Exalt your spirits? trust in flowry youth?
Giue reynes to pleasure? all your humors sooth?
Licence in rapine? Powers exempt from lawes?
Contempt of all things, but your own applause?
And think your swindge to any tyranny giuen,
Will stretch as broad, & last as long as heauen;
When he that curb’d with vertues hand his powre,
His youth with continence; his sweet with sowre,
Boldnes with pious feare; his pallats height
Applied to health, and not to appetite;
Felt timeles sicknes charge; state, power to flie,
And glutted Death with all his crueltie?
Partiall deuourer euer of the best,
With headlong rapture, sparing long the rest
Could not the precious teares his Father shed,
(That are with Kingdomes to be ransomed?)
His Bleeding prayer, vpon his knees t’implore,
That if for any sinne of his, Heauen tore
From his most Royall body that chiefe Limme,
It might be ransom’d, for the rest of Him?
Could not the sacred eies thou didst prophane
In his great Mothers teares? The spightful bane
Thou pour’dst vpon the cheeks of al the Graces
In his more gracious Sisters? The defaces
(With all the Furies ouer-flowing Galles)
Cursedly fronting her neere Nuptials?
Could not, O could not, the Almighty ruth
Of all these force thee to forbeare the youth
Of our Incomparable Prince of Men?
Whose Age had made thy Iron Forcke his Pen,
T’eternise what it now doth murder meerely;
And shal haue from my soule, my curses yerely.
Tyrant, what knew’st thou, but the barbarous wound
Thou gau’st the son, the Father might confound?
Both liu’d so mixtly, and were ioyntly One,
Spirit to spirit cleft. The Humor bred
In one heart, straight was with the other fed;
The bloud of one, the others heart did fire;
The heart and humour, were the Sonne & Sire;
The heart yet, void of humors slender’st part,
May easier liue, then humour without heart;
The Riuer needes the helpfull fountaine euer,
More then the Fountaine, the supplyed Riuer.
As th’Iron then, when it hath once put on
The Magnets qualitie, to the vertuous Stone
Is euer drawne, and not the stone to it:
So may the heauens, the sonnes Fate, not admit
To draw the Fathers, till a hundred yeeres
Haue drown’d that Issue to him in our teares.
Blest yet, and sacred shall thy memory be,
O-nothing-lesse-then-mortall Deitie.
Thy Graces, like the Sunne, to all men giuing;
Fatall to thee in death, but kill me liuing.
Now, as inuerted, like th’Antipodes,
The world (in all things of desert to please)
Is falne on vs, with thee: thy ruines lye
On our burst bosomes, as if from the skye
The Day-star, greater then the world were driuen
Suncke to the Earth, and left a hole in Heauen;
Throgh which, a second deluge now poures down
On our poore Earth; in which are ouer-flowne
The seeds of all the sacred Vertues, set
In his Spring-Court; where all the prime spirits met
Of all our Kingdomes; as if from the death,
That in men liuing; basenes and rapine sheath,
Where they before liu’d; they vnwares were come
Into a free, and fresh Elisium;
Casting regenerate, and refined eyes
On him that rais’d them from their graues of vice,
Digg’d in their old grounds, to spring fresh on those
That his diuine Ideas did propose,
First to himselfe; & then would forme in them.
Who did not thirst to plant his sonne neer him
As neer the Thames their houses? what one worth
Was there in all our world, that set not forth
All his deserts, to pilgrime to his fauors,
With all deuotion, offering all his labors?
And how the wilde Bore, Barbarisme, now
Will roote these Quick-sets vp? What hearb shall grow,
That is not sown in his inhumane tracts?
No thought of good shall spring, but many acts
Will crop, or blast, or blow it vp: and see
How left to this, the mournfull Familie,
Muffled in black clouds, full of teares are driuen
With stormes about the relickes of this Heauen;
Retiring from the world, like Corses, herst,
Home to their graues, a hundred waies disperst.
O that this court-schoole; this Olimpus meerly,
Where two-fold Man was practisde; should so early
Dissolue the celebration purpos’d there,
Of all Heroique parts, when farre and neere,
All were resolu’d t’admire, None to contend,
When, in the place of all, one wretched end
Will take vp all endeauours; Harpye Gaine,
Pandar to Gote, Ambition; goulden Chaine
To true mans freedome; not from heau’n let fal
To draw men vp; But shot from Hell to hale
All men, as bondslaues, to his Turckish den,
For Toades, and Adders, far more fit then men.
His house had well his surname from a Saint,
All things so sacred, did so liuely paint
Their pious figures in it: And as well
His other house, did in his Name fore-tell
What it should harbour; a rich world of parts
Bonfire-like kindling, the still-feasted Arts,
Which now on bridles bite, and puft Contempt
Spurres to Despaire, from all fit food exempt.
O what a frame of Good, in all hopes rais’d
Came tumbling downe with him! as when was seisde
By Grecian furie, famous Jlion,
Whose fall, still rings out his Confusion.
What Triumphs, scattered at his feete, lye smoking!
