Upon his head a coronet instald,
Of one intire and mighty emerald,
With richest bracelets on his lilly wrists, 815
Of hellitropium, linckt with golden twists;
A bevy of fayre swans, which flying over,
With their large wings him from the sun do cover,
And easily wafting as he went along,
Doe lull him still with their inchaunting song, 820
Whilst all the nimphes on solemne instruments,
Sound daintie musick to their sweet laments.
And now great Phoebe in her tryumph came,
With all the tytles of her glorious name,
Diana, Delia, Luna, Cynthia, 825
Virago, Hecate, and Elythia,
Prothiria, Dictinna, Proserpine,
Latona, and Lucina, most divine;
And in her pompe began now to approch,
Mounted aloft upon her christall coach, 830
Drawn or’e the playnes by foure pure milk-white hinds,
Whose nimble feete seem’d winged with the winds,
Her rarest beauty being now begun,
But newly borrowed from the golden sun,
Her lovely cressant with a decent space, 835
By due proportion beautifi’d her face,
Till having fully fild her circled side,
Her glorious fulnes now appeard in pride;
Which long her changing brow could not retaine,
But fully waxt, began againe to wane;
Upon her brow (like meteors in the ayre)
Twenty and eyght great gorgious lamps shee bare;
Some, as the welkin, shining passing bright,
Some not so sumptuous, others lesser light,
Some burne, some other, let theyr faire lights fall,
Composd in order geometricall; 846
And to adorne her with a greater grace,
And ad more beauty to her lovely face,
Her richest globe shee gloriously displayes,
Now that the sun had hid his golden rayes; 850
Least that his radiencie should her suppresse,
And so might make her beauty seeme the lesse;
Her stately trayne layd out in azur’d bars,
Poudred all thick with troopes of silver stars:
Her ayrie vesture yet so rare and strange, 855
As every howre the colour seem’d to change,
Yet still the former beauty doth retaine,
And ever came unto the same againe,
Then fayre Astrea, of the Titans line,
Whom equity and justice made divine, 860
Was seated heer upon the silver beame,
And with the raines guides on this goodly teame,
To whom the Charites led on the way,
Aglaia, Thalia, and Euphrozine,
With princely crownes they in the triumph came, 865
Imbellished with Phoebes glorious name:
These forth before the mighty goddesse went,
As princes heraulds in a parliament.
And in their true consorted symphony,
Record sweet songs of Phoebes chastity; 870
Then followed on the Muses, sacred nyne,
With the first number equally divine,
In virgins white, whose lovely mayden browes,
Were crowned with tryumphant lawrell bowes;
And on their garments paynted out in glory, 875
Their offices and functions in a story,
Imblazoning the furie and conceite
Which on their sacred company awaite;
For none but these were suffered to aproch,
Or once come neere to this celestiall coach, 880
But these two of the numbers, nine and three,
Which being od include an unity,
Into which number all things fitly fall,
And therefore named Theologicall:
And first composing of this number nine, 885
Which of all numbers is the most divine,
From orders of the angels dooth arise,
Which be contayned in three Hirarchies,
And each of these three Hirarchies in three,
The perfect forme of true triplicity; 890
And of the Hirarchies I spake of erst,
The glorious Epiphania is the first,
In which the hie celestiall orders been,
Of Thrones, Chirrup, and the Ciraphin;
The second holds the mighty Principates, 895
The Dominations and the Potestates,
The Ephionia, the third Hirarchie,
Which Vertues Angels and Archangels be;
And thus by threes we aptly do define,
And do compose this sacred number nyne, 900
Yet each of these nyne orders grounded be,
Upon some one particularity,
Then as a poet I might so infer,
An other order when I spake of her.
From these the Muses onely are derived; 905
Which of the angels were in nyne contrived;
These heaven-inspired babes of memorie,
Which by a like attracting sympathy,
Apollos prophets in theyr furies wrought,
And in theyr spirit inchaunting numbers taught, 910
To teach such as at poesie repine,
That it is onely heavenly and divine,
And manifest her intellectual parts,
Sucking the purest of the purest arts;
And unto these as by a sweet consent, 915
The sphery circles are equivalent,
Fron the first moover, and the starry heaven,
To glorious Phoebe lowest of the seaven,
Which Jove in tunefull diapazons fram’d,
Of heavenly musick of the Muses nam’d, 920
To which the soule in her divinitie
By her creator made of harmony,
Whilst she in frayle and mortall flesh dooth live,
To her nyne sundry offices doe give,
Which offices united are in three, 925
Which like the orders of the angels be,
Prefiguring thus by the number nyne,
The soule, like to the angels is divine:
And from these nine those conquerors renowned,
Which with the wreaths of triumph oft were crowned.
