The Complaint of Henry, Duke of Buckingham

Who trusts too much to honour’s highest throne,
And warely watch not sly dame fortune’s snares:
Or who in court will beare the swinge alone,
And wisely weigh not how to wield the care,
Behold hee mee, and by my death beware:
Whome flattering fortune falsely so beguylde,
That, loe, she slewe, where erst full smooth she smilde.

And, Sackuille, sith in purpose now thou hast
The wofull fall of princes to descryue,
Whom fortune both vplift, and eke downe cast,
To shew thereby th’vnshurty in this life,
Marke well my fall, which I shall shew belyue,
And paynt it forth, that all estates may knowe:
Haue they the warning, and be mine the woe.

For noble bloud made mee both prince and peere,
Yea peereles too, had reason purchast place,
And God with giftes endowde mee largely heere:
But what auayles his giftes where fayles his grace?
My mother’s sire sprong of a kingly race,
And cald was Edmund duke of Somerset,
Bereft of life ere time by nature set.

Whose faythfull heart to Henry sixt so wrought,
That neuer hee him in weale, or woe, forsooke,
Till lastly hee at Tewkesbury fielde was cought,
Where with an axe his violent death hee tooke:
Hee neuer could king Edward’s party brooke,
Tyll by his death hee voucht that quarell good,
In which his sire and graundsire spilt theyr bloud.

And such was erst my father’s cruell chaunce,
Of Stafforde earle, by name that Humfrey hight,
Who euer prest did Henrye’s part auaunce,
And neuer ceast, till at S. Albane’s fight
Hee lost his life, as then did many a knight:
Where eke my graundsire, duke of Buckingham,
Was wounded sore, and hardly scapt vntane.

But what may boote to stay the sisters three?
When Atropos perforce will cut the thred:
The dolefull day was come, when you might see
Northampton fielde with armed men orespred,
Where fate would algates haue my graundsire dead:
So, rushing forth amids the fiercest fight,
Hee liu’d and dyde there in his maister’s right.

In place of whom, as it befell my lot,
Like on a stage, so stept I in straite way,
Enioying there, but woefully, God wot,
As hee that had a slender part to play:
To teach thereby, in earth no state may stay,
But as our partes abridge, or length our age,
So passe wee all, while others fill the stage.

For of my selfe the drery fate to playne,
I was sometime a prince withouten peere,
When Edward fift began his rufull raigne,
Ay me, then I began that hatefull yeere,
To compasse that which I haue bought so deere:
I bare the swinge, I and that wretched wight
The duke of Glocester, that Richard hight.

For when the fates had reft that royall prince
Edward the fourth, cheife miroure of that name,
The duke and I, fast ioyned euer since
In faithfull loue, our secret drifts to frame,
What hee thought best, to mee so seemde the same,
My selfe not bent so much for to aspyre,
As to fulfill that greedy duke’s desyre.

Whose restlesse mynd, sore thirsting after rule,
When that hee sawe his nephewes both to bene
Through tender years as yet vnfit to rule,
And rather ruled by their mother’s kin,
There sought hee first his mischiefe to begin,
To plucke from them theire mother’s frends assynde,
For well hee wist they would withstand his mynde.

To follow which hee ran so headlong swyft,
With egre thirst of his desired draught,
To seeke their deaths that sought to dash his drift,
Of whome the chief the queene’s allies hee thought,
That bent therto with mounts of mischief fraught,
Hee knew their liues would bee so sore his let,
That in their deaths his onely help hee set.

And I, most cursed caytife that I was,
Seeing the state vnstedfast how it stoode,
His chiefe complice to bring the same to passe,
Unhappy wretch consented to their blood:
Yea kings and peeres that swim in worldly good,
In seeking bloud the end aduert you playne,
And see if bloud ey aske not bloud agayne.

Consider Cyrus in your cruell thought,
A makelesse prince in riches, and in might,
And weigh in mynd the bloudy deeds hee wrought,
In sheading which hee set his whole delight:
But see the guerdon lotted to this wight,
Hee, whose huge powre no man might ouerthrowe,
Tomyris queene with greate dispite hath slowe.

His head dismembred from his mangled corps,
Her selfe shee cast into a vessell fraught
With clottered bloud of them that felt her force,
And with these words a iust reward shee taught:
“Drinke now thy fill of thy desired draught:”
Loe, marke the fine that did this prince befall:
Marke not this one, but marke the end of all.

