THE Tragical Legend of Robert, Duke of Normandy, surnamed Short-thigh, eldest son to William Conqueror.  
With the Legend of Matilda the chaste, daughter to the Lord Robert Fitzwater, poisoned by King john.  
And the Legend of Piers Gaveston, the great Earl of Cornwall: and mighty favourite of king Edward the second.  
By Michael Drayton.  
The latter two, by him newly corrected and augmented.  
AT LONDON, Printed by ja. Roberts for N. L. and are to be sold at his shop at the West door of Paul's. 1596.   

To the noble and excellent Lady, Lucy, Countess of Bedford.  
MOst noble Lady, I leave my Poems as a monument of the Zeal I bear to your virtues, though the greatest part of my labour, be but the least part of my love: And if any thought of worth live in me, that only hath been nourished by your mild favours and former graces to my unworthy self, and the admiration of your more than excellent parts shining to the world. What nature & industry began, your honour and bounty hath thus far continued. The light I have, is borrowed from your beams, which Envy shall not eclipse, so long as you shall fanourablie shine. Under the stamp of your glorious Name my Poems shall pass for currant, being not altogether unworthy of so great a superscription: I live only dedicated to your service, and rest your Honours humbly devoted.  Michael Drayton.  

To the virtuous Lady, the Lady Anne Harrington: wise to the Honourable Gentleman, Sir john Harrington, Knight.  
MAdam: my words cannot express my mind,  
My Zealers' duty to make known to you,  
When your deserts all severally I find,  
In this attempt, of me do claim their due:  
Your gracious kindness (Madam) claims my heart,  
Your bounty bids my hand to make it known,  
Of me your virtues each do claim a part;  
And leave me thus the least part of mine own,  
What should commend your modesty, your wit,  
Is by your wit and modesty commended,  
And standeth dumb in most admiring it,  
And where it should begin, it there is ended.  
And thus return, to your praise only due,  
And to yourself say, you, are only you.  Michael Drayton.  

To the Reader.  
GEntlemen, since my first publishing of these tragical complaints of Piers Gaswton and Matilda it is not unknown to any which traffic with Poetry, how by the sinister dealing of some unskilful Printer, Prers Gawston hath been lately put forth contrary to my will, with as many faults as there be lines in the same, being in deed at the suit no perfect Copy, but left unformed and undigested, like a Bear whelp before it is lick by the Dam. But now of late understanding by the Stationers, that they meant the third time to bring it to the Press, for which purpose as it seemed, they kept Matilda from printing, only because they meant to join them together in one little volume, I have taken some pain in them both to augment and polish them, sith I see they must go to the public view of the world: and with the old conceit of Apelles, (hearing the opinion of all that passed by) amended so much as the latchet. To these complaints written by me two years since, I have added this third, of Robert Duke of Normandy: A subject in my poor opinion, as worthy as any, how soever I have hanled it in the writing. Thus submitting my labours to your discreet censure, I end.  M. D.  

The Argument of Robert Duke of Normandy.  
AFter the conquest of England, by William Duke of Normandy, his eldest son Robert, surnamed Short-thigh, much more then either of his brethren, William Rufus, or Henry Bauclarke, beloved of the Commons, yet brought in disgrace with his Father, by means of Lanfranck Bishop of Canterbury, who greatly affected the said William Rufus, as a man rightly of his own disposition. Robert being a man of a mighty spirit, finding himself disgraced, & grown hateful to his Father, and the Crown of England assured to his Brother: whilst his Father maketh wars in France, he with a troop of resolute Germans, invadeth Normandy. In the height of all these troubles, William Conqueror dieth, leaving the kingdom of England to Rufus. Whilst Robert prepareth to make war upon his brother, by the policies of Lanfrancke and his accomplices, they are friends, Robert peaceably enjoyeth Normandy, and if he over-hued his brother William, to succeed him in the kingdom of England. Now, the brute of the holy wars called Robert to Palestine, with Peter the Hermit, and Godfrey of Bulloyne, for which, to pay his soldiers, he engageth Normandy to his youngest brother Henry for sums of money. In his absence William dieth, Henry usurpeth the Crown, and Duke Robert returning from the wars with great honour, yet in his wars at home most unfortunate, he is taken by Henry in a battle in Normandy, brought a captive into England, and imprisoned in Cardisse Castle in Wales, where Henry as a Tyrant, still searing his escape, put out his eyes.  
The Tragical Legend of Robert Duke of Normandy.  

1  
WHat time Sleeps Nurse the silent night begun  
To steal by minutes on the long-lived days,  
The furious Dog-star chase of the Sun,  
Whose scorching breath adds flame unto his rays,  
At whose approach the angry Lion braies,  
The earth now warmed in this celestial fire,  
To cool her heat, puts off her rich attire.   

2  
The deawy-tressed Morning newly wake,  
With golden tinsel scarce had crowned her brows,  
Riding in triumph on the Ocean lake,  
Embellishing the honny-fringed bows,  
Deep melancholy from my brain to rouse,  
To Isis' bank my Genius guides the way,  
Amongst whose Reeds soft murmuring winds do play.   

3  
Zephyre, which courts fair Thames, his gentle love,  
On whose smooth breast the swelling billows flow,  
Which on a long the wanton tide doth shove,  
And to keep back he easily doth blow,  
Still meets her coming, follows if she go;  
She, forcing waves to cool his hot embrace,  
He, fanning breath upon her crystal face.   

4  
Still dallying in her osten-turning source,  
She streaks a long the shores with her proud strain,  
And here, and there, she wantonness in her course,  
And in her gate oft turneth back again,  
Smiling to look upon her silver train,  
With pretty Antics she the fair soil greets,  
Till Medoas' stream from famous Kent she meets.   

5  
Thus careless wandering with this gliding stream,  
Whose fleeting told me of times flying hours,  
Delighted thus as in a pleasing dream,  
Cropping small branches of the sweetest flowers:  
And looking back on London's stately towers,  
So Troy (thought I) her stately head did bear,  
Whose crazed ribs the furrowing plough doth ear.   

6  
Weary, at length a Willow tree I found,  
Which on the brim of this great current stood,  
Whose root was matted with the arrasd ground,  
Dewed with the small drops of this surging flood,  
Ordained it seemed to sport her Nymphish brood  
Whose curled top, envied the heavens great eye  
Should view the stock she was maintained by.   

7  
The towering Lark which carols to the Sun,  
With trebling descant quavers in the air,  
And on the rivers marmuring base doth run,  
The Marble-skyes, with chequered varnish fair,  
My branch-embossed bed, of nature's care;  
The flowers my smell, the 'slud my thirst to steep,  
Thus like a King, with pleasure rocked a sleep.   

8  
When in a dream it seemed unto me  
A noise of trumpets from the flood arose,  
As when great BETA in her pomp we see,  
When she by London on the water goes,  
The dancing Barge with silent music rows:  
The people thronging on the wharfes & shores,  
The air with shouts, the water filled with oars.   

9  
A troup of Nymphs came suddenly on land,  
When thus was ended this triumphant sound,  
Encompassing me, lying on the strand,  
Taking their places on the grassy ground,  
Their ory tresses all with Laurel crowned,  
Casting their sober modest eyes a space,  
Upon my swarthy melancholy face.   

10  
Betwixt two Ladies came a goodly Knight,  
As newly brought from some distressful place,  
It seemed to me he was some noble wight,  
Though his attire were miserable and base,  
And care made furrows in his manly face:  
And though cold age had frosted his fair hairs,  
It rather seemed for sorrow then for years.   

11  
The one a princely Lady did support  
This feeble Image which could sarcly stand:  
The other, fleering in disdainful sort,  
With scornful gesture drew him by the hand,  
Who being blind, yet bound with many a band.  
At length, I found this proud disdainful Dame  
Was FORTUNE, and the other, glorious FAME.   

12  
FAME on his right hand, in a rob of gold,  
Whose stately train, Time as her Page did bear,  
On which, for rich embrawdery was enrolled,  
The deeds of all the Worthies ever were,  
So strongly wrought, as wrong could not empeire,  
Whose large memorials she did still rehearse,  
In Poets man-immortalizing verse.   

13  
Two Tables on her goodly breast she bore,  
The one of Crystal, th'other Ebony,  
Engraved with names of all that lived before  
That; the fair book of heavenly memory,  
Th'other, the black scroll of infamy:  
One stuffed with Poets, Saints, & Conquerors,  
Th'other with Atheists, Tyrants, Usurers.   

14  
And in her words appeared as a wonder,  
Her during force, and never-failing might,  
Which softly spoke, far of were as a thunder,  
And round about the world would take their flight,  
And bring the most obscurest things to light;  
That still the farther of, the greater still  
Did ever sound our good, or make our ill.   

15  
Fortune, as blind as he whom she doth lead,  
Her feature changed each minute of the hour,  
Her riggish feet fantastickly would tread,  
Now would she smile, & suddenly would lower,  
And with one breath, her words were sweet & sour.  
Upon her foes, she amorously would glance,  
And on her followers, coily look a scaunce.   

16  
About her neck, (it seemed as for a chain)  
Some Prince's crowns & broken sceptres hung,  
Upon her arm a lazy youth did lean,  
Which scornfully unto the ground she flung;  
And with a wanton grace passing along,  
Great bags of gold from out her bosom drew,  
And to base Peasants and fond Idiots threw.   

17  
A dusky vail which hide her sightles eyes,  
Like clouds, which cover our uncertain lives,  
Painted about with bloody Tragedies,  
Fools wearing crowns, & wisemen clogged in gives,  
Now, how she gives, again, how she deprives;  
In this black Map thus she her might discovers,  
In Camps, and Courts, on soldiers, kings, & lovers.   

18  
An easy rising little bank there was,  
The seat fair FLORA sometime sat upon,  
Curling her locks in lovely Isis' glass,  
To revel in the Spring's pavilion,  
Here was her court, and this her princely throne;  
Here set they down this poor distressed man,  
And in this sort proud Fortune first began.   

19  
BEhold (quoth she) this Duke of Normandy,  
The heir of William, Conqueror of this isle,  
Which thou poor Fame hast vowed to glorify,  
Whose history this Poet must compile;  
My slave, my scorn, my prisoner, an exile,  
Whose life I marked with my black dismal brand,  
And thou wouldst now eternize with thy hand.   

20  
Thou art an Echo, a byword, a wind,  
Thine airy body is composed of breath,  
A wandering blast, within no place confined,  
Which oft of nothing, silly something saith,  
Yet never canst speak well till after death;  
And from imagination hast thy birth,  
Unknown in heaven, & unperceived on earth.   

21  
First, in opinion hadst thou thy creation,  
Formed with conceit, the needy Poet's friend,  
And like opinion, keep'st no certain fashion,  
Yet in a circle still thy course doth end:  
And but a Post which all base rumours send,  
An needle's burden of an idle song,  
The profane accent of each witless tongue.   

22  
Slanders vile spy, a runagate, a thief,  
Which day and night in every chink doth peep,  
A blab, a wanton, lightest of belief,  
Nor in thy gate a mean dost ever keep,  
But now high in the air, now in the deep;  
Reporting that which thou dost but suppose,  
And telling that thou never shouldst disclose.   

23  
With extreme toil and labour thou art sought,  
Danger the way that leadeth to thy Cell,  
Only with death thy favours must be bought,  
And who obtains thee, fetcheth thee from hell,  
Where thou ensconst with fiery swords dost dwell.  
And when thou art with all this peril found,  
Thou art a sudden voice, a tinkling sound.   

24  
My outcast abjects, such as I disgrace,  
And evermore have held in hateful scorn,  
And in the world have set in servile place,  
These be thy favourits, these thou dost suborn,  
These wait on Fame, whose weeds be nearly worn  
Yet cannot these poor wretches come to thee,  
Unless before they be preferred by me.   

25  
That trump thou sayst, wakes dead men from their trance  
Is not of precious gold as some do deem,  
A brazen pipe, by which vain fools do dance,  
And but to sound so loud doth only seem,  
Sith points of virtue no man doth esteem,  
And with this toy the idle brain abusest,  
And so their folly and thy fault excusest.   

26  
Except in peril, thou dost not appear,  
And yet in peril ebbing still and flowing,  
Flying from him that seethe secure near,  
Diminished at hand, augmented going,  
On fertile stocks decayed, on barren growing.  
Lost life with rumours thou dost but repair,  
And what thou promisest, thou payest with air.   

27  
In baleful Hearses, sad and sable grounds,  
On gory letters thy memorials lie,  
Thy lines are deep immedicable wounds,  
And towards the dust thou pointest thy tearful eye,  
Never discovered but in Tragedy:  
Thy stony heart is pitiful to none,  
But sirenlike, to their destruction.   

28  
This orbs great revolution knows my power,  
And how I reign with the eternal Fates,  
With whom I sit in counsel every hour,  
On change of times, subversion of states,  
On their beginnings, on their several dates,  
In destining haps past, on things to come,  
In judgement till the everlasting doom.   

29  
The stars my Table-books wherein I writ,  
My Register the spacious circling Sky,  
On heavens great brow I carefully indite  
Unhappy man's long birth-markt destiny,  
And by my power, my laws I ratefy,  
And his frail will imperiously control,  
With such acquaint clauses as I there enroll.   

30  
To me the heavens have their Commission given,  
And in my Charter all their right compiled,  
That I alone should bless as beauteous heaven,  
And honour those on whom I mean to smile,  
To gain them titles of immortal style,  
That all should worthy be which I bestow,  
Nor reason urged, but for I think it so.   

31  
In great predestination is my being,  
Whose depth yet wisdom never could discern,  
And in her secrets, more than secrets seeing,  
Where learning still may learn how still to learn,  
Those points which do the deepest points conscerne,  
Where sacred texts unlock the way to me,  
To lighten those which will my glory see.   

32  
What names old Poets to their gods did give,  
Were only figures to express my might,  
To show the virtues that in me do live,  
My only power on this all-mooving wight,  
And all their Altars unto me were dight:  
Whose wondrous working, still to times did bring  
Matter whereon they evermore might sing.   

33  
Still most uncertain varying in my course,  
Yet in these changes hold one certain end,  
Crossing man's forecast, weakening wisdoms force,  
To none still foe, to none a perfect friend,  
Amazing thought to think what I pretend.  
Depressing virtue sometime, that thereby  
She taking wing again may sore on high.   

34  
Forth of my lap I pour abundant bliss,  
All good proceeds from my all-giving hand,  
By me man happy, or unhappy is,  
Blest if I bless, repulsed if I withstand,  
And I alone am friendship's only band;  
Upon whose Links all greedily take hold,  
Which being broke, our zealous faith grows cold.   

35  
Pausing she strownes, when suddenly again,  
A roaring noise ariseth from the flood,  
As when a tempest with a shower of rain  
Is heard far off within some mighty wood,  
At which me thought all things amazed stood:  
As though her words such power with them did bear  
As Sea & Land did quake her voice to hear.   

36  
When Fame yet smiling mildly thus replies,  
Alas (quoth she) what labour thou hast lost,  
What wondrous mists thou casts before our eyes,  
Yet will the gain not countervail the cost.  
What couldst thou say if thou hadst cause to boast:  
Which thus canst paint such wonders of thy worth,  
Yet art far less, than nothing can set forth.   

37  
A hap, a chance, a casual event,  
The vulgars' I doll, and a childish terror,  
A what men will, a silly accident,  
The mask of blindness, and disguise of error,  
Nature's vile nickname, follies foolish mirror;  
A term, a byword, by tradition learned,  
A hearsay, nothing, not to be discerned.   

38  
A wanton fear, a silly Infant's dream,  
A vain illusion, a mere fantasy,  
A seeming shade, a lunatic man's theme:  
A fond Aenigma, a flat heresy,  
Imaginations doting trumpery;  
A folly in itself, it one self loathing,  
A thing that would be, and yet can be nothing.   

39  
Disease of time, Ambition's Concubine,  
A minde-entrauncing snare, a slippery Ice,  
The bait of death, destructions heady wine,  
Vaine-glories Patron, the fools paradise,  
Fond hope, wherewith confusion doth entice;  
A vile seducing fiend, which haunts men still,  
To lose them in the errors of their will.   

40  
A reason, which no reason can discuss,  
And hast the ground of all thy strength from hence,  
Walking in shadow of man's Genius,  
In human birth pretending residence;  
A riddle, made of the stars influence,  
Which good and evil dost thy title frame,  
Yet neither good nor evil, but in name.   

41  
Those ignorant which made a God of Nature,  
And Nature's God divinely never knew,  
Were those which first erected Fortunes stature,  
From whence this vile idolatry first grew,  
Which times defect into men's ears still blue:  
Grounding their usurpations foolish laws,  
On the opinion of so poor a cause.   

42  
Sloth first did hatch thee in her sleepy Cell,  
And with base thoughts, in idleness waste bred,  
With cowardice thou evermore dost dwell,  
And with dishonourable ease art fed,  
In superstitious humours brought to bed:  
A gossip's tale thy greatest proof doth lend,  
On old-sayd saws thy title doth depend.   

43  
Thy habit looseness, and thy measure waste,  
Deceitful, vain, inhuman, sickle, light,  
Thou poisonest him to whom thou giv'st to taste,  
'Gainst virtue still thou bendest all thy might,  
With honourable thoughts thou wagest fight,  
The yielding man, in fetters thou dost bind,  
But weak and slavish to the constant mind.   

44  
Who leans to thee, whom thou hast not deceived?  
Who slattrest thou, whom thou abusest not?  
Who hopes of thee, and not of hope bereaved?  
whose secrets known, with shame dost thou not blot?  
Who not devoured, thou in thy paws hast got?  
Who's he, or where yet ever was he found,  
That thou mightst hurt, & didst not deadly wound?   

45  
The slavish peasant is thy favourite,  
In change and chances all thy glory is,  
In vile and basest things thou tak'st delight,  
In earthly mud consisteth all thy bliss,  
What canst thou be which art bewitched with this?  
For wert thou heavenly, thou in love wouldst be,  
With that which nearest doth resemble thee.   

46  
I am the powerful messenger of heaven,  
My wings the lightning spreading far & wide,  
To every coast I with a thought am driven,  
And on the gorgeous sunbeams do I ride,  
To heaven I mount, down to the earth I slide:  
I register the world's eternal hours,  
The Secretary of the immortal powers.   

47  
Refuge of hope, the harbinger of truth,  
Handmaid of heaven, virtues skilful guide,  
The life of life, the ages of springing youth,  
Triumph of joy, eternities fair bride,  
The Virgin's glory, and the martyrs pride:  
The courages immortal raising fire,  
The very height to which great thoughts aspire.   

48  
The stair by which men to the Stars do climb,  
The minds first mover, greatness to express,  
Faiths armour, and the vanquisher of time,  
A pleasant sweet against death's bitterness,  
The high reward which doth all labours bless;  
The study which doth heavenly things impart,  
The joy amidst the tedious ways of Art.   

49  
Learnings green Laurel, justice glorious throne,  
The Muse's chariot, Memories true food,  
The Poet's life, the God's companion,  
The fire-reviuing Phoenix Sun-nurst brood,  
The spirits eternal Image, honours good;  
The Balsamum which cures the soldiers scar,  
The world-discovering Seaman's happy Star.   

50  
My dwelling place betwixt the earth and skies,  
My Turret unto heaven her top upreares,  
The windows made of Lynceus piercing eyes,  
And all the walls be made of daintiest ears,  
Where every thing that's done in earth appears;  
No word is whispered in this vaulty round,  
But in my Palace straightways it doth sound.   

51  
The pavement is of rattling brazen drums,  
The Rafters trumpets which do rend the air,  
Sounding aloud each name that thither comes,  
The chinks like tongues of all things talking there,  
And all things past, in memory do bear:  
The doors unlock with every word man faith,  
And open wide with every little breath.   

52  
It's hung about with Arms & conquering spoils,  
The pillars which support the roof of this,  
Are trophies, graven with Herculean toils,  
The roof of garlands, crowns, and ensigns is,  
In midst of which a crystal Pyramid:  
All over carved with men of most renown,  
Whose base is my fair chair, the spire my crown.   

53  
Here in the body's likeness whilst it lives,  
Appear the thoughts, proceeding from the mind,  
To which the place a form more glorious gives,  
And there they be immortally divined,  
By virtue there more heavenly refined;  
And when the earthly body once doth perish,  
There doth this place the minds true Image cherish.   

54  
My beauty never fades, but as new borne,  
As years increase, so ever waxing young,  
My strength is not diminished nor worn,  
What weakeneth all things, ever makes me strong:  
Nor from my hand, my Sceptre can be wrong:  
Times sacrilegious rapine I defy,  
A tributary to eternity.   

55  
The face of heaven my chronicles contain,  
Where I erect the Trophies of my fame,  
Which there in glorious characters remain,  
The gorgeous feeling of th'immortal frame,  
The constellations letters of my name,  
Where my memorials evermore abide,  
In those pure bodies highly glorified.   

56  
FAme ending thus, Fortune again began  
Further to urge what she before had said,  
And lo (quoth she) Duke Robert is the man  
Who by my might and policy's betrayed,  
Then let us see how thou canst lend him aid:  
I took from him his liberty and crown,  
Raise thou him up, whom I have thus thrown down.   

