white as mornings Milk:
Which ever as the gentle Ayre did blow,
Still with the motion seem'd to ebb and flow:
About her neck a chayne twise twenty fold,
Of Rubyes, set in lozenges of gold;
Trust up in trammels, and in curious pleats,
With spheary circles falling on her teats.
A dainty smock of Cipresse, fine and thin,
Or'e cast with curls next to her Lilly skin:
Throgh which the purenes of the same did show
Lyke Damaske-roses strew'd with flakes of snow,
Discovering all her stomack to the waste,
With branches of sweet circling veynes enchaste.
A Coronet she ware of Mirtle bowes,
Which gave a shadow to her Ivory browes.
No smother beauty maske did beauty smother
“Great lights dim lesse yet burn not one another,
Nature abhorrs to borrow from the Mart,
“Simples fit beauty, fie on drugs and Art.

Thus came shee where her love Endimion lay,
Who with sweet Carrols sang the night away;
And as it is the Shepheards usuall trade,
Oft on his pype a Roundelay he playd.
As meeke he was as any Lambe might be,
Nor never lyv'd a fayrer youth then he:
His dainty hand, the snow it selfe dyd stayne,
Or her to whom Jove showr'd in golden rayne:
From whose sweet palme the liquid Pearle dyd swell,
Pure as the drops of Aganippas Well:
Cleere as the liquor which fayre Hebe spylt;
Hys sheephooke silver, damask'd all with gilt.
The staffe it selfe, of snowie Ivory,
Studded with Currall, tipt with Ebony;
His tresses, of the Ravens shyning black,
Stragling in curles along his manly back.

133

The balls which nature in his eyes had set,
Lyke Diamonds inclosing Globes of Jet:
Which sparkled from their milky lids out-right,
Lyke fayre Orions heaven-adorning light.

The stars on which her heavenly eyes were bent,
And fixed still with lovely blandishment,
For whom so oft disguised shee was seene,
As shee Celestiall Phœbe had not beene:
Her dainty Buskins lac'd unto the knee,
Her pleyted Frock, tuck'd up accordingly:
A Nymph-like huntresse, arm'd with bow & dart
About the woods she scoures the long-liv'd Hart.
She climes the mountains with the light-foot Fauns
And with the Satyrs scuds it or'e the Launes.
In Musicks sweet delight shee shewes her skill,
Quavering the Cithron nimbly with her quill,
Upon each tree she carves Endimions name
In Gordian knots, with Phœbe to the same:
To kill him Venson now she pitch'd her toyles,
And to this lovely Raunger brings the spoyles;
And thus whilst she by chaste desire is led
Unto the Downes where he his fayre Flocks fed,
Neere to a Grove she had Endimion spide,
Where he was fishing by a River side
Under a Popler, shadowed from the Sun,
Where merrily to court him she begun:
Sweet boy (qd. she) take what thy hart can wish,
When thou doost angle would I were a fish,
When thou art sporting by the silver Brooks,
Put in thy hand thou need'st no other hooks;
Hard harted boy Endimion looke on mee,
Nothing on earth I hold too deere for thee:
I am a Nimph and not of humaine blood,
Begot by Pan on Isis sacred flood:
When I was borne upon that very day,
Phœbus was seene the Reveller to play:
In Joves hye house the Gods assembled all,
And Juno held her sumptuous Festivall,

134

Oceanus that hower was dauncing spy'de,
And Tython seene to frolick with his Bride,
The Halcions that season sweetly sang,
And all the shores, with shouting Sea-Nymphes rang,
And on that day, my birth to memorize,
The Shepheards hold a solemne sacrifice:
The chast Diana nurst mee in her lap,
And I suckt Nectar from her Downe-soft pap.
The Well wherein this body bathed first,
Who drinks thereof, shall never after thirst;
The water hath the Lunacie appeased,
And by the vertue, cureth all diseased;
The place wherein my bare feete touch the mold,
Made up in balls, for Pomander is sold.
See, see, these hands have robd the Snow of white,
These dainty fingers, organs of delight:
Behold these lyps, the Load-stones of desire,
Whose words inchant, like Amphyons well-tun'd lyre,
This foote, Arts just proportion doth reveale,
Signing the earth with heavens own manuel seale.
Goe, play the wanton, I will tend thy flock,
And wait the howres as duly as a clock;
Ile deck thy Ram with bells, and wreathes of Bay,
And gild his hornes upon the sheering day;
And with a garlond crown thee Shepheards king,
And thou shalt lead the gay Gyrles in a ring;
Birds with their wings shall fan thee in the Sun,
And all the fountaynes with pure Wine shall run,
I have a Quier of dainty Turtle-doves,
And they shall sit and sweetly sing our loves:
Ile lay thee on the Swans soft downy plume,
And all the Winde shall gently breath perfume,
Ile plat thy locks with many a curious pleate,
And chafe thy temples with a sacred heate;
The Muses still shall keepe thee company,
And lull thee with inchaunting harmony;
If not all these, yet let my vertues move thee,
A chaster Nymph Endimion cannot love thee.

135

But he imagin'd she some Nymph had been,
Because shee was apparrelled in greene;
Or happily, some of fayre Floras trayne,
Which oft did use to sport upon the Plaine:
He tels her, he was Phœbes servant sworne,
And oft in hunting had her Quiver borne,
And that to her virginity he vowed,
Which in no hand by Venus was alowed;
Then unto her a Catalogue recites
Of Phœbes Statutes, and her hallowed Rites,
And of the grievous penalty inflicted,
On such as her chast lawes had interdicted:
Now, he requests, that shee would stand aside,
Because the fish her shadow had espide;
Then he intreats her that she would be gone,
And at this time to let him be alone;
Then turnes him from her in an angry sort,
And frownes and chafes that shee had spoil'd his sport.
And then he threatens her, if she did stay,
And told her, great Diana came this way.
But for all this, this Nymph would not forbeare,
But now she smoothes his crispy-curled haire,
And when hee (rudely) will'd her to refrayne,
Yet scarcely ended, she begins agayne:
Thy Ewes (qd. she) with Milk shall daily spring,
And to thy profit yeerely Twins shall bring,
And thy fayre flock, (a wonder to behold)
Shall have their fleeces turn'd to burnisht gold;
Thy batefull pasture to thy wanton Thewes,
Shall be refresht with Nectar-dropping dewes,
The Oakes smooth leaves, sirropt with hony fall,
Trickle down drops to quench thy thirst withall:
The cruell Tygar will I tame for thee,
And gently lay his head upon thy knee;
And by my spells, the Wolves jawes will I lock,
And (as good Sheepheards) make them gard thy flock,
Ile mount thee bravely on a Lyons back,
To drive the fomy-tusked Bore to wrack:

136

The brazen-hoofed yelling Bulls Ile yoke,
And with my hearbs, the scaly Dragon choke.
Thou in great Phœbes Ivory Coche shalt ride,
Which drawne by Eagles, in the ayre shall glide:
Ile stay the time, it shall not steale away,
And twenty Moones as seeming but one day.
Behold (fond boy) this Rozen-weeping Pine,
This mournfull Larix, dropping Turpentine,
This mounting Teda, thus with tempests torne,
With incky teares continually to mourne;
Looke on this tree, which blubbereth Amber gum,
Which seemes to speak to thee, though it be dumb,
Which being senceles blocks, as thou do'st see,
Weepe at my woes, that thou might'st pitty mee:
O thou art young, and fit for loves profession,
Like wax which warmed quickly takes impression,
Sorrow in time, with floods those eyes shall weare,
Whence pitty now cannot extort a teare.
Fond boy, with words thou might'st be overcome,
“But love surpriz'd the hart, the tongue is dumbe,
But as I can, Ile strive to conquer thee;
Yet teares, & sighes, my weapons needs must bee.
My sighs move trees, rocks melting with my tears,
But thou art blind; and cruell stop'st thine eares:
Looke in this Well, (if beautie men alow)
Though thou be faire, yet I as fayre as thou;
I am a Vestall, and a spotles Mayd,
Although by love to thee I am betrayd:
But sith (unkinde) thou doost my love disdayne,
To rocks and hills my selfe I will complaine.

Thus with a sigh, her speeches of she broke,
The whilst her eyes to him in silence spoke;
And from the place this wanton Nymph arose,
And up to Latmus all in hast shee goes;
Like to a Nymph on shady Citheron,
The swift Ismænos, or Thirmodoon,
Gliding like Thetis, on the fleet waves borne,
Or she which trips upon the eares of Corne;

137

Like Swallowes when in open ayre they strive,
Or like the Foule which towring Falcons drive.
But whilst the wanton thus pursu'd his sport,
Deceitfull Love had undermin'd the Fort,
And by a breach (in spight of all deniance,)
Entred the Fort which lately made defiance:
And with strong siedge had now begirt about
The mayden Skonce which held the souldier out.
“Love wants his eyes, yet shoots he passing right,
His shafts our thoughts, his bowe hee makes our sight.
His deadly piles are tempred by such Art,
As still directs the Arrowe to the hart:
He cannot love, and yet forsooth he will,
He sees her not, and yet he sees her still,
Hee goes unto the place shee stood upon,
And asks the poore soyle whether she was gon;
Fayne would he follow her, yet makes delay,
Fayne would he goe, and yet fayne would he stay,
Hee kist the flowers depressed with her feete,
And swears from her they borrow'd all their sweet.
Faine would he cast aside this troublous thought,
But still like poyson, more and more it wrought,
And to himselfe thus often would he say,
Heere my Love sat, in this place did shee play,
Heere in this Fountaine hath my Goddesse been,
And with her presence hath she grac'd this green.

Now black-brow'd Night plac'd in her chaire of Jet,
Sat wrapt in clouds within her Cabinet,
And with her dusky mantle over-spred,
The path the Sunny Palfrayes us'd to tred;
And Cynthia sitting in her Christall chayre,
In all her pompe now rid along her Spheare,
The honnied dewe descended in soft showres,
Drizled in Pearle upon the tender flowers;
And Zephyre husht, and with a whispering gale,
Seemed to harken to the Nightingale,
Which in the thorny brakes with her sweet song,
Unto the silent Night bewrayd her wrong.

138

Now fast by Latmus neere unto a Grove,
Which by the mount was shadowed from above,
Upon a banck Endimion sat by night,
To whom fayre Phœbe lent her frendly light:
And sith his flocks were layd them downe to rest,
Thus gives his sorrowes passage from his brest;
Sweet leaves (qd. he) which with the ayre do tremble,
Oh how your motions do my thoughts resemble,
With that milde breath, by which you onely move,
Whisper my words in silence to my Love:
Convay my sighes sweet Civet-breathing ayre,
In dolefull accents to my heavenly fayre;
You murmuring Springs, like doleful Instruments
Upon your gravell sound my sad laments,
And in your silent bubling as you goe,
Consort your selves like Musick to my woe.
And lifting now his sad and heavy eyes
Up, towards the beauty of the burnisht skies,
Bright Lamps (qd. he) the glorious Welkin bears,
Which clip about the Plannets wandring Sphears,
And in your circled Maze doe ever role,
Dauncing about the never-mooving Pole:
Sweet Nymph, which in fayre Elice doost shine,
Whom thy surpassing beauty made divine,
Now in the Artick constellation,
Smyle sweet Calisto on Endimion:

The constellations neere the Pole Artick

And thou brave Perseus in the Northern ayre,
Holding Medusa by the snaky hayre,
Joves showre-begotten Son, whose valure tryed,
In seaventeene glorious lights are stellified;
Which won'st thy love, left as a Monsters pray;
And thou the lovely fayre Andromida,
Borne of the famous Etheopian lyne,
Darting these rayes from thy transpiercing eyne,
To thee the bright Cassiopey, with these,
Whose beauty strove with the Neriedes,
With all the troupe of the celestiall band,
Which on Olimpus in your glory stand;

139

And you great wandring lights, if from your Sphears
You have regard unto a Sheepeheards teares,
Or as men say, if over earthly things
You onely rule as Potentates and Kings,
Unto my loves event sweet Stars direct,
Your kindest revolution and aspect,
And bend your cleere eyes from your Thrones above
Upon Endimion pyning thus in love.

Now, ere the purple dauning yet did spring,
The joyfull Lark began to stretch her wing,
And now the Cock the mornings Trumpeter,
Playd hunts-up for the day starre to appeare,
Downe slydeth Phœbe from her Christall chayre,
Sdayning to lend her light unto the ayre,
But unto Latmus all in haste is gon,
Longing to see her sweet Endimion;
At whose departure all the Plannets gazed,
As at some seld-seene accident amazed,
Till reasoning of the same, they fell at ods,
So that a question grew amongst the Gods,
Whether without a generall consent
She might depart their sacred Parliament?
But what they could doe was but all in vaine,
Of liberty they could her not restraine:
For of the seaven sith she the lowest was,
Unto the earth she might the easiest passe;
Sith onely by her moysty influence,
Of earthly things she hath preheminence,
And under her, mans mutable estate,
As with her changes doth participate;
And from the working of her waning source,
Th'uncertaine waters held a certaine course,
Throughout her kingdome she might walk at large
Wherof as Empresse she had care and charge,
And as the Sunne unto the Day gives light,
So is she onely Mistris of the Night;
Which whilst shee in her oblique course dooth guide,
The glittering stars apeare in all their pride,

140

Which to her light their frendly Lamps do lend,
And on her trayne as Hand-maydes doe attend,
And thirteene times she through her Sphere doth run,
Ere Phœbus full his yearly course have don:
And unto her of women is assign'd,
Predominance of body and of mind,
That as of Plannets shee most variable,
So of all creatures they most mutable,
But her sweet Latmus which she lov'd so much,
No sooner once her dainty foote doth touch,
But that the Mountaine with her brightnes shone
And gave a light to all the Horizon:
Even as the Sun which darknes long did shroud,
Breakes suddainly from underneath a clowd,
So that the Nimphs which on her still attended,
Knew certainly great Phœbe was discended;
And all aproched to this sacred hill,
There to awayt their soveraigne Goddesse will,
And now the little Birds whom Nature taught,
To honour great Diana as they ought,
Because she is the Goddesse of the woods,
And sole preserver of their hallowed floods,
Set to their consort in their lower springs,
That with the Musicke all the mountaine rings;
So that it seemd the Birds of every Grove
Which should excell and passe each other strove,
That in the higher woods and hollow grounds,
The murmuring Eccho every where resounds,
The trembling brooks their slyding courses stayd,
The whilst the waves one with another playd,
And all the flocks in this rejoycing mood,
As though inchaunted do forbeare their food:
The heards of Deare downe from the mountains flew,
As loth to come within Dianas view,
Whose piercing arrowes from her Ivory bowe,
Had often taught her powerfull hand to knowe;
And now from Latmus looking towards the plains
Casting her eyes upon the Sheepheards swaines,

141

Perceiv'd her deare Endimions flock were stray'd
And he himselfe upon the ground was layd;
Who late recald from melancholy deepe,
The chaunting Birds had lulled now asleepe:
For why the Musick in this humble kinde,
As it first found, so doth it leave the minde;
And melancholy from the Spleene begun,
By passion moov'd, into the veynes doth run;
Which when this humor as a swelling Flood
By vigor is infused in the blood;
The vitall spirits doth mightely apall;

The effect of Melancholie.

And weakeneth so the parts organicall,
And when the sences are disturbd and tierd,
With what the hart incessantly desierd,
Like Travellers with labor long opprest,
Finding release, eft-soones they fall to rest.

And comming now to her Endimion,
Whom heavy sleepe had lately ceas'd upon,
Kneeling her downe, him in her armes she clips,
And with sweet kisses sealeth up his lips,
Whilst from her eyes, teares streaming downe in showrs
Fell on his cheekes like dew upon the flowrs,
In globy circles like pure drops of Milk,
Sprinckled on Roses, or fine crimson silk:
Touching his brow, this is the seate (quoth she)
Where Beauty sits in all her Majestie,
She calls his eye-lids those pure Christall covers
Which do include the looking Glasse of Lovers,
She calls his lips the sweet delicious folds
Which rare perfume and precious incense holds,
Shee calls his soft smooth Allablaster skin,
The Lawne which Angels are attyred in,
Sweet face (qd. she) but wanting words I spare thee
Except to heaven alone I should compare thee:
And whilst her words she wasteth thus in vayne,
Sporting herselfe the tyme to entertayne,
The frolick Nymphes with Musicks sacred sound,
Entred the Meddowes dauncing in a round:

142

And unto Phœbe straight their course direct,
Which now their joyfull comming did expect,
Before whose feet their flowrie spoyles they lay,
And with sweet Balme his body doe imbay.
And on the Laurels growing there along,
Their wreathed garlonds all about they hung:
And all the ground within the compasse load,
With sweetest flowers, wheron they lightly troad.
With Nectar then his temples they be dew,
And kneeling softly kisse him all arew;
Then in brave galiards they themselves advaunce,
And in the Tryas Bacchus stately daunce;
Then following on fayre Floras gilded trayne,
Into the Groves they thus depart agayne,
And now to shew her powerfull deitie,
Her sweet Endimion more to beautifie,
Into his soule the Goddesse doth infuse,
The fiery nature of a heavenly Muse,
Which in the spyrit labouring by the mind

The excellency of the soule:

Pertaketh of celestiall things by kind:
For why the soule being divine alone,
Exempt from vile and grosse corruption,
Of heavenly secrets comprehensible,
Of which the dull flesh is not sensible,
And by one onely powerfull faculty,
Yet governeth a multiplicity,
Being essentiall, uniforme in all;
Not to be sever'd nor dividuall,
But in her function holdeth her estate,
By powers divine in her ingenerate,
And so by inspiration conceaveth
What heaven to her by divination breatheth;
But they no sooner to the shades were gone,
Leaving their Goddesse by Endimion,
But by the hand the lovely boy shee takes,
And from his sweet sleepe softly him awakes,
Who being struck into a sodayne feare,
Beholding thus his glorious Goddesse there,

143

His hart transpiersed with this sodayne glance,
Became as one late cast into a trance:
Wiping his eyes not yet of perfect sight,
Scarcely awak'd amazed at the light,
His cheekes now pale then lovely blushing red,
Which oft increasd, and quickly vanished,
And as on him her fixed eyes were bent,
So to and fro his colour came and went;
Like to a Christall neere the fire set,
Against the brightnes rightly opposet,

The causes of the externall signes of passion

Now doth reteyne the colour of the flame,
And lightly moved againe, reflects the same;
For our affection quickned by her heate,
Alayd and strengthned by a strong conceit,
The minde disturbed forth-with doth convart,
To an internall passion of the hart,
By motion of that sodaine joy or feare,
Which we receive either by the eye or eare,
For by retraction of the spirit and blood,
From those exterior parts where first they stood,
Into the center of the body sent,
Returnes againe more strong and vehement:
And in the like extreamitie made cold,
About the same, themselves doe closely hold,
And though the cause be like in this respect,
Works by this meanes a contrary effect.

Thus whilst this passion hotely held his course,
Ebbing and flowing from his springing source,
With the strong fit of this sweet Fever moved,
At sight of her which he intirely loved,
Not knowing yet great Phœbe this should be,
His soveraigne Goddesse, Queene of Chastitie,
Now like a man whom Love had learned Art,
Resolv'd at once his secrets to impart:
But first repeats the torments he had past,
The woes indur'd since tyme he saw her last;
Now he reports he noted whilst she spake,
The bustling windes their murmure often brake,

144

And being silent, seemd to pause and stay,
To listen to her what she ment to say:
Be kind (quoth he) sweet Nymph unto thy lover,
My soules sole essence, and my sences mover,
Life of my life, pure Image of my hart,
Impressure of Conceit, Invention, Art,
My vitall spirit, receves his spirit from thee,
Thou art that all which ruleth all in me,
Thou art the sap, and life whereby I live,
Which powerfull vigor doost receive and give;
Thou nourishest the flame wherein I burne,
The North wherto my harts true tuch doth turne.
Pitty my poore flock, see their wofull plight,
Theyr Maister perisht living from thy sight,
Theyr fleeces rent, my tresses all forlorne,
I pyne, whilst they theyr pasture have forborne;
Behold (quoth he) this little flower belowe,
Which heere within this Fountayne brim dooth grow;
With that, a solemne tale begins to tell
Of this fayre flower, and of this holy Well,
A goodly legend, many Winters old,
Learn'd by the Sheepheards sitting by their folde,
How once this Fountayne was a youthfull swaine,
A frolick boy and kept upon the playne,
Unfortunate it hapt to him (quoth he)
To love a fayre Nymph as I nowe love thee,
To her his love and sorrow he imparts,
Which might dissolve a rock of flinty harts;
To her he sues, to her he makes his mone,
But she more deafe and hard then steele or stone;
And thus one day with griefe of mind opprest,
As in this place he layd him downe to rest,
The Gods at length uppon his sorrowes looke,
Transforming him into this pirrling Brooke,
Whose murmuring bubles softly as they creepe,
Falling in drops, the Channell seems to weepe,
But shee thus careles of his misery,
Still spends her dayes in mirth and jollity;

145

And comming one day to the River side,
Laughing for joy when she the same espyde,
This wanton Nymph in that unhappy hower,
Was heere transformd into this purple flower,
Which towards the water turnes it selfe agayne,
To pitty him by her unkindnes slayne.

She, as it seemd, who all this time attended,
Longing to heare that once his tale were ended,
Now like a jealous woman she repeats,
Mens subtilties, and naturall deceyts;
And by example strives to verifie,
Their ficklenes and vaine inconstancie:
Their hard obdurate harts, and wilfull blindnes,
Telling a storie wholy of unkindnes;
But he, who well perceived her intent,
And to remove her from this argument,
Now by the sacred Fount he vowes and sweares,
By Lovers sighes, and by her halowed teares,
By holy Latmus now he takes his oath,
That all he spake was in good fayth and troth;
And for no frayle uncertayne doubt should move her,
Vowes secrecie, the crown of a true Lover.

She hearing this, thought time that she reveald,
That kind affection which she long conceald,
Determineth to make her true Love known,
Which shee had borne unto Endimion;
I am no Huntresse, nor no Nymph (quoth she)
As thou perhaps imagin'st me to be,
I am great Phœbe, Latmus sacred Queene,
Who from the skies have hether past unseene,
And by thy chast love hether was I led,
Where full three yeares thy fayre flock have I fed,
Upon these Mountaines and these firtile plaines,
And crownd thee King of all the Sheepheards swaines:
Nor wanton, nor lacivious is my love,
Nor never lust my chast thoughts once could move;
But sith thou thus hast offerd at my Shrine,
And of the Gods hast held me most divine,

146

Mine Altars thou with sacrifice hast stord,
And in my Temples hast my name ador'd,
And of all other, most hast honor'd mee,
Great Phœbes glory thou alone shalt see.

Thys spake, she putteth on her brave attire,
As being burnisht in her Brothers fire,
Purer then that Celestiall shining flame
Wherein great Jove unto his Lemmon came,
Which quickly had his pale cheekes over-spred,
And tincted with a lovely blushing red.
Which whilst her Brother Titan for a space,
Withdrew himselfe, to give his sister place,
Shee now is darkned to all creatures eyes,
Whilst in the shadow of the earth she lyes,
For that the earth of nature cold and dry,
A very Chaos of obscurity,
Whose Globe exceeds her compasse by degrees,
Fixed upon her Superficies;
When in his shadow she doth hap to fall,
Dooth cause her darknes to be generall.

Thus whilst he layd his head upon her lap,
Shee in a fiery Mantle doth him wrap,
And carries him up from this lumpish mould,
Into the skyes, whereas he might behold,
The earth in perfect roundnes of a ball
Exceeding globes most artificiall:
Which in a fixed poynt Nature disposed,
And with the sundry Elements inclosed,
Which as the Center permanent dooth stay,
When as the skies in their diurnall sway,
Strongly maintaine the ever-turning course,
Forced alone by their first moover sourse,
Where he beholds the ayery Regions,
Whereas the clouds and strange impressions,
Maintaynd by coldnes often doe appeare,
And by the highest Region of the ayre,
Unto the cleerest Element of fire,
Which to her silver foot-stoole doth aspire,

147

Then dooth she mount him up into her Sphere,
Imparting heavenly secrets to him there,
Where lightned by her shining beames hee sees,
The powerfull Plannets, all in their degrees,
Their sundry revolutions in the skies,
And by their working how they simpathize;
All in theyr circles severally prefixt,
And in due distance each with other mixt:
The mantions which they hold in their estate,
Of which by nature they participate;
And how those signes their severall places take,
Within the compasse of the Zodiacke:
And in their severall triplicities consent,

The signes in their triplicities, participate with the Elements.

Unto the nature of an Element,
To which the Plannets do themselves disperce,
Having the guidance of this univers,
And do from thence extend their severall powers,
Unto this little fleshly world of ours:
Wherin her Makers workmanship is found,
As in contriving of this mighty round,
In such strange maner and such fashion wrought,
As doth exceede mans dull and feeble thought,
Guiding us still by their directions;
And that our fleshly frayle complections,
Of Elementall natures grounded bee,
With which our dispositions most agree,
Some of the fire and ayre participate,
And some of watry and of earthy state,
As hote and moyst, with chilly cold and dry,
And unto these the other contrary;
And by their influence powerfull on the earth,
Predominant in mans fraile mortall bearth,
And that our lives effects and fortunes are,
As is that happy or unlucky Starre,
Which reigning in our frayle nativitie,
Seales up the secrets of our destinie,
With frendly Plannets in conjunction set,
Or els with other meerely opposet:

148

And now to him her greatest power she lent,
To lift him to the starry Firmament,
Where he beheld that milky stayned place,
By which the Twynns & heavenly Archers trace,
The dogge which doth the furious Lyon beate,
Whose flaming breath increaseth Titans heate,
The teare-distilling mournfull Pliades,
Which on the earth the stormes & tempests raise,
And all the course the constellations run,
When in conjunction with the Moone or Sun,
When towards the fixed Articke they arise,
When towards the Antaricke, falling from our eyes;
And having impt the wings of his desire,
And kindled him, with this cœlestiall fire,
She sets him downe, and vanishing his sight,
Leaves him inwrapped in this true delight:
Now wheresoever he his fayre flock fed,
The Muses still Endimion followed;
His sheepe as white as Swans or driven snow,
Which beautified the soyle with such a show,
As where hee folded in the darkest Night,
There never needed any other light;
If that he hungred and desired meate,
The Bees would bring him Honny for to eate,
Yet from his lyps would not depart away,
Tyll they were loden with Ambrosia;
And if he thirsted, often there was seene
A bubling Fountaine spring out of the greene,
With Christall liquor fild unto the brim,
Which did present her liquid store to him.
If hee would hunt, the fayre Nymphs at his will,
With Bowes & Quivers, would attend him still:
And what-soever he desierd to have,
That he obtain'd if hee the same would crave.

And now at length, the joyful tyme drew on,
Shee meant to honor her Endimion,
And glorifie him on that stately Mount
Whereof the Goddesse made so great account.

149

Shee sends Joves winged Herauld to the woods,
The neighbour Fountains, & the bordring floods,
Charging the Nymphes which did inhabit there,
Upon a day appoynted to appeare,
And to attend her sacred Majestie
In all theyr pompe and great solemnity.
Having obtaynd great Phœbus free consent,
To further her divine and chast intent,
Which thus imposed as a thing of waight,
In stately troupes appeare before her straight,
The Faunes and Satyres from the tufted Brakes,
Theyr brisly armes wreath'd al about with snakes;
Their sturdy loynes with ropes of Ivie bound,
Theyr horned heads with Woodbine Chaplets crownd,
With Cipresse Javelens, and about their thyes,
The flaggy hayre disorder'd loosely flyes:
Th'Oriades like to the Spartan Mayd,
In Murrie-scyndall gorgiously arayd:
With gallant greene Scarfes girded in the wast,
Theyr flaxen hayre with silken fillets lac'd,
Woven with flowers in sweet lascivious wreathes,
Mooving like feathers as the light ayre breathes,
With crownes of Mirtle, glorious to behold,
Whose leaves are painted with pure drops of gold:
With traines of fine Bisse checker'd al with frets
Of dainty Pincks and precious Violets,
In branched Buskins of fine Cordiwin,
With spangled garters downe unto the shin,
Fring'd with fine silke, of many a sundry kind,
Which lyke to pennons waved with the wind.
The Hamadriads from their shady Bowers,
Deckt up in Garlonds of the rarest flowers,
Upon the backs of milke-white Bulls were set,
With horne and hoofe as black as any Jet,
Whose collers were great massy golden rings,
Led by their swaynes in twisted silken strings;
Then did the lovely Driades appeare,
On dapled Staggs, which bravely mounted were,

150

Whose velvet palmes with nosegaies rarely dight,
To all the rest bred wonderfull delight;
And in this sort accompaned with these,
In tryumph rid the watry Niades,
Upon Sea-horses, trapt with shining finns,
Arm'd with their male impenitrable skinns,
Whose scaly crests like Raine-bowes bended hye;
Seeme to controule proud Iris in the skye;
Upon a Charriot was Endimion layd,
In snowy Tissue gorgiously arayd,
Of precious Ivory covered or'e with Lawne,
Which by foure stately Unicornes was drawne,
Of ropes of Orient pearle their traces were,
Pure as the path which dooth in heaven appeare,
With rarest flowers in chaste and over-spred,
Which serv'd as Curtaynes to this glorious bed,
Whose seate of Christal in the Sun-beames shone,
Like thunder-breathing Joves celestiall Throne,
Upon his head a Coronet instald,
Of one intire and mighty Emerald,
With richest Bracelets on his lilly wrists,
Of Hellitropium, linckt with golden twists;
A bevy of fayre Swans, which flying over,
With their large wings him from the Sun do cover,
And easily wafting as he went along,
Doe lull him still with their inchaunting song,
Whilst all the Nimphes on solemne Instruments,
Sound daintie Musick to their sweet laments.

And now great Phœbe in her tryumph came,
With all the tytles of her glorious name,
Diana, Delia, Luna, Cynthia,
Virago, Hecate, and Elythia,
Prothiria, Dictinna, Proserpine,
Latona, and Lucina, most divine;
And in her pompe began now to approch,
Mounted aloft upon her Christall Coach,
Drawn or'e the playnes by foure pure milk-white Hinds,
Whose nimble feete seem'd winged with the winds,

151

Her rarest beauty being now begun,
But newly borrowed from the golden Sun,
Her lovely cressant with a decent space,
By due proportion beautifi'd her face,
Till having fully fild her circled side,
Her glorious fulnes now appeard in pride;
Which long her changing brow could not retaine,
But fully waxt, began againe to wane;
Upon her brow (like meteors in the ayre)
Twenty & eyght great gorgious lamps shee bare;
Some, as the Welkin, shining passing bright,
Some not so sumptuous, others lesser light,
Some burne, some other, let theyr faire lights fall,
Composd in order Geometricall;
And to adorne her with a greater grace,
And ad more beauty to her lovely face,
Her richest Globe shee gloriously displayes,
Now that the Sun had hid his golden rayes:
Least that his radiencie should her suppresse,
And so might make her beauty seeme the lesse;
Her stately trayne layd out in azur'd bars,
Poudred all thick with troopes of silver stars:
Her ayrie vesture yet so rare and strange,
As every howre the colour seem'd to change,
Yet still the former beauty doth retaine,
And ever came unto the same againe.
Then fayre Astrea, of the Titans line,
Whom equity and justice made divine,
Was seated heer upon the silver beame,
And with the raines guides on this goodly teame,
To whom the Charites led on the way,
Aglaia, Thalia, and Euphrozine,
With princely crownes they in the triumph came,
Imbellished with Phœbes glorious name:
These forth before the mighty Goddesse went,
As Princes Heraulds in a Parliament.
And in their true consorted symphony,
Record sweet songs of Phœbes chastity;

152

Then followed on the Muses, sacred nyne,
With the first number equally divine,
In Virgins white, whose lovely mayden browes,
Were crowned with tryumphant Lawrell bowes;
And on their garments paynted out in glory,
Their offices and functions in a story,
Imblazoning the furie and conceite
Which on their sacred company awaite;

For none but these were suffered to aproch,
Or once come neere to this celestiall Coach,
But these two of the numbers, nine and three,
Which being od include an unity,
Into which number all things fitly fall,
And therefore named Theologicall:
And first composing of this number nine,
Which of all numbers is the most divine,
From orders of the Angels dooth arise,
Which be contayned in three Hirarchies,
And each of these three Hirarchies in three,
The perfect forme of true triplicity;
And of the Hirarchies I spake of erst,
The glorious Epiphania is the first,
In which the hie celestiall orders been,
Of Thrones, Chirrup, and the Ciraphin;
The second holds the mighty Principates,
The Dominations and the Potestates,
The Ephionia, the third Hirarchie,
Which Vertues Angels and Archangels be;
And thus by threes we aptly do define,
And do compose this sacred number nyne,
Yet each of these nyne orders grounded be,
Upon some one particularity,
Then as a Poet I might so infer,
An other order when I spake of her.
From these the Muses onely are derived,
Which of the Angels were in nyne contrived;
These heaven-inspired Babes of memorie,
Which by a like attracting Sympathy,

153

Apollos Prophets in theyr furies wrought,
And in theyr spirit inchaunting numbers taught,
To teach such as at Poesie repine,
That it is onely heavenly and divine,
And manifest her intellectual parts,
Sucking the purest of the purest Arts;
And unto these as by a sweet consent,
The Sphery circles are equivalent,
From the first Moover, and the starry heaven,
To glorious Phœbe lowest of the seaven,
Which Jove in tunefull Diapazons fram'd,
Of heavenly Musick of the Muses nam'd,
To which the soule in her divinitie,
By her Creator made of harmony,
Whilst she in frayle and mortall flesh dooth live,
To her nyne sundry offices doe give,
Which offices united are in three,
Which like the orders of the Angels be,
Prefiguring thus by the number nyne,
The soule, like to the Angels is divine:
And from these nines those Conquerers renowned,
Which with the wreaths of triumph oft were crowned.
Which by their vertues gain'd the worthies name
First had this number added to their fame,
Not that the worthiest men were onely nine,
But that the number of it selfe divine,
And as a perfect patterne of the rest,
Which by this holy number are exprest;
Nor Chivalrie this title onely gaynd;
But might as well by wisedome be obtaynd,
Nor in this number men alone included,
But unto women well might be aluded,
Could wit, could worlds, coulde times, could ages find,
This number of Elizas heavenly kind;
And those rare men which learning highly prized
By whom the Constellations were devised,
And by their favours learning highly graced,
For Orpheus harpe nine starres in heaven placed:

154

This sacred number to declare thereby,
Her sweet consent and solid harmony,
And mans heroique voyce, which doth impart,
The thought conceaved in the inward hart,
Her sweetnes on nine Instruments doth ground,
Else doth she fayle in true and perfect sound.
Now of this three in order to dispose,
Whose trynarie doth justly nyne compose.
First in the forme of this triplicitie
Is shadowed that mighty Trinitie,
Which still in stedfast unity remayne,
And yet of three one Godhead doe containe;
From this eternall living deitie,
As by a heaven-inspired prophecy,
Divinest Poets first derived these,
The fayrest Graces Jove-borne Charites;
And in this number Musick first began,
The Lydian, Dorian, and the Phrigian,
Which ravishing in their soule-pleasing vaine,
They made up seaven in a higher strayne;
And all those signes which Phœbus doth ascend,
Before he bring his yearely course to end,
Their several natures mutually agree,
And doe concurre in thys triplicitie;
And those interior sences with the rest,
Which properly pertaine to man and Beast,
Nature herselfe in working so devised,
That in this number they should be comprized.

But to my tale I must returne againe,
Phœbe to Latmus thus convayde her swayne,
Under a bushie Lawrells pleasing shade,
Amongst whose boughs the Birds sweet Musick made,
Whose fragrant branch-imbosted Cannapy,
Was never pierst with Phœbus burning eye;
Yet never could thys Paradise want light,
Elumin'd still with Phœbes glorious sight:
She layd Endimion on a grassy bed,
With sommers Arras ritchly over-spred,

155

Where from her sacred Mantion next above,
She might descend and sport her with her love,
Which thirty yeeres the Sheepheards safely kept,
Who in her bosom soft and soundly slept;
Yet as a dreame he thought the tyme not long,
Remayning ever beautifull and yong,
And what in vision there to him be fell,
My weary Muse some other time shall tell.

Deare Collin, let my Muse excused be,
Which rudely thus presumes to sing by thee,
Although her straines be harsh untun'd & ill,
Nor can attayne to thy divinest skill.

And thou the sweet Museus of these times,
Pardon my rugged and unfiled rymes,
Whose scarce invention is too meane and base,
When Delias glorious Muse dooth come in place.

And thou my Goldey which in Sommer dayes,
Hast feasted us with merry roundelayes,
And when my Muse scarce able was to flye,
Didst imp her wings with thy sweete Poesie.

And you the heyres of ever-living fame,
The worthy titles of a Poets name,
Whose skill and rarest excellence is such,
As spitefull Envy never yet durst tuch,
To your protection I this Poem send,
Which from proud Momus may my lines defend,

And if sweet mayd thou deign'st to read this story,
Wherein thine eyes may view thy vertues glory,
Thou purest spark of Vesta's kindled fire,
Sweet Nymph of Ankor, crowne of my desire,
The plot which for their pleasure heaven devis'd,
Where all the Muses be imparadis'd,
Where thou doost live, there let all graces be,
Which want theyr grace if onely wanting thee,
Let stormy winter never touch the Clyme,

156

But let it florish as in Aprils prime,
Let sullen night, that soyle nere over-cloud,
But in thy presence let the earth be proud,
If ever Nature of her worke might boast,
Of thy perfection she may glory most,
To whom fayre Phœbe hath her bow resign'd,
Whose excellence doth lyve in thee refin'd,
And that thy praise Time never should impayre,
Hath made my hart thy never moving Spheare.
Then if my Muse give life unto thy fame,
Thy vertues be the causers of the same.
And from thy Tombe some Oracle shall rise,
To whom all pens shall yearely sacrifice.

FINIS.

157

Peirs Gaueston EARLE OF CORNWALL.

His life, death, and fortune.

Effugiunt auidos carmina sola rogos.

158

TO THE WORTHY AND HONORABLE Gentleman, Maister Henry Caundish, Esquire.

159

From gloomy shaddowe of eternall night,
Where cole-black darknes keeps his lothsome cel,
And from those Ghostes, whose eyes abhorre the light,
From thence I come a wofull tale to tell:
Prepare the Stage, I meane to acte my parte,
Sighing the scenes from my tormented hart.

From Stygian lake, to gracelesse soules assign'd,
And from the floud of burning Acheron,
Where sinfull spirites are by the fier refinde,
The fearefull Ghost of wofull Gaveston:
With black-fac'd furies from the graves attended,
Untill the tenor of my tale be ended.

Wing-footed Fame now sommons me from death,
In Fortunes triumph to advance my glorie,
The blessed Heavens againe doe lend me breath,
Whilst I reporte this dolefull Tragick storie:
That soule and bodie, which death once did sunder,
Now meete together to reporte a wonder.

O purple-buskind Pallas most divine
Let thy bright fauchion lend me Cypresse bowes,
Be thou assistinge to this Poet of mine,
And with thy tragicke garland girte his browes,
Pitying my case, when none would heare me weepe
To tell my cares hath layde his owne to sleepe.

You mournfull maydens of the sacred nine,
You destinies which haunt the shades beneath,
To you fayre muses I my playnts resigne,
To you black spirits I my woes bequeath,
With sable pens of direfull ebonie
To pen the processe of my tragedie.

Drawe on the lines which shall report my life
With weeping words distilling from thy pen,
Where woes abound and joyes are passing rife,
A verie meteor in the eies of men,
Wherein the world a wonder-world may see
Of heaven-bred joye and hell-nurst miserie.

160

Declare my ebs, my often swelling tide,
Now tell my calmes, and then report my showres,
My winters stormes, and then my summers pride,
False fortunes smiles, then her dissembling lowres,
The height wherto my glorie did ascend:
Then poynt the period where my joyes did end.

When famous Edward wore the english crowne
Victorious Longshankes flower of chivalrie,
First of his name that raignd in Albion,
Through worlds renownd to all posteritie:
My youth began, and then began my blis,
Even in his daies, those blessed daies of his.

O daies, no daies, but little worlds of mirth:
O yeares, no yeares, time sliding with a trice:
O world, no world, a verie heaven on earth:
O earth, no earth, a verie paradice:
A King, a man, nay more then this was hee,
If earthly man, more then a man might bee.

Such a one he was, as Englands Beta is,
Such as she is, even such a one was he,
Betwixt her rarest excellence and his
Was never yet so neare a Sympathy,
To tell your worth, and to give him his due,
I say my soveraigne, he was like to you.

His court a schoole, where artes were daily red,
And yet a campe where armes were exercised,
Vertue and learning here were nourished,
And stratagems by souldiers still devised:
Heere skilfull schoolmen were his counsaylors,
Schollers his captaines, captaines Senators.

Here sprang the roote of true gentilitie,
Vertue was clad in gold and crownd with honor,
Honor intitled to Nobilitie,
Admired so of all that looked on her:
Wisedome, not wealth, possessed wisemens roomes,
Unfitting base insinuating groomes.

161

Then Machivels were loth'd as filthie toades,
And good men as rare pearles were richly prized,
The learned were accounted little Gods,
The vilest Atheist as the plague despised:
Desert then gaynd, that vertues merit craves,
And artles Pesants scorn'd as basest slaves.

Pride was not then, which all things overwhelms:
Promotion was not purchased with gold,
Men hew'd their honor out of steeled helms:
In those dayes fame with bloud was bought and sold,
No petti-fogger pol'd the poore for pence,
These dolts, these dogs, as traytors banisht hence.

Then was the Souldier prodigall of bloud,
His deedes eternizd by the Poets pen:
Who would not dye to doe his countrey good,
When after death his fame yet liv'd to men?
Then learning liv'd with liberalitie,
And men were crownd with immortalitie.

Graunt pardon then unto my wandring ghost,
Although I seeme lascivious in my prayse,
And of perfection though I seeme to boast,
Whilst here on earth I troad this weary maze,
Whilst yet my soule in bodie did abide,
And whilst my flesh was pampred here in pride.

My valiant father was in Gascoygne borne,
A man at armes, and matchles with his launce,
A Souldier vow'd, and to King Edward sworne,
With whom he serv'd in all his wars in Fraunce,
His goods and lands he pawnd and layd to gage
To follow him, the wonder of that age.

And thus himselfe he from his home exil'd,
Who with his sword sought to advance his fame,
With me his joy, but then a little child,
Unto the Court of famous England came,
Whereas the King, for service he had done,
Made me a page unto the Prince his sonne.

162

My tender youth yet scarce crept from the shell,
Unto the world brought such a wonderment,
That all perfection seem'd in me to dwell,
And that the heavens me all their graces lent:
Some sware I was the quintessence of nature,
And some an Angell, and no earthly creature.

The heavens had lim'd my face with such a die
As made the curiost eie on earth amazed,
Tempring my lookes with love and majestie,
A miracle to all that ever gazed,
So that it seem'd some power had in my birth,
Ordained me his Image here on earth.

O bewtious vernish of the heavens above,
Pure grain-dy'd colour of a perfect birth,
O fairest tincture adamant of love,
Angell-hewd blush the prospective of mirth,
O sparkling luster joying humaine sight,
Lives joy, hearts fire, Loves nurse, the soules delight.

As purple-tressed Titan with his beames,
The sable cloudes of night in sunder cleaveth
Enameling the earth with golden streames,
When he his crimson Canopie upheaveth,
Such was my beauties pure translucent rayes,
Which cheerd the Sun, & cleerd the drouping dayes.

My lookes perswading orators of Love,
My speech divine infusing harmonie,
And every worde so well could passion move,
So were my gestures grac'd with modestie,
As where my thoughts intended to surprize,
I easly made a conquest with mine eyes.

A gracious minde, a passing lovely eye,
A hand that gave, a mouth that never vaunted,
A chaste desire, a tongue that would not lye,
A lyons heart, a courage never daunted,
A sweet conceit in such a cariage placed
As with my gesture all my words were graced.

163

Such was the worke which nature had begonne,
As promised a gem of wondrous price,
This little star foretold a glorious sunne,
This curious plot an earthly paradice,
This globe of bewtie wherin all might see
An after world of wonders here in mee.

As in the Autumnall season of the yeare,
Some death-presaging comet doth arise,
Or some prodigious meteor doth appeare,
Or fearfull Chasma unto humaine eyes:
Even such a wonder was I to behold
Where heaven seem'd all her secrets to unfold.

If cunning'st pensill-man that ever wrought
By skilfull arte of secret sumetry,
Or the divine Idea of the thought
With rare descriptions of high poesy,
Should all compose a body and a mind,
Such a one seem'd I, the wonder of my kind.

With this fayre bayte I fisht for Edwards love,
My daintie youth so pleasd his princely eye:
Here sprang the league which time could not remove,
So deeply grafted in our Infancie,
That frend, nor foe, nor life, nor death could sunder,
So seldome seene, and to the world a wonder.

O heavenly concord, musicke of the minde,
Touching the heart-strings with such harmonie,
The ground of nature, and the law of kinde,
Which in conjunction doe so well agree,
Whose revolution by effect doth prove,
That mortall men are made divine by love.

O strong combining chaine of secrecie,
Sweet joy of heaven, the Angels oratorie,
The bond of faith, the seale of sanctitie,
The soules true blisse, youths solace, ages glorie,
An endles league, a bond that's never broken,
A thing divine, a word with wonder spoken.

164

With this fayre Bud of that same blessed Rose,
Edward surnam'd Carnarvan by his birth,
Who in his youth it seem'd that Nature chose
To make the like, whose like was not on earth,
Had not his lust and my lascivious will
Made him and me the instruments of ill.

With this sweete Prince, the mirror of my blisse,
My souls delight, my joy, my fortunes pride,
My youth enjoyd such perfect happines,
Whil'st tutors care, his wandring yeares did guide,
As his affections on my thoughts attended,
And with my life, his joyes began and ended.

Whether it were my beauties excellence,
Or rare perfections that so pleasd his eye,
Or some divine and heavenly influence,
Or naturall attracting Sympathie:
My pleasing youth became his senses object,
Where all his passions wrought upon this subject.

