The Fall of King Henry the Sixth, Cruelly Murdered in the Tower of London

If euer woefull wight had cause to rue his state,
Or by his ruefull plight to moue men mone his fate,
My piteous plaint may please my mishap to reherse,
Whereof the least most lightely heard, the hardest hart may perce.

What hart so hard can heare of innocence opprest
By fraud in worldly goods, but melteth in the brest?
Whan guiltlesse men bee spoilde, imprisoned for their owne,
Who waileth not their wretched case to whom the case is knowen?

The lyon licks the sores of seely wounded shepe,
The dead man’s corse may cause the crocodile to wepe,
The waues that waste the rocks refresh the rotten redes,
Such ruth the wrack of innocence in cruell creatures bredes.

What hart is then so hard but will for pity blede,
To heare so cruell lucke so cleare a life succede?
To see a seely soule with wo and sorrow sounst,
A king depriude, in prison pent, to death with daggers dounst.

Would God the day of birth had brought me to my bere,
Then had I neuer felt the chaunge of fortune’s chere:
Would God the graue had gript me in her greedy woumbe,
Whan crown in cradle made me king with oyle of holy thoumbe.

Would God the rufull tombe had bene my royall throne,
So should no kingly charge haue made me make my mone:
O that my soule had flowen to heauen with the ioy,
Whan one sort cryed, God saue the king, another, Viue le Roy.

So had I not bene washt in waues of worldly wo,
My minde to quiet bent, had not bene tossed so:
My frendes had ben aliue: my subiects not opprest:
But death, or cruell destiny, denied me this rest.

Alas, what should we count the cause of wretches cares,
The starres do stirre them vp, astronomy declares:
Our humours, sayth the leache, the double true deuines
To th’ will of God, or ill of man, the doubtfull cause assignes.

Such doltish heades as dreame that all things driue by haps,
Count lacke of former care for cause of after claps,
Attributing to man a power fro God bereft,
Abusing vs, and robbing him, through their most wicked theft.

But God doth guyde the world, and euery hap by skill,
Our wit, and willing power, are payzed by his will:
What wit most wisely wardes, and will most deadly vrkes,
Though all our powre would presse it downe, doth dash our warest workes.

Than desteny, our sinne, God’s will, or else his wreake,
Doe worke our wretched woes, for humours be too weake,
Except wee take them so, as they prouoke to sinne,
For through our lust by humours fed all vicious deedes beginne.

So sinne and they be one, both working like effect,
And cause the wrath of God to wreake the soule infect,
Thus wrath and wreake deuine, man’s sinnes and humours ill,
Concurre in one, though in a sort, ech doth a course fulfill.

If likewise such as say the welkin fortune warkes,
Take fortune for our fate and starres thereof the markes,
Then desteny with fate and God’s will all bee one:
But if they meane it otherwise, skath causers skies be none.

Thus of our heauy haps, chiefe causes bee but twayne,
Whereon the rest depend, and vnder put remayne:
The chiefe the will deuine, calde desteny and fate,
The other sinne, through humour’s holpe, which God doth highly hate.

The first apoynteth payne for good men’s exercise,
The second doth deserue due punishment for vice:
This witnesseth the wrath, and that the loue of God,
The good for loue, the bad for sinne, God beateth with his rod.

Although my sondry sinnes doe place mee with the worst,
My haps yet cause mee hope to bee among the fyrst:
The eye that searcheth all and seeth euery thought,
Is iudge how sore I hated sinne, and after vertue sought.

The solace of my soule my chiefest pleasure was,
Of worldly pomp, of fame, or game, I did not passe:
My kingdomes nor my crowne I prised not a crum:
In heauen were my riches heapt, to which I sought to com.

Yet were my sorrowes such as neuer man had like,
So diuers stormes at once, so often did mee strike:
But why, God knowes, not I, except it were for this,
To shewe by paterne of a prince, how brittle honour is.

Our kingdomes are but cares, our state deuoide of stay,
Our riches ready snares, to hasten our decay:
Our pleasures priuy prickes, our vices to prouoke,
Our pompe a pumpe, our fame a flame, our power a smouldring smoke.

I speake not but by proofe, and that may many rue,
My life doth cry it out, my death doth try it true:
Whereof I will in brefe rehearse the heauy hap,
That, Baldwine, in his woefull warpe, my wretchednes may wrap.

