Yet when he stay'd beyond his time abroad,
Her pensive breast, his darling to unload,
In this epistle doth her grief complain;
And his rescription tells her his again.

Ir yet thine eyes (great Henry) may endure These tainted lines, drawn with a hand impure, (Which fain would blush, but fear keeps blushes back,

And therefore suted in despairing black)

Let me for love's sake their acceptance crave.
But that sweet name vile I profaned have;
Punish my fault, or pity mine estate;
Read them for love, if not for love, for hate.

If with my shame thine eyes thou fain would'st feed,

Here let them surfeit of my shame to read.
This scribled paper which I send to thee,
If noted rightly, doth resemble me:

As this pure ground, whereon these letters stand,
So pure was I, ere stained by thy hand;
Ere I was blotted with this foul offence,

So clear and spotless was mine innocence: [scroul,
Now, like these marks which taint this hateful
Such the black sins which spot my leprous soul.
What by this conquest canst thou hope to win,
Where thy best spoil is but the act of sin?
Why on my name this slander dost thou bring,
To make my fault renowned by a king?
"Fame never stoops to things but mean and poor,
The more our greatness, our fault is the more;
Lights on the ground themselves do lessen far;
But in the air each small spark seems a star."
Why on my woman-frailty should'st thou lay
So strong a plot mine honour to betray?
Or thy unlawful pleasure should'st thou buy,
Both with thine own shame and my infamy?
"Twas not my mind consented to this ill,
Then had I been transported by my will;
For what my body was enforc'd to do,
(Heaven knows) my soul yet ne'er consented to:
For through mine eyes had she her liking seen,
Such as my love, such had my lover been.
"True Love is simple, like his mother Truth,
Kindly affection, youth to love with youth;
No greater cor'sive to our blooming years,
Than the cold badge of winter-blasted hairs.
Thy kingly power makes to withstand thy foes,
But cannot keep back age, with time it grows;
Though honour our ambitious sex doth please,
Yet, in that honour, age a foul disease:
Nature hath her free course in all, and then
Age is alike in kings and other men."
Which all the world will to my shame impute,
That I myself did basely prostitute;
And say, that gold was fuel to the fire,
Grey hairs in youth not kindling green desire.
O no, that wicked woman wrought by thee,
My tempter was to that forbidden tree;
That subtle serpent, that seducing devil,
Which bade me taste the fruit of good and evil:
That Circe, by whose magic I was charm'd,
And to this monstrous shape am thus transform'd:
That vip'rous hag, the foe to her own kind,
That dev'lish spirit, to damn the weaker mind,
Our frailty's plague, our sex's only curse,
Hell's deep'st damnation, the worst evil's worse,
But Henry, how canst thou affect me thus,
T'whom thy remembrance now is odious

My hapless name, with Henry's name I found
Cut in the glass with Henry's diamond;
That glass from thence fain would I take away,
But then I fear the air would me betray:
Then do I strive to wash it out with tears,
But then the same more evident appears.
Then do I cover it with my guilty band,
Which that name's witness doth against me stand:
Once did I sin, which memory doth cherish,
Once I offended, but I for ever perish.
"What grief can be, but time doth make it less?
But infamy time never can suppress."

Sometimes, to pass the tedious irksome hours, I climb the top of Woodstock's mounting tow'rs, Where in a turret secretly I lie,

To view from far such as do travel by :
Whither, methinks, all cast their eyes at me,
As through the stones my shame did make them
And with such hate the harmless walls do view, [see;
As ev'n to death their eyes would me pursue.
The married women carse my hateful life,
Wronging a fair queen and a virtuous wife:
The maidens wish I buried quick may die,
And from each place near my abode do flie.
(1) Well knew'st thou what a monster I would be,
When thou didst build this labyrinth for me,
(2) Whose strange meanders turning ev'ry way,
Be like the course wherein my youth did stray:
Only a clue doth guide me out and in,
But yet still walk I circular in sin.