Thou Arke of Heaven, where wonders are inroled,
O depth of nature, who can looke unto thee?
O who is he that hath thy doome controuled?
Or hath the key of reason to undoe thee:
Thy workes divine which powers alone doe knowe,
Our shallow wittes too short for things belowe.

The soule divine by her integritye,
And by the functious agents of the minde,
Cleer-sighted, so perceiveth through the eye,
That which is pure and pleasing to her kinde,
And by hir powrfull motions apprehendeth,
That which beyond our humaine sence extendeth.

This Edward in the Aprill of his age,
Whil'st yet the Crowne sate on his fathers head,
My Jove with me, his Ganimed, his page,
Frolick as May, a lustie life we led:
He might commaund, he was my Soveraigns sonne,
And what I saide, by him was ever done.

165

My words as lawes, Autentique he alloude,
Mine yea, by him was never crost with no,
All my conceite as currant he avowde,
And as my shadowe still he served so,
My hand the racket, he the tennis ball,
My voyces echo, answering every call.

My youth the glasse where he his youth beheld,
Roses his lipps, my breath sweete Nectar showers,
For in my face was natures fayrest field,
Richly adornd with Beauties rarest flowers.
My breast his pillow, where he laide his head,
Mine eyes his booke, my bosome was his bed.

My smiles were life, and Heaven unto his sight,
All his delight concluding my desier,
From my sweete sunne, he borrowed all his light,
And as a flie play'd with my beauties fier,
His love-sick lippes at every kissing qualme,
Cling to my lippes, to cure their griefe with balme.

Like as the wanton Yvie with his twyne,
Whenas the Oake his rootlesse bodie warmes,
The straightest saplings strictly doth combyne,
Clipping the woodes with his lacivious armes:
Such our imbraces when our sporte begins,
Lapt in our armes, like Ledas lovely Twins.

Or as Love-nursing Venus when she sportes,
With cherry-lipt Adonis in the shade,
Figuring her passions in a thousand sortes,
With sighes, and teares, or what else might perswade,
Her deere, her sweete, her joy, her life, her love,
Kissing his browe, his cheeke, his hand, his glove.

My bewtie was the Load-starre of his thought,
My lookes the Pilot to his wandring eye,
By me his sences all a sleepe were brought,
When with sweete love I sang his lullaby.
Nature had taught my tongue her perfect time,
Which in his eare stroake duely as a chyme.

166

With sweetest speech, thus could I syranize,
Which as strong Philters youthes desire could move,
And with such method could I rhetorize,
My musick plaied the measures to his love:
In his faire brest, such was my soules impression,
As to his eyes, my thoughts made intercession.

Thus like an Eagle seated in the sunne,
But yet a Phenix in my soveraigns eye,
We act with shame, our revels are begunne,
The wise could judge of our Catastrophe:
But we proceede to play our wanton prize,
Our mournfull Chorus was a world of eyes.

The table now of all delight is layd,
Serv'd with what banquets bewtie could devise,
The Sirens singe, and false Calypso playd,
Our feast is grac'd with youthes sweete comœdies,
Our looks with smiles, are sooth'd of every eye,
Carrousing love in boules of Ivorie.

Fraught with delight, and safely under sayle,
Like flight-wing'd Faucons now we take our scope,
Our youth and fortune blowe a mery gale,
We loose the anchor of our vertues hope:
Blinded with pleasure in this lustfull game,
By oversight discard our King with shame.

My youthfull pranks, are spurs to his desire,
I held the raynes, that rul'd the golden sunne,
My blandishments were fewell to his fyer,
I had the garland whosoever wonne:
I waxt his winges and taught him art to flye,
Who on his back might beare me through the skye.

Here first that sun-bright temple was defild,
Which to faire vertue first was consecrated,
This was the fruite, wherewith I was beguild,
Heere first the deede of all my fame was dated:
O me! even heere from paradice I fell,
From Angels state, from heaven, cast downe to hell.

167

Loe here the verie Image of perfection,
With the blacke pensill of defame is blotted,
And with the ulcers of my youths infection,
My innocencie is besmer'd, and spotted:
Now comes my night, ô now my day is done,
These sable cloudes eclipse my rising sunne.

Our innocence, our child-bred puritie
Is now defilde and as our dreames forgot,
Drawne in the coach of our securitie:
What act so vile, that we attempted not?
Our sun-bright vertues fountaine-cleer beginning,
Is now polluted by the filth of sinning.

O wit too wilfull, first by heaven ordayn'd,
An Antidote by vertue made to cherish,
By filthy vice, as with a mole art stayn'd,
A poyson now by which the sences perish:
That made of force, all vices to controule,
Defames the life, and doth confound the soule.

The Heavens to see my fall doth knit her browes,
The vaulty ground under my burthen groneth,
Unto mine eyes, the ayre no light allowes,
The very winde my wickednesse bemoneth:
The barren earth repineth at my foode,
And Nature seemes to cursse her beastly broode.

And thus like slaves we sell our soules to sinne,
Vertue forgot by worldes deceitfull trust,
Alone by pleasure are we entred in,
Now wandring in the labyrinth of lust,
For when the soule is drowned once in vice,
The sweete of sinne, makes hell a paradice.

O Pleasure thou, the very lure of sinne,
The roote of woe, our youthes deceitfull guide,
A shop where all confected poysons been,
The bayte of lust, the instrument of pride,
Inchanting Circes, smoothing cover-guile,
Aluring Siren, flattering Crockodile.

168

Our Jove which sawe his Phœbus youth betrayde,
And Phaeton guide the sunne-carre in the skies,
Knewe well the course with danger hardly staide,
For what is not percev'd by wise-mens eyes?
He knew these pleasures posts of our desire,
Might by misguiding set his throne on fier.

This was a corsive to King Edwards dayes,
These jarring discords quite untun'd his mirth,
This was the paine which never gave him ease,
If ever hell, this was his hell on earth:
This was the burthen which he groned under,
This pincht his soule, and rent his heart in sunder.

This venom suckt the marrow from his bones,
This was the canker which consum'd his yeares,
This fearfull vision, fild his sleepe with grones,
This winter snow'd downe frost upon his hayres:
This was the moth, this was the fretting rust,
Which so consum'd his glorie unto dust.

The humor found, which fed this foule disease
Must needes be stay'd, ere help could be devys'd,
The vaine must breath the burning to appease,
Hardly a cure, the wound not cauterys'd:
That member now wherein the botch was risen
Infecteth all not cured by incision.

The cause conjectur'd by this prodigie,
From whence this foule contagious sicknes grue,
Wisdome alone must give a remedie,
For to prevent the danger to insue:
The cause must end, ere the effect could cease,
Else might the danger dayly more increase.

Now those whose eyes to death envide my glorie,
Whose saftie still upon my down-fall stood,
These, these, could comment on my youthfull storie,
These were the wolves which thirsted for my blood:
These all unlade their mischiefes at this baye,
And make the breach to enter my decaye.

169

These curres that liv'd by carrion of the court,
These wide-mouth'd hel-hounds long time kept at bay,
Finding the King to credit their reporte,
Like greedie ravens follow for their pray:
Dispightfull Langton favorit to the King,
Was he which first, me in disgrace could bring.

Such as beheld this lightning from above,
My Princely Jove from out the ayre to thunder:
This earth-quake which did my foundation move,
This boystrous storme, this unexpected wounder,
They thought my sunne had bin eclipsed quite,
And all my day now turn'd to winters night.

My youth embowel'd by their curious eyes,
Whose true reportes my life anatomis'd,
Who still pursu'd me like deceitfull spyes,
To crosse that which I wantonly devis'd:
Perceave the traine me to the trap had led,
And downe they come like haylestones on my head.

My Sonne eclips'd, ech Starre becomes a Sunne,
When Phœbus fayles, then Cynthia shineth bright,
These furnish up the Stage, my act is done,
Which were but Gloe-wormes to my glorious light,
Those erst condemn'd by my perfections doome,
In Phœbus chariot, now possesse my roome.

The Commons swore, I led the Prince to vice,
The Nobles said that I abus'd the King,
Grave Matrons such as lust could not intice,
Like women whispred of another thing:
Such as could not aspire unto my place,
These were suborn'd to offer me disgrace.

The staffe thus broke, whereon my youth did stay,
And with the shaddowe all my pleasures gone:
Now with the windes my joyes fleete hence away,
The silent night makes musik to my moane,
The tatling ecchoes whispering with the ayre,
Unto my wordes sound nothing but despayre.

170

The frowning Heavens are all in sables clad,
The Planet of my lives misfortune raineth:
No musick serves a dying soule to glad,
My wrong to Tirants for redresse complaineth:
To ease my paine there is no remedie,
So farre despayre exceeds extremitie.

Why doe I quake my down-fall to reporte?
Tell on my ghost, the storie of my woe,
The King commaunds, I must depart the court,
I aske no question, he will have it so:
The Lyons roring, lesser beastes doe feare,
The greatest flye, when he approcheth neare.

My Prince is now appointed to his guarde,
As from a traytor he is kept from me,
My banishment already is preparde,
Away I must, there is no remedie:
On paine of death I may no longer stay,
Such is revenge which brooketh no delaye.

The skies with cloudes are all invelloped,
The pitchie fogs eclipse my cheerfull Sunne,
The geatie night hath all her curtaines spred
And all the ayre with vapours overrun:
Wanting those rayes whose cleernes lent me light,
My sun-shine day is turn'd to black-fac'd night.

Like to the birde of Ledaes lemmans die,
Beating his breast against the silver streame,
The fatall prophet of his destinie,
With mourning chants, his death approching theame:
So now I sing the dirges of my fall,
The Anthemes of my fatall funerall.

Or as the faithfull Turtle for her make
Whose youth enjoyd her deere virginitie,
Sits shrouded in some melancholie brake
Chirping forth accents of her miserie,
Thus halfe distracted sitting all alone,
With speaking sighs, to utter forth my mone.

171

My bewtie s'dayning to behold the light
Now weather-beaten with a thousand stormes,
My daintie lims must travaile day and night,
Which oft were lulde in princely Edwards armes,
Those eyes where bewtie sate in all her pride,
With fearefull objects fild on every side.

The Prince so much astonisht with the blowe,
So that it seem'd as yet he felt no paine,
Untill at length awakned by his woe,
He sawe the wound by which his joyes were slaine,
His cares fresh bleeding fainting more and more,
No Cataplasma now to cure the sore.

Now weepe mine eyes, and lend me teares at will,
You sad-musde sisters help me to indite,
And in your faire Castalia bathe my quill,
In bloodie lines whilst I his woes recite,
Inspire my muse O Heavens now from above,
To painte the passions of a princely love.

His eyes about their rouling Globes doe cast,
To finde that Sunne, from whom they had their light,
His thoughtes doe labor for that sweete repast,
Which past the daye, and pleasd him all the night:
He countes the howers, so sloly how they runne,
Reproves the daye, and blames the loytring sunne.

As gorgious Phœbus in his first uprise
Discovering now his Scarlet-coloured head,
By troublous motions of the lowring Skies
His glorious beames with fogges are overspred,
So are his cheereful browes eclips'd with sorrowe,
Which cloud the shine of his youths-smiling morrow.

Now showring downe a flud of brackish teares,
The Epithemaes to his hart-swolne griefe,
Then sighing out a vollue of dispayres,
Which onely is th'afflicted mans reliefe:
Now wanting sighes, and all his teares were spent,
His tongue brake out into this sad lament.

172

O breake my hart quoth he, O breake and dye,
Whose infant thoughts were nurst with sweete delight;
But now the Inne of care and miserie,
Whose pleasing hope is murthered with despight:
O end my dayes, for now my joyes are done,
Wanting my Peirs, my sweetest Gaveston.

Farewell my Love, companion of my youth,
My soules delight, the subject of my mirth,
My second selfe if I reporte the truth,
The rare and onely Phenix of the earth,
Farewell sweete friend, with thee my joyes are gone,
Farewell my Peirs, my lovely Gaveston.

What are the rest but painted Imagrie,
Dombe Idols made to fill up idle roomes,
But gaudie anticks, sportes of foolerie,
But fleshly coffins, goodly gilded tombes,
But puppets which with others words replie,
Like pratling ecchoes soothing every lie?

O damned world, I scorne thee and thy worth,
The very source of all iniquitie:
An ougly damme that brings such monsters forth,
The maze of death, nurse of impietie,
A filthie sinke, where lothsomnes doth dwell,
A labyrinth, a jayle, a very hell.

Deceitfull Siren traytor to my youth,
Bane to my blisse, false theefe that stealst my joyes:
Mother of lyes, sworne enemie to truth,
The ship of fooles fraught all with gaudes and toyes,
A vessell stuft with foule hypocrisie,
The very temple of Idolatrie.

O earth-pale Saturne most malevolent,
Combustious Planet, tyrant in thy raigne,
The sworde of wrath, the roote of discontent,
In whose ascendant all my joyes are slaine:
Thou executioner of foule bloodie rage,
To act the will of lame decrepit age.

173

My life is but a very mappe of woes,
My joyes the fruite of an untimely birth,
My youth in labour with unkindly throwes,
My pleasures are like plagues that raigne on earth,
All my delights like streames that swiftly run,
Or like the dewe exhaled by the Sun.

O Heavens why are you deafe unto my mone?
S'dayne you my prayers? or scorne to heare my misse?
Cease you to move, or is your pittie gone?
Or is it you that rob me of my blisse?
What are you blinde, or winke and will not see?
Or doe you sporte at my calamitie?

O happie climat whatsoere thou be
Cheerd with those sunnes the fayr'st that ever shone,
Which hast those Stars which guide my destinie,
The brightest lamps in all the Horizon,
O happie eyes that see which most I lacke,
The pride and bewtie of the Zodiacke.

O blessed fountaine source of all delight,
O sacred sparke that kindlest Virtues fier!
The perfect object of the purest sight,
The superficies of true loves desire,
The very touchstone of all sweete conceite,
On whom all graces evermore awaite.

Thus whilst his youth in all these stormes was tost,
And whilst his joyes lay speechles in a traunce,
His sweete content with such unkindnes crost,
And lowring Fortune seem'd to looke askance:
Too weake to swim against the streamfull time,
Fore-told their fall which now sought most to clime.

Camelion-like, the world thus turns her hue,
And like Proteus puts on sundry shapes,
One hastes to clime, another doth ensue,
One fals, another for promotion gapes:
Flockmell they swarme like flies about the brim,
Some drowne whilst others with great danger swim.

174

And some on whome the Sunne shon passing fayre,
Yet of their summer nothing seeme to vaunte,
They sawe their fall presaged by the ayre,
If once this planet were predominant:
Thus in their gate they flew with wings of feare,
And still with care doe purchase honor deere.

Thus restles Time that never turnes againe,
Whose winged feete are sliding with the Sunne,
Brings Fortune in to act another scene
By whome the plot alreadie is begunne,
The argument of this same tragedie,
Is Virtues fall to raise up infamie.

The brute is blowne, the King doth now pretend,
A long-look'd voyage to the Holy-land,
For which his subjects mightie sums doe lend,
And whilst the thing is hotly thus in hand,
Blinde Fortune turnes about her fickle wheele,
And breaks the prop which makes the building reele.

I feare to speake, yet speake I must perforce,
My wordes be turn'd to teares even as I write,
Mine eyes doe yet behold his dying corse,
And on his hearse me thinkes I still indyte:
My paper is hard sable Ebon wood,
My pen of Iron, and my inke is blood.

Loe here, the time drue on of Edwards death,
Loe here, the dolefull period of his yeares,
O now he yeeldeth up that sacred breath,
For whom the Heavens do shower down fluds of teares,
For whom the Sunne, even mourning hides his face,
For whom the earth was all to vile and base.

May I reporte his dolefull obsequie,
When as my Ghost doth tremble at his name?
Faine would I write, but as I write I die,
My joyntes apald with feare, my hand is lame,
I leave it to some sacred muse to tell,
Upon whose life a Poets pen might dwell.

175

No sooner was his body wrapt in lead
And that his mournfull funerals were done,
But that the Crowne was set on Edwards head,
Sing I-o now my ghost, the storme is gone:
The winde blowes right, loe yonder breakes my day,
Caroll my muse, and now sing care away.

Carnarvan now cals home within a while
Whom worthie Long-shankes hated to the death,
Whom Edward swore should dye in his exile,
He was as deere to Edward as his breath,
This Edward lov'd that Edward loved not,
Kings wils performd: and dead mens words forgot.

Now waft me winde unto the blessed Ile,
Rock me my joyes, love sing me with delight,
Now sleepe my thoughts, cease sorrowe for a while,
Now end my care, come day, farwell my night:
Sweet sences now act every one his part,
Loe here the balme that hath recur'd my hart.

Loe now my Jove in his ascendant is
In the æstivall solstice of his glorie,
Now all the Stars prognosticate my blis,
And in the Heaven all eyes may reade my storie,
My comet now worlds wonder thus appeers
Foretelling troubles of insuing yeeres.

Now am I mounted with fames golden wings,
And in the Tropick of my fortunes height,
My flood maintayned with a thousand springs,
Now on my back supporting Atlas weight:
All tongues and pens attending on my prayse,
Sur-named now, the wonder of our dayes.

Who ever sawe the kindest romane dame
With extreame joye yeeld up her latest breath,
When from the warres her sonne triumphing came,
When stately Rome had mourned for his death:
Her passion here might have exprest aright,
When once I came into the Princes sight.

176

Who ever had his Ladie in his armes,
That hath of love but felt the miserie,
Touching the fire that all his sences warmes,
Now clips with joy her blushing Ivorie.
Feeling his soule in such delights to melt,
Ther's none but he can tell the joye, we felt.

Like as when Phœbus darteth forth his rayes,
Gliding along the swelling Ocean streames,
Now whilst one billowe with another playes,
Reflecteth back his bright translucent beames:
Such was the conflict then betwixt our eyes
Sending forth lookes as teares doe fall and rise.

It seem'd the ayre devisde to please my sight,
The whistling winde makes musick to my tale,
All things on earth now feast me with delight,
The world to me sets all her wealth to sale:
Who now rules all in courte but I alone,
Who highly grac'd but onely Gaveston?

Now like to Mydas all I touch is gould,
The cloudes doe shower downe gould into my lap,
If I but winke the mightiest are controulde,
Plac'd on the turret of my highest hap:
My cofers now, even like to Oceans are,
To whom all floods by course doe still repayre.

With bountie now he franckly seales his love,
And to my hands yeelds up the Ile of Man,
By such a gifte his kingly minde to prove,
This was the earnest wherewith he began:
Then Walingford Queene Elnors stately dower,
With many a towne, and many a goodly tower.

And all those sums his father had preparde
By way of taxes for the holy land,
He gave me francklie as my due rewarde:
In bountie thus, it seemd he pleasd his hand,
Which made the worlde to wonder every houre,
To see me drowned in this golden showre.

177

Determin'd now to hoyst my sayle amaine,
The Earle of Cornewall he created me,
Of England then the Lord high Chamberlaine,
Chiefe Secretarie to his Majestie:
What I devisd, his treasure ever wrought,
His bountie still so answered to my thought.

Yet more to spice my joyes with sweete delight,
Bound by his love aprentice to my pleasure,
Whose eyes still level'd how to please my sight,
Whose kindnes ever so exceeded measure,
Devis'd to quench my thirst with such a drinke
As from my quill drops Nectar to my inke.

O sacred Bountie mother of content,
Prop of renowne, the nourisher of arts,
The Crowne of hope, the roote of good event,
The trumpe of Fame, the joye of noble harts,
Grace of the Heavens, divinitie in nature,
Whose excellence doth so adorne the creature.

He gives his Neece in mariage unto me,
Of Royall blood, for bewtie past compare,
Borne of his sister was this Bellamie,
Daughter to Gilbert thrice renowned Clare,
Chiefe of his house the Earle of Glocester,
For Princely worth that never had his peere.

Like Heaven-di'd Andromeda the fayre,
In her embrodered mantle richly dight,
With Starrie traine inthronis'd in the ayre,
Adorns the Welken with her glittering light,
Such one she was, which in my bosome rested,
With whose deare love, my youthful yeres were feasted.

As when fayre Ver dight in her flowrie rayle,
In her new-coloured liveries decks the earth,
And glorious Tytan spreads his sun-shine vaile,
To bring to passe her tender infants birth:
Such was her bewtie which I then possest,
With whose imbracings all my youth was blest.

178

Whose purest thoughts and spotles chaste desire,
To my affections still so pleasing were,
Never yet toucht with sparke of Venus fier,
As but her breast I thought no Heaven but there:
To none more like then fayre Idea she,
The very image of all chastitie.

O chastitie, that guifte of blessed soul's,
Comfort in death, a crowne unto the life,
Which all the passions of the minde controul's
Adornes the mayde, and bewtifies the wife:
That grace, the which nor death, nor time attaints,
Of earthly creatures making heavenly Saints.

O Virtue which no muse can poetize
Fayre Queene of England which with thee doth rest,
Which thy pure thoughts doe onely exercize,
And is impressed in thy royall breast,
Which in thy life disciphered is alone,
Whose name shall want a fit Epitheton.

The Heavens now seeme to frolick at my feaste,
The Stars as handmayds, serving my desiers,
Now love full fed with bewtie takes his rest,
To whom content, for saftie thus retiers:
The grounde was good, my footing passing sure,
My dayes delightsome, and my life secure.

Loe thus ambition creepes into my breast,
Pleasing my thoughts with this emperious humor,
And with this divell being once possest,
Mine eares are fild with such a buzzing rumor,
As onely pride my glorie doth awaite,
My sences sooth'd with everie selfe-conceite.

Selfe-love, prides thirst, unsatisfied desier,
A flood that never yet had any boundes,
Times pestilence, thou state-consuming fier,
A mischiefe which all common weales confoundes,
O Plague of plagues, how many kingdomes rue thee,
O happie Empiers that yet never knew thee!

179

And now revenge which had been smoothered long,
Like piercing lightning flasheth from mine eyes,
This word could sound so sweetely on my tonge,
And with my thoughts such Stratagems devise,
Tickling mine eares with many a pleasing storie,
Which promist wonders and a world of glorie.

For now began the bloodie-rayning broyles
Betweene the barons of the land and me,
Labouring the state with Ixion-endles toyles
Twixt my ambition and their tyrannie,
Such was the storme this diluge first begun,
With which this Ile was after overrun.

O cruell discord foode of deadly hate,
O mortall corsive to a common weale,
Death-lingring consumption to a state,
A poysoned sore that never salve could heale:
O foule contagion deadly killing fever,
Infecting oft, but to be cured never.

By courage now imboldned in my sinne,
Finding my King so surely linkt to me,
By circumstance I finely bring him in
To be an actor in this tragedie,
Perswading him the Barons sought his blood,
And on what tearmes these earth-bred giants stood.

And so advancing to my Princes Grace
The baser sorte of factious qualitie,
As being raised unto such a place
Might counterpoyse the proude Nobilitie,
And as my agents on my part might stand,
Still to support what ere I tooke in hand.

Suborning gesters still to make me mirth,
Vile Sycophants at every word to sooth me,
Time-fawning Spaniels, Mermaydes on the earth,
Trencher-fed fools with flattering words to smooth me,
Base Parasites, these elbowe-rubbing mates,
A plague to all lascivious wanton states.

180

O filthie monkies vile and beastly kinde,
Foule pratling Parats berds of Harpie broode,
A corasive to every noble minde,
Vipers that suck your mothers deerest blood,
Mishapen monster, worst of any creature,
A foe to art, an enemy to nature.

His presence grac't what ere I went about,
His chiefe content was that which liked mee,
What ere I did, his power still bare mee out,
And where I was, there ever-more was hee:
By byrth my Soveraigne, but by love my thrall,
King Edwards Idoll all men did mee call.

Oft would he sette his crowne upon my head,
And in his chayre sit downe upon my knee,
And when his eyes with love were fully fed,
A thousand times he sweetly kissed mee:
When did I laugh? and he not seene to smile?
If I but frownd, hee silent all the while.

But Fortune now unto my over-throwe,
Intic't mee on with her alluring call,
And still devising how to worke my woe,
One bayte tan'e up, she let another fall.
Thus Syren-like, she brings me to the bay
Where long before shee plotted my decay.

For now the King to Fraunce doth him prepare,
For marriage with the Princesse Isabel,
Daughter to Phillip then surnam'd the faire,
Who like to him in beauty did excell;
Of Tilts and tryumphs every man reports,
And the uniting of these famous Courts.

And now the King to rayse me higher yet,
Makes me the Lord-protector of the Land,
And in the Chayre of his estate I sit,
Hee yeelds his Scepter up into mine hand.
Devising still how he to passe might bring,
That if he died, I might succeed as King.

181

His treasure now stood absolute to mee,
I dranck my pleasures in a golden cup,
I spent a world, I had aboundantly,
As though the earth had cast her bowels up.
My reckonings cast, my summs were soone enroled,
I was by no man once to be controled.

Now being got as high as I could clyme,
And Fortune made my foote-cloth as I gest,
I paynt me brave with Tagus golden slyme,
Because I would enjoy what I possest.
Aluding stil, that he is mad and worse,
Which playes the nyggard with a Princes purse.

And now the King returning with his trayne,
I summond all the chiefe Nobilitie,
And in my pompe, went foorth to entertayne
The Peers of Fraunce in all thys joylitie.
Where, in my carridge were such honours placed,
As with my presence, all the showes were graced.

Guarded with troupes of Gallants as I went,
The people crouching still with cap and knee,
My port and personage so magnificent,
That (as a God) the Commons honored mee.
And in my pryde, loe thus I could devise,
To seeme a wonder unto all mens eyes.

In ritchest Purple rode I all alone,
With Diamonds imbroidered and bedight,
Which lyke the stars in Gallixia shone,
Whose luster still reflecting with the light,
Presented heaven to all that ever gazed:
Of force to make a world of eyes amazed.

Upon a stately Jennet forth I rode,
Caparisond with Pearle-enchased plumes,
Trotting as though the Measures he had trode,
Breathing Arabian Civit-sweet perfumes;
Whose rarenes seemd to cast men in a traunce,
Wondred of England, and admir'd of Fraunce.

182

Like trident-maced Neptune in his pride,
Mounted upon a Dolphin in a storme,
Upon the tossing billowes forth doth ride,
About whose trayne a thousand Trytons swarme,
When Phœbus seemes to set the waves on fire,
To shew his glory and the gods desire.

Or like unto the fiery-faced Sunne
Upon his wagon prauncing in the West,
Whose blushing cheeks with flames seeme over-runne
Whilst sweating thus he gallops to his rest.
Such was the glory wherin now I stood,
Which makes the Barrons sweat their deerest blood.

Thus when these gallant companies were met,
The King heer present with his lovely Queene,
And all the Nobles in due order set,
To heare and see what could be hard or seene:
Loe heer that kindnes easely is discride,
That faithful love which hee nor I could hide.

Even like as Castor when a calme begins,
Beholding then his starry-tressed brother,
With mirth and glee these Swan-begotten twins
Presaging joy, the one embrace the other:
Thus one the other in our armes wee fold,
Our breasts for joy, our harts could scarcely hold.

Or like the Nimphe beholding in a Well,
Her deerest love, & wanting words to wooe him,
About his necke with clipped armes she fell,
Where by her fayth the gods conjoynd her to him.
Such was the love which now by signes we breake,
When joy had tied our tongues, we could not speak.

Thus arme in arme towards London on wee rid,
And like two Lambes we sport in every place,
Where neither joy nor love could well be hid
That might be seal'd with any sweet embrace:
So that his Queene, might by our kindnes prove,
Though shee his Wife, yet I alone his love.

183

The Barrons now ambitious at my raigne,
As one that stoode betwixt them and the Sunne,
They underhand pursue me with disdaine,
And play the game which I before had wonne:
And malice now so hard the bellowes blew,
That through myne eares the sparks of fier flew.

Where in revenge, the tryumphes they devisd
To entertaine the King with wondrous cost,
Were by my malice suddainly surprisd,
The charge, their summons, and their honours lost;
Which in their thoughts revenge so deeply raysed,
As with my blood they vow'd should be appeased.

As when within the soft and spungie soyle,
The wind doth peirce the intrals of the earth,
Where hurly burly with a restlesse coile
Shakes all the center, wanting issue forth,
Tyll with the tumor Townes and Mountains tremble,
Even such a meteor doth their rage resemble.

Or when the shapeles huge Leviathan,
Hath thrust himselfe upon the sandie shore,
Where (Monster like) affrighting every man,
He belloweth out a fearefull hydeous rore:
Even such a clamor through the ayre doth thunder,
The dolefull presage of some fearefull wonder.

Thus as a plague unto the government,
A very scourge to the Nobilitie,
The cause of all the Commons discontent,
The Image of all sentialitie,
I was reproched openly of many,
Hated of all, not pittied now of any.

And as a vile misleader of the King,
A wastfull spender of his coyne and treasure,
A secret theefe of many a sacred thing,
A Cormorant, in whom was never measure;
I seemed hatefull now in all mens eyes,
Buzzing about me like a swarme of flyes.

184

Lyke as a clowde, foule, darke, and ugly black,
Threatning the earth with tempest every howre,
Now broken with a fearefull thunder-crack,
Straight poureth down his deep earth-drenching showre,
Thus for their wrongs now rise they up in armes,
Or to revenge, or to amend theyr harmes.

The King perceiving how the matter stood,
Himselfe, his Crowne, in this extremity,
And how the Barrons thirsted for my blood,
And seeing now there was no remedy,
That I some vile untimely death must die,
Or thus, must be exiled presentlie:

A thousand thoughts he hammereth in his head,
Thinking on this, and now againe on that;
As one devise is come, another fled,
Some thing he would, and now he knowes not what.
To helpe me now, a thousand meanes he forgeth,
Whilst still with sighes his sorrowes he disgorgeth.

And for I was his very soules delight,
He thought on this, the onely way at last,
In Ireland to hide me out of sight,
Untill these stormes were over-blowne and past.
And in meane time t'appease the Barrons hate,
And so reduce me to my former state.

And to give place unto the Barrons rage,
Which flamed like a burning-quenchles brand,
Which nought but my exile could now asswage,
He sendes me post away to Ireland:
And to eschew all danger by the way,
Me safely guarded thither doth convay.

As one whose house in danger to be burn'd,
Which he hath builded with exceeding cost,
And all his wealth to earth-pale ashes turn'd,
Taking one Jewell which he loveth most,
To some safe place doth with the same retyre,
Leaving the rest to 'he mercy of the fire.

185

Or as a Nurse within besieged walls,
Dreading each howre the Souldiours slaughtering knife,
Within some place as fittest there befalls,
Hides her sweet babe in hope to save his life,
Loe thus the King provideth now for mee
The joy and pride of his felicitie.

He wanted words t'expresse what he sustain'd,
Nor could I speake to utter halfe my wrong,
To shew his griefe, or where I most was payn'd,
The time too short, the tale was all too long:
I tooke my leave with sighes when forth I went,
He streames of teares unto my farewell sent.

But sending lookes, ambassadors of love,
Which as our postes could goe and soone retire,
By whose quicke motion we alone might prove,
Our equall love did equall like desire:
And that the fire in which we both did burne,
Was easely quencht in hope of safe returne.

Lyke to a vessell with a narrow vent,
Which is fild up with liquor to the top,
Although the mouth be ever eminent,
Yet is it seene not to distyll a drop:
Even so our breasts, brim-full with pensive care,
Stopping our tongues, with griefe wee silent are.

But when my want gave breath unto his moane,
And that hys teares had now untide hys tongue,
With drery sighes all now cleane over-blowne,
Which earst (like Fountaines) in abundance sprunge,
Unto hymselfe, hee thus complaines his griefe,
Sith now the world could yeeld him no reliefe.

O cursed stars (quoth he) that guyde my byrth,
Infernall Torches, Comets of mis-fortune,
Or Genius heer that haunts mee on the earth,
Or hellish fiend that doest my woes importune:
Fate-guiding Heavens, in whose unlucky mooving,
Stands th'effect of my mishaps approoving.

186

Tide-ceasles sorrow, which doest over-flow,
Youth-withering cares, past compasse of conceite,
Hart-kylling griefe, which more and more doest grow,
And on the Anvile of my hart doest beate,
Death-thirsting rage, styll deadly, mortall, endles,
O poorest Prince! left desolate and freendles.

Sky-covering clowdes, which thus do over-cast,
And at my noone-tide darken all my sun,
Blood-drying sicknes, which my life doest wast,
When yet my glasse is but a quarter run:
My joy but a phantasme and elusion,
And my delights intending my confusion.

What Planet raignd in that unluckie howre,
When first I was invested in the Crowne?
Or hath in my nativitie such powre,
Or what vile Furie doth attend my Throne?
Or els, what hellish hags be these that haunt mee?
Yet if a King, why should mis-fortune daunt mee?

Am I a Prince? yet to my people subject,
That should be lov'd? yet thus am left forlorne,
Ordaynd to rule? respected as an object,
Live I to see mine honor had in scorne?
Base dunghill mind, that doest such slavery bring,
To live a pesant, and be borne a King.

The purest steele doth never turne at lead,
Nor Oke doth bow at every winde that blowes,
Nor Lyon from a Lambe doth turne his head,
Nor Eagle frighted with a flock of Crowes:
And yet a King want courage in his breast,
Trembling for feare to see his woes redrest.

It rather fits a villaine then a state,
To have his love on others lykings placed,
Or set his pleasures at so base a rate,
To see the same by every slave disgraced;
A King should ever priviledge his pleasure,
And make his Peers esteeme it as theyr treasure.

187

Then rayse thy thoughts, and with thy thoughts thy love,
Kings want no means t'accomplish what they would,
If one doe faile, yet other maist thou prove,
It shames a King, to say, If that I could.
Let not thy love such crosses then sustaine,
But rayse him up, and call him home againe.

Sweet Gaveston, whose prayse the Angels sing,
Maist thou assure thee of my love the while?
Or what maist thou imagin of thy King,
To let thee lyve in yonder brutish Ile?
My deer, a space this wery world prolong,
He lives, that can and shal revenge thy wrong.

Thus like a man growne lunatick with paine,
Now in his torments casts hym on his bed,
Then out he runns into the fields againe,
And on the ground doth rest his troubled head.
With such sharpe passions is the King possest,
Which day nor night doth let him take his rest.

As Lyon-skind Alcides, when he lost
His lovely Hylas, on hys way from Thrace,
Followes the quest through many an unknowne coast,
With playnts and out-cryes, wearying every place,
Thus lovely Edward fils each place with moane,
Wanting the sight of his sweet Gaveston.

Thus lyke a Barge that wants both steere and sayles,
Forc'd with the wind against the streamefull tyde,
From place to place with every billow hayles,
And (as it haps) from shore to shore doth ryde:
Thus doth my case, thus doth my fortune stand,
Betwixt the King, and Barrons of the Land.

On this Dilemma stood my tickle state,
Thus pro et contra all men doe dispute,
Precisely ballanc't twixt my love and hate,
Some doe affyrme, some other doe confute:
Untill my King, (sweet Edward) now at last,
Thus strikes the stroke which makes them all agast.

188

Now calling such of the Nobility,
As he supposed on his part would stand,
By theyr consent he makes me Deputy.
And being seated thus in Ireland,
Of gold and silver sendeth me such store,
As made the world to wonder more and more.

Lyke great gold-coyning Crassus in his health,
Amidst his legion long-mayntaining store,
The glory of the Romane Common-wealth,
Feasting the ritch, and gyving to the poore.
Such was th'aboundance which I then possest,
Blessed with gold, (if gold could make me blest.)

Where, (like Lucullus,) I maintaind a port,
As great god Bacchus had been late come downe,
And in all pompe at Dublin kept my Court,
As I had had th'revenewes of a Crowne.
In trayne, in state, and every other thing,
Attended still as I had been a King.

Of this my wondrous hospitality,
The Irish yet, untill this day can boast,
Such was the bounty of a King to mee,
His Chequer then could scarce defray the cost.
His gyfts were such, I joyd in what he sent,
He freely gave, and I as freely spent.

Few daies there past but some the Channell crost,
With kindest Letters enterlynd with love,
Wheras I stil receiv'd by every post,
His Ring, his Bracelet, Garter, or his Glove:
Which I in hostage of his kindnes kept,
Of his pure love, which liv'd and never slept.

With many a ritch and stately ornament,
Worne by great Kings, of hie and wondrous price,
Or Jewell that my fancie might content,
With many a robe of strange and rare device.
That all which saw and knew this wondrous wast,
Perceiv'd his treasure long time could not last.

189

And thus whilst Fortune friendly cast my Dice,
And tooke my hazard, and threw at the maine,
I saw it was but folly to be nice,
That chaunceth once, that seldome haps againe.
I knew such bounty had been seldom seen,
And since his time, I think hath never been.

And now the Barrons which repynd before,
Because I was too lavish of the treasure,
And saw my wast consuming ten times more,
Which doth so far exceed all bonds of measure,
This (as a knife) theyr very hart-strings cuts,
And gnawes them like the Collick in the guts.

Thus (all in vaine,) they seek to stop the source,
For presently it over-flowes the bounds,
Yet well perceive, if thus it held his course,
No question then, the Common wealth it drowns:
And thus lyke men that tread an endlesse Maze,
Whilst Fortune sports, the world stands at a gaze.

Like Souldiers in a Towne surpriz'd by night,
Over their heads the houses set on fire,
Sure to be slayne in issuing out to fight,
Or els be burned if they doe retyre:
Some curse the time, some other blame their fortune,
Whilst black Dispaire their deaths doth thus importune.

This gracious King, (which seemd to sleep the while,)
Finding the yron thus fully had his heat,
With sweet perswasions fitly frames his stile:
Which in theyr wits doth such a temper beate,
With kindest lookes, and sweetest vowes of love,
As were of force a Rock of flint to move.

His clowdy frownes be turnd to sun-shine smyles,
And those on whom he lowerd, he friendly graces,
Theyr moody cheer, with sporting he beguiles,
His Lyons lookes, be turnd to sweet imbraces,
That with his will, theyr thoughts seeme to accord,
Such is the love of subjects to their Lord.

190

And having found his kindnes tooke effect,
He followeth on the quest with hote pursute,
Nor day, nor night, he doth the same neglect,
Until the graff was growne to bring forth fruite:
And that the Barrons all with might and maine,
Now condiscend to call me home againe.

O frayle and slyding state of earthly things,
Blind Fortune, chance, worlds mutability,
Advauncing pesants, and debasing Kings,
Od hap, good luck, or star-bred destinie:
Which stil doest fawne, and flatter me so oft,
Now casts me downe, then sett'st me up aloft.

In all post-hast, the King to Ireland sent
His Princely Letters, for my safe returne,
To England now I must incontinent,
It seemes that time all malice hath out-worne.
The Coast is cleer, occasion cals away,
The gale stands right, and drives me from the Bay.

My whistling sayles make musick with the wind,
The boystrous waves doe homage to mine eyes,
The brutish sort of Eols Imps seeme kind,
And all the clowdes abandoning the skyes
Now lovely Lædas egg-borne twins appeare:
Towards Albyons clives faire Fortune guides my steere.

The King is come to Chester, where he lyes,
The Court prepared to receive me there
In all the pompe that wit could well devise:
As since that time was seldome seene elswhere.
Where setting once my dainty foote on land,
He thought him blest that might but kisse my hand.

In pleasures there we spend the nights and dayes,
And with our revels entertaine the time,
With costly Banquets, Masks, and stately Playes,
Painting our loves in many a pleasing rime.
With rarest Musick, and sweet-tuned voyces,
(In which the soule of man so much rejoyces.)

191

Like as the famous brave Egiptian Queene,
Feasted the Romane great Mark Anthony,
With Pearl-disolv'd carouses, seldom seene,
Serv'd all in vessell of ritch Ivory:
Such was the sumptuous banquets he prepard,
In which no cost or curious thing was spard.

Or like the Troyan Pryam, when as he
Beheld his long-lost sonn returne to Troy,
Tryumphing now in all his jolitie,
Proud Ilion smokes with th'orges of his joy,
Such are our feasts and stately tryumphs heer,
Which with applauses, sound in every eare.

Departing thence from Chesters pleasant side,
Towards London now we travel with delight,
Wher every Citty likewise doth provide
To entertaine us, with some pleasing sight:
Tyl all our trayne at length to London comes,
Wher naught is hard, but Trumpets, bels and drums.

As when Paulus Aemilius entred Roome,
And like great Jove, in starlike tryumph came,
Honored in Purple by the Senats doome,
Laden with gold, and crowned with his fame.
Such seems our glory now in all mens eyes,
Our friendship honored with applaudities.

Or when old Phillips time still-wondred son,
In his worlds conquest surfetting with spoiles,
The scourge of Kings, returns to Babilon,
To sport and banquet after all his toiles,
Such is our glory in our London Court,
Whereto all Nations dailie make resort.

And thus blind Fortune lulls mee in her lap,
And rocks mee still, with many a Syrens song,
Thus plac'd mee on the Atlas of my hap,
From which shee means to cast mee downe ere long.
Black ugly fiend, O foule mishapen evill,
In shew an Angel, but in deed a divel.

192

Even as a Lyon got into his pawes
The silly Lambe, seems yet a while to play,
Till seeking to escape out of his jawes,
This beastly King now tears it for his pray.
Thus having got mee in her armes so fast,
Determins now to feed on mee at last.

Or as the slaughter-man doth fat the beast,
Which afterward he meaneth shall be slayne,
Before provided to some solemne feast,
The more therby he may increase his gaine,
Loe, thus proud Fortune feeds mee for the knife,
For which (it seems) shee had prepard my life.

For thus ere long, between the King and mee,
As erst before, our revels now begin,
And now the Barrons taste theyr misery,
Opening theyr eyes, which makes them see theyr sin,
The plague once past, they never felt the sores,
Till thus againe it haps within theyr dores.

Like as a man made drunk with foule excess,
Drowning his soule in thys vile lothly vice,
Once being sober, sees his beastliness,
Buying repentance with so deer a price;
Thus they perceive the bondage they possest,
In condiscending to the Kings request.

The damned Furies heer unbong the source,
From whence the Lethe of my vertues burst,
The black-borne Fates heere labour in that course,
By which my lyfe and fortune came accurst.
My death in that star-guiders doome concealed,
Now in the browes of heaven may be revealed.

My youth spurrs on my fraile untam'd desire,
Yeelding the raynes to my lascivious will,
Upon the Ise I take my ful careire,
The place too slippery, and my manidge ill,
Thus like a Colt, in danger to be cast,
Yet still runn on, the divel drives so fast.

193

Now wandring in a Laborinth of error,
Lost in my pride, no hope of my returne,
Of sin and shame my life a perfect mirror,
No spark of vertue once is seen to burne.
Nothing there was could be discernd in me,
But beastly lust, and censualitie.

Black Hecate chaunts on her night-spell charmes,
Which cast me first into this deadly sleep,
Whilst fier-eyd Ate clips me in his armes,
And hayles me down to dark Herebus deep.
Foule sleep-god Morpheus, curtains up the light,
And shuts my fame in everlasting night.

The fixed starrs in their repugnacie,
Had full concluded of these endles jarrs,
And nature by some strange Antipathy,
Had in our humors bred continuall warrs.
Or the star-ceeled heavens by fatall doome,
Ordaind my troubles in my Mothers wombe.

Some hellish hagg in thys inchaunted cup,
Out of the Tun of pryde this poyson drew,
And those hote cinders which were raked up,
Into the nostrils of the Nobles blew.
Who now caroused to my funerall,
And (with a vengeance) I must pledge them all.

And now brake out that execrable rage,
Which long before had boyled in theyr blood,
Which neither tyme nor reason could asswage:
But like to men growne lunatick and wood,
My name and fame, they seeke to scandelize,
And roote the same from all posterities.

They all affyrme, my Mother was a Witch,
A filthy hagg, and burnt for sorcery:
And I her son, and fitting with her pitch,
Shee had bequeath'd her damned Art to mee.
Thys rumor in the peoples eares they ring,
That (for my purpose) I bewitcht the King.

194

They say, that I convayd beyond the Sea,
The Table and the tressels all of gold,
King Arthurs reliques, kept full many a day,
The which to Windsor did belong of old.
In whose faire margent (as they did surmize,)
Merlin ingraved many prophecies.

Some slaunderous tongues, in spightful manner sayd,
That heer I liv'd in filthy sodomy,
And that I was King Edwards Ganemed,
And to this sinn hee was intic'd by mee.
And more, (to wreck their spightfull deadly teene,)
Report the same to Isabel the Queene.

A Catilogue of tytles they begun,
With which I had the Noble men abus'd,
Which they avouch't I never durst have done,
If by the King I had not been excus'd.
And swore, that he maintaind against the state,
A monster, which both God and man did hate.

They swore, the King subbornd my villanie,
And that I was his instrument of vice,
The means wherby he wrought his tyranny,
That to his chaunce I ever cast the dice;
And with most bitter execrations ban,
The tyme in which, our friendship first began.

Loe, heer drawes on my drery dismall hower,
The dolefull peryod of my desteny,
Heer doth approch the black and ugly shower,
Hence flowes the Deluge of my misery.
Heer comes the clowde that shuts up all my light,
My lowring Winter, and eternall night.

The angry Barrons now assembled were,
And no man left that on my part durst stand,
Before the Popes pernitious Legate there,
They forced mee for to abjure the Land.
Forcing the King to further their intent,
By solemne oth upon the Sacrament.

195

Upon the holie Sacrament hee swears,
Although (God knowes) ful much against his will,
So over-come with silence, sighes, and teares,
To make a sword the which himselfe should kill.
And being done, (in doing then not long,)
He seemes to curse his hand, his hart, his tongue.

Like to a man that walking in the grass,
Upon a Serpent suddainlie doth tread,
Plucks back his foote, and turnns away his face,
His couller fading, pale as he were dead:
Thus hee the place, thus he the act doth shun,
Lothing to see, what he before had done.

Or as a man mistaking a receite,
Some death-strong poyson happely doth taste,
And every howre the vigor doth awaite,
Apald with feare, now standeth all agast.
Thus stands he trembling in an extasie,
Too sick to live, and yet too strong to die.

