THE Unmasking of a feminine Machiavelli. By THOMAS ANDREW, Gent.  Est nobis voluisse satis. 
Seen and allowed by authority.  
LONDON Printed by Simon Stafford, and are to be sold by George Loftis, at the golden Ball in Pope's head Alley. 1604.   

D. Langworth, archdeacon of Welles.  
ALCIBIADES, right Worshipful (as Plutarch reporteth) coming to speak with Pericles on a time, was answered, that he could not then have access unto him, being very busy in studying how to make up his accounts with the Athenians. Alcibiades knowing he was deeply in their debt, said, his studies would have more profitably been employed in devising how to avoidreckoning at all. Which his saying of Pericles, may not unfitly be applied to myself, that am inventing what account to yield for the receipt of your manifold favours, for which being in no small arrearages, I might better study how to pass them over with silence, them to be found so far engaged above my ability of merit, yet knowing that you expect nothing but acknowledgement of the same, which you accept as a sufficient satisfaction, I am content, by confessing your bounty, to have exceeded the measure of my weak deservings, rather to bewray my defects i● public, then justly by silence to be taxed with the imputation of base unthankfulness. And therefore as well in testimony of my remembrance of your courtesies, as in pledge of my ●utious affection, I make bold to present these papers to your patronage: Not doubting but under your tuition, my tender Muse shallbe as safe from the sting of Detraction, as was Ulysses secure from the Greeks, being covered with Ajax Target. And thus loath longer to detain you with my rude lines, I wish you as much happiness, as you can desire, or I devise.  
Your worship's loving Nephew, Thomas Andrew.   

❧ To the virtuous, Mistress Judith Hawkins.  
TO thee that well deservest that Epithet,  
As a sure witness of my spotless love,  
These lines my true affections fruit I write,  
My faithful zeal in public to approve,  
Of thee no tongue (unless of envy hateful)  
Can speak but well, so well dost thou deserve.  
My pen, unless I should be too ungrateful,  
Must make thine live, when vulgar names shall starve  
Thy virtues shall by me in serious lays,  
Be caractred for every eye to view.  
No time shall set a period to thy praise,  
That our ingenious Muse shall still pursue:  
For thy perfections powerful vigour lent,  
Unto my thoughts even languishing & spent.  
Thomas Andrew.   

To the Reader.  
REader, being as uncertain of thy quality, as unacquainted with thy condition, I stand doubtful how to entitle thee: if thou be gentle, I most willingly afford thee thy due attribute▪ if otherwise, I will not, to insinuate, give thee one jot of addition undeserved. But howsoever, be thou friendly or froward, since this fruit of my Muse is (by the importunity of divers to her Essays entirely affected) now committed to the Press, I desire thee to know thus much from me, that I wrote not to get vulgar applause. Non ego ventosae plebis suffragia venor. Neither have I set pen to paper for profit, holding it base for a freeborn Muse to be a mercenary. I have scribbled to please mine own conceit, & not servilely to fawn on the unknown humours of other men. Some may imagine, I have written of malice to some particular person, by reason of my Titles strangeness, wherein whosoever is opinionate, is far wide: yet if any guilty conscience (that perhaps I know not) will wrest my writings, & interpret my meaning in other than the right sense, I am not to be blamed, if that creatures corruption accuse itself. As it is, accept it, & where I conclude abruptly, censure not wrongly: and so without further Ceremonies, I willingly leave my labours to the judgement of the austerest, if indifferent opinion.  
T. A.   

To Detraction.  
ILL tongued Detraction, that upon my Book  
Dost cast a hateful vituperious look,  
Read and deride, deprave and carp thy fill,  
Say that my Verse is harsh, my lines are ill:  
I pass not for thy censure, better men  
Shall judge the worth of our industrious pen.  
In spite of thee, and all that thou canst say,  
My lines shall live, when steel shall wear away:  
And when that thou raked up in dust shalt lie,  
Then through the spacious Orb our Muse shall fly:  
Although that yet she hath with motion slow,  
Taught her hiewing to keep a course but low.  
I must acknowledge, these unpolished rhymes  
Suit not the nature of our curious times,  
When each sharpsighted Critic doth disdain,  
What is not bred in his fantastic brain:  
Yet will I not with supple fawning words,  
Seek for more praise than merit just affords.  
My pen is free, and whatsoever I write,  
Proceeds essentially from my delight:  
Then let whose will, or praise, or discommend me.  
Neither can make me proud, nor yet offend me.   

In laudem Authoris, magistri Thomae Andreae, Generosi, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  
FLos nows en laetis musarum crescit in hortis  
Aspectu dulcis, dulcis odore suo:  
Laetantur musae, nil non laudabile cernunt,  
Gratus odor tentat, grata figura placet:  
His Phoebus, galeae flos hic fuit optima Martis  
Pluma, fuit galeae fama decusque suae:  
Abripui, vitamque dedi, floremque dicavi  
Vobis, en vobis crescet honore novo.  
Crescet in immensum flos hic, dicetur & olim,  
Gloria Musarum, Pieridumque decus.  
Rob. Hunt Heath-fieldensis.   

To his worthy friend, M. Thomas Andrew.  
STill may thy upreard Muses happy fruit  
In the fair bosom of this Island flourish,  
And never may thy golden tongue be mute,  
Whose speech sweet seasoned eloquence doth nourish.  
Do thou proceed but as thou hast begun,  
And thou shalt live, after thy life is done.  
E. B. Gent.   

To his respected and kind affected Friend, Mr. Thomas Andrew, Gent.  

NO hungry vain of profit or of praise  
Invites thy Muse salute the Printers Press:  
Thou dost disdain those Hackneys of our days,  
That pawn their Poetry of mere distress:  
Thy pen is but a quill of recreation,  
Which serves not thee in stead of occupation.   