As in the gallery this other day,
I and my woman past the time away,
'Mongst many pictures which were hanging by,
The silly girl at length hapt to espy

Chaste Lucrece's image, and desires to know
What she should be, her self that murder'd so?
"Why, girl" (quoth I) "this is that Roman
Not able then to tell the rest for shame, [dame—”
My tongue doth mine own guiltiness betray;
With that I sent the prattling wench away,
Lest when my lisping guilty tongue should halt,
My lips might prove the index to my fault.
As that life-blood which from the heart is sent,
In beauty's field pitching his crimson tent,
In lovely sanguine sutes the lilly cheek,
Whilst it but for a resting-place doth seek;
And changing oftentimes with sweet delight,
Converts the white to red, the red to white:
The blush with paleness for the place doth strive,
The paleness thence the blush would gladly drive:
Thus in my breast a thousand thoughts I carry,
Which in my passion diversly do vary.

When as the Sun hales tow'rds the western slade,
And the trees' shadows hath much taller made,
Forth go I to a little current near,
Which like a wanton trail creeps here and there,
Where with mine angle casting in my bait,
The little fishes (dreading the deceit)
With fearful nibbling fly th' enticing gin,
By nature taught what danger lies therein.
Things reasonless thus warn'd by nature be,
Yet I devour'd the bait was laid for me:
Thinking thereon, and breaking into groans,
The bubbling spring, which trips upon the stones,
Chides me away, lest sitting but too nigh,
I should pollute that native purity.
(3)" Rose of the world," so doth import my name,
"Shame of the world," my life hath made the same:
And to th' unchaste this name shall given be,
Of Rosamond, deriv'd from sin and me.

The Cliffords take from me that name of theirs,
Which had been famous for so many years:
They blot my birth with hateful bastardy,
That I sprang not from their nobility;
They my alliance utterly refuse,
Nor will a strumpet shall their name abuse.

Here in the garden, wrought by curious hands,
Naked Diana in the fountain stands,
"With all her nymphs got round about to hide her,
As when Acteon had by chance espy'd her :
This sacred image I no sooner view'd,
But as that metamorphos'd man pursu'd
By his own bounds, so by my thoughts am I,
Which chase me still, which way soe'er I fly.
Touching the grass, the honey-dropping dew,
Which falls in tears before my limber shoe,
Upon my foot consumes in weeping still,
As it would say, "Why went'st thou to this ill?”
Thus to no place in safety can I go,
But every thing doth give me cause of woe.

In that fair casket of such wond'rous cost, Thou sent'st the night before mine honour lost; Amimone was wrought, a harmless maid, By Neptune that adult'rous god betray'd; She prostrate at his feet, begging with pray'rs, Wringing her hands, her eyes swoln up with tears: This was not an entrapping bait from thee, But by thy virtue gently warning me, And to declare for what intent it came, Lest I therein should ever keep my shame. And in this casket (ill I see it now) That Jove's love, lo, turn'd into a cow; Yet was she kept with Argus' hundred eyes, So wakeful still be Juno's jealousies: By this I well might have fore-warned been, T'have clear'd myself to thy suspecting queen, Who with more hundred eyes attendeth me, Than had poor Argus single eyes to see. In this thou rightly imitatest Jove, Into a beast thou hast transform'd thy love; Nay, worser far (beyond their beastly kind) A monster both in body and in mind.

The waxen taper which I burn by night, With the dull vap'ry dimness mocks my sight, As though the damp, which hinders the clear flame, Came from my breath in that night of my shame : When as it look'd with a dark low'ring eye,

To see the loss of my virginity.

And if a star but by the glass appear,
I straight entreat it not to look in here:

I am already hateful to the light,

And will it too betray me to the night?

Then sith my shame so much belongs to thee, Rid me of that, by only murd'ring me; And let it justly to my charge be laid, That I thy person meant to have betray'd:

Thou shalt not need by circumstance t' accuse me;
If I deny it, let the Heavens refuse me.

My life's a blemish, which doth cloud thy name,
Take it away, and clear shall shine thy fame:
Yield to my suit, if ever pity mov'd thee;
In this show mercy, as I ever lov'd thee.

OTATIONS OF THE CHRONICLE HISTORY.

Well knew'st thou what a monster I would be, When thou didst build this labyrinth for me.

In the Cretan labyrinth a monster was enclosed called Minotaur, the history whereof is well known: but the labyrinth was framed by Dedalus with so

many intricate ways, that being entered, one could either hardly or never return, being in manner of a maze, save that it was larger, the ways being walled in on every side, out of which Theseus by Ariadne's help (lending him a clue of thread) escaped. Some report that it was a house, having one half beneath the ground, another above; the chamber-doors therein so deceit. fully inwrapped, and made to open so many ways, that it was held a matter almost impossible to

return.

