THE Lamentation of Troy, for the death of Hector.  
Whereunto is annexed an Old woman's Tale in her solitary Cell.  
Omne gerendum leave est.  
LONDON, Printed by Peter Short for William Mats. 1594   

To the Right Honourable Sir Peregrin Bartue knight, Lord of Willoughby and Earsbie, all increase of Honour and true happiness.  
I Have presumed (Right honourable) upon these three reasons to present this unworthy pamphlet unto your honours courteous view, and favourable protection. The first is from your own noble worthiness, for that you are, and are so thought, the only Hector of Albion: and therefore most worthy to protect Hector. The second, for that it was the will and desire of the Ghost, of the woeful Ghost of Ilium: that in her tears you might behold the sorrows of your own country whensoever injurious fates should cause you miscarry. The third and last is (my good Lord) mine own private affection, wherein I have long honoured you, and having no place to make it known, have long desired to find some opportunity to show the same. I hope your Lordship will pardon me, for that affection is a most venial offence. And if herein I do not honour your Lordship so much as you are worthy, and I earnestly wish, yet please it you to favour and pardon this first, and as time and years shall enable me with a more experienced judgement and knowledge, I will study and endeavour that, which shall be more worthy your honours favourable protection. Please it you accept, and I am graced, and my labour richly rewarded. I cease to trouble your Lordship further at this time, I vow myself to your Lordship's service, and so most humbly take my leave.  
Your Honours humbly at command, I. O.   

The Prologue.  
WHilom to him (whom Morpheus God of sleep,  
Made slumbering dreams his senses all to keep,  
Locked in the prison of the dark some night,  
When ears were deaf and eyes could see no light,  
When men are made the lively form of death,  
Save only that they softly draw a breath)  
Did come a Ghost, a ghost most ghastly crying,  
Help me to death that have so long been dying.  
With that he wakened and with fear beholding,  
Saw her lament, her arms together folding,  
A pale-wan thing, and yet with wounds fresh bleeding  
Sodden in tears, in tears that were exceeding.  
He much affright began to shrink for fear,  
She bade him fear not, but my story hear,  
I am Troy's ghost that now appears to thee,  
And well I know that thou hast heard of me.  
But now I come not what I was to tell,  
For what I was (alas) each one knows well.  
I come to thee to crave thy gentle aid,  
To further her that hath so long been staid  
From blissful rest: because I have not told  
My woes for Hector which I must unfold,  
But that (alas) am I not able ever,  
To show alone without the kind endeavour  
Of some good wight, that can bewail with me,  
And tell my tale while I shall weeping be.  
The churlish Charon thwarts my passage over  
Saying my soul shall never bliss recover,  
Till I have done this weary task imposed,  
Never my ghost shall be in rest reposed.  
O help me then to tell my doleful story,  
That I at last may cease to be so sorry.  
First will I speak, and to the world declare  
For Hector's death mine everlasting care,  
So long, till tears do stop my faltering tongue,  
And when I cease I pray thee tell along.  
He then accorded to her piteous suit  
Granting to speak when tears did make her mute,  
So that she would lay open to his eyes  
The cause and manner of her woeful cries.  
Then forth with caused she unto him appear  
The form of Troy, the persons that were there  
Chiefest mourners for worthy Hector's death  
As they then wailed when fates new stopped his breath.  
He then emboldende stoutly veiwd them all,  
And tells her tale, when she from speech doth fall.  
Writing their words unto the world to show them  
It was her will that he might so renew them.  
Yet had she rather Spencer would have told them,  
For him she called that he would help t'unfold them.  
But when she saw he came not at her call  
She kept her first man that doth show them all  
All that he could: but all can no man show,  
But first she spoke as after doth ensue.   

Troy's Lamentation for the death of Hector.  

LO here the tears and sad complaint of her  
Within whose gates all joys were once abounding,  
Fair Ilion's tears whose deep laments may stir  
A flinty heart unto a sigh-resounding  
Yet for herself doth Ilium not moan,  
But for her Hector which is dead and gone.   

Sweet sacred Muses, you whose gentle ears  
Are wont to listen to the humble prayer  
Of plaining Poets, and to lend your tears  
From your fair eyes unto a woes-displayer,  
Now rest yourselves: your aid I not implore,  
For in myself I find abundant store.   

Nor can I crave upon your blubbered cheeks  
That you for me more showers should be raining,  
Though you are kind to every one that seeks  
Yet have you matter for your own complaining.  
I saw your tears and pitiful wamenting:  
But they are few that list to your lament.   

Good natured Nymphs you are too mild for me,  
Troy tells of horror and of dreary things,  
Let your fair aid in Love and Music be,  
Or in his tongue which pleasant Poems sings.  
Furies and Frenzies are fit company  
To help to blaze my woeful tragedy.   

The damned Souls that live in lasting pain,  
Whose endless torments force them to be yelling  
Sounds ever baleful, and whose bane again  
Is, that in torture they are ever dwelling:  
Their sighs and shrieks accompany full well,  
My trembling tongue this grievous tale to tell.   

Snake-wreathed Allecto and Megaera railing,  
Howling Tisiphone evermore lamenting  
With all that ugly is, or else still wailing,  
Their cursed haps: and are deep hell frequenting:  
Such as breathe sulphur in eternal groaning,  
They are companions fitting to my moaning.   

Stone rolling Sisyphus in his weary task,  
And thirsty Tantalus in his river biding,  
And woeful Yxyon, all these might I ask,  
To be with shrieks my dreary pen a guiding.  
But I myself suffice without assistance,  
If soul's effusion be sufficient grievance.   

Hector thou know'st or else thy soul doth know  
For thou alas art Hector now no more,  
Have Troy ten thousand souls she will bestow  
Them all on thee, and power them out before  
The throne of jove for mercy ever calling,  
For (ah) thy ruin was our utter falling.   

But why (alas) must thou needs die so soon,  
Troy's cheefe-supporter, and the world's great-wonder?  
O let the man that thee to death hath done,  
From deaths fell torments near be seen asunder.  
O let him ever die, yet not be slain,  
But when he would be dead, revive again.   

Heap on him torments, and o'erwhelm with woes,  
Hell's Queen Proserpina this I beg of thee,  
And if there be some wights thou countest thy foes,  
O with those plagued once let him placed be:  
Or if there be a place that's worse than hell,  
Grant me this boon, that he may in it dwell.   

I speak not (Princess) of a shallow grief:  
His damned stroke hath pierced even to my soul  
And at thy hands I humbly crave relief,  
That as I mourn: so he may ever howl  
Of thee I beg, because thou art a Queen,  
And women's mercy more than mens is seen.   

Or if the Grim-god Pluto thy black Lord,  
Do hold thee strait and give thee no such power:  
Yet to his grisly-hood speak a gentle word,  
Your sex hath ever one persuading hour,  
Wherein they wish their husbands to their will,  
O pray him then that he torment Achilles.   

Fowl helborne-monster sent upon the earth,  
By froward anger and untoward will:  
Only to work poor Troy and Ilion's death,  
which then thou wroughtst when thou didst Hector kill:  
But thou art cursed and damned for that deed,  
And for thy sake accursed is all thy seed.   

How could thy heart consent to heave thy hand,  
'Gainst him whose body was as then unarmed?  
That worthy man the flower of all the land,  
Which never any but with honour harmed.  
How couldst thou then so cowardly him touch?  
But thou didst fear: his valour was so much.   

Like as a Bear that hungry is of pray,  
Yet dares not buckle with a bigger beast:  
Doth watch occasion and his time doth stay,  
Till sure advantage bids him to a feast,  
And then devours and tears all that he can:  
So didst thou wait to spoil this worthy man.   

But thou art spoiled and he still worthy is,  
Thy honour lost but his for ever biding:  
Nor breathes the wight that speaks of him amiss,  
All men all glory are to him ascribing.  
And when you both are named 'tis this men say,  
Achilles basely did brave Hector slay.   

Why then sweet Homer did thy pen miscarry  
That writes such wonders in Achilles' name?  
Thou mad'st his praise amongst the stars to tarry,  
And in the skies thou registered his fame  
He were immortal by thy Angel's tongue,  
But that herein thou dost a double wrong.   

Wrong unto him that near deserved so,  
Wrong to thyself in flattering him too much:  
Thou made his worth both men and gods to know,  
And heavens can tell the cause was never such.  
What worthy mind by treason would asaile?  
When as he knew that valour might prevail.   

Hector had hurt him hand to hand afore.  
I, Then he knew his power and his force,  
Which ever after like a greedy bore  
Made him to seek his life for to divorce  
From that fair temple wherein 'twas well placed,  
Who never ceased till it was out razed.   

Then why did Homer Laureate of his time,  
Consume the sweet of his mellifluous tongue  
In honey lines, and from his golden chime  
chant forth in music a melodious song  
To sweeten him, that men should with delight  
For ever read his praises day and night?   

But 'twas the largesse of his liberal hand,  
Which makes some Poet's pipe as they will dance,  
At whose devotion their good wits do stand,  
Waiting and priest their honours to advance.  
But Homer thou that couldst immoral men,  
Shouldst not be thought to have a flattering pen.   

No no it was thy kindness that did give  
Thy countryman the glory of thy wit:  
Nor can I think that thou by him didst live,  
But thou wert feign in him to blazon it;  
Had Hestor been a Grecian born I know,  
Achilles' name had near been honoured so.   

There had been matter for thy heavenly verse,  
A golden subject for thy Silver tongue:  
His glorious acts were worthy to rehearse  
And had sweet Homer of brave Hector song  
Unto thyself such honour had it be  
As for Achilles to be sung of thee.   

There was the true looking-glas of honour,  
In which together did all virtue stay  
The world's wonder for a worthy warrior,  
A man most rare accomplished every way:  
And to say truth of such exceeding fame,  
That none but Homer can declare the same.   

O then good Spencer the only Homer living,  
Deign for to write with thy fame-quikninge quill:  
And though poor Troy due thanks can not be giving,  
The Gods are just and they that give them will.  
Writ then O Spencer in thy Muse so trim,  
That he in thee and thou mayest live in him.   

Although thou livest in thy Belphaebe fair,  
And in thy Cynthia likely art to shine,  
So long as Cynthia shineth in the air:  
Yet live and shine in this same Sun of mine.  
O live in him that whilom was my Sun,  
But now his light and so my life is done.   

With that she wept and that so piteously,  
As she had been dissolved all to tears:  
Throbbing forth sighs shrieking so hideously,  
As one that inly endless torments bear?  
But o'er a while: for every thing must stay,  
She ceased her plaint and 'gan agine thus say.   

O tell my griefs, and to this world them sound  
As I in sighs do send them forth to thee:  
Was never dole so dreary to be found,  
As is the dolour that is now in me.  
Tell how I drowned in tears, in scalt-sighs burn,  
And while thou sighest I will sit and mourn.   