But with dear bought experience tuter'st time,  
By true unmasking an incarnate Devil,  
No fiction is the subject of thy Rhyme,  
But a damned monster of deformed evil;  
Whose portreict so to life thy pen doth touch:  
I know no Pencil can perform so much.   
Samuel rowland's.  Veritas non quaerit latebras.  

The unmasking of a feminine Machiavelli.  
The Argument of this Book.  
Possessed with sleep, in silent night,  
Me thought I found a woeful wight,  
Whose heart was heavy, look was sad,  
In sorrows colours being clad,  
In a vast desert all alone,  
For his disaster making moan,  
Filling with plaints the tender air,  
Who, when to him I did repair,  
His various fortunes and estate,  
To me did mournfully relate:  
And did desire I would unfold,  
What unto me by him was told.  
Hapless Andrea was he called,  
Whose heart with sorrows deep was galled.  
What e'er I saw in that strange dream,  
My Muse hath chosen for her theme.  

Black vapoury clouds, the gloomy night attending,  
From Acheron to the stared sky ascending,  
Twixt heavens bright lamps, and th'earth were interposed,  
Darkening the rays clear Cynthia had disclosed:  
To point the wandering Pilgrims out their ways,  
Whilst Titan to th' Antipodes displays  
His glorious splendour, when from us a space  
His well-breathed Coursers run another race.  
I seeing thus the sable Curtains spread,  
Before the glittering Windows, o'er my head,  
Hearing nights Sentinel, the unlucky Owl,  
Shricke loud, thou fearless of the wondering fowl,  
Who in the day pursuing him with spite,  
Made himdetest and not endure the light.  
The green wood left where Philomela did sing,  
The lustful rapine of the Thracian king, 
ovid. Met. li. 6   
And warned by the Even that forsook me,  
As time required, unto my bed betook me,  
Wherein, poor I, of love left and forlorn,  
Did mean to rest me till the purple morn.  
By the shrill music of the timely Lark,  
Should be awaked, to drive away the dark,  
And make night in her smoky Chariot drawn,  
To yield her place to the delightful dawn,  
Ah, but though me the days long course had tired,  
I found not then the rest that I desired:  
For when light Morpheus, that gentle god,  
Had touched mine eyes with his sleep-charming rod,  
I saw such apparitions in a slumber,  
As filled my heart with pity, fear, and wonder.  
Do thou, my Muse, my drooping thoughts inspire,  
Touch my sad soul with true Promethean fire,  
And be propitious to mine Artless pen,  
That I may show the visions unto men,  
That in th' obscure and melancholy night,  
Were strangely represented to my sight:  
Into my Verse such eloquence infuse,  
That whosoever doth my lines peruse, 
Tib. Foelix quicunque dolore alterius disces posse carer● tu●   
May learn to shun false friends, finding by reason,  
The dearer trust, proves oft the deadlier treason:  
Guide my weak hand, to bring to end my task,  
From falsehoods face pull thou the whited mask.   

AT first me thought upon a sedgy bank,  
Where fennish Reeds, & Bulrushes were rank,  
That walked in a River that did glide,  
With pleasing murmur by a Forest side,  
I stood, where on the Crystal waters brim,  
Snow-whiter Swans ruffling their plumes did swim.  
Upon this fair and delectable stream,  
Might beauteous citharea's silver Team,  
Have drawn their mistress in her lightsome Car,  
That in the Air shines like a glorious star:  
So even and clear this fluent River was,  
As purest Crystal, or the smoothest Glass,  
Through whose transparence piercing with mine eye,  
A thousand fishes of all sorts I spy.  
On the sand bottom playing here and there,  
Securely swimming▪ being free from fear,  
On which, poor fools, as earnestly I look,  
Sporting themselves in the soft sliding brook,  
On their delights meaning to gaze a while,  
For a short space my sorrows to beguile,  
Such a sad sound did enter in mine ear,  
As canceled joys, and did recall my care:  
For there (me thought) a man in deep despair,  
I heard breath forth suspires into the air,  
Whose earnfull accents were no sooner gone,  
But in this doleful wise he'gan to moon:  
To plain of Time, of Fortune, and of Fate,  
Loathing his life, delight being out of date.  
My sad afflicted soul, break from my breast,  
Thy loathed prison, harbour of unrest:  
Fly from that horrid place, that doth enclose,  
Of joys not any, but a world of woes:  
So that time cannot with his course conclude,  
The pains by whom thou ever art pursued:  
But still each hour upon his airy wings,  
The sad memorial of my sorrows brings:  
Vain is their judgements that conclude and say,  
Time either takes the greatest grief away,  
Or at the least, when woes have long been borne,  
They seem the less, their anguish is outworn:  
For now the Sun hath passed seven times,  
In his progression through the watery signs,  
Since ceaseless grief did enter in my breast,  
Content that banished and excluded rest:  
In the consuming of which woeful years,  
Still cares increase, but comfort none appears:  
In stead of lessening of my sorrows vigour,  
Time gave them greater strength, & more stern rigour.  
And with Time, Fortune that respectless Dame,  
Conspired to work the downfall of my fame:  
Yet of all other why should she torment me,  
That never gave me wherewith to content me?  
To tread on him, 
Qui jacet in terram, non habet unde cadat.  no glory can she gain,  
That to lay lower, she but strives in vain,  
To insult o'er me a wretch, can never raise her,  
But will make all men justly to dispraise her,  
And hold her base, that on so poor a wight,  
Would exercise her cruelty and spite:  
For when sh'ath done her worst, & deadliest frowned,  
She cannot drive me lower than this ground,  
In whose cold bosom were I once invested,  
My thoughts should then have ease, that yet ne'er rested.  
I neither hope for honour, gape for wealth,  
Nor wish to live, although in perfect health.  
The thing that I desire, for which I pray,  
Is tha●●y time may soon be passed away.  
