The lamentation of Troy, for the death of Hector Wherevnto is annexed an olde womans tale in hir solitarie cell.

Troys Lamentation for the death of Hector.

LO here the teares and sad complaint of her Within whose gates all ioyes were once abounding, Faire Ilions teares whose deepe laments may stir A flintie hart vnto a sigh-resounding Yet for hir selfe doth Ilion not mone, But for hir Hector which is dead and gone.

Sweet sacred Muses, you whose gentle eares Are wont to listen to the humble praier Of plaining Poets, and to lend your teares From your faire eies vnto a woes-displayer, Now rest your selues: your ayde I not implore, For in my selfe I finde aboundant store.

Nor can I craue vpon your blubbered cheeks That you for me more showers should be raining, Though you are kind to euery one that seekes Yet haue you matter for your owne complaining. I saw your teares and pittifull wamentings: But they are few that list to your lamentings.

Good naturde Nymphs you are too milde for me, Troy tels of horror and of driery things, Let your faire ayde in Loue and Musick be, Or in his tongue which pleasant Poems sings. Furies and Frensies are fit companie To helpe to blase my wofull tragedie.

The damned Soules that liue in lasting paine, Whose endlesse torments force them to be yelling Sounds euer balefull, and whose bane againe Is, that in torture they are euer dwelling: Their sighes and shrikes accompanie full well, My trembling toong this greeuous tale to tell.

Snake-wreath'd Alecto and Megaera railing, Howling Tisiphon euermore lamenting With all that vgly is, or else still wailing, Their cursed haps: and are deepe hell frequenting: Such as breath sulphur in eternal groning, They are companions fitting to my moning.

Stone rowling Sisiphus in his wearie taske, And thirstie Tantalus in his riuer biding, And wofull Yxyon, al these might I aske, To be with shrikes my drery penne a guiding. But I my selfe suffice without assistance, If soules effusion be sufficient greeuance.

Hector thou knowst or else thy soule doth know For thou alas art Hector now no more, Haue Troy ten thousand soules she will bestow Them all on thee, and powre them out before The throne of Ioue for mercy euer calling, For (ah) thy ruine was our vtter falling.

But why (alas) must thou needs die so soone, Troys cheefe-supporter, and the worlds great-wonder? O let the man that thee to death hath doone, From deaths fel torments neare be seene asunder. O let him euer die, yet not be slaine, But when he would be dead, reuiue againe.

Heape on him torments, and ore-whelme with woes, Hels Queene Proserpina this I begge of thee, And if there be some wights thou countst thy foes, O with those plagude ones let him placed be: Or if there be a place thats worse than hel, Grant me this boone, that he may in it dwel.

I speake not (Princesse) of a shallow greefe: His damned stroke hath pierst euen to my soule And at thy hands I humblie craue releefe, That as I mourne: so he may euer houle Of thee I beg, bicause thou art a Queen, And Womens mercy more then mens is seene.

Or if the Grim-god Pluto thy black Lord, Doe hold thee straight and giue thee no such power: Yet to his grisly-hood speake a gentle word, Your sex hath euer one perswading howre, Wherein they wish theyr husbands to their will, O praie him then that he torment Achill.

Fowle helborne-monster sent vppon the earth, By froward anger and vntoward will: Only to worke poore Troy and Ilions death, which then thou wroughtst when thou didst Hector kill: But thou art curst and damned for that deede, And for thy sake accurst is all thy seede.

How could thy heart consent to heaue thy hand, Gainst him whose body was as then vnarmed? That worthy man the flower of all the land, Which neuer any but with honour harmed. How couldst thou then so cowardly him tuch? But thou didst feare: his valure was so much.

Like as a Beare that hungry is of pray, Yet dares not buckle with a bigger beast: Doth watch occasion and his time doth stay, Till sure aduantage bids him to a feast, And then deuouers and teares all that he can: So didst thou waite to spoile this worthy man.

But thou art spoyld and he still worthy is, Thy honour lost but his for euer biding: Nor breaths the wight that speakes of him amisse, All men all glory are to him ascribing. And when you both are named tis this men say, Achilles basely did braue Hector slay.

Why then sweet Homer did thy pen miscarry That writes such wonders in Achilles name? Thou madst his praise amongst the starres to tarry, And in the skies thou regestred his fame He were immortall by thy Angels tounge, But that herein thou doest a double wronge.

Wrong vnto him that nere deserued so, Wrong to thy selfe in flattering him too much: Thou made his worth both men and gods to know, And heauens can tell the cause was neuer such. What worthy mind by treason would asaile? When as he knew that valure might preuaile.

Hector had hurt him hand to hand afore. I, Then he knew his power and his force, Which euer after lyke a greedy bore Made him to seeke his life for to diuorce From that faire temple wherein t'was well placed, Who neuer ceased till it was out raced.

Then why did Homer Laureat of his time, Consume the sweet of his mellifluous tongue In hony lines, and from his golden chime Chaunt forth in musick a mellodious song To sweeten him, that men should with delight For euer read his praises day and night?

But twas the larges of his liberall hand, Which makes some Poets pipe as they will daunce, At whose deuotion theyr good witts do stand, Waiting and prest their honoures to aduance. But Homer thou that couldst immorrall men, Shouldst not be thought to haue a flattering pen.

No no it was thy kindnes that did giue Thy countryman the glory of thy witt: Nor can I thinke that thou by him didst liue, But thou wert faine in him to blason it; Had Hestor been a Graecian borne I know, Achilles name had nere been honoured so.

There had bene matter for thy heauenly verse, A golden subiect for thy Siluer tounge: His glorious acts were worthy to reherse And had sweet Homer of braue Hector song Vnto thy selfe such honour had it be As for Achilles to be sung of thee.

There was the true looking-glas of honour, In which together did all vertue stay The worlds wonder for a worthy warriour, A man most rare accomplisht euery way: And to say truth of such exceding fame, That none but Homer can declare the same.

O then good Spencer the only Homer liuing, Deign for to write with thy fame-quikninge quill: And though poore Troy due thanks can not be giuing, The Gods are iust and they that giue them will. Write then O Spencer in thy Muse so trim, That he in thee and thou maiest liue in him.

