Matilda The faire and chaste daughter of the Lord Robert Fitzwater. The true glorie of the noble house of Sussex.

MATILDA . IF to this time some sacred Muse retaine , Those choise regards by perfect vertue taught , And in her chast and virgine-humble vaine , Doth kindly cherrish one pure Mayden thought , In whom my death hath but true pitty wrought , By her I craue my life may be reueald , Which blacke obliuion hath too long conceald . Or on the earth if mercy may be found , Or if remorce may touch the harts of men , Or eyes may lend me teares to wash my wound , Or passion be exprest by mortall pen , Yet may I hope of some compassion then : Three hundreth yeeres by all men ouer past , Now sinding one to pittie mee at last . You blessed Impes of heauenly chastitie , You sacred Vestalls , Angels onely glory , Right presidents of imortalitie , Onely to you I consecrate my storie . It shall suffise for mee if you be sorie . If you alone shall deigne to grace his verse , Which serues for odours to perfume my hearse . Let your delicious heauen-distilling teares , Soften the earth to send mee from her wombe , With Conquerors Lawrell crowne my golden haires , With flowry garlands beautifie my tombe , Be you the Heralds to proclaime me roome , With sable Cypresse maske your louely eyes , Mourning my death with dolefull Elegies . Faire Rosamond , of all so highly graced , Recorded in the lasting Booke of Fame , And in our Sainted Legendarie placed , By him who striues to stellifie her name , Yet will some Matrons say she was to blame . Though all the world bewitched with his ryme , Yet all his skill cannot excuse her cryme . Lucrece , of whom proude Rome hath boasted long , Lately reuiu'd to liue another age , And here ariu'd to tell of Tarquins wrong , Her chast deniall , and the Tyrants rage , Acting her passions on our stately stage . She is remembred , all forgetting me , Yet I as fayre and chast , as ere was she . Shores wife is in her wanton humor sooth'd , And modern Poets , still applaud her praise , Our famous Elstreds wrinckled browes are smooth'd , Call'd from her graue to see these latter daies , And happy 's hee , their glory high'st can raise . Thus looser wantons , still are praisd of many , Vice oft findes friendes , but vertue seldome any . O faire Charites , Ioues most deere delight , O lend me now one heauen-inchanting lay , And you rare Nimphes which please Apollos sight , Bring spreading Palme and neuer-dying Bay , With Oliue branches strew the pleasant way : And with your Viols sound one pleasing straine , To ayde his Muse , and raise his humble vaine . And thou ô Beta , Soueraigne of his thought , Englands Diana , let him thinke on thee , By thy perfections let his Muse be taught , And in his breast so deepe imprinted be , That he may write of sacred Chastitie : Though not like Collin in thy Britomart , Yet loues asmuch , although he wants his arte . O my dread Soueraigne , rare and princely Mayd , From whose pure eyes the world deriues her light , In Angels robes with maiestie arayd , In whom true vertue is defin'd aright : O let these lines be gracious in thy sight , In whom alone , as in a perfect glas , All may discerne how chast Matilda was . To brag of birth , or noblesse , were but vaine , Although I might compare me with the best : To challenge that our Auncesters did gaine , A royall minde such follie doth detest , Which I omit and here set downe myrest : Of vertuous life I meane to boast alone , Our birth is theirs , our vertues are our owne . A shame to fetch our long discent from Kings , And from great Ioue deriue our pedigree , The braue atchiuements of a hundred things , Breathing vaine boastes the worlde to terrifie , If wee our selues doe blot with infamie , And staine that blood and honor which is theirs : Men cannot leaue their vertues to their heyres . The Heauen became a Midwife at my birth , A kind Lucina , gently helping Nature : Some sacred power then present on the earth , Fore-telling rare perfection in a creature , As all men iudg'd by so diuine a feature : Yet as my beautie seem'd to rauish all , Vertue made beauty more angelicall . Vpon my brow , sate Honor in her pride , Tables containing heauens diuinest law , Whose snowie margent quoted on each side , With such delights as all mens harts coulde draw , My thoughts ( as Tutors ) kept mine eyes in awe , From their rare Sun-beames darting forth such raies , As well the worke might shew the Arts-mans praise . These Cherubins , the Tree of life doe keepe , These Dragons , watch the faire Hesperian fruite , These fiery Serpents , guard the golden sheepe , These fixed stars , their rayes like lightning shute , At whose approch the wise were striken mute . These eyes , which onely could true vertues measure , Ordain'd by Nature to preserue her treasure . My words were gracefull , pleasing to the wise , My speech retayning modest decencie , Not fondlie vaine , nor foolishlie precize , But sweetlie tun'd , with such a simphony , Moouing all hearers with the harmonie . Gracing my tale with such an Emphasis , As neuer Musicke could delight like this . My face the sunne , adorning beauties sky , The Booke where heauen her wonders did enrole , A stately Pharus to each wandring eye , And like a Syren could enchaunt the soule , Which had the power the proudest to controle . To whom this gift my Maker had assigned , That there , all eyes like southsayers diuined . Natures fayre Ensigne , roiallie displai'd , Map of Elisium , Eden without night , Ermins wherein rich Phoebus is arai'd , Right prospectiue , reflecting heauenly light , Hart-wounding arrow , pearcing with the sight . Bright mornings lustre , Ioues high exaltation , Load-starre of loue , rare Carde of admiration . True type of honor , fine dilicious varry , The richest coate that euer beautie bare , Pure colours , which the heauens doe onlie carry , O vncouth blazon , so exceeding rare , O curious lymming , passing all compare , First at my birth assigned vnto mee , By that great King of heauenly Heraldrie . From hence my praise began to proue her wing , Which to the heauen could carry vp my fame , Of all my glorie now began the spring , Through euery Coast this still enlarg'd my name , From hence the cause of all my sorrowes came : Thus to this Hydra are we subiect still , Who dares to speake , not caring good or ill . This iealous Monster hath a thousand eyes , Her ayrie body hath as many wings : Now on