Collected Works of Michael Drayton

by Michael Drayton

Bid her behold that curled silken Downe,

  Thy fayre smooth brow, in beauties fayrer pryme,

  Not to be prest with a care-bringing Crowne,

  Nor that with sorrowes wrinckled ere the time,

  Thy feete too feeble to his seate to clime;

  Who gaue thee life, a crowne for thee did make,

  Taking that Crowne, thou life from him doost take.

  Looke on these Babes, the seales of plighted troth,

  Whose little armes about your bodies cling,

  These pretty imps, so deere vnto you both,

  Beg on their knees, their little hands do wring,

  Queenes to a Queene, Kings kneele vnto a King,

  To see theyr comfort, and the crowne defac’d,

  You fall to Armes, which haue in armes embrac’d.

  Subiects see these, and then looke backe on these,

  Where hatefull rage with kindly nature striues,

  And iudge by Edward of your owne disease,

  Chyldren by chyldren, by his wife your wiues,

  Your state by his, in his life your owne liues,

  And yeeld your swords, to take your deaths as due,

  Then draw your swords, to spoyle both him and you.

  From Edmondsbury now comes thys Lyonesse,

  Vnder the Banner of young Aquitaine,

  And downe towards Oxford doth herselfe adresse,

  A world of vengeance wayting on her traine,

  Heere is the period of Carnaruans raigne;

  Edward thou hast, but King thou canst not beare,

  Ther’s now no King, but great King Mortimer.

  Now friendles Edward followed by his foes,

  Needes must he runne, the deuill hath in chase,

  Poore in his hopes, but wealthy in his woes,

  Plenty of plagues, but scarcitie of grace,

  Who wearied all, now wearieth euery place;

  No home at home, no comfort seene abroad,

  His minde small rest, his body small aboad.

  One scarce to him his sad discourse hath done

  Of Henalts power, and what the Queene intends,

  But whilst he speakes, another hath begun,

  Another straight beginning where he ends,

  Some of new foes, some of reuolting frends;

  These ended once, againe new rumors spred

  Of many which rebell, of many fled.

  Thus of the remnant of his hopes bereft,

  Shee hath the sum, and hee the silly rest,

  Towards Wales he flyes, of England being left,

  To rayse an Armie there himselfe adrest,

  But of his power shee fully is possest;

  Shee hath the East, her rising there-withall,

  And he the West, I there goes downe his fall.

  What plagues doth Edward for himselfe prepare?

  Alas poore Edward, whether doost thou flie?

  Men change the ayre, but seldome change their care,

  Men flie from foes, but not from miserie,

  Griefes be long-liu’d, and sorrowes seldome die;

  And whe¯ thou feel’st thy conscience tuch’d with griefe,

  Thy selfe pursues thy selfe, both rob’d and thiefe.

  Towards Lundy, which in Sabryns mouth doth stand,

  Carried with hope, still hoping to finde ease,

  Imagining thys were his natiue Land,

  Thys England: and Seuerne the narrow seas,

  With this conceit (poore soule) himselfe doth please.

  And sith his rule is ouer-rul’d by men,

  On byrds and beasts he’ll king it once agen.

  Tis treble death a freezing death to feele,

  For him, on whom the sunne hath euer shone,

  Who hath been kneel’d vnto, can hardly kneele,

  Nor hardly beg which once hath been his owne,

  A fearefull thing to tumble from a throne;

  Fayne would he be king of a little Ile,

  All were his Empyre bounded in a myle.

  Aboard a Barke, now towards the Ile he sayles,

  Thinking to find some mercy in the flood:

  But see, the weather with such power preuailes,

  Not suffring him to rule thys peece of wood;

  Who can attaine, by heauen and earth with-stood?

  Edward, thy hopes but vainly doe delude,

  By Gods and men vncessantly pursu’d.

  At length to land his carefull Barke he hales,

  Beaten with stormes, ballast with misery,

  Thys home-bred exile, on the Coast of Wales,

  Vnlike himselfe, with such as like him bee,

  Spenser, Reading, Baldock, these haplesse three,

  They to him subiect, he subiect to care,

  And he and they, to murther subiect are.

