A DISCOVRS OF THE PRESENT TROOBLES IN FRAVNCE, AND MISERIES OF THIS TYME, COMPYLED BY PETER RONSARD GENTILMAN OF VANDOME, AND DEDICATED VNTO THE QVENE MOTHER, TRANSLATED IN TO ENGLISH BY THOMAS IENEY GENTILMAN.
PRINTED AT ANDWERPE. M.D.LXVIII.
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A PASSION.
VVhen grymm dispaire, vvithe graspe of grieslye vvooes,
In plounged myndes, do vvorke the muses vvracke:
Then boylinge heades turmoyles, the hammars gooes,
And hevvmors dryues, as dothe the sommers racke.
No kindlye course, his propper plyght reteanes.
Sommond vvythe cayres, so fayred it by me,
By soddayne dryft, as flormes by mystye raynes,
Do chooke th'aire, and bryghtnes of the skey.
In suche a plyght, did all my senses stand,
The storme begann, vvithe in my restles brayne,
And from my eyes, the streames vvere streight at hand,
That on my cheekes, sharpe shovvres dovvne did rayne.
Eche hevvmor did (as surges soyles them selves,
On muddye shoores) vvythe rughe reflex contend.
Eche veyne puft vpp, as though vvith flotynge eveles:
Did ransicke oft, vvhat vvay to vvrest or vvend.
My bodye chylld, as all amasd vvithe vvoo:
My trymblynge fleshe, hott agevves did conspire:
My clustred lymes, on frossen heapes did grovve:
And streight resolud, as thoughe attacht vvithe fyer,
VVhere in my corse, a stubburne vvarr begann.
My sobbes supt vp, vvythe snatchyng breathe redovvnd,
And smookye sieghes from clovvdy brest forth came,
That estsouns forst, a shatterynge hollovve sound.
But vvhat it vvas, that bredd me all this caire,
My silence shall, recorde his cureles dumpe
In careles mynde, that yelds not to dispaire:
Nor bragge of fickle fortunes vvorldly brunt.
In mase of vvo, and in this caise vvas i:
Tvvene hope to riese, and feare, to faid, or fall,
VVhen first my frend, presented vnto me
This mournynge uerse, of plaintfull FRAVNCE his thrall:
And badd me vvrest, my vvearye muse to synge,
Of clatterynge armes, and fyerye MAVORS moude:
Of hatefull vvarr, en forst by ENVYES stynge:
To baythe his handes, vvithein his countree bloude.
Not halfe ypast, the threats of vvynter sadd,
VVhen SATVRNE had, styrd vp the GAVLES to armes.
My mormynge muse, in sorrovve all ycladd,
Gan then to vvryet, of theis deuyded harmes.
My shaykynge hand, my plaintfull pen begann,
To vvayle the FRENCHE, and present stayte of man.
TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE, MY VERIE GOOD LORD AND MAISTER SIR HENRY NORREIS KNIGHT. L. AMBASSADOVR RESIDENT IN FRAVNCE.
The bale begonne, is when deformed warres,
Whith civil stroake, embrewes his natiue swoorde.
For were it not, that rage of rancours roote,
By growinge evills, had watcht so blacke a tyme,
I weane envie, by suche owtraginge splene
Had not brought foorth, this fowle mishapen change
In maymed state, that RONSARD wayles in ryme,
And I reduce, whith not resemblinge penne,
To Englishe grace (though in vnskilful verse)
By frendes enforst to publish now abroade:
Whiche I present (SIR) to yowr shrowdinge hande,
No Trophee, nor masse of mighty myne,
Nor golden somme, but as à miete of fame,
Where power failes t'vnlade affections force.
Your bounden servant THOMAS IENEY.
AD THOMAM IENEIVM EPIGRAMMA.
Gallica si laudem Ronsardi Musa meretur,
Dum deflet patriis patria fata sonis:
Et tua, digna suis Ieneie est laudibus, eius
Anglorum in numeros dum breue cogis opus:
Nam tibi materia est eadem, decurris eodem
Tramite, Pieriae doctus vterque lyrae.
Ille canit patriae moestus fera damna ruentis,
Tingit & Aoniis Gallica verba fauis:
Tuque sequens vates Musae vestigia Gallae,
Sollicitas doctis plectra Britanna modis.
Gratia quaéque illum comitatur blanda canentem,
Emicat, in versu nec minor illa tuo est.
Sic vatem vates vertens, quas ille meretur,
Efficis vt laudes sint quoque iure tuae.
D. ROGERIVS.
FAVVTES ESCAPED IN PRINTINGE.