View but my looks and thou shalt feeling write  
My troubled spirit, and how it sighs with groans,  
And still regard mine eyes that want their light,  
Blinded with tears that issue from my moans,  
And here, O here, behold dead Hector shoken,  
And thou shalt speak as if myself had spoken.   

Then did she show me Hector where he lay,  
Pointing her finger, holding back her head,  
Scarce had she power, Lo here he is, to say,  
It was such death to see her Hector dead.  
There did I see the king, the Queen, all Troy  
In mourning weeds, bewailing their annoy.   

Olde-aged Priam kneeling o'er the corpse,  

Priam's  With trickling tears distilling from his eyes:  
Looketh upon him with a deep remorse,  
And heavy cheer doth view him as he lies,  
His lukewarm drops fall down on Hector's face,  
He wipes them still, and still they fall apace.   

Passion bedulls him that he cannot speak,  
Groaning he sits, and shaking of his head,  
And then he sobs as if his heart would break,  
That of his death too, they are all afraid.  
Only he cried, O my son, my son,  
But speech did fail him, yet it was begun.   

One while he beats his sigh-swolne breast and cries,  
But then a manly courage stays his crying  
From being heard: and then he lifts his eyes  
Up to the heavens, his fingers jointly tying.  
" But more's his fire the more he chokes his fumes,  
" For inward grief penned in the heart consumes.   

Thus did the olde-man in his mellowed years,  
Bewail the windfall of his fruit unripe,  
His silver beard he pearled all with tears,  
Which faster fell than he (goodman) could wipe.  
Nothing he said, but O my son, my son,  
His breath still stopping ere he half had done.   

The good king David never wailed so,  
And yet he wailed for Absalon his son  
With floods of tears which storms of sighs did blow,  
As hath this Priam for his Hector done.  
" Death of a private son doth grieve one sore,  
But loss of such a one galls ten times more.   

The godly Patriarch Abraham did grieve,  
In sacrifice to offer up his son:  
Unto I am and but he did believe,  
His flesh and blood would such a murder shun.  
If flesh and blood to lose a son be loath,  
Then needs must Priam who was merely both.   

Great was the gall unto Harpagus heart,  
When king Astyages gave to him his son:  
Whom he had slain before (O cruel part)  
Then gave his father him to banquet on.  
But this, nor those were half so much as his,  
For Priam lost the pillar of his bliss.   

Alas good king) that thou whose hap was such,  
As never any might compared be,  
That Fortune now at thy good hap should grudge,  
Alas (I say) that thou shouldst live to see  
The Wheel so turn even now to view thy fall,  
Who wert but even now on the top of all.   

Next him sat wailing in most piteous wise,  
Hector's fair mother Hecuba the Queen: 
Hecuba.   
Her outward looks her inward smart descries,  
And by her sighing was her sorrow seen.  
A mother's love unto her child exceeds,  
And death of him her endless torment breeds.   

Ay me (she cries) as women wont to do,  
That ere I did conceive thee in my womb:  
Thy life was mine, thy death is now my woe,  
Ay that my belly had been still thy tomb.  
Rather I had I never had thee borne,  
Then thus in thee to see all Troy forlorn.   

When I thy brother Paris did conceive,  
I dreamt my womb was all on burning fire:  
And true it was, he doth me not deceive,  
I fear we burn all by his hot desire.  
Yet hadst thou lived thyself had been a spring,  
To quench these flames that now are kindleing.   

For when I bred thee (few do know so much)  
I dreamt a Sea was in my body flowing,  
And that the rage of Aeolus was such,  
That blasts of wind the waves thereof were blowing.  
I told it none: so was the sense near found,  
But now I both do find and feel the ground.   

These Seas of tears which here about thee flow,  
Are those same seas which I supposed to be  
These storms of sighs, the winds with them did blow,  
Thus is my vision verified in thee.  

Hecuba queen of sad Seas.  Now that a sign of these Seas may be seen,  
I will be called of sad seas the Queen.   

The Trojan Queen is Hecuba no more,  
Ay me, me thinks I see it now decaying:  
Hector is dead: the Greeks' do dance therefore,  
And they give thanks while we for aid are praying.  
Frown not O Neptune that I am Queen of Seas,  
For Queen on earth great jove it doth not please.   

With that she weeping tore her hair and said:  
See, see, they come to take away my crown,  
Like one half frantic, or with fear dismayed,  
Look, look she cries they're burning of the town.  
O Hector help us, she aloud him calls,  
He cannot hear her, she to weeping falls.   

Elkanah thy Hannah never sight so sore,  
Nor begged with tears that she by thee might bear  
A son: although she powered out before  
Her maker's throne, her soul who did her hear.  
With tithe of tears I say did she not crave him,  
As loss of hers she mourned yet could not save him.   

Thomyris thy tears for Spargapises slain  
By Cyrus' hand the butcher of thy son:  
Were not a few which from thy cloudy brain,  
Thou didst let fall to hear what he had done.  
But (O) the drops which Hecuba did shower,  
For thee to shed was never in thy power.   

She lost her stay, her pillar, and a son,  
Thou lost a son but neither stay nor pillar:  
In Hector's death, Hecuba's life was done,  
Thou hadst the head of Spargapises killer,  
And victress wert living in joy long after:  
She ever mourned and never moved laughter.   

Thus sat the mother of that worthy man,  
Weeping upon him in abundant rain:  
Clasping his body strongly as she can  
Into her arms, and then she weeps again.  
Hugging him hard as though she would then take him  
Into the place where great jove first did make him.   

By her I saw a goodly Lady bright,  
A stately dame as one shall lightly see,  
But that some drooping clouds then dimnd her sight:  
I asked Troy's ghost, what might that Lady be:  
This is (quoth she) Andromache his wife, 
Andromache   
Whom she did love more dearly than her life.   

She wept and wailed and wrong her hands, and tore  
Her clothes, her hair, her flesh from off her face.  
A baby too within her arms she bare,  
Ay me, me thought it was a piteous case,  
To see the babe upon her breast to lie,  
And both to weep, the child not knowing why.   

O hear my Lord, O hear thy handmaid speak,  
I am Andromache thy loving wife:  
Through thy dead senses let my words now break  
Thou that refused to hear me in thy life.  
Ah hadst thou listened when thou living wert,  
This grief had never come so nigh my heart.   

Thou mad'st no reckoning of my vision strange,  
" Brave men are wont to be too credulous:  
My dream did tell me that thy life must change  
If thou this day with Greeks' wert venturous.  
I told it thee: But women's words are toys  
When men most wilful seek their own annoys.   

I told the King our Father and the Queen,  
We all did pray thee: All could not prevail:  
For valiant men will have their valour seen.  
Hector that day must needs the Greeks' assail,  
That day? that one day couldst thou not forbear?  
But men resolved persuasions will nor hear.   

Then floods of tears ran down her crystal cheeks,  
Like streams that follow along the silver sands:  
A troubled soul in tears her comfort seeks,  
(O heavy comfort that in mourning stands)  
Yet woman say in weeping there is glory,  
Which meed this Lady so exceeding sorry.   

The sweet young Infant that lay all this while,  
Upon the Downbed of his mother's breast:  
One while would cry, another while did smile,  
Alas it knew no cause of such unrest,  
Unless that this did make the baby weep,  
To hear what howling they about him keep.   

Sometimes it would the tender hand up lay,  
And spread the fingers on the mother's face:  
Stroking her cheeks as Infants use to play,  
But she that now for sporting had no place,  
Weeping did wet the child as it did lie,  
With brinish tears which made the babe to cry.   

Then with a napkin doth she dry his face.  
Peace, peace (sweet heart) thus she her yonglinge stills:  
He to his playing falls again apace,  
She with her tears again his bosom fills.  
And with her sobs she beats him as he lies,  
That now the child with ceaseless shrieking cries.   

Alack the torments that she now endueres,  
The cruel plunges in her heart so sore:  
Her husbands death her endless woe insures,  
The child's fell crying makes her torments more.  
Thus she (sweet Lady) is of all accursed,  
Who sits and sighs as if her heart should burst.   

The faithful Porcia never sorrowed so,  
Although herself for Brutus she did kill:  
The loving Phillis never felt the woe,  
Though for Demophoon she herself did spill.  
As did Andromach for her Hector slain,  
Their Death cut off: her life prolongs her pain.   

Panthea deplord Abradatas his death,  
With galling grief and bitter piercing stings:  
But yet her sorrow made her stop her breath,  
Thus death a period to her torment brings.  
But this sweet Lady woe hath so possessed,  
That she must live and death may give no rest.   

No present rest and so no rest at all,  
Death when he came (he came) but came too late:  
Sorrow before had wrought her utter fall,  
Thus had she cause both death and life to hate.  
Death that did stay and do her so much wrong,  
To linger life that lived in death so long.   

By her Cassandra with her lolling locks, 
Cassandra   
dishevered all upon her shoulders lying:  
With heavy cheer her thought-sore breast she knocks,  
So hard as Echo is again replying  
A doleful thump: the Temple so did sound,  
And thus she waits her brother in that stound.   

Ay me she cries, I knew this long before,  
That Paris fire must have a sea to quench it:  
And now I fear the flames will burn so sore,  
As we in time shall never live to staunch it.  
The only spring wherein the virtue lay,  
To slake the fire is dried and dead this day.   

O Hector thou that wert our spring of life,  
Thy death is now the cause of many a spring:  
Fountains do flow in every corner rife,  
Of blubering tears there's now no other thing  
In Troy but tears since Hector did departed,  
For (ah) thy death hath caused our endless smart.   


Quanta per has nescis flamma petatur aquas.  I told my brother Paris what would fall,  
And that a flame should follow through the seas  
At his return, he gave no heed at all,  
But hoist sail, his fancy he would please  
He burnt with love, and we shall burn by love,  
As by thy death I fear poor Troy shall prove.   

Yet hadst thou liu`d, (alas what booteth had?)  
Thou dost not live, and therefore dies my soul:  
Yet while I live in sable garments clad,  
For thee (my brother) will I sit and howl.  
And now I come to bear them company,  
Who went afore in this thy tragedy.   

Then sat she down hard by her Sister's side,  
Andromache that did with tears brine,  
The margin fill of Hector's wound so wide,  
By trickling drops distilling from her eyen.  
There did she weep with, her the King and Queen,  
And next to mourn came in fair Pollicene,   


Pollixina.  Alas that virgins should be so distracted,  
To spoil sweet faces that are made so pleasing,  
She tore her golden hair (O rueful act),  
And on her forehead was her nails a seizing.  
The blood ran down and tears o'ertook the same,  
And both gushed afresh when she did Hector name.   