Some have held it to have been an allegory of man's life: true it is that the comparison will hold; for what liker to a labyrinth than the maze of life? but it is affirmed by antiquity, that there was indeed such a building, though Dedalus, being a name applied to the workman's excellency, make it suspected: for Dedalus is nothing else but ingenious or artificial. Hereupon, it is used amoug the ancient poets for any thing curiously wrought.

Rosamond's labyrinth, whose ruins, together with her well, being paved with square stone in the bottom, and also her tower, from which the labyrinth did run, are yet remaining, was altogether under ground, being vaults arched and walled with brick and stone, almost inextricably wound one with another; by which, if at any time her lodging were laid about by the queen, she might easily avoid peril imminent, and if need be, by secret issues take the air abroad many furlongs round about Woodstock, in Oxfordshire, wherein it was situated. Thus much for Rosamond's labyrinth.

(2) Whose strange meanders turning ev'ry way.

Meander is a river in Lycia, a province of Natolia, or Asia minor, famous for the sinuosity and often returning thereof, rising from certain hills in Meonia: hereupon are intricate turnings, by a transumptive and metonymical kind of speech, called meanders: for this river did so strangely path itself, that the foot seemed to touch the head.

(") "Rose of the world" so doth import my name; "Shame of the world," my life hath made the

same.

It might be reported, how at Godstow, where this "Rose of the world" was sumptuously interred, a certain bishop, in the visitation of his diocese, caused the monument, which had been erected to her honour, utterly to be demolished; but let that severe chastisement of Rosamond then dead, at this time also be over-passed, lest she should seem to be "the shame of the world."

HENRY TO ROSAMOND.

WHEN first the post arrived at my tent,
And brought the letters Rosainond had sent,
Think from his lips but what dear comfort came,
When in mine ear he softly breath'd thy name.
Straight I enjoin'd him of thy health to tell,
Longing to hear my Rosamond did well;
With new inquiries then I cut him short,
When of the same he gladly would report,
That with the earnest haste my tongue oft trips,
Catching the words half spoke out of his lips:
This told, yet more I urge him to reveal,
To lose no time, whilst I unript the seal

The more I read, still do I err the more,
As though mistaking somewhat said before:
Missing the point, the doubtful sense is broken,
Speaking again what I before had spoken.

Still in a swound, my heart revives and faints; 'Twixt hopes, despairs, 'twixt smiles and deep complaints.

As these sad accents sort in my desires,
Smooth calms, rough storms, sharp frost, and
raging fires,

Put on with boldness, and put back with fears,
For oft thy troubles do extort my tears.
Oh, how my heart at that black line did tremble!
That blotted paper should thyself resemble !
Oh, were their paper but near half so white,
The gods thereon their sacred laws would write
With pens of angels' wings; and for their ink,
That heav'nly nectar, their immortal drink!
Majestic courage strives to have supprest
This fearful passion, stirr'd up in my breast;
But still in vain the same I go about,
My heart must break within, or woes break out.
(1) Am I at home pursu'd with private hate,
And war comes raging to my palace-gate ?
Is meagre Envy stabbing at my throne,
Treason attending when I walk alone?

(*) And am I branded with the curse of Rome,
And stand condemned by a council's doom?
(3) And by the pride of my rebellious son,
Rich Normandy with armies over-run ?
Fatal my birth, unfortunate my life,

(*) Unkind my children, most unkind my wife,
Grief, cares, old age, suspicion too torment me,
Nothing on Earth to quiet or content me;
So many woes, so many plagues, to find,
Sickness of body, discontent of mind;
Hopes left, helps reft, life wrong'd, joy interdicted,
Banish'd, distress'd, forsaken, and afflicted.
Of all relief hath Fortune quite bereft me?
Only my love yet to my comfort left me:
And is one beauty thought so great a thing,
To mitigate the sorrows of a king?
Barr'd of that choice the vulgar often prove,
Have we, than they, less privilege in love?
Is it a king the woful widow hears?
Is it a king dries up the orphans' tears?
Is it a king regards the client's cry?
Gives life to him, by law condemn'd to die?
Is it his care the commonwealth that keeps,
As doth the nurse her baby whilst it sleeps?
And that poor king of all those hopes prevented,
Unheard, unhelp'd, unpity'd, unlamented?

