Mortimeriados.  
THE LAMENtable civil wars of Edward the second and the Barons.  
AT LONDON, Printed by I.R. for Humphrey Lownes, and are to be sold at his shop at the West end of Paul's Church.   

To the excellent and most accomplished Lady, Lucy Countess of Bedford.  

RArest of Ladies, all, of all I have,  
Anchor of my poor Tempest-beaten state,  
Which givest life, to that life Nature gave,  
And to thyself, dost only consecrate:  
My hopes true Goddess, guider of my fate,  
Vouchsafe to grace what here to light is brought,  
Begot by thy sweet hand, borne of my thought.   

And though I sing of this tumultuous rage,  
Still painting passions in these Tragedies,  
Thy milder looks, this fury can assuage,  
Such is the virtue of thy sacred eyes,  
Which do contain a thousand purities;  
And like themselves, can make their object such,  
As doth Th'elixir all things it doth touch.   

Sweet fruit, sprung from that ever sacred tree,  
That happy womb from whom thou life dost take,  
And with that life, gives virtue unto thee,  
Thus made of her, her like of thee to make,  
She loved for thee, thou honoured for her sake;  
And either's good, from other so derived,  
Yet she, nor thou, of any due deprived.   

The harrington's, whose house thy birth hath blest,  
Adding such honour to their family,  
And famous Bedford's greatness still increased,  
Raising the height of their Nobility,  
That Earldoms title more to dignify?  
That Virtue lively pictured forth in thee,  
May truly be discerned, what she should be.   

And Laurel-crowned Sidney, Nature's pride,  
Whom heaven to earth, but only show'd this good,  
Betwixt the world, and thee did then divide,  
His fame, and virtues, which both equal stood,  
The world his fame, to thee of her own blood  
He gave his virtues, that in his own kind,  
His never-matched worth might be enshrined.   

That whilst they boast but of their sunburnt brains,  
Which Tramontani long have termed us so,  
With all their Po's, their tybur's, and their Rheyns,  
Grieving to see how tidefull Thames shall flow,  
Our Groves which for the graceful Muses grow:  
Thy name shall be the glory of the North,  
The fairest fruit that ever she brought forth.   

And in despite of tyrannizing times,  
This hope great Lady yet to thee is left,  
Thy name shall live in steele-out-during rhymes,  
Still scorning ages sacraligious theft,  
What fame doth keep, can never be bereft:  
Nor can thy past-prized honour ever die,  
If lines can give thee immortality.   

Leaving unto succeeding times to see,  
How much thy sacred gifts I did adore.  
What power thy virtues ever had in me,  
And what thou wer● compared with those before,  
Which shall in age, thy youth again restore:  
And still shall add more vigour to thy fame,  
Then earthly honours, or a Countess name.   

Proclaiming unto ages yet to come,  
Whilst Bedford lived, what living Bedford was,  
Enclosing thee in this immortal tomb,  
More durable than letter-graven brass,  
To show what thy great power could bring to pass,  
And other hopes I utterly refuse,  
And thou my hope, my Lady, and my Muse.   
Your Honours ever devoted servant Michael Drayton.   

To the right Honourable Lady, Lucy Countess of Bedford.  
WHen God this wondrous Creature did create,  
This ever-moving body, this huge weight,  
Whose head, whose lofty head high situate,  
Is crowned with stars & constellations bright.  
He caused the same one certain way to move,  
Which moving (some say) doth sweet tunes beget,  
Another way the Sun and Planets prove,  
For they from thence move where the sun doth set;  
Yet he the Polestar, Cynosura clear,  
Caused steadily to stand, though heaven did gyre,  
For an example to men's actions here:  
Madam, you are the star of his desire;  
Whilst he his thoughts heaven moves, o gracious Bee,  
And wonders in your Creature you shall see.  
Your honours and eternities Humble, E. B.   

Mortimeriados.  

THE lowering heaven had masked her in a cloud,  
Dropping sad tears upon the sullen earth,  
Bemoaning in her melancholy shroud,  
The angry stars which reigned at Edward's birth,  
With whose beginning ended all our mirth.  
Edward the second, but the first of shame,  
Scourge of the crown, eclipse of England's fame.   

Whilst in our blood, ambition hotly boils,  
The Land bewails her, like a woeful Mother,  
On every side besieged with civil broils,  
Her dearest children murdering one another,  
Yet she in silence forced her grief to smother:  
Groaning with pain, in travail with her woes,  
And in her torment, none to help her throws.   

What care would plot, dissension strives to cross,  
Which like an earthquake rends the tottering state;  
Abroad in wars we suffer public loss,  
At home, betrayed with grudge and private hate,  
Faction attending bloodshed and debate;  
Confusion thus our Country's peace confounds,  
No help at hand, and mortal be her wounds.   

Thou Church then swelling in thy mightiness,  
Thou which shouldst be this poor sick bodies soul,  
O nurse not factions which shouldst sin suppress,  
And with thy members shouldst all grief condole,  
Persuade thy heart and not thy head control;  
Humble thyself, dispense not with the word,  
Take Peter's keys, but cast aside his sword.   

The rageful fire which burned Carnaruans breast,  
Blown with revenge of gaveston's disgrace,  
Awakes the Barons from their nightly rest,  
And maketh way to give the Spensers' place,  
Whose friendship Edward only doth embrace;  
By whose allurements he is fond led,  
To leave his Queen, and fly his lawful bed.   

This Planet stirred up that tempestuous blast  
By which our fortune's Anchorage was torn,  
The storm wherewith our spring was first defaced,  
Whereby all hope unto the ground was borne:  
Hence came the grief, the tears, the cause to mourn.  
This bred the blemish which her beauty stained,  
Whose ugly scarr's, to aftertimes remained.   

In all this heat his greatness first began,  
The serious subject of my sadder vain,  
Great Mortimer, the wonder of a man,  
Whose fortunes here my Muse must entertain,  
And from the grave his griefs must yet complain,  
To show our vice nor virtues never die,  
Though under ground a thousand years we lie.   

This gust first threw him on that blessed Coast  
Which never age discovered before:  
This lucky chance drew all King Edward lost,  
This shipwreck cast the prize upon his shore,  
And this all-drowning Deluge gave him more;  
From hence the sun of his good fortune shone,  
The fatal step, to Edward's fatal throne.   


 That uncle now, whose name this Nephew bare,  
The only comfort of the woeful Queen,  
And from his cradle held him as his care,  
And still the hope of all his house had been,  
Whilst yet this deep hart-goring wound is green,  
On this well-seene advantage wisely wrought,  
To place him highly in her princely thought.   

He saw his inclination from his birth,  
A mighty spirit, a mind which did aspire;  
Not of the drossy substance of the earth,  
But of the purest element of fire,  
Which sympathising with his own desire,  
Name, nature, feature, all did so agree,  
That still in him, himself he still might see.   

The temper of his nobler moving part,  
Had that true touch which purified his blood,  
Insusing thoughts of honour in his heart,  
Whose flaggie feathers were not soiled in mud,  
The edge he bore declared the metal good;  
The towering pitch wherein he flew for fame,  
Declared the airy whence the Eagle came.   

Worthy the Grand-chyld of so great a sire,  
Brave Mortimer who lived whilst Long-shanks reigned, 
Roger Mortimer his Grandfather, who kept 〈…〉 table ●● Kenelworth.   
Our second Arthur, whom all times admire,  
At Kenelworth the Table round ordained,  
And therein Arms, a hundredth Knights maintained;  
A hundredth gallant Ladies in his Court,  
Whose stately presence royalized this sport.   

And whilst this poor wife-widdowed Queen alone,  
In this despairing passion pines away,  
Beyond all hope, to all but heaven unknown,  
A little spark which yet in secret lay,  
Breaks forth in flame, and turns her night to day,  
The woeful winter of her sorrows cheering,  
Even as the world at the fair Suns appearing.   

Yet still perplexed in these hard extremes,  
All means depressed which might her faith prefer,  
Black fogs opposed in those cleere-shining beams,  
Which else might lend their friendly light to her,  
This in her looks direful revenge doth stir:  
Which strange eclipse placed in this ireful sign,  
Our Country's plague and ruin might divine.   

Her snowy curled brow makes anger smile,  
Her laughing frown gives beauty better grace,  
Blushing disdain, disdain doth quite exile,  
Sweet love and silence wrestling in her face,  
Two capering Cupids in her eyes do chase;  
Her veins like tides oft swelling with delight,  
Making Vermilion fair, white more than white.   

Her beauty flourished whilst her favours fade,  
Her hopes grown old, but her desires be young,  
Her power wants power her passion to persuade,  
Her sex is weak, her will is overstrong,  
Patience pleads pity, but revenge her wrong;  
What reason urgeth, rage doth still deny,  
With arguments of wrathful jealousy.   

Pale jealousy, child of insatiate love,  
Of heart-sick thoughts with melancholy bred,  
A hell tormenting fear no faith can move,  
By discontent with deadly poison fed,  
With heedless youth and error vainly led,  
A mortal plague, a vertue-drowning flood,  
A hellish fire, not quenched but with blood.   

The hate-swolne Lords with fury set on fire,  
Whom Edward's wrongs to vengeance do provoke,  
With Lancaster and Herford now conspire,  
No more to bear the Spensers' servile yoke,  
The bonds of their allegiance they have broke:  
Resolved with blood their liberty to buy,  
To live with honour, or with fame to die.   

Amid this faction Mortimer doth enter,  
The ghastly Prologue to this tragic act:  
His youth and courage boldly bids him venture,  
And tells him still how strongly he was backed:  
Sinon persuades how Illium might be sacked;  
The people still applauding in his ears,  
The fame and credit of the Mortimers.   

This vapor-kindled Comet drew her eyes,  
Which now began his streamie flag to rear;  
This beauty-blushing orient of his rise,  
Her cloudy frowns doth with his brightness clear,  
The ioyfull'st sight that ever did appear;  
The messenger of light, her happy star,  
Which told her now the dawning was not far.   

As after pale-faced Night, the Morning fair  
The burning Lamp of heaven doth once erect,  
With her sweet Crimson sanguining the air,  
On every side with streakie dappl's fleckt,  
The circled roof in white and Azure decked,  
Such colour to her cheeks these news do bring,  
Which in her face doth make a second spring.   

Yet trembling at the Spensers' Lordly power,  
Their wrongs, oppression, and controling pride,  
Th'unconstant Barons, wavering every hour,  
The fierce encounter of this raging tide,  
No stratagem yet strongly policied;  
She from suspicion seemingly retyers,  
Careless in show of what she most desires.   

Grounded advice, in danger seldom trips,  
The deadliest poison, skill can safely drink,  
Foresight stands fast, where giddy rashness slips,  
Wisdom seems blind, when eyed as a Lynx  
Prevention speaketh all but what he thinks;  
The deadliest hate, with smiles securely stands,  
Revenge in tears doth ever wash his hands.   

Lo for her safety this she must dissemble,  
A benefit which women have by kind,  
The nearest colour finely to resemble,  
Suppressing thus the greatness of her mind,  
Now is she shrouded closely under wind,  
And at her prayers (poor soul) she plainly meant,  
A silly Queen, a harmless innocent.   

The least suspicion cunningly to heal,  
Still in her looks humility she bears,  
With patience she with mightiness must deal,  
So policy religions habit wears,  
He's mad which takes a Lion by the ears.  
This knew the Queen, and this well know the wise,  
This must they learn, which toil in Monarchies.   

Torlton the learnedst Prelate in the Land, 
Adam Torlton Bishop of Herford, a mighty politician.   
Upon a text of politics to preach,  
Cared not on Paul's preciser points to stand,  
Poor Morals to believing men to teach,  
For he at Kingdoms had a further reach:  
This learned Tutor, Isabella had taught,  
In nicer points than ever Edward sought.   

Now in mean time, the smothered flame broke forth,  
The Mortimers march from the western plain,  
The Lords in arms at Pomfret in the North,  
The King from London, comes with might and main,  
Their factious followers in the streets are slain.  
No other thing is to be hoped upon,  
But horror, death, and desolation.   

Like as Sabrina from the Ocean flanks,  
Comes sweeping in along the tawny sands,  
And with her billows tilting on the banks,  
Rolls in her flood upon the western strands,  
Stretching her watery arms along the lands,  
With such great fury do these legions rise,  
Filling the shores with lamentable cries.   

Thus of three hands, they all set up their rest,  
And at the stake their lives they frankly lay,  
he's like to win who cuts his dealing best,  
And for a Kingdom at the least they play,  
The fair'st in show must carry all away;  
And though the King himself in sequence came,  
He saw the Queen lay right to make his game.   

But Fortune masking in this strange disguise,  
Whose prodigy, whose monster he was borne,  
Now in his life her power, t'anotomize,  
Ordaining him her darling and her scorn,  
His Tragedy her triumph to adorn.  
She strait gins to bandy him about,  
At thousand odds before the set goes out.   

As when we see the spring-begetting Sun,  
In heavens black nightgown covered from our sight,  
And when he yet, but few degrees hath run,  
Some fenny fog damps up his gladsome light,  
That at his noonsted he may shine more bright.  
His cheerful morning Fortune cloudeth thus,  
To make his day more fair, more glorious.   

Edward whom danger warned to dread the worst,  
Unto the heart with poisoned rancour stung,  
Now for his crown must scuffle if he durst,  
Or else his sceptre in the dust were fling,  
To stop the head from which these mischiefs sprung.  
First with the Marchers thinks it fit to cope,  
On whom he knew lay all the Barons hope.   

Like to a whirlwind comes this ireful King,  
Whose presence soon the welshmen's power had stayed,  
The Cornish yet their forces failed to bring,  
And Lancaster too slack forslow'd their aid,  
faint-harted friends, their succours long delayed.  
Deprived of means, forlorn of farther good,  
And wanting strength to stem so great a flood.   

They who perceived, their trust was thus betrayed,  
Their long expected purpose thus to quail,  
How mischief still upon their fortune played,  
That they perforce their high-born top must veil,  
This storm still blue so stiffly on their sail.  
Of Edward's mercy now the depth must sound,  
Where yet their Anchor might take hold on ground.   

This took the King in presage of his good,  
Who this event to his success applied,  
Which cooled the fury of his boiling blood,  
Before their force in arms he yet had tried,  
His stern approach this easily mollified  
That on submission he dismissed their power,  
And sends them both as prisoners to the Tower.   

Not cowardice but wisdom warns to yield,  
When Fortune aids the proud insulting foe,  
Before dishonour ever blot the field;  
Where by advantage hopes again may grow,  
When as too weak to bear so great a blow:  
That whilst his pity pardons them to live,  
To his own wrongs he full revenge might give.   

Lo now my Muse must sing of dreadful Arme●,  
And task herself to tell of civil wars,  
Of Ambuscadoes, stratagems, alarms,  
Of murder, slaughter, monstrous Massacarres,  
Of blood, of wounds, of never-healed scars,  
Of battles fought by brother against brother,  
The Son and Father one against the other.   

O thou great Lady, Mistress of my Muse,  
Renowned Lucy, virtues truest friend,  
Which dost a spirit into my spirit infuse,  
And from thy beams the light I have dost lend,  
Into my verse thy living power extend.  
O breath new life to write this Tragic story,  
Assist me now brave Bedford for thy glory.   

Whilst in the Tower the Mortimers are mewed,  
The Barons drew their forces to a head,  
Whom Edward (spurred with vengeance) still pursued  
By Lancaster and famous Herford led,  
Toward either's force, forthwith both Armies sped.  

●urton upon ●rent.  At Burton both in camping for the day,  
Where they must try who bears the spurs away.   


●eedwood.  Upon the East from bushy Needwoods' side,  
There riseth up an easy climbing hill,  
At whose fair foot the silver Trent doth slide,  
And all the shores with rattling murmur ●ill,  
Whose tumbling waves the flowery Meadows swill,  
Upon whose stream a Bridge of wondrous strength,  
Doth stretch herself, near forty Arches length.   

