MATILDA.

The faire and chaste Daughter of the Lord Robert Fitzwater.

THE TRVE GLORIE OF THE NOBLE HOVSE OF SVSSEX.

Phoebus erit nostri princeps, et carminis author.

AT LONDON, Printed by Iames Roberts, for N. L. and Iohn Busby. 1594.

To the noble and vertuous Gentlewo­man, worthy of all honor, Mistres Lucie Harrington, Daughter to the Honorable Gentleman, Sir IOHN HARRINGTON, Knight.

YOVR rarest vertues, (honourable Mistres LVCIE,) haue made me, a­mongst many other competent Iudges of your worth, both to loue and admire you: but the exceeding kinde affection (which I knowe) the House of POWLES-WORTH doe beare you, (a Family where-vnto I must confesse, I am both in loue and dutie more deuote then to any o­ther) hath mooued mee, for a more parti­culer proofe of that honor which both they and I are willing to doe you, to dedicate my Poeme to your protection.

Vouchsafe therefore noble Mistres LVCIE, your selfe beeing in full measure, adorned with the like excellent gifts, both of bodie and minde: graciously to patronize MATILDA. A mirror of so rare chastitie, as neither the fayre speeches, nor rich rewards of a King, nor death in selfe, could euer remoue from her owne chast thoughts: or from that due regard which shee had of her neuer-stained honor. Your gra­cious and curteous acceptance of these my labours, may encourage mee heereafter, to publish some worke of greater worth, vnder your Name and protection, to whom I wish all happinesse.

Yours in all humble seruice, Michaell Drayton.

To the Honourable Gentlemen of Englande, true fauorers of Poesie.

LEarned and honourable Gentlemen, whose kind and fauourable acceptance of my late discourse of the life and death of Peirs Gaueston, hath emboldened mee, to publish this tragicall Historie of my Ma­tilda, which otherwise, the fonde censures of the sottish and absurd ignorant had alto­gether discouraged me: (of those detract­ors I meane,) who without iudgement of reading, haue rashlie and iniuriously wronged the most rare & excellent men who haue written in this age wherein wee liue. They themselues, eyther wanting the vse of those tongues, which as the keyes of knowledge vnlock the treasurie of most rarest inuention, or els theyr dull eyes, so ouer-clowded with mistie ignorance, as neuer able to looke into celestiall secrets of diuine Poesie, thereby to discerne the right and true method of a perfect and exquisite Poeme.

And yet, such is the folly and shamelesse impudencie of some, (as wee see euery day,) which in their wanton and adultrate con­ceits, bring forth such vgly Monsters, as a modest and sober eye, can hardly abide to view their deformities. Then it is no meruaile though the diuine Muses, take so small delight in our Clime, fin­ding their sweet and pleasant fields, which should be holy and sa­cred, defiled, and polluted, with such lothsome ordure. And al­though there be many, furnished with sundry sorts of good lear­ning, yet wanting that diuine touch and heauenlie instinct which giueth life to inuention, doe basely disgrace that, wherein theyr owne experience tells them, they bee altogether ignorant. But onely to you, excellently qualified, and rare accomplish'd Gen­tlemen, the true heyres of the Muses, I consecrate my labours, whose wise and discreet censures, haue heeretofore made knowne to me, the true perfection of your owne honorable dispositions: & onely to you Matilda committeth her short discourse.

Michaell Drayton.

The vision of Matilda.

ME thought I saw vpon Matildas Tombe,
Her wofull ghost, which Fame did now awake,
And crau'd her passage from Earths hollow wombe,
To view this Legend, written for her sake;
No sooner shee her sacred Name had seene,
VVhom 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 iust 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,
Nor will commend Matildas chastitie,
Shee by thy Muse, her fame from graue doth rayse,
And hie conceit, thy lines doth dignifie.
But that in this, the honour thou doost giue,
To that sweet Maide in whose vnspotted minde,
Matildas rarest vertues yet doe liue,
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 euery good they are,
And then thy choyce with iudgement ratifie.
And I who know the worth of thy fit choyce,
Approue it good, both with my pen and voyce.
Anonimos.
TEares in your eyes, and passions in your harts,
VVith mournfull grace vouchsafe Matildas story:
The subiect 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,
VVhen count is cast, a reckoning is remaining,
VVhich 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,
VVhich 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.
VVho for her rarest vertues doth exceede,
Nor neuer 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 Iemmes of heauens eternall mould.
Then happy man in thy Matildas fame,
Happy Matilda in rare Lucies name,
Deuise of wit, by Graces onely graced,
Adorned skill, in vertue highly placed,
Yet subiect, wit, and skill be all to fewe,
In chast Matilda, sor rare Lucies due.
VV. G. Esquire.

