MATILDA.  
The fair and chaste Daughter of the Lord Robert Fitzwater.  
THE TRUE GLORY OF THE NOBLE HOUSE OF SUSSEX.  
Phoebus' erit nostri princeps, et carminis author.  
AT LONDON, Printed by james Roberts, for N. L. and john Busbie. 1594.   

To the noble and virtuous Gentlewoman, worthy of all honour, Mistress Lucy Harrington, Daughter to the Honourable Gentleman, Sir JOHN HARRINGTON, Knight.  
YOUR rarest virtues, (honourable Mistress LVCIE,) have made me, amongst many other competent judges of your worth, both to love and admire you: but the exceeding kind affection (which I know) the House of POWLESWORTH do bear you, (a Family whereunto I must confess, I am both in love and duty more devote then to any other) hath moved me, for a more particular proof of that honour which both they and I are willing to do you, to dedicate my Poem to your protection.  
Vouchsafe therefore noble Mistress LVCIE, yourself being in full measure, adorned with the like excellent gifts, both of body and mind: graciously to patronize MATILDA. A mirror of so rare chastity, as neither the fair speeches, nor rich rewards of a King, nor death in self, could ever remove from her own chaste thoughts: or from that due regard which she had of her never-stained honour. Your gracious and courteous acceptance of these my labours, may encourage me hereafter, to publish some work of greater worth, under your Name and protection, to whom I wish all happiness.  
Yours in all humble service, Michael Drayton.   

To the Honourable Gentlemen of England, true favourers of Poesy.  
LEarned and honourable Gentlemen, whose kind and favourable acceptance of my late discourse of the life and death of Peirs Gaveston, hath emboldened me, to publish this tragical History of my Matilda, which otherwise, the fond censures of the sottish and absurd ignorant had altogether discouraged me: (of those detractors I mean,) who without judgement of reading, have rashly and injuriously wronged the most rare & excellent men who have written in this age wherein we live. They themselves, either wanting the use of those tongues, which as the keys of knowledge unlock the treasury of most rarest invention, or else their dull eyes, so overclouded with misty ignorance, as never able to look into celestial secrets of divine Poesy, thereby to discern the right and true method of a perfect and exquisite Poem.  
And yet, such is the folly and shameless impudency of some, (as we see every day,) which in their wanton and adulterate conceits, bring forth such ugly Monsters, as a modest and sober eye, can hardly abide to view their deformities. Then it is no marvel though the divine Muses, take so small delight in our Clime, finding their sweet and pleasant fields, which should be holy and sacred, defiled, and polluted, with such loathsome ordure. And although there be many, furnished with sundry sorts of good learning, yet wanting that divine touch and heavenly instinct which giveth life to invention, do basely disgrace that, wherein their own experience tells them, they be altogether ignorant. But only to you, excellently qualified, and rare accomplished Gentlemen, the true heirs of the Muses, I consecrate my labours, whose wise and discreet censures, have heretofore made known to me, the true perfection of your own honourable dispositions: & only to you Matilda committeth her short discourse.  
Michael Drayton.   

The vision of Matilda.  
ME thought I saw upon Matilda's Tomb,  
Her woeful ghost, which Fame did now awake,  
And craved her passage from Earth's hollow womb,  
To view this Legend, written for her sake;  
No sooner she her sacred Name had seen,  
Whom her kind friend had chose to grace her story,  
But wiping her chaste tears from her sad eyen,  
She seemed to triumph, in her double glory.  
Glory she might, that his admired Muse,  
Had with such method framed her just complaint:  
But proud she was, that reason made him choose,  
To patronize the same to such a Saint:  
In whom her rarest virtues might be shown,  
Though Poet's skill should fail to make them known.  
H. G. Esquire.   

THY learned Poem (Friend) I will not praise,  
Nor will commend Matilda's chastity,  
She by thy Muse, her fame from grave doth raise,  
And high conceit, thy lines doth dignify.  
But that in this, the honour thou dost give,  
To that sweet Maid in whose unspotted mind,  
Matilda's rarest virtues yet do live,  
As two so like the world can hardly find.  
Fair Lucy with Matilda but compare,  
In all regards of perfect modesty,  
And see how like in every good they are,  
And then thy choice with judgement ratify.  
And I who know the worth of thy fit choice,  
Approve it good, both with my pen and voice.  
Anonimos.   

Tears in your eyes, and passions in your hearts,  
With mournful grace vouchsafe Matilda's story:  
The subject sad, a King to act the parts  
Of his own shame, to others endless glory.  
But such is sin, where lawless lust is reigning,  
Sweet to the taste, till all turns to infection,  
When count is cast, a reckoning is remaining,  
Which must be paid, but not at our election.  
peril and Grief, the interest of Pleasure,  
Spending the stock that Danger long was gaining,  
Makes soul and body bankrupt of that treasure,  
Which vainly spent, what helps our fond complaining?  
O that my lines could so the Author grace,  
As well his virtues merit praise and place.  
R. L. Esquire.   

To M. Drayton.  
I Like thy work, and do allow thy wit,  
And praise thy choice in patronizing it:  
Yet more, that thou the honour dost impart,  
To Lucy's praise, a Maid of such desert.  
Who for her rarest virtues doth exceed,  
Nor never age a better wit did breed.  
A blessed Imp, sprung from a noble race,  
Admired for gifts, and beautified with grace;  
A Phoenix deck, yet not with plumes of gold,  
But with true gems of heavens eternal mould.  
Then happy man in thy Matilda's fame,  
Happy Matilda in rare Lucy's name,  
devise of wit, by Graces only graced,  
Adorned skill, in virtue highly placed,  
Yet subject, wit, and skill be all to few,  
In chaste Matilda, for rare Lucy's due.  
W. G. Esquire.   

MATILDA.  

IF to this time some sacred Muse retain,  
Those choice regards by perfect virtue taught,  
And in her chaste and virgine-humble vain,  
Doth kindly cherish one pure Maiden thought,  
In whom my death hath but true pity wrought,  
By her I crave my life may be revealed,  
Which black oblivion hath too long concealed.   

Or on the earth if mercy may be found,  
Or if remorse may touch the hearts of men,  
Or eyes may lend me tears to wash my wound,  
Or passion be expressed by mortal pen,  
Yet may I hope of some compassion then:  
Three hundredth years by all men over past,  
Now finding one to pity me at last.   

You blessed Imps of heavenly chastity,  
You sacred Vestals, Angels only glory,  
Right precedents of immortality,  
Only to you I consecrate my story.  
It shall suffice for me if you be sorry.  
If you alone shall deign to grace his verse,  
Which serves for odours to perfume my hearse.   

Let your delicious heaven-distilling tears,  
Soften the earth to send me from her womb,  
With Conqueror's Laurel crown my golden hairs,  
With flowery garlands beautify my tomb,  
Be you the Heralds to proclaim me room,  
With sable Cypress mask your lovely eyes,  
Mourning my death with doleful Elegies.   

