Peirs Gaveston EARL OF CORNWALL. His life, death, and fortune. Effugiunt avidos carmina sola rogos. AT LONDON, Printed by I. R. for N. L. and john Busbie, and are to be sold at the West door of Paul's. To the worthy and honourable Gentleman, Master Henry Caundish, Esquire. TIme-enobled Gentleman, and ever-honoured Ma. Caundish, highly esteeming you (in mine own opinion,) amongst the number of those, who for their rare deserts and excellency of their minds, (in this world-declining age,) have their names registered in the Catilogue of the most worthiest of this time, as a kind Maecenas to Scholars, & a favourer of learning and Arts: which shall engrave your name with the Diamond of Fame in the Crystal mirror of Heaven. I present to your judicial view, the tragical discourse, of the life, death, and fortune of PEIRS GAVESTON, whose name hath been obscured so many years, and overpast by the Tragedians of these latter times: assuring myself your honourable patronage shall protect him, against the Art-hating humorists of this malicious time, whose envious thoughts (like Quails) feed only on poison, snarling (like dogs) at every thing which never so little disagreeeth from their own Stoical dispositions. Thus confirming myself in your favourable and gracious acceptance of my Muse, which in my love I ever consecrate to your honourable House, I wish you that happiness, which is due to your own worth and good desert. Your ever affectionate, Michael Drayton. Peirs Gaveston. FRom gloomy shadow of eternal night, Where coal-black darkness keeps his loathsome cel, And from those Ghosts, whose eyes abhor the light, From thence I come a woeful tale to tell: Prepare the Stage, I mean to act my part, Sighing the scenes from my tormented heart. From Stygian lake, to graceless souls assigned, And from the flood of burning Acheron, Where sinful spirits are by the fire refined, The fearful Ghost of woeful Gaveston: With black-faced furies from the graves attended, Until the tenor of my tale be ended. Wing-footed Fame now summons me from death, In Fortune's triumph to advance my glory, The blessed Heavens again do lend me breath, Whilst I report this doleful Tragic story: That soul and body, which death once did sunder, Now meet together to report a wonder. O purple-buskind Pallas most divine Let thy bright falchion lend me Cypress bows, Be thou assisting to this Poet of mine, And with thy tragic garland girt his brows, Pitying my case, when none would hear me weep To tell my cares hath laid his own to sleep. You mournful maidens of the sacred nine, You destinies which haunt the shades beneath, To you fair muses I my plaints resign, To you black spirits I my woes bequeath, With sable pens of direful ebony To pen the process of my tragedy. Draw on the lines which shall report my life With weeping words distilling from thy pen, Where woes abound and joys are passing rife, A very meteor in the eyes of men, Wherein the world a wonder-world may see Of heaven-bred joy and hell-nurst misery. Declare my ebbs, my often swelling tide, Now tell my calms, and then report my showers, My winter's storms, and then my summer's pride, False fortunes smiles, than her dissembling lowers, The height whereto my glory did ascend: Then point the period where my joys did end. When famous Edward wore the english crown Victorious Long shanks flower of chivalry, First of his name that reigned in Albion, Through worlds renowned to all posterity: My youth began, and then began my bliss, Even in his days, those blessed days of his. O days, no days, but little worlds of mirth: O years, no years, time sliding with a trice: O world, no world, a very heaven on earth: O earth, no earth, a very paradise: A King, a man, nay more than this was he, If earthly man, more than a man might be. Such a one he was, as England's Beta is, Such as she is, even such a one was he, Betwixt her rarest excellence and his Was never yet so near a Sympathy, To tell your worth, and to give him his due, I say my sovereign, he was like to you. His court a school, where arts were daily red, And yet a camp where arms were exercised, Virtue and learning here were nourished, And stratagems by soldiers still devised: Hear skilful schoolmen were his counsellors, Scholars his captains, captains Senators. Here sprang the root of true gentility, Virtue was clad in gold and crowned with honour, Honour entitled to Nobility, Admired so of all that looked on her: Wisdom, not wealth, possessed wisemen's rooms, Unfitting base insinuating grooms. Then Machiuels were loathed as filthy toads, And good men as rare pearls were richly prized, The learned were accounted little Gods, The vilest Atheist as the plague despised: Desert then gained, that virtues merit craves, And artless Peasants scorned as basest slaves. Pride was not then, which all things overwhelms: Promotion was not purchased with gold, Men hewed their honour out of steeled helms: In those days fame with blood was bought and sold, No petri-fogger pol'd the poor for pence, These dolts, these dogs, as traitors banished hence. Then was the Soldier prodigal of blood, His deeds eternizd by the Poet's pen: Who would not die to do his country good, When after death his fame yet lived to men? Then learning lived with liberality, And men were crowned with immortality. Grant pardon then unto my wandering ghost, Although I seem lascivious in my praise, And of perfection though I seem to boast, Whilst here on earth I trod this weary maze, Whilst yet my soul in body did abide, And whilst my flesh was pampered here in pride. My valiant father was in Gascoigne borne, A man at arms, and matchless with his lance, A Soldier vowed, and to King Edward sworn, With whom he served in all his wars in France, His goods and lands he pawned and laid to gauge To follow him, the wonder of that age. And thus himself he from his home exiled, Who with his sword sought to advance his fame, With me his joy, but then a little child, Unto the Court of famous England came, Whereas the King, for service he had done, Made me a page unto the Prince his son. My tender youth yet scarce crept from the shell, Unto the world brought such a wonderment, That all perfection seemed in me to dwell, And that the heavens me all their graces lent: Some swore I was the quintessence of nature, And some an Angel, and no earthly creature. The heavens had limned my face with such a die As made the curiost eye on earth amazed, Tempering my looks with love and majesty, A miracle to all that ever gazed, So that it seemed some power had in my birth, Ordained me his Image here on earth. O beauteous varnish of the heavens above, Pure grain-dyed colour of a perfect birth, O fairest tincture adamant of love, Angell-hewd blush the prospective of mirth, O sparkling lustre joying humane sight, lives joy, heart's fire, loves nurse, the soul's delight. As purple-tressed Titan with his beams, The sable clouds of night in sunder cleaveth Enameling the earth with golden streams, When he his crimson Canopy upheaveth, Such was my beauties pure translucent rays, Which cheered the Sun, & cleared the drooping days. My looks persuading orators of Love, My speech divine infusing harmony, And every word so well could passion move, So were my gestures graced with modesty, As where my thoughts intended to surprise, I easily made a conquest with mine eyes. A gracious mind a passing lovely eye, A hand that gave, a mouth that never vaunted, A chaste desire, a tongue that would not lie, A lions heart, a courage never daunted, A sweet conceit in such a carriage placed As with my gesture all my words were graced. Such was the work which nature had begun, As promised a gem of wondrous price, This little star foretold a glorious sun, This curious plot an earthly paradise, This globe of beauty wherein all might see An after world of wonders here in me. As in the Autumnal season of the year, Some death-presaging comet doth arise, Or some prodigious meet or doth appear, Or fearful Chasma unto humane eyes: Even such a wonder was I to behold Where heaven seemed all her secrets to unfold. If cunning'st pensill-man that ever wrought By skilful art of secret sumetry, Or the divine Idea of the thought With rare descriptions of high poesy, Should all compose a body and a mind, Such a one seemed I, the wonder of my kind. With this fair bait I fished for Edward's love, My dainty youth so pleased his princely eye: Here sprang the league which time could not remove, So deeply grafted in our Infancy, That friend, nor foe, nor life, nor death could sunder, So seldom seen, and to the world a wonder. O heavenly concord, music of the mind, Touching the heartstrings with such harmony, The ground of nature, and the law of kind, Which in conjunction do so well agree, Whose revolution by effect doth prove, That mortal men are made divine by love. O strong combining chain of secrecy, Sweet joy of heaven, the Angel's oratory, The bond of faith, the seal of sanctity, The souls true bliss, youth's solace, age's glory, An endless league, a bond that's never broken, A thing divine, a word with wonder spoken. With this fair Bud of that same blessed Rose, Edward surnamed Carnarvan by his birth, Who in his youth it seemed that Nature chose To make the like, whose like was not on earth, Had not his lust and my lascivious will Made him and me the instruments of ill. With this sweet Prince, the mirror of my bliss, My souls delight, my joy, my fortune's pride, My youth enjoyed such perfect happiness, Whilst tutors care, his wandering years did guide, As his affections on my thoughts attended, And with my life, his joys began and ended. Whether it