THE Mirror of Martyrs, OR The life and death of that thrice valiant captain, and most godly Martyr Sir john Oldcastle knight, Lord Cobham.  
OCCULTA VERITAS TEMPORE PATET  
Printed by V.S. for William Wood. 1601    

To the lively image of all moral Virtues, and true perfection of heaven-borne Arts, William Covell Bachelor of Divinity, all success agreeable to the ancient worth of his ancestors.  
THis Poem (Right Wor:) which I present to your learned view▪ some two years ago was made fit for the Print; that so long keeping the corner of my study, wherein I use to put waste paper: This first true Oldcastle; thought himself injured, because he might not be suffered to sustain the scond martyrdom of the Press: In somuch that I was contented he should stand bareheaded to these churlish times, and endure the censure of his utmost enemies, only to make his Death more glorious. Howsoever, now he passeth under your protection; and though my pencil be too weak, either for his or your picture; accept of the same, because it comes from zeal.  
The admirer of your virtues, Io: Weever.   

To the Authors most honoured friend, Richard Dalton of Pilling, enriched with all gifts of Nature and graced with the chief ornaments of true Gentility.  

HOw joyfully the Author's Poem goes,  
To thee, whose wit, whose virtues he admires,  
With what a willing soul he daily shows,  
That love, the which thy love of him requires,  
Whose name he honours, and whose matchless worth,  
He can imagine better than set forth.   

His mind far more is, than his feeble might,  
Yet hath he woven of this homespun thread,  
So fine a web, so richly scourde and dight,  
(Minerva like) beyond the wisest head:  
The which to praise, were only to this end,  
To mar the loom, and not the cloth to mend.    

The Life and death of Sir Io: Oldcastle knight, Lord Cobham.  

Fair Lucifer, the messenger of light,  
Upon the bosom of the star-deckt sky,  
Begins to chase the raven-fethered night:  
That stops the passage of his piercing eye:  
And heaving up the brim of his bright beaver,  
Would make that day, which day was counted never.   

But Mercury, be thou the morning Star,  
Bear my embassage from Elysium,  
Show to my country hence removed far,  
From these pavilions I can never come:  
Stained vice ascends from out th'infernal deeps,  
But in the heavens unspotted virtue keeps.   

Deliver but in swasive eloquence,  
Both of my life and death the verity,  
Set up a Si quis, give intelligence,  
That such a day shall be my Tregedie:  
If thousands flock to hear a Poet's pen,  
To hear a god, how many millions then?   

The manyheaded multitude were drawn  
By Brutus' speech, that Caesar was ambitious,  
When eloquent Mark Antony had shown  
His virtues, who but Brutus then was vicious:  
Man's memory with new forgets the old,  
One tale is good until another's told.   

Sing thou my dirgies like a dying Swan,  
Whose painful death requires a plaining ditty:  
That my complaint may pierce the heart of man,  
plain be thy song, sweet, pleasing, full of pity:  
And more, to move the multitude to ruth,  
Let my apparel be the naked truth.   

Truth bring I naked, for other weeds she scorneth,  
Save that her smock in flames of coloured silk  
Is straunglie wrought, her beauty it adorneth,  
As through the same it pears more white than milk:  
In open view she comes, fair, comely, meek,  
For, Truth the hidden corners doth not seek.   

My father Reignold Cobham (whom so many  
Have crowned with evergreene victorious bay,  
For valorous worth before him placed not any;  
O but I must be partial in his praise.  
T'emblazon forth her own truth, Truth's denied,  
Herein the Truth, for Truth, is counted pride.)   

Within the Springtide of my flowering youth,  
He stepped into the winter of his age:  
Made means (Mercurius thus begins the Truth,)  
That I was made Sir Thomas Mowbray's page:  
A means to die, who means to live so long,  
Aged in ill, in goodness ever young.   

There did I spend my purple-coloured May,  
Bathing in bliss, and courtly blondishment:  
Until the sentence on Saint Lambert's day  
Pronounced was of M●wbraies banishment;  
Of England's woe, of Richard's low deposing,  
Of Herfords' honour, of my service losing.   

He might have seen how Fate that day sore-pointed,  
That gloomy day wherein the heavens did moon:  
She would have Herford England's king anointed,  
To rend the wreath of Diamonds from his Throne:  
But Majesty, whose lustre is so bright,  
Destroys the sense, and dazzleth the sight.   

Fate the foul offspring of black Erebus,  
Th'inhabitress of foamy Phlegeton:  
Ill fortunes day star, good luck's Hesperus,  
Pale Death's fore-teller, grim Porphyrion.  
Jove's scribe in brass with pens of dragon's wings,  
The chief commandress both of gods and kings.   

Earth's Genius, man's inauspicious star,  
A triple power, the knowledge of things past,  
To come, and present, Trumpeter to war,  
Ill at the first, injurious at the last:  
A cross wherewith we all must rest contented,  
Fare tho foreseen can seldom be prevented.   

Then whilst the April of my young years lasted,  
(Aged in nothing only but my name:)  
Her forward budding in the prime I blasted,  
With wind of pride, and hoary frost of shame;  
With riotous Love, whose highest points a pleasure,  
with pain before, repentance at more leisure.   

And like a Trau'ler which his way hath lost,  
In th'unknown woods, when up and down he rangeth,  
On every side with blind Meanders crossed,  
And this for that, that for another changeth:  
Within the sharp-set thickets long thus tossed,  
At length finds this that he himself hath lost.   

So in my youth I was a Traveler,  
Within this world a wilderness of woe,  
No Palmers then could tell a Passenger  
Which way from danger safely he might go:  
Led once astray in youth, who ever found  
His first trodden path, where pleasures do abound.   

Thus lost within the Labyrinth of sin,  
wandering the woods in Egypt's gloomy Night,  
Tying no thread from whence I first came in,  
No Sun to shine, no star to give me light:  
Echidnaes' offspring, hellborn serpents knew me,  
And at their pleasures to strange pleasures drew me.   

Some way I left before I had begun it,  
And some was knotty, othersome would bryre me:  
This marish ground, and yet I could not shun it,  
This steep and sandy sooner it would tire me.  
This way to follow virtue would procure me,  
To this my youthful headstrong years did lure me.   

And youth excused the errors in my nature,  
Whose greenness took upon him all the fault:  
Persuading me, su●● power was in no creature,  
Once to resist vice when it gave assault,  
persuasion's vain, for one to vices bend,  
The mind agrees, as Nature doth consent.   

Audacious Youth, impatient being moved,  
A witless substance in a seeming show;  
Scorner of age, of age yet best beloved;  
By Phaeton the world's overthrow,  
A sleep, a dream, a brawling lunacy,  
A self-conceit short-killing plurasie.   

Before this Youth in mirthful sports was lavished,  
No mean Cumrades, no base associates,  
In company with my perfections ravished,  
Swore me for one of their confederates,  
For valour, wit, and courtship few came nigh me,  
In all which, Richard, Henry's both did try me.   

But valour, courtship, wit, and all good parts,  
Make without manners but a glittering show:  
Nature is only beautified with arts:  
Wit oftentimes is her own overthrow.  
This courtship, valour, wit, all are disgraced,  
Within the mind when virtue is not placed.   

For strange attempts, for Mars-like chivalry,  
Among my fellows yet I bear the bell,  
In hasty wrath, and heedless hazardrie.  
I counted virtue always to excel,  
And deemed it better perish in the field,  
Then for basefeare my weapons up to yield.   

Fear the minds fall with lasting infamy,  
In expectation of some future ill:  
Twixt Mars and Venus got in luxury,  
A cold con●ealed ice, a bloodless chill,  
An Ecstasis, a breeder of grey hairs,  
An object spirit, scorn to youthful years.   

Yet the world poisoned with a swaggering humour,  
Of some shape-altring Succubus begot;  
A wynd-swolne monster, many headed Rumour:  
Vices preserver, virtues festered rot;  
Prides malcontent, minds putrefied wound,  
A liquor moist distilled from the ground.   

This airs innate and chiefest quality,  
This Shipman's hose; this heat extinguisher,  
This gallants wisdom, wisemen's gullery,  
This painted weathercock, Arts diminisher.  
With cowardice beginneth to impeach me,  
Because in worth not able for to reach me.   

We daft the world with time ourselves beguiled,  
Dreaming on nought save on eternity,  
And good Success from highest heavens smiled  
On our attempts and mirthful jollity:  
For that seems good which present pleasures brings,  
though't be the root, from whence all evil springs.   