In Windsore borne I was, and bare my father’s name,
Who wonne by warre all Fraunce to his eternall fame,
And left to mee the crowne, to bee receiued in peace
Through mariage made with Charles his heyre, vpon his life’s decease.

Which shortly did ensue, yet died my father furst,
And both the realmes were mine, ere I a yeare were nurst:
Which as they fell too soone, so faded they as fast:
For Charles, and Edward, got them both or forty yeares were past.

This Charles was eldest sonne of Charles my father in lawe,
To whome as heire of Fraunce, the Frenchmen did them draw,
But Edward was the heire of Richard duke of Yorke,
The heyre of Roger Mortimer, slaine by the kerne of Korke.

Before I came to age Charles had recouered Fraunce,
And kild my men of warre, so happy was his chaunce:
And through a mad contract I made with Raynerd’s daughter
I gaue and lost all Normandy, the cause of many a slaughter.

First of mine vncle Humfrey, abhorring sore this act,
Because I thereby brake a better precontract:
Than of the flattering duke that first the mariage made,
The iust rewarde of such as dare theyr princes ill perswade.

And I poore sely wretch abode the brunt of all,
My mariadge lust so sweete was mixt with bitter gall:
My wife was wise and good, had she ben rightly sought,
But our vnlawfull getting it, may make a good thing nought.

Wherefore warne men beware how they iust promise breake,
Least proofe of paynfull plagues do cause them wayle the wreake,
Aduise well ere they graunt, but what they graunt performe:
For God will plague all doublenes although we feele no worme.

I falsly borne in hand, beleued I did well,
But all thinges bee not true that learned men doe tell:
My clergy sayd a prince was to no promise bound,
Whose wordes to be no gospell tho, I to my griefe haue found.

For after mariage ioynde queene Margaret and mee,
For one mishap afore, I dayly met with three:
Of Normandy and Fraunce, Charles got away my crowne,
The duke of Yorke and other sought at home to put mee downe.

Bellona rang the bell at home and all abroade,
With whose mishaps amayne fell fortune did mee lode:
In Fraunce I lost my forts, at home the foughten field,
My kinred slayn, my friendes opprest, my selfe enforst to yeeld.

Duke Richard tooke mee twise, and forste mee to resine
My crowne and titles, due vnto my father’s lyne:
And kept mee as a warde, did all thinges as him list,
Till that my wife through bloudy sword had tane me from his fist.

But though we slew the duke my sorrowes did not slake,
But like to Hydrae’s head still more and more awake:
For Edward, through the ayde of Warwicke and his brother,
From one field draue mee to the Scots, and toke me in another.

Then went my friendes to wracke, for Edward ware the crowne,
From which for nine yeares space his pryson held me downe:
Yet thence through Warwicke’s worke I was agayne releast,
And Edward driuen fro the realme, to seeke his friendes by east.

But what preuayleth paine, or prouidence of man,
To help him to good hap, whom destiny doth ban?
Who moyleth to remoue the rocke out of the mud,
Shall myre himselfe, and hardly scape the swelling of the flud.

This all my friendes haue founde, and I haue felt it so,
Ordaynd to be the touch of wretchednes and woe:
For ere I had a yeare possest my seat agayne,
I lost both it and liberty, my helpers all were slaine.

For Edward first by stelth, and sith by gathred strength,
Arriude, and got to Yorke and London at the length:
Tooke mee and tyed mee vp, yet Warwicke was so stout,
Hee came with power to Barnet fielde, in hope to helpe mee out:

And there, alas, was slaine, with many a worthy knight:
O Lord, that euer such lucke should hap in helping right:
Last came my wife and sonne, that long lay in exile,
Defied the king, and fought a fielde, I may bewaile the while.

For there mine onely sonne, not thirteene yeares of age,
Was tane, and murdered straight by Edward in his rage:
And shortly I my selfe, to stint all furder strife,
Stabde with his brother’s bloudy blade in prison lost my life.

Lo, here the heauy haps which happened mee by heape,
See here the pleasaunt fruites that many princes reape,
The painefull plagues of those that breake theyr lawfull bandes,
Their meede which may and will not saue their friendes fro bloudy handes.

God graunt my woefull haps, too greeuous to rehearce,
May teach all states to knowe, howe deepely daungers pearce,
How fraile all honours are, how brittle worldly blisse,
That warned through my fearefull fate, they feare to doe amisse.