Fair Rosamond, of all so highly graced,  
Recorded in the lasting Book of Fame,  
And in our Sainted Legendary placed,  
By him who strives to stellify her name,  
Yet will some Matrons say she was to blame.  
Though all the world bewitched with his rhyme,  
Yet all his skill cannot excuse her crime.   

Lucrece, of whom proud Rome hath boasted long,  
Lately reviv'd to live another age,  
And here arrived to tell of Tarquin's wrong,  
Her chaste denial, and the Tyrant's rage,  
Acting her passions on our stately stage.  
She is remembered, all forgetting me,  
Yet I as fair and chaste, as ere was she.   

Shore's wife is in her wanton humour soothed,  
And modern Poets, still applaud her praise,  
Our famous Elstreds wrinkled brows are smoothed,  
Called from her grave to see these latter days,  
And happy's he, their glory highest can raise.  
Thus loser wantonness, still are praised of many,  
Vice oft finds friends, but virtue seldom any.   

O fair Charites, Ioues most dear delight,  
O lend me now one heaven-inchanting lay,  
And you rare Nymphs which please Apollo's sight,  
Bring spreading Palm and never-dying Bay,  
With Olive branches strew the pleasant way:  
And with your Viols sound one pleasing strain,  
To aid his Muse, and raise his humble vain.   

And thou o Beta, Sovereign of his thought,  
England's Diana, let him think on thee,  
By thy perfections let his Muse be taught,  
And in his breast so deep imprinted be,  
That he may write of sacred Chastity:  
Though not like Collen in thy Britomart,  
Yet loves as much, although he wants his art.   

O my dread Sovereign, rare and princely Maid,  
From whose pure eyes the world derives her light,  
In Angel's robes with majesty arrayed,  
In whom true virtue is defined aright:  
O let these lines be gracious in thy sight,  
In whom alone, as in a perfect glass,  
All may discern how chaste Matilda was.   

To brag of birth, or noblesse, were but vain,  
Although I might compare me with the best:  
To challenge that our Ancestors did gain,  
A royal mind such folly doth detest,  
Which I omit and here set down myrest:  
Of virtuous life I mean to boast alone,  
Our birth is theirs, our virtues are our own.   

A shame to fetch our long descent from Kings,  
And from great jove derive our pedigree,  
The brave achievements of a hundred things,  
Breathing vain boasts the world to terrify,  
If we ourselves do blot with infamy,  
And stain that blood and honour which is theirs:  
Men cannot leave their virtues to their heirs.   

The Heaven became a Midwife at my birth,  
A kind Lucina, gently helping Nature:  
Some sacred power then present on the earth,  
Foretelling rare perfection in a creature,  
As all men judged by so divine a feature:  
Yet as my beauty seemed to ravish all,  
Virtue made beauty more angelical.   

Upon my brow, sat Honour in her pride,  
Tables containing heavens divinest law,  
Whose snowy margin quoted on each side,  
With such delights as all men's hearts could draw,  
My thoughts (as Tutors) kept mine eyes in awe,  
From their rare Sunbeams darting forth such rays,  
As well the work might show the Arts-mans' praise.   

These Cherubins, the Tree of life do keep,  
These Dragons, watch the fair Hesperian fruit,  
These fiery Serpents, guard the golden sheep,  
These fixed stars, their rays like lightning shoot,  
At whose approach the wise were stricken mute.  
These eyes, which only could true virtues measure,  
Ordained by Nature to preserve her treasure.   

My words were graceful, pleasing to the wise,  
My speech retaining modest decency,  
Not fondly vain, nor foolishly precise,  
But sweetly tuned, with such a symphony,  
Moving all hearers with the harmony.  
Gracing my tale with such an Emphasis,  
As never Music could delight like this.   

My face the sun, adorning beauty's sky,  
The Book where heaven her wonders did unroll,  
A stately Pharus to each wandering eye,  
And like a Siren could enchant the soul,  
Which had the power the proudest to control.  
To whom this gift my Maker had assigned,  
That there, all eyes like soothsayers divined.   

Nature's fair Ensign, royally displayed,  
Map of Elysium, Eden without night,  
Ermines wherein rich Phoebus is arrayed,  
Right prospective, reflecting heavenly light,  
Heart-wounding arrow, piercing with the sight.  
Bright morning's lustre, Ioues high exaltation,  
Lodestar of love, rare Card of admiration.   

True type of honour, fine dilicious vary,  
The richest coat that ever beauty bare,  
Pure colours, which the heavens do only carry,  
O uncouth blazon, so exceeding rare,  
O curious lymming, passing all compare,  
First at my birth assigned unto me,  
By that great King of heavenly Heraldry.   

From hence my praise began to prove her wing,  
Which to the heaven could carry up my fame,  
Of all my glory now began the spring,  
Through every Coast this still enlarged my name,  
From hence the cause of all my sorrows came:  
Thus to this Hydra are we subject still,  
Who dares to speak, not caring good or ill.   

This jealous Monster hath a thousand eyes,  
Her airy body hath as many wings:  
Now on the earth, than up to heaven she flies,  
And here and there with every wind she flings,  
From every Coast her rumours forth she brings;  
Nothing so secret but to her appeareth,  
And apt to credit every thing she heareth.   

Fowl blabbing tell-tale, secrets soon bewrayer,  
Thou ayre-bred Echo, whisperer of lies:  
Shril-sounding trumpet, truths unkind betrayer,  
False alarm bell, awaking deadmen's eyes,  
Uncertain rumour, wandering in the skies:  
Fond prattling Parrot, telling all thou hearest,  
Oft furthest of when as thou should ●… be nearest.   

The Prince's ears are open to report,  
there's skill in blazing beauty to a King;  
To censure, is the subject of the Court,  
Fron thence Fame carries, thither Fame doth bring,  
There, to each word a thousand echoes ring:  
A Lottery, where most lose, but few do win,  
Few love Religion, many follow sin.   

Lo, here at first my beauty played her prize,  
Hear where my virtues seldom prized be,  
Yet that which most seemed wondered of the wise,  
Confined by virtue, clearly made me see,  
What dangers were attending still on me:  
Which most desired, for why esteemed most rare,  
Guarded I kept with most especial care.   

This, whole possessed the thoughts of princely john,  
This, on his heartstrings Angels music made,  
This, was the subject which he wrought upon,  
That deep impression which could never fade,  
Reason which might sufficiently persuade:  
Hence sprung that grief, which never gave him rest,  
This was the spirit wherewith he was possessed.   

This, had commission to cammaund his Crown,  
In all his course, conducted by this star,  
This, with a smile could clear each cloudy frown,  
This, conquered him, which conquered all in war,  
This, calmed his thoughts in every bloody jar,  
This, taught his eyes their due attendance still,  
This, held the rains which ruled his princely will.   