Yet let me be with poverty opprest,
Of earthly blessings robb'd and dispossest,
Let me be scorn'd, rejected, and revil'd,
And from my kingdom let me live exil'd.
Let the world's curse upon me stili remain,
And let the last bring on the first again;
All miseries that wretched man may wound,
Leave for my comfort only Rosamond.
For thee swift Time his speedy course doth stay,
At thy command the Destinies obey;
Pity is dead, that comes not from thine eyes,
And at thy feet ev'n Mercy prostrate lies.
If I were feeble, rheumatic, or cold,
These were true signs that I were waxed old;
But I can march all day in massy steel,
Nor yet my arms unwieldy weight do feel;
Nor wak'd by night with bruise or bloody wound,
The tent my bed, no pillow but the ground:

For very age had I lain bed-rid long,
One smile of thine again could make me young.
Were there in art a power but so divine,
As is in that sweet angel-tongue of thine,
That great enchantress, which once took such pains
To put young blood into old Æson's veins,
And in groves, mountains, and the moorish fen,
Sought out more herbs than had been known to
men,

And in the pow'rful potion that she makes,
Put blood of men, of birds, of beasts, and snakes,
Never had needed to have gone so far,

To seek the soils where all those simples are ;
One accent from thy lips the blood more warms,
Than all her philters, exorcisms, and charms.
Thy presence hath repaired, in one day,
What many years with sorrows did decay,
And made fresh beauty in her flow'r to spring
Out of the wrinkles of Time's ruining.
Ev'n as the hungry winter-starved Earth,
When she by nature labours tow'rds her birth,
Still as the day upon the dark world creeps,
One blossom forth after another peeps,
Till the small flow'r, whose root at last unbound,
Gets from the frosty prison of the ground,
Spreading the leaves unto the pow'rful noon,
Deck'd in fresh colours smiles upon the Sun.

Never unquiet care lodg'd in that breast,
Where but one thought of Rosamond did rest:
Nor thirst nor travail, which on war attend,
Ere brought the long day to desired end:
Nor yet did pale fear or lean famine live,
Where hope of thee did any comfort give:
Ah! what injustice then is this of thee,
That thus the guiltless dost condemn for me?
When only she (by means of my offence)
Redeems thy pureness and thy innocence:
When to our wills perforce obey they must,
That's just in them, whate'er in us unjust;
Of what we do, not them account we make,
The fault craves pardon for th' offender's sake:
And what to work a prince's will may merit,
Hath deep'st impression in the gentlest spirit.

If 't be my name that doth thee so offend,
No more myself shall be mine own name's friend;
If it be that which thou dost only hate,
That name in my name lastly has his date:
Say, 'tis accurst and fatal, and dispraise it;
If written, blot it; if engraven, raze it :
Say, that of all names 'tis a name of woe
Once a king's name, but now it is not so:
And when all this is done, I know 'twill grieve thee,
And therefore (sweet) why should I now believe

thee?

[lowre,

Nor should'st thou think those eyes with envy Which, passing by thee, gaze up to thy tow'r; But rather praise thine own, which be so clear, Which from the turret like two stars appear: Above, the Sun doth shine; beneath, thine eye, Mocking the Heav'n, to make another sky.

The little stream which by thy tow'r doth glide, Where oft thou spend'st the weary ev'ning-tide, To view thee well, his course would gladly stay, As loth from thee to part so soon away, And with salutes thyself would gladly greet, And offer up some small drops at thy feet; But finding that the envious banks restrain it, T'excuse itself, doth in this sort complain it, And therefore this sad bubbling murmur keeps, And for thy want within the channel weeps.

And as thou dost into the water look,

The fish, which see thy shadow in the brook,
Forget to feed, and all amazed lie,
So daunted with the lustre of thine eye.

countries of Norfolk and Suffolk, being succoured by many of the king's private enemies.

(*) And am I branded with the curse of Rome? King Henry II. the first Plantagenet, accused

wrong,

In time shall be some famous poet's song ;
And with the very sweetness of that name,
Lions and tigers men shall learn to tame.
The careful mother, at ber pensive breast,
With Rosamond shall bring her babe to rest;
The little birds (by men's continual sound)
Shall learn to speak and prattle Rosamond;
And when in April they begin to sing,
With Rosamond shall welcome in the spring;
And she in whom all rarities are found,
Shall still be said to be a Rosamond.