The leafe B. iij. seconde syde, last verse for echo es reade eckoes. The leafe follovvinge, fyrst syde, the 24. lyne, for, ou blacke Moorey, reade thou blacke Moores. At the ende in the sonnet, in the ende of the sixt verse, for fame, reade, tame.
A DISCOVRSE OF THEIS PRESENT TROBLES, AND miseries of this tŷme.
SENCE that by diuine might of God,
The worlde was first y framd,
Who lent vs life, as nature hight,
Vnspotted and vnsteande,
If then from age to age, encrease
Of vice, had entred in
To humain hartes, and rowted nowght
But rage of cancred sinne,
Then longe to fore, shold extreme wrath
Of malice and of might,
Surmonted al, and wee haue led
Our lives in sineful plight:
But sence we see, ech sort of men
In Sondrie place and Ile,
Some walke as in a vertuous way,
And some doo live but vile,
We owght, and must confesse by force,
That this difformed vice,
Owght not to bost of victorie,
But as by fowle surprise
Pursewes that trade, that she enioyes
That day when man is cladd,
With vertues and vith vices robes
In habit good or bad.
Ne yet vertew it selfe, do owght
Augment her gladsome bandes,
If she had but encreast eftsonnes,
Her fame with heauid vp handes,
Had strecht vnto the tipp of gloor,
And ech thinge shoold accourre,
By perfit meanes to golden happe,
Which present we abhorre.
But as it semes to Royal states,
And to ther pompeus trayne,
And manners eke, throughe tract of yeares,
We see it thus remayne.
For sometyme vertue beares à sale,
And sometyme vice aboundes,
Thone erectes hym selfe, with force,
The other sinckes and drowndes:
Rebayted thus, rechast with might,
The painful minde applyes,
Lest that, with in this sineful woorld,
Encrease of vice arrise.
It pleased thus, the puissant god,
To enterchaunge our might,
And suffer man, within the lap,
Of good and bad to light.
As dooth the painful pilot oft
Conduct his crased boate,
In bitter storme, and quiet calme,
Twene hap and happles loate.
(Thou Quene) that from thie sappie wittes,
Doth shake of ignoraunce,
And redes and heares attentiuely
Our Martial feates of Fraunce,
Thow knowest, and canst fulwel decerne
Beholdinge our debate,
The difference of eche tyme forpast,
And of our present state.
To write of kinges, ther maners eke
In blood sometyme embrewde,
And some vnspotted and vnsteande,
That lyud with fame pursewde.
My hande doth shake, my feble pen
Is not in perfit plight,
My Muses all do mase to see
The fruites of dire despite.
Ambition doth with thirstie throate,
And wide deuouringe pawe,
Stirre vp à thowsand strifes and moo
Withowt respect of lawe:
Some one are lame of wit an skil,
And some with reason flowes,
And some of feble hart agayne
Ther nedeful cause foreslowes.
As princes do professe and are
So subiectes do encline,
For princes are a paterne prest
Ʋnto ther peoples eyen.
It then behoues in tender age,
For to enstruct eche kinge,
How with advice he may conduct,
And gouerne euery thinge:
Even from his cradels fyrst he owght,
To haue before his eyes,
The feare of God, his erlie scourge,
That through misorders rise.
And eke he owght so wel prouide,
And so ordaine and way,
The trewe and perfit lawe, that none
Do erre or runne astraye,
By scisme or by pernicious sect,
By false or forgd devise,
That intricates nowght els but dowbtes,
By wicked mannes surmise.
MADAME alas I wayle to see
The clowdy bitter storme,
That threatens Fraunce, such wrackes of woos,
By wynters wrathe y torne.
The flaggy snowes, the dampishé mystes,
The furye of the skyes,
The bowstiours windes doo woorcke the seas
And fominge surges rise.
And nowe the starres, the guidinge twynnes,
Disdaynes ther gladsome light,
Stand stifflye (MADAME) to the sterne,
To guide the barcke out right.
In mawger of the heydeous wyndes,
And rough malicious storme,
Conduct to harbor man and mate
In shipwracke thus y torne.
Whole Fraunce with folded handes requires,
An thryse requires thy meane,
Our sillye state (a pray to suche
As scorne our noble reigne)
That thou wilt hast that happie meane,
That may those evels redresse,
And by thy right and might appease,
Thes mischeffes more and lesse.
The Royal pride of haughtie seate,
The pompe of princely law,
That quiet held the mace of might,
And regal swoorde of awe,
In bosome of the heauenly light,
What may their sowles now say?
