Sticking vnto her fingers bloody red,
To shew the bad newes quickly followed.
90
Thus by degrees she easly doth begin,
As the small fish plaies with the baited hooke,
Then more and more to swallow sorrow in,
As threatning death at eu’ry little looke;
Where now she reades th’expences of her sin,
Sadly set downe in this blacke dreadfull booke,
And those deere summes were like to be desray’d,
Before the same were absolutely pay’d.
91
An hoast of woes her suddainely assaile,
As eu’ry letter wounded like a dart,
As though contending which should most preuaile,
Yet eu’ry one doth pierce her to the hart,
As eu’ry word did others case bewaile,
And with his neighbour seemde to beare a part,
Reason of griefe each sentence is to her,
And eu’ry line a true remembrancer.
92
Greefe makes her reade, yet straitwaies bids her leaue,
With which ore-charg’d she neither sees nor heares,
Her sences now their Mistris so deceiue,
The words do wound her eyes, the sound her eares,
And eu’ry organe of the vse bereaues,
When for a fescue she doth vse her teares;
That when some line she loosely ouer-past,
The drops do tell her where she left the last.
93
O now she sees, was neuer such a sight,
And seeing, curs’d her sorrow-seeing eye,
Yet thinkes she is deluded by the light,
Or is abusde by the orthography;
And by some other t’is deuisde for spight,
Or pointed false, her schollership to try;
Thus when we fondly sooth our owne desires,
Our best conceits oft proue the greatest liers.
94
Her trembling hand as in a feauer shakes,
Wherewith the paper doth a little stirre,
Which she imagines at her sorrow shakes,
And pitties it, who she thinkes pitties her,
Each small thing somwhat to the greater makes,
And to the humor something doth infer;
Which when so soone as she her tongue could free,
O worthy Earle, deere loued Lord quoth shee.
95
I will reserue thy ashes in some Vrne,
Which as a relique I will onely saue,
Mixt with the teares that I for thee shall mourne,
Which in my deere breast shall their buriall haue,
From whence againe they neuer shall returne,
Nor giue the honor to another graue,
But in that Temple euer be preserued,
Where thou a Saint religiously art serued.
96
When she breakes out to cursing of her sonne,
But March so much still runneth in her mind,
That she abruptly ends what she begunne,
Forgets her selfe, and leaues the rest behind,
From this she to another course doth runne,
To be reuengde in some notorious kind:
To which she deepely doth ingage her troth,
Bound by a strong vow and a solemne oth.
97
For pen and incke she calles her maides without,
And the kings dealings will in griefe discouer,
But soone forgetting what she went about,
She now begins to write vnto her louer,
Heere she sets downe, and there she blotteth out.
Her griefe and passion doe so strongly moue her:
When turning backe to reade what she had writ,
She teares the paper, and condemnes her wit.
98
And thus with contrarieties araised,
As waters chilnesse wakeneth from a swownd,
Comes to her selfe, the agony appeased,
When colder blood more sharpely feeles the wound,
And griefe her so incurably hath seized,
That for the same no remedie is found,
As the poore refuge to her restlesse woes,
This of her griefe she lastly doth dispose.
99
That now vnkinde King as thou art my sonne,
Leauing the world, some legacie must giue thee,
My harts true loue the dying March hath wonne,
Yet that of all I will not quite bereaue thee;
The wrong and mischiefe to thy mother done,
I thee bequeathe, so bound that they out liue thee,
That as my breast it hourely doth torment,
Thou maist enjoy it by my Testament.
100
Henceforth within this solitary place,
Abandoning for euer generall sight,
A priuate life I willingly embrace,
No more rejoycing in the obuious light,
To consumate the weary lingering space,
Till death inclose me with continuall night:
Each small remembrance of delight to flie,
A conuertite and penitently die.
FINIS.
TO THE MAIESTIE OF KING JAMES
A GRATULATORIE POEM
To the Reader.
FOR the truth of these branches of the descent, in the table or Page heere-vnto anexed, the perfect and sundry Genealogies extant, doe sufficiently warrant in this behalfe: If by reason it is but á part, and that also patrern’d out of the large Genealogie as a lim of the same, and runnes onely and directly with the Emperiall lyne, being but so much (as wee may fitly say) is aly’d to the Poem: It seeme not to beare such vniformity and proportion, as workmanship would prayse, that let iudgement beare with, and the Artificer reforme, being placed heere rather for explanation, then any meere or extreame necessitie.
TO THE MAIESTIE OF KING IAMES.
THE hopefull raigne of a most happy King,
Loe thus excites our early Muse to sing,
Of her own strength which boldly thus presumes,
That’s yet vnimpt with any borowed plumes,
A Counsailes wisdome, and their graue fore-sight,
Lends me this luster, and resplendent light:
Whose well-prepared pollicie, and care,
For theyr indoubted Soueraigne so prepare,
Other vaine titles strongly to withstand,
Plac’d in the bosome of a peacefull Land:
That blacke destruction which now many a day,
Had fix’d her sterne eye for a violent pray,
Frustrate by their great prouidence and power,
Her very nerues is ready to deuoure,
And euen for griefe downe sincking in a swound
Beats her snak’d head against the verdant ground.
