Classic Poem

What news (sweet P OOLE ) look'st thou my Lines should tell,
But like the toling of the dolefull Bell,
Bidding the Deaths-man to prepare the Grave?
Expect from me no other newes to have.
My Brest, which once was Mirths imperiall Throne,
A vast and desart Wildernesse is growne:
Like that cold Region, from the World remote,
On whose breeme Seas the Icie Mountaines flote;
Where those poore Creatures, banish'd from the Light,
Doe live impris'ned in continuall Night.
 No Object greets my Soules internall Eyes,
But divinations of sad Tragedies;
And Care takes up her solitarie Inne,
Where Youth and Joy their Court did once begin.
As in September, when our Yeere resignes
The glorious Sunne to the cold Wat'rie Signes,
Which through the Clouds lookes on the Earth in scorne;
The little Bird, yet to salute the Morne,
Upon the naked Branches sets her foot,
The Leaves then lying on the mossie Root,
And there a silly chiripping doth keepe,
As though she faine would sing, yet faine would weepe,
Praysing faire Summer, that too soone is gone,
Or sad for Winter, too fast comming on:
In this strange plight I mourne for thy depart,
Because that Weeping cannot ease my Heart.
 Now to our aid, who stirres the neighb'ring Kings?
Or who from France a puisant Armie brings?
Who moves the Norman to abet our Warre?
Or brings in B URGOYNE to aid L ANCASTER ?
Who in the North our lawfull Clayme commends,
To winne us Credit with our valiant Friends?
To whom shall I my secret Griefes impart,
Whose Brest shall be the Closet of my Heart?
The ancient Heroes fame thou do'st revive,
As from all them thy selfe thou didst derive:
Nature, by thee, both gave and taketh all,
Alone in P OOLE she was too prodigall;
Of so divine and rich a temper wrought,
As Heav'n for thee Perfections depth had sought.
Well knew King H ENRY what he pleaded for,
When he chose thee to be his Orator;
Whose Angell-eye, by pow'rfull influence,
Doth utter more then humane Eloquence:
That if againe J OVE would his Sports have try'd,
He in thy shape himselfe would onely hide;
Which in his love might be of greater pow'r,
Then was his Nymph, his Flame, his Swan, his Show'r.
 To that allegeance Y ORKE was bound by Oath,
To H ENRIES Heires, for safetie of us both;
No longer now he meanes Record shall beare it,
He will dispense with Heav'n, and will unsweare it.
He that's in all the Worlds blacke sinnes forlorne,
Is carelesse now how oft he be forsworne;
And here of late his Title hath set downe,
By which he makes his Clayme unto our Crowne.
And now I heare his hatefull Duchesse chats,
And rips up their Descent unto her Brats,
And blesseth them as Englands lawfull Heires,
And tells them, that our Diademe is theirs:
And if such hap her Goddesse Fortune bring,
If three Sonnes faile, shee'le make the fourth a King.
He that's so like his Dam, her youngest Dick ,
That foule, ill-favour'd, crooke-back'd Stigmatick,
That like a Carkasse stolne out of a Tombe,
Came the wrong way out of his Mothers Wombe,
With Teeth in's Head, his passage to have torne,
As though begot an Age ere he was borne.
 Who now will curbe proud Y ORKE , when he shall rise?
Or arme our Right against his Enterprise,
To crop that Bastard Weed, which dayly growes,
To over-shadow our Vermilion Rose?
Or who will muzzle that unruly Beare,
Whose presence strikes our peoples Hearts with feare?
Whilst on his knees this wretched King is downe,
To save them labour, reaching at his Crowne,
Where like a mounting Cedar, he should beare
His plumed Top aloft into the ayre;
And let these Shrubs sit underneath his Shrowds,
Whilst in his armes he doth imbrace the Clowds.
O, that he should his Fathers Right inherit,
Yet be an Alien to that mightie Spirit!