were my beauty's excellence, Or rare perfections that so pleased his eye, Or some divine and heavenly influence, Or natural attracting Sympathy: My pleasing youth became his senses object, Where all his passions wrought upon this subject. Thou Ark of Heaven, where wonders are inroled, O depth of nature, who can look unto thee? O who is he that hath thy doom controlled? Or hath the key of reason to undo thee: Thy works divine which powers alone do know, Our shallow wits too short for things below. The soul divine by her integrity, And by the functious agents of the mind, Clear-sighted, so perceiveth through the eye, That which is pure and pleasing to her kind, And by her powerful motions apprehendeth, That which beyond our humane sense extendeth. This Edward in the April of his age, Whilst yet the Crown sat on his father's head, My jove with me, his Ganymede, his page, Frolic as May, a lusty life we led: He might command, he was my sovereigns son, And what I said, by him was ever done. My words as laws, Authentic he alloude, Mine yea, by him was never crossed with no, All my conceit as currant he avowde, And as my shadow still he served so, My hand the racket, he the tennis ball, My voices echo, answering every call. My youth the glass where he his youth beheld, Roses his lips, my breath sweet Nectar showers, For in my face was nature's fairest field, Richly adorned with Beauty's rarest flowers. My breast his pillow, where he laid his head, Mine eyes his book, my bosom was his bed. My smiles were life, and Heaven unto his sight, All his delight concluding my desire, From my sweet sun, he borrowed all his light, And as a fly played with my beauty's fire, His lovesick lips at every kifsing qualm, Cling to my lips, to cure their grief with balm. Like as the wanton Ivy with his twine, Whenas the Oak his rootless body warms, The straightest saplings strictly doth combine, Clipping the woods with his lascivious arms: Such our embraces when our sport gins, Leapt in our arms, like Leda's lovely Twins. Or as Love-nursing Venus when she sports, With cherry-lipt Adonis in the shade, Figuring her passions in a thousand sorts, With sighs, and tears, or what else might persuade, Her dear, her sweet, her joy, her life, her love, Kissing his brow, his cheek, his hand, his glove. My beauty was the Lodestar of his thought, My looks the Pilot to his wandering eye, By me his senses all a sleep were brought, When with sweet love I sang his lullaby. Nature had taught my tongue her perfect time, Which in his ear stroke duly as a chime. With sweetest speech, thus could I syranize, Which as strong philtre youths desire could move, And with such method could I rhetorize, My music played the measures to his love: In his fair breast, such was my soul's impression, As to his eyes, my thoughts made intercession. Thus like an Eagle seated in the sun, But yet a Phoenix in my sovereigns eye, We act with shame, our revels are begun, The wise could judge of our Catastrophe: But we proceed to play our wanton prize, Our mournful Chorus was a world of eyes. The table now of all delight is laid, Served with what banquets beauty could devise, The Strens sing, and false Calypso played, Our feast is graced with youths sweet comedies, Our looks with smiles, are soothed of every eye, Carrousing love in bowls of ivory. Fraught with delight, and safely under sail, Like flight-winged Falcons now we take our scope, Our youth and fortune blow a merry gale, We lose the anchor of our virtues hope: Blinded with pleasure in this lustful game, By oversight discard our King with shame. My youthful pranks, are spurs to his desire, I held the reins, that ruled the golden sun, My blandishments were fuel to his fire, I had the garland whosoever won: I waxed his wings and taught him art to fly, Who on his back might bear me through the sky. Here first that sun-bright temple was defiled, Which to fair virtue first was consecrated, This was the fruit, wherewith I was beguiled, Hear first the deed of all my fame was dated: O me! even here from paradise I fell, From Angel's state, from heaven, cast down to hell. Lo here the very Image of perfection, With the black pencil of defame is blotted, And with the ulcers of my youth's infection, My innocency is besmeared, and spotted: Now comes my night, o now my day is done, These sable clouds eclipse my rising sun. Our innocence, our child-bred purity Is now defiled and as our dreams forgot, Drawn in the coach of our security: What act so vile, that we attempted not? Our sun-bright virtues fountaine-cleer beginning, Is now polluted by the filth of sinning. O wit too wilful, first by heaven ordained, An Antidote by virtue made to cherish, By filthy vice, as with a mole art stained, A poison now by which the senses perish: That made of force, all vices to control, Defames the life, and doth confound the soul. The Heavens to see my fall doth knit her brows, The vaulty ground under my burden groaneth, Unto mine eyes, the air my light allows, The very wind my wickedness bemoneth: The barren earth repineth at my food, And Nature seems to curse her beastly brood. And thus like slaves we sell our souls to sin, Virtue forgot by worlds deceitful trust, Alone by pleasure are we entered in, Now wandering in the labyrinth of lust, For when the soul is drowned once in vice, The sweet of sin, makes hell a paradise. O Pleasure thou, the very lure of sin, The root of woe, our youths deceitful guide, A shop where all confected poisons been, The bait of lust, the instrument of pride, Enchanting Circe's, smoothing cover-guile, A luring Siren, flattering Crocodile. Our jove which saw his Phoebus' youth betrayed, And Phaeton guide the sunne-carre in the skies, knew well the course with danger hardly staid, For what is not perceived by wisemen's eyes? He knew these pleasures posts of our desire, Might by misguiding set his throne on fire. This was a corsive to King Edward's days, These jarring discords quite untund his mirth, This was the pain that never gave him ease, If ever hell, this was his hell on earth: This was the burden which he groaned under, This pinched his soul, and rend his heart in sunder. This venom sucked the marrow from his bones, This was the canker which consumed his years, This fearful vision, filled his sleep with groans, This winter snowed down frost upou his hairs: This was the moth, this was the fretting rust, Which so consumed his glory unto dust, The humour found, which fed this foul disease Must needs be stayed, ere help could be devised, The vain must breathe the burning to appease, Hardly a cure, the wound not cauterized: That member now wherein the botch was risen Infecteth all not cured by incision. The cause conjectured by this prodigy, From whence this foul contagious sickness grew, Wisdom alone must give a remedy, For to prevent the danger to ensue: The cause must end, ere the effect could cease, Else might the danger daily more increase. Now those whose eyes to death envied my glory, Whose safety still upon my downfall stood, These, these, could comment on my youthful story, These were the wolves which thirsted for my blood: These all unlade their mischiefs at this bay, And make the breach to enter my decay. These curs that lived by carrion of the court, These wide-mouthed helhounds long time kept at bay, Finding the King to credit their report, Like greedy ravens follow for their prey: Despiteful Langton favourite to the King, Was he which first, me in disgrace could bring. Such as beheld this lightning from above, My Princely jove from out the air to thunder: This earthquake which did my foundation move, This boisterous storm, this unexpected wonder, They thought my sun had been eclipsed quite, And all my day now turned to winter's night. My youth embowelled by their curious eyes, Whose true reports my life anatomized, Who still pursued me like deceitful spies, To cross that which I wanton devised: Perceive the train me to the trap had led, And down they come like hailstones on my head. My Son eclipsed, each Star becomes a Sun, When Phoebus fails, than Cynthia shineth bright, These furnish up the Stage, my act is done Which were but Gloe-wormes to my glorious light, Those erst condemned by my perfections doom, In Phoebus' chariot, now possess my room. The Commons swore, I led the Prince to vice, The Nobles said that I abused the King, Grave Matrons such as lust could not entice, Like women whispered of another thing: Such as could not aspire unto my place, These were suborned to offer me disgrace. The staff thus broke, whereon my youth did stay, And with the shadow all my pleasures gone: Now with the winds my joys fleet hence away, The silent night makes music to my moan, The tattling echoes whispering with the air, Unto my words sound nothing but despair. The frowning Heavens are all in sables clad, The Planet of my lives misfortune raineth: No music serves a dying soul to glad, My wrong to Tyrants for redress complaineth: To ease my pain there is no remedy, So far despair exceeds extremity. Why do I quake my downfall to report? Tell on my ghost, the story of my woe, The King commands, I must departed the court, I ask no question, he will have it so: The Lions roaring, lesser beasts do fear, The greatest fly, when he approacheth near. My Prince is now appointed to his guard, As from a traitor he is kept from me, My banishment already is prepared, Away I must, there is no remedy: On pain of death I may no longer stay, Such is revenge which brooketh no delay. The skies with clouds are all enveloped, The pitchy fogs eclipse my cheerful Sun, The geatie night hath all her curtains spread And all