THE Most Honourable Tragedy of Sir Richard Grinuile, Knight.  
Bramo assai, poco spero, nulla chieggio.  
At London, Printed by I. Roberts, for Richard Smith. 1595.   

To the right Honourable his singular good Lord, Charles, Lord Montioy.  
THE zeal (most excellent Lord) which in my soul hath ever been devoted to your service, entangled with your honourable favours to mine unable deservings, hath given fire to my heart, & wings to my youngling Muse, to raise her leaden humour above the ordinary pitch of her dull Anthems, and sing of a subject, the height of whose action, might, if I had might, make my verse most mighty, grant then (renowned Lord) that thine eyes may lighten on my lays, and thy graces keep from scandal my poor widowed Orphan: pity renowned Grinuile, in his death-renowning hour, & excuse his rough Poet, whose senses are unshapt, for more softer melody, so shall he live happy, and I unfaultie; both satisfied.  
Your Lordships eternally, Ieruis Markham.   

TO THE RIGHT Honourable, Robert, Earl of Sussex.  
GReat Lord, to whom infinitives of fame  
Flock like night stars about the silver Moon,  
That givest new fire to learnings late quenched flame,  
Saving the Muse by stony times undone,  
Let me find favour in thine honoured sight,  
Daring my rhymes unto thy sacred hand:  
And whilst their accents talk of valour's might,  
Yield them some splendour from thy valour's brand,  
Thou in their lines, they in thine eyes shall see,  
Nothing but honours uncontrolled mind,  
Thou lending, they exacting still from thee,  
Substance, that might to mightiness doth bind,  
And for his sake whose praise my Muse hath sought  
Favour my work, the image of thy thought.  
I. M.   

To the right Honourable, Henry Wriothesly, Earl of Southampton, and Baron of Titchfielde.  
THou glorious Laurel of the Muse's hill,  
Whose eyes doth crown the most victorius pen,  
Bright Lamp of Virtue, in whose sacred skill,  
lives all the bliss of eares-in chanting men,  
From graver subjects of thy grave assays,  
Bend thy courageous thoughts unto these lines,  
The grave from whence mine humble Muse doth raise  
True honours spirit in her rough designs;  
And when the stubborn stroke of my harsh song,  
Shall seasonlesse glide through almighty ears,  
Vouchsafe to sweet it with thy blessed tongue,  
Whose well tuned sound stills music in the spheres,  
So shall my tragic lays be bleft by thee,  
And from thy lips suck their eternity.  
I. M.   

To the honourable Knight, Sir Edward Wingfield.  
WHen Alexander read Achilles' praise,  
With honour's envy, and a lofty heart,  
He shed stout tears, in ruth of stony days  
Which to his acts no Music could impart,  
So all my all, essence of what I am,  
Though our Achilles' praise play in thine eye,  
Fear not records for thine inrouled name,  
Which shall outlive immortal Poesy,  
A thousand Sirens in the world's last age,  
Shall sing of thee, thy valour, and thy skill,  
And to their lines, lay Angels ears in gage,  
With sovereign charms sent from a sovereign quill;  
Mean while, vouchsafe to grace my work & me,  
Gracing the soul beloved of heaven and thee.  
I. M.   

The argument of the whole Tragedy.  
SIr Richard Grinuile, lying at anchor near unto Flores, one of the westerly islands of the Azores, the last of August in the after noon, had intelligence by one Captain Middleton of the approach of the Spanish Armada, being in number fifty three sail of great ships, and fifteen thousand men to man them. Sir Richard, staying to recover his men which were upon the Island, and disdaining to fly from his Country's enemy, not being able to recover the wind, was instantly environed with that huge Navy, between whom began a dreadful fight, continuing the space of fifteen hours, in which conflict, Sir Richard sunk the great San Philip of Spain, the Ascension of Sivel, the Admiral of the Hulks, and two other great Armadas; about midnight Sir Richard received a wound through the body, and as he was in dressing, was shot again into the head, and his Surgeon slain. Sir Richard maintained the fight, till he had not one corn of powder left, nor one whole pike, nor forty living men; which seeing, he would have sunk his own ship, but that he was gaine-stood by the Master thereof, who contrary to his will came to composition with the Spaniards, and so saved those which were left alive. Sir Richard died aboard the admiral of Spain, about the fourth day after the battle, and was mightily bewailed of all men.   

Faults escaped in the printing.  
IN B. the second page, the third stanze, and the first line, for night eternal, read nights eternal.  
In F. page eight, the second stanze, and the last line, for Abraham's, read Abr'ams'.  
Also, in the next stanze following, and the third line, for bard, read barred.   


¶ The most Honourable Tragedy of Sir Richard Grinuile, Knight.  
To the fairest.  

A Heavenly fire is crope into my brain,  
A heat divine and all celestial,  
A burning fury spreads through every vain;  
A turret-climbing thought majestical,  
All these infuse a spirit-giving rain,  
Unto my humble wits great festival.  
Whose reed unpleasing harmony hath found,  
Thus to transform her into warlike sound.   

Of wonders, miracles, and famous chivalry,  
Of Honour's Image, and of virtues jars,  
(Things past belief, yet pure in certainty)  
Of Death dead-slaine by Death, of glorious scars,  
Of mortal, made immortal Deity,  
And all contained in Valour's stainelesse wars,  
My homely Muse stretching her oaten string,  
Unlearned to thunder, mildly means to sing.   

Rest thee dread boy, the night eternal Lord,  
Fair feathered Cupid thy Licaenas joy,  
Of thy triumphant Chariot richly stored,  
With bleeding hearts that breathing sighs destroy,  
Nor thee, nor of thy kingdom I record,  
Nor lovers tears, nor love, nor loves annoy.  
Nor ought that in the vast world may be found,  
Where tears in sighs, & sighs in tears are drowned.   

Fit subjects those for Poets golden quills,  
Such as have trod the true Pierian race,  
Whose sacred brains those numbers tuned distilleth,  
Which gives conceit the child of heaven her grace.  
But now this flame that all my body fills,  
Is England's weeping joy, and Spain's disgrace.  
Fearful alarms, and the wet world's sack,  
Swells in my song, the Dirge for glories wrack.   

To thee fair Nymph, my love, my life, my gaze,  
My souls first mover, essence of my bliss,  
Thought-chast Dictinna, Natures only maze,  
Heaven of all what ever heavenly is,  
More white than Atlas' brow, or Pelops blaze,  
Complete perfection which all creatures miss.  
More lovely than was bright Astioche,  
Or junos' handmaid sacred Diope.   

To thee which never lifts thine eyes to heaven,  
But hearts of Kings are showered in the same,  
Fairer than Sun, Moon, Stars, or Planets seven,  
True brand of Virtue, Honour's living flame,  
O thou whom hate adores, whose praise is even  
Matched with the glories of the greatest name,  
Thou like thyself, or better much by odds,  
Near made without a Parliament of Gods.   

To thee this labour of my Sunne-burnt brain,  
Ill limned memorials of divinest rage,  
I offer as oblations to detain,  
Thy life-inspiring sight, (my pieces gage)  
From those celestial mirrors which remain,  
Objects made happy in thy looks suffrage,  
Of Grinuile, arms and honours sovereign,  
My sour Muse shapes this Nectar seeking strain.   

Even of that man and his almighty mind,  
Boundless like heaven in magnanimity,  
Converting all things of what ever kind,  
Within his body held society,  
To gladsome stars in clearest skies assigned,  
Wanting but only true eternity.  
Of him I sing (Fairest) but read I pray,  
Thine eyes makes happy, all that thine eyes survey.   

And with her thou great Sovereign of the earth,  
Only immatchlesse Monarchesse of hearts,  
From whose fair eyes issued the Muse's birth,  
Murdered by Iron-age, and barbarous darts,  
Yield from thy beams plenty to my wit's dearth,  
That I may sing valours almighty parts,  
And Chronicle those trophies to thy throne,  
Which from this isle, and his great spirit shone.   

And thou dear Soul, the portraiture of Fame,  
For whom jove made a new fourth hierarchy,  
Of whose lost drops millions of virtues came,  
Extolled in heaven beyond the third degree,  
Now give thyself a light in this self flame,  
That thou mayst live beyond posterity;  
And whilst I of th'unconquered conquest write,  
Sat on my hand and teach me to indite.    

The Tragedy of Sir Richard Grinuile.  

THat time of year when the enamoured Sun  
Clad in the richest robes of living fires,  
Courted the Virgin sign, great natures Nun,  
Which barrains earth of all what earth desires  
Even in the month that from Augustus won,  
His sacred name which unto heaven aspires,  
And on the last of his ten trebled days,  
When weary labour new refresh assays.   