Succeesse the friend of famous Conquerors,  
Fair Fortune's handmaid, daughter of pure blood,  
The world's darling, wish of Emperors  
Desires great Goddess, favourite of the good.  
From pale faced death or danger ever blest me,  
And with the rob of honour doth invest me.   

And seeking how she might the more enhance me,  
Though lewd my haviour was, unsound my carriage,  
With royalty and high descent t'advance me,  
She joined me with a Lady fair in marriage;  
By whose high honour I first won the name  
And Signiory of Cobham's endless fame.   

Long I enjoyed this weary wing of Fame,  
My beauteous wife, my Margarite of worth,  
Whose Nature was more precious than her name,  
All titles were but strains to set her forth:  
For stature, beauty, virtue, wit, and blood,  
More comely none, fair, sober, matchless, good.   

But beauty, stature, virtue, wit, nor blood,  
Nor yet the ripeness of a flowering age,  
Fair, comely, sober, matchless, lusty, good,  
Can aught at all delay deaths murderous rage,  
For all these gifts from Margarite y come,  
And buried lie with Margarite in her tomb.   

Hymen put on his saftron-coloured cote,  
And now vice had no warrandize by years,  
With that I gi'en my fellows faults to note,  
Sounding sweet council in their Adder's ears.  
But ill it seemed me them to blame: though I  
Censured myself like mine own enemy.   

Delight saw this; and would not slip the season,  
But in my soul thee made a strange division,  
The sensual parts she armed all 'gainst Reason.  
Defending goodness to be superstition;  
A foppery, a fond Precisians toy,  
The which who loves, doth live still void of joy.   

My will, whose object was the chiefest good,  
And understanding faculty the truth,  
This sharp encounter cowardly withstood,  
So weakened with the pleasures of my youth.  
'tis hard to hate vice which we long have loved,  
An habit got once, seldom is removed.   

The troops dispersed, now darkness ends the fight,  
And reason held his late-won victory:  
But inward Senses skirmish in the night,  
The common sense, Remembrance, Fantasy,  
Whose war, is war, war only to increase,  
When Reasons war, is war to live in peace.   

Fair was the field where first we met, and spacious,  
Environed with odoriserous meads,  
Joined to a City, to the sight most gracious,  
Where stately Trees, with wood-bine plighted heads.  
Of Mandrake, Poppy, ever green did flourish,  
With herbs whose juice the drowsy sense would nourish.   

Here none save night-byrds hover with their wings,  
The fatal screech-owls, feast profaning Bats;  
From two fair founts the River Lethe springs:  
And on the clearest Mineral she pats;  
Whose stealing streams along the channel falls,  
Like Euphrates, at first, twixt Eden's walls.   

This crawling rennet, hony-bubling fountain,  
Whilst thousands stepped in Night's security;  
Descending from the Diamond-rockie mountain,  
Like the mellifluent brook of Castilie;  
Turning the sand, and playing with the stones,  
Would alway answer both their sighs and groans.   

The City with two entrances is graced,  
Whose workmanship the matter seems to scorn;  
The first, wherein expressly dreams are placed,  
With curious Art is builded all of horn;  
The other made of polished ivory,  
Where dreams unveiled, and ouershaddowed be.   

A sumptuous Temple, all of burnished gold  
Within the walls erected unto night,  
Which Fantasies in greatest reverence hold;  
Another Chapel Alethia hight,  
With divers forms, to divers shapes, some tall,  
Some ugly, winged, withered, gross, some small.   

With scaling ladders on the walls I venture,  
(In which fierce entrance well I might have perished,)  
Whose Palaces no sooner could I enter,  
But pleasant sights, my soul and senses cherished:  
From ghastly fear fair Icolon me keeps,  
And lullabies my thoughts with careless sleeps.   

Sweet Sleep, distress and sorrows sovereign cure,  
Worthy entitled Nox son Morpheus,  
Send down from Heaven unto Pallinure,  
Man's king and Gods endear by Orpheus,  
Within the circuit of this palace knew me,  
And pleasures past, with what would come, did show me.   

For the Idea of a thing in sleep,  
May be imprinted in the Fantasy,  
With shape-transforming visions so deep,  
That it deludes the senses outwardly,  
And so in form, and in estate appear  
Within the mind, as if he waking were.   

Thus near Iberiaes' foremost fertile coast,  
I entered in Gades two-leaued brazen door.  
Where I espied of Demi-gods an host,  
Landing upon the sea- Atlantic shore,  
In years none young, with years not any old,  
None parched with heat, none withered with cold.   

These Deities lived in so rare a ground,  
Which thrice a year her fruitfulness did show,  
Yet plough nor planting did her forehead wound,  
No other wind but Zephyrus did blow,  
No showers, no rain for fruits will never perish,  
Which the dank moisture of the air doth cherish.   

down in a dale enamelled with roses,  
Ten thousands Adonis standing on a raw,  
And by a cranny which a garden closes,  
So many Virgins and wood Nymphs I saw,  
With breasts half hid, with loose disheviled hair,  
To catch the baulme-sweete breathing of the air.   

Which game somlie into their bosoms got,  
Whisks up and down, twines, curls up their tresses,  
And enterlaces with a Trew-loves knot;  
And last; divides each hair, each plight undresses;  
Plays fast and loose, as fearing lest his sport  
Should end too soon, his pleasure be too short.   

Thrice twenty thousand Cupids in their eyes,  
Bathing themselves; so many Graces set  
Upon the bank▪ their brows; each (naked) hies:  
The first place in this paradise to get.  
Tell me the man these visions would not move,  
For Sight breeds wonder, wonder bringeth love.   

One thought of hate, ten thoughts of love reviveth,  
Whilst beauty charms the virtue of the senses,  
Great powers, small aid 'gainst loves encounter giveth:  
Wit's but a warrant for these sweet offences:  
What hope hath reason now to quench loves fire,  
When hate breeds love, wit kindleth loves desire?   

Mine inward sense thus argued with my reason,  
Told her these saints, this heavenly place enjoying:  
Spent all their life in mirth, their baiting season  
Slept in delights; and past in amorous toying:  
'Gainst heaven herself who would not be rebelling,  
To live, where love, youth, beauty have their dwelling.   

With that I stretched my limbs along the bed,  
Having no power to open my gowlie eyes;  
Thrice o'er the caddow I mine arms out spread:  
Thrice did I fall, before I once could rise:  
Leaning upon mine elbow for a rest,  
Nodding, I knocked my chin against my breast.   

Then sighed, slipped down, and twixt the sheet and pillow  
I nuzzled in, joined knees and chin together:  
I dreamed I wore a garland of green willow.  
But snuffling low, I pricked me with a feather;  
So waked, the bolster for my back I chose,  
And yawning thrice, I rubbed mine eyes and rose.   

At length, well wakened from that pleasing slumber:  
(O that such slumbers ever should awake!)  
As I began my follies passed to number,  
Despair 'gainst comfort 'gins a head to make.  
Yet in remembrance of my youthful years,  
Innumerable sins, I spent innumerable tears.   

Like to a needle placed in equal distance,  
Betwixt a Loadstone and an Adamant,  
By either drawn, to neither makes resistance●  
But stands immote as she their force did daunt.  
So do I stand in great perplexity,  
And only certain in uncertainty.   

I'm in a wood, green may it ever grow,  
Yet o'er my head, a threatening Rock still hingeth  
The Rock despair, the wood doth comfort show,  
The rock my soul, which worm of conscience stingeth,  
Twixt wood and rock, I stand on six and seven,  
Yet m●kes the wood my thoroughfare into heaven.   

So (but I list not of my valour boast,  
'tis no ambition though, to boast of good:)  
Reason outbraved this heaven-aspiring host,  
And left them wallowing in their loathsome blood,  
Whilst many fled, which made the more afraid,  
Thus I mine ensigns in the air displayed.   

But Rochester shall Echo forth, my praise  
If Rochester remain not most ungrateful,  
A sin in fashion for these humorous days:  
To whom we owe, to them we are most hateful:  
O that it were in fashion; I am sure  
Nine days (like wonders) fashions but endure.   

I must upbraid her else, not praises giving,  
How first my favours patronaged her pride:  
But in too much remembrance of the living,  
In dark oblivion dead men's praise we hide.  
A beggar from the dunghill on●e extolled,  
Forgets himself, whom what he was of old.   