Yea what may they that shrowded are
In cowche and tombe of clay?
VVhat may the Royal PHARAMOVND
And CLODIVS insigne?
What may proude CHARLES, kinge PIPIN eke,
And LEWIS of that tyme?
VVhat maye CLOWIS in Armer clad
And Martial MARTEL say?
That yerst whythe prudent pollecye,
Did raigne and rule alwaye.
That whithe there valiant Armes stil sought
For to inlarge oure state,
Ye first found meanes by conqueste great,
To gaine this fertel seate.
VVhere in theire stateley goulden raignes
Of warlike Gaules we reade,
And howe wythe Armed men were seen
The barren feildes ouer spreade.
Not thus by Civell sawage warrs
Oure state to ouer tourné,
But sought by rigor of the swourde,
Our lustye fame to fourme.
Imagen that you heare the skrikes,
That echo es to the skies
And so redoundes from heigh againe
To yearthe wythe dowleful cryes:
VVhat may our foremer fathers saye?
And lustie men at armes:
That in theese conquestes perrilous,
Receyvd theire mortall harmes?
And died: to effraunchise Fraunce,
VVith longe and yerkesome toyles,
To see our selfes wythe Civell swourd,
Distroye oure natiue Soyles.
They may repyne and yeke repent
Theire lothesome blouddie broiles:
Theire quarrels and theire conquests thus
Subdewed wythe warlike toylis
For souche a people thus distroaght,
For souche diuided strife,
That loosethe while they myght inioye
A shore of happie leife,
A fructeful soyle a fertel lande,
That thou of BRVTVS source
VVhere fominge seas on loftie sides
Dothe beat wyth rage of force,
And drinckes vpon Thamasis springes.
And also ou blacke Moorey,
That in the westerne waues do live,
And buylde on Libicks shores,
Fearinge the flames of Phaëton
Declininge on thy head:
And thow proud Prince of poumpus traine,
That confines one oure syde,
And thou prowde Goate to Armour prest
That prowes striues to wynne,
VVho feeles the Northen coulde some tyme,
One roughe and riueled skin:
By Martial feates of glittering Armes
Ne yet by blouddye fight,
Could neuer daunt or tame by hand
The GAVLES of warlike might.
The Axe of hardnid stele y wrought,
And quyck of cvt y framd
Makes oft the labour easier,
Ʋnto the woorke mans hand.
And warlike Fraunce, yf sharpe of witt,
And prudent pollecie,
Ought nowe to quicken wythe there force
The dymnese of the eye:
And by theire labour so reduce
Theire wealthe to gladsome stats
And to the hatchet heow we see
The taulest okes abats.
VVhose weale no raginge armes could daunt
Nor threat of forraine foo,
Them selfs whith bloudye CYVEL knyfe,
Now seekes to ouerthrow.
So was stronge AIAX brought vnto
His baleful blowdie end,
VVhilst throughe his corse, his brutishe hand,
The sauage knyfe did send:
And ROME that wondred longe eache state,
(A Monarke built of pryd,)
VVho from Appollos rvddy bed,
Ʋnto the westerne side,
His EMPIRE whithe his largest skirtts,
And boundes ystretched farr,
Reuoltinge once, by CYVEL sworde,
Decayed by countrey warr.
Yf theis be hateful presidents,
By plainteful hasserds thral,
And wee not warnd how to beware,
To read of others fall?
Ought not we to be wayle oure wronges,
That in a cloud of wo,
Oure eyes whithe blyndnes so forecaste,
VVe can discerne no fo?
That present now to plonge of wracke,
Dothe threaten yeke decaye,
And we headlonge in myserye,
Can not eschew the waye.
The forraigne Prince whithe warlike swourd,
VVhose wars are plaine to vs,
Doo pittie oure absourdities,
And state tormented thus,
That blount of wyt we feele not now,
How oure Dysastre tournes,
And that we see, and wil not see,
How wayward fortune spornes.
Of Longe record of antique fame,
Manye haue here tofore,
By thretninge and by fearful signes,
Presaged lesse and more.
Namelye withe in soche yeares and dayes,
That headdy franticke GAWLES,
Whithe CYVEL shocke and natiue swourd,
Should shake bothe towne and walles:
And that of filthie mourders ofte,
Oure trowbeled estate,
Should render vs of al estates,
The most vnfortunate.
VVhile like to blowndred crowes in mystes,
VVe headlonge ronne to Armes,
Not knowinge how to shunn or shifte,
The sequel of oure harmes.