Then when the earth outbraved the beauteous Morn,  
Boasting his cornie Mantle stirred with air,  
Which like a golden Ocean did adorn  
His cold dry carcase, featurelesse, unfair,  
Holding the naked shearers scithe in scorn  
Or aught that might his borrowed pride impair,  
The soul of virtue seeing earth so rich,  
With his dear presence gilds the sea as mitch.   

The sea, which then was heavy, sad, and still,  
Dull, unapplyd to sportive wantonness,  
As if her first-born Venus had been ill,  
Or Neptune seen the Son his love possess,  
Or greater cares, that greatest comforts kill,  
Had crowned with grief, the world's wet wilderness,  
Such was the still-foote Thetis silent pain,  
Whose flowing tears, ebbing fell back again.   

Thetis, the mother of the pleasant springs,  
Grandam of all the Rivers in the world,  
To whom earth's veins their moistening tribute brings,  
Now with a mad disturbed passion hurled,  
About her cave (the world's great treasure) flings:  
And with wreathed arms, & long wet hairs uncurld,  
Within herself laments a loss, unlost,  
And moans her wrongs, before her joys be crossed.   

Thus whilst divining sorrow ceased her heart,  
Grinuile (o melt my spirit in that name,)  
As sings the Swan her funeral departed,  
And waves her wings, the ensigns of her fame,  
So he, with virtue sweetening bitter smart,  
Which from the seas long toiling service came:  
For why, six Moons, & so oft times the Sun,  
Was past, and had one half the signs o'errun,   

Ere he the earth, our common Mother saw;  
Now early greets black Flores baneful Isle,  
(Flores, from whence afflictions self doth draw  
The true memorials of a weeping style;)  
And with Caisters' Choristers which straw  
Descant, that might Death of his darts beguile,  
He tunes saluting notes, sweeter than long,  
All which are made his last lives funeral song.   

Skilless in deaths great Parliament he calls  
His fellow mat's, and minions to his fame,  
Shows them long looked for land, and how it brawls,  
Repulsing back the billows as they came,  
Much he triumphs, and passed grief for-stals  
With present joy (sorrow lights pleasures flame:)  
And whilst his hopes of Happy-fortune sings,  
Misfortune by, controls them with her wings.   

Desired relief, and ever welcome rest,  
The elements that form the weary man,  
Began to hold a counsel in his breast,  
Painting his wants by sickness pale & wan;  
With other griefs, that others force oppressed,  
Advising stay, (as what is but they can,)  
Whilst he that fate to come, and past, near feared,  
Concludes to stay till strength decayed repaired.   

Then casts he Anchor hulling on the main,  
And all his ships poor Citizens recounts,  
An hundred just were free from sickness pain,  
Fourscore and ten death their redress accounts,  
So that of all both sick and sound unslain,  
Unto two hundred wanting ten amounts.  
A slender army for so great a guide,  
But virtue is unknown till it be tried.   

Those whom their hearts enabled to attempt,  
He puts a shore to make supply for need;  
Those whom long sickness taught of death contempt,  
He visits, and from Ioues great Book doth reed  
The balm which mortal poison doth exempt;  
Those whom new breathing health like sucklings feed,  
High to the sands, and sporting on the same,  
Find liberty, the lives best living flame.   

Look how a troop of Winter-prisoned Dames,  
Penned in th' enclosure of the walled towns,  
Welcomes the Spring, Usher to Summer's flames,  
Making their pastimes on the flowery downs,  
Whose beauteous Arras wrought in nature's frames,  
Through eyes admire, the heart with wonder crowns,  
So these wood-walled Citizens at sea,  
Welcome both Spring and Summer in a day.   

The warring billows, seas artillery,  
With long held siege, had bruised their beaten keel,  
Which to repair the most, most busied be,  
Labouring to cure, what want in labours feel;  
All pleased with toil, clothing extremity  
In Hopes best robes, that hang on Fortune's wheel.  
But men, are men, in ignorance of Fate,  
To alter chance, exceedeth humane state.   

For when the Sun, towered in heavens head,  
Down from the silver mountain of the sky,  
Bend his bright Chariot on the glassy bed,  
Fair crystal, guilded with his glorious eye,  
Fearing some usurpation in his stead,  
Or lest his Love should too-long dalliance spy  
tween him and Virgo, whose attractive face  
Had newly made him leave the lions chase,   

In that same myd-days hour came sailing in,  
A thought-swift-flying Pynnase, taught by wind,  
T'outstrip in flight Times ever-flying wing;  
And being come where Virtue was enshrined,  
First veiled his plumes, and wheeling in a ring,  
With Goat-like dancing, stays where Grinuile shynd,  
The while his great Commander calls the name,  
Which is adored of all that speaks the same.   

The great commander of this little Bark,  
Which like an Eglet arms the eagle's side,  
Was Midleton, the aim of honours mark,  
That more had proved then danger durst have tried,  
Now seeing all good fortune's sunshine dark,  
Thrice calls Sir Richard, who as oft replied,  
Bidding him speak, and ring his news aloud,  
Ill, not apald, nor good could make him proud.   

O then (quoth Middleton) thou soul of all  
What ever boasts in magnanimity,  
Thou, whom pure Virtue her best part doth call,  
Better than valour, stronger than deity,  
Whom men adore, and all the gods exhall  
Into the books of endless memory,  
I bring thee tidings of a deadly fray,  
Begun in Heaven, to end upon the Sea.   

The glorious Senate of the Skies was set,  
And all the gods were royalized in state,  
When Happy-fortune and Ill-fortune met,  
Striving who first should enter heavens gate,  
The one made mad the others fame to let,  
Neither but stirred with rage to wonder at,  
Confusedly, as water-floods do pass  
Their common bounds, such their rude entrance was.   

The gods disturbed, admire their strange approach,  
Censuring their angers by their gloing eyes,  
Ill-fortune was attended by Reproach,  
Good-fortune, Fame and Virtue stellefies;  
One swears the other doth her right encroach,  
Which is the elder house, none can devise:  
The gods divide, yet in the end agree  
The Fates shall judge each others pedigree.   

Good-fortune, draws from heaven her high descent,  
Making high jove the root of her large tree;  
She shows from him, how many godheads went,  
archangels, Angels, heavens posterity:  
From thence, she shows the glorious third she lent  
To monarchs, Emperors, and Kings in fee,  
Annexing as Colatteralls to her line  
Honour, Virtue, Valour, and Endles-time.   

Naithlesse, Ill-fortune will be elder borne,  
She saith, she springs from Saturn, Ioues wronged Sire,  
And heaven, and earth, & hell her coat have borne,  
Fresh bleeding hearts within a field of fire;  
All that the world admires, she makes her scorn,  
Who farthest seems, is to Ill-fortune nigher,  
And that just proof may her great praise commend,  
All that Best-chaunce gins, Ill-chaunce doth end.   

Thus they dispute, guilding their tongues report  
With instances, and argumental saws,  
Ill-fortune, bids let all the world resort  
And show within their Chronicles and laws,  
The man whose lives-line never did consort  
With sharp affliction, death's first grounded cause,  
Then will she yield, else, is she victor still,  
World's good is rare, perpetual is their ill.   

Even as the racket takes the balls rebound,  
So doth Good-fortune catch Ill-fortunes proof,  
Saying, she will her in herself confound,  
Making her darts, Agents for her behoof;  
Bow but thine eyes (quoth she) whence ha'ts abound,  
And I will show thee under heavens roof  
Th'unconquered man whom no mischance importunes,  
Crown of my kingdom, death's man to misfortunes.   

At this, the casments of the sky broke open,  
Discovering all what's girdled in her frame,  
Whilst Happy-fortune through her eyes large scope  
Like a Cosmographer comments on the same;  
Three parts with praise she passed and future hope,  
Then to the fourth, the Western world she came,  
And there, with her eyes festrawe paints a story,  
Stranger than strange, more glorified than glory.   

See (said Faire-fortune, to her foul shaped Foe)  
How on the surge which beats against the isle  
Of Flores, whence thy cursed oblations grow,  
A winde-taught capering ship which air beguiles,  
(Making poor Cephatus forlorn with woe,  
Curse art, which made art framed sail such smiles)  
Richly embroidered with the gems of war,  
In thy despite commands a lucky star.   

In that fair vessel lives my garlands flower,  
Grinuile, my hearts immortal artery;  
Of him thy deity had never power,  
Nor hath he had of grief one sympathy;  
Success attends him, all good hap doth shower  
A golden rain of perpetuity  
Into his bosom, where mine Empire stands,  
Murdering the Agents of thy black commands.   

Say, and say true, (for what but thou wilt say,)  
That ever grinuil's fortunes came before thee;  
Or ever prostrate at thine Altars lay,  
Or with one wreath of Cypress did adore thee?  
Prove one black storm in all his summers day,  
Whose threatening clouds compelled him to implore thee,  
Then will I stain my milk-white vail with weeping,  
And as thine handmaid die in sorrows keeping.   

