Great Empire (said shee) blessed in thy birth,
Beautious created for-head of this round,
That with thy smiles first lent to heauen mirth,
And bout thy temples all perfections woond,
Lodgd in th' immagin'd corners of the earth;
Thou whom our centers Monarchesse art crownd,
Attend my suite, baptisd in mournefull teares,
Who but ere while triumphed on the spheares.
Nor for my selfe more then thine owne decay
Which blindfold pleasure clouds as they arise,
Be gracious, and retort the domefull daye
Which thee and me to shame would sacrifice.
Loe, on the great west-walling boisterous sea,
Which doth imbrace thy gold-enclosing eyes,
Of many sailes one man, of one poor Ile,
That will my fame, and all thy faire defile.
His numberlesse great infinits of fame,
Haue shut against me heauens great christall dore,
The clouds, which once my feets dust had to name,
Hang ore my forhead, threatning euermore
Death to my praise; life to my infant shame,
Whilst I with sighes mediate a new restore.
And in my selfe behold my pleasures past,
Swimming amongst the ioyes I cannot tast.
Th' ambrosian Nectar-filled banqueting,
No more shall I communicate, or see,
Triumphes in heauen, Ioues masks, and reuelling,
Are cleene exempt, both from my ioyes and me.
The reason, for my loue to thee I bring,
Trimming the locks with Iems of dietie,
Making the gods a dread a fatall day,
Worse then the Giants warre or Centaurs fray.
Poore goddesse, rob'd of all eternall power,
Whose broken Statues, and down razed Fan's,
Neuer warm'd altars, euer forgotten hower
Where any memorie of praise is tane,
Witnes my fall from great Olympus tower;
Prostrate, implore blame for receiued bane,
And dyre reuenge gainst heauens impietie,
Which els in shame will make thee follow mee.
Behold these robes, maps of my fortunes world,
Torne, and distaind with eye-scornd beggerie;
These rags deuide the Zones, wherein is hurld
My liues distemprate, hote cold miserie;
These teares are points, the scale these hairs vncurld,
My hands the compasse, woe the emperie:
And these my plaints, true and auriculer,
Are to my Globe the perpendiculer.
Looke how I am, such art thou like to be
If armes preuent not heauens intendiment,
Grinuile, which now surfeits with dignitie,
Burd'ning the Sea with my disparagement;
Chiding the wanton winds if greedelie
They kisse his sailes; or els too slowlie vent,
Like Ioue, which bad the day be and it was,
So bids he Conquest warre; she brings to passe.
The sole incouragement he giues his power,
Is Prophet-like presaging of thy death,
Courage he cries, euen in the dying hower,
And with his words, recalls departing breath;
O (sayes he to his Mat's) you are my glories tower,
Impregnable, wall'd with vnuanquisht faith,
You are the hands and agents of my trust,
I but the hart reuoluing what we must.
Liue Saints, til we haue ript the wombe of Spayne,
And wounded Error in the armes of hell,
Crushing the triple Myter in disdaine,
Which on the seauenfold mounted Witch doth dwel,
Angells rewards for such dissignes remaine,
And on heauens face men shall your stories tell;
At this they shoute; as eager of the pray,
As Ants in winter of a sunne-shine day.
Thus like triumphant Cæsar drawne in Rome,
By winged Valure, and vnconquered Chaunce,
He plowes the Sea (ô were it made his tombe)
Whilst Happy-fortune pypes unto his daunce.
Yet may thy power alternat heauens doome,
So pleaseth thee thy forward will t'aduance,
And cheare the sinews of thy mighty arme,
Whose out-strecht force shall quell his proud alarme.