Hee takes his Crowne, and spurnns it at his feet,
His princely robes hee doth in peeces teare,
Hee straight commaunds the Queene out of his sight,
Hee tuggs and rents his golden-tressed haire.
He beates his breast, and sighes out pittious groans,
Spending the day in tears, the night in moans.

Lyke as the furious Paladine of Fraunce,
Forsaken of Angelica the fayre,
So like a Bedlam in the fields doth daunce,
With shouts and clamors, filling all the ayre,
Tearing in peeces what so ere hee caught,
With such a furie is the King distraught.

Or when the wofull Thrace-borne Hecuba,
Saw Troy on fire, and Pryams fatall doome,
Her sonns all slayne, her deer Polixina,
There sacrifized on Achilles Tombe,
Even like a Bore, her angry tusks doth whet,
Scratching and byting all that ere shee met.

196

With fearefull visions frighted in his bed,
Which seemes to hym a very thorny brake,
With ugly shapes which way he turnns his head:
And when from sleep hee ever doth awake,
Hee then againe with weeping mournfull cryes,
In griefe of soule, complains hys miseries.

Hee wants disgesture, and refrains his rest,
His eyes ore-watched like eclipsed sunns,
With bitter passions is his soule opprest,
And through his eyes, his brayne disolved runns.
And after silence, when with payne he speakes,
A suddaine sigh his speech in sunder breakes.

Hee starteth up, and Gaveston doth call,
Then stands hee still, and lookes upon the ground,
Then like one in an Epileps doth fall,
As in a Spasmo, or a deadly sound;
Thus languishing in payne, and lingering ever,
In the Symptoma of his pyning fever.

Lyke to a flower that droupeth in a frost,
Or as a man in a Consumption pyning,
Staynd like a Cloth that hath his culler lost,
Or Poets-worne Lawrell when shee is declyning:
Or lyke a Pecock washed in the rayne,
Trayling adowne his starry-eyed trayne.

To Belgia I cross the narrow seas,
And in my breast a very sea of griefe,
Whose tide-full surges never give me ease,
For heaven and earth hath shut up all reliefe,
The ayre doth threaten vengeaunce for my crime,
Clotho drawes out the thred of all my time.

Like as that wicked Brother-killing Caine,
Flying the presence of his mighty God,
Accurst to die, forbidden to be slaine,
A vagabond, and wandring still abroad.
In Flaunders thus I travell all alone,
Still seeking rest, yet ever finding none.

197

Or as the Monarch of great Babilon,
Whose monstrous pride the Lord did so detest,
As hee out-cast him from his princely throne,
And in the field hee wandred like a beast:
Companion with the Oxe and lothly Ass,
Starv'd with the cold, and feeding on the grass.

Thus doe I change my habite and my name,
From place to place, I pass unknowne of any;
But swift report so far had spred my fame,
I hear my life and youth controld of many;
The bouzing Flemings in their boistrous tongue,
Still talking on me as I pass along.

O wretched, vile, and miserable man,
Besotted so with worldly vanitie,
When as thy life is but a verie span,
Yet everie howre full of calamitie.
Begot in sinn, and following still the game,
Living in lust, and dying oft with shame.

Now working means to have intelligence,
By secrete Letters from my Lord the King,
How matters stood since I departed thence,
And of the tearms and state of every thing,
I cast about which way I might devise,
(In spight of all) once more to play my prize.

And still relying on King Edwards love,
To whom before my life had been so deere,
Whose constancie my fortune made me prove;
And to my Brother, Earle of Glocester,
And to my wife, who labored tooth and naile,
My abjuration how shee might appeale.

I now embarck mee in a Flemish Hoy,
Disguised in the habite of a Muffe,
Attended thus with neyther man nor boy,
But on my back a little bagg of stuffe:
Like to a Souldier that in Campe of late,
Had been imployd in service with the state.

198

And safely landed on thys blessed shore,
Towards Windsor thus disguis'd I tooke my way,
Wheras I had intelligence before,
My wife remaind, and there my Edward lay.
My deerest wife, to whom I sent my ring,
Who made my comming known unto the King.

As when old-youthful Eson in his glass,
Saw from his eyes the cheerfull lightning sprung,
When as Art-spell Medea brought to pass,
By hearbs and charms, againe to make him young,
Thus stood King Edward, ravisht in the place,
Fixing his eyes upon my lovely face.

Or as Muse-mervaile Hero, when she clips,
Her deer Leanders byllow-beaten limms,
And with sweet kisses seazeth on his lips,
When for her sake deep Hellespont he swimms,
Might by our tender-deer imbracings prove,
Fayre Heros kindnes, and Leanders love.

Or like the twifold-twynned Geminy,
In their star-gilded gyrdle strongly tyed,
Chayn'd by their saffrond tresses in the sky,
Standing to guard the sun-coche in his pride.
Like as the Vine, his love the Elme imbracing,
With nimble armes, our bodies interlacing.

The Barrons hearing how I was arrived,
And that my late abjurement naught prevailed,
By my returne, of all their hope deprived,
Theyr bedlam rage no longer now concealed:
But as hote coles once puffed with the wind,
Into a flame outbreaking by their kind.

Like to a man whose foote doth hap to light,
Into the nest where stinging Hornets ly,
Vext with the spleen, and rising with despight,
About his head these winged spirits fly.
Thus rise they up with mortall discontent,
By death to end my life and banishment.

199

Or like to souldiers in a Towne of war,
When Sentinell the enemy discries,
Affrighted with this unexpected jar,
All with the fearefull Larum-bell arise,
Thus muster they; (as Bees doe in a hyve,
The idle Drone out of their combes to dryve.)

It seemd the earth with heaven grew malecontent,
Nothing is hard but warrs and Armors ringing,
New stratagems each one doth now invent,
The Trumpets shril their warlike poynts be singing,
Each souldiour now, his crested plume advances,
They manidge horses, and they charge their launces.

As when under a vast and vaulty roofe,
Some great assembly happily appears,
A man (from thence) that standeth out a loofe,
A murmuring confused rumor hears.
Such is the noyse, from earth to heaven rebounding,
With shrikes and clamors every where resounding.

Lyke as the Ocean chafing with hys bounds,
With raging billowes flyes against the Rocks,
And to the shore sends forth his hydeous sounds,
Making the earth to tremble with his shocks;
Even thus the murmure flyes from shore to shore,
Lyke to the Canons battering fearefull rore.

By day and night attended still with spyes,
The Court become the cause of al our woes,
The Country now a Campe of enemies,
The Citties, all be-peopled with our foes.
Our very beds are snares made to enwrap us,
Our surest guard (as Traytors) doe intrap us.

Like to a cry of roring-mouthed hounds,
Rouzing the long-liv'd stagg out of his layre,
Pursue the chase through vastie forrest grounds,
So lyke a thunder ratling in the ayre,
Thus doe they hunt us, still from coast to coast,
Most hated now, of those we loved most.

200

Thys gracious Prince loe thus becomes my guide,
And with a Convoy of some chosen friends,
Brings mee to Yorke, where being fortified,
To Balioll the King of Scots hee sends,
And to the Welchmen, craving both their ayde,
That by their help the Barrons might be stayd.

But they which in their busines never slept,
And (as it seemd) had well fore-seen thys thing,
Cause all the Ports and Marches to be kept,
That none should enter once to ayde the King:
And by disswasive Letters still devise,
To stay theyr neighbors from this enterprize.

Loe, in this sort the King and I betrayd,
And to their wills thus left as wofull thralls,
And finding now no further hope of ayde,
We shut us up within Yorkes aged walls,
Untill we knew the Barrons full intent,
And what all this rude hurly burly meant.

This gracious King, for want of wonted rest,
Fallen in these passions to an extasie,
With grievous sicknes is so sore opprest,
And grown in time to such extreamity,
As he is forced to depart away,
To take the ayre awhile upon the Sea.

From Bedford now (the synod of their shame,
The counsell house of all their villany,)
These bloody Barrons with an Army came,
Downe unto York, where they besieged mee:
That now not able to resist their might,
Am forst perforce, to flye away by night.

To Scarborough with speed away I post,
With that small force the Citty then could lend me,
The strongest Castell there in all the coast,
And (as I thought) the surest to defend me,
Where as I might withstand them by my power,
Hoping the Kings returning every howre.

201

But now, like to a sousing suddaine raine,
Forc'd by a strong and sturdy easterne blast,
Or (like a hayle-storme) downe they come amaine,
And in the Castell gert me now so fast,
No way to scape, nor hope for mee to flie,
My choyce was hard, or yeeld my selfe, or die.

Away thus (like a prysoner) am I led,
My costly robes in peeces rent and torne,
Bound hand and foote, my haire disheviled,
Naked and bare as ever I was borne,
Save but for shame, to stop the peoples cryes,
With griefe am clothed of mine enemies.

Along the Land, toward Oxford they convay mee,
Like bauling currs, they all about mee houle:
With words of foule reproch they now repay mee,
Wondring my shame, as byrds doe at an Owle.
Cursing my life, my manners, and my birth,
A scourge of God, ordaind to plague the earth.

The King, now hearing how I was arested,
And knew my quarrell cause of all this strife,
He writes, he sends, he sues, he now requested,
Using all means he could to save my life:
With vowes and othes, that all should be amended,
If that my death alone might be suspended.

And being brought to Dedington at last,
By Aymer Valence, Earle of Pembrook then,
Who towards King Edward rode in all the hast,
And left mee guarded safelie by his men.
This gentle Earle with meer compassion moved,
For Edwards sake, whom hee so deerly loved.

But now Guy Beuchampe, whom I feared still,
The Earle of Warwick, whom I called curr,
Having fit time to execute his will,
The Foxe thus caught, he vowes to teare my furr.
And he for whom so oft he sett the trap,
By good ill luck, is fallen into his lap.

202

This bloody Beuchampe, (I may tearme him so,)
For this was he that onely sought my blood,
Now at the up-cast of mine over-throw,
And on the chaunce wheron my fortune stood,
To Dedington hee came, where as I lay,
And by his force, hee tooke mee thence away.

To Warwick thus along hee doth mee bring,
And keeps me guarded in the Castell there,
And doubting now my succour from the King,
Hee rayseth up the power of Warwick-shiere.
Thus from the Towne, to Blacklow I was led,
And on a Scaffold there, I lost my head.

Loe, heer the point and sentence of my time,
My lives full stop, my last Catastrophe,
The stipend of my death-deserved cryme,
The Scene that ends my wofull tragedy.
My latest Vale, knitting my conclusion,
Mine utter ruine, and my fames confusion.

Like as Adonis wounded with the Bore,
From whose fresh hurt the life-warme blood doth spin,
Now lyeth wallowing in his purple gore,
Stayning his faire and Alablaster skin:
My headles bodie in the blood is left,
Now lying breathles, and of life bereft.

O now my Muse, put on thy Eagles wings,
O lend some comfort to my tired ghost,
And with Apollos dolefull-tuned strings,
Now help at need, for now I need thee most.
Sorrow posses my hart, mine eyes, myne ears,
My breath consume to sighs, my braine to tears.

My soule now in the heavens eternall glass,
Beholds the scarrs and botches of her sin,
How filthy, uglie, and deformd shee was,
The lothsome dunghill that shee wallowed in.
Her pure Creator sitting in his glory,
With eyes of justice to peruse her storie.

203

Like as a stagg at bay amongst the hounds,
The bloodie Mott still sounding in his ears,
Feeling his breath diminish by his wounds,
Poures downe his gummy life-preserving tears;
Even thus my soule, now bayted by my sin,
Consuming shewes the sorrow shee is in.

Thus comfortles, forsaken and alone,
All worldlie things unstable, and unsure,
By true contrition flyes to him alone,
In whose compare, the heavens are most impure.
By whose just doome, to blessed soules revealed,
Shee gets her pasport to Elisia sealed.

And by repentance, finds a place of rest,
Where passing to the faire Elisian plaine,
Shee is aloud her roome amongst the blest,
In those Ambrosian shadowes to remaine.
Till summond thus by Fame, shee is procur'd,
To tell my life that hath been thus obscur'd.

This monster now, this many-headed beast,
The people, more unconstant then the wind,
Who in my life, my life did so detest,
Now in my death, are of another mind:
And with the fountains from their teareful eyes,
Doe honor to my latest obsequies.

Star-holding heaven hath shut up all her light,
Nature become a stepdam to her owne,
The mantled trouch-man of the Raven-hued night,
In mournfull Sables clad the Horizon.
The sky-borne Planets seeming to conspire,
Against the ayre, the water, earth, and fire.

Pearle-paved Avon, in her streamfull course,
With heavy murmure floting on the stones,
Mov'd with lament to pitty and remorse,
Attempering sad musick to my moans,
Tuning her billowes to Zephyrus breath,
In watry language doth bewaile my death.

204

Oke-shadowed Arden, fild with bellowing cries,
Resounding through her holts and hollow grounds,
To which the Eccho ever-more replies,
And to the fields sends forth her hideous sounds,
And in her Silvan rude untuned songs,
Makes byrds, and beasts, for to express my wrongs.

The heaven-dyed flowers in this happy clyme,
Mantling the Medowes in their Summers pride,
As in the wofull frostie winter time,
Drouping with faintnes, hold their heads aside.
The boystrous storms, dispoile the greenest greves,
Stripping the Trees stark naked of their leaves.

Death clad in liveries of my lovely cheeks,
Layd in those beds of Lillyes and of Roses,
Amaz'd with mervaile, heere for wonders seeks,
Where he alone a Paradice supposes,
Grew malcontent, and with himselfe at strife,
Not knowing now if hee were death or life.

And shutting up the casements of those lyghts,
Which like two sunns, so sweetly went to rest,
In those faire globes he saw those heavenly sights,
In which alone he thought him onely blest.
Cursing himselfe, who had deprived breath,
From that which thus could give a life in death.

With palenes touching that fayre rubied lip,
Now waxing purple, like Adonis flower,
Where Ivory walls those rocks of Curral keep,
From whence did flow that Nectar-streaming shower,
There earth-pale Death refresht his tired limms,
Where Cupid bath'd hym in those Christall brimms.

And entring now into that house of glory,
That Temple with sweet Odors long perfumed,
Where nature had ingraved many a story,
In Letters, which by death were not consumed.
Accursed now, his crueltie he curst,
That Fame should live, when he had done hys worst.

205

Now when the King had notice of my death,
And that hee saw his purpose thus prevented,
In greevous sighes hee now consumes his breath,
And into tears his very eyes relented:
Cursing that vile and mercy-wanting age,
And breakes into this passion in his rage.

O heavens (quoth hee) lock up the living day,
Cease sunn to lend the world thy glorious light,
Starrs, flye your course, and wander all astray,
Moone, lend no more thy silver shine by night.
Heavens, starrs, Sunn, Moone, conjoyne you all in one,
Revenge the death of my sweet Gaveston.

Earth, be thou helples in thy creaturs berth,
Sea, break thou forth from thy immured bound,
Ayre, with thy vapors poyson thou the earth,
Wind, break thy Cave, and all the world confound.
Earth, sea, ayre, wind, conjoyne you all in one,
Bewaile the death of my sweet Gaveston.

You savage beasts, that haunt the way-less woods,
You Birds delighted in your Silvan sound,
You scaly Fish, that swim in pleasant floods,
You hartless Wormes that creep upon the ground,
Beasts, birds, fish, wormes, each in your kind alone,
Revenge the death of my sweet Gaveston.

Faire Medowes, be you withered in the prime,
Sun-burnt and bare, be all the goodly Mountains,
Groves, be you leaveless in the Summer time,
Pitchy and black be all the Christall Fountains:
All things on earth, each in your kind alone,
Revenge the death of my sweet Gaveston.

You damned Furies, break your Stigian Cell,
You wandring spirits, in water, earth, and ayre,
Lead-boyling ghosts, that live in lowest hell,
Gods, divels, men, unto mine ayde repayre,
Come all at once, conjoyne you all in one,
Revenge the death of my sweet Gaveston.

206

Eyes, never sleep, untill you see revenge,
Head, never rest, until thou plot revenge,
Hart, never think, but tending to revenge,
Hands, never act, but acting deep revenge.
Just-dooming heavens, revenge mee from above,
That men unborne may wonder at my love.

You peerles Poets of ensuing times,
Chanting Heroique Angel-tuned notes,
Or humble Pastors Nectar-filled lines,
Driving your flocks with musick to their coats,
Let your hie-flying Muses still bemoane,
The wofull end of my sweet Gaveston.

My earth-pale body now enbalmd with tears,
To famous Oxford solemnly convaid,
There buried by the ceremonious Friers,
Where for my soule was many a Trentall said.
With all those rites my obsequies behoved,
Whose blind devotion, time and truth reproved.

But ere two yeeres were out and fully dated,
This gracious King who still my fame respected,
My wasted bones to Langley thence translated,
And over mee a stately Tombe erected.
Which world-devouring Time, hath now out-worne,
As but for Letters, were my name forlorne.

My ghost now hence to Ankor shall repayre,
Where once the same appeared unto thee:
And unto chaste Idea tell my care,
A sacrifice both for thy selfe and mee.
In whose sweet bosome all the Muses rest,
In whose aspect our Clyme is onely blest.

Thus having told my drery dolefull tale,
My time expir'd, I now returne againe,
Where Carons Barge hoyst with a merrie gale,
Shall land mee on the faire Elisian plaine:
Where, on the Trees of never dying fame,
There will I carve Ideas sacred name.

207

And thou sweet Dorus, whose sole Phœnix Muse,
With Pegase wings doth mount unto the sky,
Whose lines the gods are fittest to peruse.
My lovelie Dorus, lend thine humble eye,
To my harsh stile, (deer friend) at my request,
In whose conceit my verse is onely blest.

My deer Mæcenas, lend thine eyes awhile,
From Meredian's sun-bred stately straine:
And from thy rare and lofty flying stile,
Looke downe into my low and humble vaine:
On this same babe my Muse hath now brought forth,
Till shee present thee with some lines of worth.

208

[_]

Divers have been the opinions, of the byrth and first rysing of Gaveston, (amongst the Writers of these latter times:) some omitting things worthy of memory, some inferring things without probabilitie, disagreeing in many particulars, and cavelling in the circumstances of his sundry banishments; which hath bred some doubt amongst those who have but slightly run over the History of his fortune, seeing every man rove by his owne ayme in this confusion of opinions: Although most of them concluding in generall, of his exceeding credite with the King, of the maner of his death, and of the pompe wherin he lyved. Except some of those Writers who lyved in the tyme of Edward the second, wherin he onely florisht, or immediatly after, in the golden raigne of Edward the third, when as yet his memory was fresh in every mans mouth: whose authorities (in myne opinion) can hardlie be reproved of any, the same beeing within the compasse of possibility, and the Authors names extant, avouching what they have written. On whom I onely relyed in the plot of my History; having recourse to some especiall collections, gathered by the industrious labours of John Stow, a diligent Chronigrapher of our time. A man very honest, exceeding painfull, and ritch in the antiquities of this Ile: yet omitting some small things of no moment, fearing to make his Tragedy more troublesome, amongst so many currants as have fallen out in the same: framing my selfe to fashion a body of a hystorie, without maime or deformitie. Which if the same be accepted thankfully, as I offer it willingly, in contenting you, I onely satisfie my selfe. M. D.

FINIS.

209

MATILDA. The faire and chaste Daughter of the Lord Robert Fitzwater.

THE TRVE GLORIE OF THE NOBLE HOVSE OF SVSSEX.

Phœbus erit nostri princeps, & carminis author.

210

TO THE NOBLE AND VERTUOUS Gentlewoman, worthy of all honor, Mistres Lucie Harrington, Daughter to the Honorable Gentleman, Sir JOHN HARRINGTON, Knight.

212

THE VISION OF MATILDA.

Me thought I saw upon Matildas Tombe,
Her wofull ghost, which Fame did now awake,
And crav'd her passage from Earths hollow wombe,
To view this Legend, written for her sake;

No sooner shee her sacred Name had seene,
Whom her kind friend had chose to grace her story,
But wiping her chast teares from her sad eyen,
Shee seem'd to tryumph, in her double glory.

Glory shee might, that his admired Muse,
Had with such method fram'd her just complaint:
But proude shee was, that reason made him chuse,
To patronize the same to such a Saint:
In whom her rarest vertues might be showne,
Though Poets skill should fayle to make them knowne.

H. G. Esquire.

[Thy learned Poeme (Friend) I will not prayse]

Thy learned Poeme (Friend) I will not prayse,
Nor will commend Matildas chastitie,
Shee by thy Muse, her fame from grave doth rayse,
And hie conceit, thy lines doth dignifie.

But that in this, the honour thou doost give,
To that sweet Maide in whose unspotted minde,
Matildas rarest vertues yet doe live,
As two so like the world can hardly finde.

Fayre Lucie with Matilda but compare,
In all regards of perfect modestie,
And see how like in every good they are,
And then thy choyce with judgement ratifie.
And I who know the worth of thy fit choyce,
Approve it good, both with my pen and voyce.

Anonimos.

213

[Teares in your eyes, and passions in your harts]

Teares in your eyes, and passions in your harts,
With mournfull grace vouchsafe Matildas story:
The subject sad, a King to act the parts
Of his owne shame, to others endlesse glory.

But such is sinne, where lawlesse lust is raigning,
Sweet to the taste, till all turnes to infection,
When count is cast, a reckoning is remaining,
Which must be payd, but not at our election.

Perrill and Greefe, the interest of Pleasure,
Spending the stock that Danger long was gayning,
Makes soule and body banckrupt of that treasure,
Which vainly spent, what helps our fond complayning?
O that my lines could so the Author grace,
As well his vertues merit prayse and place.

R. L. Esquire.

To. M. DRAYTON.

I like thy worke, and doe allow thy wit,
And prayse thy choyce in patronizing it:
Yet more, that thou the honor doost impart,
To Lucies prayse, a Mayd of such desart.
Who for her rarest vertues doth exceede,
Nor never age a better wit did breede.
A blessed Impe, sprong from a noble race,
Admir'd for gyfts, and beautified with grace;
A Phenix deck, yet not with plumes of gold,
But with true Jemmes of heavens eternall mould.

Then happy man in thy Matildas fame,
Happy Matilda in rare Lucies name,
Devise of wit, by Graces onely graced,
Adorned skill, in vertue highly placed,
Yet subject, wit, and skill be all to fewe,
In chast Matilda, for rare Lucies due.

W. G. Esquire.

214

MATILDA.

If to this time some sacred Muse retaine,
Those choise regards by perfect vertue taught,
And in her chast and virgine-humble vaine,
Doth kindly cherrish one pure Mayden thought,
In whom my death hath but true pitty wrought,
By her I crave my life may be reveald,
Which blacke oblivion hath too long conceald.

Or on the earth if mercy may be found,
Or if remorce may touch the harts of men,
Or eyes may lend me teares to wash my wound,
Or passion be exprest by mortall pen,
Yet may I hope of some compassion then:
Three hundreth yeeres by all men over past,
Now finding one to pittie mee at last.

You blessed Impes of heavenly chastitie,
You sacred Vestalls, Angels onely glory,
Right presidents of imortalitie,
Onely to you I consecrate my storie.
It shall suffise for mee if you be sorie.
If you alone shall deigne to grace his verse,
Which serves for odours to perfume my hearse.

Let your delicious heaven-distilling teares,
Soften the earth to send mee from her wombe,
With Conquerors Lawrell crowne my golden haires,
With flowry garlands beautifie my tombe,
Be you the Heralds to proclaime me roome,
With sable Cypresse maske your lovely eyes,
Mourning my death with dolefull Elegies.

Faire Rosamond, of all so highly graced,
Recorded in the lasting Booke of Fame,
And in our Sainted Legendarie placed,
By him who strives to stellifie her name,
Yet will some Matrons say she was to blame.
Though all the world bewitched with his ryme,
Yet all his skill cannot excuse her cryme.

215

Lucrece, of whom proude Rome hath boasted long,
Lately reviv'd to live another age,
And here ariv'd to tell of Tarquins wrong,
Her chast deniall, and the Tyrants rage,
Acting her passions on our stately stage,
She is remembred, all forgetting me,
Yet I as fayre and chast, as ere was she.

Shores wife is in her wanton humor sooth'd,
And modern Poets, still applaud her praise,
Our famous Elstreds wrinckled browes are smooth'd,
Call'd from her grave to see these latter daies,
And happy's hee, their glory high'st can raise.
“Thus looser wantons, still are praisd of many,
“Vice oft findes friends, but vertue seldome any.

O faire Charites, Joves most deere delight,
O lend me now one heaven-inchanting lay,
And you rare Nimphes which please Apollos sight,
Bring spreading Palme and never-dying Bay,
With Olive branches strew the pleasant way:
And with your Viols sound one pleasing straine,
To ayde his Muse, and raise his humble vaine.

And thou ô Beta, Soveraigne of his thought,
Englands Diana, let him thinke on thee,
By thy perfections let his Muse be taught,
And in his breast so deepe imprinted be,
That he may write of sacred Chastitie:
Though not like Collin in thy Britomart,
Yet loves as much, although he wants his arte.

O my dread Soveraigne, rare and princely Mayd,
From whose pure eyes the world derives her light,
In Angels robes with majestie arayd,
In whom true vertue is defin'd aright:
O let these lines be gracious in thy sight,
In whom alone, as in a perfect glas,
All may discerne how chast Matilda was.

216

To brag of birth, or noblesse, were but vaine,
Although I might compare me with the best:
“To challenge that our Auncesters did gaine,
“A royall minde such follie doth detest,
Which I omit and here set downe my rest:
“Of vertuous life I meane to boast alone,
“Our birth is theirs, our vertues are our owne.

“A shame to fetch our long discent from Kings,
“And from great Jove derive our pedigree,
“The brave atchivements of a hundred things,
“Breathing vaine boastes the worlde to terrifie,
“If wee our selves doe blot with infamie,
“And staine that blood and honor which is theirs:
“Men cannot leave their vertues to their heyres.

The Heaven became a Midwife at my birth,
A kind Lucina, gently helping Nature:
Some sacred power then present on the earth,
Fore-telling rare perfection in a creature,
As all men judg'd by so divine a feature:
Yet as my beautie seem'd to ravish all,
Vertue made beauty more angelicall.

Upon my brow, sate Honor in her pride,
Tables containing heavens divinest law,
Whose snowie margent quoted on each side,
With such delights as all mens harts coulde draw,
My thoughts (as Tutors) kept mine eyes in awe,
From their rare Sun-beames darting forth such raies,
As well the worke might shew the Arts-mans praise.

These Cherubins, the Tree of life doe keepe,
These Dragons, watch the faire Hesperian fruite,
These fiery Serpents, guard the golden sheepe,
These fixed stars, their rayes like lightning shute,
At whose approch the wise were striken mute.
These eyes, which onely could true vertues measure,
Ordain'd by Nature to preserve her treasure.

217

My words were gracefull, pleasing to the wise,
My speech retayning modest decencie,
Not fondlie vaine, nor foolishlie precize,
But sweetlie tun'd, with such a simphony,
Mooving all hearers with the harmonie.
Gracing my tale with such an Emphasis,
As never Musicke could delight like this.

My face the sunne, adorning beauties sky,
The Booke where heaven her wonders did enrole,
A stately Pharus to each wandring eye,
And like a Syren could enchaunt the soule,
Which had the power the proudest to controle.
To whom this gift my Maker had assigned,
That there, all eyes like southsayers divined.

Natures fayre Ensigne, roiallie displai'd,
Map of Elisium, Eden without night,
Ermins wherein rich Phœbus is arai'd,
Right prospective, reflecting heavenly light,
Hart-wounding arrow, pearcing with the sight.
Bright mornings lustre, Joves high exaltation,
Load-starre of love, rare Carde of admiration.

True type of honor, fine dilicious varry,
The richest coate that ever beautie bare,
Pure colours, which the heavens doe onlie carry,
O uncouth blazon, so exceeding rare,
O curious lymming, passing all compare,
First at my birth assigned unto mee,
By that great King of heavenly Heraldrie.

From hence my praise began to prove her wing,
Which to the heaven could carry up my fame,
Of all my glorie now began the spring,
Through every Coast this still enlarg'd my name,
From hence the cause of all my sorrowes came:
“Thus to this Hydra are we subject still,
“Who dares to speake, not caring good or ill.

218

This jealous Monster hath a thousand eyes,
Her ayrie body hath as many wings:
Now on the earth, then up to heaven she flies,
And heere and there with every wind she flings,
From every Coast her rumors foorth shee brings;
Nothing so secret but to her appeareth,
And apt to credit every thing shee heareth.

Foule blabbing tel-tale, secrets soone bewrayer,
Thou ayre-bred Eccho, whisperer of lyes:
Shril-sounding trumpet, trueths unkind betrayer,
False larum-bel, awaking dead-mens eyes,
Uncertaine rumor, wandring in the skyes:
Fond pratling Parrat, telling all thou hearest,
Oft furthest of when as thou should'st be nearest.

“The Princes eares are open to report,
“Ther's skill in blazing beauty to a King;
“To censure, is the subject of the Court,
“From thence Fame carries, thether Fame doth bring,
“There, to each word a thousand ecchos ring:
“A Lottery, where most loose, but few doe win,
“Few love Religion, many follow sin.

Loe, heere at first my beauty plaid her prize,
Heere where my vertues seldome prized be,
Yet that which most seem'd wondred of the wise,
Confin'd by vertue, cleerelie made me see,
What dangers were attending still on me:
Which most desir'd, for why esteem'd most rare,
Guarded I kept with most especiall care.

This, whole possest the thoughts of princelie John,
This, on his hart-strings Angels musick made,
This, was the subject which he wrought upon,
That deepe impression which could never fade,
Reason which might sufficiently perswade:
Hence sprong that greefe, which never gave him rest,
This was the spirit wher-with hee was possest.

219

This, had commission to commaund his Crowne,
In all his course, conducted by this starre,
This, with a smile could cleere each cloudie frowne,
This, conquered him, which conquered all in warre,
This, calm'd his thoughts in every bloody jarre,
This, taught his eyes their due attendance still,
This, held the raines which rul'd his princely will.

Controuling Love, proud Fortunes busie Factor,
The gaule of wit, sad Melancholies schoole,
Hart-killing corsive, golden times detractor,
Life-fretting canker, mischiefes poysoned toole,
The Ideots idoll, but the wise mans foole:
A foe to friendship, enemie to trueth,
The wrong misleader of our pleasing youth.

My vertuous father, famous then in Court,
Who liv'd in pompe, and Lorded with the best,
Whose minde was troubled with this strange report,
As one enshrining honor in his brest,
And as a man who ever lov'd me best:
Fore-saw the danger of such secret spyes,
Who still attended on the Princes eyes.

And he, who in the Kings own bosome slept,
Experience taught his deepest thoughts to sound,
Yet in his brest, the same he secret kept,
Nor would disclose the thing which he had found,
Who being hurt must needs conceale his wound.
“For why he knew, it was a dangerous thing,
“In rule, or Love, but once to crosse a King.

And finding lust had kindled all this fire,
And his affections in extreames consisted,
He greatly fear'd his youthfull vaine desire,
Might grow impatient, being once resisted:
Yet in his humor, sith he still persisted,
With me his childe, thought fittest to perswade,
Ere further he into the deepe durst wade.

220

Sweete gyrle (quoth he) the glory of my life,
The blessed and sole object of mine eyes,
For whom the Heavens with Nature fell at strife,
On whom the hope of all my fortune lies,
Whose youth, my age with comfort still supplies.
Whose very sight my drouping hart doth raise,
And doth prolong thy aged fathers dayes.

Thou seest, a world upon thy youth awaite,
That Paradice, where all delightes do growe,
Thy peerlesse Beautie made so faire a baite,
The Bursse where Nature sets her ware to show,
Where blushing Roses, sleepe in beds of snowe.
The heavens have fring'd thy fore-head with their gold;
That glasse where heaven her-selfe may well behold.

“All gaze at Comets, choysest things be best,
“The rarest pearles are ever dearest prized,
“Seldom wants guests, where Beautie bids the feast,
“Mens eyes with wonders never are suffised,
“At fairest signes, best welcome is surmised.
“The shrine of Love, doth seldom offrings want.
“Nor with such counsel, Clyents never scant.

“Honor is grounded on the tickle Ice,
“The purest Lawne, most apt for every spot,
“The path to hell, doth seeme a paradice,
“Vices be noted, vertues oft forgot,
“Thy fame once foild, incurable the blot.
“Thy name defac'd, if toucht with any staine,
“And once supplanted, never growes againe.

“The Lechors tongue is never voyd of guile,
“Nor Crocodile wants teares to win his pray,
“The subtil'st Temptor hath the sweetest stile,
“With rarest musick Syrens soon'st betray.
“Affection, will like fire himselfe bewray.
“Time offers still each hower to do amisse,
“And greatest dangers, promise greatest blisse.

221

“Deceit, still with a thousand sleights is fraught,
“Art, hath a world of secrets in her power,
“Who hopes a Conquest, leaves no meanes unsought,
“Soft golden drops once peirc'd the brazen tower,
“Care and Suspition is faire Beauties dower.
“Guile, (like a Traytor) ever goes disguis'd,
“Lust, oft is fild, but never is suffic'd.

This wanton Prince, whose soule doth swim in vice,
Whose lawlesse youth time never hath restrained,
He leaves no meanes unprov'd, which may entice,
The rytes of wedlock wantonly profained;
His hands with blood of innocents distained.
This Lyon, would thy chastity devoure,
Which kept by Vertue, lyes not in his power.

“Lacivious will, the sences doth abuse,
“Birth is no shaddow unto tyranny,
“No scepter serves dishonor to excuse,
“Nor kinglie vaile can cover villanie,
“Fame is not subject to authoritie.
“No plaister heales a deadly poysoned sore,
“No secret hid, where slaunder keeps the dore.

“No subtile plea revokes dishonors error,
“No law can quite, where Fame is once endited,
“No armour proofe against the conscience terror,
“Gainst open shame, no Text can well be cyted,
“The blow once given, cannot be evited.
“If once the fire be to the powder got,
“Tis then too late to seeke to flie the shot.

“His youthfull love, is like a sudden fire,
“Whose heate extreame, of force decay it must,
“The cause, proceeding from his lewd desire,
“Is quickly out, and sooner turn'd to dust,
“Yet frets the life, as iron frets with rust.
“Sinne in a chaine, leads on her sister Shame,
“And both in Gives, fast fettered to Defame.

222

“The stately Eagle on his pitch doth stand,
“And from the maine the fearfull foule doth smite,
“Yet scornes to touch it lying on the land,
“When he hath felt the sweet of his delight,
“But leaves the same a pray to every Kite.
“With much we surfet, plenty makes us poore,
“The wretched Indian spurns the golden Ore.

“Kinges use their Loves, as garments they have worne,
“Weake stomackes loath, if once but fully fed,
“The Saint once stolne, who doth the shrine adorne?
“Or what is Nectar if it once be shed?
“What Princes wealth can prize thy Maiden-head?
“Which should be held as precious as thy breath,
“Which once dissolv'd of force ensueth death.

Loe, heere he makes a period with his teares,
Which from his eyes now make a sudden breache,
By which the weight of all his speech appeares,
In words so grave as seemed still to preach,
This Idioma with such power doth teach.
Whose tuned cadence doth such rules impart,
As deepely fixt each sentence in my hart.

O sacred counsell, true hart-suppling balme,
Soule-curing plaister, time preserving blisse,
Water of life in every suddaine qualme,
The heavens rich store-house, where all treasure is,
True guide, by whom foule Errors den we misse.
Night-burning Beacon, watch against mishaps,
Fore-sight, avoyding many after claps.

The King deluded in his love the while,
His soule tormented in this quenchlesse fire,
With flattering hope his sences doth beguile,
Quickning the coales unto his fond desire;
Affection growne too head-strong to retire,
Controules his silence, hating to be mute,
And still doth urge him to commence his sute.

223

Thus carried on by his unbridled thought,
He leaves no baite unprov'd that might allure,
“Deceit, a schoole of common sleights hath taught,
“Desire, hath philters which desires procure,
“Lust, puts the most unlawfull things in ure:
“Nor yet in limmets ever could be bounded,
“Till he himselfe, himselfe hath quite confounded.

But still perceiving all devices faile,
His traines in Court yet never tooke effect,
Now with his tongue determin'd to assaile,
And to this end doth all his thoughts direct,
Too much abused by his vaine suspect:
To further daies, no longer would be posted,
But finding time, me bravely thus accosted.

Goddesse (quoth he) when Nature thee engrayned,
With colours fetcht from heavens eternall spring,
Little thought shee, herselfe shee could have stayned,
Or grace the world with so divine a thing.
But as a gifte to gratifie a King,
Seal'd thee this Charter, dated at thy birth,
To be the fair'st that ever liv'd on earth.

Locke not thy treasure, heaven doth give the store,
A thousand Graces at thine eyes are fed,
Thy bosome, is the Angels secret dore,
Thy breast, the pillowes of faire Venus bed:
Regardes of honour on thy browes are red.
Thy cheeks, the banquet where sweet Love doth feast,
The royall Pawne of Beauties interest.

Thy lyps, the Bath where sorrows wounds are healed,
Where Abstinence keepes Vertue in a diet,
And in thy wit, all wonders are revealed,
Wisedom growne welthy, liveth there at quiet:
Thy modest eye controules Loves wanton ryot.
Thine eye, that planet clearer then the seaven,
Whose radient splendour lights the world to heaven.

224

From thy sweet lookes such streames of lightning glide,
As through the eyes do wound the very hart,
Killing, and curing, as they are applide,
Hurting, and healing, like Achilles Dart:
Which to the world do heavenly things impart.
And thou alone, the spirit of all delight,
Which like the sun, joy'st all things with thy sight.

Could heaven allowe wher-with to lim thee forth,
Or earth afford things of esteeme to praise thee,
Were words sufficient to expresse thy worth,
Or could invention to thy glory raise thee,
Could Art devise a weight whereby to paize thee:
But thy surpassing excellence is such,
As eyes may gaze, but nothing els may tuch.

Hee is thy King, who is becom thy subject,
Thy soveraigne Lord, who onely seekes thy love,
Thy beauty is his eyes commaunding object,
Who for thy sake, a thousand deathes would prove:
Sweet Maid let prayers, some compassion move.
Let Wolves, and Beares, be cruell in their kinds,
But women meeke, and have relenting minds.

Love forc'd the Gods, to things for Gods unmeet,
Behold a Monarch kneeling to a maide,
Apollo, prostrate at his Daphnes feete,
Great Atlas bowes, on whom the heaven is staide;
Thy Jove his Scepter on thy lap hath laide,
Thou in his throne doest sit as Chancellor,
And hee become thy daylie Orator.

Looke on these browes, the perfect Map of care,
The truest mirrour of my miserie,
In wrinckled lines where sorrowes written are,
Where Time still reades on Loves Anotomy,
My bloodlesse vaines with greefes Phlebotomy:
A stanchlesse hart, dead-wounded, ever bleeding,
On whom that nere-fild vulture Love sits feeding.

225

Pitty this soule-evaporating smoke,
The purest incense of most perfect zeale,
These deep-fetcht sighes, confounding words halfe spoke,
Where swoln-ey'd passion doth herselfe reveale:
That ragefull fier, no reason can conceale.
Where torments last, and joyes are still diluded,
Where all infernall torture is included.

Behold, the brim-full Cesterns of these eyes,
With surging Tydes of brackist teares frequented,
Where foodlesse Hope, still hunger-starven lies,
In burning Pooles eternally tormented:
Which to betray, my hart at first consented.
Where as the spirit of woe, hath ever being,
Blinded in teares, yet in teares only seeing.

Shyne thou, like Cynthia under mine estate,
Thy tresses deckt with Ariadnes Crowne,
In pompe redubbling costly Junos rate,
And cloud the world in sable with a frowne:
Advaunce thy friends, and throw the mighty downe.
Be thou admir'd through all this famous Ile,
Thy name enrol'd with never-dated stile.

Great troupes of Ladies shall attend my Gerle,
Thou on thy brave tryumphing Chariot borne,
Thy drink shall be dissolved orient Pearle,
Thy princely Cup of rarest Unicorne:
Then live at ease, and laugh the world to scorne.
And if our musick cannot like thine eares,
Thy Jove shall fetch thee musick from the Spheres.

Thy name, as my Empreza will I beare,
My well tun'd rymes, shall glory in thy praise,
Upon my Crowne, thy favours will I weare,
Figuring thy love a thousand sundry wayes:
My power shall be thy shield at all assaies.
And thou my Saint, Kings offering to thy shrine,
Wondring thy beautie, as a thing divine.

226

What if my Queene, Detractor of our blisse,
Thee by her hundreth-eyed Heardsman keepe,
Ile bring to passe, shee shall her purpose misse,
My Mercurie shall lull him till he sleepe;
“Love ever laughs, when Jelousie dooth weepe.
“My providence, shall keepe her stomacke under,
“She may raise stormes, but Jove doth rule the thunder.

Thus having broke the Ice from whence might spring,
Sweet streames of love in calme and fairer time,
And afterward, might joyfull tydings bring,
The staire begun by which he thought to clyme,
Hoping due howres, now he had set the chyme;
Leaves me, not knowing now which way to turne me,
Warm'd with the fire, which unawars might burne me.

Forth-with began strange factions in my thought,
And in my soule a sudden mutinie,
Feare and Desire, a doubtfull combat fought,
The tytle stands upon extremity:
My force was great, and strong mine enemie;
Till Resolution, seeing all begun,
Sent Succors in, by whom the field was won.

As thus mine honour in the Ballance hung,
Betwixt the worlds preferment and my fame,
These in myne eares, like Syrens sweetly sung,
That wisely still fore-warned me of shame:
Till Grace divine from highest heaven came.
Now must I loose the prize, or win the Crowne,
Till Vertue (currant) lastly way'd mee downe.

The time is come I must receive my tryall,
His protestations subtilly accuse mee,
My Chastitie sticks still to her deniall,
His promises false witnes do abuse me,
My Conscience cald, yet cleerly doth excuse me.
And those pure thoughts, enshrined in my brest,
By verdict quit mee, being on the Quest.

227

And Wisedom now fore-warned mee of treason,
That in the Court, I liv'd a Lyons pray,
My tender youth in this contagious season,
Still fear'd infection, following day by day:
My Barck unsafe on this tempestious Sea.
My Chastity in danger every hower,
No succour neer to shroud me from the shower.

With Resolution, hap what might be-tide,
I leave the Court, the Spring of all my woe,
That Court, which gloried in my Beauties pride,
That Beauty, which my Fortune made my foe,
To Baynards-Castell secretly I goe.
Where, with his trayne, my noble Father lay,
Whose gracious counsell was my onely stay.

There, might my thoughts keepe holy-day a while,
And sing a farewell to my sorrowes past,
With all delights I might the time beguile,
Attayn'd my wished liberty at last,
No fearfull vision made mee now agast.
But like a Birde escapt her Keepers charge,
Glydes through the ayre with wings display'd at large.

And hoping health thus cured of these qualmes,
My hart in this fayre harbour rides at ease,
The tempest past, expecting quiet calmes,
My Shyp thus floting on these blisfull Seas,
A sudden storme my Ankor-hold doth raise:
And from the shore doth hoyse me to the maine,
Where I (poore soule) my shipwrack must sustaine.

And loe, the Autumne of my joyes approch,
Whilst yet my spring began so faire to flourish,
Black way-ward Winter, sets her stormes abroch,
And kils the sap which all my hopes did nourish.
Fortune once kind, growes crabbed now and currish.
In my straight path, she layes a mighty beame.
And in my course, she thwarts me with the streame.

228

The King who saw his love unkindly crost,
And by effect the cause had fully found,
Since he the harvest of his hope had lost,
Now on revenge his deepest thoughts doth ground:
Desperate to kill, receiving his deaths wound.
In reasons bounds strives but in vaine to hold,
Head-strong desire, too proud to be controld.

Like the brave Courser strugling with the raines,
His foming mouth controld with Canons check,
With lofty bounds his skilfull Ryder straines,
Scorning to yeeld his stately crested neck:
Nor of the bloody pearcing spurres doth reck.
The King now warmed in this glorious fire,
Thus roughly plungeth in his vaine desire.

Hence-forth devising to disperse the Cloude,
Which ever hung betwixt him and the light:
His love not currant, nor to be allow'd,
Whilst thus my Father held mee in his sight,
Some-thing amisse, his Watch went never right.
Of force hee must this Sentinell remove,
If hee in time would hope to win my love.

Ten thousand mischiefes now hee sets abroch,
Treasons, invasions, civill mutinie,
Black ignominie, slaunderous reproch,
Rebellion, out-rage, vile conspiracie,
Opening the intralls of all villanie.
Causing my Lord, thereof to be accused,
By Traytors, such as hee with gyfts abused.

Foule Envie thou, the partiall Judge of right,
Sonne of Deceit, borne of that harlot Hate,
Nursed in Hell, a vile and uglie spright,
Feeding on Slaunder, cherrish'd with Debate:
Never contented with thine owne estate.
Deeming alike the wicked and the good,
Whose words be gall, whose actions end in blood.

229

His service done to this ungratefull King,
His worth, his valure, his gentilitie:
What good so-ever might from vertue spring,
Or could proceede from true Nobilitie,
All buried now in darke obscuritie.
His vertuous life, in doubtfull question brought,
Which ever-more for fame and honour sought.

Thou hatefull Monster, base Ingratitude,
Soules mortall poyson, deadly-killing wound,
Deceitfull Serpent, seeking to dilude,
Black lothsome ditch, where all desert is drownd,
Vile Pestilence, which all things doost confound;
“At first created to none other end,
“But to greeve those whom nothing could offend.

Such as too well perceiv'd the Kings intent,
In whom remayn'd yet any sparke of grace,
Pittying a poore distressed innocent,
Their safety still depending on my case,
These in my wrongs participate a place.
These, bound in friendship, and alied in blood,
Fast to my Father in the quarrell stood.

But as a Lyon in the wildes of Thrace,
With darts and arrowes gauled at the bay,
Kills man and beast incountring in the Chase,
And downe on heapes, the fearfull Heards doth lay,
His armed pawes each where doth make his way:
Thus by his power, the King doth now surprise,
Such as in armes resist his tyrannies.

