You mourning Muses al, where euer you remayne,
Assist my sobbing soule this drierye tale to tell:
You furious Furies fearce of Lymbo Lake belowe,
Helpe to vnlade my brest of al the bale it beares:
And you who felte the falle from honors high renowne:
From graues you grizie ghosts send forth, to help me mourn.
O Pallas, geue thou place, that mourning Clio may
On Lute lamenting, sound and sing my doleful dumpes.
Let riming metered lines and pleasant Musike cease:
Let Satyres sollome sound sende forth the fall I felt:
And when the truth of al my Tragedie is knowne,
Let them that liue then learne, al things must haue an end.
The Persian Monarch and Medes it downe did fal,
That of Assiria, in tracte of time did end:
Yea Alexanders force in fight subdude them both,
And brought the worlde so wide into one Monarchie.
What though the fretting force of Fate did him dismay?
He felt at laste the foyle, his vaunting was in vayne,
He dead, the worlde it was deuided as before.
The Roman Emperie came tumbling downe at last.
And where is Troy, and Greece, and mightie Macedon?
They flourishte for a tyme like this my little Ile:
The Soldian brought them downe, and did theyr states destroy:
Euen so the Saxons brought the Britayns to the bay,
Euen these mine eyes did see, that hateful hidious sight,
These feeble handes when long they labourde had in vaine,
Dyd yeeld their interest: then thus I did complayne:
Who can refrayne the force of mightye mounting Seas?
When bellowes make a breache and beate the banckes adown,
Doth not the saltish surge then beate the bankes adown?
Then man may not withstand the rigor of their rage.
But wisedome would haue kept the waues within their boundes
Counsayle doth come to late, when hope of helpe is past.
Such was my filthye fate, my lewde and lothsome lucke:
I sought a salue to cure and helpe the helpelesse wound.
For long before my tyme, seuen Kings were setled here,
The Saxons such as dwelt by East, Sibertus rulde,
The Angles in the East, Redwallus rulde as king,
Then Ethelbert was king of all the coast of Kent,
In Southsex Ethelwolfus wore the regall crowne:
Then Quincillinus was a Saxon king by west,
Of Martia in the midst king Penda was the Prince,
And Edwin in Northumberland did rule and raygne,
How dyd my Grandsire grand renowmed Arthur he
These seuen destroye wyth deadly field of wrackfull warre?
But Mordred made the meane, that brought them in agayne:
Vortiporus wyth warre almost consumde them all.
Then Malgo he with peace restorde agayne their state,
Cariticus the synne of Ciuil stryfe did loue,
For which Gurmundus did the Britaynes much annoy.
Then Cadwin out of Wales kyng Etheldred did spoyle,
Cadwalline then did force king Penda to a foyle,
And I Cadwallader at last did presse in place,
Then Lothar king of Kent in warre that wretch I slue.
And Ethiwolne the king of Southsaxons I spoylde,
The other fiue did me inuade with cruel fight,
With whom in diuers warres, I diuersly did speed.
Somtime Bellona blewe a blessed blaste for me,
And changed chaunce somtime did farce my men to flee.
Whilst thus I wagde my warres in secrete silent night,
The very voyce of God, it thus to me did speake:
Thou striust ageinst the streame, the tide doth beate thee backe,
Strike thou thy Sailes, take Ancor hold, els must thou feele a wracke.
Which saying did indeede amaze me more by muche,
Then al the force that man against my wil might bende:
For who the wyll of God with weapons may resist?
And when as sinne hath solde a countrye to decay,
Then prayer must preuayle, for weapons will not helpe.
And when the end is come, when all the glasse is runne,
Who can resist the force of Fate and destinies?
Who things forerunne to fal from falling can refraine?
It passeth mortall might to bring such thinges about.
Let man content himselfe to do what best he may,
By trying too to much, no man his God may tempte,
But mortall man must thinke that God the best doth knowe,
Who can depresse to dust, and rayse when best him please.
And as I thus amidst my musinges did remayne,
I did resigne my crowne, and deemde al honoures vayne.
And though it greeude me muche to feele the fall I felte,
Yet was I well content, I could not as I would:
For which I left my lande, my people, and my place.
The Saxons they obtaynde the wage for which they warrde.
When I three yeares had raygnd, without one day of rest,
Euen then in mourning robes at Rome I did ariue,
And there contemning all the worlde, and worldly thinges,
I made my selfe a Monke, (ceasse Memory to muse)
A Monke I made my selfe, thou knowst it passing playne:
Amongste the Friers there, I led my lyngring life.
And tyll my dying day I daily did deuise,
How by my meanes it might to all the worlde be knowne,
That mortall flesh is frayle, and euery thing must fade:
And euen amongst those thinges which Nature doth create,
Nothing so vile as man amongst the rest is founde,
Which made Heraclitus with ceasslesse sighes to wayle,
He to hys dying day did nothing els but weepe,
Affirming all the worlde vnder the heauen, to be
A path of penitence, a maze of misery.
What is the life of man but care and daily toyle,
Bearyng alwayes about a burthen of mishappes?
All his delightes repentaunce dayly dothe pursue:
Nothing but death doth bryng hym peace and quiet rest.
Yet that which bringes hym blesse, he most of all doth hate,
Which made Democritus with myrth to spende his dayes.
He laughing aye, did mocke the madnesse of mankynde,
Whose loue is long to liue, and feareth much to dye:
Death reaues vs from desease, Death endes the feare of death.
