Collected Works of Michael Drayton

by Michael Drayton

  Tyll with the tumor Townes and Mountains tremble,

  Euen such a meteor doth their rage resemble.

  Or when the shapeles huge Leuiathan,

  Hath thrust himselfe vpon the sandie shore,

  Where (Monster like) affrighting euery man,

  He belloweth out a fearefull hydeous rore:

  Euen such a clamor through the ayre doth thunder,

  The dolefull presage of some fearefull wonder.

  Thus as a plague vnto the gouernment,

  A very scourge to the Nobilitie,

  The cause of all the Commons discontent,

  The Image of all sentialitie,

  I was reproched openly of many,

  Hated of all, not pittied now of any.

  And as a vile misleader of the King,

  A wastfull spender of his coyne and treasure,

  A secret theefe of many a sacred thing,

  A Cormorant, in whom was neuer measure;

  I seemed hatefull now in all mens eyes,

  Buzzing about me like a swarme of flyes.

  Lyke as a clowde, foule, darke, and vgly black,

  Threatning the earth with tempest euery howre,

  Now broken with a fearefull thunder-crack,

  Straight poureth down his deep earth-drenching showre,

  Thus for their wrongs now rise they vp in armes,

  Or to reuenge, or to amend theyr harmes.

  The King perceiuing how the matter stood,

  Himselfe, his Crowne, in this extremity,

  And how the Barrons thirsted for my blood,

  And seeing now there was no remedy,

  That I some vile vntimely death must die,

  Or thus, must be exiled presentlie:

  A thousand thoughts he hammereth in his head,

  Thinking on this, and now againe on that;

  As one deuise is come, another fled,

  Some thing he would, and now he knowes not what.

  To helpe me now, a thousand meanes he forgeth,

  Whilst still with sighes his sorrowes he disgorgeth.

  And for I was his very soules delight,

  He thought on this, the onely way at last,

  In Ireland to hide me out of sight,

  Vntill these stormes were ouer-blowne and past.

  And in meane time t’appease the Barrons hate,

  And so reduce me to my former state.

  And to giue place vnto the Barrons rage,

  Which flamed like a burning-quenchles brand,

  Which nought but my exile could now asswage,

  He sendes me post away to Ireland:

  And to eschew all danger by the way,

  Me safely guarded thither doth conuay.

  As one whose house in danger to be burn’d,

  Which he hath builded with exceeding cost,

  And all his wealth to earth-pale ashes turn’d,

  Taking one Iewell which he loueth most,

  To some safe place doth with the same retyre.

  Leauing the rest to ‘he mercy of the fire.

  Or as a Nurse within besieged walls,

  Dreading each howre the Souldiours slaughtering knife,

  Within some place as fittest there befalls,

  Hides her sweet babe in hope to saue his life,

  Loe thus the King prouideth now for mee

  The ioy and pride of his felicitie.

  He wanted words t’expresse what he sustain’d,

  Nor could I speake to vtter halfe my wrong,

  To shew his griefe, or where I most was payn’d,

  The time too short, the tale was all too long:

  I tooke my leaue with sighes when forth I went,

  He streames of teares vnto my farewell sent.

  But sending lookes ambassadors of loue,

  Which as our postes could goe and soone retire,

  By whose quicke motion we alone might proue,

  Our equall loue did equall like desire:

  And that the fire in which we both did burne,

  Was easely quencht in hope of safe returne.

  Lyke to a vessell with a narrow vent,

  Which is fild vp with liquor to the top,

  Although the mouth be euer eminent,

  Yet is it seene not to distyll a drop:

  Euen so our breasts, brim-full with pensiue care,

  Stopping our tongues, with griefe wee silent are.

  But when my want gaue breath vnto his moane,

  And that hys teares had now vntide hys tongue,

  With drery sighes all now cleane ouer-blowne,

  Which earst (like Fountaines) in abundance sprunge,

  Vnto hymselfe, hee thus complaines his griefe,

  Sith now the world could yeeld him no reliefe.