Behold Cambises, and his fatall day,
Where murder’s mischiefe, mirour like, is left,
While hee his brother Mergus cast to slay,
A dreadfull thing, his wits were him bereft:
A sword hee caught, wherewith hee perced eft
His body gored, which hee of life benooms:
So iust is God in all his dreadfull dooms.

O, bloudy Brutus, rightly didst thou rue,
And thou, O Cassius, iustly came thy fall,
That with the sword, wherewith thou Cæsar slue,
Murdredst thyselfe, and reft thy life withall:
A miroir let him bee vnto you all
That murdrers bee, of murder to your meede:
For murder cryes out vengeaunce on your seede.

Loe, Bessus, hee that armde with murdrer’s knife,
And traytrous heart agaynst his royall king,
With bloudy hands bereft his maister’s life,
Aduert the fine his foule offence did bring:
And lothing murder as most lothly thing,
Behold in him the iust deserued fall
That euer hath, and shall betyde them all.

What booted him his false vsurped raygne?
Wherto by murder hee did so ascend,
When like a wretch, led in an yron chayne,
He was presented, by his chiefest frend,
Unto the foes of him whom hee had slayne:
That euen they should venge so foule a gilt,
That rather sought to haue his bloud yspilt.

Take heede ye princes and ye prelates all
Of this outrage, which though it sleepe a while
And not disclosde, as it doth seeld befall,
Yet God, that suffreth silence to beguile
Such gilts, wherewith both earth and ayre ye file,
At last discryes them to your fowle deface,
You see th’examples set before your face.

And deeply graue within your stony harts,
The drery dewle that mighty Macedo,
With teares vnfoulded, wrapt in deadly smarts,
When hee the death of Clitus sorrowed so,
Whom erst hee murdred with the deadly blowe
Raught in his rage vpon his frend so deare,
For which beholde, loe, how his panges appeare.

The launsed speare hee wrythes out of the wound,
From which the purple bloud spins in his face:
His heynous gilt when hee returned found,
Hee throwes himselfe vpon the corps, alas,
And in his armes how oft doth hee imbrace
His murdred frend? and kissing him, in vayne
Forth flowe the fluds of salt repentant rayne.

His frends amazde at such a murder done,
In fearefull flocks begin to shrinke away,
And hee therat, with heapes of grief fordone,
Hateth him selfe, wishing his later day:
Now hee likewise perceiued in lyke stay,
As is the wylde beast in the desert bred,
Both dreading others and him selfe a dred.

Hee calles for death, and loathing lenger lyfe,
Bent to his bane, refuseth kindely foode:
And plungd in depth of death and dolour’s strife,
Had queld him selfe, had not his frends withstoode:
Loe, hee that thus hath shed the guiltles bloud,
Though hee were king and kesar ouer all,
Yet chose hee death to guerdon death withall.

This prince whose peere was neuer vnder sunne,
Whose glistening fame the earth did ouerglyde,
Which with his power welny the world had wonne,
His bloudy handes himselfe could not abyde,
But fully bent with famine to haue dyed,
The worthy prince deemed in his regarde,
That death for death could bee but iust rewarde.

Yet wee, that were so drowned in the depth
Of deepe desire, to drinke the guiltlesse bloud,
Like to the wolfe, with greedy lookes that lepth
Into the snare, to feede on deadly foode,
So wee delighted in the state wee stoode,
Blinded so far in all our blinded trayne,
That blinde wee sawe not our destruction playne.

Wee spared none whose life could ought forlet
Our wicked purpose to his passe to come:
Fowre worthy knights wee headed at Pomfret
Guiltlesse, God wote, withouten law or dome:
My heart euen bleedes to tell you all and some,
And how lord Hastings, when hee feared least,
Dispiteously was murdred and opprest.

These rockes vpraught, that threatned most our wrecke,
Wee seemde to saile much surer in the streame:
And fortune faring as shee were at becke
Layde in our lap the rule of all the realme:
The nephues strait deposde were by the eame:
And wee aduaunst to that wee bought full deare,
Hee crowned king, and I his chiefest peare.

Thus hauing wonne our long desired pray,
To make him king that hee might make mee chiefe,
Downe throwe wee straith his seely nephues tway,
From princes pompe, to woefull prisoners life:
In hope that nowe stint was all furder strife:
Sith hee was king, and I chiefe stroke did beare,
Who ioyed but wee, yet who more cause to feare?