When first her gravell-purified river,  
No bridge upon her bote-lod'n bosom bore,  
Some high renown I strived for to give her,  
And made a bridge her swiftest currant o'er.  
Sir Robert Knowles was in the same an actor:  
But Cobham was the chiefest benefactor.   

And Walter Merton, Mertons' College founder,  
(Why doth mischance near charity thus dwell,)  
With lime and sand 'gainst tempest-beating bound her,  
Who from her top by great misfortune fell,  
Riding along the workmen for to see:  
Fortune is always virtues enemy.   

Kind Rochester it seems hath yet respected,  
His name should live in ages for to come,  
In whose memorial: lately is erected,  
An Epitaph upon a Marble tomb:  
But one good turn another still doth crave:  
For this; they found a goblet in his grave.   

Warham th'archbishop once of Canterbery,  
The Iron bars upon the bridge bestowed:  
Warner the copings did re-edify,  
And many since their liberal minds have showed,  
Whose deeds in life (if deeds can heaven merit)  
Made them in death all heavenly joys inherit.   

Thus Medway by this fair stone bridge adorned,  
Made Thamesis enamoured of her beauty:  
All other rivers England had he scorned,  
Yielding to her kind love-deseruing duty,  
In smiles, embracements, gracious looks and greetings,  
In amorous kisses, murmurs, night-set meetings.   

But how he courted, how himself he carried,  
And how the favour of this Nymph he won,  
And with what pomp Thames was to Medway married.  
Sweet Spenser shows (O grief that Spenser's gone!)  
With whose life heavens a while enriched us more,  
That by his death we might be ever poor.   

With swifter currant Medway to this day  
From Maidstone runs, in hope the bridge to kiss,  
One stream another chase fast away,  
That thousands hasting of their purpose miss:  
And down the gullet all in anger glide,  
Yet turn in whirlpools round, to view her side.   

One stream stands kissing with a naked pillar,  
Whose force rebutts the stream which runneth after,  
And back retires, with glancing looks to fill her  
Long-wished desire; and smiles, and falls to laughter,  
Last (in her language) when she slides away,  
She seems to thank me for her marriage day.   

With thanks the gods, with thanks good men are pleased,  
And thanks she gives him that this bridge first founded:  
Because this rest her weary stream hath eased,  
And now with oars her sides are never wounded,  
But thankful she, unthankful all the town,  
The cause (no doubt) was once the bridge fell down.   

Jove's issue borne of fair Eurynomes,  
Mirth's naked mothers, snowwhite Charites:  
Daughters of th' Ocean, rivers Presides,  
The pride of Deserts, sweet mouthed Naides,  
These Nymphs of Ashdon forest never haunted  
Medways flowered banks; whilst this fair bridge she wanted   

For goddesses could not abide the savour  
Of millions overwhelmed in her brook:  
These deyties now take it for a favour,  
Their beauty in her glassy streams to look,  
All do rejoice; and are most thankful; man  
Which should be thankful, most unthankful than.   

Let mariners which shoot his arches through  
Describe aright, his length, his breadth, his beauty;  
Riding in's sight, they vail their bonnet low,  
And strike their topsail in submissive duty:  
he'll not be braved; no vessel since the marriage  
Will he receive, but of a lowly carriage.   

Some higher ship, whose sails are swollen with pride,  
Whose bloody flags like fiery streamers hang,  
At Chattam lies, and from her hollow side,  
With double charge sends forth a culvering,  
Which rends the shore, and makes the town to shake,  
The bridge her breath, herself in snuff doth take.   

The fiery smoke this Engine vomits out,  
To him transported by the air and wind,  
He strait receives; and prisons in throughout  
His hollow vaults, his crevices, and rinds,  
So th'air redoubling in his arches, slips  
A mocking echo to these prouder ships.   

This bridge revives my dying memory,  
Over the which I pass into the town,  
To view the sacred church of Trinity:  
Built by Sir Robert Knowles: and (though unknown)  
That Chauntrey joining to the same I founded,  
Where Harmony for ever should be sounded.   

Sweet Harmony supposed of pythagoreans,  
To be the spheres and heavenly body's motion,  
Of Platonists, Amphibolites, and jovians,  
A Simmetrie within the soul's sharp notion:  
Heavens handmaid, one of the liberal arts  
A concord, all of disagreeing parts.   

Soule-drowning pleasure ravisher of sense,  
Elysium's Anthem, court-enchanting spell,  
Our novice lady-woing eloquence,  
The fetcher of Eurydice from hell,  
The coward's courage to uphold his arms,  
The valiant man's encountering fresh alarms.   

The joy to griefe-accloyd calamity,  
Thebes singing Siren to display her banners,  
Prisoners comfort in cold misery,  
Cares cozener, reformer of the manners;  
In sorrow, smart, exilement, hunger, anguish,  
An helper, lest we faint, despair, or languish.   

Wench-wanton jove, and fair Electraes' daughter,  
Of seven stars, the seventh not appearing,  
Empress of solace, greatest Queen of laughter,  
Venus' white dove, and Mars his only dearing,  
Why am I thus in thy remembrance rotten,  
And in thy sweet saint-pleasing songs forgotten?   

Had some fierce Lioness by the Libyan so untaines,  
Or black-mouthed barking Scylla brought thee forth,  
On flinty Etnaes' sulphur-flaming mountains:  
By Tigers nursed in th'ice congealed north,  
Thou couldst not be more frozen hearted hateful,  
Injurious more, less loving, more ungrateful.   

Neptune obtaining but his Amphitrite,  
By the Dolphin's means in heavens azure frame;  
In the remembrance of this benefit:  
Ten star● compacted by the Dolphin's name;  
Nor Gods, nor men, but Clowns, illiterate, rude,  
Would thus be poisoned with ingratitude.   

O but I hear thy notes Angelical,  
On Orpheus' silver-sounding Harp excuse thee,  
Whose strained ditties most melodical  
Tell me, the world in dotage doth abuse me:  
The world is old, and I more old in name,  
Old age, by youth's preserved, not by the same.   

The time's in dotage, and the world in years,  
This organ-aged little world man,  
Which cradle-witted infant-waxen pears,  
Grey coated, fond, pale, hoary, feeble, wan,  
Bald, dry, diseased, rheumatic, and cold:  
Therefore the world is earthly doting old.   

He that lies well, doth well this ill age fit,  
he's a bare fool which speaks the naked Truth;  
The one wise folly, th'other foolish wit:  
This stripling world is always thus in youth:  
Such wisdome's doting, doting's frosty cold:  
Therefore the world is foolish doting old.   

Old age within her heart a Fox doth hold,  
A Kite in hand; a Bee within her breast,  
Fox false, deceives, kite greedy, catch thee would,  
Be angry, stings, believed, come near, depressed;  
These signs all show within this world I could,  
Therefore the world is crooked dooting old.   

She builds high roofs with ruins of the Church,  
Sells lies for nothing, Nothing for too much;  
Faith for three farthings, t'have thee in the lurch:  
she's meal mouthed, simple, scarce abiding touch.  
First she is greedy, next, her craft behold:  
Therefore the world is wily doting old.   

When for a look she will be in the law,  
To take the wall, is by the wall to die,  
At a great word she will her poniard draw,  
Look for the pink if once thou give the lie,  
Is she not angry, hot, audacious bold?  
Therefore the world is testy doting old.   

'tis greedy, first, which usurers will nourish,  
'tis crafty, layers lie not to the truth,  
'tis angry, Fencers every where do flourish,  
Craft, anger, usury, never seen in youth:  
In crabbed age these vices we behold,  
Doubtless the world is wondrous doting old.   

But all the world in question is not called,  
For art can varnish o'er decayed nature,  
Old men have hair, and many young men bald,  
Yet periwigs and painting help their feature,  
In nature weak, in art the world's strong,  
The world in age again thus waxeth young.   

When great Apollo shows his threefold might,  
And by his issue dayly's made the younger  
Keeping his virtue, influence, and light,  
May not man think thereby to live the longer▪  
No, he's a father, though his chin be bare,  
But man's a monster if he want his hair.   

Time was of old, when all of us were young,  
Then we learned much, for little were we knowing,  
When riper years and manhood made us strong,  
Then we knew much, and more still would be showing,  
Age knows all well, do nothing well it would  
In virtue young the world, in knowledge old.   

