The Complaint of Guidericus, Slain in a Tempest of Thunder

On staylesse top of honour’s high renowne,
With busye brayne to builde a bower there,
Is donne to fall at fortune’s froward frowne,
Whose turning wheele, the hyest fyrst dooth feare,
And them below it vpwardes styl dooth reare.
Let them therefore for good estate that striue,
With sailes halfe hoyst in happy hauen arive.

I prest to tell my suddayne yll successe,
Amidst the meane which dyd not dayne to dwell,
To higher state whilst I dyd mee addresse,
By chaunging chance of fortune’s force, I fel
Euen suddaynly from heauen to hatefull hell:
From heauen (I saye,) I fell from that my blysse,
To hatefull hell, I meane, to wretchednesse.

Guidericus which rul’de the Brittayne lande,
I am the same, of Simbaline the sonne,
Cassiuelane my grandsyer dyd withstand
Sir Cæsar’s force, tyll Parcæ had vndone
The fatal knot and twist that they had sponne.
Euen then to soone the Romanes did oppresse
This realme, which I to ryght did me addresse.

Which that I myght the better bring about,
The three estates in court to parle, I
In hast did call, amongst which royal route,
As one who ment for welthe of commonty,
Howe to restore their ancient libertie,
Pronounst the speache which here I shal recite,
Which moued much there manly mindes to fight.

The emperour of Rome hath sent, you see,
Ambassatours, the tribute to obtayne,
Which Theomant subdued, did agree
To pay, but I such greement do disdayne.
Shal I to Rome a tribute slaue remayne,
Because they did subdue this realme of yore?
Shal we buy yoke with tribute euermore?

Shall we this badge of beastly blemishe beare?
Shall Troians we to Troians tribute yeelde?
Of Brutus’ bloude, a prince withouten peare,
We do descend, whose father fyrst dyd buylde
In Italy: he Alba Longa fyl’de,
And furnishte fine with princely byldinges braue,
He was entombde next good Aeneas’ graue.

Then Romulus of Siluius did succeede,
And Rome of hym (as London tooke of Lud)
Her name which Alba Longa was in deede,
Built at the first by good king Brutus blood:
Dare they for guerdon of so great a good
Demaund of vs whose parentes patrons were
To them? to doo this deed, they doo not feare.

Let them demaunde vngrateful beastes they be,
Euen tribute of vs Troians let them craue,
But wee in Mars his feeldes wyl pay their fee,
If needes they must of vs a payment haue,
They shal ryght stoutly then themselues behaue,
We wil not feare to fyght it out in feelde,
Without reuenge we neuer al wyl yeelde.

Dyd Cæsar’s princely prowesse so preuayle,
That Britaynes were by Romanes brought to bay?
Was Cæsar’s valure of so great auayle,
That it coulde cause Cassiuelayne’s decay?
Why should not then Guidericus assay,
By furious force of Mars his bloody feelde,
To make those roming Romanes al to yeelde?

By prowesse worne (who dooth not knowe) by skyl,
That he who once as victor wore the wreath,
By chaunged chaunce is forst agaynst his wyl,
That garlande gay and vitall lyfe to leaue?
Such ill mishappes misfortune still dooth heaue,
That he who dyd subdue but yesterday,
Is now subdude, and hath the lyke decaye.

Which may appeare by kyng Cassiuelayne,
Whom Cæsar thryce in fyght dyd fynd too strong,
Yet at the last, (the lewder chaunce was thine,
Thou litle Ile) he thurst in with a throng
Of mightie men, and dyd thee double wrong:
Thee then subdude, to Rome he seruile made,
Which wrong to right, with this my bloudye blade,

If you my subiectes wyll thereto consent,
I wil not cease, tyll I reuenge haue seene,
And them destroyed with dreadful diery dent
Of wrathful warre, and therefore now I meane
To byd the bace, and fetch them from their denne.
To sende them woorde, we owe no tribute we,
But we of them must recompenced be.

