But and the cruell fates so fixed be
That time forpast can not retourne agayne,
This one request of Jove yet prayed he:
That in such withered plight, and wretched paine,
As elde (accompanied with his lothsome trayne)
Had brought on him, all were it woe and griefe,
He might a while yet linger forth his lief';

And not so soone descend into the pit,
Where death, when he the mortall corps hath slayne,
With retchles hande in grave doth cover it,
Thereafter never to enjoye agayne
The gladsome light, but in the ground ylayne
In depth of darknes waste and weare to nought,
A he had never into the world been brought.

But who had seene him sobbing, howe he stoode
Unto himselfe, and howe he would bemone
His youth forepast, as though it wrought hym good
To talke of youth, al wer his youth foregone,
He would have mused, and mervayled muche whereon
This wretched age should life desyre so fayne,
And knowes ful wel life doth but length his payne.

Crookebackt he was, tooth shaken, and blere iyed,
Went on three feete, and sometime crept on fower,
With olde lame bones, that ratled by his syde,
His skalpe all pilde, and he with elde forlore:
His withered fist stil knocking at deathes dore,
Tumbling and driveling as he drawes his breth;
For briefe, the shape and messenger of death.

And fast by him pale Maladie was plaste,
Sore sicke in bed, her colour all forgone,
Bereft of stomake, savor, and of taste,

Ne could she brooke no meat but brothes alone.
Her breath corrupt, her keepers every one
Abhorring her, her sicknes past recure,
Detesting phisicke, and all phisickes cure.

But oh the doleful sight that then we see;
We turnde our looke, and on the other side
A griesly shape of Famine mought we see,
With greedy lookes, and gaping mouth that cryed,
And roard for meat as she should there have dyed,
Her body thin and bare as any bone,
Wharto was left nought but the case alone;

And that alas was knawen on every where
All full of holes, that I ne mought refrayne
From teares to see how she her armes could teare,
And with her teeth gnash on the bones in vayne :
When all for nought she fayne would so sustayne
Her starven corps, that rather seemde a shade,
Then any substaunce of a creature made.

Great was her force whom stonewall could not stay,
Her tearyng nayles scratching at all she sawe:
With gaping jawes that by no means ymay
Be satisfyed from hunger of her mawe,
But eates her selfe as she that hath no lawe :
Gnawing alas her carkas all in vayne,
Where you may count eche sinow, bone, and vayne.

On her while we thus firmly fixt our iyes,
That bled for ruth of such a drery sight,
Loe sodaynelye she shryght in so huge wyse,
As made hell gates to shyver with the myght.
Wherewith a dart we sawe howe it did lyght
Ryght on her breast, and therewithal pale death
Enthryiling it to rave her of her breath.

And by and by a dum dead corps we sawe,
Heavy and colde, the shape of death aryght,
That dauntes all earthly creatures to his lawe :
Agaynst whose force in vayne it is to fyght
Ne pieres, ne princes, nor no mortall wyght,
No townes, ne realmes, cities, ne strongest tower,
But al perforce must yeeld unto his power.

His dart anon out of the corps he tooke,
And in his hand (a dreadful sight to see)
With great triumphe eftsones the same he shocke,
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 stoode 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 bloud embrewed:
And in his left (that kinges and kingdomes rewed)
Famine and fyer he held, and therewythall
He razed townes, and threwe downe towers and all.
Cities he sakt, and realmes that whilom flowered,
In honour, glory, and rule above the best,
He overwhelmde, and all theyr fame devowred,
Consumed, destroyed, wasted, and never ceast,
Tyll he theyr wealth, their name, and all opprest.
His face forehewed with woundes, and by his side
There hunge his terge with gashes depe and wyde.

The walles are torne, the towers whurld to the ground; There is no mischiefe but may there be found.

In mids of which, depaynted there we founde
Deadly Debate, al ful of snaky heare,
That with a bloudy fillet was ybound,

Out breathing nought but discord every where.
And round about were portrayed here and there
The hugie hostes, Darius and his power,

His kynges, prynces, his pieres, and all his flower;

Whom great Macedo vanquisht there in fight,
With diepe slaughter, dispoyling 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 Consul Paulus covered all in bloode.