Which by their vertues gain’d the worthies name 931
First had this number added to their fame,
Not that the worthiest men were onely nine,
But that the number of it selfe divine,
And as a perfect patterne of the rest, 935
Which by this holy number are exprest;
Nor chivalrie this title onely gaynd;
But might as well by wisedome be obtaynd,
Nor in this number men alone included,
But unto women well might be aluded, 940
Could wit, could worlds, coulde times, could ages find,
This number of Elizas heavenly kind;
And those rare men which learning highly prized
By whom the constellations were devised,
And by their favours learning highly graced, 945
For Orpheus harpe nine starres in heaven placed:
This sacred number to declare thereby,
Tier sweet consent and solid harmony,
And mans heroique voyce, which doth impart,
The thought conceaved in the inward hart, 950
Her sweetnes on nine instruments doth ground,
Else doth she fayle in true and perfect sound.
Now of this three in order to dispose,
Whose trynarie doth justly nyne compose.
First in the forme of this triplicitie 955
Is shadowed that mighty Trinitie,
Which still in stedfast unity remayne,
And yet of three one godhead doe containe;
From this eternall living deitie,
As by a heaven-inspired prophecy, 960
Div
inest poets first derived these,
The fayrest graces Jove-borne Charites;
And in this number musick first began,
The Lydian, Dorian, and the Phrigian,
Which ravishing in their soule-pleasing vaine, 965
They made up seaven in a higher strayne;
And all those signes which Phoebus doth ascend,
Before he bring his yearely course to end,
Their several natures mutually agree,
And doe concurre in thys triplicitie; 970
And those interior sences with the rest,
Which properly pertaine to man and beast,
Nature herselfe in working so devised,
That in this number they should be comprized.
But to my tale I must returne againe, 975
Phoebe to Latmus thus convayde her swayne,
Under a bushie lawrells pleasing shade,
Amongst whose boughs the birds sweet musick made,
Whose fragrant branch-imbosted cannapy,
Was never pierst with Phoebus burning eye; 980
Yet never could thys paradise want light,
Elumin’d still with Phoebes glorious sight:
She layd Endimion on a grassy bed,
With sommers arras ritchly over-spred,
Where from her sacred mantion next above, 985
She might descend and sport her with her love,
Which thirty yeeres the sheepheards safely kept,
Who in her bosom soft and soundly slept;
Yet as a dreame he thought the tyme not long,
Remayning ever beautifull and yong, 990
And what in vision there to him be fell,
My weary muse some other time shall tell.
Deare Collin, let my muse excused be,
Which rudely thus presumes to sing by thee,
Although her straines be harsh untun’d and ill, 995
Nor can attayne to thy divinest skill.
And thou the sweet Museus of these times,
Pardon my rugged and unfiled rymes,
Whose scarce invention is too meane and base,
When Delias glorious muse dooth come in place.
And thou my Goldey which in sommer dayes, 1001
Hast feasted us with merry roundelayes,
And when my muse scarce able was to flye,
Didst imp her wings with thy sweete poesie.
And you the heyres of ever-living fame, 1005
The worthy titles of a poets name,
Whose skill and rarest excellence is such,
As spitefull envy never yet durst tuch,
To your protection I this poem send, 1009
Which from proud Momus may my lines defend,
And if sweet mayd thou deign’st to read this story,
Wherein thine eyes may view thy vertues glory,
Thou purest spark of Vesta’s kindled fire,
Sweet nymph of Ankor, crowne of my desire,
The plot which for their pleasure heaven devis’d,
Where all the Muses be imparadis’d, 1016
Where thou doost live, there let all graces be,
Which want theyr grace if onely wanting thee,
Let stormy winter never touch the clyme,
But let it florish as in Aprils prime, 1020
Let sullen night, that soyle nere over-cloud,
But in thy presence let the earth be proud,
If ever Nature of her worke might boast,
Of thy perfection she may glory most,
To whom fayre Phoebe hath her bow resign’d, 1025
Whose excellence doth lyve in thee refin’d,
And that thy praise time never should impayre,
Hath made my hart thy never moving spheare.
Then if my muse give life unto thy fame,
Thy vertues be the causers of the same. 1030
And from thy tombe some oracle shall rise,
To whom all pens shall yearely sacrifice.
MORTIMERIADOS
CONTENTS
TO THE EXCELLENT AND MOST ACCOMPLISH’D LADIE, LUCIE COUNTESSE OF BEDFORD.
TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE LADY, LUCIE COUNTESSE OF BEDFORD.
MORTIMERIADOS.
MORTIMERIADOS.
THE LAMENTABLE CIUELL WARRES OF EDWARD THE SECOND AND THE BARRONS.
AT LONDON, PRINTED BY I.R. FOR HUMFRY LOWNES, AND ARE TO BE SOLDE AT HIS SHOP AT THE WEST END OF PAULES CHURCH.
TO THE EXCELLENT AND MOST ACCOMPLISH’D LADIE, LUCIE COUNTESSE OF BEDFORD.