  To ancient Neyth, a Castell strongly built,

  Thether repayre thys forlorne banish’d crew,

  Which holdeth them, but not contaynes theyr guilt,

  There hid from eyes, but not from enuies view,

  Nor from theyr starrs themselues they yet with-drew,

  Walls may awhile keepe out an enemie,

  But neuer Castle kept out destenie.

  Heere Fortune hath immur’d them in this hold,

  Willing theyr poore imprisoned liberty,

  Liuing a death, in hunger, want, and cold,

  Whilst murtherous treason entreth secretly,

  All lay on hands to punish cruelty;

  And when euen might is vp vnto the chin,

  Weake frends become strong foes to thrust him in.

  MELPOMINE, thou dolefull Muse be gone,

  Thy sad complaints be matters farre too light,

  Heere (now) come plagues beyond comparison.

  You dreadfull Furies, visions of the night,

  With gastly howling all approch my sight,

  And let pale ghosts with sable Tapers stand,

  To lend sad light to my more sadder hand.

  Each line shall be a history of woe,

  And euery accent as a dead mans cry;

  Now must my teares in such aboundance flow,

  As doe the drops of fruitfull Castaly,

  Each letter must containe a tragedy:

  Loe, now I come to tell this wofull rest,

  The drerest tale that euer pen exprest.

  You sencelesse stones, as all prodigious,

  Or things which of like solid substance be,

  Sith thus in nature all grow monsterous,

  And vnto kinde contrary disagree,

  Consume, or burne, or weepe, or sigh with mee,

  Vnlesse the earth hard-harted, nor can moane,

  Makes steele and stones, more hard then steele and stone.

  All-guiding heauen, which so doost still maintaine

  What ere thou moou’st in perfect vnitie,

  And bynd’st all things in friendshyps sacred chayne,

  In spotles and perpetuall amitie,

  Which is the bounds of thy great Emperie;

  Why sufferest thou the sacriligious rage,

  Of thys rebellious, hatefull, yron age.

  Now ruine raignes, God helpe the Land the while,

  All prysons freed to make all mischiefes free,

  Traytors and Rebels called from exile,

  All things be lawfull, but what lawfull bee,

  Nothing our owne, but our owne infamie:

  Death, which ends care, yet carelesse of our death,

  Who steales our ioyes, but stealeth not our breath.

  London which didst thys mischiefe first begin,

  Loe, now I come thy tragedy to tell,

  Thou art the first thats plagued for this sin,

  Which first didst make the entrance to this hell,

  Now death and horror in thy walls must dwell,

  Which should’st haue care thy selfe in health to keepe,

  Thus turn’st the wolues amongst the carelesse sheepe.

  O had I eyes, another Thames to weepe,
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br />   Or words expressing more, then words expresse,

  O could my teares, thy great foundation steepe,

  To moane thy pride, thy wastfull vaine excesse,

  Thy gluttonie, thy youthfull wantonnesse:

  But t’is thy sinnes, that to the heauens are fled,

  Dissoluing clowdes of vengeance on thy head.

  The place prophan’d, where God should be adord,

  The stone remou’d, whereon our faith is grounded,

  Aucthoritie is scornd, counsell abhord,

  Religion so by foolish sects confounded,

  Weake consciences by vaine questions wounded:

  The honour due, to Magistrates neglected,

  What else but vengeance can there be expected?

  When fayth but faynd, a faith doth onely fayne,

  And Church-mens liues, giue Lay-men leaue to fall,

  The Ephod made a cloake to couer gayne,

  Cunning auoyding what’s canonicall,

  Yet holines the Badge to beare out all:

  When sacred things be made a merchandize,

  None talke of texts, then ceaseth prophicies.

