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Poly-Olbion - Part I: The First Song to The Eighteenth Song
Poly-Olbion - Part I: The First Song to The Eighteenth Song
Poly-Olbion - Part I: The First Song to The Eighteenth Song
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Poly-Olbion - Part I: The First Song to The Eighteenth Song

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Michael Drayton was born in 1563 at Hartshill, near Nuneaton, Warwickshire, England. The facts of his early life remain unknown. Drayton first published, in 1590, a volume of spiritual poems; The Harmony of the Church. Ironically the Archbishop of Canterbury seized almost the entire edition and had it destroyed. In 1593 he published Idea: The Shepherd's Garland, 9 pastorals celebrating his own love-sorrows under the poetic name of Rowland. This was later expanded to a 64 sonnet cycle. With the publication of The Legend of Piers Gaveston, Matilda and Mortimeriados, later enlarged and re-published, in 1603, under the title of The Barons' Wars. His career began to gather interest and attention. In 1596, The Legend of Robert, Duke of Normandy, another historical poem was published, followed in 1597 by England's Heroical Epistles, a series of historical studies, in imitation of those of Ovid. Written in the heroic couplet, they contain some of his finest writing. Like other poets of his era, Drayton wrote for the theatre; but unlike Shakespeare, Jonson, or Samuel Daniel, he invested little of his art in the genre. Between 1597 and 1602, Drayton was a member of the stable of playwrights who worked for Philip Henslowe. Henslowe's Diary links Drayton's name with 23 plays from that period, and, for all but one unfinished work, in collaboration with others such as Thomas Dekker, Anthony Munday, and Henry Chettle. Only one play has survived; Part 1 of Sir John Oldcastle, which Drayton wrote with Munday, Robert Wilson, and Richard Hathwaye but little of Drayton can be seen in its pages. By this time, as a poet, Drayton was well received and admired at the Court of Elizabeth 1st. If he hoped to continue that admiration with the accession of James 1st he thought wrong. In 1603, he addressed a poem of compliment to James I, but it was ridiculed, and his services rudely rejected. In 1605 Drayton reprinted his most important works; the historical poems and the Idea. Also published was a fantastic satire called The Man in the Moon and, for the for the first time the famous Ballad of Agincourt. Since 1598 he had worked on Poly-Olbion, a work to celebrate all the points of topographical or antiquarian interest in Great Britain. Eighteen books in total, the first were published in 1614 and the last in 1622. In 1627 he published another of his miscellaneous volumes. In it Drayton printed The Battle of Agincourt (an historical poem but not to be confused with his ballad on the same subject), The Miseries of Queen Margaret, and the acclaimed Nimphidia, the Court of Faery, as well as several other important pieces. Drayton last published in 1630 with The Muses' Elizium. Michael Drayton died in London on December 23rd, 1631. He was buried in Westminster Abbey, in Poets' Corner. A monument was placed there with memorial lines attributed to Ben Jonson.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateJan 1, 2017
ISBN9781787370043
Poly-Olbion - Part I: The First Song to The Eighteenth Song

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    Poly-Olbion - Part I - Michael Drayton

    Poly-Olbion by Michael Drayton

    PART I (of II) - The First Song to The Eighteenth Song (1612)

    Michael Drayton was born in 1563 at Hartshill, near Nuneaton, Warwickshire, England. The facts of his early life remain unknown.

    Drayton first published, in 1590, a volume of spiritual poems; The Harmony of the Church.  Ironically the Archbishop of Canterbury seized almost the entire edition and had it destroyed.

    In 1593 he published Idea: The Shepherd's Garland, 9 pastorals celebrating his own love-sorrows under the poetic name of Rowland. This was later expanded to a 64 sonnet cycle.

    With the publication of The Legend of Piers Gaveston, Matilda and Mortimeriados, later enlarged and re-published, in 1603, under the title of The Barons' Wars. His career began to gather interest and attention.

    In 1596, The Legend of Robert, Duke of Normandy, another historical poem was published, followed in 1597 by England's Heroical Epistles, a series of historical studies, in imitation of those of Ovid. Written in the heroic couplet, they contain some of his finest writing.

