THE Three Sisters tears. SHED AT THE LATE solemn Funerals of the royal deceased HENRY, Prince of WALES, etc. R. N. Oxon. Mors equè pulsat pauperum tabernas regnumque turres. LONDON: Printed by T. S. for Richard Redmer, and are to be sold at his shop near the West door of Paul's Church. 1613. TO THE MOST virtuous and Highly Honoured Lady; the Lady HONOUR HAY, Wife to the Right Noble Gentleman, James, Lord Hay, and Daughter and heir to the Right Honourable, the Lord Denny, Baron of Waltham. HONOUR denies not grace to any Muse, When any Muse attributes grace to honour; Then had these sister's tears, which here ensues Not dulled my Muse and thrown these woes upon her, (Most Noble Lady) at whose happy birth, Men gave you honour, and the heavens such grace, That you are thought their angel upon earth, My Muse had sung your praises in this place: Yet since these three fair Ladies, for your worth, As partner in their plaints for Henry dead, From all your tender Sex do choose your forth, Vouchsafe to grace these funeral tears they shed: And for such grace may all the learned nine All praises offer at your honours shrine. Your ladyships ever most humbly devoted Richard Niccols. Authori Carmen Encomiasticon. Receive my shower of tears into thy flood, Thou saddest penman of the saddest Muse; And would my tears were tears or showers of blood, Might tears of blood or bloody showers excuse The bitter doom which Death and Fate decreed, Against this Prince, who was a Prince indeed. I say, not I, heroic Henry's dead, He's but from Saint to Angels Court removed, Where he shall ever live eternised; And where he erst did live be ever loved We fear and hope, fear says that such another lives not to match with him, Hope says his Brother. But give I way to him, who knows the way, And comes prepared to make the world to weep, Since I want power to think what I would say, Or say what I would think: such and so deep Impression in my heart this loss doth give, Who was to young to die, to good to live. Enough, enough; begin thy sister's tears Unto thy noble virtuous patroness, Who no small part in their sad sorrow bears For this late loss: which grief cannot redress Were never tears in more abundance shed Were never more true mourners for the dead. T.W. FINIS▪ THE THREE SISTERS tears. SAd second Sister of the Sacred NINE, Whose sweetest music is hart-breaking moan, Be present at these funeral tears of mine, And if they fail supply them with thine own. If thou canst teach me wailing humane woes To touch a stony heart with tender pity, Sat down with me, my muse do thou dispose In sacred tunes to sing this doleful ditty. Such doleful ditty never Muse did sing, No, not when all you Muses mourning sat, With sweet Thalia'bout your horse hoof spring, For her twins loss, which Jove himself begat. Her loss was great; yet greater loss was theirs, Whose plaints must be the subject of my Pen, These three sad Sisters, who with woeful tears Here wail his loss, whose like hath seldom been. Begin then muse, and tell both when and where We heard these echoes of their mournful song, Recount likewise, who these three Sisters were, And what he was, to whom death did this wrong. That time it was, when as the hateful Snake In that great belt, which buckles heavens bright breast Rousing his starry crest, his turn did take To spit his poison down on man and beast. When in this I'll, which Nature as her nest Halcyon-like hath built, for her dear sons, Amidst the seas, I steered my course by East, Where fruitful Thames the Prince of rivers runs. At length that noble city I beheld, Against whose broad breast the angry river raves; Yet back repulsed as being thereto compelled He pays it tribute with his fishfull waves. There did I hear (was never ear did hear More divers sounds) all which might yet content The daintiest sense, to which I drew me near To know from whence they were, and what they meant. And lo, I did behold, from off the shores Many light friggots, put into the deep, All trimly decked, which by the strength of oars Through the swift stream their way did westward keep. Who in their course, like couples hand in hand, (While their proud pennons did the welkin brave And their shrill music echoed on the strand) Did seem to dance upon the bubbling wave. And round about in many a gondelay, Light-footed nymphs and jolly swains did row, Devising mirth and dalliance on the way, Not caring, how they sailed, or swift, or slow. So many varying and so vain delights Floating upon that flood, I then did see, Such divers shows and such fantastic sights, That Thames the Idle-lake than seemed to be. As on the river, so upon the Land, What ever might delight the living sense, Was powered forth by pleasures plenteous hand, As if no other heaven had been from thence. With divers change of fashions and of face, That stately towns proud streets