O let my days of life be short and few,  
And even vanish, as the vaporous dew,  
That from the grass exhaled by the Sun,  
Is soon forgot, as it is quickly gone,  
And let the hours appointed till I die,  
New imp their wings, more speedily to fly,  
And till that I have run my weary race,  
Let time not turn unto his wont pace.  
This mournful speech, to which I well attended,  
Begun in grief, in sighs being sadly ended.  
Wondering thereat a while I stood amazed,  
Like him that on Medusa's head had gazed,  
Knowing that he whose passion I did hear,  
Although I saw him not, must needs be near.  
At length I did resolve, (doubts set aside)  
To find him out, what ever did betide:  
From the fair River, to the thick-leaued wood,  
I hasted then, and often listening stood  
There in a covert, wherein he did hide him,  
I walked not far, but suddenly espied him:  
The sight of whom would have enforced to moan,  
The stern Dolopian, or the Myrmidon.  
Under a broad Oak on the earth he lay,  
His head down cast (as loath to see the day)  
His guiltless hear was like his garments ren●  
Such the sharp anguish of his discontent.  
Attired he was in tawny, as forlorn,  
Despised, disgraced, rejected, held in scorn.  
The ground whereon he lay, was watered well  
With tears abundant from his eyes that fell:  
His callow chin did silently declare,  
He was too young to have to do with care.  
I coming near him, he raised up his head  
With heavy motion, as a man half dead:  
And even as I was ready for to speak,  
He sighed again, as if his heart would break.  
I grieved then to see so sad a sight,  
Thus framed my speech unto that woeful wight:  
What e'er thou art, in whose bleak look appears  
More sign of sorrows, then of many years:  
Thy deep complaints that in mine ears did enter,  
Were the occasions of my bold adventure,  
To find thee out, not to deride thy state,  
But for to comfort thee disconsolate,  
Whose moans being heard, if charitably felt,  
Might make th'obdurate Ithacan to melt.  
Let me entreat, although I am a stranger,  
To know thy state, misdoubt not any danger,  
By the discovery of thy cause of grief,  
Which being concealed, can never have relief.  
Fea●● not deceit in me, for first that Sun,  
Which gloriously before our eyes doth run,  
Shall from his lofty sphere fall to the ground,  
Ere faithless I, or treacherous be found:  
And if my best endeavours may assuage  
The burning fury of thy passions rage,  
On my unfeigned word thyself assure,  
With speed I will thy remedy procure:  
For he griefs vigour can the best discern,  
That their effects hath felt, and needs not learn.  
Herewith he raised his dejected eyes,  
That on the earth were fixed, and thus replies:  
Unhappy I, whose wretched state affords  
A greater multitude of woes than words:  
So that my speech unable is t'express,  
For thy great kindness, my true thankfulness:  
Yet from my breast shall sooner fly my spirit,  
Then the impressed memorial of thy merit.  
Thy faith I fear not, for even in thy eye,  
Methinks pure Truth securely I espy.  
The cause of my arrival here was thus:  
My fortunes ever inauspicious,  
Forced me in solitary Groves to range,  
Myself intending from the world t'estrange,  
Meaning to shun community with men,  
And rather chose in some forsaken den,  
To spend th'irrevocable course of time,  
Clipping my high thoughts wings that once did climb,  
Imped with expectations fiery plumes,  
To Honour's Mansion, whom no age consumes:  
Then failing of my hopes, being overtaken,  
With treacherous practices to live forsaken;  
Or being an object to all vulgar eyes,  
Each Hind might descant on my miseries:  
Wherefore long wandering through uncouth ways,  
To find a place to consummate my days,  
Whereas no eye might ever find me out,  
At my heartbreaking discontent to flout,  
That I unheard to the deaf woods might plain me,  
Where of my raging fits none might restrain me:  
At length in this vast Forest here I found  
A Cave deep mined in the solid ground,  
Whose entrance black as the foul mouth of hell,  
Seemed to invite my sorrows there to dwell:  
Where I unseen might long obscurely rest,  
In sable darkness my mind fitting best.  
For he that hath a melancholy sprite,  
Before clear day prefers the darkest night.  
About it round were bushes overgrown,  
Where any path had been could scarce be known▪  
Which show'd the same was Desert, unfrequented,  
The meeter Mansion for one discontented.  
Within, it well cohered with my mind;  
For every place for want of light seemed blind;  
Except that through a cleft appeared a spark,  
Sent from the Sun to fright the fearful dark.  
Here did I mean the posting hours to spend,  
Till with my death my dolours should have end.  
At this he stops, when suddenly again,  
His eyes let fall a shower of tears amain.  
Then I replied, Though moisture now be scant,  
Thy shady ground none of thy tears doth want:  
They comfort not, but th'earth do rather burn,  
Which were it sensible, for thee would mourn:  
Preserve them then, spend not thy store in vain,  
Be not too lavish of such dear bought rain.  
We see each day, that the fond prodigal  
lives unregarded, having wasted all.  
Stay now thy tears, 'tis womanlike to weep,  
Concealment of thy case no longer keep;  
But unto me doubtless participate  
Thy fortunes crossed by some angry fate:  
And all my whole endeavours shallbe bend,  
These ills to cure, or future to prevent:  
hearken to counsel, be not obstinate,  
Lest good advice do after come too late.  
Oh but (quoth he) When on some shelf of sand,  
Lying not far off from the harbouring strand,  
A luckless Pilot, being there a stranger,  
His Bark hath burst, unskilful of the danger.  
His counsel then would be but all in vain, 
Mant. utile non est, consilium post facta dare, quod oportuit an●   
That would cry out, You should have kept the main.  
