The three sisters teares Shed at the late solemne funerals of the royall deceased Henry, Prince of Wales, &c. R.N. Oxon.

THE THREE SISTERS Teares. SAd second Sister of the Sacred NINE, Whose sweetest Musick is hart-breaking mone, Be present at these Funerall teares of mine, And if they fayle supply them with thine owne. If thou canst teach me wayling humaine woes To touch a stonie hart with tender pittie, Sit downe with mee, my MVSE doe thou dispose In sacred tunes to sing this dolefull dittie. Such dolefull dittie neuer Muse did sing, No, not when all you Muses mourning sat, With sweet Thalia'bout your horse hoofe spring, For her Twinnes losse, which Ioue himselfe begat. Her losse was great; yet greater losse was theirs, Whose plaints must be the subiect of my Pen, These three sad Sisters, who with wofull teares Here wayle his losse, whose like hath seldome beene. Begin then MVSE, and tell both when and where We heard these Ecchoes of their mournefull song, Recount likewise, who these three Sisters were, And what he was, to whom death did this wrong. That time it was, when as the hatefull Snake In that great belt, which buckles heauens bright brest Rouzing his starrie crest, his turne did take To spit his poyson downe on man and beast. When in this Ile, which Nature as her neast Halcyon-like hath built, for her deare sonnes, Amidst the seas, I steer'd my course by East, Where fruitfull Thames the Prince of riuers runnes. At length that noble Citie I beheld, 'Gainst whose broad brest the angry Riuer raues; Yet backe repulst as being thereto compeld He paies it tribute with his fish-full waues. There did I heare (was neuer eare did heare More diuers sounds) all which might yet content The daintiest sense, to which I drew me neere To know from whence they were, and what they ment. And loe, I did behold, from off the shoares Many light friggots, put into the deepe, All trimly deckt, which by the strength of Oares Through the swift streame their way did westward keepe. Who in their course, like couples hand in hand, (While their proud pennons did the welkin braue And their shrill Musick eccho'd on the strand) Did seeme to daunce vpon the bubbling waue. And round about in many a gondelay, Light-footed Nimphes and iolly Swaines did rowe, Deuising mirth and dalliance on the way, Not caring, how they sail'd, or swift, or slow. So many varying and so vaine delights Floating vpon that floud, I then did see, Such diuers showes and such fantastick sights, That Thames the Idle-lake then seem'd to be. As on the Riuer, so vpon the Land, What euer might delight the liuing sence, Was powred forth by pleasures plenteous hand, As if no other heauen had beene from thence. VVith diuers change of fashions and of face, That stately townes proud streets did ebb and flow, Proud ietting Mimmickes, nor of name nor place In rich attire and gold were seene to goe. The loftie buildings burthened with the presse Of louely Dames their windowes opened wide, And swolne with ioy of their so gracefull gesse, Did burst to show such ornaments of Pride. This was that day for Antique deedes renown'd, Which the graue senate of that famous state And people, yeare by yeare, with triumph crownd To honour their elected Magistrate. With daintie delicates the Tables flow'd In euery place, and plenteous Art in scorne Of niggard Nature, all her cunning show'd, And eu'ry dish did lauishly adorne. VVanton excesse, whose cup did ouer flow With the Vines franticke iuyce, which she did spill With prodigall exspence, went to and fro And gaue to eu'ry one to drinke there fill. T'whom quaffing deepe, while they in hart reioyce And sit vpon soft seates of carelesse ease, Minstrill securitie doth with high voyce Sing this inchaunting song, which well did please. Let not vaine doubt disturbe our strengthned state, Nor feare awake our peace with warres alarm's, Our powers at home can beate backe forraine hate And friends abroad for vs will mannage armes. Inioy we not the Sonne of such a King So faire a branch, which now such fruit doth beare, That from such fruit, such hopes already spring, That our great Fortunes shake the world with feare? The heauens therefore vs euer shall behold With louely looke, we feare no aduerse Fate, By humaine powers we cannot be contrould, Nay, Ioue himselfe can hardly hurt our state. O vaine opinion of Soule-blinded men To thinke that ought on earth may be secure, What liues, must doubtlesse die; though doubtfull when, No mortall thing, alas, may long indure. In that