did ebb and flow, Proud jetting Mimmickes, nor of name nor place In rich attire and gold were seen to go. The lofty buildings burdened with the press Of lovely Dames their windows opened wide, And swollen with joy of their so graceful guess, Did burst to show such ornaments of Pride. This was that day for antic deeds renowned, Which the grave senate of that famous state And people, year by year, with triumph crowned To honour their elected Magistrate. With dainty delicates the Tables flowed In every place, and plenteous Art in scorn Of niggard Nature, all her cunning showed, And every dish did lavishly adorn. Wanton excess, whose cup did over flow With the Vines frantic juice, which she did spill With prodigal expense, went to and fro And gave to every one to drink there fill. T'whom quaffing deep, while they in heart rejoice And sit upon soft seats of careless ease, Minstrel security doth with high voice Sing this enchanting song, which well did please. Let not vain doubt disturb our strengthened state, Nor fear awake our peace with wars alarms, Our powers at home can beat back foreign hate And friends abroad for us will manage arms. Enjoy we not the son of such a King So fair a branch, which now such fruit doth bear, That from such fruit, such hopes already spring, That our great Fortunes shake the world with fear? The heavens therefore us ever shall behold With lovely look, we fear no adverse Fate, By humane powers we cannot be controlled, Nay, Jove himself can hardly hurt our state. O vain opinion of Soule-blinded men To think that aught on earth may be secure, What lives, must doubtless die; though doubtful when, No mortal thing, alas, may long endure. In that self hour, in which the infant birth Of joy in humane heart is but begun, Unlooked for chance may change such joyful mirth To doleful mourning, 'ere the glass be run. For angry heaven disdaining this vain puff Of Giant-Pride in men did open the treasure Of Ioues fierce wrath, & with stern storms did cuff The earth and seas in sign of their displeasure. The King of Gods, as he but cast a look On them below, made all the kingdom tremble A strange amazement Prince and subject struck▪ Their former hopes now sudden fears resemble. A cloud of sorrow covered all the Coast, The sun of COMFORT that had wont dispread His gladsome beams, as he his light had lost, In doleful darkness hid his glorious head. Then drooped great Albion, and did hang the wing, Which late above the clouds did vaunt to fly: The Peacock plumes, which from her pride did spring Did shed, their colours all did vade and die. The noble youth to warlike practise given, The brood of Mars, which daily great did grow, Whose hearts with hope did leap as high as heaven, Wander dejected in black weeds of woe. Disturbed in thought to think what cause could force So sudden change of things, that seemed to stand Immutable, by West I kept my course Still up the river, by the Northern strand. Until I came to that great house of FAME, That sacred Temple built by KINGS of yore, Th'admired workmanship of whose fair frame Excels all others that have been before. There Time hath raised up Trophies all dispred, With shining Gold, and monuments of Fame, To many Kings and great Heröes dead, And there for ever hath engraved their Name. Whose goodly building, as I stood to see, And wondered at the Architects rare hand, An unthought accident did hap to me, As in the Temple I did gazing stand. There did I see, which I shall ever rue, There to have seen a doleful hearse erected, To which as to a Prince no reverence due, Or right of Royalty was there neglected. The royal Badges that were set about Did seem to me to mourn upon that hearse, The Lordly lion seemed not half so stout, Nor th' unicorn, as he was wont, so fierce. A dew of doleful tears was standing seen Upon the lovely white Rose and the red, The Thistle was not, as was wont so green, The flower-de-luce did seem to hang the head. But woe is me, that, which was most in me The cause of woe (O let it no be told) Was three fair Ladies, whom I there did see, Three fairer Ladies, eye did near behold. They daughters to a famous Monarch were; Though now their royal robes were laid away, In stead whereof they mourning stoales did wear, And at their feet their crowns and sceptres lay. On the cold ground all careless they did sit As loathing nice respects about that beer And with their hands for such stern use unfit (Alas the while) did rend their golden hair. Their breasts they fiercely smote, where lived their woe And their sad eyes despairing of relief They up did lift, whence streams of tears did flow, As heaven accusing guilty of their grief. Their grief was such, that even the marble stone As moved therewith a weeping moisture bears, Yea now to think upon their piteous moan My frailer eyes doth drown these lines in tears. And