My youth spurrs on my fraile vntam’d desire,
Yeelding the raynes to my lasciuious will,
Vpon the Ise I take my ful careire,
The place too slippery, and my manidge ill,
Thus like a Colt, in danger to be cast,
Yet still runn on, the diuel driues so fast.
Now wandring in a Laborinth of error,
Lost in my pride, no hope of my returne,
Of sin and shame my life a perfect mirror,
No spark of vertue once is seen to burne.
Nothing there was could be discernd in me,
But beastly lust, and censualitie.
Black He cate chaunts on her night-spell charmes,
Which cast me first into this deadly sleep,
Whilst fier-eyd Ate clips me in his armes,
And hayles me down to dark Herebus deep.
Foule sleep-god Morpheus, curtains vp the light,
And shuts my fame in euerlasting night.
The fixed starrs in their repugnacie,
Had full concluded of these endles iarrs,
And nature by some strange Antipathy,
Had in our humors bred continuall warrs.
Or the star-ceeled heauens by fatall doome,
Ordaind my troubles in my Mothers wombe.
Some hellish hagg in thys inchaunted cup,
Out of the Tun of pryde this poyson drew,
And those hote cinders which were raked vp,
Into the nostrils of the Nobles blew.
Who now caroused to my funerall,
And (with a vengeance) I must pledge them all.
And now brake out that execrable rage,
Which long before had boyled in theyr blood,
Which neither tyme nor reason could asswage:
But like to men growne lunatick and wood,
My name and fame, they seeke to scandelize,
And roote the same from all posterities.
They all affyrme, my Mother was a Witch,
A filthy hagg, and burnt for sorcery:
And I her son, and fitting with her pitch,
Shee had bequeath’d her damned Art to mee.
Thys rumor in the peoples eares they ring,
That (for my purpose) I bewitcht the King.
They say, that I conuayd beyond the Sea,
The Table and the tressels all of gold,
King Arthurs reliques, kept full many a day,
The which to Windsor did belong of old.
In whose faire margent (as they did surmize,)
Merlin ingraued many prophecies.
Some slaunderous tongues, in spightful manner sayd,
That heer I liu’d in filthy sodomy,
And that I was King Edwards Ganemed,
And to this sinn hee was intic’d by mee.
And more, (to wreck their spightfull deadly teene,)
Report the same to Isabel the Queene.
A Catilogue of tytles they begun,
With which I had the Noble men abus’d,
Which they auouch’t I neuer durst haue done,
If by the King I had not been excus’d.
And swore, that he maintaind against the state,
A monster, which both God and man did hate.
They swore, the King subbornd my villanie,
And that I was his instrument of vice,
The means wherby he wrought his tyranny,
That to his chaunce I euer cast the dice;
And with most bitter execrations ban,
The tyme in which, our friendship first began.
Loe, heer drawes on my drery dismall hower,
The dolefull peryod of my desteny,
Heer doth approch the black and vgly shower,
Hence flowes the Deluge of my misery.
Heer comes the clowde that shuts vp all my light,
My lowring Winter, and eternall night.
The angry Barrons now assembled were,
And no man left that on my part durst stand,
Before the Popes pernitious Legate there,
They forced mee for to abiure the Land.
Forcing the King to further their intent,
By solemne oth vpon the Sacrament.
Vpon the holie Sacrament hee swears,
Although (God knowes) ful much against his will,
So ouer-come with silence, sighes, and teares,
To make a sword the which himselfe should kill.
And being done, (in doing then not long,)
He seemes to curse his hand, his hart, his tongue.
Like to a man that walking in the grass,
Vpon a Serpent suddainlie doth tread,
Plucks back his foote, and turnns away his face,
His couller fading, pale as he were dead:
Thus hee the place, thus he the act doth shun,
Lothing to see, what he before had done.
Or as a man mistaking a receite,
Some death-strong poyson happely doth taste,
And euery howre the vigor doth awaite,
Apald with feare, now standeth all agast.
Thus stands he trembling in an extasie,
Too sick to liue, and yet too strong to die.
Hee takes his Crowne, and spurnns it at his feet,
His princely robes hee doth in peeces teare,
Hee straight commaunds the Queene out of his sight,
Hee tuggs and rents his golden-tressed haire.
He beates his breast, and sighes out pittious groans,
Spending the day in tears, the night in moans.
Lyke as the furious Paladine of Fraunce,
Forsaken of Angelica the fayre,
So like a Bedlam in the fields doth daunce,
With shouts and clamors, filling all the ayre,
Tearing in peeces what so ere hee caught,
With such a furie is the King distraught.
Or when the wofull Thrace-borne Hecuba,
Saw Troy on fire, and Pryams fatall doome,
Her sonns all slayne, her deer Polixina,
There sacrifized on Achilles Tombe,
Euen like a Bore, her angry tusks doth whet,
Scratching and byting all that ere shee met.
