NO sooner I, reciu’d thy letters here,
Before I knew from whom, or whence they were,
But suddaine feare my bloodlesse vaines doth fill,
As though diuining of some future ill;
And in a shiuering extasie I stood,
A chilly coldnes runnes through all my blood;
Opening thy letters, I shut vp my rest,
And let strange cares into my quiet brest,
As though thy hard, vnpittying hand had sent mee.
Some new deuised torture to torment me;
well had I hop’d, I had beene now forgot,
Cast out with those things thou remembrest not:
And that proud beauty, which inforst me hether,
Had with my name, now perished together:
But ô (I see) our hoped good deceaues vs,
But what we would forgoe, that sildome leaues vs;
Thy blamefull lines bespotted so with sin,
Mine eyes would clense, ere they to reade begin
But I to wash an Indian goe about,
For ill so hard set on, is hard got out.
I once determin’d, still to haue beene mute,
Onely by silence to refell thy sute,
But this againe did alter mine intent,
For some will say that silence doth consent:
Desire, with small incouraging growes bold,
And hope, of euery little thing takes hold.
I set me downe at large to write my mind,
But now, nor pen, nor paper can I find;
For dread and passion, or so powerfull ore me,
That I descerne not things that stand before me:
Finding the pen, the paper, and the waxe,
This at commaund, and now inuention lacks,
This sentence serues, and that my hand out-strikes,
That pleaseth well, and this as much mislikes,
I write, indite, I point, I raze, I quote,
I enterline, I blot, correct, I note;
I hope, dispaire, take courage, faint, disdaine,
I make, alledge, I imitate, I faine:
Now thus it must be, and now thus, and thus,
Bold, shamefast, fearelesse, doubtfull, timerous;
My faint hand writing, when my full eye reedes,
From euery word strange passion still proceedes.
O when the soule is fettered once in wo,
Tis strange what humors it doth force vs to;
A teare doth drowne a teare, sigh, sigh doth smother,
This hinders that, that interrupts the other;
Th’ouer-watched weakenes of a sicke conceite,
Is that which makes small beauty seeme so great,
Like things which hid in troubled waters lie,
which crook’d seeme straight, if straight seeme contrarie,
And this our vaine imagination showes it
As it conceiues it, not as iudgement knowes it,
(As in a Mirrhor, if the same be true)
Such as your likenes, iustly such are you;
But as you change your selfe, it changeth there,
And showes you as you are, not as you were;
And with your motion doth your shadow moue,
If frowne or smile; such the conceite of loue.
Why tell me, is it possible the mind
A forme in all deformitie should finde?
Within the compasse of mans face we see
How many sorts of seuerall fauours be;
And that the chin, the nose, the brow, the eye,
If great, if small, flat, sharpe, or if awry,
Alters proportion, altereth the grace,
And makes a mighty difference in the face;
And in the world, scarce two so likely are
One with the other which if you compare,
But being set before you both together,
A iudging sight doth soone distinguish eyther.
How woman-like a weakenes it it then?
O what strange madnes so possesseth men
Bereft of sence; such sencelesse wonders seeing,
without forme, fashion, certaintie, or being?
For which so many die to liue in anguish,
Yet cannot liue if thus they should not languish;
That comfort yeelds not, & yet hope denies not,
A life that liues not, and a death that dies not;
That hates vs most, when most it speakes vs faire,
Doth promise all things, alwayes paies with ayre,
Yet sometime doth our greatest griefe appease,
To double sorrow after little ease.
Like that which thy lasciuious will doth craue,
which if once had, thou neuer more canst haue;
which if thou get, in getting thou doost wast it,
Taken, is lost, and perrish’d if thou hast it;
which if thou gain’st, thou nere the more hast wone,
I loosing nothing, yet am quite vndone;
And yet of that, if that a King depraue me,
No King restores, though he a kingdome gaue me.
Doost thou of Father and of friends depriue me?
And tak’st thou from me, all that heauen did giue me?
what nature claimes, by blood, alies, or neernes,
Or friendship challenge, by regard or deernes.
Mak’st me an Orphan ere my Father die?
A wofull widdow in virginitie?
Is thy vnbrideled lust the cause of all?
And now thy flattering tongue bewayles my fall.
The dead mans graue with fained teares to fill,
So the deuouring Crocodile doth kill,
To harbor hate in shew of sweetest things,
So in the Rose the poisned serpent stings.
To lurke farre off, yet lodge destruction by,
The Basiliske doth poyson with the eye;
To call for ayde, and then to lie in waite,
So the Hiena murthers by deceite;
By sweet inticements, suddaine death to bring,
So from the Rocks th’alluring Mermaids sing;
In greatest wants, t’inflict the greatest woe,
This is the vtmost tyrannie can doe.
But where (I see) the tempest thus preuailes,
what vse of Ankors, or what neede of sailes;
Aboue vs blustring winds, and dreadfull thunder,
The waters gape for our destruction vnder;
Heere on this side the furious billowes flie,
There rocks, there sands, and dangerous whir-pooles lie.