the earth , then vp to heauen she flies , And heere and there with euery wind she flings , From euery Coast her rumors foorth shee brings ; Nothing so secret but to her appeareth , And apt to credit euery thing shee heareth . Foule blabbing tel-tale , secrets soone bewrayer , Thou ayre-bred Eccho , whisperer of lyes : Shril-sounding trumpet , trueths vnkind betrayer , False larum bel , awaking dead-mens eyes , Vncertaine rumor , wandring in the skyes : Fond pratling Parrat , telling all thou hearest , Oft furthest of when as thou should ●… be nearest . The Princes eares are open to report , Ther 's skill in blazing beauty to a King ; To censure , is the subiect of the Court , From thence Fame carries , thether Fame doth bring , There , to each word a thousand ecchos ring : A Lottery , where most loose , but few doe win , Few loue Religion , many follow sin . Loe , heere at first my beauty plaid her prize , Heere where my vertues seldome prized be , Yet that which most seem'd wondred of the wise , Confin'd by vertue , cleerelie made me see , What dangers were attending still on me : Which most desir'd , for why esteem'd most rare , Gaurded I kept with most especiall care . This , whole possest the thoughts of princelie Iohn , This , on his hart-strings Angels musick made , This , was the subiect which he wrought vpon , That deepe impression which could neuer fade , Reason which might sufficiently perswade : Hence sprong that greefe , which neuer gaue him rest , This was the spirit wher-with hee was possest . This , had commission to cammaund his Crowne , In all his course , conducted by this starre , This , with a smile could cleere each cloudie frowne , This , conquered him , which conquered all in warre , This , calm'd his thoughts in euery bloody iarre , This , taught his eyes their due attendance still , This , held the raines which rul'd his princely will . Controuling Loue , proud Fortunes busie Factor , The gaule of wit , sad Melancholies schoole , Hart-killing corsiue , golden times detractor , Life-fretting canker , mischiefes poysoned toole , The Ideots idoll , but the wise mans foole : A foe to friendship , enemie to trueth , The wrong misleader of our pleasing youth . My vertuous father , famous then in Court , Who liu'd in pompe , and Lorded with the best , Whose minde was troubled with this strange report , As one enshrining honor in his brest , And as a man who euer lou'd me best : Fore-saw the danger of such secret spyes , Who still attended on the Princes eyes . And he , who in the Kings own bosome slept , Experience taught his deepest thoughts to sound , Yet in his brest , the same he secret kept , Nor would disclose the thing which he had found , Who being hurt must needs conceale his wound . For why he knew , it was a dangerous thing , In rule , or Loue , but once to crosse a king . And finding lust had kindled all this fire , And his affections in extreames consisted , He greatly fear'd his youthfull vaine desire , Might grow impatient , being once resisted : Yet in his humor , sith he still persisted , With me his childe , thought fittest to perswade , Ere further he into the deepe durst wade . Sweete gyrle ( quoth he ) the glory of my life , The blessed and sole obiect of mine eyes , For whom the Heauens with Nature fell at strife , On whom the hope of all my fortune lies , Whose youth , my age with comfort still supplies . Whose very sight my drouping hart doth raise , And doth prolong thy aged fathers dayes . Thou seest , a world vpon thy youth awaite , That Paradice , where all delightes do growe , Thy peerlesse Beautie made so faire a baite , The Bursse where Nature sets her ware to show , Where blushing Roses , sleepe in beds of snowe . The heauens haue fring'd thy fore-head with their gold ; That glasse where heauen her-selfe may well behold . All gaze at Comets , choysest things be best , The rarest pearles are euer dearest prized , Seldom wants guests , where Beautie bids the feast , Mens eyes with wonders neuer are suffised , At fairest signes , best welcome is surmised . The shrine of Loue , doth seldom offrings want . Nor with such counsel , Clyents neuer scant . Honor is grounded on the tickle Ice , The purest Lawne , most apt for euery spot , The path to hell , doth seeme a paradice , Vices be noted , verues oft forgot , Thy fame once foild , incurable the blot . Thy name defac'd , if toucht with any staine , And once supplanted , neuer growes againe . The Lechors tongue is neuer voyd of guile , Nor Crocodile wants teares to win his pray , The subtil'st Temptor hath the sweetest stile , With rarest musick Syrens soon'st betray . Assection , will like fire himselfe bewray . Time offers still each hower to do amisse , And greatest dangers , promise greatest blisse . Deceit , still with a thousand sleights is fraught , Art , hath a world of secrets in her power , Who hopes a Conquest , leaues no meanes vnsought , Soft golden drops once peirc'd the brazen tower , Care and Suspition is faire Beauties dower . Guile , ( like a Traytor ) euer goes disguis'd , Lust , oft is fild , but neuer is suffic'd . This wanton Prince , whose soule doth swim in vice , Whose lawlesse youth time neuer hath restrained , He leaues no meanes vnprou'd , which may entice , The rytes of wedlock wantonly profained ; His hands with blood of innocents distained . This Lyon , would thy chastity deuoure , Which kept by Vertue , lyes not in his power . Laciuious will , the sences doth abuse , Birth is no shaddow vnto tyranny , No scepter serues dishonor to excuse , Nor kinglie vaile can couer villanie , Fame is not subiect to authoritie . No plaister heales a deadly poysoned sore , No secret hid , where slaunder keepes the dore . No subtile plea reuokes dishonors error , No law can quite , where Fame is once endited , No armour proofe against the conscience terror , Gainst open shame , no Text can well be cyted , The blow once giuen , cannot be euited . If once the fire be to the powder got , T is then too late to seeke to flie the shot . His youthfull loue , is like a sudden fire , Whose heate extreame , of force decay it must , The cause , proceeding from his lewd desire , Is quickly out , and sooner turn'd to dust , Yet frets the life , as iron frets with rust . Sinne in a chaine , leads on her sister Shame , And both in Giues , fast fettered to Defame . The stately Eagle on his pitch doth stand , And from the maine the fearfull foule doth