Banquets that will not downe; their cherers choking,
Fields fought, and hidden now, with future slaughter,
Furies sit frowning, where late sat sweet laughter,
The actiue lying maim’d, the healthfull crasde,
All round about his Herse! And how amaz’d
The change of things stands! how astonisht ioy
Wonders he euer was! yet euery Toy
Quits this graue losse: Rainbowes no sooner taint
Thinne dewye vapors, which oppos’d beames paint
Round in an instant, (at which children stare
And slight the Sunne, that makes them circular
And so disparent) then mere gawds pierce men,
Slighting the graue, like fooles, and children;
So courtly nere plagues, sooth and stupéfié.
And with such paine, men leaue selfe flatterie
Of which, to see him free (who stood no lesse
Then a full siege of such) who can expresse
His most direct infusion from aboue,
Farre from the humorous seede of mortal loue?
He knew, that Iustice simply vsd, was best,
Made princes most secure, most lou’d, most blest;
No Artezan; No Scholler; could pretend,
No Statesman; No Diuine; for his owne end
Any thing to him, but he would descend
The depth of any right belong’d to it,
Where they could merit, or himselfe should quit.
He would not trust, with what himselfe concern’d,
Any in any kinde; but euer learn’d
The grounds of what he built on: Nothing lies
In mans fit course, that his own knowledge flies,
Eyther direct, or circumstantiall.
O what are Princes then, that neuer call
Their actions to account, but flatterers trust
To make their triall, if vniust or iust?
Flatterers are houshold theeues, traitors by law,
That rob kings honors, & their soules-bloud draw;
Diseases, that keep nourishment from their food.
And as to know himselfe, is mans chiefe good,
So that which intercepts that supreame skill,
(Which Flattery is) is the supreamest ill:
Whose lookes will breede the Basilisk in kings eyes,
That by reflexion of his sight, dyes.
And as a Nurse lab’ring a wayward Childe,
Day, and night watching it, like an offspring wilde;
Talkes infinitely idly to it still;
Sings with a standing throate, to worse from ill;
Lord-blesses it; beares with his pewks and cr-yes;
And to giue it a long lifes miseries,
Sweetens his food, rocks, kisses, sings againe;
Plyes it with rattles, and all obiects vaine:
So Flatterers, with as seruile childish things,
Obserue, & sooth the waiward moods of kings;
So kings, that flatterers loue, had neede to haue
As nurse-like councellors, & contemn the graue;
Themselues as wayward, and as noisome too;
Full as vntuneable in all they doe,
As poore sicke Infants; euer breeding Teeth
In all their humours, that be worse then Death.
How wise then was our Prince that hated these,
And wold with nought but truth his humor plese
Nor would he giue a place, but where hee saw
One that could vse it; and become a Law
Both to his fortunes, and his Princes Honor.
Who would giue fortune noght she took vpon her,
Not giue but to desert; nor take a chance,
That might not iustly, his wisht ends aduance.
His Good he ioyn’d with Equitie and Truth;
Wisedome in yeeres, crown’d his ripe head in youth;
His heart wore all the folds of Policie,
Yet went as naked as Simplicitie.
Knew good and ill; but onely good did loue;
In him the Serpent did embrace the Doue.
Hee was not curious to sound all the streame
Of others acts, yet kept his owne from them:
“He whose most darke deeds dare not stand the light,
“Begot was of imposture and the night.
“Who surer then a Man, doth ends secure;
“Eyther a God is, or a Diuell sure.
The President of men; whom (as men can)
All men should imitate, was God and Man.
In these cleere deepes our Prince fish’t: troubl’d streams
Of bloud & vantage challenge diadems.
In summe, (knot-like) hee was together put,
That no man could dissolue, and so was cut.
But we shal see our foule-mouth’d factions spite
(Markt, witch-like, with one blacke eie, th’other white)
Ope, & oppose against this spotlesse sun;
Such, heauen strike blinder then th’eclipsed moon
Twixt whom and noblesse, or humanities truth,
As much dull earth lies, and as little ruth,
(Should all things sacred perish) as there lyes
Twixt Phaebe, and the Light-fount of the skies,
In her most darke delinquence: vermine right,
That prey in darknesse, and abhorre the light;
Liue by the spoile of vertue; are not well
But when they heare news, from their father hell
Of some blacke mischiefe; neuer do good deed,
But where it does much harme, or hath no need.
What shall become of vertues far-short traine,
When thou their head art reacht, high Prince of men?
O that thy life could haue disperst deaths stormes,
To giue faire act to those Heroique formes,
With which al good rules had enricht thy mind,
Preparing for afiayres of euery kinde;
Peace being but a pause to breathe fierce warre;
No warrant dormant, to neglect his Starre;
The licence sence hath, is t’informe the soule;
Not to suppresse her; and our lusts extoll;
This life in all things, to enioy the next;
Of which lawes, thy youth, both contain’d the text
And the contents; ah, that thy grey-ripe yeeres
Had made of all, Caesarean Commentares,
(More then can now be thogt) in fact t’enroule;
And make blacke Faction blush away her soule.
