Such as my loue, such had my Louer beene.
True loue is simple, like his mother Truth,
Kindly affection, youth to loue with youth;
No sharper corsiue to our blooming yeeres,
Then the cold badge of winter-blasted haires.
Thy kingly power makes to withstand thy foes,
But canst not keepe back age, with time it growes,
Though honour our ambitious sex doth please,
Yet in that honour, age a foule disease,
Nature hath her free course in all, and then,
Age is alike in Kings, and other men,
which all the world will to my shame impute•
That I my selfe did basely prostitute;
And say that gold was fuell to the fire,
Gray haires in youth not kindling greene desire,
O no; that wicked woman wrought by thee,
My tempter was to that forbidden tree,
That subtile Serpent, that seducing deuill,
which bad me tast the fruite of good and euill;
That Circe, by whose magick I was charm’d,
And to this monstrous shape am thus transform’d•
That viperous hag, the foe to her owne kinde,
That wicked spirit vnto the weaker minde;
Our frailties plague, our natures onely curse,
Hels deep’st damnation, the worst euills worse,
But Henrie, how canst thou affect me thus
T’whom thy remembrance now is odious?
My haplesse name, with Henries name I found,
Cut in the glasse with Henries Diamond,
That glasse from thence faine would I take away;
But then I feare the ayre would me betray;
Then doe I striue to wash it out with teares,
But then the same more euident appeares.
Then doe I couer it with my guiltie hand,
Which that names witnes doth against me stand;
Once did I sinne, which memory doth cherrish,
Once I offended, but I euer perrish.
What griefe can be, but time doth make it lesse?
But infamie time neuer can suppresse.
Sometimes to passe the tedious irkesome howres,
I climbe the top of Woodstocks mounting towres,
where in a Turret secretly I lye
To view from farre such as doe trauaile by,
whether (me thinks) all cast theyr eyes at mee
As through the stones my shame did make them see,
And with such hate the harmelesse walls doe view,
As vnto death theyr eyes would me pursue.
The married women curse my hatefull life,
which wrong a lawfull bed, a Queene, a wife;
The maydens wish I buried quick may die,
The lothsome staine to their virginitie.
Well knew’st thou what a monster I would be•
when thou didst build this Labyrinth for mee,
whose strange Meanders turning euery way,
Be like the course wherein my youth did stray;
Onely a Clue to guide me out and in,
But yet still walke I, circuler in sin.
As in the Tarras heere this other day
My mayd and I did passe the time away,
Mongst many pictures which we passed by,
The silly girle at length hapt to espie
Chast Lucrece picture, and desires to know
what she should be herselfe that murdred so?
Why girle (quoth I) this is that Romane dame,
Not able then to tell the rest for shame,
My tongue doth mine owne guiltinesse betray;
with that I send the pratling girle away,
Least when my lisping guiltie tongue should hault,
My lookes should be the Index to my fault.
As that life blood which from the hart is sent,
In beauties felde pitching his crimson Tent,
In louely sanguine sutes the Lilly cheeke,
whilst it but for a resting place doth seeke;
And changing often-times with sweet delight,
Conuerts the white to red, the red to white.
The louely blush, the palenes doth distaine,
The palenes makes the blush more faire againe;
Thus in my brest a thousand thoughts I carry,
which in my passion diuersly doe varry.
When as the sunne hales towards the Westerne slade,
And the trees shadowes three times greater made,
Forth goe I to a little Current neere,
which like a wanton traile creepes here and there,
where with mine angle casting in my baite,
The little fishes (dreading the deceit)
with fearefull nibbling flie th’inticing gin,
By nature taught what danger lyes therein.
Things reasonlesse thus warnd by nature be,
Yet I deuour’d the baite was layd for me;
Thinking thereon, and breaking into grones,
The bubling spring which trips vpon the stones,
Chides me away, least sitting but too nie,
I should pollute that natiue puritie.
Rose of the world, so doth import my name,
Shame of the world, my life hath made the same.
And to th’vnchast this name shall giuen be,
Of Rosamond, deriu’d from sinne and me.
The Clyffords take from me that name of theyrs,
Famous for vertue many hundred yeeres.
They blot my birth with hatefull bastardie,
That I sprang not from their nobilitie;
They my alliance vtterly refuse,
Nor will a strumpet shall theyr name abuse.
Heere in the garden wrought by curious hands,
Naked Diana in the fountaine stands,
with all her Nimphes got round about to hide her,
As when Acteon had by chaunce espide her;
This sacred Image I no sooner view’d,
But as that metamorphosd man pursu’d
By his owne hounds; so by my thoughts am I,
which chase me still, which way so ere I flie.
Touching the grasse, the honny-dropping dew,
which falls in teares before my limber shue,
Vpon my foote consumes in weeping still,
As it would say, why went’st thou vnto ill?
Thus to no place in safety can I goe,
But euery thing doth giue me cause of woe.
