Collected Works of Michael Drayton

by Michael Drayton

  Leauing his Crowne, the first-borne of his care.

  In thys confused conflict of the minde,

  Tears drowning sighes, and sighes confounding tears,

  Yet when as neyther any ease could finde,

  And extreame griefe doth somwhat harden feares,

  Sorrow growes sencelesse when too much she bears,

  Whilst speech & silence, striues which place should take,

  With words halfe spoke, he silently bespake.

  I clayme no Crowne, quoth he, by vise oppression,

  Nor by the law of Nations haue you chose mee,

  My Fathers title groundeth my succession,

  Nor in your power is cullor to depose mee,

  By heauens decree I stand, they must dispose mee;

  A lawles act, in an vnlawfull thing,

  With-drawes allegiance, but vncrownes no King.

  What God hath sayd to one, is onely due,

  Can I vsurpe by tyrannizing might?

  Or take what by your birth-right falls to you?

  Roote out your houses? blot your honors light?

  By publique rule, to rob your publique right?

  Then can you take, what he could not that gaue it,

  Because the heauens commaunded I should haue it.

  My Lords, quoth hee, commend me to the King,

  Heere doth he pause, fearing his tongue offended,

  Euen as in child-birth forth the word doth bring,

  Sighing a full poynt, as he there had ended,

  Yet striuing, as his speech he would haue mended;

  Things of small moment we can scarcely hold,

  But griefes that tuch the hart, are hardly told.

  Heere doth he weepe, as he had spoke in tears,

  Calming this tempest with a shower of raine,

  Whispering, as he would keepe it from his ears,

  Doe my alegiance to my Soueraigne;

  Yet at this word, heere doth he pause againe:

  Yes say euen so, quoth he, to him you beare it,

  If it be Edward that you meane shall weare it.

  Keepe hee the Crowne, with mee remaine the curse,

  A haplesse Father, haue a happy Sonne,

  Take he the better, I endure the worse,

  The plague to end in mee, in mee begun,

  And better may he thriue then I haue done;

  Let him be second Edward, and poore I,

  For euer blotted out of memorie.

  Let him account his bondage from the day

  That he is with the Diadem inuested,

  A glittering Crowne doth make the haire soone gray,

  Within whose circle he is but arested,

  In all his feasts, hee’s but with sorrowe feasted;

  And when his feete disdaine to tuch the mold,

  His head a prysoner, in a Iayle of gold.

  In numbring of his subiects, numbring care,

  And when the people doe with shouts begin,

  Then let him thinke theyr onely prayers are,

  That he may scape the danger he is in,

  The multitude, be multitudes of sin;

  And hee which first doth say, God saue the King,

  Hee is the first doth newes of sorrow bring.

  His Commons ills shall be his priuate ill,

  His priuate good is onely publique care,

  His will must onely be as others will:

  Himselfe not as he is, as others are,

  By Fortune dar’d to more then Fortune dare:

  And he which may commaund an Empery,

  Yet can he not intreat his liberty.

  Appeasing tumults, hate cannot appease,

  Sooth’d with deceits, and fed with flatteries,

  Displeasing to himselfe, others to please,

  Obey’d asmuch as he shall tyrannize,

  Feare forcing friends, enforcing Enemies:

  And when hee sitteth vnder his estate,

  His foote-stoole danger, and his chayre is hate.

  He King alone, no King that once was one,

  A King that was, vnto a King that is;

  I am vnthron’d, and hee enioyes my throne,

  Nor should I suffer that, nor he doe this,

  He takes from mee what yet is none of his;

  Young Edward clymes, old Edward falleth downe;

  King’d and vnking’d, he crown’d, farwell my crowne.

  Princes be Fortunes chyldren, and with them,

  Shee deales, as Mothers vse theyr babes to still,

  Vnto her darling giues a Diadem,

  A pretty toy, his humor to fulfill;

  And when a little they haue had theyr will,

  Looke what shee gaue, shee taketh at her pleasure,

  Vsing the rod when they are out of measure.