Upon this mount the King his Tents hath fixed,  
And in the Town the Barons lie in sight,  
This famous river risen so betwixt,  
Whose fury yet prolonged this deadly fight,  
The passage stopped, not to be won by might.  
Things which presage both good and ill there be,  
Which hea●en foreshows, yet will not let us see.   

The raging flood hath drowned up all her foards,  
Soaked in excess of cloud-congealed tears,  
And steeps the banks within her watery hoards,  
Supping the whir-pooles from the quaggie meres,  
Now doth she wash her tressed rushy hairs.  
Swollen with the dropsy in her grieved womb,  
That this her channel must become a Tomb.   

O warlike Nation hold thy conquering hand,  
Even senseless things do warn thee yet to pause,  
Thy Mother soil on whom thy feet do stand,  
O then infringe not Nature's sacred laws,  
Still run not headlong into mischiefs jaws:  
Yet stay thy foot in murders ugly gate,  
Ill comes too soon, repentance oft too late.   

And can the clouds weep over thy decay,  
Yet not one drop fall from thy droughty eyes?  
Seest thou the snare yet wilt not shun the way,  
Nor yet be warned, by passed miseries?  
Or ere too late, yet learn once to be wise.  
A mischief seen, may easily be prevented,  
But being happed, not helped, yet still lamented.   

Behold the Eagles, Lions, Talbots, Bears,  
The Badges of your famous ancestries,  
And shall they now by their inglorious heirs:  
Be thus displayed against their families?  
Relics unworthy of their progenies.  
Those Beasts you bear do in their kinds agree  
And then those Beasts more savage will you be?   

Cannot the Scot of your late slaughter boast?  
And are you yet scarce healed of the sore?  
Is't not enough you have already lost,  
But your own madness now must make it more?  
Your wives and Children pitied you before.  
But when your own blood, your own swords imbrue,  
Who pities them, which once have pitied you?   

What, shall the Sister weep her Brother's death,  
Who sent her Husband to his timeless grave?  
The Nephew moan his uncles loss of breath,  
Which did his Father of his life deprave?  
Who shall have mind your memories to save?  
●r shall he burial to his friend afford,  
Who lately put his Son unto the sword?   

But whilst the King, and Lords in counsel sit,  
Yet in conclusion variably do hover,  
See how misfortune still her time can fit:  
Such as were sent the Country to discover,  
Have found a way to land their forces over.  
Ill news hath wings, and with the wind doth go,  
Comfort's a Cripple, and comes ever slow.   

And Edward fearing Lancaster's supplies,  
Great Surry, Richmond, and his Pembroke sent,  
On whose success his chiefest hope relies,  
Under whose conduct half his Army went,  
And he himself, and Edmond Earl of Kent,  
Upon the hill in sight of Burton lay.  
Watching to take advantage of the day.   

Stay Surry stay, thou mayst too soon begun;  
Stay till this rage be somewhat overpast,  
Why runnest thou thus to thy destruction?  
Pembroke and Richmond, whether do you hast?  
Never seek sorrow, for it comes too fast.  
Why strive you thus to pass this fatal flood,  
To fetch new wounds, and shed your nearest blood?   

Great Lancaster, sheath up thy conquering sword,  
On Edward's Arms, whose edge thou shouldst not whet,  
Thy natural Nephew, and thy sovereign Lord,  
Both one, one blood, and both Plantagenet.  
Canst thou thy oath to Longshanks thus forget?  
Yet call to mind, before all other things,  
Our vows must be performed to Gods and Kings.   

Know, noble Lord, it better is to end,  
Then to proceed in things rashly begun:  
Which o●t ill counselled worse do offend,  
Speech hath obtained, where weapons have not won;  
By good persuasion what cannot be done?  
And when all other hopes and helps be past,  
Then fall to Arms, but let that be the last.   

The winds are hushed, no little breath doth blow,  
The calmed air as all amazed stood,  
The earth with roaring trembleth below,  
The Sun besmeared his glorious face in blood,  
The fearful Herds bellowing as they were wood:  
The Drums and Trumpets give a signal sound,  
With such a noise as they had torn the ground.   

The Earls now charging with three hundred horse,  
The King's vanguard assay the Bridge to win,  
Forcing the Barons to divide their force,  
T'avoid the present danger they were in:  
Never till now the horror doth begin;  
That if th'elements our succour had not sought,  
All had that day been to confusion brought.   

Now from the hill the King's main power comes down,  
Which had Aquarius to their valiant guide, 
Aquary a notable soldier.   
Brave Lancaster and Herford from the town,  
Do issue forth upon the other side:  
The one assails, the other munified.  
England's Red cross upon both sides doth fly,  
Saint George the King, Saint George the Barons cry.   

Even as a bustling tempests rousing blasts,  
Upon a Forest of old-branched Oakes,  
Down upon heaps their climbing bodies casts,  
And with his fury teyrs their mossy loaks,  
The neighbour groves resounding with the strokes,  
With such a clamour and confused woe,  
To get the Bridge these desperate Armies go.   

Now must our famous and victorious bows,  
With which our Nation Kingdoms did subdue,  
First send their darting arrows against those  
Whose sinewed arms against their foes them drew;  
These winged weapons, mourning as they flew,  
Cleave to the strings, with very terror slack,  
As to the Archers they would feign turn back.   

The battered Casks, with Battleaxes strokes,  
Besnow the soil with drifts of scattered plumes,  
The trampling press stir up such dusky smokes  
Which choke the air with reekie smothering fumes,  
Which rising up, into a cloud consumes;  
As though the heaven had muffled her in black,  
Loathing to see this lamentable sack.   

Behold the remnant of Troy's famous stock,  
Laying on blows as Smiths on Anvils strike,  
Grappling together in this fearful shock,  
The like press forth, t'encounter with the like,  
And then recoiling to the push of pike:  
Yet not a foot doth either give to either,  
Now one the odds, then both alike, then neither.   

Even as you see a field of standing Corn,  
When in fair june some easy gale doth blow,  
How up and down the spiring ears are borne,  
And with the blasts like Billows come and go,  
As golden streamers waving to and fro,  
Thus on the sudden run they on amain,  
Then strait by force are driven back again.   

Here lies a heap, half slain, half choked, half drowned,  
Gasping for breath amongst the slimy seggs,  
And there a sort fallen in a deadly swoon,  
Scrawling in blood upon the muddy dregs:  
Hear in the stream, swim bowels, arms and legs▪  
One kills his foe, his brain another cuts,  
Ones feet entangled in another's guts.   

One his own hands in his own blood defiles,  
Another from the Bridge's height doth fall,  
Some dashed to death upon the stony piles,  
Some in their gore upon the pavement sprawl,  
The carcases lie heaped like a wall:  
Such hideous shrieks the bedlam soldiers breath,  
As though the Spirits had howled from beneath.   

The mangled bodies diving in the stream,  
Now up, now down, like tumbling purpose swim,  
The water covered with a bloody cream,  
To the beholder horrible and grim:  
Hear lies a head, and there doth lie a limb;  
Which in the sands the swelling waters souse,  
That all the shores seem like a slaughter-house.   

It seemed the very wounds for grief did weep,  
To feel the temper of the slicing blade,  
The senseless steel in blood itself did steep,  
To see the wounds his sharpe-ground edge had made,  
Whilst kinsman, kinsman, friend, doth friend invade,  
Such is the horror of these civil broils,  
When with our blood, we fat our native soils.   

This faction still defying Edward's might,  
Edmond of Woodstock, famous Earl of Kent,  
Charging the foe again renews the fight,  
Upon the Barons forces almost spent,  
Who now again supplying succours sent.  
And now a second conflict doth begin,  
The English Lords like Tigers flying in.   

Like as an exhalation hot and dry,  
Amongst the ayre-bred moyftie vapours thrown,  
Spetteth his lightning forth outrageously,  
Renting the thick clouds with a thunder-stone,  
As though the huge all-covering heaven did groan,  
Such is the garboil of this conflict then,  
Brave Englishmen, encountering Englishmen.   

Even as proud Pyrrhùs entering Iltion,  
Courageous Talbot with his shield him bare,  
Clifford and Mowbray, seconding anon,  
Audley and Gifford thrunging for their share,  
Elmbridge and Balsmer▪ in the thickest are:  
pell-mell together flies this furious power,  
Like to the falling of some mighty Tower.   

Mountfort and Teis, your worths feign would I speak,  
But that your valour can but ill deserve,  
Brave Denuile, here I from thy praise must break,  
And from thy praises Willington must serve,  
Great Damory, here must thy glory starve;  
Concealing many, most deserving blame,  
Because their acts do quench my sacred flame.   

O that those Arms in conquests had been borne,  
And that, that battered fame-engraven shield,  
Should in those civil massacres be torn  
Which bore the marks of many a bloody field:  
O that our arms had power their Arms to wield.  
That since that time, the stones for very dread,  
Against foul storms could teary moisture shed.   

O had you shaped your valours first by them  
Who summoned Akon with an English drum,  
Or marched on to fair jerusalem,  
T'enlarge the bounds of famous Christendom,  
Or with Christ's warriors slept about his tomb,  
Then ages had immortalised your fame,  
Where now my song can be but of your shame.   

Death following on, fear ever in their eyes,  
Grieved with wounds, the conquered Barons fled,  
And now the King enriched with victories,  
Hath in the field his glorious Ensigns spread,  
This in his thoughts again fresh courage bred,  
And somewhat draws th'unconstant people's hearts,  
Who equal peyzed, yet weighed to neither parts.   

And wanting ground, they unresolved are,  
King Edward's friends, against the rebels cry,  
The Barons plead their Country's only care,  
exclaiming on the Prince's tyranny,  
He urged obedience, they their liberty.  
Both under colour, careful of the state,  
He right, and they their wrongs expostulate.   

Some few themselves in Sanctuaries hide,  
In mercy of the privileged place,  
Yet are their bodies so unsanctifide,  
As scarce their souls can ever hope for grace,  
A poor dead life, this draweth out a space.  
Hate stands without, and horror sits within,  
Prolonging shame, yet pardoning not their sin.   

At fatal Pomfret gathering head at length,  
When they of all extremities had tasted,  
Where yet before they could recover strength,  
King Edward followeth whilst his fortune lasted,  
Unto whose aid the Earl of Carlell hasted.  
With troops of bowmen and ranck-riding bands,  
Of Westmer, Cumber, and Northumberlands.   

Mad and amazed, nor knowing what to do,  
Surprised by this late mischievous event,  
Seeing at hand their utter overthrow,  
And in despite how crossly all things went,  
Fortune herself to their destruction bend;  
In all disorder headlong on they run,  
To end with blood, what was with blood begun.   

Like as a heard of silly heartless dear,  
Whom hote-spurd Huntsmen fiercely do pursue,  
In brakes and bushes falling here and there,  
Yet when no way the hounds they can eschew,  
Now flying back from whence of late they flew,  
Hemmed on each side with horns rechating blast,  
Headlong themselves into the toils do cast.   

To Borough bridge by fate appointed thus,  
Where like false Raynard, falser Herckley lay,  
Bridges to Barons ever ominous,  
There to renew this latest deadly fray,  
O here gins the blackest dismal day,  
The birth of horror, hour of wrath that yet,  
The very soil seems to remember it.   

Hear is not Death contented with the dead,  
Nor vengeance is with vengeance satisfied,  
Bloodshed by bloodshed still is nourished,  
And mischief means no more her store to hide,  
Strange sorts of torments heaven doth now provide,  
That dead men should in misery remain,  
And in living death should die with pain.   

Thus rules the world, a world why saw I so,  
Worst is the world, yet worse must I name it,  
Night's vgli'st night, hell's bitterest hell of woe,  
So ill as slander never can defame it,  
That shame herself is shamed, seeking to shame it,  
Can envy speak, what envy can express,  
In saying most, that most should make it less.   

Hear noble Herford, Bohun breathes his last,  
Crown of true Knighthood, 
Bohun stain at Borogh.  flower of Chivalry,  
But Lancaster their torment lives to taste,  
Who perish now with endless obloquy,  
O vanquished conquest, losing victory,  
That where the sword for pity leaves to spill,  
There extreme justice should begin to kill.   

O subject for some tragic Muse to sing,  
Of five great Earldoms at one time possessed,  
Son, Uncle, Brother, Grandchild to a King,  

Thomas the great Earl of Lancaster.  With favours, friends, and earthly honours blest,  
But see on earth, here is no place of rest.  
These Fortune's gifts, and she to show her power,  
Takes life, and these, and all within an hour.   

The wretched Mother tearing of her hair,  
Bewails the time this fatal war begun,  
Like grave-borne ghosts, amazed and mad with fear,  
To view the quartered carcase of her Son,  
With hideous shrieks through streets & ways doth run.  
And seeing none to help, none hear her cry,  
Some drowned, some stabbed, some starved, some strangled die.   

Like ghastly death the aged Father stands,  
Weeping his Son, bemoaning of his wife,  
She murdered by her own blood-guiltie hands,  
He flaughtered by the executioners knife,  
Sadly sits down to end his hateful life;  
Banning the earth, and cursing at the air▪  
Upon his poniard falleth in despair.   

The woeful widow for her Lord distressed,  
Whose breathless body cold death doth benumb,  
Her little Infant leaning on her breast,  
Rings in her ears, when will my Father come?  
Doth wish that she were deaf, or it were dumb.  
Clipping each other, weeping both together,  
She for her Lord, the poor babe for his Father.   

The air is poisoned with the dampy stink,  
Which most contagious pestilence doth breed,  
The glutted earth her fill of gore doth drink,  
Which from unburied bodies doth proceed,  
Ravens and dogs on dead men only feed;  
In every Coast thus do our eyes behold,  
Our sins by judgement of the heavens controlled.   

Like as a Wolf returning from the foil,  
Having full stuffed his flesh-engorged paunch,  
Tumbles him down to wallow in the soil,  
With cooling breath his boiling maw to staunch,  
Scarce able now to move his lustless haunch.  
Thus after slaughter Edward breathless stood,  
As though his sword had surfeited with blood.   

Hear endeth life, yet here death cannot end,  
And here gins, what Edward's woes begun,  
Nor his pretence, falls as he doth pretend,  
Nor hath he won, what he by battle won,  
All is not done, though almost all undone,  
Whilst power hath reigned still policy did lurk,  
Seldom doth malice want a mean to work.   

The King now by the conquering Lords consent,  
Who by this happy victory grew strong,  
Summons at York a present Parliament,  
To plant his right, and help the Spensers' wrong,  
From whence again his minion's greatness sprung,  
Whose counsel still, in all their actions crossed,  
Th'enraged Queen whom all misfortunes tossed.   

But miseries which seldom come alone,  
Thick in the necks one of another fell,  
Mean while the Scots here make invasion,  
And Charles of France doth thence our powers expel,  
The grieved Commons more and more rebel.  
Mischief on mischief, curse doth follow curse,  
Plague after plague, and worse ensueth worse.   

For Mortimer this wind yet rightly blue,  
Darckning their eyes which else perhaps might see,  
Whilst Isabella who all advantage knew,  
Is closely plotting his delivery,  
Now fitly drawn by Torltons' policy:  
Thus by a Queen, a Bishop, and a Knight,  
To check a King, in spite of all despite.   

A drowsy potion she by skill hath made,  
Whose secret working had such wondrous power,  
As could the sense with heavy sleep invade,  
And mortify the patiented in one hour,  
As though pale death the body did devower;  
Nor for two days might opened be his eyes,  
By all means Art or Physic could devise.   

Thus sits this great Enchantress in her Cell,  
Environed with spyrit-commaunding charms,  
Her body censed with most sacred smell,  
With holy fires her liquors now she warms,  
Then her with sorcering instruments she arms.  
And from her herbs the powerful juice she wrong,  
To make the poison forcible and strong.   

Reason might judge, doubts better might advise,  
And as a woman, fear her hand have stayed,  
Weighing the strangeness of the interprize,  
The danger well might have her sex dismayed,  
Fortune, distrust, suspect, to be betrayed;  
But when they leave of virtue to esteem,  
They greatly err which think them as they seem.   