  O cursed stars (quoth he) that guyde my byrth,

  Infernall Torches, Comets of mis-fortune,

  Or Genuus heer that haunts mee on the earth,

  Or hellish fiend that doest my woes importune:

  Fate-guiding Heauens, in whose vnlucky moouing,

  Stands th’effect of my mishaps approouing.

  Tide-ceasles sorrow, which doest ouer-flow,

  Youth-withering cares, past compasse of conceite,

  Hart-kylling griefe, which more and more doest grow,

  And on the Anuile of my hart doest beate,

  Death-thirsting rage, styll deadly, mortall, endles,

  O poorest Prince • left desolate and freendles.

  Sky-couering clowdes, which thus do ouer-cast,

  And at my noone-tide darken all my sun,

  Blood-drying sicknes, which my life doest wast.

  When yet my glasse is but a quarter run:

  My ioy but a phantasme and elusion,

  And my delights intending my confusion.

  What Planet raignd in that vnluckie howre,

  When first I was inuested in the Crowne?

  Or hath in my natiuitie such powre,

  Or what vile Furie doth attend my Throne?

  Or els, what hellish hags be these that haunt mee?

  Yet if a King, why should mis-fortune daunt mee?

  Am I a Prince? yet to my people subiect,

  That should be lou’d? yet thus am left forlorne,

  Ordaynd to rule? respected as an obiect,

  Liue I to see mine honor had in scorne?

  Base dunghill mind, that doest such slauery bring,

  To liue a pesant, and be borne a King.

  The purest steele doth neuer turne at lead,

  Nor Oke doth bow at euery winde that blowes,

  Nor Lyon from a Lambe doth turne his head,

  Nor Eagle frighted with a flock of Crowes:

  And yet a King want courage in his breast,

  Trembling for feare to see his woes redrest.

  It rather fits a villaine then a state,

  To haue his loue on others lykings placed,

  Or set his pleasures at so base a rate,

  To see the fame by euery slaue disgraced;

  A King should euer priuiledge his pleasure,

  And make his Peers esteeme it as theyr treasure.

  Then rayse thy thoughts, and with thy thoughts thy loue,

  Kings want no means t’accomplish what they would,

  If one doe faile, yet other maist thou proue,

  It shames a King, to say, If that I could.

  Let not thy loue such crosses then sustaine,

  But rayse him vp, and call him home againe.

  Sweet Gaueston, whose prayse the Angels sing,

  Maist thou assure thee of my loue the while?

  Or what maist thou imagin of thy King,

  To let thee lyue in yonder brutish Ile?

  My deer, a space this wery world prolong,

  He liues, that can and shal reuenge thy wrong.

  Thus like a man growne lunatick with paine,

  Now in his torments casts hym on his bed,

  Then out he runns into the fields againe,

  And on
the ground doth rest his troubled head.

  With such sharpe passions is the King possest,

  Which day nor night doth let him take his rest.

  As Lyon-skind Alcides, when he lost

  His louely Hylas, on hys way from Thrace,

  Followes the quest through many an vnknowne coast,

  With playnts and out-cryes, wearying euery place,

  Thus louely Edward fils each place with moane,

  Wanting the sight of his sweet Gaueston.

  Thus lyke a Barge that wants both steere and sayles,

  Forc’d with the wind against the streamefull tyde,

  From place to place with euery billow hayles,

  And (as it haps) from shore to shore doth ryde:

  Thus doth my case, thus doth my fortune stand,

  Betwixt the King, and Barrons of the Land.

  On this Dilemma stood my tickle state,

  Thus pro et contra all men doe dispute,

  Precisely ballanc’t twixt my loue and hate,

  Some doe affyrme, some other doe confute:

  Vntill my King, (sweet Edward) now at last,

  Thus strikes the stroke which makes them all agast.

  Now calling such of the Nobility,

  As he supposed on his part would stand,

  By theyr consent he makes me Deputy.