Yet sawe I more, the fight at Trasimene,
And Trebery fyeld, and eke when Hannibal
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 weeping over Pompeyes head.
Yet sawe I Scilla and Darius 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 mine iyes in very teares consume,
When I beheld the wofull werd befall,
That by the wrathful wyl of Gods was come :
And Jove's unmooved sentence and foredome
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 wer there prest, ful many a prynce and piere,
And many a knight that sold his death full deere.

Not wurthy Hector wurthyest of them all,
Her hope, her joye; his force is now 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 walle to roofe, til all to cindres waste:
Some fyer the houses where the wretches slepe,
Some rushe in here, some run in there as fast.
In every where or sword or fyer they taste.

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, when 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 livlike layer did shyne!
Sith in this world I think was never wyght
Could have set furth the halfe, nor halfe so fyne.
I can no more but tell howe there is seene
Fayer Ilium fall 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 doth 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 faste,
Within the boate we are together plaste.

And furth we launch full fraughted to the brinke,
Whan with the unwonted weght 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 ayr with his horrible yel.
Out of the diepe dark 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,
of Pluto in his trone where he dyd dwell,
The large great kyngdomes, and the dreadful raygne
The wyde waste places, and the hugye playne:
The waylinges, shrykes, and sundry sortes of payne,
The syghes, the sobbes, the diep 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 nothing else 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 rufull feare, Beheld this heavy sight, while from mine eyes

The vapored teares downstilled here and there,
And Sorowe eke in far more woful wyse,
Looke on with playnt, up heaving to the skyes
Her wretched handes, that with her crye the rout
Gan all in heapes to swarme us round about.

Loe here (said Sorrowe) prynces of renowne,
That whilom sat on top of Fortune's wheele
Now layed ful lowe, like wretches whurled downe,
Even with one frowne, that stayed but with a smyle,
And now beholde the thing that thou erewhile,
Saw only in thought, and what thou now shalt heare
Recompt the same to Kesar, King, and Pier.

Then first came Henry Duke of Buckingham,
His cloke of blacke al pilde and quite forworne,
Wringing his handes, and Fortune ofte doth blame,
Which of a duke hath made him now her skorne,
With ghastly lookes as one in manner lorne,

Whose faythful hart to Henry fyrt so wrought,
That never he hym in weale or woe forsooke,
Tyl lastly he at Tewxbury fyeld was cought
Wherewith an axe his violent death he toke:
He never could Kyng Edwardes party brooke,
Tyll by his death he vouchte that quarell good,
In which his syer and graundsyer spylt theyr bloud.

And such was erst my fathers cruell chaunce,
Of Stafford Earle, by name that Humfrey hyght,
Who ever prest dyd Henries parte avaunce,
And never ceast tyl at Saynt Albones fight
He lost his lyfe, as than did many a knyght:
Where eke my graundsyer Duke of Buckingham
Was wounded sore, and hardly skapte untane.

But what may boote to stay the sisters three? When Atropos perforce will cut the threde: The doleful day was come when you might see

WHO trustes to much in honour's highest trone
And warely watche not sly dame Fortune's snare :
Or who in courte will beare the swaye alone,
And wysely weygh not how to wyeld the care,
Beholde he me, and by my death beware:
Whom flattering Fortune falsely so begylde,
That loe she slewe, where erst ful smooth she smylde.

And Sackevylle sith in purpose nowe thou hast
The woful fal of prynces to discryve,
Whom Fortune both uplyft, and gayn downe cast,
To shewe thereby the unsurety in this life,
Mark wel my fal, which I shall shewe belyve,
And paynt it furth that all estates may knowe:
Have they the warning, and be mine the woe.

Where fate would algates have my graundsyer dead : So rushing furth amyds the fyercest fight,

He lived and dyed there in his masters ryght.

In place of whom, as it befel my lot,
Like on a stage, so stept I in strayt waye,
Enjoying there but wofully, God wot,
As he that had a slender part to playe:
To teache therby, in earth no state may stay,
But as our partes abridge, or length our age,
So passe we all, while others fyll the stage.