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 craue my life may be reueald,
VVhich blacke obliuion 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 ouer past,
Now sinding one to pittie mee at last.
You blessed Impes of heauenly 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,
VVhich serues for odours to perfume my hearse.
Let your delicious heauen-distilling teares,
Soften the earth to send mee from her wombe,
VVith Conquerors Lawrell crowne my golden haires,
VVith flowry garlands beautifie my tombe,
Be you the Heralds to proclaime me roome,
VVith sable Cypresse maske your louely 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 striues 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.
Lucrece, of whom proude Rome hath boasted long,
Lately reuiu'd to liue another age,
And here ariu'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 graue 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 friendes, but vertue seldome any.’
O faire Charites, Ioues most deere delight,
O lend me now one heauen-inchanting lay,
And you rare Nimphes which please Apollos sight,
Bring spreading Palme and neuer-dying Bay,
VVith Oliue 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, Soueraigne 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 loues asmuch, although he wants his arte.
O my dread Soueraigne, rare and princely Mayd,
From whose pure eyes the world deriues her light,
In Angels robes with maiestie 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.
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,’
VVhich I omit and here set downe myrest:
‘Of vertuous life I meane to boast alone,’
‘Our birth is theirs, our vertues are our owne.’
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A shame to fetch our long discent from Kings,
And from great Ioue deriue our pedigree,
The braue atchiuements of a hundred things,
Breathing vaine boastes the worlde to terrifie,
If wee our selues doe blot with infamie,
And staine that blood and honor which is theirs:
Men cannot leaue their vertues to their heyres.
The Heauen 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 iudg'd by so diuine a feature:
Yet as my beautie seem'd to rauish all,
Vertue made beauty more angelicall.
Vpon my brow, sate Honor in her pride,
Tables containing heauens diuinest law,
VVhose snowie margent quoted on each side,
VVith 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 preserue her treasure.
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,
Moouing all hearers with the harmonie.
Gracing my tale with such an Emphasis,
As neuer Musicke could delight like this.
My face the sunne, adorning beauties sky,
The Booke where heauen her wonders did enrole,
A stately Pharus to each wandring eye,
And like a Syren could enchaunt the soule,
VVhich had the power the proudest to controle.
To whom this gift my Maker had assigned,
That there, all eyes like southsayers diuined.
Natures fayre Ensigne, roiallie displai'd,
Map of Elisium, Eden without night,
Ermins wherein rich Phoebus is arai'd,
Right prospectiue, reflecting heauenly light,
Hart-wounding arrow, pearcing with the sight.
Bright mornings lustre, Ioues high exaltation,
Load-starre of loue, rare Carde of admiration.
True type of honor, fine dilicious varry,
The richest coate that euer beautie bare,
Pure colours, which the heauens doe onlie carry,
O vncouth blazon, so exceeding rare,
O curious lymming, passing all compare,
First at my birth assigned vnto mee,
By that great King of heauenly Heraldrie.
From hence my praise began to proue her wing,
VVhich to the heauen could carry vp my fame,
Of all my glorie now began the spring,
Through euery Coast this still enlarg'd my name,
From hence the cause of all my sorrowes came:
‘Thus to this Hydra are we subiect still,’
‘VVho dares to speake, not caring good or ill.’
This iealous Monster hath a thousand eyes,
Her ayrie body hath as many wings:
Now on the earth, then vp to heauen she flies,
And heere and there with euery wind she flings,
From euery Coast her rumors foorth shee brings;
Nothing so secret but to her appeareth,
And apt to credit euery thing shee heareth.
Foule blabbing tel-tale, secrets soone bewrayer,
Thou ayre-bred Eccho, whisperer of lyes:
Shril-sounding trumpet, trueths vnkind betrayer,
False larum bel, awaking dead-mens eyes,
Vncertaine rumor, wandring in the skyes:
Fond pratling Parrat, telling all thou hearest,
Oft furthest of when as thou should [...] be nearest.
The Princes eares are open to report,
Ther's skill in blazing beauty to a King;
To censure, is the subiect of the Court,
Frō 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 loue 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,
VVhat dangers were attending still on me:
VVhich most desir'd, for why esteem'd most rare,
Gaurded I kept with most especiall care.
This, whole possest the thoughts of princelie Iohn,
This, on his hart-strings Angels musick made,
This, was the subiect which he wrought vpon,
That deepe impression which could neuer fade,
Reason which might sufficiently perswade:
Hence sprong that greefe, which neuer gaue him rest,
This was the spirit wher-with hee was possest.
This, had commission to cammaund 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 euery bloody iarre,
This, taught his eyes their due attendance still,
