Mirror for Magistrates.

T. Bensley, Printer,
Bolt Court, Fleet Street, London.

Mirror for Magistrates.

EDITED BY
JOSEPH HASLEWOOD.

VOLUME II. PART II.

LONDON:
PRINTED FOR
LACKINGTON, ALLEN, AND CO. FINSBURY SQUARE;
AND
LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, AND BROWN, PATERNOSTER ROW.
1815.

TABLE OF CONTENTS.

Volume II.

[THE
Mirrour for Magistrates,
AS] A
WINTER
NIGHT’S
VISION
Being an addition of svch Princes especially
famous, who were exempted in the
former Historie.
PART IV.
By RICHARD NICCOLS,
Oxon. Mag. Hall.
From the edition imprinted by Felix
Kyngston, 1610.

TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE,
the Lord Charles Howard,
Earle of Notingham, Baron of
Effingham, Knight of the noble Order
of the Garter, Lord high Admirall of
England, Ireland and Wales, &c.
one of his Maiestie’s most
Honorable priuie
Counsell.

As once that doue (true honor’s aged lord)

Houering with wearied wings about your arke,

When Cadiz towers did fal beneath your sword,

To rest her selfe did single out that barke:

So my meeke muse, from all that conquering rout,

Conducted through the sea’s wilde wildernes

By your great selfe, to graue their names about

Th’Iberian pillars of Joue’s Hercules:

Most humblie craues your lordly lions aid

Gainst monster enuie, while she tels her storie

Of Britaine princes, and that royall maid,

In whose chaste hymne her Clio sings your glorie:

Which if (great lord) you grant, my muse shall frame

Mirrours more worthie your renowned name.

Your Honor’s euer most humblie
deuoted,
Richard Nicols.

TO THE READER.

Cvrteous Reader, before I enter into the discourse of what I haue written, I will acquaint you with the causes why I haue written. Hauing spent some truant houres in the study of this art, and willing to imploy my pen to the benefit of mine owne studies, and the profit and pleasure of others, I chanced in reading that worthy work, intituled, The Mirrour for Magistrates, to coniecture, if I should vndertake that imperfect historie, that not only experience, the mother of prudence, would furnish my priuate studies with better iudgement; but also that I could not better benefit others, by offering them a taste of the vnsauourie fruits of my labours; then by giuing them paternes to shun vice and follow vertue: in this coniecture my voluntarie will, not to do nothing, did set such edge vpon my desire, and the presidents of diuers learned, yea, some noble personages, pen-men of that worke, gaue me such encouragement, that though I wanted not iudgement to know, that I should want skill to compasse it; yet that want of skil, being supplied with good wil to do wel, I haue collected the liues of ten famous princes, worthie mirrours, omitted in the former part of this worke: which I present not in their proper places, as I did purpose, but as a part of themselues with dependancie vpon an Induction, that the reader may obserue that method of arguments before euery life, which I did intend to haue continued through the whole worke, if time and mine owne affaires would haue suffered me to proceed, but being called away by other employments, I must of force leaue it either vnto those, whose good opinion of so worthie an historie, may induce their endeuors towards the perfecting of the same, or vntil I shal find occasion hereafter to continue that, now almost finished, which I haue left vnaccomplished; of those ten, which I haue penned, the last, though it were written before in the former part, yet for that the matter and stile thereof were generally disliked of M. Ferrers, M. Baldwine, and others: and also for that many principall occurrents in the same were exempted, I haue written againe, placing it in his order, being the last of the ten. In the handling of which, not taking a poeticall licence to fashion all things after mine owne fancie, but limiting my selfe within the bounds of an historicall writer, I haue followed those authors, who in the censure of our best iudgements are the most authenticall. For the verse, I haue chosen the fourth proportion, which is the stanza of seuen, preferring it before the fift, which is the staffe of eight, because it is chiefly vsed of our ancient and best historicall poets; and though I confesse that of eight to hold better band, yet is it more tedious to a writer, being it binds him to the band of two foures intertangled, which if he obserue not, it is no huitaine or staffe of eight, but fals into the first proportion, making two quadreins. To the learned I only write, in whom is my chiefest hope, for that they be learned, a cause sufficient not to doubt any enuious construction, being a vice not proper to their good education: whom if I haue pleasured, I craue but their good word for my good will; if otherwise, their pardon for my paines. Farewell.

THE INDVCTION.

