Collected Works of Michael Drayton

by Michael Drayton

  The winds are husht, no little breth doth blow,

  The calmed ayre as all amazed stood,

  The earth with roring trembleth below,

  The Sunne besmear’d his glorious face in blood,

  The fearfull Heards bellowing as they were wood:

  The Drums and Trumpets giue a signall sound,

  With such a noyse as they had torne the ground.

  The Earles now charging with three hundred horse,

  The Kings vantgard assay the Bridge to win,

  Forcing the Barrons to deuide their force,

  T’auoyde the present danger they were in:

  Neuer till now the horror doth begin;

  That if th’elements our succour had not sought,

  All had that day beene to confusion brought.

  Now fro¯ the hill the Kings maine power comes downe,

  Which had Aquarius to their valiant guide,

  Braue Lancaster and Herford from the towne,

  Doe issue forth vpon the other side:

  The one assailes, the other munified.

  Englands Red crosse vpon both sides doth flye,

  Saint George the King, Saint George the Barrons cry.

  Euen as a bustling tempests rouzing blasts,

  Vpon a Forrest of old-branched Oakes,

  Downe vpon heapes their climing bodies casts,

  And with his furie teyrs their mossy loaks,

  The neighbour groues resounding with the stroaks,

  With such a clamor and confused woe,

  To get the Bridge these desperate Armies goe.

  Now must our famous and victorious bowes,

  With which our Nation Kingdoms did subdue,

  First send their darting arrowes against those

  Whose sinewed armes against their foes them drew;

  These winged weapons, mourning as they flew,

  Cleaue to the strings, with very terror slack,

  As to the Archers they would faine turne back.

  The battered Caskes, with Battel-Axes strokes,

  Besnow the soyle with drifts of scattered plumes,

  The trampling presse stirre vp such duskie smokes

  Which choke the ayre with reekie smothering fumes,

  Which rising vp, into a clowde consumes;

  As though the heauen had muffled her in black,

  Lothing to see this lamentable sack.

  Behold the remnant of Troyes famous stocke,

  Laying on blowes as Smithes on Anuiles strike,

  Grappling together in this fearfull shock,

  The like presse forth, t’incounter with the like,

  And then reculing to the push of pyke:

  Yet not a foote doth eyther giue to eyther,

  Now one the ods, then both alike, then neither.

  Euen as you see a field of standing Corne,

  When in faire Iune some easie gale doth blow,

  How vp and downe the spyring eares are borne,

  And with the blasts like Billowes come and goe,

  As golden streamers wauing to and fro,

  Thus on the suddaine runne they on amaine,

  Then straight by force are driuen backe againe.

  Heer lyes a heap, halfe slaine, halfe chok’d, halfe drownd,

  Gasping for breth amongst the slymie seggs,

  And there a sort falne in a deadly swound,

  Scrawling in blood vpon the muddy dreggs:

  Heere in the streame, swim bowels, armes and leggs▪

  One kills his foe, his braine another cuts,

  Ones feet intangled in anothers guts.

  One his owne hands in his owne blood defiles,

  Another from the Bridges height doth fall,

  Some dash’d to death vpon the stony pyles,

  Some in theyr gore vpon the pauement sprall,

  The carkasses lye heaped like a wall:

  Such hideous shreeks the bedlam Souldiers breath,

  As though the Spirits had howled from beneath.

  The mangled bodies diuing in the streame,

  Now vp, now downe, like tumbling Porpose swim,

  The water couer’d with a bloody creame,

  To the beholder horrible and grim:

  Heere lies a head, and there doth lye a lym;

  Which in the sands the swelling waters souse,

  That all the shores seeme like a slaughter-house.

  It seem’d the very wounds for griefe did weepe,

  To feele the temper of the slicing blade,

  The sencelesse steele in blood it selfe did steepe,

  To see the wounds his sharpe-ground edge had made,

  Whilst kinsman, kinsman, friend, doth friend inuade,

  Such is the horror of these ciuill broyles,

  When with our blood, we fat our natiue soyles.

