The Complete Poetical Works of George Chapman

by George Chapman

  The horrid Monster fierce Echidna calde;

  That from her Stigian I awes, doth vomit ever,

  Quitture, and Venome, yet is empty neuer:

  Then burnt her bloodshot eyes, her Temples yet

  Were cold as Ice, her Necke all drownd in swet:

  Palenes spred all her breast, her lifes heat stung:

  The Minds Interpreter, her scorched tongue,

  Flow’d with blew poison: from her yawning Mouth

  Rhumes fell like spouts fild from the stormy South:

  Which being corrupt, the he we of Saffron tooke;

  A feruent Vapor, all her body shooke:

  From whence, her Vexed Spirits, a noysome smell,

  Expyr’d in fumes that lookt as blacke as Hell.

  A ceaseles Torrent did her Nosthrils steepe,

  Her witherd Entrailes tooke no rest, No sleepe:

  Her swoln throte ratl’d, warmd with lifes last spark

  And in her salt jawes, painfull Coughs did barke:

  Her teeth were staind with Rust, her sluttish hand

  Shee held out reeeking like a New-quencht-Brand:

  Arm’d with crook’d Talions like the horned Moone,

  All Cheere, all Ease, all Hope with her was gone:

  In her left hand a quenchles fire did glow,

  And in her Right Palme freez’d Sithonian Snow:

  The ancient Romanes did a Temple build

  To her, as whome a Deitie they held:

  So hyd, and farre from cure of Man shee flyes,

  In whose Lifes Power she mates the Deities.

  When fell Rhamnusia saw this Monster nere,

  (Her steele Heart sharpning) thus she spake to her:

  Seest thou this Prince (great Maid & seed of Night)

  Whose brows cast beams about them, like the Light:

  Who ioyes securely in all present State,

  Nor dreams what Fortune is, or future Fate:

  At whome, with fingers, and with fixed eyes

  All Kingdomes Point, and Looke, and Sacrifice:

  Could be content to giue him: Temples rayse

  To his Expectance, and Vnbounded Praise:

  His Now-ripe Spirits, and Valor doth despise,

  Sicknesse, and Sword, that giue our Godheads Prise:

  His worth contracts the worlds, in his sole Hope,

  Religion, Vertue, Conquest haue no scope:

  But his Indowments; At him, at him, Hie;

  More swift, and timelesse, more the Deitie;

  His Sommer, Winter with the jellid flakes;

  His pure Life, poyson, sting out with thy Snakes;

  This is a worke will Fame thy Maidenhead:

  With this, her speach and she together fledde;

  Nor durst she more endure her dreadfull eyes;

  Who stung with goads, her roaring Lyons thyes;

  And brandisht, round about, her Snak-curld head

  With her left hand; the Torch it managed.

  And now Heavens Smith, kindl’d his Forge & blew;

  And throgh the round Pole, thick the sparkls flew

  When great Prince Henrie, the delight of fame;

  Darkn’d the Pallace, of his Fathers Name;

  And hid his white lyms, in his downie Bed;

  Then Heaven wept falling Stars that summoned

  (With soft, and silent Motion) sleepe to breath

  On his bright Temples, th’Ominous forme of death;

  Which now the cruel Goddes did permit,

  That she might enter so, her Mayden fit.

  When the good Angell, his kind Guardian,

  Her wither’d foot, saw neare this spring of Man;

  He shrik’t and said; what, what are thy rude ends;

  Cannot, in him alone, all vertues friends,

  (Melted into his all-vpholding Neru’s;

  For whose Assistance, euery Deity serues)

  Mooue thee to proue thy Godhead, blessing him

  With long long life, whose light extinckt, wil dim,

  All heavenly graces? all this, moou’d her nought;

  But on, & in his, all our rujnes wrought.

  She toucht the Thresholds, and the thresholds shooke;

  The dore-posts, Pdienes pierst with her faint look:

  The dores brake open, and the fatall Bed

  Rudely sh’aproacht, & thus her fell mouth said;

  Henrie, why tak’st thou thus thy rest secure?