The guiltles bloud which wee vniustly shed,
The royall babes deuested from theyr throne,
And wee like traytours raigning in theyr sted,
These heauy burdens passed vs vpon,
Tormenting vs so by our selues alone,
Much like the felon that pursude by night,
Starts at ech bush, as his foe were in sight.

Now doubting state, now dreading losse of life,
In feare of wracke at euery blast of winde,
Now start in dreames through dread of murdrer’s knife,
As though euen then reuengement were assynde:
With restles thought so is the guilty minde
Turmoyld, and neuer feeleth ease or stay,
But liues in feare of that which followes aye.

Well gaue that judge his dome vpon the death
Of Titus Clelius that in bed was slayne:
Whan euery wight the cruell murder layeth
To his two sonnes that in his chamber layen,
The judge, that by the proofe perceiueth playne,
That they were found fast sleeping in theyr bed,
Hath deemde them guiltles of this bloud yshed.

Hee thought it could not bee, that they which brake
The lawes of God and man in such outrage,
Could so forthwith themselues to sleepe betake:
He rather thought the horrour, and the rage
Of such an heynous guilt, could neuer swage,
Nor neuer suffer them to sleepe, or rest,
Or dreadles breath one breth out of theyr brest.

So gnawes the griefe of conscience euermore,
And in the heart it is so deepe ygraue,
That they may neyther sleepe nor rest therefore,
Ne thinke one thought but on the dread they haue:
Still to the death foretossed with the waue
Of restles woe, in terrour and despeyre,
They leade a life continually in feare.

Like to the dere that stricken with the dart,
Withdrawes himselfe into some secret place,
And feeling greene the wound about his hart,
Startles with pangs tyll hee fall on the grasse,
And, in great feare, lies gasping there a space,
Forth braying sighes, as though ech pang had brought
The present death, which hee doth dread so oft:

So wee, deepe wounded with the bloudy thought,
And gnawing worme that greu’d our conscience so,
Neuer tooke ease, but as our heart out brought
The strayned sighes in witnes of our woe,
Such restles cares our fault did well beknowe:
Wherewith, of our deserued fall, the feares
In euery place rang death within our eares.

And as ill grayne is neuer well ykept,
So fared it by vs within a while:
That which so long with such vnrest wee reapt,
In dread and daunger by all wit and wile,
Loe, see the fine, when once it felt the whele
Of slipper fortune, stay it mought no stowne,
The wheele whurles vp, but strayt it whurleth downe.

For hauing rule and riches in our hand,
Who durst gaynesay the thing that wee averd?
Will was wisedome, our lust for law did stand,
In sort so straunge, that who was not afeard,
When hee the sounde but of king Richard heard?
So hatefull waxt the hearing of his name,
That you may deeme the residue of the same.

But what auaylde the terrour and the feare,
Wherwith he kept his lieges vnder awe?
It rather wan him hatred euery where,
And fayned faces forc’d by feare of lawe:
That but, while fortune doth with fauour blawe,
Flatter through feare: for in theyr heart lurkes aye
A secret hate that hopeth for a daye.

Recordeth Dionisius the king
That with his rigour so his realme opprest,
As that hee thought by cruell feare to bring
His subiects vnder, as him liked best:
But, loe, the dread wherewith him selfe was strest,
And you shall see the fine of forced feare,
Most miroir like, in this prowd prince appeare.

All were his head with crowne of gold ysprad,
And in his hand the royall scepter set:
And hee with princely purple richly clad,
Yet was his heart with wretched cares orefret:
And inwardly with deadly feare beset,
Of those whom hee by rigour kept in awe,
And sore opprest with might of tyraunt’s lawe.

Agaynst whose feare no heapes of gold and glie,
No strength of gard, nor all his hyred powre,
Ne prowde high towres, that preaced to the skie,
His cruell heart of safty could assure:
But dreading them whom hee should deeme most sure,
Him selfe his beard with burning brand would ceare,
Of death deseru’d so vexed him the feare.

This might suffice to represent the fine
Of tyraunt’s force, theyr feares, and theyr vnrest:
But heare this one, although my heart repine
To let the sounde once sinke within my brest:
Of fell Phereus, that, aboue the rest,
Such lothsome cruelty on his people wrought,
As, oh, alas, I tremble with the thought.