Their plighted faith, when as they list they leave,  
Their love is cold, their lust, hot, hot their hate,  
With smiles and tears these Serpents do deceive,  
In their desires they be insatiate,  
Their will no bound, and their revenge no date.  
All fear exempt, where they at ruin aim,  
Covering their sin with their discovered shame.   

Medea pitiful in tender years,  
Until with jason she would take her flight,  
Then merciless her Brother's limbs she tears,  
Betrays her Father, flies away by night,  
Nor Nations, Seas, nor dangers could affright;  
Who died with heat, nor could abide the wind,  
Now like a Tigar falls unto her kind.   

Now waits the Queen fitt'st time, as might behove,  
Their ghostly Father for their speed must pray,  
Their servants seal these secrets up with love,  
Their friends must be the mean, the guide, the way,  
And he resolve on whom the burden lay;  
This is the sum, the all, if this neglected,  
Never again were mean to be expected.   

Thus, while he lived a prisoner in the Tower,  
The Keepers oft with feasts he entertained,  
Which as a stolen, serves fitly at this hour,  
The tempting bait wherewith his hooks were trained,  
〈◊〉 banquet now he had ordained,  
And after cates when they their thirst should quench,  
He sauced their wine with this approved drench.   

And thus become the keeper of the keys,  
In steele-bound locks he safely lodged the Guard:  
Then lurking forth by the most secret ways,  
Not now to learn his compass by the Card,  
With corded ladders which he had prepared,  
Now up these proud aspiring walls doth go,  
Which seem to scorn they should be mastered so.   

They sound sleep, now must his wits awake,  
A second Theseus through a hell's extremes,  
The son of jove, new toils must undertake,  
Of walls, of gates, of watches, woods, and stream.  
And let them tell King Edward of their dreams:  
For ere they waked out of this brainsick trance,  
He hopes to tell this noble jest in France.   

The sullen night in misty rug is wrapped,  
Pouting the day had tarried up so long,  
The Evening in her darksome dungeon clapped,  
And in that place the swarthy clouds were hung,  
Down from the West the half-faced Cynthia flung  
As she had posted forth to tell the Son,  
What in his absence in her Court was done.   

The glimmering star's like Sentinels in war,  
Behind the Clouds as thieves do stand to pry,  
And through false loop-holes looking out a far,  
To see him skirmish with his destiny,  
As they had held a counsel in the Sky,  
And had before consulted with the night,  
She should be dark, and they would hide their light.   

In deadly silence all the shores are hushed,  
Only the Shreechowle sounds to the assault,  
And Isis with a troubled murmur rushed,  
As she had done her best to hide the fault,  
A little whispering moved within the vault,  
Made with his touching softly as he went,  
Which seemed to say it furthered his intent.   

This wondrous Queen, whom care from rest had kept,  
Now for his speed to heaven holds up her hands,  
A thousand thoughts within her bosom heaped,  
Now in her Closet listening still she stands,  
And though divided as in sundry strands,  
Yet absent, present in desires they be,  
For minds discern, where eyes could never see.   

Lo now he thinks he vaulteth in her sight,  
Still taking courage, strengthened by her words,  
Imagining she sported with delight,  
To see his strong arms stretch the tackling chords,  
And oft a smile unto his toil affords:  
And when she doubted danger, might her hear,  
Call him her soul, her life, her Mortimer.   

Now doth she woo the walls, entreat and kiss,  
And then protests to memorise the place,  
And to adorn it with a Pyramid,  
Whose glory wrack of time should not deface.  
Then to the cord she turns herself a space,  
And promiseth, if that should set him free,  
A sacred relic it should ever be.   

She saith, the small clouds issuing from his breath,  
Seasoned with sweet from whence they lately came,  
Should clear the air from pestilence and death,  
And like Promethian life-begetting flame,  
Pure bodies in the element should frame;  
And to what part of heaven they happed to stray,  
There should they make another milky way.   

Attained the top his tired lymms to breath,  
Mounted in triumph on his miseries,  
The gentle earth salutes him from beneath:  
And covered with the comfortable skies,  
Lightened with beams of Isabella's eyes,  
Down from the Turret desperately doth slide;  
Now for a kingdom, Fortune be his guide.   

As he descends, so do her eyes ascend,  
As fear had fixed them to behold his fall;  
Then from the sight, away her sight doth bend,  
When chilly coldness doth her heart appall,  
Then out for help she suddenly doth call;  
Silent again, watching if aught should hap,  
Herself might be the ground, his grave her lap.   

Now doth she court the gentle calm air,  
And then again she doth conjure the wind;  
Now doth she try to stop the night by prayer,  
And then with spells the heavy sense to bind;  
Then by the burning Tapers she divined;  
Now she entreats fair Thames that he might pass  
The Hellespont where her Leander was.   

The brushing murmur stills her like a song,  
Yet fearing lest the stream should fall in love,  
Envies the drops which on his tresses hung,  
Imagining the waves to stay him strove;  
And when the billows with his breast he drove,  
Grieved therewith, she turns away her face,  
jealous lest he the billows should embrace.   

She likneth him to the transformed Bull,  
Which curled the fair flood with his ivory flank,  
When on his back he bore the lovely trull,  
Floating along unto the Cretan bank,  
Comparing this to that lascivious prank,  
And swears than he, no other jove there were,  
If she Europa had been present there.   

Thus seeks he life, encouraged by his love,  
Yet for his love his life he doth eschew,  
Danger in him a deadly fear doth move,  
And fear enuits him danger to pursue,  
Rage stirr's revenge, revenge doth rage renew:  
Danger and fear, rage and revenge at strife,  
Life war's with love, and love contends with life.   

This angry Lion having slipped his chain,  
Now like a Quartain, makes King Edward quake,  
Who knew too well, ere he was caught again,  
Some of his flock his bloody thirst must slake;  
And unawares entangled in this brake,  
Saw further vengeance hanging in the wind,  
Knowing too well, the greatness of his mind.   

This once again the world gins to work,  
Their hopes (at length) unto this issue brought,  
Whilst yet the Serpent in his Den doth lurk,  
Of whom God knows, the King full little thought,  
The instrument which these devices wrought.  
For there's no treason woundeth half so deep,  
As that which doth in Prince's bosoms sleep.   

Now must the Clergy serve them for a cloak,  
The Queen her state unto the time must fit,  
But 'tis the Churchman which must strike the stroke,  
Now must this Prelate show a statesman's wit,  
They cast the plot, and March must manage it;  
They both at home together lay on load,  
And he the Agent to effect abroad.   

Who sweetly tunes his well-perswading tongue,  
In pleasing music to the French-kings ears,  
The sad discourse of Isabella's wrong,  
With tragic action forcing silent tears,  
Moving to pity every one that hears,  
That by discovery of this foul reproach,  
Old mischiefs so, might new be set abroach.   

Whilst they are tempering in these homebred jars,  
How for the Scot fit passage might be made,  
To lay the ground of these successful wars,  
That hope might give him courage to invade,  
And from the King the Commons to persuade;  
That whilst at home his peace he would assure,  
His further plague in France he might procure.   

By these reports, all circumstances known,  
Sounds Charles of France into the lists again,  
To cease on Guienne by Arms to claim his own,  
Which Edward doth unlawfully detain,  
Homage for Pontieu, and for Aquitaine,  
Revoking this dishonourable truce,  
Urged by his wrongs, and Isabel's abuse.   

The spirits thus rayzed which haunt him day and night,  
And on his fortune heaven doth ever lower,  
Danger at hand, and mischief still in sight,  
Civil sedition weakening still his power,  
No ease of pain one minute in the hour:  
T' entreat of peace with Charles, he now must send,  
Else all his hopes in France were at an end.   

Hear is the point wherein all points must end,  
Which must be handled with no mean regard,  
The prop whereon this building must depend,  
Which must by level curiously be squared,  
The cunningest descant that had yet been hard.  
Hear close conveyance must a mean provide,  
Else might the ambush easily be descried.   

Or this must help, or nothing serves the turn,  
This way, or no way, all must come about,  
To blow the fire which now began to burn,  
Or tind the straw before the brand went out,  
This is the lot which must resolve the doubt,  
To walk the path where Edward bears the light,  
And take their aim by level of his sight.   

This must a counsel seriously debate,  
In gravest judgements fit to be discussed,  
Being a thing so much consernes the state,  
Edward in this, must to their wisdoms trust,  
No whit suspecting but that all were just.  
Especially the Church whose mouth should be,  
The Oracle of truth and equity.   

Torlton whose tongue, men's ears in chains could tie,  
Whose words, even like a thunderbolt could pierce,  
And were aloud of more authority,  
Then was the Sibills old divining verse,  
Which were of force a judgement to reverse:  
Now for the Queen, with all his power doth stand,  
To lay this charge on her well-guiding hand.   

What helps her presence to the cause might bring,  
First as a wife, a sister, and a mother,  
A Queen to deal, betwixt a King, and King,  
To right her son, her husband, and her brother,  
And each to her indifferent as the other:  
Which colour serves to work in these extremes,  
That which (God knows) King Edward never dreams.   

Torlton is this thy spiritual pretence?  
Would God thy thoughts were more spiritual,  
Or less persuasive were thy eloquence,  
But o thy actions are too temporal,  
Thy reasons subtle and sophistical:  
Would all were true thy suposition saith,  
Thy arguments less force, or thou more faith.   

Thus is the matter managed with skill,  
To his desires, their means thus to devise,  
To thrust him on, to draw them up the hill,  
That by his strength, they might get power to rise,  
This great Archmaster of all policies:  
In the beginning wisely had forecast,  
How ere things went, which way they must at last.   

With sweetest honey, thus he baits the snare,  
And claws the beast till he be in the yoke,  
In golden cups he poison doth prepare,  
And tickles where he means to strike the stroke,  
Giving the bone whereas he meant to choke:  
And by all helps of Art doth smooth the way,  
To send his foe, down headlong to decay.   

She which thus fitly had both wind and tide,  
And saw her passage serve the hour so right,  
Whilst things thus fadge are quick dispatch applied,  
To take her time whilst yet the day is light,  
Who hath been tired in travel fears the night:  
And finding all too much to change inclined,  
And every toy soon altering Edward's mind.   

Her followers such as friendless else had stood,  
Suppressed and trodden with the Spensers' pride,  
Whose houses Edward branded had with blood,  
And but with blood could not be satisfied,  
Who for revenge did but the hour abide;  
And knew all helps, that mischief could invent,  
To shake the state, and further her intent.   

Thus on the wronged, she her wrongs doth rest,  
And unto poison, poison doth apply,  
Herself oppressed, to harden the oppressed,  
And with a spy, to intercept a spy,  
An Enemy, against an Enemy.  
He that will gain what policy doth heed,  
By Mercury must deal, or never speed.   

Now Mortimer, whose main was fully set,  
Seeing by fortune all his hopes were crossed,  
His struggling still how he again might get,  
That which before his disadvantage lost,  
Not once dismayed though in these tempests tossed:  
Nor in affliction is he overthrown,  
To Mortimer all Countries are his own.   

England's an Isle where all his youth he spent,  
Environed valour in itself is drowned,  
But now he lives within the continent,  
Which being boundless, honour hath no bound,  
Here through the world, doth endless glory sound:  
To fames rich treasure Time unlocks the door,  
Which angry Fortune had shut up before.   

What ways he of his wealth, our Wigmore left, 
Wigmore the ancient house of the Mortimers.   
Let builded heaps, let Rocks and Mountains stand,  
Goods oft be held by wrong, first got by theft,  
Birds have the air, Fish water, Men the land,  
Alcides pitched his pillars in the sand.  
Men look up to the stars thereby to know,  
As they do progress heaven, he earth should do.   

And to this end, did Nature part the ground,  
Else had not man been King upon the Sea,  
Nor in depths her secrets had been found,  
If to all parts on firm had lain his way,  
But she to show him where her wonders lay:  
To pass the floods, this mean for him invents,  
To trample on these base elements.   

Never saw France, no never till this day,  
A mind more great, more free, more resolute,  
Let all our Edward's say, what Edwards may,  
Our Henries, Talbot, or our Montacute,  
To whom our royal conquests we impute:  
That Charles himself, oft to the Peers hath sworn,  
This man alone, the Destinies did scorn.   

Virtue can bear, what can on Virtue fall,  
Who cheapeneth honour, must not stand on price,  
Who beareth heaven (they say) can well bear all,  
A yielding mind doth argue cowardice,  
Our haps do turn as chances on the dice.  
Nor never let him from his hope remove,  
That under him hath mould, the stars above.   

Let dull-braynd slaves contend for mud and earth,  
Let blocks and stones, sweat but for blocks and stones,  
Let peasants speak of plenty and of dearth,  
Fame never looks so low as on these drones,  
Let courage manage empires, sit on thrones.  
And he that Fortune at command will keep,  
He must be sure, he never let her sleep.   

Who wins her grace, must with achievements woo her,  
As she is blind, so never had she ears,  
Nor must with puling eloquence go to her,  
She understands not sighs, she hears not prayers,  
Flattered she flies, controlled she ever fears;  
And though a while she nicely do forsake it,  
She is a woman, and at length will take it.   

Nor never let him dream once of a Crown,  
For one bad cast, that will give up his game,  
And though by ill hap he be overthrown,  
Yet let him manage her, till she be tame,  
The path is set with danger leads to fame:  
When Minos did the Grecians flight deny,  
He made him wings, and mounted through the sky.   

THE cheerful morning clears her cloudy brows,  
The vaporie mists are all dispersed and spread,  
Now sleepy Time his lazy limbs doth rouse,  
And once beginneth to hold up his head,  
Hope bloometh fair, whose root was well near dead,  
The clue of sorrow to the end is run,  
The bow appears to tell the flood is done.   

Nature looks back to see her own decay,  
Commanding age to slack her speedy pace,  
Occasion forth her golden loake doth lay,  
Whilst sorrow paints her wrinckle-withered face,  
Day lengtheneth day, and joys do joys embrace.  
Now is she coming yet till she be here,  
My pen runs slow, each comma seems a year.   

She's now imbarcked, slide billows for her sake,  
Whose eyes can make your aged Neptune young,  
Sweet Sirens from the chaulkie cleeus awake,  
Ravish her ears with some enchanting song,  
Dance the Lavoltoes all the sands along:  
It is not Venus on your floods doth pass,  
But one more fair than ever Venus was.   

You scaly Dolphins gaze upon her eyes,  
And never after with your kind make war,  
O steal the Music from her lips that flies,  
Whose accents like the tunes of Angels are,  
Compared with whom Arion's did but jar.  
Hug them sweet air, and when the Seas do rage,  
Use them as charms thy tempests to assuage.   

Sweet Sea-nymphs flock in shoals upon the shores,  
France kiss those feet whose steps thou first didst guide,  
Present thy Queen with all thy gorgeous store,  
Now mayst thou revel in thy greatest pride:  
Ship mount to heaven, and be thou stellified,  
And next that starr-fixed Argosy alone,  
There take thou up thy constellation.   

Th' exceeding joy conceived by the Queen,  
Or his content, to them I leave to guess  
Who but the subject of their thoughts have seen,  
Who I am sure, if they the truth confess,  
Will say that silence only can express:  
And when with honour she fit time could take,  
With sweet embraces thus she him bespoke.   

O Mortimer, great Mortimer quoth she,  
What angry power such mischief could devise,  
To separate thy dearest Queen and thee,  
Whom loves eternal union strongly ties?  
But seeing thee, unto my longing eyes  
(Though guiltless they,) this penance is assigned,  
To gaze upon thee until they be blind.   

Sweet face, quoth she, how art thou changed thus,  
Since beauty on this lovely front thou borest,  
Like the young Hunter fresh Hippolytus,  
When in these curls my favours first thou worest?  
Now like great jove thy juno thou adorest;  
The Muses leave their double-topped throne,  
And on thy temples make their Helicon.   

Come tell me now what grief and danger is,  
Of pain and pleasure in imprisonment,  
At every breath the point shall be a kiss,  
Which can restore consuming languishment,  
A cordial to comfort banishment;  
And thou shalt find, that pleasures long restrained,  
Be far more pleasant when they once be gained.   