An to declare oure selfs more wyse,
VVe neuer gaue no truste,
To trewe precepts nor ruled, oure lyues,
But euer to oure lust.
But obstinate and blynde as were
The HEBRVES of foretyme,
That trusted not the Sacred wordes,
Of those whiche did deuine.
The godds that hauinge some respecte,
Vnto the stray ned sort,
Sent in oure tyme soche wonders ofte,
That might oure lyfes exhorte:
VVhithe waterie eyes for to repent,
And wayle our wycked syn,
And to repaire the breache wile wee,
A better life be gin.
The Skies whithe showers did wayle oure wrake,
Be fore oure tourmoyles were,
The Commetts from the Esterne Syde,
VVhithe threates did foule appere,
And SEINE whithe ouer flowinge waves,
Of far vnwonted force,
Did denotate, and we might deme,
To PARIS some devorse.
The waters in theire swelling wrathe,
As though whithe fominge fume,
They woulde by mightie ouerflow,
The synful worlde consume:
That heauen and earthe did as it weare,
Threaten oure Royall Realme,
A daye of bytter sharpe reuenge,
And Ruine of the same.
O thou that writest of warlike workes,
VVhithe not dissemblinge pen,
Depaint at lengthe oure monstrous age,
To feare and warne all men:
Recompte vnto oure tender youthe,
Oure fatalle myserye,
That readinge they may yeke bewayle,
Oure state whithe watery eye,
That they may lyue and yeke beware,
Of theyre forefathers synn,
Lest they by headlonge error do,
Right to soche evels fall in.
VVythe what vnshamefast face mayest thou,
O Ʋyle tormented lyfe,
Be hold the storie of oure tyme,
In thys myshapen strife:
In Readinge that oure Septer hathe,
And Kinglie famus rase,
From first so manye yeares to forne,
Indured whithe glad increase:
And nowe runues rashlye to rvine,
By rage of martiall might,
Even as the strongest rocke is forst,
From heighe to low to light.
The storie wytethe howe IOVE some tyme,
In rage whithe hewmaine rase,
That would by curious meanes invent,
His godhead to displace:
And soughte to know his deuine might,
VVhithe in his Sacred Ile,
VVhiche no man might to enterprise,
That are prophane and Ʋile,
One day by pricke of youthe the god,
From heigh seate would remoue,
To finde owt dame Presumption,
To entertayne in love.
VVhere at the foote of heigh OLIMPE,
Sounde sleepinge where she laye,
Refte from her tender lippes a kisse,
And eftesones stale a waye.
VVhere whithe the prophaine god conceaud,
Souche rancour in his mynd,
That all his meanes was for reuenge,
Ʋpon the heumaine kynd,
VVhere at the heauens was wrothe to see,
The vile lasciuous god,
And so agreed that he shoulde fele,
The scourge and smartinge rod,
Refte than of Sacred godhead quite,
By strange transformed meane,
From ryueled aged hyde became,
To tender skyn agayne,
From fleetinge youthe to manlye state,
As he stept forwardes still,
Whythe oute restraynt he wrought a meane,
That might succede his will,
What fancye framed in franticke braine,
What youthe vnsemelye ment,
What thinge prophane and vile might be,
That he not easelye hent,
Poufte vp whithe peacokes pride as dyd,
His beastlye raigne begyn,
So dyd his mounstrous shape declare,
The forme of ouglye syn,
From forth his fyrie eyes broust out,
A strange deformed flame,
And noughte but fraud and fycle baytes,
Dyd harber in his braine,
In poysoned hart was nourisht nowghtt,
But lothesome loue deuysed,
Vnder his habit raggd and rent,
AMBICION sat disguised,
Whithe twyned looke yet delycate,
As is the SERENS face,
And yeke a dulced tounge enfefte,
Whithe prowde and paynted grace,
His winges were lightelye borne, his feete,
Weere nether fleshe nor bone,
A shadow but, that non may heere,
VVhen he was fled and gone.
In Sacred scooles the subtell god,
Fonde meanes to lodge and dwell,
Onlye to blunt and blynd there wyttes,
VVhithe deuine arts that mell,
And to that ende to plunge in wo,
Theire curious wytts that soughte,
As arrogant the heauens to clyme,
To knowe eyche Deuine thoughte.
This fowle transformed IOVE that thus,
Becamme prophane ad vile,
Hathe brought this monsterous exchaunge,
And vprores in this Isle,
Demaundinge now to nedie Fraunce,
From SAVOYE some Svpplie,
From SPAYNE and from eche Christian foo,
That nere confyning lie,
And also of the man of warre,
That preste to sound of dromme,
Drinckes of the flowd of DANVBY,
VVhithe channel deepe that ronne,
And of the sylver streames of RHEYNE,
VVhithe lustie sydes hempt in,
VVho dothe bestride the barbed horse,
His Martiall fame to wyn.