Some hee encased in the coates of beares,
Among wilde beastes deuoured so to bee:
And some, for pray vnto the hunter’s speares,
Like sauage beasts withouten ruth to dye:
Sometime, to encrease his horrible cruelty,
The quicke with face to face engraued hee,
Ech other’s death that ech mought liuing see.

Loe, what more cruell horrour mought bee founde
To purchase feare, if feare could stay his raigne?
It booted not, it rather strake the wounde
Of feare in him, to feare the like agayne:
And so he did full oft, and not in vayne,
As in his life his cares could witnesse well,
But most of all his wretched end doth tell.

His owne deare wife, whom as his life hee loued,
Hee durst not trust, nor proche vnto her bed,
But causing first his slaue with naked sworde
To goe before, himselfe with trembling dread,
Strayt foloweth fast, and whurling in his head
His rolling eyne, he searched heare and there
The deepe daunger that hee so sore did feare.

For not in vayne it ran still in his brest,
Some wretched hap should hale him to his end,
And therefore alway by his pillow prest
Had hee a sworde, and with that sworde he wende,
In vayne, God wot, all perils to defende:
For, loe, his wife, foreyrking of his raigne,
Sleping in bed this cruell wretch hath slaine.

What should I more now seeke to say in this,
Or one iote farder linger forth my tale?
With cruell Nero, or with Phalaris,
Caligula, Domitian, and all
The cruell rout? or of theyr wretched fall?
I can no more, but in my name aduert
All earthly powres beware of tyraunt’s hart.

And as our state endured but a throwe,
So, best in vs, the stay of such a state
May best appeare to hang on ouerthrowe,
And better teach tyraunts deserued hate,
Then any tyraunt’s death tofore or late:
So cruell seemde this Richard third to mee,
That, loe, my selfe now loathde his cruelty.

For when, alas, I saw the tyraunt king
Content not only from his nephues twayne
To riue world’s blisse, but also all world’s being,
Sauns earthly gylt ycausing both be slayne,
My heart agrisde that such a wretch should raigne,
Whose bloudy brest so saluagde out of kinde,
That Phalaris had nere so bloudy a minde.

Ne could I brooke him once within my brest,
But with the thought my teeth would gnash withall:
For though I erst were his by sworne behest,
Yet when I saw mischiefe on mischiefe fall,
So deepe in bloud, to murder prince and all,
Ay then, thought I, alas, and welaway,
And to my selfe thus mourning would I say:

If neyther loue, kinred, ne knot of bloud,
His owne allegaunce to his prince of due,
Nor yet the state of trust, wherein hee stoode,
The world’s defame, nor nought could forme him true,
Those gyltles babes, could they not make him rue?
Nor could theyr youth, nor innocence withall
Moue him from reauing them, theyr life, and all?

Alas, it could not moue him any iote,
Ne make him once to rue, or wet his eye,
Stird him no more then that that stirreth not:
But as the rocke, or stone, that will not plye,
So was his heart made hard with cruelty,
To murder them: alas, I weepe in thought,
To thinke on that which this fell wretch hath wrought.

That now, when hee had done the thing hee sought,
And as he would, complisht and compast all,
And saw and knew the treason hee had wrought
To God and man, to slay his prince and all,
Then seemde hee first to doubt and drede vs all,
And mee in chiefe, whose death all meanes hee might,
He sought to worke by malice and by might.

Such heapes of harms vpharbard in his brest,
With enuious hart my honour to deface,
And knowing hee, that I, which wotted best
His wretched dryfts, and all his wretched case,
If euer sprang within mee sparke of grace,
Must nedes abhorre him and his hatefull race:
Now more and more can cast mee out of grace.

Which sodayne chaunge, when I, by secret chaunce
Had well perceiude, by proofe of enuious frowne,
And saw the lot that did mee to aduaunce
Him to a king, that sought to cast mee downe,
To late it was to linger any stowne,
Sith present choise lay cast before myne eye:
To worke his death, or, I my selfe to dye.

And as the knight in field among his foes,
Beset with swords, must slay or there bee slayne:
So I, alas, lapt in a thousand woes,
Beholding death on euery syde so playne,
I rather chose by some sly secret trayne
To worke his death, and I to liue therby,
Then hee to liue, and I of force to dye.