And given over to his vile desire,
The spectakle of lothsome sinne and shame,
Our strong-built Castels now hee sets on fire,
And (like proude Nero) warmes him by the flame,
Wasting themselves, augmenting his defame.
Which like bright Beacons, blaze in every eye,
Warning all other of his tyrannie.

230

Our friends and followers thus are beaten downe,
Whom every slave and pesant dare revile,
And all reputed Traytors to the Crowne,
Imprisoned some, some forc'd into exile;
Yet worst of all, (remedilesse the while,)
My Father sent a banish'd man to Fraunce,
And heere perforce must leave mee to my chaunce.

On shyp-bord now, with hands rear'd to the skyes,
(All sigh'd and wept, could sigh nor weepe no more,)
Hee turnes his sad eclipsed tearefull eyes,
As retrograde unto the blessed shore;
Rich Ile (quoth hee,) once Garner of my store,
Taken from mee by yonder Tyrants theft,
And I as poore as ere was Irus left.

Tis not my wealth, that, I esteeme as light,
Nor yet my Country, though so deere to mee,
But thou alone Matilda, my delight,
My lyfe, my soule, all my felicity,
Left as a pray, vile Monster unto thee.
Yet my laments are wasted all in vaine,
And to these windes and billowes must complaine.

But now the Wolfe is got into my fold,
God help the Lambe that's in the Lyons power;
Alas poore Maid, thus art thou bought and sold,
Prepared for the slaughter every howre,
This Minataure must all my hopes devoure.
Yet forc'd by Fortune to endure this woe,
And unreveng'd unto my grave shall goe.

Within the furrowes of my aged browes,
My joyes must their untimely buriall have,
This fatall Tombe proude Fortune them alowes,
Which thus with-holds mee from my wished grave.
The heavens are deafe although I justly crave.
My teares with greefe are frozen in mine eyes,
Yet God, nor man, regards my miseries.

231

Thrice famous Romaine, (fortunate to mee,)
By whose owne hands thy deerest child was slaine,
Deliver'd so from slavish tyrannie,
But lyving, mine dishonor'd shall remaine,
Blotting my Name with an immortall staine;
Whose black reproch, for ever shall endure.
“Ah vile disease that never tyme can cure.

Even as the kinde sleep-breaking Nightingale,
(The cruell Merlin ceaz'd her little one,)
Unto the Thickets tells a wofull tale,
Wearying the woods with her continuall mone,
Thys poore Byrd chirpeth, hee poore Lord doth grone.
Shee weepes all night, by day complaineth hee,
Shee for her young one, hee laments for mee.

Looke how the Sea, the Tyde once beeing past,
Whose surges strove the continent to climbe,
And bounding backe unto the Gulfe at last,
Upon the Sands doth leave a clammie slime,
Teares in his cheekes, such gutters worne in time.
Wash'd with the floods of his stil-troubled braine,
His eyes brim-full, as furrowes after raine.

And thus my Father unawares betray'd,
A thousand sorrowes mee at once assaile;
What might I doe, a silly helplesse mayde,
Tost and turmoyl'd in this tempestious gale?
These boysterous flawes have broken down my saile.
My succors thus (like shadowes) now are gone,
Not one remaines to whom to make my mone.

Now, like a Roe, before the hounds imbost,
When over-toyl'd his swiftnes doth aslake,
Forsakes the Plaines, to which hee trusted most,
And to the covert doth himselfe betake,
Where dubbling still, creepes on from brake to brake;
Thus doe I flie before the Princes face,
Who day and night pursues mee still in chase.

232

The Coast is cleere, suspitious eyes at rest,
And all things fadge which further his desire:
Now royall hope keepes revels in his brest,
The coales are quick, and Fancie blowes the fire:
His love expects his long deserved hire.
No clowde discern'd to hinder this his sunne,
The watch discharg'd, he hopes the towne is wonne.

“The Princes armes are strecht from shore to shore,
“Kings sleeping, see with eyes of other men,
“Craft findes a key to open every dore,
What might I doe, or what availes mee then?
The silly Lambe lives in the Lyons den.
Loves wakefull eyes (too soone alas) discry'd mee,
And found mee, where I surest thought to hide mee.

My Jove, like Jove now seekes mee to invade,
And roysting comes, in thunder-bolts and rayne,
A Beast, a Byrd, a Satyre in the shade,
A flood, a fire, a Serpent and a Swaine,
Camelion-like, as fitt'st my love to gaine.
Now like great Phœbus in his golden Carre,
And then like Mars, the fearefull God of warre.

Hee makes the Ayre to wooe me whilst I talk,
The Wind to whistle many a pleasant Dittie,
The dainty Grasse make musick as I walk,
The prettie Flowers to move me still to pitty:
All sencelesse things with reason seeming wittie.
Before mine eyes hee ever dooth appeare,
And if I call, still aunswers, I am heere.

My steppes are told, my pathes by Spyes are noted,
Mine eyes by Night-spells shut within the watch,
My words are way'd by jelous Love that doted,
And at my thoughts, Ill-meaning still doth catch:
Into my counselles Treason drawes the latch.
And at my gates, Suspition still doth ward,
Sorrow my hand-maid, Falsehood on my gard.

233

He weepes his words, but words could win no teares,
“The raine doth cease or ere the Floods do rise,
His wofull words his tongue awhile forbeares.
Then doth he, his harts arrant with his eyes:
His eyes ecclipz'd, he then with sighes supplies.
Sighes faile, with smiles he then bewrayes his paine,
Smiling, he weepes, yet weeping, laughes againe.

Looke how the Peacock ruffes his flaunting tayle,
And struts under his mooned Canapie,
And how hee quivers with his plumed sayle;
Yet when his Lead-pale legs hee haps to see,
With shame abates his painted jolitie.
The King, as proude as Peacock in my love,
Yet droupes again, when words nor teares could move.

My breast, of Flint, a rock impenitrable,
My hart, that stone which never toole could perce,
My thoughts, a center, and unsearchable,
My words, judgement, which Law could not reverse,
My frownes, such clowdes, as no joy could disperse,
“Tygars are tam'd with patience and with skill,
“All things made subject, but a womans will.

The King like one sick of a strange disease,
Whose cruell paine no phisick can asswage,
Nor plaster can his torments once appease,
Boyling his intrales, with such hellish rage,
With his owne knife his horror doth engage.
Thus desperate, he, fore-thinks to end this strife,
Or else by poyson take away my life.

But first, with lines hee bravely sitteth on,
Words steep'd in syrop of Ambrosia,
Sweet method, savored with invention,
“What can be said that Lovers cannot say?
“Desire can make a Doctor in a day.
Each sentence seem'd a sweet inchaunting charme,
A Trumpet sounding gentle Loves alarme.

234

With rare hart-curing Phrigian harmonie,
He tunes his strings, as not a trebble jarres,
His straines so pleasant and melodious bee,
As might appease the heat of fearefull warres:
Distilling balme to cure the deepest scarres
His pen, dilates his hartes Apologie,
And shewes my sinnes, by loves Theologie.

What curious thing did Nature ere bring forth,
What glistering starre that yeelds his silver shine,
To which hee doth not now compare my worth?
Or what is there, that's mortall or divine?
What sublimation doth not refine?
Or what rare thing was ever yet devised,
That unto mee, hee hath not lightly prized?

Now mounts hee up with loftie straines of love,
Then to sad vaines his pliant Muse doth bow,
His humors serving, as his passions move:
And as the Tydes, the numbers ebbe and flow;
His hopes now wither, then againe they grow.
Painting his greefe, in hope to quench desire,
“But inck to love, like oyle unto the fire.

And now of one hee had himselfe advis'd,
Both red and practiz'd in thys wretched Arte,
Within whose braine all mischiefes were compris'd,
Whose words were venom, and his tongue a Darte:
And this is hee must acte this damned part.
To him the King, my poysoning doth commit,
Who had before made tryall of his wit.

Another Dagon, was this miscreant,
A divell, walking in a humaine shape,
Foule Dagon, borne true vertue to supplant,
For whom th'infernall pit of Hell doth gape:
Image of pride, of villany and rape,
Be thou abhord of all posteritie,
And let thy vile dishonor never dye.

235

By him to Dunmow, hee these lines convayde,
A Monestarie Juga had begunne,
Juga, sometime a holie Vestall mayde,
At whose great charge this Monument was donne,
Where I had vow'd to live a holie Nunne.
And in my Cloyster, kept amongst the rest,
Which in this place virginitie profest.

Now he which had this bloody acte in charge,
Thether repaires, with letters from the King,
Whose black Commission was but all too large,
To execute so base and vile a thing:
This messenger which now my death doth bring,
To adde fit matter to my tragike storie,
Finds meanes to boord mee in my oratorie.

With courtly congies gently greeting mee,
Gives mee the packet which the King had sent mee,
Receive fayre Maide, these Letters heere (quoth hee,)
The faithfull earnest of that good is meant thee:
But craving that which never shall repent thee.
His lines be love, the Letters writ in blood,
Then make no doubt the warrant passing good.

Kindly accept a Princes kingly offer,
Tis more than follie if thou doe refuse it:
Never hath Fortune made a fairer profer,
The gyft too great, if fondly thou abuse it,
Nor any reason serveth to excuse it.
Be not a foe unto thine owne good hap,
Refusing treasure throwne into thy lap.

“If thou be wise, hold this as ominus,
“The heavens not like disposed every hower:
“The starres be still predominant in us,
“Fortune not alwaies forth her bags doth poure,
“Nor every clowde doth raine a golden shower.
“Occasion's wing'd, and ever flyeth fast,
“Comming, shee smyles, & frownes once being past.

236

Wrong not thy selfe, nor yet the worlde deprive,
Of that rare good which Nature freely lent,
Think'st thou by such base nygardize to thrive,
In sparing that which never will be spent?
And that is worst, in age shall thee repent.
Playing the Churle, to hoord up Beauties pelfe,
And live, and dye, and all unto thy selfe.

Yet, were this all (quoth hee,) as would it were,
But there is more, which needes I must reveale:
Behold the poyson he hath sent thee here,
Which on my life I dare not to conceale,
Thus is the King determined to deale.
I, onely waite upon thy resolution,
To win thy love, or see thy execution.

Leave off these humors, be not singuler,
Make not an Idoll of thine owne perfection,
Prize not this word (Virginitie) so deere,
Seeme not so Saint-like, moov'd with no affection.
“Beautie brings perrill, wanting safe protection.
Forsweare this drousie melancholie Cell,
Was never Gerle could grace a Court so well.

This feare first sprong from foolish superstition,
Which fond conceit into our eares hath blowne,
Which wee receive from old folkes by tradition,
And as a weede to choke our joyes is growne:
Reason rootes out what Error erst hath sowne.
A gentle jest to fright poore babes withall,
Like to a Bug-beare, painted on a wall.

Tush, these be triviall toyes of reputation,
Whose Ceremonies have the world infected,
Held in regard but onely for a fashion,
Which frivolous, the wiser have neglected:
And but as Dreames of doting age respected.
Whose spleen-sick humors on their galls were fed,
Thinking all true which they imagined.

237

Dispatch, (quoth hee) loe, heere is pen and inck,
Heere make the Prince assurance of thy love,
Or els prepare thee to thy fatall drinke,
Which is of force thy Fever to remove:
Which (ah pore fondling) thou too soone maist prove.
And if thy will be so fast chayn'd to thee,
Let thine own hands the Executioners bee.

And is (quoth I) the Princes pleasure thus?
You are deceiv'd, hee doth but this to try mee,
I know my Lord is kinde and gracious,
Hee thinks my sexe & weaknes will discry mee;
I hope the King will deale more kindly by mee.
Those blessed hands, which never did but good,
Will not be stain'd with virgins guiltlesse blood.

His thoughts be pure, as Christall, without spot,
Hee is wisdom, honour, valure, chastitie:
What excellence is there that hee is not?
Or what may be, by him which cannot be?
Hee's Vertues right superlative degree.
From his affections, never shall proceede,
One little thought of this so vile a deede.

“Kings be the Gods Vizegerents heere on earth,
“The Gods have power, Kings from that power have might,
“Kings should excell in vertue as in birth,
“Gods punish wrongs, & Kings shold maintaine right,
“They be the Sunnes from which we borrow light.
“And they as Kings, should still in justice strive,
“With Gods, from whom their beings they derive.

Inrag'd with this, (in greefes extremitie,)
Minion, (quoth hee,) tis now no time to prate,
Dispatch, or els Ile drench you presently,
Of this, nor that, I stand not to debate.
Expects thou love where thou reward'st with hate?
I passe not I, how ere thou like the motion,
Have done at once, and quickly take the Potion.

238

This sudden terror makes mee pause for breath,
Till sighing out at length this sad reply:
If it be so, welcom to mee my death,
This is the utmost of extremitie,
And yet when all is done, I can but die.
His will be done, sith hee will have it so,
And welcome Death, the end of all my woe.

And thou my Deaths-man, slave unto his lust,
Th'executioner of his lawlesse will,
In whom the Tyrant doth repose such trust,
Detract no time, his murthering minde fulfill;
Doe what thou dar'st, the worst thou canst but kill.
And tell the Tyrant this when I am dead,
I loath'd his beastly and adulterous bed.

Nor let the King thy Maister ever thinke,
A vertuous Maid so cowardly and base,
As to be frighted with a poysoned drinke,
And live an abject in the worlds disgrace:
All eyes with shame to gaze mee in the face.
That ages which heer-after shall succeede,
Shall hold mee hatefull for so vile a deede.

Is this the greatest gyft he could bestowe?
Is this the Jewell, wher-with hee doth present mee?
I am his friend, what gives hee to his foe,
If this in token of his love be sent mee?
Remedilesse I am, it must content mee.
Yet afterward, a proverbe this shall prove,
The gift King John bestow'd upon his Love.

Then of this conquest let thy Soveraigne boast,
And make report with shame what hee hath done:
A thing more easie then subdue an Hoast,
Or conquer Kingdoms, as his Father wonne;
O haplesse Sire, of this unhappy Sonne.
And hee more shame shall carrie to his grave,
Then Fortune honors to his Father gave.

239

Thus spoke my minde, (as women use to doe,)
Hoping thereby som-what to ease my hart,
But words I found, did but increase my woe,
Augment his rage, not mittigate my smart;
And now comes in the reckoning ere wee part.
And now my valure must be try'd, or never,
Or famous now, or infamous for ever.

Taking the poyson from his deadly hand,
Unto the King caroust my latest draught;
Goe wretch (quoth I) now let him understand,
Hee hath obtayn'd what hee so long hath sought;
Though with my blood, my fame I deerlie bought.
And though my youth hee basely have betrayd,
Yet witnes Heaven, I liv'd and dyed a Mayd.

Then why repine I, sith hee thinks it meete,
Hee is my Soveraigne, and my life is his,
Death is not bitter, spyc'd with such a sweet,
Which leades the way to everlasting blis;
Hee's all my joy, hee all my glory is.
Hee is the tuch by whom my gold is tryed,
Onely by him my death is sanctified.

For could my life have given life to mee,
My youthes fayre flower, yet blooming, had not dyed,
Then how should this but meritorious bee,
When by my death, my life is sanctified?
Could ever thing more fitly bee applied?
In this is love, in this his care I finde,
My Lord is just, my Lord is onelie kinde.

Then let these teares, th'Elixars of my love,
Bee to his soule a pure preservative,
And let my prayers, be of such force to move,
That by my death, my Soveraigne may survive:
And from his raigne, let Fame herselfe derive
His glorie, like the Sunnes translucent rayes,
And as the heaven, eternall be his dayes.

240

This mortall poyson, now beginnes to rage,
And spreads his vigor thorough all my vaines,
There is no phisick can my greefe aswage,
Such is the torment which my hart destraines,
Boyling my intrales in most hellish paines.
And Nature, weakned of her wonted force,
Must yeeld to death, which now hath no remorce.

And those pure thoughts, which once I choisly fed,
Now when pale death my sences doth surprize,
I offer heere upon my dying bed,
This precious, sweet, perfumed sacrifice:
Hallowed in my almighty Makers eyes.
Which from this Alter, lends me heavenly light,
Guiding my soule amid this darkesome night.

My glorious life, my spotlesse Chastity,
Now at this hower bee all the joyes I have,
These be the wings by which my fame shall flye,
In memorie, these shall my Name engrave;
These, from oblivion shall mine honour save.
With Laurell, these my browes shall coronize,
And make mee live to all posterities.

“Our fond preferments, are but childrens toyes,
“And as a shaddow, all our pleasures passe,
“As yeeres increase, so wayning are our joyes,
“And beautie crazed, like a broken glasse:
“A prettie tale of that which never was.
“All things decay, yet Vertue shall not dye,
“This onely gives us immortalitie.

My soule, thus from her pryson set at large,
And gentlie freed from this poluted roome,
This prize unloden from this lothsome Barge,
(Such is the Heavens inevitable doome:)
My body layd at Dunmow in my Toombe.
Thus Baynards-Castle boastes my blessed birth,
And Dunmow kindly wraps mee in her earth.

241

Now scarcely was my breathlesse body cold,
But every where my tragedy was spred:
And Fame, abroad in every Coast had told,
My resolution, beeing lately dead:
The glorious wonder of all woman-head.
And to my Father flyes with this report,
Who liv'd an Exile in the French-Kings Court.

His griefe, too great to be bewail'd with teares,
Words, insufficient to expresse his woe,
His soule, assaulted with a thousand feares,
As many, sundry passions come and goe;
His thoughts, uncertaine, wandring to and froe.
At length, this fearfull extasie ore-past,
Grones from his soule this passion at the last.

O Heavens (quoth hee) why was I borne accurst?
This onely comfort to mine age was left:
But to despite mee, you have done your worst,
And mee of all my worldly joyes bereft:
I quite undone by your deceitfull theft.
This was the Jewell I esteemed most,
And loosing this, now all my treasurs lost.

Yee powers Divine, if you be cleane and chast,
In whom alone consists eternitie,
Why suffer you, your owne to be disgra'st,
Subject to death and black impuritie?
If in your shield be no securitie?
If so for Vertue these rewards be due?
Who shall adore, or who shall honour you?

What ment you, first to give her vitall breath,
Or make the world proude by her blessed birth,
Predestinating this untimely death,
And of her presence to deprive the earth?
O fruitlesse age, now starv'd with Vertues dearth.
Or if you long'd to have her company,
O why by poyson would you let her die?

242

O Soile, with drops of mercy once bedew'd,
When just men were instauled in thy throne,
But now with blood of Innocents imbrew'd,
Stayning the glory of fayre Albion,
O lustfull Monster, ô accursed John.
O heavens, to whom should men for justice cry,
When Kings themselves thus raigne by tyrannie?

O gyve mee wings Revenge, I will ascend
And fetch her soule againe out of their power;
From them proceeded this untimely end,
Who tooke her hence before her dying hower,
And rays'd that clowd which rayn'd this bloody shower.
And from the grave Ile dig her body up,
Which had her bane by that vile poysoned cup.

O pardon Heavens these sacriligious words,
This irreligious open blasphemie:
My wretched soule no better now affords,
Such is the passion of mine agonie,
My desperate case in this extremitie.
You harbour those which ever like you best,
With blessed Angels let her spirit rest.

No, no, Ile practise by some secret art,
How to infect his pure life-breathing ayre,
Or else Ile sheath my poyniard in his hart,
Or with strong poyson Ile annoynt his Chayre:
Or by inchauntment, will his dayes impayre.
O no, revenge to God alone belongs,
And it is hee which must revenge my wrongs.

O heavens, perforce we must attend your time,
Our succours must awaite upon you still,
In your just waights you ballance everie crime,
For us you know what's good, and what is ill;
Who understands your deepe and secret skill?
In you alone our destinies consist,
Then who is hee which can your power resist?

243

O, could my sighes againe but give thee breath,
Or were my teares such balme as could restore thee,
Or could my life redeeme thee from this death,
Or were my prayers, but invocations worthy:
Sighes, teares, life, prayers, were all to little for thee.
But since the heaven, thus of my child disposeth,
Ah me, thy Tombe now all my joyes incloseth.

O what a wonder shall thy valure bring?
What admiration to posteritie?
What rare examples from thy vertues spring?
O what a glorie to thy Progenie,
To bee engrav'd in lasting memorie,
When as applauding Fame in every Coast,
Shall thus in honor of Fitzwaters boast?

England, when peace upon thy shores shall flourish,
And that pure Maiden sit upon thy Throne,
Which in her bosome shall the Muses nourish,
Whose glorious fame shal through the world be blown,
(O, blessed Ile, thrice happy Albion;)
Then let thy Poets in their stately rymes,
Sing forth her praises to succeeding tymes.

By this, the Kings vile bloody rage is past,
And gentle time his choller doth digest,
“The fire consumes his substance at the last,
The greefe asswag'd which did his spirit molest:
That fiend cast out wherewith he was possest.
And now he feeles this horror in his soule,
When loathsome shame his actions doth controule.

“Black hell-bred-humor of revenging sin,
“By whose inticements, murder we commit,
“The end unthought of, rashlie we begin,
“Letting our passion over-rule our wit:
“Missing the marke, which most we ayme to hit.
“Clogging our soules with such a masse of care,
“As casts us downe oft times into Dispayre.

244

Traytor to Vertue, Reprobate (quoth hee,)
As for a King, no more usurpe the name:
Staine to all honor, and gentilitie,
Mark'd in the face with th'yron of Defame:
The Picture of all infamie and shame.
Dispis'd of men, abhor'd in every place,
Hate to thy selfe, the very worlds disgrace.

When all thy race shal bee in tryumph set,
Their royall conquests and atchivements done,
Henrie thy Father, brave Plantagenet,
Thy conquering Brother, Lion-hart, his Sonne:
The Crownes, & spoyles, these famous Champions won;
This still shall bee in thy dishonor said,
Loe, this was John, the murderer of a Maide.

This act enrold in Booke of black Defame,
Where, men of death and tragick murders reed,
Recorded in the Register of shame,
In lines whose letters freshlie ever bleed,
Where all the world shall wonder my misdeed.
And quote the place, (thus ever) passing by,
Note heere King Johns vile damned tyranny.

Her blood exhal'd from earth unto the skye,
A fearefull Meteor still hangs ore my head,
Stayning the heavens with her Vermilion dye,
Changing the Sunnes bright raies to gorie red,
Prognosticating death and fearefull dread;
Her soule, with houling, and revengefull steven,
Shreeking before the gates of highest Heaven.

Whose sacred Counsell, now in judgement set,
And Shee, before them stands to plead her case,
Her drearie words in bloody teares are wet,
The evidence appeares before my face,
And I condemn'd a catife wanting grace;
Justice cryes out upon this sinfull deede,
And to my death the fatall starres proceed.

245

Earth, swallow me, and hide me in thy wombe,
O let my shame in thy deepe Center dwell,
Wrap up this murder in thy wretched Tombe,
Let tender Mercy stop the gates of hell:
And with sweet drops this furious heate expell.
O let Repentance, just revenge appease,
And let my soule, in torment finde some ease.

O, no, her teares are now become a flood,
And as they rise, increasing mine offence;
And now the shedding of her guiltlesse blood,
Even like a Cankar, gnawes my Conscience,
O, ther's my greefe, my paine proceedes from thence.
Yet never time weares out this filthy staine,
And I dishonor'd ever shall remaine.

Then doe I vow a solemne Pilgrimage,
Before my wretched miserable end;
This done, betake mee to some Hermitage,
Where I the remnant of my dayes will spend:
Where Almes and Prayer I ever will attend.
And on the Tombe at last, where thou doost lye,
When all is done, Ile lay me downe and dye.

And for his Penance, lastly hee devis'd,
Monthly to Dunmow would he take his way,
And in a simple Palmers weede disguis'd,
With deepe devotion kneele him downe to pray:
Kissing the place, whereas my body lay.
Washing my Tombe, with his repentant teares,
And being wet, yet dryed it with his hayres.

And now, before my spirit depart from hence,
O let me see the Muses owne delight:
Idea, mirrour of all patience,
Whose sacred Temples are with Garlands dight;
O let my soule bee blessed in her sight.
Which so adorns this poore world with her birth,
As where she is, still makes a Heaven on earth.

246

O let mee once behold her blessed eyes,
Those two sweet Sunnes which make eternall spring,
Which banish drouping Night out of the skies,
In whose sweet bosome quiers of Angels sing:
To whom the Muses all their treasures bring.
Her brest, Minervas ever hallowed shrine,
Whose sainted thoughts are sacred and divine.

Slyde still sweet Ankor on thy silver Sands,
Play dainty Musick when she walkes by thee,
With liquid Pearle wash those pure Lillie hands,
And all thy Bancks with Laurell shaddowed be,
And let sweet Ardens Nightingales with glee,
Record to her in many a pleasing straine,
Whilst all the Nimphes attend uppon her traine.

FINIS.

247

THE Tragicall Legend of Robert, Duke of Normandy, surnamed Short-thigh, eldest sonne to William Conqueror.

VVith the Legend of Matilda the chast, daughter to the Lord Robert Fitzwater, poysoned by King Iohn. And the Legend of Piers Gaueston, the great Earle of Cornwall: and mighty fauorite of king Edward the second. By Michaell Drayton. The latter two, by him newly corrected and augmented.

TO THE NOBLE AND EXCELLENT Lady, Lucie, Countesse of Bedford.

248

TO M. DRAYTON.

Michaell which dost great Roberts fame compile,
Thy subjects worth, thy wit, thy Ladies glory,
Cheere up thy Muse, add lyfe unto thy stile,
Whilst thou assaist to write his worthy story.

Whose boundlesse spirit, whose high chivalrie,
And vertuous deeds must needs have buried beene
By ages envie, and times tirannie,
And never had with mortall eyes been seene,

Had not thy Muse restor'd his former fame,
The twise dead Norman to his speaking sight,
Even when his eyes had lost their shyning flame,
Like unto Lamps that wanting oyle, want light.
By thee he sees, he lives, he speaks againe,
Then chere thee Michaell, Fame rewards thy paine.

Mirocinius.

250

TO THE VERTUOUS LADY, THE LADY Anne Harrington: wife to the Honorable Gentleman, Sir John Harrington, Knight.

Madam: my words cannot expresse my mind,
My zealous dutie to make knowne to you,
When your deserts all severally I find,
In this attempt, of mee doe claime their due:

Your gracious kindnes (Madam) claimes my hart,
Your bountie bids my hand to make it knowne,
Of me your vertues each doe claime a part,
And leave me thus the least part of mine owne,

What should commend your modestie, your wit,
Is by your wit and modestie commended,
And standeth dumbe in most admiring it,
And where it should begin, it there is ended.
And thus returne, to your praise onely due,
And to your selfe say, you, are onely you.

Michaell Drayton.

253

THE TRAGICALL LEGEND of Robert Duke of Normandie.

THE ARGUMENT OF ROBERT DUKE of Normandie.

After the conquest of England, by William Duke of Normandy, his eldest son Robert, surnamed Short-thigh, much more then eyther of his bretheren, William Rufus, or Henry Beuclarke, beloved of the Commons, yet brought in disgrace with his Father, by meanes of Lanfranck Byshop of Canterburie, who greatlie affected the said William Rufus, as a man rightlie of his owne disposition. Robert beeing a man of a mightie spirit, finding himselfe disgrac'd, & grown hatefull to his Father, and the Crowne of England assured to his Brother: whilst his Father maketh warrs in Fraunce, hee with a troupe of resolute Germains, invadeth Normandie. In the height of all these troubles, William Conqueror dyeth, leaving the kingdome of England to Rufus. Whilst Robert prepareth to make warre upon his brother, by the pollicies of Lanfrancke and his accomplices, they are friends, Robert peaceably enjoyeth Normandie, and if he over-lived his brother William, to succeed him in the kingdom of England. Nowe, the brute of the holy warrs called Robert to Palestine, with Peter the Hermit, and Godfrey of Bulloyne, for which, to pay his souldiours, hee engageth Normandie to his youngest brother Henry for summes of money. In his absence William dyeth, Henrie usurpeth the Crowne, and Duke Robert returning from the warrs with great honor, yet in his warrs at home most unfortunate, hee is taken by Henry in a battell in Normandy, brought a captive into England, and imprisoned in Cardiffe Castell in Wales, where Henry as a Tyrant, still fearing his escape, put out his eyes.

1

What time Sleeps Nurse the silent night begun
To steale by minuts on the long-liv'd daies,
The furious Dog-star chasing of the Sun,
Whose scorching breath ads flame unto his raies,
At whose approch the angry Lyon braies,
The earth now warm'd in thys celestiall fire,
To coole her heate, puts off her rich attire.

2

The deawy-tressed Morning newly wake,
With golden tinsell scarce had crown'd her browes,
Ryding in tryumph on the Ocean lake,
Embellishing the honny-fringed bowes,
Deepe mellancholly from my braine to rouze,
To Isis banck my Genius guides the way,
Amongst whose Reeds soft murmuring winds do play.

3

Zephyre, which courts faire Thames, his gentle love,
On whose smooth brest the swelling billows flow,
Which on a long the wanton tyde doth shove,
And to keepe back he easilie doth blow,
Still meets her comming, followes if shee goe;
Shee, forcing waves to coole his hote embrace,
Hee, fanning breath upon her christall face.

254

4

Still dallying in her often-turning source,
She streaks a long the shores with her proud straine,
And here, and there, she wantons in her course,
And in her gate oft turneth back againe,
Smiling to looke upon her silver traine,
With pretty Anticks shee the faire soile greets,
Till Medoas streame from famous Kent shee meets.

5

Thus careles wandring with this gliding streame,
Whose fleeting told me of tymes flying howers,
Delighted thus as in a pleasing dreame,
Cropping small branches of the sweetest flowers:
And looking back on Londons stately towers,
So Troy (thought I) her stately head did beare,
Whose crazed ribs the furrowing plough doth eyre.

6

Weary, at length a Willow tree I found,
Which on the brim of this great current stood,
Whose roote was matted with the arrasd ground,
Deaw'd with the small drops of this surging flood,
Ordain'd it seem'd to sport her Nymphish brood
Whose curled top, envy'd the heavens great eye
Should view the stock shee was maintained by.

7

The towring Larke which carrols to the Sun,
With trebling descant quavers in the ayre,
And on the rivers murmuring base doth run,
The Marble-skyes, with checker'd varnish faire,
My branch-embossed bed, of natures care;
The flowers my smell, the flood my thirst to steep,
Thus like a King, with pleasure rock'd a sleepe.

255

8

When in a dreame it seemed unto mee
A noyse of trumpets from the flood arose,
As when great Beta in her pompe wee see,
When shee by London on the water goes,
The dauncing Barge with silent musick rowes:
The people thronging on the wharfes & shores,
The ayre with shouts, the water fill'd with oares.

9

A troope of Nymphes came suddainly on land,
When thus was ended this tryumphant sound,
Encompassing mee, lying on the strand,
Taking theyr places on the grassy ground,
Theyr ory tresses all with Laurell crown'd,
Casting theyr sober modest eyes a space,
Upon my swarty mellancholly face.

10

Betwixt two Ladies came a goodly Knight,
As newly brought from some distresfull place,
It seem'd to mee he was some noble wight,
Though his attyre were miserable and base,
And care made furrowes in his manly face:
And though cold age had frosted his faire haires,
It rather seem'd for sorrow then for yeares.

11

The one a princely Lady did support
This feeble Image which coulde scarcly stand:
The other, fleering in disdainfull sort,
With scornefull jesture drew him by the hand,
Who being blind, yet bound with many a band.
At length, I found this proude disdainefull Dame
Was Fortune, and the other, glorious Fame.

256

12

Fame on his right hand, in a robe of gold,
Whose stately trayne, Time as her Page did beare,
On which, for rich embrawdery was enrold,
The deedes of all the Worthies ever were,
So strongly wrought, as wrong could not empeire,
Whose large memorialls shee did still rehearse,
In Poets man-immortalizing verse.

13

Two Tables on her goodly breast shee bore,
The one of Christall, th'other Ebony,
Engrav'd with names of all that liv'd before
That; the faire booke of heavenly memory,
Th'other, the black scrowle of infamy:
One stuffd with Poets, Saints, & Conquerers,
Th'other with Atheists, Tyrants, Usurers.

14

And in her words appeared as a wonder,
Her during force, and never-failing might,
Which softly spake, farre of were as a thunder,
And round about the world wold take their flight,
And bring the most obscurest things to light;
That still the farther of, the greater still
Did ever sound our good, or make our ill.

15

Fortune, as blinde as he whom she doth leade,
Her feature chang'd each minute of the hower,
Her riggish feet fantastickly would tread,
Now would shee smile, & suddainly would lower,
And with one breth, her words were sweet & sower.
Upon her foes, she amorously would glaunce,
And on her followers, coylie looke a scaunce.

257

16

About her necke, (it seem'd as for a chaine)
Some Princes crownes & broken scepters hong,
Upon her arme a lazie youth did leane,
Which scornfully unto the ground shee flong;
And with a wanton grace passing along,
Great bags of gold from out her bosome drew,
And to base Pesants and fond Ideots threw.

17

A dusky vaile which hid her sightles eyes,
Like clowds, which cover our uncertaine lives,
Painted about with bloody Tragedies,
Fooles wearing crownes, & wisemen clogd in gives,
Now, how she gives, againe, how she deprives;
In this black Map thus shee her might discovers,
In Campes, and Courts, on soldiers, kings, & lovers.

18

An easie rysing little banck there was,
The seate fayre Flora somtime sat upon,
Curling her locks in lovely Isis glasse,
To revell in the Springs pavilion,
Here was her court, and this her princly throne;
Here set they downe this poore distressed man,
And in this sort proude Fortune first began.

19

Behold (quoth she) this Duke of Normandy,
The heire of William, Conqueror of this Ile,
Which thou poore Fame hast vow'd to glorifie,
Whose history this Poet must compile;
My slave, my scorne, my prisoner, an exile,
Whose life I mark'd with my black dismall brand,
And thou would'st now eternize with thy hand.

258

20

Thou art an Eccho, a by-word, a wind,
Thine ayrie bodie is composd of breath,
A wandring blast, within no place confin'd,
Which oft of nothing, silly somthing saith,
Yet never canst speake well till after death;
And from imagination hast thy birth,
Unknowne in heaven, & unperceiv'd on earth.

21

First, in opinion had'st thou thy creation,
Form'd with conceit, the needy Poets frend,
And like opinion, keep'st no certaine fashion,
Yet in a circle still thy course doth end:
And but a Post which all base rumors send,
An needles burden of an idle song,
The prophane accent of each witles tongue.

22

Slaunders vile spy, a runnagate, a thiefe,
Which day and night in every chinck doth peepe,
A blab, a wanton, lightest of beliefe,
Nor in thy gate a meane doost ever keepe,
But now hie in the ayre, now in the deepe;
Reporting that which thou doost but suppose,
And telling that thou never should'st disclose.

23

With extreame toyle and labour thou art sought,
Danger the way that leadeth to thy Cell,
Onely with death thy favours must be bought,
And who obtaines thee, fetcheth thee from hell,
Where thou ensconst with fiery swords dost dwell.
And when thou art with all this perrill found,
Thou art a suddaine voice, a tinckling sound.

259

24

My out-cast abjects, such as I disgrace,
And ever-more have held in hatefull scorne,
And in the world have set in servile place,
These be thy favorits, these thou doost subborne,
These wait on Fame, whose weeds be neerly worne:
Yet cannot these poore wretches come to thee,
Unlesse before they be preferr'd by mee.

25

That trump thou saist, wakes dead men from theyr traunce
Is not of precious gold as some do deeme,
A brazen pipe, by which vaine fooles do daunce,
And but to sound so loude doth onely seeme,
Sith points of vertue no man doth esteeme,
And with this toy the idle braine abusest,
And so their folly and thy fault excusest.

26

Except in perrill, thou doost not appeare,
And yet in perrill ebbing still and flowing,
Flying from him that seeth succour neere,
Diminished at hand, augmented going,
On fertile stocks decay'd, on barraine growing.
Lost life with rumors thou doost but repayre,
And what thou promisest, thou payest with ayre.

27

In balefull Hearses, sad and sable grounds,
On gory letters thy memorialls lye,
Thy lines are deepe immedicable wounds,
And towards the dust thou point'st thy tearful eye,
Never discover'd but in Tragedy:
Thy stony hart is pittifull to none,
But Syren-like, to their destruction.

260

28

This orbes great revolution knowes my power,
And how I raigne with the eternall Fates,
With whom I sit in counsell every howre,
On change of times, subversion of states,
On their beginnings, on their severall dates,
In destining haps past, on things to come,
In judgement till the everlasting dome.

29

The starrs my Table-bookes wherein I write,
My Register the spacious circling Sky,
On heavens great brow I carefully endite
Unhappy mans long birth-markt desteny,
And by my power, my lawes I ratefy,
And his fraile will imperiously controule,
With such quaint clauses as I there enroule.

30

To me the heavens have theyr Commission given,
And in my Charter all their right compil'd,
That I alone should blesse as beautious heaven,
And honor those on whom I meane to smile,
To gaine them tytles of immortall stile,
That all should worthy be which I bestow,
Nor reason urg'd, but for I thinke it so.

31

In great predestination is my beeing,
Whose depth yet wisdom never could discerne,
And in her secrets, more then secrets seeing,
Where learning stil may learne how still to learne,
Those points which do the deepest points conscerne,
Where sacred texts unlock the way to me,
To lighten those which will my glory see.

261

32

What names old Poets to their gods did give,
Were onely figures to expresse my might,
To shew the vertues that in mee doe live,
My onely power on this all-mooving wight,
And all their Alters unto mee were dight:
Whose wondrous working, stil to times did bring
Matter whereon they ever-more might sing.

33

Still most uncertaine varying in my course,
Yet in these changes hold one certaine end,
Crossing mans fore-cast, weakning wisdoms force,
To none still foe, to none a perfect frend,
Amazing thought to thinke what I pretend.
Depressing vertue sometime, that thereby
Shee taking wing againe may sore on hie.

34

Forth of my lap I poure aboundant blisse,
All good proceedes from my all-giving hand,
By me man happie, or unhappie is,
Blest if I blesse, repuls'd if I with-stand,
And I alone am friendships onely band;
Upon whose Lincks all greedely take hold,
Which being broke, our zealous faith growes cold.

35

Pawsing shee frownes, when sudainly againe,
A roaring noyse ariseth from the flood,
As when a tempest with a shower of raine
Is heard far off within some mightie wood,
At which me thought all things amazed stood:
As though her words such power with them did beare
As Sea & Land did quake her voice to heare.

262

36

When Fame yet smiling mildly thus replyes,
Alasse (quoth shee) what labour thou hast lost,
What wondrous mists thou casts before our eyes,
Yet will the gaine not countervaile the cost,
What couldst thou say if thou hadst cause to boast:
Which thus canst paint such wonders of thy worth,
Yet art far lesse, then nothing can set forth.

37

A hap, a chaunce, a casuall event,
The vulgars Idoll, and a childish terror,
A what men will, a silly accedent,
The maske of blindnesse, and disguise of error,
Natures vile nickname, follies foolish mirror;
A tearme, a by-word, by tradition learn'd,
A hearesay, nothing, not to be discern'd.

38

A wanton feare, a silly Infants dreame,
A vaine illusion, a meere fantasie,
A seeming shade, a lunatick mans theame:
A fond Aenigma, a flat heresie,
Imaginations doting trumperie;
A folly in it selfe, it one selfe lothing,
A thing that would be, and yet can be nothing.

39

Disease of time, Ambitions Concubine,
A minde-entrauncing snare, a slippery Ice,
The baite of death, destructions heady wine,
Vaine-glories Patron, the fooles paradice,
Fond hope, wherewith confusion doth entice;
A vile seducing fiend, which haunts men still,
To loose them in the errors of their will.

263

40

A reason, which no reason can discusse,
And hast the ground of all thy strength from hence,
Walking in shadow of mans Genius,
In humane birth pretending residence;
A riddle, made of the starrs influence,
Which good and evill doost thy title frame,
Yet neither good nor evill, but in name.

41

Those ignorant which made a God of Nature,
And Natures God divinely never knew,
Were those which first erected Fortunes stature,
From whence this vile idolatry first grew,
Which times defect into mens eares still blew:
Grounding their usurpations foolish lawes,
On the opinion of so poore a cause.

42

Sloth first did hatch thee in her sleepie Cell,
And with base thoughts, in idlenes wast bred,
With cowardize thou ever-more doost dwell,
And with dishonourable ease art fed,
In superstitious humors brought to bed:
A gossips tale thy greatest proofe doth lend,
On old-sayd sawes thy tytle doth depend.

43

Thy habit loosenes, and thy measure wast,
Deceitfull, vaine, inhumane, fickle, light,
Thou poysonest him to whom thou giv'st to tast,
Gainst vertue still thou bendest all thy might,
With honourable thoughts thou wagest fight;
The yeelding man, in fetters thou doost binde,
But weake and slavish to the constant minde.

264

44

Who leanes to thee, whom thou hast not deceiv'd?
Who flattrest thou, whom thou abusest not?
Who hopes of thee, and not of hope bereav'd?
Whose secrets known, what shame do'st thou not blot?
Who not devour'd, thou in thy pawes hast got?
Who's he, or where yet ever was he found,
That thou might'st hurt, & didst not deadly wound?

45

The slavish peasant is thy favorite,
In chaunge and chaunces all thy glory is,
In vile and basest things thou tak'st delite,
In earthly mud consisteth all thy blisse,
What canst thou be which art bewitch'd with this?
For weart thou heavenly, thou in love wouldst be,
With that which neerest doth resemble thee.

46

I am the powerfull messenger of heaven,
My wings the lightning spreading farre & wide,
To every coast I with a thought am driven,
And on the gorgeous sun-beames doe I ride,
To heaven I mount, downe to the earth I slide:
I regester the worlds eternall howers,
The Secretarie of the immortall powers.

47

Refuge of hope, the harbinger of truth,
Handmaide of heaven, vertues skilfull guide,
The life of life, the ages springing youth,
Triumph of joy, eternities faire bride,
The Virgins glory, and the Martirs pride:
The courages immortall raysing fier,
The very height to which great thoughts aspire.

265

48

The staire by which men to the Starres doe clime,
The minds first moover, greatnes to expresse,
Fayths armour, and the vanquisher of time,
A pleasant sweete against deaths bitternes,
The high reward which doth all labours blesse;
The studie which doth heavenly things impart,
The joy amidst the tedious wayes of Art.

49

Learnings greene Lawrell, Justice glorious throne,
The Muses chariot, Memories true foode,
The Poets life, the Gods companion,
The fire-reviving Phænix Sun-nurst broode,
The spirits eternall Image, honors good;
The Balsamum which cures the Souldiers scarre,
The world-discovering Sea-mans happy Starre.

50

My dwelling place betwixt the earth and skies,
My Turret unto heaven her top upreares,
The windowes made of Lynceus piercing eyes,
And all the walls be made of daintiest eares,
Where every thing thats done in earth appeares;
No word is whispered in this vaulty round,
But in my Pallace straightwayes it doth sound.

51

The pavement is of ratling brasen drums,
The Rafters trumpets which do rend the aire,
Sounding aloud each name that thither comes,
The chinks like tongues of all things talking there,
And all things past, in memorie doe beare:
The dores unlock with every word man saith,
And open wide with every little breath.

266

52

It's hong about with Arms & conquering spoiles,
The pillers which support the roofe of this,
Are tropheis, graven with Herculean toiles,
The roofe of garlands, crownes, and ensignes is,
In midst of which a christall Pyramis:
All over carv'd with men of most renowne,
Whose base is my faire chaire, the spire my crowne.

53

Here in the bodies likenes whilst it lives,
Appeare the thoughts, proceeding from the mind,
To which the place a forme more glorious gives,
And there they be immortally devin'd,
By vertue there more heavenly refin'd;
And when the earthly body once doth perrish,
There doth this place the minds true Image cherish.

54

My beauty never fades, but as new borne,
As yeares encrease, so ever waxing young,
My strength is not diminished nor worne,
What weakneth all things, ever makes me strong:
Nor from my hand, my Scepter can be wroong:
Times sacriligious rapine I defie,
A tributarie to eternitie.

55

The face of heaven my chronicles containe,
Where I erect the Tropheis of my fame,
Which there in glorious characters remaine,
The gorgeous seeling of th'immortall frame,
The constellations letters of my name,
Where my memorialls evermore abide,
In those pure bodies highly glorified.

267

56

Fame ending thus, Fortune againe began
Further to urge what she before had said,
And loe (quoth she) Duke Robert is the man
Who by my might and pollicie's betraid,
Then let us see how thou canst lend him aide:
I tooke from him his libertie and crowne,
Raise thou him up, whom I have thus thrown downe.

57

Quoth Fame a fitter instance is there none
Then Robert is, then Fortune doe thy worst:
Here may thy weaknes, and my power be showne,
Here shall I blesse, whom thou before hast curst,
Begin thou then, since thus thy turne comes first,
And thou shalt see how great a power I have
Over the world, proud Fortune, and the grave.

58

(Quoth Fortune) then, my hand did point the Star,
The seale wherwith heaven sign'd his utmost date,
Which markt his birth with brands of bloody war,
Rash mutinys, rude garboiles, harsh debate,
His forrain plagues, home wrongs, & private hate:
And on the height of his great Fathers glory,
First laid the ground work of his Sonnes sad story.

59

Nature, which did her best at Roberts birth,
I most undid in his nativitie,
This friend I made his greatest foe on earth,
Her gifts I made his greatest enemie,
Framing such mildnes in Nobilitie:
Differing so far from haughtie Williams straine,
That thus hee judg'd his Sonne unfit to raigne.

268

60

And yet that courage which he did inherit,
And from the greatnes of his blood had taken,
Stird up with griefe, awakes his greater spirit,
Which more and more did Williams hate awaken,
Hee thus forsaken, as hee had forsaken:
Yet to his will so partiallie inclind,
As now his rage, his reason quite doth blind.

61

Now doe I leane to him whom all have left,
Laughing on him, on whom dispaire doth lowre,
Lending him hope, of former hope bereft,
Giving his youth large wings wherwith to towre,
Ayding his power, to crosse great Williams power:
That so his might, in countermaunding might
By his owne wrong, might hinder his owne right.