In this deformed change the sonne,
The fathers feare white stode,
The brother yeke whithe stayned hand,
Ybaiths in brothers bloud:
Yea Nature clene degenerates,
In weake and femall kynd,
And glowinge spite by pride conceales,
The rancor of the mynd,
Extracte from howse of Natiue lyne,
Bereaues the others life.
The seruile man in maisters bloud,
VVhithe stroke of stayned knyfe,
Imbrues his hands, (O bluddie b [...]le)
O Nature foule confused:
The man contract in bandes we see,
In Nvptiall bed refused,
The fruct of foes, by fraude of frendes,
He maye pervse that lust,
How ferme is fraude, how fraile is faythe,
How tycklie now is trust,
How as from HYDRAIS head intrudes,
The plumes of pevishe pride,
And how whithe duble faced wronge,
Tymes truthe is sloly tried.
The infant from his cradel crept,
Deuorst from parents awe,
Standes vp and stifflye dothe dispute,
Of right and Sacred lawe.
And euerie thinge do cleane declyne,
Whithe out restraint of might,
Abandond are all CYVEL meanes,
Of polecye and right.
In this deformed change eche crafte,
By painefull handes sustaynd,
VVho rept his fruct by labour sweet,
Is now no more mayntaind.
The herdeman dothe (dismayed man,)
Refuse his simple charge,
The advocate hathe now no meane,
To wrest his law at large.
The steerman leaues his floting barke,
To drenche the seas a lone,
The trafique of the spendinge hand,
Is now reiect and gone.
By this mishapen Monster eke,
The wise and ware deuise,
Is by his malice cleane transformed,
To lewd and fylthie vyce.
The tender youthe in learned scooles,
Traind vp to expert yeares,
Corrups his fraile and tender age,
VVhithe fonde and foule desiers.
The vilest crafte do yeke transforme,
His pick axe and his spade,
His pitcheforke to a pike and yeke,
His hatchet to a blade.
And wyll no more whithe togge of ploughe,
Teare vp the slatie soyles,
But in a sword begert pourshewes,
This frantycke Cyvel broyles.
Mute is the mouthe that would controle,
That Error nowe subornes,
There blinde and brutishe appetits,
No Ivstice now reformes.
To foule and vile lycencious vice,
Now libertie permitts,
Disorder and deformed will,
In open ivdgement sitts.
Now eche man proles for pryvate gaine,
And gredy lust to wrenges,
The massie gaines of goulden sommes,
That soche disorder bringes.
In this blacke tyme the starres do warre,
The heauens do frowne at this,
To see this Chaos vpon earthe,
VVhere forme and fascion is.
Vpon this dolefull stage scarse did,
The prologue once begone,
Before oure woees vnladed weere,
By conductes of the eyen,
Sence that blacke tyme of lateful warres,
And hateful myserie,
VVee haue not svpt vp all aure sobbes,
Oure eyes be scarcelye drye:
Attacht of new vnhappie tyme,
From worse to worse we fall,
Eche resteful place, Eche quiet seate,
Of Cyttye, Towne and wall,
Hathe whithe foule breache of promise heighe
In triall of there truthe,
Revolted and to bluddye Armes,
Theese Cyvelle stormes pourshewethe.
Forfyerie Mars hathe this decreed,
In wrathe and raginge moode,
To power downe theese plages on Fraunce,
Bestaynd whithe Cyvell bludde:
I wrast whithe wretched cares and woes,
Of stormye wynter threates,
VVee fleete in waues of warlike sourge,
And crased sydes that beates.
As dothe the barke in stubberne blastes,
Of mast and mayne berefte,
Of marenner of man and mate,
And yeake of pylate leafte.
The painefull hand of skilfull mate,
Denies to to holde the helme,
In goulfe of playntefull myserye,
Oure state do ouerwhelme:
Decayed wytte how blunt art thou?
That could not see the tyme,
VVhen as the fatale Sisters did,
Draw fourthe theire vitall twyne,
And left the soche tryumphant yeares,
Of longe and happie age,
As in thy bosome neuer myght,
Crepe in soche beastely rage,
Of glowinge spite by cruel Armes,
To bathe the synful handes,
In bowells of thye natiue shore,
That gylteles thee whithe standes.