at that time I felt my grieved heart So pierced with pity of so sad a sight, That drawing near I prayed them to impart, What was the cause of their so rueful plight. Then up arose the fairest of the three Who sighing deep, as if her heart would break, After some pause, as soon as breath was free, To let forth grief, these bleeding words did speak. Angela. AH, what delight of speech can be to those, who when they speak in vain do spend their breath▪ Man, he may hear, but cannot help our woes, For he is subject unto Tyrant DEATH; To Tyrant Death, that hath done this despite, Ah then in living speech is no delight. In vain my tongue, in vain thou dost unfold The helpless harms of our heart hidden grief▪ In vain it is such sorrows should be told, Whereas no hope is left to find relief: All is but vain, where nothing may avail, Except this one thing left, to weep and wail. To weep and wail his loss for evermore, Upon whose life my hopes did whole rely. O then into these eyes what power will pour A flood of tears, that never may be dry? That I unto the dead his due may give, And show how I him loved, when he did live. I am the eldest borne of Daughters three To Albion, chief of mighty Neptune's sons, Who jealous lest his seed commixed should be With other mortals, round about us runs, And from the world, as being in doubt to lose us, Hath made his waves a silver wall t'enclose us. Logris my Name was once so called before By great King Locrine, Brutus' eldest birth, But since that mighty people took this shore, The warlike SAXONS famous through the earth, Hight Angela my Name hath ever been, Such was the name of their victorious Queen. And since that time, that name of mine like Thunder Hath borne a dreadful sound, through seas and land, The world's great idol, Rome, at whom with wonder The Nations round about do gazing stand, As sudden blow her neck of Pride had broken, Hath quaked, when she hath heard my name but spoken. But why do I, thus vainly vaunt my power, And boast my greatness, now alas brought low, Since cruel DEATH hath cropped as fair a flower, As in my garland ever yet did grow? Was never Flower more hopeful grown than he, Though he is dead and withered, as you see. If Iron sides were given me from above, That sighing would endure, and never break: Yet could I not express my countries love Unto this dead young PRINCE; nor could I speak His praises due, had I a voice of brass. So virtuous Noble, and so wise he was. Was (woe the while that now he is not so) Son to the fame-graced Monarch of this I'll, Who with his royal Brother, who doth grow To hopes, that do my present griefs beguile, Betwixt them two alone did seem to share The heritage of grace., and virtues rare. But unto him, to him, that now is gone, Heaven at his birth so gracious was and free, That as it should have took delight alone To give to him, what gifts could given be, In that blessed hour of his fair birth it shed All gifts of grace upon his royal head. The honey sweet he sucked from learned writs, Was as heavens Nectar to delight his taste, Himself the best above the best of wits In learning's lore shot up and grew so fast, That all, in him, admired these nobler parts, Discourse and practise both in worthy arts. Then help (ye sacred Sisters every one) Leave your delightful songs and sportful games, About the pleasant springs of Helicon And sitting with us on the banks of Thames, Lament with us, for you have cause to moan, Maecenas now is dead, is dead and gone. The sectaries of your diviner skill By the dull world despised he did advance, And them with Princely power protected still Against the malice of Proud Ignorance; Then to him dead, who gave while he did live Such grace to you, all graceful glory give. On you disdained of golden vanity, He deigned to look, and knowing sapience To be the Garland of Nobility, Did daily seek your wisdoms influence, But he is gone and few do now remain, That do not you and all your Arts disdain. Where are the worthies of those antic days, Who wont, their crowns and sceptres laid aside, To gird their conquering brows with sacred bays, For which their names be now eternised. They late did live in him, that now is dead, And are with him again rapt up in lead. For few do now the sacred Nine esteem, That have the gift of Midas golden touch, Science divine, a fruitless thing they deem, And count the learned base for being such. O then let all that learned are lament His loss, whose life was learning's ornament. And you brave spirits of the warre-Gods train, That love to bear the bold Bellona's shield, And with your sword's eternity to gain, Delight in battles and in bloody field, Mourn you with us, your Mars hath lost his light, And in death's clouds is now extinguished quite. Who like himself, is like to look on you, That with an open hand and mind so free, Will give to