Which can restore consuming languishment,
A cordiall to comfort banishment;
And thou shalt find, that pleasures long restraind,
Be farre more pleasant when they once be gaind.
Now sweeten all thy sorrowes with delight,
Teach man-hood courtshyp, turne these broyles to loue,
The day’s nere ill that hast a pleasing night,
Ther’s other warrs in hand, which thou must proue,
Warrs which no blood shall shed, nor sorrow moue:
And that sweet foe of whom thou winn’st the day,
Shall crowne thy tresses with tryumphant Bay.
And sith that tyme our better ease assures,
Let solace sit and rock thee on her brest,
And let thy sences say like Epicures,
Lets eate and drinke, and lay vs downe to rest,
Like belly-Gods, to surfet at the feast;
Our day is cleere, then neuer doubt a shower,
Prince Edward is my sonne, England my dower.
Possessing this inestimable Iem,
What is there wanting to maintaine thy port?
Thy royall Mistresse wears a Diadem,
Thy high-pitchd pyneons sore beyond report,
I am thy Wigmore, Fraunce shall be thy Court;
How canst thou want millions of Pearle and gold,
When thou the Indies in thyne armes dost hold?
Thou art King Edward, or opinion fayles,
Longshanks begot thee when in youth he rang’d,
Thou art Carnaruan, thou the Prince of Wales,
And in thy Cradle falsely thou wert chang’d,
Hee Mortimer, and thou hast beene estrang’d:
Pardon me deere, what Mortimer sayd I,
Then should I loue him, but my tongue doth lie,
As Fortune hath created him a King,
Had Nature made him valiant as thou art,
My soule had not beene tuch’d with torments sting,
Nor hadst thou now been plac’d so neere my hart;
But since by lot this falleth to thy part,
If such haue wealth as lewdly will abuse it,
Let those enjoy it who can better vse it.
Except to heauen, my hopes can clime no hier;
Now in mine armes had I my little boy,
Then had I all on earth I could desier,
The King’s as he would be, God send him ioy,
Now with his mynions let him sport and toy:
His lemman Spenser, and himselfe alone,
May sit and talke of Mistresse Gaueston.
When first I of that wanton King was woo’d,
Why camst thou not vnto the Court of Fraunce?
Thou then alone should’st in my grace haue stood,
O Mortimer, how good had been thy chaunce?
Then had I beene thine owne inheritance;
Now entrest thou by force, and holds by might,
And so intrud’st vpon anothers right.
Honor that Idoll weomen so adore,
How many plagues hast thou in store to grieue vs,
When in our selues we finde there yet is more
Then that bare word of maiestie can giue vs?
When of that comfort so thou canst depriue vs,
Which with our selues oft sett’st vs at debate,
And mak’st vs beggers in our greatest state.
Euen as a Trumpets liuely-sounding voyce,
Tryps on the winds with many a dainty trick,
When as the speaking Ecchoes doe reioyce,
So much delighted with the rethorick,
Seeming to make the heauie dull ayre quick;
With such rare musick in a thousand kayes,
Vpon his hart-strings shee in consort playes.
On thys foundation whilst they firmely stand,
And as they wish, so fitly all things went,
No worse their warrant, then King Edwards hand,
Who his owne Bow to his destruction bent;
The course of things to fall in true consent,
Giues full assurance of the happy end,
On which their thoughts now carefully attend.
And sith in payment all for currant passe,
And theyr proceedings were allow’d for such,
Although this peace against her stomack was,
And yet imports the Princes strength so much,
To carry all things cleerly without tuch,
With seeming care doth seemingly effect,
What loue commaunds, and greatnes should respect.
Charles waying well his lawfull Nephews right,
So mighty an Embassador as shee,
This meane to winne her grace in Edwards sight,
And so reclaime his vaine inconstancie,
With kindnes thus to conquer all these three,
What loue the subiects to his Sister bore,
Heapes on desert, to make this much the more.
Her expedition, and thys great successe
Of after-good, still seeming to deuine,
Carnaruan should by couenant release,
And to the Prince the Prouinces resigne,
Who dooing homage, should reenter Guyne,
Safe-conduct sent the King, to come with speed,
To seale in person what the Queene decreed.
But whilst he stood yet doubtfull what to doe,
The Spensers who his counsels chiefely guide,
Nor with theyr Soueraigne into Fraunce durst goe,
Nor in his absence durst at home abide:
His listning eares with such perswasions plyde,
As hee by them, to stay at home is wonne,
And with Commission to dispatch his Sonne.
Now till thys howre all ioyes inwombed lay,
And in this howre now came they first to light,
Ad dayes to Months, and howres vnto the day,
And as Ioue dyd, so make a treble night,
And whilst delight is rauish’d with delight,
Swound in these sweets, in pleasures pleasing paine,
And as they die, so brought to life againe.
Now Clowd-borne care, hence vanish for a time,
The Sunne ascending, hath the yeere renew’d,
And as the Halkes in hotest Sotherne clime,
Their halfe-sick hopes their crazed flags haue mew’d,
A world of ioyes their brests doe now include,
The thoughts whereof, thoughts quicknes doth benum,
In whose expression, pens and tongues be dumbe.