  When as the lawes, doe once peruert the lawes,

  And weake opinion guides the common weale,

  Where doubts should cease, doubts rise in euery clawse,

  The sword which wounds, should be a salue to heale,

  Oppression works oppression to conceale:

  Yet being vs’d, when needfull is the vse,

  Right clokes all wrongs, and couers all abuse,

  Tempestious thunders, teare the fruitlesse earth,

  The roring Ocean past her bounds to rise,

  Death-telling apparisions, monstrous birth,

  Th’affrighted heauen with comet-glaring eyes,

  The ground, the ayre, all fild with prodigies:

  Fearefull eclipses, fierie vision,

  And angrie Planets in coniunction.

  Thy channels serue for inke, for paper stones,

  And on the ground, write murthers, incests, rapes,

  And for thy pens, a heape of dead-mens bones,

  Thy letters, vgly formes, and monstrous shapes;

  And when the earths great hollow concaue gapes,

  Then sinke them downe, least shee we liue vpon,

  Doe leaue our vse, and flye subiection.

  Virgine, but Virgine onely in thy name,

  Now for thy sinne what murtherer shall be spent:

  Blacke is my inke, but blacker is thy shame,

  Who shall reuenge? my Muse can but lament,

  With hayre disheueld, words and tears halfe spent:

  Poore rauish’d Lucrece stands to end her lyfe,

  Whlist cruell Tarquin whets the angrie knyfe.

  Thou wantst redresse, and tyrannie remorce,

  And sad suspition dyes thy fault in graine,

  Compeld by force, must be repeld by force,

  Complaints no pardon, penance helpes not payne,

  But blood must wash out a more bloody stayne:

  To winne thine honour with thy losse of breath,

  Thy guiltlesse lyfe with thy more guiltie death,

  Thou art benumd, thou canst not feele at all,

  Plagues be thy pleasures, feare hath made past feare,

  The deadly sound of sinnes nile-thundering fall,

  Hath tuned horror setled in thine eare,

  Shreeks be the sweetest Musicke thou canst heare:

  Armes thy attyer, and weapons all thy good,

  And all the wealth thou hast, consist in blood.

  See wofull Cittie, on thy ruin’d wall,

  The verie Image of thy selfe heere see,

  Read on thy gates in charrecters thy fall,

  In famish’d bodies, thine Anatomie,

  How like to them thou art, they like to thee:

  And if thy teares haue dim’d thy hatefull sight,

  Thy buildings are one fier to giue thee light.

  For world that was, a wofull is, complayne,

  When men might haue been buried when they dyed,

  When Children might haue in their cradels layne,

  When as a man might haue enioy’d his bride,

  The Sonne kneeld by his Fathers death-bed side:

  The lyuing wrongd, the dead no right (now) haue,

  The Father sees his Sonne to want a graue.

  The poore Samarian almost staru’d for food,

  Yet sawced her sweet Infants flesh with tears,

  But thou in child with murther, long’st for blood,

  Which thy wombe wanting, casts the fruite it bears,

  Thy viperous brood, their lothsome prison teyrs.

  Thou drinkst thy gore out of a dead-mans scull,

  Thy stomack hungry, though thy gorge be full.

  Is all the world in sencelesse slaughter dround?

  No pittying hart? no hand? no eye? no eare?

  None holds his sword from ripping of the wound,

  No sparke of pittie, nature, loue, nor feare;

  Be all so mad, that no man can forbeare?

  Will you incur the cruell Neros blame,

  Thus to discouer your owne Mothers shame?

  The man who of the plague yet rauing lyes,

  Heares yeelding gosts to giue their latest grone,

  And from his carefull window nought espyes,

  But dead-mens bodies, others making moane,

  No talke but Death, and execution.

  Poore silly women from their houses fled,

  Crying (ô helpe) my husbands murthered;

  Thames turne thee backe to Belgias frothie mayne,

  Fayre Tame and Isis, hold backe both your springs,

  Nor on thy London spread thy siluer trayne,

  Nor let thy Ships lay forth their silken wings,

  Thy shores with Swans late dying Dirgies rings,

  Nor in thy armes let her imbraced bee,

  Nor smile on her which sadly weepes on thee.

  Time end thy selfe here, let it not be sayd,

  That euer Death did first begin in thee,

  Nor let this slaunder to thy fault be layd,

  That ages charge thee with impietie,

  Least feare what hath beene, argue what may be:

  And fashioning so a habite of the mind.

