The Lamentable Life and Death of Prince Alfred, Brother to King Edmund Ironside

Of all the sonnes of men, vnhappie fate
With spight pursues the borne of high degree,
Where tyrant wrong vsurpes the chaire of state
The baser subiect sits from danger free,
Wofull it is of royall birth to bee,
Of which my woes a witnesse may remaine,
Such tragicke woes no prince did ere sustaine.

Vp then (thou saddest of the sacred nine)
Cause of sad sorow, neuer hadst thou more,
Vp (rufull ghosts and shew some dolefull signe
Of heauie griefe) powre out your teares in store,
Cause of sad sorow neuer had yee more:
And (thou) the pen-man of my historie
Prepare sad verse for my sad tragedie.

I am that Alfred, famous Edmund’s brother,
Who in the time of my minoritie
Was by queene Emma our beloued mother,
Sent to mine vncle duke of Normandie,
There to remaine safe from the enemie,
While heere at home against the sonne of Swaine,
My brother Edmund battell did maintaine.

Who being slaine, as thou before didst heare,
By treacherous Edricke and his bloodie sonne,
They for their fact a guerdon due did beare:
For whereas praise by it they thought t’haue wonne
Of king Canute, they both to death were done,
Whose hands with blood, whose hearts with treason floe,
Seldome in peace vnto the graue do goe.

Canute being seated on the English throne
By ioynt consent of the nobilitie,
To sit sole monarch in the same alone,
Did daily seeke by wisdome’s policie,
T’establish it to his posteritie,
While I, and Edward hight my elder brother,
Did liue in exile with our wofull mother.

Meane time Canute, th’vsurper of our right,
Hug’d in the armes of peace, and finding none
That could oppose themselues against his might,
After all stormes of warre were ouerblowne,
By blood gan tyrant-like t’vsurpe the throne:
For without cause the royall blood he spilt
Of Edmund’s brother Edwin, void of guilt.

King Edmund’s sonnes, those faultlesse infants twaine,
Edmund and Edward by his sterne decree,
Were sent vnto the Norway king hight Swaine,
He being design’d to act their death: but hee
Lamenting their mishaps, did set them free,
And sent them both vnto th’Hungarian king,
Who kept them safe beneath his soueraigne wing.

Canute being freed from doubtfull feare of those,
That to the diademe might make iust claime,
To peacefull pleasure did his thoughts dispose,
And gan to thinke how with some royall dame,
He in chast bed might amplifie his name,
No sonne he had t’enioy this wretched soile,
But Harrold basely borne of beautie’s spoile.

Vpon our mother he did cast his loue,
On whose dislike of loue we both did build
Our future hopes, but she, alas, to proue
The weakenesse of her sexe, as prompt to yeeld,
Leauing vs both, whom she from harme should sheeld,
Did cast her wauering thoughts vpon Canute,
And in the end did grant his vniust suit.

(O) who doth know the wandring eye, that feeds
Th’vnstedfast fancie of weake women’s heart,
Constant in nought, but in inconstant deeds,
In weaknesse strong, as if the soule’s best part
Composed were by fond loue’s artlesse art:
Alas, that faithlesse faults should so excell,
Where faultlesse faith with reason ought to dwell.

She bath’d in blisse, while we lay drown’d in woe,
She grew in pride, while we did pine away,
She soft embrac’d in th’armes of our false foe,
Did smile at our mishaps, while day by day
We did expect our loued liues decay:
For fatall ’tis to princes royall borne
Where tyrant’s browes the garland doth adorne.

So long with her Canute she liu’d in loue,
Till with loue’s fruit her wombe to wex begun,
Which being brought to light, a sonne did proue:
But when that twice nine times the golden sun
In heauen’s bright zodiack through the signes had run,
The clouds of care began the dolefull night,
Which did eclipse the shine of her delight.

Then the deare daies of her dread lord were done,
The stroke of death no mortall may withstand,
The kingdome Harrold his ignoble sonne,
The bastard did aspire, by whose command
Our wretched mother was exil’d the land,
And in despight despoil’d of all that store,
Which her Canute had giuen to her before.

But death’s cold touch so soone did close mine eies,
That I beheld not my sad mother’s woes,
The base vsurper did my death deuise
Before her fall, in court soone finding those,
Whom he to act my tragicke murther chose:
The courts of kings with sycophants do swarme,
Tyrants do want no instruments of harme.