I to the gods, which rule the rolling skyes,
Haue bowde a bowe, for countreye’s lybertie,
To die in feelde, or els that these mine eyes
Shall see you free from forrayne tyranny,
To which no doubt theyr goodnesse wil agree.
Nowe that you haue the whole of myne intent,
You knowe the cause why I for you haue sent.

Al you therefore which compt this quarrell good,
By heaued handes let me them vnderstand:
My brother Aruiragus by me stoode:
“I must not I,” (he sayde) “holde vp my hande,
Nor thee herein assist with any bande:
For sith we both haue sworne aleagance due,
To Rome, to Rome I euer wil be true.

“No feare of force, no hasarde, no mishappe,
Doth dant my mynde, I dare what dare be donne,
Though nowe we sit in lady fortune’s lappe.
By fayth defilde, no honour can be wonne:
The wrath of God men periurde cannot shun:
Do thou therefore what best thyselfe doth seeme,
Giue them their ryght, for that is best I deeme.”

Sith all but you (my brother) do consent,
My counsayle and my commons do agree,
Yea all the force of this my realme is bent,
To liue and dye for countrie’s libertie:
Take you therefore this sentence in boun gre,
Because thou seemst a seruile lyfe to loue,
The towre a house is best for thy behoue.

An othe constraynd is made to none auaile,
To breake such othe doth not the fayth defile,
Let them goe tel to Claudius this tale,
We meane with force to furnishe this our ile,
Which force himselfe shal fede within a while,
For if he wyll not fetch his tribute here,
We then wyl goe and pay hym tribute there.

Which when the Roman Claudius had heard,
Though he at home had ciuile strife in hande,
And though he were by forrain foes debar’de,
And could not come him selfe, yet he a bande
Of thirtie thousand sent, for to withstand
My strength: which strength in the fyrst foughten feelde
They found so strong, that forst they al did yeelde.

From Galba then myselfe his shield did get,
In golden feelde which had the horse of fame,
Euen Pegasus in seemely siluer set,
The curious skill of heraultes there did frame,
Th’asheument true, of auncient Troy by name,
Imbordred braue with golden letters thus,
Senatus, Populusque Romanus.

Wherewith as one prict foorth with good successe,
A great attempt I quickly did deuise,
I ment, O Rome, vpon thy walles to presse,
It easye seem’de to me in my surmise,
To compasse all that I did enterprise:
Me thought I could winne al the worlde in haste,
But fyrst I ment the Romane state to waste.

I did prepare in euery poynt my powre,
I sayl’d the seas, I spoyled them of France,
I made the Germans and the Lumbartes lowre,
Yea, good successe did so my state aduance.
In Italy such was my luckye chaunce,
I did subdue, my souldiers had the spoyle,
Of all the chiefest cities in that soyle.

See here howe roming rumor ranne about,
See how report did tel a truthlesse tale:
For Hannibal, the Carthage duke so stout,
Renide, it sayd, would once agayn assayle
The Roman state, and cause it nowe to quake:
Which false report did put them in such feare,
Cities would yeelde before my campe came neare.

His former feates the fuming fancies fed,
That doubtful now affrighted sore with feare,
They tel howe at Trisemenus they sped,
In Cannas feeldes how they despoyled were,
They hate to tel, they lothe that hap to heare,
A bushel there he fyld (most true it is)
With golden ringes equestriordinis.

And whilst their mindes on these mishaps do muse,
They wishe that nowe good Graccus were not dead,
For Fabius, he who wysely would refuse
Forthwith to fight, they wish for such a head,
Camillus nowe would stand them in great stead:
And some with sighes did wishe for Scipio,
Them to defend from me there deadly foe.

But as the lion passente once with feare,
Gardante, a mouing mollhil did beholde,
From whence he thought some wonder would appeare,
A little moule crepte from the mouing mould,
Which made the quaking lione then so bolde,
Feare set aside, that he for his delyght,
Playd with the moule, and kilde the strengthlesse wight.