  But policie, who still in hate did lurke,

  And yet suspecteth Edward is not sure,

  Waying what blood with Leicester might worke,

  Or else what friends his name might yet procure,

  A guilty conscience neuer is secure;

  From Leisters keeping cause him to be taken;

  Alas poore Edward, now of all forsaken.

  To Gurney and Matrauers he is giuen;

  O let theyr act be odious to all ears,

  And beeing spoke, stirre clowdes to couer heauen,

  And be the badge the wretched murtherer bears,

  The wicked oth whereby the damned swears:

  But Edward, in thy hell thou must content thee,

  These be the deuils which must still torment thee.

  Hee on a leane ilfauored beast is set,

  Death vpon Famine moralizing right;

  His cheeks with tears, his head with raigne bewet,

  Nights very picture, wandring still by night;

  When he would sleep, like dreams they him affright;

  His foode torment, his drinke a poysoned bayne,

  No other comfort but in deadly paine.

  And yet because they feare to haue him knowne,

  They shaue away his princely tressed hayre,

  And now become not worth a hayre ofs owne,

  Body and fortune now be equall bare;

  Thus voyde of wealth, ô were he voyde of care.

  But ô, our ioyes are shadowes, and deceaue vs,

  But cares, euen to our deaths doe neuer leaue vs.

  A silly Mole-hill is his kingly chayre,

  With puddle water must he now be drest,

  And his perfume, the lothsome fenny ayre,

  An yron skull, a Bason sitting best,

  A bloody workman, suting with the rest;

  His lothed eyes, within thys filthy glas,

  Truly behold how much deform’d hee was.

  The drops which from his eyes abundance fall,

  A poole of tears still rising by this rayne,

  Euen fighting with the water, and withall,

  A circled compasse makes it to retaine,

  Billow’d with sighes, like to a little maine;

  Water with tears, contending whether should

  Make water warme, or make the warme tears cold.

  Vise Traytors, hold of your▪ vnhalowed hands,

  The cruelst beast the Lyons presence fears:

  And can you keepe your Soueraigne then in bands?

  How can your eyes behold th’anoynteds tears?

  Are not your harts euen pearced through the ears?

  The minde is free, what ere afflict the man,

  A King’s a King, doe Fortune what shee can.

  Who’s he can take what God himselfe hath giuen?

  Or spill that life his holy spirit infused?

  All powers be subiect to the powers of heauen,

  Nor wrongs passe vnreueng’d, although excused,

  Weepe Maiestie to see thy selfe abused;

  O whether shall authoritie be take,

  When shee herselfe, herselfe doth so forsake?

  A wreath of hay they on his temples bind,

  Wh
ich when he felt, (tears would not let him see,)

  Nature (quoth he) now art thou onely kind,

  Thou giu’st, but Fortune taketh all from mee,

  I now perceaue, that were it not for thee:

  I should want water, clothing for my brayne,

  But earth giues hay, and mine eyes giue me rayne.

  My selfe deform’d, lyke my deformed state,

  My person made like to mine infamie,

  Altring my fauour, could you alter fate,

  And blotting beautie, blot my memorie,

  You might flye slaunder, I indignitie:

  My golden Crowne, tooke golden rule away,

  A Crowne of hay, well sutes a King of hay.

  Yet greeu’d agayne, on nature doth complayne,

  Nature (sayth he) ô thou art iust in all,

  Why should’st thou then, thus strengthen me agayne,

  To suffer things so much vnnaturall?

  Except thou be pertaker in my fall:

  And when at once so many mischiefes meete,

  Mak’st poyson nuterment, and bitter sweete.

  And now he thinks he wrongeth Fortune much,

  Who giueth him this great preheminence,

  For since by fate his myseries be such,

  Her worser name hath taught him pacience,

  For no offence, he taketh as offence:

  Crost on his back, and crosses in the brest,

  Thus is he crost, who neuer yet was blest.