Controlling Love, proud Fortunes busy Factor,  
The gall of wit, sad Melancholies school,  
Hart-killing corsive, golden times detractor,  
Life-fretting canker, mischiefs poisoned tool,  
The Idiots idol, but the wise man's fool:  
A foe to friendship, enemy to truth,  
The wrong misleader of our pleasing youth.   

My virtuous father, famous then in Court,  
Who lived in pomp, and Lorded with the best,  
Whose mind was troubled with this strange report,  
As one enshrining honour in his breast,  
And as a man who ever loved me best:  
Foresaw the danger of such secret spies,  
Who still attended on the Prince's eyes.   

And he, who in the Kings own bosom slept,  
Experience taught his deepest thoughts to sound,  
Yet in his breast, the same he secret kept,  
Nor would disclose the thing which he had found,  
Who being hurt must needs conceal his wound.  
For why he knew, it was a dangerous thing,  
In rule, or Love, but once to cross a king.   

And finding lust had kindled all this fire,  
And his affections in extremes consisted,  
He greatly feared his youthful vain desire,  
Might grow impatient, being once resisted:  
Yet in his humour, sith he still persisted,  
With me his child, thought fittest to persuade,  
Ere further he into the deep durst wade.   

Sweet girl (quoth he) the glory of my life,  
The blessed and sole object of mine eyes,  
For whom the Heavens with Nature fell at strife,  
On whom the hope of all my fortune lies,  
Whose youth, my age with comfort still supplies.  
Whose very sight my drooping heart doth raise,  
And doth prolong thy aged father's days.   

Thou seest, a world upon thy youth await,  
That Paradise, where all delights do grow,  
Thy peerless Beauty made so fair a bait,  
The Burse where Nature sets her ware to show,  
Where blushing Roses, sleep in beds of snow.  
The heavens have fringed thy forehead with their gold;  
That glass where heaven herself may well behold.   

All gaze at Comets, choicest things be best,  
The rarest pearls are ever dearest prized,  
Seldom wants guests, where Beauty bids the feast,  
men's eyes with wonders never are sufficed,  
At fairest signs, best welcome is surmised.  
The shrine of Love, doth seldom offerings want.  
Nor with such counsel, Clients never scant.   

Honour is grounded on the tickle Ice,  
The purest Lawn, most apt for every spot,  
The path to hell, doth seem a paradise,  
Vices be noted, virtues oft forgot,  
Thy fame once foiled, incurable the blot.  
Thy name defaced, if touched with any stain,  
And once supplanted, never grows again.   

The lechers tongue is never void of guile,  
Nor Crocodile wants tears to win his prey,  
The subtlest Temptor hath the sweetest style,  
With rarest music Sirens soonest betray.  
Assection, will like fire himself bewray.  
Time offers still each hour to do amiss,  
And greatest dangers, promise greatest bliss.   

Deceit, still with a thousand sleights is fraught,  
Art, hath a world of secrets in her power,  
Who hopes a Conquest, leaves no means unsought,  
Soft golden drops once pierced the brazen tower,  
Care and Suspicion is fair Beauty's dower.  
Guile, (like a Traitor) ever goes disguised,  
Lust, oft is filled, but never is sufficed.   

This wanton Prince, whose soul doth swim in vice,  
Whose lawless youth time never hath restrained,  
He leaves no means unproved, which may entice,  
The rites of wedlock wanton profaned;  
His hands with blood of innocents distained.  
This Lion, would thy chastity devour,  
Which kept by Virtue, lies not in his power.   

Lascivious will, the senses doth abuse,  
Birth is no shadow unto tyranny,  
No sceptre serves dishonour to excuse,  
Nor kingly vail can cover villainy,  
Fame is not subject to authority.  
No plaster heals a deadly poisoned sore,  
No secret hid, where slander keeps the door.   

No subtle plea revokes dishonours error,  
No law can quite, where Fame is once indited,  
No armour proof against the conscience terror,  
'Gainst open shame, no Text can well be cited,  
The blow once given, cannot be evited.  
If once the fire be to the powder got,  
'tis then too late to seek to fly the shot.   

His youthful love, is like a sudden fire,  
Whose heat extreme, of force decay it must,  
The cause, proceeding from his lewd desire,  
Is quickly out, and sooner turned to dust,  
Yet frets the life, as iron frets with rust.  
Sin in a chain, leads on her sister Shame,  
And both in Giues, fast fettered to Defame.   

The stately Eagle on his pitch doth stand,  
And from the main the fearful foul doth smite,  
Yet scorns to touch it lying on the land,  
When he hath felt the sweet of his delight,  
But leaves the same a pray to every Kite.  
With much we surfer, plenty makes us poor,  
The wretched Indian spurns the golden Ore.   

kings use their Loves, as garments they have worn,  
Weak stomachs loath, if once but fully fed,  
The Saint once stolen, who doth the shrine adorn?  
Or what is Nectar if it once be shed?  
What Princes wealth can prise thy Maidenhead?  
Which should be held as precious as thy breath,  
Which once dissolved of force ensueth death.   

Lo, here he makes a period with his tears,  
Which from his eyes now make a sudden breach,  
By which the weight of all his speech appears,  
In words so grave as seemed still to preach,  
This Idioma with such power doth teach.  
Whose tuned cadence doth such rules impart,  
As deeply fixed each sentence in my heart.   

O sacred counsel, true hart-suppling balm,  
Soule-curing plaster, time preserving bliss,  
Water of life in every sudden qualm,  
The heavens rich storehouse, where all treasure is,  
True guide, by whom foul Errors den we miss.  
Night-burning Beacon, watch against mishaps,  
Foresight, avoiding many after claps.   

The King deluded in his love the while,  
His soul tormented in this quenchless fire,  
With flattering hope his senses doth beguile,  
Quickening the coals unto his fond desire;  
Affection grown too headstrong to retire,  
Controls his silence, hating to be mute,  
And still doth urge him to commence his suit.   

Thus carried on by his unbridled thought,  
He leaves no bait unproved that might allure,  
Deceit, a school of common sleights hath taught,  
Desire, hath philtre which desires procure,  
Lust, puts the most unlawful things in ure:  
Nor yet in limmets ever could be bounded,  
Till he himself, himself hath quite confounded.   

But still perceiving all devices fail,  
His trains in Court yet never took effect,  
Now with his tongue determined to assail,  
And to this end doth all his thoughts direct,  
Too much abused by his vain suspect:  
To further days, no longer would be posted,  
But finding time, me bravely thus accosted.   

Goddess (quoth he) when Nature thee engrayned,  
With colours fetched from heavens eternal spring,  
Little thought she, herself she could have stained.  
Or grace the world with so divine a thing.  
But as a gift to gratify a King,  
Sealed thee this Charter, dated at thy birth,  
To be the fairest that ever lived on earth.   

Lock not thy treasure, heaven doth give the store,  
A thousand Graces at thine eyes are fed,  
Thy bosom, is the Angels secret door,  
Thy breast, the pillows of fair Venus' bed:  
Regards of honour on thy brows are red.  
Thy cheeks, the banquet where sweet Love doth feast,  
The royal Pawn of Beauty's interest.   