Now sweeten all thy sorrows with delight,  
Teach manhood courtship, turn these broils to love,  
The day's near ill that hast a pleasing night,  
there's other wars in hand, which thou must prove,  
Wars which no blood shall shed, nor sorrow move:  
And that sweet foe of whom thou winnest the day,  
Shall crown thy tresses with triumphant Bay.   

And sith that time our better ease assures,  
Let solace sit and rock thee on her breast,  
And let thy senses say like Epicures,  
Let's eat and drink, and lay us down to rest,  
Like belly-Gods, to surfeit at the feast;  
Our day is clear, than never doubt a shower,  
Prince Edward is my son, England my dower.   

Possessing this inestimable gem,  
What is there wanting to maintain thy port?  
Thy royal Mistress wears a Diadem,  
Thy high-pitchd pyneons sore beyond report,  
I am thy Wigmore, France shall be thy Court;  
How canst thou want millions of Pearl and gold,  
When thou the Indies in thine arms dost hold?   

Thou art King Edward, or opinion fails,  
Longshanks begot thee when in youth he ranged,  
Thou art Carnarvan, thou the Prince of Wales,  
And in thy Cradle falsely thou wert changed,  
He Mortimer, and thou hast been estranged:  
Pardon me dear, what Mortimer said I,  
Then should I love him, but my tongue doth lie,   

As Fortune hath created him a King,  
Had Nature made him valiant as thou art,  
My soul had not been tuched with torments sting,  
Nor hadst thou now been placed so near my heart;  
But since by lot this falleth to thy part,  
If such have wealth as lewdly will abuse it,  
Let those enjoy it who can better use it.   

Except to heaven, my hopes can climb no hire;  
Now in mine arms had I my little boy,  
Then had I all on earth I could desire,  
The King's as he would be, God send him joy,  
Now with his minions let him sport and toy:  
His leman Spenser, and himself alone,  
May sit and talk of Mistress Gaveston.   

When first I of that wanton King was wooed,  
Why camest thou not unto the Court of France?  
Thou then alone shouldst in my grace have stood,  
O Mortimer, how good had been thy chance?  
Then had I been thine own inheritance;  
Now interest thou by force, and holds by might,  
And so intrud'st upon another's right.   

Honour that Idol women so adore,  
How many plagues hast thou in store to grieve us,  
When in ourselves we find there yet is more  
Than that bare word of majesty can give us?  
When of that comfort so thou canst deprive us,  
Which with ourselves oft sett'st us at debate,  
And makest us beggars in our greatest state.   

Even as a Trumpets lively-sounding voice,  
trips on the winds with many a dainty trick,  
When as the speaking Echoes do rejoice,  
So much delighted with the rhetoric,  
Seeming to make the heavy dull air quick;  
With such rare music in a thousand keys,  
Upon his heartstrings she in consort plays.   

On this foundation whilst they firmly stand,  
And as they wish, so fitly all things went,  
No worse their warrant, than King Edward's hand,  
Who his own Bow to his destruction bend;  
The course of things to fall in true consent,  
Gives full assurance of the happy end,  
On which their thoughts now carefully attend.   

And sith in payment all for currant pass,  
And their proceed were allowed for such,  
Although this peace against her stomach was,  
And yet imports the Prince's strength so much,  
To carry all things clearly without tuch,  
With seeming care doth seemingly effect,  
What love commands, and greatness should respect.   

Charles weighing well his lawful Nephews right,  
So mighty an Ambassador as she,  
This mean to win her grace in Edward's sight,  
And so reclaim his vain inconstancy,  
With kindness thus to conquer all these three,  
What love the subjects to his Sister bore,  
Heaps on desert, to make this much the more.   

Her expedition, and this great success  
Of after-good, still seeming to divine,  
Carnarvan should by covenant release,  
And to the Prince the Provinces resign,  
Who doing homage, should re-enter Guyne,  
Safeconduct sent the King, to come with speed,  
To seal in person what the Queen decreed.   

But whilst he stood yet doubtful what to do,  
The Spensers who his counsels chiefly guide,  
Nor with their Sovereign into France durst go,  
Nor in his absence durst at home abide:  
His listening ears with such persuasions plied,  
As he by them, to stay at home is won,  
And with Commission to dispatch his Son.   

Now till this hour all joys inwombed lay,  
And in this hour now came they first to light,  
Ad days to Months, and hours unto the day,  
And as jove did, so make a triple night,  
And whilst delight is ravished with delight,  
Swoon in these sweets, in pleasures pleasing pain,  
And as they die, so brought to life again.   

Now Clowd-borne care, hence vanish for a time,  
The Sun ascending, hath the year renewed,  
And as the Halkes in hottest Southern clime,  
Their halfe-sick hopes their crazed flags have mewed,  
A world of joys their breasts do now include,  
The thoughts whereof, thoughts quickness doth benumb,  
In whose expression, pens and tongues be dumb.   

In fair Lavinium, Troy is built again,  
And on this shore her ruins are repard,  
Nor junos' hate such vigour doth retain,  
The Fates appeased who with their fortune squared,  
The remnant of the shypwrackt navy spared,  
Though torn with tempests, yet arrived at last,  
May sit and sing, and tell of sorrows past.   

If she do sit, he leans on Cynthia's throne,  
If she do walk, he in the circle went,  
If she do sport, he must be graced alone,  
If she discourse, he is the argument,  
If she devise, it is to his content:  
From her proceeds the light he bears about him,  
And yet she sets if once she be without him.   

Still with his ears his sovereign Goddess hears,  
And with his eyes she graciously doth see,  
Still in her breast his secret thoughts she bears,  
Nor can her tongue pronounce an I, but we,  
Thus two in one, and one in two they be:  
And as his soul possesseth head and heart,  
she's all in all, and all in every part.   

Like as a well-tund Lute that's touched with skill,  
In musics language sweetly speaking plain,  
When every string itself with sound doth fill,  
Taking their tones, and giving them again,  
A diapazon heard in every strain:  
So their affections set in keys so like,  
Still fall in consort, as their humours strike.   

She must return, King Edward's will is so,  
But soft a while, she meaneth no such thing,  
He's not so swift, but she is twice as slow,  
No haste, but good, this message back to bring,  
Another tune he must be taught to sing:  
Which to his heart more deadly is by far,  
Then cries of ghosts, or Mandrake's shrieks are.   

Stapleton who had been of their counsel long,  
Or won with gifts, or else of childish fear,  
Or moved in conscience with King Edward's wrong,  
Or pitying him, or hate to them did bear,  
Or of th'event that now he did despair:  
This Bishop back from France to Edward flew,  
And knowing all discovered all he knew.   

The platform of this enterprise disclosed,  
And Torltons' drift by circumstances found,  
With what conveyance all things are disposed,  
The cunning used in laying of the ground,  
And with what Art, this curious trail is wound:  
Awakes the King, to see his own estate,  
When to prevent, he comes a day too late.   

Isabella the time doth still and still reiorne,  
Charles as a Brother with persuasions deals,  
Edward with threats, doth hasten her return,  
Pope john, with Bulls and curses hard assails,  
Persuasions, curses, threats, no whit prevails:  
Chales, Edward, john, Pope, Princes, do your worst,  
The Queen fares best, when she the most is cursed.   

The Spensers, who the Frenchman's humours felt,  
And with their Sovereign, had devised the draft,  
With Prince, and Peers, now under hand had dealt,  
In golden nets, who were already caught,  
And now King Charles, they have so throughlie wrought:  
That he with sums, too slightly overweighed,  
Poor isabell's hopes, now in the dust are laid.   

Thou base desire, thou grave of all good hearts,  
corsive to kindness, bawd to beastly will,  
Monster of time, defrauder of deserts,  
Thou plague, which dost both love and virtue kill,  
Honour's abuser, friendship's greatest ill:  
If curse in hell, there worse than other be,  
I pray that curse, may trebled light on thee.   

Nor can all these amaze this mighty Queen,  
Who with affliction, never was controlled,  
Never such courage in her sex was seen,  
Nor was she cast in other women's mould,  
But can endure wars, travel, want, and cold:  
Struggling with Fortune, near with grief oppressed,  
Most cheerful still, when she was most distressed,   

Thus she resolved, to leave ungrateful France,  
And in the world her fortune yet to try,  
Changing the air, hopes time will alter chance,  
As one whose thoughts with honours wings do fly,  
Her mighty mind, still scorning misery:  
Yet ere she went, her grieved heart to heal,  
She rings King Charles, this doleful parting peal.   

Is this the trust I have reposed (quoth she)  
And to this end to thee my griefs have told?  
Is this the kindness that thou offerest me?  
And in thy Country am I bought and sold?  
In all this heat art thou become so cold?  
Came I to France in hope to find a friend?  
And now in thee have all my hopes their end?   

Philip (quoth she) thy Father never was,  
But some base peasant, or some slavish hind,  
Never did Kingly Lion get an Ass,  
Nor cam'st thou of that Princely eagle's kind:  
But sith thy hateful cowardice I find,  
Sink thou, thy power, thy Country, aid and all,  
Thou barbarous Moor, thou most unnatural.   

Thou wert not Son unto the Queen my mother,  
Nor wert conceived in her sacred womb,  
Some misbegotten changeling, not my Brother,  
O that thy Nurse's arms had been thy Tomb,  
Or thy birthday had been the day of the doom:  
Never was Fortune with such error led,  
As when she placed a Crown upon thy head.   

And for my farewell this I prophecy,  
That from my loins, that glorious fruit shall spring,  
Which shall tread down that base posterity,  
And lead in triumph thy succeeding King,  
To fatal France, I as Sibilla sing:  
Her cities sackd, the ruin of her men,  
When of the English, one shall conquer ten.   

Beumount who had in France this shuffling seen,  
Whose soul with kindness Isabella had won,  
To fly to Henault, now persuades the Queen, 
john of Henault.   
Assuring her what good might there be done,  
Offering his Niece, unto the Prince her Son:  
The only mean, to bend his brother's might,  
Against King Edward, and to back her right.   

This worthy Lord, experienced long in arms,  
Whom Isabella with many favours graced,  
Whose Princely blood, the brute of conquest warms,  
In whose great thoughts, the Queen was highly placed,  
Grieving to see her succours thus defaced.  
Hath cast this plot, which managed with heed,  
Sith all do fail, should only help at need.   

She who but lately had her Anchors weighed,  
And saw the clouds on every side to rise,  
Nor now can stay, until the stream be stayed,  
Nor harbour till the cleared of the skies,  
Who though she roved, the mark still in her eyes,  
Accepts his offer thankfully as one,  
Succouring the poor in such affliction.   

This courteous Earl, moved with her sad report,  
Whose ears were drawn to her enchanting tongue,  
Trained up with her in Phillip's royal Court,  
And fully now confirmed in her wrong,  
Her foes grow weak, her friends grow daily strong.  
The Barons oath, gauged in her cause to stand,  
The Commons word, the Clergies helping hand.   

All Covenants signed with wedlock's sacred seal,  
In friendship's bonds eternally to bind,  
And all proceeding from so perfect zeal,  
And suiting right, with Henalts mighty mind,  
What ease hereby, the Queen doth hope to find;  
The sweet contentment of the lovely bride,  
Young Edward pleased, and joy on every side.   

NOw full seven times, the Sun his welked wain,  
Had on the top of all the Tropic set,  
And seven times descending down again,  
His fiery wheels, had with the fishes wet,  
Since malice first this mischief did beget:  
In which so many courses hath been run,  
As he that time celestial signs hath done.   

From Henalt now this great Bellona comes,  
Gliding along fair Belgias glassy main,  
Mazing the shores with noise of thundering drums,  
With her young Edward, Duke of Aquitaine,  
The fatal scourges of King Edward's reign:  
Her Soldier Beumount, and the Earl of Kent,  
And Mortimer that mighty Malcontent.   

Three thousand Soldiers mustered men in pay,  
Of Almains, Swisers, trusty Henawers,  
Of native English fled beyond the Sea,  
Of fat-braind Fleaming, fishie Zelanders,  
Edward's decreasing power, augmenting hers:  
Her friends at home expect her coming in,  
And new commotions every day begin.   

The Coasts be daily kept with watch and ward,  
The Beacons burning, at thy foes descry,  
O had the love of Subjects been thy guard,  
'tad been t'effect, what thou didst fortify,  
But 'tis thy household homebred Enemy:  
Nor Fort, nor Castle, can thy Country keep,  
When foes do wake, and dreamt friends do sleep.   

In vain be arms, when heaven becomes a foe,  
Kneel, weep, entreat, and speak thy Deathsman fair,  
The earth is armed unto thy overthrow,  
Go pacify the angry powers by prayer,  
Or if not pray, go Edward and despair:  
Thy fatal end, why dost thou this begin,  
Locking Death out, thou keep'st destruction in.   

A south-west gale, for Harwich fitly blows,  
Blow not so fast, to kindle such a fire:  
Whilst under sail, she yet securely rows,  
Turn gentle wind, and force her to retire,  
But o the winds, do Edward's wrack conspire,  
For when the heavens are unto justice bend,  
All things be turned to our just punishment.   

She is arrived in Orwells pleasant Road,  
Orwell thy name, or ill, or never was:  
Why art thou not ore-burthend with thy load?  
Why sink'st thou not under this monstrous mass?  
But what heaven will, that needs must come to pass.  
That grievous plague thou carriest on thy deep,  
Shall give just cause for many, streams to weep.   

England's Earle-marshall, Lord of all that Coast,  
With bells and bonfires welcomes her to shore,  
Great Leicester next joineth host to host,  
The Clergies power, in readiness before,  
Which every day increaseth more and more:  
Upon the Church a great taxation laid,  
For Arms, munition, money, men, and aid.   

Such as too long had looked for this hour,  
And in their breasts imprisoned discontent,  
Their wills thus made too powerful by their power  
Whose spirits were factious, great, and turbulent,  
Their hopes successful by this ill event,  
Like to a thief that for his purpose lies,  
Take knowledge now of Edward's injuries.   

Young Prince of Wales, lo here thy virtue lies,  
Soften thy Mother's flinty heart with tears,  
Then woo thy Father with those blessed eyes,  
Wherein the image of himself appears,  
With thy soft hand softly uniting theirs:  
With thy sweet kisses so them both beguile,  
Until they smile weep, and weeping smile.   

Bid her behold that curled silken Down,  
Thy fair smooth brow, in beauties fairer prime,  
Not to be priest with a care-bringing Crown,  
Nor that with sorrows wrinkled ere the time,  
Thy feet too feeble to his seat to climb;  
Who gave thee life, a crown for thee did make,  
Taking that Crown, thou life from him dost take.   

Look on these Babes, the seals of plighted troth,  
Whose little arms about your bodies cling,  
These pretty imps, so dear unto you both,  
Beg on their knees, their little hands do wring,  
Queens to a Queen, Kings kneel unto a King,  
To see their comfort, and the crown defaced,  
You fall to Arms, which have in arms embraced.   

Subjects see these, and then look back on these,  
Where hateful rage with kindly nature strives,  
And judge by Edward of your own disease,  
Children by children, by his wife your wives,  
Your state by his, in his life your own lives,  
And yield your swords, to take your deaths as due,  
Then draw your swords, to spoil both him and you.   

From Edmondsbury now comes this Lioness,  
Under the Banner of young Aquitaine,  
And down towards Oxford doth herself address,  
A world of vengeance waiting on her train,  
Hear is the period of Carnaruans reign;  
Edward thou hast, but King thou canst not bear,  
there's now no King, but great King Mortimer.   

Now friendless Edward followed by his foes,  
Needs must he run, the devil hath in chase,  
Poor in his hopes, but wealthy in his woes,  
Plenty of plagues, but scarcity of grace,  
Who wearied all, now wearieth every place;  
No home at home, no comfort seen abroad,  
His mind small rest, his body small abode.   

One scarce to him his sad discourse hath done  
Of Henalts power, and what the Queen intends,  
But whilst he speaks, another hath begun,  
Another strait beginning where he ends,  
Some of new foes, some of revolting friends;  
These ended once, again new rumours spread  
Of many which rebel, of many fled.   