With fearefull visions frighted in his bed,
Which seemes to hym a very thorny brake,
With vgly shapes which way he turnns his head:
And when from sleep hee euer doth awake,
Hee then againe with weeping mournfull cryes,
In griefe of soule, complains hys miseries.
Hee wants disgesture, and refrains his rest,
His eyes ore-watched like eclipsed sunns,
With bitter passions is his soule opprest,
And through his eyes, his brayne disolued runns.
And after silence, when with payne he speakes,
A suddaine sigh his speech in sunder breakes.
Hee starteth vp, and Gaueston doth call,
Then stands hee still, and lookes vpon the ground,
Then like one in an Epileps doth fall,
As in a Spasmo, or a deadly sound;
Thus languishing in payne, and lingering euer,
In the Symptoma of his pyning feuer.
Lyke to a flower that droupeth in a frost,
Or as a man in a Consumption pyning,
Staynd like a Cloth that hath his culler lost,
Or Poets-worne Lawrell when shee is declyning:
Or lyke a Pecock washed in the rayne,
Trayling adowne his starry-eyed trayne.
To Belgia I cross the narrow seas,
And in my breast a very sea of griefe,
Whose tide-full surges neuer giue me ease,
For heauen and earth hath shut vp all reliefe,
The ayre doth threaten vengeaunce for my crime,
Clotho drawes out the thred of all my time.
Like as that wicked Brother-killing Caine,
Flying the presence of his mighty God,
&nbs
p; Accurst to die, forbidden to be slaine,
A vagabond, and wandring still abroad.
In Flaunders thus I trauell all alone,
Still seeking rest, yet euer finding none.
Or as the Monarch of great Babilon,
Whose monstrous pride the Lord did so detest,
As hee out-cast him from his princely throne,
And in the field hee wandred like a beast.
Companion with the Oxe and lothly Ass,
Staru’d with the cold, and feeding on the grass.
Thus doe I change my habite and my name,
From place to place, I pass vnknowne of any;
But swift report so far had spred my fame,
I hear my life and youth controld of many;
The bouzing Flemings in their boistrous tongue,
Still talking on me as I pass along.
O wretched, vile, and miserable man,
Besotted so with worldly vanitie,
When as thy life is but a verie span,
Yet euerie howre full of calamitie.
Begot in sinn, and following still the game,
Liuing in lust, and dying oft with shame.
Now working means to haue intelligence,
By secrete Letters from my Lord the King,
How matters stood since I departed thence,
And of the tearms and state of euery thing,
I cast about which way I might deuise,
(In spight of all) once more to play my prize.
And still relying on King Edwards loue,
To whom before my life had been so deere,
Whose constancie my fortune made me proue;
And to my Brother, Earle of Glocester,
And to my wife, who labored tooth and naile,
My abiuration how shee might appeale.
I now embarck mee in a Flemish Hoy,
Disguised in the habite of a Muffe,
Attended thus with neyther man nor boy,
But on my back a little bagg of stuffe:
Like to a Souldier that in Campe of late,
Had been imployd in seruice with the state.
And safely landed on thys blessed shore,
Towards Windsor thus disguis’d I tooke my way,
Wheras I had intelligence before,
My wife remaind, and there my Edward lay.
My deerest wife, to whom I sent my ring,
Who made my comming known vnto the King.
As when old-youthful Eson in his glass,
Saw from his eyes the cheerfull lightning sprung,
When as Art-spell Medea brought to pass,
By hearbs and charms, againe to make him young,
Thus stood King Edward, rauisht in the place,
Fixing his eyes vpon my louely face.
Or as Muse-meruaile Hero, when she clips,
Her deer Leanders byllow-beaten limms,
And with sweet kisses seazeth on his lips,
When for her sake deep Hellespont he swimms,
Might by our tender-deer imbracings proue,
Fayre Heros kindnes, and Leanders loue.
Or like the twifold-twynned Geminy,
In their star-gilded gyrdle strongly tyed,
Chayn’d by their saffrond tresses in the sky,
Standing to guard the sun-coche in his pride.
Like as the Vine, his loue the Elme imbracing,
With nimble armes, our bodies interlacing.
The Barrons hearing how I was arriued,
And that my late abiurement naught preuailed,
By my returne, of all their hope depriued,
Theyr bedlam rage no longer now concealed:
But as hote coles once puffed with the wind,
Into a flame outbreaking by their kind.
Like to a man whose foote doth hap to light,
Into the nest where stinging Hornets ly,
Vext with the spleen, and rising with despight,
About his head these winged spirits fly.
Thus rise they vp with mortall discontent,
By death to end my life and banishment.
Or like to souldiers in a Towne of war,
When Sentinell the enemy discries,
Affrighted with this vnexpected iar,
All with the fearefull Larum-bell arise,
Thus muster they; (as Bees doe in a hyue,
The idle Drone out of their combes to dryue.)
It seemd the earth with heauen grew malecontent,
Nothing is hard but warrs and Armors ringing,
New stratagems each one doth now inuent,
The Trumpets shril their warlike poynts be singing,
Each souldiour now, his crested plume aduances,
They manidge horses, and they charge their launces.