For of my selfe, the drery fate to playne,
I was sometime a prince withouten pier,
When Edward Fift began his ruful raygne,
Ay me, then I began that hatefull yeare,
To cumpas that which I have bought so deare:
I bare the swynge, I and that wretched wyght,
The Duke of Glocester that Rychard hyght.

For when the fates had reft that royal prince
Edward the Fourth, chiefe myrrour of that name,
The Duke and I fast joyned ever since,
In faythfull love, our secrete driftes to frame:
What he thought best to me so seemde the same,
My selfe not bent so much for to aspyer,
As to fulfyl that greedy Dukes desyre;
Whose restless minde sore thyrsting after rule,
When that he sawe his nephewes both to ben
Through tender yeares as yet unfit to rule,
And rather ruled by theyr mothers kyn,
There sought he first his mischyefe to begyn,
For wel he wist they would withstand his mynde.
To plucke from them theyr mothers frendes assynde,

To folowe which, he ran so headlong swyft,
With eyger thyrst of his desired draught,
To seeke theyr deathes that sought to dashe his dryft,
Of whom the chiefe the queenes allyes he thought,
That bent thereto with mountes of mischiefe fraught,
He knewe theyr lyves would be so sore his let,
That in theyr deathes his only helpe he set.

And I most cursed caytief that I was,
Seeing the state unstedfast howe it stood,
His chief complyce to bryng the same to passe,
Unhappy wretche, consented to theyr blood:
Ye kinges and piers that swim in worldly good,
In seeking blud the ende advert you playne,
And see if bloud ey aske not blud agayne.

Consyder Cyrus in your cruell thought,

A makeles prynce in ryches and in myght,
And weygh in minde the bloudy dedes he wrought,
In heading which he set his whole delyght:
But see the guerdon lotted to this wyght,

He whose huge power no man might overthrowe,
Tomyris queen with great despite hath slowe.

His head dismembred from his mangled corps,
Her selfe she cast into a vessel fraught
With clottered bloud of them that felt her force.
And with these wordes a just reward she taught:
Drynke nowe thy fyll of thy desyred draught.
Loe marke the fine that did this prynce befall:
Marke not this one, but marke the ende of all.

Behold Cambises and his fatal daye,
Where murders mischiefe myrrour like is left:
While he his brother Mergus cast to slaye,
A dreadful thing, his wittes were him bereft.
A sword he caught, wherewith he perced eft
His body gored, which he of liefe benooms:
So just is God in all his dreadfull doomes.

O bluddy Brutus, rightly didst thou rew,
And thou Cassius justly came thy fall,
That with the swurd wherewith thou Cesar slewe
Murdrest thy selfe, and reft thy life withall.
A myrrour let him be unto you all
That murderers be, of murder to your meede:
For murder crieth out vengeance on your seede.

Loe Bessus, he that armde with murderers knyfe,
And traytrous hart agaynst his royall king,
With bluddy handes bereft his maysters life,
Advert the fine his fowle offence dyd bryng:
And lothing murder as most lothly thing,
Beholde in him the just deserved fall,
That ever hath, and shall betide them all.

What booted him his false usurped raygne,
Whereto by murder he did so ascende?
When like a wretche, led in an yron chayne
He was presented by his chiefest frende
Unto the foes of him whom he had slayne:
That even they should venge so fowle a gylt,
That rather sought to have his bloud yspylt.

Take hede ye princes and ye prelates all
Of this outrage, which though it sleepe a while,
And not disclosde, as it doth seeld befall,
Yet God that suffreth silence to beguyle
Such gyltes, wherewith both earth and ayre ye file,
At last discryes them to your fowle deface,
You see the examples set before your face.

And deepely grave within your stony hartes,
The drery dewle that myghty Macedo,
With teares unfolded wrapt in deadly smartes,
When he the death of Clitus sorowed so,
Whom erst he murdred wyth the deadly blowe,
Raught in his rage upon his frende so deare,
For which beholde loe how his panges appere.

The launced spear he writhes out of the wound,
From which the purple blud spins on his face:
His heynous gylt when he returned found,
He throwes him selfe upon the corpes alas.
And in his armes howe ofte doth he imbrace
His murdred frende? and kyssyng him in vayne,
Furth flowe the fluds of salte repentant rayne.