This, held the raines which rul'd his princely will.
Controuling Loue, proud Fortunes busie Factor,
The gaule of wit, sad Melancholies schoole,
Hart-killing corsiue, 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,
VVho liu'd in pompe, and Lorded with the best,
VVhose minde was troubled with this strange report,
As one enshrining honor in his brest,
And as a man who euer lou'd me best:
Fore-saw the danger of such secret spyes,
VVho 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,
VVho being hurt must needs conceale his wound.
‘For why he knew, it was a dangerous thing,’
‘In rule, or Loue, 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,
VVith me his childe, thought fittest to perswade,
Ere further he into the deepe durst wade.
Sweete gyrle (quoth he) the glory of my life,
The blessed and sole obiect of mine eyes,
For whom the Heauens with Nature fell at strife,
On whom the hope of all my fortune lies,
VVhose youth, my age with comfort still supplies.
VVhose very sight my drouping hart doth raise,
And doth prolong thy aged fathers dayes.
Thou seest, a world vpon 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,
VVhere blushing Roses, sleepe in beds of snowe.
The heauēs haue fring'd thy fore-head with their gold;
That glasse where heauen her-selfe may well behold.
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All gaze at Comets, choysest things be best,
The rarest pearles are euer dearest prized,
Seldom wants guests, where Beautie bids the feast,
Mens eyes with wonders neuer are suffised,
At fairest signes, best welcome is surmised.
The shrine of Loue, doth seldom offrings want.
Nor with such counsel, Clyents neuer scant.
Honor is grounded on the tickle Ice,
The purest Lawne, most apt for euery spot,
The path to hell, doth seeme a paradice,
Vices be noted, verues oft forgot,
Thy fame once foild, incurable the blot.
Thy name defac'd, if toucht with any staine,
And once supplanted, neuer growes againe.
The Lechors tongue is neuer voyd of guile,
Nor Crocodile wants teares to win his pray,
The subtil'st Temptor hath the sweetest stile,
VVith rarest musick Syrens soon'st betray.
Assection, will like fire himselfe bewray.
Time offers still each hower to do amisse,
And greatest dangers, promise greatest blisse.
Deceit, still with a thousand sleights is fraught,
Art, hath a world of secrets in her power,
VVho hopes a Conquest, leaues no meanes vnsought,
Soft golden drops once peirc'd the brazen tower,
Care and Suspition is faire Beauties dower.
Guile, (like a Traytor) euer goes disguis'd,
Lust, oft is fild, but neuer is suffic'd.
This wanton Prince, whose soule doth swim in vice,
VVhose lawlesse youth time neuer hath restrained,
He leaues no meanes vnprou'd, which may entice,
The rytes of wedlock wantonly profained;
His hands with blood of innocents distained.
This Lyon, would thy chastity deuoure,
VVhich kept by Vertue, lyes not in his power.
Laciuious will, the sences doth abuse,
Birth is no shaddow vnto tyranny,
No scepter serues dishonor to excuse,
Nor kinglie vaile can couer villanie,
Fame is not subiect to authoritie.
No plaister heales a deadly poysoned sore,
No secret hid, where slaunder keepes the dore.
No subtile plea reuokes 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 giuen, cannot be euited.
If once the fire be to the powder got,
Tis then too late to seeke to flie the shot.
His youthfull loue, is like a sudden fire,
VVhose 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 Giues, fast fettered to Defame.
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,
VVhen he hath felt the sweet of his delight,
But leaues the same a pray to euery Kite.
VVith much we surfer, plenty makes vs poore,
The wretched Indian spurns the golden Ore.
Kinges vse their Loues, as garments they haue worne,
VVeake 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?
VVhat Princes wealth can prize thy Maiden-head?
VVhich should be held as precious as thy breath,
VVhich once dissolu'd of force ensueth death.
Loe, heere he makes a period with his teares,
VVhich from his eyes now make a sudden breache,
By which the weight of all his speech appeares,
In words so graue as seemed still to preach,
This Idioma with such power doth teach.
VVhose 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 preseruing blisse,
VVater of life in euery suddaine qualme,
The heauens rich store-house, where all treasure is,
True guide, by whom foule Errors den we misse.
Night-burning Beacon, watch against mishaps,
Fore-sight, auoyding many after claps.
The King deluded in his loue the whise,
His soule tormented in this quenchlesse fire,
VVith flattering hope his sences doth beguile,
Quickning the coales vnto his fond desire;
Affection growne too head-strong to retire,
Controules his silence, hating to be mute,
And still doth vrge him to commence his sute.
Thus carried on by his vnbridled thought,
He leaues no baite vnprou'd that might allure,
‘Deceit, a schoole of common sleights hath taught,’
‘Desire, hath philters which desires procure,’
‘Lust, puts the most vnlawfull things in vre:’
‘Nor yet in limmets euer could be bounded,’
‘Till he himselfe, himselfe hath quite confounded.’
But still perceiuing all deuices faile,
His traines in Court yet neuer tooke effect,
Now with his tongue determin'd to assaile,