men of arms their praises due, Which wont great Britain's brazen walls to be? Now in the helm, the glory of the field, Fowl spiders still their mansion house may build. If death had given him leave to lead you on, And guide you through the crimson paths of war, Against the sons of strumpet Babylon, Or those Philistines, that her Champions are, You with your swords were like to dig a tomb, Wherein to bury all the Pride of Rome. Of Rome, that would and will be Monster-head Of all the world: who was so holy given, That she of late with hot devotion led, Would with one blast have blown me up to heaven, Such hot hell-fierd zeal let all times know, Since time before the like could never show. For this, had HENRY lived to lift his hand To hunt from hence Rome's Rats, that daily feed Upon the fat and glory of my land And in my wounded bosom daily breed, I by his arm, like ever to be strong, Upon the gates of Rome had graved this wrong. For I did think (and who but so will think) Had he but lived, that never in this land, A fuller cup of glory I should drink, Then that which I did hope from Henry's hand? For twice four Henries have been Lords of me, All which could not show greater hopes than he. Not Edward's battles, when such deeds were done, That Cressy and Poiteres were drowned in blood, Nor those of Henry, when such fame he won, That France did stoop, and at his mercy stood, I did not think should be so great in fame, As those which hope did promise in his name. Him oft, though young, upon a warlike steed, Like jove-borne Perseus, mounted I have seen, Whom with such goodly grace he hath bestrid, As Horse and man had but one body been, Teaching him stand, stoop, stop, turn, leap and spring Caper, curvet, pace, prance, and troth the ring. His riper judgement in such unripe years And knowledge in the theoric of war, Which as I fear when future ages hears They hardly will believe: we may compare, To th'ancient Romans, whose grave wisdom gave Rome all her Pride, and made the world her slave. As bounteous heaven with virtues and with arts Th'immortal part of man in him did grace, So Nature in constructure of those parts, Which death too cruel did too soon deface The grace of all good feature gave to him In every muscle, member, joint and limb. A manly sternness sat upon his brow; Yet mixed with an aemiable grace, The silken blossoms 'gan to bud but now Upon his downy chin; yet in his face Was seen such judgement as in age appears, How then could death destroy such hopeful years? But why do I, like man, made out of dust Seem against great heaven vain arguments to frame? Nor highest Jove, nor Death, have been unjust Taking from earth, what earth could never claim: His soul from us for our foul sins complaints, Is rapt to heaven to dwell among the Saints. Ah wretched England, now I turn to thee To sound heavens judgements in thy sottish ears, And if still deaf thou adderlike wilt be, And not be moved with pity of these tears, Yet on thyself some kind compassion take Do not sleep dead in sin, at last awake. Why dost thou hug thy sinful self, as safe, In the soft bosom of securefull sloth? Dreadless of thine own danger, why dost laugh In face of heaven whose looks are full of wroth? Why dost thou seek to make thy evil good? As vice in virtue should be understood. Turn yet dear country, turn thee now at last, Be moved with this late sudden blow from heaven, And let these tears, still tell thee what is past, Lest careless found, a greater blow be given: For though thy loss be now laid out on beer, Forget him not, thou canst not find his peer. Except his royal Brother, who gins Like hopeful bud to promise goodly fruit: For whose dear life, repentant of thy sins, Offer to heaven thy prayers and suppliant suit: For now on Charles my hopes transferred be, Since Henry, dead, I never more shall see. Thus sad she sighed and down herself did throw, Even down again upon the cold hard stone, With whom her Sisters, as wood-Culuers do Upon the bared branch made piteous moan, Until at length the second Sister rose And in these words did utter forth her woes. Albana. A mournful subject should with mournful skill Be painted forth, in letters fraught with tears; then help, soon help me to some turtles quill, Who for her dear loves loss griefs burden bears, Which with sad sorrows drops may ever flow, That with true Passion thou mayst write my woe. Never did Turtle mourn on branchlesse bow Her dearest make dead dropping from the tree With more lamenting grief, than I do now Dear HENRY dead, dead HENRY dear to me. For though thou hast my sister's tears before, Yet I have cause to mourn as much, or more. To Albion, Monarch of this island all Till death his life untimely did exspell, When with Alcides on the coast of Gaul Fight beneath his conquering Club he fell I, wretched I, the second Daughter am And at the first