Our fixed stars, a purblind old man's eyes,  
The air's a gnastie old man's breath ill smelling,  
Water a rheum in dropsy when he lies,  
Valleys rough wrinkles, mountains gouty swelling:  
The earth a sleepy old man's long-kept dregs,  
Men now a feeble old man's windy eggs.   

Let us but look into the giant's age,  
Dansk Corioneus English Albion,  
Or Titan's brood which 'gainst the heavens did rage,  
Fierce Lentesmophius, Effra, Gration.  
These were the world's first youthful progeny,  
To these our men are an Epitome.   

Whose digged up relics, if we but behold,  
Do we not wonder at their ribs or teeth?  
Like props and millstones: so our issue old  
Will wonder at our greatness which she seeth,  
Now are we dwarves, they will be pismires then,  
This is the fumbling of our age● men.   

Nor thou fair frame with azure lines thick quoted,  
Bright heaven thy swift orbicular round motion,  
(As Linceus-eyde Astronomers have noted:)  
From East to West keeps not thy revolution,  
Seven stars their seats have left, and lost some light:  
The world is old when heaven is dim of sight.   

Jove's gone to Libra from his amorous maid,  
And Mercury thou'rt fled to Scorpio then  
From Scorpio, Saturn to the Shooters strayed,  
Mars loathes the crab, lies in the lion's den:  
How can the course of this our world go even:  
When all this odds and jarring is in heaven?   

Pure, thin, and pleasing, was the airs first breath,  
Now thick, gross, noisome 'tis whereon we feed,  
A vile contagious mist which can unneath  
But pestilence or worse diseases breed:  
If sickness thus infect her from the skies,  
Then the world's old, and on her death bed lies.   

The water famous by a Nymphs fair name,  
Of some foule-leprous body now's the lees:  
The sea a sink, and rivers to the same  
Are rotten pipes, so fountains in degrees,  
The world o'reworne, unwholesome, for new birth  
She must return needs to her grandam earth.   

Our grandam earth whose forehead is o'er thwarted,  
With highways bald, whose back huge buildings sway,  
Whose bellie's stuffed with piles of men departed  
Bowelled, pulled out, and garbisht every day,  
Heaven, earth, air, water, man, the world and all,  
Are doting old and must to ruin fall.   

Deceitful world, bloodthirsty, covetous,  
Bleare-eyde, misshaped, untoward, impious,  
Three-legd, treble-tonged, bifronted, traitorous,  
Backe-broken, bald, enuie-swolne, oblivious,  
Air, water, putriside, heaven, earth, infectious,  
To gods, to men, and to thyself injurious.   

Wax old and die what? dost thou want a tomb?  
Into thy Chaos back again return:  
And thus twice child perhaps thou mayst becoome,  
Wax old, a new the sooner to be borne,  
Mean while increase, thou mayst decrease thereby,  
At length wax old, and last for ever die.   

Die thou for ever with thy harmony,  
Extenuate no more worths matchless deeds,  
Rochester blot me out of memory,  
Let Cobham have disdain for worthy medes:  
For slave-borne peasants are for worthies deemed  
And worthies worse than peasants are esteemed.   

Jove's Purfivant; nimble Mercurius,  
The prolocutor of my worlds won glory,  
Swift as Medusa's flying Pegasus:  
Hear now (O hear) the process of my story,  
Grieved at the world, in anger overjoyed,  
My just complaint I almost had forgot.   

Look when the sun most bridegroom like doth rise,  
Soon as the morn unbarres her crystal gate:  
So Bullingbrooke unto the gazer's eyes,  
Riseth in Richard's royal chair of state,  
Whose rising was the cause that millions fell,  
That we in peace, and endless pleasure dwell.   

Great Bolingbrooke this type of chivalry,  
In aiding false-faith-breaking Orleans,  
Against the hot assault of Burgundy,  
Whose civil wars near drive him out of France,  
To higher honour willing me to call,  
Of all the forces made me general.   

Then led I war mailde up in sheets of brass,  
Drawn in a Chariot with amaze and horror,  
Whose fiery steeds Bellona stern would lash,  
To strike the Frenchmen in an uncouth terror;  
Fear, clamour, wrath, wars followers but assembled,  
The French astonished, turned back and trembled.   

Burgundy stonisht, which so proudly vaunted,  
Turned back and trembled, turning war to peace,  
So much our soldiers sight his courage daunted,  
So much the Frenchmen loved to live at ease:  
How would these warriors than have feared to fight,  
When with out looks whole myriads took their flight   

Mark what ensues (for marking it deserves,)  
With this days honour Orleans not content,  
But from his oath and near alliance swerves;  
And a bold challenge to king Henry sent:  
But once forsworn and be forsworn for ever:  
A Traitor once will be a subject never.   

Henry (to calm the Sea of war) betrayed,  
Rebates the edge of choler with advise;  
Most mildly answers to the challenge made:  
So of himself the Conqueror did rise.  
Which conquest is a far more kingly boast,  
Then for to brag the conquering of an host.   

Proud Orleans marching with six thousand strong,  
(For hate deep rooted hardly left in Frenchmen)  
Besieged the Town of Vergie three months long:  
Three hundred English only there entrenched then:  
Of which small force, (in force great to withstand hers,)  
I and Sir Robert Antfield were commanders.   

Three months expyred, mind-loftie Orleans  
Saw that his soldiers courage 'gan recoil,  
With that retired his forces back to France,  
Without all honour, victory, or spoil.  
All Given since for saving of their Town,  
Long time gave tribute unto England's Crown.   

With Thomas Percy Worcester's brave Earl,  
Against the French again I went to fight:  
Percy of bold adventurous knights the pearl:  
Many to sword; but more we put to flight.  
In wars abroad, in civil broils at home,  
Oldcastle still selected was for one.   

Then high-resolued Hotspur Scotland's terror,  
The child of Mars and magnanimity;  
The throne of fame, wars palm, & knighthood's mirror,  
Joined with the Yorkists, made a mutiny.  
Thus ill to worse, and worse to wo●se did fall,  
Worst to rebellion, which was worse than all.   

To raise all people sooner to commotion,  
The Archbishop let the commons understand,  
In guileful Rhetoric that it was devotion,  
Which caused them take these homebred wars in hand.  
This ever is a Rebels chief pretence,  
To vail his treason o'er with innocence.   

Look how a Swarm of hony-gathering Bees,  
(The Muse's birds) leaving their luscious bowers,  
Follow their king in order and degrees,  
Until they find some arbour decked with flowers:  
And then they murmur, hum, and all rejoice:  
Even so the Commons yielding, made a noise.   

And followed Percy to these civil broils,  
Who made no doubt of Henry's victory:  
Emboldened by Scotland's late-won spoils,  
Yet left him slain behind at Shrewsbury:  
And all the Army, venturous, valorous, bold,  
Hot on the spur, now in the spur lie cold.   

If this deserve a conquerors praise,  
For with a Conquest this may make comparison;  
Engirt my temples with triumphant bay:  
'Gainst Percy than I led a garrison.  
Percy so called; because he pierced the eye  
Of the Scots king, and set Northumber's free.   

priest then I was with john of Lancaster,  
virtues Pyramids, fame's imagery.  
We vanquished our foes at Doncaster  
With wisdom, not with rash temerity.  
'tis often seen, ill-pleasing accidents  
Proceed from rage and harebrained hardiments.   

No day which would not me to wars importune,  
No wars, but got palme-crowned victory;  
No victory, but brought her handmaid fortune;  
No fortune, but enlarged my dignity.  
Days, wars, victory, fortune, and renown,  
Called me so high, to cast me lower down.   

On Sea the mild-aspecting heavens would guide me,  
(Whereon who fares may not command his ways;  
Cherubs on earth, and Seraphins would hide me  
Under their broad gold-flaming winged rays,  
On Sea, on Land, the Heavens, and Angels all,  
First favoured me, at last to make me fall.   

Fall, ah! no fall, but honour-climing stair,  
stair, ah no stair; but prince-ascending Throne,  
Throne, ah no throne; but Jove's gold-scorning chair,  
Chair, ah no chair; but Heaven herself alone:  
That no tongue, mind, nor Art, can tell, think, measure,  
My crowned, soule-pleasing, sweet, joy, mirth, & pleasure.   