And to this end doth all his thoughs direct,
Too much abused by his vaine suspect:
To further daies, no longer would be posted,
But finding time, me brauely thus accosted.
Goddesse (quoth he) when Nature thee engrayned,
VVith colours fetcht from heauens eternall spring,
Little thought shee, herselfe shee could haue stayned.
Or grace the world with so diuine 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 euer liu'd on earth.
Locke not thy treasure, heauen doth giue 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 Loue doth feast,
The royall Pawne of Beauties interest.
Thy lyps, the Bath where sorrows wounds are healed,
VVhere Abstinence keepes Vertue in a diet,
And in thy wit, all wonders are reuealed,
VVisedom growne welthy, liueth there at quiet:
Thy modest eye controules Loues wanton ryot.
Thine eye, that planet clearer then the seauen,
VVhose radient splendour lights the world to heauen.
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:
VVhich to the world do heauenly things impart.
And thou alone, the spirit of all delight,
VVhich like the sun, ioy'st all things with thy sight.
Could heauen allowe wher-with to lim thee forth,
Or earth afford things of esteeme to praise thee,
VVere words sufficient to expresse thy worth,
Or could inuention to thy glory raise thee,
Could Art deuise a weight whereby to paize thee:
But thy surpassing exeellence is such,
As eyes may gaze, but nothing els may tuch.
Hee is thy King, who is becom thy subiect,
Thy soueraigne Lord, who onely seekes thy loue,
Thy beauty is his eyes commaunding obiect,
VVho for thy sake, a thousand deathes would proue:
Sweet Maid let prayers, some compassion moue.
Let VVolues, and Beares, be cruell in their kinds,
But women meeke, and haue relenting minds.
Loue forc'd the Gods, to things for Gods vnmeer,
Behold a Monarch kneeling to a maide,
Apollo, prostrate at his Daphnes feete,
Great Atlas bowes, on whom the heauen is staide;
Thy Ioue 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,
VVhere Time still reades on Loues Anotomy,
My bloodlesse vaines with greefes Phlebotomy:
A stanchlesse hart, dead-wounded, euer bleeding,
On whom that nere-fild vulture Loue sits feeding.
Pitty this soule-euaporating smoke,
The purest incense of most perfect zeale,
These deep-fetcht sighes, cōfounding words halfe spoke,
VVhere swoln-ey'd passion doth herselfe reueale:
That ragefull fier, no reason can conceale.
VVhere torments last, and ioyes are still diluded,
VVhere all infernall torture is included.
Behold, the brim-full Cesterns of these eyes,
VVith surging Tydes of brackist teares frequented,
VVhere foodlesse Hope, still hunger-staruen lies,
In burning Pooles eternally tormented:
VVhich to betray, my hart at first consented.
VVhere as the spirit of woe, hath euer being,
Blinded in teares, yet in teares only seeing.
Shyne thou, like Cynthia vnder mine estate,
Thy tresses deckt with Ariadnes Crowne,
In pompe redubbling costly Iunos rate,
And cloud the world in sable with a frowne:
Aduance thy friends, and throw the mighty downe.
Be thou admir'd through all this famous Ile,
Thy name enrol'd with neuer-dated stile.
Great troupes of Ladies shall attend my Gerle,
Thou on thy braue tryumphing Chariot borne,
Thy drinke shall be dissolued orient Pearle,
Thy princely Cup of rarest Vnicorne:
Then liue at ease, and laugh the world to scorne.
And if our musick cannot like thine eares,
Thy Ioue 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,
Vpon my Crowne, thy fauors will I weare,
Figuring thy loue a thousand sundry wayes:
My power shall be thy shield at all assaies.
And thou my Saint, Kings offering to thy shrine,
VVondring thy beautie, as a thing diuine.
VVhat 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;
‘Loue euer laughs, when Ielousie dooth weepe.’
‘My prouidence, shall keepe her stomacke vnder,’
‘She may raise stormes, but Ioue doth rule the thūder.’
Thus hauing broke the Ice from whence might spring,
Sweet streames of loue in calme and fairer time,
And afterward, might ioyfull tydings bring,
The staire begun by which he thought to clyme,
Hoping due howres, now he had set the chyme;
Lea [...]s me, not knowing now which way to turne me,
vvarm'd with the fire, which vnawars 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 vpon 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 diuine from highest heauen 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 receiue 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.
And VVisedom now fore-warned mee of treason,
That in the Court, I liu'd a Lyons pray,
My tender youth in this contagious season,
Still fear'd infection, following day by day:
My Barck vnsafe on this tempestious Sea.
My Chastity in danger euery hower,
No succour neer to shroud me from the shower.
VVith Resolution, hap what might be-tide,
I leaue 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.
VVhere, with his trayne, my noble Father lay,
VVhose gracious counsell was my onely stay.
There, might my thoughts keepe holy-day a while,
And sing a farewell to my sorrowes past,
VVith 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,
VVhere I (poore soule) my shipwrack must sustaine.
And loe, the Autumne of my ioyes approch,
VVhilst yet my spring began so faire to flourish,
Black way-ward VVinter, 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.