  To Berckley thus they lead this wretched King,

  The place of horror which they had fore-thought,

  O heauens why suffer you so vile a thing,

  And can behold, this murther to be wrought,

  But that your wayes are all with iudgement frought:

  Now entrest thou, poore Edward to thy hell,

  Thus take thy leaue, and bid the world farewell.

  O Berckley, thou which hast beene famous long,

  Still let thy walls shreeke out a deadly sound,

  And still complayne thee of thy greeuous wrong,

  Preserue the figure of King Edwards wound,

  And keepe their wretched footsteps on the ground:

  That yet some power againe may giue them breath,

  And thou againe mayst curse them both to death.

  The croking Rauens hideous voyce he hears,

  Which through the Castell sounds with deadly yells,

  Imprinting strange imaginarie fears,

  The heauie Ecchoes lyke to passing bells,

  Chyming far off his dolefull burying knells:

  The iargging Casements which the fierce wind dryues,

  Puts him in mind of fetters, chaynes, and gyues.

  By silent night, the vgly shreeking Owles,

  Lyke dreadfull Spirits with terror doe torment him,

  The enuious dogge, angry with darcknes howles,

  Lyke messengers from damned ghosts were sent him,

  Or with hells noysome terror to present him:

  Vnder his roofe the buzzing night-Crow sings,

  Clapping his windowe with her fatall wings.

  Death still prefigur’d in his fearefull dreames,

  Of raging Feinds, and Goblins that he meets,

  Of falling downe from steepe-rocks into streames

  Of Toombs, of Graues, of Pits, of winding sheets,

  Of strange temptations and seducing sprits:

  And with his cry awak’d, calling for ayde,

  His hollowe voyce doth make him selfe afrayd.

  Oft in his sleepe he sees the Queene to flye him,

  Sterne Mortimer pursue him with his sword,

  His Sonne in sight, yet dares he not come nigh him,

  To whom he calls, who aunswereth not a word,

  And lyke a monster wondred and abhord:

  Widowes and Orphans following him with cryes,

  Stabbing his hart, and scratching out his eyes.

  Next comes the vision of his bloody raigne,

  Masking along with Lancasters sterne ghost,

  Of eight and twentie Barrons hang’d and slayne,

  Attended with the rufull mangled host,

  At Burton and at Borough battell lost:

  Threatning with frownes, and trembling euery lim,

  With thousand thousand curses cursing him.

  And if it chaunce that from the troubled skyes,

  Some little brightnes through the chinks giue light,

  Straight waies on heaps the thrunging clouds doe rise,

  As though the heauen were angry with the night.

  Deformed shadowes glimpsing in his sight:

  As though darcknes, for she more darcke would bee,

  Through these poore Crannells forc’d her selfe to see,

  Within a deepe vault vnder where he lay,

  Vnder buried filthie carcasses they keepe,

  Because the thicke walls hearing kept away,

  His feeling feeble, seeing ceas’d in sleepe;

  This lothsome stinck comes from this dungeon deepe,

  As though before they fully did decree,

  No one sence should from punishment be free.

  Hee haps our English Chronicle to find,

  On which to passe the howers he falls to reed,

  For minuts yet to recreate his mind,

  If any thought one vncar’d thought might feed,

  But in his breast new conflicts this doth breed:

  For when sorrowe, is seated in the eyes,

  What ere we see, increaseth miseries.

  Opening the Booke, he chaunced first of all

  On conquering Williams glorious comming in,

  The Normans rising, and the Bryttains fall,

  Noting the plague ordyan’d for Harolds sinne,

  How much, in how short time this Duke did winne;

  Great Lord (quoth hee) thy conquests plac’d thy throne,

  I to mine owne, haue basely lost mine owne.

  Then comes to Rufus a lasciuious King,

  Whose lawlesse rule on that which he enioy’d,

  A sodaine end vnto his dayes doth bring,

  Himselfe destroy’d in that which he destroy’d,

  None moane his death, whose lyfe had all anoy’d:

  Rufus (quoth he) thy fault far lesse then mine,

  Needs must my plague be far exceeding thine.