Her tender limbs did tremble as she stood,  
As did Diana when the huntsman spied her:  
Unlucky huntsman ranging in the wood,  
She being naked having nought to hide her.  
Thus did she quake, such is a virgins fear,  
To see him dead whom she did hold so dear.   

Shrieking she cries alas what shall I do?  
Hector is dead that was our only stay:  
Troy shall be burnt, and I deflowered to,  
The angry Gods conclude our wrack this day.  
For in the stopping of this one man's breath,  
They plainly show they minace Ilion's death.   

Yet gentle Gods vouchsafe a virgins prayer,  
Through Crystal skies to pierce your sacred ears:  
O hear my voice, my voice my harts-bewraier,  
My heart and voice that are bedulled with tears.  
O hear, now hear a pure virgins moans,  
If ever Gods did hear a virgins groans.   

Here have we Temples builded to your names,  
And with devotion we do them adore:  
Our Altars smoke with sweet perfumed flames,  
And on our knees your graces we implore.  
Why are you angry then O Gods with us,  
That in all duty reverence you thus?   

But Reason must not reason with the Gods,  
It is their will, what will then dare say nay?  
They will the Greeks' and Trojans be at odds,  
Until poor Troy be brought unto decay.  
Our incense stinks, our sacrifice displease,  
No offering may their kindled ire appease.   

Hector is dead in whom they did delight,  
Hector our sacrifice and incense sweet,  
Who while he lived, we trusted in his might:  
The Gods still laid the Grecians at his feet.  
Till that their wrath was kindled over Troy,  
And then displeased they took from us our joy.   

O send him back fair heau`nss for our defence,  
If that the Gods will part with such a treasure:  
But (ah) my prayer may breed more offence,  
O keep him then, I know it is your pleasure.  
This is the prayer which I humbly crave,  
That I be laid a virgin in my grave.   

I know the Lecher hopes to have his will,  
Now that my honour's chiefest guard is gone:  
But I with Phillis first myself will kill,  
I'll be no prey for him to seize upon.  
He slew my brother, hopes he now of me?  
No bloody traitor, that shall never be.   

Thinkest thou a Virgins pure affection can,  
Admit thee love that passeth through blood?  
Hast thou by treason slain so brave a man,  
And by that reason hopest thou so much good,  
As that my heart will ever yield to thee?  
No bloody traitor, it shall never be.   

I never yet did stain my spotless heart,  
By taking comfort in a stranger's death,  
And dost thou think it were a Sister's part,  
To love the man that stopped her brother's breath?  
My brother dearer than my life to me,  
No bloody traitor, it shall never be.   

My hand, this hand which never yet did act,  
Where rigour, force, or violence might be found,  
Shall rather yield to work a bloody fact,  
Which yet attempt my tender heart would swoon.  
Or in myself or else in murdering thee,  
Rather than thou shalt ever joy in me.   

But yet I know that I am dear to thee,  
I and I know that once I loved thee dearly:  
But now my heart hath quite forgotten thee,  
And inly longs to punish thee severely.  
My fervent love shall now he turned to hate,  
And once my will shall work against my fate.   

O Hector how shall I lament for thee,  
When women's tears are not sufficient strong:  
Let heaven and earth for me avenged be,  
While I bewail thee in a sighing song.  
I can bewail thee but while life doth last,  
But if I may, I will, when life is past.   

Then with an heavy cheer and downcast look,  
She sat her down amidst the mourning crew:  
And to her tears herself she hath betook,  
At whose approach the rest do all renew  
Their doleful shrieks which stinted not before,  
But greater number makes their shrieking more.   

A loof from these did stand in sable weeds,  
" (For mourning garments fit a mournful mind)  
A man whose heart and very soul now bleeds,  
To see that Hector was to death assigned. 
Paris   
And this was Paris broacher of their woe,  
But he to Greece by heavens instinct did go.   

Venus commanded, who could her deny?  
Had she not given, me thinks a man should crave it:  
For such a prize who would not Fortune try,  
And venture life, and goods, and all to have it?  
Nor fire nor water should his passage stay,  
To gain fruition of so sweet a pray.   

Yet now he mourns," for every sweet hath sour,  
(Alas that pleasure is not ever biding)  
But like an herb that buddeth with a shower,  
Should with a frost again away be gliding.  
Why have the gods Loves-queen immortal made,  
And yet her joys like withered grass do fade?   

But now he mourns and pleasure must not dure,  
Hector is dead: and therefore doth it perish,  
While Hector lived they thought themselves secure,  
But since his death none can the Trojans cherish.  
Each man can mourn but none can comfort make,  
All Troy doth grieve so much for Hector's sake.   

Poor Paris he is in a world of woes,  
Legions of sorrows do possess his heart:  
And as a man all malcontent he goes,  
Or like an actor in a tragic part.  
In muttering words unto himself he talks,  
And then he stands and sighs, and then he walks.   

Stopping his pace as doth a troubled wight  
That goes, then stands, and then turns back again,  
Hiding his face he hates to see the light,  
For darkness fits a melancholy brain.  
Only he will sometime lift up his eyes,  
And ghastly look at Hector as he lies.   

Thus doth he walk like one that is amazed,  
Biting his lip impaling so his grief:  
For men do scorn to have their sorrows blazed,  
By shrieks and tears which women gives relief.  
" But greatest winds are when there is no rain,  
And so in sighs thus Paris doth complain.   

O heavens (quoth he) why are you so unjust,  
To heap on me more woes than I can bear?  
Why did you lay my glory in the dust,  
And yet torment me with a greater fear.  
Did you me up into your bosom take,  
To throw me thence into the Stygian lake?   

Was Paris borne to be his countries bane?  
Were Goddesses conspiring thereunto?  
Did Venus therefore into Greece me train  
That I should be the instrument of woe?  
Why do the Gods poor Ilion's death conspire,  
And make men say that I set Troy on fire?   

The cause was just that in the Aegaean seas,  
I launched my ship and hoist sail amain:  
Bending for Greece, I did not go to please  
Lascivious will as some unjustly feign.  
For though that she my heart did nighly tuch,  
Yet were there reasons that did move as much.   

Proud Telamonius borne in Achaia land,  
Withheld by force fair Exion mine Aunt:  
The pride of whom so nigh our hearts did stand,  
That Grecians should in Trojan conquests vaunt.  
That sweet Revenge did bid us seek away,  
To rid our friend that did in bondage stay.   

My father then for her his sister dear,  
Did call a counsel craving their advise:  
And every one spoke Pro & contra there,  
In weighty causes so it is the guise.  
Each man to speak what lieth in his breast,  
And then the king set down what likes him best.   

Some led by reason thought it very meet,  
(Not every one can future things foresee)  
That we should now erect a mighty fleet,  
And make for Greece in all the haste might be,  
Either to lose mine Aunt from out her tether,  
Or else to rape some Grecian Lady hither.   

Of this advise was that good Deiphobus,  
My brother dear and eke a worthy knight:  
And unto him assent did Troilus,  
For well they knew our valour and our might.  
And with their judgements was my liking seen,  
Having my lesson taught me by Loves-queene.   

Besides, Revenge did hammer in our heads,  
And eke a care to ease our father's woe:  
Our might in men, in arms, in stately steeds,  
My father's grief, our right do all say go.  
The king himself approou`d our counsel well,  
But then some others 'gan him thus to tell.   

My Lord (quoth Hector) I, that galls my heart,  
My woes redouble when I do him name,  
I feel my senses from their subjects part,  
And scorching sighs my troubled soul inflame.  
O, had his verdict yet been with the rest,  
Such storms had never beaten in my breast.   

His prudent counsel did dissuade from war,  
His courage though did manage still the same,  
Twixt Greeks' and us there was an ancient jar,  
Which every man did with revenge inflame.  
But he whose heart was never yet afraid,  
In wisdom wished peace, and thus he said.   

My Lord (quoth he) and eke my father dear,  
Whose sage advise with reverence I do honour:  
Please it your grace benignly me to hear,  
Speaking by support of your high favour,  
And eke to pardon what be said amiss,  
Touching the voyage this my judgement is.   

I know right well by force of Nature's might,  
Nothing is sweeter than revenge to man:  
When very beasts of wrongs themselves will right,  
And render like for like in what they can.  
Then needs your heart must for revengement long,  
That have sustained by Greeks' so great a wrong.   

But yet you see their power is very great,  
(I speak not this for cowardice or dread:  
For Gods do know my soul doth inly fret,  
Till I may reap the proudest Grecians head.  
And in their blood I bathe my thirsty blade,  
That's never quenched, so much am I afraid.)   

But this I say the Grecian force is great,  
Europe and afric do support their might:  
The men are Warlike and they will entreat,  
A weaker foe with terms of vile despite.  
I wish that therefore you be well advised,  
Before your purpose yet be enterprised.   

Asia is rich, and we in peace now flourish,  
Presume not though on Fortune for a smile:  
For though that Troy a troup of Gallants nourish,  
And men resolved, yet she may all beguile.  
Then trust not her whose truth was never known,  
" Better sit still then rise and overthrown.   

And yet so great a wrong done in despite,  
Cannot be brooked by a noble mind:  
Peasants may bear, but Kings must needs requite  
Abuses offered, when they do them find,  
Wrought in contempt, intended to disgrace,  
Whose thoughts are less, deserve a lower place.   

But yet (dread sir) forecast what may befall,  
Such high matters deep judgement do require:  
A sudden blast may overthrow us all,  
One little spark may set all Troy on fire.  
Respect the end, beginnings oft are fair,  
And promise much yet issue in despair.   

Like to the flattering face of Phoebus' bright,  
That in the morn his curtain will unspread:  
And grace the earth with shine of glittering light,  
Showing the world his beamy-gorgeous head.  
Then by and by his glory all will shroud,  
Within the compass of a gloomy cloud.   

Mine Aunt is dear. The wrong not to be borne,  
Her bondage base. Your sorrow full of danger.  
Insulting Greeks each Trojan heart doth scorn,  
Yet watch your time wherein to work your anger.  
And then power down your wrath in viols full,  
And crush the brains of each barbarian skull.   

So shall your purpose take his sound effect,  
This sudden complot may repentance breed:  
Then for yourself and countries weal respect,  
And of their force and malice take good heed.  
Better mine Aunt should yet in bondage tarry,  
Then for her sake both you and Troy miscarry.   

Thus to your highness have I told my mind,  
Wishing too rashly that you not attempt  
The spiteful Greeks'. Time will occasion find,  
Whereby you shall repay their high contempt.  
Then shall this hand imbrued in their blood,  
Work their decay and do my country good   

But if your mighty courage scorn to abide,  
From swift revenge impatient of delay:  
Then is your state in fortunes balance tried,  
And you I fear be found too light to weigh  
With massy Greeks'. heavens grant it prove not so  
If into Greece my brother Paris go.   