Yet for thy kindness and thy loving offer,  
All that I have, my humblest thanks I proffer,  
Which as myself, low at thy feet I lay,  
And for thy better hap will ever pray:  
And to declare that I do hold it hateful,  
For such great courtesy to be ungrateful,  
My tragic haps to hear, since thou dost long,  
I'll briefly tell thee. By a Sirens song,  
Or by a voice worse than the Mermaids sound,  
That made Ulysses fear to run a ground,  
I was allured to anchor in the road,  
Where cursed policy made her abode,  
In woman's habit that herself did hide,  
Such her deceits, as scarce could be espied:  
Yet would I not, the noble female sex  
Should think in her I modelled their defects:  
For I protest, I hold, in all their kind,  
Not such another any man can find:  
As soon the single Phoenix might be found  
To have a mate, as she her match on ground.  
That damned Politician Machiavelli,  
That, some say, had his Maxims out of hell,  
Had he but been a scholar unto her,  
To learn his Art, need not have gone so far.  
She of her own would have imparted store  
Of cursed plots, ne'er thought upon before,  
Such and so deep, as none could e'er devise,  
But her great Grandsire, father of all lies,  
With the hyaena's voice can she beguile,  
And weep, but like the Nile bred Crocodile,  
That on the pray she instantly devours,  
Dissembling tears in great abundant powers.  
With the Chameleon can she change her hue,  
Like every object that her eye doth view.  
Proteus was never half so mutable,  
As she unconstant, of her word unstable:  
Her eyes like Basilisks dart poison out:  
Her oiled tongue assists to bring about  
Her plots to their inevitable end,  
Which to contrive, she all her time doth spend.  
She hath a conscience (full of guilty dread)  
Will stretch like Chevril in her working head,  
Dwell damned thoughts to mischief ever bend,  
And in her brain are all ills resident:  
She, whose false heart for to Annatomize,  
Volumes importable will scarce suffice:  
She, that in youth was bad, in age far worse,  
That had some ravenous Tiger to her nurse;  
With the sweet strain of her alluring tongue,  
Drew silly me, my years though very young,  
Never before acquainted with deceit,  
Not able to discern th'enticing bait,  
To follow her, till in a fatal toil,  
Which she had pitched, my poor estate to spoil,  
I was ensnarde: and when she saw me taken,  
She plainde on me of all my friends forsaken:  
For leaving them, their speeches not respecting,  
To follow her, their counsels grave neglecting,  
I felt just plagues, yet had my wealth been all,  
That I had lost in my unlucky fall,  
I should not have disquieted my foul  
With such sad thoughts, as no joys might control.  
But with my means at that unhappy tide,  
My reputation hazarded beside:  
The worth of which fair jewel I held more,  
Than Europe's magasins unvalued store,  
Since that my name in country and in town,  
Hath given argument to every Clown:  
By which rude Peasants to be censured,  
Whose best conceits like them are basely bred,  
Who could endure this? made me hither fly,  
Loathing to live where every vulgar eye  
Should stare on me, where every abject Slave,  
With tongues enuenomd should my worth deprave:  
For such the nature of the rascal Hinds,  
That have no other than dejected minds,  
That crossed by Fortune the best tempered spirit,  
shallbe by them held most devoid of merit.  
O pardon me, that thus I break the bounds  
Of helpless patience; for the yet green wounds,  
By trechry made, though ever angry sore,  
Now being new handled, do rage ten times more,  
Which makes my tongue, that of my woes doth speak,  
Urged by sharp anguish in extremes to break.  
The sum in brief, of all that I can say,  
Is, that a cursed creature did betray  
My infant fortunes, my hopes blossoms blasted,  
My native stars, with black clouds overcasted.  
Why but, quoth I, if thou no more disclose,  
Then this compendious abstract of thy woes,  
Like Tantalus, who for his punishment,  
Is doomed to stand in the moist Element  
Up to the chin, yet can by no means drink:  
For as he strives to taste, down the waves sink:  
His unstauncht thirst, although exceeding sore,  
The sight of water aggravateth more.  
So I, before thou spak'st, hot with desire  
To hear thy haps, am now set all on fire:  
To quench which ardour, oh let me entreat,  
That from th'original thou wilt repeat  
The true cause of thy grievous discontent,  
Wrought by some inauspicious accident▪  
If, as thou sayst, some daughter to the Devil,  
Borne to do mischief, exercised in evil,  
Have by some wicked plot betrayed thy youth,  
Abused thy trust, under pretence of truth,  
From female Machiavelli pull thou the mask,  
Tell me her name, and it shall be my task,  
Her person so to portreyt with my pen,  
As I will make her odious unto men:  
The blazon that my upreard Muse shall give her,  
Shall make her infamy long to outlive her,  
That babes unborn, which aftertimes shall breed,  
Her shames memorial in my lines shall read.  
" Though wrackful time brass monuments devour,  
" Verse shall survive unto the latest hour:  
" And when the proud Pyramids to dust,  
" Age shall outwear, & steel consume with rust:  
" Than like Apollo's Laurel, ever green,  
" Shall Verse be verdant, and unchanged be seen;  
" Such is the power of highbred Poesy, 
ovid. Carminae quem tribuunt, fama perenuis erit.   
" That it can even to perpetuity  
" Either make glorious, or as much disgrace  
" The noble minded, or th'abjected base:  
" Alcides labours, Theseus lasting fame,  
" Achilles deeds, and Hector's noble name,  
" A thousand years had now in silence slept,  
" If Poesy their glories had not kept  
" In her great Register, nor had this age  
" Known Tarquin's rape, nor mad Orestes rage.  
" Who could have told fair Lucrece chastity,  
" Or wise Ulysses wives great constancy?  
" Even in her tomb had Cleopatra's pride  
" Been now interred, the fame had never died.  
" If Poets had not in their Tables penned,  
" All for examples to this purposed end,  
" The good might imitate the good, and they,  
" From virtues paths that run their course astray,  
" Might back return into the way again,  
" That leadeth to the fair Elysian plain.  