The King who saw his loue vnkindly crost,
And by effect the cause had fully found,
Since he the haruest of his hope had lost,
Now on reuenge his deepest thoughts doth ground:
Desperate to kill, receiuing his deaths wound.
In reasons bounds striues but in vaine to hold,
Head-strong desire, too proud to be controld.
Like the braue Courser strugling with the raines,
His foming mouth controld with Canons check,
VVith 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 deuising to disperse the Cloude,
VVhich euer hung betwixt him and the light:
His loue not currant, nor to be allow'd,
VVhilst thus my Father held mee in his sight,
Some-thing amisse, his VVatch went neuer right.
Of force hee must this Sentinell remoue,
If hee in time would hope to win my loue.
Ten thousand mischiefes now hee sets abroch,
Treasons, inuasions, ciuill 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 Enuie thou, the partiall Iudge of right,
Sonne of Deceit, borne of that harlot Hate,
Nursed in Hell, a vile and vglie spright,
Feeding on Slaunder, cherrish'd with Debate:
Neuer contented with thine owne estate.
Deeming alike the wicked and the good,
VVhose words be gall, whose actions end in blood.
His seruice done to this vngratefull King,
His worth, his valure, his gentilitie:
VVhat good so-euer might from vertue spring,
Or could proceede from true Nobilitie,
All buried now in darke obscuritie.
His vertuous life, in doubtfull question brought,
VVhich euer-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 to none other end,’
‘But to greeue those whom nothing could offend.’
Such as too well perceiu'd the Kings intent,
In whom remayn'd yet any sparke of grace,
Pittying a poore distressed innocent,
Their safety still depending on my ease,
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,
VVith 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 giuen ouer 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.
VVasting themselues, augmenting his defame.
VVhich like bright Beacons, blaze in euery eye,
VVarning all other of his tyrannie.
Our friends and followers thus are beaten downe,
VVhom euery slaue and pesant dare reuile,
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 leaue 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 vnto 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 vnto thee.
Yet my laments are wasted all in vaine,
And to these windes and billowes must complaine.
But now the VVolfe 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 euery howre,
This Minataure must all my hopes deuoure.
Yet forc'd by Fortune to endure this woe,
And vnreueng'd vnto my graue shall goe.
VVithin the furrowes of my aged browes,
My ioyes must their vntimely buriall haue,
This fatall Tombe proude Fortune them alowes,
VVhich thus with-holds mee from my wished graue.
The heauens are deafe although I iustly craue.
My teares with greefe are frozen in mine eyes,
Yet God, nor man, regards my miseries.
Thrice famous Romaine, (fortunate to mee,)
By whose owne hands thy deerest child was slaine,
Deliuer'd so from slauish tyrannie,
But lyuing, mine dishonor'd shall remaine,
Blotting my Name with an immortall staine;
VVhose black reproch, for euer shall endure.
"Ah vile disease that neuer tyme can cure.
Euen as the kinde sleep-breaking Nightingale,
(The cruell Merlin ceaz'd her little one,)
Vnto the Thickets tells a wofull tale,
VVearying 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,
VVhose surges stroue the continent to climbe,
And bounding backe vnto the Gulfe at last,
Vpon the Sands doth leaue a clammie slime,
Teares in his cheekes, such gutters worne in time.
VVash'd with the floods of his stil-troubled braine,
His eyes brim-full, as furrowes after raine.
And thus my Father vnawares betray'd,
A thousand sorrowes mee at once assaile;
VVhat might I doe, a silly helplesse mayde,
Tost and turmoyl'd in this tempestious gale?
These boysterous flawes haue 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,
VVhen ouer-toyl'd his swiftnes doth aslake,
Forsakes the Plaines, to which hee trusted most,
And to the couert doth himselfe betake,
VVhere dubbling still, creepes on from brake to brake;
Thus doe I flie before the Princes face,
VVho day and night pursues mee still in chase.
The Coast is cleere, suspitious eyes at rest,
And all things fadge which further his desire:
Now royall hope keepes reuels in his brest,
The coales are quick, and Fancie blowes the fire:
His loue expects his long deserued 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 euery dore,’
VVhat might I doe, or what auailes mee then?
The silly Lambe liues in the Lyons den.
Loues wakefull eyes (too soone alas) discry'd mee,
And found mee, where I surest thought to hide mee.
My Ioue, like Ioue now seekes mee to inuade,
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 loue to gaine.
Now like great Phoebus in his golden Carre,
And then like Mars, the fearefull God of warre.
Hee makes the Ayre to wooe me whilst I talk,
The VVind to whistle many a pleasant Dittie,
The dainty Grasse make musick as I walk,
The prettie Flowers to moue me still to pitty:
All sencelesse things with reason seeming wittie.
Before mine eyes hee euer 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 ielous Loue 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.