smite , Yet scornes to touch it lying on the land , When he hath felt the sweet of his delight , But leaues the same a pray to euery Kite . With much we surfer , plenty makes vs poore , The wretched Indian spurns the golden Ore . Kinges vse their Loues , as garments they haue worne , Weake stomackes loath , if once but fully fed , The Saint once stolne , who doth the shrine adorne ? Or what is Nectar if it once be shed ? What Princes wealth can prize thy Maiden-head ? Which should be held as precious as thy breath , Which once dissolu'd of force ensueth death . Loe , heere he makes a period with his teares , Which from his eyes now make a sudden breache , By which the weight of all his speech appeares , In words so graue as seemed still to preach , This Idioma with such power doth teach . Whose tuned cadence doth such rules impart , As deepely fixt each sentence in my hart . O sacred counsell , true hart-suppling balme , Soule-curing plaister , time preseruing blisse , Water of life in euery suddaine qualme , The heauens rich store-house , where all treasure is , True guide , by whom foule Errors den we misse . Night-burning Beacon , watch against mishaps , Fore-sight , auoyding many after claps . The King deluded in his loue the whise , His soule tormented in this quenchlesse fire , With flattering hope his sences doth beguile , Quickning the coales vnto his fond desire ; Affection growne too head-strong to retire , Controules his silence , hating to be mute , And still doth vrge him to commence his sute . Thus carried on by his vnbridled thought , He leaues no baite vnprou'd that might allure , Deceit , a schoole of common sleights hath taught , Desire , hath philters which desires procure , Lust , puts the most vnlawfull things in vre : Nor yet in limmets euer could be bounded , Till he himselfe , himselfe hath quite confounded . But still perceiuing all deuices faile , His traines in Court yet neuer tooke effect , Now with his tongue determin'd to assaile , And to this end doth all his thoughs direct , Too much abused by his vaine suspect : To further daies , no longer would be posted , But finding time , me brauely thus accosted . Goddesse ( quoth he ) when Nature thee engrayned , With colours fetcht from heauens eternall spring , Little thought shee , herselfe shee could haue stayned . Or grace the world with so diuine a thing . But as a gifte to gratifie a King , Seal'd thee this Charter , dated at thy birth , To be the fair'st that euer liu'd on earth . Locke not thy treasure , heauen doth giue the store , A thousand Graces at thine eyes are fed , Thy bosome , is the Angels secret dore , Thy breast , the pillowes of faire Venus bed : Regardes of honour on thy browes are red . Thy cheeks , the banquet where sweet Loue doth feast , The royall Pawne of Beauties interest . Thy lyps , the Bath where sorrows wounds are healed , Where Abstinence keepes Vertue in a diet , And in thy wit , all wonders are reuealed , Wisedom growne welthy , liueth there at quiet : Thy modest eye controules Loues wanton ryot . Thine eye , that planet clearer then the seauen , Whose radient splendour lights the world to heauen . From thy sweet lookes such streames of lightning glide , As through the eyes do wound the very hart , Killing , and curing , as they are applide , Hurting , and healing , like Achilles Dart : Which to the world do heauenly things impart . And thou alone , the spirit of all delight , Which like the sun , ioy'st all things with thy sight . Could heauen allowe wher-with to lim thee forth , Or earth afford things of esteeme to praise thee , Were words sufficient to expresse thy worth , Or could inuention to thy glory raise thee , Could Art deuise a weight whereby to paize thee : But thy surpassing exeellence is such , As eyes may gaze , but nothing els may tuch . Hee is thy King , who is becom thy subiect , Thy soueraigne Lord , who onely seekes thy loue , Thy beauty is his eyes commaunding obiect , Who for thy sake , a thousand deathes would proue : Sweet Maid let prayers , some compassion moue . Let Wolues , and Beares , be cruell in their kinds , But women meeke , and haue relenting minds . Loue forc'd the Gods , to things for Gods vnmeer , Behold a Monarch kneeling to a maide , Apollo , prostrate at his Daphnes feete , Great Atlas bowes , on whom the heauen is staide ; Thy Ioue his Scepter on thy lap hath laide , Thou in his throne doest sit as Chancellor , And hee become thy daylie Orator . Looke on these browes , the perfect Map of care , The truest mirrour of my miserie , In wrinckled lines where sorrowes written are , Where Time still reades on Loues Anotomy , My bloodlesse vaines with greefes Phlebotomy : A stanchlesse hart , dead-wounded , euer bleeding , On whom that nere-fild vulture Loue sits feeding . Pitty this soule-euaporating smoke , The purest incense of most perfect zeale , These deep-fetcht sighes , confounding words halfe spoke , Where swoln-ey'd passion doth herselfe reueale : That ragefull fier , no reason can conceale . Where torments last , and ioyes are still diluded , Where all infernall torture is included . Behold , the brim-full Cesterns of these eyes , With surging Tydes of brackist teares frequented , Where foodlesse Hope , still hunger-staruen lies , In burning Pooles eternally tormented : Which to betray , my hart at first consented . Where as the spirit of woe , hath euer being , Blinded in teares , yet in teares only seeing . Shyne thou , like Cynthia vnder mine estate , Thy tresses deckt with Ariadnes Crowne , In pompe redubbling costly Iunos rate , And cloud the world in sable with a frowne : Aduance thy friends , and throw the mighty downe . Be thou admir'd through all this famous I le , Thy name enrol'd with neuer-dated stile . Great troupes of Ladies shall attend my Gerle , Thou on thy braue tryumphing Chariot borne , Thy drinke shall be dissolued orient Pearle , Thy princely Cup of rarest Vnicorne : Then liue at ease , and laugh the world to scorne . And if our musick cannot like thine eares , Thy Ioue shall fetch thee musick from the Spheres . Thy name , as my Empreza will I beare , My well tun'd rymes , shall glory in thy praise , Vpon my Crowne , thy fauors will I weare , Figuring thy loue a thousand sundry wayes : My power shall be thy shield at all assaies . And thou my Saint , Kings offering to thy shrine , Wondring thy beautie , as a thing diuine . What if my Queene , Detractor of our blisse , Thee by her hundreth-eyed Heardsman keepe , I le bring to passe , shee shall her purpose misse , My Mercurie shall lull him till he sleepe ; Loue euer laughs , when Ielousie dooth weepe . My prouidence , shall keepe her stomacke vnder , She may raise stormes , but Ioue doth rule the thunder . Thus hauing broke the Ice from whence might spring , Sweet streames of loue in calme and fairer time , And afterward , might ioyfull tydings bring , The staire begun by which he thought to clyme , Hoping due howres , now he had set the chyme ; Lea●●s me , not knowing now which way to turne me , warm'd with the fire , which vnawars might burne me . Forth-with began strange factions in my thought , And in my soule a sudden mutinie , Feare and Desire , a doubtfull combat fought , The tytle stands vpon extremity : My force was great , and strong mine enemie ; Till Resolution , seeing all begun , Sent Succors in , by whom the field was won . As thus mine honour in the Ballance hung , Betwixt the worlds preferment and my fame , These in myne eares , like Syrens sweetly sung , That wisely still fore-warned me of shame : Till Grace diuine from highest heauen came . Now must I loose the prize , or win the Crowne , Till Vertue ( currant ) lastly way'd mee downe . The time is come I must receiue my tryall , His protestations subtilly accuse mee , My Chastitie sticks still to her deniall , His promises false witnes do abuse me , My Conscience cald , yet cleerly doth excuse me . And those pure thoughts , enshrined in my brest , By verdict quit mee , being on the Quest. And Wisedom now fore-warned mee of treason , That in the Court , I liu'd a Lyons pray , My tender youth in this contagious season , Still fear'd infection , following day by day : My Barck vnsafe on this tempestious Sea . My Chastity in danger euery hower , No succour neer to shroud me from the shower . With Resolution , hap what might be-tide , I leaue the Court , the Spring of all my woe , That Court , which gloried in my Beauties pride , That Beauty , which my Fortune made my foe , To Baynards-Castell secretly I goe . Where , with his trayne , my noble Father lay , Whose gracious counsell was my onely stay . There , might my thoughts keepe holy-day a while , And sing a farewell to my sorrowes past , With all delights I might the time beguile , Attayn'd my wished liberty at last , No fearfull vision made mee now agast . But like a Birde escapt her Keepers charge , Glydes through the ayre with wings display'd at large . And hoping health thus cured of these qualmes , My hart in this fayre harbour rides at ease , The tempest past , expecting quiet calmes , My Shyp thus floting on these blisfull Seas , A sudden storme my Ankor-hold doth raise : And from the shore doth hoyse me to the maine , Where I ( poore soule ) my shipwrack must sustaine . And loe , the Autumne of my ioyes approch , Whilst yet my spring began so faire to flourish , Black way-ward Winter , sets her stormes abroch , And kils the sap which all my hopes did nourish . Fortune once kind , growes crabbed now and currish . In my straight path , she layes a mighty beame . And in my course , she thwarts me with the streame . The King who saw his loue vnkindly crost , And by effect the cause had fully found , Since he the haruest of his hope had lost , Now on reuenge his deepest thoughts doth ground : Desperate to kill , receiuing his deaths wound . In reasons bounds striues but in vaine to hold , Head-strong desire , too proud to be controld . Like the braue Courser strugling with the raines , His foming mouth controld with Canons check , With lofty bounds his skilfull Ryder straines , Scorning to yeeld his stately crested neck : Nor of the bloody pearcing spurres doth reck . The King now warmed in this glorious fire , Thus roughly plungeth in his vaine desire . Hence-forth deuising to disperse the Cloude , Which euer hung betwixt him and the light : His loue not currant , nor to be allow'd , Whilst thus my Father held mee in his sight , Some-thing amisse , his Watch went neuer right . Of force hee must this Sentinell remoue , If hee in time would hope to win my loue . Ten thousand mischiefes now hee sets abroch , Treasons , inuasions , ciuill mutinie , Black ignominie , slaunderous reproch , Rebellion , out-rage , vile conspiracie , Opening the intralls of all villanie . Causing my Lord , thereof to be accused , By Traytors , such as hee with gyfts abused . Foule Enuie thou , the partiall Iudge of right , Sonne of Deceit , borne of that harlot Hate , Nursed in Hell , a vile and vglie spright , Feeding on Slaunder , cherrish'd with Debate : Neuer contented with thine owne estate . Deeming alike the wicked and the good , Whose words be gall , whose actions end in blood . His seruice done to this vngratefull King , His worth , his valure , his gentilitie : What good so-euer might from vertue spring , Or could proceede from true Nobilitie , All buried now in darke obscuritie . His vertuous life , in doubtfull question brought , Which euer-more for fame and honour sought . Thou hatefull Monster , base Ingratitude , Soules mortall poyson , deadly-killing wound , Deceitfull Serpent , seeking to dilude , Black lothsome ditch , where all desert is drownd , Vile Pestilence , which all things doost confound ; At first to none other end , But to greeue those whom nothing could offend . Such as too well perceiu'd the Kings intent , In whom remayn'd yet any sparke of grace , Pittying a poore distressed innocent , Their safety still depending on my ease , These in my wrongs participate a place . These , bound in friendship , and alied in blood , Fast to my Father in the quarrell stood . But as a Lyon in the wildes of Thrace , With darts and arrowes gauled at the bay , Kills man and beast incountring in the Chase , And downe on heapes , the fearfull Heards doth lay , His armed pawes each where doth make his way : Thus by his power , the King doth now surprise , Such as in armes resist his tyrannies . And giuen ouer to his vile desire , The spectakle of lothsome sinne and shame , Our strong-built Castels now hee sets on fire , And ( like proude Nero ) warmes him by the flame . Wasting themselues , augmenting his defame . Which like bright Beacons , blaze in euery eye , Warning all other of his tyrannie . Our friends and followers thus are beaten downe , Whom euery slaue and pesant dare reuile , And all reputed Traytors to the Crowne , Imprisoned some , some