With Scylla, Myrrha, and Calipsa fell,  
With Messalina, and Hecate of hell,  
With the Bellides and the shame of Greece,  
And her that did betray the golden fleece,  
And all those infamous that lived of old,  
Whose names by sacred Poets are enrolled,  
As a companion shall thy foe be placed,  
Whose memory by time shall ne'er be ra●'d.  
Then let not former passed times more grieve thee:  
But hope of future better hap relieve thee.  
A mischief meant, perhaps may be prevented:  
But once happed, 'tis in vain to be lamented.  
Cease then with bootless words for to complain.  
Then he reviv'd his sad discourse again.  
A woeful Tale thou urgest me to tell,  
Whose heavy Accents like the passing Bell,  
Such melancholy Music forth will sound,  
As thy attending ears will deeply wound:  
Nay, if my sorrows give me leave to speak  
Unto the end, tears can not choose but break  
From out thine eyes that formerly restrained,  
Longer in limits will not be contained.  
Full twice seven times from my unhappy birth,  
The comfortable Spring had cheered the earth,  
And thawd the frosty bosom of the ground,  
Wherein all Plants in Icy chains were bound:  
When presently in coats of green appear,  
All trees and herbs that beautify the year:  
The Spring soon past, April and gorgeous May  
Declared how swift earth's pleasures post away.  
The lusty Summer proudly coming on,  
Was as the former soon dispatched and gone,  
Who by the withering of the garish Flowers,  
show'd how consuming time vain toys devours:  
Which Note to men might be th'remembrancer,  
Before light follies virtues to prefer.  
Then mellow Autumn that declines to cold.  
Not young as Summer, nor as Winter old,  
By whose rough blasts all trees before fair leaved,  
Of their green liveries were soon bereaved:  
For which the Birds from their mellifluous throats,  
Sadly did sound full many mournful notes,  
Even then when all things sensibly did moon  
The sharp approach of cold frosts coming on,  
Began the ground of my intestine grief,  
That long expected, but ne'er found relief:  
When by the wan inexorable Death,  
My dearest Parent lost his vital breath,  
Whose tender care, whose counsel being reft me,  
Content took leave, joys fled, and pleasures left me:  
For like a ship that lucklessely had lost  
Her skilful Pilot on an unknown coast,  
With wrackful tempests being roughly driven,  
Her sides by proud waves ready to be riven,  
Fearfully strikes all her swelling sails,  
Her Flags let's fall, her high top-gallants veils,  
Best course to steer for safety knowing not whether,  
But lives at mercy of the wind and weather:  
So fared myself and my unsettled state,  
My Parents lives third being clipped by fate,  
Who was that Pilot that my course did guide,  
Secure from danger of that stormy tide,  
He thus deceased, for me in fatal time,  
I not contented in this peaceful clime,  
To spend my youth determined to range,  
Of foreign lands to see the various change:  
Youth being full of wandering appetites,  
Nature itself to novelties incites:  
At length, the rumour of the bloody jars,  
Th'unkind discensions, th'untamed wars,  
That then the fertile Netherlands afflicted,  
Where peace was exiled, quiet interdicted,  
Made me resolve my freedom to forsake,  
Myself intending solely to betake  
Unto a soldiers life, hoping to gain  
Honour and Reputation for my pain.  
It was not want that made me leave the soil  
Where I was borne, in Belgia to turmoil,  
For lack of means, but an inflame desire  
To raise my hopes, that did too high aspire:  
Knowing if raging storms of war should rise,  
Their fury in our Isle to exercise,  
(Where unaffrighted peace had long time flourished,  
The land enriching where she had been nourished,)  
In foreign broils experience I should learn,  
The feats of Arms expertly to discern,  
That in my countries and my Princes right,  
I might be able with advice to fight:  
From happy England with no ill intent,  
To try my fortunes suddenly ay went.  
A south-west gale for Flushing fitly blew,  
When from the Road the little Pinnisse flew,  
Wherein I was embarked, fair Dover leaving,  
When as black night her head was first upheaving.  
Safely arrived, to Gelderland I hasted,  
That sword and ardent fire had well-nigh wasted,  
There did I march in cold, in scalding heat,  
By night and day in Armour all complete;  
Lay on the ground, in frost, in snow, in rain,  
Exposed myself each minute to be slain:  
All travails I delightfully endured,  
To which addicted I was soon enured.  
In these tumultuous stirs did I remain,  
Till that great conflict with the powers of Spain,  
Where the high Archdukes army on the sands  
Were fought withal by those unconquered bands,  
Led by Nassaw. Here could I tell the Story,  
How either Host was ranged in all their glory,  
How each Esquadron marched, and by whom led,  
The glorious acts of those alive or dead,  
The true form of the fight, did not my grief  
Enforce my tongue to stay or be but brief:  
Yet shall not that great day be clean o'erpast,  
Whose fame no time can e'er have power to waste,  
But in compendious manner will declare  
The fight wherein my Fortunes had a share. 
Newport battle, In. 22,1600   
The morn looked red, whose blushing did bewray  
The fatal bloodshed should ensue that day:  
The rackie clouds on th'earth distilled dew,  
In pearly drops, which plainly did foreshow,  
Heaven grieved at that sacred day profaned,  
That by the Lord for prayer was ordained.  
Assist my Muse, my fainting tongue direct,  
breath a new spirit in mine intellect,  
That by thy wondrous power and glorious might,  
I may be able to unfold the fight  
'Twixt two great Armies both alike engaged,  
Both with stern fury terribly enraged:  
The one contending for the Sovereignty,  
Th'other resolved to die for liberty.  