Thy lips, the Bath where sorrows wounds are healed,  
Where Abstinence keeps Virtue in a diet,  
And in thy wit, all wonders are revealed,  
Wisdom grown wealthy, liveth there at quiet:  
Thy modest eye controls loves wanton riot.  
Thine eye, that planet clearer than the seven,  
Whose radiant splendour lights the world to heaven.   

From thy sweet looks such streams of lightning glide,  
As through the eyes do wound the very heart,  
Killing, and curing, as they are applied,  
Hurting, and healing, like Achilles' Dart:  
Which to the world do heavenly things impart.  
And thou alone, the spirit of all delight,  
Which like the sun, joyest all things with thy sight.   

Can heaven allow wherewith to limb thee forth,  
Or earth afford things of esteem to praise thee,  
Were words sufficient to express thy worth,  
Or could invention to thy glory raise thee,  
Can Art devise a weight whereby to poise thee:  
But thy surpassing exeellence is such,  
As eyes may gaze, but nothing else may touch.   

He is thy King, who is become thy subject,  
Thy sovereign Lord, who only seeks thy love,  
Thy beauty is his eyes commanding object,  
Who for thy sake, a thousand deaths would prove:  
Sweet Maid let prayers, some compassion move.  
Let Wolves, and Bears, be cruel in their kinds,  
But women meek, and have relenting minds.   

love forced the Gods, to things for God's unmeer,  
Behold a Monarch kneeling to a maid,  
Apollo, prostrate at his Daphne's feet,  
Great Atlas' bows, on whom the heaven is staid;  
Thy jove his Sceptre on thy lap hath laid,  
Thou in his throne dost sit as Chancellor,  
And he become thy daily Orator.   

Look on these brows, the perfect Map of care,  
The truest mirror of my misery,  
In wrinkled lines where sorrows written are,  
Where Time still reads on loves Anatomy,  
My bloodless veins with griefs Phlebotomy:  
A stanchless heart, dead-wounded, ever bleeding,  
On whom that nere-fild vulture Love sits feeding.   

Pity this soule-evaporating smoke,  
The purest incense of most perfect zeal,  
These deep-fetched sighs, confounding words half spoke,  
Where swoln-eyed passion doth herself reveal:  
That rageful fire, no reason can conceal.  
Where torments last, and joys are still diluded,  
Where all infernal torture is included.   

Behold, the brimful cisterns of these eyes,  
With surging Tides of brackist tears frequented,  
Where foodless Hope, still hunger-starven lies,  
In burning Pools eternally tormented:  
Which to betray, my heart at first consented.  
Where as the spirit of woe, hath ever being,  
Blinded in tears, yet in tears only seeing.   

Shine thou, like Cynthia under mine estate,  
Thy tresses decked with Ariadne's Crown,  
In pomp redubbling costly junos' rate,  
And cloud the world in sable with a frown:  
Advance thy friends, and throw the mighty down.  
Be thou admired through all this famous I'll,  
Thy name enrolled with never-dated style.   

Great troops of Ladies shall attend my Girl,  
Thou on thy brave triumphing Chariot borne,  
Thy drink shall be dissolved orient Pearl,  
Thy princely Cup of rarest Unicorn:  
Then live at ease, and laugh the world to scorn.  
And if our music cannot like thine ears,  
Thy jove shall fetch thee music from the Spheres.   

Thy name, as my Empreza will I bear,  
My well tuned rhymes, shall glory in thy praise,  
Upon my Crown, thy favours will I wear,  
Figuring thy love a thousand sundry ways:  
My power shall be thy shield at all assays.  
And thou my Saint, Kings offering to thy shrine,  
Wondering thy beauty, as a thing divine.   

What if my Queen, Detractor of our bliss,  
Thee by her hundreth-eyed Herdsman keep,  
I'll bring to pass, she shall her purpose miss,  
My Mercury shall lull him till he sleep;  
Love ever laughs, when jealousy doth weep.  
My providence, shall keep her stomach under,  
She may raise storms, but jove doth rule the thunder.   

Thus having broke the Ice from whence might spring,  
Sweet streams of love in calm and fairer time,  
And afterward, might joyful tidings bring,  
The stair begun by which he thought to climb,  
Hoping due hours, now he had set the chime;  
Lea●●s me, not knowing now which way to turn me,  
warmed with the fire, which unawares might burn me.   

Forthwith began strange factions in my thought,  
And in my soul a sudden mutiny,  
Fear and Desire, a doubtful combat fought,  
The title stands upon extremity:  
My force was great, and strong mine enemy;  
Till Resolution, seeing all begun,  
Sent Succours in, by whom the field was won.   

As thus mine honour in the Balance hung,  
Betwixt the world's preferment and my fame,  
These in mine ears, like Sirens sweetly sung,  
That wisely still forewarned me of shame:  
Till Grace divine from highest heaven came.  
Now must I lose the prize, or win the Crown,  
Till Virtue (currant) lastly weighed me down.   

The time is come I must receive my trial,  
His protestations subtly accuse me,  
My Chastity sticks still to her denial,  
His promises false witness do abuse me,  
My Conscience called, yet clearly doth excuse me.  
And those pure thoughts, enshrined in my breast,  
By verdict quit me, being on the Quest.   

And Wisdom now forewarned me of treason,  
That in the Court, I lived a Lions pray,  
My tender youth in this contagious season,  
Still feared infection, following day by day:  
My Bark unsafe on this tempestuous Sea.  
My Chastity in danger every hour,  
No succour near to shroud me from the shower.   

With Resolution, hap what might betid,  
I leave the Court, the Spring of all my woe,  
That Court, which gloried in my Beauty's pride,  
That Beauty, which my Fortune made my foe,  
To Baynards-Castell secretly I go.  
Where, with his train, my noble Father lay,  
Whose gracious counsel was my only stay.   

There, might my thoughts keep holiday a while,  
And sing a farewell to my sorrows past,  
With all delights I might the time beguile,  
Attained my wished liberty at last,  
No fearful vision made me now aghast.  
But like a Bird escaped her Keeper's charge,  
Glides through the air with wings displayed at large.   

And hoping health thus cured of these qualms,  
My heart in this fair harbour rides at ease,  
The tempest past, expecting quiet calms,  
My Ship thus floating on these blissful Seas,  
A sudden storm my Ankor-hold doth raise:  
And from the shore doth hoist me to the main,  
Where I (poor soul) my shipwreck must sustain.   

And lo, the Autumn of my joys approach,  
Whilst yet my spring began so fair to flourish,  
Black wayward Winter, sets her storms abroach,  
And kills the sap which all my hopes did nourish.  
Fortune once kind, grows crabbed now and currish.  
In my strait path, she lays a mighty beam.  
And in my course, she thwarts me with the stream.   