With that he ceased. But now he is deceased,  
Ah, heaven-borne Hector how shall I lament thee?  
For in thy wane my hope of life deceased,  
O now till now I never did repent me,  
That ere I did this voyage undertake,  
Hector it greu`s me only for thy sake.   

Of his advise was Helenus my brother,  
A man well seen in Circe's magic seas:  
And of that counsel was there yet another,  
Who Pentheus hight, all these it did not please.  
Besides Cassandra which did ghastly cry,  
What will you do? alas we all shall die.   

My Father yet whom nothing could content,  
Till some revenge were had on Ajax pride:  
For me his son in secret hath he sent,  
And for my brother Deiphobus beside.  
Giving us charge our ships we ready make,  
And sail from Greece revengement there to take.   

Thus did I go commanded by the King,  
My quarrel good for to redeem mine Aunt:  
Or else from thence some pearl of price to bring,  
In am of her. This did my Father grant.  
Venus beside said to me Paris go,  
Who now would think this should have wrought our woe?   

But heavens, and Gods, and fates, and all conspired,  
Our utter ruins and great overthrow:  
Alas my heart with inward grief is fired,  
Billows of sighs the flames thereof do blow.  
My cloudy brain from dropping never clears,  
Thus do I live for thee in sighs and tears.   

But now nor sighs nor fear can show my grief,  
Hector what shall I therefore do for thee?  
Shall I from Lethe borrow some relief?  
Or from that woeful wailing Niobe?  
That mourned so long till she became a stone,  
O no thou gloriest in revenge alone.   

Then shall this hand for thee revengement take,  
If thousands souls for thee revenge may be  
Upon the Greeks' such havoc will I make,  
As they shall think that Hector lives in me.  
And now to work this barbarous rout that trouble,  
Me thinks I feel my force and strength redouble.   

Champion I am for Venus now no more,  
But I am Champion now for Hector's soul:  
O help me Mavors I do thee implore,  
And in thy Warlike book my name enrol.  
Among the Marshals favoured by thy might,  
That I revenge may work in Hector's right.   

Now shall my sword blow up the Greekish ground,  
Where proudly jetting they trace in and out:  
And in the furrows shall their blood abound,  
That piteous wights shall ready be to shout.  
To see what rivers of their blood shall flow,  
And bone-pau`d ways for passengers to go.   

Their heads and hearts together will I pile,  
Making such heaps as they that see shall wonder:  
Their carcases which I do hold so vile,  
Shall all in piece-meal there be torn asunder.  
And when my weary arm would faint with pain,  
I'll think on thee and then begin again.   

Thus will I hue a passage through their troops,  
Glutting my blade with gobbets of their gore:  
Nor will I stint until Achilles droops,  
(Than did he kiss his Curtle-axe, and swore)  
This will I do (O Hector in thy name,  
Who hadst thou lived, wouldst have done the same.   

The aged king hath taken youthful might,  
And Lion's courage in his Lamblike years:  
In thy revenge the Trojans vow to fight,  
And tear the Greeks' like ravenous she-Bears,  
Hungry of blood and renting with their paws,  
Thus have we vowed revenge in Hector's cause.   

This said, he stepped to Hector where he lay,  
Kneeling him down amongst the mournful crew:  
His sable weeds I saw him throw away,  
But what his meaning was I cannot show.  
Unless the Greeks' then to assail he meant,  
Taking his leave of Hector ere he went.   

Next him came in that gallant Grecian dame,  
Pride of her Country, mirror of her kind:  
Earth's only star, from whose fair beams there came,  

Helena.  Heat to inflame with love the coldest mind.  
Beauty's existence, joy of speculation,  
Helen's sweet self, a word of admiration.   

She wept and wailed and tore her golden hair,  
Her dainty tresses far more pure than gold,  
earths metal is too base to make compare,  
With that which thoughts divinely doth unfold.  
Yet this she tore and threw it from her head,  
When she beheld her brother Hector dead.   

O now the murder that her hand had wrought,  
If with those hairs she should have thrown away  
The several hearts that every hair had caught,  
O what a murder had she done that day?  
Then had her shame been registered in blood,  
As now her fame in beauty long hath stood.   

The silver tears distilling from her eyes,  
Run down her cheeks the Rose and Lily fields:  
A sugared stream where thirsty Cupid lies,  
And drinks the Nectar that the fountain yields.  
Till stormy sighs do make the boy to quake,  
And force him thence his winged flight to take.   

Thus doth she weep and tears abundant shower,  
Which blustering winds do drive from off her face:  
And then they fall upon that snowy tower  
Her neck, and thence into a lower place.  
Till at the last they in her bosom rest,  
who couched was there might think that he was blest.   

Such were the tears of Albion's Stella fair,  
Which in continual raining she did shed:  
And such her sighs which Echoed in the air,  
When she heard say her Astrophil was dead.  
Two so sweet creatures never mourned afore,  
But Helen's grief was far exceeding more.   

For now she fares like one that frantic is,  
She weeps, she sighs, and often doth she swoon,  
If ever Tellus loved a creatures kiss,  
Now is she proud when Helen kissed the ground.  
And when her eyes those Orbs of Troy are closed,  
The heavens to rain do show themselves disposed.   

The drooping clouds in foggy mists descend,  
Troy seemeth dark so long as she is dead,  
And till again her eyes their light do send,  
To clear the vapours that are overspread,  
Continual howling they about her keep,  
Whose shrieks awake her from her coathing sleep.   

Then she Gradatim heaved up her eyes,  
And blood gone back retired into her face:  
The dusky weather cleared in the skies,  
When she gave light unto that gloomy place.  
Thus heavens are dark and shine when she is bright,  
So she a goddess made both day and night.   

Then as her senses did return again,  
To that fair subject where they loved to tarry:  
Speaking like one that had a troubled brain,  
Or else whose heart did sundry torments carry.  
With halfe-stopt breath she muttered softly saying,  
Hector dead, Troy gone, I, I all decaying.   

With that she started and began afresh,  
Renting her garments, throwing forth her breasts:  
She proffered violence to her tender flesh,  
But fearful hands denied such bold requests.  
What violent hand doth touch, and yet not whither,  
The throne where all the Graces sit together?   

Thou cruel Pyrrhus glutton-thirsting blood,  
Cursed is thy hand that killed so fair a maid:  
Upon whose forehead beauty craving stood,  
And yet thy hand hath not from murder stayed.  
Cursed be thy sire, thyself to death be done,  
Ye killed a king, a Virgin, and his son.   

Then did she go to Hector where he lay,  
Weeping upon him in excessive rain:  
And with her angel's voice she 'gan to say,  
Hector, sweet Hector O revive again.  
With that me thought I saw him heave his head,  
She shrieked for joy, but he again was dead.   

Injurious Parcae housewives of man's life,  
That spin the threads and cut them off at pleasure:  
O Atropos why did thy fatal knife  
Cut off from Troy so rich and great a treasure.  
And Lachesis why didst not thou still spin,  
Sweet Hector's life that ever should begin.   

But all injurious fraught with cruel spite,  
Ye shortened have this worthy Hector's days:  
Why do you not restore his eyes to light,  
Now that the voice of such an angel prays?  
O were you men and had the power to give,  
At Helen's prayer Hector needs should live.   

Can trees and stones, in Orpheus tunes rejoice,  
Was he so pleasing, and dumb things so witty?  
And shall an heavenly grace with humble voice  
Beg at your graces, and you show no pity?  
But now your power is not life to restore,  
Yet wast your power t'have let him lived afore.   

But ah the passions that she then endured,  
When false illusion did deceive her sight:  
Of Hector's life herself she half assured,  
When he (God knows) slept in eternal night.  
Then was her grief far greater than before,  
And hope deluded made her torment more.   

Like to a Sailor beaten on the seas,  
With boisterous tempests and outrageous storms:  
Long wishing land for his reposed ease,  
That spies by chance some earth-betokning forms.  
And makes amain to them with speedy course,  
Hoping to find for sorrow some remorse.   

But when he comes to his desired ken,  
And there doth find nor show nor sign of land:  
O silly man how is he grieved then,  
That ever hope did bear him so in hand?  
Then falls his hope, he under hatches goes,  
Leaving his life to Neptune to dispose.   

Thus was she tossed the sweetest soul alive,  
Billoes of water beat within her breast:  
No Phoebus saire the vapours dark may drive,  
From that sweet Sphere whereon they were possessed.  
Sorrow itself I think did love her so,  
That even for love 'twas loath away to go.   

For when she spoke (at length she 'gan to speak)  
" (Things that are violent may not always last:)  
With grief and dolour did her silence break,  
And every word of sorrow had a taste.  
Then in the anguish of an heavy heart,  
To Hector thus her mind she did impart.   

Hector (quoth she) O thou that wert our stay,  
More are the cares which I for thee sustain:  
Then were the woes of faithful julia,  
Though for her Lords love she herself hath slain.  
Yet can I never be sufficient sorry,  
Seing thee dead that wert our only glory.   

Glory of Troy and wonder of the World,  
Gem of true Nobles, knighthoods full suffisance  
Ah, why hath Fortune now her wheel so hurled,  
To throw thee down that wert our whole assurance?  
While thou didst live I anchored in thy might,  
Now Hector's dead, who shall for Helen fight?   

Woes me alas) this day the Fates conspire,  
To work my ruin and my endless woe:  
Now shall the Greeks' enjoy their full desire,  
And I with homespun Menalay shall go.  
Either to be with him a loathed wife,  
Or else have judgement here to lose my life.   

Hard is the Labyrinth that I labour in,  
Deadly the drift that I am driven to,  
If I go back, all Greece derides my sin,  
If here I stay, I die, that's better tho.  
Better to die a thousand deaths and more,  
Then live contemned, who honoured was before.   

Yet will my Paris fight in my defence,  
So hath he vowed for me and Hector's sake:  
Achilles treason will he recompense,  
Or else such hurly burly will he make,  
As well the Greeks his vengeance great shall know,  
Thus in a fury did my Paris vow.   

But (ah) my love leave off that resolution,  
Troilus and Deiphobus shall fight for thee:  
Work not at once my whole confusion,  
Stay thou at home and help to comfort me.  
For if that thou shouldst eke by chance miscarry,  
What were the griefs that in my heart would tarry?   

The sweet young Troilus that is yonder mourning,  
To whom thou art, and Hector was so dear:  
Shall for you both with puissant hand be turning,  
His hardy foes unto a daunted fear.  
He shall revengement for my Paris make,  
Which thou didst vow to do for Hector's sake.   

Then did she fly to Paris as he went,  
Throwing her ivory arms about his neck:  
crying the hour of her life was spent,  
If unto her he had not due respect.  
O stay with me, and if thou needs must die,  
We'll die together, and together lie.   