hight Albana my name. Of Noble Abanact, Brutus' second son I was so named, who over me did reign Till slain in battle by the barbarous Hume His Brother Locrine did my cause maintain, And on proud Humber did revenge his blood, Who drowned, did leave his name unto that flood. And since that time, though wrathful heavens have frowned With many a bitter storm upon my coast, Though in the depth of woe I have been drowned For many sons, whom I have timeless lost; Yet never any grief did touch me more, Then this for him, whom dead I do deplore. How can the Nurse but wail her infant lost took from the breast, whom she shall never see And of his birth, who but myself can boast? Who was so hopeful, when he went from me, That never Mother had more hope of child, Alas, that of such hopes I am beguiled. When time at first his birth to light did bring, Those three fair twines, from whom to us is given All good and virtue, that of grace doth spring To rock his royal cradle came from heaven, And by degrees their graces did bestow, As he from leaf and bud to flower did grow. His leaf was lovely as the spring of day, His bud peeped forth as doth the bashful morn, His flower began most goodly to display, And much this islands garden did adorn: But death, that wild boar entered in anon, And now his lives leaf, bud, and flower are gone. Not in that garden's plot, which we be-hight Of York and Lancaster, did ever grow Amongst so many Roses red and white Any Rose-bud, that made a fairer show, So fair it showed, earth was envied to bear it, Now therefore heaven doth in her bosom wear it. Not all the forest of great Albion Did ever any Lordly lion know, More like than that of his to set upon That Beast of Rome and all her Pride o'erthrow; And therefore now a place to it is given Above the lion, that great star in heaven. If he had lived beneath his royal Sire Our Kingly shepherd, who with care doth keep The flock of Israel from raging Ire Of ravening wolves that would destroy the sheep Then, then, should all our Britain borders be, As once they were from wolves secure and free. But what so strong or steadfast is, whose state Stands under heaven built upon earthly mould, That can endure? Firm is the doom of FATE To Prince and poor alike, to young and old, Nor wisdom, honour, beauty, gold or strength, To mortal life can add on day in length. Who that hath eyes, but sees the day begun Peep forth from East like child from mother's womb And yet in West ere many hours be done, Her life and light being lost she seeks her tomb, He, that sees this unto himself may say, Death is not far, my life is like the day. For if aught mortal could have wrought such wonder, As to have bought a little Lease of life, Stern Fate should not so soon have cut in sunder Our dear dead Henry's thread with cruel knife. Yea, many lives (could lives prevail with death) Would for his one have offered up their breath. But that which grieves a tender Mother most, And heaps huge sorrows on her mournful breast When she her dear beloved son hath lost, Is now the cause of my minds most unrest, I was not by to close dead Henry's eyes, When envious Fates did make his life their prize. I, that did bear him, was too far away, To mourn his doleful Fate, when as he died, Death, like a thief, upon his life did pray, And stole him hence; to me it was denied Unto my Lord to speak my last Farewell, And bid him sleep, where peace doth ever dwell. Ye Sisters three, that still in fatal hand The Twist and Spindle of man's life do hold, To whom the power is given to command, The breath of this or that man, uncontrolled, Amongst so many lives, why did you choose That life of his, and all the rest refuse? Was it to make your dreaded power known In him alone, to men in fortune's grace? 'mongst whom (flesh proud by Nature,) few or none Observe it in the men of meaner place? If so, he being spared, why was not then Your doom decreed against those wretched men? Those wretched men, of all that live this day, Who vainly think themselves then most secure When soothing Sycophants to them do say They shall not die but evermore endure: Of such may HENRY, gone, the eyes unblinde, And make them know, they must not stay behind. But thus why with inevitable Fate Do I dispute? why do I think in heart, To preordain the time of final date And point whom death shall strike with deadly dart, Since mortal men such secrets may not know, And heaven keeps hid such things from earth below? Yet, if that any wretch, whose cankered breast Is deeply wounded with the deadly sting Of monster errors, foul seaven-headed beast Shall dare to ask, why such a hopeful spring In prime of all his youth was taken hence And falsely think the cause was his offence; Such barking curs (if barking curs there be That dare in private our dead lion bite) Know that the chiefest cause why wretched we Have