My muse, that mongst meane birds whilome, did waue her flaggie wing,

And cuckow-like of Castae’s wrongs, in rustick tunes did sing,

Now with the morne’s cloud climing lark must mount a pitch more hie,

And like Ioue’s bird with stedfast lookes outbraue the sunne’s bright eie:

Yea she, that whilome begger-like her beggers ape did sing,

Which iniur’d by the guilt of time to light she durst not bring:

In stately stile tragedian-like with sacred furie fed,

Must now record the tragicke deeds of great Heröes dead,

Vouchsafe then thou great king of heau’n, the heau’nly drops t’infuse

Of sacred iuyce into my pen, giue strength vnto my muse

To mount aloft with powerfull wings, and let her voice be strong,

That she may smite the golden starres with sound of her great song:

When loue-borne Phœbus fierie steeds about the world had bin,

And wearied with their yearely taske, had taken vp their inne

Farre in the south, when cold had nipt the hawthorne’s rugged rinde,

And liuely sap of summer sweet, from blast of blustring winde

Had sunken downe into the roote, whose thornie browes besprent

With frostie dew, did hang their heads, and summer’s losse lament;

My limbes benumb’d with vnkind cold, my life-blood waxing chill,

As was my wont I walked forth to ease me of such ill:

But when I came in fields abroad, and view’d the wastefull spight

Of wrathfull winter, grieu’d I was to see so sad a sight:

The shadie woods, in which the birds to build their neasts were seene,

Whose wauing heads in aire shot vp were crown’d with youthfull greene:

Now clad in coate of motlie hue did maske in poore array,

Rough Boreas with his blustering blasts had blowen their leaues away:

In stead of blossomes on the boughes, the spring whilome begun,

Which through the leaues did seeme to laugh vpon the summer’s sunne,

Now nought but hoarie frost was seene, each branch teares downe did send,

Whose dewie drops on ysiccles vpon each bough depend:

The mistresse of the woods quaint quire, the warbling Philomele,

That wont to rauish with delight, th’inhabitants, that dwell

About the greene wood side, forgot the layes she sung before,

For griefe of summer’s golden losse she now could sing no more:

And all the quire that wont with her to beare a part and sing

Concordant discords in sweet straine for welcome of the spring,

Sate silent on the frostie bow, and shuddering all for cold,

Did shroud the head beneath the wing, the day was waxed old,

None but the red-brest and the wren did sing the euen away,

And that in notes of sad record for summer’s late decay:

The field, which whilome Ceres crown’d with golden eares of corne,

And all the pasture-springing meades, which Pales did adorne,

Lookt pale for woe, the winterie snow had couered all their greene,

Nought else vpon the grasselesse ground, but winter’s waste was seene:

The shepheard’s feeble flocke pent vp within the bounded fold,

So faint for food, that scarce their feete their bodies could vphold,

Did hang the head with heauie cheare, as they would learne to mourne

The thrall in which they now did liue, by shepheard left forlorne:

All sweet delight of summer past, cold winter’s breath had blasted,

The sunne in heau’n shone pale on earth to see her wombe so wasted:

All which, as I grieu’d at such sight, the fields alone did range,

Did teach me know all things on earth were subiect vnto change:

How fond (me thought) were mortall men, the trustlesse stay to trust,

Of things on earth, since heere on earth all things returne to dust?

Who so in youth doth boast of strength, me thought the loftie oake

Would teach him that his strength must vade, when age begins to yoke

His youthfull necke, euen by it selfe, his leauie lockes being shed,

And branched armes shrunke vp with frost, as if they had been dead:

The louely lillie, that faire flower for beautie past compare,

Whom winter’s cold keene breath had kill’d, and blasted all her faire,

Might teach the fairest vnder heau’n, that beautie’s freshest greene

When spring of youth is spent, will vade, as it had neuer been;

The barren fields, which whilome flower’d as they would neuer fade,

Inricht with summer’s golden gifts, which now been all decay’d,

Did shew in state there was no trust, in wealth no certaine stay,

One stormie blast of frowning chance could blow them all away;

Out of the yeares alternate course this lesson I did con,

In things on earth of most auaile assurance there was none:

But fancie feeding on these thoughts, as I alone did wend,

The clocke did strike, whose chime did tell the day was at an end;

The golden sunne, daies guide, was gone, and in his purple bed

Had laid him downe, the heau’ns about their azure curtaines spread,

And all the tapers lighted were, as t’were the watch to keepe,

Lest past her houre night should vsurpe, while he secure did sleepe;

Then clad in cloake of mistie fogges the darke night vp did come,

And with grim grislie looke did seeme to bid me get me home;

Home was I led, not as before with solace from the field,

The wofull waste of summer past had all my pleasure spill’d:

When home I came, nipt with sharpe cold of Boreas bitter aire,

After repast to my warme bed forthwith I made repaire,

Where, for the nights were tedious growen, and I disturb’d in mind

With thoughts of that daies obiect seene, not vnto sleepe inclin’d,

I vp did sit, my backe behind the pillow soft did stay,

And call’d for light, with booke in hand to passe the time away;