But he whom now both love and wrath had sworn  
To be revenged for his brother's death:  
These fair persuasions seemed to hold in scorn,  
Although she prayed him, that was as the breath  
Of life to him, his vow he would not miss,  
He thus resolu`d they parted with a kiss.   

A kiss sweet kiss, for she did stay so long,  
Hanging upon him, cleaving to his breast:  
Sucking his lips, breathing in amoung  
His sigh-burnt lungs an air that made them blest.  
So never any had attained such bliss,  
Had not salt tears been mingled with that kiss.   

Then to her mourning did she fall anew,  
Weeping for Hector, and for Paris praying:  
This twofold grief so chang`d her rosy hue,  
That glorious beauty seemed to be decaying.  
But that it might not part from such a place,  
No more then`t could from morning stella's face.   

Yet was she chang`d, whom doth not sorrow break?  
The sweetest flowers soonest are a fading:  
Beauty is mighty: yet her strength but weak,  
If heavy care do once become her lading.  
Her virtue strong triumphing over all,  
Her substance though most subject unto fall.   

The meager paleness of that fretful worm,  
Sitteth so near to each true mourner's skin:  
That she that whilom was of lusty form,  
Through sorrows anger looketh now but thin:  
Thus Helen, fair Helen began to fade,  
On whom the Gods the Sun of beauty laid.   

Sooner doth fall the Rose than doth the Nettle,  
The housewives cloth outlasts the silken twine,  
The brier brags when goodly Oaks do settle,  
Phoebus goes down before that Cynthia shine.  
things of esteem do fall when worse are stayed,  
So Helen, fair Helen began to fade.   

Alas that Hector is not living still,  
That Helen's beauty might have flourished ever:  
O if such worthies must death rites fulfil,  
And neither form, nor strength may them deliver,  
Why do so many men in these days,  
Horde up such treasure, and such buildings raise?   

They make their houses like to goodly towns,  
Proud stately turrets menacing the stars:  
They do not know that fortune sometime frowns,  
How ancient Cities are defac`d by wars.  
Poor Troy and Verlam can declare of old,  
That fame doth lie in neither stones nor gold.   

Nor do they think they can live ever here,  
Hector and Helen show that cannot be:  
Why do they then such mighty buildings rear,  
Making in clay their lives eternity.  
Knowing not when they can no longer last,  
Fame dies with them and honour all doth waste.   

Then let him live for ever, and in honour,  
Riding triumphant in fames golden Car:  
That holds the pen and sword so high in favour,  
And by his bounty guerdons both so far,  
As when the pen hath registered his fame,  
The sword hath sworn for ay to guard the same.   

O let that man for ever be adorned,  
Build him a temple on Parnassus' hill:  
Sing of him muses whom he never scorned,  
Sound war like trumpets with his glory fill  
The empty air, together blaze his fame,  
That loves you both, O ever praise his name.   

But now is Helen weeping all this while,  
No world's delight can make her leave lamenting:  
Her heart of grief is now become an anvil,  
Sorrow doth bed and sighs are still tormenting.  
Then in plunges of a pained spirit,  
She said to Hector thus and bade me write.   

Ay me (sweet Hector) how am I tormented?  
The fullness of wrath is powered down on me:  
If ever woman's state was yet lamented,  
Mine may be wailed that now bewaileth thee.  
O might I die I should heavens ire fulfil,  
But now they make me live to plague me still.   

They make me live to see sweet Hector dead,  
This is the torment wherewithal they grieve me:  
A greater plague could not hang o'er my head,  
And that they knew, for nothing can relieve me,  
Unless they will restore thy life again,  
Whom they in anger have untimely slain.   

But (ah) they did it for my lasting pain,  
Framing a torture to endure for ever:  
This was procured by junos' iel`ous brain,  
Who works my woe by strength of great endeavour.  
Only because she went without the ball  
That Venus got, thus doth she plague us all.   

And now thou darling of the world most dear,  
By thee it is she works her high despite:  
Stopping the passage of those beams clear,  
By which thy life did lend thine eyes their light.  
Then giving out in her hate most envious,  
That Helen was cause to make me odious.   

Thus do I live of all the world despised,  
The Trojans hearts do inwardly repine:  
And though their forms be outwardly misguisde,  
Their thoughts persuade them that the fault was mine,  
That this our flower, our pillar, and our stay,  
Did fade, did fall, through death did flit away.   

But Hector now I do appeal to thee,  
And unto witness do I call thy ghost:  
If thou wert not as dearly loved of me,  
As of the wight that could affect thee most.  
While thou didst live I loved thy virtues ever,  
And since thy death my heart all joys doth sever.   

O speak Andromach and Hecuba speak,  
How did my soul itself to sorrow yield?  
When we with him in weeping terms did break,  
Touching the dream, dissuading him the field.  
How did poor Helen his life then beg with you,  
As with yourselves his death she waileth now?   

For who (alas) hath greater cause to mourn,  
And in continual tears lament his death:  
Streaming a tide that never doth return,  
Then she, to whom his life was living breath.  
For though through Troy a deadly smart be found,  
Yet mine is most who nearly seeks the wound.   

The Gods conspired, it was not Helen's fault,  
That Hector dies or if that Troy shall burn:  
juno from heaven poor Ilium doth assault,  
And all her force against it doth she turn.  
Who wars with Gods and comes not to the worst?  
Then junos' cause that Troy decayeth first.   

Venus beside commanded me to come,  
And sent her Cupid to prepare the way:  
Then how unjustly am I blamed by some?  
Saying, Helen the whore wrought Troy's decay.  
For if the Gods decreed it thus before,  
It was their wills, and Helen is no whore.   

But who would think that heavens should malice bear?  
That their perfection should admit of anger:  
An ugly form engendering ghastly fear,  
A monster foul presaging nought but danger.  
Who would suppose so huge & vile a beast,  
To lie and harbour in a Goddess breast?   

Yet this did juno foster in her lap,  
juno unjust both unto Troy and me:  
And in her malice hath she laid a trap,  
How Troy should perish, and I tortured be.  
Which both are done by cutting Hector short,  
Troy's only Castle, Helen's chiefest fort.   

With that she weeping wrung her hands and cried,  
Hector O Hector, this was all she said:  
Then did she seat her by her sister's side,  
Where still she weeps, but then her speech was staid.  
Sorrow forced silence, grief overcame her heart,  
And thus a saint did act an hellish part.   

The Trojan Nobleses all lamented there,  
In sable garments fitting to their woe:  
Deiphobus and Troilus with a heavy cheer,  
For Hector's death do wander to and fro.  
The people too do make a doleful noise,  
And call on Hector jointly in one voice.   

Hector, O Hector from a troubled spirit,  
They cry amain as if they would him pull  
From death to life, and bring his eyes to light,  
Which now was sunk into his hollow skull.  
Hector, O Hector, Hector thus they cry,  
Who being dead they all do seem to die.   

Then do they walk all malcontent about,  
From place to place not knowing where to rest:  
Sometime they stand and give a monstrous shout,  
Like to the yell of a many-headed beast.  
And then return to Hector where he lies,  
The men in groans, the Women in outcries.   

Like to the kind and loving natured Bees,  
That swarm together if but one be grieved:  
Which leaves his hive and seeketh hollow trees,  
They fly with him and look he be relieved.  
Humming they mourn as if they felt his grief,  
So they can sorrow but lend no relief.   

Then as a Ram that doth retire back,  
To make return with greater violent force:  
So will these folks their cries outrageous slack,  
And go lamenting still from Hector's corpse. 
silen●   
Till by and by they will return again,  
Shrieking in tears, like thunderclaps in rain.   

Or like the billow beating on the shore,  
That falls off gently making little noise:  
But when he comes again doth rage so sore,  
As men far off may hear his raging voice.  
Swelling with foam through Aeolus puffing pride,  
So do they yell when they're by Hector's side.   

They weep, they wail, they mourn, they fret with anger,  
They swear, they vow revenge for Hector's sake:  
Their hearts are boldened through their present danger,  
Although for grief they dreary wail make.  
Thus all amazed they wander to and fro,  
His life did please, his death did irk them so.   

They curse Achilles in this bitter rage,  
They frown; they grin, their teeth they sternly whet:  
Like desperate men they say nought shall assuage  
Their ire but blood, on blood they all are set.  
But why do we Achilles' name, They say,  
Which heavens pollutes & darks the brightsom day?   

Alas poor Troy what wight can ere bewail,  
And not lack words to write thy great lament:  
To tell thy woes even jeremy might fail,  
That writ so well jerusalems' wamentings.  
For who can forth thy cruel tortures sound?  
Not angels tongues though such on earth were found.   

How do they cry along through every street,  
With clothes all torn and faces ashy pale?  
What mourner doth not with a mourner meet?  
When they together tell a doleful tale.  
Here men lament, there women ghastly cry,  
There virgins shrieks do pierce the azure sky.   

Now every one doth read their own decay,  
The Wives do cry, now shall we live to see  
Our husbands slain. The men again can say,  
The time's not far, we all shall spoiled be.  
And then together do they cry at once,  
Now shall our babes be dashed against the stones.   

Our daughters ravished, and our sons be slain,  
Our friends be murdered and ourselves and all:  
Then do they weep in such abundant rain,  
Such lasting showers from their clouds do fall,  
As Troy did seem in that tear-showring stound,  
Not like to burn but rather like to drowned.   

Thus do they mourn the most distressed wights,  
On whom the Gods did in such vengeance frown:  
That heaven depriu`d them of their wont lights,  
For Troy seemed dark when Hector was put down.  
Hector they call, and they may call their fill,  
For he is dead, and they are weeping still.   

Then did Troy's ghost again to me appear,  
Go thou (quoth she) and show to Albion this:  
Bid her take heed she hold her Hector dear,  
And well regard him while he living is.  
For when he dies as doth poor Ilium here,  
So will fair Albion sorrow than I fear.   

She vanished then, and thanked me for my pains,  
Although (quoth she) few others will do so:  
Wise heads will deem`t too light by many grains  
For who (alas) can rightly weigh my woe?  
My woe and grief that tongues can never tell,  
But now give Hector this, and so farewell.   

For that (my Lord) I bring it unto you,  
For other Hector Albion now hath none:  
Though valiant knights fair England hath enough,  
Whose worthy fames throughout the world are known.  
And eke whose names shall one day forth be shown.  
Yet but one Hector hath our Country tried:  
Prudent in peace, in Wars an expert guide.   
FINIS. I. O.   