But whilst the ayre thus thunders with the noise,
Perhaps vnheard, why should I straine my voyce?
Whe stirs, & tumults haue been hot’st & proudest,
The noble Muse hath song the stern’st & lowdest;
And know great Prince, that Muse thy glory sings,
(What ere detraction snarle) was made for Kings.
The neighing courser in this time of mirth,
That with his arm’d hoofe beats th’reecchoing earth,
The trumpets clangor, & the peoples cry,
Not like the Muse can strike the burnish’d skie,
which should heaue quench th’eternal quicking springs
The stars put out, could light the with her wings.
What though perhaps my selfe I not intrude
Amongst th’vnstedy wondring multitude,
The tedious tumults, and the boystrous throng,
That presse to view thee as thou com’st along,
The praise I giue thee shall thy welcome keepe,
Whe all these rude crowds in the dust shal sleepe,
And when applause and shouts are hush’d & still
The shal my smooth verse chant thee cleer & shril.
With thy beginning, doth the Spring begin,
And as thy Vsher gently brings thee in,
Which in consent doth happily accord
With the yeere kept to the incarnate Word,
And in that Month (cohering by a fate)
By the old world to wisdome dedicate,
Thy Prophet thus doth seriously apply,
As by a strong vnfailing Augury,
That as the fruitfull, and ful-bosom’d Spring,
So shall thy raigne be rich and florishing:
The month thy conquests, & atchieuements great
By those shall sit on thy Imperiall seate,
And by the yeere I seriously diuine
The Crowne for euer setled in thy line.
From Cornwall now past Calidons proude strength,
Thy Empire beares eight hudred miles in length:
Halfe which in bredth her bosome forth doth lay
From the faire German to’th Vergiuian sea:
Thy Realme of Ireland, a most fertile Land,
Brought in subiection to thy glorious hand,
And all the Iles theyr chalkie tops aduance
To the sunne setting from the coast of Fraunce.
Saturne to thee his soueraignty resignes,
Op’ning the lock’d way to the wealthy mines:
And till thy raigne Fame all this while did houer,
The North-west passage that thou might’st discouer
Vnto the Indies, where that treasure lies
Whose plenty might ten other worlds suffice.
Neptune and Ioue together doe conspire,
This giues his trydent, that his three-forkt fire,
And to thy hand doe giue the kayes to keepe,
Of the profound immeasurable deepe.
But soft my Muse, check thy abundant straine
To the conceiuing of th’vnskilfull braine,
That whilst thy true descent I doe rehearse,
Th’vnlearned’st soule may sweetly tast my verse:
Which now in order let me first dispose,
And tell the vnion of the blessed Rose,
That to thy Grandsire Henry I may bring thee,
(From whom I after to thy birth may sing thee.)
That Tudors blood did worthily prefer,
From the great Queene that beautious Dowager,
Whose sonne braue Richmond fro the Brittons fet,
Graft in the stock of Princely Sommerset,
The third faire Sien, the sweet Roseat plant,
Sprong from the Roote of the Lancastrian Gant,
Which had seauenth Henry, that of royall blood
By his deere Mother, is the Red-rose bud,
As theyr great Merlin propheci’d before
Should the old Brittons regalty restore,
Which Henry raigning by th’vsurpers death,
Maried the Princesse faire Elizabeth
Fourth Edwards daughter, whose predest’nate bed
Did thus conioyne the White-rose, and the Red:
These Roseall branches as I thus entwyne,
In curious trayles embelishing thy lyne,
To thy blest Cradell let me bring thee on,
Rightly deriu’d from thy great Grandsires throne.
Who holding Scotlands amity in worth,
Strongly to linck him with King Iames the fourth,
His eldest daughter did to him vnite,
Th’vnparaleld bright louely Margarite,
Which to that husband prosperously did bring,
The fifth of that Name, Scotlands lawfull King,
Father to Mary (long in England seene)
The Daulphins dowager, the late Scottish Queene.
But now to Margarite backe againe to come,
From whose so fruitfull, and most blessed wombe
We bring our full ioy, Iames her husband dead,
Tooke gallant Anguish to a second bed,
To whom ere long she bare a princely gerle,
Maried to Lenox, that braue-issued Earle,
This beautious Dowglasse, as the powers imply,
Brought that Prince Henry, Duke of Albany,
who in the prime of stregth, in youths sum’d pride
Maried the Scotch Queene on the other side,
Whose happy bed to that sweet Lord did bring,
This Brittaine hope, Iames our vndoubted King,
In true succesion, as the first of other
Of Henries line by Father, and by Mother.