The King who saw his love unkindly crossed,  
And by effect the cause had fully found,  
Since he the harvest of his hope had lost,  
Now on revenge his deepest thoughts doth ground:  
Desperate to kill, receiving his death's wound.  
In reason's bounds strives but in vain to hold,  
Headstrong desire, too proud to be controlled.   

Like the brave Courser struggling with the rains,  
His foaming mouth controlled with Canon's check,  
With lofty bounds his skilful Rider strains,  
Scorning to yield his stately crested neck:  
Nor of the bloody piercing spurs doth reck.  
The King now warmed in this glorious fire,  
Thus roughly plungeth in his vain desire.   

Henceforth devising to disperse the Cloud,  
Which ever hung betwixt him and the light:  
His love not currant, nor to be allowed,  
Whilst thus my Father held me in his sight,  
Something amiss, his Watch went never right.  
Of force he must this Sentinel remove,  
If he in time would hope to win my love.   

Ten thousand mischiefs now he sets abroach,  
Treasons, invasions, civil mutiny,  
Black ignominy, slanderous reproach,  
Rebellion, outrage, vile conspiracy,  
Opening the entrails of all villainy.  
Causing my Lord, thereof to be accused,  
By Traitors, such as he with gifts abused.   

Fowl Envy thou, the partial judge of right,  
Son of Deceit, borne of that harlot Hate,  
Nursed in Hell, a vile and ugly sprite,  
Feeding on Slander, cherrish'd with Debate:  
Never contented with thine own estate.  
Deeming alike the wicked and the good,  
Whose words be gall, whose actions end in blood.   

His service done to this ungrateful King,  
His worth, his valour, his gentility:  
What good soever might from virtue spring,  
Or could proceed from true Nobility,  
All buried now in dark obscurity.  
His virtuous life, in doubtful question brought,  
Which evermore for fame and honour sought.   

Thou hateful Monster, base Ingratitude,  
Souls mortal poison, deadly-killing wound,  
Deceitful Serpent, seeking to dilude,  
Black loathsome ditch, where all desert is drowned,  
Vile Pestilence, which all things dost confound;  
At first to none other end,  
But to grieve those whom nothing could offend.   

Such as too well perceived the King's intent,  
In whom remained yet any spark of grace,  
Pitying a poor distressed innocent,  
Their safety still depending on my ease,  
These in my wrongs participate a place.  
These, bound in friendship, and allied in blood,  
Fast to my Father in the quarrel stood.   

But as a Lion in the wilds of Thrace,  
With darts and arrows gauled at the bay,  
Kills man and beast encountering in the Chase,  
And down on heaps, the fearful Herds doth lay,  
His armed paws each where doth make his way:  
Thus by his power, the King doth now surprise,  
Such as in arms resist his tyrannies.   

And given over to his vile desire,  
The spectacle of loathsome sin and shame,  
Our strong-built Castles now he sets on fire,  
And (like proud Nero) warms him by the flame.  
Wasting themselves, augmenting his defame.  
Which like bright Beacons, blaze in every eye,  
Warning all other of his tyranny.   

Our friends and followers thus are beaten down,  
Whom every slave and peasant dare revile,  
And all reputed Traitors to the Crown,  
Imprisoned some, some forced into exile;  
Yet worst of all, (remediless the while,)  
My Father sent a banished man to France,  
And here perforce must leave me to my chance.   

On shyp-bord now, with hands reared to the skies,  
(All sighed and wept, could sigh nor weep no more,)  
He turns his sad eclipsed tearful eyes,  
As retrograde unto the blessed shore;  
Rich Isle (quoth he,) once Garner of my store,  
Taken from me by yonder Tyrant's theft,  
And I as poor as ere was Irus left.   

'tis not my wealth, that, I esteem as light,  
Nor yet my Country, though so dear to me,  
But thou alone Matilda, my delight,  
My life, my soul, all my felicity,  
Left as a pray, vile Monster unto thee.  
Yet my laments are wasted all in vain,  
And to these winds and billows must complain.   

But now the Wolf is got into my fold,  
God help the Lamb that's in the lions power;  
Alas poor Maid, thus art thou bought and sold,  
Prepared for the slaughter every hour,  
This Minotaur must all my hopes devour.  
Yet forced by Fortune to endure this woe,  
And unrevenged unto my grave shall go.   

Within the furrows of my aged brows,  
My joys must their untimely burial have,  
This fatal Tomb proud Fortune them allows,  
Which thus withholds me from my wished grave.  
The heavens are deaf although I justly crave.  
My tears with grief are frozen in mine eyes,  
Yet God, nor man, regards my miseries.   

Thrice famous Roman, (fortunate to me,)  
By whose own hands thy dearest child was slain,  
Delivered so from slavish tyranny,  
But living, mine dishonoured shall remain,  
Blotting my Name with an immortal stain;  
Whose black reproach, for ever shall endure.  
" Ah vile disease that never time can cure.   

Even as the kind sleep-breaking Nightingale,  
(The cruel Merlin ceased her little one,)  
Unto the Thickets tells a woeful tale,  
Wearying the woods with her continual moan.  
This poor Bird chirpeth, he poor Lord doth groan.  
She weeps all night, by day complaineth he,  
She for her young one, he laments for me.   

Look how the Sea, the Tide once being past,  
Whose surges strove the continent to climb,  
And bounding back unto the Gulf at last,  
Upon the Sands doth leave a clammy slime,  
Tears in his cheeks, such gutters worn in time.  
Vvashed with the floods of his stil-troubled brain,  
His eyes brimful, as furrows after rain.   

And thus my Father unawares betrayed,  
A thousand sorrows me at once assail;  
What might I do, a silly helpless maid,  
Tost and turmoiled in this tempestuous gale?  
These boisterous flaws have broken down my sail.  
My succours thus (like shadows) now are gone,  
Not one remains to whom to make my moan.   

Now, like a Roe, before the hounds embossed,  
When overtoiled his swiftness doth aslake,  
Forsakes the Plains, to which he trusted most,  
And to the covert doth himself betake,  
Where doubling still, creeps on from brake to brake;  
Thus do I fly before the Prince's face,  
Who day and night pursues me still in chase.   

The Coast is clear, suspicious eyes at rest,  
And all things fadge which further his desire:  
Now royal hope keeps revels in his breast,  
The coals are quick, and Fancy blows the fire:  
His love expects his long deserved hire.  
No cloud discerned to hinder this his sun,  
The watch discharged, he hopes the town is won.   

The Prince's arms are stretched from shore to shore,  
Kings sleeping, see with eyes of other men,  
Craft finds a key to open every door,  
What might I do, or what avails me then?  
The silly Lamb lives in the lions den.  
loves wakeful eyes (too soon alas) descried me,  
And found me, where I surest thought to hide me.   

My jove, like jove now seeks me to invade,  
And roisting comes, in thunderbolts and rain,  
A Beast, a Bird, a Satire in the shade,  
A flood, a fire, a Serpent and a Swain,  
Chameleon-like, as fitt'st my love to gain.  
Now like great Phoebus in his golden Car,  
And then like Mars, the fearful God of war.   