Although thou liuest in thy Belphaebe faire, And in thy Cynthia likely art to shine, So long as Cynthia shineth in the ayre: Yet liue and shine in this same Sunne of mine. O liue in him that whilom was my Sun, But now his light and so my life is done.

With that she wepte and that so piteously, As she had been dissolued all to teares: Throbbing forth sighs shriking so hideously, As one that inly endles torments beare? But ore a while: for euerie thing must stay, She ceast hir plainte and gan agine thus say.

O tell my griefes, and to this worlde them sound As I in sighs doo send them forth to thee: Was neuer dole so driery to be found, As is the dolour that is now in me. Tell how I dround in teares, in scalt-sighs burne, And while thou sighest I will sitte and mourne.

View but my lookes and thou shalt feeling write My troubled spirit, and how it sighs with grones, And still regard mine eies that want their light, Blinded with teares that issue from my mones, And here, O here, behold dead Hector shoken, And thou shalt speake as if my selfe had spoken.

Then did she shew me Hector where he lay, Pointing hir finger, holding backe hir head, Scarce had she power, Lo here he is, to say, It was such death to see hir Hector dead. There did I see the king, the Queene, all Troy In mourning weedes, bewailing their annoy.

Olde-aged Priam kneeling ore the corse, * 1.1With trickling teares distilling from his eyes: Looketh vpon him with a deepe remorse, And heauie cheere doth view him as he lies, His luke-warme drops fall downe on Hectors face, He wipes them still, and still they fall apace.

Passion be-duls him that he cannot speake, Groning he sits, and shaking of his head, And then he sobs as if his hart would breake, That of his death too, they are all afraid. Only he cried, O my sonne, my sonne, But speech did faile him, yer it was begun.

One while he beats his sigh-swolne brest and cries, But then a manly courage staies his crying From being heard: and then he lifts his eies Vp to the heauens, his fingers iointly tying. "But mores his fire the more he chokes his fumes, "For inward griefe pent in the hart consumes.

Thus did the olde-man in his mellowed yeares, Bewaile the wind-fall of his fruit vnripe, His siluer beard he pearled all with teares, Which faster fell then he (good-man) could wipe. Nothing he said, but O my sonne, my sonne, His breath stil stopping ere he halfe had done.

The good king Dauid neuer wailed so, And yet he wailde for Absolon his sonne With flouds of teares which stormes of sighes did blow, As hath this Priam for his Hector done. "Death of a priuate sonne doth grieue one sore, But losse of such a one gals ten times more.

The godly Patriarch Abraham did greeue, In sacrifice to offer vppe his sonne: Vnto I am and but he did beleeue, His flesh and bloud would such a murther shun. If flesh and bloud to loose a sonne be loth, Then needes must Priam who was meerely both.

Great was the gall vnto Harpagus hart, When king Astiages gaue to him his sonne: Whom he had slaine before (O cruell part) Then gaue his father him to banquet on. But this, nor those were halfe so much as his, For Priam lost the piller of his blisse.

Alasse good king) that thou whose hap was such, As neuer any might compared be, That Fortune now at thy good hap should grutch, Alas (I say) that thou shouldst liue to see The Wheele so turne euen now to vieu thy fal, Who wert but euen now on the top of all.

Next him sat wailing in most pitious wise, Hectors fayre mother Hecuba the Queene:* 1.2 Hir outward lookes hir inward smart descries, And by hir sighing was hir sorrowe seene. A mothers loue vnto hir childe exceedes, And death of him hir endlesse torment breedes.

Aye me (she cries) as women wont to doe, That ere I did conceiue thee in my wombe: Thy life was mine, thy death is now my woe, Aye that my bellie had beene stil thy tombe. Rather I had I neuer had thee borne, Then thus in thee to see all Troy forlorne.

When I thy brother Paris did conceiue, I dreamt my wombe was all on burning fire: And true it was, he doth me not deceiue, I feare we burne all by his hot desire. Yet hadst thou liu'd thy selfe had beene a spring, To quench these flames that now are kindleing.

For when I bred thee (few doe know so much) I dreamt a Sea was in my body flowing, And that the rage of Aeolus was such, That blasts of winde the waues thereof were blowing. I tolde it none: so was the sence nere found, But now I both do finde and feele the ground.

These Seas of teares which heere about thee flow, Are those same seas which I supposde to be These stormes of sighs, the winds with them did blow, Thus is my vision verified in thee. * 1.3Now that a signe of these Seas may be seene, I will be called of sadde seas the Queene.

The Troyan Queene is Hecuba no more, Aye me, me thinkes I see it now decaying: Hector is dead: the Greekes do dance therefore, And they giue thanks while we for ayde are praying. Frowne not O Neptune that I am Queene of Seas, For Queene on earth great Ioue it doth not please.

With that she weeping tore hir haire and said: See, see, they come to take away my crowne, Like one halfe frantike, or with feare dismaide, Looke, looke she cries they'r burning of the towne. O Hector helpe vs, she alowd him cals, He cannot heare hir, she to weeping fals.

Elkanah thy Hannah neuer sight so sore, Nor begd with teares that she by thee might beare A sonne: although she powred out before Hir makers throne, her soule who did hir heare. With tithe of teares I say did she not craue him, As losse of hirs she mournd yet could not saue him.

Thomyris thy teares for Spargapises slaine By Cyrus hand the butcher of thy sonne: Were not a few which from thy cloudie brain, Thou didst let fal to heare what he had donne. But (O) the drops which Hecuba did shoure, For thee to shed was neuer in thy powre.

She lost hir stay, hir piller, and a sonne, Thou lost a sonne but neyther staie nor piller: In Hectors death, Hecubaes life was done, Thou hadst the head of Spargapises killer, And victresse wert liuing in ioy long after: She euer mournde and neuer moued laughter.

Thus sat the mother of that worthy man, Weeping vpon him in aboundant raine: Clasping his body strongly as she can Into hir armes, and then she weepes againe. Hugging him hard as thogh she would then take him Into the place where great Ioue first did make him.