RAREST OF LADIES, all, of all I haue,
Anchor of my poore Tempest-beaten state,
Which giuest life, to that life Nature gaue,
And to thy selfe, doest onely consecrate:
My hopes true Goddesse, guider of my fate,
Vouchsafe to grace what here to light is brought,
Begot by thy sweet hand, borne of my thought.
And though I sing of this tumultuous rage,
Still paynting passions in these Tragedies,
Thy milder lookes, this furie can aswage,
Such is the vertue of thy sacred eyes,
Which doe contayne a thousand purities;
And lyke them selues, can make their obiect such,
As doth Th’elixar all things it doth tuch.
Sweet fruite, sprong from that euer sacred tree,
That happie wombe from whom thou lyfe do’st take,
And with that lyfe, giues vertue vnto thee,
Thus made of her, her lyke of thee to make,
Shee lou’d for thee, thou honour’d for her sake;
And eithers good, from other so deriued,
Yet shee, nor thou, of any due depriued.
The Harringtons, whose house thy byrth hath blest,
Adding such honour to theyr familie,
And famous Bedfords greatnes still increast,
Raysing the height of theyr Nobilitie,
That Earledomes tytle more to dignifie?
That Vertue lyuely pictur’d forth in thee,
May truly be discernd, what shee should be.
And Lawrell-crowned Sidney, Natures pride,
Whom heauen to earth, but onely shew’d this good,
Betwixt the world, and thee did then deuide,
His fame, and vertues, which both equall stood,
The world his fame, to thee of her owne blood
Hee gaue his vertues, that in his owne kind,
His neuer-matched worth might be enshrin’d.
That whilst they boast but of their sun-burnt brayns,
Which Tramontani long haue termd vs so,
With all their Po’s, their Tyburs, and their Rheyn’s,
Greeuing to see how tidefull Thames shall flowe,
Our Groues which for the gracefull Muses growe:
Thy name shall be the glorie of the North,
The fayrest fruit that euer shee brought forth.
And in despight of tyranizing times,
This hope great Lady yet to thee is left,
Thy name shall lyue in steele-out-during rimes,
Still scorning ages sacraligious theft,
What fame doth keepe, can neuer be bereft:
Nor can thy past-priz’d honour euer die,
If lynes can gyue thee immortalitie.
Leauing vnto succeeding times to see,
How much thy sacred gyfts I did adore.
What power thy vertues euer had in mee,
And what thou wer• compar’d with those before,
Which shall in age, thy youth againe restore:
And still shall ad more vigor to thy fame,
Then earthly honors, or a Countesse name.
Proclayming vnto ages yet to come,
Whilst Bedford lyu’d, what lyuing Bedford was,
Enclosing thee in this immortall toombe,
More durable then letter-grauen brasse,
To shewe what thy great power could bring to passe,
And other hopes I vtterly refuse,
Your Honors euer deuoted seruaunt Michaell Drayton.
TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE LADY, LUCIE COUNTESSE OF BEDFORD.
WHEN GOD this wondrous Creature did create,
This euer-mouing body, this huge weight,
Whose head, whose lofty head high situate,
Is crown’d with starrs & constellations bright.
Hee causd the same one certaine way to moue,
Which moouing (some say) doth sweet tunes beget,
Another way the Sunne and Planets proue,
For they from thence moue where the sun doth set;
Yet he the Pole-star, Cynosura cleere,
Causd steddily to stand, though heauen did gyre,
For an example to mens actions heere:
Madam, you are the starre of his desire;
Whilst hee his thoughts heauen moues, ô gracious bee,
And wonders in your Creature you shall see.
Your honors and eternities Humble, E. B.
MORTIMERIADOS.
THE LOWRING heauen had mask’d her in a clowde,
Dropping sad teares vpon the sullen earth,
Bemoning in her melancholly shrowde,
The angry starres which raign’d at Edwards birth,
With whose beginning ended all our mirth.
Edward the second, but the first of shame,
Scourge of the crowne, eclipse of Englands fame.
Whilst in our blood, ambition hotely boyles,
The Land bewailes her, like a wofull Mother,
On euery side besieg’d with ciuill broyles,
Her deerest chyldren murthering one another,
Yet shee in silence forc’d her griefe to smother:
Groning with paine, in trauaile with her woes,
And in her torment, none to helpe her throwes.
What care would plot, discention striues to crosse,
Which like an earthquake rents the tottering state;
Abroade in warres we suffer publique losse,
At home, betrayd with grudge and priuate hate,
Faction attending blood-shed and debate;
Confusion thus our Countries peace confounds,
No helpe at hand, and mortall be her wounds.
Thou Church then swelling in thy mightines,
Thou which should’st be this poore sick bodyes soule,
O nurse not factions which should’st sinne suppresse,
And with thy members should’st all griefe condole,
Perswade thy hart and not thy head controle;
Humble thy selfe, dispence not with the word,
Take Peters keyes, but cast aside his sword.
The ragefull fire which burnt Carnaruans brest,
Michael Drayton- Collected Poetical Works Page 27