Which heauy choyse so hastened mee to chose,
That I in part agrieude at his disdayne,
In part to wreake the dolefull death of those
Two tender babes, his sely nephewes twayne,
By him, alas, commaunded to be slayne,
With paynted chere humbly before his face,
Strayght tooke my leaue, and roade to Brecknocke place.

And there as close and couert as I might,
My purposde practise to his passe to bring,
In secret drifts I lingrede day and night,
All how I might depose this cruell king,
That seemde to all so much desyrde a thing,
As therto trusting I emprisde the same:
But to much trusting brought mee to my bane.

For while I now had fortune at my becke,
Mistrusting I no earthly thing at all,
Unwares, alas, least looking for a checke,
Shee mated mee in tourning of a ball:
When least I fearde, then nerest was my fall,
And when whole hoasts were prest to stroy my foen,
Shee chaungde her cheare, and left mee post alone.

I had vpraysde a mighty band of men,
And marched forth in order of array,
Leading my power amid the forest Dene,
Agaynst the tyrant banner to display:
But, loe, my souldiers cowardly shranke away:
For such is fortune when shee list to frowne,
Who seemes most sure, him soonest whurls shee downe.

O, let no prince, put trust in commontie,
Nor hope in fayth of giddy people’s mynde,
But let all noble men take heede by mee,
That by the proofe to well the payne do fynde:
Loe, where is truth or trust? or what could bynde
The vayne people, but they will swerue and swaye,
As chaunce brings chaunge, to driue and draw that way.

Rome, thou that once aduaunced vp so hye,
Thy stay, patron, and flowre of excellence,
Hast now throwne him to depth of miserie,
Exiled him that was thy whole defence,
Ne comptest it not an horrible offence,
To reuen him of honour and of fame,
That wan it thee when thou hadst lost the same.

Behold Camillus, hee that first reuiued
The state of Rome, that dying hee did fynde,
Of his owne state is now, alas, depriued,
Banisht by them whom hee did thus det-bynde:
That cruell folke, vnthankfull and vnkinde,
Declared well their false vnconstancie,
And fortune eke her mutabilitie.

And thou Scipio, a miroir mayst thou bee
To all nobles, that they learne not to late,
How they once trust th’vnstable commontie:
Thou that recuredst the torne dismembred state,
Euen when the conquerour was at the gate,
Art now exilde, as though thou not deserued
To rest in her, whom thou hadst so preserued.

Ingratfull Rome, hast shewde thy crueltie
On him, by whom thou lyuest yet in fame,
But not thy deede, nor his desert shall die,
But his owne words shall witnes ay the same:
For, loe, his graue doth thee most iustly blame,
And with disdayne in marble sayes to thee:
Vnkind countrey, my bones shalt thou not see.

What more vnworthy then this his exile?
More iust then this the wofull playnt hee wrote?
Or who could shew a playner proofe the while,
Of most false fayth, then they that thus forgot
His great deserts? that so deserued not:
His cindres yet, loe, doth hee them deny
That him denyde amongst them for to dye.

Milciades, O happy hadst thou bee,
And well rewarded of thy countrey men,
If in the fielde when thou hadst forst to flye,
By thy prowes, three hundred thousand men,
Content they had beene to exile thee then:
And not to cast thee in depth of prison, so
Laden with gyues, to end thy life in woe.

Alas, how hard and steely hearts had they,
That, not contented there to haue thee dye,
With fettred gyues in prison where thou lay,
Increast so farre in hatefull crueltye,
That buriall to thy corps, they eke denye:
Ne wil they graunt the same till thy sonne haue
Put on thy gyues, to purchase thee a graue.

Loe, Hanniball, as long as fixed fate,
And brittle fortune had ordayned so,
Who, euermore, aduaunst his country state
Then thou, that liu’dst for her and for no moe?
But when the stormy waues began to growe,
Without respect of thy deserts erewhile,
Art by thy countrey throwne into exile.

Unfrendly fortune, shall I thee now blame?
Or shall I fault the fates that so ordayne?
Or art thou Ioue the causer of the same?
Or cruelty her selfe, doth shee constrayne?
Or on whom els, alas, shall I complayne?
O trustlesse world, I can accusen none,
But fickle fayth of commontie alone.