The radiant Eos which so brightly shone,  
Whose lamps enlightened all this Hemisphare:  
Henry the fourth unto Elisium's gone;  
Of whose departure England 'gins to fear  
Her soddain fall; and judged by outward sign,  
Henry the fifth would lose his father's shine.   

Look how the Sun's approach doth overshade  
The lesser stars from intercourse of sight;  
But from the world's quick-ere the Sun conveyed,  
The Stars receive from him their former light.  
Stars by the Sun; Sun in the stars be graced,  
In Sun, in Stars, heavens sunbright glori's placed.   

Henry the fifth even thus did rise, whose shine  
Of virtue, dimmed all kings before him quite,  
He being barred from his glorious shrine;  
Their memory reviv'd, and shone more bright:  
Thus they by him, and he in them was graced,  
In them, in him, fair England's glory placed.   

Now one, by none, but one makes all illustrious,  
One the first mover of this firmament,  
In ruling all her orbs and spheres industrious;  
Sun, stars, all planets are to her obedient;  
Like the first mover as she now appears,  
O that she might all England move his years.   

When Henry, first enjoyed th'imperial Crown,  
A blazing Comet in the West appeared;  
At which strange vision, pointed streaming down:  
The common sort Artignorant much feared.  
A cause, or sign, some said 'twas, to portend,  
The kingdoms fall, or kings untimely end.   

Our sharper wits supposed thus Ovid wrested  
The fable of foolhardy Phaeton,  
When some huge Comet was dissolved and wasted,  
Great heat, and dryness following thereupon,  
For want of water so the world burned,  
But upside down the Sun's carr never turned.   

This all-affrighting Comet I have heard  
To be the plighted tress of Meropes,  
Or staring hairs within the curled beard  
Of Vulcan's apprentice swarthy Steropes.  
Be what it will, thus much I do define,  
Of kingdoms fall 'tis neither cause nor sign.   

A Comet is an earth-agreeing vapour,  
Drawn by the power attractive of some star,  
Fired by the Sun's beams, burneth like a taper:  
Seen in the supreme region of the air:  
Turning those beams, receiveth form withal,  
Bearded, or trest, or stretching forth his tail.   

Why should a mist-hung Star-exhaled Meteor  
To kings, or kingdoms be prestigious?  
Whose cause is not above the power of Nature:  
Why should it seem to men prodigious?  
Unless we would this Axiom reject,  
A natural cause, a natural effect.   

In Europe many Comets have we seen  
foreruning kings, nor kingdoms overthrow,  
And kings with kingdoms vanquished have been,  
When never Comet in the Air did show.  
To prophesy from Comets, or divine,  
'tis foolery, they neither cause nor sign.   

If ever sheild-shapt Comet was portent  
Of Critic day, foul and pernicious:  
Then to the Frenchmen, this assign was sent,  
Disaster, fatal, inauspitious:  
Whose bloody tresses tilting did foreshow,  
At Agincourt their bloody overthrow.   

Or else it was (would it had never been,)  
But the forerunner of my Tragedy:  
And heavens saw (oh had they never seen)  
I should solicit nimble Mercury,  
To engrave my words upon the hardest mettle,  
Whose Characters in hearts of steel may settle.   

Which when heavens saw, (what doth not heavens see?  
With rain of tears she seems my case to weep,  
Using all means, but all means would not be,  
From death ensuing danger me to keep.  
But hard it is for heavens to prevent,  
When destinies for death give once consent.   

My Destinies are set in parliament,  
Above their heads a curious frame of stone:  
Marble below, and during Adamant,  
On each side flint, and softer object none,  
Save that in chairs of hardest oak they sat,  
In steed of wooll-packes near the barred gate.   

In scarlet vestments winter-coloured tresses,  
Iron their wands, of brass their writing table,  
Pens made of tin; for ink strong aqua fortis,  
Their paper steel, their carpet Indian sable,  
Their countenance like Caiphas, moved to ruth;  
For god, religion, valour, age, nor youth.   

In Paul's thus sat this universal Synod  
The chief Archbishop Thomas Arundel,  
More stern than Minos, Aeacus, or Herode,  
Like Rhadamant the grim-faced judge of hell:  
In the first year of Henry's happy reign,  
Last of my joy, and middle of my pain.   

First the forsworn inquisitors sent to them,  
Of Wickleves (as they termed them) villainies,  
Ouf of whose books they did collect, to show them  
Two hundred sixty and six heresies;  
All strike dumb, they stared as if their eyes  
Should for an answer then entreat the skies.   

To stop the world's talkative wide mouth,  
Wherefore they sat upon this convocation,  
They hired men to blazon for a much,  
It was all for the church's reformation;  
Thus mischief will her vice in virtue mother,  
Blearing men's eyes with one deceit or other.   

For first the sun dissolve might with his beams,  
The icy bulk of way less Caucasus,  
On whose snowy mantled top it never gleams,  
Then these frostbitten prelate's sembled thus  
Would otherwise have all their causes ended,  
But as before the Synod they pretended.   

Nay Mercury, if with thy charming wand,  
Thou hadst descended from the Olimpique spheres,  
To plead for pity, at their feet to stand.  
With both thine eyelids full of swelling tears,  
This sense-beguiling action had but ended,  
My judgement as before it was pretended.   

Before these deep-brained allforeseeing Doctors,  
These reverent father's purgatory teachers,  
I was complained of by the general proctors,  
To be a great maintainer of good preachers.  
O times untaught, men scorners of sound teaching,  
Lovers of plays, and loathers of good preaching.   

That Richard, Henry's both I had informed,  
Of the clergies great and manifold abuses:  
That popish bulls and ceremonies scorned,  
Rooms dignity, her rites, and sacred uses,  
And that I wished the pope's dominion,  
Might stretch no surr than Calais O●●an.   

That I had caused W●ckleues books be sent,  
Fair writ, to Boheme, France, and Germany,  
Whereof two hundred openly were brent  
By Prages Archbishops great authority,  
That I preferred up Bills in Parliament,  
Where to the King and Lords gave all consent.   

Of all the Clergies villainous abusion,  
Which I put up in open Parliament,  
Writ in a briefe-containing sharp conclusion,  
These verses were the summary content,  
Whose souls with sin empoisning hate did anguish,  
That they ne'er left me till th●y law me languish.   

Plangunt Auglorum Gentes crimen Sodomorum,  
Paulus fert horum sunt idola causa malorum,  
Surgunt ingrati Grezite symone nati,  
N●m●ne pr●lati, hoc def●nsare parati,  
Qui reges esti●, populis quicunque praestis,  
Qualiter hijs estis gladios prohibere potestis.   

Bewail may England sin of Sodomites,  
For Idols and they, are ground of all their woe,  
Of Simon Magus a sect of hypocrites,  
Surnamed Prelates are up with them to go,  
And to uphold them in all that they may do:  
You that be rulers peculiarly selected,  
How can you suffer such mischiefs uncorrected?   

Now least delay bred danger, they were priest,  
For to proclaim me for an heretic.  
But one of more experience than the rest,  
Such hazard rash proceedings did not like,  
Because I was in favour with the King,  
'twas best (he thought) to have his counciling.   

My life-surmising Bishops swollen in rage,  
Ambitiously (high Prelate's lowliness)  
As if they'd vowed sin-pard'ning pilgrimage,  
With tapers to Saint Peter's holiness,  
Went to the king, made great complaints and lies,  
Blemished my name with grievious blasphemies.   

Which when he heard (kings then too much would hear them)  
Then he desired (why should not kings command)  
In mild-perswading words and deeds to bear them  
To me the chiefest pillar of his land,  
Unto the church to bring me without rigour,  
Respecting knighthood prowesie, stock, and vigour.   

And promised them upon his excellence,  
(If in pursuit they took deliberation,)  
In smoother-edge-rebating eloquence  
To conquer me by might of sweet persuasion:  
The clergy gone, Henry for Cobham sent,  
I came, and show'd myself obedient.   

Look how some tender bleeding-harted father,  
When's son hath vowed a vertue-gaining voyage,  
Flint-rock-relenting arguments will gather  
All to dissuade him from this pilgrimage,  
And prays, entreats; entreats, and prayers vain,  
At length considers 'tis for virtues gain.   

Yet 'bout his neck he useth kissing charms,  
And down his bosom rains a shower of tears,  
Hugs, culles, and clips him in his aged arms:  
This thing he doubts, another thing he fears,  
Takes leave, turns back, returns, entreats anew,  
Gives over, weeps, and last, bids him a dew.   