Ʋnhappye GAWLES vnhappye men,
And thrise vnhappye race,
That thus distraught sekst to distroye,
Thy fertell natiue place.
Defamed sword of Regall awe,
Blushe at thy feeble right,
Devided thus, decayed art,
Of Law and publique myght.
Ʋnhappie seate vnhappye state,
That now vnsteadye standes,
From lofty throne in case to fall,
In to Ambicions handes.
Looke to your proude estate you GAWLES,
You GAWLES of ancient name,
That neuer staynd whithe ouerthrow,
You might conserue your fame,
In quiet forme, as yerst to fore,
Youre fathers in theire tyme,
VVho longe mayntaynd a quyet reigne,
From all vnshamefaast cryme:
From head longe broyles, from Cyvell woundes,
From suche defamed warre,
That in this age (vnhappie tyme)
VVe see apparent are.
Of happie and of quiet Lyfe,
VVe see the glase ronne out,
The wrackes appeares from clowdye skye,
Now MADAME looke a bout:
Make cleare a bourde, in stormye seas
The master showes his skill,
Reforme these franticke braines that thus,
Do ronne on headlonge will.
Restrayne whithe stedy raignes these men,
That whithe vnbrideled heade,
Haste to the stage of fyerie armes,
Theire natiue blud to sheed.
Respect the hassarde of oure state,
Respect oure present Raigne,
Appease this quarell and debate,
That mangles thus our fame.
Redresse our vile dismembred age,
Of most deformed life,
Seeke how to reconcyle these warres,
Of vile and hatefull strife.
Seeke to avoyde thys fowle Eclips,
Of warr and Cyuell broyles,
Seeke to be nvnme the synfull handes,
That in these mischifs moyles.
Seeke howe to cleere the clowdye threats,
Of this deformed sonnes,
Seeke to repare this curlish breatche,
In sauage harts bogon.
Reforme whithe heedful care oure state,
That thus transfigured are,
Respecte ô QVENE this sequell now,
Of this vnwonted warre.
Repaire ô QVENE whith tymely care,
Oure wealthe now ouerthrone,
Some good hand gripe the stable healme,
To shipwracke as we ronne.
Our plaintefull state in throwes of wo,
In hassard of decaye,
Calls helpe of none but thee (thou QVENE)
That bearethe now the swaye.
The tender yeares of pompous kinge,
And proude vnstayned seate,
That neuer yelded to no calme,
Nor pusshe of coursed fate,
Assiste nowe whith thy sage advice,
Assist whithe pollecye,
Assist oure Realme lest worne to wracke,
VVhithe wringed handes we crye,
Ʋnhappy raigne vnhappie life,
Vnhappie eke the wyght,
Ʋnhappie eke a thousand tymes,
The rvle of female might.
Let not the earthe be staynd whith blud,
In plonge of hatefull harmes,
Exclayme and whithe outraging skrikes,
Complame of Cyvell armes.
VVhose hateful and displesant yoke,
Of presant plage we feele,
Disarminge vs vnhappie GAWLES,
Of all oure wonted weele.
Of all oure proud and pompous prayse,
Of all oure antique fame,
Our honor flets, the glorie ebbes,
Of our Tryumphant name:
VVhat longe tofore in foremer age,
Our fathers fame hathe won,
Vnhappie we vnhappie GAWLES,
Vnhappie haue vndon.
FINIS.
A sonnet to the translatour.
As Homers streaminge source, of springinge head doth flovv
In Grekishe cloustred camps, by Troians reard to fame:
As Virgils matchinge stile, doth vveaue in smothed frame,
The peased pliant vvoordes, of vvightes that lye ful lovv:
So RONSARDS blovvminge grafte (from them as you may knovve
By ruthful mourners minde) doth vvoordes from parentes fame,
VVaylinge vvhith brokken seighes the fyerie kinghtes of name,
That braue vvhith glitternige svvord in fielde to smyte the blovv
Of dedlye massie fiste, (most deu to vvaylful Fraunce)
Sent from myld God, that doth vvhich splayed armes inhaunce,
The lastinge painful scourge, to vvhippe the thanckles flockee.
If creed may credit geue, to dysmalles iudgmentes day,
I thincke the same hath taught, IENEY to outforth bray,
An Englishe pleasant phrase, not far from RONSARDS stocke.
Ferd: Fyldinge.
ELEGIA DANIELIS ROGERII ALBIMONTII ANGLI, DE PERTVRBATA CHRISTIANI ORBIS REPVBLICA, AD ILLVSTREM VIRVM, HENRICVM NORRICIVM, AVRATAE MILITIAE EQVITEM, SERENISS. ET CHRISTIANISS. PRINCIPIS, D. ELIZABETHAE, ANGLIAE, &c. REGINAE, AD KAROLVM NONVM GALLIAE REGEM, ORATOREM.