62

That whilst his Fathers fierie tempered sword
Through Albions cleeves, the fatall entrance made,
With Germaine power, returnes this youthfull Lord,
With others Armes, his owne bounds to invade,
And Normandy lyes coucht under his blade,
Thinking to make a present meane of this,
To make his owne yet doubtfull to be his.

63

Towards Williams end, now Williams hate begun,
Whom he begot, doth now beget his woe,
He scarce a Father, Robert scarse a Sonne,
His Sonne the Father of his overthrowe,
Youth old in will, age young in hate doth growe:
He nursing that which doth all mischiefe nurse,
He by his blessing, causing his owne curse.

269

64

And yet least age might coole Duke Williams blood,
With warrs in Fraunce I still the heate suppli'd,
That whilst young Robert yet disgraced stood
Justly condemn'd of insolence and pride,
In this confirm'd, the famous Conqueror di'd:
Setting proud Rufus on his regall throne,
Whilst Norman Robert strives but for his owne.

65

Much trust in him, a carelesnes first bred,
His courage makes him over-confident,
Blinding revenge, besides his course him led,
When lost his wits, in errors darknes went,
Rashnes sees all, but nothing can prevent:
What his mind loth'd, disgrace did urge him to,
Making his will the cause of his owne woe.

66

This buried trunck of William is the roote
From which these two world-shadowing branches spred,
This factious body standing on this foote,
These two crosse currents springing from one head,
And both with one selfe nutriment are fed,
Upon themselves their owne force so should spend,
Till in themselves, they both themselves shold end.

67

Thus the old conquest hath new conquests made,
And Norman Ensignes shaddow English fields,
The brother now, the brother must invade,
The conquerors shield, against the conquerors shield,
Right wounding right, nor wrong to wrong will yield:
One arme beare off the others furious stroke,
Scepter with Scepter, sword with sword be broke.

270

68

The hatefull soiles where death was sown in blood,
Encreasing vengeance one against the other,
And now the seede of wrath began to bud,
Which in their bosoms they so long did smother,
These but as bastards, England their step mother;
Weakning her selfe, by mallice gives them strength
With murdring hands to spoile themselves at length.

69

This Williams death, gives Roberts troubls life,
Whose life in death made lucklesse Robert live,
This end of strife, beginneth greater strife,
Giving to take, what it did take to give,
Living depriv'd, which dead doth him deprive;
Evill brought good, that good converts to ill,
Thus life and death breed Roberts mischiefe still.

70

When first King William entred on this Ile,
Harrold had friends, but then the Norman none,
But Rufus lived here as an exile,
And Robert hop'd to raigne of many a one,
Onely my hand held up his slyding throne:
William but weake, beats Harrold down by wrong,
William supplanting Robert, Robert strong.

71

Odo the prop which Rufus power upheld,
Revolting then, inrag'd with Lanfrancks spight,
And on this hope grounding his faith, rebell'd,
In bloody letters writing Roberts right,
Great Mortayns power, and strong Mountgomeres might:
Mangling this Ile with new deformed scars,
Ere peace had cur'd the wounds of former wars.

271

72

The Normans glory in the conquest won,
The English bruzed with their battred Armes,
The Normans followed what they had begun,
The English fearefull of their former harmes,
What cooles the English, Norman corage warms:
The Normans entred to new victorie,
The English for their fight already flie,

73

Whilst Rufus hopes thus freshly bleeding lay,
And now with ruine all things went to wrack,
Destruction having found the perfect way,
Were not proud Robert by some meanes kept back,
By fond delayes, I forc'd him time to slack:
And stopt the mischiefe newly thus begun,
To undoe all what he before had done.

74

Thus first by counsell spurr'd I on the rage,
Forcing the streame of their distempred blood,
Then by my counsaile, did againe aswage,
When this great Duke secure of conquest stood,
Pyning his force, giving advantage foode;
That first by taking Arms, he strength might loose,
And making peace, give strength unto his foes.

75

A peace concluded to destroy their peace,
A suddaine truce to breed a lingring war,
That Arms might cease, while mischiefe might increase,
To bring death neere, by sending safety far,
In making that, which made, all quite might mar:
Treason crept in by this adulterate kay,
Into the closset where his counsailes lay.

272

76

Thus made a friend, to rob him of his friend,
The meanes a foe, might weaken so his foe,
To frame this strange beginning to his end,
The well-cast plot of utter overthrowe,
In this faire vizard, masking in this showe:
That since hate thus in wearing would not prove,
He brings him now in habite of his love.

77

Thus reconcil'd by me, one to the other,
Joyn'd in this poore devided union,
These brothers now make war upon their brother,
As loth from them he should goe free alone,
To shape his mischiefe truly by their owne;
To drawe on griefe, and urge it to be more,
Because it came not fast enough before.

78

This by fore-sight still wisely provident
To spur them on beyond degrees of ill,
To make their furie far more violent,
And ground their ruine on their peevish will,
That mischiefe should be getting mischiefe still:
That injurie so far should pitty chase,
As reconcilement never should take place.

79

And here to shew my power on thee poore Fame,
I made thee now my greatest instrument,
That in the furie of this raging flame,
Even in the height of Henryes discontent,
To Roberts eares the brute of war I sent:
Of Palæstine that leaving all with them,
He might away to great Jerusalem.

273

80

With that sweet fume of honors shortest breath,
Feeding the humor which possest his hart,
When now drew on the time of Williams death,
That in this fatall hower he should depart,
Herein to shew my very depth of Art:
That Henry now in England left alone,
Might seate himselfe in Roberts rightfull throne.

81

The warlick Musique of these clattring Armes,
Doth stop his eares like a tempestious wind
That now he finds no presage of his harmes,
Beyond all course so lifted is his mind,
Declaring well the greatnes of his kind;
Mounted so high within the spacious ayre,
As out of sight of ground, he dreads no snare.

82

His Father dy'd when first his cares tooke breath,
His Brother dyes, now when his woes should die,
His sorrowes thus are strangely borne in death,
All-ending death, brings forth his miserie,
Such is my power in humaine destenie:
That where an utter ruine I pretend,
Destruction doth begin, where hate should end.

83

Thus laid the complot in the course of all,
I make his safetie unto him more deare,
Seated, from whence he never thought to fall,
Assur'd of good, if any good there were,
That now each thought a Scepter seems to beare:
Which such a hold in his great spirit doth winne,
As after, made his error proove his sinne.

274

84

With grace young Henry to his throne I bring
Making great friends of mighty enemies,
Shewing my power in this new raigning King,
As by my hand invisibly to rise,
Decking his crowne with worldly dignities:
Forging his tongue with such a sacred fire,
As could perswade, what ere he would desire.

85

In Palæstine with Robert, Fame doth rest,
In England with young Beauclark, Fortune bides,
These mightie Ladies, of these Lords possest,
Thus each of these, with each of these devides,
Thus weare we factious then on either sides:
Fame for brave Short-thigh, purchasing renowne,
Fortune for Beauclark, for the English crowne.

86

Thou wooest, I win, thou suest, and I obtaine,
What I possesse, that onely thou dost crave,
Thou layest out to gaine, but what I gaine
Thou dost desire, I in possession have,
Thou hordst, I spend, I lavish, thou dost save:
Thou scarsely art, yet that thou art to mee,
Thou wouldst, I can, thou servile, I am free.

87

Robert growne weake, Henry recovered strength,
What quencht the Normans glory, fir'd his will,
Robert is fallen, Henry got up at length,
Robert no guide, Henry is steerd with skill,
Grounding his good on lucklesse Roberts ill:
Their mutuall courage, and unmooved hate,
Tels Henryes rise, decline of Roberts state.

275

88

From perrils safe, no place at home he sees,
Abroad he wins, at home he still doth lose,
At home, wasted with civill enemies,
Whilst he abroad is conquering forraine foes,
Wasting at home, more then abroad he growes:
At home his daunger unto many knowne,
Yet he abroad is carelesse of his owne.

89

Now bring I Robert from these glorious wars,
Triumphing in the conquered Pagans flight,
From forraine broiles to toile in home-nurst jars,
From getting others Lands, for's owne to fight,
Forced by wrong, by sword to claime his right:
And with that sword in Panyms blood imbrude,
To save himselfe, by his own friends pursude.

90

Thus he's inrich'd with that he cannot see,
With few vaine titles swelling in his name,
And all his substance but meere shadowes be,
Whilst he strange castles in the aire doth frame,
Lo such a mighty Monarchesse is Fame:
That, what she gives, so easie is to beare,
As of those gifts, none robbing need to feare.

91

This whets his spleene, but doth his strength abate,
Much care for coyne, makes care for kingdoms lesse,
His feeblenes must hold up Henries state,
These beare up him, which Roberts hopes suppresse,
Whose brothers comfort is in his distresse;
This is the meane he undertooke to try,
With Roberts blood his safety first to buy.

276

92

With kind intreaty he doth first begin,
Not fullie yet establisht as he would,
By this advantage to get further in,
Till he had got a sure and faster hold,
Baiting unseene, deceit with sums of gold:
By yearely tribute from his crowne to rise,
To stop the mouth of passed injuries.

93

This peace to which the mutenie must yield,
And English tribute paid to Normandy,
What Robert thinks his safegard's Henries shield,
And Roberts selfe, doth Robert injurie,
This tribute wrongs his true Nobilitie;
And from this source from whence their peace shold spring,
Proceeds the cause of Roberts ruining.

94

These summs, the sinewes of Duke Roberts war,
Like howerly tides, his flowing current fed,
And to his fier the lively fuell are,
His will the streame, and this the Fountaine head,
Having his humor fitlie cherished:
Deceiptfull Henry, reobtaines at length,
Unto his Arme adding Duke Roberts strength.

95

This want his haughtie courage soone doth find,
Cutting the quils of his high flying wings,
That now he must commit him to the wind,
Driven which way the furious tempest flings;
Powerlesse of that, which giveth power to Kings;
Which desperate griefe, his mind enrageth so,
As makes him past all reason in his woe.

277

96

Honor gave entertainment to beliefe,
Under which collour treason in was brought,
Which slew his strength before he felt the griefe,
Pure innocence seldom suspecteth ought,
No base affection maister of his thought,
Nor majestie inward deceit had learn'd,
More then to shew, her outward eyes discern'd.

97

Miserie seem'd nothing, yet to him unknowne,
Not knowing evill, evill could not flie,
Not savouring sorrow, having tasted none,
To find lurking deceit he look'd too hie,
To honest minds, Fraud doth the soonest pry:
Whose nature thus I chose to be the mould,
Therein to worke what forme of hap I would.

98

His owne compassion, cause of his owne care,
Upon his thought, his constant promise stood,
Vertue in him, most naturally rare,
No vile base humor tainted his pure blood,
His bounty still gave good desert her food;
His mind so great, and honorably free,
Made him too prone to loose credulitie.

99

His counsels thus are combred by his care,
In nothing certaine but uncertaintie,
His friends resolv'd on nothing but dispaire,
Yet shewes he greatnes in most misery,
Each place become a stage for Tragedy;
By error, wandring far beyond his scope,
Strong in desire, but weakest in his hope.

278

100

In publique shame, oft counsell seemes disgrac'd,
No priviledge can from the Fates protect:
In desperation, counsell hath no taste,
Untamed rage doth all advise reject,
Hiding the course which reason should direct;
Making himselfe the author of his harms,
Without experience, valor wants his arms.

101

Now I, whose power in Williams wars was seene,
When first on Williams conquest he begun,
To shew my selfe the worlds imperious Queene,
Now turne my selfe against his warlike son,
To lose by me, by me his Father won:
On Englands part, gainst Normandy to stand,
Which Normandy had conquered by my hand.

102

The conquest William made upon this Ile,
With Norman blood be-peopling Brittany,
Even now as Brittons made within a while
Turne with revenge to conquer Normandy,
Thus victory goes back to victory:
That his own blood, wins what before he won,
His conquering son, subdu'd his conquering son.

103

Thus Norman townes begirt with English arms,
The furious brother dealing wrathfull blowes:
Both pressing in where deadly perrill swarms,
These English-Norman, Norman-English foes,
At last doe get, what they at first did lose:
As Normandy did Englands fall provoke,
Now Norman necks must beare the English yoke.

279

104

The flood of mischiefe thus comes in againe,
What Fortune works, not alwaies seems pretended,
The wind thus turn'd, blows back the fire amaine,
Where first mischance began, she will be ended,
And he defend him, from those he offended:
For this we find, the course of fatall things,
Is best discern'd in states of Realms & Kings.

105

On whom of late in Palæstine I smild,
In civill warrs now dreadfully I frowne;
He call'd from exile, I from him exil'd,
To leave his crowne, who had refus'd a crowne,
Who beat all down, now heare is beaten down,
Here to lose all, who there had gotten all,
To make his fall, more grievous in his fall.

106

To England now a prisoner they him bring,
Now is he hers, which claim'd her for his owne,
A Captive, where he should have been a King,
His dungeon made wher shold have been his throne,
Now buried there, wheras he shold have growne.
In one poore tower mew'd up, within one place,
Whose Empires bounds the Ocean shold embrace.

107

Could mortall sence containe immortall hate,
Or reason sound the depth of things divine,
Judgement might stand amaz'd at Roberts state,
And thinke no might to be compar'd with mine,
That all power may unto my power resigne:
And that in Roberts fall, the world may see
Amongst the starrs what power remaines in mee.

280

108

That sword which on his fortune hath such power
Yet powerles is to end his wretched dayes:
Those daies which in their course all things devoure,
To his swift griefe, makes slow and lazie staies,
To Tyrannies long raigne he thus obaies,
That he in life a thousand deaths might die,
Onely in mercy rackt with crueltie.

109

He hath no joy but in his miseries,
His greatest comfort is the blessed light,
For which, (as I were angry with his eyes)
I make the King deprive him of his sight,
To sute his daies so justly with the night,
That sencles stones to mone he should not see,
Yet sencles stones behold his misery.

110

And this he felt, that Fortune made him blinde,
Least his eyes objects yet might lighten care:
That that light wanting, more might light his minde,
Whose eyes might see how great his sorrows are;
That every sence, that sences woe might share:
And so that sence depriv'd of joy alone,
Might more increase the griefe of every one.

111

These griefes and horrors, enemies of rest,
Which murther life where they do harbor long,
Kill humors, which his body oft opprest,
Unnaturally, thus making nature strong,
As out of deaths dead stock new life still sprong,
As life with death had tempted him till now,
Yet death to life no ease would er'e allow.

281

112

Death he fear'd not, is taught his end to feare,
Life, once he lov'd, with him now fall'n in love,
That foe, a friend, to hurt him doth forbeare,
That friend a foe, he cannot now remove,
Twixt them, he all extremities doth prove:
Aged in youth, to pine his joy thereby,
Youthfull in age, to suffer misery.

113

Courage forbids that he himselfe should kill,
His life too proud to be constrain'd to die,
His will permits not death now when he will,
What would dispaire, true valor doth deny;
Thus life lifes foe, death is deaths enemy:
Willing to die, by life him double killing,
Urging to die, twice dying, he unwilling.

114

So many yeeres as he hath worne a crowne,
So many yeeres as he hath hop'd to rise,
So many yeeres he lives thus quite thrown downe,
So many yeeres he lives without his eyes:
So many yeeres in dying ere hee dyes;
So many yeeres lockt up in prison strong,
Though sorrow make the shortest time seeme long.

115

Thus sway I in the course of earthly things,
That Time might worke him everlasting spite,
To shew, that power yet ever makes not kings,
Nor that conceit can compasse my deceit,
In fined things such mervails infinite:
Nor any wonder is to be supposed,
In that wherein all wonders are inclosed.

282

116

At Fortuns speech they stand as all amaz'd,
Whilst Fame herselfe doth wonder at his woe,
And all upon this deadly Image gaz'd,
Whose misery shee had discribed so;
But in revenge of this dispightfull foe,
Fame from a slumber (as it seem'd) awake,
On his behalfe, thus for herselfe be-spake.

117

What time I came from world-renowned Rome,
To waken Europe from her drouzie traunce,
Summoning the Princes of great Christendome,
To Palæstine their Ensignes to advaunce,
Sounding my trump in England, Spaine, & Fraunce
To move the Christians to religious war,
From Pagans hands to free Christs sepulchar.

118

That holy Hermit Peter, then as one
Which as a Saint bewaild so great a losse:
With Bulloigne Godfrey, Christs strong champion,
Under the Banner of the bloody Crosse,
Now on the Alps the conquering collours tosse,
Leading along the bravest Christian band,
To reare their Tropheys in the Holy Land.

119

Hether the flocks of gallant spirits do throng,
The place whence immortalitie doth spring,
To whom the hope of conquest doth belong,
Nor any thought, lesse, then to be a King;
Hether doth Fame her deerest children bring:
And in this Camp shee makes her treasury,
The rarest Jems of Europs Chivalry.

283

120

This conquering lord, the Conquerors eldest sonne,
Whose hand did then the Norman scepter weld,
In Armes to win what once his Father won,
To Englands conquest is againe compeld,
Whose crown from him proud William Rufus held,
An exile thence, by's angry Father driven,
By Fortune robd, of all by Nature given.

121

With fame of this, once Roberts eares possest,
With heavenly wonder doth his thoughts inspire,
Leaving no place for wrong in his faire brest,
Giving large wings unto his great desire,
Warming his courage with more glorious fire,
As thus to fight for his deere Saviours sake,
Of Englands crowne he no account doth make.

122

Of kingdoms tytles he casts off the toyle
Which by proude Rufus tyranny is kept:
Deere as his life to him that hallowed soile,
Wherein that God in lively manhood slept,
At whose deere death, the rocks for pitty wept;
A crown of gold this Christian knight doth scorne,
So much he lov'd those temples crown'd with thorne.

123

Those grievous wants whose burthen weyed him downe,
The sums which he in Germany had spent,
In gathering power to gaine the English crowne,
Garded with princly troopes in his rich Tent,
Like William Conquerors sonne magnificent,
Now by his need, he greevously doth find,
Weakning his might, what never could his mind.

284

124

This brave high spirited Duke, this famous Lord,
Whose right of England Rufus held away,
To set an edge upon his conquering sword,
In gage to Henry, Normandy did lay,
Thus to maintaine his valiant souldiers pay:
Rather of Realms himselfe to dispossesse,
Then Christendome should be in such distresse.

125

Eternall sparks of honors purest fire,
Vertue of vertues, Angels angeld mind,
Where admiration may it selfe admire,
Where mans divinest thoughts are more divin'd,
Saint sainted spirit, in heavens own shrine enshrind,
Endeared dearest thing, for ever living,
Receiving most of Fame, to Fame more giving.

126

Such fervent zeale doth from his soule proceed,
As those curl'd tresses which his browes adorne,
Untill that time Jerusalem were freed,
Hee makes a vow they never should be shorne,
But for a witnes of that vow be worne;
True vow, strong faith, great lord, most happy howr,
Perform'd, increasd, blest by effecting power.

127

True vow, so true, as truth to it is vowed,
Vowing all power to help so pure a vow,
Allowing perfect zeale to be allowed,
If zeale of perfect truth might ere allow,
Then much admir'd, but to be wondred now;
Faith in it selfe, then wonder more concealing,
Faith to the world, then wonder more revealing.

285

128

Disheveld locks, what names might give you grace?
Worne thus disheveld for his deere Lords sake,
Sweet-flowring twists, valors engirdling lace,
Browe-decking fringe, faire golden curled flake,
Honors rich garland, beauties messhing brake,
Arbors of joy, which nature once did give,
Where vertue should in endles Sommer live.

129

Faire Memory, awaken Death from sleepe,
Call up Times spirit, of passed things to tell,
Unseale the secrets of th'unsearched deepe,
Let out the prisoners from Oblivions Cell,
Invoke the black inhabitants of hell:
Into the earths deepe dungeon let the light,
And with faire day cleere up his clowdy night.

130

Eternitie, bee prodigall a while,
With thine immortall arms imbrace thy love,
Divinest Powers, upon your image smile,
And from your star-encircled thrones above,
Earths misty vapors from his sight remove,
And in the Annals of the glorious sun,
Enrole his worth, in Times large course to run.

131

Truth in his life, bright Poesie uphold,
His life in truth adorning Poesie:
Which casting life in a more purer mold,
Preserves that life to immortalitie,
Both truly working, eyther glorifie;
Truth by her power, Arts power to justifie,
Truth in Arts roabs, adorn'd by Poesie.

286

132

To his victorious Ensigne comes from far,
The Redshanck'd Orcads, toucht with no remorse,
The light-foote Irish, which with darts make war,
Th'ranck-ryding Scot, on his swift running horse,
The English Archer, of a Lyons force:
The valiant Norman all his troupes among,
In bloody conquests tryed, in Arms train'd long.

133

Remote by nature in thys colder Clyme,
Another nature he new birth doth bring,
And by the locks he haleth aged Tyme,
As newly he created every thing;
Shewing the place where heavens eternall King
Our deere blood-bought redemption first began,
Man covering God, earth heaven, & God in man.

134

Poore Ilanders, which in the Oceans chaine,
Too long imprisoned from the cheerfull day,
Your warlike Guide now brings you to the maine,
Which to your glory makes the open way:
And his victorious hand becomes the kay
To let you in to famous victories;
The honor of your brave posterities.

135

Be favourable faire heaven unto thine owne,
And with that Bethelem birth-foretelling star
Still goe before this Christian Champion;
In fiery pillers lead him out from far,
Let Angels martch with him unto this war,
With burning-bladed Cherubins still keepe,
Encompasse him with clowds when he doth sleep.

287

136

When heaven puts on her glittering vaile of stars,
And with sweet sleep the souldiers sences charms,
Then are his thoughts working these holy wars,
Plotting assaults, watchful at all alarms,
Rounding the Campe in rich appareld Arms;
His sleep their watch, his care their safeties kay,
Their day his night, his night he makes their day.

137

Valors true valor, honours living crowne,
Inspired thoughts, desert above desert,
Greatnes beyond imaginations bound,
Nature more sweet then is exprest by Art,
A hart declaring a true princly hart:
Courage uniting courage unto glory,
A subject fit for all immortall story.

138

Why shold not heaven by night when forth he went
Convert the stars to Sunnes to give him light?
And at his prayers by day in his close Tent,
The Tapers unto starrs, to help his sight?
That in his presence darknes might be bright;
That every thing more purer in his kind,
Might tell the purenes of his purer mind.

139

Yet Letters but like little Ilands bee,
And many words within this world of fame,
Whose Regions rise and fall in their degree,
Large volumes short descriptions of his name,
Like little Maps painting his Globes great fame:
Wit lost in wonder, seeking to expresse
His vertues sum, his praises universe.

288

140

In greevous toyles consisteth all his rest,
In having most, of most enjoyeth none,
Most wanting that whereof he is possest,
A King ordain'd, ne're to enjoy his throne,
That least his own, which richly is his own:
In this devision from himselfe devided,
Himselfe a guide for others safety, guided.

141

His one poore lyfe, devided is to many,
Dead to his comfort, doth to others live,
Unto himselfe he is the least of any,
All from him taken, unto all doth give,
Depriv'd of joy, of care his to deprive:
Who al controuleth, now that all controules,
Body of bodyes, his soule of their soules.

142

Religious war, more holy pilgrimage,
Both Saint & souldier, Captaine, Confessor,
A devout youth, a resolute old age,
A warlike States-man, peacefull Conqueror,
Grave Consull, true autentique Senator;
Feare-chasing resolution, valiant feare,
Hart bearing nought, yet patient all to beare.

143

Skill, valour guides, and valour armeth skill,
Courage emboldneth wit, wit courage arms,
This is the thred which leadeth on his will,
This is the steere which guides him in these storms,
To see his good, and to foresee his harms:
Not flying life, in fortune so content,
Not fearing death, as truly valient.

289

144

He feasts desire with sweetest temperance,
Greatnes he decks in modesties attire,
Honor he doth by humblenes advance,
By sufferance he raiseth courage hier,
His holy thoughts by patience still aspire:
To fashion vertue strangely he doth seeke,
Making poore hope impatient, sorrow meeke.

145

Then in his joy, he nothing lesse injoyes,
Still of him selfe the worser part he is,
What most shold please him, him the most annoyes,
Of his, there's nothing can be called his,
And what he hath, that doth he ever misse;
His thought of conquest, so doth rest invade,
Thus is he made, as unto others made.

146

All things to him be prosperous as he would,
Not trusting Fortune, nor distrusting Fate,
Resolv'd to hope, hap what soever could,
Joying in woe, in joy disconsolate,
Joy lightneth woe, woe joy doth moderate;
Carelesse of both, indifferent twixt either,
Wooed of both, yet yeelding unto neither.

147

Endlesse his toyle, a figure of his fame,
And his life ending gives his name no end,
Lasting that forme where vertue builds the frame,
Those sums unnumbred glory gives to spend,
Our bodies buried, then our deeds ascend:
Those deeds in life, to worth cannot be rated,
In death with life, our fame even then is dated.

290

148

Willing to doe, he thinketh what to doe,
That what he did, exactly might be done,
That due foresight before the act might goe,
Which wisely warning might all errors shun,
That care might finish what he had begun:
Justly directed in the course of things,
By that straight rule which sound experience brings.

149

From famous Godfrey and the Christian hoast,
Unto the mighty Grecian Emperor,
Now is he sent, through many perrils tost,
This Norman Duke, the brave Ambassador,
His royall spirit so much ne're seene before;
As with his princely traine when he doth come,
Before the towne of faire Bizantium.

150

From forth the holy Region is he sent,
Bending his course through Macedon and Thrace,
Yet never would he sleepe but in his Tent,
Till he return'd unto that hallowed place,
Till he beheld that famous Godfreis face;
Nor never rest his body in a bed,
Till Palæstine were free delivered.

151

Triumphall prowesse, true disposed care,
Cleare-shining courage, honourable intent,
Vertuous-apparreld manhood, thoughts more rare,
Mind free as heaven, imperiall government,
Numbers of vertues in one sweet consent:
Gyfts which the soule so highly beautifie,
Humble valour, valiant humilitie.

291

152

Sweet ayre with Angels breath be thou refin'd,
And for his sake be made more pure then ayre,
And thether let some gentle breathing wind,
From Paradice bring sweets which be most rare,
Let Sommer sit in his imperiall chayre;
And clothe sad Winter in the cheerefull prime,
Keeping continuall Sommer in the clime.

153

Delight be present in thy best attire,
And court his eyes with thy delightfull change,
Oh warme his spirit with thy soule-feasting fire,
To base delight-abusers, be thou strange,
Such as in vainest pleasures boundlesse range:
For pleasure he all pleasures quite forsooke,
And arm'd with zeale these toiles first undertooke.

154

O let Danubius in her watry roome,
Where she the name of Ister first did take,
With threescore rivers swelling in her wombe,
With seaven large throats her greedy thirst to slake,
Doth swallow in the great worlds vastie lake:
Unto all regions which doe know her name,
In Roberts glory tell our countries fame.

155

And broad-brim'd Strymon as she vaulteth on,
Slyding along the fertill Thracian shore,
Kissing the stronds of famous Macedon,
Which once the name of old Aemathia wore,
Whose fame decay'd, her drops do now deplore:
May raise another Orpheus with her mones,
To sing his praise unto her trees and stones.

292

156

Time on his life, thy gathered store disburse,
Which may enrich thee with eternall gaine,
Which art a beldame, now become a nurse,
And in his end begin his glorious raigne,
That yet truth may of truth be forc'd to faine:
That of his praise thy selfe a part maist be,
Which praise remaines the better part of thee.

157

O thou immortall Tasso, Aestes glory,
Which in thy golden booke his name hast left,
Enrold in thy great Godfreis living story,
Whose lines shall scape untoucht of ruins theft,
Yet us of him thou hast not quite bereft:
Though thy large Poems onely boast his name,
Ours was his birth, and we will have his fame.

158

The curious state of greatnes he doth scorne,
Carelesse of pomp to be magnificent,
Deeming the noblest minded, noblest borne,
Him worthiest honor, which the furthest went,
His blood most pure, whose blood in wars most spent:
Esteeming all fond titles, toyes of naught,
Most honoring those which were with peril bought.

159

His richest roabes are his approoved Armes,
His sports were deeds of peerelesse chivalrie,
He flies all pleasures as the Syrens charmes,
To his great mind, no pleasing harmonie,
Not touch't with childish imbecillitie:
As sacriledge to his religious mind,
To mix base thoughts with those of heavenly kind.

293

160

A mind which of it selfe could rightly deeme,
Keeping a straight way in one certaine course,
As a true witnes of his owne esteeme,
Feeding it selfe from his owne springing source,
And by himselfe increasing his owne force;
Desirous still him daylie to enure,
To endure that, men thought none could endure.

161

Devinest touch, instinct of highest heaven,
Most gracefull grace, purest of puritie,
To mortall man, immortall vertue given,
Manhood adorn'd with powerfull dietie,
Discreetfull pitty, hallowed pietie:
In secret working, by it selfe confest,
In silent admiration best exprest.

162

Not spur'd with honor, dearely loving peace,
Constant in any course to which he fell,
A spirit which no affliction could oppresse,
Never remov'd where once his thought did dwell,
Opynionate, that what he did was well;
Which working now upon so good a cause,
Approveth his conceit the surest lawes.

163

No braggarts boast nor ostentacious word
Out of his mouth is ever heard proceed,
But on his foe-mans curats with his sword,
In characters, records his valiant deed,
That there unpartiall eyes might plainly reed;
In modest silence by true vertue hid,
That though he dumb, his deeds told what he did.

294

164

He cheres his Souldiers with sweet honied words,
His princely hand embalmes the maimeds wound,
Unto the needie gold he still affords,
To brave attempts encouraging the sound,
Never dismaid in perrill is he found;
His Tent a seate of justice to the greev'd,
A kingly court when need should be releev'd,

165

His life each hower to danger he doth give,
Yet still by valour he with perrill strives,
In all attempts as he did scorne to live,
Yet lyving, as his life were many lives,
Oft times from death it seemes that he revives:
Each hower in great attempts he seemes to die,
Yet still he lives in spight of jeopardie.

166

Even by that town o're which his Lord did weepe,
Whose precious tears were shed for her own sinne,
Even by that towne this zealous Lord did weepe,
To see her now defil'd with others sinne,
He wept, he weepes for sinne, and he for sinne,
He first shed teares, he lastly sheddeth teares,
Those sacred drops, the others drops endeares.

167

What prince was found within the Christian hoast
That carried marke of honor in his shield,
That with brave Roberts Lyons once durst boast,
Raging with furie in the bloody field,
Whose mighty pawes a piller seem'd to weild:
Which from their nosthrils breath'd a seeming flame,
When he in pride amongst the Pagans came.

295

168

His life with blood how dearely did he prize,
And never did he brandish his bright sword,
But many Pagan soules did sacrifize,
And all the ground with livelesse truncks he stor'd,
Such was his love unto his dearest Lord;
That were true love more purer then is love,
Here in this love his purenes he might prove,

169

Who from his furie latelie fled away,
When in the field far off they him espied,
Pursu'd in his faire presence make a stay,
As of his hand they willing would have died,
His beautie, so his feircenes mollified;
As taking death by valiant Roberts name,
Should to their lives give everlasting fame.

170

The cruell Panyms thirsting after blood,
With his sweet beauty doe their hates aslake,
Yet when by him in danger they have stood,
And that his valour did their rage awake,
And with their swords revenge wold deeply take,
The edges turne as seeming to relent,
To pitty him, to whom the blowes were sent.

171

At feirce assaults where thousand deaths might fall,
His cheerfull smiles made death he could not kill,
Imperiously his sword commaunds the wall,
As stones should be obedient to his will,
The yeelding blood, his blood did never spill:
His fury quencht with teares as with a flood,
And yet like fire consuming all that stood.

296

172

When in the morne his Courser he bestrid,
The trumpets sound unto his thoughts gave fire,
But from the field he ever dropping rid
As he were vanquisht onely in retire,
The neerer rest, farther from his desire:
In bootie still, his Souldiers share the crowns,
They rich in gold, he onely rich in wounds.

173

At his returne now in this sad retreate,
From heathens slaughter, from the Christians fled,
This is not he which in that raging heate,
On mighty heapes laid Pagan bodies dead,
Whose plumed helme empaled in his head;
Mild as some Nimphlike virgin now he seem'd,
Which some in fight a fearefull spirit deem'd.

174

No tryumphs doe his victories adorne,
But in his death who on the Crosse had died,
No lawrell nor victorious wreath is worne,
But that red Crosse to tell him crucified,
This death, his life, this povertie, his pride:
His feast is fast, his pleasure pennaunce is,
His wishes prayers, his hope is all his blisse.

175

Great Calvary whose hollow vaulted womb,
In his deere Saviours death asunder riven,
That rock-rent Cave, that man-god burying tomb
Which was unto his blessed body given,
Whose yeelding Ghost did shake the power of heaven:
Here as a Hermit could he ever live,
Such wondrous thoughts unto his soule they give.

297

176

Thus a poore Pilgrim he returnes againe,
His sumptuous roabes be turn'd to Palmers gray
Leaving his Lords to lead his warlick traine,
Whilst he alone comes sadly on the way,
Dealing abroad his deare bloods purchas'd pray:
A hermits staffe his carefull hand doth hold,
Whose charged Launce the heathen foe controld.

177

Most loving zeale, borne of more zealous love,
Cares holy care, faiths might, joyes food, hopes kay,
The ground work worlds bewitching cannot move,
Of true desires the never failing stay,
The cheerfull light of heavens ne're-ending day:
Vertue which in thy selfe most vertuous art.
The fairest gyft of the most fairest part.

178

But now to end this long continued strife,
Henceforth thy malice takes no further place,
Thy hate began and ended with his life,
His spirit by thee can suffer no disgrace,
Now in mine armes his vertues I imbrace:
His body thine, his crosses witnes be,
His mind is mine, and from thy power is free.

179

Thou gav'st up rule, when he gave up his breath,
And at his end, then did I first begin,
Thy hate was buried in his timelesse death,
Thou going out, first did I enter in,
Thou loosing him, thy losse then did I win:
And when the Fates did up their right resigne,
Thy right, his wrong, thy hate, his hap was mine.

298

180

To the unworthie world then get thee back,
Stuft with deceits and fawning flatteries,
There by thy power bring all things unto wrack,
And fill the times with fearefull Tragedies:
And since thy joy consists in miseries,
Heare his complaint, who wanting eyes to see,
May give thee sight, which art as blind as hee.

181

At her great words whilst they in silence stand,
Poore haplesse Robert now remembring him,
Holding one bloody eye in his pale hand,
With countenance all dead, and gastly grim,
As in a feaver shaking every lim;
Even with a pitteous lamentable grone,
Vailing his head, thus breakes into his mone.

182

Poore teare, dim'd taper which hast lost thy brother
And thus art left to twinkle here alone,
Ah might'st thou not have perrisht with the other,
And both together to your set have gone,
You both were one, one wanting, thou not one,
Poore twins which like true friends one watch did keepe,
Why sever'd thus that so you shold not sleepe.

183

And thou pore eye, oh why sholdst thou have light,
The others black eclipse thus soone to see,
And yet thy fellow be depriv'd of sight,
For thy sad teares the while to pitty thee,
Equall your griefes, your haps unequall be:
Take thou his darknes, and thy sorrow hide,
Or he thy light, his griefe so well espied.

299

184

Let that small drop out of thy juicie ball,
Canded like gum upon the moist'ned thrid,
There still be fixed that it never fall,
But as a signe hang on thine eyes staind lid,
A witnes there what inward griefe is hid:
Like burning glasses fired by the Sunne,
Light all mens eyes to see what there is done.

185

Now like to conduits draw my body drie,
By which is made the entrance to my blood,
Streame-gushing sluces plac'd in eyther eye,
Which shalbe fed by this continuall flood,
Whirlpooles of tears where pleasures citty stood,
Devouring gulfes within a vastie land,
Or like the dead Sea, ever hatefull stand.

186

Where stood the watch-towers of my cheerful face,
Like Vestall Lamps lighted with holy flame,
Is now a dungeon and a lothed place,
The darksome prison of my hatefull shame,
That they themselves doe most abhor the same:
Through whose foule grates, griefe full of miserie,
Still begging vengeance, ceaseth not to crie.

187

With dire-full seales, death hath shut up the dores,
Where he hath taken up his dreadfull Inne,
In bloody letters shewing those fell sores,
That now doe raigne, wher joy & mirth have beene,
This mortal plague the just scourge of their sinne:
From whose contagion comfort quite is fled,
And they themselves, in their selves buried.

300

188

Poore tears, sith eyes your small drops cannot see,
And since the Fountains cease of my full eyes,
Teares get you eyes and help to pitty mee,
And water them which timelesse sorrow dryes,
Teares give me teares, lend eyes unto my eyes:
So may the blind yet make the blind to see,
Else no help is to them, nor hope to mee,

189

Body and eyes usurping others right,
Both altring use contrarie unto kind,
That eyes to eyes those dark which shold give light,
The blind both guide, & guided by the blind,
Yet both must be directed by the mind:
Yet that which both their trustie guide should be,
Blinded with care, like them can nothing see.

190

The day abhors thee, and from thee doth flie,
Night followes after, yet behind doth stay,
This never comes, though it be ever nie,
This ere it comes is vanished away,
Nor night, nor day, though ever night and day:
Yet all is one, still day or ever night.
No rest in darknes, nor no joy in light.

191

Whilst light did give me comfort to my mone,
Teares found a meane to sound my sorrows deepe,
But now alasse that comfort being gone,
Tears do want eies which shold give tears to weepe,
Whence I lost joy there care I ever keepe:
What gave me woe from me doth comfort take,
Delight a sleepe, now sorrow still must wake.

301

192

I saw my ill, when ill could scarclie see,
I saw my good, when I my good scarce knew,
Now see not ill, when as my ill sees mee,
Hasting to that which still doth mee pursue,
With my lost eyes, sorrow my state doth view,
In blindnes loosing hope of all delight,
And with my blindnes, give my cares full sight.

193

As man himselfe, so the most hatefull beast,
The Worme enjoyes the ayre as well as wee,
The little Gnat, or thing that lives the least,
Of this by nature kindly is made free:
What thing hath mouth to brethe, but eyes to see?
Though honor lost, yet might I humbly crave,
To have what beasts, or flies, or pore worms have.

194

Mine eyes hurt not the Sun, nor steale the day,
Except a candle, they see never light,
These monstrous walls do take that doubt away,
What? feare you then that they shold harme the night?
Needles is that, sith tears have blotted sight.
I know not then from whence this hate should rise,
Except it onely be, that they be eyes.

195

The man-betraying Basilisk hath eyes,
Although by sight those eyes be made to kill,
Though her owne works be made her enemies,
Though naturally ordained unto ill,
Yet in her selfe so just is nature still:
How monstrous then am I alone in nature,
Denide of that she gives the vilest creature?

302

196

Oh tyrannie more cruell far then death,
Though death be but the end of tyranie,
Death lends us sight whilst she doth give us breath,
Of all the sences that the last doth dye,
In lyving death, how miserable am I,
In life, of this sence me thus to deprive,
To make the others dye, my selfe alive.

197

Eyes which with joy like Sunnes have risen oft,
To view that holy Citties glorious Towers,
And seene the Christian Ensignes raisd aloft,
Crowning the walls like garlands of rare flowers,
Now lie you perrisht in your Ivory bowers,
Nor shal you henceforth boast what you have been
But leave the minde to thinke what you have seen.

198

You, which have seene faire Palestine restor'd,
And gorgeous Syon from the Paynims freed,
The Sepulcher of your most glorious Lord,
And that faire Mount wher his sweet wounds did bleed
And with these sights my hungry soule did feed,
Within your brincks be drownd in your own blood
Which oft have view'd great Jordans sacred flood.

199

Rake up the sparks which nourished your fire,
Within the ashes of consumed eyes,
Those little brands which kindled youths desire,
The haples starrs of passed miseries,
Wander no more within your circling skies;
Under the Globes great compasse ever roule,
And in my minds great world, now light my soule.

303

200

Good night sweet Sunns, your lights are cleane put out,
Your hollow pits be graves of all your joy,
With dreadfull darknes compassed about,
Wherein is cast what murther can destroy,
That buried there, which did the world annoy,
Those holy Fanes where vertue hallowed stood,
Become a place of slaughter and of blood.

201

Poure downe your last refreshing evening dew,
And bathe your selves in fountains of your tears,
The day no more shall ever breake to you,
The joyfull dawne no more at all appears,
No cheerfull sight your sorrow ever cheers:
Shut up your windows ere constraint compell,
Be-take your selves to nights eternall Cell.

202

His passion ending, Fortune discontent,
Turning her back as shee away would flie,
Playing with fooles and babes incontinent,
As never toucht with humane misery,
Even after death shewing inconstancy,
As straight forgetting what she had to tell,
To other speech and girlish laughter fell.

203

When graceful Fame, convaying thence her charge,
With all these troupes attended royallie,
Gave me this booke, wherein was writ at large,
Great Norman Roberts famous history,
T'amaze the world with his sad Tragedy:
But Fortune angry with her foe therefore,
Gave me this gift, That I should still be poore.

FINIS.

305

Mortimeriados. THE LAMENTABLE ciuell warres of Edward the second and the Barrons.

306

TO THE EXCELLENT AND most accomplish'd Ladie, Lucie Countesse of Bedford.

Rarest of Ladies, all, of all I have,
Anchor of my poore Tempest-beaten state,
Which givest life, to that life Nature gave,
And to thy selfe, doest onely consecrate:
My hopes true Goddesse, guider of my fate,
Vouchsafe to grace what here to light is brought,
Begot by thy sweet hand, borne of my thought.

And though I sing of this tumultuous rage,
Still paynting passions in these Tragedies,
Thy milder lookes, this furie can aswage,
Such is the vertue of thy sacred eyes,
Which doe contayne a thousand purities;
And lyke them selves, can make their object such,
As doth Th'elixar all things it doth tuch.

Sweet fruite, sprong from that ever sacred tree,
That happie wombe from whom thou lyfe do'st take,
And with that lyfe, gives vertue unto thee,
Thus made of her, her lyke of thee to make,
Shee lov'd for thee, thou honour'd for her sake;
And eithers good, from other so derived,
Yet shee, nor thou, of any due deprived.

The Harringtons, whose house thy byrth hath blest,
Adding such honour to theyr familie,
And famous Bedfords greatnes still increast,
Raysing the height of theyr Nobilitie,
That Earledomes tytle more to dignifie;
That Vertue lyvely pictur'd forth in thee,
May truly be discernd, what shee should be.

And Lawrell-crowned Sidney, Natures pride,
Whom heaven to earth, but onely shew'd this good,
Betwixt the world, and thee did then devide,
His fame, and vertues, which both equall stood,

307

The world his fame, to thee of her owne blood
Hee gave his vertues, that in his owne kind,
His never-matched worth might be enshrin'd.

That whilst they boast but of their sun-burnt brayns,
Which Tramontani long have termd us so,
With all their Po's, their Tyburs, and their Rheyn's,
Greeving to see how tidefull Thames shall flowe,
Our Groves which for the gracefull Muses growe:
Thy name shall be the glorie of the North,
The fayrest fruit that ever shee brought forth.

And in despight of tyranizing times,
This hope great Lady yet to thee is left,
Thy name shall lyve in steele-out-during rimes,
Still scorning ages sacraligious theft,
What fame doth keepe, can never be bereft:
Nor can thy past-priz'd honour ever die,
If lynes can gyve thee immortalitie.

Leaving unto succeeding times to see,
How much thy sacred gyfts I did adore,
What power thy vertues ever had in mee,
And what thou wert compar'd with those before,
Which shall in age, thy youth againe restore:
And still shall ad more vigor to thy fame,
Then earthly honors, or a Countesse name.

Proclayming unto ages yet to come,
Whilst Bedford lyv'd, what lyving Bedford was,
Enclosing thee in this immortall toombe,
More durable then letter-graven brasse,
To shewe what thy great power could bring to passe,
And other hopes I utterly refuse,
And thou my hope, my Lady, and my Muse.

Your Honors ever devoted servaunt Michaell Drayton.

308

TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE LADY, Lucie Countesse of Bedford.

When God this wondrous Creature did create,
This ever-moving body, this huge weight,
Whose head, whose lofty head high situate,
Is crown'd with starrs & constellations bright.
Hee causd the same one certaine way to move,
Which mooving (some say) doth sweet tunes beget,
Another way the Sunne and Planets prove,
For they from thence move where the sun doth set;
Yet he the Pole-star, Cynosura cleere,
Causd steddily to stand, though heaven did gyre,
For an example to mens actions heere:
Madam, you are the starre of his desire;
Whilst hee his thoughts heaven moves, ô gracious bee,
And wonders in your Creature you shall see.

Your honors and eternities Humble, E. B.

309

MORTIMERIADOS.

The lowring heaven had mask'd her in a clowde,
Dropping sad teares upon the sullen earth,
Bemoning in her melancholly shrowde,
The angry starres which raign'd at Edwards birth,
With whose beginning ended all our mirth.
Edward the second, but the first of shame,
Scourge of the crowne, eclipse of Englands fame.

Whilst in our blood, ambition hotely boyles,
The Land bewailes her, like a wofull Mother,
On every side besieg'd with civill broyles,
Her deerest chyldren murthering one another,
Yet shee in silence forc'd her griefe to smother:
Groning with paine, in travaile with her woes,
And in her torment, none to helpe her throwes.

What care would plot, discention strives to crosse,
Which like an earthquake rents the tottering state;
Abroade in warres we suffer publique losse,
At home, betrayd with grudge and private hate,
Faction attending blood-shed and debate;
Confusion thus our Countries peace confounds,
No helpe at hand, and mortall be her wounds.

Thou Church then swelling in thy mightines,
Thou which should'st be this poore sick bodyes soule,
O nurse not factions which should'st sinne suppresse,
And with thy members should'st all griefe condole,
Perswade thy hart and not thy head controle;
Humble thy selfe, dispence not with the word,
Take Peters keyes, but cast aside his sword.

310

The ragefull fire which burnt Carnarvans brest,
Blowne with revenge of Gavestons disgrace,
Awakes the Barrons from their nightly rest,
And maketh way to give the Spensers place,
Whose friendship Edward onely doth embrace;
By whose alurements he is fondly led,
To leave his Queene, and flie his lawful bed.