Thus of the remnant of his hopes bereft,  
She hath the sum, and he the silly rest,  
Towards Wales he flies, of England being left,  
To raise an Army there himself addressed,  
But of his power she fully is possessed;  
She hath the East, her rising therewithal,  
And he the West, I there goes down his fall.   

What plagues doth Edward for himself prepare?  
Alas poor Edward, whether dost thou fly?  
Men change the air, but seldom change their care,  
Men fly from foes, but not from misery,  
Griefs be long-lived, and sorrows seldom die;  
And when thou feelest thy conscience tuched with grief,  
Thyself pursues thyself, both robbed and thief.   

Towards Lundy, which in Sabryns mouth doth stand,  
Carried with hope, still hoping to find ease,  
Imagining this were his native Land,  
This England: and Severne the narrow seas,  
With this conceit (poor soul) himself doth please.  
And sith his rule is overruled by men,  
On birds and beasts he'll king it once again.   

'tis triple death a freezing death to feel,  
For him, on whom the sun hath ever shone,  
Who hath been kneeled unto, can hardly kneel,  
Nor hardly beg which once hath been his own,  
A fearful thing to tumble from a throne;  
Fain would he be king of a little I'll,  
All were his Empire bounded in a mile.   

Aboard a Bark, now towards the isle he sails,  
Thinking to find some mercy in the flood:  
But see, the weather with such power prevails,  
Not suffering him to rule this piece of wood;  
Who can attain, by heaven and earth withstood?  
Edward, thy hopes but vainly do delude,  
By Gods and men uncessantly pursued.   

At length to land his careful Bark he hales,  
Beaten with storms, ballast with misery,  
This homebred exile, on the Coast of Wales,  
Unlike himself, with such as like him be,  
Spenser, Reading, Baldock, these hapless three,  
They to him subject, he subject to care,  
And he and they, to murder subject are.   

To ancient Neyth, a Castle strongly built,  
Thither repair this forlorn banished crew,  
Which holdeth them, but not contains their guilt,  
There hid from eyes, but not from envies view,  
Nor from their stars themselves they yet withdrew,  
Walls may awhile keep out an enemy,  
But never Castle kept out destiny.   

Hear Fortune hath immured them in this hold,  
Willing their poor imprisoned liberty,  
Living a death, in hunger, want, and cold,  
Whilst murderous treason entereth secretly,  
All lay on hands to punish cruelty;  
And when even might is up unto the chin,  
Weak friends become strong foes to thrust him in.   

MElpomine, thou doleful Muse be gone,  
Thy sad complaints be matters far too light,  
Hear (now) come plagues beyond comparison.  
You dreadful Furies, visions of the night,  
With ghastly howling all approach my sight,  
And let pale ghosts with sable Tapers stand,  
To lend sad light to my more sadder hand.   

Each line shall be a history of woe,  
And every accent as a dead man's cry;  
Now must my tears in such abundance flow,  
As do the drops of fruitful Castaly,  
Each letter must contain a tragedy:  
Lo, now I come to tell this woeful rest,  
The drerest tale that ever pen expressed.   

You senseless stones, as all prodigious,  
Or things which of like solid substance be,  
Sith thus in nature all grow monstruous,  
And unto kind contrary disagree,  
Consume, or burn, or weep, or sigh with me,  
Unless the earth hard-hearted, nor can moan,  
Makes steel and stones, more hard than steel and stone.   

All-guiding heaven, which so dost still maintain  
What ere thou movest in perfect unity,  
And bynd'st all things in friendshyps' sacred chain,  
In spotless and perpetual amity,  
Which is the bounds of thy great Empery;  
Why sufferest thou the sacrilegious rage,  
Of this rebellious, hateful, iron age.   

Now ruin reigns, God help the Land the while,  
All prisons freed to make all mischiefs free,  
Traitors and Rebels called from exile,  
All things be lawful, but what lawful Bee,  
Nothing our own, but our own infamy:  
Death, which ends care, yet careless of our death,  
Who steals our joys, but stealeth not our breath.   

London which didst this mischief first begin,  
Lo, now I come thy tragedy to tell,  

The Londeners set all the prisoners at liberty.  Thou art the first that s plagued for this sin,  
Which first didst make the entrance to this hell,  
Now death and horror in thy walls must dwell,  
Which shouldst have care thyself in health to keep,  
Thus turn'st the wolves amongst the careless sheep.   

O had I eyes, another Thames to weep,  
Or words expressing more, than words express,  
O could my tears, thy great foundation steep,  
To moan thy pride, thy wasteful vain excess,  
Thy gluttony, thy youthful wantonness:  
But 'tis thy sins, that to the heavens are fled,  
Dissolving clouds of vengeance on thy head.   

The place profaned, where God should be adored,  
The stone removed, whereon our faith is grounded,  
Authority is scorned, counsel abhorred,  
Religion so by foolish sects confounded,  
Weak consciences by vain questions wounded:  
The honour due, to Magistrates neglected,  
What else but vengeance can there be expected?   

When faith but feigned, a faith doth only fain,  
And Church-mens lives, give Lay-men leave to fall,  
The Ephod made a cloak to cover gain,  
Cunning avoiding what's canonical,  
Yet holiness the Badge to bear out all:  
When sacred things be made a merchandise,  
None talk of texts, then ceaseth prophicies.   

When as the laws, do once pervert the laws,  
And weak opinion guides the common weal,  
Where doubts should cease, doubts rise in every clause,  
The sword which wounds, should be a salve to heal,  
Oppression works oppression to conceal:  
Yet being used, when needful is the use,  
Right cloaks all wrongs, and covers all abuse,   

Tempestuous thunders, tear the fruitless earth,  
The roaring Ocean past her bounds to rise,  
Death-telling apparitions, monstrous birth,  
Th'affrighted heaven with comet-glaring eyes,  
The ground, the air, all filled with prodigies:  
Fearful eclipses, fiery vision,  
And angry Planets in conjunction.   

Thy channels serve for ink, for paper stones,  
And on the ground, writ murders, incests, rapes,  
And for thy pens, a heap of deadmen's bones,  
Thy letters, ugly forms, and monstrous shapes;  
And when the earth's great hollow concave gapes,  
Then sink them down, lest she we live upon,  
Do leave our use, and fly subjection.   

Virgin, but Virgin only in thy name,  
Now for thy sin what murderer shall be spent:  
Black is my ink, but blacker is thy shame,  
Who shall revenge? my Muse can but lament,  
With hair disheveled, words and tears half spent:  
Poor ravished Lucrece stands to end her life,  
Whlist cruel Tarquin whets the angry knife.   

Thou want'st redress, and tyranny remorse,  
And sad suspicion dies thy fault in grain,  
Compelled by force, must be repelled by force,  
Complaints no pardon, penance helps not pain,  
But blood must wash out a more bloody stain:  
To win thine honour with thy loss of breath,  
Thy guiltless life with thy more guilty death,   

Thou art benumbed, thou canst not feel at all,  
Plagues be thy pleasures, fear hath made past fear,  
The deadly sound of sins nile-thundering fall,  
Hath tuned horror settled in thine ear,  
Shrieks be the sweetest Music thou canst hear:  
Arms thy attire, and weapons all thy good,  
And all the wealth thou hast, consist in blood.   

See woeful City, on thy ruin'd wall,  
The very Image of thyself here see,  
Read on thy gates in charrecters thy fall,  
In famished bodies, thine Anatomy,  
How like to them thou art, they like to thee:  
And if thy tears have dimmed thy hateful sight,  
Thy buildings are one fire to give thee light.   

For world that was, a woeful is, complain,  
When men might have been buried when they died,  
When Children might have in their cradles lain,  
When as a man might have enjoyed his bride,  
The Son kneeled by his Father's deathbed side:  
The living wronged, the dead no right (now) have,  
The Father sees his Son to want a grave.   

The poor Samarian almost starved for food,  
Yet sauced her sweet Infant's flesh with tears,  
But thou in child with murder, longest for blood,  
Which thy womb wanting, casts the fruit it bears,  
Thy viperous brood, their loathsome prison teyrs.  
Thou drinkst thy gore out of a deadman's skull,  
Thy stomach hungry, though thy gorge be full.   

Is all the world in senseless slaughter drowned?  
No pitying heart? no hand? no eye? no ear?  
None holds his sword from ripping of the wound,  
No spark of pity, nature, love, nor fear;  
Be all so mad, that no man can forbear?  
Will you incur the cruel Nero's blame,  
Thus to discover your own Mother's shame?   

The man who of the plague yet raving lies,  
Hears yielding ghosts to give their latest groan,  
And from his careful window nought espies,  
But deadmen's bodies, others making moan,  
No talk but Death, and execution.  
Poor silly women from their houses fled,  
Crying (o help) my husbands murdered;   

Thames turn thee back to Belgias frothy main,  
Fair Tame and Isis, hold back both your springs,  
Nor on thy London spread thy silver train,  
Nor let thy Ships lay forth their silken wings,  
Thy shores with Swans late dying Dirgies rings,  
Nor in thy arms let her embraced be,  
Nor smile on her which sadly weeps on thee.   

Time end thyself here, let it not be said,  
That ever Death did first begin in thee,  
Nor let this slander to thy fault be laid,  
That ages charge thee with impiety,  
Lest fear what hath been, argue what may be:  
And fashioning so a habit of the mind.  
Make men no men, and alter humane kind.   

But yet this outrage hath but taken breath,  
For pity past, she means to make amends,  
And more enraged, she doth return to death,  
And next goes down King Edward and his friends,  
What she hath hoarded, now she frankly spends:  
In such strange action as was never seen,  
Clothing revenge in habit of a Queen.   

Now Stapleton's thy turn, from France that fled,  
The next the lot unto the Spensers fell,  
Reding the Marshal, marshaled with the dead,  
Next is thy turn great Earl of Arundel,  
Then Mochelden and woeful Daniel:  
Who followed him in his lascivious ways,  
Must go before him to his blackest days,   

Carnarvan by his Countrymen betrayed,  
And sent a Prisoner from his native Land,  
To Knelworth poor King he is conveyed,  
To th'earl of Leicester with a mighty band;  
And now a present Parliament in hand,  
Fully concluding what they had begun,  
T'vncrowne King Edward, and invest his Son?   

A sceptre's like a pillar of great height,  
Whereon a mighty building doth depend,  
Which when the same is overpress with weight,  
And past his compass, forced thereby to bend,  
His massy roof down to the ground doth send:  
Crushing the lesser props, and murdering all,  
Which stand within the compass of his fall.   

Where vice is countenanced with nobility,  
Art clean excluded, ignorance held in,  
Blinding the world, with mere hypocrisy,  
Yet must be soothed in all their slavish sin,  
Great malcontents to grow they then begin:  
Nursing vile wits, to make them factious tools,  
Thus mighty men oft prove the mightiest fools.   

The Senate wronged by the Senator,  
And justice made injustice by delays,  
Next innovation plays the Orator,  
Counsels uncounseld, Death defers no days,  
And plagues, but plagues, allow no other plays:  
And when one life, makes hateful many lives,  
Caesar though Caesar, dies with swords and knives,   

Now for the Clergy, Peers, and laity,  
Against the King must resignation make,  
Th'elected Senate of the Empery,  
To Kenelworth are come, the Crown to take,  
Sorrow hath yet but slept, and now awake:  
In solemn sort each one doth take his place,  
The partial judges of poor Edward's case.   

From his imprisoning chamber, clothed in black,  
Before the great assembly he is brought,  
A doleful hearse upon a deadman's back,  
Whose heavy looks, might tell his heavy thought,  
Grief need no feigned action to be taught:  
His Funeral solemnized in his cheer,  
His eyes the Mourners, and his legs the Beer.   

His fair red cheeks clad in pale sheets of shame,  
And for a dumb show in a swoon began,  
Where passion doth strange sort of passion frame,  
And every sense a right Tragedian,  
Exceeding far the compass of a man,  
By use of sorrow learning nature art,  
Teaching Despair to act a lively part.   

Ah Pity, dost thou live, or art thou not?  
Some say such sights, men unto flints have turned,  
Or Nature, else thyself hast thou forgot?  
Or is it but a tale, that men have mourned?  
That water ever drowned, or fire burned?  
Or have tears left to dwell in humane eyes,  
Or ever man to pity miseries?   

He takes the Crown, and closely hugs it to him,  
And smiling in his grief he leans upon it;  
Then doth he frown because it would forego him,  
Then softly stealing, lays his vesture on it;  
Then snatching at it, loath to have foregone it,  
He put it from him, yet he will not so,  
And yet retains what fain he would forego.   

Like as a Mother overcharged with woe,  
Her only child now labouring in death,  
Doing to help it, nothing yet can do,  
Though with her breath, she feign would give it breath,  
Still saying, yet forgetting what she saith:  
Even so with poor King Edward doth it far,  
Leaving his Crown, the first-born of his care.   

In this confused conflict of the mind,  
Tears drowning sighs, and sighs confounding tears,  
Yet when as neither any ease could find,  
And extreme grief doth somewhat harden fears,  
Sorrow grows senseless when too much she bears,  
Whilst speech & silence, strives which place should take,  
With words half spoke, he silently bespoke.   

I claim no Crown, quoth he, by vice oppression,  
Nor by the law of Nations have you chose me,  
My Father's title groundeth my succession,  
Nor in your power is colour to depose me,  
By heavens decree I stand, they must dispose me;  
A lawless act, in an unlawful thing,  
Withdraws allegiance, but uncrownes no King.   

What God hath said to one, is only due,  
Can I usurp by tyrannising might?  
Or take what by your birthright falls to you?  
Root out your houses? blot your honours light?  
By public rule, to rob your public right?  
Then can you take, what he could not that gave it,  
Because the heavens commanded I should have it.   

My Lords, quoth he, commend me to the King,  
Hear doth he pause, fearing his tongue offended,  
Even as in childbirth forth the word doth bring,  
Sighing a full point, as he there had ended,  
Yet striving, as his speech he would have mended;  
Things of small moment we can scarcely hold,  
But griefs that touch the heart, are hardly told.   

Hear doth he weep, as he had spoke in tears,  
Calming this tempest with a shower of rain,  
Whispering, as he would keep it from his ears,  
Do my allegiance to my Sovereign;  
Yet at this word, here doth he pause again:  
Yes say even so, quoth he, to him you bear it,  
If it be Edward that you mean shall wear it.   

Keep he the Crown, with me remain the curse,  
A hapless Father, have a happy Son,  
Take he the better, I endure the worse,  
The plague to end in me, in me begun,  
And better may he thrive than I have done;  
Let him be second Edward, and poor I,  
For ever blotted out of memory.   

Let him account his bondage from the day  
That he is with the Diadem invested,  
A glittering Crown doth make the hair soon grey,  
Within whose circle he is but arrested,  
In all his feasts, he's but with sorrow feasted;  
And when his feet disdain to touch the mould,  
His head a prisoner, in a jail of gold.   

In numbering of his subjects, numbering care,  
And when the people do with shouts begin,  
Then let him think their only prayers are,  
That he may scape the danger he is in,  
The multitude, be multitudes of sin;  
And he which first doth say, God save the King,  
He is the first doth news of sorrow bring.   

His Commons ills shall be his private ill,  
His private good is only public care,  
His will must only be as others will:  
Himself not as he is, as others are,  
By Fortune dared to more than Fortune dare:  
And he which may command an Empery,  
Yet can he not entreat his liberty.   

Appeasing tumults, hate cannot appease,  
Soothed with deceits, and fed with flatteries,  
Displeasing to himself, others to please,  
Obeyed as much as he shall tyrannize,  
Fear forcing friends, enforcing Enemies:  
And when he sitteth under his estate,  
His footstool danger, and his chair is hate.   

He King alone, no King that once was one,  
A King that was, unto a King that is;  
I am unthroned, and he enjoys my throne,  
Nor should I suffer that, nor he do this,  
He taketh from me what yet is none of his;  
Young Edward climes, old Edward falleth down;  
Kinged and unkinged, he crowned, farewell my crown.   