forc'd into exile ; Yet worst of all , ( remedilesse the while , ) My Father sent a banish'd man to Fraunce , And heere perforce must leaue mee to my chaunce . On shyp-bord now , with hands rear'd to the skyes , ( All sigh'd and wept , could sigh nor weepe no more , ) Hee turnes his sad eclipsed tearefull eyes , As retrograde vnto the blessed shore ; Rich Ile ( quoth hee , ) once Garner of my store , Taken from mee by yonder Tyrants theft , And I as poore as ere was Irus left . T is not my wealth , that , I esteeme as light , Nor yet my Country , though so deere to mee , But thou alone Matilda , my delight , My lyfe , my soule , all my felicity , Left as a pray , vile Monster vnto thee . Yet my laments are wasted all in vaine , And to these windes and billowes must complaine . But now the Wolfe is got into my fold , God help the Lambe that 's in the Lyons power ; Alas poore Maid , thus art thou bought and sold , Prepared for the slaughter euery howre , This Minataure must all my hopes deuoure . Yet forc'd by Fortune to endure this woe , And vnreueng'd vnto my graue shall goe . Within the furrowes of my aged browes , My ioyes must their vntimely buriall haue , This fatall Tombe proude Fortune them alowes , Which thus with-holds mee from my wished graue . The heauens are deafe although I iustly craue . My teares with greefe are frozen in mine eyes , Yet God , nor man , regards my miseries . Thrice famous Romaine , ( fortunate to mee , ) By whose owne hands thy deerest child was slaine , Deliuer'd so from slauish tyrannie , But lyuing , mine dishonor'd shall remaine , Blotting my Name with an immortall staine ; Whose black reproch , for euer shall endure . " Ah vile disease that neuer tyme can cure . Euen as the kinde sleep-breaking Nightingale , ( The cruell Merlin ceaz'd her little one , ) Vnto the Thickets tells a wofull tale , Wearying the woods with her continuall mone . Thys poore Byrd chirpeth , hee poore Lord doth grone . Shee weepes all night , by day complaineth hee , Shee for her young one , hee laments for mee . Looke how the Sea , the Tyde once beeing past , Whose surges stroue the continent to climbe , And bounding backe vnto the Gulfe at last , Vpon the Sands doth leaue a clammie slime , Teares in his cheekes , such gutters worne in time . Wash'd with the floods of his stil-troubled braine , His eyes brim-full , as furrowes after raine . And thus my Father vnawares betray'd , A thousand sorrowes mee at once assaile ; What might I doe , a silly helplesse mayde , Tost and turmoyl'd in this tempestious gale ? These boysterous flawes haue broken down my saile . My succors thus ( like shadowes ) now are gone , Not one remaines to whom to make my mone . Now , like a Roe , before the hounds imbost , When ouer-toyl'd his swiftnes doth aslake , Forsakes the Plaines , to which hee trusted most , And to the couert doth himselfe betake , Where dubbling still , creepes on from brake to brake ; Thus doe I flie before the Princes face , Who day and night pursues mee still in chase . The Coast is cleere , suspitious eyes at rest , And all things fadge which further his desire : Now royall hope keepes reuels in his brest , The coales are quick , and Fancie blowes the fire : His loue expects his long deserued hire . No clowde discern'd to hinder this his sunne , The watch discharg'd , he hopes the towne is wonne . The Princes armes are strecht from shore to shore , Kings sleeping , see with eyes of other men , Craft findes a key to open euery dore , What might I doe , or what auailes mee then ? The silly Lambe liues in the Lyons den . Loues wakefull eyes ( too soone alas ) discry'd mee , And found mee , where I surest thought to hide mee . My Ioue , like Ioue now seekes mee to inuade , And roysting comes , in thunder-bolts and rayne , A Beast , a Byrd , a Satyre in the shade , A flood , a fire , a Serpent and a Swaine , Camelion-like , as fitt'st my loue to gaine . Now like great Phoebus in his golden Carre , And then like Mars , the fearefull God of warre . Hee makes the Ayre to wooe me whilst I talk , The Wind to whistle many a pleasant Dittie , The dainty Grasse make musick as I walk , The prettie Flowers to moue me still to pitty : All sencelesse things with reason seeming wittie . Before mine eyes hee euer dooth appeare , And if I call , still aunswers , I am heere . My steppes are told , my pathes by Spyes are noted , Mine eyes by Night-spells shut within the watch , My words are way'd by ielous Loue that doted , And at my thoughts , Ill-meaning still doth catch : Into my counselles Treason drawes the latch . And at my gates , Suspition still doth ward , Sorrow my hand-maid , Falsehood on my gard . He weepes his words , but words could win no teares , " The raine doth cease or ere the Floods do rise , His wofull words his tongue awhile forbeares . Then doth he , his harts arrant with his eyes : His eyes ecclipz'd , he then with sighes supplies . Sighes faile , with smiles he then bewrayes his paine , Smiling , he weepes , yet weeping , laughes againe . Looke how the Peacock ruffes his flaunting tayle , And struts vnder his mooned Canapie , And how hee quiuers with his plumed sayle ; Yet when his Lead-pale legs hee haps to see , With shame abates his painted iolitie . The King , as proude as Peacock in my loue , Yet droupes again , when words nor teares could moue . My breast , of Flint , a rock impenitrable , My hart , that stone which neuer toole could perce , My thoughts , a center , and vnsearchable , My words , iudgement , which Law could not reuerse , My frownes , such clowdes , as no ioy could disperse , Tygars are tam'd with patience and with skill , All things made subiect , but a womans will . The King like one sick of a strange disease , Whose cruell paine no phisick can asswage , Nor plaster can his torments once appease , Boyling his intrales , with such hellish rage , With his owne knife his horror doth engage . Thus desperate , he , fore-thinks to end this strife , Or else by poyson take away my life But first , with lines hee brauely sitteth on , Words steep'd in syrop of Ambrosia , Sweet method , sauored with inuention , What can be said that Louers cannot say ? Desire can make a Doctor in a day . Each sentence seem'd a sweet inchannting charme A Trumpet sounding gentle Loues alarme . With rare hart-curing Phrigian harmonie , He tunes his strings , as not a trebble iarres , His straines so pleasant and melodious bee , As might