In that faire Casket of such wondrous cost
Thou sent’st the night before mine honour lost,
Amimone was wrought, a harmeles mayd,
By Neptune that adulterous God betrayd;
Shee prostrate at his feete begging with prayers,
wringing her hands, her eyes swolne vp with teares;
This was not the entrapping baite of men,
But by thy vertue gentle warning then;
To shew to me for what intent it came,
Least I therein should euer keepe my shame.
••d in this Casket (ill I see it now)
wat Ioues loue I-o, turnd into a Cow.
Yet was shee kept with Argus hundred eyes,
So wakefull still be Iunos iealousies;
By this I well might haue forewarned beene,
T’haue cleerd my selfe to thy suspecting Queene,
who with more hundred eyes attendeth mee
Then had poore Argus single eyes to see.
In this thou rightly imitatest Ioue,
Into a beast thou hast transformd thy loue.
Nay worser farre; (degenerate from kinde)
A monster, both in body and in mind.
The waxen Taper which I burne by night,
with his dull vapory dimnes mocks my sight;
As though the damp which hinders his cleere flame,
Came from my breath, in that night of my shame,
when it did burne as darkenes
vgly eye,
when shot the starre of my virginitie.
And if a starre but by the glasse appeare,
I straight in treate it not to looke in heere;
I am already hatefull to the light,
It is enough, betray me not to night.
Then sith my shame so much belongs to thee,
Rid me of that by onely murdring me;
And let it iustly to my charge be layde,
Thy royall person I would haue betrayd;
Thou shalt not neede by circumstance t’•ccuse mee,
If I denie it, let the heauens refuse mee.
My life’s a blemish which doth cloude thy name,
Take it away, and cleere shall shine thy fame.
Yeeld to my sute, if euer pittie moou’d thee,
In this shew mercy, as I euer lou’d thee.
Notes of the Chronicle Historie.
Well knew’st thou what a monster I would bee,
When thou didst build this Labyrinth for mee.
IN the Cretean Labyrinth a monster was inclosed, called a Min•taur, the hystorie whereof is well knowne, but the Labyrinth was framed by Daedalus, with so many intricate wayes, that being entred, one could either hardlie or neuer returne, being in manner of a maze saue that it was larger, the waies being walld in on euery side• out of the which Theseus by Ariadnes helpe (lending him a clue of thred) escaped. Some report that it was a house, hauing one halfe beneath the ground, another aboue, the chamber doores therein so deceitfullie enwrapped, and made to open so manie lundry wayes, that it was held a matter almost impossible to returne.
Some haue held it to haue beene an Allegory of mans life, true it is that the comparison will hold, for what liker to a Labyrinth then the maze of life? But it is affirmed by antiquitie, that there was indeede such a building, though Daedalus being a name applyed to the workmans excellencie, make it suspected: for Daedalus is nothing els but ingenious, or artificiall. Heerevpon it is vsed among the auncient Poets, for any thing curiouslie wrought.
Rosamonds Labyrinth, whose ruins together with her well beeing paued with square stone in the bottome, and also her Tower from which the Labyrinth did runne, (are yet remaining) was altogether vnder ground, beeing vaults arched and walled with brick and stone, almost inextricably wounde one within another, by which if at any time her lodging were layd about by the Queene, shee might easilie auoyde perrill imminent, and if neede be, by secrete issues take the ayre abroade, manie furlongs round about Woodstocke in Oxfordshire, wherein it was situated. Thus much for Rosamonds Labyrinth.
Whose strange Meanders turned euery way.
Meander is a riuer in Lycia, a prouince of Natolia, or Asia minor, famous for the sinuositie and often turning thereof, rising from certaine hils in Maeonia, herevpon are intricate turnings by a transu•tiue and metonimicall kind of speech, called Maeanders, for this Riuer did so strangely path it selfe, that the foote seemed to touch the head.
Rose of the world, so doth import my name,
Shame of the world my life hath made the same.
It might be reported, howe at Godstowe where this Rose of the world was sumptuously interred, a certaine Bishop in the visitation of his Diocesse, caused the monument which had beene erected to her honour, vtterly to be demolished, but be that seuere chastisement of Rosamond then dead, at this time also ouerpassed, least shee shoulde seeme to be the Shame of the world.
Henry to Rosamond.
WHEN first the Post arriued at my Tent,
And brought the Letters Rosamond had sent,
Thinke fro¯ his lips, but what sweet co¯fort came,
when in mine eare he softly breath’d thy name
Straight I enioyne him of thy health to tell,
Longing to heare my Rosamond did well;
With new enquiries then I cut him short
when of the same he gladly would report,
That with the earnest hast my tongue oft trips,
Catching the words halfe spoke out of his lips;
This told, yet more I vrge him to reueale,
To loose no time whild I vnript the seale.
The more I read, still doe I erre the more,
As though mistaking somwhat said before.
Missing the poynt, the doubtfull sence is broken,
Speaking againe, what I before had spoken,
Still in a swound, my hart reuiues and faints,
Twixt hopes, dispaires, twixt smiles, and deepe complaints.