selfe houre, in which the infant birth Of ioy in humaine hart is but begunne, Vnlookt for chance may change such ioyfull mirth To dolefull mourning, 'ere the glasse be runne. For angry Heauen disdaining this vaine puffe Of Giant-Pride in men did ope the treasure Of Ioues fierce wrath, & with sterne stormes did cuffe The earth and seas in signe of their displeasure. The King of Gods, as he but cast a looke On them below, made all the kingdome tremble A strange amazement Prince and subiect strooke▪ Their former hopes now sudden feares resemble. A cloud of SORROVV couer'd all the Coast, The Sunne of COMFORT that had woont dispread His gladsome beames, as hee his light had lost, In dolefull darknesse hid his glorious head. Then droop't great Albion, and did hang the wing, Which late aboue the clouds did vaunt to flye: The Peacock plumes, which from her pride did spring Did shed, their colours all did vade and dye. The noble youth to warlike practize giuen, The brood of Mars, which daily great did grow, Whose harts with hope did leape as high as heauen, VVander deiected in blacke weedes of woe. Disturb'd in thought to thinke what cause could force So suddaine change of things, that seem'd to stand Immutable, by West I kept my course Still vp the Riuer, by the Northern strand. Vntill I came to that great house of FAME, That sacred Temple built by KINGS of yore, Th'admired workmanship of whose faire frame Excels all others that haue beene before. There Time hath rais'd vp Trophies all dispred, VVith shining Gold, and monuments of Fame, To many Kings and great Heröes dead, And there for euer hath engrau'd their Name. VVhose goodly building, as I stood to see, And wondred at the Architects rare hand, An vnthought accident did hap to me, As in the Temple I did gazing stand. There did I see, which I shall euer rue, There to haue seene a dolefull Herse erected, To which as to a Prince no reuerence due, Or right of Royalty was there neglected. The royall Badges that were set about Did seeme to me to mourne vpon that Herse, The Lordly Lyon seem'd not halfe so stout, Nor th'Vnicorne, as he was woont, so fierce. A dew of dolefull teares was standing seene Vpon the louely white Rose and the red, The Thistle was not, as was woont so greene, The Flowre-deluce did seeme to hang the head. But woe is me, that, which was most in me The cause of woe (O let it no be told) Was three faire Ladies, whom I there did see, Three fayrer Ladies, eye did neare behold. They daughters to a famous Monarch were; Though now their royall robes were laid away, In stead whereof they mourning stoales did weare, And at their feete their Crownes and Scepters lay. On the cold ground all carelesse they did sit As loathing nice respects about that beere And with their hands for such sterne vse vnfit (Alas the while) did rend their golden haire. Their brests they fiercely smot, where liu'd their woe And their sad eyes dispairing of releefe They vp did lift, whence streames of teares did flow, As heauen accusing guilty of their griefe. Their griefe was such, that euen the marble stone As mou'd therewith a weeping moysture beares, Yea now to thinke vpon their pitteous mone My frailer eyes doth drowne these lines in teares. And at that time I felt my greiued heart So peirc't with pitty of so sad a sight, That drawing neere I prai'd them to impart, VVhat was the cause of their so rewfull plight. Then vp arose the fayrest of the three VVho sighing deepe, as if her hart would breake, After some pause, as soone as breath was free, To let forth griefe, these bleeding words did speake. Angela. AH, what delight of speech can be to those, who when they speake in vaine do spend their breath▪ Man, he may heare, but cannot help our woes, For hee is subiect vnto Tyrant DEATH; To Tyrant Death, that hath done this despight, Ah then in liuing speech is no delight. In vaine my tongue, in vaine thou dost vnfold The helplesse harmes of our hart hidden griefe▪ In vaine it is such Sorrowes should be told, VVhereas no hope is left to finde reliefe: All is but vaine, where nothing may auaile, Except this one thing left, to weepe and wayle. To weepe and wayle his losse for euermore, Vpon whose life my hopes did whole relye. O then into these eyes what powre will poure A floud of Teares, that neuer may be dry? That I vnto the dead his due may giue, And show how I him lou'd, when he did liue. I am the eldest borne of Daughters three To Albion, chiefe of mighty Neptunes sonnes, VVho iealous lest his seed commixt