Is this the meane that mightines approues,
And in this sort doe Princes wooe their Loues;
Mildnes would better sute with maiestie
Then rash reuenge, and rough seueritie.
O in what safetie Temperance doth rest
Obtayning harbour in a soueraigne brest.
Which if so praisefull in the meanest men,
In powerfull Kings, how glorious is it then?
Alas, and fled I hether from my fo,
That innocence should be betrayed so?
Is Court and Country both her enemie
And no place found to shroud in chastitie?
Each house for lust, a harbour, and an Inne,
And euery Cittie a receite for sinne;
And all doe pittie beautie in distresse,
If beautie chast, then onely pittilesse.
Thus is she made a tempting stale to lust,
Or vnreleeued, needsly perrish must.
Lasciuious Poets, which abuse the truth,
which oft teach age to sinne, infecting youth,
For the vnchast make trees & stones to mourne,
Or as they please, to other shapes doe turne;
Cinyras daughter, whose incesteous mind,
Made her wrong nature, and dishonour kind;
Long since by them is turn’d into a Mir,
whose dropping liquor euer weepes for her;
And
in a fountaine, Biblis doth deplore
Her fault so vile and monsterous before;
Silla, which once her Father did betray,
Is now a bird, (if all be true they say)
She that with Phoebus did the foule offence,
Now metamorphiz’d into Frankensence.
Other, to flowers, to odors, and to gum,
At least Ioues Lemmon is a starre become;
And more; they faine a thousand fond excuses,
To hide their scapes, and couer theyr abuses,
The virgin onely they obscure and hide
whilst the vnchast, by them are deifide;
Yet if a Vestals name be once exprest,
She must be set together with the rest.
I am not now, as when thou saw’st me last,
That fauour soone is vanished and past;
That Rosie-blush, lapp’d in a Lilly-vale,
Now with the Morphew ouer-growne and pale,
And downe my cheekes with showers of swelling teares,
Remaine the furrowes that continuance weares,
And in the circles of my withered eyes,
In aged wrinkles beautie buried lyes;
And in my grace, my presence, iesture, cheere,
Ruine, distresse, woe, anguish, doth appeare.
That brest, that hand, that cheeke, that eye, that brow,
Faded, decayed, fallen, darkned, wrinkled now;
Such was my beauty once, now is it such,
Once thought most rare, now altred more then much;
Nor I regard all that thou canst protest,
My vow is taken, I a Nun profest.
This Vestall habite doth content me more,
Then all the robes that yet I euer wore.
Had Rosamond, (a recluse of our sort)
Taken our Cloister, left the wanton Court,
Shadowing that beauty with a holy vale,
which she (alas) too loosely set to sale,
She neede not like an vgly Minotaur,
Haue beene lock’d vp from iealious Ellenor,
But beene as famous by thy mothers wrongs,
As by thy father subiect to all tongues.
To shadow sinne, might can the most pretend,
Kings, but the conscience, all things can defend.
A stronger hand restaines our wilfull powers,
A will must rule aboue this will of ours,
Not following what our vaine desires doe wooe
For vertues sake, but what we (onely) doe.
And hath my Father chose to liue exild,
Before his eyes should see my youth defild?
And to withstand a Tyrants lewd desire,
Beheld his Towers and Castles razd with fire:
Yet neuer tuch’d with griefe, so onely I,
Exempt from shame might with true honor die.
And shall this iewell which so deerely cost,
Now after all, by my dishonour lost?
No, no, his reuerend words, his holy teares,
Yet in my soule too deepe impression beares
His latest fare-well at his last depart,
More deepely is ingraued in my hart,
Nor shall that blot, by me his name shall haue,
Bring his gray haires with sorrow to his graue,
Better his teares to fall vpon my Tombe,
Then for my birth to curse my mothers wombe.
Though Dunmow giue no refuge heere at all.
Dunmow can giue my body buriall.
If all remorcelesse, no teare-shedding eye,
My selfe will moane my selfe; so liue, so dye.
Notes of the Chronicle Historie.
THIS Epistle, containeth no particuler points of historie, more then the generality of the argument layeth open, for after the banishment of the Lord Robert Fitzwater, and that Matilda was become a Recluse at Dunmowe, (from whence this replie is imagined to bee written,) the King still earnestly persisting in his •ute, Matilda with this chast & constant deniall, hopeth yet at length to finde some comfortable remedy, and to rid her selfe of doubts, by taking vpon her this monastick habite, & to shew that she still beareth in mind his former cruelty, bred by the impatience of his lust, she remembreth him of her Fathers banishment, & the lawlesse exile of her alies and friends.
Dost thou of Father and of friends depriue me?
Then complaining of her distresse, that flying thether, thinking there to find releefe, she sees her selfe most assaild where she hoped to haue found most safety.
Alas, and fled I hether from my foe,
That, &c.
After againe, standing vpon the precise points of conscience, not to cast off this habite she had taken.
My vow is taken, I a Nun profest.
And at last laying open more particulerly the miseries sustained by her Father in England, the burning of his Castles and houses, which she proueth to be for her sake: as respecting onely her honour, more then his natiue Countrey and his owne fortunes.