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 vnder his mooned Canapie,
And how hee quiuers with his plumed sayle;
Yet when his Lead-pale legs hee haps to see,
VVith shame abates his painted iolitie.
The King, as proude as Peacock in my loue,
Yet droupes again, whē words nor teares could moue.
My breast, of Flint, a rock impenitrable,
My hart, that stone which neuer toole could perce,
My thoughts, a center, and vnsearchable,
My words, iudgement, which Law could not reuerse,
My frownes, such clowdes, as no ioy could disperse,
‘Tygars are tam'd with patience and with skill,’
‘All things made subiect, but a womans will.’
The King like one sick of a strange disease,
VVhose cruell paine no phisick can asswage,
Nor plaster can his torments once appease,
Boyling his intrales, with such hellish rage,
VVith 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 brauely sitteth on,
VVords steep'd in syrop of Ambrosia,
Sweet method, sauored with inuention,
‘VVhat can be said that Louers cannot say?’
‘Desire can make a Doctor in a day.’
Each sentence seem'd a sweet inchannting charme
A Trumpet sounding gentle Loues alarme.
VVith rare hart-curing Phrigian harmonie,
He tunes his strings, as not a trebble iarres,
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 loues Theologie.
VVhat curious thing did Nature ere bring forth,
VVhat glistering starre that yeelds his siluer shine,
To which hee doth not now compare my worth?
Or what is there, that's mortall or diuine?
VVhat sublimation doth not refine?
Or what rare thing was euer yet deuised,
That vnto mee, hee hath not lightly prized?
Now mounts hee vp with loftie straines of loue,
Then to sad vaines his pliant Muse doth bow,
His humors seruing, as his passions moue:
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 loue, like oyle vnto the fire.’
And now of one hee had himselfe aduis'd,
Both red and practiz'd in thys wretched Arte,
VVithin whose braine all mischiefes were compris'd,
VVhose 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,
VVho had before made tryall of his wit.
Another Dagon, was this miscreant,
A diuell, 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 neuer dye.
By him to Dunmow, hee these lines conuayde,
A Monestarie Iuga had begunne,
Iuga, sometime a holie Vestall mayde,
At whose great charge this Monument was donne,
VVhere I had vow'd to liue a holie Nunne.
And in my Cloyster, kept amongst the rest,
VVhich in this place virginitie profest.
Now he which had this bloody acte in charge,
Thether repaires, with letters from the King,
VVhose 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.
VVith courtly congies gently greeting mee,
Giues mee the packet which the King had sent mee,
Receiue fayre Maide, these Letters heere (quoth hee,)
The faithfull earnest of that good is meant thee:
But crauing that which neuer shall repent thee.
His lines be loue, the Letters writ in blood,
Then make no doubt the warrant passing good.
Kindly accept a Princes kingly offer,
Tis more then follie if thou doe refuse it:
Neuer hath Fortune made a fairer profer,
The gyft too great, if fondly thou abuse it,
Nor any reason serueth to excuse it.
Be not a foe vnto thine owne good hap,
Refusing treasure throwne into thy lap.
If thou be wise, hold this as ominus,
The heauens not like disposed euery hower:
The starres be still predominant in vs,
Fortune not alwaies forth her bags doth poure,
Nor euery clowde doth raine a golden shower.
Occasion's wing'd, and euer flyeth fast,
Comming, shee smyles, & frownes once being past.
VVrong not thy selfe, nor yet the worlde depriue,
Of that rare good which Nature freely lent,
Think'st thou by such base nygardize to thriue,
In sparing that which neuer will be spent?
And that is worst, in age shall thee repent.
Playing the Churle, to hoord vp Beauties pelfe,
And liue, and dye, and all vnto thy selfe.
Yet, were this all (quoth hee,) as would it were,
But there is more, which needes I must reueale:
Behold the poyson he hath sent thee here,
VVhich on my life I dare not to conceale,
Thus is the King determined to deale.
I, onely waite vpon thy resolution,
To win thy loue, or see thy execution.
Leaue 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, moou'd with no affection.
‘Beautie brings perrill, wanting safe protection.’
Forsweare this drousie melancholie Cell,
VVas neuer Gerle could grace a Court so well.
This feare first sprong from foolish superstition,
VVhich fond conceit into our eares hath blowne,
VVhich wee receiue from old folkes by tradition,
And as a weede to choke our ioyes is growne:
Reason rootes out what Error erst hath sowne.
A gentle iest to fright poore babes withall,
Like to a Bug-beare, painted on a wall.
Tush, these be triuiall toyes of reputation,
VVhose Ceremonies haue the world infected,
Held in regard but onely for a fashion,
VVhich friuolous, the wiser haue neglected:
And but as Dreames of doting age respected.
VVhose spleen-sick humors on their galls were fed,
Thinking all true which they imagined.
Dispatch, (quoth hee) loe, heere is pen and inck,
Heere make the Prince assurance of thy loue,
Or els prepare thee to thy fatall drinke,
VVhich is of force thy Feuer to remoue:
VVhich (ah pore fondling) thou too soone maist proue.
