His Dart anon out of the corps he tooke,
And in his hand (a dreadfull sight to see)
With great tryumph eftsones the same he shooke,
That most of all my feares affrayed me:
His bodie dight with nought but bones perdye,
The naked shape of man there sawe I playne,
All save the fleshe, the synowe, and the vayne.
Lastly stood Warre in glitteryng armes yclad,
With visage grym, sterne lookes, and blackely hewed:
In his right hand a naked sworde he had,
That to the hiltes was al with blud embrewed:
And in his left (that kinges and kingdomes rewed)
Famine and fyer he held, and there wythall
He razed townes, and threwe downe towers and all.
Cities he sakt, and realmes that whilom flowred
In honor, glory, and rule above the best,
He overwhelmde, and all theyr fame devowred,
Consumde, destroyde, wasted, and never ceast,
Tyll he theyr wealth, theyr name, and all opprest.
His face forhewed with woundes, and by his side
There hunge his targe, with gashes depe and wyde.
In mids of which, depaynted there we founde
Deadly debate, all ful of snaky heare,
That with a blouddy fillet was ybound,
Outbrething nought but discord every where.
And round about were portrayd here and there
The hugie hostes, Darius and his power,
His kinges, prynces, his pieres, and all his flower.
Whom great Macedo vanquisht there in fight,
With diepe slaughter, dispoylyng all his pryde,
Pearst through his realmes, and daunted all his might.
Duke Hanniball beheld I there beside,
In Cannas field, victor howe he did ride,
And woful Romaynes that in vayne withstoode,
And Consull Paulus covered all in blood.
Yet sawe I more the fight at Trasimene,
And Trebery field, and eke when Hanniball
And worthy Scipio last in armes were seene
Before Carthago gate, to trye for all
The worldes empyre, to whom it should befal:
There sawe I Pompeye, and Cesar clad in armes,
Theyr hostes alyed and al theyr civil harmes :
With conquerours hands forbathde in their owne blood,
And Cesar weping over Pompeyes head.
Yet sawe I Scilla and Marius where they stoode,
Theyr great crueltie, and the diepe bludshed
Of frendes: Cyrus I sawe and his host dead,
And howe the Queene with great despyte hath flonge
His head in bloud of them she overcome.
Xerxes the Percian kyng yet sawe I there
With his huge host that dranke the rivers drye,
Dismounted hilles, and made the vales uprere,
His hoste and all yet sawe I slayne perdye.
Thebes I sawe all razde howe it dyd lye
In heapes of stones, and Tyrus put to spoyle,
With walles and towers flat evened with the soyle.
But Troy alas (me thought) above them all,
It made myne eyes in very teares consume:
When I beheld the wofull werd befall,
That by the wrathfull wyl of Gods was come:
And Joves unmooved sentence and foredoome
On Priam kyng, and on his towne so bent.
I could not lyn, but I must there lament.
And that the more sith destinie was so sterne
As force perforce, there might no force avayle,
But she must fall: and by her fall we learne,
That cities, towres, wealth, world, and al shall quayle.
No manhoode, might, nor nothing mought prevayle,
Al were there prest ful many a prynce and piere
And many a knight that solde his death full deere.
Not worthy Hector wurthyest of them all,
Her hope, her joye, his force is nowe for nought.
O Troy, Troy, there is no boote but bale,
The hugie horse within thy walles is brought:
Thy turrets fall, thy knightes that whilom fought
In armes amyd the fyeld, are slayne in bed,
Thy Gods defylde, and all thy honour dead.
The flames upspring, and cruelly they crepe
From wall to roofe, til all to cindres waste,
Some fyer the houses where the wretches slepe,
Sum rushe in here, sum run in there as fast.
In every where or sworde or fyer they taste.
The walles are torne, the towers whurld to the ground,
There is no mischiefe but may there be found.
Cassandra yet there sawe I howe they haled
From Pallas house, with spercled tresse undone,
Her wristes fast bound, and with Greeks rout empaled:
And Priam eke in vayne howe he did runne
To armes, whom Pyrrhus with despite hath done
To cruel death, and bathed him in the bayne
Of his sonnes blud before the altare slayne.
But howe can I descryve the doleful sight,
That in the shylde so livelike fayer did shyne?
Sith in this world I thinke was never wyght
Could have set furth the halfe, not halfe so fyne.
I can no more but tell howe there is seene
Fayre Ilium fal in burning red gledes downe,
And from the soyle great Troy Neptunus towne.
Herefrom when scarce I could mine iyes withdrawe
That fylde with teares as doeth the spryngyng well,
We passed on so far furth tyl we sawe
Rude Acheron, a lothsome lake to tell
That boyles and bubs up swelth as blacke as hell,
Where grisly Charon at theyr fixed tide
Still ferries ghostes unto the farder side.