How were those Pow'rs dispers'd, or whither gone,
Should sympathize in Generation?
Or what opposed Influence had force,
So much t'abuse and alter Natures course?
“All other Creatures follow after kind,
“But Man alone doth not beget the Mind.
 My Daisie flower, which erst perfum'd the ayre,
Which for my favour Princes dayn'd to weare,
Now in the dust lyes trodden on the ground,
And with Y ORKES Garlands ev'ry one is crown'd:
When now his Rising waits on our Decline,
And in our Setting, he begins to shine;
Now in the Skies that dreadfull Comet waves.
And who be Starres, but W ARWICKS bearded Staves?
And all those Knees which bended once so low,
Grow stiffe, as though they had forgot to bow;
And none, like them, pursue me with despite,
Which most have cry'd, God save Queene M ARGARITE .
 When Fame shall brute thy Banishment abroad,
The Y ORKIST'S Faction then will lay on load;
And when it comes once to our Westerne Coast,
O, how that Hag, Dame E LINOR , will boast!
And labour straight, by all the meanes she can,
To be call'd home out of the Ile of Man :
To which I know Great W ARWICK will consent,
To have it done by Act of Parlament,
That to my Teeth my Birth she may defie,
Sland'ring Duke R AYNER with base Beggerie;
The onely way she could devise to grieve me,
Wanting sweet S UFFOLKE , which should most relieve me.
 And from that Stocke doth sprout another Bloome,
A Kentish Rebell, a base upstart Groome;
And this is he the White-Rose must preferre,
By C LARENCE Daughter, match'd with M ORTIMER .
Thus by Y ORKES meanes, this rascall pesant, C ADE ,
Must in all haste P LANTAGINET be made:
For that ambitious Duke sets all on worke,
To sound what Friends affect the Clayme of Y ORKE ,
Whilst he abroad doth practise to command,
And makes us weake, by strength'ning Ireland ;
More his owne power still seeking to increase,
Then for King H ENRIES good, or Englands peace.
Great W INCHESTER untimely is deceas'd,
That more and more my Woes should be increas'd.
B EAUFORD , whose shoulders proudly bare up all
The Churches Prop, that famous Cardinall.
The Commons (bent to Mischiefe) never let,
With France t' upbraid that valiant S OMERSET ,
Rayling in Tumults on his Souldiers losse;
Thus all goes backward, crosse comes after crosse:
And now of late, Duke H UMPHREY'S old Allies,
With banish'd E L'NORS base Accomplices,
Attending their Revenge, grow wond'rous Crouse,
And threaten Death and Vengeance to our House;
And I alone the last poore remnantam,
T'indure these stormes with wofull B UCKINGHAM .
 I pray thee, P OOLE , have care how thou do'st passe,
Never the Sea yet halfe so dang'rous was;
And one fore-told, by Water thou should'st die,
(Ah! foule befall that foule Tongues Prophesie)
Yet I by Night am troubled in my Dreames,
That I doe see thee toss'd in dang'rous Streames;
And oft-times ship-wrack'd, cast upon the Land,
And lying breathlesse on the queachy Sand;
And oft in Visions see thee in the Night,
Where thou at Sea maintain'st a dang'rous Fight,
And with thy proved Target and thy Sword,
Beat'st backe the Pyrate which would come aboord.
Yet be not angry, that I warne thee thus,
“The truest love is most suspitious.
Sorrow doth utter what it still doth grieve:
But Hope forbids us, Sorrow to beleeve;
And in my counsell yet this comfort is,
It cannot hurt, although I thinke amisse:
Then live in hope, in Triumph to returne,
When cleerer Dayes shall leave in Clouds to mourne.
But so hath Sorrow girt my Soule about,
That that word Hope (me thinkes) comes slowly out:
The reason is, I know it here would rest,
Where it might still behold thee in my Brest.
Farewell, sweet P OOLE , faine more I would indite,
But that my Teares doe blot what I doe write.