  Nought doubting what Fortune & fates assure;

  Thou neuer yet felt’st my red right hands maims,

  That I to thee, and fate to me proclaimes;

  Thy fate stands jdle; spinns no more thy thread;

  Die thou must (great Prince) sigh not; beare thy head

  In all things free, even with necessity.

  If sweet it be to liue; tis sweet to dye:

  This said shee shooke at him her Torche, and cast

  A fire in him, that all his breast embrac’t,

  Then darting through his heart a deadly cold,

  And as much venome as his vaines could hold.

  Death, Death, O Death, jnserting, thrusting in,

  Shut his faire eyes, and op’t our vglie sinne.

  This scene résolu’d on, by her selfe and fate;

  Was there a sight so pale, and desperate,

  Euer before seene, in a thrust-through State?

  The poore Verginian, miserable sayle,

  A long-long-Night-turnd-Day, that liu’d in Hell

  Neuer so portrayd, where the Billowes stroue

  (Blackt like so many Devils) which should proue

  The damned Victor; all their furies heighting;

  Their Drum, the thunder; & their Colours lightning,

  Both souldiers in the battel; one contending

  To drown the waues in Noyse; the other spending

  His Hel-hot sulphurous flames to drink them dry:

  When heaven was lost, when not a teare-wrackt eye

  Could tell in all that dead time, if they were,

  Sincking or sayling; till a quickning cleere

  Gaue light to saue them by the ruth of Rocks

  At the Bermudas; where the tearing shocks

  And all the miseries before, more felt

  Then here halfe told; All, All this did not melt

  Those desperate few, still dying more in teares,

  Then this Death, all men, to the Marrow weares:

  All that are Men; the rest, those drudging Beasts,

  That onely beare of Men, the Coates, and Crests;

  And for their Slaue, sick, that can earne them pence,

  More mourne (O Monsters) then for such a Prince;

  Whose soules do ebbe & flow still with their gain,

  Whom nothing moues but pelf, & their own pain;

  Let such (great Heauen) be onely borne to beare,

  All that can follow this meere Massacre.

  Lost is our poore Prince; all his sad jndurers;

  The busie Art of those that should be Curers;

  The sacred vowes made by the zealous King,

  His God-like Syre; his often visiting;

  Nor thy graue prayers and presence (holy Man)

  This Realms thrice Reverend Metropolitan,

  That was the worthy Father to his soule:

  Th’jnsulting Feuer could one fit controule.

  Nor let me here forget on farre, and neare;

  And in his lifes loue, Passing deepe and deare;

  That doth his sacred Memorie adore,

  Virtues true favtor his graue Chancellor,

  Whose worth in all workes should a Place enioie,

  Where his fit Fame her Trumpet shall jmploie,

  Whose Cares, and Prayers, were euer vsde to ease

  His feu’rous Warre, & send him healthfull peace.

  Yet sicke our Prince is still; who though the steps

  Of bitter Death, he saw bring in by heaps

  Clouds to his Luster, and poore rest of light;

  And fel
t his last Day suffering lasting Night;

  His true-bred-braue soule, shrunck yet at no part,

  Downe kept he all sighs, with his powers al-Hart;

  Cler’d euen his dying browes: and (in an Eye

  Manly dissembling) hid his Misery:

  And all to spare the Royall heat so spent

  In his sad Father, fearefull of th’event.

  And now did Phoebus with his Twelfth Lampe show

  The world his haples light: and in his Brow

  A Torch of Pitch stuck, lighting halfe t’half skies,

  When lifes last error prest the broken eyes

  Of this heart-breaking Prince; his forc’t look fled;

  Fled was all Colour from his cheekes; yet fed

  His spirit, his sight: with dying now, he cast

  On his kind King, and Father: on whome, fast

  He fixt his fading beames: and with his view

  A little did their empty Orbs renew:

  His Mind saw him, come from the deeps of Death,

  To whome he said, O Author of my Breath:

  Soule to my life, and essence to my Soule,

  Why grieue you so, that should al griefe controule?

  Death’s sweet to me, that you are stil lifes creature,

  I now haue finisht the great worke of Nature.