Even so the king, to stay my voyage tended,  
(My vowed voyage to the holy land,)  
Ten thousand reasons both begun and ended,  
That 'gainst the Pope I should in no wise stand:  
Then vows, prays, treats; vows, treats, and prayers vain  
From prayers, treats, and vows he doth refrain.   

To whom I answered in humility,  
(Because I knew kings were the Lords anointed)  
To him I yielded all supremacy,  
As Gods sword-bearing minister appointed:  
My body, goods, my life, my love, my land  
Were his to use, distribute, or command.   

Then in a sorrow-sighing ecstasy,  
(Seeing my zealous burning true affection,)  
Denying to the Pope supremacy,  
Yielding to him foote-treading low subjection)  
Henry took leave turned back, entreated new,  
Gave over, wept, and last bade me adieu.   

If tyrants will, usurped authority  
Must be obeyed, what reverence me behoved  
To give this king, this tyrant's enemy,  
Feared for love, and for his virtues loved,  
Whose honours ensign o'er the world had spread him,  
In wars, and peace, if church men had not led him.   

And tyrants tended on with injury,  
With murders, rapes, loved only but for fear,  
Whose sword and sceptre guards iniquity,  
Ought t'have their subjects reverence to them bear,  
As we ourselves, so must the common wealth,  
Some sickness, sometimes suffer, sometimes health.   

As some disease, or bed infecting bile,  
Whose pricking ache, sharp agony, and stings,  
Must be sustained and suffered for a while,  
Till time to his maturity him brings,  
Not rashly then, but as the Surgeon will,  
Lest sudden handling all the body spill.   

Even so a Tyrant (Realms infectious bile,)  
Must not be robbed of his regality,  
Till death him of his regiment beguile:  
Or wise men for this grief find remedy:  
Not rashly then, for altering of a State  
Breeds often outrage, bloodshed, and debate.   

Even as the head the body should command,  
And all his parts, to peace or warfare lead▪  
So with a mighty Monarch doth it stand,  
His subjects parts, and he himself the head:  
But if those parts do grudge and disobey,  
Head, body, Monarch, subjects, all decay.   

A God, a King, are convertible voices,  
Then Kings like Gods should govern and bear sway:  
What Giants brood in uproar so rejoices,  
That 'gainst the Gods his banners will display?  
Though with his huge weight Pelion Ossa priest,  
And fought with jove, he never got the best.   

How many blessed patriarchs suffered wrong  
By cruel Tyrants sin-revenging rod?  
And have endured such heavy bondage long,  
Accounting it a torture sent from God.  
The Tyrant as a man may be rejected,  
His place and office yet must be respected.   

What punishment for practising belongs?  
But punishment, nor practice will I name:  
Men more do follow most forbidden wrongs;  
When by forbidding they do know the same.  
For Parricide the romans made no Law,  
Lest such a sin the people so might knaw.   

Now Arundel resorts unto the King,  
By Popish charms enchanting him thereto,  
To send Cytations, fore them me to bring.  
(What was it not but Clergy men could do?)  
The Sumner came to Cowling, but as one  
Afraid, turned back his message left undone.   

The King's doorkeeper (in the silent night,)  
john Butler sent for was by Arundel:  
For this heaven-martyring deed he doubtless might  
In Cerberus place have kept the door of Hell.  
With great rewards, and warrantise from blame,  
He caused him city me in king Henry's name.   

This kiss-betraying judas writ I stood,  
Who with a lie thus left me in the lurch:  
But still the Bishop thirsty of my blood,  
Caused writs be set on Rochester's great Church.  
In pain of curse commanding me remember,  
To appear at Lede● th'eleventh of September.   

All were rend down. He excommunicates  
And cities a fresh with curse and interdiction,  
Compels the Lay power: them he animates  
T'assist him in Apostates conviction.  
In more reproach and vile contempt to have me;  
Such like opprobrious names the Bishop gave me.   

At last (thus tossed) I writ my faith's confession,  
Unto the four chief Articles answered:  
Of Penance, Shrift, Saints, transubstantiation,  
Which 'gainst me all by Arundel were laid.  
I come to Court and written with me bring,  
My Swans last funeral dirgee to the king.   

Which to receive Henry began to grudge:  
(Mark but the power of Clergy men those days)  
Commanding me deliver it to my judge  
(Here Arundel both sword and mitre sways)  
The Archbishop: But with a flat denial,  
I did appeal unto the Pope for trial.   

But this denie in presence of the king,  
(Without vainglorious ostentation,)  
I proffered an hundredth Knights to bring,  
esquires as many, for my just purgation.  
Not once depending on their safe protection,  
But to the King show dutiful subjection.   

Again I offered in my faiths true quarrel,  
By law of Arms to fight for life or death,  
With Christ'n, Heathen, Turk, jew, Infidel:  
The king excepted, any that drew breath.  
They answered me, I was too valorous bold.  
Then in the Tower they laid me fast in hold.   

Valour the son of mighty jove esteemed  
Where bloody Mavors borroweth his name,  
Of old Philosophers only virtue deemed:  
Learning's bright shield, the register of Fame.  
Which to express the Grecians could afford,  
For Valour, Mavors, Virtue, but one word.   

Death scorning Arioth, why is not regarded  
Thy Sun-resplendant kingdom conquering power?  
Is Mars-amazing Tournaments rewarded  
With Traitor's meed impris'nment in the Tower?  
From bearing Arms valour hath me exempted;  
Why was my challenge else not then accepted?   

Sir Robert Morley then the Tower's Lieutenant,  
Twice (to be brief) did bring me to appear;  
In Pluto's court before this Rhadamant:  
The Arguments of my strong faith to hear.  
Yet he no faith had, was it not a wonder,  
That he was faithless, all the Church Faith under?   

In all mine answers taking great advise,  
As a true faith-professing Protestant,  
Not superstitious, nor too fond precise,  
Whose firm resolve no tyranny can daunt.  
So with mine answers as it seemed amazed,  
My judgement on the sudden forth they blazed.   

To heavens all seeing light upon my knees,  
(The sentence given) humbly did I fall,  
With heau'd-vp hands prayed for mine enemies;  
In his great mercy to forgive them all:  
Bond hand and foot back through the Sluice I'm led,  
The gazer's eyes like sluices in his head.   

Whilst there I lie in midnight-dark immured,  
My friends emblazoned forth mine injurie●  
Whereby the Priests great obloquy incurred,  
Both of the Commons, and Nobility,  
In policy, to have this tempest stayed,  
They to my Bills an abjuration made.   

A parliament was called at Leicester,  
(Because I had such favour 'bout the city;  
They would not have it kept at Westminster:  
This act established was; O more than pity,  
That such strange acts should be established ever,  
Which man from wife, from goods & lands doth sever.   

That whosoever in the mother's tongue,  
Should read, or hear, the sacred Scriptures scanned:  
For this so heinous heaven-offending wrong,  
From him, his heirs, should lose his goods and land;  
'Gainst Heavens, and 'gainst the King's great majesty,  
He should be hanged for treason, burnt for heresy.   

O murder-poisned ruthless Rhadamants,  
Blood thirsty Nero's, brainsick Bacchides,  
Earth swallowed Typhons, currish Coribants,  
Beare-fostered Dracons, damned Busirides.  
Live by your evil, know for evil done,  
lives with the father, dies not with the son.   

Now to release my body from the Tower,  
(How might the Tower include so old a castle)  
Case-altring bribes I used not, strength, nor power;  
But with my wit, out of her bonds I wrestle.  
The apprentice bard of freedom thus adventures,  
To break his bonds and cancel his indentures.   

Riches in thraldom no contentment bring,  
All lordship's lost when liberty is gone,  
What vaileth it a lion be a king?  
Closely shut up within this tower of stone,  
Man was made free, and lord o'er every creature:  
To be in bondage then, is 'gainst his nature.   

The husband man more glad is at the plough,  
That brownebread crusts, and resty bacon eats:  
Then th'imprisoned king that hath enough,  
Of wastel cakes; and far more luscious meats.  
No bird takes solace by her songs in hold,  
Although her meat be curds, her cage of gold.   

Nor unto me that lay in prison bound,  
In music mirth was: or in riches pleasure,  
jingling of fetters had no merry sound,  
My grief too much, for joys on earth to measure,  
But now I'm free; my keeper he remains  
To taste my sorrows; undergo my pains.   