By hir I sawe a goodly Lady bright, A stately dame as one shal lightly see, But that some drooping clouds then dimnd hir sight: I askt Troys ghost, what might that Lady be: This is (quoth she) Andromache his wife,* 1.4 Whom she did loue more dearely then hir life.

She wept and wailde and wroong hir hands, and tare Hir clothes, hir haire, hir flesh from off hir face. A babie too within hir armes she bare, Aye me, me thought it was a pitious case, To see the babe vppon hir breast to lie, And both to weepe, the childe not knowing why.

O heare my Lord, O heare thy handmaid speake, I am Andromache thy louing wife: Through thy dead senses let my words now breake Thou that refusde to heare me in thy life. Ah hadst thou listned when thou liuing wert, This greefe had neuer come so nigh my hart.

Thou madste no reckoning of my vision strange, "Braue men are wont to be too credulous: My dreame did tell me that thy life must change If thou this day with Greekes wert venturous. I tolde it thee: But Womens words are toyes When men most wilfull seeke their owne annoies.

I tolde the King our Father and the Queene, We all did pray thee: All could not preuaile: For valiant men will haue their valure seene. Hector that day must needes the Greekes assaile, That day? that one day couldst thou not forbeare? But men resolued perswasions will nor heare.

Then flouds of teares ran downe hir christall cheekes, Like streames that follow along the siluer sandes: A troubled soule in teares hir comfort seekes, (O heauy comfort that in mourning standes) Yet woman say in weeping there is glory, Which mede this Lady so exceeding sory.

The sweete young Infant that lay all this while, Vppon the Downe-bed of his mothers brest: One while would crie, another while did smile, Alas it knew no cause of such vnrest, Vnles that this did make the babie weepe, To heare what howling they about him keepe.

Sometimes it would the tender hand vp lay, And spread the fingers on the mothers face: Stroking hir cheekes as Infantes vse to play, But she that now for sporting had no place, Weeping did wet the childe as it did lie, With brinish teares which made the babe to cry.

Then with a napkin doth she drie his face. Peace, peace (sweet hart) thus she hir yonglinge stills: He to his plaieng falles againe apace, She with hir teares againe his bosome filles. And with hir sobs she beates him as he lies, That now the childe with ceaseles shriking cryes.

Alacke the tormentes that she now endueres, The cruell plunges in hir hart so sore: Hir husbandes death hir endles woe insures, The childes fell crieng makes hir tormentes more. Thus she (sweete Lady) is of all accurst, Who sittes and sighs as if hir hart should burst.

The faithfull Porcia neuer sorrowed so, Although hir selfe for Brutus she did kill: The louing Phillis neuer felt the woe, Though for Demophoon she hir selfe did spill. As did Andromach for hir Hector slayne, Their Death cut off: hir life prolonges hir paine.

Panthea deplord Abradatas his death, With gaulling griefe and bitter percing stings: But yet hir sorrow made hir stop hir breath, Thus death a period to hir tormente brings. But this sweete Lady woe hath so possest, That she must liue and death may giue no rest.

No present rest and so no rest at all, Death when he came (he came) but came too late: Sorrow before had wroght hir vtter fall, Thus had she cause both death and life to hate. Death that did stay and do hir so much wrong, To linger life that liu'd in death so long.

By hir Cassandra with hir lolling locks,* 1.5 Dissheuerd all vpon hir shoulders lieng: With heauie chere hir thought-sore brest she knocks, So hard as Eccho is againe replieng A dolfull thump: the Temple so did sound, And thus she waits hir brother in that stound.

Ay me she cries, I knew this long before, That Paris fire must haue a sea to quench it: And now I feare the flames will burne so sore, As we in time shall neuer liue to stanche it. The only spring wherein the vertue lay, To slake the fire is dride and dead this day.

O Hector thou that wert our spring of life, Thy death is now the cause of many a spring: Fountaines do flowe in euery corner rife, Of blubering teares thers now no other thing In Troy but teares since Hector did depart, For (ah) thy death hath causd our endlesse smart.

* 1.6I tolde my brother Paris what would fall, And that a flame should follow through the seaes At his returne, he gaue no heed at all, But hoisted saile, his fancy he would please He burnt with loue, and we shall burne by loue, As by thy death I feare poore Troy shall proue.

Yet hadst thou liu`d, (alas what booteth had?) Thou dost not liue, and therefore dies my soule: Yet while I liue in sable garments clad, For thee (my brother) will I sitte and howle. And now I come to beare them company, Who went afore in this thy tragedy.

Then sat she downe hard by hir Sisters side, Andromache that did with teares brine, The margine fill of Hectors wound so wide, By trickling drops distilling from hir eien. There did she weepe with, hir the King and Queene, And next to mourne came in faire Pollicene,

* 1.7Alas that virgines should be so distract, To spoile sweete faces that are made so pleasing, She tore hir golden haire (O rufull acte), And on hir forhead was hir nailes a seazing. The blood ran downe and teares ore-tooke the same, And both gusht afresh when she did Hector name.

Hir tender limmes did tremble as she stood, As did Diana when the huntseman spide hir: Vnlucky huntseman ranginge in the wood, She being naked hauing nought to hide hir. Thus did she quake, such is a virgines feare, To se him dead whome she did hold so deare.

Shriking she cries alas what shall I doo? Hector is dead that was our only stay: Troy shall be burnt, and I deflowred to, The angry Gods conclude our wrack this day. For in the stopping of this one mans breath, They plainly shew they minace Ilions death.

Yet gentle Gods vouchsafe a virgines praier, Through Cristall skies to pierce your sacred eares: O heare my voice, my voice my harts-bewraier, My hart and voice that are be-duld with teares. O heare, now heare a pure virgines mones, If euer Gods did heare a virgines grones.

Here haue we Temples builded to your names, And with deuotion we doe them adore: Our Altars smoke with sweet perfumed flames, And on our knees your graces we implore. Why are you angry then O Gods with vs, That in all dutie reuerence you thus?