In fayre Lauinium, Troy is built againe,
And on thys shore her ruins are repard,
Nor Iunos hate such vigor doth retaine,
The Fates appeas’d who with theyr fortune squard,
The remnant of the shypwrackt nauie spard,
Though torne with tempests, yet ariu’d at last,
May sit and sing, and tell of sorrowes past.
If shee doe sit, he leanes on Cynthias throne,
If shee doe walke, he in the circle went,
If shee doe sport, he must be grac’d alone,
If shee discourse, he is the argument,
If shee deuise, it is to his content:
From her proceeds the light he beares about him,
And yet she sets if once shee be without him.
Still with his eares his soueraigne Goddesse hears,
And with his eyes shee graciously doth see,
Still in her breast his secret thoughts she bears,
Nor can her tongue pronounce an I, but wee,
Thus two in one, and one in two they bee:
And as his soule possesseth head and hart,
Shee’s all in all, and all in euery part.
Like as a well-tund Lute thats tucht with skill,
In Musicks language sweetly speaking playne,
When euery string it selfe with sound doth fill,
Taking their tones, and giuing them againe,
So their affections set in kayes so like,
Still fall in consort, as their humors strike.
Shee must returne, King Edwards will is so,
But soft a while, shee meaneth no such thing,
He’s not so swift, but shee is twice as slowe,
No hast, but good, this message backe to bring,
Another tune he must be taught to sing:
Which to his hart more deadly is by far,
Then cryes of ghosts, or Mandrakes shreekings are.
Stapleton who had beene of their counsell long,
Or woonne with gifts, or else of childish feare,
Or mou’d in conscience with King Edwards wrong,
Or pittying him, or hate to them did beare,
Or of th’euent that now he did dispaire:
This Bishop backe from Fraunce to Edward flewe,
And knowing all discouered all he knewe.
The platforme of this enterprize disclosd,
And Torltons drift by circumstances found,
With what conueyance all things are disposd,
The cunning vsd in laying of the ground,
And with what Art, this curious trayle is woond:
Awakes the King, to see his owne estate,
When to preuent, he comes a day too late.
Isabell the time doth still and still reiorne,
Charles as a Brother with perswasions deales,
Edward with threats, doth hasten her retorne,
Pope Iohn, with Bulls and curses hard assailes,
Perswasions, curses, threats, no whit preuailes:
Chales, Edward, Iohn, Pope, Princes, doe your worst,
The Queene fares best, when she the most is curst.
The Spensers, who the French-mens humors felt,
And with their Soueraigne, had deuisd the draught,
With Prince, and Peers, now vnder hand had delt,
In golden nets, who were alreadie caught,
And nowe King Charles, they haue so throughlie wrought:
That he with sums, too slightly ouerwaid,
Poore Isabells hopes, now in the dust are layd.
Thou base desier, thou graue of all good harts,
Corsiue to kindnes, bawd to beastly will,
Monster of time, defrauder of desarts,
Thou plague, which doest both loue and vertue kill,
Honours abuser, friendships greatest ill:
If curse in hell, there worse then other bee,
I pray that curse, may trebled light on thee.
Nor can all these amaze this mighty Queene,
Who with affliction, neuer was controld,
Neuer such courage in her sex was seene,
Nor was she cast in other womens mould,
But can endure warres, trauell, want, and cold:
Strugling with Fortune, nere with greefe opprest,
Most cheerefull still, when she was most distrest,
Thus she resolu’d, to leaue vngratefull France,
And in the world her fortune yet to trye,
Chaunging the ayre, hopes time will alter chance,
As one whose thoughts with honors wings doe flye,
Her mighty mind, still scorning miserie:
Yet ere she went, her greeued hart to heale,
Shee rings King Charles, this dolefull parting peale.
Is this the trust I haue repos’d (quoth shee)
And to this end to thee my griefes haue told?
Is this the kindnes that thou offerest mee?
And in thy Country am I bought and sold?
In all this heate art thou become so cold?
Came I to Fraunce in hope to find a frend?
And now in thee haue all my hopes their end?
Phillip (quoth shee) thy Father neuer was,
But some base peasant, or some slauish hind,
Neuer did Kingly Lyon get an Asse,
Nor cam’st thou of that Princely Eagles kind:
But sith thy hatefull cowardise I find,
Sinke thou, thy power, thy Country, ayde and all,
Thou barbarous Moore, thou most vnnaturall.
Thou wert not Sonne vnto the Queene my mother,
Nor wert conceiued in her sacred woombe,
Some misbegotten changeling, not my Brother,
O that thy Nurses armes had beene thy Toombe,
Or thy birth-day had beene the day of the doombe:
Neuer was Fortune with such error led,
As when shee plac’d a Crowne vpon thy head.
And for my farewell this I prophecie,
That from my loynes, that glorious fruite shall spring,
Which shall tread downe that base posteritie,
And lead in tryumph thy succeeding King,
To fatall Fraunce, I as Sibilla sing:
Her Citties sackd, the ruine of her men,
When of the English, one shall conquer ten.