the air with vapours overrun: Wanting those rays whose clearness lent me light, My sunshine day is turned to black-faced night. Like to the bird of Leda's lemen die, Beating his breast against the silver stream, The fatal prophet of his destiny, With mourning chants, his death approaching theme: So now I sing the dirges of my fall The Anthems of my fatal funeral. Or as the faithful Turtle for her make Whose youth enjoyed her dear virginity, Sits shrouded in some melancholy broke Chirping forth accents of her misery, Thus half distracted sitting all alone, With speaking sighs, to utter forth my moan. My beauty s'dayning to behold the light Now weatherbeaten with a thousaud storms, My dainty limbs must travail day and night, Which oft were lulde in princely Edward's arms, Those eyes where beauty sat in all her pride, With fearful objects filled on every side. The Prince so much astonished with the blow, So that it seemed as yet he felt no pain, Until at length awakened by his woe, He saw the wound by which his joys were slain, His cares fresh bleeding fainting more and more, No Cataplasma now to cure the sore. Now weep mine eyes, and lend me tears at will, You sad-musde sisters help me to indite, And in your fair Castalia bathe my quill, In bloody lines whilst I his woes recite, Inspire my muse O Heavens now from above, To paint the passions of a princely love. His eyes about their rolling Globes do cast, To find that Sun, from whom they had their light, His thoughts do labour for that sweet repast, Which past the day, and pleased him all the night: He counts the hours, so sloly how they run, Reproves the day, and blames the loitering sun. As gorgeous Phoebus in his first uprise Discovering now his Scarlet-coloured head, By troublous motions of the lowering Skies His glorious beams with fogs are overspread, So are his cheerful brows eclipsed with sorrow, Which cloud the shine of his youths-smiling morrow. Now showering down a flood of brackish tears, The Epithemaes to his hart-swolne grief, Then sighing out a vollue of despairs, Which only is th'afflicted man's relief: Now wanting sighs, and all his tears were spent, His tongue broke out into this sad lament. O break my heart quoth he, O break and die, Whose infant thoughts were nursed with sweet delight; But now the Inn of care and misery, Whose pleasing hope is murdered with despite: O end my days, for now my joys are done, Wanting my Peirs, my sweetest Gaveston. Farewell my Love, companion of my youth, My soul's delight, the subject of my mirth, My second self if I report the truth, The rare and only Phoenix of the earth, Farewell sweet friend, with thee my joys are gone, Farewell my Peirs, my lovely Gaveston. What are the rest but painted imagery, Dumb Idols made to fill up idle rooms, But gaudy antics, sports of foolery, But fleshly coffins, goodly gilded tombs, But puppets which with others words reply, Like prattling echoes soothing every lie? O damned world, I scorn thee and thy worth, The very source of all iniquity: An ugly dam that brings such monsters forth, The maze of death, nurse of impiety, A filthy sink, where loathsomeness doth dwell, A labyrinth, a jail, a very hell. Deceitful Siren traitor to my youth, Bane to my bliss, false thief that stealest my joys: Mother of lies, sworn enemy to truth, The ship of fools fraught all with gauds and toys, A vessel stuffed with foul hypocrisy, The very temple of Idolatry. O earth-pale Saturn most malevolent Combustious Planet, tyrant in thy reign, The sword of wrath, the root of discontent, In whose ascendant all my joys are slain: Thou executioner of foul bloody rage, To act the will of lame decrepit age. My life is but a very map of woes, My joys the fruit of an untimely birth, My youth in labour with unkindly throws, My pleasures are like plagues that reign on earth, All my delights like streams that swiftly run, Or like the dew exhaled by the Sun. O Heavens why are you deaf unto my moan? S'dayne you my prayers? or scorn to hear my miss? Cease you to move, or is your pity gone? Or is it you that rob me of my bliss? What are you blind, or wink and will not see? Or do you sport at my calamity? O happy climate whatso ere thou be Cheered with those suns the fair'st that ever shone, Which hast those Stars which guide my destiny, The brightest lamps in all the Horizon, O happy eyes that see which most I lack, The pride and beauty of the Zodiac. O blessed fountain source of all delight, O sacred spark that kindlest Virtues fire! The perfect object of the purest sight, The superficies of true loves desire, The very touchstone of all sweet conceit, On whom all graces evermore await. Thus whilst his youth in all these storms was tossed, And whilst his joys lay speechless in a trance, His sweet content with such unkindness crossed, And lowering Fortune seemed to look askance: Too weak to swim against the streamfull time, foretold their fall which now sought most to climb. Chameleon-like, the world thus turns her hue, And like Proteus puts on sundry shapes, One hastes to climb, another doth ensue, One falls, another for promotion gapes: Flockmell they swarm like flies about the brim, Some drown whilst others with great danger swim. And some on whom the Sun shone passing fair, Yet of their summer nothing seem to vaunt, They saw their fall presaged by the air, If once this planet were predominant: Thus in their gate they flew with wings of fear, And still with care do purchase honour dear. Thus restless Time that never turns again, Whose winged feet are sliding with the Sun, Brings Fortune in to act another scene By whom the plot already is begun, The argument of this same tragedy, Is Virtues fall to raise up infamy. The brute is blown, the King doth now pretend, A long-looked voyage to the Holy-land, For which his subjects mighty sums do lend, And whilst the thing is hotly thus in hand, Blind Fortune turns about her fickle wheel, And breaks the prop which makes the building reel. I fear to speak, yet speak I must perforce, My words be turned to tears even as I writ, Mine eyes do yet behold his dying corpse, And on his hearse me thinks I still endite: My paper is hard sable Ebon wood, My pen of Iron, and my ink is blood. Lo here, the time drew on of Edward's death, Lo here, the doleful period of his years, O now he yieldeth up that sacred breath, For whom the Heavens do shower down floods of tears For whom the Sun, even mourning hides his face, For whom the earth was all to vile and base. May I report his doleful obsequy, When as my Ghost doth tremble at his name? Feign would I write, but as I writ I die, My joints apald with fear, my hand is lame, I leave it to some sacred muse to tell, Upon whose life a Poet's pen might dwell. No sooner was his body wrapped in lead And that his mournful funerals were done, But that the Crown was set on Edward's head, Sing I-o now my ghost, the storm is gone: The wind blows right, lo yonder breaks my day, carol my muse, and now sing care away. Carnarvan now calls home within a while Whom worthy Long-shankes hated to the death, Whom Edward swore should die in his exile, He was as dear to Edward as his breath, This Edward loved that Edward loved not, Kings wills performed: and dead men's words forgot. Now waft me wind unto the blessed I'll, Rock me my joys, love sing me with delight, Now sleep my thoughts, cease sorrow for a while, Now end my care, come day, farewell my night: Sweet senses now act every one his part, Lo here the balm that hath recured my heart. Lo now my jove in his ascendant is In the aestivall solstice of his glory, Now all the Stars prognosticate my bliss, And in the Heaven all eyes may read my story, My comet now worlds wonder thus appears Foretelling troubles of ensuing years. Now am I mounted with fames golden wings, And in the Tropic of my fortune's height, My flood maintained with a thousand springs, Now on my back supporting Atlas' weight: All tongues and pens attending on my praise, surnamed now, the wonder of our days. Who ever saw the kindest roman dame With extreme joy yield up her latest breath, When from the wars her son triumphing came, When stately Rome had mourned for his death: Her passion here might have expressed aright, When once I came into the Prince's sight. Who ever had his Lady in his arms, That hath of love but felt the misery, Touching the fire that all his senses warms, Now eclipse with joy her blushing ivory. Feeling his soul in such delights to melt, there's none but he can tell the joy, we felt. Like as when Phoebus darteth forth his rays, Gliding along the swelling Ocean streams, Now whilst one billow with another plays, Reflecteth back his bright translucent beams: Such was the conflict then betwixt our eyes Sending forth looks as tears do fall and rise. It seemed the air devised to please my sight, The whistling wind makes music to my tale, All things on earth now feast me with delight, The world to me sets all her wealth to sale: Who now rules all in court but I alone, Who highly graced but only Gaveston? Now like to Midas all I touch is gold, The clouds do shower down gold into my lap, If I but wink the mightiest are controlled, Placed on the turret of my highest hap: My coffers now, even like to Oceans are, To whom all floods by course do still repair. With bounty now he frankly seals his love, And to my hands yields up the isle of Man, By such a gift his kingly mind to prove, This was the earnest wherewith he began: Then Walingford Queen Elnor's stately dower, With many a town, and many a goodly tower. And all those sums his father had prepared By way of taxes for the holy land, He gave me frankly as my