He makes the Air to woo me whilst I talk,  
The Wind to whistle many a pleasant Ditty,  
The dainty Grass make music as I walk,  
The pretty Flowers to move me still to pity:  
All senseless things with reason seeming witty.  
Before mine eyes he ever doth appear,  
And if I call, still answers, I am here.   

My steps are told, my paths by Spies are noted,  
Mine eyes by Night-spells shut within the watch,  
My words are weighed by jealous Love that doted,  
And at my thoughts, Ill-meaning still doth catch:  
Into my counsels Treason draws the latch.  
And at my gates, Suspicion still doth ward,  
Sorrow my handmaid, Falsehood on my guard.   

He weeps his words, but words could win no tears,  
" The rain doth cease or ere the Floods do rise,  
His woeful words his tongue awhile forbears.  
Then doth he, his hearts arrant with his eyes:  
His eyes ecclipzed, he then with sighs supplies.  
Sighs fail, with smiles he then bewrays his pain,  
Smiling, he weeps, yet weeping, laughs again.   

Look how the Peacock ruffs his flaunting tail,  
And struts under his mooned Canopy,  
And how he quivers with his plumed sail;  
Yet when his Lead-pale legs he haps to see,  
With shame abates his painted jollity.  
The King, as proud as Peacock in my love,  
Yet droops again, when words nor tears could move.   

My breast, of Flint, a rock impenetrable,  
My heart, that stone which never tool could pierce,  
My thoughts, a centre, and unsearchable,  
My words, judgement, which Law could not reverse,  
My frowns, such clouds, as no joy could disperse,  
Tigers are tamed with patience and with skill,  
All things made subject, but a woman's will.   

The King like one sick of a strange disease,  
Whose cruel pain no physic can assuage,  
Nor plaster can his torments once appease,  
Boiling his entrails, with such hellish rage,  
With his own knife his horror doth engage.  
Thus desperate, he, fore-thinks to end this strife,  
Or else by poison take away my life   

But first, with lines he bravely sitteth on,  
Words steeped in syrup of Ambrosia,  
Sweet method, savoured with invention,  
What can be said that Lovers cannot say?  
Desire can make a Doctor in a day.  
Each sentence seemed a sweet inchannting charm  
A Trumpet sounding gentle loves alarm.   

With rare hart-curing Phrygian harmony,  
He tunes his strings, as not a treble jars,  
His strains so pleasant and melodious be,  
As might appease the heat of fearful wars:  
Distilling balm to cure the deepest scars  
His pen, dilates his hearts Apology,  
And shows my sins, by loves Theology.   

What curious thing did Nature ere bring forth,  
What glistering star that yields his silver shine,  
To which he doth not now compare my worth?  
Or what is there, that's mortal or divine?  
What sublimation doth not refine?  
Or what rare thing was ever yet devised,  
That unto me, he hath not lightly prized?   

Now mounts he up with lofty strains of love,  
Then to sad veins his pliant Muse doth bow,  
His humours serving, as his passions move:  
And as the Tides, the numbers ebb and flow;  
His hopes now whither, than again they grow.  
Painting his grief, in hope to quench desire,  
But ink to love, like oil unto the fire.   

And now of one he had himself advised,  
Both red and practised in this wretched Art,  
Within whose brain all mischiefs were comprised,  
Whose words were venom, and his tongue a Dart:  
And this is he must act this damned part.  
To him the King, my poisoning doth commit,  
Who had before made trial of his wit.   

Another Dagon, was this miscreant,  
A devil, walking in a humane shape,  
Fowl Dagon, borne true virtue to supplant,  
For whom th'infernal pit of Hell doth gape:  
Image of pride, of villainy and rape,  
Be thou abhorred of all posterity,  
And let thy vile dishonour never die.   

By him to Dunmow, he these lines conveyed,  
A Monastery juga had begun,  
juga, sometime a holy Vestal maid,  
At whose great charge this Monument was done,  
Where I had vowed to live a holy Nun.  
And in my Cloister, kept amongst the rest,  
Which in this place virginity professed.   

Now he which had this bloody act in charge,  
Thither repairs, with letters from the King,  
Whose black Commission was but all too large,  
To execute so base and vile a thing:  
This messenger which now my death doth bring,  
To add fit matter to my tragic story,  
Finds means to board me in my oratory.   

With courtly congees gently greeting me,  
Gives me the packet which the King had sent me,  
Receive fair Maid, these Letters here (quoth he,)  
The faithful earnest of that good is meant thee:  
But craving that which never shall repent thee.  
His lines be love, the Letters writ in blood,  
Then make no doubt the warrant passing good.   

Kindly accept a Princes kingly offer,  
'tis more than folly if thou do refuse it:  
Never hath Fortune made a fairer proffer,  
The gift too great, if fond thou abuse it,  
Nor any reason serveth to excuse it.  
Be not a foe unto thine own good hap,  
Refusing treasure thrown into thy lap.   

If thou be wise, hold this as ominous,  
The heavens not like disposed every hour:  
The stars be still predominant in us,  
Fortune not always forth her bags doth pour,  
Nor every cloud doth rain a golden shower.  
Occasion's winged, and ever flieth fast,  
Coming, she smiles, & frowns once being past.   

Wrong not thyself, nor yet the world deprive,  
Of that rare good which Nature freely lent,  
Thinkest thou by such base nygardize to thrive,  
In sparing that which never will be spent?  
And that is worst, in age shall thee repent.  
Playing the Churl, to hoard up Beauty's pelf,  
And live, and die, and all unto thyself.   

Yet, were this all (quoth he,) as would it were,  
But there is more, which needs I must reveal:  
Behold the poison he hath sent thee here,  
Which on my life I dare not to conceal,  
Thus is the King determined to deal.  
I, only wait upon thy resolution,  
To win thy love, or see thy execution.   

Leave off these humours, be not singular,  
Make not an Idol of thine own perfection,  
Prise not this word (Virginity) so dear,  
Seem not so Saintlike, moved with no affection.  
Beauty brings peril, wanting safe protection.  
Forswear this drowsy melancholy Cell,  
Was never Girl could grace a Court so well.   

This fear first sprung from foolish superstition,  
Which fond conceit into our ears hath blown,  
Which we receive from old folks by tradition,  
And as a weed to choke our joys is grown:  
Reason roots out what Error erst hath sown.  
A gentle jest to fright poor babes withal,  
Like to a Bugbear, painted on a wall.   

Tush, these be trivial toys of reputation,  
Whose Ceremonies have the world infected,  
Held in regard but only for a fashion,  
Which frivolous, the wiser have neglected:  
And but as Dreams of doting age respected.  
Whose spleen-sick humours on their galls were fed,  
Thinking all true which they imagined.   

Dispatch, (quoth he) lo, here is pen and ink,  
Hear make the Prince assurance of thy love,  
Or else prepare thee to thy fatal drink,  
Which is of force thy Fever to remove:  
Which (ah poor fondling) thou too soon mayst prove.  
And if thy will be so fast chained to thee,  
Let thine own hands the Executioners be.   