should bee VVith other mortals, round about vs runnes, And from the world, as being in doubt to lose vs, Hath made his waues a siluer wall t'inclose vs. Logris my Name was once so call'd before By great King Locrine, Brutus eldest birth, But since that mighty people tooke this shore, The war-like SAXONS famous through the earth, Hight Angela my Name hath euer beene, Such was the name of their victorious Queene. And since that time, that name of mine like Thunder Hath borne a dreadfull sound, through seas and land, The worlds great Idoll, Rome, at whom with wonder The Nations round about doe gazing stand, As sodaine blow her necke of Pride had broken, Hath quak't, when shee hath heard my name but spoken. But why doe I, thus vainely vaunt my power, And boast my greatnesse, now alas brought low, Since cruell DEATH hath cropt as faire a flower, As in my garland euer yet did grow? Was neuer Flower more hopefull growne then he, Though he is dead and withered, as you see. If Iron sides were giuen me from aboue, That sighing would indure, and neuer breake: Yet could I not expresse my countryes loue Vnto this dead yong PRINCE; nor could I speake His prayses due, had I a voyce of Brasse. So vertuous Noble, and so wise he was. VVas (woe the while that now he is not so) Sonne to the Fame-grac'd Monarch of this ILE, VVho with his royall Brother, who doth grow To hopes, that doe my present griefes beguile, Betwixt them two alone did seeme to share The heritage of GRACE, and vertues rare. But vnto him, to him, that now is gone, Heau'n at his birth so gracious was and free, That as it should haue tooke delight alone To giue to him, what gifts could giuen be, In that blest houre of his faire birth it shed All gifts of grace vpon his royall head. The Hony sweet he suckt from learned writs, VVas as heauens Nectar to delight his tast, Himselfe the best aboue the best of wits In learnings lore shot vp and grew so fast, That all, in him, admir'd these nobler parts, Discourse and practize both in worthie arts. Then help (yee sacred Sisters euery one) Leaue your delightfull songs and sportfull games, About the pleasant springs of Hellicon And sitting with vs on the banckes of Thames, Lament with vs, for you haue cause to mone, Maecenas now is dead, is dead and gone. The sectaries of your deuiner skill By the dull world dispis'd hee did aduance, And them with Princely power protected still Against the mallice of Proud Ignorance; Then to him dead, who gaue while he did liue Such grace to you, all gracefull glory giue. On you disdain'd of golden vanitie, He dain'd to looke, and knowing sapience To be the Garland of Nobility, Did daily seeke your wisedomes influence, But he is gone and few doe now remaine, That doe not you and all your Arts disdaine. Where are the worthies of those antique dayes, Who woont, their Crownes and Scepters laid aside, To girt their conquering browes with sacred Bayes, For which their names be now eternized. They late did liue in him, that now is dead, And are with him againe rapt vp in lead. For few doe now the sacred Nine esteeme, That haue the gift of Mydas golden touch, Science diuine, a fruitlesse thing they deeme, And count the learned base for being such. O then let all that learned are lament His losse, whose life was learnings ornament. And you braue spirits of the warre-Gods traine, That loue to beare the bold Bellonaes shield, And with your swords eternitie to gaine, Delight in battels and in bloodie field, Mourne you with vs, your Mars hath lost his light, And in deaths clouds is now extinguisht quite. Who like himselfe, is like to looke on you, That with an open hand and minde so free, Will giue to men of Armes their prayses due, Which woont great Brittaines brasen wals to be? Now in the Helme, the glory of the field, Foule spiders still their mansion house may build. If death had giuen him leaue to lead you on, And guide you through the crimson paths of warre, Against the sonnes of strumpet Babilon, Or those Philistines, that her Champions are, You with your swords were like to dig a Tombe, Wherein to burie all the Pride of Rome. Of Rome, that would and will be Monster-head Of all the world: who was so holy giuen, That she of late with hot deuotion led, VVould with one blast haue blowne me vp to heauen, Such hot hell-fierd zeale let all times know, Since time before the like could neuer show. For this, had HENRY liu'd to lift his hand To hunt from hence Romes Rats, that daily feed Vpon the fat and glory of my land And in my