His frendes amazde at such a murder doen,
In fearful flockes begyn to shrynke away.
And he thereat with heapes of grief forenoen,
Hateth him selfe, wishing his latter daye.
Nowe he him selfe perceyved in lyke staye,
As is the wilde beast in the desert bred,
Both dreading others, and him selfe adred.

He calles for death, and loathing lenger lyfe,
Bent to his bane, refuseth kyndely foode:
And ploungde in depth of death and dolours stryfe,
Had quelde him selfe, had not his frendes wyth stoode.
Loe he that thus had shed the gylteles blud,
Though he were kyng and Cesar over all,
Yet chose he death to guerdon death withall.

This prynce whose pyer was never under sonne,
Whose glystening fame the earth did overglyde,
Whych with his power welnye the world had wonne,
His bluddy handes him selfe could not abyde,
But fully bent with famine to have dyed:
The wurthy prynce deemed in his regarde
That death for death could be but just rewarde.

Yet we that were so drowned in the depth
Of diep desyre to drinke the gylteles blud,
Lyke to the wulfe, with greedy lookes that lepth
Into the snare, to feede on deadly foode,
So we delyghted in the state we floode,
Blinded so farre in all our blynded trayne,
That blind, we sawe not our destruction playne.

We spared none whose life could ought forlet
Our wycked purpose to his pas to cum.
Fower wurthy knyghtes we headed at Pomfret,
Gyltles (God wot) withouten lawe or doome.
My heart even bleedes to tell you al and some,
And howe Lord Hastinges when he feared least,
Dispiteously was murdred and opprest.

These rockes upcught, that threatned most our wreck,
We seemde to sayle much surer in the streame:
And fortune fayring as she were at becke,
Layed in our lap the rule of all the realme.
The nephewes strayt deposde were by the game;
And we advaunst to that we bought full deare,
He crowned king, and I his chyefest pyer.

Thus having wonne our long desirid pray,
To make him king that he might make me chiefe,
Downthrow we strayt his sellie nephews twaye
From princes pompe, to woful prisoners lyfe:
In hope that nowe stynt was all furder stryfe.
Sith he was king, and I chief stroke did beare,
Who joyed but we, yet who more cause to feare?
The gyltles bloud which we unjustly shed,
The royal babes devestest from theyr trone,
And we like traytours raygning in theyr sted,
These heavy burdens pressed us upon,
Tormenting us so by our selves alone,
Much like the felon that pursued by night,
Starts at eche bushe as his foe were in sight.

Nowe doubting state, nowe dreading losse of life,
In fear of wrecke at every blast of wynde,
Now start in dreames through dread of murdrers knyfe,
As though even then revengement were assynde.
With restles thought so is the guylty minde
Turmoyled, and never feeleth ease or stay,
But lives in feare of that which followes aye.

Well gave that judge his doome upon the death
Of Titus Clelius that in bed was slayne:
Whan every wight the cruell murder leyeth
To his two sonnes that in his chamber layen,
The judge, that by the proofe perceyveth playne,
That they were found fast sleeping in theyr bed,
Hath deemde them gyltles of this blud yshed.

He thought it could not be, that they which brake
The lawes of God and man in such outrage,
Could so forthwith themselves to slepe betake:
He rather thought the horror and the rage
Of such an haynous gylt, could never swage,
Nor never suffer them to slepe or rest,

Or dreadles breath one breath out of theyr brest.

So gnawes the griefe of conscynce evermore,
And in the hart it is so diepe ygrave,
That they may neyther slepe nor rest therefore,

Ne thynke one thought but on the dread they have.
Styl to the death fortossed with the wave
Of restles woe, in terror and dispeyre,
They lead a lyef continually in feare.

Like to the dere that stryken with the dart,
Withdrawes him selfe into some secrete place,
And feeling green the wound about his hart,
Startles with panges tyl he fall on the grasse,
And in great feare lyes gasping there a space,
Furth braying sighes as though eche pange had brought
The present death which he doeth dread so oft.