Of which each line which I did reade, in nature did agree

With that true vse of things which I the day before did see

A Mirrour hight for Magistrates, for title it did beare,

In which by painfull pens, the fals of princes written were:

There, as in glasse, I did behold, what day before did show,

That beautie, strength, wealth, world’s vaine pompe, and all to dust do go:

There did I see triumphant death beneath his feet tread downe

The state of kings, the purple robe, the scepter and the crowne:

Without respect with deadly dart all princes he did strike,

The vertuous and the vicious prince to him been both alike:

Nought else they leaue vntoucht of death except a vertuous name,

Which dies, if that the sacred nine eternize not the same:

Why then (ye thrice three borne of Ioue) why then be ye despis’d?

Is vertue dead? hath daintie ease in her soft armes surpris’d

The manhood of the elder world? hath rust of time deuour’d

Th’ Heröe’s stocke that on your heads such golden blessings showr’d?

This silent night, when all things lie in lap of sweet repose,

Ye only wake, the powres of sleepe your eyes do neuer close,

To shew the sempiternitie, to which their names ye raise

On wings of your immortall verse that truly merit praise:

But where’s the due of your desert, or where your learning’s meed?

Not only now the baser sprite, whom dunghill dust doth breed,

But they that boast themselues to be in honor’s bosome borne,

Disdaine your wisdome, and do hold your sectaries in scorne:

No maruell then, me thought, it was, that in this booke I read,

So many a prince I found exempt, as if their names been dead,

Who for desert amongst the best a place might iustly claime:

But who can put on any spirit to memorize the name

Of any dead, whose thanklesse race t’whom learning shapes the leg

In humble wise, yet in contempt bids learned wits go beg?

As thus in bed with booke in hand I sate contemplating,

The humorous night was waxed olde, still silence husht each thing,

The clocke chim’d twelue, to which as I with listning eares attend,

As signes of fraile mortalitie all things I apprehend;

The daylight past, as life I deeme, the night as death to come,

The clocke that chim’d, death’s fatall knell, that call’d me to my doome,

Still silence rest from worldly cares, my bed the graue I thinke,

In which, with heart to heau’n vp-lift, at length I downe did sinke:

Where after still repose when as thin vapors had restrain’d

The mouing powers of common sense, and sleepe each sense enchain’d,

Whether the watchfull fantasie did now in sleepe restore

The species of things sensible, which I had seene before:

And so some dreame it only was, which I intend to tell,

Or vision sent I’le not discusse, to me it thus befell:

A sudden sound of trumpe I heard, whose blast so loud was blowne,

That in a trance I senselesse lay, fraile mortall there was none

That heard such sound, could sense retaine: my chamber wals did shake,

Vp flew the doores, a voice I heard, which thus distinctly spake:

“Awake from sleepe, lift vp thy head, and be no whit dismai’d,

I serue the deities of heau’n, their hests must be obei’d,

And now am sent from her that keepes the store-house of the mind:

The mother of the muses nine, for thee she hath assign’d

For her designe, the night to come in sleepe thou must not spend:

Prepare thy selfe, that gainst she come, her will thou maist attend.”

As to these words I listning lay, and had resumed spright,

I boldly looked round about, and loe, there stood in sight

True fame, the trumpeter of heau’n, that doth desire inflame

To glorious deeds, and by her power eternifies the name:

A golden trumpe her right hand held, which when she list to sound,

Can smite the starres of heau’n, and bring the dead from vnder ground:

Vpon her head a chaplet stood of neuer vading greene,

Which honor gaue, to giue to them that fauour’d of her been:

Her wings were white as snow, with which she compast heau’n and earth

With names of such, whom honor did renowne for deeds of worth:

As I beheld her princely port, yet trembling all for feare,

A sound of heau’nly harmony did pierce my pleased eare,

In rapture of whose sweet delight, as I did rauisht lie,

The goddesse dread whom fame forespoke did stand before mine eie,

The ladie of mount Helicon, the great Pierian dame,

From whom the learned sisters nine deriue their birth and name,

In golden garments clad she was, which time can neuer weare,

Nor fretting moth consume the same, which did embroydered beare

The acts of old Heröes dead, set downe in stately verse,

Which sitting by the horse-foot spring, Ioue’s daughters did rehearse:

Fiue damsels did attend on her, who with such wondrous skill

Do in their seuerall functions worke, to serue their ladie’s will,

That what she seekes on earth, to see, to heare, smell, taste or touch,

They can present the same with speed, their power and skill are such:

As in amazement at such sight I in my bed did lie,

She thus bespake: “I am,” quoth she, “the ladie Memorie,

Ioue’s welbelou’d Mnemosyne, that keepes the wealthie store

Of time’s rich treasure, where the deeds that haue been done of yore

I do record, and when in bookes I chance to find the fame

Of any after death decai’d, I do reuiue the same:

Turning the volume large of late, in which my Clio sings

The deeds of worthie Britaines dead, I find that many kings

Exempted are, whose noble acts deserue eternitie,

And mongst our Mirrours challenge place for all posteritie:

For which, my station I haue left, and now am come to thee,

This night thou must abandon sleepe, my pen-man thou must bee.”