The Duke of Brabant clad in angry Arms,  
Of warlike Soldiers leading wondrous swarms,  
That suddenly unlooked for he withdrew  
From Venlo, Derst, and Herntalls, to pursue  
Th'united Provinces undaunted powers,  
That razed his Castles, overthrew his Towers,  
Destroyed his Villages, spoiled all his Corn,  
Leaving the Country as a land forlorn:  
Seeing fair Flaunders girdled all in fire,  
Moved with pity and replete with ire,  
Revenge to his great courage giving wings,  
Him after us like a black tempest brings:  
But comen near Newport he was roughly met  
By hardy Scots, and Dutch, that thought to let  
His passage o'er a Bridge that he had past:  
Such their ill fortunes, or their little haste.  
Betwixt these powers, at the first interview,  
Was bloody greeting, fatal Bullets flew,  
Like storms of Hail, till lucklessely at length,  
Our Regiments being overpress with strength  
Of th'Archdukes multitudes, were put to flight,  
Of whom eight hundred there were slain outright.  
Proud of these fortunes, our insulting foes  
Advanced with speed to deal more deadly blows,  
Of their own powers superbiously presuming,  
Of our whole force to have the full consuming:  
But our great God, his chosen that defends,  
Brought their high hopes to unexpected ends.  
When now both armies on the even sands  
Were come in sight, and proudly took their stands,  
Then all the Regiments of either side  
Were ranged in order, near the surly tide.  
Both furnished well, both rich in their array:  
Which was most glorious, it was hard to say:  
The place being covered with such armed crowds,  
As seemed to menace heaven and dare the clouds.  
Of either part, Courage, the captains cry,  
By your true valours win the day, or die.  
Unto our English troup, hie-sprited Vere  
Did use persuasions to extinguish fear.  
But e'er the resolute Battalians came  
To downright strokes,—  
Cannons discharged bullets in fire wrapped round,  
Circled in smoke, whose terror-breathing sound,  
Like the black bolt of Ioues Imperial thunder,  
With hideous noise the thin air shakes asunder.  
There might you see a deadly shot that strikes,  
In a thick sand our strong embatteld pikes,  
Renting the ranks, make shattered Splinters fly,  
As they were sent to bandy with the sky:  
Soldiers some slain outright, some deadly torn,  
From the thick press confusedly are borne.  
Whilst o'er the sands these brazen Lions roared,  
And interchangeably the soil begored,  
A ship of war was come into the Bay,  
That opposite unto our foe-men lay,  
Who from her armed side, her stern, her chase,  
Sent iron posts into their troops apace,  
So thick she shot, that he which had been nigh her,  
Would have conceived she had been light on fire.  
Another, that the Holland Ensign bare,  
That on her poop played with the wanton air,  
This former there did second in such sort,  
As in the adverse camp made bloody sport.  
The angry Duke against those stormy ships,  
His deadly Cannons turned, from whose black lips,  
Flew forth the black Ambassadors of death,  
That raged like suries in the vaults beneath,  
To whose dire message they would have replied  
In terms alike, had not the falling tide  
Made them stand off, and bear into the Main,  
Who thus being gone, to us began again  
Their thundering language, answered with the same,  
Their shot with shot, their fire with burning flame.  
At length began the stern and horrid fight,  
Whose smoke and dust made day like dismal night,  
When as the powers that long had stood opposed,  
Ran altogether, and with fury closed,  
Pikes, Pikes encounter, shot at shot let fly,  
All Nations on their several Patrons cry,  
The Trumpets clangor & the Drums hoarse sound,  
With soldiers shout, each others noise confound.  
There murderous Muskets like quick lightnings flashed,  
Whose balls ones face with tother's blood bedashed:  
Of either part the Ensigns bravely flying,  
Some nobly fight, some as nobly dying:  
In th' Armies both was hope, 
Virg. Inter utrumque volat dubiis victoria pennis.  whilst unto neither  
Proud Victory inclined, but favoured either:  
With various fortunes, full three bloody hours,  
Endured the sternerage of these warlike powers:  
Till at the last, the overmastered foe,  
From field was forced with greatest loss to go,  
To quit their arms, their Ensigns leave forlorn,  
That but even now by them were proudly borne.  
When they the field had thus abandoned,  
Most slain, some wounded, & the remnant fled,  
Upon the sandy banks and in the fields,  
Lay broken Pikes, bruised Helmets, battered shields,  
The proud Burgonian Crosses kiss the ground,  
Their Bearers lying in a deadly swoon,  
And hardy captains striving for the day,  
Even in the places where they fought, they lay,  
With troops of Soldiers, whom they stoutly led,  
Some killed outright, some dying, but not dead:  
One gaps for breath, another mercy cries,  
And begs of him upon whose sword he dies. 
Virg. O ter, quaterque beat●   
retreat being sounded, those of ours remaining,  
Came to their colours for their friends complaining,  
Of whom some buried, others not interred,  
Whose funerals were longer time deferred.  
Who dies with honour, though he want a grave, 
Virg. Facilis iactura sepulchri.   
No greater happiness at all can have.  
But soft, where am I now? me thinks too far  
I have discoursed the fortunes of the war.  
When I began, I briefly meant to tell  
The Battles fury, where ten thousand fell:  
But being entered, I could not conclude,  
Till to the end the story I pursued.  
This ever-famous day thus bravely won,  
The Troops dispersed, each to their Garrison,  
Adorned with honour, and enriched with spoil,  
To take their rest after laborious toil:  
I then determined, whilst the wars did cease,  
To visit England, crowned with golden peace:  
To give more speed to my resolved intent,  
From thence a Letter came, unto me sent  
From one that ever I accounted dear:  
Whose faithful love I thought had never Peer.  
One, for whose sake I other friends neglected,  
Was ruled by him, still did what he directed.  
Which Paper, as the Post to me delivers,  
My hand unwont, as in a fever shivers:  
At which (being strange) I could not choose but muse;  
And as the smooth Endorsement I peruse,  
Breaking the seal, the wax so fastened cleaves,  
As seemed unwilling to let loose the leaves:  
But forced open, as they'd been half blind,  
Mine eyes began dazzle, and no way could find,  
Where to begin the sweet sour lines to read,  
From whence my fatal sorrows ground proceed.  
men's senses, sudden altering out of reason,  
Do bode ill luck, or do foreshew some treason.  