As wounds the lightning, yet preserves the skin,  
So did these words split Lucklesse-fortunes heart,  
Her smiling Superficies, locked within  
A deep exulcerated festering smart;  
Hear she perceived her first disgrace begin,  
And wordless from the heavens takes her departed.  
Yet as she flew, her wings in flying cried  
On Grinuile shall my fame and power be tried.   

At her departure all the heavens were glad,  
Triumphing in Ill-fortunes banishment,  
Apollo set new Anthems as jove bade,  
Which sphere tunes made more than most excellent;  
No light in heaven but with new fire was clad,  
Making next jove, Good-fortune precedent,  
Enrowling in the Books of destiny,  
This memorable famous victory.   

Only the Fat's sued for her back repeal,  
(For they Ill-fortune loved exceeding well)  
Many her deeds and Trophies they reveal,  
And all her lives black legend, weeping tell;  
Yet all they speak, cannot in heaven prevail,  
Which seen, in spite they follow her to hell,  
And there inhoused with their mother Night,  
All four devise, how heaven and earth to spite.   

Hence sprang the loves of jove, the sons exile,  
The shame of Mars and Venus in a net;  
junos' forsaken bed; Satur's compile  
Of frantic, discontentment, which beset  
All heaven with arms; Diana hence had while  
To court her sleeping boy; whilst Thetis let  
Phoebus embrace her in her Neptune's stead,  
Who made complaints, breach of his bridal bed.   

Yet not content with these disparagments,  
Much greater mischiefs issues from their minds,  
Grinuile, thy mountain honour it augments  
Within their breasts, a Meteor like the winds,  
Which thralled in earth, a reeling issue rends  
With violent motion; and their wills combinds  
To belch their hat's, vowed murderers of thy same,  
Which to effect, thus they begin the same.   

Fast to Iberia flies untoward chance,  
Iberia, which we vulgar Christian Spain,  
Upon whose Sunne-burnt continent doth dance  
Western Ducallidon, the greatest main,  
Thither she packs, Error doth their advance  
Her coale-blacke standard in the hands of pain;  
And as escaped from ravishment or bale,  
With false tears, thus she tunes a falser tale.   

Great Empire (said she) blessed in thy birth,  
Beauteous created forehead of this round,  
That with thy smiles first lent to heaven mirth,  
And 'bout thy temples all perfections wound,  
Lodged in th'imagined corners of the earth;  
Thou whom our centres Monarchesse art crowned,  
Attend my suit, baptisd in mournful tears,  
Who but ere while triumphed on the spheres.   

Nor for myself more than thine own decay  
Which blindfold pleasure clouds as they arise,  
Be gracious, and retort the domefull day,  
Which thee and me to shame would sacrifice.  
Lo, on the great west-walling boisterous sea,  
Which doth embrace thy gold-inclosing eyes,  
Of many sails one man, of one poor Isle,  
That will my fame, and all thy fair defile.   

His numberless great infinits of fame,  
Have shut against me heavens great crystal door,  
The clouds, which once my feets dust had to name,  
Hang over my forehead, threatening evermore  
Death to my praise, life to my infant shame,  
Whilst I with sighs mediate a new restore.  
And in myself behold my pleasures past,  
Swimming amongst the joys I cannot taste.   

Th'ambrosian Nectar-filled banqueting,  
No more shall I communicate, or see,  
Triumphs in heaven, Ioues masks, and reveling,  
Are clean exempt, both from my joys and me.  
The reason, for my love to thee I bring,  
Trimming thy locks with gems of deity,  
Making the gods a dread a fatal day,  
Worse than the Giant's war or Centauris fray.   

Poor goddess, robbed of all eternal power,  
Whose broken Statues, and down razed Fans,  
Never warmed altars, ever forgotten hour  
Where any memory of praise is ta'en,  
Witness my fall from great Olympus' tower;  
Prostrate, implore balm for received bane,  
And dire revenge 'gainst heavens impiety,  
Which else in shame will make thee follow me.   

Behold these robes, maps of my fortune's world,  
Torn, and distained with eye-scornd beggary;  
These rags divide the Zones, wherein is hurled  
My lives distemprate, hot cold misery;  
These tears are points, the scale these hairs uncurld,  
My hands the compass, woe the empery:  
And these my plaints, true and auricular,  
Are to my Globe the perpendicular.   

Look how I am, such art thou like to be  
If arms prevent not heavens intendiment,  
Grinuile, which now surfeits with dignity,  
Burd'ning the Sea with my disparagement;  
Chiding the wanton winds if greedily  
They kiss his sails; or else too slowly vent,  
Like jove, which bade the day be and it was,  
So bids he Conquest war; she brings to pass.   

The sole encouragement he gives his power,  
Is Prophet-like presaging of thy death,  
Courage he cries, even in the dying hour,  
And with his words, recalls departing breath;  
O (says he to his Mats) you are my glories tower,  
Impregnable, walled with unvanquished faith,  
You are the hands and agents of my trust,  
I but the heart revolving what we must.   

Live Saints, till we have ripped the womb of Spain,  
And wounded Error in the arms of hell,  
Crushing the triple Mitre in disdain,  
Which on the seavenfold mounted Witch doth dwell,  
Angels rewards for such designs remain,  
And on heavens face men shall your stories tell;  
At this they shout; as eager of the pray,  
as Aunts in winter of a sunshine day.   

Thus like triumphant Caesar drawn in Rome,  
By winged Valour, and unconquered Chance,  
He ploughs the Sea, (o were it made his tomb)  
Whilst Happy-fortune pipes unto his dance.  
Yet may thy power alternat heavens doom,  
So pleaseth thee thy forward will t'advance,  
And cheer the sinews of thy mighty arm,  
Whose outstretched force shall quell his proud alarm,   

Then give new fuel to thine honour's fire,  
Lest slight regard wealth-winning Error slay,  
And so old Satur's happy world retire,  
Making truths dungeon brighter than the day;  
Was never woe could wound thy kingdom nigher,  
Or of thy borrowed beauty make display,  
Because this vow in heavens book doth remain,  
That Errors death shall consummate thy reign.   

Now, for my godheads remnant lives in thee,  
Whose lost success breeds mine eternal end,  
Take for thine aid, afflicting Misery,  
Woe, mine attendant, and Despair my friend,  
All three my greatest great Triumuerie,  
Blood-bathed Carnifici, which will protend  
A murdering desolation on to that will,  
Which me in thee, and thee in me would kill.   

Here, with her fixed Comet-blazing eyes,  
The damned Augurs of untimely death,  
She ends her tale, whilst from her heart's cave flies  
A storm of winds, no gentle sighing breath,  
All which, like evil spirits in disguise,  
Enter Iberia's ears, and to her saith,  
That all the substance of this damned story,  
Was zealous true, coined for her Spanish glory.   

Sworn to believe, for ill, in ill affies,  
Spain than enamoured with the Roman trull,  
Calls all her forces, more than Atomies,  
And tells Ill-fortunes story to the full;  
Many Parenthises she doth devise,  
And frost-relenting words doth choicely cull,  
Bewitching those whom oft she had deceived,  
With such like Hemlock as herself received.   

The first and greatest one, commanding, all  
The soul of mischiefs old created mother,  
Was Don Alphonso Bassan, proud in brawl,  
The Marquis Sancta Cruces only brother:  
Him she conjures by typ's imperial,  
And all that falsehoods seeming truth could cover,  
To undertake this high (she termed it) act,  
Which craves a curse of all that reads the fact.   

Herself (she said) and all the flowers of Spain,  
Should under his, as heavens Ensign war:  
Thus from her hearts foul dunghill flies amain  
Gross vapours, metamorphosed to a star;  
Her words in fumes like prodogies retain  
His heart, by her tongue's witchcraft bound so far,  
As what she will, that will he undertake,  
Be it to war with heaven for her sake.   

The seeming Nectar of her poisoning speech,  
So well she saw surprise his liquorice sense,  
That for to rear her ill beyond ills reach,  
With self-like tropes, decks self-like eloquence,  
Making in Britan Dona such a breach,  
That her armed wits, conquering his best wits fence,  
He vows with Bassan to defend the broil,  
Which men of praise, & earth of fame shall spoil.   

To him she gives the Biscaynnoys for guard,  
mechanical Artificers for death,  
And those which of affliction never hard,  
She tempers with the hammer of her breath:  
To every act she gives huge lyp-reward,  
Lavish of oaths, as falsehood of her faith;  
And for the ground of her pretended right,  
'tis hate, which envies virtue in a Knight.   