An Old Woman's Tale in her solitary Cell.  
IT fell about that time of the year,  
When Phoebus with his beamis cieer,  
Looked on Tellus with a pleasant face  
Almost from the top of the highest place  
Of his stately throne, where he in pomp rideth,  
And through the heavens (as him list glideth,  
Carried on Palfreys, whose wondrous swift pace  
Circuit the Welkin in a days space,  
So fast they wend and never tire.  
It pleased him now with his temperate fire,  
To put juice and moisture soot  
Both in the branch and also in the root,  
And with the countenance of his beamis sheen,  
To make the trees and the grass green:  
In the month that hight Flower of the Spring,  
Wherein birds sweetly tune and sing,  
And flowers are the ground embellishing  
By reason of this look blandishing,  
When fishes in the brooks are playing,  
It was in May when they go a maying.  
¶ Once on a morning in this goodly tide.  
When Aurora in the brightness of her pride  
Looked so freshly on us here,  
That every man by himself, or with his fere,  
She doth invite to walk abroad,  
And with her in the fields to make some abode,  
I walked forth myself alone,  
To see the pleasures Flora doth lone  
To earth and to creatures all.  
* Walking and wandering thus, it did fall,  
That as I went through a thick Wood,  
Where trees by trees so nigh stood,  
And their leaves are so together gone,  
That Sol doth scarcely his light shown  
To them that through there pass.  
* At length I light on a fine place,  
Strongly environed with trees fair,  
Through which there came a pleasant air,  
That breathed sweetly through leaves whistling  
Where birds on the boughs do chirp and sing,  
Where pleasant fountains sweetly are flowing,  
And on whose banks flowers dainty are growing like to a little Paradise.  
* Now in this stound busy were mine eyes,  
To seek and search in every nook,  
What pleasure more might yet be took,  
And what delight I might still have,  
At length I light on a hollow Cave,  
Into which less wise than hardy  
I went, putting my life in jeopardy.  
For it might have been the Den of a Lion,  
Or the place of some monstrous Dragon,  
Or ravenous Wolves might have been there,  
Or some devouring hungry Bear.  
But as Fortune would it better fell,  
For it happed as I shall now tell.  
* When I was into the cave ycome,  
I had no sooner set foot in the room,  
But an old Woman of look thin and pale,  
(For alack) melancholy makes blood fail,  
Specially if Age be sitting thereunto,  
Then must the lusty red away go,  
And meager blunesse sit in his place,  
Such God wots was this old woman's face,  
Which time and care had well furrowed,  
With wrinkles deep, so long she had sorrowed  
With bitter tears and inward grievance,  
But yet sure seemed to me her count`nance,  
Inly to show sparks of gentility,  
And that she liu`d there only through some malady  
Of discontent and grief great conceived.  
She now hath kindly me received  
Bidding me welcome with many words fair,  
(But there was neither stool nor chair  
Whereon to sit, Hermits seld been stor`d,  
But with blocks and stubs such as the woods afford,)  
And after some words of course passing,  
She asked me how I was thither coming.  
Sithence (qd she) with us it is not usual:  
That passengers do amongst us fall,  
Our cells and caves they been so devious,  
And not to travelers obvious,  
They been so fenc`t with thorns and briars,  
As they seldom admit us any feres  
To make recourse or to or fro.  
But since it was thy fortune so,  
To find this cell which none could ever  
Espy before since I came hither,  
I hold it done by the divine influence,  
And that thou wert led by some great providence,  
Only that I might make relatiowne,  
Unto thee of my state wholly and condisiowne,  
Of my cares all and calamity,  
And why I live in this cell solitary.  
Wherefore if thou list in good discretion,  
Awhile to abide without indignation,  
And to hear with gentleness and patience,  
By and by I will do my diligence,  
To acquaint thee withal though it be nought pleasing  
To thine ears, yet to my heart will it be great easing.  
Then did she bestir her with great business,  
To get a breakfast in readiness,  
Which when she had done with many puffs and pain,  
It was a cup of fair water and a root scraped clean.  
Here was a high matter in a low house,  
The mountains swelled and brought forth a mouse.  
But yet the giver made the gift great,  
And me thought it was then a rich banquet,  
The author made the gift so precious.  
For who would be at such a time curious,  
Or fill his mind with disdain? but rather requite,  
For the Widow gave much that gave but a mite,  
Gifts are great as they are taken.  
But now to her talk hath she her betaken,  
The breakfast is done ne might it long dure,  
For there was no dainties to feed on sure.  
And then with a countenance sad & words mildly spoken  
With tears blended, she hath with me broken.  
It is (saith she) no wonder in the course of Fortune,  
Though she do not in one thing long continue,  
She is aye so full of alteration,  
Of fickleness and variation:  
She is so brittle and so mutable,  
So inconstant and so changeable,  
As even now she will a fair look show,  
Smiling upon thee with a smooth brow,  
And glancing with a pleasing eye,  
And then on a sudden by and by  
Will she gloom upon thee with such a frown,  
As spitefully she`l work thy destructiown,  
She is like a Siren that sweetly will sing  
When she intends a man to bring  
To his end, or yet he be aware  
Of her cruel poison under her face so fair.  
I hold him unwise that will her trust,  
For when he hopes most, she'll lay him in the dust,  
She is of so vile and naughty nature,  
She loveth worst an honest creature.  
But who so scorns her through surquedry and pride,  
She loves to be still by his side,  
She is not constant to any ever.  
For how hath she by her false endeavour,  
Thrown down Priam from his royal chair,  
And Hecuba his queen so fair?  
How made she Xerxes scape away in a whirrie,  
Whose fleet once the sea would scarce carry?  
How hath she to queen Elstred done?  
And how caused fair Rosamond to moon?  
And how (though she was meanly borne)  
Hath she made Shore's wife forlorn,  
After estate and high calling,  
And brought her to most woeful falling?  
But I list not in Examples bide.  
Thus hath she dealt with me beside,  
For once I was," Than did she weep,  
" wring her hands and great mourning keep,  
" Till at the last her tears she stayed,  
" And then again thus hath she said.  
For once I was myself flourishing,  
Both in wealth, beauty, and many other thing,  
I was then rich as I am now poor,  
What Fortune lends we must restore,  
I liu`d at pleasure having silver and gold,  
And I was then young as I am now old,  
And she that is now of pale wrinkled hue,  
Was then as fresh as any rose new,  
Lusty of flesh and comely in colour,  
Red mixed with white, pleasing in favour.  
Gracing with my looks both in hall and bower,  
But these are all withered like this flower  
That is fresh to day and dead tomorrow,  
Alas they be not ours we do them but borrow  
Of Fortune and Nature two that will call  
Home for their goods, and take away all  
When so it pleaseth them but to scowl,  
Alas we have neither bond nor roll,  
Wherein they are tied, they are so free still,  
And we in their farms are but tenants at wil  
They are certain to us for neither year nor day,  
They are theirs to give and theirs to take away.  
Yet thus did they favour me while I was young,  
If I did speak, they said Orpheus sung,  
If I did my Lute in my hand take,  
They said Apollo did music make.  
If I did dance and my body move,  
The Graces danced and love was in love.  
If I were merry and gladsome,  
A number were frolic and gamesome.  
If I were disposed for to be melancholy,  
Few for that while would then be jolly.  
For when I taught mine eyes to frown,  
Strait would they learn to put mirth adown.  
Thus in my youth after a fashion,  
I was as t'were Queen of that Region,  
I mean of that little circuit where I did won,  
For great homage was to me done,  
And beauty wants not servants store,  
That will observe their mistress humour,  
That will be both diligent and pliable,  
Necessary and conformable  
To say or do as fits her fancy best,  
And so in my youth was I blest.  
I had men of good sort that were my Wooers,  
" For beauty is never without lovers.  
Such as were of mine own degree,  
Men of good Gentility  
That were of worth, and beside very brave,  
For so well could I myself behave  
with so sweet carriage, my looks sometime grave,  
Sometime more pleasant as occasion would,  
And as indeed a Woman should,  
For in sooth there must be variety,  
" Men of one thing so soon take satiety.  
Thus could I then devise,  
As Women can with their eyes,  
To entangle men in the snare of love.  
Now is it a thing we daily prove,  
That who so for another digs a pit,  
Falleth himself oft in it.  
For as I was then busy laying snares  
To catch Love in my golden hairs,  
(For gold they were when I was in prime,  
Though they be now silver by course of time)  
As I was making baits for desire:  
Behold, now comes a worthy Esquire,  
A man of such countenance and visage,  
Of so rare form and parsonage,  
Besides with many parts so well adorned,  
As Venus herself could not have scorned,  
Nor yet Diana for all her chaste life,  
To have been to this goodly man a wife.  
He was such a one as the Trojan knight,  
That wooed Helen that Lady bright,  
Or like to him of Theseus' kind,  
Demophoon that did of Phillis find  
So much love for his little loyalty,  
Such was his form, though not such his royalty.  
Or like to him that now Hector hight  
Of Albion, that thrice noble knight.  
For his fame doth hither to these woods sound,  
And in most places it is found.  
He is so famous in virtues glory,  
That birds of him record a story,  
On willow boughs as they sit and sing,  
And Echo doth hither his praises bring.  
For alas I seldom abroad stray  
To listen news, but I have heard say,  
He is wondrous worthy, & of a comely stature,  
Of a sweet conceit, and a courteous nature,  
Winning with his words, & pleasing in his carriage,  
In view amiable, and sweet of visage,  
Such a one sure was this gentle esquire,  
For a heavenly face moving desire.  
For no sooner now did I him see,  
This comely man, this worthy he,  
But she now (alas) that whilom was so free,  
And teaching all others in love to be,  
By her fair looks and eyes in chanting,  
By her beauteous hue love only vaunting:  
Is now (alas) enthralled in the snare  
Which she for others did prepare,  
Now is she for herself to seek remedy,  
Who of late could ease a numbers malady.  
Physician now thyself cure,  
Ay me I learned to say them sure,  
As many had said to me before,  
I love: I, and a great deal more,  
For Women though they covet covertly,  
Yet men to them desire but overly.  
Their love is nothing so hot,  
And yet this advantage have we got:  
That though the Cow to the Bull crieth,  
And the Mare to the Horse niyeth:  
Yet the man to the woman speaketh,  
And unto her his love first breaketh,  
Although women often think their own hearts broken,  
Till beloved lovers of their love have spoken.  
And then too forsooth for show of modesty,  
We must make strange, and allege the honesty  
Of a single life, we must keep virginities,  
And many prayers must be offered to their divinities,  
Which they would grant were they not craved,  
Men must look at their shrines to be saved,  
When in the men is power to give  
Unto some of those Saints whether they live,  
Or perish through love, but alas men know not,  
When they have this power, and so they do not,  
Give them their doom," women so well dissemble still,  
Well, now to love it was my will,  
And to be loved was his heart's desire,  
Who said he burnt in loves damned fire,  
Such inward flames did kindle in his breast,  
That so long as I delayed, he found no rest,  
This he vowed with protestations,  