AD ILLVSTREM VIRVM HENRICVM NORRICIVM.
Tristia conueniunt si carmina tristibus horis,
Tempore nec luctus, si dare laeta decet:
Haec ea, NORRICI, quae tristia tristibus horis
Offero iudicio scripta legenda tuo,
Non ingrata tibi spero ventura legenti,
Defleo dum tristi tristia fata lyra.
Adde quòd est aequum cum flenti flere piúmque,
Publicus & tangit pectora iuncta dolor.
Ipsa etiam in lacrumas dum lumina soluimus aegras,
Egeritur, gemitu fit quoque cura minor.
Hinc tibi, credo, tui IENEI Musa probatur,
Quòd queritur patria publica damna cheli.
Quòd si nostra etiam poterunt lugubria, puris
Auribus, indicio & complacuisse tuo,
Tempora quàm praestant genialia tristibus horis,
Temporibus laetis tam meliora leges.
ELEGIA, Ad illustrem virum, Henricum Norricium, Auratae militiae Equitem, Sereniss. & Christianiss. Principis, D. Elizabethae, Angliae, &c. Reginae, ad Karolum nonum Galliae Regem, Oratorem.
MIssus es Orator Galli dum Regis ad aulam,
NORRICI, & patriae consulis vsque tuae,
Ecquid vt est omnis facies tristissima mundi
Cernis, & vt praeceps in sua damna ruat?
Cernis, & haud melius te regna ruentia quisquam
Prospicit, incertas cernis adesse vices.
Nam tibi non tantùm clarorum stripe parentum
Contigit, & nasci nobiliore domo:
Sed quoque prudentes tribuerunt numina sensus,
Abdita queis aliis quaeque videre soles.
Adde quòd aerumnas praesens queis angitur orbis,
Ipse etiam lippus, tonsor & ipse videt.
At tua mens causas sensu praesagit acuto,
Et tibi praesenti [...] constat origo mali.
Scilicet orb [...] furens toto bacchatur Erinnys,
Insidias, belli semina prima, serens.
Nec fas, nec rata pacta sinit, verúmque fidémque
Tollit, & est horum fraúsque dolúsque loco.
Ʋicta iacet pietas, terrásque exosa profanas,
Relligio, coelum regna priora, petit.
Ambitióque leuis magnorum pectora Regum,
Sollicitans, odij tetra venena ciet.
Hinc Bellona manus tortis armata flagellis,
Accensis animis cogit ad arma viros.
Hinc pauor, hinc luctus, hinc plurima mortis imago
Perturbant cunctis gaudia nostra locis.
Ergo nec Virgo, nec iam Saturnia regna
Longius in terris quas coluêre, vigent.
Aurea Pax cessit niueos lacerata lacertos,
Et Charites terris eripuere fugam.
Deliciae (que) hominum Musae fugêre, nec illas
Qui foueat vasto vix viget orbe locus.
Ipse fides fractásque lyras abiecit Apollo,
Nec iuuat auratam nunc tenuisse chelyn,
Quin pharetra promens sua tela, en strenuus arcum,
Lunat, vt hac sola se tueatur ope.
Omnis amorfugit, lacera Concordia palla,
AEthereos petiit venerat vnde tholos.
Quàm cuperem Mauors etiam ad sua regna redisset,
Esset vt à tantis libera terra malis.
Ille etenim dextra latè sua fulmina vibrans,
Inficit humano triste cruore solum.
Nec pudor integritásque iuuant, furor omnia miscet,
Martis vbique metus, mortis vbique pauor.
Foelices quibus antè datum, meliora videre
Saecula, cùm pietas cúmque vigeret amor:
Cùm Pax alma domos coleret, nec miles iniquus,
Turbaret patrios Marte furente deos.
Nunc nec grata dies, noctísque ingratior vmbra est,
Felléque vipereo quaelibet hora madet.
Ecquis enim locus est quem non perrupit Erinnys?
Quem non sacrilegi militis arma replent?
Personat armorum terras fragor horridus omnes,
Quaeque parit tellus, sanguine fota putes.
Omnia deuastat gens Mossyneca sub arcto,
Russica qua gelidos Duna pererrat agros,
Sarmata bella fremens Henetos inuadit: & Hunos
Innumero oppressos milite Turca premit.