57  
Quoth Fame a fit instance is there none  
Then Robert is, than Fortune do thy worst:  
Here may thy weakness, and my power be shown,  
Here shall I bless, whom thou before hast cursed,  
Begin thou then, since thus thy turn comes first,  
And thou shalt see how great a power I have  
Over the world, proud Fortune, and the grave.   

58  
(Quoth Fortune) then, my hand did point the Star,  
The seal wherewith heaven signed his utmost date,  
Which marked his birth with brands of bloody war,  
Rash mutinies, rude garboils, harsh debate,  
His foreign plagues, home wrongs, & private hate:  
And on the height of his great Father's glory,  
First laid the ground work of his Sons sad story.   

59  
Nature, which did her best at Robert's birth,  
I most undid in his nativity,  
This friend I made his greatest foe on earth,  
Her gifts I made his greatest enemy,  
Framing such mildness in Nobility:  
Differing so far from haughty William's strain,  
That thus he judged his Son unfit to reign.   

60  
And yet that courage which he did inherit,  
And from the greatness of his blood had taken,  
Stirred up with grief, awakes this greater spirit,  
Which more and more did William's hate awaken,  
He thus forsaken, as he had forsaken:  
Yet to his will so partially inclined,  
As now his rage, his reason quite doth blind.   

61  
Now do I lean to him whom all have left,  
Laughiug on him, on whom despair doth lower,  
Lending him hope, of former hope bearest,  
Giving his youth large wings wherewith to tower,  
Aiding his power, to cross great William's power:  
That so his might, in countermaunding might  
By his own wrong, might hinder his own right.   

62  
That whilst his Father's sierie tempered sword  
Through Albion's cleeves, that fatal entrance made,  
With German power, returns this youthful Lord,  
With others Arms, his own bounds to invade,  
And Normandy lies couched under his blade,  
Thinking to make a present mean of this,  
To make his own yet doubtful to be his.   

63  
Towards William's end, now Williams hate begun,  
Whom he begot, doth now beget his woe,  
He scarce a Father, Robert scarce a Son,  
His Son the Father fo his overthrow,  
Youth old in will, age young in hate doth grow:  
He nursing that which doth all mischief nurse,  
He by his blessing, causing his own curse.   

64  
And yet least age might cool Duke William's blood,  
With wars in France I still the heat supplied,  
That whilst young Robert yet disgrace stood  
justly condemned of insolence and pride,  
In this confirmed, the famous Conqueror died:  
Setting proud Rufus on his regal throne,  
Whilst Norman Robert strives but for his own.   

65  
Much trust in him, a carelessness first bred,  
His courage makes him over-confident,  
Blinding revenge, besides his course him led,  
When lost his wits, in errors darkness went,  
Rashness sees all, but nothing can prevent:  
What his mind loathed, disgrace did urge him to,  
Making his will the cause of his own woe.   

69  
This buried trunk of William is the root  
From which these two world-shadowing branches spread,  
This factious body standing on this foot,  
These two cross currents springing from one head,  
And both with one self nutriment are fed,  
Upon themselves their own force so should spend.  
Till in themselves, they both themselves should end.   

67  
Thus the old conquest hath new conquests made,  
And Norman Ensigns shadow English fields,  
The brother now, the brother must muade,  
The conquerors shield, against the conquerors shield,  
Right wounding right, nor wrong to wrong will yield:  
One arm bear off the others furious stroke,  
Sceptre with Sceptre, sword with sword be broke.   

68  
The hateful soils where death was sown in blood,  
Increasing vengeance one against the other,  
And now the seed of wrath began to bud,  
Which in their bosoms they so long did smother,  
These but as bastards, England their step mother;  
Weakening herself, by malice gives them strength  
With murdering hands to spoil themselves at length.   

69  
This Williams death, gives Robert's troubles life,  
Whose life in death made luckless Robert live,  
This end of strife, beginneth greater strife,  
Giving to take, what it did take to give,  
Living deprived, which dead doth him deprive;  
Evil brought good, that good converts to ill,  
Thus life and death breed Robert's mischief still.   

70  
When first King William entered on this isle,  
Harrold had friends, but then the Norman none,  
But Rufus lived here as an exile,  
And Robert hoped to reign of many a one,  
Only my hand held up his sliding throne:  
William but weak, beats Harold down by wrong,  
William supplanting Robert, Robert strong.   

71  
Odo the prop which Rufus power upheld,  
Revolting then, enraged with Lansrancks' spite,  
And on this hope grounding his faith, rebelled, might:  
In bloody letters writing Robert's right,  
Great Mortayns power, and strong Mountgomeres  
Mangling this isle with new deformed scars;  
Ere peace had cured the wounds of former wars.   

72  
The Normans glory in the conquest won,  
The English bruised with their battered Arms,  
The Normans followed what they had begun,  
The English fearful of their former harms,  
What cools the English, Norman courage warms:  
The Normans entered to new victory,  
The English for their fight already fly,   

73  
Whilst Rufus hopes thus freshly bleeding lay,  
And now with ruin all things went to wrack,  
Destruction having found the perfect way,  
Were not proud Robert by some means kept back  
By fond delays, I forced him time to slack:  
And stopped the mischief newly thus begun,  
To undo all what he before had done.   

74  
Thus first by counsel spurred I on the rage,  
Forcing the stream of their distempered blood,  
Then by my counsel, did again assuage,  
When this great Duke secure of conquest stood,  
Pining his force, giving advantage food;  
That first by taking Arms, he strength might lose,  
And making peace, give strength unto his foes.   

75  
A peace concluded to destroy their peace,  
A sudden truce to breed a lingering war,  
That Arms might cease, while mischief might increase,  
To bring death near, by sending safety far,  
In making that, which made, all quite might mar:  
Treason crept in by this adulterate key,  
Into the closet where his counsels lay.   

76  
Thus made a friend, to rob him of his friend,  
The means a foe, might weaken so his foe,  
To frame this strange beginning to his end,  
The well-cast plot or utter overthrow,  
In this fair vizard, masking in this show:  
That since hate thus in wearing would not prove,  
He brings him now in habit of his love.   

77  
Thus reconciled by me, one to the other,  
Joined in this poor divided union,  
These brothers now make war upon their brother,  
As loath from them he should go free alone,  
To shape his mischief truly by their own;  
To draw on grief, and urge it to be more,  
Because it came not fast enough before.   

78  
This by foresight still wisely provident  
To spur them on beyond degrees of ill,  
To make their fury far more violent,  
And ground their ruin on their peevish will,  
That mischief should be getting mischief still:  
That injury so far should pity chase,  
As reconcilement never should take place.   

79  
And here to show my power on thee poor Fame,  
I made thee now my greatest instrument,  
That in the fury of this raging flame,  
Even in the height of Henry's discontent,  
To Robert's ears the brute of war I sent:  
Of Palestine that leaving all with them,  
He might away to great jerusalem.   

80  
With that sweet fume of honours shortest breath,  
Feeding the humour which possessed his heart,  
When now drew on the time of William's death,  
That in this fatal hour he should departed,  
Herein to show my very depth of Art:  
That Henry now in England left alone,  
Might seat himself in Robert's rightful throne.   

81  
The warlike Music of these clattering Arms,  
Doth stop his ears like a tempestuous wind  
That now he finds no presage of his harms,  
Beyond all course so lifted is his mind,  
Declaring well the greatness of his kind;  
Mounted so high within the spacious air,  
As out of sight of ground, he dreads no snare.   

82  
His Father died when first his cares took breath,  
His Brother dies, now when his woes should die,  
His sorrows thus are strangely borne in death,  
All-ending death, brings forth his misery,  
Such is my power in humane destiny:  
That where an utter ruin I pretend,  
Destruction doth begin, where hate should end.   

83  
Thus laid the complot in the course of all,  
I make his safety unto him more dear,  
Seated, from whence he never thought to fall,  
Assured of good, if any good there were,  
That now each thought a Sceptre seems to bear:  
Which such a hold in his great spirit doth win,  
As after, made his error prove his sin.   

84  
With grace young Henry to his throne I bring  
Making great friends of mighty enemies,  
She wing my power in this new reigning King,  
As by my hand invisibly to rise,  
Decking his crown with worldly dignities:  
Forging his tongue with such a sacred fire,  
As could persuade, what ere he would desire.   

85  
In Palestine with Robert, Fame doth rest,  
In England with young Beauclark, Fortune bides,  
These mighty Ladies, of these Lords possessed,  
Thus each of these, with each of these divides,  
Thus wear we factious then on either sides:  
Fame for brave Short-thigh, purchasing renown,  
Fortune for Beauclark, for the English crown.   

86  
Thou wooest, I win, thou suest, and I obtain,  
What I possess, that only thou dost crave,  
Thou layest out to gain, but what I gain  
Thou dost desire, I in possession have,  
Thou hordst, I spend, I lavish, thou dost save:  
Thou scarcely art, yet that thou art to me,  
Thou wouldst, I can, thou servile, I am free.   

87  
Robert grown weak, Henry recovered strength,  
What quenched the Normans glory, fired his will,  
Robert is fallen, Henry got up at length,  
Robert no guide, Henry is steerd with skill,  
Grounding his good on luckless Robert's ill:  
Their mutual courage, and unmoved hate,  
Tells Henry's rise, decline of Robert's state.   

88  
From perils safe, no place at home he sees,  
Abroad he wins, at home he still doth lose,  
At home, wasted with civil enemies,  
Whilst he abroad is conquering foreign foes,  
Wasting at home, more than abroad he grows:  
At home his danger unto many known,  
Yet he abroad is careless of his own.   

89  
Now bring I Robert from these glorious wars,  
Triumphing in the conquered Pagans flight,  
From foreign broils to toil in home-nurst jars,  
From getting others Lands, for's own to fight,  
Forced by wrong, by sword to claim his right:  
And with that sword in paynims blood imbrued,  
To save himself, by his own friends pursued.   

90  
Thus he's enriched with that he cannot see,  
With few vain titles swelling in his name,  
And all his substance but mere shadows be,  
Whilst he strange castles in the air doth frame,  
Lo such a mighty Monarchesse is Fame:  
That, what she gives, so easy is to bear,  
As of those gifts, none robbing need to fear.   

91  
This whets his spleen, but doth his strength abate,  
Much care for coin, makes care for kingdoms less  
His feebleness must hold up Henry's state,  
These bear up him, which Roberts hopes suppress,  
Whose brothers comfort is in his distress;  
This is the mean he undertook to try,  
With Robert's blood his safety first to buy.   

92  
With kind entreaty he doth first begin,  
Not fully yet established as he would,  
By this advantage to get further in,  
Till he had got a sure and faster hold,  
Baiting unseen, deceit with sums of gold:  
By yearly tribute from his crown to rise,  
To stop the mouth of passed injuries.   

93  
This peace to which the mutiny must yield,  
And English tribute paid to Normandy,  
What Robert thinks his safegard's Henries shield,  
And Robert's self, doth Robert injury,  
This tribute wrongs his true Nobility;  
And from this source from whence their peace should spring,  
Proceeds the cause of Roberts ruining.   

94  
These sums, the sinews of Duke Robert's war,  
Like hourly tides, his flowing current sed,  
And to his fire the lively fuel are,  
His will the stream, and this the Fountain head,  
Having his humour fitly cherished:  
Deceitful Henry, reobtaines at length,  
Unto his Arm adding Duke Robert's strength.   

95  
This want his haughty courage soon doth find,  
Cutting the quills of his high flying wings,  
That now he must commit him to the wind,  
Driven which way the furious tempest flings;  
powerless of that, which giveth power to Kings;  
Which desperate grief, his mind enrageth so,  
As makes him past all reason in his woe.   

96  
Honour gave entertainment to belief,  
Under which colour treason in was brought,  
Which slew his strength before he felt the grief,  
Pure innocence seldom suspecteth aught,  
No base affection master of his thought,  
Nor majesty inward deceit had learned,  
More than to show, her outward eyes discerned.   

97  
Misery seemed nothing, yet to him unknown,  
Not knowing evil, evil could not fly,  
Not savouring sorrow, having tasted none,  
To find lurking deceit he looked too high,  
To honest minds, Fraud doth the soon pry!  
Whose nature thus I chose to be the mould,  
Therein to work what form of hap I would.   

98  
His own compassion, cause of his own care,  
Upon his thought, his constant promise stood,  
Virtue in him, most naturally rare,  
No vile base humour tainted his pure blood,  
His bounty still gave good desert her food;  
His mind so great, and honourably free,  
Made him too prone to lose credulity.   

99  
His counsels thus are cumbered by his care,  
In nothing certain but uncertainty,  
His friends resolved on nothing but despair,  
Yet shows he greatness in most misery,  
Each place become a stage for Tragedy;  
By error, wandering far beyond his scope,  
Strong in desire, but weakest in his hope.   

100  
In public shame, oft counsel seems disgraced  
No privilege can from the Fates protect:  
In desperation, counsel hath no taste,  
Untamed rage doth all advise reject,  
Hiding the course which reason should direct;  
Making himself the author of his harms,  
Without experience, valour wants his arms.   

101  
Now I, whose power in William's wars was seen,  
When first on William's conquest he begun,  
To show myself the world's imperious Queen,  
Now turn myself against his warlike son,  
To lose by me, by me his Father won:  
On England's part, 'gainst Normandy to stand,  
Which Normandy had conquered by my hand.   

102  
The conquest William made upon this isle,  
With Norman blood be-peopling Britain,  
Even now as Britons made within a while  
Turn with revenge to conquer Normandy,  
Thus victory goes back to victory:  
That his own blood, wins what before he won,  
His conquering son, subdued his conquering son.   

103  
Thus Norman towns begirt with English arms,  
The furious brother dealing wrathful blows:  
Both pressing in where deadly peril swarms,  
These English-Norman, Norman-English foes,  
At last do get, what they at first did lose:  
As Normandy did England's fall provoke,  
Now Norman necks must bear the English yoke.   

104  
The flood of mischief thus comes in again,  
What Fortune works, not always seems pretéded,  
The wind thus turned, blows back the fire amain,  
Where first mischance began, she will be ended,  
And he defend him, from those he offended:  
For this we find, the course of fatal things,  
Is best discerned in states of Realms & Kings.   

105  
On whom of late in Palestine I smiled,  
In civil wars now dreadfully I frown;  
He called from exile, I from him exiled,  
To leave his crown, who had refused a crown,  
Who beat all down, now hear is beaten down,  
Here to lose all, who there had gotten all,  
To make his fall, more grievous in his fall.   

106  
To England now a prisoner they him bring,  
Now is he hers, which claimed her for his own,  
A Captive, where he should have been a King,  
His dungeon made where should have been his throne  
Now buried there, whereas he should have grown.  
In one poor tower mewed up, within one place,  
Whose Empires bounds the Ocean should embrace.   

107  
Could mortal sense contain immortal hate,  
Or reason sound the depth of things divine,  
judgement might stand amazed at Robert's state,  
And think no might to be compared with mine,  
That all power may unto my power resign:  
And that in Robert's fall, the world may see  
Amongst the stars what power remains in me.   

108  
That sword which on his fortune hath such power  
Yet powerles is to end his wretched days:  
Those days with in their course all things devour,  
To his swift grief, makes slow and lazy stays,  
To Tyrannies long reign he thus obeys,  
That he in life a thousand deaths might die,  
Only in mercy racked with cruelty.   

109  
He hath no joy but in his miseries,  
His greatest comfort is the blessed light,  
For which, (as I were angry with his eyes)  
I make the King deprive him of his sight,  
To suit his days so justly with the night,  
That sencles' stones to moan he should not see,  
Yet sencles' stones behold his misery.   

120  
And this he felt, that Fortune made him blind,  
Lest his eyes objects yet might lighten care:  
That the light wanting, more might light his mind,  
Whose eyes might see how great his sorrows are;  
That every sense, that senses woe might share:  
And so that sense deprived of joy alone,  
Might more increase the grief of every one.   

111  
These griefs and horrors, enemies of rest,  
Which murder life where they do harbour long,  
Kill humours, which his body oft oppressed,  
Unnaturally, thus making nature strong,  
As out of deaths dead stock new life still sprung,  
As life with death had tempted him till now,  
Yet death to life no ease would ere allow.   

112  
Death he feared not, is taught his end to fear,  
Life, once he loved, with him now fallen in love,  
That foe, a friend, to hurt him doth forbear,  
That friend a foe, he cannot now remove,  
Twixt them, he all extremities doth prove:  
Aged in youth, to pine his joy thereby,  
Youthful in age, to suffer misery.   

113  
Courage forbids that he himself should kill,  
His life too proud to be constrained to die,  
His will permits not death now when he will,  
What would despair, true valour doth deny;  
Thus life's life foe, death is death's enemy:  
Willing to die, by life him double killing,  
Urging to die, twice dying, he unwilling.   

114  
So many years as he hath worn a crown,  
So many years as he hath hoped to rise,  
So many years he lives thus quite thrown down,  
So many years he lives without his eyes:  
So many years in dying ere he dies;  
So many years locked up in prison strong,  
Though sorrow make the shortest time seem long.   

115  
Thus sway I in the course of earthly things,  
That Time might work him everlasting spite,  
To show, that power yet ever makes not kings,  
Nor that conceit can compass my deceit,  
In fined things such marvels infinite:  
Nor any wonder is to be supposed,  
In that wherein all wonders are enclosed.   

116  
AT Fortunes' speech they stand as all amazed,  
Whilst Fame herself doth wonder at his woe,  
And all upon this deadly Image gazed,  
Whose misery she had described so;  
But in revenge of this despiteful foe,  
Fame from a slumber (as it seemed) awake,  
On his behalf, thus for herself bespoke.   

117  
What time I came from world-renowned Rome,  
To waken Europe from her drowsy trance,  
Summoning the Princes of great Christendom,  
To Palestine their Ensigns to advance,  
Sounding my trump in England, Spain, & France  
To move the Christians to religious war,  
Fron Pagans hands to free CHRIST'S sepulchar.   

118  
That holy Hermit Peter, then as one  
Which as a Saint bewailed so great a loss:  
With Boulogne Godfrey, Christ's strong champion,  
Under the Banner of the bloody CROSS,  
Now on the Alps the conquering colours toss,  
Leading along the bravest Christian band,  
To rear their Trophies in the HOLY LAND.   

119  
Hither the flocks of gallant spirits do throng,  
The place whence immortality doth spring,  
To whom the hope of conquest doth belong,  
Nor any thought, less, then to be a King;  
Hither doth Fame her dearest children bring:  
And in this Camp she makes her treasury,  
The rarest gems of Europa's Chivalry.   

120  
This conquering lord, the Conqueror's eldest son,  
Whose hand did then the Norman sceptre wield,  
In Arms to win what once his Father won,  
To England's conquest is again compelled,  
Whose crown from him proud William Rufus held,  
An exile thence, by's angry Father driven,  
By Fortune robbed, of all by Nature given.   

121  
With fame of this, once Robert's ears possessed,  
With heavenly wonder doth his thoughts inspire,  
Leaving no place for wrong in his fair breast,  
Giving large wings unto his great desire,  
Warming his courage which more glorious fire,  
As thus to fight for his dear saviours sake,  
Of England's crown he no account doth make.   

122  
Of kingdoms titles he casts off the toil  
Which by proud Rufus tyranny is kept:  
Dear as his life to him that hallowed soil,  
Wherein that God in lively manhood slept,  
At whose dear death, the rocks for pity wept;  
A crown of gold this Christian knight doth scorn,  
so much he loved those temples crowned with thorn   

123  
Those grievous wants whose burden weighed him down,  
The sums with he in Germany had spent,  
In gathering power to gain the English crown,  
Guarded with princely troops in his rich Tent,  
Like William Conquerors son magnificent,  
Now by his need, he grievously doth find,  
Weakening his might, what never could his mind.   

124  
This brave high spirited Duke, this famous Lord,  
Whose right of England Rufus held away,  
To set an edge upon his conquering sword,  
In gage to Henry, Normandy did lay,  
Thus to maintain his valiant soldiers pay:  
Rather of Realms himself to dispossess,  
Then Christendom should be in such distress.   

125  
Eternal sparks of honours purest fire,  
Virtue of virtues, Angels angeld mind,  
Where admiration may itself admire,  
Where man's divinest thoughts are more divined,  
Saint sainted spirit, in heavens own shrine enshrind  
Endeared dearest thing, for ever living,  
Receiving most of Fame, to Fame more giving.   

126  
Such fervent zeal doth from his soul proceed,  
As those curled tresses which his brows adorn,  
Until that time jerusalem were freed,  
He makes a vow they never should be shorn,  
But for a witness of that vow be worn;  
True vow, strong faith, great lord, most happy hour,  
Performed, increased, blest by effecting power.   

127  
True vow, so true, as truth to it is vowed,  
Vowing all power to help so pure a vow,  
Allowing perfect zeal to be allowed,  
If zeal of perfect truth might ere allow,  
Then much admired, but to be wondered now;  
Faith in itself, then wonder more concealing,  
Faith to the world, then wonder more revealing.   