An English earle there was, which Godwin hight,
Whose name about the world report did blaze,
A man of wicked wit, in fortune’s sight
So highly grac’d, that he himselfe did raise
To be the greatest peere in those our daies,
The king was only then a king by name,
While he perform’d the office of the same,

And in the ruffe of his felicitie,
Prickt with ambition, he began disdaine
His bastard lord’s vsurp’d authoritie,
Plotting by priuate counsels, how to gaine
Th’emperiall garland after him to raigne:
Greatnesse in sway of state giues wings t’aspire,
Aduancement feeds ambition with desire.

In broken sleepes he did consume the night,
While his liege lord lay lull’d in th’armes of shame,
Hope of a kingdome was his sole delight,
While Harrold senselesse of all kingly fame,
To idle ease himselfe did only frame,
Which set th’ insulting Godwin’s hopes on wing,
Whence woe is me, my woes did after spring.

My brother and my selfe, alas, the while,
Vnto his hopes to make the passage free,
Were markt for death, nor could our sad exile
Suffice hard fate, my wofull tragedie
Must be the subiect of his treacherie,
We were the obiects of proud Godwin’s frowne,
We only stood betwixt him and the crowne.

T’effect his purpose, he did soone excite
The tyrant king, whose actions he did sway,
To thinke, that while mine eyes beheld heau’n’s light,
He liu’d in reach of danger day by day,
His safetie liu’d vpon my liue’s decay:
For I, he said, being of an haughtie spirit,
Would seeke by might my father’s right t’inherit.

The bastard king to bloodie deeds inclin’d,
To rob me of my life stood fully bent:
Letters forthwith by messengers design’d,
Forged by wicked wits for their intent,
In our queene mother’s name to me were sent,
Which I accepted as vnfain’d and true,
The tenor of the which doth heere ensue.

“Emma, but only England’s queene in name,
Edward and Alfred, her two sonnes doth greet
From England’s chiefest peeres, who do reclaime
You both from exile, and do thinke it meet,
That you in Normandie should rigge some fleet,
And crosse the seas your father’s right to claime,
They all will be assistant in the same.

Strike the hard steele, while yet the fire is in,
Slip not occasion put into your hand,
The tyrant Harrold daily seekes to win
The peeres vnto his aid, who yet will stand
In your defence, and hazard life and land:
Then come with speed, for warre we will prepare,
The way is plaine, the time doth proffer faire.”

This in effect their letters testifie,
Which did my forward thoughts so much excite,
That though my brother then in Hungarie
Were absent farre, yet to obtaine our right,
I tooke the seas with many a Norman knight:
But cursed be that voyage euermoe
Whose end did end my life with bitter woe.

Woe worth the ground, where grew the towring mast,
Whose sailes did beare vs through the water’s rore,
Woe worth the winde, that blew the banefull blast,
Woe worth the waue, whose surge so swiftlie bore
My tragick barke to England’s fatall shore,
Woe worth the mast, the sailes, winde, waues and all,
That causelesse did conspire poore Alfrede’s fall.

Why were not they by cruell fates assign’d
To giue that due to death? which death did craue,
On ragged rockes, O why did I not finde
A milder death? why was the darksome waue
Vpon my way not made my bodie’s graue?
Ah why, why did they let my forward feete
Once touch the shore, such cruell death to meete?

After our ships had brought vs to the shore
And giuen vs vp as captiues to the land,
At Guilford downe, a place so call’d of yore,
A fatall place to me, did Godwin stand
To entertaine me and my Norman band,
Who with the shew of true fidelitie
Did maske the face of his false treacherie.

He did imbrace me round with treason’s armes,
And fawnd vpon me with a villaine’s smile,
His lookes were blith to hide his purposde harmes,
His words, which graced were with sugred stile,
Made musike in mine eares, and to beguile
Suspition’s self a solemne vow he made
Against all aduerse power my part to aide.

At Guilford he gaue counsell as a friend
To make abode with all my companie,
For there hee said my fauorites did intend
To meete me with their powers, who would applie
Their best indeuours ’gainst mine enemie:
In which being confident, with ioynt consent
Of all my friends, I vnto Guilford went.

There did the chorus to proud Godwin’s play
First tell the sequele of my miserie,
There first appear’d the plot of my decay,
There the sad scene of my black tragedie
Was first begun by Godwin’s treacherie,
And there my friends took hands in death and led
The tragick daunce, which I did after tred.

When vnto Guilford with my troope I came,
Godwin of purpose did augment our traine,
And for one place could not containe the same,
Lodging in diuers Ins he did ordaine,
Which might twice tenne or thirtie men containe,
Which he before with Harrold did deuise,
The better to effect his enterprise.

Plentie, the childe of peace, in euerie house
Did furnish out the tables with her store,
Lyæus fruitfull cup with full carowse
Went round about, mirth stood at euerie doore,
The oliue branch deceitfull treason bore,
Vsing the voice of peace which sweet did sound,
To vs at feast that were, in solace drown’d.