At length my hand began stay, and eke mine eyes  
On th'object fixed, that before them lies,  
Thus I begun. Since happy Fates ordain  
Thou hast survived, where multitudes were slain,  
From out those Lands, breeding dissension black,  
Unto thy native soil with speed come back:  
Whereas my everwaking industry,  
Hath gotten means to elevate on high  
Thy tender fortunes, which if thou neglect,  
Succeeding times will ne'er have power t'effect.  
If thy estate, thy Country, or my love  
Thou wouldst increase, hold'st dear, or any ways may move,  
Leave tedious toils, and wars affording pain,  
And write not back, but come thyself again.  
This letter read, the messenger of light  
Not thrice from th'earth had chased away black night,  
Who sunk to hell, the father of the day,  
To all the world his glory did display:  
But in a small boat plied with striving Oars,  
I bade adieu unto the Belgic shores,  
Unhappy farewell, and disastrous fate,  
To leave bright honour, and o'erthrow my state:  
Being come aboard, our sails a stiff gale stretches,  
Which holding fair, the ship soon England retches,  
On which clear coasts in safety thus arrived,  
Many rejoicing that I there suruiu'de,  
Free from the loss of limbs that others felt,  
That likewise in the late stern conflict dealt,  
Gave me kind welcome more than I deserved,  
joying from danger that I was preserved.  
Preserved from danger, said I? no, not so,  
But was reserved to a greater woe:  
O had I died where Yaxley, Honniwood,  
And more brave Gallants in their high blood,  
Courageous fight, fell down all imbrued,  
This homebred mischief had I then eschude!  
But since the Destinies did thus ordain,  
I must confess, 'tis bootless to complain.  
Long time ere I returned, the means was plotted,  
Whereby my reputation was bespotted,  
That shook my state betwixt that friend of mine,  
Whose words I held as Oracles divine,  
Who to my soul and secrets still was near,  
Apollo ne'er held Hyacinth more dear:  
And her whose tongue for cunning may compare  
With Greekish Sinon, and with Circe's share:  
Each honey word she spoke, like Magic writs,  
Were able to enchant the deepest wits:  
She for the hope of Avaricious gain,  
Will swear and forswear, flatter, lie and feign:  
Her own child a Polygamist she made,  
By her vile counsel. Cursed be her trade,  
That hopes not heaven, nor respecteth hell,  
Where, in dire torments, less offenders dwell:  
Each circumstance (quoth he) should I intend,  
T'unfold to thee, discoursing to the end  
Her practices, as well may undertake  
To number Libick sands, and firm land to make  
Of Thetis plains, where on a Dolphin rides  
That aged god, the surly sea that guides.  
Let this suffice, that she is such a one,  
As but Medea there was never none.  
Write what I say, though I conceal her name,  
It pleaseth me enough she read her shame  
With blushing cheeks, if any spark of grace,  
(Which I misdoubt) be living in her face.  
Scarce had he ended, when we saw from far,  
As we imagined, a waiged Car,  
Which coming near us, presently I knew,  
'Twas Morpheus Coach that four night Ravens drew,  
The wheels did make no noise, yet so fast ran,  
As could beguile the very sight of man:  
With soft Arabian silk 'twas over-coverd,  
About the which, light dreams & visions hoverd:  
The Curtains of the same were made of Rings  
Of the quick Bats that Vesperugo brings,  
To fly as Harbingers before the night,  
When to th'inferior Sphere the Sun gives light.  
His Team being come unto us, Morpheus stayed,  
And looking forth, even thus (me thought) he said,  
Lo, I the son of griefe-beguiling sleep,  
That never any certain form do keep,  
But in what shape I list assume, can fly,  
From earth to hell, from thence unto the sky,  
To thee Andrea, have my course directed,  
Who of all other hold'st thyself rejected:  
Thou know'st, a thousand visions I presented,  
In gloomy night, thinking to have contented  
Thy grieved soul, yet all was but in vain,  
Shadows of joys more did increase thy pain.  
But now I come to carry thee, even where  
Thou shalt behold objects replete with fear:  
Yet I well know, the sight thereof will please thee,  
And of the burden of thy sorrows ease thee:  
Stand not to answer, but with speed ascend  
Up in my Coach, and take with thee thy friend,  
That may with us such wonders strange behold,  
As seen, as dreadful, fearful to be told.  
Mournful Andrea and myself being placed  
By Morpheus' side, the Chariot ran in haste,  
Till suddenly upon a bank it stands,  
Whereas the sleepe-god took us by the hands,  
And going forth, thus comfortably said,  
What sight soe'er you see, be not afraid,  
I'll go before your footsteps to direct,  
Dangers at all by no means do suspect.  
Him as our guide, we follow to a place,  
I think scarce seen by any mortal face:  
For in a vale, where Titan ne'er displays  
The radiant brightness of his golden rays,  
Where neither lowly shrub, nor lofty tree,  
Nor leaf, nor grass, nor any plant we see,  
We found a vast and melancholy Cave, 
Virg. Facilis descensus Auerni.   
That opened like a hollow wide-mouthed grave:  
Wherein we enter through a passage made,  
Easily descending to th'infernal shade.  
At length we saw (was never such a sight,  
'Mongst all the ghastly visions of the night)  
far underneath us, such a place to lie,  
As could affright the most undaunted eye;  
Where thunderclaps and fiery lightning's flash,  
Where boisterous tempests storm, dread hailstones dash,  
Fron whence did come a sound astonishing,  
Of woeful shrieks, that fearfully do ring  
Into our ears. Then began Andrea thus,  
Where are we now? speak, gentle Morpheus:  
Oh, wherefore hast thou brought us, where our eyes  
Meet such stern objects? Then the God replies:  
The place that underneath, far off you see,  
Though strange to you, is not unknown to me:  
It is that Chaos, that confused Den,  
Where are th' eternal punishments for them,  
That surfeiting in sin even from their birth, 
Inferni poenarum descriptio. Cal●r.   