    Like other poets of his era, Drayton wrote for the theatre; but unlike Shakespeare, Jonson, or Samuel Daniel, he invested little of his art in the genre. Between 1597 and 1602, Drayton was a member of the stable of playwrights who worked for Philip Henslowe. Henslowe's Diary links Drayton's name with 23 plays from that period, and, for all but one unfinished work, in collaboration with others such as Thomas Dekker, Anthony Munday, and Henry Chettle. Only one play has survived; Part 1 of Sir John Oldcastle, which Drayton wrote with Munday, Robert Wilson, and Richard Hathwaye but little of Drayton can be seen in its pages.

    By this time, as a poet, Drayton was well received and admired at the Court of Elizabeth 1st. If he hoped to continue that admiration with the accession of James 1st he thought wrong.  In 1603, he addressed a poem of compliment to James I, but it was ridiculed, and his services rudely rejected.

    In 1605 Drayton reprinted his most important works; the historical poems and the Idea. Also published was a fantastic satire called The Man in the Moon and, for the for the first time the famous Ballad of Agincourt.

    Since 1598 he had worked on Poly-Olbion, a work to celebrate all the points of topographical or antiquarian interest in Great Britain. Eighteen books in total, the first were published in 1614 and the last in 1622.

    In 1627 he published another of his miscellaneous volumes.  In it Drayton printed The Battle of Agincourt (an historical poem but not to be confused with his ballad on the same subject), The Miseries of Queen Margaret, and the acclaimed Nimphidia, the Court of Faery, as well as several other important pieces.

    Drayton last published in 1630 with The Muses' Elizium.

    Michael Drayton died in London on December 23rd, 1631.  He was buried in Westminster Abbey, in Poets' Corner.  A monument was placed there with memorial lines attributed to Ben Jonson.

    Index of Contents

    The First Song

    The Second Song

    The Third Song

    The Fourth Song

    The Fifth Song

    The Sixth Song

    The Seventh Song

    The Eighth Song

    The Ninth Song

    The Tenth Song

    The Eleventh Song

    The Twelfth Song

    The Thirteenth Song

    The Fourteenth Song

    The Fifteenth Song

    The Sixteenth Song

    The Seventeenth Song

    The Eighteenth Song

    Michael Drayton – A Short Biography by Cyril Brett

    A Chronology of Michael Drayton’s Life and Works

    Michael Drayton – A Concise Bibliography. The Major Works

    THE FIRST SONG

    THE ARGUMENT

    The sprightly Muse her wing displaies,

    And the French Ilands first survaies,

    Beares-up with Neptune, and in glory

    Transcends proud Cornwalls Promontorie;

    There crownes Mount-Michaell, and discries

    How all those Riverets fall and rise;

    Then takes in Tamer, as shee bounds

    The Cornish and Devonian grounds.

    And whilst the Devonshire-Nymphes relate

    Their loves, their fortunes, and estate,

    Dert undertaketh to revive

    Our Brute, and sings his first arrive:

    Then North-ward to the verge shee bends,

    And her first Song at Ax shee ends.

    Of Albions glorious Ile the Wonders whilst I write,

    The sundry varying soyles, the pleasures infinite

    (Where heate kills not the cold, nor cold expells the heat,

    The calmes too mildly small, nor winds too roughly great,

    Nor night doth hinder day, nor day the night doth wrong,

    The Summer not too short, the Winter not too long)

    What helpe shall I invoke to ayde my Muse the while?