The aged God no sooner Sorowe spyed,
But hasting strayt unto the banke apace
With hollow call unto the rout he cryed,
To swarve apart, and geve the Goddesse place.
Strayt it was done, when to the shoar we pace,
Where hand in hand as we then linked fast,
Within the boate we are together plaste.
And furth we launch ful fraughted to the brinke,
Whan with the unwonted weyght, the rustye keele
Began to cracke as if the same should sinke.
We hoyse up mast and sayle, that in a whyle
We fet the shore, where scarcely we had while
For to arryve, but that we heard anone
A thre sound barke confounded al in one.
We had not long furth past, but that we sawe,
Blacke Cerberus the hydeous hound of hell,
With bristles reard, and with a thre mouthed jawe,
Foredinning the ayer with his horrible yel.
Out of the diepe darke cave where he did dwell,
The Goddesse strayt he knewe, and by and by
He peaste and couched, while that we passed by.
Thence cum we to the horrour and the hel,
The large greate kyngdomes, and the dreadful raygne
Of Pluto in his trone where he dyd dwell,
The wyde waste places, and the hugye playne:
The waylinges, shrykes, and sundry sortes of payne,
The syghes, the sobbes, the diepe and deadly groane,
Earth, ayer, and all resounding playnt and moane.
Here pewled the babes, and here the maydes unwed,
With folded handes theyr sory chaunce bewayled.
Here wept the gyltles slayne, and lovers dead,
That slewe them selves when nothyng els avayled:
A thousand sortes of sorrowes here that wayled
With sighes and teares, sobs, shrykes, and all yfere,
That (oh alas) it was a hel to heare.
We stayed us strayt, and wyth a ruful feare,
Beheld this heavy sight, while from mine eyes
The vapored teares downstilled here and there,
And Sorrow eke in far more woful wyse
Tooke on with playnt, up heaving to the skies
Her wretched handes, that with her crye the rout
Gan all in heapes to swarme us round about.
Lo here (quod Sorowe) Prynces of renowne,
That whilom sat on top of Fortunes wheele
Nowe layed ful lowe, like wretches whurled downe,
Even with one frowne, that stayed but with a smyle,
And nowe behold the thing that thou erewhile,
Saw only in thought, and what thou now shalt heare,
Recompt the same to Kesar, King, and Peer.
Then first came Henry duke of Buckingham,
His cloke of blacke all pilde and quite for worne,
Wringing his handes, and Fortune ofte doth blame,
Which of a duke hath made him nowe her skorne.
With gastly lookes as one in maner lorne,
Oft spred his armes, stretcht handes he joynes as fast,
With ruful chere, and vapored eyes upcast.
His cloke he rent, his manly breast he beat,
His heare al torne about the place it laye,
My hart so molte to see his griefe so great,
As felingly me thought it dropt awaye:
His iyes they whurled about withouten staye,
With stormy syghes the place dyd so complayne,
As if his hart at eche, had burst in twayne.
Thryse he began to tell his doleful tale,
And thrise the sighes did swalowe up his voyce,
At eche of which he shryked so wythal
As though the heavens rived with the noyse:
Tyll at the last recovering his voyce,
Supping the teares that all his brest beraynde,
On cruel Fortune weping thus he playnde.
YE learned sisters which have oftentimes
Beene to me ayding, others to adorne:
Whom ye thought worthy of your gracefull rymes,
That even the greatest did not greatly scorne
To heare theyr names sung in your simple layes,
But joyed in theyr praise;
And when ye list your owne mishaps to mourne,
Which death, or love, or fortunes wreck did rayse,
Your string could soone to sadder tenor turne,
And teach the woods and waters to lament
Your dolefull dreriment :
Now lay those sorrowfull complaints aside,
And having all your heads with girlands crownd,
Helpe me mine owne loves prayses to resound,
Ne let the same of any be envide:
So Orpheus did for his owne bride,
So I unto my selfe alone will sing;
The woods shall to me answer and my Eccho ring.
Early before the worlds light-giving lampe,
His golden beame upon the hils doth spred,
Having disperst the nights unchearefull dampe,
Doe ye awake, and with fresh lusty-hed,
Go to the bowre of my beloved love,
My truest turtle dove,
Bid her awake; for Hymen is awake,
And long since ready forth his maske to move,
With his bright Tead that flames with many a flake,
And many a bachelor to waite on him,
In theyr fresh garments trim.
Bid her awake therefore and soone her dight,
For lo the wished day is come at last,
That shall for al the paynes and sorrowes past,
Pay to her usury of long delight;
Doe ye to her of joy and solace sing,
And whylest she doth her dight,
That all the woods may answer and your eccho ring.
Bring with you all the Nymphes that you can heare
Both of the rivers and the forrests greene:
And of the sea that neighbours to her neare,
Al with gay girlands goodly wel beseene,
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