As these sad accents sort in my desires,
Smooth calmes, rough stormes, sharp frosts, & raging fires,
Put on with boldnes, and put backe with feares,
My tongue with curses, when mine eyes with teares.
O how my hart at that black line did tremble,
That blotted paper should thy selfe resemble;
O were there paper but neere halfe so white,
The Gods thereon their sacred lawes would write
with pens of Angells wings, and for their inke,
That heauenly Nectar, their immortall drinke.
Maiesticke courage striues to haue supprest
This fearefull passion stird vp in my brest,
But still in vaine the same I goe about,
My hart must breake within, or woe breakes out,
Am I at home pursu’d with priuate hate,
And warre comes raging to my Pallace gate?
Is meager Enuie stabbing at my throne,
Treason attending when I walke alone?
And am I branded with the curse of Rome,
And stand condemn’d by dreadfull counsels dombe?
And by the pride of my rebellious sonne,
Rich Normandie with Armies ouer-runne?
Fatall my birth, vnfortunate my life,
Vnkind my children, most vnkind my wife.
Griefe, cares, old age, suspition to torment me,
Nothing on earth to quiet or content me,
So many woes, so many plagues to finde,
Sicknes of body, discontent of mind;
Hopes left, helps reft, life wrong’d, ioy interdicted,
Banish’d, distress’d, forsaken, and afflicted;
Of all reliefe hath fortune quite bereft me?
Onely my loue vnto my comfort left me,
And is one beautie thought so great a thing,
To mittigate the sorrowes of a King?
Barr’d of that choise the vulgar often proue,
Haue we (then they) lesse priuiledge in loue?
Is it a King, the wofull widdow heares?
Is it a King, dries vp the Orphans teares?
Is it a King, regards the Clyants cry?
Giues life to him by law condemnd to die?
Is it his care, the Common-wealth that keepes,
As doth the Nurse her babie whilst it sleepes?
And that poore king, of all these hopes preuented,
Vnheard, vnhelp’d, vnpitted, vnlamented,
Yet let me be with pouertie opprest,
Of earthly blessings robd, and dispossest,
Let me be scorn’d, reiected, and reuild,
From Kingdome, Country, and from Court exild;
Let the worlds curse vpon me still remaine,
And let the last bring on the first againe;
All miseries that wretched man may wound,
Leaue for my comfort, onely Rosamond,
For thee swift time her speedie course doth stay,
At thy commaund the Destenies obay;
Pittie is dead, that comes not from thines eyes,
And at thy feete, euen mercie prostrate lyes;
If I were feeble, rheumatick, or cold,
These were true signes that I were waxed old,
But I can march all day in massie steele,
Nor yet my armes vnweldy weight doe feele,
Nor wak’d by night, with bruise or bloody wound,
The tent my bed, no pillow but the ground;
For very age had I laine bedred long,<
br />
One smile of thine againe could make me yong.
Were there in Art a power but so diuine
As is in that sweet Angell-tongue of thine,
That great Enchantresse which once tooke such paines,
To force young blood in Æsons wither’d vaines,
And from Groues, Mountaines, and the moorish Fen,
Vs’d all the hearbs, ordayn’d to vse of men,
And in the powerfull potion that she makes,
Puts blood of men, of birds, of beasts, of snakes,
Neuer had needed to haue gone so far,
To seeke the soiles where all those simples are,
One accent from thy lips, the blood more warmes,
Then all her philters, exorcismes, and charmes.
Thy presence hath repaired in one day,
what many yeeres and sorrowes did decay,
And made fresh beauties fairest branches spring
From wrinkled furrowes of times ruining.
Euen as the hungry wihter-starued earth,
when she by nature labours towards her birth,
Still as the day vpon the darke world creepes,
One blossome forth after another peepes,
Till the smal flower whose roote is now vnbound
Gets from the frostie prison of the ground,
Spreading the leaues vnto the powerfull noone,
Deck’d in fresh colours, smiles vpon the sunne.
Neuer vnquiet care lodg’d in that brest,
where but one thought of Rosamond did rest;
Nor thirst, nor trauaile, which on warre attend,
Ere brought the long day to desired end;
Nor yet did pale Feare, or leane Famine liue
where hope of thee, did any comfort giue,
Ah what iniustice then is this of thee
That thus the guiltlesse doost condemne for me?
when onely she (by meanes of my offence)
Redeemes thy purenes, and thy innocence,
when to our wills perforce obey they must,
That iust in them, what ere in vs vniust;
Of what we doe, not them account we make,
The fault craues pardon for th’offenders sake,
And what to worke a Princes will may merrit,
Hath deep’st impression in the gentlest spirit;
If’t be my name that doth thee so offend,
No more my selfe shall be mine owne names friend;
And if’t be that which thou doost onely hate,
That name, in my name, lastly hath his date.
Say tis accurst, and fatall, and dispraise it,
If written, blot it, if engrauen, raze it.
Say that of all names tis a name of woe,
Once a Kings name, but now it is not so.
Michael Drayton- Collected Poetical Works Page 42