appease the heat of fearefull warres : Distilling balme to cure the deepest scarres His pen , dilates his hartes Apologie , And shewes my sinnes , by loues Theologie . What curious thing did Nature ere bring forth , What glistering starre that yeelds his siluer shine , To which hee doth not now compare my worth ? Or what is there , that 's mortall or diuine ? What sublimation doth not refine ? Or what rare thing was euer yet deuised , That vnto mee , hee hath not lightly prized ? Now mounts hee vp with loftie straines of loue , Then to sad vaines his pliant Muse doth bow , His humors seruing , as his passions moue : And as the Tydes , the numbers ebbe and flow ; His hopes now wither , then againe they grow . Painting his greefe , in hope to quench desire , But inck to loue , like oyle vnto the fire . And now of one hee had himselfe aduis'd , Both red and practiz'd in thys wretched Arte , Within whose braine all mischiefes were compris'd , Whose words were venom , and his tongue a Darte : And this is hee must acte this damned part . To him the King , my poysoning doth commit , Who had before made tryall of his wit . Another Dagon , was this miscreant , A diuell , walking in a humaine shape , Foule Dagon , borne true vertue to supplant , For whom th' infernall pit of Hell doth gape : Image of pride , of villany and rape , Be thou abhord of all posteritie , And let thy vile dishonor neuer dye . By him to Dunmow , hee these lines conuayde , A Monestarie Iuga had begunne , Iuga , sometime a holie Vestall mayde , At whose great charge this Monument was donne , Where I had vow'd to liue a holie Nunne . And in my Cloyster , kept amongst the rest , Which in this place virginitie profest . Now he which had this bloody acte in charge , Thether repaires , with letters from the King , Whose black Commission was but all too large , To execute so base and vile a thing : This messenger which now my death doth bring , To adde fit matter to my tragike storie , Finds meanes to boord mee in my oratorie . With courtly congies gently greeting mee , Giues mee the packet which the King had sent mee , Receiue fayre Maide , these Letters heere ( quoth hee , ) The faithfull earnest of that good is meant thee : But crauing that which neuer shall repent thee . His lines be loue , the Letters writ in blood , Then make no doubt the warrant passing good . Kindly accept a Princes kingly offer , T is more then follie if thou doe refuse it : Neuer hath Fortune made a fairer profer , The gyft too great , if fondly thou abuse it , Nor any reason serueth to excuse it . Be not a foe vnto thine owne good hap , Refusing treasure throwne into thy lap . If thou be wise , hold this as ominus , The heauens not like disposed euery hower : The starres be still predominant in vs , Fortune not alwaies forth her bags doth poure , Nor euery clowde doth raine a golden shower . Occasion 's wing'd , and euer flyeth fast , Comming , shee smyles , & frownes once being past . Wrong not thy selfe , nor yet the worlde depriue , Of that rare good which Nature freely lent , Think'st thou by such base nygardize to thriue , In sparing that which neuer will be spent ? And that is worst , in age shall thee repent . Playing the Churle , to hoord vp Beauties pelfe , And liue , and dye , and all vnto thy selfe . Yet , were this all ( quoth hee , ) as would it were , But there is more , which needes I must reueale : Behold the poyson he hath sent thee here , Which on my life I dare not to conceale , Thus is the King determined to deale . I , onely waite vpon thy resolution , To win thy loue , or see thy execution . Leaue off these humors , be not singuler , Make not an Idoll of thine owne perfection , Prize not this word ( Virginitie ) so deere , Seeme not so Saint-like , moou'd with no affection . Beautie brings perrill , wanting safe protection . Forsweare this drousie melancholie Cell , Was neuer Gerle could grace a Court so well . This feare first sprong from foolish superstition , Which fond conceit into our eares hath blowne , Which wee receiue from old folkes by tradition , And as a weede to choke our ioyes is growne : Reason rootes out what Error erst hath sowne . A gentle iest to fright poore babes withall , Like to a Bug-beare , painted on a wall . Tush , these be triuiall toyes of reputation , Whose Ceremonies haue the world infected , Held in regard but onely for a fashion , Which friuolous , the wiser haue neglected : And but as Dreames of doting age respected . Whose spleen-sick humors on their galls were fed , Thinking all true which they imagined . Dispatch , ( quoth hee ) loe , heere is pen and inck , Heere make the Prince assurance of thy loue , Or els prepare thee to thy fatall drinke , Which is of force thy Feuer to remoue : Which ( ah pore fondling ) thou too soone maist proue . And if thy will be so fast chayn'd to thee , Let thine own hands the Executioners bee . And is ( quoth I ) the Princes pleasure thus ? You are deceiu'd , hee doth but this to try mee , I know my Lord is kinde and gracious , Hee thinks my sexe & weaknes will discry mee ; I hope the King will deale more kindly by mee . Those blessed hands , which neuer did but good , Will not be stain'd with virgins guiltlesse blood . His thoughts be pure , as Christall , without spot , Hee is wisdom , honour , valure , chastitie : What excellence is there that hee is not ? Or what may be , by him which cannot be ? Hee 's Vertues right superlatiue degree . From his affections , neuer shall proceede , One little thought of this so vile a deede . Kings be the Gods Vizegerents heere on earth , The Gods haue power , Kings from that power haue might , Kings should excell in vertue as in birth , Gods punish wrongs , & Kings shold maintaine right , They be the Sunnes from which we borrow light . And they as Kings , should still in iustice striue , With Gods , from whom their beings they deriue . Inrag'd with this , ( in greefes extremitie , ) Minion , ( quoth hee , ) t is now no time to prate , Dispatch , or els I le drench you presently , Of this , nor that , I stand not to debate . Expects thou loue where thou reward'st with hate ? I passe not I , how ere thou like the motion , Haue done at once , and quickly take the Potion . This sudden terror makes mee pause for breath , Till sighing out at length this sad reply : If it be so , welcom to mee my death , This is the vtmost of extremitie , And yet when all is done , I can but die . His