These two to her fast bound in vassalage,  
Unto the Marquis Arumburch she flies,  
Him she provokes, him she finds apt to rage,  
Imprisoning Pities tears in flinty eyes;  
To him the power of Seville for a gage  
She doth bequeath; bidding his prowess rise,  
And cleanse his Country's face from widows tears,  
To which he posts, like lightning from the spheres.   

Lastly, to make up mischiefs perfect square,  
To Luis Cutino she takes her flight,  
Him she commands, he to her homage swore  
To guide a Navy to this damned fight,  
Of Hulks and Fly-boats, such as durst to dare.  
She gives him sovereign rule, and public right,  
And then uniting all four powers in one,  
Sends them to sea, to calm Misfortune's moan.   

And now behold (divine for valiancy)  
Like flying castles sail they to this strand;  
Fifty three sail, strong in artillery,  
Best men of war known in the Spanish land;  
Fifteen Armadas, Kings of sovereignty,  
Which led the lesser with a mighty hand:  
And these in four battalions hither fly,  
With whom three days I sailed in company.   

Then gentle Grinuile, Thetis parramoure,  
Dearer than Venus, Daughter of the flood,  
Set sails to wind, let not neglect devour  
Thy gracious fortunes and thine Angel good,  
Cut through the main, compel thy keel to scour,  
No man his ill too timely hath withstood  
And when Best-chaunce shall have repaired thy fortune,  
Time for this flight may just revenge importune.   

Here Middleton did end the passing peal  
Which gave the warning to a dismal end,  
And as his words last knell began to fail,  
The damned Navy did a glimmering send,  
By which Sir Richard might their power reveal,  
Which seeming conquerlesse, did conquests lend:  
At whose appearance, Middleton did cry,  
See where they come, for fame and pity fly.   

This certain story, of too certain ill,  
Did not extinguish, but gave honour fire,  
Th' amazing prodigy, (bane of my quill,)  
Bred not astonishment, but a strong desire,  
By which this heaven-adopted Knights strong will,  
Then highest height of Fame, flew much more hire:  
And from the boundless greatness of his mind,  
Sends back this answer through his lips refined.   

Thanks hardy Middleton for thy dilate,  
Persuasive presage to avoid my death,  
But if thou wed my fortunes with my state,  
This saving health shall suffocate my breath,  
To fly from them that holds my God in hate,  
My Mistress, Country, me, and my sworn faith,  
Were to pull of the load from Typhon's back,  
And crush myself, with shame & servile wrack.   

Nor if my heart degenerate should yield,  
To entertain an amorous thought of life,  
And so transport mine honour to the field,  
Where seeming-valure dies by coward's knife,  
Yet zeal and conscience shall new forces build,  
And others souls, with my soul holdeth strife;  
For half my men, & all that draw sound breath,  
Are gone on shore, for food to conquer death.   

If I forsake them, certain is their end,  
If I obtain them, doubtful is our fall,  
Upon my flight, shame and their sacks depend,  
Upon my stay, hope of good hap doth call,  
Equal to me, the meanest I commend;  
Nor will I lose, but by the loss of all:  
They are the sinews of my life and fame,  
Dismembered bodies perish cripple-lame.   

This said, he sends a cockboat to the shore,  
To summon back his men unto their ship,  
Who comed a board, began with some uproar  
To way their Anchors, and with care to dip  
Their high revolves in doubt, and evermore  
To paint death's visage with a trembling lip,  
Till he that was all fearless, and fear slew,  
With Nectared words from them all dangers drew.   

When Middleton Saw Grinuills hie revolve,  
Past hope, past thought, past reach of all aspire,  
Once more to move him fly he doth resolve,  
And to that purpose tips his tongue with fire;  
Fire of sweet words, that easily might dissolve  
And moisten flint, though steeled in stiff attire,  
Had not desire of wonder, praise, and fame,  
Extinct the sparks, and still keep dead the flame,   

Greater, and better than inarked he,  
Which in the world's huge deluge did survive,  
O let thy wings of magnanimity,  
Not vainly flatter, Honour to acchive,  
'Gainst all conceit impossibility,  
By which thou murder'st Virtue, keep alive,  
Nor in thy seeking of divinity,  
Kill not heavens fame by base mortality.   

O Grinuile, thou hast red Philosophy,  
Nature and Art hath made thee excellent,  
And what thou readest, hath grafted this in thee,  
That to attempt high dangers evident  
Without constrain or need, is infamy,  
And honour turns to rashness in th'event;  
And who so darrs, not caring how he darrs,  
Sells virtues name, to purchase foolish stars.   

Dear Knight, thou art not forced to hazard fame,  
Heavens have lent thee means to scape thine ill,  
If thou abide, as true as is thy name,  
So truly shall thy fault, thy death fulfil:  
And as to love the life for virtues flame,  
Is the just act of a true noble will,  
So to contemn it, and her helps exclude,  
Is baseness, rashness, and no Fortitude.   

He that compared man's body to an host,  
Said that the hands were scouts, discovering harms,  
The feet, were horsemen, thundering on the coast,  
The breast, and stomach, footmen, huge in swarms.  
But for the head, in sovereignty did boast,  
It Captain was, director of alarms,  
Whose rashness, if it hazarded an ill,  
Not he alone but all the host did spill.   

Rash Isadas, the Lacedaemon Lord,  
That naked fought against the Theban power,  
Although they crowned his valour by accord,  
Yet was he find for rashness in that hour:  
And those which most his careless praise afford,  
Did most condemn what folly did devour;  
For in attempting, prowess is not meant,  
But wisely doing what we do attempt.   

Then sith 'tis valour to abandon fight,  
And base to dare, where no hope is to win,  
(Renowned man, of all renown the light)  
Hoist up thy sails, delay attackts thy sin,  
Fly from ill-boding stars with all thy might,  
Unto thy heart let praise and pity in.  
This said, and more desirous much to cry,  
Sir Richard stayed him, with this rich reply.   

Captain, I praise thy warlike eloquence,  
And sober Axioms of Philosophy,  
But now's no time for school points difference,  
When Deaths black Ensign threatens misery;  
Yet for thy words sound of such consequence,  
Making flight praise, and fight pale obloquy,  
Once ere I die, I'll cleanse my wits from rust,  
And prove my flying base, my stay most just.   

Whence shall I fly? from refuge of my fame,  
From whom? even from my Country's mortal foe,  
Wither? but to the dungeon of my shame,  
Why shall I fly? for fear of happy woe,  
What end of flight? to save vild life by blame,  
Who is't that flies? Grinuile? Captain no,  
'tis England flies, fair I'll of happiness,  
And true divine Eliza's holiness.   

Shall then my life's regard taint that choice fair?  
First will I perish in this liquid round,  
Never shall Sunne-burnt Spaniards tongue endear  
Iberian ears with what shall me confound,  
The life I have, I for my Mistress bear,  
Cursed were that life, should it her sceptre wound,  
And treble cursed be that damned thought,  
Which in my mind hath any faintness wrought.   

Now, for Philosophy defends thy theme,  
Even self Philosophy shall arm my style,  
Rich buskined Seneca, that did declaim,  
And first in Rome our tragic pomp compile,  
Saith, Fortitude is that which in extreme  
And certain hazard all base fears exile:  
It guides, saith he, the noble mind from far,  
Through frost, and fire, to conquer honours war.   

Honie-tongd Tully, Mermaid of our ears,  
Affirms no force, can force true Fortitude,  
It with our bodies, no communion bears,  
The soul and spirit, sole doth it include;  
It is that part of honesty which rears  
The heart to heaven, and ever doth obtrude  
Faint fear, and doubt, still taking his delight  
In perils, which exceeds all perils might.   

Patience, Perseverance, Greatness, and Strong Trust,  
These pages are to Fortitude their king,  
Patience that suffers, and esteemeth just  
What ever woe, for virtue fortunes bring;  
Perseverance, holds constant what we must,  
Greatness, that still effects the greatest thing,  
And aimed Trust, which never can despair,  
But hopes good hap; how ever fatal dear.   

The Roman Sergius, having lost his hand,  
Slew with one hand four in a single fight,  
A thing all reason ever did withstand,  
But that bright Fortitude spread forth her light.  
Pompey, by storm held from th'Italyan land,  
And all his sailours quaking in his sight,  
First hoist sail, and cried amidst the strife,  
There's need I go, no need to save my life.   

Agis that guilt the Lacedaemon street,  
Intending one day battle with his foes,  
By counsel was repelled, as thing unmeet,  
The enemy being ten to one in shoes;  
But he replied, 'tis needful that his feet  
Which many leads, should lead to many blows:  
And one being good, an Army is for ten  
Foes to religion, and known naughty men.   

To him that told Dienecus, his foes  
Covered the Sun with darts and armed spears,  
He made reply, Thy news is joy in woes,  
we'll in the shadow fight, and conquer fears.  
And from the Polands words my humour flows,  
I care for nought but falling of the Spheres.  
Thunder affrights the Infants in the schools,  
And threatenings are the conquerors of fools.   