Princes be Fortune's children, and with them,  
She deals, as Mothers use their babes to still,  
Unto her darling gives a Diadem,  
A pretty toy, his humour to fulfil;  
And when a little they have had their will,  
Look what she gave, she taketh at her pleasure,  
Using the rod when they are out of measure.   

But policy, who still in hate did lurk,  
And yet suspecteth Edward is not sure,  
Weighing what blood with Leicester might work,  
Or else what friends his name might yet procure,  
A guilty conscience never is secure;  
From Leister's keeping cause him to be taken;  
Alas poor Edward, now of all forsaken.   

To Gurney and Matravers he is given;  
O let their act be odious to all ears,  
And being spoke, stir clouds to cover heaven,  
And be the badge the wretched murderer bears,  
The wicked oath whereby the damned swears:  
But Edward, in thy hell thou must content thee,  
These be the devils which must still torment thee.   

He on a lean ill-favoured beast is set,  
Death upon Famine moralising right;  
His cheeks with tears, his head with reign bewet,  
Night's very picture, wandering still by night;  
When he would sleep, like dreams they him affright;  
His food torment, his drink a poisoned bain,  
No other comfort but in deadly pain.   

And yet because they fear to have him known,  
They shave away his princely tressed hair,  
And now become not worth a hair ofs own,  
Body and fortune now be equal bare;  
Thus void of wealth, o were he void of care.  
But o, our joys are shadows, and deceive us,  
But cares, even to our deaths do never leave us.   

A silly Molehill is his kingly chair,  
With puddle water must he now be dressed,  
And his perfume, the loathsome fenny air,  
An iron skull, a Basin sitting best,  
A bloody workman, suiting with the rest;  
His loathed eyes, within this filthy glass,  
Truly behold how much deformed he was.   

The drops which from his eyes abundance fall,  
A pool of tears still rising by this rain,  
Even fight with the water, and withal,  
A circled compass makes it to retain,  
Billowed with sighs, like to a little main;  
Water with tears, contending whether should  
Make water warm, or make the warm tears cold.   

Vise Traitors, hold of your▪ unhallowed hands,  
The cruelest beast the lions presence fears:  
And can you keep your Sovereign then in bands?  
How can your eyes behold th'anointed's tears?  
Are not your hearts even pierced through the ears?  
The mind is free, what ere afflict the man,  
A King's a King, do Fortune what she can.   

Who's he can take what God himself hath given?  
Or spill that life his holy spirit infused?  
All powers be subject to the powers of heaven,  
Nor wrongs pass unrevenged, although excused,  
Weep Majesty to see thyself abused;  
O whether shall authority be take,  
When she herself, herself doth so forsake?   

A wreath of hay they on his temples bind,  
Which when he felt, (tears would not let him see,)  
Nature (quoth he) now art thou only kind,  
Thou giv'st, but Fortune taketh all from me,  
I now perceive, that were it not for thee:  
I should want water, clothing for my brain,  
But earth gives hay, and mine eyes give me rain.   

Myself deformed, like my deformed state,  
My person made like to mine infamy,  
Altering my favour, could you alter fate,  
And blotting beauty, blot my memory,  
You might fly slander, I indignity:  
My golden Crown, took golden rule away,  
A Crown of hay, well suits a King of hay.   

Yet grieved again, on nature doth complain,  
Nature (saith he) o thou art just in all,  
Why shouldst thou then, thus strengthen me again,  
To suffer things so much unnatural?  
Except thou be partaker in my fall:  
And when at once so many mischiefs meet,  
Makest poison nuterment, and bitter sweet.   

And now he thinks he wrongeth Fortune much,  
Who giveth him this great pre-eminence,  
For since by fate his miseries be such,  
Her worse name hath taught him patience,  
For no offence, he taketh as offence:  
Crossed on his back, and crosses in the breast,  
Thus is he crossed, who never yet was blest.   

To Berckley thus they lead this wretched King,  
The place of horror which they had forethought,  
O heavens why suffer you so vile a thing,  
And can behold, this murder to be wrought,  
But that your ways are all with judgement fraughted:  
Now interest thou, poor Edward to thy hell,  
Thus take thy leave, and bid the world farewell.   

O Berckley, thou which hast been famous long,  
Still let thy walls shriek out a deadly sound,  
And still complain thee of thy grievous wrong,  
Preserve the figure of King Edward's wound,  
And keep their wretched footsteps on the ground:  
That yet some power again may give them breath,  
And thou again mayst curse them both to death.   

The croaking Ravens hideous voice he hears,  
Which through the Castle sounds with deadly yells,  
Imprinting strange imaginary fears,  
The heavy Echoes like to passing bells,  
Chiming far off his doleful burying knells:  
The iargging Casements which the fierce wind drives,  
Puts him in mind of fetters, chains, and gives.   

By silent night, the ugly shrieking Owls,  
Like dreadful Spirits with terror do torment him,  
The envious dog, angry with darkness howls,  
Like messengers from damned ghosts were sent him,  
Or with hell's noisome terror to present him:  
Under his roof the buzzing night-Crow sings,  
Clapping his window with her fatal wings.   

Death still prefigured in his fearful dreams,  
Of raging Fiends, and Goblins that he meets,  
Of falling down from steepe-rocks into streams  
Of Toombs, of Graves, of Pits, of winding sheets,  
Of strange temptations and seducing spirits:  
And with his cry awaked, calling for aid,  
His hollow voice doth make himself afraid.   

Oft in his sleep he sees the Queen to fly him,  
Stern Mortimer pursue him with his sword,  
His Son in sight, yet dares he not come nigh him,  
To whom he calls, who answereth not a word,  
And like a monster wondered and abhorred:  
Widows and Orphans following him with cries,  
Stabbing his heart, and scratching out his eyes.   

Next comes the vision of his bloody reign,  
Masking along with Lancaster's stern ghost,  
Of eight and twenty Barons hanged and slain,  
Attended with the rueful mangled host,  
At Burton and at Borough battle lost:  
Threatening with frowns, and trembling every limb,  
With thousand thousand curses cursing him.   

And if it chance that from the troubled skies,  
Some little brightness through the chinks give light,  
Strait ways on heaps the thrunging clouds do rise,  
As though the heaven were angry with the night.  
Deformed shadows glimpsing in his sight:  
As though darkness, for she more dark would be,  
Through these poor Crannells forced herself to see,   

Within a deep vault under where he lay,  
Under buried filthy carcases they keep,  
Because the thick walls hearing kept away,  
His feeling feeble, seeing ceased in sleep;  
This loathsome stink comes from this dungeon deep,  
As though before they fully did decree,  
No one sense should from punishment be free.   

He haps our English Chronicle to find,  
On which to pass the hours he falls to reed,  
For minutes yet to recreate his mind,  
If any thought one uncared thought might feed,  
But in his breast new conflicts this doth breed:  
For when sorrow, is seated in the eyes,  
What ere we see, increaseth miseries.   

Opening the Book, he chanced first of all  
On conquering William's glorious coming in,  
The Normans rising, and the Bryttains fall,  
Noting the plague ordyaned for Harold's sin,  
How much, in how short time this Duke did win;  
Great Lord (quoth he) thy conquests placed thy throne,  
I to mine own, have basely lost mine own.   

Then comes to Rufus a lascivious King,  
Whose lawless rule on that which he enjoyed,  
A sudden end unto his days doth bring,  
Himself destroyed in that which he destroyed,  
None moan his death, whose life had all anoy'd:  
Rufus (quoth he) thy fault far less than mine,  
Needs must my plague be far exceeding thine.   

To famous Bewclarke studiously he turns.  
Who from Duke Robert doth the sceptre wrest, 
Robert Short-thigh Duke of Normandy   
Whose eyes put out, in flinty Cardiff morns,  
In Palestine who bore his conquering crest,  
Who though of Realms, of same not dispossessed:  
In all afflictions this may comfort thee,  
Only my shame in death remains (quoth he.)   

Then comes he next to Stephen's troublous state,  
Plagued with the Empress, in continual war,  
Yet with what patience he could bear his hate,  
And like a wiseman rule his angry star,  
Stopping the wheel of Fortune's giddy car:  
O thus (quoth he) had graceless Edward done,  
He had not now been Subject to his Son.   

Then to Henry Plantagine he goes,  
Two Kings at once, two Crowned at once doth find,  
The root from whence so many mischiefs rose,  
The Father's kindness makes the Son unkind,  
Th'ambitious Brothers to debate inclined:  
Thou crownest thy Son, yet living still dost reign,  
Mine uncrownes me (quoth he) yet am I slain.   

Then of courageous Lyon-hart he reeds,  
The soldan's terror, and the Pagans' wrack,  
The Eastern world filled with his glorious deeds,  
Of joppas siege, of Cipres woeful sack,  
Richard (quoth he) turning his dull eyes back:  
Thou didst in height of thy felicity,  
I in the depth of all my misery.   

Then by degrees to sacrilegious john,  
Murdering young Arthur, hath usurped his right,  
The Clergies curse, the poors oppression,  
The grievous crosses that on him did light,  
To Rooms proud yoke yielding his awful might:  
Even by thy end (he saith) now john I see,  
God's judgements thus do justly fall on me.   

Then, to long-raigning Winchester his Son,  
With whom his people bloody war did wage,  
And of the troubles in his time begun,  
The headstrong Barons wrath, the Commons rage.  
And yet how he these tumults could assuage:  
Thou livest long, (quoth he) longer thy name,  
And I die soon, yet overlive my fame,   

Then to great Longshanks mighty victories,  
Who in the Orcads fixed his Country's meres,  
And dared in fight our faiths proud Enemies,  
Which to his name eternal Trophies rears,  
Whose graceful favours yet fair England wears:  
Be't deadly sin (quoth he) once to defile,  
This Father's name with me a Son so vile.   

Following the leaf, he findeth unawares,  
What day young Edward Prince of Wales was borne,  
Which Letters seem like Magic Charrecters,  
Or to despite him they were made in scorn,  
O let that name (quoth he) from Books be torn:  
Lest that in time, the very grieved earth,  
Do curse my Mother's womb, and ban my birth.   

Say that King Edward never had such child,  
Or was devoured as he in cradle lay,  
Be all men from my place of birth exiled,  
Let it be sunk, or swallowed with some sea,  
Let course of years devour that dismal day,  
Let all be done that power can bring to pass,  
Only be it forgot that ere I was.   

The globy tears impearled in his eyes,  
Through which as glasses he is forced to look,  
Make letters seem as circles which arise,  
Forced by a stone within a standing Brook,  
And at one time, so divers forms they took,  
Which like to ugly Monsters do affright,  
And with their shapes do terrify his sight.   

Thus on his careful Cabin falling down,  
Enter the Actors of his tragedy,  
Opening the doors, which made a hallow son,  
As they had howled against their cruelty,  
Or of his pain as they would prophecy;  
To whom as one which died before his death,  
He yet complains, whilst pain might lend him breath.   

O be not Authors of so vile an act,  
To bring my blood on your posterity,  
That Babes even yet unborn do curse the fact,  
I am a King, though King of misery,  
I am your King, though wanting Majesty:  
But he who is the cause of all this teen,  
Is cruel March the Champion of the Queen.   

He hath my Crown, he hath my Son, my wife,  
And in my throne triumpheth in my fall,  
Is't not enough but he will have my life?  
But more, I fear that yet this is not all,  
I think my soul to judgement he will call:  
And in my death his rage yet shall not die,  
But persecute me so, immortally.   

And for you deadly hate me, let me live,  
For that advantage angry heaven hath left,  
Fortune hath taken all that she did give;  
Yet that revenge should not be quite bereft,  
She leaves behind this remnant of her theft:  
That misery should find that only I,  
Am far more wretched than is misery.   

Betwixt two beds these devils strait enclosed him,  
Thus done, uncovering of his secret part,  
When for his death they fitly had disposed him,  
With burning iron thrust him to the heart.  
O pain beyond all pain, how much thou art!  
Which words, as words, may verbally confess,  
But never pen precisely could express.   

O let his tears even freezing as they light,  
By the impression of his monstrous pain,  
Still keep this odious spectacle in sight,  
And show the manner how the King was slain,  
That it with ages may be new again;  
That all may thither come that have been told it,  
And in that mirror of his griefs behold it.   

Still let the building sigh his bitter groans,  
And with a hollow cry his woes repeat,  
That senseless things even moving senseless stones,  
With agonizing horror still may sweat;  
And as consuming in their furious heat,  
Like boiling Cauldrons be the drops that fall,  
Even as that blood for vengeance still did call,   

O let the woeful Genius of the place,  
Still haunt the prison where his life was lost:  
And with torn hair, and swollen ill-favoured face,  
Become the guide to his revengeful ghost,  
And night and day still let them walk the Coast:  
And with incessant howling terrify,  
Or move with pity all that travel by.   

TRue virtuous Lady, now of mirth I sing,  
To sharpen thy sweet spirit with some delight,  
And somewhat slack this melancholy string,  
Whilst I of love and triumphs must indite,  
Too soon again of passion must I write.  
Of England's wonder, now I come to tell,  
How Mortimer first rose, when Edward fell.   

Down lesser lights, the glorious Sun doth climb▪  
His joyful rising is the world's proud morn;  
Now is he got betwixt the wings of Time,  
And with the tide of Fortune forwards borne,  
Good stars assist his greatness to suborn;  
Who have, decreed his reigning for a while,  
All laugh on him, on whom the heavens do smile.   

The pompous synod of these earthly Gods,  
At Salisbury, appointed by their King,  
To set all even which had been at odds,  
And into fashion, their designs to bring,  
That peace might now from their proceed spring,  
And to establish what they had begun,  
Under whose colour mighty things were done.   

Hear Mortimer is Earl of March created,  
This honour added to his barony,  
And unto fame here is he consecrated,  
That titles might his greatness dignify,  
As for the rest, he easily could supply▪  
Who knew a kingdom to her lap was thrown,  
Which having all, would never starve her own.   

A pleasing calm hath smoothed the troubled sea,  
The prime brought on with gentle falling showers,  
The misty break yet proves a goodly day;  
And on their heads since heaven her largesse powers,  
That only ours, which we do use as ours:  
Pleasures be poor, and our delights be dead,  
When as a man doth not enjoy the head.   

Time wanting bounds, still wanteth certainty,  
Of dangers past, in peace we love to hear,  
Short is the date of all extremity,  
Long wished things a sweet delight doth bear,  
Better forego our joys then still to fear:  
Fortune her gifts in vain to such doth give,  
As when they live, seem as they did not live.   

Now stand they like the two starre-fixed Poles,  
Betwixt the which the circling Spheres do move,  
About whose axle-tree this fair Globe rolls,  
Which that great Mover by his strength doth shove,  
Yet every point still ending in their love;  
For might is ever absolute alone,  
When of two powers there's true conjunction.   

The King must take, what by their power they give,  
And they protect what serves for their protection,  
They teach to rule, whilst he doth learn to live,  
TO whom all be subject, lives in their subjection,  
Though borne to rule, yet crowned by their election,  
Th'allegiance which to Edward doth belong,  
Doth make their faction absolutely strong.   

Twelve guide the King, his power their powers consist,  
Peers guide the King, they guide both King and Peers,  
Ill can the Brook his own self-stream resist,  
Their aged counsel, to his younger years,  
Young Edward vows, and all the while he steers;  
Well might we think the man were more than blind,  
Which wanted Sea roomth, and could rule the wind.   

In lending strength, their strength they still retain,  
Building his force, their own they so repair,  
Under his reign, in safety they do reign,  
They give a kingdom, and do keep the care,  
They who adventure, must the booty share,  
A Prince's wealth in spending still doth spread,  
Like to a Pool with many fountains fed.   

They sit at ease, though he sit in the throne,  
He shadows them who his supporters be,  
And in division they be two for one,  
An Empire now must thus beruled by three,  
What they make free, they challenge to be free;  
The King enjoyeth, but what they lately gave,  
They privileged to spend, leave him to save.   


sort inter ●se-score nights in reti●●e.  Nine-score brave Knights belonging to his Court  
At Nottingham, which all the Coast commands,  
All parts pay tribute, honour to his port,  
Much may he do which hath so many hands,  
This rocke-built Castle, overlooks the Lands:  
Thus like a Giant, still towards heaven doth rise,  
And fain would cast the Rocks against the skies.   