The greedie gorge repleat with plentious feast,
Besots the sense and duls the spritfull minde,
Th’infeebled braine with strength of wine opprest,
Losing all quick conceit, soone waxed blinde,
The depth of Godwin’s plots we could not finde:
Deceit workes surest, where the wit before
Hath weakned been by plentie’s feastfull store.

This fatall banquet, that did then forerun
The day that death put many soules to flight,
To soone did end, too soone the golden sunne
Fell to the ocean, and the dismall night
Came vp from seas to work my foule despight,
The woe which chearefull day before did hide
To end our cheare, the night too soone descride.

When in my naked bed my limbes were laid
And I enchain’d in deepest sleepe did lie,
The rufull clamors of my friends betray’d
Did ring about mine eares: with whose sad crie
I rose from sleepe, and from my bed did flie:
But by the armed men and doores fast made,
My weapons gone, I knew I was betraid.

Then did I looke, when death would at the doore
Come in, to sease my life with violent hand:
My chamber shooke, my hart gan tremble sore,
And as in horror I did silent stand,
Vp flew the doores, in rusht an armed band,
Who laid rude hands on me in spightfull hate,
Without respect vnto my princelie state.

But when Aurora left her Tython’s bed,
And through each part of heau’n disperst her light,
My Norman friends fast bound in bands were led
To Guilford downe, to whom in dolefull plight
None gaue releefe, false Godwin tooke delight
With sight of their sad death his eyes to feed:
Such sight would cause the hardest hart to bleed.

By casting lots they were ordain’d for death:
Of ten, still nine did beare the bitter fate,
And in strange torture did expire their breath:
The tenth reseru’d did liue in wretched state
Of bondage, till the day of finall date:
And thus six hundred vnto death being done,
All faithfull friends did my sad fall forerun.

My friends thus slain, through couert shades of night,
That none to my abode might priuie be,
Conuey’d I was to th’ile of Elie hight,
There to abide, till Harrold did decree,
What kinde of death from thrall should set me free:
Where I with care consum’d for death did call
Vntill a fate far worse then death did fall.

Then cause thy muse with me to mourne her fill,
And all yee nightlie birds, that do appeare,
As gastly signes, shrieke out your deadlie ill,
Let all that wofull is and voide of cheere,
That may augment my dole, to me draw neere,
And helpe me with their vncouth companie
To tune the song of my sad tragedie.

Despoil’d by foes of all my princelie state,
And lockt in dungeon deepe from sight of heauen,
Sweete dame delight, with whom I liu’d of late,
Farre from my sad abode away was driuen,
And carefull sorrow for companion giuen:
The youthfull spring of my delight was done,
And winter’s state now in my youth begun.

And with the winter of my woes begun
The frostie seasons winter bore apart,
Whose vnkinde cold did through my bodie run,
While gnawing hunger to increase my smart,
For want of foode did feed vpon my hart:
Thus I with cold and hunger long foreworne,
Did nought but mourning pine and pining mourne.

My greene of youth with griefe’s sad sighes was blasted,
The sap of my life blood began decay,
My flesh through fast and euill fare was wasted,
My hart did faint, my strength did fleete awaie:
Ah God that death oft wisht so long did stay,
Why did not fates preuent my bloodie foes,
And with keene knife in death cut of my woes?

My woes, alas, as yet were to begin:
For though my foes were priuie to my cries,
Yet could my rufull plaints no pitie winne,
To take from me at length they did deuise,
The last of all my comforts, both mine eyes:
Ah cruell foes, too cruell were ye bent,
Why could my death to you not yeeld content?

When first the instruments of Harrold’s ire
Did come prepar’d to rob me of my sight,
Hoping that death, which I did long desire,
Had then been sent to me, the last despight
That can be done to man in wretched plight:
These words I spake to moue remorse of mind,
While teares in plentie downe my cheeks declin’d.

“Thrice happie men, if ye the tidings bring
Of happie death my dolefull daies to end,
From whose long houres my lasting death doth spring,
This last request to you I do commend,
That pitying my sad plaints, you may befriend
My wretched soule with quicke dispatch in death,
And not with torture, when I yeeld my breath.

Behold this bodie pin’d away with woe,
This starued carkas in such rufull plight,
That who, alas, can poore prince Alfred know,
These cheekes, whilome so full of fresh delight,
Now wexed pale and wan, are dri’d vp quite
For want of dew: yet dew’d with sad supplies
Of mournefull teares still flowing from mine eies.