As these, my case is not so desperate,  
And yet, than these, my dare shall be no less:  
If this in them, for fame was wondered at,  
Then this in me, shall my desires express;  
Never shall Greece, nor Rome, nor Heathen state,  
With shining honour, Albion's shine depress,  
Though their great circuits yields their acts large bounds,  
Yet shall they never darr for deeper wounds.   

And thus resolved, dear Middleton departed,  
Seek for thy safety in some better soil,  
Thy stay will be no succour in my smart,  
Thy loss will make them boast of better spoil.  
And be assured before my last breath part,  
I'll make the Sun, for pity back recoil,  
And cloth the sea within a scarlet pale,  
judge of their death which shall my life exhale.   

This ship which now entombs my jealous soul,  
Honestly envious of aspiring laud,  
Is called Revenge, the scourge which doth control,  
The recreants that Errors right applaud,  
Shall like herself, by name and fame enroll  
My spirits acts, by no Misfortune awed,  
Within eternal Books of happy deeds,  
Upon whose notes, immortal Virtue reeds.   

Say if I perish, 'twas mine honour's will,  
My Country's love, religion, and my Queen,  
And if that envy glory in mine ill,  
Say that I died, conquering, unconquered seen.  
Say fifty three strong ships could not fulfil,  
'Gainst one poor maiden vessel their foul teen,  
But that in spite of death, or misery,  
She fought, and foiled, and scaped captivity.   

Reply not Middleton, mine ears are closed,  
High in heavens forehead are my vows engraved,  
I see the baneful Navy now disclosed,  
Begun betime, Fate hath thy fortune saved;  
To me good stars were never yet opposed,  
Glory hath crowned me when I glory craved,  
Farewell, and say how ever be my chance,  
My death at honour's wedding learned to dance.   

This said, away sails Middleton with speed,  
Sad, heavy, dull, and most disconsolate,  
Shedding stout manly tears at valour's deed,  
Grieving the ruin of so great estate;  
But Grinuile, whose hope ever did exceed,  
Making all death in dangers fortunate,  
'Gan to provide to quell this great uproar,  
Than which the like was never heard before.   

His fights set up, and all things fit prepared,  
Low on the ballast did he couch his sick,  
Being fourscoore ten, in Death's pale mantle snared,  
whose want to war did most their strong hearts prick.  
The hundred, whose more sounder breaths declared  
Their souls to enter Death's gates should not stick,  
He with divine words of immortal glory,  
Makes them the wondered actors of this story.   

Nothing he left unsaid that tongue could say,  
To breed contempt of death, or hate of thrall,  
honours reward, fame for a famous day,  
Wonder of ears, that men half gods shall call;  
And contrary, a hopeless certain way,  
Into a Tyrant's damned fists to fall,  
Where all defame, base thoughts, and infamy,  
Shall crown with shame their heads eternally.   

In this great thunder of his valiant speech,  
From whence the eares-eyes honours lightning felt,  
The Spanish Navy came within the reach  
Of Cannon shot, which equally was dealt  
On either side, each other to impeach;  
Whose volleys made the pitying skies to melt,  
Yet with their noise, in Grinuills heart did frame,  
Greater desire, to conquer greater fame.   

And now the sun was past his middle way,  
Leaning more lovely to his Lemons bed,  
And the noon third hour had attached the day,  
When fifty three 'gainst one were basely led;  
All hearts were fired, and now the deadly fray,  
Began tumultuously to overspread  
The sea with fire, the Element with smoke  
Which gods, & monsters from their sleep awoake.   

In four great battles marched the Spanish host,  
The first of Seville, led in two great squares,  
Both which with courage, more than can be most,  
Sir Richard forced to give him way with cares;  
And as the Seamen term it in our coast,  
They sprang their luffe, and under lee declares  
Their many forces feebled by this one,  
Whose thoughts, save him, are rightly due to none.   

And now he stands amidst the thickest throngs,  
Walled round with wooden Castles on the wave,  
Fifty three Tigers greedy in their wrongs,  
Besiege the princely Lion in his cave:  
Nothing sees Grinuile which to hope belongs,  
All things are fled that any hap could save;  
Bright day is darkened by incurtaind light,  
And nothing visits them but Canon's night.   

Then up to heaven he lifts his lofty heart,  
And cries, old Solon, I am happy made.  
All earthy thoughts clean from his spirits part,  
Virtue and Valour all his senses lad,  
His foes too few, too strong he holds his part,  
Now doth he wish for millions to invade,  
For being conqueror, he would conquer all,  
Or conquered, with immortal honour fall.   

Never fell hail thicker than bullets flew,  
Never show'rd drops faster than showering blows,  
Lived all the worthies, all yet never knew  
So great resolve in so great certain woes;  
Had Fame told Caesar what of this was true,  
His Senate-murdred spirit would have rose,  
And with fair honours envy wondered then,  
Cursing mortality in mighty men.   

Whilst thus affliction turmoiled in this brawl,  
And Grinuile still employed his Actor death,  
The great San-phillip, which all Spain did call  
Th'unvanquished ship, Iberia's soul and faith,  
Whose mountain hugeness more was termed then tall,  
Being twice a thousand tuns as rumour saith,  
Came rushing in, becalming Grinuiles' sails,  
Whose courage grew, the more his fortune fails.   

hotly on either side was lightning sent,  
And steeled thunder bolts dinge men to hell,  
Unwieldy Philip, backed with millions lent,  
Worse cracks of thunder then on Phaeton fell,  
That with the days fire fired the Element;  
And why? because within her ribs did dwell,  
More store of shot and great artillery,  
Then might have served the world's great victory.   

Three tire of Cannon lodged on either side,  
And in each tire, eleven strongly lay,  
Eight in her chase, that shot forth right did bide,  
And in her stern, twice eight that howerlie play;  
She less great shot, in infinets did hide,  
All which were Agents for a dismal day.  
But poor Revenge, less rich, and not so great,  
Answered her cuff for cuff, and threat for threat.   

Anon they grapple either to the other,  
As doth the bandog with the Martin's skin,  
And then the womb of Philip did uncover,  
Eight hundred Soldiers, which the fight begin:  
These board Sir Richard & with thronging smother  
The day, the air, the time, and never linne,  
But by their entrance did instruct eight more,  
To do the like, on each side four, and four.   

Thus in one moment was our Knight assailed,  
With one huge Argosy, and eight great ships,  
But all in vain, their powers nought prevailed,  
For the Revenge, her Canon loud-dogs ships,  
Whose bruising teeth, so much the Philip quailed,  
That foundering in the greedy main, he dips  
His damned body in his watery tomb,  
Wrapped with dishonour in the Ocean's womb.   

The other eight, fighting, were likewise foiled,  
And driven perforce unto a vild retreat,  
None durst abide, but all with shame recoiled,  
Whilst Valour's self, set Grinuile in her seat;  
Only Don Luis Saint john, seeing spoiled,  
His Country's honour by this strange defeat,  
Single encountered Grinuile in the fight,  
Who quickly sent his soul to endless night.   

George de Prunaria, a Spanish Knight,  
Ever held valiant in despite of fate,  
Seconded Luis, and with mortal might,  
Writ on Sir Richard's target soldiers hate,  
Till Grinuile, wakened with his loud rung fight,  
Dispatched his soul's course unto Pluto's gate;  
And after these two, sent in post all those  
Which came within his mercy or his blows.   

By this, the sun had spread his golden locks,  
Upon the pale green carpet of the sea,  
And opened wide the scarlet door which locks,  
The easeful evening from the labouring day;  
Now Night began to leap from iron Rocks,  
And whip her rusty waggon through the way,  
Whilst all the Spanish host stood mazed in sight,  
None daring to assail a second fight.   

When Don Alfonso, General of the war,  
Saw all his Navy with one ship controlled,  
He toare his hair, and loudly cried from far,  
For honour Spaniards, and for shame be bold;  
Awaken Virtue, say her slumbers mar  
Iberia's ancient valour, and enfold  
Her wondered pulssance, and her glorious deeds,  
In coward's habit, and ignoble weeds.   

Fie, that the spirit of a single man,  
Should contradict innumerable wills,  
Fie, that infinitives of forces can,  
Nor may effect what one conceit fulfils;  
Woe to the womb, ceaseless the teats I ban,  
That cherrisht life, which all our lives joys kills;  
Woe to ourselves, our fortunes, and our minds,  
Aghast and scarrd, with whistling of the winds.   

See how he triumphs in despite of death,  
Promethean like, laden with living fire,  
And in his glory spits disdainful breath,  
Loathing the baseness of our back retire;  
Even now me thinks in our disgrace he saith,  
Foes to your fames, why make you Fate a liar,  
When heaven and she have given into your hand,  
What all the world can never back demand?   