And is (quoth I) the Prince's pleasure thus?  
You are deceived, he doth but this to try me,  
I know my Lord is kind and gracious,  
He thinks my sex & weakness will descry me;  
I hope the King will deal more kindly by me.  
Those blessed hands, which never did but good,  
Will not be stained with virgins guiltless blood.   

His thoughts be pure, as Crystal, without spot,  
He is wisdom, honour, valour, chastity:  
What excellence is there that he is not?  
Or what may be, by him which cannot be?  
he's Virtues right superlative degree.  
From his affections, never shall proceed,  
One little thought of this so vile a deed.   

King's be the God's Vizegerents here on earth,  
The Gods have power, Kings from that power have might,  
Kings should excel in virtue as in birth,  
Gods punish wrongs, & Kings should maintain right,  
They be the Suns from which we borrow light.  
And they as Kings, should still in justice strive,  
With Gods, from whom their beings they derive.   

Enraged with this, (in griefs extremity,)  
Minion, (quoth he,) 'tis now no time to prate,  
Dispatch, or else I'll drench you presently,  
Of this, nor that, I stand not to debate.  
Expects thou love where thou rewardest with hate?  
I pass not I, how ere thou like the motion,  
Have done at once, and quickly take the Potion.   

This sudden terror makes me pause for breath,  
Till sighing out at length this sad reply:  
If it be so, welcome to me my death,  
This is the utmost of extremity,  
And yet when all is done, I can but die.  
His will be done, sith he will have it so,  
And welcome Death, the end of all my woe.   

And thou my Deathsman, slave unto his lust,  
Th'executioner of his lawless will,  
In whom the Tyrant doth repose such trust,  
Detract no time, his murdering mind fulfil;  
Do what thou darest, the worst thou canst but kill.  
And tell the Tyrant this when I am dead,  
I loathed his beastly and adulterous bed.   

Nor let the King thy Master ever think,  
A virtuous Maid so cowardly and base,  
As to be frighted with a poisoned drink,  
And live an abject in the world's disgrace:  
All eyes with shame to gaze me in the face.  
That ages which hereafter shall succeed,  
Shall hold me hateful for so vile a deed.   

Is this the greatest gift he could bestow?  
Is this the jewel, wherewith he doth present me?  
I am his friend, what gives he to his foe,  
If this in token of his love be sent me?  
Remediless I am, it must content me.  
Yet afterward, a proverb this shall prove,  
The gift King john bestowed upon his love.   

Then of this conquest let thy Sovereign boast,  
And make report with shame what he hath done:  
A thing more easy then subdue an Host,  
Or conquer Kingdoms, as his Father won;  
O hapless Sire, of this unhappy Son.  
And he more shame shall carry to his grave,  
Then Fortune honours to his Father gave.   

Thus spoke my mind, (as women use to do,)  
Hoping thereby somewhat to ease my heart,  
But words I found, did but increase my woe,  
Augment his rage, not mitigate my smart;  
And now comes in the reckoning ere we part.  
And now my valour must be tried, or never,  
Or famous now, or infamous for ever.   

Taking the poison from his deadly hand,  
Unto the King caroused my latest draft;  
Go wretch (quoth I) now let him understand,  
He hath obtained what he so long hath sought;  
Though with my blood, my fame I dearly bought.  
And though my youth he basely have betrayed,  
Yet witness Heaven, I lived and died a Maid.   

Then why repine I, sith he thinks it meet,  
He is my Sovereign, and my life is his,  
Death is not bitter, spiced with such a sweet,  
Which leads the way to everlasting bliss;  
he's all my joy, he all my glory is.  
He is the tuch by whom my gold is tried,  
Only by him my death is sanctified.   

For could my life have given life to me,  
My youths fair flower, yet blooming, had not died,  
Then how should this but meritorious be,  
When by my death, my life is sanctified?  
Can ever thing more fitly be applied?  
In this is love, in this his care I find,  
My Lord is just, my Lord is only kind.   

Then let these tears, th'elixirs of my love,  
Be to his soul a pure preservative,  
And let my prayers, be of such force to move,  
That by my death, my Sovereign may survive:  
And from his reign, let Fame herself derive  
His glory, like the suns translucent rays,  
And as the heaven, eternal be his days.   

This mortal poison, now begins to rage,  
And spreads his vigour through all my veins,  
There is no physic can my grief assuage,  
Such is the torment which my heart destraines,  
Boiling my entrails in most hellish pains.  
And Nature, weakened of her wont force,  
Must yield to death, which now hath no remorse.   

And those pure thoughts, which once I choisly fed,  
Now when pale death my senses doth surprise,  
I offer here upon my dying bed,  
This precious, sweet, perfumed sacrifice:  
Hallowed in my almighty Maker's eyes.  
Which from this Altar, lends me heavenly light,  
Guiding my soul amid this darksome night.   

My glorious life, my spotless Chastity.  
Now at this hour be all the joys I have,  
These be the wings by which my fame shall fly,  
In memory, these shall my Name engrave;  
These, from oblivion shall mine honour save.  
With Laurel, these my brows shall coronize,  
And make me live to all posterities.   

Our fond preferments, are but children's toys,  
And as a shadow, all our pleasures pass,  
As years increase, so waning are our joys,  
And beauty crazed, like a broken glass:  
A pretty tale of that which never was.  
All things decay, yet Virtue shall not die,  
This only gives us immortality.   

My soul, thus from her prison set at large,  
And gently freed from this polluted room,  
This prize unloaden from this loathsome Barge,  
(Such is the heavens inevitable doom:)  
My body laid at Dunmow in my Tomb.  
Thus Baynards-Castle boasts my blessed birth,  
And Dunmow kindly wraps me in her earth.   

Now scarcely was my breathless body cold,  
But every where my tragedy was spread:  
And Fame, abroad in every Coast had told,  
My resolution, being lately dead:  
The glorious wonder of all womanhood.  
And to my Father flies with this report,  
Who lived an Exile in the French-Kings Court.   

His grief, too great to be bewailed with tears,  
Words, insufficient to express his woe,  
His soul, assaulted with a thousand fears,  
As many, sundry passions come and go;  
His thoughts, uncertain, wandering to and fro.  
At length, this fearful ecstasy o'erpast,  
Groans from his soul this passion at the last.   

O Heavens (quoth he) why was I borne accursed?  
This only comfort to mine age was left:  
But to despite me, you have done your worst,  
And me of all my worldly joys bereft:  
I quite undone by your deceitful theft.  
This was the jewel I esteemed most,  
And losing this, now all my treasures lost.   

Ye powers Divine, if you be clean and chaste,  
In whom alone consists eternity,  
Why suffer you, your own to be disgraced,  
Subject to death and black impurity?  
If in your shield be no security?  
If so for Virtue these rewards be due?  
Who shall adore, or who shall honour you?   