  Make men no men, and alter humaine kind.

  But yet this outrage hath but taken breath,

  For pittie past, she meanes to make amends,

  And more enrag’d, she doth returne to death,

  And next goes downe King Edward and his frends,

  What she hath hoarded, now she franckly spends:

  In such strange action as was neuer seene,

  Clothing reuenge in habite of a Queene.

  Now Stapleton’s thy turne, from France that fled,

  The next the lot vnto the Spensers fell,

  Reding the Marshall, marshal’d with the dead,

  Next is thy turne great Earle of Arundell,

  Then Mochelden and wofull Daniell:

  Who followed him in his lasciuious wayes,

  Must goe before him to his blackest dayes,

  Carnaruan by his Countrie-men betrayd,

  And sent a Prisoner from his natiue Land,

  To Knelworth poore King he is conuayd,

  To th’Earle of Leister with a mighty band;

  And now a present Parliament in hand,

  Fully concluding what they had begunne,

  T’vncrowne King Edward, and inuest his Sonne?

  A scepter’s lyke a pillar of great height,

  Whereon a mighty building doth depend,

  Which when the same is ouer-prest with weight,

  And past his compasse, forc’d therby to bend,

  His massie roofe down to the ground doth send:

  Crushing the lesser props, and murthering all,

  Which stand within the compasse of his fall.

  Where vice is countenanc’d with nobilitie,

  Arte cleane
excluded, ignorance held in,

  Blinding the world, with mere hipocrisie,

  Yet must be sooth’d in all their slauish sinne,

  Great malcontents to growe they then begin:

  Nursing vile wits, to make them factious tooles,

  Thus mighty men oft prooue the mightiest fooles.

  The Senate wronged by the Senator,

  And iustice made iniustice by delayes,

  Next innouation playes the Orator,

  Counsels vncounseld, Death defers no dayes,

  And plagues, but plagues, alow no other playes:

  And when one lyfe, makes hatefull many liues,

  Caesar though Caesar, dyes with swords and kniues,

  Now for the Cleargie, Peers, and Laietie,

  Against the King must resignation make,

  Th’elected Senate of the Emperie,

  To Kenelworth are come, the Crowne to take,

  Sorrowe hath yet but slept, and now awake:

  In solemne sort each one doth take his place,

  The partiall Iudges of poore Edwards case.

  From his imprisoning chamber, cloth’d in black,

  Before the great assemblie he is brought,

  A dolefull hearse vpon a dead-mans back,

  Whose heauie lookes, might tell his heauie thought,

  Greefe neede no fayned action to be taught:

  His Funerall solemniz’d in his cheere,

  His eyes the Mourners, and his legs the Beere.

  His fayre red cheeks clad in pale sheets of shame,

  And for a dumbe shew in a swound began,

  Where passion doth strange sort of passion frame,

  And euery sence a right Tragedian,

  Exceeding farre the compasse of a man,

  By vse of sorrow learning nature arte,

  Teaching Dispayre to act a liuely part.

  Ah Pitty, doost thou liue, or art thou not?

  Some say such sights, men vnto flints haue turned,

  Or Nature, else thy selfe hast thou forgot?

  Or is it but a tale, that men haue mourned?

  That water euer drown’d, or fire burned?

  Or haue teares left to dwell in humaine eyes,

  Or euer man to pitty miseries?

  Hee takes the Crowne, and closely hugs it to him,

  And smiling in his greese he leanes vpon it;

  Then doth hee frowne because it would forgoe him,

  Then softly stealing, layes his vesture on it;

  Then snatching at it, loth to haue forgone it,

  Hee put it from him, yet hee will not so,

  And yet retaines what fayne he would forgoe.

  Like as a Mother ouer-charg’d with woe,

  Her onely chylde now laboring in death,

  Doing to helpe it, nothing yet can doe,

  Though with her breath, she faine would giue it breath,

  Still saying, yet forgetting what shee sayth:

  Euen so with poore King Edward doth it fare,