  I see you pay a perfect Fathers debt

  And in a feastfull Peace your Empire kept;

  If your true Sonnes last words haue any right

  In your most righteous Bosome, doe not fright

  Your hearkning kingdoms to your cariage now;

  All yours, in mee, I here resigne to you,

  My youth (J pray to God with my last powres)

  Substract from me may adde to you and yours.

  Thus vanisht he, this swift, thus instantly;

  Ah now I see, euen heauenly powres must dye.

  Now shift the King and Queene from court to court

  But no way can shift off their cares resort,

  That which we hate the more we flie, pursues,

  That which we loue, the more we seek, eschewes:

  Now weepes his Princely Brother; Now alas

  His Cynthian Sister, (our sole earthly Grace)

  Like Hebes fount still ouerflowes her bounds,

  And in her cold lips, stick astonisht sounds,

  Sh’oppresseth her sweet kinde; In her soft brest

  Care can no vent finde, it is so comprest.

  And see how the Promethean Liuer growes

  As vulture Griefe deuoures it: see fresh showes

  Reuiue woes sence, and multiply her soule;

  And worthely; for who would teares contrôle

  On such a springing ground? Tis dearely fit,

  To pay all tribute, Thought can poure on it:

  For why were Funerals first vs’d but for these,

  Presag’d and cast in their Natiuities?

  The streames were checkt a while: so Torrents staid

  Enrage the more; but are (left free) allaid.

  Now our grim waues march altogether; Now

  Our blacke seas runne so high, they ouerflow

  The clouds they nourish; now the gloomy herse

  Puts on the Sunne: Reuiue, reuiue (dead verse)

  Death hath slain death; there ther the person lies

  Whose death should buy out all mortalities.

  But let the world be now a heape of death,

  Lifes ioy lyes dead in him, and challengeth

  No lesse a reason: If all motion stoode

  Benumb’d and stupefied, with his frozen blood;

  And like a Tombe-stone, fixt, lay all the seas;

  There were fit piliers for our Hercules

  To bound the world with: Men had better dye

  Then out-liue free times; slaues to Policie.

  On on sad Traîne, as from a crannid rocke

  Bee-swarmes rob’d of their honey, ceasles flock.

  Mourne, mourne, dissected now his cold lims lie,

  Ah, knit so late with flame, and Maiestie.

  Where’s now his gracious smile, his sparkling eie

  His Iudgement, Valour, Magnanimitie?

  O God, what doth not one short hour snatch vp

  Of all mans glosse? still ouer-flowes the cup

  Of his burst cares; put with no nerues together,

  And lighter, then the shadow of a feather.

  On: make earth pomp as frequent as ye can,

  ‘Twill still leaue black, the fairest flower of man;

  Yee well may lay all cost on miserie,

  Tis all can boast, the proud’st humanitie.

  If yong Marcellus had to grace his fall,

  Sixe hundred Herses at his Funerall;

  Sylla sixe thousand, let Prince Henry haue

  Sixe Millions bring him to his greedy graue.

  And now the States of earth, thus mourn below;

  Behold in Heauen, Loue with his broken Bow,

  His quiuer downwards turn’d, his brands put out

  Hanging his wings; with sighes all black about.

  Nor lesse, our losse, his Mothers heart infests,

  Her melting palmes, beating her snowy brests;

  As much confus’d, as when the Calidon Bore

  The thigh of her diuine Adonis tore:

  Her vowes all vaine, resolu’d to blesse his yeeres

  With Issue Royall, and exempt from freres;

  Who now dyed fruitlesse; and preuented then

  The blest of women, of the best of men.

  Mourne all ye Arts, ye are not of the earth;

  Fall, fall with him; rise with his second birth.

  Lastly, with gifts enrich the sable Phane,

  And odorous lights eternally maintaine;

  Sing Priests, O sing now, his eternall rest,

  His lights eternall; and his soules free brest

  As ioyes eternall; so of those the best;

  And this short verse be on his Tomb imprest..

  EPITAPHIVM.

  So flits, ahlas, an euerlasting Riuer,

  As our losse in him, past, will last for euer.

  The golden Age, Star-like, shot through our Skye;

  Aim’d at his pompe renew’d, and stucke in’s eye.