Nor can I judge, I being missed the morrow,  
His grief's extreme, though foolishness it be,  
For treasure lost, to wail, or make great sorrow:  
When, whosoever grieves in that degree,  
Counting his loss, and afterward his pain,  
He of one sorrow maketh sorrows twain.   

But the remembrance of my prisonment,  
In little ease fast bound in iron chains,  
Did breed more comfort, joy, and souls content,  
When liberty had looseness of the rains,  
One by another contraries delight,  
Day is delightsome in respect of night.   

And though I am escaped from the Tower,  
Fear yet my soul in prison fast doth hold,  
Other mishaps pursue me every hour,  
Burnt child dreadeth fire, the proverb's old,  
Who dreads no danger, in danger must fall,  
What fool once at large, would make himself thrall?   

Sir Roger Acton, in the priest's displeasure,  
Of my escape was thought the chief procurement:  
Only when 'twas the night, which gave me leisure,  
(Whose shade for freedom, is the sole allurement:)  
To think of slight, effecting what I thought,  
With both together my escape I wrought.   

Night the beginning of this massy round,  
The world's mother, shadow of the earth,  
Great Demogorgon's issue from the ground,  
The ancientest of Goddesses by birth,  
lovers delight; loves fittest time to play,  
Venus' bright star, and Cupid's clearest day.   

The ease of care, for ease the sweetest rest,  
The peace of mind, the quiet seat of peace,  
The soul of sleep, the sleep of souls oppressed,  
Desires best mean, impris'nments release:  
Above all nights, nights, days, each hour remember,  
To solemnize the twentieth of November.   

Mounting her chariot of dark Ebony,  
Whilst thorn-backt Cynthia held her sennets rain,  
Adorned in her winter's livery,  
Of stars three millions following as her train,  
She rocked the world with sense-sure-binding sleeps,  
And bade me launch forth to the Ocean deeps.   

Tide for the ship, and ship was for the tide,  
Wind for the tide, and tide was for the wind,  
For Neptune men, and Neptune them to guide,  
Thames wanton-currant stealing on behind,  
Night, Neptune, men, ship, tide, the Thames, and wind,  
For my escape were all in one combined.   

And whilst I cut this dangerous swelling source,  
The brest-bare-love-enticing Naiedes,  
Play on before me, and direct my course  
To the dew-bedangled Oceanitides,  
For whose sweet sake I'm entertained a stranger,  
And harmless saved from waves, from wind, from danger.   

What time the gloomy morning from her bed,  
Muffled in mists, and raukie vapours rose,  
With watery locks about her shoulders spread  
Regardlessely; because she did suppose  
Our quivering flags and streamers did outbrave  
The golden sun, upon the silver wave.   

I road on goodwin's mercie-wanting sand,  
Or seaman's swallowing gulf drunk Hecates,  
And like Ulysses to his dearest land,  
I scoured the Sulla's and Simphlegades,  
Arriving at my wished-for haven Dover,  
And thorough Kent to Cowling I came over.   

Ship, slice the sea, and be thou deified,  
Shine brightest on this starre-bestudded vail,  
In heaven more worthy to be stellified,  
Than that wherein the Argonauts did sail:  
Let frothy waves die o'er thy pitchy black,  
And in Elysium's deep last suffer wrack.   

But home, no harbour was for mine estate;  
I'm still pursued so with mine enemies,  
ere thrice the sun did open his Eastern gate,  
I with my household were constrained to slay:  
Tost long upon the Bishop's Sea, at last  
near to saint Alban's, we our anchor cast.   

But by misfortune 'twas the Abbot's land,  
Whereas we lay; so by his privy spies,  
The fat-backed tumbril soon did understand,  
And unawares a sleep did us surprise,  
Three of my men he took, my books, my wife,  
Only with one I fled, and saved my life.   

My men to treat the Abbot now begin,  
My Margarites beauty, streaming on his face,  
Fairness no favour in his sight would win,  
Their words no pity move, their looks no grace:  
Then the 'gan speak, but spoke unto the wind,  
Remorse did never lodge in clownish mind.   

Dumb stood my dove, and wrung her hands, whilst often  
Low kneeling down, tears from her eyes did shower:  
Hard is that heart which beauty cannot soften,  
Yet mourning beauty had on him no power:  
Although her tears were like his crystal beads,  
Which melted, wash the place whereon he treads.   

Still she entreats, and still the pearls round  
Still through her eyes, and well upon her face,  
Such honey drops, on roses I have found,  
When bright Apollo held the morn in chase:  
But both the charms, of tears and sugared words,  
For their release no aid at all asordes.   

Thus kneeled, thus prayed, thus wept my beauteous Queen,  
To see my loving men's imprisonment:  
Thus wished she; rather that they might have seen  
Her dying day, or endless banishment:  
And in remembrance I was missed among,  
Her weakened sorrows thereby grew more strong.   

But now the limbeck of her bloodshot eyes,  
Burnt up with sighs, their springing tears have stayed,  
No hope of life in her the Abbot sees;  
So back to Cowling safe she was conveyed:  
She drowps, she faints, she swownds, she comfort flieth,  
I was her comfort, comfortless she dieth.   

I travel still, like to the wandering knight  
For ladies love, on strange adventures bound,  
As counsellor I made the tongueless night  
Of my distress, which all in silence drowned,  
Lest to the world, day should my grief discover,  
I strive, until heart, eyes, sighs, tears, ran over.   

Through many by-ways, many countries fled,  
In midst of Cheshire now I'm on a river,  
By more crooked winding which her currant led,  
Then I had gone by-ways; her name the Weever:  
On whose proud bank such entertain I had,  
As longer, if I might, I would have stayed.   

Still do I wander by the banks of Weever,  
With gorgeous buildings stately rich adorned:  
Buildings the banks, and banks outbrave the River;  
She swells o'er banks and buildings, them she scorned:  
Limits there be for every thing beside,  
No banks can limit in the sea of pride.   

Her tumbling stream my guide was to vail royal,  
Through all the Wyches unto ashton's chapel,  
Frodsham, Rockesavage, Thus I had a trial,  
How she unloaded all her rolling Channel:  
With near embracements Weever, Mersey met,  
And both together th' Irish Seas they great.   

I will but wade near to this rivers brink,  
And of her deepness make this shallow boast:  
Her cooling water those dry country's drink:  
So she makes fruitful all the western coast;  
That no less famous, no less fair a river,  
Then the fifth avon, or third Ouze, is Weever.   

To Lancashire from hence my journey lies,  
Where plenty dwells, where pleasantness of Air  
Breathes forth like balm from rose-strawne Paradies;  
At the first blushing of the morning fair:  
Where beauty, virtue, love, wit, and the Graces,  
Sat all in triumph on the weemens' faces.   

I do salute this climate in my way,  
On which the heavens such favours did bestow:  
But 'twas too hot for me therein to stay,  
Except I would myself a Papist show:  
So there, through many pains and perils past,  
I'm safe returned back to Wales at last.   

Here Cobham lives, oh do not say he lives,  
But dying lives, or living hourly dies●  
A living death exilement always gives,  
A banished man still on his death bed lies.  
Mine high estate is low misfortunes grave,  
My power restrained is now a glorious slave.   

What in exilement to my sect befell,  
Deign to unfold mellifluous Mercury:  
Nay stay, why shouldst thou to the world tell,  
That with thy tongue, all eyes abhorred to see:  
Yet grief kept in ofttimes doth grow more fell,  
For rivers damned, above the bank do swell.   

This Act proclaimed and disanuld in many,  
Twice twenty hundred souls were martyred:  
Out of the land to Spain, and Germany,  
Bohemia, France, and Scotland, others fled.  
Who would not fly, what patient man can bide,  
In Clergy men ambitious haughty pride?   

Sir Roger Acton, Browne, and Beverley,  
Knight, Squire, and Preacher, valorous, virtuous, good:  
In Chr●stenmas upon Saint Thomas day,  
'Gainst certain Priests upon a quarrel stood:  
For which so heinous and inhuman wrong,  
They were attached, and into prison flung.   

Now was the month which janus hath to name,  
Of old new christened by Pompilius;  
And wondrous proud that he had got such fame;  
Added feeld-purging Februarius:  
janus bifronted, one which bids adieu  
Unto the old year, entertains the new.   