Say that the God of War; Father of Chivalry,  
The Worthies, Heroes, all famed Conquerors,  
Centaurs, Giants, victorious Victory,  
Were all this grinuil's hart-sworne paramours,  
Yet should we fightlesse let our ships force fly;  
Well might we crush his keel Wt rocklike powers,  
And him with them o'erwhelm into the main,  
Courage than hearts, fetch honour back again.   

Hear shame, the fretting canker of the mind,  
That fires the face with fuel from the heart,  
Fearing his weapon's weakness, est assigned  
To desperate hardiness his confounding dart,  
And now the Spaniards made through words stone blind,  
Desperate by shame, ashamed despair should part,  
like damned scritchowles, chimes to dead men's hours,  
Make vows to fight, till fight all lives devours.   

And now the tragic scene of death gins,  
Acts of the night, deeds of the ugly dark,  
When Furies brands gave light to furious sins,  
And ghastly silence gaping wounds did mark;  
Sing sadly then my Muse (tears pity wins)  
Yet mount thy wings beyond the morning's Lark,  
And wanting thunder, with thy lightnings might  
Split ears that hears the dole of this sad night.   

The fire of Spain's pride, quenched by grinuil's sword,  
Alfonso reinkindles with his tongue,  
And sets a batelesse edge, ground by his word,  
Upon their blunt hearts feebled by the strong,  
Lo animated now, they all accord,  
To die, or end death's conflict held so long;  
And thus resolved, too greedily assay  
His death, like hounds that hold the Hart at bay.   

Blacker than night, more terrible than hell,  
Louder than thunder, sharper than Phoebus' steel,  
Under whose wounds the ugly Python fell,  
Were bullets mantles, clouding the hapless keel,  
The slaughtered cries, the words the canons tell,  
And those which make even rocky Mountains reel,  
And thicker then in sun are Atomies,  
Flew bullets, fire, and slaughtered dead men's cries.   

At this remorseless Dirgie for the dead,  
The silver Moon, dread Sovereign of the deep,  
That with the floods fills up her horned head,  
And by her wain the waning ebbs doth keep:  
Taught by the Fat's how destiny was led,  
Bids all the stars pull in their beams and weep:  
For 'twas unfit, chaste hallowed eyes should see  
Honour confounded by impiety.   

Then to the night she gives all sovereign power,  
Th'eternal mourner for the days divorce,  
Who drowned in her own hearts killing shower,  
Views others torments with a sad remorse.  
This flinty Princess, aim cries to the hour,  
On which to look, kind eyes no force could force.  
And yet the sight, her dull heart so offended,  
That from her sight a foggy dew descended.   

Now on our Knight, rains iron, sword, and fires,  
Iron wrapped in smoke, swords bathed in smoking blood,  
Fires, furies king, in blood & smoke aspiers  
The consummation of all living good;  
Yet Grinuile, with like Agents like expires  
His foe-men's dats, and evermore withstood  
Th'assaults of death, and ruins of the war,  
Hoping the splendour of some lucky star.   

On either side him, still two Galleons lay,  
Which with continual boardings nursed the fight,  
Two great Armadas, howrelie ploughed their way,  
And by assault, made known repellesse might.  
Those which could not come near unto the fray,  
Aloof discharged their volleys 'gainst our Knight.  
And when that one shrunk back, beat with disgrace,  
An other instantly supplied the place.   

So that their resting, restless him contained,  
And their supplies, denied him to supply:  
The Hydra of their mightiness ordained  
New spoil for death, when old did wounded lie:  
But he, Herculian-like one state retained,  
One to triumph, or one for all to die.  
Heaven had only lent him but one heart,  
That heart one thought, that thought no fear of smart.   

And now the night grew near her middle line,  
Youthfully lusty in her strongest age,  
When one of Spain's great Galleons did repine,  
That one should many unto death engage,  
And therefore with her force, half hold divine,  
At once evaporats her mortal rage,  
Till powerful Grinuile, yielding power a tomb,  
split her, and sunk her in the salt waves womb.   

When Cutino, the Hulks great Admiral,  
Saw that huge Vessel drenched within the surge,  
Envy and shame tired upon his gall,  
And for revenge a thousand means doth urge:  
But Grinuile, perfect in destructions fall,  
His mischiefs with like miseries doth scourge;  
And renting with a shot his wooden tower,  
Made Neptune's liquid arms his all devouer.   

These two overwhelmed, Sivills ascension came,  
A famous ship, well man'd, and strongly dressed,  
Vindicta from her Cannon's mouths doth flame,  
And more than any, our dread Knight oppressed:  
Much hurt she did, many she wounded lame,  
And Valurs self, her valiant acts confessed.  
Yet in the end, (for war of none takes keep)  
Grinuile sunk her within the watery deep.   

another great Armado, brusd and beat,  
Sunk near S. Michael's road, with thought to scape,  
And one that by her men more choicely set,  
Being crazed and widowed of her comely shape,  
Ran 'gainst the shore, to pay Ill-chaunce her debt,  
Who desolate for desolations gape:  
Yet these confounded, were not missed at all,  
For new supplies made new the aged brawl.   

This while on Grinuile ceased no amaze,  
No wonder, dread, nor base astonishment,  
But true resolve, and valurs sacred blaze,  
The crown of heaven, and starry ornament  
Decked his divine part, and from thence did raze  
Affects of earth, or earth's intendiment.  
And in this broil, as cheerful was his sight,  
As Ioues, embracing Danae by night.   

Look how a wanton Bridegroom in the morn,  
Busily labours to make glad the day,  
And at the noon, with wings of courage borne,  
Recourts' his bride with dancing and with play,  
Until the night which holds mean bliss in scorn,  
By action kills imaginations sway,  
And then, even then, gluts & confounds his thought,  
With all the sweets, conceit or Nature wrought,   

Even so our Knight the bridegroom unto Fame,  
Toiled in this battles morning with unrest,  
At noon triumphed, & danced, & made his game,  
That virtue by no death could be depressed;  
But when the night of his loves long came,  
Even than his intellectual soul confessed  
All other joys imaginary were  
Honour unconquerd, heaven & earth held dear.   

The bellowing shot which wakened dead men's swoons,  
As Dorian music, sweetened in his cares,  
Rivers of blood, issuing from fountain wounds,  
He pytties, but augments not with his tears,  
The flaming fire which merciless abounds,  
He not so much as masking torches fears,  
The doleful Echo of the souls half dying,  
Quicken his courage in their baneful crying.   

When foul Misfortune hovering on a Rock,  
(The stony girdle of the Florean I'll,)  
Had seen this conflict, and the fearful shock,  
Which all the spanish mischiefs did compile,  
And saw how conquest likely was to mock  
The hope of Spain, and fauster her exile,  
Immortal she, came down herself to fight,  
And do what else no mortal creature might.   

And as she flew the midnight's waking star,  
Sad Cassiopea, with a heavy cheer  
Pushed forth her forehead, to make known from far,  
What time the dryrie dole of earth drew near,  
But when she saw Misfortune armed in war,  
With tears she blinds her eyes, and clouds the air,  
And asks the gods, why Fortune fights with man?  
They say, to do, what else no creature can.   

O why should such immortal envy dwell,  
In the enclosures of eternal mould?  
Let Gods with Gods, and men with men rebel,  
Unequal wars t'vnequall shame is sold;  
But for this damned deed came she from hell,  
And jove is sworn, to do what dest'nie would,  
Weep then my pen, the tell-tale of our woe,  
And curse the fount from whence our sorrows flow.   

Now, now, Misfortune fronts our Knight in arms,  
And casts her venom through the spanish host,  
She salves the dead, and all the living warms  
With vital envy, brought from Pluto's coast;  
Yet all in vain, all works not grinuil's harms;  
Which seen, she smiles, and yet with rage embossed  
Saith to herself, since men are all too weak,  
Behold a goddess shall thy life's twine break.   

With that she takes a Musket in her hand,  
Raft from a dying Soldier newly slain,  
And aiming where th' unconquered Knight did stand,  
Discharged it through his body, and in twain  
Divides the ever holy nuptial band,  
Which twixt his soul, & world's part should remain,  
Had not his heart, stronger than Fortunes will,  
Held life perforce to scorn Misfortunes ill.   

The bubbling wound from whence his blood distilled,  
Mourned to let fall the hallowed drops to ground,  
And like a jealous love by rival illd,  
Sucks in the sacred moisture through the wound;  
But he, which felt deaths fatal doom fulfilld,  
Grew fiercer valiant, and did all confound,  
Was not a Spaniard durst aboard him rest,  
After he felt his death's wound in his breast.   