The Polipus nor the Chameleon straunge,
That tourne themselues to euery hewe they see,
Are not so full of vayne and fickle chaunge,
As is this false vnstedfast commontye:
Loe, I, alas, with myne aduersitye
Haue tryde it true, for they are fled and gone,
And of an hoast there is not left mee one.

That I, alas, in this calamitie
Alone was left, and to my selfe mought playne
This treason, and this wretched cowardye,
And eake with tears beweepen and complayne
My hatefull hap, still loking to bee slayne:
Wandring in woe, and to the gods on hye
Cleaping for vengeaunce of this treacherye.

And as the turtle that hath lost her make,
Whom griping sorrowe doth so sore attaint,
With dolefull voice and sound that shee doth make,
Mourning her losse, fills all the groue with plaint:
So I, alas, forsaken, and forfaynt,
With restlesse foote the wood rome vp and downe,
Which of my dole all shiuering doth resowne.

And being thus, alone, and all forsake,
Amid the thicke, forwandred in despayre,
As one dismayde, ne wist what way to take,
Untill at last gan to my mynd repayre,
A man of myne, calde Humfrey Banastaire:
Wherwith mee feeling much recomforted,
In hope of succour, to his house I fled.

Who being one whom erst I had vp brought
Euen from his youth, and lou’d and liked best,
To gentry state auaunciug him from nought,
And had in secret trust, aboue the rest
Of speciall trust, now, being thus distrest,
Full secretly to him I mee conueyde,
Not doubting there but I should fynd some ayde.

But out, alas, on cruell trecherie,
When that this caytife once an inkling hard,
How that king Richard had proclaimde, that hee
Which mee descryde should haue for his rewarde
A thousand pounds, and farther bee prefarde,
His truth so turnde to treason, all distaynde,
That fayth quite fled, and I by trust was traynde.

For by this wretch I being straite betrayed
To one Ihon Mitton, shiriffe of Shropshire then,
All sodaynly was taken, and conuayed
To Salisburie, with rout of harnest men,
Unto king Richard there, encamped then
Fast by the cittie with a mighty host:
Withouten dome where head and life I lost.

And with these wordes, as if the axe euen there
Dismembred had his head and corps aparte,
Dead fell hee downe: and wee in woefull feare
Stoode mazed when hee would to lyfe reuert:
But deadly griefs still grew about his hart,
That still hee lay, sometime reuiude with payne,
And with a sigh becomming dead agayne.

Midnight was come, when euery vitall thing
With sweete sound sleepe, their weary lyms did rest,
The beasts were still, the little byrds that sing,
Now sweetely slept, besides their mother’s brest,
The olde and all were shrowded in their nest:
The waters calme, the cruell seas did cease,
The woods, the fieldes, and all thinges held their peace.

The golden stars were whyrld amyd their race,
And on the earth did laugh with twinkling light,
When each thing nestled in his resting place,
Forgat daye’s payne with pleasure of the night:
The hare had not the greedy hounds in sight,
The fearefull dere of death stoode not in doubt,
The partridge drept not of the falcon’s foote.

The ougly beare now minded not the stake,
Nor how the cruell mastiues doe him teare,
The stag lay still vnroused from the brake,
The fomy boare fearde not the hunter’s speare:
All thing was still in desert, bush, and breare:
With quiet heart now from their trauayles ceast,
Soundly they slept in midst of all their rest.

When Buckingham, amid his playnt opprest,
With surging sorrowes and with pinching paynes
In sort thus sowned, and with a sigh, hee ceast
To tellen forth the trechery and the traynes
Of Banastaire: which him so sore distraynes,
That from a sigh hee falls into a sounde,
And from a sound ly’th raging on the ground.

So twiching were the pangs that hee assayed,
And hee so sore with ruthfull rage distraught,
To thinke vppon the wretch that him betrayed,
Whom erst hee made a gentleman of naught,
That more and more agreued with this thought,
Hee stormes out sighes, and with redoubled sore,
Stroke with the furies, rageth more and more.

Who so hath seene the bull chased with darts,
And with deepe wounds foregalde and gored so,
Tyll hee, oppressed with the deadly smarts,
Fall in a rage, and run vpon his foe,
Let him, I say, behold the raging woe
Of Buckingham, that in these gripes of griefe,
Rageth gaynst him that hath betrayde his lyfe.