So nowe the campe of Claudius did drawe neare,
Where he hymself was lord cheefe general,
Which greatly did delyght my hart to heare,
And caused me my captaynes then to call,
To whome I sayde, we two must striue for al
The world so wide: which if I chance to winne,
Then you yourselues haue ample part therein.

Euen whilst I marcht my men in good aray,
A corsser post came praunsing in the fielde,
Who comming to my cabbin, thus dyd say,
“Guidericus, thy friendes at home be kilde,
Thy natiue soyle to forrayne force did yielde,
The Romans they haue spoylde thee of eche thing,
Thy brother there Aruiragus is kyng.”

Which newes although they dyd amaze me much,
Yet I whose hart did neuer faynt for feare,
“Although,” sayd I, “their good successe be such,
Yet if we can subdue the Romans here,
They shal I think buy Britayne very deare,
Which out of doubt yf you as you haue donne,
Will fight like men, the fielde wil soone be wonne.”

But they who hilde their wiues and children deare,
Could not digest the losse of that their lande,
For which they fledde, left me their chieftayne there,
When Claudius host to fight was euen at hande,
Whose mightie force I could not then withstande,
Yea all my page, my footmen fled for feare,
And left me post alone, with heauy cheare.

That cruell Queene of hel, Proserpina,
From foorth whose loynes this fury feare first fled,
Megera’s sighes, no, no, nor Medusa,
Who hath ten thousand snakes about her head,
The fiery flames of hell doth not so dreade
The minde, as feare, which makes man’s hart we see,
To shake, and quake, like leafe of aspen tree.

My martial knyghtes who once so valiant were,
That they the worlde, euen al the world would spoyle,
This fury fyerce, this feeble fayntyng feare,
Did causlesse cause them thus here to recoyle,
Her only force inforst me to this foyle,
Not Cæsar’s force: no strength of Roman power,
But feare, euen feare, dyd make me here to lower.

Which feare (for trueth) dyd neuer me dismaye,
But too to soone my hartlesse men it made,
To shrinke, to flinche, to flee eche man his way,
And me a pray most fit for Claudius blade,
They left alone: alas, what may be sayde,
What may be done, what fittes for mine auayle?
I wyl not flee, to fight cannot preuayle.

What, must I then go crouche vnto my foe?
Fy on that fate, that I should sue for grace
To hym who is the worker of my woe,
Whose hart from foorth his brest for to displace,
I gladly woulde ten thousand deathes imbrace,
My lyfe (in faith) doth lothe to liue with shame,
By death therfore my lyfe shall purchase fame.

For as I once did winne with courage stout,
In Galba’s shielde, the praunsing Pegasus,
So with renowne I nowe will go about,
To see if Claudius dare the cause discusse
With me alone, if couragious
Dare do that deed: that we in open feeld,
May try the case, then he or I must yeelde.

And therewithal in armour bright I clad,
Myne arming swoorde, my targate I did take,
And on my helme, or burgonet, I had
My royal crowne, and so I dyd forsake,
The place, whereas my souldiers fled of late,
I marcht and met the scoute of Claudius,
To whom I dyd addresse my language thus.

“The Britayne kyng is come alone you see,
Conduct him then your Emprour to salute,
You for your paynes shal gayne a golden fee;
For why my grace to Claudius hath a sute.”
The scurers they al silent, mumme, and mute,
Yet wel appayde of such a princely pray,
In hast they dyd to Cæsar me conuay.

With ten times twentie thousand men, I met,
Him marching there, to meete with me but one;
To whom I sayde: “Thy powre is passing great,
My force is fled: what, must I then bemone
My selfe to thee, not so but I alone,
Am come to knowe with magnanimitie,
If thou dost dare to wrecke thy wrath on me.