will be done , sith hee will haue it so , And welcome Death , the end of all my woe . And thou my Deaths-man , slaue vnto his lust , Th' executioner of his lawlesse will , In whom the Tyrant doth repose such trust , Detract no time , his murthering minde fulfill ; Doe what thou dar'st , the worst thou canst but kill . And tell the Tyrant this when I am dead , I loath'd his beastly and adulterous bed . Nor let the King thy Maister euer thinke , A vertuous Maid so cowardly and base , As to be frighted with a poysoned drinke , And liue an abiect in the worlds disgrace : All eyes with shame to gaze mee in the face . That ages which heer-after shall succeede , Shall hold mee hatefull for so vile a deede . Is this the greatest gyft he could bestowe ? Is this the Iewell , wher-with hee doth present mee ? I am his friend , what giues hee to his foe , If this in token of his loue be sent mee ? Remedilesse I am , it must content mee . Yet afterward , a prouerbe this shall proue , The gift King Iohn bestow'd vpon his Loue . Then of this conquest let thy Soueraigne boast , And make report with shame what hee hath done : A thing more easie then subdue an Hoast , Or conquer Kingdoms , as his Father wonne ; O haplesse Sire , of this vnhappy Sonne . And hee more shame shall carrie to his graue , Then Fortune honors to his Father gaue . Thus spoke my minde , ( as women vse to doe , ) Hoping thereby som-what to ease my hart , But words I found , did but increase my woe , Augment his rage , not mittigate my smart ; And now comes in the reckoning ere wee part . And now my valure must be try'd , or neuer , Or famous now , or infamous for euer . Taking the poyson from his deadly hand , Vnto the King caroust my latest draught ; Goe wretch ( quoth I ) now let him vnderstand , Hee hath obtayn'd what hee so long hath sought ; Though with my blood , my fame I deerlie bought . And though my youth hee basely haue betrayd , Yet witnes Heauen , I liu'd and dyed a Mayd . Then why repine I , sith hee thinks it meete , Hee is my Soueraigne , and my life is his , Death is not bitter , spyc'd with such a sweet , Which leades the way to euerlasting blis ; Hee 's all my ioy , hee all my glory is . Hee is the tuch by whom my gold is tryed , Onely by him my death is sanctified . For could my life haue giuen life to mee , My youthes fayre flower , yet blooming , had not dyed , Then how should this but meritorious bee , When by my death , my life is sanctified ? Could euer thing more fitly bee applied ? In this is loue , in this his care I finde , My Lord is iust , my Lord is onelie kinde . Then let these teares , th' Elixars of my loue , Bee to his soule a pure preseruatiue , And let my prayers , be of such force to moue , That by my death , my Soueraigne may suruiue : And from his raigne , let Fame herselfe deriue His glorie , like the Sunnes translucent rayes , And as the heauen , eternall be his dayes . This mortall poyson , now beginnes to rage , And spreads his vigor thorough all my vaines , There is no phisick can my greefe aswage , Such is the torment which my hart destraines , Boyling my intrales in most hellish paines . And Nature , weakned of her wonted force , Must yeeld to death , which now hath no remorce . And those pure thoughts , which once I choisly fed , Now when pale death my sences doth surprize , I offer heere vpon my dying bed , This precious , sweet , perfumed sacrifice : Hallowed in my almighty Makers eyes . Which from this Alter , lends me heauenly light , Guiding my soule amid this darkesome night . My glorious life , my spotlesse Chastity . Now at this hower bee all the ioyes I haue , These be the wings by which my fame shall flye , In memorie , these shall my Name engraue ; These , from obliuion shall mine honour saue . With Laurell , these my browes shall coronize , And make mee liue to all posterities . Our fond preferments , are but childrens toyes , And as a shaddow , all our pleasures passe , As yeeres increase , so wayning are our ioyes , And beautie crazed , like a broken glasse : A prettie tale of that which neuer was . All things decay , yet Vertue shall not dye , This onely giues vs immortalitie . My soule , thus from her pryson set at large , And gentlie freed from this poluted roome , This prize vnloden from this lothsome Barge , ( Such is the Heauens ineuitable doome : ) My body layd at Dunmow in my Toombe . Thus Baynards-Castle boastes my blessed birth , And Dunmow kindly wraps mee in her earth . Now scarcely was my breathlesse body cold , But euery where my tragedy was spred : And Fame , abroad in euery Coast had told , My resolution , beeing lately dead : The glorious wonder of all woman-head . And to my Father flyes with this report , Who liu'd an Exile in the French-Kings Court . His griefe , too great to be bewail'd with teares , Words , insufficient to expresse his woe , His soule , assaulted with a thousand feares , As many , sundry passions come and goe ; His thoughts , vncertaine , wandring to and froe . At length , this fearefull extasie ore-past , Grones from his soule this passion at the last . O Heauens ( quoth hee ) why was I borne accurst ? This onely comfort to mine age was left : But to despite mee , you haue done your worst , And mee of all my worldly ioyes bereft : I quite vndone by your deceitfull theft . This was the Iewell I esteemed most , And loosing this , now all my treasurs lost . Yee powers Diuine , if you be cleane and chast , In whom alone consists eternitie , Why suffer you , your owne to be disgra'st , Subiect to death and black impuritie ? If in your shield be no securitie ? If so for Vertue these rewards be due ? Who shall adore , or who shall honour you ? What ment you , first to giue her vitall breath , Or make the world proude by her blessed birth , Predestinating this vntimely death , And of her presence to depriue the earth ? O fruitlesse age , now staru'd with Vertues dearth . Or if you long'd to haue her company , O why by poyson would you let her die ? O Soile , with drops of mercy once bedew'd , When iust men were instauled in thy throne , But now with blood of Innocents imbrew'd , Stayning the glory of fayre Albion , O lustfull Monster , ô accursed Iohn . O heauens , to whom should men for iustice cry , When Kings themselues thus raigne by tyrannie ? O gyue mee wings Reuenge , I will ascend And fetch her soule againe out of their power ; From them proceeded this vntimely end , Who tooke her hence before