But Reason must not reason with the Gods, It is their wil, what wil then dare say nay? They will the Greekes and Troyans be at ods, Vntil poore Troy be brought vnto decay. Our incense stinks, our sacrifice displease, No offring may their kindled ire appease.

Hector is dead in whom they did delight, Hector our sacrifice and incense sweet, Who while he liu'd, we trusted in his might: The Gods still laide the Grecians at his feet. Til that their wrath was kindled ouer Troy, And then displeasde they tooke from vs our ioy.

O send him backe faire heau`ns for our defence, If that the Gods wil part with such a treasure: But (ah) my praier may breed more offense, O keepe him then, I know it is your pleasure. This is the prayer which I humbly craue, That I be laide a virgine in my graue.

I know the Letcher hopes to haue his will, Now that my honours chiefest guard is gone: But I with Phillis first my selfe wil kill, Ile be no pray for him to seaz vpon. He slew my brother, hopes he now of me? No bloudy traytor, that shal neuer be.

Thinkst thou a Virgins pure affection can, Admit thee loue that passeth thorough bloud? Hast thou by treason slaine so braue a man, And by that reason hopst thou so much good, As that my hart wil euer yeelde to thee? No bloudy traitor, it shal neuer be.

I neuer yet did staine my spotlesse hart, By taking comfort in a strangers death, And doost thou thinke it were a Sisters part, To loue the man that stopt hir brothers breath? My brother dearer then my life to me, No bloudy traitor, it shal neuer be.

My hand, this hand which neuer yet did act, Where rigour, force, or violence might be found, Shal rather yeeld to worke a bloudy fact, Which yet attempt my tender hart would swound. Or in my selfe or else in murdring thee, Rather then thou shalt euer ioy in me.

But yet I know that I am deere to thee, I and I know that once I lou'd thee deerely: But now my hart hath quite forgotten thee, And inlie longs to punish thee seuerely. My feruent loue shal now he turnde to hate, And once my will shal worke against my fate.

O Hector how shal I lament for thee, When Womens teares are not sufficient strong: Let heauen and earth for me auenged be, While I bewaile thee in a sighing song. I can bewaile thee but while life doth last, But if I may, I wil, when life is past.

Then with an heauy cheere and downe-cast looke, She sat hir downe amidst the mourning crew: And to her teares hir selfe she hath betooke, At whose approch the rest doe al renew Their doleful shrikes which stinted not before, But greater number makes their shriking more.

A loofe from these did stand in sable weedes, "(For mourning garments fit a mourneful mind) A man whose hart and very soule now bleedes, To see that Hector was to death assignde.* 1.8 And this was Paris brocher of their woe, But he to Greece by Heauens instinct did go.

Venus commanded, who could hir denie? Had she not giuen, me thinkes a man should craue it: For such a prize who would not Fortune trie, And venture life, and goods, and al to haue it? Nor fire nor water should his passage stay, To gaine fruition of so sweet a pray.

Yet now he mourns, "for euery sweet hath sower, (Alasse that pleasure is not euer biding) But like an herbe that buddeth with a shower, Should with a frost againe away be gliding. Why haue the gods Loues-queen immortal made, And yet hir ioyes like withered grasse do fade?

But now he mournes and pleasure must not dure, Hector is dead: and therefore doth it perish, While Hector liu'de they thought themselues secure, But since his death none can the Troyans cherish. Ech man can mourne but none can comfort make, Al Troy doth greeue so much for Hectors sake.

Poore Paris he is in a world of woes, Legions of sorrowes do possesse his heart: And as a man al mal-content he goes, Or like an actor in a tragike part. In muttering words vnto himselfe he talkes, And then he stands and sighes, and then he walkes.

Stopping his pace as doth a troubled wight That goes, then stands, and then turnes backe againe, Hiding his face he hates to see the light, For darkenesse fits a melancholy braine. Only he wil sometime lift vp his eies, And gastly looke at Hector as he lies.

Thus doth he walke like one that is amased, Biting his lip impaling so his griefe: For men do scorne to haue their sorrowes blased, By shrikes and teares which women giues reliefe. "But greatest windes are when there is no raine, And so in sighs thus Paris doth complaine.

O heauens (quoth he) why are you so vniust, To heape on me more woes than I can beare? Why did you lay my glorie in the dust, And yet torment me with a greater feare. Did you me vppe into your bosome take, To throw me thence into the Stygian lake?

Was Paris borne to be his Countreys bane? Were Goddesses conspiring therevnto? Did Venus therefore into Greece me traine That I should be the instrument of woe? Why do the Gods poore Ilions death conspire, And make men say that I set Troy on fire?

The cause was iust that in the Aegaean seas, I launcht my ship and hoisted saile amaine: Bending for Greece, I did not goe to please Lasciuious wil as some vniustlie faine. For though that she my hart did nighly tuch, Yet were there reasons that did moue as much.

Proude Telamon borne in Achaia land, With-held by force faire Exion mine Aunt: The pride of whom so nigh our harts did stand, That Grecians should in Troyan conquests vaunt. That sweet Reuenge did bid vs seeke awaie, To rid our friend that did in bondage staie.

My father then for hir his sister deare, Did cal a counsell crauing their aduise: And euerie one spake Pro & contra there, In waightie causes so it is the guise. Eche man to speake what lieth in his brest, And then the king set downe what likes him best.

Some led by reason thought it very meet, (Not euery one can future things foresee) That we should now erect a mighty fleete, And make for Greece in al the hast might be, Eyther to lose mine Aunt from out hir tether, Or else to rape some Grecian Lady hether.

Of this aduise was that good Deiphobus, My brother deare and eke a worthy knight: And vnto him assent did Troylus, For well they knew our valure and our might. And with their iudgements was my liking seene, Hauing my lesson taught me by Loues-queene.

Besides, Reuenge did hammer in our heads, And eke a care to ease our fathers woe: Our might in men, in armes, in stately steeds, My fathers griefe, our right doe al say goe. The king himselfe approou`d our counsell well, But then some others gan him thus to tel.