    Thou Genius of the place (this most renowned Ile)

    Which livedst long before the All-earth-drowning Flood,

    Whilst yet the world did swarme with her Gigantick brood;

    Goe thou before me still thy circling shores about,

    And in this wandring Maze helpe to conduct me out:

    Direct my course so right, as with thy hand to showe

    Which way thy Forrests range, which way thy Rivers flowe;

    Wise Genius, by thy helpe that so I may discry

    How thy faire Mountaines stand, and how thy Vallyes lie;

    From those cleere pearlie Cleeves which see the Mornings pride,

    And check the surlie Impes of Neptune when they chide,

    Unto the big-swolne waves in the Iberian streame,

    Where Titan still unyokes his fiery-hoofed Teame,

    And oft his flaming locks in lushious Nectar steepes,

    When from Olympus top he plungeth in the Deepes:

    That from th’ Armorick sands, on surging Neptunes leas

    Through the Hibernick Gulfe (those rough Vergivian seas)

    My verse with wings of skill may flie a loftie gate,

    As Amphitrite clips this Iland Fortunate,

    Till through the sleepy Maine to Thuly I have gone,

    And seene the frozen Iles, the cold d Ducalidon,

    Amongst whose Iron rockes grym Saturne yet remaines,

    Bound in those gloomie Caves with Adamantine chaines.

    Yee sacred Bards, that to your Harps melodious strings

    Sung th’ancient Heroës deeds (the monuments of Kings)

    And in your dreadfull verse ingrav’d the prophecies,

    The aged worlds descents, and Genealogies;

    If, as those Druides taught, which kept the British rites,

    And dwelt in darksome Groves, there counsailing with sprites

    (But their opinions faild, by error led awry,

    As since cleere truth hath shew’d to their posteritie)

    When these our soules by death our bodies doe forsake,

    They instantlie againe doe other bodies take;

    I could have wisht your spirits redoubled in my breast,

    To give my verse applause, to times eternall rest.

    Thus scarcelie said the Muse, but hovering while she hung

    Upon the Celtick wastes, the Sea-Nymphes loudlie sung:

    O ever-happie Iles, your heads so high that beare,

    By Nature stronglie fenc’t, which never need to feare

    On Neptunes watry Realmes when Eolus raiseth warres,

    And every billow bounds, as though to quench the starres:

    Faire Jersey first of these heere scattred in the Deepe,

    Peculiarlie that boast’st thy double-horned sheepe:

    Inferior nor to thee, thou Jernsey, bravelie crown’d

    With rough-imbatteld rocks, whose venom-hating ground

    The hardned Emerill hath, which thou abroad doost send:

    Thou Ligon, her belov’d, and Serk, that doost attend

    Her pleasure everie howre; as Jethow, them at need,

    With Phesants, fallow Deere, and Conies that doost feed:

    Yee seaven small sister Iles, and Sorlings, which to see

    The halfe-sunk sea-man joyes, or whatsoe’re you be,

    From fruitfull Aurney, neere the ancient Celtick shore,

    To Ushant and the Seames, whereas those Nunnes of yore

    Gave answers from their Caves, and tooke what shapes they please:

    Ye happie Ilands set within the British Seas,

    With shrill and jocund shouts, th’unmeasur’d deepes awake,

    And let the Gods of Sea their secret Bowres forsake,

    Whilst our industrious Muse great Britaine forth shall bring,

    Crown’d with those glorious wreathes that beautifie the Spring;

    And whilst greene Thetis Nymphes, with many an amorous lay

    Sing our Invention safe unto her long-wisht Bay.

    Upon the utmost end of Cornwalls furrowing beake,

    Where a Bresan from the Land the tilting waves doth breake;

    The shore let her transcend, the Promont to discry,

    And viewe about the Point th’unnumbred Fowle that fly.

    Some, rising like a storme from off the troubled sand,

    Seeme in their hovering flight to shadow all the land;

    Some, sitting on the beach to prune their painted breasts,

    As if both earth and aire they onelie did possesse.

    Whence, climing to the Cleeves, her selfe she firmlie sets

    The Bourns, the Brooks, the Becks, the Rills, the Rivilets,

    Exactlie to derive; receiving in her way

    That straightned tongue of Land, where, at Mount-Michaells Bay,

    Rude Neptune cutting in, a cantle forth doth take;

    And, on the other side, Hayles vaster mouth doth make

    Chersonese thereof, the corner clipping in:

    Where to th’ industrious Muse the Mount doth thus begin;

    Before thou further passe, and leave this setting shore,

    Whose Townes unto the Saints that lived heere of yore

    (Their fasting, works, & pray’rs, remaining to our shames)

    Were rear’d, and justly call’d by their peculiar names,

    The builders honour still; this due and let them have,

    As deigne to drop a teare upon each holie Grave;

    Whose charitie and zeale, in steed of knowledge stood:

    For, surely in themselves they were right simply good.

