Classic Poem

The Countesse of Zeland continueth in her
complaint.
Now, gallants, judge, if it with honour stands
For any lord a lady thus to rate,
Or blase with scorne their pleasure at her hands?
If i ne grees with glory of their state,
Helpe to excuse Biancas deadly hate,
Who now beginnes such bloudy newes to blase,
As endlesse shame her insamie will raise.

Or give her leave to use what cloake she may,
For once report wil much inlarge her misse:
In womens moodes there is no meane, they say,
They (scorned) love: so huge their liking is,
Of force as great their hate must be ywis:
What folly, then, Giazzos mynde did blame,
To think my wrath would cease through open shame?

How could he wene my friendship for to force
By ringing out the lewdnesse of my life,
Sith shame compelles the bad to fall to worse?
Where discord is, new wrong increaseth strife,
Revenge is sought where injuries are rise.
Wast, then, the way to reave my wrangling hate
Invectives vile to set upp on my gate?

O no! God wot, my mightie litle hart
Was well nye burst, my blame was blased so:
These rymes I sung with notes of musickes art,
Bianca named in every wanton shew,
Constrained me, wretch, from Pavie for to go:
To Mantua then I did my journey take,
Where open house I kept for credits sake.

And placed there according to my will,
With bloudie hate my murdrous hart was bent
Giazzo lord Valperga eake to kill.
A thousand feates of murder I invent,
As many fears my purpose did prevent:
I loth, yet would, and willing stoode in awe:
Such brunts they byde that venter breach of lawe.

Till vice vertue hath vanquisht in the feeld,
Then reason, lawe, rule, feare, and all adew.
Their minds, their harts, to nought but folly yeeld,
In spoile they sport, they laugh at mischiefes new
The proofe of which, alas! to late I rewe,
For when my feare my furie put to flight,
I living dyde, till I had wrought my spight.

And sith this acte to doe my minde did mase,
This traine I laide to tyce a trustie frend:
In place of veue I gallants gave the gase,
Their bonets vaild, Bianca streight did bend,
Through friendly showe a bon jour for to send:
To parle oft I did my selfe apply,
Before I trust by talke each youth to try.

In making love they prettle prattle usde,
But nought it vaild to hault before the lame,
For I, of yore with wylie woordes abusde,
As children brent doe after dread the flame;
At sugred speache I made a sporting game:
But ah (ay mee!), to worke mine overthrow,
Untimely came to Mantua dom Pietro.

This captaine stout went flaunting to and fro,
Till loe (ill luck!) mee wretched hee espyes.
My gallant port beseemde a countesse show;
My beautie then, my brave arrave hee eyes,
While blinded love into his fancie flyes,
And stryving he doth cause his fire increase:
Thus warres he founde when most hee hoapte of peace.

Unarmed yet to match with Cupids force,
With conges kinde he wrayed his loving moode;
Next, sighes he sends to move me to remorse,
Then paintes his pen, thus strange his fancies stoode:
My yea would save, my nay should shead his blood.
Quick answeare make, Dom Pietro hath decreede
To live in joy, or else to die with speede.

These lines receivde, I spyed my novis heate,
Who lookt and lackt the recompence of love,
Which scorne in mee did cause him more to sweate:
Hee sight, I smilde, his joy my noy did move;
Which thwarting showes (past hope) inforst him prove,
If that his lute soone might (his passions showne)
Could force his sweete his hard mishap to mone.

But when I saw his love did still increase,
As hee one night lamenting layes did yell,
My gates were ope in signe and show of peace,
In came this lord, in minde his griefs to tell;
But loe! abashte, he first to blushing fell;
In chamber frayes, of both my selfe the best,
This onset gave to cheare my chosen guest.

Biancas breach of chaste and modest lawe
May seeme full straunge to you, my loving lord,
To ope my gates to one I never sawe,
When knowen friends so falsisie their word.
Dread not (quoth he) Dom Pietro doth accord,
From sorrowes free, yet free Biancas slave,
To like but what his love desires to have.

I aunsweared soone: with sugred showes full ofte,
Such lords as you faire ladies still beguiles,
But suites obtained, they, sillie soules, are scofte,
Then choice, in chaunge, your love and faith exiles.
Not so in mee (quoth hee); I want such wiles:
For proofe, commaund what service pleaseth you,
The which performde, then thinke Dom Pietro true.

In hoape (quoth I) your wordes and deedes are one,
I first will trust your faith, then after taste:
To quite your love Bianca is your owne.
Dom Pietro streight did execution haste,
And bashfull earst his best belovde imbraste.
With sugred wiles I so this gallant wrought,
As sure I was a godesse in his thought.

Assurde of which, to sawce his sweetest sport
A sighe I fetcht, and squemish sayned to bee:
Whoe worth (quoth I) Giazzo lewde report,
Valpergas scorne, two earles of high degree!
Their traytrous tongues so sore have slaundred mee
That death I wish, but destine will not soe,
And they triumph that wrought my timelesse woe.

Dom Pietro then did bluster forth this speach.
(Ah) verlets vile, from natures lawe which swerve,
Ere longe I sure your traytrous tongue, will teach,
To slaunder her whom duetie wills you serve:
And then he vowde with speede their flesh to carve;
Soon shall they prove (quoth hee) if I doe faine,
And you shall see if deedes and woordes are twaine.

I glad of which, yet sad I seemde in showe,
And sighing said, Looke to your selfe, my sweete;
Your hurt, my death, in hart I love you soe:
Which friendly wordes his surie more did heate.
Fare well (quoth hee) till I have wrought this feate:
This hand and blade their babling tongues shal worme.
Which wordes with deedes he (cruel) did performe.

For loe! one night hee did forestaule their way:
But, weaklie armde Valperga was intrapte;
Giazzo, blest, was absent at this fray.
Oore wayde with force Valperga was intrapt,
That (ah!) his death untimely there hee rapt;
Who dying cryde, Dom Pietro did the deede.
Streight hew and crie to search him out doth speede.

Hee found, forthwith unto the duke was brought,
And paintes at large my love and lothsome hate.
The suite of friendes in grace Dom Pietro wrought;
To salve my misse repentaunce came to late.
Good ladies, yet note well my fall and fate,
My wealth, my weades, my sweete delights to shoe,
Intice, not warne, without the sauce of woe.

But listen well unto my filthie fall.
Payse blisse with bale, sweete life with sower end,
And you shall finde my joy oore wayde with thrall:
Of freedome rest, in prison closely pend,
Distrest, unhelpt, forsooke of kinne and frend;
Yea, more then straying, [strange] so fowle my follies ware
As gould ne vayld to cleare my clowdes of scare.

Ne could I (wretch) take well in worth my woe,
My former sweete did so increase my sowre.
My homely cheare, my costly cates did show,
My prison vile, of yore my princely bowre,
My laughing friends, by foes that then did lowre:
Controwld and scornde, who thousands did commaunde,
Once crave and have, denyde now eche demaunde.

My lothsome couche presenteth to my vewe
My beds of doune, with thought of sweete delights.
Thus day and night my willfull harme I rewe,
Ech thought of grace my conscience guilt affrights,
Yet (loth to die) against repentaunce fightes,
Till due desert, by lawe and justice lead,
Did dome my misse with losse of my poore head.

The which in place I ready am to pay,
Acknowledging my faultes before you all:
God graunt my life with such effect you way,
As you may be forewarned by my fall:
Of lawlesse love the end is bitter gall.
I now have sayd, and for their witnesse crye,
How so I livde, I do repentant dye.