Still of him selfe the worser part he is,
What most shold please him, him the most annoyes,
Of his, there’s nothing can be called his,
And what he hath, that doth he euer misse;
His thought of conquest, so doth rest inuade,
Thus is he made, as vnto others made.
146
All things to him be prosperous as he would,
Not trusting Fortune, nor distrusting Fate,
Resolu’d to hope, hap what soever could,
Ioying in woe, in ioy disconsolate,
Ioy lightneth woe, woe ioy doth moderate;
Carelesse of both, indifferent twixt either,
Wooed of both, yet yeelding vnto neither.
147
Endlesse his toyle, a figure of his fame,
And his life ending giues his name no end,
Lasting that forme where vertue builds the frame,
Those sums vnnumbred glory giues to spend,
Our bodies buried, then our deeds ascend:
Those deeds in life, to worth cannot be rated,
In death with life, our fame euen then is dated.
148
Willing to doe, he thinketh what to doe,
That what he did, exactly might be done,
That due foresight before the act might goe,
Which wisely warning might all errors shun,
That care might finish what he had begun:
Iustly directed in the course of things,
By that straight rule which sound experience brings.
149
From famous Godfrey and the Christian hoast,
Vnto the migty Grecian Emperor,
Now is he sent, through many perrils tost,
This Norman Duke, the braue Ambassador,
His royall spirit so much ne’re seene before;
As with his princely traine when he doth come,
Before the towne of faire Bizantium.
150
From forth the holy Region is he sent,
Bending his coure through Macedon and Thrace,
Yet neuer would he sleepe but in his Tent,
Till he return’d vnto that hallowed place,
Till he beheld that famous Godfreis face;
Nor neuer rest his body in a bed,
Till Palaestine were free deliuered.
151
Triumphall prowesse, true disposed care,
Cleare-shining courage, honourable intent,
Vertuous-apparreld manhood, thoughts more rare,
Mind free as heauen, imperiall gouernment,
Numbers of vertues in one sweet consent:
Gyfts which the soule so highly beautifie,
Humble valour, valiant humilitie,
152
Sweet ayre with Angels breath be thou refin’d,
And for his sake be made more pure then ayre,
And thether let some gentle breathing wind,
From Paradice bring sweets which be most rare,
Let Sommer sit in his imperiall chayre;
And clothe sad Winter in the cheerefull prime,
Keeping continuall Sommer in the clime.
153
Delight be present in thy best attire,
And court his eyes with thy delightfull change,
Oh warme his spirit with thy soule-feasting fire,
To base delight-abusers, be thou strange,
Such as in vainest pleasures boundlesse range:
For pleasure he all pleasures quite forsooke,
And arm’d with zeale these toiles first vndertooke.
154
O let Danubius in her watry roome,
Where she the name of Ister first did take,
With threescore riuers swelling in her wombe,
With seauen large throats her greedy thirst to slake,
Doth swallow in the great worlds vastie lake:
Vnto all regions which doe know her name,
In Roberts glory tell our countries fame.
155
And broad-brim’d Strymon as she vaulteth on,
Slyding along the fertill Thracian shore,
Kissing the stronds of famous Macedon,
Which once the name of old Aemathia wore,
Whose fame decay’d, her drops do now deplore:
May raise another Orpheus with her mones,
To sing his praise vnto her trees and stones.
156
Time on his life, thy gathered store disburse,
Which may enrich thee with eternall gaine,
Which art a beldame, now become a nurse,
And in his end begin his glorious raigne,
That yet truth may of truth be forc’d to faine:
That of his praise thy selfe a part maist be,
Which praise remaines the better part of thee.
157
O thou immortall Tasso, Aestes glory,
Which in thy golden booke his name hast left,
Enrold in thy great Godfreis liuing story,
Whose lines shall scape vntoucht of ruins thest,
Yet vs of him thou hast not quite bereft:
Though thy large Poems onely boast his name,
Ours was his birth, and we will haue his fame.
158
The curious state of greatnes he doth scorne,
Carelesse of pomp to be magnificent,
Deeming the noblest minded, noblest borne,
Him worthiest honor, which the furthest went,
His blood most pure, whose blood in wars most spent:
Esteeming all fond titles, toyes of naught,
Most honoring those which were with peril bought
159
His richest roabes are his approoued Armes,
His sports were deeds of peerelesse chiualrie,
He flies all pleasures as the Syrens charmes,
To his great mind, no pleasing harmonie,
Not touch’t with childish imbecillitie:
As sacriledge to his religious mind,
To mix base thoughts with those of heauenly kind.
160
A mind which of it selfe could rightly deeme,
Keeping a straight way in one certaine course,
As a true witnes of his owne esteeme,
Feeding it selfe from his owne springing source,
And by himselfe increasing his owne force;
Desirous still him daylie to enure,
To endure that, men thought none could endure.