    If, credulous too much, thereby th’offended heaven

    In their devout intents, yet be their sinnes forgiven.

    Then from his rugged top the teares downe trickling fell;

    And in his passion stirr’d, againe began to tell

    Strange things, that in his daies times course had brought to pass,

    That fortie miles now Sea, sometimes firme fore-land was;

    And that a Forrest then, which now with him is Flood,

    Whereof he first was call’d the Hoare-Rock in the Wood;

    Relating then how long this soile had laine forlorne,

    As that her Genius now had almost her forsworne,

    And of their ancient love did utterly repent,

    Sith to destroy her selfe that fatall toole she lent

    By which th’ insatiate slave her intrailes out doth draw,

    That thrusts his gripple hand into her golden mawe;

    And for his part doth wish, that it were in his power

    To let the Ocean in, her wholly to devoure.

    Which, Hayle doth over-heare, and much doth blame his rage,

    And told him (to his teeth) hee doated with his age.

    For Hayle (a lustie Nymph, bent all to amorous play,

    And having quicke recourse into the Severne Sea

    With Neptunes Pages oft disporting in the Deepe;

    One never touch’t with care; but how her selfe to keepe

    In excellent estate) doth thus againe intreate;

    Muse, leave the wayward Mount to his distempred heate,

    Who nothing can produce but what doth taste of spight:

    Ile shew thee things of ours most worthy thy delight.

    Behold our Diamonds heere, as in the quarr’s they stand,

    By Nature neatly cut, as by a skilfull hand,

    Who varieth them in formes, both curiouslie and oft;

    Which for shee (wanting power) produceth them too soft,

    That vertue which she could not liberallie impart,

    Shee striveth to amend by her owne proper Art.

    Besides, the Seaholme heere, that spreadeth all our shore,

    The sick consuming man so powerfull to restore:

    Whose roote th’ Eringo is, the reines that doth inflame

    So stronglie to performe the Cytheræan game,

    That generally approov’d, both farre and neere is sought.

    And our Main-Amber heere, and Burien Trophy, thought

    Much wrongd, not yet preferd for wonders with the rest.

    But, the laborious Muse, upon her journey prest,

    Thus uttereth to her selfe; To guide my course aright,

    What Mound or steddie Mere is offered to my sight

    Upon this out-stretcht Arme, whilst sayling heere at ease,

    Betwixt the Southern waste, and the Sabrinian seas,

    I view those wanton Brookes, that waxing, still doe wane;

    That scarcelie can conceive, but brought to bed againe;

    Scarce rising from the Spring (that is their naturall Mother)

    To growe into a streame, but buried in another.

    When Chore doth call her on, that wholly doth betake

    Her selfe unto the Loo; transform’d into a Lake,

    Through that impatient love shee had to entertaine

    The lustfull Neptune oft; whom when his wracks restraine,

    Impatient of the wrong, impetuouslie hee raves:

    And in his ragefull flowe, the furious King of waves,

    Breaks foming o’re the Beach, whom nothing seemes to coole,

    Till he have wrought his will on that capacious Poole

    Where Menedge, by his Brookes, a Chersonese is cast,

    Widening the slender shore to ease it in the wast;

    A Promont jutting out into the dropping South,

    That with his threatning cleeves in horrid Neptunes mouth,

    Derides him and his power: nor cares how him he greets.

    Next, Roseland (as his friend, the mightier Menedge) meets

    Great Neptune when he swells, and rageth at the Rocks

    (Set out into those seas) inforcing through his shocks

    Those armes of Sea, that thrust into the tinny strand,

    By their Meandred creeks indenting of that Land

    Whose fame by everie tongue is for her Myneralls hurld,

    Neere from the mid-daies point, throughout the Westerne world.