My Lord (quoth Hector) I, that gals my heart, My woes redouble when I doe him name, I feele my sences from their subiects part, And scorching sighes my troubled soule inflame. O, had his verdict yet beene with the rest, Such stormes had neuer beaten in my brest.

His prudent counsel did dissuade from warre, His courage though did manage stil the same, Twixt Greekes and vs there was an auncient iar, Which euerie man did with reuenge inflame. But he whose hart was neuer yet affraid, In wisedome wished peace, and thus he said.

My Lord (quoth he) and eke my father deere, Whose sage aduise with reuerence I doe honour: Please it your grace benignly me to heare, Speaking by support of your high fauour, And eke to pardon what be said amisse, Touching the voyage this my iudgement is.

I know right well by force of Natures might, Nothing is sweeter than reuenge to man: When very beasts of wrongs themselues wil right, And render like for like in what they can. Then needs your hart must for reuengement long, That haue sustainde by Greekes so great a wrong.

But yet you see their power is very great, (I speake not this for cowardise or dread: For Gods do know my soule dooth inlie fret, Til I may reap the proudest Grecians head. And in their bloud I bathe my thirstie blade, Thats neuer quencht, so much am I afraide.)

But this I say the Grecian force is great, Europe and Africk doe support their might: The men are Warlike and they will intreat, A weaker foe with termes of vile despight. I wish that therefore you be wel aduised, Before your purpose yet be enterprised.

Asia is rich, and we in peace now flourish, Presume not though on Fortune for a smile: For though that Troy a troope of Gallants nourish, And men resolude, yet she may al beguile. Then trust not hir whose truth was neuer knowne, "Better sit stil then rise and ouerthrowne.

And yet so great a wrong done in despite, Cannot be brooked by a noble mind: Pesants may beare, but Kings must needes requite Abuses offred, when they doe them finde, Wrought in contempt, intended to disgrace, Whose thoughts are lesse, deserue a lower place.

But yet (dread sir) forecast what may befal, Such high matters deepe iudgement doe require: A sudden blast may ouerthrow vs al, One little sparke may set al Troy on fire. Respect the ende, beginnings oft are faire, And promise much yet issue in despaire.

Like to the flattering face of Phoebus bright, That in the morne his curteine will vnspread: And grace the earth with shine of glittering light, Shewing the world his beamy-gorgeous head. Then by and by his glory all will shrowd, Within the compasse of a gloomy cloude.

Mine Aunt is dere. The wrong not to be borne, Hir bondage base. Your sorrow full of danger. Insulting greekes ech Troian hart doth scorne, Yet watch your time wherein to worke your anger. And then powre downe your wrath in violls full, And crush the braines of each barbarian scull.

So shall your purpose take his sound effect, This sudden complot may repentance breed: Then for your selfe and countries weal respect, And of their force and malice take good heed. Better mine Aunt should yet in bondage tarry, Then for hir sake both you and Troy miscarry.

Thus to your highnes haue I told my mind, Wishing too rashly that you not attempt The spitefull Greekes. Time will occasion find, Whereby you shall repay their high contempt. Then shall this hand imbrued in theyr blood, Worke their decay and do my country good

But if your mightie courage scorne to abide, From swift reuenge impatient of delay: Then is your state in fortunes ballance tride, And you I feare be found too light to waygh With massy Greekes. Heauens grant it proue not so If into Greece my brother Paris go.

With that he ceast. But now he is deceased, Ah, heauen-borne Hector how shall I lament thee? For in thy wane my hope of life deceased, O now till now I neuer did repent me, That ere I did this voiage vndertake, Hector it greu`s me only for thy sake.

Of his aduise was Helenus my brother, A man well seene in Circes magick seaes: And of that counsell was there yet another, Who Pentheus hight, all these it did not please. Besides Cassandra which did gastly cry, What will you do? alas we all shall die.

My Father yet whom nothing could content, Till some reuenge were had on Aiax pride: For me his sonne in secret hath he sent, And for my brother Deiphobus beside. Giuing vs charge our ships we ready make, And saile from Greece reuengement there to take.

Thus did I goe commaunded by the Kinge, My quarrell good for to redeme mine Aunt: Or else from thence some pearle of price to bring, In lieu of hir. This did my Father grant. Venus besides sayd to me Paris goe, Who now would thinke this should haue wrought our woe?

But heauens, and Gods, and fates, and all conspirde, Our vtter ruins and great ouerthrow: Alas my heart with inward griefe is fierd, Billows of sighs the flames thereof do blow. My clowdy braine from dropping neuer cleares, Thus do I liue for thee in sighs and teares.

But now nor sighs nor feare can shew my griefe, Hector what shall I therefore do for thee? Shall I from Laethe borrow some releefe? Or from that wofull wailing Niobe? That mourn'd so long till she became a stone, O no thou gloriest in reuenge alone.

Then shall this hand for thee reuengment take, If thousands soules for thee reuenge may be Vpon the Greekes such hauock will I make, As they shall thinke that Hector liues in me. And now to worke this barbarous route that trouble, Me thinkes I feele my force and strength redouble.

Champion I am for Venus now no more, But I am Champion now for Hectors soule: O helpe me Mauors I doe thee implore, And in thy Warlike booke my name inroule. Among the Martials fauourd by thy might, That I reuenge may worke in Hectors right.

Now shal my sword plow vp the Greekish ground, Where proudlie ietting they trace in and out: And in the furrowes shal their bloud abound, That pitious wights shall ready be to shout. To see what riuers of their bloud shal flow, And bone-pau`d waies for passengers to go.

Their heads and harts togither wil I pile, Making such heapes as they that see shal wonder: Their carcases which I doe holde so vile, Shal all in peece-meale there be torne asunder. And when my wearie arme would faint with paine, Ile thinke on thee and then begin againe.

Thus wil I hew a passage through their troopes, Glutting my blade with gobbits of their gore: Nor will I stint vntill Achilles droopes, (Then did he kisse his Curtelax, and swore) This wil I doe (O Hector in thy name, Who hadst thou liu'd, wouldst haue done the same.