lost in Israel our second light, Is their false, wicked, close, commerce with those, That are their God, their King and country's foes. Although I not excuse these impious times Which unto heaven for vengeance daily call; For know (dear country) for thy odious crimes, This heavy loss upon thy head did fall: Not that brave Prince, though borne with sinful breath With crying crimes did hasten his own death. Then with thy sister England turn from sin, That heaven may turn her threatfull plagues from thee And bless thy Sovereign's charleses, who doth begin, To bud apace, and in each grace to be The Image of his Noble Brother dead, For whom these tears his Albana doth shed. This said, the rest in silence she did drown, And sighing from her breast a grievous groan, As if it would have broke, she sat her down, With whom her Sisters did lament and moan, Until the third and youngest up did rise, Who did express her sorrows in this wise. Cambera. IF ever heaven did shed a weeping shower, Compassionating things on earth below, If earth, or any thing therein have power T'augment my grief or add unto my woe, In my sad passions let them bear a part, That these my tears may pierce the world's hard heart. The man, that wails the loss of such a thing, Which he hath sought and yet could never see, which was the life, from whence his hopes did spring, And finds it dead, that man is like to me, Of HENRY dead, the garland of my glory, Near seen by me, must be my mournful story. I am the youngest Sister of the three Yet equal to the best of both in fame, As in all antic stories men may see, And Cambera is my true ancient name, So called of Noble Camber, Brut's third son, When over me to reign he first begun. And since that time, my state oft times cast down On lowly dust by hand of ireful FATE, I never had more hope to calm her frown And raise again the glory of my state: But death that daily works this world's decay With Henry's life hath blown my hopes away. Twice thirty times and five the radiant sun His inn hath taken with the golden Ram And every time his years just race hath run Since any Prince was titled by that name; Who then more tears should to this hearse afford Then I for loss of my late living LORD? The black Prince Edward, whose victorious Lance Spain's bastard Henry did in battle quell And made black days and bloody fields in France When French King John beneath his valour fell In Henry lived, for he again did raise My plume forgot, which Edward crowned with praise. As when in golden Summer we do see A dainty palm high mounted on the head Of some green hill to dance for jollity And shake her tender locks but new dispread, So stood my ostrich plumes on Henry's crown Waving aloft like ensigns of renown. Had I but seen, what fame so high resounds, Had Ludlow with his presence once been blest, Or had his foot steps touched my borders bounds, I should not yield unto my thoughts unrest; But with my Sisters seek t' appease my ruth, Who did enjoy the glory of his youth. Then for this loss, against whom shall I complain? To lessen grief, shall heaven appeached be? Or death accused of wrong? that were profane, Our Princes are their subjects, and as he, So others shall, that are and ere have been; Like vapours vade and never more be seen. No, no my country thou the blame must have, Thy sin above the clouds her head did show And there the King of God's did proudly brave, Who for that cause did scourge thee with this woe, Which ever bear in thought, least at the last, Thou feel the smart of that thou thinkest is past. Lift up thine eyes, to heaven all praises give, Seek with sad tears t'appease Jehovahs' wrath, And that thy royal DAVID long may live To try thy cause against that man of Gath, Bring down the length of days upon his head, And bless the partner of his royal Bed. Bless hopeful CHARLES, that we may want no heir Of his to wear this kingdoms Diadem, Great heaven look lovely on that lovely pair, Strike envy dead, if it but point at them, And let their sun of joy be never set: Though HENRY dead we never may forget. Thus having uttered forth her piteous moan, She with her Sisters vanished away, And left me there in Sorrow all alone, At which amazed I durst no longer stay, Else I did think upon that royal hearse, To have left behind this sad acrostike Verse. An EPITAPH. Here lies a Prince, that was the Prince of Youth, Expert in Arts his age doth seldom know, Noble his Nature, and the shield of Truth, Religion's steadfast friend, and Errors foe; In virtues ways he kept as he begun, Even in that path his royal Sire had done. Parted he is from us, and yet not gone, Rapt up to heaven, his heavenly part there lives, In earth his earth lies dead, for 'tis her own, Name and renown the World to him still gives. Count this true paradox, if truly read, Ever Prince HENRY lives, and yet is dead. FINIS.