    Heere Vale, a livelie flood, her nobler name that gives

    To Flamouth; and by whom, it famous ever lives,

    Whose entrance is from sea so intricatelie wound,

    Her haven angled so about her harbrous sound,

    That in her quiet Bay a hundred ships may ride,

    Yet not the tallest mast, be of the tall’st descri’d;

    Her braverie to this Nymph when neighbouring rivers told,

    Her mind to them againe shee brieflie doth unfold;

    Let Camell, of her course, and curious windings boast,

    In that her Greatness raignes sole Mistress of that coast

    Twixt Tamer and that Bay, where Hayle poures forth her pride:

    And let us (nobler Nymphs) upon the mid-daie side,

    Be frolick with the best. Thou Foy, before us all,

    By thine owne named Towne made famous in thy fall,

    As Low, amongst us heere; a most delicious Brooke,

    With all our sister Nymphes, that to the noone-sted looke,

    Which glyding from the hills; upon the tinny ore,

    Betwixt your high-rear’d banks, resort to this our shore:

    Lov’d streames, let us exult, and thinke our selves no lesse

    Then those upon their side, the Setting that possesse.

    Which, Camell over-heard: but what doth she respect

    Their taunts, her proper course that loosely doth neglect?

    As frantick, ever since her British Arthurs blood,

    By Mordreds murtherous hand was mingled with her flood.

    For, as that River, best might boast that Conquerours breath,

    So sadlie shee bemoanes his too untimelie death;

    Who, after twelve proud fields against the Saxon fought,

    Yet back unto her banks by fate was lastly brought:

    As though no other place on Britaines spacious earth,

    Were worthie of his end, but where he had his birth:

    And carelesse ever since how shee her course doe steere,

    This muttreth to her selfe, in wandring here and there;

    Even in the agedst face, where beautie once did dwell,

    And nature (in the least) but seemed to excell,

    Time cannot make such waste, but something wil appeare,

    To shewe some little tract of delicacie there.

    Or some religious worke, in building manie a day,

    That this penurious age hath suffred to decay,

    Some lim or modell, dragd out of the ruinous mass,

    The richness will declare in glorie whilst it was:

    But time upon my waste committed hath such theft,

    That it of Arthur heere scarce memorie hath left:

    The Nine-ston’d Trophie thus whilst shee doth entertaine,

    Proude Tamer swoopes along, with such a lustie traine

    As fits so brave a flood two Countries that divides:

    So, to increase her strength, shee from her equall sides

    Receives their severall rills; and of the Cornish kind,

    First, taketh Atre in: and her not much behind

    Comes Kensey: after whom, cleere Enian in doth make,

    In Tamers roomthier bankes, their rest that scarcelie take.

    Then Lyner, though the while aloofe shee seem’d to keepe,

    Her Soveraigne when shee sees t’approach the surgefull deepe,

    To beautifie her fall her plentious tribute brings.

    This honours Tamer much: that shee whose plentious springs,

    Those proud aspyring hills, Bromwelly and his frend

    High Rowter, from their tops impartiallie commend,

    And is by Carewes Muse, the river most renound,

    Associate should her grace to the Devonian ground.

    Which in those other Brookes doth Emulation breed.

    Of which, first Car comes crown’d, with oziar, segs and reed:

    Then Lid creeps on along, and taking Thrushel, throwes

    Her selfe amongst the rocks; and so incavern’d goes,

    That of the blessed light (from other floods) debarr’d,

    To bellowe under earth, she onelie can be heard,

    As those that view her tract, seemes strangelie to affright:

    So, Toovy straineth in; and Plym, that claimes by right

    The christning of that Bay, which beares her nobler name.

    Upon the British coast, what ship yet ever came

    That not of Plymouth heares, where those brave Navies lie,

    From Canons thundring throats, that all the world defie?

