Classic Poem

What can my Queene but hope for from this Hand,
 That it should write, which never could command?
A Kingdomes Greatnesse thinke how he should sway,
That wholesome Counsell never could obay:
Ill this rude Hand did guide a Scepter then,
Worse now (I feare me) it will rule a Pen.
 How shall I call my selfe, or by what Name,
To make thee know from whence these Letters came?
Not from thy Husband, for my hatefull Life
Makes thee a Widdow, being yet a Wife:
Nor from a King; that Title I have lost,
Now of that Name, proud B ULLENBROOKE may boast:
What I have beene, doth but this comfort bring,
No words so wofull, as, I was a King .
This lawlesse Life, which first procur'd my Hate,
This Tongue, which then renounc'd my Regall State,
This abject Soule of mine consenting to it,
This Hand, that was the Instrument to doe it;
All these be witnesse, that I now denie
All Princely Types, all Kingly Sov'raigntie.
 Didst thou for my sake leave thy Fathers Court,
Thy famous Countrey, and thy Princely Port,
And undertook'st to travell dang'rous Wayes,
Driven by aukward Winds and boyst'rous Seas?
And left'st great B URBON , for thy love to mee,
Who su'd in Marriage to be link'd to thee,
Offring for Dower the Countries neighb'ring nie,
Of fruitfull Almaine , and rich Burgundie?
Didst thou all this, that England should receive thee,
To miserable Banishment to leave thee?
And in my Downe-fall, and my Fortunes wracke,
Thus to thy Countrey to convey thee backe?
 When quiet Sleepe (the heavie Hearts Reliefe)
Hath rested Sorrow, somewhat less'ned Griefe,
My passed Greatnesse into mind I call,
And thinke this while I dreamed of my Fall:
With this Conceit my Sorrowes I beguile,
That my faire Queene is but withdrawne a while,
And my Attendants in some Chamber by,
As in the height of my Prosperitie.
Calling aloud, and asking who is there?
The Eccho answ'ring, tels me, Woe is there;
And when mine Armes would gladly thee enfold,
I clip the Pillow, and the place is cold:
Which when my waking Eyes precisely view,
'Tis a true token, that it is too true.
 As many Minutes as in the Houres there be,
So many Houres each Minute seemes to me;
Each Houre a Day, Morne, Noone-tide, and a Set,
Each Day a Yeere, with Miseries complete;
A Winter, Spring-time, Summer, and a Fall,
All Seasons varying, but unseasoned all:
In endlesse Woe my thred of Life thus weares,
In Minutes, Houres, Dayes, by Months, to lingring Yeares.
 They prayse the Summer, that enjoy the South;
Pomfret is closed in the Norths cold Mouth:
There pleasant Summer dwelleth all the Yeere,
Frost-starved-Winter doth inhabit here;
A place wherein Despaire may fitly dwell,
Sorrow best suting with a cloudie Cell.
When H ARFORD had his Judgement of Exile,
Saw I the Peoples murmuring the while;
Th' uncertaine Commons touch'd with inward Care,
As though his Sorrowes mutually they bare:
Fond Women, and scarse-speaking Children mourne,
Bewayle his parting, wishing his returne.
That I was forc'd t'abridge his banish'd Yeares,
When they bedew'd his Foot-steps with their Teares;
Yet by example could not learne to know,
To what his Greatnesse by their love might grow:
But Henry boasts of our Atchievements done,
Bearing the Trophies our great Fathers wonne;
And all the storie of our famous Warre,
Must grace the Annals of Great L ANCASTER .
 Seven goodly Siens in their Spring did flourish,
Which one selfe-Root brought forth, one Stock did nourish;
E DWARD the top-Branch of that golden Tree,
Nature in him her utmost power did see;
Who from the Bud still blossomed so faire,
As all might judge what Fruit it meant to beare:
But I his Graft, of ev'ry Weed o'r-growne,
And from our kind, as Refuse forth am throwne.
We from our Grandsire stood in one Degree,
But after E DWARD , J OHN the yong'st of three.
Might Princely Wales beget a Sonne so base,
(That to G AUNIS Issue should give Soveraigne place?)
He that from France brought J OHN his Prisoner home,
As those great C ÆSARS did their Spoyles to Rome ,
Whose Name obtained by his fatall Hand,
Was ever fearefull to that conquer'd Land:
His Fame encreasing, purchas'd in those Warres,
Can scarcely now be bounded with the Starres;
With him is Valour from the base World fled,
(Or here in me is it extinguished)
Who for his Vertue, and his Conquests sake,
Posteritie a Demy-god shall make;
And judge, this vile and abject Spirit of mine,
Could not proceed from temper so divine.
 What Earthly Humour, or what vulgar Eye
Can looke so low, as on our Miserie?
When B ULLENBROOKE is mounted to our Throne,
And makes that his, which we but call'd our owne:
Into our Councels he himselfe intrudes,
And who but Henry with the Multitudes?
His Power disgrades, his dreadfull Frowne disgraceth,
He throwes them downe, whom our Advancement placeth;
As my disable and unworthie Hand
Never had Power, belonging to Command.
He treads our sacred Tables in the dust,
And proves our Acts of Parlament unjust;
As though he hated, that it should be said,
That such a Law by R ICHARD once was made;
Whilst I deprest before his Greatnesse, lie
Under the weight of Hate and Infamie.
My Backe a Foot-stoole B ULLENBROOKE to rayse,
My Loosenesse mock'd, and hatefull by his prayse,
Out-live mine Honour, burie my Estate,
And leave my selfe nought, but my Peoples Hate.
 (Sweet Queene) Ile take all Counsell thou canst give,
So that thou bidst me neyther hope nor live;
“Succour that comes, when Ill hath done his worst,
“But sharpens Griefe, to make us more accurst.
Comfort is now unpleasing to mine Eare,
Past cure, past care, my Bed become my Beere:
Since now Misfortune humbleth us so long,
Till Heaven be growne unmindfull of our Wrong;
Yet it forbid my Wrongs should ever die,
But still remembred to Posteritie:
And let the Crowne be fatall that he weares,
And ever wet with wofull Mothers Teares.
 Thy Curse on P ERCIE , angry Heavens prevent,
Who have not one Curse left, on him unspent,
To scourge the World, now borrowing of my store,
As rich of Woe, as I a King am poore.
Then cease (deare Queene) my Sorrowes to bewayle,
My Wound's too great for Pitie now to heale;
Age stealeth on, whilst thou complaynest thus,
My Griefes be mortall and infectious:
Yet better Fortunes thy faire Youth may trie,
That follow thee, which still from me doth flie.