161
Deuinest touch, instinct of highest heauen,
Most gracefull grace, purest of puritie,
To mortall man, immortall vertue giuen,
Manhood adorn’d with powerfull dietie,
Discreetfull pitty, hallowed pietie:
In secret working, by itselfe confest,
In silent admiration best exprest.
162
Not spur’d with honor, dearely louing peace,
Constant in any course to which he fell,
A spirit which no asffliction could oppresse,
Neuer remou’d where once his thought did dwell,
Opynionate, that what he did was well;
Which working now vpon so good a cause,
Approueth his conceit the surest lawes.
163
No braggarts boast nor ostentacious word
Out of his mouth is euer heard proceed,
But on his foe-mans curats with his sword,
In characters, records his valiant deed,
That there vnpartiall eyes might plainly reed;
In modest silence by true vertue hid,
That though he dumb, his deeds told what he did.
164
He cheres his Souldiers with sweet honied words,
His princely hand embalmes the maimeds wound,
Vnto the needie gold he still affords,
To braue attempts encouraging the sound,
Neuer dismaid in perrill is he found;
His Tent a seate of iustice to the greeu’d,
A kingly court when need should be releeu’d,
165
His life each hower to danger he doth giue,
Yet still by valour he with perrill striues,
In all attempts as he did scorne to liue,
Yet lyuing, as his life were many liues,
Oft times from death it seemes that he reuiues:
Each hower in great attempts he seemes to die,
Yet still he liues in spight of ieopardie.
166
Euen by that town o’re which his Lord did weepe,
Whose precious tears were shed for her own sinne,
Euen by that towne this zealous Lord did weepe,
To see her now defil’d with others sinne,
He wept, he weepes for sinne, and he for sinne,
He first shed teares, he lastly sheddeth teares,
Those sacred drops, the others drops endeares.
167
What prince was found within the Christian hoast
That carried marke of honor in his shield,
That with braue Roberts Lyons once durst boast,
Raging with furie in the bloody field,
Whose mighty pawes a piller seem’d to weild:
Which fro their nostrhils breath’d a seeming flame,
When he in pride amongst the Pagans came.
168
His life with blood how dearely did he prize,
And neuer did he brandish his bright sword,
But many Pagan soules did sacrifize,
And all the ground with liuelesse truncks he stor’d,
Such was his loue vnto his dearest Lord;
That were true loue more purer then is loue,
Here in this loue his purenes he might proue,
169
Who from his furie latelie fled away,
When in the field far off they him espied,
Pursu’d in his faire presence make a stay,
As of his hand they willing would haue died,
His beautie, so his feircenes mollified;
As taking death by valiant Roberts name,
Should to their liues giue euerlasting fame.
170
The cruell Panyms thirsting after blood,
With his sweet beauty doe their hates a slake,
Yet when by him in danger they haue stood,
And that his valour did their rage awake,
And with their swords reuenge wold deeply take
The edges turne as seeming to relent,
To pitty him, to whom the blowes were sent.
171
At feirce assaults where thousand deaths might fall,
His cheerfull smiles made death he could not kill,
Imperiously his sword commaunds the wall,
As stones should be obedient to his will,
The yeelding blood, his blood did neuer spill:
His fury quencht with teares as with a flood,
And yet like fire consuming all that stood.
172
When in the morne his Courser he bestrid,
The trumpets sound vnto his thoughts gaue fire,
But from the field he euer dropping rid
As he were vanquisht onely in retire,
The neerer rest, farther from his desire:
In bootie still, his Souldiers share the crowns,
They rich in gold, he onely rich in wounds.
173
At this returne now in this sad retreate,
From heathens slaughter, from the Christians fled,
This is not he which in that raging heate,
On mighty heapes laid Pagan bodies dead,
Whose plumed helme empaled in his head;
Mild as some Nimphlike •••gin now he seem’d,
Which some in fight a fearefull spirit deem’d.
174
No tryumphs doe his victories adorne,
But in his death who on the Crosse had died,
No lawrell nor victorious wreath is worne,
But that red Crosse to tell him crucified,
This death, his life, this pouertie, his pride:
His feast is fast, his pleasure pennaunce is,
His wishes prayers, his hope is all his blisse.
175
Great Caluary whose hollow vaulted womb,
In his deere Sauiours death afunder riuen,
That rock-rent Caue, that man-god burying tomb
Which was vnto his blessed body giuen,
Whose yeelding Ghost did shake the power of heauen:
Here as a Hermit could he euer liue,
Such wondrous thoughts vnto his soule they giue.