wounded bosome daily breed, I by his arme, like euer to be strong, Vpon the gates of Rome had grau'd this wrong. For I did thinke (and who but so will thinke) Had he but liu'd, that neuer in this land, A fuller cuppe of glory I should drincke, Then that which I did hope from HENRIES hand? For twice foure Henries haue beene Lords of mee, All which could not show greater hopes then hee. Not Edwards battailes, when such deeds were done, That Cressies and Poiteres were drown'd in blood, Nor those of Henry, when such fame hee woone, That France did stoope, and at his mercy stood, I did not thinke should be so great in fame, As those which hope did promise in his name. Him oft, though young, vpon a war-like steed, Like Ioue-borne Perseus, mounted I haue seene, VVhom with such goodly grace he hath bestrid, As Horse and man had but one body beene, Teaching him stand, stoope, stop, turne, leap and spring Caper, curuet, pace, praunce, and trot the ring. His riper iudgement in such vnripe yeeres And knowledge in the Theoricke of warre, Which as I feare when future ages hears They hardly will beleeue: wee may compare, To th'ancient Romans, whose graue wisedome gaue Rome all her Pride, and made the world her slaue. As bounteous Heauen with vertues and with arts Th'immortall part of man in him did grace, So Nature in constructure of those parts, VVhich death too cruell did too soone deface The grace of all good feature gaue to him In euery Muskle, member, ioynt and limbe. A manly sternenesse sat vpon his brow; Yet mixed with an aemiable grace, The silken blossomes gan to bud but now Vpon his downy chin; yet in his face Was seene such iudgement as in age appears, How then could death destroy such hopeful yeeres? But why doe I, like man, made out of dust Seeme 'gainst great heauen vaine arguments to frame? Nor highest Ioue, nor Death, haue beene vniust Taking from earth, what earth could neuer claime: His soule from vs for our foule sinnes complaints, Is rapt to heauen to dwell among the Saints. Ah wretched England, now I turne to thee To sound heauens iudgements in thy sottish eares, And if still deafe thou Adder-like wilt be, And not be mou'd with pitty of these teares, Yet on thy selfe some kinde compassion take Doe not sleepe dead in sinne, at last awake. Why dost thou hug thy sinnefull selfe, as safe, In the soft bosome of securefull sloath? Dreadlesse of thine owne danger, why do'st laugh In face of heauen whose lookes are full of wroth? Why dost thou seeke to make thy euill good? As vice in vertue should be vnderstood. Turne yet deare country, turne thee now at last, Be mou'd with this late sudden blow from heauen, And let these teares, still tell thee what is past, Least carelesse found, a greater blow be giuen: For though thy losse be now laid out on beere, Forget him not, thou canst not finde his peere. Except his royall Brother, who begins Like hopefull bud to promise goodly fruit: For whose deere life, repentant of thy sinnes, Offer to heauen thy prayers and suppliant suite: For now on Charles my hopes transferred be, Since Henry, dead, I neuer more shall see. Thus sad shee sigh'd and downe her selfe did throw, Euen downe againe vpon the cold hard stone, With whom her Sisters, as wood-Culuers doe Vpon the bared branch made pitteous mone, Vntill at length the second Sister rose And in these words did vtter forth her woes. Albana. A Mournfull subiect should with mournfull skill Be painted forth, in letters fraught with tears; then help, soone help me to some turtles quil, Who for her deare loues losse griefes burthen beares, VVhich with sad Sorrowes drops may euer flow, That with true Passion thou mayst write my woe. Neuer did Turtle mourne on branchlesse bow Her deerest make dead dropping from the tree With more lamenting griefe, then I doe now Deere HENRY dead, dead HENRY deere to mee. For though thou hast my Sisters teares before, Yet I haue cause to mourne as much, or more. To Albion, Monarch of this Iland all Till death his life vntimely did exspell, VVhen with Alcides on the coast of Gaule Fighting beneath his conquering Club he fell I, wretched I, the second Daughter am And at the first hight Albana my name. Of Noble Abanact, Brutes second Sonne I was so nam'd, who ouer me did raigne Till slaine in battaile by the barbarous Hume His Brother Locrine did my cause maintaine, And on proud HVMBER did reuenge his blood, Who drown'd, did leaue his name vnto that flood. And since that time, though wrathfull heau'ns haue frown'd With many a bitter