128  
Disheveled locks, what names might give you grace?  
Worn thus disheveled for his dear Lords sake,  
Sweet-flowring twists, valours engirdling lace,  
Browe-decking fringe, fair golden curled flake,  
honours rich garland, beauties meshing brake,  
Arbours of joy, which nature once did give,  
Where virtue should in endless Summer live.   

129  
Fair Memory, awaken Death from sleep,  
Call up Time's spirit, of passed things to tell,  
Unseal the secrets of th'unsearched deep,  
Let out the prisoners from Oblivisions Cell,  
Invoke the black inhabitants of hell:  
Into the earth's deep dungeon let the light,  
And with fair day clear up his cloudy night.   

130  
Eternity, be prodigal a while,  
With thine immortal arms embrace thy love,  
Divinest Powers, upon your image smile,  
And from your star-encircled thrones above,  
Earth's misty vapours from his sight remove,  
And in the Annals of the glorious fun,  
Unroll his worth, in Times large course to run.   

131  
Truth in his life, bright Poesy uphold,  
His life in truth adorning Poesy:  
Which casting life in a more purer mould,  
Preserves that life to immortality,  
Both truly working, either glorify;  
Truth by her power, Arts power to justify,  
Truth in Arts robes, adorned by Poesy.   

132  
To his victorious Ensign comes from far,  
The Redshancked Orcads, touched with no remorse,  
The lightfoot Irish, which with darts make war,  
Th'rank-riding Scot, on his swift running horse,  
The English Archer, of a lions force:  
The valiant Norman all his troops among,  
In bloody conquests tried, in Arms trained long.   

133  
Remote by nature in this colder Clime,  
Another nature he new birth doth bring,  
And by the locks he haileth aged Time,  
As newly he created every thing;  
Showing the place where heavens eternal King  
Our dear blood-bought redemption first began,  
Man covering God, earth heaven, & God in man.   

134  
Poor Islanders, which in the Ocean's chain,  
Too long imprisoned from the cheerful day,  
Your warlike Guide now brings you to the main,  
Which to your glory makes the open way:  
And his victorious hand becomes the key  
To let you in to famous victories;  
The honour of your brave posterities,   

135  
Be favourable fair heaven unto thine own,  
And with that Bethelem birth-foretelling star  
Still go before this Christian Champion;  
In fiery pillars lead him out from far,  
Let Angels march with him unto this war,  
With burning-bladed Cherubins still keep,  
Encompass him with clouds when he doth sleep.   

136  
When heaven puts on her glittering vail of stars,  
And with sweet sleep the soldiers senses charms,  
Then are his thoughts working these holy wars,  
Plotting assaults, watchful at all alarms,  
Rounding the Camp in rich apparelled Arms;  
His sleep their watch, his care their safety's key,  
Their day his night, his night he makes their day.   

137  
Valours true valour, honours living crown,  
Inspired thoughts, desert above desert,  
Greatness beyond imaginations bound,  
Nature more sweet than is expressed by Art,  
A heart declaring a true princely heart:  
Courage uniting courage unto glory,  
A subject fit for an immortal story.   

138  
Why should not heaven by night when forth he went  
Convert the stars to Suns to give him light?  
And at his prayers by day in his close Tent,  
The Tapers unto stars, to help his sight?  
That in his presence darkness might be bright;  
That every thing more purer in his kind,  
Might tell the pureness of his purer mind.   

139  
Yet Letters but like little islands be,  
And many words within this world of fame,  
Whose Regions rise and fall in their degree,  
Large volumes short descriptions of his name,  
Like little Maps painting his Globes great fame:  
Wit lost in wonder, seeking to express  
His virtues sum, his praises universe.   

140  
In grievous toils consisteth all his rest,  
In having most, of most enjoyeth none,  
Most wanting that whereof he is possessed,  
A King ordained, ne'er to enjoy his throne,  
That lest his own, which richly is his own;  
In this division from himself divided,  
Himself a guide for others safety, guided.   

141  
His one poor life, divided is to many,  
Dead to his comfort, doth to others live,  
Unto himself he is the least of any,  
All from him taken, unto all doth give,  
Deprived of joy, of care his to deprive:  
Who all controlleth, now that all controls,  
Body of bodies, his soul of their souls.   

142  
Religious war, more holy pilgrimage,  
Both Saint & soldier, Captain, Confessor,  
A devout youth, a resolute old age,  
A warlike Statesman, peaceful Conqueror,  
Grave Consul, true authentic Senator;  
Feare-chasing resolution, valiant fear,  
heart bearing nought, yet patiented all to bear.   

143  
Skill, valour guides, and valour armeth skill,  
Courage emboldeneth wit, wit courage arms,  
This is the thread which leadeth on his will,  
This is the steer which guides him in these storms,  
To see his good, and to foresee his harms:  
Not flying life, in fortune so content,  
Not fearing death, as truly valiant.   

144  
He feasts desire with sweetest temperance,  
Greatness he decks in modesty's attire,  
Honour he doth by humbleness advance,  
By sufferance he raiseth courage hire,  
His holy thoughts by patience still aspire:  
To fashion virtue strangely he doth seek,  
Making poor hope impatient, sorrow meek.   

145  
Then in his joy, he nothing less enjoys,  
Still of himself the worse part he is,  
What most should please him, him the most annoys,  
Of his, there's nothing can be called his,  
And what he hath, that doth he ever miss;  
His thought of conquest, so doth rest invade,  
Thus is he made, as unto others made.   

146  
All things to him be prosperous as he would,  
Not trusting Fortune, nor distrusting Fate,  
Resolved to hope, hap what soever could,  
joying in woe, in joy disconsolate,  
joy lighteneth woe, woe joy doth moderate;  
Careless of both, indifferent twixt either,  
Wooed of both, yet yielding unto neither.   

147  
Endless his toil, a figure of his fame,  
And his life ending gives his name no end,  
Lasting that form where virtue builds the frame,  
Those sums unnumbered glory gives to spend,  
Our bodies buried, than our deeds ascend:  
Those deeds in life, to worth cannot be rated,  
In death with life, our fame even then is dated.   

148  
Willing to do, he thinketh what to do,  
That what he did, exactly might be done,  
That due foresight before the act might go,  
Which wisely warning might all errors shun,  
That care might finish what he had begun:  
justly directed in the course of things,  
By that strait rule which sound experience brings.   

149  
From famous Godfrey and the Christian host,  
Unto the migty Grecian Emperor,  
Now is he sent, through many perils tossed,  
This Norman Duke, the brave Ambassador,  
His royal spirit so much ne'er seen before;  
As with his princely train when he doth come,  
Before the town of fair Byzantium.   

150  
From forth the holy Region is he sent,  
Bending his coure through Macedon and Thrace,  
Yet never would he sleep but in his Tent,  
Till he returned unto that hallowed place,  
Till he beheld that famous Godfreis' face;  
Nor never rest his body in a bed,  
Till Palestine were free delivered.   

151  
Triumphal prowess, true disposed care,  
Cleare-shining courage, honourable intent,  
Vertuous-apparreld manhood, thoughts more rare,  
Mind free as heaven, imperial government,  
Numbers of virtues in one sweet consent:  
Gifts which the soul so highly beautify,  
Humble valour, valiant humility,   

152  
Sweet air with Angel's breath be thou refined,  
And for his sake be made more pure than air,  
And thither let some gentle breathing wind,  
From Paradise bring sweets which be most rare,  
Let Summer sit in his imperial chair;  
And cloth sad Winter in the cheerful prime,  
Keeping continual Summer in the clime.   

153  
Delight be present in thy best attire,  
And court his eyes with thy delightful change,  
Oh warm his spirit with thy soule-feasting fire,  
To base delight-abusers, be thou strange,  
Such as in vainest pleasures boundless range:  
For pleasure he all pleasures quite forsook,  
And armed with zeal these toils first undertook.   

154  
O let Danubius in her watery room,  
Where she the name of Ister first did take,  
With threescore rivers swelling in her womb,  
With seven large throats her greedy thirst to slake,  
Doth swallow in the great worlds vasty lake:  
Unto all regions which do know her name,  
In Robert's glory tell our country's fame.   

155  
And broad-brimed Strymon as she vaulteth on,  
Sliding along the fertile Thracian shore,  
Kissing the strands of famous Macedon,  
Which once the name of old Aemathia wore,  
Whose fame decayed, her drops do now deplore:  
May raise another Orpheus with her moans,  
To sing his praise unto her trees and stones.   

156  
Time on his life, thy gathered store disburse,  
Which may enrich thee with eternal gain,  
Which art a beldame, now become a nurse,  
And in his end begin his glorious reign,  
That yet truth may of truth be forced to feign:  
That of his praise thyself a part mayst be,  
Which praise remains the better part of thee.   

157  
O thou immortal Tasso, Aestes glory,  
Which in thy golden book his name hast left,  
Enrolled in thy great Godfreis' living story,  
Whose lines shall scape untouched of ruins thest,  
Yet us of him thou hast not quite bereft:  
Though thy large Poems only boast his name,  
Ours was his birth, and we will have his fame.   

158  
The curious state of greatness he doth scorn,  
Careless of pomp to be magnificent,  
Deeming the noblest minded, noblest borne,  
Him worthiest honour, which the furthest went,  
His blood most pure, whose blood in wars most spent:  
Esteeming all fond titles, toys of nought,  
Most honouring those which were with peril bought   

159  
His richest robes are his approved Arms,  
His sports were deeds of peerless chivalry,  
He flies all pleasures as the Sirens charms,  
To his great mind, no pleasing harmony,  
Not touched with childish imbecility:  
As sacrilege to his religious mind,  
To mix base thoughts with those of heavenly kind.   

160  
A mind which of itself could rightly deem,  
Keeping a strait way in one certain course,  
As a true witness of his own esteem,  
Feeding itself from his own springing source,  
And by himself increasing his own force;  
Desirous still him daily to enure,  
To endure that, men thought none could endure.   

161  
Divinest touch, instinct of highest heaven,  
Most graceful grace, purest of purity,  
To mortal man, immortal virtue given,  
Manhood adorned with powerful deity,  
Discreetfull pity, hallowed piety:  
In secret working, by itself confessed,  
In silent admiration best expressed.   

162  
Not spurred with honour, dearly loving peace,  
Constant in any course to which he fell,  
A spirit which no asffliction could oppress,  
Never removed where once his thought did dwell,  
opinionate, that what he did was well;  
Which working now upon so good a cause,  
Approveth his conceit the surest laws.   

163  
No braggarts boast nor ostentacious word  
Out of his mouth is ever heard proceed,  
But on his foeman's curates with his sword,  
In characters, records his valiant deed,  
That there unpartial eyes might plainly read;  
In modest silence by true virtue hid,  
That though he dumb, his deeds told what he did.   

164  
He cheereth his Soldiers with sweet honeyed words,  
His princely hand embalmes the maimeds wound,  
Unto the needy gold he still affords,  
To brave attempts encouraging the sound,  
Never dismayed in peril is he found;  
His Tent a seat of justice to the grieved,  
A kingly court when need should be relieved,   

165  
His life each hour to danger he doth give,  
Yet still by valour he with peril strives,  
In all attempts as he did scorn to live,  
Yet living, as his life were many lives,  
Oft times from death it seems that he revives:  
Each hour in great attempts he seems to die,  
Yet still he lives in spite of jeopardy.   

166  
Even by that town o'er which his Lord did weep,  
Whose precious tears were shed for her own sin,  
Even by that town this zealous Lord did weep,  
To see her now defiled with others sin,  
He wept, he weeps for sin, and he for sin,  
He first shed tears, he lastly sheddeth tears,  
Those sacred drops, the others drops endears.   

167  
What prince was found within the Christian host  
That carried mark of honour in his shield,  
That with brave Robert's Lions once durst boast,  
Raging with fury in the bloody field,  
Whose mighty paws a pillar seemed to wield:  
Which from their nostrhils breathed a seeming flame,  
When he in pride amongst the Pagans came.   

168  
His life with blood how dearly did he prize,  
And never did he brandish his bright sword,  
But many Pagan souls did sacrifice,  
And all the ground with lifeless trunks he stored,  
Such was his love unto his dearest Lord;  
That were true love more purer then is love,  
Here in this love his pureness he might prove,   

169  
Who from his fury lately fled away,  
When in the field far off they him espied,  
Pursued in his fair presence make a stay,  
As of his hand they willing would have died,  
His beauty, so his fierceness mollified;  
As taking death by valiant Robert's name,  
Should to their lives give everlasting fame.   

170  
The cruel paynims thirsting after blood,  
With his sweet beauty do their hates a slake,  
Yet when by him in danger they have stood,  
And that his valour did their rage awake,  
And with their sword's revenge would deeply take  
The edges turn as seeming to relent,  
To pity him, to whom the blows were sent.   

171  
At fierce assaults where thousand deaths might fall,  
His cheerful smiles made death he could not kill,  
Imperiously his sword commands the wall,  
As stones should be obedient to his will,  
The yielding blood, his blood did never spill:  
His fury quenched with tears as with a flood,  
And yet like fire consuming all that stood.   

172  
When in the morn his Courser he bestrid,  
The trumpets sound unto his thoughts gave fire,  
But from the field he ever dropping rid  
As he were vanquished only in retire,  
The nearer rest, farther from his desire:  
In booty still, his Soldiers share the crowns,  
They rich in gold, he only rich in wounds.   

173  
At this return now in this sad retreat,  
From heathens slaughter, from the Christians fled,  
This is not he which in that raging heat,  
On mighty heaps laid Pagan bodies dead,  
Whose plumed helm empaled in his head;  
Mild as some Nymph-like ●●●gin now he seemed,  
Which some in fight a fearful spirit deemed.   

174  
No triumphs do his victories adorn,  
But in his death who on the Cross had died,  
No laurel nor victorious wreath is worn,  
But that red Cross to tell him crucified,  
This death, his life, this poverty, his pride:  
His feast is fast, his pleasure penance is,  
His wishes prayers, his hope is all his bliss.   

175  
Great Calvary whose hollow vaulted womb,  
In his dear saviours death afunder riven,  
That rock-rent Cave, that man-god burying tomb  
Which was unto his blessed body given,  
Whose yielding Ghost did shake the power of heaven:  
Here as a Hermit could he ever live,  
Such wondrous thoughts unto his soul they give.   

176  
Thus a poor Pilgrim he returns again,  
His sumptuous robes be turned to Palmer's grey,  
Leaving his Lords to lead his warlike train,  
Whilst he alone comes sadly on the way,  
Dealing abroad his dear bloods purchased pray:  
A hermits staff his caresull hand doth hold,  
Whose charged Lance the beathen foe controlled.   

177  
Most loving zeal, borne of more zealous love,  
Cares holy care, faiths might, joys food, hopes key,  
The groundwork worlds bewitching cannot move  
Of true desires the never failing stay,  
The cheerful light of heavens ne're-ending day:  
Virtue which in thyself most virtuous art,  
The fairest gift of the most fairest part.   

178  
But now to end this long continued strife,  
Henceforth thy malice takes no further place,  
Thy hate began and ended with his life,  
His spirit by thee can suffer no disgrace,  
Now in mine arms his virtues I embrace:  
His body thine, his crosses witness be,  
His mind is mine, and from thy power is free.   

179  
Thou gav'st up rule, when he gave up his breath,  
And at his end, than did I first begin,  
Thy hate was buried in his timeless death,  
Thou going out, first did I enter in,  
Thou losing him, thy loss then did I win:  
And when the Fates did up their right resign,  
Thy right, his wrong, thy hate, his hap was mine.   

180  
To the unworthy world then get thee back,  
Stuffed with deceits and fawning flatteries,  
There by thy power bring all things unto wrack,  
And fill the times with fearful Tragedies:  
And since thy joy consists in miseries,  
Hear his complaint, who wanting eyes to see,  
May give thee sight, which art as blind as he.   

181  
AT her great words whilst they in silence stand,  
Poor hapless Robert now remembering him,  
Holding one bloody eye in his pale hand,  
With countenance all dead, and ghastly grim,  
As in a fever shaking every limb;  
Even with a piteous lamentable groan,  
veiling his head, thus breaks into his moan.   

182  
Poor tear, dimmed taper which hast lost thy brother  
And thus art lest to twinkle here alone,  
Ah mightst thou not have perished with the other,  
And both together to your set have gone,  
You both were one, one wanting, thou not one,  
Poor twins which like true friends one watch did keep,  
Why severed thus that so you should not sleep.   

183  
And thou poor eye, oh why shouldst thou have light,  
The others black eclipse thus soon to see,  
And yet thy fellow be deprived of sight,  
For thy sad tears the while to pity thee,  
Equal your griefs, your haps unequal be:  
Take thou his darkness, and thy sorrow hide,  
Or he thy light, his grief so well espied.   

184  
Let that small drop out of thy juicy ball,  
Candied like gum upon the moistened third,  
There still be fixed that it never fall,  
But as a sign hang on thine eyes stained lid,  
A witness there what inward grief is hid:  
Like burning glasses fired by the Son,  
Light all men's eyes to see what there is done.   

185  
Now like to conduits draw my body dry,  
By which is made the entrance to my blood,  
Streame-gushing sluices placed in either eye,  
Which shallbe fed by this continual flood,  
Whirlpooles of tears where pleasures city stood  
Devouring gulfs within a vasty land,  
Or like the dead Sea, ever hateful stand.   

186  
Where stood the watchtowers of my cheerful face,  
Like Vestal Lamps lighted with holy flame,  
Is now a dungeon and a loathed place,  
The dark some prison of my hateful shame,  
That they themselves do most abhor the same:  
Through whose foul grates, grief full of misery,  
Still begging vengeance, ceaseth not to cry.   

187  
With direful seals, death hath shut up the doors,  
Where he hath taken up his dreadful Inn,  
In bloody letters showing those fell sores,  
That now do reign, wherioy & mirth have been,  
This mortal plague the just scourge of their sin:  
From whose contagion comfort quite is fled,  
And they themselves, in their selves buried.   

188  
Poor tears, sith eyes your small drops cannot see,  
And since the Fountains cease of my full eyes,  
Tears get you eyes and help to pity me,  
And water them which timeless sorrow dries,  
Tears give me tears, lend eyes unto my eyes:  
So may the blind yet make the blind to see,  
Else no help is to them, nor hope to me,   

189  
Body and eyes usurping others right,  
Both altering use contrary unto kind,  
That eyes to eyes those dark which should give light  
The blind both guide, & guided by the blind,  
Yet both must be directed by the mind:  
Yet that which both their trusty guide should be,  
Blinded with care, like them can nothing see.   

190  
The day abhors thee, and from thee doth sly,  
Night follows after, yet behind doth stay,  
This never comes, though it be evernie,  
This ere it comes is vanished away,  
Nor night, nor day, though ever night and day:  
Yet all is one, still day or ever night.  
No rest in darkness, nor no joy in light.   

191  
Whilst light did give me comfort to my moan,  
Tears sound a mean to sound my sorrows deep,  
But now alas that comfort being gone,  
Tears do want eyes which should give tears to weep  
Whence I lost joy there care I ever keep:  
What gave me woe from me doth comfort take,  
Delight a sleep, now sorrow still must wake.   

192  
I saw my ill, when ill could scarclie see,  
I saw my good, when I my good scarce knew,  
Now see not ill, when as my ill sees me,  
Hasting to that which still doth me pursue,  
With my lost eyes, sorrow my state doth view,  
In blindness losing hope of all delight,  
And with my blindness, give my cares full light.   

193  
As man himself, so the most hateful beast,  
The Worm enjoys the air as well as we,  
The little Gnat, or thing that lives the least,  
Of this by nature kindly is made free:  
what thing hath mouth to breath, but eyes to see?  
Though honour lost, yet might I humbly crave,  
To have what beasts, or flies, or poor worms have.   

194  
Mine eyes hurt not the Sun, nor steal the day,  
Except a candle, they see never light,  
These monstrous walls do take that doubt away,  
What? fear than that they should harm the night?  
Needles is that, sith tears have blotted sight.  
I know not then from whence this hate should rise,  
Except it only be, that they be eyes.   

195  
The man-betraying Basilisk hath eyes,  
Although by sight those eyes be made to kill,  
Though her own works be made her enemies,  
Though naturally ordained unto ill,  
Yet in herself so just is nature still:  
How monstrous then am I alone in nature,  
Denied of that she gives the vilest creature?   

196  
Oh tyranny more cruel far than death,  
Though death be but the end of tyranny,  
Death lends us sight whilst she doth give us breath,  
Of all the senses that the last doth die,  
In living death, how miserable am I,  
In life, of this sense me thus to deprive,  
To make the others die, myself alive.   

197  
Eyes which with joy like Suns have risen oft,  
To view that holy Cities glorious Towers,  
And seen the Christian Ensigns raised aloft,  
Crowning the walls like garlands of rare flowers,  
Now lie you perished in your ivory bowers,  
Nor shall you henceforth boast what you have been  
But leave the mind to think what you have seen.   