Yeeld then, O yeeld some comfort in this case,
And do not yee augment my deadly smart,
Ile hug sweet death, and with kind armes embrace
His grizly shape, and wooe him with his dart
To end my woes, by wounding my poore heart:
Only make ye dispatch when ye begin,
And heau’ns impute it not to you for sin.”

This did I speake, supposing they were come,
With violent hands to make my life the prize
Of wished death: but by more grieuous doome,
I first adiudged was to lose mine eies:
For while that vnto heau’n with pitious cries
Vpon their crueltie I did complaine,
They reft me of my sight with bitter paine.

Thenceforth, as caytife cast in dungeon deepe,
Where with fresh griefe my hart did hourely bleed,
As Philomel that spends her time of sleepe
In mournefull tunes recording his misdeed,
Whose lust in wastefull woods her shame did breede,
Night’s endlesse houres till death did end the same,
Against my foes I wasted in exclame.

Famine, the childe of want did feast my soule,
And in my brest her hungrie arrow steepe,
The black night’s shreeking bird, the ghastlie oule
With balefull notes in waking woe did keepe
My greeued soule, when nature craued sleepe,
With whose shrill shreekes my plaints did beare a part,
And kept true time with sighes from sorrowing hart.

Sorrow and griefe with waste of teares drawne drie,
Suppli’d the place where eyes did once remaine,
Whose want of teares my hart did still supplie
With drops of blood, fresh bleeding with the paine
Of wounding griefe which it did long sustaine,
Of which impatient to despaire being driuen,
Cursing my birth, I thus did crie to heauen.

Woe worth the wombe, which nature did inforce
To bring me forth and leaue me in neglect:
Woe worth the starre, that did direct my course,
If anie starre the course of life direct:
Woe worth the houre, which did my birth detect:
Woe to you all, that did conspire with foes
To drowne my better dayes in bitter woes.

Why do I liue? ah, why liue I the space,
Of half a day in this my mournefull mew?
Why doth grim death so often shew his face?
The woefull waste in me why doth he view
Of nature’s worke: and yet not craue his due?
Why do I liue, yet daylie die with paine?
Why do I die, yet daylie liue againe?

To you therefore ye heau’ns, whose cheerefull face
With mortall eyes I neuer more shall see,
To you and all your powers I crie for grace:
Let me, ah let me now no longer be,
But by swift death from foes do set me free:
My dayes be ouer long, for death I crie,
End then my dayes (O God) and let me die.

Wanting the salue of patience, wherewithall
To cure the sore of sorrow growne so rife
In my grieu’d hart, thus forc’d I was to call
For death to launch the wound with his sharpe knife,
Which griefe had festerd in my loathed life:
Who in his horrid shape himselfe did show
To me poore wretch, with too much paine and woe.

For death at last with such vnkinde constraint
Did force my soule from th’house of her vnrest,
That neuer prince had cause of more complaint:
Nature’s vnkindest children will detest
My death’s vnkindnesse, and the flintest brest
Wil learne t’expire sad sighes with sorrow’s breath,
To heare me tell the manner of my death.

From thence, where in grim darknesse I did dwell,
I forth was fetch’t, and by my foes that been
First stript I was, and then (O woe to tell)
My wombe was opened with a rasor keene,
With paine of which downe sinking, I did weene
That then my gasping ghost would haue expir’d
The breath of life, which I so oft desir’d.

But after grieuous groane, when as my sprite
With feeling sense reuiued was againe,
My sterne tormentors, seeming to delite
In this their bloodie game, while I in vaine
Did beg dispatch of my tormenting paine,
With vnremorsefull hands againe began
T’inflict more woes on me most woefull man.

At that smart wound, which in my wombe they made,
One of my intrailes ends they forth did take,
Which, out alas, (that ere it should be said
Of any prince) they fasten to a stake,
And with sharpe needles (yet my ghost doth quake
To thinke on it) my tender sides they wound
About the stake to make me go around.

With painfull wounds they wound me in each part,
When still I stood to ease me of such woe,
Yet worse then painfull wounds increast my smart
As oft as I about the stake did go,
Then in this pitious plight, what should I do?
Death’s touch I felt: yet by my foes made blind,
The readie way to death I could not find.

At length my soule vnable to withstand
Th’afflictions of my foes, in heart made stout
With torment of my wounds, I hand in hand
Went on with death that deadly stake about,
Vntill my bowels being winded out,
With death I fell, and in that fall did find
An end of woe, an end of griefe of mind.

Men light of credence warned be by me,
To deeme no profer’d friendship firme and sure,
Till truth haue triall made, for flatterie
Makes fained loue the fittest cloake t’obscure
Falsehood from truth, which practise puts in vre,
Of which that henceforth I a Mirrour bee,
My storie told, I leaue it vnto thee.