due reward: In bounty thus, it seemed he pleased his hand, Which made the world to wonder every hour, To see me drowned in this golden shower. Determined now to hoist my sail amain, The Earl of Cornwall he created me, Of England then the Lord high Chamberlain, Chief Secretary to his Majesty: What I devised, his treasure ever wrought, His bounty still so answered to my thought. Yet more to spice my joys with sweet delight, Bound by his love aprentice to my pleasure, Whose eyes still levelled how to please my sight, Whose kindness ever so exceeded measure, Devised to quench my thirst with such a drink As from my quill drops Nectar to my ink. O sacred Bounty mother of content, Prop of renown, the nourisher of arts, The Crown of hope, the root of good event, The trump of Fame, the joy of noble hearts, Grace of the Heavens, divinity in nature, Whose excellence doth so adorn the creature. He gives his Niece in marriage unto me Of Royal blood, for beauty past compare, Borne of his sister was this Bellamy, Daughter to Gilbert thrice renowned Clare, Chief of his house the Earl of Gloucester, For Princely worth that never had his peer. Like Heaven-dyed Andromeda the fair, In her embroidered mantle richly dight, With Starry train enthronized in the air, Adorns the Welkin with her glittering light, Such one she was, which in my bosom rested, With whose dear love, my youthful years were feasted. As when fair Ver dight in her flowery rail, In her new-coloured liveries decks the earth, And glorious Titan spreads his sunshine vail, To bring to pass her tender infant's birth: Such was her beauty which I then possessed, With whose embracings all my youth was blest. Whose purest thoughts and spotless chaste desire, To my affections still so pleasing were, Never yet touched with spark of Venus' fire, As but her breast I thought no Heaven but there: To none more like than fair Idea she, The very image of all chastity. O chastity, that gift of blessed soul's, Comfort in death, a crown unto the life, Which all the passions of the mind controul's Adorns the maid, and bewtifies the wife: That grace, the which nor death, nor time attaints, Of earthly creatures making heavenly Saints. O Virtue which no muse can poetize Fair Queen of England which with thee doth rest, Which thy pure thoughts do only exercise, And is impressed in thy royal breast, Which in thy life deciphered is alone, Whose name shall want a fit Epitheton. The Heavens now seem to frolic at my feast, The Stars as handmaids, serving my desires, Now love full fed with beauty takes his rest, To whom content, for safety thus retires: The ground was good, my footing passing sure, My days delightsome, and my life secure. Lo thus ambition creeps into my breast, Pleasing my thoughts with this imperious humour, And with this devil being once possessed, Mine ears are filled with such a buzzing rumour, As only pride my glory doth await, My senses soothed with every self-conceit. Self-love, pride's thirst, unsatisfied desire, A flood that never yet had any bounds, Times pestilence, thou state-consuming fire, A mischief which all common weals confounds, O Plague of plagues, how many kingdoms rue thee, O happy empires that yet never knew thee! And now revenge which had been smothered long, Like piercing lightning flasheth from mine eyes, This word could sound so sweetly on my tongue, And with my thoughts such Stratagems devise, Tickling mine ears with many a pleasing story, Which promised wonders and a world of glory. For now began the bloodie-rayning broils Between the barons of the land and me, Labouring the state with Ixion-endles toils Twixt my ambition and their tyranny, Such was the storm this deluge first begun, With which this Isle was after overrun. O cruel discord food of deadly hate, O mortal corsive to a common weal, Death-lingring consumption to a state, A poisoned sore that never salve could heal: O foul contagion deadly kill fever, Infecting oft, but to be cured never. By courage now emboldened in my sin, Finding my King so surely linked to me, By circumstance I finely bring him in To be an actor in this tragedy, Persuading him the Barons sought his blood, And on what terms these earthbred giants stood. And so advancing to my Prince's Grace The base sort of factious quality, As being raised unto such a place Might counterpoise the proud Nobility, And as my agents on my part might stand, Still to support what ere I took in hand. Suborning jesters still to make me mirth, Vile Sycophants at every word to soothe me, Time-fawning Spaniels, Mermaids on the earth, Trencher-fed fools with flattering words to smooth me Base Parasites, these elbowe-rubbing mates, A plague to all lascivious wanton states. O filthy monkeys vile and beastly kind, Fowl prattling Parats berds of Harpy brood, A corrosive to every noble mind, Vipers that suck your mother's dearest blood, misshapen monster, worst of any creature, A foe to art, an enemy to nature. His presence graced what ere I went about, His chief content was that which liked me, What ere I did, his power still bore me out, And where I was, there evermore was he: By birth my Sovereign, but by love my thrall, King Edward's Idol all men did me call. Oft would he set his crown upon my head, And in his chair sit down upon my knee, And when his eyes with love were fully fed, A thousand times he sweetly kissed me: When did I laugh? and he not seen to smile? If I but frowned, he silent all the while. But Fortune now unto my overthrow, Enticed me on with her alluring call, And still devising how to work my woe, One bait ta'en up, she let another fall. Thus Syren-like, she brings me to the bay Where long before she plotted my decay. For now the King to France doth him prepare, For marriage with the Princess Isabel, Daughter to Philip then surnamed the fair, Who like to him in beauty did excel; Of Tilts and triumphs every man reports, And the uniting of these famous Courts. And now the King to raise me higher yet, Makes me the Lord-protector of the Land, And in the Chair of his estate I sit, He yields his Sceptre up into mine hand. Devising still how he to pass might bring, That if he died, I might succeed as King. His treasure now stood absolute to me, I dranck my pleasures in a golden cup, I spent a world, I had abundantly, As though the earth had cast her bowels up. My reckonings cast, my sums were soon enrolled, I was by no man once to be controlled. Now being got as high as I could climb, And Fortune made my foot-cloth as I guessed, I paint me brave with Tagus' golden slime, Because I would enjoy what I possessed. alluding still, that he is mad and worse, Which plays the niggard with a Prince's purse. And now the King returning with his train, I summoned all the chief Nobility, And in my pomp, went forth to entertain The Peers of France in all this jollity. Where, in my carridge were such honours placed, As with my presence, all the shows were graced. Guarded with troops of Gallants as I went, The people crouching still with cap and knee, My port and parsonage so magnificent, That (as a God) the Commons honoured me. And in my pride, lo thus I could devise, To seem a wonder unto all men's eyes. In richest Purple road I all alone, With Diamonds embroidered and bedight, Which like the stars in Gallixia shone, Whose lucter still reflecting with the light, Presented heaven to all that ever gazed: Of force to make a world of eyes amazed. Upon a stately jennet forth I road, Caparisond with Pearle-enchased plumes, Trotting as though the Measures he had trodden, Breathing Arabian Civit-sweet perfumes; Whose rareness seemed to cast men in a trance, Wondered of England, and admired of France. Like trident-maced Neptune in his pride, Mounted upon a Dolphin in a storm, Upon the tossing billows forth doth ride, About whose train a thousand Tritons swarm, When Phoebus seems to set the waves on fire, To show his glory and the gods desire. Or like unto the fiery-faced Sun Upon his waggon prancing in the West, Whose blushing cheeks with flames seem overrun Whilst sweeting thus he gallops to his rest. Such was the glory wherein now I stood, Which makes the Barons sweat their dearest blood. Thus when these gallant companies were met, The King here present with his lovely Queen, And all the Nobles in due order set, To hear and see what could be hard or seen: Lo here that kindness easily is descried, That faithful love which he nor I could hide. Even like as Castor when a calm gins, Beholding then his starry-tressed brother, With mirth and glee these Swan-begotten twins Presaging joy, the one embrace the other: Thus one the other in our arms we fold, Our breasts for joy, our hearts could scarcely hold. Or like the Nymph beholding in a Well, Her dearest love, & wanting words to woo him, About his neck with clipped arms she fell, Where by her faith the gods conjoined her to him. Such was the love which now by signs we break, When joy had tied our tongues, we could not speak. Thus arm in arm towards London on we rid, And like two Lambs we sport in every place, Where neither joy nor love could well be hid That might be sealed with any sweet embrace: So that his Queen, might by our kindness prove, Though she his Wife, yet I alone his love. The Barons now ambitious at my reign, As one that stood betwixt them and the Sun. They underhand pursue me with disdain, And play the game which I before had won: And malice now so hard the bellows blue, That through mine ears the sparks of fire flew. Where in revenge, the triumphs they devised To entertain the King with wondrous cost, Were by my malice suddenly surprised, The charge, their summons, and their