As when vnder a vast and vaulty roofe,
Some great assembly happily appears,
A man (from thence) that standeth out a loofe,
A murmuring confused rumor hears.
Such is the noyse, from earth to heauen rebounding,
With shrikes and clamors euery where resounding.
Lyke as the Ocean chafing with hys bounds,
With raging billowes flyes against the Rocks,
And to the shore sends forth his hydeous sounds,
Making the earth to tremble with his shocks;
Euen thus the murmure flyes from shore to shore,
Lyke to the Canons battering fearefull rore.
By day and night attended still with spyes,
The Court become the cause of al our woes,
The Country now a Campe of enemies,
The Citties, all be-peopled with our foes.
Our very beds are snares made to enwrap vs,
Our surest guard (as Traytors) doe intrap vs.
Like to a cry of roring-mouthed hounds,
Rouzing the long-liu’d stagg out of his layre,
Pursue the chase through vastie forrest grounds,
So lyke a thunder ratling in the ayre,
Thus doe they hunt vs, still from coast to coast,
Most hated now, of those we loued most.
Thys gracious Prince loe thus becomes my guide,
And with a Conuoy of some chosen friends,
Brings mee to Yorke, where being fortified,
To Balioll the King of Scots hee sends,
And to the Welchmen, crauing both their ayde,
That by their help the Barrons might be stayd.
But they which in their busines neuer slept,
And (as it seemd) had well fore-seen thys thing,
Cause all the Ports and Marches to be kept,
That none should enter once to ayde the King:
And by disswasiue Letters still deuise,
To stay theyr neighbors from this enterprize.
Loe, in this sort the King and I betrayd,
And to their wills thus left as wofull thralls,
And finding now no further hope of ayde,
We shut vs vp within Yorkes aged walls,
Vntill we knew the Barrons full intent,
And what all this rude hurly burly meant.
This gracious King, for want of wonted rest,
Fallen in these passions to an extasie,
With grieuous sicknes is so sore opprest,
And grown in time to such extreamity,
As he is forced to depart away,
To take the ayre awhile vpon the Sea.
From Bedford now (the synod of their shame,
The counsell house of all their villany,)
These bloody Barrons with an Army came,
Downe vnto York, where they besieged mee:
That now not able to resist their might,
Am forst perforce, to flye away by night.
To Scarborough with speed away I post,
With that small force the Citty then could lend me,
The strongest Castell there in all the coast,
And (as I thought) the surest to defend me,
Hoping the Kings returning euery howre.
But now, like to a sousing suddaine raine,
Forc’d by a strong and sturdy easterne blast,
Or (like a hayle-storme) downe they come amaine,
And in the Castell gert me now so fast,
No way to scape, nor hope for mee to flie,
My choyce was hard, or yeeld my selfe, or die.
Away thus (like a prysoner) am I led,
My costly robes in peeces rent and torne,
Bound hand and foote, my haire disheuiled,
Naked and bare as euer I was borne,
Saue but for shame, to stop the peoples cryes,
With griefe am clothed of mine enemies.
Along the Land, toward Oxford they conuay mee,
Like bauling currs, they all about mee houle:
With words of foule reproch they now repay mee,
Wondring my shame, as byrds doe at an Owle.
Cursing my life, my manners, and my birth,
A scourge of God, ordaind to plague the earth.
The King, now hearing how I was arested,
And knew my quarrell cause of all this strife,
He writes, he sends, he sues, he now requested,
Vsing all means he could to saue my life:
With vowes and othes, that all should be amended,
If that my death alone might be suspended.
And being brought to Dedington at last,
By Aymer Valence, Earle of Pembrook then,
Who towards King Edward rode in all the hast,
And left mee guarded safelie by his men.
This gentle Earle with meer compassion moued,
For Edwards sake, whom hee so deerly loued.
But now Guy Beuchampe, whom I feared still,
The Earle of Warwick, whom I called curr,
Hauing fit time to execute his will,
The Foxe thus caught, he vowes to teare my furr.
And he for whom so oft he sett the trap,
By good ill luck, is fallen into his lap.
This bloody Beuchampe, (I may tearme him so,)
For this was he that onely sought my blood,
Now at the vp-cast of mine ouer-throw,
And on the chaunce wheron my fortune stood,
To Dedington hee came, where as I lay,
And by his force, hee tooke mee thence away.
To Warwick thus along hee doth mee bring,
And keeps me guarded in the Castell there,
And doubting now my succour from the King,
Hee rayseth vp the power of Warwick-shiere.
Thus from the Towne, to Blacklow I was led,
And on a Scaffold there, I lost my head.
Loe, heer the point and sentence of my time,
My liues full stop, my last Catastrophe,
The stipend of my death-deserued cryme,
The Scene that ends my wofull tragedy.
My latest Vale, knitting my conclusion,
Michael Drayton- Collected Poetical Works Page 15