The little flow'rs dropping their honey'd dew,
Which (as thou writ'st) do weep upon thy shoe,
Not for thy fault (sweet Rosamond) do moan,
Only lament, that thou so soon art gone:
For if thy foot touch hemlock as it goes,
That hemlock's made far sweeter than the rose.
Of Jove or Neptune, how they did betray,
Speak not, of Io or Amimone;

When she, for whom Jove once became a bull,
Compar'd with thee, had been a tawny trull;
He a white bull, and she a whiter cow,
Yet he nor she near half so white as thou.

Long since (thou know'st) my care provided for
To lodge thee safe from jealous Eleanor ;
The labyrinth's conveyance guides thee so,
(") (Which only Vaughan, thou, and I, do know)
If she do guard thee with an hundred eyes,
I have an hundred subtle Mercuries,
To watch that Argus which my love doth keep,
Until eye after eye fall all to sleep.

And those stars which look in, but look to see, (Wond'ring) what star here on the Earth should be ; As oft the Moon, amidst the silent night, Hath come to joy us with her friendly light, And by the curtain help'd mine eye to see, What envious night and darkness hid from me; When I have wish'd that she might ever stay, And other worlds might still enjoy the day.

What should I say? words, tears, and sighs, be spent,

And want of time doth farther help prevent :
My camp resounds with fearful shocks of war,
Yet in my breast more dang'rous conflicts are;
Yet is my signal to the battle's sound,
The blessed name of beauteous Rosamond.
Accursed be that heart, that tongue, that breath,
Should think, should speak, or whisper of thy
death:

For in one smile or lowre from thy sweet eye
Consists my life, my hope, my victory.
Sweet Woodstock, where my Rosamond doth rest,
Be blest in her, in whom thy king is blest :
For though in France awhile my body me,
My heart remains (dear paradise) in thee.

ANNOTATIONS OF THE CHRONICLE HISTORY. C) Am I at home pursu'd with private hate, And war comes raging to my palace-gate? Robert, earl of Leicester, who took part with young king Henry, entered into England with an army of three thousand Flemings, and spoiled the

Canterbury, slain in that cathedral church, was accursed by pope Alexander, although he urged sufficient proof of his innocency in the same, and offered to take upon him any penance, so he might avoid the curse and interdiction of his realm.

(3) And by the pride of my rebellious son, Rich Normandy with armies over-run.

Henry, the young king, whom king Henry had caused to be crowned in his life (as he hoped) both for his own good, and the good of his subjects, which indeed turned to his own sorrow, and the trouble of the realm: for he rebelled against him, and raising a power by the means of Lewis king of France, and William king of Scots (who took part with him) invaded Normandy.

(*) Unkind my children, most unkind my wife.

Never was king more unfortunate than king Henry in the disobedience of his children: first Henry, then Geoffry, then Richard, then John, all at one time or other, first or last, unnaturally rebelled against him; then the jealousy of Eleanor his queen, who suspected his love to Rosamond; which grievous troubles the devout of those times attributed to happen to him justly for refusing to take on him the government of Jerusalem, offered to him by the patriarch there, which country was mightily afflicted by the sultan.

(5) Which only Vaughan, thou, and I, do know.

This Vaughan was a knight, whom the king exceedingly loved, who kept the palace at Woodstock, and much of the king's jewels and treasure, to whom the king committed many of his secrets, and in whom he reposed such trust, that he durst cominit his love unto his charge.

KING JOHN TO MATILDA.

THE ARGUMENT.

King John, enamour'd, by all means assay'd
To win Matilda, a chaste noble maid,
The lord Fitzwater's daughter; and to gain her
When by his courtship he could not obtain her,
Nor by his gifts, strives (so far being in)
To get by force, what fair means could not win,
And banisheth the nearest of her blood,
Which he could think had his desires withstood:
When she to Dunmow to a nunn'ry flies,
Whither he writeth, and whence she replies.

WHEN these my letters come into thy view,
Think 'em not forc'd, or feign'd, or strange, or new.
Thon know'st no way, no means, no course ex-
empted,

Left now unsought, unprov'd, or unattempted.
All rules, regards, all secret helps of art,
What knowledge, wit, experience can impart,
And in the old world's ceremonies doated,
Good days for love, times, hours, and minutes
noted,