  To famous Bewclarke studiouslie he turnes.

  Who from Duke Robert doth the scepter wrest,

  Whose eyes put out, in flintie Cardiffe mornes,

  In Palestine who bare his conquering crest,

  Who though of Realmes, of same not dispossest:

  In all afflictions this may comfort thee,

  Onely my shame in death remaines (quoth hee.)

  Then comes he next to Stephens troublous state,

  Plagu’d with the Empresse, in continuall warre,

  Yet with what patience he could beare his hate,

  And lyke a wise-man rule his angry starre,

  Stopping the wheele of Fortunes giddie carre:

  O thus (quoth he) had gracelesse Edward done,

  He had not now beene Subiect to his Sonne.

  Then to Henry Plantagine he goes,

  Two Kings at once, two Crown’d at once doth find,

  The roote from whence so many mischiefes rose,

  The Fathers kindnes makes the Sonne vnkind,

  Th’ambitious Brothers to debate inclind:

  Thou crown’st thy Sonne, yet liuing still do’st raigne,

  Mine vncrownes me (quoth he) yet am I slaine.

  Then of couragious Lyon-hart he reeds,

  The Souldans terror, and the Pagans wrack,

  The Easterne world fild with his glorious deeds,

  Of Ioppas siege, of Cipres wofull sack,

  Richard (quoth hee) turning his dull eyes back:

  Thou did’st in height of thy felicitie,

  I in the depth of all my miserie.

  Then by degrees to sacriligious Iohn,
r />   Murthering young Arthur, hath vsurp’d his right,

  The Cleargies curse, the poors oppression,

  The greeuous crosses that on him did light,

  To Rooms proud yoke yeelding his awfull might:

  Euen by thy end (he sayth) now Iohn I see,

  Gods iudgements thus doe iustly fall on mee.

  Then, to long-raigning Winchester his Sonne,

  With whom his people bloody warre did wage,

  And of the troubles in his time begunne,

  The head-strong Barrons wrath, the Commons rage.

  And yet how he these tumults could aswage:

  Thou liuest long, (quoth he) longer thy name,

  And I dye soone, yet ouer-liue my fame,

  Then to great Longshanks mighty victories,

  Who in the Orcads fix’d his Countries mears,

  And dar’d in fight our fayths proud Enemies,

  Which to his name eternall Trophies rears,

  Whose gracefull fauors yet faire England wears:

  Bee’t deadly sinne (quoth he) once to defile,

  This Fathers name with me a Sonne so vile.

  Following the leafe, he findeth vnawars,

  What day young Edward Prince of Wales was borne,

  Which Letters seeme lyke Magick Charrecters,

  Or to dispight him they were made in scorne,

  O let that name (quoth he) from Books be torne:

  Least that in time, the very greeued earth,

  Doe curse my Mothers woombe, and ban my birth.

  Say that King Edward neuer had such child,

  Or was deuour’d as hee in cradle lay,

  Be all men from my place of birth exil’d,

  Let it be sunck, or swallowed with some sea,

  Let course of yeeres deuoure that dismall day,

  Let all be doone that power can bring to passe,

  Onely be it forgot that ere I was.

  The globy tears impearled in his eyes,

  Through which as glasses hee is forc’d to looke,

  Make letters seeme as circles which arise,

  Forc’d by a stone within a standing Brooke,

  And at one time, so diuers formes they tooke,

  Which like to vglie Monsters doe affright,

  And with their shapes doe terrifie his sight.

  Thus on his carefull Cabin falling downe,

  Enter the Actors of his tragedy,

  Opening the doores, which made a hallow soune,

  As they had howl’d against theyr crueltie,

  Or of his paine as they would prophecie;

  To whom as one which died before his death,

  He yet complaynes, whilst paine might lend him breath.

  O be not Authors of so vile an act,

  To bring my blood on your posteritie,

  That Babes euen yet vnborne doe curse the fact,

  I am a King, though King of miserie,