198  
You, which have seen fair Palestine restored,  
And gorgeous Zion from the Paynims freed,  
The Sepulchre of your most glorious Lord,  
And that fair Mount where his sweet wounds did bleed  
And with these sights my hungry soul did feed.  
Within you brinks be drowned in your own blood  
Which oft have viewed great Iordans sacred flood.   

199  
Rake up the sparks which nourished your fire,  
Within the ashes of consumed eyes,  
Those little brands which kindled youths desire,  
The hapless stars of passed miseries,  
Wander no more within your circling skies;  
Under the Globes great compass ever roll,  
And in my minds great world, now light my soul.   

200  
Good night sweet Suns, your lights are clean put out,  
Your hollow pits be graves of all your joy,  
With dreadful darkness compassed about,  
Wherein is cast what murder can destroy,  
That buried there, which did the world annoy,  
Those holy Fanes where virtue hallowed stood,  
Become a place of slaughter and of blood.   

201  
Pour down your last refreshing evening dew,  
And bathe yourselves in fountains of your tears,  
The day no more shall ever break to you,  
The joyful dawn no more at all appears,  
No cheerful sight your sorrow ever cheers:  
Shut up your windows ere constraint compel,  
Betake yourselves to nights eternal Cell.   

202  
HIS passion ending, Fortune discontent,  
Turning her back as she away would fly,  
Playing with fools and babes incontinent,  
As never touched with human misery,  
Even after death showing inconstancy,  
As strait forgetting what she had to tell,  
To other speech and girlish laughter fell.   

203  
When graceful Fame, conveying thence her charge,  
With all these troops attended royally,  
Gave me this book, wherein was writ at large,  
Great Norman Roberts famous history,  
T'amaze the world with his sad Tragedy:  
But Fortune angry with her foe therefore,  
Gave me this gift, That I should still be poor.   
FINIS.   

THE ARGUMENT OF MATILDA.  
MATILDA, for her beauty named the fair; A second Lucretia: the daughter of a noble Baron, the Lord Robert Fitzwater, (a man of great wisdom & courage) was long time followed of king john, who sought by all means possible to win her to his unlawful desire; But finding that all he could devise took no effect, (such was her wonderful chastity,) he sought by force to take her from the Court, and to send her to some secret place, where he might fitly accomplish his wicked intent, but his purpose was prevented by her Father's policy. The King hereat enraged through despite, suborned certain malicious persons, subtly to accuse the Lord Fitzwater of rebellion, whereupon he is banished. Matilda flieth to Dunmowe in Essex, and there became a Nun, in a Religious house there builded, by JUGA, a Virgin, one of her Ancestors; to which place the King sendeth one to solicit his old suit, with poison, either to yield to his desire, or to end her life. She, seeing her Father banished, none left to secure her, and fearing to be taken out of the Nunnary, took the poison, and ended her days.  
THE LEGEND of Matilda the chaste.  

1  
IF to this some sacred Muse retain  
Those choice regards by perfect virtue taught,  
And in her chaste and virgin-humble vain,  
Doth kindly cherish one pure May den thought,  
In whom my death hath but true pity wrought,  
By her I crave my life be revealed,  
Which black oblivion hath too long concealed.   

2  
Or on the earth, if mercy may be found,  
Or if remorse may touch the hearts of men,  
Or eyes may lend me tears to wash my wound,  
Or passion be expressed by mortal pen,  
Yet may I hope of some compassion then:  
Three hundredth years by all men overpast,  
Now finding one to pity me at last.   

3  
You blessed Imps of heavenly chastity,  
You sacred Vestals, Angels only glory,  
Right precedents of immortality,  
Only to you I consecrate my story,  
It shall suffice for me if you be sorry:  
If you alone shall deign to grace his verse,  
Which serves for odours to perfume my hearse.   

4  
Let your delicious heaven-distilling tears,  
Soften the earth, to send me from her womb,  
With Conqueror's Laurel crown my golden hairs,  
With flowery garland beautify my tomb,  
Be you the Heralds to proclaim me room,  
With sable Cypress mask your lovely eyes,  
Mourning my death with doleful Elegies.   

5  
Fair Rosamond, of all so highly graced,  
Recorded in the lasting book of Fame,  
And in our Sainted Legendary placed,  
By him who strives to stellify her name:  
Yet will some Matrons say, she was to blame;  
Though all the world bewitched with his rhyme,  
Yet all his skill cannot excuse her crime.   

6  
Lucrece, of whom proud Rome hath boasted long,  
Lately reviv'd to live another age,  
And here arrived to tell of Tarquin's wrong,  
Her chaste denial, and the Tyrant's rage,  
Acting her passions on our stately stage.  
She is remembered, all forgetting me,  
Yet I, as fair and chaste as ere was she.   

7  
Shore's wife is in her wanton humour soothed,  
And modern Poets, still applaud her praise,  
Our famous Elstreds wrinkled brows are smoothed  
Called from her grave to see these latter days,  
And happy's he, their glory highest can raise.  
Thus loser wantonness still are praised of many,  
Vice oft finds friends, but virtue seldom any.   

8  
O fairest Charities, Ioues dear delight,  
O lend me now one heaven-inchaunting lay,  
And you rare Nymphs which please Apollo's sight,  
Bring spreading Palm, and never-dying Bay,  
With Olive branches strew the pleasant way:  
And with you viols sound one pleasing strain,  
To aid his Muse, and raise his humble vain.   

9  
And thou o BETA, sovereign of his thought,  
England's Diana, let him think on thee,  
By thy perfections let his Muse be taught,  
And in his breast so deep imprinted be,  
That he may write of sacred chastity:  
Though not like Collen in thy Britomart,  
Yet loves as much, although he wants his Art.   

10  
O my dread Sovereign, rare and princely Maid,  
From whose pure eyes the world derives her light,  
In Angel's robes with majesty arrayed,  
In whom true virtue is defined aright;  
O let these lines be gracious in thy sight,  
In whom alone, as in a perfect glass,  
All may discern how chaste Matilda was.   

11  
To brag of birth, or noblesse, were but vain,  
Although I might compare me with the best;  
To challenge that our Ancestors did gain,  
A royal mind such folly doth detest,  
Which I omit, and here set down my rest:  
Of virtuous life I mean to boast alone,  
Our birth is theirs, our virtues are our own.   

12  
A shame to fetch our long descent from Kings,  
And from great jove derive our pedigree,  
The brave atchivements of a hundred things,  
Breathing vain boasts, the world to terrify,  
If we ourselves do blot with infamy,  
And stain that blood & honour which is theirs,  
Men cannot leave their virtues to their heirs.   

13  
The Heaven became a Midwife at my birth,  
A kind Lucina, gently helping Nature:  
Some sacred power then present on the earth,  
Foretelling rare perfection in a creature,  
As all men judged by so divine a feature:  
Yet as my beauty seemed to ravish all,  
Virtue made beauty more angelical.   

14  
Upon my brow, sat Honour in her pride,  
Tables containing heavens divinest law,  
Whose snowy margin quoted on each side,  
With such delights as all men's hearts could draw,  
My thoughts (as Tutors) kept mine eyes in awe,  
Fron their rare sunbeams darting forth such rays,  
As well the work might show the Arts-mans' praise.   

15  
These Cherubins, the Tree of life do keep,  
These Dragons, watch the fair Hesperian fruit,  
These fiery Serpents, guard the golden Sheep,  
These fixed stars, their rays like lightning shoot,  
At whose approach, the wise were stricken mute.  
These eyes, which only could true virtues measure,  
Ordained by Nature to preserve her treasure.   

16  
My words were graceful, pleasing to the wise,  
My speech retaining modest decency,  
Not fondly vain, nor foolishly precise,  
But sweetly tuned, with such a symphony,  
Moving all hearers with the harmony,  
Gracing my tale with such an Emphasis,  
As never music could delight like this.   

17  
My face the sun, adorning beauty's sky,  
The book where heaven her wonders did unroll,  
A stately Pharos to each wandering eye,  
And like a Siren could enchant the soul,  
Which had the power the proudest to control.  
To whom this gift my Maker had assigned,  
That there all eyes like Soothsayers, divined.   

18  
Natures fair Ensign royally displayed,  
Map of Elysium, Eden without night,  
Ermines, wherein rich Phoebus is arrayed,  
Right prospective, reflecting heavenly light,  
Heart-wounding arrow, piercing with the sight.  
Bright morning's lustre, Ioues high exaltation,  
Lodestar of love, rare Card of admiration.   

19  
True type of honour, fine delicious vary,  
The richest coat that ever beauty bare,  
Pure colours, which the heavens do only carry,  
O uncouth blazon, so exceeding rare,  
O curious lymming, passing all compare,  
First at my birth assigned unto me,  
By that great King of heavenly Heraldry.   

20  
From hence my praise began to prove her wing,  
Which to the heaven could carry up my fame,  
Of all my glory now began the spring,  
Through every Coast this still enlarged my name,  
From hence the cause of all my sorrows came:  
Thus to this Hydra are we subject still,  
Who dares to speak, not caring good or ill.   

21  
This jealous Monster hath a thousand eyes,  
Her airy body hath as many wings,  
Now on the earth, than up to heaven she flies,  
And here, and there, with every wind she flings,  
From every Coast her rumours forth she brings;  
Nothing so secret, but to her appeareth,  
And apt to credit every thing she heareth.   

22  
Fowl blabbing tell-tale, secrets soon bewrayer,  
Thou ayre-bred Echo, whisperer of lies:  
Shril-sounding trumpet, Truth's unkind betrayer,  
False larum-bel, awaking dead men's eyes,  
Uncertain rumour, wandering in the skies:  
Fond prattling Parrot, telling all thou hearest,  
Ost furthest of when as thou shouldst be nearest.   

23  
The Princes ears are open to report,  
there's skill in blazing beauty to a King;  
To censure, is the subject of the Court,  
Fron thence Fame carries, thither Fame doth bring,  
There, to each word a thousand Echoes ring:  
A Lottery, where most lose, but few do win,  
Few love Religion, many follow sin.   

24  
Lo, here at first my beauty played her prize,  
Here where my virtues seldom prized be;  
Yet that which most seemed wondered of the wise,  
Confined by virtue, clearly made me see  
What dangers were attending still on me:  
Which most desired, for why esteemed most rare,  
Guarded I kept with most especial care.   

25  
This, whole possessed the thoughts of princely john,  
This, on his heartstrings Angels music made,  
This, was the subject which he wrought upon,  
That deep impression which could never fade,  
Reason which might sufficiently persuade,  
Hence sprung that grief, which never gave him rest,  
This was the spirit wherewith he was possessed.   

26  
This, had commission to command his crown,  
In all his course, conducted by this star,  
This, with a smile could clear each cloudy frown,  
This, conquered him, which conquered all in war,  
This, calmed his thoughts in many a bloody jar:  
This, taught his eyes their due attendance still,  
This, held the rains which ruled his princely wil   

27  
Controlling Love, proud Fortunes busy Factor,  
The gall of wit, sad Melancholies school,  
Hart-killing corsive, golden times detractor,  
Life-fretting Canker, mischiefs poisoned tool,  
The Idiots Idol, but the wiseman's fool:  
A foe to friendship, enemy to truth,  
The wrong misleader of our pleasing youth.   

28  
MY virtuous Father, famous then in Court,  
Who lived in pomp, & Lorded with the best,  
Whose mind was troubled with this strange report,  
As one enshrining honour in his breast,  
And as a man who ever loved me best,  
Foresaw the danger by such secret spies,  
Who still attended on the Prince's eyes.   

29  
And he, who in the Kings own bosom slept,  
Experience taught his deepest thoughts to sound,  
Yet in his breast, the same he secret kept,  
Nor would disclose the thing which he had found,  
Who being hurt, must needs conceal the wound.  
For why, he knew it was a dangerous thing,  
In rule, or love, but once to cross a King.   

30  
And finding lust had kindled all this fire,  
And his affection in extremes consisted,  
He greatly feared his youthful vain desire,  
Might grow impatient, being once resisted:  
Yet in his humour, sith he still persisted,  
With me his child, thought fittest to persuade,  
Ere further he into the deep durst wade.   

31  
SWeet girl (quoth he) the glory of my life,  
The blessed and sole object of mine eyes,  
For whom the Heavens with Nature fell at strife,  
On whom the hope of all my fortune lies,  
Whose youth, my age with comfort still supplies,  
Whose very sight, my drooping heart doth raise,  
And doth prolong thy aged father's days.   

32  
Thou seest, a world upon thy youth await,  
That Paradise, where all delights do grow,  
Thy peerless Beauty made so fair a bait,  
The Bursle where Nature sets her ware to show,  
Where blushing Roses, sleep in beds of snow,  
The heavens have fringed thy forehead with their gold;  
That glass where heaven herself may well behold.   

33  
All gaze at Comets, choicest things be best,  
The rarest pearls are ever dearest prized,  
Seldom wants guests, where Beauty bids the feast,  
men's eyes with wonders never are sufficed,  
At fairest signs, best welcome is surmised.  
The shrine of Love, doth seldom offerings want.  
Nor with such counsel, Clients never scant.   

34  
Honour is grounded on the tickle Ice,  
The purest Lawn, most apt for every spot,  
The path to hell, doth seem a paradise,  
Vices be noted, virtues oft forgot,  
Thy fame once foiled, incurable the blot.  
Thy name defaced, if touched with any stain,  
And once supplanted, never grows again.   

35  
The lechers tongue is never void of guile,  
Nor Crocodile wants tears to win his prey,  
The subtlest Temptor hath the sweetest style,  
With rarest music Sirens soonest betray  
Affection, will like fire himself bewray.  
Time offers still each hour to do amiss,  
And greatest dangers, promise greatest bliss.   

36  
Deceit, still with a thousand sleights is fraught,  
Art, hath a world of secrets in her power,  
Who hopes a Conquest, leaves no means unsought,  
Soft golden drops once pierced the brazen tower,  
Care and Suspicion is fair Beauty's dower.  
Guile, (like a Traitor) ever goes disguised,  
Lust, oft is filled, but never is sufficed.   

37  
This wanton Prince, whose soul doth swim in vice,  
Whose lawless youth time never hath restrained,  
He leaves no means unproved, which may entice,  
The rites of wedlock wanton profaned;  
His hands with blood of innocents distained.  
This Lion, would thy chastity devour,  
Which kept by Virtue, lies not in his power.   

38  
Lascivious will, the senses doth abuse,  
Birth is no shadow unto tyranny,  
No sceptre serves dishonour to excuse,  
Nor kingly vail can cover villainy,  
Fame is not subject to authority.  
No plaster heals a deadly poisoned sore,  
No secret hid, where slander keeps the door.   

39  
No subtle plea revokes dishonours error,  
No law can quite, where Fame is once indited,  
No armour proof, against the conscience terror,  
'Gainst open shame, no Text can well be cited,  
The blow once given, cannot be evited.  
If once the fire be to the powder got,  
'tis then too late to seek to fly the shot.   

40  
His youthful love, is like a sudden fire,  
Whose heat extreme, of force decay it must,  
The cause, proceeding from his lewd desire,  
Is quickly out, and sooner turned to dust,  
Yet frets the life, as iron frets with rust.  
Sin in a chain, leads on her sister Shame,  
And both in Giues, fast fettered to Defame.   

41  
The stately Eagle on his pitch doth stand,  
And from the main the fearful foul doth smite,  
Yet scorns to touch it lying on the land,  
When he hath felt the sweet of his delight,  
But leaves the same a pray to every Kite.  
With much we surfeit, plenty makes us poor,  
The wretched Indian spurns the golden Ore.   

42  
Kings use their Loves, as garments they have worn  
Weak stomachs loath, if once but fully fed,  
The Saint once stolen, who doth the shrine adorn?  
Or what is Nectar if it once be shed?  
What Princes wealth can prise thy Maidenhead?  
Which should be held as precious as thy breath,  
Which once dissolved of force ensueth death.   

43  
Lo, here he makes a period with his tears,  
Which from his eyes now make a sudden breach,  
By which the weight of all his speech appears,  
In words so grave as seemed still to preach,  
This Idioma with such power doth teach.  
Whose tuned cadence doth such rules impart,  
As deeply fixed each sentence in my heart.   

44  
O sacred counsel, true heart suppling balm,  
Soule-curing plaster, time preserving bliss,  
Water of life, in every sudden qualm,  
The heavens rich storehouse, where all treasure is,  
True guide, by whom foul Errors den we miss.  
Night-burning Beacon, watch against mishaps,  
Foresight, avoiding many after claps.   

45  
The King deluded in his love the while,  
His soul tormented in this quenchless fire,  
With flattering hope his senses doth beguile,  
Quickening the coals unto his fond desire;  
Affection grown too headstrong to retire,  
Controls his silence, hating to be mute,  
And still doth urge him to commence his suit.   

46  
Thus carried on by his unbridled thought,  
He leaves no bait unproved that might allure,  
Deceit, a school of common flights hath taught,  
Desire, hath philtre which desires procure,  
Lust, puts most unlawful things in ure:  
Nor yet in limmets ever could be bounded,  
Till he himself, himself have quite confounded.   

47  
But still perceiving all devices fail,  
His trains in Court yet never took effect,  
Now with his tongue determined to assail,  
And to this end doth all his thoughts direct,  
Too much abused by his vain suspect:  
Too further days, no longer would be posted,  
But finding time, me bravely thus accosted.   

48  
Goddess, quoth he, when Nature thee engrayned,  
With colours fetched from heavens eternal spring,  
Little thought she, herself she could have stained.  
Or graeed the world with so divine a thing.  
But as a gift to gratify a King,  
Sealed thee this Charter, dated at thy birth,  
To be the fairest that ever lived on earth.   

49  
Lock not thy treasure, heaven doth give the store,  
A thousand Graces at thine eyes are fed,  
Thy bosom, is the Angels secret door,  
Thy breast, the pillows of fair Venus' bed:  
Regards of honour on thy brows are red.  
Thy cheeks, the banquet where sweet Love doth feast,  
The royal Pawn of Beauty's interest.   

50  
Thy lips, the Bath where sorrows wounds are healed,  
Where abstinence keeps Virtue in a diet,  
And in thy wit, all wonders are revealed,  
Wisdom grown wealthy, liveth there at quiet:  
Thy modest eye controls loves wanton riot.  
Thine eye, that planet clearer than the seven,  
Whose radiant splendour lights the world to heaven.   

51  
Fron thy sweet looks such streams of lightning glide,  
As through the eyes do wound the very heart,  
Killing, and curing, as they are applied,  
Hurting, and healing, like Achilles' Dart:  
Which to the world do heavenly things impart.  
And thou alone, the spirit of all delight,  
Which like the sun, joyest all things with thy sight.   

52  
Could heaven allow wherewith to limb thee forth,  
Or earth afford things of esteem to praise thee,  
Were words sufficient to express thy worth,  
Or could invention to thy glory raise thee,  
Can art devise a weight whereby to peize thee:  
But thy surpassing excellence is such,  
As eyes may gaze, but nothing else can touch.   

53  
He is thy King, who is become thy subject,  
Thy sovereign Lord, who only seeks thy love,  
Thy beauty is his eyes commanding object,  
Who for thy sake, a thousand deaths would prove:  
Sweet Maid let prayers some compassion move.  
Let Wolves, & Bears, be cruel in their kinds,  
But women meek, and have relenting minds.   

54  
Love forced the Gods, to things for Gods unmeet,  
Behold a Monarch kneeling to a maid,  
Apollo, prostrate at his Daphne's feet,  
Great Atlas' bows, on whom the heaven is staid;  
Thy jove his Sceptre on thy lap hath laid,  
Thou in his throne dost sit as Chancellor.  
And he become thy daily Orator.   

55  
Look on these brows, the perfect Map of care,  
The truest mirror of my misery,  
In wrinkled lines where sorrows written are,  
Where Time still reads on loves Anatomy,  
My bloodless veins with griefs Phlebotomy:  
A stanchlesse heart, dead-wounded, ever bleeding,  
On whom that nere-fild vulture Love sits seeding.   

56  
Pity this soule-evaporating smoke,  
The purest incense of most perfect zeal,  
These deep-fetched sighs, confounding words half spoke,  
Where swoln-eyed passion doth herself reveal:  
That rageful fire, no reason can conceal.  
Where torments last, & joys are still diluded,  
Where all infernal torture is included.   

57  
Behold, the brimful cisterns of these eyes,  
With surging Tides of brackist tears frequented,  
Where foodless Hope, still hunger-starven lies,  
In burning Pools eternally tormented:  
Which to betray, my heart at first consented.  
Where as the spirit of woe, hath ever being,  
Blinded in tears, yet in tears only seeing.   

58  
Shine thou, like Cynthia under mine estate,  
Thy tresses decked with Ariadne's Crown,  
In pomp redubling costly junos' rate,  
And cloud the world in sable with a frown:  
Advance thy friends, & throw the mighty down.  
Be thou admired through all this famous I'll,  
Thy name enrolled with never-dated style.   

59  
Great troops of Ladies shall attend my Girl,  
Thou on thy brave triumphing Chariot borne,  
Thy drink shall be dissolved orient Pearl,  
Thy princely Cup of rarest Unicorn:  
Then live at ease, and laugh the world to scorn.  
And if our music cannot like thine ears,  
Thy jove shall fetch thee music from the Spheres.   