With bloud red iyen hee stareth here and there,
Frothing at mouth, with face as pale as cloute:
When, loe, my lyms were trembling all for feare,
And I amazde stoode still in dread and doubt,
While I mought see him throwe his arms about:
And gaynst the ground him selfe plunge with such force,
As if the life forthwith should leaue the corps.

With smoke of sighs sometyme I might beholde,
The place all dimde, like to the morning mist:
And strait agayne the teares how they downrold
Alongst his cheekes, as if the riuers hyst:
Whose flowing streames ne where no soner whist,
But to the stars such dreadfull shouts hee sent,
As if the throne of mighty Ioue should rent.

And I the while with sprits welny bereft,
Beheld the plight and pangs that did him strayne,
And how the bloud his deadly colour left,
And straight retournde with flaming red againe:
When sodaynly amid his raging payne
Hee gaue a sigh, and with that sigh hee sayed:
“Oh Banastaire:” and strait agayne hee stayed.

Dead lay his corps, as dead as any stone,
Till swelling sighes storming within his brest,
Upraysde his head, that downeward fell anone,
With lookes vpcast, and sighes that neuer ceast:
Forth stremde the teares records of his vnrest,
When hee with shrikes thus groveling on the ground,
Ybrayed these words with shrill and dolefull sounde.

“Heauen and earth, and ye eternall lamps
That, in the heauens wrapt, wyll vs to rest,
Thou bright Phœbe, that clearest the night’s damps,
Witnes the playnts that in these pangs opprest,
I, wofull wretch, vnlade out of my brest,
And let mee yeelde my last words, ere I parte,
You, you, I call to record of my smarte.

And thou, Alecto, feede mee with thy foode,
Let fall thy serpents from thy snaky heare,
For such releife well fits mee in this moode,
To feede my playnt with horrour and with feare,
While rage afresh thy venomde worme areare:
And thou Sibilla, when thou seest mee faynte,
Addresse thy selfe the guide of my complaynt.

And thou, O Ioue, that with the deepe fordoome
Dost rule the earth, and raygne aboue the skies,
That wreakest wrongs, and geu’st the dreadfull doome
Agaynst the wretch that doth thy name despise,
Receiue these words, and wreake them in such wise,
As heauen and earth may wytnesse and beholde,
Thy heapes of wrath vpon this wretch vnfolde.

Thou Banastaire, gainst thee I clepe and call
Unto the gods, that they iust vengeaunce take
On thee, thy bloud, thy stayned stocke and all:
O Ioue, to thee aboue the rest I make
My humble playnt, guide mee, that what I speake,
May be thy will vpon this wretch to fall,
On thee, Banastaire, wretch of wretches all.

O would to God, the cruell dismall day,
That gaue mee light fyrst to behold thy face,
With foule eclipse had reft my sight away:
Th’vnhappy hower, the tyme, and eke the place,
The sunne and moone, the stars, and all that was
In theire aspects helping in ought to thee,
The earth and ayre, and all, accursed bee.

And thou caytyfe, that like a monster swarued
From kinde and kindnes, hast thy maister lorne,
Whom neyther trueth, nor trust wherein thou serued,
Ne his deserts could moue, nor thy fayth sworne,
How shall I curse, but wish that thou vnborne
Had beene, or that the earth had rent in tway,
And swallowed thee in cradle as thou laye.

To this did I, euen from thy tender youth,
Witsaue to bring thee vp? did I herefore
Beleue the oth of thy vndoubted troth?
Aduaunce thee vp, and trust thee euermore?
By trusting thee that I should dye therefore?
O wretch, and worse then wretch, what shall I say?
But clepe and curse gaynst thee and thine for aye.

Hated be thou, disdaynde of euery wight,
And poynted at where euer that thou goe:
A trayterous wretch, vnworthy of the light
Bee thou esteemde; and to encrease thy woe,
The sounde be hatefull of thy name also:
And in this sort with shame and sharp reproche,
Lead thou thy life, tyll greater griefe approche.

Dole and despayre, let those be thy delight,
Wrapped in woes that cannot bee vnfolde,
To wayle the day, and weepe the weary night,
With rayny eyne and sighes cannot be tolde,
And let no wight thy woe seeke to withholde:
But count thee worthy (wretch) of sorrowe’s store,
That suffering much, oughtst still to suffer more.