honours lost; Which in their thoughts revenge so deeply raised, As with my blood they vowed should be appeased. As when within the soft and spongy soil, The wound doth pierce the entrails of the earth, Where hurly burly with a restless coil Shakes all the centre, wanting issue forth, Till with the tumour Towns and Mountains tremble, Even such a meteor doth their rage resemble. Or when the shapeless huge Leviathan, Hath thrust himself upon the sandy shore, Where (Monster like) affrighting every man, He belloweth out a fearful hideous roar: Even such a clamour through the air doth thunder, The doleful presage of some fearful wonder. Thus as a plague unto the government, A very scourge to the Nobility, The cause of all the Commons discontent, The Image of all sentialitie, I was reproached openly of many, Hated of all, not pitied now of any. And as a vile misleader of the King, A wasteful spender of his coin and treasure, A secret thief of many a sacred thing, A Cormorant, in whom was never measure; I seemed hateful now in all men's eyes, Buzzing about me like a swarm of flies. Like as a cloud, foul, dark, and ugly black, Threatening the earth with tempest every hour, Now broken with a fearful thunder-crack, Strait poureth down his deep earth-drenching shower, Thus for their wrongs now rise they up in arms, Or to revenge, or to amend their harms. The King perceiving how the matter stood, Himself, his Crown, in this extremity, And how the Barons thirsted for my blood, And seeing now there was no remedy, That I some vile untimely death must die, Or thus, must be exiled presently: A thousand thoughts he hammereth in his head, Thinking on this, and now again on that; As one devise is come, another fled, Some thing he would, and now he knows not what. To help me now, a thousand means he forgeth, Whilst still with sighs his sorrows he disgorgeth. And for I was his very soul's delight, He thought on this, the only way at last, In Ireland to hide me out of sight, Until these storms were overblown and passed. And in mean time t'appease the Barons hate, And so reduce me to my former state. And to give place unto the Barons rage, Which flamed like a burning-quenchles brand, Which nought but my exile could now assuage, He sends me post away to Ireland: And to eschew all danger by the way, Me safely guarded thither doth convey. As one whose house in danger to be burned, Which he hath builded with exceeding cost, And all his wealth to earth-pale ashes turned, Taking one jewel which he loveth most, To some safe place doth with the same retire. Leaving the rest to ' he mercy of the fire. Or as a Nurse within besieged walls, Dreading each hour the Soldiers slaughtering knife, Within some place as fittest there befalls, Hides her sweet babe in hope to save his life, Lo thus the King provideth now for me The joy and pride of his felicity. He wanted words t'express what he sustained, Nor could I speak to utter half my wrong, To show his grief, or where I most was pained, The time too short, the tale was all too long: I took my leave with sighs when forth I went, He streams of tears unto my farewell sent. But sending looks ambassadors of love, Which as our posts could go and soon retire, By whose quick motion we alone might prove, Our equal love did equal like desire: And that the fire in which we both did burn, Was easily quenched in hope of safe return. Like to a vessel with a narrow vent, Which is filled up with liquor to the top, Although the mouth be ever eminent, Yet is it seen not to distill a drop: Even so our breasts, brimful with pensive care, Stopping our tongues, with grief we silent are. But when my want gave breath unto his moan, And that his tears had now untied his tongue, With dreary sighs all now clean overblown, Which erst (like Fountains) in abundance sprung, Unto himself, he thus complains his grief, Sith now the world could yield him no relief. O cursed stars (quoth he) that guide my birth, Infernal Torches, Comets of misfortune, Or Genuus here that haunts me on the earth, Or hellish fiend that dost my woes importune: Fate-guiding Heavens, in whose unlucky moving, Stands th'effect of my mishaps approving. Tide-ceasles sorrow, which dost overflow, Youth-withering cares, past compass of conceit, Hart-kylling grief, which more and more dost grow, And on the anvil of my heart dost beat, Death-thirsting rage, still deadly, mortal, endless, O poorest Prince ● left desolate and freendles. Sky-covering clouds, which thus do overcast, And at my noontide darken all my sun, Blood-drying sickness, which my life dost waste. When yet my glass is but a quarter run: My joy but a phantasm and elusion, And my delights intending my confusion. What Planet reigned in that unlucky hour, When first I was invested in the Crown? Or hath in my nativity such power, Or what vile Fury doth attend my Throne? Or else, what hellish hags be these that haunt me? Yet if a King, why should misfortune daunt me? Am I a Prince? yet to my people subject, That should be loved? yet thus am left forlorn, Ordained to rule? respected as an object, Live I to see mine honour had in scorn? Base dunghill mind, that dost such slavery bring, To live a peasant, and be borne a King. The purest steel doth never turn at lead, Nor Oak doth bow at every wind that blows, Nor Lion from a Lamb doth turn his head, Nor Eagle frighted with a flock of Crows: And yet a King want courage in his breast, Trembling for fear to see his woes redressed. It rather fits a villain then a state, To have his love on others likings placed, Or set his pleasures at so base a rate, To see the fame by every slave disgraced; A King should ever privilege his pleasure, And make his Peers esteem it as their treasure. Then raise thy thoughts, and with thy thoughts thy love, Kings want no means t'accomplish what they would, If one do fail, yet other mayst thou prove, It shames a King, to say, If that I could. Let not thy love such crosses then sustain, But raise him up, and call him home again. Sweet Gaveston, whose praise the Angels sing, Mayst thou assure thee of my love the while? Or what mayst thou imagine of thy King, To let thee live in yonder brutish Isle? My deer, a space this weary world prolong, He lives, that can and shall revenge thy wrong. Thus like a man grown lunatic with pain, Now in his torments casts him on his bed, Then out he runs into the fields again, And on the ground doth rest his troubled head. With such sharp passions is the King possessed, Which day nor night doth let him take his rest. As Lyon-skind Alcides, when he lost His lovely Hylas, on his way from Thrace, Follows the quest through many an unknown coast, With plaints and outcries, wearying every place, Thus lovely Edward fills each place with moan, Wanting the sight of his sweet Gaveston. Thus like a Barge that wants both steer and sails, Forced with the wind against the streamefull tide, From place to place with every billow hails, And (as it haps) from shore to shore doth ride: Thus doth my case, thus doth my fortune stand, Betwixt the King, and Barons of the Land. On this Dilemma stood my tickle state, Thus pro et contra all men do dispute, Precisely balanced twixt my love and hate, Some do affirm, some other do confute: Until my King, (sweet Edward) now at last, Thus strikes the stroke which makes them all aghast. Now calling such of the Nobility, As he supposed on his part would stand, By their consent he makes me Deputy. And being seated thus in Ireland, Of gold and silver sending me such store, As made the world to wonder more and more. Like great gold-coyning Crassus in his health, Amidst his legion long-mayntaining store, The glory of the Roman Commonwealth, Feasting the rich, and giving to the poor. Such was th'abundance which I then possessed, Blessed with gold, (if gold could make me blest.) Where, (like Lucullus,) I maintained a port, As great god Bacchus had been late come down, And in all pomp at Dublin kept my Court, As I had had th'revenues of a Crown. In train, in state, and every other thing, Attended still as I had been a King. Of this my wondrous hospitality, The Irish yet, until this day can boast, Such was the bounty of a King to me, His Chequer then could scarce defray the cost. His gifts were such, I joyed in what he sent, He freely gave, and I as freely spent. Few days there passed but some the Channel crossed, With kindest Letters enterlynd with love, Whereas I still received by every post, His Ring, his Bracelet, Garter, or his Glove: Which I in hostage of his kindness kept, Of his pure love, which lived and never slept. With many a rich and stately ornament, Worn by great Kings, of high and wondrous price, Or jewel that my fancy might content, With many a rob of strange and rare device. That all which saw and knew this wondrous waist, Perceived his treasure long time could not last. And thus whilst Fortune friendly cast my Dice, And took my hazard, and threw at the main, I saw it was but folly to be nice, That chanceth once, that seldom haps again. I knew such bounty had been seldom seen, And since his time, I think hath never been. And now the Barons which repynd before, Because I was too lavish of the treasure, And saw my waist consuming ten times more, Which doth so far exceed all bonds of measure, This (as a knife) their very heartstrings cuts, And gnaws them like the Colic in the guts. Thus (all in vain,) they seek to stop the source, For presently it overflows the bounds, Yet well perceive, if thus it held his course, No question then, the Common wealth it drowns: And thus like men that tread an endless Maze, Whilst Fortune sports, the world stands at a