  And (like the sacred knot, together put)

  Since no man could dissolue him, he was cut.

  Aliud EPITAPH.

  Whom all the vast frame of the fixed Earth

  Shrunk vnder; now, a weake Herse stands beneath;

  His Fate, he past in fact; in hope, his Birth;

  His youth, in good life; and in spirit, his death.

  Aliud EPITAPH.

  Blest be his great Begetter; blest the Wombe

  That gaue him birth, though much too neare his Tombe.

  In them was hee, and they in him were blest:

  What their most gracious powers gaue him, was his least.

  His Person grac’t the Earth; and of the Skies,

  His blessed Spirit, the praise is, and the prise.

  FINIS.

  EVGENIA.

  TO THE MOST WORTHY, AND RELIGIOVSLY-NOBLE FRANCIS, LORD RUSSELL, BARON OF THORNEHAUGH, &C.

  BECAUSE (my most worthy Lord) worthiest Men, and the due estimations of their worthinesse; were seldome, or neuer contemporaries; The world hauing alwaies an Epimethean, and after wit, for the fit respect of all lasting goodnesse; As a little excitement to their late considerations; I haue endeuord to set these weake watches, by the Memories of your most worthy Lord and Father; Wherein, whatsoeuer is presently defectiue; The Anniuersaries that (for as many yeares as God shall please to giue me life and facultie) I conio stantly resolue to performe to his Noblest Name and Vertues; shall, I hope be furnisht with supplies, amendfull, and acceptable. And if the preseru’d Memories of good men, haue beene euer good meanes to informe good men; These Paper memorials that haue euer out-lasted, Brasse, and Marble; And worne out all the barbarous rages, both of sword and fire; v Neede not, appeare to the world so
superfluous and vaine as they seeme: Nor present men with such irksome obiects as most vulgarly they doe. Howsoeuer, nothing (God willing) shall discourage my resolution, to what (with his assistance) I haue aduisedly vowed; Religious contemplation being the whole scopes, and setters vp of my poore lifes rest; what better retreat can I make from the Communes of the world; then to the most due memories of his rare Pieties. In the meane space, let me beseech your best Lo: that for whatsoeuer hath now failed of the Honor I intended; My seruiceable and infallible loue may stand accepted suretie, for all worthy supplement; which submitting thrise humbly to your most ingenuous and iudicious disposition;

  I euer abide

  The most vnfained vowd Tributorie to

  your good LL. vertues, merits,

  and familie.

  Geo. Chapman.

  EVGENIA.

  Or

  True Nobilities Trance,

  for death

  of the most religiously noble William

  Lord Russell, &c.

  VIGILIA PRIMA. INDUCTIO.

  EVGENIA, seeing true Noblesse of no price,

  Ht Nought noble now, but seruile Auarice,

  Lothing the basenes, high states euen professe,

  And loded with an ominous heauinesse:

  She flew for comfort to her sister Fame;

  Of whose most auncient house, the brasen frame

  In middst of all the vniuerse doth shine,

  Twixt Earth, the Seas, and all those tracts diuine,

  That are the Confines of the triple world;

  Through whose still open gates are ceaselesse hurl’d,

  The sounds of all things, breaking aire in earth;

  Where all mens acts are seene, each death, and birth.

  Eugenia, here arriu’d; her sister gaue

  All entertainement she could wish to haue;

  Through all her pallace led her, hand in hand:

  Shew’d her chiefe roomes to her, and bad commaund

  The best of those chiefe, and would haue her chuse:

  Ech chiefe, had diuers, fit for different vse,

  All with inscriptions of diuine deuise

  In euery chambers curious frontespice.

  Besides the names of euery famely,

  Enobled for effects of Pietie.

  Vertue and valour; none that purchase’t name,

  By any base course toucht at t’house of Fame;

  Nor those that toucht there, stai’d there, if they lost

  The worth first in them, though they kept their bost:

  Such vanish like the seas inflated waues,

  Ech chase out other, and their fome’s their graues.

  Amongst the solid then, that there indur’d;

  Eugenia (euen by subtile fate alur’d)