176
Thus a poore Pilgrim he returnes againe,
His sumptuous roabes be turn’d to Palmers gray,
Leauing his Lords to lead his warlick traine,
Whilst he alone comes sadly on the way,
Dealing abroad his deare bloods purchas’d pray:
A hermits staffe his caresull hand doth hold,
Whose charged Launce the beathen foe controld.
177
Most louing zeale, borne of more zealous loue,
Cares holy care, faiths might, ioyes food, hopes kay,
The groundwork worlds bewitching cannot moue
Of true desires the neuer failing stay,
The cheerfull light of heauens ne’re-ending day:
Vertue which in thy selfe most vertuous art,
The fairest gyft of the most fairest part.
178
But now to end this long continued strife,
Henceforth thy malice takes no further place,
Thy hate began and ended with his life,
His spirit by thee can suffer no disgrace,
Now in mine armes his vertues I imbrace:
His body thine, his crosses witnes be,
His mind is mine, and from thy power is free.
179
Thou gau’st vp rule, when he gaue vp his breath,
And at his end, then did I first begin,
Thy hate was buried in his timelesse death,
Thou going out, first did I enter in,
Thou loosing him, thy losse then did I win:
And when the Fates did vp their right resigne,
Thy right, his wrong, thy hate, his hap was mine.
180
To the vnworthie world then get thee back,
Stuft with deceits and fawning flatteries,
There by thy power bring all things vnto wrack,
And fill the times with fearefull Tragedies:
And since thy ioy consists in miseries,
Heare his complaint, who wanting eyes to see,
May giue thee sight, which art as blind as hee.
181
AT her great words whilst they in silence stand,
Poore haplesse Robert now remembring him,
Holding one bloody eye in his pale hand,
With countenance all dead, and gastly grim,
As in a feauer shaking euery lim;
Euen with a pitteous lamentable grone,
Vailing his head, thus breakes into his mone.
182
Poore teare, dim’d taper which hast lost thy brother
And thus art lest to twinkle here alone,
Ah might’st thou not haue perrisht with the other,
And both together to your set haue gone,
You both were one, one wanting, thou not one,
Poore twins which like true friends one watch did keepe,
Why seuer’d thus yt so you shold not sleepe.
183
And thou pore eye, oh why sholdst thou haue light,
The others black eclipse thus soone to see,
And yet thy fellow be depriu’d of sight,
For thy sad teares the while to pitty thee,
Equall your griefes, your haps vnequall be:
Take thou his darknes, and thy sorrow hide,
Or he thy light, his griefe so well espied.
184
Let that small drop out of thy iuicie ball,
Canded like gum vpon the moist’ned thrid,
There still be fixed that it neuer fall,
But as a signe hang on thine eyes staind lid,
A witnes there what inward griefe is hid:
Like burning glasses sired by the Sonne,
Light all mens eyes to see what there is done.
185
Now like to conduits draw my body drie,
By which is made the entrance to my blood,
Streame-gushing sluces plac’d in eyther eye,
Which shalbe fed by this continuall flood,
Whirlpooles of tears where pleasures citty stood
Deuouring gulfes within a vastie land,
Or like the dead Sea, euer hatefull stand.
186
Where stood the watch-towers of my cheerful face,
Like Vestall Lamps lighted with holy flame,
Is now a dungeon and a lothed place,
The dark some prison of my hatefull shame,
That they themselues doe most abhor the same:
Through whose foule grates, griefe full of miserie,
Still begging vengeance, ceaseth not to crie.
187
With dire-full seales, death hath shut vp the dores,
Where he hath taken vp his dreadfull Inne,
In bloody letters shewing those fell sores,
That now doe raigne, wherioy & mirth haue beene,
This mortal plague the iust scourge of their sinne:
From whose contagion comfort quite is fled,
And they themselues, in their selues buried.
188
Poore tears, sith eyes your small drops cannot see,
And since the Fountains cease of my full eyes,
Teares get you eyes and help to pitty mee,
And water them which timelesse sorrow dryes,
Teares giue me teares, lend eyes vnto my eyes:
So may the blind yet make the blind to see,
Else no help is to them, nor hope to mee,
189
Body and eyes vsurping others right,
Both altring vse contrarie vnto kind,
That eyes to eyes those dark which shold giue light
The blind both guide, & guided by the blind,
Yet both must be directed by the mind:
Yet that which both their trustie guide should be,
Blinded with care, like them can nothing see.
190
The day abhors thee, and from thee doth slie,
Night followes after, yet behind doth stay,
This neuer comes, though it be euernie,
This ere it comes is vanished away,
Nor night, nor day, though euer night and day:
Yet all is one, still day or euer night.
No rest in darknes, nor no ioy in light.
191
Whilst light did giue me comfort to my mone,
Teares sound a meane to sound my sorrows deepe,
Collected Works of Michael Drayton Page 40