  And being seated thus in Ireland,

  Of gold and siluer sending me such store,

  As made the world to wonder more and more.

  Lyke great gold-coyning Crassus in his health,

  Amidst his legion long-mayntaining store,

  The glory of the Romane Common-wealth,

  Feasting the ritch, and gyuing to the poore.

  Such was th’aboundance which I then possest,

  Blessed with gold, (if gold could make me blest.)

  Where, (like Lucullus,) I maintaind a port,

  As great god Bacchus had been late come downe,

  And in all pompe at Dublin kept my Court,

  As I had had th’reuenewes of a Crowne.

  In trayne, in state, and euery other thing,

  Attended still as I had been a King.

  Of this my wondrous hospitality,

  The Irish yet, vntill this day can boast,

  Such was the bounty of a King to mee,

  His Chequer then could scarce defray the cost.

  His gyfts were such, I ioyd in what he sent,

  He freely gaue, and I as freely spent.

  Few daies there past but some the Channell crost,

  With kindest Letters enterlynd with loue,

  Wheras I stil receiu’d by euery post,

  His Ring, his Bracelet, Garter, or his Gloue:

  Which I in hostage of his kindnes kept,

  Of his pure loue, which liu’d and neuer slept.

  With many a ritch and stately ornament,

  Worne by great Kings, of hie and wondrous price,

  Or Iewell that my fancie might content,

  With many a robe of strange and rare deuice.

  That all which saw and knew this wondrous wast,

  Perceiu’d his treasure long time could not last.

  And thus whilst Fortune friendly cast my Dice,

  And tooke my hazard, and threw at the maine,

  I saw it was but folly to be nice,

  That chaunceth once, that seldome haps againe.

  I knew such bounty had been seldom seen,

  And since his time, I think hath neuer been.

  And now the Barrons which repynd before,

  Because I was too lauish of the treasure,

  And saw my wast consuming ten times more,

  Which doth so far exceed all bonds of measure,

  This (as a knife) theyr very hart-strings cuts,

  And gnawes them like the Collick in the guts.

  Thus (all in vaine,) they seek to stop the source,

  For presently it ouer-flowes the bounds,

  Yet well perceiue, if thus it held his course,

  No question then, the Common wealth it drowns:

  And thus lyke men that tread an endlesse Maze,

  Whilst Fortune sports, the world stands at a gaze.

  Like Souldiers in a Towne surpriz’d by night,

  Ouer their heads the houses set on fire,

  Sure to be slayne in issuing out to fight,

  Or els be burned if they doe retyre:

  Some curse the time, some other blame their fortune,

  Whilst black Dispaire their deaths doth thus importune.

  This gracious King, (which seemd to sleep the while,)

  Finding the yron thus fully had his heat,

  With sweet perswasions fitly frames his stile:

  Which in theyr wits doth such a temper beate,

  With kindest lookes, and sweetest vowes of loue,

  As were of force a Rock of flint to moue.

  His clowdy frownes be turnd to sun-shine smyles,

  And those on whom he lowerd, he friendly graces,

  Theyr moody cheer, with sporting he beguiles,

  His Lyons lookes, be turnd to sweet imbraces,

  That with his will, theyr thoughts seeme to accord,

  Such is the loue of subiects to their Lord.

  And hauing found his kindnes tooke effect,

  He followeth on the quest with hote pursute,

  Nor day, nor night, he doth the same neglect,

  Vntil the graff was growne to bring forth fruite:

  And that the Barrons all with might and maine,

  Now condiscend to call me home againe.

  O frayle and slyding state of earthly things,

  Blind Fortune, chance, worlds mutability,

  Aduauncing pesants, and debasing Kings,

  Od hap, good luck, or star-bred destinie:

  Which stil doest fawne, and flatter me so oft,

  Now casts me downe, then sett’st me vp aloft.

  In all post-hast, the King to Ireland sent

  His Princely Letters, for my safe returne,

  To England now I must in continent,

  It seemes that time all malice hath out-worne.