This Planet stirr'd up that tempestious blast
By which our fortunes Anchorage was torne,
The storme where-with our spring was first defac'd,
Whereby all hope unto the ground was borne:
Hence came the griefe, the teares, the cause to mourne.
This bred the blemish which her beauty staind,
Whose ugly scarr's, to after-times remaind.

In all this heat his greatnes first began,
The serious subject of my sadder vaine,
Great Mortimer, the wonder of a man,
Whose fortunes heere my Muse must entertaine,
And from the grave his griefes must yet complaine,
To shew our vice nor vertues never die,
Though under ground a thousand yeeres we lie.

Thys gust first threw him on that blessed Coast
Which never age discovered before:
This luckie chaunce drew all King Edward lost,
This shypwrack cast the prize upon his shore,
And thys all-drowning Deluge gave him more;
From hence the sunne of his good fortune shone,
The fatall step, to Edwards fatall throne.

Roger Mortimer the unckle, and Roger Mortimer the nephew.

That unckle now, whose name this Nephew bare,
The onely comfort of the wofull Queene,
And from his cradle held him as his care,
And still the hope of all his house had beene,
Whilst yet this deep hart-goring wound is greene,
On this well-seene advantage wisely wrought,
To place him highly in her princely thought.

311

He saw his inclination from his birth,
A mighty spirit, a minde which did aspire;
Not of the drossy substance of the earth,
But of the purest element of fire,
Which sympathizing with his owne desire,
Name, nature, feature, all did so agree,
That still in him, himselfe he still might see.

The temper of his nobler mooving part,
Had that true tutch which purified his blood,
Infusing thoughts of honor in his hart,
Whose flaggie feathers were not soyld in mud,
The edge he bare declar'd the mettall good;
The towring pitch wherein he flew for fame,
Declar'd the ayrie whence the Eagle came.

Worthy the Grand-chyld of so great a sier,

Roger Mortimer his Grand-father, who kept the round table at Kenelworth.

Brave Mortimer who liv'd whilst Long-shanks raign'd,
Our second Arthur, whom all times admire,
At Kenelworth the Table round ordayn'd,
And there in Armes, a hundreth Knights maintaind;
A hundreth gallant Ladies in his Court,
Whose stately presence royaliz'd this sport.

And whilst this poore wife-widdowed Queene alone,
In thys dispayring passion pines away,
Beyond all hope, to all but heaven unknowne,
A little sparke which yet in secrete lay,
Breakes forth in flame, and turnes her night to day,
The wofull winter of her sorrowes cheering,
Even as the world at the faire Sunnes appearing.

Yet still perplexed in these hard extreames,
All meanes deprest which might her faith prefer,
Blacke foggs oppos'd in those cleere-shining beames,
Which else might lend their friendly light to her,
This in her lookes direfull revenge doth stir:
Which strange eclipse plac'd in this irefull signe,
Our Countries plague and ruine might divine.

312

Her snowy curled brow makes anger smile,
Her laughing frowne gives beauty better grace,
Blushing disdaine, disdaine doth quite exile,
Sweet love and silence wrestling in her face,
Two capering Cupids in her eyes do chase;
Her veynes like tydes oft swelling with delight,
Making Vermilion faire, white more then white.

Her beauty florish'd whilst her favours fade,
Her hopes growne old, but her desires be yong,
Her power wants power her passion to perswade,
Her sexe is weake, her will is over-strong,
Patience pleades pitty, but revenge her wrong;
What reason urgeth, rage doth still denie,
With arguments of wrathfull jealousie.

Pale Jealousie, child of insatiate love,
Of hart-sick thoughts with melancholie bred,
A hell tormenting feare no faith can move,
By discontent with deadly poyson fed,
With heedlesse youth and error vainely led,
A mortall plague, a vertue-drowning flood,
A hellish fire, not quenched but with blood.

The hate-swolne Lords with furie set on fire,
Whom Edwards wrongs to vengeance doe provoke,
With Lancaster and Herford now conspire,
No more to beare the Spensers servile yoke,
The bonds of their alegiance they have broke:
Resolv'd with blood theyr libertie to buy,
To live with honor, or with fame to dye.

Amid thys faction Mortimer doth enter,
The gastly Prologue to thys tragick act:
His youth and courage boldly bids him venter,
And tells him still how strongly he was backt:
Synon perswades howe Illion might be sackt;
The people still applauding in his eares,
The fame and credite of the Mortimers.

313

Thys vapor-kindled Commet drew her eyes,
Which now began his streamie flagge to reare;
This beauty-blushing orient of his rise,
Her clowdy frownes doth with his brightnes cleare,
The joyfull'st sight that ever did appeare;
The messenger of light, her happy starre,
Which told her now the dawning was not farre.

As after pale-fac'd Night, the Morning fayre
The burning Lampe of heaven doth once erect,
With her sweet Crimson sanguining the ayre,
On every side with streakie dappl's fleckt,
The circled roofe in white and Azure deckt,
Such colour to her cheekes these newes do bring,
Which in her face doth make a second spring.

Yet trembling at the Spensers Lordly power,
Their wrongs, oppression, and controling pride,
Th'unconstant Barrons, wavering every houre,
The fierce encounter of this raging tyde,
No stratagem yet strongly policied;
Shee from suspition seemingly retyers,
Carelesse in shew of what she most desires.

Grounded advice, in danger seldom trips,
The deadliest poyson, skill can safely drinke,
Fore-sight stands fast, where giddy rashnes slips,
Wisdome seemes blinde, when eyed as a Linxe,
Prevention speaketh all but what he thinks;
The deadliest hate, with smyles securely stands,
Revenge in teares doth ever wash his hands.

Loe for her safetie this shee must desemble,
A benefite which women have by kind,
The neerest colour finely to resemble,
Suppressing thus the greatnes of her mind,
Now is shee shrowded closely under wind,
And at her prayers (poore soule) shee plainly ment,
A silly Queene, a harmelesse innocent.

314

The least suspition cunningly to heale,
Still in her lookes humilitie shee beares,
With patience she with mightines must deale,
So policie religions habite weares,
He's mad which takes a Lyon by the eares.
This knew the Queene, and this well know the wise,
This must they learne, which toyle in Monarchies.

Adam Torlton Bishop of Herford, a mighty polititian.

Torlton the learnedst Prelate in the Land,
Upon a text of politicks to preach,
Car'd not on Paules preciser poynts to stand,
Poore Moralls to beleeving men to teach,
For he at Kingdomes had a further reach:
This learned Tutor, Isabell had taught,
In nicer poynts then ever Edward sought.

Now in meane time, the smothered flame brake forth,
The Mortimers march from the westerne playne,
The Lords in armes at Pomfret in the North,
The King from London, comes with might and mayne,
Their factious followers in the streetes are slayne.
No other thing is to be hop'd upon,
But horrour, death, and desolation.

Like as Sabrina from the Ocean flancks,
Comes sweeping in along the tawny sands,
And with her billowes tilting on the bancks,
Rowles in her flood upon the westerne strands,
Stretching her watrie armes along the lands,
With such great furie doe these legions ryse,
Filling the shores with lamentable cryes.

Thus of three hands, they all set up theyr rest,
And at the stake their lives they franckly lay,
Hee's like to winne who cuts his dealing best,
And for a Kingdome at the least they play,
The fayr'st in show must carrie all away;
And though the King himselfe in sequence came,
He sawe the Queene lay right to make his game.

315

But Fortune masking in this straunge disguise,
Whose prodigie, whose monster he was borne,
Now in his lyfe her power, t'anotomize,
Ordayning him her darling and her scorne,
His Tragedie her triumph to adorne.
Shee straight begins to bandy him about,
At thousand ods before the set goes out.

As when we see the spring-begetting Sunne,
In heavens black night-gowne covered from our sight,
And when he yet, but fewe degrees hath runne,
Some fennie fogge damps up his gladsome light,
That at his noon-sted he may shine more bright.
His cheerefull morning Fortune cloudeth thus,
To make his day more fayre, more glorious.

Edward whom daunger warnd to dread the worst,
Unto the hart with poysned ranckor stung,
Now for his crowne must scuffle if he durst,
Or else his scepter in the dust were flung,
To stop the head from which these mischiefes sprung.
First with the Marchers thinks it fit to cope,
On whom he knew lay all the Barrons hope.

Like to a whirle-wind comes this irefull King,
Whose presence soone the Welchmens power had staid,
The Cornish yet theyr forces fayld to bring,
And Lancaster too slacke forslow'd theyr ayd,
Faynt-harted friends, their succours long delayd.
Depriv'd of meanes, forlorne of farther good,
And wanting strength to stem so great a flood.

They who perceiv'd, their trust was thus betrayd,
Their long expected purpose thus to quayle,
How mischiefe still upon their fortune playd,
That they perforce their high-borne top must vayle,
This storme still blew so stifly on their sayle.
Of Edwards mercy now the depth must sound,
Where yet their Ankor might take hold on ground.

316

This tooke the King in presage of his good,
Who this event to his successe apply'd,
Which coold the furie of his boyling blood,
Before their force in armes he yet had try'd,
His sterne approch this easely molified
That on submission he dismist theyr power,
And sends them both as prisoners to the Tower.

Not cowardize but wisedome warnes to yield,
When Fortune aydes the proud insulting foe,
Before dishonour ever blot the field;
Where by advantage hopes agayne may growe,
When as too weake to beare so great a blowe:
That whilst his pittie pardons them to live,
To his owne wrongs he full revenge might give.

Loe now my Muse must sing of dreadfull Armes,
And taske her selfe to tell of civill warres,
Of Ambuscados, stratagems, alarmes,
Of murther, slaughter, monstrous Massacarres,
Of blood, of wounds, of never-healed scarres,
Of battailes fought by brother against brother,
The Sonne and Father one against the other.

O thou great Lady, Mistris of my Muse,
Renowned Lucie, vertues truest frend,
Which doest a spyrit into my spyrit infuse,
And from thy beames the light I have dost lend,
Into my verse thy lyving power extend.
O breathe new lyfe to write this Tragicke storie,
Assist me now brave Bedford for thy glorie.

Whilst in the Tower the Mortimers are mew'd,
The Barrons drew their forces to a head,
Whom Edward (spurd with vengeance) still pursu'd
By Lancaster and famous Herford led,
Toward eithers force, forth-with both Armies sped.

Burton upon Trent.

At Burton both in camping for the day,
Where they must trye who beares the spurres away.

317

Upon the East from bushie Needwoods side,
There riseth up an easie clyming hill,
At whose fayre foote the silver Trent doth slide,

Needwood.

And all the shores with ratling murmure fill,
Whose tumbling waves the flowrie Meadowes swill,
Upon whose streame a Bridge of wondrous strength,
Doth stretch her selfe, neere fortie Arches length.

Upon this mount the King his Tents hath fixt,
And in the Towne the Barrons lye in sight,
This famous Ryver risen so betwixt,
Whose furie yet prolong'd this deadly fight,
The passage stopp'd, not to be wonne by might.
Things which presage both good and ill there bee,
Which heaven fore-shewes, yet will not let us see.

The raging flood hath drownd up all her foards,
Sok'd in excesse of cloud-congealed teares,
And steepes the bancks within her watrie hoards,
Supping the whir-pooles from the quaggie mears,
Now doth shee washe her tressed rushie hayrs.
Swolne with the dropsie in her grieved woombe,
That this her channell must become a Toombe.

O warlike Nation hold thy conquering hand,
Even sencelesse things doe warne thee yet to pawse,
Thy Mother soyle on whom thy feete doe stand,
O then infrindge not Natures sacred lawes,
Still runne not headlong into mischiefes jawes:
Yet stay thy foote in murthers ugly gate,
Ill comes too soone, repentance oft too late.

And can the cloudes weepe over thy decay,
Yet not one drop fall from thy droughtie eyes?
Seest thou the snare yet wilt not shunne the way,
Nor yet be warn'd, by passed miseries?
Or ere too late, yet learne once to be wise.
A mischiefe seene, may easely be prevented,
But beeing hap'd, not help'd, yet still lamented.

318

Behold the Eagles, Lyons, Talbots, Bears,
The Badges of your famous ancestries,
And shall they now by their inglorious heyrs:
Be thus displayd against their families?
Reliques unworthie of theyr progenies.
Those Beastes you beare doe in their kinds agree
And then those Beasts more savage will you bee?

Cannot the Scot of your late slaughter boast?
And are you yet scarce healed of the sore?
Is't not inough you have already lost,
But your owne madnes now must make it more?
Your Wives and Children pittied you before.
But when your own blood, your own swords imbrue,
Who pitties them, which once have pittied you?

What, shall the Sister weepe her Brothers death,
Who sent her Husband to his timelesse grave?
The Nephewe moane his Unckles losse of breath,
Which did his Father of his lyfe deprave?
Who shall have mind your memories to save?
Or shall he buriall to his friend afford,
Who lately put his Sonne unto the sword?

But whilst the King, and Lords in counsell sit,
Yet in conclusion variably doe hover,
See how misfortune still her time can fit:
Such as were sent the Country to discover,
Have found a way to land their forces over.
Ill newes hath wings, and with the winde doth goe,
Comfort's a Cripple, and comes ever slow.

And Edward fearing Lancasters supplyes,
Great Surry, Richmond, and his Pembrooke sent,
On whose successe his chiefest hope relyes,
Under whose conduct halfe his Armie went,
And he himselfe, and Edmond Earle of Kent,
Upon the hill in sight of Burton lay,
Watching to take advantage of the day.

319

Stay Surry stay, thou maist too soone begon;
Stay till this rage be some-what over-past,
Why runn'st thou thus to thy destruction?
Pembrooke and Richmond, whether doe you hast?
Never seeke sorrow, for it comes too fast.
Why strive you thus to passe this fatall flood,
To fetch new wounds, and shed your neerest blood?

Great Lancaster, sheath up thy conquering sword,
On Edwards Armes, whose edge thou should'st not whet,
Thy naturall Nephew, and thy soveraigne Lord,
Both one, one blood, and both Plantaginet.
Canst thou thy oth to Longshanks thus forget?
Yet call to minde, before all other things,
Our vowes must be perform'd to Gods and Kings.

Knowe, noble Lord, it better is to end,
Then to proceed in things rashly begun:
Which oft ill counseld worser doe offend,
Speech hath obtaind, where weapons have not won;
By good perswasion what cannot be done?
And when all other hopes and helps be past,
Then fall to Armes, but let that be the last.

The winds are husht, no little breth doth blow,
The calmed ayre as all amazed stood,
The earth with roring trembleth below,
The Sunne besmear'd his glorious face in blood,
The fearfull Heards bellowing as they were wood:
The Drums and Trumpets give a signall sound,
With such a noyse as they had torne the ground.

The Earles now charging with three hundred horse,
The Kings vantgard assay the Bridge to win,
Forcing the Barrons to devide their force,
T'avoyde the present danger they were in:
Never till now the horror doth begin;
That if th'elements our succour had not sought,
All had that day beene to confusion brought.

320

Now from the hill the Kings maine power comes downe,
Which had Aquarius to their valiant guide,

Aquary a notable souldier.

Brave Lancaster and Herford from the towne,
Doe issue forth upon the other side:
The one assailes, the other munified.
Englands Red crosse upon both sides doth flye,
Saint George the King, Saint George the Barrons cry.

Even as a bustling tempests rouzing blasts,
Upon a Forrest of old-branched Oakes,
Downe upon heapes their climing bodies casts,
And with his furie teyrs their mossy loaks,
The neighbour groves resounding with the stroaks,
With such a clamor and confused woe,
To get the Bridge these desperate Armies goe.

Now must our famous and victorious bowes,
With which our Nation Kingdoms did subdue,
First send their darting arrowes against those
Whose sinewed armes against their foes them drew;
These winged weapons, mourning as they flew,
Cleave to the strings, with very terror slack,
As to the Archers they would faine turne back.

The battered Caskes, with Battel-Axes strokes,
Besnow the soyle with drifts of scattered plumes,
The trampling presse stirre up such duskie smokes
Which choke the ayre with reekie smothering fumes,
Which rising up, into a clowde consumes;
As though the heaven had muffled her in black,
Lothing to see this lamentable sack.

Behold the remnant of Troyes famous stocke,
Laying on blowes as Smithes on Anviles strike,
Grappling together in this fearfull shock,
The like presse forth, t'incounter with the like,
And then reculing to the push of pyke:
Yet not a foote doth eyther give to eyther,
Now one the ods, then both alike, then neither.

321

Even as you see a field of standing Corne,
When in faire June some easie gale doth blow,
How up and downe the spyring eares are borne,
And with the blasts like Billowes come and goe,
As golden streamers waving to and fro,
Thus on the suddaine runne they on amaine,
Then straight by force are driven backe againe.

Heer lyes a heap, halfe slaine, halfe chok'd, halfe drownd,
Gasping for breth amongst the slymie seggs,
And there a sort falne in a deadly swound,
Scrawling in blood upon the muddy dreggs:
Heere in the streame, swim bowels, armes and leggs.
One kills his foe, his braine another cuts,
Ones feet intangled in anothers guts.

One his owne hands in his owne blood defiles,
Another from the Bridges height doth fall,
Some dash'd to death upon the stony pyles,
Some in theyr gore upon the pavement sprall,
The carkasses lye heaped like a wall:
Such hideous shreeks the bedlam Souldiers breath,
As though the Spirits had howled from beneath.

The mangled bodies diving in the streame,
Now up, now downe, like tumbling Porpose swim,
The water cover'd with a bloody creame,
To the beholder horrible and grim:
Heere lies a head, and there doth lye a lym;
Which in the sands the swelling waters souse,
That all the shores seeme like a slaughter-house.

It seem'd the very wounds for griefe did weepe,
To feele the temper of the slicing blade,
The sencelesse steele in blood it selfe did sleepe,
To see the wounds his sharpe-ground edge had made,
Whilst kinsman, kinsman, friend, doth friend invade,
Such is the horror of these civill broyles,
When with our blood, we fat our native soyles.

322

This faction still defying Edwards might,
Edmond of Woodstock, famous Earle of Kent,
Charging the foe againe renewes the fight,
Upon the Barrons forces almost spent,
Who now againe supplying succours sent.
And now a second conflict doth begin,
The English Lords like Tygars flying in.

Like as an exhalation hote and dry,
Amongst the ayre-bred moystie vapors throwne,
Spetteth his lightning forth outragiously,
Renting the thick clowdes with a thunder-stone,
As though the huge all-covering heaven did grone,
Such is the garboyle of this conflict then,
Brave Englishmen, encountring Englishmen.

Even as proude Pyrrhus entring Illion,
Couragious Talbot with his shield him bare,
Clifford and Moubray, seconding anon,
Audley and Gifford thrunging for their share,
Elmbridge and Balsmer in the thickest are:
Pell-mell together flyes this furious power,
Like to the falling of some mighty Tower.

Mountfort and Teis, your worths faine would I speake,
But that your valure can but ill deserve,
Brave Denvile, heere I from thy prayse must breake,
And from thy prayses Willington must swarve,
Great Damory, heere must thy glory starve;
Concealing many, most deserving blame,
Because their acts doe quench my sacred flame.

O that those Armes in conquests had been borne,
And that, that battered fame-engraven shield,
Should in those civill massacres be torne
Which bare the marks of many a bloody field:
O that our armes had power their Armes to weeld.
That since that time, the stones for very dreed,
Against foule stormes could teary moisture sheed.

323

O had you shap'd your valures first by them
Who summon'd Akon with an English drum,
Or marched on to faire Jerusalem,
T'inlarge the bounds of famous Christendome,
Or with Christs warriors slept about his toombe,
Then ages had immortaliz'd your fame,
Where now my song can be but of your shame.

Death following on, feare ever in their eyes,
Grieved with wounds, the conquered Barrons fled,
And now the King enrich'd with victories,
Hath in the field his glorious Ensignes spred,
This in his thoughts againe fresh courage bred,
And somwhat drawes th'unconstant peoples harts,
Who equall peyz'd, yet way'd to neither parts.

And wanting ground, they unresolved are,
King Edwards friends, agaynst the rebels cry,
The Barrons plead their Countries onely care,
Exclayming on the Princes tyrannie,
Hee urg'd obedience, they their libertie.
Both under colour, carefull of the state,
Hee right, and they their wrongs expostulate.

Some fewe them selves in Sanctuaries hide,
In mercie of the priviledged place,
Yet are their bodyes so unsanctifide,
As scarce their soules can ever hope for grace,
A poore dead lyfe, this draweth out a space.
Hate stands without, and horror sits within,
Prolonging shame, yet pard'ning not their sinne.

At fatall Pomfret gathering head at length,
When they of all extreamities had tasted,
Where yet before they could recover strength,
King Edward followeth whilst his fortune lasted,
Unto whose ayde the Earle of Carlell hasted.
With troupes of bow-men and ranck-riding bands,
Of Westmer, Cumber, and Northumberlands.

324

Mad and amaz'd, nor knowing what to doe,
Surpriz'd by this late mischievous event,
Seeing at hand their utter overthrowe,
And in despight how crossely all things went,
Fortune her selfe to their destruction bent;
In all disorder head-long on they runne,
To end with blood, what was with blood begunne.

Lyke as a heard of silly hartlesse Deare,
Whom hote-spurd Huntsmen fiercely doe pursue,
In brakes and bushes falling heere and there,
Yet when no way the hounds they can eschew,
Now flying back from whence of late they flew,
Hem'd on each side with hornes rechating blast,
Head-long them selves into the toyles doe cast.

To Borough bridge by fate appoynted thus,
Where lyke false Raynard, falser Herckley lay,
Bridges to Barrons ever ominous,
There to renewe this latest deadly fray,
O heere begins the blackest dismall day,
The birth of horror, hower of wrath that yet,
The very soyle seemes to remember it.

Heere is not Death contented with the dead,
Nor vengeance is with vengeance satisfied,
Blood-shed by blood-shed still is nourished,
And mischiefe meanes no more her store to hide,
Strange sorts of torments heaven doth now provide,
That dead men should in miserie remayne,
And in the lyving, death should dye with payne.

Thus rules the world, a world why saye I so,
Worst is the world, yet worser must I name it,
Nights ugli'st night, hells bitter'st hell of woe,
So ill as slaunder never can defame it,
That shame her selfe is sham'd, seeking to shame it,
Could envie speake, what envie can expresse,
In saying most, that most should make it lesse.

325

Heere noble Herford, Bohun breathes his last,
Crowne of true Knight-hood, flower of Chivalrie,
But Lancaster their torment lives to tast,

Bohun slaine at Borogh.

Who perrish now with endlesse obloquie,
O vanquisht conquest, loosing victorie,
That where the sword for pittie leaves to spill,
There extreame justice should begin to kill.

O subject for some tragick Muse to sing,
Of five great Earledomes at one time possest,
Sonne, Unckle, Brother, Grandchild to a King,
With favours, friends, and earthly honours blest,

Thomas the great Earle of Lancaster.

But see on earth, heere is no place of rest.
These Fortunes gyfts, and she to shew her power,
Takes lyfe, and these, and all within an hower.

The wretched Mother tearing of her hayre,
Bewayles the time this fatall warre begunne,
Lyke grave-borne gosts, amaz'd and mad with feare,
To view the quartered carkasse of her Sonne,
With hideous shreeks through streetes & wayes doth runne.
And seeing none to help, none heare her crye,
Some drownd, some stabd, some starvd, some strangled die.

Lyke gastly death the aged Father stands,
Weeping his Sonne, bemoning of his wife,
Shee murthered by her owne blood-guiltie hands,
Hee slaughtered by the executioners knife,
Sadly sits downe to ende his hatefull life;
Banning the earth, and cursing at the ayre,
Upon his poyniard falleth in dispayre.

The wofull widdowe for her Lord distrest,
Whose breathlesse body cold death doth benum,
Her little Infant leaning on her breast,
Rings in her eares, when will my Father come?
Doth wish that she were deafe, or it were dombe.
Clipping each other, weeping both togeather,
Shee for her Lord, the poore babe for his Father.

326

The ayre is poysned with the dampie stinck,
Which most contagious pestilence doth breed,
The glutted earth her fill of gore doth drinck,
Which from unburied bodies doth proceede,
Ravens and dogs on dead men onely feede;
In every Coast thus doe our eyes behold,
Our sinnes by judgement of the heavens controld.

Lyke as a Wolfe returning from the foyle,
Having full stuft his flesh-engorged panch,
Tumbles him downe to wallowe in the soyle,
With cooling breath his boyling mawe to stanch,
Scarce able now to moove his lustlesse hanch.
Thus after slaughter Edward breathlesse stood,
As though his sword had surfeted with blood.

Heere endeth life, yet heere death cannot end,
And heere begins, what Edwards woes begun,
Nor his pretence, falls as he doth pretend,
Nor hath he wone, what he by battell wone,
All is not done, though almost all undone,
Whilst power hath raign'd, still policie did lurke,
Seldome doth mallice want a meane to worke.

The King now by the conquering Lords consent,
Who by this happie victorie grew strong,
Summons at Yorke a present Parliament,
To plant his right, and helpe the Spensers wrong,
From whence agayne his minions greatnes sprung,
Whose counsell still, in all their actions crost,
Th'inraged Queene whom all misfortunes tost.

But miseries which seldome come alone,
Thicke in the necks one of another fell,
Meane while the Scots heere make invasion,
And Charles of France doth thence our powers expell,
The grieved Commons more and more rebell.
Mischiefe on mischiefe, curse doth followe curse,
Plague after plague, and worse ensueth worse.

327

For Mortimer this wind yet rightly blewe,
Darckning their eyes which else perhaps might see,
Whilst Isabell who all advantage knewe,
Is closely plotting his deliverie,
Now fitly drawne by Torltons policie:
Thus by a Queene, a Bishop, and a Knight,
To check a King, in spight of all dispight.

A drowsie potion shee by skill hath made,
Whose secret working had such wonderous power,
As could the sence with heavie sleepe invade,
And mortifie the patient in one hower,
As though pale death the body did devower;
Nor for two dayes might opened be his eyes,
By all meanes Arte or Phisicke could devise.

Thus sits this great Enchauntresse in her Cell,
Invironed with spyrit-commaunding charmes,
Her body censed with most sacred smell,
With holy fiers her liquors now shee warmes,
Then her with sorcering instruments she armes.
And from her hearbs the powerfull juyce she wrong,
To make the poyson forcible and strong.

Reason might judge, doubts better might advise,
And as a woman, feare her hand have stayd,
Waying the strangenesse of the interprize,
The daunger well might have her sex dismayd,
Fortune, distrust, suspect, to be betrayd;
But when they leave of vertue to esteeme,
They greatly erre which thinke them as they seeme.

Their plighted fayth, when as they list they leave,
Their love is cold, their lust, hote, hote their hate,
With smiles and teares these Serpents doe deceave,
In their desires they be insatiate,
Their will no bound, and their revenge no date.
All feare exempt, where they at ruine ayme,
Covering their sinne with their discovered shame.

328

Medea pittifull in tender yeares,
Untill with Jason she would take her flight,
Then mercilesse her Brothers lymmes she teares,
Betrayes her Father, flyes away by night,
Nor Nations, Seas, nor daungers could affright;
Who dyed with heate, nor could abide the wind,
Now like a Tigar falls unto her kind.

Now waits the Queene fitt'st time, as might behove,
Their ghostly Father for their speed must pray,
Their servants seale these secrets up with love,
Their friends must be the meane, the guide, the way,
And he resolve on whom the burthen lay;
This is the summe, the all, if this neglected,
Never againe were meane to be expected.

Thus, while hee liv'd a prysoner in the Towre,
The Keepers oft with feasts he entertaind,
Which as a stale, serves fitly at this howre,
The tempting bayte wher-with his hookes were traind,
A stately banquet now he had ordaind,
And after cates when they their thirst should quench,
He sawc'd their wine with thys approoved drench.

And thus become the keeper of the kayes,
In steele-bound locks he safely lodg'd the Guard:
Then lurking forth by the most secret wayes,
Not now to learne his compasse by the Card,
With corded ladders which hee had prepard,
Now up these proude aspyring walls doth goe,
Which seeme to scorne they should be mastred so.

They soundly sleepe, now must his wits awake,
A second Theseus through a hells extreames,
The sonne of Jove, new toyles must undertake,
Of walls, of gates, of watches, woods, and streames,
And let them tell King Edward of their dreames:
For ere they wak'd out of this brainsick traunce,
He hopes to tell thys noble jest in Fraunce.

329

The sullen night in mistie rugge is wrapp'd,
Powting the day had tarryed up so long,
The Evening in her darksome dungion clapp'd,
And in that place the swarty clowdes were hong,
Downe from the West the half-fac'd Cynthia flong,
As shee had posted forth to tell the Sonne,
What in his absence in her Court was done.

The glymmering starr's like Sentinels in warre,
Behind the Clowdes as thieves doe stand to pry,
And through false loope-holes looking out a farre,
To see him skirmish with his destenie,
As they had held a counsell in the Sky,
And had before consulted with the night,
Shee should be darke, and they would hide their light.

In deadly silence all the shores are hush'd,
Onely the Shreechowle sounds to the assault,
And Isis with a troubled murmure rush'd,
As shee had done her best to hide the fault,
A little whispering moov'd within the vault,
Made with his tuching softly as he went,
Which seem'd to say it furthered his intent.

This wondrous Queene, whom care from rest had kept,
Now for his speed to heaven holds up her hands,
A thousand thoughts within her bosome heap'd,
Now in her Closset listning still she stands,
And though devided as in sundry strands,
Yet absent, present in desires they bee,
For minds discerne, where eyes could never see.

Loe now he thinks he vaulteth in her sight,
Still taking courage, strengthned by her words,
Imagining shee sported with delight,
To see his strong armes stretch the tackling coards,
And oft a smyle unto his toyle affords:
And when shee doubted danger, might her heare,
Call him her soule, her life, her Mortimer.

330

Nowe doth shee wooe the walls, intreat and kisse,
And then protests to memorize the place,
And to adorne it with a Piramis,
Whose glory wrack of time should not deface.
Then to the cord shee turnes her selfe a space,
And promiseth, if that should set him free,
A sacred relique it should ever bee.

Shee saith, the small clowds issuing from his breath,
Seasond with sweet from whence they lately came,
Should cleere the ayre from pestilence and death,
And like Promethian life-begetting flame,
Pure bodies in the element should frame;
And to what part of heaven they hapt to stray,
There should they make another milkie way.

Attaind the top his tyred lymm's to breath,
Mounted in tryumph on his miseries,
The gentle earth salutes him from beneath:
And cover'd with the comfortable skyes,
Lightned with beames of Isabella's eyes,
Downe from the Turret desperatly doth slide;
Now for a kingdome, Fortune be his guide.

As hee descends, so doe her eyes ascend,
As feare had fixt them to behold his fall;
Then from the sight, away her sight doth bend,
When chilly coldnes doth her hart appall,
Then out for helpe shee suddainly doth call;
Silent againe, watching if ought should hap,
Her selfe might be the ground, his grave her lap.

Now doth she court the gentle calmie ayre,
And then againe shee doth conjure the winde;
Now doth she try to stop the night by prayer,
And then with spells the heavy sence to binde;
Then by the burning Tapers shee divinde;
Now shee intreats faire Thames that hee might passe
The Hellespont where her Leander was.

331

The brushing murmure stills her like a song,
Yet fearing least the streame should fall in love,
Envies the drops which on his tresses hong,
Imagining the waves to stay him strove;
And when the billowes with his brest he drove,
Grieved there-with, shee turnes away her face,
Jealous least hee the billowes should embrace.

Shee likneth him to the transformed Bull,
Which curll'd the fayre flood with his Ivory flanck,
When on his backe he bare the lovely trull,
Floting along unto the Cretan banck,
Comparing this to that lascivious pranck,
And swears then hee, no other Jove there were,
If shee Europa had been present there.

Thus seekes he life, encourag'd by his love,
Yet for his love his life he doth eschue,
Danger in him a deadly feare doth move,
And feare envits him danger to pursue,
Rage stirr's revenge, revenge doth rage renue:
Danger and feare, rage and revenge at strife,
Life warr's with love, and love contends with life.

Thys angry Lyon having slypp'd his chayne,
Now like a Quartain, makes King Edward quake,
Who knew too well, ere he was caught againe,
Some of his flock his bloody thirst must slake;
And unawares intangled in this brake,
Sawe further vengeance hanging in the wind,
Knowing too well, the greatnes of his mind.

Thus once againe the world begins to worke,
Theyr hopes (at length) unto thys issue brought,
Whilst yet the Serpent in his Den doth lurke,
Of whom God knowes, the King full little thought,
The instrument which these devises wrought.
For ther's no treason woundeth halfe so deepe,
As that which doth in Princes bosoms sleepe.

332

Now must the Cleargie serve them for a cloke,
The Queene her state unto the time must fit,
But tis the Church-man which must strike the stroke,
Now must thys Prelate shew a statesmans wit,
They cast the plot, and March must manage it;
They both at home together lay on load,
And he the Agent to effect abroad.

Who sweetly tunes his well-perswading tong,
In pleasing musick to the French-kings ears,
The sad discourse of Isabellas wrong,
With tragick action forcing silent tears,
Mooving to pitty every one that hears,
That by discovery of thys foule reproch,
Old mischiefes so, might new be set abroch.

Whilst they are tempring in these home-bred jarres,
How for the Scot fit passage might be made,
To lay the ground of these successfull warrs,
That hope might give him courage to invade,
And from the King the Commons to perswade;
That whilst at home his peace he would assure,
His further plague in Fraunce he might procure.

By these reports, all circumstances knowne,
Sounds Charles of Fraunce into the lists againe,
To ceaze on Guyen by Armes to clayme his owne,
Which Edward doth unlawfully detaine,
Homage for Pontieu, and for Aquitaine,
Revoking this dishonorable truce,
Urg'd by his wrongs, and Isabels abuse.

The spirits thus rayz'd which haunt him day and night,
And on his fortune heaven doth ever lower,
Danger at hand, and mischiefe still in sight,
Civill sedition weakning still his power,
No ease of paine one minute in the hower:
T'intreat of peace with Charles, he now must send,
Else all his hopes in Fraunce were at an end.

333

Heere is the poynt wherein all poynts must end,
Which must be handled with no meane regard,
The prop whereon this building must depend,
Which must by levell curiouslie be squard,
The cunningst descant that had yet beene hard.
Heere close conveyance must a meane provide,
Else might the ambush easely be discride.

Or this must helpe, or nothing serves the turne,
This way, or no way, all must come about,
To blowe the fier which now began to burne,
Or tind the strawe before the brand went out,
This is the lot which must resolve the doubt,
To walke the path where Edward bears the light,
And take their ayme by levell of his sight.

This must a counsell seriously debate,
In gravest judgements fit to be discust,
Beeing a thing so much consernes the state,
Edward in this, must to their wisedomes trust,
No whit suspecting but that all were just.
Especially the Church whose mouth should be,
The Oracle of truth and equitie.

Torlton whose tongue, mens eares in chaines could tye,
Whose words, even like a thunderbolt could pearce,
And were alowd of more aucthoritie,
Then was the Sibills olde divining verse,
Which were of force a judgement to reverse:
Now for the Queene, with all his power doth stand,
To lay this charge on her well-guiding hand.

What helpes her presence to the cause might bring,
First as a wife, a sister, and a mother,
A Queene to deale, betwixt a King, and King,
To right her sonne, her husband, and her brother,
And each to her indifferent as the other:
Which colour serves to worke in these extreames,
That which (God knowes) King Edward never dreames.

334

Torlton is this thy spirituall pretence?
Would God thy thoughts were more spirituall,
Or lesse perswasive were thy eloquence,
But ô thy actions are too temporall,
Thy reasons subtill and sophisticall:
Would all were true thy suposition sayth,
Thy arguments lesse force, or thou more fayth.

Thus is the matter managed with skill,
To his desires, their meanes thus to devise,
To thrust him on, to drawe them up the hill,
That by his strength, they might get power to rise,
This great Archmaster of all policies:
In the beginning wisely had forcast,
How ere things went, which way they must at last.

With sweetest hony, thus he baytes the snare,
And clawes the beast till he be in the yoke,
In golden cups he poyson doth prepare,
And tickles where he meanes to strike the stroke,
Giving the bone whereas he meant to choke:
And by all helpes of Arte doth smooth the way,
To send his foe, downe head-long to decay.

Shee which thus fitly had both winde and tide,
And sawe her passage serve the hower so right,
Whilst things thus fadge are quicke dispatch applide,
To take her time whilst yet the day is light,
Who hath beene tyerd in travell feares the night:
And finding all too much to change inclind,
And every toy soone altering Edwards mind.

Her followers such as frendlesse else had stood,
Supprest and troden with the Spensers pride,
Whose howses Edward branded had with blood,
And but with blood could not be satisfi'd,
Who for revenge did but the hower abide;
And knew all helpes, that mischiefe could invent,
To shake the state, and further her intent.

335

Thus on the wronged, she her wrongs doth rest,
And unto poyson, poyson doth applie,
Her selfe oprest, to harden the oprest,
And with a spye, to intercept a spye,
An Enemie, against an Enemie.
Hee that will gaine what policie doth heede,
By Mercurie must deale, or never speede.

Now Mortimer, whose mayne was fully set,
Seeing by fortune all his hopes were crost,
His strugling still how he againe might get,
That which before his disadvantage lost,
Not once dismayd though in these tempests tost:
Nor in affliction is he overthrowne,
To Mortimer all Countries are his owne.

Englands an Ile where all his youth he spent,
Environ'd valure in it selfe is drownd,
But now he lives within the continent,
Which being boundlesse, honour hath no bound,
Here through the world, doth endlesse glory sound:
To fames rich treasure Time unlocks the dore,
Which angry Fortune had shut up before.

What wayes he of his wealth, our Wigmore left,
Let builded heapes, let Rocks and Mountaines stand,

Wigmore the ancient house of the Mortimers.

Goods oft be held by wrong, first got by theft,
Birds have the ayre, Fish water, Men the land,
Alcides pitch'd his pillers in the sand.
Men looke up to the starres thereby to knowe,
As they doe progresse heaven, he earth should doe.

And to this end, did Nature part the ground,
Else had not man beene King upon the Sea,
Nor in depths her secrets had beene found,
If to all parts on firme had layne his way,
But she to shewe him where her wonders lay:
To passe the floods, this meane for him invents,
To trample on these baser elements.

336

Never sawe France, no never till this day,
A mind more great, more free, more resolute,
Let all our Edwards say, what Edwards may,
Our Henries, Talbot, or our Mountacute,
To whom our royall conquests we impute:
That Charles him selfe, oft to the Peers hath sworne,
This man alone, the Destinies did scorne.

Vertue can beare, what can on Vertue fall,
Who cheapeneth honour, must not stand on price,
Who beareth heaven (they say) can well beare all,
A yeelding mind doth argue cowardize,
Our haps doe turne as chaunces on the dice.
Nor never let him from his hope remove,
That under him hath mould, the starres above.

Let dull-braynd slaves contend for mud and earth,
Let blocks and stones, sweat but for blocks and stones,
Let peasants speake of plenty and of dearth,
Fame never lookes so lowe as on these drones,
Let courage manage Empiers, sit on thrones.
And he that Fortune at commaund will keepe,
He must be suer, he never let her sleepe.

Who wins her grace, must with atchivements wooe her,
As shee is blind, so never had shee eares,
Nor must with puling eloquence goe to her,
Shee understands not sighes, she heares not prayers,
Flatterd shee flyes, controld shee ever feares;
And though a while shee nicely doe forsake it,
Shee is a woman, and at length will take it.

Nor never let him dreame once of a Crowne,
For one bad cast, that will give up his game,
And though by ill hap he be overthrowne,
Yet let him manage her, till shee be tame,
The path is set with danger leads to fame:
When Minos did the Græcians flight denie,
He made him wings, and mounted through the skie.

337

The cheerefull morning cleeres her cloudie browes,
The vaporie mists are all disperst and spred,
Now sleepie Time his lazie lims doth rouze,
And once beginneth to hold up his head,
Hope bloometh faire, whose roote was wel nere dead,
The clue of sorrowe to the end is ronne,
The bowe appeares to tell the flood is donne.

Nature lookes backe to see her owne decay,
Commaunding age to slacke her speedy pace,
Occasion forth her golden loake doth lay,
Whilst sorrowe paynts her wrinckle-withered face,
Day lengthneth day, and joyes doe joyes imbrace.
Now is she comming yet till she be heere,
My pen runnes slowe, each comma seemes a yeere.

She's now imbarck'd, slide billowes for her sake,
Whose eyes can make your aged Neptune yong,
Sweet Syrens from the chaulkie cleevs awake,
Ravish her eares with some in chaunting song,
Daunce the Lavoltos all the sands along:
It is not Venus on your floods doth passe,
But one more fayre then ever Venus was.

You scalie Dolphins gaze upon her eyes,
And never after with your kind make warre,
O steale the Musicke from her lips that flyes,
Whose accents like the tunes of Angels are,
Compard with whom Arions did but jarre.
Hugge them sweet ayre, and when the Seas doe rage,
Use them as charmes thy tempests to aswage.

Sweet Sea-nymphs flock in sholes upon the shores,
Fraunce kisse those feete whose steps thou first didst guide,
Present thy Queene with all thy gorgious store,
Now mayst thou revell in thy greatest pride:
Shyp mount to heaven, and be thou stellified,
And next that starr-fix'd Argosie alone,
There take thou up thy constellation.

338

Th'exceeding joy conceved by the Queene,
Or his content, to them I leave to gesse
Who but the subject of their thoughts have seene,
Who I am sure, if they the truth confesse,
Will say that silence onely can expresse:
And when with honor shee fit time could take,
With sweet embraces thus shee him bespake.

O Mortimer, great Mortimer quoth shee,
What angry power such mischiefe could devise,
To separate thy deerest Queene and thee,
Whom loves eternall union strongly tyes?
But seeing thee, unto my longing eyes
(Though guiltlesse they,) this penance is assignd,
To gaze upon thee untill they be blind.

Sweet face, quoth shee, how art thou changed thus,
Since beauty on this lovely front thou bor'st,
Like the yong Hunter fresh Hipolitus,
When in these curles my favors first thou wor'st?
Now like great Jove thy Juno thou ador'st;
The Muses leave theyr double-topped throne,
And on thy temples make theyr Helicon.

Come tell mee now what griefe and danger is,
Of paine and pleasure in imprisonment,
At every breath the poynt shal be a kisse,
Which can restore consuming languishment,
A cordiall to comfort banishment;
And thou shalt find, that pleasures long restraind,
Be farre more pleasant when they once be gaind.

Now sweeten all thy sorrowes with delight,
Teach man-hood courtshyp, turne these broyles to love,
The day's nere ill that hast a pleasing night,
Ther's other warrs in hand, which thou must prove,
Warrs which no blood shall shed, nor sorrow move:
And that sweet foe of whom thou winn'st the day,
Shall crowne thy tresses with tryumphant Bay.

339

And sith that tyme our better ease assures,
Let solace sit and rock thee on her brest,
And let thy sences say like Epicures,
Lets eate and drinke, and lay us downe to rest,
Like belly-Gods, to surfet at the feast;
Our day is cleere, then never doubt a shower,
Prince Edward is my sonne, England my dower.

Possessing this inestimable Jem,
What is there wanting to maintaine thy port?
Thy royall Mistresse wears a Diadem,
Thy high-pitchd pyneons sore beyond report,
I am thy Wigmore, Fraunce shall be thy Court;
How canst thou want millions of Pearle and gold,
When thou the Indies in thyne armes dost hold?

Thou art King Edward, or opinion fayles,
Longshanks begot thee when in youth he rang'd,
Thou art Carnarvan, thou the Prince of Wales,
And in thy Cradle falsely thou wert chang'd,
Hee Mortimer, and thou hast beene estrang'd:
Pardon me deere, what Mortimer sayd I,
Then should I love him, but my tongue doth lie.

As Fortune hath created him a King,
Had Nature made him valiant as thou art,
My soule had not been tuch'd with torments sting,
Nor hadst thou now been plac'd so neere my hart;
But since by lot this falleth to thy part,
If such have wealth as lewdly will abuse it,
Let those enjoy it who can better use it.

Except to heaven, my hopes can clime no hier;
Now in mine armes had I my little boy,
Then had I all on earth I could desier,
The King's as he would be, God send him joy,
Now with his mynions let him sport and toy:
His lemman Spenser, and himselfe alone,
May sit and talke of Mistresse Gaveston.

340

When first I of that wanton King was woo'd,
Why camst thou not unto the Court of Fraunce?
Thou then alone should'st in my grace have stood,
O Mortimer, how good had been thy chaunce?
Then had I beene thine owne inheritance;
Now entrest thou by force, and holds by might,
And so intrud'st upon anothers right.

Honor that I doll weomen so adore,
How many plagues hast thou in store to grieve us,
When in our selves we finde there yet is more
Then that bare word of majestie can give us?
When of that comfort so thou canst deprive us,
Which with our selves oft sett'st us at debate,
And mak'st us beggers in our greatest state.

Even as a Trumpets lively-sounding voyce,
Tryps on the winds with many a dainty trick,
When as the speaking Ecchoes doe rejoyce,
So much delighted with the rethorick,
Seeming to make the heavie dull ayre quick;
With such rare musick in a thousand kayes,
Upon his hart-strings shee in consort playes.

On thys foundation whilst they firmely stand,
And as they wish, so fitly all things went,
No worse their warrant, then King Edwards hand,
Who his owne Bow to his destruction bent;
The course of things to fall in true consent,
Gives full assurance of the happy end,
On which their thoughts now carefully attend.

And sith in payment all for currant passe,
And theyr proceedings were allow'd for such,
Although this peace against her stomack was,
And yet imports the Princes strength so much,
To carry all things cleerly without tuch,
With seeming care doth seemingly effect,
What love commaunds, and greatnes should respect.

341

Charles waying well his lawfull Nephews right,
So mighty an Embassador as shee,
This meane to winne her grace in Edwards sight,
And so reclaime his vaine inconstancie,
With kindnes thus to conquer all these three,
What love the subjects to his Sister bore,
Heapes on desert, to make this much the more.