And sealed with sighs and heavy lamentations,  
Begging at me with great humility,  
That I on him would have some pity,  
Else should he (alas) by love perish.  
Now did I all this while cherish,  
A greater fire in my heart,  
Love had in me a bigger part,  
And reason I had on him to have remorse,  
Who was deeper wounded by the same force,  
For though I smothered in the flame,  
And under modesty hid the same,  
As in deed so we ought to prove,  
Whether men dissemble or truly love,  
Yet at last it burned so strong,  
" (None can hide fire long,  
That will by his light itself discover)  
That I was compelled to tell my lover,  
That now I loved as well as he.  
Here need no recital be  
Of our great joy, there was no tarrying,  
To hinder us now from our marrying,  
Both whose hearts love had so sharply whet,  
That they were only onmariage set,  
To try the knot of joy and pleasure,  
The bond of love, the lovers treasure,  
But now I will omit the compliments,  
The feastings joustings and tournaments,  
The masks, banquets and jollities,  
The routs revels, and companies,  
The sights shows and tragedies,  
Of state and for mirth the comedies,  
That were at our wedding solemnized.  
These being done it was devised,  
That I should now away wend,  
With my new husband and my dear friend,  
Into the country where he did then won.  
And as it was devised, so was it done,  
And with him did I live a happy wife  
About twenty years during his life,  
But when we had liu`d together so long  
(O here gins my woeful song),  
In all delight and honest pleasure  
Tasting of joy in a full measure,  
In this the highest of my bliss  
By death away he taken is,  
He whom I did love so dearly,  
My stay, my joy, my comfort merely.  
Alas what need I tell the moning,  
The tears, the griefs, and the woeful wail,  
That then I have most inly conceived,  
When Death from me hath him bereaved,  
O let them judge that know the like  
What several torments their souls do strike,  
Alas I die to think thereon.  
With that her speech was from her gone,  
She weps and wails and often to death swoon  
Falling with her face plat upon the ground,  
She is with sorrow so woe-begone  
As one that meant to die anon,  
But that ne may endure her kind.  
Then doth she her senses again find,  
Through that small aid that I could lend her  
In such a case who could not but befriend her?  
And after, thus telleth on her woeful story,  
Ay me (she says) how could I be but sorry,  
From him that was so dear to part,  
For love and friendship make the knot in the heart,  
When brotherhood knits but in the blood,  
Therefore I hold it oft more good  
And lesser grief some brother to forego  
Then a faithful friend, but alas what shall I do?  
That have lost both a friend and a brother,  
That was to me both the one and the other.  
My husband, my rock, my chiefest pillar,  
My hope, my joy, my dearest well-willer.  
But yet alack this is not all,  
Such torments oft to others fall,  
By death to lose their husband's company,  
And such as were their chief felicity,  
Many before me, so have done.  
* And for example take Andromach for one;  
What were her tortures when she her Lord lost?  
How was Penelope in sorrows seas tossed,  
While her Ulysses floated on the main,  
Longing to see him at Ithica again?  
Yet might not enjoy him of long time nor tide,  
But (alas) her sorrow was small to abide.  
* Now was all this but the step to my woes,  
The key of care, the groundwork of sorrows,  
The fearful entrance to a further danger,  
The bloody herald of more cruel anger.  
What should I say the messenger of death.  
O heers my grief, now stops my breath,  
Here is the cause of my calamity,  
And the very floodgate opening to misery,  
O stay a while I cannot yet speak.  
Then did she sigh as if her heart would break,  
Watering the furrows of her wrinkled face,  
With tears that she showered down apace,  
Wring her hands, and cursing cruel time  
That thus had changed since her flowering prime:  
But then she cleared from that drooping rain,  
And ghastly cries anew this was my deadly pain,  
To see my children weep and moon,  
Which he left unto me alone,  
To see them in such piteous state,  
Mourning to me, and I disconsolate.  
* Alas he left me children three,  
Children distressed and mother in misery,  
For father dead, and husband gone,  
Yet do the youngest not only moon  
For death of their father, but for he unkind,  
Had them no dearer in his mind.  
They wail his death & lament their own estate:  
I weep for both, we all curse cruel fate.  
For now ere he died by will he gave,  
That Maximio the eldest should all have,  
So was he called that was my first-born.  
But the other two hath he left forlorn,  
Whereof the one was height Medalgo,  
And the other was cleped junio.  
Only he still reseru`d my portion,  
For it was my jointer by condition,  
Ne could he that dispose away.  
But for the younger he left slender stay,  
Little he gave to them God knows,  
A poor pension he bestows,  
An annual rent of five pounds' charge,  
And yet he thought it over large,  
To burden his house with such a pay,  
Alas, alas, now may they well say,  
What booteth us our birth or our blood?  
What doth gentility do us good?  
What are we better than the base,  
Seing Nature and Fortune thus us disgrace?  
O the great follio of Albion's fond custom,  
judge austere, O most unequal doom.  
Yet had Maximio still been living,  
(But fates after his father soon wrought his ending.)  
Their wants by his bounty had been supplied,  
For to his heart they were so nigh tied,  
That they ne might ask what he would not give,  
But he eke is dead and his son doth live,  
His son fostered among his mother's kin,  
Of whom they must now first begin  
To insinuate acquaintance if they would aught have,  
And yet ask and go without, they say they must save  
For the young infant Maximios son,  
But alas why had fate Maximio done  
To fell death so suddenly?  
That he ne had his memory  
To do for his brothers as nature would,  
And as indeed their father should,  
Had he remembered Nature's right.  
Thus on a sudden changed was my light,  
My glorious shining and my summer's day  
Is now gone down and drenched in the sea,  
It setteth with the sun, but never may arise,  
For now alas doth Fortune so devise,  
She that never did well for me,  
But still did thwart my felicity.  
For now is my living gone to another name,  
That govern the child and enjoy the same,  
Only I have a portion small,  
To maintain me and my two boys withal,  
An hundred pound yearly so long as I live,  
But now I ne might it sell nor give,  
It must teturne from whence it came,  
And all must glorify the name,  
I mean the eldest of the house,  
When the Dutch are drunk (they say) they'll carouse,  
And where is enough there England gives more.  
But now to return where I was afore,  
My husband and Maximio are now both away ta'en  
By cruel death as thou hast heard me say,  
And thus was I left then in misery,  
With my two young sons to keep me company.  
They liu`d on me so long as I could give them,  
what mother sees her children want & not relieve them?  
But alas suppose I had died next day,  
After their father was taken away,  
As death might have done had it been his pleasure,  
for he never keeps times, hours, nor measure,  
What should my children then have done?  
Alas, that they had, is spentful soon,  
It is not fitting to their calling.  
But yet hear more of my woeful falling,  
Hear now hear what more befell.  
* We did not above five years together dwell,  
I and my sons in whom was my delight,  
But see now of Fortune the dogged spite,  
For she now hath made a breach and partition,  
Twixt my daughter in law & me hath she sown division,  
Twixt me and her friends that now they endeavour,  
To work my overthrow quite and for ever.  
And now mine own kindred would not me back,  
When one is in need friends oft are most slack,  
And if that Fortune once do frown,  
Rather than support thee, they`l help thee down.  
But if so be of them you have no need,  
They are most kind and loving indeed.  
Whom Fortune favours they shall have friends,  
And friendship for most part with riches blends,  
Poverty is burdensome, & though he be of blood,  
It is no policy to do him good,  
For now we must square all by policy,  
Fie upon this old relieving charity,  
They do abandoned, it smells of popery.  
Thus doth prevail this new-brocht foppery,  
Out of a vessel that seemeth pure,  
Charity now there is none sure,  
But that which in her kind discretion,  
For herself only makes provision.  
Or else so well can her alms bestow,  
As for one gift they must receive two.  
Friends look aloof when one is poor.  
But now I come where I was afore,  
They strive I say and seek all they may,  
To procure my fall and utter decay,  
And now alas have they found the mean  
To ruinated me quite and clean,  
Which in their high indignation,  
They do fulfil to my confusion.  
For now have they sought among the writings,  
Both new scrolls and old indighting,  
Which my husband left behind,  
And now alas do they find  
My jointure to be but slenderly conveyed,  
My jointure on which my sons and I both stayed.  
They traverse the Law, and Law doth assure,  
It is at their will, if my livelood endure,  
Who were the heirs unto the land.  
Alas that it so ticcle should stand.  
Alas that a kind husband his wife should so leave.  
Alas that Maximio did not give  
A better assurance while he was living,  
But (good young man) I think he knew nothing  
That my state was so tickle, for he near perused  
These papers wherein I was thus abused  
And thus on me (O cruel thing)  
My sorrows together do they bring.  
For look what la afforded in extremity,  
That have they performed in all severity,  
Leaving me nothing nor my children neither.  
O Fortune how art thou like the weather  
That is now fair, and anon foul,  
For a short smile how long dost thou scowl?  
Alas thou art most pleased in evil doing,  
Ne dost thou delight in any good thing.  
But sure I may say of thee now,  
As the goodwife want say of her cow  
That gave a mess of milk new and soot,  
And when she had done, threw`t down with her foot,  
Thy joy is most in an evil turn,  
And then thou laughtst when thou mak'st others mourn  
For making one poor Abdolomine a king,  
How many dost thou to low estate bring?  
In wicked works is thy glory ever.  
But why do I against thee persever?  
Alas England's custom works my woe,  
And custom of England doth me undo.  
For though my husband to me was kind,  
Yet wise men are often blind,  
And led away with a fond antiquity.  
Alas that wise men should not see,  
Nor Nature make them to have remorse,  
Why do men do against Nature's force?  
I do not now for myself complain,  
But for my younger sons twain.  
Alas my youngest were as dear to me,  
As was Maximio, why should they then not be  
As dear to him as was Maximio.  
And yet this sure I would have thee know,  
That I would have a difference made,  
So that the eldest should not upbraid  
The younger of beggary,  
Nor that the younger should on him rely.  
* Let the youngest have portions to keep them like men,  
Fitting their birth and calling, and then  
That the honour and chief living go to him might,  
That is the first-born, as is his right,  
But now hath he given all to Maximio,  
What did he think that I did aside go?  
Or beget he the rest for lust's suffisance,  
After he had one borne to his inheritance?  
Why do men of their young sons no more reckoning make?  
But o fowl custom it is for thy sake,  
Men are so given to memorise their name,  
And oft in so doing they procure their shame,  
As by and by thou shalt understand.  
But O vile custom only proper to this land,  
For if it be as I have heard say  
Nor France nor Flaunders take this way,  
Neither doth Italy so nor Spain,  
Only in England it doth remain,  
And yet in the best governed part of this land,  
I mean in the famoust city of all Albion,  
The politic Citizens do so provide,  