That, as a Temple, built when Pietie
Did to diuine ends offer specially,
What men enioy’d; that wondrous state exprest,
Strange Art, strange cost; yet who had interest
In all the frame of it; and saw those dayes,
Admir’d but little; and as little praise
Gaue to the goodly Fabricke: but when men,
That liue whole Ages after, view it, then,
They gaze, and wonder; and the longer time
It stands, the more it glorifies his prime;
Growes fresh in honor, and the age doth shame
That in such Monuments neglect such fame;
So had thy sacred Frame beene rais’d to height,
Forme, fulnesse, ornament: the more the light
Had giuen it view, the more had Men admir’d;
And the men now are scarce to warmnesse fir’d
With loue of thee; but rather colde and dead
To all sense of the grace they forfeited
In thy neglect, and losse; yet after-ages
Would be inflam’d, and put on holy rages
With thy inspiring vertues; cursing those
Whose breaths dare blast thus, in the bud, the Rose.
But thou (woe’s me) art blown vp before blowne,
And as the ruines of some famous Towne,
Show here a Temple stood; a Pallace, here;
A Cytadell, an Amphitheater;
Of which (ahlas) some broken Arches, still
(Pillars, or Columns rac’t; which Art did fill
With all her riches and Diuinitie)
Retaine their great, and worthy memory:
So of our Princes state, I nought rehearse
But show his ruines, bleeding in my verse.
What poison’d Ast’risme, may his death accuse?
Tell thy astonisht Prophet (deathles Muse)
And make my starres therein, the more aduerse,
The more aduance, with sacred rage my Verse,
And so adorne my dearest Fautors Herse,
That all the wits prophane, of these bold times
May feare to spend the spawne of their rancke rymes
On any touch of him, that shold be sung
To eares diuine, and aske an Angels tongue.
With this it thundred; and a lightning show’d
Where she sate writing in a sable cloud;
A Penne so hard and sharpe exprest her plight,
It bit through Flint; and did in Diamant write;
Her words, she sung, and laid out such a brest,
As melted Heauen, and vext the very blest.
In which she cal’d all worlds to her complaints,
And how our losse grew, thus with teares shee paints:
Hear earth & heauen (& you that haue no eares)
Hell, and the hearts of tyrants, heare my teares:
Thus Brittaine Henry tooke his timelesse end;
When his great Father did so far transcend
All other Kings; and that he had a Sonne
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In all his Fathers gifts, so farre begunne,
As added to Fames Pynions, double wings;
And (as braue riuers, broken from their springs,
The further off, grow greater, and disdaine
To spread a narrower current then the Maine)
Had drawne in all deserts such ample Spheares,
As Hope yet neuer turn’d about his yeeres.
All other Princes with his parts comparing;
Like all Heauens pettie Luminaries faring,
To radiant Lucifer (the dayes first borne)
It hurld a fire red as a threatning Morne
On fiery Rhamnusias sere, and sulphurous spight,
Who turn’d the sterne orbs of her ghastly sight,
About each corner of her vaste Command,
And (in the turning of her bloudy hand)
Sought how to ruine endlessly our Hope,
And set to all mishap all entries ope.
And see how ready meanes to mischiefe are;
She saw, fast by, the bloud-afiecting Feuer,
(Euen when th’Autumnal-starre began t’expire)
Gathering in vapours thinne, Ethereall fire:
Of which, her venomde finger did jmpart
To our braue Princes fount of heat, the heart;
A praeternaturall heat; which through the vaines
And Arteries, by th’blood and spirits meanes
Diffus’d about the body, and jnflam’d,
Begat a Feuor to be neuer nam’d.
And now this loather of the louely Light,
(Begot of Erebus, and vglie Night)
Mounted in hast, her new, and noysefull Carre,
Whose wheeles had beam-spokes from th’Hungarian star;
And all the other frame, and freight; from thence
Deriu’d their rude and ruthlesse jnfluence.
Vp to her left side, lept jnfernall Death
His head hid in a cloud of sensuall breath;
By her sat furious Anguish, Pale Despight;
Murmure, and Sorrow, and possest Affright;
Yellow Corruption, Marow-eating Care;
Languor, chill Trembling, fits Irregulare;
Inconstant Collor, feeble voyc’t Complaint;
Relentles Rigor, and Confusion faint;
Frantick Distemper; & Hare-eyd vnrest;
And short-breath’d Thirst, with th’euer-burning breast;
A wreath of Adders bound her trenched Browes,
Where Torment Ambusht lay with all her throws.
Marmarian Lyons, frindg’d with flaming Manes,
Drew this grym furie, and her brood of Banes,
Their hearts of glowing Coles, murmurd, & ror’d,
To beare her crook’t yokes, and her Banes abhord,
To their deare Prince, that bore them in his Armes,
And should not suffer, for his Good, their Harmes;
Then from Hels burning whirlepit vp she halide,
The Complete Poetical Works of George Chapman Page 28