Thus fro the old stock showing thee sprong to be,
Grafting the pure White, with the Red-rose tree,
By mixture made vermillion as they meet,
For in that colour is the Rose most sweet:
So in thy Crowne the precious flower that growes
Be it the Damaske, or Vermillion Rose,
Amongst those Reliques, that victorious King,
Edward cald Longshanks, did from Scotland bring,
And as a Trophie royally prefer
To the rich Shrine in famous Westminster,
That stone reseru’d in England many a day,
On which great Iacob his graue head did lay,
And saw descending Angels whilst he slept:
Which since that time by sundry Nations kept,
(From age to age I could recite you how,
Could I my pen that liberty alow.)
An ancient Prophet long agoe fore-told,
(Though fooles their sawes for vanities doe hold)
A King of Scotland, ages comming on,
Where it was found, be crown’d vpon that stone.
Two famous Kingdoms seperate thus long,
Within one Iland, and that speake one tongue,
Since Brute first raign’d, (if men of Brute alow)
Neuer before vnited vntill now,
what power, nor war could do, nor time expected,
Thy blessed birth hath happily effected.
O now reuiue that noble Brittaines name,
From which at first our ancient honors came,
Which with both Nations fitly doth agree
That Scotch and English without difference be,
And in that place wher feuds were wont to spring
Let vs light Iigs, and ioyfull Paeans sing.
Whilst such as rightly propheci’d thy raigne,
Deride those Ideots held their words for vaine.
Had not my soule beene proofe gainst enuies spite
I had not breath’d thy memory to write:
Nor had my zealous, and religious layes
Told thy rare vertues, and thy glorious dayes.
Renowned Prince, when all these tumults cease,
Euen in the calme, and Musick of thy peace,
If in thy grace thou deigne to fauour vs,
And to the Muses be propitious,
Caesar himselfe, Roomes glorious wits among,
Was not so highly, nor diuinely sung.
The very earthl’est & degenerat’st spirit,
That is most voyd of vertue, and of merit,
With the austeer’st, and impudentest face,
Will thrust himselfe the formost to thy grace;
Those silken, laced, and perfumed hinds,
That haue rich bodies, but poore wretched minds,
But from thy Court (O Worthy) banish quite
The foole, the Pandar, and the Parasite,
And call thy selfe most happy (then be bold)
When worthie places, worthi’st men doe hold,
The seruile clowne for shame shall hide his head,
His ignorance, and basenesse frustrated,
Set louely vertue euer in thy view,
And loue them most, that most doe her pursue,
So shalt thou ad renowne vnto thy state,
A King most great, most wise, most fortunate.
FINIS.
To the Reader.
FOR the more apt contriuing of t
his part or branch of the Genealogie, those to whom (from me) the coppie appertaineth, haue now against this speedy, and second impression of this small Poem diligently performed, to which intent I haue set these few lines in the place of the other short Epistle, to cancell the former excuse, made for the speedy dooing of the last: whose proportion beeing (I trust) sufficient, needes no further alowance then it selfe, in giuing apt bodies to those descents, in manner as they are truly wouen in the Poem: Farewell.
THE OWL
THE OWLE
WHAT time the sunne by his all-quickning power.
Gives life and birth to every plant and flowre,
The strength and fervour of whose pregnant ray,
Buds every branch, and blossomes every spray;
As the frim sap (the yeerely course assignde) 5
From the full root, doth swell the plenteous rynde:
The vitall spirits long nourisht at the heart,
Flie with fresh fire to each exterior part:
Which stirres desire in hot and youthfull blouds; 9
To breathe their deare thoughts to the listing woods.
With those light flockes, which the faire fields frequent,
This frollike season luckily I went,
And as the rest did, did I frankly too,
‘Least is he mark’d, that doth as most men doe.
But whether by some casuall defect, 15
All flowres alike the time did not respect:
Some whose new roots ne’r saw a former May,
Flourish now faire, those withered quite away.
Into my thoughts that incidently brings
Th’ inconstant passage of all worldly things. 20
The rarest worke whereat we wonder long,
Obscur’d by time that envie could not wrong.
And what in life can mortall man desire,
That scarsly com’n, but quickly doth retire?
The monarchies had time to grow to head, 25
And at the height their conquered honours fled:
And by their wane those latter kingdomes rose,
That had their age to winne, their houre to lose,
Which with much sorrow brought into my minde,
Their wretched soules so ignorantly blinde, 30
(When even the great’st things in the world unstable)
That clime to fall, and damne them for a bable.
Whilst thus my thoughts were strongly entertain’d,
The greatest lampe of heaven his height had gain’d;
Seeking some shade to lend content to me, 35
Lo, neere at hand, I spy’d a goodly tree;
Under th’extensure of whose lordly armes,
The small birds warbled their harmonious charmes.
Where sitting downe to code the burning heat,
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