That the younger Sons shall not stand in need  
Of the elder, though they give him the land  
That they buy in the country through their industrious hand,  
Only our Gentlemen keep this order,  
Whereby doth rise this great disorder,  
That many Clowns do here become gentlemen,  
Who scrape, and scratch for their Sons, and then  
Send them forsooth to an Inn of Court,  
Where the son of a Gentleman hath report,  
When his father (goodman) will drive the plough,  
And his mother milk and serve the Sow,  
Thus doth the franklin in England rise,  
And the base-born Brat doth the gentleman despise,  
By reason their fathers leave them so poor,  
And that is his shame that I told thee of afore,  
* But mark now and thou shalt see even by my son  
What this vile custom in England hath done,  
But in other countries they seem more wise,  
The Hog in his own dunglies,  
They keep the Peasant under and the Kern,  
They do so well of their kind discern.  
The Boar puts not on a velvet skin,  
Neither in silk is the Borin,  
They may grow rich, but they keep their place.  
And this to Ireland is a great grace,  
Which though some call it uncivil and rude  
Yet (they say) they are with this virtue endued,  
The Kern low borne shall never come a float,  
He shall not step into a gentleman's coat,  
As God and nature make them base,  
So shall they keep still in their place.  
But this now to Albion is high disgrace,  
For here the Clown riseth and Gentility put down,  
Only by old custom and unkind fashion,  
We do not with the Danes uphold gentility  
But with the Swishers we cut off their dignity,  
As now but list and I shall thee tell.  
For after all this hap that now me befell,  
That my husband was dead and my loving son  
After my foefment was by law away done,  
Being now left in all this mesery,  
My son Medalgo went into another country,  
In which place for what should I tarry?  
He loved a yongwoman and did her marry.  
By whom God blest him with children many,  
For blessings they be though wealth he had not any,  
And oft it falleth that the poor,  
When rich go without have children store,  
Who wisheth oft wanteth, who cares not to have  
Shall never need of fortune to crave,  
She is so blind she cannot well see,  
She lets the wise unprovided be,  
And giveth to fools with a liberal hand,  
Fortune favours fools, a proverb often scanned,  
And too too true may a number say.  
But now is Medalgo at a weak stay,  
Wealth he hath none and charge doth arise,  
Wherefore he`s forced of force to devise  
To maintain his children, himself, and his wife,  
By taking upon him a labourer's life,  
Where with his neighbours he is called good man,  
Now lost is the title of a Gentleman,  
See now the fruit of this fair blossom  
See the end of this custom,  
Now poverty so hath shadowed his name,  
As men in true view cannot see the same,  
Alas the commons cannot give men their due.  
They call him master that makes a fair show  
In riches & wealth, they know no difference,  
But who hath most gold him do they reverence  
And this is the fruit of that custom fond,  
Which now is installed in this land,  
Either to make a beggar of a younger son,  
Or else untimely to his death to be done.  
For now as Medalgo is to low estate brought,  
So hath junio for preferment sought,  
Trying what Fortune would for him do,  
Because sometimes she doth favour show  
To younger brothers, and for she doth advance  
Men by the sword and also by the lance,  
Specially those that are of noble sprite,  
In whom there is by Nature's light,  
A kind of Nobles raised from the common sort,  
An high yet mild mind, still guarding good report,  
And yet still aspiring to higher honour,  
And yet not rising but by the step of favour  
Purchased by worth, winning men's hearts,  
To advance him more high for his virtuous parts.  
Such a one hath Fortune now up raised,  
And with renown his name blazed,  
Giving guerdon to due desert,  
Who in every spring so plays his part  
As they say, through his valour and manliness,  
Through his wisdom, forecast, and worthiness,  
That himself is now the hight the spring  
Of honour, for this his brave doing.  
They call him ver, which as I have heard say,  
Signifies the time that, when Winter is away  
Delighteth the earth and creatures all,  
With his pleasant countenance for which men do call,  
And birds with their music for joy entertain,  
It is the time that puts life in the grain,  
Sap in the tree, juice in the grass,  
Smell to the flower, beauty to the earth's face,  
Such is his glory and renown.  
Whereof I ne may make relatiown,  
An old woman's tongue is far too weak,  
For if it be as I have heard some speak,  
His fame is like to such a spring  
As never dies, alas it is a thing  
For a sweeter Organ and a better song,  
Then to be told by an old Woman's tongue,  
Let him live ever with honour and fame.  
But now I return from whence I came.  
junio my third and youngest son,  
Is now to the wars for preferment gone,  
Wars the great worth which if Fortune favour  
Ennoble men with the richest honour.  
But alas she favours well but few,  
As thou shalt hear by that doth ensue,  
For there had he been but a while,  
(Alas my dear son alas my good child)  
But death hath bereaved him of his life,  
Untimely did the sister cut with her knife  
which Poets saien hath the twining of the thread,  
Making (as she list) men alive or dead.  
Alas I need not tell thee my woe,  
Thou seest what grief I conceived though  
That ever since fate these crosses did give,  
I took this Cell where I in sorrow live.  
Then did the tears run down her cheeks.  
Along through the furrows like water through creeks,  
Alas methought it was a piteous sight,  
That she that whilom was so fair a wight,  
Shining like Titan in his gorgeous show,  
Should now in colour look so wan and blue.  
Coughing she sits, half choked with tears,  
Alas now (me thinks) who so this hears,  
Should in discretion and sound wisdom,  
Utterly condemn the foul custom  
Of Albion, for that caused her woe,  
When it her younger sons did both overthrow  
By want that great worker of confusion  
To many brave minds in conclusion.  
For when a man that is well borne,  
I mean of lineage whom nature doth adorn  
Either with Noblesse or Gentility,  
Doth see himself through Fortune's cruelty,  
(For Fortune it is of custom proceeding,  
That men are driven thus to be needing)  
Like to incur poverty or want,  
By reason that living is very scant,  
What danger doth not he undergo?  
What perilous attempt doth he shrink fro,  
Where hope of credit or gold doth remain?  
Choosing rather so to be slain  
Then to live in misery.  
And yet (God knows) it is of certainty  
That little here at home is their estimation,  
Though they venture near so for reputation.  
" Peac-nuslings so little esteem of valiancy,  
And this is the fruit of that antiquity  
Which men in custom now receive,  
That is, when to the eldest they all give,  
Leaving the younger little or nought,  
That many to their ends untimely are brought.  
For now did junio aswell aspire,  
As could Maximio though in wealth he was higher.  
Yet must their minds be equal in desire,  
Being begotten both by one sire  
Whose virtue in both had equal operation,  
Seeing they were equal both by generation.  
And Anima ex traduce some do hold.  
Then if the father were magnanimous or bold,  
Why should junio having that father,  
Be of a low conceit rather  
Than Maximio, why should his mind be any whit less?  
Or why should his thoughts be of more baseness?  
Why should not ambition in him dwell,  
Seing he was a Gentleman aswell  
As Maximio? Why should not a younger son,  
Bear as worthy a mind as he that hath won  
The wealth from them all? Alas it is not gold  
That nobleth the mind, though the mind it uphold.  
Paris was poor amongst the shepherds known,  
Yet had he a mind by which he was shown  
To be more high than a shepherds swain.  
And Cyrus too doth show us plain,  
That sparks of a Gentleman will always appear,  
Though Fortune often such malice bear  
That Sparco shall be the nurse to a king,  
And that a bitch shall food bring  
To him that is heir to a crown,  
Yet will the mind never be put down.  
She obscures the worth, yet the mind she cannot quell,  
And yet too oft times she doth so deal,  
That she will abate even a courage stout,  
For want hath no place to put their virtues out,  
As they that have gold which gives them a countenance  
The want whereof must needs be grievance  
To a good mind, to see meaner gifts preferred  
Only by Gold, when better are debarred.  
O want is a gall that grieveth all good hearts,  
Want is a curb to hold in virtuous parts,  
want dulls good wits, want makes high spirits soft  
Want keeps them low, that aught to sit aloft.  
Want in a man all good things doth conceal.  
But O that custom should so deal,  
To make fathers their sons decay,  
Who should in Nature be their stay.  
For what is it but their destruction,  
Merely their bane and confusion,  
As now more plainly shall appear.  
For sure it is a case most clear,  
That the world looks they maintain their worth,  
That their countenance be as was their birth,  
That they hold their place and reputation,  
That they keep their credit and estimation,  
That they maintain the state of a Gentleman,  
Now would I know who he is that can  
Maintain all these without wealth & living,  
For wealth though true honour it is not giving,  
Yet it is an ornament of Gentility.  
As it is held to be to felicity,  
For Philosophers deem it is not of the being  
Of Summum Bonum, and yet seeing  
Men are not happy without riches adiuments,  
They hold them to be felicities ornaments.  
But yet in these days they may well be called,  
The seat wherein Gentry is installed,  
Men in these times by their riches rise.  
For who so hath wealth that man is wise,  
His words are respected with good advertence,  
He speaks not a tittle wherein is not sapience,  
He is grave, sage, and prudent,  
He is the Orator only eloquent,  
For who so speaks by golds direction,  
Speaketh sound without contradiction.  
Men that are rich are all in all.  
Then do I marvel that true Gentlemen fall  
Into this custom, to impoverish their name,  
When the base do seek to extol the same.  
Do they think their younger sons can live of nought?  
O this was the custom that Medalgo brought  
To beggary, who was a man well borne,  
This is it that makes many men forlorn.  
This was it that brought junio to his end.  
* But sure I marvel that men cannot mend  
This old, gross, and frantic fashiowne,  
Seeing that Wisdom in her discretion,  
Provideth for her younger son so well.  
For though the eldest in her honour shall dwell,  
After her death and falling,  
And be raised to honourable calling,  
Yet doth her junio now remain  
In honour before, and his place hath ta'en  
Of his brother Maximio, so hath wisdom foreseen  
In her high policy, that the younger should been  
Raised aloft while she is living,  
Ne doth she seek so much to be giving  
Honour to him, to whom of due  
After her death it must ensue,  
If men were wise they would Wisdom follow.  
But now is the old woman in her Cave hollow,  
Where she waileth not so much for her own estate,  
As of her two sons the cruel fate,  
Banning and cursing such custom's antiquity,  
As is the cause of so great misery  
To many brave minds, which are well borne,  
And yet like mean vassals left forlorn,  
For convenient provision beseeming their worth.  
But now from her am I come forth,  
Leaving her (good soul) in her melancholy Celestina,  
Where she intendeth aye to dwell,  
Till Atropos do for her as she did  
To her husband and sons when she cut their lives thread.  
FINIS. I. O.   

Read Wrist, Leaf, 5, first side, fift line, Flow, 8 le, 2, side, 8 li, Dishevelled nine leaf, 1, side, 20 line, wails, line 24. forsaken 10 line, 2, side, 21 line, Billows 13 lee, 2. side, 22 line, Tears 13 lee, 2. side 25. line, Then 15. l, 1, fi, 31 li. That 17, l, 2 si, 11 line, Beat, same lee, 28 line.