  The Coast is cleer, occasion cals away,

  The gale stands right, and driues me from the Bay.

  My whistling sayles make musick with the wind,

  The boystrous waues doe homage to mine eyes,

  The brutish sort of Eols Imps seeme kind,

  And all the clowdes abandoning the skyes

  Now louely Laedas egg-borne twins appeare:

  Towards Albyons cliues faire Fortune guides my steere.

  The King is come to Chester, where he lyes,

  The Court prepared to receiue me there

  In all the pompe that wit could well deuise:

  As since that time was seldome seene elswhere.

  Where setting once my dainty foote on land,

  He thought him blest that might but kisse my hand.

  In pleasures there we spend the nights and dayes,

  And with our reuels entertaine the time,

  With costly Banquets, Masks, and stately Playes,

  Painting our loues in many a pleasing rime.

  With rarest Musick, and sweet-tuned voyces,

  (In which the soule of man so much reioyces.)

  Like as the famous braue Egiptian Queene,

  Feasted the Romane great Mark Anthony,

  With Pearl-disolu’d carouses, seldom seene,

  Seru’d all in vessell of ritch Iuory:

  Such was the sumptuous banquets he prepard,

  In which no cost or curious thing was spard.

  Or like the Troyan Pryam, when as he

  Beheld his long-lost sonn returne to Troy,

  Tryumphing now in all his iolitie,

  Proud Ilion smokes with th’orges of his ioy,

  Such are our feasts and stately tryumphs heer,

  Which with applauses, sound in euery eare.

  Departing thence from Chesters pleasant side,
r />   Towards London now we trauel with delight,

  Wher euery Citty likewise doth prouide

  To entertaine vs, with some pleasing sight:

  Tyl all our trayne at length to London comes,

  Wher naught is hard, but Trumpets, bels and drums.

  As when Paulus Aemilius entred Roome,

  And like great Ioue, in starlike tryumph came,

  Honored in Purple by the Senats doome,

  Laden with gold, and crowned with his fame.

  Such seems our glory now in all mens eyes,

  Our friendship honored with applaudities.

  Or when old Phillips time still-wondred son,

  In his worlds conquest surfetting with spoiles,

  The scourge of Kings, returns to Babilon,

  To sport and banquet after all his toiles,

  Such is our glory in our London Court,

  Whereto all Nations dailie make resort.

  And thus blind Fortune lulls mee in her lap,

  And rocks mee still, with many a Syrens song,

  Thus plac’d mee on the Atlas of my hap.

  From which shee means to cast mee downe ere long.

  Black vgly fiend, O foule mishapen euill,

  In shew an Angel, but in deed a diuel.

  Euen as a Lyon got into his pawes

  The silly Lambe, seems yet a while to play,

  Till seeking to escape out of his iawes,

  This beastly King now tears it for his pray.

  Thus hauing got mee in her armes so fast,

  Determins now to feed on mee at last.

  Or as the slaughter-man doth fat the beast,

  Which afterward he meaneth shall be slayne,

  Before prouided to some solemne feast,

  The more therby he may increase his gaine,

  Loe, thus proud Fortune feeds mee for the knife,

  For which (it seems) shee had prepard my life.

  For thus ere long, between the King and mee,

  As erst before, our reuels now begin,

  And now the Barrons taste theyr misery,

  Opening theyr eyes, which makes them see theyr sin,

  The plague once past, they neuer felt the sores,

  Till thus againe it haps within theyr dores.

  Like as a man made drunk with foule excess,

  Drowning his soule in thys vile lothly vice,

  Once being sober, sees his beastliness,

  Buying repentance with so deer a price;

  Thus they perceiue the bondage they possest,

  In condiscending to the King request.

  The damned Furies heer vnbong the source,

  From whence the Lethe of my vertues burst,

  The black-borne Fates heere labour in that course,

  By which my lyfe and fortune came accurst.

  My death in that star-guiders doome concealed,

  Now in the browes of heauen may be reuealed.

  My youth spurrs on my fraile vntam’d desire,