gaze. Like Soldiers in a Town surprised by night, Over their heads the houses set on fire, Sure to be slain in issuing out to fight, Or else be burned if they do retire: Some curse the time, some other blame their fortune, Whilst black Despair their deaths doth thus importune. This gracious King, (which seemed to sleep the while,) Finding the iron thus fully had his heat, With sweet persuasions fitly frames his style: Which in their wits doth such a temper beat, With kindest looks, and sweetest vows of love, As were of force a Rock of flint to move. His cloudy frowns be turned to sunshine smiles, And those on whom he lowerd, he friendly graces, Their moody cheer, with sporting he beguiles, His lions looks, be turned to sweet embraces, That with his will, their thoughts seem to accord, Such is the love of subjects to their Lord. And having found his kindness took effect, He followeth on the quest with hot pursuit, Nor day, nor night, he doth the same neglect, Until the graft was grown to bring forth fruit: And that the Barons all with might and main, Now condescend to call me home again. O frail and sliding state of earthly things, Blind Fortune, chance, world's mutability, Advancing peasants, and debasing Kings, Odd hap, good luck, or star-bred destiny: Which still dost fawn, and flatter me so oft, Now casts me down, than sett'st me up aloft. In all post-haste, the King to Ireland sent His Princely Letters, for my safe return, To England now I must in continent, It seems that time all malice hath outworn. The Coast is clear, occasion calls away, The gale stands right, and drives me from the Bay. My whistling sails make music with the wind, The boisterous waves do homage to mine eyes, The brutish sort of Eol's Imps seem kind, And all the clouds abandoning the skies Now lovely Leda's egg-borne twins appear: Towards Albion's cliffs fair Fortune guides my steer. The King is come to Chester, where he lies, The Court prepared to receive me there In all the pomp that wit could well devise: As since that time was seldom seen elsewhere. Where setting once my dainty foot on land, He thought him blest that might but kiss my hand. In pleasures there we spend the nights and days, And with our revels entertain the time, With costly Banquets, Masks, and stately Plays, Painting our loves in many a pleasing rhyme. With rarest Music, and sweet-tuned voices, (In which the soul of man so much rejoices.) Like as the famous brave Egyptian Queen, Feasted the Roman great Mark Anthony, With Pearl-dissolved carouses, seldom seen, Served all in vessel of rich ivory: Such was the sumptuous banquets he prepared, In which no cost or curious thing was spared. Or like the Trojan Priam, when as he Beheld his long-lost son return to Troy, Triumphing now in all his jollity, Proud Ilium smokes with th'orges of his joy, Such are our feasts and stately triumphs here, Which with applauses, sound in every ear. Departing thence from Chester's pleasant side, Towards London now we travel with delight, Where every City likewise doth provide To entertain us, with some pleasing sight: Till all our train at length to London comes, Where nought is hard, but Trumpets, bells and drums. As when Paulus Aemilius entered Room, And like great jove, in starlike triumph came, Honoured in Purple by the senates doom, Laden with gold, and crowned with his fame. Such seems our glory now in all men's eyes, Our friendship honoured with applaudities. Or when old Phillip's time still-wondred son, In his world's conquest surfeiting with spoils, The scourge of Kings, returns to Babylon, To sport and banquet after all his toils, Such is our glory in our London Court, Whereto all Nations daily make resort. And thus blind Fortune lulls me in her lap, And rocks me still, with many a Sirens song, Thus placed me on the Atlas of my hap. From which she means to cast me down ere long. Black ugly fiend, O foul misshapen evil, In show an Angel, but in deed a devil. Even as a Lion got into his paws The silly Lamb, seems yet a while to play, Till seeking to escape out of his jaws, This beastly King now tears it for his prey. Thus having got me in her arms so fast, determines now to feed on me at last. Or as the slaughterman doth fat the beast, Which afterward he meaneth shall be slain, Before provided to some solemn feast, The more thereby he may increase his gain, Lo, thus proud Fortune feeds me for the knife, For which (it seems) she had prepared my life. For thus ere long, between the King and me, As erst before, our revels now begin, And now the Barons taste their misery, Opening their eyes, which makes them see their sin, The plague once past, they never felt the sores, Till thus again it haps within their doors. Like as a man made drunk with foul excess, Drowning his soul in this vile loathly vice, Once being sober, sees his beastliness, Buying repentance with so dear a price; Thus they perceive the bondage they possessed, In condescending to the King request. The damned Furies here unbong the source, From whence the Lethe of my virtues burst, The black-borne Fates here labour in that course, By which my life and fortune came accursed. My death in that star-guiders doom concealed, Now in the brows of heaven may be revealed. My youth spurs on my frail untamed desire, Yielding the reins to my lascivious will, Upon the Ice I take my full career, The place too slippery, and my manidge ill, Thus like a Colt, in danger to be cast, Yet still run on, the devil drives so fast. Now wandering in a Labyrinth of error, Lost in my pride, no hope of my return, Of sin and shame my life a perfect mirror, No spark of virtue once is seen to burn. Nothing there was could be discerned in me, But beastly lust, and censualitie. Black Hecate chants on her night-spell charms, Which cast me first into this deadly sleep, Whilst fier-eyd Ate eclipse me in his arms, And hails me down to dark Herebus deep. Fowl sleep-god Morpheus, curtains up the light, And shuts my fame in everlasting night. The fixed stars in their repugnacie, Had full concluded of these endless jars, And nature by some strange Antipathy, Had in our humours bred continual wars. Or the star-ceeled heavens by fatal doom, Ordained my troubles in my Mother's womb. Some hellish hag in this enchanted cup, Out of the Tun of pride this poison drew, And those hot cinders which were raked up, Into the nostrils of the Nobles blue. Who now caroused to my funeral, And (with a vengeance) I must pledge them all. And now broke out that execrable rage, Which long before had boiled in their blood, Which neither time nor reason could assuage: But like to men grown lunatic and wood, My name and fame, they seek to scandelize, And root the same from all posterities. They all affirm, my Mother was a Witch, A filthy hag, and burnt for sorcery: And I her son, and fitting with her pitch, She had bequeathed her damned Art to me. This rumour in the people's ears they ring, That (for my purpose) I bewitched the King. They say, that I conveyed beyond the Sea, The Table and the trestles all of gold, King Arthur's relics, kept full many a day, The which to Windsor did belong of old. In whose fair margin (as they did surmise,) Merlin engraved many prophecies. Some slanderous tongues, in spiteful manner said, That here I lived in filthy sodomy, And that I was King Edward's Ganemed, And to this sin he was enticed by me. And more, (to wreck their spiteful deadly teen,) Report the same to Isabel the Queen. A Catilogue of titles they begun, With which I had the Noble men abused, Which they avouched I never durst have done, If by the King I had not been excused. And swore, that he maintained against the state, A monster, which both God and man did hate. They swore, the King suborned my villainy, And that I was his instrument of vice, The means whereby he wrought his tyranny, That to his chance I ever cast the dice; And with most bitter execrations ban, The time in which, our friendship first began. Lo, here draws on my dreary dismal hour, The doleful period of my destiny, Here doth approach the black and ugly shower, Hence flows the Deluge of my misery. Here comes the cloud that shuts up all my light, My lowering Winter, and eternal night. The angry Barons now assembled were, And no man left that on my part durst stand, Before the Pope's pernicious Legate there, They forced me for to abjure the Land. Forcing the King to further their intent, By solemn oath upon the Sacrament. Upon the holy Sacrament he swears, Although (God knows) full much against his will, So overcome with silence, sighs, and tears, To make a sword the which himself should kill. And being done, (in doing then not long,) He seems to curse his hand, his heart, his tongue. Like to a man that walking in the grass, Upon a Serpent suddenly doth tread, Plucks back his foot, and turnns away his face, His colour fading, pale as he were dead: Thus he the place, thus he the act doth shun, Loathing to see, what he before had done. Or as a man mistaking a receipt, Some death-strong poison happily doth taste, And every hour the vigour doth await, Apald with fear, now standeth all aghast. Thus stands he trembling in an ecstasy, Too sick to live, and yet too strong to die. He takes his Crown, and spurnns it at his feet, His princely robes he doth in pieces tear, He strait commands the Queen out of his sight, He tuggs and rends his golden-tressed hair. He beats his breast, and sighs out piteous groans, Spending the day in tears, the night in moans. Like as the furious Paladine of France, Forsaken of Angelica the fair, So like a Bedlam in the fields doth dance, With shouts and clamours, filling all the air, Tearing