Beumount who had in Fraunce this shufling seene,
Whose soule with kindnes Isabell had wonne,
To flye to Henault, now perswades the Queene,
Assuring her what good might there be done,
Offering his Neece, vnto the Prince her Sonne:
The onely meane, to bend his brothers might,
Against King Edward, and to back her right.
This worthy Lord, experienc’d long in armes,
Whom Isabell with many fauours grac’d,
Whose Princely blood, the brute of conquest warmes,
In whose great thoughts, the Queene was highly plac’d,
Greeuing to see her succours thus defac’d.
Hath cast this plot, which managed with heed,
Sith all doe fayle, should onely helpe at need.
Shee who but lately had her Ankors wayd,
And sawe the cloudes on euery side to rise,
Nor now can stay, vntill the streame be stayd,
Nor harbour till the cleering of the skies,
Who though she rou’d, the marke stil in her eyes,
Accepts his offer thankfully as one,
Succouring the poore in such affliction.
This courteous Earle, mou’d with her sad report,
Whose eares were drawne to her inchanting tong,
Traind vp with her in Phillips royall Court,
And fully now confirmed in her wrong,
Her foes growe weake, her friends grow daily strong.
The Barrons oath, gag’d in her cause to stand,
The Commons word, the Cleargies helping hand.
All Couenants signd with wedlocks sacred seale,
In friendships bonds eternally to bind,
And all proceeding from so perfect zeale,
And suting right, with Henalts mighty mind,
What ease hereby, the Queene doth hope to find;
The sweet contentment of the louely bride,
Young Edward pleasd, and ioy on euery side.
NOW full seauen times, the Sunne his welked waine,
Had on the top of all the Tropick set,
And seauen times descending downe againe,
His fiery wheeles, had with the fishes wet,
Since malice first this mischiefe did beget:
In which so many courses hath beene runne,
As he that time celestiall signes hath done.
From Henalt now this great Bellona comes,
Glyding along fayre Belgias glassie maine,
Mazing the shores with noyse of thundring drums,
With her young Edward, Duke of Aquitayne,
The fatall scourges of King Edwards raigne:
Her Souldiour Beumount, and the Earle of Kent,
And Mortimer that mightie Malcontent.
Three thousand Souldiers mustred men in pay,
Of Almaynes, Swisers, trustie Henawers,
Of natiue English fled beyond the Sea,
Of fat-braind Fleamings, fishie Zelanders,
Edwards
decreasing power, augmenting hers:
Her friends at home expect her comming in,
And new commotions euery day begin.
The Coasts be daylie kept with watch and ward,
The Beacons burning, at thy foes discrie,
O had the loue of Subiects beene thy guard,
T’ad beene t’effect, what thou didst fortifie,
But t’is thy houshold home-bred Enemie:
Nor Fort, nor Castell, can thy Countrey keepe,
When foes doe wake, and dreamed friends doe sleepe.
In vaine be armes, when heauen becomes a foe,
Kneele, weepe, intreat, and speake thy Deaths-man fayre,
The earth is armd vnto thy ouerthrowe,
Goe pacifie the angrie powers by prayer,
Or if not pray, goe Edward and dispayre:
Thy fatall end, why doest thou this begin,
Locking Death out, thou keep’st destruction in.
A Southwest gale, for Harwich fitly blowes,
Blow not so fast, to kindle such a fier:
Whilst vnder saile, shee yet securely rowes,
Turne gentle wind, and force her to retyer,
But ô the winds, doe Edwards wrack conspyre,
For when the heauens are vnto iustice bent,
All things be turnd to our iust punishment.
Shee is arriu’d in Orwells pleasant Roade,
Orwell thy name, or ill, or neuer was:
Why art thou not ore-burthend with thy loade?
Why sinck’st thou not vnder thys monstrous masse?
But what heauen will, that needs must come to passe.
That grieuous plague thou carriest on thy deepe,
Shall giue iust cause for many, streames to weepe.
Englands Earle-marshall, Lord of all that Coast,
With bells and bonfires welcoms her to shore,
Great Leicester next ioyneth hoast to hoast,
The Cleargies power, in readines before,
Which euery day increaseth more and more:
Vpon the Church a great taxation layd,
For Armes, munition, mony, men, and ayd.
Such as too long had looked for this hower,
And in their brests imprisoned discontent,
Their wills thus made too powerful by their power
Whose spirits were factious, great, and turbulent,
Their hopes succesfull by this ill euent,
Like to a thiefe that for his purpose lyes,
Take knowledge now of Edwards iniuries.
Young Prince of Wales, loe heere thy vertue lyes,
Soften thy Mothers flintie hart with teares,
Then wooe thy Father with those blessed eyes,
Wherein the image of himselfe appeares,
With thy soft hand softly vniting theirs:
With thy sweet kisses so them both beguile,
Vntill they smyling weepe, and weeping smile.
Collected Works of Michael Drayton Page 31