storme vpon my coast, Though in the depth of woe I haue beene drown'd For many sonnes, whom I haue timelesse lost; Yet neuer any griefe did touch mee more, Then this for him, whom dead I doe deplore. How can the Nurse but wayle her infant lost Tooke from the breast, whom she shall neuer see And of his birth, who but my selfe can boast? Who was so hopefull, when hee went from me, That neuer Mother had more hope of childe, Alas, that of such hopes I am beguild. When time at first his birth to light did bring, Those three faire twines, from whom to vs is giuen All good and vertue, that of grace doth spring To rocke his royall Cradell came from heauen, And by degrees their graces did bestow, As he from leafe and bud to flower did grow. His leafe was louely as the spring of day, His bud peept forth as doth the bashfull morne, His flower began most goodly to display, And much this Ilands garden did adorne: But death, that wilde Boare entered in anon, And now his liues leafe, bud, and flower are gone. Not in that gardens plot, which we be-hight Of Yorke and Lancaster, did euer grow Amongst so many Roses red and white Any Rose-bud, that made a fairer show, So faire it show'd, earth was enui'd to beare it, Now therfore heauen doth in her bosome weare it. Not all the Forrest of great Albion Did euer any Lordly Lyon know, More like then that of his to set vpon That Beast of Rome and all her Pride orethrow; And therefore now a place to it is giuen Aboue the Lyon, that great starre in heauen. If he had liu'd beneath his royall Sire Our Kingly shepheard, who with care doth keepe The flocke of Israell from raging Ire Of rauening Wolues that would destroy the sheepe Then, then, should all our Brittaine borders be, As once they were from VVolues secure and free. But what so strong or stedfast is, whose state Stands vnder heauen built vpon earthly mould, That can indure? firme is the doome of FATE To Prince and Poore alike, to young and old, Nor wisedome, honour, beautie, gold or strength, To mortall life can adde on day in length. VVho that hath eyes, but sees the day begunne Peepe forth from East like childe from Mothers wombe And yet in West ere many howers be done, Her life and light being lost shee seekes her tombe, Hee, that sees this vnto himselfe may say, Death is not farre, my life is like the day. For if ought mortall could haue wrought such wonder, As to haue bought a little Lease of life, Sterne Fate should not so soone haue cut in sunder Our deare dead HENRIES thred with cruell knife. Yea, many liues (could liues preuaile with death) Would for his one haue offerd vp their breath. But that which grieues a tender Mother most, And heapes huge Sorrowes on her mournfull breast When she her deare beloued Sonne hath lost, Is now the cause of my mindes most vnrest, I was not by to close dead HENRIES eyes, When enuious Fates did make his life their prize. I, that did beare him, was too farre away, To mourne his dolefull Fate, when as hee di'd, Death, like a Theefe, vpon his life did pray, And stole him hence; to mee it was deni'd Vnto my Lord to speake my last Farewell, And bid him sleepe, where peace doth euer dwell. Yee Sisters three, that still in fatall hand The Twist and Spindle of mans life doe hold, To whom the power is giuen to command, The breath of this or that man, vncontroul'd, Amongst so many liues, why did you chuse That life of his, and all the rest refuse? Was it to make your dreaded power knowne In him alone, to men in Fortunes grace? Mongst whom (flesh proud by Nature,) few or none Obserue it in the men of meaner place? If so, he being spar'd, why was not then Your doome decreed against those wretched men? Those wretched men, of all that liue this day, Who vainely thinke themselues then most secure When soothing Sycophants to them doe say They shall not dye but euermore indure: Of such may HENRY, gone, the eyes vnblinde, And make them know, they must not stay behinde. But thus why with ineuitable Fate Doe I dispute? why doe I thinke in hart, To preordaine the time of finall date And point whom death shall strike with deadly dart, Since mortall men such secrets may not know, And heauen keepes hid such things from earth below? Yet, if that any wretch, whose cankered brest Is deepely wounded with the deadly sting Of monster Errours, foule seauen-headed beast Shall dare to aske, why such a hopefull spring In prime of all his youth was taken hence And falsely thinke the cause was his offence; Such barking Curres (if barking Curres there