Hundreds on hundreds, dead on the maimed fall,  
Maimed on sound, sound in themselves lie slain,  
Blest was the first that to his ship could crawl,  
For wounded, he wounds multitudes again;  
No sacrifice, but sacrifice of all,  
Can stay his swords oblations unto pain,  
Nor in Phillippie, fell for Caesar's death,  
Souls thicker than for grinuil's wasting breath.   

The Nemian Lion, Aramanthian Boar,  
The Hyrcanian Tiger, nor the Cholcean Bulls,  
Never extended rage with such uproar,  
Nor in their breasts mad monstrous fury lulls;  
Now might they learn, that ever learned before,  
Wrath at our Knight, which all wrath disanulls,  
For slavish death, his hands commanded more,  
Then Lion, Tiger, Bull, or angry Boar.   

Had Pompey in Pharsalia held his thought,  
Caesar had never wept upon his head,  
Had Anthony at Actiome like him fought,  
Augustus' tears had never drowned him dead,  
Had brave Renaldo, Grinuiles' puissance bought,  
Angelica from France had never fled,  
Nor madded Rowland with inconstancy,  
But rather slain him wanting victory.   

Before a storm flew never Doves so fast,  
As Spaniards from the fury of his fist,  
The stout Revenge, about whose forlorn waist,  
Whilom so many in their moods persist,  
Now all alone, nought but the surge embraced,  
Her foes from handy combats clean desist;  
Yet still incirkling her within their powers,  
From far sent shot, as thick as winter's showers.   

Anger, and Envy, enemies to Life,  
Strong smouldering Heat & noisome stink of Smoke,  
With overlabouring Toil, Death's ugly wife,  
These all accord with Grinuiles' wounded stroke,  
To end his lives date by their civil strife,  
And him unto a blessed state inyoke,  
But he repelled them whilst repel he might.  
Till fainting power, was ta'en from power to fight.   

Then down he sat, and beat his manly breast,  
Not mourning death, but want of means to die;  
Those which survived courageously he blest,  
Making them gods for godlike victory;  
Not full twice twenty souls alive did rest,  
Of which the most were mangled cruelly,  
Yet still, whilst words could speak, or signs could show,  
From death he makes eternal life to grow.   

The Maister-gunner, which beheld his eyes,  
Dart fire 'gainst death triumphant in his face,  
Came to sustain him, and with courage cries,  
How fares my Knight? world's glory, martial grace?  
Thine honour, former honours over-flyes,  
And unto Heaven and Virtue bids the base;  
Cheer then thy soul, & if death's wounding pain it,  
Abraham's fair bosom lies to entertain it.   

Master, he says, even heers the opened door,  
Through which my spirit bridegroom like must ride,  
(And then he barred his wounded breast all gore)  
To court the blessed virgin Lamb his bride,  
Whose innoncence the world's afflictions bore,  
Streaming divine blood from his sliced side,  
And to that heaven my soul with courage flies,  
Because unconquerd, conquering it dies.   

But yet, replied the Master once again,  
Great virtue of our virtues, strive with Fate,  
Yield not a minute unto death, retain  
Life like thy glory, made to wonder at,  
This wounds recovery well may entertain  
A double triumph to thy conquering state,  
And make thee live immortal Angel blest,  
Pleaseth thee suffer it be searched and dressed.   

Descend then gentle Grinuile down below,  
Into my cabin for a breathing space,  
In thee there let thy Surgeon staunch our woe,  
Giving recuer to thee, our wounded case,  
Our breaths, from thy breath's fountain gently flow,  
If it be dried, our currents lose their grace:  
Then both for us, and thee, and for the best,  
Descend, to have thy wound bound up & dressed.   

Master, replied the Knight, since last the sun  
Looked from the highest period of the sky,  
Giving a signal of the days mid noon,  
Unto this hour of midnight, valiantly,  
From of this upper deck I have not run,  
But fought, and freed, and welcomed victory,  
Then now to give new covert to mine head,  
Were to revive our foes half conquered.   

Thus with contrary arguments they war,  
divers in their opinions and their speech,  
One seeking means, th'other a will to dare,  
Yet both one end, and one desire reach:  
Both to keep honour living, pliant are,  
He by his fame, and he by skilful leech,  
At length, the Master wins, and hath procured  
The Knight descend, to have his wound cured.   

Down when he was, and had displayed the port  
Through which his life was marching up to heaven,  
Albe the mortal taint all covers retort,  
Yet was his Surgeon not of hope bereven,  
But gives him valiant speech of life's resort,  
Says, longer days his longer fame shall even,  
And for the means of his recovery,  
He finds both art and possibility.   

Misfortune hearing this presage of life,  
(For what but chimes within immortal ears)  
Within herself kindles a homebred strife,  
And for those words the Surgeons dooms day swears  
With that, her charged piece (Atropos keen knife,)  
Again she takes, and leveled with despairs,  
Sent a shrill bullet through the surgeons head,  
which thence, through grinuil's temples like was led.   

Down fell the Surgeon, hope and help was rest,  
His death gave manumition to his soul,  
Misfortune smyld, and even then she left  
The mournful Ocean, mourner for this dole;  
Away she flies, for all was now bereft,  
Both hope and help, for life to win death's goal;  
Yet Grinuile unamazed, with constant faith,  
Laughing despised the second stroke of death.   

What fool (saith he) adds to the Sea a drop,  
Lends Aetna sparks, or angry storms his wind?  
Who burns the root when lightning fires the top?  
Who unto hell, can worse than hell combined?  
Pale hungry Death, thy greedy long stop,  
Hope of long life is baneful to my mind:  
Yet hate not life, but loath captivity,  
Where rests no trust to purchase victory.   

Then up he came with feeble pace again,  
Strength from his blood, blood from his wounds descending,  
Says, here I lived, & here will I sustain,  
The worst of Death's worst, by my fame defending,  
And then he fell to war with might and main,  
Valour on death most valiantly depending,  
And thus continued aye courageously,  
Until the day chaste shadows from the sky.   

But when the morning's dewy locks drunk up  
A misty moisture from the Ocean's face,  
Then might he see the source of sorrows cup,  
Plainly prefigured in that hateful place:  
And all the miseries that mortals sup  
From their great Grandsire Adam's band, disgrace;  
For all that did in circle him, was his foe,  
And that encircled, model of true woe.   

His masts were broken, and his tackle torn,  
His upper work hewed down into the Sea,  
nought of his ship above the surge was borne,  
But even leveled with the Ocean lay,  
Only the ships foundation (yet that worn)  
Remained a trophy in that mighty fray;  
Nothing at all above the head remained,  
Either for covert, or that force maintained.   

Powder for shot, was spent and wasted clean,  
Scarce seen a corn to charge a piece withal,  
All her pikes broken, half of his best men slain,  
The rest sore wounded, on Death's Agents call,  
On th'other side, her foes in ranks remain,  
Displaying multitudes, and store of all  
What ever might avail for victory,  
Had they not wanted hearts true valiancy.   

When Grinuile saw his desperate dreary case,  
Merely despoiled of all successful thought,  
He calls before him all within the place,  
The Master, Maister-gunner, and them taught  
Rules of true hardiment to purchase grace;  
Shows then the end their travails toil had bought,  
How sweet it is, swift Fame to overgo,  
How vile to dive in captive overthrow.   

Gallants (he saith) since three a clock last noon,  
Until this morning, fifteen hours by course,  
We have maintained stout war, and still undone  
Our foes assaults, and drive them to the worse,  
Fifteen Armadas boardings have not won  
Content or ease, but been repelled by force,  
Eight hundred Cannon shot against our side,  
Have not our hearts in cowards colours died.   

Not fifteen thousand men araungd in fight,  
And fifteen hours lent them to achieve,  
With fifty three great ships of boundless might,  
Have had or means or prowess to contrive  
The fall of one, which maiden virtue dight,  
Kept in despite of Spanish force alive.  
Then list to me you imps of memory,  
Borne to assume to immortality.   

Sith losing, we unlost keep strong our praise,  
And make our glories, gaynours by our ends,  
Let not the hope of hours (for tedious days  
Unto our lives no larger circuit lends)  
Confound our wondered actions and assays,  
Whereon the sweet of mortal ears depends,  
But as we live by wills victorious,  
So let us die victors of them and us.   

We that have merciless cut Mercies wings,  
And muffled pity in deaths misty vale,  
Let us implore no mercy; pittying,  
But from our God, dear favour to exhale  
Our souls to heaven, where all the Angels rings  
Renown of us, and our deep tragic tale;  
Let us that cannot live, yet live to die,  
Vnthrald by men, fit trophies for the sky.   

And thus resolved since other mean is reft,  
Sweet Maister-gunner, split our keel in twain,  
We cannot live, whom hope of life hath left,  
Dying, our deaths more glorious lives retain,  
Let not our ship, of shame and foil bereft,  
Unto our foe-men for a prize remain;  
Sink her, and sinking with the Greek we'll cry,  
Best not to be, or being soon to die.   