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 deceiu'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 neuer did but good,
VVill not be stain'd with virgins guiltlesse blood.
His thoughts be pure, as Christall, without spot,
Hee is wisdom, honour, valure, chastitie:
VVhat excellence is there that hee is not?
Or what may be, by him which cannot be?
Hee's Vertues right superlatiue degree.
From his affections, neuer shall proceede,
One little thought of this so vile a deede.
Kings be the Gods Vizegerents heere on earth,
The Gods haue power, Kings from that power haue 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 iustice striue,
VVith Gods, from whō their beings they deriue.
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 loue where thou reward'st with hate?
I passe not I, how ere thou like the motion,
Haue done at once, and quickly take the Potion.
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 vtmost of extremitie,
And yet when all is done, I can but die.
His will be done, sith hee will haue it so,
And welcome Death, the end of all my woe.
And thou my Deaths-man, slaue vnto 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 euer thinke,
A vertuous Maid so cowardly and base,
As to be frighted with a poysoned drinke,
And liue an abiect 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 Iewell, wher-with hee doth present mee?
I am his friend, what giues hee to his foe,
If this in token of his loue be sent mee?
Remedilesse I am, it must content mee.
Yet afterward, a prouerbe this shall proue,
The gift King Iohn bestow'd vpon his Loue.
Then of this conquest let thy Soueraigne 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 vnhappy Sonne.
And hee more shame shall carrie to his graue,
Then Fortune honors to his Father gaue.
Thus spoke my minde, (as women vse 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 neuer,
Or famous now, or infamous for euer.
Taking the poyson from his deadly hand,
Vnto the King caroust my latest draught;
Goe wretch (quoth I) now let him vnderstand,
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 haue betrayd,
Yet witnes Heauen, I liu'd and dyed a Mayd.
Then why repine I, sith hee thinks it meete,
Hee is my Soueraigne, and my life is his,
Death is not bitter, spyc'd with such a sweet,
VVhich leades the way to euerlasting blis;
Hee's all my ioy, 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 haue giuen life to mee,
My youthes fayre flower, yet blooming, had not dyed,
Then how should this but meritorious bee,
VVhen by my death, my life is sanctified?
Could euer thing more fitly bee applied?
In this is loue, in this his care I finde,
My Lord is iust, my Lord is onelie kinde.
Then let these teares, th'Elixars of my loue,
Bee to his soule a pure preseruatiue,
And let my prayers, be of such force to moue,
That by my death, my Soueraigne may suruiue:
And from his raigne, let Fame herselfe deriue
His glorie, like the Sunnes translucent rayes,
And as the heauen, eternall be his dayes.
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 vpon my dying bed,
This precious, sweet, perfumed sacrifice:
Hallowed in my almighty Makers eyes.
VVhich from this Alter, lends me heauenly light,
Guiding my soule amid this darkesome night.
My glorious life, my spotlesse Chastity.
Now at this hower bee all the ioyes I haue,
These be the wings by which my fame shall flye,
In memorie, these shall my Name engraue;
These, from obliuion shall mine honour saue.
VVith Laurell, these my browes shall coronize,
And make mee liue 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 ioyes,
And beautie crazed, like a broken glasse:
A prettie tale of that which neuer was.
All things decay, yet Vertue shall not dye,
This onely giues vs immortalitie.
My soule, thus from her pryson set at large,
And gentlie freed from this poluted roome,
This prize vnloden from this lothsome Barge,
(Such is the Heauens ineuitable doome:)
My body layd at Dunmow in my Toombe.
Thus Baynards-Castle boastes my blessed birth,
And Dunmow kindly wraps mee in her earth.
Now scarcely was my breathlesse body cold,
But euery where my tragedy was spred:
And Fame, abroad in euery Coast had told,
My resolution, beeing lately dead:
The glorious wonder of all woman-head.
And to my Father flyes with this report,
VVho liu'd an Exile in the French-Kings Court.
His griefe, too great to be bewail'd with teares,
VVords, insufficient to expresse his woe,
His soule, assaulted with a thousand feares,
As many, sundry passions come and goe;
His thoughts, vncertaine, wandring to and froe.
At length, this fearefull extasie ore-past,
Grones from his soule this passion at the last.
O Heauens (quoth hee) why was I borne accurst?
This onely comfort to mine age was left:
But to despite mee, you haue done your worst,
And mee of all my worldly ioyes bereft:
I quite vndone by your deceitfull theft.
This was the Iewell I esteemed most,
And loosing this, now all my treasurs lost.
Yee powers Diuine, if you be cleane and chast,
In whom alone consists eternitie,
VVhy suffer you, your owne to be disgra'st,
Subiect to death and black impuritie?
If in your shield be no securitie?
If so for Vertue these rewards be due?
VVho shall adore, or who shall honour you?
VVhat ment you, first to giue her vitall breath,
Or make the world proude by her blessed birth,
Predestinating this vntimely death,