60  
Thy name, as my Empreza will I bear,  
My well tuned rhymes, shall glory in thy praise,  
Upon my Crown, thy favours will I wear,  
Figuring thy love a thousand sundry ways,  
My power shall be thy shield at all assays.  
And thou my Saint, Kings offering to thy shrine.  
Wondering thy beauty, as a thing divine.   

61  
What if my Queen, Detractor of our bliss,  
Thee by her hundreth-eyed Herdsman keep,  
I'll bring to pass, she shall her purpose miss,  
My Mercury shall lull him till he sleep;  
Love ever laughs, when I clousie doth weep.  
My providence, shall keep her stomach under,  
She may raise storms, but jove doth rule the thunder   

62  
Thus having broke the Ice from whence might spring  
Sweet streams of love in calm and fairer time,  
And afterward, might joyful tidings bring,  
The stair begun by which he thought to climb,  
Hoping due hours, now he had said the chime;  
Leaves me, not knowing now which way to turn me  
Warmed with the fire, which vnawars might burn me.   

57  
Behold, the brimful cisterns of these eyes,  
With surging Tides of brackist tears frequented,  
Where foodless Hope, still hunger-starven lies,  
In burning Pools eternally tormented:  
Which to betray, my heart at first consented.  
Where as the spirit of woe, hath ever being,  
Blinded in tears, yet in tears only seeing.   

58  
Shine thou, like Cynthia under mine estate,  
Thy tresses decked with Ariadne's Crown,  
In pomp redubling costly junos' rate,  
And cloud the world in sable with a frown:  
Advance thy friends, & throw the mighty down.  
Be thou admired through all this famous I'll,  
Thy name enrolled with never-dated style.   

59  
Great troops of Ladies shall attend my Girl,  
Thou on thy brave triumphing Chariot borne,  
Thy drink shall be dissolved orient Pearl,  
Thy princely Cup of rarest Unicorn:  
Then live at ease, and laugh the world to scorn.  
And if our music cannot like thine ears,  
Thy jove shall fetch thee music from the Spheres.   

60  
Thy name, as my Empreza will I bear,  
My well tuned rhymes, shall glory in thy praise,  
Upon my Crown, thy favours will I wear,  
Figuring thy love a thousand sundry ways,  
My power shall be thy shield at all assays.  
And thou my Saint, Kings offering to thy shrine,  
Wondering thy beauty, as a thing divine.   

61  
What if my Queen, Detractor of our bliss,  
Thee by her hundreth-eyed Herdsman keep,  
I'll bring to pass, she shall her purpose miss,  
My Mercury shall lull him till he sleep;  
Love ever laughs, when jealousy doth weep.  
My providence, shall keep her stomach under,  
She may raise storms, but jove doth rule the thunder   

62  
Thus having broke the Ice from whence might spring  
Sweet streams of love in calm and fairer time,  
And afterward, might joyful tidings bring,  
The stair begun by which he thought to climb,  
Hoping due hours, now he had said the chime;  
Leaves me, not knowing now which way to turn me  
Warmed with the fire, which vnawars might burn me.   

63  
Forthwith began strange factions in my thought,  
And in my soul a sudden mutiny,  
Fear and Desire, a doubtful combat fought,  
The title stands upon extremity:  
My force was great, and strong mine enemy;  
Till Resolution, seeing all begun,  
Sent Succours in, by whom the field was won.   

64  
As thus mine honour in the Balance hung,  
Betwixt the world's preferment and my fame,  
This in mine ears, like Sirens sweetly sung,  
That wisely still forewarned me of shame:  
Till Grace divine from highest heaven came.  
Now must I lose the prize, or win the Crown,  
Till Virtue (currant) lastly weighed me down.   

65  
The time is come I must receive my trial,  
His protestations subtly accuse me,  
My Chastity sticks still to her denial,  
His promises false witness do abuse me,  
My Conscience called, yet clearly doth excuse me.  
And those pure thoughts, enshrined in my breast,  
By verdict quit me, being on the Quest.   

66  
And Wisdom now forewarned me of treason,  
That in the Court, I lived a Lions pray,  
My tender youth in this contagious season,  
Still feared infection, following day by day:  
My Bark unsafe on this tempestuous Sea.  
My Chastity in danger every hour,  
No succour near to shroud me from the shower.   

67  
What should I say? nay what should saying do?  
Can wit say more than ever wit hath said?  
My hopes say yes, but Fortune still says no,  
And thus my state is by the stars betrayed,  
Such weight the heavens upon my birth have laid,  
Yet Virtue never her own Virtue looseth,  
Though 'gainst her course the that heaven itself opposeth.   

68  
With Resolution, hap what might betid,  
I leave the Court, the Spring of all my woe.  
That Court, which gloried in my Beauty's pride,  
That Beauty, which my Fortune made my foe,  
To Baynards-Castell secretly I go.  
Where, with his train, my noble Father lay,  
Whose gracious counsel was my only stay.   

69  
There, might my thoughts keep holiday a while,  
And sing a farewell to my sorrows past,  
With all delights I might the time beguile,  
Attained my wished liberty at last,  
No fearful vision made me now aghast.  
But like a Bird escaped her Keeper's charge,  
Glides through the air with wings displayed at large.   

70  
And hoping health thus cured of these qualms,  
My heart in this fair harbour rides at ease,  
The tempest past, expecting quiet calms,  
My Ship thus floating on these blissful Seas,  
A sudden storm my Ankor-hold doth raise:  
And from the shore doth hoist me to the main,  
Where I (poor soul) my shipwreck must sustain.   

71  
And lo, the Autumn of my joys approach,  
Whilst yet my spring began so fair to flourish,  
Black wayward Winter, sets her storms abroach,  
And kills the sap which all my hopes did nourish.  
Fortune once kind, grows crabbed now & currish.  
In my strait path, she lays a mighty beam.  
And in my course, she thwarths' me with the stream.   

72  
The King who saw his love unkindly crossed,  
And by effect the cause had fully found,  
Since he the harvest of his hope had lost,  
Now on the revenge his deepest thoughts doth ground  
Desperate to kill, receiving his death's wound.  
In reason's bonds strives but in vain to hold,  
Headstrong desire, too proud to be controlled.   

73  
Like the brave Courser struggling with the rains,  
His foaming mouth controlled with Canon's check,  
With losty bounds his skilful Rider strains,  
Scorning to yield his stately crested neck:  
Nor of the bloody piercing spurs doth reck,  
The King now warmed in this glorious fire,  
Thus roughly plungeth in his vain desire.   

74  
Mischief is light, and mounteth overhead,  
Rage is of fire which naturally ascends,  
Rashness of feathers, counsel trapd with lead,  
And where the one gins, the other ends,  
This all extends, the other all intends.  
His will too free to force him unto ill,  
His wit too slow to countercheck his will.   

75  
Henceforth devising to disperse the Cloud.  
Which ever hung betwixt him and the light:  
His love not currant, nor to be allowed,  
Whilst thus my Father held me in his sight,  
Something amisle, his Watch went never right.  
Of force he must this Sentinel remove,  
If he in time would hope to win my love.   

76  
In going on, go back, forward, retire,  
Fly that which follows, follow but to fly,  
Keep thee far off, now thou approachest nigher,  
Stoop to the ground when mischief mounts on high,  
Foresight far off doth danger soon espy.  
Ah love, if wounded once with thine own Dart,  
Thou hate, hate love, transformed by your own art   

77  
Ten thousand mischiefs now he sets abroach,  
Treasons, invasions, civil mutiny,  
Black ignominy, slanderous reproach,  
Rebellion, outrage, vile conspiracy,  
Opening the entrails of all villainy.  
Causing this Lord, thereof to be accused,  
By Traitors, such as he with gifts abused.   

78  
Fowl Envy thou, the partial judge of right,  
Son of Deceit, borne of that harlot Hate,  
Nursed in hell, a vile and ugly spirit,  
Feeding on Slander, cherrish'd with Debate;  
Never contented with thine own estate;  
Deeming alike the wicked and the good,  
Whose words be gall, whose actions end in blood   

79  
His service done to this ungrateful King,  
His worth, his valour, his gentility:  
What good so ever might from virtue spring,  
Or could proceed from true Nobility,  
All buried now in dark obscurity.  
His virtuous life, in doubtful question brought,  
Which evermore for fame and honour sought.   

80  
Thou hateful Monster, base Ingratitude,  
Souls mortal poison, deadly-killing wound,  
Deceitful Serpent, seeking to delude,  
Black loathsome ditch, where all desert is drowned,  
Vile Pestilence, which all things dost confound:  
At first created to none other end,  
But to grieve those whom nothing could offend.   

81  
Such as too well perceived the King's intent,  
In whom remained yet any spark of grace,  
Pyttying a poor distressed innocent,  
Their safety still depending on my case,  
These in my wrongs participate a place.  
These, bound in friendship, & allied in blood,  
Fast to my Father in the quarrel stood.   

82  
But as a Lion in the wild's of Thrace,  
With darts and arrows gauled at the bay,  
Kills man and beast encountering in the chase,  
And down on heaps the fearful Herds doth lay,  
His armed paws each where doth make his way:  
Thus by his power, the King doth now surprise,  
Such as in Arms resist his tyrannies.   

83  
Oh strange strange love, yet stop thy headstrong course,  
Ere that be quite transported into hate:  
Too violent thus spurr'st thou on thy force,  
To come unto thy fearful ruin'd date;  
Let not thy frailty yet foretell thy fate:  
That love with love, should fall to civil wars,  
Wisdom, a star, which rules the angriest stars.   

84  
And given over to his vile desire,  
The spectacle of loathsome sin and shame,  
Our strong-built Castles now he sets on fire,  
And (like proud Nero) warms him by the flame,  
Wasting themselves, augmenting his defame:  
Which like bright Beacons, blaze in every eye,  
Warning all others of his tyranny.   

85  
Our friends & followers thus are beaten down,  
Whom every slave and peasant dare revile,  
And all reputed Traitors to the Crown,  
Imprisoned some, some forced into exile;  
Yet worst of all, (remediless the while,)  
My Father sent a banished man to France,  
And here perforce must leave me to my chance.   

86  
Be merciful (sweet Death) and come not thus  
In Banishments black shape, so full of fear,  
In thine own likeness gently comfort us,  
As when to wretched men thou dost appear,  
Look not upon us with sad moody cheore:  
Thou art not pale, grim, fearful, gaftly, dull,  
But amorous, young, mild, lovely, beautiful.   

87  
Thou goest to grief, and I must stay to woe,  
Thy absence, bringeth horrors presence still,  
Thou going, stayest, and staying, I do go,  
Thou leav'st me, leav'st with me, leav'st me to ill,  
Thy flight, my fight, thy safety me doth kill:  
Thou tak'st my fall with thee, in me forsaking,  
Forsake me then, away me with thee taking.   

88  
ON shyp-bord now, with hands reared to the skies  
(All sighed and wept, could sigh nor weep no more,)  
He turns his sad eclipsed tearful eyes,  
As retrograde unto the blessed shore;  
Rich Isle (quoth he) once Garner of my store,  
Taken from me by yonder Tyrant's theft,  
And I as poor as ere was Irus left.   

89  
'tis not my wealth, that, I esteem as light,  
Nor yet my Country, though so dear to me,  
But thou alone Matilda, my delight,  
My life, my soul, all my felicity,  
Left as a pray, vile Monster unto thee.  
Yet my laments are wasted all in vain,  
And to these winds and billows must complain.   

90  
Pity, if in thy drop be-dewed eye  
Thou hast one tear of wonder to let fall,  
That one drop spent, be ever after dry,  
But keep that one to comfort me withal:  
Sweet honey tear, sweeten my bitter gall;  
But if thine eye, which mine eyes be drawn dry,  
Transform me then, even all into an eye.   

91  
But now the Wolf is got into my fold,  
God help the Lamb that's in the lions power;  
Alas poor Maid, thus art thou bought and sold,  
Prepared for the slaughter every hour,  
This Minotaur must all my hopes devour.  
Yet forced by Fortune to endure this woe,  
And unrevenged unto my grave shall go.   

92  
Live in me Death, and I in thee will live,  
Be thou myself, and I will still be thee,  
Give thou to me, and I to thee will give,  
And in perpetual union let us be:  
Thou I, I thou, one undivided we.  
Death give life strength, life, thou to death lend breath,  
Death be my life, and life be thou my death.   

93  
Within the furrows of my aged brows,  
My joys must their untimely burial have,  
This fatal Tomb proud Fortune them allows,  
Which thus withholds me from my wished grave,  
The heavens are deaf although I justly crave,  
My tears with grief are frozen in mine eyes,  
Yet God, nor man, regards my miseries.   

94  
Immortal Hate, for pity sit and weep,  
And Woe, for woe seek from thyself to fly,  
Dyre Passion, be thou drowned in passions deep,  
And Death, for sorrow, in my sorrows die,  
He be myself, if thou wilt not be I:  
In the attire of my pale Image dight thee,  
If shape of my sad griefs do not affright thee.   

95  
Thrice famous Roman, (fortunate to me)  
By whose own hands thy dearest child was slain,  
Delivered so from slavish tyranny,  
But living, mine dishonoured shall remain,  
Blotting my name with an immortal stain;  
Whose black reproach, for ever shall endure,  
Ah vile disease, that never time can cure.   

96  
The soul's departure, gives the body rest,  
My bodies parting, gives my soul new care,  
My soul, of his abode is dispossessed,  
My body, endless banished to despair,  
My soul and body, soul nor body are:  
My soul with hers, hers killing mine alone,  
My body hers, hers mine, neither our own.   

97  
Even as the kind sleep-breaking Nightingale,  
(The cruel Merlin ceased her little one)  
Unto the thickets tells a woeful tale,  
Wearying the woods with her continual moan,  
This poor bird chirpeth, he poor Lord doth groan.  
She weeps all night, by day complaineth he,  
She for her young one, he laments for me.   

98  
Look how a Sea, the tide once being past,  
Whose surges strove the Continent to climb,  
And bounding back unto the Gulf at last,  
Upon the Sands doth leave a clammy slime,  
Tears in his cheeks, such gutters worn in time.  
Vvashed with the floods of his still-trobled brain,  
His eyes brim full, as furrows after rain.   

99  
And thus my Father unawares betrayed,  
A thousand sorrows me at once assail;  
What might I do, a silly helpless Maid,  
Tost and turmoild in this tempestuous gale?  
These boisterous flaws have broken down my sail  
My succours thus (like shadows) now are gone,  
Not one remains to whom to make my moan.   

100  
Now, like a Roe, before the hounds embossed,  
When ouer-toyled his swiftness doth aslake,  
Forsakes the Plains, to which he trusted most,  
And to the covert doth himself betake,  
Where doubling still, creeps on from brake to brake,  
Thus do I fly before the Prince's face,  
Who day and night pursues me still in chase.   

101  
THE Coast is clear, suspicious eyes at rest,  
And all things fadge which further his desire:  
Now royal hope keeps revels in his breast,  
The coals are quick, and Fancy blows the fire,  
His love expects his long deserved hire.  
No cloud discerned to hinder this his sun,  
The watch discharged, he hopes the town is won.   

102  
The Princes arms are stretched from shore to shore,  
Kings sleeping, see with eyes of other men,  
Craft finds a key to open every door,  
What might I do, or what avails me then?  
The silly Lamb lives in the Lions Den.  
loves wakeful eyes (too soon alas) descried me,  
And found me, where I surest thought to hide me.   

103  
My jove, like jove, now seeks me to invade,  
And roisting comes, in thunderbolts and rain,  
A Beast, a Bird, a Satire in the shade,  
A flood, a fire, a Serpent, and a Swain,  
Chameleon-like, as fitt'st my love to gain.  
Now like great Phoebus in his golden Car,  
And then like Mars, the fearful God of war.   

104  
He makes the air to woo me whilst I talk,  
The wind to whistle many a pleasant Ditty,  
The dainty Grass make music as I walk,  
The pretty flowers to move me still to pity:  
All senseless things with reason seeming witty:  
Before mine eyes he ever doth appear,  
And if I call, still answers, I am here.   

105  
My steps are told, my paths by Spies are noted,  
Mine eyes by Night-spells shut within the watch,  
My words are weighed by jealous love that doted,  
And at my thoughts, Ill-meaning still doth catch,  
Into my counsels Treason draws the latch:  
And at my gates, Suspicion still doth ward,  
Sorrow my handmaid, Falsehood on my guard.   

106  
He weeps his words, but words could win no tears,  
The rain doth cease or ere the floods do rise,  
His woeful words his tongue a while forbears,  
Then doth he his hearts arrant with his eyes:  
His eyes eclipzed, he then with sighs supplies.  
Sighs fail, which smiles he then bewrays his pain,  
Smiling, he weeps, yet weeping, laughs again.   

107  
Look how the Peacock ruffs his flaunting tail,  
And struts under his mooned Canopy,  
And how he quivers with his plumed sail,  
Yet when his Lead-pale legs he haps to see,  
With shame abates his painted jollity.  
The King, as proud as Peacock in my love,  
yet droops again when words nor tears could move   

108  
My breast, of Flint, a rock impenetrable,  
My heart, that stone which never tool could pierce,  
My thoughts, a Centre, and unsearchable,  
My words, judgement, which law could not reverse,  
My frowns, such clouds, as no joy could disperse,  
Tigers are tamed with patience and with skill,  
All things made subject, but a woman's will.   

109  
The King like one sick of a strange disease,  
Whose cruel pain no physic can assuage,  
Nor plaster can his torments once appease,  
Boiling his entrails with such hellish rage,  
With his own knife his horror doth engage.  
Thus desperate, he, fore-thinks to end this strife,  
Or else by poison take away my life.   

110  
But first, with lines he bravely setteth on,  
Words steeped in syrup of Ambrosia,  
Sweet method, savoured with invention,  
What can be said that Lovers cannot say?  
Desire can make a Doctor in a day:  
Each sentence seemed a sweet enchanting charm,  
A trumpet sounding gentle loves alarm.   

111  
With rare hart-curing Phrygian harmony  
He tunes his strings, as not a treble jars,  
His strains so pleasant and melodious be,  
As might appease the heat of fearful wars,  
Distilling Balm to cure the greatest scars:  
His pen, dilates his heart's Apology,  
And shows my sins, by loves Theology.   

122  
What curious thing did Nature ere bring forth,  
What glistering star that yields his silver shine,  
To which he doth not now compare my worth?  
Or what is there, that's mortal or divine,  
What sublimation doth he not refine?  
Or what rare thing was ever yet devised,  
That unto me he hath not lightly prized?   

113  
Now mounts he up with lofty strains of love,  
Then to sad veins his pliant Muse doth bow,  
His humours serving, as his passions move,  
And as the Tides, the numbers ebb and flow;  
His hopes now whither, than again they grow,  
Painting his grief, in hope to quench desire,  
But ink to love, like oil unto the fire.   

114  
And now, of one he had himself advised,  
Both red and practised in this wretched Art,  
Within whose brain all mischiefs were comprised,  
Whose words were venom, & his tongue a Dart,  
And this is he must act this damned part.  
To him, the King my poisoning doth commit,  
Who had before made trial of his wit.   

115  
Another Dagon was this miscreant,  
A devil, walking in a human shape,  
Fowl Dagon, borne true virtue to supplant,  
For whom th' infernal pit of hell doth gape:  
Image of pride, of villainy, and rape,  
Be thou abhorred of all posterity,  
And let thy vile dishonour never die.   

116  
By him to Dunmow, he these lines conveyed,  
A Monestary juga had begun,  
juga, sometime a holy Vestal Maid,  
At whose great charge this Monument was done,  
Where I had vowed to live a holy Nun,  
And in my Cloister, kept amongst the rest,  
Which in this place virginity professed.   

117  
NOW, he which had this bloody act in charge,  
Thither repairs, with Letters from the King,  
Whose black Commission was but all too large  
To execute so base and vile a thing:  
This messenger, which now my death doth bring,  
To add fit matter to my tragic story,  
Finds means to board me in my oratory.   

118  
With courtly congees gently greeting me,  
Gives me the packet which the King had sent me,  
Receive fair Maid, these Letters here (quoth he)  
The faithful earnest of that good is meant thee,  
But craving that which never shall repent thee.  
His lines be love, the letters writ in blood,  
Then make no doubt, the warrant passing good.   

119  
Kindly accept a Princes kingly offer,  
'tis more than folly if thou do refuse it:  
Never hath Fortune made a fairer proffer,  
The gift too great, if fond thou abuse it,  
Nor any reason sorueth to excuse it.  
Be not a foe unto thine own good hap,  
Refusing treasure thrown into thy lap.   

120  
Ears, eyes, hands, nostrils, tongue, th' instruments  
To hear, to see, to touch, to smell, to taste,  
Sounds, pleasures, softs, smells, meats, & every sense,  
Even as a King, with his delight is placed,  
Nature yet never framed thing in waist,  
O to her power an horrible offence,  
This profane use of froward continence.   