her dying hower . And rays'd that clowd which rayn'd this bloody shower . And from the graue I le dig her body vp , Which had her bane by that vile poysoned cup. O pardon Heauens these sacriligious words , This irreligious open blasphemie : My wretched soule no better now affords , Such is the passion of mine agonie , My desperate case in this extremitie . You harbour those which euer like you best , With blessed Angels let her spirit rest . No , no , I le practise by some secret art , How to infect his pure life-breathing ayre , Or else I le sheath my poyniard in his hart , Or with strong poyson I le annoynt his Chayre : Or by inchauntment , will his dayes impayre . O no , reuenge to God alone belongs , And it is hee which must reuenge my wrongs . O heauens , perforce we must attend your time , Our succours must awaite vpon you still , In your iust waights you ballance euerie crime , For vs you know what 's good , and what is ill ; Who vnderstands your deepe and secret skill ? In you alone our destinies consist , Then who is hee which can your power resist ? O , could my sighes againe but giue thee breath , Or were my teares such balme as could restore thee , Or could my life redeeme thee from this death , Or were my prayers , but inuocations worthy : Sighes , teares , life , prayers , were all to little for thee . But since the heauen , thus of my child disposeth , Ah me , thy Tombe now all my ioyes incloseth . O what a wonder shall thy valure bring ? What admiration to posteritie ? What rare examples from thy vertues spring ? O what a glorie to thy Progenie , To bee engrau'd in lasting memorie , When as applauding Fame in euery Coast , Shall thus in honor of Fitzwaters boast ? England , when peace vpon thy shores shall flourish , And that pure Maiden sit vpon thy Throne , Which in her bosome shall the Muses nourish , Whose glorious fame shal through the world be blown , ( O , blessed I le , thrice happy Albion ; ) Then let thy Poets in their stately rymes , Sing forth her praises to succeeding tymes . By this , the Kings vile bloody rage is past , And gentle time his choller doth digest , The fire consumes his substance at the last , The greefe asswag'd which did his spirit molest : That fiend cast out wherewith he was possest . And now he feeles this horror in his soule , When loathsome shame his actions doth controule . Black hell-bred-humor of reuenging sin , By whose inticements , murder we commit , The end vnthought of , rashlie we begin , Letting our passion ouer-rule our wit : Missing the marke , which most we ayme to hit . Clogging our soules with such a masse of care , As casts vs downe oft times into Dispayre . Traytor to Vertue , Reprobate ( quoth hee , ) As for a King , no more vsurpe the name : Staine to all honor , and gentilitie , Mark'd in the face with th' yron of Defame : The Picture of all infamie and shame . Dispis'd of men , abhor'd in euery place , Hate to thy selfe , the very worlds disgrace . When all thy race shal bee in tryumph set , Their royall conquests and atchiuements done , Henrie thy Father , braue Plantagenet , Thy conquering Brother , Lion-hart , his Sonne : The Crownes , & spoyles , these famous Champions won ; This still shall bee in thy dishonor said , Loe , this was Iohn , the murderer of a Maide . This act enrold in Booke of black Defame , Where , men of death and tragick murders reed , Recorded in the Register of shame , In lines whose letters freshlie euer bleed , Where all the world shall wonder my misdeed . And quote the place , ( thus euer ) passing by , Note heere King Iohns vile damned tyranny . Her blood exhal'd from earth vnto the skye , A fearefull Meteor still hangs ore my head , Stayning the heauens with her Vermilion dye , Changing the Sunnes bright raies to gorie red , Prognosticating death and fearefull dread ; Her soule , with houling , and reuengfull steuen , Shreeking before the gates of highest Heauen . Whose sacred Counsell , now in iudgement set , And Shee , before them stands to plead her case , Her drearie words in bloody teares are wet , The euidence appeares before my face , And I condemn'd a catife wanting grace ; Iustice cryes out vpon this sinfull deede , And to my death the fatall starres proceed . Earth , swallow me , and hide me in thy wombe , O let my shame in thy deepe Center dwell , Wrap vp this murder in thy wretched Tombe , Let tender Mercy stop the gates of hell : And with sweet drops this furious heate expell . O let Repentance , iust reuenge appease , And let my soule , in torment finde some ease . O , no , her teares are now become a flood , And as they rise , increasing mine offence ; And now the shedding of her guiltlesse blood , Euen like a Cankar , gnawes my Conscience , O , ther 's my greefe , my paine proceedes from thence . Yet neuer time weares out this filthy staine , And I dishonor'd euer shall remaine . Then doe I vow a solemne Pilgrimage , Before my wretched miserable end ; This done , betake mee to some Hermitage , Where I the remnant of my dayes will spend : Where Almes and Prayer I euer will attend . And on the Tombe at last , where thou doost lye , When all is done , I le lay me downe and dye . And for his Penance , lastly hee deuis'd , Monthly to Dunmow would he take his way , And in a simple Palmers weede disguis'd , With deepe deuotion kneele him downe to pray : Kissing the place , whereas my body lay . Washing my Tombe , with his repentant teares , And being wet , yet dryed it with his hayres . And now , before my spirit depart from hence , O let me see the Muses owne delight : Idea , mirrour of all patience , Whose sacred Temples are with Garlands dight ; O let my soule bee blessed in her sight . Which so adorns this poore world with her birth , As where she is , still makes a Heauen on earth . O let mee once behold her blessed eyes , Those two sweet Sunnes which make eternall spring , Which banish drouping Night out of the skies , In whose sweet bosome quiers of Angels sing : To whom the Muses all their treasures bring . Her brest , Mineruas euer hallowed shrine , Whose sainted thoughts are sacred and diuine . Slyde still sweet Ankor on thy siluer Sands , Play dainty Musick when she walkes by thee , With liquid Pearle wash those pure Lillie hands , And all thy Bancks with Laurell shaddowed be , And let sweet Ardens Nightingales with glee , Record to her in many a pleasing straine , Whilst all the Nimphes attend vppon her traine . FINIS .