  This faction still defying Edwards might,

  Edmond of Woodstock, famous Earle of Kent,

  Charging the foe againe renewes the fight,

  Vpon the Barrons forces almost spent,

  Who now againe supplying succours sent.

  And now a second conflict doth begin,

  The English Lords like Tygars flying in.

  Like as an exhalation hote and dry,

  Amongst the ayre-bred moyftie vapors throwne,

  Spetteth his lightning forth outragiously,

  Renting the thick clowdes with a thunder-stone,

  As though the huge all-couering heauen did grone,

  Such is the garboyle of this conflict then,

  Braue Englishmen, encountring Englishmen.

  Euen as proude Pyrrhùs entring Iltion,

  Couragious Talbot with his shield him bare,

  Clifford and Moubray, seconding anon,

  Audley and Gifford thrunging for their share,

  Elmbridge and Balsmer▪ in the thickest are:

  Pell-mell together flyes this furious power,

  Like to the falling of some mighty Tower.

  Mountfort and Teis, your worths faine would I speake,

  But that your valure can but ill deserue,

  Braue Denuile, heere I from thy prayse must breake,

  And from thy prayses Willington must swarue,

  Great Damory, heere must thy glory starue;

  Concealing many, most deseruing blame,

  Because their acts doe quench my sacred flame.

  O that those Armes in conquests had been borne,

  And that, that battered fame-engrauen shield,

  Should in those ciuill massacres be torne

  Which bare the marks of many a bloody field:

  O that our armes had power their Armes to weeld.

  That since that time, the stones for very dreed,

  Against foule stormes could teary moisture sheed.

  O had you shap’d your valures first by them

  Who summon’d Akon with an English drum,

  Or marched on to faire Ierusalem,

  T’inlarge the bounds of famous Christendome,

  Or with Christs warriors slept about his toombe,

  Then ages had immortaliz’d your fame,

  Where now my song can be but of your shame.

  Death following on, feare euer in their eyes,

  Grieued with wounds, the conquered Barrons fled,

  And now the King enrich’d with victories,

  Hath in the field his glorious Ensignes spred,

  This in his thoughts againe fresh courage bred,

  And somwhat drawes th’vnconstant peoples harts,

  Who equall peyz’d, yet way’d to neither parts.

  And wanting ground, they vnresolued are,

  King Edwards friends, agaynst the rebels cry,

  The Barrons plead their Countries onely care,

  Exclayming on the Princes tyrannie,

  Hee vrg’d obedience, they their libertie.

  Both vnder colour, carefull of the state,

  Hee right, and they their wrongs expostulate.

  Some fewe them selues in
Sanctuaries hide,

  In mercie of the priuiledged place,

  Yet are their bodyes so vnsanctifide,

  As scarce their soules can euer hope for grace,

  A poore dead lyfe, this draweth out a space.

  Hate stands without, and horror sits within,

  Prolonging shame, yet pard’ning not their sinne.

  At fatall Pomfret gathering head at length,

  When they of all extreamities had tasted,

  Where yet before they could recouer strength,

  King Edward followeth whilst his fortune lasted,

  Vnto whose ayde the Earle of Carlell hasted.

  With troupes of bow-men and ranck-riding bands,

  Of Westmer, Cumber, and Northumberlands.

  Mad and amaz’d, nor knowing what to doe,

  Surpriz’d by this late mischieuous euent,

  Seeing at hand their vtter ouerthrowe,

  And in despight how crossely all things went,

  Fortune her selfe to their destruction bent;

  In all disorder head-long on they runne,

  To end with blood, what was with blood begunne.

  Lyke as a heard of silly hartlesse Deare,

  Whom hote-spurd Huntsmen fiercely doe pursue,

  In brakes and bushes falling heere and there,

  Yet when no way the hounds they can eschew,

  Now flying back from whence of late they flew,

  Hem’d on each side with hornes rechating blast,

  Head-long them selues into the toyles doe cast.

  To Borough bridge by fate appoynted thus,

  Where lyke false Raynard, falser Herckley lay,

  Bridges to Barrons euer ominous,

  There to renewe this latest deadly fray,

  O heere begins the blackest dismall day,

  The birth of horror, hower of wrath that yet,

  The very soyle seemes to remember it.

  Heere is not Death contented with the dead,

  Nor vengeance is with vengeance satisfied,

  Blood-shed by blood-shed still is nourished,

  And mischiefe meanes no more her store to hide,

  Strange sorts of torments heauen doth now prouide,

  That dead men should in miserie remayne,

  And in lyuing death should dye with payne.

  Thus rules the world, a world why sawe I so,

  Worst is the world, yet worser must I name it,

  Nights vgli’st night, hells bitter’st hell of woe,

  So ill as slaunder neuer can defame it,

  That shame her selfe is sham’d, seeking to shame it,

  Could enuie speake, what enuie can expresse,

  In saying most, that most should make it lesse.

  Heere noble Herford, Bohun breathes his last,

  Crowne of true Knight-hood, flower of Chiualrie,

  But Lancaster their torment liues to tast,

  Who perrish now with endlesse obloquie,

  O vanquisht conquest, loosing victorie,

  That where the sword for pittie leaues to spill,

  There extreame iustice should begin to kill.

  O subiect for some tragick Muse to sing,

  Of fiue great Earledomes at one time possest,

  Sonne, Vnckle, Brother, Grandchild to a King,

  With fauours, friends, and earthly honours blest,

  But see on earth, heere is no place of rest.

  These Fortunes gyfts, and she to shew her power,

  Takes lyfe, and these, and all within an hower.

  The wretched Mother tearing of her hayre,

  Bewayles the time this fatall warre begunne,

  Lyke graue-borne gosts, amaz’d and mad with feare,

  To view the quartered carkasse of her Sonne,

  With hideous shreeks through streetes & wayes doth runne.

  And seeing none to help, none heare her crye,

  Some drownd, some stabd, some starud, some strangled die.

  Lyke gastly death the aged Father stands,

  Weeping his Sonne, bemoning of his wife,

  Shee murthered by her owne blood-guiltie hands,

  Hee flaughtered by the executioners knife,

  Sadly sits downe to ende his hatefull life;

  Banning the earth, and cursing at the ayre▪

  Vpon his poyniard falleth in dispayre.

  The wofull widdowe for her Lord distrest,

  Whose breathlesse body cold death doth benum,

  Her little Infant leaning on her breast,

  Rings in her eares, when will my Father come?

  Doth wish that she were deafe, or it were dombe.

  Clipping each other, weeping both togeather,

  Shee for her Lord, the poore babe for his Father.

  The ayre is poysned with the dampie stinck,

  Which most contagious pestilence doth breed,

  The glutted earth her fill of gore doth drinck,

  Which from vnburied bodies doth proceede,

  Rauens and dogs on dead men onely feede;

  In euery Coast thus doe our eyes behold,

  Our sinnes by iudgement of the heauens controld.

  Lyke as a Wolfe returning from the foyle,

  Hauing full stuft his flesh-engorged panch,

  Tumbles him downe to wallowe in the soyle,

  With cooling breath his boyling mawe to stanch,

  Scarce able now to mooue his lustlesse hanch.

  Thus after slaughter Edward breathlesse stood,

  As though his sword had surfeted with blood.

  Heere endeth life, yet heere death cannot end,

  And heere begins, what Edwards woes begun,

  Nor his pretence, falls as he doth pretend,

  Nor hath he wone, what he by battell wone,

  All is not done, though almost all vndone,

  Whilst power hath raign’d still policie did lurke,

  Seldome doth mallice want a meane to worke.

  The King now by the conquering Lords consent,

  Who by this happie victorie grew strong,

  Summons at Yorke a present Parliament,

  To plant his right, and helpe the Spensers wrong,

  From whence agayne his minions greatnes sprung,

  Whose counsell still, in all their actions crost,

  Th’inraged Queene whom all misfortunes tost.

  But miseries which seldome come alone,

  Thicke in the necks one of another fell,

  Meane while the Scots heere make inuasion,

  And Charles of France doth thence our powers expell,

  The grieued Commons more and more rebell.

  Mischiefe on mischiefe, curse doth followe curse,

  Plague after plague, and worse ensueth worse.

  For Mortimer this wind yet rightly blewe,

  Darckning their eyes which else perhaps might see,

  Whilst Isabell who all aduantage knewe,

  Is closely plotting his deliuerie,

  Now fitly drawne by Torltons policie:

  Thus by a Queene, a Bishop, and a Knight,

  To check a King, in spight of all dispight.

  A drowsie potion shee by skill hath made,

  Whose secret working had such wonderous power,

  As could the sence with heauie sleepe inuade,

  And mortifie the patient in one hower,

  As though pale death the body did deuower;

  Nor for two dayes might opened be his eyes,

  By all meanes Arte or Phisicke could deuise.

  Thus sits this great Enchauntresse in her Cell,

  Inuironed with spyrit-commaunding charmes,

  Her body censed with most sacred smell,

  With holy fiers her liquors now shee warmes,

  Then her with sorcering instruments she armes.

  And from her hearbs the powerfull iuyce she wrong,

  To make the poyson forcible and strong.

  Reason might iudge, doubts better might aduise,

  And as a woman
, feare her hand haue stayd,

  Waying the strangenesse of the interprize,

  The daunger well might haue her sex dismayd,

  Fortune, distrust, suspect, to be betrayd;

  But when they leaue of vertue to esteeme,

  They greatly erre which thinke them as they seeme.

  Their plighted fayth, when as they list they leaue,

  Their loue is cold, their lust, hote, hote their hate,

  With smiles and teares these Serpents doe deceaue,

  In their desires they be insatiate,

  Their will no bound, and their reuenge no date.

  All feare exempt, where they at ruine ayme,

  Couering their sinne with their discouered shame.

  Medea pittifull in tender yeares,

  Vntill with Iason she would take her flight,

  Then mercilesse her Brothers lymmes she teares,

  Betrayes her Father, flyes away by night,

  Nor Nations, Seas, nor daungers could affright;

  Who dyed with heate, nor could abide the wind,

  Now like a Tigar falls vnto her kind.

  Now waits the Queene fitt’st time, as might behoue,

  Their ghostly Father for their speed must pray,

  Their seruants seale these secrets vp with loue,

  Their friends must be the meane, the guide, the way,

  And he resolue on whom the burthen lay;

  This is the summe, the all, if this neglected,

  Neuer againe were meane to be expected.

  Thus, while hee liu’d a prysoner in the Towre,

  The Keepers oft with feasts he entertaind,

  Which as a stale, serues fitly at this howre,

  The tempting bayte wher-with his hookes were traind,

  banquet now he had ordaind,

  And after cates when they their thirst should quench,

  He sawc’d their wine with thys approoued drench.

  And thus become the keeper of the kayes,

  In steele-bound locks he safely lodg’d the Guard:

  Then lurking forth by the most secret wayes,

  Not now to learne his compasse by the Card,

  With corded ladders which hee had prepard,

  Now vp these proude aspyring walls doth goe,

  Which seeme to scorne they should be mastred so.

  They soundly sleepe, now must his wits awake,

  A second Theseus through a hells extreames,

  The sonne of Ioue, new toyles must vndertake,

  Of walls, of gates, of watches, woods, and streame.

  And let them tell King Edward of their dreames:

  For ere they wak’d out of this brainsick traunce,

  He hopes to tell thys noble iest in Fraunce.

  The sullen night in mistie rugge is wrapp’d,

  Powting the day had tarryed vp so long,

  The Euening in her darksome dungion clapp’d,

  And in that place the swarty clowdes were hong,