121  
If thou be wise, hold this as ominous,  
The heavens not like disposed every hour,  
The stars be still predominant in us,  
Fortune not always forth her bags doth pour,  
Nor every cloud doth rain a golden shower,  
Occasion's winged, and ever flieth fast,  
Coming, she smiles, & frowns once being past.   

122  
Wrong not thyself, nor yet the world deprive,  
Of that rare good which Nature freely lent,  
Thinkest thou by such base nygardize to thrive,  
In sparing that which never will be spent?  
And that is worst, in age shall thee repent:  
Playing the Churl, to hoard up beauty's pelf,  
And live, and die, and all unto thyself.   

123  
Fie on this lyppish lisping fond forsooth,  
This childish niceness, and these pettish no's,  
A graceful smile, the wrinkling brow doth smooth,  
Penance and Pleasure, still are mortal foes,  
Let springing youth reiourne old ages woes,  
Away with fasting, beggarly devotion,  
This is no way to climb unto promotion.   

124  
Yet, were this all (quoth he) as would it were,  
But there is more, which needs I must reveal,  
Behold the poison he hath sent thee here,  
Which on my life I dare not to conceal,  
Thus is the King determined to deal:  
I, only wait upon thy resolution,  
To win thy love, or see thy execution.   

125  
Leave of these humours, be not singular,  
Make not an Idol of thine own perfection,  
Prise not this word (Virginity) so dear,  
Seem not so Saintlike, moved with no affection.  
Beauty brings peril, wanting safe protection,  
Forswear this drowsy melancholy Cell,  
Was never Girl could grace a Court so well.   

126  
This fear first sprung from foolish superstition,  
Which fond conceit into our ears hath blown,  
Which we receive from old folks by tradition,  
And as a weed to choke our joys is grown:  
Reason roots out what Error erst hath sown.  
A gentle jest to fright poor babes withal,  
Like to a Bugbear, painted on a wall.   

127  
Tush, these be trivial toys of reputation,  
Whose Ceremonies have the world infected,  
Held in regard but only for a fashion,  
Which frivolous, the wiser have neglected:  
And but as Dreams of doting age respected.  
Whose spleen-sick humours on their galls were fed  
Thinking all true which they imagined.   

128  
Religion was devised by policy,  
A subtle shadow covering all excess,  
As Nature gives you seeming modesty,  
To shadow that, you would too soon express,  
O, cunning only is true holiness.  
Blush, pray, be patiented, most of all most chaste,  
Thus by deceit, delights must be embraced.   

129  
Dispatch, (quoth he) lo, here is pen and ink,  
Here make the Prince assurance of thy love,  
Or else prepare thee to thy fatal drink,  
Which is of force thy Fever to remove:  
Which (ah poor fondling) thou too soon mayst prove.  
And if thy will be so fast chained to thee,  
Let thine own hands the Executioners be.   

130  
And is (quoth I) the Prince's pleasure thus?  
You are deceived, he doth but this to try me,  
I know my Lord is kind and gracious,  
He thinks my sex, & weakness will disery me;  
I hope the King will deal more kindly by me.  
Those blessed hands, which never did but good,  
Will not be stained with virgins guiltless blood.   

131  
As he doth reign, his mind should truly reign  
In one consent their government agree,  
His public rule his Subjects should restrain,  
Affections, subject to his mind should be,  
Then absolute is it, absolute he.  
His mind commanding, kingly by abstaining,  
As his command is absolute in reigning.   

132  
His thoughts be pure, as Crystal, without spot,  
He is wisdom, honour, valour, chastity:  
What excellence is there that he is not?  
Or what may be, by him which cannot be?  
He's Virtues true superlative degree.  
From his affections, never can proceed,  
One little thought of this so vile a deed.   

133  
Kings be the God's Vizgerents here on earth,  
The Gods have power, Kings from that power have might,  
Kings should excel in virtue as in birth,  
Gods punish wrongs, & kings should maintain right,  
They be the Suunes from which we borrow light.  
And they as Kings, should still in justice strive,  
With Gods, from whom their beings they derive.   

134  
Empire even like the Sun doth draw all eyes,  
And his Eclipse the soon doth appear,  
Small vapours seem great lights drawn to the skies  
Things overhead though far, show ever near,  
Small stains be great in things should be most clear,  
Nothing so soon discerned by humane sight,  
As is the cloud which hides the cheerful light.   

135  
Enraged with this, (in griefs extremity,)  
Minion, (quoth he,) 'tis now no time to prate,  
Dispatch, or else I'll drench you presently,  
Of this, nor that, I stand not to debate.  
Expects thou love where thou reward'st with hate?  
I pass not I, how ere thou like the motion,  
Have done at once, and quickly take the Potion.   

136  
THis sudden terror makes me pause for breath,  
Till sighing out, at length this sad reply:  
If it be so, welcome to me my death,  
This is the utmost of extremity,  
And yet when all is done, I can but die.  
His will be done, sith he will have it so,  
And welcome Death, the end of all my woe.   

137  
My love is his, whilst love to him is due,  
Allegiance binds that love, that love ties truth,  
Untrue to him, if to myself untrue,  
Suspect is still a Page that waits on Youth,  
Ensuing that which of itself ensu'th.  
Plasters cure wounds, nothing a wounded name,  
Kings pardon death, but cannot pardon shame.   

138  
And thou my Deathsman, slave unto his lust,  
Th' executioner of his lawless will,  
In whom the Tyrant doth repose such trust,  
Detract no time, his murdering mind fulfil;  
Do what thou darest, the worst thou canst but kill.  
And tell the Tyrant this when I am dead,  
I loathed his beastly and adulterous bed.   

139  
Nor let the King thy Master ever think,  
A virtuous Maid so cowardly and base,  
As to be frighted with a poisoned drink,  
And live an abject in the world's disgrace:  
All eyes with shame to gaze me in the face.  
That ages which hereafter shall succeed,  
Shall hold me hateful for so vile a deed.   

140  
Strange be effects, strange things in love to prove,  
He would take from me, what he cannot take,  
He loves my hate, and doth but hate my love,  
And would unmake what he doth strive to make,  
And thus must love, be punished for loves sake.  
And would compel by force, so to be held,  
Which is, nor was, nor can be, if compelled.   

141  
To make that his, which then cannot be his,  
Which if once had, is perished being had,  
Nor is not then the same that now it is,  
Striving to get what he to lose is glad,  
When pleasure with extreme excess is mad.  
Poor in the riches which have spoiled me,  
I rich in that, in which I poor should be.   

142  
Is this the greatest gift he could bestow?  
Is this the jewel, wherewith he doth present me?  
I am his friend, what gives he to his foe,  
If this in token of his love be sent me?  
Remediless I am, it must content me.  
Yet afterward, a proverb this shall prove,  
The gift King john bestowed upon his love.   

143  
Then of this conquest let thy Sovereign boast,  
And make report with shame what he hath done:  
A thing more easy then subdue an Host,  
Or conquer Kingdoms, as his Father won;  
O hapless Sire, of this unhappy Son.  
And he more shame shall carry to his grave,  
Then Fortune honours to his Father gave.   

144  
Thus spoke my mind, (as women use to do,)  
Hoping thereby somewhat to ease my heart,  
But words I found, did but increase my woe,  
Augment his rage, not mitigate my smart;  
And now comes in the reckoning ere we part.  
And now my valour must be tried, or never,  
Or famous now, or infamous for ever.   

145  
Taking the poison from his deadly hand,  
Unto the King caroused my latest draft;  
Go wretch (quoth I) now let him understand,  
He hath obtained what he so long hath sought;  
Though with my blood, my fame I dearly bought.  
And though my youth he basely have betrayed,  
Yet witness Heaven, I lived and died a Maid.   

146  
This cup the pen, this poison is the ink,  
And in this untouched table of my breast,  
To him I'll freely write what I do think,  
Where he shall find it feelingly expressed.  
And what I do omit, tell thou the rest.  
Yet rather than in any thing we'll vary,  
We jointly will become one Secretary.   

147  
Then why repine I, sith he thinks it meet,  
He is my Sovereign, and my life is his,  
Death is not bitter, spyced with such a sweet,  
Which leads the way to everlasting bliss;  
He's all my joy, he all my glory is.  
He is the tuch by whom my gold is tried,  
Only by him my death is glorified.   

148  
For could my life, have given life to me,  
My youths fair flower, yet blooming, had not died,  
Then how should this but meritorious be,  
When by my death, my life is sanctified?  
Can ever thing more fitly be applied?  
In this is love, in this his care I find,  
My Lord is just, my Lord is only kind.   

149  
Then let these tears, th'elixirs of my love,  
Be to his soul a pure preservative,  
And let my prayers be of such force to move,  
That by my death, my Sovereign may survive:  
And from his reign, let Fame herself derive  
His glory, like the suns translucent rays,  
And as the heaven, eternal be his days.   

150  
And thou my careful kind Physician,  
For physic now thy patients patiented be,  
Appeal to heaven with true contrition,  
And in thy conscience glass thy foul sin see,  
To thee I'll be, as thou hast been to me.  
This potion take, to rid thee from despair,  
Even as thy potion, shall rid me of care.   

151  
Faith finds free passage to God's mercy seat,  
Repentance carries heavens eternal keys,  
The greater sins bewept, mercy more great,  
A hearty will makes strait th' offenders ways,  
Heaven rings for joy when once a sinner prays.  
Of these sweet simples is my drink compounded,  
Which shall cure both our souls, both deeply wounded.   

152  
This mortal poison, now gins to rage,  
And spreads his vigour through all my veins,  
There is no physic can my grief assuage,  
Such is the torment which my heart destraines,  
Boiling my entrails in most hellish pains,  
And Nature weakened of her wont force,  
Must yield to death, which now hath no remorse.   

153  
And those pure thoughts, which once I choisly fed,  
Now when pale death my senses doth surprise,  
I offer her upon my dying bed,  
This precious, sweet, perfumed sacrifice:  
Hallowed in my almighty Maker's eyes.  
Which from this Altar, lends me heavenly light,  
Guiding my soul amid this darksome night.   

154  
My glorious life, my spotless Chastity.  
Now at this hour be all the joys I have,  
These be the wings by which my fame shall fly,  
In memory, these shall my Name engrave;  
These, from oblivion shall mine honour save.  
With Laurel, these my brows shall coronize,  
And make me live to all posterities.   

155  
Our fond preferments, are but children's toys,  
And as a shadow, all our pleasures pass,  
As years increase, so waning are our joys,  
And beauty crazed, like a broken glass:  
A pretty tale of that which never was,  
All things decay, yet Virtue shall not die,  
This only gives us immortality.   

156  
My soul, thus from her prison set at large,  
And gently freed from this polluted room,  
This prize unladen from this loathsome Barge,  
(Such is the heavens inevitable doom:)  
My body laid at Dunmow in my Tomb.  
Thus Baynards-Castle boasts my blessed birth,  
And Dunmow kindly wraps me in her earth.   

157  
NOW scarcely was my breathless body cold,  
But every where my Tragedy was spread:  
And Fame, abroad in every Coast had told,  
My resolution, being lately dead:  
The glorious wonder of all women-head.  
And to my Father flies with this report,  
Who lived an Exile in the French-Kings Court.   

158  
His grief, too great to be bewailed with tears,  
Words insufficient, to express his woe,  
His soul assaulted with a thousand fears,  
As many sundry passions come and go;  
His thoughts, uncertain, wandering too and fro.  
At length, this fearful ecstasy o'erpast,  
Groans from his soul this passion at the last.   

159  
O Heavens (quoth he) why was I borne accursed?  
This only comfort to mine age was left:  
But to despite me, you have done your worst,  
And me of all my worldly joys bereft:  
I quite undone by your deceitful theft.  
This was the jewel I esteemed most,  
And losing this, now all my treasures lost.   

160  
Ye pours Divine, if you be clean and chaste,  
In whom alone consists eternity,  
Why suffer you, your own to be disgrased,  
Subject to death and black impurity?  
If in your shield be no security?  
If so for Virtue these rewards be due?  
Who shall adore, or who shall honour you?   

161  
What meant you, first to give her vital breath,  
Or make the world proud by her blessed birth,  
Predestinating this untimely death,  
And of her presence to deprive the earth?  
O fruitless age, now starved with virtues dearth.  
Or if you longed to have her company,  
O why by poison would you let her die?   

162  
O Soil, with drops of mercy once bedewed,  
When just men were instauled in thy throne,  
But now with blood of Innocents' embrued,  
Staining the glory of fair Albion,  
O lustful Monster, o accursed john.  
O heavens, to whom should men for justice cry,  
When Kings themselves thus reign by tyranny?   

163  
O give me wings Revenge, I will ascend  
And fetch her soul again, out of their power;  
From them proceeded this untimely end,  
Who took her hence before her dying hour  
And raised that cloud which rained this bloody shower.  
And from the grave I'll dig her body up,  
Which had her bane by that vile poisoned cup   

164  
O pardon Heavens these sacrilegious words,  
This irreligious open blasphemy:  
My wretched soul no better now affords,  
Such is the passion of mine agony,  
My desperate case in this extremity.  
You harbour those which ever like you best,  
With blessed Angels let her spirit rest.   

165  
No, no, I'll practise by some secret Art,  
How to infect his pure life-breathing air,  
Or else I'll sheathe my poniard in his heart,  
Or with strong poison I'll anoint his Chair:  
Or by enchantment, will his days impair.  
O no, revenge to God alone belongs,  
And it is he which must revenge my wrongs.   

166  
Grief wouldst thou wound a world of humane hearts,  
And yet not furnished with artillery,  
Of my care-dryed bones than make thee darts,  
And point them with my sorrow poisoned eye,  
Which hitting right shall make even death to die.  
That thou thine Ebon bow shalt never draw,  
But black despair himself shall stand in awe.   

167  
O heavens, perforce we must attend your time,  
Our succours must await upon you still,  
In your just weights you balance every crime,  
For us you know what's good, and what is ill;  
Who understands your deep and secret skill?  
In you alone our destinies consist,  
Than who is he which can your power resist?   

168  
O, could my sighs again but give thee breath,  
Or were my tears such balm as could restore thee,  
Or could my life redeem thee from this death,  
Or were my prayers, but invocations worthy:  
Sighs, tears, life, prayers, were all to little for thee.  
But since the heaven, thus of my child disposeth,  
Ah me, thy Tomb now all my joys encloseth.   

169  
But Death is proud, and scorneth to be Death,  
Her smiling beauty did his heat assuage,  
And is so much enriched with her sweet breath,  
As he doth scorn mine o'erworn wrinkled age,  
Though with contempt I move him still to rage.  
But as thou lov'st her death, for her sweet sake,  
As thou took'st her from me, me to her take.   

170  
O what a wonder shall thy valour bring?  
What admiration to posterity?  
What rare examples from thy virtues spring:  
O what a glory to thy Progeny,  
To be engraved in lasting memory,  
When as applauding Fame in every Coast,  
Shall thus in honour of Fitzwater's boast?   

171  
England, when peace upon thy shores shall flourish,  
And that pure Maiden sit upon thy Throne  
Which in her bosom shall the Muses nourish,  
Whose glorious fame shall through the world be blown,  
(O blessed Isle, thrice happy Albion)  
Then let thy Poets in their stately rhymes,  
Sing forth her praises to succeeding times.   

182  
Even like the root of some large branched Oak,  
Whose body by some storm is overbeared,  
Even with such horror be mine entrails broke,  
As when that root out of the ground is torn:  
And with such woeful horror let them mourn,  
As with the shrieks each living thing may wound,  
Even as the Mandrake torn out of the ground.   

183  
BY this, the King's vile bloody rage is past,  
And gentle time his choler doth digest,  
The fire consumes his substance at the last,  
The grief assuaged which did his spirit molest,  
That fiend cast out wherewith he was possessed:  
And now he feels this horror in his soul,  
When loathsome shame his actions doth control.   

174  
Black hell-bred-humor of revenging sin,  
By whose enticements, murder we commit,  
The end unthought of rashly we begin,  
Letting our passion overrule our wit,  
Missing the mark which most we aim to hit:  
Clogging our souls with such a mass of care,  
As casts us down oft times to deep Despair.   

175  
Traitor to Virtue, Reprobate (quoth he)  
As for a King, no more usurp the name:  
Stain to all honour and gentility,  
Marked in the face with th'iron of Defame:  
The Picture of all infamy and shame.  
Despised of men, abhorred in every place,  
Hate to thyself, the very world's disgrace.   

176  
When all thy race shall be in triumph set,  
Their royal conquests and atchivements done,  
Henry thy Father, brave Plantagenet,  
Thy conquering Brother, Lyon-hart his son,  
The crowns & spoils, these famous Champions won  
This still shall be in thy dishonour said,  
Lo, this was john, the murderer of a Maid.   

177  
Look I to heaven, her pureness tells my sin,  
Look I on man, he frowns with hateful sight,  
Look I on earth, I see my fault therein,  
The light to view my shame, doth give me light,  
The night puts me in mind of my fame's night:  
I read my shame in all things as a book,  
And yet most grieved when on myself I look.   

178  
This act enrolled in book of black Defame,  
Where, men of death & tragic murders reed,  
Recorded in the Register of shame,  
In lines whose letters freshly ever bleed,  
Where all the world shall wonder my misdeed,  
And quote the place, (thus ever) passing by,  
Note here King john's vile damned tyranny.   

179  
Her blood exhaled from earth unto the sky,  
A fearful Meteor still hangs over my head,  
Staining the heavens with her Vermilion dye,  
Changing the suns bright rays to gory red,  
Prognosticating death and fearful dread;  
Her soul, with howling, & revengeful steven,  
Shrieking before the crystal gates of Heaven.   

180  
Whose sacred Counsel, now in judgement set,  
And she, before them stands to plead her case,  
Her dreary words in bloody tears are wet,  
The evidence appears before my face,  
And I condemned a caitiff wanting grace;  
justice cries out upon this sinful deed,  
And to my death the fatal stars proceed.   

181  
Earth, swallow me, and hide me in thy womb,  
O let my shame in thy deep Centre dwell,  
Wrap up this murder in my wretched tomb,  
Let tender mercy stop the gates of hell,  
And with sweet drops this furious heat expel:  
O let repentance just revenge appease,  
And let my soul, in torment find some ease.   

182  
O, no: her tears are now become a flood,  
And as they rise, increasing mine offence;  
And now the shedding of her guiltless blood,  
Even like a Canker, gnaws my conscience:  
O, there's my grief, my pain proceeds from thence.  
Yet never time wears out this filthy stain,  
And I dishonoured ever shall remain.   

183  
Fame in her death, shame in me took her birth,  
That shame in dying, till her fame be dead,  
My sin on earth, whilst she is in the earth,  
And by her fall, my fault will still be fed,  
My black more black, my red be made more red,  
Her no, my I, her was, my wicked is,  
Her good, my ill, my baseness be her bliss.   

184  
Then do I vow a solemn pilgrimage,  
Before my wretched miserable end;  
This done, betake me to some Hermitage,  
Where I the remnant of my days will spend,  
Where alms and prayer I ever will attend,  
And on the Tomb at last, where thou dost lie,  
When all is done, I'll lay me down and die.   

185  
And for his penance, lastly he devised,  
Monthly to Dunmow would he take his way,  
And in a simple Palmer's weed disguised,  
With deep devotion kneel him down to pray:  
Kissing the place whereas my body lay:  
Washing my Tomb with his repentant tears,  
And being wet, yet dried it with his hairs.   
FINIS   

THE ARGUMENT OF PEIRS GAVESTON.  
PEIRS Gaveston, borne in Gascoigne, at a place of that name, his Father a valiant Gentleman and a soldier, serving under Edward Longshancks in his wars, in France, Scotland, and Wales: This Peirs Gaveston, then being a child of singular beauty and no less towardness, was preferred to the place of a Page, to Edward of Carnarvan, the young Prince of Wales: with whom he became so highly in favour, as never any thing could remove his inviolable love. Gaveston, as he grew in years, became most licentious, & by his inticments, drew this toward young Prince, (following this his youthful Minion) into hate with the Noblemen, and disgrace with the King his Father: who banished this lascivious corrupter of his Son. But after the death of this good King, Edward of Carnarvan coming to the Crown, calls him home, creating him Earl of Cornwall, making him Lord Chamberlain, Treasurer & Secretary, Lord Deputy of Ireland, and Lord Protector of the Land, in his absence in France: giving him the isle of MAN, with all Queen Elinor's dowry. He thus established by the King, becometh a hater of the Noble men, drowned in pride and ambition, setting mortal debate betwixt the Barons and the King, who suborned him in all his actions, as a man bewithced by this wicked and vile man. He was twice banished the Realm, by means of the Barons who deadly hated him: and yet still the King found means to restore him. At length, the Barons seeing no remedy, rise in Arms, taking Gaveston at Scarborough in the North, (thither fled as to a refuge from their fury.) They bring him to Warwick, where by Guy Beuchamp, the great Earl of Warwick, he was beheaded at Blacklow bill.  
THE legend OF Piers Gaveston. Entitled To the worthy and Honourable Gentleman, Ma. Henry Cavendish. Esquire.  

1  
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 woful tale to tell:  
Prepare the Stage, I mean to act my part,  
Sighing the Scenes from my tormented heart.   