So we diepe wounded with the bluddy thought,
And gnawing wurme that grieved our conscience so,
Never took ease, but as our hart furth brought
The strayned syghes in wytnes of our woe,
Such restles cares our fault did well beknowe:
Wherewith of our deserved fall the feares
In every place rang death within our eares.

And as yll grayne is never well ykept,
So fared it by us within a while :
That which so long wyth such unrest we reapt,
In dread and daunger by all wyt and wyle.
Loe see the fine, when once it felt the whele
Of slipper fortune, stay it mought no stowne,
The wheele whurles up, but strayt it whurleth downe.

For having rule and riches in our hand,
Who durst gaynsay the thing that we averde?
Wyl was wysedome, our lust for lawe dyd stand,
In sorte so straunge, that who was not afeard
When he the sound but of Kyng Rychard heard?
So hatefull wart the hearying of his name,
That you may deeme the residewe by the same.

But what awaylde the terror and the fear,
Wherewyth he kept his lieges under awe?
It rather wan him hatred every where,
And fayned faces forst by feare of lawe :
That but while fortune doth with favour blaw
Flatter through fear for in their hart lurkes aye
A secrete hate that hopeth for a daye.

Recordeth Dionisius the kynge,
That with his rigor so his realme opprest,
As that he thought by cruell feare to bryng

His subjects under, as him lyked best:

But loe the dread wherewyth him selfe was strest, shall see the fine of forced feare,

And you
Most myrrour like in this proud prynce appeare.

All were his head with crowne of golde ysprad,
And in his hand the royal scepter set,
And he with pryncely purple rychely clad,
Yet was his hart wyth wretched cares orefret:
And inwardly with deadly fear beset,
Of those whom he by rygour kept in awe,
And sore opprest with might of tyrants lawe.

Agaynst whose feare, no heapes of golde and glie,
Ne strength of garde, nor all his hired power,
Ne prowde hyghe towers that preaced to the skye,
His cruel hart of safetie could assure:

But dreading them whom he should deeme most sure,
Hym selfe his beard wyth burning brand would cear,
Of death deservde so vexed him the feare.

This might suffice to represent the fine

Of tyrantes force, theyr feares, and theyr unrest.
But hear this one, although my hart repyne
To let the sound once synk wythin my brest;
Of fell Phereus, that above the rest,
Such lothsum crueltee on his people wrought,
As (oh alas!) I tremble wyth the thought.

Sum he encased in the coates of beares,
Among wylde beastes devoured so to be:
And sum for preye unto the hunters speares,
Lyke savage beastes withouten ruth to dye.
Sumtime to encrease his horrible crueltye,
The quicke with face to face engraved hee,
Eche others death, that eche mought living see.

Loe what more cruell horror mought be found,
To purchase feare, if feare could staye his raygne?
It booted not, it rather strake the wounde
Of feare in him, to feare the lyke agayne.
And so he dyd full ofte and not in vayne:
As in his life his cares could wytness well
But moste of all his wretched ende doth tell.

His owne dere wyfe whom as his life he loved,
He durst not trust, nor proche unto her bed,
But causing fyrst his slave with naked sworde
To go before, him selfe with tremblyng dread
Strayt foloweth fast, and whorling in his head
His rolling iyen, he searcheth here and there
The diepe daunger that he so sore did feare.
For not in vayne it ranst yll in his brest,
Sum wretched hap should hale him to his ende.
And therefore alwaye by his pillowe prest
Had he a sworde, and with that sworde he wende,
In vayne (God wote) all peryls to defende:
For loe his wife foreyrked of his rayne,
Sleeping in bed this cruell wretche hath slayne.

What should I more now seeke to say in this?
Or one jot farder linger furth my tale?
With cruel Nero, or with Phalaris,
Caligula, Domician, and all

The cruell route? or of theyr wretched fall?

I can no more, but in my name advert

Al earthly powers beware of tyrants hart.

And as our state endured but a throwe;
So best in us the staye of such a state
May best appeare to hang an overthrowe,
And better teache tyrantes deserved hate
Than any tyrantes death to fore or late.
So cruell seemde this Richard Thyrd to me,
That loe my selfe now loathde his crueltee.