The aged king hath taken youthfull might, And Lions courage in his Lambe-like yeares: In thy reuenge the Troyans vow to fight, And teare the Greekes like rauenous she-Bears, Hungry of bloud and renting with their pawes, Thus haue we vowd reuenge in Hectors cause.

This said, he stept to Hector where he lay, Kneeling him downe amongst the mourneful crew: His sable weeds I saw him throw away, But what his meaning was I cannot shew. Vnlesse the Greekes then to assaile he ment, Taking his leaue of Hector ere he went.

Next him came in that gallant Grecian dame, Pride of her Countrey, mirror of hir kind: Earths only starre, from whose faire beames there came, * 1.9Heat to inflame with loue the coldest minde. Beauties existance, Ioy of speculation, Helens sweet selfe, a word of admiration.

She wept and wailde and tore hir golden haire, Hir daintie tresses farre more pure than golde, Earthes mettal is too base to make compare, With that which thoughts diuinely doth vnfolde. Yet this she tare and threw it from hir head, When she beheld hir brother Hector dead.

O now the murder that hir hand had wrought, If with those haires she should haue throwne away The seueral harts that euery haire had caught, O what a murder had she done that day? Then had hir shame beene registred in bloud, As now hir fame in beautie long hath stood.

The siluer teares distilling from hir eies, Run downe hir cheekes the Rose and Lilly fields: A sugred streame where thirstie Cupid lies, And drinks the Nectar that the fountaine yeelds. Til stormie sighes doe make the boy to quake, And force him thence his winged flight to take.

Thus dooth she weepe and teares aboundant showre, Which blustering windes do driue from off hir face: And then they fal vpon that snowie towre Her necke, and thence into a lower place. Til at the last they in her bosome rest, who coucht was there might thinke that he was blest.

Such were the teares of Albions Stella faire, Which in continual raining she did shed: And such her sighes which Ecchoed in the aire, When she heard say hir Astrophil was dead. Two so sweet creatures neuer mournde afore, But Helens griefe was far exceeding more.

For now she fares like one that frantike is, She weepes, she sighes, and often doth she swound, If euer Tellus lou`d a creatures kisse, Now is she proud when Helen kist the ground. And when hir eies those Orbes of Troy are closed, The heauens to raine do shew themselues disposed.

The drooping clouds in foggie mists descend, Troy seemeth darke so long as she is dead, And til againe her eies their light doe send, To cleere the vapours that are ouerspred, Continuall howling they about hir keepe, Whose shrikes awake hir from hir coathing sleepe.

Then she Gradatim heaued vp her eies, And bloud gone backe retyrde into her face: The duskie weather cleered in the skies, When she gaue light vnto that gloomie place. Thus heauens are dark and shine when she is bright, So she a goddesse made both day and night.

Then as hir senses did returne againe, To that faire subiect where they lou`d to tarry: Speaking like one that had a troubled braine, Or else whose hart did sundry torments carrie. With halfe-stopt breath she muttred softly saying, Hector dead, Troy gone, I, I al decaying.

With that she started and began a-fresh, Renting hir garments, throwing forth hir brests: She profered violence to hir tender flesh, But feareful hands denide such bolde requests. What violent hand doth touch, and yet not wither, The throne where al the Graces sit togither?

Thou cruel Pyrrhus glutton-thirsting bloud, Curst is thy hand that kilde so faire a maid: Vpon whose forhead beautie crauing stood, And yet thy hand hath not from murther staid. Curst be thy sire, thy selfe to death be done, Ye kilde a king, a Virgin, and his sonne.

Then did she goe to Hector where he lay, Weeping vpon him in excessiue raine: And with her angels voice she gan to say, Hector, sweet Hector O reuiue againe. With that me thought I saw him heaue his head, She shrikt for ioy, but he againe was dead.

Iniurious Parcae huswiues of mans life, That spin the threads and cut them off at pleasure: O Atropos why did thy fatal knife Cut off from Troy so rich and great a treasure. And Lachesis why didst not thou still spin, Sweet Hectors life that euer should begin.

But all iniurious fraught with cruel spight, Ye shortned haue this worthy Hectors daies: Why doe you not restore his eies to light, Now that the voice of such an angell prayes? O were you men and had the power to giue, At Helens praier Hector needes should liue.

Could trees and stones, in Orpheus tunes reioice, Was he so pleasing, and dumbe things so witty? And shall an heauenlie grace with humble voice Beg at your graces, and you shew no pittie? But now your power is not life to restore, Yet wast your powre t'haue let him liu'd afore.

But ah the passions that she then indured, When false illusion did deceaue hir sight: Of Hectors life hir selfe she halfe assured, When he (God knowes) slept in eternal night. Then was her greefe far greater than before, And hope deluded made hir torment more.

Like to a Sayler beaten on the seas, With boisterous tempests and outragious stormes: Long wishing land for his reposed ease, That spies by chance some earth-betokning formes. And makes amaine to them with speedie course, Hoping to find for sorrowe some remorse.

But when he comes to his desired ken, And there doth find nor show nor signe of land: O sillie man how is he greeued then, That euer hope did beare him so in hand? Then fals his hope, he vnder hatches goes, Leauing his life to Neptune to dispose.

Thus was she tost the sweetest soule aliue, Billoes of water beate within hir breast: No Phoebus saire the vapors dark may driue, From that sweet Sphere whereon they were possest. Sorrow it selfe I thinke did loue hir so, That euen for loue twas loth awaie to goe.

For when she spake (at length she gan to speake) "(Things that are violent may not alway last:) With greefe and dolour did hir silence breake, And euerie word of sorrowe had a tast. Then in the anguish of an heauie hart, To Hector thus hir mind she did impart.

Hector (quoth she) O thou that wert our staie, More are the cares which I for thee sustaine: Then were the woes of faithful Iulia, Though for hir Lords loue she hir selfe hath slaine. Yet can I neuer be sufficient sorie, Seing thee dead that wert our only glorie.

Glory of Troy and wonder of the World, Gem of true Nobles, knight-hoods full suffisance Ah, why hath Fortune now hir wheele so hurld, To throw thee downe that wert our whole assurance? While thou didst liue I anchored in thy might, Now Hectors dead, who shal for Helen fight?