    Which, to invasive spoile, when th’English list to draw,

    Have checkt Iberias pride, and held her oft in awe:

    Oft furnishing our Dames, with Indias rar’st devices,

    And lent us gold, and pearle, rich silks, and daintie spices.

    But Tamer takes the place, and all attend her here,

    A faithfull bound to both; and two that be so neare

    For likeliness of soile, and quantitie they hold,

    Before the Roman came; whose people were of old

    Knowne by one generall name, upon this point that dwell,

    All other of this Ile in wrastling that excell:

    With collars be they yokt, to prove the arme at length,

    Like Bulls set head to head, with meere delyver strength:

    Or by the girdles graspt, they practise with the hip,

    The forward, backward, falx, the mare, the turne, the trip,

    When stript into their shirts, each other they invade

    Within a spacious ring, by the beholders made,

    According to the law. Or when the Ball to throw,

    And drive it to the Gole, in squadrons forth they goe:

    And to avoid the troupes (their forces that fore-lay)

    Through dikes and rivers make, in this robustious play;

    By which, the toiles of warre most livelie are exprest.

    But Muse, may I demaund, Why these of all the rest

    (As mightie Albyons eld’st) most active are and strong?

    From Corin came it first, or from the use so long?

    Or that this fore-land lies furth’st out into his sight,

    Which spreads his vigorous flames on everie lesser light?

    With th’vertue of his beames, this place that doth inspire:

    Whose pregnant wombe prepar’d by his all-powerful fire,

    Being purelie hot and moist, projects that fruitfull seed,

    Which stronglie doth beget, and doth as stronglie breed:

    The weldisposed heaven heere prooving to the earth,

    A Husband furthering fruite; a Midwife helping birth.

    But whilst th’industrious Muse thus labours to relate

    Those rillets that attend proud Tamer and her state,

    A neighbourer of this Nymphes, as high in Fortunes grace,

    And whence calme Tamer trippes, cleere Towridge in that place

    Is poured from her spring; and seemes at first to flowe

    That way which Tamer straines: but as she great doth growe

    Remembreth to fore-see, what Rivalls she should find

    To interrupt her course: whose so unsettled mind

    Ock comming in perceives, & thus doth her perswade;

    Now Neptune shield (bright Nymph) thy beautie should be made

    The object of her scorne, which (for thou canst not be

    Upon the Southern side so absolute as shee)

    Will awe thee in thy course. Wherefore, faire flood recoile:

    And where thou maist alone be soveraigne of the soile,

    There exercise thy power, thy braveries and displaie:

    Turne Towridge, let us back to the Sabrinian sea;

    Where Thetis handmaids still in that recoursefull deepe

    With those rough Gods of Sea, continuall revells keepe;

    There maist thou live admir’d, the mistress of the Lake.

    Wise Ock shee doth obey, returning, and doth take

    The Tawe: which from her fount forc’t on with amorous gales,

    And easely ambling downe through the Devonian dales,

    Brings with her Moule and Bray, her banks that gentlie bathe;

    Which on her daintie breast, in many a silver swathe

    Shee beares unto that Bay, where Barstable beholds,

    How her beloved Tawe cleere Towridge there enfolds.

    The confluence of these Brooks divulg’d in Dertmoore, bred

    Distrust in her sad breast, that shee, so largelie spred,

    And in this spacious Shire the neer’st the Center set

    Of anie place of note; that these should bravelie get

    The praise, from those that sprung out of her pearlie lap;

    Which, nourisht and bred up at her most plentious pap,

    No sooner taught to dade, but from their Mother trip,

    And in their speedie course, strive others to out-strip.

    The Yalme, the Awne, the Aume, by spacious Dertmoore fed,

    And in the Southern Sea, b’ing likewise brought to bed;

    That these were not of power to publish her desert,

    Much griev’d the ancient Moore: which understood by Dert

    (From all the other floods that onely takes her name,

    And as her eld’st (in right) the heire of all her fame)

    To shew her nobler spirit it greatlie doth behove.