Without true penitence do leave the earth:  
Here all lewd actions, fruits of foul desire,  
Tormented are with everlasting fire,  
Whose burning fury unextinguished powers,  
Being but compared unto that of yours,  
Would make it seem or nothing, or scarce warm,  
Like Winter's Sunbeams, not of power to harm.  
Aetna still covered with sulphur fume,  
And ardent Hecla shall by time consume:  
But this, whose fervour waters ne'er assuage,  
Shall have continual and unceasing rage.  
Then are there likewise ever-freezing lakes, 
Frigus.   
As sharply cold, where 'mongst the Icy flakes,  
That cut like razors the unhappy wights,  
Are tossed like red-hot blooms, by ugly Sprights,  
Whose horrid looks most fearful to behold, 
Aspectus daemonum   
Torment as bad, as the congealing cold.  
Dragons, 
Morsus serpentum  fell Serpents with envenomed stings,  
That plague alike both slaves and tyrant kings,  
There in each place in such abundance crawl,  
As 
* Insula serpentum plena. Auerni fetor.  Ophiusae never saw at all.  
Their wounds are worse than Adders, earthbred Snakes,  
Or Basilisks, or Asps, or Ibis makes.  
The loathsome savours of this Acheron,  
Never exhaled by th'attractive Sun,  
Are there far worse, in th'earth then any bred,  
Then strangling brimstone, or th'unburied dead,  
And there imprisoned in the vault of hell, 
Obscuritas loci.   
Doth nights black Nurse, Cimmerian darkness dwell:  
Whose pitchy temples are engird with clouds,  
That in her look affrighting horror shrouds:  
Whereas unstaunched Famine wanting bread, 
Fames.   
Eats balls of wildfire, drinketh scalding lead:  
To aggravate which woeful pains, the place  
Removed from God his favour and his grace: 
Dispositio loci.   
There terror, fear and desolation,  
Have their eternal habitation:  
Gnashing of teeth, howling, and woeful weeping,  
Are in the dismal concave never sleeping.  
There wights afflicted, still for death are crying,  
Deadly tormented, yet are never dying.  
There bloody Nero, cruel Commodus,  
Luxurious Tarquin, drunk Vitellius,  
Tarpeia false, Semiramis unchaste,  
Are every one in their due order placed:  
There perjured slaves, beastly Adulterers,  
Accursed Atheists, biting Usurers,  
With murderous Ruffians that delight in blood,  
Shall all be plagued in the Sulphurean Flood.  
Thither that foul stain of the female kind,  
Whose deep fetched oaths are lighter than the wind,  
That by dissembling and abusing truth,  
Blasted the blossoms of thy tender youth,  
Her lives course finished (if deep penitence  
Wash not away her foul offence)  
Shall come but in her flint-unyelding breast,  
Where lives a guilty conscience wanting rest,  
Are wicked thoughts, that in a mighty band,  
In order placed as Sentinels do stand,  
To bar good motions entrance, that driven thence,  
In worthier places search for residence:  
She, the true pattern of detested pride,  
There shall not borrow an old Coach to ride:  
But in a fiery flaming Chariot,  
By Dragons drawn insufferably hot,  
Shall progress through Hell: for her false hairs,  
Snakes in their folds shall wind about her ears:  
In stead of hired chains of burnished gold,  
Shall Iron links her wretched corpse enfold,  
And torments more than this: for none can tell  
The tenth of tortures that are used in hell.  
But for thyself, if I divine aright,  
Thy hopes shall mount with an auspicious flight,  
Thy fortunes that late crossed, thou still hold'st vain,  
Shall have a time to flourish fresh again:  
I know the means by which thou shalt advance  
Thy own estate, even in despite of chance▪  
— Vt quondam Te●thrantia regna te●enti,  
Sic tibi res eadem, vul●us opemque fer●●.  
Doth not my prophecy rejoice thy sprite?  
And bonds of sorrows cancel with delight?  
Speak man: But why thus hold'st thou down thy head?  
Why is thy look so sad? thy colour dead?  
Quoth he, I grieve for her unhappy sake,  
I fear e'er long shall come into this Lake,  
Though my attempting hopes she laid in dust,  
Though she be most perfidious and unjust:  
These pains I wish her not but do desire,  
If yet some small spark of celestial fire  
Be unextinguished in her breast, it may  
Breed quick repentance, and avoid decay.  
But, gentle Morpheus, if thou be of power,  
Transport her Genius hither but one hour,  
That with an intellectual feeling sense,  
May see all sins eternal recompense:  
And then (no doubt) the vision will control  
The wicked motions working in her soul.  
This said, our guide ascendeth up again,  
Whom we attend, leaving the place of pain:  
And being from the dusky den come forth,  
Cold Charlzis' Wain was set directly North,  
When winged Morpheus once more silence broke,  
And to Andrea thus the God he spoke:  
When I am gone, think not thou art deluded,  
Thy fortunes are by destiny concluded:  
Into whose secret brasen-leaved book,  
They courteously did give me leave to look:  
Wherein by fate undoubtedly I find,  
Time shall effect according to thy mind.  
By this, broke from the morning's cold embrace,  
Saturn's bright sun advanced his royal face,  
Whose glorious look, pale night astonished,  
That fearful of his presence swiftly fled▪  
He mounting then his Car damaskt with fire,  
Made his free horse gallop th'accustomed gyre,  
When sleep departing, did unlock mine eye,  
Whereat my dreams like misty vapours fly:  
And only left the memory behind,  
Of the strange Vision that disturbed my mind.   
FINIS.