in pieces what so ere he caught, With such a fury is the King distraught. Or when the woeful Thrace-borne Hecuba, Saw Troy on fire, and Priam's fatal doom, Her sons all slain, her deer Polixina, There sacrificed on Achilles' Tomb, Even like a Boar, her angry tusks doth whet, Scratching and biting all that ere she met. With fearful visions frighted in his bed, Which seems to him a very thorny brake, With ugly shapes which way he turnns his head: And when from sleep he ever doth awake, He then again with weeping mournful cries, In grief of soul, complains his miseries. He wants disgesture, and refrains his rest, His eyes ore-watched like eclipsed suns, With bitter passions is his soul oppressed, And through his eyes, his brain dissolved runs. And after silence, when with pain he speaks, A sudden sigh his speech in sunder breaks. He starteth up, and Gaveston doth call, Then stands he still, and looks upon the ground, Then like one in an Epileps doth fall, As in a Spasmo, or a deadly sound; Thus languishing in pain, and linger ever, In the Symptom of his pining fever. Like to a flower that droupeth in a frost, Or as a man in a Consumption pining, Stained like a Cloth that hath his colour lost, Or Poets-worne Laurel when she is declining: Or like a Peacock washed in the rain, Trailing adown his starry-eyed train. To Belgia I cross the narrow seas, And in my breast a very sea of grief, Whose tidefull surges never give me ease, For heaven and earth hath shut up all relief, The air doth threaten vengeance for my crime, Clotho draws out the thread of all my time. Like as that wicked Brother-killing Cain, Flying the presence of his mighty God, Accursed to die, forbidden to be slain, A vagabond, and wandering still abroad. In Flaunders thus I travel all alone, Still seeking rest, yet ever finding none. Or as the Monarch of great Babylon, Whose monstrous pride the Lord did so detest, As he outcast him from his princely throne, And in the field he wandered like a beast. Companion with the Ox and loathly Ass, Starved with the cold, and feeding on the grass. Thus do I change my habit and my name, From place to place, I pass unknown of any; But swift report so far had spread my fame, I hear my life and youth controlled of many; The bousing Flemings in their boisterous tongue, Still talking on me as I pass along. O wretched, vile, and miserable man, Besotted so with worldly vanity, When as thy life is but a very span, Yet every hour full of calamity. Begot in sin, and following still the game, Living in lust, and dying oft with shame. Now working means to have intelligence, By secret Letters from my Lord the King, How matters stood since I departed thence, And of the terms and state of every thing, I cast about which way I might devise, (In spite of all) once more to play my prize. And still relying on King Edward's love, To whom before my life had been so dear, Whose constancy my fortune made me prove; And to my Brother, Earl of Gloucester, And to my wife, who laboured tooth and nail, My abjuration how she might appeal. I now embarck me in a Flemish Hoy, Disguised in the habit of a Muff, Attended thus with neither man nor boy, But on my back a little bag of stuff: Like to a Soldier that in Camp of late, Had been employed in service with the state. And safely landed on this blessed shore, Towards Windsor thus disguised I took my way, Whereas I had intelligence before, My wife remained, and there my Edward lay. My dearest wife, to whom I sent my ring, Who made my coming known unto the King. As when old-youthful Aeson in his glass, Saw from his eyes the cheerful lightning sprung, When as Art-spell Medea brought to pass, By herbs and charms, again to make him young, Thus stood King Edward, ravished in the place, Fixing his eyes upon my lovely face. Or as Muse-meruaile Hero, when she eclipse, Her deer Leander's byllow-beaten limbs, And with sweet kisses seizeth on his lips, When for her sake deep Hellespont he swims, Might by our tender-deer embracings prove, Fair Heros kindness, and Leander's love. Or like the twifold-twynned Geminy, In their star-gilded girdle strongly tied, Chained by their saffrond tresses in the sky, Standing to guard the sun-coche in his pride. Like as the Vine, his love the Elm embracing, With nimble arms, our bodies interlacing. The Barons hearing how I was arrived, And that my late abiurement nought prevailed, By my return, of all their hope deprived, Their bedlam rage no longer now concealed: But as hot coals once puffed with the wind, Into a flame outbreaking by their kind. Like to a man whose foot doth hap to light, Into the nest where stinging Hornets lie, Vexed with the spleen, and rising with despite, About his head these winged spirits fly. Thus rise they up with mortal discontent, By death to end my life and banishment. Or like to soldiers in a Town of war, When Sentinel the enemy descries, Affrighted with this unexpected jar, All with the fearful Larum-bell arise, Thus muster they; (as Bees do in a hive, The idle Drone out of their combs to drive.) It seemed the earth with heaven grew malcontent, Nothing is hard but wars and Armours ringing, New stratagems each one doth now invent, The Trumpets shrill their warlike points be singing, Each soldier now, his crested plume advances, They manidge horses, and they charge their lances. As when under a vast and vaulty roof, Some great assembly happily appears, A man (from thence) that standeth out a loof, A murmuring confused rumour hears. Such is the noise, from earth to heaven rebounding, With shrieks and clamours every where resounding. Like as the Ocean chafing with his bounds, With raging billows flies against the Rocks, And to the shore sends forth his hideous sounds, Making the earth to tremble with his shocks; Even thus the murmur flies from shore to shore, Like to the Canons battering fearful roar. By day and night attended still with spies, The Court become the cause of all our woes, The Country now a Camp of enemies, The Cities, all be-peopled with our foes. Our very beds are snares made to enwrap us, Our surest guard (as Traitors) do entrap us. Like to a cry of roring-mouthed hounds, Rousing the long-lived stag out of his lair, Pursue the chase through vasty forest grounds, So like a thunder rattling in the air, Thus do they hunt us, still from coast to coast, Most hated now, of those we loved most. This gracious Prince lo thus becomes my guide, And with a Convoy of some chosen friends, Brings me to York, where being fortified, To Balliol the King of Scots he sends, And to the Welshmen, craving both their aid, That by their help the Barons might be stayed. But they which in their business never slept, And (as it seemed) had well foreseen this thing, cause all the Ports and Marches to be kept, That none should enter once to aid the King: And by dissuasive Letters still devise, To stay their neighbours from this enterprise. Lo, in this sort the King and I betrayed, And to their wills thus left as woeful thralls, And finding now no further hope of aid, We shut us up within York's aged walls, Until we knew the Barons full intent, And what all this rude hurly burly meant. This gracious King, for want of wont rest, Fallen in these passions to an ecstasy, With grievous sickness is so sore oppressed, And grown in time to such extremity, As he is forced to departed away, To take the air awhile upon the Sea. From Bedford now (the synod of their shame, The counsel house of all their villainy,) These bloody Barons with an Army came, Down unto York, where they besieged me: That now not able to resist their might, Am forced perforce, to fly away by night. To Scarborough with speed away I post, With that small force the City than could lend me, The strongest Castle there in all the coast, And (as I thought) the surest to defend me, Where as I might withstand them by my power, Hoping the Kings returning every hour. But now, like to a sousing sudden rain, Forced by a strong and sturdy eastern blast, Or (like a hayle-storme) down they come amain, And in the Castle girt me now so fast, No way to scape, nor hope for me to fly, My choice was hard, or yield myself, or die. Away thus (like a prisoner) am I led, My costly robes in pieces rend and torn, Bond hand and foot, my hair disheviled, Naked and bare as ever I was borne, Save but for shame, to stop the people's cries, With grief am clothed of mine enemies. Along the Land, toward Oxford they convey me, Like bawling curs, they all about me howl: With words of foul reproach they now repay me, Wondering my shame, as birds do at an Owl. Cursing my life, my manners, and my birth, A scourge of God, ordained to plague the earth. The King, now hearing how I was arrested, And knew my quarrel cause of all this strife, He writes, he sends, he sues, he now requested, Using all means he could to save my life: With vows and oaths, that all should be amended, If that my death alone might be suspended. And being brought to Dedington at last, By Aymer Valence, Earl of Pembroke then, Who towards King Edward road in all the haste, And left me guarded safely by his men. This gentle Earl with mere compassion moved, For Edward's sake, whom he so dearly loved. But now Guy Beuchampe, whom I feared still, The Earl of Warwick, whom I called cur, Having fit time to execute his will, The Fox thus caught, he vows to tear my fur. And he for whom so oft he set the trap, By good ill luck, is fallen into his lap. This bloody Beuchampe, (I may term him so,) For this was he that only sought my blood, Now at the upcast of mine overthrow, And on the chance whereon my fortune stood, To Dedington he came, where as I lay, And by his force, he took me thence away. To Warwick thus along he doth me bring, And keeps me guarded in the Castle there, And doubting now my succour from the King, He raiseth up the power of Warwick-shiere. Thus from the Town, to Blacklow I was led, And on a Scaffold there, I lost my head. Lo, here the point and sentence of my time, My lives full stop, my last Catastrophe, The stipend of my death-deserued crime, The Scene that ends my woeful tragedy. My latest Vale, knitting my conclusion, Mine utter ruin, and my fame's confusion. Like as Adonis wounded with the Boar, From whose fresh hurt the life-warme blood doth spin, Now lieth wallowing in his purple gore, Staining his fair and Alabaster skin: My headless body in the blood is left, Now lying breathless, and of life bereft. 