Her expedition, and thys great successe
Of after-good, still seeming to devine,
Carnarvan should by covenant release,
And to the Prince the Provinces resigne,
Who dooing homage, should reenter Guyne,
Safe-conduct sent the King, to come with speed,
To seale in person what the Queene decreed.

But whilst he stood yet doubtfull what to doe,
The Spensers who his counsels chiefely guide,
Nor with theyr Soveraigne into Fraunce durst goe,
Nor in his absence durst at home abide:
His listning eares with such perswasions plyde,
As hee by them, to stay at home is wonne,
And with Commission to dispatch his Sonne.

Now till thys howre all joyes in wombed lay,
And in this howre now came they first to light,
Ad dayes to Months, and howres unto the day,
And as Jove dyd, so make a treble night,
And whilst delight is ravish'd with delight,
Swound in these sweets, in pleasures pleasing paine,
And as they die, so brought to life againe.

Now Clowd-borne care, hence vanish for a time,
The Sunne ascending, hath the yeere renew'd,
And as the Halkes in hotest Sotherne clime,
Their halfe-sick hopes their crazed flags have mew'd,
A world of joyes their brests doe now include,
The thoughts whereof, thoughts quicknes doth benum,
In whose expression, pens and tongues be dumbe.

342

In fayre Lavinium, Troy is built againe,
And on thys shore her ruins are repard,
Nor Junos hate such vigor doth retaine,
The Fates appeas'd who with theyr fortune squard,
The remnant of the shypwrackt navie spard,
Though torne with tempests, yet ariv'd at last,
May sit and sing, and tell of sorrowes past.

If shee doe sit, he leanes on Cynthias throne,
If shee doe walke, he in the circle went,
If shee doe sport, he must be grac'd alone,
If shee discourse, he is the argument,
If shee devise, it is to his content:
From her proceeds the light he beares about him,
And yet she sets if once shee be without him.

Still with his eares his soveraigne Goddesse hears,
And with his eyes shee graciously doth see,
Still in her breast his secret thoughts she bears,
Nor can her tongue pronounce an I, but wee,
Thus two in one, and one in two they bee:
And as his soule possesseth head and hart,
Shee's all in all, and all in every part.

Like as a well-tund Lute thats tucht with skill,
In Musicks language sweetly speaking playne,
When every string it selfe with sound doth fill,
Taking their tones, and giving them againe,
A diapazon heard in every strayne:
So their affections set in kayes so like,
Still fall in consort, as their humors strike.

Shee must returne, King Edwards will is so,
But soft a while, shee meaneth no such thing,
He's not so swift, but shee is twice as slowe,
No hast, but good, this message backe to bring,
Another tune he must be taught to sing:
Which to his hart more deadly is by far,
Then cryes of ghosts, or Mandrakes shreekings are.

343

Stapleton who had beene of their counsell long,
Or woonne with gifts, or else of childish feare,
Or mov'd in conscience with King Edwards wrong,
Or pittying him, or hate to them did beare,
Or of th'event that now he did dispaire:
This Bishop backe from Fraunce to Edward flewe,
And knowing all discovered all he knewe.

The platforme of this enterprize disclosd,
And Torltons drift by circumstances found,
With what conveyance all things are disposd,
The cunning usd in laying of the ground,
And with what Art, this curious trayle is woond:
Awakes the King, to see his owne estate,
When to prevent, he comes a day too late.

Isabell the time doth still and still rejorne,
Charles as a Brother with perswasions deales,
Edward with threats, doth hasten her retorne,
Pope John, with Bulls and curses hard assailes,
Perswasions, curses, threats, no whit prevailes:
Charles, Edward, John, Pope, Princes, doe your worst,
The Queene fares best, when she the most is curst.

The Spensers, who the French-mens humors felt,
And with their Soveraigne, had devisd the draught,
With Prince, and Peers, now under hand had delt,
In golden nets, who were alreadie caught,
And nowe King Charles, they have so throughlie wrought:
That he with sums, too slightly overwaid,
Poore Isabells hopes, now in the dust are layd.

Thou base desier, thou grave of all good harts,
Corsive to kindnes, bawd to beastly will,
Monster of time, defrauder of desarts,
Thou plague, which doest both love and vertue kill,
Honours abuser, friendships greatest ill:
If curse in hell, there worse then other bee,
I pray that curse, may trebled light on thee.

344

Nor can all these amaze this mighty Queene,
Who with affliction, never was controld,
Never such courage in her sex was seene,
Nor was she cast in other womens mould,
But can endure warres, travell, want, and cold:
Strugling with Fortune, nere with greefe opprest,
Most cheerefull still, when she was most distrest,

Thus she resolv'd, to leave ungratefull France,
And in the world her fortune yet to trye,
Chaunging the ayre, hopes time will alter chance,
As one whose thoughts with honors wings doe flye,
Her mighty mind, still scorning miserie:
Yet ere she went, her greeved hart to heale,
Shee rings King Charles, this dolefull parting peale.

Is this the trust I have repos'd (quoth shee)
And to this end to thee my griefes have told?
Is this the kindnes that thou offerest mee?
And in thy Country am I bought and sold?
In all this heate art thou become so cold?
Came I to Fraunce in hope to find a frend?
And now in thee have all my hopes their end?

Phillip (quoth shee) thy Father never was,
But some base peasant, or some slavish hind,
Never did Kingly Lyon get an Asse,
Nor cam'st thou of that Princely Eagles kind:
But sith thy hatefull cowardise I find,
Sinke thou, thy power, thy Country, ayde and all,
Thou barbarous Moore, thou most unnaturall.

Thou wert not Sonne unto the Queene my mother,
Nor wert conceived in her sacred woombe,
Some misbegotten changeling, not my Brother,
O that thy Nurses armes had beene thy Toombe,
Or thy birth-day had beene the day of doombe:
Never was Fortune with such error led,
As when shee plac'd a Crowne upon thy head.

345

And for my farewell this I prophecie,
That from my loynes, that glorious fruite shall spring,
Which shall tread downe that base posteritie,
And lead in tryumph thy succeeding King,
To fatall Fraunce, I as Sibilla sing:
Her Citties sackd, the ruine of her men,
When of the English, one shall conquer ten.

Beumount who had in Fraunce this shufling seene,
Whose soule with kindnes Isabell had wonne,
To flye to Henault, now perswades the Queene,

John of Henault.

Assuring her what good might there be done,
Offering his Neece, unto the Prince her Sonne:
The onely meane, to bend his brothers might,
Against King Edward, and to back her right.

This worthy Lord, experienc'd long in armes,
Whom Isabell with many favours grac'd,
Whose Princely blood, the brute of conquest warmes,
In whose great thoughts, the Queene was highly plac'd,
Greeving to see her succours thus defac'd,
Hath cast this plot, which managed with heed,
Sith all doe fayle, should onely helpe at need.

Shee who but lately had her Ankors wayd,
And sawe the cloudes on every side to rise,
Nor now can stay, untill the streame be stayd,
Nor harbour till the cleering of the skies,
Who though she rov'd, the marke stil in her eyes,
Accepts his offer thankfully as one,
Succouring the poore in such affliction.

This courteous Earle, mov'd with her sad report,
Whose eares were drawne to her inchanting tong,
Traind up with her in Phillips royall Court,
And fully now confirmed in her wrong,
Her foes growe weake, her friends grow daily strong.
The Barrons oath, gag'd in her cause to stand,
The Commons word, the Cleargies helping hand.

346

All Covenants signd with wedlocks sacred seale,
In friendships bonds eternally to bind,
And all proceeding from so perfect zeale,
And suting right, with Henalts mighty mind,
What ease hereby, the Queene doth hope to find;
The sweet contentment of the lovely bride,
Young Edward pleasd, and joy on every side.

Now full seaven times, the Sunne his welked waine,
Had on the top of all the Tropick set,
And seaven times descending downe againe,
His fiery wheeles, had with the fishes wet,
Since malice first this mischiefe did beget:
In which so many courses hath beene runne,
As he that time celestiall signes hath done.

From Henalt now this great Bellona comes,
Glyding along fayre Belgias glassie maine,
Mazing the shores with noyse of thundring drums,
With her young Edward, Duke of Aquitayne,
The fatall scourges of King Edwards raigne:
Her Souldiour Beumount, and the Earle of Kent,
And Mortimer that mightie Malcontent.

Three thousand Souldiers mustred men in pay,
Of Almaynes, Swisers, trustie Henawers,
Of native English fled beyond the Sea,
Of fat-braind Fleamings, fishie Zelanders,
Edwards decreasing power, augmenting hers:
Her friends at home expect her comming in,
And new commotions every day begin.

The Coasts be daylie kept with watch and ward,
The Beacons burning, at thy foes discrie,
O had the love of Subjects beene thy guard,
T'ad beene t'effect, what thou didst fortifie,
But t'is thy houshold home-bred Enemie:
Nor Fort, nor Castell, can thy Countrey keepe,
When foes doe wake, and dreamed friends doe sleepe.

347

In vaine be armes, when heaven becomes a foe,
Kneele, weepe, intreat, and speake thy Deaths-man fayre,
The earth is armd unto thy overthrowe,
Goe pacifie the angrie powers by prayer,
Or if not pray, goe Edward and dispayre:
Thy fatall end, why doest thou this begin,
Locking Death out, thou keep'st destruction in.

A Southwest gale, for Harwich fitly blowes,
Blow not so fast, to kindle such a fier:
Whilst under saile, shee yet securely rowes,
Turne gentle wind, and force her to retyer,
But ô the winds, doe Edwards wrack conspyre,
For when the heavens are unto justice bent,
All things be turnd to our just punishment.

Shee is arriv'd in Orwells pleasant Roade,
Orwell thy name, or ill, or never was:
Why art thou not ore-burthend with thy loade?
Why sinck'st thou not under thys monstrous masse?
But what heaven will, that needs must come to passe.
That grievous plague thou carriest on thy deepe,
Shall give just cause for many, streames to weepe.

Englands Earle-marshall, Lord of all that Coast,
With bells and bonfires welcoms her to shore,
Great Leicester next joyneth hoast to hoast,
The Cleargies power, in readines before,
Which every day increaseth more and more:
Upon the Church a great taxation layd,
For Armes, munition, mony, men, and ayd.

Such as too long had looked for this hower,
And in their brests imprisoned discontent,
Their wills thus made too powerful by their power
Whose spirits were factious, great, and turbulent,
Their hopes succesfull by this ill event,
Like to a thiefe that for his purpose lyes,
Take knowledge now of Edwards injuries.

348

Young Prince of Wales, loe heere thy vertue lyes,
Soften thy Mothers flintie hart with teares,
Then wooe thy Father with those blessed eyes,
Wherein the image of himselfe appeares,
With thy soft hand softly uniting theirs:
With thy sweet kisses so them both beguile,
Untill they smyling weepe, and weeping smile.

Bid her behold that curled silken Downe,
Thy fayre smooth brow, in beauties fayrer pryme,
Not to be prest with a care-bringing Crowne,
Nor that with sorrowes wrinckled ere the time,
Thy feete too feeble to his seate to clime;
Who gave thee life, a crowne for thee did make,
Taking that Crowne, thou life from him doost take.

Looke on these Babes, the seales of plighted troth,
Whose little armes about your bodies cling,
These pretty imps, so deere unto you both,
Beg on their knees, their little hands do wring,
Queenes to a Queene, Kings kneele unto a King,
To see theyr comfort, and the crowne defac'd,
You fall to Armes, which have in armes embrac'd.

Subjects see these, and then looke backe on these,
Where hatefull rage with kindly nature strives,
And judge by Edward of your owne disease,
Chyldren by chyldren, by his wife your wives,
Your state by his, in his life your owne lives,
And yeeld your swords, to take your deaths as due,
Then draw your swords, to spoyle both him and you.

From Edmondsbury now comes thys Lyonesse,
Under the Banner of young Aquitaine,
And downe towards Oxford doth herselfe adresse,
A world of vengeance wayting on her traine,
Heere is the period of Carnarvans raigne;
Edward thou hast, but King thou canst not beare,
Ther's now no King, but great King Mortimer.

349

Now friendles Edward followed by his foes,
Needes must he runne, the devill hath in chase,
Poore in his hopes, but wealthy in his woes,
Plenty of plagues, but scarcitie of grace,
Who wearied all, now wearieth every place;
No home at home, no comfort seene abroad,
His minde small rest, his body small aboad.

One scarce to him his sad discourse hath done
Of Henalts power, and what the Queene intends,
But whilst he speakes, another hath begun,
Another straight beginning where he ends,
Some of new foes, some of revolting frends;
These ended once, againe new rumors spred
Of many which rebell, of many fled.

Thus of the remnant of his hopes bereft,
Shee hath the sum, and hee the silly rest,
Towards Wales he flyes, of England being left,
To rayse an Armie there himselfe adrest,
But of his power shee fully is possest;
Shee hath the East, her rising there-withall,
And he the West, I there goes downe his fall.

What plagues doth Edward for himselfe prepare?
Alas poore Edward, whether doost thou flie?
Men change the ayre, but seldome change their care,
Men flie from foes, but not from miserie,
Griefes be long-liv'd, and sorrowes seldome die;
And when thou feel'st thy conscience tuch'd with griefe,
Thy selfe pursues thy selfe, both rob'd and thiefe.

Towards Lundy, which in Sabryns mouth doth stand,
Carried with hope, still hoping to finde ease,
Imagining thys were his native Land,
Thys England: and Severne the narrow seas,
With this conceit (poore soule) himselfe doth please.
And sith his rule is over-rul'd by men,
On byrds and beasts he'll king it once agen.

350

Tis treble death a freezing death to feele,
For him, on whom the sunne hath ever shone,
Who hath been kneel'd unto, can hardly kneele,
Nor hardly beg which once hath been his owne,
A fearefull thing to tumble from a throne;
Fayne would he be king of a little Ile,
All were his Empyre bounded in a myle.

Aboard a Barke, now towards the Ile he sayles,
Thinking to find some mercy in the flood:
But see, the weather with such power prevailes,
Not suffring him to rule thys peece of wood;
Who can attaine, by heaven and earth with-stood?
Edward, thy hopes but vainly doe delude,
By Gods and men uncessantly pursu'd.

At length to land his carefull Barke he hales,
Beaten with stormes, ballast with misery,
Thys home-bred exile, on the Coast of Wales,
Unlike himselfe, with such as like him bee,
Spenser, Reding, Baldock, these haplesse three,
They to him subject, he subject to care,
And he and they, to murther subject are.

To ancient Neyth, a Castell strongly built,
Thether repayre thys forlorne banish'd crew,
Which holdeth them, but not contaynes theyr guilt,
There hid from eyes, but not from envies view,
Nor from theyr starrs themselves they yet with-drew,
Walls may awhile keepe out an enemie,
But never Castle kept out destenie.

Heere Fortune hath immur'd them in this hold,
Willing theyr poore imprisoned liberty,
Living a death, in hunger, want, and cold,
Whilst murtherous treason entreth secretly,
All lay on hands to punish cruelty;
And when even might is up unto the chin,
Weake frends become strong foes to thrust him in.

351

Melpomine, thou dolefull Muse be gone,
Thy sad complaints be matters farre too light,
Heere (now) come plagues beyond comparison.
You dreadfull Furies, visions of the night,
With gastly howling all approch my sight,
And let pale ghosts with sable Tapers stand,
To lend sad light to my more sadder hand.

Each line shall be a history of woe,
And every accent as a dead mans cry;
Now must my teares in such aboundance flow,
As doe the drops of fruitfull Castaly,
Each letter must containe a tragedy:
Loe, now I come to tell this wofull rest,
The drerest tale that ever pen exprest.

You sencelesse stones, as all prodigious,
Or things which of like solid substance be,
Sith thus in nature all grow monsterous,
And unto kinde contrary disagree,
Consume, or burne, or weepe, or sigh with mee,
Unlesse the earth hard-harted, nor can moane,
Makes steele and stones, more hard then steele and stone.

All-guiding heaven, which so doost still maintaine
What ere thou moov'st in perfect unitie,
And bynd'st all things in friendshyps sacred chayne,
In spotles and perpetuall amitie,
Which is the bounds of thy great Emperie;
Why sufferest thou the sacriligious rage,
Of thys rebellious, hatefull, yron age.

Now ruine raignes, God helpe the Land the while,
All prysons freed to make all mischiefes free,
Traytors and Rebels called from exile,
All things be lawfull, but what lawfull bee,
Nothing our owne, but our owne infamie:
Death, which ends care, yet carelesse of our death,
Who steales our joyes, but stealeth not our breath.

352

London which didst thys mischiefe first begin,
Loe, now I come thy tragedy to tell,

The Londeners set all the prisoners at liberty.

Thou art the first thats plagued for this sin,
Which first didst make the entrance to this hell,
Now death and horror in thy walls must dwell,
Which should'st have care thy selfe in health to keepe,
Thus turn'st the wolves amongst the harmelesse sheepe.

O had I eyes, another Thames to weepe,
Or words expressing more, then words expresse,
O could my teares, thy great foundation steepe,
To moane thy pride, thy wastfull vaine excesse,
Thy gluttonie, thy youthfull wantonnesse:
But t'is thy sinnes, that to the heavens are fled,
Dissolving clowdes of vengeance on thy head.

The place prophan'd, where God should be adord,
The stone remov'd, whereon our faith is grounded,
Aucthoritie is scornd, counsell abhord,
Religion so by foolish sects confounded,
Weake consciences by vaine questions wounded:
The honour due, to Magistrates neglected,
What else but vengeance can there be expected?

When fayth but faynd, a faith doth onely fayne,
And Church-mens lives, give Lay-men leave to fall,
The Ephod made a cloake to cover gayne,
Cunning avoyding what's canonicall,
Yet holines the Badge to beare out all:
When sacred things be made a merchandize,
None talke of texts, then ceaseth prophicies.

When as the lawes, doe once pervert the lawes,
And weake opinion guides the common weale,
Where doubts should cease, doubts rise in every clawse,
The sword which wounds, should be a salve to heale,
Oppression works oppression to conceale:
Yet beeing us'd, when needfull is the use,
Right clokes all wrongs, and covers all abuse.

353

Tempestious thunders, teare the fruitlesse earth,
The roring Ocean past her bounds to rise,
Death-telling apparisions, monstrous birth,
Th'affrighted heaven with comet-glaring eyes,
The ground, the ayre, all fild with prodigies:
Fearefull eclipses, fierie vision,
And angrie Planets in conjunction.

Thy chanells serve for inke, for paper stones,
And on the ground, write murthers, incests, rapes,
And for thy pens, a heape of dead-mens bones,
Thy letters, ugly formes, and monstrous shapes;
And when the earths great hollow concave gapes,
Then sinke them downe, least shee we live upon,
Doe leave our use, and flye subjection.

Virgine, but Virgine onely in thy name,
Now for thy sinne what murtherer shall be spent?
Blacke is my inke, but blacker is thy shame,
Who shall revenge? my Muse can but lament,
With hayre disheveld, words and tears halfe spent:
Poore ravish'd Lucrece stands to end her lyfe,
Whilst cruell Tarquin whets the angrie knyfe.

Thou wantst redresse, and tyrannie remorce,
And sad suspition dyes thy fault in graine,
Compeld by force, must be repeld by force,
Complaints no pardon, penance helpes not payne,
But blood must wash out a more bloody stayne:
To winne thine honour with thy losse of breath,
Thy guiltlesse lyfe with thy more guiltie death.

Thou art benumd, thou canst not feele at all,
Plagues be thy pleasures, feare hath made past feare,
The deadly sound of sinnes nile-thundering fall,
Hath tuned horror setled in thine eare,
Shreeks be the sweetest Musicke thou canst heare:
Armes thy attyer, and weapons all thy good,
And all the wealth thou hast, consists in blood.

354

See wofull Cittie, on thy ruin'd wall,
The verie Image of thy selfe heere see,
Read on thy gates in charrecters thy fall,
In famish'd bodies, thine Anatomie,
How like to them thou art, they like to thee:
And if thy teares have dim'd thy hatefull sight,
Thy buildings are one fier to give thee light.

For world that was, a wofull is, complayne,
When men might have been buried when they dyed,
When Children might have in their cradels layne,
When as a man might have enjoy'd his bride,
The Sonne kneeld by his Fathers death-bed side:
The lyving wrongd, the dead no right (now) have,
The Father sees his Sonne to want a grave.

The poore Samarian almost starv'd for food,
Yet sawced her sweet Infants flesh with tears,
But thou in child with murther, long'st for blood,
Which thy wombe wanting, casts the fruite it bears,
Thy viperous brood, their lothsome prison teyrs:
Thou drinkst thy gore out of a dead-mans scull,
Thy stomack hungry, though thy gorge be full.

Is all the world in sencelesse slaughter dround?
No pittying hart? no hand? no eye? no eare?
None holds his sword from ripping of the wound,
No sparke of pittie, nature, love, nor feare;
Be all so mad, that no man can forbeare?
Will you incur the cruell Neros blame,
Thus to discover your owne Mothers shame?

The man who of the plague yet raving lyes,
Heares yeelding gosts to give their latest grone,
And from his carefull window nought espyes,
But dead-mens bodies, others making moane,
No talke but Death, and execution.
Poore silly women from their houses fled,
Crying (ô helpe) my husbands murthered;

355

Thames turne thee backe to Belgias frothie mayne,
Fayre Tame and Isis, hold backe both your springs,
Nor on thy London spread thy silver trayne,
Nor let thy Ships lay forth their silken wings,
Thy shores with Swans late dying Dirgies rings,
Nor in thy armes let her imbraced bee,
Nor smile on her which sadly weepes on thee.

Time end thy selfe here, let it not be sayd,
That ever Death did first begin in thee,
Nor let this slaunder to thy fault be layd,
That ages charge thee with impietie,
Least feare what hath beene, argue what may be:
And fashioning so a habite of the mind,
Make men no men, and alter humaine kind.

But yet this outrage hath but taken breath,
For pittie past, she meanes to make amends,
And more enrag'd, she doth returne to death,
And next goes downe King Edward and his frends,
What she hath hoarded, now she franckly spends:
In such strange action as was never seene,
Clothing revenge in habite of a Queene.

Now Stapleton's thy turne, from France that fled,
The next the lot unto the Spensers fell,
Reding the Marshall, marshal'd with the dead,
Next is thy turne great Earle of Arundell,
Then Mochelden and wofull Daniell:
Who followed him in his lascivious wayes,
Must goe before him to his blackest dayes.

Carnarvan by his Countrie-men betrayd,
And sent a Prisoner from his native Land,
To Kenelworth poore King he is convayd,
To th'Earle of Leister with a mighty band;
And now a present Parliament in hand,
Fully concluding what they had begunne,
T'uncrowne King Edward, and invest his Sonne.

356

A scepter's lyke a pillar of great height,
Whereon a mighty building doth depend,
Which when the same is over-prest with weight,
And past his compasse, forc'd therby to bend,
His massie roofe down to the ground doth send:
Crushing the lesser props, and murthering all,
Which stand within the compasse of his fall.

Where vice is countenanc'd with nobilitie,
Arte cleane excluded, ignorance held in,
Blinding the world, with mere hipocrisie,
Yet must be sooth'd in all their slavish sinne,
Great malcontents to growe they then begin:
Nursing vile wits, to make them factious tooles,
Thus mighty men oft proove the mightiest fooles.

The Senate wronged by the Senator,
And justice made injustice by delayes,
Next innovation playes the Orator,
Counsels uncounseld, Death defers no dayes,
And plagues, but plagues, alow no other playes:
And when one lyfe, makes hatefull many lives,
Cæsar though Cæsar, dyes with swords and knives.

Now for the Cleargie, Peers, and Laietie,
Against the King must resignation make,
Th'elected Senate of the Emperie,
To Kenelworth are come, the Crowne to take,
Sorrowe hath yet but slept, and now awake:
In solemne sort each one doth take his place,
The partiall Judges of poore Edwards case.

From his imprisoning chamber, cloth'd in black,
Before the great assemblie he is brought,
A dolefull hearse upon a dead-mans back,
Whose heavie lookes, might tell his heavie thought,
Greefe neede no fayned action to be taught:
His Funerall solemniz'd in his cheere,
His eyes the Mourners, and his legs the Beere.

357

His fayre red cheeks clad in pale sheets of shame,
And for a dumbe shew in a swound began,
Where passion doth strange sort of passion frame,
And every sence a right Tragedian,
Exceeding farre the compasse of a man,
By use of sorrow learning nature arte,
Teaching Dispayre to act a lively part.

Ah Pitty, doost thou live, or art thou not?
Some say such sights, men unto flints have turned,
Or Nature, else thy selfe hast thou forgot?
Or is it but a tale, that men have mourned?
That water ever drown'd, or fire burned?
Or have teares left to dwell in humaine eyes,
Or ever man to pitty miseries?

Hee takes the Crowne, and closely hugs it to him,
And smiling in his greefe he leanes upon it;
Then doth hee frowne because it would forgoe him,
Then softly stealing, layes his vesture on it;
Then snatching at it, loth to have forgone it,
Hee put it from him, yet hee will not so,
And yet retaines what fayne he would forgoe.

Like as a Mother over-charg'd with woe,
Her onely chylde now laboring in death,
Doing to helpe it, nothing yet can doe,
Though with her breath, she faine would give it breath,
Still saying, yet forgetting what shee sayth:
Even so with poore King Edward doth it fare,
Leaving his Crowne, the first-borne of his care.

In thys confused conflict of the minde,
Tears drowning sighes, and sighes confounding tears,
Yet when as neyther any ease could finde,
And extreame griefe doth somwhat harden feares,
Sorrow growes sencelesse when too much she bears,
Whilst speech & silence, strives which place should take,
With words halfe spoke, he silently bespake.

358

I clayme no Crowne, quoth he, by vile oppression,
Nor by the law of Nations have you chose mee,
My Fathers title groundeth my succession,
Nor in your power is cullor to depose mee,
By heavens decree I stand, they must dispose mee;
A lawles act, in an unlawfull thing,
With-drawes allegiance, but uncrownes no King.

What God hath sayd to one, is onely due,
Can I usurpe by tyrannizing might?
Or take what by your birth-right falls to you?
Roote out your houses? blot your honors light?
By publique rule, to rob your publique right?
Then can you take, what he could not that gave it,
Because the heavens commaunded I should have it.

My Lords, quoth hee, commend me to the King,
Heere doth he pause, fearing his tongue offended,
Even as in child-birth forth the word doth bring,
Sighing a full poynt, as he there had ended,
Yet striving, as his speech he would have mended;
Things of small moment we can scarcely hold,
But griefes that tuch the hart, are hardly told.

Heere doth he weepe, as he had spoke in tears,
Calming this tempest with a shower of raine,
Whispering, as he would keepe it from his ears,
Doe my alegiance to my Soveraigne;
Yet at this word, heere doth he pause againe:
Yes say even so, quoth he, to him you beare it,
If it be Edward that you meane shall weare it.

Keepe hee the Crowne, with mee remaine the curse,
A haplesse Father, have a happy Sonne,
Take he the better, I endure the worse,
The plague to end in mee, in mee begun,
And better may he thrive then I have done;
Let him be second Edward, and poore I,
For ever blotted out of memorie.

359

Let him account his bondage from the day
That he is with the Diadem invested,
A glittering Crowne doth make the haire soone gray,
Within whose circle he is but arested,
In all his feasts, hee's but with sorrowe feasted;
And when his feete disdaine to tuch the mold,
His head a prysoner, in a Jayle of gold.

In numbring of his subjects, numbring care,
And when the people doe with shouts begin,
Then let him thinke theyr onely prayers are,
That he may scape the danger he is in,
The multitude, be multitudes of sin;
And hee which first doth say, God save the King,
Hee is the first doth newes of sorrow bring.

His Commons ills shall be his private ill,
His private good is onely publique care,
His will must onely be as others will:
Himselfe not as he is, as others are,
By Fortune dar'd to more then Fortune dare:
And he which may commaund an Empery,
Yet can he not intreat his liberty.

Appeasing tumults, hate cannot appease,
Sooth'd with deceits, and fed with flatteries,
Displeasing to himselfe, others to please,
Obey'd as much as he shall tyrannize,
Feare forcing friends, enforcing Enemies:
And when hee sitteth under his estate,
His foote-stoole danger, and his chayre is hate.

He King alone, no King that once was one,
A King that was, unto a King that is;
I am unthron'd, and hee enjoyes my throne,
Nor should I suffer that, nor he doe this,
He takes from mee what yet is none of his;
Young Edward clymes, old Edward falleth downe,
King'd and unking'd, he crown'd, farwell my crowne.

360

Princes be Fortunes chyldren, and with them,
Shee deales, as Mothers use theyr babes to still,
Unto her darling gives a Diadem,
A pretty toy, his humor to fulfill;
And when a little they have had theyr will,
Looke what shee gave, shee taketh at her pleasure,
Using the rod when they are out of measure.

But policie, who still in hate did lurke,
And yet suspecteth Edward is not sure,
Waying what blood with Leicester might worke,
Or else what friends his name might yet procure;
A guilty conscience never is secure;
From Leisters keeping cause him to be taken;
Alas poore Edward, now of all forsaken.

To Gurney and Matravers he is given;
O let theyr act be odious to all ears,
And beeing spoke, stirre clowdes to cover heaven,
And be the badge the wretched murtherer bears,
The wicked oth whereby the damned swears:
But Edward, in thy hell thou must content thee,
These be the devils which must still torment thee.

Hee on a leane ilfavored beast is set,
Death upon Famine moralizing right;
His cheeks with tears, his head with raigne bewet,
Nights very picture, wandring still by night;
When he would sleep, like dreams they him affright;
His foode torment, his drinke a poysoned bayne,
No other comfort but in deadly paine.

And yet because they feare to have him knowne,
They shave away his princely tressed hayre,
And now become not worth a hayre ofs owne,
Body and fortune now be equall bare;
Thus voyde of wealth, ô were he voyde of care.
But ô, our joyes are shadowes, and deceave us,
But cares, even to our deaths doe never leave us.

361

A silly Mole-hill is his kingly chayre,
With puddle water must he now be drest,
And his perfume, the lothsome fenny ayre,
An yron skull, a Bason fitting best,
A bloody workman, suting with the rest;
His lothed eyes, within thys filthy glas,
Truly behold how much deform'd hee was.

The drops which from his eyes abundance fall,
A poole of tears still rising by this rayne,
Even fighting with the water, and withall,
A circled compasse makes it to retaine,
Billow'd with sighes, like to a little maine;
Water with tears, contending whether should
Make water warme, or make the warme tears cold.

Vile Traytors, hold of your unhalowed hands,
The cruelst beast the Lyons presence fears:
And can you keepe your Soveraigne then in bands?
How can your eyes behold th'anoynteds tears?
Are not your harts even pearced through your ears?
The minde is free, what ere afflict the man,
A King's a King, doe Fortune what shee can.

Who's he can take what God himselfe hath given?
Or spill that life his holy spirit infused?
All powers be subject to the powers of heaven,
Nor wrongs passe unreveng'd, although excused,
Weepe Majestie to see thy selfe abused;
O whether shall authoritie be take,
When shee herselfe, herselfe doth so forsake?

A wreath of hay they on his temples bind,
Which when he felt, (tears would not let him see,)
Nature (quoth he) now art thou onely kind,
Thou giv'st, but Fortune taketh all from mee,
I now perceave, that were it not for thee:
I should want water, clothing for my brayne,
But earth gives hay, and mine eyes give me rayne.

362

My selfe deform'd, lyke my deformed state,
My person made like to mine infamie,
Altring my favour, could you alter fate,
And blotting beautie, blot my memorie,
You might flye slaunder, I indignitie:
My golden Crowne, tooke golden rule away,
A Crowne of hay, well sutes a King of hay.

Yet greev'd agayne, on nature doth complayne,
Nature (sayth he) ô thou art just in all,
Why should'st thou then, thus strengthen me agayne,
To suffer things so much unnaturall?
Except thou be pertaker in my fall:
And when at once so many mischiefes meete,
Mak'st poyson nuterment, and bitter sweete.

And now he thinks he wrongeth Fortune much,
Who giveth him this great preheminence,
For since by fate his myseries be such,
Her worser name hath taught him pacience,
For no offence, he taketh as offence:
Crost on his back, and crosses in the brest,
Thus is he crost, who never yet was blest.

To Berckley thus they lead this wretched King,
The place of horror which they had fore-thought,
O heavens why suffer you so vile a thing,
And can behold, this murther to be wrought,
But that your wayes are all with judgement frought:
Now entrest thou, poore Edward to thy hell,
Thus take thy leave, and bid the world farewell.

O Berckley, thou which hast beene famous long,
Still let thy walls shreeke out a deadly sound,
And still complayne thee of thy greevous wrong,
Preserve the figure of King Edwards wound,
And keepe their wretched footsteps on the ground:
That yet some power againe may give them breath,
And thou againe mayst curse them both to death.

363

The croking Ravens hideous voyce he hears,
Which through the Castell sounds with deadly yells,
Imprinting strange imaginarie fears,
The heavie Ecchoes lyke to passing bells,
Chyming far off his dolefull burying knells:
The jargging Casements which the fierce wind dryves,
Puts him in mind of fetters, chaynes, and gyves.

By silent night, the ugly shreeking Owles,
Lyke dreadfull Spirits with terror doe torment him,
The envious dogge, angry with darcknes howles,
Lyke messengers from damned ghosts were sent him,
Or with hells noysome terror to present him:
Under his roofe the buzzing night-Crow sings,
Clapping his windowe with her fatall wings.

Death still prefigur'd in his fearefull dreames,
Of raging Feinds, and Goblins that he meets,
Of falling downe from steepe-rocks into streames,
Of Toombs, of Graves, of Pits, of winding sheets,
Of strange temptations and seducing sprits:
And with his cry awak'd, calling for ayde,
His hollowe voyce doth make him selfe afrayd.

Oft in his sleepe he sees the Queene to flye him,
Sterne Mortimer pursue him with his sword,
His Sonne in sight, yet dares he not come nigh him,
To whom he calls, who aunswereth not a word,
And lyke a monster wondred and abhord:
Widowes and Orphans following him with cryes,
Stabbing his hart, and scratching out his eyes.

Next comes the vision of his bloody raigne,
Masking along with Lancasters sterne ghost,
Of eight and twentie Barrons hang'd and slayne,
Attended with the rufull mangled host,
At Burton and at Borough battell lost:
Threatning with frownes, and trembling every lim,
With thousand thousand curses cursing him.

364

And if it chaunce that from the troubled skyes,
Some little brightnes through the chinks give light,
Straight waies on heaps the thrunging clouds doe rise,
As though the heaven were angry with the night.
Deformed shadowes glimpsing in his sight:
As though darcknes, for she more darcke would bee,
Through these poore Crannells forc'd her selfe to see.

Within a deepe vault under where he lay,
Under buried filthie carcasses they keepe,
Because the thicke walls hearing kept away,
His feeling feeble, seeing ceas'd in sleepe;
This lothsome stinck comes from this dungeon deepe,
As though before they fully did decree,
No one sence should from punishment be free.

Hee haps our English Chronicle to find,
On which to passe the howers he falls to reed,
For minuts yet to recreate his mind,
If any thought one uncar'd thought might feed,
But in his breast new conflicts this doth breed:
For when sorrowe, is seated in the eyes,
What ere we see, increaseth miseries.

Opening the Booke, he chaunced first of all
On conquering Williams glorious comming in,
The Normans rising, and the Bryttains fall,
Noting the plague ordayn'd for Harolds sinne,
How much, in how short time this Duke did winne;
Great Lord (quoth hee) thy conquests plac'd thy throne,
I to mine owne, have basely lost mine owne.

Then comes to Rufus a lascivious King,
Whose lawlesse rule on that which he enjoy'd,
A sodaine end unto his dayes doth bring,
Himselfe destroy'd in that which he destroy'd,
None moane his death, whose lyfe had all anoy'd:
Rufus (quoth he) thy fault far lesse then mine,
Needs must my plague be far exceeding thine.

365

To famous Bewclarke studiouslie he turnes,
Who from Duke Robert doth the scepter wrest,
Whose eyes put out, in flintie Cardiffe mornes,

Robert Shortthigh Duke of Normandy.

In Palestine who bare his conquering crest,
Who though of Realmes, of fame not dispossest:
In all afflictions this may comfort thee,
Onely my shame in death remaines (quoth hee.)

Then comes he next to Stephens troublous state,
Plagu'd with the Empresse, in continuall warre,
Yet with what patience he could beare his hate,
And lyke a wise-man rule his angry starre,
Stopping the wheele of Fortunes giddie carre:
O thus (quoth he) had gracelesse Edward done,
He had not now beene Subject to his Sonne.

Then to Henry Plantaginet he goes,
Two Kings at once, two Crown'd at once doth find,
The roote from whence so many mischiefes rose,
The Fathers kindnes makes the Sonne unkind,
Th'ambitious Brothers to debate inclind:
Thou crown'st thy Sonne, yet living still do'st raigne,
Mine uncrownes me (quoth he) yet am I slaine.

Then of couragious Lyon-hart he reeds,
The Souldans terror, and the Pagans wrack,
The Easterne world fild with his glorious deeds,
Of Joppas siege, of Cipres wofull sack,
Richard (quoth hee) turning his dull eyes back:
Thou did'st in height of thy felicitie,
I in the depth of all my miserie.

Then by degrees to sacriligious John,
Murthering young Arthur, hath usurp'd his right,
The Cleargies curse, the poors oppression,
The greevous crosses that on him did light,
To Rooms proud yoke yeelding his awfull might:
Even by thy end (he sayth) now John I see,
Gods judgements thus doe justly fall on mee.

366

Then, to long-raigning Winchester his Sonne,
With whom his people bloody warre did wage,
And of the troubles in his time begunne,
The head-strong Barrons wrath, the Commons rage,
And yet how he these tumults could aswage:
Thou livest long, (quoth he) longer thy name,
And I dye soone, yet over-live my fame.

Then to great Longshanks mighty victories,
Who in the Orcads fix'd his Countries mears,
And dar'd in fight our fayths proud Enemies,
Which to his name eternall Trophies rears,
Whose gracefull favors yet faire England wears:
Bee't deadly sinne (quoth he) once to defile,
This Fathers name with me a Sonne so vile.

Following the leafe, he findeth unawars,
What day young Edward Prince of Wales was borne,
Which Letters seeme lyke Magick Charrecters,
Or to dispight him they were made in scorne,
O let that name (quoth he) from Books be torne:
Least that in time, the very greeved earth,
Doe curse my Mothers woombe, and ban my birth.

Say that King Edward never had such child,
Or was devour'd as hee in cradle lay,
Be all men from my place of birth exil'd,
Let it be sunck, or swallowed with some sea,
Let course of yeeres devoure that dismall day,
Let all be doone that power can bring to passe,
Onely be it forgot that ere I was.

The globy tears impearled in his eyes,
Through which as glasses hee is forc'd to looke,
Make letters seeme as circles which arise,
Forc'd by a stone within a standing Brooke,
And at one time, so divers formes they tooke,
Which like to uglie Monsters doe affright,
And with their shapes doe terrifie his sight.

367

Thus on his carefull Cabin falling downe,
Enter the Actors of his tragedy,
Opening the doores, which made a hollow soune,
As they had howl'd against theyr crueltie,
Or of his paine as they would prophecie;
To whom as one which died before his death,
He yet complaynes, whilst paine might lend him breath.

O be not Authors of so vile an act,
To bring my blood on your posteritie,
That Babes even yet unborne doe curse the fact,
I am a King, though King of miserie,
I am your King, though wanting Majestie:
But he who is the cause of all this teene,
Is cruell March the Champion of the Queene.

He hath my Crowne, he hath my Sonne, my wyfe,
And in my throne tryumpheth in my fall,
Is't not inough but he will have my lyfe?
But more, I feare that yet this is not all,
I thinke my soule to judgement he will call:
And in my death his rage yet shall not dye,
But persecute me so, immortallie.

And for you deadly hate me, let me live,
For that advantage angrie heaven hath left,
Fortune hath taken all that she did give;
Yet that revenge should not be quite bereft,
Shee leaves behind this remnant of her theft:
That miserie should find that onely I,
Am far more wretched then is miserie.

Betwixt two beds these devils straight enclos'd him,
Thus done, uncovering of his secrete part,
When for his death they fitly had disposd him,
With burning yron thrust him to the hart.
O payne beyond all paine, how much thou art!
Which words, as words, may verbally confesse,
But never pen precisely could expresse.

368

O let his tears even freezing as they light,
By the impression of his monstrous payne,
Still keepe this odious spectacle in sight,
And shew the manner how the King was slaine,
That it with ages may be new againe;
That all may thether come that have beene told it,
And in that mirror of his griefes behold it.

Still let the building sigh his bitter grones,
And with a hollow cry his woes repeate,
That sencelesse things even moving sencelesse stones,
With agonizing horror still may sweat;
And as consuming in their furious heate,
Like boyling Cauldrons be the drops that fall,
Even as that blood for vengeance still did call.

O let the wofull Genius of the place,
Still haunt the pryson where his life was lost:
And with torne hayre, and swolne ilfavored face,
Become the guide to his revengefull ghost,
And night and day still let them walke the Coast:
And with incessant howling terrifie,
Or moove with pitty all that travell by.

True vertuous Lady, now of mirth I sing,
To sharpen thy sweet spirit with some delight,
And somwhat slack this mellancholie string,
Whilst I of love and tryumphs must indite,
Too soone againe of passion must I write.
Of Englands wonder, now I come to tell,
How Mortimer first rose, when Edward fell.

Downe lesser lights, the glorious Sunne doth clime,
His joyfull rising is the worlds proude morne;
Now is he got betwixt the wings of Tyme,
And with the tyde of Fortune forwards borne,
Good starrs assist his greatnes to subborne;
Who have decreed his raigning for a while,
All laugh on him, on whom the heavens doe smile.

369

The pompous sinode of these earthly Gods,
At Salsbury, appointed by their King,
To set all even which had been at ods,
And into fashion, their dissignes to bring,
That peace might now from their proceedings spring,
And to establish what they had begun,
Under whose cullour mighty things were done.

Heere Mortimer is Earle of March created,
Thys honor added to his Barronie,
And unto fame heere is he consecrated,
That titles might his greatnes dignifie,
As for the rest, he easely could supply.
Who knew a kingdom to her lap was throwne,
Which having all, would never starve her owne.

A pleasing calme hath smooth'd the troubled sea,
The prime brought on with gentle falling showers,
The misty breake yet proves a goodly day;
And on their heads since heaven her largesse powers,
Thats onely ours, which we doe use as ours:
Pleasures be poore, and our delights be dead,
When as a man doth not enjoy the head.

Tyme wanting bounds, still wanteth certainty,
Of dangers past, in peace wee love to heare,
Short is the date of all extreamity,
Long wished things a sweet delight doth beare,
Better forgoe our joyes then still to feare:
Fortune her gifts in vaine to such doth gyve,
As when they live, seeme as they did not live.

Now stand they like the two starre-fixed Poles,
Betwixt the which the circling Spheres doe move,
About whose Axeltree thys fayre Globe roules,
Which that great Moover by his strength doth shove,
Yet every poynt still ending in theyr love;
For might is ever absolute alone,
When of two powers there's true conjunction.

370

The King must take, what by theyr power they give,
And they protect what serves for theyr protection,
They teach to rule, whilst he doth learne to live,
T'whom all be subject, lives in theyr subjection,
Though borne to rule, yet crown'd by their election,
Th'alegiance which to Edward doth belong,
Doth make theyr faction absolutely strong.

Twelve guide the King, his power theyr powers consist,
Peers guide the King, they guide both King and Peers,
Ill can the Brooke his owne selfe-streame resist,
Theyr aged counsell, to his younger yeeres,
Young Edward vowes, and all the while he steers;
Wel might we think the man were more then blind,
Which wanted Sea roomth, and could rule the wind.

In lending strength, theyr strength they still retaine,
Building his force, theyr owne they so repare,
Under his raigne, in safety they doe raigne,
They give a kingdome, and doe keepe the care,
They who adventure, must the booty share,
A Princes wealth in spending still doth spred,
Like to a Poole with many fountaines fed.

They sit at ease, though he sit in the throne,
He shaddowes them who his supporters be,
And in division they be two for one,
An Empyre now must thus be rul'd by three,
What they make free, they challenge to be free;
The King enjoyeth, but what they lately gave,
They priviledg'd to spend, leave him to save.

Nine-score brave Knights belonging to his Court

Mortimer nine-score Knights in his retinue.

At Notingham, which all the Coast commaunds,
All parts pay trybute, honor to his port,
Much may he doe which hath so many hands,
This rocke-built Castell, over-looks the Lands:
Thus lyke a Gyant, still towards heaven doth ryse,
And fayne would cast the Rocks against the skyes.

371

Where ere he goes there pompe in tryumph goes,
Over his head Fame soring still doth flye,
Th'earth in his presence decks her selfe in showes,
And glory sits in greatest Majestie,
Aboundance there doth still in Child-bed lye:
For where Fortune her bountie will bestowe,
There heaven and earth must pay what she doth owe.

In Notingham, the Norths great glorious eye,
Crowne of the beautious branch-embellish'd soyle,
The throne emperiall of his Emperie,
His resting place, releever of his toyle,
Here he enjoyes his never-prized spoyle:
There lyving in a world of all delight,
Beheld of all, and having all in sight.

Here all along the flower-enameld vales,
Cleere Trent upon the pearly sand doth slide,
And to the Meadowes telling wanton tales,
Her christall lims lasciviously in pride,
With thousand turnes shee casts from side to side:
As loth shee were the sweet soyle to forsake,
And throw her selfe into the German lake.

Whence great hart-harboring Sherwood wildly roves,
Whose leavie Forrests garlanding her Towers,
Shadowing the small Brooks with her Ecchoing groves,
Whose thick-plashd sides repulse the Northerne showers,
Where Nature sporting in her secret Bowers:
This strong built Castell hurketh in her shade,
As to this end she onely had beene made.

There must the glorious Parliament be held,
Earth must come in, when awfull heaven doth send,
For whether Jove his powerfull selfe doth weld,
Thether all powers them selves must wholly bend,
Whose hand holds thunder, who dare him offend?
And where proud conquest keepeth all in awe,
Kings oft are forc'd in servile yokes to drawe

372

Heere sit they both under the rich estate,
Yet neither strive the upper hand to get,
In pompe and power both equall at a rate,
And as they came, so are they friendly set,
He entreth first, which first in entring met;
A King at least the Earle of March must be,
Or else the maker of a King is hee.