Where ere he goes there pomp in triumph goes,  
Over his head Fame soaring still doth fly,  
Th'earth in his presence decks herself in shows,  
And glory sits in greatest Majesty,  
Abundance there doth still in Childbed lie:  
For where Fortune her bounty will bestow,  
There heaven and earth must pay what she doth owe.   

In Nottingham, the North's great glorious eye,  
Crown of the beauteous branch-embellished soil,  
The throne imperial of his Empery,  
His resting place, releever of his ●oyle,  
Here he enjoys his never-prized spoil:  
There living in a world of all delight,  
Beheld of all, and having all in sight.   

Here all along the flower-enameld vales,  
Clear Trent upon the pearly sand doth slide,  
And to the Meadows telling wanton tales,  
Her crystal limbs lasciviously in pride,  
With thousand turns she casts from side to side:  
As loath she were the sweet soil to forsake,  
And throw herself into the Germane lake.   

Whence great hart-harboring Sherwood wildly roves,  
Whose levy Forests garlanding her Towers,  
Shadowing the small Brooks with her Echoing groves,  
whose thick-plashd sides repulse the Northern showers,  
Where Nature sporting in her secret Bowers:  
This strong built Castle hurketh in her shade,  
As to this end she only had been made.   

There must the glorious Parliament be held,  
Earth must come in, when awful heaven doth send,  
For whether jove his powerful self doth wield,  
Thither all powers themselves must wholly bend,  
Whose hand holds thunder, who dare him offend?  
And where proud conquest keepeth all in awe,  
Kings oft are forced in servile yokes to draw.   

Hear sit they both under the rich estate,  
Yet neither strive the upper hand to get,  
In pomp and power both equal at a rate,  
And as they came, so are they friendly set,  
He entereth first, which first in entering met;  
A King at least the Earl of March must be,  
Or else the maker of a King is he.   

Perhaps, he with a smile the King will grace,  
His knees grow stiff, they have forgot to bow,  
And if he once have taken up his place,  
Edward must come, if he his will would know,  
A foot out of his seat he cannot go;  
This small word subject, pricks him like a sting,  
My empires Colleague, or my fellow King.   

O had felicity feeling of woe,  
Or could on mean but moderately seed,  
Or would look down the way that he must go,  
Or could abstain from what diseases breed,  
To stop the wound before to death he bleed,  
War should not fill King's Palaces with moan,  
Nor peril come when 'tis least thought upon.   

Ambition with the Eagle loves to build,  
Nor on the Mountain dreads the winter's blast,  
But with selfe-soothing doth the humour gild,  
With arguments correcting what is past,  
Forecasting Kingdoms, dangers unforecast:  
Leaving this poor word of content to such,  
Whose earthly spirits have not his fiery ●uch.   

But pleasures never dine but on excess,  
Whose diet made to draw on all delight,  
And overcome in that sweet drunkenness,  
His appetite maintained by his sight,  
Strengtheneth desire, but ever weakeneth might:  
Until this ulcer ripening to a head,  
Vomits the poison which it nourished.   

Even as a flood swelling beyond his bounds,  
Doth over-presse the channel where he flowed,  
And breaking forth, the neighbour Meadows drowns,  
That of himself, himself doth quite unload,  
Dispearcing his own greatness all abroad:  
Spending the store he was maintained by,  
Empties his Brook, and leaves his Channel dry.   

Upon this Subject, envy might devise,  
Here might she prove her mischeese-working wings,  
An object for her everwaking eyes,  
Wherein to stick a thousand deadly stings,  
A ground whereon to build as many things:  
For where our actions measure no regard,  
Our lawless will is made his own reward.   

Here vengeance calls destruction up from hell,  
Conjuring mischeese to devise a curse,  
Increasing that, which more and more did swell,  
Adding to ill, to make this evil worse,  
Whilst hateful pride becomes ambition's nurse:  
'tis incedent to those whom many fear,  
Many to them more grievous hate do bear.   

And now those few which many tears had spent,  
And long had wept on old King Edward's grave,  
Find some begin to pity their lament,  
Wishing the poor yet some redress might have,  
Revenge cannot deny what death doth crave:  
Opening their cares what so abhorred their eyes,  
Ill will too soon regardeth envies cries.   

Time calls account of what before is past,  
All thrust on malice pressing to be hard,  
Unto misfortune all men go too fast,  
Seldom, advantage is in wrongs debarred,  
Nor in revenge a mean is never spared:  
For when once pride but pointeth towards his fall,  
He bears a sword to wound himself with all.   

Edward whose shoulders now were taught to peyze,  
Briareus burden, which oppressed him so,  
His current stopped with these outrageous Seas,  
Whose gulf received the tide should make him flow,  
This Rock cast in the way where he must go:  
That honour brooks, no fellowship hath tried,  
Nor never Crown Corrival could abide.   

Some urge that March, meaning by blood to rise,  
First cut off Kent, fearing he might succeed,  
training the King to what he did devise,  
Lymming in colours this unlawful deed,  
And to his own, the royal blood to weed:  
Thus every straw proves fuel to the fire,  
When counsel doth concur with our desire.   

All fence the tree which serveth for a shade,  
Whose great grown body doth repulse the wind,  
Until his wasteful branches do invade,  
The straighter plants, and them in prison bind,  
Then like a foul devower of his kind:  
Unto his root all put their hands to hew,  
Whose roomth but hinder other which would grow.   

Greatness, like to the suns reflecting powers,  
The fen-bred vapours naturally exhales,  
And is the cause that oft the evening lours,  
When foggy mists enlarge their dusky fails,  
That his own beams, he in the clouds impales:  
And either must extinguish his own light,  
Or by his virtue cause his proper night.   

Of winter thus whilst they prognosticate,  
He hath the Summer, and a fruitful year,  
And still is soothed by his flattering fate,  
For still the star which guides him doth appear;  
He looks far off, yet sees not danger near:  
For oft we see before a sudden shower,  
The sun shines hott'st, and hath the greatest power.   

Now spheres with Music make a new world's birth,  
Bring on again old Satur's golden reign,  
Renew this weary barren-wombed earth,  
And raise aloft the suns declining wain,  
And by your power make all things young again:  
Orpheus, once more to Thebes old Forests bring,  
Drink Nectar, whilst the Gods are banqueting.   

Within this Castle had the Queen devised,  
A stately Chamber with the pencil wrought,  
Within whose compass was imparadizd,  
What ever Art or rare invention taught,  
As well might seem far to exceed all thought:  
That were the thing on earth to move delight,  
He should not want it to content his sight.   

Hear Phoebus clipping Hiacynthus stood,  
Whose lives last drops, his snowy breast imbrewe,  
Mixing his crystal tears with purple blood,  
As were it blood or tears, none scarcely knew,  
Yet blood and tears, one from the other drew:  
The little woodnimphs chase him with balm,  
To raise this sweet Boy from this deadly qualm.   

Here lies his Lute, his Quiver, and his bow,  
His golden mantle on the greene-spred ground,  
That from the things themselves none could them know,  
The sledge so shadowed, still seemed to rebound,  
Th'wound being made, yet still to make a wound:  
The purple flower with letters on the leaves,  
Springing that Nature, oft herself deceives.   

The milk-white Heifor, Io, Ioues fair rape,  
Viewing her new-taken figure in a Brook,  
The water seeming to retain the shape,  
Which looks on her, as she on it doth look,  
That gazing eyes oft-times themselves mistook:  
By prospective devised that looking now,  
She seemed a Maiden, than again a Cow.   

Then Mercury amidst his sweetest joys,  
Sporting with Hebe by a Fountain brim,  
Clipping each other with lascivious toys,  
And each to other lapped limb to limb,  
On tufts of flowers which loosely seem to swim:  
Which flowers in sprinkled drops do still appear,  
As all their bodies so embraudered were.   

Hear clyffy Cynthus, with a thousand birds,  
Whose chequered plumes adorn his tufted crown,  
Under whose shadow graze the straggling herds,  
Out of whose top, the fresh springs trembling down,  
Duly keep time with their harmonious sown.  
The Rock so lively done in every part,  
As art had so taught nature, nature art.   

The naked Nymphs, some up, some down descending.  
Small scattering flowers one at another fling,  
With pretty turns their limber bodies bending,  
Cropping the blooming branches lately sprung,  
Which on the Rocks grew here and there among.  
Some comb their hair, some making garlands by,  
As living, they had done it actually.   

And for a trail, Caisters' silver Lake,  
Whose herds of Swans sit pruning on a row,  
By their much whiteness, such reflection make,  
As though in Summer had been fallen a snow,  
Whose stream an easy breath doth seem to blow;  
Which on the sparkling gravel runs in purls,  
As though the waves had been of silver curls.   

Here falls proud Phaeton, tumbling through the clouds,  
The sunny Palfreys have their traces broke,  
And setting fire upon the welked shrouds,  
Now through the heaven fly gadding from the yoke,  
The Spheres all reeking with a misty smoke,  
Drawn with such life, as some did much desire  
To warm themselves, some frighted with the fire.   

And Drenched in Po, the River seems to burn,  
His woeful sisters, mourning there he sees,  
Trees unto women seem themselves to turn,  
Or rather women turned into trees,  
Drops from their boughs, or tears fall from their eyes,  
That fire seemed to be water, water flame,  
Either or neither, and yet both the same.   

A stately Bed under a golden tree,  
Whose broad-leaved branches covering over all,  
Spread their large Arms like to a canopy,  
Doubling themselves in their lascivious fall,  
Upon whose top the flying Cupids sprawl,  
And some, at sundry cullored birds do shoot,  
Some swerving up to get the golden fruit.   

A counterpoint of tissue, rarely wrought,  
Like to Arachne's web, of the God's rape,  
Which with his life's strange history is wrought,  
The very manner of his hard escape,  
From point to point, each thing in perfect shape,  
As made the gazers think it there was done,  
And yet time stayed in which it was begun.   

During this calm, is gathered that black shower,  
Whose ugly cloud the clime had overspread,  
And now draws on that long death-dating hour,  
His fatal star now hangeth o'er his head,  
His fortune's sun down towards the evening fled,  
For when we think we most in safety stand,  
Greatest dangers than are ever nearest at hand.   

And Edward sees no means can ever boot,  
Unless this headstrong course he may restrain,  
And must pluck up these mischiefs by the root,  
Else spread so far, might easily grow again,  
And end their reign, if he do mean to reign;  
The Commonweal to cure, brought to that pass,  
Which like a many-headed Monster was.   

But sith he finds the danger to be such,  
To bring this Bear once baited to the slake,  
And that he feels the forwardest to gruch,  
To take in hand this sleeping dog to wake,  
He must forethink of some such course to take,  
By which he might his purpose thus effect,  
And hurt him most, where he might least suspect.   

A trenched vault deep in the earth is found,  
Whose hollowness, like to the Sleep-gods Cell,  
With strange Meanders turneth under ground,  
Where pitchy darkness evermore doth dwell,  
As well might be an entrance into hell.  
Which Archyteckts, to serve the Castle made,  
When as the Dane with wars did all invade.   

Hear silent night, as in a prison shrouded,  
wandereth about within this mazed room,  
With filthy fogs, and earthly vapours clouded,  
As she were buried in this cliffy tomb,  
Or yet unborn within the earth's great womb.  
A dampy breath comes from the moisted veins,  
As she had sighed through trouble in her pains.   

Now on a long this cranckling path doth keep,  
Then by a rock turns up another way,  
Then rising up, she pointeth towards the deep,  
As the ground level, or unlevell lay,  
Nor in his course keeps any certain stay,  
Till in the Castle in a secret place,  
He suddenly unmask his dusky face.   

The King now with a strong selected crew,  
Of such as he with his intent acquainted,  
And well affected to this action knew,  
Nor in revenge of Edward never fainted,  
Whose loyal faith had never yet been tainted,  
This Labyrinth dertermins to assay,  
To rouse the beast which kept him thus at bay.   

The blushing Sun, plucks in his smile beams,  
Making his steeds to mend their wont pace,  
Till plunging down into the Ocean streams,  
There in the frothy waves he hides his face,  
Then reins them in, more than his usual space,  
And leaves foul darkness to possess the skies,  
A time most fit for fouler tragedies.   

With Torches now they enter on his Cave,  
As night were day, and day were turned to night,  
damped with the soil one to the other gave,  
Light hating darkness, darkness hating light,  
As enemies, each with the other fight;  
And each confounding other, both appear,  
As darkness light, and light but darkness were.   

The craggy cliffs, which cross them as they go,  
Seem as their passage they would have denied,  
And threatening them, their journey to forslow,  
As angry with the path that was their guide,  
Cursing the hand which did them first divide,  
Their cumbrous falls and rise seemed to say,  
This wicked action could not brook the day.   

These gloomy Lamps, by which they on were led,  
Making their shadows follow at their back,  
Which like to Mourners, wait upon the dead,  
And as the deed, so are they ugly black,  
Like to the dreadful Images of wrack;  
These poor dym-burning lights, as all amazed,  
As those deformed shades whereon they gazed.   

Their clattering Arms, their Masters seem to chide,  
As they would reason wherefore they should wound.  
And striking with the points from side to side,  
As they were angry with the hollow ground,  
Whose stony roof locked in their doleful found:  
And hanging in the creeks, draw back again,  
As willing them from murder to refrain.   

Now, after masks and gallant revel,  
The Queen unto the Chamber is withdrawn,  
To whom a cleer-voyced Eunuch plays and sings;  
And underneath a canopy of Lawn,  
Sparkling with pearl, like to the cheerful dawn,  
Leaning upon the breast of Mortimer,  
Whose voice more than the music pleased her ear.   

A smock wrought with the purest Africa silk,  
A work so fine, as might all work refine,  
Her breast like strains of violets in milk,  
O be thou henceforth Beauties living shrine,  
And teach things mortal to be most divine.  
Enclose Love in this Labyrinth about,  
Where let him wander still, yet ne'er get out.   

Her golden hair, ah gold, thou art too base,  
Were it not sin but once to name it hair,  
Fal●ing as it would kiss her fairer face,  
But no word fair enough for thing so fair,  
Invention is too bare, to paint her bare;  
But where the pen fails, Pencil cannot show it,  
Nor can be known, unless the mind do know it.   

She lays those fingers on his manly cheek,  
The Gods pure sceptres, and the darts of love,  
Which with one tuch might make a Tiger meek,  
Or might an Atlas easily remove:  
That lily hand, rich Nature's wedding glove,  
Which might beget life where was never none,  
And put a spirit into the hardest stone.   

The fire of precious wood, the lights perfume,  
Whose perfect clearness, on the painting shone,  
As every thing with sweetness would consume,  
And every thing had sweetness of his own,  
The smell wherewith they lived, & always grown,  
That light gave colour on each thing it fell,  
And to that colour, the perfume gave smell.   

Upon the sundry pictures they devise,  
And from one thing they to an other run,  
Now they commend that body, than those eyes,  
How well that bird, how well that flower was done,  
The lively counterfeiting of that sun:  
The colours, the conceits, the shadowings,  
And in that Art a thousand sundry things.   

Looking upon proud Phaeton wrapped in fire,  
The gentle Queen doth much bewail his fall,  
But Mortimer more praising his desire,  
To lose his life or else to govern all:  
And though (quoth he) he now be Fortune's thrall,  
This must be said of him when all is done,  
He perrish'd in the Chariot of the Sun.   

Glaunsing upon Ixion, she doth smile,  
Who for his juno took the cloud amiss;  
Madam (quoth he) thus women can beguile,  
And oft we find in love, this error is,  
Why friend (quoth she) thy hap is like to his:  
That booteth not (quoth he) were he as I,  
jove would have been in monstrous jealousy.   