When Midas did demaunde Silenus, what was best
For mortall man to wishe, the Satyre thus did say,
Not to be borne, if borne, not long our liues to leade,
For life I most do lothe, and death I least doo dread.
And how did Timon leade with sauage beastes his lyfe?
How did that Hermite poore, his lothsome life detest?
Affirming with the wise Aurelius Emperour,
That if a man shoulde make a true discourse of all
The wretched woes he felt, from birth to dying day,
The feeble fleshe would faynt to feele so sharpe a fight,
The hart would quake to heare Dame Fortunes sharpe assaults.
And I Cadwallader a king, can make report,
That nothing may content the mind of mortall man:
The more my selfe did eate, the hungryer ay I was,
The more I dranke, the more thirst did me stil distresse.
The more I slept, the more I sluggishe did remayne,
The more I rested me, the more I wearyed was,
The more of wealth I had, the more I dyd desire,
The more I still did seeke, the lesse I aye did finde.
And to conclude, I founde I neuer coulde obtayne
The thing, but in the ende it causde me to complayne,
My present good successe, did threaten thrall to come,
And changing chaunce did still with sorowe me consume,
For which my royall robes, my crowne I layd aside,
Meaning to proue by proofe the paynes of pouertye,
Which pouertie I felt all ryches to exceede,
It beareth much more blesse, then hygh and courtly state,
Codrus and Irus poore for wealth did farre surpasse
Midas and Craesus king, for wealth who did surpasse.
And I amongst my mates the Romishe Fryers, felt
More ioye and lesse anoye, then erst in Britaine braue.
For there I doubted still, the Saxons subtile sleyghtes,
I feared there the fall from royall regall seat:
But here at Rome I liude not fearing force of foe,
I had for myne estate, what I coulde wish or craue,
And this I there did finde: they of the Cleargye be,
Of all the men that liue the leste in misery.
For all men liue in care, they carelesse do remayne.
Like buzzing Drones they eate the hony of the Bee,
They onely doo excel for fine felicitie.
The king must wage his warres, he hath no quiet day,
The noble man must rule with care the common weale:
The Countreyman must toyle to tyll the barren soyle,
With care the Marchant man the surging seas must sayle,
With trickling droppes of sweat the handcraftes man doth thriue.
With hand as harde as bourde the woorkeman eates his bread.
The souldiour in the fielde with paine doth get his pay,
The seruing man must serue and crouch with cap and knee,
The Lawier he must pleade and trudge from bentch to barre,
Who Phisicke doth professe, he is not voyde of care.
But Churchmen they be blest, they turne a leafe or two,
They sometime sing a Psalme, and for the people pray,
For which they honour haue, and sit in highest place,
What can they wishe or seeke, that is not hard at hande?
They labour not at al, they knowe no kinde of payne,
No daunger dooth with dreade their happy liues distresse.
Ceasse you therefore to muse what madnesse made me leaue
The Courte and courtly pompe of wearing royal crowne,
No madnesse did that deede, but wisedome wisht it so,
I gaynd thereby the blesse which fewe before me felt,
I niene yeares led my life, and neuer felt annoy.
And certaynely if nowe I might be king agayne,
Refusing all that pompe, I woulde become a priest,
A Deacon, or a Deane, Prebende, or Minister.
For these men leade their liues with liuings two or three:
Some haue their substitutes in Vniuersities,
Some leade the brauest liues that any man may haue,
They feede vppon the fleece, they force not of the flocke:
Three houres in the yere, with beastly bosomde stuffe
They spend, and that is all that lawe of them requires.
Muse not though many thrust and shoulder for degrees,
For happy man is he, who hath a Preachers fees.
But let me nowe returne vnto my Romishe route,
Who fed like Bacon fat, did nought but play and pray.
With whom for niene yeares space, when I my life had led,
I songe my Requiem, and payde the earth her fee.
Then in Saint Peters Church at Rome they did me lay,
Booted and spurd, euen as you see me here this day.
So now you haue the whole of all my Tragedye.
Of Brutus bloode the last I liude that rulde as king,
My Britaines driuen to Wales they Welchmen then were calde,
And I at Rome their king, a mumbling Monke instald.
The Saxons had the day, for which they longed long.
They England calde the Ile, of Brute which tooke her name.
Some men be borne to blisse, and some to hatefull happe:
Who would haue thought, that I in warre a raging kyng,
Should by the force of Fate, at Rome haue dide a Monke?
Let al the worlde then know, that nothing is so sure,
That can affoorde and say, I thus wyl aye indure.
For that which seemeth best, is soonest brought to naught,
Which playnely doth appeare by that which I haue taught.
The worthiest in the worlde, princes, philosophers,
Will teach that I haue taught, and proue it passing playne.
Paulus Aemilius did dye but wretchedly.
And was not Scipio euen to his dying day
Constraynde, to helpe his neede, the painfull plowe to plye?
Caesar and Silla both, did not they tast the whyppe?
And made not Hannibal a miserable ende?
And how was Socrates before his tyme destroyed,
And Anaxagoras imprisoned long with paine?
For cruel beastly coyne diuine Plato was soulde,
And Aristotle sent to exile, where he dyde.
And so was Solon sage, and that Licurgus wise,
And many more, which here I could at large repeat.
But let these fewe suffice to teach for certaine truth,
That al the men that liue, are subiectes al to ruth.
And seeing so it is, then let them learne the meane,
That if the barke do breake, they safe may swimme to lande.