When Roger Acton, Beverley, and Browne,  
Of Heresy convicted by the Act:  
To Thicket fields upon an hurdle drawn,  
Were hanged, and burned (O more than monstrous fact:)  
And through the Realm all Artists it would cumber,  
By that fore Act the martyrs all to number.   

Some two years after was a mutiny,  
An uproar, tumult, or rebellion  
In Saint Gyles fields; the which conspiracy  
Acton and I, some do affirm begun;  
But the King's power not able to withstand,  
We fled, were taken, burned out of hand.   

Which time tree-garnisht Cambria's lofty mountains  
Did over-shade me with their beetle brows,  
And by Elysium's Nectar-spouting fountains  
Acton did march in Saint-triumphing shows:  
From Wales return I could not then to fight,  
From Heaven Acton would not if he might.   

Twice told, two twelve months now the hours have broke,  
Their morning slumbers on the Sun to tend,  
And bring his horses to the chariots yoke:  
Mark now the period of my doleful end:  
The Clergy malice (not o'erblown) will have me,  
Though heaven and earth, & all had sworn to save me.   

With lordly gifts and kingly promises  
They fed Lord Powis (governor in Wales,  
He came to me pretending holiness;  
To true Religion for a time he falls:  
And last, his judas kindness did bewray me,  
Seeking all means how that he might betray me.   

Powis his promise fain would have forsaken,  
Before the means for my attach he wrought:  
I was not one so easy to be taken,  
With his own blood his bribes he dearly bought:  
But I not able to withstand his strength,  
(Not Hercules 'gainst two) was took at length.   

In greatest grief this one thing made me glad,  
(Though hard 'tis fasten mirth with misery)  
That in mine absence Arundel was dread,  
Which was resolved before, my death to see:  
But seld comes better, he though void of grace,  
Yet was a man, the Devil came in his place.   

Thus ill at worst doth alway gi'en to mend,  
And by example good doth often gain:  
That by degrees so rising in the end,  
To perfect goodness it returns again:  
So since his time they have so risen still,  
Thriving in good, as they decayed in ill.   

Now goodness raised to her highest pitch,  
In snowwhite robes is sent us for a gift:  
The radiant splendour of this Empire rich,  
Whose shining lustre heavens doth enlight:  
O that I could a spirit in thee breath,  
Whose life preserves divinity from death.   

By Chichley Archbishop of Canterbury,  
And Bedford Prorex (oh the King was absent:)  
Of Treason I'm condemned and Heresy;  
A double crime, a double punishment:  
My judgement given; of death, the day and hour  
Appointed; I am sent back to the Tower.   

Death the pale daughter of black Erebus,  
What fashion to appear in doth not know:  
But council takes of Nox and Morpheus,  
What form most terror and amaze will show:  
Hell, Sleep, Night, Death, are troubled to devise,  
What new found shape might please these tyrant's eyes.   

Two fiery coursers foaming clottered blood,  
Whurries; at last, Death bound in iron chains;  
Whilst goblin (gaping like a whirlpool) wood,  
Do lash their gory sides, with steeled yaines:  
Blood and revenge, by in a chariot ride,  
Millions of furies scudding by their side.   

Which all at once do vomit Sulphur flakes,  
Throw scorching brands, which wrapped in brimstone, choke  
The trembling Audience; that affrighted quakes,  
To view the Sun eclipsed with steaming smoke:  
To hear devils, ghosts, and fiends howl, roar, & yell,  
Filling the earth, as though they empted hell.   

To Thickets field thus was Oldcastle hurried,  
The gallows built of purpose wondrous high:  
Near to the top of which, (as one lies buried)  
In three cold chains mine aged corpse do lie:  
The faggots fired, with me the gallows burn,  
I call on God, and to the fire I turn.   

The Prelate's curse, aloud the people cry,  
One would rebel, another him assuageth,  
One sighs, to view another's blubbered eye,  
One murmuring rails, another inly rageth,  
All weep, some howl, some faint, some swoon, some die.  
Deafing the heavens, darkening the sky.   

The bundles crack; with that the mourning Air  
Comes whisking round to cool the raging flame,  
When he perceives his breaths but bellows are,  
Rather to kindle then to cool the same:  
He turns himself to water, and he rains  
To quench the fire, and ease me of my pains.   

The fire, red-blushing of his fact ashamed,  
Clad him in Smoke, the smoke to Air he turned,  
That air to water, water earth received,  
Earth, like the fire to melt to water, burned:  
Earth, Water, air, Fire, symbolized in one,  
To quench, or cool, Oldcastles Martyrdom.   

But now I gasp, I fry, I drop, I fall,  
My Chains do yield, Spectators stand aghast,  
To make the which abhorred more of all,  
My Boots and Spurs must in the fire be cast.  
O death! strange death! which to describe at large,  
Would ask sweet Ovid's wit, and Nestor's age.   

If wits pearle-dropping Opobalsamum,  
In Amber-streaming Eloquence were dry;  
Unto my bleached cinders she might come,  
And take a fluent Helicon supply:  
Mine Ashes bathed in th'unguent of her eyes,  
A siluer-fethered Phoenix would arise.   

Ah no! my bodies snowwhite burned ashes,  
(Those harmless relics) cast were in the river;  
Whose salt-fresh-meeting waves betwixt them washes,  
Like Lethe, my remembrance not to live here:  
My virtues fame, is like my body's death,  
Kindled with a blast, and burnt out with a breath.   

And in this idle age who's once forgotten,  
Oblivion dims the brightness of his glory:  
Envy is ripe before his bones be rotten,  
And overthrows the truth of virtues story:  
Despoil's his name, and robs him of his merits;  
For nought but fame man after death inherits.   

Nor can my soul within the sable night,  
When all (but lovers) welcome careless rest:  
Like to some subtle shade, or wandering sprite,  
With gory sides, and deeper launched breast;  
Holding in tho'ne hand wildfire, in the other  
A torch, to stifle th'air with pitchy smother.   

With deep sunk eyes, lank cheeks, and pallid hue,  
Dismembered arms, sharp visage, doubtful sight,  
Enter some watchful Poets secret mew,  
His heavenly thoughts, and quiet studies fright;  
With hollow voice: commanding him set forth,  
Immortal verse for my entomblesse worth.   

Then should the world on brazen pillars view me  
with great Achilles, in the house of Fame;  
His Tutored pen with Trophies would renew me,  
And still repair the ruin of my name:  
But I'm environed with the Elysian fields,  
Which for departed souls no passage yields.   

But Wickleves soul now bears me company,  
And Jerome Prages, within the highest heaven,  
(These were my comfort in calamity)  
Whose joys (Rome says) her curses hath bereaven:  
Thus (if they could) they would deny us t'have,  
In heaven our souls, as in the earth our grave.   

jews bury him, which rails on Moses laws,  
Turks him, which worships not their Alcoran,  
Tartarians him, which Cham no reverence shawes,  
The Persians him, which worships not the sun,  
More rigorous cruel than this Romish crew:  
Then Persian, Turk, Tartarian, or Iew.   

Their dead in banquets Scythians devour,  
Their dead with dogs Hyrcanians do eat,  
Phagi with fish; with foul th' Assyrian power,  
The Troglodytes to worms are given for meat:  
More heathenish papists, they deny me t'have,  
In beast, fish, foul, in man, or worm, my grave.   

Becket was wounded in his priest's apparel,  
In Rome's defence; his death was glorious,  
I burned, unburied, drowned for Christ's own quarrel,  
My death to most was ignominious;  
He praised, adorned, and for a martyr sainted,  
Whilst I (Rome's scoff) my rites of burial wanted.   

For Beckets' sake erected was a tomb,  
Like an Egyptian high Pyramids,  
Millions of barefoot pilgrims yearly come,  
With tapers burning to his holiness,  
Till Henry th'eight by Cromwell's good procurement,  
Cast down this mocke-ape toy, this vain allurement.   

The glorious beauty of this brightest shrine,  
The treasury of everspringing gold:  
Becket is set; now doth Oldcastle shine;  
Him for a Saint within your Kalends hold.  
Thus fools admire what wisest men despiseth,  
Thus fond affects do fall, when virtue riseth.   

Wit, spend thy vigour, Poets, wits quintessence,  
Hermes make great the world's eyes with tears;  
Actors make sighs a burden for each sentence:  
That he may sob which reads, he swoon which hears.  
Mean time, till life in death you do renew,  
Wit, Poets, Hermes, Actors, all adieu.   
FINIS.