Deserue thou death, yea bee thou deemde to dye
A shamefull death, to end thy shamefull life:
A sight longed for, ioyfull to euery eye,
When thou shalt bee arraigned as a theefe,
Standing at bar, and pleading for thy life,
With trembling tongue in dread and dolour’s rage,
Lade with white lockes, and fourscore yeares of age.

Yet shall not death deliuer thee so soone
Out of thy woes, so happy shalt not bee:
But to th’eternall Ioue this is my boone,
That thou mayst liue thine eldest sonne to see
Reft of his wits, and in a foule bore’s stye
To end his dayes, in rage and death distrest,
A worthy tombe where one of thine should rest.

Yet after this, yet pray I more, thou may
Thy second sonne see drowned in a dyke,
And in such sort to close his later day,
As heard or seene erst hath not been the like:
Ystrangled in a puddle, not halfe so deepe
As halfe a foote, that such hard losse of life,
So cruelly chaunst, may bee the greater griefe.

And not yet shall thy hugie sorrowes ceasse,
Ioue shall not so witholde his wrath, from thee,
But that thy plagues may more and more encrease,
Thou shalt still liue, that thou thy selfe maist see
Thy deare daughter stroken with leprosye:
That shee, that erst was all thy whole delight,
Thou now mayst loth to haue her come in sight.

And after that, let shame and sorrowes griefe
Feede forth thy yeares continually in woe,
That thou maist lieue in death, and dye in life,
And in this sort forwaylde and weried so,
At last thy ghost to part thy body fro:
This pray I, Ioue, and with this later breath,
Vengaunce I aske vpon my cruell death.”

This sayde, he flong his retchlesse armes abroade,
And, groueling, flat vpon the grounde he laye,
Which with his teeth hee all to gnasht and gnawde,
Deepe groanes hee fet, as hee that would awaye:
But, loe, in vayne hee did the death assay:
Although I thinke was neuer man that knewe
Such deadly paynes, where death did not ensue.

So stroue hee thus a while as with the death,
Now pale as leade, and cold as any stone,
Now still as calme, now storming forth a breath
Of smoky sighes, as breath and all were gone:
But euery thing hath end: so hee anone
Came to himselfe, when, with a sigh outbrayed,
With woefull chere, these woefull words hee sayed:

“Ah, where am I, what thing, or whence is this?
Who reft my wits? or how doe I thus lye?
My lyms do quake, my thought agasted is,
Why sigh I so? or whereunto do I
Thus grovle on the grounde?” and by and by
Upraysde hee stoode, and with a sigh hath stayde,
When to himselfe retourned thus hee sayde:

“Suffiseth now this playnt and this regrete,
Whereof my heart his bottom hath vnfraught:
And of my death let peeres and princes wete
The world’s vntrust, that they thereby be taught:
And in her wealth, sith that such chaunge is wrought,
Hope not too much, but in the mids of all
Thinke on my death, and what may them befall.

So long as fortune would permit the same,
I liu’d in rule and ryches with the best:
And past my time in honour and in fame,
That of mishap no feare was in my brest:
But false fortune, whom I suspected least,
Did tourne the wheele, and with a dolefull fall
Hath mee bereft of honour, life, and all.

Loe, what avayles in riches, flouds that flowes?
Though she so smylde, as all the world were his,
Euen kings and kesars, byden fortune’s throwes,
And simple sort, must beare it as it is:
Take heede by mee that blithde in balefull blisse,
My rule, my riches, royall bloud and all,
When fortune frounde the feller made my fall.

For hard mishaps, that happens vnto such
Whose wretched state erst neuer fell no chaunge,
Agreeue them not in any part so much
As theyr distresse: to whom it is so straunge
That all theyr liues, nay passed pleasures raunge,
Theyr sodayne woe, that aye wielde welth at will,
Algates theyr hearts more pearcingly must thrill.

For of my byrth, my bloud was of the best,
First borne an earle, then duke by due discent,
To swinge the sway in court among the rest,
Dame fortune mee her rule most largely lent,
And, kinde with courage, so my corps had blent,
That, loe, on whom but mee did shee most smyle?
And whom but mee, loe, did shee most begyle?

Now hast thou heard the whole of my vnhap,
My chaunce, my chaunge, the cause of all my care:
In welth and woe, how fortune did mee wrap,
With world at will, to win mee to her snare:
Bid kings, bid kesars, bid all states beware,
And tell them this from me that tryde it true:
Who reckles rules, right soone may hap to rue.”