2  
From Stygian Lake, to graceless souls assigned,  
And from the flood of burning Acheron,  
Where sinful spirits, are by fire refined,  
The fearful ghost of woeful Gaveston:  
With black-faced Furies from the graves attended,  
Until the tenor of my tale be ended.   

3  
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 & body, which death once did sunder  
Now meet together, to report a wonder.   

4  
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.   

5  
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.   

6  
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.   

7  
Declare my ebb, my often swelling tide,  
Now tell my calms, and then report my showers,  
My Winter's storms, and then my summers pride,  
False Fortune's smiles, than her dissembling lowers,  
The height whereto my glory did ascend,  
Then point the period where my joys did end.   

8  
When famous Edward wore the English crown,  
Victorious Longshanks, 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.   

9  
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.   

10  
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.   

11  
His Court a school, where Arts were daily red,  
And yet a Camp where Arms are exercised,  
Virtue and learning here were nourished,  
And stratagems by soldiers still devised:  
Hear skilful Schoolmen were his Counsellors,  
Scholars his Captains, Captains Senators.   

12  
Here sprang the root of true gentility,  
Virtue was clad in gold, & 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.   

13  
Then were vile worldlings loathed as filthy toads,  
And good men as rare pearls were richly prized,  
The learned were accounted little Gods,  
The hateful Atheist, as the plague despised:  
Desert then gained, what virtues merit craves,  
And Artless Peasants scorned as basest slaves.   

14  
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 & sold,  
No pettifogger pol'd the poor for pence,  
These dolts, these dogs, as traitors banished hence.   

15  
Then was the Soldier prodigal of blood,  
His deeds eternised by the Poet's pen:  
Who spared his life to do his Country good,  
When after death his fame remained with men?  
Then learning lived with liberality,  
And men were crowned with immortality.   

16  
Grant pardon then unto my wandering ghost,  
Although I seem lascivious in my praise,  
And of perfection though I vainly 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.   

17  
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 & laid to gage,  
To follow him, the wonder of that age.   

18  
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.   

19  
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.   

20  
The heavens had limned my face with such a die,  
As made each curious 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.   

21  
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 souls delight.   

22  
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 where my beauties pure translucent rays,  
Which cheered the Sun, & cleared the drooping days.   

23  
My looks, persuading Orators of love,  
My speech, divine infusing harmony,  
And every word so well could passion move,  
So were my icstures graced with modesty,  
As where my thoughts intended to surprise,  
I easily made a conquest with mine eyes.   

24  
A gracious mind, a passing lovely eye,  
A hand that gave, a mouth the 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.   

25  
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.   

26  
As in th' Autumnal season of the year,  
Some death-presaging Comet doth arise,  
Or some prodigious meteor doth appear,  
Or fearful Chasma unto humane eyes:  
Even such a wonder was I to behold,  
Where heaven seemed all her secrets to unfold.   

27  
If cunningsed pensill-man that ever wrought,  
By skilful Art of secret Sumetrie,  
Or the divine Idea of the thought,  
With rare descriptions of high Poesy,  
Should all compose a body and a mind,  
Such one was I, the wonder of my kind.   

28  
With this fair bait I fished for Edward's love,  
My dainty youth so pleased his princlie eye:  
Hear grew the league, which time could not remove,  
So deeply grasted in our infancy,  
That friend, nor so, nor life, nor death could sunder  
So seldom seen, and to the world a wonder.   

29  
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.   

30  
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,  
And endless league, a bond that's never broken,  
A thing divine, a word with wonder spoken.   

31  
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.   

32  
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.   

33  
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.   

34  
Thou Ark of heaven, where wonders are inroled,  
O depth of nature, who can look on 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.   

35  
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 with beyond our human sense extendeth.   

36  
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.   

37  
My words as laws, authentic he allowed,  
My yea, by him was never crossed with no,  
All my conceit as currant he avowed,  
And as my shadow still he served so,  
My hand the racket, he the tennis-ball,  
My voices echo, answering every call.   

38  
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 the pillow where he laid his head,  
Mine eyes this brook, my bosom was his bed.   

39  
My smiles were life, and Heaven unto his sight,  
All his delight concluding my desire,  
From mine eyes beams he borrowed all his light,  
And as a fly played with my beauty's fire,  
His lovesick lips, at every kissing qualm,  
Cling to my lips to cure their grief with blame.   

40  
Like as the wanton ivy with his twine,  
When as 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.   

41  
Or as Love-nursing Venus when she sports  
With cherry-lipt Adonis in the shade,  
Figuring her passions in a thousand sorts,  
With sights, & 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.   

42  
My beauty was the Lodestar to his thought,  
My looks the Pilot to his wandering eye,  
By me his senses all sleep were brought,  
When with sweet love I sang his lullaby;  
Nature had taught my tongue her perfect time,  
Which in his ear struck duly as a chime.   

43  
With sweetest speech, thus could I Syrenics,  
Which as strong philtre youths desire could move,  
And with such method could I rethorize,  
My music played the measures to his love:  
In his fair breast, such was my souls impression,  
As to his eyes, my thoughts made intercession.   

44  
Thus like an Eagle seated in the Sun,  
But yet a Phoenix in my Sovereign's 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.   

45  
The table now of all delight is laid,  
Served with what banquets beauty could devise,  
She Siren's 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.   

46  
Fraught with delight, and safely under sail,  
Like flight-winged Faucons 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.   

47  
My youthful pranks are spurs to his desire,  
I held the reins which ruled the golden Sun,  
My blandishments were fuel to his fire,  
I had the garland who so ever won:  
I waxed his wings and taught him art to fly,  
Who on his back might bear me through the sky.   

48  
Here first that Sun-bright temple is defiled,  
Which to fair Virtue first was consecrated,  
This was the fruit wherewith I was beguiled,  
Here 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.   

49  
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.   

50  
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 fountain-cleer beginning,  
Is now polluted by the filth of sinning.   

51  
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.   

52  
The Heaven too see my fall doth knit her brows,  
The valty ground under my burden groaneth,  
Unto mine eyes, the air no light allows,  
The very wind my wickedness bemoneth:  
The barren earth repineth at my food,  
And Nature seems to curse her beastly brood.   

53  
And thus like slaves we sell our souls to sin,  
Virtue forgot by world's 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 paradise.   

54  
O pleasure thou, the very lure of sin,  
The root of woe, our youths deceitful guide,  
A shop where all confected poisons been,  
The bayre of lust, the instrument of pride,  
Enchanting Circe's, smoothing cover-guile,  
Alluring Siren, flattering Crocodile.   

55  
Our jove which saw this Phoebus youth betrayed,  
And Phaeton guide the Sun-carre in the skies,  
Knew well the course with danger hardly stayed,  
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.   

56  
This was a corsive to King Edward's days,  
These jarring discords quite untuned his mirth,  
This was the pain which 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, & rend his heart in sunder.   

57  
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 upon his hairs:  
This was the moth, this was the fretting rust,  
Which so consumed his glory unto dust.   

58  
The humour found, which fed this foul disease,  
Most needs be stayed ere help could be devised,  
The vain must breathe the burning to appease,  
Hardly a cure the wound not cauterised:  
That member now where in the botch was risen,  
Infecteth all not cured by incision.   

59  
The cause conjectured by this Prodigy,  
From whence this foul contagious sickness grew,  
Wisdom alone must give a remedy,  
Thus to prevent the danger to ensue:  
The cause must end, ere the effect could cease,  
Else might the danger daily more increase.   

60  
Now they, 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.   

61  
These curs which lived by carrion of the court,  
These wide-mouthed hellhounds 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,  
This was the Serpent struck me with his sting.   

62  
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 strome, this unexpected wonder.  
They thought my Sun had been eclipsed quite,  
And all my day now turned to Winter's night.   

63  
My youth embowelled by their curious eyes,  
Whose true reports my life anotomized:  
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   

64  
My Sun 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 Glowworms to my glorious light,  
They erst condemned, by my perfections doom,  
In Phoebus' Chariot, now possess my room.   

65  
The Commons swore, I led the Prince to vice,  
The Noblemen, said 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.   

66  
The staff thus broke, whereon my youth did stay,  
And like 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.   

67  
The frowning Heavens are all in sable 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.   

68  
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 doth fear,  
The greatest fly, when he approacheth near.   

69  
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.   

70  
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 black-faced night.   

71  
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 aproching theme  
So now I sing the dirges of my fall,  
The Anthems of my fatal funeral.   

72  
Or as the faithful Turtle for her make,  
Whose youth enjoyed her dear virginity,  
Sits shrouded in some melancholy brake,  
Chirping fotth accents of her misery.  
Thus half distracted sitting all alone,  
With speaking sighs to utter forth my moan.   

73  
My beauty sdayning to behold the light,  
Now weatherbeaten with a thousand storms,  
My dainty limbs must travail day and night,  
Which oft were lulled in princely Edward's arms.  
Those eyes where Beauty sat in all her pride,  
With fearful objects filled on every side.   

74  
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.   

75  
Now weep mine eyes, and lend me tears at will,  
You sad-musd sisters help me to indite,  
And in your fair Castalia bathe my quill,  
In bloody lines whilst I his woes recite,  
Inspire my Muse, â Heavens, now from above,  
To paint the passions of a princely love.   

76  
His eyes about their rolling Globes do east,  
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 slolie how they run.  
Reproves the day, & blames the loitering Sun.   

77  
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,  
with cloud that shine of his youths-smiling morrow.   

78  
Now showering down a flood of brackish tears,  
The Epithemas to his hart-swolne grief,  
Then sighing out a vollue of despairs,  
Which only is th'afflicted man's relief:  
Now wanting sighs, & all his tears were spent,  
His tongue broke out into this sad lament.   

79  
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 by despite:  
O end my days, for now my joys are done,  
Wanting my Peers, my sweetest Gaveston.   

80  
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 Piers, my lovely Gaveston.   

81  
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?   

82  
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.   

83  
Deceitful siren Traitor to my youth,  
Bane to my bliss, false these that stealest my joys,  
Mother of lies, sworn enemy to truth,  
The ship of fools fraught all with gauds & toys,  
A vessel stuffed with foul hypocrisy,  
The very temple of Idolatry,   

84  
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.   

85  
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.   

86  
O Heavens why are you deaf unto my moan?  
Sdayne you my prayers, or scorn to hear my miss,  
Cease you to move, or is your pity gone;  
Or is it you which rob me of my bliss?  
What are you blind, or wink and will not see?  
Or do you sport at my calamity?   

87  
O happy climate what so ere thou be,  
Cheered with those suns the fairest that ever shone,  
Which hast those Stars which guide my destiny,  
The brightest Lamps in all the Horizon.  
O happy eyes that see what most I lack,  
The pride and beauty of the Zodiac.   

88  
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 tuchstone of all sweet conceit,  
On whom all graces evermore await.   

89  
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 a skance,  
Too weak to swim against the streamfull time,  
foretold their fall which now sought most to climb.   

90  
Chameleon-like, the world thus turns her hue,  
And like to 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.   

91  
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.   

92  
Thus restless Time that never turns again,  
Whose winged sect are sliding with the Sun,  
Brings Fortune in to act another Scene  
By whom the Plot already is begun:  
The argument of this black tragedy,  
Is virtues fall to raise up infamy.   

93  
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.   

94  
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 course,  
And on his Hearse me thinks I still indite:  
My paper is hard sable Ebon wood,  
My pen of Iron, and my Ink is blood.   

95  
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 too vile and base.   

96  
May I report his doleful obsequy,  
When as my Ghost doth tremble at his name,  
Feign would I write, but as I write 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.   

97  
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.   

98  
Carnarvan now calls home within a while,  
Whom worthy Longshanks 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, & dead men's words forgot.   

99  
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.   

100  
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.   

101  
Now am I mounted with Fame's 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.   

102  
Who ever saw the kindest Roman dame,  
With extreme joy yield up her latest breath,  
When from the wars her Son triumphing came,  
And stately Rome had mourned for his death:  
Her passion here might have expressed a right,  
When once I came into the Prince's sight.   

103  
Who ever had his Lady in his arms,  
Which 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 joys we felt.   

104  
Like as when Phoebus darting forth his rays,  
glideth along the swelling Ocean streams,  
And 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.   

105  
It seemed the air devisd to please my sight,  
The whistling wind makes music to my tale,  
All things on earth do 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?   

106  
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.   

107  
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 Wallingford, Queen Elnor's stately bower,  
With many a town, and many a goodly tower.   

108  
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.   

109  
Determined now to hoist my sail amain,  
The Earl of Cornwall he created me,  
Of England then the Lord high Chamberlain,  
Cheese Secretary to his Majesty:  
What I devisd, his treasure ever wrought,  
His bounty still so answered to my thought.   

110  
Yet more to spice my joys with sweet delight,  
Bound by his love apprentice to my pleasure,  
Whose eyes still leveled how to please my sight,  
Whose kindness ever so exceeded measure,  
Devisd to quench my thirst with such a drink,  
As from my quill drops Nectar to my ink.   

111  
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.   

112  
He gives his Niece is 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.   

113  
Like heauen-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, who in my bosom rested,  
which whose sweet love, my youthful years were feasted   

114  
As when fair Ver, dight in her flowery rail,  
In her new-coloured livery 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.   

115  
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 perfect Image of pure chastity.   

116  
O chastity, thou gift of blessed souls,  
Comfort in death, a crown unto the life,  
Which all the passions of the mind controls,  
Adorns the maid and beautifies the wife:  
That grace, the with nor death nor time attaints,  
Of earthly creatures making heavenly Saints.   

117  
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 disciphred is alone,  
Whose name shall want a fit Epitheron.   

118  
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.   

119  
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.   

120  
Self-love, Pride's thirst, unsatis-fied desire,  
A flood that never yet had any bounds,  
Time's pestilence, thou state-consuming fire,  
A mischief which all Common weals confounds,  
O plague of plagues, how many kingdoms rue thee?  
Happy those Empires which yet never knew thee   

121  
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 pleasant story,  
Which promise wonders, & a world of glory.   

122  
For now began the bloody-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 deliuge first begun,  
With which this Isle was after overrun.   

123  
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.   

124  
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   

125  
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.   

126  
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 flatteries to smooth me,  
Base Parasites, these elbow-rubbing mates,  
A plague to all lascivious wanton states.   

127  
O filthy Monkeys, vile and beastly kind,  
Fowl prattling Parrots, birds of Harpy brood,  
A corrosive to every noble mind,  
Vipers, that suck your mother's decrest blood,  
misshapen Monster, worst of any creature,  
A foe to Art, an enemy to nature.   

128  
His presence graced what ere I went about,  
Best pleased with that which most contented 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.   

129  
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.   

130  
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 sirenlike, she brings me to the bay,  
Where long before she plotted my decay.   

131  
For now the King to France doth him prepare,  
For marriage with the Princess Isabella,  
Daughter to Philip, then surnamed the fair,  
And she, like him, in beauty did excel,  
Of tylts and triumphs every man reports,  
And the uniting of these famous Courts.   

132  
To raise me now to honours highest stair,  
He makes me Lord-protector of the Land,  
And placing me in his imperial chair,  
Yields up his Sceptre wholly to my hand,  
Devising still how he to pass might bring,  
That if he died, I might succeed as King.   

133  
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 thrown her bowels up.  
My reckonings cast, my sums were soon enrolled  
I was by no man once to controlled.   

134  
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 nyggard with a Prince's purse.   

135  
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 joylity:  
Where, in my carriage were such honours placed,  
As with my presence, all the shows were graced.   

136  
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.   

137  
In richest Purple road I all alone,  
With Diamonds embroidered and bedight,  
Which like the stars in Gallaxia shone,  
Whose lustre still reflecting with the light,  
Presented heaven to all that ever gazed,  
Of force to make a world of eyes amazed.   

138  
Upon a stately jennet forth I road,  
Caparizond 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,  
Praised of England, but admired of France.   

139  
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 God's desire.   

140  
Or like unto the fiery-faced Sun,  
Upon his waggon prancing in the West,  
Whose blushing cheeks which 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   

141  
Foolish Narcissus, with thyself in love,  
Yet but to be thyself thou canst not see,  
Remove thy sight, which shall that sight remove,  
Which doth but seem, & yet not seeming thee:  
A shadow, shadowed underneath a wave,  
Which each thing can destroy, & nothing save.   

142  
Bridle ambition fretting in desire,  
At least disguise her in humility,  
This were a perfect method to aspire,  
By certain rules of grounded policy:  
The bending knee in safety still doth go,  
When others stumble, as too stiff to bow.   

143  
One evil still another doth beget,  
Pride draws on vengeance, vengeance, hath no mean,  
Envy let in, doth in more mischiefs let,  
Vainglory never temperance doth retain,  
Chance lives not long, time festeth & time morn's  
Solace and sorrow have their certain turns.   

144  
Coin modest temperance, vail thy sail of state,  
Paint pale disdain, and make her lovely fair,  
In meekness mask the most distempered hate,  
Ere sharpest physic come, mildly prepare,  
Use instruments to draw thy purpose on,  
The surest means, is surel'est built upon.   

145  
Virtue and vice, immortal enemies,  
Both this & that, 'gainst this and that opposed,  
Evil and good in contrarieties,  
One by the other utterly transposed:  
Now were the skill to make them both agree,  
This seeming that, that seeming this to be.   

146  
Thus when the gallant companies were met,  
The King here present with his lovely Queen,  
The Noblemen in comely order set,  
To hear and see, what could be heard & seen,  
Lo here that kindness easily is descried,  
That faithful love which he nor I could hide.   

147  
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.   

148  
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.   

149  
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.   

150  
The Barons now ambitious at my reign,  
As one which stood betwixt them and the Sun,  
They underhand pursue me with disdain,  
Playing the game which I before had won,  
And malice now so hard the bellows blue,  
That through mine ears the sparks of fire flew.   

151  
Where, in revenge, the triumphs they devisd  
To entertain the King with wondrous cost,  
Were by my malice suddenly surprised,  
The charge, their summons, & their honours lost;  
Which in their thoughts, revenge so deeply raised,  
As with my blood they vowed should be appeased   

152  
As when within the soft and spongy soil,  
The wind 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 & mountains tremble,  
Even such a meteor doth their rage resemble.   

153  
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.   

154  
Thus as a plague unto the government,  
A very scourge to the Nobility,  
The cause of all the Commons discontent,  
The Image of all sensuality,  
I was reproached openly of many,  
Who pitied none, not pitied now of any.   

155  
And as a vile misleader of the King,  
A wasteful spender of his coin & 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.   

156  
Light-footed mischief, messenger of death,  
Sharp spur of vengeance, piercing edge of hate,  
Blood poisoning plague, repiner at our breath,  
Thou foul infector of all humane state,  
Post to destruction running on with us,  
Night-haunting ghost, our evil Genius.   

157  
O foul fore-teller of my fouler fall,  
Still following fury, never pyttying fiend,  
Of my destruction only principal,  
Curse of our birth, and Curser of our end;  
Our frailties scourge, our vices purgatory,  
Thou fatal worker of our fatal story.   

158  
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.   

159  
The King perceiving how the matter stood,  
Himself, his crown in this extremety,  
And still the Barons thirsting for my blood,  
And seeing now no other remedy,  
But I some vile untimely death must die,  
Or thus must be, exiled presently.   

160  
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, & now he knows now what.  
To help me now, a thousand means he forgeth,  
Whilst still which sighs his sorrows he disgorgeth.   

161  
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 somewhat overpast,  
And in mean time, t'appease the Barons hate,  
And so reduce me to my former state.   

162  
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 the mercy of the fire.   

163  
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.   

164  
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 pain,  
The time too short, the tale were all too long:  
Taking my leave with sighs, away I went,  
He streams of tears unto my farewell sen●●   

165  
Dispatching looks (Ambassadors of love)  
Which as our posts could go & 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 sooner quenched in hope of safe return.   

166  
O hope, how cunning with our cares to gloze,  
Griefs breathing point, the truce man to desire,  
The rest in sighs, the very thoughts repose,  
As thou art mild, oh wert thou not a liar,  
Fair speaking flattery, subtle soothing guile,  
Ah how in thee our sorrows sweetly smile.   

167  
Like to a vessel with a narrow vent,  
Which is filled up with liquor to the top,  
Although the mouth be after downward bend,  
Yet is it seen not to distill a drop.  
Even thus our breasts brimful with pensive care,  
Stopping our tongues, with grief we silent are.   

168  
But when my want gave breath unto his moan,  
And that his tears had now untied his tongue,  
With dreary sighs dispersed and overblown,  
Which erst (like Fountains) in abundance sprung,  
Unto himself he thus complains his grief,  
Sith now the world could yield him no relief.   

169  
O cursed stars (quoth he) which guide my birth,  
Infernal Torches, Comets of misfortune,  
Or Genius here which 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.   

170  
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 phantasma and elusion,  
And my delights intending my confusion.   

171  
What Planet reigned in the 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?   

172  
Am I a Prince, yet to my people subject,  
Which should be loved, yet thus am left forlorn,  
Ordained to rule, respected as an abject,  
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.   

173  
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.   