Perhaps, he with a smyle the King will grace,
His knees growe stiffe, they have forgot to bow,
And if he once have taken up his place,
Edward must come, if he his will would know,
A foote out of his seate he cannot goe;
Thys small word subject, pricks him like a sting,
My Empyres Colleage, or my fellow King.

O had felicity feeling of woe,
Or could on meane but moderatly feede,
Or would looke downe the way that he must goe,
Or could abstaine from what diseases breede,
To stop the wound before to death he bleede,
Warre should not fill Kings Pallaces with moane,
Nor perrill come when tis least thought upon.

Ambition with the Eagle loves to build,
Nor on the Mountayne dreads the winters blast,
But with selfe-soothing doth the humor guild,
With arguments correcting what is past,
Fore-casting Kingdomes, daungers unforecast:
Leaving this poore word of content to such,
Whose earthly spirits have not his fierie tuch.

But pleasures never dine but on excesse,
Whose dyet made to drawe on all delight,
And overcome in that sweet drunkennes,
His appetite maintayned by his sight,
Strengthneth desier, but ever weakneth might:
Untill this ulcer ripening to a head,
Vomits the poyson which it nourished.

373

Even as a flood swelling beyond his bounds,
Doth over-presse the channell where he flowd,
And breaking forth, the neighbour Meadows drowns,
That of him selfe, him selfe doth quite unload,
Dispearcing his owne greatnes all abroad:
Spending the store he was maintayned by,
Empties his Brooke, and leaves his Channell dry.

Upon this Subject, envie might devise,
Here might she proove her mischeefe-working wings,
An object for her ever-waking eyes,
Wherein to stick a thousand deadly stings,
A ground whereon to build as many things:
For where our actions measure no regard,
Our lawlesse will is made his owne reward.

Here vengeance calls destruction up from hell,
Conjuring mischeefe to devise a curse,
Increasing that, which more and more did swell,
Adding to ill, to make this evill worse,
Whilst hatefull pride becomes ambitions nurse:
T'is incedent to those whom many feare,
Many to them more greevous hate doe beare.

And now those fewe which many tears had spent,
And long had wept on olde King Edwards grave,
Find some begin to pittie their lament,
Wishing the poore yet some redresse might have,
Revenge cannot denie what death doth crave:
Opening their eares what so abhord their eyes,
Ill will too soone regardeth envies cryes.

Time calls account of what before is past,
All thrust on mallice pressing to be hard,
Unto misfortune all men goe too fast,
Seldome, advantage is in wrongs debard,
Nor in revenge a meane is never spard:
For when once pryde but poynteth towards his fall,
He bears a sword to wound him selfe with all.

374

Edward whose shoulders now were taught to peyze,
Briarius burthen, which opprest him so,
His current stop'd with these outragious Seas,
Whose gulfe receav'd the tyde should make him flowe,
This Rocke cast in the way where he must goe:
That honor brooks, no fellowship hath tryde,
Nor never Crowne Corrivall could abyde.

Some urge that March, meaning by blood to rise,
First cut off Kent, fearing he might succeed,
Trayning the King to what he did devise,
Lymming in cullors this unlawfull deed,
And to his owne, the royall blood to weed:
Thus every strawe prooves fewell to the fier,
When counsell doth concurre with our desier.

All fence the tree which serveth for a shade,
Whose great growne body doth repulse the wind,
Untill his wastfull branches doe invade,
The straighter plants, and them in pryson bind,
Then lyke a foule devower of his kind:
Unto his roote all put their hands to hewe,
Whose roomth but hinder other which would grow.

Greatnes, lyke to the Sunnes reflecting powers,
The fen-bred vapours naturally exhales,
And is the cause that oft the evening lowers,
When foggie mists enlarge their duskie sailes,
That his owne beams, he in the clouds impales:
And eyther must extinguish his owne light,
Or by his vertue cause his propper night.

Of winter thus whilst they prognosticate,
He hath the Sommer, and a fruitfull yeare,
And still is soothed by his flattering fate,
For still the starre which guides him doth appeare;
Hee looks far off, yet sees not daunger neare:
For oft we see before a sodaine shower,
The sunne shines hott'st, and hath the greatest power.

375

Now sphears with Musick make a new worlds birth,
Bring on againe olde Saturns golden raigne,
Renewe this wearie barren-wombed earth,
And rayse aloft the sunnes declyning wayne,
And by your power make all things young agayne:
Orpheus, once more to Thebes olde Forrests bring,
Drinke Nectar, whilst the Gods are banquetting.

Within this Castell had the Queene devisd,
A stately Chamber with the pensill wrought,
Within whose compasse was imparadizd,
What ever Arte or rare invention taught,
As well might seeme far to exceed all thought:
That were the thing on earth to move delight,
He should not want it to content his sight.

Heere Phœbus clipping Hiacynthus stood,
Whose lyves last drops, his snowie breast imbrewe,
Mixing his christall tears with purple blood,
As were it blood or tears, none scarcely knewe,
Yet blood and tears, one from the other drewe:
The little wood-nimphs chafing him with balme,
To rayse this sweet Boy from this deadly qualme.

Here lyes his Lute, his Quiver, and his bowe,
His golden mantle on the greene-spred ground,
That from the things themselves none could them know,
The sledge so shadowed, still seem'd to rebound,
Th'wound beeing made, yet still to make a wound:
The purple flower with letters on the leaves,
Springing that Nature, oft her selfe deceaves.

The milke-white Heifor, Io, Joves faire rape,
Viewing her new-ta'en figure in a Brooke,
The water seeming to retayne the shape,
Which lookes on her, as shee on it doth looke,
That gazing eyes oft-times them selves mistooke:
By prospective devis'd that looking nowe,
Shee seem'd a Mayden, then againe a Cowe.

376

Then Mercurie amidst his sweetest joyes,
Sporting with Hebe by a Fountayne brim,
Clipping each other with lascivious toyes,
And each to other lapped lim to lim,
On tufts of flowers which loosely seeme to swim:
Which flowers in sprinckled drops doe still appeare,
As all their bodies so embraudered were.

Heere clyffy Cynthus, with a thousand byrds,
Whose checkerd plumes adorne his tufted crowne,
Under whose shadow graze the stragling heards,
Out of whose top, the fresh springs trembling downe,
Duly keepe time with theyr harmonious sowne.
The Rock so lively done in every part,
As arte had so taught nature, nature arte.

The naked Nymphes, some up, some downe discending,
Small scattering flowers one at another flung,
With pretty turns their lymber bodies bending,
Cropping the blooming branches lately sprong,
Which on the Rocks grewe heere and there among.
Some combe theyr hayre, some making garlands by,
As living, they had done it actually.

And for a trayle, Caisters silver Lake,
Whose heards of Swanns sit pruning on a row,
By their much whitenes, such reflection make,
As though in Sommer had been falne a snow,
Whose streame an easie breath doth seeme to blowe;
Which on the sparkling gravell runns in purles,
As though the waves had been of silver curles.

Here falls proude Phaeton, tumbling through the clowds,
The sunny Palfreys have their traces broke,
And setting fire upon the welked shrowds,
Now through the heaven flye gadding from the yoke,
The Sphears all reeking with a mistie smoke,
Drawne with such life, as some did much desire
To warme themselves, some frighted with the fire.

377

And Drencht in Po, the River seemes to burne,
His wofull sisters, mourning there he sees,
Trees unto women seeme themselves to turne,
Or rather women turned into trees,
Drops from their boughs, or tears fall from their eyes,
That fire seem'd to be water, water flame,
Eyther or neyther, and yet both the same.

A stately Bed under a golden tree,
Whose broad-leav'd branches covering over all,
Spread their large Armes like to a Canapy,
Dubbling themselves in their lascivious fall,
Upon whose top the flying Cupids spraule,
And some, at sundry cullored byrds doe shute,
Some swarving up to get the golden fruite.

A counterpoynt of Tyssue, rarely wrought,
Like to Arachnes web, of the Gods rape,
Which with his lifes strange history is wrought,
The very manner of his hard escape,
From poynt to poynt, each thing in perfect shape,
As made the gazers thinke it there was done,
And yet time stayd in which it was begun.

During thys calme, is gather'd that black showre,
Whose uglie clowde the clyme had over-spred,
And now drawes on that long death-dating howre,
His fatall starre now hangeth o're his head,
His fortunes sunne downe towards the evening fled,
For when we thinke we most in safety stand,
Great'st dangers then are ever near'st at hand.

And Edward sees no meanes can ever boote,
Unlesse thys head-strong course he may restraine,
And must pluck up these mischiefs by the roote,
Els spred so farre, might easely grow againe,
And end theyr raigne, if he doe meane to raigne;
The Common-weale to cure, brought to that passe,
Which like a many-headed Monster was.

378

But sith he finds the danger to be such,
To bring this Beare once bayted to the stake,
And that he feeles the forwardest to gruch,
To take in hand this sleeping dog to wake,
He must fore-think of some such course to take,
By which he might his purpose thus effect,
And hurt him most, where he might least suspect.

A trenched vault deepe in the earth is found,
Whose hollownes, like to the Sleep-gods Cell,
With strange Meanders turneth under ground,
Where pitchy darknes ever-more doth dwell,
As well might be an entrance into hell.
Which Archyteckts, to serve the Castell made,
When as the Dane with warrs did all invade.

Heere silent night, as in a pryson shrowded,
Wandreth about within thys mazed roome,
With filthy fogs, and earthly vapors clowded,
As shee were buried in this cliffy toombe,
Or yet unborne within the earths great woombe.
A dampy breath comes from the moysted vaines,
As shee had sigh'd through trouble in her paines.

Now on a long this cranckling path doth keepe,
Then by a rock turnes up another way,
Then rising up, shee poynteth towards the deepe,
As the ground levell, or unlevell lay,
Nor in his course keepes any certaine stay,
Till in the Castell in a secret place,
He suddainly unmaske his duskie face.

The King now with a strong selected crue,
Of such as he with his intent acquainted,
And well affected to thys action knew,
Nor in revenge of Edward never fainted,
Whose loyall fayth had never yet beene tainted,
This Labyrinth determins to assay,
To rouze the beast which kept him thus at bay.

379

The blushing Sunne, plucks in his smyling beames,
Making his steeds to mend theyr wonted pace,
Till plunging downe into the Ocean streames,
There in the frothy waves he hides his face,
Then reynes them in, more then his usuall space,
And leaves foule darknes to possesse the skyes,
A time most fit for fouler tragedies.

With Torches now they enter on his Cave,
As night were day, and day were turnd to night,
Damp'd with the foyle one to the other gave,
Light hating darknes, darknes hating light,
As enemies, each with the other fight;
And each confounding other, both appeare,
As darknes light, and light but darknes were.

The craggy cleeves, which crosse them as they goe,
Seeme as their passage they would have denied,
And threatning them, their journey to for-slowe,
As angry with the path that was their guide,
Cursing the hand which did them first devide,
Theyr combrous falls and risings seem'd to say,
Thys wicked action could not brooke the day.

These gloomy Lamps, by which they on were led,
Making theyr shaddowes follow at theyr back,
Which like to Mourners, waite upon the dead,
And as the deed, so are they ugly black,
Like to the dreadfull Images of wrack;
These poore dym-burning lights, as all amazed,
As those deformed shades whereon they gazed.

Theyr clattering Armes, their Masters seeme to chyde,
As they would reason wherefore they should wound,
And striking with the poynts from side to side,
As they were angry with the hollow ground,
Whose stony roofe lock'd in their dolefull sound:
And hanging in the creeks, draw backe againe,
As willing them from murther to refraine.

380

Now, after masks and gallant revelings,
The Queene unto the Chamber is with-drawne,
To whom a cleer-voyc'd Eunuch playes and sings;
And underneath a Canapy of Lawne,
Sparkling with pearle, like to the cheerfull dawne,
Leaning upon the breast of Mortimer,
Whose voice more then the musick pleasd her eare.

A smock wrought with the purest Affrick silke,
A worke so fine, as might all worke refine,
Her breast like strains of violets in milk,
O be thou hence-forth Beauties living shrine,
And teach things mortall to be most divine.
Enclose Love in thys Labyrinth about,
Where let him wander still, yet ne're get out.

Her golden hayre, ah gold, thou art too base,
Were it not sinne but once to name it hayre,
Falling as it would kisse her fairer face,
But no word fayre enough for thing so fayre,
Invention is too bare, to paynt her bare;
But where the pen fayles, Pensill cannot show it,
Nor can be knowne, unlesse the minde doe knowe it.

Shee layes those fingers on his manly cheeke,
The Gods pure scepters, and the darts of love,
Which with one tuch might make a Tyger meeke,
Or might an Atlas easely remove:
That lilly hand, rich Natures wedding glove,
Which might beget life where was never none,
And put a spirit into the hardest stone.

The fire of precious wood, the lights perfume,
Whose perfect cleernes, on the painting shone,
As every thing with sweetnes would consume,
And every thing had sweetnes of his owne,
The smell where-with they liv'd, & alwaies growne,
That light gave cullour on each thing it fell,
And to that cullour, the perfume gave smell.

381

Upon the sundry pictures they devise,
And from one thing they to an other runne,
Now they commend that body, then those eyes,
How well that byrd, how well that flower was done,
The lively counterfetting of that sunne:
The cullors, the conceits, the shadowings,
And in that Arte a thousand sundrie things.

Looking upon proud Phaeton wrapd in fier,
The gentle Queene doth much bewaile his fall,
But Mortimer more praysing his desier,
To loose his lyfe or else to governe all:
And though (quoth he) he now be Fortunes thrall,
This must be sayd of him when all is done,
Hee perrish'd in the Chariot of the Sunne.

Glaunsing upon Ixion, shee doth smile,
Who for his Juno tooke the cloud amisse;
Madam (quoth hee) thus women can beguile,
And oft we find in love, this error is,
Why friend (quoth shee) thy hap is lyke to his:
That booteth not (quoth he) were he as I,
Jove would have beene in monstrous jealousie.

(Shee sayth) Phœbus is too much forc'd by Art,
Nor can shee find how his imbraces bee:
But Mortimer now takes the Paynters part,
Tis even thus great Empresse, so (quoth hee)
Thus twyne their armes, and thus their lips you see:
You Phœbus are, poore Hiacinthus I,
Kisse mee till I revive, and now I die.

By this into the uttermost stately hall,
Is rudely entred this disordred rout,
And they within suspecting least of all,
Provide no guard to watch on them without,
Thus danger falls oft-times, when least we doubt:
In perrill thus we thinke our selves most sure,
And oft in death fond men are most secure.

382

His trustie Nevill, and young Turrington,
Courting the Ladies, frolick voyd of feare,
Staying delights whilst time away doth runne,
What rare Emprezas hee and he did beare,
Thus in the Lobby whilst they sporting weare:
Assayld on sudaine by this hellish trayne,
Both in the entrance miserably slayne.

Even as from snow-topd Skidos frostie cleeves,
Some Norway Haggard, to her pitch doth tower,
And downe amongst the moore-bred Mallard drives,
And through the aire, right down the wind doth scower,
Commaunding all that lye within her power:
Even such a skreame is hard within the vault,
Made by the Ladies at the first assault.

March hath no armes, but the Queene in his armes,
To fayre a sheeld to beare their fouler blowes,
Enchayning his strong armes, in her sweet armes,
Inclosing them which oft did her inclose,
O had he had but weapons lyke his woes:
Her presence had redoubled then his might,
To lyve and dye both in his soveraigns sight.

Villains (quoth hee) I doe protect the King,
Why Centaure-lyke doe you disturbe me this,
And interrupt the Gods at banquetting,
Where sacred Himen ever present is,
And pleasures are imparadizd in blis:
Where all they powers, their earthly heaven would take,
If heere on earth they their abode should make.

Her presence pardons the offenders ill,
And makes the basest earthly thing divine,
Ther's no decree can countermaund her will,
Shee like the Sunne, doth blesse where she doth shine,
Her Chamber is the most unspotted shrine:
How sacriligiously dare you despise,
And thus prophane these halowed liberties.

383

But Edward, if this enterprize be thine,
And thou an Actor heere do'st play thy part,
I tell thee then base King thy Crowne was mine,
And thou a King but of my making art.
And now poore worme since thou hast taken hart,
Thou would'st hew downe that pillar unto wrack,
Which hath sustaynd Olimpus on his back.

What can he doe, that is so hard beset?
The heaven-threatning Gyants, heaven could tame,
Proud Mars is bound within an yron net,
Alcides burnt in Nessus poysned flame,
Great Jove can shake the universall frame:
He that was wont to call his sword to ayde,
Tis hard with him, when he must stand to plead.

O hadst thou in thy glory thus beene slayne,
All thy delights had beene of easie rate,
But now thy fame yet never tuch'd with stayne,
Must thus be branded with thy haplesse fate,
No man is happie till his lyfes last date:
His pleasures must be of a dearer price,
Poore Adam driven out of Paradice.

Halfe drownd in tears, she followes him: ô tears,
Elixar like, turne all to pearle you weet,
To weepe with her, the building scarce forbears,
Stones Metamorphizd tuch'd but with her feete,
And make the ayre for everlasting sweet:
Wringing her hands with pittious shreeking cries,
Thus utters shee her hard extreamities.

Edward (quoth shee) let not his blood be shed,
Each drop of it is more worth then thy Crowne,
What Region is in Europe limitted,
Where doth not shine, the Sunne of his renowne?
His sword hath set Kings up, & thrown them downe:
Thou knowst that Empires never have confind,
The large-spred bounds of his unconquer'd mind.

384

And if thou feed'st upon thy Fathers wrongs,
Make not revenge, to bring revenge on thee,
What torture thou inflict'st, to me belongs,
And what is due to death, is due to mee,
Imagine that his wounds fresh bleeding bee:
Forget thy birth, thy crowne, thy love, thy Mother,
And in this breast thy sword in vengeance smother.

O let my hands held up appease this stryfe,
O let these knees at which thou oft hast stood,
Now kneele to thee, to beg my lyves true lyfe,
This wombe that bare thee, breast that gave thee food,
Or let my blood yet purchase his deere blood:
O let my tears which never thing could force,
Constraynd by this, yet move thee to remorce.

But all in vaine, still Edwards ghost appears,
And cryes revenge, revenge, unto his Sonne,
And now the voyce of wofull Kent hee hears,
And bids him followe what he had begun,
Nor will they rest till execution done:
The very sight of him he deadly hated,
Sharpens the edge, his Mothers tears rebated.

To London now a wofull prisoner led,
London where he had tryumph'd with the Queene,
He followeth now, whom many followed,
And scarce a man, who many men had beene,
Seeing with greefe who had in pompe been seene:
Those eyes which oft have at his greatnes gazed,
Now at his fall must stand as all amazed.

Oh misery, where once thou art possest,
How soone thy faynt infection alters kind,
And lyke a Cyrce turnest man to beast,
And with the body do'st transforme the mind,
That can in fetters our affections bind:
That he whose back once bare the Lyons skin,
Whipt to his taske, with Iole must spin.

385

Edward and March unite your angry spirits,
Become new friends of auncient Enemies,
Hee was thy death, and he thy death inherits,
How well you consort in your miseries,
And in true time tune your adversities:
Fortune gave him, what shee to Edward gave,
Not so much as thy end but he will have.

At Westminster a Parliament decreed,
Under pretence of safetie to the Crowne,
Where to his fatall end they now proceed,
All working hard to dig this Mountayne downe,
With his owne greatnes that is over-growne:
The King, the Earle of Kent, the Spensers fall,
Upon his head with vengeance thundring all.

The death of Edward never is forgot,

The five Articles whereupon Mortimer is condemned.

The signe at Stanhope to the Enemies,
Jone of the Towers marriage to the Scot,
The Spensers coyne seaz'd to his treasuries,
Th'assuming of the wards and Lyveries:
These Articles they urge which might him greeve,
Which for his creed, he never did beleeve.

Oh dire revenge, when thou in time art rak'd
From out the ashes which preserve thee long,
And lightly from thy cinders art awak'd,
Fuell to feed on, and reviv'd with wrong,
How soone from sparks the greatest flames are sprong:
Which doth by Nature to his top aspire,
Whose massie greatnes once kept downe his fier.

Debar'd from speech to aunswere in his case,
His judgment publique, and his sentence past,
The day of death set downe, the time, and place,
And thus the lot of all his fortune cast,
His hope so slowe, his end draw on so fast:
With pen and ynke, his drooping spirit to wake,
Now of the Queene his leave he thus doth take.

386

Most mighty Empresse, daine thou to peruse
These Swan-like Dirges of a dying man:
Not like those Sonnets of my youthfull Muse,
In that sweet season when our love began,
When at the Tylt thy princely glove I wan:
Whereas my thundring Courser forward set,
Made fire to flie from Herfords Burgonet.

Thys King which thus makes hast unto my death,
Madam, you know, I lov'd him as mine owne,
And when I might have grasped out his breath,
I set him easely in his Fathers throne,
And forc'd the rough stormes backe when they have blowne;
But these forgot, & all the rest forgiven,
Our thoughts must be continually on heaven.

And for the Crowne whereon so much he stands,
Came bastard William but himselfe on shore?
Or had he not our Fathers conquering hands,
Which in the field our houses Ensigne bore,
Which his proude Lyons for theyr safety wore,
Which rag'd at Hastings like that furious Lake,
From whose sterne waves our glorious name we take?

Oh had he charg'd me mounted on that horse
Whereon I march'd before the walls of Gaunt,
And with my Launce there shewd an English force,
Or vanquisht me, a valiant combattant,
Then of his conquest had he cause to vaunt;
But he whose eyes durst not behold my shield,
Perceiv'd my Chamber fitter then the field.

I have not served Fortune like a slave,
My minde hath suted with her mightines,
I have not hid her tallent in a grave,
Nor burying of her bounty made it lesse:
My fault to God and heaven I must confesse;
He twise offends, who sinne in flattery beares,
Yet every howre he dyes, which ever feares.

387

I cannot quake at that which others feare,
Fortune and I have tugg'd together so;
What Fate imposeth, we perforce must beare,
And I am growne familiar with my woe,
Used so oft against the streame to row;
Yet my offence my conscience still doth grieve,
Which God (I trust) in mercy will forgive.

I am shut up in silence, nor must speake,
Nor Kingdoms lease my life, but I must die,
I cannot weepe and if my hart should breake,
Nor am I sencelesse of my misery,
My hart so full, hath made mine eyes so dry;
I neede not cherrish griefes, too fast they grow,
Woe be to him that dies of his owne woe.

I pay my life, and then the debt is payd,
With the reward, th'offence is purg'd and gone,
The stormes will calme when once the spirit is layd;
Envy doth cease, wanting to feede upon,
We have one life, and so our death is one,
Nor in the dust mine honor I inter,
Thus Cæsar dyed, and thus dies Mortimer.

Live sacred Empresse, and see happie dayes,
Be ever lov'd, with me die all our hate,
Let never ages sing but of thy praise,
My blood shall pacifie the angry Fate,
And cancell thus our sorrowes long-liv'd date:
And treble ten times longer last thy fame,
Then that strong Tower thou calledst by my name.

To Nottingham this Letter brought unto her,
Which is endorsed with her glorious stile,
Shee thinks the title yet againe doth wooe her,
And with that thought her sorrowes doth beguile.
Smyling on that, thinks that on her doth smyle;
Shee kissing it, (to countervaile her paine,)
Tuching her lip, it gives the kisse againe.

388

Faire workmanship, quoth she, of that faire hand,
All-mooving organ, sweet spheare-tuning kay,
The Messenger of Joves sleep-charming wand,
Pully which draw'st the curtaine of the Day,
Pure Trophies, reard to guide on valurs way,
What paper-blessing Charrecters are you,
Whose lovely forme, that lovelier engine drew?

Turning the Letter, seal'd shee doth it find,
With those rich Armes borne by his glorious name,
Where-with this dreadfull evidence is sign'd:
O badge of honour, greatest marke of fame,
Brave shield, quoth she, which once from heaven came,
Fayre robe of tryumph, Joves celestiall state,
To all immortall prayses consecrate.

Going about to rip the sacred seale,
Which cleaves, least clowdes too soone should dim her eyes,
As loth it were her sorrowes to reveale,
Quoth shee, thy Maister taught thee secrecies:
The soft waxe, with her fingers tuch doth rise,
Shee asketh it, who taught thee thus to kisse?
I know, quoth she, thy Maister taught thee thys?

Opening the Letter, Empresse shee doth reed,
At which a blush from her faire cheekes arose,
And with Ambrozia still, her thoughts doth feed,
And with a seeming joy doth paint her woes,
Then to subscribed Mortimer shee goes;
March following it, ô March, great March she cryes,
Which speaking word, even seemingly replyes.

Thus hath shee ended, yet shee must begin,
Even as a fish playing with a bayted hooke,
Now shee begins to swallow sorrow in,
And Death doth shewe himselfe at every looke,
Now reads shee in her lives accounting Booke:
And findes the blood of her lost friend had payd,
The deepe expenses which shee forth had layd.

389

Now with an host of wofull words assayl'd,
As every letter wounded lyke a dart,
As every one would boast, which most prevayl'd,
And every one would pierce her to the hart,
Rethoricall in woe, and using Art:
Reasons of greefe, each sentence doth infer,
And evere lyne, a true remembrancer.

Greefe makes her read, yet greefe still bids her leave,
Ore-charg'd with greefe, she neither sees nor heares,
Her sorrowes doe her sences quite deceave,
The words doe blind her eyes, the sound her eares,
And now for vescues doth she use her teares:
And when a lyne shee loosely over-past,
The drops doe tell her where shee left the last.

O now she sees, was ever such a sight?
And seeing, curs'd her sorrow-seeing eye,
And sayth, shee is deluded by the light,
Or is abus'd by the Orthography:
Or poynted false, her schollershyp to try.
Thus when we fondly sooth our owne desires,
Our best conceits doe proove the greatest lyers.

Her trembling hand, as in a Fever shakes,
Wherwith the paper doth a little stirre,
Which shee imagins, at her sorrow quakes,
And pitties it who shee thinks pitties her:
And moning it, bids it that greefe refer;
Quoth shee, Ile raine downe showers of tears on thee,
When I am dead, weepe them againe on mee.

Quoth shee, with odors were thy body burned,
As is Th'arabian byrd against the sunne,
Againe from cynders yet thou should'st be turned,
And so thy life another age should runne,
Nature envying it so soone was done:
Amongst all byrds, one onely of that straine,
Amongst all men, one Mortimer againe.

390

I will preserve thy ashes in some Urne,
Which as a relique, I will onely save,
Which mixed with my tears as I doe mourne,
Within my stomack shall theyr buriall have,
Although deserving a farre better grave;
Yet in that Temple shall they be preserved,
Where, as a Saint thou ever hast been served.

Be thou trans-form'd unto some sacred tree,
Whose precious gum may cure the fainting hart,
Or to some hearbe yet turned mayst thou be,
Whose juyce apply'd may ease the strongest smart,
Or flower, whose leaves thy vertues may impart,
Or stellified on Pegase loftie crest,
Or shyning on the Nemian Lyons brest.

I thinke the Gods could take them mortall shapes,
As all the world may by thy greatnes gather,
And Jove in some of his light wanton scapes,
Committed pretty cusnage with thy father,
Or else thou wholy art celestiall rather:
Els never could it be, so great a minde,
Could seated be, in one of earthly kind.

And if, as some affirme, in every starre,
There be a world, then must some world be thine,
Else shall thy ghost invade their bounds with warre,
If such can mannage armes as be devine,
That here thou hadst no world, the fault was mine:
And gracelesse Edward kinling all this fier,
Trod in the dust of his unhappy sier.

It was not Charles that made Charles what he was,
Whereby he quickly to that greatnes grew,
Nor strooke such terror which way he did passe,
Nor our olde Grand-siers glory did renew,
But it thy valure was, which Charles well knew:
Which hath repulst his Enemies with feare,
When they but heard the name of Mortimer.

391

In Books and Armes consisted thy delight,
And thy discourse of Campes, and grounds of state,
No Apish fan-bearing Hermophradite,
Coch-carried midwyfe, weake, effeminate,
Quilted and ruft, which manhood ever hate:
A Cato when in counsell thou didst sit,
A Hercules in executing it.

Now shee begins to curse the King her Sonne,
The Earle of March then comes unto her mind,
Then shee with blessing ends what shee begun,
And leaves the last part of the curse behind,
Then with a vowe shee her revenge doth bind:
Unto that vowe shee ads a little oth,
Thus blessing cursing, cursing blessing both.

For pen and inke shee calls her mayds without,
And Edwards dealing will in greefe discover,
But straight forgetting what shee went about,
Shee now begins to write unto her lover,
Yet interlyning Edwards threatnings over:
Then turning back to read what shee had writ,
Shee teyrs the paper, and condemnes her wit.

Thus with the pangs out of this traunce areysed,
As water some-time wakeneth from a swound,
Comes to her selfe the agonie apeysed,
As when the blood is cold, we feele the wound,
And more, and more, sith she the cause had found,
Thus unto Edward with revenge shee goes,
And hee must beare the burthen of her woes.

I would my lap had beene some cruell Racke,
His Cradell Phalaris burning-bellyed Bull,
And Nessus shyrt beene put upon his backe,
His Blanket of some Nilus Serpents wooll,
His Dug with juice of Acconite beene full:
The song which luld him, when to sleepe he fell,
Some Incantation or some Magique spell.

392

And thus King Edward since thou art my Child,
Some thing of force to thee I must bequeath,
March of my harts true love hath thee beguild,
My curse unto thy bosome doe I breath,
And heere invoke the wretched spirits beneath:
To see all things perform'd to my intent,
Make them ore-seers of my Testament.

And thus within these mighty walls inclos'd,
Even as the Owles so hatefull of the light,
Unto repentance ever more dispos'd,
Heere spend my dayes untill my last dayes night;
And hence-forth odious unto all mens sight,
Flye every small remembrance of delight,
A penitentiall mournfull convertite.

FINIS.

469

TO THE MAIESTIE OF KING JAMES.

A gratulatorie Poem by Michaell Drayton.

471

The hopefull raigne of a most happy King,
Loe thus excites our early Muse to sing,
Of her own strength which boldly thus presumes,
That's yet unimpt with any borowed plumes,
A Counsailes wisdome, and their grave fore-sight,
Lends me this luster, and resplendent light:
Whose well-prepared pollicie, and care,
For theyr indoubted Soveraigne so prepare,
Other vaine titles strongly to withstand,
Plac'd in the bosome of a peacefull Land:
That blacke destruction which now many a day,
Had fix'd her sterne eye for a violent pray,
Frustrate by their great providence and power,
Her very nerves is ready to devoure,
And even for griefe downe sincking in a swound
Beats her snak'd head against the verdant ground.
But whilst the ayre thus thunders with the noise,
Perhaps unheard, why should I straine my voyce?
When stirs, & tumults have been hot'st & proudest,
The noble Muse hath song the stern'st & lowdest;
And know great Prince, that Muse thy glory sings,
(What ere detraction snarle) was made for Kings.
The neighing courser in this time of mirth,
That with his arm'd hoofe beats th'reecchoing earth,
The trumpets clangor, & the peoples cry,
Not like the Muse can strike the burnish'd skie,
Which should heaven quench th'eternal quicking springs,
The stars put out, could light them with her wings.
What though perhaps my selfe I not intrude
Amongst th'unstedy wondring multitude,
The tedious tumults, and the boystrous throng,
That presse to view thee as thou com'st along,
The praise I give thee shall thy welcome keepe,
When all these rude crowds in the dust shal sleepe,

472

And when applause and shouts are hush'd & still,
Then shall my smooth verse chant thee cleer & shril.
With thy beginning, doth the Spring begin,
And as thy Usher gently brings thee in,
Which in consent doth happily accord
With the yeere kept to the incarnate Word,
And in that Month (cohering by a fate)
By the old world to wisdome dedicate,
Thy Prophet thus doth seriously apply,
As by a strong unfailing Augury,
That as the fruitfull, and ful-bosom'd Spring,
So shall thy raigne be rich and florishing:
The month thy conquests, & atchievements great
By those shall sit on thy Imperiall seate,
And by the yeere I seriously divine
The Crowne for ever setled in thy line.
From Cornwall now past Calidons proude strength,
Thy Empire beares eight hundred miles in length:
Halfe which in bredth her bosome forth doth lay

The Irish Sea.

From the faire German to'th Vergivian sea:
Thy Realme of Ireland, a most fertile Land,
Brought in subjection to thy glorious hand,
And all the Iles theyr chalkie tops advance
To the sunne setting from the coast of Fraunce.
Saturne to thee his soveraignty resignes,
Op'ning the lock'd way to the wealthy mines:
And till thy raigne Fame all this while did hover,
The North-west passage that thou might'st discover
Unto the Indies, where that treasure lies
Whose plenty might ten other worlds suffice.
Neptune and Jove together doe conspire,
This gives his trydent, that his three-forkt fire,
And to thy hand doe give the kayes to keepe,
Of the profound immeasurable deepe.

But soft my Muse, check thy abundant straine
To the conceiving of th'unskilfull braine,
That whilst thy true descent I doe rehearse,
Th'unlearned'st soule may sweetly tast my verse.

473

Which now in order let me first dispose,
And tell the union of the blessed Rose,
That to thy Grandsire Henry I may bring thee,
(From whom I after to thy birth may sing thee.)
That Tudors blood did worthily prefer,
From the great Queene that beautious Dowager,

Katherine wife to Henry the fift.

Whose sonne brave Richmond from the Brittons fet,
Graft in the stock of Princely Sommerset,

Edmond Tudor Earle of Richmond, sonne of Owen Tudor by the Queene. The daughter of John Duke of Sommerset, sonne of John Earle of Sommer set, the sonne of John of Gaunt.

The third faire Sien, the sweet Roseat plant,
Sprong from the Roote of the Lancastrian Gant,
Which had seaventh Henry, that of royall blood
By his deere Mother, is the Red-rose bud,
As theyr great Merlin propheci'd before
Should the old Brittons regalty restore,
Which Henry raigning by th'usurpers death,
Maried the Princesse faire Elizabeth
Fourth Edwards daughter, whose predest'nate bed
Did thus conjoyne the White-rose, and the Red:
These Roseall branches as I thus entwyne,
In curious trayles embelishing thy lyne,
To thy blest Cradell let me bring thee on,
Rightly deriv'd from thy great Grandsires throne.
Who holding Scotlands amity in worth,
Strongly to linck him with King James the fourth,
His eldest daughter did to him unite,
Th'unparaleld bright lovely Margarite,
Which to that husband prosperously did bring,
The fifth of that Name, Scotlands lawfull King,
Father to Mary (long in England seene)

Maried whilst he was Daulphin.

The Daulphins dowager, the late Scottish Queene.

But now to Margarite backe againe to come,
From whose so fruitfull, and most blessed wombe

Archibald Dowglasse Earle of Anguish.

We bring our full joy, James her husband dead,
Tooke gallant Anguish to a second bed,
To whom ere long she bare a princely gerle,

The Countesse of Lenox.

Maried to Lenox, that brave-issued Earle,
This beautious Dowglasse, as the powers imply,
Brought that Prince Henry, Duke of Albany,

Henry Lord Darly.

474

Who in the prime of strength, in youths sum'd pride
Maried the Scotch Queene on the other side,
Whose happy bed to that sweet Lord did bring,
This Brittaine hope, James our undoubted King,
In true succession, as the first of other
Of Henries line by Father, and by Mother.
Thus from the old stock showing thee sprong to be,
Grafting the pure White, with the Red-rose tree,
By mixture made vermillion as they meet,
For in that colour is the Rose most sweet:
So in thy Crowne the precious flower that growes
Be it the Damaske, or Vermillion Rose,
Amongst those Reliques, that victorious King,
Edward cald Longshanks, did from Scotland bring,
And as a Trophie royally prefer
To the rich Shrine in famous Westminster,

Recorded to be that stone whereon Jacob slept.

That stone reserv'd in England many a day,
On which great Jacob his grave head did lay,
And saw descending Angels whilst he slept:
Which since that time by sundry Nations kept,
(From age to age I could recite you how,
Could I my pen that liberty alow.)
An ancient Prophet long agoe fore-told,
(Though fooles their sawes for vanities doe hold)

A prophecie belonging to that stone.

A King of Scotland, ages comming on,
Where it was found, be crown'd upon that stone.
Two famous Kingdoms seperate thus long,
Within one Iland, and that speake one tongue,
Since Brute first raign'd, (if men of Brute alow)
Never before united untill now,
What power, nor war could do, nor time expected,
Thy blessed birth hath happily effected.
O now revive that noble Brittaines name,
From which at first our ancient honors came,
Which with both Nations fitly doth agree
That Scotch and English without difference be,
And in that place wher feuds were wont to spring
Let us light Jigs, and joyfull Pæans sing.

475

Whilst such as rightly propheci'd thy raigne,
Deride those Ideots held their words for vaine.
Had not my soule beene proofe gainst envies spite
I had not breath'd thy memory to write:
Nor had my zealous, and religious layes
Told thy rare vertues, and thy glorious dayes.
Renowned Prince, when all these tumults cease,
Even in the calme, and Musick of thy peace,
If in thy grace thou deigne to favour us,
And to the Muses be propitious,
Cæsar himselfe, Roomes glorious wits among,
Was not so highly, nor divinely sung.

The very earthl'est & degenerat'st spirit,
That is most voyd of vertue, and of merit,
With the austeer'st, and impudentest face,
Will thrust himselfe the formost to thy grace;
Those silken, laced, and perfumed hinds,
That have rich bodies, but poore wretched minds,
But from thy Court (O Worthy) banish quite
The foole, the Pandar, and the Parasite,
And call thy selfe most happy (then be bold)
When worthie places, worthi'st men doe hold,
The servile clowne for shame shall hide his head,
His ignorance, and basenesse frustrated,
Set lovely vertue ever in thy view,
And love them most, that most doe her pursue,
So shalt thou ad renowne unto thy state,
A King most great, most wise, most fortunate.

FINIS.

479

A PÆAN TRIVMPHALL.

COMPOSED FOR THE SOCIETIE OF the Goldsmiths of London: congratulating his Highnes magnificent entring the Citie. To the Maiestie of the King. By Michael Drayton.

Dicite io pæan, io bis dicite pæan.

480

To the vaste skies whilst shoutes and cries rebound,
And buildings eccho with reverberate sound,
Strugling to thrust out of the peopled throng,
Panting for breath flies our elaborate song
That time the day brake from her wonted guise,
The Sunne in haste before his houre did rise,
And drave the fleet-foote posting houres so fast,
Which were afeard young Phaeton that was cast
From his Siers Chariot, reobtain'd the Carre,
To set the neighboring Elements at warre.
But whilst sweete Zephyre gently spreads his wings,
Curles the sleeke bosomes of th'enamoured springs.
With Baulmie spices so perfumes each place,
Breathing such odors in the mornings face,
That the day seem'd all former daies to scorne,
And (to compare it) ever should be borne.
Saturne whose grim face clad in Icie haire,
Thrust his bleake visage through the Northerne aire,
That long had low'rd upon the drouping spring,
With Frosts, Hailes, Snowes and Tempests minacing,
Suddenly calm'd, and his harsh rage resignes

The south and southwest wind.

To smooth Favonius and milde Libick windes,
Whil'st Temples stand even trembling as afeard,
To see proud Pageants on their Arches reard
Above their Turrets, whilest the concourse meete,
Like boysterous tides in every publike streete.
Windowes of eyes, the houses scorn'd their glasse,
On every side their Majesties should passe:
Roomes with rich beauties furnished about,
Arras but serves to hang the walles without.
Who lov'd in works of ancient times to prie,
Hangings compleate with curious Imagrie,
Glutting his eyes here lively might behold,
Faces whose numbers figures never told,
Walling the houses, in whose severall eyes
Joye shewes it selfe in more varieties,
Then be their mindes, the objects that they see,

481

Which are as various as their features bee.
The hie-reard spires shake with the peoples crie,
Bending their tops seeme wondring to espie
Streets pav'd with heads, for such the numbers bee,
The loftiest Tower no ground at all can see.
Banners, Flags, Streamers, in such numbers borne,
And stood so thick that one might soone have sworne,
Nature of late some noveltie had brought,
Groaves leav'd with silke in curious manner wrought,
Bearing such fruite th'Atlantides did keepe,

The daughters of Atlas.

By that fierce Dragon that did never sleepe.
When now approched glorious Majestie,
Under a gold-wrought sumptuous Canopie.
Before him went his goodly glittering traine,
Which though as late wash'd in a golden raine.
All so embraudered that to those behold,
Horses as men, seem'd to be made of Gold:
With the faire Prince, in whom appear'd in glory,
As in th'abridgement of some famous story,
Ev'ry rare vertue of each famous King
Since Norman Williams happie conquering:
Where might be seene in his fresh blooming hopes,
Henry the fifth leading his warlike troupes,
When the proud French fell on that conquered land,
As the full Corne before the labourers hand.
Ushering so bright and Angellike a Queene,
Whose gallant carridge had but Cynthia seene,
She might have learnd her silver brow to beare,
And to have shin'd and sparckl'd in her spheare,
Leading her Ladies on their milkie Steedes,
With such aspect that each beholder feedes,
As though the lights and beauties of the skies,
Transcending dwelt and twinckled in their eies.
Here might you see what passion wonder wrought,
As it invades the temper of the thought:
One weepes for joy, he laughs and claps his hands,
Another still and looking sadly stands:
Others that seemed to be moved lesse,
Shew'd more then these in action could expresse.

482

None ther's could judge a witnesse of this sight,
Whether of two did take the more delight,
They that in triumph rode or they that stand,
To view the pompe and glorie of the land,
Each unto other such reflection sent,
Either so sumptuous, so magnificent:
Nor are the duties that thy subjects owe,
Only compriz'd in this externall show.
For harts are heap'd with those innumered hoords,
That tongues by uttrance cannot vent in words:
Nor is it all Invention here devises,
That thy hie worth and Majestie comprizes,
And we not last of those glad harts that prove,
To shew our Soveraigne our unspotted love.

John Stow Survay.

The first a Maiors name worthely did grace,
Marrying that title and Pretorian place,
Was of our freedome, purchasing thereby
That primate honor to our Livery.
Native our love as needfull is our trade,
By which no kingdome ever was decaide,
To bring sleight gauds and womanish devices,
Of little use and of excessive prices.
Good home-made things with trifles to suppresse,
To feede luxurious riot, and excesse,
Sound Bullion is our subject, whose sure rate
Seal'd by his selfeworth, such the Goldsmiths state,
Which peace and happie government doth nourish,
And with a kingdome doth both fade and florish.
Natures perfection, that great wonder Gold,
Of which the first note of our name we hold,
Phœbus his God that triply doth implie,
To medicen, Musicke, and sweete Poesie,
To us his hie divinitie imparts,
As he is knowne and glorified in Arts:
For that invention studie doth befit,
That is the crowne and puritie of wit,
What doth belong and's proper to the muse,
We of all other mysteries doe use,
Moulds and insculpturs framing by the head,

483

Formes and proportions strangely varied.
The lumpe as likes the workman best to frame,
To wedge, to ingot, or what other name,
That by the sight and knowledge of our trade,
Into rich Plate, and Utensils is made
Within thy land, for ornament doth stay,
Angels have wings and fleeting still away,
And by eschanging virtuously doth flie
That cankerd, base, and idle Usurie:
For when the banck once subtilie is plac'd,
Th'exacted use comes hourely in so fast,
That whil'st the lender on the borrower praies,
Good and industrious facultie decaies.
Foule Avarice that triple Dog of Hell,
That when Joves sonne emperiously did quell,
And from his hand receiv'd that fatall wound,
His poysoned foame he driv'ld on the ground,
From which they say as in the earths despite,
Did spring that black and poysoned Aconite:
For they by fire that mettals use to trie,
And finde wise Natures secresies thereby,
When they prepare industriously to shed
Silver, dispos'd adulteratly with lead,
Prove this base Courser from the other fine,
Being so cleere and aptly femenine,
Steales from her purenes in his boystrous fixure,
By the corruption of his earthly mixure,
Which if Gold helping her infeebled might,
As a kind brother in his sisters right,
By him her spirit is perfect and compacted,
Which that grosse body enviously detracted.
Conscience like Gold which Hell cannot intice,
Nor winne from weake man by his avarice:
Which if infus'd such vertue doth impart,
As doth conforme and rectifie the hart.
For as the Indians by experience know,
That like a Tree it in the ground doth grow,
And as it still approcheth to the day,
His curled branches bravely doth display,

484

Then in the bulke and body of the mine,
More neat, contracted, rarifi'd, and fine:
So truth from darknes spreading doth appeare,
And shewes it selfe more luculent and cleere.

In Catol. Episcop.

Dunstan our Patron that religious man,
(That great and famous Metropolitan,
That in his time ascended by degrees,
To Worster, London, Canturburies Sees,
That was in ancient Glastenbury bred,
Foure Saxons raignes that living flourished,
Whose deeds the world unto this time containeth,
And sainted in our Kalenders remaineth
Gave) what not time our Brotherhood denies,
Ancient endowments and immunities:
And for our station and our generall heape,
Recides in Lombard or in goodly Cheape.
We have an Adage which though very old,
Tis not the worse that it hath oft been told,
(Though the despising ancient things and holie,
Too much betraies our ignorance and follie)
That England yeelds to goodly London this,
That she her chiefe and soveraine Citie is:
London will graunt her goodly Cheape the grace,
To be her first and absolutest place:
Dare I proclaime then with a constant hand,
Cheape is the Starre and Jewell of thy land.
The Trophie that we reare unto thy praise,
This gold-drop'd Lawrell, this life-giving bayes,
No power lends immortalitie to men,
Like the hie spirit of an industrious pen,
Which stems times tumults with a full-spread saile,
When proud reard piles and monuments doe faile,
And in their cinders when great Courts doe lie,
That shall confront and justle with the skie:
Live ever mightie, happely, and long,
Living admir'd, and dead be highly song.

FINIS.

485