〈◊〉 my Muse, put on thy eagle's wings, 〈◊〉 some comfort to my tired ghost, 〈◊〉 with Apollo's dolefull-tuned strings, 〈◊〉 help at need, for now I need thee most. Sorrow possess my heart, mine eyes, mine ears, My breath consume to sighs, my brain to tears. My soul now in the heavens eternal glass, Beholds the scars and botches of her sin, How filthy, ugly, and deformed she was, The loathsome dunghill that she wallowed in. Her pure Creator sitting in his glory, With eyes of justice to peruse her story. Like as a stag at bay amongst the hounds, The bloody Mott still sounding in his ears, Feeling his breath diminish by his wounds, Pours down his gummy life-preserving tears; Even thus my soul, now baited by my sin, Consuming shows the sorrow she is in. Thus comfortless, forsaken and alone, All worldly things unstable, and unsure, By true contrition flies to him alone, In whose compare, the heavens are most impure. By whose just doom, to blessed souls revealed, She gets her passport to Elisia sealed. And by repentance, finds a place of rest, Where passing to the fair Elysian plain, She is aloud her room amongst the blessed, In those Ambrosian shadows to remain. Till summoned thus by Fame, she is procured, To tell my life that hath been thus obscured. This monster now, this many-headed beast, The people, more unconstant than the wind, Who in my life, my life did so detest, Now in my death, are of another mind: And with the fountains from their tearful eyes, Do honour to my latest obsequies. Star-holding heaven hath shut up all her light, Nature become a stepdame to her own, The mantled trouch-man of the Raven-hued night, In mournful Sables clad the Horizon. The sky-born Planets seeming to conspire, Against the air, the water, earth, and fire. Pearle-paved Auon, in her streamfull course, With heavy murmur floating on the stones, Moved with lament to pity and remorse, Attempering sad music to my moans, Tuning her billows to Zephyrus' breath, In watery language doth bewail my death. Oke-shadowed Arden, filled with bellowing cries, Resounding through her holts and hollow grounds, To which the Echo evermore replies, And to the fields sends forth her hideous sounds, And in her Sylvan rude vntuned songs, Makes birds, and beasts, for to express my wrongs. The heaven-dyed flowers in this happy clime, Mantling the Meadows in their Summer's pride, As in the woeful frosty winter time, Drooping with faintness, hold their heads aside. The boisterous storms, despoil the greenest greves, Stripping the Trees stark naked of their leaves. Death clad in liveries of my lovely cheeks, Laid in those beds of lilies and of Roses, Amazed with marvel, here for wonders seeks, Where he alone a Paradise supposes, Grew malcontent, and with himself at strife, Not knowing now if he were death or life. And shutting up the casements of those lights, Which like two suns, so sweetly went to rest, In those fair globes he saw those heavenly sights, In which alone he thought him only blest. Cursing himself, who had deprived breath, From that which thus could give a life in death. With paleness touching that fair rubied lip, Now waxing purple, like Adonis' flower, Where ivory walls those rocks of Coral keep, From whence did flow that Nectar-streaming shower, There earth-pale Death refreshed his tired limbs, Where Cupid bathed him in those Crystal brimms. And entering now into that house of glory, That Temple with sweet Odours long perfumed, Where nature had engraved many a story, In Letters, which by death were not consumed. Accursed now, his cruelty he cursed, That Fame should live, when he had done his worst. Now when the King had notice of my death, And that he saw his purpose thus prevented, In grievous sighs he now consumes his breath, And into tears his very eyes relented: Cursing that vile and mercy-wanting age, And breaks into this passion in his rage. O heavens (quoth he) lock up the living day, Cease sun to lend the world thy glorious light, Stars, fly your course, and wander all astray, Moon, lend no more thy silver shine by night. Heavens, stars, Sun, Moon, conjoin you all in one, Revenge the death of my sweet Gaveston. Earth, be thou helpless in thy creatures birth, Sea, break thou forth from thy immured bound, Air, with thy vapours poison thou the earth, Wind, break thy Cave, and all the world confound. Earth, sea, air, wind, conjoin you all in one, Bewail the death of my sweet Gaveston. You savage beasts, that haunt the way-less woods, You Birds delighted in your Sylvan sound, You scaly Fish, that swim in pleasant floods, You heartless Worms that creep upon the ground, Beasts, birds, fish, worms, each in your kind alone, Revenge the death of my sweet Gaveston. Fair Meadows, be you withered in the prime, Sunburnt and bare, be all the goodly Mountains, Groves, be you leaveless in the Summer time, Pitchy and black be all the Crystal Fountains: All things on earth, each in your kind alone, Revenge the death of my sweet Gaveston. You damned Furies, break your Stygian Cell, You wandering spirits, in water, earth, and air, Lead-boyling ghosts, that live in lowest hell, Gods, devils, men, unto mine aid repair, Come all at once, conjoin you all in one, Revenge the death of my sweet Gaveston. Eyes, never sleep, until you see revenge, Head, never rest, until thou plot revenge, heart, never think, but tending to revenge, Hands, never act, but acting deep revenge. just-dooming heavens, revenge me from above, That men unborn may wonder at my love. You peerless Poets of ensuing times, Chanting Heroic Angel-tuned notes, Or humble Pastor's Nectar-filled lines, Driving your flocks with music to their coats, Let your hie-flying Muses still bemoan, The woeful end of my sweet Gaveston. My earth-pale body now enbalmd with tears, To famous Oxford solemnly conveyed, There buried by the ceremonious Friars, Where for my soul was many a Trental said. With all those rites my obsequies behoved, Whose blind devotion, time and truth reproved. But ere two years were out and fully dated, This gracious King who still my fame respected, My wasted bones to Langley thence translated, And over me a stately Tomb erected. Which world-devouring Time, hath now outworn, As but for Letters, were my name forlorn. My ghost now hence to Anchor shall repair, Where once the same appeared unto thee: And unto chaste Idea tell my care, A sacrifice both for thyself and me. In whose sweet bosom all the Muse's rest, In whose aspect our Clime is only blest. Thus having told my dreary doleful tale, My time expired, I now return again, Where Charon's Barge hoist with a merry gale, Shall land me on the fair Elysian plain: Where, on the Trees of never dying fame, There will I carve Ideas sacred name. And thou sweet Dorus, whose sole Phoenix Muse, With Pegase wings doth mount unto the sky, Whose lines the gods are fittest to peruse. My lovely Dorus, lend thine humble eye, To my harsh style, (dear friend) at my request, In whose conceit my verse is only blest. My deer Maecenas, lend thine eyes awhile, From Meredian's sun-bred stately strain: And from thy rare and lofty flying style, Look down into my low and humble vain: On this same babe my Muse hath now brought forth, Till she present thee with some lines of worth. FINIS. divers have been the opinions, of the birth and first rising of Gaveston, (amongst the Writers of these latter times:) some omitting things worthy of memory, some inferring things without probability, disagreeing in many particulars, and cavilling in the circumstances of his sundry banishments; which hath bred some doubt amongst those who have but slightly run over the History of his fortune, seeing every man rove by his own aim in this confusion of opinions: Although most of them concluding in general, of his exceeding credit with the King, of the manner of his death, and of the pomp wherein he lived. Except some of those Writers who lived in the time of Edward the second, wherein he only flourished, or immediately after, in the golden reign of Edward the third, when as yet his memory was fresh in every man's mouth: whose authorities (in mine opinion) can hardly be reproved of any, the same being within the compass of possibility, and the Author's names extant, avouching what they have written. On whom I only relied in the plot of my History; having recourse to some especial collections, gathered by the industrious labours of john Stow, a diligent Chronigrapher of our time. A man very honest, exceeding painful, and rich in the antiquities of this isle: yet omitting some small things of no moment, fearing to make his Tragedy more troublesome, amongst so many currants as have fallen out in the same: framing myself to fashion a body of a history, without maim or deformity. Which if the same be accepted thankfully, as I offer it willingly, in contenting you, I only satisfy myself. M. D.