Et sexennali miscentes praelia bello,
Cimber in exitium triste Gothúsque ruunt.
Germanísque habitans passim discordia campis,
Nescio quos motus insidiásque timet.
Belga sub Hispanis queritur noua vincla catenis,
Excuterétque iugum si daret hora ducem:
Quin etiam Mauors discordibus implicat armis
Illa Calydoniae proxima regna plagae.
Quaeque fuit quondam rerum domina Itala tellus,
Quàm variis dominis seruiat illa vides.
At diuisa ruit plus quam ciuilibus armis,
Gallia, & in proprias effera fertur opes.
Nec modus vllus adest, nullus pudor, omnia legum,
Iuráque naturae militis ira premit.
Ipse pater bellum natis indicit, & arma
Filius in patris colla verenda gerit.
Frater & in fratris distringit viscera ferrum,
Quis memoret siccis vel legat ista genis?
Illum Caucaseis prognatum cautibus, horrens
Fouit inhumanae & dura papilla lupae.
Interea fidei saeuissimus imminet hostis,
Et iaculo & saeuus fulmine Acinacio.
Quis furor est, externa vocant dum bella, manúsque
Turcica Christiadum dum sitit vsque necem,
In proprios saeuire artus, & vulnere mortem
Alterno, diris accelerare modis?
Tam subitò oblita es belli cladísque prioris
Gallia, vt hei rursus ciuica bella velis?
Aspice quas toto regno circunspicis arces,
Quod de ciuili Marte querantur, habent.
Non cernis viduata suis tua rura colonis?
Oppida diuitiis & spoliata suis?
Sulphureis quassata globis quae moenia quondam
Hostiles poterant temnere salua minas?
Squallida praeteritos deplorant rura tumultus,
Et Druidum vestris ossibus albet ager.
Ah! melius purges infectos sanguine campos,
Quàm noua funesto praelia Marte noues.
Facta prius, nondum coijt miseranda cicatrix,
Quid renoues igitur vulnera clade noua?
Quisquis es, es tanti primus qui turbinis author,
Te poenae vltrices fata & acerba manent.
Tristia qui populos cogens ad bella quietos,
In niueae pugnas relligionis opus.
Non ita vis quorum verus successor haberi,
Induerant populis arma ferenda suis.
Alma procurantes sanctae sed commoda Pacis,
Et bene commissas hi tuebantur oues.
Iam video instantes, te sic cogente, ruinas,
Sanguine iam video rura madere pio.
Forsitan & densis circundata lilia spinis,
Tempus adest perdant protenus omne decus.
Nam quis rebus opem (NORRICI) praebeat, orbi
Tam desperato num quis adesse queat?
Consilijs nullus cùm sit locus, irrita vatum
Cùm vota, vndosum per mare ventus agat.
Quod nisi certa meam fallant praesagia mentem,
Iam ruimus subitò, tu nisi CHRISTE iuues.
Tu nisi CHRISTE iuues, nostrae qui causa salutis,
His potes auxilio solus adesse malis.
Adsis, at oppressis Dux CHRISTE salutifer adsis,
Afflictásque iuues maxime Pastor oues.
Pastor oues tueare tuas, quas perdere pastor
Qui ferus Ausonia regnat in vrbe, studet.
Respice nos, tutíque tuae sub robore dextrae,
Da precor aduersas vincere posse manus:
Pax redeat, nostrósque lares tranquilla reuisat,
Et comites, pulsas orbe, reducat ouans.
Cana fides redeat, redeant probitásque pudórque,
Astraea & solitis det pia iura locis.
At lites valeant, valeant at praelia, saeui
Exulet immani Martis at orbe furor.
Quaeque tuam niuea defendit pace Sareptam,
Tuta sit auxillis ELIZABETHA tuis.
Audiit, & coelo spes in mea pectora venit,
Et melior spero qui venit annus erit.
AD GVLIELMVM NORRICIVM, Henrici Norricij fil. natu max. summae spei iuuenem, Epigramma.
Stemmate nobilium quòd sis Gulielme parentum
Ortus, & innumeros quòd numeres atauos,
Clarus es, & populo charissimus inde Britanno,
Nobilis & titulum fulgidáque arma geris.
At potius purae virtutis captus amore,
Quòd vitas vitij semina quaeque mali,
Quòd pietate refers niueo & candore parentem,
Est tibi quòd curae cum probitate fides,
Nobilis & verè clarus Gulielme probaris,
Hinc tua nobilitas suspicienda fuit.
D. ROGERIVS.
ANNO MDLXVIII.
CALEND. IANVAR.