174  
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 same by every slave disgraced;  
A King should ever privilege his pleasure,  
And make his Peers esteem it as their treasure.   

175  
Then raise thy thoughts, & with thy thoughts thy love  
Kings want no means t'accomplishaccomplish what they would,  
If one do sail, 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.   

176  
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 dear, a space, this weary time prolong,  
He lives, that can, and shall revenge thy wrong.  

177  
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.   

178  
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.   

179  
Thus like a Barge that wants both steer & sails,  
Forced with the wind against the streamfull 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.   

180  
Instruct thy dangers whilst they be but young,  
And like a teacher train them to obey,  
That growing cunning as they do grow strong,  
They may guide thee with safety on the way.  
Thus find out wisdoms true mortality,  
Philosophies more deep Philosophy.   

181  
With sweetest mildness guide thine humble eye,  
Thy mind aloft, thy semblance carried down,  
Vainglory fond gazeth on the sky,  
He on the ground that aimeth at a crown:  
Thy thoughts & sight not leveled both together,  
Where thou wouldst be, thine eye not bending thither.   

182  
With mind more clearer, then with eyes we see,  
That followed best whose proof brings confidence,  
Let words unto thy thoughts but watchwords be,  
Thy speech no whit allied to thy pretence;  
Feed fools with toys, but wisemen with regard  
The breath thou sparest, for thy advantage spared.   

183  
The Fates far of foreseen, come gently near,  
Doubt takes sure footing in the slipperest ways,  
safety, most safe, when she is kept with fear,  
And quietness the only Nurse of ease:  
Ambition frantic, stabbeth still atthrones,  
Honour, and envy, be companions.   

184  
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.   

185  
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 sendeth me such store,  
As made the world to wonder more and more.   

186  
Like great gold-coyning Crassus in his health,  
Amidst his Legion long-maintayning 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.)   

187  
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.   

188  
Of this my wondrous hospitality,  
The Irish yet, until this day do boast,  
Such was the bounty of my King to me,  
His Chequer then could scarce defray the cost.  
His gifts were great, I joyed in what he sent,  
He freely gave, and I as freely spend.   

189  
Few days there past, but some the channel crossed,  
With kindest Letters enterlind with love,  
Whereas I still received by every Post,  
His Riug, his Bracelet, Garter, or his Glove:  
Which I in hostage of his kindness kept,  
Of this pure love, which lived and never slept.   

190  
With many a rich and stately Ornament,  
Worn by great Kings, of high & wondrous price,  
Or jewel that my fancy might content,  
With many a rob of strange and rare device.  
That all which saw & knew this wondrous waist,  
Perceived his treasure long time could not last.   

191  
And thus whilst Fortune friendly cast my dice,  
And took my hazard, and threw at the main,  
I saw it was but solly to be nice,  
That chanceth once, which seldom haps again.  
I knew such bounty had been seldom seen,  
And since his time, I think hath never been.   

192  
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.   

193  
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 Commonwealth it drowns;  
And thus like men which tread an endless maze,  
Whilst Fortune sports, the world stands at a gaze.   

194  
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 deths doth still importune   

195  
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, & sweetest vows of love,  
As were of force a Rock of flint to move.   

196  
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 which his will, their thoughts seem to accord,  
Such is the love of Subjects to their Lord.   

197  
O Majesty, how thy desire commands,  
How doth thy presence humble every eye,  
Thy words, have words, thy hand, hath many hands  
And thus with all things hast community:  
How thy great power of governing estate  
Is still imperious over love and hate.   

198  
And having found his kindness took effect,  
This agent fails not to prefer his suit,  
Nor day, nor night, once doth the same neglect,  
Until his travel yields desired fruit:  
And that the Barons all with might and main,  
Now condescend to call me home again.   

199  
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.   

200  
In all post-haste, the King to Ireland sent  
His Princely Letters for my safe return,  
To England now I must incontinent,  
It seems that time all malice hath outworn.  
The Coast is clear, occasion calls away,  
The gale stands right, & drives me from the Bay.   

201  
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 Eg-born twins appear,  
Towards Albyons' clives fair Fortune guides my steer.   

202  
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 which might but kiss my hand.   

203  
In pleasures there we spend the nights and days,  
And with our Revels entertain the time,  
With costly Banquets, Masks, & 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.)   

204  
Like as the famous brave Egyptian Queen,  
Feasted the Roman great Mark Anthony,  
With Pearl-dissolued carrouses, 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.   

205  
Or like the Trojan Priam, when as he  
Beheld his long-lost Son return to Troy,  
Triumphing now in all his jollity.  
Proud Ilyon smokes with th'o●ges of his joy,  
Such are our feasts & stately triumphs here,  
Which with applauses, found in every ear.   

206  
Nothing seen fearful, we the most might fear,  
Greatest mists arise, before the greatest rain,  
The water deep'st, where we least murmur hear,  
In fairest Cups, men temper deadliest bain.  
The nearer night, the air more calm and still,  
The nearer to our deaths, least fearing ill.   

207  
Short hours work long effects, minutes have change  
Whilst pleasure withers, pain more ripe doth grow,  
Fortune in turning to herself is strange,  
joy is forgetful, weal thinks not of woe.  
Prosperity a flatterer is found,  
Delight is fearless, till it feel the wound.   

208  
The Beast and Bird can prophecy of storms,  
The air of tempest, doth foretell the eye,  
And senseless things oft Augurs of men's harms,  
Stones sore-shew rain, by their humidity.  
They mourn for us, we not their mourning see,  
To men without sense, all things senseless be.   

209  
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 & drums.   

210  
As when Paulus Aemilius entered Room,  
And like great jone, in stan like 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.   

211  
Or when old Phillip's still-wondred Son,  
In his world's conquest surfeiting with spoils,  
The scourge of King's 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.   

212  
The trumpets sound but as in Tragedies,  
When as the Actors on the Stage appear,  
The drums strike Larums to our miseries,  
The doleful bells but call us to our Beer:  
They be not triumphs which delight us so,  
But noise, when men to execution go.   

213  
Be deaf, nor feel, nor taste, nor smell, nor see,  
Senseless our bodies, senseless be our minds,  
Let's frame our bodies, like our minds to be,  
And rightly let them be in their own kinds:  
Be senseless senses, and no pleasures feel,  
Our minds as senseless, as is flint or steel.   

214  
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.   

215  
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 tars if for his prey.  
Thus having got me in her arms so fast,  
determines now to feed on me at last.   

216  
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.   

217  
For thus ere long, between the King and me,  
Even as before, our Revels thus 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 now again it haps within their doors.   

218  
Times old transgression, light-beleeving trust,  
Too late repentance, follies fonds forecast,  
Our minds foul surfeit, and our humours lust,  
Our goods consumption, our good fortunes waste.  
Even by my spirit, here let your griefs be shown  
Who have been graceless to foresee mine own.   

219  
By patiented sufferance, could we midly bear,  
With Fortune yet we equally might share,  
And overcoming that, which all do fear,  
By present cure, prevent ensuing care.  
Vain sounds of pleasure we delight to hear,  
But counsel jar, as discords in our care.   

220  
The Horse hath rains to rule him in his course,  
The Ship an Anchor, to withstand the flood,  
The wrestler sleight, which counterchecketh force,  
The battering Engine is by strength withstood.  
The Hound a lease, whereby to hold him in,  
But we no means, once to control our sin.   

221  
Like as a man made drunk with foul excess,  
Drowning his soul in this vile lothlie 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's request.   

222  
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.   

223  
My youth spurs on my frail untamed desire,  
Yielding the rains to my lascivious will,  
Upon the Ice I take my full careyre,  
The place too slippery, and my manage ill:  
Thus like a Colt, in danger to be cast,  
Yet still run on, the devil drives so fast.   

124  
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 sensuality.   

225  
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 hales me down to the infernal deep:  
Fowl sleep-god Morpheus, curtains up the light,  
And shuts my fame in everlasting night.   

226  
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 woomb.   

227  
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.   

228  
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 scandalise,  
And root the same from all posterities.   

229  
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.   

230  
They say, that I conveyed beyond the Sea,  
The Table and the trestles of pure 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.   

231  
Some slanderous tongues, in spiteful manner said  
That here I lived in filthy Sodomy,  
And that I was King Edward's Ganymede,  
And to this sin he was enticed by me;  
And more, to wreck their spiteful deadly teen,  
Report the same to Isabella the Queen.   

232  
A Catalogue of titles they begun,  
With which I had the Noble men abused,  
Which they avoucht I never durst have done,  
If by the King I had not been excused.  
And urged, that he maintained against the state,  
A monster, which both God and man did hate.   

233  
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 exerations ban,  
The time in which, our friendship first began.   

234  
Lo, here draws on my dreary dismal hour,  
The doleful period of my destiny,  
Hear doth approach the black and ugly shower,  
Hence flows the Deluge of my misery.  
Hear comes the cloud that shuts up all my light,  
My lowering Winter, and eternal night.   

235  
The angry Barons now assembled were,  
And no man left that on my side durst stand,  
Before the Pope's pernicious Legate there  
They forced me thus to abjure the Land:  
Urging the King to further their intent,  
By solemn oath upon the Sacrament.   

236  
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.   

237  
Like to a man which walking in the grass,  
Upon a Serpent suddenly doth tread,  
Plucks back his foot, & turns 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.   

238  
Or as a man mistaking a receipt,  
Some death-strong poison happily doth taste,  
And every hour the vigour doth await,  
Paid with fear, now standeth all aghast,  
Thus stands he trembling in an ecstasy,  
Too sick to live, and yet too strong to die.   

239  
He takes his Crown, and spurns 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, & sighs out piteous groans,  
Spending the day in tears, the night in moans.   

240  
Like as the furious Palidine of France,  
Forsaken of Angelica the saire,  
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.   

241  
Or when the woeful Thrace-borne Hecuba,  
Saw Troy on fire, and Priam's fatal doom,  
Her sons all slain, her dear Polixina  
There sacrificed on Achilles' tomb,  
Even like a Boar her angry tusks doth where,  
Scratching and biting all that ere she met.   

242  
With fearful visions frighted in his bed,  
Which seems to him a very thorny brake,  
With ugly shapes which way he turns his head:  
And when from sleep he ever doth awake,  
He then again with weeping mournful cries,  
In grief of soul complains his miseries.   

243  
He wants digestion, and refrains his rest,  
His eyes ore-watched, like eclipsed suns,  
With bitter passion 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.   

244  
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 Spasma, or a deadly swoon;  
Thus languishing in pain, and lingering ever,  
In the Symptom of this pining fever.   

245  
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 it is declining,  
Or like a Peacock washed in the rain,  
Trailing adown his starry-eyed train.   

246  
To Belgia I cross the narrow seas,  
And in my breast a very sea of grief,  
Whose tydefull surges never give me ease,  
For heaven and earth have shut up all relief,  
The air doth threaten vengeance for my crime,  
Clotho draws out the thread of all my time.   

247  
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 restless finding none.   

248  
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 lothlie Ass,  
Starved with the cold, and feeding on the grass.   

249  
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.   

250  
O wretched, vile, and miserable man,  
Besotted so with worldy vanity,  
When as thy life is but a very span,  
Yet every hour full of calamities;  
Begot in sin, and following still the game,  
living in lust, and dying oft with shame.   

251  
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.   

252  
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 Glocoster,  
And to my wife, who laboured tooth and nail,  
My abjuration how she might repeal.   

253  
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, which in Camp of late  
Had been employed in service with the State.   

254  
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.   

255  
As when old-youthfull Aeson in his glass,  
Saw from his eyes the cheerful lightning sprung,  
When as Art-spell Medea brought to pass,  
By herbs & charms, again to make him young.  
Thus stood King Edward, ravished in the place,  
Fixing his eyes upon my lovely face.   

256  
Or as Muse-meruaile Hero, when she eclipse  
Her dear Leander's byllow-beaten limbs,  
And with sweet kisses seizeth on his lips,  
When for her sake, deep Hellespont she swims,  
Thus we, by tender dear embracings prove,  
Fair Heros kindness, and Leander's love.   

257  
Or like the twifold-twyned Geminy,  
In their star-gilded girdle strongly tied,  
Chained by their Saffrond tresses in the sky,  
Standing to guard the Sun-coch in his pride,  
Like as the Vine, his love the Elm embracing,  
With nimble arms our bodies interlacing.   

258  
O blinded Reason, reasonles in this,  
Unruly will, of unruled appetite,  
Can our discretion moderate our bliss,  
It might more easily moderate their spite,  
But we are carried with the winds away,  
To violent the Gulf of our decay.   

259  
O wondrous love, were then a mean in thee,  
Reason might understand what thou dost mean,  
But for thou wouldst not comprehended be,  
Our understanding thou dost but disdain:  
Thou mind-transforming monster, monstrous ill,  
Which hating saves, but cherrishing doth kill.   

260  
But all thy mean (fond love) is in extremes,  
Thy heed is rashness, thy forecast thy fall,  
Thy wit is folly, and thy hopes are dreams,  
Thy counsel madness, and thy rule is thrall;  
And only this, thou art not what thou art,  
And of thyself, thou art not any part.   

261  
The Barons hearing how I was arrived,  
And that my late abiurement nought prevailed,  
By my return, of all their hopes deprived,  
Their bedlam rage no longer now concealed,  
But as hot coals once puffed with the wind,  
Into a flame out-breaking by their kind.   

262  
Like to a man, whose foot doth hap to light  
Into the nest where stinging Hornets lie,  
Vexed with the spleen, and raging with despite,  
About his head these winged spirits fly:  
Thus rise they up with mortal discontent,  
By death to end both life and banishment.   

263  
Or like to soldiers in a town of war,  
When Sentinel the enemy descries,  
Affrighted with this unexpected jar,  
All with the fearful Larun-bell arise,  
Thus muster they, (as Bees do in a hive,  
The idle Drone out of their combs to drive.)   

264  
It seemed the earth with heaven grew malcontent  
Nothing is heard but wars & Armours ringing,  
Now none but such as stratagems invent,  
The whistling phife, the warlike trumpet singing,  
Each soldier now, his crested plume advaunces,  
On barbed horses priest, with swords & lances.   

265  
Thus whilst our hopes should thrive, they do diminish,  
Our early rising, makes our set too soon,  
Even as it doth begin, it soon doth finish,  
Our night is come before it should be noon,  
Our downfall haps as we should mount on high,  
So short and frail is our felicity.   

266  
men's haps by heaven be framed preposterous,  
Now with eternal good, now temporal ill,  
And oft again contrary unto us,  
Our good but short, our evil during still,  
To show, that heavens everwaking powers,  
Do rule as Lords, both over us and ours.   

267  
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 Cannons battering fearful roar.   

268  
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 are be-peopled with our foes,  
Our very beds, are snares made to enwrap us,  
Our surest guard (as Traitors) do entrap us.   

269  
Like to a cry of roring-mouthed hounds,  
Rousing the long-lived Stag out of his layre,  
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 favoured most.   

270  
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.   

271  
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 to assist the King:  
And by dissuasive Letters still devise,  
To stay their neighbours from this enterprise.   

272  
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 Yorks aged walls,  
Until we knew the Barons full intent,  
And what all this rude hurly burlie meant.   

273  
This gracious King, wanting his wont rest,  
And toiling still in this perplexity,  
With grievous sickness is so sore oppressed  
And grown by this to such extremity,  
As he is forced to departed away,  
A while to purge this humour at the sea.   

274  
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,  
Where now not able to resist their might,  
Am forced persorce, to fly away by night.   

275  
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,  
Whereas I might withstand then by my power,  
Hoping the Kings returning every hour.   

276  
But now, like to a sousing sudden rain,  
Forced by a strong and sturdy Eastern blast,  
Or like a hail storm, down they come amain,  
And in the Castle girt me now so fast,  
No way to scape, no hope for me to fly,  
My choice was hard, or yield myself, or die.   

277  
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,  
Am basely clothed of mine enemies.   

278  
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.   

279  
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 & oaths, that all should be amended  
If that my death alone might be suspended.   

280  
And being brought to Dedington at last,  
By Aymer Valence, Earl of Pembroke then,  
Who toward King Edward road in all the haft,  
And left me guarded safely by his men:  
This gentle Earl with mere compassion moved,  
For Edward's sake, whom he so dearly loved.   

281  
But now Guy Beuchamp, 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.   

282  
This bloody Beuchamp, (I may term him so,)  
For this was he which only sought my blood,  
Now at the upcast of mine overthrow,  
And on the chance whereon my fortune stood,  
To Dedington by night came, where I lay,  
And by his power conveyed me thence away.   

283  
To Warwick thus fast bound he doth me bring,  
Imprisoning me within the Castle there,  
And doubting now my succour from the King,  
He raiseth up the power of Warwickshire,  
By whom forthwith to Blacklow I was led,  
And on a scaffold there, I lost my head.   

284  
Lo here the point and sentence of my time,  
My lives full stop, my last Catastrophe,  
The stipend of my death-deseruing crime,  
The Scene that ends my woeful Tragedy,  
My latest farewell, knitting my conclusion,  
Mine utter ruin, and my fame's confusion.   

285  
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 lest,  
Hear lying brethles, of all life bereft.   

286  
O now my Muse, put on thy eagle's wings,  
O lend some comfort to my tired ghost,  
And with Apollo's dolefull-tuned strings,  
Now 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.   

287  
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.   

288  
Like as a Stag at bay amongst the hounds,  
The bloody Moat sounding in his ears,  
Feeling his breath diminish by his wounds,  
Pours down his gummy life-preseruing tears:  
Even thus my soul, now baited by my sin,  
Consuming, shows the sorrow she is in.   

289  
Thus comfortless, forsaken and alone,  
All worldly things unstable, and unsure,  
By true contrition flies unto his throne,  
In whose compare, the heavens are most impure.  
By whose just doom, to blessed souls revealed,  
She gets her passport to his mercy sealed.   

290  
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, which hath been long obscured.   

291  
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.   

292  
Star-holding heaven hath shut up all her light,  
Nature become a stepdame to her own,  
The mantled truchman of the Rauen-hued night,  
In mournful sables clad the Horizon:  
The sky-born Planets seeming to conspire,  
Against the air, the water, earth and fire.   

293  
Pearle-paved avon, 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 sweet Zephyrs breath,  
In watery language doth bewail my death.   

294  
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 & beasts for to express my wrongs.   

295  
The heaven-dyed flowers in this happy clime,  
Mantling the Meadows in their summers 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 staik naked of their leaves.   

296  
Death called in liveries of my lovely cheeks,  
Laid in those beds of Lilies and of Roses,  
Amazed with marvel, here for wonders seeks,  
Were he alone a Paradise supposes,  
Grew male content, and with himself at strife,  
Not knowing now if he were death or life.   

297  
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.   

298  
With paleness touching that fair rubied lip,  
Now waxing purple, like Adonis' flower,  
Where ivory walls those rocks of Coral keep,  
From whence did slow that Nectar streaming shower.  
There earth-pale Death refreshed his tired limbs,  
Where Cupid bathed him in those Crystal brims.   

299  
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 death had done his worst.   

300  
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.   

301  
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.  
Heaven, Stars, Sun, Moon, conjoin you all in one,  
Revenge the death of my sweet Gaveston.   

302  
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, & all the world confound.  
Earth, Sea, Air, Wind, conjoin you all in one,  
Revenge the death of my sweet Gaveston.   

303  
You Savage beasts, which haunt the wayless woods,  
You Birds delighted in your Sylvan sound,  
You scaly Fish, which swim in pleasant floods,  
You heartless Worms, which creep upon thou ground,  
Beasts, birds fish, worms, each in your kind alone,  
Bewail the death of my sweet Gaveston.   

304  
Fair Meadows, be you withered in the prime,  
Sunburnt and bare, be all the goodly Mountains,  
Groves, be you leavelesse in the Summer time,  
Pitchy and black be all the Crystal Fountains:  
All things on earth, each in your kind alone,  
Bewail the death of my sweet Gaveston.   

305  
You damned Furies, break your Stygian Cell,  
You wandering spirits, in water, earth, and air,  
Led boiled Ghosts which 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.   

306  
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.   

307  
You peerless Poets of ensuing times,  
Chanting Herioque Angell-tuned Notes,  
Or humble Pastor's Nectar-filled lines,  
Driving your flocks with music to their Coats.  
Let your highflying Muses still bemoan,  
The woeful end of my sweet Gaveston.   

308  
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 & truth reproved.   

309  
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.   
FINIS.   

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

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

To M. Drayton.  
Michael which dost great Robert's fame compile,  
Thy subjects worth, thy wit, thy Lady's glory,  
Cheer up thy Muse, add life unto thy style,  
While thou assaist to write his worthy story.  
Whose boundless spirit, whose high chivalry,  
And virtuous deeds must needs have buried been  
By age's envy, and times tyranny,  
And never had with mortal eyes been seen,  
Had not thy Muse restored his former fame,  
The twice dead Norman to his speaking sight,  
Even when his eyes had lost their shining flame,  
Like unto Lamps that wanting oil, want light.  
By thee he sees, he lives, he speaks again,  
Then cheer thee Michael, Fame rewards thy pain.  Mirocinius.