What meant you, first to give her vital breath,  
Or make the world proud by her blessed birth,  
Predestinating this untimely death,  
And of her presence to deprive the earth?  
O fruitless age, now starved with virtues dearth.  
Or if you longed to have her company,  
O why by poison would you let her die?   

O Soil, with drops of mercy once bedewed,  
When just men were instauled in thy throne,  
But now with blood of Innocents' embrued,  
Staining the glory of fair Albion,  
O lustful Monster, o accursed john.  
O heavens, to whom should men for justice cry,  
When Kings themselves thus reign by tyranny?   

O give me wings Revenge, I will ascend  
And fetch her soul again out of their power;  
From them proceeded this untimely end,  
Who took her hence before her dying hour.  
And raised that cloud which rained this bloody shower.  
And from the grave I'll dig her body up,  
Which had her bane by that vile poisoned cup.   

O pardon Heavens these sacrilegious words,  
This irreligious open blasphemy:  
My wretched soul no better now affords,  
Such is the passion of mine agony,  
My desperate case in this extremity.  
You harbour those which ever like you best,  
With blessed Angels let her spirit rest.   

No, no, I'll practise by some secret art,  
How to infect his pure life-breathing air,  
Or else I'll sheathe my poniard in his heart,  
Or with strong poison I'll anoint his Chair:  
Or by enchantment, will his days impair.  
O no, revenge to God alone belongs,  
And it is he which must revenge my wrongs.   

O heavens, perforce we must attend your time,  
Our succours must await upon you still,  
In your just weights you balance every crime,  
For us you know what's good, and what is ill;  
Who understands your deep and secret skill?  
In you alone our destinies consist,  
Than who is he which can your power resist?   

O, could my sighs again but give thee breath,  
Or were my tears such balm as could restore thee,  
Or could my life redeem thee from this death,  
Or were my prayers, but invocations worthy:  
Sighs, tears, life, prayers, were all to little for thee.  
But since the heaven, thus of my child disposeth,  
Ah me, thy Tomb now all my joys encloseth.   

O what a wonder shall thy valour bring?  
What admiration to posterity?  
What rare examples from thy virtues spring?  
O what a glory to thy Progeny,  
To be engraved in lasting memory,  
When as applauding Fame in every Coast,  
Shall thus in honour of Fitzwater's boast?   

England, when peace upon thy shores shall flourish,  
And that pure Maiden sit upon thy Throne,  
Which in her bosom shall the Muses nourish,  
Whose glorious fame shall through the world be blown,  
(O, blessed I'll, thrice happy Albion;)  
Then let thy Poets in their stately rhymes,  
Sing forth her praises to succeeding times.   

By this, the King's vile bloody rage is past,  
And gentle time his choler doth digest,  
The fire consumes his substance at the last,  
The grief assuaged which did his spirit molest:  
That fiend cast out wherewith he was possessed.  
And now he feels this horror in his soul,  
When loathsome shame his actions doth control.   

Black hell-bred-humor of revenging sin,  
By whose enticements, murder we commit,  
The end unthought of, rashly we begin,  
Letting our passion overrule our wit:  
Missing the mark, which most we aim to hit.  
Clogging our souls with such a mass of care,  
As casts us down oft times into Despair.   

Traitor to Virtue, Reprobate (quoth he,)  
As for a King, no more usurp the name:  
Stain to all honour, and gentility,  
Marked in the face with th'iron of Defame:  
The Picture of all infamy and shame.  
Despised of men, abhorred in every place,  
Hate to thyself, the very world's disgrace.   

When all thy race shall be in triumph set,  
Their royal conquests and achievements done,  
Henry thy Father, brave Plantagenet,  
Thy conquering Brother, Lion-hart, his Son:  
The Crowns, & spoils, these famous Champions won;  
This still shall be in thy dishonour said,  
Lo, this was john, the murderer of a Maid.   

This act enrolled in Book of black Defame,  
Where, men of death and tragic murder's reed,  
Recorded in the Register of shame,  
In lines whose letters freshly ever bleed,  
Where all the world shall wonder my misdeed.  
And quote the place, (thus ever) passing by,  
Note here King john's vile damned tyranny.   

Her blood exhaled from earth unto the sky,  
A fearful Meteor still hangs over my head,  
Staining the heavens with her Vermilion dye,  
Changing the suns bright rays to gory red,  
Prognosticating death and fearful dread;  
Her soul, with howling, and revengeful steven,  
Shrieking before the gates of highest Heaven.   

Whose sacred Counsel, now in judgement set,  
And She, before them stands to plead her case,  
Her dreary words in bloody tears are wet,  
The evidence appears before my face,  
And I condemned a caitiff wanting grace;  
justice cries out upon this sinful deed,  
And to my death the fatal stars proceed.   

Earth, swallow me, and hide me in thy womb,  
O let my shame in thy deep Centre dwell,  
Wrap up this murder in thy wretched Tomb,  
Let tender Mercy stop the gates of hell:  
And with sweet drops this furious heat expel.  
O let Repentance, just revenge appease,  
And let my soul, in torment find some ease.   

O, no, her tears are now become a flood,  
And as they rise, increasing mine offence;  
And now the shedding of her guiltless blood,  
Even like a Canker, gnaws my Conscience,  
O, there's my grief, my pain proceeds from thence.  
Yet never time wears out this filthy stain,  
And I dishonoured ever shall remain.   

Then do I vow a solemn Pilgrimage,  
Before my wretched miserable end;  
This done, betake me to some Hermitage,  
Where I the remnant of my days will spend:  
Where Alms and Prayer I ever will attend.  
And on the Tomb at last, where thou dost lie,  
When all is done, I'll lay me down and die.   

And for his Penance, lastly he devised,  
Monthly to Dunmow would he take his way,  
And in a simple Palmer's weed disguised,  
With deep devotion kneel him down to pray:  
Kissing the place, whereas my body lay.  
Washing my Tomb, with his repentant tears,  
And being wet, yet dried it with his hairs.   

And now, before my spirit departed from hence,  
O let me see the Muses own delight:  
Idea, mirror of all patience,  
Whose sacred Temples are with Garlands dight;  
O let my soul be blessed in her sight.  
Which so adorns this poor world with her birth,  
As where she is, still makes a Heaven on earth.   

O let me once behold her blessed eyes,  
Those two sweet Suns which make eternal spring,  
Which banish drooping Night out of the skies,  
In whose sweet bosom quires of Angels sing:  
To whom the Muses all their treasures bring.  
Her breast, Minerva's ever hallowed shrine,  
Whose sainted thoughts are sacred and divine.   

Slide still sweet Anchor on thy silver Sands,  
Play dainty Music when she walks by thee,  
With liquid Pearl wash those pure Lily hands,  
And all thy Banks with Laurel shadowed be,  
And let sweet Arden's Nightingales with glee,  
Record to her in many a pleasing strain,  
Whilst all the Nymphs attend upon her train.   
FINIS.