Woes me alas) this day the Fates conspire, To worke my ruine and my endlesse vvoe: Novv shall the Greekes enioy their full desire, And I vvith home-spun Menalay shal goe. Eyther to be vvith him a loathed vvife, Or else haue iudgement here to lose my life.

Hard is the Laborinth that I labour in, Deadly the drift that I am driuen to, If I goe backe, al Greece derides my sinne, If here I stay, I die, thats better tho. Better to die a thousand deathes and more, Then liue contemnd, who honourd was before.

Yet wil my Paris fight in my defence, So hath he vow'd for me and Hectors sake: Achilles treason wil he recompence, Or else such hurly-burly will he make, As wel the Greeks his vengeance great shall know, Thus in a furie did my Paris vow.

But (ah) my loue leaue off that resolution, Troylus and Deiphobus shal fight for thee: Worke not at once my whole confusion, Stay thou at home and helpe to comfort me. For if that thou shouldst eke by chance miscarry, What were the greefes that in my hart would tarry?

The sweet yong Troilus that is yonder mourning, To whom thou art, and Hector was so deere: Shal for you both with puissant hand be turning, His hardie foes vnto a daunted feare. He shal reuengement for my Paris make, Which thou didst vow to doe for Hectors sake.

Then did she fly to Paris as he went, Throwing hir Iuorie armes about his neck: Criyng the hower of hir life was spent, If vnto hir he had not due respect. O stay with me, and if thou needs must die, Wele die togither, and togither lie.

But he whom now both loue and wrath had sworne To be reuenged for his brothers death: These faire perswasions seemde to hold in scorne, Although she praid him, that was as the breath Of life to him, his vow he would not misse, He thus resolu`d they parted with a kisse.

A kisse sweete kisse, for she did stay so long, Hanging vpon him, cleauing to his brest: Sucking his lippes, breathing in amoung His sigh-burnt lunges an aire that made them blest. So neuer any had attaind such blisse, Had not salt teares been mingled with that kisse.

Then to hir mourning did she fall anew, Weeping for Hector, and for Paris praieng: This twofolde griefe so chang`d hir rosy hew, That glorious beautie seemd to be decaying. But that it might not part from such a place, No more then`t could from morning Stellaes face.

Yet was she chang`d, whom doth not sorrow breake? The sweetest flowers soonest are a fading: Beautie is mightie: yet hir strength but weake, If heauie care do once become hir lading. Hir vertue strong triumphing ouer all, Hir substance though most subiect vnto fall.

The meagre palenes of that fretfull worme, Sitteth so nere to each true mourners skin: That she that whilom was of lusty forme, Through sorrowes anger looketh now but thin: Thus Helen, faire Helen began to fade, On whom the Gods the Sunne of beauty laid.

Sooner doth fall the Rose then doth the Nettle, The huswiues cloth out-lasts the silken twine, The brier brags when goodly Oakes do settle, Phoebus goes downe before that Cinthia shine. Thing`s of esteem do fall when worse are stayd, So Helen, faire Helen began to fade.

Alas that Hector is not liuing still, That Helens beautie might haue florisht euer: O if such worthies must death rites fulfill, And neither forme, nor strength may them deliuer, Why do so many men in these daies, Horde vp such treasure, and such buildings raise?

They make their houses like to goodly townes, Proud stately turrets menacing the starres: They do not know that fortune sometime frownes, How ancient Citties are defac`d by warres. Poore Troy and Verlam can declare of olde, That fame doth lie in neither stones nor gould.

Nor do they thinke they can liue euer here, Hector and Helen shew that cannot be: Why do they then such mightie buildings reare, Making in clay their liues aeternitie. Knowing not when they can no longer last, Fame dies with them and honour all doth wast.

Then let him liue for euer, and in honour, Riding triumphant in fames golden Carre: That holdes the pen and sword so high in fauour, And by his bounty guerdons both so farre, As when the pen hath regestred his fame, The sword hath sworne for ay to guard the same.

O let that man for euer be adornd, Build him a temple on Pernassus hill: Sing of him muses whom he neuer scornd, Sound war like trumpets with his glory fill The empty aire, together blase his fame, That loues you both, O euer praise his name.

But now is Helen weeping all this while, No worlds delight can make hir leaue lamenting: Hir hart of griefe is now become an Anuile, Sorrow doth bed and sighs are still tormenting. Then in plunges of a pained sprite, She sayd to Hector thus and bad me write.

Ay me (sweete Hector) how am I tormented? The fulnes of wrath is powrd downe on me: If euer womans state was yet lamented, Mine may be waild that now bevvaileth thee. O might I die I should heauens ire fulfill, But now they make me liue to plague me still.

They make me liue to see sweet Hector dead, This is the torment wherewithall they greeue me: A greater plague could not hang ore my head, And that they knew, for nothing can releeue me, Vnlesse they will restore thy life againe, Whom they in anger haue vntimely slaine.

But (ah) they did it for my lasting paine, Framing a torture to endure for euer: This was procurde by Iunos iel`ous braine, Who works my woe by strength of great endeuour. Only bycause she went without the ball That Venus got, thus doth she plague vs all.

And now thou dearling of the world most deare, By thee it is she works hir high despight: Stopping the passage of those beamys cleare, By which thy life did lend thine eies their light. Then giuing out in hir hate most enuious, That Helen was cause to make me odious.

Thus doe I liue of all the world despisde, The Troyans harts doe inwardlie repine: And though their formes be outwardlie misguisde, Their thoughts perswade them that the fault was mine, That this our flower, our piller, and our staie, Did fade, did fall, through death did flit away.

But Hector now I doe appeale to thee, And vnto witnesse doe I call thy ghost: If thou vvert not as dearelie lou'de of me, As of the wight that could affect thee most. While thou didst liue I lou'd thy vertues euer, And since thy death my hart al ioyes doth seuer.