    Deare Mother, from your breast this feare (quoth she) remove:

    Defie their utmost force: ther’s not the proudest flood,

    That falls betwixt the Mount and Exmore, shall make good

    Her royaltie with mine, with me nor can compare:

    I challenge any one, to answere me that dare;

    That was, before them all, predestinate to meet

    My Britaine-founding Brute, when with his puissant fleet

    At Totnesse first he toucht: which shall renowne my streame

    (Which now the envious world doth slander for a dreame.)

    Whose fatall flight from Greece, his fortunate arrive

    In happy Albyon heere whilst stronglie I revive,

    Deare Harburne at thy hands this credit let me win,

    Quoth she, that as thou hast my faithfull hand-maid bin:

    So now (my onelie Brooke) assist me with thy spring,

    Whilst of the God-like Brute the storie thus I sing.

    When long-renowned Troy lay spent in hostile fire,

    And aged Priams pompe did with her flames expire,

    Aeneas (taking thence Ascanius, his young sonne,

    And his most reverent Sire, the grave Anchises, wonne

    From sholes of slaughtering Greeks) set out from Simois shores;

    And through the Tirrhene Sea, by strength of toyling ores,

    Raught Italie at last: where, King Latinus lent

    Safe harbor for his ships, with wrackfull tempests rent:

    When, in the Latine Court, Lavinia young and faire

    (Her Fathers onely child, and kingdoms onely heire)

    Upon the Trojan Lord her liking stronglie plac’t,

    And languisht in the fiers that her faire breast imbrac’t:

    But, Turnus (at that time) the proud Rutulian King,

    A suter to the maid, Aeneas malicing,

    By force of Armes attempts, his rivall to extrude:

    But, by the Teucrian power courageouslie subdu’d,

    Bright Cythereas sonne the Latine crowne obtain’d;

    And dying, in his stead his sonne Ascanius raign’d.

    Next, Silvius him succeeds, begetting Brute againe:

    Who in his Mothers wombe whilst yet he did remaine,

    The Oracles gave out, that next borne Brute should bee

    His Parents onelie death: which soone they liv’d to see.

    For, in his painfull birth his Mother did depart;

    And ere his fifteenth yeere, in hunting of a Hart,

    He with a lucklesse shaft his haplesse Father slew:

    For which, out of his throne, their King the Latines threw.

    Who, wandring in the world, to Greece at last doth get.

    Where, whilst he liv’d unknowne, and oft with want beset,

    He of the race of Troy a remnant hapt to find,

    There by the Grecians held; which (having still in mind

    Their tedious tenne yeeres warre, and famous Heroës slaine)

    In slaverie with them still those Trojans did detaine:

    Which Pyrrhus thither brought (and did with hate pursue,

    To wreake Achilles death, at Troy whom Paris slew)

    There, by Pandrasus kept, in sad and servile awe.

    Who, when they knew young Brute, & that brave shape they saw,

    They humbly him desire, that he a meane would bee,

    From those imperious Greeks, his countrymen to free.

    Hee, finding out a rare and sprightly Youth, to fit

    His humour every way, for courage, power, and wit,

    Assaracus (who, though that by his Sire he were

    A Prince amongst the Greeks, yet held the Trojans deere;

    Descended of their stock upon the Mothers side:

    For which, he by the Greeks his birth-right was deni’d)

    Impatient of his wrongs, with him brave Brute arose,

    And of the Trojan youth courageous Captaines chose,

    Raysd Earth-quakes with their Drummes, the ruffling Ensignes reare;

    And, gathering young and old that rightlie Trojan were,

    Up to the Mountaines march, through straits and forrests strong:

    Where, taking-in the Townes, pretended to belong

    Unto that Grecian Lord, some forces there they put:

    Within whose safer walls their wives and children shut,

    Into the fields they drew, for libertie to stand.

    Which when Pandrasus heard, he sent his strict command

    To levie all the power he presentlie could make:

    So, to their strengths of warre the Trojans them betake.

    But whilst the Grecian Guides (not knowing how or where

    The Teucrians were entrencht, or what their forces were)

    In foule disordred troupes yet straggled, as secure,

    This loosness

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