Scarce had his words ta'en wings from his dear tongue,  
But the stout Maister-gunner, ever rich  
In heavenly valour and repulsing wrong,  
Proud that his hands by action might enrich  
His name and nation with a worthy song,  
towered his heart higher than eagle's pitch,  
And instantly endeavours to effect  
Grinuiles' desire, by ending Death's defect.   

But th'other Master, and the other Mat's,  
Disented from the honour of their minds,  
And humbly prayed the Knight to rue their state's,  
Whom misery to no such mischief binds;  
To him th'aleadge great reasons, and dilat's  
Their foes amazements, whom their valours blinds,  
And makes more eager t'entertain a truce,  
Then they to offer words for wars excuse.   

They show him divers gallant men of might,  
Whose wounds not mortal, hope gave of recuer,  
For their saks sue they to divorce this night  
Of desperate chance, called unto Death's black lure,  
Their lengthened lives, their country's cares might right,  
And to their Prince they might good hopes assure.  
Then qd. the Captain, (dear Knight) do not spill,  
The lives whom gods and Fat's seek not to kill.   

And where thou sayest the Spaniards shall not brave,  
T'have ta'en one ship due to our virgin Queen,  
O know, that they, nor all the world can save,  
This wounded Bark, whose like no age hath seen,  
Six foot she leaks in hold, three shot beneath the wave,  
All whose repair so insufficient been,  
That when the Sea shall angry work begin,  
She cannot choose but sink and die therein.   

Besides, the wounds and bruisings which she bears,  
Are such, so many, so incurable,  
As to remove her from this place of fears,  
No force, no wit, no mean, nor man is able;  
Then since that peace prostrate to us repairs,  
Unless ourselves, ourselves make miserable,  
Herculeen Knight, for pity, pity lend,  
No fame consists in wilful desperate end.   

These words with emphasis and action spent,  
Moved not Sir Richard, but enraged him more,  
To bow or yield, his heart would near relent,  
He still impungs all thought of life's restore;  
The Maister-gunner, ever doth consent  
To act his wish, swearing in beds of gore  
Death is most lovely, sweet and amiable,  
But captived life for foulness admirable.   

The Captain, seeing words could take no place,  
Turns back from them unto the living few,  
Expounds what pity is, what victors grace;  
Bids them themselves, themselves in kindness rue,  
Peace if they please, will kindly them embrace,  
And they may live, from whom wars glory grew;  
But if they will to desperate end consent,  
Their guilty souls too late shall mourn repent.   

The silly men, which sought but living joys,  
Cries to the Captain for an honoured truce,  
Life they desire, yet no life that destroys  
Their won renowns, but such as might excuse  
Their woes, their wounds, and all what else annoys  
Beauty of laud, for other they refuse;  
All which the Captain swears they shall obtain,  
Because their foes, in doubtful states remain.   

O when Sir Richard saw them start aside,  
More chained to life then to a glorius grave,  
And those whom he so oft in dangers tried,  
Now trembling seek their hateful lives to save,  
Sorrow and rage, shame, and his honours pride,  
Choking his soul, madly compelled him rave,  
Until his rage with vigour did confound  
His heavy heart, and left him in a swoon.   

The Maister-gunner, likewise seeing Fate  
Bridle his fortune, and his will to die,  
With his sharp sword sought to set open the gate,  
By which his soul might from his body fly,  
Had not his friends perforce preserved his state,  
And locked him in his cabin, safe to lie,  
Whilst others swarmed where hapless Grinuile lay,  
By cries recalling life, late run away.   

In this too restless turmoil of unrest,  
The poor Revenges Master stole away,  
And to the Spanish Admiral addressed  
The doleful tidings of this mournful day,  
(The Spanish Admiral who then oppressed,  
hovering with doubt, not daring th'end the fray,)  
And pleads for truce, with souldiour-like submission,  
Anexing to his words a strait condition.   

Alfonso, willing to give end to arms,  
For well he knew Grinuile would never yield,  
Albe his power stood like unnumbered swarms,  
Yet daring not on stricter terms to build,  
He offers all what may allay their harms  
Safety of lives, nor any thrall to wield,  
Free from the Galley, prisonment, or pain,  
And safe return unto their soil again.   

To this he yields, as well for his own sake,  
Whom desperate hazard might endamage sore,  
As for desire the famous Knight to take,  
Whom in his heart he seemed to deplore,  
And for his valour half a God did make,  
Extolling him all other men before,  
Admiring with an honourable heart,  
His valour, wisdom, and his Soldiers Art.   

With peaceful news the Master back returns,  
And rings it in the living remnants ears,  
They all rejoice, but Grinuile deadly mourns,  
He frets, he sighs, he sorrows and despairs,  
He cries, this truce, their fame and bliss adiourns,  
He rends his locks, and all his garments tears,  
He vows his hands shall rend the ship in twain,  
Rather than he will Spanish yoke sustain.   

The few reserved, that life esteemed too well,  
Knowing his words were warrants for his deed,  
Unkindly left him in that monstrous hell,  
And fled unto Alfonso with great speed.  
To him their Chieftains mightiness they tell,  
And how much valour on his soul doth feed,  
That if prevention, not his actions dim,  
'twill be too late to save the ship or him.   

Bassan made proud, unconquering t'ouer-come,  
Swore the brave Knight nor ship he would not lose,  
Should all the world in a petition come:  
And therefore of his gallants, forty chose  
To board Sir Richard, charging them be dumb  
From threatening words, from anger, & from blows,  
But with all kindness, honour, and admire,  
To bring him thence, to further Fame's desire.   

Sooner they boarded not the crazed Bark,  
But they beheld where speechless Grinuile lay,  
All smeared in blood, and clouded in the dark  
Contagious curtain of Death's tragic day;  
They wept for pity, and yet silent mark  
Whether his lungs sent living breath away,  
Which when they saw in airy blasts to fly,  
They strived who first should staunch his misery.   

Anon came life, and lift his eyelids up,  
Whilst they with tears denounce their General's will,  
Whose honoured mind sought to retort the cup  
Of Death's sad poison, well instruckt to kill:  
Tells him what fame and grace his eyes might sup  
From Bassans kindness, and his surgeons skill,  
Both how he loved him, and admired his fame,  
To which he sought to lend a living flame.   

Ay me (quoth Grinuile) simple men, I know  
My body to your General is a pray,  
Take it, and as you please my limbs bestow,  
For I respect it not, 'tis earth and clay:  
But for my mind that mightier much doth grow,  
To heaven it shall, despite of Spanish sway.  
This said, o'ercome with anguish & with pain,  
He swooned, and did never speak again.   

They took him up, and to their General brought  
His mangled carcase, but unmaimed mind,  
Three days he breathed, yet never spoke he ought,  
Albe his foes were humble, sad, & kind;  
The fourth, came down the Lamb that all souls bought,  
And his pure part, from worse parts refined,  
Bearing his spirit up to the lofty skies,  
Leaving his body, wonder to wonders eyes.   

When Bassan saw the Angell-spirite fled,  
Which lent a mortal frame immortal thought,  
With pity, grief, and admiration led,  
He mournfully complained what Fat's had wrought,  
Woe me (he cries) but now alive, now dead,  
But now invincible, now captive brought:  
In this, unjust are Fat's, and Death declared,  
That mighty ones, no more than mean are spared.   

You powers of heaven, rain honour on his hearse,  
And tune the Cherubins to sing his fame,  
Let Infants in the last age him rehearse,  
And let no more, honour be honours name:  
Let him that will obtain immortal verse,  
Conquer the style of Grinuile to the same.  
For till that fire shall all the world consume,  
Shall never name, with grinuil's name presume.   

Rest then dear soul, in thine all-resting peace,  
And take my tears for trophies to thy tomb,  
Let thy lost blood, thy unlost fame increase,  
Make kingly ears thy praises second womb:  
That when all tongues to all reports surcease,  
Yet shall thy deeds, outlive the day of doom.  
For even Angels, in the heavens shall sing,  
Grinuile unconquerd died, still conquering.   
O utinam.  
FINIS.   

WHat became of the Revenge after Sir Richard's death, divers report diversly, but the most probable and sufficient proof saith, that within few days after the Knight's death, there arose a great storm from the West and Northwest, that all the Fleet was disperse, aswell the Indian Fleet, which were then come unto them, as all the rest of the Armada, which attended their arrival; of which fourteen sail, together with the Revenge, and in her two hundred Spaniards, were cast away upon the isle of S. Michael's; so it pleased them to honour the burial of that renowned Ship the Revenge, not suffering her to perish alone, for the great honour she achieved in her life time.