“The crowne for which so many men be slayne,
Thy Galba’s shield, with many iewels more,
Which vnto me do only appertayne;
For in the fielde I wonne them al of yore,
And vnto thee I wyl them not restore:
If thou, as I, canst winne them with renowne,
Then al is thine, both realme and royal crowne.

“Why doost thou muse as though thou wert dismayde?
Doeth doubtful dreade nowe daunt thy Roman mynde?
Faynt not for feare, thou needst not be afrayde,
A Britayne borne thy selfe ryght well shalt fynde,
I am a man, and not a god by kinde.”
Wherewith to grounde a golden gauntlet, I
Dyd cast, and he at last dyd thus reply:

“Thou mighty Ioue, which hast seemely seat
Aboue the sphere of Mars and Mercury,
Thy fleshlesse eyes (my tongue can not repeate,
What syghtes they see) nothing is hid from thee:
Thy eyes, the hart, and secrete thoughts doo see,
Thou knowest, O Ioue, how iust my quarrel is,
Which here to proue, thou knowst I compt a blisse.

“No god thou man: thou art no god in deede,
I faynt for feare: and doost thow thus me dare,
Thy gauntlet lo to take I doo not dreade,
Such courage though I fynde but very rare,
In pryncely brest, what though I wil prepare
Myselfe to feelde, where thou I hope shalt fynde,
Myselfe alone wyl cause thee curse thy kynd.

“To deale with thee I Cæsar might disdayne,
My tryple mace dooth rule the worlde you see,
Thou subiect art the meanest of the traine,
Whom conquest hath compeld to wayte on me:
A meaner knyght were meete to match with thee,
Yet, I myselfe, with al my hart doo dayne,
To reue thy life, and cause thee to complayne.”

Then I whose hart was al beglarde with glee,
To Cæsar sayd: “If fate hath framde my foyle,
If now the last of all my lyfe I see,
It shal delight that Cæsar dyd me spoyle,
And that his blade did cause my bloudy broyle.”
And whilst I ment a longer speache to make,
A storme most straunge constraynd the earth to quake.

Straunge sundry fightes, then sodaynly wer seene,
The lightsome day was turnde to lothsome night;
Then darknesse did affright me much with feare,
The seemly sunne did lose her louing lyght:
And that which would amaze eche worldly wight,
The thundring heauens constraynde the earth to quake,
The trees did daunce, the mighty mountes dyd shake.

Haue here myne end, from threatning thunder clap,
A burning bolt did pearce my hart with payne,
Wherewith I cryed: “O Cæsar, my mishap
Is comme, for whilst I thought thee to haue slayne,
Ioue’s vengeaunce iust hath torne my corps in twayne.”
This was my end, although some writers say,
That Claudius blade did cause my last decay.

To slip at first, such fall hath little foyle,
Greate ruth it is to lose a race forerunne,
And at the end by slipping suttle soyle,
Wagelesse too lose a race too wel begonne,
The turrets top let wise men wisely shunne,
Who falles from top, he mercilesse is slayne;
Who falles below, can quickly ryse agayne.

I tel this tale who knowledge bought too deare,
I could not be content with meane estate;
Let them therefore which shal this story heare,
So loue the meane, extremitie so hate,
That they may liue in blesse without debate.
Who is content amidst the meane to dwel,
With perfite blysse he only dooth excell.

With royal rule you kinges which runne your race,
Take heede, beware, flee fancies fonde delight,
Ambition blinde wyl moue you to imbrace,
A thousande euils, disdayne with al your might
Her luring lookes: she me a wretched wyght,
Transformde, and made with Circe’s sorcerie,
A brutishe beast, and worse if worse may be.

When Thanatos had thus destroyed my dayes,
Then due desert my soule to hel conuayde:
I fearde not God, his name I did not prayse,
But foolishe fate and fortune stil me stayde:
For which, with pinching payne, I nowe am payde.
Fortune I finde is nowe of none auayle,
But God is he whose power dooth preuayle.