To this said I: “O goddesse great, the taske thou dost impose

Exceeds the compasse of my skill, t’is fitter farre for those,

Whose pens sweet nectar do distill, to whom the power is giuen

Vpon their winged verse to rap their readers vp to heau’n:

The pinions of my humble muse be all too weake to flie

So large a flight; theirs be this taske that loue to soare on high:

But how can they such taske vp-take, that in a stately straine

Haue rais’d the dead out of the dust; yet after all their paine,

When their sweet muse in vertue’s praise hath powred out their store,

Are still despis’d and doom’d for aye with vertue to be poore.”

To this, “alas,” quoth Memorie, “it grieues me to behold

The learned wits left all forlorne, t’whom whilome it was told

Mæcenas was reuiu’d againe: yet grieue I more to see

The loathed lozell to prophane that sacred mysterie:

Each vulgar wit, that what it is, could neuer yet define,

In ragged rimes with lips profane, will call the learned nine

To helpe him vtter forth the spawne of his vnfruitfull braine,

Which makes our peerelesse poesie to be in such disdaine,

That now it skils not whether Pan do pipe, or Phœbus play,

Tom Tinkar makes best harmonie to passe the time away:

For this I grieue, for this the seed of Ioue are held in scorne,

Yet not for this our worthies dead are to be left forlorne:

For so no future age should know the truth of things forepast,

The names of their forefathers dead would in the dust be cast:

Then do not thou thy helpe denie, I will conduct thy pen,

And fame shall summon vp the ghosts of all those worthie men,

That mongst our Mirrours are not found, that each one orderly

May come to thee, to tell the truth of his sad tragedie.”

Thus hauing said, she tooke the booke from vnderneath my head,

And turning ore the leaues, at last, she thus began to reade.

THE FAMOVS LIFE AND
Death of King Arthvr.

THE ARGUMENT.

The first I find exempted in our storie

Is noble Arthur, Albion’s ancient glorie,

Who heere at home subdues the Saxon kings:

Then forren nations in subiection brings,

The Roman host with Lucius for their guide

To his victorious sword do stoope their pride:

But home-bred broiles call backe the conquering king,

Warres thunder 'bout the Britaine coasts doth ring,

Gawin’s firme loyaltie at his last breath,

Arthur’s last conquest, wounds and timelesse death,

The truth of which, that we may heare, let fame

Summon his ghost to come and tell the same.

ANOTHER ARGUMENT.

Fame sounds her trumpe, king Arthur doth ascend

Tels Mordred’s treason, death, and his owne end.

1.

No age hath bin, since nature first began

To worke Ioue’s wonders, but hath left behind

Some deeds of praise for Mirrours vnto man,

Which more then threatful lawes in men inclind,

To tread the paths of praise excites the mind,

Mirrours tie thoughts to vertues due respects,

Examples hasten deeds to good effects.

2.

'Mongst whom, that I my storie so renown’d

May for a Mirrour to the world commend,

Summon’d the first by fame’s shrill trumpets sound:

Loe, I am come on earth to find a friend,

Who his assistance vnto me may lend,

And with his pen paint out my historie

A perfect Mirrour of true maiestie.

3.

In which the truth of my corrupted storie,

Defac’d by fleeting time’s inconstant pen

I will declare, nor to aduance my glorie

Will I present vnto the view of men

Ought, but the scope of what the truth hath ben:

Meane time thou pen-man of Mnemosynie,

Giue heedfull eare vnto my tragedie.

4.

As from aire-threatning tops of cedars tall

The leaues, that whilome were so fresh and greene,

In healthlesse autumne to the ground do fall,

And others in their roomes at spring are seene:

So proudest states amongst the states of men

Now mount the loftie top of fortune’s wheele,

Now fall againe, now firmely stand, now reele.

5.

Foure times the state of this same noble Ile

Hath changed been by froward fate’s decree,

And on foure nations fortune’s front did smile,

Gracing thir high attempts with victorie

Ouer this empire of Great Britanie:

Yet none but one the scepter long did sway,

Whose conquering name endures vntill this day.

6.

First the proud Roman Cæsar did oppresse

This land with tributarie seruitude:

Next those two Saxon brethren heauen did blesse,

Who in our Brittish blood their blades imbru’d,

And to their lordly will this land subdu’d: