Collected Works of Michael Drayton

by Michael Drayton

  Or had he not our Fathers conquering hands,

  Which in the field our houses Ensigne bore,

  Which his proude Lyons for theyr safety wore,

  Which rag’d at Hastings like that furious Lake,

  From whose sterne waues our glorious name we take?

  Oh had he charg’d me mounted on that horse

  Whereon I march’d before the walls of Gaunt,

  And with my Launce there shewd an English force,

  Or vanquisht me, a valiant combattant,

  Then of his conquest had he cause to vaunt;

  But he whose eyes durst not behold my shield,

  Perceiu’d my Chamber fitter then the field.

  I haue not serued Fortune like a slaue,

  My minde hath suted with her mightines,

  I haue not hid her tallent in a graue,

  Nor burying of her bounty made it lesse:

  My fault to God and heauen I must confesse;

  He twise offends, who sinne in flattery beares,

  Yet euery howre he dyes, which euer feares.

  I cannot quake at that which others feare,

  Fortune and I haue tugg’d together so;

  What Fate imposeth, we perforce must beare,

  And I am growne familiar with my woe,

  Vsed so oft against the streame to row;

  Yet my offence my conscience still doth grieue,

  Which God (I trust) in mercy will forgiue.

  I am shut vp in silence, nor must speake,

  Nor Kingdoms lease my life, but I must die,

  I cannot weepe and if my hart should breake,

  Nor am I sencelesse of my misery,

  My hart so full, hath made mine eyes so dry;

  I neede not cherrish griefes, too fast they grow,

  Woe be to him that dies of his owne woe.

  I pay my life, and then the debt is payd,

  With the reward, th’offence is purg’d and gone,

  The stormes will calme when once the spirit is layd;

  Enuy doth cease, wanting to feede vpon,

  We haue one life, and so our death is one,

  Nor in the dust mine honor I inter,

  Thus Caesar dyed, and thus dies Mortimer.

  Liue sacred Empresse, and see happie dayes,

  Be euer lou’d, with me die all our hate,

  Let neuer ages sing but of thy praise,

  My blood shall pacifie the angry Fate,

  And cancell thus our sorrowes long-liu’d date:

  And treble ten times longer last thy fame,

  Then that strong Tower thou calledst by my name.

  To Nottingham this Letter brought vnto her,

  Which is endorsed with her glorious stile,

  Shee thinks the title yet againe doth wooe her,

  And with that thought her sorrowes doth beguile.

  Smyling on that, thinks that on her doth smyle;

  Shee kissing it, (to counteruaile her paine,)

  Tuching her lip, it giues the kisse againe.

  Faire workmanship, quoth she, of that faire hand,

  All-moouing organ, sweet spheare-tuning kay,

  The Messenger of Ioues sleep-charming wand,

  Pully which draw’st the curtaine of the Day,

  Pure Trophies, reard to guide on valurs way,

  What paper-blessing Charrecters are you,

  Whose louely forme, that louelier engine drew?

  Turning the Letter, seal’d shee doth it find,

  With those rich Armes borne by his glorious name,

  Where-with this dreadfull euidence is sign’d:

  O badge of honour, greatest marke of fame,

  Braue shield, quoth she, which once fro¯ heauen came,

  Fayre robe of tryumph, Ioues celestiall state,

  To all immortall prayses consecrate.

  Going about to rip the sacred seale,

  Which cleaues, least clowdes too soone should dim her eyes,

  As loth it were her sorrowes to reueale,

  Quoth shee, thy Maister taught thee secrecies:

  The soft waxe, with her fingers tuch doth rise,

  Shee asketh it, who taught thee thus to kisse?

  I know, quoth she, thy Maister taught thee thys?

  Opening the Letter, Empresse shee doth reed,

  At which a blush from her faire cheekes arose,

  And with Ambrozia still, her thoughts doth feed,

  And with a seeming ioy doth paint her woes,

  Then to subscribed Mortimer shee goes;

  March following it, ô March, great March she cryes,

  Which speaking word, euen seemingly replyes.

  Thus hath shee ended, yet shee must begin,

  Euen as a fish playing with a bayted hooke,

  Now shee begins to swallow sorrow in,

  And Death doth shewe himselfe at euery looke,

  Now reads shee in her liues accounting Booke:

  And findes the blood of her lost friend had payd,

  The deepe expenses which shee forth had layd.

  Now with an host of wofull words assayl’d,

  As euery letter wounded lyke a dart,

  As euery one would boast, which most preuayl’d,

  And euery one would pierce her to the hart,

  Rethoricall in woe, and vsing Art:

  Reasons of greefe, each sentence doth infer,

  And euere lyne, a true remembrancer.

  Greefe makes her read, yet greefe still bids her leaue,

  Ore-charg’d with greefe, she neither sees nor heares,

  Her sorrowes doe her sences quite deceaue,

  The words doe blind her eyes, the sound her eares,

  And now for vescues doth she vse her teares:

  And when a lyne shee loosely ouer-past,

  The drops doe tell her where shee left the last.

  O now she sees, was euer such a sight?

  And seeing, curs’d her sorrow-seeing eye,

  And sayth, shee is deluded by the light,

  Or is abus’d by the Orthography:

  Or poynted false, her schollershyp to try.

  Thus when we fondly sooth our owne desires,

  Our best conceits doe prooue the greatest lyers.

  Her trembling hand, as in a Feuer shakes,

  Wherwith the paper doth a little stirre,

  Which shee imagins, at her sorrow quakes,

  And pitties it who shee thinks pitties her:

  And moning it, bids it that greefe refer;

  Quoth shee, Ile raine downe showers of tears on thee,

  When I am dead, weepe them againe on mee.

  Quoth shee, with odors were thy body burned,

  As is Th’arabian byrd against the sunne,

  Againe from cynders yet thou should’st be turned,

  And so thy life another age should runne,

  Nature enuying it so soone was done:

  Amongst all byrds, one onely of that straine,

  Amongst all men, one Mortimer againe.

  I will preserue thy ashes in some Vrne,

  Which as a relique, I will onely saue,

  Which mixed with my tears as I doe mourne,

  Within my stomack shall theyr buriall haue,

  Although deseruing a farre better graue;

  Yet in that Temple shall they be preserued,

  Where, as a Saint thou euer hast been serued.

  Be thou trans-form’d vnto some sacred tree,

  Whose precious gum may cure the fainting hart,

  Or to some hearbe yet turned mayst thou be,

  Whose iuyce apply’d may ease the strongest smart,

  Or flower, whose leaues thy vertues may impart,

  Or stellified on Pegase loftie crest,

  Or shyning on the Nemian Lyons brest.

  I thinke the Gods could take them mortall shapes,

  As all the world may by thy greatnes gather,

  And Ioue in some of his light wanton scapes,

  Committed pretty cusn
age with thy father,

  Or else thou wholy art celestiall rather:

  Els neuer could it be, so great a minde,

  Could seated be, in one of earthly kind.

  And if, as some affirme, in euery starre,

  There be a world, then must some world be thine,

  Else shall thy ghost inuade their bounds with warre,

  If such can mannage armes as be deuine,

  That here thou hadst no world, the fault was mine:

  And gracelesse Edward kinling all this fier,

  Trod in the dust of his vnhappy sier.

  It was not Charles that made Charles what he was,

  Whereby he quickly to that greatnes grew,

  Nor strooke such terror which way he did passe,

  Nor our olde Grand-siers glory did renew,

  But it thy valure was, which Charles well knew:

  Which hath repulst his Enemies with feare,

  When they but heard the name of Mortimer.

  In Books and Armes consisted thy delight,

  And thy discourse of Campes, and grounds of state,

  No Apish fan-bearing Hermophradite,

  Coch-carried midwyfe, weake, effeminate,

  Quilted and ruft, which manhood euer hate:

  A Car• when in counsell thou didst sit,

  A Hercules in executing it.

  Now shee begins to curse the King her Sonne,

  The Earle of March then comes vnto her mind,

  Then shee with blessing ends what shee begun,

  And leaues the last part of the curse behind,

  Then with a vowe shee her reuenge doth bind:

  Vnto that vowe shee ads a little oth,

  Thus blessing cursing, cursing blessing both.

  For pen and inke shee calls her mayds without,

  And Edwards dealing will in greefe discouer,

  But straight forgetting what shee went about,

  Shee now begins to write vnto her louer,

  Yet interlyning Edwards threatnings ouer:

  Then turning back to read what shee had writ,

  Shee teyrs the paper, and condemnes her wit.

  Thus with the pangs out of this traunce ar•ysed,

  As water some-time wakeneth from a swound,

  Comes to her selfe the agonie apeysed,

  As when the blood is cold, we feele the wound,

  And more, and more, sith she the cause had found,

  Thus vnto Edward with reuenge shee goes,

  And hee must beare the burthen of her woes.

  I would my lap had beene some cruell Racke,

  His Cradell Phalaris burning-bellyed Bull,

  And Nessus shyrt beene put vpon his backe,

  His Blanket of some Nilus Serpents wooll,

  His Dug with iuice of Acconite beene full:

  The song which luld him, when to sleepe he fell,

  Some Incantation or some Magique spell.

  And thus King Edward since thou art my Child,

  Some thing of force to thee I must bequeath,

  March of my harts true loue hath thee beguild,

  My curse vnto thy bosome doe I breath,

  And heere inuoke the wretched spirits beneath:

  To see all things perform’d to my intent,

  Make them ore-seers of my Testament.

  And thus within these mighty walls inclos’d,

  Euen as the Owles so hatefull of the light,

  Vnto repentance euer more dispos’d,

  Heere spend my dayes vntill my last dayes night;

  And hence-forth odious vnto all mens sight,

  Flye euery small remembrance of delight,

  A penitentiall mournfull conuertite.

  FINIS.

  THE LEGEND OF ROBERT, DUKE OF NORMANDY

  CONTENTS

  TO THE VERTUOUS LADY, THE LADY ANNE HARRINGTON: WISE TO THE HONORABLE GENTLEMAN, SIR IOHN HARRINGTON, KNIGHT.

  THE ARGUMENT OF ROBERT DUKE OF NORMANDIE.

  THE TRAGICALL LEGEND OF ROBERT DUKE OF NORMANDIE.

  TO THE NOBLE AND EXCELLENT LADY, LUCIE, COUNTESSE OF BEDFORD.

  MOST noble Ladie, I leaue my Poems as a monument of the Zeale I beare to your vertues, though the greatest part of my labour, be but the least part of my loue: And if any thought of worth liue in mee, that onely hath been nourished by your mild fauours and former graces to my vnworthy selfe, and the admiration of your more then excellent parts shyning to the world. What nature & industry began, your honour and bountie hath thus farre continued. The light I haue, is borrowed from your beams, which Enuie shall not eclipse, so long as you shall fanourablie shine. Vnder the stampe of your glorious Name my Poems shall passe for currant, beeing not altogether vnworthy of so great a superscription: I liue onely dedicated to your seruice, and rest your Honors humblie deuoted.

  Michaell Drayton.

  TO THE VERTUOUS LADY, THE LADY ANNE HARRINGTON: WISE TO THE HONORABLE GENTLEMAN, SIR IOHN HARRINGTON, KNIGHT.

  MADAM: my words cannot expresse my mind,

  My Zealers dutie to make knowne to you,

  When your deserts all seuerally I find,

  In this attempt, of mee doe claime their due:

  Your gratious kindnes (Madam) claimes my hart,

  Your bountie bids my hand to make it knowne,

  Of me your vertues each doe claime a part;

  And leaue me thus the least part of mine owne,

  What should commend your modestie, your wit,

  Is by your wit and modestie commended,

  And standeth dumbe in most admiring it,

  And where it should begin, it there is ended.

  And thus returne, to your praise onely due,

  And to your selfe say, you, are onely you.

  Michaell Drayton.

  To the Reader.

  GENTLEMEN, since my first publishing of these tragicall coplaints of Piers Gaswton and Matilda it is not vnknowne to any which traffique with Poetry, how by the sinister dealing of some vnskilfull Printer, Prers Gawston hath been lately put sorth contrary to my will, with as manie faults as there be lynes in the same, beeing in deede at the suit no perfect Coppy, but left vnformed and vndigested, like a Beare whelpe before it is licke by the Dam. But now of late vnderstanding by the Stationers, that they meant the thyrd time to bring it to the Presse, for which purpose as it seemed, they kept Matilda from printing, onely because they meant to ioyne the together in one little volume, I haue taken some paine in them both to augment and polish them, sith I see they must goe to the publique view of the world: and with the old conceite of Apelles, (hearing the opinion of all that passed by) amended so much as the latchet. To these complaints written by mee two yeeres since, I haue added this third, of Robert Duke of Normandie: A subiect in my poore opinion, as worthy as any, how soeuer I haue hanled it in the writing. Thus submitting my labours to your discreet censure, I end.

  M. D.

  THE ARGUMENT OF ROBERT DUKE OF NORMANDIE.

  AFTER the conquest of England, by William Duke of Normandy, his eldest son Robert, surnamed Short-thigh, much more then eyther of his bretheren, William Rufus, or Henry Bauclarke, beloued of the Commons, yet brought in disgrace with his Father, by meanes of Lanfranck Byshop of Canterburie, who greatlie affected the said William Rufus, as a man rightlie of his owne disposition. Robert beeing a man of a mightie spirit, finding himselfe disgrac’d, & grown hatefull to his Father, and the Crowne of England assured to his Brother: whilst his Father maketh warrs in Fraunce, hee with a troupe of resolute Germains, inuadeth Normandie. In the height of all these troubles, William Conqueror dyeth, leauing the kingdome of England to Rufus. Whilst Robert prepareth to make warre vpon his brother, by the pollicies of Lanfrancke and his accomplices, they are friends, Robert peaceably enioyeth Normandie, and if he ouer-hued his brother William, to succeed him in the kingdom of England. Nowe, the brute of the holy warrs called Robert to Palestine, with Peter the Hermit, and Godfrey of Bulloyne, for which, to pay his souldiours, hee engageth Normandie to his youn
gest brother Henry for summes of money. In his absence William dyeth, Henrie vsurpeth the Crowne, and Duke Robert returning from the warrs with great honor, yet in his warrs at home most vnfortunate, hee is taken by Henry in a battell in Normandy, brought a captiue into England, and imprisoned in Cardisse Castell in Wales, where Henry as a Tyrant, still searing his escape, put out his eyes.

  THE TRAGICALL LEGEND OF ROBERT DUKE OF NORMANDIE.

  1

  WHAT time Sleeps Nurse the silent night begun

  To steale by minuts on the long-liu’d daies,

  The furious Dog-star chasing of the Sun,

  Whose scorching breath ads flame vnto his raies,

  At whose approch the angry Lyon braies,

  The earth now warm’d in thys celestiall fire,

  To coole her heate, puts off her rich attire.

  2

  The deawy-tressed Morning newly wake,

  With golde tinsell scarce had crown’d her browes,

  Ryding in tryumph on the Ocean lake,

  Embellishing the honny-fringed bowes,

  Deepe mellancholly from my braine to rouze,

  To Isis banck my Genius guides the way,

  Amongst whose Reeds soft murmuring winds do play.

  3

  Zephyre, which courts faire Thames, his gentle loue,

  On whose smooth brest the swelling billows flow,

  Which on a long the wanton tyde doth shoue,

  And to keepe back he easilie doth blow,

  Still meets her comming, followes if shee goe;

  Shee, forcing waues to coole his hote embrace,

  Hee, fanning breath vpon her christall face.

  4

  Still dallying in her osten-turning source,

  She streaks a long the shores with her proud straine,

  And here, and there, she wantons in her course,

  And in her gate oft turneth back againe,

  Smiling to looke vpon her siluer traine,

  With pretty Anticks shee the faire soile greets,

  Till Medoas streame from famous Kent shee meets.

  5

  Thus careles wandring with this gliding streame,

  Whose fleeting told me of tymes flying howers,

  Delighted thus as in a pleasing dreame,

  Cropping small branches of the sweetest flowers:

  And looking back on Londons stately towers,

  So Troy (thought I) her stately head did beare,

  Whose crazed ribs ye furrowing plough doth eyre.

  6