be That dare in priuate our dead Lyon bite) Know that the chiefest cause why wretched we Haue lost in Israell our second light, Is their false, wicked, close, commerce with those, That are their God, their King and countries foes. Although I not excuse these impious times VVhich vnto heauen for vengeance daily call; For know (deere country) for thy odious crimes, This heauy losse vpon thy head did fall: Not that braue Prince, though borne with sinfull breath VVith crying crimes did hasten his owne death. Then with thy sister England turne from sinne, That Heauen may turne her threatfull plagues from thee And blesse thy Soueraignes Charles, who doth begin, To bud apace, and in each grace to be The Image of his Noble Brother dead, For whom these teares his Albana doth shed. This said, the rest in silence she did drowne, And sighing from her breast a grieuous groane, As if it would haue broke, she sat her downe, VVith whom her Sisters did lament and mone, Vntill the third and youngest vp did rise, VVho did expresse her Sorrowes in this wise. Cambera. IF euer heauen did shed a weeping showre, Compassionating things on earth below, If earth, or any thing therein haue powre T'augment my griefe or adde vnto my woe, In my sad passions let them beare a part, That these my teares may pierce the worlds hard hart. The man, that wayles the losse of such a thing, Which he hath sought and yet could neuer see, which was the life, from whence his hopes did spring, And findes it dead, that man is like to mee, Of HENRY dead, the garland of my glory, Neare seene by mee, must be my mournfull story. I am the yongest Sister of the three Yet equall to the best of both in fame, As in all antique stories men may see, And Cambera is my true auncient name, So cal'd of Noble Camber, Brut's third Sonne, When ouer me to raigne hee first begunne. And since that time, my state oft times cast downe On lowly dust by hand of irefull FATE, I neuer had more hope to calme her frowne And rayse againe the glory of my state: But death that daily workes this worlds decay With Henries life hath blowne my hopes away. Twice thirty times and fiue the radiant Sunne His Inne hath taken with the golden Ram And euery time his yeares iust race hath runne Since any Prince was titl'd by that name; VVho then more teares should to this Herse afford Then I for losse of my late liuing LORD? The blacke Prince Edward, whose victorious Lance Spaines bastard Henry did in battell quell And made blacke daies and bloody fieldes in Fraunce VVhen French King Iohn beneath his valor fell In Henry liu'd, for hee againe did rayse My plume forgot, which Edward crown'd with praise. As when in golden Summer wee doe see A dainty Palme high mounted on the head Of some greene hill to daunce for iollity And shake her tender lockes but new dispread, So stood my Estrich plumes on Henries crowne VVauing aloft like ensignes of renowne. Had I but seene, what fame so high resoundes, Had Ludlow with his presence once beene blest, Or had his foote steps toucht my borders boundes, I should not yeeld vnto my thoughts vnrest; But with my Sisters seeke t' appease my ruth, VVho did inioy the glory of his youth. Then for this losse, 'gainst whom shall I complaine? To lessen griefe, shall heauen appeached be? Or death accus'd of wrong? that were prophane, Our Princes are their subiects, and as hee, So others shall, that are and ere haue beene; Like vapors vade and neuer more be seene. No, no my country thou the blame must haue, Thy sinne aboue the cloudes her head did show And there the King of GODS did proudly braue, Who for that cause did scourge thee with this woe, Which euer beare in thought, least at the last, Thou feele the smart of that thou thinkst is past. Lift vp thine eyes, to heauen all prayses giue, Seeke with sad teares t'appease IEHOVAHS wrath, And that thy Royall DAVID long may liue To try thy cause against that man of Gath, Bring downe the length of dayes vpon his head, And blesse the partner of his Royall Bed. Blesse hopefull CHARLES, that we may want no heyre Of his to weare this Kingdomes Diadem, Great Heauen looke louely on that louely payre, Strike Enuy dead, if it but point at them, And let their Sunne of IOY be neuer set: Though HENRY dead we neuer may forget. Thus hauing vtter'd forth her pittious mone, She with her Sisters vanished away, And left me there in Sorrow all alone, At which amaz'd I durst no longer stay, Else I did thinke vpon that Royall HERSE, To haue left behinde this sad acrostike Verse.