(She saith) Phoebus is too much forced by Art,  
Nor can she find how his embraces be:  
But Mortimer now takes the Painters part,  
'tis even thus great Empress, so (quoth he)  
Thus twine their arms, and thus their lips you see:  
You Phoebus are, poor Hiacinthus I,  
Kiss me till I revive, and now I die.   

By this into the uttermost stately hall,  
Is rudely entered this disordered rout,  
And they within suspecting least of all,  
Provide no guard to watch on them without,  
Thus danger falls oft-times, when least we doubt:  
In peril thus we think ourselves most sure,  
And oft in death fond men are most secure.   

His trusty Nevil, and young Turrington,  
Courting the Ladies, frolic void of fear,  
Staying delights whilst time away doth run,  
What rare Emprezas he and he did bear,  
Thus in the Lobby whilst they sporting wear:  
Assailed on sudden by this hellish train,  
Both in the entrance miserably slain.   

Even as from snow-topd Skidos' frosty cliffs,  
Some Norway Haggard, to her pitch doth tower,  
And down amongst the moore-bred Mallard drives,  
And through the air, right down the wind doth scour,  
Commanding all that lie within her power:  
Even such a skreame is hard within the vault,  
Made by the Ladies at the first assault.   

March hath no arms, but the Queen in his arms,  
To fair a shield to bear their fouler blows,  
Enchayning his strong arms, in her sweet arms,  
Enclosing them which oft did her enclose,  
O had he had but weapons like his woes:  
Her presence had redoubled then his might,  
To live and die both in his sovereigns sight.   

villains (quoth he) I do protect the King,  
Why Centaure-lyke do you disturb me this,  
And interrupt the Gods at banqueting,  
Where sacred Hymen ever present is,  
And pleasures are imparadizd in bliss:  
Where all they powers, their earthly heaven would take,  
If here on earth they their abode should make.   

Her presence pardons the offenders ill,  
And makes the basest earthly thing divine,  
there's no decree can countermand her will,  
She like the Sun, doth bless where she doth shine,  
Her Chamber is the most unspotted shrine:  
How sacriligeously dare you despise,  
And thus profane these hallowed liberties.   

But Edward, if this enterprise be thine,  
And thou an Actor here dost play thy part,  
I tell thee then base King thy Crown was mine,  
And thou a King but of my making art.  
And now poor worm since thou hast taken heart,  
Thou wouldst hue down that pillar unto wrack,  
Which hath sustained Olympus on his back.   

What can he do, that is so hard beset?  
The heaven-threatning Giants, heaven could tame,  
Proud Mars is bound within an yron-net,  
Alcides burnt in Nessus poisoned flame,  
Great jove can shake the universal frame:  
He that was wont to call his sword to aid,  
'tis hard with him, when he must stand to plead.   

O hadst thou in thy glory thus been slain,  
All thy delights had been of easy rate,  
But now thy fame yet never tuched with stain,  
Must thus be branded with thy hapless fate,  
No man is happy till his lives last date:  
His pleasures must be of a dearer price,  
Poor Adam driven out of Paradise.   

Half drowned in tears, she follows him: o tears,  
Elixir like, turn all to pearl you weet,  
To weep with her, the building scarce forbears,  
Stones Metamorphizd tuched but with her feet,  
And make the air for everlasting sweet:  
Wring her hands with piteous shrieking cries,  
Thus utters she her hard extremities.   

Edward (quoth she) let not his blood beshed,  
Each drop of it is more worth than thy Crown,  
What Region is in Europe limited,  
Where doth not shine, the Sun of his renown?  
His sword hath set Kings up, & thrown them down:  
Thou know'st that Empires never have confined,  
The large-spred bounds of his unconquered mind.   

And if thou feedest upon thy Father's wrongs,  
Make not revenge, to bring revenge on thee,  
What torture thou inflict'st, to me belongs,  
And what is due to death, is due to me,  
Imagine that his wounds fresh bleeding be:  
Forget thy birth, thy crown, thy love, thy Mother,  
And in this breast thy sword in vengeance smother.   

O let my hands held up appease this strife,  
O let these knees at which thou oft hast stood,  
Now kneel to thee, to beg my lives true life,  
This womb that bore thee, breast that gave thee food,  
Or let my blood yet purchase his dear blood:  
O let my tears which never thing could force,  
Constrained by this, yet move thee to remorse.   

But all in vain, still Edward's ghost appears,  
And cries revenge, revenge, unto his Son,  
And now the voice of woeful Kent he hears,  
And bids him follow what he had begun,  
Nor will they rest till execution done:  
The very sight of him he deadly hated,  
Sharpens the edge, his Mother's tears rebated.   

To London now a woeful prisoner led,  
London where he had triumphed with the Queen,  
He followeth now, whom many followed,  
And scarce a man, who many men had been,  
Seeing with grief who had in pomp been seen:  
Those eyes which oft have at his greatness gazed,  
Now at his fall must stand as all amazed.   

Oh misery, where once thou art possessed,  
How soon thy faint infection altars kind,  
And like a Cyrce turnest man to beast,  
And with the body dost transform the mind,  
That can in fetters our affections bind:  
That he whose back once bare the lions skin,  
Whipped to his task, with jole must spin.   

Edward and March unite your angry spirits,  
Become new friends of ancient Enemies,  
He was thy death, and he thy death inherits,  
How well you consort in your miseries,  
And in true time tune your adversities:  
Fortune gave him, what she to Edward gave,  
Not so much as thy end but he will have.   

At Westminster a Parliament decreed,  
Under pretence of safety to the Crown,  
Where to his fatal end they now proceed,  
All working hard to dig this Mountain down,  
With his own greatness that is overgrown:  
The King, the Earl of Kent, the Spensers' fall,  
Upon his head with vengeance thundering all.   


The five Articles whereupon Mortimer is condemned.  The death of Edward never is forgot,  
The sign at Stanhope to the Enemies,  
jone of the Tower's marriage to the Scot,  
The Spensers' coin seized to his treasuries,  
Th'assuming of the wards and liveries:  
These Articles they urge which might him grieve,  
Which for his creed, he never did believe.   

Oh dire revenge, when thou in time art raked  
From out the ashes which preserve thee long,  
And lightly from thy cinders art awaked,  
Fuel to feed on, and reviv'd with wrong,  
How son from sparks the greatest flames are sprung:  
Which doth by Nature to his top aspire,  
Whose massy greatness once kept down his fire.   

Debarred from speech to answer in his case,  
His judgement public, and his sentence past,  
The day of death set down, the time, and place,  
And thus the lot of all his fortune cast,  
His hope so slow, his end draw on so fast:  
With pen and ink, his drooping spirit to wake,  
Now of the Queen his leave he thus doth take.   

MOst mighty Empress, deign thou to peruse  
These Swanlike Dirges of a dying man:  
Not like those Sonnets of my youthful Muse,  
In that sweet season when our love began,  
When at the Tilt thy princely glove I won:  
Whereas my thundering Courser forward set,  
Made fire to fly from herford's Burgonet.   

This King which thus makes haste unto my death,  
Madam, you know, I loved him as mine own,  
And when I might have grasped out his breath,  
I set him easily in his Father's throne,  
And forced the rough storms back when they have blown;  
But these forgot, & all the rest forgiven,  
Our thoughts must be continually on heaven.   

And for the Crown whereon so much he stands,  
Came bastard William but himself on shore?  
Or had he not our Father's conquering hands,  
Which in the field our houses Ensign bore,  
Which his proud Lions for their safety wore,  
Which raged at Hastings like that furious Lake,  
From whose stern waves our glorious name we take?   

Oh had he charged me mounted on that horse  
Whereon I marched before the walls of Gaunt,  
And with my Lance there showed an English force,  
Or vanquished me, a valiant combatant,  
Then of his conquest had he cause to vaunt;  
But he whose eyes durst not behold my shield,  
Perceived my Chamber fit than the field.   

I have not served Fortune like a slave,  
My mind hath suited with her mightiness,  
I have not hid her talent in a grave,  
Nor burying of her bounty made it less:  
My fault to God and heaven I must confess;  
He twice offends, who sin in flattery bears,  
Yet every hour he dies, which ever fears.   

I cannot quake at that which others fear,  
Fortune and I have tugged together so;  
What Fate imposeth, we perforce must bear,  
And I am grown familiar with my woe,  
Used so oft against the stream to row;  
Yet my offence my conscience still doth grieve,  
Which God (I trust) in mercy will forgive.   

I am shut up in silence, nor must speak,  
Nor Kingdoms lease my life, but I must die,  
I cannot weep and if my heart should break,  
Nor am I senseless of my misery,  
My heart so full, hath made mine eyes so dry;  
I need not cherish griefs, too fast they grow,  
Woe be to him that dies of his own woe.   

I pay my life, and then the debt is paid,  
With the reward, th'offence is purged and gone,  
The storms will calm when once the spirit is laid;  
Envy doth cease, wanting to feed upon,  
We have one life, and so our death is one,  
Nor in the dust mine honour I inter,  
Thus Caesar died, and thus dies Mortimer.   

Live sacred Empress, and see happy days,  
Be ever loved, with me die all our hate,  
Let never ages sing but of thy praise,  
My blood shall pacify the angry Fate,  
And cancel thus our sorrows long-lived date:  
And triple ten times longer last thy fame,  
Then that strong Tower thou called'st by my name.   

To Nottingham this Letter brought unto her,  
Which is endorsed with her glorious style,  
She thinks the title yet again doth woo her,  
And with that thought her sorrows doth beguile.  
smile on that, thinks that on her doth smile;  
She kissing it, (to countervail her pain,)  
Touching her lip, it gives the kiss again.   

Fair workmanship, quoth she, of that fair hand,  
All-mooving organ, sweet spheare-tuning key,  
The Messenger of Ioues sleep-charming wand,  
Pully which drawest the curtain of the Day,  
Pure Trophies, reared to guide on valurs way,  
What paper-blessing Charrecters are you,  
Whose lovely form, that lovelier engine drew?   

Turning the Letter, sealed she doth it find,  
With those rich Arms borne by his glorious name,  
Wherewith this dreadful evidence is signed:  
O badge of honour, greatest mark of fame,  
Brave shield, quoth she, which once from heaven came,  
Fair rob of triumph, Ioues celestial state,  
To all immortal praises consecrate.   

Going about to rip the sacred seal,  
Which cleaves, lest clouds too soon should dim her eyes,  
As loath it were her sorrows to reveal,  
Quoth she, thy Master taught thee secrecies:  
The soft wax, with her fingers touch doth rise,  
She asketh it, who taught thee thus to kiss?  
I know, quoth she, thy Master taught thee this?   

Opening the Letter, Empress she doth reed,  
At which a blush from her fair cheeks arose,  
And with Ambrozia still, her thoughts doth feed,  
And with a seeming joy doth paint her woes,  
Then to subscribed Mortimer she goes;  
March following it, o March, great March she cries,  
Which speaking word, even seemingly replies.   

Thus hath she ended, yet she must begin,  
Even as a fish playing with a baited hook,  
Now she gins to swallow sorrow in,  
And Death doth show himself at every look,  
Now reads she in her lives accounting Book:  
And finds the blood of her lost friend had paid,  
The deep expenses which she forth had laid.   

Now with an host of woeful words assailed,  
As every letter wounded like a dart,  
As every one would boast, which most prevailed,  
And every one would pierce her to the heart,  
rhetorical in woe, and using Art:  
Reasons of grief, each sentence doth infer,  
And ever line, a true remembrancer.   

Grief makes her read, yet grief still bids her leave,  
O'ercharged with grief, she neither sees nor hears,  
Her sorrows do her senses quite deceive,  
The words do blind her eyes, the sound her ears,  
And now for vescues doth she use her tears:  
And when a line she loosely overpast,  
The drops do tell her where she left the last.   

O now she sees, was ever such a sight?  
And seeing, cursed her sorrow-seeing eye,  
And saith, she is deluded by the light,  
Or is abused by the Orthography:  
Or pointed false, her schollershyp to try.  
Thus when we fond soothe our own desires,  
Our best conceits do prove the greatest liars.   

Her trembling hand, as in a Fever shakes,  
Wherewith the paper doth a little stir,  
Which she imagines, at her sorrow quakes,  
And pities it who she thinks pities her:  
And moaning it, bids it that grief refer;  
Quoth she, I'll rain down showers of tears on thee,  
When I am dead, weep them again on me.   

Quoth she, with odours were thy body burned,  
As is Th'arabian bird against the sun,  
Again from cinders yet thou shouldst be turned,  
And so thy life another age should run,  
Nature envying it so soon was done:  
Amongst all birds, one only of that strain,  
Amongst all men, one Mortimer again.   

I will preserve thy ashes in some Urn,  
Which as a relic, I will only save,  
Which mixed with my tears as I do mourn,  
Within my stomach shall their burial have,  
Although deserving a far better grave;  
Yet in that Temple shall they be preserved,  
Where, as a Saint thou ever hast been served.   

Be thou transformed unto some sacred tree,  
Whose precious gum may cure the fainting heart,  
Or to some herb yet turned mayst thou be,  
Whose juice applied may ease the strongest smart,  
Or flower, whose leaves thy virtues may impart,  
Or stellified on Pegase lofty crest,  
Or shining on the Nemian lions breast.   

I think the Gods could take them mortal shapes,  
As all the world may by thy greatness gather,  
And jove in some of his light wanton 'scapes,  
Committed pretty cusnage with thy father,  
Or else thou wholly art celestial rather:  
Else never could it be, so great a mind,  
Can seated be, in one of earthly kind.   

And if, as some affirm, in every star,  
There be a world, then must some world be thine,  
Else shall thy ghost invade their bounds with war,  
If such can manage arms as be divine,  
That here thou hadst no world, the fault was mine:  
And graceless Edward kinling all this fire,  
Trod in the dust of his unhappy sire.   

It was not Charles that made Charles what he was,  
Whereby he quickly to that greatness grew,  
Nor struck such terror which way he did pass,  
Nor our old Grandsires glory did renew,  
But it thy valour was, which Charles well knew:  
Which hath repulsed his Enemies with fear,  
When they but heard the name of Mortimer.   

In Books and Arms consisted thy delight,  
And thy discourse of Camps, and grounds of state,  
No Apish fan-bearing Hermophradite,  
Coch-carried midwife, weak, effeminate,  
Quilted and ruft, which manhood ever hate:  
A Car● when in counsel thou didst sit,  
A Hercules in executing it.   

Now she gins to curse the King her Son,  
The Earl of March than comes unto her mind,  
Then she with blessing ends what she begun,  
And leaves the last part of the curse behind,  
Then with a vow she her revenge doth bind:  
Unto that vow she adds a little oath,  
Thus blessing cursing, cursing blessing both.   

For pen and ink she calls her maids without,  
And Edward's dealing will in grief discover,  
But strait forgetting what she went about,  
She now gins to write unto her lover,  
Yet interlining Edwards threatenings over:  
Then turning back to read what she had writ,  
She teyrs the paper, and condemns her wit.   

Thus with the pangs out of this trance ar●ysed,  
As water sometime wakeneth from a swoon,  
Comes to herself the agony apeysed,  
As when the blood is cold, we feel the wound,  
And more, and more, sith she the cause had found,  
Thus unto Edward with revenge she goes,  
And he must bear the burden of her woes.   

I would my lap had been some cruel Rack,  
His Cradle Phalaris burning-bellyed Bull,  
And Nessus shirt been put upon his back,  
His Blanket of some Nilus Serpents wool,  
His Dug with juice of Acconite been full:  
The song which lulled him, when to sleep he fell,  
Some Incantation or some Magic spell.   

And thus King Edward since thou art my Child,  
Some thing of force to thee I must bequeath,  
March of my hearts true love hath thee beguiled,  
My curse unto thy bosom do I breathe,  
And here invoke the wretched spirits beneath:  
To see all things performed to my intent,  
Make them ore-seers of my Testament.   

And thus within these mighty walls enclosed,  
Even as the Owls so hateful of the light,  
Unto repentance ever more disposed,  
Hear spend my days until my last days night;  
And henceforth odious unto all men's sight,  
Fly every small remembrance of delight,  
A penitential mournful convertite.   
FINIS.