And to withstand a Tyrants lewd desire,
Beheld his Towers and Castles set on fire.
Knitting vp her Epistle with a great and constant resolution.
Though Dunmow giue no refuge heere at all,
Dunmow can giue my body buriall.
FINIS.
Notes of the Chronicle Historie.
THIS Epistle, containeth no particuler points of historie, more then the generality of the argument layeth open, for after the banishment of the Lord Robert Fitzwater, and that Matilda was become a Recluse at Dunmowe, (from whence this replie is imagined to bee written,) the King still earnestly persisting in his •ute, Matilda with this chast & constant deniall, hopeth yet at length to finde some comfortable remedy, and to rid her selfe of doubts, by taking vpon her this monastick habite, & to shew that she still beareth in mind his former cruelty, bred by the impatience of his lust, she remembreth him of her Fathers banishment, & the lawlesse exile of her alies and friends.
Dost thou of Father and of friends depriue me?
Then complaining of her distresse, that flying thether, thinking there to find releefe, she sees her selfe most assaild where she hoped to haue found most safety.
Alas, and fled I hether from my foe,
That, &c.
After againe, standing vpon the precise points of conscience, not to cast off this habite she had taken.
My vow is taken, I a Nun profest.
And at last laying open more particulerly the miseries sustained by her Father in England, the burning of his Castles and houses, which she proueth to be for her sake: as respecting onely her honour, more then his natiue Countrey and his owne fortunes.
And to withstand a Tyrants lewd desire,
Beheld his Towers and Castles set on fire.
Knitting vp her Epistle with a great and constant resolution.
Though Dunmow giue no refuge heere at all,
Dunmow can giue my body buriall.
FINIS.
To the vertuous Lady, the Lady Anne Harrington: wife to the honourable Gentleman, Sir Iohn Harrington Knight.
MY singuler good Lady, your many vertues knowne in generall to all, and your gracious fauours to my vnwoorthy selfe, haue confirmed that in mee, which before I knew you, I onelie sawe by the light of other mens iudgements. Honour seated in your breast, findes herselfe adorned as in a rich pallace, making that excellent which makes her admirable; which like the Sunne (from thence) begetteth most precious things of this earthly worlde, onely by the vertue of his rayes, not the nature of the mould. Worth is best discerned by the worthie, deiected mindes want that pure fire which should giue vigor to vertue. I referre to your great thoughts, (the vnpartiall Iudges of true affection) the vnfained zeale I haue euer borne to your honorable seruice; and so rest your Ladiships humbly to commaund.
Mich: Drayton.
Queene Isabell to Mortimer.
THE ARGUMENT.
Queene Isabell, (the wife of Edward the second, called Edward Carnaruan,) beeing the daug
hter of Phillip de Beau, King of Fraunce, forsaken by the King her husband, who delighted onely in the companie of Piers Gaueston, his minion and fauorite; and after his death seduced by the euill counsaile of the Spensers. This Queene thus left by her husband, euen in the glory of her youth, drewe into her especiall fauour Roger Mortimer, Lorde of Wigmore, a man of a mightie and inuinsible spirit. This Lord Mortimer rising in armes against the King, with Thomas Earle of Lancaster, and the Barons, was taken ere he could gather his power, and by the King committed to the Tower of London. During his imprisonment, he ordained a feast in honour of his birth-day, to which he inuited Sir Stephen Segraue, Lieutenant of the Tower, and the rest of the officers, where, by meanes of a drinke prepared by the Queene, hee cast them all into a heauie sleepe, and with Ladders of cords beeing ready prepared for the purpose, he escapeth, and flieth into Fraunce, whether shee sendeth this Epistle, complaining her owne misfortunes, and greatly reioycing at his safe escape.
THOUGH such sweet comfort comes not now from her
As Englands Queene hath sent to Mortimer.
Yet what that wants, which might my power approue,
If lines can bring, thys shall supply with loue,
Me thinks affliction should not fright me so,
Nor should resume these sundry shapes of woe;
But when I faine would find the cause of this,
Thy absence shewes me where the errout is.
Oft when I thinke of thy departing hence,
Sad sorrow then posseth’ euery sence,
But finding thy deere blood preseru’d thereby,
And in thy life, my long-wish’d libertie,
with that sweet thought my selfe I onely please
Amidst my griefe, which somtimes giues me ease
Thus doe extreamest ils a ioy possesse,
And one woe makes another woe seeme lesse.
That blessed night, that milde-aspected howre,
wherein thou mad’st escape out of the Tower,
Shall consecrated euer-more remaine;
What gentle Planet in that howre did raigne;
And shall be happy in the birth of men,
which was chiefe Lord of the Ascendant then.
O how I feard that sleepy iuyce I sent,
Might yet want power to further thine intent;
Or that some vnseene misterie might lurke,
which wanting order, kindly should not worke;
Oft did I wish those dreadfull poysoned lees,
That clos’d the euer-waking Dragons eyes,
Or I had had those sence-bereauing stalkes
Michael Drayton- Collected Poetical Works Page 44