O speake Andromach and Hecuba speake, How did my soule it selfe to sorrow yeeld? When we with him in weeping tearmes did breake, Touching the dreame, diswading him the field. How did poore Helen his life then beg with you, As with your selues his death she vvaileth now?

For who (alasse) hath greater cause to mourne, And in continuall teares lament his death: Streaming a tide that neuer doth returne, Then she, to whom his life vvas liuing breath. For though through Troy a deadly smart be found, Yet mine is most who neerlie seeks the wound.

The Gods conspirde, it vvas not Helens fault, That Hector dies or if that Troy shall burne: Iuno from heauen poore Ilion doth assault, And all hir force against it doth she turne. Who warres vvith Gods and comes not to the worst? Then Iunos cause that Troy decayeth first.

Venus besides commaunded me to come, And sent hir Cupid to prepare the vvay: Then how vniustlie am I blamde by some? Saying, Helen the vvhore wrought Troys decay. For if the Gods decreed it thus before, It vvas their vvils, and Helen is no whore.

But vvho vvould think that heauens should malice bear? That their perfection should admit of anger: An ouglie forme ingendring gastlie feare, A monster foule presaging nought but danger. Who vvould suppose so huge & vile a beast, To lie and harbour in a Goddesse brest?

Yet this did Iuno foster in hir lap, Iuno vniust both vnto Troy and me: And in hir mallice hath she laid a trap, How Troy should perish, and I torturde be. Which both are done by cutting Hector short, Troys onlie Castle, Helens chiefest fort.

With that she vveeping wrung hir hands and cride, Hector O Hector, this was all she said: Then did she seat hir by hir sisters side, Where still she vveepes, but then hir speech was staide. Sorrovve forst silence, griefe ore-came hir hart, And thus a saint did act an hellish part.

The Troyan Nobles all lamented there, In sable garments fitting to their woe: Deiphobus and Troylus with a heauie cheere, For Hectors death doe wander to and fro. The people too doe make a dolefull noise, And call on Hector iointly in one voice.

Hector, O Hector from a troubled spirit, They crie amaine as if they would him pull From death to life, and bring his eies to light, Which now was sunke into his hollovv scul. Hector, O Hector, Hector thus they crie, Who being dead they all do seeme to die.

Then doe they vvalke all mal-content about, From place to place not knovving where to rest: Sometime they stand and giue a monstrous shout, Like to the yell of a many-headed beast. And then returne to Hector vvhere he lies, The men in grones, the Women in outcries.

Like to the kinde and louing naturde Bees, That swarme togither if but one be greeued: Which leaues his hiue and seeketh hollovv trees, They fly with him and looke he be releeued. Humming they mourne as if they felt his greefe, So they can sorrow but lend no releefe.

Then as a Ram that doeth retire back, To make returne with greater violent force: So wil these folks their cries outragious slacke, And go lamenting still from Hectors corse.* 1.10 Till by and by they will returne againe, Shriking in teares, like thunderclaps in raine.

Or like the billovv beating on the shore, That fals off gentlie making little noise: But when he comes againe doth rage so sore, As men far off may heare his raging voice. Swelling vvith fome through Aeolus puffing pride, So do they yell when they're by Hectors side.

They vveep, they waile, they mourn, they fret with anger, They sweare, they vow reuenge for Hectors sake: Their harts are boldned through their present danger, Although for greefe they driery wailings make. Thus al amasde they wander to and fro, His life did please, his death did irke them so.

They curse Achilles in this bitter rage, They frowne; they grin, their teeth they sternly whet: Like desperate men they say nought shal asswage Their ire but bloud, on bloud they al are set. But why do we Achilles name, They say, Which heauens pollutes & darks the brightsom day?

Alas poore Troy what wight can ere bewaile, And not lacke words to write thy great lamentings: To tell thy vvoes euen Ieremie might faile, That writ so well Ierusalems wamentings. For who can forth thy cruell tortures sound? Not angels toongs though such on earth were found.

How doe they crie along through euery street, With cloathes al torne and faces ashie pale? What mourner doth not with a mourner meet? When they togither tel a doleful tale. Here men lament, there women gastlie crie, There virgines shrikes do pierce the azure skie.

Now euery one doth read their owne decay, The Wiues do crie, now shal we liue to see Our husbands slaine. The men againe can say, The time's not farre, we al shal spoiled be. And then togither doe they crie at once, Novv shal our babes be dasht against the stones.

Our daughters rauisht, and our sonnes be slaine, Our friends be murderd and our selues and all: Then do they weepe in such aboundant raine, Such lasting showers from their clouds doe fal, As Troy did seeme in that tear-showring stound, Not like to burne but rather like to drownd.

Thus doe they mourne the most distressed wights, On whom the Gods did in such vengeance frowne: That heauen depriu`d them of their vvonted lights, For Troy seemd darke when Hector was put dovvne. Hector they cal, and they may cal their fill, For he is dead, and they are weeping still.

Then did Troys ghost againe to me appeere, Goe thou (quoth she) and shew to Albion this: Bid hir take heed she holde hir Hector deere, And wel regard him while he liuing is. For vvhen he dies as dooth poore Ilion heere, So vvil faire Albion sorrow then I feare.

She vanisht then, and thankt me for my paines, Although (quoth she) few others wil doe so: Wise heads wil deem`t too light by manie graines For vvho (alas) can rightlie weigh my vvoe? My woe and griefe that toongs can neuer tel, But now giue Hector this, and so farewel.

For that (my Lord) I bring it vnto you, For other Hector Albion novv hath none: Though valiant knights faire England hath inow, Whose worthy fames throughout the world are known. And eke whose names shal one day forth be shovvne. Yet but one Hector hath our Countrey tride: Prudent in peace, in Warres an expert guide.

FINIS. I. O.

Notes

• * 1.1

  Priam
• * 1.2

  Hecuba.
• * 1.3

  Hecuba queen of sad Seas.
• * 1.4

  Andromache
• * 1.5

  Cassandra
• * 1.6

  Quanta per has nescis flamma pe∣tatur aquas.
• * 1.7

  Pollixina.
• * 1.8

  Paris
• * 1.9

  Helena.
• * 1.10

  silen••