And of her presence to depriue the earth?
O fruitlesse age, now staru'd with Vertues dearth.
Or if you long'd to haue her company,
O why by poyson would you let her die?
O Soile, with drops of mercy once bedew'd,
VVhen iust 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 Iohn.
O heauens, to whom should men for iustice cry,
VVhen Kings themselues thus raigne by tyrannie?
O gyue mee wings Reuenge, I will ascend
And fetch her soule againe out of their power;
From them proceeded this vntimely end,
VVho tooke her hence before her dying hower.
And rays'd that clowd which rayn'd this bloody shower.
And from the graue Ile dig her body vp,
VVhich had her bane by that vile poysoned cup.
O pardon Heauens 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 euer like you best,
VVith 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, reuenge to God alone belongs,
And it is hee which must reuenge my wrongs.
O heauens, perforce we must attend your time,
Our succours must awaite vpon you still,
In your iust waights you ballance euerie crime,
For vs you know what's good, and what is ill;
VVho vnderstands your deepe and secret skill?
In you alone our destinies consist,
Then who is hee which can your power resist?
O, could my sighes againe but giue 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 inuocations worthy:
Sighes, teares, life, prayers, were all to little for thee.
But since the heauen, thus of my child disposeth,
Ah me, thy Tombe now all my ioyes incloseth.
O what a wonder shall thy valure bring?
VVhat admiration to posteritie?
VVhat rare examples from thy vertues spring?
O what a glorie to thy Progenie,
To bee engrau'd in lasting memorie,
VVhen as applauding Fame in euery Coast,
Shall thus in honor of Fitzwaters boast?
England, when peace vpon thy shores shall flourish,
And that pure Maiden sit vpon thy Throne,
VVhich in her bosome shall the Muses nourish,
VVhose 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,
VVhen loathsome shame his actions doth controule.
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Black hell-bred-humor of reuenging sin,
By whose inticements, murder we commit,
The end vnthought of, rashlie we begin,
Letting our passion ouer-rule our wit:
Missing the marke, which most we ayme to hit.
Clogging our soules with such a masse of care,
As casts vs downe oft times into Dispayre.
Traytor to Vertue, Reprobate (quoth hee,)
As for a King, no more vsurpe 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 euery place,
Hate to thy selfe, the very worlds disgrace.
VVhen all thy race shal bee in tryumph set,
Their royall conquests and atchiuements done,
Henrie thy Father, braue 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 Iohn, the murderer of a Maide.
This act enrold in Booke of black Defame,
VVhere, men of death and tragick murders reed,
Recorded in the Register of shame,
In lines whose letters freshlie euer bleed,
VVhere all the world shall wonder my misdeed.
And quote the place, (thus euer) passing by,
Note heere King Iohns vile damned tyranny.
Her blood exhal'd from earth vnto the skye,
A fearefull Meteor still hangs ore my head,
Stayning the heauens with her Vermilion dye,
Changing the Sunnes bright raies to gorie red,
Prognosticating death and fearefull dread;
Her soule, with houling, and reuengfull steuen,
Shreeking before the gates of highest Heauen.
VVhose sacred Counsell, now in iudgement set,
And Shee, before them stands to plead her case,
Her drearie words in bloody teares are wet,
The euidence appeares before my face,
And I condemn'd a catife wanting grace;
Iustice cryes out vpon this sinfull deede,
And to my death the fatall starres proceed.
Earth, swallow me, and hide me in thy wombe,
O let my shame in thy deepe Center dwell,
VVrap vp 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, iust reuenge 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,
Euen like a Cankar, gnawes my Conscience,
O, ther's my greefe, my paine proceedes from thence.
Yet neuer time weares out this filthy staine,
And I dishonor'd euer shall remaine.
Then doe I vow a solemne Pilgrimage,
Before my wretched miserable end;
This done, betake mee to some Hermitage,
VVhere I the remnant of my dayes will spend:
VVhere Almes and Prayer I euer will attend.
And on the Tombe at last, where thou doost lye,
VVhen all is done, Ile lay me downe and dye.
And for his Penance, lastly hee deuis'd,
Monthly to Dunmow would he take his way,
And in a simple Palmers weede disguis'd,
VVith deepe deuotion kneele him downe to pray:
Kissing the place, whereas my body lay.
VVashing 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,
VVhose sacred Temples are with Garlands dight;
O let my soule bee blessed in her sight.
VVhich so adorns this poore world with her birth,
As where she is, still makes a Heauen on earth.
O let mee once behold her blessed eyes,
Those two sweet Sunnes which make eternall spring,
VVhich 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, Mineruas euer hallowed shrine,
VVhose sainted thoughts are sacred and diuine.
Slyde still sweet Ankor on thy siluer Sands,
Play dainty Musick when she walkes by thee,
VVith 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,
VVhilst all the Nimphes attend vppon her traine.
FINIS.

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